~*~ How do you celebrate getting out of school? Writing a multi-chapter Hobbit fic. Not my first time writing for this fandom, but the first published. Pairings included will be pre-Thorin/Bilbo, and pre-Ori/Dwalin.
Warnings: violence, blood, mild fluff
Musical Muse: Hobbit/LotR Playlist, plus watching An Unexpected Journey for the thousandth time
Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien, or Peter Jackson, or Martin Freeman or Richard Armitage or anyone else mentioned here. If I was, I'd be more drunk with power than I already am, and I would have released the trailer for the second movie by now.
Grudging thanks to my beta Kat, who did fix errors but took her sweet time about it. Still love her though.

~*~Thorin's Nightmares~*~

Thorin's nightmares always began the same, for as long as he'd been having them. He was before the Mines of Moria, in the great Battle of Azanulbizar, where his kinsmen and warriors fell, dust and blood choking the air. The horror of so much death and the crushing weight of defeat lay heavy on his shoulders, but Thorin could feel the greatest dread of all building in his chest. Every time, he crested the top of a rise to see Azog, the Pale Orc, The Defiler, roaring to the skies and holding the head of one whom he held dear. He was always too far away and much too late to do anything except wail.

The nightmare stayed the same, but that one detail often changed.

For many long years, Thorin relived his grandfather's death, watched him be slain over and over again. Blood would gush from beneath Thror's beard to stain the ground below, his eyes blank and expressionless, before the head was unceremoniously thrown to Thorin, who could only stand rooted and watch as his grandfather's killer approached him next. He always recalled the breathless shock of seeing the unexpected death, could still feel the ache of his throat after he cried his grief out to the world, and the touch of cold terror he felt when he knew what would come to him next.

Thorin believed this was a horror enough for a long time, but eventually the dream began to change, and it was others' deaths, others' heads The Defiler showed to him. Always it was someone whom he cared deeply about, and every time the experience never failed to pain him as if the death were real.

Sometimes it was his father, whom he had not seen in all these long years – missing and mad, or perhaps dead. Or, his dear younger brother, already dead before Azog killed their grandfather, but the dream knew no such logic. Dwalin or Balin featured also, for they were dear to him, and he knew that his people could not have survived without their aid.

All-too-frequently it became Fili and Kili, his beloved nephews, their happy calls and young lives silenced forever. The days after he dreamed of their deaths, he always ensured they were close by, taking them to private lessons and not letting them out of his sight. His dear boys, who followed him tirelessly and never questioned their uncle's occasional quirks. They tried so hard to please him, to carry weight on their unready shoulders. If they thought any task would make him proud, they would strive to complete it and find his favor. Thorin did his best to prepare them, but he could never stop himself from worrying over his sister's sons. Any thought of them lying dead on a battlefield was far too much to bear.

Thorin had learned to deal with his dreams and to silence the cries he emitted while waking. The dreams were rare, but frequent enough to warrant learning how to control himself. The first weeks on his journey, in the presence of his company and the wizard and burglar, he remained as stoic in sleep as he was awake. They did not know what plagued his sleep, aside from Fili and Kili, and perhaps Dwalin and Balin. And Gandalf, but he was a wizard. That was to be expected. None of them said a word about the shadows that he knew would cover his eyes after a night of fitful sleep, and for that he was grateful.

Then Azog returned – his empty eyes, staring from that marred face and promising death and pain to Thorin. Azog had returned, and so did the nightmares. For nights he saw his grandfather, his father, his nephews all fall. Every night he felt the stab in his chest anew, and every morning he told himself the pain could not grow.

The dream started as it usually did – he was fighting for his life, surrounded by his enemy and very few friends. His boots slipped and slid in bloody mud as he fought towards the higher ground, where he hoped for an advantage, yet always was met with the sight of still more death. It was there he heard Azog's roar as he always did. He turned and could only watch with horrified dread as the triumphant arm raised its gruesome trophy.

But for once, Thorin did not immediately recognize the head that was displayed before him. There was no long white beard, no flowing locks of gold or black – it was definitely not a dwarf's, though it was strangely familiar: a pale and hairless face, held up by short brown curls. The horror already lodged in his chest surged so strongly it threatened to choke him when he realized who Azog had just killed.

Azog drew his arm back and tossed the hobbit's head before Thorin, who could not stop the cry that viciously ripped from his chest.

Thorin jerked awake, gasping for breath. He wasn't on the battlefield anymore; he was back with his company, all asleep around him. If his cry had escaped into the waking world, there was no sign from his sleeping company. Fili and Kili were asleep at his side, curled around each other, where they had slept without question since Azog's return. Deep rumbling snores filled the shallow cave they were camped in (after thoroughly checking the floor), and once he calmed his heart, Thorin could identify each to its owner. Gandalf sat in the back corner, hat shadowing his presumably sleeping face.

