Chapter Text
Bilbo was hunched in the crowded medical tent, shirtless and clutching a thick pad of cloth to his shoulder. Crimson leaked up between his fingers, staining the clean white fabric even as he absently stared at his lap, barely applying enough pressure to stop the wound’s slow, sluggish bleeding. The dwarves around him gave him a wide berth, an impressive feat in the small, packed space.
The medic had only strayed by him long enough to remove the jagged goblin arrow that was wedged into his flesh. After words she’d paused to slap a rough coat of salve over the bloodied mess and throw him some bandages before she’d turned on heel to see to patients in more dire condition. Her expression had been unkind, hard and emotionless. It was one shared by many of those hovering around him. Dwarves walked past, snarling in Khuzdul under their breath as they regarded him spitefully. He kept his eyes lowered and his shoulders hunched. Had he bothered to look, he would have seen some relief there too, other dwarves gazing over at his small, huddled frame with sympathy in their eyes.
There wasn’t an inch of skin on him that wasn’t burning with ache. His face felt puffy and raw, one eye swollen shut and his lips split straight down the middle. He could hardly move through the stiffness in his back, had to hobble with the purpled swelling of his right ankle. He couldn’t rightly remember a time in his entire life when he’d been so badly knocked about.
Yet all of the pain was nothing compared to the sharp, hard ache of his heart in his chest.
He sucked in shakily, feeling his fingers tremble as he pushed down harder on the cloth at his shoulder. For hours, and what felt more like days, he’d been teetering on the brink of tears. His throat felt thick and his lungs burned painfully, causing his breath to wheeze.
Gandalf had left him in the infirmary as he went off with Bard and Thandruil to Thorin’s private medical tent, just feet away from where he sat. For the longest time they thought that surely they would lose the King Under the Mountain, his injuries grave beyond imagining. However the wizard had not been shy in telling Bilbo that it was only his own actions that had given the dwarf one last chance at life, preventing the immediate and premature deaths of him and his kin.
What the soldiers were now calling The Battle of Five Armies had taken them all completely by surprise. They had only just regained their hold on Erebor when they fell into conflict with both man and elf, one that Bilbo had suspected was coming for some time. He’d found his use for the Arkenstone then, desperate to cut the arguments short and put an end to the treasure hungry daze that seemed to have overtaken Thorin. In offering up the stone he seemed to have some sway on Bard and Thandruil, and while it meant giving up his share of the treasure, as well as garnering the wrath of his company, Bilbo had felt it was well worth the risk.
That was, until Thorin got wind of Bilbo and Gandalf’s interaction with their enemies. The King had reacted so violently that it startled their whole company, though Bilbo the most. The hobbit had withered under the dwarf’s furious gaze, his heart dropping as Thorin gave name to his actions in a single breath, “Betrayer.”
Bilbo was shattered, finding that not even Fili and Kili could meet his eyes as their Uncle demanded him out of his sight. The hobbit complied, but in his Tookish stubbornness refused to venture far. He stayed close to the negotiation, his heart dropping as the talks were quickly broken down by the brute stubbornness of the dwarven King.
Even worse, their ill-fated negotiations served to distract all parties long enough for the Bats and Wargs to descend upon them, goblin armies swarming down in droves.
Even then Bilbo had known that he should have run. Amongst the armies of men, dwarves, and elves alike he knew a small hobbit could offer no real advantage. Yet he steadfastly refused to leave those who he’d come to care for so dearly in the many past, long months. So somehow, in the midst of soldiers who towered above him, wrestling with foul, spitting beasts, Bilbo managed to keep track of Thorin and his nephews.
The trio fought hard, pushing forward as the goblins swarmed and nearly doubled in number, outmatching even the skilled battle prowess of the elves. He remembered the sheer horror that had gripped him as he realized that they would be overwhelmed. Fili and Kili fought bravely at their uncle’s sides, but none escaped without damage. Each blow the dwarves took weakened their stance, forcing down their strong guards inch by agonizing inch.
Bilbo knew then that if nothing was done, they would all die on that bloodied battlefield; and so the hobbit made a decision.
He was pounding his way towards Thandruil before he even knew what he was doing, ignoring the agonize pain that lanced up his right leg even as he dodged his way between warriors locked in vicious battle. He spotted the Elven king in the midst of the chaos, his eyes widening slightly as Thandruil turned his back, engaging with a snarling warg that snapped at him viciously. Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure how he recognized that the blonde being was exposed, or how he managed to pick out the goblin archer feet away from him, bow drawn taught and sights lined on Thandruil’s frame, but he did.
At the time, he could think of no one else who would have been able to save his dwarves and their uncle. So when he realized that the goblin’s intention was to fell the mighty elf, Bilbo launched himself between them, shoving Thandruil bodily to the side as the tall man struck down the beast at his front.
