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Description
Bilbo wasn’t sure what would happen when Thorin found out what he'd done. He was hoping – hoping desperately – that the King under the Mountain would at least listen to his reasoning for his actions. If not, then, well, there wouldn’t be much left of him. Thorin, when truly enraged, was even fiercer than Smaug.
But Bilbo could not bear to see the ferocious lust for life in the eyes of Durin’s heir fade any further. He could not bear to watch idly as gold sickness destroyed everything Thorin and Company had worked and fought so hard for.
So he had taken the Arkenstone he had so carefully hidden from the dwarves and given it away.
The words he had spoken upon revealing the stone to Bard and Thranduil were true, but the truth of them ripped at his heart.
“This is the Arkenstone of Thrain, the Heart of the Mountain,” he had said, holding it up for their inspection, “And it is also the heart of Thorin. He values it above a river of gold.”
What he had not said, however, was whispered by a nasty little voice in the back of his mind.
‘And above me…’

Arriving back in Erebor as undetected as he had left, Bilbo could not sleep for worry and guilt. Thorin would be furious when he found out the Arkenstone was in the hands of those he saw to be his enemies, and Bilbo worried that the King under the Mountain would disregard any kindly feelings toward him in his anger.
So he waited, waking Bombur as promised at midnight for his watch, and then curling himself up in a corner with his ragged blanket and shutting his eyes to feign sleep.
Morning would come both too soon and not soon enough.

When the embassy came at midday, Bilbo did not back down or hide. He stood waiting for his part to be revealed, praying to everything he could think of that he would survive.
“Hail, Thorin!” called Bard, and Bilbo took a deep, silent breath to steady his nerves and shaking hands. “Are you still of the same mind?”
“My mind does not change with the rising and setting of a few suns,” Thorin replied. “Did you come to ask me idle questions? Still the elf-host has not departed as I bade! Til then you come in vain to bargain with me.”
“Is there then nothing for which you would yield any of your gold?”
“Nothing that you or your friends have to offer.”
“What of the Arkenstone of Thrain?”
This is it, Bilbo thought wildly, trembling as he hoped and dreaded what was to come. He will find out, and… and…
“That stone was my father’s, and is mine,” Thorin replied finally, eyes fixed on the jewel flashing in the sunlight from its place in the casket in an old man’s hands. “Why should I purchase my own?” Bilbo sucked in a sharp but silent breath at Thorin’s next question. “But how came you by the heirloom of my house – if there is a need to ask such a question of thieves?”
“We are not thieves,” Bard snapped. “Your own we will give back in return for our own.”
“How came you by it?!” Thorin roared. Bilbo jumped and then cleared his throat. When he spoke up, it was in a voice much calmer than he felt.
“I gave it them,” he stated.
“You! You!” Thorin turned upon him as Bilbo had feared, grasping him in both hands. The hobbit’s heart just about leapt from his chest in fright. “You miserable hobbit! You undersized burglar!” He shook Bilbo harshly, so hard that the hobbit could swear his teeth rattled in his skull. However, he would not sway from his resolve.
“Yes, the miserable hobbit whom you said looked more a grocer than a burglar,” Bilbo replied quietly yet clearly. Thorin stopped shaking him. “The undersized burglar who saved your life and those of your companions many times over. I was willing to give my life for your quest, and while you may not wish me here any longer, Thorin Oakenshield, if you cannot see what strife your greed will cause your people I do not wish to be.”
His words, it seemed, had little impact on the dwarven king. The rest of the Company, the other twelve dwarves with whom Bilbo had travelled, eaten, slept and fought beside, they however seemed to realise that which Bilbo had tried to explain.
“Then be gone, burglar,” Thorin stated coldly, dropping Bilbo back to the floor. Bilbo stumbled just a little, and was caught by ever-kind Ori. The youngest of the Company ignored his leader’s glare, instead smiling at Bilbo sadly.
“Thank you for trying, Mister Baggins,” he said softly as his brothers (and shockingly, Dwalin) stepped between him and Thorin. “Balin will talk some sense into him, you’ll see.” Bilbo managed a small, tremulous smile in return.
“I will not hold out hope, Ori, but thank you.”
With that, Bilbo turned and walked away.

