Chapter Text
T.A 2941
October 28th
Thorin was surrounded by darkness so solid it was as if a blanket had been wrapped warm and thick around every inch of him. He was thoroughly engulfed, weightless in his suspension. Yet he was cradled. Tucked securely in the hollow between a thumb and finger, kept aloft, and safe. There was no pain, no discomfort, no noise or light or movement.
Except he could feel something stir at the forefront of his mind. A whisper, slowly growing into a murmur. Something was calling him - quiet enough he couldn't make out the words. Suddenly it stopped, the void trembling around him in breathless anticipation.
Another voice cut in with strength enough to make him shake all over, as great and terrible as a thousand storms and as gentle and sweet as the smell of grass on the brink of rain, everywhere around him and solely inside himself all at once.
The darkness twisted and he was falling – or flying, he didn’t know which way was up or down or left or right – until it all seemed to thin around him. The soft voice calling to him started to filter back in, increasing in volume and firming around his body.
He was cold. And by Mahal, he was heavy.
A weariness lay upon his bones so stifling he felt crushed by the weight of it, his breathing slow and shallow – weak even to his own ears.
“I had always believed in him, I think. And of course when we were dropped off by the eagles after that frightful encounter with Azog and the goblins, well. That was the first moment I thought to myself... Bilbo, if anyone can take back a mountain from a dragon and survive, it's him. It was him.”
Bilbo.
Bilbo's voice, warm and laden with grief, and here he was too heavy to even open his eyes.
Where was he? Where were they? The last images he could claw up from the murk inside his head were the frozen lake, the feeling of his blade sinking – finally – into Azog's chest.
The sensation of Azog's blade sinking into his own.
For a second the memory of the pain and the fear made the darkness thicken around his whole being. Bilbo's voice faded, the images gory and painful until the hobbit's face – bruised and bloody – swam into his mind's eye.
Thorin! Thorin, don't, please...!
Were they still there? Was he still laying on the forsaken lake, Bilbo's smaller hands clinging to one of his own? He felt cold and stiff enough for it, and while he wasn't in pain there was a terrible weight to his limbs, as if his veins were filled with metal or stone.
“Oh, he had his moments though, didn't he? Remember when we were walking in Mirkwood – before that terrible magic really got to us – and he all but tripped over that tree root? Why, I thought he was going to chop the whole forest down in revenge!”
Laughter followed Bilbo's words, weak and as if through tears – the voices of more than one other with him.
Fíli and Kíli both, he realised a bleary second later, sounding frail and fragile. All but broken.
It took more strength than he thought he had to open his eyes, and a few more seconds after for them to adjust to the low firelight in the room. Stone rose far above him, torches hanging in brackets against the walls. Erebor. They were in Erebor, but... this wasn't the medical tent. It was too cold, and it felt as if he was laying on bare stone.
Those markings on the walls... Surely it wasn't the Royal Tombs...?
Orcrist was in his hands, laying down from his chest to his belly, his fingers painfully stiff and crossed around the handle. Everything inside him had suddenly begun to scream out he had to move. Now. He had to sit up, had to find out what in Mahal's name was happening.
With a clatter Thorin let go of Orcrist and pushed it away, the sword falling to his side as he dragged himself up to sit with a long, low, wheezing groan, every muscle aching and protesting the movement. Bilbo, Fíli, and Kíli were all stood beside him, all three faces slack with shock and fear, noses and eyes red with shimmering tear-tracks down their cheeks, and white enough Thorin's heart lurched to see them in such a state.
He opened his mouth.
The last thing he saw before he was forced back into unconsciousness was Bilbo's little fist smashing into his nose, the noise of his nephews and the hobbit screeching echoing around the room as the blackness crashed back into him and he was returned to the darkness.
*
Thorin came to with a low groan, his nose and face aching, though this time he felt distinctly less sluggish and much warmer. He blinked, the ceiling swimming into view. A different ceiling, one studded with gems and lit warmly with firelight. He was definitely in a bed this time, the blankets wrapped tightly around him and making it difficult to move. The heat from furred skins filled with hot water placed around and over his body was comforting, lifting the weight from his bones.
“Thorin...?”
A voice startled him and he looked over to his right, blinking blearily at the veritable crowd gathered by the side of his bed.
Fíli and Kíli, both looking pale, tearful, and wan were sat on chairs, Bilbo between them with his hands tight on their shoulders. Around them stood Óin and Glóin, Bifur, Bombur, and Bofur, and then Nori, Dori, and Ori, flanked by Dwalin and Balin, and finally Gandalf.
Shock and fright was clear on each and every one of their faces – even Gandalf's. Thorin frowned, licking his lips and swallowing a few times so he could speak, his voice raspy.
