The night after their narrow escape from the goblins and the orcs, Thorin Oakenshield could not sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he was forcibly brought back to that blazing cliff.

Beaten.

Helpless.

The satisfied snarl on Azog's face as he looked down on him.

The edge of the orcish blade against his neck, rising slowly for the final blow.

A high-pitched shout.

A small shape throwing itself at the orc who was looming above him, bringing him down, slashing wildly.

Ever since the hobbit had joined his company, he had been an increasingly irritating thorn in Thorin's side - weak, useless, a waste of his energy and time. He had been sure that this so called "burglar" would desert them at the first opportunity. And by Durin's beard, he had done what he could to drive him away.

But Bilbo Baggins had taken it all in stride. The discomfort, the ever growing danger, and not least of all, Thorin's ill treatment of him. Even when they had given up on the hobbit, the meek creature had stood tall above them, without a trace of pride or resentment, offering his help and his sympathy for their plea in his simple, honest manner. Right then and there, the dwarven prince had felt truly humbled by the halfling, though he would never have allowed himself to show it. Along with a growing feeling of admiration and regard came a creeping sense of shame at his misjudgment. In the privacy of his own mind, Thorin had to admit then that despite his previous statement to Gandalf, he did feel responsible for their burglar's safety, for his fate. He could see how well the little one had wormed his way into everyone's hearts. Including his own.

And when the halfling had charged that orc, swiftly surrounded by Azog and his henchmen, Thorin could not repress an overpowering feeling of fear and guilt. How wrong he had been! How hasty, how mistaken in his judgment! The one he had dismissed as a whining weakling had shown more courage and loyalty than many of the dwarf's own kin. The wizard had been right: there was more to him than met the eye. So much more!

And he was going to get himself killed.

What Thorin had expected to be his last thoughts had not been for his home, nor for his people and his family. Sinking into oblivion, he could only think of the foolish, foolish hobbit, who owed him no allegiance, and yet had freely given his life to protect him.

The dwarven prince had not expected to open his eyes in this life again. His mind, still addled by his injuries, had then been filled with a single thought: the halfling. Was he to live with the little one's death on his conscience? His own helplessness, his mistake that had cost him a comrade so much after his own heart had driven him into a bitter rage. And when he had finally laid eyes on the hobbit, standing before him alive and well, smiling at him in relief – relief! Even though Thorin had treated him like dirt! – it had been too much for the dwarf to bear. His anger at himself overflowing, he had lashed out at the little one with the full strength of his self-resentment. But at the sight of that small face taken over by bewilderment and pain, his temper had immediately been doused, allowing his mind to finally process what had been staring at him in the face: the hobbit was alive. He was still alive. There was still time to make amends, to value him as much as he deserved. Relief and joy had washed over Thorin in an overwhelming wave, and he had pulled the halfling close, holding him against his heart, basking in the simple reality of this spared life.

As he lay now on the cold rocks at the base of the peak, sleepless, his eyes fell on the back of the small figure curled up next to him. The little one seemed to have trouble finding rest, endlessly shifting, shivering from something that seemed to be more than mere cold. Who knew what the hobbit had gone through while he had been separated from the company? And how was he coping with his first kill? For a battle seasoned dwarf, this wasn't anything to dwell on. But for a youngling who had never seen battle, who had never known war, who didn't even know how to wield a blade… It didn't matter that it had been a worthless orc. The halfling had willingly taken a life without being prepared for it.

Whatever ailed him now, he was suffering through it alone. Never again, Thorin grimly vowed to himself. Never again would he let their burglar feel isolated in their midst. He cared about each and every dwarf of his company, and no longer would he treat the hobbit differently. Unsure about what he could do to soothe Bilbo's spirit, he acted on instinct, and reached out for the trembling halfling, pulling him close for warmth and comfort. He knew immediately that he had been right in his concern: the little one was extremely tense, and betrayed signs of great distress. And so Thorin held him, whispering what simple words of reassurance he could find. He fervently hoped he would be able to make the hobbit understand that he belonged with them, and that they were there for him. That he, Thorin Oakenshield, was there for him.

Slowly, the halfling's tension and restlessness abated, and gave way to a peaceful slumber. Thorin was surprised, however, to find that his own mind now seemed at rest. He felt pleasantly drowsy from the shared warmth, and an odd sense of contentment was gently blooming in his chest. No more visions intruded on him as he closed his eyes, his heart was no longer shackled in doubt. The dwarf wondered at this as sleep finally beckoned. The feeling of the small, soft hand on his was unexpectedly comforting, and Thorin realized then that he had unconsciously entwined his own fingers with the hobbit's. He gently squeezed the little one's hand, and nestled even closer against him, suddenly feeling strangely vulnerable. He was the leader of the company, the leader of his people. He was the wall that guarded them from harm and from want. But in the wake of his defeat, having been left diminished, wounded in pride as well as in flesh, he grudgingly allowed himself this moment of respite. He let another be his shield. He let the halfling bring him comfort and guard him from his nightmares. In the secret of the night, under the cover of darkness, he set his burden aside and let himself feel his own weariness, pride and honour finally giving way to the need for solace. With a silent sigh, he rested his forehead against Bilbo's unruly curls.

I'm the one who should be thanking you, little one, he thought, not daring to even whisper for fear of being heard. I now owe you an even greater debt.

Sleep claimed him, and he gladly fell into a dreamless oblivion, his rest truly undisturbed for the first time since he had fled the halls of Erebor.

[Author's Notes: The rest of the story is taking shape, and I'm anticipating several more chapters. Thank you to all for your encouraging response, it's very motivating!This has not been proofread by either a beta reader or a Tolkien scholar, so if you spot any mistakes, do point them out to me so I can correct them. Also, I'm still trying to find my writing voice, so any feedback on storytelling and style would be greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading!]