Gandalf was the one to find him.
“There you are, Mister Baggins,” the old wizard sighed as he eased himself to the ground beside the hobbit. Bilbo didn’t look at him, instead glancing at the pebble in his hand and throwing it into the River Running in an apathetic manner. “It was a brave thing you did there, Bilbo.”
“Brave?” Bilbo sighed, tossing the last of his pebbles into the water and lifting his pained gaze to that of the wizard. “I suppose it could be considered such.” Gandalf inhaled sharply, and sadness filled his lined features.
“Oh, my dear Bilbo…” he drew the hobbit into his arms like a child, and Bilbo buried his face in the wizard’s robes as silent tears ran hotly down his face. Gandalf let him cry, rubbing his back and waiting for him to calm.
“S-sorry,” Bilbo sniffed as he pulled away, averting his gaze and rubbing at his teary cheeks.
“Do not apologise for releasing your pain,” Gandalf said quietly, resting a hand briefly on the hobbit’s shoulder before letting it fall. “Thorin will come around, have no fear of that.”
“I betrayed him, Gandalf!” Bilbo half-shouted, turning to glare at the wizard. “Something like that he will not forgive easily, if ever!”
“Calm yourself!” Gandalf barked, and Bilbo flinched. Gandalf sighed again and his shoulders slumped faintly. “It is the gold sickness tainting his thoughts and actions. Dwarves love only once, Mister Baggins, and he has chosen you.”
“I do not think so,” Bilbo murmured, and turned his face from the wizard. “I would like to be alone for the moment, Gandalf.” The wizard heaved himself to his feet and leaned down to place a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder again.
“As you wish, my dear friend. Please return to the camp when you are up to it.” Bilbo nodded, and Gandalf left.

Back inside the walls of Erebor, Thorin was fuming on his throne.
Or at least, he was until a large, coarse hand smacked him over the back of the head. He turned a fierce glare on the perpetrator, coming face-to-face with Balin. His old tutor had never looked so enraged as he did now. Neither had cheery Bofur, Bombur and Ori, all of whom were standing shoulder-to-shoulder behind Balin with Dwalin looming over them from behind. Fíli and Kíli were standing nearby, their arms folded across their chests as they glared at their uncle. Bifur had a disapproving expression on his face as he looked at Thorin, as did old Óin. Glóin was sharpening his axe, Dori and Nori either side of him caring for their own weapons.
“What has possessed you?” Balin demanded of Thorin, bringing the younger dwarf’s gaze back to him.
“I do not know of what you speak,” Thorin grunted, and pointedly turned away. He received another slap over the head for doing so.
“Do not lie to me, Thorin Oakenshield,” Balin threatened. “Nor to yourself!”
“Why did you do that to Bilbo, uncle?” Fíli wanted to know, a fierce frown on his face.
“Do not speak of that traitor to me,” Thorin spat, shooting to his feet and turning to leave. Dwalin did not allow him to leave, however, and held him firmly in place once he had turned his king to face their friends.
“This is what Fíli means!” Kíli cried. “Bilbo is your mate! Why have you turned on him?”
“HE BETRAYED ME!”
“You turned on him before he gave away the Arkenstone!” the cry, shockingly, came from Ori. All eyes turned to him, including those of Thorin. “Ever since Smaug was killed you have been pushing him away! He would do anything for you, has faced wargs, orcs and a dragon for you, and you tossed him aside as if he meant nothing! He stood between you and Azog, for Mahal’s sake!”
Silence filled the cavernous room. Thorin stood stock-still in Dwalin’s hold, and Glóin and Bifur took over restraining their king so Dwalin could go to Ori and calm the shaking, angry little dwarf. Ori slumped in Dwalin’s arms, and they waited for Thorin’s reaction.
“You… you are right, Ori,” Thorin said finally. He lowered his head, eyes shutting as he recalled the look on Bilbo’s face when he had told him to leave. The pain, the sorrow, the guilt on those small features… “What have I done?”
“Nothing that cannot be fixed, King under the Mountain.”

