EPILOGUE

It was over, Bilbo told himself from at least the fourth time in as many minutes. Over.

Over was the threat that Smaug had embodied for the last century, slain by a single – although mighty – arrow to his breast. From what he had heard, the beast had collapsed into the lake of Esgaroth in huge plumes of smoke, and the mist was still clinging to the surrounding area. Lake-town, if it could still be called as such, had suffered the bulk of the dragon's wrath and very few houses had been spared his havoc-wrecking flames. But Bilbo remembered the hoots of joy of the company and the sheer happiness in Thorin's eyes when Roäc, may the old Crow be forever blessed, had flown over to the mountain to announce Smaug's death. It was the first time that Bilbo had seen the dwarven king smile so broadly. Little did he know, then, that it would also be the last time.

Over was that horrible, horrible battle. "Battle of five armies", as people took a liking in naming it. For all songs spoke of glory and pride, Bilbo could only remember death. Corpses piling up all around the Lonely Mountain in a morbid blend of red and black, as Dwarves, Elves, Men and Orcs alike met their ends under bone-breaking blows. But worse than those images, the sounds would forever be carved into Bilbo's memories. Roars and cries, shrieks and bellows, they all mixed and blurred together in the most dreadful composition the hobbit had been given to hear. Even the suffocating stench of death and slaughter that had taken reign over the battlefield couldn't compare to those sounds that Bilbo was sure would haunt his nights for many, many moons.

And, smallest of all but certainly dearest to Bilbo's heart, over was his friendship with Thorin Oakenshield. He had betrayed him, stolen the Arkenstone, and given it to the enemy. Or at least the persons Thorin thought of as enemies. Which, irremediably, elevated Bilbo to the never sought-after rank of traitor and almost got him thrown down from the Lonely Mountain without so much as a warning. The pure hatred burning bright in Thorin's blue eyes was still fresh in Bilbo's mind, as were the bruises on his throat from the dwarf's grip as he held him over the edge of the Mountain. Venom had dripped from Thorin's words as he ordered Bilbo out of his sight and out of his kingdom, and no amount of strength could have kept Bilbo's tears from flowing as he hurtled down the mountain so hastily that he had almost tripped to his death – which would have hurt less, he was sure, than Thorin's broken roars of betrayal as they tore through his ears to the point they might bleed.

His friendship with Thorin was dead and buried. So he did not know on Arda why he was sitting by the dwarf's bed, hoping against all odds that he would make it through the night.

For what seemed like the hundredth time that night, Bilbo tugged the blanket down to check Thorin's bandages. No blood was seeping through, which immensely relieved him, but he knew it would only be an hour or two before the wounds needed to be cleaned again to stave off infection. Bilbo shuddered at the thought; he knew what lied under those lengths of gauze wrapped tightly around Thorin's chest. He knew what kind of ruin Azog's mace had wrecked on the sturdy body; Thorin's armor had nearly been cleaved in half under the devastating blow that the wretched orc had landed, and his whole body with it. It had taken hours and an indecent amount of stitching to keep the King's guts from wandering into this world unbidden; the mere thought of it almost made Bilbo sick. He was happy he hadn't been in the room then, for he was sure he would have fainted and the healers would have found themselves with a second patient on their hands.

Bilbo brought the blanket back up to tuck it under Thorin's chin. The hobbit suffered from very little wounds of his own, aside from the bruises on his neck and a shallow cut down the side of his face. Which is why he had volunteered to watch over Thorin, a gesture that had left many speechless and, admittedly, a bit suspicious. Why would the halfling care about what happened to the dwarf, after the way he had treated him? Was the hobbit just looking for an opportunity to squish any chance that their King had at survival by, oh I don't know, slitting his throat as he slept?

Bilbo was well aware what kind of gossip was going on behind his back, but he had little care. He hadn't travelled across the world to be put off by a few unsavory rumors and condescending looks. Back in the Shire, it had never bothered him what kind of tales were spread unbeknownst to him at the market, and it wasn't about to change.

He just wouldn't be able to live with himself if Thorin Oakenshield passed away and he wasn't by his side when it happened.

There was little he could do, if he were completely honest with himself. Apart from checking the bandages on a regular basis and calling for a healer when they needed to be replaced, as well as watching for any sign of fever, he spent his days holding Thorin's large pale hand between his own and gazing helplessly at the dwarf's prone body. Heaving pitiful sighs of relief as the damaged chest rose for a breath. Breaking in cold sweat as he fumbled around for a pulse that he was too shaken to find.

His nights were just as restless. More often than not, when he was sure nobody would enter the tent Thorin was resting in for a few hours, Bilbo caved in and curled up on the bed next to the dwarf. There, he would cry until his eyes were red and Thorin's hair thoroughly soaked. Oh, the unfairness of it all! Had they really tried, tried so hard, only to fail so close to their goal? Had Thorin suffered through decades of pain and bitterness, only to meet his end at the very feet of the mountain he had dreamed of for the past century?

And not only that, but the Line of Durin itself was teetering on the edge of inexistence. Somewhere out there, in other tents, Kili and Fili were hanging between life and death. Though, unlike their uncle, they had been denied the bliss that came with unconsciousness and could often be heard wailing incoherently and screaming. Someone, Bofur maybe, had informed Bilbo that the brothers were fighting a very potent orc poison in which the arrows they were injured with had been dipped. They were delirious, most of the time, and hardly slept. The elven healers were doing their best, but this poison was unheard of and very hard to control.

So when the screams stopped from time to time, Bilbo didn't know if he should feel joy or grief.

The hobbit ran a hand down his face to compose himself, wincing as his fingers grazed his cut. It was the dead of night, and everyone was probably sleeping. His own eyes were prickly and he decided that there wasn't much he could do for Thorin until the morning, when he would try – with little success, if these last days had taught him anything – to feed the dwarf some honey diluted in water. And only end up cleaning a sticky beard.

