Days of Agony [Featured]

Ruins

With Gandalf gone, Bilbo started to feel that the world was closing in on him. He had been quick to affirm to Balin and Dwalin that he was not alone in the dim tent as long as Thorin was there, but now his assuredness faltered. Thorin was there in body, hardly whole in itself, but not in spirit. There was no one to talk to, and no one that could answer. Further to Bilbo’s distress, he could not say that he regretted that particular state of affairs entirely. Part of him was relieved that Thorin was not conscious, for he would have hardly known what to say to him. The other part was afraid that he would stay that way forever.

Bilbo realized that he had been standing over Thorin’s bed, staring at the wounded dwarf, or rather through him, since the wizard had left. He was not sure how long it had been, but he was yanked out of his thoughts by a sudden dizzy spell and a shudder shooting through his body, from his toes to his head. He knew what that was. It wasn’t just being tired, or lonely, or underdressed for the winter season. He was coming down with a fever, which was not exactly a great surprise.

Bilbo sat down and extended his hands towards the waning candle at his side. His fingers almost blistered before he felt warm enough to take them away. He looked around for another candle to replace the dying one and saw that there was only one other left. He lit it carefully and made the replacement. He hoped that Balin and Dwalin would return soon, and they would be able to move to the Mountain before this last candle expired and before his fever got much worse. Something within him reeled at the thought of going back into Erebor, but he knew that he could count on a warm place to sleep at least. And maybe the dark of the mountain kingdom would help him forget about everything for a while.

As he mused so, the corner of his eye caught a shadow blocking the light coming in through the folds of the tent. He turned eagerly, thinking that Balin and Dwalin had returned, but the shadow belonged to someone else - another dwarf, by the bulky shape of his silhouette.

The visitor advanced until the light from the single remaining torch revealed his features. It was Dain, Thorin’s mighty cousin and Lord in the Iron Hills. Bilbo had only seen him briefly, from afar, but even so the sight of Dain and his five hundred dwarves, with their heavy armours and large, iron axes had convinced him of the fearsome power that a Dwarf army could muster. Now that he could look closely upon Dain Ironfoot, he felt himself growing smaller under his wild stare, of a murky colour that was difficult to name, and sparkling oddly with the lingering thirst for Orc blood. His wide, boulder-like frame gave him the distinct look of being ready to crush anything that came his way. Bilbo caught an impulse to draw back as the dwarf advanced towards him. He remembered being intimidated by Thorin when they had first met, but not in that way.

“Master Hobbit,” spoke Dain in a low, rough tone, probably strained by battle, “I understand that you have had a decisive hand in all of this.”

Bilbo blinked a few times, pressed to react to this strange statement. “I, uh, I don’t -”

“Come, now, Master Hobbit, don’t be modest. I hear you have helped my cousin take back the Mountain. We have much to thank you for.”

“Well, I - ”

“You look tired and hungry. Why don’t you come over to my tent, so you can get food and rest aplenty?” offered Dain.

“Thank you, but I was left to watch over Thorin,” said Bilbo, finally retrieving his words.

“I have posted guards outside. You need not worry yourself.”

“I think I would rather stay.”

“Very well,” Dain relented. “I did not know that Hobbits had such a sense of loyalty.”