Chapter Text
The world was ending around him.
Bilbo didn’t know where to look or which way to go and time seemed to jump from one clearly defined moment to the next; the moments in between blurred beyond recognition with no clear way of telling how much time had passed.
One moment he was warning Thorin and his kin about Azog’s attack from the North. In the next Fíli was lying dead at their feet, Kíli was chasing after the orcs, and Thorin was going after Kíli. In the moment after that, a swarm of bats were flying overhead and blocking the sky. Then an orc hit him over the head and the world faded to black.
Some unknown amount of time later found him slowly becoming aware of vague sounds in the distance; his vision was dark, there were stars dancing in his eyes, and for a second, his mind was blank, unable to think or recall anything before he opened his eyes and blinked a few times. The sky was light gray with hints of sun leaking through the clouds, there were blurry black spots flying around. From this distance, they were small, but somehow looked majestic. Dazedly, Bilbo realized what they were. “The eagles… the eagles are–” Thorin. He sat up abruptly as everything came back to him; the battle, the orcs, Fíli, everything.
Picking up Sting, Bilbo stood up as fast as his sore body would allow. As he looked around Ravenhill he could vaguely recall which direction he had seen Thorin go and he was about run that way when —over one of the broken stone walls— he noticed the figure of the dwarven king standing on the frozen river, looking at the battlefield down below. Behind Thorin was Azog’s corpse, the river under him turning black from the blood seeping into it. For some reason, instead of feeling relieved Bilbo’s stomach sank and he wasted no time in running down the stairs, the sound of his feet hitting the stone echoing in his ears like a drum.
He almost slipped when his feet touched the ice but he cared not; Thorin’s body was hunched over and he looked like he would fall any second now. He sheathed Sting and ran just fast enough that when Thorin tumbled over, Bilbo was there to catch him.
His breath hitched and he almost dropped Thorin as he recoiled in shock at the wound on the dwarf’s chest; it was bloody, sticky, and so red.
“Bilbo,” Thorin gasped, looking at him with relief. “I-I’m glad that you are–“
“Thorin. Please don’t talk, I need to get you to a healer o-or Óin–“
“Bilbo, stop. This is far as I–“ He coughed and blood spilled onto his beard. “–as far as I go. My journey ends here. I wish to part from you in friendship.“
“No, Thorin. Just – just no. You won’t die here. I-I won’t let you die here. You are going to live.”
He began dragging Thorin off the frozen river, making sure to keep pressure on Thorin’s wound as he did so. The dwarf was much heavier than anything he’d ever carried before, but if it meant Thorin would live, then the struggle would be worth it.
Halfway off the river, Thorin’s breaths began getting shallower and he began blinking slowly, as if fighting sleep. Bilbo’s soothing words and promises that he would be fine seemed to be the only thing keeping his dwarf awake.
Despite his words, Bilbo was beginning to panic and tears were beginning to leak through his eyes at the knowledge that there was a very big chance that Thorin might die.
Knowing he would never get Thorin to a healer in time on his own, he took a deep breath and shouted. “HELP! SOMEONE– HELP! THE KING IS ALIVE! HE NEEDS HELP!” In the moment that followed, he sent up a silent prayer that someone would hear his cries for help. He was just about to shout for help again when he heard a noise somewhere close; he held his breath, listening closely.
After a few tense seconds the tall and familiar form of the wizard that had made him go on this insane adventure in the first place appeared, his staff held at the ready as his eyes scanned the area for danger.
“Oh thank Eru,” Bilbo breathed, near collapsing in relief at the sight of him. “Gandalf!”
“Bilbo!” Gandalf lowered his staff in surprise. “Where were you?”
“Thorin is badly injured and he needs help now.” The words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush. He stopped and took a breath before continuing, his tone near begging. “Could you– I-I don’t know, convince one of the Elves to heal him or something?”
“That you have to ask for such a thing is a near insult, my dear Bilbo.” He hurried to help Bilbo support the dwarf’s weight and get them all off of the frozen river. “Come, we’ll take Thorin to safety.”
They managed to set a slow but steady pace, though Bilbo couldn’t help but briefly wonder if Gandalf was more injured or exhausted than he appeared to be; he was certain he was shouldering most of the dwarf’s weight on his own. When Thorin lost consciousness and the weight of him suddenly increased, he only grew more certain that Gandalf was not supporting the dwarf as much as he should be able to. He supposed any help was better than none, without it, Bilbo was certain his knees would have buckled under the weight of an unconscious dwarf already.
