Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gorey miasma fills the air as a bloodied finger, golden band attached, falls to the battle-weary land, where it is trodden on and kicked far more than it ever expected to be; the finger, under the command of said golden band, wriggles and squirms its way off of the battlefield and into a dark, angry river, where it flows rapidly downstream, never to be seen again, supposedly lost to time in Ulmo’s domain, his unawareness causing centuries of strife to come.
One year later, after the Men have rebuilt and the Elves have replenished their strength, reports of strange happenings fill the offices of authorities all over Arda. Children are being born with supernatural abilities – such bizarre reports had always been filed away for a rainy day, but these were different. Babies who could breathe fire or freeze a person at a glance, who could look into your eyes and understand far more than a newborn ought to; it was uncanny, and quite frankly, scary, so the Free Peoples of Middle Earth did what they do best: ignore the problem until it either goes away or becomes normal.
The latter occurred faster than a babe could open its eyes.

Several generations later, almost all of Arda sustained themselves with these abilities; communication between settlements had never been faster, while crops grew exponentially thanks to some of the wandering small people who offered their gifts in exchange for a hot meal.
And that’s what they were, really – gifts. Gifts for those who had seen enough, for those who had acted the unwilling witness to true evil, and who had survived.
Oh, how wrong they were.

–x–x–x–

It only took a few centuries for people to connect the dots; as more and more people were born with eldritch capabilities, there were fewer and fewer who died peacefully. As the growing population of miracle-havers began to age, many noticed the horrible full-body side effects that came along with it. Most assumed it was a plague of some sort, similar to the Great Plague, and so called for aid from neighbours, only to discover they were in the same situation; borders were closed off, and everyone quarantined to their respective homes.
This did not help.
Full-body tremors, fevers so high they’d cook raw meat, hallucinations of an all-seeing eye met with paralysing fear – it was all too much for the mortals of Middle Earth to deal with. But deal with it they did, because, at the end of the day, they could not rid themselves of the parasitic abilities they were cursed with.

–x–x–x–

Accounting for the toll death took on a person was never a fun task, least of all while you were living. It is this train of thought that led two Hobbits onto a river on a bright summer’s day, upon the line between home and the wilds. It is also this train of thought that launched the two into the river below them, wanting to live freely while they could, and die quickly when they did. When one surfaced with a golden band, no finger attached – well, who could quite blame the birthday Hobbit for his actions? And if that precious golden band, lifted from the water, released its control over Ulmo’s domain, who had the memory to realise it was worth bothering about?

–x–x–x–

Elves were the first to live on Arda; they spread out across the ages, residing in their palaces carved out from nature. Soon after the Ring’s release from its watery grave, though they did not know it, they found that their Hawkeyes were losing their exactness, still maintaining sharper vision than most, but missing their shots once every so often; their Silvertongues found it harder to gather the attention of masses, now having to choose one or two targets, and their Revivers were susceptible to some of the more aggressive illnesses as opposed to none.

Men found that their Windwalkers could reach lesser and lesser heights, while their Temperates could no longer warm whole cities, now limited to streets or singular buildings. When they had children, they were born with weakened abilities, or none at all.

Dwarves were both the most and least affected; immediately, the majority of the Dwarven population became ability-less, or close enough to it; the stone grew silent, and the Archivists could no longer summon their weapons; those unfortunate enough to have bones of mithril found that their joints would slide out far too often, and they needed constant medication to avoid blood poisoning. Only the descendants of the original seven Dwarf Lords whose families still held their Rings remained unaffected; they grew weaker, but not unhealthy, and were never born powerless.

Hobbits had lived in the Shire for a long time. Before that were the Wandering Days. They did not make a habit of violence, with only one reported murder in their books since its establishment, nor did they make a habit of talking to the Big Folk, who only ever looked at them as though they were children, lesser because of their stature. These particular habits may not necessarily go hand-in-hand, but they certainly affected one another, despite what the Hobbits might think.
So, while the rest of the world went back to normal, the Hobbits were held to their mystical abilities and exorbitantly tortuous deaths.
Life, unsurprisingly, came and went as normal for the Hobbits. Life was simple. Life was good. Life was to be enjoyed, right up until the last percent, where it all went sideways.

Chapter Text

Bilbo Baggins was sitting in his front garden on his wooden bench, staring at a wizard.

This wizard was not simply any wizard; he was one who caused trouble, and enjoyed it immensely. Bilbo stared as the man, doused in grey cloth and a progressively-whitening beard, stared back, awaiting an answer to his question – or, well, it was less of a question, and more of an implicating statement. To the wizard, he must have looked small – far slimmer than most, honey-gold hair curling around his ears and making him look younger, more youthful (though he supposed that wasn’t just the work of his locks). A worn green waistcoat sat above a cream-ish shirt that really should have been white, while his legs were adorned with weathered leather right down to his uncovered feet. An odd hobbit, indeed.

“Well, I wouldn’t imagine you’d find anyone west of Bree ,” the hobbit started, righteous fury bubbling up in his heart before his brain could send a ceasefire; the wizard would catch the consequences of his words, reputation be damned. “...would have much interest in adventures . Nasty, disturbing, horrible things.”
The wizard, bothersome as he was, simply raised his eyebrows, as if he had not expected this answer – as if he had not been in the Shire since Bilbo’s birth. 
“Make you late for dinner,” Bilbo added lamely, attempting to save face. Clearly, the wizard was getting ideas, which, from experience, Bilbo knew would not disappear at a simple ‘no’. As the wizard watched him, the hobbit watched back, standing his ground – he would not be made uncomfortable on his own doorstep, not by this senile magician, and not by any not of his own. Which was to say, anyone and everyone.

The wizard dipped his head, and a tired look overtook his expression; the smugness was still there, but hid behind the wrinkles and sunspots decorating the old man’s skin.
“You’ve changed, Bilbo Baggins, and not entirely for the better.”
“And whatever do you mean by that?”
Gandalf blithely ignored him. “It’s settled then; it’ll be very good for you, and most amusing for me. An adventure awaits you, Bilbo – I shall inform the others.”
Bilbo was affronted, but knew better than to show it; instead, he muttered, “Adventures, amusing… I had no idea you were still in business.” Judging by the way Gandalf’s face had changed – most amusingly – he had heard. Good.
“Pray tell, Bilbo Baggins, where else would I be?”
“Retired, perhaps – or, well, I doubt you could be promoted, as you are.” Gandalf huffed at that, shaking his head and muttering about incorrigible hobbits and their half-truth insults. Bilbo only smiled, a proper Baggins smile, as his favourite wizard stomped down the lane, huffing and puffing like a toddler during a tantrum.

This is when the hobbit managed to process the rest of Gandalf’s words.

“The others ?”

–x–x–x–

Soft bronze candlelight reflected by golden-brown wood lit the kitchen, bouncing around the room and enclosing it in a cosy bubble, undisturbed and safe. Along the countertops sat a cloth, drying from its recent use, along with a number of freshly washed pots and pans, coated in soap suds. Upon a small chair next to a small table sat one hobbit, just about starting his evening meal; upon a bone-coloured ceramic plate was a fish, freshly caught and seasoned with herbs from the garden, along with several vegetables, all seared to perfection. Just before said hobbit could dig into his well-earned dinner, a loud knock resounded throughout the winding halls of Bag Endl; reluctantly, Bilbo got up, answering the door despite the foreboding feeling in his gut.

Before him stood a Dwarf – wet, hairy, and looking altogether like a drowned bear. The dwarf said something, and then pushed past him into the atrium, nose in the air and sniffing deeply; then, a deep, guttural voice joined the animalistic, almost childlike action.
“Where is it, laddie? Is it down here?” The dwarf stepped heavily down the hall, turning only slightly at Bilbo’s confused protests.
“Is what down where? Why are you here?”
The dwarf ignored him as his eyes darted towards the small dinner plate Bilbo had laid out for himself. He then launched himself towards it, much like a starved man, leaving Bilbo to handle an axe larger than himself and a sopping wet cloak, neither of which he remembered taking from his guest. Another knock sounded, alerting the hobbit of his second guest for the night.

Great, wonderful, lovely.

Dropping the dwarf’s items unceremoniously on the floor, Bilbo answered the door.

Before him stood another dwarf, this time much less wet-looking, almost as if he had been smart enough to put his hood up; Bilbo belatedly realised that the inside of the first dwarf’s hood had been wet, which meant he had neglected to put it up, despite the many warnings the sky gave of this evening’s weather. He suppressed a giggle as the new dwarf – white-haired and kind-looking – introduced himself.
“Balin, at your service,” he said, bowing and stepping into the smial. Bilbo was lost for words, which apparently meant that his Baggins training took over.
“Good evening.”
“Yes. Yes, it is. Though, I think this rain might get worse.” With this, he spotted the pile of wet cloth and metal on Bilbo’s floor. “I take it my brother is already here then,” he said, wandering down the hallway without so much as a by-your-leave. ‘Dwarves,’ Bilbo thought, though at least this one had the manners to place his cloak on the hanger, and carried no clear weapon. Sighing, Bilbo picked up the other dwarf’s – Dwalin’s, his mind supplied, though he knew not how – cloak and axe, hanging the former with his brother’s and placing the latter into what was very clearly a weapons rack by the front door. How the dwarf could have missed it was a different question.

By the time Bilbo had managed to reach the kitchen again, Dwalin had finished off his dinner, and Balin was staring wide-eyed at Dwalin’s back, where an empty leather holster lay.
“Master Hobbit, may I inquire as to how you-”
His words were cut short by two sets of hands knocking, in sync, heavily against the door. At this rate, Bilbo would have to get the door repainted. Again.
Sighing, Bilbo trudged towards the door, opening it reluctantly. Once again, there was an unexpected visitor at his door – well, two visitors. One was slightly taller, with light blond hair and a grown beard, while the other was slightly shorter with dark brown hair, large eyes, and the barest foundations of a beard covering his jaw.
“Fíli,” the blond one started.
“And Kíli,” the brunet continued.
“At your service!” They said in unison, bowing comedically low to Bilbo, who simply stood at the door like a man had come selling buttons. In Hobbiton.
“You must be Mister Baggins,” the brunet, Kíli, said, starting forwards; Bilbo then did his best to shut the door.
“No, no, you can’t come in, you’ve got the wrong house!”
“What?! Has it been cancelled?”
“No one told us.”
Pouts adorned their faces, but Bilbo was too confused to notice, or care. “What? No, nothing’s been cancelled-”
“That’s a relief,” the shorter one grinned.
The two pushed their way in, much like the first dwarf, and Bilbo knew he could not win against their strength. As the two boys waddled their way into his home, Bilbo sighed wearily, and not for the last time that evening; the two put their weapons down nicely enough, and hung their cloaks up, so Bilbo found he lacked the energy to care anymore. As long as they didn’t break or steal anything, he’d be fine.

‘A Silvertongue and a Hakweye, though,’ he thought to himself; Balin had started to use his ability against the hobbit when he’d been looking at his brother’s back, while Kíli had stared at him the entire time, taking in everything from the general shape of the hobbit to each individual hair on his head.
Pacing his home, rambling to himself about dwarves and manners and entirely improper uses of their abilities, Bilbo opened the door once again as soon as someone knocked; therefore, the pile of dwarves that fell into his smial was ridiculous, and, in the worn-thin, tired part of his mind, outrageously hilarious.
Luckily, he was not in the mood to laugh, as a grey head poked its way into his house.
“Gandalf.”

–x–x–x–

The dwarves were now sitting around a makeshift table, conjured from who knows where, enjoying the cold meats and cheeses that had previously filled Bilbo’s pantry. A joyous, rotund dwarf called Bombur had offered to help with preparing and cooking the large batch of soup Bilbo had started to make, which he gladly accepted; they were now long past eating it, having moved on to the items of Bilbo’s pantry which required no cooking or preparation. They ate by the block, by the muscle – they didn’t use knives or forks, and their table manners were atrocious.

They sang a song about blunting Bilbo’s cutlery, among other rude assumptions (correctly-made) about Bilbo and his home, which ended in laughter and cheer, as well as clean dishes. Bilbo could not find it in himself to berate them for it.
All the cheer ended abruptly at a series of slow, heavy knocks at the door.
“He is here,” Gandalf said, mysteriously (and most unhelpfully). The dwarves all stood, silent and serious, walking towards the atrium as one. Rolling his eyes, Bilbo followed – whoever it was that made the dwarves act like this must be a king, otherwise Bilbo would tease them for it forevermore, even if it meant having to talk to them for the rest of his life.

Unsurprisingly, a dwarf stood beyond the open door, staring dramatically into what Bilbo knew was a grassy wall. He raised his eyebrows, unimpressed, as the dwarf strode into the atrium, straight past him to address Gandalf.
“Gandalf. I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. I wouldn't have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door.” His voice was deep, resounding throughout Bag End, and far too moody for Bilbo to take him seriously, even ignoring the contents of his words; really, losing his way, in Hobbiton?
“What mark? There should be no mark on that door, it was painted a week ago!” Bilbo remarked, deciding to focus on the less petty things.
The dwarf turned towards him then, raven hair flicking around majestically as he turned his head, icy eyes piercing into Bilbo’s own – an intimidation tactic often used by parents to weasel the truth from lying fauntlings.
“So… this is the Hobbit. Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?”
“Pardon me?”
“Axe or sword? What is your weapon of choice?” the dwarf asked, now circling the hobbit and giving him a look of disdain. Bilbo followed the dwarf’s movements, maintaining eye contact; the dwarf would not challenge him in his own home.
“Well, I do have some skill at conkers , if you must know... ...but I fail to see why that's relevant,” Bilbo trailed off, a wicked grin overtaking his face for a brief second as he thought of how he’d love to send the dwarf’s clinking beads through the air, straight into his temples, where it hurt most. He wouldn’t want to kill the dwarf, after all. None seemed to notice, or be aware of, Bilbo’s thinly-veiled threat – the dwarf just continued to circle him, huffing what could very nearly be a smug chuckle down at the hobbit.
“Thought as much. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”
“And you behave more like a petulant child than a grown dwarf, but then again, that fact might simply be too much for you to understand.”
The dwarves around him froze, as the black-haired one turned slowly, facing Bilbo once again. As even Gandalf froze, the dwarf’s expression remained carefully blank.
“You offer me insult?”
“Well, you did burst into my smial, address Gandalf instead of me, only to immediately insult me the second you addressed the actual owner of this home, so yes, I do offer you insult.” Some dwarves remained stony and silent, while Dwalin nearly surged forwards, searching his back for his axe as Balin held him back by the arm. Some of who Bilbo guessed were the more common dwarves – Bofur, who wore a silly hat, Bombur, who had helped him make the soup, and Bifur, who couldn’t speak Westron but could clearly understand it – held back laughter, their chests rising and falling with silent fits of giggling. “That, and you did lose your way – twice, might I add – in Hobbiton, a town with only one main road.”
At that, the dwarves who had previously been holding in laughter – the original three Bilbo had noticed, along with Nori, Glóin, and surprisingly, Dori, Ori, Óin, Fíli, and Kíli – began bawling with it, hysterical to the point of crying. Even Balin let out a little chuckle, which was immediately quashed at the black-haired dwarf’s serious glare.
He simply huffed, turning, and stormed down the hallway. The rest of the dwarves followed, some begrudgingly, while Bilbo stopped Gandalf in the atrium.
“Gandalf, why are there thirteen dwarves in my home?”
“I believe it best you listen to their conversation, my dear friend,” Gandalf answered, looking weary but with the same twinkle in his eye as he had had that morning when Bilbo had answered his good-morning questions.

“What of the meeting in Ered Luin? Did they all come?” Balin asked, the dwarves now sat comfortably at the long table, quiet and contemplative – a stark difference from the jubilant dwarves just minutes before.
“Aye, envoys from all seven kingdoms.”
“And what did the dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dain with us?” Dwalin asked, leaning forward with an intense look pulling his eyebrows and mouth downwards.
At this, the black-haired dwarf sighed. “...They will not come. They say this quest is ours, and ours alone.”
Ah, so that’s where they were going. Bilbo thought it best to ask, though, just to be sure. “You’re going on a quest?”

Gandalf perked up at this, as did several of the dwarves, having seemingly forgotten the hobbit’s presence among them. Asking for more light, Gandalf went on to explain the goal of the quest: to reach the Lonely Mountain, Erebor, when there was mention of a dragon, and an argument regarding the amount of dragons Gandalf had felled. Bilbo scoffed, and the icy-eyed dwarf – King Thorin Oakenshield, he now knew – glanced at him briefly before turning back and asserting that it mattered not; it mattered only that the mountain was reclaimed, for others must have seen the signs, too. It was obvious to Bilbo that this dwarf was not a Silvertongue like Balin; he rambled, extensively – so much so, some of the dwarves had started their own conversations.
Thorin’s very nearly endearing speech, which was detailed but utterly ineffective, came to an abrupt end as Balin – an advisor to the previous king and now to Thorin – cut across Thorin’s droning and reminded the group that they had no way into the mountain. This briefly shut Thorin up, which allowed Gandalf – in a fashion befitting of a meddling wizard – to pull a key from the depths of his robe (if the overgrown rag could be called that). It shone in the low light, and all the dwarves stared at it, then Gandalf as though he had grown a second head.
Pointing to the map, Gandalf told the group of a hidden door.
“There’s another way in,” Kíli said excitedly, reminding Bilbo of his young age.
Gandalf nodded. “Well, if we can find it, but Dwarf doors are invisible when closed. The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map… and I do not have the skill to find it. But there are others in Middle-earth who can. The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth – and no small amount of courage. But if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done.”
“And that’s why we need a burglar,” added Ori, who had been sitting meekly since Dori had told him to sit down after his comment about his weapon and the dragon’s one-way system.
“Hmm. And a good one too. An expert, I'd imagine,” Bilbo commented, already aware that Gandalf had most likely put him up to it; why, though, was the question.
“And are you?” Óin, who had an ear trumpet, asked.
“Am I what?”
“He says he’s an expert!” Laughter and light jabs to Óin about his poor hearing followed, only quieted by Bilbo’s stammering; he knew a lot of things about dying, and stealing from a dragon seemed to be a quick way to do it.
“I’m not a burglar, I’ve never stolen a thing in my life,” Bilbo stuttered, and Balin looked at him strangely; Bilbo kicked himself mentally – he should have remembered that Balin could sense when people were lying or telling the truth. Bilbo’s statement was half of both, which obviously confused the two. Balin, however, came to his rescue with his words.
“Well, I'm afraid I have to agree with Mister Baggins. He's hardly burglar material,” he said, hardly looking away from Bilbo. Gandalf, obviously, did not pick up on this, and exploded with reasons as to why Bilbo would be the group’s burglar.
Eventually, Balin passed Thorin a contract, who passed it to Bilbo, who unfolded an awful lot of pages about ways he could die on the quest and the funeral arrangements that would be provided. Sighing once again – he was doing a lot of that today – Bilbo glanced up at Gandalf; he always knew more than he was letting on, and if he was asking Bilbo of all people to go on a quest, then he must be able to help, even if he wasn’t quite the conventional burglar.

“...Alright. Who has a pen?”

Chapter Text

Icy winds pierced his skin as it whipped past, fast and sharp enough to leave blisters; snow and hail fell from the grey skies, coating the landscape in a deceptively deep whiteness. It’d been two weeks since the onset of the Fell Winter, and the Baggins family was not doing well. They’d huddled together in the living room, orange glazing the walls with its light, but without enough heat to warm their bones; all doors were closed, to preserve heat, as were the curtains, but nothing could quite prevent the penetrating cold, silently slivering through doorways just to creep up spines, wrapping its frigid tendrils around any it found, leaving raw burns with no obvious cause.

It was this tragedy that led Bungo Baggins out of his smial, Bag End, which he had built for his dearheart long ago. He’d built it with a large family in mind, long summers spent upon the hill eating picnic foods and making daisy chains. He lamented his lack of foresight; anyone in his situation would, what with a wife and child at home, freezing every second he dallied, all because he didn’t see importance in fitting Bag End with warming equipment, what with the mild winters characteristic of the Shire. As his thoughts rambled, he shivered, pressing his palms into his armpits and hoping for the best.

He was looking for Hobson Gamgee, who he knew would have the herbs he needed to ease his child’s sickness – he and Belladonna had wrapped Bilbo up in as many blankets as they could, if only to stave away the cold for a few more minutes; he needed these herbs, urgently.
Finally, a yellow door came into view, a bare two feet in front of him; the snow was obscuring his vision, and the way the landscape had morphed would confuse any hobbit. Knocking at the door, Bungo became tempted to simply linger in their hole until he was warm enough to return – however, his brain caught up to his thoughts, as he reared them back. Lingering could cost his son his life.

It was with trembling hands and numb lips that Bungo thanked a wrapped-up Hobson, before he turned and moved as quickly as his leaden feet would allow.

The look Belladonna gave him when he got back was furious, but that only lasted a second before she pulled him close and hugged him tightly. When they broke apart, they went to the kitchen, sorting the herbs into doses and boiling water as quickly as possible; soon enough, Belladonna was pouring the scorching liquid down Bilbo’s throat, as both parents comforted their child with murmured words and soft pats.

Only once Bilbo opened his eyes did he realise what his illness had cost.

Bungo was bed-bound long into the spring. His eyes were no longer bright, and he no longer spoke of the way the grass whispered, or the way the trees shook in merriment at the warmth of the new season; his eyes grew bleak, the few moments he was awake, and desperate on the even fewer occasions he was lucid. He grasped feverishly at his son’s shirt, begging to be released from the Eye, to get these images out of his head. Bilbo, not even of age, had stammered and stuttered, imploring that Bungo could make it, could fight through it all.

Belladonna just stared from the corner of the room, encompassed by an overwhelming sense of doom.

This was not going to end well.

As it turned out, Belladonna would be correct; Bungo would die fitfully, begging Bilbo to take his ability from him, only perishing once the act was done – he died strangely peaceful, barely seconds after uttering his thanks to his son and wife. Belladonna and Bilbo continued their lives; the home was too quiet, as was Bilbo’s coming-of-age, and the shadows beyond their walls danced tantalisingly as though Bungo were ribbing them for their sadness. They went through the period of mourning, wearing black lace around their wrists and white clothing elsewhere, not speaking except among themselves. After that, life went on. The sun still rose upon the horizon, and the moon still snuck its way into the sky when it thought the sun wasn’t looking. Hobbiton continued, much the same as ever.

Belladonna lasted nine years before she was felled by her broken heart; she’d sat Bilbo down one evening, a mug of tea pressed into her hands, frozen despite the summer’s heat. She’d looked into his eyes, and he knew straight away.

If you asked Bilbo, he’d say his mother had asked gracefully for him to remove her gift, if only so she could live her last days conscious and painlessly. He’d say he accepted willingly, and while there were tears shed, they knew it to be for the best.

If you asked Belladonna, she’d say she tore her son’s heart out right there, on the living room floor.

So it came to be that Bilbo Baggins was the Burglar of Bag End; first, an accident, then as a dying wish, and once more with sorrow, but no small amount of courage.

–x–x–x–

Leaving Hobbiton, the Company realised the truth of Bilbo’s statement the previous evening: Hobbiton really did have one main road, which would have been extremely difficult to get lost on, even in the dark and the rain. The winding pathways that led away from it were thin, very obviously made for a folk smaller than most, but clear, in that there were obvious markers between what was the road and what was not.

As the group travelled on foot, their newest addition piped up, saying something about ponies to Balin before running ahead. Balin simply shrugged; Thorin shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, before sending Dwalin after the excitable hobbit. Before much else could happen aside from Dwalin’s grumbling, aggravated words could be heard from a large building up ahead; a small crowd had gathered where people were stopping in the streets to stare, before they remembered their manners and moved on, ignoring the strange Baggins of Bag End, who was attempting to buy fourteen ponies and a horse from Farmer Maggot.

Dwalin moved a bit faster, though with no urgency – he knew there would be no fight, not between the gentle folk of the Shire. Coming up to the building, which he now realised was a large stable, he heard the hobbits bartering over price.
“I’ll give you twelve, and no horse, with what you’ve got on you,” an unfamiliar voice said, which Dwalin allocated to a male hobbit in farmer’s clothes with a scrunched-up face and balding head, only just covered by a straw hat.
“Come now, you know you’re overcharging me, I’m not even asking for saddles-”
“I’ll charge ye what I see fit. Now, that for twelve, or go bother someone else.”
“What about this?” Bilbo asked, seemingly showing the other hobbit something that Dwalin couldn’t see.
“...Done.”

–x–x–x–

Near-silent trilling could be heard off in the distance, an owl’s call after finding its prey, and Bilbo wondered what kind of owl it was. Bifur would probably be able to tell him. Bungo definitely would have.

Darkness enveloped the Company, the ledge they were on – and wasn’t that unsettling, sleeping on a thin, uncovered cliffside – lit only by the moonlight, the crackling fire they’d set up to cook dinner long doused to avoid any unwanted attention. As if they had any protection, or any route out; they were surrounded by thick forest on all sides, except for the cliff itself, which dropped steeply into a deep valley. Across from their ledge was another, smaller in size and height, facing their own. While Bilbo contemplated the logistics of an escape route, he wandered to his pony, who he had named Myrtle, offering her an apple in these trying times. The ponies were very obviously trained to carry people, but definitely not for this long, nor at this pace.

Fíli and Kíli sat together, giggling amongst themselves, hardly noticing Bilbo’s secret gift to his own pony. As the pale light exaggerated their volume, a piercing shriek sounded out over the forest, much like nails on a chalkboard, or the feeling of dragging one’s teeth against each other – unpleasant, uncomfortable, and thoroughly unnatural. The two dwarves silenced themselves, gazing off into the distance.

“What was that?” Bilbo asked, doing what would later be described as a jittery jig through the camp towards the boys. They looked up to him, glanced at one another, and smiled impishly.
“Orcs,” Kíli said, all evidence of the mischievous young boy gone, locked behind a serious, steely expression.
“Throat-cutters. There'll be dozens of them out there,” Fíli added, even more serious than his brown-haired counterpart.
“The lone-lands are crawling with them. They strike in the wee small hours when everyone's asleep. Quick and quiet, no screams. Just lots of blood.”

Well, Bilbo knew that was a bundle of horse-dung – though, he supposed not, since horse-dung could be useful, if applied correctly. Orcs are loud, ferocious creatures who revel in the pain of others, even other Orcs. Bilbo rolled his head wearily, ready to play into their joke, if only for a bit of evening entertainment to distract from the very real Orc screech they’d just heard. Before he could, however, the boys’ giggling abruptly stopped as Thorin rose suddenly, glaring at them.

“You think that's funny? You think a night raid by Orcs is a joke?” Thorin’s voice was sharp, and rough, much like he’d just woken from a bad dream, or had been screaming for the last three hours. Since the latter had not occurred, unless Bilbo had become temporarily deaf, he assumed Thorin had a history with Orcs – an assumption that would swiftly be confirmed, with Balin retelling the story of Azanulbizar, which claimed the lives of Thráin and Frerin, his father and brother. Upon asking what happened to the Pale Orc, Thorin turned theatrically, hair flowing in the wind like he paid it to.
“He slunk back into the hole whence he came. That filth died of his wounds long ago,” he grunted coarsely, striding back to his bedroll – behind where Bilbo was now sat – and turning away from the group.
“Best we get some sleep now,” Balin said apologetically. “Dwalin, with me on watch, if you please.”

–x–x–x–

Bifur was really getting fed up with this rain. At least, that's what the others thought.

All it did was pour onto them, dripping down from the trees in heavy droplets, dribbling down their spines and chilling their bones.

Leaving the Shire had been a breeze – they’d stopped in Bree for their last meal in civilisation for a long while, though mutters of ‘The Burglar’ followed them wherever they went; this remained a constant until they left the Hobbits behind, turning instead to the rising sun – to the Lonely Mountain.

Now, it was pouring with rain, despite it being April still; on the road for a week, and already covered in water, mud, and who knows what else. Not that Bifur minded, no – at least, not as much as the others – but it was their incessant moaning that he hated. Dwarves were not fond of being above ground as a general rule, so being forced to be under upset skies made their beards wag with the effort their jaws were making to keep up with the loud, constant groans and expletives. Bifur quite liked the rain, not that he’d ever admit it. It was quiet, in a way, the water forming auditory patterns within their randomness. It was calming, tranquil – something that the stone no longer provided. Not after so long in the Blue Mountains.

Noticing their resident hobbit staring up at the sky, Bifur supposed he would have a similar disposition; born and raised in the rolling hills and grassy knolls of somewhere such as the Shire must have caused the creatures that inhabited it to enjoy the sky, no matter what temperament it held. He could vaguely hear a conversation at the front of the line about wizards and rain; he sincerely hoped that Gandalf would not make it sunny, or make the rainfall cease. The gentle rhythm it created was soothing, in that inexplicable way nature often was; it wrapped Bifur up, rocking his head gently as a mother might a babe, wiping away the pain and enveloping him in a quiet warmth not found elsewhere.

In short, Bifur liked the rain.

–x–x–x–

Bright orange rays of sun still shone in the sky by mid-evening, at which point the Company stopped; they settled near a barnhouse which appeared to have seen better days, the walls charred and blackened by fire, torn out by something larger than Elf or Man. It was unsettling – a fact that Thorin and Gandalf argued about, ending in Gandalf storming off down the path they’d come from and into the treeline.
“We’ll see ‘im again, I’m sure,” Bofur remarked to no one in particular. Bombur leaned into him, murmuring something before turning beet-red at Bofur’s very loud, very distracting guffawing.

It was dark by the time camp was set up. The sun had set quickly, and now a fire warmed the Company. They sat in groups, mingling between one another, sharing stories and jokes – Bilbo sat to the side against a tree, listening to its discontented rustling. It seemed to Bilbo that the woods behind them were not happy, and were not safe. They whispered of large, unseemly creatures, half-witted and numb to the ways of the world, who ate what they found and hoarded anything deemed unfit for a stew. Said creatures were, apparently, a decent distance from the camp; in his trance-like listening, Bilbo was only vaguely concerned that their fire would grasp attention. He’d tried to tell someone, he had – and the grass tickled at his shins while the leaves quivered in fear and the bark creaked and groaned in anger. He hadn’t figured out a way to tell the Company without disclosing his ability; he didn’t want to limit himself should he get into a tight spot, and knew that revealing himself now would only cause further isolation from the group.

And hadn’t that been a surprise? The dwarves were all related, in one way or another – all of them had family, be they brothers, uncles, cousins, or more distant relations. In fact, Bilbo had found out that the only non-Durins in the group were Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori, and Ori, who were all related in triplets, though there was no relation between the two groups.That left seven members of the Company who were all related. It was more than that, though – Bilbo was a stranger to all of them, and really, had no ‘in’, especially after Thorin, their esteemed leader, had taken to disparaging him at any given opportunity. Because of this, there were few within the Company who were inclined to speak to him – excepting, of course, the few not particularly worrisome of their leader’s personal opinions. Bofur joked with everyone, and Bombur always spoke with him about recipes; though Bifur and he could not directly speak to one another, they’d figured out a sort of pseudo-sign-language. Ori, as both a youngster and a scribe, was interested in Hobbit culture, spurring many conversations about culture, customs, and plants. Dori and Nori always listened in wherever Ori was concerned, and Nori had attempted multiple times to sneak up on the hobbit, who had always turned, unimpressed, to find a raised eyebrow under a star-shaped head of chestnut hair.

Either way, the trees still grumbled, and the dwarves were still unaware, so it suited Bilbo, in a way.
Right up until he was tasked with taking stew to Fíli and Kíli, that is.

Upon finding the boys, Bilbo knew something was wrong. The two were silent, which Bilbo hadn’t thought to be possible. They stared at the makeshift pony pen, in which their ponies – courtesy of Farmer Maggot, after some bartering – were standing, wide awake and barely moving. Animals, Bilbo knew, did not normally act like this. Slowly, he crept up to the boys, who nearly jumped out of their skin at his sudden appearance; they didn’t take the bowls, and they didn’t even speak.
“What’s the matter?” Bilbo asked, because that seemed to be the right place to start.
“We’re supposed to be looking after the ponies,” Kíli started, barely whispering and looking much like a scared mouse.
“Only, we’ve encountered a slight problem,” Fíli continued in much the same manner.
“We had sixteen.”
“Now there’s fourteen.”
“Daisy and Bungle are missing,” Kíli finished, and in a fleeting state of excitement, Bilbo realised the names he’d given the ponies were catching on.
“What? Well, that’s not good. And that is not good at all. Shouldn’t we tell Thorin?” Bilbo said; this was how he’d tell the group about the forest’s words! He didn’t have to out himself, after all.
“Uh…no. Let’s not worry him. As our official burglar, we thought you might like to look into it.” Oh, how lovely. Just peachy.
“Well, uh…it looks as if something big uprooted these trees.”
“That was our thinking,” Kíli replied seriously. Playing dumb would not work, then.
“It’s something very big, and possibly quite dangerous.” The fact that Bilbo knew the truth of those statements was neither here nor there.
“Hey! There’s a light. Over here!” Fíli called, gesturing at Kíli to follow. Right, then – that was Bilbo’s cue to leave, and get Thorin.
“Mister Boggins! Don’t abandon us!” Kíli called after him. The two had adopted this name for him, despite knowing his name – at his insistence of this fact, they denied it, even with the knowledge they all had that the two had known his name upon arrival at his doorstep not two weeks earlier.
“I’m not abandoning you, I’m going to get Thorin.”
“Why? We don’t need-”
Before Fíli’s sentence could be completed, a great, lumbering creature trudged into the pony pen, hauling two ponies under its arms, and carried them away.
“It’s got Myrtle and Minty!” Now, it was personal. “I think they’re gonna eat them, we have to do something.”
“...Yes, you should. Mountain trolls are slow and stupid, and you’re so small. They’ll never see you!”
“M- no. Me? No, no, no – a very poor idea indeed.”
“It’s perfectly safe!” Really, Bilbo was not convinced that Kíli wasn’t just three faunts in a dwarven tunic.
“We’ll be right behind you. If you run into trouble, hoot twice like a barn owl, once like a brown owl,” Fíli added, only ever so slightly more serious than his brother.

