Adventures, oh, adventures ahenid

Summary:

Adventures, oh, adventures. As Bilbo lies awake in the darkness, his skin glistening from the dim light cast by a fire dwindling into nothing more than ashes in his room's fireplace, he cannot help it but curse them with his entire soul.

Adventures, oh, adventures. He has grown surrounded by the mythical tales of adventures, of a past lost long for hobbits, for those that wandered through Middle Earth seeking for a home yet having none, for those whose feet bruised as they ran off from other beings seeing them as less. Adventures, oh, adventures, those nasty wastes of time that push dinner off the table, that prevent the sweet luncheon or ignore the need for breakfast because one is on the run against the nick of time. Adventures, oh, adventures, those that bring you away from home, that lead you into the vast world of beyond the comfortable limits of safety, that push your own boundaries to the unknown, to the discovery of traits valuable and despicable, from the ignorance to knowledge, knowledge of far more than one can comprehend.

Adventures, oh, adventures... magical moments, indeed, that feel like a dream, as if a force compelled you to move forward, to advance until your legs give up and the only option is to crawl, until you reach your goal even if it with a severed arm or having lost your entire mind. Adventures, oh, adventures, the glorified tales of loss and mystified stories of victory for one side, of the ignored downsides to every single step away from the beginning, to every decision made against the will of companions or, if alone, against the wellbeing of oneself for a supposed greater good that doesn't balance out the evilness.

Adventures, oh, adventures. As Bilbo lies awake in the darkness, his skin glistening from the dim light cast by a fire dwindling into nothing more than ashes in his room's fireplace, he cannot help it but curse them with his entire soul.

His is not mere adventure, but a feat that will be studied down several generations, that will filter and twist into the glory of a halfling. Tales as such soon are overpowered by the creative gossipers and narrators, who add a twinkling of their own imagination for those that, obscured by the lack of memory, become a tenth of what they were. Bilbo wonders if anyone will truly grasp the terrors that his journey has left attached to his bones, the shivering at night as his eyes become bloodshot and the bags under them deepen into a sickenly purple that has more than one dwarf in Erebor confused and concerned.

Bilbo's beginning was chaotic to say the least — a night full of images carved by the singing of lyrics until dawn, until every uninvited dwarf abandoned the chorus and found their way to bed. Thorin's deep baritone voice echoed inside Bilbo's bedroom all night, even after the royal king-to-be had drifted to sleep, and it reverberated inside his skull, its narration accompanied by melody creating, painting scenaries of a red dragon blasting fire over a mountain smoking under the Moon, of the bells in the dale ringing while colour left its inhabitants' faces, of dwarves fleeing halls to dying fall. He found himself running, running over land with the scorching breath of a fire-breathing lizard horrendously hitting his nape, always close to seizing him, never attempting to as if playing with nothing more than a mouthful of food.

He had ignored those images — warnings, of sorts — when Gandalf convinced him to follow a silly whim. A gentlehobbit of his age, leaving home for a silly adventure was and is unheard of, and yet he is there, at the other side of the none world, covered in layers of newly-made blankets, and he feels heavy, smothered under them, and as if he has no strength to push them off him, to liberate himself from a demonic pull down to the mattress.

The trolls started the nightmares — the sight of them had him with wobbly legs, praying to any Valar who may listen to him, and the booming of their nasty voices rattled his skeleton even within the flesh of his body. He could have fainted, again, at the idea of becoming stew, as his eyes lingered on his new friends being cooked to death, roasted to the perfect point and devoured with clothes, even.

And he would come next, he would be the last one for annoying them as a little mouse annoys the owner of a house — running, jumping, unable to be caught until a single mistake is done, and down goes the mouse.

Rivendell was a pause. A healing. Maybe it was Elrond's influence, maybe there was an elf perched on his bed every night to stop him from dreaming, yet he had had the best naps of his life there — the waterfall was a calm constant sound in the background that lulled him to sleep, to doze off surrounded by pure air, and perhaps it was by the second day that Bilbo realised that Rivendell was the closest to home that he had come across to. The solemnity of elves, their quizzical eyes lingering on him as he strolled through their centuries- or even millenia-old structured, ate their very much delicious — yet a bit too small in amount — food... it all gave him peace.

Chaos soon returned with their passage through the mountains. If he had been afraid of the trolls, as big and quite sentient as they were, he had found the mountain giants horrifying — their battle, the rocks whooshing, the thunderstorm combined with the dreadful echoes of their stomping on the floor. Death knocking at their doors all the time, every step being a gamble to slip off and plunge into the deepness of the void right at the tip of his toes. His heart had been beating frantically, begging for another way to cross this part of the journey, to turn back to the comfort of the elves, yet dwarves had been too blessed or cursed with stubbornness, and so they moved on, even if he had tripped and heard the implication of his own lack of skills to venture onto the wild.

