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It was a miracle Thorin survived. At least, that was what the healers (both elven and dwarfish) were saying. Though really, Bilbo thought it was a miracle any of them survived, considering how dire the situation had been. It was a miracle that the Company was still intact. It was a miracle that Kíli could still smile and tease the elven healers that reset his broken arm. It was a miracle that Fíli would still be able to walk after being pulverized by an orc mace.
And Thorin…
His wounds should have killed him, according to what Bilbo had overheard several of the healers say. But it would seem that the stubbornness of dwarves would be a blessing on them all that day. Or rather, those several days in which Thorin fought for his life until the healers deemed that, yes, he would live. All that was left for the King under the Mountain was to recover.
And that was how Bilbo found himself standing outside the healing tent of the royal house of Durin, debating internally if he dared enter. On one hand, Thorin had nearly killed him in a gold sickness induced rage and banished him on pain of death. Not Bilbo’s finest moment, he’d admit.
But on the other hand… Bilbo nervously touched the braid tucked behind his ear, a lonely patch of order in his mess of curly hair. The bead at the end was still in place, Bilbo hadn’t been able to bring himself to remove it…because removing it and undoing the braid would have meant accepting…
“Stop that, Bilbo Baggins,” He chided himself, clenching his fists, “After all the nonsense you’ve put up with on this journey, don’t you dare choose now to run away…” With that, he stepped into the tent.
It was smaller than he imagined it would be (but then again, it was a tent). Óin was the only dwarf showing any movement, bustling between the three cots and the patients who lay upon them. Both Fíli and Kíli were propped up on their cots, accepting whatever brews Óin was forcing upon them with limited protests (though with plenty of exaggerated facial expressions).
Kíli spotted Bilbo first, his face (after finishing the tonic Óin had given him) breaking into a wide grin, “Well if it isn’t Master Boggins.”
Both Fíli and Óin turned to look at Bilbo, “And here we thought you had gone missing…again.” Fíli joked lightly, leaning on his pillows, “Nasty habit of yours, vanishing when we all are desperately looking for you.”
“Or rather, a nasty hobbit of his…” Kíli snorted before breaking down into a fit of giggles.
Óin shook his head, checking the rest of Kíli’s wounds and changing bandages. Fíli chuckled at his little brother’s spectacle, “Pay him no mind, Bilbo. It’s the poppy milk tonic Óin gave him for the pain. Makes him madder than a March hare.”
The hobbit had to take a moment to examine the brothers. It was true; Kíli did look a bit dazed: his normally alert eyes were unfocused and the young dwarf seemed sluggish in his movements. But then again, Fíli’s injuries were far more extensive than his little brother’s… “Why aren’t you…well…” Bilbo waved a hand in Kíli’s general direction, hoping his meaning was clear.
Fíli grinned, “Me and poppy don’t mix well.”
It was then that Óin turned to Fíli, his ear trumpet in hand, “Eh? Poppy? No no, you know you can’t have poppy.” The healer shook his head, “I’ll not have you getting sick on top of e’rything else.” With that, he made his way out of the tent, grumbling about the recklessness of youth.
While Bilbo was glad to talk to the young brothers again, he knew they weren’t the ones he came to see. The third cot, farthest from where Bilbo was currently standing, was oddly still.
“He’s resting.” Fíli supplied, as if reading Bilbo’s mind, “Óin gave him some of the poppy tonic as well, so he might say some…unmajestic things.”
Bilbo rolled his eyes, but was internally grateful for Fíli trying to ease his nerves. It was bad enough having to face Thorin; Bilbo would need all the help he could get. And if Thorin was resting…he moved to the king’s bedsit, sitting on the edge of the cot carefully, so as not to disturb Thorin.
Now all he could do was wait for Thorin to wake. In the meantime, Bilbo took the chance to get a better look at the dwarf he had come to love (in spite of his better judgment). Much of the king was covered by a thin blanket, which Bilbo was sure he would be grateful for, considering how extensive Thorin’s wounds were; he really didn’t want to see them. But there were also several wounds on Thorin’s face and arms, scrapes and gashes (though the more serious gashes had been stitched up and properly bandaged).
Bilbo couldn’t help himself: his hand found Thorin’s, his fingers gently brushing the scabbed knuckles of the hardened warrior.
Hopefully soon, there will be no need for fighting…
There was movement beneath Bilbo’s fingers, causing the hobbit to look up to Thorin’s face. The king’s eyes were opening slowly, blue eyes landing on Bilbo and staring transfixed on him.