Well. Bollocks.

Not only had he gotten himself involved, but he was well and truly stuck in it now. Sneaking was not the problem – though he was no Shadow-walker, he was a Hobbit, so Bilbo was capable in this department. It was the rope that proved a problem; Bilbo, utterly entranced by the greenery’s spitting whispers and therefore unprepared for the trolls, had left his only weapon – a three-sided pocketknife, designed for self-defense when out in Bree by his mother – in his jacket, which he had been sitting on at the base of the tree. He could go back and get it, but that would mean getting back to camp without being noticed, and swiftly enough to ensure the safety of all the ponies. He could not do that. Therefore, what Bilbo did next was both understandable and entirely stupid.

Reaching the edge of the Troll camp, Bilbo inched forwards, shushing the ponies along the way. He waited while the Trolls bickered, observing the one before him; snotty, cross-eyed, and very obviously the weakest of the group. A long, sharp, curved knife was attached to a thin leather strap at the back of its loincloth; the only issue lay in the handkerchief beside it, which the troll used frequently. Deciding that time was of the essence, Bilbo lurched forwards, and many things happened at once; firstly, the troll he’d been attempting to steal from reached for the handkerchief, and found it, as well as Bilbo, who the troll very promptly mistook for a particularly large bogey. Bilbo fell to the floor, covered in troll snot and no small amount of dead flies, and lurched upwards in an attempt to escape. Dodging was easy, and soon, Bilbo had the trolls confused – however, it was not to last, as several dwarves came rushing into the camp, seemingly unaware of Bilbo’s location. He used this to his advantage, of course – he stole the knife, cut the rope containing the ponies, and whispered to the trees to guide them back to the others. Then, turning around, Bilbo witnessed the great, majestic Thorin Oakenshield having a potato sack shoved over his head. Bilbo only hoped that landing on the other dwarves wasn’t too painful.

Thirty minutes passed uneventfully; the trolls were arguing about how to cook their new-found banquet, switching between roasts, stews, briskets, pies, and simple, raw dwarf. One of them – William – then turned to the dwarves.
“Nevermind the seasonin’, we ain’t got all night! Dawn ain’t far away, let’s get a move on! I don’t fancy bein’ turned to stone .”

As a Gentlehobbit of the Shire, and a long-term bachelor to boot, Bilbo was often tasked with looking after the children while the adult hobbits took important meetings, or perhaps a much-needed break. And, as an avid reader, Bilbo had tried his hand at writing more than a few times. Therefore, he had become quite the storytelling extraordinaire in the Shire; the fauntlings loved him, nevermind what their parents thought, and, over the years, Bilbo had made some very odd characters. He narrated with verve, and as such, performed a multitude of voices for all his characters. He had a catalogue of them, all prepared and raring to go at any given moment.
This was one such moment.

Mustering the most gumptious, trollish energy he could, Bilbo said, “Well, have you smelt ‘em? We’re gonna need summink stronger than sage before we plate this lot up!”
“And wot makes you the cook, Tom?” asked Bert, who was outrageously offended at Tom’s apparent assumptions about dwarves.
“Nuffink,” Tom replied, confused as to why Bert was asking him when it was very obviously William who’d displayed discontent with Bert’s culinary skills.
“Nevermind ‘im, we need to get to eatin’,” William said, ignoring the bickering.
“Well, we ‘ave to skin ‘em first, you know,” a voice that sounded like Bert’s said.
“What a load of rubbish! I’ve eaten plenty with their skins on. Scoff ’em I say, boots and all!” William replied.
“He’s right! Nothing wrong with a bit o’ raw dwarf. Nice and crunchy,” Tom added, saliva dripping from his mouth into the forgotten stew.
“No, we can’t be doin’ that! Wot if this lot’s got parasites? Got to heat ‘em up, we do.”
“You’re the chef, then, Bert.”
“I didn’t say nuffink!”
“Yeah, we got to heat ‘em up, you said!”
“When did I say that?”
“Just now.”
“No, I didn’t, William did.”
“But I wanted to eat the lot raw!”
“No, no, no, you lot’ve got it all wrong,” another voice said, which sounded suspiciously like Tom. “You’ve got to put ‘em in herby water, so the smell goes away. No one likes the smell of Dwarf.”
“But why does it matter? Everything tastes like chicken.”
“Except the chicken, wot tastes like fish.”
“‘Ow do you know wot fish tastes like? I thought you were a piscivore,” another voice added. It was obviously William’s.
“No, that means you only eat fish!”
“Your mum tasted like fish.”
When the first punch flew, no one was quite surprised.

The trolls fought all night, and, when the sun started rising, they were still too busy hurling insults and fists at each other to notice. As one, they turned to stone, forever caught in a bout of fisticuffs over whose mother smelled, and who stated so.

When Gandalf rounded a boulder, it was to thirteen dwarrow stuffed crudely into potato sacks, and a hobbit nowhere to be seen.
“Where is he, then?” Gandalf asked Thorin, who looked much like a grumpy old cat.
“Who?”
“My hobbit,” Gandalf replied, and, for whatever reason, Thorin seemed to darken even further at it. Perhaps he was angry at Bilbo.
“The burglar probably slinked off back to camp the first chance he took,” he said, staring into Gandalf’s eyes, as if he could intimidate the wizard.
“Almost certainly not. Who do you think did the troll impressions?”
“That wasn’t you?”
“Well, towards the end, my dear Thorin, yes, but it appears your burglar started it all,” Gandalf smiled, a smug look twinkling in his eyes. ‘He’s up to something,’ Thorin thought. He knew that face; he’d grown up the eldest of three siblings, and had raised two nephews.

A rustling in the bushes caught his sight, and the hobbit, covered in slime from who-knows-where, dead bugs, and dried leaves came bouncing into the clearing.
“Gandalf! Good save towards the end, there, I wouldn’t have thought of piscivores.” He wandered up to them, and Thorin belatedly realised that the hobbit had been the one to make the final remark. He decided to ignore the way Dwalin’s chest rose and fell in silent laughter, or the way he tightened his hold on his sleeve.
“All thanks to you, Bilbo,” Gandalf replied, smiling sweetly as if Bilbo – prim, proper, ‘need to go back for my handkerchief’ Bilbo – hadn’t just launched three trolls into a fist-fight, and wasn’t standing there looking like a vagrant.
Not that Thorin minded at all – he felt a bit smug at Bilbo’s apparent uncomfortable clothing situation.

“I found a key,” Bilbo said instead, pulling a comically large, golden key from what must have been an inside pocket. “Not sure where it leads, but that troll Bert had it around his neck, so it must be important.
“Troll hoard,” Gandalf said, and all the dwarves scattered, willing the ground to open up and show them its secrets.

It was Bilbo who found it first, of course.

Chapter Text

“Can you speak to trees?” Fíli asked as they headed up the hill, the Troll hoard hours behind them.
“What?” Bilbo asked distractedly. Of all the questions to ask, he hadn’t expected that one.
“Kíli says he’s seen you do it. In all honesty, I thought he was lying, but you do spend a lot of time just… listening. None of us can figure it out, not even Nori.”
“What’s Nori got to do with it?”
Suddenly, Fíli’s face paled, his eyes blown wide; had Kíli been in this situation, he’d have started rambling, revealing his hand in his attempts to hide it, but Fíli was much the opposite – he sat impossibly still on his pony, staring at Bilbo as if he’d grown a second head. Carefully, oh-so-slowly, Fíli looked ahead to the rest of the group to where Nori was currently guiding his pony with his feet while he cleaned his fingernails with an ornate jade-coloured dagger. He gave no sign of having noticed anything, but then again, it was Nori.
“Not a word,” Fíli asked more then said, as if seeking permission. Bilbo just dipped his head, chuckling as the golden-haired boy trotted up to his brother, eagerly joining his and Ori’s conversation. Bilbo was very quickly dragged into it, as he had been with the three in the past week.

–x–x–x–

It was not long before they were running again.
One minute, Bofur was dismounting his pony, hardly saddle-sore but disinclined to say such a thing to his obviously suffering fellows, joking about this and that as usual, and the next minute, he was preparing to run across a very dry, very open grassland in an attempt to outrun an orc pack. On wargs.
At least they had another wizard added to their collection. Even if he was the brown wizard – who knew? He did have bird droppings in his hair, after all.

Wargs screeched into the surprisingly sharp air while their orc riders snarled and gnashed at the wizard whipping his way through the fields, weaving in and out of rocky outcroppings, continuously changing direction. The dwarrow – and Bilbo – made their way across the acres of land before them, disappearing behind boulders at Gandalf’s beck and call, huddling together in the hopes that the ‘shizard’ (as Dwalin had taken to calling him)  would do something. There were times they had to pull one another back, or forward, or in an entirely different direction. Golden rays filtered down upon them, the heat beating at their backs as they ran, no shade in sight; in fact, Bofur was surprised they hadn’t been spotted yet, even with all the hills. He was also surprised that no one had keeled over from heatstroke.

The sun hung in the sky for hours, but finally started receding, much like Dwalin’s hairline all those years ago. When Bofur said this aloud, even through his panting breaths, Dwalin found it in himself to award Bofur with a stare that would have a dwarf with balls of any weaker metal to turn and run. Bofur chortled, smothered only by Bifur’s hands over his mouth.

Eventually, all alive and accounted for, the Company made their way with Gandalf’s guidance to a relatively flat area, surrounded by yet more rocks, boulders, and stones. Dead grass crunched beneath their boots. Orcs astride mangy wargs surrounded the group, converging upon them like… well, like wargs advancing on their prey. Weapons were drawn and a defensive circle formed, youngest in the middle – it was amusing to Bofur that they all subconsciously placed their wee hobbit in the centre as well. He was only just a little fellow after all, even to the dwarrow. Kíli fired arrow after arrow as Fíli and Nori threw daggers; any who were close enough to slash and hack, did so. The circle became more of an oval, then a drunken square, and finally, it disbanded, leaving everyone in smaller groups of two or three, if they were lucky. Those who could fight from a distance were near boulders, using them to cover their backs, while the less professional short-range fighters finished off those injured by the more seasoned warriors. Bofur, quite partial to a pub dance, didn’t get hit – he knew the steps of a wobbly table-dance far too well, and the orcs were far too used to the more classically-trained soldiers. If no one else would be smug about the cuts covering Dwalin and Thorin, Bofur could handle it all.
Gandalf appeared rather suddenly from behind a boulder as they were finishing off the last- nevermind, not the last orcs. Several more crested the hill, obviously having finally lost the mad brown wizard’s trail.

Retreat they did at Tharkûn’s call; it’d been fun while it lasted, but now they had to follow Greyhame down a dusty tunnel leading to who knows where.

At least there was a slide.

–x–x–x–

Cool afternoon air washed over them as they exited the craggy canyon, entering a vast green valley filled with swirling architecture. Grey larchwood archways towered above them, decorated with nouveau patterns flowing into one another, serving no purpose other than to be looked at. Arriving in the centre, Bilbo – even through the throng of dwarves surrounding him – could see the elven designs throughout the entire valley; looking down to the floor below him, he could see more patterns, twisting like ivy under their feet to meet each other, causing an elegant flare of vines and leaves and nature . Never had he seen a floor quite like this one, not before he first saw it, and not in the time since – the Elves had a way of preserving nature’s beauty in their paintings, whether on canvas or flooring.

Gandalf had led them there on purpose, that much was obvious – it was who he expected to greet him that Bilbo was surprised at. After their fight with the orcs, and the elf-arrow that made its way into their cavern, one might think that Gandalf, first of his name, titled the Grey Pilgrim, named elf-friend, dwarf-friend, man-friend, and menace-to-hobbits, might have connected the dots.

The moment he spoke to Lindir, Bilbo was well aware of Gandalf’s oversight.

“I must speak with the Lord Elrond,” Gandalf announced, forcing Lindir back into Westron rather than the Sindarin he’d previously spoken to the wizard.
“My Lord Elrond is not here,” Lindir replied, calm as ever, the very image of innocence. Bilbo knew that behind those eyes was a smile so smug it could wipe Bofur’s ever-present jolly grin from his face for the rest of eternity with its power alone.
“Not here? Where is he?” As if on cue, a hunting horn answered Gandalf’s rather unnecessary questions. This was to be a pleasant-
“Close ranks!” Thorin barked. Bilbo was instantly pulled into the middle with Fíli, Kíli, and Ori, exactly as he had been with the orcs not an hour prior. It was Óin who’d grabbed him this time, not Bifur, though Bifur was a bit distracted by the abundance of dandelions before him.

Horses galloped around them, circling in alternating directions and slowing down as they continued on. Fabrics covered their flanks, colour-coded to show rank and affiliation (which was, of course, Imladris, and Elrond). A dark-haired elf stepped up graciously on his horse, robes billowing highly impractically behind him, and Bilbo suddenly realised who Thorin’s dramatics had reminded him of.
“Gandalf!”
“Lord Elrond.”
The two greeted one another in Sindarin, placing hands over hearts and dipping their heads.
“My friend! Where have you been?”
“We’ve been hunting a pack of Orcs that came up from the South. We slew a number near the Hidden Pass.” At this, Elrond dismounted, equally as theatrically as Thorin normally did, though with an embrace to Gandalf that Thorin definitely would not have done, nor will he do. He didn’t seem the hugging type; he was too similar in temperament to a young teenager for that. “Strange for orcs to come so close to our borders. Something or someone has drawn them near.”
“Ah, that may have been us.”

Thorin moved suddenly, stepping forward to make himself known to Elrond. The elf smiled at him warmly, as he did with all who entered his domain; Thorin simply remained stony-faced, barely blinking at the elf as if he could move any quicker while Thorin’s eyes were closed.
“Thorin, son of Thráin.”
“I do not believe we have met,” Thorin spat, harsh and hurt – what for, Bilbo had no clue.
“You have your grandfather's bearing. I knew Thrór when he ruled under the Mountain.”
“Indeed? He made no mention of you.”
Well, then. Not only was Thorin horrifically dramatic, he was also just rude. He was starting to remind Bilbo of a grumpy old tomcat the Bolgers had taken in one winter; it hissed and spat, biting their hands before they could feed it, and left as soon as spring came around.
Elrond, a parent of three, blithely ignored this, instead saying the traditional Elvish invite for good food and drink; within was a hidden smirk, which Bilbo knew meant they were going to hide the meat. Again.
Glóin, however, took this rather differently. “What is he saying? Does he offer us insult?!” he cried, side-stepping in front of Fíli and Bilbo to fill the spot Thorin had left. It was somewhat sweet, Bilbo thought, that Glóin would immediately jump to protecting them. It was not, however, sweet that he’d immediately jump to assumptions about insults.
“ No , Glóin, he’s offering us food,” Bilbo said wearily. He really was going to have to teach these dwarves etiquette, from the ground up. In his sighing, he missed the several wary and surprised glances thrown his way.
Elrond’s own eyebrows rose at least a centimetre, which was about as much expression as the elf could make with them.
“By the stars, Bilbo Baggins! It’s not been quite so long, has it?”

–x–x–x–

After the death of his mother, Bilbo Baggins had to sort all the legal stuff out. As the Baggins of Bag End, he’d been taught how to do this, but had no pleasure in doing so for his only remaining family, excluding cousins who weren’t allowed to speak to him without inciting the terror of their guardians or aunts there just for his silver spoons.

Part of ‘the legal stuff’ – Belladonna’s will – included notifying her more… eccentrically-made connections of her passing. Bereavement letters were written and sent; one for Gandalf, wherever he was, one for a family of Menfolk just outside of Bree, and one for Lord Elrond of Imladris; the latter, Bilbo had met a bare few times, but he felt incentivised to deliver the letter himself – whether this was from his mother’s enthusiastic retellings of mischief within Rivendell’s walls, or the curiosity about Elves she had sparked within him, Bilbo did not know.

So he set out, alone but not wholly unprepared – he had travelled before, but not quite so far as the Hidden Valley alone. The few times he’d visited, it had been stuffed in his mother’s supplies or walking freely alongside her, hand tangled in hers as he named the wildflowers. This time, he walked with no company apart from his own thoughts, a letter, and his memory to guide him. Plains, huge grasslands smothered with new blooms, forests and a small woodland stood between the Shire and his destination, but find his way, he did. The young hobbit, only thirty (and underage by Shire reckoning), walked solemnly, but swiftly; he knew his task, and would not let his sorrow slow his feet.

By the second week, Bilbo had come across several interesting sights, but none topped his first look at Elrond’s realm; the gleaming, smooth architecture glided gently into gestural designs reminiscent of historical events both big and small, while windows of all colours let the sun through, into the halls where it rebounded, creating rainbows of light during the day and prisms of pale moonlight during the night. Bilbo stopped, relaxing for the first time since the start of his journey on a bench clearly made for someone much bigger than him. The moon was hanging low in the sky, just waking from its rest as the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon only an hour before. For hours he sat, simply taking in the view, allowing his mind to recentre and his senses to recalibrate.
When a black-haired Elf joined him, Bilbo simply nodded tiredly, as he had seen many an adult do when they were too weary to talk. The elf looked at him questioningly, like they were attempting to ask a question with facial muscles alone. Bilbo only looked away, towards the moon, before digging a crumpled but dry letter from his travelling coat and handing it to the elf, whose eyebrows rose most amusingly; Bilbo would have laughed, had he been in any better of a condition.
“F’r Lord Elrond,” he mumbled, by way of explanation. “Fr’m Bilbo Bagg’ns.” The words felt thick in his mouth, his dehydrated tongue swollen and reluctant to move. Exhaustion took over him in that moment; he patted the elf’s arm (despite his knowing that touch was uncommon among elves), muttering his thanks, and promptly collapsed into a state of much-needed sleep.

When he came to, surrounded by white bedsheets and four solid walls, it became quite evident to Bilbo what he had done in his sleepiness. He’d patted Lord Elrond as if he were an elderly relative caught misremembering a simple fact of life! What had possessed him to do that, he knew not – he only knew now that he had no memory of getting into this room, nor this bed, and came to the horrifying conclusion that Elrond had either gotten one of the elves to bring him here, or had done it himself. Stifling his embarrassment between crumpled sheets, the young Baggins let out what could be described as a scream, but would more likely be described as a desperate squeak followed by an overwhelmed hitching of breath and uneven breathing.
Several minutes – possibly hours, he couldn’t tell – passed before Bilbo slipped out from the covers, and immediately sent himself back into his previous state of confused shame. He wore soft pyjamas of pure white; a long-sleeved shirt with smooth buttons done up to his collar bone was tucked partially into delicate-looking trousers, rolled up to stop midway down his calves. He’d obviously untucked the shirt throughout the night, but that did nothing to make it any less comfortable or fancy-feeling; in fact, he felt rather like an elf-child, and even more rather like he’d been put to bed by someone who knew hobbits, which meant Elrond was at least partially involved, if only verbally.
And he’d left Elrond with the letter.
Alone.

Hurrying along the elegant walkways, Bilbo noticed infinitesimal details within the carvings and paintings decorating the structures surrounding him, though he had no time to admire them; he had a morose message to deliver, or a mourning elf-lord to apologise to. He’d intended to be there when Elrond opened the letter, he really had – it just served as a way of getting the main message across should Bilbo not have been able to do so. Huffing and puffing, Bilbo rounded a corner and entered a round sun-lit room. Its wall, near-circular with only the slightest hint of corners, contained a built-in bookshelf stacked floor to ceiling with books varying in thickness, colour, and language. A large wooden desk stood proudly in the middle, on top of a decorative rug covered in intricate patterns. Towards the far end of the room, in a small alcove within the bookshelf’s structure, a small sofa sat, upon which Bilbo saw silky black hair, connected to a face looking downwards, the figure holding his head with one hand, and in the other, an open letter was grasped tightly.

Bilbo stopped, suddenly very aware of the racket his breathing was making. Stopping breathing only caused the elf to look up, and it was clear; Elrond’s face was clear of tears, but a sorrowful expression smothered its muscles, and clear teartracks trailed down his cheeks. The sight made Bilbo want to cry with him – it must have shown, as Elrond gestured for him to sit. How long they sat together in silence, Bilbo did not know – they both cried quietly, soft and fragile in the news contained by a piece of paper. Eventually, Elrond’s mournful but orotund, awakened Bilbo from his disassociation.
“She rests among the stars now,” he said, looking up to the sky; though the sun shone securely through the window, Bilbo could imagine the beauty of the night sky refracting through the study, and understood why elves were so fond of the night.
“She’d like it there,” he said in reply. “Though, if the rest of the elves are up there, I’ll bet they’d send her back.” Elrond let out a huff of a laugh at that.
“Yes, they would, my dear Bilbo. She’s too fierce; they’d either cower before her grandeur, or boot her right out of the place. But no elves walk among the stars; we have Valinor.”
“Valinor?”
“It is a place of un-death. To die in Valinor is unheard of, but only because elves are its only inhabitants, and peace is omnipresent. It is where we go when our time here is done, when we can no longer bear the burden of experience.” The elf-lord’s eyes unfocused, and Bilbo tried not to pry, but even he could see pain there.
“Not all elves go to Valinor?”
“No. Only those who live to see the ocean’s waves get to experience it. It is not an afterlife – it is simply where we go to await the Remaking. Ilúvatar will call us, and we will answer. But that is long away, past this age and after the next, when starlight has faded and the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth are gone, long left behind by the course of nature.”
“...It seems empty, does it not? To wait for all of existence.”
“It may be. But those who are there have seen much. Sometimes, one may not continue the path life has chosen for them. That is when we retire to Valinor. My wife is there,” he said, ebony hair cascading down much like the waterfalls of Imladris. His porcelain skin was slightly reddened, tear-tracks renewed, but eyes dry and clear, staring forwards. A slight smile graced the corners of his mouth, and a loving, longing twinkle filled his expression. Bilbo knew not why he asked his next question.
“Why aren’t you there, then? With your wife?”
Elrond turned to him, wistful expression still present despite his apparent amusement at Bilbo’s incessant and very possibly rude questions.
“Because my presence is still required. I do not know what role I may play, but I am meant to be here, that much I am sure of, Bilbo Baggins.”
Bilbo just nodded his head, his attention returning to the middle-distance as his mind abandoned his senses to look inwards.

They sat in such a fashion for several hours; conversation ebbed and flowed, occasionally taking long breaks before one would reply to the other. It was tranquil, and Bilbo appreciated it more than he had the words to show.

–x–x–x–

Thorin was staring at the hobbit, who very obviously knew the tree-shagger who called himself a Lord . Thorin scoffed at the idea; he knew that the Elves aligned under no king, so calling himself a Lord was simply a political tactic used to create an impression of power.
“You know he’s an actual lord, right, Thorin?”
He jumped at the sound of the burglar’s voice beside him – it’d happened to everyone in the Company at one point or another, even Nori once (though, he supposed that was during one of Bofur’s loud and extravagant performances). Their hobbit was exceptionally good at sneaking up on people.
“Anyone who claims to be a Lord with no King is simply a liar,” he replied, voice level and uncaring; he knew that, should the burglar not stop this route of conversation, Thorin’s head would blow up from the thought of the tree-shaggers.
“No, not like that – I mean, the Elves have their own political and hierarchical systems, but-” at Thorin’s side-eyed glance, Master Baggins stopped speaking abruptly. “Well, I suppose you don’t care,” he said carefully instead. Thorin just grunted in response, though the meaning was clear: pick a different topic, or leave. It appeared that the burglar chose the latter, half-turning to leave the grassy terrace Thorin had found, but instead, he turned back. “I don’t suppose you dwarves retain any… supernatural abilities, do you?”
Thorin was not used to being asked this. Questions about the line of Durin and the other original seven dwarf lords, yes, but just… dwarves, in general? Dwarrow as a whole? It was most peculiar. So peculiar, in fact, that he had absolutely not prepared for it, and, as such, stuck his foot in his mouth.
“Ask Balin.”
All he got from Bilbo was a raised pair of eyebrows, before he turned and left for good.
Thorin made sure to watch him leave – he wouldn’t be interrupted by the insufferable halfling again. If he felt a little bit forlorn at the retreating back, he’d taken no notice.

–x–x–x–

A head of copper-coloured curls made their way into the library, where Balin was situated at a table, attempting to decipher a tome about Elvish history.
“Oh, that’s an interesting one,” he said, leaning over Balin’s shoulder.
“You’ve read it before, laddie?”
“I’ve read everything in here near thrice,” he replied, continuing down towards the ladder leaning against the bookshelf. Climbing it, he located a large book, pulling it from the shelf and hopping down the ladder. Balin had no idea how he’d retained his balance. The book itself was nearly a foot thick, squarish in shape with a green leather cover. Along the side, in neat golden handwriting, were words in a language Balin didn’t recognise. At his questioning glance, Bilbo cocked his head, then widened his eyes and smiled.
“It’s Hobbitish,” he said, laying the book next to Balin’s pile of papers and tomes. He opened it to a page near the centre, which was titled in letters that resembled the ones he was reading, and subtitled in the same letters as the ones on the book’s title.
“Hobbits have their own language?”
“Kind of,” Bilbo shrugged. “We only really use it for ceremonies or names now, but there are some who still speak it as their main language. No one bothers us, really, so the need for our own language just… petered out.”
“That’s fascinating, laddie. Have you told Ori?”
That drew out a laugh from the hobbit. “I think, if I did, I’d be rendered useless for at least three months.”
“True, Master Baggins, that’s very true. Who wrote that particular book?”
“Me,” the hobbit replied easily. “It’s from when I first started learning Quenya. I decided to write it all down, so I wouldn’t forget, and then, well,” he gestured, the book’s pages flipping quickly; there were several sections, each in their own alphabet, and Balin would have been impressed if he managed to leave his shock. The hobbit just laughed. “It’s not quite as impressive as it seems. Most of the notes here are about more formal practices, or the stroke order for each character and the reason behind it. Only the fireplace saw some of the monstrosities I made early on.”
“Master Baggins, you’ve written a book about learning a language most only know because they were born speaking it. I wouldn’t say that’s ‘not impressive’. Not in the slightest.”
The hobbit flushed pink, his mouth trying to figure out whether to smile in gratitude or laugh in embarrassment.
“That’s quite kind of you, Master Balin.”
“Oh, I think we’re past that now, don’t you, laddie? Balin will suffice.”
“Then you must call me Bilbo. No more of this ‘Master Baggins’ nonsense.”
“Of course, Bilbo.”
The two smiled at one another; before Balin knew it, Bilbo was sat beside him, guiding him through the book he’d filled with his learnings. Afterwards, Balin found it much easier to read the tomes in front of him; they were some weird dialect of Quenya, Bilbo had said, used during the period where both Quenya and Sindarin were popular first languages.

Dinner that evening was interesting, to say the least.

Lord Elrond sat at the head of a tall, long table, with Gandalf to his left and another elf (‘Lindir, that is’, their burglar had told him) to his right. Next to Gandalf was Thorin, and opposite him was Fíli, who was learning diplomatic procedure. Next to Fíli was Balin, whispering pieces of context to Fíli, who nodded seriously as he tried to follow along. Across from Balin was Bilbo, who seemed to be quite unaware of the position he had found himself in, wedged between Thorin and another Elf. The rest of the Company were on a separate table, at a lower level with taller chairs, which was covered in green leaves and delicate dinner plates. Balin was counting the seconds until someone started singing.

Lord Elrond and Gandalf were invested in a conversation about the Great East Road, during which Gandalf produced his sword, found in the Troll’s hoard after Bilbo’s lucky finding of the key. Lord Elrond called it Glamdring , the Foehammer; at the sight of Thorin’s sword, his eyes seemed to light up, and amusement highlighted his eyes.
“This is Orcrist , the Goblin-Cleaver. A famous blade forged by the High Elves of the West, my kin. May it serve you well,” he said, passing the blade back. Thorin nearly scoffed, stopped only by Balin’s sharp look. Instead, he placed the sword back in its sheath, and started gloomily past Lord Elrond’s shoulder.

Balin watched as Bilbo looked down to his side, curiosity obviously piqued but dismissed; he instead refocused on Elrond, who caught his eye and winked in what the two supposed was a surreptitious gesture. The mischief reminded Balin uncannily of Fíli and Kíli when they were planning something; since the two were sitting at different tables, he supposed someone else had to take their place. They exchanged looks – a question, and an answer – before Bilbo stifled a giggle (incredibly poorly, judging by the glare he got from Thorin). Looking back up, Bilbo’s face was completely plain, almost stony; his facade did not crack when he met Elrond’s mischievous eyes, nor Gandalf’s confused ones – and wasn’t that interesting? They’d managed to confuse Gandalf.
This was going to be a good dinner.

Halfway through the meal, Balin would have done anything to take back his previous words.
All the courses were green, and tiny, and completely, entirely unsuitable for adult dwarves, let alone still-growing boys. As if sensing this thought and taking it as permission, the table the rest of the Company were sat at finally voiced their opinions, and loudly; they ranted and raved about the complete lack of anything with sustenance on their plates.
“My Lord Elrond,” the hobbit began while the dwarves shouted, leaning towards the elf so he didn’t have to raise his voice. “You wouldn’t starve a poor Hobbit of his delicacies, would you?”
That spark of mischief returned to Elrond’s eyes, and, like a child left home alone for the first time, he went along with Bilbo. Sighing dramatically, he placed the back of his hand over his forehead.
“Oh, Hobbit – you’ll eat me out of house and home!” At Bilbo’s repeated blinking, his face the picture of pure innocence, Elrond shook his head fondly, rolling his eyes. He raised a hand and clicked, and suddenly, the tables were stacked high with roasted meats and freshly-baked goods. “I hope you’re happy now, Hobbit, for my pantry will never recover.”
“Maybe you’ll prepare more next time,” Bilbo said easily, before tearing into a steak with more enthusiasm than Balin had seen him show throughout the entire journey so far.
In the end, Bilbo ate the most – even more than Bombur – and Balin was both thoroughly concerned and confused.

–x–x–x–

Showing the tall bastard the map had taken far more effort than Thorin had thought necessary; when it was over, he’d ran walked swiftly away. Coming to a stop, he realised that he was completely and utterly lost; walls surrounded him on all sides, and yet, he had no clue where he was. Being above ground scrambled his senses; though he was not a stone-whisperer, he was still a dwarf, and therefore built for underground navigation.

A flicker of green passed by, and Thorin took his chances; he was either following a no-good pointy-eared arsehole, or a small, curious hobbit.

Luckily for him, it was the latter; Master Baggins was standing silently on a balcony, stock-still and very obviously listening intently to something. Slowly, Thorin joined him – at his approach, the hobbit jumped slightly, though quietened immediately upon realising it was a dwarf that found him, not an elf. He shushed with his finger, and gestured for Thorin to get closer to the edge of the overhang. The two stood, listening to a conversation obviously not meant for them to hear.
“...dragon has slept for 60 years. What will happen if your plan should fail, if you wake that beast? If it holds Thrór’s ring?” Elrond’s voice said, strained with stress.
“What if we succeed? If the Dwarves take back the mountain our defenses in the East will be strengthened,” Gandalf implored, struggling to remain quiet with his enthusiasm. “The dragon cannot use the ring – as a beast born from evil darkness, it cannot hold the abilities the creatures of light have obtained. The ring will mean nothing to Smaug aside from what it can be sold for.”
“It is a dangerous move, Gandalf.”
“It is also dangerous to do nothing. Oh, come, the throne of Erebor is Thorin's birthright. What is it you fear?”
“Have you forgotten? A strain of madness runs deep in that family. His grandfather lost his mind, never to be seen again. His father succumbed to the same sickness. Can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall? Can you ensure Bilbo won’t be used? Gandalf, these decisions do not rest with us alone. It is not up to you or me to redraw the map of Middle-earth.”
At this, Thorin froze; slowly, he turned to the hobbit, who was still listening intently, and looked incredibly pissed off about something. Before Thorin could attempt to explain himself, Bilbo placed his finger over his mouth again, pointing back towards them.
“With or without our help, these Dwarves will march on the mountain. They're determined to reclaim their homeland. I do not believe Thorin Oakenshield feels that he is answerable to anyone. Nor, for that matter, am I,” Gandalf said, his visage disappearing behind a corner.

