Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1st chapter will be posted after this!

Hello all!
It's on y'all to read the notes and not complain if you haven't - not because I'm a bitch, but because I'm a bitch who wants to get it right.
1) This is not cannon compliant - obviously - but were also gonna mess with the timeline a bit. Beyond that, I do intend to keep to the storyline.
2) Good news, as of right now, I don't plan on killing anyone off, but definitely not Thorin and Bilbo(I have slightly worse plans at this point). I just finished a chapter while watching BoFA and crying into my tea. 3)If I got something wrong and you want to correct me - DO IT! Do you know how much lore Tolkien wrote? Do you know how hard it is to write in a mix of modern & Shakespearean English? I am in deep study, but I'm not the best, so feel free to tell me!
4) Have an idea? I write a fair bit ahead, but I'm always looking for one-shot prompts or even bigger prompts that can give way to an entire story.
5) Finally - thank you! You are what keep fic writers, well, writing. We love you. We adore you. We smile upon you as Thorin smiles upon Bilbo. Thanks for giving me a reason to kill my back and put my imagination to paper. I love you guys,

Most importanly, I own none of the things. I get weird ides from other fics or daily life or my own sick sense of humor and they show up on paper as a way to keep me breathing. All rights to J.R.R. Tolkien and the amazing cast and crew of The Hobbit Trilogy and LOTR. Thanks for everything you do for us and for bringing our dreams to life.

Chapter Text

Here he stood, on the precipice of a cliff, the mountain beneath him, sprawling into a meadow, Mirkwood not far behind. Here he was - alive, somehow - after being rescued from a supposedly dead Orc by a congress of Eagles - or was it a soar?

You! What were you doing?

He had saved his life. Killed an Orc for him. And here he stood, ridiculed by the man whose life he had just offered his life for, saved, from the supposedly dead Orc who most definitely was not dead. Not then. Not now.

You nearly got yourself killed! Did I not say that you would be a burden, that you would not survive in the wild and that you have no place amongst us?  

Alas, despite his near death encounter, Thorin Oakenshield was still a proud, obstinate creature, full of thunderous anger and the unbearable dignity of kingship. That was the point now, wasn’t it? Save his life so that the dwarf could still hate the Hobbit’s very existence. And he was smiling whilst doing - the bloody dwarf was two acorns short of an Oak tree - ironic .

I've never been so wrong in all my life.

Before Bilbo could ask if he’d truly heard right, Thorin stepped forward and gripped him tight, pulling him hard into his chest. His mail and furs scratched at Bilbo’s chin; the Hobbit, stunned, let his arms find their way up under Thorin’s, tapping him gently— as if to check that both hadn’t actually died at the hands of Azog. That this moment of closeness with a man who could never be his wasn’t Yavanna’s first fruits of his well-earned garden. 

Thorin held him too tightly, for a moment too long, then slowly withdrew. The smile lingered faintly, as if preparing to give way to something heavier. He took a breath.

“I- ” The words found themselves choked in a painful squeak. In an instant, Thorin’s face went dark, agony sweeping across it like a fierce, stormy wind in a meadow, washing all feelings of peace away.

He staggered, clutching at his side. Bilbo caught him, barely able to brace the dwarf’s weight as Thorin crumpled to his knees with a growl that shook Bilbo’s chest. It was a sound the Hobbit had never heard from him before—not pain alone, but torment.

The Company was on them in moments, circling tight. Through the conglomerate of noise, Bilbo made out only a few words - “he’ll live,” happened to be his favorite two - from Óin. Others, first yelled in Khuzdul, quickly quieted to just the sound of Thorin’s Thorin’s groans and harsh, scraping breath as the circle slowly broke. One by one, the dwarves backed away, muttering and shaken. They did not help him up. They did not speak to him. Even Balin turned, walking swiftly away.

Bershar Imrêlul.   

The words were foreign to Bilbo, who craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Thorin, Gandalf now at his side, hand hovering over Thorin’s thrashing body and murmuring something under his breath. He made a note to ask Bofur for the translation later, but he knew now wasn’t the time.

The others, now confident Thorin would not die, averted their eyes. Some began picking their way down the cliff path. It struck Bilbo as strange—even cruel. Abandonment did not sit well on dwarves, and yet here they were, retreating.

“There are caves just below the ledge, Thorin, my boy,” Gandalf said from the man’s side, offering the man his staff as whatever pain had sent Thorin to the ground seemed to subside, “ You’ll find quiet there. Once we’ve gathered our strength, we’ll make for shelter. No more than half a day’s walk, if the path holds”

“What-” Bilbo struggled for words as Thorin pulled himself to his feet, sweat on his brow and pain still laced deep in his sky blue eyes, “Are you alright, Thorin? Because from where I’m standing, you’re not. And just what is going on here? The Compan—” The Hobbit turned to gesture to the dwarves that were seemingly fleeing.

“I am fine, Halfling.” Thorin barked, anger returning to his voice. He retrieved and sheathed Orcrist, slinging his pack and starting down the cliffside without another word. 

Bilbo meant to protest, meant to ask more questions - to demand they be answered, but a nod from Gandalf set the Hobbit’s feet in the direction of the others, a purposeful step-and-a-half behind Thorin’s slow moving frame. 

—

Together, the three made their way down the worn stair carved into the rock, shadows growing longer as the sun began to rise above the peaks. Thorin’s hand pressed against his chest where the Warg had struck him, his breath uneven. His face, though pale with strain, remained noble even now, as if pain itself could not touch the dignity of a king.

They had not gone far when Thorin stumbled once more, falling hard to his knees, groaning as his already damaged body jarred against the grey and gnarled rock, a low scream reaching his throat before he could catch it. At an instant, Gandalf was to his side, not touching the poor dwarf, but whispering to him, 

“I am sorry, Thorin. Deeply. But if this is the Bershar Imrêlul-” there were those words again, spoken with a sickness as if they were from Azog himself, Bilbo thought, his knee planted to the ground beside Thorin, “if it is the Supreme Agony—then I fear my power cannot touch it.” 

Bilbo set watch for danger as the dwarf tormented and screamed amongst the rocky face of the hill, his eyes catching a glimpse of Kíli and Fíli, taking a spying look back at their Uncle from their decided camp before Balin smacked Kíli on the arm.

For a normally nervous Hobbit, Bilbo was surprised at his own ability to remain calm. Thorin never complained, never laid bare his pain in any way, nonetheless with the theatrics that accompanied him now. The pain seemed worrisome enough to Gandalf that he refused to move from his place, inches away from the black strands of dwarven hair as they clung to Thorin’s sweat covered skin. But Bilbo remained steadfast in his watch, he’d worry soon enough.

Within a few minutes the pain seemed to ease once again, and Thorin climbed Gandalf’s staff once again, making sure not to touch the Wizard, who dared not offer him a hand. 

Before Thorin could protest, Bilbo gripped the strap of Thorin’s pack, dropped in his fall, and slung it with his own.

“I can carry my own pack, Master Burglar.” Thorin’s voice was near silent, almost as soft as it was breathless as he offered his hand for the leather bag that was near the size of Bilbo himself. Thorin’s pale eyes pleaded with him in a way Bilbo had never seen in any dwarf, nonetheless the impenetrable, exiled King. Pride .

In the back of Bilbo’s mind, protectiveness surged forward from somewhere unseen and unknown, even to him,

“And I’ve beachfront property in Hobbiton, Master Thorin. Shall I draw you a map?” Bilbo set his jaw, something he rarely did, shocking not only himself but Gandalf and Thorin equally before gesturing the group of three forward to the waiting caves, both packs snug on his back. Two packs. One stubborn Hobbit.

And behind them, Gandalf allowed himself the faintest of smiles. Mahal had favored Thorin with stubborn courage and fire—but in that moment, the wizard thought, perhaps Eru had favored him with something else entirely.

—------- 

The caves were just that—scraggly jutts of rock rising from the earth, offering just enough shelter to house a wounded animal from the elements, but little else. They swallowed the light, save for what meager spill crept through their narrow mouths.

“Can we be as foolish to hope these caves do not lead to a secret goblin passageway and our once again certain deaths?” Bilbo deadpanned as the three reached as the three reached the largest of the shallow shelters.

“They are safe.” Gandalf confirmed, hoping they didn’t notice when he checked with a hit of his staff before following Thorin into the cave. 

Bilbo lingered outside. He dropped both packs at the threshold, Thorin’s and his own, then turned his eyes to the camp. The other twelve dwarves moved about, gathering kindling, tending wounds, preparing their sparse meal. None of them looked up—not when Thorin cried out, not when the sound echoed off the stone like a wounded animal howling to the gods.

Vowing the dwarf his privacy, the Hobbit paced the entrance as the sounds started. He couldn’t help but want to be there, inside, with Gandalf and Thorin, holding the latter’s hand, running fingers through blood-matted and dirt-covered hair to quiet the pain, but that was out of the question - dwarves valued privacy above all else, especially concerning their pain - Bilbo knew this well. 

After a few minutes, as peace once again settled over the camp, Gandalf emerged from the cave.

“A word.” Gandalf gestured his staff to the side of the cave, where wandering ears could not hear, even if they wished.

