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His head was throbbing, as if all of his worst hangovers combined into one horrendous force hell bent on splitting his skull in two. The sky above was bright and stung his eyes as he struggled into a sitting position. His helmet lay not too far away, a rather large dent caving in one side, and he reached up to feel his head in the corresponding area. Sure enough, there was a large bump that stung like fire when questioning fingers brushed against it.
He stared down at his fingers, covered in flakes of rust and realized that it must have bled. A noise behind him caught him off guard, and he fumbled for Sting before turning to face the enemy. A man, probably from Esgaroth, came into view. He stared at the ground around him as if he was searching for something and Bilbo wondered if the battle was over.
“Pardon me.” Bilbo’s voice seemed gravely to his ears, “What news do you have of the battle?”
The man’s head snapped up, and he visibly sighed when he caught sight of him, “Are you Master Baggins?” Bilbo nodded and the man smiled grimly, “Good. I am glad to have found you so quickly. Your presence is required.”
That did not sound good, that did not sound good at all. What could his presence possibly be needed for? As far as the dwarves were concerned, he was gone. A sharp stab of guilt and sadness swept through his mind. He could still feel that broad hand closing around his neck and the incredible strength it must have taken to lift and hold him over the edge of the wall. Hot crystal-blue eyes brimming with anger and confusion and betrayal, filled his vision and the echo of shouted words bounced around his head, “Get down! Go now and know that no love of mine goes with you.”
Grief knotted in the back of his throat and his eyes stung at the hate he had seen in Thorin Oakenshield’s gaze and the threat he had felt in his grip. He still didn’t understand how the dwarf who had held him so tenderly and spoken so softly had become such a monster. More accurately, he simply didn’t want to think about it. Belatedly, he realized the man was speaking to him, and he had to apologize and request that he repeat his words.
“I had asked about your injuries.” The man replied. He was close enough now that Bilbo could see the haze across his dark eyes, distancing himself from the horrors that took place here.
“I am a bit bruised, and I received a pretty nasty blow to the head despite my helm.” He replied, taking the offered hand and standing. He wasn’t horribly steady on his feet, so he sheathed Sting and allowed the man to gingerly lift him.
From the higher vantage point, Bilbo could see the wide sprawl of the battlefield. Innumerable bodies of dead orcs littered the ground, and elves and men and dwarves still searched for fallen kit and kin. Everything stained black and dark red from the blood and gore surrounding them. It made Bilbo sick to his stomach and he looked away, his gaze finding the tents set up near the border of Dale. Standing in front of one tent was the familiar shape of Gandalf, the grey wizard’s face lighting up briefly as he noticed their approach.
The man placed him on his feet next to the wizard, who looked down at him with a small smile that did not reach his infinitely sad eyes, “Bilbo Baggins. I am glad to see you. Come, you are the only one he wishes to see.”
Bilbo didn’t need to be told who “he” was, and dread settled like a stone in his stomach. Thorin had wanted nothing to do with him, had made that perfectly clear when he insisted that he never wanted to lay eyes on the hobbit again. Could that have changed now that he witnessed the very thing he had tried to prevent?
Gandalf pushed aside the flap of the tent and called out, “Thorin, I have brought him.”
Bilbo swallowed, bracing himself mentally for whatever was about to transpire before stepping beyond the threshold. There, amid a pile of furs lay Thorin, his entire chest swathed in white linen stained red. His face was pale and his hair caked with filth, but his eyes lit up and he offered a small smile, “Bilbo, melekûnuh, kudhuzur nanginguh.”
The endearments once spoken so softly were broken now and Bilbo choked back a sob as he moved numbly towards Thorin’s bedside. Tears spilled from his eyes unbidden as he collapsed to his knees, taking the dwarf’s hand as it reached for him and kissing his palm before pressing it to his cheek. His voice was barely more than a wet murmur, “I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere until you are healed.”
“My love, my hobbit, I have betrayed you. I am sorry for being so blinded by my greed that I did not see the truth and goodwill behind your actions. I would take back my words and deeds at the gate if I could, but life does not work that way.” Bilbo was shaking his head, but Thorin wasn’t finished, “I have committed the ultimate transgression in the eyes of my people by lifting my hand against you, and there is nothing I can do to sufficiently atone for my failure.”
Tears slipped silently down Thorin’s cheeks, disappearing into his beard and hair. Bilbo moved to perch on the edge of the makeshift bed, leaning over and pressing his forehead to his dwarf’s without putting any pressure on his wounds. His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth, but he pushed the words out anyways, “That was not you on the gate, your mind had been usurped by the dragon sickness. You know that now just as well as everyone else.”
“I still threatened to kill you.” Thorin replied wretchedly, averting his gaze, “You should fear me, should hate me for what I did to you. How you can be here with me – I don’t understand it.”
“You are my dwarf – Melhekhuh.” Bilbo replied with a watery smile, fumbling over the pronunciation a little, “You are not the dwarf that stood up there and threatened me. You are here with me now, and that is all that matters.”
“Bilbo…” the king started before Bilbo cut him off.
“No. If it is forgiveness you seek, then you have it, and I wont hear another word about it until you are better.” He stated as firmly as his shaking voice would allow him. Bilbo sat back and cupped his dwarf’s face between his dirty palms, waiting for Thorin to meet his gaze again before continuing, “I love you, Thorin. I always will.”
“I am sorry, Bilbo.” Thorin whispered brokenly, fresh tears trailing down his face, “I’m afraid my time here is limited. I just needed to see your face one last time, to tell you I love you and to kiss you goodbye.”
It took him a moment for the admission to sink in, for it to really hit him that Thorin was dying more quickly than he anticipated. A quick glance down at his bandaged chest showed that the bloodstains had spread significantly since he had walked in. Fear gripped him, the same panicked terror that sent him to face the pale orc so long ago now.
He was going to lose the one person he loved with all of his being, all of his soul, and there was nothing he could do about it. He would no longer wake up to his dwarf beside him, would have no one to cook for or sit with for a peaceful smoke. They were never going to see each other again and something shouted with indignation that this could not be the end.
“I want you to promise me something.” Bilbo whispered, shifting to place a hand over Thorin’s heart and press their foreheads together again.
“Anything for you, beloved.” Thorin responded fervently, covering the hand over his heart with one palm, while the other cupped Bilbo’s jaw. Their eyes locked, and he could see the light dimming behind his dwarf’s lake-blue gaze.
“Promise me that you will wait for me on the other side. Where ever you go, I will find you, so wait for me.” It sounded more pleading and desperate than he really wanted it to, but there was nothing for it. Bilbo followed the light pull of Thorin’s fingers and kissed his dwarf with everything he had. It was wet and sloppy, but filled to the brim with unspoken love and regret and promise.
Thorin smiled up at him, his voice nothing more than a cracked whisper, “I promise I will wait for you, âzyungâluh, for as long as it takes. I love you Bilbo Baggins, with everything that I am, was and will ever be. Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal.”
Bilbo could not translate the last few words, but their meaning rang loud and clear as Thorin’s eyes slid shut and the hand against his cheek went slack and fell away. His heart clenched painfully and a broken sound slipped past his lips. Bilbo placed kisses to his king’s forehead, eyelids, cheeks, and lips and whispered a traditional hobbit blessing before collapsing against Thorin’s chest and sobbing.
He wasn’t sure how long he had taken to exhaust his ability and will to cry, but when he finally lifted his head he had formed a new determination. He was going to do everything he could with the rest of this life so he would have plenty of stories for Thorin. They would meet again, he was sure of it, and he let that conviction fill him up and fuel his movements as he went to face the world again.