A/N: Hello, everyone! This idea has been rolling around in my head for quite a while now, and now that 'Mountains' is done I finally had time to write it! As always, feel free to check out my tumblr (emilianadarling dot tumblr dot com) for writing updates and general flailing.

The Shire seems like a much quieter place, somehow, once Bilbo finally returns home from the journey. It's quieter, and simpler, and slower – with so much room around the edges of daily life for unwanted thoughts to creep in.

It's difficult, because recovery and taking his mind off it are so much more attainable in theory than they are in fact. Bilbo thinks about the quest often, during that first year home. It's impossible not to; not with the ghosts of his absent friends around every corner, with the heavy silence of living alone so much more noticeable than it used to be. He tries not to dwell on it; his world is already greyed-out enough around him, the air oppressive and thick as mud as he tries to pull himself back into a life that doesn't quite fit him the way it used to.

In the general way of things, Bilbo only allows himself to think about the bearable parts. About how fascinating it had been to watch Bofur carve little shapes and figures around the campfire at night, how warm Balin's voice had been whenever he told them tales or recited ballads.

About the way Thorin used to rest his hand in the small of Bilbo's back when they were alone, the gentle press of his fingers just perceptible through the thin fabric.

Sometimes, though.

Sometimes Bilbo allows himself to think about the bad parts, about the parts that hurt to look at. On those days, Bilbo will tuck himself up in a corner of Bag End – always with the reassuring weight of the ring on his finger, heavy and solid and so very real even when it's impossible to see – and allow himself to think about how very quickly Thorin was lost to them.

There is no particular reason for Bilbo to be invisible on these occasions. Within the privacy of Bag End there is no one to miss him and no one to avoid, and using the magic of the ring does not afford him any advantages that could not be achieved just as easily by drawing the curtains. It simply feels right, existing in that out-of-focus blur of a world. Unseen and unknown. As though there is some strange comfort that only invisibility can bring him.

And whenever he does allow himself to think about how it all ended, the speed of it never fails to shake him to his core.

From start to finish, it had taken less than a fortnight for Thorin's madness to run its course. It had been like watching a great fire flare up and roar into blazing existence before burning itself out just as quickly, leaving nothing but ashes and embers behind. Like standing helplessly by as an avalanche came crashing down, loud and terrible and inescapable, and then standing shocked as everything landed and stilled into perfect echoing silence.

Some days Bilbo spends hours thinking about it, marveling at it, his only comfort the cool touch of the ring on his finger. He tucks himself away in one of Bag End's many rooms and stares at nothing in particular, lilting in the swirl of the hidden world and relieved that at least his grief remains unseen.

Thorin's madness had been like a dam bursting, like water rushing out and devastating everything in its path. Fast and brutal and incomprehensible, and all of it over something so petty, so frivolous, that sometimes Bilbo still can't believe it. He doesn't understand it, can't understand it, can't wrap his head around the fact that everything he wanted in the world could be wiped out so quickly by something so very inconsequential.

(He brushes his thumb over the ring when he thinks about it, just the briefest graze of skin against metal.)

On the day after the dragon was slain, Thorin draped him in gossamer-thin golden chains. He covered him with jewelry inlaid with sparkling gems, and braided heavy silver beads into Bilbo's curls – before fucking him in a shadowed corner of Erebor's treasury.

(It should've been silly – should've been sweet, a ridiculous little celebration of their victory before the kings of Dale and Mirkwood came knocking at their gate demanding payment. But Bilbo can remember the roughness with which Thorin grabbed Bilbo's hand to pull him away from the others, the intensity in Thorin's eyes when he saw how heavily the gold rested against Bilbo's pale skin.)

After fixing the last chain around his neck, Thorin eagerly surveyed his handiwork; made him turn this way and that so that his adornments caught the firelight, and Bilbo was so profoundly discomfited by it all that he could barely speak. The feverish excitement in Thorin's eyes, the mania with which he pawed at Bilbo's body, groaning at the contrast between cold metal and soft skin. It was all so very unlike him; Bilbo had never seen Thorin act like this, not in all the months they had travelled together. Not in all the nights they had spent with their heated breath mingling and Thorin's calloused hands holding him close, keeping him safe, ghosting over his back and the line of his neck and the curves of his face as though Bilbo was something to be cherished.

