Chapter 11 - Óin
Chapter summary: The battle was over, the righteous had won.
Thorin was half dead when Bard's men brought him in.
Óin went to work at once, inwardly cursing every orc between the Iron Hills and Gundabad with every new wound he discovered. And boy, were they plenty of them – whether it was cuts, bruises, lacerations, or the two arrows buried in Thorin's left shoulder and upper arm - the orcs had truly done a number on him. Óin mentally thanked all the Valar that none of the weapons had managed to slice through any major arteries - if they had, Thorin would be dead by now.
As it was, the dwarf was unconscious and several of the wounds were still bleeding profusely. Gesturing to the elven healer to start with the arrow wounds, Óin tended to the gashes on Thorin's side. Normally he wouldn't allow an elf anywhere near his work, but Thorin's life was more important than his pride and Óin knew that he wouldn't be able to close all the wounds fast enough if he worked on his own. Thorin would no doubt protest against being touched by an elf if he was awake, so in this case Thorin's state worked in Óin's favour – at least this way he could concentrate on his work in peace.
The two medics worked in quiet tandem and soon Óin was completely immersed in his work, getting lost in the rhythm of cleaning the wounds, stitching them and wrapping them in bandages. It was already dark when he tied the last cloth and Óin vaguely realized that the distant sounds of the battle had stopped a while ago. Óin wiped his face in a spare piece of fabric, feeling drained from the long hours of work.
The elf gave him a nod and walked off, probably going out to look for someone else to treat, but Óin stayed behind, sitting down in a chair beside Thorin's bed to rest for a bit. He knew that it was his duty as a medic to go and help as many others as he could, but the day had been long and the wounded many, and at that moment he felt the weight of his years like never before. Since there was nobody around to judge him for it, he decided to take a moment to just sit and watch the slow rise and fall of Thorin's chest.
Even the golden light cast by the lantern couldn't hide how pale Thorin was. It worried Óin a little, but was only to be expected after all the blood he had lost. Some of his wounds had been serious but thankfully not fatal and he was still alive several hours after the battle, giving Óin hope that he might be able to survive this after all.
One of Dáin's healers peeked into the tent some time later, offering to take over the bedside watch, so that Óin could go eat his dinner. Óin hoisted himself from the chair with some effort, giving Thorin one last look before he made his way outside.
He had done all he could here. Now they could only wait and pray for Thorin's recovery.
°O°O°O°
The battle was over, the righteous had won.
Óin knew that the light of dawn would fully reveal the horror of it, the ground soaked with blood and endless piles of bodies, but for now the battlefield was mercifully covered by darkness - letting them pretend, if only for a while, that their victory was glorious.
Unlike most dwarves, Óin saw nothing glorious about death. In his line of work he had seen it a thousand times, in hundred different shapes, always ugly. He didn't think that violence and wanton death was something to revel in. Wars were sometimes a necessary evil, but the loss of lives was always a tragedy, no matter what race the dead belonged to (except for orcs – nobody in their right mind mourned for orcs).
As he walked through the camp, he was struck by the silence. Even with his bad ears Óin could still see that there was no celebration being held. No sounds of voices or tones of a harp could be heard in the dark, just low murmurs of the living and the occasional groans of the injured and dying. Those that had survived were now huddled around the fires, their gazes empty and faraway, their eyes filled with the horrors of the battle.
It didn't take him long to find the tent that had been given to Fíli and Kíli. Bofur and Glóin sat smoking on barrels in front of the entrance and they jumped up when they saw him coming, greeting him with enthusiasm. Even though the tent was quite spacious, there was barely any room left inside because the entire Company had gathered there, anxiously awaiting news of Thorin. Óin was pleased to find that the young princes were both alive and awake – they were both sitting up on their beds, squirming with badly concealed impatience.
"How is Thorin? Is he alive?" the barrage of voices rose the moment Óin stepped inside, loud enough for him to hear even without his ear-trumpet. He raised a hand to quiet them.
"Thorin is alive," he said, making everyone slump with relief. "He had many wounds and lost a lot of blood, but he will most likely survive. Tonight will be the most critical but if he holds on until the morning, he should be fine."