He could not take a rest — not even breathe for a moment as the goblins were on them, and then he was alone, alone with a creature that brought him to the most hysterical fight or flight mode. Those round clear eyes, the greasy two or three hairs on the pale scalp, the nine teeth, all covered in grim and dirt and blood and guts from the prior prey, the slender fingers and long nails waiting to pierce through his skin and skin him alive, butcher him with nature's weapons, defile him with starvation and blow his skull in millions of pieces with a rock, or perhaps drown him in the lake, in the waters that had not seen the Sun since their cage in the mountains had been created. He had never been more out of himself as he begged for time, for any force beyond his own wits to help him, abandoned by the dwarves to his own luck, unfortunately, and now having to face a battle not by strength but by cunningness.

The race away, stolen a ring that made him invisible and offered him a swoop down his stomach, a dark urge creeping up his spine the more he uses it. The goblings again, the wargs, the never-ending circle of is this the end of the night, and then the flying on eagles! On birds bigger than any he had ever laid his eyes on, to escape the vengeance of foul creatures that were born from hatred, that wished to destroy and nothing else, that laughed wickedly and knew little of how terrified poor Bilbo Baggins was, or perhaps it was because they knew that they continued chasing him in his dreams.

The change of heart from the dwarves, especially from Thorin, did little to alleviate the constant panic scratching onto an attack that fell on him as anxiety burst into crying and wailing once they were under the protection of a man-transformed-bear. Beorn was the closest to an ally in months, besides Elrond and the elves, and yet he could not calm down, he could stop feeling eyes prying onto his business, waiting for him to collapse, voices whispering foul things and rendering him useless to combat the nightmares that stole his rest, clawing him to an endless pit of bloodshot eyes seeing the dawn come.

Mirkwood. Bilbo wishes he had seen Greenwood instead of the despicable forest it has become, the brown turned black and the canopies so dense that only darkness is your friend. He still asks himself where the courage to fight the spiders came from — hopefully, from the desire to save his friends; probably, from the phobia of being alone with no way back home. He hates the way he was forced to linger, his good will towards elves broken due to Thranduil, the king that imprisoned his friends, his found family. He wanted to leave the forest, for he didn't feel safe to rest, and so he slept a few minutes at the time, startled awake whenever footsteps came around or nightmares started to affect him, him tearing his clothes with his own hands.

There must be some irony that he had his worst nightmare, back then, during his birthday. That night, he couldn't stand it anymore and let his feet take him towards the cell that pertained to Thorin. Despite their initial tense relationship, Bilbo cannot help but see how bewitched he was for the dwarf already — the awe he felt when he sang in Bag End, the hurt from his distrust towards him, the joy from the dwarf accepting him onto the company... and, of course, the safety he felt whenever he woke up from a nightmare and Thorin was close, his hands lingering on Bilbo, sometimes an arm wrapped around him as if the dwarf could sense his pain and sought to soothe it, or maybe share it to lessen the burden, or even steal it from Bilbo to make it his own to bear.

That night, Bilbo dropped near the cell, biting down his tears. He held close the ring that made everyone unable to detect him, and lay down, trying to get as much rest as possible, hearing Thorin snore slightly, getting back the energy to fight and snarl at elves. Bilbo missed Thorin, he missed everyone, and, for once, he didn't hear whispers in his sleep that pushed him to be evil, but imagined himself in Bag End, in his bed, cuddling with every single dwarf as hobbits tend to do with family.

Getting the dwarves out of Mirkwood was hard, even with the barrels, and maybe due to the barrels, and he couldn't hide his own weariness whenever he snapped at them. Laketown was not an easy time either, but at least he could get back his soul as he rested in Thorin's arms, the weight of their feelings as heavy as a gargantuan tower, the warmth of the dwarf as welcoming as sitting by a chimney with a nice cup of tea and an agreeable book in hand. He could fall asleep constantly, curling onto Thorin as the dwarf narrated silly stories for him, unveiling thus a side that only close to him knew, and the meaning — the significance — of counting between those had Bilbo's nightmares receding.

And then the dragon came. Trolls, goblins, mountain giants, Gollum... they didn't come close to the terrifying state Bilbo went into as soon as those slit pupils watched him, on him the unwavering attention from a lizard with sharp claws, words coming from ancient evil and smoking breath from the pits of his being, the same body that held enough fire to eviscerate Bilbo in an instant. In a poof, so quickly his brain wouldn't even register it. He was quaking, remembering himself to use his wits to save his skin, and yet a battle followed, and yet he feared for everyone.

And he lost Thorin under the spell.

Perhaps the worst nightmares that still come for Bilbo's sanity are those. The one of icy cold eyes and raven hair under a crown. The baritone voice humming from the Treasury, where he would linger from dawn to dusk and dusk to dawn, searching, hunting the same Arkenstone that Bilbo hid in his coat. Thorin's arms were not warm anymore — they were demanding, they were smothering Bilbo by the forcing of being there, held by a dwarf that wasn't even a tenth of who Bilbo loves. He would whisper for Thorin, pleading for him to come back, and it would be like begging to a stone to grow feet and move.

Impossible.

