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Bilbo jolted into consciousness to the sound of Thorin’s pained shout as Azog’s blade sliced through the ice and into the dwarf king’s foot.
The hobbit, his vision still doubled and spinning, struggled to stand, the cold sun above haloing the world in a reflective grey. “Th…or…in…”
The ice split open as Azog burst through from the churning waters below, his frightful, scarred face ravaged with a grin of cruel delight. He had Thorin pinned now, his far superior weight crushing the dwarf beneath him. Azog’s blade flashed downwards, towards Thorin’s chest, but the dwarf caught Azog by the wrist, grunting with the might it took to fight Azog trying to force the blade into him.
Thorin’s arms shook. Something akin to fear flashed in his eyes. He realized in that moment that he would not be able to overpower his adversary. Death leaned hungrily over his shoulder and reached for his throat.
There was a rapid pattering of booted feet across the ice before a small, auburn-haired blur slammed into Azog’s side, catching the orc by surprise and slinging him off of Thorin. The orc’s blade sliced across Thorin’s shoulder as it followed Azog.
Bilbo had his arms wrapped around Azog’s bicep, clinging on like a stubborn tick, his small, blunt teeth sunk into the orc’s fetid, corpse-colored flesh. His blood had the same tang as vinegar.
Azog roared in anger, pinwheeling his arm and sending Bilbo flying several meters to crash down hard onto the ice. Despite being dislodged, the courageous little hobbit had provided the distraction that he had intended. Thorin grabbed up Orcrist and plunged it through Azog’s gut.
The noise that ripped from the orc’s throat was that of a beast. A curling, furious sound, which took on the higher note of agony as Thorn wrenched his sword free and then hilted it again, this time directly into Azog’s breastbone.
The orc reached vainly for his own blade, which he had dropped shortly after Bilbo had flung himself at him. But the orc’s sharp-nailed fingers were numb, unwilling to grip. His eyes were rapidly filming over.
Thorn lurched, sending Azog toppling backwards, the sword sliding out of him with a wet shlick. The orc warlord lay spread-eagled and did not rise.
Panting, Thorin rose to one knee. His wounded foot smeared blood behind him, but the adrenaline from the fight was still pumping through him like thunder, making him oblivious to his own pain. He staggered upright, his sword dragging against the ice. His eyes were still wild with the craze of battle. He caught sight of the small figure lying unmoving nearby.
Thorin’s voice cut through the sudden silence hoarsely. “Bilbo?”
The hobbit stirred, trying to sit up. Thorin was at his side in an instant, the animosity between them that had sparked at the barricade of Erebor over the Arkenstone. “Bilbo?” Thorin’s hand clamped around the hobbit’s shoulder, giving him a firm shake. “What were you thinking, barreling into him like that? Don’t you know that you might have been killed!”
Bilbo winced, one hand braced against his bleeding head where one of the attacking army had knocked him out earlier. “Oh…”
Thorin’s sharp brows drew together in concern. “You’re injured.”
Bilbo blinked groggily, his tumble against the ice having re-scrambled his thoughts. “You are, too. Your foot, your shoulder.”
Thorin glanced down as if just remembering his own wound. “It’s nothing. Let me see your head.” He touched the congealing blood at Bilbo’s temple, his fingers coming away red and tacky. “This is not fresh.”
“I was hit over the head,” Bilbo mumbled. “One of the orcs did it. I don’t know how long I was senseless. I would have intervened earlier if I could.”
“Never mind that. I did not need help.” Thorin turned away, pride flaring hot in his chest.
“He was going to stab you!” Bilbo protested, his voice squeaking slightly.
Thorin’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “It was my vow to finish him, not yours.”
“Having had help doesn’t lessen it!” Bilbo reached for Thorin’s hand, deft, cold fingers curling around the dwarf’s wrist. “I was frightened for you.”
Thorin frowned, taking in the wretchedness of the hobbit. Bilbo’s hair was twiggy with dirt, his clothes torn, face pale. Logically, Thorin knew that Bilbo had saved his life, endangering his own to do so. He would not have expected such bravery from anyone other than a dwarf.
The dwarf king’s expression softened. His fingers slid against Bilbo’s. “You… are right. Durin’s line would have ended here without you, Burgler. You have my thanks. And I hope that I still have your friendship, despite my harsh words. This is not the first time I have thought lowly of you without just cause. It was not right of me.”
Bilbo’s dark, wet little eyes peered up at Thorin, the emotion within torn. Bilbo, of course, had felt betrayed when Thorin had banished him from Erebor, just as much as Thorin had felt betrayed when he had learned that Bilbo had stolen the Arkenstone. But the hobbit had also felt a desperation unlike anything he had known before when he had seen, through blurry vision and dancing sunspots, Thorin pinned by Azog. And the hobbit had never been one for long, deep grudges. He was made for disgruntlement, not the festering wound of hatred.
Bilbo opened his mouth to reply, but a wave of dizziness overtook him. He swayed, eyelids fluttering, and slumped forward against Thorin, who grunted softly, but braced the hobbit up.
“Bilbo? Is it your head?”
Bilbo’s ears were ringing, the dull pounding of pain in his temples making him feel rather faint. “Maybe I was hit harder than I thought.” A pervading flicker of nausea made his gut clench, and the smells of fire and death from the battle did nothing to settle his stomach. He caught sight of Azog’s sightless eyes and clapped a hand to his mouth, crumpling to his knees.
Thorin’s hands were on his shoulders, steadying him. “Easy, master hobbit. Come, we need to get you to someplace where you can lie down in quiet darkness, and I must return to my company.” He helped Bilbo to his feet, letting the hobbit lean against him. Together, they began to limp back towards the barricaded opening of Erebor and the citadel city of Dale below.
