Archive of Our Own

Bilbo dies for the first time on his first adventure.

It's early spring and he's actually almost a tween, he can take care of himself, and he's very determined to prove it. He packs his bag and finds a good stick and leaves early in the morning, before the sun has even gone up and his parents have begun to stir in their bedroom. He leaves a note on the kitchen table and sneaks soundlessly, as Hobbits are wont to do, out the door and beyond.

Now, it's not a particularly interesting adventure: he doesn't have a quest in mind per se, he's just quite eager to see the world beyond Bagshot Row without being constantly held back by his fussy father or set straight by his know-it-all-mother, who is not against his adventures, but who prefers to be there to oversee them. Which is quite fine, really, Bilbo loves his mother, but he just needs to try and adventure a bit by himself.

He wanders over hills and across a few fields, crosses bridges and skips across stones. He stops to eat first breakfast when the sun has risen high enough to wash the Shire in a soft, orange light; he stops an hour later, when the sun shines even brighter, to have second breakfast. He rebelliously chooses to not have elevensies or tea and trudges on in the direction of the Brandywine River and the Main Road until lunch.

Everything is quite fine and very interesting and fun and brilliant -- though not as action filled as he'd imagined, but he figures that the fighting and the drama will come later, when he's a more experienced adventurer -- until he happens upon a group of Men arguing with a small gathering of Brandybucks and Chubbs. 

They're standing on a bridge that reaches across one of the narrower parts of the river -- the water is deep and cold beneath it, rushing past uncaringly. Bilbo tries hard not to shudder at the sight of the water -- he's a fearless traveller and adventurer, he is, but he can't swim. It would be foolish to not acknowledge his own weakness, he knows that, because his mother and father have told him many great stories of foolish adventurers who couldn't see their own faults.

It's a rather heated argument, it seems, with some of the meanest insults and curses he has ever heard. Bilbo doesn't let it discourage him, though -- he's small, compared to the grown hobbits and the Big People, surely he can sneak past the grown-ups on the bridge, weave past them and duck under their flailing arms. In fact, he's so certain that he can manage it, that he goes at them without thinking it through as many times as he maybe should have. 

The Men are huge -- their legs are never ending, they hands the size of frying pans, and their big anger is very intimidating, up close like this -- and the angry Hobbits are quite fierce in their own right. None of the adults take notice of little Bilbo, who is suddenly maybe regretting his decision to try and sneak past them a little, until a big hand of one of the Men strays and sweeps close too to him. So close that Bilbo stumbles back and shrieks loudly as he falls backwards off of the bridge.

The water is icy cold, unforgiving and strangely heavy as it jostles him around, down the stream, and pulls him down. Bilbo cries and screams and kicks and pulls, but the water is too strong and too cold and he can't feel his legs and he's swallowing mouthful after mouthful of water-- his head is pounding, his chest is too tight, his heart is beating loudly in his ears and he wants to keep kicking and fighting, but slowly--slowly--he can't remember how to, or why--his hands, previously in tight, white fists, loosen and his grip on everything -- himself, the water, up and down -- loosens.

The loud pounding of his heart, in his chest and ears, grows quiet. 

Darkness takes him.

---

Bilbo wakes up some time later and the first thing he sees is his mother's worried eyes, followed by his father's tight face. Bilbo feels warm, now, and his chest aches and his throat feels scratchy; the beating of his heart is back, but it's calm and controlled, quiet.

In the following days, he's hardly let out of the house. Brandybucks and Chubbs alike come by to apologise and check up on him, while the Men apologise once and disappear, likely forever. 

No one speaks of his death, but Bilbo's mother wanders about the house muttering, "just eight, just eight left", for days.

---

In the prime of Belladonna Took's adventuring days, she travelled with the great Wizard Gandalf the Grey. During one of their travels, they were sadly separated and Belladonna found herself alone in a strange, mystical forest.

However, Belladonna was nothing if not stubborn, so she continued on with her adventure, expecting to find the wizard one of these days. She never lost hope, or trust, and just kept walking. She was fierce and knowledgeable and could fight; she had a big axe and a small sword and knew how to handle them as well as she knew which berries she could eat and which plants she should steer clear of.

After she had been travelling alone for four days, Belladonna Took met a fairy. A fairy who was unfortunately stuck to a tree and cornered by a large, fearsome Warg.

Belladonna did not hesitate to kill the Warg and help the fairy free from the tree. 

(The fairy had managed to get tangled up in the leaves and branches and was gracefully sheepish about the whole ordeal).

"You are even a Took," said the beautiful fairy cheerfully, once all problems had been taken care of and they got to talking. The fairy was old -- older than Belladonna could even begin to comprehend -- and wise and knew surprisingly much about Hobbits. "I always did like Tooks."

They shared a meal and spoke well into the night. Just before the sun rose, the fairy said, "I owe you my life, Belladonna Took, and I am eternally grateful. In return, I will grant you this: your first child shall be well-acquainted with Death and very lucky -- lucky enough to nine times evade it."

And so it came to be, that when Belladonna Baggins-Took had her first and only child three years later, the little one was born with nine little daisies on his chest, on the skin over his heart. The flowers were small and the contours a few shades darker than little Bilbo's skin.

Belladonna knew from the very start that her little Bilbo would have a lot of brash, curious Tookishness within him and was forever glad for his extra lives.

---

Many Hobbits fall during the Winter Fell; some fall prey to the wolves and Orcs, but most to the unforgiving cold. 

Bilbo is one of them; he is half-starved and quite literally cold as death. He dies in his sleep, with the sound of his sluggish heartbeat in his ears, one darkness melting into another; he is dead for too long before he comes back-- it takes him days to wake into the land of the living. When he does, the worst of the cold has passed, but he can't stop shaking and shivering for many days and nights.

(He's glad to be alive, but guilty about being the only one to wake back up after death. He sees grief in the faces of his family and friends, the Hobbits whose children or siblings or parents or aunt or uncles never woke up again. His mother murmurs endless praise and thanks to the fairy who gave him his nine daisies).

---

When Bilbo dies the third time, he's lost his father and is almost out of his tweens. 

(His father succumbed to an illness a few days before Bilbo's twenty-ninth birthday. His party was not so much a party, as quiet well-wishes and a bit of cake -- Bilbo didn't stay longer than he had to. It took him many months to come to terms with the fact that while he was blessed with many second chances at life, others were not. It was different during the Winter Fell, because death then was helpless and inevitable-- here and now, when the Shire is warm and prosperous once more, death is strangely more bereaving.

For a long time, he hated himself for his blessing--blessing! if it could be called that--because his father did not have it and not only did Bilbo have to deal with his own grief and all of the responsibilities that came with being crowned the new Baggins of Bag End, but he also had to keep his mother together. She changed, after Bungo Baggins' death, and lost some of her taste for adventure; she stuck around the smial instead and muttered about the seven daisies on Bilbo's chest when she thought her son wasn't listening).

Bilbo's third death is quite graceless. Gandalf the Grey is visiting and his mere presence brings some colour back to Belladonna's face -- the Wizard earns Bilbo's respect and gratitude quickly after that. Gandalf stays for a week and on the last night of his visit, there's a party -- loud and happy, with at least two thirds of Hobbiton present. There's music, good food and ale all around; it's an undeniably joyful affair, filled with laughter. Gandalf gives the Hobbits an amazing show of magic and fireworks that leaves all of them gaping and clapping.

Bilbo is old enough to know better than to steal fireworks from a Wizard, but his little cousins are not; so he maybe, perhaps, gives them an idea, hedges around how he's noticed that the Wizard still has some unlit fireworks left.

His little cousins steal many, smaller fireworks and light them up here and there, from different places of the party area. Bilbo feels quite pleased with himself, until he sees one of his little Took cousins carrying a firework the size of a full-grown Man's arm. It's all fun and games, he thinks, until little fauntlings blow themselves up.

Bilbo races across the party area, but his little cousin is far away and already scrabbling with matches. He runs as fast as he can and shouts for his cousin to not light the firework -- but all he manages to do is startle her into dropping the match and unintentionally lighting the fuse. Bilbo reaches her a moment after that, snatches up the firework and runs as far as he dares with it -- then he throws it away and lets out a sigh of relief. Surely it's far away enough now.

What Bilbo doesn't expect, when the firework goes off and soars up, is for it to change course mid-air. So he's quite unprepared when it collides with him.

---

When Bilbo awakes from the Darkness for the third time in his life, it's to pain. His front feels sticky and warm and the air around him is buzzing -- his skin is moving, he realises, unbidden. He lifts his head with a quiet groan, only to see a lot of blood-- too much blood, his own blood, along with dead scraps of flesh that used to belong to him, and he feels quite sick. His head falls back and he groans again.

At least he knows that he can quite literally be blown up and still be brought back, no matter how much it hurts. He feels bone move and he yelps loudly when it realigns, before his skin starts to knit itself together again. 

It's a surprisingly quick affair, this healing business, and before long the buzz in the air dies out and he's whole again. 

It's only then he realises that he's not alone.

"Your mother is quite beside herself, Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf says. "She's handling the others Hobbits quite well, though, and has managed to keep the party going. You're rather lucky that no one saw the unfortunate collision between you and my firework. You should really go and change clothes, my boy, for your current ones are quite ruined, I'm afraid."

