Author's note: head's up – this chapter and the next are a tad gruesome, but I will try to keep it to a minimum. I think that addressing Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli's injuries in a realistic way is important, but I also appreciate that a gore-heavy fic is not everyone's favourite.
Funeral pyres burned hot and bright at various locations throughout the camp. Despite the healers' best efforts it was impossible to save everyone. Gandalf and Elrond wore solemn looks as they walked among tents and burning bodies. They half-listened to the conversations being held around them so as to pick up any news that circulated. As of yet, no word had spread to them about the rest of Thorin's company. Gandalf felt that it was high time someone checked in on the other twelve dwarves. It was mid-way through the sea of tents that Gandalf left Elrond in search of any of his former companions.
At their parting, Elrond walked as one determined in the direction of the nearest forest. In true form he retained the poise and grace that is typically forfeited to haste. If memory served him well, which it invariably did, the plant Heilleir could be found in this part of Middle-earth. It was not as potent as Athelas, but it would have to do to serve Thorin. Away from the tents and pyres the morning silence was unbroken, but for the soft crunch of fresh snow beneath his feet.
Elrond needed very little sleep, and rejuvenated mostly through walks in the forest. This was an admirable quality to possess, as his time was in high demand. His current foray into the woods afforded him the recuperation that he sorely needed. He had worked tirelessly tending to Thorin and dressing his wounds since Meneldor had carried him to the lays about Erebor. It took the combined effort of his magnificent healing abilities and his arsenal of plants to stabilize the dwarf king. But, as Elrond found after sorting the mess that was Thorin Oakenshield, his endeavour was not a lost cause. The dwarf king was in remarkably good shape considering his afflictions. His greatest concern was drawing the poison from the orc wound. Thankfully Gandalf had done a great deal of good finding Thorin and healing him as best as time would allow.
Presently Elrond slowed his pace. The halfelven lord walked silently, like a hart through the mist. The fog was still thick in the dense forest and would take longer to burn off, provided it would actually burn off. The desolation of Smaug was far reaching indeed, but it was as if this forest was enchanted and immune to the evils of a dragon. It alone stood as woodland unscathed by either the great worm or the terrible battle. The forest was almost exclusively coniferous, but a few deciduous oak trees, maples, and silver birches stood stark and barren in the brisk November air. This land was distant from his own home, but it seemed to Elrond that regardless of the location the scent of approaching winter tied everyplace together with a likeness that belonged to the circadian rhythm of the world.
Elrond closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. The enormity of the forest caressed and consumed him. The trees swayed in the breeze and the forest hummed with life and energy. The scarcely heard rustle of pine needles was courtesy of the jilted flutter of a cardinal rushing to somewhere or from something. Elrond had no memory of this forest, but yet it brought him comfort. The feeling was akin to the remembrance of a long forgotten childhood dream that felt real despite reason claiming it had been fabricated. There was a friendly bite to the air; some might call it "fresh". It coyly teased its way between fall and winter. In a certain light it felt like a warm autumn day, but in others the hash promise of more snow seemed not far off. This time of year was, after all, rather fickle.
Now it was a breeze that rustled the pine needles. The change of air movement carried with it all the scents of the forest including, Elrond noticed, the subdued floral scent of Heilleir. This plant was curious, in that it bloomed between September and early November. Elrond skimmed the needle-carpeted floor as he moved toward the faintly odorous plant. He had only to walk a short distance to find Heilleir. A small patch was nestled close to an ancient oak tree. The tiny light blue flowers were a lovely juxtaposition to the decaying leaves and mulch from which it grew. Elrond was in luck, for the leaves were thick and a healthy dark green. The plant was not ubiquitous by any stretch of the imagination, but the amount that was there would suffice.
Elrond produced a velvet satchel from his raiment to collect the leaves of Heilleir. Standing, Elrond looked up at the trees that sheltered the forest floor from the snow that had fallen the night before. They were ancient trees, and very strong. The forest was vast and beautiful; all evidence suggested that it was entirely passed over by the battle that had ragged not far from its borders. Perhaps that was why a blithe mood struck the halfelven lord in this unfamiliar place; like his own land, it was one untouched by evil.
