Though deep, Bilbo's sleep did not remain untroubled. Perhaps it was the very depth of it that caused him to descend into that dark dream.
He was back behind the fortified wall that the dwarves had improvised out of fallen rocks to keep thieves out of Erebor, with the rest of the Company, and with Thorin. Or against Thorin, if he thought well about it. It had been a while since the dwarf that they all knew was no longer really with them. He had closed himself off in his shroud of grief and delusion, and had turned away from all of them, thinking them traitors. All but Bilbo. And Bilbo was now the one announcing to Thorin that he had withheld the Arkenstone from him, despite all of his bone-chilling warnings, and that he had given it to Thranduil and Bard to barter for what they claimed to be theirs of the treasure.
In Thorin's eyes, realization dawned black and betrayed trust turned swiftly into anger. He called Bilbo something quite unsavoury. Then he roared to the others to throw him from the rampart. But there was no one there. They had all vanished. It was just him and Thorin under the low, billowing clouds, and the dwarf's grey-blue eyes sparkled with a terrible thirst for revenge.
He swooped upon the hobbit without warning and his hands grabbed a strong hold of the lapels of his coat, yanking him implacably towards the edge of Erebor's rampart and towards his doom. Bilbo tried planting his heels into the stone and his fingers clutched desperately at Thorin's iron wrists, but there was nothing that he could do to resist their pull. Half of his body was now hanging over the wall, and Thorin's hold on him was the only thing that kept him from falling. They had been in this situation once before when Thorin's firm grip had kept him from tumbling down the rocky slopes of the Misty Mountains.
"No, Thorin, no," Bilbo pleaded under his breath, looking deep into Thorin's hollowed eyes and hoping against what his quivering gut was telling him that he could still get through to the dwarf that had saved him from death more than once.
But this was not the same person, not anymore. A wicked grin twisted Thorin's mouth as he let go. The air was sucked out of the hobbit's small lungs and a great fear swelled in his heart as he plunged hopelessly down the side of the Mountain.
He woke up before he hit the ground, gasping for breath. He sat up abruptly in the armchair where he slept, batting his arms about like wings, and flinging his cover aside, as he still tried to hold on to something in his sleep.
His eyes, wide open in lingering terror, stared into what felt at first like a wall of black, and he wondered for a second if he was dead or alive. But soon he began to perceive a soft, golden light that soothed the dimness of wherever he was. Turning his head towards it, he was startled. The light came from a lantern residing on a night table on the opposite side of a large bed. And in the bed lay Thorin, looking more peaceful than Bilbo had ever seen him, eyes closed, still features drawn and livid even under the warm glow of the candle, only a faint echo of breath indicating that he was living. Bilbo's racing heart sank to a low hum. He sat back in the armchair that was not his, feeling suddenly like the whole mountain was weighing on his shoulders.
Being thrown to his death by Thorin had been only a dream, but the rest had not been. More than the fear that he had felt as the Dwarf King held his very life in his hands and had chosen to let go, he remembered now the tears in Thorin's eyes as he had told him that he was acting below his character, that the dwarf he had met in Bag End would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin and would never have gone back on his promises to the people of Lake Town. They were tears of a broken heart, of shattered trust and of hurt pride in equal measure. He had known then that his actions would bruise Thorin's feelings considerably, but only now did he perceive the full depth of the wound he had inflicted, the ties of last-standing confidence that Thorin had wrought in nothing less than mithril and that Bilbo had cut with his choice to take the Arkenstone and finally with his words. They were ties bound in darkness and delusion, but to Thorin they had been no less significant for it. And he had hurt no less when they had been severed.
The Arkenstone. Thorin loved it fiercely and jealously, as Balin had explained. But was Bilbo not acquainted with that love at least a little? Did he not understand better than he wanted to admit what it was like to have an unnatural attachment to a shiny object?