Several of the dwarves came forward to clap him on the back and offer him some salted pork, which he was more than happy to accept because he hadn't eaten since before noon. He lowered himself into a chair in the corner and spent a few blissful moments just eating and relaxing while the others told him tales of the battle.
As it turned out, Thorin had been the one most gravely injured of them all. Fíli and Kíli had been both roughed up by Azog's mace, but neither of them had been mortally wounded. Kíli's injuries were a little more worrying, since he had a head injury from being thrown against a rock and Fíli had a few broken ribs and a broken arm, but overall they had managed to get off fairly lightly. None of the others had been injured quite as badly, mostly sustaining only cuts and bruises. Ori had a broken arm, too, but he didn't seem unhappy about it – quite the contrary, in fact – he wore the sling like a badge of honour, pleased that he had finally been able to fight in a real battle.
All in all, they felt quite pleased with the situation, because everyone was alive and accounted for.
Everyone, that is, except for Bilbo.
"How is Bilbo?" Balin asked when Ori finished describing how Beorn had saved him from a warg. Óin raised his head from his piece of pork to find everyone looking at him. He frowned.
"Why I should I know? I thought he was with you lot."
"You didn't treat him?" Balin's eyebrow climbed.
"No," Óin said, "I was with Thorin the whole time. I only left him less than half an hour ago."
"So you didn't see him?" a note of worry entered Balin's voice.
Óin shook his head. The others exchanged alarmed looks.
"Maybe he's with the elves," Ori suggested tentatively.
"No, he was worried about us." Fíli shook his head. "Even if Thorin had forbidden it, he still would have checked on us, to see if we were all right."
"Maybe he's just resting after the battle," Bombur said, but it was clear that he himself didn't believe it. Bilbo Baggins was much too stubborn to let something like fatigue prevent him from visiting his friends and they all knew it.
"We can hardly search for him in the dark, anyway," Glóin remarked, making Kíli sit up on his bed.
"But what if he's hurt?" the young dwarf burst out. "What if he's still somewhere on the battlefield and needs help, but nobody's there because everyone has already left? What if he's dying somewhere and we don't know about it?" He was starting to work himself into a fit. "We have to look for him."
Kíli started to throw away his sheets with the intention of climbing down from the bed, but Dwalin stepped forward, pressing him back against the pillow with a single hand.
"You are not going anywhere," he told the unhappy dwarf. "You still look like death warmed over. You wouldn't be able to even walk out of this tent, much less search a battlefield for an invisible halfling."
"But we have to do something," Kíli insisted. "We can't just sit here twiddling our thumbs."
"We will," Nori said, standing up. "I'll search the camp, ask around to see if anyone knows anything."
"I'll go with you," Bofur offered. "I already asked around when we came here, but it won't hurt to do it again."
Balin stood up as well.
"I'll have a few words with the elves - see if they can help us look for him. They may not like us, but they are fond of him. I'm sure they won't refuse."
"What about the battlefield?" Fíli asked.
"We'll have to wait for daylight before we can search there," Dwalin said. "Besides, the halfling was wearing his magic ring the last time I saw him. He could be anywhere and we wouldn't even know it."
Fíli nodded in acceptance but Kíli was still frowning furiously, obviously not happy with the situation.
"Let us know the moment you find out something," Fíli said.
The three dwarves nodded, turning to leave. Before they could walk out, Bifur spoke up: "I last heard his voice from the Ravenhill, where the Elvenking stood with his guard. Maybe he is still there."
The dwarves walked out, the flap falling shut behind them. Kíli slumped against the cushions, glaring at the ceiling in frustration.
"I hate this," he muttered, plucking at the blanket laid over his legs. "I hate that I can't do anything to help."
"I'm sure there will be plenty for you to do yet," Óin told him, sitting down at the edge of his bed. "Now let me look at your head."
