#okcnshld

The news that Thorin had regained consciousness had spread like wildfire through Erebor, and despite their last interaction before the battle, Mara feels a sense of relief that Thorin might be okay at the end of all this. Even if that means she’s probably gonna get banished from another kingdom.

It’s well after nightfall before she wanders up towards Thorin’s chambers, just part of the same wandering path that she’s taken up every night since the battle, past the rest of the company, before checking in on Fili and Kili and then Thorin, before wandering down to sit at the gate until either she fell asleep or dawn broke. 

She’s still healing from her own battle wounds, a handful of broken ribs, a gash on her left thigh, and a nasty arrow wound to her right shoulder. Nothing overly life-threatening but painful nonetheless. She limps over and takes a seat by Thorin’s bedside, wincing when she jostles her ribs.

        She truly was expecting little better treatment from a descendent of Thrór and a member of a line who once held a dwarfish ring of power. Thorin was stubborn and quick to anger, particularly when he perceived that his authority was questioned, but she was no stranger to biting her tongue in order to accomplish her own ends. Stirrings of an old enemy had long been witnessed in Dol Guldur, and now a band of exiled dwarves were making their way back to Erebor, back to one of the last remaining dragons. 

She and Thorin’s kind had never been friends, especially given her ties to orcs, and surely he must have suspected that she was not necessarily doing this out of charity. However, she thought that more progress would be made if he listened for once. 

𝑺𝑯𝑬 𝑯𝑶𝑳𝑫𝑺 𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑻𝑳𝑬 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑹𝑨𝑵𝑪𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑷𝑶𝑵𝒀; it  proves  a  welcome  respite  from  the  chill  of  the  winter  air  and  the  snowflakes  that  lazily  drape  over  the  fields  of  bree,  that  at  least  she  will  confess,  but  however  warm  its  hearth  may  prove  does  not  keep  the  gazes  of  dirtied  men  from  lingering  and  the  stench  of  sweat  from  prickling  her  nose.  still,  amera  reminds  herself  as  she  settles  into  the  corner  of  the  room,  it  is  either  this  or  the  cold. 

tired  gaze  scans  the  room  lazily,  over  hunched  figure  to  laughing  farmer  to  scowling  blacksmith,  over  tables  sticky  with  dried  ale  and  the  last  crumbs  of  meals.  nothing  unusual,  as  dull  and  as  loud  as  ever,  she  determines  with  a  small  roll  of  her  eyes,  visage  dour  so  as  to  ward  off  anyone  who  might  be  feeling  friendly.  however,  head  lilts  to  the  side  as  she  spies  a  smaller  figure  and  a  hand  lifts  as  she  flicks  snow-wetted  hair  from  her  brow. 

The Dwarf was barely standing on his feet,staggering with each step ,if it wasn’t for Bilbo and his support he would not have made it this far.as much as he was in dept to the halfling he didn’t want any of this.he was satisfied with the thought of finally allowing death to take his soul away.perhaps he could repent on his horrible deeds with his short time as king.But that wasn’t what his friend had in mind or would everallow to happen.

                      The hobbit on one side and his sword dragged on the other,they were helping in keeping his balance. A trail of blood is painted behind the two,reminding the poor hobbit that his friend was running out of time.unfortunately, there was no possible way to move any faster than this,considering his serious wounds and approaching the mountain’s path ( Upon the second attack Orcs were dwelling around the wreckage, taking care of any survivors..)  when one is spotted Bilbo quickly pushed thorin into a safe spot.upon the sudden action the dwarf couldn’t help but groan,trying to catch his breath and shooting a glare at the hobbit when he orders him not to. “ What is it? ” thorin murmured in a low tone

While there was still life in the other, there was still hope, a hope that granted strength to a Hobbit who had never known such exhaustion. His head still ached, a dull pain in the back of it as they made their way toward the mountain’s downward path, yet what clear thoughts remained to him were set in all-consuming purpose—to ensure Thorin’s survival. The rightful king of Erebor had not come all this way, through countless perils and sleepless nights, for his returned home to be lost to him through death; Bilbo would not, could not allow it.