When they made love that night, it was with Thorin's fingers digging uncomfortably hard into the soft flesh of his hips, all of his adornments clinking and clattering together with every movement. By then Bilbo was wearing so many rings he could barely move his fingers, enough beads and necklaces that he was practically dripping with them. It was stilted and strange, the stone wall of the treasury cold against his back and the smell of metallic grime heavy in his nostrils and he had never seen Thorin more enthusiastic during sex, all wild-eyed and frenzied and his pupils blown so wide his eyes almost looked black in the shadowy half-light around them.

Thorin gave him the mithril shirt, afterwards. Pressed it into his hands like it was a command instead of a gift, and for the very first time Bilbo felt ashamed instead of treasured when they returned to the company.

Two or three years after his return to the Shire, Bilbo can't leave the house without the ring in his pocket.

He's always liked keeping it close to him, ever since the day he found it in the goblin tunnels, but it's something like a talisman for him nowadays. A totem he keeps tucked away, ever-present if he needs to slide his hand into his waistcoat pocket and roll it between his thumb and forefingers, the sweet metal of it so soothing to touch.

Intellectually, Bilbo knows that it's nothing more than a memento of days long past – but the ring keeps him grounded nonetheless. Keeps him capable of going out into the world without letting out the bottled-up hysteria that still seems to claw periodically at his insides, without giving into that desperate temptation to lash out and scream and fall to his knees in front of all of Hobbiton and hang the consequences.

The ring keeps him on his feet, keeps him saying good morning and good afternoon and lovely weather we're having, isn't it. It keeps him going about his life as though his world hasn't already ended.

It's in his pocket when he chats with the Gaffer outside his front door about hydrangeas and it's in his pocket when he goes down to the market to buy fresh milk and it's in his pocket when he goes to the Green Dragon for a drink in the evening, just out of sight if he needs to toy with the edges or rub his thumb over the smooth curve of the metal or hold it in his palm and squeeze.

It's always there with him, secret and safe and his to run his fingers over like a totem if he needs to, and every part of this is so mind-numbingly normal that Bilbo barely thinks to notice it.

Thorin made them start combing the treasury for the Arkenstone in earnest, after that. Fourteen tiny bodies against an endless mass of wealth, scooping away handfuls of heavy coins in order to search underneath and cutting their fingers on gemstones and shouting whenever they dislodged something weight-bearing and sent gold rolling down upon them like an avalanche, sometimes only narrowly avoiding being crushed by its weight.

There was no systematic way to do this, not with so few of them and so very much treasure to sift through. Every time someone one of them sent a mound of it tumbling down, swallowing up gold that had been searched and gold that had not alike, it sent Thorin into a foul mood that only grew as the hours passed. Left him glowering and snarling as he walked around the perimeter, ostensibly watching them work but with eyes only for the treasure, growing ever-more determined to find the heart of the mountain as his friends sweated and ached and slaved away in front of him.

It made Bilbo's insides turn cold, made them churn with guilt at the knowledge that the object of Thorin's search was tucked safely away in a bundle of rags in Bilbo's own bedroll. There was no point to this search; Thorin would only grow angrier and more short-tempered as they continued to look and continued to fail, a king reigning judgement over cold and empty halls.

That first time, he had kept the Arkenstone secret from Thorin with Smaug's words ringing in his ears –destroy him, corrupt his heart and drive him mad – but he had not truly believed them. Had not truly thought that someone as strong and proud and honourable as Thorin could possibly be at risk from something as small and insignificant as a lump of shiny rock. It had seemed ridiculous, impossible, the ravings of a great beast whose only desire was to pit them against each other.

As he watched Thorin loudly berate Dwalin for sending a mound of rubies careening down into the unlit depths of the treasure room, however, Bilbo felt genuine fear settle heavily over his heart.

It's over a decade before Bilbo misplaces the ring for the first time.

It's so unthinkable at first, so incomprehensible that such a thing could ever happen, that the paralyzing terror of it creeps up on him slowly. He absentmindedly reaches for it while he's roasting rosemary leg of lamb and potatoes in the oven one night, just a split-second's desire for reassurance as he's collecting dishes to bring over to the sink for washing. Bilbo slips his hand into his pocket, feels around instinctively for the familiar shape – and his fingers find nothing but lint and empty space.

