Author's note: Mahal help me I will never finish this fic! I thought that this would be the last chapter, but that appears not to be the case… At least one more chapter will follow this one. I've already written most of chapter 11 and all that remains is to edit it. Anyway, here we are, chapter 10 – enjoy!
…
"You know, my mother once said, 'you should try to learn what you are running to, and from, and why,'" Bilbo recounted Belladonna's aphorism* to Thorin as he idly worried the worn fur cuffs of Thorin's jacket. "And you know, in all my life I never would have thought that I would be running to you."
Thorin considered this quietly for a moment before asking, "And what are you running from?"
"Hmm? Oh, nothing I should say now. It was not long ago I was running from a dragon, quite literally!" Bilbo joked, but he knew this was not Thorin's meaning. "Now I am only running to - to you, for I love you. And I daresay it's been an age that I have, or it feels as such, at any rate." Those words, kept locked up by his tongue for so long, now flowed freely and easily from his lips.
"I am running to you because even after trolls and goblins and orcs and dragons I find that you fill my heart with light and love and all the splendid things that one should run toward. I am running to you because just one look from you starts my heart and just one touch catches my breath. You are an adventure, Thorin Oakenshield." Bilbo paused to reposition himself in front of Thorin. "I am running to you because I love you and I want to share every last day of my life in an adventure with you." Bilbo closed the small distance between them with a light kiss to Thorin's lips.
Thorin - pensive, brooding Thorin - was beginning to soften in the presence of his hobbit. Silence stretched comfortably between the two companions. The fire filled the withdrawing room with a warm glow, and the cracking and popping of wood provided a soothing backdrop more splendid than any music imaginable. How long had Bilbo wanted to say what he had just said to Thorin? How often had Thorin dreamed that he could share a moment like this with Bilbo? It occurred to both of them that those questions mattered not. Time passes as it does and blessedly their time was presently occupied with one another.
At length, the silence was broken. "And what is it that you are running to or from, and why?" The question sprang from Bilbo's mouth before he was completely aware of asking it.
A glint came into Thorin's eyes and a different, almost foolhardy smile played on his lips. "I thought that I was running to my homeland, my birthright, and to the gold and the treasure of my family. I thought I was running to glory and redemption. My father and grandfather would be avenged and I would see our kingdom restored. Erebor has been and always will be my home. And a great kingdom it shall be again."
Thorin paused before he continued. His smile was replaced by a dark and pensive mien. "In truth, I ran to those things, but also I ran from fear and doubt of myself. Fear that I might meet the same fate as my father and grandfather, descended into madness; doubt that I could lead my people home to safety."
Thorin stopped to look at Bilbo. The hobbit's face was creased with worry lines and his eyes conveyed a sense of sympathy. The dwarf king closed his eyes, shook his head, and comfortingly patted his hobbit's hand. "Worry not, my beloved hobbit. While my fears were not unfounded, there is no place for them here any longer. I run now to my true fate: King under the Mountain! I run to my home reclaimed, to peace restored, and to a love with an open and forgiving heart. I must stay my tongue, for what I feel for you, words cannot handle."
"Oh, Thorin," Bilbo sighed as he pulled the dwarf close to him. Bilbo had an inkling of what Thorin felt for him, spoken words or no, for he was of the same heart. The hobbit could not, however, fathom the depths of the sorrow Thorin felt for his father, grandfather, and fallen kingdom. Nor could he conceive of the pain Thorin carried for the Burned Dwarves of Azanulbizar, his brother Frerin included. Bilbo saw Thorin battle with dragon sickness and almost lose. He saw the dwarf – his dwarf – lead a charge to victory, but only after he had nearly led them to despair. Bilbo could not begin to imagine the guilt, shame, and fear that wracked Thorin. For all that he could not do and for all that he did not understand, Bilbo could offer comfort and a safe place to voice his pain.
With long-practiced expertise, Thorin fought back bitter tears as he clung to Bilbo. For decades upon decades Thorin concealed his pain. He had built a life for his dwarves in Ered Luin and there he had ruled with honour, never allowing himself to falter. His anger, held tightly for over a century, began to seep from him, as porphyrin from a wound. Old hurts do not heal fast and it would be long before Thorin could think of the past without the strain and the pain of darkness. Bilbo pressed himself closer to the dwarf and Thorin could feel his beard become wetted by tears.
Thorin needed to see Bilbo's face. He needed to look upon the being who had unexpectedly given him hope throughout their long journey. He pulled back and looked upon his hobbit. Thorin gently held Bilbo at his elbows and met with eyes full of uncomprehending sadness. The hobbit's cheeks were stained with tears and his face was mottled, not unlike Thorin's.
Thorin brushed a thumb across Bilbo's cheek, wiping a tear away. "Stay your tears, Bilbo, for we shall know joy and mirth again."
