Chapter Text
Bilbo wouldn’t have heard it except the battlefield was so silent.
Ping.
His ear caught the tinny sound of brass hitting iron. He looked, and there, by his feet. His last waistcoat button rested inside a discarded helmet.
“Oh, bother.”
He fingered the stray threads worn to the point of disintegration, then stooped to collect the button. Eventually there would be time and material to sew it back on. Maybe to create a new waistcoat altogether. That would be… did dwarves know how to design waistcoats?
They’d finished burying their dead that morning. The bodies of the orcs and wolves they’d burned, and the smell lingered despite the breeze rolling off the mountains. A gust stirred and billowed his cloak, then slinked through the holes in his clothes and traced his skin with an icy touch.
It was silly, coming out here. Indulging a foolish hope that the battlefield wouldn’t look as bad as it did just after. Maybe he’d see signs of healing. A green sprout, or bird tweeting.
He didn’t need his eyes to tell him it was too early for that. He could feel it in the earth beneath his feet. Smothered, acrid, and dark. Healing would come slowly.
“Bilbo!” Bofur’s voice carried across the burnt field. He ran up with armor clattering. “There you are. Got everyone worried.”
“Has something changed? Is Thorin…”
Bofur shook his head, then leaned over to catch his breath. “Lunch.”
“I’m sorry?” Because Bofur couldn’t have said lunch, or any of the other five meals Bilbo was regularly missing. His stomach grumbled at the reminder.
“You missed lunch,” Bofur said with a grin. “Dain’s wagons caught up with his army. We’re eating like kings!”
Bilbo exhaled one of the many breaths he’d been holding. “Well, that’s something. But kingly banquets might be a little ways off.”
“There’s talk of a feast to celebrate.”
The wind picked up again, and Bilbo tugged at the ends of his cloak. “As wonderful as that sounds, we’ve been rationing two meals a day, and thin fare at that. Did Dain bring enough to sustain us for the winter?”
“Eh, well. I don’t rightly know. But there’ll be hunting when the game comes back.”
“Comes back? To what?” At Bofur’s puzzled expression, Bilbo glanced around them. “Nothing grows here, and won’t for months.”
Bofur’s face fell, and Bilbo realized that he hadn’t heard his friend sound quite so joyous in weeks. Joy that he’d blown out as easily as wind extinguishes a candle. Well done, indeed.
Bilbo cleared his throat, then nudged Bofur’s arm. “Maybe one feast would be worth the expense to our stores. We do have occasion to celebrate.”
They all needed more cheer. Emotional sustenance, really. And Thorin would — well, not Thorin. Someone would keep an eye on their food supply, surely. Whoever was in charge. Balin?
They skirted the edge of camp to avoid the mass of Dain’s army. Dwarves were packed together, either huddled around fire pits or shoulder to shoulder in healing tents. The Men stayed in the ruins of Dale, and the Elves camped along the road to the Greenwood, each tending to their own wounded and generally keeping their distance.
When they reached the first of the Company’s three tents, Bofur patted Bilbo on the shoulder. “Think I’ll bother Dwalin for a bit. He’s been a right bear, stuck in bed with his leg.”
Most of the Company had been fortunate to escape the battle with only bumps, bruises, and small cuts. Dwalin had lost an eye in addition to his broken leg. Nori had suffered a vicious stab through his left hand, yet it hadn’t kept the ex-thief from disappearing on a regular basis. And Thorin and his nephews…
Bilbo exhaled steadily through his nose. He listened as Bofur burst through the entrance with an enthusiastic greeting and Dwalin growled in return. Then he moved on to the second tent.
Everything appeared silent and still. Bilbo peaked through the flap, and Tauriel looked up from her position at Kili’s side.
“How is he?” Bilbo asked as he entered.
“Much the same.” Tauriel returned to cleaning Kili’s wound, a deep slice through his stomach. Although Kili had not lost much blood, fever had set in. His skin appeared flushed, and he jerked erratically in his sleep, as if he couldn’t get comfortable.
Tauriel spread a strange green paste over the stitched wound. The skin was so red and puffy that it seemed to throb with Kili’s accelerated heartbeat. Bilbo removed the cloth from Kili’s forehead, dipped it in a waiting basin of cool water, squeezed out the excess and reapplied it, then did the same with the cloth behind Kili’s neck. Tauriel gave him a small smile in thanks.