It was slow going, over the jagged rocks which shifted underfoot, from Ravenhill back to the valley. Thorin was grimacing, favoring his injured foot and clasping his shoulder, but he did not stop to rest until they reached an outcrop which allowed them an expansive view of the valley where the battle was just finishing. The defenders of Dale were hunting through the crumbling citadel walls for any remaining orcs, and the dwarven clan of the Iron Hills were putting down the last of the goblins and terrible, malformed creatures which fought alongside them. The bodies of the slain littered the valley in clumps, both friend and foe alike. Wargs twitched and howled where they had been hamstrung by dwarven axes, the elven army high-stepping around the carnage on their saddled elk, putting arrows in any stragglers who were trying to crawl away. No mercy was given, the dwarves seeking revenge for their bloodline and the elves wishing to expunge the filth of their enemies from the face of the scorched hills.
Smoke rose up high and billowing in the sky, the wind sending its acrid scent up towards Thorin and Bilbo. Cheers of victory mingled with wails of sorrow as wives stumbled along piles of dead Laketown men, their children clutching at their skirts behind, mewling piteously for their fathers.
The bloated white masses of wyrm carcasses had already been descended on by swarms of buzzing flies and rooks. The birds’ eager beaks plucked at the putrified innards that had ruptured from the wyrm’s fleshy abdomens, spilling out bile across the earth. The stench was horrific, the metallic tang of blood-drenched iron and the slippery brown churn of the ground which had been turned into a mire of mud and the contents of the liquified bowels and bladders which had emptied themselves in death.
Almost every living body except for the elves were coated in sweat and gore, some of the Laketown men wandering about aimlessly, broken bones jutting, glistening, from their flesh, spears broken off through their chests or backs. Those who knew about tending to battlefield injuries were mobbed by the dying, some of them crying, some screaming for help, for an end to the suffering, others being dragged silently in by their ashen-faced loved ones. Few of them would survive, unless the elves condescended to step in, which was unlikely, as Thranduil was already turning his calvary away, his snow-white lips curled up in distaste.
Thorin gazed down at all of this with the pain of a king who knew that his people had fallen in defense of him. He remembered Fili, the first in line for Durin’s throne if Thorin did not produce an heir, and prayed that he would find peace in the halls of their ancestors. He slowly slid to sit down, his wounded foot sticking out in front of him. The fabric of his boot had stuck to his skin, sealing shut the flow of blood.
Bilbo tottered to sit beside the dwarf, his head finding Thorin’s shoulder. The dwarf glanced down and questioned inwardly if the hobbit could manage the journey down back into the main gate of Erebor. It was not terribly far, but the slope was steep. One wrong step could send them both into a free-fall.
A huge shadow fell over them. Thorin started, whirling around to see one of the Great Eagles aloft on the crag above them. It tilted its head and gestured with one yellow talon towards Thorin and Bilbo, then to itself, and then down towards Erebor.
Thorin bowed low. “Your assistance would be greatly appreciated, lord.”
The eagle did an awkward hop down onto the slope next to them, waddling forward on its spindly, feathered legs. Its claws, each as big as a large dagger, wicked and curved, closed with utmost care around Bilbo’s middle. The hobbit gasped softly in fear, suspended helplessly in the eagle’s clutches.
The mighty bird gave a downstroke of its wings, sending a gust of wind buffeting the grass along the slope. Its well-formed muscles propelled it into the air, and it snagged Thorin by the back of his coat as it swooped low towards the gate.
“It’s the king! And our burglar!" cried an excited voice at the gate. Ori stood waving frantically. “Thorin! Bilbo! Over here!”
The eagle, taking Ori’s invitation literally, released the dwarf and the hobbit mid-air. They both fell downwards with yelps, straight onto Ori, knocking the young dwarf down. He provided relative cushioning for their fall.
Dori ran up, helping to disentangle the three. “Thorin? By my beard, I thought that you were lost. Come quickly. The elf girl has brought in Fili and Kili. They are not dead!”
“Fili is alive?” Thorin clasped Dori heavily by the arm. “But I saw with my own eyes—“
“The wounds are bad, Thorin, you’re right. But the elf thinks they might be saved, if luck will grace us.”
”They— you said Kili, too? What happened? Is he badly wounded?”
”Bolg got to him. Kili hovers on the edge of life. Fili is only just better off.”
Thorin pushed Bilbo towards Ori and Nori, the latter of which had just trotted up. “Take the hobbit. He has a head wound. See that he is cared for. I must go to my nephews.”
* * *
Fili and Kili had been laid together on a pile of old furs and rugs which had been dragged up to an alcove off to one side behind the gate’s blockade, where the dwarves had slept the past several days before the battle. The wounded dwarves would have been more comfortable in the chambers below the mountain, but Tauriel had been unsure if either of the brothers would survive being moved further. Being brought into the safety of the mountain had nearly ended them both.
Kili lay deathly pale and scarcely breathing, his chest hitching shallowly in an irregular rhythm. He was still weakened from the leg wound that he sustained in the Mirkwood, traces of the Morgul poison yet to be fully flushed from his systems. His dark hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, his eyes half-open. His pupils flashed rapidly back and forth. His chainmail and shirt had been torn open, the lightweight armor being the sole reason that he had survived Bolg’s attack. His chest was now exposed, packed tightly with crimson-soaked bandages.
Fili was pressed against Kili’s side, one bloodied hand laid protectively over the bandages. Fili himself was swathed in white bandages, too. With his entry wound being on his back, he could lay on his back and keep pressure on one side of the injury. The exit point at his chest was more serious, but had been done with a straight-edged blade, which caused less damage when pulled out compared to the barbed spear that had wounded Kili, which had torn open more of his flesh than the initial entry of the weapon. Several of Fili’s ribs were broken, though, from how far he had been thrown from the tower onto the hard stones, and his head was cracked open along his ear. He was whispering to Kili, barely audible, slurred mumbles of reassurance. Kili made no response, red flecking his lips and trailing in a line from his nose.