He doesn't panic, at first. Feels a little shiver of confusion and worry but checks the other waistcoat pocket right away, thinks he must have distractedly tucked the ring into the wrong one when he was toying with it this morning.

It isn't there, not even when he turns both of them out and does the same for the pockets in his trousers, not even when he scrambles over to the door with his heart rabbit-quick in his chest and turns out the pockets on his coat as well, shaking it upside down and making a horrible keening noise when nothing small and golden comes tumbling out onto the ground.

Bilbo tears Bag End apart, flinging clothes out of the dresser and turning out his cupboards and even emptying the troll hoard chest onto the floor, shaking out the book that holds the map, Ori's drawing, the note Thorin gave him in Lake Town with his name written in Khuzdul, all the irreplaceable keepsakes and treasures onto the ground as though they're nothing because they are, they're nothing, they're nothing compared to the hollowing bottomless terror of not having the ring in in hand.

He overturns furniture, smashes crockery and cuts himself on its shards, scrambles around on his hands and knees, running his hands over the wooden floors in desperate careening panic. At some point he must have started talking to himself, begging out loud for the ring to come back to him because words are pouring out of his mouth now, frantic and helpless and choked with hiccupping sobs as he tears his house apart as though he'll die if he doesn't find it, as though that subtle glimmer of gold is the only thing that can possibly keep him breathing.

He finds it after delirious hours of searching, the lamb and potatoes long since charred to a crisp and his sleeves stained with blood from the crockery shards.

The ring is sitting in the centre of his front doorstep as though it has always been there, as though it came into existence smack in front of Bilbo's front door. He breaks down in shuddering sobs when he closes his hand around it again, the perfect weight of it in his palm enough to leave him gasping and choking on tears and shuddering so hard he can't stand, enfolding his whole body around the ring in his hand as though that will somehow keep it from ever leaving him again.

Bilbo is more vigilant, after that. He checks for the ring more frequently, slips his hand into his pocket three or four times an hour make sure it hasn't slipped away when he wasn't looking.

(He still has nightmares about that day, sometimes. About crawling on his hands and knees and smearing blood on the floorboards, turning the world inside out searching for something that he can't find. About a hint of gold that he keeps chasing but that always remains ever-so-slightly out of sight.)

A few days later, Thorin blew up at his nephews with such savagery and anger that Bilbo was actually frightened he might reach for his sword.

"You dare presume to tell me how to rule?!" Thorin roared, his great voice echoing through the empty halls and making Kili wince visibly. He stood with his back straight and his jaw set tight, eyes flashing, and for a moment all Bilbo could think about was how big he was. How strong, how powerful – how very much he could hurt all three of them if he decided to lash out. Bilbo swallowed.

"Uncle," said Fili uneasily, sharing a sideways look with his brother as he shifted on his feet. They had joined them at Erebor once the elf woman had cured Kili's sickness, narrowly avoiding being set ablaze by dragonfire and making it to the mountain just as Thorin's search for the Arkenstone had begun in earnest. Bilbo had seen the uncertainty in their eyes when they saw what Thorin had become in just a few days of their absence, had felt the same grief and confusion in his heart just as clearly as he saw it in their faces.

"It's not that we don't want to find it," Fili said reassuringly, his hands raised in the air. "We do! Just... the others are starting to worry. All we do is search for the heart of the mountain. I know we need it, but…" He hesitated. "They say war is brewing, Uncle. They say the orcs are amassing their army and are marching here from Dol Guldur."

"We cannot hold off an army with fourteen warriors, Uncle, you must know this," Kili insisted, a hint of frustration wearing at his voice, and Bilbo knew immediately that this was the wrong thing to say.

In front of them, Thorin seemed to physically swell with rage – before he roughly grabbed Kili by the shoulders and slammed him against the throne room wall, visibly knocking the wind out of him and leaving Bilbo with his hand pressed over his mouth in shock.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo thought he saw Fili's hand jerk instinctively towards his sword.

"Liars and enemies," Thorin ground out, his ring-encrusted hands tightening in the fabric of Kili's leather tunic, shoving his nephew back harder into the stone wall, making him gasp. "That is who says these things. Treacherous men and elves who would like nothing better than to take everything away from us again, to leave us empty-handed and helpless. Is that what you want?" he asked viciously, sneering at his nephew in disdain. "Is that what you and that she-elf want to become of us?"