All that had happened in the past day had taken his mind off the ring that he had taken from Gollum, but now he remembered it in a flash. He fished in the pocket of his trousers for it frantically although he did not mean to be so hasty. He did not recall moving it from the pocket of his soiled blue coat borrowed from Bard to that of his new trousers borrowed from Thorin of all people, but it was there. He had probably done it without even thinking when he had changed. The ring gleamed softly in his palm, its smooth side reflecting the light of the lantern, just a tiny thing after all, only one golden ring in a mountain that had halls filled with precious metals and gems. And yet, it was not just a tiny ring. It had magical powers and it had gotten him out of danger so many times. It had helped him help his friends. It was so important to him that he never would have misplaced it or wilfully given away. A great relief washed over Bilbo as he looked upon it again, but it was not the kind of relief that set him free. It bound him further to a dark desire to have the ring and to hold it for himself. The more he looked at it, the more it ensnared him, emptying his mind of everything that he cared for.
Frightened by his own thoughts, his gaze shot back to Thorin. Yes, he understood very well what the Arkenstone had done to him. He slipped the ring back into his pocket and decided right then and there that Thorin would never lay eyes on it.
Bilbo shifted on his side to face the bed, and gathered the blanket around him. Worry grew in his mind until it became too heavy for him to stay awake under its pressure. He allowed his eyes to close, knowing that there was nothing good waiting for him in the dark.
Strange images tormented the hobbit in his sleep until he woke again, in shivers, at the touch of something cool on his forehead. Opening his eyes, he saw that it was Balin dabbing at his face with a cold, wet cloth.
"You really should be in bed, Bilbo," said the dwarf, half admonishing, half sympathising."
No, I need to be with Thorin," muttered the hobbit, barely able to hear himself speak. Trying to sit up made him realise that he had a dull ache pervading his every bone and muscle. He remembered wavering in and out of consciousness for a while, but he could not tell what time or day it was. The fact that there was more natural light in the room told him at least that it was daytime.
"There is nothing you can do for him now," said Balin. "You'll only make yourself worse. Really, Bilbo, we've prepared a room for you. Let me take you there, and I promise to let you know as soon as there's any change."
"No, what if there's no time?"
Bilbo had hoped that Balin would dismiss the possibility with much vehemence. He didn't. He simply sighed and wrinkled his forehead. "All right. Let's have a look at your head and then I'll bring you something to eat." Bilbo opened his mouth to issue more protests, but Balin was done granting him unhealthy favours. "You do not have a say in that. Whatever happens to Thorin, I'm not letting you wither away."
Bilbo swallowed his words and stood still as Balin leaned over to tend to the wound in his right temple, which had been dressed by the Elves he did not know how many hours before. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaws as Balin's ministrations sent sharp needles into his skull. He could not help thinking about Thorin, who was in store for much more pain than he was feeling now, should he have woken up.
"There," said Balin, having finished redressing Bilbo's wound and tucking the warm blanket tighter around him. "All done. Now sit tight. I'll be back with something warm and tasty to put a little colour back into your cheeks." He stood up, smiling a little wearily.
Bilbo loved Balin's kind smile, and it did him good to see it now more than ever. "How long have I been asleep?" he asked.
"A few good hours. We arrived a little after dark last night, and now it's almost noon."
"I see."
As the elderly dwarf walked away, Bilbo looked towards Thorin. He could see him better now that sunrays were streaming through the well in the ceiling above his bed and through the crystal windows carved within the stone wall, opening into shafts that brought in light from the outside. The part of his face not hidden under dark beard was white as the purest marble and his eyelids had become a translucent, polished purple. He looked strangely beautiful in his hour of defeat. For that was what it felt like to Bilbo as he watched over the possibly dying dwarf, although, in every practical sense, Thorin was victorious.
The sound of the door opening called his attention away from his musings. Balin had returned holding a steaming bowl of something smelling very good.
"There you go, laddie," said Balin, handing him the bowl. "Can you manage on your own, or do you want help?"
"Thank you, I think I can manage," answered Bilbo and extracted his arms from under the blanket to receive the food that he now realised he wanted.
Balin pulled up a chair from a writing desk that Bilbo had not noticed before, under the twin windows at the foot of the bed. He sat down, with a heavy sigh and relaxed into the back of his seat, watching the hobbit eat with subtle satisfaction. Then he glanced at Thorin, and his expression clouded.
"If Thorin doesn't wake up soon enough," Bilbo spoke again after deciding that the maker of that broth was a rather excellent cook, "won't he... wither away?"
Balin shook his head slowly. "He's much stronger than you."
