A/N: This is my first ever Hobbit-based fanfiction, so I decided to go with a Baggenshield theme. I apologise in advance for any spelling and/or grammatical errors.
Set at the end of B.O.F.A.
WARNING: contains some scenes and dialogue from the movie/book.
DISCLAIMER: These characters are Tolkien's and I do not own them or any of the material in Peter Jackson's film adaptations.

Thorin's Time

Breathing had become a struggle, each of those inhaled came in a harsh rasping noise and those Thorin managed to exhale came out short and left him struggling for the next. The metallic taste of copper had begun to seep into his mouth, only to cause great discomfort in the back of his throat. It burned to cough, and it hurt to breathe.

Thorin knew, deep down, that he was dying. He also knew that he had come out of this battle victorious. He and his fellow dwarves had defended his rightful kingdom of Erebor from Smaug, countless Orcs and goblins and Mahal knows what else. Yet, he could not help but think that this had all been for naught. Fili and Kili, his nephews and both of whom would have been his successors, were dead. Most of the other dwarves, as well as other men and elves, had also been killed in battle. This, he thought, was all on him.

He knew, though he hated the thought with such an immense passion, that he would not see his kingdom flourish. He would not see his nephews grow older and wiser, and he would not embark on any perilous adventures with his fellow dwarves again. He would not see his burglar again.

It was this thought that summoned a lone tear from Thorin's eye.

In an attempt to find something to anchor upon his will to survive, he pictured each and every dwarf that had accompanied him. First was Dwalin and Balin, next were his beloved Fili and Kili, then Dori, Nori and Ori, followed by Oin and Gloin, whom were then followed by Bifur, Bofur and Bombur.

After a few moments, Thorin tried to picture Bilbo's face for the last time. It pained him, knowing full well that he had banished his most loyal friend. Bilbo had stood by him through everything, loving the stubborn dwarf completely unconditionally. The poor halfling would surely be dead by now, and he had not had the chance to apologise or say his farewells.

Thorin's breath had become, during this time, even more rasped and quietened. He tilted his head slightly and was mentally preparing himself for when he gave into death's touch when he heard the soft thudding of footsteps on the abandoned battlefield he was laying in the midst of. Thorin turned his head in the direction of which the sound was coming from, and that's when he saw him.

Bilbo Baggins, Master Burglar. That damned hobbit was alive!

"Bilbo!" Thorin called out, the strain on his remaining breath causing himself to cough and wheeze.

Bilbo crouched beside Thorin and held the dying king's hand in his own, using his other hand to brush stray strands of bloodied hair out of Thorin's face.

"Oh, Thorin..." the halfling whispered when he took notice of Thorin's wounds.

"Merely a scratch," Thorin managed to say, his breath rasping as he spoke.

Bilbo rolled his eyes at the dwarf, shaking his head.

"Yes, and Smaug was just a small lizard that you'd find in my garden back at Bag End. Don't give me that nonsense; you know it isn't a scratch, stubborn dwarf."

This earned him a chuckle from the king, which in turn sent him into a prolonged fit of coughing.

"Bilbo, I need," he grunted as he attempted to somehow regulate his breathing, despite straining his limited breaths, "I need you to know something."

"What is it, Thorin?"

Thorin drew in the deepest breath he could, though this only caused him more pain in the back of his throat and deep in his chest. He began to cough, more intensely and violently than he had previously, struggling more and more to catch his breath. For a brief moment, he could not catch his breath at all.

"Thorin! Don't you dare! You cannot die, not now, not when there are so many more adventures for us to embark upon," the distressed hobbit half-pleaded, half-sobbed.

Bilbo rested his head on the painstakingly slowly rising and falling chest of the dying king. He whimpered quietly into Thorin's furs and armour. He stayed there, just like that, for what felt like an eternity before he heard Thorin speak again.

"Forgive me," Thorin said softly as he mustered up all of the energy he could to put his hand on top of Bilbo's.

Bilbo nodded his head, not taking his eyes off of Thorin's.

Thorin tried to squeeze Bilbo's hand as he spoke his last words to his dear halfling.

"Farewell, Master Burglar. Go back to your books... and your armchair... plant your trees, watch them grow. If more people... valued home above gold... this world would be a merrier... place..."

And with that, the King Under the Mountain breathed his final breath, though Bilbo swore he heard something else escape Thorin's lips. He had heard it before, and he knew it was a dwarvish phrase. He sat there and cradled Thorin limp, lifeless body as he pondered.

Am.. something.

It took the hobbit a few more moments to realise what it was that Thorin had whispered with his final breath.

"Amrâlimê," Bilbo whispered, his gazed fixed upon the king's face.