Ok all, this was requested on my account over at A03 and since I try to keep things the same across both accounts I decided to post it here too. This is the alternate ending I promised that is cannon compliant. (Means it's got spoilers and folks die). I have nothing to say here really, but I do apologize in advance for any feels I may destroy. Fair warning, this ain't gonna be pretty.

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Over the following weeks, the haunted look in Bilbo's eyes slowly faded and he began to laugh freely with them once more. By the time they faced the spiders in Mirkwood he was almost completely himself once more, though he did experience a bit of a relapse when Thorin and the others were captured by the Elves and upon freeing them would not be separated from Thorin for any reason.

That was something that was forced to change when Bilbo went into the mountain to face Smaug. Thorin could not come with him for both their safeties and it wasn't only the encounter with the dragon that had him shaking when he came back up from the tunnel. The mocking tone in Smaug's voice had reminded Bilbo so much of the tone Azog had used to speak that for the first time in months, the hobbit had nightmares.

He was back in that horrible clearing, reliving it all. His screams and pleas as he fought a no-longer-existent foe were shrill and loud enough to wake the entire company (and make them fear he would rouse the dragon), though he refused to wake. He was so caught in his horror that once they did manage to wake him, he couldn't stand for anyone—even Thorin—to touch him and sat huddled against the rocks at the edge of camp sobbing and muttering to himself that it wasn't real and that Azog was dead.

Things only went downhill from there. Bilbo hadn't even recovered from his first encounter with Smaug when he was sent back again. And then . . . then they were trapped underground by the secret door being broken by the dragon. Smaug was gone and they had the run of Erebor, but Bilbo couldn't stand it. True, it had been days—he wasn't sure how many since he hadn't seen the sun—since Smaug had left, but he could still come back. The stress of waiting to be incinerated or eaten was taking its toll on the hobbit's sanity. And Thorin wasn't helping matters. Even though Bilbo knew it wasn't that kind of lust, seeing the lust for gold that burned in his lover's eyes . . . the hungry expression that was on Thorin's face . . . the way that he didn't seem to notice when Bilbo flinched away from his just too rough caresses. No. It didn't help at all.

By the time the news of Smaug's death and the subsequent ultimatum from the Elves and Men came, Bilbo was a nervous wreck. He couldn't eat, his fear making him nauseated. He couldn't sleep because of the recurring nightmares. He knew that he had to look ghastly as he stood there on with the dwarves as Thorin turned down their request. He tried to reason with Thorin, tried to reach the dwarf who had treated him so delicately after his ordeal through the madness—there was so much gold. Surely it wouldn't hurt to let them have some. After all Bard did kill Smaug—but the rage in his lover's blue eyes at his suggestion had made him fear Thorin. For the first time since they had met, he had no idea what the King would do.

It was this that made him give the Arkenstone to the Elves and Men. He had thought that perhaps with it they could make Thorin see reason and break him of his gold madness. He had been wrong. He had also thought that by telling Thorin what he had done with the fondness the King had for him—he had let him take him after all—he would see the foolishness of his obsession. Again, he had been wrong.

Thorin, the one person who had been there for him and had made him feel right again . . . Thorin tried to kill him. His hands on Bilbo as he lifted the hobbit to throw him to his death reminded Bilbo so much of the hands of the Pale Orc that Bilbo couldn't even bring himself to beg. With the madness that was in Thorin's eyes he knew that it would only make him happy. As it had pleased Azog when the others had begged. If Thorin was going to kill him, Bilbo would at least deny the dwarf the satisfaction of hearing him beg for his life.

But Thorin hadn't killed him. Instead Gandalf had "saved" him, condemning Bilbo to spend a night surrounded by Big Folk he didn't know. He stayed as close to Gandalf as he could, but he couldn't bring himself to explain why he clutched at the wizards robes when he made to leave him. He had never told Gandalf what happened that night, and he doubted the others had either since they never spoke of it, and he couldn't bear to do so now. Instead, he buried his face in Gandalf's knee and wept for everything that he had lost: his innocence, which had been taken from him by Azog; and his heart his soul, which Thorin had just ripped from him when he tried to kill him and in the process became lost to Bilbo forever.

That night, when he pleaded for it to stop in the throes of his nightmare, everyone around who knew what had happened on the mountain looked at him in pity assuming that he was pleading with the dwarf King not to kill him. They tried to rouse him. However, after the first of them was bitten in the attempt to wake him they left him to his nightmares.

The next day, the Battle of the Five Armies took place. It was more than poor Bilbo's nerves could take. The sight of all those orcs and goblins rushing at him, the black blood filling the air. He froze. And he would have died, had not a timely arrow from an old friend saved him. He glanced around looking for the dwarf that had shot it only to see Kíli clutching at his stomach nearby as an orc scimitar protruded from it. He was wounded, mortally so.

Bilbo ran to his side, grabbing the dwarf as he fell to his knees—the first voluntary physical contact the hobbit had engaged in in weeks. Kíli looked at him with wide, pain-filled brown eyes that just managed to lock on Bilbo's hazel eyes before the light in them faded. Bilbo shook him, but there was no reply. Kíli was dead. Bilbo tried in vain to spot Fíli who he knew would be near his brother, but there were no dwarves nearby. Kíli had been alone.