Bilbo laughed. It sounded like silver bells ringing merrily and it made Thorin's heart leap with glee to hear. Thorin felt some of the anger and sorrow lift from his chest and he let out a relieved sigh. The hobbit smiled knowingly at the dwarf and he wiped a few stray tears from Thorin's cheeks. "Would that your tears are likewise stayed, Thorin. I believe you – we shall once again know joy and mirth."
Bilbo tucked his thumbs into his weskit pockets and rocked back on his heels and it was almost as if he were the same hobbit who had been fussing about a strange gathering of dwarves in his cozy little hobbit hole nearly a year previous. Thorin could not be fooled and he saw the difference that year made. Bilbo's face was wane and there were many lines that belied constant sadness and worry. His hair, slightly longer, hung limp around his face, though Thorin noted that it still shone like honey and amber in the light of the fire. There was a certain weariness in his eyes that had not been there before, but there was also a bright spark of adventure.
As his fingers rested comfortably, they brushed up against more than just his magic ring. "Ah! What have I got here?" The hobbit mused aloud as he gathered the metal objects in his hand and brought them out into the light. "Oh," he breathed in sudden remembering.
"How came you by these?" Thorin asked, eyeing the braid clasps in Bilbo's hands. His face was alight with awed curiosity.
"When I first came upon you, unconscious, gravely wounded, and completely filthy, I took it upon myself to see you healed and clean," Bilbo began.
"Aye, but what has that got to do with my braid clasps? I thought I had lost them in battle."
"No, I," Bilbo paused for a moment, feeling almost bashful. "I wanted to comb your hair. It was so marred and tangled and dirty, I thought I should. The clasps held frayed, bloody, and mucked braids, so I pocketed them, fully intending to return them to you. I'm sorry, I just hadn't had the chance."
Thorin's face softened. "Apologies are hardly necessary. Thank you for saving them, my dear one."
Thorin's large hand settled at the base of Bilbo's neck, fingers buried in curls. He gently pushed their foreheads together. "Amrâlimê," Thorin whispered.
Bilbo wrinkled his nose and with a hint of good-natured exasperation said, "You know, you might have to teach me that language of yours! Certainly if you intend on speaking it to me."
Thorin kissed Bilbo's ashen brow. "Of course, my love, all in good time. For now, it would be a great honour to have you braid my hair and return my clasps."
Bilbo blanched. He remembered the ornate and intricate braids of the dwarves and how highly they prized them. "Thorin I can only do a simple three-stranded braid, and even then it's been some time since I've done that much!"
He let the dwarf lead him over to sit on the long sofa that once served as Gandalf's bed. Shakily Bilbo turned the ornately engraved steel clasps over and over in his hands. The coldness of the claps and their weight could be felt as small pebbles plucked from a stream. The hobbit's hands gave warmth to the steel as he examined the details. The designs were geometric and very lovely, even to a hobbit who tended toward the flowery and bright.
Thorin's face softened as his tipped Bilbo's chin up to look at him. "Worry not, my beloved burglar. I would wear your braids with pride."
Bilbo offered him an uncertain smile and nodded his head. "Alright, I will try."
Bilbo passed Thorin the clasps to free his hands. The hobbit's long, clever fingers reached for the dwarf's thick mane of silver-streaked obsidian. Bilbo gently gathered a small chunk of hair at Thorin's temple and tucked it behind the dwarf's ear. He pushed back the thick mass of hair that was not intended for this braid and began to separate the hair with his fingers. Bilbo was delighted to find that Thorin's hair felt not as he remembered it in the tent, but how he had imagined it when first they met: like the mane of a pony, but not so coarse. The dark mass of long and tangles tresses were so unlike his own short and curly mop of honey coloured hair, yet no less striking. Bilbo found it meditative to simply run his fingers through and through the dwarf's hair. Evidently it similarly relaxed Thorin, as he tipped his head slightly back, closed his eyes, and let out a blissful sigh.
Separating the section of hair into thirds, Bilbo began his braid. His unpracticed, fumbling fingers weaved in and out in a motion that he had learned decades earlier. It must have been Belladonna who had taught him to braid. In his childhood he remembered sitting with his mother on the banks of the Brandywine River and giggling as he weaved flowers into her hair. It was a lovely memory and when Bilbo closed his eyes he could almost feel the grass below his feet and the warm summer air. It was a lovely memory, but it made the hobbit's homesick heart ache with longing for the Shire.
Bilbo gently pushed the memory to the back of his mind. He was here in Erebor now, braiding the hair of someone else that he loved. As he methodically wove the dwarf's hair it occurred to the hobbit that his choice of Thorin Oakenshield as his partner would bring no end of joy to his mother. Bilbo dared not think how his far less adventurous father would react. Not favourably, of that much Bilbo was certain.
"Clasp please," Bilbo asked as he finished one braid.
Taking the proffered clasp, Bilbo tied off and secured the braid. The hobbit sat back for a moment to examine his handy work. It may not have been impressive, but it was perfectly adequate. All the same, the hobbit felt a small sense of accomplishment at the completion of his tidy braid.
