Chapter 3: This Soldier Knows

"The hunting parties are back," Bilbo said, breathless. "Master Bard says that they've brought the herb you asked for."

Thranduil didn't even glance up from his work. "Well, don't just stand there idling. Go and fetch them!"

Three days after the battle, life in the camp had settled into a routine. Thranduil proved as relentless a nurse as he had been a jailor, and he remained in Thorin's pavilion day and night, with Bilbo as his errand boy. Thorin did his part by stubbornly refusing to die, despite shattered ribs and the raw wounds gouged deep in his chest; the greatest danger was that his injuries would fester, and so the hunting parties that rode out from the encampment every day had been ordered to find a certain herb that would protect against infection. Bilbo ran and fetched the herbs, as ordered. No sooner had he returned than Thranduil sent him off again, this time with a message for Bard about the patrol rosters. By the time that was settled, he was late bringing Thranduil's supper to the pavilion, and soon it was evening: time for the general meeting.

Bilbo didn't mind. On patrols, or as a member of the hunting parties that were tracking down the last of the goblins and Wargs, he was useless. But he could run errands and take messages, and the work kept him too busy to fret. It wasn't easy, keeping the peace between the three armies—Thranduil and Dain still refused to speak to one another—but Bilbo had been caught squarely between the Bagginses and the Tooks for his entire life. He knew something about sorting out squabbling children.

"I don't understand," Bilbo said to Gandalf on more than one occasion, "why so many important folk insist on being so confoundedly stubborn! I ran fifteen separate messages to Dain this afternoon, and I might as well have just told him Thranduil thinks you're a old grumping fool every time."

"You're a hobbit," said Gandalf, as if that was explanation enough. "And even you, Mr. Baggins, couldn't possibly expect thousands of years of mistrust to vanish in a single day."

"It's been the better part of a week, actually," Bilbo said, feeling contrary and mulish.

Gandalf scowled. "Mind your manners, and don't make a fuss about things that are beyond you." Soon after, though, he turned back to Bilbo and said: "Besides, think of the healers, and the cooks, and the soldiers assigned to patrols. Things are hardly as bad as you're making them out."

He was quite right. The rumors that the Elvenking was tending to Thorin Oakenshield had set an unusual precedent. Soon, elven and dwarven healers were borrowing bandages and medicines from each other, debating the best treatments for infected Warg bites, and sharing hot drinks during hurried meals. Dain's personal physician was often seen tending to Thranduil's soldiers and Bard's men alike, and Elvish herbs and medicines, gathered in the Greenwood, were being distributed not only to Thorin but throughout the encampment. It was the same with the cooks: provisions were scarce. It only made sense to share whatever food could be hunted or foraged.

Bilbo heartily approved, though he had no notion how extraordinary it all was. No one had ever told him the story of Doriath; the names Thingol and Nauglamír were strange to him. As far as Bilbo was concerned, the enmity between the elves and dwarves was much like the feud between the Sackvilles and the Whitfoots, which dated back to the memorable night when Will Whitfoot, as a young tween, had made off with the entirety of Cameillia Sackville's pantry.

He knew better than to say anything of the sort to the rest of the dwarves. His friends knew him too well to take offense, and Dain was uncommonly kind to him, in his own gruff fashion. But the dwarves of the Iron Hills had decided that Thranduil was more likely to poison Thorin than to save him, and that Bilbo was nothing more than thief and a meddler. Bilbo had overheard more than one argument between Dain and his commanders on the subject. Dain's final words were always the same, and they baffled and pleased Bilbo in equal measure.

"My cousin chose the hobbit twice over. I could no more doubt Bilbo Baggins than I could doubt Thorin himself."

And so Bilbo kept running errands, and the days passed by. It seemed unfair that the world could simply get up and carry on after so much strife and misery, but nobody had asked Bilbo's opinion on the matter. He managed as best he could, and made only two allowances for his grief: at night he slept as near to Thorin as Thranduil would permit, and every morning he stopped by the quiet, miserable tent where Fili kept watch over his brother's ruined body.

