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-Past-

What possible hope did a Hobbit have in war? It was the question that Bilbo came back to every time his vision cleared and he could wake from the horrid tasting medicine Balin had been forcing down his throat for the last two days.

Two days since the war ended and still Bilbo felt less hope now than he did when he was being tossed from Erebor.

And of course, it had everything to do with the three Durins asleep in the tent next to his.

The battle had been waging long before Bilbo had seen anything of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. He had almost assumed that Thorin would not come out from the mountain. He thought the sickness had taken hold too strongly and there would be no hope of ever getting the Thorin he knew back.

However, once in Dale, Bilbo had turned to see the dwarves bursting forth from the gates. Gandalf told him they were rallying to their king. Bilbo had never been prouder. But pride or the hope of seeing them did not last long. Thranduil told him that they would be overrun. Someone had to tell them, warn them, had to get to them in time.

Bilbo had not even hesitated. He ran through a battle, his mind so focused on getting to Thorin that he hadn't even considered that maybe Thorin would not want to see him. He hoped that his warning would not fall on deaf ears.

They hadn't, and for one brief second Thorin's face had split into a smile just for Bilbo and it had felt like something had erased all their distance and anger and hurt.

Azog had destroyed the moment. He had Fili. Bilbo thought for sure that they were going to have to watch as Thorin's nephew was murdered right before their eyes.

But that hadn't been the case. Fili, in a fit of brilliance, drew a knife from his coat and severed three of the fingers holding him. He slipped from Azog's grasp and fell so far before disappearing out of sight. Thorin screamed for this youngest nephew, knowing his brother wouldn't have been far.

"Go to them!" Dwalin had said. "We'll hold them off." Bilbo gave Thorin a short nod and could only hope they might still have a chance to rescue the brothers.

That would be the last time, Bilbo had swore to himself, the absolute last time he would watch Thorin run off into danger alone.

Then the battle had consumed them.

So much Bilbo did not learn until after the battle. Until after waking with his own blood dripping down his face, and Dwalin gone from sight. Everything had been blurry, except the thought that he had to get to Thorin. On unsteady feet, Bilbo had traversed the ice, finally seeing the body of his King. He had ran the last bit, not caring that his feet were numb and gray spots flitted about his vision.

"Thorin, please no," he said, sinking to his knees.

"Oh good, you're here," Thorin replied. "I wish to part from you in friendship."

"Hush, you're going to be fine," Bilbo said, more than blood loss making his vision blurry. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he felt incapable of stopping them anytime soon.

"Forgive me, I was too blind to see," Thorin said. "I am so sorry to have l have led you to such peril."

"Hush," Bilbo cried, "There is nothing I would not forgive if you just hold on." He looked over to see Dwalin racing across the ice.

"Hurry! He's injured!" Bilbo screamed, his voice cracking in his throat.

"You should go back to your garden and plant your oak tree," Thorin whispered, eyes getting heavier. "Go back to your books and your armchair...to your home."

"If that's what you want, I promise to go, but right now my place is here with you," Bilbo says.

Thorin seemed to only half hear what he said because he nodded along. "Mine too," he replied, before Dwalin was there, crashing to his knees next to them.

After that they were carrying Thorin back across the ice, blood dripping from each of them along the way. Bilbo had helped carry him to Gandalf who had proceeded to take Thorin from them and carry him off. For a moment, Bilbo could only watch his friend be whisked away, unsure if their effort would make any difference. Not sure if he would ever get to speak to Thorin again.

Dwalin stood next to him, huffing and panting as he tried to catch his breath. Ori and Dori had showed up, hovering around them, eager it seemed for news or information. Bilbo went to open his mouth, to tell them that Thorin was injured, that he could very well be dying and Bilbo could do nothing more for him. The words never came, the Hobbit sucked in a sharp breath and then blackness clouded in around him and he collapsed, distantly hearing his name being screamed.

Two days of intermittent consciousness. Two days of information over more medicine and forced bed rest. Two days and he barely knew much more about the battle than what he had prior.

He did know that no Durin had passed yet. Fili and Thorin were still unconscious, but Kili was in and out all ready. Tauriel, an elf that had rumored had told was in love with Kili, had saved the youngest Durin in a fight against an orc called Bolg. They had managed to keep each other alive, but only with the help of Thranduil's son, Legolas. Kili had stepped in front of a blade headed for Tauriel, but it seemed that the wound had been mostly healed by elvish healers who had been offered for assistance by none other than King Thranduil himself.

None of the others from the Company had been injured, blessedly. Bilbo had had a few visitors, mostly Balin, but it seemed there was so much to do that none really had the time to spare. He did not blame them, but it stung with the residual ace of his banishment. Still, it would rest on Thorin's shoulder when he wakes.

