Disclaimer: I don't own the Hobbit.

A/N: I did it! I started a multi-chaptered story and actually have the plot planned! Go me. This kind of serves as writing practise for me. To have me write something long and scheduled. Also, I try to write in a way I can't say comes that naturally to me. So if you spot mistakes, I'm sorry about them and would appreciate if you pointed them out. I'm here to learn. :)

Relationships: Eventual Bilbo/Thorin, subtle Fili/Kili if you want to see it that way, asexual!Smaug + Bilbo

No dwarf had ever been much of a cultivator, or a gardener, or even a breeder. They were a race that lived far under the roots of plants, deep inside rock where the lack of sunlight gave life to things one wanted to get rid of rather than to encourage their growth.

Yet Thorin Oakenshield remembers a time of harvest, when the crop was plenty and his reaping never ending. He started at sunrise, and worked all day till it set with beautiful hues of red and gold, setting his world on fire. From the ashes birthed fertile earth, forever sprouting more for his Orcrist to cut down.

Drenched in sweat and exhausted by hard work, Thorin shouted at his nephews for neglecting duty by jesting around a pale stranger to their kind, tales about the Mines of Moria from where it claimed to come fresh in their minds.

He remembers giving up when the two boys lied down to rest on the ground, their hands searching out for one another, never quite getting there, so close but so out of reach as tiredness took them and they fell asleep.

Thorin remembers a dull ache eating him from the inside. Perhaps he had been working too hard. Perhaps there comes a time for every farmer to hit the reality that with too much reaping you will inevitably run out of benefits. But Thorin is a dwarf, and dwarves had never excelled in quitting. Always too stubborn. Always too greedy.

Yes, Thorin remembers thinking of planting red flowers on the exact same spot where the pale stranger stood, in memory of the one his heart had chosen to grieve for. And the stranger had helped him moisten the soil with everything he had.

And he remembers thinking, 'this is enough,' as gravity had him on his knees.

'I can rest now.'

"He has awoken!" A voice spoke, penetrating every layer of tiredness. Thorin's warrior instincts knew it came from somewhere near even though it sounded like a dying echo to his ears.

To voice his discontent Thorin tried to groan, but the usual deep grumble that resonated through his throat turned into a wet cough instead. It was something painful and awful, making him feel like he was dying as much as it made him realise that he was still very much alive and bound to mortality.

"He is delusional," said another voice, calm and emotionless even when their hand pressed against Thorin's breast, spreading a numbing kind of warmth with the touch. Thorin tried to open his eyes to see, but the darkness persisted.

"But alive," argued the other. "I trust you to ease his pain while I go tell the good news to others."

"Trust me," mused the voice left behind as the other went. "I think not. In pain and discomfort you shall remain, King Under the Mountain. That would probably be your wish could you open your eyes."

But he couldn't. There were but two senses in use; touch alarmed with pain and hearing picking up words he did not care for. A blessing, really, as the thought of pleading them to stop floated in and out of his mind until he returned into the land of dreams.

Thorin drifted in and out of consciousness, his dreams forgotten as soon as he recognised the reality of wakefulness, and his moments of reality blurred with lack of senses to grasp a solid hold of it. Voices came and spoke, using words that oftentimes made little sense to him, like foreign tongues speaking in a language of their own.

These moments came and went, though how often and in what numbers, Thorin could not keep up with. But of two things he was certain; he was alive and he was being healed. King Under the Mountain he had been called, meaning that he lied at the end of his journey as a victor. Barely alive, but undoubtedly a king with a homeland to offer his kindred.

It was enough a notion to have him withstand the pain and failings of his body.

Until the day came he could finally open his eyes.

His surroundings were dimly lit, the dancing shadows of a few candles filling him with familiarity. A cloth seemed to serve as his roof and ceilings. A tent, then. Not a preferable choice of lodgings, but he felt little need to moan about it. Then he saw the first face lean over him since forever ago, and immediately felt like he should not have gained consciousness at all.

"Urgh," he managed to say with his dry throat.

"King Thorin," said Thranduil with a dryness of his own. "I welcome you to the world of the living."

"And I," Thorin struggled to speak, his futile attempt to swallow saliva ending up being just a painful movement of muscles, nothing more. "I unwelcome you from my kingdom."

