Bombur remembered her hands the best.
They were soft and strong hands; hands that chopped vegetables and kneaded dough. They only fleetingly knew what it was like to hold an axe, and they never strived to hurt anyone. With deft fingers, they had braided his hair and combed his beard out at the end of the day. They had soothed his back aches and rubbed the tense knots out of his shoulders. He had worshipped those tanned hands and decorated them with silver and iron rings because she did not care for gold. He had held those hands in his own clumsy pair as they walked home together, or after they had made love. He had kissed them when she told him that he was to be a father. They had in turn wiped away his tears of joy.
They weren't there to wipe them away when Smaug came.
The years after Erebor fell were a haze to Bombur. He could recall only vague images of fire and screams and wandering for days on end. He remembered a soothing voice guiding him along, but for the most part the memories were fuzzy and unclear. He probably would have continued like that for the rest of his days if Bofur had not forced him awake with a hard punch to the face.
Bofur—his little brother who watched their father burn alive; who saw their mother crushed by a falling pillar; whose back was covered with the burns of Smaug's fire—forced him to wake up and see again. Bofur had dragged him out of his fog and made him remember what it was like to live. He had saved him in every way, and Bombur could never repay him for it. He was so very lucky, in that regard, that he had a brother who loved him so much.
Bilbo Baggins... was not so lucky.
The Hobbit did not have a brother. He did not have any siblings or parents left and his kin were very far away. He had only the Dwarves and a lone wizard for company. Bombur did not know if they could be enough for the single Hobbit with a broken heart. But, just as Bofur forced him to live, he would force Bilbo to carry on. Because he understood now why his brother fought so hard for him. He understood that love—for a spouse or brother or a friend—was still love.
And love? Well, that was always worth fighting for.
~*~
Bilbo found himself exploring Erebor over the next few days. He stuck mostly to the secure areas such as the throne room and armory and avoided the unstable mines and deep halls. He found himself leaving footprints in the dusty halls and stairs as he rediscovered the glorious Dwarven city. Sometimes one of the other's joined him but most of the time he explored alone; getting lost in his thoughts and memories and plans for the future.
Balin and Gandalf had still not returned but he was not worried. He estimated that it would take them a good week before they would return to Erebor. He hoped that when they did return, they would bring news of Azog and his ilk, and then he could begin to help his friends prepare for the upcoming battle. He hoped that perhaps the Battle of the Five Armies would not commence, but he wasn't about to take any chances. Not with the lives of the three royals Dwarves on the line.
With nothing more to do but wait, Bilbo took to watching his friends in between his explorations. Thorin in particular he kept a close eye on when he went through the mountains of treasure. So far none of them had displayed any madness or stirrings of greed over the gold, but he didn't let his guard down. Sooner or later one of them would be consumed by it. And considering his luck, Bilbo knew it would most likely be a certain Dwarven king.
Eventually, during one of his walks through Erebor, he found himself in the massive throne room. It was indeed an architect of wonder as Fíli had claimed, and he took a long time admiring the carefully constructed statues that lined the colossal chambers. He could not begin to imagine how the Dwarves had gone about building something so large and detailed. Not even Rivendell could boast such an architectural wonder. When he eventually made his way to the actual throne, Bilbo was surprised to find it already occupied.
Thorin knelt on one bent knee in front of (his) the throne with something unseen in his hands. He seemed to be whispering a string of unbroken Khuzdûl in what almost sounded like a prayer. Bilbo patiently waited until the Dwarf finished speaking before finally making his presence known.
"Thorin?"
The king's wide shoulders and back visibly tensed before relaxing. He slowly got to his feet and turned around to face the Hobbit. He smiled politely, but Bilbo saw that his brows were slanted, and his eyes shadowed by something he could not place.
"Bilbo. I did not hear your approach."
"Hobbits are very good at being quiet when it suits us," he explained, moving closer to the royal Dwarf. "What are you doing?"
"Huh? Oh, it was just... I was apologizing to my grandfather and father," the warrior explained, waving a hand at the throne behind him. In his other hand, Bilbo realized he held the key to the secret door.
"What do you have to apologize for?" he wondered.
"I... I could not protect them," Thorin admitted, closing his eyes and grimacing. "At the Battle of Azanulbizar, my grandfather died at Azog's hands. Then, my father, he... Gandalf found him before he died. He had been tortured to the point where he could not even recall his own name. They were my kings and kin, and I could not save either of them."