“... What...?” was all he managed to get out before every single one of them gasped sharply. Almost as one the company dissolved into tears and shouts, hugging and clinging to each other with grins on their red faces – except Gandalf who simply bowed his head, and Bilbo who was staring at him with a wild expression, Thorin's chest tightening as their gazes locked for a second.
He groaned as his nephews flung themselves forwards, clinging to him. Thorin brought his hands up with all the strength he had, dropping them onto their heads to touch their hair, his throat tightening a little.
His memories were blurred, random images. They didn't seem to fit together, misshapen puzzle pieces with jagged edges, biting at him as he tried to piece them together and understand what was happening in the present moment at the same time. Fíli... there was something about Fíli, something stirring bile in his stomach, sweat pricking at the base of his spine.
“Well, now. This is an unexpected turn of events,” Gandalf said, a wide smile on his face as he moved to sit on the chair on the other side of Thorin's bed, Bofur's hands gentle on Fíli and Kíli's shoulders as he gently pulled them back.
“Careful now, lads, or you'll open up the stitches on all three of you.”
“Stitches...” Thorin repeated, voice quiet as he dropped his gaze to look at his nephews torsos – his stomach lurching, “Fíli, you... the tower...” he breathed, fingers splaying weakly over swathes of bandages as images flickered and danced in front of him, becoming clearer until they jerked into animation. Azog's blade, gleaming and then wet with blood, Fíli's wide, terrified eyes, his blond hair whipping around his face, and more blood, and then his fall and...
“... How...? You... And Kíli...” he croaked, looking over to Kíli as his fingers brushed over his youngest nephew's chest, also bound tight with bandages, though he couldn't recall any memories of what Kíli had suffered.
“Quite the amount of elvish medicine,” Gandalf said cheerily as Óin pushed a cup of water to Thorin's lips to help him drink a little before moving back, still holding the mug in his hands. Thorin swallowed a few times, licking his lips and feeling the water flow like sweet relief down his throat.
He turned his gaze back to Fíli. The rest of the company had drawn close, crowding round the bed as they dried their tears and let Fíli speak.
“Azog--... he left the blade in me, uncle,” Fíli said, moving to sit on the chair Glóin had pushed up for him. He reached out to gently grip Thorin's arm, “And when I fell the handle snapped off, and it was left in me. Dwalin found me, he kept the orcs away, and then the eagles came,” he murmured as Kíli lowered himself into another chair beside Fíli's, Bilbo hovering just behind them, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Lord Elrond himself removed the blade, once the eagles had brought Dwalin and Fíli to him,” Gandalf added. Thorin was silent for a long moment, eyes wide but not seeing.
Fíli had fallen.
He had watched.
He had watched Azog push his blade through his nephew, watched his little body tumble lifeless from the tower to fall into the snow. He had felt the ripping, clawing pain of losing Fíli so clearly, the sickening guilt, the horror of it all. He had staggered back as the memories of Fíli as a newborn had slammed into him, memories of holding his nephew – small enough to lay across his forearm – and how he had whispered promises to protect him, of coming home after working the forges of men to a little head of golden hair leaping up into his arms, the beautiful, brave, strong dwarrow Fíli had become only to lose him because of his greed, his madness, his quest--
“Uncle...” Fíli's voice cut through his thoughts and he looked up. He realised just too late his eyes were burning and his cheeks were wet, and his company stood silent around him. His fingers trembled as he gripped Fíli's wrist, too tightly.
Thorin looked over to Dwalin, his life-long friend and ever loyal solider standing there with his stern features reddened and his hands fists by his side. His shoulders were drawn up and tight and if he hadn’t known the other for a century he’d have missed the tremble in his frame, the surging emotion under his skin. Thorin didn't have the words to express his gratitude for what he had done, guarding Fíli's body even as they had thought him dead. He swallowed hard, jaw working silently before he could speak again.
“... Then I owe both Dwalin and Lord Elrond thanks beyond measure,” he croaked, his weak voice tight as he unclenched his fingers from around Fíli's wrist, eyes flicking back to Dwalin who simply bowed his head.
“Yes, indeed,” Gandalf said softly, crooking a smaller, much warmer smile. Thorin turned his attention to Kíli, reaching up to touch his nephew's face. His hand fell back to the bed, too heavy to lift properly.
“And you too are injured,” he breathed.
“Though you did not see it, Kíli was thought to have suffered the same fate as Fíli by the hands of Bolg,” Gandalf nodded, and Thorin felt his heart seize, his fingers twitching. To have lost both his nephews...
“After Fíli, I--... after I thought he'd...” Kíli said, tears welling up in his eyes before he cleared his throat, gently gripping Thorin's hand, “I was fighting Bolg, with Tauriel, and she was injured and...” Kíli trailed off, his eyes widening and his pupils shrinking, not seeing or blinking for a second. Fíli put his hand gently on Kíli's shoulder, his brother jumping and grinning – too wide and too bright, “He pinned me down and tried to do the same as his father had to Fíli.”