The elven king stared on, unmoved and unmoving by his lack of welcome. Eventually his gaze shifted as he seemed to have tasks other than staring down at Thorin to perform.

"You are unfit in every possible way to make such claims," said the elf with his back turned to him.

"I am puzzled as to why I would wake up to your presence in the first place," Thorin admitted.

"I am here to heal you." Having shuffled about the elven king returned to his side and sat down on a stool placed beside his makeshift bed of fabrics and furs. "Here, let us two share a glass of wine."

As proposed, Thranduil held out a glass filled with red liquid for Thorin to accept. He tried to lift his hand in order to take it, but the dwarf felt almost immobile, sudden fear spreading through him when his hand refused to move by his will. It was like his body was made of the heaviest of metals, weighing too much to lift or to move.

It was only when Thranduil asked without a twitch to his expression, "Are you in need of my assistance, Master Dwarf?" that Thorin got enough strength from pure stubbornness to haul himself a little further up his pillows and to take the glass of wine without a sign gratitude.

Taking a gulp and making a point not to relish the feel of liquid caressing the insides of his throat, Thorin gave the elf a glare. "I will never be in need of your assistance."

The elven king said nothing, only sipping his portion of the wine in his own pace.

"Not now nor till kingdom come," Thorin continued. "And you would do well to understand that it is not a request when I tell you to leave my lands."

"I will not leave because you tell me to," Thranduil said, unafraid of Thorin's lack of hospitality. "I will leave when I myself deem it to be the right time to do so."

"And when might that be?" Thorin asked with anger lacing his words.

There was still and eerie lack of emotion in everything the elven king did, his voice not mocking but so monotonic that it was as if he had no care in the world in the worst way imaginable as he said, "Until you are well."

"I never asked you to heal me," Thorin growled now, hands shaking involuntarily as sparse blood began to run extra laps in his heat. "All I asked was for you to leave."

An uncharacteristic exhale escaped the elf beside him, sounding almost like sigh of frustration. Small victories. "Your words and heeds mean nothing to me dwarf, for you are nothing but an object of negotiation between a third party member and myself."

"Nonsense! No dwarf would stoop so low as to negotiate with an elf on this matter!"

"Not a dwarf, no," Thranduil agreed, sipping away while letting his gaze wander elsewhere for a moment.

"Not a dwarf," Thorin echoed, his tight grip on the emptied glass growing lax enough for the object to drop onto the ground. His body felt impossibly heavy again, eyelids even more so and too late did he think the obvious. The cursed elf had added something extra into his wine.

Just then, as his vision was starting to blur, the corner of Thranduil's mouth quirked, as if he was trying to smile without quite remembering how to. "He does know how to beg," said the elven king with the kind of humour that made their world a twisted place.

And if resentment was what kept Thorin alive, then may the gods forge him into an immortal.

"Now sleep, King Under the Mountain. I much prefer your company that way."

For the life of him, Thorin could not fight the darkness that enfolded him.

Time heals all wounds, some say. Thorin too was eventually able to stand on his own two feet again, still aching and covered with scabbing wounds and cuts, but not crippled beyond repair. With Thranduil he had had an unspoken agreement that they got along better while not speaking to one another, and without any words of departure, the elven king had wasted no time leaving after seeing the results of his work bear fruit.

Thorin did not nor was he expected to offer any kind of gratitude at the elf's retreating back. They just went their separate ways, continuing on living their lives as kings.

Steeling himself, Thorin took a deep breath, swallowed the pain that lingered and pushed the curtains serving as doors to his tent out of his way. The first thing to greet him was blinding sunlight and the reek of a battle field left filled with rotting corpses.

The stench made his stomach lurch.

"Balin!" Thorin called out as he spotted the elderly dwarf nearing his tent, watching him take notice of his king, a look of joy and relief spreading through his face at the sight of him on his feet.

"By my beard!" Breathed the dwarf as he came to stand beside Thorin. "It is good to see you back in health, my king! I am ashamed to admit we shared a moment of despair thinking you would not survive."

"Your despair was hardly unfounded, my friend. I did feel like I was about to pass from this world for a moment."

