Hello viewers! This is just a oneshot I came up with really quick- I hope you enjoy it and...it's just really meant to be lighthearted and fluffy. Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit. Everything belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. Please note that I did do research on symptoms of shock, but the treatments in this fanfiction are rudimentary at best due to the rough estimate of the time period. Do not use these methods at home. Seek medical attention.
His footfalls are heavy and his head is bowed as they make their way down the Carrock. Exhaustion weaves its way through every bone, muscle, and nerve in Bilbo's body, making every movement seem like it takes hours. He travels like an injured bug may travel across a table; slowly, falteringly, stumbling blindly. It takes all of his self restraint not to cry aloud. He has just been accepted into Thorin's company, something that is not to be taken lightly and he does not want to mess it up now, of all times.
So he bears his silent, burdenous companion Weariness down the Carrock upon his back, bending forward to account of her weight. She whispers in his ear of sleep, hearth, warmth and comfort. He growls over his shoulder at her to be quiet and quit it, because he's trying to concentrate on where he's stepping so he doesn't go tumbling off the mountain, thank you very much.
When Bilbo closes his eyes he sees the Pale Orc and the monstrous Warg, standing over Thorin's limp body. He can't believe he has done what he has done. Thorin is right- what was he thinking, going to tackle the beast? He must be the most suicidal hobbit in all of the Shire. His Took side provides that, he is sure.
He does not know what he wants now- does he want to rest? If he does, it will be reprieve for everyone in the company undoubtedly, not just him. If he does, it will be nearly impossible to muster the strength to return to his feet. Best to keep going and bear his cargo as far as he can, for then, at least, he will not be tormented by such thoughts of having to rise again when he is finally at peace.
Bilbo stumbles into Bofur, who catches the halfling gently against his body, having heard the rocks shift beneath wooly feet. He says nothing, only gives the hobbit an understanding smile, setting the smaller creature back to his feet.
He is fine.
He is fine.
He is fine.
He chants this to himself to pass the time, trying not to feel the aching deep within his bones, nor the dull throb in his head which makes it feel as if another company of dwarves is having a feast in it. His heart roars with the disbelief at his first kill.
He cannot feel his fingers.
His breath hitches and when he looks down he can see blood coating his hands. Blood that is not his. He tastes it in his mouth, the coppery substance feeling vile and terrible and he feels nausea rearing its ugly head. He cries out now, fear wrapping its spindly, dark fingers around his heart and tugging him into its black depths. He knows this; the world around him gets darker still. Blackness creeps into the edges of his vision like spiders who weave their webs, and the world tilts, and the last thing he thinks before he sees white is: I'm going to fall. I'm going to die.
Thorin has not heard their burglar talking to himself as the others have, but he does hear the inhuman shriek and the cry of, "I'm going to die!" He halts abruptly, hearing the collective shouts and gasps of his companions. Gandalf is brandishing his staff, but Thorin can only watch, frozen, as Dwalin yanks Bilbo by the scruff of his neck back onto the Carrock, keeping hold of the little creature as his knees buckle. Kili and Fili hover around their hobbit nervously, flittering about and trying to help but not quite knowing how. Dwalin carefully sits Bilbo down, leaning Bilbo's limp and rolling head onto his own shoulder.
Gandalf runs forth, a swift stride that belies his age. He kneels in front of the little creature, gazing at him with bright blue eyes. Something in his gaze softens when he sees Bilbo's unseeing stare at something off in the distance, and he runs a paternal hand gently through the honey colored curls. Bilbo's breathing is rapid and shallow, his chest rising and falling irregularly. "Shock," he says quietly, grimly, and presses the halfling's hand. "It will wear off. He will be fine. He cannot continue on his own, though. He needs rest, and food, and perhaps something to take his mind off of the battle. Has anyone stronger than water in their skins? Here, give me a blanket from one of your packs, and start removing his vest and anything tight. Leave him in only his waistcoat, button up and trousers- good. Just keep him still for a few moments."