"Oh, Thorin," Bilbo sighed, feeling torn between laughing and crying. He knew that Thorin carried guilt and grief in his heart over the fates of his family, but he had not imagined that it would be so great. How much more would his king take onto himself until he realized that some things were not his responsibility? That some things could not be changed no matter how many tears you spilled, or how zealously you wished it?
"It's not your fault that they died," the Hobbit said, and when Thorin began to protest, he reached up with one hand to cover the Dwarf's mouth.
"Don't interrupt me," he ordered, raising his voice. "Just be quiet and listen for a moment. Your grandfather died in a battle that he chose to participate in. Your father died after being captured by an evil that we cannot begin to understand. Neither situation was something you could have predicted let alone changed. So, stop blaming yourself for what happened. I highly doubt that your kings would want you to spend the rest of your life believing you failed them when it was you who managed to reclaim Erebor."
Thorin sighed and tapped at the hand that obscured his mouth. When Bilbo finally released him, he sighed again and rolled his eyes.
"You are ridiculously stubborn and annoyingly logical," the king grumbled, but his eyes had softened into a pale robin blue. "But thank you for your words. They have, oddly enough, made me feel better."
The burglar grinned. "We Hobbits are rather good at that too. Common sense, I mean. Oh, and cooking. We are very good at that too."
"And eating," added the Dwarf, his mouth quirking up into a half smile that was unfairly handsome. "You're rather good at that too."
"Yes, well, what good is cooking if you don't eat well?" he pointed out, tossing his head back so that his hair wasn't in his eyes anymore.
Thorin watched him before nodding to the Hobbit's head. "Your hair has grown quite a bit these past months."
"Yes, I am aware of that. It keeps falling into my face," Bilbo grumbled, shaking his head and making the curls bounce back into his eyes. "See? I keep meaning to cut it but every time I ask someone for scissors, no one seems to have a pair. I think it's a conspiracy."
Thorin did not laugh at his joke as he had intended. Instead, the king did something much, much worse. Without a word, Thorin reached out to push his hair back behind one of his pointed ears. Bilbo froze and stared at the Dwarf as that large hand skimmed his cheekbone, and then the tip of his ear before dropping back to his side.
"Would you like me to braid it back for you? So, it will not fall into your face anymore," asked the king, looking unfazed by his actions.
He shook his head quickly and stepped back. "Um, no, no, no that won't be necessary. I-I don't think it would look good. Braids, that is. I think I would look awkward with them."
The Dwarf did not look discouraged. "I disagree. I think you would look fine with them. Please, would you let me try? If you do not care for them after, then I promise to undo them."
Bilbo felt himself caving like one of the forts that Frodo used to make with his drapes. "Oh, very well then. But when it turns out hideous, don't say I didn't warn you."
Thorin smirked and gestured for him to sit down on the cold stone floor. He did so reluctantly and felt the Dwarf settle behind him. He tried his best not to tense at having Thorin so close, and when he felt the Dwarf run his fingers through his hair, it grew even more difficult. His heart began to pick up speed and he wondered if the other could hear it trying to pound its way out of his chest.
The king was silent as he quickly separated his hair and began to braid it back. Bilbo shivered at the gentle touch and light pull on his hair. No one but his parents had ever bothered with his hair before, so it was a rather new experience having someone else touch him; especially someone he was attracted to. It made him wonder if all Dwarves felt the same pleasure, and if that was true, then he suddenly had a new understanding for their fascination with hair.
Thorin made quick work with the braid before pausing when he reached the end. Bilbo heard him shift and the sound of something clicking before his hands returned. He felt those hands tie the end of his braid before moving onto the other side. The second braid was finished just as quickly and soon—too soon, he secretly admitted to himself—the king was standing up.
"There, finished. How does it feel?" the Dwarf asked, helping him to his feet.
Bilbo reached up and held out one of the braids in front of his eyes. His thick curls were tightly woven into an intricate order before being tied off by a familiar band of silver and black. He dropped the braid and watched as it fell off to the side of his face and out of his eyes.
"These are your clasps," he said, looking to the Dwarf's signature braids only to find them lacking their bonds at the ends. "Why are you letting me use them?"
Thorin shrugged. "I had nothing else to tie the ends with."
"But aren't these important? And what will you use for your hair?" he wondered, frowning up at the king.
The Dwarf simply shook his head as a grin bloomed across his face. "I have extras that I can use. You keep them for now. When Erebor is rebuilt, I will make you a better pair."
