I: Erebor

He should be dead.

He deserved to be dead. And yet, against all reason and expectation, he still lived and had to deal with the consequences of his crimes.

And crimes they were, crimes against decency, against morality and against the laws of his people. Crimes that had threatened to condemn his loyal followers to death by starvation or on the hungry blades of his foes and those who should be his allies. And the worst...that moment of searing shame when the madness, the anger allowed him to shatter what Mahal had given him and his hand had closed around the throat of the Halfling, holding him over the lethal drop and spitting such poison at one whose only desire had been to save them all from his madness. The Hobbit whose actions had managed to avert the attack by Men and Elves and make them amenable to being allies when the real enemy attacked.

The madness had lifted as the Battle broke out and he had known, as he looked down on the charnel field, that there was only one option He could not be King if all he did was sit in his mountain and gaze upon his cursed treasure while others died. So they broke down the barricade and fought and he had expected to breathe his last as they had charged into the fray. Thirteen against an army, all brave dwarrows who had followed him halfway across Arda to this most desperate end.

And he had fallen, appallingly wounded. His sister-sons had been cut down also, their fall dragging him the last few inches back to cold sanity. The accursed shape of Azog had faced him, the battle to the death with no quarter possible and he had finally ended the pale orc, expecting his own death to shortly follow.

Somehow, he had been found and carried, broken, to the healing tents. And amid the pain and the blood and the impending darkness, he had made his peace with Bilbo, begging for forgiveness and offering his friendship to the Hobbit who had made everything possible. The gentle words of absolution had echoed in his ears as the world had finally faded to black and he expected death.

Yet he had woken apparently many days later, in agony and alone...but alive. And when Oin had bustled into the tent, his lined face lighting at the sight of his King's eyes desperately searching for anyone. Suddenly, the tent was filled with healers, words flying above his muddled head and water being forced over his cracked lips. Yet all he could do was repeat the names of his nephews, hoping against hope that they still breathed.

They lived, both sorely wounded but alive and healing. He had lingered in the twilight the longest, unable to be moved to the mountain while the habitation areas were being cleared of debris, rubble and the bodies of the dwarrow who had fallen over a century earlier when Smaug had taken Erebor. Dain had been acting as King, ordering the clearance and brooking no argument. The Company had clung to the camp, unable to assert any rights without the Durins and as his mind cleared, he had wondered how he could deal with this latest challenge...one he had never imagined because he had expected to be dead. In his heart of hearts, he had always expected the Quest to end in failure and fire and his continued existence was a boon-though maybe not such a welcome one. He had been a King for over a century, ruling Durin's folk in Ered Luin and supporting his kin, but he had never in his mind truly believed he would sit on his Grandfather's throne in the Lonely Mountain. But the Mountain was Fili's birthright and he would fight once more for the golden Prince's right to sit on the throne, even though he had shamed it during his brief tenure.

His reverie had been interrupted by the arrival of his sister-sons, escorted into his tent by Balin and Dwalin and he forced his expression to approximate that he had always worn-that lasted for a few seconds before the relief at seeing nephews overtook him. And then they flung themselves on him and all he could do was close his arms around them, biting back moans of pain as they jostled his broken body, straining stitches and bandages that held his innards in. Both the boys were talking over each other and his head was spinning before Balin finally called them off. He looked at the older son of Fundin.

"The Company?" His voice was croaking from lack of use and weariness but residual anxiety was eased by the knowing smile on Balin's face.

"They all live," he reassured his cousin. "A few scrapes and minor injuries-the odd finger lost here and there, some sword and arrow wounds and warg bites-but considering the odds, it was nigh on a miracle. You and the laddies were the worst injured." Thorin gave a shuddering sigh.

"And Bilbo?" He almost cringed at the pathetic edge of hope on his voice but the fall of Balin's face turned his stomach to knots.

"He's gone," the white-bearded dwarrow told him. "Left with the wizard soon after the battle. The Company was disconsolate but he couldn't be dissuaded." Thorin closed his eyes and lay back on his pillows.

"The first time we met him, Dwalin said the wild was no place for gentle folk who could neither fight nor look out for themselves," Thorin murmured gruffly. "And he ended up in the midst of the worst battle for a century. He was not trained for battle nor ready." He sighed. "And he did as he promised. He helped us to regain our home. He deserves to return to his own." He saw his friends appear cynical, the folding of Dwalin's arms a sure sign he was unimpressed by the facade Thorin had affected.

"I think...he thought you were dead," Fili said slowly, leaning hard on the crutches he needed to move around on his shattered leg. "And he believed we were gone too."

"Not too far off the truth," Dwalin growled. Kili winced, shifting in the seat he had occupied.

"Can't we call him back and let him know the truth?" he asked but Balin and Thorin both shook their heads.

"Two weeks have passed and he will be beyond Mirkwood," Balin sighed. "Gandalf is with him and he will protect his friend. I think..." He cast a sideways look at the King, lying bandaged and broken on his sick bed. "I think he is loath to trust his friend to our care once more."

"That's hardly fair since it was Uncle that tried to kill him!" Kili protested.

"But none of us tried to stop him!" Balin snapped, his eyes also expressing his shame. "We were all affected by the gold-Thorin was just far the worst." Fili snatched a look at Thorin's face and caught the brief stricken expression that crossed his face before his mask was back in place. "And though Thorin is now free of the gold sickness..."

"It could recur," the King said bleakly. "The dragon sat on that gold for well over a century and his evil has leeched into the metal. Much will have to be melted down and remade to purge it of the curse. One fourteenth can go to Dale as agreed for the Arkenstone. Thranduil..." He gritted his teeth. "He can have the gems he requested and any other trinkets by negotiation." Balin frowned but nodded.

"And Bilbo?" Kili's voice was desolate and though Thorin shared his despair, he forced himself to speak evenly.