"Well, it will do in a pinch," Bilbo said with a self-conscious laugh.
Thorin did not speak immediately to reassure Bilbo. Instead, he carefully gathered the hobbit's smaller hands in his own, brought them to his face, and kissed the soft palms. Bilbo felt a blush creep up his neck and ruddy his cheeks.
"Right, I'll uh, keep braiding then?" Bilbo asked as Thorin released his hands.
"I would like that," came Thorin's reply.
Bilbo prepared to create a braid that would mirror the one he had just completed. Once again, he gathered a small chunk of hair and separated it into three. Already he felt more confident in his braiding ability, even if it was only a sense of mastery of the simply three-stranded braid his mother had taught him. Deep darkness mixed with silver moonlight as he weaved the thrice divided hair into an elegant, if not simple, plait. It was a lovely dance of one strand over another back over the first, and again, until Bilbo had completed the second braid.
"Other clasp, please," Bilbo asked.
The hobbit secured his second braid and sat back to examine his work. He would not admit it, but he was rather proud of the twin set of interlaced hair he produced. Beyond that, he was elated that Thorin not only allowed him to braid his hair, but had invited him to do so. Hobbits were innately driven to care for those they loved, and this hobbit was no exception. Leaning forward, Bilbo raked his fingers through Thorin's unbound hair and placed a kiss upon his brow.
It was a simple gesture, but one loaded with feeling. True to his word, Thorin felt proud to wear braids plaited by his One. As he felt Bilbo's fingers in his hair and lips upon his brow, a great swell of emotion blossomed in his chest. The expression of such longstanding warmth and affection felt foreign to the dwarf and yet it could not be helped. Hard, well-muscled arms reached around the uncharacteristically slim middle of the hobbit and pulled him close. Thorin buried his face in Bilbo's chest and breathed in the familiar smell of sunshine on oat grass, now tinged with the wears of war. He could feel Bilbo's arms wrap around his back and the light press of the hobbit's cheek against the crown of his head.
Not without regret, Thorin pulled back and said, "Come, we must prepare for our meeting this day. I am confident that Bard and the Elvenking will be interested in my propositions."
"I'm sure you're right," Bilbo replied, a hesitant but affirmative smile tugging at his lips. Then suddenly his face grew dark and lines of worry creased his forehead. "I must see to Fíli first."
…
Balin was cautiously elated, if one can feel such a heady emotion cautiously. He was tremendously glad to have his king returned and willing to divide the treasure fairly. But at the same time he was aware of the damage that was already done. Thorin was obstinate, pigheaded, proud (by times almost hubristic), and had suffered under the curse that befell his father and grandfather. But Balin knew Thorin. He knew that the dwarf king was fiercely loyal and caring. Beyond that, he knew that the good dwarf, the very heart and soul of Thorin Oakenshield, lived under the witless face of dragon sickness. The Elvenking, however, did not know Thorin, not really. He knew only the rift that grew between their races and the recent betrayal. So, as Balin rolled happily along on his way to the Elvenking's tent, he carefully schooled back his smile, for the Elvenking and Bard may be less forgiving of Thorin, given the recent retraction of his word.
What other choice have they got, other than to agree to their original offer? Balin thought to himself. Verily they had no other choice. Dain's fierce army of sturdy dwarves was now hauled up in the mountain, and though they would not go to war, they would defend the mountain if attacked. Thranduil had seen too much elven blood spilled and would likely not willingly orchestrate the deaths of more of his kind. Bard, grim as he was, had a great deal of good sense about him. He would not lead his cold, tired, and ill men to battle once more. At least that is what Balin hoped.
As Balin walked toward Thranduil's tent he unexpectedly came upon one of the two which he sought. "Master Bard!" Balin called and gave a short wave when the man looked in his direction.
Bard changed course and began walking toward Balin. "Hello, Master dwarf," he greeted. "What brings you down the mountain? If I am not mistaken, you are one of Thorin Oakenshield's companions."
"Aye, you're not mistaken. Balin, son of Fundin, at your service," Balin said and bowed to the much taller man who bowed in turn. "I came to seek an audience with you and the Elvenking."
An odd look crossed Bard's grim face. "Is that so? Would you care to inform me if this is to be thought ill or well?"
"Well, to be assured," Balin stated carefully. "But come! I'll tell you more when we meet the Elvenking."
Bard gave Balin a skeptical look, but led on without another word. Balin followed the Dragon Shooter through the weaving makeshift streets of the tent village to where the tent of the Elvenking stood. The camp was not as Balin remembered, for there were far fewer men and a greater number of the remnants of pyres. It was eerily silent and a great tension could be felt, like a bowstring drawn taught. The wind blew up Balin's back and he shivered. Too cold to do much besides huddle in a tent, I suppose, the old dwarf thought grimly.
