Clarity of Vision, Chapter 23
Title: Clarity of Vision, Chapter 23
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin, Kili, Fili, Balin, Dwalin
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: G
Word Count: 3900
Story Summary: In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an artifact that will cure the ailing King Thrór.
Chapter Summary: A daring escape from Moria, followed by a spot of tea.
Bilbo Baggins licked his lips nervously, and tasted soot and blood. Moria's soot.
Thorin's blood.
The golden ring was heavy on his finger as he crept down the corridors away from the cells where the dwarves were being held. The world seemed strange somehow--as if there were an eerie wavering light around everything. But he still didn't truly believe until he rounded a corner and came nearly face-to-face with an orc guard.
He flinched back, stifling a gasp--and the guard looked at him and through him, and its gaze moved on, incurious.
After that Bilbo was less worried, although never truly comfortable as he ghosted through the halls of Khazad-dûm, creeping--not forward toward freedom, but back the way he had come.
Finally he found himself back in the great hall he had seen before. It was now filled with orcs, stomping and belching and gobbling rank and gristly gobbets of food. In the back, the cave troll glared at them all with its little, close-set eyes.
Bilbo slipped through the crowd, dodging hobnailed boots and drunkenly waved flagons, until he found an orc with a ring of keys on its belt and made a note of his seat. Then he made his way back to where the troll was--its nostrils flared as he drew close, making Bilbo freeze, but it wrinkled its brow and subsided. Reaching back and groping in his pack, Bilbo pulled out his secret weapon.
A pewter pepperpot.
Unscrewing the lid, he shook a healthy heap of ground pepper into his hand and moved to stand directly in front of the troll. He could feel its hot breath, and a drop of drool flicked out to land on his foot, making him shudder.
With a swift motion, he blew the pepper up the troll's nose.
The troll reared back with a roar of shock and fury, flinging its arms around to batter its unseen tormentor. Shrieks broke out in the hall as it seized the wooden bars and yanked, bursting them asunder with a howl of triumph before falling on the orcs.
Bilbo dodged and scrambled, avoiding flying orcs while looking for the one with the keys. He had nearly begun to curse his stupid plan when he heard a jangling crunch as the orc he was looking for smashed into the wall next to him and crumpled to the ground. "Sorry," muttered Bilbo with not a great deal of sincerity as he extracted the keys.
He ran back to the cell as fast as his singed feet could take him.
The dwarves didn't respond at all when he burst into the room. Balin, Dwalin, Fíli and Kíli were all sunk in their private thoughts, and Thorin--Bilbo's heart smashed into the walls of his chest when he saw his face, smiling and peaceful and still. Running forward, he jammed a random key into the lock and nearly sobbed aloud as the door popped open.
Thorin's eyes opened and he stared at the open door blankly, and Bilbo realized he had forgotten to remove the ring. "It's me," he blurted, pulling it off. "We have to hurry."
"Bilbo?" Thorin looked at him as if he had just woken from a dream. "But you're..."
Bilbo couldn't help grinning as he hurried to unlock the other cages. "The orcs are having a little cave troll problem, and we're moving--fast."
Dwalin was already grabbing their packs and weapons from the corner and handing them around. Thorin was still staring at Bilbo. Slowly, a scowl marred the quiet wonder in his face. "You idiot," he snarled. "You were supposed to be on your way home now."
Bilbo reached out and grabbed his hand. "And I am," he said. "But I'm not going without you. So stop complaining and let's go!"
Still holding Thorin's hand, he dragged him from the room and down the hall.
They made their way west, moving fast through the echoing halls. They encountered no pursuit--by the time the cave troll had been subdued and their escape discovered, their trail would have gone too cold. Somewhere in the depths of Moria, Azog would be disemboweling his minions and raging, swearing hideous vengeance on all the line of Durin.
And far to the west, the dwarves and Bilbo emerged into a pale silver pre-dawn, safe on the other side of the Misty Mountains.
They lost little time in descending from the west gate, quietly skirting a dark pool that bubbled ominously but stayed quiescent. The valley was dusted with snow, and when the sun lifted over the mountains behind them it lit everything up in a blaze of rose and argent for a moment.
"This is far enough," said Thorin, raising a hand. "We can stop for a moment." The rest of his party dropped where they stood, collapsing onto the ground to take great whooping gasps of icy air.
"Bilbo," said Dwalin after a while, staring at him. "Bilbo Baggins, by Durin!"
And then the dwarves were crowding around him, roaring with laughter and thanking him. Dwalin thumped him on the back and Bilbo hissed a small breath between his teeth; Thorin caught Dwalin's hand out of the air before it could connect again. "He is injured."
Bilbo shook his head at Dwalin's apology. "This little scratch? It hardly hurts at all." He flexed his shoulders and stifled a gasp at the movement. Looking down he saw fresh crimson spreading on the woolen jumper.
He looked up to see Thorin brandishing a knife and felt his eyes widen just a bit. "We need to remove it quickly and bandage the wound," Thorin explained.
