When it came right down to it, Bilbo just didn’t want to leave Erebor. At first it had been easy to find plenty of excuses to stay. After all, he’d been injured in the battle, and he couldn’t possibly travel all the way to the Shire with a broken arm. Then it had been deep winter, and no one would expect a lone hobbit to cross the Misty Mountains in all that snow. Besides, more dwarves arrived every day, and it was helpful to have a few people around that had been there since the beginning and could tell a traveller where to put their luggage. Unfortunately, it was spring now, and the steady trickle of new arrivals tended to have family or friends already in the mountain to help them get settled. The only useful occupation Bilbo had was helping Ori putter around the remains of the royal library, sorting and repairing the books that had survived decades of neglect. Even that was only available because most dwarves preferred not to bother with something as impermanent as paper.
Worst of all, Gandalf was back from wherever he’d popped off to. The wizard had made it clear that he’d willingly see Bilbo home, so the hobbit couldn’t even dither over the safety of the road. It was quite clear to everyone that the time to go had come.
Immediately after the battle, Bilbo had been welcomed warmly back into the mountain and given guest chambers in the royal wing; however, it now seemed that welcome had expired. Thorin was starting to hint.
Well, Thorin had been hinting for months really, but Bilbo had managed to avoid him at first by cleverly being elsewhere while Thorin had a whole mountain to repopulate and make safe. Certainly the king had spoken up a few times over the winter about wanting to see Bilbo’s bravery suitably rewarded, despite the fact that the hobbit had given his share of the treasure over to Mirkwood and Dale as a ransom for peace. The implication that once Bilbo had a sufficient reward he would scamper off home had been kindly left unspoken. Regrettably, unspoken or not, the idea that Bilbo should take a bag or two of gold and go was clearly at the forefront of Thorin’s mind no matter how much Bilbo tried to stay out of the king’s sight. Bilbo felt like a second cousin who’d been invited for tea, managed to talk his way into supper, and was now making hints about dinner. Unwanted, and unpardonably rude to insist on imposing.
So he would have to go back to the Shire. Which was lovely. And his home. Only, Bilbo dreaded the eventuality more than he’d once dreaded the dragon. Home didn’t offer the opportunity to dance with Bofur’s friends until long after anyone respectable would be well asleep. Home didn’t have Fili and Kili dashing about enthusiastically, sharing all the wonder of their newly recovered heritage with Bilbo in stories that always seemed to start, “Oh, oh, you have to see, it’s just how Mum said it would be.” Home didn’t have Balin’s wisdom, Dwalin’s stoic humor, or Oin’s rough care. Home had dozens of pegs for visitors' coats in the entryway, and large, empty rooms. At home, Bilbo would never see Thorin Oakenshield again.
Still, he couldn’t put it off forever. Bilbo was unhappily aware that he’d be lucky to put it off another day. His attendance on the throne had been specifically requested — Balin had fetched him out of bed first thing, before there was any chance to hide — and Bilbo shifted uneasily on his feet, waiting.
While Thorin dealt with pressing concerns like mine shafts that needed shoring up, trade agreements that needed royal approval, and living arrangements that needed to be made for returning citizens, Bilbo silently wished for something particularly distracting to come up. Just one more diversion, one more day to stay his exile, that was all he wanted at this point. The business of the court was so important, surely no one would notice if Bilbo just slipped quietly away. As soon as he resolved to sidle to the back of the crowd a bit, just to put a little distance between himself and Balin—who was very busy and did not need to waste time with a simple hobbit—Thorin looked directly at him, pinning him with a glare.
Bilbo sighed and stood still, eyeing the chest to the left of Thorin’s throne sadly. It looked suspiciously like the one Thorin had tried to offer him a few days earlier, full to brimming with priceless gemstones. That had been a tricky situation, being offered a treasure like that by a king in front of a whole throne room full of dwarves, but Bilbo had just barely managed to refuse. After all, such beautiful stones would go to waste in the hands of a hobbit. They belonged with dwarves who knew their value and would turn beauty into glory through their craft.
Naturally, Thorin had been furious at the refusal. “It is not a gift,” he’d grunted after a long moment. The only outward sign of his displeasure had been the bulging of his wrist muscles as his fingers failed to dent the stone arms of his mighty throne, but Bilbo had known the king long enough to read his mood.
“Of course not, O King,” Bilbo had said, bowing deeply. He could never have been churlish enough to refuse a gift, but he could be stubborn enough to ignore a hint.
The audience chamber had been absolutely silent. None of the dwarves awaiting their King’s displeasure seemed even to breathe. Every one of them would have leapt to accept such wealth. The box alone looked to be worth more than Bag End, made of some black metal but decorated ornately in gold leaf, set with a strong mithril lock and many shining jewels.
“It is a reward.”
