Unfortunately, time waited for no creature.
The company of Dwarrow, wizard, and Hobbit were hardly safe. Safe for now only provided them the space to breath. The eagles had snatched them from the jaws of death, but the Carrock was still within their pursuer's reach. Bilbo was aware of this from experience.
Azog and his band of orcs would track the eagles' flight and hunt them over several miles until the found refuge with Beorn.
All of his forewarning did not mean the Hobbit was ready for the next leg of their journey. It had been trying the first time with his being uninjured. Right now, the only reason he remained standing was because none of his limbs would obey him.
The sun's rays broke over the mountain, flooding the valley with light and simultaneously reminding them they had a deadline in the fast approaching Durin's Day.
"Come," ordered Thorin, turning sharply away from the kingdom that had been stolen by the terrible dragon beast. One hundred and seventy years. He had waited for this moment. Yearned with all the hopes of the people he fought to provide for and the burning desire for vengeance to lay eyes upon Erebor once more. "We cannot linger."
The Dwarrow groaned but obeyed.
They picked themselves to their feet and surveyed the edge of the spire. Bilbo absolutely did not like the speculative manner in which they stare down the side. His one and only rock climbing experience—in this lifetime—had ended disastrously and he was in no shape to scale another cliffside.
And most importantly, the Hobbit would not risk life and limb when he knew there was a perfectly carved set of stairs.
Perfectly carved for a man the size of Beorn, anyway. Where it was easy for the giant to navigate, it was incredibly steep for the Hobbit, who was forced to resort to perching on the edge of each step before tipping forward and twisting to catch the lip briefly to control his drop to the next. It was a painfully slow pace. Bilbo's arms shook with exhaustion, leading him to fear with each step that it would be the one he lost his grip.
Dwalin had offered to carry the Hobbit, after witnessing his descent for the first two steps. Bilbo had smiled wanly, appreciating the offer as much as it was unexpected, insisting that he would manage. He had only just won the Dwarrow's—Thorin's, his mind asserted—respect. He held no desire to lose it immediately by being carried like an invalid.
He only accepted their aid when he had no choice. Some stairs were broken and cracked, fallen into disrepair. Bilbo's heart skipped a beat every time he was forced to let Dori or Dwalin toss him across a crumbled step, and his breathe escaped him in a shaky exhale when caught and set on his feet.
He trusted the Company. Even when they disliked him, Bilbo knew they would never deliberately harm him. But he couldn't shake the reminder of their climb up the Misty Mountains just hours behind them. His shoulder still ached, screaming at him each time his caught his weight and dangled. Valar it seemed like a lifetime ago.
By the twentieth step, Bilbo's arms trembled uncontrollably. By the twenty-fourth, the persistent burn from overworking a group of muscles had reached truly painful levels. By the twenty-seventh, perspiration beaded on his forehead, sluicing down the planes of his face to soak the neckline of his shirt. Bilbo found himself glaring quite hatefully at Gandalf, for the wizard behaved as if he was simply out for an evening stroll, despite the stairs requiring him to take deeper lunge-esque strides.
By the thirty-second, the Hobbit was ready to demand a break. He did not remember the climb being so arduous the first time.
On the thirty-third step, he got his wish. And par for the course of this cursed journey, not in the way he wanted.
Every time Bilbo leant forward into a freefall and twisted, he couldn't help but wonder if this would be the time he failed to catch the ledge. That his grip strength vanished and his fingers flailed, scrambling solid purchase.
Surprisingly, it wasn't grip that failed him.
Bilbo caught the ledge and hung, waiting for his lungs to catch up to the rest of his body. He inhaled a controlled breath to clear the headiness accompanied each freefall. It was when he took the second, bracing himself for the second half of the drop, that the rock beneath the fingers of his left hand broke and crumbled.
He let out a cry of surprise as all of his suspended weight swung, now dangling only by his right arm. Several Dwarrow cried out as well, shouting mixed instructions to hold on or drop and "we'll catch you Mr. Boggins!"
Bilbo had chosen the former unconsciously, fingers digging into the now precarious rock. He was terrified enough of falling when he was doing so intentionally, and thus could not bring himself to relinquish his grip.
There was a moment, as he dragged along the face of the step and accumulated more scratches, where the Hobbit thought he would be able to recover. Then a loud pop rang in his ears. Bilbo had half a heartbeat to register that his right shoulder had once again come out of its socket before the pain was all he felt.