Bilbo fingered one of metal fastenings. "No, you don't have to do that. These will work fine. Thank you, Thorin. This is... This is a lovely gift. Even better than the mithril shirt."
"Truly?" Thorin's eyes widened, and he pulled his shoulders back. "You like those simple things more than the mithril shirt?"
"Of course. The shirt is just a pretty shirt. But these?" Bilbo held up one of the braids again and swung it back and forth. "These are something you value and yet gifted to me. They have much more sentimental value and are therefore much more precious to me."
Thorin rubbed his shorn beard as he considered his words. "I see. You like things with sentimental value. That... actually fits you. I will keep this in mind with future gifts."
"You do that." Bilbo dropped his braid and delighted in how the cool metal brushed against his skin before settling under his jaw. "I think I will keep these braids for now. They do keep my hair out of my face nicely."
"I told you they would. You should really listen to my ideas more often. They tend to be good ones," the king boasted, grinning without restraint. The grin softened the creases and harsh lines in his face; making him look years younger and the resemblance to his nephews even greater.
"Mmm, yes, much like the idea to take on a dragon with thirteen Dwarves," he drawled, tilting his head back to give the Dwarf a look. "Wonderful plan, really."
Thorin sniffed. "It worked, didn't it?"
"Somehow, magically, yes. But in the future, let's not take on anymore dragons," he chided, turning on his heel and walking down the steps. "Come on now, O King Under the Mountain. I think it's time for second breakfast."
Thorin followed him without complaint. "Second breakfast? What is that?"
Bilbo wrinkled his nose. "Ugh, I forgot that you Dwarves only eat three meals a day. I think it's time I educate you lot on the wonders of seven meals a day. In the Shire, we start the day off first with breakfast..."
~*~
As much as he enjoyed Erebor, Bilbo found himself longing for fresh air and sunlight after a few days. He was a Hobbit, after all, and they enjoyed the feel of grass under their feet and the warm touch of the sun on their skin. When he told his comrades his desire to visit outside, they quickly agreed but only if he took someone with him. So, with Bifur in toll, he traveled down through the secret door and back to the mountain top.
"Ahh, fresh air!" Bilbo cheered, throwing his arms up and letting his head fall back. The air was chilly, but the afternoon sun was bright in the gray clouds, and it warmed him to the bones. Even the rocks and weeds under his feet felt nice after walking on nothing but smooth stone and coins.
Bifur chuckled at him and took a seat on one of the boulders. He pulled out his pipe and lit it up while keeping his eye on their surroundings.
"I doubt anything will attack us up here," he reassured, lacing his fingers behind his head and relaxing against it.
Bifur scoffed and slowly signed, 'Don't be dumb. There is always danger.'
Bilbo simply rolled his eyes. "Eru save me from paranoid Dwarves."
The Dwarf just grinned in return before waving at his hair with his pipe, and then pointed to Bilbo. The Hobbit translated it to mean, 'Nice braids. Who did them?'
"Like them? Thorin did it," he explained, shaking his head so the braids swung loose and then stopping to show how they fell into place around his face. "I was skeptic at first, but now I realize how useful they are. They keep my hair completely out of my face. It's wonderful!"
Bifur chuckled and took a puff of his pipe. He held up one of his own braids where there was a clasp, shook it at Bilbo, and wiggled his brows.
"They're Thorin's clasps, yes, but they don't mean anything. He just didn't have anything else on hand," he explained, dropping his arms back to his side.
The Dwarf snorted and signed, 'Doubtful.'
"It's true. Why would you think differently?" he wondered.
The Dwarf shrugged and signed, 'You should tell him how you feel.'
Bilbo froze. "W-What? W-What are y-you talking about?"
Bifur sighed and gestured to his heart before signing, 'You love him. I know it. Don't lie.'
The Hobbit swallowed as he felt his knees weaken. It took every bit of his strength to keep himself from falling to the ground right then and there. "H-How d-did you f-find out?"
'The battle with Smaug. You were so scared for him. That fear came from love,' Bifur signed slowly, giving him a knowing look.
Bilbo flinched before moving swiftly to the Dwarf to grasp his free hand in both of his. "Please don't tell him! He can't know, he just can't! He would feel guilty for not loving me back and it would make our relationship ever so awkward. I couldn't stand it if I lost his friendship over this!"
Bifur stared at him with wide eyes through his rant. Sighing, he put his pipe down so his hand was free, and signed slowly, 'You are a fool. Thorin would never turn you away over this.'
