Wow, look, a new thing. When I haven't finished any other things. You have my most(ly) sincere apologies, as I am actually still working on Follow Me Down, I'm just really slow and have kinda fallen out of the fandom but I have not given up the fic for lost just yet. Either way I got stuck doing prompt fics over the holidays and here is part of that result. I got the prompt online, if you want to know where, message me but I'm too lazy to hunt down the link right at this moment, and it's already in the archive version of this. Enjoy.

Waking up was a slow process, one filled with that unnerving yet surprisingly comfortable sensation of floating that one can only get when in the hazy place between consciousness and sleep. The thing was, Bilbo was fairly certain he shouldn't be waking up.

He wasn't sure why he thought this, but it was the first thing he could focus on when the darkness he was surrounded by became slightly less dark, and the second thing was that he had absolutely no memory of falling asleep. He hazily became aware of his limbs, and then a weight against his back in the darkness. Eventually it occurred to him that the weight was the ground and that he was in fact laying on it. It was cold, and he then registered that the rest of him was cold as well. This prompted an unfortunate realization that everything hurt and the ground at his back was the source of the icy prickles permeating his skin.

Bilbo wanted nothing more than a warm bath and a soft pillow, or if not that then at least the comforting nothingness of the oblivion he had just been in, but some force that he couldn't be bothered to identify urged him to open his eyes and get up. The first one he managed –only just, as the stark contrast between the dark and the grey sky above him made his head pound angrily- the second had him reeling in pain and biting back a scream as he attempted it.

Oh. He had forgotten about that. There was a mighty nice gash on his side, courtesy of an orcish blade, still bleeding sluggishly onto the ice. Bilbo would later look back and realize that the ice probably saved his life, slowing the bleeding long enough for the wound to clot, but at the moment he was cursing it, as now that he was awake there was no way the shivers that it brought would let him slip off again so easily.

He could recall that he had been stupid enough to jump in front of the blade, and that he likely would have been fine if his wraith-like figure had not allowed the loose mithril he had been wearing –was still wearing- to ride up under his shirt as he jumped. Stupid to think himself impervious because of it. He could also recall that there had been some very important, pressing matter that was the reason he has done as he had, but he couldn't for the life of him remember what it was.

He also felt a deep disappointment as he twisted his head this way and that and realized he was alone up on the ice.

Shouldn't there have been someone else here? He could have sworn that there was- oh. He had forgotten about that too.

Thorin, idiot that he was, had decided that facing down the pale orc alone on Ravenhill was a good idea. Or at least not as stupid an idea as it really was. So naturally, Bilbo, as it seemed fate had decided to make him Thorin's keeper, had run up as fast as he could (really quite an impressive time considering his short legs) to warn the four that had made it up there of their impending slaughter, only to be stuck watching Thorin crumble for a second time as Fili was held high above him in the grip of his foe.

If not for the saving grace of his ring and –he nearly blew his cover masking a hysterical giggle at this- his skill at conkers, Thorin's sister son would not have been able to roll out of Azog's grip and shimmy down the cliff while the orc was temporarily blinded by a rock to his temple.

Now, neither Thorin nor his sister sons were anywhere to be found from Bilbo's limited perspective on the ground, which was both worrying and relieving at the same time.

What of Kili? Didn't he head up to where Fili had been? How long did the battle continue after he was out? Did any of them make it out alive, or at least without mortal wounds?

Thorin- from what he could recall- had at least taken a sword to his foot and a blow to his skull the last time Bilbo saw him, which was just before Azog was about to force his blade right through Thorin's chest.

He had looked… so resigned. Broken in a way that defied description, as if the only honor he could hope to find at the end of their mad quest was death as he fought the orc that was the bane of his existence. That was something Bilbo could never allow, even if he had been banished, had given up not only the tentative hope of more between them that had started growing in Laketown, but any hope of friendship as well. He could not let Thorin Oakenshield fall.

That was how he had gotten where he was now, by bodily flinging himself between Azog and Thorin, as if the weak shield of a half- starved Hobbit draped in a baggy shirt of mithril like a child wearing his parent's clothes would be able to stop the orc. It would seem that at least the surprise of an unseen blockade- as Bilbo realized that he both had been and still was wearing his ring- did something, as neither being was still on the ice with him.