…
Elrond heard Bilbo before he saw him. It was a sound that would have escaped any other passer-by, save perhaps Gandalf. The halfling's gasping sob was muffled by a hand -his own- pressed against his mouth. Carefully and quietly Elrond peeled the flaps of the tent open to look in at the hobbit and injured dwarf. Elrond could only see half of Bilbo's tear-stained face, but he could clearly make out the deep creases of sorrow etched on his brow.
The scene was lugubrious, but seeing the concern that the halfling felt for the dwarf king only reaffirmed the halfelven healer's decision to have come to Thorin's aid. He slipped quietly into the tent, bringing with him not only the plants that he had harvested from the forest, but also two pails of boiling hot water that he acquired on his walk back. Elrond let the pails down so that they made a light thud on the ground. It was intended to alert the hobbit of his presence, but not to startle him.
Indeed Bilbo heard it and it did not startle him tremendously, though he did give a brief start. He wiped his eyes and cleared his throat as he turned to address Elrond. "Hello, Lord Elrond." His voice was a low monotone, almost a whisper.
"Greetings, Master Baggins," Elrond returned. "Has Thorin's condition changed since I have been away?"
"I'm afraid not. He still has a terrible fever and hasn't shown any sign of getting better." Bilbo frowned as he looked down at his very still and silent friend.
"That is the most we can hope for now. It is well that his condition did not deteriorate. I found the plant that will draw the poison from Thorin, and it will only take a moment to prepare what is needed."
"That's wonderful," Bilbo said a bit hollowly, but excitement was creeping into his voice. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Certainly," Elrond replied as he began to lay his dried herbs and fresh plants out on the table. "I brought water back to cleanse Thorin's wounds again. It would be a great help if you would clean them while I prepare the Heilleir."
"Yes, of course," Bilbo replied hurriedly as he grabbed one of the buckets and a clean cloth.
As eager as he was to help, Bilbo hesitated when he got to Thorin's side. His wavering at the bedside had little or nothing to do with the fact that Thorin was in naught but his skin under all those piles of blankets; after all, he had seen Thorin and the rest of the company in various states of undress so often that it was no longer an issue for the once prudish hobbit. No, it had almost everything to do with the fact that Thorin was terribly hurt and Bilbo was not sure whether he would be able to stand seeing his noble friend desecrated so.
The pounding of Elrond's pestle into the mortar was a reminder that time was passing and he should begin the task set to him. So, slowly he reached up and layer by layer he peeled back the thick wool blankets to reveal Thorin's broad chest. Bilbo gaped at the damage he could see on Thorin's body. The first gash that caught his eye was the one Elrond had mentioned – the orc wound. It looked like a black grimace, delighting in the pain it brought to the dwarf's flesh. Bilbo quickly turned his glance away. He looked at the blank canvas tent wall on the other side of Thorin and let out a slow, puffing breath. After taking a moment to regroup, the hobbit looked back at the body in front of him. There were many livid bruises and other lacerations scoring Thorin's torso. It appeared as though they had been cleaned and dressed at one point, but now loose bits of wool from the blankets clung to the half-dried half-coagulated blood.
Bilbo decided that working from the top down was the best course of action, so he began with the ugly, crooked orc wound. The cloth moved methodically and mechanically over each affliction, one at a time. Oscillating from hot water to warm body was almost meditative,. With each swipe of the cloth fresh blood pricked around the edges of the cuts. The newly surfaced blood mingled with water only briefly before the mixture was cleared away by Bilbo's cloth. Thorin's flesh pinkened in response to the added stimulation.
Elrond's pestle came to a rest, and presently the halfelven moved from the table to Thorin's bedside. Bilbo said not a word as he stood up and cleared away from where he had been seated. He watched Elrond quietly as the skilled healer sat and prepared to dress Thorin's wounds. In addition to the mortar which held the ground Heilleir Elrond also had a small blade. He produced it from an ornate sheath, carved with elfish letters and beautiful symbols. When Elrond unsheathed the blade Bilbo could see that it was no more than seven inches long. It had a stunning silver handle that matched its sheath and it was set with amethysts.
Elrond steadied a hand on Thorin's chest, just below the orc wound. Bilbo gasped when gleaned a hint of what Elrond intended to do. "What are you doing?" he asked in a pinched voice.
"The wound must be lanced and properly drained in order for it to heal and not infect the rest of Thorin's body," Elrond said, stopping to explain.
