Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

-1-
A unusually small figure wrapped in a mix of fur and rough woven wool, making its silhouette much bulkier than the person underneath actually was, made its ways through fields of snow and ice. Their face wasn’t visible. A scarf covered everything but their eyes. A sharp, ice cold wind blew snowflakes against the persons back, leaving small patches of icy snow half melted into the rugged material.

Infront of them, snow stretched endlessly, like dunes in a desert. Sometimes the frozen tips of trees peeked a couple centimetres over the blanket of white, firs or spruce, now buried almost fully under the endless amount of snow that came from the grey, cloudy sky.

The person moved laboured, the deep, fresh snow and the heavy boots on their feet making it hard to walk. On their back was a huge, dark grey backpack.
The wind grew stronger, changing directions now blowing into the figures face, making it even harder to move and see than it had already been. If the snowfall turned into a blizzard, the temperature would drop further, leaving anyone out in the snowy plains to either find shelter quickly or freeze to death.

The person under the mountain of fabric seemed to know this too. Their head turned right, then left, then right again. A couple hundred metres to the right, the wanderer saw a hill in the snow. A piece of wood peeked out the top.

There must be a structure underneath the snow, the person thought. With no better option they turned towards the snowy hill and started walking, dragging their feet through the powdery snow that reached up to their knees by now.

The wind freshened up further, blowing the snowflakes into the exposed skin around the persons eyes. They little pieces of ice felt like shards of glass.
After what felt like forever the figure reached the hill of snow with the piece of wood at the top. The gale had turned stronger, colder, the snowflakes became bigger. The wanderer’s breath was heavy and the cloud of steam it caused was clearly visible in the air. The quick walk through the deep snow had drained all stamina they had had left.
But there was no time for resting until they found an entrance to the structure beneath the hill of snow. They were praying to all gods, if there were any in this frozen hellhole, that there was a house or a shed, just some kind of shelter hidden underneath the masses of powdery snow.

If there wasn’t… . Well, then the wanderer would be frozen solid soon.

They walked around the hill once. Then twice. There was no entrance.

Panic slowly started to rise in the wanderer’s chest. They circled the hill a third time, their steps becoming quicker, as quick as the snow allowed.
In the distance a wall of white approached. That explained the sharp wind. There really was a blizzard coming. A really bad one as well.
They wouldn’t survive if they didn’t find a way into the structure that (hopefully) laid underneath the snow.

The wanderer started pushing his hands into the fluffy white on the side of the hill, looking for a spot that gave in and was able to give them an idea where an entrance had been.
They walked another circle around the hill, pushing their gloved hands into the snow over and over, slowly loosing hope when the blizzard came closer and closer and closer …
The wall of snow and storm hit them.

The gust of icy air instantly got through every layer of their clothes, the cold biting into their skin, all over their body. The wind almost threw them off their feet, blew the scarf up and off their face, the snowflakes the wind brought felt like someone was throwing shards of glass from a short distance, right at their face.

The same moment the storm hit them, the snow gave in underneath their hands. They pushed harder. And fell into a pile of snow, inside the (thank gods) structure underneath the hill of snow.
They got up as quickly as he could, scrambling away from the storm at the entrance, quickly further inside what looked like a shed. Behind them, the storm already started closing the hole with new snow that got caught at the wooden boards around the gap in the wall. In a couple minutes they would be snowed in.

The person took off the first layer of clothes. They were completely covered in icy snow that stuck to it and started to melt in the slightly warmer environment the shed gave. Now that the scarf was gone and the face was visible it was recognizable that the wanderer was a hobbit. His cheeks had some wrinkles but not a lot. He must have been in his early to mid-50s.
The snow that piled at the gap in the wall slowly took away any light that came into the shed from outside.

Bilbo knew that he would not be able to light a fire once the light was gone. And the gap was already over halfway filled with snow again.
He took off his backpack and opened the string that held it closed at the top. Reaching inside, he searched for his box of matches. Where was it?

“Come on, where are you.”, Bilbo mumbled and finally found the little rectangular box. He turned his head, looked around, found some small pieces of wood that must have broken off the walls or the ceiling, grabbed them and made a small pile. From his backpack he pulled a damp paper tissue and tucked it into the little pile of wood. He opened the matchbox.

There were only 3 matches left in it. The gap was almost closed.

He quickly took off his gloves, picked up one of the matches with bright red fingers from the cold and lit it on the side of the box. The tissue didn’t catch fire when he held it to it. The match burned away without igniting Bilbos little fire.

He cussed.

He tried a second time. It didn’t catch fire.

The light from outside was gone. It was dark now.

Then a small orange light appeared at the end of the match. Bilbo held both his hands around the flame in a protective manner and slowly lowered it towards the pile of wood and the tissue. There wasn’t much wind in here, even the sound didn’t get through from outside, but he couldn’t risk the match going out.
It was his last one.

“Come on, come on, please.”, Bilbo whispered and, with from the cold trembling hands, held it against the bright white tissue paper. Nothing. Then a bit of steam as the moisture from the paper evaporated. Then a bit of smoke. A tiny flame on the edge of the tissue.
Bilbo lowered the almost fully burnt match into the tissue as if he would put a newborn into a cradle. He blew into the little pile of wood gently. More smoke came from the top of the damp paper and wood.

The paper now burned fully. It wouldn’t burn for long and Bilbo knew it.

The wood caught fire.

