Disclaimer: Nah, not mine.

Warnings: Blood, violence, permanent injury, a venture into non-con territory and a lot of angst.

AN: Originally written for the hobbit kink meme. I did have fun writing, though, to be honest, the research regarding eye injuries reminded me once again, why I'm not made for any medical profession. (And somehow every website I looked at found it necessary to document their statements with pictures.)

Anyhow, I hope you enjoy!

Unintended Consequences

The first two weeks after the battle before Erebor's gates has been fought, Bilbo is too weak to leave his bed. He'd woken alone in a small room – and around him, all had been silent. No voices, no footsteps, and only much later he had found out that this was due to being in the middle of the night.

Prior to that however he'd attempted to find out where he was, disoriented and flushed with fever. His feet had carried him out of the door. Not far, though, and he only regained consciousness when he was picked up and carried back.

Somewhere in the background he heard Thorin's familiar voice. The words, however, drove a knife into his heart. "…hoped he'd at least have the good sense to stay in. There's too many others that are direly in need of the healers' services."

When Bilbo wakes again, he is alone. His head feels less stuffy, and now he can tell that the room is small and bare. Probably not large enough for a dwarf, but enough for a small cot. Next to it Bilbo finds his meager belongings – Sting and what remains of his clothes. The mithril shirt is gone.

Though he's still in Erebor, so perhaps his banishment has been revoked? At least, that's what he hears in the whispers following his footsteps along dusty corridors.

For two days he wanders between strangers. The stares he draws oscillate between curious, appalled and downright hateful. And all he wants is to go back into his small room and draw the flimsy blanket over his head. (He doesn't even think about his comfortable hobbit home back in the Shire, since that only makes him feel like crying).

Then he finally finds a familiar face, and his heart speeds up.

"Dori!" Bilbo calls out.

The dwarf looks up. And Bilbo's heart clenches when Dori doesn't look entirely happy to see him. The dwarves around Dori, however, look outright displeased.

"Master Baggins," Dori says, politely, "How are you."

"Well enough," Bilbo replies, even though he's hungry, and his body aches, "The others? What happened…?"

"All alive and reasonably well," Dori replies, and somehow Bilbo's anxiousness brings a spark of kindness to his voice, "They're all up and about from what I hear."

And that is good enough for Bilbo to forget about his own worries for a moment. Dori almost-smiles. "If you want to see them, I think Ori is in the library. And Balin should be just two corridors down from here."

Whether it was intentional or not, Dori's words send Bilbo to Balin. And Thorin. Both dwarves are obviously involved in some strategic discussion, and Bilbo realizes he's intruding the moment he steps through the door.

Thorin's eyes darken. Bilbo opens his mouth to say something – anything, because the look Thorin gives him is destroying any joy he felt at the news of his survival – but Thorin raises a hand to stop him.

"Hobbit," Thorin says, and Bilbo flinches, "Don't think for a moment I forgot what you did. Your betrayal has been neither forgotten nor forgiven."

Thorin's voice may be loud enough to be heard outside in the large hall, but Bilbo only catches sight of Balin gazing at him sadly. Suddenly he wants to be anywhere but here.

"I did, however, promise Gandalf to spare your life, and I honor my word."

For a moment it is on the tip of Bilbo's tongue to remind Thorin of Bard, and gold owed. Instead, he clears his throat and swallows down the dizziness.

"I'll leave," Bilbo says, quietly, even though his heart feels as if it's being torn apart, "I'll go back to the Shire. My leg's healed well enough."

"Don't be a fool," Thorin snorts, "It's in the middle of winter. You wouldn't even reach Laketown before freezing to death."

The soft "oh" wasn't meant to escape from Bilbo's lips.

Thorin sighs. "Regardless of what you did, I will not cast you out in the middle of winter, hobbit. Try to make yourself useful. Or better, try not to get underfoot."

When Bilbo leaves the chamber, the air in the busy hall seems to have grown even colder.

Meals are taken in a communal hall. Bilbo doesn't like it - being the lone hobbit among thirteen dwarves had been okay, among three-hundred he feels self-conscious. There's always somebody whispering or pointing, even if Bilbo only catches it from the corner of his eye. When he turns, nobody is looking at him.

Instead, he waits for his turn in line.

There's a new face behind the counter. The dwarf looks grim, almost unkempt – but Bilbo pushes that thought away. He's in no position to think unkindly of others (not when Thorin made it so clear his continued presence at Erebor is due to King's charity, nothing else).

"Who're you?" the dwarf grunts.

"Bilbo Baggins," the hobbit mutters.

No loud whispering this time around – the first time Bilbo said his name out loud, everybody had turned to stare. And then there'd been the whispering – "traitor" and "thief" were among the kinder things he had been called.

The dwarf looks at the rooster that allots rations for each dwarf and company.

"Not on here," the dwarf says.

Bilbo blinks in surprise, "What…?"

