Days of Agony [Featured]

Sealed with Fire

As the wall of blackness before him started to disperse, Bilbo recognised the huddled shapes of Dwalin and Balin a few feet away. They acknowledged him with tense glances. They were standing by the head of a makeshift bed, where a mound of blankets lay bundled over a great, inert shape, which was undoubtedly Thorin himself. His forehead was visible, smudged with black and crimson, and his closed eyes. His weapons and rent armour were piled at the foot of the bed. Nearby, there was a heap of blackened, blood-soaked rags, which had most certainly been his clothes once. It seemed unreal, impossible even that the broken, bleeding mass in that bed could be the proud Thorin Oakenshield, who had proven his true valour in leading Dwarves, and Elves, and Men into that great battle against a common foe, who had acted indeed like a king worthy of his great line.

Bilbo was making a stubborn stand at the tent's entrance, but he soon felt another light push in his back. Gandalf was nudging him once more to tread where he feared. Perhaps there really was no time to linger. Perhaps Thorin's time was running out with his blood, and whatever he wanted to say to Bilbo had to be said right away or never be said at all. The thought of no more time with Thorin filled Bilbo with real terror, as he had not known before, not when facing giant orcs and spiders, or even a fire-breathing dragon. No more time to apologize for the terrible mess that he had made with the Arkenstone, or even to try and reattach the severed threads of their friendship. He was still sore where the maddened Thorin had grabbed him in his rage, to throw him to the rocks, but he felt now that he was not completely undeserving of that pain. As he took those few hard steps closer to the bed, he saw that, as he was then, wounded and weak, hanging on to life by a thinning thread, he was again the Thorin that Bilbo knew and that he had come to love, even though he had not fully realised it until that moment, when it seemed to be very, very late.

As the hobbit approached, Balin bent over Thorin, whispering to him that his burglar was there.

Thorin opened his eyes, their blue still surprisingly clear, albeit a little pale, but otherwise the only part of him that still looked clean and untouched. His hand emerged searching from under the covers, and Bilbo felt compelled to receive it into his own. It was bloody as well, its knuckles grazed raw, and Bilbo strived to make his touch light enough so as not to stir even more pain.

"Thought I'd lost you," said Thorin with only a faint echo of his voice, once deep and powerful.

"Oh, no, I'm not so easily lost," answered Bilbo, finding an unexpected power to smile. Perhaps it was the wonder to see Thorin speaking kindly to him again.

"Bilbo, I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate," continued Thorin, obviously using all the energy he had left in order to speak.

"It's all forgotten," said Bilbo, squeezing his hand as gently as he could.

Thorin was silent for a few moments, breathing a little more heavily. This conversation was clearly draining, but he did not intend to end it so soon. "I wish to part from you in friendship," he whispered.

"Part from me? No, no, you don't have to part from me. I'm not going anywhere."

"But I am," said Thorin, with the hint of a resigned smile.

"What? Don't say that," Bilbo tried to reassure with a shake of his head.

Balin put his hand gently on his shoulder, and when Bilbo glanced back, he noticed a certain note of resignation on his face as well, as if he was telling him to stop giving false encouragement where it was not due, or needed.

Bilbo looked back to Thorin, full understanding of what was really happening hitting him like a hammer to the head. Thorin appeared frighteningly peaceful, dignified as ever, ready to die like the hero that he was, like a king of his people that had done his duty to ensure that they had their deserved home.