Small warning for blood and violence in this chapter.

Chapter 11

The rest of the day passed in miserable silence. Not knowing what else to do with himself, Bilbo sat his in his study and stared at the blank pages of his book until his vision blurred. He'd reached the part where they'd been traveling through Mirkwood, and faintly he wished himself back among the oppressive boughs and foul-smelling fog.

He wished to be back among his friends.

It was only when Bilbo was forced to light a couple candles just to see the page that he realized night had fallen and that he'd skipped a few meals in the process. Normally he would have been aghast, but at the moment it all seemed very far away, like an afterthought he didn't have time for.

It was startling, how quickly it had all been cut short.

"I just need more time," he whispered to Thorin as they lay in bed that night.

"Then you shall have it," he replied, and reached out for him for the first time that day.

They clung to each other in the dark, and each hour that passed seemed longer than the last as Bilbo lay awake with a ghost in his arms.

The snow did not begin to melt until several days afterward, and by then the damage had already been done. Bilbo had not ventured outside at all during that time, but he could imagine the distress of the farmers wading through waist-high drifts of snow to find their crops buried and dead.

He did try not to imagine, as best he could. Most of his time was spent reliving memories of Mirkwood as he continued his account or staring into space as he wrestled with the awful dilemma he'd yet to find an answer to. His conversations with Thorin were muted and weighed down by the terrible burden that had settled over both of them.

When this dreary period finally came to an end, and the chain of events that would change Bilbo's life forever was finally set in motion, it nearly scared him out of his wits.

He was standing in the parlor, trying to calculate how exactly to ration his firewood to lengthen the period before he would have to get some more, when a pounding on the door made him jump.

"Bilbo! Mister Bilbo! Come quick!" From the other side of the door, Hamfast's voice was rushed and panicked.

At the sudden sound, Thorin hurried into the room. He and Bilbo shared a quick, apprehensive glance before they made for the door together.

Bilbo flinched at the gust of cold air that rushed in as he opened the door. His gardner stood panting on the doorstep, cheeks flushed with cold and exertion.

"Mister Bilbo, you have to—down by the fields—didn't know who else to—"

"H-Hamfast, just slow down. What's going on?"

"Wolves!" Hamfast looked up at him, eyes wide. "Down by the fields. 'Cause of the snow, the farmers are having trouble gettin' away, and I-I didn't know who else to—"

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Bilbo said, already reaching back to grab the cloak from its peg by the door.

Hamfast nodded, his face pale, and Bilbo turned and dashed back into his house, slinging his cloak on with one hand. He knelt by the trunk outside his study and began rummaging through its contents.

"Are you sure about this?" Thorin asked, kneeling beside him. "It's dangerous out there, and you're alone—"

"I know." Finally finding what he was looking for, Bilbo pulled out his short sword and drew it, dropping the sheath to the ground as he stood up. "But I can't just stay here, or wait for someone else to come. I…" He swallowed hard, knuckled whitening as he gripped the sword. "I'm the only one that can help them right now."

There was no more time to waste. Bilbo ran out into the cold, Sting glinting in the white light and his cloak flying out behind him as he sprinted down the path towards the fields. It wasn't long before the howling of wolves reached his ears. The sound wasn't as chillingly feral as that of wargs, but Bilbo knew wolves still had sharp teeth and deadly claws that could tear through flesh as easily as any orc's mount.

At the edge of the field he encountered Hanna and Farmer Cotton. His face was pale and strained, and the arm that wasn't soaked with blood was draped over her shoulder.

"There's a couple more still out in the field," Hanna said. "Hurry!"

Bilbo charged into the snow, towards the dark shapes he could see moving against the blinding white expanse ahead of him. It was incredibly difficult to move through the drifts that rose up past his knees, and he could see why the farmers had experienced such trouble escaping the wolves, who were much more suited to the terrain.

Already, one of the beasts had picked up his scent and was stalking towards him, eyes gleaming yellow on its narrow face.

"Any advice?" he asked Thorin, who was standing next to him and looking as if he wanted to take on the wolf himself.

"Go for the throat. And don't let it bite you."

"Right." He turned back to the advancing wolf, trying not to tremble as it broke into a run. When it was only a few yards away, it leapt into the air, teeth and claws extended towards him.

Thankfully, Bilbo had not completely forgotten the sword training he'd received while traveling with the Company. He swung his sword in a powerful horizontal stroke, stepping to the side at the end of his swing. His timing was good enough to catch the wolf on the side of its neck, and a hot spray of blood spattered the snow right where he'd been standing.

The beast gave one last gurgling growl, paws sinking into the stained snow as it stumbled, then fell and didn't get up.

Bilbo barely had time to catch his breath before Thorin was calling his attention to another couple of wolves not far away.

Both of the creatures were crouched low over something, and seeing the dark red that was already spreading beneath their paws, Bilbo pushed himself into a sprint. The wolves turned in unison at the sound of his footsteps, and he found a relatively shallow area to await their advance.

The first wolf was not much smarter than the last one he'd fought, and was dispatched in more or less the same way. The second, however, provided a bit more difficulty. Bilbo must have been off with the timing of his swing, because the wolf's teeth locked around his blade, and before he could move, its momentum had sent them both tumbling to the ground.

