WARNING: Discussion and descriptions of being burned alive. I move on pretty quickly though.
Chapter 26 - Blessings of All Blessings
He could hear the dragon's passage out of Erebor, crashing down the front gaits as it flew out to get his vengeance.
Sara scrambled down the steps calling out for Bilbo, but there was no answer.
Half afraid the dragon would turn back around, Sara stopped calling out as he searched the gold for Bilbo.
Frantic, the minutes of searching dragged on like hours, his breath growing shorter and shorter until he felt very much like a hyperventilating bunny.
He was starting to both hate the comparison and understand it too well.
But then Sara saw a piece of Bilbo's coat, and he cried out as he made to dig him out.
Saradoc had never hated gold so much in his life than when he saw the stuff falling on the burns on Bilbo's left side.
It was bad, not bone deep, but deep enough that Sara didn't know if it could be healed or if the harm alone would kill him.
Who was he kidding, Bilbo resembled a strip of chicken someone forgot to turn over the fire at the end of a party night.
He wasn't a healer but even he knew the chances of infection were high, especially with his clothes melted into the flesh.
He held a hand over Bilbo's pulse on the right side of his neck, feeling for a heartbeat despite seeing Bilbo's pain-rattled breaths.
It was intolerable.
"Help," Sara chirped. Not caring about the dragon any longer, he raised his voice and cried, "Help! PLEASE! Please help!"
But no one was close, that's how they had planned it.
Saradoc clung to Bilbo's hand and began to sob uselessly.
He had just successfully injured a dragon and lured it to its death, he, Saradoc Brandybuck, a simple nobody-hobbit of the Shire.
But as he clung to his uncle's hand, he could do nothing but cry.
He would see his wife and son again, he would get to hold them close and tell them how much he loved them and how greatly he had missed them.
But Bilbo might not. It wasn't fair.
If Sara was the one who had been injured then Uncle Bilbo could have helped him.
Incapable of remaining still and feeling sorry any longer, he stood, trying to think of some way to get help to them sooner.
Thinking of how helpful it would be if Gandalf was still with them, Sara remembered what Aunt Primula had taught him about what she had learned from the wizard.
Surely the dwarves would have the needed materials.
Careful not to shift the gold around Bilbo as he made his way back to the forge.
Despite not being able to read the labels, he found a workstation that had many refined powders and flammables. The iron shavings were particularly easy to find as there seemed to be a whole bin of it tucked away.
Even finding a proper pipe and makeshift shell wasn't too difficult once he dug under the work table. He used his undershirt as a wick. As ripped the cotton he prayed it wouldn't explode in his hand.
Running back to the entry hall, he was sure to pick a place far from Bilbo. Saradoc jammed the pipe into a mound of gold, using the treasure as stone gravel to keep the pipe in place. He pointed it toward the hole the dragon had made to exit the Lonely Mountain.
He lit the cotton he left sticking out the bottom of the pipe with flint. It took a few tries before it caught, Sara ran, sliding down the hills of treasure.
The sound of the explosion was raucous in the echoing hall and he was afraid he failed as he closed his eyes against the sound. But when he looked up, he saw the desired sparkling lights in the sky.
Belladonna Took Baggins may have been the Old Took's favourite daughter, however, Primula and Esmeralda were two of his favourite grandchildren. They had passed down the lore of how to make the wizards whiz poppers.
Sara didn't do half bad, he thought as he watched the fall of gold and silver sparks.
He could only pray help would come as he worried at Bilbo's side.
oOo
The waking of the dragon could be felt through the stone beneath their feet.
Ravenhill was in repair and the company had carried two windlances up to the watchtowers. The man, Bard, went with them as the elves scattered themselves in the shadows of the desolation. Kíli was operating the other windlance as the company waited anxiously for the wyrm to leave its horde.
Thorin squeezed down on the stone rail, so close to home, yet so far from his One who had clearly succeeded in waking the drake.
"He sounds angry," Frerin noted, having more reason than most to hate and fear Smaug.
After an agonizing amount of time, that could just as easily been days as minutes, a great force broke through the stone front gates.