“What- What in Yavanna’s name is going on here, Gandalf?” Bilbo could feel his unasked questions begin to tumble out of his mouth, ““Is it his ribs? His head? Why does no one else seem concerned? What does he need?”

“From what I gather, Master Baggins…”Gandalf studied him, then sighed, voice softer than before,  “Thorin needs you.” 

“Me?” Bilbo blinked, the burning in his chest tamped down by sudden confusion. “What could I possibly do for a Warg bite? He’s—he’s in pain. Real pain.” Bilbo could feel the tears pull at his throat but he shoved them back down. 

“It is not the bite.” Gandalf exhaled, rubbing a thumb along his staff. “It is… his crucible.”

Bilbo inhaled a breath that sounded too much like a gasp for him to be comfortable. He had spent many nights around the campfire with drunk dwarves and their dirty jokes(particularly Bofur and Kíli if he was being honest) to not know what a dwarf’s crucible was - his most private place.

“H-How—how do you know—”

“The dwarves call it Bershar Imrêlul , the Supreme Agony.” Gandalf paused. “The agony of loving. There are deeper meanings, more sacred ones. But the rest must come from him. I’ve already said too much.”

“But he’ll be alright?” Bilbo’s voice broke. He needed to hear it—needed the words said aloud.

Gandalf nodded solemnly.

“He will live. He may wish otherwise for a time… but yes. He will live.”

Then the wizard turned and walked away, leaving Bilbo alone with too many thoughts.

–

He stood outside the cave for what felt like an age, though it had been minutes. Then, without thinking further, he lifted Thorin’s pack to his shoulder and entered.

There was barely any light in the shadow of the Hobbit, but in the back, sitting ragged against the back wall, was Thorin, eyes barely open, breaths quick and light, as if breathing too deeply would be the end of him.

“You need to leave, Hobbit.” The words were barely there, weaker than Thorin’s breath. It was obvious that Thorin didn’t mean them, though Bilbo would never admit he could see through the facade of the king. 

“Well, Thorin-” Bilbo had a haughty reply planned, but settled for silence as he dropped the dwarrow’s pack, “No. Not until I know you’re alright.”

“I-” The word caught in Thorin’s throat as his voice broke, “I cannot do this with you here, Bilbo. Please. Please lea-”

Before he could finish, pain overtook him again. His body twisted, a cry forced from his mouth as he doubled over.

“Thorin!” Bilbo didn’t stop himself this time, falling to his knees next to the dwarf who began to roll in on himself, whining loudly as he gripped at his lower abdomen. One of the Hobbit’s hands found its way to Thorin’s face, and as quickly as the king flinched, he leaned into the warmth of the hand, catching Bilbo’s wrist and holding it tightly, pushing it deeper into his minimal beard.

“I am here, Thorin.” Was all Bilbo could think to say as he dropped to the ground the rest of the way, pulling the thrashing form closer to his body, careful of the figures bruised, well, everything. He’d ask for forgiveness later, but right now, something in him pulled whatever courage existed in his small frame and put it squarely on his heart, “I am right here, and I’m not going anywhere.” He whispered into the dwarf’s ear, repeating it again and again as the pain went on. 

–

Thorin didn’t let Bilbo’s hand stray from his face even as he was pulled into Bilbo’s chest, even as his other hand gripped the Hobbit’s arm with a force they both feared might break it.  He screamed into the stone and Bilbo’s sleeve, sweat pouring from him as the agony twisted deeper into his bones. The bones of his pelvis had not yet begun to break - they wouldn’t for at least a day or more - but the process had begun. No one but Bilbo would be able to touch him until it was over, and, oh Mahal, how he wished it over now.

He hated being seen like this. If he had been home, in the Misty Mountains, or in Erebor, he would have hidden away in his bedchambers, begging his amrâbulnas to take away the pain, if they had even been willing to in the first place. The thought of begging drew shame to his chest from something much more complex than pain, but, at this very moment, if it took even a small measure of the crushing pressure and pain from his lower region, ribs, or even his head, he’d do it. He’d do it ten-fold.

After 200 years, he’d never imagined his One would find him - definitely not here and definitely not him. The Hobbit had been more of a hindrance than a beacon of hope. He had complained, more often than not, of things Thorin had endured since his twenty-fourth year, barely out of his dwarflinghood - since Smaug.

Not long after those troubling years, he’d become the Crown Prince of Erebor - he’d not dare say king, not yet. Deep in his heart he knew his father was still out there. Still living. Still King Under The Mountain. 

But here the halfling was, his touch comforting the dwarven prince instead of aggravating his pain. That meant only one thing to someone in Bershar Imrêlul - Bilbo was his One, his mate, his amrâbulnas . Of course, Thorin already knew this. He’d felt the change in his heart start when the burglar had cleverly tricked the trolls. The feeling had only grown when Bilbo had acted as an emissary amongst the elves of Rivendale, smoothing the wrinkles of an already rocky relationship. Of course, Thorin had tried to shoo away the feelings, and the Hobbit himself, but, alas, here he was, in the midst of his change, 100 years later than the rest of his kin - Bilbo’s willingness to die at the hands of Azog’s blade confirming any questions regard the feelings that had mounted between the two of them. 

As the latest wave subsided, Bilbo released Thorin from his hold, lowering the man to the ground gingerly. Peeling his maroon waistcoat off, he placed it beneath the dwarf's head, black, knotted locks splaying over it.

A silent vow to return, Bilbo stood to leave. He needed to find someone to ask his questions - someone who wasn’t barely holding on to their sanity, or their consciousness, for that matter.

“Burglar,” Thorin reached his hand weakly for Bilbo, his words breathless, but still firm, “I bid you stay.” Please, the dwarf mouthed almost unnoticeably, as if begging was still just beneath his waning pride.

“I will return, Thorin.” Bilbo spoke softly, squatting down to be at the dwarf’s side once again, a hand gently patting the man’s shoulder, “Before the next pain, if I can.” 

A soft smile graced the Hobbit’s face as he once again cupped Thorin’s cheek, using his thumb to grace away a tear before he stood and turned on his heels, the cave entrance in sight.

–

The outside of the cave provided Bilbo with a moment to breathe. He would not cry, nor would he panic - no - not until he knew what was happening. Not until he could do so in the arms of the dwarf in his care. 

As he took inventory of the rest of the company, Balin’s watchful stare caught his eye, and, in a moment, he was heading toward the bearded elf.  

“I cannot -” Balin held up a hand as Bilbo approached, “It is a private matter, and I cannot.”

‘If you do not,” There was a stiffness to Bilbo’s voice that even he had never heard, “then I will- I will- I will throw a fit.” Bilbo settled for it knowing it sounded childish, and it was. It was no threat, not to the dwarves that had faced Orcs, faced dragon-fire, and lost so very much, but Balin saw it for what it was - a cry for help.

“Thorin must tell you.” Balin said gently. “It is not my place to speak for the King.”

“Well,” Bilbo was aggravated now, “if you have not noticed, Balin , Thorin isn’t exactly in a position to give a royal briefing. You know, with the thrashing and screaming and the rest of it. So, I am nothing but a daft apple if none of you ninnies are willing to explain it to me. I am sorry to curse, but this is- ”
“By Durin’s beard!” Kíli burst in, exasperated. “Just explain it to him before he bursts! It’s not like he’s been trained up in this as we all have. Uncle will understand, and if he doesn’t, well it’s his own trouble for falling for a Hobbit.”

Bilbo stopped dead in his path - falling for a what now? There was absolutely no way. He was a Hobbit, and Thorin was a dwarf, nonetheless a King. There was no feasibility.

Balin sighed, then nodded toward the cave.

“Walk with me, Master Baggins.”

—

“It is no small thing for a dwarf to speak of such matters,” Balin began as they reached the edge of camp. “Especially concerning the King. It’s not my place, and it never will be.”

“I know of the privacy of dwarves, Balin.” Bilbo gruffed, “But I am not a dwarf, yet one I care for deeply is in that-” The finger was out now, pointing to the entrance they were nearing, “that cave, bidding me to hold his hand through some mysterious wretchedness I have none the experience in.”

“Aye, Laddie.” Balin settled near the cave, close enough for Bilbo to run if must, “which is why I will tell you the least by which you can get by.” 

Bilbo waited, tense.

“In Khuzdul, we call it Bershar Imrêlul ,” Balin said. “It means the Supreme Agony. But deeper still—it’s the agony of loving.”

“You’ve heard it said—no dwarf women, all born of stone. It’s not quite true. We bond once, and only once, when Mahal sees fit. When our One is found.”

“Your mate. Your one.” Bilbo huffed, “Gandalf said something about me being his mate, but I am a Hobbit, and he - he- he is a King. There is no way that I am his choice.”

“But you are , Laddie!” Balin hissed, “His change would not have started if Mahal had not seen love in you both.”

“And this change?” Bilbo’s eyes were fire now, “That is what is causing his- his- pain?”

“Aye,” Balin met Bilbo’s eyes finally, his voice on the angry side of curt now, “Aye, Master Baggins. His body is changing to be able to give you children. To be a dwarrowdam. It’s agony. And private. And nothing but you can ease it. No medicine. No spell. Only time—and you.”

He paused, voice gentler now.

