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shockcity · 7 years ago

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Bagginshield #16 - birthdays

Rating: M Summary: for the 30 day otp challenge. Bilbo relives the day he dies over and over again until he gets it right. But that might not mean surviving is the best thing for those he loves. Groundhog Day fic. AU see warnings inside

Note: sorry for the wait!!

Warning: violence, major character death, non graphic suicide, mentions of eating disorder (self-starvation), unhealthy relationships, suicide ideation, racism, xenophobia, and angsty angst

It is September the 22nd and Bilbo has died.

There are no tears, no mourners, and no extravagant funerals. Bilbo is simply gone.

No one has realized it yet. And they won’t. Not as long as it remains September the 22nd.

It’s been his birthday for a month.

On the first day Bilbo is woken by a knock on his door. He grumbles and turns over, thinking that whoever it is that believes Bilbo will be getting up before ten on his birthday must have a death wish.

Two knocks.

“Bilbo!” says Kili, his voice far too cheerful for so early in the morning. “Happy Birthday!”

Bilbo sits up. “Go away!” he snaps at the door, before tumbling back into his nest of blankets.

Kili thinks this means enter, and two seconds later Bilbo is being involuntarily cuddled by an overgrown child. “Bilbo, come out,” Kili implores, tugging at his blankets. “Fili and I have made breakfast for you!”

How exactly that serves as a proper incentive for getting out of bed is a mystery (the boys have never cooked a thing in their life), but Bilbo isn’t a bad person for all he is tired and grumpy in the mornings.

He gets up.

“Yay!” cries Kili. “Come to the hall when you’re ready!”

He tears out of the room and leaves Bilbo to sigh into his pillow.

He enters the hall and heads for the company’s table (it has been unequivocally theirs since the beginning of the rebuilding, when the tired and hungry members of Thorin’s group had all huddled there at the end of a long day). Everyone is present for Bilbo’s breakfast, and even though he’s still rather cross at being woken up so early, he can’t help but be touched by the gesture.

They all yell their birthday wishes, swarming around a veritable buffet of breakfast items. Bilbo casts a subtle glance at Bombur, who winks and waves him on (it’s safe to eat, then). He slouches next to an amused Thorin and tentatively tastes the hot cakes, pleased when the warm and buttery softness melts in his mouth.

“Do you have plans today?” asks Thorin, picking at his food. He seems nervous, as he does most days when he is forced to talk to Bilbo.

But that isn’t fair, Bilbo reminds himself, because he’s as much if not more to blame for the awkwardness between them.

“No, not really,” he answers, his voice purposely friendly. “Balin and I were going to work with the Stone Masons this morning. Hash out that contract.”

“Oh yes,” Thorin nods, adopting the same tone. “I wish you the best of luck, Master Baggins, Ganim is a hard dwarf to please.”

Bilbo laughs quietly. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

They fall into an awkward silence for the remainder of the meal.

Balin, who is sitting on Bilbo’s other side, eventually clears his throat. “Shall we go now, Bilbo? I would like to go over our notes one more time.”

“Yes, of course.”

He rises and turns to go, but Thorin reaches out a hand and catches his wrist – halting him. “Master Bag– Bilbo. Uh. Bilbo, I wanted to say happy birthday.”

Bilbo stares at Thorin’s hand in shock, before mumbling, “thank you, Thorin.”

The king lets him go, and Bilbo follows Balin out of the hall. His friend doesn’t say anything immediately, but Bilbo can tell that he wants to. Finally, he has enough of the weighty silence.

“He made his choice,” he says. “Who am I to take that from him?”

“He hasn’t though.” He can see Balin’s brow furrowing out of corner of his eye. “He needs more time, Bilbo, that’s all.”

Bilbo raises a shoulder. “Then he has it,” he allows. “Until spring.”

“Bilbo….”

But he merely speeds up walking and refuses to look at Balin all through the rest of their journey to the meeting rooms. When they arrive, the Stone Masons have yet to show, and Bilbo gets right to the business of reviewing his notes.

The meeting goes just how they expect, in that it is both productive and unproductive as well as frustrating and amusing and the same time. Erebor’s last little details are coming together with the signing of this contract; the government, its assets, and its politics have returned, and should everything operate as it should – Thorin’s kingdom will soon be complete.