"Yes, but he's lost so much blood. And he didn't exactly have much of an appetite since we entered the Mountain."
"Let us hope for the best, Bilbo. That is all we can do for now. Thorin has one last battle to win, and it's entirely his own."
Bilbo accepted that answer and took a few more spoonfuls. Slowly, the memory of his dream came back to him and with it his feeling of guilt. "Do you think he's forgiven me?" he asked, looking up from his bowl of food.
"I think we can safely assume that he has," replied Balin with a little wink.
Bilbo returned a shy smile and kept his eyes on his food until he finished it. Then, he turned and placed the bowl on the night table by his seat. "You know, Balin," he began, rearranging his quilt around him, "he had every right to be angry with me. I really had no claim over the Arkenstone. After everything that you have told me about it, what it means to Thorin, I imagine it is worth a little more than what was owed me by my contract."
Balin cocked an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his belly. "Well, perhaps claiming it as your fourteenth share was not the most inspired way for you to put it, but you made the right decision. He could not have been allowed to have it in the state of mind that he was in at the time."
"It's not even that," continued Bilbo. "I betrayed him. He thought that one of you had taken it. He never suspected me. He believed in me most and I was the one who took it. And then I lectured him about loyalty, when I was being disloyal to him myself, as he saw it, at least."
"He was not seeing things as they were, however. You did what none of us could do precisely because we were loyal."
Bilbo smiled painfully and looked at his hands. Balin was right. To not act as he had would have been misplaced loyalty. To not try even something that defied Thorin's wishes in order to save their lives would not have been loyalty at all, not to the friendship that bound them all together, and not to the good in Thorin's heart. Besides, Bilbo had no debt of allegiance to Thorin as his king. "Still, I hurt him a great deal."
"Sometimes we must do things that hurt the people we love because we love them."
Bilbo looked back up at Balin and sustained his gaze for a while. "I suppose. But I was a real fool to think that he would simply give in. I should have known him better than that by now."
Now Balin raised both of his eyebrows. "He is proud. And he has wanted this for most of his life. Not the stone or the treasure, not for their own worth, but for what they mean: his birthright and our livelihood. We are well off in the Blue Mountains, Bilbo, but it took a lot of work and a lot of sacrifice on everyone's part, especially Thorin's. He made it his life's aim to make sure that we were well provided for. But he never would have found rest had he not taken back Erebor. This is what he's lived for all this time."
Bilbo considered Balin's words, thinking darkly over what they implied. "Is that why he's so peaceful? Because he thinks that he has fulfilled his destiny?"
Balin did not answer, but the look in his eyes was eloquent enough.
"Balin, did Thorin go out into battle to die?"
"We all did, Bilbo," Balin replied gravely.
Bilbo stared at him for a while without speaking, turning the dwarf's words in his mind. Of course, it made sense. They were thirteen and the Orc army was much more numerous. It was not the kind of battle they could really hope to get out alive of.
As for Thorin, he had come as far as he had ever wanted. He had accomplished the mission bequeathed to him by his father and grandfather of reclaiming their kingdom. Killing Azog the Defiler, and with him the will of the Orc armies, would have been the one thing remaining for him to do to save his people once and for all, to ensure that they would be able to live the life that they deserved. But that life could very well be his own. Bilbo did not think that one had to die to find peace, or happiness.
"I understand," said Bilbo finally. "But he still has much to live for."
"Oh, I agree," replied Balin with another twinkle in his eye.
Suddenly, Bilbo no longer felt embarrassed by the implication that he might somehow be part of Thorin's life if he survived. He was angry again, although he could not tell exactly at whom or what.
"But you would go on without him, if he doesn't," he said, looking back down at his hands.
"We owe him as much," said Balin. "We have a kingdom to rebuild now."
Bilbo could no longer see Balin's face, but he did not have to see it to know that he spoke calmly and responsibly about a future that Thorin was not part of.
"Will Dain be king in his place?" asked Bilbo, feeling a hint of bitterness in his own tone.
"Not if Fili recovers. He is next in line."
"Then Kili and then Dain?" Bilbo continued the line of available kings.
"Precisely," confirmed Balin.
Bilbo snorted. "Forgive me, Balin, but it seems a little cruel to talk about Fili and Kili and Thorin as if you can just replace one with the other and everything would be the same."