He untied the bandages and checked the wound, using the familiar ritual of the treatment to calm the agitated youngster a little. He had been the family healer for more than a century, had been treating Fíli and Kíli since they were born, so he was intimately familiar with Kíli's less than stellar manner as a patient. The young dwarf had always hated being sick, the forced inertia of the healing making him antsy and surly. Now that he was also worried about Bilbo, it would be almost impossible to keep him in bed long enough for his wounds to heal properly.
Thank Mahal Dwalin was there, Óin thought as he rewrapped the bandage. The burly dwarf was sitting in the corner like a silent shadow, watching Óin work with sharp eyes. Despite his outward gruff manner, Dwalin adored the two princes and had always been extremely protective of them, so Óin was assured that when he ordered the two miscreants to stay in bed, their faithful guardian would see to it.
Satisfied that they were treated well and as comfortable as they could be, Óin rose from his chair.
"I'd better return to Thorin. Someone should sit with him and make sure everything is all right."
The other dwarves bade him goodnight, most of them already looking half-asleep.
It was well after midnight when he finally got back to Thorin's tent and was glad to find the king still alive, his pulse slow but steady. Thorin was asleep when Óin walked in, but he stirred when Óin went to check his bandages. His eyelids fluttered as he fought to wake up, his eyes focusing on the old dwarf with some difficulty.
"Bilbo," was the first word out of his mouth. "Where is he?"
Óin briefly contemplated lying to him, but remembered that Thorin had always disliked falsehood. If it turned out that the hobbit was dead and he had lied to him, the king would never forgive him. He chose honesty.
"We don't know," he told Thorin, making no effort to hide the worry in his voice. "He hasn't come into the camp and nobody has found him yet."
Thorin's eyes watered a bit. Óin pretended that it was from the pain.
He gave the king a moment to compose himself while he checked the bandages on his leg.
"Let me know when they find him," Thorin said, swallowing heavily. "I'd like to see him, whatever state he might be in."
Óin laid a gentle hand on his uninjured forearm.
"I will let you know right away," he promised. "I cannot give you any false hope, though. Bifur said that he last saw him standing with the Elvenking, but that was at sunset and nobody has seen him since." When Thorin's eyebrows pulled into a frown, Óin gently squeezed the arm in his grasp. "Dawn is not far away. There will be many searching for him in the morning."
He made to stand, but Thorin clasped his wrist.
"I need to see him," he said urgently. "I have so many things to apologise for. If I can never see him again..." He was becoming frantic.
Óin gently dislodged the hand and grasped him by the shoulders to calm him down.
"I can hardly tell you to stop worrying, but you shouldn't work yourself into such a state," he told him gently. "You should be more careful or you will re-open your wounds. There is nothing you can do about Bilbo right now, and you certainly cannot go and look for him when you are barely alive yourself." He waited for the words to register before he continued. "You should get some rest now. The others have already gone looking for him. They will let us know the moment they find anything."
After a bit more cajoling Thorin finally relented, laying his head back into the pillows. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, clearly determined to stay awake for news, but his fatigue eventually won, his eyes fluttering shut. Soon he was out like a light, falling into an uneasy sleep.
Óin finished checking the rest of his bandages before he too settled down into the armchair by the bed to get a few hours of much deserved sleep. It had been a very long day.
°O°O°O°
Commotion outside the tent woke him up some time after dawn. He had slept lightly, getting up several times to check on Thorin, so the sound of raised voices pierced through his slumber easily. He pushed away his blanket with a yawn and climbed out of his armchair to go and see what all the clamour was about.
The light had already turned bright and the burning orange wheel of the sun was rising above the Iron Hills when Óin walked out of the tent to find most of the Company assembled in front of it. They were all watching a tall figure that was walking slowly across the battlefield, carrying someone small in their arms. As the figure came closer, they saw that it was one of Bard's men, and the shining silver mail was, undoubtedly, Bilbo's.
The man walked straight towards them and laid the hobbit down on an empty cot by the fire.
"I found him on the Ravenhill," he said, "among the elves. He was awake when I came to him and spoke a bit on the way here, but lost consciousness before we got here. It looks like he took a blow to the head."
"Thank you for finding him," Balin told him. The man gave them a nod in return and departed, probably going to bed, because he looked exhausted.
