This may as well be the "how many phrases can I incorporate the word 'fall' into" fic. Or the "Thorin has a lot of self-esteem and guilt issues" fic.
This was inspired by Fall Out Boy's song "A Mighty Fall," which is also where the title comes from.
Cross-posted from AO3.
Enjoy!
He fell face-first into the dirt every time he faced off against Dwalin.
And it wasn't that Thorin was a bad swordsman. Not at all. It was just…Dwalin was better. He always had been, ever since they were dwarflings just picking up weapons for the first time. They attended every class together, practiced all their drills together, and received similar critiques from their various instructors over the years. Yet Thorin couldn't quite match up to Dwalin's skill level.
The Durin prince pushed himself up, spitting out dirt and dust. He'd have to rinse his mouth out several times before the taste of muck would leave his tongue.
"Looks like I win again," Dwalin said with a smirk, giving his best friend and lifelong rival a hand. Thorin took it gratefully and was pulled to his feet by the burlier dwarf. "What's the score now? Sixty-five to fourteen or something?"
Thorin tried to answer with a scowl, but he just managed a majestic eye roll and fell into stance once more. His broadsword glinted in the torchlight. "Two gold pieces says I beat you the next three rounds."
A feral smile on his scruffy face, Dwalin readied his axes. "You're on."
Needless to say, Thorin fell down quite a few more times that day.
As the eldest of three, he always took the fall when his siblings caused trouble.
No matter what it was—Frerin breaking the family's fine dishware or Dís bringing home stray animals day in and day out, or the both of them running off Mahal knew where only to show up hours later all dirty, scraped, and bruised—Thorin was always at the receiving end of his father and grandfather's reprimands.
"You know how much work went into crafting those bowls. Why did you let your brother break them?"
"I've told you before, make sure your sister doesn't bring home any more blasted pets!"
"You were supposed to keep an eye on them, Thorin!"
There were even instances when Thorin accepted full blame for something he didn't do, like when Frerin set fire to the armory. A prank gone severely wrong…
Thorin confessed to the misdemeanor, taking the fall for his irresponsible brother. He ended up with a month of polishing duty as punishment for it, but he hoped that it would teach Frerin a lesson in taking responsibility for his own actions. Thorin wouldn't always be around to get him out of trouble, after all.
On his third day of punishment, Thorin was polishing a bejeweled blade when Frerin came poking around. His usually loud, boisterous brother remained quiet for the longest time, just shyly watching Thorin from a distance. When the elder prince finally had enough of Frerin's odd behavior, he paused in his polishing and fixed his brother with an expectant stare.
"Did you need something?" he asked, voice deep and gentle.
"I just…" Frerin trailed off, nervously scratching behind his ear. "You didn't have to take the fall for me."
Thorin shrugged and took up the sword again, running the polishing rag along its shimmering blade. "You're my younger brother. I don't mind."
"No." The unusually serious tone of Frerin's voice caught Thorin's attention. "That's…that's not right, Thorin. You shouldn't have to keep taking the blame for me! I should be the one polishing that blade, not you!"
The younger Durin was finally hitting some kind of maturity, it seemed. Smiling a little, Thorin picked up a spare rag from the bench and held it out to Frerin. "Here. We'll do it together, then."
Hesitant at first, Frerin stared at his brother before stepping forward and taking the rag, a small grin on his lips. He picked up an axe for himself and sat down next to Thorin, the two brothers working in companionable silence for the rest of the day.
He'd let his kingdom fall into the hands of a wretched hell beast.
Standing up on the ramparts overlooking the bustling city of Dale, Thorin felt the winds pick up with a harshness untypical to the mountainside. Leaning over the stone parapet, with his hair whipping in his face, he squinted out into the distance. A small black speck drew steadily closer, taking shape into something he would come to loathe for the rest of his life.
The great body of the dragon blocked out the sun for a few moments before everything went up in flames.
Thorin barely had time to react, pulling both Balin and himself out of the line of fire in the nick of time. Dragon's breath surrounded them, the smell of burn and destruction already lodging itself in his nostrils. When the flames subsided, unable to ignite the stone around them, Balin gave Thorin an urgent nudge.
"Go," he said. "Go defend the gates."
Defend the gates Thorin did, gathering a battalion of the finest warriors under his command. They approached the sealed gates decked in full armor and brandishing weapons that spoke of the finery of dwarven smithing. The dragon pounded on the doors, his frightful bellows rattling the walls around them. Fire shot through the cracks with each beat against the gates until finally the beast broke through.
Dwarves went flying left and right in a flurry of flames and wing beats as Smaug trampled through the main halls of Erebor, seeking the one thing dragons coveted above all else.
