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When the white warg leapt, so did Bilbo’s heart.

The whole fifteen of them had been hanging on to a singular tree which was separating from the cliff by the roots each passing second. The creaking of it had been a great source of anxiety to Bilbo. The fire was spreading far and wide — because of course, let's set a pine forest on fire, Gandalf — and the fall that awaited them didn't seem hospitable.

Driving their enemies away was not worth the stress of this.

One glance at the Company and it was apparent the others felt the same; Ori was clinging to Dori’s leg, and Dori was barely holding onto Gandalf’s staff, his brows and eyes twisted in effort. Balin had used the arch of a branch and the body to keep himself up, Dwalin was slowly climbing up his own branch in futile attempts, and everyone else was hugging the tree as if their lives depended on it. Which they did.

The roots wouldn't hold for long.

And yet, of course, a certain godforsaken dwarf king had to go and challenge that.

As soon as Bilbo noticed Thorin rise, Orcrist in hand and the oak shield in the other, he opened his mouth to shout, to call him back, to say anything that would make the king second-guess his actions. The only thing that came out, however, was a choked gasp at his attempts to pull himself up on the trunk. And Thorin was off.

At first, Thorin paced slowly, the flames around him licked up close into the air beside him, too close for comfort, and his arms were spread wide as an invitation. But then he started charging, and Bilbo’s heart rate picked up.

‘Idiot, idiot, idiot!’ he thought as he pushed up on his arms, pointedly ignoring the crack that followed Dwalin’s call for Thorin. Everyone was panicked.

Bilbo was no different, his heart climbing out of his chest at the mere thought of losing the dwarves’ king. Yes, he spared Bilbo no chances, yes, he didn't deem the hobbit capable, and yes, he couldn't care less if their burglar was torn to shreds.

Let him suffer his part, precious.

But Bilbo knew it wasn't about him, even if something deep down inside of him was chipped at with each mistrusting gesture. Even if his admiration wasn't requited. The other dwarves needed someone to follow, and they cared for their leader more than the world. They loved Thorin.

They couldn't let their leader climb onto his own grave.

Bilbo looked up at the dwarf who was so, so far away now, all while steadying his shaky legs to stand properly.

Then the white warg leapt. Whatever happened after that, Bilbo wasn't fully aware, as the pounding in his ears was the only thing he could hear. Amidst the faint cries for Thorin when he was knocked down, amidst the shrieks of the dwarven king when warg jaw clamped down on his body, amidst the whispers—

Let him perish however he pleases.

Bilbo planted his feet on the trunk at once, unsheathing his elvish blade even as his figure trembled. It glowed blindingly blue, out of place for its wielder. When Thorin was thrown down, unable to reach his blade, and another orc lingered nearby with a machete sneaking closer to behead him, Bilbo took off.

And he sprinted.

He was sure his limbs would bruise from the speed of his body slamming into the orc. Arms and feet tangled, they both went tumbling to the side. Bilbo yelped, getting thrown off before the massive orc was upon him. The orc raised a fist, but Bilbo beat him to it, thrusting his blade gracelessly into his chest. And for good measure, when the orc dropped, he straddled the creature and stabbed him two more times.

Black blood oozed into his blade and clothes, before he hastily got up. Brows up in his hairline, his stare fleeted back and forth between his sword and the corpse. He just killed an orc, he just killed—

Before he could properly stand to shield Thorin’s body, the pale orc lunged from the corner of his eyes. He didn't have time to react.

Azog’s stumped arm swung through the air swiftly, the sound a mere swish along with his throaty roar. It ran straight through Bilbo’s clothes, and for just a split second, he thought it was only fabric that was cut.

It wasn't.

Hot pain exploded across his chest.

With a sharp gasp, Bilbo’s eyes blew wide as he stumbled backwards. The pounding in his ears was back, and with it, his vision swayed. Dark spots filled his sight and the whispers got incoherent.

It hurts it hurts it hurts—

He thought he curled into himself from the burning shock, he didn't. He thought he had screamed at the impact, he hadn't. He didn't feel it when he hit the hard stone behind him, nor the way his fingers dug into fur and cloth until his knuckles were white.

He didn't realize he had dropped on top of Thorin, effectively covering his body with his own.

You're a fool.

The breeze caressing his open, dripping wound wasn't enough to keep him conscious. The last thing he saw through falling lids was an eagle flying over their heads.

“You're too hard on the lad,” Balin’s voice carried softly through the air.

Thorin spared him one glance, before huffing and looking back at the wood burning low in the campfire. “He is too out of sorts for our mission. I'm sure you are, too, aware of that,” he grumbled low, glowering at the cinders sparkling in front of him. A slow exhale sounded from next to him.

They were just a couple of days away from Bree. The Company had been sound asleep all around them, their snores mixing with the crickets of the night. Balin’s time to keep watch had lapped with Thorin’s own, and the dwarf had taken his chance to corner the king with his words. Careful not to let his voice rise, Thorin poked the logs with a stick. “His life is in our hands, mainly mine, and I intend to keep—”

“But that's not the major reason, is it?”

Thorin stopped, shifting in his seat. His brows twisted briefly, before schooling back into cold indifference. “It is the only reason. Master Baggins is not a dwarf, he can't fight, and he should be—”

“So can't Ori and Bombur, but I don't happen to see you coddling them, Your Majesty.”

Groaning louder than was necessary, Thorin whirled around to glower at his advisor, irritated at being interrupted repeatedly with no mercy. “What is the play here, Balin? What answer are you seeking?” he forced through gritted teeth, failing to notice, in time, the head of honey curls lifting in their direction.

Upon snapping to the hobbit’s general direction, their eyes briefly met. Bilbo hadn't been asleep, that Thorin knew, but he had hoped that the hobbit would not pay them any mind. Apparently, his eyes were as icy as they felt, for the hobbit ducked back down after a beat.

Something ugly twisted inside Thorin’s ribcage, yet he stuffed it down. He looked back at Balin, who was staring at him with inexplicable eyes. Thorin frowned, and Balin shook his head, gaze falling away.

“You need not smother it, My King. No one would think you queer if you happen to admit you have a, well,” mumbled the older dwarf, drawing a huff from his pipe. “Say, a soft spot for our burglar.”

Confused, and then enlightened, heat flashed up his spine. Thorin clenched his jaw and fists, glaring daggers at Balin. “That— I do not have a meek soft—”

“At ease, My King. There's nothing to be ashamed of.”