It was, Bilbo thought, the saddest part of the whole sad tale. When they carried Kili off the battlefield, one of the dwarven healers told Fili that giving him a quick end would be a mercy. Pale and half-dead himself, Fili swore by Aulë that he would gut anyone who tried. He hadn't left Kili's side since. Every morning just before dawn, Bilbo brought them breakfast and sat with them for a while.

"Maybe he'll wake up today," Fili said each morning. "Don't you think he's looking better?"

Bilbo couldn't bring himself to answer. There was nothing he could say that wasn't a lie or a piece of cruelty. Each morning he brought Fili enough food for two, and never commented when he took it all away, untouched, each night.

The night before the hunting party brought Thranduil's herbs back to camp, Bilbo had stayed with the brothers for longer than usual, watching while Fili sat at his brother's side and scribbled endlessly on parchment, a string of half-finished designs that he explained to Bilbo in detail. "It'll be a series of catches and levers," he said, "detachable, or at least with different attachments, so he can still hold a shield or use a bellows, or hammer and anvil. I can start taking measurements as soon as—" he faltered, glancing down at the space where Kili's right arm should have been "—well, you know."

"You're very good at that. The sketching."

"When he first apprenticed us, Thorin tried to teach us separately. Thought it would be good for us. But I was no good in the forge and Kili didn't have the patience for anything else. Eventually he gave up and let us work together." Fili paused, smoothing over the parchment with calloused hands. "Do you think I'm going mad?"

"No," said Bilbo firmly. "Of course you're not. Though I've wondered about myself, these last few days."

"He's going to wake up," Fili said. "He is. Just like Thorin. They're going to be fine, and Mother will come from the Blue Mountains. You'll see." He returned to work, rubbing out one of his earlier drawings and beginning again.

His stubborn faith was too much to bear. Bilbo made his excuses and fled.

That night, he sat at Thorin's beside and talked to him for hours about nothing in particular: telling him how brave and loyal his nephews were, reciting comfortable old stories about his childhood in the Shire, asking all the idle questions that came into his mind. He hoped that one day Thorin would be able to answer them.


"...and we'll be on short commons within a week, never mind the goblins," Bard said, near the end of the meeting.

With supplies running short and the goblins defeated in detail, it was time for the elves and men to take their leave of Erebor, but there were a hundred different details to be sorted out before than could happen, and Bilbo had flatly refused to carry any more messages between Dain and Thranduil; they would talk face to face, or not at all. In the end, it was the two Mirkwood princes who attended the meeting, not Thranduil himself. The elder of the two hardly spoke, but the younger charmed everyone in the room, except perhaps for Dain. He left arm was in a sling and he walked with a limp, but he was cheerful in spite of his injuries.

"King Thranduil will stay as long as need be," the prince said now. "As will I, and a few of our guards and personal servants. My brother will take the rest of our army home to Mirkwood."

"Personal servants," Dain said, eyebrows raised. "How very fine."

Legolas ignored him. "Mithrandir assures us that Dol Goldur no longer poses any threat, and we plan to double the patrols along our borders. You may rely on a peaceful winter in Laketown, at least."

"In a year, Laketown will be nothing more than an outpost," said Bard. "One day you will visit Dale, Prince Legolas, and you will find it even greater than it was in Girion's day."

Dain leaned forward. "Rebuild Dale? You've said nothing of this to us."

Bard looked startled. Then he straightened his shoulders, his face carefully blank. Bilbo repressed a groan. In the past few days he'd learned to recognize that particular expression as a prelude to endless headaches and frustrations. "Why should I?" Bard said. "I do not answer to you, Master Dwarf. We have as much right to Dale as you to the Mountain."

"As long as Thorin lives, he rules. You must take up the matter with him."

"Not an easy task, under the circumstances. Laketown is in ashes. My people need a home. How long do you expect me to wait for permission from a dying king?"