Thorin rolled out of the way just in time to dodge a footfall that would have killed him. The drake cobbled stone with every step, took out stairs and structures that had taken the dwarves years to build, all with a mere swish of his mighty tail. All their hard work, their stability, their lives, gone in an instant.
There was nothing Thorin could do but help the survivors escape their decimated home.
No matter how he wished it, nightfall would never be as dark as the inside of a mountain.
For inside a mountain, darkness was deep. Eternal. Untouchable by natural light. Here, out in the wilderness of Middle Earth, darkness was flimsy. Interrupted by things like the moon, the stars. There was no true absence of light, and Thorin hated it.
Darkness gave the dwarves the protection they needed. Out in the middle of nowhere, with no place to go but onward, without a mountain to call home, his people were vulnerable. Anything could happen.
Still, he would take the darkness when he could, in those few precious hours before nightfall gave in to daybreak.
Against his better judgment, he commanded his army to fall into formation before the gates of Khazad-dûm.
With his grandfather leading them, they should have been assured a victory. But the dwarves were quickly overrun by the sheer number of orcs living in the depths of those sacred dwarven halls. Thorin fought his fiercest, even with the odds against them. Even when his brother was felled right next to him, he kept going with broken sobs wracking his soul. Even when his father vanished, his fate unknown. Even when his grandfather was brutally beheaded by the Pale Orc. His grief pushed him on, gave him the will to fight even harder than before.
With nothing but a sturdy branch of oak to shield him, Thorin charged at Azog, fueled by his anger and sorrow. He swung his sword up, effectively severing Azog's arm and felling the orc then and there.
When Thorin rose in victory, a heavy weight on his shoulders almost made him fall back down again. This day, he had lost much more than he'd gained.
He hated rainfall when he didn't have a mountain to shield him from it.
Thorin continued to lead his people west, towards the Blue Mountains where they could only hope to take refuge. The sky refused to cooperate with them, opening its jaws wide and letting loose a torrential downpour that was heading into its third continuous day. It was the cold rain of winter fast approaching, chilling to the very bone.
Shivering and gritting his teeth, the Durin prince urged his people on with promises of warm beds and warmer food. Once they reached their destination, he said, they could rest and eat properly. Until then, they had to endure whatever the weather threw at them and keep going.
Soon, he promised them, they would have shelter from the rain.
He fell short in more ways than just his height.
No matter how long he worked, or how much money he was able to save up, it never seemed like enough.
Thorin had promised a better life for his people after the destruction of Erebor and he could barely keep food on his own family's table, let alone keep everyone else fed. Guilt weighed down his every step. He should have been able to do more. Seeing Dís trying her best to care for Fíli and Kíli, seeing the other families struggling to stay nourished, broke his heart.
Finding work wasn't easy in the towns of men. Once and a while, he would get lucky with a job at the local smith's shop. But it wasn't enough. He worked long hours, spending days away from his family in order to finish a customer's order for a new weapon or repairing various tools that needed mending. The pay was dismal for how much he slaved over the anvil. He would come home from work filthy and exhausted, muscles screaming in protest from over-exertion, and repeat it all over again. It was the best he could do under their circumstances, and Dís kept telling him he was being too hard on himself, that he shouldn't have to shoulder his people's burdens on his own.
Thorin would just shake his head and stalk off to his bedroll, trying to chase sleep that rarely ever came.
He was just one dwarf. Half the size of the men in town, if that. There was only so much he could do by himself. If he could just…
If he could slay Smaug and take back their home, maybe he could rebuild the better life that he promised his people.
But it was impossible.
He couldn't remember the last time he fell asleep easily.
Spending so long on the road, he trained himself to go long periods of time with little sleep. He was a leader, and leaders didn't have time to rest. Even if he did manage to fall asleep, he would always jolt awake at the slightest noise, hand on the hilt of his sword without a second thought.
Getting to sleep was just as difficult as staying asleep; Thorin often had too much on his mind to fall asleep quickly. His chance meeting with Gandalf in the border town of Bree—he couldn't stop thinking about it, about the wizard's words of encouragement to retake Erebor in the name of the dwarves. Some time ago he'd entertained the idea, but dismissed it as a mere fantasy. Impossibility. There were too many things that could go wrong, too many factors that could tip the scale of success or failure.
Yet the damn wizard insisted that it could be done, provided they hire a burglar.
Which was how Thorin found himself at the doorstep of one Bilbo Baggins, hobbit of the Shire.
