In his sweet sleep, alive with the scent of a warmer season in the Shire, Bilbo felt a light pressure on his leg. He ignored it at first, not wanting to pull himself away from the bliss in which he floated, but then he remembered in a flash that he was not in his bed at home and that he was not alone. He opened his eyes startled only to meet the soft-glowing gaze of Thorin, king under the mountain which sheltered both of them from the wintery winds outside. The pressure on the hobbit's thigh came from his hand, which rested there in tentative appeal. It withdrew at once.

"Thorin? What is it?"

"Thirsty," whispered the dwarf.

"Oh, of course," said Bilbo, then rose painfully on an elbow and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I am sorry," said Thorin, sounding as if, whatever it was he regretted, he truly meant it.

"For what?" Bilbo squinted back to him, trying to accustom his eyes to the glare of the candle that burned at Thorin's side.

"For waking you up."

Bilbo cracked a little smile. "I'm glad you didn't try to get it yourself."

"I couldn't even if I tried."

"It's certainly good to know one's limitations," declared Bilbo, hauling himself out of bed and stretching his back and arms.

Thorin did not reply, and the hobbit threw a glance at him over his shoulder to see if he was annoyed with his remark. He was not. The dwarf was smiling at him subtly.

Then Bilbo went over to his side and collected the water pitcher that rested on his night table. "I'll be right back," he said and stepped away slowly with the pitcher wrapped tightly in his arms.

"Bilbo," called Thorin softly just as the hobbit was ready to open the door. "Put something on."

Bilbo looked back to him and then looked at himself. He was only wearing a light shirt, more than enough to feel comfortable in Thorin's warm bedroom, but it was probably not as warm outside in the sitting room and especially not in the corridor that led to the Royal Kitchens. Thorin had a point.

"Right," said Bilbo and went back for the felt coat that Balin had given him a couple of days before. He wrapped it around himself and finally stepped out of the room.

He was grateful for Thorin's warning the moment he found himself outside his door. As late in the night as it probably was, the air was much cooler under the high ceilings of the royal quarters without a fire burning in a hearth somewhere. Still, the surroundings were made pleasant by the torches that flickered steadily in their wall mounts, lighting the way.

Only one sound broke the eerie silence of the kitchen: the bubbling of spring water that ran from the deep darkness of the mountain through a small round tunnel inside the wall and into a basin. He placed the pitcher under the stream of water and waited for it to fill up. Then he put it aside and reached both hands, palms gathered in a cup, under the silvery thread. The water was icy and it chased whatever trace of sleepiness still mollified Bilbo's bones. He took a few drinks of it himself. He had never tasted water so pure and so refreshing, not even from the deep wells of the Shire. And he could think of nothing better to soothe Thorin's thirst.

He returned to him, carrying the pitcher with both hands. Thorin was still very much awake and smiled softly at the sight of the hobbit. He had managed to extract his arms from under the covers and they both lay idle at his side, partly wrapped in bandages. His braids were long undone, and his rings had been removed from his fingers and put away safely. The only remaining marks of his status were his golden ear cuffs, and a tattoo of what Bilbo had come to recognize as his royal seal on his right shoulder and arm, which he had not looked at carefully until then. As striking as it was, Bilbo had to admit that he found the idea of having something etched into his skin or of wearing anything on his ears to be just as uncomfortable as that of wearing shoes.

He did not impart that opinion to the Dwarf King. Instead, Bilbo poured some water into a cup and then helped him keep his head raised high enough to drink. His fingers registered the rich silk of Thorin's freshly washed hair with brilliant keenness, and he was almost sorry when he had to part with it as the dwarf finished his water.

"All right?" asked Bilbo.

Thorin nodded, and Bilbo laid his head back on his pillow gently.

Then he straightened his shoulders and looked around the stately bedroom, with its rising walls of dark-green polished stone, decorated with intricate patterns trimmed in gold, wondering, as Fili and Dain had asked him before, what indeed he was still doing in that place. It had been his choice to come all that way and help the dwarves retake their mountain kingdom, but the quest was over and so was his adventure. The dwarves had earned a warm place in his heart, but he was a hobbit from the Shire and it was time to go back home, to soft hills and round doorways.

And yet, even if he had been given the chance to leave that very instant, and make the journey home in complete safety and in possession of all necessary supplies, he would have stayed right where he was. There was something about the way Thorin looked at him, even in his weakened state, that made him feel as if his adventure was not over at all. Somewhere in the dim glimmer of his tired eyes, Bilbo could glimpse some truth about himself that would have remained forever hidden if he had chosen to part with his company at that moment.