Balin recalled Thranduil's tent from the night he sought Bilbo, and he knew it when they arrived. It was unmistakably the Elvenking's living quarters, for it was guarded by two Mirkwood elves. Still clad in their shining armour, the guards stood tall, proud, and alert. Upon seeing Bard, the sylvan elf-guards stepped aside allowing him and his guest through. Bard strode past them with Balin close behind.
Thranduil looked as elegant as he ever did, with his long hair cascading down his back like a river of white gold and his flowing raiment the colour of dark red wine covering his lithe body. He did little more than raise an eyebrow as his gaze flited from the dwarf to the man. "Greetings, Master Bard," he nodded at his ally, "Master dwarf," he nodded at Balin. "I am inclined to inquire about what brings you down from your accursed mountain this day, only previously when I queried your kin I was shot or shouted at. Tell me, Master dwarf, should I expect the same of you?"
Balin recalled their first encounter with the Elvenking. Thorin and the rest of the company had remained steadfastly tight-lipped about the nature of their quest. Now, not only had Balin purposefully sought out the Elvenking, but he also freely answered the question. "Nay, the same you should not expect of me or my kin, for it is a new day. I am Balin, son of Fundin, at your service. I am one of Thorin Oakenshield's companions. It is in friendship that I extend an invitation to the Elvenking and Bard the Dragon Slayer, to take audience with Thorin, King under the Mountain." After a moment's pause and a pointed look from Thranduil, Balin continued, "He wishes to speak of peace and amiable relations restored among the dwarves, the elves of Mirkwood, and the men of the lake. He wishes also to speak of returning what treasure is owed."
Astonishment came into the eyes of both Bard and Thranduil. Not only had they been surprised at the polite and diplomatic air of this old dwarf, but they had almost given up hope that the stubborn gold sick King under the Mountain would see sense.
"Very well," Thranduil replied haughtily, hiding his pleasure. "But what trust should I give to you? How should I know that you speak the truth? Why should we believe that this is the will of a dwarf who – no more than a day ago- was willing to sit upon a heap of gold and starve before he parted with a loaf's worth? And where has he hidden that Halfling?"
Patiently and with a great deal of tact, Balin answered each of Thranduil's questions in turn. "Aye, I understand why you would be reluctant to trust in my words, but let me assure you, I speak naught but the truth! You will understand if myself and my kin were tired and hungry and hurt, why we might have met you as we did. But it is now a new day and we would see peace restored."
"'My mind does not change with the rising and the setting of a few suns.' It was Thorin Oakenshield who said that, if you recall," countered the Elvenking.
"Oh, aye," Balin replied. "He is changed not by the passage of time, but by his will. As for our Bilbo, you needn't worry – he is safe and well. Thorin truly wishes to make amends and you might agree that he owes most to a certain hobbit," Balin finished with a wink.
"Can you promise us that we will not be met by more war?" Bard asked, his voice steady but tired.
"Yes, I can promise you that," Balin replied solemnly.
Bard and Thranduil seemed to pass a wordless conversation between them before the Elvenking said, "So be it. We will trust your word and it will be on your conscience should we meet a different fate. Tell Thorin to expect us when the sun reaches the highest point on its journey through the sky."
Balin nodded in confirmation. "We will welcome you with goodwill." The old dwarf said, bowing to the Elvenking and Bowman.
Balin turned and slipped quietly out of the grand tent of the Elvenking. The white haired dwarf walked back through the tent village in a dream-like haze, his mind reeling with the events of the days. Before he knew it, the tents were mere specks in the distance and he had begun ascending the slope that lead to Erebor's front gates. He found himself smiling, despite Bard and Thranduil's less than warm reception. He really could not deny them their skepticism; as Thranduil said, not even one full day had passed since his Thorin was willing to starve for greed and sickness of gold. But things were different now and all would be well. Inspired by his optimism, Balin began to hum a happy walking tune. He continued on his merry way, but stopped when he crested a hill and saw what looked like another dwarf. It was, in fact, the unmistakable silhouette of his brother, Dwalin.
"Morning, brother!" Balin bellowed cheerfully across the distance.
"And to you!" Dwalin called back as he began to walk toward his brother. When they reached each other they amiably bumped their heads together. "How was the meeting with the man and that twice bedamned elf?" Dwalin asked gruffly.
"It went well enough," Balin replied, still cheerful. "They have agreed to meet with Thorin. They'll be by around noon, they said. I figure I best hurry along to tell Thorin. There isn't much time to prepare."
"Aye," Dwalin agreed. "I will walk back with you. We should probably gather the others as we find them. If we find them – I can't be sure where they've all gone off to."
"Beggin' your pardon, brother, what do you mean 'gather the others'?" Balin asked, shooting his brother a quizzical look.
"After you left, Thorin sent us out to explore Erebor," Dwalin explain simply.
