Chapter Text
The dwarves knew something had gone terribly wrong when the passageway began glowing brightly, and the whole mountain began to quake beneath their heavy boots. They heard a tremendous crash, as the dragon in the heart of the mountain roared back into consciousness.
It took Thorin a fraction of a second to bolt down the dark passageway, dread knotting inside his chest, the weight of it feeling heavier the further he hurried deeper into the mountain. Their burglar was inside the mountain with a furious monster! The poor hobbit wouldn’t stand a chance against the ferocious dragon that was Smaug if it came down to any sort of combat. No one could stand a chance, really. Thorin could hear the others shouting and running behind him, but paid them no mind.
He nearly fell off the platform at the end of the hallway when he reached it. He stopped there, glancing around the treasury, piles of gold and silver stacked in high, rolling hills. He walked down a set of stairs slowly, careful not to trip over a misplaced coin or jewel. The treasury was alight, a massive hole blown in the stone entrance above making the treasure twinkle and glow with an eerie, enchanting light. The dragon must have plowed his way out, causing the crash they’d heard earlier. But that mattered little now.
“Bilbo!” Thorin yelled, descending into the hills of gold and silver and delicate jewels. He slipped and stumbled as he searched, under arches, behind columns. The rest of the company, by then, had made their way down into the treasury as well, taking no time to admire the treasure, instead searching for the missing Hobbit.
Calls of “Bilbo!” echoed across the hall, bouncing off of stone walls, distorting and reverberating, sending sound into every corner of the large space. None heard any sort of response, any sort of indication that Bilbo had heard their cries.
Thorin couldn’t control his panic as he searched desperately for Bilbo. He left no mountain of treasure unchecked, no passageway unsearched. And the longer he searched, the more fear welled up in his heart. He couldn’t lose Bilbo. Not like this. If Bilbo were to die like this, it would be entirely Thorin’s fault. And Thorin wasn’t sure he would be able to live with that death on his hands.
He heard the gentlest of whimpers as he inspected what once was an armory. He turned toward the noise, searching further and further in that direction.
It was Bilbo. Bilbo, pressed into a corner, curled up tightly into a ball, his entire body trembling.
“Bilbo?” Thorin didn’t want to scare the Hobbit further, speaking softly. He kneeled, reaching out a hand. He pulled Bilbo toward him, and then almost screamed at what he saw.
His face was dark across one side, flesh singed black and burgundy, skin and muscle peeling away in odd, wet-looking clumps. His left eye was blank, seemingly an empty black socket, his lips pulled taut on one side, blood staining over his teeth and down his chin. Where his hair was once golden curls was now burned beyond recognition, large chunks of hair and flesh missing, other parts singed almost down to the irritated, angrily reddened scalp. His clothes were in ragged tatters, revealing just as tattered and burned flesh beneath. Thorin held his breath, trying very desperately to keep himself from retching at the sight. Tears of absolute shock and horror wetted his cheeks, trailing down into his beard as he picked Bilbo up as gently as he could, turning and running back the way he came.
The rest of the company was aghast at the sight. Once they’d set Bilbo down on a pile of their own cloaks in what was once the throne room, Oin immediately set to work with the few medical supplies they had at hand, sterilizing and bandaging what he could.
“Will he live?” asked Thorin, afraid of what the answer could be. Oin looked up at Thorin, a frown drawing his face.
“It’s not likely,” Oin replied bluntly.
“What can we do?” asked Ori.
It hit Thorin like an arrow to the chest.
“Thranduil,” he murmured, staring down at the Hobbit, who was mostly covered up with bandages.
“What?” Dwalin growled. “What could that tree-shagger do—?”
“He’s survived dragon fire. We must call for his aid. He’ll know how to fix this,” Thorin said hurriedly, not caring in that moment all of the wrongs Thranduil had done to his people, and to Thorin personally. He couldn’t just watch Bilbo die! He ran a nervous hand through his tangled hair as he thought about what to do, his thoughts in absolute disarray. “Balin!”
“I’ll find a raven,” the dwarf said, hurrying back toward the passageway.
“I need water, quickly. And more clean cloth,” Oin demanded as he inspected Bilbo’s burns, a tight-lipped grimace on his face.
The dwarves were quickly in action. Bombur handed Oin several skins of water, unable to look down at the tattered little hobbit lying on the ground before him. He backed off quickly, retreating with his brothers.
Thorin, on the other hand, couldn’t tear his eyes away from Bilbo. This was his fault. Entirely his fault, Thorin thought, heart aching. Thorin had sent Bilbo to his death. This had all been Thorin’s doing. If Thorin hadn’t been so demanding, perhaps Bilbo would still be safe.
Thorin could hardly hear as the other dwarves yelled something about how the dragon had fallen from the sky, how Lake-town was ablaze off in the distance. He kept his eyes on what was left of their burglar, memorizing every scald, every protruding bone, every missing piece of skin and muscle. He couldn’t believe that this being in front of him was Bilbo. They had talked what felt like mere moments ago, outside the mountain. Bilbo had been whole then. Bilbo had smiled at Thorin, had pressed a kiss to his lips, had promised to come back safely. And yet Bilbo was now just barely holding onto his life.
Thorin did not consider himself a religious dwarf. He had lost faith in the Valar long ago, when Smaug first came into Erebor, and at the Battle of Moria, when he saw that vile orc rend his Grandfather’s head from his shoulders, when his father disappeared. He never understood how the Valar could be so cruel. How could Mahal allow his children to die in droves as he had? How could any being of power simply stand by and watch everything that had made up Thorin’s world completely crumble around him?
But this moment was different. Thorin still had doubts in the Valar, but he had nothing to lose then. He crouched at Bilbo’s side, taking his not-burned hand in his own, and prayed.
Maybe this time Mahal would actually listen.