Work Text:
Thorin stilled, his eyes reflecting sky.
No. No, no, no, no. No. He couldn't, couldn't be dead. No.
"Gandalf!" Bilbo's voice held a note of panic and determination both. "Do something! Can't you do something?" He squeezed his eyes shut, rocking back and forth on the ice. There had to be something. There just had to. Then Gandalf's hand was on his shoulder as the wizard knelt down beside him. Bilbo opened his eyes to see a glint of low sunlight caught in Gandalf's fingers. His own hand sought out Thorin's, not yet cold. "Like you did on the Carrock?" Bilbo's voice caught on a sob. "Something?"
Gandalf leaned on the staff Radagast had given him, feeling the cold strike up under his knees, the waiting stillness. The sounds of battle had all but ceased. But there was a spark burning still in the heart of Thorin Oakenshield, stubborn, dim, but not yet quenched. There was something. Chancy, uncertain, unremembered for an Age. Meddling, undoubtably. And the foundation had been laid in what he had done to call Thorin back on that high outcrop. It was fortunate they were still on Erebor, that Thorin lay on rock as well as ice.
He would not be able to do it alone, but he could do something now that would give them all time, by warding that tiny spark, dying, but not yet dead. He hoped Thorin would forgive him for it. He hoped to have the opportunity for Thorin to forgive him for it, one day. But first he must keep that last mote of life alive. "Thorin," he breathed, not expecting a response, putting the huddled, heart-broken figure of Bilbo Baggins from the forefront of his mind (though he, stubborn as well, would not entirely go). "Thorin. The fire of thy spirit be sustained in breath, suspended; a spark, a seed within the stone thy flesh, ice-bound be that stone in stillness held. Be fire caught in ice. Hold fast. Hold fast. Hold fast. The words of the invocation were in Quenya, more thought and breath than speech, the last in Quenya, Westron and Khuzdul itself.
It was all too easy to catch hold of the glimmer that was Thorin, though the shape that held it was neither flame or blade or gem, but looked strangely like a crystal acorn. Harder and more delicate to find the balance of fire-in-ice that would keep the body from further injury, in a state of a single moment, neither healing nor failing, without need for breath or heartbeat or any other natural process of life. It would not last long, but it would be enough to make the arrangements for a better solution.
It all held as Gandalf levered himself up, the staff humming a little, a green note, faint and wild. All the ice on the lake had frozen up again into a solid sheet, the orc bodies gripped fast. Thorin lay as if floating on the the surface, no longer quite as he had fallen. His eyes were closed. Gandalf could not recall if he had closed them or not. Well. For good or ill he was committed now.
Bilbo had made his way to the edge of the lake while Gandalf worked. He sat, grief and devastation on his round features. Not at all the same Hobbit who left the shire. Gandalf went to join him, as the surviving members of the Company filed past in pairs and groups. He caught a sharp and puzzled glance from Bifur, a considering one from Balin. They would all have to be told, though whether they would believe was another thing entirely. With a sigh, Gandalf sat next to Bilbo, pulling out pipe and scraper.
"There is a chance. It is not yet done, nor is it at all certain. But he may yet live."
— Three years and eight months later —
Bilbo sat on the bench in his back garden, enjoying the late summer morning, pipe in hand. He was contemplating his sapling oak, transplanted finally from its nursery pot into the ground. It seemed happy where Bilbo had put it, the leaves on its young limbs dancing in the warm breeze. It had not rained for several days, and the white pillows of cloud scattered in the sky did not look promising. Bilbo was just thinking about getting up to fetch some water for it when there was a hoarse caw and the flapping rattle of wide black wings as a very large raven flew down to land on the arm of the bench beside him. A bright black eye looked him over, head tilted. Bilbo had never seen such a large and intelligent bird in the Shire; it looked like one of the ravens of Erebor. It was one of the ravens of Erebor, Bilbo realized with a shock. What it was doing in his back garden he could not imagine.
"Good morning," Bilbo said, puzzled but polite. The Dwarves -- Thorin and Balin at any rate -- had spoken to the birds as if they understood ordinary speech, and had clearly made sense of the sounds the ravens made in return. (Very briefly, Bilbo wondered what he would hear if he put the ring on; he'd understood the spiders with it on. But that would be rude to the raven.) A little self-conscious, he went on, "Bilbo Baggins, at your service."
