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Gandalf ushered Bilbo inside the tent. 'Hail, Thorin. I have brought him.'
There on a bed of folded canvas lay Thorin Oakenshield, wounded with many wounds. His dented armour and chipped axe lay beside him.
He looked up as Bilbo came up beside him. His body was still and he moved only his mouth and eyes.
'Farewell, Good Thief.' He said softly. 'I go now to the halls of waiting to sit beside my fathers, until the world is renewed.'
Bilbo grew concerned, for he suspected this was no ordinary goodbye.
'Since I leave now all gold and silver, and go where it is of little worth, I wish to part in friendship from you… and I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate.'
Bilbo settled in Thorin’s deathbed and knelt beside him. He picked up Thorin’s head and laid it tenderly in his lap. Thorin closed his eyes while Bilbo stroked the rusty trails of hair away from his face and neck, and picked away the leaves mashed into his arms.
Bilbo cleared his throat and touched Thorin’s cheek gently. 'This has been a bitter adventure, but I don’t wish it to end like this. Not a mountain of gold could amend this. Yet I am glad I have shared…'
At the pause, Thorin opened his eyes and looked up at the small, upside down man in his vision. Tears fell freely from Bilbo’s eyes and dripped upon Thorin’s hairline.
'...I am glad to have shared in these perils. It is more than any Baggins deserved.' Bilbo cried.
'No! There is more good in you than you know. Some courage and some wisdom. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, the world would be a merrier place.'
And Bilbo wept harder, face twisted into blind sorrow. He wept for Thorin’s sturdy face, his noble soul, his cursed birthright; he wept for his sonorous songs and his rough kindness; for every moment.
Thorin reached a trembling arm and took Bilbo’s hand. It harrowed him to see the merry burglar so afflicted. He would rather go alone and cold than with the warmth of Bilbo’s grief.
'I must diminish. Go back to your armchair, plant your trees, and watch them grow...'
'No!' Bilbo cried. 'I will take you back to my armchair, alright? And you’ll watch my trees grow too. We’ll plant my acorn. And you can wash my dishes and break all of them, and eat all my good cheese and seed cakes. And I’ll buy you the best rum in the shire so you know what real alcohol tastes like.'
Thorin did not respond, but looked up in silence with a sad smile cooling his eyes.
Bilbo leaned down and hugged Thorin’s head with his whole body. He was all sweat and blood and tears, and the mucky smell of mountain glade ponds. 'This journey isn’t over, not without you.' He whispered.
'My dear burglar…' Thorin cupped a gentle hand around Bilbo’s meager form.
Bilbo held Thorin’s face and kissed his war-wrecked cheek.
'My dear Bilbo, sad or merry I must leave it now.' A tear of sweat was caught in the wrinkles of Thorin’s smile, and Bilbo could not bear it any longer.
He turned away and went by himself beyond the tents past the trampled soils of the battlefield, into the quiet fragile green of the hill. He sat alone wrapped in a blanket, and wept until his eyes were red and his voice hoarse.
'A mercy it is,' he said at last to himself, 'that I woke when I did. I am glad that we parted in… in friendship.'
The clouds had begun to gather in the East, bringing with them colder rains. The war camps had shown slow, steady activity. There had been no commotion nor indication of any kind that Thorin’s condition had changed.
'Poor, good Thorin. You are a fool Bilbo Baggins!' He chastised himself. 'You are a fool for starting that whole great mess with the stone, and bringing about battle despite your efforts for peace and quiet. But what could I have done to avert all this? I suppose I cannot blame myself, no matter how rancorous.'
Bilbo was dressed in a strange sort of melancholy. For not the first time, he wished he had never been involved in this odious adventure. And yet, he would do it all over again, exactly as it had been, just to see them all alive and well, unaware of the shadow of death that followed the thirteen since the beginnings of their journey.
