Chapter 32

They stopped at a motel a few miles past the train tracks. Thorin put Bifur and Bombur on watch while he and the others cleared the motel. The wound in his shoulder burned, but he'd refused to have it checked until he knew they were safe.

Safe. If that even meant anything anymore. Azog's grin leered at him from the corners of his memory, and Thorin had to restrain himself from smashing anything other than walker skulls.

He'd led his family right into a trap, one that could have killed Fíli. It might have already killed Balin. Thorin leaned against the doorway and squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn't been able to protect them. This mission had been about keeping them safe, not putting them in the line of fire.

Someone tugged on the back of his shirt and he turned with a growl, but it was only Óin. The doctor shot him an unimpressed glance.

"I'm checking your shoulder. No arguments."

"What about—"

"Balin is in one of the other rooms. Fíli's with his father, and Nori's putting his foot up." Óin jabbed a finger at the bed. "Sit."

With a sigh, Thorin sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his shirt with a wince. Óin set his bag down beside him and began examining his shoulder.

"Well, there's an exit wound. Saves me the trouble of removing the bullet. This is going to need stitches, though."

Bilbo appeared in the doorway. He was still pale, but looked slightly less shell-shocked than he had at the train station. "Need any help?" His words were slightly stilted, like he was reading from a script.

"Stop blocking my light, maybe," Óin grumbled.

Bilbo didn't react to the statement, but he moved to sit on the bed beside Thorin. He could feel the echoing hollowness inside him, but his presence was something of a comfort nonetheless.

He hissed at the sharp sting of alcohol as Óin applied it to his wound. Wordlessly, Bilbo slipped a hand into Thorin's and held it, not particularly tightly, but just so their skin met gently. They held onto each other in silence as Óin finished putting in the stitches.

"The damage doesn't look too bad. Just don't do anything strenuous with that arm," he said as he put the supplies back in his bag and left without another word.

Thorin watched him close the door. There was no guarantee he would be able to follow those instructions, not with Erebor on the horizon.

"We're matching," Bilbo said softly. When Thorin looked at him, he indicated Thorin's wound, then the place on his own shoulder where the dog's bite had scarred. "Sort of."

A measure of fondness warmed his chest, and Thorin wrapped his good arm around Bilbo. "I think you've got some catching up to do." His own torso was marked by several of the scars he'd received from his time as a soldier, and a few he'd gotten after the outbreak.

"Hm." Bilbo leaned against him. It was hard to find any real humor in the situation.

"I was wrong," Thorin said softly. "I was wrong to lie to you, and I was wrong about what I said afterwards."

"I don't know if you were," Bilbo whispered, looking down at his hands, which were trembling slightly.

"I never wanted that for you." He looked down, his throat tightening. "You have a good heart, Bilbo. It's not easy to keep something like that, not in this world."

A part of him envied it, the light that Bilbo carried within him that never seemed truly naive. And by bringing them all out here, it was his fault that that light had been dimmed.

"He was just a kid," Bilbo said. "He was Fíli's age. And I…" His voice cracked.

"You saved Fíli's life." Thorin squeezed his shoulders, wishing he could lift the guilt from them. "That's all that matters now."

Bilbo was silent for a long moment. "Does it get easier?" He finally looked up at Thorin, his eyes shining like he was afraid of the answer.

Thorin dropped his arm back to his side. He'd killed close to a dozen men back at the train station, had meant to kill more. And he hadn't seen them as anything more than moving targets, because after Frerin had died, something in the world had fractured like a broken mirror. There was his family, and the people trying to kill them. There were the living and the dead.

He still had to believe that he had some power to define those groups.

Blinking back memories, he looked at Bilbo. "For your sake…I hope it doesn't."

The sky was beginning to lighten, but it was still cold enough that Fíli could feel his fingers going numb. He was sitting on the curb just outside the motel, hunched with his elbows resting on his knees. Every shiver jostled the dull pain in his ribs. Nori and Ori were keeping watch at either end of the building, but if either of them had noticed him step out, they hadn't said anything.

Víli was still asleep in the room behind him. They'd slept near each other every night they'd been on the road, but last night had been the first that Fíli had curled up next to his dad since he was six years old. That last night had been because of a nightmare, but Fíli wasn't sure he'd actually gotten any sleep since they'd arrived at the motel.

The memory of the train station, of Balin's still body and the bloody fists striking his face, made him shudder. Even when Azog's group had taken him back at the warehouse, he'd never felt that helpless, that terrified. Tears pricked his eyes. He'd tried to fight back, and in the end had tried to get away, but the other man had been too fast, too strong.

