Chapter Text
One day, it shall be known as the fabled Battle of Five Armies. The day that Men, Elves, and Dwarrow banded together to defeat the evil Orcs.
To one poor, injured, blood soaked little Hobbit, it is known as the day his heart broke. No Hobbit should ever be forced to fight for their life, but Bilbo has had to do little else since leaving the Shire to help the Dwarrow of Erebor reclaim their home.
And yet, the introduction of a sword into his life is not what has broken his heart. It is the possibility of fallen friends and his banishment. His King wishes never to see him again ... his heart will not survive Thorin looking upon him as a traitor a second time.
Erebor is reclaimed. The Orcs defeated. With a soft sob, Bilbo realizes that it's time to leave.
Banishment. It is a strong, horrible word. Bilbo Baggins is hard pressed to think of a harsher word in all of existence. It is even crueler and more painful than incineration.
Though, he can now think of a single worse word; love. It is a farce. A true horror of a word and he fully believes that he will -never- believe in love again. Not of any kind. His poor Hobbit heart has turned away from the once happy thoughts of love, of friendship and family. Instead, he now thinks only of getting as far away from Erebor as he dares.
He has been banished by the One he loves and it feels as if he will fall to pieces even now.
"Burglar?" It is strange that it should be Dwalin he sees last, rather than his Nephews or even Bofur. Someone he had managed to find some form of kinship with. "Where are you going, halfling?"
That word wrankles. It crawls under the scabs of his torn skin and ring like funeral bells in his mind.
"I am following the wishes of your King, Dwarf. I am banished. The war is won. I am taking my leave." It almost feels freeing, saying that he is leaving. Not because he wants to. -Never- because he wants to. But rather he is a little proud of himself that even now, he can follow the orders of his King.
"Leaving?? In all of this, I never took you for a coward, halfling." Those words. They are the last in a line of unfair insults that snaps something deep inside of the gentlehobbit. He turns, unsteady, but manages to strike before the dwarf can get his wits about him. One large, bleeding foot connects with Dwalin's sternum, then with his knee. Effectively sending the proud warrior sprawling on his back in the mud.
"I left my home and my people, dwarf. I felled orc and spider, faught warg and darkness, went head to head with a Dragon, all in the name of reclaiming a home not my own. No creature shall ever have the right to call me a coward." He turns then, too numb to feel the various aches and pains, the injuries he had sustained. "It is bad enough, all that your King has said to me. I will not hear it from you as well, Dwalin. Enjoy your bloody mountain." With that, he stumbles away in search of Bard in hopes of finding some help.
In the end, it was far easier to slip away than he expected it to be.
Bard would not see him, despite everything. Not that Bilbo really blames him. The Man had children and his people to look after. Of course the concerns of a single Hobbit meant nothing in all of that.
So, imagine his surprise when help came in the from of Thranduil. The elvenking had appeared with a curt bow of the head, a pony outfitted, and very little beyond a basic goodbye and fragile hopes that Bilbo reach the Shire in one piece. Despite his ongoing fascination with Elves, he had no desire to stay and converse with the creature. No, he had taken to the road immediately, not even bothering to find who lived or died.
He fully believes that the knowledge of the death of anyone he cared for would be the final straw that would claim his life. Better to leave with the hope that everyone lived and without the treasure that would remind him of his King. After all, what need has a gentlehobbit for riches?
The travel from Erebor was far simpler, far easier than the journey to reach the mountain. There were no spiders, no wandering bands of orcs, no riddles or half truths to fight through. He had considered stopping at the home of the Great Bear but the thought of being called little bunny on the tail end of halfling is too much for him to handle. Besides, he is convinced that if Thorin could banish him, that if Dwalin could still think him so removed from the Company as to be a coward, there is no reason for Beorn to harbor any feelings of friendship for him.
So onward he had pressed. Not in search of the Shire as he had originally planned, but instead, to The Last Homely House East of the Sea. The elves of Rivendell had been nothing but kind to him and at the moment, he is in dire need of all the kindness he can get.
He is so attention starved, in fact, that he has considered turning back several times. At least there would be people in Dale that would look upon him favorably. Anything would be better than the disgust he was likely to find in the Shire. He is far too fragile still to endure their whispers and pointing. The elves, at least, would give him warmth and understanding where he has had very little.
He is tired, hungry, dirty, and still injured. He wants to bathe and then sleep for a week.
All of those thoughts fly from his mind, however, when the sound of clashing weapons pulls him back to his present. His pony draws up short, hoof snapping angrily at the ground, head tossing to and fro as agitation builds.
He does not think better of it. Does not hesitate. He throws himself from his mount, Sting gripped tightly as he launches himself at the first orc. He buries Sting in it's neck before wrenching free and rushing the next. He manages to take it out at the knees before slamming Sting into it's face. Sadly, he is no longer a stranger to the sounds and smells of battle.