Bilbo climbed on the bed and lied on his side, trying his best to slip under one of the blankets without jostling Thorin's wounds. The hobbit winced as the rough wool brushed against his still sensitive ankles; for all the balm he had applied to the abused feet, the blisters were still there and his skin was so taut he was afraid it would split open at first chance.

Carefully, he settled in beside the dwarf and nuzzled into a pillow, his eyes never leaving Thorin's face. If Bilbo overlooked the cuts and bruises littered on the dwarf's pale features, he was the perfect image of peace and serenity. The light from the single candle by the bed gave his skin a golden hue – which, in Bilbo's opinion, was far better than the sickly tinge Thorin was currently graced with – and gave an impression of warmth.

Without thinking, Bilbo's hand reached out and combed through the still too short strands of dark hair. It had been mated with blood and sweat, and he had taken extreme care in washing it thoroughly. It had taken an entire morning to undo the braids meticulously, rid the hair of gore and then weave the beads through the strands once more. Now, it felt like silk beneath his fingers and he was glad for it. The few dark looks from unknown dwarves he had earned as he was performing the task were well worth it.

Bilbo smiled weakly as he tried to picture how Thorin would react if he learned that others had seen a hobbit braid his hair. Would he be furious? Unaffected?

"I bet you wouldn't give a crap," Bilbo whispered affectionately, his hand still stroking Thorin's hair as gently as he could. "You would glare for some time and ask them if they are so idle that they felt they could make it their business to report who braid whose hair in the camp." He chuckled quietly, bitter tears threatening to spill. "Oh, yes, you'd definitely say that, you evil dwarf."

Bilbo's hand left Thorin's hair and cupped a battered cheek. The hobbit took some time to decide if the swelling on the dwarf's nose had reduced – it was only normal, the healers had told him, for a broken nose to swell after it was repaired – and when he was satisfied, he leaned over carefully to lay a soft kiss on Thorin's temple, minding the cuts.

"I will see you in the morning, don't you dare go anywhere," Bilbo mumbled, a lone tear escaping the tight barrier of his closed eyelashes and rolling down his cheek. "Good night Thorin."

Then, exhausted from a day of stressful waiting and with his hand firmly clenched around much larger fingers, Bilbo Baggins slipped into an uneasy slumber, Fili's whimpers the only thing that broke the heavy silence of the night.

"How could you do this? How could you betray me so?"

Bilbo clawed at the hand around his throat in a fruitless attempt to loosen the iron grip. Useless, he knew. "Thorin," he rasped out pleadingly. "I swear, I didn't-"

"You stole my most prized possession," Thorin snarled, as his hand tightened even more around Bilbo's neck. "You had no right yet you stole it. And then you went and gave it to the worst person I have ever known! Don't you remember what he did to us?" Thorin used his free hand to tug at his dark locks. "Don't you remember what he did to me?"

"He… Thranduil… he didn't want a war," Bilbo gasped. Being dangled in mid-air was not making matters any better, especially when the promise of a deadly drop down a mountain lied beneath his squirming feet. "I did it… to save you all…"

"Shut up, traitor!" Thorin's eyes were drilling scorching hold into Bilbo's, hatred and fury clearly visible in the blue orbs. No, not blue anymore, but black and soulless. The eyes of a mad beast. "I trusted you, had faith in you, I would have welcomed you into my kingdom, but you betrayed me! I gave you my friendship and you dragged it through the mud! You wretched hobbit!"

The fist tightened its hold, and at that point Bilbo was quite sure his face was a tad blue. Yet Thorin's words hit him harder than any whip would. He forced his tears back and struggled to speak up, his hands clamped around the dwarf's thick wrist. "Thorin, it's… you're not yourself… it's the gold, Thorin, the gold-sickness… you have to let go…"

The mad glint was back in Thorin's eyes, and he smirked in a way that made Bilbo's stomach lurch in cold fear. There was nothing amusing or reassuring in that smirk, only a feral flash of white teeth and an unspoken promise of pain. "You want me to let go, master thief? Very well… I shall see that your wish is granted!"

To Bilbo's horror, Thorin pulled his arm back a little and, with enough strength to knock a dragon out, hurled the hobbit over the edge of the Mountain.

Bilbo was only dimly aware that he was screaming his teeth off as he plummeted down, head first, and he could only watch helplessly as the rock hard ground came closer, and closer, until…

Bilbo awoke with a cry and cold sweat plastering his curls to his forehead. Panting, a hand pressed over his chest to gain control over his raging heart, it took him a few moments to remember where he was.

That nightmare, again. For the third night in a row, now. Goodness gracious.

The hobbit sat up in bed and wrapped his arms around his bent legs, burying his tear-stained face in his knees. It didn't matter how many times he told himself that he had acted for the greater good, that he was trying to avoid seeing people die, his subconscious was still riddled with guilt and made him pay for it each and every night since then.

He had betrayed Thorin's trust, by stealing his most precious heirloom and giving it over to the enemy. And not just any enemy, but Thranduil, the Elvenking, the one who had shamelessly ordered Thorin's hair to be cut down and his pride to be shattered. But there had been an entire army of elves waiting patiently down the Mountain, and Bilbo had been afraid, so afraid to see his friends hurt or killed that he had given up the Arkenstone. Hoping foolishly that Thorin would see the reason behind this act and forgive him, in time.

Time. A rare commodity if there ever was one.

Bilbo wearily wiped his forehead and through the mist of muddled thoughts, it occurred to him that he shouldn't be sweating so much, nor should he be so uncomfortably hot. True, his nightmares always made him feel a little overheated, but the early winter nights were fresh and the sun was still very young that morning. The warmth was puzzling… unless…

The hobbit looked down at the other occupant in the bed, and noted with some degree of worry that there was a fine layer of sweat covering the dwarf's face and upper chest. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Bilbo reached out and put the back of his hand against Thorin's cheek. Only to snatch it back, as if scorched.