"You're not on the list," says the dwarf with a snort, "So there's no food here for you. Move on."

"But I…" Bilbo tries to protest. Because, really, rations are small already, and there's just no other food around.

"Move on," the dwarf insists, and the line behind Bilbo grows restless, "We haven't got any food to spare, so go away."

Bilbo stumbles aside and just stands there for a moment, numb. He doesn't truly hear the dwarf's dark snicker, or see the way some glances are exchanged through the room. His heart aches too much – the dwarf's words echo Thorin's "there are already many to take care of, don't make yourself even more of a burden".

He wants to go home.

Instead he makes the trek back to his chamber. His stomach may be twisting itself into knots, but there's no food, and Erebor's gates are closed. And Bilbo already knows that there aren't even roots left in the earth on Erebor's slopes (and if there were, they'd be thick with orc blood now).

Luck is kind, because half-way up, he stumbles into Fili.

Bilbo is already prepared to sneak past, to pretend they haven't seen each other, when the prince breaks into a wide grin, spreads his arms and walks right up to Bilbo.

"Master Baggins," he exclaims, "I haven't seen you in forever! Are you well? Why aren't you down at the meal?"

Bilbo is content to let himself be drawn into the embrace. Even if the warmth threatens to bring tears to his eyes. Perhaps, some of his desperation showed through, because when Fili sets him back on his feet, there's a slight frown on the prince's face.

Bilbo tries his best to muster a smile. He can't help if it isn't convincing. "Well enough, though I seem to have had some bad luck. My name apparently wasn't on the ration's list today – well, I suppose that happens," he forces a chuckle, to make light of the situation, even when Fili's expression darkens.

Before the prince can say a word, Bilbo continues. "But how are you? I heard you were injured in the battle? And how is Kili?"

Fili probably sees through the distraction, but he answers. "It was only a small cut, hardly worth the fuss everybody made. And my dear brother is driving the healers mad – so he's fine enough."

"He suffered a leg injury, I heard?" Bilbo asks. And it is horrifying to realize that he has to rely on overheard snatches of gossip to even have an idea of how his friends are doing.

"Something like that," agrees Fili, while his expression, again, grows concerned, "A badly twisted ankle that would need rest to heal. Rest, as you can imagine, my brother is unwilling to give it. But you said something about missing lunch?"

Fili ends up dragging Bilbo up to his own quarters, where he orders an elaborate lunch set. The only reason Bilbo agrees is because Fili confesses he'd probably have just skipped the meal himself.

They visit Kili, who's only too happy to cuddle Bilbo close to his chest, not minding the hobbit's protests. And somehow Bilbo is only too glad – he may not have confessed it too himself, but the last days have been incredibly lonely.

And painful.

"So where are you staying?" asks Kili, later.

He's let go of Bilbo enough for the hobbit to sit back on a chair propped up next to Kili's bed.

"Small room near the armory," Bilbo replies with a shrug.

"There aren't any chambers for sleeping down there," says Fili.

"Oh, I don't think it was made for long-term habitation, either," Bilbo laughs (even if it is forced), "But it's just the right size for me. And it's not cold."

Because, honestly, that is all he can say about it. It may be his last resort when the disgusted glares of the dwarves become too much, but the bare stone walls emit little warmth.

Kili frowns. "You should be up here. Let's talk to uncle about it!"

And Bilbo can't stop himself from flinching. "Well, er, …"

Both siblings stare at him. Don't they know?

"Your uncle doesn't want me to stay," Bilbo mutters, looking away.

Indeed, the next time Thorin sees him, he tells Bilbo to "be gone from my sight" loudly enough for everybody surrounding them to hear.

Balin casts a rueful smile at Bilbo, while Dwalin's expression doesn't change.

The next day, Bilbo is accidentally shoved when he's climbing up a staircase. He doesn't fall – only stumbles to his knees and the injury is only a dark bruise – but nobody apologizes. Neither, when he is shoved at lunch the next time, hard enough to drop his food. There's no replacement (and Bilbo has to choose between the indignity of eating food from the ground or draw further hate onto himself for throwing away edible, if dirty food).

When Bilbo retreats to his chamber – exhausted, because he is doing what he can to help with cleaning Erebor from dust and debris – he finds Fili and Bifur waiting. The door only closes when all three of them sit on his cot.

"This is unbearable," Fili announces, looking pale.

Bifur mutters something in Khuzdul, and nods in agreement.

Bilbo shrugs. "It's alright."

"It's not," Fili insists, and then sighs, "I did bring a blanket and some clothes because I thought you looked cold – but you can't stay here, Master Baggins, and you can't expect me to let you."

Bilbo then catches sight of the bundle of clothes resting on Fili's lap. The fabrics appear soft and warm, and Bilbo can't quite bring himself to refuse the present.

"I don't mind," he mumbles, "Really."

Fili shakes his head. "I'll see that you get a real room somewhere," then he draws a deep breath and leans forward, "Also, Bifur was telling me he heard some people say rather - unkind things to you."