"That is not true, Bilbo," replied Balin with a touch of aggravation in his voice that made the hobbit look up at him. "They are dear to my heart as well, you know that. But we all have duties that go above how we feel about each other and above what we might want for ourselves. We all want Thorin to live, but even if he doesn't, he's done what he set out to do. He has regained his kingdom and he has given back our home to us and our lives."
"What about his life?" countered Bilbo. "Why should it matter less just because he has a duty to protect yours? I, I don't mean yours in particular, I mean -"
"I know what you mean, Bilbo. It does not matter less. But that is not quite the right way to look at it," said Balin allowing kindness to seep back into his tone. "Are you sure you want to stay in that armchair? A bed would suit you much better. You're ill and exhausted."
And you're being unreasonable was what Bilbo actually heard. He smiled, his anger finally fading back into embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Balin. It is not my place to tell you how to run your kingdom."
"It's quite alright, laddie. It is yours now as much as it is mine," said Balin, standing up and taking the empty bowl from the night table at Bilbo's side. He looked down at the hobbit with much warmth, then said finally, "Thorin has not left us yet. Let us not speak as if he has."
Bilbo nodded, smiling back. "And yes, the armchair will be fine for now."
As the old dwarf walked out of the room, Bilbo felt like melting into a puddle. His chest ached with all the emotions stirred inside, and his cold seemed to be following the usual course of getting worse before it got better.
Still, his conversation with Balin had made him realize something that he had not really considered before. He thought of Thorin in a very personal way, even if he had known from the very beginning that he had an important status among his kin. He thought of him as a companion on that journey full of peril and wonder, and eventually as a friend. He had always felt that royal figures and great warriors projected a certain distance around them when he had read about them, but he had never really perceived that distance with Thorin, not even when he had seen him wearing his regal armour, or his crown. Perhaps that was because Thorin himself did not act as if he really was more important than the others. He was the leader of the Company and, of course, he was the Dwarves' king, but perhaps that was not at all what being a king was all about. It was about putting the needs of the others above one's own, about being willing to give up one's own life so that others might live. That was Thorin's duty and it was something that he accepted without hesitation or any real regret. That was why he looked so peaceful now, when he was finally sleeping in his own bed again, because he knew that his duty was done.
A sudden shiver made Bilbo gather the blanket closer around his shoulders. He couldn't help wondering what his duty was, or if he even had one. He had not come on the quest because of any responsibility bequeathed to him by his forefathers. He had chosen to come because he did not want to imagine what it would have been like to have his home taken away from him over night. He had come because he had wanted to help these poor dwarves who were much less fortunate than him. He had accomplished his mission as well. He too was free to leave that place and go home. But he did not feel free. He felt bound with invisible strings to the one dwarf agonizing in the bed at his side. He would have felt so even if Thorin had not said what he had said to him when they had been reunited after the battle. But he had, and Bilbo could not simply pretend that it had not happened. Balin kept saying that he had no obligation to stay, but his own heart said the opposite. It also said that it wanted an allowance from the rules of destiny for that one instance. It did not want Thorin to die peacefully. It wanted him to live in peace.
Night fell early inside the Lonely Mountain, and it fell over and over without any sign of recovery from Thorin.
On the fourth day since he had taken refuge in Erebor with his dwarf friends, Bilbo was almost healed of his cold, but he still felt wretched from lack of sleep and rising worry. His mood had been lightened a day before and his hope rekindled when Kili had regained consciousness, a few hours after his older brother. He had spent almost the entire day with them, finally able to feel a little happy again after so many dark days. They appeared weary and their faces were colourless, but they were alive and they looked like they were very much out of danger.
But on this fourth early night, despair crept over him with added strength. It was as if the hope that Fili and Kili's recovery had given him made it even harder to watch over Thorin's sleep of death. He, on the other hand, was forgetting how to sleep. It was not for lack of needing it. He was tired beyond belief, but every time he closed his eyes, something pushed them back open. It was the fear that if he had lost consciousness, he would not wake in time if Thorin took a turn for the worse. He would not have been able to help, or say goodbye. And so he remained awake, until fatigue defeated him into brief moments of tormented slumber.