Bilbo backed away, protesting weakly: "Not my lovely jumper, oh dear." But it was no use; the jumper was cut away.
"The waistcoat too," Thorin said grimly, and Bilbo moaned as if the knife were cutting his flesh rather than his clothes.
"Not my second-best…" Thorin gently pulled the cloth aside and he saw his shoulder. The world went a bit dim and the next thing he knew he was looking up at Fíli and Kíli's concerned faces, framed by the sky. There was cloth beneath his head. "What am I doing down here?" he said, confused.
"Getting bandaged, so hold still," came Thorin's gruff voice. "And don't look."
Bilbo took his advice.
"And your feet are burned, you foolish hobbit," he heard Thorin mutter after a while. Gentle hands, cool as stone, cupped his feet. For the first time he became aware of the pain in the soles, but he was more aware of the fingers brushing against his instep. "Balin, fetch some salve. How in Durin's name did you burn your feet?"
"Oh," said Bilbo, distracted by the sensation, "The library, I suppose." Then he sat up straight, throwing off Thorin's hands. "The library!" Scrambling to his feet, the pain of the blisters forgotten, he ran to his pack and opened it. "I…" He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling awkward and unsure for no clear reason. "I got this out of the library before it burned."
The dwarves went silent as he held out the scroll with its midnight-blue tassel to Thorin, who was still kneeling on the ground.
Thorin looked at it, then looked up at Bilbo's face. His brows drew together in something like confusion, something close to pain. Reaching out slowly, he closed his fingers around it, staring down at the ancient paper. Bilbo heard him draw a long breath. "Lucky indeed was the day," he whispered, "When I failed to look where I was going in Bree and collided with the cleverest and bravest heart in Middle Earth."
His voice was shaking and low, very unlike his usual gruff tones. Flustered, Bilbo bounced on the balls of his feet and winced slightly as the blisters reasserted themselves.
Thorin made an annoyed sound at the sight, and his odd mood seemed to pass. "And now you will sit down and give me your foot, you annoying halfling." He handed Balin the scroll and took a small pot from him, reaching out to clasp Bilbo's foot once more.
"Aren't you going to look at the poem?" Bilbo asked. It was very strange indeed to have Thorin kneeling in front of him, smoothing something cool and mint-scented over his skin.
"Soon enough," said Thorin. "We must get further from Moria before we can camp. Give me your other foot," he said. His hands were strong without being rough, and Bilbo couldn't help sighing with relief as he worked the balm into his skin. Then he realized he'd forgotten something else.
"Oh," he said. "I guess I should...return this to you." He felt suddenly reluctant, but he pulled the ring out of his trousers pocket and held it out.
To his shock, Thorin flinched backwards away from him, a wincing involuntary movement. His eyes went to Bilbo's face and Bilbo saw for an instant a deep shame within them. "It was not a loan," he said. After a moment, he reached out and closed Bilbo's filthy fingers around the shining piece of gold. "It was a gift. For better or for worse, it is yours now."
"Oh. Very well, I suppose," said Bilbo, and slipped it back into his pocket with a sneaking feeling of relief. It was, after all, much more useful for him than for Thorin.
Thorin finished working the last of the balm into his feet in silence. Then he stood. "Carry his pack and mine," he said to Dwalin and Fíli. "I shall carry the hobbit. You are injured," he said patiently as Bilbo squeaked and scooted away from him on the rock. "Your feet will not heal if you walk on them."
"You--you're all injured," Bilbo managed as Thorin hoisted him onto his back like a child playing piggy-back. "This is ridiculous."
He felt Thorin's growl reverberate through his chest. "Stop complaining. You complain constantly about unimportant things like clothing and baths, and then say nothing when running leagues on blistered feet with a sword wound in your shoulder. You are the most perverse creature I have ever seen."
"And he's looked in a mirror, so that's saying something," said Kíli, and ducked away from his uncle's glare, grinning.
Thorin straightened, adjusting Bilbo on his back with surprising gentleness. "We march through the morning and put as much space between us and Azog as we can. We shall camp in the afternoon and plan our future paths then." He looked at Fíli. "How does that sound?"
Fíli stopped in mid-step and stared at him. "Why are you asking me?"
"Oh, come now," said Thorin. "You led this party while I was…" He stopped and swallowed.
"Not yourself," Kíli supplied.
"Not well," Thorin amended. "You led us wisely, as my Heir. And I would like my Heir's opinion."
"I--" Fíli looked rather like he might burst with happiness. "I think it's a good plan. But I'd suggest we take turns carrying Bilbo. After all, you--"
"--No," said Thorin. "Your advice is sound," he added hastily as Fíli looked crestfallen, "But if I am unable to carry Bilbo any further, we shall simply stop and camp at that point. He is no burden."
"You know, being discussed as if I were a bag of turnips isn't doing much for my self-confidence," Bilbo griped cheerfully from Thorin's back.
"If your self-confidence needs a boost after rescuing this entire party from the depths of Khazad-dûm, you are a far more insecure person than I thought," Thorin said. "Be content with our eternal gratitude--and let me carry you."
