Today's chapter's title is a quote by William Rose Benet.
This is a little short, and rather more of a filler, but I hope you enjoy it none the less :)
(...I did warn you about the ridiculous amount of metaphores incoming... did I? Strawberries!)
Behind Blue Eyes
II: Blue oblivion, largely lit, smiled and smiled at me
"I have never been so wrong in all my life," Thorin rumbles, voice as deep as the sea (or so Bilbo imagines), tromping over to where she is standing, and every step makes her flinch as his pain smashes into her without mercy, rolling waves crashing against a shaken shore.
She might have said something, then, about his injuries, or her own, but- … well.
Thorin winds his strong, strong arms (and who knew that she is thusly susceptible to a decent amount of muscle? No wonder the hobbit lads who came with pretty flowers and lush offers of courtship never succeeded in impressing her) around her despite the crushing pain in his side at the movement, and for a short (endless) moment all she feels is the safety of his careful hold, the warmth of his huge body, the thumping of his heart beneath her ear. It feels like sliding into a tub of hot water in the evening after a day spent working hard, with a glass of good wine and a bowl of fresh strawberries covered in cream on the side table, and a stack of fluffy towels waiting to draw her into their very own embraces. Thorin's suddenly so positive emotions are gentle waves of soapy, bubbly water lapping against her relaxing body, gratefulness and wonder easily keeping the guilt at having treated their burglar thusly at bay, along with the pain-
Gandalf – dratted old badger – of course has to take this chance of ruining a perfectly nice moment by clearing his throat. Loudly.
"Master Óin," he says, a few clouds of worry gathering, and Bilbo knows where this is going. And what revelations are going to come of it. Bother. "I believe our burglar is in need of your skills."
The elderly dwarrow raises his head from his ear trumpet (and the so far rather fruitless attempts of bending it back into shape, a faint flow of anger and dismay both trickling into her conscience only to be replaced by suspicion) upon this clear suggestion, and the sudden flood of worry washing across her when Thorin loosens their precious embrace is almost enough to distract her from the pain she has so graciously been reminded of.
"Bilbo? Are you hurt?"
And there goes the gentle contentment, taking along both wonder and gratefulness. A sudden storm approaches, but not one of destructive anger (as she is used to) – no, this time it is concern that churns up the deep waters of Thorin's emotions.
It is not, however, only his worry that reaches her, once more too many emotions mixing up and flowing together for her to keep them apart. Then Gandalf steps forward, far skies stretching across her, and with the clouds of worry comes a gentle wind of admonishment, barely strong enough to give her a sensation to concentrate on.
Taking a deep breath Bilbo opens her eyes again (just when did she close them?), only to blush and grimace when she realizes that all dwarrows' eyes are riveted on her small form, Óin already making his way over to where she is still standing with Thorin.
Just bloody perfect.
Well, there is nothing for it but to comply, and she knows it. With a slightly sheepish smile she lifts the now all but ruined handkerchief (well, piece of tunic, really, no proper hobbit would have used that strip of cloth as a handkerchief, but somehow she has grown a certain… fondness for it, over the past few weeks) from her side and tries her very best to ignore the alarmed gasps (for she cannot ignore the suddenly increased worry) when her dwarrows see the blood. Um, a lot of blood that is.
Bloody flipping awesome.
And she could not even tell what annoys her the most, her companions' worry, that she was hurt in the first place, the extent of the wound, or that they found out-
Gandalf frowns gloomily, the worried clouds growing dark with an anger that, as she knows from experience, stems from fearing for someone you care about. "Why didn't you say?"
Shrugging helplessly Bilbo's deeply blue eyes travel back to where Thorin is standing, watching her with equally blue eyes (though of an entirely different shade). His emotions have calmed a bit, upon taking in the wizard's sedate countenance, but the clear worry is still churning up waves already breaking, a white foam of pain clinging to them.
"He… was worse off?" she offers weakly, stubbornly returning Thorin's concerned glower. "Besides, I'd really prefer it if we climbed off this… thing before Óin takes care of me. Really." With this she presses the handkerchief back against her side, settling her free hand on her hip in defiant expectation after finally having put away that sword. (How any of the dwarrows can expect her to know what to do with it, given that they have no idea of hobbits' special abilities, is far beyond her.)
Gandalf, for once, seems to understand her reasons and even agree with them. He nods quickly, interrupting their Companions' concerned glances and mutters of worried disagreement.
"Are you able to walk?"
Huh.
Her knees, it turns out, are… trembling.
"I'm… not sure?" Bilbo reluctantly admits, quite distracted by the seething pool of worry for both her and Thorin that is Dwalin. Upon a short inventory it turns out her fingers, too, are shaking, and she is feeling rather faint. (And has been, really, for some time, but what is a hobbit to do when trapped on the back of a giant Eagle, many miles above ground?)