"He must make his own choices," he said. "I recall him forgiving me when I had accepted I was dying. And though I would hope that his words were genuinely meant, it is perhaps easier to forgive one who is dying than to give such cheap absolution to a dwarf who has wronged you so badly." He paused. "Write to him. Tell him you yet live. Tell him that he is always welcome in Erebor and that his banishment has been rescinded. Tell him that he is still your friend. And maybe one day, he will return."

He closed his eyes then, his heart weighed down by the grief and guilt that his actions had driven Bilbo away and his body exhausted by the efforts of conversing for a mere few minutes. Soon, he was asleep.

He was moved inside Erebor once more and continued his recuperation within the Halls of his line once more. The Royal quarters had been cleared and he found himself attended by Oin and his little band of healers, ruthlessly confined to bed when necessary and then dragged up and rehabilitated when the healers deemed it time. As soon as he was back in the mountain, Dain came to see him and updated him on progress and offered to leave as many men as he needed while the worst of the mess was cleared up. And though he was an ambitious dwarf, the Lord of the Iron Hills confessed that he had no desire to steal Thorin's throne. The King was already a legend for reclaiming one of the dwarf Kingdoms and Dain did not want to be the dwarf who stole his legacy.

Time passed and Erebor was cleared. The displaced people of Laketown were given shelter during the worst of the cold and the gold handed over as promised to Bard, who was being pressed to accept the throne. The White Gems were handed over to Thranduil-in a ceremony that personally cause Thorin immense pain on viewing the smug look of triumph in the Elvenking's eyes-and the three Kings had begun the long process of negotiating treaties and working together. Long before he was fully healed, Thorin was back in control, taking charge in the rebuilding of Erebor and ensuring that the dwarrow who had come on the Quest were rewarded for their efforts.

Loyalty, honour, a willing heart. I can ask no more. I would take every one of these dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills because when I called, they came.

And they had stuck by him, through thick and (mostly) thin. Through wargs and orcs, trolls and stone giants, goblins and skin changers and elves. Through the dragon, despair and cold and madness and war. They deserved whatever they desired and he rewarded them richly with responsibility, titles and the honour they deserved, even though some were of less than noble blood. And he would not allow one single word to be spoken against any of them.

But Bilbo's absence was a gaping wound, an open sore that still earned him the occasional filthy look and muttered grumbles when the Company met. Everyone blamed Thorin for the continued absence of the Hobbit and the King couldn't say he blamed them. Balin's mild defence-that they had parted as friends and that Bilbo's banishment had been rescinded-didn't silence the mutterings or the fact that Thorin blamed himself anyway. He knew that all of the Company had written to the Hobbit but it was too soon to receive any replies. Thorin, though, had paused before writing. Bilbo would be on the road and he doubted that the Wizard would allow any letter of his to get through. And perhaps it was too soon to pour his heart out, to repeat his apologies to the Hobbit he cared for and had wronged so desperately.

So instead, he wrote to the Thain of the Shire. Carefully, he explained how Bilbo Baggins had accompanied the Company of Thorin Oakenshield and had assisted the dwarves of Erebor in reclaiming their Kingdom. He named Bilbo a dwarf-friend and a hero of Erebor. And then he explained that Bilbo was travelling home and that he would return in the summer. But in the meantime, he requested that the Thain ensured that Bilbo's home-Bag End-was safe and that no one tried to steal it on the presumption that Bilbo was dead. Shamelessly using his name and titles, Thorin requested in the name of friendship that the Thain protected Bilbo's possessions and home until he returned, since it would be a travesty if Bilbo travelled halfway across Arda to help the dwarves reclaim their own home while losing his in the process. Finally, he requested that the Thain conceal his request from Bilbo is asked, since he owed the Hobbit his Kingdom and he deserved no thanks for merely doing what anyone would to protect their friend.

He sent the letter by Raven and was heartened to receive a reply three weeks later, carried by an Elf from Rivendell. The Thain, Fortinbras II Took, had written back swiftly to allay any concerns that Thorin may have harboured. In fact, Fortinbras had travelled to Hobbiton himself and had checked Bag End out. Apart from dust, all seemed intact and the neighbour and Bilbo's gardener, Hamfast Gamgee, was relieved to hear that his friend was on his way home. Of course, there was worrying news that Bilbo's cousin, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, had been visiting and spreading rumours that Bilbo was dead but the Thain had issued documents declaring Bilbo to be very certainly alive and that Bag End was currently in the care of the Thain pending Bilbo's return. Any attempt to change the status of the smial or its inhabitant would have to go through Fortinbras who gave his word to consult with Thorin before he would contemplate such a declaration-and only if there was proof that his cousin was no more. Gratefully, Thorin had welcomed the messenger and had allowed him to rest and recuperate from his journey. He had also informed the Company and prevailed upon the Elf so that he agreed to carry any letters back to the East with him when he left so they could travel the shorter and less dangerous portion of the journey by conventional means.

Winter slowly passed and eventually, Spring began to encroach on the Desolation. The mountain slowly came back to life, still echoing and in need of repairs but as the first caravans from the Blue Mountains arrived, Thorin saw his people slowly coalesce back home. The first caravan included the familiar and stern shape of his sister, Dis. Fili and Kili had scrambled down the steps to intercept her and flung themselves on her as soon as she dismounted while the King hung back. Dis was proud of her sons and delighted that they lived but she was clearly upset at their injuries. Both bore scars and Fili was still using a crutch as his leg was still weak and healing from the multiple breaks. As he watched, Thorin saw other families reunited, watched Bombur and Gloin greet their wives and children and his heart warmed at the sight...while all the time being aware that he would never experience the joy and love those couples shared.

He watched from the ramparts as the last of the returnees filed into the mountain, as the wagons and horses were taken away and as the entranceway was closed for the evening. And then finally, he headed slowly back for the Royal Suites to catch up with his sister. He knew that Dis would be unhappy with his handling of the Quest, his gold sickness, the injuries her sons had received and the Battle and he was trying to put off the encounter as long as he could. But his feet took him back to the rooms and he let himself in to face his only living sibling.