"Yes, well, I was blown up," Bilbo mutters and sits up. He's sore all over and the newly re-knit skin pulls unpleasantly, but overall it's manageable. 

"Yes, you were," Gandalf hums, thoughtfully. "I always did wonder what Belladonna got up to during those days when we lost each other in the woods. However, I would never have suspected that she'd gone and earned the favour of a fairy."

"Well, you know my mother," Bilbo says and carefully climbs to his feet. He grimaces at the way his clothes stick to him; his pants are relatively whole, though bloodied -- his shirt, however, is completely beyond salvation. It's hardly even a shirt any more, sticking together thanks to a few threads and staying on his body only because he's so sticky himself. "Took born and raised. Defies expectations. Defies anything she can, really."

"Indeed," Gandalf agrees. Bilbo looks at him consideringly for a few moments, before he shakes his head, nods a farewell and goes to change his clothes. His first priority is to find and calm his mother, who has doubtlessly worked herself into a state by now, but he doesn't think facing her with wrecked, bloodied clothes is a particularly good idea. 

(Belladonna finds him before he can find her and before he's changed clothes; her face is tight and she says, "just six, just six left," before hugging him long and hard. She then promptly smacks the back of his head, if a bit gently, and scolds him for giving his cousins potentially dangerous ideas. If he has to give them ideas, the least he can do is see them through as well).

---

Bilbo doesn't see Gandalf again until the old wizard tries to lure him out on adventure and then sics thirteen Dwarves on him and his pantry.

(Bilbo says no thanks to the adventure because he has to look after Bag End and the respectable reputation of the Bagginses; he says no for his own sake, because he's died three times and he's no overly eager to try it again. He says no because he's lost his mother now, as well, and while she loved adventure and always encouraged his adventures, he keeps hearing, "just six, just six left," which was the last thing she said to him, before she succumbed to a combination of bad health and heartache). 

It turns out that Bilbo doesn't have much a choice, though, since the Dwarves come into his home and eat his food and sing sad songs that makes his heart ache and his hands tremble. Gandalf says, "You've been sitting quietly for far too long!", and Bilbo wants to shoot back, you would sit quietly if you'd died thrice as well!

In the end, Bilbo's thirst for adventure and his urge to prove Thorin Oakenshield win out. Bilbo Baggins is not a burglar, thank you very much, but neither is he a grocer, and he can prove it.

(Hopefully).

---

Thorin Oakenshield, Dwarf and King Under the Mountain To Be, hates Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit and Baggins of Bag End. Bilbo is quite sure that it's written in the stars, an unchanging, cold fact.

The rest of the Company is not so bad, though, once Bilbo stops complaining about his sore backside and the disturbing lack of handkerchiefs and the fact that they only eat three meals a day, at most.

Bofur is the first Dwarf who reaches out to him; they become surprisingly fast friends, as soon as Bilbo learns that Bofur genuinely meant well when he in great detail described incineration. Along with Bofur, comes Bombur -- who is a great food enthusiast, which is really all Bilbo needs to know to make friends with him -- and Bifur, who is surprisingly gentle. Bifur likes flowers and tea and is very adept at giving eloquent looks, which has been the foundation for Bilbo's helpless fondness of him.

Fili and Kili are next, which doesn't surprise Bilbo. They're childish and immature, loud and boisterous, desperate to please their uncle and clumsy pranksters -- but they are also very entertaining, and kind. It turns out that their eagerness to please and impress extends further than their uncle; Bilbo notices, with some amusement, that they cling to Balin's every word and spar suspiciously close to Dwalin, only so that they can show off. They're friendly to everyone and do their best to include everyone in everything, and Bilbo really can't resist them.

Bilbo realises, when he's sneaking into the encampment of three trolls in a ridiculously idiotic attempt to steal their ponies back, that he really should have tried to not become so endeared by the brothers. Because, truly, he couldn't resist them, and now see where it's landed him.

He can't untie the knot on the rope, so he goes for the large knife-like thing one of the trolls carries. He's so close, he almost has the knife-like thing-- when one of the trolls picks him up and sneezes on him.

Bilbo tries not to gag, even as he explains that he's, err, a burgl--hobbit!

"A burrlarobbit?" one of the trolls says, stupidly. "Never heard of a burrlarobbit before!"

"Can we cook it?" another troll asks. 

Bilbo protests loudly to this idea and desperately hopes against hope that the Dwarves will save him. He doesn't quite expect them to; after all, he's just a Hobbit, hardly even a burglar. He's been nothing but useless on the journey so far and Thorin Oakenshield hates him. But he doesn't know if he can survive being eaten; he's certainly never tried that before and he doesn't particularly want to, either. When he was blown up, he at least had all of his body parts in the same place -- being eaten is vastly different. Bilbo's not sure he wants to know what will become of him if he's eaten and somehow comes back to life anyway.

"Sure we can," the third troll says. "Just kill 'im, there might be more burrlarobbits around."

Bilbo doesn't have time to talk the trolls out of it. His adrenaline spikes and his heart beats loudly in his ears, as if in preparation; his pulse races and he knows what's coming, the grip on him is tightened and oh god, he's going to die again, Darkness will take him again--

For all of his panicking and bodily reactions, Bilbo's fourth death is very quick. 

He shouts out a last protest, his neck is snapped and he's thrust into Darkness.

---

Bilbo wakes up when his neck snaps back into place. He lets out a silent groan, but it's barely audible over the crackling fire. 

Just five, he thinks, just five left.

He hears muttering in a sharp, foreign language and sharp curses he wouldn't dare to repeat in polite company and suddenly becomes aware of his surroundings. He's-- lying in a heap on the ground and to his right, he can see half of his Dwarven companions, up to their necks in burlap sacks. The rest, he notes, are being turned on a spit over the fire.

The trolls are discussing different ways to cook Dwarves and grumbling about running out of time-- dawn, Bilbo realises, sun. Trolls turn to stone in sunlight.

"Wait!" he hears himself shout, before he can think it through. In the corner of his eye, he can see the Dwarves in the burlap sacks turning toward him very suddenly. "You're making a terrible mistake!"

"Didn't you kill 'im?" one of the trolls says to the other one, as they stare at the little Hobbit.

"I did," the other troll answers, sounding quite befuddled.

"Mustn't 'ave done it properly, then," the third troll rumbles. "Good for nothin', you are! Can't even kill a burrlarobbit dead!"

"I did it properly!" the second troll roars. "'e's so small, it was like snappin' a twig, it was! I did it right, 'e must'a come back to life."

"There's no such thing as comin' back t'life!" the first troll points out, gesturing wildly with a huge ladle. "You didn't do it properly!"

"I did!" the second troll defends. "I swear it, 'e died! Didn't you, burrlarobbit?"

Suddenly all three trolls turn to Bilbo and Bilbo swallows loudly.

"I--" he clears his throat. "I have a secret trick, that makes it so that I can come back to life."

"There's no such thing!" the first troll repeats. 

The third trolls looks mildly interested, and asks, "Yeah? How'd you do it, then?"

"It's a secret trick," Bilbo says again. "And it will hardly be a secret if I tell it to you, now will it?"

"I don't believe it," the first troll grumbles, but he looks interested now, as well. Bilbo tries not to jiggle in triumph; he has to stall for time, he reminds himself. 

"Prove it," the second troll says. 

"Yeah!" the first troll agrees. "We'll kill you proper this time an' we'll see if you can come back again!"

Just five, just five left, Bilbo thinks and shakes his head, "No! It doesn't work like that, it takes some time, you see, and I can't quite it twice in one night. But if you really want to know, I can tell you the secret-- but! But only if you--" don't say free the Dwarves, even stupid cave trolls can see through that. "--if you promise never to tell a living soul."

"Tell us!" the trolls roar and two of them stomp their feet in the ground. Bilbo feels quite faint.

"Yeah, how'd you do it, little burrlarobbit? Tell us 'ow you cheat death," the second troll says. "Is it an elixir? Is it somethin' you eat?"

"Maybe we'll be immortal if we eat 'im!" the third troll cheers. 

"Err, no," Bilbo clears his throat. "It doesn't work like that! No, no, eating me won't help one bit," the trolls' faces fall and Bilbo senses that their patience is running out. "But! But it is something you eat. It's a secret-- stew."

"Stew?" the first troll echoes. "Like a Dwarf stew?"

The Dwarves let out loud protests at this and Bilbo winces. The concept of Dwarf stew seems to appeal to the trolls, however, and Bilbo really hopes that the sun will rise soon.

"Yes," he answers and the Dwarves protest even louder. They're throwing insults left and right and calling him a traitor.

"So we could make it with them Dwarves we 'ave 'ere?" the third troll asks and picks Bombur up.

"No!" Bilbo rushes over to the troll who's holding Bombur and gestures wildly with his hands. "Uh, no, it wouldn't work with these Dwarves--"

"Why not?" the second troll asks, suspicion twisting his ugly face.

"These Dwarves-- are, that is to say--"

"They're no different than other Dwarves, I say we just eat 'em!"