"Thorin's not dying!" Bilbo said, indignant. All eyes turned towards him, and he flushed under the sudden scrutiny. He hadn't spoken since the meeting began.

"Of course," Bard said. "And you speak for Thorin Oakenshield, then, in the meantime?"

Bilbo cursed himself for a fool. "I, er. I didn't mean—that is to say, I'm not—"

"He does," Dain said.

"Very well." Bard sounded only slightly incredulous. "Then we will meet later, Mr. Baggins, to discuss the matter of Dale."

What was Dain thinking? Surely if anyone was going to speak on Thorin's behalf it should be Dain himself, or Dwalin, or Balin, or Fili: anyone other than Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. He wasn't even a dwarf, for goodness sake! "Er, yes," he managed. "Well. That sounds fine."

It must have been the right response. Dain gave him an approving nod, and the talk turned to other matters. For Bilbo, though, the rest of the meeting passed in an anxious blur. It was full dark by the time Legolas and Bard finally wandered off, still deep in conversation, and Dain vanished before Bilbo worked up the nerve to demand an explanation.

Thranduil wouldn't need him back right away, so Bilbo let his feet carry him along, his mind restless, an uncomfortable knot in his stomach. The days since the battle had been miserable, but at least he'd had work to keep him busy. It was good to feel useful. But making decisions in Thorin's name, and risking someone's wrath no matter what he decided? He would rather face down a Warg. Possibly even a whole pack of Wargs.

The torches were already lit, and cooking fires flickered here and there across the encampment. Bilbo found a seat on the cold, rocky ground near one of the smaller fires, letting the heat sink into his skin. He was always cold, these days. But a group of dwarves soon settled in around him, noisy and more than a little drunk. They looked at Bilbo was undisguised dislike. Bilbo quietly slipped away only a few minutes later.

It was odd. Thorin could forgive Bilbo's theft of the Arkenstone, and Bilbo could forgive Thorin's sudden, desperate fit of cruelty. But dwarves who had never known either of them, who hadn't the slightest claim to Erebor or its treasure, had decided that Bilbo was a troublemaker at best and a traitor at worst. If Dain hadn't defended him, their dislike might have turned into something uglier. As it was, Bilbo bore the dark looks and mutterings with indifference. There were only thirteen dwarves whose opinions he gave a farthing for, and the Company had made it clear that they bore no grudge.

With that comforting thought in mind, Bilbo headed for one of the places where he felt assured of a warm welcome. If anyone could give him advice about speaking for Thorin, after all, surely it would be Thorin's heir.


When Bilbo stuck his head into the tent, Fili was curled up beside his brother, one hand wound through Kili's unbraided hair, talking quietly in Khuzdul.

"He's breathing easier," he said, when he finally acknowledged Bilbo's presence. "Maybe he'll wake up tomorrow."

Bilbo's heart ached. "Do you mind if I sit with you for a while?"

"We'd be glad of the company." Fili looked at him more closely, his gaze sharp. "Hard day?"

Bilbo didn't bother to say that all the days were hard. Fili knew that better than anyone. "I could use some advice, actually," he said. "If it would be a bother."

"I have a lot of free time on my hands these days," Fili said.

"It's just—Dain said something, at the meeting tonight. About Thorin." Bilbo hesitated, searching for words. "He said that I spoke for him. I know that sounds ridiculous. But it was strange, the way he said it, and now Bard wants to meet with me to talk about Dale. I haven't the foggiest idea what to do, or why Dain thinks I should manage it."

Fili whistled, long and low. "Uncle never does anything by halves, does he? Oh, don't look so grim. It's nothing terrible."

Bilbo didn't feel particularly reassured.

"When Dain says that you speak for Thorin, he means that you're the king's representative," Fili said. "But it's not just about making decisions. It's about—well, it's about trust, more than anything. Trust and affection. Glóin's wife manages his affairs in the Blue Mountains, so we say that she speaks for him. And when Thrain vanished, it was Thorin's duty to speak for him, since he was Thrain's heir. Does that make any sense?"