He has just enough time to fell a third and final orc before he comes face to face with a young Man. At least, he assumes the Man to be young, as he is not as old as Bard but not yet so young as Bard's son.
"My thanks to you, stranger. They were upon me before I could escape." The young Man is of a height of his people, cloaked in muddy browns and hunter greens as the Rangers often are. He has long, flowing hair and a shade of stubble across his jaws.
"It was my pleasure to stop and help." He wearily sheaths Sting and executes a surprisingly Dwarrow bow. "Bilbo Baggins, at your service." He is surprised to see the Man lay a hand across his chest in an Elven fashion, even bowing his head in respect.
"Well met. I am ... Strider, Master Baggins. That is a very .. Dwarrow greeting and yet .. you are no dwarf." Bilbo tilts his head back, a somewhat bitter laugh escaping as he looks into the skies.
"No, Master Strider, I am no dwarf. I am a simple Hobbit of the Shire."
"Please, just call me Strider. And I can see nothing simple about you, Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit or not. You charged into a fight not your own, in defense of a complete stranger, and felled three orc with your sword. I owe you my life." The Man has no way of knowing how desperately the poor Hobbit had needed to hear such words. He can feel the hot cascade of tears flowing swiftly down his cheeks and he quickly lowers his head for fear of this Man seeing his weakness.
"Bilbo? Are you alright? Are you hurt?" There is a wellspring of fear and concern in this foreign voice. Things Dwalin had not even been capable of summoning for him, and it causes the tears to fall all the faster. He sniffles deep and wet and cannot hold back a pathetic sob when Strider wraps him in a delicate and soft hug.
"Peace to you, gentlehobbit. Please, do not cry. Where do you travel, my friend?" Striders hand has begun a soothing rub against his back and Bilbo is scandalized to realize he wants nothing more than to burrow against this strange Ranger and not let go unless he absolutely has to.
"R-Riven-d-dell." Each letter is a fight for the poor creature to get out and it breaks Striders heart.
"Then rest well, my gentlehobbit friend. I shall bear you hence to Rivendell. It is the least I owe you." The hobbit splutters in surprise when Strider lifts him so easily and presses him tenderly against his heart. And yet, the minute he is resting there, he feels truly sheltered and at ease for the first time since he left the Shire.
"Thank you, Strider. Already, you are becoming a trusted friend.." Bilbo's words slur thickly. He barely has time to wrap his little hand in the clasp of Strider's cloak before he is passing out from a mixture of exhaustion, hunger, and injury.
Bilbo awakens in small doses. His senses returning in bits and pieces. First there is an almost overwhelming sense of warmth that reminds him of his Mothers favorite blanket. Many a night he has huddled under it, reliving the joyous memories of her.
Then comes the pain. It is muted but still present but he is not yet so awake as to worry what condition he may be in.
Next, he notices something warm and weighted slotted between his fingers. It is only when he manages to pry his tired eyes open that he realize there is a large hand wrapped about his own.
"Strider." He speaks the new name with all the sleepy fondness of a lifelong friend and watches in amusement as the young Man startles awake in his chair.
"Bilbo!" His own affection is instant and full and the Hobbit finds himself relaxing into the comfortable bed. "I feared the worst, my friend. Please, do not scare me so deeply again." Bilbo huffs a soft breath and squeezes the hand held in his.
"Forgive me, my friend. I had not realized the extent of my injuries. I..." His words falter, his mind suddenly filled with the memories of war.
He is not aware that he has begun to shake until he feels a hand grasping at his shoulder.
"Bilbo? You are shaking! Shall I fetch Lord Elrond??" The concern showed by this kind stranger is a soothing balm that battles back the dark memories.
"No, my young friend. For all of his power, Lord Elrond cannot mend the darkness of memory. I will be fine. I just ... it is something I must wait out." He can feel the sense of helplessness pouring off the Man in waves and he wishes he could sooth his friend. After a moment of thought, he gently yanks at the hand twined with his and laughs merrily as Strider collapsed onto the bed next to him. "How long have we been here?"
Strider hesitates for a moment before quickly reworking himself so that he is laying beside the Hobbit, Bilbo's hand now cradled between both of his. It is a wondrous comfort.
"We have been here for three days. Lord Elrond was worried over your injuries but assured me they were not life threatening. I was truly worried that you had received grevious injury in helping me but he said that they were far older than that." He can tell that the Man wishes to ask but is grateful when he does not try to push the topic further.
"I am sorry to have worried you, my young friend. It ... it is not something I am ready to speak on." The hands caging his tighten just enough to draw his attention to his friend.
"Each Man's sorrow is his own. It seems only right that it should be true for Hobbits as well, Bilbo. You will tell me in your own time, should you feel the need." He is somewhat prepared for the burn of tears this time and manages to blink them back.
"You are a wise Man, Strider."
"I count that as high praise coming from you. Rest, my friend. I will be here when you wake." The Hobbit truly means to thank Strider, but he is asleep before he can do so.