Even if he could not ignore that he found himself in the bedchamber of a prince, Bilbo also realised that it was still a bedchamber. The fire cracked and sputtered its red little clouds of live sparks in the hearth of a Dwarf kingdom in the East the same as it did in his own hobbit hole in the Shire. It was just as warm and made him just as prone to want to hide under a soft blanket, listen to its blazing tune and give himself to the sweetest of dreams.

Yet, he could not give in to that wish as easily here as he would have at home.It was not his own bed that he would have lain in. Here he would have lain next to Thorin, in the bed of his youth, where he had perhaps dreamed the grand dreams that were the night realm of princes, dreams that had shattered under the sharp light of day. He had nearly shattered himself chasing them, and for the sake of all that, Bilbo could no longer pretend that they could go on without speaking of the one thing neither of them had mentioned but that was obviously on both of their minds. He knew by now that someone like Thorin did not make confessions of love without meaning to do something about them, and even if he had made his confession with the shadow of death hanging low over him, it had not been made in vain.

"Thorin," he began, "before I lie back down in your bed, I think that there are things we need to discuss."

Thorin agreed with a slow blink, which put a lump in Bilbo's throat. He had hoped that Thorin would continue where he had left off before he had fallen unconscious and would tell him in clear and reassuring details what exactly he had meant with the words I love you, what he planned to do about it and what he expected Bilbo to do. That seemed not to be the case, however, and Bilbo answered first his sudden need to sit down by seating himself on the edge of Thorin's bed.

He decided to begin by justifying his presence there. "Balin has asked me to stay with you while you're recovering and -"

"He should not have asked that of you," interrupted Thorin.

"Why not?"

"Your duty with me is done."

"I am not here because of any duty," said Bilbo after a long pause.

"Why are you still here, Bilbo?" asked Thorin, his voice trailing like smoke on a low autumn evening.

Bilbo stared at him in disbelief "How could I leave after what you said to me?"

"I did not say what I said in order to chain you to my bed."

"I know. You were expecting to die, but you didn't. And unless you take that back as well, I feel that I must answer... in some way."

"I do not take it back."

"I had a feeling you wouldn't," said Bilbo and nodded, or rather allowed his head to droop under a strong wave of dizziness, as if he had been tumbling down yet another tunnel in the Misty Mountains. He composed himself and looked back to Thorin. "I'm here because I feel something for you, but I don't have a name for it. All I know is that I cannot go back home until I find one."

Thorin smiled a warm, deep smile. "I would not ask more of you. And it does not mean anything in particular if you sleep in my bed other than keeping me company and getting the rest you need. You have nothing to fear from me, Bilbo, not anymore."

"I don't fear you, Thorin. It's just that this is not exactly the kind of adventure I dreamed of as a young hobbit running off into the woods."

"That is true of me as well, as a young dwarf, of course."

Bilbo smiled in return. "Can I ask you something?"

Thorin nodded.

"I need to be certain. What did you mean? That you love me as a, a friend?"

Thorin smirked. "Would you find it difficult to return that statement?"

"No," said Bilbo, wincing.

"That is not what I meant, Bilbo. I think of you as much more than a friend."

Bilbo swallowed painfully. "Do you not also think of Dwalin as more than a friend?"

"Yes, but in a different way. I think of Dwalin as a brother, although at the moment he probably has trouble thinking of me that way."

"Because of me?"

"No. Because of me."

"So, what am I to you?"

"Everything."

Bilbo felt his eyes stinging badly and suddenly. He held the tears at bay with a jab of irony. "So you don't give mithril to all your friends."

"No," said Thorin.

The glow in his eyes and in his voice made it impossible for Bilbo to hold back his tears. They flowed silently down his cheeks and he could no longer look at Thorin. He did not know exactly why he was crying, but it felt good, like a great relief and like a great reward at the same time, one that honoured him more than any share of the treasure of Erebor. "I'm sorry," he said, wiping his face with his bare hand.

"I did not want to say that now," said Thorin, "but you asked. You also do not have to say anything now. Or ever, if there is nothing to be said."

"There is," replied Bilbo, his voice a little shaky. "I would not be here now if there weren't."

Thorin smiled as if he had expected Bilbo to say that, then his eyelids started drooping.

"You're tired, you should sleep," said Bilbo and stood up, sniffing.

He went over to his side of the bed and lay down, pulling the blanket over himself. As he wedged an arm under his head and kept gazing through the sweet mist of his drying tears at Thorin's profile, he felt that a great whirlwind had been quieted inside him, at least for the time being.