It has been Bilbo’s dearest wish to see Erebor rebuilt before he goes back to the Shire, and he has until spring to do it. Spring is when things begin again.

If they can.

After their meeting Bilbo begs off lunch with Balin and retreats to his rooms for a quiet tea. Or at least, that was his plan until he saw Kret lingering outside his door.

“Blast and damn,” Bilbo mutters, before pasting on a smile. “Kret. Hello. Can I help you with something?”

The dwarf stares at him, and the unkind twist of his mouth and his piercing black eyes make Bilbo shiver. “I don’t know, halfling, can you?”

“Alright,” Bilbo answers as amiably as possible. “If there’s nothing you need – ”

He reaches for his door but is blocked by Kret’s considerably bulky form. Bilbo cannot help but flinch backward.

“Did they sign the contract?” Kret asks.

Bilbo looks up and gapes at him. “What on earth – ?” he says in disbelief. “You know I can’t tell you anything about that! Is this why you’ve been harassing me?”

Kret seems to find this funny. “I’m merely curious, halfling. There’s no need to fuss.”

He decides enough is enough and practically shoves Kret out of the way. The dwarf laughs again and Bilbo enters his rooms and shuts the door in his face. He listens as his heavy footsteps draw away, and then leans his head back and breathes a sigh of relief.

Bilbo spends his lunch picking at a sandwich and smoking his pipe. He has only been at it an hour when there’s a knock on his door, and he gets up with a huff to see who it is.

Marís.

“I heard it was your birthday,” she says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Kili told me there was going to be a party tonight, Master Baggins.”

She looks at him knowingly, and Bilbo realizes he hadn’t included her in his invitations.

“Oh, Lady Marís, I’m so sorry! It was just a matter of the invitation – you haven’t been forgotten! I have your gift right here – ”

“Quite alright, Bilbo, quite alright,” she tells him, her lovely smile instantly putting him at ease. “But what’s this about gifts? Is it not our job to give you those on your birthday?”

Bilbo shakes his head. “Hobbits do the opposite, actually,” he explains.

He figures he’s had a long enough lunch break and invites her in as gathers his papers, slipping on his coat as Marís asks more about the Shire. They walk out together and troop down to the library, chatting as amiably as always.

Bilbo likes Marís.

Some might think that this makes things more complicated for him.

It doesn’t.

“You might want to head back out,” Ori tells him when they’ve reached Balin’s office. “The Diamond Miners are disputing the contract.”

“What are they saying now?” inquires Bilbo, irritatedly. He is not surprised. Disputes have been filed nonstop for the past two months; if it wasn’t the Diamond Miners weighing in on the negotiations than it was the Gemstone Company, or I&E, or everyone else in the private sector with some kind of grudge toward Ganim and his ilk.

Ori points at Balin, who stands over a pile of law books looking a bit perturbed (and for Balin this means he may as well have been in hysterics).

“They’re saying Title 67 is irrelevant and that the regulations are outdated, but they don’t want an amendment, they just want the same offer as SM.”

“That contract is generous and we aren’t offering anything willy-nilly. When the Diamond Miners have the amount of revenue coming in as the Masons do, then perhaps we can talk,” Bilbo snaps, though he doesn’t mean to. It isn’t Ori’s fault.

Ori isn’t bothered though. “So you won’t meet with them? They’re asking for you.”

It’s Bilbo’s birthday. He’s tired of dealing with government acquisitions and Ereborian politics. He’s just tired, honestly.

“No, he won’t,” says Marís. She takes Bilbo’s arm. “Let’s go visit Thorin, Bilbo, and relax a bit.”

She doesn’t know that visiting Thorin will only frazzle Bilbo more, but she means well and he doesn’t want to be here anyway, so he follows her out of the room.

It’s just like Marís though, to leave him once he’s outside the throne room. She gives him a cheeky smile before walking off, and Bilbo stares at the door in front of him morosely. He wants to see Thorin.

He doesn’t want to see Thorin.

Bilbo turns and leaves, deciding to spend the afternoon outdoors instead.

He wanders down to the kitchens later, to help set up his little dinner party. Bombur tries to shoo him away at first but seems to sense his restlessness, so he lets Bilbo help with the main course. They work companionably until evening comes, and then it is an hour until Bilbo must put on a happy face and host his birthday party.