Fili is so honestly worried that it makes Bilbo's heart ache. The prince has other things to be concerned about – he shouldn't be so upset on the part of one lone hobbit. (But a part of Bilbo's heart welcomes it).

"It's nothing," Bilbo says, "Just rumors, I think. It was bound to happen. I mean, after the affair with Arkenstone, really, I'm not surprised that some people think I got off easily -"

Fili grips his shoulders. Bilbo stops mid-sentence, frozen by the intensity burning in Fili's eyes.

"I will repeat this as often as necessary," Fili says, "We all owe you our lives. And don't think there's one among our company that doesn't know that. If my uncle is being stubborn about it – I'll set him straight."

Bilbo is grateful for the kind words. Even though he isn't certain if it truly was the Arkenstone affair that forced the alliance between the dwarves and the parties from Laketown and Mirkwood.

The corridor is dimly lit, and Bilbo hurries, eager to return to his own room. He doesn't like those wide corridors, splendid as they may have been - they feel hollow, with the way his footsteps echo, and the dark stone ceiling makes him miss the open sky.

He's almost through, when a hand shoots out of the darkness and grabs his shoulder. Bilbo gasps, off balance, and the grip is painful, but before he can scream, a second hand clamps over his mouth.

Bilbo is pulled into a tiny, dark side corridor, before he can remember to struggle. And then the hand on his shoulder is gone, instead an arm is wrapped around his chest, mercilessly fixing his arms next to his torso. His heart races, he kicks out, tries to scream, but only muffled sounds emerge.

There's cursing, and Bilbo smells sweat and alcohol. He fights, but the arm pinning him twice as thick as his own, and the chest he's pressed against broad. Suddenly, there's a knife at his throat and Bilbo's eyes widen abruptly.

He can't see very well in the darkness, and the dwarf in front of him is dressed in dark colors, a hood covering almost all of his face. Bilbo stops struggling as the knife is pressed firmly against his vulnerable skin.

"That's good," says the dwarf, and his voice is grating. Bilbo can smell alcohol on his breath.

"Don't struggle. Would be a pity if I cut your throat accidentally..."

Around them, Bilbo hears shuffling in the darkness.

"Tie him up," says another voice. Bilbo's heart sinks - there are more dwarves yet hidden in the darkness. And he doesn't like the look of the one he can see.

The knife stays on his throat, even as the hand is taken from his mouth. Bilbo automatically takes a deep breath, and inadvertently, the blade draws blood. It's a hot burn, and the dwarf snickers. The sounds makes Bilbo's blood freeze.

Then somebody's firmly pressing a rough cloth against his mouth and nose. Bilbo smells sweat, smoke and something unpleasant, tries to twist his head away. Instead he finds a finger pressing into the hollow of his cheek - and against his will his mouth opens a little. But that is wide enough for th dwarf to stuff the cloth into Bilbo's mouth, deep enough the hobbit feels like gagging, thinks he can't breathe - and when his vision clears again, the dwarf is tying the cloth into place with a thin, hard wire that cuts into the back of Bilbo's head.

"Be quiet," somebody hisses.

"Won't scream, now, will he," there's another ominous chuckle following that.

"Just make sure he doesn't get away," says a fourth voice.

Bilbo feels dizzy, though he isn't certain if that's due to the sickening smell, or the fact that he can't fight. Even if the knife at his throat is gone, the arm holding him in place hasnt budged a bit.

"Tie his hands," somebody urges, and Bilbo finds himself turned around. He still can't catch sight of the dwarf holding him, but abruptly his face is smashed against a leathery garment that positively stinks.

He forgets about that when his wrists are pulled together unforgivingly - he swears he hears his bones creaking - and leashed together by a long piece of string. Next thing he knows he's slung across a wide shoulder like a piece of luggage, and an arm fixes his legs in place.

His heart is racing, as the group around him snickers – this can't be happening, a part of his mind thinks, this can't be happening to him.

"We'll show him what we do with traitors, won't we," somebody hisses and the group laughs in agreement.

"Yep, and we'll make sure he never forgets it, either," chimes another voice, this one slurred.

A deep voice says, "Oh, yeah, we'll make that permanent."

Darkness is growing on the edges of Bilbo's vision. Not that there is much too see, but he can't breathe, and his body feels strangely distant. He's about to let himself drift off, when he's tossed to the ground.

The fall jars all his bones, and barely avoids smashing his head on the cold stone floor.

"-far enough?" is what he hears when his senses return.

"Should be," says the slurred voice, "Anyway, he's not going to scream, is he?"

Breathing is already difficult enough with gag shoved into his mouth. The stench is near unbearable, and Bilbo can hardly swallow around it. His jaw hurts, as do his arms, and his fingers have started to become numb.

