A.N. 1
I waited 4.5 years to post the part with Bilbo's break-down and the line about gold sickness. It was a long wait. -)
Bet some of you didn't expect Bilbo to survive past TBOFA. Surprise!
Consider this chapter a fluffy bandage, like applying a cotton disk to a gunshot wound.
Bilbo returns to consciousness lying on a pallet. A bandage is encircling his head, and when he carefully traces it, the back of his head feels bruised, pain lances from the points of contact. Bilbo groans, screwing his eyes shut.
He is still tired, his throat is parched, and he feels filthy wearing the same clothes he went into the battle in, but the need to know the outcome — who lived and who didn't — overcomes everything else. And so, slowly and taking care not to turn his head too much, Bilbo sits up.
The tent flaps open before he masters the strength to stand, and Thorin walks in, frowning at the ground. One of his arms is freshly bandaged; his hair is wet, and he is sans the armour. The battle must be over.
The dwarf looks up and startles. "Oh. You are awake." He stops a few steps away from Bilbo, picks up a waterskin and a small vial from an overturned box that stands in for a table. "Drink this," he says, giving first the vial and then the waterskin to Bilbo. "Óin couldn't give you anything for the pain until you regained consciousness."
"Who," Bilbo starts to ask, his voice scratchy, and Thorin interrupts him:
"Nobody you know. The Company all made it."
Sagging from overwhelming relief, Bilbo drinks the potion. He washes its bitter herbal taste with lukewarm water, puts down the waterskin.
"You should rest," Thorin says, hovering nearby. "Don't fall asleep until Óin has checked you, though. You may have a concussion."
"All right," Bilbo murmurs, laying down. Screwing his eyes shut, he breathes through a spike of the headache — his head does not appreciate the movements — but soon, it lessens. The tent is silent, only the sounds of camp life come through the thin walls. He thinks he is alone, but when he blinks an indeterminable time later, Thorin is still here, standing in the same spot. The dwarf shifts his weight from foot to foot under Bilbo's gaze.
"If you are staying, you should sit," Bilbo says. He casts around for a chair or any other furniture to offer, but the tent is bare. Scooting to the side of the pallet, he pats the opened space.
Thorin lands beside him gingerly.
"Tell me what's happening, please," Bilbo murmurs when Thorin fails to start a conversation.
"Hmm." Taking a deep breath, Thorin starts talking, "The people of Lake-town are returning to their homes…"
He rambles, updating Bilbo on the state of the army, the supplies Dáin brought with him that, along with what the dwarves of the Blue Mountains will carry when they come to Erebor, should be enough to tide them over the winter.
Bilbo hums to show he hasn't fallen asleep, but the words are like waves washing over a shore, Thorin's voice calm and smooth. He drifts until Thorin's thumb drawing circles on the inside of his wrist rouses Bilbo out of the meditative state he's fallen into.
"…And Dís wrote that the first caravan will arrive in four weeks," Thorin concludes. He stands up moments later when Óin enters the tent.
"Ah, Master Baggins is awake! Excellent! Thorin — out, please. Do not impede his recovery."
Thorin nods and with, "I will see you later," leaves Bilbo bewildered as to the purpose of his visit. Bilbo has thought he was here on Óin's order. It seems he's mistaken.
"Impetuous dwarrow, hm," Óin mutters, arranging his tools on the edge of the pallet. "Next time, don't let him hide from Dáin, laddie. He can't avoid his kin forever. Now! How is your head?"
Turns out Bilbo does have a mild concussion. He gets a strong-worded lecture on the importance of wearing helmets, which he endures with chagrin, and a recommendation to rest. Since it is already evening, Bilbo doesn't protest, and soon he falls asleep.
He meets the Company in the morning and helps where he is allowed to.
In the following week, the dwarves move into the mountain. A healing wing is cleaned of dust and cobwebs. Repaired as well as can be, it opens to the wounded in the battle. The dead are, meanwhile, collected and returned to the stone.
