His hair flutters with the strengthening howls of the wind and fly past his sharp features. Dark dirty strands, matted and knotted with drying blood stain his skin and he can taste the essence of something bitter and copper on the edge of his tongue, and feels his bones weighing more than they have ever before beneath the worn and broken layers of his flesh. The sword feels as heavy as the Lonely Mountain itself, but it is soaked in the crimson blood of Azog the Defiler and Thorin cannot bring his fingers to unravel themselves from the unshaped and dirty hilt with just as much stubbornness as that of which his eyes refuse to leave the sight of the dying orc; choking on the source of his life before him. He is grasping at his throat where pitch black darkness is spreading, and his knees are colliding with the stained soil beneath him as Thorin watches with a twisted sense of finality. He knows this is a sign if he had ever seen one so clear and true and relieving, and when he is able to pull his gaze from his most vile enemy he sees what the end has brought.
Bodies of allies and enemies alike lie strewn as if toys from a child's box; old, and withering and forgotten. It does not take long before the sword is slipping from his fingers and his eyes searching eagerly for members of his Company and he cannot help but hope that they have all survived- because such significant lives should not be lost after such a long and perilous journey.
His legs do not move, but his orbs do. They do and something breaks free from his throat when he sees them- the rest of his Dwarven Company, grim and filthy and bloody but nonetheless very much alive. They are leaning on one another and supporting each other and he can count every single one of them as they tread towards him across the field of battle.
All except one.
His breath hitches as he searches for a flash of pale skin and curls of hazel, delicate bones and determination glimmering in the brightest orbs Thorin had ever laid eyes on. He is searching among the Company, because surely they would not leave him behind. They would not leave behind their Burglar, their Hobbit, their Bilbo.
But as they inch closer he can see Kili smiling and his gaze filtering over Thorin's shoulder and the King forces his exhausted body to twist back.
And there he is; a shining beacon within a valley of death and desolation. He looks worn and weary and he is far too pale for Thorin's liking, but Bilbo is there and he is alive and smiling and close enough for Thorin to take several strides and wrap his strong arms around him and never let go.
Bilbo is sheathing his sword- marred and dirtied with black and forgotten innocence- and he is nearing- so close now. Thorin feels a smile- so unreal and glad and unbelievable happy- stretching at his lips and he moves to meet his Hobbit halfway. He turns completely and takes a step and then there is chaos.
No one sees the dagger in the dark.
The moon is shining a light on a flash of silver and Thorin can feel his throat tightening and his head spinning faster than the weapon flung from the grip of a dying orc.
Someone cries out behind him- Bifur or Bofur he thinks, but at this moment he does not care. He cannot care.
There is silence and it seems almost unreal. It is as if everything had frozen then- in that one moment wherein Bilbo's smile turned into a pained, wet gasp and the long dagger sheathed itself into his chest through his back and right over his beating heart.
Thorin does not feel his legs move.
But Bilbo was frozen, his lips parted and his eyes widened to reveal innocence the King had not seen since he had looked in the mirror as a young Dwarfling. There is a single moment in which no one does a single thing- and then it is hell and chaos and a pandemonium as Bilbo wavers and his knees are hitting the soil so hard his entire thin form trembles terribly.
But by then Thorin is at his side- unsure of how, or when, but that he simply is- and he is on his knees and his arms are bereft of the weariness and the exhaustion because catching and cradling the Hobbit's fragile body is all his mind is telling him to do at the moment.
And so he does, and he holds Bilbo close as the dagger shifts and he gasps, his precious crimson blood leaving a trail of red across his torn and worn attire and Thorin's arms.
He is struggling to breathe and there is more blood dripping from his lips as his tips his head further into Thorin's arms and that is when the King finally finds his voice.
"Bilbo…" It is as soft as the quietest whisper and yet laced with the utmost urgency. He swallows desperately because this cannot- thiscannotbehappening- not now, not when they were so close, this-cannot-be-happening.
"Help! Someone! Healers! Help him!" He barely recognises his own voice above the ragged breaths his Hobbit is drawing with a growing desperation. His eyes are fluttering close and Thorin is saying something- except he does not know what- something similar to hang on, my Hobbit, and Bilbo please, breathe and he is begging as he had never done so in his life.
"Thorin…" It is light and pained and he hears it as the loudest thing across the now raging battlefield. Bilbo's small hands clutching to his coat as if it were his life-force. His eyes are wide and Thorin can see his fear and his acceptance and his apologies shining from within as clear as the dagger protruding from his chest.
He does not know how much time has passed (or if any has), but Bilbo's eyes are shutting and his harmonious voice is drifting and Thorin has never been more desperate in his life because this cannot be how it ends. This cannot be what happens. This cannot be it.
He almost does not notice Bilbo slipping from his hold and into that of a healer because all he can see is the red of his Burglar's blood drying on his arms and when he does look up, all that is left to greet him is the healer's retreating form and the glint of sliver from its stand within flesh.
And suddenly, nothing else matters.