"It is good then that you decided to linger," Balin laughed while taking good care to pat his shoulder as gently as he could.

"Indeed," Thorin agreed, unwilling to remind himself that it was an elf that pulled him back into the world of the living. "What of the others? Have they been as fortunate as us two?"

"They have indeed."

"And my nephews?" Thorin pressed on, a gnawing sort of worry filling him, like an unpleasant memory at the back of his mind that he could not coax out for viewing. The drop of Balin's smile did nothing but increase his unease.

"Breathing." Was the only thing the dwarf said, his voice holding no guarantee that it would continue to stay that way.

A wave of weakness threatened to take his legs from underneath him. Thorin had to fight down the plea that Balin take him to them as much as he had to fight to preserve whatever strength he had left to keep on standing. No, he was a rightful king now, expected to lead his people through the aftermath of war and beyond. Breathing meant alive, and alive meant that his nephews were being taken care of.

For now he had to lead.

"The stench of the battlefield is awful. Is something being done to it?" Thorin asked, trying to push his worries aside.

"We have collected our own dead as have the elves and men," Balin answered. "That there would be a sea of orc corpses. We would have cleared the fields faster but our numbers are too few."

"We risk spreading disease the longer it takes to clear them. I trust you to make haste with the task."

"Aye, my king."

"Good," Thorin nodded, taking note of the burning piles in the distance. It was a clear day, but against the sky raised heavy, black pillars of smoke that did nothing but aid the unpleasantness of the air he breathed. Still, fire was purifying in its own way, and before long, the air would clear back to the way it was supposed to be.

"And what of the mountain?" He barely dared to ask. If their numbers were few, there would be a risk of it being taken.

"Under our rule with the aid of the dwarves who came when you called," said Balin reassuringly before turning his back to him as if dismissing his king in favour of continuing on with whatever tasks he was performing before the distraction. "I promise all is as well as it could be and being taken care of with the best of our capacity, so worry not, my king."

And to say the last word with a knowing smile, Baling turned around once more, his words gentle as he spoke. "You will find them inside the mountain, in the old medical room nearest the main entrance. Go to them."

Thorin wasted no time arguing, going as fast as his injured body allowed him.

He found his nephews sleeping on a large bed, both sickly pale where the wounds and scars and bruises didn't colour their skin. They looked a frightening kind of peaceful, and Thorin understood why all Balin had been willing to say was that they were breathing. It seemed to be the only proof of their survival.

"The elves did all they could to heal them," Dori conversed while busying about the room, organizing medicines and piling up bandages for easy access did anyone come in in the need of them. "We moved them here from the tents after they said nothing else could be done."

"The elves," Thorin muttered with a low voice tinted with self-hatred while gently stroking Fili's hair. He did not want to owe the lives of his relatives to the pointy eared beings.

"Aye, can't say I understand either, but they approached with persistence," Dori told him. "We feared for your lives so we didn't stop them. A right decision, that, it would seem."

"What became of our burglar?" Thorin asked suddenly, an anger rising in him as he remembered Thranduil's words. The elves had not given their aid out of kindness, he knew. If he and his nephews had been nothing but objects of negotiation, then he owed no gratitude to the elves, but rather a non-dwarf ally.

And his anger was just, for he didn't dare think what their burglar had promised in return. Too many times had the halfling saved his life, even after Thorin had severed all bonds of friendship that had ever existed between them. The thought added to the already heavy load on his heart.

"No one has seen a glimpse of Master Baggins since, well."

All turned silent after what Dori was going to say faded into an unvoiced obvious. They continued as they were afterwards, Dori with the medicines and Thorin running his fingers on his sister-sons faces as if to ensure their existence.

"I owe him," he told an unconscious Fili. "And a lifetime will not be enough to repay that dept. This will fall on the shoulders of you and your brother as well."

Fili said nothing, disobeying his king's orders even when Thorin said, "So open your eyes and help me carry this burden."

It was in the middle of the night when something woke Thorin with a jolt. There were only two candles left burning on the opposite side of the room, barely bringing any light but aiding enough for his night vision to play its part.

Beside him Fili and Kili slept on, quiet without snores and intakes of breath so fragile that he feared they would grow inexistent. But they breathed on, and besides the three of them the room seemed to be void of any living creatures.