He felt one of those moments bearing down on him now. He had sat down by Thorin's bed, as he no longer had the patience to sit in his armchair. He allowed his head to rest against the bedside, which was nicely soft, and his fingers curled timidly around Thorin's hand lying inert a few inches away. It felt cold and sickly moist, and Bilbo resisted a first impulse to withdraw his touch. His eyes soon closed on their own, and nightmarish images replaced the real pain.
~
Dwalin stood in the shadows cast by the fire that he had just replenished, a few feet away from Thorin's bed. He dared not move closer. The hobbit was there, kneeling beside the bed, his torso collapsed over the side of it, and his hand limp near Thorin's. He appeared to be asleep. As much as it still hurt that Thorin had kept secrets from him and that once revealed, those secrets had changed something in him, Dwalin understood the hobbit's agony, for it was also his own. If Thorin died, none of it would have mattered, the pain, the secrets, not even the things that he had believed in most in his life: valour in battle, or honour. If valour and honour had killed his friend before they killed him, he no longer wanted them. His great war hammers had been laid to rest in a dark corner of Erebor's dusty armoury. If Thorin died, he would never fight again.
Dwalin felt his forehead grow unbearably heavy and lowered it to the ground. Hot tears flowed from his eyes as a thought formed itself into words and echoed over and over in his mind. It should be me. It should be me.
~
Morning came raw for Bilbo after another night of mostly sleepless misery. He was awake, but he did not feel like he was truly there. It felt more like he hovered between worlds. He was not thirsty or hungry, nor did he even want sleep. He did not desire to see the sun or to feel the wind on his face. He did not wish to make pleasant conversation with anyone, or any kind of conversation at all. He was neither living nor dead. He felt thin and disembodied, like a wraith. It appeared even as if he was watching himself from above and he was as helpless to raise himself from that state of death-like apathy as he was in bringing Thorin back to his senses. He was aware of his own limp arms draped over his knees, of his head leaning hopeless against the back of the armchair, and of his half-open eyes casting a glassy, unblinking stare towards the bed where Thorin lay broken. He did not remember rising from his slumping position by the bed and sitting back in the armchair, nor did it really matter.
Soon he became vaguely aware of something else and he was back in his own body. He heard the door open, followed by a quiet shuffle advancing past it and then something that was mostly white came into his field of view.
"Bilbo?" Balin's voice came affectionately scolding from the white form.
Bilbo didn't find within himself the strength to respond, or even redirect his gaze towards the person that was speaking to him.
"Bilbo!" insisted Balin, a little more firmly this time and coming closer.
The hobbit finally looked at him and saw that Balin's kind face was darkened with worry.
"The weather is lovely outside," said Balin keeping his tone firm. "It would serve you well to get some air. And stop by the kitchens on your way out. You've gone long enough without food."
"I'm not hungry," mumbled Bilbo and looked back towards Thorin.
Balin sighed audibly and walked up to the armchair where Bilbo sagged powerless. "Bilbo, you are not dying. There is sunshine and song waiting for you outside. You should not shut yourself up in this room as if it were a tomb for the both of you. And this is not what Thorin would want or expect of you." Bilbo looked up at him, heeding his words. "Come on, up you go. Put this on and go see Bombur about some breakfast," said Balin, handing him a thick felt coat.
"But-" began Bilbo.
"I'll stay with Thorin," reassured Balin. Bilbo opened his mouth again but was interrupted before he could speak. "Nothing will happen while you're gone. I promise."
Bilbo finally got up, his bones and muscles protesting being called into action after hours of inactivity. "How can you promise that?"
"I am a very old dwarf, Bilbo," winked Balin. "I know these things."
Bilbo accepted Balin's promise, although he did not really believe that such promises could be made by anyone. He took the coat, wrapped it painfully around his shoulders and walked slowly out of the room.
He had to admit that the more distance he put between himself and Thorin's room the less he felt like a ghost. There were distant sounds of activity flowing into the corridor leading out of the Royal Quarters, sounds of life, and something in him stirred, wanting to take part in whatever was keeping the others so busy.