The dwarves clustered worriedly around the cot, trying to take a look at the halfling. Óin shooed them back.
"For Mahal's sake, give me some space. I cannot work with you lot breathing down my neck."
They backed off, sitting down on the ground around the fire.
Óin reached down and carefully worked the bloody helmet off the hobbit's head. The wound on his temple looked nasty, but thankfully the skull wasn't broken. It had already stopped bleeding so Óin let it be for the moment, looking for other injuries. The mithril coat had done wonders, diverting blows that would normally be fatal, but there were still several cuts scattered over Bilbo's skin and many, many bruises. The bruised ribs worried Óin a bit, but none of the wounds were as bad as the head injury.
Just as Óin was finishing the last stitches on Bilbo's head, the hobbit woke up. His eyes fluttered open slowly and he raised a hand towards his head.
"Ow," he said. "Is that a needle?"
"Almost done, laddie," Óin assured him. He made quick work of the stitches, tying the thread with several knots. Bilbo sat up slowly with some help from Óin, one hand holding the uninjured side of his head as he tried to blink away the haziness. Suddenly, as he remembered, he shot out his hand and caught Óin's forearm.
"Where is Thorin? Is he alive?"
"Thorin is alive," Balin answered. "He is in the tent right behind you."
Bilbo's head whipped around and he flinched as the sudden movement made a flash of pain run through his head.
"What about Fíli and Kíli? And the others? Are they all right?"
"Everybody is fine," Óin assured him. "Thorin was the worst off, but he will probably survive. He made it through the night and seems to be recovering. You were the last one everyone was worried about."
"I was knocked out and didn't wake up until this morning," Bilbo said. "I'm sorry I made you all worry about me."
"There's nothing to apologise for," Balin told him, putting a careful hand on his shoulder. "Thorin has been asking for you since he first woke up. He will be glad to hear that you're alive."
"Will he?" Bilbo asked, raising a doubtful eyebrow.
"Yes," Balin said with utter confidence. "I think he would like to see you."
"I thought he never wanted to see me again," Bilbo said with a crooked smile. Before they could protest, he raised a weary hand. "Please, don't. I don't want to deal with any of this right now. I just want to know if he is all right."
"He is," Balin confirmed. "He woke up from the gold-fever yesterday."
"That's good to hear," Bilbo said, sounding a little absent-minded. "I would go to him, but I don't think I can walk that far on my own. My legs feel like butter and everything's a bit woozy."
"Here, let me help," Dori offered. He stepped forward and picked him up gently. "We can't have you falling on your face in front of all those elves."
Bilbo gave him a weak smile and let the dwarf carry him into Thorin's tent. Balin followed them, hovering a few steps behind to make sure that Bilbo was all right. The rest of the dwarves sat idly for a moment, gazing after those three, before several of them scrambled to their feet, hurrying to the tent wall to listen in on Bilbo's conversation. Óin shook his head at the antics, following them at a much more sedate pace. As the king's official healer he had unlimited access to the tent, so he had no need to resort to such underhanded means.
Leaving the others to eavesdrop outside, Óin shuffled into the main room, making a show of puttering around with the salves and ointments while he watched the scene at Thorin's bed from the corner of his eye. Dori and Balin, who had moved into the corner and were busy preparing another cot for Bilbo next to Thorin's own, were valiantly pretending that they weren't watching the hobbit as well.
Bilbo sat in the chair at Thorin's bedside, the look on his face a mixture of apprehension and longing as he watched the king sleep. It wasn't long before Thorin woke up. His eyelashes fluttered and his eyes slowly focused on Bilbo's figure. He lay still for a moment, as if he couldn't quite believe that Bilbo was really there, before he slowly raised a shaking hand to Bilbo's face and laid it on the hobbit's cheek, closing his eyes in relief. Bilbo sat in apparent shock for several heartbeats, staring at Thorin in disbelief before he too lifted one of his own hands and gently laid over Thorin's, giving the dwarf a tentative smile.
They sat like that for a while, completely forgetting about Óin and the other two dwarves. Finally Thorin spoke, his voice raspy.
"I thought you were dead. Nobody could find you for hours. There is so much I need to apologise for..."
