Chapter 38
Bilbo didn't let go of Fíli until they were in the infirmary.
Bofur met them in the hallway just inside Erebor's front door, covered in soot and walker blood but otherwise unharmed.
"Óin," Bilbo managed, nearly out of breath. His right arm was wrapped around Fíli's shoulder since he'd been unable to walk by himself, bent double with uncontrollable sobs. Bain and Sigrid had been covering them the whole way up to the door.
"He's with Thorin," Bofur said with a concerned glance towards Fíli. "This way."
The minutes after that were a whirl, stumbling through white hallways and down a couple flights of stairs until they made it to a room furnished with cots and medical equipment.
Everyone else was there, scattered out in the hallway or standing inside. But all of that was peripheral as Bilbo's vision narrowed on Thorin, lying in the closest cot. His bare chest was patch-worked with bruises and frightfully pale, a disturbing contrast to the blood smeared around the dark wounds in his stomach. Óin was standing over him, working with a couple of surgical tools.
"Are you alright?" Bofur stepped forward, putting his arms around Fíli. "What happened, out there?"
Bilbo looked around at the others as a ringing silence filled the room. The realization trickled through the group.
"Shit." Bifur put his head in his hands. Ori turned white and wrapped his arms around himself. Nori shook his head, looking like he wanted to hit something.
"I need everyone out of here. I'm trying to save a man's life," Óin said without looking up. His voice was hoarse, but his hands remained steady as they worked. "Bifur, you stay and help me."
Gradually, everyone filed out the door. Bofur guided Fíli away as sobs continued to rack his body. But Bilbo stayed rooted to the spot, his eyes locked on Thorin's pale face, the frighteningly slow rise and fall of his chest. The leftover heat of the fire was still branded on his skin, but he suddenly felt as if his lungs were full of ice water.
Óin shot him a resigned glance. "Go sit in that chair if you're going to stay. I can't have you in the way."
Bilbo stepped aside, but he didn't sit down. He had the feeling if he did anything other than stand, he would collapse in on himself.
After a few torturous minutes, he asked, "I-Is he… Are you going to be able to save him?"
For a moment, he wasn't sure if Óin was going to answer, but then he raised his head, looking exhausted. "I don't know. I'm not a surgeon, and I've never done something like this before." He lowered his voice. "But I am going to try."
Time seemed to pass like the tide, sometimes leaping forward by minutes, sometimes dragging at an excruciating pace. Bilbo could feel a slow prickling at the back of his skull, like a reminder that he was supposed to be exhausted, but he could barely feel it. It seemed like he could stand there for the rest of time, watching Thorin's face for any sign of life.
"His blood pressure is dropping," Óin said, pulling the stethoscope from his ears. "He's going to need a transfusion."
The words were enough to break Bilbo from his trance, and he stepped forward. "I can do it."
Óin sent a doubtful glance towards the makeshift bandage on his hand. Between his and Thorin's blood, it was stained almost entirely red. "I wouldn't recommend it. You're injured, and you look like you're about to keel over."
"I'm fine." Bilbo stepped forward, fumbling to roll up his sleeve. "I-I'm O negative. Universal donor."
"Of course you are," Bifur muttered.
"Please." Bilbo sent another worried glance in Thorin's direction. "He needs it quickly, and I'm right here."
With a sigh, Óin dragged over a chair and gestured for him to sit. He worked quickly to set up the apparatus, and Bilbo winced slightly at the prick of the needle in his arm. He watched the deep red crawl through the tube and swallowed, hard.
While his other arm was occupied, Óin unwound the towel around his injured hand and went to work cleaning and stitching the wound.
"How'd this happen?"
Bilbo supposed he should have prepared himself for the question, but it still nearly made him flinch. "It was Smaug," he said quietly, averting his eyes from the wound. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about any of it.
Apparently Óin sensed his unease enough to not press the issue. He wound a clean bandage over Bilbo's hand, then pulled the needle from his arm and taped a piece of gauze over the tiny hole. He was just finishing up when Bifur walked into the room. Bilbo looked up in surprise—he hadn't even noticed him leave.
"Found 'em," he said stiffly, and handed a pair of handcuffs to Óin.