As they got away from Ravenhill and were headed towards the mountain, they ran into the rest of the Company; each of which gave some exclamation of surprise or relief upon finding them.
“What happened,” Dwalin demanded. He eyed them a moment before he scowled at Gandalf, “Why aren’t you supporting more of the weight.”
“That doesn’t matter. As far as what happened… it was Azog, I think.” Bilbo frowed a little. “I didn’t see the fight, but Azog is dead –not that it matters– and Thorin was stabbed through the chest. He needs help now.”
Dwalin didn’t need to be told twice, he quickly came over and shifted Thorin’s weight onto himself before carefully lifting him into his arms. Before anyone had time to speak, he was rushing back towards the mountain, an annoyed Óin and slightly exasperated Balin hurrying after him.
Bilbo felt his stomach clench but tried to ignore it as he followed at a more manageable pace. Bofur fell into step with him almost immediately and they walked in silence for a few minutes before Bilbo spoke quietly. “…Look, I–“
“No need to apologize, Bilbo.” Bofur interrupted kindly. “You only did what a true friend would have. If anything, we should be the ones apologizing really. Thorin went too far there and we just… stood there as he tried to kill you.” He grimaced, his expression suddenly apprehensive as he continued. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to leave and never see us again.”
Bilbo looked at him as if he had gone mad. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it immediately afterwards. He wanted to refute everything Bofur had just said. They were his friends, and in a way, he considered them his family. But no matter how much he tried, the words would not come out of his mouth; he simply nodded and Bofur looked at him with a worried expression, but otherwise said nothing.
Despite that, however, Bilbo could not help the words that came out of his mouth. “But…” He began, “how can you not blame me? I gave the Arkenstone after all, if it hadn’t been for me, this battle wouldn’t have hap–“
“For your information, the battle would have happened regardless Bilbo; the orcs were already on their way and the Arkenstone would not have stopped them. The only difference would have been that —had he obtained the Arkenstone— Thorin would have not broken out of the gold sickness and the battle might not have turned in our favor...” Gandalf trailed off, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed together as if they were smoking an imaginary pipe.
Bilbo didn’t feel very reassured but the words loosened the knot in his stomach that had been ever present since he’d set foot into Dale the night he bargained for the Arkenstone. He was about to speak when Bofur beat him to it.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” The dwarf asked.
“Hm? Well, if Thorin had the Arkenstone, he would not have gone to rally the other dwarves. In which case they would have lost–“
“Oi!”
“–and we might not be standing where we are right now. In fact, we might not be standing at all… Regardless, the battle was most certainly not your fault, my dear Bilbo.”
The words almost pacified Bilbo. “Well, even so… if I hadn’t given the Arkenstone away, Thorin wouldn’t have been stabbed and Fíli wouldn’t... he wouldn’t have-” He swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment. “Where’s Kíli?” He asked as he opened his eyes and looked at Bofur as if afraid of what he was going to hear, hardly noticing as Gandalf moved past them to catch up to Dwalin.
“You haven’t seen him either?”
“What do you mean I haven’t– He isn’t with you?”
Bofur shook his head. “Haven’t seen him since he and the others went up to Ravenhill.”
“The last time I saw him, he went to chase… the orcs…” Bilbo’s voice faltered as his eyes widened in realization.
Bofur paled. “Oh no. Oh Mahal, please no.”
The rest of the journey was spent in a tense silence, as they were nearing the camp, Bilbo hurried to catch up to the others. He reached them just as Gandalf spoke. “We are going to need elven healers.” Bilbo could almost see the gears inside the dwarves’ heads grind to a halt— except for Óin, who did not seem to have heard Gandalf. The already tense silence became suffocating and Dwalin looked at the wizard,
“Gandalf…”
“No, this is not a matter to be discussed, Master Dwalin. If you want an opportunity to save Thorin, then you are going to have to put aside your hatred of them and allow the elves to help. I’m sure if I talk to Thranduil he will–“
“No, he won’t. Whatever you think he’ll do, he won’t. That bastard can shove his–“
“Are you not listening? No matter your personal feelings about elves, you need their help. Not only for Thorin, but also to rebuild Erebor— or do you think fresh food will fall from the sky and Dale will be fixed between one day and the next?”
Bilbo thought Gandalf’s words harsh, but at least it got Dwalin to listen, although he did not seem very happy about it. He kept alternating between glaring at nothing in particular in front of him and glaring at the wizard. None of the other Dwarves seemed happy either but they had clearly decided not to get involved in the discussion.
