Bilbo could still remember it all. The crazed look of fury in deep, blue eyes, smoked with fury over the theft of the Arkenstone, the sickening swoop to his stomach he felt when Thorin held him over the deep crevice, the feel of agonising pain like white hot knives twisting in his heart when Thorin had sent him away saying they were not friends. The thousand-times worse pain when Thorin...
He'd nearly died. He'd called Bilbo in, forgiving him for the Arkenstone and, in his own Thorin-y way, apologising for how he'd acted, though there was nothing to forgive. It was not of Thorin's doing. It was the gold sickness, that cursed disease that had destroyed Thror and nearly Bilbo's beloved Thorin. Yes, beloved. He adored that stubborn, prideful dwarf. Now that he knew Thorin was alive, he was grateful and praying to Eru, thanking him for his intervention in aiding the dwarf. Then on reflection, began thanking Mahal, the dwarves' creator for bringing back the king.

"Bilbo?" A calm voice interrupted his thoughts as he paused outside Thorin's tent, agonising over whether or not to go in. What if Thorin forgot about his forgiveness? What if he was actually dead and his mind had been tricking him?

"Master Dwarf." Bilbo replied, trying to act casual, and failing.

Balin reached out and tenderly palced a large warm hand on the halfling's shoulder. "It's alright, laddie. He'll be happy to see you."

"He's really alive?" Bilbo gasped.

"Aye. Our king would not be slain, it seems." There was a glitter of pride in the elder dwarf's eye as he gently pushed the little hobbit towards the tent flap. "Go and see him."

Thorin looked weak, yet when he saw the burglar padding in, he struggled to sit upright immediately. A pained groan escaped his mouth and Bilbo hurried to help him. He supported the dwarf king best he could considering his continuing tiredness from the recent battle and when the king was repositioned, he timidly took a step back.

"Thank you." Thorin felt displeased at the fact he had needed help to sit upright (for the love of Mahal, he was not a Dwarrowling!) but he managed to give a smile to the tiny hobbit.

"You are well." Bilbo was hugely relieved. Thorin seemed as though he had only gained a minor injoury, instead of being on death's door barely five hours earlier. Dwarves were tougher than he'd thought Bilbo realised. And Thorin was no exception.

"As are you." Thorin looked at those green, hopeful eyes and then saw that the area around the coloured iris, where it should be white, was in fact a shade of red that was painful to look at. "Your eyes." He reached out and took hold of the halfling's little paws, drawing him near. "What happened to them?"

"I..er..." Bilbo felt embarrassed. Now that Thorin was alive, telling him, the stoic king of all the tears he'd wept felt like an impossible task. "I thought you were dead," his voice cracked and he had to look from those sky-blue eyes. "I...it was.."

A rough, yet gentle hand surrounded the back of his head and he was pulled into the unsurprisingly firm chest of the dwarf. "Oh, Bilbo," Thorin murmured. He squeezed his own eyes shut, feeling an uncomfortable burning rise up in them. Excellent. Now he was getting ill. Why were his eyes burning? A pair of small arms gripping around his waist reminded him of the distraught Shireling he held in his arms and he forgot about himself.

Eventually, Bilbo pulled back and looed at the king with worried, wide and (thankfully) dry eyes. "I didn't hurt you did I?"

"What?"

"Just then. I'm sure you've hurt your ribs.."

Thorin stared at the little hobbit and started chuckling, trying to keep the laughs small as he had, in fact, hurt his ribs. The fact the the Shireling thought he was capable of hurting anyone with a light squeeze such as he had given, was something the king found to be very enetertaining.

Bilbo looked indignant. "It's not funny. I don't want to nearly lose you again, Thorin Oakenshield!"

Thorin forced himself to shut up and smiled at the halfling. "I appreciate your concern, Bilbo. But I am well."

A smile ghosted Bilbo's lips. "I should think so. You had all kinds of healers buzzing around you."

Thorin tousled Bilbo's hair. "I regret how I acted," he told the Halfling seriously. "But, please don't go. Unless you have to or want to, or..."

"Thorin, you're alive. I'm not leaving Erebor just yet, I promise you." Without knowing it, Bilbo was grasping the dwarf king's hand. Thorin knew of this and felt very content. He had his hobbit's forgiveness and his kingdom returned. A frown puckered his forehead. "Bilbo, what of my nephews?"

Bilbo's eyes widened in horror. Fili and Kili! How could he have forgotten them? "I haven't looked." he admitted, bowing his head.

"Will you find them for me?" Thorin asked, gently running his thumb over Bilbo's hand. He could feel the Shireling's guilt and was determined to ease it. His request (and action, he hoped) worked and Bilbo nodded his head and strode towards the tent leaving, Bilbo stopped and looked back at Thorin. He just didn't feel happy leaving him. Thorin understood why. "I will not die while you are gone, I promise you."

Bilbo nodded and left. Thorin gazed up at the roof of the tent. He'd had strange dreams. A bright glow had told him he had things to do and then the hobbit had been there, his hair all braided and beaded (like it should be, Thorin thought), and suddenly it was raining rubies and Bilbo came up and started threading them onto his hair.

It had been very odd and slightly eery to say the least.

But now he was back. Plenty of time to decipher the dream. And to restore Erebor. The king sighed contentedly. He was finally home.