"Oh, very well," sighed Bilbo.
Balin looked back over his shoulder as they topped a ridge, gazing back at the eastern mountains. "'Tis a pity and a shame to flee from the halls of our ancestors," he murmured.
Thorin nodded. "One day, Balin, we shall return and take back what is ours." He turned to the west. "But today we thank Mahal for our lives and move on." A low chuckle thrummed through the leather beneath Bilbo's chest. "Mahal and Bilbo Baggins, that is."
"To Mahal and Bilbo Baggins!" chorused Fíli and Kíli, and soon enough were composing a marching song comparing the god and the hobbit, not always to the benefit of the god ("None of the legends claim Mahal can cook," Kíli pointed out).
The fur at Thorin's collar was soft and warm, despite smelling strongly of smoke and more faintly of orc. After a few moments, Bilbo stopped resisting temptation and nestled his cheek into it, nodding off listening to the song and smiling.
: : :
They camped at last as the sun was reaching its zenith, all of them weary, battered and exalted with the cold clean air and the sparkling sunlight and the joy of being alive. Bilbo tried to help, was roundly shouted down by all the dwarves and ordered to sit still, and ended up sitting on a log and watching with clear trepidation as Kíli and Fíli attempted to make rabbit stew.
Despite carrying Bilbo all day, Thorin's steps still felt light, his mind clear as the mountain air. He sang as he started the campfire--an old love song comparing the beloved's heart to mithril--and after a moment the other dwarves joined in.
The stew was quite edible, and Fíli and Kíli basked in Balin and Dwalin's praise. When Bilbo tasted it and declared it rather good, Thorin feared they might do themselves damage with their back-slapping.
"It is not as good as Bilbo's," Thorin said as he polished off the last mouthful.
"Well, obviously," said Kíli.
Thorin put down his plate and went to Bilbo's side, checking his shoulder. "The wound seems clean. It should heal well."
Bilbo winced as Thorin moved his arm, checking its flexibility. "Shouldn't you be reading that scroll?"
"The scroll has waited thousands of years, it can wait fifteen minutes more." Thorin clasped his uninjured shoulder briefly. "I will not neglect the well-being of those I care about again." He took Bilbo's chin in his hand and moved it left and right, making sure his neck still had a full range of motion. "You seem a little flushed," he said with a frown. "Are you feverish?"
"Me? No, no," said Bilbo, looking flustered. "Not at all. I don't think." He smiled, a small and tentative thing. "I'm just...glad to have you back."
Thorin considered brushing off the statement, contemplated pointing out that he had never been away. Then he merely nodded. "I am glad as well," he said.
He realized he still had Bilbo's chin in his hand--such a strange feeling, that unbearded chin. Months ago he would have said it felt vulnerable, nearly childish. Now he felt the subtle steel in the jaw, the complex strength in the sinews. Bilbo swallowed and Thorin dropped his hand. "If you are well, I shall look at the scroll," he said, his voice odd and formal in his own ears.
"I am--I am quite well," Bilbo said. "Quite well indeed." He nodded. "Read the scroll, Thorin."
Pulling the parchment from his pack, Thorin sat down to read his prize at last.
Most of the poem was exactly the same; Thorin's eyes skipped to the verse that had been corrupted in all the previous copies and his heart leapt to see that it was whole and legible in the version. Taking out his reading glasses--Dwalin gave him a curious look, but he ignored it--he peered at the ancient, looping handwriting.
"Well, if I'd had this verse--" he snorted a few moments later. The rest of the party looked at him curiously. "It specifically says that whatever this item is, it isn't just emerald and alabaster, it also includes amethysts. I would have known it wasn't the glass right away." He felt a sudden sense of relief at the confirmation of the Lady of Lorien's words: the cure is still out there!
"What else does it say?" said Balin.
"Give me a moment, the handwriting is archaic." Thorin narrowed his eyes, tilting the parchment to catch the fading sun, and silence fell in the camp.
"You know what we need?" Bilbo's voice rang out in the anticipatory hush and everyone except Thorin looked at him. He pulled his pack closer and opened it, rummaging. "I think we deserve a treat." He lifted aloft a small, rather squashed paper package. "My viola tea, the last of my treats from the Shire. Just enough for one pot." He chuckled. "I thought I'd be gone from the Shire for no more than a few days. Anyway, I've been saving it for a special occasion, and I suppose being alive after all that qualifies, don't you think?"
"Yes, let's celebrate!" said Fíli.
"Well then," said Bilbo. "Would you put the kettle on, Kíli?"
"With pleasure, Mr. Boggins," said Kíli.
"It's Baggins," Thorin said absent-mindedly.
"I am aware of that," Kíli said with a dignified sniff as he pulled out the kettle and filled it with water from his canteen.
"Now, viola tea is very delicate," said Bilbo. "It's very easy to ruin it, so we must proceed carefully." He slit open the package with his penknife. "Thank goodness it never got wet."
"It smells nice!" said Kíli.
"Like spring," said Fíli.