The elf king had stumbled and turned in time to catch sight of the arrow that slammed into Bilbo’s shoulder with a dull, wet thunk. Seconds later Thandruil was crouched at the Halfling’s side, shouting something to his archers in elvish as they unleashed a series of arrows at the hunkered goblins, striking his attacker down. He’d been more than confused by the hobbit’s interference, and immediately moved to heal him. Even through the pain Bilbo had managed to stop him, pleading and begging for him to go to Thorin’s side, to save the fool king from his own stubborn heroics; to save Fili and Kili.
At first he thought that the elf might refuse, but Thandruil it seemed had no quarrel with hobbits of any sort, and could hardly refuse such a request from the being to which he owed his life. He left Bilbo there with one of his fair soldiers, taking a flood of armed guards and flying down across the battlefield towards where Thorin and his nephews still struggled.
Bilbo had just barely managed to catch sight of the events unfolding from there, watching in horror as Kili fell, his brother dropping in turn just moments before Thandruil’s guard slammed through the sea of goblins. Whether it was the sight of the brothers, crumpling to the ground on the bloodied battlefield, or the pain of the arrow imbedded hard into the bone of his shoulder, Bilbo still couldn’t be sure. All he remembered was his knees suddenly caving beneath him, elvish arms gripping him around his waist and hauling him back and away from the fighting as he passed out cold.
He remembered waking some time later to the screech of Eagles amidst the loud thrum of war before him; had realized with dizzying clarity that the battle would be won.
And it was.
Yet Bilbo had not been relieved. He had steadfastly refused to stay and receive treatment from the healers in the elven tents, rushing back out across the now silent battlefield to search desperately for Thorin, Thandruil, anyone who could tell him if Fili and Kili were alive.
He didn’t have to look much farther than the dwarves’ encampment, spotting a party approaching of elves and one wizard, moving at great haste with wooden pallets grasped between them. As they neared Bilbo remembered his heart stopping, taking in the sight of Fili and Kili as the brothers were rushed past him and into a private tent for healing. Their flesh had been a mess of cuts, blood flow barely staved by the firm, delicate press of elven fingers.
The last pallet caused him further heart break, watching as an unconscious Thorin was hauled bodily into the tent at his nephew’s side.
He probably would have stood there, staring, for the entirety of the day…or even the night for that matter, had Gandalf not caught sight of the state of him with a startled shout. The wizard had ignored all of his protests, ushering him away from the last of the Durin line as the draping of their tents was drawn closed, sealing them inside with Thandruil and his elven healers.
It wasn’t until he was pushed firmly into the soldiers’ medical bay that Bilbo allowed his attention to be dragged away from their tents, tears already pricking at his eyes. Gandalf had scolded him firmly over his lack of attention to the arrow still protruding out of his shoulder, making Bilbo swear that he would stay and seek treatment. The wizard, however, did not linger; could not have even if he’d wanted to. But he had left Bilbo with a firm promise to bring back news of Kili, Fili and Thorin.
So that was where the hobbit stayed, having been given a rough once over by the medic and sitting with his feet dangling off of the edge of the dwarf’s short table. Thorin had been the first to recover, Gandalf stopping to inform Bilbo on his way to meet the King with Thandruil and Bard. Yet even that did little to ease the hard ache of his heart and twist of nausea in his belly.
There had yet to be news of Fili or Kili.
The thought drove a spike of fear hard through him as he waited breathlessly in the crowded tent, unable to drag his eyes from where they were fixed firmly down for fear that he might lose it completely.
He could not risk crying here, he was certain the dwarves around him thought ill enough of him already. After all, not even one member of his companions had come to see him.
A guilty flush surged through him at the thought, doubtless that the dwarves were frantically busy or worse, faced grave injury themselves. The sinking realization that some of his friends might have already succumbed to the battle was enough to chill him to the bone.
With a resigned, trembling breath he began to clumsily wrap his wound, bandaging over the bloodied cloth he had pressed to his shoulder. It was an awkward and time consuming task, especially one to attempt alone. Yet somehow he managed.
He had finally wiggled his way back into his torn, bloodied shirt, when a familiar figure slid up in front of him, Bofur’s smile strained as he greeted him. “Bilbo.” The dwarf’s arm was in a sling, a large, stitched gash cutting up his forehead from his temple. “Can’t tell ye how glad I am to see yer alright.”
Bilbo felt his lip tremble hard, his entire body tensing against the sudden wash of emotion that flooded through him at seeing a friendly face in all of this bloodshed. Before he could stop himself he’d slid off of the table, moving forward to press his face to Bofur’s uninjured shoulder.
