Chapter Text
A SHORT WHILE LATER
“You could do it,” Bilbo asserted to the two taller figures that stood uneasily before him. “Together, you could do it. She’s a healer, you’re a wizard.” He pointed directly at them, in a shocking display of bad manners, utterly abhorrent to Hobbits… unless they were absolutely desperate. “You… you could do this.”
Gandalf’s eyes flickered guiltily away. Tauriel looked horrified.
They stood in the burial chamber. Bilbo hovered protectively over Thorin’s body, laid out on the stretcher that had borne it with dignity into the Lonely Mountain. Into the chamber where lay Fili and Kili, each resplendent with their armor polished, their hair combed and braided, their hands arranged upon their weapons with dignity and grace.
The line of Durin. A handsome line. Faces quite delicate, for dwarves. Fine, chiseled features, eyes with wit and humor and life. All closed. All quiet. All cold.
Bilbo couldn’t stand it.
“I know you could do it. Gandalf. It’s only been… a short while. His body is intact, it’s… it’s his spirit that needs bringing back.” Bilbo claimed, more bluffing than certain, but willing to risk nearly anything.
Gandalf’s hand was in the pocket of his long, grey robe. It seemed to be uneasily fingering… something. Bilbo’s sharp eyes caught the motion. It was remarkably similar to how he fingered the One Ring.
“And you!” Bilbo turned to Tauriel. Her beautiful hazel eyes were swollen with crying over Kili. Her lips were red from being bitten in her attempts to control her grief. “You’re a healer. You… you have herbs, you have magic….”
Tauriel drew a deep breath and flicked her eyes over to Kili’s still form. The longing in her sculpted face was agonizing.
“You two,” Bilbo declared, and his breath was coming in little pants. He was angry, frankly. He was angry because he knew, he knew for certain, that the three of them combined could bring at least one of these dwarves back from the dead.
They were only a little bit dead.
Not… not really truly all-the-way, beyond-the-point-of-no-return dead. Bilbo was certain of it. There was only this squeamishness to overcome, this superstition about the dead. That their bodies could be re-animated without their souls. That they could become zombies, demons, something awful. Something Dark. Something Different. Not really themselves. Orcs, even.
Well yes, that could happen, if you didn’t retrieve the soul. But Bilbo was willing. Where was Thorin’s soul? The Hall of the Ancestors? Good. Halls were notoriously long and straight. Finding him should be no problem.
“You could do it. You, Tauriel, you could mend his wounds. You, Gandalf, you could keep his heart beating. And me. Me. I can go and get his soul, or his spirit, or whatever you want to call it. I could do it—“
Gandalf was already shaking his head, sorrow and fear etched upon his thin, lined features.
“Bilbo, Bilbo, I understand your loss—“
Bilbo pointed an accusing finger at the grey wizard.
“You understand nothing.” He bit out, utterly uncaring of the fact that Gandalf could probably zap him to dust. By all means, zap me to dust. Dust feels no pain. Bilbo was past the point of fear.
“You help me. You help me with this. You do this—“ Bilbo focused on the nervous movements of Gandalf’s fingers in his pocket. The Hobbit’s face became suddenly calm.
“You do this, and I’ll give you this.” He reached into his pocket and drew out the Ring. He unfolded his soft, thick, Hobbity fingers before the wizard and displayed the ring, cool and golden, impossibly smooth and perfect. It lay in his palm and gleamed.
“I’ll give it to you.” Bilbo repeated, his eyes stern and unwavering under his lowered brow. He stared up at the wizard without the slightest hesitation.