"Oh," Bilbo said weakly as he watched the first cut of Elrond's beautiful blade into Thorin's already damaged body.
The wound oozed blood and black bile, but Elrond was quick to sop it up. Elrond worked as methodically lancing and wiping the wound as Bilbo had when he cleaned it only moments ago. He whispered Sindarin words in a low voice that Bilbo could not make out. This went on for what felt like ages before Elrond brought forth the Heilleir. He packed the gash with the pounded plant and stood to return to the table. Bilbo stared at it with morbid fascination. Already he could see the angry flesh starting to be soothed and the dark red skin fade to a healthy pink.
In the untouched bucket of water Elrond began to mix the remaining Heilleir with sandalwood, mint leaves, lavare, nepeta, and honey. The tent was splendidly fragrant in a matter of moments. Elrond took the still steaming bucket of water over to Thorin's bedside. With a new cloth he bathed Thorin's entire torso in the lovely smelling concoction, being careful to avoid the Heilleir-packed wound.
"I will need your assistance again in a moment, Master Baggins," Elrond said, returning the cloth to the bucket for the last time.
"Of course," answered Bilbo. "What would you like me to do?"
"Thorin will need to be re-bandaged, but it will take us both to do it. I will lift him forward and you will run the bandaged behind his back so that we can keep them clean," Elrond explained. "But first I will dress the wounds with adeps lanae."
Bilbo was very familiar with adeps lanae. It was used in the shire for a great number of things, mostly by farmers who had cows with chapped teats, or to weather-proof woollen garments. He could vaguely remember returning home as a young child, scraped up from a day of adventuring through the woods, and having his mother put it on his small cuts. Evidently it was good for healing more than just little hobbitling scrapes, for Elrond applied it to each of Thorin's wounds, small or large.
When Elrond was done he wiped his slick fingers on an old cloth and fetched the yards of bandages stored under the table. He instructed Bilbo to go on one side of Thorin's cot while he stayed on the other. Bilbo fussed with the cloth while he waited for Elrond to lift Thorin's body. When he did, Bilbo leaned close and passed the cream-coloured yardage under the dwarf's back. They played this game of lift and pass until Elrond was satisfied that all the wounds were securely covered on the torso. Once secured and cut, Elrond portioned out what he needed of the remaining cloth for the smaller cuts on Thorin's arms.
With the blankets returned to Thorin's fully bandaged body, Elrond and Bilbo felt as though they could relax a bit. A silence brought on by Bilbo's weariness spread between them as they sat. It was nice to sit in the quiet of the tent, feeling at least a bit more optimistic than hours before. All that was missing for Bilbo was a nice pipe to smoke and some food. How long has it been since I've eaten? Bilbo wondered for the first time in a while. He vaguely remembered eating cram or some such thing at some point, but when exactly he was uncertain. He thought, not for the first time, back to his cozy hobbit hole and his pantry filled with cheeses and meats and bread. I could certainly do with a large plate of bacon and eggs right now!
"His fever should break sometime tonight or tomorrow," Elrond said, ending the silence and diverting Bilbo's thoughts. "And I should expect him to wake within two or three days."
Bilbo, who had been looking a bit lethargic, brightened at this. "Wonderful! I surely hope he does."
Elrond offered him a smile and began to say something else, when Gandalf rushed into the tent. The halfelven and hobbit were both instantly on alert.
"Lord Elrond, you must come quickly," Gandalf said in a barely contained huff. "Bring your healing supplies."
All in a flurry of motion, which Bilbo could barely follow, Elrond began whisking things into satchels and handing things to Gandalf. It took mere moments for Elrond to gather all that he needed. He hurriedly followed the wizard, but stopped and turned to Bilbo before exiting the tent. "Stay here with Thorin. If anything changes for the worse then come find me." Without waiting for a response he breezed out of the tent.
Bilbo, who had been startled into silence, ran to the tent flaps and called after them, "What has happened?!"
Gandalf slowed his pace briefly to call back to him, "Fíli and Kíli…" was all Bilbo heard before the wizard continued on his way.
Bilbo's heart sunk at Gandalf's words. He had grown to love the boys and he knew Thorin would be heartbroken if he lost either of his sister-sons. The hobbit was left feeling dejected, worried, and tired. A wave of fatigue washed over him so quickly that he had to hold out a hand to brace himself on the table. His heart clenched and his stomach did flip-flops thinking of the youngest dwarves of the line of Durin. Surely with Elrond there they would be alright… Right? He was too tired and too overcome not to sit down, so he settled himself in the chair at Thorin's side.