“Yet I need no reward! My contracted share in the treasure was long ago paid, and I hope Your Majesty would accept any act of mine during the battle as an expression of my friendship.” It was a flip, lighthearted response, and it was the closest Bilbo would come to begging. It was certainly the closest he could come to saying, “I saved your nephew’s life and I promise to keep out of the way, so please just let me stay. Please, I won’t be a burden, please, you won’t have to see me, just please, please, please don’t send me where I will never see any of you again.” That would be embarrassing for all parties concerned, and probably annoy Thorin enough to have Bilbo thrown out of the mountain by his ears.
As it was, Thorin had frowned hard in disapproval, but allowed Bilbo to bow his way out of the royal audience without any treasure. Somehow, Bilbo knew that whatever was in the chest today would be more difficult to evade. Particularly because Fili was in the room this time. Bilbo wasn’t going to make any veiled references to the affair with the unusually large orcs holding the lad hostage while the young dwarf was standing right there. Saving Fili had been an act of friendship, and publicly leveraging the deed for a few more weeks of proximity would be foolish. It might well cost him the very camaraderie he longed to keep.
No, Bilbo would have to accept whatever was in the chest this morning. And then, like any party guest being handed a box of leftovers, he would have to say goodbye. It was pointless to keep resisting. But oh! How he hated that golden casket with its jeweled hinges and sparkling latch.
Being very maudlin and silly had always come naturally to him, unfortunately. Bilbo would laugh at himself if it only hurt a little less. Instead, he took a last opportunity to listen to Thorin’s voice, to study Fili’s face, to feel Balin’s sturdy warmth at his side. Bilbo was an adult. He would part from his friends with good cheer, not wail and drag at Gandalf’s heel like a fauntling leaving a particularly nice birthday party.
“This must be decided today?” Thorin sounded annoyed, and his eyes flicked in Bilbo’s direction again. The hobbit’s heavy heart leapt. He hadn’t been paying attention, but it sounded as though the court might be derailed before anyone could get around to giving Bilbo anything.
“It must, sire,” insisted the red faced dwarf who clearly didn’t know how Thorin felt about other people insisting. Bilbo recognized the fellow, but it took a minute to place him. A green tunic decorated with enough gold to lure a dragon, two dozen small braids in his red and gray beard, each one with an emerald bead, and a big bushy brow that hid his eyes—Bilbo definitely knew him. Oh! He was Doron son of Foron, one of the dwarves who came from the Iron Hills well after the Battle of Five Armies ended. Also, Balin didn’t much like him, because Doron had spoken against refugees from Erebor staying in the Iron Hills after Smaug came, but he had been quick enough to come to the mountain and seize the investment opportunity presented by the rebuilding. For that, Bilbo didn’t much like him either. He wondered what Thorin thought, but the king no longer shared his private opinions with simple hobbits.
“The chamber is large enough to store the entire delivery of lumber, and its proximity to the marketplace makes it the best place to do so. That is why my people spent so long clearing the rubble and repairing the doors. We need the storage space for materials while we rebuild the market, and your seneschal told us it was there.”
“The chamber has always been used so,” Balin said slowly, as though he did not want to take Doron’s side, but couldn’t see a way around it. “To store goods for the great marketplace that are not yet ready to be sold for one reason or another.”
“It’ll only take a few days to gather in the mushrooms,” Bombur argued. “Not even that, if I have a bit more help. They’re edible enough, and it seems a shame to let them go to waste.”
“It is spring now,” Doron grumbled, glossing over a lean winter with the ease of one who had brought supplies enough to feed himself—and only himself—from the Iron Hills. “There is plenty of food from Dale and beyond.”
“Yes, but not mushrooms,” someone said sensibly. Bilbo hadn’t had mushrooms in an age. Not since the elven army had decamped, really, and there had been precious few before that. Balin’s lips twitched in a little smile, and Bilbo realized that he’d been the one to speak. Oh dear.
Thorin’s eyes were on him again, but they only seemed impassive, not angry about the interruption. That was lucky.
“There is never so much plenty that a dwarf should welcome waste,” Bombur said, winking at Bilbo.
“And yet you would have my people waste time and effort dragging lumber up and down three full levels! How much extra work must we do for the sake of a few vegetables?”
“Peace,” Thorin said. “I would see these mushrooms before passing judgment.”
As Bilbo grinned, barely believing his own luck, an air of disappointment passed through the throne room. The waiting citizens knew their business would not be dealt with this morning. Still, they had all been expecting it sooner or later. Thorin was a great king because whenever someone brought him a problem, he was as like as not to pick up a hammer and go solve it himself. Early in the morning dwarves crowded his throne room looking for judgments, but by lunchtime they knew their ruler would be off doing something productive. That was the kind of king a hobbit could respect, though Balin didn’t seem to like it for some reason.
And as long as everyone seemed to be leaving the dratted golden chest back in the throne room, Bilbo thought he might as well tag along. After all, he had some passing familiarity with mushrooms. If Doron got his way, at least Bilbo would be on hand to help Bombur snatch up a few of the best before the builders started piling things in and crushing them.