“Ah, thank Yavannah.”, Bilbo said and let out a breath. He dropped his shoulders, and his back hit the wooden wall of the shed as he leaned back. He closed his eyes for a second. His legs burned from walking through the high snow with his heavy backpack all day.

After he gave himself a second of rest, he got up again and gathered some wood that was laying around on the floor in the shine of the fire. In the far-right corner, outside of the fires light was a strange looking pile.

Bilbo put more wood around the little fire, making sure not to suffocate it. He looked at the pile in the corner. It was too dark to see it well from here. He hadn’t even noticed it when he came in here.

After the fire was burning well and didn’t look like it was going to go out any time soon, Bilbo got up again and slowly moved closer to the pile in the corner. He was cold without his top layer wool coat. But it needed to be free of snow and dry so he could get moving early tomorrow morning when the storm had, hopefully, passed.
The pile looked like a bunch of clothes. Bilbo could always use some clothes.

He took the piece of fabric in his bare hand; he had left the gloves near his fire so they could dry too and tried to pick it up. It didn’t move. Must have frozen to something, Bilbo thought.
He pulled harder but instead of picking the piece of clothing up, whatever it was frozen to rolled off the pile and landed in front of Bilbos feet.
Bilbo flinched back with a small scream and let the fabric go. Two frozen eyeballs stared up at the ceiling. It was a body.

Bilbos breath went quickly. His heart raced.

It wasn’t the first corpse he had seen, but it had been a while, and this one did not look like they died a peaceful death. There was a big, frozen red spot on the chest of the thick coat the person had been wearing, their lips had frozen splatters of red on them, and their mouth was wide open as if they had struggled for breath in their last moments.
Bilbo took a deep breath, then slowly approached. The shock made him feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. The open eyes freaked him out beyond belief.

He raised his eyes from the face that seemed frozen in pain. Next to this corpse laid a second body. Bilbo stepped over the one that had rolled off the other, making sure not to step on any body part. The second body was obviously a dwarf. He had a black beard and long hair peeked out from underneath his hood and he must have been slightly taller than Bilbo, but nowhere near as tall as a man or an elf. They had a couple of white strands.

His eyes were closed. He didn’t have an open mouth, frozen in death struggle but there was a dark spot on his side. Blood as well. In the middle of the dark (red, Bilbo now recognized) stain stuck a knife. A shiver went down Bilbos spine. And not from the cold air that still ruled the small room even though the small fire did its best to spread a bit of warmth.

There had been a fight here. And both parties died from it. At least Bilbo hoped these two had been the only ones involved and there wasn’t a murderer around somewhere. Anxiously he looked behind him, turned one time and looked up towards the roof. Nothing. He was alone.

Suddenly a sound from the two bodies. Bilbo jumped back further, hand reaching towards his back pocket where he kept a knife himself. He didn’t like carrying it. But better be safe than sorry. You never knew.

The dwarf that had been laying underneath the corpse had opened his eyes. Bilbo was completely frozen in motion. He wasn’t dead.

He stared up at the ceiling, his lips parted, and loud, heavy breaths left him. His chest moved laboured, like every breath he took could be his last. Each time he breathed out, a small cloud of breath was visible in the little light that reached the corner.

He lifted one of his hands and put it next to the knifes handle that reached out of his body. When he moved it closer to the weapon he groaned, pained and loud. His breath quickened. Very slowly he lifted his hand a bit and wrapped his trembling fingers around the handle which. He didn’t wear gloves, and Bilbo could clearly see he was trembling. If from cold, blood loss or pain … Bilbo couldn’t say.

It looked as if he would pull the knife out.

“Don’t do that.”
Bilbo wanted to kill himself. He never thought before he talked. If he had just quietly retreated to his fire and let the guy die without ever revealing, he was in here in the first place... But something in him didn’t like letting someone die while he was this close and could possibly help.

The dwarf let his head fall aside, facing Bilbo now. His eyes were glossy, his eyelashes already starting to get icy and he seemed like he looked right through Bilbo. His breath went quick and laboured. Maybe he is too far gone anyways, Bilbo thought and slowly stepped closer.

“If you pull the knife out now, you’re going to bleed out and die.”, Bilbo said carefully. Hearing the sound of his own voice talking to someone else seemed weird to him. He hadn’t talked to another person in weeks.

The dwarf kept his hand tightly wrapped around the knife. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Closed his eyes. Opened them again.

“…who…”, he said. His voice was scratchy and deep and sounded like he hadn’t talked in forever either. And like he hadn’t had a sip of water in a while.
“My name is Bilbo. I don’t mean any harm; I’m just seeking shelter from the storm here.”
“… Bilbo…”, the dwarf mumbled, his hand around the handle slowly loosening, then dropping off his body and laying beside him again. “… Thorin.”
“Thorin? Is that your name?”
Thorin made an agreeing ‘Mh’ sound. His breath came in short, quick rasps through his half open mouth. His lips looked dry and had small bits of ice on them.
Bilbo came closer and slowly squatted down next to Thorin. It didn’t seem like there was any danger coming from him. He looked like he was dying.
“… cold… hurts.”

“Your cold? Let me get you a blanket.”

Bilbo got up again and went over to his small fire that was happily burning and his backpack that laid next to it. From the backpack he grabbed a thick, brown, woollen blanket and went back over to Thorin. He was still breathing. And watching Bilbo with his pale blue, glassy eyes.

Careful not to move the knife around much, Bilbo unfolded the blanket and threw it over Thorin, so he was covered in it from neck to toe. “There you go, better?”
“Mhm…”, made Thorin,” … hurts… thirsty...”

