"Master Baggins," I call, spotting his figure outlined against the dark of the hall. The longer I keep his company, the more difficult it is to refrain from using his first name. Bilbo. I long to know the feel of it on my tongue—but until our burglar offers this level of familiarity himself, I will control myself. "Come here."
Bilbo warily makes his way towards me, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. I can't help but glance at them, wondering just how small they are compared to mine, wondering how his fingers would fit intertwined with my own. Wondering how his skin would feel, how he would feel.
But I remember myself as he comes to a stop before me, proud that I've kept my composure. "You're going to need this." I hold up the fine shirt woven from the fine silver, observing the hobbit through the chainmail. Bilbo squints at me through it, but I'm undeterred. "Put it on."
I watch carefully as he shrugs his jacket from his shoulders, the plain linen sleeves of his button-up rolled to expose his forearms. I swallow heavily, dragging my gaze away as I help him into the mithril shirt, the metal rings snagging on his thick brown curls.
"This vest is made of silver steel," I tell him. "Mithril, it was called by my forebears. No blade can pierce it."
Which is why a gentle layer of relief settles over me once it's in place over his torso; he is as protected as I can leave him. My mind has been muddled of late, one-track in regards to my newfound treasure. The only thing that competes with this… this obsession, is Bilbo himself—Bilbo and his safety. In fact, I can safely say that he is the only thing to have rivaled my conquest since it's taken its hold over me. His temptation has only grown since our first meeting, to the point of madness. His soft hair and the slope of his nose, his long eyelashes and short stature, his mannerisms—brave and true, quick-witted and no-nonsense. He's driven me to the point of madness.
I admire him, draped in the handiwork of my ancestors. A piece of me, protecting him even when I might not be able to. I smile a small smile, even when Bilbo utters an incredulous little laugh.
"I look absurd," he exclaims, glancing down his front. "I'm not a warrior, I'm a hobbit."
"It is a gift. A token of our friendship." I do my best not to dwell on the multitude of different words I would have used over 'friendship'. I mean more than I say—I feel more than I speak. I savor the quirk of his lips that Bilbo offers me, and before I can stop it, the madness has urged me to grab his elbow and lead him further into the darkness of the hall.
Driven to the point of madness.
Thorin urges me into a small alcove of the hallway, his hefty hand still resting on my arm. It's a comforting weight, a comforting warmth, even knowing that he is changed from his sickness. He is not the same man I first met in the Shire, but he is still Thorin, and I know that he will come back to me. As soon as I can help it.
"True friends are hard to come by," Thorin says, his voice lowered. I can feel his breath on my cheek. It's distracting. Before I can speak, he continues. "But I want you to know… that your companionship has been the truest I have ever known."
It takes me a moment to process his words.
"What are you trying to say?"
"Master Baggins—"
"Please, I think by now you would do well to call me Bilbo. There's no need for such formalities anymore."
Thorin seems shocked to silence, and so I offer a tentative smile as he regains his voice.
"Bilbo, then," he continues, albeit shakily. "I would have you know—before the battle begins, whatever may happen—that I… value you greatly. That I…" He just can't seem to find the right words, and I do my best to remain patient, though my heart is racing. "That I care for you, deeply. Strongly."
I shake my head, confused, though I've gathered what he means clear enough. But to make such remarks in regards to me? That's the bit that doesn't make sense.
But this… this seems like the Thorin that I met so long ago, back in Hobbiton. Or, at least, some semblance of him shining through. This is the closest I've gotten to having him back since he first laid eyes on that treasure, and though I'm guilt-ridden in the worst way, in every possible aspect, I want to take this for what it is.
Thorin is taking a deep breath, and I gather my courage.
"I care for you, too, Thorin." After a moment, I tack on: "Intensely."
And our eyes meet. Just for a moment—just for one moment—his eyes seem to clear. And I know that his thoughts lie not on treasure, or wealth, but on me.
I keep a firm grip on this newfound courage of mine, pushing myself to the tips of my bare toes as the dwarf leans down to match my height, or glances clashing briefly as our lips meet.
Soft and gentle and tentative—barely a brush of skin, really. The smallest amount of contact, and it sends a thrill through my every bone, a heat inside my chest flaring. Who knew a dwarf, a miner, a wielder, a soldier forged in strength and fire, could manage a caress such as that?
It takes me a second to realize the sound of footsteps nearing, a battle march heavy-laden with armor. It takes every amount of self-restraint I have to not push harder, not to go further, and instead press my feet to the floor and take a step back, catching my breath.
His hand is holding mine. He does not let go as the company passes us by, but merely conceals the grip in the abundance of shadows. His grip is so firm, I can feel his pounding heartbeat pulsing into my skin.
I can barely breathe.
No matter what I have to do, no matter how hard it may be, how painful, I will get my Thorin back. I will heal him of this sickness, and then…
And then we'll see where it goes.