Disclaimer: Not mine. Obviously. :)

Warnings: Bloodshed and violence. Take heed!

AN: This is slightly AU - what if Thorin had been out cold while Bilbo performed his heroics? And somehow this what-if drabble gained a mind of its own and evolved into a story.

Guilt and Courage

I

The sun had not yet risen when Bilbo awoke. A fire was burning nearby, and he could hear the dwarves chattering among themselves. With a yawn he sat up, shivering in the cool air.

"Slept well, Master Baggins?" asked Bofur, who was packing up his bedroll.

"Well enough," said Bilbo, who couldn't help missing his comfortable feather bed at Bag End. Rock and grass were no suitable replacement, even though, unlike his dwarf companions, he had managed to keep the majority of his possessions through both the warg attack and his odyssey through the Misty Mountains.

The peaks behind him were still shrouded in darkness, black silhouettes against a slowly brightening horizon. In the far east the sky was a bright, cloudless blue, promising a warm day at last. Underneath, surrounded by dust, lay the Lonely Mountain.

Bilbo sighed, relieved that their aim had finally come in sight, and then untangled himself from his blankets. Most of the dwarfs were up, and Bombur had started preparing a broth of some kind for breakfast, while Bofur and Fili knelt at Thorin's side.

Nori and Dori remained asleep, as did Oin and Dwalin. Ori was settled next to the fire, carefully writing in the leather-bound tome he always carried. It bordered on a miracle, thought Bilbo, that it had survived this long.

"Breakfast has been caught," proclaimed a new voice, and Kili emerged from around a corner, holding a hare. They had made camp just underneath the flat plateau where the eagles had dropped them; not wanting to move their unconscious and injured leader during the night – even though Gandalf had declared him not too grievously wounded the night before.

"Just one?" asked Bombur, but Kili opened his satchel and revealed more.

Bilbo had to admit the prospect of a filling breakfast was tempting, even if at Bag End he would never have considered eating a meal that was barely more than meet in a broth with whatever spices they had at hand.

Bombur started skinning the hares, and Bilbo unconsciously rubbed at his chest. His ribcage was aching – probably from one of his numerous encounters with hard rock surfaces yesterday.

"And how are you this morning?" asked Gandalf, and Bilbo dropped his hand abruptly.

"Fine I suppose," said Bilbo. He refrained from shrugging – the dull pain in his chest a fierce warning against exaggerated movements.

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. "I would advise you to consult with Balin if you…"

"Uncle!" exclaimed Fili suddenly, and both Bilbo and Gandalf turned to look. Thorin's prone form was stirring, and Fili had to tell him to "calm down, everything is fine, don't worry. Everything is perfectly all right. The danger's past."

Thorin still insisted on sitting up. Bilbo stayed behind – Gandalf and Balin were much better equipped to deal with injuries – and yet caught sight of just how pale their leader was.

"The eagles brought us…" he heard Kili say, and Thorin gazed over their company.

"Is everybody well?" he asked, his voice slightly strained.

"But for a few scrapes and bruises," said Gandalf, "Luck was with us last night."

"Luck indeed," repeated Thorin with distaste, "And I believe luck brought our burglar along, too. Or did he take this chance to return to his hearth?"

Even though Bilbo felt the curious glances cast his way, he couldn't quite stop flinching in bewilderment. The best he could do was to keep his expression straight – even though he inside confusion rose, with a sting of grief.

He may not have been thinking straight when he had cast himself between Thorin and his executioner, but he had hoped Thorin might think at least a little better of him. Not, to be honest, that his actions had been cleverly thought-out, skillfully executed or even rational. Yet…

"Bilbo Baggins remains with your company, Thorin Oakenshield," said Gandalf, his face completely blank. Then the wizard raised an eyebrow. "He did more than his due last night."

Kili nodded enthusiastically, but Thorin's expression did not soften.

"Had I seen it, I would probably feel more inclined to believe you," he said to Gandalf. Then he turned to the rest of the company. "Unless there are still injuries to be dressed, we depart after breakfast."

He straightened his back, and even sitting down, with blood and mud on his face Thorin remained regal. "The way to Erebor is long still, and Durin's Day is fast approaching. We need to be on our way."

His short declaration met with enthusiastic agreement; only Bilbo couldn't quite find any cheer in his heart. Instead he turned away to glance at the shape of the Lonely Mountain in the distance. At least the end of this journey was visible.