Thorin allowed his eyes to close. His features sagged a little under the wing of exhaustion, but he roused again and turned his head to Bilbo, pain blooming in his eyes

"What hurts?" asked Bilbo.

Thorin tilted his forehead towards his bandaged left arm and shoulder. He had spear wounds in both, and even if they had been sealed shut, the torn muscles were probably aching badly.

"Maybe I can help," said Bilbo, remembering that rubbing a bumped knee had always helped him feel better.

He extended a hand over Thorin's forearm and began stroking it up to the edge of the dressing that covered the wound in his arm and back down to the wrist. Thorin smiled and closed his eyes again. This time they stayed closed and his smile lingered.

Bilbo's gesture truly did not mean anything other than wanting to relieve Thorin's pain, but he most certainly felt something at that very moment, when his skin was in such close contact with Thorin's. It was not friendship of any kind he had experienced before. This was more like an invisible spider's web was being woven between them with every touch, as if something of his skin remained on Thorin's in the wake of his stroking palm, and something of Thorin's skin remained on his. He realised with more clarity that two persons, even a dwarf king and a simple hobbit, could not go through so much peril together without leaving a mark on each other. It felt like, in stroking Thorin's arm, he was brushing aside the dust of the storm that had just passed them to reveal the etchings that one had made on the other. Perhaps, after enough dust had been brushed off, he would have been able to read on his own skin the name of what it was that he felt for Thorin, and he would have been able to tell it to him.

He stopped stroking when he became convinced that Thorin was sound asleep, but did not take away his hand immediately. He had begun to think that his hand looked rather impressive when wrapped around the hilt of his sword, but now it appeared so small as it rested on the dwarf's thick wrist. He dozed off turning that thought in his mind.

When he woke again, it was not of his own will. It was the feeling of something lifting his hand softly from where it resided that plucked him from sleep. He opened his eyes and saw Balin smiling down at him as he withdrew the hand that he had used to free Thorin from his clutch.

Bilbo jumped up on an elbow, feeling entirely inappropriate. "I'm terribly sorry," he said, turning a bright shade of red.

Balin waved it off. "Oh, nothing to feel sorry about. I was going to suggest it myself, but I didn't know how Thorin would feel about it."

Bilbo blinked in confusion. "Suggest what?"

"That you stay in his bed. It is the best way for you to be able to watch him and get your rest."

"Oh, yes, I suppose it is," said Bilbo, sitting up and taking a bit of time to compose himself. He got up, as Balin put down the dressings that he was carrying in his arms.

"I'm going to need your help today, Bilbo," said Balin. "Some of Bard's people arrived from Dale yesterday. Oin has a few new patients that need him more."

"I understand," said Bilbo. "Can I ask you something first?"

"Certainly."

"May we go outside?"

Balin looked surprised but he agreed.

They both walked out into the sitting room and Bilbo paced a bit, fidgeting with his hands at his back before he stopped and spoke, over his shoulder. "Do the others know?"

"I think they know something," said Balin, the very sound of peace.

It soothed Bilbo's nerves and it frayed them at the same time. He turned fully. "May I ask why no one but Dwalin seems bothered by it?"

"I take it you have discussed the matter with Thorin," said Balin, raising an eyebrow.

"We have talked about it, yes," replied Bilbo, under his breath "Balin, there is something I need to know about your people. Gandalf told me that Dwarves are more... accepting of such things." He paused, spying the twinkle of understanding that he expected to see in Balin's eyes even if he seemed to hold no suspicion about Bilbo sharing Thorin's bed. The twinkle was there, so Bilbo continued. "Shire Hobbits are quite the opposite. They find even talking to other folk odd. I imagine I am already the talk of Hobbiton. Going off on adventures with a bunch of Dwarves and not returning for three seasons... Unheard of, really..."

Balin smiled thinly "I see. What Gandalf told you is true."

"Because there are only a few women among your kin?"

"That is part of it, yes. Sadly, even fewer since the unfortunate incident with the dragon. Many of them were too deep inside the mountain to escape in time."

"Oh, that is unfortunate."

"Yes, a very sad affair indeed," said Balin and thought to himself for a while. "So, indeed, we do not blame those who seek alternatives. Or those who choose not to seek company at all."

They looked at each other for a while. Bilbo reclined slowly against the back of a large chair, musing that, until very recently, he had thought he had belonged in the latter category. He crossed his arms and smiled. "I imagine though that if a royal wanted to... secure his line, there would be options."

"Oh, certainly," said Balin. "But Thorin has expressed no such desire so far. Too much on his mind, you see."