"You idiot!" was her opening gambit, followed by a hard slap to the face and finally, a hug. Her eyes scanned his face and then she sighed. "They nearly died so many times..." she told him. "But I would not have stopped them from coming. They would have followed anyway. It was something they had to do." Then she looked into his face and gently stroked a stray lock of hair off his face. "They've grown up. And I am proud of them."

"They earned great honour for their conduct and bravery," Thorin said as she made an exasperated noise.

"And what's this I hear about a Halfling?" she asked him bluntly. He flinched.

"He was the reason we succeeded," he confessed. "I harmed him. He left. Maybe he will come back-but I doubt it. He has too many bad memories."

"Of you." The words were not a question and he didn't bother to answer.

"He forgave me when we both thought I was dying but I lived," Thorin said quietly. "I cannot assume he really forgave such heinous crimes had he known my existence would continue. He has every right to be furious with me."

"Is that why you haven't written to him?" she asked him shortly.

"He hasn't even reached the Shire yet," Thorin corrected her. She frowned.

"How...?"

"I may have checked...though I would be grateful if you did not tell the others..." he told her quietly. Eyes glittering, she shook her head, beads gleaming in the light of the lanterns.

"Why?" she demanded. "Are you ashamed?" He shook his head.

"Leave it," he warned her, resorting to anger to ward her off his wounds. Dis was his sister but she had never been soft and her brand of tough love was the last thing his guilt and misery needed.

"Nadad-it would only be expected after..."

"Leave it!" he roared, turning away. She stared at him. "It's good you're here, Dis," he added bitterly and then he left, stomping out with his cloak flying behind him. Fili and Kili stared as her face darkened with anger.

"Has he been like this since...?" she snapped as her sons winced.

"Ever since Bilbo left and he woke up," Fili confirmed. "He's done his job as King but he doesn't laugh. He doesn't really smile. He spends most of his time alone when he's not working-and he works all the time. It's as if he punishing himself..." Dis stared at the closed door and exhaled through her nose.

"That's exactly what he is doing," she sighed. "Now exactly what he's atoning for is a different matter. Because from what you told me in your letters, there are rather a lot of possible reasons why he would castigate himself." But it was Kili who shook his head and walked to stand beside his mother.

"No, Amad," he said softly. "There's only one. Bilbo."

He consciously distanced himself from them after that, shying from communal meals and family gatherings by citing work commitments. He ate in his rooms, working late into the evenings and walking the ramparts, come rain or hail or sun, to survey his kingdom. To his people, he was the King they expected: stern, even-handed and hard-working. He did his duty with the diligence he owed them but every day, he looked around the vast expanse of Erebor and realised that there was something missing. He had given everything for Erebor and he would spend the rest of his life in service to his people...but it felt as if he was serving a sentence in a jail of his own making, haunted by memories of curls and hazel eyes and hairy feet and a brave, good-hearted and decent Hobbit who he had betrayed in the worst way possible.

In truth, though he worked at his job, it was still too comfortable. He was warm and well-fed. His quarters were elegant and graciously-appointed and he had family and friends around him. And he supposed that Bilbo did too-except that Bilbo was half a world away and his absence was breaking Thorin's heart. Since the rather rocky start to their acquaintance, Thorin had accepted the Hobbit as a comrade, a confidante...a friend, someone that the dwarf King could rely on. Not to kowtow or agree with him...Mahal, Bilbo was as stubborn and argumentative as a dwarrow when he wanted...but he would always help as much as he could and if he promised to do something, he delivered...even if it risked his life. The only time he had not done as asked was when Thorin demanded everyone seek the Arkenstone, though now the King understood perfectly why Bilbo had failed to do as asked. The gold sickness had been terrible and adding in the lure of the Arkenstone and it was unlikely that Thorin would ever have recovered...or had enough awareness in time to make any difference in the Battle.

It was stupid. He had only known the Hobbit for a just over half a year-and a few months as a close friend and yet...Thorin felt his absence most keenly. It was as if part of him was missing, a hollowness in his chest where the warmth he had felt for Bilbo had nestled. It was stupid because he had not said anything, not acknowledged anything but somewhere in the deepest recesses of his heart, he had known. And even amid his madness, he had wanted Bilbo near him. The Hobbit had come seeking for him as he sunk deeper and deeper into the gold sickness and in his befuddled state, he had known that he had to protect Bilbo. So he had gifted the Hobbit the mithril vest that was worth more than the entire Shire, worth a dozen Kings' ransoms as a skewed gift to his friend.

Beloved.

And then he had ruined it all when he had learned of the Arkenstone. He could still feel Bilbo's neck under his hands, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh. He could see the fear in those so-familiar eyes, as Bilbo realised that his friend was no longer facing him, that the dwarf who held him over that lethal drop had no mercy, no compassion, nothing but fury and rage and hatred. And he could recall his own emotions, that toxic cocktail of blackness that had him an inch from dropping Bilbo to his death and only the voice of the Wizard had saved the halfling. Now, every detail of the horrific encounter filled him with utter shame and the images haunted his nightmares. How could be a King when he had betrayed one of his most loyal followers, the being who had been pivotal in regaining Erebor? How could he be a King with no honour?

How could he be a King when he had tried to kill Bilbo?

He couldn't claim the Hobbit as his heart because there was nothing spoken but there had been something there, beyond friendship, that had Thorin stealing glances at the Hobbit, ensuring he was safe no matter what else was going on.

A bitter laugh sounded in his throat. How had it come to this? From barely tolerating the creature to seeking his shape out even before his sister-sons? Mahal, he should never confess that to Dis! But it was futile because his actions had shattered whatever there had been between them and it was only Thorin's desolate, foolish heart that clung to the echoes of what might have been rather than accepted what was. The life he had created and earned through his actions.

The Lonely Mountain was truly named indeed.