Though the dwarves work fast and employ the Men of Lake-town's services, the living quarters take longer to prepare. While most of the Iron Hills' army inhabits the barracks, Bilbo is afforded a spacious guest room in the royal wing, which he doesn't know what to do with. It's warm and well-appointed with stone furniture and better-preserved bedding, but Bilbo doesn't plan to stay. He barely spends any time there, filling his days with any task he can find. He feels such room is undeserved.
As days progress, he notices that more and more dwarves stop to stare at him. The looks of appraisal and awe make his skin itch. Eventually, he corners Bofur.
"And Master Baggins—" the miner is saying to his audience of younger dwarves when Bilbo spots him. He changes tack, however, as soon as he spies Bilbo's approach. "Here he is, lads! Looks like you will hear this story later." As the dwarves disperse through the chamber, he jumps off the barrel he was sitting on and smiles at Bilbo.
Bilbo plants his hands on his hips. "Just what are you telling people?"
"Only the truth!" Bofur exclaims, raising his arms in surrender.
Bilbo regards him with a healthy dose of scepticism. "What kind of truth can make the cook find me just to give me seconds?"
Bofur's expression turns serious and a touch crestfallen."Bilbo, you are an outsider who went on the Quest of Erebor when a lot of our kinsmen didn't. You killed trolls, and countless orcs, goblins, wargs and one whole dragon." He grasps and squeezes Bilbo's shoulders to emphasise the importance of his words. "You make the impossible seem easy. You are a hero, Bilbo." Then he smirks, "Besides, you are on a first-name basis with the royal family and aren't afraid to call Thorin on his bullshit. That alone inspires respect."
"Huh." Bilbo blushes. "I didn't think of it like that. I just do what needs to be done, that's all. I'm nobody special."
Bofur sighs. Releasing Bilbo's shoulders, he pats his arm. "Trust me, you are. Now," he says, glancing at the dwarves who attempt to look busy a dozen feet away, "would you care to tell how you found the troll hoard, or should I continue?"
"Sorry, no. I've got messages for Balin here." Bilbo pats a satchel he's taken to carrying around the mountain. "Urgent business, I'm told." Hurrying down the corridor, Bilbo finds Balin in truth and avoids any other people.
All this sudden recognition feels undeserved, unearned. And even though Bilbo knows all members of the Company are part of the nobility now, he can't get rid of the thought that he stole the spotlight from the true heroes.
The sooner I leave, he decides, the better.
Two weeks later, Bilbo meets Dís, properly, this time. Their introduction happens when no one is drowning in grief, nor anyone is throwing hurtful accusations.
Dís storms into Erebor like a whirlwind, pulling Kíli, Fíli, and Thorin into a fierce embrace. Then, there are laughter and tears and loud exclamations in Khuzdul. Seeing Thorin and Dís together, smiling and at ease, Bilbo marvels at their resemblance. He didn't see it last time.
When the formalities are out of the way, Bilbo is engulfed into a brief if enthusiastic hug, and when Dís steps back, she takes Bilbo's hands between hers and looking him in the eyes — hers are sky-blue, just like Thorin's — says, "Dwalin wrote all about your journey. Thank you for saving my idiot brother. The Durins are in your debt."
Bilbo shakes his head. "You don't owe me anything."
Pursing her lips, Dís releases him and nods. "I will find a way to repay you." She looks at Thorin. "Now that I've seen you for myself, where's my favourite dwarf, hm?"
And Thorin rolls his eyes. "This time of day, Dwalin is in the barracks. I will show you the way."
"Perfect." Dís links her arms with Thorin and Fíli, who in turn grabs Kíli. As they start walking, Bilbo hears her say, "What's that rumour I hear—" she switches to Khuzdul, a rapid stream of words Bilbo doesn't recognise, and smiling, he continues on his own way to Bard for talks about planting sprouts on the mountainsides.
With the arrival of the first of dwarven caravans, life spreads through Erebor. Children play in the cleaned and deemed safe areas, the marketplace once more fills with craftsmen who open their shops, and some enterprising soul even starts a tavern. Slowly, Erebor heals, and Bilbo sees the seeds of the future, imagines the splendour of a thriving kingdom it will one day become. He is glad for it, happy to see the dwarves of the Company alive and well, doing things they like.