Bilbo straightened as Óin began cuffing Thorin's wrists to the metal bars on either side of the bed. "W-What are you doing?"
"Just playing it safe. If Thorin wakes up and he's…not himself, it'll be safer for the rest of us if he's restrained."
"If he's…not himself?"
Please don't let me turn.
Bilbo sat back, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of him. "No," he gasped. "No, h-he—"
Óin walked over and dropped a small metal key on the bedside table. Despite the impatient gesture, the only thing on his face was exhaustion. "If he makes it through the night, you feel free to take them off. It's only a precaution."
He felt sick. The weight of everything was bearing down on him, curling him up like a burnt leaf. It was all Bilbo could do to nod and try to remember how to breathe.
"I'm going to check up on the others." Óin grabbed a few supplies and headed for the door.
Bifur trailed after him. "We'll be nearby. Shout if you need anything," he said over his shoulder.
And then it was just him and Thorin.
Bilbo shifted his chair so he was facing the bed and reached out to take Thorin's hand. His skin was still crusted with dried blood, and he took in a shuddering breath at the sensation.
No. No, that wouldn't do.
He stood up, waited until the room stopped spinning, then made his way across the room to the sink. He found a disposable towel in one of the cabinets and wet it under the faucet. He squeezed out the excess and walked back to his chair. Carefully, intently, as if it were the only thing left to do on earth, he began cleaning away the blood from Thorin's hands and arms. He traded the red-stained cloth for a fresh one and set about wiping his face clean, careful not to press too hard on his bruises.
Bilbo sank back into his chair once he was finished. "It'll be nice to take a hot shower again, hm?" He took Thorin's hand again, fingers running over the clean, slightly damp skin. "And…And I saw the food stores, while I was…here. There's enough. More than enough. You have to wake up and see all of it, okay?"
But Balin would never see it. Víli would never. And Dís and Kíli…they didn't know. God, Víli was gone and they didn't even know. Bilbo took in a stuttering breath. It felt like something was closing around his throat.
"I don't know if it was worth it. I don't know if this place was worth any of the blood we spent. But you wanted this so badly, and I wanted it for you. A-And if you had just—" A sob broke the sentence in half, and Bilbo bowed his head.
He didn't know if he should be angry. He didn't know if he was blaming Thorin too much or too little. He just wanted him back, awake and alive. More than ever, he wished the parts of him, the parts of Thorin he'd fallen in love with, had made up the whole from the start.
And it was this—the aching, tearing sense of loss, the sensation of having something snatched away and slipping through his fingers, that finally made him lean forward, nearly double, and begin to cry.
He cried for Víli, for Fíli and Kíli and Dís, for Dwalin and Balin, for Thorin and himself, for all the suffering and tears they'd put into this, and all that was yet to come.
It was a long time before he was spent, breathing thickly with his forehead resting on the bed next to Thorin's shoulder, but even then there was no peace, no emptiness to quiet his thoughts.
Bilbo shut his eyes and let exhaustion take hold of him.
Fíli sucked in another tearstained breath, his hands fisted in his hair.
He couldn't stop seeing it, the way Víli had staggered towards him, the blankness of his eyes as he'd stared at him without recognition.
And when those cold hands had closed around his shoulders, it hadn't been with warm reassurance. There had only been a sickening hunger in that grip.
He let out another sob, lips moving soundlessly. His dad was dead. The truth flashed against his consciousness, as unbearably bright and ruthless as the room he was in.
He hadn't been able to stand the others seeing him like this. Bofur had held him long enough for him to come back to himself, and then he'd turned away and stumbled into the closest empty room. Now he was leaning against the laundry machine in the corner farthest from the door, half-oblivious to the gray layer of dust coating the floor.
He wanted his dad. He wanted him to walk in and tell him everything was okay.
Fíli dug his knuckles into his scalp as a fresh wave of tears leaked from his eyes. He didn't deserve any of that. He was weak and selfish and it was his fault Víli was dead.
He'd been so focused on proving himself, on trying to play soldier on this stupid mission, that he'd gotten his own dad killed. If he'd just turned back at the motel like Víli had wanted, he would still be okay. They would be back with…
Dís and Kíli. He flinched. He'd taken away their family, too. Kíli would have to grow up without a dad. And Dís would look at him and know it was his fault.