Bilbo wasn’t sure how much longer he sat by the River Running after Gandalf let him there, but when he came out of his stupor he realised it was dark and quite chilly. He shivered, pulling his thin cloak about his thin shoulders.
“Perhaps I should return to the Shire,” he sighed, looking up at the sky. The stars were visible, twinkling brightly down at him. “I am not wanted, nor am I needed.”
“That is a lie,” a deep voice murmured from behind him, and he stiffened. Had he come to finish him? To take revenge? “Please, little one, stay. In Erebor, with me.”
“What of your gold? What of your Arkenstone?” Bilbo asked, voice a little bitter. He would not turn around to face the one who had taken everything from him but his life.
“It does not matter.” Bilbo froze completely.
“So I truly do not matter to you then,” he whispered, hanging his head and trying to hold back tears. “Thank you for making that clear.”
“No!” Bilbo flinched at the exclamation, and gave a squeak of shock as he was suddenly lifted into the air. He flailed his arms, but then was placed on a familiar lap and hugged firmly to a familiar chest. “No, little one, you do matter to me. You matter greatly. I was simply too blind to see what I was doing to you.” Now the dwarf’s tone was bitter. A regal nose nudged against his cheek, and for the first time Bilbo looked at his captor.
A gasp escaped him when he saw the brightness of Thorin’s eyes, the shimmer of forming tears glazing over the brilliant blue.
“Thorin…”
“Please, allow me make it up to you,” Thorin whispered, leaning his forehead to Bilbo’s. “Allow me to bring you back to Erebor with me. I would give all my gold to take back the hurt I have caused you.”
“Would you? Or would you forget me once more among the golden piles?”
“Never,” Thorin said fiercely. “I could never forget you!”
“You already did,” Bilbo reminded him quietly.
“I did not forget, I was simply blinded,” Thorin objected. Bilbo sighed at the argument – so familiar although the content had changed, and leaned into Thorin’s warm frame. The arms around him tightened.
“I will come back with you,” Bilbo allowed after a few moments of silence. “But I will not forget and I have not yet forgiven.” Thorin nodded, pressing his lips to Bilbo’s curls in a gesture of affection and understanding.
“All I ask is you return and allow me the chance to make amends,” he murmured into the familiar curls. “Thank you, little one. You are my most treasured one.”

It took many days, until after the battle with the orcs, until Bilbo forgave Thorin for his harshness and forgetfulness. Fíli and Kíli had almost died, as had Thorin, and most likely would not have survived if not for the alliance forged swiftly with Bard and Thranduil.
Bilbo had received a cheerful, delighted welcome from the rest of the Company upon returning to Erebor with Thorin, and had thanked them softly for their assistance in freeing Thorin from the gold sickness.
Ori had blushed quite fiercely as Dori and Nori expounded on his nerve in standing toe-to-toe with Thorin and remaining unflinching beneath his glare. Dwalin looked quite proud of his little mate when Fíli and Kíli retold the tale. Bilbo just smiled and thanked them again, and went to speak with Gandalf.

It may not quite be a typical happily-ever-after, but Bilbo was content. He had love, friends and a chosen family, and when Gandalf returned from the Shire he would have a child – his young nephew Frodo, who had been orphaned just before Bilbo left the Shire.
And he had found it all on a most unexpected journey.

Description
Bilbo wasn’t sure what would happen when Thorin found out what he'd done. He was hoping – hoping desperately – that the King under the Mountain would at least listen to his reasoning for his actions. If not, then, well, there wouldn’t be much left of him. Thorin, when truly enraged, was even fiercer than Smaug.
But Bilbo could not bear to see the ferocious lust for life in the eyes of Durin’s heir fade any further. He could not bear to watch idly as gold sickness destroyed everything Thorin and Company had worked and fought so hard for.
So he had taken the Arkenstone he had so carefully hidden from the dwarves and given it away.
The words he had spoken upon revealing the stone to Bard and Thranduil were true, but the truth of them ripped at his heart.
“This is the Arkenstone of Thrain, the Heart of the Mountain,” he had said, holding it up for their inspection, “And it is also the heart of Thorin. He values it above a river of gold.”
What he had not said, however, was whispered by a nasty little voice in the back of his mind.
‘And above me…’

Arriving back in Erebor as undetected as he had left, Bilbo could not sleep for worry and guilt. Thorin would be furious when he found out the Arkenstone was in the hands of those he saw to be his enemies, and Bilbo worried that the King under the Mountain would disregard any kindly feelings toward him in his anger.
So he waited, waking Bombur as promised at midnight for his watch, and then curling himself up in a corner with his ragged blanket and shutting his eyes to feign sleep.
Morning would come both too soon and not soon enough.

