The Home

The Visitor

     Years later, Bilbo sat at home before the fire, smoking his pipe, a book laying forgotten upon his lap, memories filling his head as he watched the fire, the chorus of "The Misty Mountains" echoing in his ears, the crackle of the logs sweeping him back to all those long nights by the fire, the low voices of the company surrounding him, warmth at his front, Thorin's arm around his back, stars overhead. His mind lingered on Thorin.
Those were now just distant, golden memories. Instead of a stab to the heart, it was now just a soft ache. Bilbo could remember him, think of him without much pain, passing over him with a sad smile, but he knew that those scars would never heal. There would always be some pain attached to Thorin's name.
A rather large log snapped in half in the fireplace, abruptly bringing him back to where he really was, at home in his armchair in Bag End Underhill, clad in his bathrobe, his pipe going out. Sighing, he decided he wasn't going to get any more reading done tonight and snuffed out his pipe, closing his book and shifting to stand. But before he could rise, three loud knocks echoed throughout his house, rattling the door on its hinges.
Annoyance flashed through him. Who could possibly be knocking at this hour? Muttering to himself, he swung his feet to the floor and hurried to the hallway, tightening the belt of his robe and reaching for the handle. He swung the door open, momentarily startled by the blackness outside. A tall, dark figure stood in the doorway, larger than any hobbit.
"I thought this place was easy to find," the figure said gruffly yet familiarly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, "I lost my way. Twice." Something rang inside Bilbo's chest. He knew that voice. However, his Baggins side quickly regained control and he stepped forward to order the intruder out, but the visitor cut him off.
"So this is the hobbit," he growled, pacing around him, Bilbo now terribly confused, "he looks more like a grocer than a burglar." And just when Bilbo was about to ask indignantly as to what was going on, the visitor turned to look at him, the firelight illuminating long, black hair, a long, straight nose and dark eyes—
Bilbo gasped. "Th-Thorin? Thorin Oakenshield?" His heart raced as the figure stepped towards him, but he backed away, eyes wide.
"Yes, it's me," came Thorin's low voice, comforting and low.
"But—but—you're dead—I saw—I was THERE—" Bilbo stammered, grasping for the wall behind him.
"I was," Thorin (for it was Thorin) said, stepping close again, looking down upon the frightened hobbit with those dark eyes, "but now I am here."
"But the battle—the blood—I SAW you—DEAD—"
"I want to stay with you," Thorin said firmly, taking his hands and leaning in so that Bilbo presses himself against the wall, "I want to live with you. I love you, Bilbo, I—"
"STOP!" Bilbo shouted, slipping out from around him and backing down the hallway, pointing a shaking finger at him, his eyes wild. "You were dead! I thought you were dead! I knew you were dead!"
"Yes, but I—" Thorin started, but Bilbo cut him off.
"I waited! I cried over you—wept—for hours! I waited, hoping you would wake, and you never did. Can you imagine thatl?!"
"No, but—"
"I couldn't think of you for years—crying at night, lying awake—you were dead! I would never be near you again! Never! And now you waltz into my house and expect me to pick up the pieces again like nothing ever happened?" He paused for a shuddering breath. "It took me years to get over you, Thorin, years. I don't know what happened, I don't know what to do, I just—" he let out a breath, running his fingers through his hair. "Please give me a moment."
Thorin was silent, his dark eyes shining with hurt and sadness, and yet, love. "I've forgotten how much I missed you," he said quietly, then bowed his head. "Please take all the time you need."
Bilbo turned away, breathing hard. Thorin alive? After all these years? How? And here? Didn't he have a mountain to rule? And why would he come here? He turned back to Thorin, standing quiet in the hall, looking to the floor, hands behind his back. There was no reason for him to return here....unless he truly still loved Bilbo.
Unless he truly still loved him.
Bilbo stepped quietly up to Thorin, staring up at him. "Is it really you?" he asked wonderingly.
"Yes," Thorin said pleadingly, grasping his arms. "It is me. I swear it." Bilbo stared upwards, searching Thorin's face. "Please believe me. I love you, Bilbo, and I always will. Please believe me."
