As Thorin succumbs to the gold sickness, Bilbo tries to bring him back to his senses.

The chill in the air clung to Bilbo's skin as he stepped further into the vastness of the Lonely Mountain's throne room. The echoes of his footsteps seemed swallowed by the silence, save for the sound of Thorin's heavy breaths as he sat on his throne, eyes glazed with greed. Piles of gold surrounded him, shimmering under the faint light of the torches, as if mocking anyone foolish enough to stand against the might of the Arkenstone.

Bilbo's heart pounded in his chest as he gazed at Thorin Oakenshield, the once-proud dwarf king now a shadow of his former self. His hand trembled as it clutched the Arkenstone – heavy and cold in his palm, yet nowhere near as weighty as the burden of what he was about to do.

Thorin's eyes flicked up, focusing on the hobbit standing before him. His lips curled into a cruel smirk. "Ah, the thief returns," Thorin rasped, his voice low and venomous, "what have you brought me now, Master Baggins? Another betrayal?"

Bilbo swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around the Arkenstone, the very thing that had ignited Thorin's madness. He had not expected this. Not from Thorin. Not from the dwarf he had come to admire. He'd seen glimpses of the sickness before, but now, standing face to face with it – Bilbo hardly recognized the king.

"No," Bilbo began, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'm not here to betray you, Thorin."

He stepped closer, every instinct telling him to turn and run. But Bilbo Baggins had never been one to listen to instinct. Not since he met the Company. Not since he met Thorin.

"I'm here to remind you."

Thorin's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Of what?"

Bilbo took another step forward, now standing at the foot of the throne. He felt the weight of Thorin's gaze – wild, untamed, and yet, beneath it, Bilbo caught a flicker of something else. Something old. Something noble.

"Of whom you are," Bilbo said softly, his voice steady now, resolute. "You are Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. King under the Mountain. But more than that – you are a friend. You are someone who stood for your people, for their honour. You were the one who led us through forests and rivers, who faced dangers at every turn, not because of the gold, but because you believed in something greater."

Thorin's eyes darkened, but he did not speak.

"You saved me more times than I can count. You gave me a place in your Company when you had every reason not to. And I…" Bilbo hesitated, his throat tight with emotion, "I would do the same for you. Even now, Thorin. Even though you may not see it."

Bilbo raised his hand and slowly, deliberately, opened his palm to reveal the Arkenstone, gleaming with an otherworldly light. Thorin's gaze locked onto it, his breath quickening. Bilbo could see the pull it had on him – the desire, the madness clawing at him.

"This," Bilbo continued, "is just a stone. A beautiful stone, yes, but a stone all the same. It cannot give you back the home you've already won. It cannot bring your people peace. Only you can do that. You don't need this."

Thorin's eyes were fixated on the Arkenstone, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out. His fingers twitched, reaching toward it, yet something held him back.

Bilbo took a deep breath, stepping closer still, "look at me, Thorin."

For a moment, Thorin didn't respond, but when he finally lifted his gaze to meet Bilbo's, something shifted. The rage was still there, but it was no longer all-consuming. There was confusion, doubt. And in that moment, Bilbo saw him. The Thorin he had followed, the Thorin who had spoken of honour and loyalty, of rebuilding a kingdom not just of gold, but of stone and heart.

"I beg of you," Bilbo whispered, his voice breaking. "Don't let this sickness take you. You are more than this. You have always been more than this."

The silence that followed was unbearable. Thorin's chest heaved, his eyes flickering between the Arkenstone and Bilbo's face. He clenched his fists, his whole-body trembling with the internal war raging within him. And then, after what felt like an eternity, Thorin let out a broken, ragged breath.

His hand fell away from the Arkenstone, fingers curling into his palm. The gold no longer shone as brightly in his eyes.

"You… You should hate me," Thorin muttered, his voice barely audible. "After everything I've done… after the way I've treated you…"

Bilbo swallowed, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill, "I could never hate you."

Thorin's shoulders slumped, the weight of his own madness pressing down on him. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Bilbo stood there, heart pounding, waiting. Hoping.

Finally, Thorin stood, his movements slow, weary, as if he were waking from a long, terrible dream. He reached out, hesitating for only a heartbeat before placing a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. His grip was strong but gentle, his eyes filled with a grief so deep, it cut Bilbo to the core.

"Forgive me," Thorin whispered.

Bilbo's breath hitched in his throat, "there's nothing to forgive."

The change in Thorin was subtle, but undeniable. The madness no longer ruled him, though its shadow lingered. He still carried the weight of his actions, the knowledge of how close he had come to losing himself to the gold. But there was a new resolve in him – a determination to be the king he was meant to be, not the one the treasure had nearly made him.

Their relationship, once strained by mistrust and Thorin's obsession, had deepened. There were no grand declarations, no dramatic gestures of gratitude. But in every quiet moment shared over a campfire, in every nod of understanding exchanged, there was a new bond – one forged in fire and nearly shattered by madness, but stronger for it.

Thorin trusted Bilbo in a way he had never trusted anyone. And Bilbo, for his part, had come to see Thorin not just as a king, but as a friend.

A friend worth saving.