Red and White
Red and white were the colors of Bilbo's favorite doily back at Bag End. Red and white were the colors of the wild flowers that grew by the river. Red and white were the colors of Fili's blood blooming across the freshly snow. Red and white were the colors of Thorin's screams.
Bilbo went limp as he hung suspended off the tower, not out of injury or even physical pain, not because the collar that kept him suspended in the air was beginning to tear. It was a sheer weight pressed against the back of his neck, the weight only grief and loss could place. The burden reminded him of that he felt when his parents had died; the sight of close friends lost taking him back to a time he'd wanted to forget. But nothing could erase the overwhelming sense of hopelessness as he watched a leering Azog gloat over the fallen brothers.
"Here go your precious heirs," the orc spat, speaking common in a thick and foul tongue. "Weak and cowering in the snow, like I found him." When the commander disrespectfully kicked Kili's crumpled form, Bilbo heard Thorin's shattered whimper. The hobbit turned in vain to see the dwarf king shaking with a familiar rage, blue eyes scorching like flames. "I thought his pampered brother wouldn't go the same way," Azog admitted, a fanged smile turning the rakes on his skin into contorted grins of their own. The uncle roared without purpose, struggling with no hope, whatever retort or cry he had left dying with the tears that slid faithlessly down his cheeks.
It occurred to Bilbo that this was the end. He barely needed to hear the orc announce it was time for the final loss to know he would be dropped, Thorin and the rest of the dwarves slaughtered, a quest served and fulfilled for no purpose but pain. Azog began his proclamation in a rasping rendition of Black Speech that seemed to shake Bilbo's ribs as he closed his eyes. Then something happened.
Azog stopped. The burglar found himself flung back onto the tower, the brute that had once held him by the shirt dying in a pool of black blood. Thorin, triumphant, stood over the headless body of his captor staring back at the hobbit with disbelief. After a moment of awe they turned back down below, to see the Pale Orc staring at the barrage of arrows that now protruded from his body at all angles. There was a moment of utter silence before the elves melted out of the shadows, the King of Mirkwood gliding in with a raised silver sword and an already formed battle cry. "They're too damn late," Thorin seemed to snap. "Who are they saving by coming now?" Yet, the King of Erebor quickly followed in suit, a nod to his friend before joining the new battle, barely a nod to the two elf warriors who stood with weapons raised, the creatures who had saved their lives.
The thief knew he should run, to fight or flee, but he watched in wonder as elves and dwarf fought together, Azog still on his feet, still causing destruction in his wake. Thranduil was like a silver streak, slipping past his opponents in a spree that looked like a graceful and easy dance next to the smashing, choppy attacks of the dwarves. The elves behind him left swiftly, not pressing the hobbit to do anything at all but stand and watch the carnage.
He felt as if he were in a dream, standing at the edge of a disaster, unable to move or scream or do anything but watch. The burglar wasn't quite comprehending the images in front of him. Had he lost his mind? He was lost somewhere on the horizon as he looked up and saw the eagles descending from the sky. The thief remembered what it felt like to fly, and the sensation of skimming along the night air. For a brief time, he was almost lost as he stood enveloped in a memory.
A loud cry of death from an elf brought him back to his senses. Bilbo stared as he saw the gold-armored soldier become concave as he dropped to the ground, a crude orc spear shoved into his abdomen. Where's your weapon? he heard someone asking as the hobbit took a couple steps backward. Wake up, Baggins. Now is the time to fight. He spun around, a new purpose flowing in his veins. It would be easy to find Sting. With so many hellish creatures so close, the pale blue glow was inevitable and discovered quickly, haphazardly tossed down a crooked staircase. The blade felt comfortable in his palm.
