"Chapter 8"

A/N: I know it has been a long time since I've updated this, but I have no excuse for my lacking other than I simply moved onto other stories for a while. But now I'm back with this, so I hope none of you hunt me down. X) I really hope you like this chapter, because I started writing it, didn't like it, and rewrote the whole thing.

When Thorin woke, it was merely a respite from feverish delirium where he lay in the care of Erebor's healers; but waking was so much worse than nightmares. In waking, he was assaulted by terrible pain that throbbed and burned its way through his body, starting at the torn, nearly-crushed mess of his ribcage and extending through his shocked limbs. To the ear, he only mumbled incoherently, but in his mind he could feel his terror and he called unanswered for his nephews.

'Kili! Fili!' He called for them desperately, but they never came. In those moments of stunted lucidity, he remembered what his delirium did not.

His nephews were dead. No one had to tell him that; before oblivion had overtaken him on the battlefield he had seen Kili mortally wounded defending his own broken body, and he had known even without witnessing it that Fili would die fighting to avenge his brother and uncle. On some level, Thorin was glad his tongue would not speak their names aloud because he didn't think he could handle false assurances that his nephews were "simply wounded" and would "be along shortly".

He wasn't even sure how he was still alive. He could swear from the amount of pain he was in that he should have died long before now. How could one body bear this much pain and not simply give out?

Kili and Fili's deaths hurt more than even when he had witnessed Thror beheaded at the gates of Moria, or of Thrain's disappearance and eventual death. He had been charged with protecting his nephews, both for his sister Dis and for Durin's line, and now they were gone and it was his fault.

Through the haze of pain pounding at his skull, he realized that there was someone standing near him in the room—Oin, if the ear trumpet was any indication. The light of the lantern in the corner of the room drove into his sensitive eyesight like a knife and he involuntarily groaned, trying to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the brightness. At his movement, however, a sharp lance seemed to jab itself into his ribs and he realized that maybe moving wasn't the best idea.

Oin noticed his patient was aware immediately and turned to face him, his dark eyes brightening with relief. "Thorin, thank Mahal!" He perceptively stepped in front of the lantern so that his shadow fell across Thorin's face. The healer reached and checked the Dwarf-king's clammy skin and nodded in satisfaction. "Fever's broke," he muttered to himself, and Thorin heard the wet gurgle of water being poured and then the carved rim of a cup was held to his lips. One of Nori's hands held up his head gently as he drank thirstily. Slowly, he felt his chaotic mind clear a little at the coolness of the water and tried to grin at Nori to show the latter that he was grateful for his help.

"B… Battle?" he rasped, and felt his lungs flare with a fresh wave of pain.

Nori set the cup down and looked down sternly at him. "You'd do better staying silent for a few more days, Thorin," the healer admonished him. "You're sporting five cracked ribs, three broken ones, a concussion, and severe lacerations on your torso. We had to be careful removing an arrow from your shoulder, and we were afraid we would lose you to shock for a while. But I suppose you're too stubborn to give up now."

Oin's attempt at humor fell flat, and Thorin saw that his face had become almost grey with exhaustion, with lines dug beneath his eyes and making him look several years older than he really was. He could guess why.

His expression seemed to order Oin to tell him of the battle, because Oin sighed. "We won," he said quietly. "But not without suffering heavy losses. A third of our combined armies died with almost another third wounded, but we were able to push the Orcs and goblins out eventually. We aren't sure how many of those demons were killed, but we know it's well into the thousands. You'll be pleased to know that Bolg was killed by Beorn on the battlefield."

For a long moment his news did not register, and Thorin could only look at him blankly; but then he realized what that meant for him, and he let his eyes fall closed as waves of relief washed over him. Finally, the legacy of Azog the Pale Orc was gone, his son defeated. No more would Thorin be haunted by the shadow of Thror's murderer. 'You have been avenged, Grandfather,' he thought to himself.

