Days of Agony [Featured]

The Dark Within

As Bilbo stroked Thorin’s slumbering forehead, he wondered uncomfortably what his own gesture meant to himself. Was he simply trying to comfort a suffering friend, or was there more to it than that? He had a fair idea of what it would have looked like to Dwalin. In fact, it was one of Dwalin’s many rattling questions that had pushed him to truly wonder: Do you feel the same? He wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to feel the same as, if he thought well about it. Not that there had been time for careful consideration of any of that morning’s events. He had reacted mostly out of instinct to every challenge set to him. But now that all necessities had been taken care of and he had been left again on his own, his mind naturally slipped to the dark places, where the hard questions lurked, waiting for answers. If only he had not felt so exhausted by everything that had happened to him that morning!

For now, he could only be sure that his hand perceived a mild fever radiating from Thorin’s skin. It was no reason for alarm, however. Bilbo knew better than he liked that Thorin’s wounds were clean and protected. It had to be his body’s natural response to being stabbed, slashed, bashed and burned, and nothing more. Bilbo retrieved the piece of cloth that Balin had given him, bathed it in the bowl of cold water at his side and touched it gently against Thorin’s neck, then wet it once more and placed it on his forehead.

He withdrew his hand with a sigh. His own body was starting to protest that terrible day. A tinge of nausea rose again from his belly, although it was painfully empty, and his head wound began to send bolts of raw pain into his skull. He was actually grateful for the cold creeping in from the outside, as it served to numb his misery a bit. Still, he looked around for an extra quilt. There were none. All of them were piled over Thorin, so Bilbo had to content himself with gathering his coat closer about him.

At that moment, he wished very much that he could have lain down in his own bed at home, and slept off that dreadful dizziness. But he was very far from home, and all he had then and there was the narrow edge of Thorin’s field bed. He stooped against it and folded his arms under his head as the best he could do for a pillow. He shut his eyes, hoping at least for some peace. Instead, in the dark behind his closed lids, his mind was again free to foam with a stifling anguish that went beyond whether Thorin lived or died, to his own possible fate in the aftermath of either event.

Just as he was about to give in to a threatening sob, a light hand clasped his shoulder. Bilbo opened his eyes and looked up into clear pools of wizardly blue. Gandalf. For once, he could not have come at a better time.

“My dear Bilbo,” said the wizard in his infinitely soothing voice, “are you all right?”

Bilbo winced as he straightened up. “Yes, yes. My head hurts a bit, but I’m fine.”

Gandalf studied him as if he hadn’t seen him in years. “You took quite a bump, did you?” he asked, checking the hobbit’s bandaged forehead.

“The Elves took care of it. I should be all right.”

“Well, perhaps you should get some air, and certainly some food and rest. A head wound is not to be taken lightly,” warned Gandalf, reasonably enough.

“I can’t leave Thorin,” lamented Bilbo.

“Hmm, no, I don’t suppose you can.” Gandalf’s voice trailed off with notions unexpressed and his eyes narrowed.

The hobbit felt compelled to explain himself further. “Balin and Dwalin are expecting me to watch him while they prepare a room in Erebor.”

“Of course,” accepted Gandalf.

A claw seemed to close around Bilbo’s throat as the wizard kept fixing him with his scrutinizing gaze. “Uhm, why don’t you have a seat?” he offered, standing up with the impending need to break the spell of it. “I’ll, uh, I’ll just sit on the side here.” He indicated the edge of Thorin’s bed, which he was confident would serve better as seating than it had as a head rest.