Bilbo nodded and went back over to his fire. From his backpack he took a small tin cooking pot out of it, went to the pile of snow where the gap was earlier and scooped some up with it. He put it near the fire, and the snow quickly started to melt.

When it was fully back to liquid a couple of minutes later, he picked the pot up and went back over to Thorin.
“Can you lift your head?”, Bilbo asked and Thorin shook his head ‘no’ the slightest bit. Stupid question. He could barely speak and looked like he would stop breathing any second.
“Alright, I’m gonna help you sit up a bit.”

Bilbo put the pot of water down next to him after kneeling to Thorin. Very carefully he put one hand under his neck and lightly lifted his head up, then grabbed the pot again and put it to his lips, slowly tilting it.

Thorin drunk a couple mouthfuls of the cold water and then turned his head slightly away from the cup. Bilbo took the pot away from Thorin’s mouth and put it down next to him. Then he carefully put his head back down on the floor.

His eyes went back to the knife that stuck in the man’s side.

“… hurts…”, Thorin mumbled again, his half open eyes watching Bilbo.

“If we pull it out, you’ll die.”

“ ‘m dead a…anyways...”, he said silently and turned his head back, away from Bilbo, so he was looking at the ceiling again.

“Your still breathing, so you’re not dead yet, are you?”, Bilbo said and watched Thorin close his eyes for a couple of seconds, then open them again. His breath was slower now, but still just as loud and ragged.

“If you stay alive through the night, I’ll take you with me tomorrow, okay?”, Bilbo said and adjusted the blanket around the dwarfs neck. He had his eyes closed again, seemingly in the process of passing out again.

“Mh…”, he made and then his body, tense from pain, relaxed fully again, slipping back into unconsciousness.

Bilbo sighed and stayed kneeling next to the dwarf a little longer.

How was he going to transport an almost dead guy? He couldn’t carry him in any way; he had no tools to… .

His eyes found a wooden sled right next to the gap that was closed by snow. He got up, walking over to it. How had he not noticed earlier?

Bilbo checked the sled out, pushing around on the wood a bit, testing how sturdy it was, sitting on it to test if it held a dwarf’s weight or at least a hobbit. He hummed lightly in satisfaction as it did and looked at his fire. He could use it for his fire; he would be warmer at night. Then he looked further back at the corpse and Thorin right next to it.

No, he said he would take the man along, and he wasn’t gonna break his word. He didn’t know if Thorin would survive the night anyways. If he didn’t (Bilbo felt guilt in his chest at the thought, even though he did not know the dwarf at all), he could use the sled to transport his backpack.

His eyes went back over to the body. It bothered him to have a dead person in here when he was going to sleep soon.
He sighed and grabbed another, thinner blanket from the bottom of his backpack and put it over the corpse. He was already shaken up, if he had to look at the frozen eyeballs any longer, he wouldn’t sleep at all. And Bilbo needed sleep if he was going to pull a man heavier than himself on the sled tomorrow.

Bilbo sat back down to the small fire after collecting some more small pieces of wood that were laying around the room and laying them close to his source of warmth to rid them of any moisture.
The storm outside kept going and threw huge amounts of snow against the hill in the icy plains. Inside the hill, Bilbo moved his fire closer to Thorin after pulling the other corpse away a little bit, so he had it warmer. He didn’t know if Thorin was going to survive anyways, might as well give him some warmth in case he would have his final moments during the night.

Despite his stomach turning at the thought of eating next to a dead and a dying person, Bilbo took out some seedcakes and had a few of them with the leftover water he had melted for Thorin. After eating two of them he looked over at Thorin and put the food down again.

No, he couldn’t have dinner like this.

The seedcakes wandered back into the backpack. Bilbos last blanket wandered out.

The fire between him and Thorin crackled away gently.

Bilbo closed his backpack and used it as a pillow as he laid down on the cold, dirt floor. He looked over at the dwarf and the slow rising and lowering of his chest.
He watched for a moment or two and then turned his back. The fire was too bright and the thought of watching the strange dwarf die didn’t sit right with Bilbo. He closed his eyes. Listened to the slow breaths and the fire. He wasn’t especially warm but not freezing either and slowly fell asleep.

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When he woke up the next day, the fire was out and the storm outside was over.

It was fully quiet in the small room and Bilbo slowly sat up, reluctantly letting out all the warm air that had gathered under his blanket from the night of sleep. To try and preserve the warmth in his hands and fingers he quickly grabbed the gloves that were now dry, and put them on, followed by his snow-free and dry coat.

With half-open eyes he rolled up his blanket and put it back into the backpack. Then he froze in motion. Slowly turned around.

Thorin laid where he laid yesterday. He hadn’t moved. He was completely still.

Bilbo could see his chest rise. Then fall.

A sigh of relief left him.

He didn’t die, thank the gods, Bilbo thought and went over to Thorin, taking one glove off again and felt the temperature of his cheek. It wasn’t very warm but not cold either.
Maybe he can push through until we reach the city, Bilbo thought and went over to the sled at the pile of snow that covered the exit. He grabbed the rope that was attached to it for pulling and brought it over to Thorin.

Bilbo lightly lifted the blanket on the side where the knife made a little bump in the covering and checked the dark red stain in Thorin’s clothes. It didn’t seem to have gotten any bigger and Bilbo sighed in relief once again.

