Yes, Bilbo had finally decided, Bofur's endless chattering would be the death of him.
That's not to say he didn't love Bofur's company, but the dwarf had been glued to his side all morning and evening. Bilbo supposed the toymaker must have seen the change in his disposition, because as they hiked, Bofur had been unusually peppy and far more loquacious than usual (which was really saying something).
And Bofur was a dear, he truly, truly was. But right now, Bilbo desperately needed a moment alone; away from loud-mouthed dwarrows that would blab to the entire Company. If Bilbo had ever once believed that Shire lasses were terrible gossips, it was because he'd never met a dwarf: rumor travelled through the Company like flash fire, and most likely being completely incorrect or blown out of proportion by the time it finally circled back to him.
If he'd thought Bofur could keep his trap shut without hearsay spreading to the others (most of all to Kili and Fili, who were the biggest gossipmongers Bilbo had ever met) he didn't think he'd ever stop talking. There was such a weight on his shoulders, laden heavy with doubt and self-pity that he just wanted to crawl under a rock in order to escape it. If it slid away, Bilbo thought, surely the weight would cause an avalanche and by the time his outpour would stop, Bofur would want nothing to do with him. He'd be scared away by Bilbo's passion for the king.
There was so much to be said. He admired Thorin as a leader, and as a friend, and now as a lover. He loved Thorin's stoic majesty, how even in the simple tunic Beorn had provided him with, he still looked every part the King Under the Mountain. His striking figure, though entirely unknown to halflings of the Shire, as alluring to Bilbo in a way he'd never known before. Where on Hobbit lads and lasses (and even Bilbo himself), there was an attractive amount of fat (a sign of a well fed individual, if Bilbo had anything to say about it), Thorin was all muscle. It was proof of his arduous lifestyle, passionate in every way. Bilbo respected him so much that it physically hurt. And he thought even Bofur, a strong romantic and supporter of any amorous endeavor, would find his enamoring pathetic.
It wasn't as if Bilbo was sequestering himself in a corner crying woe-is-me, he was far stronger than that, he was no wilting flower. But he couldn't get out of his own head. He was trapped in post-coital purgatory, forever replaying Thorin's words in his mind.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
In the moment, Bilbo had been too stunned to say anything. He'd been kissing at Thorin's neck, marking him as they rutted against each other. Bilbo had barely been able to make a sound, pleasure caught in his throat, and only the occasional strangled whimper managing to escape. Thorin was heavy over him, Bilbo's blunt nails making barely-there crescent marks in his dwarf's back as they held close to each other.
Bilbo had reached down, grasping at Thorin's arse for purchase as he moved faster, gaining momentum, climbing higher. Thorin moaned. It was ungodly, really, the way he sounded. His golden voice throaty and breathless, and his breathing hitched as he turned into Bilbo's neck. He tried to kiss at the halfling's throat but could barely manage anything besides sighing heady into his skin, tasting Bilbo on his tongue.
The halfling bucked again, and again, Thorin's moans far too loud.
"Shh," Bilbo had tried to say, "they're sleeping." But the storm above them drowned out his voice, Thorin's wet breathing against his neck and at his ear, biting, intoxicating.
"Bilbo," he'd said, "Bilbo, ghivashel, my love." He was close now, Bilbo could feel him begin to stir, his moan vibrating in Bilbo's ribs. "I love you," he'd sighed, "I love you, I love you."
That released him, and Bilbo spilled into the trousers he had changed only hours before. Thorin following quickly behind, into his own hand, and still dressed in the breeches they'd been too desperate to shuck off.
Bilbo caught his breath, pressing light, affectionate kisses onto his dwarf's cheek, nuzzling into the dark beard that grazed his face. Thorin's eyes were euphoric, calm, but distant too. Sad, even.
Bilbo caught his mouth then, wanting to rid Thorin of that terrible look, like he was doubting Bilbo's love.
"Ghivashel," Thorin sighed against his lips and smiled, curling into the halfling, pulling him flush against his chest under the blankets.
All will be well, Bilbo had though, all will be perfect.
.
By the time the Company had stopped to pitch camp, Bilbo had gotten rocks stuck between his toes and the leathery soles of his feet were caked in dirt. The rain had slicked every rock and made the mud into paste, moss slippery and hard for him to keep traction without his own pair of heavy dwarven boots. His feet felt heavier with each step, his lungs straining to take in air.
He praised Eru, even praised Aulë, not even his own god but when the holy name fell off his tongue it was natural. It was divine. Sitting down was religious. And food was a miracle.
Supper was hot for once; the lads had rejoiced when they were able to light their fire. Bilbo ate his fill, but no more than his allotted amount, and far less than any Hobbit should have been used to.
He couldn't say that he did not miss his seven meals, but what they had was hardy and filling. The dwarrows fed him well enough, and he had no right to complain. And Dori still had a few chamomile leaves; they had shared their tea by the fire, grateful for the way it warmed their chests, even if there was no cream or sugar.
The air was getting humid, even as the sun set, and the dwarrows were worried it would start to storm again. For more than ten minutes they'd been circling the idea of putting the tarps back up, just in case.