"They've got parasites!" Bilbo exclaims, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. "They've got parasites in their-- tubes, that's why it won't work with them."

"Parasites?" the troll echoes and throws Bombur away, as if burnt. The big Dwarf lands on some of his companions and they all groan rather pitifully.

"Parasites?" the Dwarves echo, as well, sounding incredibly offended. The Dwarves curse at him loudly and Bilbo wants to hiss at them that he's stalling, he's doing this for their sake!

"I say the burrlarobbit is tryin' to trick us," the third troll says, suddenly, and Bilbo grows cold.

The other two trolls agree and as one they start reaching for him, and he's already died once tonight, he doesn't want to die again, not so soon after he's come out of the Darkness--

"The dawn will take you all!" a familiar voice booms and sunlight floods the glen.

Bilbo watches with horrified relief as the trolls turn to stone. He buries his face in his hands briefly, breathes deeply-- he's alive, he's alive, they're all alive. Just five, just five left, he thinks as he with trembling hands helps his companions out of burlap sacks and off the spit.

---

Bilbo's hands keeps fluttering up to his chest where he knows he only has five daisies left, as some of the Dwarves go through the troll cave. Gandalf emerges before long and gives him a beautiful, elvish sword, with instructions and advice. 

Right before the old Wizard turns back to the Dwarves, he murmurs, "How many do you have left?"

"Five," Bilbo answers, knowing exactly what they're talking about without having to ask for context. 

"This should go quite without saying," Gandalf murmurs, meeting the hobbit's eyes with furrowed eyebrows and an earnest expression. "But do be careful, my boy. Do not waste your lives merely because you have more of them."

"Oh, trust me, I am being as careful as I can," Bilbo reassures him, fingers fluttering up to his chest again. "Dying is never a pleasant experience and I do prefer to avoid it if I can."

"Good boy," Gandalf winks and straightens up again. There's a brief commotion and another Wizard barges in, on a sleigh run by rabbits. It's Radagast the Brown, apparently, and it doesn't take long for the two Wizards to excuse themselves to do discuss "Wizard business". 

Bilbo drifts to Bofur, who is sticking close to his brother and cousin.

"It's good to see you up and about, Mister Baggins," Bombur says honestly, a bit shyly. 

"We thought you were dead for sure," Bofur agrees and there's a tension in in the lines of his face that doesn't really belong there. He pats Bilbo's arm and lingers just a moment too long, as if touching Bilbo will reassure him that the hobbit is really there. "You surprised us all when you got back up on your feet again, that's for sure."

Bifur makes an agreeing sound and signs something with his hands that makes Bofur's face darken slightly.

"I'm fine," Bilbo smiles, feeling oddly touched by the Dwarves' concern. "I am covered in troll snot and rather sore, but overall fine. I was just-- knocked out quite bad," he lies as smoothly as he can. He opens his mouth again, but closes it and just shrugs instead.

Bombur looks as though he's about to say something, when they hear distant howls.

"Wolves?" Bilbo asks hoarsely, and oh dear, hasn't his poor heart had enough ups and downs these last couple of hours. "Are there wolves out here?"

"No," Bofur shakes his head, looking uncharacteristically grim. "Those are no wolves. Those are Wargs!"

And so they are forced to run.

---

They miraculously survive their stumbling trek across the barren field, followed by vicious Orcs and Wargs as they are, and are rewarded -- well, at least in Bilbo's humble opinion -- with a short stay in Rivendell.

Bilbo remains blissfully alive during their entire stay. He counts his daisies more times than what is perhaps healthy for his state of mind, but he's alive and far away from the alluring, cold Darkness. He still has five lives left, five times to evade death and emerge alive; he knows he's lucky to be granted so many extra chances, but he's also painfully aware of his mortality and knack for landing himself in unfortunate situations. He has, after all, died four times during his lifetime. 

Regardless of Bilbo's dark musing about life and thoughts about his intimate relationship with Death, the time in Rivendell is a pleasant one and for the first time he sees another side of the Company. A side that is much more relaxed and relieved, one that is caring and fond and maybe just a touch too rough for Bilbo's tastes, but quite lovely all the same. 

He sees, for the first time, what Thorin Oakenshield -- Dwarf and King Under the Mountain To Be, avid hater of Bilbo Baggins -- looks like when he's not all tense and unhappy. Their fearsome leader has a rather unmistakeable soft side, the hobbit learns, and an unparalleled love for his Company that is almost tangible, but not half as obvious as his adoration of his nephews.

Thorin Oakenshield really has very blue eyes and a good posture, strong shoulders, big hands--

Bilbo catches himself considering Thorin's respectability and wonders what Belladonna would think--

And he knows, slowly but instantly, that he's in over his head this time.

---

Their stay in Rivendell is as wonderful as it is brief; they steal away like thieves in the night, long after the sun has set and hours before it arises once more. Their packs are heavy, but their hearts relatively light and they cover a long distance before they make camp for the night.

Nori, of all Dwarves, takes Bilbo aside just after they've had supper and offers to teach him a few tricks that might come in handy if, and inevitably when, they're forced to fight for their lives again. Bilbo readily accepts the generous offer and warns Nori, many times, of his inexperience. Nori just laughs and shakes it off, but an hour later, when he's almost been stabbed twice and has had to correct Bilbo's posture a dozen times, he doesn't look quite as amused.

Nori is a Dwarf, however, and Dwarves are notoriously stubborn, which the Company has proved time and again during their journey. So the next evening after supper, Nori and Bilbo slip aside and practice some more. This time, however, their absence attracts a certain amount of curiosity from their fellow companions, and before long, Bofur is helpfully -- and sometimes, rather unhelpfully -- adjusting Bilbo's stance and offering advice, as well. 

The following night, Fili, Kili and Ori join them; the night after that Dwalin shows up after them, and the night after that, they don't even bother to move away from the camp. Bilbo is taught how to handle small knives and his "letter-opener" and a great many defensive techniques; his stance and his grip on his sword is adjusted a hundred times by countless different hands; he's laughed at and with, but always kindly. Thorin never joins in; he merely sits silently at the far end of the camp and doesn't comment on any of it. 

It might be wishful thinking, but Bilbo reckons that Thorin is beginning to look slightly less hostile than he did before.

---

The trek over the Misty Mountain passes too easily at first; the weather, though chilly, is more than bearable and their humour is good. Bilbo, while still helplessly bad at any sort of fighting, is at least improving and if nothing else, his lessons keep the Company entertained at night.

Thorin deigns to speak to him, not once, not twice, but three times as they travel over the mountain; the first time it's about climbing techniques, the sturdiness of Hobbits and their feet, the second time it's about childhood pranks: a conversation born out of Fili and Kili's mischief. The third time, it's about something so mundane as gardening -- they speak softly, sitting rather closely together by the fire, exchanging barbs and sarcastic remarks.

It's so easy and good that it can only take a turn for the worse, and it does; the weather worsens steadily and when they make camp at night, they cannot afford to light a fire or have fighting lessons. Their journey reaches a new low when they're caught in a battle between stone giants and Bilbo almost loses his fifth life, as he clings desperately to the the side of the cliff wall after he's fallen over the edge. 

Thorin rescues him, but whatever warmth they shared seems to have disappeared when he snarls that Bilbo should never have come-- that he has been lost since he left home, that he has no place among them.

The hobbit hangs his head, but manages a weak smile when Bofur offers him a wet, sympathetic, one-armed hug. 

Perhaps Thorin is right, Bilbo thinks, suddenly aware of the distance between himself and his companions. He thinks about the trolls, and how easy it was for them to snap his neck-- surely, on a journey so dangerous as this, death will be lurking behind every corner, Darkness waiting to claim him again and again until he has no second chances left.

Just five, just five left, he thinks. Perhaps Thorin is right.

---

Bilbo convinces himself that Thorin Oakenshield, Dwarf and King Under the Mountain To Be, is right for once, in that that Bilbo has no place among this Company of Dwarves looking to reclaim their lost kingdom.

He gathers his belongings, straps his sword to his belt, puts his foot in his mouth as he tries to explain himself to Bofur and is halfway out of the cave when the floor opens beneath them.

Whether he's one of them or not matters little when they're all falling.  

---

He awakes from the Darkness before he's healed fully; his skin is whole, but his bones are moving around. His inner organs are not feeling particularly well and his lungs feel strangely wet; his head aches terribly and he can feel his bones mending themselves. He barely has time to brace himself before his spine snaps back into places and he lets out a low, sharp curse.

"Just four, just four left," he breathes to himself, rubbing exhausted hands over sore eyes, his head swimming. He's surrounded by darkness -- a natural darkness that comes from lack of light, rather than the Darkness he emerges from after he's died -- and he can see nothing but black, smell nothing but wet air and feel nothing but stone. 

He can't hear anything beyond his own breaths -- they seem strangely harsh in the silence -- but at least that must mean that the goblin he tumbled down with is either gone or dead. Considering their fall, Bilbo assumes that it's the latter. 

(Bilbo spares a thought for the Company, but wills it away-- he can hardly help them from where he is now, he has to help himself before he can do anything else. Leaving the Company altogether is suddenly entirely out of the question). 