“And if it’s all the same to you, I’d like that to be the last time I speak of my King’s nether regions.” He turned away. “I’ll be at watch with Dwalin. Gandalf’s gone to speak with the land-baron of our next refuge.”

Bilbo bit back another curse as he watched Balin walk away, “Water. Tea. Wine, if you have it. Something for his ribs—anything that might ease the pain I can touch. I… I don’t know what I’m doing.” And I cannot stand to see him like this.  

Balin didn’t turn back. But he raised a hand in acknowledgment.

Bilbo turned toward the cave, heart pounding.

He’d need to apologize for his curtness later, but right now, his charge was Thorin. His charge was his mate.

Chapter Text

He would never be able to show his face in front of his company again. Never. He’d have to give up his quest for Erebor and hide away in Bag End with Bilbo for the rest of his years. Yes, that was the only answer.  

From his respite in the darkness of the cave, Thorin could hear both Balin’s anger and Bilbo’s pleading. If he could move, which he couldn’t, not without someone to help him through the agony of his splintered ribs, not without someone to shoulder the burden of his armour as his body could no longer - If he could move, he’d of rescued Bilbo from Balin’s anger, begged his life long friend to explain his pain so he didn’t have to. Explain that the only way for this to end was for Bilbo to love his body in ways it had never been loved. 

Thorin’s thoughts were drawn from him by Bilbo’s renewed presence in the cave, his pursed smile trying to hide his worry. 

“I know you heard that.” Bilbo huffed as he sat himself beside his charge, “I was unaware I could yell like that,” Bilbo paused, his smile growing, “Dwarves!” He chided, “That seems to be my problem. The aggravating customs of too many dwarves!”

Thorin couldn’t help but huff a pained laugh, which turned into an instantly regretted, real, belly-drawn laugh which made him wince hard. Bilbo’s hand found its comforting place on his shoulder.

 “In more ways than one,” Thorin inhaled sharply, “it seems, Master Baggins, have the customs of dwarves become your problem.” 

“I called Balin a ‘ninny’. A ‘ninny’!” Bilbo scrubbed his face anxiously with the hand that wasn’t upon Thorin’s arm, “He may never forgive me.” 

Thorin could not hold back the loud laugh that followed, gripping his arms about his abdomen as the pain stabbed at his very core. Even agony could not stop it. His whole body was destroyed, but his Hobbit was scared he’d offended a dwarf with Shire insults. For that, the laugh was worth it. 

“You will be the cause of my death, Thorin Oakenshield.” Bilbo grinned, his face changing as the laugh of his love turned into a grimace of pain.

“Thorin?” Bilbo shifted until he was now right next to the dwarf on the ground, “Thorin, come here.” 

He attempted to pull the man to his chest, but Thorin plus Thorin’s armour was more than even the strongest of Hobbits could wish to move on their own.  Instead, Bilbo leaned into him, hands cradling Thorin’s cheeks, thumbs brushing his cheekbones and beard, their faces nearly touching.

 “I am here, Cariad .” One of the few words that still remained of old Hobbitish praying off his lips. His soft voice repeating the phrase as a mantra - a light in the darkness of Thorin’s agony. 

Thorin could barely move. Nothing but his arms, and even those he shouldn’t. But despite the pain, his gloved hand threaded through Bilbo’s curls, guiding their foreheads together - dwarvish right of kin and kindred. Moans and groans pressed through clenched teeth, guttural and raw, echoing around the cave and beyond.

“I am here, Cariad,” Bilbo whispered, again and again, until Thorin’s head tilted back, resting once more upon his makeshift pillow, gasping for breath despite the sharp aggravation it caused his ribs. Their foreheads parted reluctantly, yet Bilbo remained unmoving, his presence steady, while Thorin’s hand fell once again to his side.

“I have,” Thorin panted, “I have yet heard Old Hobbitish spoken,” he took another wincing breath, “in anything other than books of old.”

“My family line is ‘of old’.” Bilbo all but whispered, low and quiet, “As old as it can be for The Shire.” 

“Aye,” Thorin had regained his breath, “As is mine, Burglar.”

“Never would have guessed Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain.” The sarcasm was thick on Bilbo’s breath.

“Son of Dáin, Son of Náin,” Thorin’s expression grew annoyed at his own recital, “Son of Óin, Son of Glóin, Son of Thorin, Son of Thráin, Son of Náin, Son of Durin. There are five more Durins beyond that.” His eyes met Bilbo’s as the Hobbit sat up, wide-eyed at the list’s length. “But it’s all the same. They made me memorize my entire line—cousins, uncles. ‘The knowledge of a scholarly prince,’ my mother used to say.”

Thorin huffed a laugh to cover something more painful, wincing as his ribs shifted.

“While I’ll wait with baited breath to hear more of your schooling,” Bilbo had meant it sarcastically, but it had come out sincere, “If it suits you, I’d like to rid you of this armour,” He tapped Thorin’s brigandine, wincing as Thorin tried to hide the pain even the menial tap had caused, “and get a look at the bite from the warg before the next pain comes.”

Thorin shook his head in understanding and reached to dislodge a black and silver lock of hair from his face, grimacing sharply at the effort.

Bilbo gently peeled off the velvet-lined coat, fur and all, laying it beneath Thorin as a cushion against the cold rock. He watched as Thorin struggled with the lock of hair again, noting the deep grimace the extra movement caused.

“Are you—” Thorin set his jaw, willing Bilbo to understand without words. “Are you going to make me ask?”

“For?” Bilbo asked cluelessly, Thorin’s belt thudding to the ground with the weight of Orchrist, which had been hurriedly cleared out from under him and put aside. The loss of the pressure made Thorin gasp, but he swallowed it.

“My hair,” Thorin gritted out, annoyed both by the lock and Bilbo’s cluelessness. A shame long held flickered behind his eyes as he added, “Can you rid it from my face? It hurts to raise my arm that far.”

“I thought- I thought dwarves let no one touch their hair?” Bilbo questioned, completely missing Thorin’s point or permission, “Yes, Kíli was clear. It is considered sacred, is it not?”

“It so happens, Master Baggins,” Thorin’s face flushed with a mix of embarrassment, shame, and, if one looked through Bilbo’s eyes, fear, “You are not no one. You- You are-” Thorin couldn’t seem to choke out the words.

“Your One.” Bilbo pulled the sweaty strand free with a cheeky grin, sweeping it back behind Thorin’s head before flattening it gently among its fellows, soaking in its texture despite its need for washing, brushing, and re-braiding. “I am your One.”

“Yes.” Thorin’s pained whisper held back the tears that had gathered in his eyes. He turned his head to bury it in the rock, willing the emotion to dissipate, but Bilbo grasped his cheek and pushed his face gently to once again meet his, letting their foreheads touch if ever so lightly before he pulled back to look deep into Thorin’s eyes, wiping the few tears that had made their escape into his beard and braids.

“There’s a great deal we’ll need to discuss,” he said softly. “But not now.” He kissed Thorin’s brow with a reverence that surprised even himself. Thorin flinched ever so lightly before relaxing just as the warmth moved away, “For the moment, you’re alive. You might not be grateful for it just now, but I am. And if Mahal’s seen fit to tie you to me, well - so be it.” He hesitated, then added, “I only bid you find it in yourself to call me by my given name, Cariad. Master Baggins is much too formal for someone who loves you as I do.”

“I never believed you one for sonnets of comfort, amrâlimê.” Thorin sighed, the comfort of Bilbo’s touch easing just a bit of his pain.

“Neither did I.” Bilbo admitted, “But to see you there, in front of Azog, and then all of this. You sprawled out on that cliff. Not knowing if you’d just died in front of me - it changed me. I am no longer the same Hobbit that left Bag End. ”

“There’s… another part to this,” Thorin said. He grimaced as Bilbo worked carefully at his second surcoat, freeing it from his shoulders with quiet precision, in spite of the pain. He was sure his shoulder was broken, maybe dislocated, but whatever it was, it hurt worse than any injury he’d ever had, “Bershar Imrêlul - it doesn’t stop at the body. It touches the mind too. The thoughts begin to shift. To… re-shape.”

“Toward your One,” Bilbo said gently, seeing the words catch behind Thorin’s teeth.

Thorin nodded. “ Sálfélagi ,” he said softly. As if the word had been waiting on lips long before Bilbo had been born, “That’s what we call it. In Khuzdul, it means… soul-bound.” His eyes closed for a breath, the word sitting heavy on his tongue. “But it must be your choice, Bilbo. I would never hold you to something you didn’t give freely.”

Bilbo took a breath to speak, but Thorin’s face pinched as a new wave of pain began to wash over him. Without a word, Bilbo lowered him gently onto his right side, letting Thorin bury his head against Bilbo’s shoulder. The dwarf’s scream was muffled by wool and sweat and a well-worn vest knit by Belladonna Took herself. Bilbo curled an arm around Thorin’s back, threading his fingers into damp, tangled hair.

He whispered soft things he didn’t even think about, his voice steady and low. He didn’t know if the words mattered, didn’t know if he was making any difference, but still he continued. 

