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Jan. 19th, 2014 03:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fredbassettTitle : Barbed
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Hobbit
Rating : 15
Characters : Bilbo, Thorin (implied Bilbo/Thorin)
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count: 1,440
Summary : Bilbo takes an arrow in the leg. Thorin has the job of removing it.
A/N : Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
halftime1030 for fandom stocking. A little bit of what might have happened if Bilbo had been injured by a goblin arrow. A slight mix of books and film canon.
“Give him some space!” Thorin commanded, sweeping the surrounding dwarves back with one imperious arm.
Bilbo’s head was still spinning from the flight to the Carrock and the subsequent trek to Beorn’s house. He never wanted to fly again, thank you very much. Not that he didn’t appreciate being rescued from the wargs and the goblins, but an arrow in the thigh had somewhat brought his unaccustomed heroism to an abrupt and rather painful end.
The ever-practical Dwalin had snapped the shaft of the arrow off to only a few inches from Bilbo’s leg and then bound a long strip of torn cloth around his thigh to stop the arrow moving until such time as it could be dealt with properly, and Bilbo rather thought that time was now fast arriving.
“We need boiling water,” Thorin said, drawing a knife from his belt. He started to cut away the cloth from around Bilbo’s leg to expose the wound. “Look at me, not at your leg,” Thorin ordered in the sort of voice that anyone would be wise to obey.
“C… can I close my eyes?” Bilbo stammered.
“If you wish.” Thorin’s tone was unexpectedly gentle. “I cannot promise you this will not hurt, but I will make it as swift as I can.”
Bilbo kept his eyes firmly shut as Thorin’s strong fingers carefully probed his leg.
“The point will be barbed,” Beorn said in a deep voice that sounded uncomfortably like the grumbling of a huge bear. “And might also be poisoned. I have spirit distilled from apples that you can use to dull his senses and spring water to help clean the wound. I also have healing herbs.”
Bilbo liked the idea of dulling his senses and tried to close his mind to the images invoked by the mention of cleaning the wound. That sounded painful. He preferred to contemplate alcohol and herbs.
“Drink this, Master Hobbit,” Thorn said, holding a goblet to Bilbo’s lips. Bilbo took a sip and promptly spluttered as the fiery liquid burnt his throat and pioneered a molten trail down to his gullet. Thorin smiled grimly and held the metal rim to his mouth again. “It will get easier. Trust me.”
Bilbo did trust him. Thorin was gruff and at times very frightening indeed, but Bilbo knew he was willing to place himself in Thorin’s hands without question. He took another drink, this time without coughing, and continued to drink, feeling the spirit running down onto his chin, until Thorin took the goblet away and wiped Bilbo’s mouth with what looked very much like a clean pocket handkerchief, something Bilbo had not seen since his precipitous departure from Bag End in what now seemed almost to have been another life.
“A prize indeed,” said Thorin with something approaching a smile. “It shall be yours afterwards.”
“You had a handkerchief all this time?” Bilbo said, his head spinning from the effects of the spirit. It seemed as though he was now viewing the world from a long way back in his own head.
“It would appear so.” Thorin’s voice was as grave as usual, but his dark eyes twinkled with wry amusement. He tucked the large white square of neatly-hemmed material into Bilbo’s hands. “Hold fast to this and do not watch my hands.”
Of course, the minute those words left Thorin’s mouth, Bilbo felt a desperate urge to stare at the dwarf’s hands, long-fingered and callused through weapon and forge. Thorin scrubbed them well with coarse soap in a bowl of water brought by Beorn, taking care to clean any dirt from beneath surprisingly neat nails. But when a small, thin-bladed knife was dipped in a pot of boiling water to cleanse it, Bilbo soon lost any desire to watch.
Dwalin stood behind him and gently eased Bilbo until he was lying flat on the straw pallet, pressing down onto his shoulders to prevent him watching what was about to happen. He also felt gentle hands holding his injured leg very firmly in place and received a slight smile and a nod from Fili. Floating on a cloud of apple brandy, Bilbo closed his eyes and tried to relax.
Oddly, the first caress of the knife on his flesh was less painful than he had anticipated, and the hurt seeming to be happening to someone other than him.
“It is good, the barb is not deep,” Thorin said quietly. “Count to 20, O most courageous of burglars, and then I promise you, all shall be over.”
Bilbo did his best to gather his scattered wits and concentrated on saying the words aloud in his head whilst trembling inwardly at what would happen when he reached the final number. He’d got no further than ten when a sudden flare of agony in his thigh made his guts lurch and his head spin again.
“Easy now, easy.” Thorin spoke as though he was gentling a frightened animal. He continued to cut into the flesh of Bilbo’s thigh, keeping up a soothing litany of words that made little sense, but in a matter of moments, the pain was over, fading to a dull, consuming ache. “You did well,” Thorin told him. “The barb is out and it is a flesh wound only. Your muscle was not touched.”
“Y… you said tw… twenty, not t… ten,” Bilbo accused.
