Days of Agony [Featured]

Always My King

Days waned and nights lengthened as winter fell harsher and whiter over the Lonely Mountain and the valley of Dale. It was never pitch black inside the mountain, not even in the smallest hours of the night, as countless lanterns and torches filled its halls with the golden glow of fire, but the torches burned longer and Bilbo could tell from the thinning thread of the light that came in from the outside that the sun was getting weaker by the day.

His life in the growing darkness of the mountain was filled with pain and pleasure alike, and he did not have anyone to talk to about it. Not really. He knew that, in the absence of Gandalf, he could always ask Balin to lend an ear to whatever was troubling him, but he was not sure than anyone could have truly helped him with what was troubling him now.

Something was happening to him, something unexpected, and frightening at the same time, as all things new and unknown. He had believed that talking openly with Thorin about his confession of love and finding out exactly what he had meant by it would make things easier for him. He had believed that getting rid of the doubt over how Thorin felt about him would free him of that nagging anxiety that kept lurking at the back of his mind. And, indeed, there was no more doubt in his mind about how Thorin felt when he washed his hair or when he wiped the cold sweat off his forehead or when he lay in bed next to him. But it had not made things any easier. It had only made it harder for him to know how to respond to that, and, in turn, it only added to his anguish. It only hurt more that he could not easily return the serene and steadfast love that he saw many times in Thorin's eyes. All he could return was uncertainty and fear.

Still, he remained faithfully at Thorin's side. The Dwarf King was recovering slowly but steadily. The changing of his dressings remained an excruciating experience for all involved, and Bilbo was involved more often than not, but at least Thorin was able to sleep better and his appetite was growing healthier. He tired easily, however, and it was usually the conversations about matters of the kingdom with Dain and Balin that left him equally drained and frustrated. Bilbo remained present at these meetings although he personally thought that he had no business being there. He always started to leave, and Thorin always stopped him. Bilbo stayed every time, but usually withdrew in a shadowy corner of the room, not really making himself part of a discussion that did not concern him, but hovering within earshot of it. He felt much like a ghost at these times, like he was made of the shadow, which listened and lingered voiceless, close to Thorin, and the many burdens he still carried.

Thorin often looked like something boiled hot inside him afterwards, but his features loosened whenever Bilbo stepped out of the shadows and came back by his bed. He was not saying it, but Bilbo saw in his eyes that he had begun to hate that bed, which had kept him imprisoned in its soft, white arms for more than two weeks and which was not going to let go for a while longer.

It was at these times that Bilbo felt less afraid to touch Thorin. He often sat down on the side of his bed and took his hand into both of his. It was here that pleasure sparked, in timid caresses. These had become his favourite moments, but also the source of hours of lying awake at Thorin's side while the dwarf slept peacefully, wondering what lay beneath his gestures and beneath his undeniable desire to be with him.

Bilbo was lying awake now, but it was nothing out of the ordinary, as he would not have slept at that hour anyway. It was midday and the room was filled with crystalline light.

Suddenly, Bilbo's ears registered the sound of a door moving outside. He sat up, got out of bed and waited. He knew what he was waiting for, or rather for whom. He waited for Oin, who was coming to give Thorin his massage.

For the past week, Oin had been coming every day to massage Thorin's legs in order to exercise their muscles and to relieve his pain. It was a ritual in itself, much like the cleaning and dressing of his wounds, but of a much more pleasant kind, as there were nicely fragrant oils being used and Thorin was smiling all the way through.