The impact knocked the wind from his lungs. Bilbo struggled to free his sword from the red-stained jaws, then cried out as pain slashed across his chest. His arm jerked, and the wolf finally let go with a whine of pain. Moments later, his blade entered the flesh below its neck, and the beast fell down dead.

"Bilbo!" Thorin knelt down next to him, eyes wide. "Are you all right?"

Hissing through his teeth, Bilbo pushed himself up with his free hand and gingerly touched the burning spot on his chest. His fingers came back coated in red.

"Here." Thorin pressed the corner of his cloak into his hand, his voice laced with a fear that made his own heart beat even faster. "You need to put pressure on the wound."

Unsteadily, he did as Thorin asked, then winced as the burning sensation flared up. "No, no, I need to…" The snow bit into his palms as he pushed himself to his feet. "Need to find the others."

Bilbo turned around and finally caught a good look of what the two wolves had been leaning over. The sight of the other hobbit lying there, clothes stained with far too much red, nearly brought him to his knees.

Numbly, he forced himself to trudge through the snow, crossing the short distance and kneeling beside him. He stared at the body until his vision had become a blur of white and red.

"Hugo Burrows," he said as Thorin knelt beside him. "H-He used to sell me fish at the market."

A strange sound startled him—a faint rasping noise, and it was coming from below.

"Breathing," Bilbo realized a moment later, and then a shock of adrenaline made his eyes widen. "Oh. H-He's still breathing. He's still alive."

"Bilbo, look out!"

Thorin's shout made him jump to his feet and turn towards the pounding of wolf's paws, but it was too late. He managed to raise his arm just in time to prevent the wolf's teeth from sinking into his throat.

An agony unlike anything he'd ever experienced clamped down on his right arm. His vision crackled with white sparks, and when it cleared, his senses were filled with the low snarls of the beast, its gray fur inches from his face, and red, red, red—spilling from his arm and between the teeth of the beast.

From what seemed like very far away, Thorin was shouting something that he couldn't quite make out.

The wolf, jaw still locked on his forearm, shook its head, and Bilbo's senses were taken from him once more. When they returned, he realized his throat felt raw, though he couldn't remember screaming.

Distantly, he registered a strange weight on his stomach. Sting—it must have fallen from his grip when his arm had been bitten. With fumbling fingers that didn't seem to want to respond properly Bilbo gripped the handle with his left hand.

And, using the last of his strength, he drew back and drove the sword into the rippling fur above the beast's shoulder.

The next thing he knew was the startling blue of the sky above. Bilbo was reminded of the day he and Thorin had discovered the dead birds, how the sky had been the exact same shade.

He lay there, feeling dizzy and cold and spread-eagled just like the fallen crow they had seen. Thorin's face filled his vision for a moment, pale and pleading, but then it was gone.

All of it had yielded to a hazy black, and he realized distantly that he had closed his eyes, perhaps for the last time.

Bilbo watched strange dark shapes twirl about overhead, silhouetted against a pale sky, and wondered where on earth he was.

His head hurt something awful—or was it his arm? Whichever it was, he didn't much feel like getting up at the moment. He was quite content to lie there and watch the pretty shapes.

A loud grating sound made him wince. Bilbo would have called it whispering, but it was far too loud. There was a strange rhythm to it...breathing, perhaps. It was desperate and rough and it took him a moment to realize that someone was taking their dying breath.

The realization startled him, and as though the world around him was reacting to it, the dark shapes above grew still.

And then they began to fall.

The giant eagles hit the ground one by one and lay still, wings spread as though they were still in mid-flight. Bilbo flinched, terrified one would land on top of him, but then he lifted his gaze and realized he was quite sheltered by leafy green boughs extending overhead.

Warmth was beginning to soothe his limbs, and with a little effort, Bilbo found that he could sit up. The grass was soft beneath his palms, and just beyond his feet was a small, clear stream.

Bilbo had trouble understanding what lay after that. Fine white sand and green rolling hills and beams of golden light all blended together in a way that didn't quite make sense.

It was still quite beautiful, though.

A chill from behind made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Though he was reluctant to do so, he turned around.

Cold air was emanating from the wall of fog that stretched as far as he could see in either direction. It was eerily silent where he was standing, but as Bilbo listened closer, he thought he could hear the faintest strains of a low, mournful song.

It was calling him, and he had the strangest feeling that he recognized the voice. Without quite knowing what he was doing, he began to follow the sound

Well, what do you know? Bilbo's problem may be solved for him…

I tried my best to make the wolf fight realistic, though my google search of "how to kill a wolf with a sword" wasn't very successful. Turns out wolves are deadly as hell and not the level 2 enemies video games paint them to be, so the fight got a bit more bloody that I thought.
On that note, this chapter was supposed to be second to last, but there are two more before this story's end.

So sorry for the delayed update, I'm actually posting this from Paris right now and to put it shortly life has been very hectic. I hope to have the next chapter up by the end of the week.

Huge thanks to Anno1701 for reviewing; it really makes my day. Feel free to leave a comment about what you thought, or what you think is going to happen next. It always puts a smile on my face. Until next time!