"Wouldn't wan'ta get trapped out in the rain," Bofur had reasoned, getting up from the log they shared to help his kin with their tarp. He tapped the few remaining scraps in his bowl onto the dirt, kicked mud over the crumbs, licked the wood bowl clean, and then made his way over to Bifur and Bombur.
When Bilbo looked up into the canopy of leaves and branches, he couldn't see the beautifully auburn and azure sky he'd hoped was there, or even the stormy sky that probably was. Instead it was the tangling limbs of the trees, grey and dying. Thick shadows hung across the campsite, the last flares of sunlight being snuffed out by macabre leaves.
.
Night had fallen completely over the Mirkwood. The only light now came from the fire, that with every passing minute was being drowned by the quickly coming rain. A cloud of white smoke had started fuming from the wet timber, choking those who sat too close in a shroud of thick fog. The burning wood smelled of sulfur and decay: a condition of the forest which infected all that grew within its borders.
Bilbo, whose lungs were neither terribly strong nor accustomed to sitting fireside, had to leave the pit for fear of gagging to death in the acrid air. Farther away from the clearing which the Company had made their unofficial centre of camp, he found that his breathing came no easier. The air in all of the forest was thick and humid, regardless of hour or temperature. It clung to the insides of his lungs, lacing its way through his body and tightening his chest to the point of discomfort.
His breast rose and fell heavily as he took in large breaths through his nose. The blood pumping through Bilbo's heart burned, not enough air passing through his lungs as he heaved in the middle of the clearing. There was nothing beside him to gather purchase upon, and he had to stumble towards a jagged tree trunk before unceremoniously dropping his entire body weight against it, clinging to the bark for support as his hands shook and he hyperventilated.
He couldn't be panicking. He knew not why he would be, there were no problems to speak of. Everything was fine. Peachy keen.
The only thing which possibly could have been making his body betray him so was the Mirkwood, tangling itself between his arteries and in every crevice between his bones. He had been warned of this. He'd passed by hundreds of bad omens on the trail but had said nothing.
And now here he was, body collapsing, face pressed into the mud. He was so tired. So tired. He just wanted to sleep. He relented and let his eyes fall shut. Each breath was a struggle, his body feeble and weak. It was much easier to not breath at all, the stillness of his chest allowing for a small repose. But his heart continued to beat heavily no matter how much he willed it to stop, and the drumming of the rain upon his face only increased with every passing minute.
Yes, he decided, I will sleep. If only for a moment, I will sleep. It mattered not that he was covered in black soil or that the rain was coming down in droves over him. Bilbo could not feel the wet or the cold, only the caress of sleep that was so inviting now — so promising, and so forgiving.
"Bilbo?" the sound of his name being called barely broke over the roar of the storm, the droplets hitting against leaves above. "Bilbo!" This time it was closer, and the voice sent a shock of pain through his head. "No, no please Bilbo, no. Come on."
The ground shifted beneath him, mud oozing away from the imprint of the heavy boots and knees that dropped down beside his limp form. Large arms jostled Bilbo's legs and head, turning his body over and making to pick him up. He whined pathetically and tried to curl into himself. No, he pleaded as the hands lifted him up and out of the mud. No, I just want to sleep. Please.
His head lolled back, unsupported by the strong arms that carried him. He knew not in which direction they were headed, but tried to coil into his porter's chest, finding comfort in their neck as the arms shifted and Bilbo wrapped his hands around the wide shoulders.
His eyes fell open slowly, heavily. Thorin's strong chin was beside Bilbo's face, the dwarf's braids tickling at his cheek. He was far too exhausted to argue being carried like a child, and was not entirely averse to the act of being held this way. He simply closed his eyes again, and relaxed until his body was laid onto a bedroll, and a blanket was being pulled to his chest.
It smelled distinctly of Thorin, heavy with musk and the clover soap with which he washed his hair. It was comfortable here, and Bilbo had no problem finally conceding to the forest and falling asleep.
.
Bilbo had a nightmare that evening.
He was in his own bed at Bag End, snug under the covers with Thorin's arm draped about his waist. The dwarf's eyes were gentle and sweet, so blue that Bilbo just wanted to lose himself in them.
Bilbo liked to think he was a respectably sized Hobbit, average for any Baggins or Took in his family. But where his own toes almost reached the foot of the bed, Thorin's would have dangled off had he not bent his legs, entwining them with the great big Hobbity feet beside him. His dwarf was a tactile creature, Bilbo had learned, and a hand came up to touch his cheek, slightly caressing as Thorin's calloused fingers traced the lines of a smile on his face.
He shifted his head forward to catch Thorin's lips in a kiss. No sooner had their tongues begun to mingle, hands begin to wonder, did a terrible moan escape from Thorin's throat. It was wet and pained, and Bilbo pulled his lips away in time to see a scared look on the face that was always so stonily resolute and loving. Thorin's mouth was contorted in shock, bottom lip trembling as a single ruby drip of blood fell and stained the white pillow cradling his face.