The King was burning up.

"Fever," Bilbo muttered, yet the words escaped him as if they held no meaning. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Thorin's battered and flushed face. "Fever." Louder this time, and with it came realization. If there was a fever then at least one of the dwarf's wounds was infected. "Fever!"

Bilbo jumped out of bed, not even caring as his injured feet landed on hard ground and cracks burst open along his sensitive soles. Never mind that his hair looked like a family of damp rats had made itself at home on his head, or that his waistcoat was horribly distorted. He had to get help, he had to, before… before it was too late.

"Thorin's got a fever!" he shouted as he ran out of the tent, praying fervently for somebody, anybody with knowledge in the healing department, to hear him. "Please, he's burning up! Anybody!"

Luckily, an elven healer was already making rounds between the tents and swiftly approached him in a flurry of light green robes. "When did the fever appear?" he asked.

"I-I don't know, at some point in the night, I guess! He was already awfully hot when I woke up," Bilbo stammered, hurriedly leading the elf back to Thorin's tent.

"You don't know? Weren't you supposed to watch over him, halfling?" the healer said with more bite than was absolutely necessary, pushing away one flap of the tent to follow Bilbo inside.

"I am watching over him, I just…" The hobbit sighed and massaged his throbbing skull; he was in no mood and far too sleep-deprived to engage in a battle of wits against an elf. Even less when there were much more important matters at hand. "Listen, this is not about me. I led you here because I thought you could help him, but if I am mistaken then I shall take my leave and scout this whole camp for a real healer!"

He hadn't meant to shout, really. But his nerves were on fire and his patience was thinning with every second that was not spent actively helping Thorin.

The elven healer frowned for a moment, but his features soon softened as he took in Bilbo's dishevelled state. "You needn't speak so loudly," was his only comment before he leaned over Thorin's bed and felt its occupant's forehead. "Indeed, he is very hot. Infection probably settled in." The elf's perfect nose scrunched up in some sort of wince. "We need to act quickly. Halfling, go and get Cithiel, she will have the proper herbs and balms to kill the fever. Then bring me fresh water, bandages, and large scissors."

Without even wasting time asking who Cithiel was, or at least what she looked like, Bilbo nodded fervently and ran out of the tent for the second time that morning.

It cost him about ten minutes and a dozen new scrapes on his ankles, but he found the dark-haired elf grinding herbs together beneath a willow tree. She readily got to her feet him as soon as he mentioned the other healer who was asking for her. Thankfully, she knew where Thorin's tent was, so Bilbo made a bee-line for one of the biggest tents where he knew the wounded were being looked after.

The hobbit almost squealed in delight as he caught sight of Oin, who was cleaning blood from a stitching needle.

"Oin!" he called out. "Oin!"

"Well, laddie, why the rush?" the old dwarf asked, a little puzzled at Bilbo's behavior.

"It's Thorin! He is feverish, I need to bring the healer some things!" Bilbo stammered in-between pants. He wished he had some more minutes to explain, but unfortunately he had to cut it short. "He wants fresh wanter, bandages, and your biggest pair of scissors!"

The prospect of Thorin developing a fever drew all color from Oin's bearded face and the dwarf clambered to his feet. "Right back!" he shouted as he fled the tent, only to come back seconds later with the items Bilbo had asked for, and more. "Grab the bucket of water near that bed, and lead the way, Mister Baggins! I'll be dead before I let those elves take all the credit for saving Thorin Oakenshield from death!"

The two of them hastily made their way to Thorin's tent where two elves were already fussing over the bed, throwing blankets aside and unwrapping bandages. There slender hands were soon joined by larger, more calloused ones as Oin assisted them, all the while grumbling something about elves being so slow that Thorin had time to die of old age.

Only when the three healers were around the bed that Bilbo allowed himself to breathe. He had done everything he could, and he wasn't about to offer his help since he knew it would be – less than politely – declined. Thorin's wounds would be looked after by three very capable healers, and everything would be well.

Everything will be well, Bilbo repeated and, for the first time realizing his legs were shaking out of control, went over to sit down on a stool in a corner.

Where he promptly fainted.

When Bilbo found his bearings again, the first thing he saw was a very relieved pair of brown eyes.

"He's awake!" Bofur's cheerful voice rang out. "Oi, Oin, Bilbo's waking up!"

The hobbit groaned, his sensitive ears ready to split open from the dwarf's boisterous tone. Why would dwarves never be quiet about things?

"You gave us quite the fright, laddie, collapsing like that," Oin chided from somewhere to his right. "Almost busted me old heart!"

"Where am I?" Bilbo asked groggily as he sat up. He was surprised to feel a plump mattress under his body and a warm blanket sliding down his front. At which point had he been transferred to a bed? And why in Eru's name did his head give off the impression that it had been used as an anvil?

"You are in the wounded's tent, I had Bofur carry you here after you passed out," Oin explained calmly as he pushed a mug of water in the hobbit's grateful hands. "He and Ori've been watching over you all day."

All day? But this wasn't right. He clearly remembered waking up in Thorin's tent, shaking his thoughts free of a particularly nasty nightmare, and then-

Oh.

Oh the shame. He had fainted like a squeaking fledgling when Thorin needed him. He had succumbed to fear and shock as others pushed themselves past their limits to make sure the King would live. Thorin was right, he really was a betrayer.

Bilbo felt pathetic, and even more so as frustrated tears began prickling at his eyes. It was a wonder that he had any water left in his small body, after all these hours spent crying about things he had no control over.

Bilbo swallowed hard and only asked softly: "Thorin?"

"His fever is under control, but it will get worse before it gets any better," Oin said.

The hobbit nodded absently. "I'll see to him."

"Oh no, not right now, you won't." Bofur put a large hand on Bilbo's chest and prevented him from getting up. "You need rest, and plenty of it I wager. Oin spent hours patching your feet up, yer not putting them on the ground today!"