The dwarf didn’t seem bothered, or even that surprised for that matter, as he draped an arm around the hobbit’s shoulder gently. They stayed like that for a moment, Bilbo fighting not to cry as he breathed hard into the crook of Bofur’s throat, before slowly he forced himself away. “I’m so glad to see you.” He brought a hand up to wipe at his eyes, his breath hitching a bit. “I hadn’t seen anyone but Gandalf since I got in here, and for a while I feared the worst.”
“We’re all fine for the most part.” Bofur assured him, reaching around to grab sting and it’s sheath, handing it to the hobbit who accepted it gratefully.
“What of Kili and Fili!?” Bilbo blurted out, unable to stop himself from asking as cold hard dread and weighted anticipation tugged at his heart, hard. “Has there been any news?”
“Yes, yes,” The dwarf reached out, gently clasping the shoulder that wasn’t soaked through with blood. “Both are out in the clear as far as I’ve been told. It was’ bit touch and go there fer a while, but the elf king says they’ll live.”
The hobbit felt his shoulders sag, the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding in gusting out of him in one short, hard burst. “Thank the stars.” He whispered, his voice hoarse and the vice-like pain easing from around his heart. “Alive. Of course they’re alive.”
Relief flooded through him like a wave; though his throat felt tight and his eyes still stung because he’d been so close, so very close to just giving up hope and he hated himself for that.
Bofur kept his gentle grip on the hobbit as he struggled to compose himself, unable to keep the smile from his features. The dwarf, on the other hand, had adopted a slight down turn of his lips. He wasn’t unkind as he gently pulled Bilbo forward, the two of them starting across the tent. “With that said-” Bofur began, hesitating as they pushed through a large group in the crowded space. “I’m actually here on behalf of Mister Gandalf. Says he’s got somethin’ important to talk to ye about.”
Bilbo blinked a bit owlishly as Bofur gently maneuvered him through the bustling camp, his heart lodging hard in his throat. “By any chance, did he happen to mention what?”
“Afraid not Bilbo.” Bofur offered him an apologetic glance, his grip tightening on the hobbit slightly as they slowed to a stop at the front of Thorin’s tent.
When Bilbo looked up he felt his chest clench in fear, noting the three grave figures standing outside the entrance way. The hobbit picked up his pace slightly, drawing away from Bofur as he came to a stop at Gandalf’s front. He glanced up at the wizard, then over to Thandruil and Bard at his side. “What is it?” He asked, panic ebbing into his tone. “What’s wrong? Did something happen to Thorin or-”
“No no, Bilbo my dear, he is fine.” Gandalf’s hand came to rest on the hobbit’s good shoulder, a gentle weight. “And before you ask, Fili and Kili are fine as well. They’ve both regained consciousness, and I’m assured that they will make a full recovery.” At that he glanced over to Thandruil at their side, the elf king gracing them with a small, controlled nod.
Bilbo brought his hands to his mouth, unable to keep from grinning at the news. “That is…that is just amazing.” He turned, focusing his attention on Thandruil before he offered the blonde elf a small bow. “Thank you, thank you. Without you they would have died and-” He swallowed, shaking his head as he straightened a bit, joints still aching and sore. “I am forever in your debt.”
Thandruil looked slightly bewildered, his piercing blue eyes flicking over towards Gandalf before he motioned for Bilbo to rise completely. “We can be but considered even now, Halfling.” While the use of the word earned him a firm glance from the wizard, it wasn’t spoken with any malice. “You saved my life, and I saved theirs in exchange. Now we are neither bound by debt of blood.”
The hobbit nodded, feeling flustered as he straightened, a small smile still twitching on his lips. Or that was, at least until he got a look at Gandalf again. The wizard seemed completely reserved, his expression apologetic as he clutched to his staff with both hands. “Bilbo, I am so very sorry.”
The blood in his veins ran cold at his companion’s look, his smile dropping like lead. “What? What is it?” He implored, unable to keep the desperation out of his tone.
Gandalf made a small noise of hesitation, glancing over towards Thandruil and Bard where they stood. “Perhaps this conversation is better suited for some semblance of privacy-”
“No, Gandalf no.” Bilbo shook his head hard. “I’ve been teetering on the edge of disaster here for what feels like weeks. And after the last few hours I-” He swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can take anymore of not knowing.”
He stepped closer to his friend, his expression imploring. “Just tell me. Please.”
The sigh that escaped the wizard was nothing short of resigned. “If you insist.” He shifted his grip on his staff, his eyes impossibly soft as he looked down to Bilbo where he stood. “By now I’m sure you know the stubbornness of dwarves far better than most…so believe me when I tell you that I tried to change his mind.”
Bilbo felt himself stumble back a little, his face slipping into a twist of confusion as he felt his chest tighten. “Wha-” There was a part of him that knew exactly who and what Gandalf was referring to, but he couldn’t stop himself from clinging to those last, tattered shreds of hope. “What do you mean?”
