Chapter Text
There was the heady stench of blood and death. There were the shattered shields, the broken spears littering the ground like leaves in autumn. There was the chaos of the screams; the awful, gut-wrenching screams of the dying and those mourning the dead. Terrible and endless, furious and grieving. No one had escaped the battle free of scars, be they on the body or in the heart.
And then there was nothing.
It was in this nothingness, in this oppressively huge silence, that Thorin awoke. He knew his wounds were beyond counting; he could feel the hissing burn of each gash as though the blades were still upon him. He felt utterly spent, as though the breath had been knocked from his body a thousand times over. He was disoriented, groggy, struggling to focus through the red haze of pain.
Where are the others? Where is my company?
He didn’t understand. Surely they should be at his side, looking to his example, making sure their king was well enough to lead. He’d expected his nephews to be nearby at least; they had an endearing if annoying habit to cluck over him like broody hens if he had so much as a scratch.
Surely…surely they had not forgotten him? If they had not rallied to him the moment the battle had ceased, then that meant some other force was keeping them from him. He needed to find them. His work was not yet complete.
Never for a moment did he consider that they would have their own wounds, their own hurts to tend to. They may have been few in number from the start, but they were fighters to the last Dwarf. It was not possible for any of them to have not made it through as he had. He could not and would not consider the possibility of something so painful.
Grunting, he braced his aching arms on the cold, hard ground and made to raise himself up. Roiling nausea swirled through his belly in acidic waves, threatening to spill into his sore throat. He paused, panting, willing it to subside. It took the better part of the next few minutes, but finally he managed to get relatively upright without being violently ill. It was certainly a new level of misery for him.
But he was alive, thank Aulë. He’d survived, and even come through in one piece. Granted it was a rather battered piece, but he’d made it all the same. He’d fought with valor and had done honorably by his people. He’d kept the line of his ancestors unbroken. He and his nephews would be secure for decades of ruling to come.
Speaking of Fíli and Kíli, he’d decided that he needed to find them first. He needed to discuss the future of the kingdom with them, make sure they were well aware of their duties in the rebuilding of Erebor. He almost chuckled to himself, thinking of how his wayward sister-sons would be sure to grumble at the responsibilities now thrust upon them. He’d raised the two for most of their lives following the death of their parents, and could admit to himself he was looking forward to seeing them grow into this next stage of their young lives. The fun-loving, mischievous adventurers turned princes. It will be good for them, he thought, and most amusing for me.
But, he had to find them first.
Pulling himself away from his thoughts, he surveyed the body-strewn landscape. The sun’s dying light was quickly fading; darkness was throwing its star-studded mantle over the world. He could distantly make out some of Dáin’s men, searching for fallen comrades. He tried to call out to them, but all that came out was a hoarse shout that even he could hardly hear. One too many war cries in the heat of fighting had left his throat raw and tender. It would be some long while before he regained his usual sonorous tones.
Muttering, he took a deep breath and braced his blood-soaked axe on the ground, used it to lever himself onto his feet. His ribs screamed in protest; a dull, white-hot ache indicated that at least two of them were broken. Hissing against the searing scrape of pain, gritting his teeth with effort, he leaned heavily against his weapon as he waited for the world to stop spinning.
He was glad he’d lived to see the end of this, truly, but damned if he didn’t wish he’d come through a little easier. Movement of any sort was proving irritatingly difficult, and he soon became frustrated by his inability to function at peak level. Limping with all the speed of a glacier, he began to make his way back towards the entrance of the mountain.
“Thorin!”
He’d barely time to turn and acknowledge the source of the relieved cry, when a burgundy blur nearly took him off his feet. Stifling an oath as a fresh jab of pain seared his insides, he dropped his axe and found his arms full of writhing, weeping Hobbit.
“Y-You’re alive! Oh, thank goodness!” Bilbo threw his arms around Thorin’s neck and wrapped small legs around his hips. He hastened to bury his face in the shoulder of Thorin’s rent armor, snuggling into the crook of his neck, needing to feel that this was real. That his one and only love was hale and whole.
And while some part of Thorin thrilled to the feeling of having Bilbo in his arms after such a lengthy absence of touch between them, it was not nearly pleasing enough to drown out the constant throb of his injuries – he’d practically heard his bones creaking past their breaking point when Bilbo had all but pounced onto him.
Murmuring something in Khuzdul, he pushed Bilbo away from him not unkindly and proceeded to melt back onto the ground. It was taxing, this nearly-mortally-wounded business.
“Oh dear, I’m sorry!” Wincing at Thorin’s pain, Bilbo stood apart for a moment, wanting to tend to his lover but afraid he’d inadvertently be the cause of more pain. “Where – where does it hurt?”
Thorin had to fight back a laugh. Oh, but it was just like his Hobbit to sound so timid and innocent, in the aftermath of such wanton destruction. Much as he was the first time, he thought, fondly remembering the night they’d discovered the depth of their connection. That time Bilbo had saved his life and had been endearingly shy about it after the fact. And here he stood again, wringing his hands and worrying at his lower lip, when Thorin knew he would have fought with unrelenting ferocity. His Hobbit was nearly as fierce as a Dwarf when he was roused.
Smiling through the burn in his chest, he gestured for Bilbo to sit at his uninjured side. Curled his arm gently around the Hobbit’s still-shaking shoulders. Relaxing marginally, Bilbo delicately laid his head again on the Dwarf’s shoulder, interlaced his fingers with those that toyed at his curls.
“You didn’t answer my question, you know.”
“Hm?”
“Where does it hurt?”
