Bolg was dead. Bolg was dead—that was a matter taken care of—done—no more could be said or thought about it, so Thorin wasted no time, then, in joining his hobbit's side. The smaller, slight one who was battered and flushed and—and—

—far too still.

She was far too still—she should have been breathing more deeply. More evenly. There should not be such a ladened appearance to her limbs and body, as if it was too heavy to carry anymore. As if—as if—

"Billa—"

"—Thorin…?"

Before he could stop himself, he reached out for her face, turning her at least on to her back so their eyes could meet again—a happy reunion, if not under better circumstances—but at least to assure for himself that she was still alive; that her lack of movement meant she was simply exhausted, simply in pain—but not dead. Not because there was no life left in her body.

Billa shakingly smiled at him again, apologetic eyebrows raised as she muttered out, "T-thorin, I'm sorry—"

"—no." Thorin fought the urge to grip her face tighter as he vehemently denied her that right, shaking his head in negative. "No—you cannot apologize. You can't. Not before I do, because you have nothing to be sorry for."

Billa pressed her shaking lips together, breath hitching. Her smile was gone. "…b-but I cheated…"

"Why do you always think that?" Thorin uttered to her, tired and done and he wanted to take her home and for her to be all right instead of pale and weak and startlingly warm, as if her skin was on fire. "I am done doubting you. Now you ought to stop trying to doubt yourself. Do you realize what you have done?" Didn't they have this conversation before? They did—they did, didn't they? The very first time they had sat and talked—after…after the first challenge.

So long ago…when she first took up sword and courage for me.

"You have saved your people," Thorin choked out, exhaling in mystified disbelief—because honestly. How…how did the hobbit even do that? How did a little thing like her manage…manage to get away like she did? And with such grievous wounds? Seeing them suddenly made him wish that he had made Bolg's death more drawn out—more painful. It's what he deserved for causing this. "That is far more than any other hobbit has so far done in their lifetime. Far more than many ever will."

Billa's weak smile grew, bright and warmly happy. But her blink was too slow for the king's liking, delicate eyelashes resting upon the edge of his finger for far longer than she should have let them. "You…you have t-too much confidence in me…"

No. No, I didn't. Not when you needed me most. I should have known; I should have trusted your character and wondered if you had been taken. I should have…I should have questioned…

But Thorin could only swallow. "…you should have more confidence in yourself. Would save me a lot of trouble—and make my life easier while you're at it." But he didn't really mean that, did he? At least—not in the sense that life with her was difficult—even though it was. But it was a…good difficult. The kind of difficult that made him strive ever harder, that made him want to always be more and better than he currently was.

Uncomfortable and alive. Dichotomous, but synonymous at the same time.

(It was as easy as breathing.)

Billa chuckled softly, wincing at the sudden pain that motion brought. She stiffened sharply, jagged, short breaths leaving her. "…s-sorry to make your life hard, my king," she muttered with a pained half-smile that still seemed so sincere even half as radiant as her usual ones.

"No," Thorin shook his head, conceding. "No—you haven't made it hard. You…you won't. Not if you stay with me. You cannot…do not let this end you. Do you hear me, Billa?" She didn't answer—and her silence, marred only by her fevered, quiet and shallow pants, made his blood suddenly leap with worry. And for the first time, he began to truly inspect her injuries, eyes scanning over her form. Besides a blotch of blood on her head, the majority seemed to be on her back and sides—some lacerations on her arms and legs, but those very few. "What—what have they done to you—are you poisoned? Are—"

"—it's an infection, Thorin Oakenshield. Not poison. Trust me."

The dwarf king stilled.

Billa's eyes opened halfway, something bleary in their blue depths. "Is…is that…?"

"Go away," Thorin growled, interrupting her query. His head lifted up to glare at the elf king standing a few paces away, protective and fierce.