What Bilbo didn't know was that Thorin, repenting of his actions, had sent Kíli to make sure that Bilbo was alright and to bring him back if he could—knowing that Kíli was his closest friend within the company. But Kíli hadn't been able to deliver his message. Even though Bilbo never knew that Thorin was the one that had sent him—and might have been angry had he known—Bilbo knew that Kíli had tried to protect him. Kíli might be dead, but he could still offer him something. He had seen what the orcs and goblins did to the fallen and vowed to himself that Kíli would not suffer that fate. So he stayed near Kíli's body. He slipped on the Ring and with the invisibility it granted him slew any orc or goblin that dared to come near the fallen dwarf. He would not let them mutilate him.

That was, until a blow to the head caused him to lose consciousness. When he awoke, there was an orc face inches from his own. He sat up with a scream, his mind flashing back to the last time an orc had been that close to him as it held his hair and forced him to endure the unthinkable. When it didn't react, he realized that it was dead. Taking a deep shuddering breath, Bilbo looked around himself. Kíli's body was gone, as were all the bodies of the fallen of the alliance. He was surrounded by dead and dying orcs and goblins, their faces and bodies contorted unnaturally in death. If he hadn't already suffered from nightmares, this would have been enough to fuel them for eternity.

He looked around desperately for anyone he knew but saw no one. In the distance there were two tall figures, one of whom resembled Gandalf, combing through the carnage looking for survivors. Bilbo stood and picked his way to them, tears falling from his face and bile rising up his throat as he stepped in blood and other disgusting things, occasionally hearing the crunch of bone when there was no alternative to stepping on the body of a fallen goblin. The feeling of flesh shifting under his feet would haunt him to his dying day.

When he reached them, he saw that he had been right. It was Gandalf, and a blonde Elf he didn't know. The Elf was kneeling beside one of his kin, sadness on his ageless face as he closed eyes that should never have been forced to face mortality. Bilbo felt it was wrong to intrude but couldn't resist the urge to bury his face in Gandalf's stained robes and weep. For the fact that he was alive, for the wish to die rather than live with his memories, even he wasn't sure. But he knew that he needed to cry and that Gandalf might be the only person that would understand. And if not, the wizard at least owed it to him. It was the wizard's fault Bilbo had come on this blasted adventure in the first place.

It took the Gandalf's confused voice to remind Bilbo that he still wore the Ring, which he then slipped off before clutching the wizard once more. The look of pity in Gandalf's blue eyes should have upset him, he should have resented it, but he was just so broken. He didn't even struggle against the wizard's hold when Gandalf lifted him and carried him off the field whispering apologies for all that the hobbit had been forced to endure. It was only once he saw their destination that he began to struggle. Gandalf was taking him to a pavilion that had been set up on the lawn: a pavilion bearing the symbol of Durin.

Bilbo had no desire to see his ex-lover, even when he was told that Thorin was dying. Didn't they understand that Thorin had betrayed Bilbo in ways that were not comparable to the betrayal Bilbo had committed against him? He had taken not only Bilbo's heart but his ability to trust. He didn't want to see him. Even so, when he was set down beside Thorin's death bed and the dwarf looked at him, Bilbo felt the heart he had thought was gone break within him. Looking up at him was not the mad dwarf that had tried to kill him but the gentle King that had loved him so tenderly.

It was unbelievably cruel that fate would give him back to Bilbo just in time to take him away once more, but even without seeing the wounds beneath the bandages, Bilbo knew that Thorin would not survive the night. His chest was caved in unnaturally and there was a watery gurgle with every breath. The dwarf would be lucky to make it to dusk. There were no words exchanged between them—what words can be said to apologize for trying to kill someone?—but there was understanding. Bilbo knew that Thorin was sorry and Thorin knew that it was too little too late. Bilbo would never forgive him.

Perhaps it was this knowledge that crushed whatever it was that had enabled Thorin to survive so long, but within minutes of Bilbo entering the pavilion, Thorin was dead. Bilbo did not cry. His hurt was too deep for tears, but to him, Thorin Oakenshield had been dead ever since he dangled Bilbo over the wall. He had already mourned him. This was nothing. The loss of an empty shell that had once meant so much to him.

He didn't stay for the funerals. For Fíli and Kíli, it was too painful. For Thorin it was pointless. Why should he watch the shell interred when the soul had long since passed? Instead, he and Gandalf began the long ride home. The wizard seemed concerned that Bilbo never smiled but Bilbo didn't care. He was tainted, through loss and pain and the actions of others. What did he have left to smile for?

One night, they stopped to rest for the night and as Bilbo was beginning to prepare dinner he saw something shining in the dirt. He bent to pick it up and was dismayed to see one of his own buttons. He had thought that something about this place felt wrong and now he knew why. This was there: the clearing where his nightmares had begun. He dropped the button as if it had scalded him and demanded that they move immediately. Gandalf had looked at him strangely, but glanced from Bilbo to the button and back again before he nodded and packed up all that he had unpacked and they started out again.

Bilbo could feel Gandalf's eyes on him as he rode, see the silent question that burned there, but he didn't have it in him to explain why the clearing had upset him. Just being back there, he felt drained. That night Bilbo didn't sleep. When he closed his eyes, he could feel again the harsh touched of Azog, but worse were the tender memories that his brain clung to in a vain attempt to comfort itself, memories that were almost worse. Memories of tender caresses and softly whispered words of admiration. Of blue eyes soft with love and soft, intimate kisses. Those memories almost hurt him worse that what Azog had done because on their heels came the same eyes darkened with hatred and same lips as hard lines saying cruel things, the same hands grasping him hard enough to bruise. Even if his last memories of the King Under the Mountain had been of his tender lover returned, the one that he would always remember would be the angry dwarf that chose gold and treasure over love.

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This time it really is all that I have for this one. I apologize from the bottom of my heart for this chapter.

Stickdonkeys