The ties with Lake-town hold, the treaty signed in Dale sees the burned city start to rebuild. One day, it, too, will be restored. As per the agreement with Mirkwood, the elves send provision and escort the caravans through the forest, and with Gandalf having departed to mediate, everything is going smoothly.
Watching dwarves and men work side by side, Bilbo commits everything to memory. This is the outcome he will strive for when something inevitably goes wrong and ends this cycle.
It's time to move on.
Bilbo packs his backpack, says goodbyes to all but two dwarves, and goes in search of the suddenly elusive pair. After checking everywhere else, he finds them in the tavern.
Walking between groups of rumbustious warriors, Bilbo inches closer to a corner table where Thorin sitting with Dwalin. Bilbo is just behind a pillar when his ears pick up Thorin's question,
"What do hobbits like?"
"Food? Flowers? How in Mahal's name should I know?" Dwalin answers and, after a short pause, asks, "What have you tried?"
"I offered him gems, but he refused to take them."
Of course, I did, Bilbo thinks. What would I do with gems?
"You didn't take it as rejection?" There's open curiosity in Dwalin's tone.
"I thought to try one more time in case he just doesn't want anything associated with the curse."
"Could have told you that from the start." Chancing a glance, Bilbo sees Dwalin bringing a tankard to his lips. The dwarf makes three long gulps. "Not beads?"
"I planned to, even sketched a design, but you saw how he shorn his curls," Thorin says. His tone is mournful.
Oh. Bilbo's skin is suddenly too tight and hot, and there's buzzing in his ears. That does explain his strange reaction.
Dwalin snorts. "Try throwing knives. His are" — he curses in Khuzdul and finishes in Westron, "He might appreciate it better."
Taking a deep breath and willing the burning in his cheeks to go away, Bilbo rounds the pillar.
"Bilbo! Please, join us. Would you like a drink?" Dwalin exclaims with uncharacteristic joviality.
"No, thank you. I just came to say goodbye. I'm leaving on the morrow."
Thorin's face falls, and all he says is, "Oh." His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are slightly unfocused. This is the most carefree state Bilbo has ever seen him in. Thorin must have had a lot to drink, he realises with a start.
Finishing his ale, Dwalin puts his empty tankard on the table to join the long line of its brethren. "Time for me to go." Muttering in Khuzdul words meant for Thorin only, he squeezes Thorin's shoulder.
"Bilbo." He nods. "Farewell, my friend. Mahal willing, we will meet again."
As Dwalin departs, silence stretches between them. One of the groups at the main part of the cavernous room breaks into a song, and others join in. The laugher and drunken exclamations ring through the tavern.
Thorin clears his throat. His face is downturned, and looking up at Bilbo from beneath his eyebrows, he says, "Back to the Shire?"
"No." Then words fall out of his mouth before Bilbo can think it through: "First, I have a task I need to finish."
"Hm." Thorin sets his elbow on the table and props his temple on his fist. "And it can't wait?"
I cannot trust anyone else with it is the honest answer. Bilbo glances at his feet, looks back at Thorin. "It's something I must do."
"And afterwards?"
Bilbo sighs. Life afterwards — after the ring has been destroyed. What a strange concept.
"I'll go home. I think I miss it. Not so much the comfort of my smial, but the… brightness, I suppose, of Shire lands. It is —" he chews his lips, searching for the right word to describe it "— untainted. Like the opposite of Mirkwood, you know?"
"I understand." And then, Thorin proves that Bilbo is not the only one prone to split-second decision-making as instead of wishing him good luck as is good and proper, Thorin asks, "Can I come with you?"
"To the Shire?"
Thorin nods. "And for your secret task."
"I-it's not an easy task. It may take months. I might be wrong, but aren't kings supposed to stay in their kingdoms? Shouldn't you be here to oversee the settlement and whatnot?"
For two long breaths, Thorin is silent, and then, he says, "You must have missed the announcement this morning. I abdicated in Fíli's favour. His coronation will happen in two months, after the last caravans' arrival."
Bilbo blinks. That's news to him, and he suspects he is the last to hear about this decision, but, well—
"If you are sure."