The dwarrow held onto the wall as they felt the mountain heave, repelled and further injured by the parasite that had infected it.
Thorin could only marvel at how big the wyrm was, bigger than his memories of him had been.
Smaug seemed oddly graceless as his batlike wings beat down pushing him upwards into the sky. Yet his ascent left a trail of sparkles as gems and gold fell from the dragon's scales caught like rain by moonlight.
The drake soared low toward Laketown and he swung his head angrily from side to side like a horse trying to shake off a horsefly.
Despite his direction, the wyrm was unsuspecting of the danger that awaited him as he neared Raven Hill.
Bard's arrow released first.
Glittering leathery wings flapped twice more before gliding over Raven Hill, only to let out a belch of fire as he was pierced by the shadow of an arrow.
Bard's aim with the windlance proved true, directly through the heart.
A hundred other arrows released, capitalising on the show of weakness. Some of those arrows pinged off the dragon's armoured scales, while others snagged on the membrane of the dragon's wings. The elves were swift of aim and keen of eye, and their combined targets of so many black arrows tore through those bleak wings,
Already in descent, Smaug spiralled head-first toward the shore of the lake.
The impact could be felt from Raven Hill.
A fog bloomed where the drake's body touched the lake, illuminated by silver light as the mist rolled over the ink-black water.
Nothing but the wind was heard as they all waited in silence for the dragon to rise.
He did not.
Smaug was dead.
Thorin was the first to move, taking the steps down two at a time.
He did not hesitate to mount his pony. "Something's wrong," he called to the company who had followed after him, before kicking his pony onward.
Glorfindel was the furthest away, closest to Lake Town as a sort of last resort. If the arrows failed, elvish magic might prevail.
They were halfway to the mountain when the singular firework went off. The sound broke the eerie quiet from the dragon's fall with the uncaring might of a wall stuffed with dynamite.
How odd it was to see the sparks of gold and silver on the eve of their victory.
But Thorin knew from the heaviness of his own heart that the light show was a plea for help, not celebration.
He rode his pony as fast as it was able, flinging himself off its back to climb the rubble that now made up the front gates of Erebor.
He didn't care that he was at long last home, he didn't care about the mountains of treasure when he finally stepped foot inside. All the riches of Arda were as worthless to him as rotting autumn leaves presently as it got his way to finding his One.
"Bilbo!" Thorin yelled.
A voice immediately answered but it was not his love's voice.
"Help! Over here! Please hurry!"
Thorin was tripping over the cursed gold as he practically swam to get to his One's side.
Saradoc was in tears when Thorin reached them.
The sight of his One…
Thorin remembered the last day he spent in Erebor, trying to drag his grandfather to safety. Every delay had been fraught with another horror to stoke his nightmares for the decades to come.
In a normal fire, one that took men's villages or chimney fires in ill-tended forges could be quite frightening, but more often than not it was the smoke that killed, poisoning the lungs and making a clear escape seem impossible.
Dragon fire was different.
The heat of it was unmeasurable, the propellent of flames near inescapable, and the force at which it expelled from the dragon's gullet was enough to topple castles. Stone did not burn, but that didn't make it infallible to rapid heat.
When the dragon came, dwarrow were cooked alive or crushed by the explosive impacts that Smaug's fire had caused.
Almost no one who was caught within the blast radius of Smaug's fire survived. For those who were caught on the edge of it and survived it, they almost always wished that they had not.
If the flames had touched skin, infection was guaranteed, and it was a slow terrible way to die.
In the days that followed after being chased from their homes, the dwarrow of Erebor had had no medicine strong enough to help their kin with the pain.
Many had taken their own lives rather than wait for their bodies to succumb to the inevitable. It was for no one to judge, not when living may only have offered a few days or weeks of misery and torment while burdening their families.
That had been the hardest part, not the terror of the attack, but the sorrows afterwards, their rapid decline when the Lonely Mountain had passed from sight.
Thorin made a sound, a wretched sound that hurt coming out as he fell to his knees beside his love.
The burns covered much of Bilbo's back and left side, catching across his chest, upper arm, and licking up his neck. The burns were not black, nor bone-deep, but there was dark magic in dragon fire. The puckered skin was discoloured and textured as skin ought not to be.
