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What had he hoped to gain? Glory? Redemption? Vengeance?
What naive and reckless thought had landed him at the mercy of his enemies?
In truth, he hadn't been thinking at all. He had let anger blanket him to the point of suffocation, and someone else had paid the price.
Of all who might have aided him, the one he least expected was the hobbit. A small, beautiful, and relatively tame creature. He had never held back his thoughts on his joining the company, and many times, he expressed his wish that he had never come along to begin with.
To Thorin, he was a distraction. A reminder that there were good, untainted things in this world that he would never be lucky enough to call his. He lived his life in the service of his kingdom working toward the promise of prosperity his people expected him to see through. There was no room for flights of fancy about his wants or desires. Despite this, he made the foolish decision to face Azog in single combat, fully aware that victory was unlikely. It was a decision driven by his pride and his refusal to accept defeat.
He couldn't even call it a temporary lapse of judgment, a moment of insanity brought on by grief or anger. This was the culmination of his building follies. The hubris of thinking he could reclaim his ancient homeland from the jaws of a fire-breathing dragon that toppled his birthright. Denial that this could be achieved with the help of a crazy wizard, a single hobbit, and twelve dwarves foolishly brave enough to come along. Perhaps the worst of his crimes was selfishness. The same self serving act that took his nephews away from their pleading mother, the same selfish choices that led to the scene before him.
Bilbo got to his feet. He was breathing erratically, one arm outstretched in protection, the other haphazardly waving his bloody sword. The temporary shock on the orc's faces was already fading, and Azog's eyes were zeroed in on the intrusive creature.
Thorin reached for his sword, but it was too far away. His fingers barely scratched the hilt, and the wounds on his torso and aching in his lungs prevented him from any further movement. He tried to shout, to warn Bilbo to run, or to call out to the others, but all that came out of him was a choked demand that was drowned out by the laughing of orcs and the shouting of his company.
An unexpected screech pierced the air as all parties looked into the distance. An aerie of eagles was fast approaching. All the air left his lungs in surprise as a laugh bubbled in his chest. They were saved. It was the wizard's doing, no doubt.
His happiness was short-lived.
Azog shouted in his foul language, and half of his orcs prepared their bows. The eagles swooped down upon the trees, and one by one, members of the company were rescued. There was an unforeseen issue, however. The power of their wings pushed the fire forward, and it grew as it swallowed more of the brush around it encircling the orcs along with himself and Bilbo.
An eagle swooped down above the flames, but the orcs were ready for it, letting loose their arrows. There was no way for the eagles to get to them, and even if he had his sword or wielded Bilbo's, this would only end one way. This was where he joined his ancestors, and Bilbo would share his fate. The eagle was driven off with a cry, and he could only hope that the rest of the company was lucky enough to find their way to safety.
Azog's eyes were once again trained on Bilbo. The hobbit stumbled back, the courage and bravado of his earlier actions shrinking. His back hit the stone Thorin was lying on, and he turned to look at him.
He had never been able to discern what color Bilbo's eyes were. He had tried many times to catch their reflection, but it seemed that every time he thought he knew their color, it changed. Their mystery had been his excuse for the way his gaze lingered. As if the secret to why, when he looked at him, emotions he had long suppressed rattled the bars of their cage. Occasionally, he would be caught. Thorin had not made himself a welcoming sight. Every time their eyes met, Bilbo would hurriedly look away as if he might be reprimanded.
This time, Bilbo didn't look away. The flames around them illuminated his terrified face, but when he looked at his eyes, whose color he still couldn't discern, he saw the clever and calculating mind of someone not yet ready to give up the fight but backed into a corner.
“You have been abandoned.” Azog's voice sounded like grinding rocks, barely discernible as the common tongue. “You are now at my mercy.”
Thorin tried to move to get up. He did not want to face the orc flat on his back, but as he moved, several orcs around him brandished their weapons. Before he could make another rash move, Bilbo's hand was on his chest in a plea to stop him. He was trembling, and Thorin wondered how he was holding himself together. He had seen battle-trained dwarves beg for their lives under similar conditions.
“What mercy is there to be found in an Orc.” Bilbo spat brazenly. He had no idea what the burglar's angle was. Upset Azog enough that he might give them quick deaths? If that was the case, he failed. The Orc laughed and stalked forward, grabbing Bilbo by his sword arm and dangling him in the air so they were now at eye level. Bilbo's sword clattered to the ground uselessly.
“Your fight has always been with me, Azog!” Thorin found his voice moving to sit upright as a sword met his throat, holding him in place. At least he was sitting up now. “The fire will not burn in place forever, and my company will return. You will not be able to fight off the eagles a second time. What display of your skill is killing a useless halfling? Take what you came all this way for and flee back to your masters.”
Azog smirked and gave a guttural command. The orc holding the sword to his throat pulled back to strike. Thorin didn't close his eyes. If this were to be his last sight, then he would die looking at one last beautiful thing.
Bilbo's face filled with panic as fresh tears made tracks down his soot-stained face. What he might have given to know him had the direction of his life been different.
“STOP!” Bilbo screamed, “Kill him like this, and you've only served to make a martyr! Why would any dwarf know to fear you? Azog the defiler. Defiler of what? You could only defeat the great Thorin Oakenshield with a dozen orcs and only after he practically threw himself at you!”
Thorin's heart raced. What was Bilbo doing?
“Be quiet, you useless hobbit!” Thorin shouted, hoping that his ire was enough to put the spotlight back on him. It didn't work. Bilbo was a brilliant wordsmith, and he could see that what he had said was already taking root in Azog's mind.
Azog's ugly face curdled as the full force of his attention was turned back on Bilbo.
“Do you not think I could defeat him alone? Do you not know how I earned my name?” Azog brought Bilbo closer to his face as the hobbit struggled uselessly to pull away. The pale orc grinned. “If my name has lost its meaning, then I shall renew it.”
"NO!” Thorin raged, ignoring the blade at his throat and surging forward only to be restrained by an orc behind him.
“Hold the throneless king. Do not let him look away. Let him see for a second time what it means to challenge me and fail.” Azog threw Bilbo in front of him so hard that he rebounded off the stone and crumpled to the floor. As the hobbit attempted to get back to his feet, another orc pinned him against the stone, forcing his arm out to the side as if for Thorin’s personal viewing.