Sometimes, Bilbo asks himself what broke him more — if the way that he was reduced to a jewel to hoard, or how he was cast and almost thrown to death as soon as Thorin didn't deem him important. In that state of numbness, the war in front of Erebor was just a flurr of motion — a hurricane of metal clinging, of swords and spears and bows and magic staff, of dwarves and elves and goblins and Gandalf and humans, of death and loss and shrieks and pain and horror and bellowing. Of birds arriving to balance out a war that was being lost, of a bear landing to smack and maul, of Bilbo unconscious due to a rock on his head bringing him to that which he hated more than being awake.

Dreams.

Thinking about all of this, he squirms under the blankets, biting back a sob, wishing his mind would stop bringing back that which happened, desiring to finally move on entirely as he claims to have. He holds his own palms against his eyes, willing himself to stop the tears from falling down as he curls in bed, his breath quickening and then being interrupted by hiccups. Thorin's final speech replays in his mind — the wounds, the stench of blood, the pity everyone felt for them because they were parting ways. His heart churns as he can see the dwarf's figure, feel Thorin's hand grabbing his, he can hear his voice wishing him well, he can taste his own sorrow, he can smell the salt of his own tears.

The same hands now caress his back as strong arms pull him closer. He lets his face uncover to embrace the dwarf, reliving the pain of the goodbye and unable to tamper on the relief of the greeting when Thorin woke up and he was alive, alive and ready to welcome Bilbo once more to his side, mind clear of everything but guilt and regret. His fingers entangle with the hair raining onto the pillow and mattress, his ears twitch as the low rumbling from Thorin becomes a sweet hum to calm him down. He cries as he has for several nights, the terror of his nightmares — of his adventure — stabbing him and making him bleed like the first time.

Plump lips press on the top of his head, nose buries into the curls of his hair, and he feels himself relax under the expertise of fingers pressing on the right spots of his back. His cries dwindle to mere sobs, and then a whimper, and then a gasp and silence, and he is rocked and cradled like a baby by his lover. Thorin always wakes up when he senses Bilbo suffering — he has since the very first night, as he confessed when Bilbo asked him shortly after his recovery about why Thorin has always helped him with nightmares —, and he stays there, protecting him as he battles his own mind and the mist of sleepiness wears off enough to speak.

"Ghivashel." The whisper is low, yet he catches it. "Another nightmare?" He nods against the broad chest. "How may I help tonight?"

Bilbo has the answer to that question ready. He looks up, eyes catching the pained expression on his lover's face, and the love he reads in those dazzling eyes, despite the darkness, pulls all the strings in a heart that doesn't belong to him any longer.

"Kiss me. Hug me. Embrace me as always."

He doesn't miss the soft smile that tugs at Thorin's lips — the dwarf feels guilty, Bilbo is sure, because Thorin has caused him pain. Because the journey has nailed Bilbo onto a life of traumas, of fear crawling when no one watches, of anxiety. Because Thorin didn't push him away enough at the beginning, and he would have rather spared Bilbo to witness the fall into the shameful state he was, under the golden sickness. He doesn't deserve Bilbo, and yet Bilbo chooses him every day and night, every second, minute and hour, every year that flows by since Thorin was crowned and Bilbo stands by his side and rests in his — their — bed.

"As you wish, thundanûd." Bilbo giggles.

"Stop calling me tiny in any way." Thorin pecks his forehead and whispers:

"Then... amrâlime." Blush strikes Bilbo. "The love of my life, perfect for me, golden as any other, sweeter than pies, braver than soldiers, and deserving of the skies and lands and waters."

"... I only want a night to rest." Bilbo brushes his forehead against Thorin's after scooting up enough to cup his face, feeling the dwarf's hands on his hips.

"Humble, too." Thorin chuckles and pushes Bilbo onto his back. "I shall follow your command now."

Bilbo closes his eyes as Thorin's lips press on his, his mind falling down onto a haze of love and devotion.

Adventures, oh, adventures. Those in which he earned respect and his feet grew stronger as he retrieved a home for others. Adventures, oh, adventures, those in which he went low in food and then feasts, now, to his heart's content. Adventures, oh, adventures, those that have pushed him to bravery he didn't know he had in him and to a danger that bites his soul every now and then.

Adventures, oh, adventures... magical moments that have turned his dreams into the unsafe due to a reality that has gone beyond his expectations, in which the force to move forward has brimmed inside him, the will to fight for life, on his two feet, standing strong without crawling and with all his limbs and almost his mind in peace. Adventures, oh, adventures, the glorified tales of his victories and almost losses, of every decision he made and that saved his companions' lives and led him to find home in a bed with a dwarf.

Adventures, oh, adventures. As Bilbo lies awake in the darkness, shadowed by the figure of Thorin on him, lips pressing on his and chuckles shared between them, he cannot help it but bless them with his entire soul.

Notes:

Ghivashel: treasure of treasures.Thundanûd: tiny embrace/tiny arms.Amrâlime: my love, love of me.