And Thorin might have believed that, if it weren't for the awful way his stomach churned at the thought of anything happening to the hobbit. It was entirely illogical, and unlike Thorin, to be even pondering over this.

“Believe it or not, perhaps something fair shall come out of it.”

Returning to the conscious world had to always be, in his opinion, slow and gradual. The mind had to take its time to prepare, to process things that the senses were signaling to it.

So, to be pulled back down to Middle-earth with a wizard’s palm hovering over his face, Thorin was a mess of whirling thoughts.

And the first thing he remembered, and thus the first thing he bothered to say aloud was: “The halfling?”

He recalled, vaguely, hearing the hobbit’s yell amidst the growling wargs and a passing blur that knocked down the orc standing above him. After that, it was a battle between his wounds forcing him to pass out and his rationality telling him his kin was in danger and that he should not fall. The latter had lost, and now Thorin was staring up at the wizard’s troubled expression with a bleary sight.

Gandalf threw a glance sideways, before looking back at him. “...It's alright. He will make it.”

That did not calm him at all.

Despite his whole body screaming at him to stay still, Thorin made to stand up, with the help of Dwalin and Kíli. He didn't have time to grumble, to push them away and insist he would be fine on his own, because he saw Bilbo.

Bilbo, who had Bofur pressing against the hobbit’s chest with a spare cloth and Óin checking his neck for a pulse. The distress seeped from the older dwarf’s eyes a little, sighing in relief and nodding. “He'll live, but it's a weak thing, his pulse,” he said, searching for a solution in Gandalf’s eyes. Bofur’s face was grim, looking back at the group as well but never letting the pressure lift off the hobbit’s chest.

Thorin’s eyes darted to the blood still slowly painting the brown cloth a darker shade and he could understand why.

But he didn't understand the giant single thump in his heart.

With a bit of a struggle, Thorin walked to where the hobbit lay to see his face as Bofur had previously blocked his point of view. Bilbo’s skin was pale, enough to be increasingly alarming. His body was lax, and even the creases in his face were devoid of any tension. Thorin knelt to one knee, wincing, before brushing the back of his hand on Bilbo’s forehead.

He froze.

He had touched corpses warmer than this.

“There is…a house,” Gandalf announced, albeit hesitantly. All heads turned to the wizard, save for Thorin — his wide stare was fixed on the hobbit. Breaths shallow and yet colder than ice. If it weren't for the slight movement of his chest, Thorin would think Bilbo was dead. And that he'd been dead for a while.

He swallowed the bile in his mouth.

The hobbit just wanted to protect—

Thump

“It's not far from here, where we might take refuge,” said the wizard, turning around to eye the eagles leaving them on the Carrock with a bit of dismay. Murmurs rose from the group, Dwalin the first to bark out a response, “Whose house?”

“Are they a friend or foe?” added Fíli with squinted eyes.

The rest of the conversation flew over Thorin’s head as he nudged Bofur aside and away, who was looking at Gandalf anyway. Thorin ripped another piece of rag from Bofur’s tunic and tied the two pieces together as he wrapped the makeshift bandage around Bilbo’s torso, ignoring the indignant squawk that came from Bofur. At least to cover the wound for now. Óin would murder him if an infection infiltrated the hobbit, but blood loss was equally dangerous.

Gandalf explained things half-hazardly. Things of a host that would either kill them or spare them, which was very helpful, especially when their burglar was at death's doorstep. And his followers had the nerve to start grumbling under their breaths.

“What choice do we have?” Thorin interrupted loudly, his back still to the discussion and arms already sliding under the hobbit’s smaller figure. The Company fell silent and their gaze bore into his back. With the weight of Bilbo in the crook of his arms, Thorin turned to face his allies.

Everyone, save for Gandalf, to some extent, was eyeing him with varying degrees of worry — and awe, somewhere in there. The wizard was just looking over their heads from his tall height in the sky and around at their surroundings. He glowered. “Unless you can sustain our burglar and keep him alive, we move.”

Even if the enthusiasm in their nods was delayed, due to their eyes catching sight of the Lonely Mountain in the far distance, Thorin couldn't be more glad. The longing in his own heart from watching his homeland from afar was stamped deep down for now, his gaze falling, and he clutched Bilbo tighter.

He repressed the panic when the hobbit gave naught a reaction, not even a twitch.

They had to outrun Azog and his underdogs, because Valar above, of course they had to.

Even though he had been reluctant at first, they took turns carrying a severely limp hobbit across the plains while they ran. Most of the time, though, it had been Thorin himself and Dwalin who carried him for further distances. Throughout it all, Bilbo didn't so much as stir.

He was just as pale as before.

Thorin had little time to worry over it when wargs were near their arses, though, and when they finally saw a lodging out of the woods, the company wasted no time hurrying inside — albeit after crashing into it full force like a bunch of troglodytes.

Thorin had the hobbit over his shoulder when they'd gotten into the lodge, straying away from the door as the others pushed against the door to shut it with the bear trying to come in.

Oh, yes, the bear, did he mention the bear?

“What is that!?” Ori panted after the door was closed with much effort, bewildered as they all were and looked to Gandalf. To which his response, after a pause, was a looming, “That is our host.”

Their host was a bear; Beorn. A skin-changer. And he wasn't fond of dwarves. And they had just shut him out of his own house.

Mahal help him.

His frustration died down in favour of placing Bilbo down somewhere appropriate. All they had were piles and piles of hay, so he made do with that. Setting the hobbit down with a care beyond his usual capacities, Thorin took to properly scan the other ever since they had started running.

They couldn't have stopped on the way, not for long, and for that the makeshift bandages were still on the wound, soaked thoroughly with blood that had dried and left a stench only corpses would leave. The hobbit’s chest filling and deflating was the only sign that he was alive, since now even his pulse was too weak for their calloused fingers to detect.

And yet Bilbo slept. Nothing in his breathing shifted when Thorin carefully unwrapped the dirty piece of cloth from around his chest. It had to hurt like hell, surely. Grimacing at the sight of the wound, he'd heard a few other grumbles and gasps from the Company; the gaping slash, drawn from over his right shoulder down to the left side of his ribs, was a deep, angry red around the edges, and thankfully, there was no pus inside the wound itself.