He'd been so stupid, thinking he could fight, thinking he was more than just a weak kid pretending to be a soldier. The gun on his belt didn't mean shit.

A door swung open. Fíli turned to see Dwalin step out into the cold air, and became aware of the hot tears searing his skin.

Turning away, he dragged his sleeve across his face. Shame burned on his skin like hot grease, and he wanted nothing more than to claw it away.

"The hell are you doing up so early?" Dwalin stepped closer, and Fíli was distantly grateful that he was only acknowledging the time.

"Couldn't sleep," he said, fighting to keep his voice steady.

Dwalin sat next to him with a sigh. He'd remained stonily silent ever since they'd left the train station, and after they'd arrived at the motel, he'd stationed himself in a chair next to the bed where Balin was resting. Fíli doubted he'd gotten any sleep either.

He scratched his forehead, careful of the stitches that Óin had put in above his eyebrow. He'd also said to watch for any signs of a concussion, though Fíli hadn't felt anything so far. Somehow his nose hadn't been broken either, though it still throbbed.

But his hands, his knuckles—the skin was perfectly intact, except for the tiny red spots where the shards of the broken window had bitten into his palms. He hadn't been able to land a single punch.

"I should've—"

"Don't even start with that," Dwalin growled, his tone sharp enough to shock Fíli into silence. "It doesn't fucking matter what you should have done. We should have been there to protect you."

Fíli couldn't help but shrink a little under the force of Dwalin's anger, though he knew it wasn't directed at him. That had been a mantra passed between the group, in spoken words and silent glances, after the warehouse. And it only made him feel more like a little kid, like a liability that everyone had to look out for.

He wanted to see Dís again. If he shut his eyes, he could see her face, her warm smile, and he knew that she would have the answer he was looking for.

Wishing for it only made him feel more like a child.

I have faith in you, she'd said right before he'd left. As much as he wanted to see his mom and Kíli again, he couldn't go back to them like this. If he'd left them behind, it had to be for something.

"Hey." Dwalin patted his shoulder, bringing him back to the present. "We just want you to be safe, alright? That's all that matters."

Fíli glanced at him. "Does that mean you'll keep teaching me how to fight?"

Dwalin chuckled. He looked incredibly tired, with dark circles beneath his eyes and his wild brown hair sticking up in all directions. He grasped Fíli's shoulder again and shook him lightly. "Sure thing."

Fíli tried for a smile. He didn't mind his family protecting him—but he wanted them to make him stronger too.

Dwalin stood up with a sigh. "I'm gonna go check on Balin. You should get some rest." He turned and disappeared through the door again.

Fíli sat there for a while longer, then stood up. Maybe he would head back inside and try to sleep. It wasn't like they could really move on for the moment, not with everyone's injuries.

He tried to open the door quietly, but Víli still stirred as a crack of faint, early-morning sunlight entered the room. He pushed his hair out of his face and blinked in Fíli's direction.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." He went to sit on the edge of the bed. Saying that didn't feel like as much of a lie anymore.

Víli groaned and rubbed a hand across his forehead. "What time is it?"

Fíli smiled slightly. Neither of his parents were morning people. When they'd been younger, he and Kíli had made a habit out of jumping on their bed to wake them up, so they wouldn't be late for school. "I don't know. I think I want to sleep in, though."

"Sounds good to me." Víli pulled the covers higher over his shoulders.

Sitting in the dark room, sleep was beginning to weigh on his eyelids. Suppressing a yawn, Fíli walked over to the other side of the bed and pulled the corner of the covers back.

A ragged scream echoed from the next room, followed by a gunshot.

The sound jolted through him like a physical blow, and Fíli staggered back from the bed.

"Shit!" Víli staggered out of bed. "What the hell was that?"

"I-I don't know." The words felt thick and heavy in his throat, even as his heart began to pound.

"Stay here." Víli tore open the door.

Feeling as if he was moving underwater, Fíli followed him outside.

Nori was already there, pushing open the door to Dwalin's room and darting inside, gun drawn. Ori was coming from the other direction, looking pale, and the other doors began to swing open.

They found Dwalin kneeling on the carpet, shoulders trembling with ragged sobs. The gun was on the floor, a black angle against the faded blue fabric.

And Balin was lying on the bed, with the blank, milky eyes of a walker and a ragged wound beneath his chin where the bullet had entered.

I know this is a really short chapter, probably the shortest one to date. There was going to be one more scene at the end, but…yeah. It didn't feel right to continue after this last part. I am…sorry.