"Mhm... What about from now on? He's got his kingdom back, after all."

"A kingdom in ruins," chuckled Balin. "His days of having too much on his mind are certainly not numbered. And he has expressed an interest in you. His line is secure in Fili and Kili. He has raised both of them to be kings after him. I advise discretion, Bilbo, but you needn't worry about what we think."

"Has Thorin ever... expressed such desires before?"

"Not to me, and I believe that is something you should ask him."

Bilbo looked at the old dwarf without blinking. "I'm asking you."

Balin peered at him from under his eyebrows. "Laddie, in all honesty, I do not know if Thorin has had such desires before, but none of us are all that surprised. He was very young when Erebor was lost. He was raised to be king after his father. He grew up with no doubt in his mind that that was his destiny. And then the dragon came one day, and all of that crashed and burned in his wake. Marriage never seemed to enter Thorin's plans after that, because he had no kingdom to bequeath to his heirs."

"What about Fili and Kili?"

"They were his sister-sons. He had to take responsibility for them after their father died. I think that looking after us has taken too much of his heart for him to think about starting his own family. I suppose we are all his family, and he has always thought of us in that way. Being a king is very serious business, Bilbo, and I suspect that something broke inside Thorin when we were driven out of Erebor. He was never quite the same."

Bilbo lowered his gaze. "I understand."

"I don't know if that helps you, but it is all I can offer for an explanation, if ever there can be one for such things."

Bilbo looked back up to Balin. His own concern for why he felt the way he felt had lost its urgency. It seemed to matter less than Thorin's lifetime of sorrow, and certainly less than what he could do then and there to make his journey back to health a little easier.

"Now," said Balin, "if there is nothing else..."

"No, thank you, Balin."

They went back inside Thorin's room and Balin walked on to his bed.

"Bilbo, will you be a good lad and fill this bowl with cold water?" he said, indicating the bowl that Oin had used the previous day for cleaning Thorin's wounds and which now sat on the table near his bed.

Bilbo complied, but as he watched the water pouring, a deep anxiety crept over him at the thought that he would have to watch again the necessary but gruesome ritual of cleaning Thorin's wounds.

As he returned to the bedroom, he saw that Thorin was awake, or at least he was beginning to wake.

He walked up to Balin's side and placed the bowl of water back on the table. Thorin glanced at him, his face already glistening softly with a thin layer of sweat. Balin had begun cutting the dressings from his wounds.

"Bilbo," he said, "I'll need you to start cleaning these with water. I have to check on the lads. I won't be long."

"But-" began Bilbo.

"Don't worry, there's not much to it. Just press gently and don't rub. Just like Oin did yesterday. And rinse each time. You'll do fine."

Bilbo knew that he did not have much choice. He looked in growing terror as Thorin's body was being bared of the dressings that kept the many gashes, burns and bruises hidden from his view. He could hardly conceive of touching them even if it was in Thorin's best interest, and he stood there for a while, staring at the shapeless pools of darker and lighter red on Thorin's body as if that was all he was made of. His eyes went down to the long cut over his stomach. It had not gone deep enough to do any lethal damage, but it had been bleeding profusely enough to warrant being sealed shut with the fire-heated blade of Bilbo's little sword. It was inflamed, like all of the other larger wounds and some of the burned flakes were starting to peel off, leaving a moist, pink layer of raw skin underneath that made Bilbo's stomach turn, not in disgust, but in sheer dread.

Thorin's left forearm, which he had stroked the night before, was flawless, and it was as if it belonged to another person, to the Thorin who was recognizable to him and who spoke to him in his veiled velvet tone that was only weaker, but not much different from the voice he had become accustomed to over the past year and that he associated with safety more than with anything else. The flawless forearm belonged to the Thorin who was indeed injured and bedridden and needed help, but whose injuries Bilbo could not see and could therefore ignore.

It only took a blink of his eyes to see that the same forearm had above it a strong, but horribly damaged arm and shoulder, with more mangled flesh and unsavoury patches of raw skin. And then his glance travelled to Thorin's eyes, which he could most certainly recognize as belonging to no one else. They reflected his horror back to him.

"You should not have to see me like this," whispered Thorin.

Thorin's words stung more than the sight of his wounds. Bilbo realised that he had been standing there staring all that time. He had not even noticed when Balin had left the room. "It's all right, Thorin," he said, collecting a clean cloth from the table, and dunking it in the cold, fresh water.