Bilbo raised a stalling hand, stopping the frantic flow of words.
"Can we please talk about this later?" he said tiredly. "I am really glad that you are alive and I'll be happy to talk to you tomorrow, but I think I need to lie down now."
He tried to stand but stumbled and would have fallen if Dori hadn't caught him. The grey-haired dwarf put a steadying arm around his waist before he gently picked him up, putting him onto the cot next to Thorin's bed that had been brought into Thorin's tent during the night. The hobbit let Balin tuck him under the covers, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Óin turned to see Thorin eyeing the halfling with worry.
"Will he be all right?"
"He should be fine," Óin said. "Hobbits are surprisingly tough creatures. I think he is just exhausted from the battle."
The dwarven king continued to watch him as he wrapped a bandage around the sleeping hobbit's head and checked his temperature. A few moments later Bofur came inside the tent, Bilbo's mithril shirt in his hands.
"What should I do with this?"
Óin waved a hand at one of the empty chairs.
"Just put it down here, Bilbo can take care of it when he wakes up."
"No, wait!" Balin stopped him. "Can you try to get it clean? I doubt Bilbo would be terribly happy if he had to wash elvish blood from his armour."
Bofur paused, shaking the mail out in the air and taking a critical look.
"You're right, it's awfully bloody. There's elvish blood on it and plenty of orc blood, too. Maybe even Azog's. Yuck." He made a face and balled the silver shirt into a bundle. "I'll see what I can do about it."
"Thank you," Balin gave him a smile. "You should get some rest now. You've been up all night."
Bofur gave him a nod and walked out, mithril mail in hand. Dori and Balin stayed with Bilbo for a little longer before they too departed, heading out to find some empty bedrolls where they could catch up on their sleep. Óin caught one of Dáin's younger healers and sent him out to fetch breakfast for himself and Thorin before he came back inside, sitting down into a chair between the two beds.
Bilbo was alive and well, thank Mahal, and he didn't seem to hate Thorin for his outburst at the wall. Óin ladled a bit of his porridge, smiling at his two sleeping patients. Maybe there was hope for them after all.
°O°O°O°
The day passed slowly. Thorin spent most of it in thrall of uneasy dreams, his brow furrowed with pain. Óin did as much as he could to ease his state, changing bandages and wiping his face with a wet cloth. Bilbo on the other hand slept peacefully, not even twitching when several of the dwarves came into the tent to check on him.
Thorin woke up in the evening, his eyes clear as he watched Óin change the wrappings on Bilbo's head. The night passed and the next morning came bright and clear and still Bilbo slept. His forehead was hot when Óin put his hand on it and his cheeks were burning red, but when Óin pulled the bandage away, there were no signs of an infection in the wound. In fact, it was healing quite nicely. Puzzled, Óin checked the other wounds. Nothing. He tried to wake Bilbo up, shaking him gently, but the hobbit slept on, lost to the world.
Why wasn't the Bilbo waking up?
Something wasn't right, but Óin had no idea what it was. Not wanting to needlessly alarm Thorin, Óin rewrapped Bilbo's head and walked out to search for Balin.
The white haired dwarf smiled at him when Óin came into his tent, offering him some bread and honey.
"So, you finally found some time to tear yourself away from your patients, Óin? And how is our dear burglar today?"
Óin glanced around briefly to make sure nobody was paying much attention to them.
"To be honest, I am not entirely sure," he admitted quietly. "He hasn't woken up yet, which is not good when he had a head wound. Maybe it's nothing and he's only taking time because hobbits heal differently, but I have a bad feeling about this. I think we should ask Gandalf to take a look at him."
Balin puffed from his pipe.
"I think that would be wise. The wizard knows more about hobbits than any of us. I will find him for you, so you can go back to Bilbo."
Óin had just finished checking Thorin's wounds when Gandalf poked his head into the tent.
"Balin said you were looking for me."
"Yes." Óin waved at him to come inside. "Bilbo has been asleep since yesterday morning. I tried waking him up today but he doesn't respond. He is running a fever, but other than that, there's nothing wrong with him." He gave the wizard a questioning look. "Why hasn't he woken up, yet?"