“Utter bullshit,” Bilbo said, surprising Thorin enough to pull him from his brooding stupor.
“I have to explain-”
“Yes, yes, curse on your bloodline, weakness to gold, I get it,” Bilbo hurried, seemingly distracted by something. Thorin’s inexplicable need to explain himself paused at Bilbo’s abruptness.
“You do not get it ,” he growled, because how could he? A hobbit from the Shire, a place with no war, no strife – how could he understand a generational curse so strong it tarnished his bloodline, causing them to need a stupid stone of all things to prove their right to rule?
Bilbo looked at him, eyes wide with worry and then with understanding; it unnerved Thorin, who clenched and unclenched his hands in the hopes that it would prevent him from pushing the halfling away.
“I may not be cursed in the same manner as you, but there is something similar I possess,” he said instead, looking downwards at the wildflowers growing around the edges of the balcony. Suddenly, he looked up to Thorin, eyes wide, a small grin adorning his face. He grabbed his arm, and darted away, into one of the many hallways connecting to the balcony. “Come, I’ve something to show you!”

–x–x–x–

Elrond was full of horseshit.

He knew something, and Gandalf did not; this in and of itself was not unusual, not with Elrond being a Foreseer, but the nature of the topic unsettled Bilbo. He’d started liking his dwarves – and they were his now, even the broody, aggressive ones – and for Elrond to speak of Thorin’s bloodline like they’re all the same person, even knowing Bilbo’s history, having asked for his aid before? To say it upset him would be an egregious understatement.

As it was, Bilbo knew the entire layout of Imladris back-to-front, just as well as he knew that grass was green and pie tasted better when homemade. He’d grabbed Thorin by the arm rather awkwardly at first, but was now holding him by the wrist, darting in and out of tunnels and hidden walkways; he’d tried letting go of Thorin, but the dwarf had immediately gotten lost. Bilbo had had to collect him and made sure to keep hold of him until they reached their destination.

Climbing through a window, the two landed in a dark passageway; Bilbo, lacking the ability to see, kept a hand on the wall beside him to feel for the switch. Thorin made a questioning grunt, but Bilbo ignored him – this was far more important. Finally, a small, child-sized switch made itself known beneath his thumb, and he flicked it. The wall before them suddenly dislodged itself from the rest of the surface, and Bilbo walked forwards, towing Thorin behind him as they stepped into a small, enclosed atrium. The wall behind them clicked shut, but neither took notice; Bilbo was appreciating the ceiling – it had been redone since his last visit – but Thorin was staring at the statue in the centre of the room. They were facing the back of its right shoulder, but it was obvious what this room housed, as reliefs depicting the events embellished the walls; walking around, Bilbo slowly led Thorin to the front of the statue, upon which the shards of Narsil sat. They gleamed in the glassy moonlight, which shone through a skylight in the ceiling, covered in Elvish mirror-glass – those inside could see out, but those outside could not see in. It was a way of defending the artefact, while still allowing it to see the celestial bodies it was wielded under in its glory days. Thorin simply stared; he made no move towards it except a slight lean, just so he could see it better from their lower angle.

“No one’s supposed to know it’s here,” Bilbo said after a while, feeling the trepidation flowing from Thorin. “Not even I am, really. Elrond doesn’t know that I know.”
“You know him well,” Thorin asked, though it was more of an observational statement.
“Yes. I do. He knew my mother.”
“So you repay him by showing me one of his closest-guarded secrets?” Thorin said, but there was a hint of laughter in his voice. Whether it was genuine or delirious was difficult to discern; Thorin seemed both impressed and worried at Bilbo’s decision to bring him here.
“Well, he did imply that your bloodline was unsuitable to rule, and directly insult me and mine, so I suppose he had it coming.”
“...I understand where my bloodline comes into this, but what of yours?”
Bilbo sighed, tilting his head slightly as he attempted to find words. Nothing could quite explain his situation without telling Thorin everything, which was outright destructive at this point – instead, he settled for a vague description of events.
“I have a peculiar ability,” he started, watching the dwarf from the corner of his eye for a reaction. When none came, he continued. “Elrond, a friend of my mother’s and mine after her passing, asked for me to use it to help one of his friends. He implied, rather heavily, that either I would let it… overcome me, or I’d allow you to use it,” he finished, once again chancing a glance at Thorin. Pale blue eyes stared at him now, curiosity piqued, but open and uninterrupted despite the questions behind them.
“I do not know what it is you hold, but I will not ‘use’ you for more than you’ve been contracted for,” Thorin said matter-of-factly.
“I believe that. I don’t think Elrond does.”
“Do you trust his judgement?” Looking over again, Bilbo could see that Thorin looked serious, and almost like he dreaded the answer. The pause gave him time to take in the situation; there they were, standing before Narsil, a sword so sharp just thinking about touching it could cut you, talking about trust and curses.

It was not at all what Bilbo thought he’d be doing on a Thursday evening commencing Summer’s arrival.

“Not in this.” Because he didn’t. Yes, Elrond was wise and experienced in the ways of the world, but he also used this to his advantage; he allowed his biases to affect him and his judgement. If part of that was protecting Bilbo, then Bilbo knew the elf would lie (or, more accurately, omit information) to Gandalf to get what he wanted. He knew well that anyone wishing to control Bilbo’s ability would have a hard time of it, but he wanted to make Gandalf doubt about his place on this journey. Well, that would not happen – not while he could still walk.

Voices echoed down the hallways behind them, and the two started. Bilbo pulled Thorin back towards the tunnel, only to see that there was nothing there but a painted wall; Thorin froze, seemingly playing through all events that could possibly occur in the next few seconds and he appeared to decide on fighting his way out. Bilbo, however, knew this room too well, and knew just how many ways one could get in and out of it. Turning away from the wall, he instead focused on the skylight. Several panels made up the ceiling, which centred on the circular window which let in the light – each one was decorated with flowing patterns depicting each of the Kings of Gondor, and at the end of the line, a small series of stars were painted in place of any kingly faces. Bilbo had seen it many times, and had always stared at one particular star – the second most recent one, bright as the others but far more valuable.

Shaking his head, Bilbo recentred himself, and, much to Thorin’s shock, climbed upon the statue’s head. Reaching upwards, a small chip in one of the panels made itself known; Bilbo dragged it downwards, and, with much urgency, coaxed Thorin into climbing the statue and pulling himself into the ceiling. Bilbo followed, closing the hatch – as he did, two voices filled the room below them, echoing around the atrium. Bilbo’s hand stayed Thorin’s uncomfortable movements; eventually, the voices faded, and Bilbo burst into fits of silent laughter.

“You’re going to have to lead. There’s a little tunnel somewhere in here,” Bilbo whispered, gathering his bearings. “I can’t see in the dark like you dwarves.”
“Dwarrow, Master Baggins. We are Dwarrow.”
Filing this piece of information away for another day, Bilbo nodded in what he thought Thorin’s direction was. At Thorin’s nearly childlike giggle, Bilbo knew he’d missed by a considerable margin. A large, warm hand enclosed around his still-outstretched arm, pulling him towards the edges of the space between the ceiling and the roof.
New, sloping flooring let Bilbo know that Thorin had found the right tunnel, and was leading him through it; in his youth, Bilbo had taken torches to get through these tunnels, but now, he was content to be led through the dark by a dwarf who was trying, and failing, to remain silent.

Whispered inquiries filled the warm air between them, reverberating in the small crawl space they squatted in. In far too little time, the two exited after a tight squeeze onto one of the many tiled roofs of Imladris – climbing down from this roof, they found themselves just five short feet from the front door of the chambers given to the Company by Elrond. Thorin, bright-eyed for the first time since Gandalf had produced that angular key, simply released Bilbo, bowed his head, and left, reticent compared to the unfiltered questions he’d been asking just seconds before.

Bilbo supposed he was tired; they had spent the day being chased by orcs and interrogated by nosy elves, after all.

–x–x–x–

That was definitively not what he had been expecting.
First, their the hobbit had overheard Lord Elrond and Tharkûn talking of Thorin’s susceptibility to gold sickness, something which could jeopardise the quest – then, not only had Bilbo defended him, but had shared some of his own seemingly secretive history with Elrond. The idiosyncratic hobbit started running, leading him through dark passages and side-paths, only to take him to Narsil, a blade long faded into legend; not only did he do this, but he outright admitted to Elrond not knowing the extent to which Bilbo knew the layout of his realm.

What the hobbit had done to earn that trust, Thorin did not know – and, judging by Bilbo’sMaster Baggins’ nebulous description of his ‘ability’ (whatever he meant by that), Thorin did not think he wanted to know.

Striding into the small hall, Thorin was met with the smoky smell of freshly-cooked sausages and bacon, along with the raucous laughter of his Company. Dwalin, sitting apart from the festivities and sharpening Grasper and Keeper, caught his eye before furrowing his brows in confusion. When Thorin only half-shrugged, he raised his eyebrows in a fashion that Thorin knew, from experience, meant, “you’ve been up to something, and I know exactly what.” As a matter of fact, Dwalin almost never knew what, often over-exaggerating events and adding incredulous claims into his guesses, if only to humour himself; however, Thorin knew that, in this situation, Dwalin’s eyebrow raise would be lethal. After an amount of time only determinable by the amount of food thrown successfully into Bombur’s mouth, Thorin started the gruelling walk towards his death via frustration – Dwalin.

“You look like you’ve been doing some rigorous activity,” the shiny-headed twat said, goading Thorin into answering. Thorin, a King, and Dwarf of higher breeding, deigned not to reply to Dwalin’s obvious trap. “Oh, so you actually did,” he said instead, mockingly taking Thorin’s silence as confirmation.
“Not in the slightest.”
“Ah, so you couldn’t get it?”
What?
“Get what?”
Dwalin huffed, rolling his eyes and returning to his sharpening. “You’re dimmer than a leaf,” he said, returning his attention to his axes.
“Leaves don’t glow.”
“Exactly.”

–x–x–x–

Dwalin, brutal warrior and professional Thorin-reader, recounted his theories to Balin barely two seconds after their leader turned his back. Though Thorin was several stations above them, he was also their cousin – family is family, and even kings deserve to be mocked by relatives. Lovingly. It kept them in line.

Balin, the sap, waved his hand as Dwalin recounted his favourite theory.
“You need not guess, brother. Give him time, and that’ll show the truth.”
“You’re just too patient.”
“And you’re not patient enough.”
Dwalin, brutal warrior, professional Thorin-reader, and esteemed younger sibling, slapped Balin’s shoulder as he stood, wishing that Balin would, for once, use his ability to convince him to wait, if only to cease the burning desire to hurry things along at a pace more suited for a skirmish. Dwalin thought back to the cold indifference, and subsequent harshness, with which their irrevocably idiotic cousin treated a certain coppery-haired individual. He turned back to his brother, a halo of white surrounding his face, accentuating the faint bright amusement in his eyes.
“Do you think, though?”
“Oh, absolutely. Smitten.”

Chapter Text

The mountain pass was brutal from the start.

The Company of Thorin Oakenshield was forced out from the cover of the Hidden Valley that evening; Tharkûn spoke of a council meeting which involved many above his position, including one he called Saruman the White, who – if Thorin didn’t know better – he’d say the wizard was afraid of. Either that, or he hated the White Wizard in the same way poorly-kept mounts despise their keepers.
No matter which way the rock crumbled, it was with tired legs and a swirling mind that he set off, leading his Company over the High Pass through the Misty Mountains. Barely two horizontal miles from the Elven realm, they were already thousands of feet up in the air, overlooking the green valley as they tried to outrun the sunrise.
Multiple members of the Company looked back in sorrow; they’d left their makeshift banquet quickly, only taking the time to douse their fire and pack their belongings, which meant they’d left several plates of sausages, bacon, eggs, and mushrooms behind. Normally, the mushrooms wouldn’t have been so readily missed, but the hobbit had foraged for the Company’s meals along the route, and somewhere along the way, they’d all become accustomed to the diverse flavours each new mushroom blessed their food with. It was something Thorin was missing now – having spent the evening admiring Narsil, he’d missed the impromptu gathering, as well as the extra fare Bombur had called a ‘light snack’.

Wind whipped around them all, pushing them about and destabilising their footing; it spliced between them, entwining them in its harshness and sticking to them as a mesh, stealing space they couldn’t afford to lose and rebounding against the cliff to envelop them with its scathing cold once more. It buffeted the group, scraping against skin, leaving sore, red marks and cold-burns behind where one had been unfortunate enough to experience its lacerating touch. Most of the Company, by this point, had become numb to it; the frost began as an ache, but dissipated, leaving the blunt chill behind in favour of a paralysed face, incapable of feeling anything but the slightest impression of bitter mountain air. Thorin walked, only vaguely able to feel his nose and cheeks, his legs stiffening with the bleak temperatures which suffocated his blood and chilled his bones.

It was in this condition that they suddenly found themselves upon the shins of a stone giant.

They were beasts, of a sort, only thought to exist in legend; no Dwarf had seen one, and if they had, they hadn’t lived to tell the tale. Only whispers of them sounded out in bedtime stories told to pebbles, too young to question it but old enough to understand, to be in awe of the power these creatures must hold. In that moment, he was a child again, standing behind his mother’s skirts as she explained that no, stone giants would not attack Erebor, and no, they would not besiege Dale. It was in this moment that Bofur interjected with his obvious, absurd observation.
“By my beard! The legends are true! Giants – Stone Giants!”
It was also in this moment that a stone giant launched a boulder, larger than the Company’s widths combined, at them – or, more accurately, two hundred or so feet above them. That was when the mountainside moved; the already-unstable ledge they’d found themselves on staggered forwards, stuttering to a stop before setting a firm stance. The boulder hit what Thorin realised must have been its stomach, as it exploded, cascading smaller, but no less dangerous rocks downwards, over the Company’s position. Pulling each other backwards into the cliffside, they tried to keep their balance; the surface behind them, combined with the movement of the giant they were currently on, steadied their grips, though the heavy rainfall surrounding them did little to help. A horrific cracking sound exploded outwards from their ledge; looking down, Thorin saw Kíli reaching out to Fíli, who was moving away from them with unprecedented speed. Realising the gravity of their situation, their half of the Company could only watch in terror as a third stone giant joined the second in battle, and the two met their giant, knocking its head from its neck in one fell swoop. It staggered back, legs twisting together awkwardly from where it had stepped forward to meet the other giants, and with a sickening crash, slammed its shin into the rockface, launching the other half of the Company along with it. Thorin lost sight of them, and ran to find where they might have landed; quickly enough, the rest of the visible Company were moving too, racing to find their friends and families. Leaping over a small gap, Thorin landed on a small plateau where the ledge widened enough for many to stand; there, at his feet, were Fíli and Bofur, followed by Bombur, Bifur, Glóin, Ori, and Nori. Sighing, Dwalin voiced his thoughts: they were all safe, and that’s what mattered.
Then, Bofur (because of course it was Bofur) started screaming bloody murder before scrambling to the edge of the walkway; there, hanging on by three fingers, was a drenched hobbit, face pale and eyes wide. His other hand flailed by his side, weighted down by his pack so he couldn’t reach the hand Bofur was offering without releasing his grip. Dwalin joined the effort, but strength wasn’t the problem; rain poured down the mountainside, affecting their grip as well as the hobbit’s. Bilbo’s hand slipped, causing him to fall another foot down the cliff before he caught himself with an impossibly small nook in the cliff face. Desperate and without thinking, Thorin gripped the edge with one hand while lowering himself downwards, hoisting Bilbo up by the pack so he could support himself with his pinned, now-freed arm. Bofur, joined by Bifur, pulled the hobbit up, huddling him against a wall far from the edge. Dwalin grasped Thorin’s forearm, the two working in tandem to get Thorin to safety; as soon as his feet touched the ground, Thorin shook Dwalin off, adrenaline still spiked and not showing any signs of wearing off. The hobbit had nearly gotten himself killed! He was a danger to himself and others, and Thorin would not stand for it – if Bil- Master Baggins kept getting himself into trouble, the Company would keep trying to help, and he’d end up getting someone injured, if not himself.
Turning, Thorin found the hobbit surrounded by Bofur on one side and Bifur on the other, the former bracing his shoulders and the latter signing something in Iglishmêk, which only served to further aggravate Thorin – it was a secret language, for Mahal’s sake! Bofur translated as Bifur signed, and Thorin noticed Dwalin standing between him and the hobbit, looking over Master Baggins for injuries, before nodding, satisfied.
“I thought we’d lost our burglar,” he said, a small smile on his lips, arms folded and face relieved. A feeling of anger, ripe and righteous, poured from Thorin.
“He's been lost ever since he left home. He should never have come. He has no place amongst us,” he bit out; the words were bitter in his mouth, tasting of earthy mushrooms soured by dirt and blood. They curdled in the air, curling his lip and causing a sneer to make its way up his face. He turned, then, too enraged to look upon the hobbit any longer. “Now, we must find shelter.”

–x–x–x–

Bifur thought that this was a load of bollocks. He said so to Bofur, who laughed loudly before remembering himself and covering his mouth, stifling his giggles. Bofur stared out into the blue moonlight before them, nodding his head in agreement.
After declaring the cave safe to camp in, Thorin had declared that both Bifur and Bofur were to be on watch that night, staring into the rainy abyss before them; the cave held no cracks or crevices through which any unpleasant creatures could climb, so they had nothing to defend against. There was no evident reason for two watchers being required, but they did as they were told, having learned from experience that they were better off listening rather than questioning Thorin while he was in this mood.

Suddenly – far too suddenly for Bifur’s liking – Bilbo appeared before them, making his way out of the cave. He carried with him his bag, though no sleeping bag was attached.
“Woah, where d’you think you’re going?”
The hobbit turned at that, almost as if he was surprised that Bofur had noticed, or cared. Bifur, silent but able to make himself heard, signed rather aggressively as Bofur translated.
“He says that you can’t go back to the poncy Elves, you’re one of us now.” When Bifur flicked him, he corrected himself. “Alright, he didn’t say ‘poncy Elves’, but I’m not calling them that Bif, you cheeky sod.” Bifur rolled his eyes – the word ‘elves’ in Iglishmêk translated, rather accurately in Bifur’s opinion, to ‘pointy-eared bastards’, though he supposed that was as much an apt was to describe Elves as it was to describe Hobbits. When he turned to Bofur with this revelation, Bofur guffawed, jaw to the floor as Bilbo stood there, understanding only some of Bifur’s signing. He wished they could teach Bilbo Khuzdûl, if only so they could have a normal conversation with one another. They’d gotten by so far with Bilbo picking up bits and pieces of Iglishmêk, but they couldn’t speak in the presence of others, in case they stopped what little conversation they could have in the name of secrecy.
“I wish we could teach him,” Bifur signed morosely.
“Me too, Bif, me too. Hey, maybe we can teach you when we reach the Mountain? Burglar-ing from a dragon ought to be enough to warrant permission. Whaddya say, Bif? Should we petition to the King?” Despite missing half of the conversation, Bilbo picked up the gist quickly.
“I doubt your King would let someone like me learn your language, no matter how well I may steal,” the hobbit commented, eyes to the ground, a self-deprecating laugh at his lips.
“You’re one of us,” Bifur signed, and Bofur translated. “Even if that twat we call King takes his anger out on you.”
“Bif, I can’t translate that one,” Bofur said, eyes shifting between Bifur, Bilbo, and the little nook where Thorin had set up his bedroll; he had his back to them, and appeared to be asleep, but Bifur always saw him get up in the night, and he often joined whoever was on watch every hour or so for ten minutes before retreating back to his blankets. Bilbo, finally, huffed a laugh, before sitting down with the two of them, back to the cave’s entrance.
“I’d give him a piece of my mind, if I weren’t convinced he’d stab me,” Bilbo said, before furrowing his brow and looking downwards, to where his little sword sat in its sheath, a soft blue glow emanating from it. Wide-eyed, he removed it partially, before looking up as realisation dawned on the three of them.
Thorin whipped around where he was, shouting for them to move; the Company were swallowed by the floor of the cave before anyone could begin to process their leader’s commands.

–x–x–x–

Nori thought he could hear them beneath; when he’d raised his concern with Thorin, he was met with a sharp dismissal, and a shrug from Dwalin.
Throughout the night, he couldn’t sleep. He was used to the racket of the dwarrow, but this was something else – they scuffled and hissed, and were getting progressively closer.
When Bilbo’s sword started glowing, and the floor fell through, the only thing Nori could think was, “I told you so.”

–x–x–x–

Falling through the dark was not fun, Bilbo decided. For all the time he’d spent in Imladris sneaking through passageways, and all the time he’d spent navigating through forests in the dark in the Shire, he really did not enjoy the feeling of plummeting down a tunnel, with no end in sight.
He landed roughly on top of Bifur, who attempted to catch him; however, before he could gather his bearings, Bombur – along with several pots and pans made of the sturdiest metals – landed on top of him, crushing the hobbit with his weight and girth. Bilbo lay there, below Bombur’s size, knowing that, while the pain was only temporary, it was still a bitch; as Bombur was dragged off of him by a pasty, light-deprived creature, his neck snapped together, muscles knitting and weaving themselves back into place as his shoulders popped back into place and his lungs, crushed and crumpled, expelled the blood piling up inside, filling back up with air and resetting his ribs into the correct places at the same time. It was never pleasant, coming back from something like that.
So, when a goblin’s mouth wrapped itself around his trapezoid, hands grabbing and legs flailing in its futile effort to remain balanced, and the two were launched from the thin wooden bridge, Bilbo could only mourn the time it would take for him to recuperate from the impact. Again.

–x–x–x–

As a young lad, Ori had been curious about many a thing; it landed him in trouble numerous times, but Dori had always been there to defend him, and Nori had filled Dori’s boots when the consequences grew past a scalding or a slap on the wrist. Being the youngest of the three, he was coddled, but no more privileged than his brothers – he grew up with no memories of a father, and a mother who died so soon after his birth that Dori and Nori were as good as parents to him as siblings. In their little community in Ered Luin, they’d grown up with their more noble relatives; without the fall of Erebor, they certainly wouldn’t have had such an experience. Part of that meant that they met the royals of the line of Durin, and grew alongside them as family, despite them being from separate Dwarven clans – the Durins’ origins were obvious, but the Ri brothers could track their bloodline across half of Arda before it faded along with the rest of the common folk. Their mother and father were both Broadbeams, but they’d settled in Erebor a mere hundred years before it collapsed into fire and flame. Before that, they knew no specifics, but their bloodline had some friends in high spaces – that mattered little in his childhood, as they grew up poor after one of the major Dwarven kingdoms fell, its inhabitants flocking to the Mountains of Lune as refugees.

Ori had always known how to hold his tongue – it was instilled into him by Dori, who feared their family’s habit of bearing a steel spine would get the youngest of the three into trouble, especially since they returned to Ered Luin, not a century after moving to a kingdom which only served to fail, plunging them into poverty and homelessness. None of the three siblings had been alive at that point, though their mother had discovered her first pregnancy along the route to their previous home. When they returned, they were welcomed, but only superficially – they were shunned for their faulty decisions, but, in light of Dori’s birth, were given the grace of a quiet dismissal of notoriety.

So it came to be that Ori, the youngest of his brothers and least knowing of the rank their bloodline previously held, was a curious little child, gathering any kind of information he could during the day and writing it all in a large book as the sun set.

All three brothers were told by their parents to ignore their abilities, or at least hide them in public, for fear of proving their denounced station.

When the floor of their cave opened up and swallowed them whole, however, Ori didn’t think about his conditioning or what he was supposed to do; instead, he grasped onto Dori, wedging Nori between them, and activated his shield.

The three ricocheted down the tunnel, Dori joining in Ori’s efforts as they fell, protecting their unshielded brother between them. A purple orb of translucent light surrounded them, just large enough to cover all three, before falling into the curved, basket-like landing at the end of the rocky slide. Slowly, as one, Ori and Dori released their shields, not wanting to harm the others with its solidity – landing on one another, though painful, would be infinitely better than death via half-visible magic shield.
As more dwarrow tumbled down the chute, a horde of goblins made themselves known, hundreds of thunderous footsteps rumbling along wobbly wooden walkways. Pale hands covered in warts and dirt fumbled and grasped at their clothing, their weapons – slowly, the Company was dragged away from the basket, though with no small amount of noise and backlash. Ori saw Dwalin get a few good hits on the goblins holding him, as Glóin headbutted the one attempting to steal his locket; Nori had stabbed two, skewering them together through their biceps as they scrambled to get away, and Bifur had managed to bite one of his, causing it to release its hold momentarily so he could kick another. Despite it all, the group was still corralled, and – guessing by the sheer numbers of goblins surrounding them on the erratically-placed walkways throughout the cavernous chamber – Ori supposed it was inevitable.

They were brought along rickety, rotten wood planks, to what he estimated was the centre of the chamber – a large platform expanded before them, with hundreds of goblins gathered upon it, awaiting their arrival. Upon stepping onto the platform, the goblins got to work, stripping them of any remaining weapons (though Fíli’s and Nori’s hidden knives and daggers remained untouched), before one screeched a sound so high and loud that Ori thought his ears might replicate the sound in silence for the rest of his life. Fortunately, he soon found this to be false. Unfortunately, it was because the large figure, riddled with tumors and gross-looking growths, who was sitting on the sharp bone-and-wood throne screamed in fright at the discovery of Orcrist. At its name alone, several hundred goblins scattered, and several hundred more jeered, screeched, and threw stones at the small accumulation of dwarrow now standing in the centre of the platform, surrounded by goblins eager to beat them to the ground. Once again, a small skirmish broke out, though it quickly dissipated as the over-large goblin spoke again.
“Who would be so bold as to come armed into my kingdom? Spies? Thieves? Assassins?!” it shouted, voice hoarse and strained, obviously due to its struggle to make itself heard over the thousands of clamouring goblins around the mountain’s interior. A much smaller, but no less ugly, goblin waddled its way towards him, curled in on itself as if afraid of the larger goblin’s reaction.
“Dwarves, your malevolence,” it said, voice shaky and full of a slime that Óin would call unhealthy in any other creature.
“Dwarves?” The voice sounded sceptical, in spite of the several dwarves standing in front of it, bound by the horde members who’d stayed on the platform.
“We found them on the front porch,” the little one wheezed, coughing slightly before spitting mucus onto the floor. If this was how they all behaved, it was no wonder the wood was rotten, despite its relatively new look. As the goblins continued to search them, the large goblin – their leader, as things seemed to be – continued with its questioning, almost in a monologue-esque fashion that reminded Ori of Thorin’s legendary lengthy speeches.
“...What are you doing in these parts?” it asked, finally turning its attention back towards them. When it got no reply, it shrugged in a manner that Ori would describe as gleeful on anyone but a goblin. “Very well. If they won’t talk, we’ll make them squawk! Bring out the mangler! Bring out the bone-breaker!” A large, disgusting finger made its way to Ori’s head. “We start with the youngest.”
“Wait!”
“Well, well, well, look who it is! Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain!” WIth this, the goblin bowed long and low, mocking Thorin’s line with its depth, before looking up dramatically, a cruel grin plastered across its too-large mouth. “Oh, but I’m forgetting, you don’t have a mountain. And you’re not a king. Which makes you… nobody, really.” The horde laughed uproariously at this, much like hyenas, yowling away while their leader talked. “But I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head – just the head, nothing attached. Perhaps you know of whom I speak. A vengeful enemy of yours.” Throughout the goblin’s oily cajoling, Ori had to appreciate its use of proper Westron grammar, even in the precarious situation they were in. He was a scholar at heart, so the ease and properness with which the goblin spoke both surprised and elated him.
Right up until two massive contraptions – words of ‘mangler’ and ‘bone-breaker’ following their path – entered Ori’s sight, that is.

Straight away, goblins were reaching for him and Kíli – though Kíli was younger than Ori, the two looked similar in age, being only a few years apart. Though he fought back, Ori was hauled onto one of the machines as Kíli was loaded onto the other; as it turns out, the ‘bone-breaker’ was just a large hammer attached to a hinge, which would be released at the pull of a lever, crushing whatever was unfortunate enough to lay below it. The mangler, however, seemed slightly more complex. A system of pulleys and ropes surrounded him, each with their own little buttons and knobs, all made from the same rotting wood as the walkways. Panic started to set in – Kíli would be trapped beneath a wooden hammer so heavy it’d burst his organs, and Ori would be pulled by a rope until his limbs tore apart from the inside, out. As his breathing sped up, a sickly hand grasped his elbow, and Ori couldn’t take it any longer; he did the one thing he absolutely, under any circumstances, was not meant to do, and he activated his shield. Goblins around him screeched, and the one who had reached out to him had its hand cut by the barely-visible force; blood sprayed against its arm and Ori’s defence as shrill shrieks of pain filled the air. Chaos erupted on the platform, and Ori thought his life was over – just as this thought infiltrated his brain, a wave of powerful white light penetrated his vision; it was so powerful that Ori, along with everyone else, was pushed down to the floor as his shield deactivated once again.

Just then, Tharkûn’s voice boomed throughout the room.
“Take up arms! Fight! Fight! ”

–x–x–x–

Viscous liquid pooled at the back of his head as he turned it; he was laying, face-up, in a patch of mushrooms conveniently located at the bottom of a rather large drop, first through an open cavern, and then through a much smaller, much darker chute, followed by several other chambers, three cliffs, a few ledges, and a nasty sharp-edged stalactite growing at an odd angle from the cave’s wall.

The brown mushrooms had cushioned his fall, but that did nothing to dissipate the bruising Bilbo was sure was developing on his back. His head and neck felt warm and wet with a thick liquid which Bilbo thought was almost definitely blood. His vision was hazy, and his hands and feet felt numb, unresponsive to his attempts at moving.
Laying there, he noticed the rasping breathing of a body, not two feet to his left; it struggled, labouring with every breath, choking before spitting out blood and repeating the cycle. As muscles pulled themselves together and nerve endings re-established themselves, Bilbo’s fingers and toes twitched. Then, his wrists and ankles rotated, before his knees bent and elbows drew backwards. His hips were aching, but not more than the rest of him; his shoulders, however, were in nowhere near as good a condition – his right shoulder hurt, but could move, though his movements sent a shock of pain from his left shoulder down his arm and shoulder blade, the muscles connecting the bone to his clavicle and neck seizing with the effort and pain. Bilbo let out a groan he’d never remember as he only barely managed to hang on to consciousness through the agony. Through it all, a distant dripping sounded throughout the cave system he was now in, for surely he was separated from the main tunnels of the mountain now. The goblin next to him seemed to spasm, still trying to breathe through the blood likely flooding its lungs, and Bilbo very nearly stood to put it out of its misery. Slow deaths were never pleasant, and, if they were anything like the other species of Middle-Earth, Bilbo suspected the goblin was more focused on the out-of-body experience it faced at the end of its life. Before his body could make his decision before him, a new, gurgling breathing entered a small opening Bilbo couldn’t see.

A pale creature, gangly and malnourished, slunk through the dark with glowing eyes; upon its head was a thin layer of long, dark hair, which hung limply by its ears, which were nearly leaf-shaped, smaller than Bilbo’s but carrying a similar underlying structure; they poked out from its head, damaged and bulging from old injuries to the soft tissue and cartilage. Slowly, it progressed over the jagged, wet boulders and uneven floor before reaching the goblin, where it then wrapped its hands about the goblin’s ankles and started pulling. Bilbo observed unwillingly as the creature dragged the goblin away, only for the goblin to reach upwards and grasp at the creature in a violent last-ditch effort to preserve its life. The creature grasped along the floor, and it found a rock. Bilbo was very nearly sick when it smashed the rock into the goblin’s skull, braining it then and there.

The creature dragged its prey away, and Bilbo knew he had to leave.
Now.

Sitting up, Bilbo took stock of his surroundings; the spaces where both he and the goblin lay were covered in blood, though his patch was hidden by the mushrooms, who drank up the nutrients happily. They whispered their thanks, and murmured a vague direction into the soles of his feet. Turning, Bilbo processed what he saw; there was only one way in and out of the cave aside from the hole in the ceiling, which was behind him, in exactly the opposite direction the creature had come from. Confusion set in before he remembered Priscilla, a cousin of his who could pop in and out of existence, assuming wherever her body was, lay untouched. He waved the thought from his mind – the new creature must have been some offshoot of goblin, or other low breed of orc, and therefore not cursed with an ability caused by the darkness from which they were born. Looking around, he saw an impossibly small crevice – yes, that must be where it came from. As he looked, his feet stumbled towards it to get a better angle, brushing against something small and metallic. Removing his foot from the object, Bilbo found that he’d stepped on a golden band, unengraved and blank aside from the thick wet dirt and worryingly red blood coating it; he knew not why, but it pained him to pick it up, wracking his body with shivers and hot flushes similar to a fever. Pocketing it (to get it out of his hands, he told himself), Bilbo walked back to the opening the mushrooms had pointed him towards, and ran as fast as he could.
Tripping and righting himself, he raced through the tunnels as though the pale thing were at his feet with a rock stained with blood. Mycelium networks sibilated sonorous whispers to his soles, guiding him through the winding tunnels with words not heard by most – as he ran, blood trailed behind him until his head stopped its incessant bleeding, for which the fungi below the cave’s floor both cheered and groaned.