Suddenly, there's a dwarf kneeling above him. A hand grips his shoulder and rolls him over, presses his shoulders and his face into the ground. Bilbo has barely time to gather his senses – the world is spinning, his vision nearly gone and he doesn't even know how many dwarves there are, watching and laughing in the darkness – and then the hand (rough, calloused) slides under clothes.

It's not just a hand, he realizes a split second later, when the fabric of his trousers starts to give away under a blade. It's …

His blood freezes. They can't … can't …

"Oi, you're serious?" asks another dwarf.

"Why not?" asks the one crouched over Bilbo – whose heart is hammering so fast it may just burst, "It's what men do, or so I heard."

"Men also shove hot coals up there if they want their prisoners to die of unknown causes," replies another dwarf.

"And you up there will kill the traitor as well as any coals," adds a third one. Apparently that's hilarious, because everyone bursts into raucous laughter.

Bilbo feels wetness on his eyes, but pays it no mind. He uses the second of distraction to wriggle out from underneath the dwarf. The ring's in the front pocket of his clothes – it could be on the other side of Middle Earth. Despair threatens to swallow Bilbo, though he forces himself to slowly crawl away, bit by bit, hoping the darkness will swallow him.

He needs to get away.

He can't let this happen.

There's just no alternative.

"Oi!" shouts somebody, and it's too close, so Bilbo kicks out instinctively. His foot catches an ankle – and the dwarf goes down with a yell and clatter.

"Don't let him get away!" Somebody screams.

Metal rings in the darkness, and Bilbo's blood grows cold. He's panting now, tries to make himself small, but somehow his leg is caught, he can't pull it in.

He has a split second of a warning when he hears a rush of air. The sound of something heavy descending.

Then a war hammer meets his kneecap.

Fili waits for the call of "come in" before entering Thorin's chambers. The King is still in his finery, though he has removed crown and outer cloak. On the desk before him rest several documents.

He looks tired, and Fili feels his heart go out to him.

"Uncle," he says, "How are you?"

Thorin sighs and gestures at him to take a seat. "Well enough," then he musters a fatigued, but honest smile, "You and Kili?"

"Improving," replies Fili with a laugh.

For a moment he lets the warm atmosphere linger. It's nice to sit like this, to be not King and Heir, but just themselves.

Still, he can't enjoy it on a clear conscience when he knows others suffer.

"Uncle, I visited Bilbo earlier today," and Fili is disappointed to see Thorin's face darken, "Are you aware he's been given a dirty cot in a tiny room near the armory? It's not a place to live in – it's more the size of a cupboard, really."

Thorin blinks, then. "I wasn't aware, no," he says, "The hobbit should be given a better room then."

Fili frowns. "That's not all. Apparently people have been harassing him – his name wasn't on the ration's list two days ago. And Bifur tells me there's been name calling and several incidents – you have to do something."

Bilbo's mind returns to a throbbing pain running through his body. His left knee aches fiercely, hot and wet, and the slightest movement makes Bilbo's vision explode with white stars and want to be sick.

The darkness and his captors, however, have remained, and his hands are still tied behind his back. He doesn't feel them beyond a numb pulsing, but the strain on his shoulders hurts, and he's dizzy from the lack of oxygen.

The world is a blur, and he barely hears the words said. It's all sounds, and hands over his body. He only registers pain and more pain and wants desperately for it to just be over. To wake up on his coat.

Or even not wake at all.

Abruptly, his shoulders are shoved harshly onto the floor, and his head bounces on the stone. The pain in his knee flares white and hot, but he doesn't pass out, instead his vision clears enough to see a dwarf – somebody who he's never seen before – kneel above him.

"Hold him steady," he says, and a heavy weight descends on his feet. It stretches his leg, and Bilbo screams, even though no sounds emerge from his throat. Tears trickle down his cheeks, and hands roughly hold his head in place.

He sees a knife above him.

Abruptly his pulse speeds up. He tries to squirm away, to beg, even the pain from his leg fades, but the hands allow no leverage, too strong, too harsh.

"Traitor," the dwarf spats and Bilbo smells alcohol on his rancid breath. He doesn't see the face, Bilbo only sees the knife, now close to his own face. He doesn't know what the dwarf intends, doesn't even want to guess at it – he whimpers, and the small sounds only cause more laughter.

"Oi, keep steady," the dwarf holding the knife hisses, and promptly squeezes his hand down on Bilbo's face. His thumb and finger encircle Bilbo's left eye – and suddenly Bilbo knows what will happen.

His body clamps up, before there's a rush in his ears, and he tries to kick out, tries to struggle, to twist away, not seeing anything but the evil glint of metal over his eye – too close, too close - and –

"That's what we do with traitors!"

Closed eyelids offer no protection against sharp blades. The pain is unlike anything Bilbo ever felt – his eye is on fire, and he can't scream, can't move and his heart is racing, and he's dizzy and sick, and it's too much, and there's laughter, and the world's spinning, and –

As dear as his uncle is to him, sometimes Fili wants to hit him. They've spent at least an hour going in circles – Thorin acknowledging Bilbo's contribution – to their quest, their victory and survival – yet turns utterly stubborn when it comes to his treatment.

