Chapter Text
“For my heartbeat throes / To the rhythm of your hammer blows”
-excerpt from "Gêdel", ancient Khuzdu tragedy
[[Now]]
Bell hadn’t even meant to do it, really. If she’d actually thought about what she was doing, she might have been too weak or frightened to follow through. But she had seen that wicked blade arcing downward towards Thorin’s heart and her body had simply moved.
And now she couldn’t get enough air in her lungs. Bell gasped helplessly, painfully, but she didn’t seem to be able to breathe properly.
“Bell.” Thorin’s voice sounded as full of pain as she was. Hadn’t she blocked Azog’s sword? Was it all for nothing?
“Are you… okay?” Every word burned leaving her. The effort of speaking made her lungs seize up and spasm and she felt something wet trickle from the corner of her mouth. A rough finger touched her lips and came away red.
“Am I…? Bell, you— why?” His beautiful face swum in and out of focus over her, caked in dirt and blood and tears, but alive. Blessedly alive. “What are you doing here? You were supposed to be behind the barricade, Gandalf was supposed to keep you safe.”
Bell tried to squeeze his fingers in reproach. As if she would be anywhere else when her friends were fighting on the battlefield. Oh, she realized dizzily, they were holding hands. His hand was warm. It was nice. She was beginning to feel terribly cold.
“Will you… plant my acorn?” She whispered. Blackness was eating the edges of her vision. “If I… if I don’t…”
The next thing she knew, Bell was blinking up at the underside of a makeshift cloth tent. She was floating in a disconcerting way, barely attached to her body except for a distant throbbing ache that made her suspect she was being rather generously drugged. In that strange floating in-between, it took her a long time to remember how to move her lips.
“Th’rin?”
A rustle and then a face bent over hers. Not Thorin. She blinked and Gandalf’s sorrow-lined face came clearer into focus. She’d rarely seen him look so old. “You’kay?” Bell slurred. Perhaps her concern was more clear than her words, for much of Gandalf’s sorrow smoothed away in the warmth of his smile.
“Ah, Miss Baggins. Truly Hobbits are remarkable creatures.” He said, shaking his head in fond amazement. “I am quite alright. So is the rest of your company.” He added, forestalling her next question. “You, my dear, had the worst of it. Your remarkable attire kept Azog from skewering you but even your mail couldn’t protect you from breaking nearly all of your ribs and puncturing one of your lungs. By all rights, you should not have survived the night.”
“Oh,” was all she could think to say to that. Was she dying then? That didn’t seem right, even if she was awfully tired. She opened her eyes. When had she closed them?
Gandalf’s face softened even further. “He went to the elves for you, my dear. He told Thranduil that he would grant any boon if only you lived. And so you shall.”
The words seem to buzz in her ears, making no sense. The elves? For her? That didn’t seem possible. Hadn’t Thorin been angry with her, terribly frightfully angry…? Bell was sinking deeper into the covers, a heaviness pushing her back down into the darkness of sleep. But Gandalf was saying something about Thorin, something important…
“Am I…” Bell tried to keep her eyes open. “...forgiven, then?”
A soft whispery laugh. “Sleep now, Bell. You may ask him yourself soon.”
And then, waking up again, more clearly and in much more pain.
“ Ow,” she whispered, tears springing up at the corners of her eyes.
"She's waking up!"
Breathing quick and shallow, she cracked an eye open and recoiled back into the pillows at the unexpected crowd of faces hovering over her. The motion flared agony along her ribcage and hot tears spilled, unbidden, down her face. She barely heard the barked order “Everyone out!” and then a cup was pressed to her lips, a soft voice urging her to drink. The liquid was disgusting in a distinctly medicinal way but she choked it down without protest. Foul or not, the brew worked quickly and she uncoiled in slow degrees as the pain was smoothed back to a manageable ache.
Someone took her hand with gentle care.
“Bell?”
She smiled up at Thorin a bit fuzzily. He really did have the most lovely blue eyes. She wanted to say something—thank you or are you quite sure you aren’t injured or maybe do please keep saying my name that way—but her mouth was dry and her body still felt horribly weak.
“Gandalf told me that you weren’t sure… if you were forgiven.” He did not look at her directly, throat working, struggling with something unseen. “I would… I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate. I should not have—”
His voice broke suddenly and he bowed his head over their clasped hands, so choked with emotion she almost couldn’t understand his words.
“Forgive me. Forgive me.”
Oh, Valar. She tried to say his name but her throat was parched past working. Instead, she reached out to touch his cheek. He wavered a moment, still bowed, and then reluctantly followed the gentle press of her fingers to look up at her. With all of her strength, she leaned forward to press their foreheads together.
“Ghivashel,” Thorin said, his face twisted up in agony or relief, she couldn’t tell, the foreign khudzel word falling roughly from his tongue. She wanted to ask him what he meant. It sounded almost like a blessing. They were impossibly close, sharing the same space, the same air; she sucked the near warmth of him into herself gratefully but the darkness of sleep was already tugging her back, away from this precious moment. She realized, distantly, that Thorin was easing her back into the pillows. A hand ghosted gently over her hair and she knew no more.