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It was so quiet now.
After hours and hours of loud, brutal battle, it was finally quiet. Bilbo liked quiet. At least he thought he did.
But now, as he sat on an uncomfortable chair beside a makeshift cot that held the body of one Thorin Oakenshield, he was not so sure. Quiet meant no change, no improvement.
It had been quiet for half a day already. Thorin had not moved at all. He barely drew breath.
His wounds had been bandaged and cleaned by an elven healer. Some medicine had also been applied, but nothing had changed. Bilbo would have noticed. He had not taken his eyes off Thorin since he was brought to this tent they were in.
The others had visited as well, but they had not stayed. They had their own wounds to nurse, and much more to do, Bilbo imagined. He himself had nothing – no duties, no tasks. But he was glad for that. It meant he could spend all his time here.
With the dwarf he undoubtably loved.
The months they had spent together had forged a bond unlike anything Bilbo was familiar with. He did not have any real friends back in Hobbiton. Here, he did. But with Thorin, he had something even better, or perhaps worse. Bilbo could not decide which it was.
Thorin most likely did not feel the same way. He might even hate Bilbo, actually. The hobbit had taken the Arkenstone from him, after all. Thorin nearly threw him off the wall for that. Sure, he had not entirely been himself, but Bilbo could not help but wonder whether the dwarf would still be angry after he returned to normal. After he woke up.
And he would wake up. Bilbo would not take any other outcome.
Someone entered. Bilbo did not have to look to know it was Gandalf who had come. The wizard had been in and out ever since the battle ended.
“He’s not getting better,” Bilbo said, still not diverting his gaze from Thorin.
Gandalf came to his side and laid a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. “I feared the quest would cost him greatly,” he spoke. “He is lucky to be alive. That wound should have killed him instantly.”
Bilbo did not reply. The wizard’s words were not exactly comforting.
“But as he is alive, there is still hope,” Gandalf continued. “And a friend of mine, who should be here any moment, may be able to help.”
Finally, Bilbo looked at the wizard. “What? Who?” he asked.
Gandalf smiled. “I believe you have met him.”
That did not help. Bilbo could not figure which of the various individuals he had met along the journey could be of any help to Thorin.
Gandalf definitely noticed his confusion, but being Gandalf, he did not elaborate. He liked secrets.
Well, if this person was on his way here, Bilbo would soon find out whom the wizard spoke of. Not that it mattered much who he was. All Bilbo cared about was whether he could truly save Thorin.
There was noise outside – horse hooves and chatter. Gandalf gave Bilbo a look. The mystery man had most likely just arrived.
The wizard left to greet him, but Bilbo stayed.
He took one of Thorin’s large hands in both his own. The dwarf’s skin felt so cold, and Bilbo had to check if he was still breathing. He was. The rise and fall of his chest was the only sign of life there was. But it was something.
Gandalf returned. Bilbo heard him enter. But there was also a second, lighter pair of footsteps this time.
Bilbo let go of Thorin’s hand, embarrassed. He hoped neither of the arrivals had seen him.
“He fares no worse, but there is no improvement either”, Gandalf told his companion. Bilbo had not turned to see who it was. But as soon as he spoke, the hobbit knew.
“I will do what I can,” said Elrond. “But I must preserve my strength for there are hundreds of wounded here.”
“Of course,” acknowledged the wizard.
As the two approached, Bilbo finally turned to them. His ears had not deceived him – Elrond of Rivendell was here, hundreds of miles from the Last Homely House.
The hobbit stood up from the chair he had been sitting on for at least seven hours. He could not figure how to greet the elven lord, so he simply stood there. “Lord Elrond,” he spoke, failing to sound confident.
Elrond smiled. “Master Baggins,” he greeted in turn. “I am glad to see you are well. I hear the battle was quite ruthless.”
“It was,” Bilbo agreed. “Thorin was badly wounded and… well, he’s not getting better.”
“So I hear,” said Elrond. “But I believe I can aid him.”
“How?” Bilbo asked without thinking. Immediately he regretted it, realizing it might have sounded quite rude.
Elrond did not seem to mind, and was about to answer when Gandalf spoke.
“Lord Elrond is a healer,” explained the wizard. “And not just any healer, but the best there is. Thorin is in good hands.”
“Of course,” Bilbo hummed. “Thank you for coming.”