He let go of the ledge and dropped into the waiting arms of Bifur. Oín elbowed his way through the herd of his kin to reach the Hobbit's side. The pads of his fingers prodded and dug around the shoulder joint, sending fire racing down the limb. Bilbo could hardly pay attention to the healer's ministrations when his head felt like one of Gandalf's fireworks had gone off inside it.
"—worse than before. I can realign it and wrap it. Keep it from jumping out of place again. But he needs to rest it. I'd recommend not using that arm for three weeks minimum. Six if possible."
Bilbo stared at Oín, horrified by the extensive timeline. He couldn't afford to be laid up in a bed somewhere for three weeks.
Keeping track of time in the wilds was no easy feat. If not for their brief sojourn in Rivendell, Bilbo would have been completely unaware of the passing of time. As it was, the company had been forced to wait for the right moon to hang in the night sky so Lord Elrond could read Thorin's map. Midsummer's ever. The twenty-first of June. And Durin's Day fell on October nineteenth.
Four months seemed like a lot of time until you were crossing all of Middle Earth on foot, unable to travel more than a league before misfortune befell you. Trolls that wanted to eat them for dinner. Falling into goblin infested tunnels. Climbing mountains—so many mountains. Bilbo's feet ached at the memory. That nasty Azog who stalked their every step.
And that was only what had occurred thus far. The dark and confusing forest of Mirkwood still laid between the Company and Erebor. Hauntingly large and brimming with dark magic and dangerous creatures and an entire city of Elves that held a deeply sated hatred of the Company of Dwarrow that had no choice but enter their gloomy forest if they wished to reach the finish line in time. Hard is it was to believe, they had spent so much time stumbling around in circles and then languishing in Thranduil's dungeon that the last light of Durin's Day was cresting the horizon.
Knowing that they had teetered on the edge of failure the first time, Bilbo couldn't afford to be out of commission for even a single week, never mind the three to six Oín desired. Yavanna, why did it have to be his sword arm? If he had injured his left arm instead, Bilbo wagered the Dwarrow wouldn't be nearly as concerned, nor he so inconvenient.
"But we don't have weeks for me to heal!" he protested, seeing the shadows in Thorin's eyes. The king probably had a change of heart upon realizing his contracted burglar might not be capable of performing the one job he had signed on for.
He wouldn't take Bilbo off the quest, would he? How was he supposed to save Durin's line if its obstinate king attempted to dismiss him halfway through?
"Please, Thorin, don't leave me. It's not that bad, promise. I can still steal from the dragon. I need to stay with you. I can make it to the mountain. Don't leave me, again."
Expression as blank as the stone his ancestors were hewn from, Thorin turned from Oín and his patient, observing how far they were from reaching the valley floor, calculating just how many of these infernal oversized stairs were left to descend—Twelve. Maybe fifteen?—and how best to get the Halfling down them.
The Hobbit appeared none too pleased with the healer's timeframe. Thorin wagered he had never before sustained a long-term injury. His people were soft creatures. Farmers and growers, from what he had seen. Hard work, yes, but not dangerous.
Six weeks for his sword arm to heal was half their remaining time.
But Thorin was no fool. He knew that Oín had told the Halfling six weeks to appease him. It would only take three fortnights if given time to rest. And, unfortunately, the crownless king couldn't spare that much time. It was too late to see the Hobbit safely back to his lands or even back to Rivendell, only a day behind them. Lord Elrond would certainly have the Hobbit fighting fit in a matter of minutes and then keep them prisoner so as to not see the dragon awaken.
No, Thorin had no choice but to press forward. Which meant the Hobbit's injury would take longer to heal. He could only pray to Mahal that it would be before he sent him into the dragon's lair.
The Dwarf had expected shock and disbelief. Instead the Halfling begged. "Please, Thorin, don't leave me. It's not that bad, promise. I can still steal from the dragon. I need to stay with you. I can make it to the mountain. Don't leave me, again."
Don't leave me, again. The words echoed in his mind. Don't leave me, again. Again. Again. Again.
The Hobbit had put on a brave face atop the Carrock. Hid his hurt behind a speech of wisdom and loyalty and compassion. Why had he not torn into Thorin for abandoning him in the goblin tunnels? As the leader, as the king, it was his responsibility to see to all his comrades' safety, contractual legalese be damned.
Thorin had failed him.