“Thorin.” The wizard continued, his mouth tightening and his eyes radiating with gut wrenching sympathy. “He’s made the decision to banish you from Erebor.”
“B-” The hobbit choked on the word, his throat closing up so fast he almost couldn’t breathe. “Banished?”
“Bilbo, my friend, I am so, so very sorry.”
The Halfling just shook his head, the sharp stabbing pain in his chest overwhelming all of his other aches. “Banished.” His eyes watered up as he repeated the word, understanding it with a horrible twinge of finality.
Blinking hard he tried to clear his throat, reaching across his chest with his good arm to clutch at his poorly dressed wound. The squeeze of pain did little to calm him, his composure slipping away with each hitching breath. “Can I-” his voice cracked hard and he wavered on his feet, “-can I talk to him?”
Gandalf gripped his staff until his knuckles turned white, his expression pinching. “He has instructed his guard to deny you entrance.”
“Alright,” Bilbo nodded, trying to ignore how strained his voice sounded even to his own ears, “alright. I’ll have to get my things-”
“Thorin has already sent for them.” The wizard reached up and removed his hat from his head, tucking it up under his arm with a look of regret. “You will stay with Thandruil and myself at his camp this evening, and in the morning we will escort you for the first part of your journey home.”
“R-right.” He shuddered hard, his head feeling light and his stomach churning as he took a shaky step back. “Can I…can I see Kili and Fili first? I just…I need to explain. I need to let them know why-” His voice choked on a sob and he slammed his good hand up to his mouth, trying to smother it. “I need to say goodbye.”
Gandalf’s expression crumpled. “Bilbo, I’m so sorry.”
That’s when he knew. Thorin had forbidden it. Thorin had banned Fili and Kili from ever seeing him again and they would not disobey him…he was their uncle and king. Even still Bilbo couldn’t help the choking whimper that pushed through him, his entire frame shaking as fat tears began to slip down his cheeks. It was the first time in his entire life he’d felt anything like this complete and utter rejection.
He could no longer speak through the lump in his throat, nausea and pain gripping him so tight that his body locked up from the strain of it. They were alive, his friends, his dwarves, they were all alive…and yet the very thing he did to save them now served to cast him out. Bilbo couldn’t handle the sheer tragedy of it all, torn between bitter relief and all-consuming heartbreak as he crumbled in on himself.
Through the blur of his eyes he just barely managed to make out the form in front of him, Gandalf extending his arms towards the smaller man’s trembling frame. It was all the invitation he needed. Bilbo scrambled forward, pressing his face into the thick folds of his friend’s robe and letting out a wretched, broken sob. Gandalf’s hands carefully found their way to his back, the tall wizard bending over to envelop him in a gentle hug.
Not a word passed between the group of them as Bilbo clutched to his friend’s front, soaking the fabric pressed to his face with a salty stream of tears. His stomach churned violently, his nose stuffed and his head aching by the time he’d finally managed to calm himself. When he drew away it was with a sniffle and a trembling breath, his face streaked and his eyes swollen and red.
“Ugh.” He shook his head, dragging his good arm up to wipe his face with a clean patch of fabric from his shirt. “I’m a mess. This whole day…no this whole week has just been one giant bloody mess.”
Stepping away he discovered that he was coming back to himself more and more, finding the presence of mind to flash Thandruil and Bard an apologetic look. “Please forgive me, my emotions seem to have gotten the better of me.”
Thandruil looked distinctly uncomfortable, staring down at the hobbit with his unblinking gaze. Bard, on the other hand, shook his head firmly. “There is nothing to apologize for, Master Hobbit.” He nodded to the small man approvingly. “I’d say you’re just about the only reason that our parties have managed to reach any sort of tenuous treaty. Without your influence, I fear the stubbornness of dwarves would have cost us all the chance for peace.”
Bilbo flushed, ducking his head as his heart gave another, painful tug. “I was only trying to protect my…my friends.” He admitted with a small shudder. There was a part of him that didn’t truly know if he was still allowed to refer to them with such familiarity. His new title, Betrayer bounced through his head, causing his lip to give a hard tremble. “And I don’t mean to be rude but I, ah,” he swallowed hard, “I’m not feeling terribly composed at the moment, I think…I think I could use some rest.”
The three nodded in understanding, even Thandruil’s eyes softening as he offered the hobbit a small smile. Then Gandalf reached out, squeezing his hand over Bilbo’s arm carefully. “We will have your things transferred to the elf camp. There is already a tent there waiting for you.” The wizard’s eyes flicked over Bilbo’s shoulder, regarding someone behind him carefully. “Bofur knows the way to your quarters, if you’d like him to accompany you there?”
