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Thorin’s mood was already foul that morning when they boarded the smuggler’s barge, and it was not improved spending the day losing what was left of Mirkwood’s prison rations over the side.
“And I thought hobbits had terrible sea legs,” Bilbo remarked. His face was crinkled in sympathy, but at Thorin’s fierce glare he put his hands up and went back to his conversation with Bofur, apparently under the assumption that Thorin wished to be left alone with his seasickness.
He was not wrong, and would that other members of their company had followed his example. Dwalin was watching Thorin like a hawk, not leaving his side even when Thorin irritably wished he would.
“Feelin’ all right there?” Dwalin said. His voice was pitched lower than usual, out of the hearing of the rest of the company what with the lap of the waves against the side and the creak of the boat. Thorin nodded and straightened against the railing in some attempt at reclaiming his dignity.
“Damned bargeman handles his craft like a spooked horse,” Thorin grumbled as another wave roiled beneath them, and his stomach turned with it.
“Aye, but I’ve never known you to be seasick before,” Dwalin said. He nodded towards the far end of the boat, away from the others, and tilted his head for Thorin to follow him out of their hearing. Thorin’s lips thinned to a line but he acquiesced. He could trust Dwalin not to question him in front of the others, not since he was a princeling had Dwalin made a joke at his expense in public, and for all Dwalin’s brash mannerisms he was the soul of discretion when it came to his king. The attempt at privacy could only mean that something was on his shield-brother’s mind.
“What is this about?” Thorin said once they reached the relative solitude of the bow.
Dwalin leaned his head in, casting one look over his shoulder before murmuring to Thorin is low as the sound of the waves would allow, “And before, in Thranduil’s dungeons? I could hear ye losing your dinner then too, in the wee hours of the morning.”
Thorin grimaced and looked away. “Elves may subsist on leaves and wafer bread, but I cannot. Perhaps Thranduil tried to poison me.”
“Mayhap,” Dwalin said. “But we all ate the same food, Thorin, I saw them dish the slop out of the pot. And it wasn’t just the once.”
“If you are asking if I’m ill, then say so and be done with it,” Thorin snapped. “No one is keeping an eye on the bargeman while we’re up here.” The excuse sounded weak even to his own ears. Bard had not shifted since their conversation began; keeping his steady footing at the tiller while the others crouched on the floor around him, staying still so they did not unbalance the boat. He turned to leave and felt Dwalin’s hand clamp around his bicep and pull him in.
“I’m not asking if you’re ill, I’m asking if you’re pregnant,” Dwalin hissed in his ear. “The water’s smooth as glass, Thorin, and our cycles have been matched since we had ‘em. I’m on mine now. Tell me you are too, or that you have been, and I’ll drop the matter and ne’er bring it up again.”
This would have been Thorin’s chance to deny it all and return to some much-desired peace and quiet. That would have required that he did not stare at Dwalin and say in a stupefied voice, “What?”
“Durin’s blood,” Dwalin cursed. “Tell me ye’re sayin' that because you’re insulted by the very notion?” At Thorin’s continued silence and the would-be king’s look of dawning horror, Dwalin slapped a broad hand against his forehead.
“Now? Thorin, ye could not have waited a few months until we had the mountain back?”
“Wait for what?” Thorin said, recovering himself. “In over a hundred years I’ve never quickened, and I’m nearly past my prime, it should not be possible!”
Dwalin’s mouth worked until he managed, “So it’s true? Ye took a lover on the quest and did not even think to be careful about it? Who is it?”
He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes skipping over the Ri brothers, who were all three bearers, and Thorin’s nephews who were as well, which left him lingering on those who remained. “Óin is far too old, Glóin is married and I know he wouldn’t. If it’s my brother I don’t want to know. So which of them is it, Thorin? Bifur, Bofur, or Bombur?” His expression twisted. “Ye do know ye could have done better, I hope.”
Thorin went silent; his mouth clamped shut as he looked resolutely forward and did not spare a glance at the company. Perhaps if he remained quiet, Dwalin would give up and go away.
“Ye’re going to have to tell him he’s a father,” Dwalin warned, turning back. “And if ye don’t, I will. If something happens to you that bairn will need more than your idiot nephews.”
“For Durin’s sake, Dwalin, leave off,” Thorin grumbled. The enormity was dawning on him. A child. His child. His heartbeat sped up at the thought, but at least he managed to suppress the silly, elated grin that threatened to overtake him. After all these years, after the road and exile, starvation and battle, when he'd all but given up.