Really, it was a mistake coming here. Master Baggins was not burglar material by any stretch of the imagination. He was soft and pudgy, unused to hard labor. He was fussy and whiny, worrying about silly little things like doilies—whatever those were—and tracking mud on the rugs. There was no way a creature like him could hoof it across Middle Earth to steal from a dragon hoard. What on earth was Gandalf thinking? Perhaps he had smoked a bit too much pipe weed…
Though for all that Master Baggins would be a terrible burglar, he was certainly a good host for so many unexpected house guests. Even though he was clearly disgruntled at having so many dwarves in his care for the night, he did his best to accommodate them. He gave them all places to sleep, which wasn't too difficult because of how spacious and well-furnished his smial was.
Thorin sat on the bed in the guest room provided to him by the hobbit, pleased to find it so plush. He removed his boots and outermost layers, reclining back against the fluffy pillows and letting his eyes slide shut with a deep exhale.
Even if Master Baggins were the burglar he'd been looking for, how could Thorin think to tear him away from this kind of comfort, on a fool's errand, as a favor for complete strangers?
With that thought in mind, that one night in Bag End, he fell asleep almost instantly for the first time in years.
His pride would be his downfall, Gandalf told him irritably.
But what did Thorin have left, if not his pride? The dragon had stolen everything else from him.
Watching Elrond handle his father's map with those filthy elf hands made Thorin slightly ill; he still couldn't believe he'd been tricked by the grey wizard to seek the counsel of an elf, of all people. His grandfather would be rolling in his grave.
Yet, as much as he wanted to guard his culture from the likes of that pointy-eared cur, they did need his help.
But that didn't mean Thorin had to like it.
He almost fell to his death in the Misty Mountains.
That dratted, worthless hobbit had gone and fallen over the side of a cliff, his dainty fingers barely clinging to the tiny wet juts of rock. And though he would never admit it, for a moment, Thorin panicked.
It didn't even register that he was scaling down the side of the cliff until his hand gripped the back of Master Baggins' jacket. He hauled the hobbit up into the waiting arms of his company, who pulled him up to safety.
Then Thorin's hand slipped, and his panic began anew.
There was a split second when he thought that, yes, he was certainly going to fall to his death in the Misty Mountains, in the middle of this rainstorm, not even halfway through their journey. But then Dwalin grabbed his hand and yanked him up. Saved his life.
Once his feet were on solid ground, his anger surged. What a stupid, useless creature the hobbit was! Getting himself into danger like that, making Thorin risk his own life to save him. The relief he shared with his company over Master Baggins' safety was greatly overshadowed by his fury and fear for the hobbit's life.
"He should never have come."
The words left his tongue before he could bite them back. He swallowed hard. The damage was done. The Durin prince expected to feel some sort of satisfaction at the look of hurt on the hobbit's face, but all he felt was guilt. Guilt was something he didn't have time to deal with at the moment. So with a glare and a growl, he turned his back on the guilt and Master Baggins and continued forward in search of shelter.
He fell through the hidden chasm right onto the goblin king's doorstep.
Mahal, how could he have been so stupid? He should have known better than to take more than a moment's shelter in that cave. Should have suspected something amiss when his company found the cave to be empty, devoid of any threatening creatures hiding in the darkness. Should have actually listened to Gandalf and followed their plan.
How many times were his kinsmen going to have to pay the price for his stupidity, his foolhardiness, his failures?
The horrid face of the goblin king sneered down at him as Thorin stepped forward, head held high and glare as cold as ice.
"Look who it is. Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, king under the mountain." The disgusting creature performed a mock-curtsey, waving his staff about. "Except, you don't have a mountain. Which makes you nobody, really."
That had Thorin gritting his teeth so hard, he thought they might crack. He didn't need any more reminders of his past failures. He lived with those ghosts every day of his life.
Right as they were about to become goblin food, Gandalf showed up and urged them to stand and fight. Deeper into the mountain they battled, falling through cracks and cervices until, miraculously, they found their way out.
Without the hobbit.
His gaze fell to the ground, humbled as he was by the hobbit's words.
This little creature surprised him, first by appearing out of nowhere from behind them—"How on earth did you get past the goblins?" Nori asked, because really, it was a miracle the hobbit survived that encounter—and then by stating his convictions. He was going to help them, still, out of kindness and compassion. Not because he'd signed a contract. Not because he'd been promised a massive sum of gold for his troubles.
But because he wanted to.
Thorin's heart swelled with some emotion he didn't know how to identify. He didn't have time to ponder on it, though, because not a moment later, they were on the run again, orcs and wargs biting at their heels.
The trees had fallen down when he decided to take a stand against the Pale Orc.