Gandalf sat down on the edge of Bilbo's cot and laid one of his hands on Bilbo's brow, closing his eyes. He muttered a string of words, his forehead furrowing in concentration. On the other bed Thorin turned slightly on his side to be able to see Bilbo better.
Gandalf's face was grim when he opened his eyes again and he sat back with a heavy sigh, running a gentle hand over Bilbo's curls.
"What is it?" Thorin asked.
"Dragon's Breath," Gandalf said grimly. "It is worse than I thought."
"What does it mean?" Óin demanded.
"It means," Gandalf raised his head to look at Óin, "that there is nothing we can do to help him. He will either pull through on his own, or he will perish."
"What about the elves?" Óin forced himself to ask. It cost no small amount of pride.
Gandalf shook his head sadly.
"They can try, but this is no ordinary malady. Dragon Fever is a sickness of spirit that is not easily overcome. I do not have the skill to cure it fully and neither does anyone else here. I doubt that even Lord Elrond would be able to help much." He ran a hand over his beard. "I can ask Thranduil to take a look at Bilbo. When he was young, the Elvenking used to fight against the dragons in the Great Wars of the West, back before the land fell into the sea. Maybe he knows something that could help."
Óin took a step closer to the bed, looking down at the hobbit.
"How did it happen to Bilbo?"
"As you may know, dragons are creatures of magic," Gandalf said. "They are an ancient and powerful race, created for an evil purpose. Their strength doesn't lie only in their size and fiery breath, but they have other, more insidious means at their disposal as well. They are cunning and wicked, and can ensnare mortals with their gaze, turning them into living shadows - puppets to serve the dragon's will. There is a reason why dragons are so dangerous."
He turned his gaze back to the small figure on the bed.
"It took longer than usual for the sickness to overtake Bilbo's mind, because Smaug is dead and hobbits are uncommonly resilient. Still, he didn't escape it in the end." He sighed. "I am sorry this happened to him."
"You're sorry?" Thorin's voice had the quality of tempered steel when he spoke. "You were the one who insisted that he should go on this quest with us."
He would have tried to stand up from the bed if Óin hadn't hurried to his side, pushing him back against his pillow. Thorin barely spared him a glance, all his attention focused on the wizard.
"Did you mention this possibility to him, when you were trying to persuade him to come with us?"
The wizard had the good grace to look ashamed.
"No. However, his case was unprecedented. No hobbit has ever come into direct contact with a dragon. There was a chance that he could be unaffected by it."
"And if he wasn't?" Thorin's voice rose enough for Óin to hear him without his ear trumpet. Óin was almost certain that half the camp was spying on their conversation by now. "Were you just going to sacrifice him? One dead halfling and a few dwarves is a small price to pay for the death of a dragon, is it not?"
"I told you, back in Bag-End, that I cannot guarantee Bilbo's safety on this journey."
Thorin's lips twisted bitterly. "And you meant every word."
Óin turned away from Thorin.
"Is there any chance he might survive?"
The wizard inclined his head.
"The chance is small, but it exists. He may yet wake up."
"And if he doesn't?" Óin asked. Thorin made a small sound of distress behind him, but Óin paid him no mind. His gaze was firmly on the wizard, asking for truth. Gandalf met his eyes unflinchingly.
"Then he will burn. The dragon fire will burn his body and devour his mind, until there's nothing left." He stood up, heading for the exit. "Do not lose hope yet. Bilbo has already proven that he has a talent for doing the unexpected. He may surprise you yet." With that he left, leaving them alone to ponder the gravity of his words.
"Let me see him," Thorin rasped, rising on his elbows on the bed. Óin hurried to his side.
"Thorin, you're not well enough to-" The king silenced him with a single gaze.
"If he is to pass into the halls of his forefathers, I would like to see him one last time."
Óin bowed his head in acquiescence and started to cross the tent to go look for his companions. Before he could reach the exit, however, Dwalin and Balin walked in, their faces grim. Dwalin went to the bed to help Thorin stand up while Balin bustled about the tent, putting together various rugs and furs to make the chair more comfortable for Thorin. Between the two of them they managed to move Thorin from the bed and into the chair, settling him down with great care to avoid pulling any of his stitches.
