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Whumptober 2019

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Bilbo had shaky hands ever since Thorin held him over the battlements.

So far from the ground.

So close to dropping Bilbo to his death.

He had barely made it down the rope to Gandalf's side. His either had trouble grasping the rope or letting it go.

The battle was terrible. Sting almost sliding out of his hands more than once, or his aim being off.

Now he kneels beside Thorin's body, shaky hands trying to hold in the dwarven idiot's blood.

He can't say anything, the lump in his throat is too great. He can't see from the tears in his eyes. He can't hear Thorin's words because a the hit to the head he took.

He is crying and shaking and he wishes that he could hear Thorin. He wishes he could tell the idiot that everything will be fine. He wishes that he could see Thorin still full of life.

He finally makes a sound, a scream full of anguish and desperation, when large hands pull him away from Thorin. He thrashes and twists, reaching for Thorin as fervently as he can.

He is restrained and a bitter liquid forced down his throat. He fights and fights and his hands shake even as his strength leaves him.

He whimpers when everything starts to go dim. He weakly struggles before he goes limp.

His last thought is of Thorin.