He should have fought harder against the goblin king. Insisted the foul creatures were blind after years living in the dark. Didn't they know a Dwarf when they saw one? Pay no mind to the lack of beard, the lad was simply too young for one. Could have told Tharkûn when he arrived—far too late no matter what dodgy old bastard claimed—the poor Halfling's fate.
He had put his duty, this impossibly difficult quest, before a comrade's life. Restoring his scattered people to the home they had been denied for nearly two centuries was paramount.
And yet, Thorin knew himself. If it had been one of his sister-sons. Dwalin or Balin. Literally any one of his Dwarven companions. Thorin would have fought through the gates of hell to ensure their safety.
He hadn't been okay with the Hobbit's sacrifice by any means, but he had been able to rationalize it and move on.
Thorin had feared their expedition was cursed when he led his company to be trapped at the edge of a cliff with Azog's scouting party behind them. By failing to protect their fourteenth member, he had brought doom upon them all.
The crownless king had charged his nemesis. His failure was a heavy weight, but if he could not reclaim his homeland from the dragon usurper, Thorin would at least sever The Defiler's head from his shoulders as recompense.
Only he wound up beneath the great orc's boot. Once again, his enemy had triumphed, grinning savagely as he prepared to bring Durin's line to an end. The fingers that had been stretched taut in search of his fallen blade fell limply to the earth upon realizing that he could not reach it.
Not wanting his last image to be Azog's face, twisted in delight and macabre pleasure, the Dwarf had shut his eyes, recalling happier moments. Such as holding his infant nephews. Teaching them the art of the forge, the beauty of metal striking hot metal and the satisfaction in the hiss of a completed project. The pride in his chest when they returned successful from their first solo hunt without supervision. The excitement over the appearance of Fíli's chin hairs.
The hope in the eyes of twelve Dwarrow as the unexpected addition to their party, having previously laid out a feast fit for a king's dining hall, signed his life away by accepting to accompany them on this suicidal venture.
By Mahal's grace, the Hobbit had returned, barreling into the pale orc and driving the beast off him.
The battle turned chaotic. Thorin could focus on neither his gratitude nor his guilt, shoving both feelings aside to be dealt with later, as he picked up his sword and threw himself into the fray.
Emotionally stunted, as his sister liked to describe Thorin, he had chosen to deal with the latter first, laying into the Hobbit for his foolishness before thanking him in a roundabout manner by admitting he was wrong about Bilbo.
For he was Bilbo now. His loyalty and tremendous courage had more than earned him the right to be called by name. It would be a conscious effort on his part to make that change, especially in his own thoughts, but Thorin felt it was the least that he owed.
Bilbo was the only one of them that truly had no stake in this adventure. If they succeeded, he would return home with riches, but if they failed . . . death was the only outcome. And yet, this soft creature who had never seen battle had signed on with no hesitation. Thorin hadn't been able to muster any respect for the Hobbit's action—find him anyone that wouldn't do the same when offered a fourteenth share of Erebor's bountiful riches, he thought scornfully—too resentful of being forced to rely upon an outsider to reclaim his kingdom.
Don't leave me, again.
Never, he swore to himself. On his name, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, he would treat Bilbo with the respect he deserved as the fourteenth member of his company, repay his faith and constancy in kind, and honor his courage.
The majestic Dwarf knelt before his injured companion, catching the hand of his good arm between both his own, noting how his blue eyes were glazed with fervor. "You'll not get out of your contract so easily, Master Burglar."
His relief was written across Bilbo's face. Thorin masterfully hid the shame that welled up inside him and turned to Oín, gruffly ordering the healer to finish tending to Bilbo's arm so the Company could be on its way.
Oín had the Hobbit lay on his back as he whipped together a mixture of rosemary oil, valerian and chamomile. He cut Bilbo's sleeve off at the shoulder, ignoring his patient's protest, and rubbed his tincture about the dislocated joint.
Oín chattered as he worked, something Thorin suspected he did as a distraction. "This will help relax the muscles, so we hopefully don't cause any more damage when we pop your shoulder back into place. You'll have to apply it regularly to help with the swelling and muscle cramping." Oín massaged the oil into the skin, slowly extended the injured arm until it laid straight out from the body. "Fractures are commonly seen with dislocation. I'll splint the upper arm just in case."
