Day Three

"For Eru's sake," muttered Oin, trying to prize the spoon out of Thorin's fist. "Must you be this stubborn? Just let go off the spoon already and allow me to feed you."

"You are not feeding me," was Thorin's immediate, indignant answer. "I can eat on my own. I will require only a little bit of assistance."

It had been two days since the battle for Erebor and Thorin – to his mortification – was still far too weak to hold a spoon on his own. Or rather, he could hold the spoon just fine and only had trouble when it came to lifting the blasted thing and bringing it to his mouth. Even in this sitting position, propped up against the bedpost with the help of several pillows, he kept poking himself in the nose and chin with the spoon and had only allowed Oin to assist him after spoonful after spoonful of hot gruel had accidentally dropped onto his bare, bandaged chest.

It was now evening and the late hour had brought frost with it. Even though it had to be much warmer inside the tent than outside of it, Oin was still wearing mittens and Thorin himself was shivering under all his woolly blankets. In the addition to Thorin's makeshift bed, the bedside table and a few chairs, there was a stove in the tent. Next to the stove, someone had brought a pile of firewood - Oin had given Thorin his solemn word that there was a stove in every healing tent and that was the only reason why Thorin allowed the stove to remain in his tent and hadn't yet sent it to someone who needed it more than he did.

This was the first time after the battle that Thorin was fully conscious, fully in his mind, properly present, and so he was naturally also quite weary and exhausted. He didn't remember much about that first day after the battle, apart from the pain and the crushing worry he had felt for his nephews. He remembered that various healers had swarmed around him and that only the ever loyal Dwalin had been a constant present by his side. Balin - busy as ever - had been running into and out of the tent, looking more and more tired and worried after each of his short visits. Thorin could hazily recall that Dain, as well, had been there by his bedside at some point, for he had summoned the dwarf and asked him to look after Bilbo.

Bilbo.

Thorin forced himself to recall how full of terror Bilbo's eyes had been in that horrible moment when Thorin - in the clutches of the dragon sickness - had hold him by the throat threatening to throw him off the wall. Thorin let those terror-filled eyes to haunt him, to remind him of the monster he had only just been. He deserved to be haunted, he wasn't allowed to forget anything he had done.

Thorin felt shame for what he had done and caused in the course of the four days before the battle. He wasn't making any excuses for his actions, bearing all the guilt and shame just as he well deserved to. Had someone tried to defend him, however, they might have pointed out that he hadn't been himself when doing his dishonourable deeds, that he had then been under the Curse of His Line. The dragon sickness had left him the moment he had heard of his sister-sons, of Fili and Kili's grave injuries, but by then the damage had already been done. Had he not succumbed to the dragon sickness, many a death might have been prevented - there was now dwarven blood on his hands and he would never forgive himself for that.

And Fili and Kili, then... When Balin had visited Thorin shortly before Oin's arrival, he had avoided talking about them, a fact that greatly worried Thorin. Balin had only told him that Fili and Kili were lying unconscious in a nearby tent, barely hanging to this life. Characteristically to him, the old dwarf had naturally phrased these news in a more gentle manner, but there was not enough gentleness in this world to make Fili and Kili's situation any less painful, any less heartrending to Thorin. Though Thorin longed to go to see his boys, he had to admit to himself - to his great frustration - that he was still far too weak to get up from the bed.

Even though he had no right to do so, Thorin still wished that Bilbo would have been there with him. Bilbo would have known what to do and say, he would have kept Thorin updated on Fili and Kili's condition. Bilbo would have assisted him with eating without calling it "feeding". The fact that the hobbit hadn't yet been there in the tent to see him weighed on Thorin's mind more than he cared to admit: how scared of him Bilbo had to be if he hadn't even come to see him on his (potential) deathbed! Clearly Thorin in his madness had greatly affected their friendship and not at all in a good way. Did Bilbo even wish for their friendship to continue, or did he consider it over? Thorin wished - rather selfishly, he admitted - that Bilbo would have given him at least the change to apologize, to try and make amends.

"You are certainly not the only warrior I will be feeding today," Oin was grumbling, "for there are currently many wounded dwarves under my care. The longer I will fight with you over the control of this spoon, the longer it will take for them to get fed – or 'assisted', as the act is apparently called by those who are too stubborn to let go off their pride – or their spoon – for even just a minute. And will you just stop moving already, you're getting gruel everywhere! If you don't calm down, Thorin, I will have to put a bib on you!"

"You will be doing no such thing!" declared Thorin immediately, appalled, though he did also halt his restless shifting. "I'd rather starve."