But Elrond only shook his head, patient. He could see the worry raging behind the steel-grey eyes before him, and understood that emotion far better than most dwarves would think. "I would advise you to think before you speak, Thorin. Her wounds are quite bad—made even worse by the settling illness her body is trying to fight. It will claim her if we do nothing."

Thorin knew—he knew how bad infections could get. One did not fight wars and not see the pain and death such illness could bring. "Fine—but we do not need your help—"

"—her ankle, too. Have you not noticed that it is shattered?"

…w-what?

No…

A numbing coldness overtook the dwarf king as his eyes travelled downward and to the surprisingly-swelled pale limb the elf had pointed out. Unlike its other, which twitched and moved slightly as Billa gasped in the throes of her condition, this one remained unmoved—almost dead, in appearance.

He knew the implications of such an injury, and it pained his insides as if he had been roughly stabbed.

"She might never dance again, Thorin."

…no…

"Not unless she receives proper care. There is a chance I and our healers may save her and her foot—but you must permit us to do so."

He knew…he knew that.

But it still wasn't a very easy decision to make. (Trusting elves…?)

"For those of your army who have also been wounded this day in your conquer against the orcs, we also would be willing to heal." At that, Thorin shot his head up, surprised. Elrond took a step closer, nodding in the affirmative to the unanswered question of wonder. "Yes—we realize what this means. But thanks to your sister and your people, you have manage to save an innocent people. People that us elves are…quite fond of. And already, lines between races that have before been so firmly drawn are now being dissolved within your kingdom. These changes bring promise of a better world. And us elves…at least, those of Rivendell and Mirkwood, would like to be part of such promise. So in response to your kingdom's reaching hands, we give our own."

Kneeling on the other side of Billa and staring at the dwarf king's face, Elrond made his last plead, "Let us aid you."

Thorin became sharply aware that the sounds of fighting had long since stopped. A quick glance at the gathered force told him that while some orcs must have successfully fled, a good many were lying dead, having paid for their unanimous crimes. The others, meanwhile—the ones who had been willing to protect—were helping each other to safe places to sit and rest. Smaug was nowhere to be seen. (Gone, probably, now that his meal had been finished, or chasing the other fleeing pieces.)

Yes…there were some wounded, he could see. A few dead.

But it could have been so much worse.

Thorin swallowed reflexively, knowing it could still be much worse—especially if they fought their casualties on their own. Diseases killed so much more effectively than actual sword-born injuries, and dwarves were not the type to sit and nurse their wounds with the care they so often needed.

His thumb stroked once on Billa's flushed, warm cheek—and the startling heat waving off of it was all the evidence he needed.

"Yes."

Elrond gave the tiniest of smiles.

Yet as soon as they (however reluctantly on the dwarf king's part) tried to move her into the elf's arms, she immediately groaned and paled sharply. "I—" Stutter, gasp, swallow— "—Thorin, I'm gonna—"

—and the two of them immediately understood.

Depositing her carefully on her side—the side of her good leg—they let her vomit heavily, as she needed, the vertigo making sweat bead themselves on her forehead, under her curls and leaving her face a stained, ugly red as she shook and trembled with sudden chills. Elrond let his hand pass over her forehead, feeling her fever as she gasped and tried to suck in air—but whatever he felt there made him suddenly turn grim.

"She needs to get to a place we can treat her. Now."

Thorin needed no more urging. "Her house—the castle is too far; a half-a-day's journey away. She has a home here—treat her here. They'll let you, I'm sure."

But Elrond gave the king only one lingering, mysterious look, before he reluctantly nodded. "Do you know the way…?"

Oh.

No—no he didn't…but—

"—we do."

Thorin's eyes snapped to the three smaller pairs that gazed back at them both—tentatively and fearfully—but startlingly braver than their other hobbit folk, standing apart and at their land's edge. The youngest of them gazed with worried eyes at Billa's shaking form, twisting her dark, curly hair worriedly with her small fingers. The other two just gazed apprehensively at the elf and dwarf, guarded but willing to aid.