Balin quirked an eyebrow at his brother. "Oh?"
Dwalin grunted in affirmation. "He said 'it would do my heart well to see you explore our home,' or some such thing."
"Did Bilbo stay with him?" Balin asked.
"Aye," came Dwalin's response.
"Oh," Balin said, a knowing smile spread across his lips and a mischievous glint came into his eyes.
The two brothers walked in companionable silence as they drew closer to the mountain. Their eyes roamed over the landscape in search of stray dwarves of the company to take back with them. Predictably, when the company had been encouraged to go forth and explore, they formed small groups along family lines. This made Balin and Dwalin's task easier, for when they found one there was usually another nearby. First they saw the corpulent shape of Bombur, followed closely by Bifur and Bofur. Then they spotted the unmistakable three-pointed hairstyle of their resident mischief-maker, Nori, with Dori and Ori not far. Dwarf by dwarf their small group grew and soon enough they were a fine troop.
Balin played the role of Gandalf as they neared the mountain's front gates and counted everyone: "Me and Dwalin, Dori, Nori, Oin, Bifur, Bofur, Ori, Bombur, Gloin… that makes ten, then of course Bilbo and Thorin and Fíli in the mountain makes thirteen… where is Kíli?" The other dwarves looked around, scouring the barren lays about the mountain with their eyes, but Thorin's youngest sister-son could not be found.
…
Kíli wandered aimlessly through the halls of his great grandfather. He had heard so many stories of this place as a child from him mother, Thorin, and Balin. The stories had always brought shouts of glee from him and his brother as they listened with rapt attention as Balin spoke of the strange representatives of nearby kingdoms who came to pay homage to the King under the Mountain, or to Thorin who spoke of gold and honour, or to their mother, Dís, who spoke of the grand halls and many secret places within the mountain that she explored as a dwarfling with her adventuresome brothers. All of these stories had coalesced into a wonderful land positively brimming with untold stories waiting to be discovered by him and his brother.
But now, as he heard his lone footfalls on the scorched stone, he felt no sense of wonder. The strength of his spirit and hope began to diminish, the way sun dissolves the snow's crust. Kíli absentmindedly dragged his fingers along the side of a great charred stone wall as he walked. The battle had robbed him of his brother and replaced his jovial lightheartedness with a pensive and stern countenance. Verily, his lionhearted brother was not yet lost, but the pang of solitude and emptiness struck Kíli's heart. His boots stepped unevenly, as he carefully favoured his less injured leg. The scuff and thud of his boots echoed through the long-empty halls, aimlessly carrying Kíli through the mountain.
He could not be sure how much time had passed or how far he had walked, but he found himself now at the end of his trek. He had wandered into a small, mostly vacant room that contained two dilapidated chairs, a half-charred table, and a window. With small curiosity, Kíli walked to the window and looked out on the north-east flank of the mountain. It was cold and he could see short puffs of his breath escaping into the outside air. The sky was the clearest blue he had seen since arriving at the mountain and the untouched snow blanketing the hill glittered like mithril in the brilliant glow of the sun. He and his brother could make short work of ruining the pristine cloak of white with skidding footprints and thrown snowballs. Kíli ached for his brother to be with him.
Kíli's brow creased and tore his eyes away from the window. His pupils were pinpricks, thanks to the brightness of the snow, and he could barely see the room before him. Steadying himself against a wall, he blinked a few times before exiting the small room. Back he walked, scuff, thud, through the halls to whence he came. It pained him to be parted from his brother for such a stretch of time. No matter his uncle's will, he would return presently.
At length, the withdrawing room was in sight, and as he drew nearer, Kíli could hear low voices. The young dwarf could not make out what was being said, but he thought the tone to be a pleasant nonetheless. When Kíli walked in he barely glanced at Thorin and Bilbo, as such, he missed the ruddy hue that the hobbit's face took. Instead, he walked over to his brother and gently stroked the mop of blond hair. In a murmured voice, Kíli recounted his brief foray through the mountain to his brother. He spoke of the adventures they would have and mischief he imagined them getting into when Fíli woke, all the while tenderly weaving his fingers through limp gold locks.
He did not hear his uncle approach, but he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. Thorin silently stood above his two sister-sons with his face twisted in grief. Sorrow weighed heavily on him with the knowledge that his heir-apparent still had not stirred. He dared not look Kíli in the face, for that might break him and he knew it. Instead, Thorin turned his eyes to Kíli's hands as they weaved through Fíli's lifeless golden mane. They were tired fingers, bandaged fingers, fingers that were raw and scared and bleeding. Tears welled in Thorin's eyes and he almost could not bear it any longer, when suddenly there was a stirring.
Bilbo, who had been looking on in anguish, rushed himself to stand by Thorin. If Fíli were to wake he would be in terrible pain and Bilbo hoped he could provide some relief as he had done for Thorin and Kíli. He felt about his pockets, but remembered that he had left the Acullico leaves and tenebrea with Balin. Still, he looked on with great worry and affection as the once lifeless dwarf stirred more.