His back arched unnaturally, trying to jerk away from the pain stabbing through him. Hot tears burned in Bilbo's eyes. He made to grab for Thorin, tortured howls ripping from his throat.
Thorin screamed when Bilbo tried to wipe the blood from his lips, his body yanked away from the mattress and into the darkness. An invisible entity held him afloat by the hair, limbs jerking like a rag doll. The door to their bedroom slammed open, and Thorin dropped to the floor with a thud, cracking against the old wood. He was still screaming when the invisible hands dragged him into the hall by the ankles. Bilbo cried out, trying to get to the archway before he lost sight of Thorin. The door slammed closed before he reached it, handle locking itself and trapping Bilbo inside the room.
He pulled on the knob, practically ripping the door from its hinges in attempt to get out. The door hardly budged, only loosening when Bilbo propped a leg up on the wall for leverage. It sprang open, knocking him heavily to the floor. He scrambled to find balance again, thinking of nothing but Thorin Thorin Thorin!
Bilbo ran into the hall, prepared to search through the rooms of Bag End in order to find his dwarf. But he was not in Bag End at all. The Mirkwood was dark and threatening, settled almost in pitch blackness if it were not for the bioluminescence of the slime covered trees. Wind blew, billowing his night shirt about him and biting at his cold cheek.
He ran and ran, trying to follow Thorin's dragged howls, but never fast enough to reach him. The Mirkwood fell silent, the darkness around him mercilessly hollow. Fathomless. He slowed to walk through the forest, trying to find his way without marching into tree, and found himself at the campsite.
Their tarps were still hanging, heavy and wet with rain water. There was no fire, and the dwarrows' packs were undisturbed, their weapons untouched. It was simply abandoned.
"Thorin!" Bilbo yelled into the void (he knew not whether it was day or night, for no light could reach here, the branches would not allow it), stepping around a tome laid casually on the ground. It was Ori's, he never went anywhere without it. Beside it, Bofur's hat, blithely laid down like it'd be picked up again any minute.
A hot droplet of rain fell onto Bilbo's cheek, traveling down until it reached his mouth. He didn't wipe it away with a hand, but rather licked his lips, tasting the terrible coppery moisture on his tongue.
A second drop splashed on his eyelid and he reached up to wipe it, hand coming away red in the darkness. But there was still light enough to know blood when he saw it. It was smeared across his fingers, and Bilbo could feel it on his face: still hot, still alive.
When he looked into the high trees he saw them. The Company wrapped up in spider webs, thirteen cocoons of strangling white gauze, all stained and dripping with blood.
Bilbo screamed.
"Bilbo!" Thorin yelled, his voice breaking off in a tortured yowl, "Bilbo please!" But the voice was not coming from the direction of his snared Company, it surrounded him and penetrated him and his body shook in pain. "Bilbo!"
He woke with a start, crying out into the night and almost hitting Thorin, his large chest hovering over Bilbo's as he suddenly let go of the halfling's forearms.
"Wha—" he muttered, half dazed, still able to feel the blood on his face. The dwarf's eyes were terrified, his pupil's dilated in the night; above him, the tarp shuddered beneath the rain that continued to fall. "Thorin?"
The dwarf quickly schooled his features, hiding his anxiety behind practiced indifference, "You were screaming, Master Baggins," he whispered, "Was it a nightmare?"
Bilbo nodded minutely, reliving the horror of Thorin's warm body being hauled away from him. Thorin inclined his head in understanding, eyes falling to his knees where he was knelt down. "Do wish to speak of it?"
Bilbo only bit his lip. Thorin nodded again, this time troubled by the halfling's silence. He laid down; preparing to find sleep again, if he could.
"You only call me Bilbo when you don't mean to," the hobbit's voice came in a whisper, barely audible over the storm, "I can see the surprise in your face when you say it, you can never meet my eyes afterwards."
Thorin flinched underneath his shearling. He didn't intend to, but was sure Bilbo had seen it. His burglar was perceptive in that way. He wanted to tell the hobbit all that he was feeling, that he could not meet his eyes for fear that Bilbo would find him out. That he could not speak his name because it was like a declaration on his tongue, promising forever. "It is not proper," he said instead.
"I think we're far past formality, Thorin," there was a coldness in the halfling's voice that he hadn't been expecting.
"I suppose we are," he said carefully, trying for geniality, "You've saved my life enough times that I believe I can now call you a friend. I do hope, at least."
"A friend," Bilbo sounded breathless, eyes hidden in the darkness.
"That is," Thorin repented, "if I have not offended your Hobbitish sensibilities."
Bilbo chuckled quietly, "No, a friend is wise. I need a friend." Neither said anything for a quiet moment; they just listened to the babel of the storm, to the noise of each other's labored breathing. Bilbo stirred, moving his hand from beneath his blanket to sit beside their chests.
Thorin caught it in his own, slipping their fingers together and squeezing lightly, his large digits covering Bilbo's own.
"Goodnight." Thorin whispered.
"Goodnight, friend." Bilbo replied.