The Journey

Thorin's Passing

The world swam before Bilbo's eyes as he slowly came to, the events leading to his unconsciousness still blurry. He had rushed here to warn them about the attack...and he had, then—something else must've happened. Wincing slightly, he sat up, pressing a hand to his head, then realized he was still wearing the ring. Pulling it off, the pain suddenly lessened, the world around him growing clearer. Screams echoed through the air—screams? But there was no one in sight! Suddenly, a shadow swept over him, and he breathed an excited sigh.
"The eagles," he said happily to himself as the great birds soared overhead, "the eagles are here." Lightheaded with relief, he stood quickly, scanning his surroundings. The desolate terrain was deserted, flat and cold, except for something lying in the middle of the ice. Bilbo's stomach twisted as he started towards it—was it someone he knew? But it was Azog, dead, battered and bloody. Who had killed him? Bilbo thought, looking around, and spotted another figure, lying prone upon the ground, the color draining from Bilbo's face as he realized who it was.
"Thorin," Bilbo whispered breathlessly. Without pausing, all his doubts and uncertainties washed away, he raced across the ice, skidding slightly in his haste, worry thrumming through his chest.
Bilbo quickly fell to his knees beside the fallen king, frantic, clutching at his hand, leaning close. "Oh, Thorin, what happened? I—"
"Bilbo," Thorin said hoarsely, a pained smile appearing on his bloodstained face, but then a sort of desperation took its place. "Wait—wait." Bilbo's voice caught in his throat, his heart racing faster. He searched Thorin for wounds—oh, there was so much blood! But there was no mistaking the hole in his chest, Thorin's shirt soaked crimson, the chain mail ripped apart in jagged edges, the white of shattered bone barely peeking through. He almost gagged, but he pressed a momentary hand to his mouth, then hands went to Thorin's chest, pulling the layers of fabric from his wound to press them back down to stop the bleeding—he had to be fine, he just had to be all right—
"I take back all that I said at the gate, and everything before that. You were right," he added, smiling slightly as Bilbo opened his mouth, squeezing his hand in his own, "I was not myself. I never should have treated or thought of you the way I did. Please forgive me," he said quietly, his eyes full of pain, his face tight with desperation and regret. "Forgive me." And there, shining out, was the real Thorin, the true Thorin, the one that had held him all those long hours, the one that had kissed him at Beorn's house, the one with whom he had slept with through Mirkwood, the one who confessed his love at Erebor. A great happiness filled Bilbo to see this Thorin at last, but he shoved it away—for Thorin was dying—
"No, no, there is nothing to forgive," Bilbo said suddenly, leaning closer and pressing harder to Thorin's wound, trying to stem the bloodflow, "hold on—"
"But there is!" Thorin protested, rising up partway, his teeth clenched in pain, breaths labored, Bilbo trying to push him back down, "I was blinded by my greed. You are not a coin, or a jewel. But you shine brighter than one," he finished, wincing greatly, his breath coming in short gasps through his clenched teeth, "Your heart is worth more than all the gold in Erebor."
"Oh, Thorin," Bilbo choked, sliding closer as Thorin fell backwards, groaning, and positioned Thorin's head to lie in his lap, smoothing his hair back, clinging to his hand, running his thumb over Thorin's knuckles, staring into his eyes, tears prickling his own.
"I'm sorry," Thorin murmured, his eyes closing. "I am sorry I have put you in such peril."
Bilbo paused, chest heaving, startled, then a tear slipped down his cheek as he shook his head. "This has been the greatest adventure of my life," he said, his voice trembling, "I have received more than any Baggins deserves."
"Bilbo?" Thorin asked, his eyes opening again, but his chest rising and falling more slowly now.
"Yes?" Bilbo whispered in return, leaning in close, pressing Thorin's hand to his face, clinging to every word, eyes wide.
"Would you have stayed? For me?"
Bilbo paused, but he could not lie, not at this time. "I...I don't think so. I love the Shire too much—I could not be confined in those dark mountain halls. You would have been my only light."
"Good," Thorin breathed, Bilbo feeling the muscles of his back relax against his knees, "good. When this is all over, when I am gone, go home. For as you have told me, you are your own person, and I cannot keep you here."
"No!" Bilbo cried out as Thorin's eyes closed again, "Yes! You will live—you are going to live. You can't go. You mean so much to me, Thorin, I—I—"
"Go back to your books, your armchair, your gardens," Thorin whispered, "Plant your trees. Watch them grow." He smiled, his eyes soft. "If more of us valued home above gold, it would be a happier world." Bilbo was crying now, shuddering with tears, pressing his mouth to Thorin's hand. "When you look at your acorn, remember me. Please don't forget me. Live well, and live long."
"I could never forget you, Thorin, never," Bilbo said comfortingly, stroking his forehead, "You will always be with me—stay here, please, oh, stay—"
Thorin was quiet, his eyes full of pain, searching Bilbo's face, his mouth moving with unspoken words. "I love you," he whispered, barely audible.