Without speaking, eyes blown wide with shock, Kili shook his head in denial.

"Thorin," said Bilbo quietly, stepping forward and placing his hand on Thorin's forearm. It was tensed and solid as stone from where he was keeping Kili pressed up against the wall, but he did not lash out at Bilbo when he spoke, and that was victory enough for now. Bilbo shared a look with Fili, shaking his head almost imperceptibly until Fili stopped looking as though he was ready to charge them. "Thorin," he said again, trying his best to sound calm and soothing even though it felt as though his knees might give way beneath him at any moment. "He understands, you made him see. You made them both see. Now…" he licked his lips, giving Thorin's arm what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. "… why don't you let them get back to the search?"

The silence that followed stretched out for so interminably long that it was painful to live through, nothing but Thorin's heavy breathing and Kili's choked little noises of pain filling the empty space. It lasted so long that Bilbo almost spoke again, was prepared to try another approach, when –

"Very well," Thorin spat out at last, taking a step backward and finally releasing his hold on Kili's shoulders. Kili slid down the wall with a gasp of relief, clutching at himself and staring at Thorin as though he had never seen him before. Fili was between them almost at once, wrapping an arm around his brother's shoulders and looking at Thorin with an expression on his face that Bilbo could not identify. Confusion and sadness and anger and fear and so, so much hurt it was almost painful to look at.

"Back to the treasury with you," Thorin said with finality, turning his back on them in a clear indication of dismissal. "The faster we find the Arkenstone the faster the seven dwarf armies will be here serve our command. On your way."

They were halfway down the hallway, half-walking and half-stumbling, when Thorin turned to Bilbo.

"You," he said, dragging his eyes from the top of Bilbo's head to the toes of his feet with such dark intensity, such fixation that Bilbo was left shuddering under his gaze. "With me."

He placed his hand on the back of Bilbo's neck and guided him forcefully along, the palm of his hand so wide and his fingers so big they wrapped around the back of his neck and grazed the edges of his jaw.

The relief of convincing Thorin to leave his nephews alone had Bilbo feeling as though he might collapse at any moment. He gave up any pretense of control and let himself be dragged along into whatever dark corner Thorin chose, heart hammering in his chest and his mind still fixed on the army that was marching toward them at that very moment.

When Bilbo turns seventy-five, he catches himself talking to Thorin when he's alone. When no one else is around and it's just him and his memories and the cool weight of the ring in his pocket.

It doesn't strike him as odd. Not really. Not when he's been talking to Thorin in the privacy of his own mind for decades now. At first it had been to be to berate him, to shout at him about how could you do this, how could you throw all of it away for nothing, how could you throw me away for nothing? How dare you let that happen to your family, how dare you leave me here alone, Thorin Oakenshield, how dare you?

For years now, though, he's mostly been talking to Thorin out of a place of banality instead of a place of anger. He talks to Thorin to share stories, to complain about life's little inconveniences; to imagine what Thorin would do in any number of the ridiculous situations that Bilbo finds himself in. He's been doing it silently for years, but these days some of the words seem to escape absentmindedly from his mouth when he doesn't actively focus on remaining silent.

"I told you I'd show you my roses one day, now, didn't I?" Bilbo murmurs quietly to himself, taking a pair of clippers to some of the errant stems in his front garden. He's sent the Gamgees away for a week-long holiday along the Brandywine River, and it's actually been quite pleasant to get his hands dirty in their absence. He gives his head an exasperated little shake. "Yes, yes, I know you can't be bothered with silly things like flowers, but I like them, Thorin, don't I, so you're just going to have to –"

"Mister Baggins?" someone asks from the path, sounding slightly uncertain, and Bilbo blinks out of his reverie.

"Ah, good afternoon, Mrs. Burrows!" says Bilbo warmly after a moment, raising himself up from his kneeling position with only the smallest wince of discomfort. All things considered, he's doing very well for his age, if he does say so himself. "My, my, how are you doing today? The girls are doing well?"

"They are," says Mrs. Burrows quietly, evenly, her eyes darting away from him for a moment before darting right back. She hesitates. "I'll just… be on my way then."

