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Grief is a horrible, ugly thing, Bilbo knows.
The smell of metal blows through the cold breeze. Thorin lays, red flowing from him at an alarming rate, and Blibo presses as hard as he can, trying to stop it. Eyes blurring with tears, mouth curled- words slipping from his mouth that he can barely register.
A hand touches the back of Bilbo's head, large and unsteady, and Bilbo dares not press into it, in case it falls. Thorins eyes, nearly glazed over, meets his own, and the bloody smile that adorns the dwarfs face creases them so beautifully.
“Bilbo, my dear burglar, I love you.”
And then Thorins eyes become unseeing, and grief takes hold of Bilbo, hard and rough in a way hes never felt before, and he screams.
—
Things are blurry after that. Somehow, hed made it back down to the rest of the company, and Balin takes him in his arms as Thorin gets swept away, healers rushing along with him. The cries that take hold of his body make his shoulders shake, and vaguely, he can feel the soft cries of Balin, chest moving with them. More arms, stocky and strong, come to wrap around him, and he can make out the company, the ones unharmed and feeling just what he is.
A regretful thought arises in his head- he should have never went on this blasted journey, should have never left the Shire to begin with.
And then Balin presses the side of his head into his own, and he takes it back.
He thinks that if he had stayed in the Shire he’d be quite lonely.
He doesn't know how long they stay like that, or how long he cries, but by the time he’s back inside his own head, Oin is cleaning his hands with lukewarm water and a scratchy washcloth.
Stubby fingers smooth over his own, letting the sticky blood melt away. Distantly, he almost wishes to keep his hands the way they are, to keep a piece of Thorin with him.
His head feels too heavy, eyes dry, body numb.
“Master Baggins?” Oin speaks softly, gentle as he squeezes Bilbos hands. The pressure is nice.
“I’ve been tasked to watch over you.”
“You should be helping heal others, not me. I’m… fine.”
“We lost you there for a second, you know. It’s like you weren’t in yer own head, and that’s dangerous. You have become… very dear to us, Bilbo, please remember that.”
The words are comforting, along with the way Oin massages the soap into his palms, grounding him. His mouth doesn’t seem to be working well, as his teeth clamp shut, lips pressed together.
There is no more words spoken between them.
Bilbo would rather focus on the smell of soap, and the feeling of Oins fingers pressing into his own then the fact that Thorin is probably dead.
—
Hobbits, as shown by their homes, find comfort in four walls, circle doors, flowers and plants, sunshine and warm weather- and quite frankly, anything soft.
The cot within the medical tent is good enough, he supposes, with its tattered cloth, and bits of grass between patches of dirt.
It is no hobbit hole, but it’s what they have, and it’s where Bilbo lays, curled under a mass of clothing and blankets. Coats of the company pile on him, their (nearly offensive) scents wafting in his nose every time he shifts.
When he had become so used to dwarves, with their heavy footsteps and loud voices, he doesn’t know. But now, as he hears their shouting, of orders being thrown left and right, of heavy footfall, it lulls him into a light, restless sleep.
He feels sick. Weak, lethargic.
Distantly, he wonders if it’s the same illness his mother was afflicted with when his father died- the same one that killed her a few years later.
But delving deeper into that thought peels back layers of pain and hope he cannot bear to withstand.
Because if he was really physically sick because of this, then that would mean he had fallen in love somewhere along their journey, and he had missed his chance.
Bilbo shuts his eyes tight and pretends to sleep.
—
Thorin does not wake.
The entire time he lays half dead in his cot, breathing but not conscious, is another moment Bilbo spends dizzy and tired, weak and unable to do much of anything at all.
He helps, or tries. He changes injured dwarves bandages, makes food no matter how cooking feels so dull, especially without Fili or Kili there to taste it, and he becomes an unenthusiastic mediator between angry, stubborn dwarves and picky, annoying elves.
Kili and Fili are hit and miss.