Betrayal is betrayal, Thorin argues, even if done with the best of intentions. It's already generous that he's allowing Bilbo to stay – conservative voices have called for banishment, regardless of the weather conditions outside.

When Fili returns that it may be Thorin's own behavior encouraging those calls, it falls on deaf ears. Or at least, Thorin pretends not hear it.

Fili has known his uncle long enough to understand he's still puzzling about it. Trying to work it out. But Bilbo's actions perhaps hurt Thorin deeper than he has been willing to admit to himself, and it's hard to let that go.

Then there's a frantic knock on the door.

"Your Highness," the guard bursts out the moment Thorin allows him in, "There's … been an incident."

He needs a moment to catch his breath. Both Fili and Thorin stand frozen, both trying to envision what would require the King's attention at this time of the night.

"It's the hobbit, you highness," the guard says, "Master Dwalin told me to tell you."

It's telling, Fili thinks even as he's already out of the door, that Bilbo is referred to as "the hobbit". And that the guard feels he has to justify his actions as Dwalin's order. As if Bilbo didn't matter enough to inform the King.

Bilbo wakes to blinding pain, and before he knows what has happened, a whimper escapes his lips. There's no obstruction, but there are hands on his face, holding him still. Somebody strokes his brow, hushes him, though all Bilbo knows is pain.

His knee is on fire, and he can feel the cool metal in his eye – foreign and hard and he only wants it out, out, out – and he still can't move, though this time his arms are at his side, fixed by a blanket, and he's moving – floating? - and around him voices keep muttering.

"Be still," the voice is gruff, familiar, "Don't open your eyes.

Of course, his eyelids flutter. Of course, that means he tries to move his right eyelid against the blade still stuck through it. The pain makes his vision white out – he doesn't even have the air to scream – while a thumb softly, but firmly presses his eyelid down, stops it from moving and further tearing itself into pieces.

His other eye flutters open, and tears blur his vision. The world's askew, tilting, and Bilbo thinks the large shape leaning over him may be Dwalin, and the voices in the background sound familiar, too.

"We'll get it out in a minute," and that is Dwalin's voice, even if it's unusually tender, "Just try to relax. Only a moment."

Bilbo thinks he will be sick if the blade is left in a moment longer.

But then he's set down – or rather the stretcher he is on is – and the movement jars his body. He hears a scream, belatedly realizes it's him - and forget about his eye, his knee, his knee must be on fire.

"Calm down," Dwalin mutters, and keeps his hand on Bilbo's face.

The hobbit only manages a choked sob when he tries to draw air.

"The knife must come out," somebody says, "Can't leave it in any longer."

"But the eye… we don't have enough …"

"No … we won't be able to save it anyway…."

"… I see … now?"

Bilbo is gasping for air, when Dwalin leans closer. "I need you to stay as still as you can for a moment."

His fingers are gentle where they touch Bilbo, and beyond panting for breath, Bilbo tries to nod (even if he doesn't dare to move. There's a blade lodged in his eye, and it doesn't feel real, but there's that cold sensation, and he can't really see, and even Dwalin seems upset, and the darkness is closing in again –

And after one sharp tug, the cold sensation is gone.

Bilbo has a split second to enjoy it. Then it burns.

Fili stumbles into the medical quarters first, followed closely by Thorin. Neither asks for directions – there's an audible commotion in a side room and Fili's heart skips a beat. He runs forward, only to be caught by his shoulders by Balin.

"Stay back," the dwarf advises, "And calm down."

Fili barely hears him. He can't see much of Bilbo, with five three healers hovering over him, and Dwalin holding his head, but he sees one pulling a long silver object – a knife – from Bilbo's head with a sickening sound.

It was in his eye, Fili realizes, and his stomach twists.

He takes a steadying breath, and has to look away. Bilbo whimpers, and Dwalin makes shushing noises, and Fili doesn't want to know how bad it is. Then he catches sight of Bilbo's knee, which is a gory mess of bone fragments, torn ligaments, muscle and blood.

He tastes bile in his throat.

"What happened?" Thorin inquires with Balin, and even though it's very well hidden, there's the undercurrent of upset.

Balin sighs. "From what I understand, a group of six decided to …"

For a moment he trails off, casts a long glance at Thorin and then continues. "I don't know the details, but apparently they claimed to take revenge for Master Baggin's betrayal."

Even Fili feels the ground drop out from under his feet at that.

Thorin is left speechless.

"But … what…" the King fumbles with his words for a moment.

"We need to cauterize it," one of the healers insists, pressing a reddened piece of cloth against Bilbo's eye. The hobbit's body is shivering violently, small gasps escaping his lips, but he doesn't appear conscious, and that's a small mercy.

Dwalin immediately shakes his head, and Oin adds, "He wouldn't survive."

