With Gandalf gone, Bilbo started to feel that the world was closing in on him. He had been quick to affirm to Balin and Dwalin that he was not alone in the dim tent as long as Thorin was there, but now his assuredness faltered. Thorin was there in body, hardly whole in itself, but not in spirit. There was no one to talk to, and no one that could answer. Further to Bilbo’s distress, he could not say that he regretted that particular state of affairs entirely. Part of him was relieved that Thorin was not conscious, for he would have hardly known what to say to him. The other part was afraid that he would stay that way forever.

Bilbo realized that he had been standing over Thorin’s bed, staring at the wounded dwarf, or rather through him, since the wizard had left. He was not sure how long it had been, but he was yanked out of his thoughts by a sudden dizzy spell and a shudder shooting through his body, from his toes to his head. He knew what that was. It wasn’t just being tired, or lonely, or underdressed for the winter season. He was coming down with a fever, which was not exactly a great surprise.

Bilbo sat down and extended his hands towards the waning candle at his side. His fingers almost blistered before he felt warm enough to take them away. He looked around for another candle to replace the dying one and saw that there was only one other left. He lit it carefully and made the replacement. He hoped that Balin and Dwalin would return soon, and they would be able to move to the Mountain before this last candle expired and before his fever got much worse. Something within him reeled at the thought of going back into Erebor, but he knew that he could count on a warm place to sleep at least. And maybe the dark of the mountain kingdom would help him forget about everything for a while.

As he mused so, the corner of his eye caught a shadow blocking the light coming in through the folds of the tent. He turned eagerly, thinking that Balin and Dwalin had returned, but the shadow belonged to someone else - another dwarf, by the bulky shape of his silhouette.

The visitor advanced until the light from the single remaining torch revealed his features. It was Dain, Thorin’s mighty cousin and Lord in the Iron Hills. Bilbo had only seen him briefly, from afar, but even so the sight of Dain and his five hundred dwarves, with their heavy armours and large, iron axes had convinced him of the fearsome power that a Dwarf army could muster. Now that he could look closely upon Dain Ironfoot, he felt himself growing smaller under his wild stare, of a murky colour that was difficult to name, and sparkling oddly with the lingering thirst for Orc blood. His wide, boulder-like frame gave him the distinct look of being ready to crush anything that came his way. Bilbo caught an impulse to draw back as the dwarf advanced towards him. He remembered being intimidated by Thorin when they had first met, but not in that way.

“Master Hobbit,” spoke Dain in a low, rough tone, probably strained by battle, “I understand that you have had a decisive hand in all of this.”

Bilbo blinked a few times, pressed to react to this strange statement. “I, uh, I don’t -”

“Come, now, Master Hobbit, don’t be modest. I hear you have helped my cousin take back the Mountain. We have much to thank you for.”

“Well, I - ”

“You look tired and hungry. Why don’t you come over to my tent, so you can get food and rest aplenty?” offered Dain.

“Thank you, but I was left to watch over Thorin,” said Bilbo, finally retrieving his words.

“I have posted guards outside. You need not worry yourself.”

“I think I would rather stay.”

“Very well,” Dain relented. “I did not know that Hobbits had such a sense of loyalty.”

That last remark sounded mocking to Bilbo’s ears. “We do,” he answered, a little flustered, “when loyalty has been earned.”

“I see,” snarled Dain, narrowing his eyes. “I would have thought that you resented my cousin for banishing you.”

“We have resolved our differences in the meantime,” said Bilbo decidedly.

“What about the Arkenstone? Have you returned it?”

Bilbo weighed his response carefully. For a reason he could not really justify, he found it suspicious that Dain should have sought the whereabouts of the Arkenstone. It was not unreasonable for him to be concerned with that. He was a Dwarf lord from the line of Durin, an heir to the throne of Erebor himself, and so an heirloom as important as the King’s Jewel would have rightfully preoccupied him. Perhaps Dain’s lineage was the very reason for Bilbo’s suspicion. The wealth and power of the King under the Mountain were within his very grasp, and the Arkenstone would have only made that grasp stronger.