"Excellent, yes, of course," says Bilbo with a wave, and even before she's fully turned the corner he's back to his conversation with Thorin. "Right, then, where were we?" he asked quietly, kneeling back down in front of the garden bed with an absent-minded click of his tongue. "Yes, of course, the roses. Now, I know you love those sparkling trinkets of yours, but perhaps one day you'll let me leave out some flowers for the anniversary of the battle instead? They're much easier to find in these parts, you know, and I wouldn't have to trek half-way to the Blue Mountains to get my hands on ones that you'd approve of."

The clippers lie abandoned on the grass beside him. Instead, Bilbo reaches up with one hand and idly cradles one of the brilliant yellow blooms in his palm, careful to avoid catching himself on thorns.

He has his other hand tucked into his waistcoat pocket, thumb smoothing over the curved edges of the ring as he chatters and prattles away to the ghost of a long-dead king in his front garden.

"Thorin," said Bilbo unsteadily, his voice thin and hollow as he took a terrified step backward. Thorin was glaring at him with murder in his eyes as the company looked on, as they all looked on, elves and men and Gandalf and all of his friends in the world. The sight of Thorin, who has held him close and stroked his curls and been inside him, coming closer and closer to him with violence in every line of his body was enough to make Bilbo's heart stutter.

For a single stunning moment amidst the great rush of fear, Bilbo numbly took in the fact that he was not going to get out of this alive.

"Thorin, please, you're scaring me," said Bilbo weakly, already knowing it was too late – and before the words were even out of his mouth, he saw the dark blur that was Thorin lurch towards him. Felt the devastating crush of Thorin's great hands (the hands that have held him close and kept him fighting and brought him so much pleasure, so much comfort in the past) close around his throat and squeeze.

"LIAR!" Thorin roared, loud and furious and right in his face as Bilbo choked and clawed at his hand. He walked them backwards until they reached the edge of the cliff, until Bilbo's toes were barely able to gain purchase on the rocks. "THIEF! You miserable hobbit!" He gave Bilbo a shake, fingers tightening still further on Bilbo's throat. He growled. "I trusted you. I trusted you and you betrayed me."

In that moment, with the crush of Thorin's hands cutting off his air with such strength it felt as though his neck might snap at any moment, Bilbo suddenly understood with dazzling clarity that this thing attacking him was not Thorin. This man – this creature, this phantom – was nothing but an empty husk hollowed out by greed and obsession, a stranger wearing the face of the person he cared about more than anything else in the world.

Everything that had made Thorin who he was had been burned away by a magnificent madness, leaving nothing but violence and vengeance in its wake.

He could hear people shouting in the background. The pain of it was growing less noticeable, less distinct. He thought he could feel his toes lift fully off the ground, leaving him dangling in mid-air. There was a great blurry rush and white spots appeared in his vision, the world beginning to grow dimmer around the edges –

When Thorin finally let him go, Bilbo became conscious of his ability to breathe freely again long before he felt the pain of being thrown, of crashing to the ground. He gulped in air in great choking breaths, hands reaching up to clutch at his aching throat, slowly and distantly becoming aware of the way his whole right side was throbbing in pain. Bilbo felt a surprisingly strong hand tug at his shoulder, allowed it to pull him into a wobbly standing position before he even realized that it belonged to Gandalf. The wizard had edged in front of him almost protectively, standing between him and the dwarves, but Bilbo could still see Thorin. Could still see the way his face had gone slack with contempt instead of ablaze with rage.

"Very well," said Thorin, looking beyond Bilbo at something or someone standing behind him. At Bard, Bilbo thought distantly, knees still shaking, still choking on shuddering breaths. At Thranduil. "I will pay for what is rightfully mine." His eyes slid down to Bilbo, his gaze uncaring and far away. As though what might happen to Bilbo was absolutely no concern of his. "Take him, if you wish him to live. No friendship of mine goes with him."

His words were another dull blow in the pit of his stomach, but Bilbo could barely feel any of it anymore. Could not protest, could not speak, could barely even think. There were pained expressions on the other dwarves in attendance, but the only thing Bilbo could focus on was Thorin. On the absolute derision on Thorin's face, as though Bilbo was something unpleasant on the bottom of his boot. As though they had never lain awake at night and talked about what their life together would be like after all this was over. As though Thorin had never breathed secret words in Khuzdul over his skin like a promise.

He had never known it was possible to feel grief for the living, but when Gandalf guided him away it felt as though his sorrow stretched endlessly in both directions.

Grief for the Thorin of his past, who had been lost to this world.