Bilbo turned, catching sight of the familiar dwarf and feeling a sudden pang of fondness for his silly braids and tell-tale hat. Bofur caught his eyes with a half guilty look, still managing a smile as he nodded to the hobbit. “Yes, I would like that.” Bilbo swallowed, clearing his throat a bit. He turned to Bard and bowed his head slightly. “Thank you for your kind words, and for giving these good people the chance to live peacefully in the home they’ve dreamed of for so long.” He then steeled himself and turned to Thandruil. “Thank you, again, for everything you’ve done, and your generous offer of hospitality.”
He gave another small bow before he began to back away, looking to Gandalf. “I’ll see you at the camp?” He questioned, unable to feel sure of just about anything at the moment.
The wizard smiled with a nod, gesturing for Bilbo to carry on his way. Feeling slightly more assured did nothing to ease the pained throbbing in his chest, but he still forced himself to return the smile, turning on heel to make his way over to where Bofur stood waiting.
As he approached the dwarf lifted his good arm, allowing Bilbo to crowd up against his side as he tucked his hand around the hobbit’s soft waist. He let the bigger man take his weight, his eyes burning and his chest squeezing with the uncontrollable urge to cry. They didn’t say anything the entire walk out of the camp, Bofur glaring down passing soldiers who regarded them with some skepticism. Bilbo was incredibly grateful for his friend’s silent support, the long trek through the encampments almost bearable with his solid pressure at his side.
The elves paid them much less heed than the dwarves and men had as they finally eased their way into their camp. Bofur knew exactly where to take him, leading him deep into the sea of silken tents until he came to a stop in front of a small, pale green one. Wordlessly he led Bilbo inside, releasing the hobbit to go around the room and light up the sparse candles there one handed.
“Thank you.” Bilbo managed once the dwarf was finished. His head was pounding, his throat sore and his eyes still watery. “You’ve been such a wonderful friend to me these long months.”
“Bilbo.” Bofur sounded utterly broken as he stepped up towards him and Bilbo couldn’t help but burst into tears, his chest heaving as liquid dribbled down off his chin.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Bilbo began to chant, not even entirely sure what it was he was apologizing for at this point. Bofur didn’t say anything, he just stepped up to pull the hobbit carefully against his chest, the dwarf’s own shoulders shaking.
“It isn’t your fault, none of it is your fault.” Bofur was rambling, his hand opening and closing where it was pressed against the hobbit’s back. “We should be thanking you, throwing you a feast for what you did, but it’s a matter of pride for Thorin, and you know the stubbornness of dwarves.”
Bilbo sniffed heavily, shaking his head with a weak laugh. “I do, oh I do.”
“I could stay here for the night,” Bofur added after a long moment, drawing away to regard the Halfling seriously, “if you wanted.”
“Oh Bofur, you know I would love you to.” His heart gave another painful lurch at the idea of being here, amongst all these strange elves, without the companions he’d grown to think of as family. With a shuddering sigh he forced himself to continue. “But your place isn’t here right now, though I’m ever so glad you walked with me. You should be with your cousin and brother, and with the rest of your kin. It’s where you belong.” Unlike me. The sentiment rolled over him like a chill and he had to fight to suppress a hard shudder.
“Are you sure?” Bofur didn’t sound terribly convinced, his hand lingering on Bilbo as he gazed at the hobbit in concern. “I’m sure they would understand, given the circumstances.”
“I’m positive. Go back, be with your people. Embrace your reclaimed home.” He soothed, fighting back the hitch in his breath as he thought to the friends he’d made. To Fili and Kili and everything he was standing to lose. He blinked hard through the sudden surge of emotion and coughed, shooting Bofur his best attempt at a smile. “Though, there is one thing that I might ask of you. Just one last favour.”
The dwarf’s expression was genuine, his remorse washed across his features. “Anything.”
Bilbo bit his lip, reaching down to grasp at the buttons of his new and now horribly battered jacket vest. They weren’t brass, not fine with the same quality or feel as the ones he’d lost in the depths of the Misty Mountains. He tore them off the fabric with a hard tug, wincing as the motion caused his wound to pull. “Here.”
Bofur looked started, taking the buttons from Bilbo’s outstretched hands. He cradled them in his palm, glancing up at the hobbit with a question in his eyes.
“If you could just bring them back, for Fili and Kili…” He swallowed hard, drawing his hands back to his chest. “I just want to give them something to remember me by.” The hobbit shrugged a little self-consciously. “If they do not want them, feel free to do with them what you please. I know it’s not much, but it’s really all I have-”
“Bilbo.” Bofur leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss down to the top of the hobbit’s forehead. “I would be delighted to take these to the princes, as I’m sure they’ll be delighted to receive them.”
He nodded, feeling his lip tremble as he drew away and tried at a smile with little luck. “I suppose this is goodbye?”