When Bilbo returned to Thorin’s tent, he was remarkably, still alive. In fact, he seemed just as far from death’s doorstep as when he had left. And even despite Thorin’s unfaltering acceptance, death seemed to delay. Eventually the party realized that Thorin had a chance at recovery in spire of the numerous wounds marring his body.
The news that the King under the Mountain might live was, expectedly, received with contempt and hope alike. With the mountain all but lost, there was confusion as to how the great leaders would resolve the conflict, if they could accomplish this in good fortune.
Of the thirteen dwarves and one hobbit, there were eleven dwarves and one hobbit remaining. They all feared to wait upon Thorin’s recovery, should he not survive. While the other dwarves hung about his tent in twos or threes, Bilbo found himself avoiding Thorin for the next few days.
In the meantime, Bilbo had plenty of time to catch up on the events he missed while passed out.
The Eagles had long had suspicion of the goblins’ mustering; from their watchfulness the movements in the mountains could not be altogether hid. So they too had gathered in great numbers, under the great Eagle of the Misty Mountains; and at length smelling battle from afar they had come speeding down the gale in the nick of time. They it was who dislodged the goblins from the mountain-slopes, casting them over precipices, or driving them down shrieking and bewildered among their foes. It was not long before they had freed the Lonely Mountain, and elves and men on either side of the valley could come at last to the help of the battle below.
But even with the Eagles they were still outnumbered. In that last hour Beorn himself had appeared—no one knew how or from where. He came alone, and in bear’s shape; and he seemed to have grown almost to giant- size in his wrath.
The roar of his voice was like drums and guns; and he tossed wolves and goblins from his path like straws and feathers. He fell upon their rear, and broke like a clap of thunder through the ring. The dwarves were making a stand still about their lords upon a low rounded hill. Then Beorn stooped and lifted Thorin, who had fallen pierced with spears, and bore him out of the fray.
Swiftly he returned and his wrath was redoubled, so that nothing could withstand him, and no weapon seemed to bite upon him. He scattered the bodyguard, and pulled down Bolg himself and crushed him. Then dismay fell on the Goblins and they fled in all directions. But weariness left their enemies with the coming of new hope, and they pursued them closely, and prevented most of them from escaping where they could. They drove many of them into the Running River, and such as fled south or west they hunted into the marshes about the Forest River; and there the greater part of the last fugitives perished, while those that came hardly to the Wood-elves’ realm were there slain, or drawn in to die deep in the trackless dark of Mirkwood. Songs have said that three parts of the goblin warriors of the North perished on that day, and the mountains had peace for many a year.
If it had not been for the eagles’ propitious intervention, Thorin would have been buried beneath the Mountain.
After the fifth day, it became apparent that Thorin was going to recover. (Gandalf revealed that he may have had some dealings with the elves that contributed to Thorin’s remarkable resistance to infection.)
Bilbo had begin to feel silly avoiding Thorin for so long, and decided it was time for a visit. Standing outside Thorin’s tent before supper, Bilbo began to feel even sillier. He almost turned back in remembrance of their pointless farewell, instead he emboldened himself and pushed inside.
Most of the dwarvish party were gathered around their nearly-emptied bowls and filled cups, with the exception of Bombur whose bowl was still very full and not quite emptying. Their appetite for talk was rivaled only by their voracious stomachs.
Despite his awkward hesitance, Bilbo was instantly welcomed and handed a filled cup and warm food, and all his apprehensiveness melted away in the warmth of old friends.
They talked for hours, telling stories and lamenting tragedies, until the setting sun cast the Lonely Mountain in blue and gold, and then made way for the silver moon to rise behind the crown of Ravenhill.
Finally, one by one they departed, until it was just Bilbo and Thorin at last. Their plates were empty and their mead gone cold, leaving want for attention.
Bilbo fiddled with his last coat button, the only one that had survived the adventure. There had been much to be said at Thorin’s deathbed, but now that he had a second chance, Bilbo found that he had lost all his words.
Thorin began to push away the empty plates and took to his feet. Bilbo rushed to his side and helped him steady.