Time passed and finally, letters came from the Shire. Bilbo had made it safely home and was happy to hear that Fili and Kili and Thorin had survived. His home had been waiting for him without any dramas and he was happy to report his cousin the Thain had kindly kept an eye on it. He was interested to hear that his friends were all prospering and how well the restorations were coming along...and reported that his journey home had been uneventful and stead, staying with Beorn and at Rivendell on the way back to the Shire. He reminded them all that tea was at four but that they were welcome any time. And he said nothing about ever returning.

Of course, this had prompted a flurry of return letters, even some from Dis to the Hobbit who had befriended her sons. There wasn't a week when a Raven wasn't sent, heavily weighed-down with missives, on the long haul to the Shire, only to return with letters back from Bilbo. And though he hadn't written to Bilbo, Thorin had heard how the Company's Hobbit was getting on. Bilbo spoke of reintegrating into Shire society, of keeping himself busy and attending dinners and parties. Of his younger cousins who loved his stories and certain older relatives who were almost shunning him for running off with thirteen dwarrow and a wizard. Of missing them all and sending his best wishes. And inviting them to visit, even though he knew they were busy.

Alone in his rooms at night, Thorin agonised over a thousand sheets of parchment, of hundreds of letters started them crumpled up and discarded. In his head, he could always manage to find the first line but the moment he dipped his quill into the ink, the words evaporated and he faced the sheet with blank panic and only the gleaming words Dear Bilbo to give him any clues. So he had crumpled up the paper or maybe torn it to shreds and cursed and raged and then collapsed to his knees in a fury of self-recrimination and desolation. And those nights, as so many, sleep would prove elusive.

Balin and Dis cornered him as the celebrations for Durin's Day approached. The Kingdom was functioning better than anyone would have guessed. Dwalin had whipped the guard into shape, Ori was Head Librarian and was still cataloguing the volumes that had survived the dragon, Oil was head of the Healers and Bombur was Head Chef. Gloin had been appointed King's Treasurer, Balin was Chief Adviser along with Dis who was also acting in the post of Consort and Nori was unofficially officially the Chief Spy. Fili and Kili were helping Dwalin in the guards but Fili had to attend court and many meetings to learn how to rule the Kingdom while Kili was the head of the small but highly effective group of archers that Thorin had encouraged him to set up in the defence of Erebor. And among their number was Tauriel, exiled from Mirkwood and in a tentative friendship with Kili. Certain that keeping her in Erebor would annoy Thranduil, Thorin had approved it, reminding himself every time he saw her that she had saved Kili's life and as such, she had earned his gratitude and a home, if she wished one.

Like Bilbo. Except Bilbo would never return.

"Nadad!" Dis's words were sharp and bit through his reverie as he sat at the Council table, aimlessly flicking through the notes from the last meeting. The Guild Masters were jockeying for position, the Lords who had come in from Ered Luin and the Iron Hills were trying to scour up what power they could and marginalise the Company and he honesty wanted to axe their heads off with Orcrist, which Thranduil had returned to him while he was still recuperating. As it was, Dwalin had been listening to him grumble for the last ten minutes but all heads remained on necks...for now... But hearing the tone of voice, Thorin had looked up.

"Dis." The word was guarded because she was wearing the face that promised a scolding at best and a thrashing at worst-his sister had never been shy in her interactions with her brothers. She sat next to him with Balin pulling up a chair from behind her.

"You have to stop this," she snapped as he inspected her mildly.

"Stop what?"

"This..." She gestured to him. "Self-flagellation. This moping. Call it what you will. It needs to end. The people need to see their King regal, looking forward and representing a strong, confident Kingdom."

"I don't..."

"You're cutting your beard!" Dis hissed at him, gesturing. He swallowed. Since the fall of Erebor, he had cut his beard to maintain a very short beard in remembrance of those lost in the fall of the mountain. Yet since the return, his beard had remained short as it had on the Quest. Then he nodded. Balin leaned forward.

"In Mahal's name-why?" Balin asked him, his tone concerned. Thorin lifted his chin, his voice bitter.

"You know why," he said and then looked away. Balin blinked.

"You cannot be serious about this, laddie," he chided gently. "You were sick. The gold sickness was terrible but you fought it off. And you have righted every wrong you did and have melted down much of the gold and traded a substantial portion to ensure that it cannot have such a hold over you again. The lessening of our treasury has also alleviated the risk of further dragon attack! You have done well and many of our folk are safely here for the first Durin's Day celebrations in the mountain."

Thorin stared at the council table.

"One year ago, we were in Laketown. We had lost almost everything but we had each other." He gave a thin smile. "We tried to rob the armoury and we were hauled before the Master-and Bilbo vouched for me. He spoke up for the dwarf who would try to kill him."

"Ah." Balin shot a look at Dis.

"This has to stop," the Princess told him bluntly. "You barely wear your crown, you wear no gold at all and only silver beards in your hair. You trim your beard, wear furs and leathers and armour but nothing like a King should wear to advertise his status and you're acting like you are mourning..."

"I'm acting like I am shamed! Because I am!" Thorin growled back, his face twisted in anger. "I broke my Oath to Laketown. I fell to the Curse of our line. I tried to kill my friend..."

"For stealing the Arkenstone," Dis pointed out.

"He was the only one who saw what had to be done," Thorin said awkwardly. "The only thing I would be willing to trade for, the only thing that could avert a catastrophic war between neighbours over broken Oaths and metal and crystals..."

"Gold and the White Gems," Balin breathed, shocked at the dismissal of all a dwarf should value in such bland terms. Thorin squeezed his eyes closed.

"I cannot wear gold," he admitted softly. "I cannot visit the Treasury. I will not go back there. I will not risk becoming the monster who tightened his hands around his friend's throat and held him over a lethal drop onto jagged rocks below. I cannot be the monster who spat such poison at the one being who had touched my heart and earned my trust after so many years. I cannot risk ever falling again..."

"But you have a Hall that has an entire floor made of gold..." Balin pointed out.

