The Journey

Dragon Sickness

     Bilbo, though, grew more concerned for Thorin with every passing day. Something was eating him from the inside; his eyes took on a dark, hungry look, his brows permanently furrowed, his fingers always grasping for something, muttering under his breath.
     When he woke early in the morning, he would rouse Bilbo and almost drag him down to the treasure halls, where he would spend hours and hours doing nothing but pacing, while Bilbo sat nearby, bored out of his mind, and yet frightened of this thing that grew inside of the King Under the Mountain. Thorin's caresses grew harder, more demanding, his kisses violent and full of desire. The gentle hand that would rest about his waist turned into a vice-like grasp, his fingers digging into his side until Bilbo loosened them, but it would always return. Thorin did not notice when his touches bruised or when the hobbit cried out or shrank away, more in pain than anything, heedless of his words. Bilbo began to be afraid of Thorin, as much as he tried to fight it, but something inside him quaked whenever Thorin turned his fiery eyes upon him.
     Hardly having a minute alone to himself, he began to slip away while Thorin was preoccupied with the others. While this would not always work, it gave Bilbo some time by himself, worrying over what was happening and what was going to happen. Thorin did not mention again the question he had asked, but deep in his heart, Bilbo knew that this new Thorin was going to keep him there, no matter what, nothing more than a captive.
     Still he fought against the feeling of hopelessness, trying to find glimpses of the old Thorin that still lingered below, he knew. Every now and then he would catch a glimpse of Thorin's back and expect him to turn around, happy and smiling, but it was never so.
     One afternoon, Thorin ordered the rest of the dwarves to put on their armor to take a patrol of the surrounding areas, checking defenses and the lay of the land.
     "For," he said darkly, "we must be ready if anyone should try to attack us."
     Bilbo stood off to the side, watching them strap on chestplates and cinch on shinguards, the worked metal glistening richly in the torchlight. They were quick, now, putting it on, and soon they were almost ready to leave, checking weapons and taking in soft voices among themselves. Bilbo adjusted Sting around his waist and fiddled with the collar of his shirt, the rings of Mithril peeking out the top, checking to make sure his ring was in his pocket. He was ready for his part—he traveled light anyways.
     "Master Baggins," Thorin called to him, motioning him over to the doorway. Bilbo quickly crossed to him, wondering mildly what this could be about.
     "Come," Thorin said, turning down the hallway. Bilbo followed, confused as to why they were walking deeper into the mountain when they had somewhere to be and business outside, Thorin walking down and down, until Bilbo realized that they were going to the treasure hall.
     They reached the top of the stairs, the gold spread out before them, coins sprinkling the floor where they stood. Bilbo turned to Thorin.
     "Why are we here?" he asked.
     Thorin glanced behind himself, as if afraid of being followed, then stepped closer to the hobbit. "I need you to stay here."
     "Here?" Bilbo laughed confusedly, "Why?"
     "I cannot trust any of the others. I need someone to guard the gold, to watch it, and they have all abandoned me." He turned to look at Bilbo. "You are the only one I can trust here."
     "Thorin, my place is out there, with them—with you," Bilbo pushed, "you can't expect anyone to sneak in while we're out, we have this place locked down—"
     "Bilbo," Thorin said suddenly, stepping towards him. He backed up, fear flickering within him. "You need to stay here, where no one can take my gold, my jewels, my treasure, or you," he breathed, his eyes beginning to shine with passion. "You do not belong out there, in harm's way; you do not belong in battle. You will be safe here—where no one can take you!" he repeated, advancing forwards, Bilbo backing up before him.
     "Thorin, please, just let me—"
     "Don't test me!" Thorin shouted suddenly as Bilbo hit the wall, the hobbit pressing himself as far away as he could get. "Don't test me," he repeated dangerously, leaning his hands on the wall on either side of Bilbo's head and staring into his eyes. "I want you safe, and I want the gold safe. I will not part from any of it. Now stay here. Do you understand?"
     Bilbo's voice caught in his throat. "Yes," he answered finally. "But I really think that—"
     Thorin cut him off, kissing him hard, his eyes fluttering shut as Thorin pressed his head back into the wall. "I will be back," he said lowly, trailing a hand along his jaw, "Stay here."
     "Right," Bilbo sighed, looking downwards. Thorin smiled, but there was something wrong about it—it was not the same kind Thorin who had smiled at him their first night here. "Goodbye," Bilbo called at his retreating back. He waited until the echo of his footsteps had faded away, the halls growing once again silent and still, then sat down upon the steps with a heavy sigh.
     What was he to do? He could not just sit here, idle, when his place was out with the others. After all, that was part of his contract—burglary, not sitting on guard duty. He drummed his fingers on the stone, brow furrowed in thought. Thorin's concerns were warranted as the threat of attack was a large possibility, but if things continued in this manner and he did not yield what he had promised the men of Laketown, he would get them all killed. And what did Bilbo have to bargain with—nothing. Nothing...except for the Arkenstone, tucked in his belongings upstairs, deep inside his pack. That was something. Bilbo steepled his fingers under his chin, face furrowed in deep thought. If things became much worse, he would have to take matters into his own hands...