Considering the last few hours, all was going relatively well for Bilbo; with that thought, he ran right into the pale creature, who was facing him in the straight tunnel he was in, standing between the hobbit and his beloved sunlight. How it got there, he had no clue; there were no obvious entrances or exits to the tunnel from where he stood, and if it were anything like goblins or orcs, it hated sunlight. In fact, as he thought this, the sun lowered a little in the sky, shining its red light further down the tunnel; the creature hissed, back arching, as it crawled forwards reluctantly, as though it didn’t want to get close to Bilbo.
“You haves it, precious,” it said; its mouth contained few teeth, but the ones it had were sharp, and its lips were crimson with the drink provided by what Bilbo realised must have been its most recent meal. Its belly protruded outwards in a manner that reminded Bilbo of the aftermath of the Fell Winter, when those who had been starving had eaten too much in too short a time, so their bodies rejected the food. Bilbo felt an immense amount of pity towards the creature, though he had no clue why – it clearly didn’t feel bad for him, and thought he had something it owned, so Bilbo reasoned that it was quite a silly feeling. In his delirium, he didn’t notice the creature moving slowly towards him before stilling and then disappearing entirely; his eyes widened, but he took his chances – if it was invisible, he’d die. If it wasn’t there, then it was just a short sprint to the exit. He could get to the others, and tell-

A disembodied leg appeared from the thin air, tripping him just before the exit. Long, spindly, hobbit-sized hands dragged him back, blunt nails ripping into his skin with their strength alone. Bilbo, in a fit of panic, kicked and scrambled, causing several layers of mycelium to lift from the ground and entangle the creature within their confines. Bilbo bolted and didn’t look back as the waxy network constricted, joined by small branches of ivy which, Bilbo thought loosely, would devastate the local environment if it wasn’t native.

Sprinting down the steep slope, the hobbit did not stop to think of whether or not his friends were alive; he trusted that the mushrooms would not lead him the wrong way, and he had to hold onto that belief, if only to get to safety hale and whole.
Darting through the trees, Bilbo stumbled upon Gandalf’s tall, grey figure standing between the trees, smaller than usual due to what Bilbo soon learned was a slight drop between the mossy boulder he was on and the ground. He could hear the ruckus of the dwarrow, which meant (as far as he was concerned) that no one had died.

–x–x–x–

As they came to a stop from their dashing, Tharkûn counted them all up, as a mother would with a large group of children. Calm, he nodded to himself, and then, became enraged, as though someone had thrown their shoe at him. His voice boomed over them all, panting and laughing as they were.
“Where’s Bilbo? Where is our hobbit?”
“Curse that halfling! Now he’s lost ?” Dwalin shouted, kicking a tree beside him and throwing his hands into the air.
“I thought he was with Bombur!” Glóin exclaimed.
“Don’t look at me.”
“Well, when did you last see him?” Tharkûn implored, turning to the rest of the Company as Bombur failed to answer his question.
“...I think I saw ‘im slip away when they first collared us,” Nori said, so quiet that they had to strain to hear him as he rubbed his temples.
“What happened, exactly? Tell me!”
Tharkûn was either unaware of Nori’s ability, or simply didn’t care for it in that moment; Nori guessed a balance of both was true, in that the grey wizard knew not the extent of his ability, in combination with his lack of volume control in that moment. Nori very nearly did several rude gestures, but reigned in his hands and tongue; instead, he rubbed his temples more,  and closed his eyes, leaning against a tree.
Thorin, the dumb bastard, thought that to be the perfect moment to take over Tharkûn’s useless shouting.
“I'll tell you what happened! Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it. He's thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since first he stepped out of his door! We will not be seeing our hobbit again. He is long gone.” Thorin ground out the last part like a pebble trying to speak Westron for the first time – had Nori been in any better a mood, he would’ve mocked the king for his incredulous behaviour.
He’d been so preoccupied with dwarven explosions that he only just processed the rapid breathing that had approached them.
“No, he isn’t,” Bilbo said, stepping out from behind a tree, panting and covered in dirt, blood, leaves, and who knew what else. He huffed out a small smile, flitting his eyes across the whole Company before returning to Thorin’s blank stare.
Tharkûn, of course, spoke first.
“Bilbo Baggins! I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life!”
“Bilbo! Kíli piped up, “We’d given you up!”
“How on Earth did you get past those goblins?” Fíli asked.
“How, indeed,” Dwalin grumbled, now nursing his sore foot.
Bilbo laughed nervously, almost deliriously, before shrugging.
“Long story.”
“Well, what does it matter? He’s back,” Tharkûn said, a tad forcefully, as if to stop any inquiries to the rattled hobbit. Óin looked like he was about to protest, but another got there first.
“It matters,” Thorin said. He did not get the memo, Nori supposed, as usual. “I want to know; why did you come back?”
Well, that certainly hadn’t been what anyone had asked.
Bilbo looked done in that moment, like he was both ready to drop and completely dumbfounded at Thorin’s stupidity.
“Look, I know you doubt me. I know you always have. And you're right. I often think of Bag End. I miss my books, and my armchair, and my garden. See, that's where I belong. That's home. And you don't have one – a home. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back if I can.” Bilbo’s speech was quiet and kind, full of words not thought out but mulled over many a time; he nodded at Nori, which threw him off a tad – he knew Fíli had said something about his hearing, but he hadn’t expected the hobbit to put it together at all, let alone from a headache, of all things. Bilbo looked around them all, circling back to Thorin, who was still staring, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide as saucers like he couldn’t quite believe his ears. The hobbit tilted his head and smiled, confused, at Thorin – Nori knew he had to adjust the bets now, and could collect on their previous betting pool.
Then, the moment was ruined by the foul sound of Blackspeech in his ears.

–x–x–x–

Orcs, goblins, and other creatures of Melkor’s fouled visions of Arda were never affected by the One Ring’s influence over Ulmo’s domain; formed from the darkness and manufactured on a mass scale, they were creatures of the same ilk as the Ring, and therefore unable to be influenced by it in the same way the creatures of the light were. For them, it embedded into their very beings, spirit and soul, mind and body, manifesting as power, much like the Rings given to the rulers of Middle-Earth’s Elves, Men, and Dwarves – and, much like those Rings, it sucked their life-force from them, gorging on their energy as their last moments arrived. Sometimes, the Darkness chose to close in quickly, claiming a life within seconds of showing them the Eye; for others, it could last for weeks, and for those it wished to torture even more, years, casting evil dreams unto its prey as paranoia and pain set in, all overseen by a glowing orange eye.

Dragons, as they were told, were never granted these abilities either; though they were not cut from Melkor’s clay, he shaped them over centuries of suffering and grief, turning them to his cause before they were even known to the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth.

Azog hated that name – the Free Peoples. It only ever referred to those crafted by the one they called Eru Ilúvatar, an unloving, supposedly omniscient god who abandoned Arda the very second of its conception. They were slaves to it, as he saw them – they’d taken to calling them ûksnaga . It was befitting.

As they passed over the Misty Mountains, he could smell the faint scent of blood, and knew that Ghâshronk could smell it too; she raised her shoulders and dipped her head forwards, keen to follow the trail of struggling prey. It smelled close enough to dirty gazat that he let her follow it.
The rest followed behind, wargs howling as soon as they too smelled the luxurious scent of Dwarf, soily and metallic, as they closed in; soon enough, the pattering feet of their party’s prize could be heard, and they were heading towards a cliff. Wargs were skilled predators, but that made them no less excited at the prospect of prey, especially prey which readily trapped themselves – Ghâshronk joined the frenzied pack in their howling, and her loud addition caused any remaining nearby wildlife to flee for fear of their lives.

As his metal prosthetic brushed against his warg’s white fur, Azog smiled into the darkness, a gleam in his eye and murderous joy in his step.

–x–x–x–

As they sprinted – again – Gandalf shouted various commands to them, returning every few minutes to the word ‘run’, as though to remind them of the dire situation they were currently in; as it was, Bilbo saw little point in Gandalf’s words aside from reassurance to the dwarrow that he was still there.
Between glancing down to let out a warm breath and looking back up to watch where he was going, Bilbo lost sight of his friends. Heart rabbiting in his chest, he pulled out his sword and scanned his surroundings; there was nowhere he could see that they could have disappeared to, and even Gandalf was gone, with not even the grey tip of his hat in sight. Then, from behind him, a pounding of feet, and a warg’s biting maw diving straight for his head. It met with bright steel as the lone brown warg, rideless, skewered itself right through the crest; its jaw hung limp as the weight and momentum pushed the hobbit backwards into a thick tree, winding him further and reminding him of the violent aching along his spine, back, and lungs. One half-breath later, he was yanking his sword from the warg’s skull as more approached from the mountain’s direction; just in time, he managed to free his sword and scrambled up the tree at his back, startling as a thick dwarven hand grasped his; he was met with Balin’s relieved eyes, before the dwarf signalled to move further up the tree. As they did, passing Bombur, Óin, and Glóin, they assisted one another through the branches before feeling them start to sway. Bilbo knew this to be unusual – a conifer, even this far up, didn’t lurch like this unless its base was disturbed. With horror, they all looked down as Bilbo’s thought dawned upon him; far below, several wargs were standing, two-legged, against the bark, pushing, scratching, and climbing in a frenzy, attempting to reach them and pushing each other down in the process. They tore at the tree trunk, snarling as the wooden shell was ripped from the soft flesh of the pine. As its protective covering was shredded, the tree screamed in agony, joining the others which were also being scratched at and climbed by manic wargs, monstrous claws and jaws working their way through the thick, sturdy trees. The world turned sideways as their tree fell, and the group were forced to jump.

It is in this fashion that they continued, wargs switching to whichever tree held the most dwarves after their previous tree fell. This was how Gandalf, thirteen dwarrow, and a hobbit found themselves all in one pine tree, scattered across its branches with a steep cliff at their back while wild wargs gnashed and yowled at them from below. Further away, a group of orcs astride their own wargs collected, obvious in their trepidation to join their frenzied allies.

A fiery pinecone made its way to Bilbo, who, on a branch next to Fíli and Balin, blew lightly on it as they gathered their own pinecones. Launching them into the air, the pinecones fell amongst the dry, dead pines below, and a fire roared to life. Flames licked at the wargs on either side, threatening them with its heat; the ones still surrounding the base of their tree scrambled, yapping at each other as they attempted to escape the bright heat.

Then, as all things did, their situation got worse.
Their tree, hanging on by a thread, fell.
It jittered downwards, screeching heaving breaths as it went, attempting with all its might to hold onto the cliff’s edge, begging for assistance or mercy; with what little energy he had, Bilbo reached into himself, sharing his life’s force with the tree as he worked to weave its roots back to its body. He whispered sweet nothings to it, urging it to calm before it twisted itself into a certain fate.

Pale skin reflected the red of the burning wall and the silvery light of the moon as the figure, tall and imposing, strode through to the front of the crowd; a crude metal claw was stuck through a stump which ended its arm early, piercing through the end and coming out the other side, just above the elbow. The orc, astride a white warg, paced along the fire’s side, stroking the warg as foam frothed in its mouth and its teeth collided with thin air in a display of aggression.
Gasps surrounded him, and, somewhere just below him, Bilbo heard Thorin’s voice, small and disbelieving, wavering in apprehension and fear.
“Azog..?”
The word instilled terror into Bilbo’s heart; whatever could make Thorin sound like a scared child was something to be avoided at all costs. He sincerely hoped that Gandalf had a plan as their tree faltered further, putting them at a near-horizontal angle; Ori slipped from his high branch, and Dori reached out to grasp his hand, but the two ended up hanging, Ori grasping Dori’s ankle with Dori’s arms wrapped around their branch, straining with the effort of holding both their weight and keeping his foot flexed to give Ori as much room as possible to keep ahold of his brother’s foot. Between this, the pine’s cries, and Gandalf’s sudden whispering – to a moth, of all things – Bilbo barely noticed as Thorin, nose bloodied by the tree’s sudden fall, rose from his branch and walked, painfully slowly, down the trunk and towards Azog. Dwalin’s shouting is what alerted him, screaming at Thorin to think , but hindered by the tree, which could barely hold his weight, least of all while he was pushing against it and grasping at smaller twigs in his attempts to pull himself up onto the main trunk. Bilbo himself stopped in his whispering, pausing just long enough for a word to escape his mouth.
“Thorin-”
The dwarf ignored his companions, despite each of them pleading for him to come back, telling him he was walking to his death; Thorin, head and sword held high, ignored them as he started his charge.
He forged his way through the fires before slashing at the Pale Orc, who sidestepped Thorin’s attack easily before bringing a large, jagged-faced mace downwards, sweeping across the air and into Thorin’s face, throwing the dwarf back towards the thundering blaze. Laughing – a sadistic, fractured thing – Azog approached Thorin, who stood unsteadily, holding his sword towards the orc rather than the warg; white fur blurred as it dove forwards, twisting its head while Thorin charged once again, causing his cheek to connect with Azog’s mace for the second time, knocking Thorin to his knees and allowing the warg to find its target. Long, sharp teeth buried themselves into Thorin’s abdomen with a sickening crunch; blood spattered across the grass as the warg shook the dwarf like a toy, arrogant and dismissive of Thorin’s capabilities, which it would sorely regret when the dwarf jammed the pommel of Orcrist into the warg’s nose, causing it to release him mid-shake, sending him flying across the cliff to land on a sharp rock formation.

Bilbo could watch no longer; still muttering encouragement and prayers to the tree, he stood carefully, low and light, before unsheathing his letter-opener, yet stained with the blood of his first kill, and charging in, much like Thorin had bare moments before. He shouted his prayers like a battlecry, strengthening the tree as much as he could before the connection was cut, either through distance or his death. An orc approached where Thorin lay, rusty sword held high – as it pierced downwards, Bilbo flew into its side, stabbing it with the momentum he’d gathered, throwing both the orc and himself into the pine-covered rock below. He raised his sword again and again between stabbing the orc’s chest, even after it stopped moving, the adrenaline of killing a sentient being fuelling him to a mad aggression he’d never experienced before. Remembering the reason he was doing this, he swiftly and clumsily removed himself from the orc, stumbling to stand before Thorin, pointing the letter-opener towards the orc pack as though threatening anyone who came near. Several orcs simply scowled, or laughed maniacally, thrilled by the death that had occurred, regardless of whether it was an ally or not. The Pale Orc, large and confident, peered down at Bilbo before dismounting his warg, white fur and white skin alike coated in blood, and saying something in his own foul tongue; the very words seeped into Bilbo’s skull, wracking his spine with chills, like a snow-covered hand grasped too tightly and too soon. Before Azog could reach them, several dwarrow burst through the wall of flames, roaring with life and energized, ready for battle; steel met rusted steel as they fought, less of a skirmish like their previous fights and more of a battle. Dwalin swung Grasper and Keeper, separating limbs from bodies while Balin swung a warhammer around him; Bifur held a morning star, whipping it around and around, launching his spiky terror towards any who dared to get close, while Nori ducked and dived between it all, stabbing one orc in the neck while gracefully collecting a knife from another orc’s hamstring, only to throw it into the eye of a third orc, who was advancing on Glóin. Bilbo turned his attention to what he could do: helping Thorin. He scrambled to Thorin’s side, tearing fabric from his shirtsleeve and coating it in his remaining water to press it against the dwarf’s mouth and nose in an attempt to ease his breathing; being so close to the flames, they produced a thick, black smog, which was getting harder and harder to breathe through. He then turned to the colossal problem that was the bite; blood seeped from under Thorin, the wound dripping whatever blood it could find, as if expelling a foreign object. Bilbo winced as he pressed into Thorin’s stomach, the blood surging upwards and into his palms. He was no healer – not like Óin, and not like the Shire had – but he knew enough to realise that Thorin’s condition was rapidly declining; he tried talking to Thorin, to keep him awake, but the blasted dwarf only looked blearily at him before turning his head skywards and closing his eyes, slipping away from consciousness. Slapping him lightly didn’t wake him, and Bilbo didn’t want to risk further aggravating the already-swollen cut running from temple to cheek, so he returned to piling Thorin’s bite with as much clean cloth as he could find.
A scoff sounded behind him, and when he turned, the Pale Orc stood alone, between them and the Company who’d made it off of the tree. He sneered, striding forwards as if to remove Bilbo from Thorin like he was only a minor inconvenience. Just as he was within arm’s reach, his glare turned to the horizon – despite his desire to see exactly what Azog was now gawking at, Bilbo knew he needed to focus on the threat in front of him and worry about everything else later.
Later did not come, as a giant eagle swooped down, plucking a warg and its rider from the carnage, and dropped the two of them thousands of feet to the mountain’s base. More eagles, brown-feathered with yellow talons, dropped from the sky to throw the orcs from the cliff; some picked up members of the Company, but instead of dropping them from unsurvivable heights, they dropped them onto one anothers’ backs, allowing the dwarrow to ride them like their long-lost, sorely-missed ponies. Then, sharp claws wrapped around him, enveloping him before dropping him to the back of another eagle; Bilbo stared back in horror at Thorin, who was picked up precariously by the last eagle, sword dangling from its sheath where Bilbo had stashed it. As if it heard him, his eagle turned back to guide the one carrying Thorin – as it did, Bilbo spotted a familiar wooden shield, laying on the bloodied ground below him.

–x–x–x–

Consciousness returned to him, slowly but surely, his vision blurred but present; the large, concerned face bare millimetres above his own sighed before leaning away, looking towards someone Thorin couldn’t see.
“He’s alive,” Tharkûn said, relief flooding his voice as he sighed once again. His wrinkles seemed even more pronounced than usual, and Thorin vaguely wondered whether he and his Company were the cause.
Then, like a penny drop, he remembered his last conscious moments.
“The Hobbit..?” he asked, voice weak and low, cracked with the smoke he’d inhaled. Dwalin and Fíli, one on either side, helped him stand before he looked up to see the half- the hobbit, sagging in relief. Thorin, suddenly with a dire need, shook off the supporting arms of his kin and stalked towards his burglar.
“You!” he roared, bubbling anger rising within him. “What were you doing? You nearly got yourself killed!” His steps grew more purposeful, louder and harder than a simple walk as he now stormed towards the hobbit. “Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the Wild? That you had no place amongst us?” Now, he stood facing Bilbo, barely six inches from him, breathing heavily both with emotion and exertion. “I have never been so wrong in all my life,” he sighed, anger dissipating and turning into relief as he closed the distance, pulling Bilbo into a hug. At first, Bilbo didn’t respond – out of fear or shock, Thorin couldn’t tell – before he realised what was happening, and let out a breathy chuckle filled with nerves, wrapping his arms around as much of Thorin as he could reach. When they parted, Thorin kept his hands on Bilbo’s forearms, if only to reassure himself that the hobbit was alive. “But I’m sorry I doubted you,” Thorin murmured, dipping his forehead to meet Bilbo’s briefly in a gesture of acceptance. The hobbit simply huffed another surprised laugh, raising his eyebrows and giving Thorin a lopsided grin.
“No, I would have doubted me too,” he said – before Thorin could protest, he continued on. “I’m not a hero or warrior. Not even really a burglar.” Had Thorin not been staring at Bilbo, he’d have thrown a glance in Balin’s direction to see if their contracted burglar was lying. However, as it was, he was staring into his hobbit’s eyes, attempting to discern their colour; they glowed amber in the sunlight, but appeared green when he looked downwards towards the grass or up at the canopy. Under open skies, they looked blue, like the atmosphere after rain, or a vast lake; then, at night, they looked like a storm, swirling and rugged, turbulent in their own right. It annoyed him, this inability to know, but he never considered stopping and wondering why.
In his wonderings, his gaze rose towards the horizon, and there, sitting alone, was a singular peak, arising from nothing to a sharp tip, and back down again. Bilbo, confused, turned his head and gasped.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“...Erebor,” Thorin answered, stepping towards it involuntarily; with him, he took Bilbo, and the Company followed.
“The Lonely Mountain,” Kíli breathed, stepping next to Thorin on the rock.
“And the last of the Great Dwarf Kingdoms of Middle-Earth,” Balin added, coming up beside Bilbo, who was staring into the red horizon, watching as the sun rose over the mountain’s distant silhouette. His profile was lined with the orange light, once again changing his eyes to a fiery amalgamation of warm hues, which beautifully matched the blood dripping from his lip.
The blood.
Dripping from his lip?

...To say Óin was displeased with all of them would be a gross understatement.

Chapter Text

Looking at the hobbit, Óin was thoroughly confused as to why he wasn’t dead.
How was a question with an easy answer; his heart was beating, and his brain was still receiving oxygen, so he continued in his current state of living.
The trickier question to answer was why he was still standing – Óin didn’t know the full extent of Bilbo’s injuries, but could see his aura, which was littered in a myriad of aches and pains, despite his insistence that he was fine, thank you, Óin . He was very much not fine. Most of the Company had the odd scrape or bruise, and Thorin had been bitten through by a warg, but that was obvious; Bilbo Baggins was a terrible liar, and was hiding his injuries. It wasn’t his tone or words that gave him away, no – it was the constant blood pouring from the corner of his lip, and the wet rattling of his chest as he breathed. His body was giving him away to everyone, but Óin could see more.
Angry crimson tendrils writhed around his lungs and airway, pooling at his sternum, before separating from itself and curving over his shoulder, meeting with a deep purple mottling his back. A brownish colour swam around groggily at the back of his head while cream tendrils weaved themselves around his shins, femur, and forearms; none of these places could be seen to assess for injuries, but Óin didn’t have to. He could tell by the colours twirling around their hobbit like a nasty river current, remaining localised and not mingling, that he was hurt.
Badly.
However, for the moment, he had a stubborn King to look after; a wonderful leader, but horrible patient.

For the hour and a half it took them to get from the top of the Carrock to the bottom, Óin watched as Thorin limped and the pink aura surrounding his abdomen grew – despite this, the idiot insisted on walking alone, and even helping Bilbo down the rocky steps. Bilbo, a good soul with half a brain cell more than whatever fluids Thorin had, sternly told the dwarf to shove it where the sun didn’t shine, though in much nicer wording. Thorin had looked forlorn for a second before Bilbo asked him what was so dangerous about the rocks, anyway. This launched Thorin into a forty-five minute tirade, during which he allowed Bilbo, Dwalin, Fíli, and Kíli to assist him down some of the more difficult parts of the ledges Tharkûn called a staircase. Bilbo, upon seeing Nori’s annoyed expression, would admit that he fully understood the dangers associated with climbing down a steep cliff with just a few mossy ridges to act as stairs – he wasn’t a halfwit, after all – but just asked Thorin because he knew the dwarf would get distracted with his own ramblings. Nori, surprisingly, barked out a laugh before slapping Bilbo’s back in cheer. Bilbo did not wince, but Óin saw the spike shoot out from the flat layer of mottling against his back.

Once they’d gotten to the bottom of the conveniently-placed rock formation, the sun was high in the sky, and Bombur – uninjured, aside from a suspiciously pan-shaped bruise on his hip – got to work right away, piling whatever remaining rations they had into a deep pan above their growing campfire. He sent Fíli and Kíli, after approval from Óin, into the woods nearby to hunt for whatever they could find, if only so they didn’t need to use quite as many of their limited longer-lasting rations.
Óin, in the meanwhile, tended to his dwarrow. Bilbo, the stubborn sod, refused care before everyone else had been seen; he shook his head and kept schtum until Óin reluctantly moved on to Dwalin. He decided to sort Dwalin out before Thorin, since Tharkûn had used his ancient magicks to heal Thorin from the brink of death; if their dunce of a leader made his way back to it, that was his decision entirely. Dwalin, however, was a bit of a different story.

He had no fractures, breakages or dislocations, thankfully; though he was at no risk for the first two, the latter was near-on a miracle. Over the past few hundred years, only those closest to the lines of the original seven Dwarf Lords retained their birth-gifts, and Dwalin, being his cousin and Thorin’s cousin through their great-great-grandfather, Náin II, had been gifted with one of the most legendary, but most unfortunate, abilities; a steel body, a skeleton of pure Mithril. It worked wonders before the dwarrows’ rights to their abilities were rescinded. Now, more than three generations later, some abilities, especially those which morph the inner workings of one’s body, have some negative side effects. Throughout his life, Dwalin has experienced two immovable facts: firstly, he pulled his limbs from their sockets easily, even when just moving too fast: secondly, he had to take a permanent prescription for an antidote to silver-sickness, as his own skeleton, left unsupervised, would poison his blood.
Since Dwalin still had his medication, and Óin could always make more, he needn’t worry about blood poisoning or its side effects. Instead, Óin had to worry about the deep, long gash in Dwalin’s bicep; it went bone-deep and, had he a normal skeleton, would have cut through the bone, removing his arm as it was struck. Thankfully, this did not happen, though it was a common occurrence in his career – evidenced by the deep, long scars covering his limbs and head – for him to receive a strike that would amputate anyone else. Óin, being Dwalin’s cousin and lead physicist for the escapees of Erebor within Ered Luin, had dealt with this many, many times. So, he did what he had always known to do. He cleaned the wound, dressed it, and moved on to the next one, who was, unfortunately, Thorin.

Thorin, who was possibly even more stubborn than one of Dáin’s boars, was sitting grumpily, head leaned on one of his hands, upon a small boulder within the little cove they’d built their camp around. He stared into nothingness and remained silent, watching the forest for his nephews’ return.
“They’ll be back before you know it,” Óin said, by way of greeting.
Thorin only grunted, giving him a quick glance before his eyes swept back towards the bright woodland.
“There’s a stream nearby.”
Another grunt. This one seemed more intrigued.
“You can go wash your clothes, after you let me look at you.”
A displeased grunt.
Óin had years of practice with the Durins. He could be patient.
Today was not a patient day.
“HOBBIT,” he instead shouted across the camp, staring boreholes into Thorin’s now-glaring eyes, not breaking eye contact even with the scrambling along the outskirts of their bedrolls towards where the small forest was. Bilbo hopped into view, standing just within his peripheral vision, unsure and confused in his expression; both eyebrows were furrowed, worried, but his head was tilted to the side and his nose scrunched slightly, much like a rabbit attempting to figure out exactly what he was smelling.
“Is something the matter?”
“Our fearless and illustrious leader should be put in a cone.”
Bilbo just stared at him for a brief second, before understanding lit in his eyes, and a small smirk formed.
“Whatever do you mean, Óin? A cat’s cone, meant to render the cat unable to lick its wounds and infect them, or a dunce’s hat?” With this, Thorin’s eyes finally removed themselves from Óin’s as they moved to stare at Bilbo, mouth agape once more. “Don’t do that, Thorin, you’ll catch flies,” Bilbo said, almost absent-mindedly.
“I do not catch-”
“What’s the best insect?”
Thorin barely paused in the change of direction before he launched into another tirade about insects and bugs this time, of all things.
“Well, Master Hobbit, one may define the ‘best’ insect in many ways; firstly, we must lay the ground rules as to whether ‘best’ is objective or subjective, and guidelines in regards to what we’re counting as ‘insects’, since there are many creatures which do not fall under that classification but are considered by many to be such…”
Thorin’s incessant rambling, fuelled by Bilbo’s seemingly endless pool of questions and ability to ramble on just like Thorin when the great lug asked his own questions, allowed Óin to lift their King’s shirts and armour, take a look and poke at the bite, clean it, place a salve on it, and dress it, all in the space of about sixty minutes. Flipping Thorin’s shirts back down, Óin patted his densest cousin’s shoulder.
“Y’cannae have this on,” he said, pulling at the chainmail. Thorin, invested in his conversation, simply allowed his arms to be lifted when Óin started removing the chainmail. It would have been impressive, if it weren’t so scary; somehow, Bilbo had managed to completely rid Thorin of his defenses, even when he was aware of what was happening around and to him; even Balin, with his Silvertongue capabilities, struggled to keep Thorin’s attention for more than twenty minutes. The hobbit had effortlessly done it for an hour.
Óin would have to employ him when they got back to Erebor.

By the time the sun had reached its peak, most of the Company had been seen, minor injuries addressed, major injuries monitored, and all now had full bellies, lined with the rabbit and cranberry stew Bombur scratched up from their rations; the combination of flavours was unusual, but not unpleasant, and, with satisfied stomachs for the first time in days, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield decided to head to the river to wash.

Endless blue currents flowed before them, curving around rocks only to meet the riverside and gently push against it. It was beautiful. A river – a real source of fresh, moving water – was something they hadn’t had the luxury of since they left the Shire. Moving downstream, so as not to sully any drinking water they may take, the group hummed excitedly at the prospect of being clean once again – contrary to popular belief, dwarrow bathed often, when they had the chance, and were not fans of dust or dirt; allowing oneself, especially the hair or beard, to become dirty was the highest order of self-neglect, assuming there are no mitigating circumstances.
It is with a heavy heart that Óin stayed towards the back of the group with Bilbo, who squirmed and wriggled whenever he looked towards the small creature.
“Óin?”
“Yes, laddie?” he sighed, awaiting the inevitable declaration of good health.
“Could we perhaps go through with the… medical bits and bobs after we’re clean?” Óin hadn’t been expecting that, not after years of dealing with the Durins – all of their brain matter was allocated to Dís and himself. Even Balin tried to refuse medical help, but in recent years, had mellowed a bit. This did not mean he sought it, no, but he accepted it when it was offered, which was a step in the right direction – even if it was only a step so small it was not deserving of the term ‘baby step’, for even a newborn babe could stride further than that.
“...Yes, lad. That sounds quite agreeable.”

Óin was glad to be in the water, washing himself, his grey mane, and his clothes; being covered in blood was not pleasant, least of all when it wasn’t just that of your enemies, but your allies, too. He watched as the others had fun, splashing about as soon as they’d cleaned the worst off themselves, figuring the softly-ebbing waters would do the rest. Bilbo did get in, but only after moving some distance away behind a large rock.
He had agreed to be examined, willingly, so Óin didn’t mind.

Back at the camp, the fire now lit their sight as dusk arrived; dried, warm clothes now rested on their rightful owners as the chill of a Wildland summer night set in. In the little alcove he’d examined the others in, Óin was standing above a cross-legged Bilbo, who looked like he probably shouldn’t be in that position. Humming, Óin did something about it; gently, and slowly, he moved their resident hobbit’s legs downwards so no fabric pushed against the cream tendrils which had now disappeared almost entirely. The mottling at Bilbo’s back remained, but Óin’s primary concern was the ever-present crimson flooding his lungs.
“Take your shirt off.”
Reluctantly, Bilbo did, wincing as his arms and torso stretched to get the fabric of his shirt over his head. How he had gotten dressed earlier, Óin had no clue.
Now, looking at their hobbit, he saw a strange sight; he was lean, far leaner than the hobbits he’d seen and yet, carried a little pouch of fat like all hobbits right around his midsection. His arms and shoulders were toned, likely due to their use over the past few months, and an angry red bite mark caught Óin’s eye.
“Where’d you get that, lad?”
“A goblin bit me, in the tunnels.”
Óin only nodded, eyes already calculating what must have happened for his lungs to be so affected. Before, when they’d landed that morning, he swore the aura appeared to display leaking, compromised lungs, filled with blood rather than air. Now, they were nowhere near perfect, but seemed to have started the healing process, and accelerated quickly. The blood had drained from them, possibly entirely through Bilbo’s mouth; looking at the hobbit’s face, eyes, and gums, he appeared to be slightly lacking in iron, but otherwise healthy, and with the correct amount of blood, or close enough to it. Since Óin could do nothing about the quickly-mending lungs before seeing the state of Bilbo’s spine, he instead turned to the hobbit’s back. He inhaled sharply at the sight, which drew the attention of the others; all along Bilbo’s back were huge, black bruises, occasionally dipping into purple or blue. Gasps of sympathy or shock flittered throughout the Company as they peered at their burglar’s impressive bruising.
“Is it really that bad?” he asked in a small voice, though the tone suggested he knew the answer already.
“You’re lucky you didn’t break your spine. You’ve got bruising from your neck to your buttocks,” Óin replied, genuinely amazed at Bilbo’s ability to still be breathing calmly. “How’d you get this?”
“Oh, well that goes with the bite,” he said, turning back to Óin and retracting his arms, breath hitching as he did. “When we all fell, someone- well, someone landed on top of me. Then, when we got up-”
“Oh, Mahal, I think it was me,” a timid voice said somewhere.
“-I managed to keep down, and the goblins just passed over me, like they couldn’t even see me. I tried to follow you, but a goblin jumped at me. We fought a bit, before it bit me and we both fell,” Bilbo said, responding to the various gasps and oohing of the Company, gathered almost like it was a ghost story.
“I heard you,” Nori said suddenly, breaking the horrified, awed silence. “You scrapped, and told it to fuck off.” Laughter filled the air, dissipating the tensity, though Thorin stared at Nori like he’d been personally offended.
“I did not! I told it to go back to its brethren, for surely it did not have friends. Not with a face like that,” Bilbo grumbled, pulling more laughter from the accumulated dwarrow.
“Right, so, you fell,” Óin said. He needed to know what happened.
“...Well, yeah. That’s about it.”
“Did you do anything after falling?”
“Oh, well, the goblin must’ve detached from me during our fall, because we hit quite a few rocks on the way down. I ended up waking to a face full of mushrooms while the goblin- the goblin choked to death.” He was quieter now, more sombre. “There was something in the tunnels, and it ate the goblin, so I ran.”
A cool chill returned to the Company; to eat a goblin? Whatever was down there must have been starving, or had a tongue so fouled by orc-taste that it didn’t care what flesh met its lips, only that its stomach was lined; cannibalism was common among their kind, though more so in orcs, who were more aggressive to one another despite their higher breed.
“Well, at least our burglar can run, eh, Bif?” Bofur joked mildly, attempting to put some light on the situation.
“I mostly crawled, if I’m being honest,” Bilbo said, chuckling like he remembered something funny, or like an insane man seeing colours. “I just kept going until I saw daylight, and booked it. Then I saw Gandalf’s outrageous hat.” He leaned closer to Óin, but the whole Company heard his next statement anyway. “Perhaps we should remove the brim and gift it to Thorin.”