Once Óin made sure that Thorin was unharmed and comfortable, all three of them bade a hasty retreat from the tent. Óin's last glimpse into the tent showed him Thorin cradling one of Bilbo's hands between his own, his lips moving in fervent prayer.
°O°O°O°
Thranduil appeared several hours later, gliding through the camp with Gandalf in tow. Dressed in his spotless robes, the Elvenking looked incredibly out of place among the grimy warriors who hadn't yet had the opportunity to change out of their battle-stained clothes. His face was carefully impassive but Óin saw the flicker of surprise that ran over it when they entered the tent and found Thorin kneeling by the bed, holding Bilbo's hand, his head bowed in a silent plea.
Óin gave the kneeling dwarf a weary look.
"You should be resting, Thorin," he told him gently. "You'll pull your stitches if you strain yourself too much."
"What does it matter?" Thorin muttered, not bothering to open his eyes. "He's dying."
The Elvenking visibly paused at that, his eyes widening as he took in the scene before he schooled his featured back into the mask of impassiveness.
"Let me see him," Thranduil said, making Thorin flinch in surprise. The dwarf's eyes flew open and he clapped a hand over his side, wincing in pain. Óin shook his head.
"What did I tell you about the stitches?" He came forward and helped Thorin stand up, pushing him back towards his bed to make sure that the stubborn dwarf hadn't injured himself any further with his idiocy.
Thranduil perched down on the side of Bilbo's bed, his eyes taking in the hobbit's flushed face. He laid one of his hands on the hobbit's forehead, closing his eyes. Nobody moved for a while, all of them waiting for the Elvenking to speak.
"How long did he spend with the dragon?" he asked finally.
"A few hours," Thorin said quietly. "He spoke to the dragon for at least an hour and spent the rest of the time sneaking around the hoard." Thranduil's eyebrows climbed into his hairline.
"He spoke to the dragon?" The elf asked incredulously. The dwarves nodded. "And he's still alive?" He turned his gaze back to the hobbit with something like reluctant admiration. "Maybe there is hope for him yet."
"Can you heal him?" Thorin asked, leaning forward despite Óin's protests. Thranduil inclined his head.
"I can try, but I cannot guarantee that he will live. Unlike Elrond, I have never been much of a healer."
Thorin nodded in acceptance. "Any attempt is better than nothing."
"However, I will not do it for free," Thranduil pinned him with his gaze. "You have to offer me a price first."
"I will give you all the gems you ask for, if you manage to heal him," Thorin promised. Thranduil raised an eyebrow.
"What if I told you that I want the Arkenstone?"
A pained shadow ran over Thorin's face and his lips pulled into a tight frown, but his moment of indecision lasted for less than a heartbeat. He closed his eyes and gave the Elvenking a single, terse nod.
"Yes, you can have it. Just save him, please."
Thorin's eyes were closed, so he didn't see the surprise on Thranduil's face - but Óin did, and it made him wonder about the Elvenking's motivation. It was clear that the Elvenking hadn't expected Thorin to give up his precious jewel so easily – especially not after they had almost fought a battle over it. Thranduil turned to Gandalf, beckoning the wizard to come closer.
"I do not know how much of the sickness I will be able to heal, Mithrandir," he told the wizard in a low voice. "A powerful shadow lies on the Greenwood - a darkness that creeps beneath the trees and kills all living things. Outside the forest the dragon has poisoned the land, spreading his plague over the earth. It will be a while yet before the sickness starts to leave these lands." He nodded towards the hobbit. "This is part of the dragon's blight, too. I do not know if I have the strength to cure this."
"We have driven the shadow out of Mirkwood and the dragon is dead," Gandalf told him. "The forest has already begun to heal itself and the earth around the mountain is slowly waking up. All that remains for you to do now is to help speed up the recovery." He gave the elf a look. "Healing the hobbit would make for a nice start, don't you think?"
Thranduil nodded slowly, bowing his head.
