Thorin/Bilbo - Coming Home
Title: Coming Home
Author: yellow_craion
Disclaimer: It's called fan-fiction for a reason!
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Thorin/Bilbo, Company
Warnings: Major character death(s) but worry not, there is a happy ending! Oh, and I took some liberties with the timelines…
Prompt: Everyone survives, except Bilbo. Years later, when Thorin finally closes his eyes for the last time, he finds himself in front of a familiar door, in a familiar Shire. Bilbo and Thorin are reunited at last. Make me cry, anon! - from HERE
Author's note: I hope it's satisfactory. I've never written a story in only 3 days and this is my first Hobbit fic. Con-crit is always appreciated!
Something died deep inside him that horrible day, when Thorin saw Bilbo fall amongst the corpses of Dwarves. The same iron fist that had gripped his heart so long ago when he'd watched his grandfather's head roll downhill was back and clutched at his battered heart once more.
He rushed to Bilbo's side with a scream and sliced off the head of an Orc that pierced Bilbo with his blade, while other Dwarves surrounded the two of them, creating a barrier and keeping the enemy at bay. Thorin pulled Bilbo frantically onto his lap, his Hobbit's head resting against his chest. "Stay with me, Halfling!" In a manner of seconds his hands, pressed tightly over the Hobbit's stomach, became sticky with blood that was still spilling copiously from the wound as if mocking his desperate efforts. The king risked a glance at his face; it was ashen and contorted with pain, yet the Hobbit's gaze was steadfastly fixed on Thorin. Bilbo took his last, ragged breath and as Thorin watched life go out in his Hobbit's eyes, so did a flame inside him fade.
His nephews, miraculously alive after the Battle, dragged him from the brink of despair. Fili and Kili kept him alive after he'd lost Bilbo. It was for them that he kept going and each day Thorin thanked Mahal for sparing them and his faithful company. Yet moments of gratitude and happiness were often cut short when Thorin looked around to find there was always that one person missing.
Even many years later, there were still days, when grief overwhelmed him, when it grew too strong and threatened to swallow him whole. Those days the king spent secluded in his chambers; but he wasn't alone. As he was lying on his bed, Bilbo sat there with him, telling him to be strong for his people. Sometimes he would feel his Hobbit's gentle fingers combing through his long hair, while he told Thorin stories of days long gone.
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Thus he lays there on his death bed, Balin on one side, his nephews on the other and the rest of his company scattered around. He's the King Under the Mountain but what good is his title now, when he can do nothing to console his heartbroken family and friends?
He's so very tired of fighting - all his life he battled Orcs and goblins, but most of all he's tired of fighting his grief. And now, he can finally rest. Yet whatever comfort he can get from that relief is laced with guilt at leaving his nephews forever.
"Fili, Kili…" he forces his hand up, to reach them but he's too weak. Then suddenly they envelop his hand in theirs and Thorin can't tell where Kili's palm ends and Fili's begins, with their fingers intertwined with his own.
"We're here, uncle," they both say, chocking on their tears and fighting to give Thorin a smile. They fail miserably but he doesn't mind it one bit. He's grateful nonetheless.
"I know you will make me proud," he says with conviction before he glances to his other side, where Balin stands quietly, running his fingers over Thorin's bicep in a comforting gesture.
"You don't need to worry, lad. They'll be in good hands."
Thorin smiles faintly, equally grateful and apologetic. When he no longer has the strength to draw breath, he closes his eyes for the last time.
Balin's infinitely warm and hopeful voice reaches his ears, "May you find peace now, laddie." And as he feels himself slipping away, there are fists gripping at his tunic and splashes of wetness on his chest.
---
Unexpectedly, Thorin finds he's strong again, just like he once was so long ago, when he set out to reclaim Erebor. He takes a deep breath and realization hits him that he's not underground anymore. The air smells of freshly cut grass and sunshine is warming his face. He's outside. How he got here, he can't tell, yet he's not worried. No, what he feels spreading inside him is contentment - something he hasn't felt since Smaug came and took his home from him. He wonders if this is how death feels like - calm.
And then, he opens his eyes.
Round wooden door is before him. One that he'd recognize anywhere. The same one he stood at that night when he met his Hobbit for the very first time.
He steps closer and touches it gingerly, heaving a deep sigh when his fingers meet solid wood.
Instantly, Thorin starts pounding on it as if a pack of Orcs was there to get him.
A familiar, slightly exasperated voice carries from the other side, "…coming, I'm coming!" and Thorin can barely control the moisture gathering in his eyes and blurring his vision.
There stands his burglar, right in front of him; surprise on his face giving way to a radiant smile. "Thorin," he says softly, almost as if he's been expecting the king to show up at his doorstep.
For all the Dwarf knows, he has.
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