The halfling paused for only a moment of consideration before he slipped his ring onto an index finger and watched the world unfold before him. Here he could creep along the walls, a force of assistance unnoticed and unattributed. He never wanted to be the glorious hero of the dwarves. He recalled his warning to Fili. He remembered the sad smile on the dwarf's face when he had accepted his fate. No, Bilbo Baggins wanted none of the credit, for it meant also taking the guilt of other deaths that haunted him. Here, in the blurred and bizarre darkness, invisible to the world, the hobbit felt himself empowered and sustained, circling the battlefield in a slinking silence, helping several orcs to the ground when they crossed his path. It was far more enjoyable to be a force than to be a creature. Creatures had their limits. Forces seemed unstoppable.
The thief side-stepped across the carcass of a fallen monster as he finally glanced the king. Thorin charged in an attack of pure rage, all his strength put behind a sword. Next to him. Thranduil sliced through opponents in a focused and controlled expression of grief and anger. He couldn't help but watch as the kings took their revenge in turns and coordination, teeth bared and blue eyes flashing. Gripping his sword tighter, the burglar looked down towards the center of the flurry, searching for the bodies that had driven such a reaction.
Instead, he only found deep red patches of snow. A smear much like that of an artists paintbrush trailed in a direct outside of the massacre, decorated by the footsteps of an elf. Bilbo glanced back at the empty space that the brothers had filled before ducking off in the direction the red and white led him.
Just off of the clearing where the armies clashed, was what looked to the hobbit like a small sanctuary: a low stone ceiling and worn floors with crumbling pillars. When he turned back, the thief could just glimpse the sight of steel and flesh, but here it felt like the two princes were safe. He shrugged the ring off his fingers and felt a jolt as he was pressured back into the reality he was used to, but did not prefer.
Two bodies were hunched on the ground, left in the same positions that they had died in, huddled towards each other, shunning the world.
Bilbo was brought to his knees at the sight of the brothers' faces. Kili lay curled on his side, like a sleeping child, tangled hair matted with the congealed blood of his sibling. If it weren't for the horrible pallor of his skin, or the blank, painless facial expression, the hobbit would have said the dwarf was dreaming. But while the younger prince could be recognized as something other than a corpse, the same could not be said for the heir. The burglar recoiled at the sight of the gash across his neck, the metal scent of blood spilled in the air as well as the ground. The crimson liquid was tacky against the gold armor that once shone brilliantly in the sun. Fili himself stared slack-jawed up at the sky with eyes like mirrors.
"If he ages so quickly why does he still look so young?" the voice made the hobbit's heart begin to race after its brief recess of mourning. He whirled around to see a familiar shadow, one he had seen lurking around Mirkwood a considerable amount when they were imprisoned. The son of Thranduil looked nearly the same, set apart from his past self only by a scrape of the side of his face and a somber, confused look he wore like a jacket.
"Because he was," Bilbo admitted, still skittish and exposed. "They both were."
Legolas spoke in an odd sort of far away voice that the burglar had gotten used to hearing whenever Kili woke up from delirium. It was a tone that brought an eerie heaviness to the air. "He was a child yesterday. I watched him grow up in the blink of an eye."
"I thought you hated him," the halfling pointed out, staying perfectly still.
"If a life like his is so short, how can it have worth?" the elf prince mused. It seemed as if he wasn't even talking to Bilbo anymore.
"His was shorter than others'. Every moment has to count." The burglar repeated a phrase that his mother had often told him, a reminder that had made him join in such a mad quest in the first place. Legolas' brows furrowed for a moment as he looked past Fili's blank and lifeless face. The way he spoke next was one used only for revelations.
"Master Hobbit, I have filled so many of them with his misery," the archer realized.
Should he comfort him? Accuse him? The thief didn't know. He knew very little about the prince and his relationship with the dark-haired brother. Instead, Bilbo spoke simply. "He didn't say much about you."
