Work Text:
Thorin had changed, and not for the good. Bilbo had done all he could to break him out of his gold stupor, but instead of coming back to him, his beloved King had developed dragon-like traits. He had scarlet wings, horns poked out from his mess of dark curls, and his eyes were gold. And he had forgotten. He had forgotten the others, he had forgotten their journey, and he had forgotten Bilbo. That is, until he saw him weeping in fear that Thorin may never get over the dragon-sickness. He saw that his tears glinted in the light of the torches, reflecting the gold, and he thought that this strange little creature amongst his troves must have the ability to cry liquid crystal.
Bilbo had been unaware of his presence until he found himself pinned under strong hands. He whimpered, sure that he was about to die.
”I’m sorry — I’m sorry! I was going to leave, and I didn’t take anything, I swear!” he sobbed, tears rolling down his cheeks. One of the hands lifted from his arm, brushing against his cheek. He opened his eyes and saw Thorin with a tear on his finger, examining it as if it were a diamond.
“Can you make more?” he demanded.
“Wh-what?” Bilbo squeaked. Thorin huffed, glaring at him with his golden eyes that were so different from the sapphires Bilbo missed.
“Can you make more liquid crystal?” he asked. The Hobbit sniffled.
“You want me to cry?” He was confused, but it was keeping him alive and it meant a reason to be near Thorin, to try to get him back. The draconic king nodded briskly.
“Well,” Bilbo said, trying to formulate some sort of plan. “I— I can, but the only way I can do that is if I’m very happy, if I’m sad, or if I’m in pain. If you let me go, I’ll come back to you every day and you can make me happy or sad and I’ll cry for you.” Thorin sat back, considering.
“Fine,” he agreed. “But if you don’t come back, I’ll hunt you and kill you.” Bilbo sucked in his cheeks. He seemed to get this threat a lot.
“Fair enough,” he murmured. Thorin looked at him expectantly, so he slowly got up. Unable to bear looking at him like this anymore, Bilbo fled.
The little creature kept his promise. He was back the next day. Thorin thought he looked almost like a toy, with how small and fragile he looked. He couldn’t break him, otherwise he would lose the liquid crystal.
“Cry for me,” he told him, sitting in front of him cross-legged.
“I told you,” the creature said, “I can’t do it on command.”
“But you cried yesterday.”
“Yesterday I was sad.”
“Why?” Thorin tilted his head. The man lowered his head.
“I was grieving my lover,” he said quietly. “He’s gone and I fear he won’t return.” Thorin didn’t care. He just wanted the crystal. He had a little jar for them, for when the creature cried.
“Then what shall I do to make you shed your crystal tears?” he queried.
“Tell me a story that will make me laugh, or tell me a story that will break my heart.” Thorin folded his wings along his back in thought.
“Once there were two people that were very in love. But they came from different worlds. One was a great king, and the other was a quiet gardener from far away.” Already the the small man was tearing up, like he knew this story and he knew how it ended.
“Their cultures and their people would not allow their love, for it was scandalous for a king to love a gardener that was not even of his people. The king visited the gardener one night, in secret, and then remained hidden during the day. He left the next night, but the king’s people found out and they punished him.
“They did not punish him the way you might expect, by killing him, but instead killing his beloved gardener and presenting him with his body. The king cried and cried until he had no tears, and then buried his gardener. But he stood for so long over his grave that an oak tree sprouted and grew until he was stuck inside the tree above his lover’s grave.”
“Oh!” the fragile creature said. “That’s a horrible story!” The story had worked, and now he was crying his shimmery tears. Thorin nodded grimly and captured the falling tears in a jar.
“You may go now,” he said. “Come back tomorrow.” The little creature looked hurt, as if he had expected something else. He got to his feet, wiping his eyes, and whimpered, “Goodbye, Ghivashel.” This confused Thorin. What did that word even mean? But he couldn’t ask the creature, because he had disappeared among the dunes of gold.
He came back every day, just like he promised, and Thorin began to enjoy making up the stories to tell the creature, who said he was a Hobbit. Sometimes he made him laugh so hard that he cried, and sometimes he made his heart hurt. Every time the Hobbit left, he whispered “Goodbye, Ghivashel” and vanished. His jar was almost full. When it hit the torchlight right, it made a kaleidescope of colours that ricocheted across the room. But after a while, Thorin ran out of stories. The Hobbit came one day and sat with him like he always did, but Thorin couldn’t think of anything to tell him about.