'You shouldn’t be walking about yet, Thorin. You’re not fully healed and you don’t want to reopen the wounds everyone worked so hard to close.'
'Let us walk,' Thorin dismissed importantly, and left the tent with Bilbo trailing behind. Thorin seemed to be in much better shape than five nights ago, but not so that Bilbo had any difficulty keeping up.
They walked past the war tents and firelights and into the quiet lea East of the Running River, where the grasses were long and rustled in the nighttime winds, and the nightsong of crickets carried to their ears. The night was mild and peaceful, undisturbed by even the tramp of strong dwarven shoes and the whisper of shy hobbit feet.
Eventually Bilbo spoke up. 'Thorin, I am truly sorry for all that I’ve done and all that I didn’t do…'
Thorin interrupted and laid a hand across Bilbo’s shoulder. 'You are a true friend, Bilbo Baggins. I cannot say for sure what I would, but I do know I shouldn’t have it any other way. It has been an honor to have you on my quest.'
Bilbo felt pleased and warm. 'As for you, King under the Mountain.'
Thorin chuckled darkly. 'King of no mountain.'
'What will you do now?' Bilbo asked curiously.
Thorin was quiet at length, and Bilbo began to suspect he hadn’t an answer.
'Well, considering all recent events, it could be a good opportunity to eschew this whole King of the Mountain mess, perhaps.'
Thorin cast him a dubious look.
'And since I have been so long without the absence of good company and I have few of the sort waiting upon my return, it would be felicitous if…if I could have some of the same company for perhaps… just a little longer.'
Thorin shook Bilbo warmly under his arm. 'Are you inviting us over again so soon, queer burglar?!'
Bilbo shrunk a little. 'Well, I would dispute the first time, considering it seemed to lack all the qualities of an informed decision.'
Thorin simply laughed, and for the first time the gloomy king seemed more himself than he ever had in Bilbo’s company. His mirth diminished and grew into a tepid smile. 'I am glad you are well.'
'I am astonished you survived, given the earnesty of your farewell.'
'It was earnest. And I intend to hold onto it from now on.'
'Well… if you decide to come over again, there can be plenty of food and song and cheer for everyone.'
They had since looped around and the camp was coming back into sight. They stopped outside, just beyond the fluttering torch lights. Thorn laid his heavy hands on Bilbo’s shoulders, and the hobbit struggled to appear unburdened by the weight as he looked up to Thorin’s kind face.
'This may not have been the adventure you were looking for nor ever willing to undertake, but your service has been invaluable. You have earned the respect of a king, Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End. And you have earned the love of a friend.'
Bilbo’s face softened into a smile, and then it fell into sorrow.
'What is wrong, friend Bilbo?' Thorin inquired.
Bilbo had always been a very respectable Hobbit, and thus was not known for any displays of impoliteness. Perhaps the rough and raucous nature of the dwarves had begun to rub off on him, because he found himself doing a very unbecoming and impolite thing.
Bilbo threw his arms around Thorin’s middle in a tight embrace. Thorin seemed taken aback at first, but reciprocated his fervor of affection.
'You have my friendship too.' Bilbo said at last, retreating from the hug. 'Please come back to Bag-End with me. I fear I will be so lost without you.'
Thorin’s face crumpled. 'I will have to think on it.'
Bilbo was understanding, since Thorin was a king and all and likely had many kingly duties and responsibilities that a hobbit of the shire would never understand.
They departed, and that was the last time they saw each other, for Thorin, despite his healing injuries, was called into the service of repairing all the damage that had transpired.
Shortly after, Bilbo and Gandalf bid goodbye to the remaining party and began the long trek back home. It was a lonely journey with just an old wizard and a misplaced hobbit.
As you all know, when Bilbo returned there was a big auction being held on the presumption that Bilbo Baggins was dead, and poor Bilbo had to fight to get most of his furniture back.