Not long afterwards they came across the now empty battlefield. Debris and corpses of all races were strewn about everywhere, and puddles and pools of blood could be found randomly across the field. Bilbo swallowed back the bile that rose up his throat as they walked to Dale.
By the time they got there, Thorin was as pale as the snow and his breaths were almost unnoticeable. The city was even more destroyed than the last time Bilbo had seen it. It had been ravaged by war, however, despite this, Bard and his men had managed to set a camp for the wounded all on their own. As they walked further into the camp, the survivors who saw them immediately moved aside, making way; there were many whispers that followed them.
“He’s alive.”
“Oakenshield is alive.”
“So is the burglar.”
Bilbo and the rest of the Company ignored the whispers as they walked.
As soon as the healers took notice of who was the dwarf in Dwalin’s arms, Thorin was whisked away by several of them, much to the former’s chagrin. Óin reassured Dwalin that the king would be fine and followed after the other healers into a tent.
Gandalf looked around and sighed, and as Bilbo tried to follow his line of sight, he noticed that there were no elven healers here.
“I shall go speak to Thranduil.” Gandalf said.
“I’m going with you.”
“Absolutely not Bilbo. There is large chance that you were wounded during the battle and you need to stay here and let yourself be healed.”
“Gandalf, I feel perfectly fine.”
“Even so. Look at them, Bilbo.”
Bilbo looked at the remaining members of the Company. Some of them had sat down on the ground while others were walking around and talking to random dwarves or men. Dwalin, however, was outside of Thorin’s tent, waiting anxiously for news with Balin beside him trying to calm him down.
“They need you.” Gandalf said softly; Bilbo looked at him.
“Alright. Alright. But what can I do?”
“Be with them. If you want to, talk to them. That’s all they need right now, your company.” Gandalf paused and looked around, “You!” He said, getting the attention of a woman tending to a sitting dwarf, “This hobbit is injured, get him to a tent and find someone to inspect his wounds.” The woman examined Bilbo for a moment before nodding and leading him away. Bilbo wanted to insist that he felt fine, but one warning look from Gandalf dissuaded him from that notion.
The tent was quite small and upon entering, Bilbo sat on the edge of a rather thin bed and waited there. Not soon after, a healer came in and to the burglar’s surprise, it was an elven one. For a while, she worked wordlessly and Bilbo dared not say a word. She inspected his head, his face, and much to his horror, insisted that he take off his clothes, and that if he didn’t do it, she would. Bilbo blocked what happened afterwards out of his mind; though he distinctly remembered her shocked expression at the Mithril shirt. Soon it was decided that he only had a nasty cut on his forehead and a few bruises and not much else. The elf applied some salve on the bruises and after he put his clothes back on, she put more salve on his forehead before covering it with a bandage and that was that.
Bilbo wanted to go out, but the elf insisted that he rest, if only for a couple of hours. After she left, he was left alone, feeling rather jittery and ill at ease, knowing he wouldn’t stop feeling that way until he learned of both Thorin’s and Kíli’s fate. He was also wondering how Gandalf’s talk with Thranduil had gone, though, considering the healer was an elf, Bilbo supposed the wizard had convinced him to help, but for how long?
After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a few minutes, Gandalf entered his tent. “Bilbo,” he greeted, “I’m glad to see that you are alright.” He sighed, sitting down at a nearby chair. “I spoke with Thranduil.”
“…And?”
“He has agreed to aid us… for a time, that is. He said that he cannot remain here forever and if Thorin does not wake in a week, he shall assume that he will not wake at all and leave Erebor along with the rest of his people.” Gandalf said.
Bilbo stayed silent, what was he supposed to say? He was ashamed he could almost understand Thranduil’s reasoning. Almost.
He swallowed and looked at the wizard. “Any news on Kíli’s whereabouts?”
Gandalf said nothing for a moment before he sighed, and suddenly he seemed older than he had a few minutes ago. “I was hoping you would not ask that.”
Bilbo’s stomach sunk.
“He is dead... his corpse was brought by an elf– Tauriel, I believe is her name. She said she fought alongside him during the battle, and according to her, he was slayed by Bolg.”
Bilbo had gone very pale, his eyes had widened and he looked as if he had stopped breathing,
“…Are you quite alright, Bilbo?” Gandalf asked gently.
“No.” Bilbo whispered, his voice cracking, “No, I’m not.” Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes and he let them fall as his shoulders shook with silent sobs. Gandalf comforted him by rubbing his back and, eventually, Bilbo began wiping his tears away, “It’s just– How did it come to this?” He hiccupped, desperate to know.
Gandalf said nothing in response.