Disclaimer: Not mine. Originally written for a prompt on the kink meme, so I don't actually own the idea, either.

Warnings: Please take care – there's some violence, blood and general unpleasantness. Also, the imagery of being locked in a chest may be triggering.

The Price of Gold

I

"Prepare for battle," Thorin tells his company, and they disperse. Down below, Bilbo can hear hooves galloping away, even as the sensation of battle grows near. His head is spinning, and the notion of an army of orcs and goblins approaching seems almost surreal – since there are so many other feelings tearing at his heart.

Thorin's gaze falls upon him and the fury has not abated.

Instead, it had turned into cold hatred. For a moment Bilbo thinks Thorin is going to toss him from the wall – because now that there is a battle approaching, the dwarves have no need for a burden. And Gandalf has left with the men and elves to prepare for their own part in the fight.

His heart stops when Thorin pulls him up by his arm. The grip is hard, and hurts, and Bilbo can't quite stop a pained gasp from escaping. Thorin pays it no mind, and proceeds to drag him off, back into the mountain. Bilbo can only stumble along – he almost has to run to keep up, and his head aches, and Thorin's grip forces his arm into an odd position.

He hears footsteps and the clatter of metal nearby, but Bilbo catches no sight of the other dwarves. Erebor is still too unfamiliar for him to recognize where Thorin is bringing him, though once the he spies the golden coins on the floor he realizes they are in the treasury.

Bilbo bites his tongue – Thorin's silence is oppressive, full or anger, and he dares not draw his attention further (even though the grip on his arm hurts). From the corner of his eye he sees Thorin heading toward a wooden chest – then his foot catches on something, he stumbles, and only the grip Thorin has on his arm keeps him from falling.

The dwarf doesn't stop or slow, instead he drags Bilbo along until the hobbit manages to get his feet under him again. His knees are bruised by that time, and he thinks his ankle might be bleeding, but bites his lip.

Then they are next to the chest, which is really more of a rectangular crate (as far as Bilbo can tell from the corner of his eye), and then the world tilts abruptly. Bilbo belatedly notices Thorin has pushed him, he's falling, and then his head slams against something hard, and his vision fades out.

Bilbo has barely caught his bearings, when the lid slams shut. His vision flickers, pain traverses his spine, and his left arm is bent at an uncomfortable angle behind his back. For a split moment he lingers on the brink of unconsciousness – then he slams back into himself, and pain explodes in his shoulder and the back of his head.

He scrabbles to get his arm out from under his back – it hurts too much to breathe, and his spine is overstretched, and his right elbow slams against firm wood. There's wood against the top of his head and the soles of his feet, too, but he doesn't care. He needs to get his arm moved, now. There's wood on his left, too, and he can't move as he wants to, but he squirms (because he can't stand to be like this), and eventually his arm comes free.

He may have screamed, and there's some noise outside, but Bilbo doesn't care, nor can he place it. His arm burns, and his shoulder is probably dislocated. He is gasping for air when his vision stops flickering between white and black, and he realizes he's in total blackness.

The events come together.

Outside, footsteps move away from him. Wood to all his sides – he saw the chest from the corner of his eye, just moments ago, when Thorin had his arm in a painful grip. He can't …

Bilbo instinctively pushes against the lid with his good arm – he has to stretch it completely, but the lid won't budge. And the footsteps grow distant.

"Thorin!" he screams, and doesn't care if the desperation in his voice is obvious, "Thorin! Wait! Don't go! I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry! Let me out! Please!"

The footsteps don't stop, nor do they slow down.

"Please!" Bilbo screams again, and this time his voice breaks. He doesn't even realize he's pounding against the lid, and that tears stream down his cheeks.

"Please," he sobs, and it's too choked to be heard.

Tthe door slams shut. Something shifts – Bilbo hears it; the bright clinging and clattering of golden coins, jewels and gemstones. But it's not quite sound, it's loud, louder, and suddenly Bilbo understands that the balance of the entire treasure hill has been upset.