"Patching my feet up?" Bilbo repeated, his face scrunching up as he tried to remember doing something to hurt his feet. He tried to wriggle his toes, only to find them trapped by some sort of tight gauze.

"Aye, bleeding all over the ground, you were," Oin agreed, nodding solemnly. "A sore sight, terrified our young Ori even."

"I was not terrified," came the small, mildly offended voice from a bed to Bilbo's left.

The burglar turned his head and sure enough here lied Ori, propped up against a pillow with a leather-bound book splayed across his lap. The young dwarf's face was littered with fading cuts and bruises, and apart from his heavily bandaged left arm that was tucked under the blanket, no serious injury stood out. A small sparkle of joy fluttered in Bilbo's heart at the knowledge that at least some of his dearest companions had escaped the fight relatively unscathed.

"Well lads, I hate to leave you all, but I must check on Fili and Kili," Oin said as he got up from his chair. The old dwarf's bones cracked and the wince that quickly passed over his features was not lost on Bilbo. "These damned elves may be good-for-nothing rascals, but they know a thing or two about poisons, and the young lads are getting better."

With a nod and a promise to hunt Bilbo down if the hobbit so much as set foot out of this tent before the night was over, Oin was off into the dim light of the evening.

"I'll get you lads a bite to eat, I bet Bombur's at it already," Bofur winked with a good-natured smirk. The heavy bandage around his neck was doing little to dampen the toy maker's cheerful disposition. "What would you like best?"

"Anything that doesn't need to be cut," Ori grumbled, eyes still on his book.

There was a flicker of sadness as Bofur glanced at the young scribe, but it died before Bilbo could make anything of it. "I'll be back in a jiffy," the black-haired dwarf promised as he exited the tent.

Bilbo sighed and tried to get comfortable, for there was little chance he was leaving this bed anytime soon with Oin and Bofur standing guard like protective hounds. He would just have to escape and go to Thorin first thing in the morning. Assuming the King wasn't already dead by then.

As a cold shiver ran done the length of Bilbo's spine, the hobbit shook his head. Thorin would be fine, he had to be. The company needed him, the whole kingdom needed him, not to mention his nephews as well. What good would cheating death bring to Fili and Kili, if they only woke to discover their uncle gone from this world? No, Thorin would be fine.

Bilbo tried to distract his mind from the fever-raked dwarf struggling in another tent, and he turned to Ori. "I'm sorry I didn't come to see you after the end of the battle, but I'm glad to see you are well," the hobbit said with a small smile.

The young dwarf abandoned his book in favor of looking at Bilbo. "Ah yes, Oin tended to me almost right away, I was luckier than most chaps on the battlefield. It doesn't hurt much anymore, though I do feel tingles where my fingers used to be."

Bilbo blinked. "Used to be?"

Ori tilted his head to the side, puzzled at Bilbo's question. "Well, yes. Nobody told you?"

At Bilbo's shake of his head, Ori retrieved his left arm from under the covers, and the hobbit's stomach lurched in pain and empathy when his eyes fell on the dwarf's hand. Or rather, his lack thereof. The heavy bandage stopped at mid-forearm in an obscene, horrible stump, and left Bilbo staring with his mouth open uselessly. It was highly impolite, he knew, but shock had taken over his mind and it was all he could do not to dissolve into pitiful tears again.

"Oh, Ori… you… how…" he rasped out, unable to tear his eyes away.

"Crushed between an orc mace and a rock," the young scribe filled in. "Oin said it was beyond saving and cut it off." A small, sad smile graced his thin lips. "I was lucky, though, that it wasn't my writing hand."

Lucky? Ori wasn't entirely wrong, at this point everyone was more or less lucky to just be alive and not sitting in the Halls of Mahal, Mandos, or whatever deity would accept their mangled souls. Yet his hobbit heart bled for the young dwarf's loss. Ori would never be able to wield his trusted sling-shot again, let alone any other dwarven weapon. His warrior's life was over, and while he still had his writing hand, his activities as a scribe would be heavily burdened by the absence of his left fingers.

Telling Ori that he was sorry for him felt oddly cheap, but thankfully he was saved by Bofur returning with two steaming bowls of stew and the apparently extremely good news that both Fili and Kili were throwing up black stuff.

Thank goodness… right?

Dawn was creeping on the horizon when Bilbo was finally able to find a crack in Oin's vigilance and padded out of the wounded's tent as silently as he could with bandaged feet. Though it brought a whine out of him, he did his best to stand on his tiptoes and sneak between tents until he found the one he was looking for.

He was surprised to find the dark-haired elf healer from the day before – Cithiel, her name was, he remembered – sitting by Thorin's bed and dabbing at the dwarf's forehead with a wet rag. While the tension between Dwarves and Elves had been somewhat alleviated by their fighting against a common foe, Bilbo wasn't so dim-witted as to believe all bad blood had been cleared, especially with Thorin's attitude before the Orc army arrived. He had expected the elven healers to do their job and then leave Thorin alone, so finding one still caring after the King was a bit off-putting.

Cithiel's sapphire blue eyes turned to Bilbo as soon as he set foot in the tent, her thin lips stretching into a small smile. "I had a feeling you would come to him," she said softly, draping the rag over a bowl sitting on a stool.

"Well, I… yes," Bilbo stammered rather lamely, shuffling his injured feet nervously under the beautiful creature's eyes. He didn't know why he was so uncomfortable. He cleared his throat to compose himself before he asked: "How is he?"

"The fever is still quite high, it hasn't subsided yet." Cithiel gave Thorin a concerned look before she rose to her full height and smoothed out her white robes. "But his kin is renowned for their hardiness, I do not despair for this one. You will need to keep him hydrated, and cool him down with fresh water as often as you can. He may shiver but do not cover him too much, the heat mustn't be trapped within his body, which is why I divested him of most layers of clothing."

"Oh, that's very thoughtful of y- I mean, what?" Bilbo did a double take at the elf's last words, which seemed to amuse the Firstborn.