Thorin limped into the alcove where his nephews were tucked safely away from the remnants of the battle. Tauriel, scratched and bruised, knelt beside the two young dwarves, sifting through herbs and small jars of salves. She glanced up sharply as Thorin moved closer. “I need another pair of hands. Come help.”
Thorin eased himself to one knee beside Kili, his hand brushing his nephew’s hair. “Kili…”
“I could not protect him, uncle,” Fili mumbled. “I’m sorry.”
Thorin reached over to clasp Fili’s limp hand. “It was not your fault. Do not blame yourself. Lay still.”
Tauriel peeled back the bandages on Kili’s chest. She poured clean water over it from a canteen, making Kili whimper softly and stir. Thorin shushed his nephew with surprising tenderness, until Kili went silent again.
“I will knit the wound together with yarrow and comfrey,” said Tauriel. “Kingsfoil would work best as a cleanser, but I do not know where to find it fresh here. It does little when dried, except to use in tea for headaches. We will do the best with what we have. He will thrash from the pain. You must hold him down to prevent further injury.”
Thorin gently gripped Kili’s arms. The flesh there was still soft, not yet turned to the harder muscle of dwarven adulthood. It was a reminder of Kili’s youth which made Thorin feel a throb of premature grief at the thought of losing his nephew to the clutches of death.
Tauriel mixed a poultice of crushed yarrow, dripping in the sap-like juice of comfrey from a small flask she had amongst her stores. “Brace him now,” she warned Thorin in a mutter, before spreading the mixture across the ragged-edged wound.
Kili’s eyes snapped open and he gave a cry of pain, his body tensing below Thorin. He tried to squirm away, but his uncle held him firmly, muttering for the youngster to be strong.
Tauriel placed both hands over the mixture, chanting lowly in raspy Elvish. Doubtless, she was exhausted from the battle, but she gave no indication of it, entirely focused on allowing what strength she had left to flow into her lover. Kili’s flesh began to close, the seams of his skin glowing green and gold.
Gradually, Kili’s whimpers died down, until his eyes slid shut and he gave a shuddering sigh, going still.
Tauriel’s shoulders slumped in relief. “He will sleep easy now and forget his pain.” She began to prepare another salve, her hands moving quick and lightly. Fili watched her with barely hidden trepidation, though he tried to put on a brave face as the elder of the two brothers.
Thorin shifted to sit behind Fili, taking his nephew’s head into his lap and clasping his hand. “Grit your teeth now, Fili. Look at me.”
Tauriel had readied the poultice. “Sit him up. I will try to do both sides at once, if I can. Fili, lean forward, against Thorin’s shoulder.” She guided the golden-haired dwarf to shuffle up against his uncle. Fili was breathing hard, fingers clenched tightly in Thorin’s stiff coat as Tauriel cleaned away the blood from his skin.
Thorin clasped his nephew close, both to comfort him and to keep him still. Tauriel dipped into the salve, spreading it over the raw edges of the entry and exit wounds. Fili’s face went as white as a ghost. His breath puffed short and sharp, eyes screwed shut as Tauriel took up her sweet, dirge-like chant for a second time. When the final fluent syllable slipped from her lips, Fili sagged against Thorin, forcing out a serrated exhale.
Thorin eased his nephew back down to the pelts, the wane shadow of exhaustion cast over Fili’s face. “Quiet, now,” Thorin rasped. “Sleep. You’ve earned it. I will watch over Kili.”
Fili nodded, his head dropping back into Thorin’s lap. He slipped into a dark slumber, where his pains eased so long as he slept.
Thorin was silent for a long moment, his own fatigue and aches catching up to him. He toyed idly with Fili’s wheat-colored braids, and could not hide his own tremors.
Tauriel looked at him hard. “Your foot is bleeding. Your shoulder, too.”
“It is of no concern to you,” Thorin replied immediately, but his voice rang hollow and hoarse.
“Rude words coming from the one who just saved the life of your kin.”
“Do not attempt to admonish me.”
“I’ll do as I like. Without Thranduil’s forces, your army would have been crushed. Have some gratitude.”
“Tch.” Thorin turned his weary gaze down to his nephews again. He stuck his injured foot out, signaling that would allow treatment. His shoulder, though, he would not allow her to touch, for he would have to undress for the wound to be openly viewed. “I will thank you for tending to them, but nothing else. The rift between elves and dwarves runs too deep to heal by the whims of one of Thranduil’s rare benevolent moods.”
Tauriel eased Thorin’s boot off, revealing the dried crust of blood re-opened by the fabric being pulled away. She inspected the fresh, dripping red with calm collectiveness, pouring the last of the fresh water out onto the wound. The salve went on next, then a wrapping of bandages.
Thorin raised one eyebrow. “Have you run out of Elvish spells?”
Tauriel’s lips twitched, either with mischief or distaste. “Surely the king under the mountain can stomach such a meager scratch. I must return to Thranduil. The prince Legolas will be looking for me.”
“You will leave Kili?” Thorin asked, choosing his words carefully. He had seen the way his nephew looked at the elf, with the light of adoration.
Tauriel’s expression flashed with pain. “I don’t have a choice. My actions have been too open. I likely already risk banishment. It does not help that the prince makes his affection for me known. He hunts me despite Thranduil’s disapproval, which he has made known repeatedly.”
“You do not want Legolas’ attention?”
“Legolas is good and noble, my lifelong friend, but… he is too far under his father’s thumb.”
“What son isn’t? Legolas is known to be the pious sort, but he seems discontent. He surely wants a wife.”