“I… have not,” answered Bilbo, sticking his nose up a bit and clasping his hands at his back in a slightly defying pose. He did not intend to volunteer the information that the Elvenking himself had returned the Arkenstone and that it was in the same room with them, hidden under the blankets at Thorin’s feet.

Dain did not look happy with Bilbo’s answer, or with his attitude. But he also did not seem comfortable taking his inquiry further. He realized probably that it would have looked too much like interrogation. He could not risk exposing his desire for Thorin’s crown to the little creature before him. It would have been distasteful, and dangerous.

After eyeing Bilbo fiercely for a few good seconds while he turned these thoughts in his mind, appearing further irritated by the fact that the hobbit did not look away in fright, he turned his gaze to Thorin. “How is he doing?” he asked, all the unspoken rancour coming out inevitably in his tone.

That was a question that Bilbo could answer more easily. “Dwalin stopped the bleeding, but he has been unconscious since then. Still, we hope for the best.”

“You must also always prepare for the worst, Master… Baggins, is it?” Dain turned abruptly again to Bilbo. His stare was gleaming with threat.

“Yes,” said Bilbo, a little more intimidated this time.

This seemed to please Dain, as he straightened his back and relaxed the features of his face. “Well, let us hope that my cousin makes a speedy recovery.” His voice had also come down to a less heated tone. “But if he doesn’t, I will personally see that you get your promised share of the gold.”

Bilbo was not entirely surprised by the direction that Dain was giving to their conversation. He felt somewhat appeased by the predictability of that statement, and by the fact that Dain seemed to have calmed down. “I would rather not think of that for the time being,” he answered evenly.

“You do not value gold?”

“I value life above it.”

“Of course, as do we. Well then, I should take my leave. Remember that my door is open to you, should you want anything,” said Dain with a smile that barely hung on one corner of his mouth. He looked like the kind of Dwarf that laughed more heartily and more often than Thorin, but he seemed less generous with smiles that did not seek to communicate one hidden meaning or another.

Bilbo chose to keep his thoughts from showing on his face. He had become quite skilled at that particular task along the journey. He simply bowed his head slightly, saying, “My Lord.”

Dain appeared content with that reaction and walked out of the tent. Bilbo lifted his gaze after him, but only caught the flaps of the tent fluttering in his wake. He realized that he had been keeping his right hand knit into a tight, painful fist all the while that he had been talking to Dain. It was the hand that he trusted the most for practical duties, from writing to sword fighting. He looked down at his fist and slowly released it. It was not grasping anything, as his sword was not on him. It resided on the table near Thorin’s bed. It was all for the better, as it probably would not have made a very good impression with Dain if he had been holding on to the hilt of his sword for dear life while talking with him. The conversation had been tense enough without an open act of defiance, as silly as it would have been for a Hobbit to raise a Hobbit-sized sword against a great Dwarf warrior.

Bilbo turned to look at Thorin. He was very pale, and it was impossible to tell if he was breathing or not by the faint light in the tent. Just to make sure, Bilbo went closer and placed his fingers against the dwarf’s lower neck. Although his touch was firm enough, he couldn’t feel anything at first. He surprised himself by not hesitating. He slid his fingers around the soft dent between Thorin’s neck and collarbone until he finally found a pulse, not terribly vigorous, but steady.

Bilbo let out a sigh of relief and fell back on his chair, his head drooping over his chest. He sat there for a while, with his eyes closed. His head buzzed with the cold that was taking over him, but the fog that settled over his mind, dimming his thoughts, was strangely welcome.

When Balin and Dwalin finally returned, Bilbo was in danger of falling asleep sitting down. He looked up to the sound of voices approaching and saw that the two brothers were not exuding much more stamina as they walked in. Balin looked a little out of breath, and Dwalin’s anger seemed to have faded into mere moroseness. He gave Bilbo a tired glance, without saying anything.