Dwalin and Dori exchange a sudden glance, then, and an explosion of fierce determination reaches her when the former plods over to where she is standing, easily picking her up (such wonderfully strong arms, all bulging muscle-) and depositing her on the eldest Ri-brother's back. He, she knows, is the strongest of all their Company, and will easily be able to carry her – still, she cannot quite suppress the tiny squeals escaping her upon being picked up and deposited thusly (which earns her a bubble of amusement from Dwalin, and a comforting air of sympathy from Dori).
The tall warrior then moves on to support Thorin, who is suddenly swaying on his feet.
Óin glowers darkly, and the general worry intensifies once more.
Bilbo feels faintly dizzy, unable to say whether it is her or someone else that is affected-
"Kíli!" Dwalin barks and the youngest nods eagerly, gently bumping his shoulder against his brother's before making for the stairs he has apparently spotted already. It is not the first time that Bilbo has seen the Durin family interact thusly, with barely any words necessary to understand each other. Thorin and Dwalin, she has come to comprehend, are a long-time couple. Whether they are married or not, and how such unions are looked upon by their people, she knows not, and thus does not ask. She is not even sure whether the other dwarrows of their Company know, and she most certainly does not want to spill any secrets that are not hers to share. And the boys… well. They regard the King and his Consort (or at least that is what Bilbo guesses that Dwalin will be, one day) as parents, the same exasperated but undeniably deep affection as wells up whenever their mother is mentioned clearly present in any interaction with Thorin or his beloved.
Therefore, she is not at all surprised when Kíli dashes up front, eagerly undertaking the unrewarding task of scouting ahead. He nimbly jumps down the first of the many giant steps to follow, apparently not at all uneasy about heights (not even after the very recent experience of flight). A short warning to be careful about loose slabs and pebbles, then he has vanished out of sight.
Fíli, in the meantime, quickly walks over to where his uncle and Dwalin are standing, already shifting his coat and scabbards in a way that will allow Thorin to lean onto him more easily.
(The King to be, Bilbo suspects, will not allow any but his closest family to assist him thusly.)
"I'll go take a look at those lose stones, aye?" Bofur cheerfully proclaims, already on his way to follow Kíli. His stone sense, the hobbit has been told, is the best in all the Company, which makes him the obvious choice for finding the safest path down. Grumbling deeply Bifur moves to accompany him, and Óin eyes Thorin and Bilbo with furrowed brows.
"Great. Now let's get the two of you down, to the closest body of water, and stripped, so that I can look at those wounds. Go!"
Climbing down that… thing (Carrock Gandalf called it, she remembers) is an experience Bilbo really could have done without. Dwarrows, she knows, are perfectly aware of where they can put their feet despite those clunky boots, as long as there is rock and stone beneath them. Still, no matter her trust in Dori and both his strength and abilities, her own fear wraps around her like unforgiving shackles drawing ever tighter, racing her heart and forcing her to hide her face in Dori's sweaty, dirty tunic.
The ridicule and mocking she might have expected at that, however, do not come.
Dori's gentle sympathy embraces her like a soft blanket, and Bombur's understanding tastes like a bowl of warm, calming chicken soup. Thorin's concern laps against her in time with the pain shuddering through him. His ache is what finally provides her with something to focus on, something to distract her from the worryingly unstable path and its disconcerting height, something to drive back the darkness dancing enticingly at the edges of her mind.
When they finally reach the base of the Carrock Bilbo means to raise her head again, take a look around, but a sudden spell of dizziness hits her and she stays pressed against Dori's back, still clinging to his shoulders with one trembling hand.
"I found a small well," Kíli cheerfully exclaims the moment Thorin has finally managed to make his way down the last step. "No caves though, but there's a group of trees next to the scarp that should provide us enough shelter."
"Well done," Thorin tiredly praises him, and even though she does not see it Bilbo can almost feel the excited grin nearly splitting the youngest's face in half.
Gandalf, once more, sees it as his duty to ruin the moment.
"Show us to that well, will you?" he instructs the dark-haired prince, sounding increasingly impatient. "The others can set up camp in the meantime, it will be dark soon."
They reach the small well after a short walk, and once more Dwalin is the one to pick her up, this time depositing her on a convenient rock. He does not leave – not that she honestly expected him to, really – and with a low sigh she resigns herself to her fate when Óin trudges over to where she is sitting. It is bad enough that Thorin is here, she really would not have needed Dwalin to… well, see, as well. But, it does not appear she has a choice on the matter.
Gandalf is already kneeling next to her, unbuttoning her all but ruined waistcoat with fast and unexpectedly nimble fingers. Dori, too, moves over to help him, and all Bilbo can do is hamper them as little as possible.
After that the no longer white shirt follows, Bilbo is dimly aware, knowing that her dwarrows are in for a surprise.
(And she, most likely, for a whole lot of arguing.)
Boys will be boys, and Gandalf... will be Gandalf.
