Disclaimer: The Hobbit, all characters, places, and related terms are the sole property of J.R.R. Tolkien's estate, and Warner Brothers, New Line Cinema, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and WingNut Films.
Homesick
Bilbo tries to ignore it: the pounding hail; the loud rolling thunder; the lightning which flashes brightly, sneaking its way into the small cave where the company is taking shelter for the night. The hobbit isn't afraid of such weather, but it makes him think of the swirling snow he has trudged through today, fighting desperately to keep up and stay warm. He will have to face it again, with his body still shaking with shivers and his head throbbing.
He misses his hobbit hole, cheery fireplace, comfortable bed, warm dress robe, and soothing tea. If only he were back there now, he would not be so miserable and uneasy, but sleeping peacefully.
Sleep. He just needs to go back to sleep, let his body rest. But suppose there is waiting for him the rushing river rapids, water below and above, sucking him downward...?
Bilbo shudders and whimpers. It has been weeks since his tumble into the pond, so why now nightmares about rushing down a river, alone, surrounded by barrels?
He turns over and squeezes his eyes shut, aware of his heart pounding and sweat forming on his brow. A very loud crack of thunder booms as a bolt of lightning strikes somewhere nearby. Bilbo's frightened shriek is drowned out as he jerks upright. His eyes dart about wildly. To his amazement none of the others have been awakened by the storm.
Pulling his blanket closer around his body, Bilbo lies back down and buries his face in the rough fabric. Tears well up in his eyes and he stifles a sob. He is alone, depressed, afraid of sleep, and will be a burden to the company on the morn. The hobbit's body shakes with the mounting intensity of his sobs. Thorin's words mock him, "Useless…alone…unwanted…"
If Mama could see him now... What had she done to comfort him when he had been a wee lad, such as during a thunderstorm? He tries to recall. Perhaps it will help calm him down.
Bilbo pictures himself curled up in his bed in his room, shaking as the storm rages outside. His hand is buried in the fur of his black kitten. In the short silence after the thunder dies away, he hears soft footsteps cross the room before feeling the bed sink slightly as Mama sits down on its edge. He smiles slightly as his free hand is clasped and squeezed gently by her large, warm one. He clings to her hand, basking in the warmth, silent protection, and strength that are given in that simple clasp.
The hobbit jumps, startled by a flash of lightning and another rumble of thunder, not as loud as the others. Before his terror can return full force, Mama's other hand pushes some wet hair from his forehead.
Bilbo relaxes more as he imagines Mama softly singing near his ear. It may be a lullaby, but it is a song in a language he has never heard before. It is soothing and calming.
Mama's voice is drowned out at times by the thunder, but as time goes on, her voice becomes stronger than the thunder as the storm moves on. Bilbo's grasp on his kitten loosens. His chin sinks into his shoulder. He does not react to a faint flash of lightning and rumble of thunder. Gently he presses Mama's hand in thanks before sleep claims him and happily draws him into the land of sweet dreams.
A last flash of lightning reaches out toward the cave's opening. Then it is all quiet and still outside. The storm is over.
Still quietly singing an old dwarven lullaby, Bofur turns his attention from the cave entrance to the hobbit cradled in his lap and against his chest. The tenseness has eased from Bilbo's body, his breathing has grown slow and steady, and the furrow on his brow has relaxed. Bofur, in turn, relaxes, relieved his friend has finally fallen asleep. Watching the little creature crying and trembling had been heartbreaking. Bofur had hated not knowing how to help him. Slowly freeing his hand from Bilbo's loosening grasp, the dwarf tucks the blanket more securely around the smaller creature. Clumsily he brushes away the tear stains lingering on the Halfling's cheeks.
His singing changing to humming, Bofur looks at Bifur seated in front of him. He watches as his cousin finishes braiding a small tight braid in the hobbit's short curls and clips it with one of Bombur's extra clasps. Bifur inspects his work and nods in satisfaction. His eyes soften a little as he peers at the halfling, brushing the back of his hand over the creature's forehead. Over the hobbit's head the cousins share a long glance.
Together, the two settle Bilbo down between their bedrolls, careful not to wake him. Spreading their blankets over the hobbit, they cuddle close to him.
It is hard to tell which displeases Thorin more in the morning: Bilbo's new braid or the bad cold their burglar wakes up with. His thunderous frown does not lessen in light of the Halfling's protests to being fine and assurances he will manage to keep up with the others. One of his dark eyebrows shoots up when, to the surprise of everyone, Dwalin scoops up Bilbo, stating he will carry their companion.
And Dwalin does, cradling the hobbit like a baby against his shoulder, wrapped protectively in his cloak, and outfitted with Bifur's gloves and Bofur's scarf. Bilbo offers little protest, being groggy and cold and lightheaded. Instead he listens sleepily to Bofur and Bombur tell stories as they keep close to him and Dwalin throughout the day. Often his hand wanders over the braid in his hair curiously, his expression turning amazed and shy. And when he glimpses the pleased, reassuring smiles of Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur, he ducks his head to hide his blush. And his feelings of homesickness, unwantedness, and aloneness disappear.
THE END