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Saving Thorin’s life, it turned out, was no easy task.
Bilbo had realized this long before—back when he’d had to leap over an orc to keep the Dwarf-king from meeting his end—yet he had vastly underestimated the aforementioned dwarf’s death wish.
After all, he never would have imagined that Thorin would charge into battle against a massive army of orcs with absolutely no armor on.
The armor he’d been wearing earlier had been cumbersome—even Bilbo could see it wasn’t fit for combat—but there was an armory right there. He could have easily popped in to change his gear before charging at the orcs.
And then, even though Bilbo’s timely warning had stopped Thorin from sending Fili and Kili straight into the trap Azog had laid, Thorin had still chosen to remain at that very spot—dismissing all available reinforcements and forcing Bilbo into a race against time to save him.
So, since Thorin was the cause of Bilbo’s stress, he had no right to be furious, angry, or worried.
A fourteenth share of the Erebor treasure wasn’t nearly enough payment for having to deal with those thirteen dwarves for all those months.
Not even the entire treasure of Erebor would have been enough; Bilbo was certain of that.
“I’m fine,” Bilbo said.
Thorin snorted. “You were shaking, Bilbo.” Thorin had started using his name—doing so with increasing frequency as they drew closer to the Mountain, ever since their hasty escape from Mirkwood. During his illness, Thorin had been extremely formal—though far more pleasant than at the start of their journey—only to drop all formality after the battle; perhaps due to some unwritten rule that, after saving someone’s life enough times, one earned the right to be addressed simply by first name.
“It’s certainly not because of the pain.” Bilbo snorted. “Oin did an excellent job, and it’s only a scratch, thanks to the armor you gave me.”
“You could have been killed,” Thorin said, completely missing the point Bilbo was making—namely, that they were both alive.
“So could you.”
Instead of acknowledging the truth in Bilbo’s words, Thorin stiffened. “That is not an answer.”
Bilbo blinked, confused and unsure what the problem was. “You were going to die,” Bilbo explained—just in case Thorin had missed it as he retraced the events surrounding Bilbo’s injury; Bilbo wasn't foolish enough to run unarmed toward an enemy, though apparently, he was foolish enough to follow a dwarf who did.
“And you thought throwing yourself in front of me was the answer?” Thorin asked, vibrating with suppressed tension.
Bilbo shrugged and replied, “Yes, of course.”
“Your life is not worth less than mine,” Thorin said, almost growling.
“I know,” Bilbo said. “And I didn’t save you because you’re the king, or a leader, or anything of the sort. Those things are true, certainly, but they aren’t the reason I chose to follow you, Thorin.”
“Whatever the reason, it isn’t enough to justify you nearly dying for my sake,” Thorin exclaimed, deaf to Bilbo’s words just as he had been during his illness—though the reasons behind his inability to hear were vastly different. Perhaps it was that very comparison—unintended and too sudden—that drove Bilbo to say, almost exclaiming, “I would die for you.”
“Oh.” Thorin froze, letting out only that single breath.
Bilbo swallowed and looked away, almost ashamed of his own emotional outburst, which had led to his hasty explanation and the resulting misunderstanding. “That wasn’t quite what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” Thorin asked, his voice reduced to a whisper, his eyes fixed on Bilbo.
“That I couldn’t let you die,” Bilbo confessed.
Because that was the reason. Bilbo didn’t have a problem with self-worth, and he certainly didn’t believe he was expendable or less deserving of life than any of the dwarves. He wasn’t even afraid of death; he had become all too familiar with it during the Fell Winter, following the sudden deaths of both his parents.
Bilbo was simply terrified of losing Thorin.
Thorin stiffened, his jaw tightening before he spoke. “You cannot keep throwing yourself into danger to save me.”
“You could try avoiding danger yourself, Thorin,” Bilbo suggested with a faint smile. “And I won’t promise not to save your life again. I promised to help you reclaim your home, Thorin,” Bilbo said, looking him straight in the eye, “but you can’t enjoy your home if you’re dead.”
“I understand,” Thorin said. “I’d like to be clear about one thing, though.”
“Go ahead.” Bilbo nodded. “I’m listening—though I reserve the right to correct or ignore you, depending on the severity of the nonsense you utter.”
“I would never want you to die for me, Bilbo.” Thorin spoke. “I want you to live, instead.” Thorin paused briefly. “With me, if possible.”
Bilbo remained silent for a moment, reflecting on how much Thorin had grown emotionally to admit such a thing.
"I can do that, but only if you promise to do the same," Bilbo said. "The Mountain would be a truly sad place without you."
"Then I shall do my utmost never to leave you, Bilbo Baggins," Thorin promised, bowing his head with great drama.
Bilbo almost expected a contract to appear out of thin air, ready to be signed, but Thorin simply took Bilbo’s hand, murmuring, "I would die for you too, Bilbo."
"Oh," Bilbo whispered.