Fíli groaned and his eyes opened slowly. He promptly snapped them shut, as if even the faint light of the fire burned too bright. His tongue felt three sizes too large in his dry mouth and everything in his body hurt. He could feel a great throbbing heat in his chest and head, but he thought that he had lost his fingers and toes, for he could not feel them. Fresh sweat pricked his brow as consciousness brought new healing and fresh pain. His face twisted as his agony grew with each passing moment.
"Fíli," Kíli called, clutching his brother's cold hand in his own warm one. "Fíli, it's alright, brother! You are alright and I am here for you."
Fíli did not respond, but grew more frantic by the moment. He panted, the shallow intake of air barely satisfying his aching lungs. He gripped hard onto his brother's hand. He pain was overwhelming and he felt it across every inch of his body. A thousand daggers ripped his chest, lightning struck the back of his neck, his head felt a hundred leagues under the sea, and his muscles burned as if lit by dragon fire. This was not a welcome feeling to which he woke.
Kíli, wild eyed and frightened turned his gaze on Bilbo. "What's wrong? Can't you help him?"
"I – I would, Kíli, but Balin has the Acullico!" Bilbo sputtered. "I think the last of the poison is leaving him. All we can do is let the Heilleir do its job and wait until Balin comes back."
Kíli whipped back to look at his suffering brother. Fíli's breath came in staccato spurts and his face was contorted in pain. The younger brother pressed a steadying hand to his older brother's cheek. It was slick with sweat and his face was hot. Kíli was utterly beside himself. He felt the pain of his brother as if it were his own, and the agony of one who can do nothing to ease the suffering of a loved one. He smoothed Fíli's damp beard, now unbraided and free from its clasps, against the side of his face in an attempt to soothe him. All the while Kíli murmured assurances of "it will be okay," and "I'm here for you."
Bilbo looked upon the scene with barely conceal tears. Thorin was still at Kíli's side, one hand on the dark-haired dwarf's shoulder and the other cradling the back of Fíli's head. Bilbo himself was standing at Thorin's side, internally oscillating between propriety and longing to comfort Thorin. In the end, his desire to care won out and he placed a comforting hand on Thorin's back. If only Balin would return, then we could make this better, Bilbo thought, thoroughly distraught.
Kíli lowered his head and rested it against his brother's. "Please sleep, you will find peace in slumber. But for the love of all that you hold dear, please, please wake up. I couldn't bear it if you didn't…" Kíli whispered as he gently rocked their bodies together. With a sigh Fíli's breathing finally began to settle and he was overcome by sleep.
"Sleep now if you can, my sister-son. Sleep, but please return to us," Thorin said softly, echoing Kíli's plea.
The hobbit and two waking dwarves stood stock-still, on edge and fraught with concerned. When, at length he did not stir, Thorin turned to Bilbo and said, "Earlier when you examined him, you said he looked better. I believe you, for I have seen many return from the frontlines of battle only to continue the fight with their wounds. Fíli is strong and it is well that he has woken, despite the pain."
Thorin returned his gaze to Fíli, stroking the flaxen mane of his heir-apparent. "I hardly remember the events surrounding my awakening after battle, but I will never forget that pain. It was like none I have felt before. I was not aware and I was not myself. I recall only darkness and blinding agony." Thorin squeezed his eyes shut as if bracing against remembered agony. "Do you know that he is returning to health because you saw me through the orc poison and the damage that battle does?"
"I suppose so, yes," Bilbo replied simply.
Bilbo had examined Fíli earlier and he spoke the truth when he said that the young dwarf looked better. 'Better' was not much, though, for Fíli had been gravely injured. The Heilleir was working as it should, and Fíli was as sturdy and stalwart a dwarf as Bilbo had ever seen. The hobbit had every confidence that Fíli would recover. At least, he would have himself and Thorin believe that were the case.
Bilbo laid a comforting hand on Thorin's shoulder before continuing. "Lord Elrond got to you quickly. He got to Fíli quickly, too, but there were… er, other complications with Fíli."
Thorin felt a burning guilt well up in him. His jaw tightened and clenched in response to the memories that swirled in his mind. The 'complications' undoubtedly referred to his lapse of judgement that prevented Bilbo from healing Fíli as he had healed Thorin. The dwarf king felt a heaviness settle upon his shoulders and a dizziness seize his head. He reached a hand out to steady himself and Bilbo surreptitiously caught him. An sense of aged fatigue settled in his bones. Grasping the hobbit's hand offered some strength and assurance to the dwarf, although it did nothing for his growing exhaustion.
"The orc poison stayed in just about the same place in you, Thorin, but it spread through Fíli like wildfire." Bilbo kindly left out the point that it would not have spread if only he had been allowed to heal him.