When the embassy came at midday, Bilbo did not back down or hide. He stood waiting for his part to be revealed, praying to everything he could think of that he would survive.
“Hail, Thorin!” called Bard, and Bilbo took a deep, silent breath to steady his nerves and shaking hands. “Are you still of the same mind?”
“My mind does not change with the rising and setting of a few suns,” Thorin replied. “Did you come to ask me idle questions? Still the elf-host has not departed as I bade! Til then you come in vain to bargain with me.”
“Is there then nothing for which you would yield any of your gold?”
“Nothing that you or your friends have to offer.”
“What of the Arkenstone of Thrain?”
This is it, Bilbo thought wildly, trembling as he hoped and dreaded what was to come. He will find out, and… and…
“That stone was my father’s, and is mine,” Thorin replied finally, eyes fixed on the jewel flashing in the sunlight from its place in the casket in an old man’s hands. “Why should I purchase my own?” Bilbo sucked in a sharp but silent breath at Thorin’s next question. “But how came you by the heirloom of my house – if there is a need to ask such a question of thieves?”
“We are not thieves,” Bard snapped. “Your own we will give back in return for our own.”
“How came you by it?!” Thorin roared. Bilbo jumped and then cleared his throat. When he spoke up, it was in a voice much calmer than he felt.
“I gave it them,” he stated.
“You! You!” Thorin turned upon him as Bilbo had feared, grasping him in both hands. The hobbit’s heart just about leapt from his chest in fright. “You miserable hobbit! You undersized burglar!” He shook Bilbo harshly, so hard that the hobbit could swear his teeth rattled in his skull. However, he would not sway from his resolve.
“Yes, the miserable hobbit whom you said looked more a grocer than a burglar,” Bilbo replied quietly yet clearly. Thorin stopped shaking him. “The undersized burglar who saved your life and those of your companions many times over. I was willing to give my life for your quest, and while you may not wish me here any longer, Thorin Oakenshield, if you cannot see what strife your greed will cause your people I do not wish to be.”
His words, it seemed, had little impact on the dwarven king. The rest of the Company, the other twelve dwarves with whom Bilbo had travelled, eaten, slept and fought beside, they however seemed to realise that which Bilbo had tried to explain.
“Then be gone, burglar,” Thorin stated coldly, dropping Bilbo back to the floor. Bilbo stumbled just a little, and was caught by ever-kind Ori. The youngest of the Company ignored his leader’s glare, instead smiling at Bilbo sadly.
“Thank you for trying, Mister Baggins,” he said softly as his brothers (and shockingly, Dwalin) stepped between him and Thorin. “Balin will talk some sense into him, you’ll see.” Bilbo managed a small, tremulous smile in return.
“I will not hold out hope, Ori, but thank you.”
With that, Bilbo turned and walked away.

Gandalf was the one to find him.
“There you are, Mister Baggins,” the old wizard sighed as he eased himself to the ground beside the hobbit. Bilbo didn’t look at him, instead glancing at the pebble in his hand and throwing it into the River Running in an apathetic manner. “It was a brave thing you did there, Bilbo.”
“Brave?” Bilbo sighed, tossing the last of his pebbles into the water and lifting his pained gaze to that of the wizard. “I suppose it could be considered such.” Gandalf inhaled sharply, and sadness filled his lined features.
“Oh, my dear Bilbo…” he drew the hobbit into his arms like a child, and Bilbo buried his face in the wizard’s robes as silent tears ran hotly down his face. Gandalf let him cry, rubbing his back and waiting for him to calm.
“S-sorry,” Bilbo sniffed as he pulled away, averting his gaze and rubbing at his teary cheeks.
“Do not apologise for releasing your pain,” Gandalf said quietly, resting a hand briefly on the hobbit’s shoulder before letting it fall. “Thorin will come around, have no fear of that.”
“I betrayed him, Gandalf!” Bilbo half-shouted, turning to glare at the wizard. “Something like that he will not forgive easily, if ever!”
“Calm yourself!” Gandalf barked, and Bilbo flinched. Gandalf sighed again and his shoulders slumped faintly. “It is the gold sickness tainting his thoughts and actions. Dwarves love only once, Mister Baggins, and he has chosen you.”
“I do not think so,” Bilbo murmured, and turned his face from the wizard. “I would like to be alone for the moment, Gandalf.” The wizard heaved himself to his feet and leaned down to place a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder again.
“As you wish, my dear friend. Please return to the camp when you are up to it.” Bilbo nodded, and Gandalf left.