His company was dangling helplessly from the fallen pine, fire all around, branches cracking and tumbling down into the abyss where they would probably meet their doom, given time. It was only due to Dori's incredible strength that he and Ori were still barely holding on to Gandalf's staff. Dry wood broke beneath them, plundering down while the dwarves grabbed the tree trunk as tightly as they could and held on for dear life.
Yet all he saw was the evil sneer on that hideous white face, the pale beast raising his mace in a cruel taunt, telling Thorin without words, "Come and get me. I dare you."
Thorin rose to the challenge, picking up Orcrist, donning his namesake shield, charging at Azog with everything he had.
Next thing he knew, he was on the ground, looking up at the sky. Flames danced in the borders of his blurring vision. He couldn't move for the pain that ignited every nerve. He tried reaching for Orcrist in vain, barely brushing the hilt with his fingertips.
Apparently, Azog no longer found him a worthy opponent, for the dwarf was now looking up at his would-be executioner. Some nameless lackey who had his sword raised and ready to sever his head from his shoulders.
He was going to die.
The last thing Thorin saw was the tiny form of the hobbit flying over him before he fell into unconsciousness.
He fell behind the company, his injuries taking their toll on him.
He was a disgrace. He was a leader—leaders were supposed to lead, not trudge behind everyone because they couldn't keep up with the already slowed pace.
Then again, he wasn't much of a leader with how recklessly he charged at the Pale Orc, not even getting a single blow in before he was beaten down. He owed the hobbit his life, for saving him from his own stupidity. A hug was not going to make up for the months of poor treatment on his part. It was just the first step in repairing their rocky relationship with one another.
He just wished his steps now were as easy as that first one.
Thorin was gritting his teeth and biting back pained moans with every step. He hadn't gotten to look at his wounds yet, ordering his company to continue on until they found a safe place to make camp. They could have stayed up on the Carrock, sure, but he didn't think anyone in the company—himself included—much favored being that high up from solid ground.
Not paying attention to where he was going, he caught the toe of his boot on a raised tree root and he tripped. Would have fallen, too, if not for the steadying grip on his arm.
"Easy now," he heard Bilbo say from beside him. Thorin sucked in a breath, righting himself and willing the pain and dizziness away. The warmth and gentleness of the hobbit's hand on his arm was a comfort he forbade himself from indulging in.
"Thank you," he whispered, afraid that if he raised his voice any louder, it would crack. Bilbo just offered him a kind smile in response, releasing his hold on the dwarf's arm but staying at his side for support.
Which was where he remained until they stopped walking and Gandalf suggested they make camp. They hadn't said another word to each other, but Thorin felt much better with Bilbo there with him.
And if they were a few paces behind everyone else the whole time, well, no one seemed to mind overly much.
He didn't hear the approaching footfalls on the stone floor of the corridor.
In fact, it was good that he hadn't. They'd hired the Bilbo because of his remarkable stealth in the first place. Gandalf had assured them of the hobbit's light feet, of his ability to sneak around even the most perceptive creatures like the elves.
However, it was because of this steath that Thorin startled when he heard a familiar voice whispering his name from the corridor outside his cell.
"Who's there?" he asked, approaching the prison bars warily and keeping an eye out for anything moving in the torchlight and shadows alike. Just then, the hobbit appeared from thin air before him as if by magic.
The little creature was covered from head to toe in muck and grime, remnants of spider webs in the curly hair atop both his head and feet. Scrapes and cuts littered his visible skin, scabbed over and already healing—hopefully. There were dark bags under his eyes and a gauntness to his normally round, lively face that suggested a severe lack of sleep, among other things. He looked thinner, most of his pudge having vanished under the ruined fabric of his waistcoat. Yet for all that, Bilbo still bestowed Thorin a relieved smile and slumped against the barred door of the cell. He gripped the bars with filthy, shaking hands.
"Thank Yavanna I found you," he said somewhat breathlessly.
Thorin's heart sped up, but he resolutely ignored it. He stepped forward, clutching the bars and shoving his face between the iron. "And the others? Have you found them?"
The hobbit hummed in affirmation. "They're all in the upper levels of the dungeons. Everyone present and accounted for."
Relief washed over Thorin like a wave of fresh, cool water. So they were all here. And safe. Thank Mahal. Now they just had to figure out a way to escape from Thranduil's clutches.
But first…
"Are you all right?"
Bilbo looked as shocked as Thorin felt when the question tumbled from his lips. They both stared at each other, blinking and unaware of what to say next, before the hobbit gave a slow nod.