Indeed, a sweet, grassy scent seemed to fill the clearing, touching the icy air with a whisper of flowers. Thorin took a deep breath of it, his attention riveted by the new lines. The Sindarin twined and twisted, and he painstakingly re-arranged it into Westron:
Upon the fields of emerald, scattered bright
In lands beyond the reach of vengeful waves
Like amethyst and alabaster white
The precious gift that Durin's People saves.
He squinted at the verse. What in the world did that mean? The artifact had been left in a field somewhere? Perhaps hidden in a barrow? But no, that would not be upon a field…
As he scowled at the parchment, Bilbo poured water from the kettle into the battered little teapot he carried. "This is the tricky part," he said. "Viola tea should be a lovely light amber, but if you steep it too long it turns dark and bitter. The timing is terribly important." He hummed slightly under his breath for a moment. "I make my own, sometimes, with the blossoms that grow on my hill in the spring. Such pretty flowers, my favorites. In the language of flowers, they mean 'thoughts,' you know. I always gave my mother a bunch for her birthday, to let her know I was thinking of her."
He was chattering in that charmingly scattered way he tended to when he was a bit nervous; Thorin felt himself smiling, enjoying the sound of it once more. He looked back up at the beginning of his verse, re-reading the lines he knew by heart.
When golden thoughts to gentle darkness turn
And shadows form within the gilded heart
Then shall the fevered mind no longer burn
And Durin's Scourge shall finally depart.
He frowned at the words. There was something about them...
"--and part of what I loved was all the different names," Bilbo was going on. "It seemed like there were a thousand funny names for violas--I went around the Shire once as a boy and made a list of them, actually. Heart's delight, heart's ease, three faces in a hood, love-in-idleness…"
Wait.
Thorin's breath caught as his eyes raced to the second verse:
To save the soul from dragon's dreadful bane
Requires idle love in sweet repose;
A heart that's eased from anguish and from pain
Is like a blossom that unblighted grows.
"...tickle-my-fancy, come-and-cuddle-me, Jack-jump-up-and-kiss-me--whoa, whoa now, those are flower names, not requests!" Bilbo sputtered as Thorin leapt up and advanced on him, looking ready to sweep him entirely off his feet. He looked startled, but not exactly disapproving. "What are you--"
Thorin stopped short, remembering Bilbo's injured arm, and merely seized his hands, clasping them tight. He felt a sudden urge to drag Bilbo into a dance of sheer joy. "The tea," he said, urgency choking his words. "It's the tea." Bilbo was staring at him, and he realized he was grinning, nearly laughing. "Don't you see? It's not an item, it's not an artifact--it's a medicine." He grabbed the empty packet and brandished it. "Golden thoughts to darkness turn," he said. He pointed to the kettle. "Shadows form within the gilded heart. When you steep it long enough."
Bilbo was staring at him. Behind him, Fíli gasped. "Idle love. The heart that's eased. Love-in-idleness and heart's-ease."
"No," said Bilbo. "That's not--" He shook his head blankly. "No."
Thorin wanted to shake him, wanted to embrace him. "The new verse describes amethyst and alabaster scattered on a field of emerald. I saw it in Galadriel's Mirror--the flowers growing on the hill above your house, Bilbo. The flowers that make a tea that will cure dragon-sickness."
"But that's--" Bilbo snatched the wrapper from Thorin's hand and stared at it, his eyes wild. "That means I carried it with me," he said. "I had it with me the whole time?" He looked up and Thorin saw that his eyes were full of tears. "But if I had known--you would have had it in Bree months ago," he wailed. "You've wasted so much time!"
"No," said Thorin. Without thinking, he reached out to brush the tears from Bilbo's lashes. Behind Bilbo, Fíli was beaming, and Thorin remembered the new confidence in his Heir's bearing. He remembered pain, and he remembered peace.
"I would not call it a waste," he said.
: : :
They steeped the tea until it turned a deep purplish-black, then made Fíli and Kíli drink a brimming cup each over their bitter complaints. "It probably only cures the sickness once contracted," Thorin said, "But better safe than sorry."
"I'm rather sorry right now," Kíli said, grimacing. "This stuff tastes terrible!"
"It would taste delicious if brewed right," Bilbo said, bridling. "It's not the tea's fault you ruined it."
"Peace, Bilbo," said Thorin, pouring out a half-cup for Balin and Dwalin. "It is perfect for our purposes."
"Shouldn't you drink some, Thorin?" Bilbo asked, swirling the last dregs in the teapot as Balin and Dwalin dutifully swallowed their doses. "I mean--" He stopped and looked somewhat chagrined, then forged on. "Better safe than sorry, right?"
"I shall have what's left," Thorin said. Bilbo emptied the remainder into his cup, and Thorin lifted it to his lips. It was bitter and sharp, and seemed to burn down into his chest like a dark and purifying flame. He remembered a different burning, deep in the heart of Khazad-dûm. "But I believe I have found my own path to a cure," he murmured as he finished off the tea.