"Fear not, master hobbit, his privacy remains unsoiled." Before Bilbo could tell her that was entirely too much information and that he wasn't the guardian of Thorin's privacy as she called it, Cithiel gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze. "Have hope."

And with that being said, she was gone.

Fidgeting awkwardly at the knowledge that the dwarf king was relatively unclothed – to which extend he didn't know exactly, but he wasn't about to lift the blanket and find out – Bilbo sat down next to the bed.

Thorin was a sore mess. A thick layer of sweat coated his face, his neck and his broad shoulders, and his breathing could be compared to uneven pants. Slight shivers racked the heavy body as the dwarf twitched uncomfortably.

"Oh, Thorin," Bilbo lamented as he instinctively reached out to cup the heated face. "You don't deserve this." He stroked flushed cheekbones with his thumbs, tenderly wiping sweat from dark whiskers. He leaned in to touch his forehead to Thorin's burning one, brushing the ghost of a kiss to the damp hairline. "You'll get through this. I'll make sure you do."

Bilbo snatched the rag and dipped it in cold water before he ran it down Thorin's face and neck. The slight shivers grew a little stronger but it seemed to ease some of the dwarf's suffering, for his breathing returned to normal for some time, and it gladdened Bilbo's heart to be able to help, to actually help.

So the hobbit's next hours were spent tirelessly lathering Thorin's face and upper body – yes, at some point Bilbo had worked up the courage to tug the blanket down to the dwarf's waist, if only to heed Cithiel's advice and let the heat escape – washing sweat away and replacing it with temporary coolness. Every now and then, he would grab the mug of honeyed water he had fetched from Bombur and try to make Thorin drink some. Of course, most of it ended up in his beard or on the bed, but a decent amount flowed down the dwarf's throat and it was satisfaction enough.

People came and went, healers mostly, with the occasional pat on the back from Bofur or Gloin. But still Thorin's fever persisted, and still Bilbo strove to bring it down.

Sometimes, the King would whisper words, lost as he was in delirium. Most of the time they were Khuzdul words, and their meaning was lost on Bilbo. But there were times when Thorin would speak Common Tongue, strained, groggy words that were little more than groans.

As was the case now.

"No, not here," Thorin panted. "No…"

"It's alright, it's alright," Bilbo cooed as he dabbed at the dwarf's forehead with his rag. He would soon have to replace the water, for it was blurry and not that cold anymore, but he would wait for dawn or for someone to come by. The former was more likely, since it was probably the middle of the night. "I'm here. You are safe."

"The dragon…"

"Smaug is dead, Thorin. He'll never bother you again."

"Fili… Kili… Bilbo… Bilbo…"

"Yes, that's me, glad to hear you use my given name so easily," the hobbit sighed, combing raven strands back to have free access to a burning forehead. "Even if you're unconscious."

"Bilbo… âzyungel…"

"So you keep saying, but I don't know what you mean, Thorin." Bilbo tucked a braid behind the King's ear, taking a moment to trace the round shell with a finger. "It would be nice to have someone to translate Khuzdul for me when you speak."

"Did someone call for a Khuzdul interpreter?"

Bilbo startled at the sudden voice and almost dropped his rag in his hurry to turn around. He was then faced with the two most insufferable dwarves in the history of Middle-Earth.

Fili and Kili were leaning heavily on one another, all shaking limbs and pale faces as they gave Bilbo their best impression of a smug grin. They were dressed in simple breeches and tunics, white gauze peeking out from every hole in the garments. There was a bandage around Fili's head, masking his right eye, and Kili's beard was riddled with stitches. It was clear from their bare feet and pants that they had escaped without proper consent.

Bilbo felt speechless for a few seconds, but then he frowned. "You blundering idiots!" he hissed. "You should be in bed resting, and not prancing around like ponies!"

"Aye, but ruggedly handsome ponies," Kili grinned.

Something snapped in Bilbo and his resolve to scold them disappeared. The hobbit walked over to the two young dwarves and enveloped them in a heartfelt, if not very tight, hug. "You frightened me half to death, you fools," he muttered, burying his nose into their chests as they wrapped their own arms around his smaller frame.

"You mean right now, or when we almost died?" Fili said lightly.

Bilbo huffed and gave the blond scamp a half-hearted swat. "Both, you oafs! Don't stand like that, sit down, no wait just a moment!"

The hobbit let them go and grabbed a makeshift bed that Bofur had put up so he could sleep in the same tent as Thorin. Of course, Bilbo never slept in it, afraid as he was that Thorin would need him in the middle of the night and he would be too far from the dwarf to realize. With some grunts, Bilbo managed to drag it next to Thorin's bed for Fili and Kili to settle down.

"There," he panted. "You should not be on your feet, I'm sure you are aware."

"So we've been told," Fili simply shrugged as he manoeuvred his younger brother on the bed and plopped down himself with very little grace. "Then again, according to dwarven healers, we ought to be dead by now, so…"

"We wanted to see you, and Uncle," Kili explained, relieved to be sitting down. His eyes were roaming over Thorin's body, trying to assess the gravity of the situation. "How… how is he?"

"Stable, though not improving," Bilbo sighed, plucking his rag from the bowl to run it over the portion of Thorin's chest that was not hindered by bandages. "His fever is still high, but the healers made sure his wounds were clean. I just try to cool him down, feed him liquid things, and I listen to his blabbering when he's delirious."

"Sounds like married life," Kili chuckled, only to wince and grab his ribs. "Mahal."

Fili gently nudged his brother into a lying position to relieve the pressure on his ribcage. "Hush, will you, else they'll find us and drag us back into that piss-scented tent."

Kili groaned and let his head fall back onto the straw mattress, his hair scattering all around in messy, greasy strands. "I would give half the treasure in Erebor for an opportunity to wash my hair," he moaned.

"While you're at it, wash the whole package," Fili snorted. "You smell worse than a warg."