Azog stripped away the little fabric covering Bilbo's forearm, and Thorin knew what would come next. Bilbo went still. Like a frightened rabbit caught in a trap with no way to fight.
“Bilbo,” Thorin called his name to get his attention, but the hobbit’s eyes were glued to his arm. “Bilbo, look at me instead.”
Azog heard this and laughed. He made a show of licking the blade that was in place of his arm, and all Thorin could do was glare at him with hatred in his eyes as an oath of vengeance burned brightly in his soul.
Bilbo looked away from his arm just as Azog began to carve. Screams of agony filled the air, and an A took shape on the once fair and unblemished skin. When the orc let up, the screaming ceased, and Bilbo’s body went lax as he whimpered and cried. With every new letter came a fresh wave of agony as Bilbo screamed. By the time the Z was done being carved, Bilbo begged for the whole arm to be taken. Azog gave him no such reprieve.
Thorin felt sick. His insides were twisted in anger and pain. This was all his fault, every scream, every plead. Azog started on the O, and Thorin let his head fall, his hair obscuring his view as the screams filled the air again, not as loud only because Bilbo was rapidly losing his voice. As soon as he let his head fall, a hand grabbed a fist full of his hair and forced his head back up to stare at the scene again.
He kept his face neutral, and Azog mocked him as if he had won a kind of victory. The tears rolling down his cheeks were the only indication of what he felt. He was the king of Durin’s line. No matter his agony, he would not let his enemy see it.
Abruptly and right before the O was finished Bilbo went silent as his head fell to the stone. He finally passed out from the pain. It was a sickening kind of relief. He had hoped that Bilbo would have passed out long before the last letter, but it would seem that his assumptions about Hobbits were determined to haunt him. No one should be able to handle that much pain.
Azog finished the last letter quickly, now that his victim was no longer awake for him to torture, and flicked his blade to remove the blood splattering it across Thorin’s face. Finally, the orc holding him let go of his hair and let his head hang.
A shout from afar pulled Azog's attention, and with a whistle, most of his orcs pulled back, save the one holding him.
“I will let the wizard find you here so that you have time to enjoy my work before we meet again. The next time we do, I will gift your people your head the same way I did your grandfathers.”
Azog issued one last command, and the world went back.
As he woke, the sun was hot on his face, and there was cool stone under his hands. As he lay there, he could almost forget the horrors of what had felt like seconds ago.
He wanted to believe it had all been a twisted nightmare and that when he opened his eyes, Bilbo would be whole and hale, smiling sheepishly and trying not to meet his eyes as Thorin desperately tried to meet his.
But he knew it had been real. His ears still rang from hearing Bilbo scream himself hoarse. That look of terror and anguish on his face burned itself into the back of his eyelids.
He didn't open his eyes. He just wanted to lay there and exist in the denial that would end the moment his eyes opened. A stay of execution before the reality and consequences of his choices sank in.
Reality gave him as little reprieve as closing his eyes did. As he was coming to full consciousness, the sound of scared whimpers came from not far away.
Thorin opened his eyes and immediately tried to turn over. Had there been anything in his stomach, it would have vacated. He dry heaved instead and the little that left him was discolored from all the smoke he had inhaled.
“Drink this.” Balin's hand rested on his shoulder as a water skin was pushed to his lips. He took several greedy sips before it was pulled away from him to his protest. “Only a little at a time, Oin orders,” Balin said, capping the water and setting it close.
Both dwarves turned their heads when another whimper sounded from behind them.
“No, no, please just leave it. Leave it, please, don't look at it.” Some of what he was saying was barely audible, his usually bright and expressive voice sounding horribly frail and panicked.
“Bilbo.” Thorin rasped as he turned to see half of the company was around their burglar, most of them with looks on their faces that showed their own panic and sorrow at the situation. None of them seemed capable of holding back their looks of pity.
Bilbo was pulling away, hunched in on himself, having moved back as far as he could before hitting the bolder behind him.
Thorin staggered to his feet with Balin's help, and that finally got the attention of the others.
“Everyone but Oin, step away from him. Give him his damn space.” Thorin barked, leaning on Balin like a crutch to walk. It wasn't far to go. Only a few small paces that felt like a mile. Dwalin quickly took over for his brother effortlessly taking up his mantle as kingsguard as they staggered to Oin's side.
Everyone cleared away, watching as a group from the sidelines.
“You should let me take a closer look at you now that you're up,” Oin said, looking over his disheveled form with professional distaste.
“I will be fine. There are others that need you more.” Thorin replied, dismissing his worry. He was in rough shape, but he was reasonably certain that none of his injuries were life-threatening. Oin looked over his shoulder at Bilbo’s who was looking their way, and switched to Khuzdul.
“He won't let me look at it,” Oin sighed. “I can't imagine the blade used was clean, and I need to disinfect it before it gets infected. It's not about just losing an arm. If infection mixes with his blood, he could lose his life.”
It went without saying that Bilbo was in shock and needed the wound dressed. Oin was correct on all accounts. He remembered the way Azog had licked the blade before he used it as a further defilement. He had so much rage coursing through him and nowhere to put it. His face must have given him away.
Dwalin gripped at his arm hard enough to hurt and brought him back to the moment.
“I can have some of the others hold him down.” Oin had not noticed his turmoil and had continued speaking.
“No!” Thorin snapped. “No one touches him.”
Bilbo wouldn't want to be touched, not now, not after being manhandled and pinned down while this happened to him. Not while it was still so fresh in his memory.
“I know that's not ideal, Thorin, but it's better than him losing his life.” Balin reasoned, and there was wisdom in his words as there always was, but it was a last resort. If they had to hold Bilbo down to help him, they would also need to knock him out because he wouldn't be able to stand hearing Bilbo's screams again.
“Where is Gandalf?” Thorin asked, looking around for the wizard. He had known Bilbo the longest and had insisted on his participation in this errand. Most importantly, right now, he was someone Bilbo trusted whose presence might bring comfort. Unlike Thorin, who had only ever had distasteful things to say out loud.
“He went down the Carrok and said he needed to meet with someone,” Balin answered.
Of course, the wizard was preoccupied when he was needed the most. He would likely come back with a fair-fetched story right when they were completely out of all other options. When the quest was over, he hoped to never see another wizard again.