He wondered if it had been just an unpleasant and already forgotten dream that had woken him, and the thought of closing his eyes to continue his slumber was starting to feel appealing. A nagging sort of feeling kept him from doing so, though, and tired as he was Thorin ran his eyes over the room several times.

There was nothing to see besides shadows and darkness, but it was not the things he saw that had the king's attention. It was like there was a lack of air where there shouldn't have been, something taking up space though there was nothing to see. A certain kind of existence that could go unheard and unseen if it so wished and Thorin raised from the bed with such speed that a sick rush overtook his head.

"Thief!" His voice grumbled with sleep and his tone was unintentionally harsh from surprise. And he knew even before hearing the sound of small feet running and the door opening and closing that he had made everything between them turn even more ill than it had already been.

"Bilbo," he whispered as if it would fix all the things gone wrong. "I forgive you."

No one answered, and the only sound he could hear was the agitated beat of his own heart drumming in his ears.

"And I pray that someday you will find it in your heart to forgive me as well."

Bilbo Baggins lived like a shadow. He remembered it not being at all pleasant during the time he had done it in Mirkwood, and had prayed he would never have to live like that again. But as it was, his presence deemed unwanted by the king himself, there was little choice but to keep his ring on and lurk around like the thief he was.

It was taxing and felt like his soul was thinning. So long had he worn it and so tired was he that he was starting to wonder if he even existed anymore when there was no one else to share the knowledge with him.

But he had no choice. Not when he was so unwelcome and in such need to ensure the heirs of Durin survived. Thorin, he had been relieved to discover, seemed to be recovering well enough. The same couldn't be said from his nephews, however. Thus the reason Bilbo couldn't bear to leave.

He couldn't say he liked it inside the mountain. For a hole it was entirely too vast for his likes yet harboured a darkness so deep that it made him feel claustrophobic. But the deeper he wandered inside the endless passages carved into the mountain, the safer he was from being discovered. Especially now that the dwarves had set out to scout the long-neglected caverns.

That was how Bilbo had ended up wandering as far as he could in the darkness, half with the need to get away and half by accident. And into the bottom of the mountain he had stumbled, far out of the memory of the dwarves.

There he had found a vast cave that must have taken aeons and aeons from nature to create, large crystals decorating its walls and illuminating the area with a weak light that they produced in themselves. It now served as his stronghold of some sort, a place he could always return to when the world above unwanted him.

"Are your dwarves well?" A voice spoke upon his return, deep and grand, always making the crystals resonate in response to it.

"Alive," Bilbo answered, dismissive as he paid more attention to rummaging his rucksack into which he had placed stolen goods while he had been up and about.

"Pity," came the response, the voice of it so honest that Bilbo did not doubt just how much of a pity it really was considered to be.

Bilbo turned to stare over his shoulder, even smaller in size now that he was hunched over on the ground, but feeling bigger in spirit than he had perhaps ever felt before. Compared to almost anyone he would always be tiny anyway, so there was hardly any point to mull over the matter.

"Thorin is making a much quicker recovery compared to you," he said only with the purpose to stab the other where it apparently hurt the most; its pride.

"I was shot in the heart!" Roared the other, its tail raising and falling heavily on the cavern floor. Somewhere a crystal broke and fell, the sound of its shatter making Bilbo regret his words.

"Yes, yes, all right, fine. If that is something you wish to compete with then I declare you the clear winner," he tried to amend.

Though it didn't seem to lessen the raised anger. "End your insolence, thief, lest it ends you."

Bilbo chuckled a bit at that. Insolent and hobbit were not two things to be commonly associated with one another, though, he mused, perhaps that would change if the world was subjected to the Sackville-Bagginses.

"And he dares to laugh," seethed the other. "You should be frightened!"

"You don't seem very frightening," the hobbit said, setting the beings tail in a rampage again in its attempt to express its irritation in the only possible way its crippled body allowed it.

As crystals began to fall again, Bilbo made a promise to himself to keep his tongue in line. He might have been forever unable to get into the good graces of Smaug, but as long as they both shared this hideout, both waiting news from death in their own way, he might as well try to play nice.

If only to prevent being caught in crystal rain.

To Be Continued...

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