“Everything in order?” asked Balin, panting slightly.

Bilbo nodded once, and stood up from his seat. “Dain paid a visit,” he said, unable to keep his tone neutral.

“About time,” said Balin, with a raised eyebrow, and glanced at his brother.

Dwalin glanced back with a small smirk. “What did he have to say?” he asked, looking at the hobbit.

Bilbo found himself again forced to consider his words carefully. He didn’t think it was wise to tell Dwalin about Dain’s interest in the Arkenstone or about the fact that he had promised Bilbo his share of Erebor’s treasure over Thorin’s head. “He... offered me food and rest,” he answered eventually.

“I see you’re still here,” poked Dwalin.

“I told him I had a previous commitment,” responded Bilbo promptly.

Dwalin looked aside, marking the end of that conversation as far as he was concerned.

“Well,” Balin intervened, gathering his hands at his front., “it will be getting dark soon. We should start moving.”

“I’ll go tell the others,” replied Dwalin and stepped out.

Alone with Balin, Bilbo felt free to speak his true mind on the Lord from the Iron Hills. “Balin,” he began, “perhaps I’m wrong, but it did not seem to me that Dain is as interested in Thorin’s wellbeing as we are.”

The old dwarf looked at him in a way that made Bilbo fear that he had offended him. Then, a little smile told him that he had not. “Now, Bilbo, that is a harsh judgement,” he said in a mildly scolding tone.

“I, I know,” said Bilbo, shrinking a bit with shame.

“What did he say to you to make you think that?” Balin inquired further.

Bilbo looked back up, encouraged by Balin’s genuine interest in his concerns. “He... inquired about the Arkenstone. And he said that, if Thorin didn’t recover, he would personally see that I got my share of the gold.”

“Well, that was to be expected,” replied Balin, without any perceivable note of alarm in his countenance. “Dain is within his right to plan for the possibility that he would become King. That does not mean that he doesn’t wish for Thorin to survive.”

“But he does want to become King,” ventured Bilbo.

“Any Dwarf of Dain’s birth and deeds would,” responded Balin.

Bilbo smiled at him, unable to deny the sense behind the dwarf’s words. Perhaps he had been too quick to judge Dain’s intentions. Perhaps he himself was still too much under the spell of battle, and his senses were mistakenly registering threats where there were none.

“You do look like you need some food and rest,” teased Balin, smiling back.

Bilbo shrugged. “Don’t we all?”

Balin raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. We will take care of that once we get back to the Mountain. You are coming with us, I trust?”

“Yes, I am,” said Bilbo, sighing.

“You don’t have to, of course,” said Balin.

“I am sure that Gandalf will gladly take you back home if that is your wish.”

“Gandalf has already left.”

“Oh, has he?”

“Yes. We spoke earlier. He is needed in Rivendell, apparently.”

“I see. Well, it will be a while before we can call Erebor a comfortable home again, but you’re welcome to stay nonetheless, for as long as you like,” offered Balin, kindly.

Bilbo smiled back in thanks, then glanced to Thorin.

“We should get him ready,” said Balin, catching on.

Bilbo acknowledged with a nod. “We’ll need a stretcher, I suppose.”

“Aye, we asked Gloin to see that three are put together by the time we came back. I trust that they are done.”

Balin had barely finished his sentence, when Dwalin walked back in, hauling a sturdy-looking stretcher. “It’s done,” he said. “Are you ready here?”

“Almost,” said Balin. “Let me check our handiwork first.” He winked at Bilbo, and it made the hobbit blush rather violently. He could feel it in the way his cheeks had suddenly caught fire. He was quite grateful that the light in the tent was of a deep orange hue to begin with. He hoped that the colour of his cheeks would not stand out too much to Dwalin, who was again staring at him fiercely.

