Chapter Text
Thorin is dying, bleeding out on the cold stone, and Bilbo's entire world narrows to him, frantically running down the snow slick stairs as the dwarf’s wet coughs sound harshly in the still ruins.
“Bilbo-!” He gasps, and Bilbo puts a hand against his chest. “Don’t move!” he scolds, “Don’t move, lie still!” He almost gags when he gets his first look at the gruesome wound in his torso. “I’m glad you’re here,” He speaks over him, ignoring his shushing. “I know that I- I have torn us irreparably, but I wish to part with you in friendship, at least.”
“No!” He snaps quietly, still fussing over his wound, “You are not going anywhere, Thorin. You’re going to live, whether you like it or not! And we will go back to Erebor together, and- and you’re going to continue being King and training Fili as your heir and we’ll stop him and Kili from getting into too much mischief, and-” Thorin interrupts him with a hand clasped onto his wrist.
“I take back- my words to you at the gate,” He grunts out, hand shaking, “You did- what only a true friend would do. Forgive me… I was too blind to see.” He gasped, sliding his hand up Bilbo’s arm. “I am so sorry. That I have led you into such peril.”
The hobbit’s face cracked for a moment as Thorin choked on a cough, before he mustered a shaky smile. “No, I-I’m glad to have shared in your perils, Thorin, each and every one of them! That is- That is far more than any Baggins deserves, I’d not have it any other way, not in a hundred lifetimes. You mean far more to me than I ever dared to say, you must know that.”
Thorin huffed, a soft smile finally making its way onto his face. “Farewell, Master Baggins,” he breathed out, and Bilbo shook his head even as he continued speaking. ”Go back to your books… and your armchair. Plant your trees, watch them grow.” He let go of his arm to reach a weak hand into his coat, and with what little strength he had left, pressed a small object into Bilbo’s hand. “If more people… valued home above gold? This world would be a merry place.”
“No!” He sobbed out, reaching up his empty hand to hold Thorin’s face. “No, no, no, no, Thorin! Don’t you dare!” The smile did not leave the dwarf’s face as he tightened his grip around his hand, their palms cupped together. "A courting bead. 'ts for you. I wanted- I wanted to give it to you."
"Thorin-"
"Please. You don't have to- to say yes, but I want you to-" He gritted his teeth as his vision swam. "I wanted you to have it anyway. To remember me."
"You- of course it's Yes, you ridiculous dwarf. And- and you'll make good on this promise! Do you understand me?? I won’t need to remember, because you’ll be there, and I expect-" He choked on a sob. "I expect to be properly wooed by you! All the bells and whistles!"
Thorin's smile shifts to a grin, a tiny, pained thing. "But of course, Master Baggins." He squeezed his trembling hand as tight as he could manage around the Hobbit's. "I'd offer nothing less than my-" he grunted. "-my full... hearted devo.... devotion." His eyes lost their focus, and his hand went slack, the breath slipping from his lips. Another did not follow it.
He whimpers and shifts to lay around him, to let him see the sky, one hand slid into his hair to cradle his head, and the other on his chest, patting and shaking carefully. “Hold on, Thorin, hold on,” he whispers, “You've gotta hold on. The Eagles!” He points up, cheek pressed to his blood matted hair, “The Eag- The Eagles are here, see? Thorin!” He pulls back, the hand still holding the bead trembling as he uses it to muffle the wail rising in his throat. Winged shadows pass over them as he curls inward, forehead pressing against Thorin’s shoulder. Still, and cold, and soaked with blood.
Bilbo exists in a grief stricken haze. Distraught, he makes the journey back to the Shire alone, leaving before the healers had even confirmed his passing. He knows it was selfish of him, but he's unable to bear his grief, and unable to bear the grief of those around him. He does not even clean the blood from the courting bead, he never sees the craftsmanship hidden underneath, cannot bear to see it and recognize it as Thorin’s work. It is all he can do to bring himself to obey Thorin’s last wish to him.
When he returns to his Hobbit Hole in Bag End, haggard and trail-worn, he plants the acorn from Beorn's garden in his own, along with the bead. Desperately, he hopes that a strong oak will grow from it, with the bead nestled in its core. He cannot bear to look at it every day, and think of what he has lost. But perhaps like this, something will grow of what could have been anyways.
He tends to it religiously. Not once does it go a day without water, or without fertilizer. And everyday, he speaks to it. Whispering love and devotion into the growing sapling. Yavanna blesses him, for the sapling grows tall and wide with an inexplicable swiftness.
Two years pass, and it is a warm Midsummer’s morning when a hollow opens in the tree, and laying there is a baby. Tiny, nude, covered in dirt, and wailing loud enough to attract the attention of his entire neighborhood. He pulls the babe into his arms, baffled and confused, and the little one stops crying, snuffling as he settles in closer.
Baffled, that is, until the babe's fist unfurls, revealing the courting bead that was held tight in his grasp, free of blood to show the brilliant blue and green swirls inlaid in silver. Baffled, until he blinks up at him with eyes as bright and blue as Thorin's, framed by thick, dark, curled hair that he could only have gotten from the dwarf. Baffled, until he sees that his ears are just a bit too round to be fully hobbit, though the fuzz on his feet is just as you'd expect.
He takes the little one inside, to wash and bundle until he can get actual baby clothes. He names him Frodo. The overwhelming grief eases slightly, now having this piece of both Thorin and him to cherish.
When Frodo is but a fauntling, not quite two years old but toddling around the house with an energy that Bilbo envies, there comes a knock at the door. "Just a moment!" He calls, settling Frodo back into his play pen, even as the fauntling reaches for him and whines. "I'll be right back, little one, hold tight." He promises, hurrying over to the door. Perhaps it's his gardener?
"Terribly sorry for that," he starts as he opens the door. "I'm afraid that Frodo is... a bit... fussy..." He trails off, color draining from his face as he looks upon a face he'd thought he'd never see again.
Thorin stands there, looking uncharacteristically nervous, and gives him a tense smile. "Hello, Bilbo."
The hobbits' eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed backwards into a faint.