He doesn’t want to.

Bilbo goes up to his rooms and puts on his best waistcoat. He brushes his curly hair and takes up his sack of presents. He’s jittery as he walks down to the hall, but when he sees the company milling around a table full of food, something loosens in his chest and he finds that he is suddenly quite genuinely happy. It isn’t surprising – he loves his dwarrow very much, after all.

“Thorin is delayed,” Balin tells him apologetically. “But he will be along shortly.”

Bilbo blinks. “Yes, of course.”

They all gather around and eat, hugging Bilbo and telling stories and accepting their presents with exaggerated delight. They devour a delicious meal and cut into the cake with cheers and singing. Bilbo is smiling so wide it hurts.

Thorin doesn’t show.

It’s three hours later that they all hear the tremendous crash. Even Bilbo, who has not grown up around mines, knows what that sound is. The company shoots to their feet and everyone piles out of the room to find the hallways in chaos. Dwarrow are yelling for help, and Bilbo follows his friends down to the scene of the accident.

“How many are trapped?” Balin asks, his expression grave.

“Around twenty, give or take,” says one of the miners. “They’ll have enough air for now.”

Removing the rubble is a study in caution. Bilbo rolls up his sleeves and joins one of the lines carrying rock away from the collapsed entrance. He works until his arms feel like jelly, and his face and hands are covered in dirt. They can hear the trapped miners yelling from inside the caves, and Bilbo shudders with fear for them. And then –

“Oi! Carry that out!”

“No! Don’t!”

There is screaming, and it is like the whole world is falling apart, and rock and rubble crumbles and sends dust into his eyes and nose. After the thunderous crashing ends, the dwarrow trapped in the caves are silent.

Bilbo can only stand and stare.

It is almost midnight on September the 22nd. Bilbo is walking back to his rooms in a daze. He is tired, and dirty, and heartsick. He doesn’t notice that the door to his rooms is open.

He doesn’t see who stabs him in the back.

Bilbo doesn’t see.

Two knocks.

“Bilbo!” says Kili, his voice far too cheerful for so early in the morning. “Happy Birthday!”

Bilbo sits up. “Go away!” he snaps at the door, before tumbling back into his nest of blankets.

Then he blinks his eyes open, feeling a rush of deja vu. “What a strange dream,” he mutters to himself, before Kili rushes in to say good morning.

“Do you have plans today?” he hears Thorin ask, but doesn’t answer at first. Bilbo is a little confused. It feels as though he has lived this day before, but he knows it must have just been in a dream. Logically. And yet…the well-wishes are the same. The food is the same. The conversations are the same.

Bilbo must be going mad.

“I – ” He comes back to himself at Thorin’s concerned calling. “Um. Sorry. No. No, not really.”

The strange feeling doesn’t pass, but Bilbo forces himself to ignore it. Instead he tries to enjoy his birthday. Tries, being the operative word.

“Oi! Carry that out!”

“No! Don’t!”

For all that he is sure he has lived this day before, Bilbo still walks into his room without paying attention. He is still too shocked at the miners’ deaths.

The blade sinks in again.

Two knocks.

“Bilbo!” says Kili, his voice far too cheerful for so early in the morning. “Happy Birthday!”

And Bilbo sits up.

Something isn’t right.

Two knocks.

“Bilbo!” says Kili, his voice far too cheerful for so early in the morning. “Happy Birthday!”

Bilbo flings himself out of bed and tugs on his robe. He rushes to the door and opens it.

“Morning, Bilbo,” Kili says, smiling at him happily. “Fili and I have made breakfast for you!”

He asked yesterday, but Bilbo will ask again. “Is it my birthday today?”

Kili’s expression turns cheeky. “Yeah…starting to forget things in your old age?”

Kili had said that yesterday too.

Bilbo only nods. “I’ll be down in a moment.”

He enters the hall and heads for the company’s table, and they all yell birthday wishes at him as he goes to get his breakfast.

“Do you have plans today?” asks Thorin.

“Yes,” he answers for a change. “Balin and I were going to work with the Stone Masons this morning. On their contract.”