“It was Thranduil who found them,” Gandalf said after a second of heavy silence, Thorin fighting the burning fire in his throat as he turned his head to look at the wizard, “Despite Tauriel's best efforts his wounds were too severe for her to heal. Thranduil carried Kíli back to the mountain, using his own skills to keep him alive until Lord Elrond could take over.”
“Mahal was smiling on the line of Durin that day,” Balin smiled as Thorin looked back at Kíli, the fire in his throat too hot to speak through, “I have never seen anyone survive wounds like them, not in all my years.”
“There's a lot to be said for elvish medicine,” Kíli mumbled, still squeezing Thorin's hand as he crooked a little smile, soft and genuine. Thorin nodded, closing his eyes and letting the world spin around him, as if he was drunk or had a fever. It was too much. Too much to take in, too much to bear all at once, too much to contemplate. He swallowed, forcing his eyes open.
“... But you are both moving, so soon after,” he whispered, his brow furrowed as confusion welled up past the screaming and roaring in his head.
The company went unusually silent, no one quite looking at Thorin until Gandalf cleared his throat.
“It has been a week, and to be truthful, both should not yet be out of bed.”
“A week...? I've been unconscious for a week...?” Thorin felt the confusion rise up stronger and brighter in him, a clashing, pounding noise between his ribs.
“No,” Bilbo said suddenly, his voice tight but quiet, cutting through the fog in Thorin's mind as he stepped forwards a little, his eyes fixed on Thorin’s own, “No. You've been dead for a week. Thorin, you were dead.”
Dead. Dead?
“I was with you,” Bilbo all but whispered as Bombur put a hand on the hobbit's shoulder, “I watched you die, I watched... I watched Beorn bring your body back to the mountain, I watched Lord Elrond close your eyes and your body be buried in ice until--...” Bilbo's voice cracked, his jaw snapping shut and his eyes bright with unshed tears. Ori and Dori put a hand each on Bilbo's arms and, for a moment, Thorin ached to reach and do the same. But he was too weak, and Bilbo was already grumbling something under his breath and rubbing at his eyes, Nori offering him a handkerchief seemingly conjured from the air.
“... But I'm alive,” was all he could get out, shifting on the bed and stilling when he felt something heavy move against his chest. He grunted, brow furrowed as he reached into his robe – an old one of his grandfather's, if he remembered correctly, fingers finding the pocket over his breast and something hard and cold inside. He drew it out, frowning at the dull, heavy, rock in his hand.
“What is this...?” he murmured, turning it shakily to catch the light. It was like no stone he'd seen before, a dark, murky red with black swirled through it, the edges perfectly smooth.
Gandalf reached forwards, slowly taking it. His eyes widened and he dropped it onto his robe, not touching it directly.
“... Was the Arkenstone not placed on Thorin's body, along with Orcrist...?” Gandalf asked, voice low and amazed.
“Aye, I put it there myself,” Balin breathed, “But it--... it cannot be the same stone, surely... someone must have taken it, though the room has been sealed off to all except the company, and it was only placed on you this morning...”
“Not me. This time,” Bilbo said after a breath of silence, putting his hands up. There was a pause, everyone staring at him.
Thorin snorted, the rest of the company breathing out shocked laughs of their own, Bilbo's cheeks and ears turning red even as he clasped his hands behind his back, rocking up onto his toes.
“Though you did punch me in the face, this time,” Thorin rasped out, the memory of it slamming into him as his nose gave a twinge, eyes fixed on Bilbo. Dead, but... he wasn't. They had to be wrong. Though how had he survived being packed in ice and snow...? Bilbo went pinker, the company laughing a little louder and Bifur signing something he missed, wringing a few more chortles from them.
“You... you sat up! You were laying there, dead - may I add - in your tomb, and you just... sat up! I thought you were some frightful ghost or Wight or something, or it was some terrible nightmare. It's an entirely natural reaction,” Bilbo huffed, crossing his arms.
Thorin could feel a smile tug at his lips for a brief second as he closed his eyes, utterly exhausted even as the question of the Arkenstone bothered him, as if he had been told something important he was now forgetting. Sleep tugged at the corners of his mind, plucking at the tips of his fingers and toes.
“All that matters now is that you are alive,” said Gandalf, Thorin grunting out a noise as he felt the wizard's hand on his shoulder, “I will look into this mystery. I shall take this with me to see if it truly is the Arkenstone, and I believe it is time for us to leave you to rest.”
“I should like that,” Thorin whispered.
Gandalf's hand disappeared and he grumbled as he felt Óin jostle him.