"Yes, I'm fine," he assured the dwarf. "Though I should get going before I'm found out." He seemed reluctant to move; Thorin guessed it was from fatigue.
Probably.
"Do you want me to deliver any messages to the others?"
Thorin thought for a moment, then shook his head. "Just…tell them I'm here and to start formulating an escape plan.
Giving a resolute nod, the hobbit backed away from Thorin's cell. He wobbled a bit on unsteady legs, but righted himself soon enough. When he turned to leave, Thorin called out to him.
"Master Baggins?"
He froze, still turned away from Thorin. "Yes…?"
"…Please be careful."
Thorin couldn't figure out why those three words seemed to hold such gravity, for the hobbit tensed as soon as he'd said them.
There was a moment of silence before the hobbit whispered, "I will." With that, he vanished once more into the darkness, his footfalls still as silent as ever.
He was lucky enough to avoid falling ill after their river-bound escape.
The hobbit, however, was not.
While most everyone else was busy celebrating and drinking every last drop of mead in all of Lake-town, Bilbo was holed up in his room and burrowed beneath layers and layers of blankets. Oin stayed with him, claiming it was his duty as the company's resident healer to see to the hobbit's poor health. Thorin, out of a sense of obligation as the leader of their rag-tag group, stayed to keep an eye on their sick friend as well.
At least, he kept telling himself it was just a leader's obligation. Yes.
Oin had left a few minutes prior to retrieve some fresh herbs and flannels to help with the hobbit's fever, leaving Thorin to watch over him. Bilbo hadn't stopped shivering for a while now. His skin was flushed crimson and glistening with a sheen of sweat, beads of salty perspiration rolling down his face as he tossed and turned. The bags under his eyes had worsened into almost bruises, made all the more noticeable by his fever-reddened cheeks.
The poor little thing looked so miserable. Thorin felt more than a bit guilty for it—after all, it was at his insistence that Bilbo came up with the plan to stuff the dwarves in wine barrels and send them down the river. One gross oversight, though, was that the hobbit forgot to secure a barrel for himself. As such, he'd spent most of their downstream journey submerged in the churning water, clutching the rim of Nori's barrel for dear life.
So, in a way, it was because of him—because of his reliance on Bilbo to help them escape the Mirkwood dungeons—that Bilbo was sick.
Thorin was pulled from his musings by a faint whimper coming from under the blankets. He stared down at the tuft of sweat-drenched copper hair, the only visible part of the hobbit beneath the quilts, waiting for something to happen.
Another whimper, louder this time.
Slowly reaching out, Thorin pulled the blankets down enough to where he could see Bilbo's face. His brow was drenched with sweat, furrowed in what looked like pain. His normally soft features were distorted, misery pulling at every inch of skin. His breath came out in short gasps and whines, as if he couldn't breathe. The hand beneath his chin had the sheets in a death grip, knuckles white and bony. The dwarf touched the back of his hand to Bilbo's damp forehead, yanking it away as if he'd been burned.
His fever was so high…
Bilbo threw his head to the side, whimpering again.
"How is he?" Oin asked as he reentered the room, medical supplies in hand. He nudged the door shut with his foot and deposited the materials onto a nearby table.
"I think his fever is worsening," Thorin said without looking at the healer, his attention focused solely on Bilbo. The whimpering started up again, sounding almost like sobs. Bilbo's lips moved, complete and utter nonsense coming from his mouth. Thorin didn't know if the sounds had any meaning in some strange hobbit language he was unaware of, or if it was all just gibberish induced by fever.
Oin handed Thorin a flannel, freshly dampened with cool water. "Wipe him down with this while I crush up these herbs," he instructed, and Thorin did as he was told.
As gentle as ever, he ran the flannel along Bilbo's flushed cheeks and across his forehead in attempts to cool him down. It didn't seem to help; Bilbo's whimpering only got worse, and he started tossing about under the sheets.
Panic seized Thorin, immobilized him as he watched the hobbit thrash, the little creature lost in his haunting fever dreams.
"Bilbo…" he tried weakly, not knowing what to do. He said his name again, a little louder this time, still to no avail.
Before he could quite register what he was doing, Thorin climbed onto the bed and laid himself down next to the hobbit. He threw his arm over the smaller male, holding him down and acting as a shield of some sort. What he was shielding Bilbo from, he didn't know. But it just felt like the natural thing to do. To protect the hobbit from whatever nightmares had him in their relentless clutches.
"Shh…it's all right," he whispered over and over again to the hobbit, who was starting to quiet down a little. A few minutes later, Bilbo calmed enough to lie still on the bed. He was still sweaty and feverish, but thankfully the thrashing stopped.
