Bilbo managed to fend off Fili and Kili's not-so-subtle probing for a night or two, and then they were in the mountains. Though Bilbo was hardly relieved at this turn of events – the poor hobbit could barely get a word out through his chattering teeth – at least the brothers conserved their energy for trudging ever wearily onwards.
And all of a sudden they were walking across pissed off stone giants.
As he clung to the giant's leg, dizzy and terrified, Bilbo heard a voice mutter darkly, This is what you get for thinking you could do this. You'll die cold, far from home. It's just what you deserve.
When Bilbo slipped, his instincts took over and he grabbed wildly for a handhold. He hung from the cliff, wide eyes staring up into the stormy skies. Thunderous crashes shook the very air but Bilbo heard the whisper clearly: Just let go. It will all be over soon.
But then Ori and Bofur were straining to reach him, and their yells awoke his will to survive. And it was Thorin, of all people, who swung down to push him up onto safer ground. Had the dwarf king changed his mind? Did he value Bilbo as a part of the Company? Bilbo breathed hard, trying to pull himself together enough to thank Thorin for saving him. He doesn't get a chance.
"He's been lost ever since he left home." Thorin's angry words struck ice into Bilbo's heart. "He should never have come. He has no place amongst us."
And the world was right again.
The cave wasn't particularly large, but Bilbo was wedged into a back corner away from the rest of the dwarves. He couldn't take any more of their looks – some pitying, some sympathetic. Needing to be useful, he'd helped chop up some ingredients for stew, eating his portion without tasting it. Then he sat quietly as the Company settled in for the night, not really feeling the chill anymore. His limbs felt numb and his head was mercifully clear.
When murmured discussions turned into snores, Bilbo reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a small cooking knife.
It had been over a year since the last time. He'd been doing so well – or at least, he'd been managing. He'd worked hard to rediscover the joys of sunshine, flowers, food. Tried to keep busy. The cruel voice in his head didn't fade, but Bilbo accepted it and yet kept his knives in the kitchen, his scissors in his sewing kit. He'd been okay.
And then you were foolish enough to go on an adventure, the voice reminded him almost gently. It didn't need to push anymore. Bilbo knew what he had to do.
He peered around a jutting bit of rock. Bofur, recognizable by his hatted silhouette, sat at watch in the entrance, not paying attention to the cave behind him. Bilbo carefully shed his jacket and rolled up his left shirt sleeve. He breathed evenly, perfectly calm, though his heart was pounding strangely. It was too dark to see any wimpy scratches, he reminded himself. They'd have to be nice and deep.
Bilbo set the edge of the knife to his forearm, right in the middle where the scars were the thickest. He wanted to make this first stroke count.
A breath in.
But just as he started pressing down, he registered a flicker of movement, and he reluctantly glanced up. Right into the gleam of familiar eyes.
Thorin.
Bilbo's stomach dropped. And then the floor followed suit.