"I am."
"All right." He shifts in place, his right foot hitting something sticky, which Bilbo chooses not to check. He glances at the half-full tankard in Thorin's hands, takes in the strength of his grip, and nods. "Then I guess I'll see you in the morning."
"Good night, Bilbo," Thorin murmurs.
And Bilbo nods again and turns around, and marches to his room. If he meets someone on the way there, he doesn't notice. His mind is simultaneously empty and buzzing with thousands of half-formed thoughts and speculations. His backpack is waiting at the foot of his bed, carefully packed and full of provisions. There's nothing left for him to do — Bilbo is as prepared as he can be. He barely sleeps, and when he dozes off, he dreams of Thorin's crazed eyes, the ring, glinting and enticing, and fingers on his throat. He wakes up gasping.
It's late, or maybe it's too early to be awake, but Bilbo won't be getting any rest. And so he does what he should have tried before, but for some reason, the thought has not occurred to him until now. Bilbo puts the ring on a chain, cuts up a velvet pillow, and sews a pouch right over the golden band, doing four rows of stitches on each side. He hangs the chain around his neck and hides it under his shirt. There's no way for him to use it — not that he intended to — but unless he takes scissors to its new home, the ring will not get out.
When Bilbo leaves, Thorin is already waiting outside his room. Dressed in his old coat and simple clothes, Thorin looks just like he did when Bilbo first saw him. The expression he greets Bilbo with, however, couldn't be more different.
"Ready?" Thorin asks, flicking his gaze over Bilbo. A soft smile curves his lips.
Bilbo nods. Quietly, they depart. The hour is early, and only guards posted at the gate see them out. Outside, the sky has just started to brighten.
Thorin leads him to a pair of ponies, their saddlebags bulging with provisions.
"Mm. I didn't think of that," Bilbo murmurs.
"I am a former king," Thorin says, giving him an arch look, and Bilbo fights a blush.
They make good time reaching Anduin. They travel during the days and at nights stay close to the ponies. The extra blankets Bilbo finds in one of the saddlebags help endure the cold, but Thorin still moves his bedroll close to Bilbo's. A week into the journey, without talking about it, they end up sleeping intertwined.
One evening, as they pass through the Brown Lands, Thorin asks,
"What is our destination?"
They are sitting shoulder to shoulder in a barren field full of dust and not much else, with only the starlight and the light of the moon to illuminate their camp. The rare patches of withered grass and occasional twig are not enough for a decent fire.
Conceivably, though there are easier paths to take, they could be heading to any of the southern kingdoms. Turning to see Thorin's reaction, Bilbo finds him already looking back.
"Mordor."
Thorin blinks. Bilbo watches the slow sweep of his eyelashes, sees his pupils expand, swallowing the blue of his irises.
"One does not simply walk into Mordor."
"That's not a problem," Bilbo says. The moonlight's reflection in Thorin's eyes is fascinating, and Bilbo finds he doesn't want to look away. "It's the going all the way to the top of Mount Doom that's the issue."
Thorin's gaze flicks to Bilbo's mouth, and Bilbo's tongue darts out to lick his lips.
"Why do we need to go there?" Thorin asks.
And Bilbo turns away. He makes a deep inhale and whispers, "I have a magical item that can be destroyed only in the fires of Orodruin."
"All right," Thorin says after a moment. One of his hands covers Bilbo's and stays that way. "Then we will find a way to the top of Mount Doom."
Bilbo leans on Thorin's shoulder. They sit in silence broken only with the occasional nickers of their ponies until the moon is high and Bilbo's eyelids can't stay open. He doesn't remember falling asleep. When he wakes up, warm under a mountain of blankets, his head is pillowed on Thorin's chest.
-[break]-
The journey to Emyn Muil passes quicker than ever before, spent in comfortable silences and chatter. And there, at the base of the craggy hills, they set the ponies free.
It all goes well. Too well, Bilbo thinks, worrying his lips with his teeth. They have enough food and water in their backpacks to last through Mordor. He knows the paths to take and dangers to avoid. Something must go wrong. It can't be so easy.