"He wouldn't have a reason too," the prince smirked, the dreamlike mask still smothering his expression. Making him absolutely unreadable for the hobbit. "I wasn't something he would want to recall." The thief was already exhausted by the vague nature of the gloomy dwarves, and raised an eyebrow at the frustrating empty words of the elf. The son of Thranduil nodded and continued, "Kili was supposed to be a passing amusement, a joke. My father planned to dangle him in front of our kingdom as the secret laughing stock, raise him in our customs to ruin him. We were to take him in, teach him our ways, make him learn to scorn the dwarves and their customs in the short life he had left. Then we were to ransom him back to his family, only for the poor dwarves to realize that we'd made the child hate and reject everything about their culture. Imagine it: Kili, heir to the throne of Durin, just like his label said." A twisted smile, grimace, contorted the handsome face of the prince as he retreated back into a cruel nature. "The blood of kings disgraced as a prince grows into a life of Thorin's sworn enemies." Legolas looked to the halfling for condemnation, which he gladly provided.
"That's despicable," Bilbo accused.
"If I had been a babe wandering in Ered Luin, Thorin would have done the same," the child of Mirkwood spat. The hobbit was silenced, the questioning of his leader inevitable after the pain in Erebor. "But it didn't happen at all like that," Legolas retold, "I was the one that became a joke, my legacy turned to a mockery when my father took a dwarf into our home and treated him as his own blood. My entire life I strived for that approval, that worship from him and I hadn't had a taste of it since my mother…" the elf struggled with the words before pressing on. "And here was the impure spawn of a false king taking all that was meant to be mine. He lived out all my accomplishments in a matter of decades. He stole my place in command, he entranced Tauriel and took her from me, but I could not forgive him when he purloined my father's heart." Despite his bitter tone, when Legolas' eyes met the hobbit's, Bilbo felt something in the elf begging for understanding.
"Why are you telling me this?" the halfling questioned, suspicious.
"You are inconsequential." the elf shrugged as if the information was nothing to be looked at.
"It won't make you innocent." the thief struggled. "You still attacked Kili. You broke his arm."
"It was the only area in which I was assuredly superior," the Mirkwood creature reasoned. "There isn't a sport in telling a child falsehoods because they ask too many questions. He would follow me around. I lashed out. I broke his arm and even that was no trial for him. Kili didn't feel pain in any capacity, and even if he did, he would take whatever torture I gave him just to prove further strength. I was only able to teach my adopted family one thing in Mirkwood." The burglar knew that the elf was baiting him, but he couldn't resist.
"What was that?"
"Self hatred," Legolas pondered, the words so deliberate and poisonous the hobbit could feel the weight lifted off of the elf's chest. With slow steps, the son of Thranduil knelt beside Bilbo. The prince laid a hand on the chest of the dwarf that could have been his family. With a tender care, he turned Kili onto his back, the mess of dark hair falling away to fully reveal the mask of death. "I couldn't hurt him, not directly, but I could threaten the world on him. I told him that we would send him back to the dwarves. I told him that they would beat the elvishness out of him when he arrived. If my father insisted on keeping him, I could still make him a mockery, cause him to hate his roots." Thranduil's son stared into his adopted family's face with a look like stone as he laid him palm on the dwarf's brow. His long elvish fingers almost covered the dwarf's face entirely. "It felt so natural back then, and seeing him this way, I can't say…" The elf closed his eyes, pained. The burglar didn't know how to react as the Mirkwood prince cocked his head to the side, his forehead knotting in concentration, almost like he were listening for something. Legolas' fingers twitched uncomfortably, still staying on his adopted family's face, before his eyes snapped "He's breathing."
Bilbo felt as if he had been knocked out. Was this a dream? A vision? He had already accepted Kili's fate so wholly it felt as if the hobbit had been kicked in the ribs. How had he been so foolish to think the brothers were finally set to peace together? From what he had witnessed, their lives were destined to be apart and full of pain. "He can't be. The pair of them-" the thief insisted. The archer grabbed him sharply by the wrist, forcing the halfling's palm over the fallen prince's nose. Faintly, like the breeze that had brought battle to their door, Bilbo felt the whispering exhale as the dying dwarf still clung to life.