Thorin looked at Bilbo’s still huddled form and had an overwhelming urge to try and be of some comfort.
Oin tried again to gently pull Bilbo’s arm out from under him, but Bilbo sobbed.
“You need to have that looked at,” Thorin said, attempting to crouch down so he could be at eye level. His body was not ready for that, and a hiss of pain went through him. That made Bilbo look up and into his eyes. Blue, they must be blue, or perhaps it was just the combination of the color of the sky reflecting on his tears. Bilbo’s eyes looked him over, mapping his person until they finally rested on his knees again.
“I just can’t.” Bilbo shook his head. “Every time… I keep hoping it's not there, but then I see it…I can't stand to look at it.” Bilbo turned his head to look at Oin as if compelling both of them to understand. Thorin hooked his finger on the side of Bilbo’s chin and forced him to meet his eyes.
“Look at me instead,” Thorin's tone was more of a command than he meant to make it, but it seemed to be working. Bilbo met his eyes, and their color had shifted again. They appeared less blue than green now. He spared a motion to wipe away a stray tear that was threatening to fall from one, brushing it aside with his thumb before letting his hand drop. “Do you know what kind of rock that you're sitting on?”
Bilbo knit his eyebrows together and shook his head.
“It's granite. It's very sturdy, and it can be used in many different ways. It can be polished smooth and we often use it as surfaces in homes. Stonemasons also favor it because while it takes longer to sculpt, it lasts longer than marble.” It seemed very out of place to be rattling off things about rocks. It was the first distraction that came to mind, but it seemed to be working. Oin had taken Bilbo’s arm and was cleaning in between the cuts and assessing the area. The rest of the company had stayed away and stayed silent, though he knew they were watching with great concern.
Bilbo’s attention dissipated when Oin began to clean the wound itself.
“I-I don't care about rocks!” Bilbo snapped, though there was little heat in his words. He was starting to look back at his forearm, but Thorin pulled his chin forward again and kept his hand there.
“Then tell me about flowers. I’ve had to slow us down several times because you seem to insist on stopping at every new patch we see. Explain to me why flowers ended up in Bombur’s soup. The one we had the night of the trolls. Little yellow ones and a bundle of their leaves, too.” He kept his tone confrontational, hoping to lure that cleaver tongue into snapping at him.
Bilbo was shaking now, and out of his peripheral, he could tell that the worst part of the disinfecting process was still to come.
“I've never been outside the Shire. Many of these flowers I've never seen before,” Bilbo said.
He cried out in pain as Oin started using alcohol to disinfect, slumping forward and bracing himself on Thorin’s chest, his hand gripping at his coat. Thorin shuffled a little closer until their knees were brushing so he wouldn't have to overextend himself, his hand now bracing the side of his neck.
“The flowers were dandelions. Weeds m-mostly, but my mother used to say they kept you healthy. I know we're on limited food. I wanted to help.” Bilbo let out a sound that was halfway between a sob and a laugh. “I saw you pick at them. Did you even taste them?”
“I'll taste them next time,” Thorin replied guiltily. He had been convinced it was some odd hobbit custom and discarded them.
A wave of pain shot through Bilbo again. Unable to look behind him due to Thorin's interface, he fell forward onto his shoulder, whimpering.
“Thorin, please…” Bilbo whined, “No more, please.”
The sound of his name in such a tone was shattering. Thorin looked up pleadingly at Oin, who gave a quick isligmik sign, indicating that there was only a little bit left to go.
“Are dandelions your favorite flower?” Thorin asked to keep him talking.
“They're more weeds than flowers. I like sunflowers. Just as yellow but bigger and nicer. They grow tall and chase the sun.” Bilbo babbled, his words muffled into Thorin's coat.
By the time Oin was done, Bilbo had practically crawled into his lap, breathing heavily and struggling to hold onto consciousness.
“Just wrappings left, lad,” Oin assured as he slathered a pungent-smelling paste on Bilbo’s scars. Thorin averted his eyes, too. He wasn't ready to see the name of something he hated carved into something he cared for.
There it was. One turmoil exchanged for another. He had run away from the idea that there was something extraordinarily alluring about their hobbit. Rejected the possibility that the curious, outspoken, sarcastic, and distressingly pretty hobbit could mine his way into a heart only ever forged to take care of its people but never itself.
Before Oin finished wrapping Bilbo’s arm, the hobbit was asleep. An unsurprising turn of events, everything considered. Thorin took off his coat and leaned Bilbo back onto it before letting Dwalin help him to his feet.
“We can't stay here forever.” Dwalin said while surveying the area, “It's a vulnerable position. I would rather make camp in the woods before nightfall.”
Thorin finally stopped to observe their position. The sun was past its zenith, and the area of the rock was flat and open. They were sitting ducks.
“Start gathering your things. If need be, we can sleep under the shadow of the cliff at the treeline and be gone by sunrise.” Thorin replied
“There will be no need for that.” All heads turned to see Gandalf standing at the side of the Carrok, leaning on his staff and looking pleased with himself. “I have arranged for us to have more suitable accommodations. It's a few hours northeast of here.”
“Who has accommodations so far from any town,” Thorin replied suspiciously. “Do not say elves.” In truth he was annoyed by being proved right. Gandalf appeared just as they needed him.
“He is not an elf,” Gandalf said with exasperation. “He is someone who can act as a waypoint while we regroup. He has offered his aid despite the fact that he is not terribly fond of dwarves.”
“Fine.” Thorin didn't have the energy to argue. They needed a safe place to regroup and resupply.
He instructed the company to start packing and left Bilbo to rest on his coat. Gandalf was checking on him now. Seeing the wizard standing there sorrowfully filled him with an unpolished anger. It was his fault that Bilbo was here, to begin with. If it wasn't for the meddlesome wizard, Bilbo could still be home smoking a pipe and tending his garden. He burned with only one question for the wizard.
“Can you heal him?” Thorin asked, coming to stand by his side.
“I thought you might ask. I care for Bilbo a great deal, but not even a healer of Elrond's skill could do as much. I am not of that skill. At least not in healing arts. Torture is not like other wounds. It leaves scars on the mind as well as on the flesh.” Gandalf said sadly.
“Do you regret choosing him as the fourteenth member? Would you insist on him again?” Thorin asked, his tone even.