"Like you can talk, you smell like a goblin's arse. A dead goblin."

Bilbo would have normally scolded them for bickering like toddlers, but he was so glad that he just chuckled and kept tending to Thorin. The lads were safe and sound, and if they had enough strength to squabble, then they would recover quite nicely. Dwarves really were a hardy folk.

"Even Uncle Thorin, who is still unconscious, has cleaner hair than you," Fili teased.

"Ah, yes, I wash and braid it almost every day," Bilbo said, giving Thorin's beard a good rub. "I'm sure he'll want to attend a meeting as soon as he wakes, this way he'll be properly groomed when that happens." When he received none of the chuckles he expected to hear, Bilbo turned to the young dwarves, and was surprised to see them staring at him wordlessly. "What is it? Dwarves don't hold meetings?"

"You braided his hair?" Fili asked in a whisper.

"Yes. Oh, alright, I understand." Bilbo offered them a small smile. "I know this is very important for your kin, but Thorin gave me permission to do it."

"While he was unconscious?" Kili asked, his dark eyes suspicious. Oh dear, dwarves did not take this lightly, did they?

"No, that night after we escaped the Elvenking. He gave me his beads and asked me to braid his hair."

"He asked you?" Fili repeated, blinking quite comically.

Had his head wound somehow impaired his hearing? "Yes, he did."

Fili and Kili exchanged a glance and unspoken words were passed on between the brothers. It unnerved Bilbo a little bit but he chose to let it go; after all he was used to this secrecy. And he couldn't blame the brothers for being surprised, for he knew this was a serious matter for dwarves.

"Bilbo…"

The hobbit snapped his head up at Thorin's whine. "Ah, see? I'm always on his mind," he joked softly, chest puffing up in mock pride.

"Does he always call for you?" Kili asked, a bit disturbed by his uncle's state.

"No, sometimes he calls for you two, or the dragon, or he just says things I don't understand." Bilbo put his rag down on his knees to tuck the blanket up and over Thorin's chest. Those shivers were getting a bit out of control.

"Bilbo… âzyungel…"

"See! He says that a lot, but I don't know what it means."

But Fili and Kili had gasped at the same time and were once more looking at one another, though this time their eyes were a bit wider and their mouths slightly agape. This worried Bilbo; was it bad? Some kind of insult perhaps? Now he wasn't sure he wanted to know, but still he swallowed and asked: "Is it that bad?"

"No, of course not, it's just… well…" Fili cleared his throat as Kili smirked, clearly amused. "I'm not sure we should be the ones telling you this. It's better if you wait for him to wake up and tell you on his own."

The answer didn't satisfy Bilbo. "There is still a chance that he'll never wake up," he pointed out, and with those words there was a sharp tug at his heart. Yet, it was the truth.

"If that happens, then we'll tell you." Fili nudged Kili to one side of the bed and muttered some soft words in Khuzdul which had the younger one chuckling, possibly at Bilbo's expense. Alright, so maybe this wasn't so dire, after all, he would just have to wait for Thorin to awaken. "Do you mind if we sleep here? I don't fancy a walk in the dark just to get back to sweat-soaked beds."

"Of course, boys, you don't even need to ask." Bilbo got up and retrieved some blankets from the foot of Thorin's bed. He then carefully draped them over the brothers, tucking them in as he would small children. They thanked him quietly in-between yawns and grunts as they settled on the bedding, snuggled up against one another. Bilbo put out the big lamp that was hanging from the tent's roof, leaving only a single candle to light the surrounding area. "Sleep tight, lads. I'll see you in the morning."

"I wouldn't mind going back, actually," Kili mumbled, his voice smothered by the blankets. "There's this cute elven healer, I think she's quite taken with me."

Bilbo sat down on the edge of Thorin's bed, watching the young dwarf with an amused look on his face. "Oh really? What has you thinking that?"

"Well, she kept talking to me, she was smiling, she even said I was good-looking, I recall."

"That hardly qualifies as 'being taken with someone', brother mine," Fili snorted.

"She touched me all over! Even…" Kili's eyes darted to Thorin's still form, his voice dropping low as if his words were only meant for Fili's ears, but Bilbo caught them anyway. "Even under the belt, sometimes. Why would a female do that to a male, if she's not besotted?"

"Mhm, I don't know, maybe if the female is, let's say, a healer, and the male is badly injured or dying, even?"

Kili groaned. "Why do you keep breaking my dreams so?"

"Just wait until Uncle wakes up and hears you talking about frolicking with an elf, he'll break more than your dreams, believe me."

The dark-haired dwarf grumbled something under his breath about his arms already being broken, but he nuzzled into his brother's chest and was soon snoring. Fili chuckled and tucked his chin over Kili's head, closing his eyes to follow suit, but not before he called for Bilbo softly one last time.

"Yes?" the hobbit said.

"I know Uncle Thorin asked you to stay in Erebor, before all this happened. You are very welcome to stay, of course, but regardless of what happens to Uncle… we understand if you wish to go back to the Shire. We really do."

"I… I'll think on it, Fili. I promise." Bilbo bit his lower lip anxiously; he hadn't thought that far ahead yet. All that mattered to him was Thorin's welfare, he was quite ashamed to say that little else held any sort of interest to him for the time being. "You should sleep, boy, you need it."

But Fili was already mingling his own snores with Kili's louder ones.

Bilbo couldn't help but smile fondly at the slumbering brothers, and reached out to tug a strand of Kili's hair out of his mouth and tuck it behind his ear. He was sitting on a stool, between two beds that housed the three dwarves he had come to care the most for. Two of them were fine, and the third one… well, he was alive, and that was something.

The water was definitely not cool enough to be of any use, warm as it was from Thorin's sweat mingling with it. And it was far too dirty for Bilbo to lather it over the dwarf, this was too unhygienic for his taste. So he just put the rag down and hoped that the night would be cold enough to keep the fever at bay. In a few hours, the sun would rise, and he would be able to fetch fresh water without the fear of getting lost in the dark.