Thorin sat up, rubbing his face to rid himself of the remnants of his dream. It was still fresh in his mind, as clear as if he had indeed witnessed it – Bilbo's eyes half-closed and dark, clever mouth slack. A face gone still. It would never smile so brightly and scowl so strongly, could never again so aptly express its owner's thoughts so well. Azog's thick fingers gripping at deep blonde curls, holding the head up as though it weighed nothing at all—

Thorin shook his head frantically, ignoring the sharp snaps from the ends of his hair hitting his face. The burglar wouldn't be so easily maimed, he reminded himself. The hobbit was fiercer than expected; there was a burning fury hiding beneath that fussy exterior. Thorin had seen enough before he had fallen unconscious, surrounded by flames and guarded by a hobbit who had just stabbed his attempted beheader to death. Bilbo was a surprising fighter, and what's more, was surrounded by dwarves in the safety of this cave. No harm could befall him here.

He was jerked from that rather comforting thought when it finally occurred to him that there actually was no hobbit-shaped lump to be seen at all among the dwarf-shaped lumps.

A rather undignified scrambling brought him to his feet and to the entrance of the cave they were sheltering in. It was actually little more than three large boulders that provided the smallest possible shelter for thirteen dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit, but it was still shelter. What's more, it was quite tricky to navigate the stone field surrounding it, and the largest of the boulders provided an excellent height advantage to whoever was on watch.

Thorin paused at the edge of that boulder, staring down at the sight before him. Stretching as far as the eye could see was Mirkwood, the deep dark forest where Gandalf's friend Beorn dwelled. It awaited them for the next day's early trek, for Gandalf had deemed it unwise to venture into the woods at night. Thorin stared at the trees, thinking mad thoughts about some foul creature that could have snuck into the cave to steal their hobbit away, when a slight movement on his peripheral drew his attention up. In the light of the full moon, he could see two pairs of feet hanging over the edge of the boulder – one booted, and the other large and bare and covered in hair.

After taking a few steps forward to where he could see past the edge, Thorin could see who was sitting guard with hobbit accompaniment. Ori and Bilbo peered down at him quizzically, distracted from their moonlit watch by his sudden appearance. Relief crashed through Thorin's chest again, and he suppressed his sigh of relief. There was their Halfling burglar, not maimed or missing, but simply enjoying the night with their scribe.

Thorin looked away from the pair. Deep breaths of the bitterly cold night air cleared his head of the last traces of the dream, and he felt himself steadying. There was no danger to any of his company, he reminded himself; not here, not at this moment, not from any phantom from his dreams or creature from the woods. The hobbit was well-protected from any sort of harm, at least until he needed to face the dragon Smaug.

He was still restless, could feel the itching in his legs and uneasiness of his mind. There would be no more sleep for him that night. If Gandalf was right, and they would have shelter with his forest-friend, then he would sleep the next night in a sturdy hall, where he would know for certain his company would be safe. But until then, he would guard them all himself, even if it took all night.

His mindless footsteps had brought him up the path to the crest of the boulder that formed their shelter. Ori and Bilbo were perched on the edge, facing the dark forest. From this height, he would be able to see Erebor if it were daylight, but it was impossible to see at this time of night. This made him scowl deeply, and he continued to frown at the darkness as he came to stand beside the burglar and the scribe.

Bilbo looked up at him boldly, much as he always had. From the start, in the hobbit's hole in the ground to a few days ago, standing upon the Carrock after finally realizing his importance, Thorin had yet to see Bilbo look away from him or fail to meet his gaze, except when Thorin had been too sudden with his words. During the incident on the mountain pass, and again upon the Carrock, when he had been anticipating a rebuke, Bilbo had been unable meet his eye, and for the life of him Thorin couldn't understand why that bothered him.

It was only after listening to Bilbo attempt to talk his way past Bofur that Thorin realized that there was a line he had crossed, and if it hadn't been for the goblins, Bilbo would have walked away from this quest without a second glance. If he had, then there would have been no one to stop Azog from taking Thorin's head, and the company would have been lost as well. The hug atop the great height had been his poor attempt to make amends for his behavior. Judging from the way Bilbo now acted around him, he seemed to have succeeded. The hobbit had regained boldness, and he now met Thorin's gaze as if daring him to question his presence next to their watchman. Thorin couldn't help but approve.

Ori looked nervous in his presence, as usual. A blanket, one of the few they had left, was wrapped around his and Bilbo's shoulders. Ori was hunched over his book, fingers smudged and still clutching his quill. Those, and the few pages spread over Bilbo's lap, lead Thorin to believe that the pair had been writing when they should have been watching for danger. However, he could not find it in himself to be angry at them. Ori was still so very young, and pushed himself much too hard to prove himself to his King and his brothers. And Bilbo wasn't even supposed to be on watch in the first place.

"Get to bed, Ori." Thorin ordered, and stood back as the lad reluctantly stumbled to his feet, leaving the blanket and a bottle of ink next to the hobbit as he stumbled down the path. Thorin waited until the young dwarf entered the cave before seating himself in the place he had left. Bilbo hadn't moved at all, nor spoke, as the king settled in next to him. He simply gazed at him with a still-questioning look.

Thorin searched his mind for some conversation starter, but found he had nothing to say to the burglar. Anything that came to mind would inevitably lead to Bilbo asking him why he was there, and he found he did not wish to speak of such things. So he remained quiet, staring at the dark forest, as Bilbo, after a long glance at him, dipped his quill back into the ink vial and continued writing.

~*~Chapter two will feature Ori and Dwalin, and will be up soon. Please review!