Dwalin gazes down at Bilbo, who grips his sleeve and twists it in his little hands, little fingers white. He has never been close to the halfling, for there had been no such need to be so and the creature had been something of a nuisance, baggage on their journey. This was not so. Dwalin realized this when Bilbo had willingly stood up to a group of bloodthirsty Wargs and Orcs to protect the dwarf king.
He sees Bilbo sway dangerously after talking over his shoulder for a good long while (at thin air, which is concerning in the least, because Dwalin has seen warriors and their ways after battle and this is not uncommon) before abruptly doubling over, coming to a complete stop, and tilting over the side of the Carrock.
Time seems to slow down as Dwalin tracks Bilbo's fall with his eyes, his arm moving without his mind registering what it is doing. In seconds Master Baggins is safely back on the rock structure, but leaning very dependently on Dwalin's arm and shaking like a leaf in high powered winds. He turns his elfin face into Dwalin's side, clutching at his arm although he cannot stand up.
This simple act of complete and utter trust causes coils to tighten in Dwalin's stomach as he tightens his hold on the little creature and lifts him gently into his arms like a dwarfling. He knows in this moment that they must stop. Bilbo simply cannot go on in this state. He looks up at Thorin, who clenches his jaw and stares right back, and Dwalin knows that Thorin is aware of what he is thinking. He may not like it, but he will tolerate it.
"We rest at the base of this rock for the night," Thorin's voice echoes quietly on the breeze to everyone's ears, but they cannot stop here; it's a little staircase of a thing, barely suitable to climb on, much less camp on. Everyone knows it, but no one wants to continue.
"I will carry him," Dwalin volunteers, because even though Bilbo is only a little shorter than the average dwarf he is by no means heavy; in fact, he's a little sliver of a thing, trembling and weak in his arms. Dwalin's heart seizes in his chest and he takes a few breaths to calm himself down.
Bilbo is swaddled in a blanket like a babe, only his head of curls and his feet poking out. It makes him easy to pick up; Dwalin leans Bilbo's head on his shoulder, trying to make the halfling as comfortable as possible.
They descend the Carrock in relative silence, the only noise the occasional tumbling rocks and a little cough here or there. They reach the base of it by sunset, the evening light casting brilliant streaks of green and purple across the sky and on the ground. Bofur wordlessly begins to set up Bilbo's bedroll area near his own, and it is prepared within moments. Dwalin faithfully places Bilbo Baggins gently down with as much care as he can muster, but at the change in (position? Temperature?) he stirs, whimpering something that pulls on the warrior's heartstrings. He uncurls Bilbo's fingers from where they've fisted in his coat, laying them softly at Bilbo's sides.
"Sleep, halfling." He commands gruffly, and Bilbo's eyes slide closed. They don't open again.
Everyone is exhausted and so there is little talk at dinner that night; Dwalin contemplates waking Bilbo, and Bofur states this thought aloud. Gandalf advises against it, though, saying Bilbo needs sleep and rest and for his mind to recover and his body to heal.
Dwalin knows that you never forget your first kill; it remains there, just in the dark corners of your mind, waiting to launch itself back into the full spotlight of your thoughts. Mahal, he still thinks about his first kill from time to time, and it always manages to make his stomach toss. The axe had cleaved straight through the being's head…
Bilbo makes a little noise and shifts over, eyelids flickering but not opening. Dreaming, then. Dwalin notices his blanket has fallen from his shoulders and, as he is the only one on watch, he stands, stretches and approaches the small halfling. There are tear tracks on his cheeks and a bit of blood on his lower lip, signifying he's bitten it in his sleep. Dwalin sighs, grabbing the blanket and readjusting it so it rests around Bilbo's shoulders.
He knows it isn't much and that it doesn't make up for the months of silence and glaring that he's sent Bilbo's way, but it's something, and that makes everything a little easier to face. The light has faded completely now and stars wink down on the occupants of the camp fondly, their gazes soft and their lights bright in the sky.
And in the morning, when Bilbo regards him with wide eyes, Dwalin will pretend that he didn't do anything.
When Bilbo thanks him quietly that same morning, though, a small, trepid smile turning up his lips, Dwalin can't contain his own little grin.
Thank you for reading and please leave me a comment on your thoughts!