His mind reeled and competing scenarios chased around in his brain, like savage dogs tumbling and running one another down. Bilbo's own injuries had not been terrible, but he had seen what had become of others not as fortunate as himself. He glanced over at Thorin and a wave of pain crashed into his heart. What had happened to Fíli and Kíli? His head throbbed where he had been hit and he squeezed his eyes shut tight against the pain. His injuries may not have been great next to Thorin's, but they were still taxing, and despite the anxiety that gripped his chest, the need for sleep was stronger and would win out.
The tent was still perfumed with Elrond's mixture and pleasant memories were conjured up in Bilbo's half-sleeping mind. The memory that presently struck him was tied to the sweet-smelling honey; he thought of their brief, but enjoyable stay with Beorn. Bilbo clearly remembered the queer, but beautiful lodgings of Beorn the skin-changer. The bright flowers which he did not know the names of and the bee-loud pastures stood out among the scenery he recalled. Of all the memories of horses, dogs, Beorn's great hall, bees, bears, and other foreign things he could have focused on, one thought in particular stuck out to him…
That first night at Beorn's had done wonders to boost Bilbo's morale and the morale of the entire company. The warm hearth, honey, bread, and mead greatly soothed his aching homesick heart. At that point in the journey Bilbo had lost track of the number of days since he had slept in a proper bed. It seemed as though an unfathomable amount of time had passed since he had slept in his own bed at Bag End. But there he was tucked snuggly into a straw bed covered in warm woollen blankets, and he felt comfort.
Bilbo had been gloriously sated and succumbed to sleep almost before his head hit the pillow. Unfortunately his moment of easy restfulness would not last long. Terrifying visions of raging fires and fell creatures growling in the dark world around him caught him in a panic. He gasped and woke with a start, trembling in the pale light that shone through the smoke-hole. It had been a night terror. Once awake he could no longer remember the specifics of the dream, but his heart pounded in his chest and he was all in a cold sweat.
A quick look around informed him that he was the only one awake. His eyes adjusted more to the dim light and upon closer inspection he found Thorin's bed to be empty. Panic gripped his chest anew and added to the adrenaline that still coursed in his veins from the night terror. Maybe it hadn't been a dream. Maybe something really had happened, or there was some snarling, growling beast among them! But no, another sweep of the area found the dwarf king reclining against the back wall. Bilbo sighed with great relief.
An overwhelming urge to be close to Thorin had taken hold of Bilbo. He stared almost mournfully at the stoic silhouette across the room. A flash of moonlight caught Thorin's eyes and their gaze met. Now he had to get up to meet him, if for nothing else than to explain why he was gaping at their leader in the middle of the night while everyone around them was asleep. He had not quite admitted all of his feelings to himself, but he would confess that he was remarkably protective of the dwarf, especially after their encounter with Azog. There was also no denying that he enjoyed Thorin's company more than that of anyone else, but feelings that reached beyond that were debatable.
And so, Bilbo had found himself negotiating the maze of sleeping dwarves to meet Thorin, who looked on passively as the hobbit approached in the darkness. Bilbo had thought that his eyes must be cheating him when he saw the faintest flicker of a smile grace the usually controlled features of Thorin Oakenshield. Surely that gleam of joy was not directed toward the approaching hobbit. Or maybe there had been no smile at all. Maybe he had imagined it. Bilbo thought back to their embrace atop the Carrock. Well, stranger things have happened… Bilbo thought, then decided that he was thinking too much.
Wordlessly Bilbo settled himself beside Thorin. He opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. They sat like that for some time, neither saying a word. They were so close that the engery of their bodies could be felt passing between the slight hobbit and stout dwarf, yet not so close as to touch. They both secretly relished in the closeness of one another, but privately guarded the feelings. All around them the sounds of snoring dwarves could be heard and somewhere off in the distance the sound of growling grew louder.
Finally the silence was broken. "It's funny how all I've wanted was a nice bed to sleep on and now that I have it I can't sleep at all!" Bilbo jokingly lamented.
Thorin was pensive for a moment. At length he asked, "What was your dream about?"