"And I will never set foot in the Gallery of The Kings until every last drop of the gold is scraped up...or until the day I die," Thorin swore. "I recall the plan. I felt so alive, using the resources of Erebor against the dragon and trying to kill it. And I have never been so proud how the Company responded. Every man of them risked his life to ensure I was in the position to drown him in molten gold...but he escaped. And from there, he went and attacked Laketown. Had I been smarter, had our trap been better, those lives would not have been lost."

"Bilbo told us that he mentioned barrels, that he was the one who betrayed the people of Laketown," Balin reminded him but the King shook his head slowly.

"I was the leader of the Company and I sent him in," he murmured. "Even then, I could feel the pull, the metal bending my mind. When I ran in to find him, he came scampering up the stairs...but I blocked him. I demanded the Arkenstone. Nothing else mattered...including the dragon that was bearing down on me. I should have felt it then but it passed in the adrenaline of escaping without being incinerated. I should have killed Smaug."

"You cannot blame yourself for everything," Dis told him practically, but Thorin only smiled bleakly, despair singing through his heart.

"Lord Elrond warned me," he revealed. "Thranduil warned me. Bard warned me. But I was determined. We woke the dragon and hundreds died in Laketown as if attacked and fell. And then thousands more in the Battle afterwards." He took a breath. "My folly. My pride. Gandalf told me it would be my death. Instead it was the deaths of hundreds of innocents instead."

"Thorin-we both know the wizard urged you to go on the Quest," Balin told him wryly. "He manipulated you. He intercepted you in Bree. He diverted Elrond in Rivendell. He gave you the map and key. He used you to remove the dragon. You agreed-because what Prince of the Line of Durin would not? But you felt, the moment he handed you the key, that you had no choice. He used you, Thorin! He knew that you were at risk of dragon sickness, he knew you were proud but he sent you here anyway-along with his friend, Bilbo! So while you bear some blame, the ultimate blame lies with the one who instigated the whole mess." The older dwarrow's voice had risen and even Dwalin-standing guard behind Thorin with arms crossed across his broad chest-raised his eyebrows in shock. Dis stared at her brother.

"Is this true?" she asked sharply.

"I am King and my actions are my responsibility," Thorin insisted. "As are my crimes. And though our allies have moved on, there are some crimes that cannot be brushed aside."

"He forgave you, laddie!" Balin said, exasperated. But Thorin shook his head and rose.

"He forgave a dying man," he told his friend, glancing at his sister. "Who wouldn't absolve a dying man to ease his passage to Mahal's Halls? But finding out the monster who tried to crush your throat or drop you from the ramparts of Erebor still lives will negate such forgiveness. How could he forgive such a betrayal?"

Balin's jaw dropped and Dwalin shifted on his feet.

"That's why you haven't written," he realised. Thorin sighed and shook his head.

"I have no right," he mumbled. Dis lurched to her feet, crystal blue eyes flashing with anger.

"Write to him," she snapped. "Stop moping, behave like a King and write to your Halfling. Or I may have to kill you and steal the throne!"

But her joke fell flat as Thorin walked to the door.

"You're welcome to it," he murmured. "Because I don't deserve it."

That night, nightmares rent his sleep, images of Bilbo's eyes widening in horror as the grip on his throat tightened inexorably until the crunch of vertebrae sounded and the light faded from that hazel gaze...images of Bilbo's frantic eyes widening in a silent plea as Thorin shoved him backwards and watched the small body pinwheel away, dashed to ruin on the rocks below, the smear of red marking the end of the Company burglar...

Sitting up, gasping, Thorin felt his heart would hammer its way through his chest, his breath caught in his throat. The images ceased at that point but the guilt and shame continued to whirl around him, sending him to the fireplace where the banked fire was still glowing and dipping a fresh candle into he flames. And then he walked to his desk, aftershocks of the nightmare shivering through his solid shape. And there, dressed only in his sleep breeches and tunic, he sat down and pulled up a fresh sheet of paper. And finally, there was no hesitation as the quill scratched across the parchment.

My Dear Master Baggins...Bilbo...

I am not sure that I still have the right to use your name but I am hoping that you will allow me that pleasure one more time.

By now I am certain you are aware of my continued existence and I apologise that I have been too cowardly to write until this time. I cannot blame pressure of work or time because I can always make time for those things that really matter. And this matters to me: more than anything. I have tried to put pen to paper so many times but every time, I have failed. The truth is that I cannot find the words but now I know that I will know no peace if I don't at least try.

I am sorry.

The words are simple yet the meaning is not. I am sorry for everything: for how I treated you when you first joined the Company. For my harsh words and cold treatment. For not welcoming you though you agreed to trek halfway across Middle Earth to help a group of assorted dwarrow try to reclaim their mountain from a dragon. I am sorry your life was threatened so many times. I am sorry I did not come rushing in as soon as we heard the dragon waken. I am sorry I failed you, not killing the dragon and letting him go. And I am sorry I succumbed to the gold, to become a creature I shudder to remember. I am sorry that I failed you when you vouched for me.

I am sorry I tried to kill you on the walls of Erebor. You did not deserve such treatment for being the only member of my Company with the courage and clear vision to keep the Arkenstone away from me. You alone tried to prevent the blood shed and you were repaid with foul threats and violence. I know that when we last met, you said you forgave me but I know that was only kindness to a dying man. You were traumatised by the Battle and the losses and I know in my heart that you cannot have excused such heinous acts on my part. I can only beg forgiveness and hope that one day, you will regain your peace of mind that my actions robbed you of.

Your banishment of course has been rescinded and you have been named dwarf-friend and Hero of Erebor. You are of course welcome back to Erebor and I know all the Company would dearly love to see you once more.

It is possible that you may not even read this letter. If you throw this letter into the fire, I hold no ill will. I understand. But know that you are ever in my thoughts and I think of you as the dearest and truest of friends

Thorin Oakenshield.