Something cracked inside Bilbo. Being held by Thorin, his dark eyes on him once again, was like a wall being broken down. Emotions flooded him—relief, forgiveness, some anger, but mostly just happiness, full, complete, entire happiness. He flung his arms around Thorin's neck, burying his face into his coat, Thorin's familiar scent engulfing him, his arms folding around him. Tears prickled his eyes, his breaths growing faster, winding his fingers into the fur lining Thorin's coat and snuggling further into his arms, Thorin holding him tightly.
"Oh, Thorin," Bilbo murmured, "Thorin."
"Bilbo," Thorin whispered, pressing his face into his hair, "dear Bilbo."
They stood in the hall, holding each other, for how long, they did not know. Eventually, Thorin slid his arms from around him and down his shoulders, leaning closer, his lips reaching for Bilbo's, but although his heart quickened and hammered in his chest and he desperately wanted to kiss him, Bilbo placed a finger on Thorin's mouth.
"Please, not yet," he said softly, his eyes pleading, "it is still too soon for that."
Thorin nodded slowly, respectfully stepping away. "Shall we talk?"
"I think that would be wise," Bilbo said, trying to regain control over himself. He led Thorin into the sitting room, quickly making a cup of tea for him before sitting down next to him on the couch, ready to hear what Thorin had to say.
"I do not know what happened," Thorin started, "I was dead. You were not wrong about that. But I woke up later, in the dark, laid out, the Arkenstone and Orcrist by my side. But they could not give me comfort, for I wanted you," he said, reaching for Bilbo, but the hobbit gently pushed his hand away, waiting patiently for the rest of the story. Thorin recovered quickly. "Eventually I was found and I lived in Erebor for quite some time."
"But aren't you King Under the Mountain?" Bilbo asked, concerned.
"Well, the title does pass to me, but Dain was already running everything and I, to be honest, had no further desire for riches and ruling. You showed me that there are more important things; song, food....and love." He stared intensely into Bilbo's eyes, his hand creeping over to slide over the hobbit's, and Bilbo did not stop him, but stared back, brows creased slightly in thought, his mouth pursed, making Thorin want to kiss it all the more, but he held himself in check and took a deep breath.
"Bilbo, I still love you, and I have no further responsibility in Erebor. I left there for you, and I want to stay with you, forever, if you will have me. Please tell me your answer."
"Thorin, this is all so sudden. I need some more time. You can spend the night and I will tell you when I decide in the morning. You can spend the night here," Bilbo added, giving Thorin a skeptical look, "as in this room. You'll be in here and I'll be in my bed, alone, so I can figure this out." Thorin nodded, willing to meet any conditions, and he said so. Bilbo just looked at him rather hard.
"No tricks, or otherwise I will kick you out and I will never let you back in," he clarified.
"No tricks," Thorin agreed, but caught Bilbo's hand as the hobbit stood to leave. "Good night," he said gently, running his fingers over Bilbo's knuckles. Bilbo's heart leapt into his throat, but he swallowed it back down and turned towards the doorway.
"Good night," he returned rather formally, his robe disappearing around the corner. Thorin was dismayed. All his travels, all his dreaming, might be for naught. It wasn't looking good. But surely Bilbo could still feel his love, though he tried to temper it! He still loved him, and had told him as much; it burned like a fire within his chest, leaping up whenever those soft brown eyes looked upon him, the slender fingers folded in his lap, his hair curling over his ears and falling across his neck, his lips rosy and inviting. Thorin sighed and fell backwards, losing himself in his fantasies. But it would all be for naught if Bilbo did not accept him.
Bilbo sat on the edge of his bed, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Thorin Oakenshield, whom he had loved, kissed, held and slept with, was still alive. He remembered that day, still crystal-clear in his mind, as Thorin's mouth slackened beneath his own, his scream still grating in his throat, hands stiff from holding Thorin so tightly, that feeling of deepest despair sinking in his breast. Thorin alive! He buried his face in his hands. Thorin alive.
What could he say? He could send him off. He would go back to Erebor, or perhaps to the Blue Mountains, or Bilbo could say yes. Thorin would live here with him. Bilbo tried to imagine that and failed. It was all so sudden—oh, what could he say?
It was many hours before either of them fell asleep, and even then, it was restless and uneven.