Tauriel glared at him. “I am not meant to be a wife. Eternity with Legolas…” She shuddered. “Besides, I would not make him happy. I want to roam… to reach the corners of the world. But not that you would understand. Dwarves only want to dig.”
Thorin shrugged. “It is in our nature.”
“The same way I want to travel. Mirkwood alone will not satisfy me.” Tauriel stood, looking out across the elvish forces, which were riding back towards the tangled masses of the forest in the far distance. “I must leave. I will return if I can, for Kili…” She looked down at the unconscious, dark-haired young dwarf. “Tell him that I said goodbye. Keep him in bed for as long as you can. He will be very weak for at least a full turn of the moon. Mix five parts water to one part wine and give him half a cup if he feels faint, and mountainside poppy ground down into a meal, added to broth, for pain.”
Thorin listened, saying nothing. Tauriel tore her gaze away from Kili, stepping out of the alcove. She shared a last look with the dwarven king before she disappeared out the gaping maw of the main gate.
As Tauriel left, another, much shorter figure appeared in the alcove opening. Balin was grave-faced, his usually snowy beard turned grey with soot. “How are they?”
Thorin gestured for Balin to join him. “They are resting for now. Fili will pull through. I do not know if Kili can.”
“He’s always been the less robust of the pair,” Balin remarked, shaking his head. “Poor lad can scarcely grow a beard. The Morgul arrow took a bad toll on him. He’s at a disadvantage.”
Thorin ran a hand over his face tiredly. “The rest of our company— were any of them injured?”
Balin made a so-so gesture. “Scrapes, contusions. Nothing that won’t fade by the end of the week. Your foot—“ He gestured at Thorin’s bandaged foot. “Not too bad, I hope?”
“I’m not crippled as of yet. I’ve taken worse.”
“Hmm, yes.” Balin patted his thighs. “Oh, Dain is asking to meet with you. He’s giddy with bloodlust. He wants us to go after the few goblins that escaped into the Mirkwood, says that we should go to their kingdom beneath the mountain passes and eradicate them once and for all.”
“It’s a fool idea. Goblins spread like rats. There will always be some hidden tunnel or hole for them to scuttle into, where we can’t go after them. It would be a waste of resources, and it would leave Erebor undefended. There are many who would take the opportunity to attack us when we are weakened.”
“So I tried to tell him. He called me softened in my old age.” Balin sniffed in disgruntlement. “He’s still wet behind the ears, is what he is.”
“Dain gets mouthy after a battle. He’ll chug beer and stuff himself with food into senselessness tonight. Then come morning, he’ll trundle back to the Iron Hills with a fat paunch and be satisfied until the next taste of action makes itself known.”
Balin patted Thorin heavily on the shoulder. “Maybe your head isn’t as addled as we all thought, laddie.”
Thorin grunted in ill-temper. “I had every right to my Arkenstone, Balin. I’ll get it back from those thieves yet. Mark my words.”
“Bard of Laketown only wishes a share of the treasure for the Arkenstone to be returned, Thorin. Do not let greed blind you. Take his deal. You’ll get no better one, unless you wage war. To strike against them now, after they joined ther arms with ours in comradery against Azog, would be unforgivable.”
“Bard is the covetous one! The Arkenstone is mine by right! By blood and lineage!”
“So we all know, Thorin. But Laketown is destroyed, and its people have elected Bard as their leader. He knew that he had to provide for them, and he feared that you would not allow Dale to be reinhabited. He had to have a bargaining chip.”
“Men,“ Thorin muttered. “They think that they’re owed land, wealth, power… they’re rife with greed. Hubristic bastards—“
Kili stirred faintly, giving a soft whimper. Thorin snapped to alertness instantly, placing a hand on his nephew’s head. “Hush, hush. It’s alright.”
Kili’s eyelashes fluttered, faint shivers running through him. Thorin tugged another pelt over his nephew’s skinny body, trying to keep away the chilled mountain wind, which whistled down from the peaks, fresh compared to the smoky haze in the valley.
“Uncle?” Kili mumbled, his voice brittle, with the smallest edge of child-like fear.
“I am here, Kili. You’re safe in Erebor.”
“Tauriel…” Kili’s head tossed from side to side, his fingers twitching towards his bandaged chest.
“She has gone back to Mirkwood,” Thorin said, keeping his voice low and even, watching closely for any reaction from his nephew.
Kili peered blearily around. “Gone? But… didn’t say… ‘bye.”
“Go back to sleep, Kili,” Thorin said tiredly. “You will soon forget about her.”
* * *
Thorin jerked awake. He had dozed off against the wall of the alcove, his neck now stiff and his injured foot and shoulder throbbing intensely. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, to ground himself against it.
He could hear Fili and Kili’s faint breaths nearby, and the low voices of the rest of the company further into the mountain. Thorin heaved himself to his feet, grimacing, steadying himself against the wall. He limped towards the voices.
The company had set up a cooking fire in the corridor further down from the alcove. The last of their travelling provisions had been brought out, stale bread broken, cups overflowing with mead. The dwarves of the Iron Hills were raising a hullabaloo in the valley, some of the Laketown men — the ones without wives and children — having joined them to revelry. Dain cared little about respecting the vigils for the dead which were being held in the shadows of Dale.
“Thorin?” Dwalin looked up from the circle of the company. “Come, sit. How are Fili and Kili?”
Thorin eased himself down, accepting a cup of mead. “They still sleep. Where is Bilbo?”
“He’s bedded down in a chamber just down the hall,” said Ori, pointing. “Took a bad knock to the head, as far as we could tell. What happened up at Ravenhill, Thorin?”
“I went after Azog and we fought.” Thorin looked away, sipping at his mead. “I would have been overpowered, had Bilbo not been there.”