“Oh yes,” Thorin nods, adopting the same tone. “I wish you the best of luck, Master Baggins, Ganim is a hard dwarf to please.”

Bilbo stares at the table.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” he says.

The third day goes like the first and second, and it takes him four days to realize that this is real, and it isn’t ending.

Two knocks.

“Bilbo!” says Kili, his voice far too cheerful for so early in the morning. “Happy Birthday!”

Bilbo sits up and waits for Kili to enter this time. “Good morning,” he says to the dwarf when he barges in. “Have you made breakfast for me?”

Kili looks momentarily confused, but then starts to pout. “Aw, who told you? Was it Balin?”

“Hmm,” Bilbo answers noncommittally. “I’ll be down soon,” he says, and hurries through his morning routine.

He goes to breakfast and sits next to Thorin, running through his strategy for the next fifteen hours.

“Do you have plans today?” asks Thorin.

Bilbo looks at him. “Yes,” he says. “I’m going to do something different from yesterday.”

Thorin frowns in confusion. “…alright?”

He is suddenly tired of the dwarf’s sheepish looks and melancholy eyes. He is tired of being treated like a broken thing.

“Maybe you should try it too,” he snaps, and then storms off.

He feels regret almost immediately.

Bilbo doesn’t go to the meeting today. Instead he goes down to the mines.

The miners aren’t sure why he is there, and seem offended by his questions about their general safety. He annoys them further by asking to inspect the tunnels – access to which he is denied. It isn’t until Bilbo inquires about the odds of a collapse that he is forcefully removed by the guards.

Apparently dwarrow are extremely superstitious.

So when the collapse happens it spreads quickly that Bilbo had been asking, just that morning, about the possibility of an accident.

They mob him. He falls to the floor and covers his head but there are too many, too many, and he is in agony and bleeding from the head, and they won’t stop…they won’t stop….

Two knocks.

“Bilbo!” says Kili, his voice far too cheerful for so early in the morning. “Happy Birthday!”

Bilbo ignores him. He stays in bed all day, sleeping away the memory of fists and feet driving into his body, until he wakes to an explosion of pain in his chest, the silhouette of his murderer standing over him, and then feels nothing more.

He tries twice more to inspect the mines, and though he isn’t beaten to death again, he is too close to the entrance the second time the tunnel collapses. Then, when he tries to actively avoid his rooms and instead goes to hang around in the kitchens, he is too tired to watch his step and falls down the stairs.

Bilbo is starting to realize that while saving the miners is all well and good, saving himself from dying might be a bigger problem.

The next day he focuses on avoiding being stabbed. And then he tries to avoid falling down the stairs. He can’t avoid a shadow pushing him, however.

Bilbo is getting tired of dying.

Finally he decides that the identity of his murderer is the first thing he must figure out. This involves asking himself why someone might want to murder him in the first place.

He asks Balin if he’s got any enemies he should know about, who tells him nothing…and everything.

“You shouldn’t worry, laddy. Politics are like this,” says Balin. “It’s the nature of the beast.”

Bilbo goes to some of the company then, and they, all of them, shy away from the subject or change it all together. Bilbo…doesn’t know how to feel. He needs to know what they aren’t saying.

And so for the first time since this endless day began, Bilbo puts on his magic ring.

The best places in Erebor for gossip are the barracks, the tavern, and kitchens. Bilbo knows this from experience, for hobbits and dwarrow aren’t that different in some rather important ways.

It is among the guards that Bilbo learns his first bit of gossip.

“….crown prince will marry instead. Lord Vorís makes a fool of himself.”

“I don’t believe he is the fool here, brother. That dwarrowdam is fit for a king.”

“Ah, not this again….”

“I can’t say I approve of it when I don’t, Dof. That creature has ensnared them all with his elf magic – ”

“He’s not an elf.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; there’s no room in Erebor for a stinking halfling.”

“That’s Iron Ore talking.”

“And they have the right of it.”

Bilbo reels from this information though he supposes that he shouldn’t be surprised. Tongues have been wagging ever since Vorís arrived from the Iron Hills with his daughter Marís in tow. A lord full of ambition and rather transparent in his intention to convince Thorin to marry his daughter, Vorís had edged into Ereborian politics as silently and smoothly as a snake. Thorin had so far not agreed to the union, but Bilbo thinks it is only a matter of time.

