Chapter Text
In the end, the ravens return.
They circle over dark red puddles that colour the ice blacker than the sky above Ravenhill.
The smell of blood, smoke and death hangs so heavy in the air that it is ever present, no matter where one decides to go, the battle and the burning stench of it haunts one all the way into the once again stormed city of Dale. There is no place that could make anyone forget what has happened here in the last long hours.
They all seem like outcasts from the world, thrust into their own lonely exile, soaked in blood and soot. For many years after, Bilbo would remember some scenes. After the end or the beginning? Who would still know how to tell the difference so clearly?
The world is a trembling and dying, a deafening roar devoid of mercy. The battlefield knows no solace, no mercy or accommodation. The sky clears under smoke and dust, but still remains veiled in a mist of the damp smells of death. Even victory can do nothing to alter this, and if black would be a taste, it would be that of metal and stone.
He no longer knows how he got here, wherever this here is. It is no longer on Ravenhill, and it is a long way down to Dale. Someone must have carried him, because he no longer remembers even a single step that his feet took.
He is, however, undoubtedly awake, even if he is unable to see, the scene before him refusing to become clear.
He cannot trust his hearing either, the sounds return only hesitantly and accompanied by a muffled hissing, as if he were slowly approaching the inside of a cave.
Someone kneels in front of him and grabs him by the shoulders. A face comes into his field of vision, but he does not recognize it, hears nothing and is surprised that he is able to breathe at all, feeling as if he is deep underwater.
Blood drips past his right eye, and he catches it in his curled fingers, not fully sure if it is actually his hands he is looking at, his palms, which he turns and which are covered in black dirt and bright red blood that begins to mix into a new hideous colour.
"Give him a moment. He's just in shock."
He doesn't know who the voice belongs to, doesn't know if he's meant, doesn't know where or when he is. He's not with Thorin. That is all he knows. It is the only realization that comes to him, that suddenly is flushed in like driftwood on a gravelly riverbank.
He knows because he can no longer feel him. His hair that he touched when he leaned over him, Thorin's hand that held his and the cold skin of his forehead when he dared to kiss it because he thought it might be the only thing he could still share with him.
Suddenly everything is there again. The scene snaps back like the string of a bow, and he flinches as if the arrow had hit him right in his chest.
„Thorin!"
He yells and exhales his name, jumps up from the shattered piece of wall he was sitting on and dashes forward, straight into Bofur's arms, which stop him and force him to sit back down.
"Shhh, it's alright. Calm down, it's... you're bleeding, Bilbo.“
Now he can feel his own trembling, the cold that instantly envelops him, as if he had been pushed into the lake of ice at the top of Ravenhill.
"It's started bleeding again. Why is it bleeding again?"
He cannot answer Bofur's question, even though it sounds as if he is speaking more to himself. Blood is running into his eyes, and he closes them, blinks and feels a piece of rough fabric being pressed to his temple. There is still no pain, only the shivering and the cold, and he wonders when he will feel it, if the hesitation will make it worse.
"Thorin," he whispers now, making it into a fearful question.
Something in Bofur's expression changes, but for a moment he is too fascinated by how unharmed and alive Bofur looks. The only tiny bit of life in his field of vision. He himself barely feels alive or even present.
"He's alive."
That is Gandalf. It is only now that Bilbo notices him, catches sight of him on his left, his eyes fixed on the elegant tent to which he had been taken a day, a year, or a lifetime ago, and to which he had given the Arkenstone to Thranduil. In exchange for Thorin's debt and to prevent a war that in the end had assumed dimensions that no one had been able to imagine.
But for the moment, Gandalf's words are all that really come through to him.
"Thorin is alive?" he repeats frantically, yet afraid he will not ask quickly enough.
"It is still so," is the heavy answer that hits him just as hard and makes him stagger backwards. It is only thanks to Bofur that he does not fall backwards, because he holds him, holds him tight, even as everything collapses and the present becomes terribly real and is overrun by everything that is past, until he can no longer believe that there can even be any form of future.
Gandalf turns to them finally. And Bilbo notices how unusually tired he looks, as if he too had lost his strength and eternalness on the battlefield.
"Don't worry, Bilbo."
This is Bofur, and he smiles softly with tears in the corners of his eyes, but he smiles even though Bilbo wonders how such a thing can still be possible. After all this...
"He'll make it. Of course he'll make it.“
How can you be so sure? He wants to ask and yet cannot, keeps looking from Bofur to Gandalf and shaking his head, unsure whether he is denying or perhaps still hoping, hoping that Bofur may be right. Even if the memory is now catching up with him. Thorin's cold forehead that he could feel beneath his lips, his rasping breath, the words that had taken all his effort to speak and that he will never forget. Even if he became the oldest Hobbit Middle-earth had ever seen, even then he would not.
The world loses its meaning. For a long time there is nothing left that makes any sense to Bilbo. None of this feels like a victory. How can it even be a victory if Thorin will not witness it? For a brief moment he feels ashamed of the thought, which though dedicated to someone else, feels so selfish. Tears now trickle down his cheeks that he would not have thought he could spare, as he suddenly feels so empty, so worn out and tired, that he can hardly believe that he himself is still here.
They let him see him. After hours that pass like minutes or maybe days. The sun has already set, bleeding its last light into the cracked sky, which slowly turns a dark blue. As much as Bilbo has fought to see Thorin, even one last time maybe, he now fears this moment. Surely, it is an irrational fear that remains elusive to himself, but he is unable to suppress it, no matter how hard he tries, as he enters the tent with numb steps at Gandalf's side.