Óin worked for an hour and a half on Bilbo, taking blood pressure and pulse measurements, cleaning the bite with a strong-smelling salve, sewing a previously-unnoticed cut on Bilbo’s jaw back together, and binding his chest with bandages to support proper growth and healing. He also wrapped Bilbo’s neck to assist with any swelling as and when it occurred. Just as Bilbo pulled his undershirt back over his head, Óin caught sight of that brown patch on his aura, which was followed by him berating Bilbo for neglecting to mention the deep dent in his head, coated in dried blood and hair. Bilbo apologised profusely, claiming he’d forgotten all about it, what with the pain of his torso; this did not convince Óin, who spent the next fifteen minutes testing Bilbo’s memory and motor functions to ensure he didn’t have a brain injury.
“To think, a little rock caused all this fuss-”
“A ROCK?!”

–x–x–x–

The year of his thirty-third birthday, Bilbo Baggins was summoned once again to Imladris, though this time it was not for grief; no, this time, he was summoned for his assistance.
He and Lord Elrond had become friends – now, they weren’t just two people who knew one another through a mutual close connection, but they actually spoke as though they’d known one another their whole lives, or – more accurately to their situation – like a youngling, close to being of age, able to form more meaningful, balanced, truthful connections with their elders that aren’t sugar-coated for the young. They spoke of many subjects, though that of books and tomes were their favourite; when Bilbo was in Rivendell, he’d read through as much as he could, and when he wasn’t, Elrond sent him whatever he could, much like a long-distance library service.

As it was, Bilbo was thirty-two, and it was March, so he had several months until his thirty-third birthday, which was more than enough time to go to Imladris and return on time to prepare.
It was with this mindset that he set out to the Hidden Valley once again, for the first time since his mother’s death. The walk was ingrained into him, despite only having completed it once since his father had passed – he’d travelled enough in his early childhood to remember it, and even then, the weeks of walking through Spring Showers and locations only remembered by how many types of mushrooms there were led him to his destination.

Upon his arrival, the Valley seemed less calm than the last time he’d visited, even after Elrond pronounced himself to be in a state of mourning; elves were scattered around walkways and streets, half-running between buildings in spite of the sun pouring over their home. It confused Bilbo, who had yet to be told why his presence was requested.
Without warning, Elrond appeared in front of him, looking haggard and manic.
“Bilbo!”
A greeting was barely performed before Elrond took him by the shoulder and sprinted away, leaving Bilbo to keep up with his long elvish strides all by himself. With his much smaller stature, that was difficult, and, through huffs and puffs, he managed to ask Elrond why he was there.
“Oh, yes,” Elrond said, coming abruptly to a halt and turning to face Bilbo. “I am sorry to force this occasion on you, Bilbo Baggins, but I have need of your assistance.”
“You said as much in your letter,” Bilbo replied, confused, because Elrond had repeated information he knew that Bilbo already knew, which was odd, to say the least. “I came as quickly as I could.”
“Good. I fear, had you come any later, it would have been too late. Arathorn, a friend of mine and leader of the Rangers which protect the Shire, is dying.”
Bilbo did not need Elrond to confirm anything more to know what he was asking.

In the two years since Belladonna’s death, Bilbo has been subjected to Shire gossip; they called him a Burglar, stealing what was not his from his friend, and then, his parents. The first could be pinned as an accident, a childish inability to control; the second, or third? They were obviously plots by the Baggins boy to take what was not his.
He may not have stolen his parents’ lives, but in the eyes of the Hobbits of the Shire, he’d taken what came after.
“No.”
“Just let me show him to you,” Elrond begged. “He’s been calling to it.”
With those words, Bilbo had no choice in the matter.

Arathorn II, son of Arador and Chieftain of the Dúnedain, died on a sunny summer’s day in August, after six months of suffering in Imladris after being shot in the eye by an Orc. Bilbo returned to the Shire just two weeks later, cuts and bruises healing quicker than normal.
He did not celebrate his thirty-third birthday.

–x–x–x–

Nori had to readjust the betting pool.
In the day they’d spent climbing down the Carrock, a fair few things became evident; so, when Bilbo went to wash behind a rock and with Thorin in his own little world, Nori set his clothes out to dry and went about collecting his earnings.

“What do we all think?”
The question was met with many an answer, and many more half-lidded quips. In the end, Nori had a neat little ledger, packed with everyone’s predictions and the money they attached to each. Balin, Dwalin, Bombur, Dori, and Glóin all voted on Thorin figuring it out first, and making something with which to court the hobbit once they reached the mountain. Glóin, the sop he was, also bet – alone – on the idea that they’d both confess at once, on Durin’s day, as the door was found. Meanwhile, Bifur, Bofur, Fíli, and Óin all bet that Bilbo would be the first to say anything.
“He’s got Thorin wrapped right around his little finger,” Óin remarked, upon being asked why he bet this time. He didn’t usually bet so much, nor so readily.
Ori betted on neither of them saying anything for fear the other would reject them, and Kíli bet on the unpopular notion that they were simply best friends – surely, no one could fall in love so fast. When he was reminded that they were on the road together, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and had already been saved twice by the hobbit – Thorin once directly – Kíli shrugged, and said he’d never fall in love so quickly. Or ever.
Nori himself bet on something else; their King fell first, and their hobbit was following at a much more leisurely pace.

By nightfall, it was clear that something was wrong. Nori was wrapped in warm clothing, with a hot meal in his stomach and snoring brothers surrounding him. This was not unusual. Nor was the buzzing sound around Bombur as he snored, inhaling and exhaling whatever surrounded him. No, what was unusual was the quiet muttering constantly making its way to his ears; it had no noticeable source, and was in a language that Nori didn’t know, but which made a feeling of paranoia creep up his spine and unsettle him.
It was driving him insane by the time it was finally Bilbo’s turn on watch, some nights later.
“Tell me you hear it too?” He didn’t mean to come across quite so desperate, but he’d been dealing with it for days on end, and had struggled to catch Bilbo alone; whenever he was riding alone, Bifur would ride up to him and they’d enjoy the silence together, or Thorin would join him to talk about seemingly meaningless subjects which got gradually more serious or ludicrous, depending on which direction they started in. Now, though, in the darkness, Nori could see that they were alone, and could just about count the snoring of all twelve other dwarrow, plus one wizard – who had appeared out of nowhere after leaving with the Eagles – over the muffled gibberish that appeared to be coming from Bilbo’s pockets.
“What?” Right, context would help.
“The whispering. It’s driving me insane.”

Bilbo watched Nori for a few near-silent minutes, interrupted only by muted hissing with no known meaning. Bilbo reached absently for his waistcoat pocket before his vision returned to Nori, focussing on him once more.
“I do.”
“What is it?”
“I- Well, I don’t know. I’m not really sure why I picked it up, but I found it in the goblin tunnels. I can’t really hear it unless I touch it.” the burglar’s eyeline returned to the dense forest before them, while the thief pushed himself forwards to regain Bilbo’s attention.
“Out with it, what is it? It feels… unsettling. Like it’s under my skin, watching me.”
Bilbo wrenched himself back to Nori so quickly that it made the dwarf uncomfortable; even without the tight layers of bandages the hobbit was wearing, twisting around so abruptly would cause a backache in anyone over the age of twenty, be they Man, Elf, Dwarf, or Hobbit. The way the hobbit’s eyes blew wide suggested to Nori that he’d heard something very, very similar before; he started scanning whatever parts of Nori he could see, clearly panicked, and even started patting him down to make sure he was still there.
“Nori, are you injured?”
“What?”
“Are you in any pain? Do I need to get Óin?” the hobbit worried, hands jittery and eyes wider than saucers.
“What? No, I’m not hurt , it’s my- what’d you call it? Ability. My ability. I can hear more than most.”
“Yes, yes, I know that.” Bilbo stopped in his fevered searching for injuries. “Just- if it gets worse, or you feel like there’s an Eye , tell me, okay?” Nori, for the first time in a good long while, found himself staring, speechless – firstly, the hobbit was hiding something which whispered to him in unknown tongues, and then started talking about an eye which, by the sounds of it, was a very specific eye. “Promise me.” Bilbo held out a hand, pinkie finger outstretched, towards Nori.
“...Alright, but do you know how to get it to shut up? I’ve been listening to it for nearly a week, and it’s been killing me.” Bilbo, once again, became alarmed, but calmed down at Nori’s reassurances that he didn’t mean it literally.
“Not a clue, really, but I can try to figure something out. It’s only small, you see, so it should fit in one of those boxes Menfolk make to contain things.”
“We use lead for some of the more dangerous stuff.”
“If nothing else works, we’ll try lead, then.”
“Deal.”
For the rest of Bilbo’s watch, they wrapped the item – which Bilbo did not allow Nori to see, but described it to be a plain golden ring – in various materials. They found that fabric did nothing unless it was over a foot thick, at which point it’d no longer be inconspicuous; leather helped a bit, but had the same problem. As it turned out, Óin had a small lead-lined pouch in his pack, which he used to carry a vial of some sort of poultice, which had been emptied onto Bilbo’s back just a few days prior. Placing the band inside dulled it almost thrice as much as the leather had done, so Nori filched the bag – attached to a string – off of Óin and replaced it with a silver coin.

He could hear himself think again, dissonant whispers disappearing behind thick, earthy lead-lined leather.

–x–x–x–

Wild claws reached for them as they ran, sprinting through plains and fields with a humongous bear biting at their feet. Tharkûn raced ahead, shouting encouragement and commands to the Company, who mostly ignored him; easily visible just in front of them was a large, wooden house, its gate of metal open and ready to grant entry. Bombur was taking up the tail end of the group, though dreaded the constant roaring and grunting he could hear a scant few feet behind him – having had enough of it all, he sped up for the final sprint towards the house, legging it faster than any of the others. As he passed them, a few took a moment to gawk at his speed. By the time the other dwarrow were passing through the gates, he had already smashed into the door, banging at it before seeing a large wooden plank being used as a lock. Bofur, Nori, Dwalin, and Thorin were behind him, skidding to a halt before they could slam into Bombur’s pots and pans. With their help, he lifted the wooden plank from its place and ran inside. Tharkûn remained just outside the door, shepherding everyone in before they all rushed to the door, heaving it into a closed position while the bear, near frothing at the mouth, snapped its teeth together while it pushed; it was a sadist’s game of Tug-of-War, ending when they finally managed to push the door closed on the bear’s snout.
If it wasn’t deranged orcs upon feral wargs, it was an incomprehensibly gigantic bear. Bombur supposed he would’ve been a decent dinner.

–x–x–x–

Pale silver light shone through a moon-like window, illuminating the wide room, vast even to the Dwarves of Erebor. The entrance to the house had elevated wooden flooring; either side, the levels differed, a broad table connected to the walkway with three steps leading up, and to the right from the entrance, two steps led down to what looked like a large pen. A pillar of wood stood in the middle, twelve holes punctured into its side horizontally; they were level, and a stack of wooden poles in the corner suggested it was able to turn, either to reveal something or function as a capstan of some sort, like the ones found on the first boats Man had made, used to lift heavy weights.

Olórin was tired. Though he slept differently to the more mortal creatures of Arda, he did have a state similar to that of the Elves; eyes open, breathing slowed, and mind elsewhere, unable to see unless something woke him. Over the years, he lost count of how many times he’d been asked where he went in his restful hours; Elladan and Elrohir had badgered him about it since they’d been born, and Arwen was skillful in her ability to wrap her words around his skull, squishing it and allowing for no emergency exits or half-veiled truths followed by a weary chuckle.
At least there were not two of her.
Now, though, Olórin sat on a barrel, only half-asleep; he didn’t wish to rest that night in case Beorn came back before the Company awoke. Or, more accurately, in case Beorn decided he did not want a ruddy pack of dwarves (and a hobbit) on his lands.
So it was that the Grey Pilgrim sat, musing over the past five centuries and whether or not Saruman had ever tried Darjeeling to improve his mood. He also thought of Nienna, sitting alone and mourning those who had no one to grieve for them; she taught him of grief, of pity and courage, and that the latter was to be found in the least expected places. All across Arda, before it was made, she’d weaved into the Song a prayer of sorts, granting courage to those molded of the light; she knew of how they’d mourn and when and who for; she knew what would happen, and still cried for those who had no votives. Her heart poured out for every life lost, for the broken self, for those who imprisoned themselves through some twisted idea of tribute, living as the dead. It would plague her, how none recognised grief for the love it contained.

Olórin, though he often teased others for the same, mused a lot.

His devolving thoughts, going from word to vision to concept, were broken by the gentle unlocking of the front door. A man stood in the centre of the entry walkway; he was tall – taller than Olórin himself – and coated in hair which closely resembled thick brown fur. Yellow-green eyes scanned the hay-hall, where thirteen dwarves and one hobbit slept soundly against their soft bedrolls or cloaks, shielding them from sharp needles of hay. The man pulled on a pair of trousers before turning to the wizard.
“You have a story?”
“Indeed.”
“...Sleep.”
Olórin sighed a breath of relief; he’d take to his grave the fact that he was nearly fearful of Beorn’s reaction, and did not want to face the repercussions of the Company not trusting him – not after it’d taken them so long to agree to come to Beorn’s in the first place.

–x–x–x–

Morning dewdrops kissed the sun-shaped window as daylight dawned over Middle-Earth, streams of gold running through windows and doors, breathing warmth back into all that breathed. Bumblebees larger than he’d ever seen buzzed blearily through the room, landing on the occasional pack and poking it before bumbling off in another direction to look for pollen. Honeybees, smaller and thinner than the bumbles, flitted around outside, making the most of the new sun’s arrival. Cautiously, Bilbo sat up; he was still thinking about the night before, during which he’d awoken to the sight of a huge man, covered in a mane of hair not dissimilar to the dwarrow, with weary but sharp eyes and only a pair of soft cotton trousers to cover himself. Bilbo had immediately been curious – this must have been the one Gandalf talked about, who would allow them to stay in his home. Gandalf had not lied about his enormity.
Nor, it seems, had Gandalf lied about his propensity for scepticism; even now, as Bilbo lifted himself from the cozy wool below him, he could see the rest of the Company sat at the table with a man in the corner staring at them, a dark look on his face.

Standing, the hobbit stretched himself out before wandering over to his friends, who were gradually getting louder and more comfortable with their speech. Bilbo walked around the table and sat between Kíli and Bifur, who both nodded their greetings and continued on with their conversations. Kíli was talking to Fíli and Ori about some Elvish story he’d heard in Rivendell about a fancy warrior of stones going missing, while Bifur was signing something about wood-carving techniques. Bilbo merely let the conversation flow over him, allowing himself to find comfort in the dulcet tones of his dwarrows’ enthusiasm on selected topics. Buttering a piece of toast, he watched as the man poured a glass of milk for Fíli before turning his eyes to Thorin.
“So, you are the one they call, ‘Oakenshield’. Tell me, why does the Pale Orc hunt you?” His voice was rough and broken, sounding like he was still unused to Westron despite his apparent fluency. It reminded Bilbo of the older hobbits, who learned Westron much later in their lives than Hobbitish. It was oddly comforting. Thorin, meanwhile, looked up in disbelief at the man.
“You know of Azog? How?”
A pause.
“My people were the first to live in the mountains, before the orcs came down from the North. The White One killed most of my family, but some of us, he enslaved. Not for work , you understand, but for sport .” Beorn spat the words like they hurt him as he walked down the table. They probably did, Bilbo decided, judging by the large manacles on his wrists. “Caging skin-changers and torturing them seemed to amuse him.”
“...There are others like you?” Beorn’s fierce gaze turned to him, but softened once he saw that Bilbo was genuinely curious.
“Once, there were many.”
“And now?” Bilbo asked, dreading the answer he already knew.
“Now… there is only one.” He set down the jug of milk he’d been holding throughout the conversation, and he turned to address the whole table.
“You need to reach the mountain by the last days of autumn?”
“Before Durin’s Day falls, yes,” Gandalf spoke, and many of the dwarrow looked over as though they had not known he was there.
“You are running out of time.”
“Which is why we must go through Mirkwood.” Beorn made a face at this; his expression darkened again, and he looked somewhere between disgruntled with the revelation.
“A darkness lies on that forest. Fell things creep beneath those trees. I would not venture there except in great need.”
“We will take the Elven road – that path is still safe,” Gandalf reassured the man. This only served to anger him.
“ Safe ? The Wood-Elves of Mirkwood are not like their kin; they’re less wise, and more dangerous. But it matters not.”
“What do you mean?” Thorin asked, confused and half-agreeing with Beorn’s observation by default.
“These lands are crawling with orcs. Their numbers are growing, and you are on foot. You will never reach the forest alive.” Beorn’s slow tone emphasised the likelihood of their escape to the forest – which was practically zero. He rose from his lean against one of the wooden beams supporting the house. He walked behind the table, behind Bilbo, and along the narrow walkway between them and the wall. “I don’t like dwarves . They’re greedy, and blind , blind to the lives they deem lesser than their own.” WIth this, he picked up a small, white mouse that Glóin had batted away from his arm, stroking it before setting it back down on one of the bannisters disconnecting the table from the entry walkway. “But orcs , I hate more. What do you need?”
To say they all sighed in relief would be an understatement; Bilbo was sure he’d burst his lungs again if he held his breath any longer.

They ended up deciding to stay at Beorn’s until both he and Thorin could ride ponies again, as it’d be no use to leave that day only to get to the forest and require two doctors rather than the one they had. Bilbo was appreciative of the rest, and intended to take full advantage of it.
“Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” he said to Beorn, who was watching the dwarrow tussle in the field from his kitchen. He looked down in surprise before nodding his head to Bilbo in a half-bow.
“Beorn. You need not be at my service.”
“Then I am glad to have met you, Beorn. Your home is truly splendid. May I ask for access to your kitchen?”
“Ah, so this is what little bunny sought me out for,” Beorn snickered, peering down at Bilbo with his arms coming to cross his chest. Little bunny? Who did he think he was?
“I’ve told you my name, and I implore you to use it; there’s no need for titles or nicknames.”
Beorn only laughed, this time loud and low.
“Little bunny has a spine! Alright, Bunny, you can use my kitchen, so long as I can name you what you are – a little bunny.” Beorn seemed to amuse himself, and Bilbo weighed the benefits and drawbacks of such a deal; he’d gain access to an actual, real kitchen for the first time since he left Bag End, but the Company would most likely call him ‘little bunny’ for at least the next month. In the end, he decided that a kitchen was worth far more than a silly nickname.
“I’m glad to have come to an agreement,” he said, putting out his hand for Beorn to shake. The tall man had to bend down to grasp Bilbo’s hand, and when he did, he only used two fingers so Bilbo could continue with the ‘handshake’. It was close enough, so Bilbo wasn’t bothered.

Two hours later, just after lunchtime, Bilbo emerged from the kitchen, flour in his hair and lining the hems of his sleeves; he’d lost his overcoat in Goblintown, which really was a shame, and had abandoned his waistcoat halfway through his baking – the kitchen, combined with the heat of the sun, really was too hot for more layers than absolutely necessary. Calling the dwarves over had taken no time at all; once one of them noticed food, everyone else followed, and soon, they were all sitting outside on the green grass of Beorn’s garden, enjoying apple pie in the breeze.

He blithely ignored Thorin’s staring; the dwarf can speak, should he choose to.

–x–x–x–

Bilbo Baggins was a beguiling hypocrite, and a rascal to boot. After spending the entire morning hidden away in Beorn’s kitchen under the guise of a surprise , he’d finally vacated the house at around noon; the dwarrow had been wrestling, while those on medical leave (‘self-investment’, Óin had called it) or who deemed themselves too old or weary watched on from the sidelines. Thorin was sitting next to Balin, who was peacefully enjoying watching his brother wipe out the rest of the Company, and Óin, who came and went to ensure Thorin wouldn’t try anything stupid. Whatever that meant.

When a small call came from the house, no one paid it any mind; then, when Glóin turned his head towards the sky while being held in a kneeling headlock by Dwalin and attempting to kick Bifur behind him, the rest of them realised that the air had been filled with a sweet smell without their noticing. Turning, they all saw the hobbit walking happily towards them.
“What’s he got, Kí?” Fíli asked his brother, who had the best vision of them all – he was a Hawkeye, after all, though he preferred not to acknowledge the admittedly odd ability. Odd for a dwarf, at least.
Kíli gasped, before turning to his brother in excitement. “Apple pie!”
The dwarrow scrambled at the proclamation, racing towards their hobbit as if he’d eat the thing whole before they got there.
Bilbo only continued to walk deliberately prolonging his steps to make his still-untangling dwarrow wait.

Thorin did not notice when Bilbo started giving out slices to the company, nor when he admonished them for getting crumbs all over their clothes, only recently cleaned. He did not notice that the others complained about it, stating that there was a river nearby where they could easily clean their clothes again before they left.
Instead, Thorin was staring open-mouthed at the hobbit, who was scandalously dressed, from what he knew of hobbits; he wore no waistcoat, and his braces were loose on his shoulders as though he’d been pulling at them. His sleeves were rolled up – rolled up! – all the way to the elbow, though the hems were still coated in a fine layer of flour, as were his fingertips. He swiped a piece of hair from his face, and Thorin found the sight charming; the hobbit had streaks of white in his copper hair, glowing like brass in the sunlight, and Thorin wondered how it would feel under his fingers. Would it be soft, or would it feel silky? Would the curls bounce in his hands, and would they spring back into place if he pulled at one? Was it long enough to braid?
He was pulled from his thoughts by the subject of them sitting down, apparently amused at something.
“D’you want some pie?”
What?
“...Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies.”
“I do not catch flies,” Thorin said, almost as an automatic response. Bilbo’s eyes were, once again, tricking him; no discernable colour could be seen in their depths, so Thorin tried to focus elsewhere. He noticed two buttons Bilbo had undone at the collar of his shirt to let more air in, and followed the line of his collar bone to his braces, which Thorin hadn’t actually known Bilbo wore until that moment; they were decorated with twisting embroidery depicting vines and leaves that the dwarf could not identify. He realised that these patterns also continued around the neckline of Bilbo’s shirt, white thread on white – or, not so white anymore, but close enough to it that Thorin could picture it in his mind’s eye.
Belatedly, Thorin realised Bilbo must have been talking to him as his focus returned to the hobbit’s face; he appeared slightly concerned, but mostly… smug.
His hobbit was a strange one.
“Is there something I can help you with, Bilbo?”
“I said, you need to eat, you great lump. You barely touched your breakfast, and I’ve seen none of you get food since you came out here to wrestle.”
“That’s not true, Kíli-” Thorin found his words interrupted by the hobbit shoving the end of a slice of apple pie in his mouth. He rolled his eyes, waiting for something.
“Come on, I can’t hold it for you all day. Bite,” he said, raising his eyebrows; he’d managed to inveigle Thorin’s words from him, as well as whatever remained of his brain, so Thorin, unable to speak, did the next best thing; he bit.
The pie was wonderful. Sweet cinnamon mixed with the natural tartness of neatly-sliced apple, which was further complimented by a perfectly crumbly crust. Bilbo looked pointedly at the slice, before looking back at Thorin. Knowing his place, the dwarf took it, dipping his head in thanks before returning to the sweet treat. Throughout his life, he’d had a bit of a sweet tooth – being a prince, however, meant that he did not often get to indulge in his tastes. His grandfather had said that an abundance of treats or feasts would make his people feel contempt for the royals, wasting their money, while too few would cause them to worry about the economy. Then, when he’d gotten old enough to understand that that particular teaching may have been exaggerated, Erebor was evacuated, a live dragon resting upon its gold while their King watched with hungry eyes.
For all that the lines of the seven original dwarf lords received in preternatural gifts, they paid for in their predisposition to Gold Sickness.

As the afternoon passed, the dwarrow filtered back inside to investigate the stream running through Beorn’s property; Thorin elected to stay with Bilbo, who wished to enjoy some peace and quiet outside. They sat together silently, observing the way the trees swayed in the wind, and how the birds flew freely in the sky, cutting through its currents and rising with the thermals much like fish in the sea. More importantly, though, Thorin made it his duty to observe Bilbo ; he watched as the hobbit watched, getting lost in his own thoughts while his burglar did the same.

“Why did the other hobbits call you the burglar, like it was a title?” Thorin hadn’t quite meant for the question to slip from mind onto his lips, but by the time he realised, Bilbo had stilled beside him. They were sitting cross-legged, backs towards Beorn’s small forest while they faced East, the profile of the Lonely Mountain on the horizon. After some minutes, Bilbo turned to face him, though his body remained in its position.
“Well, it’s- when I was younger, I… made quite a big mistake. I- Thorin, you know how abilities work, yes?” Bilbo was fully facing Thorin now, knees brushing together with their proximity; Thorin felt much like a child learning a secret as he leaned towards his hobbit, voice low and calm.
“Yes, though we do not call them that. We call them the Baraz-Azan , the Red Shadow – dwarrow were mostly gifted with protective or functional abilities. The most common ones used to be things like the ability to produce fire, which helped with the forges, or the Stone-sense, which allowed some dwarrow to communicate with the rock and stone around us, the lands of the mountains. Now, few families outside the lineages of the seven original Dwarf Lords retain their Red Shadows, and even for us, they’re weakening. Why? Do hobbits experience it differently?” Throughout Thorin’s mini-speech, Bilbo’s eyebrows had risen almost all the way to his hairline before Thorin asked his questions.
“I did not know that. About you dwarrow, I mean – for us hobbits, it’s always just… been around. We knew it was weakening for the rest of the world, but to think some people just… don’t have them, it’s- well, it’s odd. For us, it’s guaranteed, assuming one parent has an ability, which means everyone in the Shire has one. In recent generations, they’ve been declining in strength – we have some more commonly found among our kind, too, like the Greenhands, which have something like Stone-sense for plants. Our records show that Greenhands could grow whole mature trees from nothing, but now, our strongest Greenhands- Greenhand can only do the same with a seed and at least ten days, uninterrupted. But, generally, they’re not really genetic. Anyone can have any ability, no matter what their parents have.” It was Thorin’s turn to gawk – the very notion that his hobbit’s people all had their own Baraz-Azan !
“Mahal’s balls,” he said, because he was not particularly articulate at that moment. “Not even all the Company have abilities.”
“Really?” Bilbo asked, head craning forwards as if they were little children, speaking of subjects their parents didn’t know they knew about.
“Yes – most of us are of the line of Durin, so that accounts for Fíli, Kíli, Balin, Dwalin, Óin, Glóin, and myself. Dori, Nori, and Ori all belong to the Broadbeams, so they have their own as well, but Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur have no Red Shadows.”
“That’s fascinating,” Bilbo said, and Thorin suddenly realised what colour his eyes were; they were like plume agate, a whirlpool of colours all mingling together like the Arkenstone itself. They were beautiful, and matched his spirit well.
“What makes your lineages so special as to keep your- your Barrazz-Azhahn?” Hearing Bilbo mispronounce Khuzdûl caused a hitch in Thorin’s breath as his heart rose in his chest; he let out a loud, joyful laugh, and Bilbo soon joined him. The two cackled with laughter, and eventually, Bilbo had to lie down because his chest was shaking too much for his injuries to deal with. Thorin joined him, and they lay together, side-by-side, watching the sky turn from red to navy.

Some time later, Bilbo picked up the conversation again.
“I can’t fully answer your question, Thorin,” he said, looking up to the sky. Starlight illuminated his skin, making him glow; he turned to face Thorin, then, and his kaleidoscopic eyes travelled around before returning to Thorin’s own.
“That’s alright, Bilbo. Whatever you’d like, tell me.”
Bilbo smiled softly. “You’re an idiot, and your forehead is comfortable, which is probably helped by all the insulation in your skull.”
“Bilbo, you know that’s not what I meant.”
“Well, my dear dwarf, what did you mean?”
“There is obviously a story behind your title within the Shire, even if you’ve never stolen anything. I’d like to hear it someday,” Thorin said, turning his head skywards to calm his heart from beating out of his chest. It’d been doing that a lot lately – he might have to ask Óin about it, though he supposed it might be related to his warg bite. Maybe he’d irritated the wound by laughing too much.
“I’d be amenable,” Bilbo replied, nudging Thorin’s temple with one of his knuckles. “But only if you stop taking the piss out of Beorn calling me ‘little bunny’.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me there.”
“Witless dwarf.”
“Stubborn hobbit.”

–x–x–x–

It was taboo, to talk about it.
He trusted Thorin, he really did – he even knew he was slowly falling for the dwarf, between his passionate, long-winded speeches and endearing displays of affection. From what he could gather, the dwarf felt much the same way.
They’d talk about it, someday – but, on a quest like this, upon which relied the futures of a whole population? They could not risk a division in the group, nor could he risk any strangers learning of his ability, least of all the orcs – Elrond had put the idea in his head, and it was now an image that haunted his sleep; an enemy, forcing him to steal gifts not meant for him? No. He’d done it once by accident, and thrice to relieve the dying of the madness which came at the end of all things, but none of those experiences were pleasant.
Least of all when the trees first started whispering to him, when he found he couldn’t starve or become deprived of sleep, nor when he returned to the Shire, only just an adult, with injuries which healed far faster than they should have.
Bungo, Belladonna, Arathorn. And her .

Chapter Text

It was with a startling jolt that Bilbo recognised the eerie feeling caressing his mind as the Company travelled closer to Mirkwood, once Greenwood. He’d have told Gandalf about it, but the wizard was off in his own world, staring with eyes that didn’t really see into the middle-distance. It was like he was having some kind of staring contest with an invisible elf, able to keep their eyes open for hours on end.
Eventually, it was Bifur who approached him.
“You, alright?” he asked, utilising what little Iglishmêk Bilbo had picked up. The Company didn’t know he was learning it – if only the basics, so he could talk to Bifur, until he could get permission – so he had to be careful about who was watching. No one was, as things were; they were at the back of the group, and only Thorin would have been watching, as he normally did, but he was talking at rather than to Kíli about the use of hydraulic supports in coal mines, and how it could cause catastrophic bumps and contribute to the degradation of structural integrity. Even being at the back, Bilbo listened to Thorin’s ramblings.
“Yes. Feels similar,” he signed back, pointing towards the forest.
“How?”
“In the Shire,” he spoke, voice hushed so as not to attract attention, “we have a forest like this. Big, old. And it feels… infested, like a disease lies upon it.”
“Why?”
“We’ve always suspected it was the water,” Bilbo replied simply. The two rode on in silence after that, leading Beorn’s ponies carefully through the plains which lie between his abode and the Woodland Realm. They were still on the bear’s land, and safe for now, so Bilbo allowed himself the time to muse.
It was not a good idea.

–x–x–x–

Glóin’s eyes flitted back and forth across the treeline; vast woodlands stood before them, stretching beyond what any besides perhaps Kíli could see. It swallowed the land like an ocean, becoming deeper and darker the further you got from the edge. The Grey Mountains stood to the North, obscuring the Lonely Mountain from view with the Eastwards extension the Withered Heath provided. To the South stood Moria, and later, Rhovanion, where the world extended into flat, dry plains bordered only by evil lands and the sea. As his eyes scanned, his mind ran the numbers – there were tens of thousands of trees in the forest, even when sectioning off their path from the rest of the Woodland Realm. Bouquets of orange grasped desperately for the sun’s warmth, which, even with his limited plant knowledge, struck Glóin as odd. Nevertheless, he did his job, and reported his numbers to Thorin.