He stepped away a bit, making room for the healer. Then again, maybe Óin would find something that Thorin couldn't. “What are we to do now?” asked Kíli, worried eyes jumping between Óin tending to Bilbo's injury and Gandalf.

“Rest, of course,” Gandalf took his hat off, a tad too calm for their situation, as he sat down on a random pile of hay. “Get some sleep all of you, you'll be safe here tonight,” and then, very distinctly under his beard, Thorin heard an “I hope” that he didn't dare dwell on.

As expected, Thorin got no shut-eye that suffocating night.

Stomach queasy, he kept his eyes on the still form of the hobbit. A blanket was draped over his bare torso just shy of touching the wound exposed to open air, as Óin had insisted they remove the dirty jackets and underclothes lest he catch an infection, and Bofur’s pack had been shoved under his head.

Bilbo was alive, yet he did not look like it.

Thorin was right beside him, slouched over and mulling over his thoughts with a fist resting on his mouth. Even in the dark, where to the normal eye nothing would be visible, Thorin could see the lack of color in Bilbo’s otherwise creamy skin. His nose didn't scrunch up out of habit and his lids didn't flutter from his dreams.

It was a harrowing sight.

Biting his lower lip and tasting blood, Thorin withdrew into his own head. He had given Bilbo nothing but grief ever since their departure from Bag End, had doubted his fighting prowess and his ability to keep up with them. Yet, somehow, Bilbo had gone undetected in the goblin tunnels, had made it out with little to no grave injuries, and had managed to climb up the trees on their pace. Perfectly fine until their encounter with the orcs.

He owed the dwarves nothing. He had no debt to repay, and despite that…he had jumped in to protect Thorin. Despite all of that, he had defended Thorin. Saved his head, and suffered the consequences.

And he lay now, motionless, on a scratchy surface of hays and chaff.

Something loud, a thud, inside Thorin's chest echoed once more, and he rubbed his sternum. Invisible thorns clogged his throat as he swallowed around them, frowning at the feeling. Carefully, his hand drifted to the hobbit’s forehead, brushing away the curls. Even with the relatively warmer cabin, the blanket, and the bodies of dwarves huddled nearby, Bilbo was still cold.

Thorin’s heart sank from the wrongness of it all.

After a minute of consideration, he shrugged his fur coat off, pulled the blanket higher on the hobbit and then draped his coat over the hobbit’s body. A bit more warmth, just a little. He winced at the motion stretching the numerous punctures in his left side, but ignored them as he straightened his coat to fully envelop the hobbit.

Óin had almost smacked him over the head when he had attempted to walk away from the healer’s hands, insisting he should be treated. To him, his wounds were not dangerous, not after he had seen Bilbo’s, but nevertheless, he couldn't muster the energy to listen to Óin’s nightmarish scolding.

Having made sure the hobbit is fully covered, Thorin’s eyes darted back to his face once more. Maybe it was his delusional mind, maybe he needed the sleep he was refusing, but he felt as if the heavy weight of the coat had helped. That as if Bilbo’s face was more relaxed, if even possible.

Thump

So Thorin sat back, head thunking against the wood softly. He closed his eyes, but never found solace behind his lids, and could only focus on his other senses.

No orcs howling about. No sense of hidden threats at every corner. It truly was quiet outside. They were safe.

And if Thorin’s hand snaked its way into scratching Bilbo's scalp, then, well, no one could see it but himself.

They stayed for more than just that night.

The introductions with Beorn went as well as one would expect; wary of the dwarves popping out of his door two by two, showing his clear distrust with his words at the breakfast table, and speaking ill of him and his kin for brief moments.

They both, however, had a clear hatred for orcs. So the man agreed to help them.

It had to be of effect as well when his expression had shifted upon seeing the hobbit wrapped in copious amounts of blankets.

"So this is the halfling you spoke of," mused Beorn to the wizard, gaze firm on the sleeping figure. "He does not look well." Turning to the other, he didn't quite frown, but his eyes were piercing enough that it conveyed the emotion all the same. "What ails him?"

Gandalf sighed, staring at the hobbit. "He was injured during one of our run-ins with orcs yesterday." Stroking his beard, the wizard frowned. "It has been well over twenty-four hours since then, however, and I'm afraid he's asleep for the reasons I had anticipated before."

Beorn took one look at the hobbit, then strode off. "He will wake, anyhow, so long as he is in my halls."

The day was spent on refreshments and plenty of rest, the dwarves either cleaning their weapons and belongings or plopping back down on their rolls to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

Thorin, sharpening a few knives Fíli had not bothered to tend to, sat on a step and watched Óin clean the wound with proper tools, supplied by Beorn, and wrap fresh bandages around the hobbit.

“Aye, the lad is feelin’ warmer to the touch,” he voiced, pressing the back of his fingers to Bilbo’s neck. Pausing a bit, Óin frowned. “Still no improvement on the pulse, though, can't feel it still.”

Thorin stomped down the disappointment, shaking his head. “It is still an improvement, if he is indeed warmer. Thank you, Óin.”

The healer threw him a quick glance, his brows quirking up slightly, before he grumbled and got up. “Need I take care of ye, too, Yer Majesty?” He, with disregard for Thorin’s denying gestures, took hold of his face. Tilting it this way and that, the older dwarf clicked his tongue. “I reckon there was no sleep at all last night?”

Busted. Likely from the hollows beneath his eyes. Thorin sighed and resigned himself to the rough handling. “A courtesy of my guilty conscience, nothing more.”

“Good, at least ye still have conscience left.”

Face freed from inspection, Thorin’s eyes fell helplessly back to Bilbo's still stature. Even through the daylight he looked pale, and Thorin couldn't understand how he could have felt warmer to the touch.

Was Óin trying to, somehow and dare he say, comfort him? If so, it wasn't working.

Bilbo hadn't lost blood as much as he should have, not for a gash that size and deep, and while Thorin thought it strange, it still wasn't convincing. If the hobbit was suffering from blood loss indeed, and didn't wake up from this injury, he would—

“Stop thinkin’, it's loud enough even I can hear.” Óin’s gruff voice filtered through his thoughts. Thorin blinked, looking back up at the other dwarf, before he frowned.

He stood up, inhaling deep before letting it out in shaky spurts. “If he doesn't wake—”

“—which he will, aye, don't fret.”