“Couldn’t blame you if it was Bombur, he’s a well set-up lad. Bifur’s bit odd, but a hell of a fighter, I can respect that. Bofur… eh, at least the bairn will have a sense of humor,” Dwalin mused aloud, no doubt trying to get a rise out of Thorin so he could get his answer, but Thorin was elsewhere. It had been at Beorn’s house when they lay together, stealing off into one of the private rooms with a bed large enough for four. That was months ago now, with the time spent in Mirkwood and in Thranduil’s dungeon. He had missed more than one cycle, but had hardly noticed in madness of the forest and the despair of imprisonment.
“Strange, though. I haven’t see ye talkin’ to any of them. If anything, you were always stealin’ away to go over plans with…”
Mahal, Thorin really was going to have to tell him. This after Thorin had assured him that there was no risk. A dwarf giving birth after two hundred years of age was unheard of, and Thorin was only five years off from that. But how was he supposed to tell—
“Bilbo?” Dwalin barked. A few heads turned, namely the hobbit in question, and Dwalin dragged Thorin down by the collar, glaring silently until the hobbit looked away again. “You’re dallying with the burglar?”
Thorin reared back, breaking Dwalin’s grip and all but shoving him away. “I’ve had enough of this. It was never any of your business from the start.”
“It is my business when you’re being a lackwit idiot. Did you see that village when we rode through? Did you think about this at all?” Unfortunately they were still stuck on a boat, so there was nowhere for Thorin to storm off to. Worse, if he didn’t settle Dwalin down now the others would be fixated on finding out the gossip for the rest of the day. Snarling under his breath, Thorin leaned back against the railing and crossed his arms, ignoring the sway of the barge and the new bout of queasiness it brought with it.
“What has the village got to do with it?” Thorin said. He smoothed his expression, and silently indicated for Dwalin to do the same now that they risked becoming the center of attention. Dwalin seemed at least that aware, and followed his lead, keeping his voice low if furious.
“Bairns everywhere ye looked, as many as ten to a family. These hobbits breed like rabbits.”
Thorin thought back. He had not taken much note of Hobbiton. Now that Dwalin mentioned it he did recall an unusual number of children, but with the whole race running so small, there wasn’t much telling which were children and which were simply shorter than average. Plenty of babes in arms, though, he remembered that much. Which meant…
“That’s what you’ve needed all these years, dwarves just don’t have the fertility,” Dwalin said. Thorin absently smacked Dwalin on the arm, but his mind was racing. Ten children to a family, inconceivable to a dwarf, but apparently not so for a hobbit. Was that really what it took? Had he been a fool not to consider precautions when laying with a member of that race, or had he hoped in secret that this time there would be a chance?
“They hardly live as long as us, Thorin,” Dwalin said.
“A little early for such concerns, don’t you think?” Thorin said dryly. “We are going to face a dragon.”
“One we hope is already dead,” Dwalin retorted. “You’re not getting out of this so easily. What will this mean for the succession? You expect the other dwarf lords to follow… what do we call it, a dwobbit?”
It would have roused too much suspicion to clout Dwalin again for that one, so Thorin made do with pinching the bridge of his nose and stifling a groan. “No. Fíli is still heir, and Kíli after him, with plenty of time to see if he, or she, has the temperament.”
“So you’ve thought of that much, at least,” Dwalin said, and was silent for a moment, sucking at his teeth. “When will you tell him?”
“After,” Thorin said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “He never asked for any of this, he should not feel chained to the mountain when he has his own home to see to.”
“I don’t think he’d consider it ‘chaining’,” Dwalin said. “I’ve seen how he looks at ye, I only thought it was one-sided.”
How did Bilbo look at him? Thorin glanced over, and sure enough Bilbo was watching him even then. He found the hobbit hard to read, even as expressive as he was. Thorin was accustomed to the small motions and secret tongue of the dwarves, only caring for reading other races enough to determine a threat. Bilbo was loud in his frustration, and with his faith in Thorn, loud in bed too if Thorin did not keep his mouth otherwise occupied, he thought with a faint smirk.
Thorin could not imagine that Bilbo’s fond looks— or the little touches since Beorn’s when they were certain the others weren’t looking, the adoration with which he gazed upon Thorin in bed— contained any falsehood. Yet it was just as difficult to imagine they were all true. That if he asked when it was all over for Bilbo to stay, he would say yes. If they even survived.
“Be that as it may,” Thorin continued, before his silence became too telling. “There is no need for him to know now, it will only complicate matters.”
“And after?”
“After…” he looked once more over at Bilbo. The hobbit had pulled up his coat against the cold, burying his face against his crossed arms to shield his nose from the wind, and Thorin wanted nothing more than to sit beside him, to take him in his arms and warm him. Not that he ever would with the others watching, and worse that damned bargeman. “After, it will be his decision.”