He put the sled right next to Thorin and now faced a problem he hadn’t thought of earlier for some reason. How would he get the dwarf on the sled without making his wound worse?
Thorin was definitely bigger and heavier than Bilbo, and the hobbit didn’t possess the kind of strength to lift someone bigger than him easily.

His first attempt was squatting down next to Thorin’s torso and trying to lift him up and onto the sled. A failure that instantly brought Bilbos mood down near the freezing temperatures that luckily did not yet get into the shed. The warmth from the fire and the two’s body heat kept the small room at a bearable temperature.

After carefully pulling around at Thorin’s shoulders for his second attempt he sighed and stopped again, his breath heavy from the effort he put into tugging around on Thorin. His thick clothes that limited his ability to move didn’t really help in this matter, and even though it was cool in here, Bilbo was sweating underneath his layers.

He looked at the sled and then at Thorin. If he couldn’t get Thorin on the sled, he would need to leave him here to die. Bilbos eyes found the body that still laid near Thorin on the ground. No, he could impossibly leave him here, he would feel guilty for the rest of his life.

Bilbo sat down onto the sled, taking a breath and some time to think.

It wasn’t as dark now as yesterday when he got into the building, the dark storm clouds outside had left and now some dim light shone through the layers of snow and the roof which had a lot of holes in between the wood.

The blanket, Bilbo suddenly thought and got back up.

If he turned the sled onto its side, wrapped Thorin into the blanket he had still covered him in, he might be able to put the sled upright again while pulling Thorin onto it inside the blanket.
If it didn’t work, he might further injure Thorin, but this plan was his best chance to get Thorin onto the sled and take him along on his journey.

He got back up and carefully rolled Thorin onto his side, tucked the blanket underneath him and did the same on the other side. He was now laying on top of the blanket and Bilbo put the rest of the blanket, that Thorin didn’t lay on top of him, to keep him somewhat warm.

Bilbo put the sled on its side next, scooting it close to Thorin, grabbed both ends of the blanket and pulled as hard as he could while turning the sled back into its original position. He grunted and scrunched up his nose from the soreness the motion let him feel in his legs as he pulled, putting his full body weight into it, leaning into the pull until he fell over.
Panting like he just ran a marathon, Bilbo got back up.

Thorin laid on his side, on the sled. “Ah thank Yavannah.”, Bilbo breathed and carefully turned Thorin onto his back so he wouldn’t roll off as easily.

The sled wasn’t quite big enough for Thorin to lay on it fully, his legs hung off it. Bilbo wrapped the blanket Thorin was laying on around him tightly, still cautious to not move the knife too much. Then he took the blanket that he had covered the corpse with yesterday (Bilbo made sure he didn’t look at it too long) and threw it over Thorin as well.

He needed to keep him warm enough after all, he had probably lost too much blood already, so keeping him warm was essential to keeping him alive.

Bilbo took the blanket he himself had used during the night and used it to wrap Thorin’s legs up too. With a rope he kept in his bag, in case he ever had to climb anything, he tied the man’s body to the sled, to make sure he wouldn’t fall or roll off outside in the snow.

When he was sure Thorin was safely tied to the sled, Bilbo pulled Thorin’s hood into his face to keep his ears and face warm as well and went to finish packing up his backpack. Then he walked to the hill of snow that covered the entrance and started digging at it.

I could have been on my way for over an hour already, Bilbo thought. Heavy breaths left his mouth while he shovelled away with his gloved hands.
After what must have been 15 minutes, Bilbo was proper exhausted, the first icy wind blew through the gap Bilbo had made and he had to close his eyes, which immediately started to water from the temperature.

He spent another while making a kind of ramp from the snow to pull the sled onto to get outside and then proceeded to put all his effort into dragging the sled over the dirt floor of the shed towards the snow.

Once he managed to get it up onto the little ramp of snow the sled started sliding easily over the powdery surface, just slightly sinking into it.
“Alright”, Bilbo panted, still out of breath from the endeavour of pulling the sled with Thorin over the dirt. If the sled held up and Thorin didn’t fall off it into the deep, fresh snow the storm had brought, it would be smooth sailing from now.

The sun was setting as Bilbo moved the last couple steps towards the edge of the crater and behind him the sled carrying the man he had found yesterday came to a stop.

A couple steps away from him a vertical wall of ice and stone fell, forming a crater in the snowy plains. The wind was picking up again, there might be another storm tonight.

Bilbo had sweated through his warm inside layers in the early afternoon already, the wet material now cold and damp on his skin while his body was hot from the exhaustion of carrying the backpack and pulling the sled all day. He was exhausted, hadn’t been able to catch his breath all day.

Underneath him in the circular lowered area the crater created, he could see buildings in the dim, orange light the setting sun threw at the snow through the blanket of clouds covering the sky. Small light appeared in windows now that it got dark and in the middle of the small city a tall forge like oven stood, spewing embers and smoke into the sky.

This had been his goal for the last weeks of wandering the icy plains and almost freezing to death. It was a city, run by elves, who created the only oven powerful enough to give people a chance of survival since the Great Ice had taken over every bit of land in middle earth.

Bilbo had heard about this stronghold when he took shelter in a human village. They had also planned to go here, but they hadn’t had any food left. Bilbo had left in the night, afraid to be killed or robbed of his belongings.

He knelt into the snow at the edge of the crater, taking a moment to give his aching legs and burning lungs rest. He had put the rope of the sled around his torso, to spare his hands and arms the work of pulling and he could feel that the rope had chafed into his chest even through all the layers of fabric. Even now he couldn’t give the aching skin some rest, the slope up to the edge would send the sled sliding off if he took the rope off.