“Have a few sips of this, if you can,” he said as he held another mug to Thorin's mouth. Thorin groaned as he forced his eyes open and gulped down a few mouthfuls of some liquid, the taste like apples and honey, thin and crisp as water but as silky as hot, sweetened milk.
“Elvish,” Óin added, once Thorin had drunk enough the inevitable wrinkle of his nose and the reflexive way he drew back didn't mean he had to try to force anymore down him.
“It's very good for you, you know,” Bilbo said. “It's the same medicine that's helped so many of the wounded, including Fíli and Kíli.”
“I do not doubt it,” Thorin grumbled, and though he was on the verge of sleep he could feel warmth unfurling slowly in the depths of him. He heard rather than saw Bilbo's smile.
“But you do not like it.”
“No, I do not.”
“Well,” Bilbo said, Thorin cracking open an eye just long enough to see the hobbit sit down on one of the chairs beside his bed, “Thank goodness you're not too changed, or else this whole affair would be even more unnerving than it is already.”
Thorin snorted again, eyes slipping closed. He would have time to think about changes later. But now... now he had to sleep, Bilbo's voice soothing and gentle as he drifted back into the darkness.
“Someone should stay with him, I think,” Bilbo said – more to Óin than the departing company, “and you have other patients to attend to whilst I have an excellent book. I'll stay.”
Thorin didn't have the strength to reply or agree as he sunk back down into unconsciousness, but he hoped somehow Bilbo knew he was – once again – grateful for his company.
*
“No, you've both been out of bed long enough,” Óin said firmly, Bofur laughing gently as he helped the old healer guide Fíli and Kíli back into their beds as they groaned in unison.
“Irak'adad somehow wakes from the dead,” Fíli grumbled as Bofur put heated rocks around his body in the soft bed to keep him warm, “and we're not allowed to stay with him, or help find out how?”
“No, you're not. Bilbo's keeping an eye on him, Gandalf is speaking to the elves, and Thorin won't be pleased if he hears the both of you are worse now lads, would he?” said Bofur cheerily, taking the bowls of broth from Ori's hands as he bustled in with them.
“Gandalf says it is the Arkenstone,” Ori blurted out, “He tried its fit in the throne, and it sits perfectly! He's going to take it to Saruman, but he thinks it has some incredible magic in it!”
“Aye,” said Óin, checking Kíli's bandages as the young prince tried to bat his hands away, “Magic enough to raise the dead...” a silence fell over them all, the room seeming to grow a little colder.
“It seemed like him, didn't it?” Kíli said, suddenly, “I mean... it looked like him, and he sounded like him, mostly, and... he was tired and weak, but...” he gripped the bowl given to him by Bofur tight in his hands as he looked over to Fíli, who was staring into his own bowl.
“But he spoke like him, and he knew us... he remembered what happened to me, and he wept...” Fíli murmured.
“There's no point worrying about it now,” Bofur said comfortingly, “He's back. That's all that matters right now.”
“And only the Company knows he's back,” Ori added as Fíli heaved a sigh and started to eat, Kíli following his example, “No one will be prying. And if he is... changed... we still have Gandalf, and Lord Elrond...!”
Fíli snorted softly and looked up, crooking an eyebrow at Ori. “I somehow can't imagine elvish medicine and Gandalf could save him if he has been resurrected differently.”
“Well... no,” Ori admitted, clasping his hands in front of himself, “No, but... they'll be able to help. Somehow.”
“I don't think he'll be too pleased at that,” Kíli said, a little grin on his face, “And he did still recoil when Óin told him he was drinking an elvish draught, didn't he? That's very much like him...!”
“Aye, he did, hence why I didn't tell him 'til after he'd drank it,” Óin grumbled, tucking them both tightly into their beds and taking their empty bowls a moment later, handing them back to Ori.
“We'll deal with the rocks as they fall,” Bofur smiled, patting them both on their shoulders, “And right now Thorin's not the only one who needs to sleep.” Fíli and Kíli both shot him rueful little grins as Ori left the room with Óin.
“I'll be right outside the door if you lads need me,” the cheery dwarf added as he adjusted his hat, moving over to the door and opening it. He waved to them one last time and shut the door behind himself.
Fíli and Kíli fell silent before the younger dwarf shifted, looking over to brother.
“I think it is him, nadad. It has to be. Mahal wouldn't bring him back just to bring him back wrong, would he?”
“We don't know if Mahal brought him back. Gandalf's best guess is that the Arkenstone did – and for all we know, it's a dark power,” Fíli pointed out, voice low.
Kíli's face fell, his chin jutting out a little. Fíli breathed out a little sigh.
“Naddith, no one knows what's going to happen. But you're alive and unchanged, and so am I, and all we can do is hope the same goes for irak'adad,” Fíli murmured, smiling softly as Kíli sighed and nodded, relaxing back into the bed.
“... He has to be,” Kíli whispered. “He has to be.”