“I foresaw things here would escalate in one way or another,” said Elrond. “I thought it best if I came.”
The elf approached Thorin slowly, but looked once more at Bilbo. “May I?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” replied Bilbo, taking a step back to give him space.
Elrond sat down where Bilbo had sat only moments before. The elf laid a gentle hand of Thorin’s brow. There was no fever, which most likely meant no infection. That was good, but the unusual coolness of the dwarf’s skin was alarming too.
Next, he pulled up Thorin’s shirt and unwrapped the bandages to get a better look at the wound. It was stitched together well and it no longer bled, but there was some redness in the skin around the wound. An infection was brewing though it had not bloomed yet.
“He has lost too much blood,” Elrond explained. “There is damage to his chest that cannot be seen by the naked eye. I will do what I can.”
Neither Bilbo nor Gandalf said anything. They could only hope, in silence, that whatever Elrond was going to do would help.
However, when Gandalf had mentioned Elrond being a healer, Bilbo had thought that meant herbs and bandages and such. He could not quite figure out what the elf was going to do with his bare hands.
Those hands were on Thorin’s chest now, one on top of each other. Elrond closed his eyes.
”Áva lelya tai. Enna i cálë,” he whispered.
Light appeared at his palms, seemingly out of nowhere. It shined through his fingers and glowed on the skin of both him and Thorin. Bilbo thought his eyes were deceiving him. He had believed elven magic to be a myth – a story parents told their children at night.
He turned to Gandalf and whispered, “Can all elves do that?”
Gandalf leaned down to the hobbit’s level. “No,” he replied. “Most elves may carry a divine presence, but only few harbor true power.”
Bilbo heard him, but did not acknowledge his reply. His eyes were fixated on the scene in front of him. It was truly breathtaking.
It could have been a minute or an hour if you asked Bilbo. When the light finally faded, it was like a trance had been broken. Gandalf’s arm brushed the hobbit’s shoulder as he passed. He blinked, and suddenly reality returned.
Bilbo watched as Gandalf made his way to Elrond’s side. The elf pulled away from Thorin and opened his eyes. He let out a trembling breath as his shoulders sagged.
Gandalf laid a firm hand on Elrond’s shoulder. “You did more than you needed to, did you not?” he sighed. “You must save your strength, mellon-nin. Others need you too.”
“I am well,” said Elrond. “There was much damage to undo.”
“Leave the healing to them,” said Gandalf. “Do only what is needed to preserve their life. You should have learned that by now.”
Elrond smiled tiredly. “Yes, I suppose I should have.”
Shaking his head exasperatedly, Gandalf straightened up. Elrond stood up slowly and brushed the wizard’s steadying hand off his shoulder.
The two were about to exit, when Elrond turned to Bilbo one more time. “He will recover,” he assured. “Do not worry.”
Bilbo gave him a quick, awkward smile. “Thank you,” he said.
As soon as he was alone with Thorin again, he went to the dwarf’s side. His chest was still bare, and Bilbo could see that where there used to be a red, poorly healing wound, there was only a scar. It was not pretty, and did not look entirely healed, but it looked so, so much better than a bleeding wound.
Bilbo sighed in relief. He pulled Thorin’s shirt back over his chest and abdomen, though he had not exactly minded the view of his broad build.
The hobbit felt himself blush a little. He should not have such thoughts.
Thorin breathed easier now, and Bilbo could swear some color had returned to the dwarf’s cheeks. He truly would recover.
Satisfied, Bilbo sat back down on the chair and let his arms rest on the side of the cot Thorin lay on. He was, after all, a bit too short for human chairs.
He might have dozed off for a moment there, because suddenly he was opening his eyes and realizing he was fully resting on Thorin’s chest. He pulled back abruptly, afraid he may have hurt him.
The dwarf stirred. Bilbo let out a breath. Was he waking up?
A soft groan. Eyelids twitching.
“Thorin?”
His eyes opened slowly. Immediately they searched for the source of that familiar voice. Bilbo, without thinking, grabbed his hand. Guided by the touch, Thorin found Bilbo. Recognition flashed in his hazy eyes.
“Bilbo?” he whispered, his voice croaky and weak. But there was no hostility, nor even confusion in his tone. He seemed to feel safe, just by looking at the hobbit.
Bilbo smiled. “I’m here.”