"I love you, too," Bilbo said, his voice breaking, kissing him hard, desperately, their lips moving together, tongues wrapping around each other, but Bilbo only cried harder, his tears streaming down his cheeks onto Thorin's, for the dwarf lord's mouth tasted of blood. "I love you—stay awake—no—stay AWAKE—" they kissed again, Thorin fondling Bilbo's cheek like he did, his fingers sliding across his neck.
"Farewell," Thorin whispered.
"Not farewell—no—stay awake!" Bilbo repeated, almost hysterical. His lips found Thorin's and it was wonderful again, to be kissed like this, to be so wholly and completely and entirely loved—
But now Thorin's mouth was slack, his chest still, his eyes closed. "No, no, no, no, NO—" Bilbo gasped, his hands on Thorin' shoulders, his shirt, his face, his waist. "No, Thorin—THORIN—" He kissed his mouth, his cheeks, his neck, his chest, mouth again, pulling him up to his chest, burying his face in his shoulder, kissing his mouth again, and again and again—
But there was no reaction. "NO, NO!" Bilbo screamed, his voice turning into a wail, high and grief-stricken, desperate and heart-wrenching, tearing at his throat, pouring outward his grief. It echoed against the rocks and bounced off the ice, resounding through the air long after it had ended, fading into tearing sobs as the hobbit broke down. It began to snow, soft flurries swirling to the ground, sprinkling the ground as Bilbo bent against Thorin's chest. Gandalf hurried up the path, staff and sword upraised, but all he saw was small Bilbo, his face buried in Thorin's shoulder as he clung to him, tears streaming down his cheeks, his body wracked with sobs, his weeping echoing through the quiet afternoon. He did not move as Gandalf approached, his hands twisted into Thorin's ripped and bloody tunic, his clothes stained with Thorin's blood, crying into his chest.
Gandalf stood next to him, his shadow falling across the small hobbit, sorrow etched into his face. He reached out slowly, placing a soft hand on his shoulder, but Bilbo jerked away, burying his face deeper into Thorin's clothing and sobbing harder.
"Bilbo," Gandalf said quietly, but there was no response. Hesitating for a moment, he softly turned and walked away, quickly intercepting the rest of the company that followed behind him.
"Thorin Oakenshield is dead," Gandalf said softly. Gasps and "no"s escaped from the dwarves, tears prickling many eyes. No one spoke, Bilbo's sobs the only sound. Then some ran forwards to kneel beside them, some pausing in shock, some wandering forwards before turning away. Some broke down, some stayed silent, staring blankly ahead; some buried their face in their hands.
     Bilbo didn't seem to notice them. He wept, indifferent to the company, ignorant of the others placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, unseeing when, much later, the colors of sunset streaking the sky, Gandalf stepped over again.
Bilbo's cries had finally ceased, but his face was still stiff with tears, his eyes red, his clothes stained with Thorin's blood, caressing Thorin's hand though it had long turned cold and stiff in his own. Snowflakes dusted their hair, sparkling in Thorin's eyelashes, not melting upon his cheeks.
Gandalf stepped softly in, walking to stand behind the hobbit, placing a comforting hand on Bilbo's shoulder.
"We will take him," he said gently, "you must get some sleep."
"I could never sleep tonight," Bilbo said hoarsely, unmoving.
Gandalf nodded sadly. "I know—but you must let him go. We do not want him to rest on the side of the mountain forever."
     Bilbo did not move for a moment, then slowly, carefully, he unwound his fingers from Thorin's, gently arranging the dwarf lord's hands on his chest, smoothing back his clothing and brushing back the few strands of hair that had crept over his face. Tenderly, Bilbo bent down and kissed his forehead, simply and lovingly, then slid back, eyes blank as the others lifted Thorin up to carry him down to the gates of Erebor, Bilbo's gaze never leaving his face. Slowly, the others trickled away, exchanging quiet words with Gandalf, and lending pitying glances to the small hobbit.
"Why?" Bilbo whispered, hardly audible, the sky growing dark around the two. "Why, Gandalf?" He turned towards the wizard, the broken-hearted question written in his eyes.
Gandalf was silent, pensive, then spoke quietly. "I do not know, Bilbo, and I do not think there is anyone in Middle Earth who does. The loss of Thorin Oakenshield is a great one—none of us in this company will ever forget him. You are not alone in your grief."
"But I feel so empty, now," Bilbo said helplessly, glancing back at Thorin's still face, "I don't think I have ever been so alone."
"I will be with you," Gandalf said comfortingly, "now come. Let us go. There is much to be done."
Bilbo rose slowly, stiff from the long hours of sitting. Turning numbly towards the wizard, he leaned against him, Gandalf's arm supportingly around his shoulders, and together, they made their way down the darkening mountain path.