"No-one starves under my care," Oin huffed, sounding offended. "But since both you and the gruel obviously need some time to cool down, I will leave you be for the time being and come by later when you are ready to behave in a more reasonable manner. I will do all I can to help you heal, but I will not be wasting my valuable time by fighting over a spoon."

Oin let go off the spoon, allowing Thorin to grasp the item fully to himself, and put the wooden bowl onto the bedside table. Putting a few logs into the stove, he then left the tent, muttering about stubborn kings under his breath as he went.

Once the healer was gone, Thorin unclenched his fist and looked down at the spoon. He turned it in his hand, studied its iron surface, the delicate carvings on the shaft. It looked like any ordinary spoon, but for Thorin it was so much more than that. For him, it was a symbol for his self-determination, for his capability to look after himself: he had lost his mind but a few days earlier, if he would lose control over his body too – if he couldn't even eat by himself, on his own – what was there left of him? If he wasn't allowed at least the pretence of being in control of his own well-being, of his body, of his mind, he could well sink into darkness so deep that he would eventually have to save himself from becoming mad again by thrusting a knife through his own throat. It certainly hadn't been his pride that had made him fight for a spoon, but that wasn't something he would tell Oin, or anyone, for that matter. He would find a way to deal with his troubled state by himself. He had already caused enough trouble to the others without burdening them with this too.

Thorin's stomach let out a loud rumble. Steadying himself, he took a proper hold of the spoon and reached for the gruel bowl on the nightstand. It took him quite a lot of effort to get the bowl onto the bed and to balance it in his lap, but eventually he managed to do all that. Gasping for breath, for the movement had strained him more than he had anticipated, he then made an attempt to spoon up the gruel. The fact that he was trying eat by himself in earnest made it even more pitiful that he failed to do so. Try as he might, he got more gruel on his beard and chest than in his mouth.

A few minutes later when Dwalin entered the tent, Thorin was still trying - in vain - to spoon up the gruel.

"You seem to have some trouble with your aim," said Dwalin as a way of greeting after dragging a chair by Thorin's bed and taking his seat on it. "Need some assistance?"

"Yes," admitted Thorin, grateful for the way Dwalin had called it "assisting". "If you don't mind."

Without any further discussions, Dwalin began to assist Thorin with the eating, doing a much better job with it than Oin had, regardless of the fact that Oin was the one who was supposed to be the expert when it came to communicating with sick and injured people. Afterwards, Dwalin got up to add some firewood in the stove, before he helped Thorin to wash the gruel off his face and chest. While Thorin pulled the covers up to his chin, shivering, Dwalin took his seat on the chair again.

"Damn it's cold," he cursed, blowing on his fingers. "I sure pity everyone who's been put on guarding duty tonight."

They talked about this and that for a while. Dwalin was obviously trying to keep their topics of conversations easy and as nondistressing as possible, but Thorin was determined to talk about some more pressing issues as well, things - or rather, a person - that were weighing on his mind.

"Have you seen Bilbo?" he asked, trying - and failing - to sound nonchalant.

Hadn't Thorin known Dwalin as well as he did, he might have missed the slight wince Dwalin gave when hearing his question, but as it happened, the two of them did know each other quite well and so Thorin did notice the wince. It made his heart sink, for it had to mean that Dwalin, too, had noticed the way Bilbo seemed to be avoiding Thorin.

"Not actually, I haven't," came Dwalin's eventual answer. "But then again, whenever I haven't been here by your bedside waiting for you to wake up, I've been busy trying to locate one or two missing persons, so I've been pretty occupied."

The warrior was pretending that he wasn't evading Thorin's gaze. He was inspecting his nails and only gave Thorin a subtle sideways glance. Thorin swallowed hard, staring ahead. If even the mention of the hobbit made Dwalin actually wince and behave in this manner, the situation had to be far worse than he had initially assumed.

"Surely Bilbo hasn't yet left?" he asked cautiously, wary of the answer. "Surely he wouldn't leave without coming to say his farewells?"

Or perhaps he would. Bilbo owed them nothing after all. If anything, it was Thorin who owed Bilbo, and oh how much he owed him.

"It's snowing," grumbled Dwalin, giving up inspecting his nails in order to cross his arms. "In this weather the hobbit wouldn't get far even if he tried to leave. Besides, he did indeed come to see you - though not to say his farewells - but you were still unconscious at that point."

"He did?" Thorin asked, surprised.

Dwalin's curt nod lifted some of the burdens off Thorin's shoulders and Thorin felt as relieved as he could under the circumstances. Bilbo had visited him. That was something, at least.

Dwalin was still avoiding his gaze, Thorin noted, bemused.