There was still a splatter of thick, dark blood on his knuckles from when he'd pulled the trigger. Fíli tried to wipe it off, but his fingers only dragged a glob of red across the back of his hand. That was blood that he had spilled. He began rubbing it off on his pants, his breaths coming faster, until his skin felt raw.
The door to the laundry room opened. Fíli froze for a split second, then dragged both hands across his face, intent on shouting out whoever had decided to walk in. But when he looked up, the words wouldn't come.
Sigrid crossed the room and sat down next to him. Her face was smudged with soot, and a few strands of hair had come loose from her ponytail.
Fíli swallowed and glanced away. Suddenly, distantly, he felt embarrassed to cry in front of her. The realization doused him with another wave of shame—it was such a stupid thing to be worried about.
But there was no disapproval or disgust on her face, only grief—a strange shadow of his own.
After a minute, she spoke. "I lost my mom the same way." She clasped her hands together, forearms resting against her bent knees. "About three years back. The roamer just…came out of nowhere. I-I had a gun with me, but I still couldn't do anything when it…when it bit her." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "I couldn't do anything." She sucked in a sharp breath. "Dad had to shoot her."
Fíli looked up, and his throat tightened as he saw the tears running down her face, smearing the dirt on her cheeks. It was strange, looking through a window into her pain, so similar to his, and it brought a different ache to his chest.
When she looked up, her eyes were shining and full of grief, a mirror to his own. "So…So I know exactly what you're feeling."
He wasn't sure who moved first, but the next thing he knew they were leaning against each other, shoulders pressed together so they could feel the tremble of each other's sobs.
And Fíli allowed his tears to flow freely again.
Thorin found himself in an unfamiliar hospital bed. There was something eerily quiet and lonely about the room, like there was nothing beyond it.
He sat up and winced, looking down at the bandages covering his stomach, but the sensation only a dull ache, like a bad bruise.
There was a cell phone in his hand, and he realized it was already dialing a call. He lifted it to his ear.
After a moment, the person on the other end picked up. "Hey."
Thorin smiled. "Happy birthday."
"Thanks. You actually caught me at a pretty good time, for once. So, you gonna read off gift card numbers to me, or what?"
"I have something better, actually. But it's going to have to wait until you get back."
"Sweet. Is it a pony?"
He laughed. "Yeah, a little plastic one."
"Well, I hope you got a sparkly comb for me to brush its tail." A small commotion sounded on the other end. "Shit. I gotta go. I'll see you in a couple weeks?"
"Yeah, see you then." Thorin glanced to the side and frowned as a glimmer of reality flickered past, like the rustling of a curtain. He hadn't been in the hospital when they'd had this conversation. He'd been in his car after physical therapy. This was only a dream, he realized, but it still felt so achingly real.
"Oh, and Thorin?" His voice became softer, more serious. "It wasn't your fault, what happened."
He stilled as a familiar ache grew in his chest. "What?"
"It wasn't your fault," he repeated. "And everyone knows it."
He shook his head, tears pricking his eyes. "I-I should have been there."
"You can't save everyone. Even if I did think you were a superhero." He laughed softly. "At some point you have to forgive yourself for that."
Thorin closed his eyes, but not before a tear escaped. "Frerin…"
"I gotta go. I'll see you again, but…maybe not for a while."
"Wait," Thorin said, but the dream was already fading, lifting away as he plunged back into unconsciousness.
Bilbo sat up with a wince. He'd fallen asleep in a horribly uncomfortable position, sitting in his chair with his arms and head resting on Thorin's bed, and now his neck and back ached. His sinuses felt thick and clogged, his cheeks stiff with dried tears. He sat back with a sigh, looking Thorin over with tired eyes.
He didn't look any better. He was still motionless and deathly pale. Bilbo glanced at the clock above the door, but it had run out of battery long ago. There was no sign of the others anywhere, not even the low murmurs of their voices.
At some point he would have to go look for Fíli. Bilbo swallowed thickly at the thought, the full memory of the previous night crashing down. His throat ached like he was about to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. His mouth was painfully dry, too.