Life was a numbers game. For Glóin, all he ever saw were numbers, statistics, market values – it was a gift for someone of his profession, but (even though he’d never admit it aloud) a blight on his concentration; being in battle and determining the market value of your enemy’s armour was not particularly helpful in a life-or-death situation, which battle most definitely counted as. It was, however, helpful for more than calculating how many coins were in someone’s hand, especially on a quest such as this, where much distance was covered in a relatively small amount of time. Glóin constantly checked in with Thorin regarding the distance between them and their next visible checkpoint, and how long Glóin determined it would take them to get there. From his original predictions, they’d have already been halfway through Mirkwood by now, but that was quickly derailed as soon as they started the damned mission. Even getting to the hobbit’s house occurred later than they’d expected, and so they left after they had planned to. They’d made up for the lost time quite well, what with all the running from orcs and wargs, as well as their little detour through the Misty Mountains rather than over them, which saved several days despite how unpleasant it was. Staying at Beorn’s was necessary, but they stayed longer than he’d wanted to – they were on a time crunch, after all. They’d have to walk around Esgaroth, as well as the lake it sat on, for they had no boats, and planned to receive no help or blessings from the Wood-Elves. What Beorn had told them only confirmed their suspicions.

Riding up to Thorin at the front, Glóin interrupted his tedious lecture, for which Kíli gave him a quick pat to thank him for saving his ears.
“There are many thousands of trees between us and Esgaroth,” he said. He’d learned early on that giving specific figures didn’t get the point across quite as well.
“How long?”
“Twelve and a half days at this pace, or fourteen at a walk. Knowing our luck, we’ll be chased through, so cut that to six, assuming we sleep thrice.”
“Acceptable. Thank you, Glóin. And, may I inquire as to exactly how many trees are in our path?”
It was unlike Thorin to take an interest in the exact figures floating around in Glóin’s mind, especially regarding anything that wasn’t to do with finances or battle preparation. Glóin, however, did not delay in responding, for his cousin, dense as he could be, never asked questions without reason.
“Well, accounting for the curvature of the path and a generous space of ten metres either side of it, we’d be moving past trees averaging at 3.7 metres in diameter at the trunk from what I can see, and the forest gets thicker the further we go in, so we’ll be within ten metres of up to just over twenty-five trees at any given point. That’s allowing for some extra space between each tree besides what could theoretically fit in an area with that radius, and not accounting for any saplings, for I cannae see any, so it’s likely to change. Other than that, we’ll be able to see about 10,166 trees surrounding us within our sights at any time, reliant upon the ground being level and everyone’s vision being accurate. Kíli, of course, is not included in this judgement.”
Thorin nodded slowly, barely comprehending the numbers, which Glóin had dulled down anyway, taking away the long decimals as he knew how they’d confuse Thorin and distract him from determining whatever it was he was thinking about.
“This is valuable information, Glóin. Thank you.”
As if to mark their conversation as finished, Thorin continued on at his pace, glaring sternly at the forest as though it had slapped him across the face. Glóin watched him ride in companionable silence with Dwalin for three hours before he moved, or even acknowledged the warrior’s presence; when he did, it was brief, before he guided his pony out of the line, attentive to each dwarf as he passed where he rejoined the line at the end. He rode silently next to the burglar, who said a simple greeting before gathering an understanding of Thorin’s silent mood.

Glóin was thoroughly confused. He was also mortified, questioning whether that was how he behaved before he started courting his beloved.

–x–x–x–

Something suspicious was going on with his uncle.

Kíli, as the youngest of the Company and self-proclaimed ‘spare’ Prince of Erebor, was often overlooked, treated as a child or simply ignored by his elders. Kíli was fine with this, most of the time; he had his proficiencies, and politics, without a doubt, was not one of them – instead, he preferred hunting, utilising long-range weapons and tactics which required complete precision. As one of the Princes of Erebor, people were often shocked by his Red Shadow, opting not to talk about it except in their private quarters, where they would not publicly offend their King’s second heir.

Just a few days prior, he’d taken Nori up on his betting ledger, and had placed decent money on his routine-based uncle having no relations with Mister Boggins. He’d told Kíli – and, by extension, Fíli – to call him Bilbo at the Trollshaws. Kíli had far too much of a taste for the comical to ever adhere to their hobbit’s requests. Either way, regardless of what he called their burglar, Kíli was starting to suspect he was doing something to his uncle.
Thorin now did exactly three things, compared to his normal two: he brooded, he talked, and he spent copious amounts of time talking to or about Bilbo. Mister Boggins seemed entirely unaware of it, or if he had noticed, he’d decided to give Thorin some leeway, since he’d said nothing. He occasionally laughed at Thorin’s antics, but didn’t address the behaviour – Kíli realised that he couldn’t expect their hobbit to do that, because Thorin had been acting like that the entire time they’d been travelling since leaving the Shire, so he wouldn’t know the dwarf any other way.

Kíli had been willing to let it slide for the past few months – after all, his uncle was a reasonable person, and had claimed in Bag End that he was not in any way responsible for Mister Boggins’ life, nor his survival. In fact, it’d only really ever been the other way around – Bilbo had saved them from the Trolls, and had defended him from Azog. He even managed to recover Thorin’s shield afterwards, pulling it from the back of his Eagle, like nothing had ever happened to it! He supposed Thorin could have just summoned it, but Kíli wasn’t so sure that Bilbo knew how Red Shadows worked – or, if he did, they definitely worked differently for hobbits.
No matter what he thought, he wouldn’t go back on his bet, for he was a dwarf of his word. He did, however, find it odd that Thorin requested specifics for the amount of trees in a forest, of all things, before relaying the information to Bilbo at the back of the line, hours after he’d initially been told. It was eerie, and absolutely un-Thorin-like.
Kíli, over his years watching, had become very good at lip-reading.
“Fí,” he hissed, gathering his brother’s attention. “Look.”
Fíli turned his head slowly to where Kíli was looking, and joined the younger as a second witness to the madness occuring behind them. Fíli looked back to him, confused.
“What?”
“Do you not see them?”
“Yes, I see them,” Fíli said in that tone of voice which he usually used when Kíli was being a bit slow on the uptake. Kíli had no clue what he was supposedly being so slow about.
“Isn’t it weird, how Uncle is acting?”
“Nope.” Fíli’s smug grin made Kíli grin along, despite not knowing why exactly they were grinning.
“Spoilsport,” Kíli said instead, nudging his brother’s shoulder. With his fist.
“Boulderbrain,” Fíli returned, kicking Kíli’s shin; they burst into fits of giggles between play-fighting and calling one another names.
“BOYS!”
Hm. Shit.

–x–x–x–

The Old Forest in the Shire, in spite of its position right next to Hobbiton, gained very few visitors; not even the Greenhands of the Shire, of any level of notoriety, would go anywhere near it, avoiding it like the plague with a ten-foot pole between themselves and even a leaf from one of its trees. Hobson Gamgee once said it was like death without dying, an overwhelming darkness; Bilbo’s father once said it was less like darkness, and more like an absence of light of any kind. No life breathed within its borders, and the roots beneath the soil were plagued by a sickness which rendered them dead while they still grew. They devoured anything which would dare step foot under the canopy.

The Elders said it was something to do with the water.

As a fauntling, Bilbo, much like others his age, hardly believed them; he and his friends – in much the same vein of thought as other younglings over the years of the Shire’s existence – desperately wished to find out for themselves, to sneak in and see if it really was a place of breathing ghosts, shells of dead trees mimicking life. They wished to see whether Hobson or Bungo were right, whether it was an abundance of darkness or scarcity of light.

Some people, when they’re born, do not immediately display their abilities; it is not obvious at birth what one may be able to do, as had been the case with many children in the Shire, and in the towns of Men surrounding the green fields. It was also common for any abilities to only become apparent in childhood, after a small accident or outburst, causing the child to use their ability instinctively. Often, these resulted in small accidents; Bungo, as a child, had accidentally uprooted his mother’s flowerbeds when he learned a friend of his was moving, as many Greenhands had done. Belladonna’s story was much funnier to Bilbo’s child-mind; she’d decided to try and stay awake for as long as she could, so she could catch nymphs in the garden. She caught no nymphs, but did stay awake for six months without experiencing any adverse effects, which she’d then learn along her travels also extended to eating and drinking. Isembard Took had apparently set his top on fire in his excitement upon receiving it.

Bilbo was not so lucky as to have a story such as theirs.

Instead, he stole something from someone he cared about.

She’d grown up not knowing what her ability was; as a child, though, she’d constantly go swimming, and did not mind the smoke caused by bonfires at festivals. By the time she was eight, they’d about figured it out; she could breathe anything, so long as oxygen was present. It had taken a few loaned books and knowledge from passing Dwarven traders, but this was not unusual – new abilities popped up in the Shire all the time, even with all the more common ones floating about family lines.

Bilbo distinctly remembers attending her tenth birthday; the smell of the flowers as they were gifted to her and placed around the Party Tree. Ten was not one of the most special birthdays, but was regarded as a hobbit growing from ‘fauntling’ to ‘faunt’; double digits, they called it, and it apparently marked an important change in one’s life. Bilbo, having turned nine the previous September, asked her what it was like. She said she felt the same, and Bilbo suggested they see if the Elders would let her stand closer to the bonfire now. She laughed, a tinkling thing, before slapping his shoulder, initiating a race – first to the bonfire wins. They ran, laughing as they went, and eventually reached the bonfire, surrounded by parents as well as Elders; the spring carried warm days, but evenings could become cold quickly, so they were gathered around for warmth.
They were told to step back once they got too close.
“Maybe you’ll be able to next year,” Bilbo suggested instead; eleven was an important age, because it was the first repeat-age, where two or more of the same number appeared.
“Perhaps,” she said, smiling down at him. They travelled from there to the nearby river Brandywine, to a little shallow area fauntlings were allowed to swim in. Now, being a faunt, she could swim in slightly deeper depths, and could go as far as three metres from the riverside; it was an exciting prospect for her, as she adored the water in the same way many hobbits adored the earth. Bilbo opted to stand in the shallows as far out as he could go – he wanted to join her, but wouldn’t be able to until the next autumn, and aside from that, he couldn’t swim.
“I’ll teach you!” she exclaimed, excitement in her voice as it echoed through the mid-evening air.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Yes.”
Well, she was older than him, and they were related, so technically she counted as a guardian. Besides, she was a confident swimmer; if anything happened, she could easily pull him from the water. Bilbo wasn’t a small hobbit, but he was far from the largest of his age.
So it was that the two came to be in the water, the older teaching the younger how to swim. Bilbo swirled his arms and feet around at first, but only sank whenever he was let go of. Many hobbits experienced this, aside from the Stoors, who had a natural affinity for navigating water. Having half Stoor blood, his cousin was proficient, especially for her age.

All was going well – the two were enjoying themselves immensely, which was amplified by the level of secrecy behind it all. Just as the thought of showing his mother he could swim arrived in Bilbo’s mind, a sudden, strong undercurrent whipped past him; without his cousin’s aid, he could do nothing to combat its strength, and knew not which way to swim to get out of it, so he flailed and thrashed as he was dragged down into the watery abyss below him. Enveloping cold is the first thing he felt, before his foot connected with a rock, causing him to cry out, but there was no air – no air, not in a place like this, nothing to breathe and his lungs were filling and he couldn’t see and-
A hand shot through the water, to which Bilbo held on for dear life – and a dear life it would cost.

That day, when her hand reached out for him, Bilbo had yet to find out what his ability was. He’d tried staying up like his mother, but that failed, as did trying to make something grow; he was not discouraged, though, because the only genetic part about abilities was whether you had one or not; specific abilities did not usually pass down a bloodline, and when they did, they seemed to be pure coincidence.

That day, Bilbo didn’t just find his own ability, but he gained a second; as their hands connected, the water filling his lungs became easier to breathe through. It was uncomfortable, having that much pressure in there, but he found that he could breathe. He was no longer choking on the rushing blue surrounding him.
His cousin pulled him from the water, none the wiser; she hauled him from their depth onto the shore, where he coughed up the water he’d swallowed, but felt no pain in doing so – it was much like a regular cough, an expulsion of unnecessary volume.
One of the older faunts had noticed the two were missing, and had sent for an adult to check if they were in the Brandywine, predictable as they were. Hobson found them on the bank, Bilbo coughing up piles of water while the two sat, sopping wet, on the cold night’s grass. They talked while Hobson fetched the doctor, and by the time anyone returned, the two were sat happily under the moon, talking as they normally did. They were cold, but healthy.
“That;s sure lucky you didn’t drown there, Master Baggins,” Hobson said, pulling Bilbo up by his hand, as well as his cousin. “You two’d better get back to your parents. They’ve not been told yet, but news will spread.” He then guided them back to the party, one hand over each hobbit’s shoulder.
Bilbo was grounded for a week.
She was awarded for her bravery, and allowed even further in the river if she had an adult with her.

Two days later, she dove under the water, and never came back up.

–x–x–x–

Three days into Mirkwood, they lost the path.
Kíli had been leading them along at the front of the group, using his Hawkeyes to see farther ahead than any of them feasibly could, even in broad daylight; the way was dark, the sun covered by the thick canopy of the firs, oaks and beeches rising from the soil to tower above bird and beast alike.

Dori, for his part, had spent the time knitting; he was a weaver by trade, but carrying a weaving loom about was horribly impractical, not to mention difficult. As a result, he’d turned instead to knitting along with Ori, who would switch between knitting and crocheting as they rode, gifting his creations to the Company or wearing them himself. Dori did much the same, though he stuck to his knitting needles, short and thick – he’d made gloves and socks for his brothers and himself, and had started working on some for the rest of the Company. They were approaching the Lonely Mountain, and along with it, the autumn and winter seasons; in the East, the cold alone was enough to kill a Man if he did not wear enough layers. With Erebor reclaimed, they’d be able to light the mountain’s central forges – great machines of fire and energy, which heated the mountain in the harsh winters as they worked. Before then, however, they’d have to combat the frost which was likely already littering the mountain. In addition to this, from what he’d been told as a travelling pebble, the Long Lake was predominantly made of ice year-round, aside from three months in the late spring when it was completely clear, before locking itself behind ice floats once again after summer arrived. They’d have to travel around the Long Lake unless they needed to stop in Esgaroth for supplies (which he expected wouldn’t be necessary, but one can never make too many preparations for the event of a mishap). Which meant the cold.
Upon setting off from the Shire, many of the Company were dressed in travelling gear appropriate for general year-round weather; they had layered tunics, thick trousers, and cloaks both waterproof and fur-lined. Since then, they’d been spit-roasted by Trolls, waylaid by a wizard and the Elves of Imladris, accosted by goblins and assaulted by Azog before landing themselves in the home of a cursed bear-man. Between these events, unexpected as they were, a fair share of their equipment had been lost, including rain-cloaks, overcoats, and gloves, to name a few. During the summer, these losses, while noted, were not particularly dangerous or prominent. As the colder months approached, Dori began to worry.
When Dori worried, everyone heard about it.

This is how Dori found himself knitting everything from socks to scarves to jumpers for his friends; first came Ori and Nori, of course, who, respectively, graciously and begrudgingly accepted their items, placing them in their packs to keep safe until they had need of them. Next had been Fíli and Kíli, who were too young to be on this journey; Dori thought the same of Ori, but the three were all of similar ages, so he supposed it just spread from one to the other to the next. Soon after that, Bilbo had been added to his list of knitwear-owners; he refused to wear shoes, so Dori knitted him no socks, but did make leg-warmers which he could wear over his long trousers to provide an extra layer of warmth. He also made the hobbit some fingerless gloves, so he’d still be able to use his nimble hands without having them freeze over. After him came Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur, followed by Glóin and Óin, who’d all happily accepted their new items. Balin and Dwalin were much the same, but as Dori was walking through the dull forest, surrounded by trees so grey they seemed dead, he wondered if he’d be able to give Thorin his items and leave straight away, so as not to instigate a discussion on how he’d made them, or what stitches he’d used and where, as well as the historical uses of those stitches. While Dori would normally love to invest himself in such topics, he found he was abnormally tired, exhausted, even – the forest felt like it extended forever.

Dori hadn’t realised straight away when they’d lost the path – no one had, and no one could pinpoint a time when they felt the cobbled path beneath them disappear – but he was once of the first to realise. He didn’t often look at his knitting, as it was simple muscle memory for him, but he could tell he was reaching the end of his skein, which would mean interweaving another into this article; as he started adjusting his wool, he realised that the ground below him was brown rather than the monotonous grey he’d become accustomed to.

For the next four days – or, well, Dori thought it was four, but it could have been three, or five, or even perhaps weeks rather than days, it was getting more and more difficult to keep track of time – they wandered through the forest, travelling in a single-file line and patting at the ground with sticks or weapons to see if they heard the stone. When that didn’t work, someone – Dori could not recall who, even immediately afterwards – suggested they get to higher ground to see where it was. They continued walking, and eventually stumbled across a river; it flowed, but it was black, and thick like sludge. They wished to steer well clear of it, heeding Beorn’s warnings at the sight of it, but knew they had to cross it. Eventually, someone (Dori suspected Bilbo, based on the wording) asked if it was at all possible that there was a boat on either of the banks. Kíli located one on the other embankment soon after, and lassoed some hemp rope around it, pulling it to their own shore. Then, in groups of two or three, they navigated their way across the water, pulling themselves to the other side before sending one person back with the boat. Dori, his brothers, Óin, Glóin, Bifur, Bilbo, Kíli, and Fíli were on the far side when Bombur went across alone; Dwalin had taken Bilbo and Bifur across before pulling himself back, allowing Bombur to cross; they then planned for Kíli to bring the boat around so the others could cross in the same fashion as they had been. Bombur, heavy as he was, couldn’t go with another, not without risking sinking the boat; none of them wanted to fall into the water, for it looked putrid and accursed. This thought of Dori’s was followed by Bombur getting into the nearly comically small boat alone, getting just clear of the embankment, before the boat tipped and he was submerged. Dwalin, Balin, Bofur, and Thorin immediately jumped into action; three leapt for Bombur while Balin attempted to stabilise the boat. They did not manage to reach the ginger-haired dwarf before he was fully submerged, and when he was pulled from the water by grasping hands, he was sound asleep, and there was nothing they could do to awaken him.
Soon enough, it was decided that Bofur would take his brother across, where Óin could try to wake him from his river-induced slumber; Dori could not remember much of the crossing itself, focussing instead on his knitting as a form of distraction, but he remembered Óin saying there was nothing he could do. So, with a snoozing dwarf and two worried family members about, the others did what they could; they gathered some branches together and used some of Dori’s spare fabric to create a makeshift stretcher, which they would use to carry Bombur, working in rotations of four; strangely enough, Bombur was not wet at all, so Óin proclaimed there was no risk of hypothermia, only whatever sleep-spell the river had placed upon him.

Dori knitted when he could, and when he couldn’t, he took his turn in carrying Bombur through the dark, rotten woodland.

–x–x–x–

They organised themselves into three groups of four, based on height; those of similar heights would work together to carry Bombur to minimise discomfort and maximise their efficiency. The tallest were Dwalin, Thorin, Óin, and Kíli, who worked the first shift; the second was taken up by Bifur, Bofur, Glóin, and Nori, who were all very similar in height. The third was made of the smallest dwarrow, consisting of Dori, Ori, and Balin, as well as Bilbo – being a hobbit, Bilbo was easily the smallest of the group, but was similar in height to Balin. Since Fíli was much taller than the second and third groups, but slightly too short for the first, he was placed on lookout duty.

Changing their shifts every two hours was difficult at first, but eventually, they got the hang of it, giving themselves no time for breaks in between; Glóin was adamant that they continue on, forcing their way through the trees in their attempt to make up for however much time they’d lost. The problem with that was they didn’t know how much time they’d lost, nor did they have any way to find out until they got out of the stupid forest.
They rarely spoke, and Fíli found it unsettling. Having travelled with the group for several months, he was used to their antics, which he often participated in or started with his brother, but now, they were silent, morose as if they were carrying a casket rather than a glorified hammock for a very much alive dwarf. They’d all been quiet since Bilbo expressed that the place felt sick, and Nori whispered worriedly of someone, or something, moving around them at night, crawling through the canopy like a spider in a web.

As it turned out, it was several spiders in webs.

Fíli walked ahead, wondering whether it was time to eat yet – he’d not had much of an appetite for a few days, which he knew to be a negative sign, as they hadn’t eaten since just before Bombur fell. It had been a few days at least since then.
Nodding to himself, Fíli turned back to the Company, only to find a large, disgusting creature above them, lowering itself slowly on spindly legs attached to a gossamer thread which shone in the low light.
“ABOVE!” Fíli shouted, raising his sword and running towards his companions while he warned them of the danger; as he did, the spider dropped from its high perch in mid-air, falling to the floor with an arrow in its eye; Kíli had whipped out his bow and shot the beast before Fíli had even said anything, accustomed to each others’ actions as they were. Those who were carrying Bombur – the middle group – stilled, listening to the forest around them.
“There’s more,” Nori whispered, horror dawning in his eyes. “A lot more.”
As if appearing out of thin air, gargantuan spiders launched themselves from between the trees, lunging towards the closest dwarrow while others scuttled around the outskirts, waiting to see if the dwarves would bite first. Battlecries met with repulsive clacking as the two groups met in a bloody, explosive skirmish; Bombur was placed on the floor, not too gently, and a circle formed around him, protecting his prone form from the spiders. Fíli fought with his two swords, hacking and slashing at limbs and mandibles, stabbing into heads and covering the backs of his family. He pierced one in the eye before bringing his other sword up across its body, killing it, and he turned to throw a dagger to Nori so he could have a spare to kill the one going for Ori. His throw fell short, because a sharp stinging pain erupted in the middle of his back, before everything went dark.

Translucent white thread covered him from head to toe, the gauzy substance cold and wet on his skin, pinning his arms together uncomfortably as he was dragged away across the forest floor. Battle still raged behind him, and Fíli suspected he’d woken up far earlier than most normally do – unsurprising, but something he was incredibly thankful for in that moment, and was sure he’d continue to be until they were all free of the vile arachnids inhabiting the Woodland Realm. If they had any doubts about calling it Mirkwood, those were well and truly gone; it was clearly infested with the spiders, as hundreds of them had descended on the Company just minutes before.
One by one, the cries of his companions faded, until only one was left; someone was shouting to them, and from the tone of voice, it sounded like they were trying to goad them into going somewhere.

Fíli was strung up next to eleven other dwarves while he watched and waited. Revealing himself too early would only serve to get him another dose of their poison, but too late and he’d be dinner.
The voice grew more and more distant while crashes and thunks echoed throughout the cavern of webs housed under the canopy. Finally, feeling like he was alone, Fíli stabbed through the thick layers of string, using the hole to tear his way out; he fell from his chrysalis into another web, from which he grasped onto a thick branch. Layers upon layers of webs hung carefully below him, all the way to the ground, which was barely visible through the sheer abundance of the webs. Carefully and quickly, Fíli sneaked around the others, cutting them loose from the branches above which served as a sort of spidery hanging rack, allowing their weights to be held without warping any of the intricate network. The dwarrow, one by one, fell softly into each layer, which broke their fall to the forest floor. Many got up slowly, groggily, like someone who’d had too much to drink on a night out waking to find they had to go to work; the few who were more lucid shook the others, awakening them from their unrestful rest. Fíli climbed down to join them, but noted that two were still missing; Uncle Thorin was nowhere to be seen, even up in the trees, and no one had seen him get captured; Bilbo had also disappeared, but Nori confirmed that it was him who lead the spiders away with his songs designed to infuriate and confusticate.

Spiders descended upon them once again shortly after, sparking a fight on the run, during which neither of the missing members were seen; as they approached a clearing, Fíli took it upon himself to lead in his Uncle’s absence.
“We make a stand here!”
Shouts of ‘aye’ followed, as did several Dwarvish battlecries, igniting their anger once more and aggravating the spiders at the same time. It was a while before anything happened; one minute, they were fighting as they had been for the past few hours, on-and-off, and the next, an Elvish arrow pierced through the eye of a beast which was lunging for Balin. Elves burst from the trees, launching a barrage of arrows at the pitiful creatures below, aiming for the eyes and mouths; the dwarrow did the same, hacking at their limbs to immobilise them so another could stab the throat, killing each one swiftly. Within minutes, the clearing was clear of spiders, and Fíli turned around to address the Company – and then Kíli’s cry of panic echoed through the area, putting Fíli back into fight-or-flight, determined to reach his brother. Instead, an elf stopped him, pulling his bow to full-draw right at Fíli’s temple, daring him to move, if only to see what would happen.
Fíli knew he could survive a lot of things, but an arrow to the brain was not one of them.

Slowly, they were bound, blindfolded, and led in a row through the forested lands, tripping over tree roots while the elves walked silently, half-giggling to themselves each time one of the dwarrow tripped.

They were filtered through a great gate lying at the end of a bridge, under which rushing water flowed; it sounded clearer, not as viscous as the one Bombur had fallen into, and Fíli wondered how he was faring – he’d been awake and aware when they battled the spiders for the second time, but having the spider’s poison in his system, along with whatever the river’s ailment was? Bombur had no Red Shadow – he was of no notable lines, and so had no safety nets, no fallback options. Fíli nearly felt sick pondering over Bombur’s condition.
Walking through the vast halls of the Woodland Realm, Fíli could tell they were constructed in a cavernous, open way – every sound echoed throughout the place, bouncing from wall to wall and filtering into his ears. Nori must be having the time of his life.
Off in the distance, Thorin’s angered voice reached the Company, which caused them to start calling to him, making noise enough so he could hear, and know they were safe; they were quickly quietened by kicking elves, and shoved into cells all over the place. Fíli was placed in with Kíli, a small cell evidently meant for one; Balin was placed in the same hallway as them, in a cell further along next to a cleaning cupboard. The Company was scattered through the Elvenking’s halls, and if Thorin failed to strike a deal, they had only one other hope.
A small hobbit, who remained elusive to spiders, elves, and dwarrow alike.
Fíli ignored the part of his mind telling him it was possible he’d been eaten.

–x–x–x–

Balin was a warrior, but before that, he was a tactician of old; he spoke at the high tables of the Dwarf Lords, and helped in some of the most important decisions made for all of Dwarven kind. He had a silver tongue, eased by the Red Shadow called Silvertongue. It was an apt name, he thought, though not quite as creative as some of the other common ones. If you asked Balin, he’d say he thought Dwalin’s was the best, while Óin’s was the most surprising. He was a healer, so the ability itself wasn’t too out of place, but its name, when translated into Westron, was… well, not quite what people expected it to be. Dori and Ori, Defenders that they were, had one of the most common Red Shadows for dwarrow, especially of the Broadbeam line; it was reflected in their strong Broadbeam features, though not in their social status, with their parents being denounced.
Balin hoped they’d be able to reinstate their familial success once they got to Erebor; he knew Thorin would likely offer each member of the Company an important role or seat on the council – even if they didn’t accept, the act alone would boost their reputation.

An elf with long brown hair passed by, and Balin decided to test his luck.
“Master Elf,” he called, wrapping the words in as much influence as he could; they were cushioned by velvet, landing softly in the air and forcing the elf to listen, whether he wanted to or not. Whether he knew it was happening or not. Balin sincerely hoped he didn’t. “Now, Master Elf, don’t you think it unnecessary to keep all us dwarves separated? Your dungeons are impenetrable, forged of unbreakable metal and complex locks. Isn’t it an insult to your own realm, to keep us apart? To prove that we are a threat?” he asked, blanketing his questions in a careful layer of syrup – not too much, but not too little.
The elf looked at him, and seemed to falter for a second, before his demeanour became friendly; he nodded enthusiastically. Balin still had his charm, after all.
“You make some very good points, Dwarf. I shall change your cell formation immediately.” With that, he ran off; he returned ten minutes later, a large set of keys dangling from his hand. He freed Balin, taking him to a much higher level of the kingdom where a set of cells sat in a small cove, which was split in half by a waterfall. Once he was assured that Balin was in his cell securely, he set off, finding the rest of the dwarrow and relocating them to the cove-cells. When he brought Thorin up last, both elf and dwarf looked thoroughly confused; Balin knew the elf was still under his influence, so he chalked it up to them being seen or questioned by a guard.
“Thank you, Master Elf,” Balin said, ensuring that his influence was still established. Once he was happy, he dismissed the elf, sending him off to complete his duties as normal.
They were silent for a while, until Nori gave the all-clear; then, twelve different voices sounded out in a chorus of questions.
“Quiet, quiet, one at a time,” he said, no influence in his words. The dwarrow adhered anyway, knowing that whatever he had to say would be interesting.
“Why’d you get him to put us all in the same place?” Kíli asked, the question shooting from his mouth before he could close it.
“Because, Kíli, we can now communicate.” He then turned to where he knew Thorin’s cell was; he was tucked away in a corner, so no one could see him and vice versa, but they knew he was there. “What did he ask?”
“He attempted to bargain our livelihoods for our freedom, not so nicely. It was weird – he’s a Silvertongue, Balin, and a King. We frown upon it for good reason.”
“Yes, I did always wonder about that,” Balin mused; in Dwarven culture, no Silvertongues were allowed to be rulers, for that could give the wrong person the right opportunity to control and command a civilisation.
“He tried to use it, of course,” Thorin scoffed, infuriated by the audacity of the Elven king. What ruler in their right mind tried to control another? Least of all one who had connections with other Silvertongues! “He wanted the gems of Lasgalen, which was expected, but then he tried to add more and more to the deal using that forked tongue of his – no offence, Balin – despite his station and responsibilities. I did not react kindly to it.”
Balin sighed a long and weary groan, before he sat down in his cell. He might as well get comfortable.
“We’ve no hope.”
“Not no hope,” Thorin said, low and wistful.

–x–x–x–

As the Company were slowly picked off by spiders, Bilbo heard, in his mind, a whisper; it got louder and louder until it demanded his attention, at which point he realised that it was telling him to wear it.
The ring.
The little golden ring he’d picked up in the goblin tunnels was talking to him.
In his head.
Telling him to put it on.
Can’t make things much worse , Bilbo thought; he reached into his pocket, and slipped the band over his finger.
The world stopped for a second, before it continued, achromatic and indistinct; small white shaped combatted round dark ones, and everything moved like it was walking in water, slow and clumsy. Bilbo himself could move normally, but felt horribly disorientated by the sluggish movements surrounding him. A spider zipped past him, going straight for Ori; it had ignored him entirely. Cautiously, with his little sword at the ready, Bilbo crept up on a spider, delving his sword into its abdomen. It died quickly, but note before turning around to swipe at him – only, it didn’t. It spoke .
“Ssstingssssss!! It sstiiingssssss!” it screeched, hissing each syllable through both pain and natural limitation. “Where iss it?”
“Where, where?”
“Where is it?”
Other spiders joined the cacophony surrounding him, sounding out throughout the clearing and into the depths of the forest. They couldn’t see him. And neither, apparently, could anyone else; several members of the Company completely ignored his presence. Bilbo did what he could; he ran like the wind, chanting obscenities and insults as he went.
Sting. A good name, that.

Getting into the Elvenking’s halls was easy; he followed the blindfolded and bound Company from the spiders’ nest right to the front gate, though when he thought back on how he’d gotten there, he couldn’t recall. Gandalf had told them to stay on the path, and that was probably why. Bilbo liked to think that if the grey wizard knew about the spiders, he’d have at least warned them, even if it was one of his more cryptic warnings than an outright statement.

It took him two days to locate his dwarrow; in the end, they were all tucked away in a corner together, though he was sure he’d heard one of the guards talking about keeping them in separate areas. Instead, Bilbo had followed Thorin’s voice – he’d been anxious about the dwarf’s disappearance, so he was glad to hear the familiar tones, even if they were angry. And confrontational. And loud. And none of that was a good sign. Not at all.

Thorin was taken to a cell by himself in one of the deepest parts of the kingdom; his hands were bound and he was guarded constantly, aside from three short minutes between guard rotations when he was left alone. During these minutes, Bilbo decided he’d have to reveal himself – he couldn’t risk taking the ring off, nor could he risk talking, so he attempted to find some paper and a pen. When that failed, he instead resorted to the one thing he knew he could do which would make the dwarf recognise him: nudging him.

Over the course of their travels, the dwarrow had often headbutted one another as an act of familial love, or to show care for one another. The first time Bilbo had seen it was with Balin and Dwalin in his smial; he’d cringed, preparing for one of them to ask him to lower the lights due to a pain in their head, but no such request came. As he travelled with the rowdy group, he recognised it as a pattern – family units would headbutt each other to assure one another that they were there, alive and cared for. When Kíli had tried to headbutt Bilbo, the only result was a yelp and a light headache; Bifur had chewed Kíli’s ear off while Thorin had glared at everyone within ten feet of them. Instead, Bilbo had taken up tapping the dwarves; he’d pat them on the arm, or tap their shoulders together. The others quickly caught on, and Bilbo frequently felt his dwarrow tapping his arms or shins, bumping their shoulders against his, or knocking their knuckles against his back.

In his mind, Bilbo knew that Thorin would recognise his taps – so that’s what he did. He reached through the bars to Thorin’s cell, slowly so he didn’t alert the dwarf, before he tapped his left shoulder where it met the clavicle. Thorin, standing at the cell’s door, was looking down with his tied hands at his back – then, without warning, his eyes flew upwards, wild and bewildered at the contact. He did not, of course, see what (or who) he was expecting to see, and so, decided it was a good idea to speak.
“Bilbo?”
When no confirmation but another tap came, the heir to the Throne Under the Mountain deemed it wise to release his unnecessary words from his lips. Again.
“Bilbo! What are you doing here? I can’t see-”
Hands muffled Thorin’s voice as Bilbo shoved his other arm through the bars to shush the dwarf. He really could be an idiot sometimes.
Footsteps alerted him to the approaching guards, who would soon block his chances of leaving with their lights – he could not be seen, but had figured out that he could still cast a shadow, though it was faint. The hobbit dropped his hands from Thorin’s face to his chest, where he tapped out a short rhythm and turned away – a silent promise to return.