"Kili stills draws breath," Legolas called out to the ruins in a tone that begged for redemption. Thranduil's son harshly pushed the hobbit's hand away, moving his attention to the neck of Thorin's nephew. In what looked like feverish madness, the elf repeatedly pressed his fingers deep into the flesh of Kili's neck before loudly declaring, "I found a pulse."
The thief was blubbering in disbelief, "He's still poisoned. Tauriel didn't have the time to draw it out." At the mention of the simple name, the tension building in the elf's features seemed to release as he looked up at Bilbo with an expectant, almost excited look in his eyes. The hobbit's stomach was being pulverized by his own guilt.
"She has time now," Legolas realized with a revitalized energy, nearly snapping in his excitement. The hobbit's heart broke when he saw the look in the elf's eyes, the visceral need for redemption. "Where is she?"
"She…she can't…" the halfling fumbled. The piercing and concentrated venom that usually belonged to Thranduil passed over the elf's face.
"Hobbit, we don't have the time," he dismissed, pausing. "Is she alive?" he asked with fear in his throat for the first time. The straight words didn't seem to come out of Bilbo's mouth.
"We were attacked when we tried to remove the blade and heal Kili. She was hurt badly, there wasn't a lot of time…" The Mirkwood creature bowed his head, his hair covering his face. Grief hung in the air like the biting cold. The hobbit wanted to shout, to remind him of the urgency of the situation, a wraith coming to end the battle and hand victory to the dark armies. Instead, he found himself taking the moment to let the death sink in for the first time. When Legolas met the burglar's eyes again, they were brimming with tears.
"She died to save his life?" Even asked as a question, the accusatory tone pierced Bilbo somewhere in the pit of his stomach.
"Yes." The simple word sent the elf to his feet, his hope and vivacity back again. The thief knew that he was brushing off the news until the battle was over, until it would hit him full on like a heavy blow.
The elf began instructing at a remarkable pace, "I can get another healer, faster than you can. But he has to be safe. Further bloodshed-"
"I understand," the hobbit interrupted, gripping the hilt of Sting with a vicious resolve. The elf regarded him with a conflicted expression for a moment.
"Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you may be of some consequence," the prince commented eerily, gliding out of the scene before Bilbo could respond. There the thief stood, as frozen as the sky, like the statues he have watched in adoration when they arrived in Erebor. He would be like the dwarves, proud and unshaken. He wouldn't fail, he couldn't fail Kili again. Not when Thorin still struggled for his family out in the battle. Not when Fili had lain down his life. The hobbit took his breath into his own hands as he watched the blade glow blue with increasing intensity.
The first monster came at him snapping with a rabid rage. Bilbo set his teeth before engaging it, side-stepping in a circle. His blade met the axe of the creature with biting desperation, the back and forth continuing until he felled the orc with a well placed hit to its hip. The next came quickly afterwards, spraying him with thick black blood when he buried the sword in its eye. Several came charging, several taken down by elven archers before they could even reach the hobbit's attacks. He began to sweat, despite the icy air. Several times he was tempted, oh so tempted, to slide the ring on his finger, to become that impossible force again. Only was it when he thought of Legolas' return did he leave it back in his pocket. The thief would no use that magic. That magic had distracted him the first time he was to do his job.
The halfling paused, pressing his back against the cool stone walls for a moment, resting his tiring arm. The orcs wouldn't stop coming, charge after charge. Bilbo had thought the battle wouldn't be so monotonous. The adrenaline wore thin. He began to descend.
The next creature leapt in from the side, eyes bulging, already injured. Before he had time to react, it had the hobbit pinned against the wall, a dagger held to his neck by knotted fingers. The burglar gave a shout of panic, dealing a low blow to the beast's legs just quickly enough. An elf, dressed in brown robes flitted into the alcove, sending a knife through the orc's head with barely a twitch of its hand. Legolas was close behind.