The burglar swallowed, trying to calm his racing heart, “Thorin…I—”
“Has Mahal sent you to me?”
The statement caught Bilbo off guard, causing him to lose his train of thought. Thorin’s expression was one of genuine curiosity, observing Bilbo as if for the first time (though Bilbo would note that this was a vast improvement from the actual first time Thorin had laid eyes on Bilbo).
“Surely I have perished…” The King under the Mountain murmured, “and Mahal has sent you, a divine creature with a crown of gold for hair and lapis for your eyes, to guide me to the hall of my ancestors.” He sighed, “Oh, if I had known death would be so lovely, I would have accepted it years ago—”
“Now none of that.” Bilbo was fighting the blush creeping at his cheeks, “You’re not dead Thorin, and you’re not going to die anytime soon.”
The star-struck expression on Thorin’s face did not falter at Bilbo’s admonishment, “If your name is not Death, then I beseech you to give me your name, if only that.”
Goodness, Thorin can’t seem to do anything halfway, can he? Bilbo cleared his throat, “M-my name is Bilbo,” He nodded, tucking a stray curl behind his pointed ear, “Bilbo Baggins.”
During Bilbo’s rather bungled introduction, Thorin’s gaze wandered from Bilbo’s face for the first time. Instead, the drugged dwarf had watched the hobbit’s hand as it traveled around his ear.
“Is…is that…” Thorin was staring in awe at Bilbo’s ear.
It took Bilbo a moment to realize that Thorin was not actually looking at his ear, but rather the tell-tale bead that dangled just below it, “Oh, that…” The normally well-spoken hobbit found himself struggling for words, “Yes, well…I am…well, your betrothed.”
If it had been any other time, Bilbo might have found it humorous at how wide Thorin’s eyes had gotten in that moment: the whites of his eyes clearly visible, “You? You are my betrothed?”
Dumbly, Bilbo nodded. Technically at least, he was still engaged to the dwarf; Thorin never broke off their engagement, banishment or no banishment.
Thorin closed his eyes as he let out a long sigh, “Oh Mahal, I have unearthed an everlasting vein of mithril…”
Confused, Bilbo looked to Fíli. The blonde shrugged, “He’s basically saying how lucky he is to have found such a treasure…I think…”
Well, at least there was no mention of the Arkenstone.
But Thorin soon demanded Bilbo’s attention once more, “I have nothing to give you,” he mumbled, “But soon I will take back home and my kingdom from the beast who stole it. And then I will clothe you in mithril and name you Queen under the Mountain…or Consort under the Mountain…” the poor dwarf actually looked confused for a moment.
Bilbo didn’t blame him, if he was so drugged he had forgotten the events of the past few months, “I’m male, thank you very much.” He shook his head, “And the dragon is already dead, Thorin. You’ve already taken back Erebor.” He chuckled, tugging at his shirt collar to show him the shirt of mail, “And you’ve already given me mithril."
The look on Thorin’s face…Bilbo could only describe it at unadulterated joy, “My home, my kingdom, and a One who is the finest jewel Mahal has crafted…I know not what great deed I have done to deserve such blessings…”
“Oh Thorin…” Bilbo sighed, though he couldn’t fight the smile on his face.
Fíli snorted, “I was expecting him to say something foolish which I could share with my mother. If I told her all the nonsense he’s been spewing, she’d find it terribly romantic.”
It was only then that Thorin even noticed the presence of his nephews, the smile on his face growing wider, “Fíli, Kíli, have you seen my One?” he grabbed Bilbo’s hand in his own, holding it as it Bilbo might slip away if he did not.
The blond rolled his eyes, “Oh yes, Uncle, we have seen Bilbo. Lucky you.”
Kíli lifted his head sluggishly from his pillow, “If Bilbo is marrying Uncle, do we have to call him Aunt?”
Before Bilbo could point out the flaw in Kíli’s logic, Thorin interrupted, “Yes! When we are wed, he shall become your Aunt Bilbo.”
There was a snicker from Fíli’s bed, “Alright, now that I can tell to mother. She will never let him live that down.
It was quite the ridiculous scene between all of them, but Bilbo couldn’t help but feel at ease. Sure, he would have to speak to Thorin when he wasn’t punch drunk or drugged, but for now…for now, everything was wonderful.