When he did return, he’d had no luck in finding anyone, and Thorin was gone.

Only once Bilbo stopped to think did he realise that he felt like he was being watched.

Floating through the halls of a grumpy Elf on a power trip was not fun.

Through the low light of the night, Bilbo navigated his way through winding hallways and unmarked doors, all so similar in design but so vastly different in detail that he lost track of them almost immediately. He needn’t sleep, nor did he feel particularly hungry, so his stops were not for a lack of energy or fuel; instead, he ceased his searching in the daytime because the lights were ever so slightly brighter, which pushed his shadow from an inconspicuous trick of the light to a very invisible, very small intruder.

Finally, after days of searching, Bilbo thought he heard a voice he recognised echo over wooden walkways and into his ears. He half-ran, half-crouched down stairs and corridors until he reached a small walkway which overlooked a cove; towards the back, a waterfall rushed through the area, cutting it in half. The two halves were linked together by a thin, elegant branch, which smoothly transitioned into sleek stone at either end, seamlessly linking carved and grown features. Several cells overlooked the linking walkway, forming a semi-circle of cells at multiple levels. From his high vantage point, Bilbo could see Dwalin, Nori, Ori, Bofur, Glóin, and Bombur to the left, and Fíli, Bifur, Dori, Óin, and Balin to the right; the last of those dwarves was waving off a brunet elf, who walked away as if in a trance.
Tentatively, Bilbo started down the stairs leading towards the cove, silent in his passage; as he got to the bottom, he could see Kíli, stored in a cell below the stairs, as far from his brother as possible. They could, however, still see one another, and were sending outrageously indecipherable hand signals across the space between them. Bilbo ignored the fact that they both knew Iglishmêk. Further up, on one of the top levels, was the dwarf Bilbo had been attempting to once again locate; Thorin sat in his cell, back to the wall, in such a way that someone looking into it from the main path wouldn’t see him. He frowned at the opposite wall like it had personally offended him by existing, which smuggled a giggle from Bilbo. Half a dozen pairs of eyes pointed to him while the other half-dozen turned their whole bodies, attempting to see through the stone around them. Thorin froze in place before looking around, perplexed by the noise.
“...Bilbo?”
“Is that Bilbo?”
“Bilbo!”
“Master Boggins?!”
“It’s Baggins , Kíli, for the last time,” Bilbo responded quietly, which drew raucous laughter from his friends while many of them echoed his name, either in puzzlement or elation.
“We can hear you but can’t see you,” Nori said, looking directly at Bilbo.
“You’re looking right at me, Nori.”
“I can pinpoint your location with the reverberations around this Mahal-forsaken chamber. This lot,” he said, gesturing to the other dwarrow, “can’t.”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell it once we’re out of here.”
“How are you going to get us out?” Glóin asked, near incredulous at the notion. “Balin’s got us all here , but the damned tree-shaggers are under Thranduil’s gold-plated influence .” What odd wording.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“He means, lad, that Thranduil’s a Silvertongue of old, far more than I can compete with,” Balin responded, looking at the ceiling of his cell rather than at any particular dwarf. “I can’t influence anyone beyond small suggestions. We’ve got some information, but it’s a poor start.”
“Some information is better than nothing.”
“That, lad, is true.”
Calm, thoughtful silence fell upon the Company as they wondered how they were going to escape the Woodland Realm. Balin murmured what he’d gathered from the brown-haired elf, interjected occasionally by the others, who were much louder in proclaiming their observations.
“And they have our weapons somewhere-”
“Though it is not a problem,” a voice next to Bilbo said. Looking to his right, he saw Thorin, standing at his cell’s door, looking straight ahead into the rock behind Bilbo. His eyes flitted around the wall, searching for something, before settling in the dark corner where the walls intersected.
“Why’s that? Surely we’ll need them?”
“No, lad, Thorin can handle most of them – we might not get all of them back, but summoning them is far less risky than stealing them back,” Dwalin explained, as though that cleared things up.
“And faster,” Fíli added, voice considerate. “They’ll not be able to premeditate our escape, since no supplies will be missing.”

Well, no one could ever say travelling with dwarves was boring.

Several days later – maybe more, maybe less, Bilbo had lost count – an elf guard mentioned something very interesting.
“I feel sorry for whoever’s stuck down here tonight, for the King’s wine is marvellous!”
“It’s us, you dimwit,” another elf answered, much duller than the first.
“What? Again? We were on guard duty for the feast last year!”
“Last year, we had nothing to guard.”
“All we’ve got this year is a herd of smelly dwarves,” the first one muttered, mood clearly decimated by the revelation that he’d be missing the feast.
A feast!
It was the perfect opportunity!
“We have to send those barrels back to Laketown as well, the Men are so tight with their schedules.”
“Whyever do they care for empty barrels, I wonder?”
“Because they need every drop of alcohol they can get, living on a miserable lake like that. Even if it means licking it from the wood!”
The two laughed, opening a bottle between them as their own small celebration.
If you asked Bilbo, he’d say he simply added to the wine bottle and their glasses while they weren’t looking, ensuring they both drank just enough to fall asleep without ever realising it.
If you asked anyone else on Middle-Earth with half a brain, they’d say he gave them alcohol poisoning.

Metal keys jangled in the air as Bilbo ran between the cells, unlocking them and patting each dwarf’s arm as he went, signalling them to remain quiet.
When he released Thorin, the dwarf stared as though Bilbo had gotten on one knee right then and there, which turned into a wide grin, like a child granted a wish as he grasped Bilbo’s forearms.
The dwarrow started up the stairs to the walkway Bilbo had first spotted them on, guided only by thoughts of getting to the entrance.
“Come! This way, quickly!” Bilbo called, hushed only enough to not call unwanted attention to himself. He corralled them down a corridor hidden by the waterfall’s side, leading them down the dramatic, open-air stairs which made him – and the dwarrow – feel utterly sick from the lack of security. At long last, they landed in the cellar of the Elvelnking’s halls.
The Company, evidently, was not happy.
“No, no, you’re supposed to take us out , not further in! We’re in the cellar!” Bofur cried, whispering as much as he remembered to (which was to say, not at all). Bilbo threw Bofur a scathing look, placing his finger to his lips and pointing at the two elves he’d… assisted into sleep.
The dwarves continued silently after that, though once at the barrels, they started arguing.
“Get in these ?”
“We will get caught!”
“No, please, you must trust me!” Bilbo hissed, causing the dwarrow to once again begin protesting. Bilbo sighed, and looked to Thorin, who was standing next to him. Questioning filled his eyes, but the presence of trust caused him to stay his tongue, and he turned to the Company.
“Do as he says.”
They filtered unhappily into the barrels, helping the larger dwarrow in first before the smaller onces climbed into the top. Thorin looked at him curiously, but with a firm tap to his bicep and an open-palmed point, he nodded and climbed into his own barrel. Bofur’s hat poked out from his barrel.
“What do we do now?” Thirteen faces stared at him with looks ranging from inquisitiveness to concern.
“Hold your breath,” Bilbo replied, pushing with all his weight into the lever before him. The floor below them tilted slightly, before the barrels rolled, causing it to flip sharply into a vertical position, launching the barrels (and dwarves) into the racing waters below. Bilbo dove after them, plunging into the icy river with naught but the clothes on his back for protection.

What followed was a strange sequence of events; Elven horns blew through the wind, one after the other, tracing their path along the river’s speeding current as the dwarrow struggled to remain upright. Bilbo had learned to let the current carry him, though he slipped underwater a number of times to avoid being seen. All was going well, so of course, orcs had to appear.

Black shapes scrambled over the walls of Thrainduil’s kingdom, piercing anything within reach and shooting at everything else. The elves turned their focus from the quickly-escaping prisoners to the invading orcs. Below, in the river, thirteen dwarrow and a hobbit fought for their lives against both elf and orc, deflecting arrows and stealing weapons. At one point, Bombur managed to flip himself onto the land, swinging two large axes around before jumping into the only spare barrel, his previous one destroyed by weapons and rocks. Dwalin and Balin stole weapons from the orcs and handed them out, while Thorin-

Thorin had swords coming out of his arms.
Swords, for arms. In his arms. Instead of arms.
That’s certainly new , was all Bilbo could think before he was once again pulled under by the current; it yanked him forwards with an unusual force, and Bilbo quickly realised he was being suctioned under by the closing gate they were travelling towards. He grasped for a barrel but missed, and instead, ended up on the other side of the gate, holding onto its grates for dear life. An orc noticed him and tried stabbing at him with a spear, pushing back beneath the water – he could feel its cold flushing through his lungs, though the only pressure he felt was the pushing and pulling of the whirling current, now split by the gate’s presence. Eventually, it started to lift, though Bilbo grew concerned as he surfaced for just a second to witness Kíli fall back into his barrel. The waves then swept him back under and away, down and into the rapids.

Gravel brushed against his feet as Bilbo became aware of the calming waters; he surfaced, spitting the remaining water from his mouth quietly, and paddled towards the shore, where several of the barrels were already washed up. Thirteen sopping wet dwarves he counted, helping one another from their wooden rides, some green-faced and others giddy. Óin and Fíli surrounded Kíli on the floor while Bifur, Balin, and Thorin tore through the barrels, seemingly looking for something. Stepping out from the water and shaking his head, his ears cleared, allowing him to hear his dwarves.
Shouts of his own name surprised him – surely, he hadn’t been so far behind them that they’d worry? The grief that tore through their throats told a different story.
“I’m here!” he called, drawing their attention by waving his arms.
“Bilbo!”
Balin’s shoulders dropped in relief, while Thorin and Bifur ran to him while he walked; they both stopped a scant few centimetres short of his toes, worrying over him; Bifur looked over him, muttering in broken Khuzdûl, while Thorin held his arms, near shaking him with his anxious adrenaline.
“Bilbo! What were you thinking?!”
“I don’t really think I was,” he replied, surprised by the honesty of it – normally, he’d make up something about having had a plan, if only to ease the worrying of his friends, but his words felt thick in his mouth and his head felt full of cotton.
“You’re shivering,” Thorin said, and Bifur signed his agreement along with him.
“It’s bad,” he signed. “You look like a newborn calf.” Bilbo giggled at Bifur’s commentary, though he knew somewhere in his mind that it wasn’t supposed to be a joke. Just then, it clocked in his mind that Thorin’s hands were on him, no swords in sight.
“Where are your swords?” he asked, looking down at Thorin’s wrists, following the bone to his elbow, where the weapons had sprouted from before.
“Gone, Master Baggins,” Thorin said, voice clipped but soft. He turned, supporting Bilbo from his right as they walked, Bifur signing to him about Kíli’s situation along the way.
“Shot in the leg?”
“Yes. Orc arrow. He was going for the gate, and then, his leg. It got hit.”
“Is he okay?”
“Óin has him.”
“Ooh, that’s good, Óin fixes lots of things.”
“Might be poisoned.”
“O-oh, not quite so good then.”
“No.”
Bilbo, guided by Thorin, sat on a rock, before he and Bifur left to talk to Balin and Dwalin about something. Bilbo sat, shivering despite the weight he now found upon himself; with further investigation, he realised it was Thorin’s big fluffy cloak, which he’d always thought made the dwarf look like a grumpy old cat. His eyes trailed around the gravelly shore they were on, taking in the high cliffs opposite them. A small wooded area lay at their backs, though the trees were young and thin, providing no cover, and – thankfully – not preventing the sun from reaching the floor. Bofur was rinsing his hat while Bombur rearranged his beard-braid. Dori patted Ori and Nori down, while Glóin joined the conversation Thorin, Bifur, Balin, and Dwalin were having. Looking to Kíli instead, Bilbo watched as Óin inspected the wound worriedly, muttering to himself about kingsfoil. Did they need kingsfoil? Bilbo could do that, he could – he wasn’t as good a Greenhand as some, but having taken his father’s abilities, he could get use out of it in a pinch.
Delicate white flowers grew at his feet, where he’d dug a small hole until he reached dirt. Kingsfoil was a simple plant – often seen as a weed by Men or Dwarves, but a valuable healing material to any who knew medicine or botany.
“Óin, did you say you needed kingsfoil?” Bilbo asked, making Óin and Fíli jump at his presence. He held out the kingsfoil in front of him, hands trembling but sure. The grey-haired dwarf snatched the plant, quickly breaking it up in the bowl of water he’d prepared.
Addressing Kíli, he said, “Now, lad, this won’t be pleasant – it’s better with hot water, but I cannae make that now.” Then, he turned to Fíli. “Hold your brother.” With that, he rubbed the makeshift salve into Kíli’s wound, causing the young dwarf to cry out in pain, even while he bit down on a cloth someone had given him. Black sludge expelled from his thigh, covering the gravel below in the viscous liquid. Soon enough, it was replaced with healthy, red blood, at which point Óin wrapped his leg tightly in a long, white bandage. “Good lad,” he said, patting Kíli’s shoulder firmly. “Now, Bilbo, let me look at you.”
“Me?” Bilbo asked belatedly. “Why?”
“Because you travelled, unprotected, down a rushing river while being shot at. It’s a miracle you didnae drown.”
“Oh, that can’t happen,” Bilbo responded merrily, sitting on the rock before Óin and kicking his legs.
“What d’you mean, lad?”
“Oh, well- ah, right. Bother,” the hobbit remarked, his thoughts catching up to him. He was not one to get ill often – when he did, he went through the majority of an illness far faster than most. Apparently, he’d been quite unaware of his words after getting out of the water, the past few minutes catching up to him. He’d grown kingsfoil! Right there, on the gravel, for everyone to see!
Bilbo curled inwards, pulling his legs to his chest and securing them there with his arms.
“Well, it’s a long story,” he started, hoping that would get him out of it. Fourteen sets of eyes stared at him- no, that couldn’t be right. Fourteen?

Apparently, yes, it was right, because a Man was standing on the rocks behind them, towards the Long Lake. And his bow was drawn.
Great! Just great – Bilbo could never get any rest.

–x–x–x–

Fíli conversed quietly with his brother, whispering in cautious tones.
“You talked to the red-haired one a lot.”
“Her name is Tauriel,” Kíli replied. “She’s wonderful.”
“And you spoke to her with paper every time she came around. You’re lucky only I could see you, Uncle would’ve throttled you by now.”
“Yes, but you didn’t speak to her, she’s-”
“Neither did you.”
“No, but I conversed with her.”
“Right,” Fíli said, because this conversation was going nowhere. He knew, however, that his brother had mooneyes for the fire-haired elf he’d made friends with during their stay in Mirkwood. He sincerely hoped his brother did not take after their Uncle, who seemed to be either completely oblivious to his own feelings, or blatantly ignoring them. Fíli couldn’t decide which was worse.

–x–x–x–

Once on the boat, the dwarrow scrounged up what little money they had left; Balin sat at the front, counting it all out.
The bargeman listed to one side, jolting the dwarrow from their conversation.
“What’re you trying to do, drown us?” Thorin exclaimed more than asked, feeling righteous in his anger – he wouldn’t put it past a Man, to kill weary dwarves for a bit of spare coin.
“I was born and bred on these waters, Master Dwarf – if I wanted to drown you, I would not do it here.”
Dwalin turned to Thorin, muttering lowly to him as they always did when sharing unkind opinions with one another. “Oh, I’ve had enough of this lippy lakeman – I say we drop ‘im over the side and be done with it.”
“ Bard ,” Bilbo said, popping up silently beside Thorin. “His name’s Bard.”
“How do you know?” Bofur asked, nearly tipping over from his spot perched upon a barrel.
“Err, I asked him,” was Bilbo’s simple reply, causing Thorin to smile, though he didn’t quite know why.
“I dinnae care what he calls himself, I don’t like ‘im.”
Balin’s voice cut across the conversation. “We don’t have to like him, dear brother, we simply have to pay him.” He continued counting out coins, laying them out neatly in fives, ordering them by who contributed them.
“There’s just a wee problem,” he announced to the Company, quietly so as not to attract the Man’s attention. “We’re ten coins short.”
Thorin barked at Glóin to empty his pockets, who retorted about doing no such thing – he continued on his rant until, suddenly, his eyes raised to the horizon and he froze.
“Here, take it. Take it all,” he rushed, pushing his leather coin pouch onto the wooden floor.
The Man swerved, throwing them all off-balance from their staring at Erebor’s magnificent silhouette; none of them had been so close since its fall. The dwarrow took no notice, too absorbed by the sight of the Lonely Mountain.
A light kick knocked Thorin from his appreciation of the mountain; looking to his left, Bilbo subtly looked towards the Man, who was looking at them sceptically, squinting at each dwarf and then at the Company as a whole. The hobbit raised a finger to his lips, shaking his head slightly before nudging Thorin, as if to make the action seem natural to the Man.

“The money, quick – give it to me,” the bargeman sniped, reaching a half-panicked hand out towards the Company.
“We’ll pay you when we get our provisions, and not before,” Thorin replied coolly – he wasn’t about to be scammed by some Man.
“If you value your freedom, you’ll do as I say.” Was that a threat? “There are guards ahead.” Ah, no, it was worse.
“Into the barrels,” Thorin commanded, nodding once at the Man’s thankful glance. A slight problem, however, made itself known. There were twelve barrels, and fourteen members of the Company. “Fíli, Kíli, you two together,” he called, though as he looked to them, he realised he needn’t have – they were already climbing into one of the barrels together. As everyone sorted themselves out, Thorin rested a hand on the crook between Bilbo’s neck and shoulder. “Master Baggins, with me.”
“Bilbo,” his hobbit grumbled, rolling his eyes and heading towards the closest barrel. “It’s easier if you get in first, I can work around whatever space you take up.”
“Right you are, Bilbo.”

“What’re they doin’?” Dwalin whisper-shouted through the barrels. Bilbo, whose legs were bent awkwardly either side of a kneeling Thorin, leaned over the dwarf to look through a small hole made by an arrow.
“He’s talking to someone… he’s pointing right at us!” Bilbo gasped, tightening his grip on Thorin’s shoulders. “Now they’re shaking hands!”
“ What? ” Thorin asked, looking upwards to see Bilbo staring wide-eyed out of the barrel – whether it was due to surprise or low visibility, he could not tell.
“He’s selling us out!” Dwalin seethed; just as Thorin could hear him moving about in his barrel to stand and confront the Man – Bard, Bilbo had reminded him – a quick succession of slapping sounds originated from Dwalin’s barrel. Just as Thorin was about to question if he could smell fish, a darkness arrived over his and Bilbo’s barrel, before they were coated in dead, slimy, wet fish.

Chapter Text

Thrór went on his first hunting trip at the age of thirty-five, the halfway point between birth and adulthood; he was born the first son of three, and so was the heir to the Throne Under the Mountain. Being raised for such a thing meant that no unnecessary risk was taken – however, upon his birthday, he convinced his father to allow him to go hunting with a group, if only to gain some survival skills he could not learn from training. Eventually, his father had conceded, sending him and a group of seven other dwarrow into the forests around the mountain’s Western side to hunt. If he caught anything substantial, it would be that night’s dinner.

Thrór was taught that failure was not an option. And it was not, for a king – it was not a viable option, not with an entire kingdom upon one’s hands. A mistake could be the difference between prosperity, and the blood of an entire population on your hands.

So, when he started hunting, Thrór made his first kill grand, and entirely inescapable for the creature; it writhed as the arrow penetrated its ribcage, letting out a pitiful sound as the dwarf approached.
Green trees surrounded him. It was the height of summer, and wildflowers crept up from every root and crevice, dotting every patch of grass; no leaves fell from their trees, and birds sang in the mornings, and fed in the evenings. Deer leapt through the bushes, surprising squirrels and making them dart up their trees, into the branches where they could not be reached except by owls. Green trees surrounded him, which made the blood all the more jarring.

That evening, Thrór felt something strange. He had thought, upon killing the stag, that it was the distinct feeling of a hunter’s first kill, but this was not it; he was proud, yes, but a nagging feeling in the back of his mind persisted, and it told him to think of the deer. He did.

Nothing could prepare Dáin I for that evening. A clattering sound broke his content silence, and he rushed to his eldest son’s room, only to find the exact deer they’d eaten for dinner that evening standing before him, unsure of itself and thoroughly confused.
It made a bleating sort of sound before looking down at itself, bewildered; then, it closed its eyes tightly, and within the blink of an eye, Thrór stood before him, panting and wide-eyed.
It was an odd Red Shadow, that’s for sure.

Over the years, Thrór amassed an impressive collection of kills, all proven by his ability to become them; at his coronation, he was gifted the ring his grandfather always wore, and it fit him perfectly. That night, in his private quarters, he tried something he’d attempted many times before, but had failed at.
This time, he’d not be so susceptible to failure.
He spread the large raven wings which sprouted from his back as antlers grew from his skull; feathers burst from his skin, and hooved feet replaced his dwarven ones. One hand swelled and became a crab’s claw, while the other thinned and morphed into a hawk’s talon. He stood, an amalgamation of all the lives he’d claimed, and laughed.

–x–x–x–

Thorin’s heart pounded as he and Bilbo were nearly tipped into the freezing waters below, saved at the last minute by Bard convincing the slimy man to let them go, under the guise of starting riots.
It really spoke well of the state of your land, if you were worried about your subjects starting riots over food, of all things. Thorin supposed the Master of Laketown was an idiot.

As they were jostled and pushed about, the dwarf wondered when they’d be freed from the fishy prison they were in – it reeked, and Thorin sorely wished for a bath.
Just as this thought occurred, their barrel was kicked by Bard, who spoke to them quietly, telling the dwarrow they could vacate their barrels, but to do it ‘sneakily’. How they were meant to do that, Thorin did not know. Due to their position, Bilbo had to climb up first, pushing the fish to the floor as he stood, placing his feet either side of Thorin’s knees so as to not squash the dwarf. Thorin took the surprisingly calloused yet soft hand his hobbit offered him, stepping upwards for a breath of fresh air. It was glorious – after smelling nothing but dead fish for three and a half hours, you grew an appreciation for clean air, even if it, too, carried the faint smell of fish oil. Thorin decided he didn’t care – he was out of the barrel, he had Bilbo and his Company, and the Lonely Mountain was just a few days of travel away.

They snuck through the back alleys of Laketown, weaving through dark streets housing only rats or the backs of smithies and cobblers. All they needed was a good amount of food and water to get them to Erebor, as well as some dry clothes, and they’d be set to leave before nightfall.

Avoiding guards was something Thorin had gotten used to in the Wandering Days, as had the rest of the Dwarves of Erebor who travelled with him in search of asylum. With little money between the thousands who walked alongside the Crown Prince and his sons and daughter, many had no choice but to turn to crime in order to feed themselves; work was fought for and hard-won, scarce and unlikely in the settlements of Men, who saw dwarrow as nothing but smaller, angrier, dirtier, greedier versions of themselves – like sick caricatures of their least favourite and most tyrannical leaders. They didn’t quite disappear within crowds, being so small and so hairy. Capture was likely, and the reward was low. But, it was better than starving.
The Crown Prince Thráin had never done it in the Wandering Days, but Thorin did. And Frerin, and Dís, and anyone who had half a brain and a stomach to lead it.
By the time they’d reached the Blue Mountains, Thráin had already lost what little of his mind had remained.

The people of Laketown would react negatively if they spotted the dwarrow, that much he knew, and it forced them to keep to alleyways and dark corners, hoping that the rotting wood beneath their feet wouldn’t plunge them into frigid waters.

When Bard turned to them, expression grim, Thorin had expected him to tell them they’d been spotted, and they’d have to fight – he’d nearly started summoning everyone’s weapons then and there, but the need for secrecy stopped him. Thorin knew not why – they’d trusted Bard to get them into Esgaroth, and the man would see him summon their weapons when they got their supplies anyway, but a dark feeling, like tadpoles writhing within him, stayed his hand.
“You’re not going to like what you must do,” Bard began, voice faint and pointed to the group rather than any particular dwarf. “There are spies watching my house. There’s only one way in they can’t see, which is that of the privy. You’re going to have to climb,” he said guiltily, gesturing beneath the soggy wood that only just about held their weight. “You can hang onto the wood, or swim. Neither will be pleasant, but a warm fire will await you, of that I’ll make sure.”
“So you expect us to just crawl through your lavatory?” Dwalin challenged more than asked, arms crossed defensively across his chest. Thorin could tell he was itching to start a fight.
“That’s about the whole of it, yes,” Bard nodded. Whether he was purposefully ignoring Dwalin’s demanding demeanour or he was just phenomenally bad at reading people, Thorin couldn’t tell.

That was how the Dwarves of Erebor, of clans Longbeard and Broadbeam, ended up emerging from a Man’s toilet with their shoes tied to their belts and splinters covering their fingers. And, of course, there was the hobbit, who had followed behind them as easily as climbing a tree.

The Company stood in Bard’s living room, shivering and crowded around a fire while a young, mousy-haired girl handed them blankets and coats.
“It’s not the best of the best, but it’s more than you’d get in the market,” Bard said at their protests; Balin’s sad expression told Thorin the bargeman was telling the truth. They truly would get no help from Laketown.
“You speak the truth, laddie,” Balin said at Thorin’s nod; information would be good, wherever they could get it from.
“We’re not what you’d call politically stable at the moment,” Bard replied, searching through his cupboards for kingsfoil at Óin’s request; Kíli had gotten slightly better, but it was better to be safe than sorry. “Our Master is a portly fellow, while the people scrounge around with the rats for our food.”
“How did it come to be this way?”
“Master Dwarf, you must know of the story of the fall of Erebor?”
“I am… familiar, yes.”
“Then you must also know that the Men of Dale fled their lives too. They settled on the Long Lake, once the harbour of all marine trading in the East, turned to a pile of fish oil and soaked wood by greed. The Master then charged the refugees from Dale. The Master now follows in his footsteps, nevermind the fact that almost all of us are from Dale, and we’re the ones who built these houses in the first place.”
“That sounds horrible,” Bofur said, warming his hands and backside by the fire. “You didn’t talk to the dwarves?”
Bard switched his attention to the hatted dwarf. “No, Master Dwarf, I don’t think there was time. They’d lost their home in the same breath as ours.”
All was quiet for more than a half-hour. Humans prepared food and travelling gear while dwarrow warmed themselves, murmuring quietly about memories and tales of heroes long-passed. Warm clothing was laid out, and each member of the Company received something; they layered up, and stuck with the story of them going to the Iron Hills to visit their brethren. They re-braided one another’s hair and beards, sticking to family units despite their closeness. Bilbo let Fíli and Kíli observe his copper curls, the colour of brass in the firelight, as they dried; once they were damp, he pulled at one, and the two young dwarves watched in wonder as it simply re-curled itself into place. Bilbo explained that it would have bounced back had it been dry.
Thorin peered out of the dirty window, looking towards Dale to see what remained of the city. In all the struggle and chaos immediately after the attack, he’d never paused to take stock of the damage done to Dale.
Stone ruins squatted, stout and strong, upon the rocky plateau which acted as the city’s foundation; they did not sway, but crumbled from the top down, weakening the further from the ground a building got. Large portions of it were burned rather than toppled or squashed, which left the buildings intact, but would have decimated anyone, or anything, within them, and the scorched ground likely grew no grass to this day. Alone, in the centre of Dale, stood a solitary tower, proudly facing the sky while the stone around it disintegrated; upon it was a creation of pure steel and power, for which only a few arrows had been made.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Bilbo said, voice so small and concerned that it made Thorin jump; his hobbit was beside him, holding a steaming cup and looking to Dale with no recognition behind his eyes. Of course he wouldn’t recognise it – he hadn’t been alive at its death. The thought nearly took Thorin from his train of thought, but the warmth beside him was comforting, so his mind continued to wander; the only answer he offered was a sorrowful hum, and a hand knocking into Bilbo’s leg.
“He has,” Balin intervened, quietly so as not to garner attention from the non-dwarrow. “The last time we saw such a weapon… the city was on fire.”
Balin narrated the events of Smaug’s arrival to Bilbo while Thorin’s brain leapt at the edges of the hole it was sinking into. Grief, like a tsunami, crashed into him, sending his mind spiralling into all that had occurred, and what he could have done to prevent it. Nitpicking every mistake, every imperfection, until he could no longer see a way in which he was right. But, much like a tsunami, it would pass, as he felt his vision come back to him; a small arm had wrapped itself around his own, squeezing his hand as if to console him. Thorin found that it did. Calm washed over him, pushing the washed-up memories back into the depths of his mind, where they belonged, and where they’d stay. He realised, belatedly, that a warm mug of honeyed water had been forced into his other hand, and he drank, unthinking, unfocused.
“...Their store was running low when Girion made his last stand. Alas, to no avail.”
Thorin did not trust himself to speak; he knew his voice would be rough, and there was a soft, calloused hand in his, which was far better than any mournful, remorseful comment he’d make.
“That’s not true,” a boy said, speaking properly for the first time since they’d arrived – he appeared to be in the middle of his teenhood. “It was not to no avail. Girion loosened a scale beneath the left wing. One more shot and he’d have killed the beast,” he said, before Bard shot him a look which was eerily similar to the ones Dís gave Fíli when he said something in council which was unutterably stupid, but which she agreed with. Thorin watched Balin’s reaction, and as his eyes filled with sympathy, he could tell that the boy really, genuinely believed what he said.
“Tha’s just a fairy story, lad, nothin’ more,” Dwalin muttered, strangely quiet. The morose air was only emphasised by the continuing cold, which nipped at their fingertips despite the house surrounding them; wind whistled as it wove through the wood, bringin the harsh night inside.
Supplies were packed, and the dwarves were dry; they had no weapons, but Thorin would summon them in the morning, before they set off towards Erebor. They all slept in a heap in Bard’s living room, much like they had done camping under the stars; they split into groups, and wrapped themselves in whatever fabrics they could find, using one another as pillows or legrests, all connected in one way or another. Thorin lay on his back, left arm being used by Kíli’s head as a cushion while his left wrist had Fíli’s hand wrapped around it. His left foot was jammed quite comfortably into Balin’s side, while Dwalin slept with his hand on Balin’s shoulder. To Thorin’s right lay his hobbit, who was staring up at the ceiling, twiddling his thumbs together. He was attached to no one, sharing no warmth, so Thorin did the first thing that came to his mind, and simply placed his hand, palm-down, on Bilbo’s rising and falling chest. It hitched, and when Thorin looked at his burglar, his eyes were wide, eyebrows near his hairline; silently, he waited while Bilbo seemed to process something. Finally, he wrapped Thorin’s hand in his right, and brought his left up to graze his knuckles against the dwarf’s jaw.
Thorin would not say that he fell asleep quickly; it was something he never did, not after so long a life on the road, unsure of safety and security.
Bilbo would stare as Thorin’s eyes met his, staying there for a few seconds after his hand made contact with the dwarf’s beard, before they blinked closed, and a slight snore escaped from his mouth.

–x–x–x–

Lord Elrond of Imladris had not always been Lord Elrond of Imladris.

Before that, he was Elrond, twin of Elros and son of Eärendil and Elwing, brother of the King of Númenor and Foreseer of Elves.
In the time before he’d grown up, Elrond had only been able to See things in his sleep which he should not have been able to know. He Saw his mother’s next birthday before it came. He Saw his brother’s coronation before they’d even turned eight. He Saw a memory of his father’s, long before he had even met their mother.
Elrond would not always tell people what he’d Foreseen, because he learned quite quickly that they could be wrong. His brother didn’t get the present Elrond had expected, and the weather that Tuesday was sunnier than he’d Seen. But some were right. He’d known the Silmarils would be captured the night it happened, waking from his not-quite-sleep in a sweat as he ran to tell someone bigger than him. He’d felt the grief of the orcs’ making before it ever happened, and he knew Khazad-dûm would fall before it had even been founded.

When Gil-Galad gave Vilya to him during that council, Elrond did not tell anyone what he felt. But he’d remember it for the rest of his life; power, of course, flowed from the ring, but that was to be expected. What he did not expect was for his visions to become more precise, nearly exact in their detailing; he hadn’t known memories from all over Arda would infiltrate his mind, so he’d been ill-prepared for the barrage of information. For the first few hundred years, he could not bear to wear Vilya, keeping it instead in a small lead-lined pouch fashioned from one he’d Seen a dwarf making hundreds of years in the future.

Lord Elrond of Imladris had not always been Lord Elrond of Imladris, but he was no lesser for it.
He entered his meditation, sitting in his study under the stars, and let the weals and woes of the world wander in.