"So the halfling lives," the Mirkwood prince commented with an icy but satisfied look on his face.
"Your disappointment sure is encouraging," Bilbo snapped back, wiping the back of his quaking hand on his forehead. He swore that he could hear the elf mutter a quiet 'thank you' but chose not to confront the issue at all. Behind them, he could hear the healer begin to chant.
The thief treated the fight like it was a dance, moving to the beat of the elf's constant words. But his arms quickly became leaden and tired. He could see Legolas' resolve begin to sink. It was when his breath began to come too slow that mistakes were made.
A well placed blow from one of the larger orcs sent Sting sliding across the ground, far from Bilbo's reach. The hobbit stumbled backwards, off balance and startled. The monster swung its mace again, now on the offensive as the thief ducked, fumbling with his pockets. Temptation soon became survival. Quick hands put the ring on in time to confuse his enemy, but was still too slow to avoid another strike of the crude weapon. The halfling was flung against a wall as the handle of the mace collided with his shoulder, the orc giving a cry of surprise when it realized his opponent had disappeared.
The smeared world of his ring made the hobbit feel as though he was going to vomit, his left arm feeling less like a limb and more like a bag of rocks. Bilbo clenched his teeth so hard, he thought his jaw was going to break. He tried to breathe. He could see the ghost-like version of his opponent still standing in awe, now turning on the healer.
With a war scream that would have made Thorin proud, the burglar tore the ring off his finger, using all the drive left in his bones to propel himself forward, his good arm picking up the sword. Sting met the back of the creature's neck with a horrible crack, and the orc fell twitching to the ground. The burglar continued to hit the beast even after it stopped moving and the black on ice was more than that of his own trickling limb.
The snow crunched directly behind him. Bilbo's blade barely tasted the skin of the next intruder when he heard the voice. "Master Baggins," the king exclaimed. The hobbit looked up into Thorin's pale eyes and saw Sting pressed against the noble dwarf's throat, just drawing blood. "Master Baggins," the leader repeated, pleading. "Put down your sword." The Company member faintly heard his weapon clatter the ground as his eyes blurred over with saltwater. He wanted to crumple like so many of their fallen foes, hold onto a dear thought or fantasy as he let himself slip away. Before any of his thoughts could even have an opportunity to work their way into action, he felt the king's armor digging into his and strong arms pressed the dwarf and hobbit together. The hobbit buried his face against a leader's shoulder plate. "My dear burglar, it's over now," Thorin declared in a trembling voice. Finally, a pressure within the halfling's chest was relieved as he let out a gasping sob. The dwarf who held him so tight gave out a shaky breath, still trying to maintain control as tears tugged at his throat.
"If it's over, we can mourn," Bilbo whimpered.
Whatever the king said next was broken when he joined his companion in crying.
No matter how many torches were lit in Erebor the next day, Bilbo felt an overwhelming cold. It settled into his bones like an unwanted guest, asserting quick dominance over all the warm or hopeful sensations that the hobbit had previously contained. The whispers were the worst. The dwarves' loud manner of speaking was a way the burglar had become accustomed to over the journey. Yet, no one raised their voice. Instead, the thief heard the hushed voices saying "The prince is dead."
The halfling did his share of crying the day they buried that golden prince. For the first time he saw the others' faces tainted by death, by loss. The wizard spoke over Fili's body, raising his calm tone to drown out the sobs. Bilbo was afraid to approach the corpse, already sensing himself falling apart. His heart truly broke when he saw his king brought to his knees, the proud Thorin Oakenshield reduced to quaking in grief.
The Shireling packed a bag that night and said his goodbyes to the heir of Durin when the sun had set. None of his thoughts were coherent, and the thief found he didn't remember the apologies he had given, the pleading for forgiveness. Instead, he would recall his final whispered words to Fili, son of Dis. "You saved him, Fili," he whimpered. "Your brother is going to live."