As he passed by a door, the smell of food reached his nostrils and he had to stop and look into the direction of the scent. His legs moved by themselves, taking him past the door and into the royal kitchens of Erebor. There was fragrant steam rising from great cauldrons set into giant stone fire pits, and a few dwarves were scurrying about from one cauldron to another. In the middle of this pleasant chaos, Bombur was standing before a wide table, cutting carrots with a big knife and imperturbable composure. He caught sight of the hobbit as he advanced towards his table, and he smiled widely in welcome.
"Ah, Bilbo! Do come in," he said. "Has Thorin woken up yet?" The inquiry was addressed as if, to Bombur's mind, there was no question if Thorin would wake up, but only of when. He also didn't seem dismayed by Bilbo's look, which could not be terribly healthy at that moment.
"No," replied Bilbo, looking around "not yet."
"Don't worry, he will," said Bombur, smiling and cutting away at his carrots. "He didn't come all this way to let somebody else be king in his place, not even Fili or Kili." Bombur winked and it looked particularly convincing on his round face, reddened by heat.
Bilbo smiled in response and laid his hands on the table top. It was wood and it carried the shine of many years of use.
"Would you like some breakfast?" asked Bombur.
"Uh... I suppose," said Bilbo, his stomach stirred mildly by the wonderful flavours of the great kitchen.
"I have some lovely sausages for you, and tea," said Bombur, putting the knife away and wiping his hands on the apron draped over his large belly. "Would you be so kind as to take over for me and cut these carrots while I fry your sausages?" He extracted two plump sausages from a wooden bowl, stuck them into a long fork and sat down before the fire in the nearest hearth.
"Yes, of course," said Bilbo and moved to the other side of the table. He nodded briefly at the other dwarves, who returned hurried nods.
It was strange holding a kitchen knife again after over a year of carrying a sword in that very same hand. It was bigger than what he used at home, but it was just a kitchen knife, and he only had to slice a carrot with it. Still, his hand shook a little as his fingers wrapped around the knife's handle and his breath hitched as he pressed the blade down into the orange length of the vegetable. He winced at the thud of the blade making contact with the wooden block beneath as a slice of carrot rolled away from its body. He glanced at Bombur to see if he noticed his uneasiness, but Bombur was staring into the fire, humming to himself and twisting the fork slowly. Bilbo blinked a few times, trying to whisk away the sudden after-images of severed limbs and bleeding wounds that flashed through his mind as his hand gripped the knife tightly. It worked. Soon, the whirlwind in his head abated and he remembered that he was safe, that the battle was over and that he found himself in a kitchen, doing what he had done many times before at home. He sliced with more confidence, remembering even that he enjoyed cooking quite a bit.
Bombur soon finished frying the sausages, and Bilbo ate them slowly with some fresh bread and hot tea on the side, while the dwarf resumed his previous activities. Even though he had not eaten since the afternoon of the previous day, if taking a few sips of a soup could be called eating, he did not feel the consuming hunger that would have afflicted a hobbit after going so long without sustenance. His interest was merely piqued by the smell of the steaming sausages, and it took less effort to open his mouth and take a bite of them. He chewed with difficulty as if he had been chewing a leather belt and as if his jaws were suddenly turning to stone, but the taste made it easier to want to bother with a second bite. He knew that he should have relished this moment and his senses should have whizzed with the pleasure of eating such good sausages, but he could only muster enough strength to eat one of them. He finished his tea and put down his knife and fork beside the plate that still contained one sausage untouched. He already felt full to the brim, and the fumes of food being cooked were beginning to make him nauseated.
"I'm sorry, Bombur, I can't eat anymore," he said.
"Oh," replied Bombur, somewhat regretful, "it's quite all right. I trust it was to your liking?"
"Yes, yes, it was very good. Thank you, very much. I'm just not that hungry."
"I hope it will come back to you soon," said Bombur kindly.
Bilbo nodded. "I'll be outside, getting some air."
Bombur returned a nod, and Bilbo stepped away and out of the kitchen, feeling like he had spent every bit of the little energy that he had feigning good humour as he had smiled to Bombur and talked to him and ate the breakfast that he had prepared. He had to resist the urge of dropping to the floor right outside the kitchen, or crawling into a dark corner and falling asleep. He marched on as he had done so many times since he had joined Thorin's quest, against fatigue and the call of comfort.