“Bilbo's participation in this quest is vital. He remains the best and only choice. Even knowing that this would happen, I wouldn't change my mind.” Gandalf said, voice heavy with guilt.
“Then only one of us here cares about him at all,” Thorin said, walking away.
Thorin took the time to have his own wounds tended to. He had bruising and a few shallow puncture marks. The real danger was several cracked ribs that Oin insisted he not stress. Soon, the company was ready to move, and the only person left was Bilbo.
“Do we wake him?” Fili asked.
“No, let him rest. I'll carry him.” Thorin replied, getting ready to gather Bilbo in his arms.
“Thorin, your ribs!” Oin protested, and he couldn't help but huff in frustration.
“What of them?” Thorin snapped.
“I said don't strain them,” Oin reminded him.
“I have no intention of doing so. Bilbo barely weighs anything. It's no hardship.” In Oin's defense, even if Bilbo weighed considerably more, he still would be protesting, his ribs be damned. Balin rested a hand on his shoulder, a hint of amusement in his aging eyes.
“You're going to need your balance going downhill. It's a steep slope. At least let someone else carry him to the bottom.” Balin advised. Thorin was ready to object, but the old adviser's hand tightened, and he lowered his voice. “If you carry him downhill now, lad, with your ribs the way they are, you very well might drop him.”
That gave him pause; the last thing Bilbo needed was to be dropped and add rolling down the cliff to his list of injuries. Of those in the company, Bofur and Ori were closest to Bilbo, so it made sense to trust one of them with his care. Of the two, Bofur was the one currently carrying the least, and he trusted his grip more than the excitable scribe.
The act of putting Bilbo into the arms of someone else left an aching feeling in the pit of his stomach. Before he let go entirely, he couldn't help a word of warning to the miner.
“Drop him, and I will make you crawl the rest of the way to Erebor,” Thorin warned. Bofur gave him a surprised look before confirming he wouldn't let Bilbo come to harm.
They started down the mountain, and every few moments, Thorin looked to make sure Bilbo was alright. Bofur held him securely, and Thorin's arms itched to be the one holding him instead. In his haste to reach the bottom of the cliffside, Thorin urged them on quickly and without stopping. The road down was steep and wild. Much to his annoyance, several downed trees and large boulders showed them down. Finally, the ground started to even out, and the treeline began to thin.
Bofur readjusted Bilbo in his arms, and the hobbit stirred just long enough to nuzzle toward the warmth of the chest holding him.
Thorin took over carrying Bilbo.
He tried to hold Bilbo as comfortably as possible, and the hobbit, it seemed, had his own ideas about that. Almost as soon as he took him from Bofur, Bilbo put his arms around his neck, pushing his cold nose into the crook of his neck and sighing deeply.
Thorin was greedy. He wanted his kingdom; he wanted to be king, and as he looked down at Bilbo's sleepy, curl-framed face, he knew he wanted this, too. He wanted to woo and court the brave little hobbit who put everything on the line for him. What a fool he was, only to realize that now, after such a profound tragedy.
STRIKE
Not fast enough.
STRIKE
Not strong enough.
SNAP
The wooden practice sword his grandfather used broke against his back as it made contact. His Grandfather was brutal in his lessons, not because he wanted to be cruel but because he knew what was at stake. He wanted to mold him into a leader, a protector, a king. Thorin was not an easy child to teach. He was too stubborn, too emotional, too mouthy. Thror saw something in him that he needed to change. He would not suffer the line of his throne to be anything other than the sum of what he thought the throne should be. Weak kings make weak kingdoms, and weak kingdoms fall.
CRUNCH
The warg's teeth on his torso, straining the limits of his armor, the points sinking into his skin. He could hear his company cry out his name.
He couldn't protect them. He couldn't lead them. Why would they ever put their faith in him again? Every lesson his grandfather had tried to teach him had come to nothing. His sacrifices came to nothing. And Bilbo… he had been so focused on repressing his feelings for the hobbit, sure that they were a distraction that would fade. He ruined any chance he had in gaining his affection long before the events that would plague his dreams. Bilbo would be foolish to entertain a crass and demanding would-be king who kept him at arm's length and couldn't even protect him when it came down to it. His weakness was the reason Bilbo was suffering. He was the reason the name of a monster was carved into his arm.
“THORIN!”
He sat up straight from where he was slouched against several stacks of hay.
“Bilbo?” Thorin mumbled as he tried to put aside the many feelings his dreams had brought to the surface. It took him a second to remember where he was.
Gandalf had been good on his word that his friend would give them shelter even if he neglected the part where he was a seven-foot-tall shapeshifting bear man. They had been there for three days and in that time, their burglar said very little. He ate very little. They were all growing concerned. He seemed to be avoiding the company and him whenever possible, but no one wanted to push him into a conversation he wasn't ready for. As far as the way he avoided him in particular….there was nothing to be done. Bilbo had every right to seek solitude while they had it, no matter how much it stung. No matter how much he wished that Bilbo would at least look in his direction again.
“Thorin…” Bilbo whimpered again, and before he sprang to his feet, he realized there was a smaller form pressed in beside him. Not just beside him but slightly on him. Bilbo's head was resting on his stomach, his hand gripping the extra fabric of his tunic. Frantically, he tried to get control of his heart rate. He had barely seen Bilbo in days, and now he was here using him as a pillow.
Bilbo cried out again, and Thorin was sharply brought out of his thoughts. Taking liberties he knew he shouldn't, he reached down and pushed his hands through Bilbo’s curls, smoothing them out of his face. The ones in front were damp with sweat. How long had he been stuck in this state?
“Bilbo,” Thorin said as loud as he dared in a room full of other sleeping dwarves. He still didn't wake. Careful not to twist Bilbo’s injured arm, Thorin rolled the hobbit onto his back until he was positioned over him with his arms bracing him at Bilbo’s sides. He tried to swallow all the feelings in his throat. This was a practical choice, not an intimate one, despite the intimacy of such a position. He didn't want to startle Bilbo awake; he knew that could do more harm than good.
Bilbo had never let go of his grip on him. With his thumb, Thorin soothed the skin on the back of his hand with increased pressure until he let go. As soon as it did, the hobbit's hand found a new home on his forearm.