Balin was, of course, referring to Thorin’s bandages, which Bilbo had helped with earlier. The older dwarf went over to Thorin and slowly peeled all the blankets off of him. He hummed approvingly as he inspected his bundled wounds.

In the meantime, Dwalin had laid down the stretcher and proceeded to retrieve Orcrist and the Arkenstone from under Thorin’s blankets. He strapped the sword to his back, the way Thorin wore it, and slipped the stone into his trouser pocket. Then he looked at his brother inquisitively.

Balin nodded to him and said, “All right, we can move him. But we’ll have to be very careful, with his chest in particular. We don’t know if his ribs are completely broken. If they are, they might snap out of place, and we don’t want to add that to our problems, or his.”

“Agreed,” said Dwalin. “I’ll support his back. I’m stronger.”

They exchanged places. Bilbo watched as the two brothers gently moved Thorin from his bed to the stretcher, Dwalin using all of his indeed remarkable strength to keep Thorin’s body stable enough as to not jostle his injuries. His gestures were again almost tender. So were Balin’s, and it was obvious to Bilbo that their concern was not only for a friend or for a king. It was for both of those things, and more, much more.

After they had set Thorin down onto the stretcher, Balin and Dwalin took the blankets from the bed and spread them back over his body, then tucked the edges under his sides.

Balin straightened his back, planting his hands on his hips. “This should do. Bilbo, you want to gather your things?”

Bilbo looked at him confused. Besides his sword and the little clothing that he was wearing, he didn’t know what other things he could call his own in that time and place. “Uh,” he glanced around. “Yes,” he said, locating the sword. He collected it and put it back around his waist. “I’m ready,” he nodded.

“You can hold this,” said Dwalin, a bit abruptly, handing him the torch that had been lighting the tent.

Bilbo received it without protesting, and followed them as they lifted Thorin from the ground and walked out of the tent. It was a chill, overcast dusk, warmer than Bilbo had expected it, a sure sign that it would soon start to snow. He still felt the need to gather the lapels of his coat around his neck, but the cold air was pleasantly refreshing. He looked towards the other tent uphill from Thorin’s where he knew that Fili and Kili lay wounded. They were already being carried outside on their own stretchers, Fili by Bofur and Bifur, and Kili by Gloin and Oin. Nori and Bombur accompanied them with two more torches.

Balin and Dwalin did not stop to wait for the others. They started steadily towards the mountain. A call from Balin made Bilbo snap out of his musings and spring after them, gripping his torch with as much strength as he still had. It was large and heavy for him, but he enjoyed having a considerably sized flame so close to his freezing nose and cheeks. Bilbo did not really feel like going anywhere, and certainly not like undertaking a journey through the cold, lowering darkness. He was more tired than he ever remembered being, in body as well as in mind. He was starving without actually feeling hungry. And he had a worsening cold that he could perceive penetrating his very bones now that he had to make the effort of walking and carrying a heavy object, using an arm and two legs that felt more and more brittle. All he wanted was to crawl somewhere under a warm blanket, into a soft bed, and give himself entirely to sleep. Yet, he really could not do that, at least not at that time, as he was needed awake and able by his Dwarf friends. He had become used to foregoing his old needs for comfort as well as to braving situations that he did not feel entirely prepared or equipped for. Still hoping that they would reach their destination before the fever defeated him completely, Bilbo marched on at the side of Balin and Dwalin, lighting their way as they advanced towards the Great Door of Erebor. He could not see a lot of where he was going, as the open flame of the torch scorched his eyesight, and he inevitably tripped over stones every now and then, but he relied on the thought that he had to stay with Balin and Dwalin, and follow them whatever path they took.

