Chapter Text
“So. How long until Bilbo leaves us?”
“A month, he said the last time we talked. But it’s really whenever Gandalf makes an appearance.”
“Which doesn’t mean much. Wizards come and go as they please.”
“And are you sure this is what Bilbo wants?”
Such it is Balin opened the conversation all the Company have been waiting for since the Quest ended and their burglar was welcomed back into Erebor. It’s high time to do something about those things (which, incidentally, are called feelings) their king never talks about. How they could flat out bring up the subject, no one knows; nor could they predict that Thorin, of all people, would speak so directly tonight.
“I am sure,” the king says, though the question was not directed at him.
This is how he knows: at Beorn’s house, Bilbo picked up an acorn. He carried it all this way, and wants to plant it in his garden, in Bag End. Words spoken loud and clear as the hobbit held the seed in his hand, which was when they were still friends, before Thorin did all those horrible things, and if Bilbo didn’t like Erebor then, how could he now, after almost losing his life? Whatever chance Thorin had to ask Bilbo to stay was lost on the ramparts that day, when Thorin placed the Arkenstone above his own heart.
What is done is done: no one can change the past. He will honor Bilbo’s wish, secure him safe passage to the West, and bury his feelings deep in a place where no one will ever find them.
No one, except his faithful twelve, always ready to serve him, who identified said feelings and are for once less than discrete about it. And who, it appears, are questioning Bilbo’s statement re: the acorn is evidence that he wants to leave.
“I’ll wager there are ways to grow that acorn here,” Balin says.
Oin and Gloin immediately jump in.
“All you need is the right weather conditions.”
“And the right soil, and the right time of year.”
“To do what?”
“To grow the oak tree Bilbo wishes for. What else?”
“Except he said he wants it in Bag End. Am I missing something?”
“Evidently,” Balin replies. “Let us examine what we know. Bilbo didn’t state he wants to go home. He only declared he wants to plant this seed; mentioned Bag End just because to his mind there’s nowhere else to plant it. Who can blame him? He cannot fathom the tree can be grown here.”
Kili’s eyes twinkle with excitement. “That’s where you, Uncle, come in. I say plant it without his knowledge. Make it a surprise.”
“Plant it without his knowledge, as in, steal the acorn from him?” asks Thorin menacingly.
“That’s not such a bad idea,” Dwalin grunts. “He wakes up in the morning, finds it gone, naturally comes to you for help. You tell him the truth, that you’re trying to stall his plan of leaving, while you’re at it confessing your love for him, and then we can move on with our bloody lives.”
“Thorin stealing is not exactly a courting statement,” counters Balin. “That’s sure to open a can of worms. Have you forgotten Bilbo stole from him?”
The dwarves clear their throats amid awkward silence, and Balin gets the message: he is opening a can of worms.
To everyone’s relief, Thorin is eager to get back on track.
“How am I supposed to get hold of Bilbo’s acorn, then? And how is planting it going to stall his plans of leaving?”
“You get an acorn just like Bilbo’s, I’m sure is what Balin means,” says Kili. “That will impress him, you see? To come across the very thing that would bring him peace and comfort, right here in Erebor, under his very nose. It will put in Bilbo’s mind: My wish is already fulfilled. I don’t have to go anywhere.”
“And then, when he finds out it was done by the king’s command...”
“Hold on. This it you’re talking about: you mean the oak tree that would grow out of said seed, in a matter of... years?”
“Right,” mumbles Kili, turning pink. “It does need quite a while to grow. I forgot that.”
“There you have it,” says Fili with a satisfied grin. “It is just as I always suspected: my little brother never paid attention in botany class.”
“Yeah, like you have a green thumb, of all dwarves.”
“I have a green thumb,” Oin jumps in. “I know health remedies made of plants.”
“I have a green thumb, and can do math besides,” doubles Bombur. “Enough to know, if you’ll indulge me with a pun, that the difference between months and years lies at the root of the present problem.”
“Let’s not get distracted,” Bofur steps in. “Kili and Balin are on to something. When Bilbo finds out the tree was planted by the king’s command, he’ll melt like gold in the forge. Is it possible? How come he never knew Thorin treasured the same thing? will be questions filling his mind with intrigue.”
“For a start, he will see Thorin no longer values gold above all else,” Gloin chimes in.
“No, no! It was never like that! Bilbo just caught Thorin at the wrong time!” shouts everyone else, jumping out of their seats. They are slightly afraid. Even though Thorin did overcome gold sickness, the Company don’t forget how volatile he was a mere few weeks ago. Gloin should know better than to stir him.
Yet once again, Thorin doesn’t mind.
