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Bilbo sits on the cold ground, overwhelmed. There’s blood on his fingers - wet, sticky, warm, Thorin’s - but he barely registers it over the roaring in his head. Or maybe it’s not in his head; maybe it’s him, screaming his rage for the rest of the world to hear.
He can feel others coming, the unnatural warmth of dwarves permeating the air around him.
One’s footsteps are lighter than the other; the she-elf, Tauriel. In her arms she carries Kili. She wears the same expression Bilbo knows adorns his own. She is somber. She is hurt. She is angry.
It is not a fitting look for an elf, let alone a hobbit. He remember the words Gandalf said to him before their departure; you will not be the same.
And he is not. He is battle hardened and love scarred. He has felt the pain of death and the slice of a sword. He has know what it is to live like a king. He must learn how it is to live without one.
There are ten left of the company he set out with. Distantly, he is glad to see them alive, but it is quickly overwhelmed once again by the sorrow that comes with the death of Thorin.
A blonde mane rests over Dwalin’s arm, and he realises Fili is in his arms.
The company has brought along the mountain rams, Bilbo realises. He feels the tears start to stream thick down his face, but he stands up, resolved. Bilbo straightens his shoulders, lifts his chin, and narrows his eyes. If Thorin is to be laid in his final resting place, Bilbo will put him there.
He can’t stand the thought of anyone else doing it. It wouldn’t be right. To them, Thorin was their king. To Bilbo…
He can’t think about that right now. He has to do this for Thorin, be strong for Thorin, protect Thorin. If he couldn’t do it in life, he will do it in death.
And so he mounts the ram, angry enough to be able to jump just high enough and hook his foot on the edge of the saddle and swing his other leg over in one try.
They lay Thorin in his arms.
Bilbo brushes his thumb over Thorin’s cheek, releasing the smallest of whimpers when he remembers the blood on his hands that has left a mark over Thorin’s still face.
He growls, quiet at first, growing louder until it is a battle cry that would put the mightiest dwarf to shame.
The ram takes it’s cue, and begins it’s assent down Raven Hill. He hears the clobbering footsteps of the other rams behind him, but all he’s focussed on are his arms around Thorin, securing him safely in Bilbo’s lap.
He doesn’t hide his tears. They are not a sign of his weakness; they are a sign of his fierceness. A warning to any remaining foes that it is unwise to attack; that any who dare come near will be slaughtered for what they have taken from him.
And then they are on the ground and he is practically glowing with rage, he can feel it radiating off of him in sheets like ripples in water.
This is his mountain. It is Thorin’s mountain, and any who dare disrespect the king by preventing his peaceful slip into death will regret it.
“Ours,” Thorin had said.
“Ours,” Bilbo whispers.
And he rides in.
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He trusts the rams to know where they’re going, and they do.
It takes a long time to reach the tomb where Thorin is to be lain; long enough for his skin to lose its warmth and the blood to have dried up from where it had previously pulsed around Bilbo’s fingers.
It doesn’t matter now.
Bilbo’s too numb to feel it anyway.
Someone - Balin - he thinks, tries to touch Thorin, tries to clean the blood from him. Bilbo growls at him, the sound not at all hobbit-like, not at all respectable.
But that’s not who he is, anymore. There is no life for him in the Shire.
No life where Thorin is not.
So he takes the rag from Balin and wipes the blood from Thorin’s face as gently as he can. He cleans Thorin’s wounds too, even if it makes him gag. It’s hard to see, but he can’t quell the tears that are still dripping down his face.
Bilbo can’t figure out why, but the slice through Thorin’s foot makes him sob the hardest. He doubles over, wheezing and crying and unable to stop, because he couldn't save him and why, why is there a slice through Thorin’s foot.
In the end, Thorin is dressed in the nicest garments they could find. There is no blood; you can’t even tell that there are two gaping wounds through his chest.
But Bilbo knows. He remembers how they felt under his fingers. He will remember it for the rest of his life.
Bilbo demands the Arkenstone be buried with him. No one dares argue. They have seen what it can do, seen the destruction it causes. It will rest forever in the hands of the one king it could never truly bring down.
Bilbo presses a single kiss to Thorin’s lips before departing.
The ram carries him back up, something he is immensely thankful for. He knows he wouldn’t have had the strength to carry himself.
It deposits him outside of Thorin’s room. Bilbo wonders if it can read his mind, but doesn’t care enough to inquire about it.
Instead he shuts himself in the king’s room.
He buries himself in Thorin’s bed. It is cold, but it smells like Thorin.
He cries until he falls asleep.
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Some weeks later, Bilbo claims the mountain.
Even he is not sure how he pulls it off, but he does. He remembers how fierce he sounded, and how gracefully he had single handedly shot down those who tried to argue.
It was his. It was Thorin’s.
As Thorin lies in the deep, near the heart of the mountain, Bilbo will ensure that everything he worked for is left in the hands of those who accompanied him.
And when his time comes, he will rest with his king, knowing that he fulfilled his promise to reclaim Erebor.