Not long after they had left the camp, it had grown completely dark, and the snow had begun to fall in large, wool-like flakes. Despite the heaviness in his legs, and the lingering apprehension that his days of unrest were far from over, Bilbo felt relieved to leave the bloody, foul-smelling, makeshift world of the battle camp, and head into the sturdier realm of the Kingdom under the Mountain. Strangely enough, all he could think about as he walked through the snow and the dark, was the Shire, where winter had not yet set in. It was still late autumn, with trees shedding the last of their leaves, with mornings becoming chilly and foggy, but days still being warm and pleasant at high noon. He could not help wondering how his neighbours’ crops had turned out that year, whether their little ones had grown remarkably, and whether his own beloved hole in the ground had weathered in his absence. All of these reflections felt as natural to him as they were impractical and out of place in that frozen, barren land far to the East from the Shire. It seemed impossible not to think of his own home as he accompanied the dwarves on this last march towards the black wall of the Mountain. That was their home, the one that he had promised to help them take back, and he had kept his promise.

If anyone could understand the joy of having a home, it was Bilbo, but now he felt only sadness at the thought of the sacrifice that Erebor had been recovered with, of the lost lives, the broken bodies, and the wounded souls. Although his own family had not been spared of tragedy, the memory of his home conjured up thoughts of warmth, and comfort, and appetizing smells, not of smoke and blood and cries of death. For Thorin’s dwarves, things were obviously very different and, at that point, it was hard for Bilbo to imagine laughter and the scent of breakfast filling the devastated halls of Erebor, or the golden light that Thorin had spoken of when they had first entered the Mountain, before he had succumbed to madness, and before the war.

After what seemed like an interminable voyage through the thickening snow, they finally came up to the Great Door. A gaping hole was a more proper way to refer to it at that moment, as the door itself had been blown out of its hinges and burned by the invading dragon. They stepped inside, where it was a bit warmer and certainly drier.

They walked among the fallen pillars and bridges of the city, with Bilbo’s torch illuminating their way. The torches behind him also made some of the surroundings visible, but it felt very much as if they were walking in a cocoon of fragile light, with darkness closing in on them from all sides, and yet more darkness waiting ahead. Bilbo perceived now with added pressure the weight of Thorin’s last words to him, as few as they had been meaningful. It was harder to ignore who it was that had said those words to him while walking through his ruined kingdom. Ruined as it was, it was finally his again, his to keep and rebuild and rule over as the great king that he was. And this great king loved him, Bilbo Baggins, of all people. All the questions that he had put to Gandalf earlier, and all the answers that he had gotten tumbled back into his consciousness, in a wave of crippling realisations. He gasped for air, feeling as if there were pillars and bridges crumbling within himself.

His grasp on the torch that he was carrying faltered, but a saving hand steadied his arm before he could drop it to the ground. “Are you all right, laddie?” came Balin’s voice from the side.

Bilbo looked at him disoriented, unable to utter an answer right away. “I, I’m fine,” he said with difficulty, shaking his head a bit, trying to get back a sense of balance.

“Do you need to rest for a while?” asked Balin.

“No, no,” said Bilbo in a nasal voice. His cold had caught up with him. Walking through the snow and through the draughty halls of Erebor had not helped either. “I can walk.”

“We’re almost there now,” said Balin, smiling and releasing his arm after squeezing his wrist for reassurance.

Bilbo smiled back uneasily, but resumed his walk, trying to breathe regularly. He wondered where he was really headed, and what he was getting himself into, and most of all how he would face whatever it was that Thorin expected of him. Perhaps it was untimely to think of that, but he did think of it nonetheless.

Their path soon winded to a part of the Mountain that Bilbo recognized less and less. They advanced through corridors bearing much less evidence of destruction. There were cracks in the walls, but they became thinner and thinner until they disappeared completely. Bilbo surmised that this was the passageway to the Royal Quarters, strategically placed so as to withstand a major attack on the Mountain. Thankfully, it would not be much longer before he could finally let himself go.