Tauriel stays by their sides, healing both when she can. She holds Kilis hand in hers and speaks words in elvish Bilbo doesn’t understand. She heals them both, because one surviving without the other wouldn’t be surviving at all.
She is gentle and kind, and the dwarves have began to like her, as she stays loyal, as she watches over Kili like her life depends on it.
When he visits Thorin, he dares not touch him.
He is afraid he will be stone cold.
—
He wakes screaming.
Sweat drips down his forehead, tears down his cheeks, and the scream he lets out tears his throat up.
He doesn’t think, just heaves in a large breath and sobs.
The dream had been a dream, but Thorin still lays, healing but not yet awake. It feels like he’s still there, deep within his nightmare, dead, and yet it’s real.
Thorin being half-dead is very real. The fact that he more than likely won’t survive his injuries is beyond real.
Ugly, he thinks himself, as snot drips down his face and he weeps.
The door to his chambers creaks open softly. In comes Dwalin, body stiff, eyes firm, yet comforting. Dwalin is not a soft dwarf by any means, but he steps forward, closer to Bilbo, and rests a hand on his shoulder, and brings him close.
It feels like half his soul is weak, nearly dead, and the feeling fills him with horrifying dread.
Because if Thorin dies, he very well might as well.
—
When he was a child, Bilbo was told of soulmates. They were a legend, really, so rare they only happened in the shire every few hundred years- but his parents had sworn up and down that they were meant for one another, cut from the same cloth or different sides of the same coin.
Bilbo had believed, and wished himself- that one day he might find his other half.
And then his father died, and his mother turned into a shell of herself, alive but really quite half-dead.
She’d died a few years later of natural causes, yet far too young.
Bilbo wonders if there’s such things as soulmates in Dwarven culture.
—
Fili wakes first.
His mouth is twisted in pain, and tears drip down his temple and into his hair. Head turned to stare at his brothers silhouette, heartbreak within his eyes.
“Kili?” He whispers, and Tauriel soothes a hand down his arm and speaks,
“He should wake soon. Are you thirsty?”
Fili swallows, and nods softly.
Bilbo is quick to fill a cup with water, rushing over to help him drink. Tauriel sits him up, gently holding his head, while Bilbo helps him drink.
After a moment, Fili finishes the cup, and Tauriel helps him lay back down, tucking the blankets back up to his chest.
There's a lump in Bilbo's throat.
“Uncle?” Fili mutters, eyes scared, lip pulled up. Bilbo is struck with how young he seems- while on their journey, Fili and Kili had always been the kids of the group, but now all Bilbo can see is the shine of his eyes and the childlike fear within them.
To think he hadn’t known that Fili and Kili were Thorins nephews until halfway into their journey feels odd, because he really should have seen it despite Thorins everlasting angst.
His heart breaks in his chest, and he shakes his head.
“He is alive, for now. We do not know if he…”
Fili uses the strength he can muster and reaches a hand to grasp at Bilbos. The hobbit grips back.
“He is your heart.” It is not a question, just a mere fact. Bilbo feels raw as he nods, feels like an exposed nerve as his own tears well up in his eyes.
“Uncle is very stupid sometimes, you know. He's all glares and yelling, but really, he has a lot of love in his heart. He doesn’t show it well. He loves you, Bilbo.”
“I know. Sleep, Fili. Please.”
Fili squeezes his hand once more before falling back to sleep.
Tauriel reaches across the bed, slender large hand grasping his own.
Their eyes meet, and it’s quite like looking in a mirror.
—
Hobbits his age are not supposed to look how he looks now.
They are plump, most of the time- and if not, they are not overly skinny.
When Bilbo looks in the mirror, his hip bones protrude and he can see his ribs. He doesn’t recall a time when he’s ever been able to do that, even when he was many years younger and thinner.
He hides it in dwarven clothes a few sizes too big.