Bilbo gets up on all fours and gropes around in an attempt to orient himself. For a long while, he touches nothing but cold stone; that is, until his hand sweeps over something small and smooth. Bilbo locates it again and brings it close to his face; he can hardly see it in the dark, but he can just about make out its polished surface, as it glimmers in the dim light: an unmistakeable shimmer of gold. It's small and perfectly round and cool to the touch.

A ring.

He frowns slightly, but slips it down in his waistcoat pocket. 

Shortly after that, he finds his sword, thank goodness, and stumbles to hit feet. He thinks he can hear splashing sounds from a bit away and follows his ears to the source of it. He ends up at some sort of lake under the mountain, with a small island of rocks in the middle of it.

Bilbo is quite startled out of his own thoughts, as suddenly a pale, thin, bug-eyed creature comes up out of nowhere.

"Bless us and splash us, my precioussss! I guess it's a choice feast; at least a tasty morsel it'd make us, gollum!" it hisses and when it says gollum it makes the most horrible, swallowing noise at the back of its throat. 

The hobbit once again finds himself in a most uncomfortable situation where he might get eaten, so Bilbo thrusts up his little sword between them and tries to look braver than he is, as he demands, "Who are you?"

What follows is many drawn-out hisses, confusion and the most adrenaline-filled battle of wits Bilbo Baggins has ever been part of.

---

Bilbo manages to outwit Gollum and find his way out of the mountain; he reunites with his friends, survives Wargs and Orcs and Azog the Defiler who, it turns out, is not as dead as previously assumed. He jumps between burning trees, kills not only a Warg but also an Orc, defends a king and flies high in the sky on the back of an eagle.

He finally, finally earns the respect of Thorin -- and the Company -- and Thorin Oakenshield, Dwarf and King Under the Mountain To Be, hugs him, Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit and Baggins of Bag End.

Apart from all the injures and the fact that they have lost many of their weapons and all of their provisions, Bilbo could not be happier. He's alive, his friends are alive, and they're all relatively merry.

Until they're climbing down from the rocky pedestal. They've come halfway down, they've still got a long way to go, and Ori looses his footing. 

Luckily for Ori, Bilbo is walking right behind him. Hobbits, with their bare feet, know what type of ground they can trust and Bilbo sees, before Ori steps on the gravelly, old step that makes him slip, that Ori is about to walk ground that cannot be trusted. As Ori walks on the bad step and looses his footing, Bilbo pushes him forward and into Dwalin, who is walking in front of them. 

It should all be fine after that, except due to some slight miscalculations, Bilbo instead finds himself on the crumbling step and he barely has time to do anything but let out yelp that sounds rather like a shriek, before he's falling, he's falling again, hasn't he fallen enough yet--

His fall lasts only a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity, and he knows what's coming, but it's impossible to brace yourself for death--

Bilbo's head unfortunately collides with a rather pointed stone, so he hardly feels the way his body flattens unnaturally against the ground before Darkness, for the sixth time in his life, claims him.

---

Bilbo's body had just healed from a long fall a couple of hours earlier, so this time the healing process is slower and more painful. He comes to after his bones have mended the cracks and fractures and snapped themselves back into their correct place, but he's awake to feel the warm, magic buzz of skin knitting itself together again and it stings in a way it has never done before. If his head was swimming earlier, it's doing confused belly flops now; it throbs painfully and he couldn't stop little, pathetic whimpers he makes if he tried.

It hurts more this time, and the way his skin feels sticky with blood reminds his unpleasantly of the time with the firework. 

He opens his eyes and is almost blinded, but it's welcome, because at least it's bright-- brighter than the Darkness of death that seems clings to his very soul. Bilbo's not sure whether he's imagining it or not, but it's becoming a bit more difficult to wake up the more times he's died.

Just three, he thinks, just three left.

He becomes aware of the noise around him and the softness beneath him. He frowns, but after a few moments of experimental stroking and patting, realises that it's fur. A fur coat, presumably, and he knows only of one dwarf in the Company that has one. Bilbo blushes and closes his eyes-- it's Thorin's coat, of course it is, it can't possibly be anyone else's. Now that he knows it, however, he can nearly feel Thorin's smell on it, can't do anything but imagine what it's like draped over Thorin's wide shoulders--

Bilbo sits up abruptly, closing his eyes against the dizzy spell that hits him and stubbornly tries to shake the imagery out of his head. His sudden movements startle a shout out of Bombur and then the collective attention of the Company is aimed at Bilbo. 

"Ah, Bilbo!" Gandalf exclaims, from where he's sitting on a large log a few steps away, smoking contentedly on his pipe. "I am very glad that you are back with us, my boy. How are you feeling?"

Bilbo raises a rather eloquent eyebrow and lets it speak for him, instead of saying like death warmed over, as that would probably not be a welcome or witty answer, judging by the grim expressions on the Dwarves' faces. He cards his fingers through his hair and grimaces at the thick clumps of blood -- they will be a right mess to get out ad he briefly wishes he had a comb.

"You have been keeping secrets, halfling," Thorin rumbles, but it sounds neither angry nor menacing. A bit hurt, perhaps, or disappointed, and definitely concerned. 

"I have hardly been keeping secrets. It just didn't-- come up," Bilbo replies lamely, immediately a little defensive. He doesn't like to think about it, but he has had opportunities to bring it up, but every time he's hesitated-- he trusts these Dwarves, his companions and close friends, but there's always been a small, niggling doubt in the back of his mind. What if they decided to use him, only because he can come back if he dies? What if he becomes a guinea pig, a commodity, a--a thing rather than a person?

Bilbo knows, of course, that he's being rather paranoid and that it's downright insulting to think such things of the Dwarves, but his fear is a legitimate one and so he's held back, when he could have told the truth before. Now, however, it is quite inescapable and judging by things, Gandalf has already told them as much as he knows.

The hobbit clears his throat and shrugs a little awkwardly, "While I doubt that you being aware would have helped us any on our journey so far, you know now. And that's what counts, isn't it?"

He offers a smile and none of the Dwarves question him. Fili and Kili still look a little dejected over not having been informed earlier, but Bofur -- bless his soul, the miner has a heart of gold -- looks understanding, his cheeks dimpling even at the slightest hint of a smile. He's slightly pale and he has those uncharacteristic lines of tension in his face, like he had after the troll incident, and Bilbo feels foolishly guilty at having worried his friend so yet again. 

After a few moments of silence, Balin gently wonders how Bilbo was gifted this ability; Bilbo tells them the story of Belladonna Baggins and days of adventure, how she rescued a fairy and was granted this gift. He speaks fondly of his mother, and then a little of his father, and inevitably has to gloss over his past deaths. When he tells them the story of his third death, with the firework, the Dwarves look torn between finding it immensely entertaining and horribly brutal. The hobbit doesn't know what to make of the morbid amusement he feels when he sees their wavering, shifting expressions. 

Eventually, they ask questions that forces Bilbo to try and explain the logistics of it. He doesn't really have the words for it. 

"Nine lives is really just a nicer way of putting it, you know," Bilbo explains, when his companions' faces reflect too much awe for his comfort; he has done nothing to deserve this ability of his, it is not always a blessing and it certainly does not make him any more brave. Rather the opposite, actually. "What is actually means, is nine deaths. Nine times to die and be brought back."

(He doesn't say that he's come to measure his life in deaths, that each death is a milestone that marks a certain period of his life. He doesn't say that he's hated this "gift" of his, and that he's wished that he could stay dead, if only to avoid dying again. He doesn't say that dying is a very unpleasant, painful affair, because that probably goes without saying, and he doesn't say that coming back to life in nearly as unpleasant and painful). 

"How--" Dori clears his throat. "I mean, have you--"

"Have I died on this journey?" Bilbo finishes softly. Dori nods, keen to know, but embarrassed to ask, to intrude. The hobbit nods, "I have."

"How many times?" it is Balin who asks.

"Three," Bilbo answers. So far. 

It is, surprisingly, Bombur that growls, "The trolls."

Bilbo nods again, "Yes."

"And now," Ori gulps, pale and guilty. "The fall. For me."

"It wasn't your fault," Bilbo assures him. Ori nods, but doesn't look convinced. 

"And then? When was the third time?" Dwalin demands.

"Second time, technically," Bilbo corrects and clears his throat, smoothing his hand down his shirt. It really is horribly ruined, but he doesn't have a spare any longer, now that his pack is gone. "The Misty Mountains. I managed to slip away, as Nori said, and I was planning on following you lot-- but a goblin must have heard me, for he came quite out of nowhere and we both-- both took a rather steep fall."

The Dwarves are all rather grim-faced again, and a few of them look slightly ill; Bofur pales another two shades, Dwalin curses the goblins again, Thorin's face is hard and unreadable. Fili and Kili crawl up the hobbit and settle themselves around him -- making him feel rather like a giant teddy bear -- and Oin gruffly examines him, just in case. 

Bilbo is rather overwhelmed. 

"Dying-- dying can't be very nice," Kili murmurs eloquently into Bilbo's neck and the hobbit rolls his eyes slightly before he agrees that no, it is indeed not. 

"You've died many times," Fili continues, his nose buried in Bilbo's hair. "Too many. Yet you came with us on this quest, knowing the risks. Knowing that you could face death again."

