A/N: This is just a quick, short angst featuring Bilbo/Thorin that I thought of in class. There are SPOILERS, so if you haven't read the book then run away fast xD Also, if any of you are waiting on the next chapter for my Assassin's Creed story 'Set My Spirit Free', updates are coming… I promise. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy! Thanks for reading!
The grave was deep.
Well, I guess all graves are deep. But this one was especially; its towering walls casting shadows over the open casket settled at the very bottom. The body inside was once none other than Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, rightful King under the Mountain. Flowers had been laid across his bandaged and clothed chest, and the Arkenstone had retired against his heart, its bright blue and purple lights spiraling in every direction.
Thorin's eyes were closed, just as his nephew's were in the opposing graves a few feet away. They had all lost their lives fighting bravely in the Battle of Five Armies, but as Bilbo stood over the burial of the man he once loved, he couldn't help but feel anger. Anger toward himself for not being a part of the battle, anger toward Azog, who had taken his lover's life, anger toward Gandalf for dragging him into the adventure which eventually lured him into falling head over heels for Thorin Oakenshield, and anger toward almost everything in between.
No, Bilbo did not clasp his hands over his eyes and sob; nor did he run away weeping, cursing the world and all of Middle Earth to burn in the dankest undergrowth of Mirkwood. He was a different Hobbit now. So, he stood, his gaze transfixed on Thorin's blank face, and for once he did not bother with the Ring in his pocket.
The sky darkened as they paid their respects for the three fallen Dwarves. A crack of thunder and a jagged bolt of lightning brought a light drizzle of rain to the valley surrounding what was left of Dale. Slowly -one by one- the surviving Dwarves began to retreat back to their campsites, some cradling broken arms and some hobbling on injured legs. Bilbo did not budge, however, and watched carefully as Bofur, Dwalin and Gloin closed the caskets and began packing dirt into the graves. They worked hastily, desperately, though Bilbo didn't feel the need to offer his help. His eyesight blurred as he tried to recall Thorin's face -which he'd just seen moments ago- his laughter, the mischievous smirk that crossed his lips when the two of them happened to be alone, but there was nothing.
"Lad?" Bofur asked, placing a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. The Hobbit looked up hesitantly, realizing that he must have been thinking far longer than he thought because there was no sign of any graves before them anymore. Bofur forced a weary smile upon his face and said, "We must be getting back to camp. This storm doesn't look too friendly."
Bilbo nodded once, curtly, and Dwalin and Gloin shared a knowing glance behind Bofur's back.
"I'll be right behind you." Bilbo answers. His voice holds nothing more than sound, and Bofur can't help but cringe. He pats Bilbo's shoulder again and moves past him, Dwalin and Gloin following closely behind.
The silence that follows is welcoming and helps Bilbo's thoughts to soar. Finally, as guilt and sorrow weigh down his shoulders, he's able to remember the times he and Thorin spent together. He calls to mind how the Dwarf had teased Bilbo of his "burglary" status back in Hobbiton, when they first met, and how they'd shared their first nights together in Rivendell. Bilbo almost chuckles when he remembers how Kili and Fili had scolded them for being so loud.
And all those times when Bilbo had displayed the Took side of his family, like when he stumbled upon Thorin in the recesses of Thranduil's dungeons, brought the company to Lake-town by hiding in empty wine barrels or bargained with the dreadful Smaug, the look that crossed Thorin's normally serious face was something Bilbo couldn't possibly forget. It was a look of pure joy; of happiness and delight and maybe even love.
Bilbo would do anything to see it again.
But, he's a different Hobbit now. He doesn't think about the meals he's skipped each day, or the plates he'd left dirty back in his Hobbit hole.
With eyes as dark as his heart, soul and hopes, Bilbo Baggins takes one, stuttering, ragged breath before he turns away from the only home he ever knew, the only man he could ever love, and returns to the rest of the company on sturdy knees. He never once looks back.
Like I've said before, he's a different Hobbit now.