Back inside the walls of Erebor, Thorin was fuming on his throne.
Or at least, he was until a large, coarse hand smacked him over the back of the head. He turned a fierce glare on the perpetrator, coming face-to-face with Balin. His old tutor had never looked so enraged as he did now. Neither had cheery Bofur, Bombur and Ori, all of whom were standing shoulder-to-shoulder behind Balin with Dwalin looming over them from behind. Fíli and Kíli were standing nearby, their arms folded across their chests as they glared at their uncle. Bifur had a disapproving expression on his face as he looked at Thorin, as did old Óin. Glóin was sharpening his axe, Dori and Nori either side of him caring for their own weapons.
“What has possessed you?” Balin demanded of Thorin, bringing the younger dwarf’s gaze back to him.
“I do not know of what you speak,” Thorin grunted, and pointedly turned away. He received another slap over the head for doing so.
“Do not lie to me, Thorin Oakenshield,” Balin threatened. “Nor to yourself!”
“Why did you do that to Bilbo, uncle?” Fíli wanted to know, a fierce frown on his face.
“Do not speak of that traitor to me,” Thorin spat, shooting to his feet and turning to leave. Dwalin did not allow him to leave, however, and held him firmly in place once he had turned his king to face their friends.
“This is what Fíli means!” Kíli cried. “Bilbo is your mate! Why have you turned on him?”
“HE BETRAYED ME!”
“You turned on him before he gave away the Arkenstone!” the cry, shockingly, came from Ori. All eyes turned to him, including those of Thorin. “Ever since Smaug was killed you have been pushing him away! He would do anything for you, has faced wargs, orcs and a dragon for you, and you tossed him aside as if he meant nothing! He stood between you and Azog, for Mahal’s sake!”
Silence filled the cavernous room. Thorin stood stock-still in Dwalin’s hold, and Glóin and Bifur took over restraining their king so Dwalin could go to Ori and calm the shaking, angry little dwarf. Ori slumped in Dwalin’s arms, and they waited for Thorin’s reaction.
“You… you are right, Ori,” Thorin said finally. He lowered his head, eyes shutting as he recalled the look on Bilbo’s face when he had told him to leave. The pain, the sorrow, the guilt on those small features… “What have I done?”
“Nothing that cannot be fixed, King under the Mountain.”

Bilbo wasn’t sure how much longer he sat by the River Running after Gandalf let him there, but when he came out of his stupor he realised it was dark and quite chilly. He shivered, pulling his thin cloak about his thin shoulders.
“Perhaps I should return to the Shire,” he sighed, looking up at the sky. The stars were visible, twinkling brightly down at him. “I am not wanted, nor am I needed.”
“That is a lie,” a deep voice murmured from behind him, and he stiffened. Had he come to finish him? To take revenge? “Please, little one, stay. In Erebor, with me.”
“What of your gold? What of your Arkenstone?” Bilbo asked, voice a little bitter. He would not turn around to face the one who had taken everything from him but his life.
“It does not matter.” Bilbo froze completely.
“So I truly do not matter to you then,” he whispered, hanging his head and trying to hold back tears. “Thank you for making that clear.”
“No!” Bilbo flinched at the exclamation, and gave a squeak of shock as he was suddenly lifted into the air. He flailed his arms, but then was placed on a familiar lap and hugged firmly to a familiar chest. “No, little one, you do matter to me. You matter greatly. I was simply too blind to see what I was doing to you.” Now the dwarf’s tone was bitter. A regal nose nudged against his cheek, and for the first time Bilbo looked at his captor.
A gasp escaped him when he saw the brightness of Thorin’s eyes, the shimmer of forming tears glazing over the brilliant blue.
“Thorin…”
“Please, allow me make it up to you,” Thorin whispered, leaning his forehead to Bilbo’s. “Allow me to bring you back to Erebor with me. I would give all my gold to take back the hurt I have caused you.”
“Would you? Or would you forget me once more among the golden piles?”
“Never,” Thorin said fiercely. “I could never forget you!”
“You already did,” Bilbo reminded him quietly.
“I did not forget, I was simply blinded,” Thorin objected. Bilbo sighed at the argument – so familiar although the content had changed, and leaned into Thorin’s warm frame. The arms around him tightened.
“I will come back with you,” Bilbo allowed after a few moments of silence. “But I will not forget and I have not yet forgiven.” Thorin nodded, pressing his lips to Bilbo’s curls in a gesture of affection and understanding.
“All I ask is you return and allow me the chance to make amends,” he murmured into the familiar curls. “Thank you, little one. You are my most treasured one.”

It took many days, until after the battle with the orcs, until Bilbo forgave Thorin for his harshness and forgetfulness. Fíli and Kíli had almost died, as had Thorin, and most likely would not have survived if not for the alliance forged swiftly with Bard and Thranduil.
Bilbo had received a cheerful, delighted welcome from the rest of the Company upon returning to Erebor with Thorin, and had thanked them softly for their assistance in freeing Thorin from the gold sickness.
Ori had blushed quite fiercely as Dori and Nori expounded on his nerve in standing toe-to-toe with Thorin and remaining unflinching beneath his glare. Dwalin looked quite proud of his little mate when Fíli and Kíli retold the tale. Bilbo just smiled and thanked them again, and went to speak with Gandalf.

It may not quite be a typical happily-ever-after, but Bilbo was content. He had love, friends and a chosen family, and when Gandalf returned from the Shire he would have a child – his young nephew Frodo, who had been orphaned just before Bilbo left the Shire.
And he had found it all on a most unexpected journey.