And when at last you see your treasure true,
If sacrifice and love can fill your soul,
The dragon's curse shall lose its hold on you
And clarity of vision make you whole.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin, Kili, Fili, Balin, Dwalin
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: G
Word Count: 3900
Story Summary: In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an artifact that will cure the ailing King Thrór.
Chapter Summary: A daring escape from Moria, followed by a spot of tea.
Bilbo Baggins licked his lips nervously, and tasted soot and blood. Moria's soot.
Thorin's blood.
The golden ring was heavy on his finger as he crept down the corridors away from the cells where the dwarves were being held. The world seemed strange somehow--as if there were an eerie wavering light around everything. But he still didn't truly believe until he rounded a corner and came nearly face-to-face with an orc guard.
He flinched back, stifling a gasp--and the guard looked at him and through him, and its gaze moved on, incurious.
After that Bilbo was less worried, although never truly comfortable as he ghosted through the halls of Khazad-dûm, creeping--not forward toward freedom, but back the way he had come.
Finally he found himself back in the great hall he had seen before. It was now filled with orcs, stomping and belching and gobbling rank and gristly gobbets of food. In the back, the cave troll glared at them all with its little, close-set eyes.
Bilbo slipped through the crowd, dodging hobnailed boots and drunkenly waved flagons, until he found an orc with a ring of keys on its belt and made a note of his seat. Then he made his way back to where the troll was--its nostrils flared as he drew close, making Bilbo freeze, but it wrinkled its brow and subsided. Reaching back and groping in his pack, Bilbo pulled out his secret weapon.
A pewter pepperpot.
Unscrewing the lid, he shook a healthy heap of ground pepper into his hand and moved to stand directly in front of the troll. He could feel its hot breath, and a drop of drool flicked out to land on his foot, making him shudder.
With a swift motion, he blew the pepper up the troll's nose.
The troll reared back with a roar of shock and fury, flinging its arms around to batter its unseen tormentor. Shrieks broke out in the hall as it seized the wooden bars and yanked, bursting them asunder with a howl of triumph before falling on the orcs.
Bilbo dodged and scrambled, avoiding flying orcs while looking for the one with the keys. He had nearly begun to curse his stupid plan when he heard a jangling crunch as the orc he was looking for smashed into the wall next to him and crumpled to the ground. "Sorry," muttered Bilbo with not a great deal of sincerity as he extracted the keys.
He ran back to the cell as fast as his singed feet could take him.
The dwarves didn't respond at all when he burst into the room. Balin, Dwalin, Fíli and Kíli were all sunk in their private thoughts, and Thorin--Bilbo's heart smashed into the walls of his chest when he saw his face, smiling and peaceful and still. Running forward, he jammed a random key into the lock and nearly sobbed aloud as the door popped open.
Thorin's eyes opened and he stared at the open door blankly, and Bilbo realized he had forgotten to remove the ring. "It's me," he blurted, pulling it off. "We have to hurry."
"Bilbo?" Thorin looked at him as if he had just woken from a dream. "But you're..."
Bilbo couldn't help grinning as he hurried to unlock the other cages. "The orcs are having a little cave troll problem, and we're moving--fast."
Dwalin was already grabbing their packs and weapons from the corner and handing them around. Thorin was still staring at Bilbo. Slowly, a scowl marred the quiet wonder in his face. "You idiot," he snarled. "You were supposed to be on your way home now."
Bilbo reached out and grabbed his hand. "And I am," he said. "But I'm not going without you. So stop complaining and let's go!"
Still holding Thorin's hand, he dragged him from the room and down the hall.
They made their way west, moving fast through the echoing halls. They encountered no pursuit--by the time the cave troll had been subdued and their escape discovered, their trail would have gone too cold. Somewhere in the depths of Moria, Azog would be disemboweling his minions and raging, swearing hideous vengeance on all the line of Durin.
And far to the west, the dwarves and Bilbo emerged into a pale silver pre-dawn, safe on the other side of the Misty Mountains.
They lost little time in descending from the west gate, quietly skirting a dark pool that bubbled ominously but stayed quiescent. The valley was dusted with snow, and when the sun lifted over the mountains behind them it lit everything up in a blaze of rose and argent for a moment.
"This is far enough," said Thorin, raising a hand. "We can stop for a moment." The rest of his party dropped where they stood, collapsing onto the ground to take great whooping gasps of icy air.
"Bilbo," said Dwalin after a while, staring at him. "Bilbo Baggins, by Durin!"
And then the dwarves were crowding around him, roaring with laughter and thanking him. Dwalin thumped him on the back and Bilbo hissed a small breath between his teeth; Thorin caught Dwalin's hand out of the air before it could connect again. "He is injured."
Bilbo shook his head at Dwalin's apology. "This little scratch? It hardly hurts at all." He flexed his shoulders and stifled a gasp at the movement. Looking down he saw fresh crimson spreading on the woolen jumper.
He looked up to see Thorin brandishing a knife and felt his eyes widen just a bit. "We need to remove it quickly and bandage the wound," Thorin explained.
Bilbo backed away, protesting weakly: "Not my lovely jumper, oh dear." But it was no use; the jumper was cut away.