It wasn't a disfigurement, but it was so much skin… his clothing melted to him in places… it would… they would have to…
Thorin couldn't breathe, he knew how burns were treated.
Any hope of survival would require further injury.
Fíli shouted, "Dah!"
Thorin jerked, hunching over, but not touching Bilbo as he tried to shield him from view.
When he looked back, he saw with relief that Frerin caught their youngest nephew in his arms, holding him back.
Fíli fought against him.
"No!" Frerin said. "You don't need to see him like this."
"You don't understand! Let me go!"
"I do, namadinùdoy'. I watched my mother burn when she gave her life for mine. You can't help him."
Kíli helped Frerin hold Fíli back as Oin looked Bilbo over.
"Pick him up," the healer snapped at his king.
Thorin shook his head, "I'll hurt him."
"Yes, you will," Oin said without sympathy. "Life, like birth, is painful and ugly. Now, pick him up, I remember the way."
Thorin shoved his emotions down but couldn't quite stop his tears when he picked his One up.
Bilbo screamed without waking before the response seemed to exhaust whatever strength he had left and he fell back into a fitful unconsciousness once more.
Doing his best not to hurt his One, Thorin followed after Oin as quickly and smoothly as possible. Bilbo felt lighter and smaller than he had ever done before. It was hard to know that his hobbit had never been so fragile as he was now.
Never so close to death as he was held in Thorin's arms.
oOo
Oin was single-minded as he treated their burglar, the wounds were bad.
Very bad.
Bringing the hobbit down to one of the medical rooms, this being Erebor, there were clinics all over the mountain for every sector, he instructed the lad be put into one of the river cots.
The river cots were some of the finest inventions Oin had ever seen. The river was filtered through a stone grate, providing clean flowing water to help flush out injuries. Even with a dragon dominating the mountain, the cots remained clean and functional.
The purpose of these was to treat wounds with large amounts of dust particles and burns. As dangerous as blood loss could be, dirt and dust in open wounds could be even more dangerous if they caused infections.
The tools in the infirmary merely needed to be rinsed. The obsidian blades were the sharpest material that could be cut. The scarred bits of skin easily cut away the skin from the hobbit's flesh.
Bilbo woke up in the middle, and while Oin had some of Bilbo's medicines left, it wasn't enough to keep him out, and there was something about burns that were too sharp and persistent a pain to fade away from.
So Saradoc and Thorin held him down as Oin worked and as Bilbo, out of his mind with pain, tried to fight them.
At least the flowing water was probably good for him, so cold as to cause numbing even as he struggled.
Oin worked on, knowing any moment could be the King Consort's last.
oOo
Thorin soon realised Bilbo thought he was being drowned. Thorin propped a hand under his head which calmed him some but he kept twisting away from Oin. Dwalin and Bofur joined to keep him down while Thorin held his head.
Frerin, Balin, and Kíli had to work together to restrain Fíli from entering the sick room. The others did their best to clean a sick room out where Bilbo might rest after Oin finished with him.
oOo
Dwarves were good with burns, up to a point, but not so much with dragon burns. In fact, having begun his training as a healer's apprentice at the fall of Erebor, Oin wouldn't have said there was any chance that Bilbo would survive this.
Like Mordor was he going to tell his king that however.
So Oin worked, and prayed, and did not sleep.
Come dawn, a small party of elves were welcomed into the halls.
Oin would never forget the sound Lord Glorfindel made when he took up his son in his arms with heartbreaking gentleness. The elf began glowing gold as he spoke in an endless stream of elvish. The elf healers had taken over his healing as if Oin were an elfling, and he supposed to them, he was.
The pained expression faded on Bilbo's face, almost going slack, almost making Oin believe the hobbit had passed on.
But the hobbit kept breathing, and against every odd, remained breathing.
Only then did Oin have time to appreciate that Erebor had been reclaimed, only then did Thorin begin to take charge of what needed to be done, and only then were they able to hear the story Saradoc had to tell about their attempted burglary.
Neither hobbit was a good burglar, but despite being the two unlikeliest of creatures, they made for cunning warriors with courage unparalleled.