And then the whispers start.
At first, it is an indistinct murmur, like foul water gliding over rocks, ominous and cloying; a quiet susurration of dry, brittle leaves swept on the wind over a forgotten graveyard; the clicking of spiders' feet as they pursue sentient prey. But as the days progress, the whispers form words. Louder and louder, a sibilant voice that reminds Bilbo of Smaug takes shape, just on the verge of hearing.
Worthless, ignorant halfling, it taunts. You will die.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Bilbo mutters into his knees, pressing his hands over his ears as if they could muffle something that is inside his head.
You will never make it.
"Bilbo?" Thorin's voice is sleep-rough. He rubs his eyes, raising on his elbow. "What's the matter, amrâlimê?"
He will kill you again like he did before. Why not save yourself? Kill him first. Do it now, and Thorin won't have a chance to stop you.
"Nothing." Bilbo shakes his head. He screws his eyes shut and, pushing at his temples with his fingertips, draws slow circles, willing both a headache and the damned voice away. "Nothing I can't handle."
Thorin sits up. Cautiously, as if approaching a wild cat, he reaches for Bilbo and drapes his arm over Bilbo's shoulders.
"Come here, lukhudel," he murmurs. "Whatever is troubling you, I'm here for you, always."
For a long time, Bilbo breathes. His racing heartbeat slows down while Thorin cards his fingers through Bilbo's hair, giving him something to focus on outside the blasted whispers in his mind. The greyish horizon over the Dead Marches brightens with daylight.
"It's the damned magical ring. It's evil, Thorin. You can't imagine how so. It twists your thoughts, perverting every good intention, corrupts everything in you to suit its purpose." Raising his head, Bilbo meets Thorin's eyes.
"It has a part of the enemy's soul," he mouths the words, not daring to vocalise them so close to Mordor. "I must destroy it."
"You will." Thorin's hold tightens, supporting and reassuring. There's an unwavering conviction in his voice and gaze, an unshakeable faith. It gives Bilbo the strength to continue.
The whispers do not stop, but he ignores them.
By some miracle, they pass Cirith Ungol and the caverns with spiderwebs without meeting the dreadful spider. They run into orc patrols and kill them, taking their armour. The farther into Mordor they go, the less they speak.
Fear and anxiety are Bilbo's constant companions. A weight of dread settles in his stomach, an anticipation of a failure finds a permanent home lodged like a stone in his throat. The foul voice denies him rest, whispering threats and false promises even in his sleep, and what little time Bilbo dozes off for, nightmares plague him.
And still, they go forward. Clinging to the shadows and moving with purpose, they cross the plain leading to the foothills of Orodruin. It is harrowing, and every moment of it, Bilbo's heart beats double-time, his palm is sweaty on Sting's hilt. The stench of the armour they are wearing is unbearable, but reach Orodruin they do, and slowly, they start ascending.
The higher they go, the warmer the air becomes. Thin and clogging, it fills Bilbo's lungs with ash until he starts coughing. He judges it halfway up when they make a stop and discard their helmets. Raising a waterskin to his lips, Bilbo gulps a few mouthfuls of clean water.
Breathing hard and fast, he opens his eyes and finds Thorin looking at him from an arm's length away. His face is streaked with soot and smeared with dirt and sweat, but despite the long climb and higher temperature, his skin is bleached of all colour.
Thorin's eyes are glinting with the familiar light that Bilbo learned to hate. His gaze darts to Bilbo's chest, where the ring rests in its velvet prison. Hesitantly, as if reluctantly, his hand raises—
And Bilbo has a choice — a dagger on his hip that he can use in seconds. He doesn't think, just lunges forward.
He grabs the back of Thorin's head and crushes their mouths together. It is a brutal, forceful kiss, borne of desperation. Their teeth clash, and Bilbo moves a hair's width away, adjusts the angle. He swipes his tongue over Thorin's lips, feels Thorin's hands grasp his shoulders, fingers digging in so hard, Bilbo is sure to find bruises later. Thorin's lips part. Their tongues tangle, battling for dominance, and Thorin dives into the kiss like all he wants is to devour Bilbo.