The one in front—with auburn hair only slightly more reddish than Billa's own—spoke up first. "My name is Freya. We are…we are friends of Billa's. If—if you need to use her house for healing—I'm sure she wouldn't mind. For her, and for any other wounded ones that there may be…"

Thorin, surprised at the offer, tossed a look over his shoulder to view how many were in dire need of such help. He counted quite a handful. "But they will not all fit in a hobbit-hole—"

"—well, then you can use our houses, too," spoke up the roundest one, kind and pleasantly plump with rosy cheeks. "In fact, I'm sure many hobbits here will open their doors for your wounded; you have just saved our lives, after all. We would be more than happy to help after…after that."

Thorin swallowed, touched—something within him ringing that panging guilt-bell of No, I didn't save you. In fact, I condemned you. I had agreed for your deaths…But he nodded anyway, swallowing back that nasty bile sharply again as soon as a fierce tightness lodged itself within his aching throat. "I will—I will tell my people, then, and we will bring them over. So…thank you, your—your kindness will not be forgotten."

"Neither will yours, Dwarf King," said the youngest with a small, shy smile. "So thank you, as well."

No. He didn't deserve such thanks. But he nodded anyway, watching with worried eyes as the elf king carried his One away and into the Shire, three pairs of little hobbit hands grasping and willing to lead him where their friend might seek shelter.

…just be okay. Please.

Time passed in the form of nameless shapes of shifting darkness for Billa. Sometimes there were voices accompanying the blurs—sometimes there weren't. Sometimes hands would take her and turn her one way and the other, and sometimes she slipped away into memories and dreams of sunlight and mountain-castles when everything got too hot and hard to bear.

Sometimes someone held her hand, and sometimes something cold brushed against her forehead. Sometimes someone whispered in her ear—so close, and yet so far—their voices a mere muffled vibration against her cartilage. Yet she knew what they had to say was important—she knew she wanted to hear their words and their soothing, thrumming baritone voice. But she just couldn't. Something was in the way, whatever it was.

On those days, she wished her mouth would open and her tongue would loosen so she could tell them to speak up, to speak clearer. I want to hear you. You're important. I know you are. Speak again…please?

But one day, the voices got very loud (very scared? Of what? The dragon said he wouldn't hurt you...), and she could almost make out what they were saying in their fear…but everything was so slow, and heavy, and she felt the itchings of that far-away place reach for her conscious in the guise of thread-like shadow fingers…

Then, the hand returned, and something cool, wet and soft pressed against her forehead and cheeks as words—words she could finally understand—drifted past her ears like a lover's whisper.

"Stay with me. Please. Stay with me, stay with me…I cannot…cannot without you…"

…oh…was she…was she wanted…?

That was…nice…

But she had been trying for so long, though—trying for what? What have you been striving for?—every step and every effort put forth to make Something Wonderful and Beautiful happen—what was it? Can you remember?—it had meant everything—and it still does, somehow—and she had given everything in an equal trade in order to let it please be.

…sometimes, she was so tired, when she thought about it…so tired of it all…of trying…of continuously sacrificing…of pursuing…

"No—Billa—"

…life was hard…love was hard…

"—stay with me; you've got to stay with me—don't you dare come all this way and fight to be at my side only to die before we can even begin a life together—don't you even try, Halfling—"

…but somehow…denying that Voice was even harder. Especially when it called to her soul like that.

So when the hand took hold of her own again and squeezed in breathless pain, and desperate longing, she forced her fingers to move and shift, squeezing back in a weak grip that made the Voice suddenly sound very much more relieved.

(There; that was…better.)

When her eyes finally opened to the world once more, Billa's first thought was that everything had been a dream.

She was…home.

Faint confusion marred her features as she stared at what was clearly the ceiling of her bedroom back at her home in the Shire, uncomprehending. Had she…had she dreamt it? Everything? The sunlight streaming in from her window made everything seem so surreal and warm—comfortable—just like it had always been—just like she had always remembered it to be—and as she glanced around her bedroom with her eyes, she could see that, well, everything was the way it had been when she left…

…or when she thought she did…

...did I…did I really…dream that entire month up…?