"To be perfectly honest, I rather expected to," Bilbo tells them honestly. "And-- no, Kili, don't give me that look-- you too, Fili-- just-- boys," he clears his throat. "Contrary to popular belief, I knew quite well what I was getting into when I signed that contract. I was aware of the risks -- and I signed it anyway. What you must remember is that I am not the only one who is putting my life on the line here -- I'm just the only one who can get it back if something happens."

"But you're sacrificing you extra lives for us," Kili says urgently, worried and sad and in awe all at the same time. 

"And for you it is worth it," Bilbo replies gently, patting whatever part of the princes he can reach as reassuringly as he can. They stay like that for another couple of minutes before he sighs, "As pleasant as this is, I cannot help but notice that you no longer reek of goblin and smoke, which leads me to assume that there is water to bathe in nearby. A bath, I think, is long overdue for me, so if you lads would kindly let me up, I would be delighted to have one."

"Of course," the princes let go of him at the same time, both parting from him with some reluctance. 

"You're right, Mister Boggins, your bath is long overdue," Kili says cheekily, sniffing the air with over exaggerated movements, as he helps Bilbo to his feet. Bilbo pinches his side and smiles slightly as Kili lets out a peal of helpless laughter. 

The hobbit is not particularly surprised that he's appointed a supervisor when he goes to bathe. What does surprise him, is that it is Thorin that comes with him. 

As they're leave the clearing the Company has chosen for the night, Gloin suddenly grabs his elbow and drags him away from Thorin. Not far, but enough to be granted some privacy, as the king to-be waits with surprising patience. 

"Was there something you wanted, Master Gloin?" Bilbo wonders politely. The red-headed Dwarf nods and coughs uncomfortably, before he finds the hobbit's gaze and holds it. 

"It is mighty brave, to know that you're going to risk death and face it anyway," Gloin mutters, head bowed. "I would like to apologise-- you are a great deal more courageous than any of us have given you credit for and I am glad to have you along on this journey. We're going to need all the bravery we can get and you've plenty of it in you, lad."

"I-- thank you, Master Gloin," Bilbo splutters and blushes, feeling vaguely uncomfortable with the praise. "It-- really was nothing-- it-- err, coming with you was just the decent thing to do. It has very little to do with bravery, I think. But, um, thank you."

Gloin nods once, face softening into a grin as he lets the hobbit go and ushers him toward Thorin again. 

Neither Dwarf nor Hobbit speak as they walk, side by side, to the river. They hardly acknowledge each other, until Thorin -- with some difficulty -- folds himself together as he sits down near the edge of the water. 

Bilbo's eyes linger on the King and the way he hunches slightly forward, his ill-hidden pain clear as day, and Bilbo's hands flutter up as he takes an uncertain step forward. 

"I have been seen to," Thorin rumbles in answer to an unasked question and crosses his arms, his eyes never leaving the hobbit. "Do not worry about me."

"You know what," Bilbo mutters and steps back again. He turns his back to the Dwarf and tries his damnedest not to blush as he quickly sheds his dirty, ruined clothes and slinks down to the water, taking long steps out and submerging his body until only his head and shoulders peek up. "I will worry about you, Thorin Oakenshield, because you are wounded--no! Pshh! You are, because you were unnecessarily reckless--"

"I did what had to be done--" Thorin defends, straightening his shoulders and furrowing his eyebrows, as if drawing his face together and puffing his chest up will justify his actions.

"You did not have to charge forward by yourself, while the rest of us were dangling from burning trees--"

"Azog is my enemy--" 

"You do not argue with me while I'm naked!" Bilbo says finally, with as much dignity as he can muster, splashing his hands down to make a redundant point. "You could have waited the two minutes it would take for us to gather out wits about us. Instead you charged at the enemy by yourself. Tell me, Master Oakenshield, where exactly do you think the rest of us would be without you?"

Thorin clenches his jaw, but does not answer. Bilbo tries not to raise an eyebrow in triumph.

"You are our leader," he offers, much more gently. "Our motivator-- we are here because you called upon us. Well, perhaps you did not call on me, but I answered nonetheless and even if you are not my King, you are my leader and a very, very dear-- friend."

Thorin's eyes soften and Bilbo knows that his own expression is stupidly earnest and quite possibly too open, so he clears his throat pointedly and ducks his head under the water.

When he has to reemerge to breathe, he resolutely turns his back to the Dwarf and washes himself as thoroughly as he can, ignoring his overly attentive audience. Once he's done, he turns back around and is surprised to see Thorin standing up, holding out his fur coat as an invitation. He even goes so far as to turning his head away when Bilbo steps out of the water and into the coat, and doesn't look back until the hobbit is wrapped up and no inappropriate bits of him are out in the open.

They sit down in the grass, closer than is strictly necessary. 

The coat falls open slightly over Bilbo's shoulders and a bit of his chest peeks through; Thorin reaches forward, slowly, cautiously, and traces over the daisies with calloused fingers. Bilbo shivers slightly, but doesn't protest. Thorin doesn't ask about the daisies and so Bilbo doesn't tell.

It's quite pleasant, to be clean and safe and sun-warmed, and they enjoy this reprieve mostly in silence, except for the occasional murmurs and silly laughs. When Bilbo turns his head to Thorin, he is not surprised when warm, slightly chapped lips are pressed against his own. 

---

Falling in love really is an awful lot like drowning, except not quite as cold, which Bilbo knows very well from experience. It's about as suffocating and heavy, and it makes his heart pound loudly in his ears and his pulse race; it certainly makes his chest feel as if it's going to explode, and it's quite painful at times, but overall, it is not half as unpleasant as drowning. It's much warmer.

Bilbo almost worries, when Thorin's hand brushes his as they walk amicably beside each other, talking as frequently as they don't, or when their eyes meet from across their camp, or when they lay down together at night to sleep and Thorin's big hand rests warm on his chest, above his heart -- he almost worries when his pulse races and his body flushes and he can feel the beating of his heart in every part of his body: pounding in his fingertips, tickling in his toes. It can't be healthy, he decides, and almost worries about the scant amount of daisies he has left. 

But even if he did lose a daisy or two to the flushing warmth or the shared glances -- to Thorin -- Bilbo thinks that it would be worth it. Falling in love is the nicest kind of falling he's tried so far.

---

Living half-starved in the halls of Mirkwood reminds Bilbo too much of the Winter Fell; making their escape down the river in the barrels reminds him of his first death, half-remembered and distant as it is, when he drowned. 

But he survives, and so does his Company. 

Three, just three left, thrums through his veins, even as Bilbo cautiously lets himself hope that he might come out of this quest alive and maybe even with a spare daisy left. Maybe, just maybe.

---

During the Quest for Erebor -- the daring exploit by thirteen Dwarves and one Burglar Hobbit, where the endgame is to defeat the fire-breathing dragon, Smaug the Terrible -- the Burlgar Hobbit is, understandably, incinerated. Ironically, he is incinerated before he even meets the dragon. Bilbo dies of fire in Laketown.

Dwarven paranoia is a strange, dangerous thing, especially when coupled with the breathless hopefulness that has seized all the dwarves. Being so close to Erebor has changed them, somewhat, and Bilbo is not sure what to make of it -- they're still themselves, but not quite. There are moments here and there when he catches an untamed wildness in their eyes that has never been there before.

None of the Dwarves are exempt, but how affected they are varies; Fili and Kili are mostly just wilder and more excited than usual, and Ori takes uncharacteristically long breaks from his writing, just to stare in the direction of the Lonely Mountain. Bombur is hardly any different than usual, but Bofur's smile is too sharp, gleeful but not as friendly as before; even Bifur, the gentle soul that he is, is strangely rougher and rowdier than Bilbo has come to expect. Dori fusses less, Nori sneaks about and casts suspicious glances over his shoulders more, Dwalin's hand twitches toward his axes at every little noise, Gloin -- behold! wonder of all wonders -- speaks less of his family and more of olden days, and so on. 

There's an undeniable change in all of them.

It's like an epidemic spreading amongst the Dwarves. Bilbo tries to chalk it up to their home finally looming so close to them, but it's difficult to make excuses for them when they switch to Khuzdul halfway through a meal so that any Men that may be eavesdropping won't hear of their plans, or when Thorin forgoes interacting with Bilbo -- and the others -- in favour of silently gazing at his kingdom to-be.

Bilbo doesn't feel that he has a right to point it out or complain, however; he does not know what it's like to lose a home and then be so close to reclaiming it. So he stays quiet and tries not to think about his impending meeting with the dragon.

The day before they leave Laketown, Nori reports that he has seen some suspicious activity and heard some Men talking about Erebor. Thorin immediately gathers up his Company and issues out orders to try and locate these Men and find out more about these rumours: there might be people who plan to attack the Dwarves once the dragon is dead and the city is reclaimed, Men who greedily yearn for Dwarven riches. 

And so the Company splits up to snoop around the town. 

Bilbo wanders for hours before he overhears two Men muttering about Dwarves and follows them without a second thought. He follows them to a worn-down, wooden house at the edge of the town, a bit away from any other building. 

He slips on his ring and follows the Men into the house.