“—and I never get to tell him how wrong I have been, then I will never forgive myself,” he whispered, eyes still locked onto Bilbo’s closed eyelids. Maybe, with enough staring, the hobbit would feel his sharp gaze and wake up from its pressure.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Thorin was inclined to look back at the healer. Subtle but there, Óin huffed and gave him a grin. “He will, don't ye worry. Even if ye don't forgive yerself, I'm willin’ to bet he already has,” he motioned to the hobbit, nodding to himself, before glancing back at Thorin with a scowl. “And ye should get some sleep yerself. It would do everyone good.”

With one last pat, the healer left Thorin to his humming thoughts still ringing in his head. He hadn't realized, until he had said them out loud, how true they were. The first thing he had wanted to give Bilbo, had he been well and conscious upon reaching the Carrock, had been a thorough scolding.

Then, following that up, an apology. And a confession of how wrong he had been to think he could ever doubt Bilbo.

Thump

His streams of thought swirled and curled and finally, they landed on Óin’s last words. Maybe some sleep would do him well, considering the dangerous, mushy edges his thoughts were taking. And he did not have the energy to spare for tackling those.

So, for once listening to the healer’s fresh orders, Thorin paced over to Bilbo's bedroll and lowered himself to finally lie down. His back groaned in response, cracking several times in the process, before he realized how tense he had been. Upright and sitting or standing for days now, his body hadn't had proper rest.

Thorin breathed out quietly, turning his head to the side as he traced the outline of the hobbit’s side profile. His nose was most like Kíli’s, upturned and smaller than the rest, yet it fit him just fine. Suited him a lot, even.

His cheekbones weren't sharp or those of a fighter, his ears were pointy like those of elves, yet so distinctly different that Thorin couldn't help but reach—

Realizing where his thoughts (and hand) were headed, his arm froze midway. Pursing his lips, he dropped his hand down, though it landed carefully on the hobbit’s chest. Bilbo didn't stir, as before.

Thorin, turning to his side, found his fingers wrapped around the other's shoulder free of the bandage. He dared to pull Bilbo closer, pressing his smaller body snug to his own, and could swear that the next inhale of the hobbit had been deeper.

It was a good sign.

Eyeing the pack under Bilbo’s head, Thorin frowned at it with distaste. It was a bold move, but slowly he slid his arm under the hobbit’s head instead, gradually pushing the pack away from under.

The uneven surface of his arm, and the crook of his elbow, made Bilbo’s head loll to Thorin’s side, curls falling over his eyes silently, cheek pressing against his bicep.

Thump

Thorin ignored the sudden hitch in his throat.

And so with a hobbit carefully nestled in his arms, one as a pillow and one sprawled over the layered blankets, Thorin succumbed to the darkness that was a dreamless sleep.

It was, perhaps, not the best idea to fall asleep cuddled up to their burglar in broad daylight, when his nephews were prowling about.

After waking to a blinding ray of sunset poking him in the eyes, Thorin's thoughts took unusually long to gain any semblance of coherence. When they did, however, he concluded that he had in fact slept in through the whole day.

And he concluded that two pairs of mischievous eyes were peering from the corner of the room. Throwing an icy glare their way, however, they quickly retreated with muted giggles. Something crashed, Fíli yelped, and his brother's laughter followed unabashedly.

Sighing, albeit fondly with a smile he couldn't help, Thorin looked back at the figure still in his arms.

Bilbo was still, of course. Perhaps it was the lighting, painting the entire stable a golden hue reflecting off the wooden surfaces and pillars of the place, but the hobbit had more colour in his cheeks; his breath, even if still shallow, tickled Thorin’s face in warmth. Yet he was not awake, and Thorin couldn't help the pang of disappointment it delivered.

He did notice, however, that the hobbit’s jacket was back on, the bandages fresh. And that his face wasn't on Thorin's arm anymore. And that he wasn't lying on his back like before. And he was much too close.

Thump

Bilbo was sprawled against his chest, limbs tangled with Thorin’s own, chin propped up shakily. But not in a natural way. No, in no way were his fingers gripping anything, and now jostled by Thorin’s awakening, he was almost slipping off.

“I told you to bind them!”

“You know he would've woken up!”

“So what, he wouldn't have succeeded in catching us if he were bound!”

Oh, those little rascals.

Their high-pitched whispers were better passed off as shouts, at this point, and Thorin grunted. With his noise, the brothers apparently snapped around and their footsteps quickly faded away, almost feverishly so. Skedaddling like a bunch of ducklings. Sister-sons, he thought softly. He slid Bilbo off with great care, holding the back of his head as he put the hobbit down on his own bedroll.

His mind drifted from clouting his nephews on their heads to the fact that Bilbo hadn't stirred much like before. He frowned, glancing one last time at the sun retreating behind the edge of the horizon through a crack, before shifting to his feet.

The whole day had passed, and still Bilbo slept.

Uneased, Thorin left the stable after making sure his fur coat was on the hobbit and went to the other halls. Taking account of his Company was uneventful; bruises of the goblin tunnels had faded, the dwarves had rested, and were indulging in some lighthearted activities. Thorin did not begrudge them for it.

Though there was generally nothing to do, they all seemed content to lie about and speak of everything and nothing. Bifur carved a wooden figure in his hands, Ori peeked at Beorn tending to his creatures and dived back into sketching, Nori and Dori bickered roughly, Glóin and Bombur were speaking of their wives as if on the clouds above Azsâlul'abad, Balin and Bofur weren't in sight, Óin was tinkering with his bent ear trumpet, and Dwalin’s shouts were audible from the backyards of the cabin, followed by shrill laughter — presumably his nephews.

It was domestic in a way that shoved warmth into his heart. His lips twitched from the telltale signs of a smile before he heard a certain wizard’s voice. He sighed. “Oh, you're awake, good, good,” Gandalf trudged over from somewhere behind in the back — Thorin wouldn't question where he had been if not in the stable with him — and bowed his head lightly. Thorin inclined much the same.

“Tharkûn,” he greeted, and Gandalf blew his pipe after a smile…however troubled.

They stared at the Company in unison for a quiet while, unheeded by the dwarves going about with their day. That small piece of calm feathered away when Gandalf turned to the door, shoulders heavy with something Thorin could not name.

“May I have a word with you, Thorin?” he asked even though he didn't stop to hear the response. Either way, Thorin followed him without a word, as he had nothing else to do — and didn't have the heart to do much, either. His thoughts were still plagued by the countless what-ifs of their hobbit’s health.

