Hobbit x reader oneshots

Come morning Light not x reader

"And again there was silence, and again the ghost of summer."

Anna Akhmatova, from "And in the depths of music"; The Complete Poems: Vol. II (tr. by Judith Hemschemeyer)

"Thorin? Thorin!" A harsh cry. The call of eagles. Muted on his ears. He could still hear the battle. Metal on metal. The cry of battle. There was the crunch of snow. A pull of air. Silence on his tongue.

Azog had fallen. He knew this with more certainty than anything before in his long life. Thorin had fell the wretch with his sword. Felt the slide of metal through his body and into the ice below. Blood stained his hands. His clothes. 

It has not been without sacrifice. His own wounds slowly pulling him into the halls of his father's. Never before had he been so worn. His body this heavy. Cradled in ice and snow.

Thorin could hear them now. His name whispered on their breath. He wondered if the halls of Malhal would warm him. Bring him the comfort he was so desperate for.

The cold was seeping in now. Wetting and freezing thick leather and armor. Thorin pulled a breath in. Wheezed as he tasted blood on his lips. He spoke a prayer for his nephew's then. For his company. For the brave Hobbit who followed them. He called to Durin, Aüle. His fallen family. To watch them. Keep them safe.

"Thorin!"

He was falling now. Loosing the warmth of the sun as it fell behind clouds. He wondered if he could rest now. Go peacefully as he knew his nephews were safe. Their home reclaimed. He gave them a home.

He is sorry he would not be there to help them lead. To greet his sister as she returns to Erebor.

He is sorry still for his burgler. To leave Bilbo is such a state. But he knew that his company would do right by him.

And still Thorin asked for forgiveness as Malhal pulled him into his halls.

.
.
.

There is no break in the snow fall. There is no stopping the battle as it rages on. There is nothing but his name on his lips. Desperate. Pleading. Praying. Calling to anything to not let him leave. Not yet. Not now.

Thorin has not moved since speaking his farewell to Bilbo. The Hobbit is unable to think. To speak. To do anything other than hold Thorin's gloved hand. His shoulders shaking from the force of his sobs.

It is Dwalin who finds him. Who mourns with him. It is Dwalin who holds Thorin's nephews. The two cry for their lost uncle. The man who was more akin to their father. The man who hell raised them. The man who gave them a home.

It is Fili who kneels next to Bilbo. Who takes both his and his uncle's in his own.

"He is gone." Fili's voice breaks. Cracks. He speaks the words more for himself than Bilbo. To speak it made it more real. Made it harsher on his breaking heart. The thought of his mother bows his shoulders. Already the weight of the world settling on them.

.
.
.

Thorin is home again. Not in Erebor. But the Blue Mountains. It is mid summer. The smell of sweet berries and sun warmed grass. His nephews are but pebbles. Two children toddling after one another. Their laughter is a song. High and bright like the the birds in the trees.

Something turns in Thorin's gut. Something was wrong. Misplaced. He turns his head to the sky. Bright and shining. He looks to his home. His sister is hanging clothes to dry.

"Dis?" He calls out. There is something foul on his lips. Thorin coughs. Sputters. Looks to his nephews once more.

They have grown. Sword and bow in hand. Kili shoots and arrow. It arcs. Spins.  Hits against a straw man. Fili cheers his brother. A heavy hand in his shoulder.

The taste again on his lips.

He looked to Dis. Tunics and pants turned into leather and armor.

This was not home.

Summer turned to winter. Winter turned to battle.

.
.
.

His first breath is harsh. Hurts his chest. Freezes his lungs. Like breaking fresh ice on frozen ground. He breathes again. Haggard. Rough. It burns his throat.

Thorins first sight is not the healers tent. Not his family. His friends. But the sun cresting over the mountain.

Morning Light floods through the small opening of the large tent. He lifts his hand. Brushes it through the moats of light. His hand shakes. Trembles.

But it is warm. And he is awake. And he is warm.

Thorin smells smoke. The bite of herbs and medicine. There are furs enveloping him.  He could cry now. Let loose every sorrow. Every worry he has felt leading up to this day. He could if he would just allow himself.

To let himself weep. To mourn all that was lost. All that he has done.

But the tears that fell were nothing near sadness and his nephews parted the tents opening.  His smile so strong it hurt his cheeks.

His nephews all but flung themselfs onto him. And Thorin wept as he held them. Whispered his sorrys. Spoke all he would give them.

He wept still as his Burgler came in. Asked Bilbo for forgiveness even though he felt undeserving of it. And yet Bilbo gave it. Generous the Hobbit was. He hoped that generosity would stay still with all that Thorin would give him.

It was the morning light that Thorin first saw. The morning light that would bring the peace he so desperately needed.