Thorin, relieved, allowed himself a small smile as he ran the flannel over Bilbo's forehead once more. As if on instinct, the hobbit curled toward him and burrowed closer to Thorin's warmth. He was still burning up, but the shivers made a comeback.
"Well, that's one way to do it," Oin remarked jokingly as he approached the bed with another flannel and medicine in hand.
Thorin gave a little chuckle despite himself. "He started thrashing. I didn't know what else to do."
Oin let out a snicker of his own. "Here. You can help me with his medicine."
Later that night, after Bilbo's fever had finally started to go down and he seemed to be sleeping soundly enough, Thorin allowed himself to fall asleep at last with the hobbit secure in his arms.
He fell to madness, even though he'd promised himself he wouldn't.
Being back in Erebor was…everything he could have ever asked for. He had reclaimed his home. The Lonely Mountain belonged to him once again, along with the mountains of treasure that lay within her.
Yet there was one treasure that eluded him still. The Arkenstone.
Thorin spent the majority of his time in the treasury, digging through piles of gold and trinkets in search of the most coveted King's Jewel. He could see it so clearly in his mind's eye—the shimmering little stone that twinkled brighter than the very cosmos themselves, giving off its own light that illuminated everything around it. Oh, and he wanted it. Needed it. Just to hold it in his hands again, feel its power coursing through his veins—
"Thorin?" called a small voice from afar, echoing through the grand hall.
Blinking, Thorin came back to himself at the call of his name. He turned to see Bilbo crawling gracelessly over mounds of coins to get to him, and allowed himself a small smile.
"Have you come to aid me in my search?" he asked when the hobbit was a few steps away, offering a hand to help Bilbo navigate the shifting waves of gold beneath his large, bare feet.
That small hand felt so warm between his fingers.
"Just came to fetch you for supper. You've been in here all day."
Supper? But…he'd just had breakfast not even an hour ago! Right? There was no way he'd been in the treasury that long…
A gentle squeeze of his hand brought Thorin back to reality. Bilbo was looking at him with wide, concerned eyes, still holding his hand.
"All right, Thorin?" the hobbit asked softly, cautiously. The words echoed in the king's head as he stared at Bilbo's face. Torchlight warmed his soft, round features, his copper curls glowing brighter in the flickering light than any of the treasures surrounding them. Bilbo in that moment was the most beautiful treasure that Thorin had ever laid eyes on, and ever would.
The Arkenstone wasn't the only thing in the hall that Thorin wanted. Oh, how he wanted.
He brought his free hand up to stroke Bilbo's cheek almost reverently, disturbing the curls framing the his lovely face, so lightly that he felt his jewel shiver beneath his touch.
"I've never been better."
His fall from grace came right after his hard-earned rise to power.
He was a king betrayed. His blood boiled as he gazed over the stone wall at the army besieging his mountain. His mountain. His Arkenstone was in the hands of that filthy traitor Lake-man and that monster of an elf king.
And Bilbo was the one who'd given it to them.
His hands were around the hobbit's throat before he could blink. He dangled the pitiful creature over the edge of the stone wall with every intention of dropping the traitorous wretch to his death. Red clouded his vision, his anger beating ruthlessly against his common sense and demolishing it with flames that burned hotter than a dragon's breath, more ferociously than the inferno that destroyed Erebor and left Esgaroth in charred ruins on the lake.
"You can't do this Thorin. Please," said a voice in his head that sounded too much like the halfling's. "This isn't you."
He squeezed tighter, barely aware of the blunt nails clawing at his arms, the whimpering breaths leaving the hobbit's lungs and coming out in white puffs in the cold, malicious air.
The entire world seemed to be holding its breath while the halfling gasped for his.
"STOP THIS AT ONCE!"
Gandalf's voice boomed in the still silence. The grey wizard stood at the forefront of the army of elves and men, pointing his staff up at Thorin as if to unleash a slew of deadly magic upon him. "Let him go, Thorin! End this madness!"
Madness? Was that what this was? Thorin almost cackled at the thought. No, this wasn't madness—this was justice. Justice for those who dared betray him. Divine retribution for the stupid fools who stole what was rightfully his. He was making things right.
He wasn't mad. He wasn't.
The hobbit's movements weakened; he helplessly pawed at Thorin's arms, trying to croak out pleading words with what little air he had left.
He had no idea why he did it, but something broke within Thorin and he hurled the hobbit to the ground at his feet. The little thief coughed and choked, sucking in air through his bruised windpipes. The dwarf had to resist the urge to kick the pathetic little thing.
"Be gone. Out of my sight, filth, or meet your death by my hand."