“No.” Bofur shook his head, his hat dropping forward slightly over his brow. “No, I’ll come see you off proper in the morning.”
Because they can’t. The words went unspoken between them, but Bilbo heard them loud and clear.
They lingered a bit longer in the small, elven tent, before Bofur bid him good night and hesitantly went on his way back to their dwarven companions. Bilbo watched him go, a smile escaping him unbidden as his friend turned to glance over his shoulder a number of times until he was lost in the swell of elf warriors.
Feeling empty and sad Bilbo retired to his small tent, working at removing the worst of the blood and grime as he peeled his way out of his tattered clothes. His hosts had left out a small, hobbit sized outfit. The fabric was crisp and pristine without so much as a wrinkle, yet Bilbo felt no more at ease even after he’d washed and changed.
When he crawled into the plush pillow bedding at the back of the room he felt cold and hollow. He curled up beneath the silk covers, pressing his face down and hunching his shoulders as he tried to burry himself and his misery.
Gandalf arrived at some point in the evening, convincing Bilbo to eat a few scraps of the meal he’d been brought. The hobbit was too tired to argue, reluctantly sitting up to chew on bread that tasted stale in his mouth, his eyes fixed on nothing in the distance while they ate in silence.
When eventually even Gandalf took his leave, Bilbo made his rounds in the small tent, pinching out candles and draping himself in a blanket of dark. Only then did he allow himself to give in to his misery.
It started with a slight tremble, his legs almost giving out as he stumbled back to his bedding, falling down with a shuddering breath. He grabbed as much of the blankets as he could in his small hands, dragging them up over his head and burying himself down into the cushions. He didn’t even realize that he was already crying until he turned his head, finding the pillow cold and damp beneath his cheek.
When the sobs finally came they were loud and broken, shaking him with an intensity that he just couldn’t bear. In the back of his mind he knew that he would be overheard, the tents here were close together, nothing but their flimsy fabric walls separating one chamber from the next. So he tried to keep quiet, tried to hold back the whining gasps that tore from his lips, causing his lungs to heave and his throat to burn.
He hadn’t thought about it before, not really…or at the very least he’d never put a name to it. But what he felt for Fili and his brother, it was as close to love as he’d ever known. He had no idea if it would have gone anywhere, or even if it was returned. All he knew was that now he would never be able to find out. He would never see them, or any of his other friends for that matter; not ever again.
A hiccupping gasp wracked through him and he began to sob outright, his entire frame tense and trembling as he cried himself hoarse against the soft, elven linens. Tears soaked the sheets beneath him, his nose running and his mouth pressed open and wet to the cushions. He gave in to the hopeless sense of anguish that had been pounding at him all day like a wave against rock; slowly chipping away until there was nothing left of him but raw hurt and aching nerves.
He attempted to calm himself, to get a grip on the cries that shook through him, but no matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t get the tears to stop. So that was where he stayed, curled up in a hopeless effort to defend against the misery that overtook him, until finally his body couldn’t take the heartbreak. He had no warning before his limbs gave out, his mind slipping into the peaceful black, sleep slamming into him, taking him in between his wretched sobs.
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When he awoke it was to the sound of bustling movement outside of his tent, a great number of the elves already packing up camp to make their way back into the forests of Mirkwood. Bilbo forced himself up out of his bedding, his heart still lodged in his throat and his chest squeezing with the need to cry. For a moment he sat on the edge of the cushions, fearing he would do just that. Yet as the feeling came and passed, and it seemed he was out of tears to shed.
So he carried on. He fought through the aches and sharp burning pain, his joints stiff and swollen purple. He could barely stand on his distended right ankle, forced himself to limp about the room, gathering the things that had been delivered there from the dwarven camp. The swelling of his eye had not receded and his skin felt too tight, flaming with agony. Yet still nothing compared to the heavy ache of his heart, ramming up against his ribs in hard, painful throbs.
Once he’d gathered everything he’d set about strapping on his belongings, hesitating when he was faced with his pack. While the bag was lighter than it had ever been before, he still eyed it with trepidation.
Eventually he managed to find the strength to reach down, hauling one strap up over his right shoulder and wincing as it put added pressure on his injured foot. Scrambling he caught hold of his walking stick, using it to better balance on his trembling legs. There wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t screaming in pain.
Still, he pushed on. He locked his jaw and limped out of the tent, moving slowly through the camp until he found where Gandalf and their traveling party were loading up the horses. There were two familiar figures standing at the wizard’s side near a tethered pony with empty saddle bags. When he got close enough Bofur’s eyes locked on Bilbo, waving the Halfling over with a sad, strained smile. Ori was at the older dwarf’s side, the scribe clutching something long and draped in cloth to his chest.