Tentatively, Billa began to push herself up to sit—but then hissed in surprise at the pain that immediately lanced itself up and around her torso and back the minute she did so, choosing to lie back down instead as she instantly pulled the blankets away. Lifting her nightshirt with shaky, weak hands (she vaguely recognized she was wearing her pajama's—that meant someone had changed her—but who, she wondered?), she let her fingers lightly trace the bandages wrapped around her—clean and spotless, save for the slight sheen of sweat that lingered.

Not a dream, her conscious realized as she took stock of her healing injuries with a disbelieving, soft smile. Not a dream.

I'm alive.

Feeling pleasantly warm both inside and out, Billa pulled her nightshirt back down, sighing in contentment as she then laid her arms over her stomach, closed her eyes, and simply let herself soak in the sunshine that peered in through her bedroom window.

"And Smaug said I wouldn't last…" she murmured to herself with a smile, something within her soul inhaling and exhaling deeply the nostalgic comforts of her warm, happy hobbit-hole of Bag End.

Gosh, it had been…a month, hadn't it? An entire month since she had last been here and slept in this bed—or, well, really, more like three weeks, because she had stayed one night here while Dis and her had travelled—but that hardly counted, in the large scheme of things.

A month. An entire month from home.

And now…now she had unexpectedly returned.

There and back again, huh? she thought, amused. Yes, I suppose so…sounds like the wonderful title of a book, though. Oh, perhaps I should consider—

—But the door to her bedroom unexpectedly decided to creak open at that point. Drawn instinctively to the sound, Billa opened her eyes and turned to see who was coming inside—her caretaker, perhaps? Now that she thought about it, who was the kind soul who had taken it upon themselves to heal her…? She owed them quite a lot; surely taking care of an infected, sickly and wounded hobbit was such a great way to spend their time—

—oh. Why, it was Himie. At least, Himie who was visiting her.

Glad to see a familiar face, Billa couldn't help but tentatively smile, calling out with a slightly hoarse voice from underuse in order to grab her friend's attention, "G-good morning, Himie."

But that had apparently been the last thing the young hobbit lass had expected to hear.

Immediately, she faltered, paling, her dark eyes catching sight of the other hobbit lying awake and all right in her bed—and at seeing Miss Baggins' eyes open, she instantly screamed, her bowl full of chilled water, clamoring to the ground.

It was a lot of startling noise, and wincing before cringing—because gosh even those basic muscle reflexes pulled on her sides and back—Billa stared in bewilderment as the first thing the barely-of-age hobbit did wasn't to run to her charge's side and ask if she was okay and check her bandages or fill her in on what she had missed or anything—no, not at all. Instead, it was to burst right back out of her bedroom, all the while continuing to scream as she fled away.

Billa, mystified, could only stare at the overturned bowl and now-empty doorway with foggy surprise.

…was it…was it something she said…?

Crystal's Notes: There you guys go. :D A more pleasant ending after that long, multi-chaptered climax. And we've made it, guys! We're passed the danger! We've done it! Woo! What great adventurers we are! :D Now for just some reconciliation and well...you know. ;D "First comes love..."

(Not that you guys weren't expecting that. xD)

Next chapter is particularly...emotional. At least, I'm packing it with everything I've got, so be prepared. :)

And also...start thinking about what you'd like to see next! :) After the final chapter on this baby is up, what else would you like to see? A sequel? A series of oneshots, both humorous and angsty, following life after this? Or would you like a separate AU? I've received some good ideas, which I'll make mention of later-but no need to make any specific "vote" now. Just get wheels turning. :D And if there is any idea you may have that you'd like to see, let me know before I do make an official poll!

But until then, enjoy. :) Do enjoy. You guys deserve it. (hug hug) Have a wonderful day!