With a small groan and huff, Bilbo got back up after a couple of minutes, his knees buckling light under the strain. His legs hurt so bad, and he could not feel his feet anymore, the water that had melted from his body heat had seeped into the boots (he only wore boots because otherwise his hobbit toes would literally freeze off, he was not proud to wear them), making his feet ice cold.
Just a few more steps, he thought as he looked around, searching for a way to get down into the crater.

A couple hundred metres around the perimeter of the crater, he saw an incline that looked like the way down into the bowl of stone. He took a couple deep breaths, then leaned into the rope and set the sled into motion again.

I hope he didn’t die, Bilbo thought while making his way over to the slope, panting and his breath leaving his mouth in steamy clouds. He didn’t check if Thorin was still breathing all day. He hadn’t been brave enough to possibly discover he was bringing a corpse along.

After an excruciating 15 minutes of walking and pulling and huffing and panting, Bilbo finally reached the incline and now had to lean in the opposite direction to prevent the sled with Thorin from uncontrollably sliding down the hill and possibly crashing into a building.

Once he had reached the plain stretch of ground from the hill to the first houses Bilbo stopped, took another breath and then kept walking. The orange from the sunset had left the sky fully, leaving only blackness behind. The clouds hid any moon or stars that would have been visible otherwise. His softly pointed ears were freezing cold and he could not feel them anymore.
Every step Bilbo took with the sled behind him felt like he was pulling a mountain, his feet in the fluffy snow felt like he stepped in quicksand each time he lifted and lowered his boot.

After passing the first couple of houses, his feet hit a gravel road that ran in between the buildings towards the oven that stood high in the middle of the buildings, like an elf among men or hobbits.

Bilbos vision went blurry the closer he came to the middle of the small city; he didn’t even notice that he was passing people that were whispering and staring at him. He was cold and hot at the same time, sweat was running into his eyes, turning to ice on his lashes, making it hard to blink.

When he finally reached the oven and felt the warmth it was radiating, his knees finally gave in from the hours of strain today. Bilbo fell over and passed out on the spot.

Chapter Text

-2-
When Bilbo woke up, he was cold and still wearing the damp clothes he had passed out in.

His head was resting on a rough pillow that scratched his cheek when he moved his head. On top of him laid a blanket that he could not feel, since he was still fully dressed. Even his hood was still pulled deep into his face, covering his eyes, giving darkness and the opportunity to possibly fall back asleep.

Bilbo yawned, pushing his face into the pillow more and pulling his legs up so he was laying in a fetal position, hoping to get warmer underneath the blanket that way. No chance. His cold, moist inner layers sent a shiver and goosebumps down his back.

Once he was fully awake, he sat up as quickly as his tired muscles allowed.

He could feel his legs ache as he swung them off the low-built bed he had been laying on and planted them on the ground.
The bed was inside a tiny room that had an even tinier glass window which was covered in frost from the outside and Bilbo could not see out. The floor was made from old looking, dark wood that creaked awfully as he stood up. The walls and the low ceiling were built from the same material.
After looking around the room Bilbo noticed a second bed.

Thorin was laying on it. He was still breathing.

Bilbo stepped closer and lifted the blanket that covered the dwarf. Someone had taken off his coat and his upper layers, so he was topless and wrapped a bandage around his stomach. Where the knife stuck was now a fresh red spot on the greyish-white strip of cloth.

He lowered the blanket again to preserve the warmth underneath it, took off one of his gloves and touched the back of his hand to Thorin’s stubbly cheek. It was warmer than it had been before leaving their shelter yesterday morning.

Bilbos head snapped upwards as the door opened and stepped back from the dwarf in a second of surprise when the person, that had to bow down to step through the low doorframe, rose up to
three times his height (even though they still had their shoulders and head lowered to not hit the ceiling). It was clearly an elf.

“Ah, mister hobbit you have awoken.”, the elf stated. It was a woman, her brown long hair half hidden behind a hood that was lined with brown fur. She looked like other elves Bilbo had seen when they occasionally visited The Shire to trade. When Bilbo looked downward from the elf’s face he noticed two bowls in her hands.

“Yes, thank you for providing us with lodging.”, Bilbo responded. He noticed the hoarseness of his voice and how strange it still sounded to himself.
“Your lucky, shortly after you came there was a group of men that joined our town, some of them we could not yet give a room.”

Bilbo just nodded. He was a bit bewildered by the situation so soon after waking and watched as the elf set down the bowls on a small table that stood underneath the window.
There was some steaming thin soup looking liquid in it and small pieces of meat swam in it.

“What is your name mister hobbit?”, the elf asked next and looked back towards Bilbo. She looked strange bending over underneath the roof, not much of the gracefulness Bilbo remembered from the elves.

“Its Bilbo Baggins.”, Bilbo responded. “And who are you madame elf?”

“My name is Tauriel, it is nice to meet you.”, Tauriel said and bowed her head lightly towards Bilbo who returned the greeting with much less difficulty than the already bent elf.
“And who might your friend be?”, Tauriel inquired further and shifted over to Thorin. There wasn’t enough space to call the movement she did walking. She barely was able to take three steps across the room.

“His name is Thorin.”

“Thorin? Thorin what?”, Tauriel asked and lifted the blanket as well, seemingly checking the bandage. Bilbo wondered if it was her who had tended to the dwarves wound.
“I don’t know.”, Bilbo admitted, watching Tauriel tug around on the bandage a little, then putting another roll of fabric on the table next to the soup. “I found him while hiding from the storm. He seems to have been involved in a fight.”