"You don't know that," he pointed out, tightening his grip until his knuckles turned a bloodless white. "Please, Bifur, promise me you won't say anything. Please!"
The architect sighed again and signed, 'I won't tell him. It is not my place to speak for you.'
The Hobbit's shoulders slumped as he felt his panic give away to relief. "Thank you, Bifur. You have no idea how much I appreciate your silence."
Bifur patted his shoulder and gave him a half smile. He gently pulled his hand free and signed, 'It's not a problem. But you have to tell him someday.'
"No, I don't," he denied, moving to sit on the ground next to his friend. He pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned his head against the Dwarf's thighs. "If possible, I'd prefer it if he never found out. I couldn't stand his pity, or to make him uncomfortable."
'You won't. Thorin would probably appreciate hearing it,' the Dwarf signed before picking his pipe back up.
He scoffed lightly. "So you say. Regardless, I won't be telling him anytime soon. There is far too much to do at the moment."
Bifur—bless him—did not keep trying to change his mind. Instead, he patted his head and offered him his pipe. Bilbo gratefully took it, and the two spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying the sunshine and ignoring the unspoken words between them.
~*~
The Dwarves tried their very best to throw a feast every night since the defeat of Smaug. It was rather difficult though as they slowly ran out of food, were out of ale by the first day, and lacked any good pipe-weed. But they had their music and each other and that was enough for them to throw a party. That was why, for the fourth night in a row, Bilbo found himself laughing and singing along with the others as they made up their own songs.
It was also during this feast that Bilbo found himself watching Thorin play the harp.
The first time around, when he first discovered that the Dwarf played the harp of all instruments, it had understandably stunned him. After all, Thorin hardly gave the impression of being a soft Dwarf. But after spending months with the king, Bilbo had eventually realized that Thorin did have a soft underbelly no matter how much he glowered and glared. It was just hidden under that ugly coat and nasty scowls. That soft side was only shown in three ways. The first was when one of their comrades got hurt or sick. The second was usually aimed at Fíli and Kíli. The third and final time was when he played his harp.
This softness was not known only to him. Earlier, while browsing through the treasure, they had stumbled upon a harp as tall as Bilbo, made of silver and gold. Fíli and Kíli had taken one look at it before declaring that their uncle had to keep it. Thorin had growled and groaned but did not turn down the lovely instrument. Since then, he had taken to randomly playing the elegant harp throughout their celebrations.
That night, as Bilbo watched him pluck one clear note after another, Thorin finally noticed his impolite staring. He stopped and raised one brow at the Hobbit before speaking, "Would you like to learn?"
Bilbo blinked and looked behind him to see if someone else was standing there. When he realized he was alone, he turned back to the king and pointed to himself. "Who, me?"
"Obviously," droned the Dwarf, his other brow joining its twin. "I can teach you to play if you wish to learn."
He bit his lower lip and swept his eyes over the gleaming instrument. "I don't think you can teach me. I'm afraid I've never been very good with music."
The king clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Are you giving up before even trying? I didn't think you so much of a coward, Bilbo."
"And baiting people only works on your nephews and Dwalin," he grumbled back even as he got to feet and marched over to the Dwarf. "Fine, how does this blasted thing work?"
Thorin rose to his feet and motioned for Bilbo to take his seat. Once he was seated behind the harp, Thorin moved back to sit behind him, and he suddenly found himself boxed in by the Dwarf.
Maybe this wasn't a good idea, he thought, tensing as Thorin pressed in close. He could feel the hard chest and abdomen press against the curve of his back and shoulders as the king reached around to grasp the Hobbit's hands. He watched those hands—large and callused and so very different from his own soft pair—as they guided his fingers to the strings of the harp. He could even feel the rasp of Thorin's beard against his ear as the Dwarf leaned forward to get a better look at the harp. He hoped the king did not notice how tense he was, or that he was now consciously aware of every breath he took. It would just make the whole scene even more awkward.
"Put these fingers here and here... There, like that," ordered Thorin as he placed his fingers in the correct position. Bilbo expected him to then release his hands (and possibly get far, far away from him) but instead Thorin did something much worse.
He helped the Hobbit play.
The king gently manipulated his fingers into pulling the correct strings until a clear but unfamiliar melody was produced. Bilbo watched—a bit awed, really—as the Dwarf was able to puppet his clumsy fingers into producing a graceful melody. Eru knew he wouldn't be able to do such a thing on his own.