“Just cut it off, please. It hurts.” Bilbo sobbed, and Thorin couldn't listen to another second. He used a trick he had learned when Fili was still having nightmares after his father died. The linen Bilbo wore was thin, and the first three or four buttons were undone, revealing the fine brown curls covering his chest. Using a similar technique as the one to get Bilbo to release his grip, he placed his hand on Bilbo’s bare chest and added pressure. Slowly, Bilbo’s shaking and mumbling slowed. Thorin breathed a sigh of relief as he brushed his fingers over the hobbit's cheek with a warm smile playing out of his face.
He stopped moving very abruptly when he felt Bilbo stir, and before he could move into a less compromising position, Bilbo’s eyes began to blink open.
They both froze… then abruptly thawed.
“Thorin! I-I’m sorry! I couldn't sleep, and there was no other place-” Bilbo scrambled to sit up as Thorin moved away. In his struggle, he put weight on his injured arm, and a yelp of pain left him. Thorin’s eyes were immediately drawn to the wrapped injury pulled to Bilbo’s chest as the hobbit no longer met his eyes.
“It’s fine. You may sleep where you’d like. I only woke you because you were having a nightmare.” Internally, he bit his tongue. In an attempt to sound neutral, his words came back to him as uninterested and harsh. He had been taught to give speeches at state, rally his men in battle, and navigate diplomacy. In all his lessons, he had never learned just to talk and enjoy the company of others without a secondary motive. He had never been taught how to woo, or court, or charm others for purposes outside of duty.
“Right.” Bilbo replied, “Thank you for waking me. I feel fine now.”
He didn't look fine. He was still shaking slightly, his hair tousled and sticking to his head. There was moisture in his eyes and a haunted look about him, brought on by the dark bags under his eyes. He awkwardly got to his feet, looking remorsefully at the spot he had just left.
“I'll let you have the rest of your night.” Bilbo sounded strained and rehearsed. Before Thorin could put his foot in his mouth anymore, he all but sprinted out the door.
Thorin watched him go with a look of shock on his face. How had that gotten away with him so quickly? Minutes before, he had been a soothing presence, but the moment Bilbo opened his eyes, it was as if all his senses had fled him. He brought his hand down his face and over his beard, trying not to think about the fact that it was still warm from being on Bilbo’s chest.
“What am I doing? ” Thorin dropped his head into his hands with a groan.
“What are you doing?”
He looked up to see Nori sitting with his back to a post and Dwalin’s head in his lap. He was regarding him with a look of utter befuddlement and mild disgust.
“That was incredibly sad and almost painful to watch. I hope you know that,” Nori said straight-faced.
“Nori,” He growled in warning.
“At least tell me you intend to get up and go after him.” Nori continued.
“He clearly wants his space,” Thorin said dismissively, getting to his feet. It's not as if he would find more sleep after all.
“He’s had nothing but space. Why would he have come here to sleep after three days if he still wanted space? He can’t hide away forever. It’s not healthy.” Nori said, shaking his head and looking at the doorway.
“I don’t know all the details of what happened before Gandalf saved you, but we’re all worried about him. He sought you out. That has to mean something, doesn't it?”
Without another word, Thorin turned and left the room to find Bilbo. It was exactly what he wanted to do. Why fight it?
He looked in the kitchen first, wondering if maybe he had finally decided to eat something. He wasn't there. He sincerely hoped Bilbo had decided to stay inside. The grounds were not lit, and Bilbo had no vision in the dark, as they learned early in their quest. He checked the wide living room next and found nothing. It wasn’t until he checked the hall adjacent to that one that he saw where their burglar had gone.
He was sitting in a large green patch surrounded on all sides by sunflowers in well-loved flowerbeds. They were tall. Taller than him. Almost as tall as the bear man himself. Their large faces pointed toward where the sun would rise in a few hours. Bilbo looked fae in comparison, sitting cross-legged on the grass. He was plucking and gathering the same little yellow flowers that had made their way into Bombur’s soup.
“You shouldn't be out here alone,” Thorin said from the doorway.
Bilbo yelped and dropped all of the dandelions he was holding. Thorin berated himself. In hindsight, he should have known Bilbo would be jumpy and announced himself.
“Oh, Thorin!” Bilbo let out a nervous laugh as his shoulders relaxed, and he began gathering his flowers again. “Beorn assured me that his lands were entirely enclosed, and the cool air felt nice.”
He supposed it would. Thorin flexed the hand that had swept through the hobbit's damp curls. He could still see where they lay flat against his neck. He noted the chill in the air for himself, smoothing back his own hair and breathing in deeply.
“You didn't have to leave if you were still tired,” Thorin said, trying not to sound as awkward as he felt.
“I thought it best not to disturb your sleep more than I already had,” Bilbo replied.
“You didn't disturb me. I was merely concerned about you.” Thorin scoffed, folding his arms before deciding that seemed too aggressive and unfolding them.
“I don't need your pity, Thorin,” Bilbo replied with annoyance.
“Since when is concern seen as pity, Master Baggins.” Thorin retorted, using his name the same way Bilbo had snapped his.
“Since you haven't had a kind word to say to me the entire journey and only after…” Bilbo's quip seemed to lose its heat before he finally looked up from fidgeting with the flowers in his lap. “Don’t feel like you owe an obligation to me now. Besides, you were right, weren't you? I should have never left my front door.”
“I was wrong.” Thorin's words overlapped Bilbo's, the base of his voice beating out the hobbit's soft tenor. “I've never been so wrong. You saved my life at nearly the cost of your own. I regret the way I treated you and the things I said. They came from a place of fear, not reason. I would not have you thinking otherwise.”
Bilbo gave him an owlish look before turning away. He wasn't sure if his words were enough. He was fully prepared for them not to be until Bilbo spoke again.
“You apologize like I would expect a king to.“ Bilbo teased lightheartedly. A smile tugged at the hobbit's lips but never went further. Thorin was very eager to see a true smile again. He had never been the cause of one, but he stole glances when it appeared. Bilbo looked like smiling was his state of being. Lines of age framed his face, forming warm creases around his eyes and mouth. It was the kind smile that had never been discouraged or tempered. Oh, to be the cause of such a smile.
“How does a king apologize exactly?” Thorin replied, cocking his brow in challenge.
“They don't,” Bilbo replied matter of factly.
“But I just did,” Thorin rebutted.
“Not a single time in that very touching speech did you say the words, I'm sorry.” Bilbo was half speaking to him and half struggling with the flowers in his lap again.