As he came out of the corridor that led to the Royal Quarters, he found himself standing in the great hall. Dwarves were busy clearing debris, and most of the hall was now free of boulders and rubble and especially of the charred bodies and armours of the warriors that had faced Smaug when he had burst through the great Gate of the kingdom.
Bilbo walked a few steps forward among the bustling dwarves until he almost bumped into Bifur, who was shoving a bunch of spears and axes to the side. He straightened up and greeted Bilbo with a nod and waving a hand to his forehead, which was now axe-free. He mumbled something in Dwarvish, and even if Bilbo did not understand exactly what he was saying, he could tell from Bifur's tone that he was not particularly happy about losing the axe in his head, as much as Bilbo would have expected the opposite.
"Yes, I'm," said Bilbo, trying to sound sympathetic, and feeling an actual honest smile etching itself on his lips. "I'm sorry about that, Bifur."
Bifur tilted his forehead in recognition of the hobbit's sympathy, then spoke again in Dwarvish. Through the harsh-sounding words, Bilbo thought he could hear Thorin's name.
"Oh, no," Bilbo replied, losing his smile. "Thorin hasn't woken up." Bifur continued to stare at him. "Yet."
Bifur shook his head to that, but he seemed to be somewhat hopeful as well. He planted his hands on his hips and looked around at the many more weapons scattered on the floor than were neatly deposited in the pile that he was making next to the wall.
"Well, uh, do you need help?" offered Bilbo, in spite of not really feeling strong enough to lug heavy dwarven weapons around.
Bifur nodded, looking animated by Bilbo's offer.
"Right," said the hobbit and began picking up the smaller ones, such as daggers and arrows.
He found that the work was not as difficult as he had thought it would be. Instead of draining him out, the physical activity infused energy into him. He kept at Bifur's side, helping him with his task, for what felt like a thankfully long time that his mind did not churn painfully over Thorin's condition, until the dwarf stretched his back with a deep sigh, signalling to Bilbo that he wanted a break.
Bilbo accepted, taking his leave and walking on towards the great hole in the wall where the Front Gate of the kingdom had been and through which blinding sunlight was now streaming inside. Suddenly, he wanted to run towards the light, to be in the light, to let it surround him and warm his heart. He quickened his step.
It was bright noon when he came out finally and the sun was warm even if it was a day of thorough winter. He breathed in the fresh, snow-fragrant air and realized that it cleared his mind and soothed his aches as if a wave of magic had swept over him. Life was teeming outside. Noises of activity flowed out of the mountain, and all around him dwarves were busy with repairing the entrance. They were indeed singing one of their songs, as Balin had said, in deep, solemn voices.
In Dale there seemed to be equal tumult, as billows of white smoke rose from among its ruins and little figures swarmed all around its still standing walls and towers.
For Bilbo, however, it seemed that the world had stopped. As much as he wanted to feel alive, he didn't. He had no real wish to go anywhere or do anything. It was a wonder that he could even stand there on his own two feet and watch life unfold for others.
The only thing that would have been worse than the crushed state of mind that he was in would have been to have someone come up behind him with reluctant steps, call his name in a sepulchral hush and tell him that Thorin had finally found his peace, in death.
From the buzz of voices and hammers that filled the mountain, Bilbo began to distinguish a pair of steps coming towards him. They were not reluctant, but rushed. At first he thought that he was imagining it, that his fear was begetting ghosts, so he listened more closely. It was not his imagination. The steps were real and they were getting closer. He did not dare turn and face whoever it was that was coming for him and whatever it was that they had to tell him. The steps halted and harrowed breathing took their place, just behind Bilbo. Someone called his name next. It was Bofur, and if his voice came out unsteady, it was because he was out of breath, but it did not sound particularly grave.
Dread spread through Bilbo's body like ice through water. He no longer felt crushed and out of energy. Suddenly he felt very alive, as if Bofur had come to kill him and he was clinging to the last seconds of his life, the most precious of all.
Still, Bofur had called his name and it would have been impolite to ignore him. Bilbo turned, expecting the very worst.
Bofur's expression was hard to read, as he was still fighting to catch his breath.
"Thorin," Bilbo whispered, "is he-"
"He's awake!" exclaimed Bofur, panting, and smiling, eyes twinkling. "He woke up a few minutes ago! Balin sent me to find you. He woke up!" repeated Bofur more to himself and started laughing.