"--don't know what good it'll do 'em," one of them says. He has a mighty beard, which is the only extinguishing thing about him. "If the dragon's not dead, they might just wake it and set it on us! And then what'll we do? We don't have no gold to offer a dragon. It'd just kill us all, burn it all down!"

"Don't worry so much about it," another Man says as they walk though empty rooms in the wooden house, lifting a few things here and there and grabbing the occasional forgotten object. Bilbo pads after them as quietly as he can -- taking extra care to keep his steps light as he climbs the stairs -- and silently mulls over what the Men are doing in this house that has so obviously been emptied of nearly everything for a reason. A sharp, vaguely familiar scent hangs in the air, but Bilbo can't quite place it. 

"If the dragon lives," the Man continues. "They might kill it, and if not, I trust Bard to protect us all with his life. And who knows? If we're really lucky, the Dwarves might kill the dragon even as it kills them, and we can swoop in and claim the treasure!"

The two Men laugh and Bilbo frowns. The Dwarves' paranoia is, it seems, not entirely unfounded.

"As if," the bearded Man snorts and stops to fiddle with something on a door handle. "They'd come back from beyond to haunt us, if only to keep us away from their treasure! You know how Dwarves are."

They leave the room and before Bilbo can follow them, the door falls shut and something clicks. 

"That never door never could stay unlocked," the bearded Man says, suddenly mournful, from the other side of the door.

"No," the other Man agrees. "It's a shame that they're rebuilding this place from the ground, it really is. Holds too many memories, if you ask me."

"They can't keep it because of sentimental reasons," the bearded Man points out and they keep talking, their voices becoming more muffled and distant as they walk away. 

Bilbo suddenly goes cold. His heart is in his throat as he slips off the ring and tries to open the door, but -- as expected -- it's locked. He's in the last room on the second floor: there is literally no way out of here. He swallows thickly and tries very hard not to panic.

He can place the vaguely familiar scent now-- it's some sort of flammable oil, no doubt, and this old house is dry and wooden. They're going to tear it down and the easiest way to get rid of tree is with fire. They're going to burn the house down and Bilbo cannot get out.

He runs to the window, but he's too short to see out of it and there is no furniture he can stand on top of. He jumps and waves his hands, but he can't hear anything any more, just knows-- knows that they're going to light the fire any minute now, and he can almost feel the floor heat up in anticipation.

When he hears flames roar to life and shortly thereafter the first tell-tale cracking of burning wood, Bilbo starts shouting for help. He tries the door again, but no matter how much he kicks, scratches and beats at it, it won't budge; he runs back to the window and screams and jumps and waves his arms, but nothing happens. 

He is truly alone. 

Panic is building behind his eyelids and and he sways dangerously. Bilbo slides down and leans against the wall, puts his head between his knees and tries to breathe. He remains sitting for too long -- he can feel the floor starting to heat up -- and he forces himself up on unsteady legs and back to the window. If he can just open it, or break it, he can get out-- surely another fall would be preferable to burning to death, and a drop from the second floor might not even kill him, if he's lucky. 

But no matter what Bilbo does, the window latch is too high and he is too short to gain any leverage to break the window. All he can hear is the sound of his own loud, harsh breathing and the cracking, roaring flames licking their way around the house; even with his thick soles the floor feels scalding and black smoke has begun to seep in from under the locked door. 

Bilbo is crying, but his skin is too hot for him to notice, he screams for help but none comes.

---

It takes longer than he expected for him to die-- black smoke is thick in his lungs and he can hear things breaking apart and the floor feels unsteady; his skin is boiling unnaturally and everything hurts so much that he can hardly feel it.

It's the smoke that gets him: thick, black, unforgiving as it chokes its way down his throat, into his nose, suffocates him, weighs him down. His eyes sting and it's a sweet relief when Darkness finally embraces him.

---

--he opens his eyes suddenly and becomes aware that's he's screaming again, or still screaming, he can't tell--his skin is flaking off and healing over and burns and melts off again--he can't see anything but read and black, brightness sharp in his eyes, and he's screaming, screaming, screaming--

---

When Darkness finally lets go of him, it's dark outside; the sky has grown dark and the stars are glittering with a weak cheer that makes him want to cry. 

Bilbo sits up and rubble falls to the sides. He's naked, but even he can hardly tell with the way he's covered by soot and charcoal. The remains of the house are still smoking leisurely, but's not so hot any longer, at least.

A glimmer of gold catches his eyes and Bilbo feels a strange, sharp relief when he finds his ring-- he hadn't even known he'd lost it, but now that's holding it again he lets out a deep breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. 

It's entirely too cool in his hand; he'd expected it to still be hot to the touch, but it's not and he frowns briefly but ultimately shrugs it off. He climbs to his feet and breathes deeply through his nose; he's sore and achy all over, his skin aching in a way it never has before, but he chalks it up to the fire. 

His memories are blurry and he can hardly remember dying, which is probably a blessing. He can remember the pain too well, however, and the smoke, and the way his skin--

Bilbo stumbles away from the remains of the house and empties the meagre contents of his stomach on the ground. He takes a moment to curl around himself and breathe, because he can breathe now, and the air is sweet on his tongue and in his lungs. 

With a great big effort, Bilbo gets to his feet again, slips on his ring and begins to stagger back into town. He's cold, shivering, and he wants nothing more than to clean himself. He longs desperately for a bath, but not a hot one -- he doesn't think he can handle that at the moment. Lukewarm will be perfect.

The walk is longer than he remembers it being earlier today and he is just about ready to weep from relief when he catches sight of the inn again. He sneaks inside and ghosts up the stairs and into his and Thorin's room, takes the ring off with a sigh. He mindlessly grabs spare clothes and goes to search for the bathroom, but catches sight of himself in a mirror--

Bilbo looks worse than he thought he did. He has a few burns, which is to be expected, as he got a few burns after he'd come back and healed. His hair is several shades darker than it's ever been before, matted with dirt, soot and blood; his skin looks raw, where it's not black from soot. But what makes Bilbo's breath hitch painfully, is the sight of his chest-- the spot over his heart where his daisies reside is relatively clean, compared to the rest of him, but what makes him freeze and tremble is that there is only one daisy left. A single daisy. One life.

Just one, just one left, he chants even as the memories of dying and waking up and dying again hit him like a tidal wave and turn his knees to jelly. With a choked noise, Bilbo tears away and finds the bathroom by touch alone.

One left, just one, just the one-- and for what? Harmless gossips, that's what. The Men may not have held any love for Dwarves, but they were not going to do anything, and that seemed to be a sentiment mirrored in most Men of Laktetown. 

For a moment, for a short second, Bilbo is angry-- he is furious and he can't do anything but growl and kick uselessly at the closest cabinet. He wants to yell and stomp and cry, because he only has one second chance left, he lost two in a row to Dwarven paranoia and-- and in the moment that Bilbo is rightly furious, he blames the Dwarves, because he has died so many times for them and—and--

The fight seeps out of him with a long breath and he scrubs a hand over his face. He would die for them again, he knows, and he doesn't really blame them, not really, it's not their fault. Hobbits do not hold grudges, so Bilbo sighs and lets the resentment go; he is going to enjoy a bath now, and then have supper. He has a bad day, and he will doubtlessly remember it for longer than he cares to, but he can put it behind him for now. 

Bilbo bathes in lukewarm water that he has to change twice, as all the filth comes off of his body; he washes his hair with sweetly scented soap and scrubs between his toes and combs the hair on his feet. By the time he's finished, he almost feels like a new hobbit altogether.

He scrubs his skin carefully, as it's still slightly raw, and pulls on his spare clothes with great care. He brushes his hair, puts the ring back in his pocket and leaves the room. 

The Dwarves are already in the middle of supper when he arrives, but he doesn't mind. Bilbo slips into a seat at the end of the table, loads his plate with food and eats without as much as looking at anyone else. It takes a while for everyone to notice him and when they finally do, all he gets is a few raised eyebrows and confused frowns. 

"Where have you been?" Thorin demands roughly, when the hobbit doesn't immediately offer up any words of explanation, despite that he's been quietly stared at for several, long minutes.

Bilbo grits his teeth and closes his eyes briefly; he is tired, the smell of smoke seems permanently stuck in his nose and his skin feels tight; his body aches and he's still struggling to breathe deeply without coughing. The bath had been soothing and he thought he was ready to face these Dwarves, but it appears that he was not; he feels a hot surge of irritation and can't quite be bothered to hide it.

"Snooping around, just like you asked me to," he answers tersely.

"Did you find anything?" Thorin asks and Bilbo almost wishes they were out in the wild again, sitting around a campfire, because at least then his dwarves weren't quite so brusque and absurdly distant. They were certainly rude then, but it was manageable, and they were not
half so ungrateful as they are now.

"No."

"That was many hours ago," Bofur points out, frowning slightly. "Where have you been all day?"

"I thought I found a lead and I followed some Men to a house on the other side of town," Bilbo says, carefully. He remembers his skin flaking off too well; he can feel the thick smoke, almost like water, choking him, weighing him down. "As it turns out, the Men were nothing but harmless gossips and the house was scheduled for burning."