The raven dipped its beak and settled its wings, making a sound that certainly sounded like a greeting in return. Then it balanced on one leg and held out the other with definite purpose.
Bilbo saw then that a tube of some kind was fastened there. A message container? It must be. But why would Balin be sending him a message by raven? He'd had letters from most of the Company, brought by Bofur and Dwalin only a few months earlier on their way to Ered Luin. What could possibly have happened that Bilbo would need to know without delay? Worried, he fumbled at the finely worked fastenings. The bird was very patient with him, and whatever it was saying with its quiet croaks and caws gave the impression of good news, not dire. Still, ravens were not sent half-way across the world on a whim.
The catches on the cylinder opened finally, revealing a small scroll of paper so fine the ink could be seen faintly through it. Bilbo's fingers trembled a little as he drew it forth. The raven made an encouraging sound.
"Master Bilbo Baggins, Bag End, Hobbiton, The Shire" was written on the outside, but it was not Balin's hand.
It was a hand he knew, though, for all Bilbo had only ever seen four words of it. A signature on a contract kept somehow safe through every danger and catastrophe of the journey. Did he even dare to hope? Holding his breath, Bilbo uncurled the fragile paper, holding it flat against the wood of the bench to read it.
"Bilbo, my friend, dear friend, for my part. I live. That I live is by your effort, your hope, bravery, steadfastness, and honor. Your kindness, and what can only be called love. I regret I cannot convey in person the depth of my regard and my debt to you, and must use but ink and paper, not breath. If I could unsay, undo my words and deeds at the gate, I would, sevenfold. I know you spoke forgivingly on the ice, to one dying. I but hope that that forgiveness might maintain for one awakened from sleep, alive again beyond any expectation. If there is aught within my gift or power, in my own person or otherwise, that you would have of me, you need but ask. I name you Khuzd-behar, Dwarf-friend, and I would have you know you are welcome, always, in Erebor.
May your trees flourish, and your hearth never grow cold. — Thorin"
Bilbo gulped a breath when he got to the end, his head swimming and a fierce, hot, tight feeling gripping his chest. Alive! Thorin was alive! Gandalf's whatever-it-was had actually, incredibly, worked, and Thorin had woken from that cold, spelled sleep. Bilbo was glad he was already sitting, or he would undoubtedly have fallen down in exactly the same kind of silly faint he had when first learning about the dragon. As it was, he had to bend over and put his head down for a moment, remembering how to breathe. Even so, he kept careful hold of the letter, not letting the breeze snatch it up. And really, the raven was being remarkably patient.
After a long moment, Bilbo sat up once more and read the letter over again. He could almost hear Thorin speaking the words, his voice in his mind the quiet one Thorin had used when they had spoken of the acorn, truly himself for those few moments. As he had been himself during the battle, and on the ice, after. "Of course I still forgive you, Thorin," Bilbo said around the thickness in his throat, speaking to the letter as if it could hear him.
The raven made a low caw in reply.
Bilbo blinked. The leaves of the sapling oak seemed to flash and glitter in the sunlight, and the bird was looking at him with quite intelligent sympathy. Had it understood him? Of course it had. And of course it would be listening. "Can you tell him that for me? Will you, when you go back? I assume you'll go back." Wonderful. Now he was babbling. Still, it wasn't like he didn't mean what he was saying. "Will you wait for me to write a letter back? Just a short one, I don't have any paper as fine as this, but I'm sure I can come up with something."
The raven dipped its beak again and hopped up onto the back of the bench, pecking at a cluster of berries ripening on the bush behind them.
"Thank you, Oh! Where are my manners? Of course you will be hungry, flying all that way." Bilbo got up, the letter curling into a loose scroll in his fingers. "It's near enough time for elevenses. Would you like to come in? I can open a window for you. You must certainly stay long enough to rest up a little." He walked over to the back door to Bag End, hardly knowing what he was saying. The raven followed him with hops and short glides.
Thorin, his friend, was alive, awake, in the world again. Everything was suddenly a little brighter.