The letter was sent by Raven the following dawn, after a night where sleep completely eluded Thorin and he appeared weary and downtrodden. The nightmares worsened as he closed on Durin's Day and his exhausted appearance was not missed at the Durin's Day celebrations, Nevertheless, he stood forward, dressed as a King-though devoid of any gold-and gave a powerful speech about the efforts all had put into rebuilding Erebor and how the next year would bring even greater success and prosperity to the reclaimed kingdom. There were cheers and food and drink were supplied to all in abundance. Men from Laketown and the Elves were invited but while the Men attended, the Elves declined, for which Thorin was grateful. The mood in the Kingdom was merry and for once, the place resembled the Erebor of Thorin's memory as a child, filled with light and joy. Until he realised those who were missing-his parents, his brother Frerin and of course...Bilbo. Of all of them, the Hobbit would have relished the feasting, the music and dancing and drinking of the celebration. But Bilbo was in the Shire, alone and separated from those who owed him so much...all because of the actions of one dwarven King.

The anniversary of the confrontation on the ramparts struck Thorin even worse, nightmares permitting a scant hour or so of sleep each night until the day itself. On that horrific night, the King didn't even attempt sleep, staring into the fire all night, drinking because there was nothing else to do. And quietly, wracked by guilt, he talked to the absent Bilbo as if he had still been there.

He sleepwalked through the celebrations for the anniversary of 'the Battle of Five Armies' as it was being called, memories of the day fractured by lingering gold sickness, anger, guilt and the after effects of injuries. But some things were clear: the brilliance of the sun on snow, the face of Azog, the screams of his sister-sons, the cold of the ice underneath his back. And the peace as he had looked up into Bilbo's face and made his apology.

But there was no peace for him. And no reply as well, for Bilbo never wrote back. Every other member of the Company received a reply except Thorin and it only highlighted the fact that Bilbo hadn't forgiven him in truth. But he found that he couldn't stop himself. Now he had written to Bilbo, he found he couldn't stop and every week, he dispatched another letter. In each, he repeated his apologies, begged for Bilbo's forgiveness and updated him on the latest news from Erebor. Somehow, it gave the King some small reason to push on, enduring days and nights wracked by his grief and shame, sleep riven by nightmares and days wrapped in the fear that he would relapse, would succumb once more to the lure of gold. But around him, Erebor prospered. His nephews recovered fully from their wounds and moved on. Kili began to court Tauriel, with Dis's approval and to the amusement of the Company, who expected their King to throw a majestic sulk...but Thorin gravely approved of the courtship and waved them on. Fili flourished and the King became more happy in delegating tasks to his Heir.

The Company flourished. Dori began a courtship with a fine dwarrowdam who ran the best tea emporium in Erebor while Dwalin and Ori began to dance around one another so that the rest began to place bets on the outcome. Bofur and Bifur opened a toy store though Bofur was always willing to lend his surprisingly strong stone sense when required to assist the miners. Bombur's wife had another child, a daughter, which everyone took as a good omen while Gloin's son Gimli continued to grow and give his father more proud stories to share at their communal meals.

Time passed and Erebor was restored to its former glory. There were still areas damaged by the dragon but all shared in the prosperity, as Thorin had promised when he had spoken in Laketown. The King still performed his duties with solemn diligence, though he frequently looked tired with dark shadows under his eyes. After the nights when his dreams were especially bad, he was always to be found early on the training grounds, swinging Orcrist with skill and precision. Dwalin usually sparred with his friend, grim-faced at the singular dedication the King showed when he was trying to stop himself thinking of anything but the battle and the necessity to stay alive. And though Thorin was an excellent swordsman, Dwalin knew he beat him more than he should and injured him more often than he ought. Yet the King waved off his concerns and went back to his duty without delay, causing Dwalin to have to send Oin to tend his stubborn friend.

Bilbo continued to write back to the Company but there was not one letter for Thorin and as time passed, the King began to lose hope. He still wrote but his letters became darker and more desolate. At some point, he confessed that his feelings for Bilbo had been more than simple friendship and he apologised for that as well. He assumed that Bilbo would have his eye on some cheerful Hobbit lass and maybe he was already wed or planning it: he guessed his confession was as unwelcome as his apologies. But the pain in his heart was already becoming an old friend, a nagging ache that was with him every day, eased only when he thought of their friendship and of the times he should have confessed his feelings. He had hoped that the Hobbit would understand the implications of the princely gift he had given Bilbo but of course, the subtleties of dwarfish courtship would be lost on a Hobbit...even if Thorin had been well enough to confess his desires amid his gold sickness.

He still wrote but he guessed that the silence meant that he would never be reconciled with Bilbo. That his crimes against the Hobbit were beyond even the capacity of a Baggins of Bag End to forgive. It was as he had feared all along: he had been a fool to hope that the friendship the Hobbit showed to his fellows would extend to the King who had threatened his life. Would a dwarf forgive such a base betrayal? And his heart supplied the answer, shattering the last shreds of his hope. There was to be nothing more for him, save the memories of their brief friendship, a time that seemed to mean so much more to Thorin than it ever would to the Hobbit. It was doubtful Bilbo had ever felt the same that the King realised he had-and it was certain that the burglar would never understand to implications. And as time passed and the years rolled past, the hollowness in Thorin's heart just grew more and more difficult to ignore.

By the time five years had passed since Erebor had been reclaimed, the Kingdom was back how Thorin recalled it from his childhood. Treaties were in place, the Guilds were mostly functioning smoothly and the mines and forges were productive. Fili had started courting Engarad, a dwarrowdam from the Grey Mountains, a feisty lass with sparkling grey eyes and ash blond hair who had as much spirit as Dis. Thorin had watched, aghast, as the two had clashed on their first meeting, almost coming to blows requiring Thorin and Kili to separate the two before finally reaching an understanding. In fact, this state of affairs had proven much more disturbing as the two women had settled their differences and now were fast friends, leading the King to envisage years of being ganged up-upon by his sister and Heir's wife. The image had caused him a sharp pang of regret, the absence of a shape at his side only emphasising the sensations of isolation and shame he felt. And the feeling was only intensified when Kili finally proposed to Tauriel.