As understanding dawns, the Dwarves come back a little to themselves, become slightly less distant than before and Bilbo is morbidly pleased, and slightly appalled at himself for it.

Bofur clenches his jaw and shifts closer. He breathes out slowly and asks, "How many?"

"One," the hobbit answers truthfully. Just one, just one left.

---

The shock of Bilbo dying really does seem to have done the trick, because Thorin comes to find him that night, and while his eyes are still slightly clouded, it is nothing compared to how they have been the last couple of days.

Thorin doesn't apologise and Bilbo doesn't expect him to, but the Dwarf's hands are gentle, his kisses as soft as they are thorough, and he spends a long time lavishing his undivided attention to the single daisy left on Bilbo's chest. 

His breaths are hot on Bilbo's skin, but not unbearably so, and with every touch, Thorin seems to return to himself a little more. 

Clothes are shed, words are murmured against skin and on this evening, this night, in this moment-- everything is right in the world.

---

If Bilbo thought that his companions acted off in Laketown -- when they were still but in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain -- it is nothing compared to what the gold fever does to them, when the dragon is dead and they have reclaimed Erebor and their treasures. They become warped and foreign and he hardly recognises any of them.

Bilbo thinks about Fili and Kili; Bifur, Bofur, Bombur; the brothers 'Ri and all the rest of his companions. He thinks about Balin's softly spoken tales, Dwalin's gruff advice, Oin's sometimes purposeful deafness, Gloin pride over his lovely family--

He thinks about Thorin, about his blue, blue, blue eyes and feels his heart ache. They had-- something, something soft and red-hot and secretly tender, when they were still in Laketown -- and Bilbo knows, then, when he finds the Arkenstone before anyone else, that he must do something unforgivable.

---

Lurking invisibly is stupid, Bilbo states to himself, after he's stupidly lost his last second chance by sneaking on paranoid archers.

He felt awful enough before he was shot in the back by trigger-happy, paranoid Men -- he's just given the Arkenstone to Bard and he knows, he knows that Thorin will never forgive him for this, none of the Dwarves will -- but waking up from the Darkness, he feels impossibly bad.

He has no life left. He is stupidly mortal and disgustingly aware of it -- if he dies now, he will stay dead forever. His chest is bare and naked and completely free of daisies. The worst part is how stupid he feels. He lost his ninth second chance because he stumbled over his own feet; the guards heard a noise and loosed an arrow into the night, because they could not possibly know that it was him they were shooting at, since he was invisible. 

And so it came to be that the nine lives of Bilbo Baggins were lost.

---

"You miserable hobbit! You undersized-- burglar!" Thorin shouts, nearly blind with rage, and Bilbo fairly feels his heart crack and break. Thorin continues to shout, lifts the hobbit into his arms and is about to throw him down to the rocks -- and here Bilbo is certain, he is absolutely sure that his final, permanent death will be at the hands of Thorin, not because of half-pleasant, hot love-drowning, but because Thorin will throw him to his death in his rage -- when Gandalf arrives and makes Thorin set Bilbo down.

Bilbo stutters out an explanation when all he wants to do is apologise and make the haze of gold sickness disappear from Thorin's eyes; he thinks that maybe death would be preferable to this-- being labelled a traitor and sent off with threats and no well-wishes. His companions' -- his friends' -- minds are also weighed by gold fever, but their minds are not tainted to the same extent as Thorin's; but they do not protest when their burglar is sent away, banished -- they stay silent and look away.

Bilbo wants to cry, but he does not; he knows that he has done the right thing, and he does not regret stealing the Arkenstone and giving it to Bard. He just wishes that his dreams of peace and alliance didn't come to such high a price.

---

Bilbo recalls the time when he bathed in the river and nakedly argues with Thorin; he remembers how he'd been so upset he almost choked on his tongue, because Thorin had been so reckless when he'd flung himself into battle, to face Azog alone.

Azog is my enemy, Thorin had said, and there had been an anger like fire in his voice, hotly justifying his recklessness and desperation. 

Bilbo thinks back and recognises some of that reckless desperation in himself now, as he foolishly dresses for battle, slips on his ring and fights for the Company he's been banished from. He cuts and slices and hacks; he shoves and pummels into and fights dirty. He doesn't really know what he's doing -- Nori and the other Dwarves' lessons are far from his mind at the moment -- but it's working for now, saving both him and Men and Elves and Dwarves, so he's not going to stop.

The battle is a blur of blood, red and black, and huge figures falling and fighting; Bilbo's world is sluggish and grey, when he's wearing the ring, but it seems to slow to a stop when he sees Kili-- Kili is flung to the side and Fili gives a mighty cry as he runs to defend his fallen brother, and Thorin looks absolutely livid, in a kingly, bloody way.

Azog -- huge, intimidating, dangerous Azog -- is there and he is intent on killing the royal life on Durin and by the looks of it, he's going to succeed. 

Like most of the stupidest things he's ever done during his nine lives -- sneaking over a bridge full of arguing, big adults, talking toddlers into stealing fireworks, trying to reason with trolls, going on an adventure, and so on -- Bilbo doesn't think this one through. 

He pulls off the ring and runs across the battlefield as fast as his hairy feet can carry him; he hurls himself at Azog, Sting clutched tightly between his sweaty palms, and stabs the Pale Orc in the back.

He falls backwards, after that, and continues to back for as long as he dares; he didn't manage to inflict any grievous injury, sadly, but it's certainly enough to garner Azog's attention. 

"You!" he yells, voice cracking just a little. "Yes--you!"

"Halfling," Azog growls, his voice low and dangerous, the Common Tongue coming out butchered from his mouth. The Pale Orc obviously recognises him from the last time they met and Bilbo's weak in the knees, his his hands are trembling and he is nothing short of sickeningly terrified.

They stare at each other for a long minute, before Azog starts toward him. Bilbo yelps and throws up his sword between them, swinging it uselessly, oh dear, he's going to die here, isn't he--

Fortunately, the brief reprieve was all Thorin needed to regain his wits; while Azog focused all his attention on the little hobbit, the Dwarf had found his sword and risen once more. As Azog comes at Bilbo, King Thorin Oakenshield lifts his sword and with a mighty sweep, severs the Pale Orc's head from his shoulder.

Silence reigns over the battlefield as the head of Azog hits the ground, shortly followed by his massive body. 

Someone, far away, cheers; just like that the battle is alive once more, but now that Azog has fallen the tide of the battle has turned in their favour. Dwarves, Elves, Men and eagles alike, fight with a new fervour, even as goblins and Orcs and Wargs are turning tail and beating a hasty retreat. 

Bilbo blinks and then blinks again. He gapes and swings Sting half-heartedly, but he's in shock; the image of Azog's expression as his head was cut clear off is painted on the inside of Bilbo's eyes and he feels ill, from disgust and fear and relief.

He's so lost in his own mind, that he for a moment forgets that there's still a battle going on around him. He's startled out of his shock by an Orc coming at him and then he has no choice but to fight again; the Orc's axe grazes his arm and Bilbo swears, but doesn't stop fighting. Their weapons meet again and again, until Bilbo finally manages to sneak under the Orc's arm and stab him in the back.

As he lets out a breath of relief, someone shouts, "Bilbo! Duck!"

The warning comes a second too late; the hobbit whirls around, but he has no time to duck or even think--

"Run through by a spear," Bilbo murmurs breathlessly to himself as he stumbles and falls to his knees. "Haven't tried that one before."

Familiar voices and hands are at his side in an instant. Bilbo realises that he's lying down, now, but he has no idea when or how that happened; he looks up and meets the worried, sad, angry, terrified faces of his friends.

He's relieved to see so many of them-- Bofur, Oin, Balin, Ori and Nori. Fili and Kili, bless their hearts, are here as well and Bilbo thinks he might weep to see them so well; they're bloodied and injured -- all of them are, but the two princes in particular -- and they're shifting and hunching in a way that tells him that they're definitely hurting at the moment, but they're all alive.

"Quite a hero, our burglar," Fili mutters distractedly, keeping half an eye on the retreating enemies.

"How many?" Bofur asks, hands sticky and warm as they flutter from Bilbo's brow to his cheek and then his shoulder and elbow. The question is routine by now; he's asked it nearly every night since he found out about Bilbo's daisies.

The hobbit does not want to answer, because he knows that the truth will be hard for them to bear. Banished or not, his friends are here now, and he cannot hold a grudge into death when he knows he won't come back from it.

"Surely you must have one left," Kili says, desperation painful in his voice, sniffling suspiciously. He's leaning over Bilbo and a few drops of blood splash unpleasantly down on the hobbit, but none of them mention it.

"How many?" Bofur repeats, his voice hoarser, tighter.

Bilbo closes his eyes and takes a painful breath, before he looks at his friend and murmurs, "None."

Bofur makes a choked noise that breaks Bilbo's heart. The other Dwarves are not much better, but they have no time to mourn here; there are still enemies around, however few dare to approach. Those that do are killed very passionately, Bilbo's sure, and he can do little but breathe as softly as he can, for it hurts something awful to jostle the spear. It's better than incineration, that's for sure, but it's still not pleasant in the least.