Without the medicine, laced with a sleeping potion no doubt, Bilbo found rest far off and he took it as a sign to get up from his cot. He wobbled a bit, but found his way sure enough. It took longer than he was willing to admit to make it down the row of tents to the one with Dwalin standing guard.

"Bilbo, you shouldn't be up," Dwalin scolded, coming forward to clasp one elbow; steadying Bilbo.

"I need to see him, Dwalin." It was the best Bilbo could offer as an excuse. He wasn't sure what he would do if the dwarf refused him.

"Come on then," Dwalin said, and turned pushing open the tent flap.

The inside was surprisingly bright despite it being nearly night, and Bilbo attributed the light to the candles scattered across most surfaces. He couldn't help but think of that first night he had been found by Thorin, wandering in the cold. Oh how he wished he could relive the peace of that sleep he had gotten that night.

Tall, curtained stands separated the tent into thirds. Fili was first, an elvish healer by his side feeling his forehead with the back of one elegant hand. The healer barely glanced at them, before resuming his tasks.

Secondly was Kili's bed. He was propped up, but sound asleep, a red-headed elf holding his hand and smiling. She did look up but shared a smile with Dwalin.

"He just dropped off, mid-sentence," she whispered to them. Dwalin smiled back to her.

The last section was all Thorin's. It was warmer here than up front. Bilbo noticed there was a small pit fire keeping the tent toasty, survivable by the hole in the tent over it. Here there was no healer or loved one by the beside of the unconscious King.

"He's mostly out of danger now. As the elves say anyway," Dwalin mutters. Bilbo nods, supposing that some distrust is normal for dwarves and probably still would have a long way to go before there was any standing trust between the two races. However, these thoughts were brief, the focus of Bilbo's thoughts were on the pale face of Thorin, the dark bruising around his shoulders, bare to the room because of the bandages wrapping his chest and abdomen.

Blankets cover his lower half of his body, for which Bilbo is grateful. One foot is wrapped tight, with slight red discoloration around the middle. The bandages around his chest are reddish too, and Bilbo can't look away from them. He feels ill, and light-headed, but he pushes through it, leaning perhaps just a bit more on Dwalin than polite society would allow. Dwalin, of course, mentions nothing of it.

Instead, he moves Bilbo to the chair next to Thorin's bed and deposits Bilbo there.

"Stay as long as you need, I should return to the front," Dwalin says, and once Bilbo gives a nod, he leaves.

The dizziness relinquishes after sitting for a bit. Bilbo cannot stop staring at Thorin's face, unable how he can do to take this hurt away from his friend. He wants to shake Thorin awake, demand that he tell Bilbo that he's okay. He wants to curl up at his side and slide around his warm middle and listen to his heart beat. He wants...Bilbo shudders as he realizes he's crying, tears obscuring his vision. He shakes with the grief and without realizing it, he takes hold of Thorin's hand.

Relief floods him almost immediately, to touch and feel the warmth of Thorin's palm underneath his own. Bilbo finds his fingers push against the unscathed skin of Thorin's wrist, pressing like Balin had taught him to feel the beating of Thorin's pulse, the rhythm of his heart echoed in his blood there. It is like a balm to Bilbo's heart, to feel the steady thrum of Thorin's life. He shakes his head and lets out a watery laugh.

"This is surely the last time I cry at your bedside, Thorin Oakenshield," Bilbo says to the unconscious dwarf. He does not get a response but then again, he was not expecting one. Settling back in the chair, Bilbo got as comfortable as possible before letting his eyes close for a bit of rest. His fingers remaining cradled over his King's wrist. For assurance that was all.

-Present-

He barely had gotten back inside to the Royal Chambers before the first choked sob hit him. Bilbo gasped for breath, sucking in air as he stared at their bed- No the King's bed. It was never Bilbo's bed. He had invaded where he hadn't been welcomed it seemed.

Air felt thin in his lungs, as he struggled to draw enough to keep himself from shattering into a hundred pieces. How could this of happened? He didn't know what he had done. Tears dropped on the pillow he was holding, only then realizing he had crawled over the covers in his haste. The pillow was Thorin's and Bilbo felt no shame burying his face in it as the panic of being sent so far from the dwarf he loved finally crashed over him. It consumed him as he screamed his tears into the soft fabric.

The silence of the Chambers the only support offered to him, as his cries softly mellowed out as time passed by. No relief from the familiar fabric and scents. Bilbo did not think comfort would ever be found for him in that bed again. After all, what comfort could he find in a stranger's bed?