Bilbo was invited to Kili's wedding along with all the Company and the dignitaries of the neighbouring Kingdoms but the Hobbit declined due to responsibilities back in the Shire. Even though Thranduil also refused to come, sending his son Legolas in his stead, Thorin felt no relief because, officiating over the ceremony where his younger nephew bound his life to his One, he felt a powerful pang of envy, of jealousy that both the boys seemed destined to enjoy the one adventure he never would. As a younger dwarf, he had dedicated his life to his people, eschewing all thoughts of any personal relationships in favour of duty...but by now, as he finally considered his own needs, he had accepted that the only person his heart seemed to see as his One was the one person he had wronged beyond forgiveness. His destiny and penalty would be to live his life alone...and as he slipped out of the back of the celebrations to walk the ramparts, he knew now that the Kingdom he had fought so hard for and risked so much for was no longer enough.

The truth was that they no longer needed Thorin Oakenshield. After Azanulbizar, when his people were diminished and shattered, when so many had died and the King and Crown Prince as well as countless others had had been lost, he was the only option. Without Thorin, the refugees of Erebor would have perished or scattered, lost to the mists of time and spread across Arda to fade into dust. And he had done everything to protect them, working in the towns of men and being abused and cheated to garner a few coins to ensure his sister and sister-sons were fed, to keep them warm and safe and finally, reaching Ered Luin. It had been a struggle, taking what scraps the other dwarrow in the mountains would permit, working hard every day of his life to ensure that his people were housed and warm, fed and safe and that they had a life they could be proud of. Dis and the boys had always been his priorities and now they prospered, now his people were home, what more was there to do? He knew he was not the most diplomatic-Fili and even Kili were much more skilled in negotiating and Dis was able to support them with her acid wit and quick mind. Balin could provide the necessary experience and voice of reason-but Thorin, the hero of Azanulbizar and victor of the Battle of Five Armies, was too quick to anger, too impatient and grumpy to negotiate and too tired to change now. He had lived two centuries, most in exile and most as King and the weight of his crown (which he wore only under sufferance for the most formal of occasions) was growing far too heavy.

He knew his family and friends were worried and they began to visit him in his rooms more regularly than every before. Dwalin was a daily visitor as were Dis and Fili. Balin and Kili as well as the other members of the Company dropped in less often so he reluctantly continued attending communal meals to defuse their concerns. He knew that he had started to neglect himself but he no longer had the heart to struggle. What was the point in carrying on if he would never be forgiven. Bilbo had made it perfectly clear: Thorin's efforts in ruling Erebor, his apologies and everything he had done would never be enough to erase the shame of his guilt. In fact, there was only one thing he could do to atone. So he prepared Fili for the throne and put more and more responsibility into his nephew's shoulders until his sister, Balin, Dwalin and Fili arrived at his rooms one evening and walked in without preamble.

"What are you doing?" Dis demanded, taking a seat by the fire. The others spread themselves around the room, all eyes on the proud shape of the King. Thorin schooled his face.

"I was working through my papers from the day," he explained, gesturing to the loaded desk by the far wall. She snorted loudly, her face exasperated.

"You know what I mean, Nadad," she snapped as he folded his arms. Fili inspected his face with unnerving intensity.

"Perhaps you should be more clear in your questions," Thorin replied, feeling uncomfortable under such close scrutiny, almost as if he were that young Prince back before the dragon came, facing the disapprobation of his father and grandfather.

"You are existing, not living," the Prince told him.

There was a shocked silence across the room and Thorin stiffened, his eyes falling on his nephew. Even Dis seemed completely winded by the succinct and accurate assessment of their King. Turning away to look at the flames leaping in the hearth, Thorin gave a single nod.

"How...?" Dwalin's gruff voice was shocked.

"These quarters contain the minimum required," Fili said. "No luxury. Barely even comfort. And no ornamentation. And while I can understand Uncle's issues with gold, there are many other spectacular creations by the smiths of Erebor that a King could claim for his own comfort. A single rug-that is almost plain-and a simple table with two chairs. Your clothes are without ornament. You barely wear the crown and you barely wear any jewellery. You socialise reluctantly, you clearly don't sleep enough and you spend most of your time alone. You never look happy-even when Ki wed Tauriel."

"I was happy then," Thorin protested defensively. "The happiness of my family has always been my priority..." He paused. "Even if one of them marries a tree-shagger..." he added dryly, hearing Dwalin snigger. Tauriel and Thorin had reached an understanding during Kili's courtship but there was an agreement that both were permitted a single insult in any social gathering. Dis snorted as well.

"Who may in the near future be the mother of your grand-nephews and nieces," she pointed out.

"Thorin-what's on your mind?" Balin asked, his tone clipped. He had known the King for almost all his life and he agreed with Fili's assessment. Finally, the King turned to face them.

"I am going to abdicate," he told them.

There was another, stunned silence before everyone spoke at once...but the moment the words left his mouth, the rightness of the decision struck him. He breathed quietly as the chaos quietened down and Dis rose. Walking slowly to face him, she looked him up and down and then gently laid a hand on his cheek.

"Why?" she breathed. "Why would you abandon your people and leave the responsibility to my son? Why would you weigh him down with the burden that you struggled with so suddenly when the King was slain and Adad went missing?"

"I was much younger than Fili when I became King and far less prepared," Thorin told her simply. "Fili is ready. He has been trained and tested and this time, the handover will be orderly and planned. And he is far more suited to the Throne of Erebor than I am."

She slapped him, the blow hard enough to snap his head around and he flinched then returned his impassive gaze to meet hers.

"You would ruin his life when he is still young, still courting," she snapped, her tone furious.

"Believe me, I only think of the future of Erebor," Thorin told her quietly, the defeat in his tone painful to hear. Balin leaned forward.

"You've done a fine job in rebuilding the Kingdom, in making sure that the dragon's influence is removed from he treasure and that everyone shares in the prosperity of Erebor," he said. "You should not be so hard on yourself, laddie..." But Thorin gave a small, bitter smile.