He now had several options. One, seeing as he was very much injured and found the idea of death not nearly as terrifying in that moment as he would have less than a year ago, he could simply close his eyes and settle for not knowing what had happened, and being content in that he did what he thought was right. The second option, which he really rather didn't want to consider as his side was still screaming in pain, was to get up and go find out for himself what happened- that was if he could even make it to his feet not to mention the gates of Erebor. Bilbo supposed that he could also lay there and see if his voice wanted to work at all, and perhaps call for help, but as he inhaled to make any sort of noise his ribs protested violently. And- he thought miserably, it wasn't very likely that anyone would hear him, or even be looking as far away from the main fight as he was.

Fine. The second option it was.

If anyone had been around, Bilbo might have thought that it took him an embarrassingly long time to even manage sitting, nonetheless standing, but as it was he managed both after slipping his ring off and into his pocket just in time to notice that the sky above him was darkening with the telltale signs of night, even through the heavy layer of clouds that obscured the heavens.

Heaving a sigh that demonstrated his entirely too put upon nature, Bilbo began the long and arduous trek down from Ravenhill, noting this time around that it was a far longer hike than he remembered.

'Nothing like the fear of orcs and death to make time pass quickly.'

His sense of humor had really grown quite maudlin over the quest, Bilbo noted. It was probably Bofur's fault. Scratch that, it was definitely Bofur's fault. He should have expected it from their growing friendship, especially given the fact that the first memorable words from him brought poor Bilbo to fainting dead away on his nice (muddied with dwarven boot prints) parlor rug.

Bilbo found himself glad for it, hobbitish propriety be damned, because he had never been more himself than he was when with his dwarves. Although, he supposed they weren't his dwarves anymore.

Not after the whole business with the Arkenstone, with the way unshed tears- of anger or sadness Bilbo would never know- sharpened the blue of Thorin's eyes as he cursed the Halfling. No, he wasn't Bilbo, burglar, friend to the company anymore, he was just the useless Halfling that they dragged along from the Shire at the behest of a wizard.

Would they even tell him the state of his friends? He couldn't very well just march into Erebor and demand to know what happened, he was still banished. That thought made his stomach turn, if he had learned one thing in particular over the course of the quest he learned that dwarves are stubborn, and with that they rarely- if ever- go back on their word. Even if Thorin repealed his banishment, the fact remained that he still betrayed them, he still gave the Arkenstone to Bard and Thranduil knowing full well what it meant to Thorin, to all of them. No, he couldn't go into Erebor. Not now, not ever.

Bilbo trudged, and kept trudging, until he thought he just might keel over from sheer exhaustion. He ended up finding himself not quite at the foot of the mountain, but close enough to it to see the dim glow of torches near the healing tents, and far toward the eastern edge of the mountain, the bonfires in full swing burning the corpses of orcs and goblins.

The armies of Elves, Men and Dwarves alike had all had time to scour the battlefield for their fallen and wounded, and with their own unique precision and efficiency (that of the dwarves and Elves anyway, the Men didn't really have much besides their persons) set up a veritable town of tents hastily erected against the night's chill.

It was really quite impressive, and Bilbo found himself drifting down toward the warmth of other living beings before he became aware of himself and stopped. He couldn't just waltz in there, even if it wasn't technically inside Erebor, it was highly likely that he would be recognized- if not by the dwarves themselves then by some of the Men or Elves that had been close enough to observe his banishment and near death experience- and then he would have to face the company, face Thorin, and he couldn't do that, Not yet at least.

He found himself leaning against a tree that had grown against a rocky overhang on the side of the mountain; not much in the way of a cave, but at least it was some form of shelter as night drew in. Bilbo figured he could sort out a course of action tomorrow if he was still alive to see it, and he thought with unnatural detachment that he almost didn't want to be. He couldn't handle seeing the evidence of his betrayal written all over the faces of his friends, couldn't handle it the first time, and he knew he wouldn't be able to deal with it for a second.

As he drifted off into a frozen oblivion, he chuckled morbidly to himself.

'What would the company think of me now? The fussy burglar hobbit of the Shire freezing to death in a coat of mithril on a mountainside 'how far he has fallen from his armchair and his garden'. Better here, I think, than having to watch their disappointed glares at my failings.'