Chapter 20

Thorin understood the wrong he'd done to lead up to this point. How he'd hurt his One and ruined his relationships with his friend and family. And up until the night before, he hadn't cared. It was the vivid hallucinations of drowning in gold that had pulled him from his sickness. He'd awoken the following morning suffocating in guilt and shame and he recognized all that he'd done in the last weeks to alienate his company and drive away the love of his life. He'd been quick to find Balin, praying that it had all been a bad dream; he wasn't that lucky. He'd been grief stricken at the loss of Bilbo, knowing he had only himself to blame. The vivid memories of leaving his fearful husband in the dark nearly brought him to his knees.

So when he'd looked out over the valley between Erebor and Dale, he felt that it had to be karma that had Bilbo leading a force of elves and men to take all he had. He was even willing to give it to the hobbit in exchange for his forgiveness, though he knew Bilbo well enough that he wouldn't accept it. Thorin was unsure why he had returned, but the sight of him going toe to toe with Dain had been awe inspiring and frightening. His formidable cousin is a well-known hot head, and with the threat of men and elves here to take Erebor he doubted the dwarf was feeling amicable.

The pit in his stomach only worsened as Bilbo pulled out the Arkenstone for all to see. He could feel the sickness on the fringes of his mind, but all he could think of was the danger Bilbo was putting himself in. As he'd watched the drama play out in front of him Balin had joined him on the balcony.

"What is the fool thinking?" Worry ate at him as the elves, men and Gandalf joined the mix.

"He's protecting us." Balin mused, seeming unconcerned by the legion below their gates.

"From what?" The universe seemed to answer his question as his eyes spotted movement over the ridge, and orc army flooding into the valley.

The sight sent him rushing down the stairs without a second thought. Emotions had been high as he'd asked his company for their forgiveness, and for them to follow him once again into battle. After everything he'd put them through in the last weeks, he almost couldn't believe it when they had risen to the call and helped him bust open the gates of Erebor. By that point the battle had already begun, and Bilbo sat astride the bear shifter leading the charge. He knew he couldn't rush in and save Bilbo from the fight; more than just his life was at stake and Thorin had to take into consideration the fate of his people. With his own rallying cry and a prayer to Mahal, he'd charged into battle.

It had been hard and bloody; hours stacked on themselves as he'd cleaved his way through the enemy's forces. Every time he thought he was getting closer to the bear and its rider, he'd been pushed back by the hoard. He'd noticed a dark-haired elf near him throughout the battle, often catching the stray blows from orcs Thorin missed. A similar looking one was fighting back-to-back with Fili, though he thought a lot of them looked the same in full armor. Thrainduil's captain, the only red-haired female, fought beside Kili on the hill. Very odd, but he didn't have time to question it.

Now, he'd spotted Bilbo on the hill picking Kili up from the ground as the bear prevented any threat from nearing. He had finally felt as if he could take a breath, knowing Kili would keep him safe. The battle had begun to wane, with Gandalf's eagle friends obliterating the orc ranks. But turning back, all relief evaporated as he saw Kili being held back by the bear, no Bilbo.

His eyes were able to trace the line from the direction Kili shouted at on the hill, towards where he could see the pale orc climbing up the frozen river. His blood ran cold, as he could practically read the hobbit's mind. Thorin had begun hacking his way through orcs, trying get to Azog before him.

"Where are you going?" The elf was at his side now, helping him dispatch one after another.

"I have to get up that waterfall."

The elf was like a statue, his expression unchanging as he replied, "I was told not to let you near the pale orc."

"And who would give you such an order?" Thorin all but growled; if Thranduil or Elrond were hoping for a bargaining chip, they were sorely mistaken with regards to his willpower. He'd kill the elf before he let him keep him from Bilbo.

"The hobbit. He's a bit more frightening than my father described."

His ire melted away in an instant. Balin had been right then, that Bilbo was protecting him. The smallest glimmer of hope blossomed in his chest at the possibility of mending things with him. But he had to survive for that to happen.

"Help me get up there, the hobbit is in danger." He pleaded, halfway there now, but watching Bilbo climb the rocks to the area above.

"Isn't that what I'm doing now?" Another orc fell to his blade as Thorin protected the elf's back.

A few more minutes of combat before he was able to reach the cliff, and another minute to scale it with the elf right behind him. Prayers whispered through his mind for Bilbo's safety. Hoping that Azog, his mortal enemy, had escaped to live another day. He didn't entertain any other thoughts, but that Bilbo was safe at the top. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest; not from the fighting or the climbing, but from the fear that coursed through his veins.

Pulling himself over the edge— everything stopped.

There was no sound but the roaring in his ears as his eyes locked onto Bilbo, standing between him and his mortal enemy. The world shrank down to that single moment, to that singular image—the male he loved, standing still, defeated. His sword dragged against the ice, shoulders slumped from exhaustion. He saw the tremble in his chest, the ragged breath he took as if it were his last.

No, he thought, his pulse hammering, eyes wide. No, please.