They came to an archway carved with the dwarven patterns and runes that Bilbo had become accustomed to but that he could not really read. The archway opened into another corridor, wider and taller than the one they had just left. They passed a few more doors until they stopped in front of one of them. It revealed a spacious chamber lit by a few torches set into holders near the walls. Bilbo could make out a couch, a few armchairs and a small table, which told him that it was most probably a sitting room. They walked on until they reached another door. This one opened into a smaller room, which in spite of its having been deserted for over a century, looked much cosier than Bilbo had ever expected of a room made by Dwarves. The ceiling was lower and so it did not seem very imposing. There was a large bed in the middle and a generous fire burning in a hearth. This could only be Thorin’s bedroom from when he had been a young prince in Erebor. It was nice and warm inside, and Bilbo felt that the clouds of anxiety were slowly beginning to lift from his mind.

He watched in a bit of a daze as Balin and Dwalin set the stretcher on the floor and carefully lifted Thorin to his bed. Then, Balin came to him with a tired smile, took the torch from his hand and placed it in a holder similar to the ones in the previous chamber. The room was lit well enough by two more lanterns placed on each of the nightstands to the left and right of the bed.

“I’m sorry, Bilbo, we did not have time to prepare a bed for you,” said Balin. “But I think you’ll be comfortable in this armchair for now,” he indicated a large velvet armchair near Thorin’s bed. “I promise we will get you a bed tomorrow.”

“This is fine, thank you,” Bilbo accepted, thinking inevitably back to his own armchair in Bag End that he was so fond of. It was smaller, of course, and less lavish, but he had spent many quiet evenings in it, reading and dreaming about faraway lands.

“I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket,” said Balin and started towards the corner of the room where the dark shape of a big chest of drawers loomed. “Oh, and I can bring you some hot water if you want to wash,” he called, turning his head. “I regret that the tub is not usable for the moment, but we will take care of that tomorrow as well. And then you can take a proper bath.”

“That would be most welcome, thank you,” said Bilbo as the dwarf returned with a warm-looking quilt and a medium-sized pillow, which he fluffed up before placing both items on the armchair.

“All right,” said Balin. “You should also change out of those clothes. I’ll see if I can find something clean and small enough for you.”

Then he went away again to rummage some more in the great chest of drawers. Bilbo looked around in the meantime. He could distinguish near the torch set in the wall a pair of thick curtains draping over a rectangle. It appeared to be a window, but he could not really see how there could be windows so deep within the mountain as he assumed that they were then.

He looked towards Balin as he came back with a small bundle of dark-coloured garments in his arms. “Balin, what is that?” asked Bilbo, pointing towards the curtains.

“It’s a window,” said Balin, winking.

“In here?”

“It’s not really a window to the outside, as you have them,” explained the dwarf. “It is the opening of a shaft that leads to the outside. There is a slab of a special crystal mounted into the opening as a piece of glass would be mounted into a window frame. The crystal channels sunlight into the room.”

Bilbo smiled widely, forgetting that he was ill and exhausted. He had to admit that Erebor held many more pleasant surprises than unpleasant ones. “What about moonlight?” he asked, remembering the Moon Runes on Thorin’s map.

Balin nodded. “Oh, yes. Full moon nights can be quite magical, if you leave the curtains open.”

“I can imagine,” mused Bilbo, gazing towards the covered window and wishing that it had been a full moon night with a clear sky at that very moment.

“Well,” interrupted Balin, “we can discuss Erebor’s architecture another time.”

Bilbo looked back to Balin, who presented him with the small bundle of clothes that he had been holding in his arms. “I’ve found some things that I think might fit you. These belonged to Thorin, when he was much younger,” said Balin raising a bushy eyebrow, and Bilbo could not help laughing a little. “I will get you the water as well.”

Bilbo took the garments and thanked Balin for his hospitality. As terrible as that day had been, he felt almost at peace for the first time in many, many weeks. He followed Balin’s directions to the bathroom, eager to get out of the dirty rags that he was wearing, and especially to wash off the traces of what he hoped to have been the last battle in his life. The fabric of Thorin’s old clothes felt soft and comfortable to his fingers, and he could think of nothing more restful at that point than the caress of warm water and lovely, thick wool against his skin. He wondered briefly at the fact that the fabrics had withstood the passing of more than a century so well. The room must have remained very dry and free of bugs, or perhaps the chest of drawers was simply impenetrable.

