Like every night, there was happy conversation — as was the way with good company. The dwarves shouted to one another from beneath the cover of their tarps, none wanting to chance the rain when they could just as easily converse by yelling across the campsite. They were merry (as always) but a weight lay upon them (whether it was the unholy soul of Mirkwood or the oppressive rain, Bilbo was not sure), pushing the dwarrows into submission, and forcing them quiet after an hour of stilted conversation held in the dark.
Bilbo ate with the Ri's, his back pressed against a wet tree and his head tipped to rest on the bark. His clothes were soaked through and his skin was clammy, but he had only a few changes of dry clothes left and didn't want to risk the chance of donning them, only to have them drenched in an hour's time.
Nori felt ill and so Bilbo receded from their tent, allowing Ori and Dori to care for their brother as he slept. Thorin's tarp was across the campsite, and Bilbo sped to it in order to break free of the storm. There wasn't much for Bilbo to do besides wait for sleep to take him, but the grim tenor of the forest kept the hobbit from lying down to attempt rest. His bedroll was dry, thank Eru, but his clothes were making it rather hard to relax. He changed into dry a shirt and trousers, allowing himself the small respite as he let the haunting sounds of the forest lull him into serenity. But Bilbo never closed his eyes, for fear of what he should find there.
.
Thorin watched Bilbo run back to their tarp, his foot stomping in a small puddle and splashing itself with mud. The Dwarven King had spent supper with Balin and Dwalin, the Sons of Fundin helping him to reroute their journey through Mirkwood. If the Company was forced to spend much more time in the forest, not only would they run out of rations, but they would be making themselves easy prey for the creatures of the Wood. Thorin was confident that the things residing here would give his dwarrows no grief, but if the time came, they could be easily dispatched.
At the end of their meeting, Thorin assigned Gloin to first watch, Bifur volunteering to keep him company. Thorin nodded in assent and made way to his own shelter, beneath which Bilbo had laid his pack and was sitting in the junction of the lean-to. His neck was bent at an awkward angle, shoulders at his ears in order to fit in the corner. The halfling's eyes were lazy, mesmerized by the repetitive babel of rain against the trees.
"This forest is sick," he said by way of greeting, not looking away from the Wood, and dragging Thorin's gaze to his lips in order to hear the hobbit's words over the din of the storm, "I can feel it in my bones."
"So it is," Thorin said, rolling out his mat and taking a seat beside Bilbo in the dark. "But nothing we can't handle."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Bilbo frowned, his brows knitting together, still not meeting Thorin's gaze, "Even now I feel uneasy, like we're being watched. Like anything could just jump out of the trees and eat us."
"Do you lack confidence in the Company, Master Hobbit?" Thorin teased, shrugging out of his fur overcoat, now heavy with rain water.
"Not at all," Bilbo finally smiled, moving his knees away from his chest to sit cross-legged. A big hobbity foot rested beside Thorin's boot, hairy toes wiggling as Bilbo stretched his muscles. Through a yawn, he said, "But I worry none the less, can't seem to do much else these days."
"All you need worrying about, Master Burglar, are your thieving skills." Thorin consoled, a sudden crack of thunder startling both himself and the halfling, who jumped in alarm.
Bilbo sighed, moving away from Thorin and leaning down into his bedroll, "Sleep, now, I think."
"Aye," Thorin muttered in response, doubting that he'd been heard above the rain. He leaned down to remove his boots and spread out parallel to the hobbit, back turned away from the open side of the lean-to, rain droplets occasionally hitting his spine and splashing at his neck. Thorin was used to sleeping near others, the life of a soldier sometimes calling for a tight encampment, but this was different. Being in such close quarters with Bilbo was terrifying. Thorin could see the rise and fall of his chest, share in his body heat. They didn't touch, but Thorin marveled at the way their bodies would have matched up, Bilbo's strong legs and hairy feet tangling in his own.
Rain hit the tarp, sheets of it: ominous and daring, forcing Thorin to think of what creatures might be able to reside in such horrible conditions. This forest was sick, the halfling had been right about that. An ailment lay upon the trees, strangling them, drowning them in rainfall. And upon the Company too. Thorin feared for his kinsmen and for his hobbit, not knowing what madness they might succomb to in this terrible waste of dying countryside.
Before his mind had been infected with gold lust, Thror had told his grandchildren the wonders of the Forest of Greenwood. Things he'd never even seen himself, but had been told by his grandfather, and his grandfather before him. The shadow of Sauron fell heavy upon the Wood now, shrouding it in a great many evils. Evils that were legend now just as much as the beauty of the Wood had once been.
The Mirkwood played with its victims: dizzying their sight and blurring their path. Leading them into death's patient hands by way of visions and apparitions real as any flesh creature. Living out your most well-guarded fantasies and desires, only to have them ripped away in the most horrific fashions.
"Good night," Bilbo yawned, burrowing into his blankets to find warmth, to find comfort. Thorin's heart clenched.
His eyelids were heavy with sleep. If he were much more pathetic than he already was, Thorin would have let himself be convinced that he was laid down beside a lover as Bilbo wished him sweet dreams, allow the Wood to play tricks on him. "Good night," he murmured, barely able to hear himself in the night.
The burglar haunted Thorin's dreams. Stole them.
He was but a wisp of reality, hardly anything to hold on to, and yet he made Thorin's blood burn. His dreams were hardly peaceful: they were carnal and uninhibited, insatiable. But sometimes they were slow and beautiful, so full of love and intimate desire that Thorin might falter upon waking, plead to Mahal that he stay dreaming in order to remain in the Hobbit's arms.
This night, the din of the storm echoed in Thorin's ears as the halfling lay beside him. They were affectionate at first, with caring touches and slight, flirting caresses. A small, knowing smile on Bilbo's lips sent a hot shiver down Thorin's body. While his halfling was always very much full of vitality in these dreams, he was also wretchedly hollow, only a shallow replica of the real thing. Thorin would wake and know in his soul that it was unreal, so heartbreakingly unreal that when he looked into Bilbo's eyes, he only felt disgust for himself, shame for having acted so sinfully in his dreams.
But this felt too utterly real. Every inch of Bilbo's skin sent a burning rush to the dwarf's bones, his body flushing as they undressed each other beneath the tarp. It was sweet and caring, as two lovers would be. Familiar with each other's bodies, knowing where to kiss and bite, where to rub and touch. It was hot, it was passionate, it was dragon-fire.
But it was a dream, too utterly perfect and beautiful to ever be allowed in reality, so Thorin let himself indulge. Let himself be devoured entirely by his lust, consumed by his love until he was nothing more than a writhing mess, a corporeal being tied only to Middle-Earth by his love for this halfling. And he let himself admit what he never had before. It was a chant, a mantra, over and over and over again falling from his tongue, I love you, I love you, I love you.