He sees shapes move in the corner of his eye, and he manages to pat Kili's hand, tug at Fili's braid, smile weakly at Balin. He selfishly wishes that his friends weren't so spread out across the battlefield, but there is little that he can do, other than hope for their safety. 

His chest burns. He lets out a wet, harsh cough that reminds him of his fall in the Misty Mountains.

"Listen, laddie," Oin grumbles as he fairly throws himself to his knees beside the fallen hobbit. He curses at everything, in languages familiar and foreign and incomprehensible. "You've managed this far, you can pull through again."

"Don't have magic to help me this time," Bilbo wheezes, aiming for amusing, but fails and coughs more instead.

"Surely you've picked up a few tricks by now," Oin mutters, his voice strangely distant to Bilbo's ears. "You will dodge and evade on your own this time, laddie, that's an order."

Death is familiar to Bilbo by now -- he knows the signs. His heart is beating so loudly it's the only thing he can hear, and it's slowing down; he knows that in a few minutes, it's going to stop altogether and this time he won't wake up. Bilbo Baggins with the Nine Lives has run out of lives. Permanent death is just around the corner.

Oin keeps talking, but Bilbo can't make out a single word.

He's not scared, but rather resigned. He doesn't want to die, not when he knows that it will be permanent, but he doesn't regret his actions. He's died many times on this journey, first for his Company, and then for people he could proudly call friends, who then turned into family.

And now he will die for them again.

For the first time in his life, he will also die for love. 

Bilbo startles slightly when he feels a strong pair of arms slide under his neck and back. He opens his eyes-- he can't recall closing them-- and is not surprised at all to see Thorin, beautiful Thorin, stupid, idiotic, fantastic, stubborn Thorin, whose eyes are no longer clouded by gold fever, but rather too clear, wet with unshed tears, anguished.

Bilbo can't hear Thorin over the sound of his heart beating in his ears, he just sees the King's mouth moving quickly and tightly -- he's ordering people around, as usual. Thorin's blue, blue, blue eyes never leave Bilbo's, though -- and Bilbo can admit that the only thing he will regret is that he never spared a lifetime for surviving with Thorin.

He fixates on Thorin's mouth, tries to read the words he can't hear-- stay, he reads, stay with me, my burglar, my hobbit, stay with me, halfling, don't go-- I love you, forgive me, don't go.

Bilbo might be crying, he's not sure -- well, he probably is, there's a familiar, lump of hurt lodged in his throat, as if it isn't difficult enough to breathe as it is -- he just locates one of Thorin's hands and clutches it as tightly as he can. He can't hear himself either, but he can feel himself speak. I love you, I love you, I love you, he mouths, but his lips are numb, he doesn't know if the words are comprehensible at all.

Bilbo thinks back on his past deaths and knows that he won't be able to evade death this time.

His chest burns, but the rest of his body is cold. He can hear nothing but his own heart.

He clutches Thorin's big hand, looks deep into those blue eyes and then closes his own.

The loud pounding of his heart, in his chest and ears, grows quiet.

Darkness takes him.

---

Like many times before, Bilbo awakes to pain. It is, however, not the kind of pain he's come to expect when he wakes up like this; it's not the warm, buzzing pain that comes with his body healing itself -- broken bones healing over and snapping into place, shredded skin knitting itself together, organs inflating themselves to their normal size. No, this one is sharper and meaner, a pulsing kind of pain that lingers in every little part of his body.

Bilbo hardly spares a moment to reflect over different kinds of pain, however, because he can hardly think through the heavy haze of blurry pain and exhaustion that hangs over his head. Countless thoughts chase each other across his mind and he manages to grasp one of them-- awake. Alive. He's impossibly alive.

"You are very lucky, Bilbo Baggins, that King Thranduil is so fond of you," a familiar voice hums. Turning his head hurts, so Bilbo strains his eyes and glances to the side and confirms that, yes, that if Gandalf the Grey sitting by his bedside, leisurely smoking his pipe. "And even more lucky to be friends with such a skilled, Dwarven healer. Master Oin quite refused to give up on you. He and Dain's healers worked very admirably, side by side with the Elves, to bring you back."

"With th'elves?" Bilbo slurs hoarsely, such incredulity colouring his tone that it startles a deep chuckle out of the old Wizard. 

"Why, indeed," Gandalf nods, putting his pipe aside in favour of helping Bilbo to a drink of water. "Their cooperation was grudging but revolutionary, my dear boy, and quite amusing to watch, once you were stable. They have, as a matter of fact, continued to work together since. Dwarves are healing Elves and Elves are healing Dwarves, and they are all helping the Men, whilst bickering over this medicine and that."

The hobbit can't quite hold back a laugh, but the laugh turns into a hacking cough and it hurts terribly, a burning pain, sharp and cruel and he can't catch his breath-- he wheezes and coughs and every movement spikes pain like lightning through his body. He doesn't, can't, calm until a big hand lands on his forehead and he hears a few low murmurs in a language he doesn't recognise-- but whatever the words mean, they send a cool wave of tranquillity over him and Bilbo sinks back into his bed.

"Th'nks," he breathes and closes his eyes. He's suddenly very tried again, eyelids drooping, exhaustion bone-deep and helpless.

"No worries, my boy," Gandalf replies. "I wish there was more I could do, but I am no healer. However, I shall leave you to rest now, Bilbo. Next time you awake, I'm quite certain that you will have litter of Dwarves descend upon you and for that you'll surely need all the strength you can get."

Bilbo shoots up at the sudden reminder, and yelps in pain; he is pushed back against his pillows by gentle hands even as he asks, a little wildly, "Fine? They're all fine?"

"Your Dwarves are all fine, Bilbo, do not fret. Rather bruised, I would say, and decidedly worried about you," Gandalf answers, calmly, and Bilbo feels boneless once more. "So rest now, Bilbo, regain your strength. You will need it."

---

The next time Bilbo wakes up, it's to find the furnace-like heat of a sleeping Thorin by his side.

The King is wearing almost no armour and the bits of skin that Bilbo can see are covered in bandages; there's a cut along his right eyebrow that is covered in a nasty smelling salve, but other than that he seems fine. He has dark bags under his eyes, however, and is lying very still, which is rather unlike him. Bilbo knows from experience that Thorin is a sprawler that likes to takes up as much space as possible in his sleep, which is about as endearing as it is annoying.

"He was about to pass out," Oin grunts and startles Bilbo's attention away from Thorin. The sudden movement makes him hiss and the hobbit becomes aware of the pain again-- sharp and mean, throbbing. It is more distant now than it was last time, which is a relief. 

"So I ordered him to bed," Oin continues, sounding gruff and looking tired, but his gentle hands, as he swiftly examines the hobbit, betray his relief. "But the dratted thing wouldn't sleep anywhere but here. I told him he could sleep next to you as long as he didn't move."

"And he's been still as a rock since!" Bofur chuckles. Bilbo hadn't even noticed that his dear friend was here, but he's very happy that the Dwarf is. Bilbo glances around the tent and catches sight of Fili and Kili lying haphazardly across each other in another bed on the other side of the tent; Dori, Gloin and Balin are discussing something in low voices near the opening.

"Everyone is alive," Bofur assures him softly, with oddly knowing eyes. Bilbo, of course, is already aware of this -- but hearing it confirmed by one of his Dwarves settles something in his chest. Thorin makes a small noise in his sleep and turns his head into Bilbo's neck, warming the skin there with hot breaths. 

"The battle is won, Erebor reclaimed," Oin nods. "We've got more injured than we do sickbeds, and the politics of it all is enough to give anyone a headache, but it's done."

"Aye, the politics is a nightmare, but at least Bard's given us back the Arkenstone! And that tree-hugging, stuck-up king of the dark woods is being less of an arse than usual. Things are looking up, lad!" Bofur adds cheerfully. 

Bilbo closes his eyes and smiles so widely that his cheeks almost hurt. Thorin shifts closer to him.

"That is-- quite fantastic," Bilbo murmurs, grimacing minutely as he breathes too deeply, sparking a pain through his chest again. "I-- and-- thank you."

"Oh, here comes the thanks!" Bofur hollers, chuckling again. He's got those lines of tension in his face again and every laugh is too sharp with relief, so Bilbo reaches out and takes his hand. Bofur squeezes it gratefully before pulling back.

"Aye, this time it ain't no fairy you've got to thank, Master Baggins," Oin huffs, chest puffing out with pride and deflating with relief. "You didn't tip over to the other side -- you stayed and listened to orders."

"For once," Bofur adds cheekily, his goofy grin wide and infectious.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Bilbo says, the words coming out softer and less haughty than intended. It's difficult to be witty and clever with a King, like a great big teddy bear, glued to his side. "I am perfectly good at listening to orders."

Bilbo freezes as Thorin shifts again, giving a quiet groan that sounds a bit awake.

"Listening to them, yes," Thorin rumbles sleepily, still mostly out of it. "Following them? Not so much."

Bofur laughs loudly and Oin chuckles along. Thorin's sleepy grin is too smug and Bilbo really can't do anything but tut and kiss it away.

He thinks, then, that he might be stupidly mortal, with no second chances left-- but he's rather happy despite it. As every death in his life has led him to this very moment, Bilbo can't regret a single one.