Bilbo squeezed Thorin's hand and offered him a sympathetic smile. He knew it would be no use to scold the dwarf for his earlier actions. He turned to Kíli and asked, "The powder, the tenebrea, has Balin been applying it as I have instructed?"
"What?" Thorin asked.
"Yes," Kíli responded, ignoring his uncle's question.
"Good," Bilbo sighed with relief. Then, turning to Thorin, he explained. "Upon my request, Thranduil gifted me leaves that would relieve pain, the Acullico, and a powder that he said would rid Fíli of his sepsis, the tenebrea." Thorin stiffened at the mention of the Elvenking, but he stayed silent and let Bilbo continue. "When you had me seen out of the mountain last time," Bilbo euphemised the most recent incident of Thorin ejecting him in a rather unpleasant fashion from the mountain, "I gave the Acullico and tenebrea to Balin. He, uh, was secretly treating Fíli." Bilbo, who had grown rather bold, felt a little awkward explaining the carefully hidden healing that was going on right under Thorin's nose.
"Very well," Thorin said, trying to maintain a neutral expression. He felt ashamed of the dwarf he had been in the days after waking. "I am sorry. I – I could have… I should have let you heal him like you healed me. Foolish pride!"
Bilbo gave the dwarf's hand a light squeeze. "Lingering guilt serves no purpose, Thorin. You have apologized and you are returned to us in sound mind." Bilbo smiled when Thorin met his gaze. "You are good, Thorin Oakenshield. Yes, you should have let me heal him, but it can't be helped now. I should think that this all could have ended less pleasantly and yet it didn't. After all, Balin and Oin continued with Fíli's treatment after I departed. His wound looks much improved, at least from what I saw this morning. When Balin returns and when Fíli wakes again we can continue to treat him. Like you've said before, Thorin, Fíli is a strong dwarf and he will feel the sun on his face and the wind in his hair once again."
Thorin's dark expression cleared the slightest upon hearing Bilbo's pragmatic but optimistic assessment of their current situation. "You are right, Master Baggins."
Thorin let fall the comforting hand of the hobbit and placed both of his hands on Kíli's shoulders. "He will be well, my sister-son."
Kíli turned his head and smiled weakly at Thorin. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but his attention was stolen by the telltale noise made bythe rest of the company coming up the hall. Thorin, Kíli, and Bilbo looked expectantly at the withdrawing room door. One by one each dwarfwas welcomed by the warmth of the withdrawing room. Balin looked around and sighed with relief when he found Kíli, safe and sound, sat next to his brother. He smiled sadly at the sight of the young dwarf. He was glad to see that Kíli had returned to the withdrawing room, but the lugubrious scene of the young dwarfwith his quiescent brother tore at Balin's heart. The old dwarf walked over to where Fíli and Kíli were.
"How's he doin', lad?" Balin asked.
Kíli brightened for a moment, "Better! He woke up!" Then his face turned grim. "He was in so much pain, so he went back to sleep."
"Goodness!" Balin exclaimed. "Sorry I wasn't here, laddie. I have those leaves that Bilbo brought. I'll give them to you and you can give them to Fíli when he wakes again."
Balin reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the two pouches that he had kept in secret.
"I'll let you hang on to the powder, too. A pinch under his tongue once in the morning and once at night." Balin offered Kíli an encouraging smileas he passed the satchels over to him.
"Thanks, Balin," Kíli wearily smiled back.
Balin turned to Thorin. "The Elvenkingand Bard will speak with you. They said that they would arrive at noon."
"Very well," Thorin replied, a neutral mask hid his slight worry about the meeting and contempt he felt toward the Elvenking. "That gives us little more than an hour to prepare, correct?"
"Aye," Balin affirmed. "Let's take lunch, shall we?"
The company, fully reunited, began rummaging through packs for food. Each and every dwarf was filled with a sense of joy having their burglar among themagain. Bofur and Balin were especially pleased that Bilbo had returned to his rightful place in the company, as they had grown rather fond on their burglar hobbit. It had not taken Bilbo long to dig out a piece of cram and find a comfy place to sit while he nibble on the waybread. Bofur had missed the little hobbit dearlyandquicklysat next to Bilbo once he had secured his own piece of cram. Bofur regaled the hobbit and his fellow dwarves withtales of times since passed. Other members of the company would occasionally interject, and soon enough the telling of old stories turned into reminiscing about their journey not long since passed. Before long, most of the dwarves in the room were howling with laughter as the incident with the trolls or some other such humorous event was recounted.
Thorin satwith Balin at his side,slightly back from the main gathering of dwarves and Bilbo. Thorin felt a gnawing hunger, but was too distracted to eat. He had, however,taken two Acullico leaves from Kíli. Not yet completely hale and hearty, Thorin was grateful for the medicinal plant. His face pinched in distaste as his tongue met with the acrid juice of the leaves, yet he continued to chew knowing that he would regret it if he did not. Next to Thorin, Balin munched on the more palatable cram in companionable silence.