Nori gave a snort of laughter. “Ha!”
Thorin looked at Nori sharply. “Have I said something amusing?”
“Well, you can’t expect us to believe that Bilbo was of any real use, Thorin–”
“I’ll not have you slander him,” Thorin said sharply. “He fought as bravely as any dwarf.”
Nori raised a placating hand. “Alright, alright. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Come on, Thorin, have another drink,” said Bifur, who was slightly more intoxicated than the rest of the company. He waved another cup at the older dwarf.“Celebrate! We’ve got your kingdom back, don’t we?”
Thorin did not accept the cup, but did allow Oin to pass him a plate of bread and grits. The rest of the company went on talking, swapping boasts of how many enemies they brought down and how. The tales quickly inflated out of the proportions of honesty and believability as each tried to one-up the other, though it was all in good fun. It was the only way they knew to rid themselves of the lingering fight-or-flight instincts from the battle. Not that a dwarf’s natural response was to do anything but stand and fight, but several of the company were not even middle-aged in dwarven standards, and they had to admit that them following Thorin’s charge into the valley had not been done without some fear of death.
Balin moved to sit beside Thorin, his gloved hand brushing the king’s shoulder. “You haven’t had this tended to,” Balin said in a low voice, so that his words were kept private.
“It’s nothing,” Thorin replied in the same muted volume. “It will heal on its own.”
“You’re a stubborn fool. You’ll have survived the battle, only to die of infection. Don’t be difficult.”
Thorin tugged his coat closer to hide the tear in his flesh. “The company cannot see their king weakened.”
“They don’t give a rat’s rear end about whether or not you’re a bit worse for wear,” Balin muttered. “We all took a few bumps and scrapes. Ori nearly lost a finger, and Gloin had a knife go across his lower thigh. There’s no shame in a battle scar.”
“I’ll be fine, I said.”
Balin heaved himself to his feet, giving Thorin a pointed look. “I’m off to take a look at the valley and see if Dain’s trashed the place yet. Thorin, why don’t you come with me? Look out upon your kingdom. Quite a bit’s changed since Durin’s folk last reigned.”
Thorin glared at the underhanded tactic, but he played it off. “We can take stock of what needs to be mended. Good idea, Balin.”
Together, they left the company. Once they were around the corner, Balin offered his arm for Thorin to lean on, to spare his injured foot. Thorin accepted, his face like thunder. Balin led Thorin back to where Fili and Kili lay sleeping.
“Now, sit down and let me see your shoulder,” said Balin. “Shirt off.”
Shrugging off his coat and tunic, Thorin leaned back against the wall, his tied gaze on his nephews. Balin poured out a bowl of water, dipping a rag into it and dabbing at the deep score. Thorin hissed through his teeth. Balin quietly applied salve and wrapped Thorin’s shoulder and upper arm in bandages. “Too snug?” Balin asked.
“It’s fine.” Thorin redressed, then added begrudgingly, “Thank you.”
Balin nodded sagely, bending down to press the back of his hand to Kili’s forehead, then Fili’s. “They are slightly feverish. As soon as they are stronger, we should move them down into the mountain, where they can feel the weight of the earth above them.”
Fili stirred, his expression morphing from deep slumber to hazy confusion. “Balin?”
“Aye, lad, it’s me. How do you feel?”
Fili ignored the question, reaching blindly for the warmth of Kili beside him. “Kili?”
“He’s alright,” Thorin assured. He crouched to stroke Fili’s honey-colored hair. “Let him sleep.”
The younger dwarf’s body eased back against the pelts. “How is the rest of the company? And Bilbo?”
“All of us survived,” Thorin reported, feeling a flare of pride for the company. “Like you said, Fili. We’re fighters. The others are supping further along the corridor, and Bilbo is resting, like you. He took a bad hit to the head. I’m going to see him next.”
“Has Kili woken up at all?” Fili was just barely managing to stay awake, and yet he still fretted after his younger brother. He could not put into words the strangeness of having Kili so still and silent beside him. Usually, the dark-haired youngster was wriggling, chattering, throwing an arm or a leg over Fili, demanding space or attention. But now Kili’s eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling so lightly that it might have just been the rustle of the air against the fabric of his shirt.
Thorin shook his head. “Not yet. But he will, probably tomorrow. It’s late, Fili. Go back to sleep.”
Fili could not help but follow his uncle’s command. Sleep pulled him back under within seconds.
“Thorin, you should sleep, too,” Balin said. “You only dozed for a few hours, and not deeply. You’ve given as much of yourself as you can.”
“I’ve got to go see Bilbo first. Show me where he is?”
“Aye, down this way.”
* * *
Bilbo woke slowly to someone gently changing the bandage on his head. He opened his eyes, his vision taking a moment to swivel into focus. “Mm… Thorin?”
Thorin’s eyes were dark and watchful as he wiped the dried poultice and blood from Bilbo’s brow with a wet cloth and then reapplied the salve and wound around fresh bandages. “You’ve slept quite a while. How do you feel?”
Bilbo took stock of his body. His head ached, and he was bruised but mostly unharmed. There were a few scratches and scrapes, and he was generally more grimy than he liked to be, but overall, he could wiggle all ten fingers and all ten toes, so he regarded himself as alive. “Sore, but… I think that I’ll live.”
“Good. There’s a fourteenth of the spoils still waiting for you.”
Bilbo laughed faintly. “Oh, I couldn’t think of gold at a time like this. I’m too tired.”