Many seasons later, Bilbo had settled back into his agreeable hobbit hole. He was at last glad to be sleeping in a warm bed with plenty of hot tea and fresh cakes. (They never had the chance to get stale considering the number he kept on hand.)
He always prided himself in the comfortable life he led and his good reputation. After his return he had been able to regain the comfort of home. And yet, Bilbo had been left with a peculiar emptiness, for he had no one to share his adventures with.
Bilbo had no one to confide in (besides the occasional Took child, but their ears were few and far between) and he was beginning to feel quite detached from the good hobbit peoples around him.
The adventures had been harrowing and often frightful, and there was a lot that Bilbo did not miss. Bilbo did not miss the dangerous crawlies, nor the inconsistent meals between constant hunger, nor the fear they may not see the next sunrise. He certainly did not miss the tiresome treks and sleeping on the hard ground, nor the gruesome creatures that, the more gruesome and ugly they appeared, the more they seemed to want to kill him.
Instead, Bilbo missed the noise. He missed the constant, annoying chatter of the dwarves. He missed sleeping in a bed surrounded by warm bodies, even if they often stunk after particular meals. He missed being included in everything important and unimportant. He missed Fili and Kili, whom he would never again see since casually departing during the battle, and he missed Thorin.
Of course he missed all his other companions too, but something had been different since the day Thorin bid farewell for what he thought was the last time. Or perhaps, it had been even earlier than that. So, it was auspicious when one cool night in April he received a visitor.
It was after supper and Bilbo was puffing large and little hoops from his cherrywood pipe in the sitting room, staring thoughtfully at his stool and the clarinet reed sitting atop it that Bifur had left behind two years ago.
There came a tremendous ring on the front-door bell, startling him out of his reverie.
'Who could it possibly be at this hour?' He hurried to the front door, hoping it was not his horrid relatives come to lay claim on any more "misplaced" furniture since that estate sale held in his absence.
When he opened the door, he was met by Thorin Oakenshield. Bilbo almost did not recognize him, considering he was dressed like a vagabond, hidden underneath hoods of worn fabric. But it was his beard that gave him away, for it was well-oiled, combed, and braided with veined agate, quite unlike what would be expected of a hermit’s beard.
Bilbo ushered him inside and hung his scraps of fabric upon the hook by the door. Underneath his cloak Thorin was dressed richly, with gold and jewels adorning his body. Bilbo offered some cakes and tea, homemade cheese, and salted pork. They started talking and it was like they had parted only hours ago.
Bilbo learned that much of the gold was being spent rebuilding Lake-town, and they had high hopes for its recovery. Thorin had admittedly fallen under dragon-sickness again, and the conflict with his brothers had led to him leaving with little else but the (very costly) clothes on his back and his green harp. He was reticent on the subject, but seemed otherwise unafflicted as he had been at the Gate.
As the night wound down into the soft hours of the morning, Bilbo and Thorin went out to the front porch to smoke their pipes.
‘Bilbo, friend,’ Thorin said between draws on his pipe. ‘I have decided to take your offer.’
‘Which one was that?’ Bilbo blew a smoke ring towards Thorin’s and watched them collide.
‘To live here, with you, at Bad-End.’
Bilbo looked over in astonishment.
‘I’m sick of dragon-sickness. I’m sick of rubies and gold and marble. I’m sick of being the king of troubles. I want your armchair, and your tomatoes, I want to plant trees with you. I want song and cheer. Will you do that with me, good Bilbo?’
‘Always, my dear Thorin. Until we grow sick of each other, or until the end of days.’
‘I cannot grow sick of you. I will have to be your trouble until the end of days.’
They puffed on their pipes until the sun peeked over the treetops and the birds began to sing.
‘I suppose I am the best burglar there is.’ Bilbo said thoughtfully around the stem of his pipe.
‘And why is that?’
‘I’ve stolen the King under the Mountain. Now he’s the king of Bag-End.’
Thorin chuckled and laid a hand upon Bilbo’s head. ‘You were the best burglar a king could have.’