With a self-conscious peek in the direction of Fili and Kili, Bilbo climbed on the other side of Thorin's body, making himself comfortable on the blanket. He wasn't about to slip under it this time, he wasn't sure he could stand the heat. That, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out first-hand just how unclothed Thorin was.

"I'm taking a small nap, alright?" Bilbo whispered, running his fingers through Thorin's short mane. "You behave. In the morning, I'll see with the healers if I can give you soup or something, you must be sick of water and honey."

The dwarf was still warm to the touch, though thankfully not as hot as the previous day.

Still, Bilbo kept a hand on Thorin's cheek to monitor the fever and he leaned in to press a customary kiss to the King's temple. "See you in a few hours, and whatever it means, âzyungel yourself, silly dwarf."

When Bilbo opened his eyes again, the candle was long gone, and a very young sun was timidly filtering through the tent flaps, leaving the surroundings in semi-darkness. Fili's and Kili's snores had toned down to sleep-heavy breathing, indication that the brothers would be waking up soon.

Bilbo yawned and stretched groggily. His fingers slipped from Thorin's face and the hobbit cursed quietly, snatching his hand up to lay it on the dwarf's bearded cheek again. As a silent apology, he spent a few moments sleepily stroking circles on the sweat-soaked, cool skin with his thumb.

Wait a minute. Cool skin?

Bilbo pulled himself up on his elbow and reached up to feel Thorin's forehead. It was very damp, but also devoid of any excessive heat.

The fever must have broken at some point in the night! Oh dear Yavanna, thank you, thank you! Through his excitement, Bilbo's heart froze for a second; of course, there was a second reason why Thorin could be so cold, but… it couldn't be… the dwarf couldn't just be… gone. Not with his nephews in the room, no! He wouldn't accept it!

All traces of sleep erasing themselves from his mind, and with a heart threatening to pound right through his ribcage, Bilbo got to his knees and pressed his ear right over Thorin's heart. The rough gauze that was hugging the King's chest was scraping his nose and his feet were bent at a very uncomfortable angle, but it was worth it.

For under his ear, a dwarven heart was beating steadily, pumping blood and life through Thorin's veins.

Relieved out of his mind, Bilbo sighed happily and lied back on his side. He felt around under the blanket for Thorin's hand, bringing it to his lips for a heartfelt kiss to the palm. He wasn't ready to see him die. He would never be ready to see him die, ever, not after everything they had been through side by side. There had been so much trust, so many things shared that Bilbo felt that a part of him would die along with Thorin.

"Don't scare me like that, stupid dwarf," Bilbo chuckled, squeezing the larger hand affectionately.

"Sorry."

Bilbo gasped at the weak word that was little more than half a whisper. Was he starting to hear things? Maybe he had spent too much time cooped up in here, focusing on one single thing? Maybe he had just imagined Thorin speaking to him…

His hazel eyes travelled up the King's face and a peculiar mixture of joy and dread pooled in his stomach when he spotted something vital he had overlooked minutes before.

Two half-lidded cobalt eyes staring right at him.

Bilbo was torn between his urge to shout out his joy for all Middle Earth to hear, and his mortification at being caught so close to Thorin's body, the large hand still tightly held between both of his. But Thorin's blue eyes were soft and peaceful, and Bilbo didn't fight the broad smile that threatened to split his whole face open.

"Thorin!" he exclaimed, quietly for Fili and Kili's sake. "You are awake! You have no idea how, how…" A small, rogue tear escaped the corner of his eye, but for the first time in days, the trail it left down his cheek was one of delight. "Oh, dear gods, I have no words… p-please forgive me…"

Bilbo could have slapped himself. He had waited for day for Thorin to wake, thinking carefully over what he would tell him, and how the dwarf would react. And here he was, sniffling like a hobbitling after his first bump. What must the dwarven King be thinking of him? Well, certainly not worse than he did before, at any rate.

The hobbit almost jumped right off the bed when a large, slightly trembling hand cupped his cheek and a broad thumb wiped away the lone tear. Bilbo's watery eyes met Thorin's hazed gaze and what we found there would have knocked him right off his feet, if he hadn't been lying down. It was guilt, clear as moonlight on a cloudless night, and it left Bilbo speechless. Of all the things he had expected Thorin to show, guilt and shame weren't even on the list.

And yet the dwarf was looking at him as if the world was going to crumble, and it was his fault.

"I'm sorry," Thorin rasped out again, his thumb still stroking the side of Bilbo's head. There was a desperate edge to his voice, as if he had waited for so long to apologize that he feared he wouldn't have another chance. And if the hobbit didn't know Thorin so well, he could have sworn there were unshed tears in those dark blue eyes. "I'm sorry, I… I said those things… I didn't mean… then I almost… I'm sorry."

"Shh shh," Bilbo soothed as the King's breathing quickened to a worrying pace. "I know. You were not yourself, it was the gold-fever talking. I forgive you." He tried to sound confident as he said those words, but truth was, he was overjoyed. Maybe there was some hope that his friendship with Thorin could be mended, after all. "Don't strain yourself."

"But… I could have killed you… I hurt you…"

"Yes, well, I admit you had me quite confused for a while," Bilbo admitted as he dragged another fur up Thorin's body. Now that the fever was gone, there was no need for the dwarf to shiver helplessly. "But I knew you would come around. After all, we are friends, right? I braided your hair and you cared for my feet, I think we are a little above all of this 'I'll throw you down the mountain' business, don't you?"

Bilbo's weak attempt at a joke succeeded, however, and a strained smile pulled at Thorin's lips. "Hobbits," he just said, his hand leaving Bilbo's cheek – to Bilbo's disappointment – and coming down to rest atop the hobbit's hand. Then a shadow passed over the wounded King's features. "Fili and Kili?"