I cannot lose my friend.

Yet every backward glance to make certain they were not followed told of diminishing time, waning hope that sickened both his stomach and heart; how much blood could be spilt before it was utterly spent? Lips pressed firmly together to still both sound and bile, he turned his attention back to the path ahead of them, only for alarm to grow in his features as the Halfling saw what lay ahead. He only dared to speak again once he knew they were both out of sight, an anxious whisper sounding.

“There’s an Orc in our path…is there no other way down the mountain?” Even as he asked, Bilbo already knew an answer that had trailed behind them with every step—they could not afford any longer road. His hand came to rest on Sting’s hilt, worried gaze fliting toward the Orc’s direction. He had only seen the one, but what if others lingered just out of sight? Even if he overcame one, or all they encountered, would it not take too long?

Unless…

His mind turned to his pocket’s contents, renewed hope yet undefined dread mingling in his chest. The blood would complicate matters, and he little knew if what he might do would succeed, but Thorin’s life lay in his hands. Was the compelling urge to keep it secret worth that loss?

“…We must find a way to stop that bleeding, and then—” His gaze returned to Thorin’s, a pause to summon his courage. “—Then you must trust me.”

“For goodness sake- Thorin!” Exasperation colored the hobbit’s voice. Exasperation, and frustration. They all felt it, of course, but only Bilbo was brave enough (or insolent enough) to finally break and chastise their leader after hours of watching him wince and flinch and stifle the very obvious sounds of pain. “Thorin, I don’t know if you noticed, but you were just recently used as a warg’s chew toy. Perhaps you might want to, I don’t know, take a break?!”

Finally, the day had arrived. Kili had been awake since before the sun had even risen over the pine trees, too eager and excited to sleep for a long time despite rest being the one thing he'd need the most. As soon as it was an acceptable hour, the young dwarf leaped out of his bed and tried to tug on his pants and boots on at the same time, tripping over his belt in his haste. The commotion woke his older brother, who merely grinned and gave a sleepy thumbs up before burying himself back in the blankets. 

Barely stopping to tie his hair back in a loose bun to keep them from falling before his eyes, Kili ran down the stairs and greeted his mother with a bright smile, snatching a piece of bread from the table before grabbing the bag he had already packed the day before. 

Finally, it was his turn to go to the forest with his uncle and try for his first big hunt. He had been waiting for this day ever since Fili had had his own and Mahal praise Thorin had deemed him old enough to take the trip with him. He almost smacked face-first into said uncle's chest as soon as he opened the front door, and staggered back a couple of steps before laughing. 

@okcnshld​ asked: ❝ we’ll always have each other in our time of need . ❞ //!!!!

        It was supposed to have been a simple banquet. Men of Dale, elves from Eryn Galen, dwarves from the Iron Hills, and a small host of her own clan together in order to reinforce alliances and celebrate the final restoration of the halls of Erebor. She had been chief of the Bor-dagrim for thousands upon thousands of years. She was not made of porcelain that she should shatter so easily underneath another’s bruising words, and yet, perhaps centuries of isolation amongst those who actually cared had weakened her. The more she sat amongst Thorin’s company, the more she received glances filled with suspicion and disdain, the more she heard whispers of condemnation, the more she wished to be gone. 

Thorin found her in a deserted corner, holding a flagon of orc-draught to her chest with white-knuckled digits in order to still their trembling. 

When she glances up at the approaching king, she rearranges her features so that they match the stone walls around them. However, the moment he sits down beside her and rests a gentle hand on her shoulder, her shields crumble. Her brow furrows, and silver hues grow misty. 

At first, she says nothing, merely reaches up to grasp his hand-- a lifeline, a reinforcement to her toppled tower. Then, there is a whisper: “May it ever be so, brother.”