“Did I? My mistake.” There was a smile on Thorin’s face, lightening the habitual severity that the dwarf wrapped around him like a cloak. “Anticipation is your worst enemy. ‘Twas better done quickly when you were least expecting it. Now hold tight to your prize and I will soon be done.”
As Thorin carefully cleansed the wound and then equally carefully drew the edges of the cut flesh together with a needle and thread, Dwalin joked about his inability to sew a pretty line, and Bilbo twisted the handkerchief in his hands into a knot as he fought the urge to cry out. By the time Thorin had washed the wound with an infusion of herbs and re-bandaged his thigh, Bilbo was dizzy with the pain that had assaulted his senses and sick from the effects of the alcohol. He rolled painfully onto his side, and a wooden bowl was held in front of him by Dwalin and Fili held his shoulders while Bilbo was thoroughly sick.
A rag was wiped across his mouth afterwards, with Dwalin remarking that it would be a shame to spoil the pretty hanky, but the dwarf’s voice held affection not derision for Bilbo’s weakness. Thorin handed him a goblet of water. Bilbo swilled his mouth and then spat, clearing the sour taste of vomit before he sipped at the water and kept it down.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you all.”
Dwalin clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “You have much courage, Bilbo Baggins. You need food now!”
Bilbo dredged up a smile as his stomach roiled uncomfortably at the mention of food. “M…maybe later.”
“He needs rest.” Thorin shooed the rest of the dwarves away like a cockerel taking charge of a particularly unruly brood of chicks. “I will sit with him a while and make sure he takes no hurt from my tender ministrations.”
Bilbo raised an eyebrow at that description and received a smile from Thorin, one which, for once, was not accompanied by the light of battle in the dwarf’s eyes. Thorin glanced around and, secure in the knowledge that his company was more interested now in sampling Beorn’s hospitality than in paying attention to them, took gentle hold of Bilbo’s hand and raised it in a strangely courtly gesture so that he just touched the backs of Bilbo’s to his lips, a merest brush only, but enough to make Bilbo’s stomach do a small jig, this time for reasons other than pain or fear.
“I owe you my life, Master Hobbit.” The look in Thorin’s eyes held unaccustomed tenderness. “I am in your debt, and very much at your service.”
Bilbo held tightly to the knotted handkerchief in his other hand. “As I am in yours, both debt and service, Thorin Oakenshield. Even if I do need to teach you the correct manner of counting to twenty.”
Thorin’s lips brushed across the back of Bilbo’s hand again. “I will await your instruction, Master Baggins.”
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Hobbit
Rating : 15
Characters : Bilbo, Thorin (implied Bilbo/Thorin)
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count: 1,440
Summary : Bilbo takes an arrow in the leg. Thorin has the job of removing it.
A/N : Written for
halftime1030 for fandom stocking. A little bit of what might have happened if Bilbo had been injured by a goblin arrow. A slight mix of books and film canon.“Give him some space!” Thorin commanded, sweeping the surrounding dwarves back with one imperious arm.
Bilbo’s head was still spinning from the flight to the Carrock and the subsequent trek to Beorn’s house. He never wanted to fly again, thank you very much. Not that he didn’t appreciate being rescued from the wargs and the goblins, but an arrow in the thigh had somewhat brought his unaccustomed heroism to an abrupt and rather painful end.
The ever-practical Dwalin had snapped the shaft of the arrow off to only a few inches from Bilbo’s leg and then bound a long strip of torn cloth around his thigh to stop the arrow moving until such time as it could be dealt with properly, and Bilbo rather thought that time was now fast arriving.
“We need boiling water,” Thorin said, drawing a knife from his belt. He started to cut away the cloth from around Bilbo’s leg to expose the wound. “Look at me, not at your leg,” Thorin ordered in the sort of voice that anyone would be wise to obey.
“C… can I close my eyes?” Bilbo stammered.
“If you wish.” Thorin’s tone was unexpectedly gentle. “I cannot promise you this will not hurt, but I will make it as swift as I can.”
Bilbo kept his eyes firmly shut as Thorin’s strong fingers carefully probed his leg.
“The point will be barbed,” Beorn said in a deep voice that sounded uncomfortably like the grumbling of a huge bear. “And might also be poisoned. I have spirit distilled from apples that you can use to dull his senses and spring water to help clean the wound. I also have healing herbs.”
Bilbo liked the idea of dulling his senses and tried to close his mind to the images invoked by the mention of cleaning the wound. That sounded painful. He preferred to contemplate alcohol and herbs.
“Drink this, Master Hobbit,” Thorn said, holding a goblet to Bilbo’s lips. Bilbo took a sip and promptly spluttered as the fiery liquid burnt his throat and pioneered a molten trail down to his gullet. Thorin smiled grimly and held the metal rim to his mouth again. “It will get easier. Trust me.”