Walking outside, Thorin found that Balin was perched on the grass, pipe in hand and gaze on a faraway plane of thought. Noticing them, he hacked to get up, but Gandalf quickly sat down and put a palm on his shoulder not to. Thorin stood, assuming the word Gandalf had with him was with Balin as well.

“Well?” he inquired, looking around at the garden shaded by massive trees and abundant leaves. Farther away, Dwalin was training with the lads. That's how he would put it, anyway, but really he was bullying them into submission. He heard Gandalf hum, “It's about Master Baggins, and his situation.”

Thorin was seated right in front of the wizard upon that response. He waited, however, for the rest of Gandalf’s words to sort themselves out before tumbling out of his mouth.

“He's a hobbit, as you are all aware,” he started, with that hesitant yet suspicious tone that took dwarves for idiots. Balin nodded to his left, and Thorin only frowned. “Of course, I am aware as well, but there are things that tend to, well,” said Gandalf and blew a smoke ring. “Tend to escape my considerations, you see.”

Thorin raised one brow; he was still slightly addled by a nap amongst the animals in the stable, on piles of hay, and a hobbit within his proximity. “They tend to escape you at convenient times, as well, if I'm not mistaken,” he retorted, which Balin gave him a look for.

True, Gandalf had been nothing short of helpful, but still. Wizards, Thorin was beginning to echo like Bilbo.

“Oh, I assure you, this one would've helped had I thought of it sooner,” Gandalf took yet another puff, though no rings came out this time. “Is Bilbo well covered as of now? We can't have the night breeze affecting him.”

Thorin’s brows twisted more in confusion, and Balin answered in his stead, “Yes, last I checked. Óin saw to his wound during noon, and it had healed remarkably well, so he patched it and dressed him back up.”

To think that Thorin hadn't woken up with a healer under his nose tending to the figure inside his arms… Oh, he had truly been tired.

“Plenty of blankets, as well,” Balin added with a subtle smile, throwing Thorin a knowing glimpse. “And a portable forge.”

Thorin felt heat creeping up his back to his neck, grateful for the soft wind rolling on his warmed cheeks. He made no comment as Gandalf nodded, seemingly undisturbed. “Good. Very good, even.”

“Gandalf,” Thorin finally spoke, pinning the wizard with a glare. “Don't beat around the bush. What does being warm have anything to do with—”

“Hobbits need plenty of warmth during a Dormancy episode.”

A hush befell them, the words making less sense the more it went on. Thorin blinked, looked to Balin, who likewise blinked, and they both went back to stare at the wizard — who elaborated no further, lips bunched around the pipe. At least, though, he had the decency to blurt, “Oh, I think I should explain.”

“Yes, we would very much appreciate that,” Thorin bit out, then bit his own lip to keep from being rude. Well, ruder. Balin didn't criticize him this time, too focused on staring at Gandalf.

The wizard sighed, as if it was such a chore, then started, “Hobbits are not dense like other creatures. Their size gives them many advantages, as I'm sure you've seen, but also falls short in many aspects as well. For instance, a hobbit’s lung capacity is much less than that of any other. They use less air, hence the smials, yet are also prone to suffocating more quickly.”

The ring smokes went up in the air in the shape of a hobbit — particularly Bilbo, if the small blade in its hand was anything to go by. Thorin stared, then thought back to seeing Bilbo with a pipe of his own before the thing got lost in oblivion, and voiced his concerns, “Then smoking a pipe wouldn't be a healthy thing to do, would it?”

Gandalf laughed, a great contrast to his earlier distress. “I said less, not weak, I reckon. Either way, they are small creatures. They don't have the same amount of blood in their bodies as you lot do,” continued the wizard, the edge to his voice returning. “Colder temperatures greatly affect them. Hobbits with anemia are considered ill, and cover up more as they tend to get cold easily.”

At Thorin’s eyes snapping to his, Gandalf waved a hand, “I'm not saying Bilbo has anemia, my friend.”

“Then I don't see where this conversation is going, Gandalf.”

“Be patient, laddie,” Balin returned swiftly, voice soft yet curious as he put down his pipe. “Does it have something to do with him being asleep?” he added, his brows twisting into a sweet frown of worry that Thorin always saw directed at younger dwarves. It was paternal, in a way, and it was calming to see every time.

“I was getting around to that, thank you,” Gandalf grumbled, blowing another heap of smoke in the shape of an orc— was that the bedamned Azog? Thorin’s fingers dug into his tunic, awaiting an explanation that, most probably, included the confounded Defiler. Gandalf led on, after a painstakingly long suspense, “When Bilbo got injured, he lost a great deal of blood, more than is good for his species. His body, by instinct, attempted to slow down the flow of it by retreating into a Dormant state.”

The puff of smoke evaporated, and Thorin looked back at the wizard and his pursed lips. “A Dormancy episode is, well, a temporary hibernation. The body detects less blood than is good in the body, and shuts down to preserve its energy. They are completely vulnerable in this state, and their temperatures drop to circulate the blood around the vital organs.”

It— explained everything, Thorin thought with a sudden clarity. Bilbo had not so much as twitched after he had fallen unconscious, and his pale face and cold limbs were still a vivid picture behind Thorin’s closed eyes.

So, it was a defense mechanism.

Thorin felt a shuddering breath leave him after some prolonged silence, running a hand down his face. Relief washed over him in waves that sent shivers down his back. “He's alright, then. He'll live,” he insisted, mostly to himself, before his hand dropped to school his expression. “And when should he wake?”

Balin had a glint to his eyes that rivaled Dwalin’s feral grin, silently staring Thorin down, which he ignored very forcibly. Gandalf hummed, “As I said, warmth will do him good. He should be awake tonight, and if not, tomorrow morning.”

Thorin nodded, tried to act as if this new piece of information didn't give him something to look forward to, and lifted to his feet. Realizing he had yet to let go of his clothes, he dislodged his fingers as several joints cracked. Just the mere mention of Azog, that filth, was enough to set his blood boiling.

And with that tidbit of show Gandalf put on, Thorin confirmed it was Azog who had driven the blade across Bilbo’s chest. That revolting orc. He had perched on his stupid warg, done no fighting of his own, and attacked a defenseless creature, and—

Keeping from working himself into a frenzy, Thorin inhaled deeply. The sky had grown dark during their little chat, the wind picking up steadily. Dwalin had long stopped burrowing his sister-sons in the ground, and Balin was standing up.