Tauriel nodded and made sure to tuck all of Thorin back underneath the blanket. Then she looked back towards Bilbo. “I won’t have time to take further care of him there are too many folks in need out in the city, you need to change the wound dressing each evening and make sure he eats and drinks once he wakes. I'll see to it that the fresh bandages will be brought to you.”
Bilbo nodded as well and stood in the middle of the room looking like a lost fawn. He was majorly overwhelmed.

“There is a bathroom downstairs in the room right next to the house-door.”, Tauriel continued her disclosure and pulled a bundle of fabric out of a bag that hung on her side.
“These are fresh clothes for you, you should wash your current ones and hang them up to dry in the hallway.” Bilbo only managed another nod.

“Good, if you want to know anything else, ask any of the elves, not the men or dwarves, they can be particularly unhelpful and rude.”, she kept going and shifted back towards the door of the chamber. “I have to get back to work, once you have recovered a bit we will find a job for you as well.”

Bilbo nodded again and the elf was out of the door.

He sat back down on the bed; his legs had been burning again just from standing too long. He looked towards the soup, and his stomach did an excited flip at the thought of eating. Bilbo got back up and grabbed the bowl before sitting back down. There was no spoon to eat it with, so he put his lips on the edge of the bowl and drank from it.

The soup had a slight bitter aftertaste in the back of his throat, the small pieces of meat were tough and tasteless, but Bilbo thought he could taste the slightest bit of an herb or salt in it. He was more than happy to drink up, his belly welcoming every drop of lukewarm soup it could get.

He drank it in one go and then sat the empty wooden bowl back onto the table. He looked at Thorin and then at the bowl that was brought for the dwarf. He hadn’t yet woken up and he didn’t look like he would in the next hour or two. Bilbo started trembling a little, his cold and wet clothes seemed to pull any warmth from his skin.

Bathroom, Tauriel had said, Bilbo thought and slowly got back up. He grabbed the bundle of dark brown and grey fabric and walked to the door with numb feet. Before he left, his eyes went back to Thorin. He’ll be fine if I’m gone for a little, the hobbit thought and left the room.

He stepped into a hallway out of the same dark wood their room was made from. On the walls clotheslines hung and damp pieces of clothing hung on them to dry. It was colder out here then in the room and the air felt damp and uncomfortable. On both walls many doors suggested further rooms.

Gaining more goosebumps, Bilbo made his way towards the staircase he saw on the far-right side of the hallway and went down two flights of creaky stairs.
He found the door Tauriel had told him about, opened it carefully and peeked inside before stepping in. The room had no windows and some buckets of water stood on one side opposite of the door together with a small metal oven in which a fire crackled, heating the room just slightly. No one else was in here.

Bilbo closed the door behind him and took off his coat. He placed each piece of clothing on a stool next to the oven until he was just in his small cloth and the shirt, he wore a his most inner layer. The light brown shirt had a red streak across his chest where the rope from the sled had chafed his skin.

Carefully and slowly, he pulled the bloody fabric of his skin, biting his lip to stifle any pained noise. Underneath the cloth a stripe of raw, now again bleeding flesh and skin ran from one of his armpits to the other across the entirety of his chest. The hair there were sticky with fresh and crusty with dried blood.

He threw the shirt on the ground next to the stool he put his other clothes on and also got rid of his underwear.

The air was chilly, and goosebumps crept all over Bilbos body while he went over to the buckets and held his hand in the water they contained. It was ice cold, and the hobbit scrunched his nose unhappily.
“Better get it over with quickly.”, he mumbled to himself and picked up one of the metal buckets. The wound on his chest and his tired body protested against the weight he lifted, and he was already shivering in the cold room. As quickly as he could he put the bucket over his head and poured all the icy water over himself.

He dropped the bucket and gasped like a fish on land by the sudden cold water washing over him, hugging himself and trying to catch his breath. It was so cold, so so ice cold, Bilbo couldn’t even properly comprehend. As cold as he had been in his damp clothes before, this was way worse, and he was trembling as his breathing recovered slowly.

The water running down his chest had a pale red colour as it washed away the blood around the stripe of chafed skin and Bilbo started to clean the rest of himself up with a piece of soap he found and his hands.

The short wash ended with the second bucket over the head and Bilbo gasped again, still not used to the cold water. He was properly trembling now, his fingertips and toes were bright red and numb, and he wished himself into a tub of warm water or his comfy bed back in Bag-End before the frost had come.

Oh, how he missed his bed and his stove and his garden….

He grabbed the towel that Tauriel had brought him (the bundle of clothes was wrapped in it) and rubbed himself dry, only gently patting the aching skin around the wound on his chest to not cause any more discomfort to himself.

After he was dry enough, he quickly put on the fresh clothes and instantly felt a little warmer.
The clothing was nothing special, it was underwear, socks, two layers of pants and shirts in brown or dirtyish grey tones and a thick knit looking sweater as well as a cloak. No new shoes , Bilbo noticed with slight disappointment and put his wet towel over the oven to dry a bit. All clothes were a bit too big. They must be dwarven size, Bilbo thought with a sigh. Was he the only hobbit that made it here?

He carried another bucket closer to the oven, to stay warmer, and put his old clothes into it. After scrubbing around on them with the soap and rinsing them a few times the water inside the bucket was brownish and not transparent anymore. He dumped it near the drain in the floor.