He approached the bed and laid the wet cloth first on a less intimidating wound on Thorin's right arm. He pressed down very gently, trying to remember the way Oin had worked the previous day. It did not elicit any violent reaction from Thorin, so Bilbo felt encouraged to continue. It was only when he touched one of the burned wounds that Thorin protested enough for him to jump back, startled. He looked up at him and noticed that his face was now shining with sweat.

"I can stop for a while, if you want," offered Bilbo.

Thorin shook his head slowly and closed his eyes as the hobbit simply laid the wet cloth over his wound and his hand on top of it, without pressure. Thorin did not react much after that, although Bilbo was convinced that he was suffering.

When Balin returned, he was already washing Thorin's left arm, and as he glanced up to greet the old dwarf, he could see that there were thin threads of tears flowing from the corners of Thorin's eyes. He was grateful for the distraction of Balin's presence and even more so when he offered to take over.

Bilbo stepped away and went over to the other side of the bed. He peered absently inside the jar where he expected to find the Elvish concoction that they had been using to bind Thorin's wounds. Yet, that was not what the jar contained.

"Is that... honey?" he asked, looking wide-eyed at Balin.

"It is," said Balin. "The Elvish stuff ran out yesterday. Fortunately, we found a few jars of honey lying around the pantry."

Thorin opened his eyes as he heard Bilbo's question and looked at him, visibly distracted from his pains.

"All it took was warming it up a little," continued Balin. "It also has a bit of bee glue in it. It is just what we needed. It will help with the pain as well." He said this last sentence looking down at Thorin, who returned a hopeful gaze.

Bilbo finally smiled without going to a lot of trouble for it. He remained at Thorin's side as Balin finished cleaning his wounds and then applied the honey. It seemed to work immediately, as Thorin looked less distressed at the end of the procedure.

Bilbo only lent a helping hand again when Balin required assistance with securing the new dressings. It felt like a great shadow had been erased from the world when Thorin's wounds were wrapped again and out of sight. And it seemingly made Thorin feel better as well.

He was now lying still on his back, looking exhausted but greatly relieved. Sweat still glistened on his forehead, and Bilbo collected a clean cloth from the pile on the supply table and went to the bathroom and rinsed it in warm water. He wiped Thorin's face gently with it, earning a little smile of gratitude.

Balin drew the blankets back up over Thorin's chest. "I don't suppose you want breakfast right now," he said, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

Thorin shook his head. He truly did not look like he had energy or appetite for it at that very moment.

"Right," said Balin. "Well, get some rest then, and tell Bilbo when you're hungry."

Balin winked at him and Thorin smiled back. Then, Balin looked at Bilbo, and Bilbo couldn't help doing the same. Balin gathered the soiled dressings and left the room, leaving Bilbo alone again with the Dwarf King.

Thorin's head began lolling to his side, but his eyes did not close yet.

Bilbo had a good mind to sit back on the edge of his bed and watch him fall asleep, but then he remembered something. "Thorin?" he said. "Would you like some more water?"

Thorin looked up at him, his gaze revived, as if he had wanted to ask for it all along but hadn't had the energy to do so.

Bilbo poured some of the fresh spring water into a cup and helped Thorin drink. His head weighed heavier in Bilbo's hand this time, which caused him to slip his whole arm under it. They were very close and Bilbo felt a need rising from somewhere deep and dark inside him to press his mouth and his nose to Thorin's soft-looking temple. He resisted it however. He would not have known what to do afterwards, what to say to Thorin, or even how to look into his eyes, if he had given in to that wish. He waited for Thorin to finish and then withdrew his arm slowly, and helped him lie back on his pillow. Thorin raised a pair of radiating eyes to him as their faces were still close, making him glad that he had not made any more forward gestures.

He straightened his back and blew out the candle that still burned inside the night lantern at Thorin's bedside. Morning brightness had begun to sift into the room through its crystal windows, making Bilbo feel comfortable and free even if he was very deep inside a mountain. The light that came through into the dwarf city was not straightforward and clear as it was in Bag End. Here, daylight always had a magical, pearlescent quality, flowing in woolly rays of changing colour and consistency as the hours rose and fell. It looked as if he would have been able to touch the light, grab handfuls of it and wrap it around himself like a shawl.

Finally, Bilbo decided to lie back beside Thorin and stay with him at least until he fell asleep. Thorin turned his head to him as Bilbo settled down. Pools of the same secret light glimmered in the dwarf's eyes, and Bilbo smiled to him and slowly sought his hand under the covers. It was still cold and clammy, but Bilbo allowed his fingers to be caught in its feeble grip. It seemed as if the pain that one had witnessed and the other had suffered had forged a new bond between them, a bond that neither of them wanted to break.