It was fine. Bilbo was fine. He would be. His body had healed the majority of his injury in the smart instinctual way it could, and it was actually the best case scenerio.

Thorin didn't understand why he was fretting so much, unnecessarily so.

Balin brushed a palm over his shoulder as he passed and nodded his head. Thorin returned the gesture. When Gandalf wanted to walk past him, he held his, still somehow full and blazing, pipe to Thorin, a silent offer, which he took after a pause.

All went back inside, and Thorin was left with his thoughts once more. Supper would be in a bit, but until then, he had to ward off the intrusions on his nerves.

Hobbits… They were such mysterious creatures, and yet they were just as simple. They loved their gardens, books, their numerous meals a day and the comfort of their homes. To think they secured such a strong reaction to a hardship of weather, or lack of blood, was almost fascinating — it only showed that they weren't made for tough times outside of the Shire at all.

Thorin thought back to their times in the Misty Mountains, where circumstances were harsh and temperatures harsher. It was fairly cold back then, as well, but he supposed the rush of adrenaline of what came after kept them all and Bilbo on their toes.

The Misty Mountains.

"He's been lost ever since he left home. He should never have come, he has no place amongst us." 

The cold flash of dread that had washed over him at the sight of the hobbit grabbing onto the edge had been foreign. He had blanked out momentarily, and when he came to, he was being pulled up by Dwalin. Guilt pressed down on his conscience, more so from the fact that he didn't remember Bilbo’s face as he had said those sentences afterwards; not even looking his way properly other than a mere glance. With his vicious, thoughtless words alone, he had convinced the hobbit to want to leave, to go back. Because Bilbo thought he was a burden to them.

The pipe hung by Thorin’s side as he knocked his fist to his forehead, his hand pressed there as he closed his eyes shut. He had been so utterly mean and rude and just plain cruel and for what? Bilbo Baggins was their burglar, not a fighter or ranger. He had his own merits that were yet to come, and Thorin had completely discarded the hobbit’s purpose so early on. Yet despite that, he'd agreed to become their burglar.

He regretted every bit of those thoughts. Doubt had pooled in his stomach when his eyes had shifted open that night in the cave to the hobbit, and heard Bilbo whisper to Bofur, heard the choke inside his voice when he disregarded his own worth.

Valar above, even after the goblin town Thorin had directed his foul accusations towards the hobbit. Had told himself that it had been relief that he had felt and not disappointment, that the hobbit would be safe if he had left the group.

"Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it. We will not be seeing our hobbit again. He is long gone." 

Thinking about it made his head hurt and swirl, aching in the temples and brows. Again and again, he had done nothing but doubt and talk ill of the hobbit. And what had been the answer to his unkind words? A promise to reclaim the dwarves’ homeland on Bilbo’s end, and a leap of faith to protect Thorin from Azog. Telling them that he wanted to help them because he simply could.

"You don't have one; a home. It was taken from you, but I will help you take it back if I can." 

Thump

His chest joined his head in banging on his insides to serve him pain. He briefly wondered if Bilbo had felt the same when Thorin had insulted him all those times.

If anything, he should have suffered the blow, it was meant for him. Not Bilbo. If something were to happen to him, at any point of this journey, he would be convinced that he had fully deserved it, and that it had been a long coming. A debt to pay.

It was a rough path, what with the Misty Mountains, the trolls, and the goblin town. Their journey had been difficult and exhausting enough for Thorin to think that, even after having slept a good deal of the day away, he still stood a chance of attempting sleep once more.

He didn't. He was very much still awake.

It was well past midnight.

Beorn, now hospitable to their stay, had allowed them to rest in places other than the haystacks and smelly stables. Each of them had gathered and spread their bedrolls in different sections of the halls, some preferring to huddle close, others not. Snores filled the rooms in different measures, with grumbling and then some.

With Gandalf’s words taken into consideration, they had moved Bilbo to lie close to the massive hearth, away from the Company, still wrapped in a ridiculous amount of blankets; his body wasn't as icy, not anymore, but still. Better safe than sorry.

However much it pained him to admit it to himself, they couldn't laze around and wait for their burglar to wake up from his Dormant state. Not everyone knew, of course, and Thorin wasn't sure if it even was Gandalf’s place to reveal such a thing; he and Balin had tight lips, though, so he figured at least a semblance of secrecy was in order.

The Company thought it was just the blood loss keeping the hobbit asleep, and Thorin left them to it.

Back to his current…predicament, Thorin had tried everything in his power to force himself to sleep through the night. After tossing and turning, hair mussed and blankets crumpled, and glancing at the moon in the sky through the window that only ever inched across the dark plate, he had given up.

He chose to believe it had something to do with his heavy nap and not the jitters inside his stomach. So here he sat, back pressed to a couch, bedroll long forgotten as he stared at the fire in the hearth, watching it thrash against the brick walls surrounding it, flames never settling for one shape, filled with a sense of Deja Vu.

The light was never consistent with the fire as it danced across the hearth, pouring deep rays of orange across the furniture, and Bilbo.

The hobbit’s figure was pressed against the foot of the long couch facing the fireplace, his front catching the beams of flame with the golden curls of his head in disarray hovering over his face. From this point of view, thigh pressed to the top of the hobbit’s bedroll, Thorin didn't have much to stare at except each individual strand of springy hair.

"Say, a soft spot for our burglar." 

Thorin paused, worrying his lips. His eyes fell to the fingers of the hobbit curled on the pillow under his head, fists loose. There were scabs on several joints, likely caused by the goblin tunnels, which Thorin’s fingers tentatively traced. Ghosted over scratches and scars on the otherwise unmarred skin of the hobbit’s hands. Scars that were accumulated just from months of traveling with the dwarves, some on his face even.

Gaze shifting, Thorin’s same hand lifted and hovered over Bilbo's hair. Brushing against the soft strands, in contrast to his calloused fingers, he slowly caressed the curls out of the hobbit’s forehead. He leaned forward to catch more sight of what he was working with.

Bilbo looked a healthy shade of tan, now. His cheeks held more colour, then, and his lips weren't pale anymore. Truly, he seemed as sound asleep as he was, without the threat of blood loss hanging over his head.