"Don't take it personal, laddie," said Bofur, stepping next to Bilbo, "Thorin probably just doesn't remember what you did – the rest of us do, and we'll make sure he does, too."

Bilbo nodded, swallowing down the odd lump constricting his throat.

Bofur patted his shoulder. "Just give it some time. He'll probably remember soon enough."

"Probably," agreed Bilbo before falling silent. Bofur looked at him with pity, before walking over to Bifur who was unsuccessfully trying to tell Ori something, and a part of Bilbo was relieved. He usually quite enjoyed Bofur's company, but right now his ribs were aching from where he had fallen against rock yesterday.

It made sense that Thorin did not remember. It was perfectly understandable, and Bilbo couldn't fault him for it; not when he would have probably passed out the moment that warg had descended. There was no one to blame, yet Bilbo couldn't help the sting of bitter disappointment in his chest.

"Breakfast is ready!" proclaimed Bombur somewhere behind him. And with a heartfelt sigh Bilbo prepared himself for another long day of walking.

It was a steep path down the mountain. Bilbo stumbled more than once, and his dwarf companions barely fared better. Small rocks kept tumbling away from under their feet, rolling merrily along or disappearing down the steep ravines to their left. Gandalf walked ahead, searching for the easiest path to navigate the difficult slope, while the steadily rising sun brought sweat to Bilbo's forehead.

By the time lunch hour arrived Bilbo was out of breath and his ribs were on fire. He dropped his pack the moment Thorin reluctantly allowed for a break in the shadow of a cluster of pine trees and greenery– and felt the disapproving look cast his way.

There was nothing to be done, Bilbo concluded. His one attempt to redeem himself in Thorin's eyes had endeared him well enough to the rest of the company – only the one he had been defending had missed it.

It wasn't so much frustrating as that it left Bilbo feeling disappointed, exhausted and generally rather homesick. So when his ears picked up the sound of a nearby stream, he threw caution into the wind and disappeared through the thick bushes, following the sound.

He hadn't even gone for long before he found himself on the bank of a clear, moderately wide stream. The water was icy cold – it probably came fresh from the snow-capped mountains looming behind them – and refreshing.

With a deep breath Bilbo squatted and begun washing the dirt off of his face. He would have preferred a nice, warm bath – even a lake would do – and enough time to soak, relax his sore muscles and wash his clothes. The dress shirt was barely even off-white anymore, his waistcoat mostly ruined and his jacket almost beyond description.

Still, the cold water did some good, if only to rid himself of the burning in his eyes and clean the mud out from under his fingernails. With one last, longing glance to the water Bilbo turned back – while Thorin's opinion of him could hardly think further, he didn't want to risk it by delaying them all.

Lunch was pheasants. Ori kept the most beautiful feathers in his book, while Bombur made short work of the flesh attached to them. Bilbo picked up a place next to the bushes, mostly out of Thorin's line of sight, and busied himself by searching his pack for materials to mend his jacket.

Barely a moment later Fili dropped down next to him.

"Would you like to learn some sword techniques?" he asked.

Bilbo glanced up to find Fili grinning down at him. "That is, of course, if you haven't developed your own technique in the meantime, of course. Like Gloin did – you know, the first time I saw him swing that axe I would have sworn he was mad. But according to him there is some technique to it."

"There is," Gloin called over, "And I would gladly teach you, if you had any appreciation for axes."

Fili shrugged. "They're not much to my likening," he told Bilbo, "Even though they are kind of traditional for us dwarves. But at least I decided for a sword, unlike my dear brother. Our mother was quite mad when he insisted on making a bow his weapon. Thorin eventually convinced her, though."

Bilbo nodded, but couldn't help the uneasiness in his chest. Yet another tale that made Thorin sound fair and just – it seemed only that where Bilbo was concerned this side of Thorin remained hidden. Which was probably his fault.

Fili nudged his side. "He'll come around soon enough. But now, how about my offer?"

However, not a moment after Bilbo had agreed, Bombur called for lunch and then they were on their way again. The path became easier, less steep, and soft grass began replacing the sharp rocks. More trees provided ample shade from the sun's burning rays, and hidden behind the greenery Bilbo could hear the stream merrily gurgling. Sometimes, when looking up he spied the rocky and snow-capped mountaintops of the Misty Mountains; imposing against the cloudless blue sky.