"The waistcoat too," Thorin said grimly, and Bilbo moaned as if the knife were cutting his flesh rather than his clothes.
"Not my second-best…" Thorin gently pulled the cloth aside and he saw his shoulder. The world went a bit dim and the next thing he knew he was looking up at Fíli and Kíli's concerned faces, framed by the sky. There was cloth beneath his head. "What am I doing down here?" he said, confused.
"Getting bandaged, so hold still," came Thorin's gruff voice. "And don't look."
Bilbo took his advice.
"And your feet are burned, you foolish hobbit," he heard Thorin mutter after a while. Gentle hands, cool as stone, cupped his feet. For the first time he became aware of the pain in the soles, but he was more aware of the fingers brushing against his instep. "Balin, fetch some salve. How in Durin's name did you burn your feet?"
"Oh," said Bilbo, distracted by the sensation, "The library, I suppose." Then he sat up straight, throwing off Thorin's hands. "The library!" Scrambling to his feet, the pain of the blisters forgotten, he ran to his pack and opened it. "I…" He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling awkward and unsure for no clear reason. "I got this out of the library before it burned."
The dwarves went silent as he held out the scroll with its midnight-blue tassel to Thorin, who was still kneeling on the ground.
Thorin looked at it, then looked up at Bilbo's face. His brows drew together in something like confusion, something close to pain. Reaching out slowly, he closed his fingers around it, staring down at the ancient paper. Bilbo heard him draw a long breath. "Lucky indeed was the day," he whispered, "When I failed to look where I was going in Bree and collided with the cleverest and bravest heart in Middle Earth."
His voice was shaking and low, very unlike his usual gruff tones. Flustered, Bilbo bounced on the balls of his feet and winced slightly as the blisters reasserted themselves.
Thorin made an annoyed sound at the sight, and his odd mood seemed to pass. "And now you will sit down and give me your foot, you annoying halfling." He handed Balin the scroll and took a small pot from him, reaching out to clasp Bilbo's foot once more.
"Aren't you going to look at the poem?" Bilbo asked. It was very strange indeed to have Thorin kneeling in front of him, smoothing something cool and mint-scented over his skin.
"Soon enough," said Thorin. "We must get further from Moria before we can camp. Give me your other foot," he said. His hands were strong without being rough, and Bilbo couldn't help sighing with relief as he worked the balm into his skin. Then he realized he'd forgotten something else.
"Oh," he said. "I guess I should...return this to you." He felt suddenly reluctant, but he pulled the ring out of his trousers pocket and held it out.
To his shock, Thorin flinched backwards away from him, a wincing involuntary movement. His eyes went to Bilbo's face and Bilbo saw for an instant a deep shame within them. "It was not a loan," he said. After a moment, he reached out and closed Bilbo's filthy fingers around the shining piece of gold. "It was a gift. For better or for worse, it is yours now."
"Oh. Very well, I suppose," said Bilbo, and slipped it back into his pocket with a sneaking feeling of relief. It was, after all, much more useful for him than for Thorin.
Thorin finished working the last of the balm into his feet in silence. Then he stood. "Carry his pack and mine," he said to Dwalin and Fíli. "I shall carry the hobbit. You are injured," he said patiently as Bilbo squeaked and scooted away from him on the rock. "Your feet will not heal if you walk on them."
"You--you're all injured," Bilbo managed as Thorin hoisted him onto his back like a child playing piggy-back. "This is ridiculous."
He felt Thorin's growl reverberate through his chest. "Stop complaining. You complain constantly about unimportant things like clothing and baths, and then say nothing when running leagues on blistered feet with a sword wound in your shoulder. You are the most perverse creature I have ever seen."
"And he's looked in a mirror, so that's saying something," said Kíli, and ducked away from his uncle's glare, grinning.
Thorin straightened, adjusting Bilbo on his back with surprising gentleness. "We march through the morning and put as much space between us and Azog as we can. We shall camp in the afternoon and plan our future paths then." He looked at Fíli. "How does that sound?"
Fíli stopped in mid-step and stared at him. "Why are you asking me?"
"Oh, come now," said Thorin. "You led this party while I was…" He stopped and swallowed.
"Not yourself," Kíli supplied.
"Not well," Thorin amended. "You led us wisely, as my Heir. And I would like my Heir's opinion."
"I--" Fíli looked rather like he might burst with happiness. "I think it's a good plan. But I'd suggest we take turns carrying Bilbo. After all, you--"
"--No," said Thorin. "Your advice is sound," he added hastily as Fíli looked crestfallen, "But if I am unable to carry Bilbo any further, we shall simply stop and camp at that point. He is no burden."
"You know, being discussed as if I were a bag of turnips isn't doing much for my self-confidence," Bilbo griped cheerfully from Thorin's back.
"If your self-confidence needs a boost after rescuing this entire party from the depths of Khazad-dûm, you are a far more insecure person than I thought," Thorin said. "Be content with our eternal gratitude--and let me carry you."
"Oh, very well," sighed Bilbo.