“He would see that I was listening when he showed me the acorn. That I care about what’s important to him,” he says wistfully, for a moment forgetting the absurdity of this plan.
“You’re starting to catch on, my lad.”
“Maybe I should write to Beorn. Ask him to send an acorn my way.”
“Leave it to me, my King,” Ori says. “I’m going to write to Mister Beorn on your behalf. Tell him after reclaiming his home and purging it of the evil beast the King Under The Mountain had a vision. A splendid oak tree planted firm, standing proud at the gates of Erebor, a symbol of protectiveness and strength, and on a more personal note, reflecting the majesty of King Thorin himself...”
“That’s gold, brother,” Dori beams with pride.
“...and that none other than one of Beorn’s acorns, which our king noticed during our stay there, is fit for the job of growing into such a tree.”
“Now, now, my lad,” Nori says. “You should not lie, least of all on your king’s behalf.”
“I’ll say,” agrees Dori. “If Thorin actually paid attention to acorns at Beorn’s hut, I’ll shave my beard.”
“We can make it only half a lie. We can say Uncle noticed Beorn’s acorns hold special beauty, without mentioning when; because he did notice the one Bilbo found, albeit after the fact.”
“If you ask me, it’s not a lie at all. If Bilbo is Uncle’s One, if they are soulmates, whatever each perceives, the other can perceive too. Each experience is felt in both of them. Which means, if Bilbo noticed one acorn, Thorin did also, never mind when.”
Thorin’s eyes shift from one nephew to another in puzzled admiration.
“I’m not going to argue with this reasoning. Now if you guys are actually serious about this, can someone tell me how to grow an oak tree in a month?”
“Let’s not worry about that, laddie. Have Beorn send an acorn back with our raven ASAP; we’ll figure out the how-to-grow-it part later.”
Three days later, the raven brings a response.
Greetings, King Oakenshield,
I am glad to hear you are well. I enjoyed seeing our combined efforts wipe our lands of the filthy stench of orcs.
I’m sending an acorn back, with instructions on how to plant it. Be advised, though, that the soil around your mountain doesn’t work for my kind of oak. The closest kingdom in possession of decent soil is Mirkwood. If you ask him nicely, King Thranduil may give you some.
If by chance my instructions should get lost, I trust you know sun and rain are essential for growing oak trees.
Good luck with your project. You’ll need it.
Beorn
P. S. What happened to the horse I loaned to Gandalf? He has still not returned it to me. I don’t care for this kind of neglect.
“Oh. You can tell him he’ll return it on his way to the Shire, when he accompanies Bilbo home,” Bofur offers, his mouth opening without his accord.
Bombur kicks him firmly in the leg.
“Ow- no, that’s not what I meant to say. I’m sorry, Thorin.”
“I guess that leaves me with the task of writing to Thranduil. I will get to it,” says Thorin with a majestic sigh. So much to do, so little time. If only everyone could focus on the task at hand.
Balin clasps his shoulder as the dwarves exit eagerly before anyone could commit another blunder. “Diplomacy is key, laddie. You can do it.”
It is with no small amount of apprehension Thorin sits at his desk to compose a message to the Woodland Realm. Thranduil will not readily buy the reason for planting a tree at the Mountain’s gates is something so official and grandiose. No, Thranduil will know it is personal. He may have read the mithril’s meaning when Bilbo showed up in his tent with the Arkenstone; may have read Thorin’s tear-stained eyes when Bilbo said I gave it to them. As one king to another, Thranduil may understand Thorin’s predicament: enough to help him, or to laugh at him.
All the same, the letter is completed, and Thorin ignores the uneasiness with which he hands it to the raven for expedited shipping. Of course, there’s the chance Thranduil will accept his generous offer of silver and gold in exchange for soil, and leave it at that.
How differently Thorin imagined life after taking back Erebor! In his dreams, he would find out what Bilbo treasured most and give it to him: little things, big things, one by one a means of courting him. And even if no gift was good enough Thorin would still dare say I love you, if nothing else could say it for him. Yet How can you court the one you tried to kill has settled between then and now, with no answer in sight. Courting is out of the question: to do so now, Thorin would only insult him.
And as he holds his newly received acorn in his hand, Thorin wishes there was an easier way. More than anything, he wishes he could see the world through Bilbo’s eyes. That he could appreciate such a thing as a seed, and genuinely want to plant it, watch it grow. By himself he does not have the inclination, but maybe Bilbo will teach him one day. Or maybe in his absence Thorin will learn to care for this little thing.
Or maybe, as Thorin will soon realize, it is not a little thing after all.