Thorin exhaled, fingers still lodged into the curls just above Bilbo's forehead before he moved them along the skin, his gaze following his own touch. The hairline, the temples, then settling somewhere along the cheeks. There it sat, quietly and gently, as Thorin’s eyes fell to the entirety of the hobbit’s face.

Thump

He rubbed absentmindedly at his chest with his other hand.

Even though the impending feeling of being caught was looming over his head, he could not take his attention off the hobbit. Fervently jumping side to side, his eyes traced every outline, every detail under the warm golden light.

The upturned nose. Freckles invisible under normal lighting. Smooth jaw with no hint of beard or stubble. His almost constantly concerned brows now lax. He could play out the details of an awake Bilbo quite well; the way his forehead would crease when his eyebrows shot up in surprise. His pointy ears, not elvish, no, not at all. The way his nose would twitch, even now, in his sleep for a beat.

The way his lashes fluttered against his cheekbones as he opened his eyes and Thorin could see the earthy shade of green in them— wait.

Wait wait wait wait.

Thorin’s breath hitched before he realized he was in fact staring back at Bilbo’s now open eyes, albeit hazy.

Bilbo was awa— Bilbo was awake.

Neither of them uttered a word; Thorin because of the sudden panic rising in his throat, and Bilbo because he had just woken up, presumably. His throat bobbed visibly when he swallowed once, and before he could open his mouth to speak, Thorin beat him to it, “What were you doing?”

Smooth, Thorin, real smooth.

He fiercely ignored the shake inside his voice, and instead focused on the way Bilbo’s forehead creased as he frowned. “...Mhm?” he responded intelligently, but even his hum was scratchy. Thorin forewent getting an answer to his question, instead looking away and searching for the pitcher of water he had left nearby just in case. In the process, he realized he was still holding the hobbit’s face in one hand, and pulled away just as quickly.

He poured some water into a cup, moving around to place himself next to Bilbo who was already pushing on his arms to sit up. His eyes squeezed shut in his attempts, and Thorin carefully placed a hand behind his shoulder blades to guide him up. “Easy, you are still injured,” he murmured, handing the cup to Bilbo when he was seated.

The hobbit breathed in deeply once, filling his lungs with much-needed air before wincing, and accepted the cup wordlessly. He didn't seem to be lucid enough for a conversation yet, so Thorin waited. Watched, instead, the half-lidded eyes of the hobbit after he had downed the water. Hesitantly, Thorin found himself cupping the other's free hand in his own.

A beat passed, then two. He figured he wouldn't be able to let go even if he tried. Bilbo didn't seem to mind either, his tired stare down at their joined hands; it should have felt uncomfortable, though, as the hands of a blacksmith were no softer than stone.

Bilbo proved him wrong when he put the cup down, his other hand freed before putting it over Thorin’s. It made him pause, breath stalled, before he heard Bilbo clear his throat, then swallow again. “...What do you mean by, uhm, what was I doing?” he asked roughly, still not meeting his eyes.

Thorin regained his earlier trail of thoughts, grip tightening a smudge around Bilbo's hand. “You almost got yourself killed,” he breathed, his other palm lingering close to the bandaged chest of the hobbit. But he didn't touch, hand dropping back inside his lap, and only kept his gaze on a face that was not looking back at him.

The small inkling of confusion still present in Bilbo's expression faded away, replaced by realization. Still, he said nothing. Thorin inhaled, then exhaled shakily, “Why?”

At this, a flip that was switched, Bilbo almost looked offended when he finally met Thorin’s gaze. “Was my speech before the cliffside not reason enough?” he hissed, now actively searching Thorin’s eyes for something. What, though? He didn't know. “I could not let you just- just die, goodness!” he attempted to raise his volume, but it did not rise more than a whisper, and he coughed.

Thorin shook his head, following Bilbo's eyes when he attempted to look away. “Even with the things I've said to you?” he pushed with his words, pulled with his hand trapping Bilbo's. “Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild?” he swallowed as he watched Bilbo do the same, rigid shoulders drawing up near his pointy ears.

"He has no place amongst us." 

He recalled his own words under the downpour in those cursed mountains, then echoed them, even if his voice trembled at the end of it. “That you had no place amongst us?”

It sounded so wrong.

And yet, Bilbo didn't defend himself. He just sat there, head down, as if expecting a verdict. Thorin waited, just to see if there was any courage left to gather, but Bilbo did not move. At this, the dwarf sighed shakily and his free hand snaked to the back of Bilbo's head, palm planting just beneath the skull. He heard a gasp, and Bilbo finally looked up at him with wide eyes.

Thump

Thorin dived down, pressing their foreheads together gently, softly, lingering. Bilbo's eyes shuddered close and his own followed all the same, holding the hobbit and the moment.

It could have been seconds, minutes, or hours, before he felt the sheepish placement of Bilbo's own palm on the side of his neck. Thorin smiled quietly, giving Bilbo's head a firm nudge before he pulled away slowly. “I have never been so wrong in all my life,” he whispered when they parted.

Bilbo’s wide eyes flashed with the smallest hints of tears, before he broke into a grin so wide it had Thorin ducking his head with his own widening smile. It was warmer, now, the blood that ran in his veins. Even still, Thorin looked at Bilbo with regret apparent in his eyes. “I'm sorry I doubted you, malkûnê, and put you in danger,” he mumbled, the one word he blurted out nigh a breath and barely audible, gaze falling down to the hobbit’s chest. Evidently, it would scar, and he couldn't help but finally place a palm tenderly over the covered bandages.

Thump

Thump

He felt the beats of a calm heart, unharmed, and his shoulders fell in relief. Even if it was ridiculous; the measly thought of one of the possible ends to the hobbit, when he was clearly here and well. He had survived, and that was all that mattered.

He ignored the part of him that screamed at him betraying the secrecy of the dwarf language.

Thorin was staring at his own fingers splayed across Bilbo's chest, before another palm covered them. His eyes dragged up, landing on Bilbo’s — the hobbit’s face was flushed a light shade of red, smile soft and cheeks bunched. Thorin froze, swallowed, and tried to pretend he didn't hear his quickening pulse inside his ears. “It's okay. I- I would have doubted me, too,” said Bilbo in a hush, eyes dancing all across Thorin’s face, then his hair, then down at their bodies. He frowned briefly. “I could not…”

He drifted, then looked back up at Thorin with an expression he couldn't name. Bilbo swallowed, but didn't look away anymore. “I could not- I could not watch you die. Not you, not anyone else, but especially not you.” His voice broke, and maybe it was the lack of use for more than two days, but Thorin wanted to believe the other aspect. The other untold aspect.