Balin looked back over his shoulder as they topped a ridge, gazing back at the eastern mountains. "'Tis a pity and a shame to flee from the halls of our ancestors," he murmured.
Thorin nodded. "One day, Balin, we shall return and take back what is ours." He turned to the west. "But today we thank Mahal for our lives and move on." A low chuckle thrummed through the leather beneath Bilbo's chest. "Mahal and Bilbo Baggins, that is."
"To Mahal and Bilbo Baggins!" chorused Fíli and Kíli, and soon enough were composing a marching song comparing the god and the hobbit, not always to the benefit of the god ("None of the legends claim Mahal can cook," Kíli pointed out).
The fur at Thorin's collar was soft and warm, despite smelling strongly of smoke and more faintly of orc. After a few moments, Bilbo stopped resisting temptation and nestled his cheek into it, nodding off listening to the song and smiling.
: : :
They camped at last as the sun was reaching its zenith, all of them weary, battered and exalted with the cold clean air and the sparkling sunlight and the joy of being alive. Bilbo tried to help, was roundly shouted down by all the dwarves and ordered to sit still, and ended up sitting on a log and watching with clear trepidation as Kíli and Fíli attempted to make rabbit stew.
Despite carrying Bilbo all day, Thorin's steps still felt light, his mind clear as the mountain air. He sang as he started the campfire--an old love song comparing the beloved's heart to mithril--and after a moment the other dwarves joined in.
The stew was quite edible, and Fíli and Kíli basked in Balin and Dwalin's praise. When Bilbo tasted it and declared it rather good, Thorin feared they might do themselves damage with their back-slapping.
"It is not as good as Bilbo's," Thorin said as he polished off the last mouthful.
"Well, obviously," said Kíli.
Thorin put down his plate and went to Bilbo's side, checking his shoulder. "The wound seems clean. It should heal well."
Bilbo winced as Thorin moved his arm, checking its flexibility. "Shouldn't you be reading that scroll?"
"The scroll has waited thousands of years, it can wait fifteen minutes more." Thorin clasped his uninjured shoulder briefly. "I will not neglect the well-being of those I care about again." He took Bilbo's chin in his hand and moved it left and right, making sure his neck still had a full range of motion. "You seem a little flushed," he said with a frown. "Are you feverish?"
"Me? No, no," said Bilbo, looking flustered. "Not at all. I don't think." He smiled, a small and tentative thing. "I'm just...glad to have you back."
Thorin considered brushing off the statement, contemplated pointing out that he had never been away. Then he merely nodded. "I am glad as well," he said.
He realized he still had Bilbo's chin in his hand--such a strange feeling, that unbearded chin. Months ago he would have said it felt vulnerable, nearly childish. Now he felt the subtle steel in the jaw, the complex strength in the sinews. Bilbo swallowed and Thorin dropped his hand. "If you are well, I shall look at the scroll," he said, his voice odd and formal in his own ears.
"I am--I am quite well," Bilbo said. "Quite well indeed." He nodded. "Read the scroll, Thorin."
Pulling the parchment from his pack, Thorin sat down to read his prize at last.
Most of the poem was exactly the same; Thorin's eyes skipped to the verse that had been corrupted in all the previous copies and his heart leapt to see that it was whole and legible in the version. Taking out his reading glasses--Dwalin gave him a curious look, but he ignored it--he peered at the ancient, looping handwriting.
"Well, if I'd had this verse--" he snorted a few moments later. The rest of the party looked at him curiously. "It specifically says that whatever this item is, it isn't just emerald and alabaster, it also includes amethysts. I would have known it wasn't the glass right away." He felt a sudden sense of relief at the confirmation of the Lady of Lorien's words: the cure is still out there!
"What else does it say?" said Balin.
"Give me a moment, the handwriting is archaic." Thorin narrowed his eyes, tilting the parchment to catch the fading sun, and silence fell in the camp.
"You know what we need?" Bilbo's voice rang out in the anticipatory hush and everyone except Thorin looked at him. He pulled his pack closer and opened it, rummaging. "I think we deserve a treat." He lifted aloft a small, rather squashed paper package. "My viola tea, the last of my treats from the Shire. Just enough for one pot." He chuckled. "I thought I'd be gone from the Shire for no more than a few days. Anyway, I've been saving it for a special occasion, and I suppose being alive after all that qualifies, don't you think?"
"Yes, let's celebrate!" said Fíli.
"Well then," said Bilbo. "Would you put the kettle on, Kíli?"
"With pleasure, Mr. Boggins," said Kíli.
"It's Baggins," Thorin said absent-mindedly.
"I am aware of that," Kíli said with a dignified sniff as he pulled out the kettle and filled it with water from his canteen.
"Now, viola tea is very delicate," said Bilbo. "It's very easy to ruin it, so we must proceed carefully." He slit open the package with his penknife. "Thank goodness it never got wet."
"It smells nice!" said Kíli.
"Like spring," said Fíli.