Each hobbit had blinded one of the dragon's eyes, leaving it sightless to the dangers that Bard the Bowman presented on Ravenhill.
No songs were sung in their glory that night as Thorin instructed them to rebuild the gate.
They had no way of knowing that when Bilbo, against every president, woke with every sign of mending, that this time would only be the precipice of their true trials to come.
Perhaps if Oin had registered the weight of Bilbo's clothes when he threw them into a trash bin, things would have been different.
But they would never know, not for many years to come, the coat of what lay forgotten in the medical room, the one King Thorin Oakenshield never returned to.
oOo
Glorfindel kept Bilbo in a healing sleep for weeks as the fevers came and returned, hardly resting or eating himself as he sat in bed with his son curled up at his side.
Dragon fire burns were prone to infection and evil taint.
It took Glorfindel all he had to coax the hobbit's skin to keep healing. But heal he did, and Glorfindel's light returned to him ever stronger for the knowledge, for hope fulfilled, that his son would live, that though goodbyes may come, those goodbyes were many years from now.
Thorin sat vigil every night. In those nights, they never spoke to one another, no grievance, no word of comfort, and no fear shared. But sometimes, the king would sing with Glorfindel in his own language, creating a strangely beautiful mix of deep dwarven tones and higher elvish notes.
It was during one of those nights that Bilbo woke, reaching for Thorin's hand and nestling down further into the blankets against Glorfindel, shifting from fever dreams to the deep sleep of those who are finally allowed a respite after a great labour.
Not a word was exchanged that night, yet hobbit, dwarf, and elf were forged as kin by shared hope and prayers to generous gods.
oOo
Fíli worked tirelessly with the others to clean up the entry area and prepare for Dain's army.
Winter was fast approaching and while the elves promised their aid against the forewarned army from Mordor that had fled from Dain's warriors south of the Iron Hills.
The gold was heavy and pretty as it might be, Fíli was well and truly sick of it.
Yet with the elves who lingered as stakeouts and the company, they were able to move the treasures into the treasury. The treasury had been massive enough that the dragon had not shattered the ornate giant doors to empty it.
They separated the artefacts from Dale to be returned to Bard and his family while also setting aside a trust for Dale as a sort of bank for them.
The reality was that poverty would be greatly increased if they flooded the markets with gold and those who were without defense would be targeted by greedy wanderers.
By the time the treasure was moved, they had an estimate as to how much needed rebuilding in the mountain.
The damage was extensive and there were many chambers filled with corpses of dwarrow who had been burned, aspired, or died of starvation. There were likely many more buried beneath rubble and in the mines.
Fíli, Kíli, Ori, Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur, those of them who had not been so actively touched by the horrors of Smaug, found themselves the ones to carry the bodies they found as the others prepared them a proper resting place.
Thorin had them buried beside the royal family, he had said; if I cannot distinguish between queen and minor, let them all be remembered as kings, let Mahal welcome them home with the greatest of love for the sorrows my forefathers' greed brought down upon them.
Luckily, with the great forges lit by the dragon, the forges stayed lit with little tending, warming the mountain from within which was surely a blessing to Dain's army who arrived with warriors warn from past battles and a rapid march to the mountain.
oOo
Thorin greeted Dain in the rooms the company had claimed for themselves.
It was the royal healers' wing that had been designed for warrior kings, in times when splendor and security were less appreciated than access to food and the healers. These rooms were centralized so that injured generals could heal in comfort while not needing to travel far to meetings.
In Thorin's childhood, these rooms were only used for the births of nobility. Though the occupants were long gone, the rooms themselves had escaped much damage, lacking any ornamentation of filigree to attract the dragon's jealousies.
They also suited Thorin just fine to provide for his extended kin and friends who made up the company as well as the families they would bring to Erebor.
The rooms he had been raised in, far removed from even the location of the other nobility, had been completely gutted by Smaug. Thorin did not foresee himself ever returning to them.
Bilbo being so close to the healers could only be a good thing.
Thorin spent his days caught between sitting at Bilbo's bedside and directing the fortification of Erebor and her riches.