For Marís is…wonderful, really. Even Bilbo adores her, and he cannot hate her just because he isn’t good enough. That isn’t fair.

So he isn’t surprised that the guards like Marís better, but he is somewhat taken aback at the Iron Ore Association’s involvement. He’s not heard about that particular organization during the talks, whereas every money-maker in the private sector had weighed in on the Stone Mason contract. He knew of the rivalries of course, but hadn’t heard about Iron Ore having it out with anybody. Least of all the crown.

Was this really just about Bilbo, then?

When he goes to the tavern that night (missing his birthday party, but there was always tomorrow) he overhears more of the same vitriol, only this time he hears it from workers in the Mint and Treasury. That argument had escalated into a brawl between a supporter of the Miner’s Union, who was more offended by the SM contract than about the insults to their king.

Whom they call hardheaded, weak, and simply unqualified for the job.

The kitchens are a bit better, but only because Bombur runs a tight ship. Even so, Bilbo still catches a snatches of gossip here and there….

“All our hard work wasted! Doesn’t even show up to his own party.”

Bilbo winces guiltily.

“ – if his highness thinks I’ll serve the halfling he’s mad! I cook for dwarrow, not fussy little upstarts from nowhere.”

“He’s from the Shire.”

“He’s a nuisance. Our king would be better off throwing him out of the mountain. The Men can have him. Or the elves. Ha! Perhaps a wandering orc pack.”

Bilbo leaves then, unable to take anymore, and sits himself down beside the door to his rooms where he knows his murderer waits. He can hear the commotion start up, and he thinks of the poor dead miners. He forgets how many times he’s tried to stop it from happening.

He rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes, trying his very best to look at the situation logically. Bilbo is, after all, used to criticisms and cruelty – dwarrow have nothing on the meanness of hobbits. But for some reason he feels hallowed out and exhausted, or perhaps he has felt this way for a long time and he’s only just now noticing.

Bilbo knows his time in Erebor is coming to a close. Only he hadn’t realized there was so many that would be happy to see him go.

He gets up and enters the room. There’s agony and then nothing.

He wakes up again – and that hurts more than the knife.

It’s around the two week mark that Bilbo loses his motivation. He has been trying to solve the mystery of his murder, but it goes so slowly and he is still not sure who is behind it. He did get a glimpse of his assassin, however, but it wasn’t anyone he knew nor did anyone know him from Bilbo’s description.

He has come to the conclusion that politics is to blame for his death, and well…hatred for Bilbo, of course. The situation has come to a head, as arguments between factions supporting Thorin and factions wanting his abdication had been growing more and more heated every day.

At the root of it is Bilbo.

Bilbo begins to see the sensibleness in his murder. He thinks that it is too bad that he cannot see the results, because he is quite sure tensions would easily diffuse with Bilbo gone.

He doesn’t want to die, not really – but he’s beginning to think that he has to if Thorin wants to keep his crown.

Kret is lingering outside his door.

Most days Bilbo just avoids him and doesn’t come back to his rooms at that particular time, but today Bilbo is going through the motions and not much caring about making any changes.

He doesn’t have any obligation to be nice to Kret though, and a part of Bilbo that has been flat and hopeless for days rises up gleefully.

“Kret. How wonderful to see you,” he says, sarcastically enough that even Kret would know he wasn’t sincere. “You’re looking particularly stupid today, well done.”

Kret’s mouth turns down. “Watch your mouth, you little rat.”

“Temper, temper,” laughs Bilbo. “It was only a joke. How can I help you? Oh, wait, let me guess…you want to know about the contract.”

The dwarf narrows his eyes. “How’d you know that?”

“I’m clever,” Bilbo answers. “I’m wondering though…who exactly are you working for? Iron Ore? Mint and Treasury? Or are you not with them at all? Perhaps you’re a hired killer – ”

“Killer?” Kret repeats, surprised. Then he smirks. “Someone out to get you, halfling?”

Bilbo raises an eyebrow. “I’ll be murdered tonight actually. And on my birthday no less! Quite rude of them, really.”

Kret’s eyes widen, but his expression is not of a caught or cornered dwarf. Bilbo doesn’t think he has any knowledge of his upcoming demise.