Left with a bunch of dripping clothes and bare feet (the socks were the only thing that were too small but who’s surprised at that) Bilbo left the bathroom and went up the stairs again. Near the door of the room they were given, he found some space on one of the clotheslines along the wall and put the laundry up on it to dry.

He went back to the room and instantly felt a little warmer. The low ceiling and the compact space the room offered did wonders in preserving body warmth it seemed.
Thorin still laid on his bed, unmoving and asleep even though his face seemed to have a bit more colour than the day before. Bilbo looked at Thorin’s bowl of soup, which had gotten cold in the time he wasn’t there, and considered eating it himself.

He was a hobbit after all and, like everyone knows, hobbits have a love for food, even if its watery, bitter soup. Bilbo had gotten a bit skinnier since he had left the shire, food was scarce out in the snowy plains, and he had often gone to bed with a growling stomach that wasn’t satisfied with a few seedcakes or a piece of dried meat as dinner.
His thoughts drifted off to his pantry which was now probably frozen over and empty. He had had so much different delicious cheese, ham, smoked fish, pickled veggies and dried fruits in there. His mouth started watering, and he was completely lost in thoughts.

Until the dwarf in the bed next to him stirred and started groaning.

Chapter Text

-3-
Burning pain in his side greeted him when he awoke.

Thorin groaned, turning his head to the side and sweat beaded on his forehead. His hand flinched towards where the knife must be now, if he could just pull it out and finally escape this nightmare…

There was no knife. There was no knife?

Thorin’s hand found a rough piece of fabric that had been wrapped around his stomach and felt around on it for the handle of the knife, but he could not find it.

He opened his eyes and faced a dark, wooden ceiling. Not the one he had passed out under and not the bright cloudy sky that he had seen the few times he had a moment of being lucid after passing out inside the shed. It was suspiciously warm and slowly Thorin’s slow, tired mind came to the realization that he was only half dressed and under a blanket.

He was confused; his thoughts seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace and the pain in his side made it even harder to form a thought. Gasping slightly with his mouth open to try and breathe the pain away, Thorin turned his head to the side and saw a blurry room and a figure in the middle of it.

His throat was dry and his stomach was twisting with hunger. He hadn’t eaten anything in days and not drunk anything since the night two days ago. To him it felt like he hadn’t had water in years.
A voice made it into his mind; it sounded like the person spoke through cotton and he could not understand what they were saying. Thorin blinked a few times, which did little to fix the blurriness in his vision.

Again, the voice made it to him and his slow brain grew frustrated with not understanding a word.

He let out a grunt and took a deep breath which sent a hot surge of pain through his torso and made sweat bead on his forehead again even though it wasn’t very warm in the room.
Thorin closed his eyes again, just for a second and the next time he opened them the figure that had stood in the middle of the small blurry room moved closer and took up almost his entire field of vision.

“….nt water?”, the figures voice went through to him again and Thorin let out a raspy, strangled sound of approvement as his brain registered the last word.

The figure left again and Thorin turned his head back, so his face was facing towards the ceiling. A hand slipped underneath all his hair and his neck and lifted his head slightly. The mouth of a cup or a bottle, Thorin couldn’t tell, was set to his lips and then he could drink.

He finished the water in seconds, the cold liquid finally bringing some peace to his body that had been aching for some of it in the hours of his unconscious state.

“Thank you.”, Thorin rasped out. He still couldn't properly see the person standing over him, his sight was far too blurry, but it slowly got better until he could recognize a face framed by brown curls, cheeks and nose red from the cold air. They must have been outside recently.

The person said something again, but Thorin barely understood it. He was exhausted by just drinking and speaking those few words and felt ready again to just fall back asleep, when a memory crept into his from bloodloss tired mind.

Kili and Fili… he had been separated from them in a storm. The person might have seen them. (Not once did it cross Thorin’s thoughts that Bilbo had no clue of who Kili and Fili were or how his nephews looked).

“Kili…Fili….”, he mumbled and finally gave his straining eyes some rest by closing them again. Thorin was back asleep in seconds.
With a sigh Bilbo watched the dwarf fall back asleep, his breaths becoming slow and deep.
-----------------------------------------------
“Well, at least he had a few mouthfuls to drink.”, Bilbo silently mumbled to himself. His eyes went to the bowl of soup that had gotten cold on the table. Thorin wouldn’t eat it… he could have it. His stomach gave an agreeing grumble.

He put his leather-waterskin, he had had in his backpack and filled downstairs where a barrel of water stood in the hallway, on the table and took the bowl of soup. Of course, it wasn’t steaming anymore but it would probably still fill his protesting stomach.

Feeling just a twinge of guilt about eating Thorin’s bowl of soup he started spooning the liquid into his mouth, eating as if he was starving (which he felt like he was), loosing some of the thin broth along the way and it dripping down his chin until he could wipe it off with his thumb.

After he had eaten the second bowl of soup, he didn’t feel completely full but fuller than he had felt the last couple of weeks of traveling the icy desert that middle earth had become.
Walking over with tired legs Bilbo sat down on his low, hard bed and let out another sigh.

In his thoughts he returned to his hobbit hole, his pantry, his bedroom and the soft, comfy big bed with the many pillows and blankets. He had quilted some of the blankets himself, beautiful patterns and colours of fabrics he had bought on the market.