The tent’s other occupant was currently unattended. Bilbo stepped to Fili’s bedside with a renewed ache at the older prince’s greyish pallor. He had wounds to both arms and his leg, but it was the blow to his head that kept him asleep. Oin checked him thrice a day yet could only shake his head. Fili would wake when he was ready, or not at all.
Bilbo turned to leave and nearly collided with Ori as he rushed through the tent flap.
“Mr. Baggins!” Ori bowed in apology before he returned to Fili’s side. He carried an empty helmet like a bowl — or perhaps not empty. Once seated, he withdrew a handful of herbs from the helmet and began to snap and crush them over Fili’s chest.
“Slowly, Master Ori,” Tauriel cautioned. “Not all at once.”
“Oh. Right.” Ori hesitated before setting the helmet aside, then fidgeted with his hands.
Bilbo approached the youngest member of their Company. Ori had shown remarkable composure throughout the quest — until the healing dwarves had brought in Fili. He’d broken down at the mere sight of the grievously wounded prince. No one had thought any less of him.
But only moments later, Ori had placed himself at Fili’s side. He’d questioned Oin about every wound and mark on Fili’s body, then begged for something to do. When Tauriel brought up the herbs of awakening, a medicinal technique used by the elves, Ori had devoted himself to learning as much as he could, true to his scholarly nature.
Bilbo placed his hand on the fidgeting dwarf’s shoulder. “Remember to talk to him, Ori. Oin said that he can hear you.”
“I’ve run out of things to say.”
“Anything will do. The dark must be frightening.”
“Fili is never frightened. Of anything.”
Bilbo held back a smile at Ori’s insistence. “Even if that’s true, I’m sure he appreciates your company. Tell him about the herbs you’ve collected.”
“That’s more likely to keep him asleep than wake him,” Ori said wryly, and both Bilbo and Tauriel chuckled at the flash of humor.
“Well, a story then,” Bilbo said. “You must know many of those.”
Ori returned his gaze to Fili, never able to look away from the prince for long. He let out a shuddering breath.
“Do you know what stories are for, Ori?” When the scribe shook his head, Bilbo leaned closer. “To help us believe things are possible. That’s what Fili needs right now.”
He watched as Ori pulled himself together. The scribe took a few deep breaths, then squared his shoulders. Ori had survived the battle without any physical wounds but hardly unscathed. His wounds were deeper. They all carried wounds like that, but Ori was so young.
“I know one about a prince turned into a frog,” Ori said. “I think he’s heard it before.”
“Something familiar. Sounds perfect.” Bilbo left as Ori began the tale, sharing a parting glance with Tauriel.
His feet felt heavy as he approached the third tent. He’d done so many times over the past two days, always resulting in the same disappointment. But then he heard a slight rustling. His heart jumped, and he pulled back the tent flap half expecting to see —
Oin was bustling around his patient, unable to hear Bilbo without his horn. His fingers moved with practiced skill, poking and prodding. Thorin did not stir.
“I thought…” Somehow Bilbo’s hand drifted into his pocket, and he gripped his last brass button. Then he moved to the other side of Thorin’s bed and waited.
Thorin had several wounds, but the one to his right side was undoubtably the worst. The weapon had hacked through his armor and left a jagged tear in his skin, and the rough edges of the blade had shredded the flesh underneath. Had the blow landed any closer to the center of Thorin’s chest, he would have been killed. Bilbo was trying not to think about that, and to remember very hard that he hadn’t been at the same time.
The muscles around the wound quivered. The broken skin had been stitched, but between black threads oozed a thin, light red trail.
“He still bleeds,” Oin said.
Bilbo looked up with a start. Oin never offered any diagnosis of his patients without prompting. The healer often forgot to speak at all except for short commands to his helpers. “The battle was two days ago. Shouldn’t it have stopped by now?”
Oin squinted at Bilbo, then began redressing Thorin’s wound. “It’s not knitting the way it should.”
Bilbo waited for Oin to say more. To explain how he would fix it. He watched as the fabric bandages shrouded skin that was still stained with blood. “What should we do?”
Oin covered the King with a threadbare blanket, one of the few that could be had. Then he rounded the bed and tugged Bilbo aside. “Little, Master Baggins. I’m sorry. We make him as comfortable as we can.”
“Comfort, yes. I mean, of course. But what are you doing to heal…” His voice faded as Oin’s meaning took hold. “No. I’m sorry, but no. That’s not… You said it was severe but…”
“It’s beyond my abilities to heal.” Oin looked at Bilbo with an odd expression, and his business-like mien softened. “Perhaps it is the King’s age, or deterioration from the journey. It should heal but doesn’t. Something beyond my reach still bleeds, and if it does not stop, he will pass.”