"Before we left on the Quest, on that night at Master Baggins' home, you told me that I need not go on the Quest. That I had done well for our people, that I had built a life of peace and prosperity in Ered Luin. But I insisted on the Quest and against all odds, we succeeded. So now Erebor is rebuilt and the life of peace and prosperity that I envisaged for our people has come to pass-but in our ancestral Halls, our true home. But I find no peace here because every inch of the mountain reminds me of the sins, the crimes I committed here."

"Not this again," Dwalin muttered under his breath.

"You were forgiven..." Fili began but Thorin raised a hand sharply.

"Maybe I have not forgiven myself," he said flatly. "Maybe Mahal has not forgiven me, for my nights are torn by visions of my crimes, over and over. And my heart is rent in two. There is no peace for me here, no forgiveness that I can accept." Dis stared at him.

"Thorin...no one blames you for your illness, for your actions in your dragon sickness..." Balin began.

"I blame myself," the King interrupted. "I broke oaths, betrayed allies, almost caused a war...and almost killed our burglar. I suspected every one of my Company, though none had done a thing to warrant such treatment. I am an unfit King. And while there remains any gold in Erebor, I am a risk to those who look to me."

"You have a duty..." Dis began but her brother bowed his head.

"Namad, I have fulfilled my duty," he said. "I risked everything...and I won. But in doing that. I sacrificed my heart. The guilt of what I have done haunts me every waking hour."

"You have been forgiven," Fili repeated.

"Not by Bilbo," Thorin finally told him, his voice gruff with pain. "I have been writing to him every week since the first Durin's Day in Erebor. And not one word in reply. I have apologised, explained myself, called him friend...but never once has he acknowledged me. So I can only conclude that the one person whose forgiveness I seek, whose forgiveness I most desire...has not and never will offer it to me. And this I remain shamed and guilty of my crimes. I have served my penance here: now I can leave the daily reminder of my crimes."

The others stared at him.

"I didn't know Bilbo had never written to you," Balin murmured. "He writes to everyone-even Engarad and Tauriel." Thorin looked away to hide the pain in his eyes, the pain that jabbed through his chest at the confirmation of his disgrace.

"Proof, if any was needed, that I am unforgiven," he stated flatly. "The only being whose approval I need on this Middle Earth...and the one who will not forgive me." His sister stared at him in shock.

"Thorin...you cannot mean..." she snapped. He stared at her and then walked to the door.

"Since you will clearly not leave me to any peace, I will go and seek it for myself," he told them flatly. "I expect you will have left by my return." And then he walked from the room, the heavy door slamming loudly behind him as his steps receded in the quiet. Dis shook her head.

"My brother has always been over-dramatic," she said and sat down, worrying a nail as she stared at the flames.

"Did he say what I thought he did?" Dwalin asked, walking to stand by his brother, his arms folded.

"He never said anything, either during the Quest or after," Balin confirmed.

"Though he certainly looked at Bilbo...after Azog had nearly killed him and Bilbo raced down to save him, of course...like he was a piece of treasure rather than a Hobbit," Fili commented. The others looked at him. "Ki noticed it as well. It's not our fault the rest of you aren't as observant as we are."

"It would explain the Mithril vest," Balin mused. Dis grabbed his arm.

"Thorin gave the Halfling a Mithril vest?" she repeated. He nodded.

"I think, even amid his madness, he was trying to protect Bilbo," he murmured.

"But even since...he's never said anything..." Dwalin protested. "Are you sure or..."

"Or you think my brother has brooded so much on the Halfling that he imagines himself in love with him?" Dis asked and then she shook her head, dismissing the notion. "I am sorry. I do him a disservice. Of one thing I am sure-which you should know, since you are also with your One-is that the call of your other half is unmistakeable." Slowly, the warrior nodded.

"Every day, he walks the ramparts, standing there and staring across towards Dale," he murmured. "Every day."

"He revisits the scene of that day," Fili murmured. "The place that cost him..." He sighed. "Amad-what would he do when he abdicates? What purpose will he have if he doesn't have the Kingdom?" Dis looked over at her son and sighed.

"Thorin is two hundred years old and he has been caring for our people for much of his life," she reminded him. "His entire life has been duty. No matter how much we care for him, how can we deny his wish to finally have something for himself? And even if that means leaving, maybe it is for the best. He has no peace here: perhaps leaving the home he fought to reclaim for us will gain him what he seeks."

The Crown Prince looked up at his cousins and mother and felt his heart constrict.

"So this is really happening?" he asked. "He's really leaving?"

Balin nodded.

"Yes, my King," he said.

The ceremony and the crowning of King Fili I by Thorin went smoothly, though the people of Erebor were stunned and shocked at the departure of their King. Kili was installed as Crown Prince and Heir and Tauriel crowned as Princess, much to Dis's amusement. The entire Company was in attendance and Bilbo had sent best wishes, though he cited the distance and short notice as reasons not to make the journey. Some were disappointed and there was talk of maybe setting up a journey across to the leagues to visit their burglar but everyone had heavy responsibilities and it was clear that any travel would need some serious planning and co-ordination.

After the ceremony, Thorin had excused himself from the feast and returned to his rooms, staring at the pack leaning against the now-empty desk. He removed his rich robes for the last time, folding them neatly and leaving them on the desk before he changed into new clothes that Balin and Dis had provided for his travel. He still kept his old mail from the Quest and his comfortable boots but he once he had shed the trappings of royalty, he donned a fresh Durin blue shirt, black tunic and breeches and fastened a wide belt around his waist. Reverently, he glanced over at Orcrist, the weapon that had served him so well before he dropped to his knees in front of the fire. He couldn't put this off any longer, for he was no longer a King, no longer a hero or a symbol of his people. No, he was simply a shamed old dwarf who could never be forgiven for the attack on the being that he now knew for certain was his One, the only person he was ever permitted to love. Now he could finally admit his guilt, his desolation and his utter hopelessness. And though he felt hollow, the pain in his heart a constant companion, he still felt his throat tighten as he lifted the knife.

He hoped that Bilbo would understand.