Grief for the Thorin of the future, who wasn't.

"—cle Bilbo? Bilbo!"

"Mm?" Bilbo hums, blinking into awareness with a startled jolt.

For a moment, all Bilbo can feel is a profound sense of confusion and displacement. The lighting in the room seems wrong; too bright, too warm, the sun pouring in through the windows a foreign, strange thing. His hand is in his pocket and he can feel the ring there, and the desire to wear it wear it put it on slip away become unseen wear it is so strong that it must have clouded his mind for a moment. He realizes that the tip of one of his fingers is just a hair's breadth away from the ring's edge, from slipping inside the circle of metal and wearing the ring in front of someone, and he jerks his hand out of his pocket with a startled little exclamation of breath.

There's someone in the room with him. Bilbo raises his head to look at whoever it is, heart thudding in his chest from a battle that no one but him is aware of – and it feels as though all of the air has rushed out of his lungs. For the briefest instant, he feels a bone-deep shock when all his old eyes can see is long dark hair and a flash of bright blue eyes.

It's only a momentary confusion. They don't look anything alike, not really, and Bilbo chastises himself for the flight of fancy. He plasters a parental smile on his face, his vision finally focusing enough to look his nephew in the eyes.

"Ah, Frodo my lad!" Bilbo exclaims, raising his hands ever-so-slightly into the air, palms outward in a display of welcoming. His nephew looks uncertain, concerned, and Bilbo feels a stab of guilt. "Fine day, isn't it. Yes, quite a fine day. How are you doing, my boy?"

But instead of smiling, Frodo frowns.

"Uncle, are you quite all right?" he asks, uncertain – and with a start, Bilbo realizes that he can't remember what happened before he snapped out of his little daydream. Can't remember if he and Frodo were talking, or if he was having a doze in his chair and Frodo woke him up, or even if he said anything while his mind was wandering.

It's so easy to let his mind wander with the ring in his hand, these days. So easy to hold it on his palm and closer his fingers around it and let himself drift away. Whenever he's not wearing the ring, he dreams about wearing it; gets caught up in fantasies of leaving the Shire unnoticed and starting back across the world. Of meeting old friends and visiting his life that never was; of visiting Thorin's actual grave instead of the makeshift little marker he set up years ago in East Farthing woods.

He must have said something wrong, Bilbo decides. Nodded and agreed at the wrong moment or said something peculiar without realizing, because the look Frodo is giving him is worried and tense and wrong-footed in the way Bilbo knows from long experience means that he's trying not to let it show. He doesn't outright say uncle, you're scaring me but it's all right there in those shockingly blue eyes of his, and Bilbo mentally berates himself for bringing that expression to his nephew's face.

"Yes, Frodo, I'm quite fine," says Bilbo reassuringly, and he doesn't have to fake the expression of apology and slight embarrassment that's settling over his face. "Just got caught up in the past for a moment, that's all." He gives a little smile, reaching out and placing a worn and wrinkled hand on Frodo's arm. "No surprise, at my age. It was just a little daydream."

There is a moment's pause – before the worried expression on Frodo's face gives way to a small crooked smile. He pats Bilbo's hand, giving him a teasing little look.

"You're hale and hearty for being over a hundred and you know it," says Frodo with certainty, and Bilbo feels a great rush of affection for this boy. For the son he never had, for the family he managed to build despite everything.

"That I am, my boy," says Bilbo quietly, letting out a little contented huff of breath. He slips his other hand back into his pocket, ring and little finger hanging over the edge, and feeling the ring nudging up against his hand brings him another little wave of contentment. "That I am." He gives Frodo's arm one last pat before pulling his hand away. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to have a little nap."

Frodo very pointedly doesn't help him to his feet, which Bilbo appreciates. Soon enough he's lying on his bed, mind drifting again to a little town on a lake, to a great mountain so lonely in its peak, to his friends – both living and dead – who probably would not recognize him if they saw him now. Now with his age-worn face and his wrinkled hands, not with the hundred little aches and inconveniences that come with growing old.

He falls asleep with the ring in his hand, tucked against his chest in the same way a child might hold a doll at night to keep the nightmares at bay.

"He's just through here," said Gandalf quietly, pulling the curtain aside and ushering an uncertain Bilbo inside the tent. Gandalf hesitated. "He does not have long. Whatever you need to say, I believe you should say it quickly."