Bilbo swallowed several times before he could speak. The tent seemed unnaturally quiet. “How long?”
“A day. Maybe two.”
Sharp, sudden pain tore into him like a ghostly gale. It stole everything, his heart, his lungs, his sight. His knees buckled.
“Master Baggins!”
Oin caught his arm, and Bilbo shook as he leaned on Oin’s support. He concentrated on breathing, so focused that he almost didn’t hear the next words spoken.
“Master Baggins indeed,” said a weak voice behind them. “You have upset my burglar, Master Oin.”
Bilbo whirled. Thorin lay in the same position, but with half-lidded eyes and lips cracked and parted. His fingers twitched, and Bilbo was at his side in a moment. He grasped the flask of water from the nearby table and held it to Thorin’s lips. The King lifted his head slightly, but much of the water dribbled around his mouth.
Bilbo pulled his last clean handkerchief from his pocket, intent on catching every drop while avoiding Thorin’s blank stare. “There. Better. Oin says you’re being quite uncooperative as a patient. I can’t imagine why I’m surprised, given how stubborn you’ve proven yourself on this entire journey.”
Something shifted in Thorin’s face that might have been a soft smile. It cleaved Bilbo to his core.
“Now that you’re awake,” he said, straightening out the creases in Thorin’s blanket, “if you’d put some effort into getting better, it would be much appreciated. Even hobbits aren’t so lazy as to stay in bed when there’s work to be done. Really, it’s —”
“I am dying, Master Baggins.”
Bilbo stopped, his eyes fixed on the deep wrinkles that wouldn't smooth out. Thorin asked Oin to give them a moment and the other dwarf departed, and then Thorin’s hand touched his and Bilbo had to look up. Had to grip Thorin’s hand tight.
“I am dying,” Thorin repeated. “Even if I had not heard Oin’s words, I would know. I feel it.”
Bilbo shook his head. “Your wound isn’t so… We’ll get someone else to look at it. Surely…”
“My burglar.” Thorin squeezed his hand, and Bilbo’s heart thumped. “There are some things that even a hobbit cannot fix.” Thorin paused. “But some things must be, before… I find myself with the rare opportunity to set things right, and I struggle to find the words.”
Bilbo had some sense of where this was going. “It’s not important. We don’t have to speak of it, not now —”
“Yes. Now.” Thorin strained forward, only to groan and fall back again. “I owe you an apology.”
“Blast it, Thorin, if you tear your stitches, I will be extremely cross with you.”
“More than one, apparently. But I speak of my most grievous offense, my attack on your being. Per tradition, I would offer my life as forfeit. But I’m afraid my words will have to suffice.”
“Really, there is no need —”
“There is every need.” Thorin’s eyes closed, and the grief was palatable in his voice. “My madness, and your brave attempts to stop it, have proven you more loyal to our cause than any dwarf, even their king. Especially their king.”
“I betrayed you,” Bilbo’s voice cracked.
“You betrayed a madman. The King owes you his kingdom and his life. I only wish it were a life of more days, that I could see such a debt repaid.”
“You could. I’ll find Gandalf, and Tauriel will help, and…”
Thorin smiled. Bilbo did not think the dwarf king could look so gentle and sweet. “Peace, Bilbo. I would not have you troubled.”
“Troubled.” The word tumbled around in Bilbo’s mind. He frowned. “Troubled? As if I have not been troubled this entire time, watching after you and an entire company of dwarves.”
“Bilbo —”
“It is you who needs to be troubled, Thorin Oakenshield. With getting better.” The numbness that had enveloped his mind cleared under a wave of indignation. Thorin spoke as if the quest was complete, ending with the dragon vanquished and battle won. But Erebor was not yet saved. Their hardest task lay ahead of them. All of them. “You are not leaving us with the work of rebuilding your kingdom. Troubled, indeed. And if you try to order me not to help —”
“Have I ever successfully ordered you to —”
“I am going to find Gandalf, and Tauriel, and any other healers I can muster, and we’ll just see about all this ridiculous…” Bilbo waved his hands. He would not say the word, would not even think it. “… business.”
He pushed back the tears stinging his eyes and stormed out of the tent.
Confounded dwarves. Confounded Thorin Oakenshield.
Well, if there was one thing hobbits did well, better than burgling and answering riddles and deceiving dragons, it was setting up a comfortable home.
Bilbo had work to do.