"I don't think I have ever played something so well before," he muttered, and felt the chest behind him rumble as Thorin chuckled.
"That is because you have a king playing for you," the Dwarf teased back. Bilbo found that he was much too aware of how close those lips were to his cheek. With the slightest turn, the king would end kissing more than Bilbo's cheek.
Stop it, Bilbo, you old fool before you do something stupid!
He forced himself to focus instead on the harp and the song being played. Anything but the broad Dwarf behind him. "W-What is this song called?"
"Barazbizar," replied the king, playing a sharp note, "it means 'Red Valley' in common. Do you like it?"
"It's pretty," he admitted as he listened. "A bit sad though. It sounds almost wistful."
The Dwarf nodded and Bilbo tried not to shiver as a long braid fell forward to tickle his collar bone. "The song comes from a tragic story of a khuzdinh—a Dwarf-lady—who was fair and gifted in her craft. She one day caught the eye of a foreign king who stole her away while her father was gone. Her father, a powerful king himself, waged war on this foreigner to get his daughter back. The khuzdinh, who by then had fallen for her husband, tried to cool the fires of her father's anger but could not. Even the foreign king tried to stop the war by offering up all the wealth and riches of his kingdom. But the father had already drawn his sword, and a drawn sword could not be sheathed until it tasted blood.
"So, they went to war and fought all day until night fell and everyone lay dead. The khuzdinh came and walked among the dead, and with her magic, brought them all back to life. The next morning the war continued until dusk where they all fell again, and the khuzdinh used her magic once more. This cycle continues on, and the two armies are cursed to fight forever more while the khuzdinh weeps alone for her husband and father."
"That is a sad story," Bilbo said softly as he thought of the poor maiden who could not save those she loved despite her talent. It was an uncomfortably familiar tale. "I wish it had a happier ending."
"Most Dwarven stories are sad," Thorin explained, his voice lowering a notch. "We are not a lucky race when it comes to happy endings."
Bilbo flinched. The king was far too correct in his statement. The Dwarves were possibly the unluckiest of all the people in Middle Earth. The only ones who could possibly rival them were Men, who fell too easily to their own desires. Possibly the Orcs and Goblins as well, but they really did bring disaster upon themselves.
"But perhaps this tale will end happy," the king continued, failing to notice his flinch. He played one last note before finally releasing Bilbo's hands and pulling away. The Hobbit firmly told himself that he was not disappointed over that.
"Did you enjoy your lesson?" asked the Dwarf, staring at him with sky blue eyes and a half smile.
"Oh, yes, it was nice. Maybe one day I won't even need you to guide my fingers," he answered without thought before going wide-eyed. He had just invited Thorin to teach him again! What the hell was wrong with him?!
The king's smile grew into a full one at that. "Perhaps. Until then, I will help you."
Bilbo felt his face begin to grow hot, so he quickly stood up and walked away without another word. It was rude of him, and he would have to apologize later, but at that moment he had to get away before he did something stupid. Like taking Thorin up on his offer.
~*~
"I see you finally gave in and let someone braid your hair," crowed Glóin as he took a seat next to Bilbo later that night.
He rolled his eyes. "Yes, I finally braided my hair. But only because no one would lend me a pair of scissors. You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?"
"Of course, I do," the Dwarf replied without an ounce of shame. "I told them of your dumb idea, and they all agreed it was for the best. And I was right! You look so fetching with those braids! You might actually pass as attractive now."
Bilbo groaned and smacked his current annoyance in the arm. "I'm not doing it for the appearance but because it's practical. It keeps my hair out of my face."
Glóin scoffed. "Yeah, sure, that's why. And where did you get those claps? They look awfully familiar..."
"I'm not playing this game," he insisted, pulling his legs up to his chest so he could rest his chin on his knees. "Yes, Thorin gave them to me. Yes, they used to be his. No, it does not mean anything. And yes, I am still going to cut my hair when I find a pair of scissors."
"You ruin all my fun," the Dwarf grumbled, slumping back against the wall they both sat before.
"Deal with it," he ordered, rolling his eyes. "I can't imagine how your poor wife puts up with you all the time."
"Poor wife? My Súna is many things but poor was never one," the warrior replied, stroking his beard. "Did I ever tell you how she was the only one to ever beat me in hand-to-hand combat? Put me right to the ground in three moves, she did. I lost both my title and my heart to her that day."
Bilbo watched the Dwarf as he continued to stroke his beard. His eyes were warm, and his mouth had softened into a small smile. Even the hard line to his shoulders had relaxed into something gentler. "You miss her."