At length the pain eased from Thorin and he smiled distantly as he watched the company laugh and make merry. It warmed his heart to see Bilbo laughing and smiling along with the rest of the company. The hobbit'ssoul, while gentle, was not made of glass. Bilbowas resilient and did not lack courage. As their quick-witted burglarbegan to recount his version of their barrel adventure,Thorin sighed blithely. His hobbit was a great storyteller and it made him immeasurably happy to hear him spin a yarn. An imaginedfuture of just the two of them in front of a roaring firecropped up in Thorin's mind. Then hecould hold his hobbit and listen to that sweet voice for as long as they would stay awake.
Balin looked over at his old friend, and feigned a worried expression. "You alright, Thorin?"
"Hmm?" Thorin murmured, pulled away from reveries about his hobbit. "Yes, I am. Just a little sore and tired, that is all."
Balin smiled knowingly. The change had been gradual, but Balin's sagely perceptioncould not miss the glint in Thorin's eyes, or the way Thorin's gaze rested just a little long on the soft contours of the hobbit's body. Balin could see Thorin's eye brows flash with interest each time he looked upon Bilbo. It was nearly imperceptible, but Balin noticed how his king moved altogether too close to their burglar at any chance he got.The old dwarf who had known Thorin for all his life did not doubt that his friend was alright. In fact, Balinmight venture to think that Thorin was more than alright. After all, when a dwarf has found their One their step becomes lighter, their bearing more regal, and a song calls to them which fills their heart with light and love.
…
He had seen it once and he did not want to see it again.
Bilbo, being the practical, sensible hobbit that he was, found himself worrying over things that truly ought to be worried over. Namely, how would Thorin act with the Arkenstone returned to his possession? That had been his original plan, the original deal: Bard and Thranduil would forfeit the Arkenstone for his fourteenth share of the treasure. Well, the original-original plan had been to return what was owed to the men of the lake, but with the Arkenstone in the hands of Bard and Thranduil, the precious stone could not be left out of the calculations.
He understood less than the others about the curse of the line of Durin, but he saw plainly with his own eyes the degeneration of one Thorin Oakenshield from majesty to madness. It came on slowly at first, so slowly in fact that Bilbo had nearly forgotten the overheard conversation between Lord Elrond and Gandalf when they had stopped for a rest in Rivendell. A dark and powerful greed set in upon his friend the way that fog settles upon a town, slowly, insidiously, filling empty spaces at first, and then filling everything at once.
He had seen the one that he loved be utterly destroyed by a treasure of useless hoarded things and he did not want to see that obsession claim his friend again.
Thus Bilbo found himself rightfully worrying about how the Arkenstone would affect Thorin now. It would either be returned to the dwarf and he would sink back into madness or Bard and Thranduil would refuse to return it and create an irreparable rift among the three races. Bilbo felt ill at the thought of either of those situations coming to fruition. It would not do for him to council Thorin before the meeting, for he had no alternate suggestion. He would only plead that Thorin did not take the cursed thing, but how could he ask that?
He met Thorin's eyes across the room and the dwarf's brow creased in what was a mirrored expression of the hobbit. Bilbo readied himself to cross the room. He felt compelled to say something – anything! – even if he had not thought of what he would say. If nothing else, Bilbo wanted Thorin to know that he was there to support him. But just then, one of Dain's guards was heard at the door.
"Hail, King Thorin," the stout soldier from the Iron Hills greeted. "The Elvenking and the Dragon Shooter are at the front gates and requested an audience with you."
Thorin squared his shoulders, standing tall and proud. "Bring them hither," his commanding voice rumbled in the suddenly silent room. "I will speak with them presently."
…
Author's Note: Sadly, now that winter break is over I have fewer opportunities to work on this fic. I have papers to write, manuscripts to review for publication, conferences to prepare for, and research to finish! Not to mention all the papers and exams I have to grade… In spite of all those academic obligations, I will try to keep up on my Bagginshield writing! All my love and gratitude goes with those who read my stories – you folks are the best! Seriously, I love you all!
Khuzdul
Amrâlimê: my love
Major thanks to Dwarrow Scholar for the Khuzdul translation.
*The aphorism at the beginning of the chapter is an echo of James Thurber's aphorism which goes as follows: "All human beings should try to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why."
**These gifts (one fourteenth share of gold and silver to Bard and the emeralds of Girion to Thranduil) are as they appear in chapter 18 "The Return Journey" of The Hobbit book, only, of course, it was Dain who dealt the treasure. The "White Gems of Lasgalen" are an invention of Peter Jackson and The Hobbit movie team. Also, note that Mirkwood was not referred to as "Eryn Lasgalen" until the end of the Third Age, when it was cleansed by Galadriel after the fall of Sauron. Since about 85% of this fic was written before the release of the second Hobbit movie, I figured I would hold along the lines of the book for the most part.