Indeed, a sweet, grassy scent seemed to fill the clearing, touching the icy air with a whisper of flowers. Thorin took a deep breath of it, his attention riveted by the new lines. The Sindarin twined and twisted, and he painstakingly re-arranged it into Westron:
Upon the fields of emerald, scattered bright
In lands beyond the reach of vengeful waves
Like amethyst and alabaster white
The precious gift that Durin's People saves.
He squinted at the verse. What in the world did that mean? The artifact had been left in a field somewhere? Perhaps hidden in a barrow? But no, that would not be upon a field…
As he scowled at the parchment, Bilbo poured water from the kettle into the battered little teapot he carried. "This is the tricky part," he said. "Viola tea should be a lovely light amber, but if you steep it too long it turns dark and bitter. The timing is terribly important." He hummed slightly under his breath for a moment. "I make my own, sometimes, with the blossoms that grow on my hill in the spring. Such pretty flowers, my favorites. In the language of flowers, they mean 'thoughts,' you know. I always gave my mother a bunch for her birthday, to let her know I was thinking of her."
He was chattering in that charmingly scattered way he tended to when he was a bit nervous; Thorin felt himself smiling, enjoying the sound of it once more. He looked back up at the beginning of his verse, re-reading the lines he knew by heart.
When golden thoughts to gentle darkness turn
And shadows form within the gilded heart
Then shall the fevered mind no longer burn
And Durin's Scourge shall finally depart.
He frowned at the words. There was something about them...
"--and part of what I loved was all the different names," Bilbo was going on. "It seemed like there were a thousand funny names for violas--I went around the Shire once as a boy and made a list of them, actually. Heart's delight, heart's ease, three faces in a hood, love-in-idleness…"
Wait.
Thorin's breath caught as his eyes raced to the second verse:
To save the soul from dragon's dreadful bane
Requires idle love in sweet repose;
A heart that's eased from anguish and from pain
Is like a blossom that unblighted grows.
"...tickle-my-fancy, come-and-cuddle-me, Jack-jump-up-and-kiss-me--whoa, whoa now, those are flower names, not requests!" Bilbo sputtered as Thorin leapt up and advanced on him, looking ready to sweep him entirely off his feet. He looked startled, but not exactly disapproving. "What are you--"
Thorin stopped short, remembering Bilbo's injured arm, and merely seized his hands, clasping them tight. He felt a sudden urge to drag Bilbo into a dance of sheer joy. "The tea," he said, urgency choking his words. "It's the tea." Bilbo was staring at him, and he realized he was grinning, nearly laughing. "Don't you see? It's not an item, it's not an artifact--it's a medicine." He grabbed the empty packet and brandished it. "Golden thoughts to darkness turn," he said. He pointed to the kettle. "Shadows form within the gilded heart. When you steep it long enough."
Bilbo was staring at him. Behind him, Fíli gasped. "Idle love. The heart that's eased. Love-in-idleness and heart's-ease."
"No," said Bilbo. "That's not--" He shook his head blankly. "No."
Thorin wanted to shake him, wanted to embrace him. "The new verse describes amethyst and alabaster scattered on a field of emerald. I saw it in Galadriel's Mirror--the flowers growing on the hill above your house, Bilbo. The flowers that make a tea that will cure dragon-sickness."
"But that's--" Bilbo snatched the wrapper from Thorin's hand and stared at it, his eyes wild. "That means I carried it with me," he said. "I had it with me the whole time?" He looked up and Thorin saw that his eyes were full of tears. "But if I had known--you would have had it in Bree months ago," he wailed. "You've wasted so much time!"
"No," said Thorin. Without thinking, he reached out to brush the tears from Bilbo's lashes. Behind Bilbo, Fíli was beaming, and Thorin remembered the new confidence in his Heir's bearing. He remembered pain, and he remembered peace.
"I would not call it a waste," he said.
: : :
They steeped the tea until it turned a deep purplish-black, then made Fíli and Kíli drink a brimming cup each over their bitter complaints. "It probably only cures the sickness once contracted," Thorin said, "But better safe than sorry."
"I'm rather sorry right now," Kíli said, grimacing. "This stuff tastes terrible!"
"It would taste delicious if brewed right," Bilbo said, bridling. "It's not the tea's fault you ruined it."
"Peace, Bilbo," said Thorin, pouring out a half-cup for Balin and Dwalin. "It is perfect for our purposes."
"Shouldn't you drink some, Thorin?" Bilbo asked, swirling the last dregs in the teapot as Balin and Dwalin dutifully swallowed their doses. "I mean--" He stopped and looked somewhat chagrined, then forged on. "Better safe than sorry, right?"
"I shall have what's left," Thorin said. Bilbo emptied the remainder into his cup, and Thorin lifted it to his lips. It was bitter and sharp, and seemed to burn down into his chest like a dark and purifying flame. He remembered a different burning, deep in the heart of Khazad-dûm. "But I believe I have found my own path to a cure," he murmured as he finished off the tea.
And when at last you see your treasure true,
If sacrifice and love can fill your soul,
The dragon's curse shall lose its hold on you
And clarity of vision make you whole.