"How could you possibly know it was a dream?" Bilbo's cheeks flushed, slightly embarrassed by how evidently transparent he was.
"How many other things could it be, Master Baggins?" Thorin said. "After all, you said it yourself: all you've wanted was a nice bed, but now that you have one you can't sleep." After an extended silence Thorin added, "Dreams of dragon fire so real that I can feel the heat of it still haunt me. I am well versed in the language of sleeplessness."
"Of course," Bilbo replied. He supposed that Thorin hadn't spent 195 years on this earth not to learn a thing or two about the ways of the mind.
He sat quietly for a moment, and then it hit him. All of it. The events of his terrible nightmare played out in quick succession behind his eyelids. He vaguely remembered that Thorin had asked him a question, and started spilling out every detail he could remember. "There was fire everywhere. It was tall and all around me. I could hear this terrible growling, like hundreds of wolves or maybe bears. The growling got louder and the flames got higher. I saw you in the distance. I couldn't get to you because of all the fire. And all I wanted to do was save you but I couldn't! I tried running, but it was like trying to run through cold molasses. I cried out, but you couldn't hear me. I kept yelling to you. I would have done anything-" Bilbo stopped, suddenly aware that he just confessed to dreaming about Thorin to Thorin. He knew his dream had been terrifying not only because of the fire and growling, but in fact it was chiefly terrifying because he thought he might lose Thorin.
After a moment Thorin prodded, "Go on."
I would have done anything for you, is how it originally sounded in his head, but Bilbo checked himself and said, "I would have done anything to save a member of our company, but there was nothing I could do. The sounds were getting closer, then you slipped away into the darkness." Bilbo shook his head as if the simple act would wash away the memory. "That must be how it ended because I don't remember any more." The hobbit shuddered, like a cold breeze had struck up his spine.
Then he glanced sheepishly at Thorin, partly to gage his reaction, but also making sure he was still there. The dwarf was, of course, still there. Presently he looked down at Bilbo. His face was serious, but friendly with an almost affectionate tone to it. The hobbit only blushed deeper in the light of Thorin's gaze, continuously made aware that he was being childish. When he had set out from Bag End he had been Tookishly determined to live up to Gandalf's recommendation, but in this moment he felt as far from a burglar as Beorn's home was from the Shire.
To conceal his growing embarrassment, Bilbo asked, "What kept your from sleep? If you don't mind me asking."
Thorin did not answer right away. Instead, he placed an arm around Bilbo's shoulder and gently pulled him closer. When the hobbit stopped shivering and relaxed into him he said, "There is neither time enough, nor words enough for me to explain."
Those were the last words spoken by either friend that night. They enjoyed the companionable silence, pressed close to one another in the dim moonlit night. Sometime later, with a comforting arm wrapped around his shoulders, sleep once again had seemed a not-too-distant fate for the hobbit. A very bold part of him had thought that Thorin would make a far greater bed than the one laid out for him only metres away. He quickly glanced up to see Thorin already nodding, so he snuggled closer to the dwarf. Thorin had been clad unusually simply, only in a tunic and light trousers. Bilbo was glad for it and found the hard muscle and soft fabric a pleasant combination.
Convinced that Thorin was asleep and he could relax into the warm of another body, Bilbo's breathing slowly evened out as he succumbed to slumber. Thorin, however, had not been asleep just then. He waited for his companion to nod off before he let his arm slide from Bilbo's shoulders to his midsection, carefully pulling the hobbit closer. Thorin dropped his nose to nuzzle the honey coloured curls and gently placed a kiss there. He rested his head on Bilbo's and the two fell into a blissful sleep.
…
Bilbo played that memory over and over in his head, twisting a lock of Thorin's hair in his fingers. When his fingers became idle and he could hold his drooping eyelids open no longer, he gathered his blankets and nested uncomfortably on the cold hard ground. The wind howled outside and the snow pelted the tent, making the scene altogether unpleasant. To try to ease the transition into sleep, he considered the happy memories he had of Thorin; the evolution of their friendship, every emotion he had felt, the way the moonlight illuminated the silver in Thorin's hair. This he did until sleep took him. It was to be a fitful sleep and he seemed fated to have nightmares of the worst sort. Except this time there would be no Thorin to sooth him when he awoke. Not really.
End note: next chapter I promise more Fíl, Kíli, and Company!