"Aye, I do," Glóin admitted easily. "She's my jewel, my One. I don't know what I would do without her. Probably get myself killed."
"Would you... Would you tell me about her? Your wife and your son?" he asked slowly, playing with the thick hair on his feet. "I never hear you speak of them though I know you obviously adore them both."
"I haven't told you about them, have I?" mused the Dwarf, tilting his head to the side. "Well, first off, I am married to Súna daughter of Sunnvá. She is a Broadbeam and I met her when I moved to the Blue Mountains. She is about as tall as you with hair the color of wheat and eyes as dark as ebony. Though small, she is the best fighter I have ever seen in hand-to-hand combat. She is a jewelry maker by trade, and even more direct than I am with her words. I thank Mahâl every day for bringing her into my life."
"She sounds lovely," the Hobbit said as he tried to envision the small but fierce Dwarf-maiden that had charmed the honorable Dwarf so easily. "I would love to meet her one day."
"You will," reassured Glóin, patting his leg. "She will come to Erebor as soon as she hears we have reclaimed it."
He nodded. "I look forward to it then. Now what of your son? What is he like?"
"Gimli? Ahh, well, if Súna is my jewel than Gimli is my fire," Glóin explained, returning to running his fingers through his beard. "He is my laughter and smiles and everything pure. He has my coloring and looks, but his spirit is all Súna. He is so small and yet so fierce! So very passionate and bright! He will shake the world up one day, mark my words."
Bilbo believed that. Gimli had dared to take on Mordor for Frodo; had fought against Sauron's forces without flinching; had gained three hairs from the Lady Galadriel; and had even challenged centuries of prejudice and hatred by befriending Legolas. Gimli had not just shaken the world; he had shattered it.
"They are the reason that I decided to join Thorin on this quest," the warrior admitted quietly, his hand slowing. "Reclaiming Erebor would give them both a better life. Even if I had died on the quest, as long as Erebor was reclaimed, they would have been taken care of. I want that for them. I want Súna to sleep soundly knowing that we are safe. I want Gimli to grow up without ever going hungry again. I want them both to be happy and safe. I think it is all I ever wanted in this life."
Bilbo felt something in him melt. Glóin sounded so honest, so humble in his desire to give his wife and son a better life. How many beings—Elves, Dwarves, Men, Hobbits—could ever say they took on a dragon just so their family would never risk the chance of hunger? How many gods and kings and lords could ever say that they would die just to keep their loved ones safe? It was no wonder why Gimli had grown up to be such a wonder. He had the perfect role model to follow.
"You can give them that now," he pointed out, nudging the warrior's arm with his shoulder. "You can give them everything they ever wanted. Erebor is safe once more and your family is too."
Glóin sniffed and turned his face away to subtly wipe at his eyes. "Yes, yes, you're right. No need to rub it in now, burglar."
Bilbo nodded and carefully looked away from the teary-eyed Dwarf. He tried his best to ignore the nagging guilt that whispered he was ruining Gimli's destiny with his intention to destroy the One Ring. He was sorry, yes, but it had to be done by him and him alone.
After all, Glóin wasn't the only one with a family to save.
~*~
In hindsight, he should have expected it to happen soon. Luck had never favored him the last time around so why would it start then? It was in the middle of their sixth celebration, and he was in the process of showing Ori a Hobbit dance when the young Dwarf suddenly stopped.
"Hey, what's that glowing over there?" wondered Ori, squinting at something in the distance.
Bilbo turned to where he was looking and froze at what he saw. Oh no...
"What glowing thing?" asked Kíli, joining them in their staring. The rest of the Dwarves eventually stopped as well and turned to see what they were looking at.
Óin gasped and reached out to steady himself against his brother. "Thorin, is that...?"
The king stepped forward; blue eyes turning darker with every step. Bilbo had to dig his nails into the palms of his hands to keep himself from grabbing the Dwarf and pulling him back. Instead, he forced himself to watch as the king slowly reached out and picked up a clear gem that glowed with an inner white light.
Fíli took in a sharp breath as he had made the connection. "Wait, is that what I think it is?"
"What is it?" whispered Bofur, his eyes wide and cloudy.
"The Heart of the Mountain," Thorin said softly as held up the stone in both hands. His blue eyes had gone completely black as he stared at the gem of his ancestors without blinking. "This... This is the legacy of our heritage. This... is the Arkenstone."
And Bilbo wanted to scream.