Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over 'The Hobbit' nor am I profiting from this.
Pairing(s): gen.
Warning(s): graphic depictions of violence, major character death, suicide.
Word Count: 1,662.
Written prior to the release of the Battle of the Five Armies while dealing with some severe depression. It is not my hopes to glorify suicide or make it seem like a glamorous thing. I've been dealing with suicidal thoughts ever since middle school and have come close to attempting it before. It is an awful thing which has devastating consequences on and affects everyone.
He is silly, a fool really to ever think he was a Took. He's not a Took; brazen, fool hearted but strong enough with a love for adventure. He's not even a Baggins. A lonely shut-in. He is nothing. At least that is what the voice in his head whispers to him: low and harsh, whispery and soft around the edges.
Bilbo grips the edge of the wall, his breath catching in his throat as he stares down at the ground below. He can't remember when he started crying but his coat sleeves are stained dark and soaked with tears. His nose runs and he sniffles uselessly to try to staunch the flow of mucus. He is not even a hobbit. The dwarves had shaved off his foot hair. He stares in horror once more at his bare feet; all traces of the hair gone. Gone with the scraping of a razor against the tops of his feet and once fuzzy toes.
The battle is over; the dwarves all lie alive and healing. Bilbo knows they are alive for the cheering in the camps and the happiness spread around the dwarven camps. But here
Bilbo is nobody, nothing; perched on the edge of the wall.
Thorin is the one to reach him first. And he is prompt to wrap his hand around Bilbo's throat. Traitor he calls him as Bilbo tries in vain to kick and scramble away. His mouth opens in a frightened sound; desperate to work and tell Thorin it was only out of fear, for caring about the dwarf.
Bilbo has seen the glazed look in Thorin's eyes as the king dug through hoards of gold; desperate for the Arkenstone. He is forgoing food, sleep. Bilbo hears the heavy, rasping breaths when he sees something. It is only a wish to banish that glaring danger in the king's eyes.
Fili looks disgusted by his very presence when finally, mercifully Thorin drops him with a hiss. Bilbo wishes at that moment for the prince he saw on the quest: the golden-haired prince somber from lessons given over his life. He wishes for the prince who wanted so desperately to slow down the race of time towards the crown.
They have spent moments alone together and traded whispers on his watches; grown close as what Bilbo might call friends in the Shire. And Bilbo prays to Yavanna that Fili will step forward, beg his uncle to snap out of his madness. But there is no movement from the prince.
Kili is the one to throw stones; his aim awkward from his fury. Bilbo lay helpless as he cowers.
The stones are nothing. They are feathers brushing his body, flower petals in the breeze. He has faced down trolls and even been used as a tissue for them. He has faced down Azog himself and with him a number of goblins and orcs. But to see the dark-haired prince throw stones at him; fury on his face clear as day is more frightening. And to see the company stand motionless, doing nothing to stop him is a preview of what was to come.
Balin does not speak but the look of disappointment is enough. His eyes had shone throughout the quest with pride whenever they shared tales of maps, history. And then as Kili threw stones; his disappointed gaze not turned on any of his fellow dwarves but on Bilbo.
The eyes then are dull and glassy as he shook his head.
Dwalin kicks him in the stomach; knocking all the air from Bilbo's lungs. Bilbo lays with an arm around his stomach and mouth opening and closing desperately for breath. He knows then would be no cloak giving; no shows of kindness now as he repeatedly drives his foot into Bilbo's stomach.
Glóin roars about traitor hobbits. He curses the Shire and then hobbits, shouting all the while. Bilbo laid wheezing from Dwalin's ministrations; silently praying and pleading with Gandalf to show up; Bard; even Thranduil to come up this wall. There was a loud rushing in his eyes and then Glóin swings his foot back and aims for his face.
Óin is the one who dragged his unconscious body to the dungeons. At least that is what Bilbo hears mumbled and whispered in between the comings and goings.
When the healer comes down it is not with medicines, salves, and forgiveness. He remains silent as he worked over Bilbo. He hums and mumbles to himself as he checked his ribs and deemed three broken. He pauses in the cell's door and stares at Bilbo for a long moment. He shakes his head and then cocking his fist back punched Bilbo square in the jaw.