At night he would snuggle up in all his bedding, nothing more but his hair and the tips of his ears visible in the mountain of pillows and fabrics, sleeping soundly even if he fell asleep with an open window in winter.

In the mornings, he would sit outside on his little bench and eat breakfast there. Fried eggs and sausages, some potato hash, blistered tomatoes and even a bit of yoghurt and fresh berries if he had been at the market the day before. He would sit there for hours, smoke his pipe after finishing his food and read a book he had chosen from the big bookshelf that stood in his study.
Oh, how Bilbo missed his study.

All the books and maps he had collected over his 50 years of age were now frozen solid. The sheets of empty paper now unusable and probably frozen so hard one could break it in the middle like a bar of chocolate.

“Oh, don’t think of chocolate, don’t torture yourself like that.”, Bilbo said to himself and laid down in his bed, pulling the thick, rough, woollen blanket up until his chin. The chafe on his chest hurt underneath his shirt and as soon as Bilbos head hit the pillow, his eyes feel close, and he went to the land of dreams once again.
It was fully dark in the small room when Thorin woke up again.
----------------------------------------------
There was only slight an orange glow from the oven in the centre of the city shining through the frosty glass that kept the cold outside the window, and it wasn’t enough light to properly see at all.
The ceiling creaked slightly and silently Thorin could hear wind howling outside but the window was much too small to let any wind in or much sound through.

He felt clearer in the head now than before, his sight less blurry even though he could be mistaken. He couldn’t see much in the dark room anyways.

Thorin couldn’t remember how he got here but he knew someone took him. Faintly he remembered seeing a bright cloudy sky and feeling the icy cold air and wind, blowing some snowflakes into his face. Maybe it was the small looking man that had helped him when he had woken up in the shed.

Slowly he lifted his hand and placed it onto his side. He felt the fabric of the bandage that was wrapped around it, wincing slightly at the dull pain that followed the slight pressure his fingertips put on it.
Someone had patched him up in a way that prevented him from bleeding out. It must have been a skilled healer that removed the knife and cared for the wound.
Thorin slowly lifted his head and propped himself up on his elbows with a strained groan and much more effort than he would have liked to put into the motion. A sting in his side reminded him not to move too much or he would be bleeding and in need of help again.

Breathing heavy, Thorin looked around the room which worked much better in the slight upright position he was in now. It was too dark to see much, but he spotted the window, a small table and a second bed with a person-shaped hill on top of it. He could hear their slow, steady breath. They must be sleeping, he thought, it’s probably the middle of the night.

Thorin looked around for something to drink. He was dehydrated and craved nothing more than some water at the moment. On the small table, that didn’t stand too far away from his bed, he could see a kind of waterskin looking object and tried leaning over to grab it.

A worse sting and a painful pulling sensation hit him as he leaned too far and with a whimper he slowly retreated into his original position, propped up and laying straight. His breath went in heavy gasps, the breathing motion sending more pain through his stomach area.

“Mahal, I... just need some water….”, he whispered pressed and closed his eyes, trying to calm his breathing so it wouldn’t feel like being stabbed all over again with each breath.
Thorin looked over at the second bed. He could wake whoever was sleeping there… No, he wouldn’t disturb another person’s rest just for a drink of water, he was the heir to Erebor, he should be able to get himself water if he needed it that badly. He simply was too proud.

Slowly his breath returned to normal, his heaving chest and stomach returning to the normal, small movements with each breath and the pain in his side subsided to a dull throbbing again.
Thorin slowly leaned forward, being punished with another surge of pain, and propped himself up on the palm of his hand. Then the second hand.

He was now sitting, leaning heavily on his hands to not tense his abdominal muscles too much. Even though he did his best to keep any strain off the wounded area, he could feel how the crust on top of the wound stretched dangerously and the stitches he could feel now, pulled on the sensitive skin around the injury.

“Careful now.”, he whispered, trying to keep his breath calm despite the growing pain in his side and turned his head back towards the table. He just needed to lean over a little bit…
Leaning only on one hand and lifting the other, stretching towards the table Thorin gritted his teeth against the hot pain that shot up his spine and spread all around his stomach, his fingers were just not reaching the waterskin.

He leaned a little more, finally reached it and pulled it towards him. It landed on the edge of the bed as he lost grip of it and collapsed back into his pillow.

Gasping for air, moaning in pain and cradling his bandaged side with one hand Thorin laid completely still and tried to breathe away the pain once again. It hurt like being stabbed anew and he suddenly got scared that he had busted the stitches and was in the process of bleeding out. He didn’t have that much blood anyways right now, bleeding a lot again was definitely going to kill him.
But the familiar feeling of warm blood didn’t come, the pain subsided to a bearable level a short time of hectic breathing and panicked thoughts later.

Thorin sighed in relief and with that sent another wave of pain through himself. It seemed like the delicate crust over the wound had become even more tender than before. Any more movement and he would probably have been in trouble.

Laying still and resting now (he was extremely exhausted by the effort) his hand searched for the waterskin on the bed and found it quickly. He grabbed it, opened it with his teeth and lifted it just enough to drink.

The cold water felt refreshing and like a life saver. He emptied the waterskin quickly and then let it fall to the ground next to his bed.

Another relieved sigh left him, and he closed his eyes. Now that he had drunk something and the wound didn’t hurt as bad, he felt much calmer and got sleepy again. He was exhausted by the bloodloss the wound had caused and the effort it took to sit up and reach the waterskin.

In the darkness of the room, he slowly felt the sleep creep back into his mind and was gone in minutes.