The pale orc's gaze turned toward him, a cruel, jagged grin spreading across his face. Time slowed, as if the universe itself reveled in the agony of what was about to happen. A scream clawed at his throat, but no sound came as he watched Bilbo move, lunging to plant his sword into the monster's side, a final, desperate attack.

And then the moment shattered.

Dropping the chain weapon, Azog grabbed hold of Bilbo's forearm, his large hand encircling the limbs like a vice.

"No!" Thorin's voice cracked, sharp and raw, but it was nothing—nothing—against the growing chaos inside him. He took a step forward, another, but it was too late. He was too far.

Bilbo fought, struggling against the hold. But then, with sickening finality, Azog twisted his arm and raised the sharp end of his prosthetic hook, and there was nothing left but the cold, cruel slash of metal across his throat. The monster's eyes never leaving Thorin's face.

The world tilted, then spun.

No... No, NO!

His vision blurred, his pulse a furious roar in his ears, drowning out all sound. The world felt small—too small, too helpless. He could do nothing. Nothing. Except watch as the pale orc released his One to crumple to the ground.

Anger burned through him, hot and blinding. His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms as his body shook with the weight of it. He wanted to scream, to rip the monster apart with his bare hands, but all that filled him was a suffocating rage—rage at himself, at Bilbo's death, at the fact that he hadn't been fast enough. He was never fast enough. Not for his grandfather, or his father. Not now. The fury grew inside him, darker and darker, until it suffocated every ounce of sorrow.

Rushing forward, sword in hand, his mind didn't even process as he beat back the monster, with one wild swing after another, putting all the force he had. Azog's expression swiftly changed from smug to anger as he took each punishing blow without a chance to retaliate. Struggling to match the dwarf's ferocity, the orc continued to step back as Thorin's attack grew more relentless. The usually calm and calculating enemy was now faltering, barely able to respond to Thorin's blood-fueled onslaught.

An elven arrow embedded into the orc's knee, causing him to stumble. Thorin took the opening, embedding his blade deep into Azog's chest with a twist.

His enemy was dead. It was almost anticlimactic as he turned to rush to Bilbo's side.

The hobbit gazed up with dazed eyes, coughing slightly as blood pooled underneath him. As Thorin wrapped his hand around the gaping wound to try and halt the bleeding, Bilbo thrashed slightly at the pressure, fear entering his eyes as he focused on Thorin's face. Anguish speared though him as he recognized that fear, how the last time he'd wrapped his fingers round his One's pale throat had been under much different circumstances. He could still see the deep purple underneath the blood in the shape of his fingertips.

"Shh, you're okay." His voice broke, tears streaming down his face. His soul was in agony as he watched Bilbo's eyes go in and out of focus.

" 'm s'rry," He choked out, blood seeping from between his lips as he struggled to breathe.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. You'll be okay." Sliding his free hand over the intricate braids now wound through the hobbit's blond curls. He could hear people shouting for him, but ignored them all, his focus solely on his One. He felt a nudge at his elbow.

Looking down, Bilbo's blood-stained hand shook as he held up the Arkenstone. It didn't get a second though as he turned back to kiss the hobbit's forehead, more tears falling as he realized that the love of his life would spend his last breaths trying to appease him. Thorin knew a sword through his gut would have been easier to take.

"MOVE!" He was physically ripped away as someone grabbed him by his coat. Instinctively turning, his fist plowed into Dwalin's cheek. The dwarf gave as good as he got, his own fist smashing into Thorin's eye in response. Both males were dazed for a second from the exchanging of blows as Thorin took in his best friend's face. Covered completely in blood, except the two streaks where tears had run from the male's eyes. His expression was grief stricken and Thorin knew it mirrored his own as he turned back to Bilbo.

Lord Elrond kneeled beside Bilbo, his hands having taken Thorin's place as magic laced through the air. His and Fili's elves, who did look exactly the same, stood at foot and head, passing each other poultices and binding other wounds that he hadn't noticed.

He remained silent while they worked, Dwalin's hand coming to rest on his shoulder as they stood vigil. He couldn't understand why they were helping but did not question it. Others closed in around the group; His company, the redheaded captain, and Beorn, once again in the form of a man. After close to an hour, Elrond began wrapping gauze around a much smaller gash at Bilbo's throat, the blood only slightly oozing from the wound.

"We need to get him inside; the cold has chilled him and slowed his heart rate and the poison's spread," poison?! "But this wound needs stitching, and I fear for his heart if he gets much colder." Elrond lifted Bilbo into his arms like a child as the rest of the elves, Dwalin and Beorn began to make their way back towards the battlefield. As Thorin went to follow, he saw the company staring down at what was left.

The Arkenstone in a puddle of blood.

"It's yours, Thorin, by right." Balin murmured, his brow creased as he watched the younger dwarf with a guarded expression. They all held their breath as he bent to pick it up, before handing it to Balin.

"We'll deal with it later." The finality of his words brought hopeful expressions to the other's faces as he turned away to follow after his One.