And while at any other time the sight might have sent his Tookish heart soaring; now he found it difficult to even smile.

The sun was setting when all went wrong.

Conversation had died down with the growing fatigue of their company. Already Bilbo was longing just to lie down and stretch his aching legs. Dinner would not go amiss, either, he thought, when Thorin stopped abruptly, as did Gandalf.

Their leader raised a hand, gesturing for silence.

The forest, around them, Bilbo noticed, had gone deadly quiet. Not a bird could be heard, not a leave was moving. He held his breath. In front of him he saw Gloin remove his axe without a sound. Kili drew his bow, and Gandalf his sword.

Abruptly a warg threw itself into their midst – Fili barely managed to roll out of its path – howling, and baring his teeth. His howl was answered; Bilbo felt like dropping his sword and running, while Gandalf killed the first warg with one blow.

Then there was chaos. More wargs emerged from all sides, howling, growling, their teeth glinting menacingly in the shadows of the forest. Gloin threw himself into the fight with a fierce shout, his axe bloodied within moments. Gandalf was dishing out blows left and right, his staff and sword equally devastating to the enemy. Thorin's movements were restrained, yet fierce – where his sword connected, the enemy died instantly. And all Bilbo could do was press his back against the rough bark of a tree and try not to drop his sword.

His fingers trembled, his eyes could barely track the events – there were Nori and Dori, almost gleefully double-teaming a particularly fierce warg, here was Fili, skillfully dodging attacks while landing his own blows perfectly. Bifur was wrestling a beast on the ground, while Kili kept to higher ground, dispatching arrows.

It was then that Bilbo sensed a movement. A warg crept toward Fili – who would not see it, until it was too late, concentrated on the scene before him as he was. The warg, however, had failed to notice Bilbo leaning against the tree it passed.

The creature was close enough Bilbo could smell the hideous stench emanating from its fur, and see the thick muscles move underneath. One blow of those legs would undoubtedly be enough to take his head off – and one blow from his blade would suffice to kill it.

At least the Took side of him believed it. And since his Baggins side had withdrawn the moment of the attack, Bilbo took on deep breath and launched himself at the warg. His blade caught the beast in the throat – not the clean cut Bilbo intended, and when the warg shook its head the blade slid out and Bilbo stumbled backwards. Blood splattered outwards, and the creature faltered, its angry growl intermixed with gurgling.

His heart was pounding loud enough to drown out all other sounds. Bilbo kept his blade firmly between himself and the warg; its demonic eyes ever watchful, even as it started swaying – it's death decided, yet those demonic eyes promised to take Bilbo along, too. Then Bilbo slipped and made the mistake of glancing at the ground.

He felt the whistling of air, a soft swoosh – barely audible, yet devastating and he braced for the fatal blow – when an arrow whirred past his ear, catching the warg underneath his eye. The beast stumbled, and the clawed prank aimed at Bilbo's chest fell short.

Bilbo felt the claws brushing his skin – an oddly numb sensation – then the warg collapsed, and he was stumbling backwards, off balance and barely managed dodge another warg. Suddenly he was right in the middle of battle, the ground around him blood-flecked and already littered with warg cadavers.

He ducked under another one, parried a swiped prank, stumbled into Dwalin's back, and then Ori called something he couldn't hear, so he just nodded and trudged on. Stab here, dodge there – his mind could barely process his body's movements, less figure out any kind of survival strategy.

Bofur made short work of a warg behind Bilbo, and somewhere Gandalf was yelling to let none escape, to kill them all. Bilbo didn't even see the sorcerer.

But he saw Thorin, engaged with a warg more than twice the size of the one Bilbo had barely managed to slay. Before Thorin laid three dead wargs already, the fourth was engaging him, and a fifth was approaching from the side.

Madness was perhaps what made Bilbo jump between the warg and their leader a second time.

It was a bad idea.

The warg reared up momentarily, growling and biting, and Bilbo managed one faint thrust before a prank caught his side and he was tossed out of the way like a rag doll, crashing against a boulder and collapsing to the ground, motionless.

When Thorin turned at the commotion behind him he saw a warg in his death throes, a small sword sticking out of its throat. Behind it laid the unmoving, bloodied form of their burglar.

tbc

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