Thorin clutched him tightly. The crushing feeling in his pelvis was near unbearable, as if he could feel the bones cracking in their places, and the only arm that still moved freely wrapped around Bilbo, holding fast, gripping for whatever it could find. His head found its place in the crook of Bilbo’s shoulder - The smell of the Shire, earth and tea and some faded echo of summer clung to the Hobbit, calming the nerves of his injured dwarf. But it was the touch that helped the most. Bilbo’s fingers in his hair, gentle tugs on knotted strands, the soft scrape of nails at his scalp.

Hôfukel. 

He’d never felt anything like it. Of course, he’d felt the shiver of falling rain, of the light touch of his mother’s musings, of Dis when she braided his hair and her fingers brushed across his neck. But at the hands of another? The feeling set his body alight, and he wanted more. If he could ask for anything, it would be for Bilbo to never stop speaking. Never stop touching him. Never leave his side. 

Then Bilbo’s fingers moved to the nape of his neck, scratching lightly into his hairline.

Thorin gasped, not from pain but from something else entirely. Pleasure, almost. Relief. Sweet Mahal, if joining was more powerful than this, he wasn’t sure he’d survive it. He’d see his own Hall’s before he ever again saw Erebor. The touch melted the pain, Shire magic, deep in the hands of his halfling, mixing with Dwarven magic, set in his skin and bone, and defining for Thorin why anyone went through their change in the first place. There was such softness to Bilbo’s care that Thorin knew he must accept it. Mahal had made it so, and what of the line of Durin to disagree with Mahal. 

—

It took Thorin a long moment to realize the pain had gone. It hadn’t lasted long, at least it hadn’t felt that long. Bilbo had shifted just far enough for him to see the Hobbit’s face, his eyes full of quiet worry and something deeper still. 

“You back?”

Thorin nodded, eyelids already drooping again. He felt unbearably heavy.

“That one didn’t last as long as the others,” Bilbo said, brushing a hand through his own damp curls.

Thorin’s head rested on Bilbo’s arm, his breath slow, his ribs still aching but manageable in stillness. Bilbo’s nails traced gentle patterns along his hairline, grounding him.

“Aye,” Thorin murmured, wishing he didn’t sound as pathetic as he did. “It’s the magic of Bershar Imrêlul. ”

“This does not seem very magical - cave floor, agony, and all,” Bilbo smiled, not realizing Thorin was being serious, “I'd give much for a bed and something to dull your pain.”

Bilbo gave a crooked smile, not catching the weight behind Thorin’s words. “Well, it doesn’t feel all that magical - cave floor, screaming, the rest of it. I’d give anything for a bed and something strong to dull the edge for you.”

“You are enough,” Thorin said, too softly to sound sure, too earnestly not to be.

Bilbo raised a brow. “Mmm. That sounds suspiciously like flattery.”

“I’m serious, amrâlimê .” Thorin winced as Bilbo’s fingers slipped from his neck. “Pleasure quiets the pain of, of-” He didn’t finish, knew he didn’t need to, “Not completely. But it does something. It soothes it like water to fire, or shade to sunburn. It doesn’t heal, but it gives you breath.”

He paused, lips drawing tight with memory.

“It’s hard to explain. Normally, dwarven parents,” The grief in his voice was so quiet it almost vanished between heartbeats, “well, they speak their children through it. In the privacy of their bedchambers. Not in caves. Not like this.” 

“Do you mean to say that all I had to do is this?” Bilbo seemed to get the gist and  returned his fingers to cradle Thorin’s head, scratching gently along the nape of Thorin’s neck and rubbing his thumb along a bearded jawline. He chose, for now, to ignore the nightmare replaying on Thorin’s face.

“For now,” Thorin said, his voice low again, nearly lost to his own silence. “When the bones start to break, there will be nothing left to do but hold my hand and let me scream.”

Bilbo didn’t flinch. He simply nodded, his thumb brushing away a smudge of dirt from Thorin’s sideburn.

“And love you,” he said, quiet but sure. “I can find a hundred ways to love you until the pain runs out.”

He gave a soft huff, more exhale than laugh.

“And you thought I wouldn’t accept your- your-”

“In my custom, this is considered a betrothal.” Thorin finished the sentence. His voice once again held shame and maybe anger, but not at Bilbo “You’d be binding yourself to a king. To a life of stone in his mountain, away from your Bag End. To a marriage that may end in madness. To a king that may end up in madness . ”

The thought hit Bilbo square in the chest. No more garden, no more slow mornings. Just rock, and gold, and fire, and grief.

But he didn’t hesitate.

“You are worth more to me than Bag End, Thorin.” He kissed the dwarf’s hairline, soft and steady. “I’ve known since the night you sang your people’s story in my parlour. And I’d be honored to live in your mountain - as long as it is with you - madness and all.”

A soft knock stirred them from the moment. At the edge of the cave, Kíli hovered, awkward and fidgeting, a wineskin in one hand and a bowl in the other.

“Uh. Wine. And something from Óin to… help. With the… uh.” He gestured vaguely, reddening.

Bilbo saved him with a nod. Kíli set the items near the entrance and retreated like he’d set down a lit fuse.

I understand privacy,” Bilbo said after a moment. “But he’s your kin.”

“It’s custom,” Thorin replied, his voice rough with fatigue. “It’s difficult even to have you here. But you must be.”

“Yes, I keep hearing that,” Bilbo muttered. The bitterness in his voice surprised even him. But Thorin heard it. And he flinched.

“Thorin…” Bilbo ran a hand over the dwarf’s cheek, gentle again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“You don’t have to explain.”

But he looked away.

“I do,” Bilbo said. A long silence stretched between them, heavy with what hadn’t yet been said.

“I’d do anything to take your pain away.” His voice cracked, barely noticeable, but there in the way his shoulders straightened. “I’d fall on my own dagger if it meant you could walk out of this cave with your dignity intact. But I know I can’t. And I,” Bilbo bit his lip, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He inhaled sharply, as if trying to steady himself. Then his voice grew quieter, sharper.

“Not even a day ago, you told me I didn’t belong. That I was useless. That I should go back to the Shire. How I should go back from whence I came.” His throat caught. “I almost did, too. You were awake, Thorin. I know you heard me. I know you made no cause to stop me.”

His breath shook now, but he didn’t stop.

“And now you’re breaking apart. Literally breaking apart. Because of me.”

Bilbo wiped at his eyes, but the tears were already falling.

“I want to be angry at you, Cariad.” he whispered. “I am angry at you. You wounded me. But I’m terrified you’ll die before I ever have the chance to forgive you. Before we ever have a chance to be. ”

The words faded to silence. Bilbo sagged forward, burying his face against Thorin’s temple, trying to catch the sob before it rose too high.

Thorin heard every word. They all cut. But it was the truth.

And he loved him for it.

He lifted a trembling hand, threading his fingers into Bilbo’s curls despite the pain it cost him. A gasp escaped his chest, but he brought their foreheads together and held them there.

“Get me out of this armor,” Thorin whispered. “Please, Ghivashel. ”

Bilbo took a second to collect himself before pulling away, nuzzling his lips into Thorin’s dirty hair before he truly left the dwarf’s side, swiping the tears from his own cheeks. 

Thorin’s boots were first, starting with their heavy metal clasps then the thick laces that felt heavy in Bilbo’s hands. It took all his weight to pull the first one free, panting at the exertion. 

“I am sorry… Thorin.” Bilbo took a moment to catch his breath, “This must hurt.”

“You are worth it, Ghivash-” Thorin bit into his lip to silence the groan as Bilbo removed the second boot, the movement in his leg sending searing pain through his crucible. The groan, or lack of, did him no good either, shaking his ribs that he assumed were very, very broken. 

“Calm, my love.” Bilbo leaned close, brushing the blood from Thorin’s lip, though it was near impossible to tell new from old. “You’re hurt enough without your own help.”

He retrieved the wineskin, crouching low beside him again. Thorin drank what little he could before his head slumped back onto Bilbo’s maroon waistcoat, now his makeshift pillow.

“Please, Ghivashel ,” Thorin whispered, voice tight, arm half-raised. The gauntlet still clung to him like dead weight. “Please. I need to hold you.”

Bilbo nodded, eyes soft with worry. He worked the rings off first, careful not to tug too hard, and slipped them into Thorin’s pack. Then came the gauntlets. The right was stubborn, caught at the wrist, and Bilbo eased it loose with delicate fingers and whispered apologies. The left, though, that one he approached like glass. He knew the shoulder was out, could feel the unnatural shift in the joint beneath Thorin’s sleeve. So he went slow. Painfully slow. Every tug was the barest movement, his fingertips gentle, his breath held.

Thorin said nothing.

But his jaw was locked tight, the muscles in his neck rigid, and sweat beaded across his brow. Not from the fever, though that was settling in. A fight. A silent one. Bilbo caught the shallow tremble in his lip, the way his free hand curled into the rock like he might punch straight through it. When the gauntlet finally slipped free, there was no scream. Just a soft, broken sound that caught in Thorin’s throat and stayed there, unspoken.

Bilbo brushed his fingers over Thorin’s brow, as though that quiet act of kindness might undo the pain his hands had just caused.

“Oh, love…” Bilbo breathed.

His hand pressed to Thorin’s chest, steady. “I’m here.”

A pause, then softer still:

“You don’t have to hold it in.”