Keeping his movements slow and steady, Oín grasped Bilbo's arm and wrist, pulling the Hobbit's arm away from his body. There was an audible clunk as the head of the humerus slide under the shoulder blade and back into its socket. Bilbo, tensed from both pain and anticipation, sagged with relief as the pain dramatically decreased.
Bone set, Oín began splinting the upper arm and, lacking a sling, improvised by tucking Bilbo's forearm across his chest and wrapping the whole arm to his body to ensure it was suitably immobilized. "Done!" he announced cheerfully, supporting Bilbo around the shoulders as he moved to sit up.
Satisfied that Bilbo had been tended to, Thorin turned his focus to getting his Company to safety. Bilbo would need help finishing the descent. Upon reaching the valley floor, the first priority was finding shelter. The sun was still climbing, leaving plenty of hours in the day, reasoned Thorin. They would all benefit from an hour or two rest and recuperate from their harrowing night, not just Bilbo.
Between Dwalin and Dori tossing the curly haired Bilbo between them, with Bombur on standby as a makeshift landing pad should they miss, climbing down the rest of the Carrock was a breeze. Thorin immediately assigned Bifur and Kíli to scout for a secure resting spot.
They returned within the hour with unfortunate news.
"We couldn't find anything. Not a cave in sight. Not even an uprooted tree or deadfall. Forest is too healthy. We could make a lean-to easily enough," his nephew shrugged, knowing his uncle's preference for something sturdier, like a cliff overhang.
"Very well, we'll rest here then," Thorin said decisively.
His dark haired nephew grimaced. "There's also a bear stalking us."
"Large black bear," added Bifur. "Very aggressive. Couldn't scare it off. Took three of Kíli's arrows and kept coming."
There was a sudden quiet as Thorin digested the report and debated what to do next.
The moment was interrupted when said bear broke through the trees, roaring its intentions.
"You lead it to us!" Bofur yelped as the hulking beast charged. The Dwarrow scattered with Dori cradling the Hobbit beneath one arm.
Gandalf was the only one unmoved by the bear's rampage. He leaned forward imposingly, pointed chin coming to rest atop both hands curled atop his staff. "If that is who I think it is, I know somewhere we can rest nearby."
"You know this beast?" shouted Fíli.
"I vote we turn back," came from Nori.
"And trap ourselves on the Carrock until the beast gives up?"
"What choice do we have?" Thorin looked disgruntled, aggravated by the idea of having to climb back up the massive stone steps.
"As I said, there is a house, not far from here, where we may take refuge," said the wizard.
"Why didn't you mention this sooner?" Thorin demanded.
"And if it's so close, how come Bifur and I didn't find it?" Kíli scowled.
Gandalf pretended not to hear the young Dwarf. "It belongs to neither friend nor foe. He will either help us or he will kill us."
Thorin noticed that Bilbo looked particularly green at this point. He needed to be able to rest. "Lead the way, Tharkûn."
The grey wizard led them on a short but frantic chase through the woods as the bear never let up in its pursuit. Thorin couldn't help but notice upon approach that the building appeared large enough to house a giant. He had little time to wonder what manner of creature dwelled within as the Company pelted for the door at Gandalf's urging.
They piled inside, heaving on the massive door to shut it before the bear gained entry.
The bear crashed into the sudden barrier with tremendous force, enough to rattle the door in its hinges. The motley crew of Dwarrow, Hobbit, and wizard squared their shoulders and shored themselves against the wood, bracing for a second blow.
Only, it never came.
Tension hung in the air, tight as a taut bowstring. A minute of silence stretched, feeling like an hour. The path forward blocked, the bear apparently ambled away.
Dori was quick to pull his youngest brother away from the door, exclaiming about the bear's unnaturalness. "It's obvious, it's under some dark spell."
"Don't be a fool," scoffed Gandalf. "He's under no enchantment but his own. And," he added, doffing his pointed hat, "he is our host."
The wizard's announcement was met with aghast and confusion.
"You know that beast?"
Gandalf harrumphed. "I would consider him a friend. His name is Beorn, he's a skin-changer. Sometimes he's a huge black bear, sometimes he's a great strong man. The bear is unpredictable, but the man can be reasoned with. However, he is not over fond of Dwarves."
"If he will not treat with us, then why did you bring us here?" growled Thorin.
"I trust that the man can be reasoned with," the wizard repeated, eyes flinty. "And he is even less fond of orcs than he is Dwarves. Plus, for the time being, we have quite the safe haven within his home."