Thorin groaned softly as he sat down beside Bilbo. The company had made sure that the hobbit was comfortable, just as Thorin had ordered; there was a heaped pile of deerskins, in the center of which Bilbo was curled into a ball, a thick thatch of warg-pelt rug tossed over him. Thorin ran his hand down Bilbo’s back– the hobbit had been stripped down to just his shirt and trousers, his waistcoat and jacket somewhere unknown. “You know, when you jumped into the fray on Ravenhill… it was the very same thing that you did on the slopes outside the goblin kingdom, when we faced Azog amidst the blazing pines. I would have been beheaded then if not for you, and so, too, would I have perished if you had not done what you did on the ice. I owe you a debt twice over, Bilbo.”
Bilbo shook his head, then regretted it, as it made the world spin around him. “No, Thorin, that’s not–”
“It is the truth, is it not?”
“Well, maybe, but–”
“I do not give my thanks lightly, Bilbo. Take them when they are offered.”
Bilbo’s expression softened into a crooked smile. He lay there looking up at the dwarven king, his small, hardy muscles lax, the pelts cushioning his throbbing head. “Will you lay down?”
Thorin stared down at Bilbo, saying nothing, his brows knitting together.
Bilbo shuffled over to make room. “I’d like to go back to sleep. And you look like you need sleep, too. It’s quiet back here. The company’s revelries won’t reach us. Will they miss you if you disappear for a few hours?”
“Probably. But Balin will ward them off from coming after me.”
“Then won’t you stay? I’ve… well, I’ve gotten used to being near another during our quest. One of the others is always against me or on top of me, snoring and snuffling. It feels a bit lonely to sleep all by myself now.”
Thorin shifted, mulling this over. He himself was more used to sleeping off by himself, away from the company. He usually forced himself to stand guard through most of the night or sit up against some boulder or tree to lightly drift until sunrise. It wasn’t often now that he indulged in physical contact, despite how natural it was for dwarves. They were not like most other races– personal space was a very small radius indeed. There was always much jostling, elbowing, back-thumping, and hand-clasping. An unsociable dwarf was a strange fellow indeed.
Thorin could not make himself lay down beside the warm body of the hobbit. He instead moved to sit nearer, propping himself up against the wall of the alcove and sticking his legs out over the pelts. Bilbo peered up, a little disappointed, but pressed himself against Thorin’s legs and settled back down.
“Goodnight, Thorin.”
Thorin grunted quietly. “Goodnight, burglar.”
* * *
Thorin pulled the warm little body closer against him, burying his nose in its soft curls. His shoulder and foot were still aching, but less so than when he had fallen asleep.
Bilbo snuffled against Thorin’s neck, mumbling “good morning”s. The hobbit had turned into a small leech, his limbs hooked around Thorin’s, cuddled as close as possible to steal the dwarf’s warmth.
Thorin realized that at some point during the night, he had shifted to lay down. It did not surprise him as much as he thought it would. He would have liked to luxuriate in the comfort of the moment, of the softness of the pelts and furs and the hobbit’s touch, but a deeper sense of duty urged him to get up despite his aching body to check on his company. He was their leader— he couldn’t afford to laze about, not when there was things to do. Erebor had to be properly reclaimed. The kingdom under the mountain was in a state of disrepair, cobwebbed and dusty, many things within destroyed by Smaug slithering around all those years, crumbling stone and knocking down pillars. It would take almost as many years to restore Erebor to its former glory architecturally, let alone to reestablish the trade routes through Dale. The mining capabilities of Erebor were the dwarves’ primary source of wealth, but what good was gold, silver, and precious jewels when there was nobody to sell them to?
Bilbo’s head popped up. “Thorin?”
Thorin went still. “Bilbo. You don’t need to get up yet.”
“Where are you going, then?”
“I have things to tend to. Plans to make.”
Bilbo sat up with a small wince, bringing a hand to his temples. His head was still bruised, but at least the dizziness had abated. “Do you have to? Can I come with you?”
“You had better stay here and rest.”
Bilbo shook his head. “No, I feel alright. I’d like to do what I can.”
“Don’t you want to start off for your Shire?” Thorin asked in surprise. “We’ll load up your fourteenth of the treasure. You’ll go home a rich hobbit.”
Bilbo hesitated, almost looking hurt. “Do you want me to leave so soon?”
“You did say that you missed your armchair and your books.”
“Oh,” said Bilbo softly. He looked down at his hands. “Yes, I– I suppose I do. And I’m sure that I would be underfoot during the reconstruction…”
Thorin frowned. “Unless you were not planning to leave?”
“Well, I… I thought that I might stay just for another week or just a month, so that I have time to arrange for a guide, or an escort of some kind, to take me back to the Shire. Or perhaps Galdalf might accompany me… anyhow, I– I’ll sort it out fast enough. You needn’t worry about me being some kind of parasite in your home.”
Thorin huffed, rubbing at his bandaged shoulder. “Well, if you’re so determined, I won’t keep you. But you’ll have a hard time convincing the Company to let you go.”
Bilbo gave a short laugh. “I hardly think so.”
“You doubt how much they like you?”
“I don’t think they like me too much at all.”
Thorin offered Bilbo a hand, helping the hobbit to his feet. “You’re incredibly stupid for such a good burglar. They all adore you like a brother.”
Bilbo allowed himself to be pulled to stand, looking quite surprised. “What?”
“A peculiar brother, but a brother nonetheless. Fili and Kili, especially, think so. You know, it would probably perk them up to have a visit from you.
Bilbo’s mouth formed an ‘o’ of surprise. “Fili is alive?”
“You weren’t told?”
“No! I thought he was killed! But what happened to Kili? Is he badly hurt?”
“Bolg,” Thorin spat out. “He drove a spear through him. We still do not know if he will live.”
“Then why aren’t you with him?” Bilbo squeaked in dismay., his eyes going even wider. “He’s your family!”
