Daydream, I dreamed of you amid the flowers
TA 2941
Thorin Oakenshield is dying.
Erebor is reclaimed and the Battle of the Five Armies has ended in a firm victory on the half of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth. But he cannot find it within himself to rejoice.
The cost of doing so has been too high.
Azog and Bolg were felled with the last vestiges of his strength, but so were his sister-sons. Thorin is carried from the war-strewn fields to the healing tents, battered, bruised, dying and in mourning. He lies in that tent, eyes roving over the tattered fabric, feeling the life ebb away from him slowly, the darkness the gold-sickness had wrought eating away at him piece by piece. Not even the hourly updates from Dain and Balin on the rebuilding of Dale and Erebor could rouse him. What would be the point? He is dying and all that he fought for is dead too. Because of him and his weakness.
His sister-sons are dead. His company is grieving. His Hobbit is missing.
When morning comes, he knows he has but hours to spare. This will be the day Thorin Oakenshield takes his last breath. He wishes he could see the sky, feel the sunlight warm his face one more time.
It is only then that his Hobbit appears.
At first he believes it to be a mirage of his ailing mind. It is not the first time it has conjured those he's lost in the last few hours.
Then a hand grasps his, and Thorin can feel the warmth of flesh, smell the grime his Hobbit is covered in. He reaches up a hand to brush at those sandy curls, matted with dried blood and grease, and Bilbo smiles.
'Bilbo,' he breathes. His mouth curves up into a smile, 'Farewell, good thief. I go now…to the halls of waiting to sit beside my fathers.'
Bilbo shakes his head, his eyes watery, 'No. You're not going anywhere, Thorin. You're going to live.'
Thorin releases a shaky breath, 'I would take back my words…and my deeds at the Gate…You did what only a true friend would do. Forgive me. I was too…blind to see it.'
'No,' Bilbo shakes his head again, firmly, angrily. His hold on Thorin tightens, his eyes glittering with unshed tears. Thorin wishes to comfort him, to share words that would assuage the Hobbit's denial over his oncoming death; he will be okay, he knows, he goes to join his sister-sons now, and his Father and his Father's Father and he has accepted this. Death comes for Thorin now, but most importantly, Death will leave Bilbo alone.
If his own life is the price Thorin must pay to ensure this Hobbit's survival, he will do so willingly, happily.
Thorin looks at his Hobbit, and thinks that if he lived he would have given Bilbo everything. Forget jewels and gems, the gold under the mountain; he would have given him enough books for an entire lifetime, planted trees that would have buried their roots in Erebor's fertile soil, given him enough sunlight so that he could thrive like the wee sproutlings he cared so much for, planted him an entire garden.
For a moment, he can see it. Bilbo amongst wildflowers, the sun beating down golden on him as he smiles.
He wishes to ask him to stay. To ensure Erebor blooms. He knows he cannot; his Hobbit needs as much sunlight and earth as those wildflowers and without Thorin, the mountain cannot provide those for him.
Thorin squeezes the hand grasping his weakly, 'Go back to your books and your armchair. Plant your trees, watch them grow. There is more in you…of good than you know.' He pants, his lungs rattling with every breath. He surges on, these final words must be said, he would not part this life without them, 'Some courage…and some wisdom, blended in measure. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it…would be…a merrier world. But, sad or merry, I leave…it now. Farewell…my friend.'
'No! Thorin–'
He closes his eyes for the last time.
#
TA 2935
Thorin Oakenshield gasps awake.
Above him, the sky is light with the first break of dawn. A brisk wind nips at his clammy face. He pushes himself to rise; the camp is quiet around him, save for the rustling of nearby grass and distant birdsong.
It was only a dream.
He rubs a hand down his face, feeling the grizzled length of his beard, wilder than the neatly trimmed stubble he sported in the dream, and the coal black sweaty strands of hair, no salt and pepper grey to be seen.
'Mahal,' he breathes. The same dream again. It has been years now, and every night, the same dreams. Visions of a company of dwarves, some familiar to him, some not; months on the road to reclaim the Lonely Mountain; and a sandy-haired Hobbit with a smile full of sunlight.
He exhales, carding a hand through his hair. He dismissed them as nought but delusion at first, nighttime fantasies that teased his mind with possibility. He could never recall the full details upon waking, but with every year something becomes clearer. His sister-sons holding off a horde of goblins with flaming pinecones, Bombur floating asleep on a river, a lake of fire, and the gold-sickness consuming his mind.
The other dwarves do not stir as he rises to his feet. He lumbers towards the dying embers of the fire, stoking the flames until he can feel their warmth against his skin. To his left, Balin sits on watch; he spares one glance at Thorin but otherwise says nary a word. He has seen his King on nights like this before and knows it is best not to disturb him.
The fire sparks, casting long shadows across the ground. In a flash, his Hobbit's hair by firelight teases his mind.
He quickly banishes the thought.
Thorin casts a quick look at Fíli. He remains dead to the world, buried deep into his bedroll, with only a flash of blond hair revealing his position. He wonders briefly how Kíli is doing; he dispatched the young lad off with Dwalin to survey Bree. Trade there ebbs and flows, and they would need a stable place to settle ahead of the coming winter months if they wanted any hope of Ered Luin surviving.
A soft crack cuts through the silence of the forest. Thorin's head whips up in time to meet Balin's steady gaze. They turn as one to the left where trees are shuddering, signalling the arrival of strangers. Behind him, the other dwarves of their group begin to rouse. Thorin grapples the empty dirt at his back for his axe.
Another crack, the dim of distant chatter growing louder and louder until–the gentle timbre of khuzdul reaches his ears. Dwarves.
He relaxes minutely, pushing away silently from the fire and closer to his sister-son, beyond the sight of this newcomer. He keeps his gaze alert as the wandering group approaches their camp. A few dwarves astride ponies appear through the foliage, a full to bursting cart just seconds behind them.
'Bimor!' Balin greets the first dwarf cheerily.
The one named as Bimor breaks out into a toothy grin, 'Balin! Dwalin said ye might be out this way!'
The group comes to a slow halt behind Bimor, who drops from the pony with a soft thud. He embraces Balin brightly.
'Ye saw that dull brother of mine then?' Balin asks.
'Aye, last I saw he was gorging himself on a mountain of bramble tarts,' Bimor replies brightly.
Balin stiffens, 'Bramble tarts?'
'Oh, ye wouldnae believe it,' Bimor starts, he gestures to the other dwarves, who clamber down from their ponies. 'Mahal is smiling upon us, Balin.'
'I don't follow.'
'I found a new trade route, better than Bree.'
'That cannot be possible,' Balin says.
'But it is! Free food, lodgings and a marketplace to do trade. We made more in one week on Bromor's leathers than we've made in the last year, my friend,' Bimor grins widely, the excitement rolling off him in waves. 'And it's all thanks to a Hobbit.'
'What did you say?' Thorin starts forward, drawing attention to himself for the first time. The older dwarf turns towards him and his eyes widen. He drops to one knee, 'My King, I didnae see ye–'
'Tell me, where was this trade?' Thorin demands.
'In Hobbiton, sire,' Bimor states, glancing askance at Balin. 'In the Shire.'
'How did you come by this…Hobbiton?'
'Well, we met a Hobbit,' Bimor says. Thorin ignores the hard gaze of Balin as he surveys the full cart; foods, clothes, the tools of some trades. 'A Mistress Baggins.'
Thorin stiffens, a hand clenched tightly around some clean cloth. That name, the one that haunts his dreams. It couldn't be–could it? He turns to the baffled dwarves behind him, 'Show me where.'