"He's going to bleed out," the healer insists.

Oin shakes his head, "I'll rather take my chance with the blood loss. His body won't take further shocks."

And Fili knows that is true only by listening to the pained, shallow breaths Bilbo takes.

"Bandage it then and wait for it to heal?" the third healer inquires, "Or stitch it?"

Balin pales at the suggestion. Fili sees it, because he can't stand look at Bilbo's shattered knee. He wonders how on earth that is going to heal, but then maybe Bilbo won't ever …

He cuts that line of thought off immediately.

Oin frowns. "I'd like to avoid that, if possible. Just bandage it as tightly as you can, and then we'll keep an eye on it."

"What about the knee, then?" asks the second healer, "We can't leave that like it is."

"Pick out the bone fragments and splinter it?" suggests the third.

Oin doesn't seem entirely convinced, but he nods.

Fili feels dizzy when he sees Oin reach for a large pair of tweezers. And to see those disappear in the maimed flesh of Bilbo's knee. The hobbit flinches and whimpers, his face already white from blood loss and shock.

Thorin orders the hobbit to be carried to his quarters once the treatment is completed, before he whirls on his heel and leaves. Fili wants to shout after him, but Balin rests a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head.

One small, trembling hand slides out from under the blanket and remains hanging in mid-air.

Three hours later, Thorin returns from the dungeons. He orders the healer remaining to watch over Bilbo to leave – for the time being – and sits down heavily on the hobbit's bedside.

Bilbo looks incredibly small and fragile on the King's large bed. The silken sheets throw Bilbo's pale and haggard face into stark relief – and Thorin can't deny he is at fault here.

His visit to the dungeon made him feel breathless, shocked – the six had been drunk, not shown themselves very intelligent, but had insisted they were only teaching a lesson. Because everybody did know that the hobbit was a traitor, and only tolerated because a wizard demanded it.

Oh, they'd realized the error of their ways. Torture and disfiguration hardly were noble actions, especially when not backed by the law – laws Thorin had declared nil on the moment of his ascension.

And ice had flooded Thorin's veins once he realized those six dwarves had expected him to at least subtly welcome their deed.

He still feels cold.

At least now Bilbo sleeps quietly, aided by an herbal mixture, though that does little to hide the tear tracks or bruises. If there has been any remaining resentment left in Thorin's chest earlier that day, it now has completely vanished.

Instead he feels tired, cold and guilty.

Oin and his healers tried to assuage him – Thorin saw the rips in Bilbo's clothes, and had feared an unspeakable horror – at least that, Oin stated, had not come to pass. There were dark bruises on Bilbo's hips, but nothing more.

Still, the damage is severe enough that now Bilbo's life hangs in the balance.

Thorin's mind keeps torturing him by reminding him of all the little things he could have done to prevent this – announcing that Bilbo is not a traitor, that all actions have been forgiven (and there is more than one apology Thorin owes to the hobbit), make certain the hobbit received quarters near the rest of his company, ascertain he was at least cared for.

Instead the lingering pain – self-righteous, really – has blinded him to what was going on. And now Bilbo paid the price for Thorin's foolishness.

Thorin wakes at the soft sound of a closing door. He must have dozed off, head tilted, while the healer tiptoed past and checked on Bilbo. The bandage on the hobbit's eye has been changed – it's white for the time being, and the color is not far from the pallor of Bilbo's skin.

The hobbit groans, and tries to twist, but the healers have firmly pinned him in place with heavy blankets – the knee needs to stay still if it's supposed to stand a chance at healing.

Thorin is surprised to see the eyelid of Bilbo's remaining eye (and something cold spreads through his veins when he recalls the judgment that the other eye won't recover, that Bilbo will forever have lost one of those eyes that once looked at Thorin with so many different, heart-warming emotions) flutter.

And even though it's his fault, and he has no right to any of this, Thorin takes Bilbo's hand, and leans forward so the hobbit can see him.

"Bilbo," he says, quietly and as kindly as he can, "You're safe. Calm down."

He sees how Bilbo tries to focus – but the mixture of Oin's herbal concoction and the lingering pain is to strong.

"I'm sorry," Thorin tells him, softly, though he doesn't know if Bilbo can understand him, "But don't worry – the culprits have been apprehended, and will be dealt their punishment in due time. You just concentrate on getting better."

The whispered "please" is almost too quiet to be heard.

The following week is a nightmare. Bilbo develops a frighteningly high fever, and even ice carried in from the frozen landscapes outside only marginally lowers it. Thorin spends all hours he can spare at Bilbo's bedside, holding the hobbit's hand, and muttering calming words.

The hobbit flinches at the touch, at loud noises, whimpers in pain or is left gasping by nightmares. Fever renders him near delirious – enough, that at one point a healer orders Thorin away because he is upsetting Bilbo.