He was right. He hadn't said those words exactly. Decades of conditioning had ripped those words out of his vocabulary. Rulers never apologized. An apology was an admission of guilt that could be hung over you later, or so his grandfather believed. He burned with embarrassment but still couldn’t get the words to leave him. He was saved when Bilbo spoke again.
“I thought perhaps you might ask me to stay behind or go back to Rivendell,” Bilbo confessed.
“Do you think so low of me that I would discard someone who saved my life? I know that I mocked you while Azo-” He didn't get all the way through the name before seeing Bilbo flinch violently. He moved away from the doorframe to sit across from him. “There is no question of your place among us now. I owe you the debt of my life. I will always be at your service.”
He leaned forward to pick up one of the dandelions that were sitting in Bilbo’s lap and twirled it between his fingers.
“What if I wanted to go back?” Bilbo whispered. He froze with the flower still in his hand as a weight dropped in his heart.
“Then I will work with the wizard, and we will find a way to see you home.” Thorin choked, his feelings rolling to the surface.
“I suppose it would be an awful waste to go home disfigured with no story to tell. If I’m going to return home an outcast I had better have a decent reason for it.” A self-deprecating smile tugged at the hobbit's lips but never went further.
“Outcast?” Thorin questioned.
“I’m mad enough for leaving the Shire like I did. If I came home with…this, then well. I’d be Mad Baggins before tea time on the same day. I imagine it might be worse if I were a dwarf to come home tagged by your enemy as if livestock,” Bilbo said.
“You are not tagged or claimed by anyone!” It came out so much harsher than he thought it would, but he couldn’t stand the thought of Bilbo thinking he was owned in some way. Azog was not allowed to take that away from him. He was not allowed to steal his self-worth, along with mutilating his body. “If your people would mock you for your deeds in battle, then you’re better off remaining among those that would hold you in high regard because of them.”
Bilbo looked taken aback but didn't recoil from his outburst. Then, slowly, a shy smile showed itself. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but it felt like he could take his first deep breath since arriving at Beorn's. Thorin found himself smiling back fondly.
“Are you sure you want to keep me around? You run the risk of flowers in your soup again,” Bilbo laughed.
Thorin grabbed one of the dandelions in Bilbo’s lap and, without thinking too hard about it bit the top off and started to chew. It tasted bitter and a little peppery. It would have tasted good in that soup.
He handed the empty stem back to Bilbo while he was chewing. He took it, looking at it in surprise, before covering his mouth and bursting into bright and uproarious laughter. It wasn't attractive laughter by any means. Bilbo struggled to catch his breath and snorted at least once, but it was pure music, knowing that he could bring him an ounce of levity.
“Oh, green lady.” Bilbo gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. “I'm so sorry, Thorin, but you looked like a goat the way you just-” Bilbo burst into laughter again before finally regaining control of himself. “These might not be the best examples of dandelions you should eat. It's a little too close to the end of the season for them. You have pollen in your beard now, by the way.” Bilbo pointed out.
Thorin attempted to rid himself of it, but Bilbo shook his head.
“Here, let me.” Bilbo waved his hand away, and before he could stop him, he was leaning in very close, his nimble fingers combing through his beard and scratching along his chin.
He stopped breathing and strangled any sound that might have escaped him. Bilbo seemed not to notice his turmoil, more focused on maintaining his balance. Thorin's hands went to his hips to steady him, and he forced his increasingly rattled mind not to squeeze the soft skin he felt under such a thin shirt.
Bilbo finished his task and pulled back out of his grasp.
“Are you alright?” Bilbo asked.
Thorin nodded, completely unwilling to trust the words that might come out of his mouth.
“Well, I'll admit eating them might be better than what I had planned.” Bilbo picked up two of the dandelions and started to tie a practiced knot, but when the time came for the second loop, he winced and dropped one side, undoing all his work. “Oin said the full function will come back eventually as long as there is no infection.”
The smile that had graced his face before was gone again. Thorin's gauze was drawn to his arm. The brown bandages had blotches of red on them, and Thorin felt that oath of vengeance in him burn knowing what was under them. Bilbo pulled back from him, looking uncomfortable, and he rushed to say something to diffuse the tension.
“I'm good with my hands. Teach me what you were doing.”
“I'm not sure if being a warrior and blacksmith translates to flower crown making,” Bilbo replied, looking less cowed. “But I can try.”
The skill, it turned out, did not translate, but Thorin found that it wasn't so different from braiding hair, and once he recognized that it was a much easier process. He followed Bilbo's direction, fumbling just often enough that the fastidious hobbit would move closer to correct his fingers.
“One last loop to finish it off and…done!” Bilbo leaned back with a happy but sleepy look on his face. The sun was now just starting to add color to the Eastern sky.
“Is this the past-time of Hobbit's then?” Thorin asked, holding up his delicate new creation.
“One of them.” Bilbo yawned and stretched. “We make them for parties and cour- children! Midsummer festivals and all that. Then you give them to people. It's all good fun.” He stammered, wiping nonexistent leaves off his shirt.
As he leaned down to pluck at something on the grass, Thorin put the crown on Bilbo’s head, and the hobbit abruptly sat up and brought his hands to his new adornment.
Yellow was not a color that Thorin had liked before, not even one he often considered. There was not a lot of yellow in the depths of a mountain, but if you asked him now while he looked at Bilbo’s flushed and surprised face, he would call it his favorite.
Bilbo didn't seem inclined to say anything further, and he was fine with that until he saw Bilbo’s head loll.
“You should rest. No one will mind if you sleep into the afternoon,” Thorin suggested, getting to his feet. Bilbo didn't fight it and let him help him to his feet. No one else was still awake in the makeshift sleeping area. Even Nori was snoring softly, his head leaned back against the post.
Bilbo carefully took his flower crown off, placing it on a haybale adjacent to him before plopping himself down. The sleepy hobbit didn't return to his vacant spot but instead rather boldly got comfortable on Thorin’s furs. He couldn't think of a single reason why he should correct him.
“How long can we reasonably stay here?” Kili asked the next morning.
Thorin never caught up on his own rest. His mind was too active, and he decided to use the quiet to be alone with his thoughts.
The company awoke one by one and joined Thorin, who sat comfortably in the kitchen within earshot of Bilbo sleeping. Bombur, with Beorns' permission, was in the middle of making a late breakfast.