“And how did you find this out?” he asks, looking almost comically intrigued.

“I have a magic ring that makes me invisible, so I go about eavesdropping for a laugh.”

Kret frowns; speechless for a moment. He doesn’t seem to know what to make of Bilbo. Not today at least.

“You’re having me on,” he says, his face turning red.

“I’m really not, though it is an attractive idea. You’re so easy to rile up. Must be because there’s nothing in between your ears.”

Kret growls at him, and normally this would scare Bilbo, but he’s died sixteen times already. What can Kret do?

Never tempt fate, Bilbo, he thinks to himself as Kret pushes him to the floor.

“Think you’re better that me, halfling?” the dwarf shouts, kicking Bilbo in the kidney. He reaches down and drags him up by the lapels, before slamming Bilbo into his door.

“Where’s this backbone from, huh?” Kret laughs in his face. “You have any idea what I could do to you?”

“You can certainly try,” Bilbo curses him, clawing at his fists.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Unhand him or I’ll remove your head from your shoulders,” Marís interrupts, her axe at the back of Kret’s neck.

Bilbo has no idea where she came from but is so happy to see her that he laughs with relief. “She’ll do it, too!” he says, squirming to he let down.

Kret wisely lets him go.

“Now bugger off back to the hole you crawled out of,” she growls.

He casts one more snarl in Bilbo’s direction before hurrying away, his face a mask of fury.

“Are you well, Master Baggins?” Marís asks him, turning concerned eyes on his person. “Shall I call for a healer?”

Bilbo’s bravado suddenly drains from him, and he’s left slouched against the door. Then, to his eternal shame, he starts to cry. His whole body shakes with it, and all he can think about is how exhausted he is, and how heartsick, and how he hates that when he dies he never actually stays dead.

Marís is completely out of her element, and vacillates between awkwardly patting his arm and looking up and down the corridor for help. She murmurs to him as if comforting a child, but it isn’t comforting, and as much as Bilbo appreciates her he cannot stand for her to touch him.

“Please make him happy,” he finally chokes out, still sobbing on the floor. “I can’t do that. I can’t.”

She doesn’t have any idea what Bilbo means, but nods anyway as Bilbo finally stumbles to his feet. He opens the door to his room.

“Master Baggins, I – ”

He closes the door.

This time, Bilbo doesn’t wait to be murdered, and somehow it hurts less when he dies by his own hand.

After that, the days are listless.

The 22nd never becomes the 23rd.

He lives and dies endlessly.

He wilts.

Two knocks.

When Kili doesn’t shout through the door Bilbo frowns. This is…different.

Three knocks.

“Um. Who is it?”

“…Bilbo?”

Bilbo’s breath catches.

“I came to wish you a happy birthday,” Thorin says through the door. “May I come in?”

Before

“You don’t have to say anything,” Bilbo tells him, his hands twisting the ends of his shirt nervously. “I just wanted you to…know. About me. About how I – uh, feel.”

Thorin has his back to him, so he cannot see his expression. But what’s most important is that he says nothing, and despite what Bilbo said before he is desperate for a response. Thorin must say something. He must.

Anything.

“I’ll just be going then, ah, Balin is probably wondering where – ”

“I’m a king,” Thorin interrupts.

Bilbo frowns. “Yes…?”

“I have a duty to my people.”

Thorin will not look at him. “I cannot return your feelings,” he says quietly.

Bilbo freezes. “Yes, of course,” he responds automatically, his lips moving without his permission.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin tells him.

Bilbo nods. Smiles. “Please don’t trouble yourself,” he says. “I understand.”

It is September the 22nd.

It is the day that Thorin loses everything.

Bilbo dies.

Bilbo dies and Thorin is…Thorin is frail, eviscerated, turned to ice and melted down and broken up and burned.

Thorin is dead too.

The company tries to bring him back. They mourn with him – the whole of Erebor mourns, even those that did not like Bilbo much – but the days continue on as hollowly as usual. The sun comes and goes, the stars shine and don’t. And Bilbo is still dead.

It takes a month for Thorin to follow him.

He doesn’t hear about it directly. A guard is talking, panicked and upset, outside of the armory. Thorin only listens because the dwarf sounds horribly distressed, and then both of them are grasping each other and carrying on, and this is when Thorin hears it:

“…but the king loved him so.”