It wasn’t a beat before Thorin’s face contorted, soundless cry ripping through his chest. Bilbo dropped everything and took Thorin’s face in his hands, thumbs pressing into his jaw, fingers threading through his short beard, much shorter than any other beard he’d seen in his time with The Company. There were stories, whispers as to why Thorin often sheared it short, but, right now, it allowed small, thin, hobbit fingers to rub deep into Thorin’s clenched jaw, fingernails collecting dirt from sweaty skin as he cooed gently, “I am right here, Cariad. I am right here, my love. I will not leave you. I will not leave your side. Not even when this is over . I will never leave your side .”

There was no screaming. Pain, yes, but not uncontrollable agony. His right hand found the edge of Bilbo’s vest, clutching it like rope. The other groped blindly for Bilbo’s forearm, holding tight, anchoring them both until the worst had passed. The pressure, deep and foreboding, untouched by Hobbit magic, threatened to crush Thorin within it, but Bilbo would not let it. Not without a fight.

Chapter Text

“ I will never leave your side.”

The pain had settled. Now in the aftermath, both men had caught their breaths, but still Thorin did not move. His grip, tightened to Bilbo’s forearm, kept the soft hand of his hobbit settled against his trembling jaw, small thumb ministrating over a scar that stretched from under his mustache and along his beard line. Blood had dried amongst the hair, but Bilbo had slowly worked it out while his other hand gingered over matted black hair, occasionally pulling gently to ground Thorin.

“This’ll need a good wash and comb.” Bilbo broke the silence with a small grin, “If you’re lucky enough, I’ll do it for you myself when I find a water source that will hold this mop.”

Thorin huffed, maybe it was a laugh, maybe just a pained breath as Bilbo continued to follow the scarline again and again, studying it.

“The scar is from my grandfather’s sword.” Thorin spoke softly after a moment, softer than Bilbo had ever heard, “He taught me how to spar before the sickness took him. I may have gotten a bit ahead of myself.”

“You used real swords?” Bilbo laughed, concerningly, a thin smile from Thorin answering his question, “Of course you did!” 

There was another long beat of silence.

“I wasn’t even a teenager by dwarvish standard when Smaug came.” Thorin sighed, his smile fading, a comfortable calm, however, had settled in, “Aged only 24. Dis was only ten, Frerin, nineteen. Would you believe Balin was only seven?”

“Seven?!” Bilbo gawked, the dwarf looked closer to the grave than the cradle now, there was no way he was younger than Thorin.

“Aye.” A rare sparkle glinted in Thorin’s eyes, “I’d say I aged better.”

“I’d say!” Bilbo exclaimed a bit too quickly, red rising against his face and the tips of his ears where he’d slipped back his curls. It almost perfectly matched the blush that just barely touched the curve of Thorin’s cheek.

A moment of quiet passed over the two. Thorin let his eyelids drift shut, exhausted by the events of the last 48 hours, but didn’t sleep. 

“If it suits you,” Bilbo ran his thumb over Thorin’s mustache one last time, curling his fingers under his jawline as he did, pulling a soft exasperation from the ailed king, “I’d really like to get your chestplate off before the next pain.” The hobbit huffed, sure he’d said it at least twice now. 

“Then do it.” Thorin nodded, his eyes still closed.

“Thorin?” Thorin let his eyes open to just slits, meeting Bilbo’s.

“Yes, Ghivashel?”

“I need my hand back, Cariad.” 

A full blush flashed Thorin’s face as he released Bilbo’s arm, grimacing as his wrist fell to his abdomen, “Yes, Ghivashel.”
–

Getting the brigandine off was much easier than Bilbo had expected. Fastens followed both sides of the scalemail, which easily came off overhead with no movement of his arms. 

Freeing the armour had been harder than Bilbo imagined. Lifting Thorin enough to work it loose felt like trying to move a mountain stone by stone. The dwarf held his left arm tight against his body, jaw locked, refusing to admit what fear flickered in his eyes. Bilbo stayed patient, breathing through every stiff movement, quiet words falling between them like threads: Easy, Cariad. Just a little more now. I have you. 

Beneath the armour, a deep blue tunic lay plastered to pale and clammy skin by dirt and blood, some of which seeped through in dark red spots along his left side. Bilbo took in the sight, concern blooming in his chest.

“You’d do best to cut it off.” Thorin spoke with an eerie stillness that told Bilbo the pressure of the armour had been doing well to hold off the pain, “I will not be able to slip out of it, not with my arm in the state it's in."

Bilbo’s throat tightened. He laid a hand against the torn fabric, fingers trembling before they steadied. Slowly, he felt along the shoulder, dreading what he’d find. Thorin flinched hard, and Bilbo slid his other hand into black and silver hair, smoothing it back like the gentlest of apologies.

“It’s out,” Bilbo whispered. The bile rose before he could stop it. “And I don’t have the weight to set it.”

Thorin’s eyes closed, breath harsh through his teeth. “Then fetch Fíli,” he rasped. Each word sounded like it had been beaten from iron.

Bilbo hesitated, his hand pressed firm against Thorin’s chest, feeling the shudder of pain under his palm. 

“I’ll bring him,” he said softly. His voice caught, but he didn’t move until Thorin’s eyes opened and met his, “Hold on. Just.. hold on.”

–

When he heard it, he ran. The strangled screams of the exiled King of Erebor cracked across the rock face like the sound of a felling tree. 

Bilbo had left only moments before, coaxing Fíli toward the cave with the grim truth that Thorin needed him. That the pain gripped him so fiercely Bilbo could not ease it, and that Thorin, stubborn as stone, would suffer no hands upon him other than those he trusted as blood.

Reaching the cave at record speed for a Hobbit who had run more in the last month than he had in his fifty years, Bilbo crossed the threshold catching the vision of a writhing king.

Thorin lay broken before him. His Thorin - jerking against the stone, his breath ragged, his voice torn raw from his throat. His body buckled under some agony Bilbo could neither name nor fight.

Thorin looked smaller without his armour - thinner, younger, or maybe older, if you looked at him the right way. His hand that he dared move pressed hard to his lower half, body folding up, aggravating every pain he had experienced in the last twenty-four hours. 

“Cariad?” Bilbo took to the dwarf’s side, all light blocked out by Fíli’s uncertain presence in the cave mouth. “Thorin, my Love, give me your sight.” Clenched eyes opened just barely as fingers massaged at his beard, one hand scratching at the hair around his ear before it replayed the motion up through Thorin’s bloodied mess of facial hair. He repeated the motion, calmly whispering musings into Thorin’s ear, until the pain passed.

“I am sorry I left, Thorin.” Bilbo barely grazed his forehead to Thorin’s temple.

Leaning back, Thorin shook his head, pushing away the apology before meeting Fíli’s gaze, his body still lingering in the cave mouth awaiting permission to cross into sacred ground. 

“My shoulder is out of its socket,” Thorin spoke, his voice once again that of a leader and not a hurting lover. It drew Fíli to him, though the child still looked like a scared woodland creature in the sights of an arrow,  “Master Baggins is too small to put it back in its place.”

Fíli bit his tongue for a moment, “Will this not burn you, Uncle? I do not wish to hurt you further.”

“Until my shoulder is in its socket,” Thorin took Bilbo’s hand with his good one, squeezing softly, a bit of tension leaving him when Bilbo squeezed back, “Any pain you could cause me will be less than a forge burn.”

The process was fairly straight forward, Fíli explained as he felt around the shoulder as gingerly as he could, seeming to need to fill the silence as he took up above his Uncle, grabbing his wrist to move it upward.

The movement sent Thorin’s back arching, almost flinging Fíli into the air, his arm crashing back to the king’s broken chest with a thud and another moan Thorin couldn’t hold back.

“Thorin,” Bilbo was closer now, the king’s good hand gripped his tight as it was pressed into the Hobbit’s chest. Pale blue eyes, now blazing sapphire, surged open to meet Bilbo’s, “Thorin, you look at me now. I am here. I will not leave, Cariad.” The halfling put his knee into Thorin’s good shoulder, straddling his arm with the dwarf’s hand sandwiched between both of his, held into Bilbo’s sweater vest like it was the Hobbit’s own heart, “Fíli must do this, yes, but you must not do this alone. I’m here, Thorin. I’m here, fy Anwylyd .” A glance between the Hobbit and his dwarf gave away everything the dwarf would rather no one see, but it also gave silent permission, which Bilbo gave as a nod to Fíli.

Fíli’s hand locked hard around his uncle’s wrist, gripping only the torn tunic and never the skin beneath. With steady force, he pulled the arm tight against Thorin’s side, bracing him, ignoring the low, guttural sound that tore from Thorin’s throat as he pressed his other hand firm across the collarbone.

Beside them, Bilbo stayed anchored at Thorin’s right, his own small hand clenched in the dwarf’s grip so fiercely he thought his bones might splinter. Every ounce of Thorin’s pain was pouring through that hold. His other hand cradled the sweat-slicked brow pressed against his own, whispering in a voice barely audible above Thorin’s harsh, ragged breaths - no meaning, only sound, only comfort. Anything to keep those wild blue eyes from drowning in pain. Anything to keep Fíli from seeing the fear in them.

Fíli shifted his weight, breath sharp through his nose. “On three,” he said. His voice cracked like distant thunder, and Thorin gave the smallest of nods.