His hands withdrew from Thorin, and he pushed the tinge of disappointment down as he shifted to pull his palm away as well. But then something seemed to snap inside Bilbo, one of the many threads of Shire manners, because his hands were back on Thorin once more.

Carefully and slowly, Bilbo's fingers landed on the sides of Thorin’s face. He stilled, expression barely held together by a string, as he sat and just…waited. Waited for the burglar to figure out his course of action, to sort his thoughts.

Bilbo's deft digits caressed down the sides of Thorin’s beard, traveling to his shoulders, then coming back up. They carded through the long black hair, picking the grey strands out carefully to examine, then brushed them back into place. At long last, his palms strayed to Thorin’s jaw, and stayed there, holding, anchoring.

Thump

And Thorin waited, breaths stilted and hands fisted in his tunic. Bilbo's brows had been pushed together for a while, unfolding more and more as he had tended to Thorin’s face and hair. Now, though, he was staring at Thorin’s eyes like no other existed in the world. It made his head spin, and he couldn't help but glance away at the attention, his head turning to the side at the motion since they were so close.

When had they gotten so close?

Only when Thorin looked to the side did he realize how they had been sharing breaths, and his face flashed with waves of heat. But he was blessed with no mercy, not one bit.

Bilbo leaned in, causing him to look back once more, before the hobbit gently knocked their noses together.

Thump

Thump

Startled, and confused, Thorin just let it happen. Bilbo lingered, for a while, the tips of his nose pressed to Thorin’s, eyes closed, before he drew even further in and rubbed the bodies of their noses together. Nuzzling.

Thorin was positive his heartbeat could not have been louder.

After a few seconds of the hobbit doing this, Thorin cautiously went along, moving his larger nose in rhythm with Bilbo's. He felt a sharp huff of air at this response, and Bilbo slowly moved from the center of Thorin’s face to his cheeks, causing him to still again. When he felt exhales against the skin under his beard, Thorin sighed shakily.

The hobbit unraveled him slowly, his nose and lips brushing against Thorin’s face. He tilted his head involuntarily, giving access to his jaw all the while the hobbit’s hands were still holding them, and Bilbo ghosted over the line of his beard on his throat. Thorin shuddered slightly, fists in his lap finally loosened, climbing up to Bilbo's waist.

Thump

“Amralizu,” Thorin exhaled in a moment of fervor, then his breath caught in his throat. The words had been pierced out from of the depths of his heart, forcing themselves out of his throat. He bit his lip hard when Bilbo pushed away slightly to look up at him, eyes twinkling in open and curious confusion. Up so close, Thorin could see a healthy amount of flush on the hobbit’s cheeks, even traveling so far up to his ears.

“Was that Khuzdul?” asked Bilbo quietly, something akin to awe inside his hushed voice. Thorin kept on abusing his lower lip, but nodded once and slow. Bilbo's eyes flicked down to Thorin’s lips once, and he couldn't contain the shaky whimper drawn out of his chest.

He had not felt this way in all his long life, and he could only assume what it meant. His One. The realization felt like no other, and his eyes inched wider.

The hobbit frowned, his hands on Thorin’s jaw tilting his face down a bit more. “Don't do that,” he breathed, one thumb pressed against the edge of Thorin’s lips until he stopped biting. He did, unsure what to do with the exasperated delight inside his veins, when Bilbo closed the small distance between them after a pause.

All at once, his nerves were on fire. Soft lips pressed against his own, tentative and mellow, and it loitered for far too short before Bilbo pulled away, though not out of reach. Thorin did not let him leave, greedily inhaling the scent of the hobbit. He didn't trust his voice, but he had no other choice, as he let it be dragged out of him in shaky rasps, “Do you wish to know what it means, Ghivashel?”

Bilbo beamed, forehead pushing up against Thorin’s briefly, before he hummed his approval. Thorin answered that with another kiss, swooping down to catch Bilbo's lips, awarded with him returning it with the same enthusiasm. It never got heated. It burnt low, yet steadily, as they kept parting for air. And kept going back in for more. Curious, little pecks, discovering the ways.

In between, Thorin kept on murmuring, in too great a haze to stop to fully say it. Translated the words one syllable at a time, and with each, Bilbo grew more and more giddy. At some point, he chuckled quietly, and Thorin followed suit as their shoulders shook against one another. The hobbit didn't return it, for now, and Thorin understood. He would wait. He could always wait.

With the mood settling, and the flames dying down in the hearth, dawn was slowly upon them. The rays penetrated the wooden halls, lighting up the lodge in a mild yellow. Bilbo asked him where they were, all the while, and Thorin had explained all the same.

“I should pick up a seed from here, if that is the case,” mused Bilbo with a small tug to his lips, looking around. Thorin only stared at him, however, and only inquired with one hum. But Bilbo elaborated no further, now looking back at Thorin once more. Both of them were exhausted, no mistaking it, so Thorin let go of him as the hobbit automatically slipped under the sheets. They had a few hours until breakfast, they could take the rest it offered.

Bilbo smiled lopsidedly, hand curtly lifting to Thorin’s braid. “An acorn would be nice,” whispered the hobbit, drifting off at the end, and Thorin’s ribcage sought to expand so much that he did not know what to do with it. He smiled in return, following Bilbo's silent order to lie beside him. “A splendid choice, Bilbo,” he chuckled along.

Bilbo blinked awake a tad, staring at Thorin, and he realized his choice of words and his eyes ducked. “Apologies, I meant—”

“No, I…I like that,” Bilbo hurried him quietly, looking away with a lovely blush painting his cheeks. Thorin grinned, arm swinging around the hobbit as he pulled their bodies closer. “Then rest, Bilbo,” he whispered, his fingers grazing the messy curls of the hobbit’s head.

"Believe it or not, perhaps something fair shall come out of it." 

Soon, they were both drifting to places where no nightmares reached. Bilbo's head tucked under Thorin’s chin, bodies entangled and heartbeats in sync, the king slowly let himself be at ease. Murmurs of Khuzdul on his tongue, he closed his eyes.

“Amrâlimê.”