And that is a…strange thing to say.

“What’s happened?” another guard asks, approaching them and unknowingly standing very close to where Thorin is hiding.

“Master Baggins was killed. It happened just now.”

There is a moment where everything pauses, and a ringing sounds in his ears and a pressure begins to build in his head. And then Thorin runs past them. He runs out into the halls and up the stairs and toward Bilbo’s rooms. He bangs open the door, shouting for the hobbit, and when he does not see him he sprints away – down to the emptied hall where Bilbo had his birthday party. Thorin is shouting for him, but he doesn’t answer, and there are people trying to stop him now, but he shoves them away and bursts into the infirmary.

The company is there, and they are standing over a body.

Some animal noise claws its way up from the bottom of Thorin’s throat, and he doubles over against the wall. He slides down.

“Thorin, lad,” Balin says to him gently. “I’m so sorry,” he tells him as if that is enough to comfort him. I’m sorry, they say, thinking it will help.

But it’s not enough.

It will never be enough.

Bilbo is….

Bilbo is dead.

There is nothing for him here.

He stops eating. Stops sleeping.

Thorin stops.

He wakes up alive, which cannot be possible. He wakes up healthy, which is…not right. Thorin is confused until he thinks to ask the date.

It is September 22nd.

This is called a second chance.

He knocks twice, but there is only silence on the other side of the door. Somewhat impatiently, he knocks again.

“Um. Who is it?” Comes Bilbo’s muffled voice. He has missed that voice more than he’s ever missed anything before. Thorin hears it now and feels his eyes fill with tears. He puts his hand flat on the door and leans his forehead against it, swallowing down his ugly sobs.

“…Bilbo?” he finally manages. “I-I came to wish you a happy birthday,” Thorin says with a bit of difficulty. “May I come in?”

Please let me in. My Bilbo. My beloved. Please let me see you.

Bilbo opens the door, and his eyes are wide and dark and beautiful, and Thorin simply can’t help himself. He bursts into tears and clutches the hobbit to him, feeling simultaneously ripped apart and put back together.

“Thorin?” Bilbo murmurs into shoulder. “Is it my birthday?”

Thorin laughs wetly. “Yes,” he confirms. “Yes it is…and I promise that you won’t die today.”

He expects his hobbit to be very confused, but instead Bilbo gasps and starts to cry too.

They hold each other for a long time.

“How long have you been stuck?” Thorin asks. He has not moved from Bilbo’s side. He doesn’t know if he can.

Bilbo shakes his curly head, dark circles underneath his eyes. “A month, maybe? I’ve started to lose track.”

Thorin doesn’t blame him. He can’t imagine living this day over and over and being unable to change anything. He meets Bilbo’s hopeful eyes. “Do you think…do you think this time is different?”

Bilbo’s expression crumbles. “It has to be. It just has to be. Please,” begs the hobbit quietly. “Please don’t leave me here alone.”

Thorin pulls him close and holds him again, breathing in his comforting smell; basking in his solid warmth. They remain entwined until a knock comes at Bilbo’s door.

The day will not wait.

They don’t separate. At breakfast they sit nearly on top of one another, with Bilbo whispering in Thorin’s ear most of the time. They ignore the company’s surprised but pleased looks.

Thorin tries to concentrate, but Bilbo’s presence is heady. He has been without those small smiles and soft eyes for too long. He tells Bilbo this over and over, because in his own time he hadn’t said it. He’d been too afraid and then it was too late.

“Thorin,” Bilbo finally cuts him off. They have long finished breakfast, and Bilbo has waved off Balin because they will spend today together, trying to change fate. “I know that there are things we must say to each other. I’m just not sure if we have the time right now.”

Thorin isn’t a fool. He doesn’t think this will be fixed on Bilbo’s birthday. He has hurt his hobbit, and there are consequences for his actions. He must be punished, and he says as much to Bilbo.

“No, no,” the hobbit tells him, holding his hand tightly. “Leave that for now. What I’m speaking of is our deaths. I’ve…lived this day so many times, Thorin, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that many of the dwarrow of Erebor despise me, and by proxy they think ill of you.”