It was a relief that by the time Dain showed, the halls had been cleared well enough that restorations could begin as well as camps made inside the mountain.
Dain sat heavily across from Thorin in the dining room just outside Bilbo's chambers.
"Congratulations, Cousin, who knew it would take two halflings to slay a dragon," Dain said jovially after Balin had caught him up on the retaking of the mountain.
"Hobbits, not halflings, and I suggest you spread that knowledge around. They are, after all, our new neighbours."
"I can't believe you gave away part of the mountain," Dain groused.
"Yes, the outside of it, the eastern slopes which are now stripped of their forests–I'm told–will make for a hardy harvest," Thorin said.
"And the hobbit is your One?" Dain asked.
"Yes."
"And he rescued Fíli?"
"Yes."
"And your One is the son of an elf lord, distantly, but enough so that it would not be wrong to call him a half-elf?"
"Yes."
"Strange," Dain mused.
"Not really," Saradoc cut in. "Considering the common belief is our people were born between elves and dwarrow. But even if that is not true, we are children of Yavanna, the Valar who wed Mahal."
Dain hummed, "I think you will find, dwarrow are not so fond of theory as the elves."
"No," Sara agreed with a sanguine smile. "Just traditions set by your maker, except those not commonly a part of your contemporary traditions, such as paying respects to the creations of the Smith's wife, or honouring the line of Durin without a stupid rock out of billions of rocks that isn't half as old as Ered Luin, or, and this one is my favourite, harshly judging a people who've offered you food and shelter because of their stature. For a race whose name has become synonymous with height, you'd think one might be more wise to not judge another by the same."
Dain laughed, long and deep. "Alright, Thorin, if your One is anything like this here Master Brandybuck then I say Mahal has chosen the next King Consort well."
"My Uncle's tongue is far sharper than mine, and my own wife would have your ear for your condescension," Sara said, unamused.
Balin cleared his throat, "No need to start a war between our races, not with another approaching our gates."
"What of your struggles against Mordor?" Frerin asked.
Dwalin leaned in, more attentive now, Dain's own captain also entering the conversation when before he had been inattentive.
Of the eight of them, this was their true purpose for meeting as the rest of their people settled into the mountain, Dain's army resting as best they were able with limited supplies.
Kíli and Fíli had been excluded from this meeting because none of the company who knew Dain thought the boys would appreciate their cousin's humour while Bilbo's condition remained in question.
"As best we can tell, Lord Sauron is back. The ravens speak of a tower in the south being rebuilt. Their numbers are somewhat staggering but there is a lack to them that orcs I've toiled against in the past did not have. Their weapons are cruder than typical, slabs of unsharpened metal, they were little to no armour, and they are untried and unorganized in their malice. I have fought goblins more fierce than these orcs."
"Is that why your army is so hale?" Balin asked.
"Indeed," Dain said. "As much as I hate to say it, the elves' arrows will find their task an easy one to thin the herd from the safety of their trees."
"Still, it is a battle and there will be losses," Balin cautioned.
Thorin sighed, not eager for another battle but happy to be planning it behind the fortifications of Erebor.
"At least," Dwalin said. "We have many of the healing wings on their way in restorations. I know Oin is happy to have his assistant working with him again."
"The Lady Sonna?" Dain asked. "Yes, she has a fair hand that lass. It is a shame so many were forced from Ered Luin."
Dwalin shook his head, "Of those who would miss those sea worn stones, she is not among them."
Thorin grimaced, reminded of the treachery his people were capable of even against their own daughters. He would have to post more guards around their rooms to keep Bilbo safe.
oOo
It wasn't that Gimli didn't like the hobbits, because he did.
He really did, especially their cooking, but with so many families of hobbits and dwarrows packed into every smial, there was very little privacy.
And little to no freedom from the faunts.
Despite being so small they were faster than they ought to have been.
Gimli ran into his mother, half hiding behind her skirts as the little pack of faunts led by Merry and Pippin hunted him. Pippin's sisters tended to be even more creative when they caught Gimli who had never felt more like a dwarfling than he did facing an enemy he couldn't fight off.
His mother clucked at him, holding him close as Lady Dís scooped up at least half the faunts in her arms as if they weren't demons disguised as bunnies with overly large feet and button noses.