"Get me a bowl of hot water," he ordered. Bofur ran off while the others crowded around the tent flap, trying to peer inside. The Companions had been waiting in front of the tent ever since Thranduil had walked in, but now that it looked like Bilbo might wake up, they had all rushed forward in excitement. Óin stood up and shooed them away.
"You lot can wait outside. With the elf and the wizard here, it's crowded enough as it is. I'll let you know if anything changes."
They all frowned unhappily but obeyed, plopping down on the ground in front of the tent. Óin returned back to the tent to find the elf already hard at work, crumbling a mix of dried herbs into the water bowl. The herbs had a nice, fresh smell, and the vapours pleasantly cleared the stuffy air in the tent.
As the Elvenking bowed over the hobbit and started muttering phrases in elvish, Óin suddenly noticed that the air around him had changed. The light in the tent seemed to turn a little greener and the subtle noises of a forest in spring filled the air, as if the forest itself had come to the field in front of Erebor. The Elvenking himself seemed to glow with a soft inner light and a crown of green leaves appeared on his head as he absorbed himself in the healing process. Everyone was silent as they watched the elf work his magic on the hobbit.
It was a long time before Thranduil moved. When he finally did, the illusion of the forest disappeared along with the leaf-crown and the Elvenking sat back with a tired sigh, looking once more like his usual self.
"I have done all I can. His fate now depends on him alone." His eyes slid to Bard, who had come inside the tent a good while ago and was now standing quietly near the entrance. "Have you brought the Arkenstone?"
Bard nodded, walking over to Thorin's bed. He held the box in his hands, but didn't hand it over just yet. Instead he looked down at the dwarf, who was resting back against the pillows.
"You don't deserve him, you know," he said, shooting a brief glance at the hobbit. "You treated him like dirt, but he still went back and saved your life." He placed the box on the bed near Thorin's hand, giving the dwarf a sharp look. "You have many amends to make."
Thorin nodded, reaching for the box with the Arkenstone.
"Yes. I do."
The dwarf lifted the box with a pained grimace, offering it to the Elvenking.
"I believe I promised you a reward," he ground out, pointedly not looking at the box.
Thranduil took the box with careful hands, lifting the lid to take a proper look at the gem. The light from the stone flooded the tent, illuminating Thranduil's face with a beauty that was almost painful to look at. The Elvenking spent a long moment admiring the gem before he gently closed the lid.
"You are not like your grandfather," he told Thorin. "He would have never willingly parted with this gem." He gave the dwarf an appraising look. "There may be hope for you yet."
He stepped over to the hobbit's bed.
"I believe this belongs to him," he said with a small smile, placing the box on the bed near Bilbo's feet. Before anyone could say a word, he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving them to gape after him.
"What on earth was that about?" Thorin asked in bewilderment.
"I believe that was a peace offering, Master Dwarf," Gandalf told him with a smile. "You would be wise to take it."
He gave the dwarf a friendly nod and left as well. Thorin remained sitting on the bed, staring at the box with the jewel in disbelief.
And through it all, Bilbo slept on.
To be continued...
A/N: I apologise for the slight delay in posting - my week has been super busy and I didn't have as much time to write as I thought I would.
Before you stone me to death for ending this with yet another cliffhanger, let me remind you that there are still 3 more chapters of this story left. No one in their right mind could stretch a funeral into three separate chapters (*nudge nudge wink wink*) :D
The Dragon's Breath is only half made up – the Silmarillion mentions "dragon-spell" – a charm that dragons could use on humans to bend their will and make them believe the dragon's words. I only embellished it a bit. This chapter was originally supposed to end with Thorin's prayer, but I adore Thranduil so I shoehorned him in, making the ending less of a downer.
The next chapter will be probably posted on Tuesday 24th (maybe a day later). I'm taking a bit more time to write it, because unlike the other chapters, which had been sitting in my computer half finished for several months, I don't have a single word written for this one, so the writing will be a little slower. Be patient with me, please, I'll try to make it worth your while.
Thank you for all the reviews and favourites you have left on this story. Your support makes me incredibly happy.