"Bilbo is being taken care of, isn't he?" he needed the confirmation.

"He's certainly not making it easy for us to do so," muttered Dwalin. "Our hobbit has been very busy running around."

Thorin let out a sigh - that did sound like Bilbo. Of course the kind-hearted hobbit had been busy helping healers to care for the wounded and doing all those things that needed to be done after any a battle, but one could only hope that he had remembered to look after himself too.

"Make sure that Bilbo is not tasking himself too hard," said Thorin. "And tell Bombur to see to it that he is being given enough food. Hobbits require more nourishment than we do, after all."

Dwalin didn't answer, but Thorin didn't pay that too much mind, tired as he was.

During those three days that Thorin had spent in the tent, healing, a pile of reports had materialized on his bedside table as if on its own accord. To take his mind off Bilbo and to do his duties, Thorin now reached out for the pile, ignoring the strain the movement caused to his body – the kingdom wouldn't rebuild herself by herself, she needed her king.

"Balin is taking care of all that," protested Dwalin as Thorin began to spread out the parchments over his sheets on his lap. "Sitting here by your bed, I've grown rather accustomed to hear you snore, so why don't you snooze a bit more, eh? Music to my ears and all that shit."

"I need to be aware of what is going on in my kingdom. Being injured is no excuse to fail to do one's duties."

"Duties my arse," grunted Dwalin, leaning back in his chair and lifting his feet on Thorin's bed, crumpling up some of the parchment as he did so. "You fought a dragon last week, surely that should cover all your duties for at least a month!"

Thorin gave his friend an incredulous look – causing Dwalin to let out an exasperated sigh and to roll his eyes – before he began to study the parchments by the candlelight. The reports contained, among other things, information about body counts, remaining food supplies and the names of the dwarves that were preparing to spent the winter in Erebor, but they had been written in such poor, incoherent manner that Thorin had hard time trying to make any sense to the words.

"Balin must tell the scribes to use some other ink," he grumbled, annoyed, peering at the mess of letters in front of him before handing the parchment over to Dwalin. "Just look at this – the ink is making the letters dance. It's nearly impossible to try to make any sense to the words when the letters keep on moving with such inconsistency."

"The letters are just fine," claimed Dwalin, his gaze flickering from the report to Thorin, an unreadable look forming on his face. "There's nothing wrong with the writing, Thorin. Why don't you just let those reports be and focus on getting better. It seems like you're still too muddled to grasp any written word that has more than one syllable on it."

"Surely you cannot fault me for that," huffed Thorin, gesturing towards the dancing letters. "I assure you that it is not of my doing that the letters won't stand still. Surely you believe that I'm not the one causing this? The ink must be of elven make, it's probably enchanted."

"Enchanted," snorted Dwalin. "Yes, of course. Enchanted. It couldn't possibly be that the letters seem to be 'dancing' due to all those potions that Oin has made you drink."

"I cannot see how that could be," said Thorin. "It is not like the scribes have been using my potions as ink, is it."

It took a long while for Thorin to try to convince Dwalin that it wasn't because of him that the letters wouldn't stand still and even then the warrior looked rather doubtful. Eventually Thorin just gave up, telling Dwalin to go grûck himself for being so frustrating and annoying, to which Dwalin answered – in an emphasizingly patient manner – that he actually already had grûcked twice that day.

"Besides," Dwalin added, "out of the two of us, Thorin, it's not me that is being frustrating and annoying. You're being terribly edgy and short-tempered with me. I've done nothing to deserve to be told to go grûck myself."

After a few minutes of mutual glaring, Thorin looked away and rubbed his face, sighing.

"I suppose not," he admitted softly.

Both of them were satisfied with that apology, and Dwalin proceeded to gather all the parchments from Thorin's lap and to shove them under the bed well out of Thorin's reach. Thorin let him do so because it would have been rather useless to try to make any sense to the words, dancing as the letters still were.

With some help from Dwalin, Thorin managed to lay down on his back. He found his new position more durable and sighed in relief.

Thorin and Dwalin enjoyed the comfortable, companionable silence for long enough for the candle to burn out. Neither commented on the sudden darkness that filled the tent, enjoying the sound of – relative – silence instead. Now that they weren't talking, Thorin could hear noises coming from outside. A cart was going pass by the tent and warriors were singing somewhere nearby, their song joyful but not yet too boisterous, probably for the sake of their wounded and fallen comrades. There were also the familiar sounds of chain mails clinking as some of the guards walked by the tent. Somewhere in the distance a dog was barking.

Dwalin's clothes rustled as the warrior shifted on his chair.