Gimli's mother cooed at him and he glared, "Amad! They won't leave me alone!"
Lady Dís laughed, kissing Merry and Pippin on the cheeks as the girl faunts scattered from the dwarrowdam's attention, "They don't mean any harm, do you, boys?"
Both terrors shook their heads as they hugged the Queen Regent who doted on them. But Gimli clutched his mother's skirts when Merry and Pippin shot a smile toward the young dwarf.
Demons.
They were demons.
It was going to be a long winter, one Gimli had severe doubts that the dwarrow of Ered Luin would be able to endure.
oOo
Bilbo woke often, but could never bring himself to stay awake for long.
The memory of burning and of drowning warned him away from the waking world.
He remembered the pain too well and he never wanted to hurt like that again.
It scared him beyond endurance.
Besides which, sleep offered a respite of comfort and his Adad's songs in his ears painted portraits of green forests and sunny days followed by sweet rains in his dreams. In his dreams his belly was full, Fíli was young, and his mother and father were there to help him raise the young dwarfling.
These were not but fairytales, and eventually, it was the deep sorrow of his Heartsong's voice that coaxed him back, that drove away his fear if only he could take his love's hand in his own.
The first thing Bilbo saw when he woke was a fall of golden hair, more metallic and softer than Fíli's.
"Adad," Bilbo croaked as his elven father bent to his brow, petting back Bilbo's curls.
"My little one," Glorfindel greeted in a praise of answered prayers.
Bilbo blinked back the sudden tears as they spoke in the Green Speech, "Adad, I fought a dragon."
Glorfindel smiled even as silver tears fell from his eyes, "I know, my bravest boy, I know."
Bilbo lost the battle to his own helpless tears, "It hurt, Adad."
"I know, my little one, I know," Adad answered, he was crying too.
Glorfindel traced a gentle hand down Bilbo's cheek, to his neck and shoulder.
Bilbo flinched at the sensation against his fragile skin. It felt raw and thin, as if he were exposed. The touch didn't cause him pain but it was far from comfortable.
He felt too much, his breathing coming quicker at the desire to run, to be held, to drink to eat, to…
Eventually, he found his voice again to ask, "Thorin?"
Someone squeezed his hand.
Bilbo's heart lept to his throat as he clung to the hand engulfing his.
He turned his head too fast and the world spun, it was Thorin's presence that kept him sane.
His dwarf was sitting beside the bed and the sound Bilbo made when he reached out to his Heartsong was one he would have been embarrassed about at any other time.
Glorfindel kissed Bilbo's brow as he helped transfer him into Thorin's arms as his dwarf got into the bed.
With one last Sindarin blessing, Glorfindel left them for a bit of privacy.
Ignoring his sensitive skin, Bilbo buried himself against his dwarf's warm chest.
Thorin was murmuring his own prayers but in Khuzdul. Far too exhausted to follow, he still understood that they were praises for Mahal and Yavanna's mercies.
Bilbo reached up with his uninjured arm to trace Thorin's beard with his fingers.
His love kissed his palm, "Amrâlimê."
"I'm alive," Bilbo remarked, a bit awed by the realisation.
Thorin smiled, though his eyes held grief, "Yes. Yes, you are."
Bilbo smiled back despite feeling as though a breeze could snuff him out, "We survived."
Thorin pressed their brows together in a gentle gesture of intimacy, "Yes, Muhudel, blessing of all blessings, Lukhudel, light of all lights. Gimlelul, my brightest star, we all survived, because of you."
Bilbo began to cry, "I was so scared. Thorin, I was so afraid."
His dwarf rocked him tenderly and began singing as Bilbo let himself break, trusting Thorin would keep him safe.
Surviving did not unwrite the fear, healing did not erase the pain, and feeling weak was a trial all its own.
But love, at least, was a freedom and a comfort.
Thorin's love was a shelter that Bilbo willfully surrendered to. If tonight, a fussy little hobbit from the Shire had no strength left to offer, Thorin would love him just the same.
oOo
AN: Comments, elephant seals, or reactions to this story, pretty please?