Then the chest begins to tremble and his heart stops.

Nononono, Bilbo thinks, not this, too. Not – he can't finish the thought, because the box tilts – he only feels it, and it's disturbing, because the blackness doesn't change at all. Then the ground rumbles, and the chest rolls over. Bilbo barely manages to get an arm over his face (it's too tight), and then the wooden floor (side? He doesn't know) of the chest slams against his ribcage, elbow, knees and shoulder – and the pain makes his vision go white.

He doesn't know how long it took, or when the box stopped rolling.

Bilbo opens his eyes, though all he sees is sheer darkness. Tentatively, he draws a deep breath – his entire body aches, there's a fierce ache in his shoulder, and Bilbo is careful to lie perfectly still. At least nothing feels broken.

The relief is short-lived, because he is still trapped in a chest. One that now is probably buried under piles of gold, too.

Nightfall brings bats and orcs and goblins. The battle is fierce; and even the united forces of men, elves and dwarves struggle. Thorin is in the thick of the fighting. He barely takes notice of the companions at his side.

His enemy tonight is Azog.

Thorin then does not pay much attention to the turn of the battle, or how hard-pressed all are to defend their positions. Instead of staying, he charges ahead.

Time is impossible to measure in the absolute darkness of the chest. Already, Bilbo feels as if he had spent an eternity inside; the wood uncomfortably, digging into his back. He tries to stay in one position for longer, but once he settles, and the rustle of clothes fades, he only hears his breathing and his own heartbeat (both too fast).

Moving is painful, but at least the pain distracts his thoughts.

Bilbo fears to let them wander. Already the darkness lasts heavy on him. He doesn't think Thorin will leave him here – even if only to publicly execute him for his betrayal – but the longer he lies still, the more precarious this assumption grows.

There's a battle raging outside.

Or is it? Bilbo doesn't hear a thing. Perhaps Erebor's walls are too thick for sound to penetrate. Perhaps this chest is soundproof? Perhaps the battle has not yet started, and only minutes have passed since Thorin left him here – or perhaps the battle is already over?

Bilbo's stomach churns, and something in his chest clenches.

Perhaps all are dead. Kili, with his bright smile, Ori, with his books, Bofur, and his jokes – maybe they all have perished, together with Bard and Thranduil and Gandalf. His mind conjures an image of the slopes of Erebor covered in blood and broken bodies.

And nobody to remember one hobbit locked in a chest.

The idea steals Bilbo's breath, and he banishes it.

No, at least some ought to have survived. And Thorin, too, because he is King, and Kings are protected, even if they seek out the front lines. Maybe they've already won, and are now celebrating. This brings almost a smile to Bilbo's lips (and calms his aching heart) – he can see them toasting, drinking, singing – maybe a bit worse for wear, but nonetheless alive and victorious.

They'll come for him in time, then.

Most likely, however, the more rational part of Bilbo's mind cautions, is that the battle is far from over. He has no idea of what time it is, can't tell – he wishes it was close to morning, but in all honesty, it may not yet be nightfall.

The tide of the battle only changes once Beorn and the eagles arrive. Had they been a second later, Thorin's life would have been ended by a luck spear, thrown by a goblin. Instead, it misses and Thorin takes off Azog's head.

He sinks to his knees, then, exhausted rather than accomplished. It feels like a burden lifted, something in his chest shifts – though he can't linger on it. Around him, the battle continues, and he spies Fili and Kili, back to back, and alone among a sea of enemies.

It's been too long, Bilbo thinks, too long.

It feels as if the chest is shrinking, and he wishes he could stretch his limbs. Instead, there's hard, unforgiving wood in all directions. His back aches, but he can't breathe on his stomach, and his shoulder hurts too much to lie on his side.