“I came to check on you–”
“I’m not hurt! Come on, we’re going to see your nephew.” Bilbo wobbled out of the alcove and out into the large, empty passageway outside. The floor was strewn with snoring dwarfs up ahead, the cooking pot empty and tipped over on its side, along with several beakers and empty wineskins. Ori and Nori were tangled up with Bofur like three ferrets in a run. Bombur was flat on his back, snorting like a hog rooting for truffles. Bifur had Gloin pinned with his weight flopped atop of him. The rest were asleep in various heaps, except for Balin, who was sitting up on sentry duty, his legs crossed, detangling his beard.
Balin stood as Thorin and Bilbo got closer. “Ah, burglar. You’re feeling better, I see. Thorin, how’s the foot and shoulder?”
“Like I said, I’ll live. Has Fili or Kili been up?”
“Fili woke about an hour ago, took a little water. Kili hasn’t stirred. He’s still feverish and sleeping uneasily.”
Thorin exhaled worriedly. “I’ll go sit with him. Perhaps my voice will rouse him. He needs some food, or water, at the least. But that lad always has had a scarce appetite… it’s not normal for a dwarf.”
“We can worry about his appetite when he’s conscious,” Balin said, clapping Thorin on his uninjured shoulder. “I’ll see what I can come up with for a soup or a broth.”
Thorin nodded gratefully. He gripped Balin’s hand and then headed for the alcove where Fili and Kili were bedded down, his booted footsteps echoing faintly on the stone floor.
The alcove was dark in the early morning half-light, the pile of pelts a dark mound in the corner. As Thorin and Bilbo entered, a brown-haired head poked up. “Uncle?”
Thorin’s eyes glinted in the dark like a cat’s. Dwarven eyesight, adapted for the dusky glaze of underground tunnels, allowed him to catch Kili’s tired, pained expression. “Kili,” he murmured, moving to kneel beside his nephew. “Lay back down. You need not strain yourself.” He gently guided Kili’s head back onto the padded furs, hiding his concern at the lack of fight from the younger dwarf. “How is your pain?”
Kili put on a brave face despite his shivering. “I– I’m alright.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Thorin said quietly, brushing Kili’s dirty hair out of his face. “We’ll find something for you for the pain. Wine will help until then. Bilbo–” Thorin glanced up to the hobbit, who was waiting hesitantly at the alcove entrance. “–go ask Balin if there’s any alcohol left.”
Bilbo nodded and disappeared. Thorin sat down, his body protesting, though he ignored it. His focus was on Fili, who was still unconscious.
“Has he been awake?” Thorin asked, addressing Kili.
“Just for a moment. He’s tired. He’s been caring for me more than himself. I–” Kili’s voice caught in his throat. “When Bolg stabbed him, I…”
Thorin’s face creased in understanding. “I know, Kili. I felt the same. But he’s alive, and so are you. The Halls of Waiting are not yet your destination.”
Kili gave another shiver, beginning to look pale again. He tried to form some reply, but the events of the past several days had taken their toll, and he had to blink hard to clear away tears. First being wounded by the Morgul arrow, then the days of waiting through the slow-spreading poison in Laketown, being healed by Tauriel, oh, his one true love, who had now left him. The battle of the five armies, Ravenhill, being carried back into the mountain.
Thorin placed a hand on Kili’s forehead, the simple touch always one that would calm the younger dwarf down. “It’s alright, Kili. You’re safe.”
Kili’s eyes flickered shut, and he exhaled softly. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to be. You did nothing wrong. I’m proud of you, Kili. You fought bravely.”
“I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“The blame for that falls on that she-wolf of an elf. Nobody can be expected to act reasonable when under such charms.”
Kili puffed up a little, his eyes snapping back open. “Don’t insult her, uncle. She saved my life, and Fili’s, too.”
“Tsk. A simple healing spell.”
“She helped me in Laketown, too! She was the one who healed my leg. I would have died from the Morgul poison if not for her.”
Thorin took a moment to consider this. “A small amount of credit may be owed to her. But that does not mean you should trust her kind. They left us to die when Smaug invaded, and then had the gall to extort us for their reinforcements alongside the Laketown men. They’re all depraved creatures, Kili. You must be wary. I only wish to protect you from their wiles.”
“I’m grown, uncle! I don’t need your protection!” Kili tried to sit up, but pain clenched through his chest, and he fell back, fighting for breath. Thorin was immediately adjusting him, helping to push the furs into a pillow-like pile so that Kili could elevate his upper body. Kili couldn’t stop himself from giving short, sharp wheezes of pain, until finally his muscles began to relax again, and the discomfort faded. He breathed out shakily, drooping against his makeshift pillow, the strength that had come from his indignation completely depleted.
“Don’t let her come between us, Kili,” Thorin said quietly, pouring out a cup of water from a nearby beaker, helping Kili to drink. “It is not my intention to upset you, but you have not lived such as I have—“
“You don’t know her, uncle,” Kili rasped, his voice faint in the still air. “Not like I do. She’ll be back, I know it. And when she is, I will ask her for her hand. I will find the purest gold from our deepest mines and craft her the most beautiful wedding band the likes of which hasn’t been seen for an Age. You won’t change my mind.”
“Kili…”
“She’ll be back,” Kili repeated fiercely, the ember of Durin’s-blood stubbornness burning hotly in his eyes.
Heaving a sigh, Thorin bit his tongue to keep from arguing. His solace was that maybe Kili was not in his right mind. “Alright, Kili. Alright.”
Some of the tension left the other dwarf at that, Kili’s body sinking back down, one hand still held protectively to his chest. “She will,” Kili whispered, sounding exhausted. “She wants to be with me. She loves me.”
Your life is but a blink to her, Thorin thought to himself. You’re only a momentary plaything. She’ll find something new in a week. But he nodded anyway. “I’m sure she will.”