“One.

The cave filled with a brutal snap. Thorin’s strangled cry punched through the stone, black hair whipping forward before his head slammed back against the waistcoat. For a breath, he lay still, chest heaving, the world blurred white behind his eyes.

When vision returned, Fíli was already drawing back, swinging a leg clear with practiced grace, his jaw tight.

“I even knew you were going to do that,” Thorin rasped, voice scraped raw a flicker of dark humor on his tongue.

Fíli’s mouth twitched to a near invisible smile and then he was gone, moving as swiftly and silently as he had come.

Shoulder reduced, Bilbo spent a moment comforting his charge, who seemed more keen to sleep than do anything.

Thorin’s breath had recovered, coming in ragged and light, but slower, and he lay slack upon his makeshift pillow, locks of black, some of it greying at the roots, splaying back down the waistcoat and into the dirt. His eyes had closed, but he hadn’t yet to succumb to his exhaustion

“Let me get this tunic off and clean you up. Check everything over.” Bilbo waved at the bowl of herbs and water that lay where Kíli had set it, “Then you can sleep. Alright, Thorin?”

A grunt signalled Thorin’s understanding and Bilbo searched in Thorin’s pack for the smaller knife he knew the dwarf carried until he’d found it, unsheathing it with a small zip.

Thorin’s eyes fluttered if only a moment before calming again - trust . Hardwon in the moments when Thorin thought his life was over, his quest cut short.

With all the reverence and gentleness he could muster, Bilbo cut the better side first, from bottom to the arm seam, before cutting down the arm to reveal it. Old bruises in greens and purples at different points of healing littered his chest, Bruises lay scattered across Thorin’s chest, green fading to yellow, purple still angry at the edges. Even on the uninjured side, deep shadows hinted at more to come.

Bilbo kept the cloth where it was, unwilling to pull it back yet. Instead, he shifted to the wounded side, easing Thorin’s hand down from where it clutched at his chest. Every movement was careful, coaxing bone-stiff fingers loose and laying them gently against the stone. Thorin tensed hard, a tremor rippling through him, and Bilbo paused, running his fingers across bloodied knuckles before he returned to his task, choosing to cut up the long seam of the arm to the neckline, taking a moment when Thorin’s face flinched as if in memory of the blade that had nearly beheaded him not even a full daylight ago. 

“It’s just me, Cariad.” Bilbo soothed, as he carried the cut through to the neckline on the other side, “And I’m all done now.” He slipped the knife back into its sheath and tucked it into Thorin’s pack before pushing to his feet. His knees ached, his hands trembled, but he forced them steady as he reached for the water and cloth Kíli had left behind.

The bowl itself was filled with fragrant herbs of lavender, chamomile, calendula, and dried rose petals Bilbo knew were sent with Glóin by his wife for him to remember her by. It spoke of love, of loyalty, of a devotion that ran deep through the Company, binding them not by oath alone but by heart. For Thorin. Always for Thorin.

Bilbo stared down at the bowl and felt his breath falter. Love. He had never thought much of it before. Not like this. In the Shire, his affections had flickered and faded like summer fires, warm but never lasting. He’d had his share of them, quiet courtships and softer endings that only made the market on Saturday mornings a bit more awkward. That had been the way of it, and Bilbo had accepted it. But dwarves bound themselves for life. He had read enough to know that truth. A dwarf might wait their whole life for love and never find it. Thorin almost hadn’t.

And now here he lay, broken and bleeding before him, and, Mahal help him, Bilbo loved him.

But loving Thorin Oakenshield was no small thing. It meant loving his shadow and his steel, his pride and his rage. It meant loving more than the man himself. 

It meant loving thirteen, Bilbo thought, at least at first. But to be a consort to a king meant he must love more than just Thorin and his company of twelve, he must love a kingdom. And for just a moment, a split second, Bilbo almost ran. Ran from the job that lay before him. But instead he turned, bowl still in hand, and stepped toward Thorin, praying the pain would at least hold until he’d cleaned the wounds that littered his betrothed’s chest.

–

“I’m going to start with your chest, Thorin.” Bilbo spoke softly as he knelt once again at the dwarf’s side, “You rest. I can handle this, alright?”

Thorin didn’t respond, and Bilbo didn’t wait for him to. Instead, he slowly lifted the cloth, not all the way at first, taking in the bruising that covered Thorin’s stomach and upper abdominal muscles. He wrung out the cloth and placed it to the skin just below Thorin’s good shoulder, feeling Thorin flinch beneath him.

“Shhh, Darling.” Bilbo eased as he continued his soft strokes down the whole side, taking in each wound and scar to memory.  

Worse was the second side. The warg’s teeth had bit through just barely in areas leaving gashes on Thorin’s ribcage that lay marred with swaths of blue, purple, and black. With each breath, the ribs moved in uneven waves. It sent a pang through Bilbo’s chest, but he steadied himself. He wrung out the cloth and started where the tunic clung to open flesh sticky with drying blood.

“You don’t get to hide these from me,” he said, quiet but fierce, as Thorin bit down hard against a moan. Blue eyes cracked open. Bilbo met them without flinching.

“Scream. Shout. Break every bone in my hand if you must,” Bilbo murmured, a wry twist tugging his mouth. That earned the ghost of a smile. “But don’t you dare hide the hurt. Not from me. Not if I’m to stay. Which is the plan, in case you’ve wondered,” The smile grew just a hair wider, “assuming you’ll still have me after this torment.”

A quiet, almost imperceptible nod gave acknowledgement before Bilbo continued, Thorin whimpering quietly, his body shaking as Bilbo finished pulling the cloth away. It took more time than the first side, but Bilbo coaxed Thorin through it, gentle words and musings of his time in The Shire, stories of his own childhood. 

It was only when Thorin was clean and dried that Bilbo realized his pack was still just outside the cave. With a huff of a laugh and a whispered promise of immediate return, Bilbo dragged his pack in from just outside the cave. Those moments of questioning seemed as if they were years ago, not hours. 

From the pack he claimed a tin of salve from Rivendale, the wretched scent of the comfrey dulled by the lavender undertones. Bilbo took a bit in his hands and started at Thorin’s bad shoulder. The dislocation had been reduced but the deep bruising remained. Bilbo’s first touch dragged a low groan from Thorin’s throat, pain betraying whatever pride he still held. His hand found the edge of Bilbo's now untucked shirt and clung to it.

“Breathe, Cariad.” Bilbo whispered as he knelt over the dwarf, close to his face as he worked the slave into the worst of the bruising. He sealed the wounds with the salve, rubbing the rest of it in despite the painful protest of the dwarf in his care.

Just as soon as the worst was done, Bilbo took in the sight of the dwarf in front of him, setting the bowl aside just as Thorin gasped, his body fresh with crushing pain.

Thank Yavanna, Bilbo thought, letting himself slip in next to Thorin’s now bare chest. The pain had waited.

Bilbo took Thorin’s face in his hands as the dwarf wrapped his right arm tight around Bilbo’s ribcage and clung to him. Breaths ragged, inhales sharp and laced with what could only be described as a whine.

“I’m here, Cariad.” Bilbo kissed at his hairline before repeating the phrase over and over again as he massaged his fingers through the dwarfs beard, along the ridges of Thorin’s skull that hair wasn’t stuck to with blood or sweat, and down to his good shoulder, rubbing at a stonehard knot before repeating his processional. 

The wave seemed to peak relatively early, marked by fast whimpers and Thorin’s tightening grip, “Keep breathing, Thorin. I’m right here. I’m not leaving. Just a little longer now, my love.” Bilbo kept his hands and mouth moving until Thorin released his hold, muscles releasing some of their tension. Even then, however, Bilbo just slowed his gentle assault until pale blue eyes slipped out from under their heavy-lidded prison.

“Well, hello there, you stubborn dwarf.” Bilbo kissed his forehead right between his eyebrows, still over him, fingers still sweeping through Thorin’s beard. 

“Hello.” The return was low and filled with sleep, but the dwarf’s grin was undeniable, even if small.

“I can hold you now, Thorin.” Bilbo smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, not yet, “And I dare say I’m not too keen to let go.”

“That would be pleasing, Amrâlimê.” Thorin hummed, eyes closing again. For just a moment, Thorin’s arm slacked around Bilbo’s waist, before the dwarf's hand settled wide on Bilbo’s back. “I…” Thorin faltered and opened his eyes again, “I have never felt love like this. Not from my mother. Not my kin. No one, no one has loved me as you dare to.”

“I’m almost very sure that none of them are your One, Thorin.” 

That got a huff that bordered too close to a laugh to pull from Thorin’s chest.

“You speak the truth, amrâlimê.” Thorin lifted his left arm to Bilbo’s curls, grimacing from the soreness left behind from the dislocation. It only lasted a moment before exhaustion made him rest it back down, “I find myself very tired.”

“Then sleep while you can, Thorin.” Bilbo pecked his cheek, settling against Thorin’s good shoulder. The hand of the dwarf now settled at his waist, pulling him close. “I’ll be right here. I will never leave your side, my Love.”

And so he didn’t.

Chapter Text

Bilbo didn’t know how much time had passed.