The moment seems so quiet to him, so concentrated, as if everything trivial were fading into the void. Even the loud, horrific sounds brought by the aftershock of the battle have now almost dulled to muffled sounds. Yet it is treacherous. Outside, people are still fighting on the battlefield, fighting for the lives of the wounded, whose cries are all too quickly silenced forever in these hours.
In the candlelight, the shadows are maturing into huge threatening figures that tremblingly seem glued to the walls and yet are stretching out their claws in all directions. He strides past them and all at once feels so abandoned and lonely that the feeling grows into a physical pain that weighs on his chest and almost knocks him down.
Although he can make out the voices vaguely and tentatively around him, the silence is nevertheless spread over everything. He doesn't feel like himself, feels more like an uninvolved audience watching himself as he stands by Thorin's bed, which is more like a makeshift camp. As if no one expects him to remain here much longer. The pain in Bilbo's chest now turns into a tremor that grips him almost crushingly and makes him tremble so much that he is barely able to stretch out his hand when he sees Thorin like this.
He forces himself to stay still, pulling his hand back only to prevent himself from sinking to his knees, from surrendering to the overwhelming feeling that wants to push him to the ground. He bites his tongue until he tastes blood and can still not prevent a sob from leaving his lips.
Thorin's face is colourless, not pale, or grey, but lifeless, even the wound that stretches across his right eye holds no red, seems bloodless. Bilbo hopes so much that it will simply remain a scar that Thorin will retain. No matter how deep, no matter how noticeable. In any case, there is nothing to disfigure Thorin's face.
Please let it become a scar, he pleads silently, not knowing to whom his plea is addressed, whether there is anything left to pray to, to whom his request could be voiced, his pleading and begging.
As if there could be anything worthwhile at all....
Bilbo wants to touch him, but doesn't have the heart to. There's this absurd thought that if he does or doesn't, he might make some difference. As if there's a spell over these things.
Or a curse.
He can't hear him breathe, even though he has now leaned down to him, his hands hidden under his coat, because he still doesn't dare, refuses to touch him. There is only the silence that surrounds them both and makes sure that they can be close, which leaves them alone even though they are not.
His glance wanders over him. Very slowly his eyes dare to do what his hands do not. Thorin has been stripped of his meagre armour, which was essentially none, and has proved so useless that Bilbo would gladly have directed his rage against these lifeless thing. Or even against Thorin's reckless boldness, his selflessness and only too eagerly against his stubbornness and the wretched heroism that is able to save everyone else but not himself.
His fingertips are touching the cold mithril chainmail under his coat, and he would have liked to tear it off his body and throw it to the ground in a rage.
How could you give me such a gift and not protect yourself?
Had there really been nothing in that mountain, filled with gold and celestial things, to protect the rightful king from an Orc blade? Really nothing among all these treasures? And apparently this is in fact the case, and therefore for Bilbo they are no treasures, nothing to be desired, rather just useless rubbish that only causes disaster to those who crave it.
Did you give me the only thing of value among all the gold and silver? Why did you give it to me of all people? The only thing capable of preserving life?
It is as if this thought finally breaks the spell. Now he can feel the tears running down his cheeks. They drip down onto Thorin's face and finally — finally he dares to reach out and touch him. Tenderly he lets his fingers wander over Thorin's cheekbone, just the hint of a touch, hardly more than a soft exhalation.
There is still warmth that he can feel through all the cold. Even if Thorin's peaceful face frightens him — he does not want it peaceful, because death usually rules the sovereign interpretation over peaceful after such a battle with countless injuries, and he does not want anything peaceful here. Even Thorin's rage, his hatred of the Elves, his unsurpassable stubbornness, yes, even his greed, maddened by dragon sickness, would now be more dear to Bilbo than that silent, peaceful and surrendering expression on Thorin's face.
Between his fingers he cradles the small silver jewel that adorns one of Thorin's braided pigtails. Trembling, he carefully turns it back and forth, examining the engraved runes without touching Thorin's hair or even brushing a single strand of it. Somehow, without asking and being told, he had understood at some point during their long journey that, for reasons he could not explain, the dwarves attach great importance to their hair and beards.
The thought causes Bilbo to smile, but he is unable to hold it in, a sob overcomes him, and he covers his mouth, he does not want to be loud, not here and now. One last time he lets his gaze wander over Thorin. Over his closed eyes, the grey strands in his long hair which is fanned wildly around his head. He will not touch it until Thorin has opened his eyes again. He makes this one promise for them both, whether Thorin can hear it or not.
"Do you hear, you stubborn foolish dwarf?"
He would love to shout it, loud enough to wake Thorin, but he is afraid of losing his temper completely should he dare to break this silence so mercilessly.
Instead, he allows himself one more moment to look at Thorin's face. The closed eyes, behind which lies the endless blue of an early winter's day, and fear fills him like a shiver that he might never see it again.
Someone pulls him away by his shoulder, and he knows it is Gandalf without needing to turn or tear his gaze away from Thorin. He draws on the sight for as long as he can, focussing on Thorin's chest as it rises and falls very slightly, just a hint of life, too lightweight and fragile to build his hope on.
But Bilbo still counts on it, lays the scanty remaining faith down at the feet of that very hour, and hopes and fears that it will not all be for nothing. If it should be... what else would this cruelly torn world have to offer him?
The fabric of the tent falls shut behind him in a thunderous sound, ending the silence. Back are the wails of pain, the whimpering and dying, the praying and losing. Suddenly he is alone.
So alone.
To be continued...