Bilbo smiled. "Turn your head to the other side."

Thorin painstakingly complied and smiled softly as his eyes fell on his sleeping nephews snuggled together on the other bedding. Kili would wake up to a mouthful of his brother's hair, and Fili's head bandage was coming a bit loose. Quite an endearing sight, and a relief for an uncle's heart, Bilbo wagered.

"They had it a bit rough, but they are safe now," he filled in as Thorin turned his head to him once more. It surprised the hobbit, though not really in a bad way, when the large hand returned to the side of his head and slid down to his nape. "They… they were worried about you. I was, too, I mean I am still worried about you."

"I already told you," Thorin muttered, his fingers messily stroking the back of Bilbo's head, "dwarves are hard to break."

"I know, I saw your nephews going from half-dead to up and walking in the courses of a single day, but I also saw your innards not so long ago," Bilbo snorted, not resisting the urge to tilt his head to allow free access to the back of his neck. "While I am ready to believe dwarves are harder than stone on the outside, let me tell you, you are very soft and squishy on the inside."

"Am I now?"

"Yes. Then there was that fever, I swear Thorin, it felt like you were on fire. You scared me half to death."

"Mhm mh."

"You were delirious too," Bilbo mumbled as he absently combed damp strands out of Thorin's forehead, now certain that the dwarf wouldn't recoil under his touch. "You called out, for Fili and Kili, for Smaug, even for me sometimes."

"I did?"

"Yes, and then you started saying things I don't understand in Khuzdul. Fili and Kili heard too, but they wouldn't tell me what it meant, I think it was something like azoun..." The hand at his nape, though a bit hesitant, was starting to massage flesh with a little more confidence. Bilbo was ready to stretch and mewl, which would be highly inappropriate, and he knew he was already babbling but running his mouth seemed like the only acceptable option. "Or maybe it was azioungul… no it was something-gel, I remember now, it-"

Bilbo's lips found themselves unable to finish his sentence as they were pressed against Thorin's soft, warm mouth.

Unbeknownst to him, the hand at his nape had been slowly inching his face down and closer to the dwarf's as he babbled, and it was now gently kneading the back of his skull. Bilbo's entire body tensed as Thorin's beard slightly scratched his chin and the smell of sweat invaded his nostrils. But he couldn't find it in himself to pull away. Why, he wasn't sure; it was really hard to think when your brain felt like jelly. The only thing he could do, apparently, was to indulge.

Bilbo gave Thorin a tentative, almost shy brush of lips in return, black whiskers tickling his nose. The dwarf's hum of approval emboldened him and he covered Thorin's lips with a bit more pressure, though keeping it gentle enough that he wouldn't hurt him. For a moment all rational thoughts fled his mind, and his customary modesty was shoved in a drawer at the back of his head to be dealt with later.

But soon Thorin was out of breath and he carefully broke the kiss, choosing instead to nuzzle Bilbo's cheek. It felt wonderful, but the hobbit's smile was a bit wavering, as Bilbo was unsure of this new development and what it meant as to his relationship with the dwarf.

Thorin seemed to pick up on this; he stopped his ministrations and looked up. "Bilbo?" he asked softly, with hesitation, as if he were afraid of the hobbit's reaction.

But Bilbo only smiled down at him; these things could wait. There were more important matters at hand; Thorin's recovery, for example, for waking up didn't mean he was completely out of harm's way. They would have time to talk later.

"I told you not to strain yourself," he chided good-naturedly, leaning on his elbow to take off some of his weight and free a hand to cup Thorin's cheek. "You should get some rest."

Reassured that his actions hadn't angered his hobbit, at least, the dwarf sighed and gave a pale smile of his own. The hand that was still playing at Bilbo's neck tugged gently. "Stay with me?"

"Of course."

Bilbo lied down completely on his side and didn't fight when Thorin pulled him close so his cheek was resting on one broad shoulder. He let the dwarf entwine their fingers and smiled when he felt a sloppy kiss being pressed into his curls. He wasn't sure he ever wanted to sit back and think about what was happening to him; it was far more pleasant to just accept it. And he would enjoy it while it lasted.

"About that word you said while you were unconscious," he said quietly as he nuzzled into Thorin's shoulder.

"What of it?" the dwarf rumbled, tucking his chin over Bilbo's head, and it was silly, really, the way the hobbit shuddered at the deep voice.

"I… I think I figured it out."

"Interesting." Thorin squirmed around a little, probably to find a more comfortable position on the bedding, but also to wrap his right arm around Bilbo's shoulders and tug him close to his side. Although there were blankets separating them, Bilbo could feel the heat from the body next to his. He was relieved this time that a fever was not to blame.

The next minutes were spent in silence, and Bilbo found himself lulled into a light doze by Thorin's steady breathing. Seconds before he actually closed his eyes for a nap, the dwarf spoke, his own voice tainted with sleep.

"Bilbo?"

"Mhm?"

"May I ask a question?"

"I suppose so."

"Why am I naked?"

Ah. So that elf had taken some liberties after all.

"Oh, that… It's nothing to worry about, perfectly normal. And don't worry, nobody saw you, if that is what you are concerned over."

"You mean you did this?"

"What do- No! Of course not, no! I didn't do anything, it was the elves!"

"… what?"

Oops. Maybe that wasn't the smartest thing to say to a dwarf, especially if that dwarf was Thorin Oakenshield. "I-I can explain everything, I swear Thorin. But please, please get some rest? When you've had a few hours of sleep and a decent meal in you, I'll explain everything that happened from the beginning, alright?"

Thorin growled drowsily but nodded against Bilbo's head and his body relaxed. The hobbit allowed a smile to grace his lips and snuggled further into the blankets and the dwarf's side.

There would be time tomorrow, and the day after that. After all, they had won.

And if Thorin muttered before he fell asleep that next time, he would like Bilbo to protect his virtue from filthy elves and their wandering hands, well, no one could fault the hobbit for laughing.