Bilbo did trust him. Thorin was gruff and at times very frightening indeed, but Bilbo knew he was willing to place himself in Thorin’s hands without question. He took another drink, this time without coughing, and continued to drink, feeling the spirit running down onto his chin, until Thorin took the goblet away and wiped Bilbo’s mouth with what looked very much like a clean pocket handkerchief, something Bilbo had not seen since his precipitous departure from Bag End in what now seemed almost to have been another life.
“A prize indeed,” said Thorin with something approaching a smile. “It shall be yours afterwards.”
“You had a handkerchief all this time?” Bilbo said, his head spinning from the effects of the spirit. It seemed as though he was now viewing the world from a long way back in his own head.
“It would appear so.” Thorin’s voice was as grave as usual, but his dark eyes twinkled with wry amusement. He tucked the large white square of neatly-hemmed material into Bilbo’s hands. “Hold fast to this and do not watch my hands.”
Of course, the minute those words left Thorin’s mouth, Bilbo felt a desperate urge to stare at the dwarf’s hands, long-fingered and callused through weapon and forge. Thorin scrubbed them well with coarse soap in a bowl of water brought by Beorn, taking care to clean any dirt from beneath surprisingly neat nails. But when a small, thin-bladed knife was dipped in a pot of boiling water to cleanse it, Bilbo soon lost any desire to watch.
Dwalin stood behind him and gently eased Bilbo until he was lying flat on the straw pallet, pressing down onto his shoulders to prevent him watching what was about to happen. He also felt gentle hands holding his injured leg very firmly in place and received a slight smile and a nod from Fili. Floating on a cloud of apple brandy, Bilbo closed his eyes and tried to relax.
Oddly, the first caress of the knife on his flesh was less painful than he had anticipated, and the hurt seeming to be happening to someone other than him.
“It is good, the barb is not deep,” Thorin said quietly. “Count to 20, O most courageous of burglars, and then I promise you, all shall be over.”
Bilbo did his best to gather his scattered wits and concentrated on saying the words aloud in his head whilst trembling inwardly at what would happen when he reached the final number. He’d got no further than ten when a sudden flare of agony in his thigh made his guts lurch and his head spin again.
“Easy now, easy.” Thorin spoke as though he was gentling a frightened animal. He continued to cut into the flesh of Bilbo’s thigh, keeping up a soothing litany of words that made little sense, but in a matter of moments, the pain was over, fading to a dull, consuming ache. “You did well,” Thorin told him. “The barb is out and it is a flesh wound only. Your muscle was not touched.”
“Y… you said tw… twenty, not t… ten,” Bilbo accused.
“Did I? My mistake.” There was a smile on Thorin’s face, lightening the habitual severity that the dwarf wrapped around him like a cloak. “Anticipation is your worst enemy. ‘Twas better done quickly when you were least expecting it. Now hold tight to your prize and I will soon be done.”
As Thorin carefully cleansed the wound and then equally carefully drew the edges of the cut flesh together with a needle and thread, Dwalin joked about his inability to sew a pretty line, and Bilbo twisted the handkerchief in his hands into a knot as he fought the urge to cry out. By the time Thorin had washed the wound with an infusion of herbs and re-bandaged his thigh, Bilbo was dizzy with the pain that had assaulted his senses and sick from the effects of the alcohol. He rolled painfully onto his side, and a wooden bowl was held in front of him by Dwalin and Fili held his shoulders while Bilbo was thoroughly sick.
A rag was wiped across his mouth afterwards, with Dwalin remarking that it would be a shame to spoil the pretty hanky, but the dwarf’s voice held affection not derision for Bilbo’s weakness. Thorin handed him a goblet of water. Bilbo swilled his mouth and then spat, clearing the sour taste of vomit before he sipped at the water and kept it down.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you all.”
Dwalin clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “You have much courage, Bilbo Baggins. You need food now!”
Bilbo dredged up a smile as his stomach roiled uncomfortably at the mention of food. “M…maybe later.”
“He needs rest.” Thorin shooed the rest of the dwarves away like a cockerel taking charge of a particularly unruly brood of chicks. “I will sit with him a while and make sure he takes no hurt from my tender ministrations.”
Bilbo raised an eyebrow at that description and received a smile from Thorin, one which, for once, was not accompanied by the light of battle in the dwarf’s eyes. Thorin glanced around and, secure in the knowledge that his company was more interested now in sampling Beorn’s hospitality than in paying attention to them, took gentle hold of Bilbo’s hand and raised it in a strangely courtly gesture so that he just touched the backs of Bilbo’s to his lips, a merest brush only, but enough to make Bilbo’s stomach do a small jig, this time for reasons other than pain or fear.
“I owe you my life, Master Hobbit.” The look in Thorin’s eyes held unaccustomed tenderness. “I am in your debt, and very much at your service.”
Bilbo held tightly to the knotted handkerchief in his other hand. “As I am in yours, both debt and service, Thorin Oakenshield. Even if I do need to teach you the correct manner of counting to twenty.”
Thorin’s lips brushed across the back of Bilbo’s hand again. “I will await your instruction, Master Baggins.”