Thorin gave a half-hearted shrug. “Most everywhere, little burglar. You saw how hard the fighting was, know how long it lasted.” He squeezed Bilbo’s fingers gently, working up the courage to ask. “Are you well?”
For just a moment, the smallest fraction of time, something broken and crestfallen flashed through the Halfling’s eyes. And then it was gone as he buried his button nose against Thorin’s throat.
“Just – just cuts for the most part.” It took everything in Bilbo’s power to keep his voice from breaking. But he couldn’t tell of his other injuries, the ones inside that made him sick at heart. He was not ready to speak of it, and Thorin was not ready to know.
Thorin might have noticed, were he not so distracted by scrutinizing the Hobbit for scars or signs of injury. He might have caught the just barely too-long pause before his question was answered, were he not inwardly trembling at the thought of Bilbo in danger.
He had a gash in his smooth forehead; a thick line of dried blood now adorned his cheek. His curly chestnut hair was filthy and matted, tangled with sweat and dust. Other small scrapes and cuts decorated his face and arms with disturbing regularity. One of his pointed ears was missing a good chunk of its tip; the jagged skin had been clumsily stitched shut and looked to be leaking yet.
He had a thick bandage just above the bend in his left arm, heavily stained. Upon closer inspection it proved to be the green silk handkerchief Thorin had bought for him in Laketown – Bilbo had always lamented the fact that he’d left his behind when he’d run out his door that long-ago May morning, so Thorin had seen fit to get him another. Now it was ragged and hangdog, gradually going red, held in place by a bit of string the Hobbit had had in his pocket.
He felt the slow burn of fury well up at his core, thinking of beloved Bilbo in such pain, fighting a war that was not his, far and away from his homeland. He vowed, after he’d found his nephews and set them on their path, he would spend the next few days with just his Halfling. Tending him, healing him, loving him. It was his fault Bilbo was hurt, and he intended to right that wrong.
Starting now.
He brought his other arm around with a wince, brushed his rough fingers softly over Bilbo’s cheek. Leaned close and pressed a whispering kiss to the cut in his forehead, lingering as his other hand squeezed reassuringly at the Halfling’s shoulder.
“You should not have had to suffer this.”
“No one forced me to come along, Thorin. I chose this journey.”
“You didn’t know what was in store for us.”
Bilbo raised his rounded chin, brown eyes bright with defiance. “While that’s true, I most certainly knew what I was doing when I chose you.” He took the hand that cupped his cheek and pressed a hard kiss to the bloodied palm.
“Do you think for one moment I didn’t know the danger it would put me in, loving you? That I didn’t know where this journey would lead us, the price that’d have to be paid for victory?” Bit by bit his tears were returning, welling wetly before spilling over one by one. “I told you I would help you take back your home, if I could. I meant that, Thorin, so d-don’t you dare tell me that I didn’t know what I was doing. I’ve no regrets, and really, nor should you.”
Thorin lost it then, all control snapping like twigs in a windstorm. He crushed Bilbo’s lips to his, trying desperately to show the Halfling just how much his unfailing loyalty, his willing heart pierced him through and through. He did not deserve such a depth of love, when he was so cold and ruthless. He had asked far too much of his little lover, and Bilbo had never failed to give back beyond measure.
His mighty voice broke on a sob as he drew away, and suddenly he was weeping without restraint against the Hobbit’s wine-colored coat. Shoulders shaking, ribs groaning, heart breaking. Bilbo held him fast, murmuring soft words of comfort and rocking him gently.
It was like this Dwalin found them, his king and kin cradled sleeping against their burglar. He growled to mask the catch in his throat at the sight, hastened forward to check Thorin for injuries.
“What’s happened? Is he –”
“He’s resting,” said Bilbo softly. “I found him after Ori finished fixing my ear.”
Dwalin swallowed hard then. “He’s not without injury?”
“A few of his ribs are broken, I think. Other than that I think he’s just had one too many hard blows for today.”
Dwalin nodded. Broken ribs he could handle. But there was another matter eating away at him.
“Have you told him?” he asked Bilbo, with uncharacteristic hesitancy.
Bilbo shut his eyes, jaw clenching. He shook his head.
“He needs to know.”
“I couldn’t, not yet. How do you think I felt, seeing him so close to dying again? I couldn’t tell him when he was already so broken, especially since he blames himself for me getting hurt.” He shook his head again. “I’ll tell him, I promise I will. Just not yet.”
The Halfling looked exhausted, Dwalin noticed. The undersides of his eyes were bruised with shadows and his normally ruddy complexion was tinged with sickly grey. Yet still he held the king, though his arms were beginning to shake from the strain.
Dwalin sighed, and turned to let out a high-pitched whistle. Balin and Bifur appeared a moment later, looking much older than they had a few days ago.
“Help me move him,” he said gruffly. “He needs a physician. Master Baggins,” he clapped a hand to his shoulder, startling him. “Get some rest now. We’ll tend to Thorin.”
“I don’t want to leave him.”
Balin stepped forward. “Ye’ll only worry him more if ye don’t rest yerself, laddie. He needs to be calm to heal. Ye go’n rest yerself, and we’ll tell you the moment he wakes, alright?”
Vision going fuzzy for a moment, Bilbo found himself nodding blearily, gently moving aside as the three Dwarfs made to carry Thorin into the mountain. Numbly he followed them, his heart sinking.
When Thorin awoke he would ask for Bilbo, for all the company so he could tell them his plans for rebuilding Erebor. And Bilbo would have to tell him then, see it break his love to know that the company was no longer complete.