1842
The first time it happened, Bilbo swore it was a dream.
A cacophony of sounds, sights, and smells barraged him. He couldn't move in his clothes, feet pinched in unfamiliar boots and monochromatic colors on his body.
Then suddenly there was a shout and a familiar face. "Thorin," Bilbo whispered, breath expelling from his lungs as he was thrown backwards and onto the cobbled street, a horse cantering past, neighing loudly.
"You fool," Thorin – it must be him, for Bilbo would recognize that sharp nose, that stern brow anywhere – said as he lay atop him. He pushed himself up, dusting off his suit and coat with a brusque slap of his hand.
Bilbo could do nothing but gape. He was so tall, so regal, so alive. "Thorin," Bilbo repeated, hand reaching out towards him. Mistaking the motion, Thorin took hold of it and roughly pulled Bilbo to his feet. "How?" Bilbo asked, surprised by Thorin's ample size, the thinness of his body.
This was no dwarf, by any means. Hair shorn short and no trace of a beard, Bilbo was almost convinced he was wrong. It could not be Thorin. And yet those eyes were the same piercing blue Bilbo had spent many a night trying not to lose himself in.
"Watch your feet," Thorin growled, turning his back on Bilbo and returning to his business, crossing the busy street, wary of the horses and carriages.
"No," Bilbo muttered, following Thorin with his eyes. He couldn't lose him, not now that he'd found him. "Thorin!" he yelled after him, pushing past curious onlookers, stumbling over his leather bound toes.
And then that's when it happened.
Thorin turned at the call of his name, not seeing the runaway horse galloping towards him. Bilbo could only watch in horror as Thorin fell to the street, bones and body crushed.
Screams pierced the silence in Bilbo's mind. He could do nothing but watch on in terror, jostled by concerned citizens. All he could see was the blood, staining his once clean shirt, pooling onto the dusty street.
"Call the doctor!" A man cried, kneeling by his side as a woman swooned some feet away, a man – her husband, most likely – held onto her elbow, keeping her on her two feet.
"He's dead," another man declared.
Bilbo let out a sob, staring into those blank eyes. He was dead.
Thorin was dead.
1849
The second time, Bilbo considered it a coincidence. It was the only possibility.
To think that he had to witness Thorin's death a second time; it was easier to think it a coincidence than accept it as fact.
Years had passed since Bilbo had seen Thorin bleeding out on the street, white clothes forever stained red. In that time, Bilbo had tried to learn about this world he had fallen into.
It was vastly different than the Shire, Erebor – than all of Middle Earth combined. It was a world solely of man, where no magic could breathe, let alone live. It was a world in which the air was pungent and thick with dirt and smoke. Nothing as pleasant as a wood burning stove, but of machines grinding together for some greater purpose Bilbo could not comprehend.
He had found himself a small house at the edge of the city, just far enough from the factories that had crept up overnight, dirtying the air and making monsters of laborers.
Bilbo was thinking of moving to the country, where he could feel the soft brush of grass beneath his feet once more, away from the cries of underfed children and the cobbled pavement.
It was as he was heading back home from a brisk early walk, the factory whistle had yet to blow, calling the workers to their jobs, when Bilbo stumbled upon him.
He heard a soft cry, a whimper, really, and Bilbo looked to an empty alleyway, still dark. Bilbo stopped mid-stride, reminding himself that this was a dangerous city, and no doubt someone was waiting to capture Bilbo and kill him.
He heard the sound again and Bilbo took a hesitant step forward. "Hello?" he asked. "Anyone there?"
All that was returned was a sniffle and cough, and Bilbo felt it was his duty. If it was a trap, so be it. He didn't know what he was doing in this world, or what his purpose was. If he had to go, then at least he was killed in an attempt to help.
The further he walked into the alleyway, the more certain Bilbo was that it wasn't a trap at all. Trash filled the alley, from abandoned boots and rope, to dead animals and old rotten food. Bilbo covered his nose, cursing the stench of this city.
A small hiccough emanated from a thick sack and Bilbo found himself on his knees, rooting through the heaps of newspapers and planks of wood, only to be faced with a babe no older than six months. The child blinked up at Bilbo, it's deep blue eyes peering out of its cloth prison.
Bilbo gasped, nearly dropping the child. He knew those eyes, that heap of hair. "Thorin?" he whispered, clutching the child to his chest.
He was sickly pale, and practically skin and bones, taking in rattling breaths. Who could possibly abandon a baby on the street, as if it were a sack of trash. There were orphanages where one could take unwanted children, though Bilbo had seen these orphanages first hand and shuddered at the thought.
Most of the children ended back on the streets, clothes dirtied and bellies empty. But this child… he was filthy, reeking of his own waste, throat no doubt hoarse from crying.
Bilbo cradled him as he stepped out of the alleyway, rushing home. "Thorin," Bilbo said again, fingers lightly tracing over the baby's features. Thorin barely whimpered, closing his eyes at the cushioning warmth.
"Don't sleep," Bilbo begged, gently nudging him awake. "You've got to eat." He struggled with the decision to put him down, feeling that Thorin felt safer in his arms, seeing as he had been abandoned who knew how long.