"No! I mean, of course it does, but I don't want to be in charge of anything. I wouldn't even know where to start. Can't I give the job to someone else? You're Thorin's heir, aren't you?"

Fili frowned. "It would be a dreadful insult. A dwarf only gives that right to a spouse or another close relative. A brother or sister, a child. A refusal would mean that you didn't value him enough to see his body buried, or his affairs put in order."

"But I don't mean that at all," Bilbo protested. It was a horrible thought.

"Then don't refuse." Fili looked down at his brother, a strange expression on his face. "I speak for Kili. That's why everyone has to do as I say and leave him alone, even though they think he's as good as dead no matter."

Oh. Oh. "And that why Dain stood up for me," Bilbo said, realizing. "Because even if the dwarves don't trust Thranduil to take care of Thorin, it's my decision to make." The idea that he had so much power over a king like Dain—it beggared belief. "Why didn't Thorin just let Dain speak for him?" he said, trying vainly to straighten out his thoughts. "Or you?"

"Dain probably told him that Kili was dead."

"And he knew that you would be grieving. That makes sense."

Fili smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "And he knew that soon I would be dead, too," he corrected. As for Dain: they may have been cousins, but Thorin never liked him very much."

"But Dain was willing to go to war for him," Bilbo said, setting aside the first part of Fili's response as something too painful to touch.

Fili shrugged. "They lived in Erebor together as boys. Thorin thought Dain was weak. Passionless. He hated that. When Kili and I were children, he told us that no one could be a king without passion. The dragon destroyed Erebor with fire, he would say, and we can't reclaim our home without it."

"And when he asked Dain for help at the beginning of the journey, Dain turned him down," said Bilbo, an old memory resurfacing. "Thorin said as much, that night at Bag End."It was strange. Bilbo hadn't thought of Bag End in a long time. Since the battle, at least, and maybe even before that. "What a little idiot I was back then," he said. "Fussing over cutlery and pocket handkerchiefs."

"Not an idiot," Fili said. "None of us ever thought that."

Bilbo looked politely incredulous.

"Well," he amended, "Kili and I didn't think that."

"What about Thorin?"

Fili shrugged. "He thought that you didn't have any fire, either. He said once that you'd been born and raised in—oh, there's no good translation. A toybox? Someplace safe, comfortable. False. The Shire unsettled him. You hobbits all looked like children to us, and you were a tiny little thing with blue eyes and no heart worth bothering about. That's what Thorin said. But you proved him wrong soon enough. A child couldn't have stood his ground against Azog the Defiler, and a coward wouldn't have tried."

"You make it sound like something out of a story," Bilbo said. Suddenly the tent felt impossibly small and confined. He wanted to get out. "What was I supposed to do—stand back and let him die?"

"You could have, but you didn't. You burn brightest for his sake."

Bilbo took his leave soon after, shaken and confused. It was late. Thranduil would likely wake him up even earlier than usual tomorrow, but Bilbo couldn't bear to return to the pavilion. Instead he slipped the Ring on and walked out past the edges of the encampment, far away from the tents and torchlight and watchmen. When he found a comfortable rock to sit down on, he lingered for almost an hour, looking up at the moon and drawing idle lines in the snow that blanketed the ground.

It was a still, cold night. When Bilbo began to shiver, he wrapped his arms around himself, wishing that Thorin was there sit beside him; perhaps even to hold him. He carried Fili's parting words close to his chest, like a piece of jealously guarded treasure. You burn brightest for his sake.

Perhaps speaking for Thorin wasn't such a terrible burden, after all. He could always pester Gandalf for advice, and the rest of the Company as well.

"At least I can try," he said aloud. "I can't promise that I won't muck it all up, mind you. I'm only a hobbit, and no Bullroarer Took, when it comes down to it. But I guess you knew that from the beginning."

Presently he got to his feet, dusted the snow off his clothes and headed back towards camp. He would stay at Thorin's side for the rest of the night, and in the morning—

—well, he would deal with the morning when it came.