“Well?” the Hobbit chirped. Thorin thought. There was one way he hadn’t tried. He had said that to make him cry, he needed to make him very happy, very sad, or put him in…pain. He turned to observe the Hobbit, and his honey-coloured curls, and his fragile-looking skin, like he could be broken as easily as a porcelain cup. He gazed up at him with eyes that glittered with blue innocence. Thorin placed his clawed hand on his chest.
“What are you doing?” the Hobbit asked. Thorin pressed him down. “Thorin?” Fear crept into his voice. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t struggle, only watched with sadness in his eyes. Thorin didn’t want to kill him, only hurt him. The Hobbit didn’t struggle, as if he trusted him. Why? Why would he trust him? Thorin, frustrated, dug his claws into his chest. The Hobbit winced, trying to pull away, but it only tore his skin more. He didn’t cry, but looked up at Thorin in horror, placing his small hands on his.
“Ghivashel, please,” he pleaded quietly, his blood dripping now. His tone was soft and quiet, his brow furrowed. “Please remember.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Thorin replied, frustrated. He removed his claws from his chest. Tears of pain began to drip down the Hobbit’s cheeks. Or were they of sadness?
“It means ‘Treasure of Treasures,’” he whispered. “It’s what you called me before you left me.” Thorin froze. Those eyes. Those blue eyes, and those soft honey curls. Of course.
“Bilbo.” The Hobbit let out a sob of relief, a tired smile creasing his face.“You’re hurt. I hurt you — where are the others?” Already he could feel the draconic features falling away. His wings disappeared, the horns fell away.
“I’m okay,” Bilbo murmured. “They’re on the other side of the castle.”
“You’re bleeding,” Thorin protested, scooping his Hobbit into his arms. Blood poured through his hands. He must have cut somewhere important.
“I’m f-fine, really,” Bilbo insisted, but pain lined his face and Thorin knew full well that he wasn’t. He marched down from the gold pile they were sitting on, making his way as quickly as he could to the other side of the stone building with Bilbo cradled in his arms.
“Where’s Oin?” he barked at the first dwarf he saw, who happened to be Bofur.
“You —“ he stammered.
“Where is he?” Bilbo’s blood now stained his tunic and the Hobbit had fallen unconscious. His usually rosy face was pale. Bofur pointed down the hall and Thorin kept walking. The healer was organising his herbs in the small infirmary when the king walked in and charged him with Bilbo’s fragile form. He looked startled to see Thorin but quickly pretended otherwise. Clearing his throat, he asked, “What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Thorin hissed. “Just help him.” Oin nodded and took down some herbs, as well as some gauze. He pounded the herbs into a paste, then opened Bilbo’s shirt to apply the salve. He used sap to adhere the gauze to the wound, using enough to make sure that the blood didn’t seep through. Bilbo didn’t move an inch. Thorin paced back and forth, never mind the blood on his clothes.
“That’s about all I can do,” Oin said quietly after a while. “He lost quite a bit of blood. We’ll just have to wait and see.” Thorin nodded solemnly.
“Thank you,” he whispered. Oin bobbed his head and left. The Dwarven king sat beside the little bed, taking the Hobbit’s small, soft hand in his rough, calloused ones. How could he have done this to him? He didn’t really remember most of the time he was sick. Did he think that he was trying to steal? Bilbo suddenly sighed, cracking his eyes open and snapping Thorin out of his thoughts. He slowly pulled himself up to sit, but barely had time to clasp his shirt before Thorin had him in his arms, kissing his face and hair.
“Ghivashel — I’m sorry — I don’t know what happened but I’m sorry.” Bilbo curled against him, smiling softly.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “I’m a little bit miffed, but it wasn’t your fault. I did save you, after all.” Thorin held the Hobbit close to him as if afraid that he was going to be stolen, running his fingers through his soft golden curls. Bilbo’s body was trembling slightly, and he was cold.
“Come,” Thorin said, taking his hand. “Let’s get you a warm cloak.” Bilbo was more than happy to accept.