Bilbo doesn't know how long it lasts, but gradually, the fervour gentles into passion, then warmth, and when they part, they don't move far, resting their foreheads against each other. His fingers are tangled in Thorin's hair, and Thorin is holding Bilbo like he never wants to let him go. They breathe each other's breaths, returning to their senses.
"All right?" Bilbo murmurs, flooded with relief at seeing Thorin's flushed cheeks.
"Yes, uzfakuh. I'm good. Let's go."
And they continue up the winding path of crumbling, porous rocks.
The chain around Bilbo's neck is suffocating. The ring seemingly gains pounds with every dozen steps he makes. The closer to the top they get, the worse the heat of the volcano affects them. Bilbo tears his jacket into strips and wraps his aching, blistering feet in thick bandages.
They travel through a grey fog, and at long last, Bilbo sees the mouth of Orodruin. Sweat pouring into his stinging eyes, Bilbo can't quite believe it. There are only a dozen footsteps left.
The pounding of a relentless headache in his temples becomes unbearable. His vision swims, his limbs grow heavier than ever, the voice is screeching in his ears, loud and demanding, and Bilbo falls to his knees. He starts to crawl.
Strong arms pull him up, and for a moment, he is unsure where he is. Who is with him, and even who he is himself. A voice — so different to the dark, harsh words endlessly rumbling in his ears like a rockslide — says,
"Bilbo! Come on, amrâlimê, just a few more steps."
And Bilbo snaps back into reality. He nods, swallows around his dry throat, bites his cracked lips. It is only a few steps. A few more steps and all his suffering will end. Only, these steps seem so impossible to make they may as well be leagues in length.
He tries to move forward and stumbles. Back to his bruised, skinned knees it is.
"Come, sanûrzud. We must continue," Thorin's says, pulling Bilbo's arm around his shoulders and bearing most of his weight, and Bilbo doesn't know how he can hear Thorin's voice, the ring is just so loud in his ears.
But step after excruciating step, he goes up. And at the top, as Bilbo looks into the churning lava, Thorin doesn't let him go.
His hands are shaking when Bilbo frees the chain from under layers of clothes and armour. His fingers spasm on the warm metal links. He doesn't want to let it go. Why should he? He can—
"I hate you," Bilbo says, opening his fist.
As if the time has slowed, confined in the velvet pouch, the ring floats down like a feather on a summer breeze, and Bilbo sways and—
Please, Eru, let it work!..
—consciousness deserts him.
-[break]-
Bilbo wakes up hearing the chirping of birds and feeling sunlight on his face. It paints the inside of his eyelids orange. He is afraid to open his eyes — to confirm his hopes or shatter the illusion of freedom. His breath quickens. Fear seizes his insides, dipping its claws into his heart. But then, he notices a weight on his chest — an arm is slung over his breastbone, palm covering the hollow of his throat. His ears pick up the sound of steady breathing, the soft inhales and long exhales of peaceful sleep. He opens his eyes and realises:
It's over.
A.N. 2
Khuzdul translations:
amrâlimê - my love
lukhudel - light of all lights
uzfakuh - my greatest joy
sanûrzud – perfect (true/pure) sun
Initially, this fic was going to end like this:
Grimy, his clothes covered in soot, Bilbo crawls down the mountain and collapses under a sickly tree. It's over.
He wakes up to the chirping of birds and the feeling of sunlight on his face.
Aren't you glad I added more lines to it? xD
*clears throat* I was going to say that this story is over, and it is, but then ideas started cropping up, and. So, there's going to be a couple vignettes about Bilbo's life at some point in the future, which I will post as a separate fanfic.
Bilbo: shows up in the Shire over a year later, buff and armed to the teeth, and with an equally menacing dwarf in tow. Sees Lobelia trying to make off with his stuff. Smiles.
"Hello, Lobelia, dear. I hear you like my silver spoons, hm?"
And also, there will be a short gen fic with a Dragon!Bilbo.
I post updates about my writing progress on tumblr under nightshade-blues-journal username.
Thanks for reading! It was a joy to share this story with you. =)
