Archive of Our Own

 

While most Dwarves will be loath to admit this, it is a fact of life that once set outside their Mountains and far above ground, Dwarves have a terrible sense of direction. 

Of course, any self-respecting Dwarf will huff and grumble and tell you that they could find their way in a dark mine, even without adequate light and a map to guide them.  This is perfectly true.  While Elves can commune with leaf and branch and know the difference between one tree and the next, a Dwarf knows their stone and the difference between this particular rock and the other and never, but never, let anyone tell you different.  Dwarves are at home beneath the earth and within their Mountains after all. 

A Dwarf will always find their way home and that is a fact. 

So it was not a surprise that Thorin Oakenshield somehow managed to lose his way in the relatively small village of Hobbiton.  Twice. 

Of course, he blamed Gandalf and his shoddy directions. When in doubt, blame the Wizard.  Preferably where he can’t hear you and turn you into a toadstool for the impertinence. 

Were this Erebor, Thorin would know how to take this particular section of tunnel and this corner and remember that this specific stone was a landmark and he’d find his way quite easily.  Erebor was his home after all, not this ridiculous village of tiny hobbits and their soft, comfortable hobbit holes. 

Which was why, of course, they were all going on this Quest, never mind Dragons, Orcs, Wargs and the possibility of dying gruesome deaths.  They were all going home. 

So of course, now that the Quest was done and Erebor was reclaimed, Thorin Oakenshield thought he ought to be content now, considering that he and everyone he held dearest to his heart had barely managed to get through the whole ordeal - orcs, Elves, dragon, Battle of Five Armies - with their lives.  And he was, really he was. 

Or at least, in the beginning, he was all right.  For the first few weeks, it had been all perfectly fine, busy as they were with all the little details of clearing the battlefield, tending the wounded and rebuilding a kingdom that Bards and Storytellers loved to gloss over.  “And they lived happily ever after” is not a statement that should be used to describe the ten thousand things that happen after a Quest is done but Thorin supposed it wasn’t as if he could make a Royal Proclamation about these sorts of things. 

He was too busy worrying about his nephews recovering from their wounds and yes, he noticed Kili’s odd interest in that she-elf and the fact that his two terrors were somehow, inexplicably, getting along with that poncy Wood-elf king’s son.  There was the minor details of getting the living areas sorted out for the rest of the Company and arrangements to be made to summon the rest of the exiles of Erebor home.  There were the casualties and the wounded and the reparations to be made and assessing the damage Smaug left behind. 

And at the end of the day, Thorin would find himself heading back to the the living space the Company now claimed for themselves, which Bilbo ran with extraordinary efficiency, securing necessities and comforts for all of them with Nori’s help.  It had been Bilbo who had been seeing to all of their basic needs, from food to clothing and other supplies and somehow, having Bilbo welcome him home with a pot of tea and scones just made everything right. 

Thorin has never been so glad to be proven wrong about Bilbo again.  He had, in fact, made his peace with the hobbit for his harsh words and even harsher deeds about the matter of the Arkenstone.  He understood the act for what it was, a desperate attempt to save all of their lives and what is that but the actions of a heart that was the truest, the most loyal of all?  If Thorin finds, to his shame, that he can no longer speak of Certain Things to the Hobbit, Things that he had meant to share once he was no longer a vagabond, crownless king, then that is Thorin’s own punishment for himself. 

It was enough that Bilbo understood he was and would always be part of Thorin’s Company, welcomed and valued.  Thorin would not, could not, speak of anything more than that.  He’d forfeited any right to. 

But Bilbo was a Hobbit of the Shire and he had to go home and while he declined to take his rightful fourteenth share of the treasure, Thorin absolutely refused to let the Hobbit go empty handed.  He’d give the Hobbit what wealth and every honor that he could press upon him.  It was the only thing he would be allowed to give now and if Bilbo’s eyes were filled with a grief deeper than the simple sorrow of parting, Thorin tried to tell himself that his…. no, their hobbit would go home to the Shire, safe, sound and a hero.  

The first time Thorin Oakenshield managed to get himself lost within Erebor, he chalked it up on the dragon’s destruction having ruined many of the old pathways and tunnels.

That was his story and he stuck to it, even though Fili, Kili and Ori, all of whom had not yet been born when the Dragon came, were able to find their way within the mountain within days of settling in.

The second time Thorin managed to lose his way again, he blamed it on fatigue and weariness.  After all, rebuilding a kingdom is no simple task after all.

The third time Thorin couldn’t find his way home, in his own mountain, he realized that he had a Problem.

There was absolutely no reason why he should be having trouble finding his way back to the Royal Apartments he lived in.  There was absolutely no reason why Thorin Oakenshield should keep on getting lost in his own home!

Everything that made Erebor home was here.  He could look and see this bed and this chair and this particular book and his harp in its accustomed corner.  And everyone that mattered was here, all around him, his family and kin.  So he really, really needed to stop looking for one more Person, stop listening for a Certain Voice, stop waiting for a familiar pair of hands to offer him a cup of tea and scones and….

Oh, Mahal. Thorin Oakenshield was an utter fool. 

Bofur, Bifur and Bombur volunteered to go first, to pave the way so to speak.  These sort of things had to be done properly after all and Thorin was a King, besides and what sort of King was he if he could not pay court to his beloved in the best way possible. 

“Grovel like your life depends on it, because, actually, it does, now that I think about it,” Bofur had said, cheerfully dropping all sense of decorum.

“And if that don’t work, snog ‘im but good,” rumbled Dwalin. 

And even Balin, just patted him on the back and said, “Can’t think of any more advice wiser than what they just gave you, laddie.”

At this point, Thorin was struck with the notion that his friends and kin were either the greatest gift Mahal had ever blessed him with or the Valar’s finest practical joke in the history of Middle Earth. 

Still, he was quite confident to let all of them travel ahead of him to the Shire and he would follow with Fili and Kili for company.  His sister-sons were understandably wary of Thorin’s ability to get them to the Shire without getting thoroughly lost but this time, every step Thorin took was swift and sure.  He would not lose his way this time, not when he was headed in the general direction of a Certain Hobbit. 

Thorin Oakenshield knew he was going home.  And a Dwarf will always find their way home and that is a fact. 

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