With a groan, Bilbo started to push himself up. He found some plastic cups used to store pills, and took a few sips from the sink using one. Even the small amount of water was enough to prod his hunger awake, but he ignored it. The thought of going back to the food storage, of seeing his own blood on the floor, made him sick.
A low groan sounded from the other side of the room.
Bilbo dropped the cup in the sink and rushed to the bed. "Thorin?"
Thorin stirred, eyes moving beneath his lids, another groan sounding from the back of his throat.
"Thorin?" His hands hovered just above his arm. He knew he should reach out, check for a pulse, but terror kept him rooted to the spot.
His eyes opened, slowly, revealing clear blue irises. "Bilbo?"
Relief rushed through him like a flood of cold water. He leaned forward and cupped his face with both hands, unbelievably relieved to feel warmth beneath his fingers. "I'm here. I'm right here."
A sharp jangle of metal sounded just behind him. Thorin looked down at the handcuffs restricting his movements. "What..."
"That was Óin's idea," Bilbo said apologetically. "Just in case you…never mind that." He reached for the key.
"No," Thorin said, letting his hands fall back to the bed. "Keep them on. I don't..." He stopped and winced with a sharp breath.
"No," Bilbo repeated. His stomach dropped. He wanted the cuffs off, wanted Thorin awake and free from pain, wanted him back. "You're fine, alright? You've come through the worst of it. Do you need me to get Óin? I can…" His voice cracked. He fell back into the chair, a sudden exhaustion overwhelming him.
"Bilbo..."
Belatedly, he realized that tears were running down his cheeks again. "I-I thought I'd lost you."
Thorin closed his eyes. Bilbo could tell by his slow, controlled breathing that he was in pain and trying hard not to show it. "I'm sorry."
A watery laugh escaped him. "Well, it's not really your fault you got stabbed..."
"No, I am sorry. For all the worry I caused you and—" He took a sharp breath. "For putting all of you at risk like that. I-It wasn't..." He trailed off and exhaled unsteadily. "Bilbo, tell me no one else got hurt."
His hands clenched into fists, which he pressed against his thighs. The words wouldn't come at first—this was the last thing he wanted to say to Thorin, not when he'd just gotten him back. "Víli," he managed after a minute.
Thorin shut his eyes, a sharp line creasing his brow. He spent the next few moments breathing slowly, as though he was trying to control the pain or the tears or both. Once his struggle had eased, he asked, lowly, "How?"
"It was a walker," Bilbo said lowly. He thought suddenly how it would feel to deliver this news to Dís, and the next words were nearly impossible to say. "Fíli, um…h-he took care of him."
At this, Thorin let out a broken sob, and hissed through his teeth as the movement jostled his wound. Bilbo leapt up, unable to see him like this any longer, and undid the handcuffs before he could protest.
He leaned forward, grasping his shoulders, but what could he do? He didn't know how to comfort Thorin when his own pain was threatening to swallow him whole.
"I…I'm going to find Óin, see about getting you some painkillers. I'll be back as soon as I can." It was the only thing he could think of that he could even begin to fix.
"Alright." Thorin's voice was raspy, thick with suppressed tears, and Bilbo felt as if something in his chest was tearing in half as he turned to go.
I just want to ramble for a second about that scene with Fíli. I was thinking a lot about this video by Philosophy Tube on mental health (it's really really good, I've watched it like four times) and this one quote from it, that "Toxic masculinity's a hell of a ship to pilot when you're suffering." Like Fíli definitely had a supportive family that didn't strictly enforce gender roles, but I feel like a lot of his pain comes from this pressure he has to be strong and stoic, the way he sees the people he looks up to (especially Thorin). Secondly, the part with Sigrid was inspired by the end of the video, the idea that one of the most powerful things you can say to someone is "I understand how you feel." I haven't talked about it much but the past year has been pretty difficult for me and the discussions in that video are just really important to me. Obviously I'm not going through the same stuff as Fíli and I can't exactly relate to the masculinity stuff but it's been a weird, sometimes cathartic experience to write from his point of view and explore his struggles with trying to be strong in a world that just keeps taking from you. Anyway, I'll stop rambling now, and I'll see you guys next week.