The world had narrowed around him, shrinking beyond the fading murmur of the Company making camp outside, beyond the cold stone mouth of the cave, until all that remained was this small bubble of space where a dwarf and a halfling clung to each other, far from the world they had once known.

Thorin’s pain came in longer waves now. When they lifted, the pressure remained, though he could almost breathe through it, and all Bilbo could do was stay close, and love him through it.

At some point, he had pulled his own muck-stained shirt off and wrapped them both in Thorin’s cloak.  He had drawn the dwarf against his chest, holding him close, cradling his broken body with quiet devotion - soothing him with fingers and forehead kisses and as much love as he could muster. 

Their limbs tangled despite the pain. Every motion drew a sharp inhale, every adjustment a quiet gasp, but neither let go. Thorin’s leg had wrapped around him some time ago, a silent plea for comfort, an attempt to ground himself to reality. When the worst of it came, when the grip of pain in his pelvis turned brutal and overwhelming, Thorin clung to Bilbo with everything he had, hiding his screams and groans in the crook of Bilbo’s neck.

And Bilbo bore it. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. He stayed, pressed close, hands never still, breathing through the storm with the one he loved.

There was never a moment when two hobbit hands weren’t touching the body of the king as he changed. If they weren’t tangled in his beard, one would trace slow, careful paths along Thorin’s back or across his chest, always mindful of the bruises and broken places. The other kept his head gently cradled to Bilbo’s shoulder, anchoring him through each moment.

When the waves struck, Bilbo would lean back just enough to press their foreheads together in a dwarrow's gesture of deep affection. He held him there, both of them with eyes closed, the cave forgotten as they breathed together through the crest of pain. Fingers moved in quiet patterns, mapping pleasure into skin where agony had taken hold, drawing comfort where there should have been none.

For the most part, Thorin had not spoken, save for the occasional whispered thank you or a low murmur in Khuzdul that Bilbo suspected was either a curse or a prayer.

Bilbo, however, had kept talking. He spoke about anything he could think of. His time in the cave with Gollum, though he avoided mention of the ring hidden safely in a waistcoat pocket beneath Thorin’s head. He told stories of his family, fond memories of his mother, of his father, and tales of Gandalf’s fireworks lighting up the skies of the Shire when he was just a boy.

He spoke of the moment he first fell for Thorin, when the dwarf sang the ancient song of his people in a quiet hobbit parlor. The words poured out with no clear direction, but they seemed to ease Thorin more than silence ever could.

It was almost laughable to think how many times Thorin had told him to shut up on their journey, when now it seemed as though each word from Bilbo’s mouth wove some small measure of peace into the agony. And Thorin, well, he told himself that he would rather suffer another wave of pain, face Azog once more, or even surrender Erebor itself, than give up the sound of that voice speaking aimlessly beside him.

“And Hobson, well, his son Hamfast,” Bilbo began, rambling again in an effort to keep the silence at bay. Each word felt like a moment borrowed from the pain, a breath of grace gifted to a king barely holding on. For just a second, he let himself believe the agony might wait for one more sentence.

But then Thorin’s body shuddered.

He tensed, breath caught as another wave seized him. The pain was back, fierce and unrelenting.

A sharp, high-pitched keen was swallowed against Bilbo’s chest as Thorin’s good arm locked around his shoulder. These were not the cries of a proud king. These were the sounds of a man undone, broken open by pain and clinging to the only thing that still tethered him, love, and the stubborn will to survive it.

Bilbo did what he could, whispering softly against Thorin’s temple.

“Breathe. Breathe with me, Cariad. That’s it, Thorin. We’re so close now. You’ll be mine yet, you stubborn king.”

He kept going, waiting for the moment Thorin might ask him to stop.

But Thorin never did.

Each word grounded him to a future he had been sure he would never see. To an unlikely love that had found him in a Hobbit hole in Bag End. To the feel of love given and divinely approved.

As for the wave, Bilbo thought they were most of the way through it. Thought they’d reach the other side in seconds, but he was wrong.

Bilbo thought they had made it through the worst. Thought the wave was crested, the worst of it behind them.

He was wrong.

“My back!”

The cry tore from Thorin’s throat and echoed off the stone walls, cracking the silence like a thunderclap. Bilbo jolted. It was the first real speech Thorin had managed in what felt like hours.

“Ghivashel-”

The name came out as a plea more than a title. Thorin’s whole body twisted, spasming in pain. His left arm, the one too injured to lift before, flung out with new desperation and clutched Bilbo’s wrist in a grip that shocked them both.

He shoved Bilbo’s hand to the small of his back.

“Mahal, help me! Please, take it away!” His voice was hoarse, cracking with something between prayer and panic. “Please, my love! Please!”

The cry tore a gash through Bilbo’s chest as he did what he could, as best he could. He pressed the heel of his hand to the small of Thorin’s back, firm as his strength would allow, rubbing slow circles and cursing himself for his lack of stature and strength.

Thorin clung to him like a drowning man, his body taut with pain, trying to drag himself back under control. Every shudder against Bilbo’s chest felt like a silent scream.

“Where in the blazes is Gandalf?” Bilbo muttered, teeth grit, voice thick with fury and fear. He tightened his hold as much as he dared.

“You need a bed. A hot bath. And we need some proper privacy.”

As if summoned by some unseen force, the tap of Gandalf’s staff echoed against stone, announcing the wizard’s arrival just as the wave passed.

The Maia stood still for a breath, taking in the sight before him.

“I come with the hesitant welcome of Beorn, land-baron of these hills,” Gandalf said at last, his voice low and even. “He offers a room for the two of you, and a warm hearth for the rest of the Company, for as long as we may need it.”

He did not mention what lay before him. He did not speak of the shaking king wrapped around his halfling consort, nor of the dried blood, nor the pain that still hung thick in the air. Instead, his eyes fixed on the cave wall beside them, as if that blank stone might offer him some easier thing to witness.

Gandalf finally turned toward them, offering a brief nod. Still, he avoided meeting either of their eyes. He slung both Bilbo’s and Thorin’s packs over his shoulder with a grunt.

“I’ve also brought a wagon,” he said, tone clipped but kind. “I do not believe your charge can walk the distance to the house, Master Baggins.”

“What gave you that idea?” Bilbo muttered under his breath, his voice sharp with exhaustion and protectiveness that only Thorin heard. The dwarf gave a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

After a long moment, Bilbo gently eased them apart with a grimace of reluctance, easing Thorin back to the ground and his makeshift pillow.

In the wake of the pain, Thorin looked less a king and more a broken boy. His arms trembled with effort he no longer had the strength to muster. His jaw was locked tight, holding back the scream that still trembled just beneath the surface. From his run-in with Azog, bruises had bloomed down the full length of his left side, from throat to hip, then vanished under the line of his trousers toward agony that had left no visible mark. But it had torn through him all the same, tearing down every defense Thorin Oakenshield had spent nearly two centuries building.

“How exactly do you expect us to move him, Gandalf?” Bilbo snapped. His voice was sharper than he meant it to be, laced with fear he hadn’t yet named. “I can’t lift him, and I’ll be damned before I let him walk.”

Gandalf’s smile was small but not unkind as he finally met Bilbo’s eyes.

“If Thorin consents, you can wrap him in his cloak. Kíli is more than willing to come in and carry his uncle. He’s been pacing just outside the cave since before I arrived.”

The wizard glanced toward Thorin. The dwarf’s eyes dropped at once, flicking away with quiet shame.

“He consents,” Bilbo said without looking to the dwarf king. He wasn’t asking consent. Not here. Not now. “Stubborn dwarves and their customs. Thorin is in agony, Gandalf. And I know next to nothing of what to do for him. You all keep playing at secrets, pretending I wouldn’t understand even if you told me.” He paused, jaw tight. “Well, I am tired of it.”

He turned his full weight on the wizard, voice low but firm. “Now please. Fetch Kíli.”
“Already here, Bilbo.”

The hobbit turned at the sound, breaking his glare away from Gandalf. Kíli stood just inside the cave’s mouth, eyes fixed awkwardly on the ground as if he had walked in on something he wasn’t meant to see.

Bilbo sighed, the breath quiet but heavy. He turned back as if he hadn’t just raised his voice at Gandalf of all people, and knelt at Thorin’s side. The dwarf’s eyes met his, storm-blue and unreadable, whether with anger, shame, or gratitude, Bilbo couldn’t tell. Nor did he care.

“It’s time to get you somewhere warm, Cariad.” His voice softened, and he pressed a kiss to Thorin’s brow. Carefully, he drew the cloak over Thorin’s trembling frame, tucking it close with reverent hands.

“Just make sure there’s no skin I can touch,” Kíli said, now beside them. He didn’t look at Bilbo. His eyes stayed on Thorin, voice tight. “One of the intricacies of Bershar Imrêlul. If anyone but you lays hands on him, it could make the pain worse.”

Bilbo looked up at that, his expression breaking. The flood of relief was immediate, gratitude etched into every line of his face. But Kíli didn’t look back. His gaze remained fixed on the uncle who still refused to meet his eyes.

“I’m here, Uncle.”

Kíli stepped into the space Bilbo had just left, positioning himself at Thorin’s side as if even an inch of distance was too much. His voice was low, coaxing.

“I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

He reached as though to thread his fingers through Thorin’s hair but caught himself just in time, hand hovering before it dropped to his side.