With uncharacteristical gentleness, Dwalin then broke the silence and proceeded to tell Thorin of the way Gandalf had been by in the day of the battle, of the way Gandalf had managed to stabilize not only his condition but both Fili and Kili's as well.

"But that's all he would do," Dwalin added a bit grudgingly. "He claimed that there were too many wounded for him to focus on healing any one individual."

"But he did stabilize Fili and Kili?" Thorin clung to this possibility, clutching at straws.

"Aye, that he did," Dwalin confirmed, causing relief to flood in Thorin's veins. "Put his hand on their eyes and did some magic, I was told, the same as he did with you. They haven't yet woken up, but neither are they dying, so as far as they are concerned things are looking far less dire than one might initially assume."

"Thank Eru," Thorin managed to croak. "That's... good."

Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes. He was choking back tears and it took him many long minutes to take control of his emotions. It appeared that his weak state had left him emotionally even more fragile than he had initially assumed.


Day Four

When Thorin opened his eyes, it was morning and Dwalin was no longer there in the tent with him. In Dwalin's stead, Dori was now sitting on the chair by his bed. Dori was humming to himself and looking absent-mindedly around the royal tent, a deep frown on his forehead, a faraway look in his eyes.

When Thorin shifted a bit, letting out a grunt as the movement caused some pain in his thigh, Dori had such a start that he fell off his chair, yelping.

"Bootless elves," he then cursed, rubbing his bottom as he climbed back onto the chair - when it came to Dori, it never got cruder than that. "It's certainly nice to see you awake, Your Highness, though you did give me a bit of a start there."

The dwarf let out a high-pitched chuckle and it wasn't until now that Thorin noticed how nervous Dori's manner was. He was fingering the cuffs of his sleeves and kept shifting on his place, his gaze flickering towards the entrance of the tent as if he was planning for an escape. Never before had the oldest of the Ri brothers been nervous about being in Thorin's presence and with a sinking feeling Thorin realized that Dori, too, was now wary of him due to the dragon's curse.

"The madness has left me," he told Dori quietly, too ashamed to look his friend in the eye. "I am no longer cursed with the dragon sickness. I am myself again."

"That's nice to hear," mused Dori, sounding earnest and sincere. "Balin told me as much yesterday and it delights me to have confirmation directly from you."

Thorin turned his head to the side to look at Dori. Although there was a kind smile on Dori's face, his manner still remained nervous and he was avoiding Thorin's gaze. Thorin swallowed hard, feeling horrible. First Bilbo and now this: how many friendships had he destroyed in his madness?

"Where's Dwalin?" he managed to ask without really meaning to say anything.

Hearing Thorin's question, there was an odd twitch in Dori's eye.

"That," Dori said, his voice almost squeaky in its sudden, shaky shrill, "is a good question! A great question, actually. 'Where is Dwalin', indeed. Where is Dwalin. Where is Dwalin. Where is Dwalin. Well, I'll tell you where Dwalin is, because it's not like I'm not supposed to tell you where he has gone to, or what he's doing, or anything of the like."

Yet another nervous chuckle, and then Dori began to blabber in earnest, while the twitching of his eye intensified.

"Because Dwalin's whereabouts are certainly not a secret. Why would they be! It's not like he's doing something that we don't want you to know about, because why would we – or he – be trying to keep anything from you – you have a right to know things as our king – and even if we were currently keeping some information from you for your own good and just for the time being, that wouldn't mean that you needed to worry about any of it, because there isn't really anything to worry about because we're dealing with it. So don't you worry about anything, we're dealing with everything. Not that there's anything we need to deal with! No, no, no, everything is just fine."

Looking flushed, Dori chuckled again, tapping his fingers against his thigh, glancing nervously at the tent's entrance.

Thorin understood well why the dwarf was nervous to be anywhere near him, but he was far too worn to be dealing with it right now. Dwalin had probably made some kind of an arrangement with the Company, an arrangement that would guarantee that there would constantly be someone by Thorin's side happened he to wake up, and it was just Dori's poor luck that Thorin had woken up on his watch.

"Did Dwalin go to rest?" he now asked. "When will he be back, do you know?"

"Rest, yes!" cried Dori, the look in his eyes a bit wild, as he pointed a finger at Thorin. "That's exactly what Dwalin is doing – he's resting! That makes sense, because he has barely left your side for the past three days. So yes, Dwalin is resting and definitely not doing anything else. And he might be resting for a while yet, as he probably wants to eat something too. So resting and eating, that's what Dwalin is doing. And he won't be back for a while."

Thorin sighed and shifted his gaze away from the insistent twitch in Dori's eye.