Dori's expression is unreadable whenever he comes to the cell. Bilbo lays motionless on the floor; his clothes soiled by blood, snot, tears and embarrassingly enough his own urine. He has been thinking for hours or at least he thinks it was hours. Without any windows except for one high up; far too high for him to climb up and reach; there is no sense of time. He has been laying there in his own mess and thinking of just how the dwarves will kill him.
Starvation seems possible or beating him to death. When he catches sight of Dori, he closes his eyes and waits for the kick; the punch; the stomp that will do it. None of it comes but instead the skittering sound of a knife being tossed. Bilbo opens his eyes and stares at the blade before him: rusted slightly but sharp enough to cut.
"Do you know something I don't?" He asks. Dori does not answer, turning and backing out of the room.
Nori starts to enter but pauses at the expression on Bilbo's face. It is a pitiful, lost gaze that doesn't see. It is focused on nothing. When he hears the footsteps he curls in on himself and Nori grimaces at the strong smells in the cell.
"You found your home," Bilbo mutters on one of his visits, sunken eyes lolling in their sockets as they struggled to focus on Nori. "You did it." When Nori's eyes land on the rusted knife that belonged to him he turns away.
Ori cooks repeatedly and makes meal after meal. Each one is thrown out without so much as a bite taken out of the food. He watches the food cook; his cheeks between his wool-clad hands. Ori doesn't bother to taste it; doesn't bother to look at how much seasoning is put in. Because he knows Thorin will deem it too luxurious for the prisoner.
Bifur nearly leaps back at the stench coming from the cell and claps a hand over his mouth. Bilbo lies in a pool of his own urine, limbs too heavy and sore to move. Months ago he would have been filled with shame and ran; flushed and apologized to Bifur. But now he can't even bring himself to look at the dwarf who kneels at the entrance of the cell. Bifur tries several times to speak but each time he opens his mouth; he gags loudly until he gives up and steps away, not even uttering an apology.
Bofur stares at the rusted knife which rests by Bilbo's hand. Bofur doesn't enter the cell or even announce his presence. Several times the hobbit reaches for the blade, nearly within his grasp before he whimpers and his head falls. He repeats the process; each time the knife getting closer and closer until finally he screeches and slides it away from himself. Bofur leaves silently, still in the shadows.
Bombur watches as the tray slides across the floor, slamming against the wall with a loud clang. The sandwich he made goes flying, its fixings landing in a scattered heap. Bilbo doesn't seem to care as he crawls, panting towards the scattered food. Bombur winces, biting back a gag as he notices him pick a piece of dried meat that rests in the puddle where Bilbo's been lying.
"Sorry about that Bilbo," Bombur apologizes, stepping forward to take the food. Bilbo turns on him sharply, a snarl ripping from his chest. Bilbo crouches in the puddle, food clenched in his hands. His teeth are bared; eyes flashing dangerously as he hisses and spits.
"Okay." Bombur whispers, stepping shakily out of the cell and into the chest of Thorin. The company stands there; their eyes trained on their king. A razor glints in his hand.
As they walk away Bilbo sits there horrified, the remains of his foot hair in his hands. The sounds of pained screams, orc screeches, and goblins become white noise. They have left the door open today. He stuffs the hair into his pocket as he stands up on shaky legs and makes his way out of the cell, his feet splashing through his remains. He needs to be outside.
Overhead a crow flaps and coughs dryly. Bilbo follows the bird until it's out of sight. He has thought of how to do it himself. He has thought of drowning; walking further and further into some water until he sunk to the bottom. He has thought of slitting his wrists with the rusted blade Dori gave him.
But there is not enough water around here and he does not wish to die in a puddle of the blood, urine, tears, and mucus. He strokes his bare feet, staring at the gathering crows. He wants to fly; wings spread as he touches the blue sky and fluffy white clouds. Bilbo opens his arms up, taking a deep breath. Behind him, Bofur approaches, looking back and forth.
"Bilbo," he calls. "Thorin's awake and he'd like to talk to ye—we'd all like to talk to ye," His eyes widen and his mouth opens in a horrified scream as he falls forward off the wall. Bilbo closes his eyes as the crows began to squawk.