Overwhelming relief washed over Bilbo, making him forget in an instant that he had ever been miserable. He smiled back, widely, squeezing Bofur's arm and darted back inside the mountain, running faster than he had ever run towards anything.
The door to Thorin's bedroom did not resist being thrown open when he came to it, and Bilbo did not care that the other people in the room - Balin, Dwalin and Dain - turned startled by the noise. He could see them in a blur from the corners of his eyes and his ears registered their mumbled voices as they spoke. But he was not looking at them. His eyes, ears and his every other sense were all focused towards where he knew that Thorin lay in bed. He could not see him, as his view was blocked by Dain's impressive frame. Balin seemed to whisper something close to his ear, to which Dain drew back his head in what looked like consternation. Eventually, all three walked quietly out of the room, and Balin touched Bilbo's arm softly as he passed him.
Bilbo was still standing by the door, but now he could see Thorin very well and his agitation faded. Thorin was leaning against a set of pillows, his back raised slightly from his former position. He still looked pale and drained, but his eyes were open. They blinked wider as he caught sight of the hobbit and his head lifted a bit from his pillow.
That was enough to pull Bilbo out of his stupor. He laid aside his sorrow and his doubts and walked a few steps forward so that Thorin did not have to strain to see him. The cover was pulled down from his chest and some of the bandages on his arms had been removed. There were still a few visible cuts here and there, but they were healing and the parts of his skin that were not wrapped were free of most of the bruising.
Bilbo stopped at the foot of his bed, feeling that he should speak first. Thorin seemed too dazed, perhaps by exhaustion and surprise that he was still alive.
"I'm sorry," began Bilbo, "for what I did. You trusted me and I betrayed that. I really had no right to take the Arkenstone as my fourteenth share. You were right. I did steal from you, but I -"
"Bilbo," came Thorin's voice, raspy and frail, but somehow still managing to sound commanding, "it is all forgotten." Slower and much weaker than usual, Thorin spoke to Bilbo the same words that the hobbit had spoken to him, almost five days before, when Thorin had apologized for his behaviour at the Gate. He smiled faintly and blinked once, looking tired beyond measure.
Bilbo returned a wider smile, and restrained the sudden, powerful wish to grab hold of Thorin's hand and hold it tight against his fluttering chest. "And forgiven?"
Thorin nodded, "You tell me."
"There is nothing to forgive," Bilbo uttered only the truth in his heart.
They gazed at each other for a while. Thorin looked like he wanted nothing but to lie there still and relish being alive in the soft, warm cloud of peace that had grown in the space between and around them. Bilbo felt that there was no need to speak further at that time, and he himself was content to just be in that moment when he could look into Thorin's eyes again, after having almost lost hope. Obviously, they both remembered their last conversation very well. There was one last sentence that Thorin had spoken and that had yet to be mentioned. But perhaps it was not the time for that. Perhaps words were not even needed, and everything that they would have meant, had they been uttered, was already afloat in the field of milky white light that bound them.
Thorin leaned his head further back into his pillows, seeming to relax completely, and his right hand lay at his side. This time, Bilbo did not resist the call of its outstretched fingers. He sat down on the side of the bed and allowed his hand to meet Thorin's.
Although he was most probably in great pain, Thorin's expression was like nothing Bilbo had seen in him before. There was a quiet confidence in the present moment, a lack of apprehension for the next, a calm that resembled what Bilbo had interpreted as resignation when they had talked last, but that now looked like something completely different. And Thorin's calm was infectious. Bilbo felt it pervade his every pore and invade his whole being. After so many days of sickening worry, it was hard to believe now that he could feel so relieved and that Thorin was not dying after all. He was not even worried about having to answer Thorin's confession anymore because Thorin himself did not seem to expect anything from him other than to just be there.
They did not speak, not in words. Thorin's hand still felt cold, no doubt on account of having lost so much blood, and Bilbo could not hold back the impulse to wrap both of his palms around it for warmth. Thorin smiled at this and his eyes closed just as Bilbo was about to suggest that perhaps he needed to rest. Bilbo continued to hold his hand long after Thorin had fallen asleep, until he himself felt overpowered by a sweet languor. He moved back to the armchair near the bed and really slept for the first time in five days.