Bilbo gingerly raised his free hand in greeting, only to wince and drop it when his shoulder gave a sickening twinge. He moved over to the trio at a steady pace, Bofur hurrying forward to help the hobbit with his bag.
“Here, Mister Baggins, allow me.” The dwarf carefully pulled the bag away with his the arm that wasn’t trussed up in a sling, walking over to hand it off to a passing elf to pack away into the pony’s saddlebags.
Ori tentatively slid up to Bilbo’s side as Bofur talked briefly with an elf, the young dwarf offering him a concerned frown as he balanced the clothed object in one arm. “You’re hurt!” The scribe sounded scandalized, reaching out automatically towards the swelling of Bilbo’s face. Then Ori hesitated, his fingers hovering just above the hobbit’s cheek. When the small man didn’t flinch away the scribe moved the last few inches, gently cupping the swollen flesh. The worry in his expression made Bilbo’s heart twinge and he reached up with his good hand to clasp Ori’s own.
“I’m fine.” He assured quietly, trying his best at a smile.
“Oh, okay, um good.” The scribe flushed heavily, drawing away and patting down his sides as if looking for something among his series of pockets. “I uh, I have something for you.” He turned, muttering to himself before making a small assertive noise. When he turned back he had a rolled piece of parchment, clutched in his hand. With a shy smile he held it out to the hobbit. “Here, I…uh, I made this for you.”
Bilbo blinked, reaching out to accept the parchment with the shade of a smile. He carefully eased it open, feeling a punch of emotion as a beautiful rendition of himself came into view, scrawled across the beige paper. He let out a small sad breath, his heart clenching as he carefully rolled the parchment back up, tucking it carefully into the folds of his borrowed, elven tunic. “Thank you Ori.” He whispered, his heart swelling and lodged hard in his throat. “This means a lot, and it’s beautiful.”
The scribe flushed, and while a happy smile crept up his features the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m glad you like it.”
Bofur slid up to their side, his expression sad. His attention was firmly on the hobbit, concern evident in his gaze. “How are you feeling this morning?”
Bilbo shrugged, trying not to look as heartbroken as he felt. “Alright, all things given.” He murmured, managing to breathe through the hitch in his chest. “Thank you for coming to see me off.”
“It’s our pleasure.” Ori assured him, his expression soft.
The hobbit felt a pleased warmth flush over his aching breast and he reached out to gently squeeze a hand over the young scribe’s shoulder. They shared a look before Bilbo released him, slowly turning to regard Bofur with hesitant eyes. “Um, did you-”
“Yes.” The older dwarf smiled softly at him, the expression somewhat marred by the long gash, stitched across his brow. “An’ I can assure ye they accepted them gratefully.”
Bilbo let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, his teeth catching at the swell of his lip. “Thank you.”
“Oh, one more thing.” Bofur flicked his gaze over at Ori, gesturing to him significantly.
The scribe scrambled, quickly holding out the fabric wrapped objects in his hand. Bilbo hesitated a moment at the gesture, looking over to Bofur who simply nodded at him reassuringly. Slowly the hobbit reached out, taking the folds of fabric in his hands and marveling at the weight. He tried to suppress any and all faint traces of hope as he peeled away the layers of cloth, though that did nothing to prepare him for the new punch of heartbreak as he caught sight of what lay inside.
He thought he’d been done with the crying, despite the heavy ache in his chest. The tears came unbidden anyway, dripping down his face as he struggled to keep his hold on the gifts in his hands. He didn’t have to ask to know who they were from.
Sucking in with a trembling breath, he curled his fingers around the hilt of a familiar sword. His thumb brushing over the engraving there with a hard tremble of his mouth. He released the grip almost immediately, unsure of himself even as his fingers ran across the second item; a long, curved bow that had saved their lives many times in these past few months. “I can’t possibly accept these,” he finally managed, his voice quiet and trembling as he gasped through a sob, “they didn’t have to. This, this is too much.”
“They want ye to.” Bofur stepped up, gently re-wrapping the weapons where they rested in Bilbo’s grasp. He then reached down, curling the hobbit’s fingers more tightly around the gift. “They wanted to give ye something to remember them by too.”
Bilbo’s lip quivered and he nodded, tears still flowing freely down his face. “Okay.” He breathed in hard, nodding his head. “Okay, tell them…tell them thanks.” He fought down the burning ache in his chest, trying desperately to calm his breathing. “Tell Kili to be good, to mind his family, and to practice stepping more lightly when playing his tricks.” Bofur laughed at that, the sound quiet and hollow. Bilbo couldn’t help but smile, even through the pain and misery. “And tell Fili to watch his brother, and to listen to Thorin. He may be a stubborn git but they…they shouldn’t blame him for this. He’s a good man, and he’ll be a good king.”
He sucked in slowly, his voice pinching as his throat closed up a bit. “Tell them I’ll miss them.”