“I drew us a calendar. Wait one second.” Ori scampered out and came back with his journal. “We left the Shire in early April and it's currently the end of the first week in July. Durin’s day is in mid-October, so we have several months to travel a road that should take about four weeks, provided Gandalf has a way through Mirkwood that won't hinder us.” Ori turned the book so everyone could see his notation.
Gandalf had assured him that he had a way to get through the elves. It was chief among his concerns for the journey to begin with.
“With Beorn’s permission, we will remain here until the first of August,” Thorin said, sitting back in his chair.
“That’s two weeks on top of the time we’ve already spent. Can we wait that long?” Gloin asked
“We will cut our approach closer, but Bilbo is still recovering. We would put ourselves at a disadvantage if we left now,” Thorin replied. “The eagles bought us time, and if we are well rested, we can move faster and recover the time we lost.”
There was a nod of agreement at this before Kili leaned in close.
“Have you seen Bilbo? He’s avoided us for days. How do we know he wants to join us?”
Before Thorin could respond, all attention turned to the doorway leading to their sleeping area. Bilbo stood there looking very tired but with lighter bags under his eyes than when he woke the first time. He was dressed in the same ragged clothes that he had been in when they left the goblin tunnels, and he made a mental note to ask Dori to make him new ones immediately.
“Have I turned up too late for breakfast?” Bilbo asked politely. The company erupted in a chorus of hellos and offers of food as Fili pulled the chair between him and Thorin out and patted it happily. Bilbo seemed eased by the response as he took Fili’s invitation, though a problem occurred when he got to the chair.
Beorn was a very large man—over seven feet tall by his estimate—which meant his furniture was made to fit him. The company had strength enough to hoist themselves onto the furniture, but Bilbo's injured arm prevented him from doing the same.
“If you hand me a plate, I can sit against the doorway,” Bilbo reasoned.
“I will not let you eat among the hounds, Master Baggins.” Thorin stood and held out his hand for Bilbo to take. He eyed it curiously and took it. With little effort, he lifted Bilbo onto the seat, where Fili steadied him.
“Oh! Erm, thank you, but I don't think I could use this chair unless I remained standing on it.” Bilbo had not taken his hand off his shoulder and was eyeing the ground nervously.
“Then sit on the table!” Kili suggested.
“On it! That’s not appropriate or polite at all. You don't put your bum where food is served! I know you have a mother that must have taught you that.” Bilbo exclaimed
“You might be surprised.” Thorin laughed, and Bilbo turned from the boys to look at him in question. “My sister Dis once stabbed me in the hand with a fork to get her hands on the last pheasant we had imported that season. If she’d have thought putting her bum on a table would have won it faster, she would have.”
Both boys took in great amounts of air, which he knew were about to become exclamations about the piece of new information they had just learned, but Bilbo’s stomach interrupted the outburst.
Without another word, Bilbo stepped onto the table and sat cross-legged as if nothing had happened. Kili's wide and mischievous smile told him he was about to say something.
“Not a word,” Bilbo warned without needing to look back. He filled a plate with a few pieces of toast and some eggs and dug in.
He wasn't sure even Bombur would have caught up with the rate at which the food on Bilbo’s plate disappeared. He expected the hobbit to start in on another, and when it became clear he wouldn't due to some hobbit sensibility, he started preparing one with sausages, potatoes, eggs, and tomatoes. He put it in Bilbo's lap and was rewarded with a surprised look as Bilbo went crimson.
“If you are no longer hungry, you don't have to accept it,” Thorin said to ease the burden of acceptance.
“No, I do accept!” Bilbo said in a rush pulling the plate away as if it might be taken. “Thank you very much.”
The conversation picked back up, but it was half an hour before the crimson blush left Bilbo’s face. He ate the second plate slower but with no less passion, and Thorin stopped following the conversation altogether. His eyes were continuously drawn to the way that Bilbo licked the egg yolk off his bottom lip or the groaning sound he made when he took a bite he particularly liked. If he offered him something off of his own plate, would he take it? Or better yet, would he feel his lips graze his fingers as Bilbo bit down on his offering of food?
“Thorin?”
His attention was called back to the front as Bilbo looked at him with concern. His eyes looked brown now, with flecks of gold captured in them. They were still kind eyes, but now, there was a touch of sadness and conflict in them. It was the same look that every green soldier came back from their first battle with, and it never left. It was a hairline crack in the mind that finally let you understand the implications of mortality. Azog had put it there, but he was the instrument he used to do it. The guilt was eating him alive, knowing that no matter what he did, he couldn't change what had happened.
And then he was falling.
Falling through his mind as it replayed for him all his failures as the sound of his grandfather's lessons harmonized with the sound of Bilbo’s screams. He couldn't see past his mind. He could no longer see the beautiful face in front of him, only the one his mind twisted. Panic welled up in his chest, bringing with it a sense of impending doom. He tried to grip whatever was in front of him to ground himself, expecting the table, but instead, his hands wrapped around something soft and warm.
A short, pained gasp started to unravel his spiral, and slowly, his mind began to clear. Without the panic to overwhelm his senses, he felt raw and worn out. The overwhelming guilt that pulled him under had not dissipated, and he felt a heaviness in his heart that had nowhere to go. He felt another wave of self-loathing wash over him, but it was interrupted when nimble fingers slid into his hair. He took a ragged breath as the sensation for all its boldness calmed him.
He looked up, expecting to see the members of his company staring in concern and judgment, but he only saw Bilbo, whose worried face seemed to soften as he looked up.
“I don't think you've been taking very good care of yourself,” Bilbo sighed. “I should have noticed when you only had a nibble of an egg.”
All the plates around him had been cast to the side so that Bilbo could sit directly in front of him. His legs dangled on either side of his chair. With startling realization, he noticed that the warm thing he had grabbed was Bilbo. His hands were gripping the sides of the hobbit’s thighs, and the intensity of his grip caused the plush skin to pool around his fingers. He let go at once, placing his hands flat on the table in embarrassment.
“Where has everyone gone?” Thorin said stiffly, slipping into his old manners to hide his discomfort.
“I told them to leave,” Bilbo replied, removing his hand from Thorin’s hair and running them through his own tangle of curls.
“They listened to you?”