Indeed, Thorin agreed, staring at the interior of Beorn's house. Though, it may be more appropriate to call it a hall. They stood in the center of the long hall lined with beautifully crafted pillars. The space just behind the pillars and between the walls was made into a platform.
Thorin studied the dimensions of the building and of the furniture it contained, wanting to gauge just how large their unwilling host might be. The calculations were displeasing. Eleven to twelve feet tall. An imposing height. How was he to fight a man three times his size who also had the ability to shape shift into a larger than average bear?
If this Beorn fellow truly disliked Dwarrow, he couldn't have been pleased to have chased a company of them into the sanctity of his own home and then barred from it. Thorin certainly wouldn't entertain the idea of aiding somebody who showed him such disrespect.
No. He wanted to be gone before Beorn regained use of logic and opposable thumbs. He'd have the others set up a short split watch, two shifts, giving everyone enough time for a brief rest. They could not linger knowing Azog and his pack of orcs hunted them.
Bilbo paid half a mind to Thorin as the Dwarf began barking orders to set up as if they were making camp for the night, an analogy that was spot on considering the grandiose sunken fire pit in the center of the room. The adrenaline was finally leaving him to feel the full magnitude of every injury he had accrued in the last twenty-four hours anew, like Bilbo had just received them.
Thankfully, their magnificently scowling leader had accounted for the Hobbit's state and Bilbo's only expectation was to rest.
Which he was more than willing to do as soon as Oín quit his fussing.
The old Dwarf had bustled over to redo his sling and reapply an anti-inflammatory salve that would also help reduce the swelling, completely ignoring Bilbo's protest of how it was unnecessary by deliberately turning his deaf ear toward him.
"All set, laddie," he announced, tucking and pinning the end of the bandage in place.
"No sleep aid this time?" Bilbo questioned.
Oín tensed. Meeting his patient's eyes dead on, he asked, "do you want one?"
Bilbo opened his mouth, but the denial caught in his throat. The sudden lack of adrenaline meant he was weary and exhausted. But his exhaustion was such that he was too tired to actually sleep. Bilbo would probably spend the next four hours watching the flames dance as he tried to plan ahead for Mirkwood. Only, he was quickly coming to learn that adjusting their course was no easy feat, despite his previous memories.
He seemed to fighting fate at every turn. Bilbo had yet to truly change or avoid any event. Everything that had changed so far had been minor. Fíli and Kíli went after the trolls without him wound up with Fíli getting caught in the Hobbit's place. Bilbo's getting injured didn't prevent them from falling into the goblins' trap once more.
Bilbo was starting to believe the Valar were mocking him. Teaching him a lesson. He can't have been the first person to wish for a second chance, grief-strickenly demanding that the Valar return his loved ones. Maybe Durin's line was destined to end. Perhaps fate could not be changed, and Bilbo would be made to suffer the death of his friends all over again.
And yet that couldn't be true.
Lady Galadriel had confirmed that Bilbo would die this time. The Valar did not pass around second chances like a draught of Gaffer's home brew at a party. Bilbo had to pay for his opportunity. Three were meant to die on this quest. And three it shall be.
The thought lingered at the back of his mind constantly, never far from the surface, coming to the forefront when the Company encountered a dangerous situation. Bilbo prayed, for what it was worth to pray to gods that heard but didn't listen, that everyone would make it to the Lonely Mountain in one piece. Not only did the Dwarrow deserve to stand in their grand underground kingdom again, but that was where the final battle that claimed the lives of Durin's folk took place.
It only made sense for the exchange of fates to occur at the time and place of their original deaths.
"Please," he responded, recognizing the dark path his thoughts were wandering.
Bilbo did not want a repeat of Rivendell, where he got lost in his own head and started looking at it clinically, without any emotions. Three for three was Eru's decree. Bilbo was a simple Hobbit. Going against one of the Valar was inconceivable, not to mention incredibly rude. He simply needed to accept that he had no control. Eru had given him a second life and was doing the same for Fíli, Kíli, and Thorin.
He would be happy with that and beg for forgiveness of the two he had unwittingly condemned in Yavanna's garden.
Bilbo knocked back the sleep inducing tincture Oín handed him. Four hours of uninterrupted sleep was a gift he hadn't received since his friends unexpectedly found themselves on the doorstep of Bilbo's smial. It worked just as fast as it had last time, only this time, Bilbo welcomed the darkness.