Most days Bilbo doesn't recognize him. The evening he does, a soundless scream leaves his chapped lips, and fever-bright eyes widen further. Thorin leans forward, mumbling calming words, trying to sooth Bilbo – instead, the hobbit frantically shuffles back as far as his weak body will allow.

The movement jars his knee. Thorin can only watch as Bilbo goes white from the pain and passes out again. His heart aches – he wants to tell Bilbo there's no need to fear Thorin, because as long as he lives he'll never speak another unkind word to the hobbit. And he'll forever try to make amends for what he already did.

Though Bilbo, when conscious, is not lucid. Too much pain, Oin mutters. Lower – so that Fili and Kili, standing at the back of the spacious room won't hear – he adds, "Poor thing's heart might not take it much longer."

Then Bilbo's eye is irreparably lost. The healers have tried everything – even consulted the elvish books still hidden in Erebor's library, but nothing can be done. Thorin sits and strokes Bilbo's face – the cheekbones pronounced, the pallor chalky – as the healer pronounces this judgment.

This isn't news. The grim proposal of the healer to exenterate the remaining tissue within the eye socket, however, is.

"Infection," the dwarf says, "Is bound to develop if we don't clean it out."

Oin frowns. "Yes, but we don't have the tools to render him unconscious long enough. And his heart is too weak."

The healer unhappily looks to Thorin.

The King is pale, his stomach suddenly in knots – he's seen his share of bad injuries, but emptying an eye socket seems closer to torture than to healing. And he feels Bilbo's pulse under his fingers – fluttering, fast, and Bilbo's breathing is still too shallow.

His fingers close around Bilbo's wrist.

"He's too weak," Thorin decides, "Once his condition is better, do whatever you must. But as long as the cure may kill him, and our supplies are limited, I'd rather not take the risk."

The healer is professional, and merely nods at Thorin's opinion.

That night, when Bilbo's fever again becomes critical, Thorin buries his head in his hands. He wonders if Bilbo is going to die like this – with unkind words spat into his face, thinking Thorin cared nothing for him.

But by a hair's breadth, Bilbo pulls through.

Ten days after the incident, Bilbo wakes up and for once, his remaining eye is clear. He is still running a fever, shivering and frighteningly pale, but he looks at the unfamiliar room and doesn't panic. Though he does stiffen, when Thorin comes into view.

"Master Baggins," Thorin says – and if he's breathless, then there's nobody to notice but him and Bilbo, "How are you feeling?"

Bilbo blinks. "Tho -?" his voice catches, hoarse and scratchy.

Before he can move, Thorin carefully rests a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "Don't move," he tells him, "I'll get you what you need, but you need to stay as still as possible."

Otherwise, the injured knee will be unbearably painful. Now that the eye is lost, but the tissue healing, Oin has focused his attentions on Bilbo's knee – still a mess of blood, bone and muscle under thick bandages. Nobody knows whether Bilbo will ever be able to put any weight on it again.

Thorin holds out a water skin to Bilbo, and helps him drink. Confusion lingers in Bilbo's eyes, and Thorin's chest feels heavy.

He shouldn't go seeking forgiveness when Bilbo is still so fatigued from his injuries.

Fili is the one who eventually fills the details for Bilbo. That it was Nori who had heard of the dwarves – six fellows who'd all been drunk and not known for their kindness among their peers, nor for their intelligence – and Dwalin who had heard the noises.

Bilbo remembers Dwalin's voice within the memories he doesn't want to recall. Deep, soothing and telling him to calm down – it has been an anchor in that sea of pain.

When Bilbo tells Dwalin he's grateful, the tall dwarf only shakes his head.

"Don't thank me," he says, "I wasn't in time, after all."

And Bilbo wonders how pathetic he must look, with one eye gone under tightly wrapped bandages a shade darker than his skin, a useless leg and thinner than he has ever been before. His appetite also fails to return, much as Oin tries to feed him a number of helpful mixes.

Bilbo wonders where all those berries came from – rations were tight, last he remembered. It's Thorin who flinches then.

"Rations are tight," he explains, "But we have some stores set aside for exceptional cases."

To treat members of his company. To make certain at least the King, his heirs and advisors have enough nourishment to govern Erebor.

Bilbo should never have been put onto rations with the other arrivals to Erebor.

"I apologize for that," Thorin tells Bilbo, "It should not have happened. Neither should you have been made to sleep in that little chamber – Fili told me it was downright unbearable. You can blame me for it, since I didn't see it fit to check what arrangements had been made."

Bilbo swallows with difficulty. "That was okay. Everybody was just thinking I was a …"

He trails off, and Thorin's heart clenches. Bitterness laces his voice when he speaks next. "Yes, I should have cleared that up, too."

Then he sighs. "It is my fault nobody realizes your actions had been entirely forgiven – no, that nobody realized that you had the right of it. I can't begin to apologize for what happened to you – and no riches in Erebor will replace what you lost."