“Oh lad.” Bofur reached up to give his face an affectionate squeeze. “I’ll tell ‘em, both of ‘em. I promise.”
“Thank you.” Bilbo shook his head, leaning forward to press his forehead against Bofur’s for a moment, his hands quite full. “For everything you and your company has done for me.” He stepped back, moving over to Ori who surprised him by reaching up to wrap his arms around the hobbit’s neck, pulling him down into a firm hug. Bilbo breathed in hard, worming out a free hand to wrap around the scribe’s back, holding to him tightly. “I’ll miss you too. All of you. If you’re ever in the shire-”
“We know where ye are.” Bofur murmured softly as he offered him a sad smile. Then the dwarf inclined his head, looking at something pointedly over Bilbo’s shoulder.
The hobbit pulled away from Ori with a shaking sigh, glancing behind him to where Gandalf stood, his expression apologetic. “Is it time?”
“I’m afraid so Bilbo.” The wizard gestured for him to move forward, forcing him away from the last of his companions.
He spared one last glance at the two dwarves, forcing out a half smile before he felt Gandalf’s hand at his back, urging him towards his pony gently. One of the elves helped him tuck away the weapons gifted to him by Fili and Kili, another carefully maneuvering the injured hobbit up and onto his mount. Ori and Bofur didn’t take their leave, not even as the other riders began to load up their horses.
When the horses gave made to move Bilbo winced, pan lacing through him as he tried to get comfortable in his pony’s saddle. Though even then a they started to ride, keeping their pace slow to accommodate for their many injured, Bilbo could still see them, waiting. The two dwarves watched him pass through the camp, their expressions crestfallen and their hands waving constantly as they bid him farewell. He couldn’t help but watch them as they began to fade into the distance, feeling another horrible twist of remorse once they disappeared from sight completely.
He didn’t cry, but he let his head hang low as they started down the road, riding alone once Gandalf pulled ahead to talk to one of their scouts. It wasn’t until Erebor was firmly at their backs that he heard another steed clopping up beside him, the mare keeping pace with his pony. For some time they said nothing, then Bilbo slowly raised his head, glancing over to the rider at his side.
His first thought was that the elf looked just like Thandruil; only he knew the King of had remained on the battlefields to finish the last of his diplomatic duties. Besides, he realized with some note that the rider next to him seemed quite young, his expression serene across his pale, flawless skin.
“You must be Master Baggins.” The elf offered kindly, his blonde hair pooling down over his shoulders as he nodded in greeting.
Bilbo felt his lip quirk slightly as he attempted a smile. “I am,” he began, eyeing the stranger carefully, “and who might you be?”
“The name is Legolas, little lord.” He slowed his mare further as she began to outpace the pony at his side. “I hear that we have you to thank for the life of our King?”
“Oh!” Bilbo flushed a little, grief ebbing away slightly to a fresh rush of embarrassment and fluster. “Um, well, think nothing of it, I suppose. It really isn’t that big of a deal.”
“It is to me.” The blonde elf implored, his bright blue eyes seeming to gaze right through to the Halfling’s sole. “Thandruil is my father, and I owe you my eternal gratitude for saving him.”
A prince of elves. Bilbo couldn’t help but feel a little wondered, even with his heart ache fresh and hollow in his chest. “Well, you are really quite welcome. I’m just glad I was able to help.” He managed, trying for another smile. “No one should have to lose their family.”
“A sentiment we both share.” Legolas nodded, his expression saddened by a silent understanding. They were quiet for a few moments, Bilbo shifting through his discomfort in his saddle before the elf prince spoke up once more. “Might I ride with you on the road to Mirkwood? I would love your company.” The blonde looked over to him, his expression soft. “I also hear you have a great many stories from your travels. I would very much like to hear them.”
Bilbo hesitated, his entire body twisting with a pang of regret. There was a part of him that wanted to be alone, to stew in the gut wrenching agony that seemed to have gripped his heart. However, another part of him craved the company, and the distraction. With a hard swallow he forced out a nod.
Legolas’ smile widened. “Thank you, Master Baggins.”
He stuttered a bit, before he finally managed a weak, “My pleasure.”
They kept the talk light, Bilbo starting with tales from the shire, subconsciously avoiding topics that still felt too raw. Legolas seemed delighted by the stories of hobbits and their simple ways, asking questions and trying to coax small smiles from Bilbo as they trekked along. Gandalf glanced over his shoulder periodically to check on the pair, and while the hobbit didn’t doubt he had some sway in the prince’s decision to ride with him, he really couldn’t bring himself to mind.
It felt good, to push aside the festering heartache that still throbbed in his chest.
Yet even still, there was nothing to be done about the constant, churning, horrible sense of loss that bubbled inside of him as he started his long, lonely journey home.
TBC…