The tearful goodbyes continued through the night as Bilbo left many behind. The Company members gathered for a final toast to their health, their bravery, and hope for the future. With one arm knitting in a sling, the burglar could barely life his goblet.
He insisted on leaving before first light. Somehow, to the halfling, it felt as though the sun would force him to stay in Erebor, trap him before he could leave. The halls of kings were a twisted place, trapping him at every turn. While he left his heart with the Company, the freedom he sampled upon exiting the doors of the mountain was one of a bittersweet relief.
"Wait!" A voice called from behind him. The hobbit turned to meet the Thorin he had first encountered in Bag End. Gone were the crown, fur, robes, armor, the titles. Standing before him was the dwarf he had followed on such a quest, simple and strong, proud and determined. Thorin was dressed simply in blue and grey, a brown traveling cloak causing half his face to be shrouded in the shadows. The royal also carried a large bag, as if he were leaving as well. The thief stared at him, awestruck.
"Thorin, where are you-" he asked in shock.
"To Dale," the dwarf responded like a sigh, the relaxed and hopeful aura that he had soothing the burglar's shot nerves.
"I don't need accompaniment there," Bilbo insisted, waving him away. "Really. Gandalf will be traveling with me." He was almost certain no matter what he accomplished, the Company would treat him with the same cautious pleasantries.
The warrior laughed. "You misunderstand. I'm going to Dale to live there." The hobbit blinked several time, wrinkling his nose. It was an absolutely ridiculous idea, one that he was reluctant to accept.
"To live?" he exclaimed. "To…Thorin, what are you talking about? You're a king. This is your kingdom." A familiar hardness came to the uncle's face.
"One of my nephews has been buried today," the uncle replied. "The other is in Dale where he will remain until he wakes up, which the Mirkwood prince has told me may never happen. My life has been dripping with second chances, and I have used all the wrong ones… My sister will be coming. Perhaps there we can mend." That optimistic glint in his eyes was undeniable.
Yet Bilbo tried a final time. "But your throne!" Thorin shook his head. The light of the rising sun cast odd contour to his friend's face.
"My throne will be going to someone who wants it more than I do, and will use it better than I have," he declared. Instantly, the halfling thought of the stubborn cousin, the only other dwarf with a claim to the Durin throne. He couldn't control the way his mouth twitched at the thought. "Dain will have my best men looking over his decisions. I trust my cousins. They will not endanger this kingdom the way I have," Thorin continued.
"And of the others? The Company?" the hobbit inquired. They had kept their distance from the uncle at the funeral, and the bonds between the dwarves seemed more uncertain than ever.
"They'll be seeing me more than they'd like to," the dwarf smiled with downcast eyes.
"But there is never a goodbye with friends." Bilbo couldn't help but feel his mouth stretched by a sudden rush of happiness.
"Then I suppose this isn't really a goodbye?"
"I hope to come to see you again in your funny little hole in the ground you call a home," the dwarf teased. "The next time we meet, I can say I have a home of my own."
"I'm sure the mark that blasted wizard left is still on the door. You'll have no trouble finding the place again." The pair laughed in spite of themselves, the chuckling slowly dying into the morning silence. "If I there is no goodbye, might I at least say 'farewell'?" Thorin allowed himself to grin.
"Farewell Master Baggins."
"Farewell Thorin."
Red and white were the colors of the blood sun rising against the thick winter clouds.
The final stretch! Finally almost there, just over a year after I started this story. Well…Happy New Year! I would like to take a short moment (trust me, the long moment is coming at the end) to thank all of the people who read this, followed, favorited, or reviewed it. Your support means a lot to me, and I can't express how much it has encouraged my little hobby to grow. For the last time, if you want to know when the last chapter is posted, please follow this story, and if you want to share it with other people I would recommend favoriting it as well. And, as always, I love hearing from you guys, so please leave all comments, critiques, and predictions in a review. Until next time…