“Can I lift you, Thorin?”

The silence that followed was brief, but it stretched like a held breath. Then Thorin looked up, his eyes finding Kíli’s. There was no word, only the steady weight of permission passed between them.

Kíli gave a small nod, then knelt. He checked the cloak, making sure it covered every inch of his uncle’s back. Only then did he reach beneath him. The lift was slow, almost reverent. His hands moved with practiced care, finding places untouched by bruises or the cruel teeth of the warg. He carried him not like a king, not like a warrior, but like something far more precious.

Like a child newly born. Like someone he could not bear to lose. Like the father he never got to know.

When a low whine escaped the suffering dwarf, Kíli soothed him with a quiet whisper, his steps careful as they approached the light at the cave’s mouth.

“Shhh, Uncle. It’ll be over soon. And you’ll have a Sálfélagi for it. You just hold tight. I’ve got you now.”

Thorin tensed at the words, as if the comfort stung. But only for a moment.

“You,” he gasped as sunlight spilled into view, “are too much like your mother.”

“I think that may be the best compliment you’ve ever given me,” Kíli said with a soft laugh, climbing into the wooden wagon with Thorin still held in his arms.

He settled him gently into the hay, already softened with furs, then tucked another over his chest, pulling it high to cover his shoulders. Carefully, he grasped Thorin’s good arm  above the fur, his touch steady and warm and gone in a moment.

“She’d have been right here if we were home, you know?”

Thorin swallowed hard, jaw tightening as Kíli moved out of sight. He said nothing, but the ache in his eyes spoke louder than words.

He knew his nephew was right. And gods, how he wished she was.

— 

The sun struck Bilbo’s eyes much as it had Thorin’s. He hadn’t stepped beyond the dark mouth of the cave since mid-morning, and now the fading light made clear that evening had begun to settle. A breeze stirred the air, tugging at his curls and bringing him back into the present.

He blinked against the brightness, squinting to make sense of the scene before him.

The Company had already begun their trek across the meadow. Most of them were far ahead now, scattered like dark specks moving through golden grass, already making their way toward the promised shelter that Bilbo could not yet see.

“Up you get, Master Baggins!” came Gandalf’s voice, brisk and familiar.

The wizard climbed into the seat of the wagon, settling his staff beside him before gathering the reins. His tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes flicked to Bilbo with something softer than command.

Before Bilbo stood a large wooden wagon. Kíli had already settled Thorin and sat, bow in hand on the ledge of the front corner - a sentinel with a smooth smile and infectious laugh, though for just this once he was silent.

 Fíli, golden hair shimmering in the near setting sun, was towards the back of the wagon, but he took a step down to lift the halfling into the wagon. 

“Oh no you -” Bilbo was cut off by a noise that sounded too much like a squeak to be dignified. Fíli had gripped him around the ribs and set him in the wagon, where, after a gentle scowl at the crown prince, he settled close to Thorin, thumb instinctively grazing the dwarf’s temple.

Gandalf had already settled their packs, Orcrist’s sheath glimmering in the light.

“Well, Thorin,” Bilbo said softly as he eased beneath the fur, his arm sliding carefully around the dwarf’s shoulders. “One step closer. We’re one step closer.”

Thorin did not answer. His gaze stayed low, shadowed with shame, his frame trembling with the weight of pain and pride. He knew this ride would be no quiet mercy. The pain would return. It would crest in full before it broke again, and he would be laid bare before his nephews and the wizard. That thought turned his stomach. For them to witness him like this felt like a curse on his dignity, yet still, he bore it.

If he could last the ride, there would be a bed. Bilbo’s arms. A fire crackling in peace. The scent of warm food and the quiet promise of safety. He could fall apart in his hobbit’s embrace, away from watching eyes, away from the burdens of leadership. He just had to endure this last stretch.

—

The first pain came just as the rocky crop gave way to dirt. Thorin had tried, with all his might, to keep his mouth shut. To lean into Bilbo’s soft touch and cling to the last threads of his dignity. But it didn’t hold.

The whimpers started almost at once, sharp and involuntary. Bilbo shifted closer, pressing his hand to the small of Thorin’s back with as much strength as he could manage. The dwarf still clung to his shoulder, one of Bilbo’s other hands lost in the tangled mess of Thorin’s beard, stroking gently in a quiet attempt to soothe.

At the front of the wagon, Kíli watched. His eyes lingered long on the shuddering figure of his uncle, worry clear in the tension of his jaw. He only turned away when he felt the weight of his brother’s gaze watching him from the other side.

Fíli’s eyes could have burned straight through the leather on Kíli’s back. Bershar Imrêlul. was a private affair, even among family. Kíli knew that. Of course he did. But this was Thorin.

Thorin. The man who had stepped in when his father died. The one who read him stories by firelight, who worked himself to exhaustion to give Kíli and Fíli everything he had lost in the Sack of Erebor. The one who first placed a bow in his hands, who forged the blade he still carried. Thorin had never been just an uncle. He was the mountain beneath them, the steady fire in their forge, the reason they knew how to be proud.

And this was not only different because of that. Dwarves born already prepared with a path to bear children were rarer than the Arkenstone, but their mother Dis was one. The first truly female dwarf born to the line of Durin. Because of that, she had been welcomed into the sacred spaces of Bershar Imrêlul.. Her presence was considered a blessing, a good omen. Kíli remembered watching as a child, dreaming of one day offering the same comfort to his own beloved.

Now, all he wanted was to help Thorin. He wanted to help his father.

Thorin’s raw scream slammed Kíli back into the moment, tearing through the haze of memory and panic. Without thinking, he dropped to his knees beside the writhing form of his uncle, fists clenched to keep from pulling him into his arms. He took a sharp breath and turned his voice toward the only one who might let him act.

“Bilbo,” Kíli said, heart pounding in his chest like a war drum, “I can help.”

Bilbo shot the young dwarf a look, but it didn’t last long. His entire being was wrapped around Thorin, voice low and steady, murmuring soft reassurances that barely held the edges of the pain at bay.

“Kíli,” Fíli’s voice came low from his place at the back of the wagon, sword in hand, eyes still watchful towards the hills, even as Kíli looked to him for help - to get out of this, or to support him in it, he didn’t know, “This is not your place. Leave Uncle and Bilbo be.”
“I can help, Bilbo.” Kíli’s voice cracked as he met Bilbo’s eyes again. “Please. I can help him.” He was panting now, desperate. “But you have to give me permission. Your voice. I need you to say it. I won’t hurt him, Bilbo. I swear it. I’ve more strength than you. Please.”

Bilbo looked torn, half-tempted to consult Thorin, but the answer came in the form of another raw, raking scream. Thorin arched, the sound echoing into the twilight air.

“Help him,” Bilbo said, and it was all Kíli needed.

He moved instantly, hands steady as he braced his uncle’s hips through the furs, locking his strength into keeping Thorin still. His grip was firm but reverent, the way one might steady a man caught in a storm.

Thorin jolted, the pressure cutting through the agony like fire through ice, and ripped free from Bilbo’s hold with a gasp. “Kíli!”

The name came like a cry, half-wail, half-relief, and Kíli let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Just breathe, Uncle. Let Bilbo hold you, and breathe.” Kíli’s voice had steadied now, calm with purpose. “Bilbo,” he added, seeing the hobbit had just cradled Thorin’s face again, “count his breaths with him. Best to try for four in, and four out for right now.”

“Did you hear Kíli, Cariad?” Bilbo whispered, pressing his forehead to Thorin’s. “In for four, and out for four. Do it with me now.” He took a deep, exaggerated breath. “In. Two. Three. Four. And out. Two. Three. Four.”

Thorin hesitated. He wanted to resist. He wanted to tell Kíli to leave him, that he did not need this, that his nephew’s aid only deepened the shame curling like fire in his gut. But he could not.

He could not tell Kíli to stop because, for all that his pride protested, the relief was real. It gave him hope. It gave him breath.

As the wave passed, Kíli slowly released his hold and Thorin collapsed against Bilbo’s shoulder. The hobbit caught him, steady and sure, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Well,” Bilbo said, his fingers returning to their comforting patterns along Thorin’s spine, entirely unaware of the way Kíli’s face had gone pale and drawn, “at least one of you fools is willing to help us.”

Kíli gave a strangled smile and wordlessly handed over his waterskin. Bilbo murmured his thanks and brought it to Thorin’s lips, tipping it gently. The dwarf took the smallest sip before slumping back into the furs with a groan that sounded as close to surrender as it did pain.

Then, slowly, Thorin turned his head. He found Kíli watching him and held his gaze. The silence stretched between them like a thread, heavy with everything they could not say.

Thorin tried to summon strength, to shape his voice into the command of a king once more. But the pain would not allow it.

“Thank you, Nephew.” His voice broke, rough with both love and humiliation. Tears slipped from his eyes without permission.

Kíli did not speak. He only nodded, stiff but sincere, and reached forward to lay a hand over Thorin’s shoulder, above the furs. It was not the touch of a warrior. It was the touch of a son. A silent reminder of why, and how, Thorin would survive this. 

Bilbo sat back, watching them. And for the first time since this had begun, he allowed himself a real breath. They would be alright. Somehow, they would make it through this.