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“Stay strong.”
Thorin’s voice was as hoarse and as exhausted as he felt. He dragged himself against the solid ice best he could. He shivered against the brutal cold, wounds aching and bleeding as he tried to make his way forward.
Thorin grunted, inching closer to a gravely still Bilbo Baggins who laid in a pool of his own crimson blood. Fear grasped his heart, his joints burned in protest, the throbbing pain in his foot holding him back from his friend. Through his blurry vision and despite his broken bones, Thorin crawled closer and closer to his small savior. Each step was like a mile.
“Bilbo!”
Thorin cried as he approached. The shock of Bilbo’s pale body, bloodied chest, and shallow breathing made Thorin’s heart race. The pain of seeing his friend so injured hurt worse than any blade, shivering in the cold, eyes blinking slowly, hands around the wound in his chest.
“Bilbo.” Thorin said again—softer this time. He couldn’t be bothered to hide the quiver in his voice, “You little fool.”
Thorin examined the hobbit’s body carefully. Bilbo’s skin was clammy—his shaggy hair stuck to his forehead—and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were pink and puffy, dark hues of sickly red bled through his coat and spilled onto the ice. A pool of sticky, red blood stained the cloth of Thorin’s pants. Thorin’s breath caught in his throat as Bilbo let out the faintest whine.
“Thorin?” he whimpered.
“I’m here.” Thorin answered. He slipped his arm behind Bilbo’s knees and his other—carefully as he could—curled around the hobbit’s back.
Bilbo gasped in pain. Thorin winced.
He couldn’t stand to hurt Bilbo more than he already had. Thorin could barely contain his rage as he stood there and watched, utterly helpless, as Bilbo had jumped in front of him. Azog’s blade cut right through the hobbit’s chest rather than Thorin’s, giving him the chance to strike his enemy through the chest.
Thorin had won the battle but—
No! He wouldn’t lose his friend.
With a new wave of determination, he gathered Bilbo into his arms. It would hurt—Thorin was sure—but even with Bilbo’s wheezing and Thorin’s wounded foot, he had to carry them to safety.
He had to. They could take the pain.
“T—Thorin.” Bilbo croaked. Thorin ignored him, he needed to focus. Thorin drew in a deep breath and gathered all the strength he had left. He shifted his weight to his sore knees, holding Bilbo close to his chest.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, knees shaking under their combined weight. Every nerve in his body screamed in protest, waves of nausea hit him all at once. Thorin saw spots in his vision, dizzy with the intense pain that increased the longer he tried to stand.
Bilbo groaned weakly. The pitiful cry made Thorin’s heart wrench.
Suddenly, something warm and wet was dripping down Thorin’s hands and forearms, plopping down onto the pool of blood beneath them. The pool grew and grew until it spread in every direction, poisoning the water, tinting the snow.
Thorin’s heart sunk, they were running out of time. He dragged his uninjured foot forward, eyes on his own feet as to not slip-on blood or ice. But as Thorin brought the next foot forward, pain jolted up his entire leg.
His knees buckled and hit the ice, causing little cracks beneath him. Bilbo yelped as they fell.
“I’m sorry.” Thorin whispered. He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, the rising sun painting the sky in a soft orange. The shame of failure crept into his heart, he couldn’t even stand to look at Bilbo—to see the bright light in his eyes fade—and know that it was his fault. The halfling who belonged in his peaceful home with his people and his comforts, growing and nurturing the earth instead of fading away on a battlefield. Dying for a cause that wasn’t his own.
The smallest, most innocent creature that Thorin couldn’t protect. His brave little hobbit—he didn’t deserve this. How could Thorin possibly say goodbye?
“Thorin, Thorin, please.” Bilbo pleaded beneath him.
Drawing in a ragged breath, Thorin forced himself to look. Bilbo’s eyes were filled with tears and Thorin’s heart broke. The howling wind and the bite of frost against him, and the burning pain of his shredded flesh were felt like nothing when Bilbo looked at him like that.
“I—I’m sorry.” Thorin whispered again, “I’m sorry that I led you into such peril.”
“I was glad to have shared in your perils, Thorin.” Bilbo whispered, voice shaking. “It’s more than any Baggins deserves.”
How foolish Bilbo was to speak about what he deserves. He deserved peace and happiness, not a painful death. And Thorin wanted nothing more than to trade places with him.
His forehead fell gently against Bilbo’s and all he could do was hold him. The hot frustration and bitter helplessness bled out of him and Thorin was only left with grief.
“Please forgive me.” Thorin pled.
“I do, Thorin, I forgive you.” Bilbo replied softly.
Thorin held him tighter, still cradling his head, fingers racking through shaggy, tangled hair, stringy against his trembling fingers. He pressed his cheek against Bilbos, feeling the wet tears and blood smudge against his skin and mix with Bilbo’s.
“Thorin,” Bilbo whispered against Thorin’s ear, he listened carefully, hanging onto every syllable that left the halfling’s mouth.
“I love you.” Bilbo confessed.
Thorin’s breath left him. His heart ached with longing and sorrow. Something hidden between the lines had finally surfaced, like recalling the name of a word that had been on the tip of his tongue. The unspoken thing between them finally had name.
“I know.” Thorin uttered, voice broken.
“I loved you,” Bilbo coughed, “for so long. I—I wanted to tell you.”
“I know, I know.” Thorin replied, “I love you too.”
“You do?”
“I love you,” Thorin said, holding Bilbo tight, “I promise.”
Thorin heard the smile in Bilbo’s voice, “Thorin.” He sighed, “If only people were as strong and noble as you, the world would be a better place. Go to your mountain and your people and restore your home. Be an extraordinary king.”
“Oh, Bilbo, what will become of me without you?” Thorin said.
But the hobbit had become unnaturally still. The little beating of his heart gone silent; his shallow breath had halted. He peeled himself away from Bilbo enough to look in his empty, open eyes. Snowflakes caught on his eyelashes; a tear rolled down his face. He’d felt that stillness far too many times in his life—he didn’t need to feel a pulse to know that his burglar was gone from the world.
The anguish was numbing, like a heavy weight in Thorin’s chest. All Thorin could do was look at him—too weak to so much as brush the hair from Bilbo’s forehead. So, he knelt on the ice, holding his hobbit’s body and wishing he could fall over and die with him. The thought of going on and living a life without Bilbo felt as absurd as jumping off a cliff and expecting to fly.
And suddenly, Thorin felt like a child again, frightened and hiding from the thunder rolling in the sky. His grandfather’s decapitated head flashed through his mind—Thorin remembered the helplessness and anger he’d felt then. And when he’d watched his city burn, his people wander, and his father disappear.
Then the cold grief dissipated, and fierce fury took its place.
Thorin’s tore his eyes away from Bilbo’s cold face. He glanced around the battlefield; he watched the snow fall on the tragic scene, Azog’s body several feet away.
What more could he take from him?
Hot rage boiled up Thorin’s chest, he gritted his teeth and held Bilbo so tight the Hobbit would have cried in pain if he were still alive. His body shook with pure fury, unadulterated and bitter.
Thorin couldn’t hold it in for a second.
He screamed, so loud and filled with wrath and misery. His raw voice burned his throat and echoed off the mountain.