"As soon as the roads are open, we will send out messengers to Laketown and Rivendell – perhaps they know further council," Thorin promises, "In the meantime, consider all of Erebor yours."

Bilbo sinks back against the pillows, but his fingers close around Thorin's hand, returning its pressure. "Don't make such a fuss. I'm healing quite alright, according to Oin, so don't send any poor dwarf out on my account," he mutters, "And I can't really tell you how much it pleases me to hear that I'm forgiven – you weren't entirely wrong, you know, I did sneak the Arkenstone out of your kingdom, so I am a burglar – and I know that it would hurt and enrage you… I'm only glad you understand why."

The words have taken a lot out of Bilbo, though they strike a chord in Thorin's chest.

"That I do," Thorin says, "And I see know how much courage it must have taken. I can only say, you have once again overcome my expectations, proven yourself and saved many lives in the process. My own among them."

"… would've hated to see you die…" Bilbo mutters, but his eye is closing against his will.

Though this time, when he drifts off, traces of a faint smile are visible underneath the lines of pain this ordeal has carved on Bilbo's face.

Thorin's speech and the traitor's punishment have changed how the dwarves treat Bilbo. He does not get pushed when climbing staircases – mostly, he avoids staircases because they pain him and he is still adjusting to his impaired vision – nor does he have to cue for rations he may or may not receive.

Nobody whispers when he enters the room.

But eyes follow him all the same, and he remains an outsider. The only persons Bilbo befriends outside of the company are the healers and part of the guard watching over Thorin's quarters.

It's still very isolated, and with limited mobility, Erebor is even harder to navigate.

So when spring isn't even over, Bilbo approaches Thorin and announces he'd like to go home.

That's when he learns what heart-break looks like on Thorin's face.

Bofur insists on escorting Bilbo, and Bifur follows. Bilbo is touched, and grateful, because while he's alright on horse-back (even if it makes his knee ache), he's still getting used to finding his way on ground.

He has mostly adjusted to his limited vision, but that was in Erebor, and not out there in dangerous lands between Erebor and the Shire. The road is long, not without dangers, and Thorin insists Bilbo takes as much gold as he can carry.

As well as a small, armed unit of guards. All hand-picked, Dwalin assures him, and if Bilbo likes they'll stay with him for the rest of his life. They're part of what Erebor owes him, what they all owe him, and Bilbo steps forward and pats Dwalin's arm before the dwarf can say anymore.

"That's nice, but I'd rather they get to go back to their home, too," says Bilbo and has to smile at the red rim that is forming around Dwalin's eyes, "So I am grateful for the offer, however, I doubt I'll have used for an armed guard in the Shire. Though, of course, they'd be quite handy in keeping certain relations away."

It draws a snort, and Bilbo steps away with a smile. Kili is openly wiping at his eyes, but Fili is faster to step forward and draw Bilbo close to him in a hug. Kili joins them.

"I'm sorry," the dark-haired dwarf not-quite sobs, "I just … I mean, I understand.. but I … I had hoped this would be a home for you, too. I mean, it's just so unfair that…"

Something in Bilbo's chest clenches painfully. Because he had hoped the same, but that's a dream that will never come true. He has accepted it, but that doesn't mean it's painless.

"Shush," he tells Kili, "Don't act like it's the end of the world. You know, you can always come and visit."

Fili chuckles, though his voice sounds a bit hoarse, "Are you certain your furniture will survive?"

"I was rather thinking of just having you sit on the floor, the next time," replies Bilbo, and Kili snorts.

One of the horses whinnies, and Bilbo reluctantly untangles himself. He doesn't want to go – his heart is tied to these being, far more closely than he ever expected it to be. And with the sun shining on his head and warming him, he is almost inclined to think that there's a chance.

But he knows he can't stay. The plains before Erebor have started to turn green, and the air is clear. He longs for the Shire's rolling hills, and the sometimes visible, dusty outline of the Misty Mountains towering in the background.

He wants to go home.

So last but not least he approaches Thorin. And the King walks forward to meet him half-way.

"I'll be forever in your debt," Thorin tells Bilbo, "If there is ever a service you require of me, don't hesitate to ask. The Shire may be far, but I will send you whatever you ask for – and know that this debt will never be paid in full."

Bilbo watches Thorin for a moment. His decision to leave is hurting the King, he knows that. And while a part of him wants to take the pain away, Thorin is also why he has to leave. Because Thorin certainly treated him ill, but it was not him who lifted the blade.

Bilbo's presence will only remind Thorin of his failure, and while that may be good, guilt has a way of eating into Thorin's heart deeper than rage ever could. And Erebor needs a hale King, and Bilbo hopes that Thorin, too, will learn to smile again.

"I may just pick you up on that," Bilbo replies and keeps his tone consciously light, "Though I doubt I will be asking you for any great services. I would, however, quite enjoy it if I could invite for dinner?"

Fin

So that's it. Hope you enjoyed, and please feel free to drop me a line. :)