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Bilbo could only make out one or two harsh words of Khuzdûl amongst the din outside. He had only meant to join Thorin briefly that the evening, inquire after his health and maybe borrow the book he had mentioned earlier. But upon his arrival at the Royal Apartments, Dwalin had quickly ushered him in and slammed the doors before pushing him up to the 2nd floor.
“What is the meaning of this?” He sputtered. Dawlin gave him no answer and simply walked back out into the hall. Moving towards the window that overlooked the exterior courtyard, Bilbo gasped when he saw the crowd of Blacklocks below. They were clamoring closer to the steps, writhing in anger and barely contained violence.He had heard of a growing discontent among these dwarrow; that a large group had fled wretched conditions in the south and turned to Erebor for refuge. What had greeted them was safety, but a lack of work, as the recovery of the great Mountain was still underway and a King going through an extended recovery. Bilbo had also heard whispers amongst the company, primarily from their resident Spymaster, that the leader of this refugee group was actually a Dwarf Lord. Bilbo worried that this agitation, which he had seen growing, was being instigated by this dwarf in some crude attempt to destabilize and overthrow the King.
His fingers gripped the window frame spasmodically. He had spoken to some of these dwarves. The rare ones who spoke Westeron and were willing to speak to him at all. They were desperate to make a living to send back to their families, to make a home, to simply survive. He could only too easily recall a similar group of dwarrow at Bag End. Full of hope and determination, but guarded by their previous misfortunes. It angered him immensely to think someone might be taking advantage of the situation these dwarves found themselves in.
Bilbo was interrupted from his thoughts when the door slammed open behind him. He turned on his heel, a long curl whipping across his cheek as he stopped. Thorin stood before him in resplendent Durin blue. Silver threads offset the endless sea of azure and complimented the hair which hung so wildly about his harassed face.
“Bilbo,” he breathed, all at once sounding relieved, exhausted and angry. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“But I am, and so are they,” he gestured out of the glass, “What is going on?”
“That rukhs shirimund! That would-be-usurper!” The King thundered, crossing the room and planting his hands firmly upon the sill to look out over the sea of faces. “Have no fear Master Baggins,” he turned now to the hobbit, whose heart fluttered uncomfortably, “I’ve called the Royal Guard and they will soon be upon them,” he said smugly. “Keep up your courage for a few minutes longer.”
“The Guard?” A vexation rose up in Bilbo that he had only ever before felt at Dwalin’s arrival on his doorstep more than a year ago. “I’m not afraid! Thorin these people are hungry, and they’ve lost their homes. I’m not afraid of them, I feel for them!”
“You would have him take my throne?”
“You would have them suffer as Durin folk have done?” Bilbo snapped as Thorin turned back to the window. “He may have brought these people here, but I have no doubt he took advantage of their plight. He saw the potential of their desperation, the use of their anger, and brought them here not to save them Thorin, but if the rumors are true, to use them against you. They are your people now Thorin. Go to them.” He entreated. Slowly, Thorin looked back at his burglar. At his honeyed curls which rested so gently on the shoulders of the green waistcoat Dori had sewn for him. This brave, selfless creature who did not belong in Erebor, but whom Thorin could never imagine Erebor without again.
“Stay here.” He spoke softly, aching to reach out and take a curl; but he dropped his hand before he could give in to temptation and left the room. Bilbo rushed to the window as he heard Dwalin and the King argue in the foyer. It was only a moment before he saw Thorin emerge below. The Dwarf Lord strode out the doors to the edge of the small stone platform and crossed his arms. He cut a sharp and foreboding figure, despite the exhaustion Bilbo new lay under the thick cloak. The war had been won, but new battles were fought everyday in the Guild halls, to clear more mines, and open new trade routes. Yet, Bilbo new he would come out of this fight victorious too.
The dwarrow had surged forward in anticipation and Bilbo could not shake the feeling of dread that washed over him. It crawled up his veins like ice, indescribably heavy and cold. He wanted nothing more than to be next to Thorin like he had been on the journey. The hobbit scanned the crowd again and froze when he saw someone reach down for a rock. He didn’t realize he was running down the stairs until he reached Dwalin, and promptly shoved him to the side.
“Stop!” Bilbo shouted, darting around in front of Thorin. The King took a took step back, veiling his surprise. For a moment, the noise quieted. They knew him. The Burglar, The Barrel-Rider, The Riddle-Solver. “Please, stop! Think of what you’re doing! Go home, the Guard are coming. You’ll have an answer to your grievances, but it takes time. Erebor has not been rebuilt in a day.”
A dwarrow with midnight black hair and an intricately braided beard rallied forward, shouting a challenge. He was dressed finer than the other workers and Bilbo’s fists clenched in rage at this instigator. Thorin shouted in response from behind him and the crowded roared in displeasure, their previous quiet now forgotten.
“Leave Bilbo, this is no place for you.” Thorin took his arm, gentle even in his demands as he turned him toward the door. Dwalin was standing, axes at the ready as Bilbo protested, pulling back.
“No! I’ve faced down orcs and wargs for you Thorin Oakenshield, I will not be taken inside like a fauntling!” He pulled back on his arm when the Blacklock that had picked up the stone took that moment to throw it. He had meant to hit Thorin, but Bilbo had tried again to step in front of the King. The rock struck him soundly in the temple.
Bilbo didn’t feel pain, but realized he couldn’t hear for a heart stopping moment. He could see fear on Thorin’s that he’d not seen for months, but then his vision left him completely as he fell to the ground.
“Bilbo!” Thorin knelt down next to him. He drew his hand up to touch the bleeding wound on the Hobbits temple, but he realized his hand was trembling and he drew it away quickly. He flew up and out toward the crowd.
“Are you satisfied?” He shouted, taking a step forward towards the silent group. “You came here for me, so kill me, if that’s what you want!” He threw his arms open but at that moment a group of Ereborian guards entered the crowd and began to violently disperse those who had not run. Quickly turning away, he knelt by Bilbo as Dwalin covered his back as a precaution.
“Bilbo? Bilbo, please…” Thorin tried again, but his eyes would not open and blood soaked his golden curls. With a curse, he gently eased his arms under the hobbit’s shoulders and knees and lifted him to his chest before carrying him inside.