Bilbo nodded, sniffing hard. The past few days had been a cataclysm of pain and hurt and grief and loss. He was wrung-out, hollow, his mind steadfastly refusing to believe that any of this could possibly be happening. It was as though he was dreaming, the things around him so nightmarish that none of it could possibly be real.

He could not even begin to come to terms with the idea that Fili and Kili – so full of life and youth and the desire to prove themselves, their whole lives and a kingdom ahead of them – could possibly be gone, that such a thing could possibly be allowed to happen. He did not feel it in his heart, just kept walking as though in a haze, stumbling toward the shape in the middle of the room.

He barely noticed Gandalf drawing the curtain closed behind him, barely noticed the healers or the other patients being treated inside. Because there, lying on a large mound of furs on the ground, lay Thorin Oakenshield.

There were so many wounds on Thorin's body, so much blood that a hundred bandages could not stopper it all, that Bilbo could not help letting out a wordless sound of devastation at the sight of him. He took a step closer, his insides stalk-still and roiling all at once with sickening grief and horror and a sadness so profound it shook him to his core. He took a few steps closer, falling to his knees beside the makeshift bed. Then he slowly, cautiously, reached out a small hand and placed it over Thorin's larger one.

Thorin's eyes were closed, and for a horrible moment Bilbo thought that Gandalf must have made a mistake, that he was dead already and no one had noticed – before Thorin's eyes slowly blinked open, unfocused and unseeing.

"Thorin?" asked Bilbo shakily, apprehension and doubt churning in his gut. Gandalf had said that Thorin was himself again, but how could he be sure? For a moment, Bilbo felt certain that Thorin would demand he be thrown out, would call him a traitor again, would shout and scream with his last breath that Bilbo was no friend of his.

Instead, Thorin blinked as his eyes settled on him. And then, gradually, an awed expression uncurled over his bloodied face. He reached up weakly, slowly, and rested a large hand against the side of Bilbo's face.

"Bilbo?" Thorin whispered softly, as though he could not comprehend what was before him. As though he was seeing Bilbo clearly for the first time in an age. "Ghivashel?" Thorin whispered, even softer this time, and Bilbo could not help the choked-out sob that escaped his throat at that. Because that was the word Thorin had always called him when they were alone together, repeated over and over like a prayer and pressed with kisses against his skin and murmured against his ear in the softest, most gentle tone Bilbo had ever heard him use.

He had never known the word's meaning in Westron, but he knew that it meant devotion, that it meant love. He hadn't even realized Thorin had stopped calling him that when the madness began to consume him, but hearing it now made all of the doubt fall away. This was not the hollowed creature of anger and greed who had been willing to dash him against the rocks. This was Thorin, his Thorin, and even if it was only for a moment Bilbo was hopelessly, endlessly grateful that he would be able to speak to him again – even if it could only be one last time.

It struck him for the hundredth time how quickly this had all happened, how hard it was to comprehend that in less than two weeks Thorin could not just be lost to him, but could return to him as well.

"Yes," said Bilbo wetly, swallowing back tears and nodding his head hard. He clutched at Thorin's hand, keeping it pressed against his face. "Yes, it's me. Thorin, it's me. I'm here."

"Ghivashel," Thorin exhaled, as though the word brought him as much painful joy as it did Bilbo, and what Bilbo saw in his eyes was enough to make his breath catch in his throat. Because even though they were clouded with pain, Thorin's eyes were clearer – more him, more Thorin – than Bilbo had seen in a fortnight. He felt another sob well up in his throat when Thorin's thumb stroked over his cheek, and he leaned into the touch helplessly, uselessly.

"Thorin, I'm sorry," Bilbo choked out, and for a moment the youthful faces of Fili and Kili burned behind his eyelids. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again. "I shouldn't have—"

"Shh," said Thorin quietly, roughly, as though the word itself was painful to speak. Bilbo fell silent. Thorin's thumb was still stroking along his cheek, absent and weak, but the touch was still there. "It is I who… who am sorry," he said, faltering slightly on the words. "I… am so ashamed. Of what happened. Of what came over me. It seemed… so important, but…" he trailed off, coughing wetly in a way that made Bilbo's whole body want to recoil with horror. He didn't, though. He held tight to Thorin's hand against his cheek instead, leaning over the furs, his eyes fixed unerringly on Thorin's shattered face.