Thorin stood outside of Lord Elrond's tent, watching the armies gather their own to grieve, burn the corpses of the orcs and trolls, and prepare camp for themselves. When he'd attempted to enter, Beorn had guarded it steadfast, growling out that Thorin wasn't welcome. Now he wasn't sure what he should do. Stepping away from the tent to leave, he heard a gruff cough to his side.

"Where do ye think ye're goin'?" Dwalin asked innocently, sitting on the ground next to the tent in the shadows. He appeared to be sharpening his dagger, a blackening bruise growing around what looked like a broken nose.

"Have you been there this whole time?"

"Yes, now, where are you going?"

"I'm not sure, but you heard the shifter. I'm not welcome. I doubt Bilbo will wake any time soon, and even if he does… He won't want to see me."

"Beorn's not a big fan of us dwarves at the moment. Where do you want to be?"

He didn't even have to think about it, knowing that every atom in his body wanted to be at his One's bedside. But he wasn't willing to hurt him with his presence. "It's better for him that I'm not here when he wakes…"

"Then you're denser than I took you for. He would want you here, and the Thorin I've known for my entire life wouldn't be twiddling his thumbs waiting for someone else's permission to be anywhere," Dwalin shrugged. "I'll be the first to admit that you messed up big time. That said, he still loves you despite everything. He's a truly good being and has sacrificed more than you know to be laying in that bed dieing. The least you can do is stay beside him while he fights for his life."

He didn't need any more encouragement than that, turning to open the tent flap. Inside, Beorn sat off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest. He stared disapprovingly at Thorin, but didn't say anything as the king strode forward to where Bilbo lay lifelessly. Elrond was checking his bandages.

"How is he?" Thorin wasn't sure he wanted an honest answer. Looking down at his One, he could see long shadows under his eyes, his facing looking wane and frail. The blood had been cleaned from his body, with his clothes and armor sitting folded on the foot of the elf size cot. It made him look so small and helpless, so unlike the hobbit he'd grown to love.

Bruises marred his body from the battle, along with long cuts on his arms and legs where the mithril hadn't covered. As Elrond lifted away one of the bandages on his thigh, Thorin could see the inky black rot of an orc's poisoned arrow, climbing like a webbing through Bilbo's veins. After applying a fresh poultice and bandage, the elf finally looked at him.

"It will be a long road, but if he still has the will power to fight the poison from the inside then he might yet make it."

"But there is still a chance he won't?" Long winded elves and their riddles…

"He lost a lot of blood. He's lucky that the gash wasn't any deeper or it would have nicked his esophagus or arteries. With the addition of the poison, by all reason he should be dead. I've never known any being so obviously blessed by the Valar." With as many times as he'd almost died, Thorin sure that the poor hobbit was cursed. "It would be best if you talk to him, give him something to hang on to." With that the elf excused himself from the tent.

Looking around, only Beorn remained, watching every move he made. While it was unnecessary, it didn't prevent him from crawling onto the cot to lay beside Bilbo. Careful not to touch him, he began to whisper anything he could think of. When Bilbo's temperature rose with a fever, he rubbed a cool damp cloth over his skin, telling him stories of his family. His entire life he laid bare, stories very few had ever known, or some that had remained secrets up until now.

"I guess if I'm to tempt you into returning to the land of the living, with me on this side, you might as well know everything." He reasoned to his still lover, his voice growing hoarse as he continued to whisper through the night and into the following morning. A few times Bilbo would mumble in troubled fever dreams, a frown creasing in fear or anger. When this occurred, Thorin smoothed the creases from his brow, murmuring of pleasanter things like gardens and good books.

Elrond and the two other male elves came in occasionally to check Bilbo's wounds, but didn't interrupt Thorin. Dwalin brought food to Beorn, joining him on the floor in their silent watch as Thorin cared for Bilbo as best he could. As more hours passed Fili and Kili found their way into the tent, placing extra blankets on the bed before sitting next to Dwalin to begin a game of dice. Balin entered after a while, directing Bofur and Bifur who were carrying a wooden table which then set to the side of the tent. Gloin and Oin followed closely with chairs so that the older dwarves could sit and play cards. Balin had around fifty pages of parchment that he was attempting to read as the red-haired elf and an older robust man with white hair came and went from the tent, bringing more papers or taking notes from the elder dwarf. Finally, Dori and Bomber brought in a large steaming pot of soup, dispersing the hearty liquid among the group.

The entire company sat in silent watchfulness as a small moan resonated from the cot, drawing everyone's attention as Thorin sat nervously at his consort's bedside. Thorin held bided breath as Bilbo blinked, bright green eyes coming into focus on his face. Gently, the hobbit raised a shaky hand to the king's cheek as tears streamed down Thorin's cheeks.

In a hushed raspy voice, "We both died?"

This caused the company to roar in laughter as Thorin weakly smiled, tilting his face into Bilbo's hand to kiss his palm. "No, despite your best efforts."