“I don't know that I asked very nicely. My concern was more for you. If you're not feeling well, we can sit outside. Sunshine always helps me.” Bilbo offered, putting his hand down on top of his. Thorin pulled his hand away and averted his eyes, afraid that if he met them, it would drown him again. Bilbo pulled his hand back to his lap, looking thoroughly rejected. “I…can’t get down from the table without your assistance. I’ll leave you be after that.”
“I’m sorry.” Thorin felt his emotions rise and stick in his throat. The words themselves sounded taboo as if they should be whispered. They were so utterly foreign to him that his knee-jerk reaction was to flinch as he said them, expecting some retaliation for them crossing his lips.
“It’s fine. We’re both…trying to cope.” Bilbo said, too easily excusing his actions.
“No. I’m sorry for being the cause of your suffering.” Thorin said the words again more confidently. “If you had just…” He bit off his words and tightened his hands into fits. “If you had just stayed in the trees with Gandalf and the others-”
“Then you would have died,” Bilbo answered.
“So be it,” Thorin replied firmly.
“What? No!” Bilbo shouted in disbelief. “That was never an option. Never,” Bilbo was growing just as heated as he was. He wasn't understanding. He didn't get it.
“If you had not thrown yourself at the orc's mercy, then you wouldn't have that!” Thorin brought his fits down on the large table hard enough to rattle it. Bilbo didn’t flinch, but he did pull his arm against his body.
“Maybe I wouldn't…but I have to believe that in the grand scheme of things…it's better then-”
“Better than you being violated due to my reckless actions!” Thorin growled.
“Don't call it that! You did what you thought would give us a chance. For all we know, the distraction you created allowed Gandalf to call the eagles. You might have saved everyone!” Bilbo insisted, his face going pale.
“Call it what? A violation? He held you down and-”
“Stop! Just stop saying it! You don't think I'm not aware of what happened to me? That the thought of what is under these bandages doesn't sicken me? They're a reminder enough without you using your misplaced anger to jog my memory. You're alive; that has to be what matters. My arm will heal.”
“It will scar, ”Thorin pushed.
There was a long pause as Bilbo looked down at his bandages and then back up to meet his eyes.
“Are you trying to make me hate you or myself?”
Thorin surged up, grabbing Bilbo’s face and holding it in his hands.
“Why don't you understand that you should already hate me? It was always a possibility that I wouldn't live to see the mountain reclaimed. I planned for this; I raised Fili and Kili for this purpose. I never accounted for you! If I had I-”
His hands seemed battered, resting against Bilbo’s soft skin. One thumb rested over his cheekbone, and the other was pressed to the top of his ear, almost pinning it against his head.
“I never wanted anything past the claiming of my home and the comfort of my people until you. Your soft smiles, your quick wit, and the sharpness of your tongue make me second-guess my every wish, hope, and desire. Your existence before me, even now, is making me wonder if everything I have ever been taught was wrong. Then I watched as the orc that has terrorized my line put a knife to your flesh and forced me to watch your defilement, knowing it was my actions that led to this. How could I not wish that my life was traded for your suffering? That the hints of fear that now live in your eyes might never have had to exist.” He moved his hands down the hobbit’s arms, letting them rest at his hips.
He hung his head and thought about moving so that he could let Bilbo leave, but all thoughts ceased when he felt Bilbo’s hand on his chin, guiding their gazes back to one another.
“I will not let my name be the rock you stone yourself with, Thorin.” Bilbo’s tone was stern but kind. When he opened his mouth to say something back, Bilbo moved his hand so that now it sat on his bearded cheek with his thumb resting on his lips. “From the moment you walked into my simal, you seemed to hold nothing but contempt for me, yet your actions seemed so contradictory. You risked everyone's lives to save me from trolls. You saved me on the cliffs by putting your own life at risk. Sometimes, I would catch you looking at me, and I wondered…”
Bilbo leaned forward, and Thorin's hands followed him as he moved until the hobbit was no longer sitting on top of the table but instead nestled on his lap, his short legs stretched wide to fit around his sturdy thighs. They were nearly chest to chest, with Thorin's hand securely around Bilbo's waist and hanging on every word.
“Nothing could make me regret saving you. I-I won't say that it hasn't changed me. How could it not? But I don't want to be looked at as a reminder of failure or kept around as a show of duty. If that's all you can see me as now, or if I am too damaged for you, then…it's best you just return to the way you treated me before.” Despite his words, Bilbo made no move to get up, and Thorin had no desire to see him leave.
“I could barely hold back my growing feelings for you before. I couldn't return to that now. You are not damaged or…” Thorin smiled and swept Bilbo's hair back from his apprehensive face. “Or rather, we are both a little damaged.” The air around them changed as the moment settled, and before he could say another word, Bilbo was kissing him.
Thorin groaned, settling into the feeling of Bilbo’s lips on his and letting the hobbit have whatever he wanted of him. It seemed that Bilbo wanted to be at his mercy. Thorin smiled brightly, moving from kissing his lips to sucking marks into his collarbone, pulling breathy moans and pants from the irresistible hobbit.
“How could you be a reminder of failure.” Thorin breathed, making his way back up the hobbit’s soft neck. “When just getting to touch you is the realization of a dream.” Carefully, he slid his hand up the front of Bilbo’s shirt, and before he could make it any further, someone behind them loudly cleared their throat.
“I do not think that Bilbo is in a condition to be engaging in this sort of activity.” Gandalf’s voice was full of amusement and warning.
“I think this hobbit knows what’s best for himself, thank you very much.” Bilbo grouched, the effect broken slightly because of his still breathy tone and ruffled disposition.
“He’s right, Amral.” Thorin let the air out of his lungs and pressed their foreheads together while they let their temperatures drop. “I would rather not see you further injured.”
They left the dining room to step out into the garden, and as they did, the light warmed Bilbo’s face, causing him to breathe deeply and sigh. Looking at him from his side, he saw the hobbit’s wildly deceptive eyes shine brightly, and finally, he learned the reason for his dilemma in finding their color. They shone with all three: rich brown, deep green, and swirling blue. It was as if the Arkenstone was trapped within them.
His grandfather had wanted nothing beyond the protection of that stone. He was raised to hold it above all things in reverence.
If Arkenstone was the heart of the mountain, then Bilbo was the heart of the king, and he would dedicate his life to ensuring the bright light of his life was never dulled again.