The hobbit didn't even spare a last look at him as the stumbled away from the king, tripping and nearly falling over the crags and rocks that composed the makeshift wall. Thorin watched him run into the arms of his enemies, something identifiable dropping into his stomach like lead but quickly melting in the molten lava of his rage.
"Will you have peace or war?" Bard called up to him, his fearful voice carrying through the biting winter air.
Good. He should be scared. His enemies would run screaming from his wrath. His pride would not be his downfall—it would be his triumph.
Standing tall and proud as any dwarf king should, Thorin growled in his deep, heavy voice, "I will have war."
He was nearly felled in a war that he brought upon himself.
Enemies became allies against the greater enemy; the orcs threatened to overwhelm them, but Thorin had eyes for only one. Azog.
Leaving the rest of the orcs to his company and allies, the king fought and sliced and slayed his way across the battlefield. He took down anyone and anything that stood in the way of killing his most hated foe after Smaug. The Pale Orc was waiting for him, a feral smile on his cold, angular face. Azog called to him in Black Speech, taunting him, daring him to come forth. This wouldn't end like their last confrontation, oh no. This time, it would be Azog's head rolling across the ground.
Thorin charged at him with a bellowing battle cry, cursing Azog to his death in Khuzdul as he swung his sword at the orc. Azog parried with that giant mace of his, coming at Thorin with his clawed hook of an arm and scraping against his nigh-impenetrable dwarven armor. Thorin twisted away from Azog, rotating around him for an attack to the back. But Azog was too fast, blocking the strike and forcing Thorin backwards until he fell.
No. He would not take this lying down. Not today.
Thorin rolled out of the way before a giant boot could crush his ribs. He swung his sword up as he rose, guarding himself against what could have been a fatal blow to the head. Azog growled and lurched forward to attack; Thorin, still unsteady on his feet, jumped back and out of range.
It continued that way for a while, the two mortal enemies matching blow for blow, sidestepping and dodging the weapons seeking to end their lives. Thorin was wearing out, but Azog was too. The king was confident that his stamina was greater.
Then, he slipped.
His boot hit a patch of mud and down he went, giving Azog the perfect chance to run him through with iron claws. The pain numbed his senses before exploding, white-hot from his abdomen, through his body as if Smaug himself had lit his insides on fire. He couldn't hear himself scream through the throbbing of his heart in his ears.
Azog's evil, slimy face smirked down at him in triumph—so, it would end like this, then.
An elvish blade then stabbed clean through the Pale Orc, the glowing tip sticking out of his scarred chest. There was a squelching noise as the sword was drawn back out, a splatter of blood erupting from the decisive wound. Azog's eyes were wide in shock as he fell to the ground, dead.
The dwarf king barely registered the soft hands on his face, the hot tears soaking into his hair, the broken, panicked cries of his name, the names of his company, calls for help, in a voice he could have sworn he hated but missed more than anything in the world. Chapped lips touched his forehead, moving frantically against his skin as the hobbit sputtered nonsense at him.
And Thorin smiled despite himself. If he was going to die, then at least he'd die knowing that Bilbo still cared for him.
Then everything went black.
He fell to pieces when he remembered what he'd done.
First, it came to him in dreams. Nightmares. Flashes of memory that haunted his sleep, assaulting him with images of a pale, stricken face and nearly lifeless emerald eyes.
When the memories started coming together—the beating of small hands against his arms, fingers clawing at his hand that was squeezing a delicate throat until it was crushed in his palm, the little creature steadily going limp in his grip—
Thorin screamed.
His voice came out jagged and breathless, every little movement pulling at his wounds, breaking the stitching and cracking the scabs until he bled clean through his bandages. He thrashed against the many pairs of hands holding him down, snarling at the healer elves to unhand him, crying that he needed to see the hobbit, where in Mahal's name was the hobbit?!
A warm, wrinkled hand covered his eyes and forehead. Thorin felt an instant calm, a heated numbness that trickled under his skin and to every inch of his being. His heart still pounded in his chest, his breath still came in painful, strained gasps that did nothing but remind him of how he almost robbed the hobbit of the breath he drew to stay alive. Hot tears flowed in rivers down his cut and bruised cheeks, soaking into the pillow beneath his head. He didn't hear the soft chanting coming from Gandalf above him. He just sobbed and sobbed until his body felt dried out like a desert in a drought.
He wanted to die for the shame of his unforgivable crimes.