* * *
Within an hour or so, Balin had cobbled together a rather good soup from the supplies he had rooted out from the bottoms of their packs and from the small stretches of mountainside which had not been trampled during the battle. After Bilbo had come to ask for some alcohol, Balin had sent the hobbit back with the last dregs of tepid ale, and then sent Ori and Nori out to pick the stems of sedum and late dandelions. They had also found a patch of bolete mushrooms to pluck. From their supplies he had used the last of the tubers— two shriveled potatoes and a radish that had a bite already taken out of it. Tossing in a handful of acorn meat and a few cracked-open bones from some small game that they had killed before the battle, he let the marrow soak out into the broth until the pot simmered and gave off a surprisingly delicious aroma.
Tasting the broth, he found it to be pleasantly rounded and nutty, with a mildly astringent aftertaste. It wasn’t his best creation, but better than he had expected given their limited ingredients. As he was turning back towards the alcove, a bowl in each hand, he paused, catching sight of a small paper packet with a note attached. He set down the bowls and picked up the packet, reading the note. ‘Ground poppy. Half a spoonful in the soup for each.’
Balin frowned, looking around for where the packet could have come from, but there was no sign of anyone. In the back of his mind, Balin knew that Tauriel had slipped in unseen, and left just as quickly. He decided to say nothing. He measured out the medicine in both bowls and then headed to the alcove.
Thorin and Bilbo were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, talking in low tones. Balin couldn’t help but smile at the way Thorin stared at the hobbit, like he was what the stars and sun orbited. And poor Bilbo was entirely unaware of it.
“I’ve managed to make something at least partially edible,” Balin said, handing off the bowls to Thorin and Bilbo. “These two have medicine in them. I’ll go back and dish you up another two for yourselves before Bombur decides to chug the rest down.”
“Thank you, Balin,” Bilbo replied, already starting to move over to try and wake Fili. He placed a light hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Fili? We have you some food. Balin made it for you. It’s good.”
Fili’s eyes flickered open. He blinked in disorientation, his vision slowly coming into focus. “Ngh… Bilbo?” He slowly came back to himself, gaze flicking around the alcove. “How long was I asleep?”
“About a day. Do you want to try the soup?”
“I could eat,” Fili muttered, clearly feeling slightly awkward at realizing that he had been in a very vulnerable situation for so long. He tried to sit up, grimacing, but only managed to inch his way into being half-reclined against the pelts. When Bilbo brought the spoon to Fili’s mouth, the dwarf was set to protest, but as soon as he opened his mouth to do so, Bilbo stuck the spoon right in, and Fili had to stop to swallow. He had to admit that after the first mouthful, he realized his own hunger, and how long it had been since he had eaten. The soup was hot, which was all he really cared about. He begrudgingly accepted another spoonful.
Meanwhile, Kili was harder to wake. His body was loath to leave its deep sleep, so when his eyelids did flutter, it was more feebly than they had when he had woken earlier and argued with Thorin.
Thorin couldn’t help but feel some guilt, knowing that Kili had been overly exerted by their disagreement, and now his recovery was being stinted because of it. Thorin said nothing, but instead fed Kili the soup spoonful by spoonful, until the poppy made the younger dwarf’s face regain some color, and artificial sleep wrapped its tendrils around his mind, caressing any lingering thoughts of Tauriel from his thoughts.
Once the bowl was empty, Thorin petted Kili’s hair until his nephew’s breathing evened out. Once it had, Thorin set aside the bowl and accepted the full one that Balin leaned down to hand him.
Fili gave a crooked grin. “Balin.”
Balin chuckled. “You’re feeling better, aye? Medicine seems to be kicking in.”
Fili blinked drowsily. “Mmph… medicine? Huh…” He fumbled for Kili’s hand, groping under the blankets until he found Kili’s fingers to interlock with his own. “S’ he asleep?”
“Yes, he’s asleep,” Thorin confirmed.
Fili nodded in satisfaction, apparently content to go back to sleep so long as Kili was asleep, first. Thorin idly patted Fili’s arm. “Good lad. Rest.”
Fili was soon out once more, leaving Thorin and Bilbo to have their own bowls of soup. Bilbo, with his fast hobbit metabolism, was eager to empty the bowl, his stomach rumbling demandingly, as he had not eaten since before the battle. Thorin, though, was more pensive, brows furrowed deeply in their usual saturnine manner.
“Not my best work, I’ll admit,” Balin said with an apologetic look, “but we’re out of supplies.”
Thorin glanced up as if he had forgotten that Balin was still there. “Hm? No, it’s good. Is it mushrooms?”
“Mushrooms, aye, and some acorns and marrow.”
“Would you show me how to make it sometime, Balin?” Bilbo asked, slurping down the last of his soup. He looked hopefully at Thorin’s mostly untouched bowl until the dwarf king took pity on him and handed it over.
“I could, once we send out some hunting parties again. It’s going to take a lot to reorganize Erebor.” Balin shook his head, sighing, with his hands tucked into his pockets. “And being two working dwarves short won’t help.”
“I’m staying to help,” Bilbo mumbled, not looking up as he said it. “I can’t do as much as Fili or Kili, but I’ll try.”
Balin looked surprised. “You’re staying? Not going back to your Shire?”
“Not yet. I did promise to help you dwarves win back your kingdom— now we’re just fighting against dust and cobwebs.”
Thorin couldn’t help but laugh. “Domestic work. Right up your alley, burglar, isn’t it?”
Bilbo flushed a little. “Well, I can’t say that I’m not used to keeping a tidy house. But at least I’ll be of some use.”
“Oh, I think that you’ve been of plenty use to us already,” said Balin with a twinkle in his eye and a smile. “After all, Smaug would still be curled up in his hoard below the mountain if it weren’t for you, Bilbo.”