After a long few moments, Thorin slowly began to speak again. "Perhaps… perhaps it is right that I must leave this world, ghivashel. I should not… not be permitted to live, with how I treated you."

"No," said Bilbo emphatically, shaking his head and holding Thorin's hand tight. "No, Thorin, no, it wasn't you, I know that. Please." His voice caught violently in his throat, and when he squeezed his eyes shut again he felt hot tears roll down his face. "Please don't leave me here alone."

He heard Thorin give a weak and broken laugh, felt Thorin's hand tighten ever-so-slightly where it rested along his face. "I would stay. If I were able." The words were quiet, subdued. His eyes were growing more unfocused, staring at something beyond Bilbo's face. His hand seemed to grow heavier against Bilbo's face. "… I have always admired it," Thorin murmured, but the words did not seem to be directed at anyone in particular. "That love for… for food, and song, and… m-merriment."

His voice was growing quieter now, enough that Bilbo had to lean closer in order to hear him. Bilbo was trying to catch every word, every movement, to commit every second to memory so that he could never lose them. But it was hard when he felt so full with grief and tautness it felt as though he might burst.

"Perhaps…" Thorin whispered, words softly slurring together now. He leaned back into the furs, shoulders growing less tense, head resting back properly against his pillow."…if I loved those things more dearly, we would not… be…"

There was a lingering pause, and Bilbo leaned in closer, strained to hear him.

He was still waiting a few moments later when he felt Thorin's hand slump against his face, his arm suddenly limp and heavy in Bilbo's grasp. Bilbo stiffened with slow-dawning horror, his fingers clenching where they were still clutching at Thorin's wrist.

"Thorin?" Bilbo asked senselessly, needlessly, in a voice so small he doubted anyone else in the tent could hear it. He swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that he had been trying to hide so fervently since he stepped into the tent. His throat felt thick and the world was indistinct around him, all of his attention held rigid on the stillness of Thorin's face. Thorin's eyes were still open, unseeing. Bilbo felt his face screwing up, felt his mouth twist as his eyes began to grow blurry. "Thorin?"

There was no answer. And now, of course, there never would be.

With a sound like a dying man, Bilbo sagged forwards so that his head was leaning against Thorin's chest, helpless against the onslaught of shaking sobs that held him in their grip. It was fine, though, it was fine to cry now, to clutch at the fur blankets and bury his face in Thorin's side until the fabric was wet with his tears. It was fine because there was no one to be strong in front of anymore, no one his tears could upset.

He sat and wept and clung to Thorin's body until someone came to collect him, until someone – Bofur, Bilbo thought, but he couldn't be sure – came and gently pried his fingers from Thorin's tunic, pulled him under their arm and guided him away. Away from the pile of furs and the body that still lay nestled inside, bundled up warm and safe as though silent only in sleep.

Away from the King Under the Mountain, resting at long last in the shadow of the kingdom he would never be able to rule.

When he was a young man with his heart weighed down with loss and grief, Bilbo could not understand how it had happened. How a lump of lifeless rock had been worth everything that happened to them, had been worth losing a kingdom for. Had been worth Thorin tearing himself apart over.

As an old man of a hundred and ten, Bilbo still doesn't understand. Not really.

But he thinks he can maybe wrap his head around it a little more.

When he lies in bed at night smoothing his fingers over cool metal, dreaming of perfect smooth lines and glimpses of gold in the dark. When he runs his fingers over it in his pocket a dozen times a day, making sure it's still there, making sure that no one has tried to steal what is rightfully his. When he fantasizes about using the ring and slipping away from everything – from his family, from Bag End, from the everyday obligations and running away to the mountains, to Erebor, to all his friends both dead and living. When he thinks about using it to sneak across the world unnoticed and untouched, to lay his head on a great stone tomb and stay there in the silence, to spend the rest of his days in the shadow of the kingdom they both lost everything to take back.

"I need a holiday, Thorin," Bilbo murmurs wistfully, staring out the sitting room window in the direction he knows Erebor to be. He runs his fingers over the ring; cradles it in the palm of his hand, rolls it between his fingers without even truly realizing he's doing so. "A very long holiday."

With the perfect weight of the ring in his hand, Bilbo thinks he can understand a little better how an object might be precious enough to risk everything for.

THE END