When he next woke, it was to the soothing hum of a song he didn't recognize and the gentle caress of feather-light touches on his arm. He let out a crackled groan and the humming stopped, filling the tent with silence. His whole face felt swollen, his eyes refusing to open, crusted as they were with tears long since dried. Still, he forced them open—he had to see, to see who was…
His vision was blurred, nothing but blobs of dull colors, so he scrunched his eyes shut and tried again in hopes of a clearer view this time. Blue eyes met green. Bilbo was looking down at him, a hesitant but relieved smile on his bruised face. Dark marks in the shape of hands covered his neck.
He was…he was alive. Battered and bashed up, but alive.
Oh, thank Mahal.
Thorin reached up slowly, afraid Bilbo would disappear at any second. He gingerly cupped the hobbit's cheek, stroking the soft, dirtied skin idly with his thumb. "Bilbo…" he croaked in a barely-audible whisper. He couldn't bear to look at the dark marks in the shape of hands curling around the hobbit's neck. The tears came, unbidden, before he could get another word out. He was exhausted beyond belief, yet his body sill shook with silent sobs that the fallen king had neither the want nor the will to hold back. He wrenched his eyes shut again to squeeze the rest of the tears out, ashamed of himself for being brought so low. From having climbed to the top of the world only to fall off his perch into a black abyss of guilt that ran deeper than any of Erebor's grandest mining tunnels.
He felt Bilbo's small, warm hands on his face, thumbs wiping at the tears that just would not stop flowing. Thorin choked on his own saliva and phlegm that clogged his throat from crying. Bilbo pressed their foreheads together as a gesture of comfort, of solidarity, of love. Thorin covered Bilbo's hands with his own massive ones, holding them in place against his face and never daring to let go. Not again.
"Can you ever forgive me?" the dwarf whispered, his breath hot and moist between them. Bilbo didn't answer right away, making Thorin's heart clench painfully in his chest.
"Maybe someday," the hobbit said, laying a kiss on Thorin's dry, cracked lips.
He fell in love with Bilbo Baggins.
Though for the life of him, he couldn't pinpoint exactly when it happened. But…maybe that was because there wasn't a single, isolated moment that really crossed the line between platonic and romantic love. It was more of a gradual thing. Somehow, Bilbo had gone from being no more than a thorn in Thorin's side at the beginning of their journey to being the most important person in all the world to him.
If only Thorin had realized that sooner. Then maybe…maybe the awful things he'd done wouldn't have happened. He hadn't realized the depths of his love for the hobbit until the gold sickness faded and Thorin was afraid he'd lost Bilbo forever, either to death or his own failings. If he had just—
"Hey, you," an all-too-familiar voice said, jarring Thorin out of his thoughts. The subject of his musings knocked him gently on the noggin. "What has got you so deep in thought?"
The dwarf tried to force a smile, but it didn't quite make it to his mouth. "It's nothing," he assured Bilbo, shaking his head.
"Sure, I'll believe that," Bilbo said flippantly, hoisting himself up onto Thorin's desk and facing the king. "Really. What's the matter?"
The smile was a bit more genuine this time when he met the hobbit's gaze, but Thorin still shook his head. "Nothing you need to worry about," he assured. He reached up and rested his hand against Bilbo's cheek.
"Now that just makes me worry all the more," Bilbo sighed, leaning into Thorin's gentle touch.
Thorin breathed out a laugh—a quiet, almost bitter sound—and looked down at his paperwork, unable to keep Bilbo's gaze any longer. His hand dropped from Bilbo's cheek to the parchment on his desk. How could the hobbit look upon him with such love and sincerity, with such worry, after all the awful things Thorin had done? He was so incredibly undeserving of the care and affection Bilbo seemed to give him so easily.
"Hey."
He felt fingers brush his cheek and almost cringed. Why was Bilbo always so unfailingly kind?
"Thorin. Look at me."
The dwarf hesitated, but eventually inched his gaze up until their eyes met again.
Bilbo gave him a gentle smile, caressing Thorin's cheek with his fingertips and slowly combing loose strands of long hair from his face. His eyes were full of such tenderness that Thorin's heart nearly broke in two.
"I forgive you," Bilbo whispered, as if it were a secret only to be shared between the two of them. But it was enough. More than enough.
It was everything.
Incognizant of the tears rolling down his cheeks, Thorin leaned up and kissed Bilbo full on the mouth, pouring every ounce of his love and regret into the gesture. Bilbo returned the kiss in kind, a soothing balm against Thorin's shame and guilt, telling him it's okay, everything is okay now.
Thorin may not have known exactly when he fell in love with Bilbo Baggins, but he could spend the rest of his life enumerating the reasons why.
I really enjoyed getting into Thorin's headspace in this fic. He's such an interesting character.
Until next time,
Chibi