Chapter Text
Bilbo Baggins woke to the now-familiar lurch in his stomach and barely made it to the chamber pot before losing what little he'd managed to eat the previous evening. This was the third week of such mornings, and he was beginning to feel genuinely concerned.
He sat back on his heels, breathing carefully through his nose, and caught sight of himself in the polished silver mirror Thorin had commissioned for their chambers. He looked wan, with dark circles under his eyes that hadn't been there a month ago. His curls were disheveled, and there was a grayish tinge to his normally rosy complexion.
"Hobbits never vomit. This is preposterous," he muttered, pulling himself up and reaching for the washbasin.
The thing was, he felt fine otherwise. Well, mostly fine. There was an odd tenderness to certain parts of his body, and he'd been unaccountably emotional lately—he'd actually cried last week when Bofur had given him a carved wooden pipe as a gift, much to both their embarrassment. But ill? He didn't feel ill, exactly. Just... off.
Thorin emerged from the bedchamber proper, already dressed in his day robes, his face creasing with concern when he saw Bilbo's pallor.
"Again?" he asked quietly, moving to rest a hand on Bilbo's shoulder.
"I'm fine," Bilbo said automatically, then ruined it by swaying slightly. Thorin's grip tightened, steadying him.
"You're not fine. You haven't been fine for weeks." There was frustration in Thorin's voice, but it was born of worry rather than anger. "I'm sending for Óin."
"No, really—" Bilbo started, but Thorin was already striding toward the door, his jaw set in that particular way that meant arguing would be futile.