in which there are picnics, flower crowns, and entirely too many fuzzy feelings.
It still amazes Bilbo, sometimes, that they’ve actually done it. That Erebor has been reclaimed, the Orcs driven back, and every member of the Company is alive, if worse for wear. It’s a far better ending than any of them expected. In his more romantic moments, Bilbo is tempted to liken it to the happily ever afters of the fairy tales he used to read.
He’s happy here, in Erebor. He almost returned to the Shire when Gandalf offered to escort him there, but Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to leave. He’s made a home here, in a mountain full of dwarves, as odd as that idea is. Oh, if his mother could see him now! Bilbo is certain she would laugh for a long, long while before congratulating him.
Nearly six months have passed since the Battle of the Five Armies, as it is called now. The snow has melted away, and greenery is returning to Erebor and Dale. Bilbo lets out a satisfied sigh as he closes his eyes and just breathes in the crisp air and feels the grass between his toes. He may live in Erebor now, but he is still a hobbit, and hobbits need to be outside every once in a while.
Bilbo spots patch of bright yellow flowers - dandelions. Many of the Big Folk call them weeds, but Hobbits have always had an appreciation for the usefulness of dandelions. He sits down next to the cluster of flowers, careful not to crush any of them, and fetches his pipe and a small container of pipeweed from the pouch he brought with him. It’s not Old Toby, but it’s not terrible, either, and Bilbo is quite content to simply sit there and smoke for a while.
Bilbo jumps, nearly gouging out his eye with the end of his pipe. “Thorin!” he squeaks. “Um, I —” This is ridiculous. He needs to get a hold of himself. “I mean, no, of course not.”
Thorin smiles down at him, and he looks amused, the bastard.The crown is absent, and he’s dressed rather plainly today - well, plainly for a king. It’s still a step up from what he wore while they were on the road.
“It is your kingdom, isn’t it?” Bilbo continues, and oh, he recognizes his nervous blathering for what it is, but he can’t seem to stop, either. “Can kings even intrude on their own kingdom?”
And now Thorin’s laughing at him.
Bilbo scowls. “Arse,” he grumbles, but they’re both aware there’s no real malice behind it.
Still chuckling quietly, Thorin settles down next to Bilbo. “I brought lunch,” he says, shrugging off the pack he must have brought with him and nudging it over to Bilbo, who certainly isn’t going to turn down food. He pockets his pipe and opens the pack, revealing various cheeses, preserved meats, and a fresh loaf of bread, all carefully wrapped in clean oilskin.
“Aren’t you a little busy to be visiting a lowly hobbit?” Bilbo asks idly as he carefully uses a knife from the pack to cut a slice of sausage. It’s not that he isn’t glad to see Thorin (quite the opposite, in fact) but Erebor doesn’t exactly run itself.
Thorin snorts. “The Guildmasters are bickering again. Your company is more useful than they are right now.”
“Ah.” The various crafting guilds have spent weeks arguing over territory and funding, and none of them are showing any sign of being open to the idea of negotiations. “Tell me about it?”
They spend a while like that, sitting and enjoying the sunshine and the fresh breeze as Thorin complains about the difficulties of ruling and Bilbo offers support where he can. After the food is eaten, Bilbo keeps his hands busy by weaving some dandelions into a flower crown. He hasn’t made one since he was a child, but his fingers still remember the motions.
Bilbo eyes it critically as Thorin explains the latest complication in Erebor’s political relations with the other Dwarven kingdoms. It’s almost big enough to - oh, there’s an idea.
Slipping one more dandelion into the crown, Bilbo ties it off, and before Thorin can react, he sets it gently atop dwarf’s head. The bright flowers make a nice contrast with his dark hair.
Thorin stops speaking in the middle of his sentence, and blinks like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.
“They suit you,” Bilbo says, smiling with a hint of mischief that he knows is reminiscent of his days as an adventurous fauntling.
And then Thorin smiles, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes crinkling, and it has all the warmth and beauty of the rising sun, and, well. Bilbo can’t do much but smile back.