He struggled to fill a cup with water, hoping that the baby knew how to drink properly, finding that he couldn't, water spilling over his face. Thorin's face scrunched up and began to bawl.
Bilbo grabbed a handkerchief and doused it in water, putting it to Thorin's mouth to suck on. Thorin quickly quieted, and Bilbo felt immense relief. Perhaps he was going to be alright.
Throat no longer a burden, Thorin fussed and kicked, his small stomach grumbling for food. Bilbo wasn't sure if he had anything to feed a babe, and he wandered into his pantry, searching for something edible. He stopped after a moment, realizing that Thorin probably hadn't eaten in days and his stomach could only handle so much.
Finally feeling as if he had a hold on the situation, Bilbo grabbed a piece of bread and soaked it in sweet milk, handing it off to Thorin to suck and chew.
He held him tightly in his lap, watching him eat slowly, spongy residue of his meal sticking to his cheeks. "I'm going insane," Bilbo muttered. What if this wasn't Thorin at all. He was lonely, and rather than accepting the fact that he had found an abandoned child, Bilbo had given him a name and a place in his heart.
There were nights, lying in his bed, blankets pulled tautly to his chin, when he'd slowly drift to sleep and memories would wash over him like a tidal wave.
It was always the same.
Thorin, lying pale and cold in a tent, blood oozing from his wounds, his breath a rattle. He'd reach out his hand to Bilbo, and the hobbit would take it, pressing a kiss to those thick and battle hardened fingers.
"Don't," Bilbo would say, tears streaming down his face. "You must live. See Erebor rise again."
He'd offer a weak smile and Bilbo's soft cries turned to loud sobs. He couldn't live knowing Thorin was not in his life. That confounded dwarf. Bilbo knew he'd do anything, anything at all to let Thorin live, even if it meant Bilbo couldn't be in his life.
He'd offer his very soul, his happiness; he'd curse the Valar and topple cities, if only to know Thorin would live to take another breath.
That was usually when he'd wake, drenched in sweat and heart pounding, as if he were running from something dark and fearsome, not merely weeping at Thorin's side.
The baby coughed, tossing his bread to the ground and Bilbo rocked him in his arms. He was filthy, and no doubt needed a bath. But what was Bilbo to do? He didn't know how to take care of a child.
He'd seek a medical professional.
"Hush now," Bilbo told Thorin, wrapping him in soft linens, and washing his face. "We're going to get you as right as rain."
Bilbo pulled on his coat and tucked Thorin underneath before heading back into town, knocking on the door of the closest doctor. The door creaked open and the doctor's wife stood there, sighing at Bilbo's anxious state.
"Quick as you can," she said, stepping out of Bilbo's way as he made his way into her home. "No need to let the cold in." Bilbo smiled graciously at her as she asked, "What seems to be the trouble?"
Bilbo simply unbuttoned his coat to show the sickly and pale Thorin huddled against his chest. "You poor thing," she said, leading them to the parlor and stepping out to get her husband.
The old doctor walked in, taking in the state of his patient and guardians. "What's this, then?"
Bilbo pulled Thorin out for inspection, the infant beginning to cry once more. "I found him," Bilbo told the doctor, watching nervously as the doctor's wife took Thorin from him. "Out with the trash. I gave him water and food."
"Rightly so," the doctor approved, examining Thorin. Thorin coughed something fierce and the doctor took a step back. He and his wife shared a look.
"What?" Bilbo asked, hands nervously twisting. "What's wrong?"
The doctor sighed, grabbing Thorin and putting him in a basket as a makeshift cradle. "It's best you leave the child here," the doctor said, gentle as can be.
"Why? What's wrong with him?"
"Tuberculosis," the doctor proclaimed. "He's far along. No doubt that's why he was left for dead." Thorin gurgled, tiny hands exploring the basket with interest, every now and then breaking out into a horrid cough. Bilbo should have noticed the symptoms before.
"Can you save him?" Bilbo asked.
"I'm sorry," was the doctor's reply. "We can only watch over him."
"Thorin," Bilbo said. "His name's Thorin."
The doctor's wife nodded, putting a reassuring arm around Bilbo, leading him towards the kitchen and setting him down in a seat. Before he knew it, a cup of tea had been put into his hand, and Bilbo found the heat soothing.
He looked to Thorin, nestled softly in his basket, coughing up a lung. He couldn't die. He was too young, too precious; he had a whole life to live and it was unjust for his life to end so soon. "It's best if you go home," the doctor said, patting him gently on his arm. "There's nothing to do for him."
Bilbo nodded, setting his tea aside and headed towards Thorin, intercepted by the doctor's wife. "What are you doing?"
"We're leaving," Bilbo stated.
"The child should stay here," the doctor said. "He'll most likely pass in the night."
They expected him to abandon the child! Bilbo had never been more insulted in his life. If Thorin was doomed to die tonight, Bilbo would not be leaving his side, and he said so, planting himself in a chair by Thorin's side.
He died just before dawn.