The bathroom was much larger than what he had at home, all beautiful green marble like the rest of Erebor, polished exquisitely. There was a large tub and a square washing basin adorned with more dwarven patterns. There was also a stone bench, which Bilbo set his change of clothes on until Balin returned with a bucket full of steaming water.

“Here you are,” said Balin, putting down the bucket. “You will find soaps and towels in that cabinet near the basin,” he indicated a tall cabinet that Bilbo had not noticed before.

Bilbo nodded in thanks and waited for Balin to leave. He wasted no time in removing his apparel, taking care only with the mithril shirt that Thorin had given to him, which he folded neatly and placed aside. Sore as he was all over, he had been much luckier than the Dwarf King. His skin was free of any signs of abuse where the shirt had protected him. He had a few bruises on his arms and legs, and there was the bump in his forehead, but he was very much in one piece otherwise. He washed and dressed in Thorin’s old clothes, not without feeling strangely melancholic about it. They were a decent fit, if only a bit loose. Their bodies were apparently different enough for a young Dwarf’s clothes not to fit a grown Hobbit perfectly, but he was cleaner and more comfortable than he had been in a long time.

Returning to the bedroom, Bilbo found Balin and Oin still there, hovering over Thorin.

Balin seemed to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of his eye. “Ah, you’re done,” he said, straightening his back and turning to Bilbo. “I’ve brought you something to eat. Dain carried plenty of provisions with him from the Iron Hills,” said Balin, indicating a steaming bowl on the nightstand near the armchair where Bilbo was supposed to sleep.

“Oh, thank you,” said Bilbo, instantly wanting to devour whatever was in the bowl. He went to take it from the nightstand and as he was about to pick it up, he noticed something rather peculiar just next to the bowl. A cup of tea, resting atop a rectangular iron container with a handle made of polished stone. The cup was placed on a small grate set into the open top of the container and the red glow of burning coals was visible underneath. “What is this?” asked Bilbo, sensing that he would be asking that question a lot at least for a while.

“Oh, that’s your tea,” said Balin. “Oin made it for you. It’ll help with your cold. But have your supper first.”

That was not exactly the answer that Bilbo was expecting, but he smiled to himself and collected his bowl of food. He sat in his armchair, covered himself up with the quilt that Balin had given him and began eating. It was a rich stew that tasted like the most delicious thing he had ever eaten. There was a great deal of meat in it, and not a lot of vegetables, but he was not about to complain.

As Bilbo ate his supper, Balin and Oin removed the bandage wrapped around Thorin’s broken ribs. He could see from where he was sitting that it revealed some heavy bruising.

“Why are you taking that off?” asked Bilbo.

“He’ll heal better without it,” answered Balin.

“But I thought that broken ribs had to be wrapped.”

“Well,” said Balin, “we have noticed that wrapping does more harm than good, in fact. Thorin will be able to breathe better this way, and if he breathes properly, we can hope that there will be no further complications.”

“I see,” replied Bilbo, and took another gulp of his tasty stew. He trusted that Dwarves had more experience in repairing broken ribs than Hobbits did. The sight of Thorin’s bruised ribcage had nearly left him without an appetite, but hearing Balin’s confident answer to his question avoided that at the last minute.

He finished his stew and then retrieved the cup of tea from its strange but ingenious holder. It had been kept hot by the coals, and the steam rising from it invaded his nostrils, making him feel that he also had hope to breathe better in the very near future. The tea did not taste bad, and he sipped from it quietly. He did not really know when sleep had become merciless, but he did manage to place the cup back on the nightstand. Then he drifted into the kind of defeated slumber that exhaustion, worry and illness tended to bring to a poor soul when there was finally reason to feel a little safe.