He doesn't know how much time has passed, but it must have been days, now. Sleep won't come, only fear and panic. The air is stuffy in this chest, and maybe he'll suffocate – though he should already have, by then.

Bilbo's heart gives a painful jolt, as even this fate is denied to him.

He starts to think he has been forgotten about. Or maybe Thorin is too hurt to remember right now. He doesn't want to think that he has been left here deliberately.

Something hot burns in his eyes.

He's thirsty, too. Before long, he'll die of thirst. Not hunger – Bilbo has heard tales of starvation, and knows it takes very, very long. And he doesn't feel hungry, at all. He'd skip food for a month if somebody would let him out of this … coffin, now.

A shaky breath leaves him, and Bilbo uses his good arm to wipe the tears away. It sends a spark of pain through his other shoulder and the contact between his hand and his face anchors him, at least a little.

Outside, the silence lingers.

"Hello!" Bilbo calls out spontaneously. Has been doing this, for a while, now. Perhaps some passerby might hear him – though none has, yet.

Perhaps all are dead. Perhaps nobody will come for him.

Or they won and Thorin decided this to be his fate. To die in this chest – alone, in utter darkness.

Bilbo's heart clenches and the pain is physical. He wants to curl up, but can't, and neither can he stop the tears. He doesn't want to die here – not so alone, not without at least a chance of explaining his actions or apologizing. Perhaps Thorin will never forgive him, but he hopes that at least the others will understand. He won't even ask for their forgiveness.

He'd just like a chance to say goodbye.

(And if he's honest, he doesn't want to die at all. He wants to go home; home to his books and pillows and quilts. Where it's warm, and peaceful, not cold and dark. He wants to see the green hills again, listen to the tunes his neighbor hums when he's working in his garden, and walk the familiar path down to the market. Bilbo has not realized how much he missed all of this until now; and now he may never see it again).

He doesn't know how long he cries.

Thorin has regrouped with the majority of his company. Victory is close, though the fighting remains vicious. Perhaps his early success has made him weary, or the exhaustion takes its toll, but he fails to notice a goblin sneaking up behind him.

The hit against his head is too fast to notice, and then there is only darkness.

Crying leaves Bilbo exhausted, and still unable to sleep. Or perhaps he has slept and never realized? By now he wishes the darkness would just take him, pull him under and not let him go. Or to have broken his neck when the box fell.

In a bout of mad desperation he throws his weight against the hard wood, again, and again. Just one more tumble, and he'll stick out his head, not protect it, and let his neck snap. He won't see the Shire again, but really, anything but this suffocating darkness.

And shouldn't he already be dead of thirst? Has only so little time passed? If so, Bilbo doesn't want to wait any longer. He hopes for it to end soon, because the darkness is driving him mad.

He's almost certain by now that he's either been forgotten, or that Thorin chose this. It tears painfully at his heart – this is beyond cruel, even in light of his betrayal. How could Thorin do this – it's barbaric, and utterly horrible. Is this revenge? Abandoning Bilbo to perish in this chest – so that nobody has to see him ever again, that he can be forgotten, that they won't even need a coffin?

He's crying again, but he doesn't notice.

His heart is screaming, clutching at straws, desperate to explain away this nightmare. But the darkness lingers, the silence continues, and the stark, rational voices in Bilbo's mind win out. He'll die.

And for a moment he tries to accept it. Because unpleasant as it is, it's not painful. It's not like being torn apart by trolls, or eaten alive, or slaughtered by orcs.

The attempt fails. He doesn't want to be alone, not now, and he wants the silence to go away. Even if it's only to hear his friends scream at him, even if it's only the howling of wargs; anything but the silence. He wants the darkness to disappear – to feel the sun on his skin, just one more time, because aren't even those ruled to die granted one last wish?

Just once more he'd like to see his friends, his home, the sun… just something but this darkness.

"Please," he whispers to the empty air, "Please, just this once."

He doesn't know when the whispers turn into screams. Or when he stops hearing them.

tbc

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