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Quietly, Thorin waited by the doors of the Last Homely House, waiting for the rest of the Fellowship to appear. It was a crisp, clear December morning, a good enough morning for them to leave, with no snow lying on the ground but a fine layer of frost icing everything over. His breath plumed in the air as he shifted from one foot to the other. Gimli stood beside him, wearing his heavy armor complete with his axe swung over his shoulder. He looked so much like his father that Thorin was silently afraid that he'd allow his tongue to slip and he'd call the younger Dwarf "Gloin".

The Ranger, Aragorn, appeared next, along with Elrond. The two of them were deep in a quiet yet heated discussion, and neither immediately greeted the two Dwarves, although Aragorn managed a quick nod at them before continuing his argument. Elrond cut him off, however, with a sharp look when Gandalf came into view, and turned to the approaching wizard.

"Everything is in order," Gandalf said to the Elf's silent inquiry. "The hobbits are coming—Bilbo had one last thing he wanted to say to them all before they left their rooms."

Boromir, the Man from Gondor, arrived a few minutes later, and stood silently by himself. Thorin watched him for a moment; it seemed the Man was still much more of an outsider here, something that he was interested in seeing play out in the approaching months.

The Elf was next—Legolas, the pampered son of Thandruil. He blatantly ignored the two Dwarves standing by the door and they did the same, although Gimli growled something deep in his throat.

Finally, the hobbits arrived, Bilbo in the lead and wrapped up in a large, warm blanket, with Frodo beside him. They seemed to be the only two truly awake, Thorin noticed with some amusement. The servant, Samwise, was hiding a yawn behind his hand; Merry was busy rubbing the sleep from his eyes; and the youngest, Pippin, was practically leaning on the former. They certainly did not look like they were ready to start a day of walking, although, as Thorin knew, hobbits always found a way to surprise others.

Bilbo was proof enough for that.

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It took Thorin two more days before he was able to talk, and the first thing he asked was how he was still alive.

Surprisingly, Oin hesitated telling him. He seemed oddly reluctant to open his mouth and explain, and it took Thorin ordering him as his king to tell him that the other Dwarf finally spoke.

"It was Bilbo who found you," Oin said quietly, deliberately missing Thorin's gaze. His explanation came much more rushed after he'd spoken. "He fought bravely during the battle, but he was knocked unconscious near the end. I had to treat him for a concussion. But when he woke up he immediately started looking for any of us and seemed to have stumbled across you—he was at your side staunching the blood loss when we found you."

Thorin felt his rage burn red. "That thief should not have defended Erebor at all!" he growled, ignoring the way his chest flared with pain again. "He does not belong here. He should have left with Dain's army!"

"Not with a concussion he wasn't," Oin retorted smoothly. "He was swaying like a tree in the wind and was ready to fall flat on his face from exhaustion. You don't mess with concussions."

Thorin glared at him. "You were just looking for an excuse for him to stay," he accused him.

"Yes, I was," came the utterly unashamed reply. Oin didn't do so much as blink with the admission.

By the time Thorin could regain his feet nearly a week later, the hobbit had left with Gandalf—heading back home to the Shire, leaving without so much of a goodbye.

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"Goodbye, old friend," he said now to the hobbit. Bilbo smiled at him—his moment of doubt in his rooms could have never happened, his attitude was so optimistic. The hobbit was shivering in his blanket, clearly disliking the cold, but his own farewell was warm.

"Mahal protect you and yours, Thorin."

'If only I had a "yours",' Thorin thought to himself, but out loud he merely replied, "Doesn't He always?"

As he watched Bilbo say goodbye to his nephew, as cheerful as always, Thorin was not thinking of himself when he pondered Bilbo's prayer. Instead, he silently studied Frodo, and knew how much the two Baggins meant to each other, and then to himself repeated Bilbo's words, changing only one word.

Eru protect you and yours.

A/N: To me, it always seemed a bit funny that Tolkien wrote only that Bilbo had been knocked unconscious in the book during the battle, but then I realized that he probably did that because, all in all, The Hobbit was a children's book. So some details in this chapter, and ones to come, will mention slight alterings of the Battle of the Five Armies that fit more with an actual battle.