Days of Agony [Featured]

Etchings

In his sweet sleep, alive with the scent of a warmer season in the Shire, Bilbo felt a light pressure on his leg. He ignored it at first, not wanting to pull himself away from the bliss in which he floated, but then he remembered in a flash that he was not in his bed at home and that he was not alone. He opened his eyes startled only to meet the soft-glowing gaze of Thorin, king under the mountain which sheltered both of them from the wintery winds outside. The pressure on the hobbit's thigh came from his hand, which rested there in tentative appeal. It withdrew at once.

"Thorin? What is it?"

"Thirsty," whispered the dwarf.

"Oh, of course," said Bilbo, then rose painfully on an elbow and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I am sorry," said Thorin, sounding as if, whatever it was he regretted, he truly meant it.

"For what?" Bilbo squinted back to him, trying to accustom his eyes to the glare of the candle that burned at Thorin's side.

"For waking you up."

Bilbo cracked a little smile. "I'm glad you didn't try to get it yourself."

"I couldn't even if I tried."

"It's certainly good to know one's limitations," declared Bilbo, hauling himself out of bed and stretching his back and arms.

Thorin did not reply, and the hobbit threw a glance at him over his shoulder to see if he was annoyed with his remark. He was not. The dwarf was smiling at him subtly.

Then Bilbo went over to his side and collected the water pitcher that rested on his night table. "I'll be right back," he said and stepped away slowly with the pitcher wrapped tightly in his arms.

"Bilbo," called Thorin softly just as the hobbit was ready to open the door. "Put something on."

Bilbo looked back to him and then looked at himself. He was only wearing a light shirt, more than enough to feel comfortable in Thorin's warm bedroom, but it was probably not as warm outside in the sitting room and especially not in the corridor that led to the Royal Kitchens. Thorin had a point.

"Right," said Bilbo and went back for the felt coat that Balin had given him a couple of days before. He wrapped it around himself and finally stepped out of the room.

He was grateful for Thorin's warning the moment he found himself outside his door. As late in the night as it probably was, the air was much cooler under the high ceilings of the royal quarters without a fire burning in a hearth somewhere. Still, the surroundings were made pleasant by the torches that flickered steadily in their wall mounts, lighting the way.

Only one sound broke the eerie silence of the kitchen: the bubbling of spring water that ran from the deep darkness of the mountain through a small round tunnel inside the wall and into a basin. He placed the pitcher under the stream of water and waited for it to fill up. Then he put it aside and reached both hands, palms gathered in a cup, under the silvery thread. The water was icy and it chased whatever trace of sleepiness still mollified Bilbo's bones. He took a few drinks of it himself. He had never tasted water so pure and so refreshing, not even from the deep wells of the Shire. And he could think of nothing better to soothe Thorin's thirst.

He returned to him, carrying the pitcher with both hands. Thorin was still very much awake and smiled softly at the sight of the hobbit. He had managed to extract his arms from under the covers and they both lay idle at his side, partly wrapped in bandages. His braids were long undone, and his rings had been removed from his fingers and put away safely. The only remaining marks of his status were his golden ear cuffs, and a tattoo of what Bilbo had come to recognize as his royal seal on his right shoulder and arm, which he had not looked at carefully until then. As striking as it was, Bilbo had to admit that he found the idea of having something etched into his skin or of wearing anything on his ears to be just as uncomfortable as that of wearing shoes.