Hes taken to wearing Thorins coat, as well. After a good wash, of course. Hes sewn up some holes, too, patched up whatever he could. Hes absolutely swallowed in it, but he doesn’t care.
He doesn’t care much of anything.
Gandalf had suggested maybe returning to the shire- and Bilbo had vehemently refused. He would die on their journey, most definitely. The wizard had stared at him a few seconds too long, as if he knew. Bilbo wouldn’t be shocked.
Its been a month.
The healers seem more doubtful everyday.
Kili had woken, but only for short periods before falling into sleep. His injuries were quite grave- but Tauriel has a shine in her eyes unlike before. Bilbo is sure he will be fine.
Even the elven healers have been wary of Thorins progress.
Bilbo sits with him, most days. Holds his hands. Tells him stupid hobbitish fairy tails- tries to fill whatever conscious part of his brain with happiness.
The company stares at him quite often. Bofur makes him eat at least three meals a day. Far too little for a hobbit, but even stomaching the three is a challenge.
Bilbo is sitting next to Thorins bedside when Balin comes in the room.
“Dís is on her way from Ered Lurin,” Balin comes to rest a hand on his shoulder, “She will take over rule from Dain when she gets here. Until Thorin wakes, at least.”
“Will he wake?”
Bilbo knows they both don’t know, but he’s asked anyway.
“Have hope, my boy. Our King is strong.”
Our king.
Bilbo strokes a finger along Thorins knuckles.
“I will die if he doesn’t.”
Balin is silent, as if examining him to see if there’s any bit of humor in his face. There isn’t.
“What do you mean?”
“We have soulmates, in the shire- well, they’re more of a legend. My father died and my mother died a few years after, and the same symptoms my mother showed I am showing as well. I feel weak, lethargic. Empty.”
“Are you sure you’re not just… grieving?”
“I am. Grieving, that is. But it’s different. More intense.”
“We’ve all noticed, my boy. It would be a great loss, truly. We all love you.”
“I love you all as well.”
Balin pulls him in his arms. It reminds him of the aftermath of the battle, when he’d taken comfort in them similarly.
“We dwarves have something of soulmates, too,” the rumble of his baritone voice against his cheek is comforting, “they are our ones. I suspect that you are Thorins.”
“He told me he loved me, before… he passed out.”
“I hope for all our sakes he wakes, my boy.”
—
Bilbo summons the energy to garden. Truly, he doesn’t know how he does it, with how weak he’s become, but he finds that the soil at the base of the mountains is quite adept for flowers and such, and he simply can’t help himself. He uses gold from the mountain to get seeds- and as soon as he wakes every morning, he shovels down whatever he can, and makes his way down to the base of the mountain.
The ground has ripened from the winter, soft yet wet, so he settles down and plants and plants and plants.
It is often nighttime when he returns to the mountain. He finds himself wandering the endless halls of Erebor- and while it doesn’t appeal to his own hobbitish tastes, he quite likes it. Its comforting knowing that his friends are nearby, that he can see them whenever he pleases. Dwarves are not nearly as judgemental as Hobbits- as shown by their stark lack of manners and etiquette.
Not that Bilbo's complaining.
Hes grown quite fond of it, actually. Of them.
He is not nearly as lonely as he was in the Shire. He’d never quite fit in with everyone- too adventurous to be a Baggins or too secluded to be a Took. Surely, if he went back now, the rest of his people would have little good to say about him.
It doesn’t matter if he comes back with a filthy coat and rubbed raw hands, dirt smeared on his cheeks and pockets full of seeds. No, the guards at the entrance just give him a nod and let him through, and the passing late working dwarves he sees regard him kindly. He did help save Erebor, after all. But it’s not as if they treat him like a god, or someone overly special- and Bilbo enjoys that.
Erebor, no matter how much hair he has on his feet, or how short he is- has somehow become quite like a home to him.