“They don’t matter,” Thorin replies heatedly. “They mean nothing – ”

“Don’t be silly,” he says, frowning. “Of course they matter. They’re your people.”

“You’re my people.”

Bilbo sighs. “Well. If we cannot speak of that then there is another problem we must address…the fact that you went and died.”

Thorin gazes at him in confusion. He has told Bilbo that he cannot live without him, and he sees no fault in that, for love is a vital thing for dwarrow and for Thorin especially. And he may have been a coward about saying it, but he has never not been in love with Bilbo.

“I cannot be everything to you,” Bilbo tells him now, and it makes his heart ache. “I love you. I love you dearly. But you and I must still live, with or without each other.”

“Impossible,” Thorin says. He blinks back tears. “You ask this of me, after you so cruelly suggest that I see the political benefit in your murder? You have never been so blind.”

They stare at each other before Bilbo sighs again. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “I think we have a lot to work on, but we both need to be alive to do it.”

Finally, Thorin smiles. “Better.”

For over thirty days Bilbo has struggled to convince the miners that he means no harm. For over thirty days he has tried to save their lives. He has died twelve times in the process.

Thorin closes the mines down for the day, and that is that.

“They killed me once,” is all Bilbo will say when Thorin asks why he looks so nervous around the workers. Thorin is horrified.

Bilbo’s killer is another story. After Bilbo died, Thorin had gone on a single-minded hunt for his murderer.

“…what?” says Bilbo. “But Marís?”

“She wasn’t involved,” Thorin reveals quickly, panicking a bit when he sees the pain in Bilbo’s eyes. “She’s actually the one who found out who had killed you.”

Bilbo looks reassured. “Oh, good. Marís is….”

“A fine dwarrowdam, aye. But unwilling to marry me, even if I wanted.”

The hobbit’s head shoots up. “Wait, what?”

“She’s quite taken with Dori, you know,” Thorin says with a wry smile. “I imagine he will agree to a courtship any day now.”

Bilbo blinks, seeming a bit lost. Thorin realizes that this thing with him and Marís has bothered him for a long while and Thorin wishes he had told Bilbo this sooner, but he has never been the most observant of dwarrow.

“Well,” Bilbo clears his throat. “Then I suppose we should arrest my killer. To be honest, though, I am very surprised it was not Kret.”

“Kret?” Thorin frowns. “What’s this now?”

Bilbo bites his lip, hesitating, but he eventually (finally) tells Thorin what’s been happening.

Kret is on the floor, bleeding from the mouth. Bilbo’s hand is on Thorin’s arm and he stops hitting the dwarf before he kills him, but it is a close run thing.

Bilbo’s look of distress does not help his temper. “But…I thought the Miners Union was against the contract? And they…they were defending me. I heard them defending me.”

“Idiots,” Kret curses. “They don’t see what you are. You don’t belong here. You’re not one of us and you’ll never be. Get out of our mountain.”

He spits at Bilbo’s feet.

Thorin has to be held back again until the guards can come and take Kret away. In contrast to his rage, Bilbo is calm. Solemn. Composed.

“I am so sorry,” he says, feeling brittle and ashamed of his people.

Bilbo gives him a fond glance, before turning his eyes back to Kret being dragged away. “It’s not your fault,” Bilbo tells him. “I’ve learned another thing being trapped here, and on our journey, and in the Shire as well. It’s that some people hate what’s different, and some people just hate.”

He reaches for Thorin’s hand and squeezes it. “But there’s you.”

They do not go back to Bilbo’s rooms after the party. Thorin takes him to his own rooms instead, and they sit by the fire and wait for the night to pass. Bilbo explains that he has tried to stay up past midnight before, but always falls asleep. Thorin reminds him that things are different now.

He is here.

Eventually they drift off.

Then…one knock.

Balin’s voice comes through the door, saying that Thorin will be late.

The day is wasting.

Bilbo looks at him with wide eyes, fearing that this morning isn’t any different (though at least we’re trapped together, he thinks), but the king is smiling.

“He didn’t say that yesterday,” he whispers, and brushes Bilbo’s curls away from his forehead. “It’s tomorrow.”

Bilbo smiles at him, slow and sweet.

It is September 23rd.

#30 day otp challenge #Bagginshield #hobbit fic #ehhhhhh

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