—
“There once was a little hobbit sprout named Abernathy, whose hair was as wild as uncut grass and eyes the color of budding lavender,” Bilbo recounts from memory, hand clasped in Thorins, “A Took, he was, wild and free, adventuring greatly beyond the shire.” He strokes his thumb against Thorins knuckles, eyes closed in focus.
“Sounds like you.” A voice, deep and weak, speaks, and Bilbo freezes. His eyes open immediately-
And there he is.
Thorin.
Awake.
Alive.
Tears fill Bilbo's eyes immediately, and he doesn’t think, nor breathe, as he rushes forward to hug the lying dwarf. Thorin's hands, unmoving for months, grasp at his body, weak and frail, barely able to hold themselves up.
A sob breaks free in Bilbo's chest.
“You idiot,” He scolds harshly, voice thick with emotion, chest stiff. “I can’t believe you. Telling me you love me only to sleep and not wake for months.” He pulls back, coming to rest a gentle hand on Thorins cheek. Its warm.
“Months?”
“Yes. It’s been five months. Since the battle.”
Thorins chest stutters.
“Fili and Kili? The others?”
“Your brats are fine. Everyone is fine.”
“You don’t look well.” Thorins hand, weak and trembling, reaches to cup Bilbos cheek but falls short. The tips of his fingers gently brush his skin before falling back to the bed, unused to movement.
Bilbo shakes his head and lets tears fall down his cheeks.
“Don’t worry about me. Let me go get a healer to look you over.”
He rushes out the royal chambers, telling the guard stationed to guard Thorins room as quickly as he can.
“The king is awake. Go fetch a healer, please.” The guards eyes widen slightly, and he scurries off quickly. Bilbo orders the other guard to fetch the other members of the company- the ones he can find at least.
He rushes back in, and Thorin, the idiot he is, is trying to sit up.
“Lay back down right now! You are far too weak for that.” Bilbo rushes forward, hands pressing gently into Thorins shoulders, pressing him back into the bed.
“I am not weak.” Thorin grumbles, even as he relents and falls back into bed.
Fondess bursts in Bilbos chest. He tucks the dwarf in, soothing blankets over wide shoulders- and brings a cradling hand up to Thorins cheek.
“You are not. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. But you need rest. You need to ease into movement again. You were… horribly injured, Thorin. Please, for my hearts sake, listen to the healers for me.” Bilbo's lip trembles horribly, face twisted.
He feels better then he’s felt since the battle.
Like he’s alive.
“You are beautiful.” Thorin mumbles under his breath, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
“Oh stop that, you.” Bilbo strokes a hand through Thorins hair- he’s brushed it everyday since he’s been asleep. Washed it, too- so it’s soft under his hands. The movement makes Thorins face softer, full of something that Bilbo had only seen just moments before he’d almost died.
“I love you, Bilbo.”
“And I love you, Thorin. My heart.”
Thorin smiles. It’s soft and gentle and private.
Oin comes in without knocking, and Bilbo rises from where he’d been bent over, lips twitched into a smile.
“You gave us all quite a scare, king.” Oin sidles up to him, hands reaching to feel over his forehead. He pulls out a few instruments, too, all of which Bilbo is unsure of what they do.
“My apologies.” Thorin mumbles as Oin begins to poke and prod at him.
Bilbo crosses his arms and watches.
Thorin is alive.
And Bilbo can feel his heart beating faster, can feel the hunger knawing at his stomach, can feel the exhaustion running through his body. It’s more he’s felt in a long while, and it’s uncomfortable, but it doesn’t matter.
Because Thorin is alive.
—
When hes been checked out, pulled into tearful hugs and his forehead has been thoroughly bonked on by the company, he finally gets to be alone with him. With no looming sense of doom, or fear for upcoming battle or the constant wondering of what’s to come.
Bilbo takes Thorins hands, bigger and stalkier than his own, and pulls them close to his face.
“You are my one.”
“And you are mine.”