Blood covered the snow as a thrush flitted through the bitter air, fleeing for its life. Below, tents were set up upon the fields between Erebor and Dale, and minute figures flowed from white to blue to yellow to green, rushing from tent to tent as though the cloth itself was trying to eat them. Mithrandir stood, solemn and yet enraged, at the foot of a bed within a tent of blue.
“You’d better have a good explanation for this,” he bit, venom dripping from his voice as the rage became cold, full of wretched misery. The hidden form before him only cried in anguish, a lament for someone not known.
Pale peaks filtered into view as a fox hunted between a small collection of trees – one of many littered across the dry plains. It started to eat its bounty before the ears perked up, and the head followed; soon, it was being chased by thundering hooves and hunting horns as it ran, diving into a burrow as it was shot.
Gold, unharmed by fire, earned through blood, sweat, and tears, held by a lead-lined pouch stained with black plasma, weighted itself downwards towards the barren rock below. Hesitant but determined limbs crawled onwards while a voice, raspy and dark, emanated from the pouch, growing louder with each step.

Elrond jolted upwards; between the moment he’d entered his meditation and his waking second, he had become completely rigid, muscles tensing impossibly as his body shook with pressure.

A meeting was called at midnight; Elladan and Elrohir were sent to Gondor with no instruction other than that they’d know when they got there, and Arwen was placed under intense training in healing. Elrond set off with his best guardsmen, trained not for war but for protection, heading East, determination and worry in his eyes.

–x–x–x–

The Eagles of Manwë were not often called to provide aid.
Twice in the space of six months called for some questioning; the former caller had a reputation for being a troublemaker, a bringer of change and catalyst in age-defying events. The latter, however, had a reputation for knowing , but never doing . He knew what would happen, but was always too late or too early to do anything about it – if it was centuries after his lifetime, he’d not affect it, for fear it would change the weaving of Vaire’s cloth, cutting strands before their time, or interweaving new ones which did not belong. If it was soon, it was very soon, and far too late to do any significant damage control.
Therefore, it was rare that Elrond asked the Eagles for help.

–x–x–x–

They were gone without a trace by the morning; mist sat on the water as winter wind whirled around them, blowing their cloaks around their bodies.
The Company was wedged onto a barge, not too dissimilar to the one Bard had first taken them to Laketown on; most were sat in the centre as Bifur navigated, chosen due to his natural affinity for machines and vehicles.
Huddled in the middle of the beechwood boat, the Dwarves of Erebor divided their weapons amongst themselves as Thorin summoned them, one at a time; in the end, Nori was missing a knife, and Bofur, Óin, and Kíli had to have their weapons substituted by others from Thorin’s past; each one he conjured was carefully thought-out and chosen specifically for the wielder, though they’d take a while to get used to.
“So, Burglar, are you gonna tell us why you have so many Red Shadows?” Nori asked, breaking the tense silence which had overtaken the dwarrow as they attempted to approach the question.
“Please don’t call me that,” Bilbo groaned, voice strangely small and sorrowful.
“Why not? All the hobbits did.”
Bilbo simply sighed, putting his head in his hand and rubbing his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to organise his chaotic thoughts before the Company became rowdy or obstinate.
“Hobbits are not born with knowledge of their abilities,” he began, quiet voice travelling far in the rapt silence. It was shaky, he knew, but he also knew that he had no way of controlling it without mincing his words – he’d have to wobble in order to walk. “We are born with no indication, no way of knowing if we even have abilities – Red Shadows as you call them – unless one of the parents has one, or so the Elders say. Really, it’s guaranteed for any child born on Shire soil to have one. Even non-hobbits, with no known recent ability-having blood, are born on our earth, with our water, and grow to be ostracised or celebrated for their sudden… gift .” None of the dwarrow dare interrupt him. Bilbo supposed they thought he may stop talking if they spoke.
“We do not see them as gifts. They are, at best, an investment for something much more powerful than ourselves; all experience it, but we seem to be the only ones who’ve come to the conclusion. Dying has never been fun, per se, but it hasn’t always been so full of paranoia; darkness which can overwhelm the mind and body appears between one moment and the next, and that’s how you know you’re dying. It’s scary, you know? To wake up and feel the malice creep up on you, a burning cold… it’s not a pretty sight, not for anyone, but least of all us Hobbits. I imagine you dwarrow have something similar..?”
“When we die,” a rumbling, low voice beside him said, “we seize, become rigid with fear. Those who live past it are never the same, and often either deteriorate, or take the condition into their own hands. We have learned not to speak of it.” A broad hand ghosted against his left shoulder, and the rumbling from his right was calming. It gave him courage.
“I see. It is like that for us, but can last years for some.” The Company collectively winced, the thought of a death so prolonged causing them to grimace. “We’re a peaceful people, you see – we don’t like violence, and only one murder has ever occurred in the Shire’s history. That was some centuries ago, and caused strife that still affects some of our social mannerisms today. It’s also why a lot of hobbits don’t like the water, and would prefer to sink rather than swim.
“Either way, we don’t experience much unnatural death, but watching a loved one waste away for days, weeks, months on end… it’s dehumanising. Painful. Slowly, ever so slowly, you can watch as their soul slips away from them, until they become a shell, wasting away…”

Belladonna Baggins, sat in Bungo’s armchair, refusing to eat and sleep because she didn’t deserve it. Didn’t want it.
Belladonna Baggins, who ate her first meal in six years after her son took her gift.

“Many hobbits call them abilities rather than gifts as the rest of the world does, because we know they’re not. They’re not given freely, and the benefits are never worth the cost.
“I was born the son of a Gentlehobbit and an Adventurer. They were an unlikely pair, my parents, and I was an unruly child, to say the least.” Bilbo huffed out a laugh, not daring to look up at his friends, his family – they’d become much closer to him than any within the Shire. They were bonds formed of love and sweat rather than obligation. The blood of the covenant, rather than the water of the womb. He knew now he could not go back; he’d lose his family for a second time. And he’d do it over and over, if it kept them safe.
“My father was a Greenhand, a common ability for hobbits – they speak to the Wilds, to all things that grow, encouraging them to continue forth and sprout new leaves, spread their roots. My mother was much more eccentric – she was what’s known as a Survivalist among Men, a common and desirable ability among the Rangers of the North. She could go for months without eating, sleeping, or drinking – all she needed was air, and she’d live. But, my mother, she was right; these gifts, they come at a price too high. They’re an investment to someone, somewhere, and are more trouble than they’re worth.”

“You said abilities are genetic,” Ori asked quietly, no pen or paper in hand; he was focused on listening, Bilbo saw, which made his heart wrench for the knowledge he knew he was about to impart upon them.
“Having one, yes, but not the ability itself. Much like the rest of the world, they’re randomly assigned, though actually having one is genetic. It’s like a bloodborne disease, really. Kills you, and you don’t even know, because you’ve never not had it.”
Some of the dwarrow hummed, while others remained confused, eyebrows furrowed as they tried to figure out what could be so bad about Red Shadows.
Death, unfortunately, is not a moment, but many.

“I was raised a typical hobbit, if a bit unusual for my lineage. Hobbits have large families, and I was no exception. I grew with cousins, uncles, aunts, and even nieces and nephews, all so varied in age that the generations mixed freely. I had a best friend – my cousin, really – whose ability everyone wished for. She could breathe any substance, so long as oxygen was present. We had to consult some dwarven travellers to figure that one out,” he mused, and Bifur made a sound. He signed quickly to the group, and Bilbo stared, dumbfounded.
“Golden hair, green eyes, wore pale pink, liked to swim?”
That’d be the one.

Words would not make their way from his mind to his mouth, so all Bilbo could do was nod, a feeling of impending doom welling deep in his stomach.
“I’m sorry to say, she’s dead.”
“She was young, like you?” Bifur signed, more a question than anything, though he signed no indicator of it.
“She was a year older.” Bifur’s eyes widened, and had the conversation’s material been any less heavy, it would have sent them all into fits of laughter.
“How old are you?”
“What day is it?”
“The twenty-second of September, Master Baggins,” Thorin said roughly from his right. The dwarf’s hand was still on his shoulder, arm acting as a sort of loose blanket.
“Hm. I’m fifty-one, then.”
“What?”
“What do you mean, fifty-one?!”
“You’re younger than me, Mister Boggins!”
“Hobbits come of age at thirty-three,” Ori stated, quieting the group when Bilbo had lost the energy to.
“Thank you, Ori,” he said weakly, both as thanks and an apology.
“Your cousin,” the youngest Ri brother offered, reminding Bilbo of the conversation.
“Yes, my cousin. She- well, she was what the Shire referred to as ‘well-balanced’. She liked a bit of adventure, but because of her ability, it wasn’t so dangerous for her. Swimming wasn’t, at least, not… not for most of her life.” Uncomfortable silence filled the air as the implications of those words suffocated the hobbit, tightening his throat and preventing him from continuing. He forced himself onwards, anyway.
“When hobbits turn elven – your first same-digit birthday – we celebrate. A lot. She wanted to go down to the river, where she could swim deeper, because she was a faunt instead of a fauntling, as I was. She tried to teach me to swim-”
“You can’t swim?” Balin’s concern was touching.
“I can paddle, but that’s about it.”
“But the river!” Bofur exclaimed, as though that explained anything. Bilbo grimaced.
“You see, when my cousin tried to teach me to swim, we had no adults with us. She didn’t account for the fact that I might panic, and I was stupid enough not to mention it.”
“You were a child, you couldn’t have known what would happen.” Unexpectedly, it was Dwalin who voiced this opinion.
“I… suppose not, no. When she reached out to grab me, in my fright, my ability activated for the first time. We knew nothing of it, not that day – it was a miracle I didn’t drown, and that was that. I was grounded for a week, and she went swimming two days later. She drowned, unable to breathe the water she hadn’t known could kill her.”
“You took her ability?” Dori asked, incredulous; he had wrapped his arms around his brothers as if to shield them from an invisible threat.
Bilbo could turn invisible. Sure, it was a magic ring that did it, but the dwarrow did not know the difference.
“I didn’t mean to,” Bilbo started, treading a long-worn path, the subject of many arguments and a few laws in the Shire. “I didn’t put two and two together until I fell asleep in my bath that evening. After that, the Shire was a mess.”
Nori whistled, the shrill sound swishing into the wind. “That’s one way to earn the title of Burglar,” he said, though the joke fell flat on the rest of the Company. Bilbo laughed, though he supposed that was more a testament to his current mental state than to his humour.

“Most of the Shire hated me after that. They found even more reason when my father started to die – he asked me to take his curse from him, so I did. I did the same for my mother, who struggled with it for years. It’s also how I know Elrond; he asked me to ‘help’ with a friend of his, who was dying. I stole their abilities, gifts or otherwise, and haven’t done so since. It is not a pleasant thing,” he finished, looking at his feet; they were newly cleaned, but disorganised and unbrushed – if any of the Shire saw him as he was, they’d see it as the last reason to kick him out.

A thick arm solidified around his back, squeezing his shoulders comfortingly.
“Dwalin takes medication so his bones don’t poison him,” Thorin said softly, gaze disassociating before returning to Bilbo. “I can only summon something if I’ve wielded it in battle. Balin can tell a truth from a lie, but cannot differentiate the halves.” Balin winked at him, a small chuckle escaping his usually joyous, now sombre face.
“Aye, that’s true, laddie. Couldn’t figure out a half-truth for the life of me, though I can trick a Man easy enough.”
“Or an Elf,” Óin added, sending a ripple of  half-heavy chuckles through the Company.
“I can regenerate myself, but only if it could be fixed with surgery, anyway, and Kí has an Elvish Red Shadow.”
“Shut it, Fí.”
“I can look at something and know the figures, but sometimes, I know not the reason,” Glóin stated, looking thoughtfully at the horizon. “I can tell you the mass of all the clouds in the sky, but I couldn’t tell you why .”
“And I can see your pains, but not what caused them,” Óin added. He squinted at Thorin, who was tucking himself sheepishly behind Bilbo, causing the hobbit to exhale a small chuckle.
“Dori and I make shields, but they’re really small, and act more like balls of air rather than any defensive items.”
“I can hear far too much, of course,” Nori drawled, and Bilbo nearly missed the quick look he directed at his neck.
“And we don’t have any Red Shadows,” Bofur said, signalling to himself, Bifur, and Bombur. “We’re of no wielding descent, so we’re what most dwarrow are; simple traders and creators, as Mahal forged us.”
“I once jumped out of a tree to see if it would hurt,” Fíli commented in a manner that would be conspiratorial if it wasn’t so loud. “And Kíli used to chase the horizon, thinking he could see further if he went a little higher.”
“Hey!”
It was beautiful; his family surrounded him, making him feel at home, despite his curse. In spite of it.
“I managed to pick up a branch once, instead of summoning a shield of mithril. The mistake was glorified and turned into a name,” Thorin muttered to him, causing a bark of laughter to escape his mouth.

As they sailed across the Long Lake, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield remembered their youth, the follies they undertook in finding themselves and their capabilities. The boat was filled with laughter as they sailed, ignorant of or ignoring what was to come.

–x–x–x–

As soon as booted feet hit the shore, he heard it.
A disturbed whisper, hissing instructions to itself as if it was having a conversation. The ground crawled with it, and its rasp cocooned him, creating a vacuum for his senses, isolating him from the world with a single word.
“It’s awake,” Nori whispered, and the Company’s joy faded. “Smaug’s awake.”

–x–x–x–

Craggy rock splintered away from howling cliffs, rocketing towards the ground where they shattered like glass under a hammer. Leather boots, worn in by steps enough to run around Arda twice and weathered with storms so large the world never forgot, fixed themselves on top of the next precipice, awaiting its very much anticipated but never-quite-arriving fall. When it failed to plummet into the abyss, one boot reached out tentatively to the next ledge, careful not to lean too much weight in one place for long; as soon as the other joined, rock crumbled, leaving bare milliseconds for the owner of the boots to move it before being assigned to certain death. Gnarled wood was leant on, and cracked but stable ground was located among the rockface, allowing for a not-quite-man to catch his breath. White fog released from his mouth, the heat of his breath becoming steam in the bitingly cold air; Olórin carried on, much the same as ever.
Iron bars caught his attention – burst open, they appeared to be, in a place which no sane person would travel. Luckily for the wizard, he is no Mortal, and so cannot be either sane or insane. Unluckily for the wizard, this is not true for all beings, least of all those who wish to cease their mortality through magical and highly violent means. What most caught his attention, though, about the iron bars was what was supposed to be behind them. They couldn’t leave if the bars remained as they were, but because they are not as they were, there was no containment.

Olórin walked, careful with every step, towards the ledge the bars had been ripped from, and peered into the darkness below. Then, with one weary breath, he continued.

Darkness consumed the place; not only the physical darkness caused by a lack of light, but also the other kind of darkness, caused by a lack of life, and a lack of care for it.
It is a common misconception that wizards cannot be scared.
This is a very untrue fact; for example, one particular wizard who had been allocated the rank of Grey was, metaphorically, quivering in his boots at the sight. In practice, however, he was only holding his breath, breathing shallowly and only when it was strictly necessary. It was eerie, the tomb – for that is what it used to be. A resting place for dead men.

Brown flitted through his vision as Olórin watched a small bird swoop past him with a cry so high it reminded him of a baby he’d helped deliver many moons ago. Instead, he followed the bird with his eyes, and landed upon a much smaller, much less well-known wizard: Aiwendil.
“Oh, it’s you!” Olórin cried, because he knew not what else to say.
“Why am I here, Gandalf?” the brown wizard questioned, scooping the bird into a nest beneath his hat.
“Trust me, Radagast, I would not have called you here without good reason.”
“This is not a nice place to meet,” Radagast replied, clutching his staff for dear life; he was right. In fact, Olórin would argue that he was woefully downplaying the utter dread this place caused to any who entered.
“No… it is not,” the grey wizard said instead.

The Grey Pilgrim shook his staff and light, faint but pure, pooled itself within the crystal held by its end. Shining it around the crypt, the two could see markings, dark and powerful in origin, carved into the walls so lightly one might think it had been done with one’s nails alone.
“These are dark spells, Gandalf… old, and full of hate. Who’s buried here?”
Radagast the Brown was a wizard of love, nature, and green things. He looked after creatures large and small, whispered to the trees about their canopies, and sang to the wildflowers. Gandalf the Grey was a wizard of lore, who had studied under the Lady of Grief, who knew far too much, and sometimes, not nearly enough.
“If he had a name, it’s long since been lost. He was only known as a servant of evil – one of a number.” This is untrue. Olórin knew his name, had met the Man, had dined with him. Aiwendil, of the fauna and flora, did not need to know that. Gandalf shone his light further forwards, illuminating a long, deep shaft, and at each level lay the remains of a stone door, shattered much like the ledges of the cliff leading up to the tomb. “One of nine…”

“Why now, Gandalf? I don’t understand,” Radagast called, nearly shouting to make himself heard over the howling wind.
“The Ringwraiths have been summoned to Dol Guldur.”
“But it cannot be the Necromancer –” Saruman had told him, then, “– a human sorcerer could not summon such evil.”
“Who said it was human?” Radagast walked quicker, keeping closer to the taller wizard in his alarm. “The Nine only answer to one Master. We’ve been blind, Radagast - and in our blindness, our Enemy has returned. He is summoning his servants.” A very sudden, and very concerning, thought dredged itself up in Olórin’s mind; he’d been dwelling on it, but hadn’t quite realised its severity until that moment. He spun around, nearly colliding with Aiwendil in his panic. “Azog the Defiler - he is no ordinary hunter, he is a commander of legions… The Enemy is preparing for war. It will begin in the East. His mind is set on that Mountain.” By the time Radagast could process his words, Gandalf the Grey was running, leaping across rocky outcroppings like hurdles in a race.
“Where are you going?!” Aiwendil called, attempting to catch up.
“To rejoin the others-”
“Gandalf-”
“I started this, I cannot forsake them now! They are in grave danger!” In his anger, Olórin had made the mistake of stopping.
“If what you say is true ... the world is in grave danger. Every day the power in that fortress will grow stronger.”
Shite.
“You want me to cast my friends aside-”
Maybe the dwarves had had an effect on him.

–x–x–x–

“Search for them.”
The voice was cold, unfeeling, yes, but it carried no layers of influence, no malice which would sway listeners either way; while Thranduil could be a distant king, Legolas liked to think he knew when it was appropriate to reel in his gold-plated tongue. Escaped prisoners did not look good for any kingdom, least of all one which was already falling from grace, infested with spiders and creatures of the dark, crawling from each crack and crevice to swallow the forest whole. They’d been banned from finding the nest, directed to only clear their ground.

Legolas listened as his Ada commanded the group; they were small, only about twenty total, but far more ferocious and diversely-trained than the generic fighters which made up the army ranks – yes, these elves were trained to track and fight dirty, whether it was with their hands or their words. They were brought up to deal with the Men and the Dwarves, and even the other Elves, to exude an air of overwhelming betterness, along with humility for not bringing it up. For this purpose they were born and bred, and for this purpose they left the safety of the Woodland Realm, marching through falling leaves along a carpet of reds, striding towards the Lonely Mountain.

–x–x–x–

Nori’s panicked whisper had caused morale within the Company to plummet downwards. Now, they were morose, walking along the hillocks before Dale and dragging their feet. They still had several days until Durin’s Day, with which they had planned on celebrating, if only to ensure they all had a party together before they died, but now, Óin did not think that plan was going to happen. He watched as they hiked the Overlook, where they would await Tharkûn’s arrival.

Setting up camp was slow, and quiet, unusually quiet – even for Óin, who often left his ear-trumpet beside his bedroll so he could be more productive. Now, even if he had perfect hearing, he’d have heard little aside from broken, hushed conversations about what was to come.
Nori hadn’t said a word since his realisation.

If Óin wasn’t concerned, he’d be concerned, but this was too much. Several members of the Company had slight golden auras surrounding their ears – all were from Durin’s line, and of those, only himself and Balin were exempt. Their auras were normal. What concerned Óin the most as both healer and family, however, was the abundance of black surrounding Thorin’s head, which turned gold around his eyes and ears. It almost looked like it had horns, though it lessened each time he spoke to someone, reducing to the slight golden tinge above his ears.
“Ori, can I borrow some paper?”
The young dwarf looked at him, confused, but gladly obliged, and nodded at Óin’s rough words of thanks. He sketched, quickly and near fearfully, folding it and slipping it to Balin with naught but a nudge.

It was two days later when Óin grew even more concerned. The Company’s leader had decided to pack up and leave for Erebor, despite still having over a week to find the door.
“Hold on,” Bilbo said to Thorin, peering over the edge towards Dale. “This is the Overlook. Gandalf told us to meet him here.” Thorin stared back at him, and the Company grew quiet, awaiting his response; they knew Bilbo was right, but none had wanted to bring it up – Thorin’s mood had become more negative as of late.
“Do you see him?” It was not a question. “We have no time to-”
“Thorin II named Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, you are an idiot.”
“Wa-hey, someone said it!” Óin called out, throwing his hands into the air with pure relief. If anyone could put Thorin into his place, it was their favourite little hobbit.
“What did you say?”
“You are an idiot. About as sharp as marble, you are, telling us we’ve no time – we have nothing but time! What did you plan for us to do, once we found the door? Camp on a cliff ledge for a week in silence?” Thorin stood in stunned silence, jaw hanging so low that if it had legs, it’d be tap dancing.
“I am no fool, hobbit-”
“I am Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, only current Baggins of Bag End, and a Gentlehobbit besides. I am well aware of what a fool looks like, Thorin, and you aren’t one, usually, or your socks aren’t yellow. You have apparently lost your head, or bought some insulation for your brain. Óin, d’you want to look him over?”
“How do you know my socks are yellow?”
Yes, Thorin, that is the thing to focus on when your hobbit is (rightfully) chewing into you. Bilbo, the poor thing, heaved a sigh which Óin suspected he’d been holding in since the start of the journey. Wordlessly, he grasped the king by the face and brought the dwarf down to his eye-level.
“We leave when Gandalf is here,” he said flatly, not releasing Thorin until the future king nodded. When he did, a smile broke out on Bilbo’s face, and Óin knew he was teasing the bastard. “Good.”

When Óin was poked in the rib that night, he showed his drawing to the hobbit, who nodded his head solemnly and leaned upwards, bumping his forehead against the healer’s like a pebble with a headache.
The king slept soundly for the first time since setting foot off their boat, one hand curled around a hobbitish forearm as the fingers attached to it ghosted across his jaw.

Óin would’ve called it cute if he hadn’t seen the heartache upon Bilbo’s face at the sight of his sketch.

Chapter Text

“Wait, Gandalf! What if it’s a trap?”
The grey wizard paused, half-turning his head so Aiwendil could hear.
“Turn around and do not come back,” he said, with a gravitas so great it could have led a nation. “It is undoubtedly a trap.”

Aiwendil turned, clutching his staff as he walked.Olórin had always been the crazier of the two, no matter what Curumo thought. Leather reins found their way into his hands, and soon, he was off, making his way back to his forest to fend off any unwanted invaders.

He was three leagues from home when an urge so sudden and specific turned him away from his door once again, only to head towards the very trap Olórin had walked into.

–x–x–x–

Arwen Undómiel, first daughter and youngest child of Elrond and Celebrían, known among the Elves for her beauty and likeness to Lúthien, hated her reputation. It made others treat her with a sort of distant awe which became incredibly grating once you realised they didn’t actually listen to anything you were saying, only nodding along while gaping like newborns trying to comprehend the world for the first time. Being the daughter of Elrond, a half-elf, and Celebrían, the daughter of Lady Galadriel, made Arwen and her brothers something of a spectacle. It worked in their favour, at times, allowing them to convince others of things with no supernatural influences; however, it worked against them just as easily. Like now, Arwen thought – while her brothers were sequestered off to Gondor with little information other than ‘you’ll know when you get there’ , she was stuck in Imladris, learning healing of all things. All residents of the Hidden Valley knew basic healing skills, and Arwen was the most talented of herself and her siblings, but not more so than Elrond, who had buggered off with only a few words and an hour’s warning. This left Arwen to hold down the fort, as it were, though she knew not what from.

It was this command (and spontaneous splitting-up caused by her father) which led Arwen to stay in Imladris, learning healing techniques from various doctors. At her request, they also assisted in some of her training sessions, during which she fought much like the other warriors of their kind. She was no fighter at heart, but Arwen was not stupid; defending oneself is incredibly important, and a life-saving skill.

Normally, she wouldn’t have taken her father’s orders to stay within the halls of Rivendell quite so easily – since birth, she’d been coveted and protected by her family, who, in their attempts to protect her from the world, suffocated her. Elrond knew this, Elladan and Elrohir knew this. Everyone did. However, hearing her fathers words and feeling the immense doom tumbling from his mouth, beating in his heart and echoing in hers, drowning all feelings outside of his own… It was scary, to say the least. So, in the end, Arwen stayed, learning what healing she could as Imladris awaited word from its Lord.

–x–x–x–

Iron-clod hooved thundered and thumped against dry dirt and brown grass, beating down upon it as fast as possible. Two magnificent horses, chestnut brown in colour, galloped over the grass and stone which made up Dunland, sticking close to the Misty Mountains which loomed over them to the left; the mountains continued on for hundreds of miles, covering so much of the land that it acted as a sort of barrier between the East and West. A wide path was planned around Moria, where the land was desolate and dangerous, even when the other option was riding over the plains, no cover in sight.

“Whatever he meant by ‘you’ll know when you get there’, I sincerely hope he meant it,” one of the riders huffed, knowing the other was thinking the exact same thing.
“Don’t worry, dear brother, maybe he’ll send us a letter, or pick us up on one of those Eagles.”
They rode on in silence for a few seconds, before both riders’ faces scrunched up simultaneously and spoke.
“Nah."

–x–x–x–

It was several days later when the Company of Thorin Oakenshield left the Overlook, having abandoned their hope that Tharkûn would reach them in time. They packed up their camp slowly, talking all the while between themselves, going at a leisurely pace; even with their hobbit delaying the group vacating the area, and Thorin’s mood becoming less impatient each time they laughed or told stories or sang, the time had come for them to leave. There were still two days until they had to start panicking, but it had now become much more reasonable for them to leave without being told off by the wizard for not meeting him. Or by Bilbo for being too hasty.
As they walked, Dwalin contemplated the frown coming back onto his cousin’s face. Between leaving Esgaroth and getting to the Overlook, he’d been impatient in a manner which was almost child-like. Then, after getting a dressing-down by Master Baggins and constantly being spoken to by various members of the Company, he’d started returning to his good mood. Now, Dwalin saw, the impatience was returning with vengeance; Thorin, the idiot, was looking for a door which only Kíli would likely be able to find. Instead of spending his time with the silent and insufferably grumpy not-yet-king, Dwalin instead slowed his pace so he stood side-to-side with his brother.
“Whaddaya think?”
“Oh, absolutely not, brother,” Balin said, shaking his head in exaggerated mourning while a poorly-hidden smile tugged at his mouth. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh, come on, he’s done enough pussy-footing around, don’t you think?”
“I’d label it more as focussing on other things,” Balin started, eyes wandering over the mountain. He then slid them back to Dwalin, and without quite looking in his direction, winked at him. Dwalin would never know how his brother did that. “But whether or not he wants to is the question.” Dwalin barked a laugh and punched his brother when it drew Thorin’s annoyed attention.
“About as sweet as off milk, isn’t he?”
“You need to work on your similes.”
“Oh, you ken what I mean.”

The two walked on quietly, occasionally breaking the silence with meaningless conversation as they always did, and looking towards the base of the mountain whenever Thorin turned around and stared at them a little bit too much. It was like they were kids again, and playing a game which Thorin thought of as childish. Dwalin didn’t notice that the rest of the Company were doing the exact same thing, too; what he did notice, however, was Thorin – his cousin, his leader, his King – staring, quite unabashedly, at their hired burglar.

Just then, Dwalin became keenly aware of the fact that Thorin was: a) incredibly stupid, b) horrifically impatient when he didn’t get what he wanted, and c) very much enamoured with the hobbit and very much unaware of how obvious he was. It explained the short-temperedness, to an extent, and made everything from his moaning about gentlefolk in Bag End to the freeness with which he gave the hobbit physical contact make sense. In order to propose, though, like the dwarf he was, he’d have to have access to the forges. Between Thorin’s glances at the mountain and then the hobbit and the Company’s bets about the two run by Nori, Dwalin realised with a bark of laughter that this was all just an over-glorified family holiday.

It was that evening when an excited voice shouted out, calling everyone over to the owner’s location. Kíli stood beside Fíli, who was gripping his younger brother’s shoulders in elation.
“I’ve found it!” Kíli exclaimed, pointing to a small, nearly invisible ledge high up the mountainside.
“He can even see the little door-cracks, in spite of its magic,” Fíli narrated conspiratorially; Kíli only nodded enthusiastically at his brother, grinning like a dwarf who’d gotten a free drink. Specifically, Dwalin when he got a free drink. Roars of glee erupted from the Company upon the small hillock, before they started shushing one another and giggling with pure joy and adrenaline.
“Only problem is,” Kíli started, several minutes later, “I can’t see the way up.”
“We’ll sort that in the mornin’, lad,” Bofur said easily, and it was easy, really – they still had the whole of tomorrow to find a way up, and then the day after that, their true mission started. Camp was set up for the night a few hundred metres away against a rocky outcropping which protected them from the wind, and though no fire was permitted for their meal, none of them found they minded too much; the atmosphere was abuzz with their discovery, and they all rode that high through the evening and into their sleep.

Cold yellow rays awoke them; though the morning was crisp, the wind did not bite, and only a slight chill could be felt. The campsite was packed up and soon, the Dwarves of Erebor were on their way to figure out how to get up to the door. They knew where it was, which was supposed to be the hard part, considering it was a secret dwarf door, so Dwalin supposed they needn’t be too worried.
Dwalin was regretting his stance from that morning as the day wore on with little to no progress made. The morning wore into the afternoon, and the sun was starting to set; it was only about four p.m., Dwalin thought, but winter was starting to make itself known in the length of their days and coolness of the sunlight. They wouldn’t call it a day until they found a way up, he knew, but Dwalin was also quite a bit more logical than people gave him credit for, and knew that working late into the day simply wouldn’t work without a light source, even with their dwarvish darkvision. As the light faded and the sun dipped to greet the horizon, another shout made itself known to the Company, who all rushed over to the caller. This time, Bilbo stood next to Kíli, who had, in his excitement, punched their burglar quite hard in the arm. The hobbit laughed along with Fíli, who had started teasing the youngest Durin for his inability to keep control of his energy. Kíli took no notice, waving his arms around frantically as if the Company hadn’t already turned and moved towards him.
“We’ve found it! The way up!”
Another cheer of righteous triumph burst from the Company, and they all gathered to look for what Kíli saw.
“Mister Boggins saw it first, but couldn’t see if it led anywhere,” Kíli explained, leading everyone’s eyes to the large statue just outside Erebor’s front gate. Confusion overtook the dwarrow for a few moments, before they all realised in turn. Dwalin wondered why they were all staring at a long-dead dwarf’s sculpture until he saw exactly what the young prince was pointing at: a series of stairs set into the statue. They were large, but usable, and entirely dwarven. Once again, they set up their camp, but this time it was closer to the newly-discovered stairs, as though having them leave their sight would cause them to disappear.

Red beams beat down upon them as the sun rose, crimson in colour as a scathing wind passed through, biting at their faces and fingertips. Dwalin was glad that the staircase was walled off on three sides, which provided coverage from the frigid gales.
“Red sky in the mornin’, sailor’s warnin’!”
“I thought it was a shepherd’s warning!”
“Who cares whose warning it is? We’ve found a way into the mountain, have we not?” Dwalin called behind him, because Bofur’s incessant rambling was beginning to grate upon him – he sincerely hoped the miner shut up when they started their ascent. Rather than quieten the ruckus, however, all Dwalin did was cause a series of agreements to irradiate from the Company. Loudly.
“The day you show a smile on your face, brother, shall be the day I die,” Balin commented, sidling up to Dwalin’s right.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“No, really, it’d be a sight to behold. I’d have a heart attack right on the spot.”
In response, as was his role as the younger brother, Dwalin turned to face Balin, and forced a smile onto his face. Balin choked, barely holding in a laugh for a scant few seconds before it exploded from him, leaving the white-haired dwarf wheezing and gasping as he leaned a hand on Dwalin’s shoulder to support himself and his bent-over form.
“Dwalin,” Thorin said slowly, coming up beside Balin. “What have you done to my advisor?”
“Not a thing,” Dwalin replied, arms still crossed, much the same as they always were. “Question is, what is your advisor doing to himself?”
“Oh, watching my brother attempt to smile, O King,” Balin pushed out between gasps and fits of laughter.
“...Amusing.”
“Oh, because you’re so much better, Thorin.”
“Whatever is that supposed to mean?”
Dwalin joined his brother’s renewed state of pure joy, the two of them guffawing and wheezing at their cousin’s complete and utter stupidity. They were both doubled over, leaning on one another, as Thorin sighed, shaking his head and taking his leave. Dwalin had very nearly regained his composure when he turned, only to see Thorin doing an awful impression of a warg when the hobbit walked past.

Scaling the stairs was far easier said than done; in the end, it took them several hours, and Bofur did talk about everything and anything that came to his mind the entire time.They reached the ledge just before sunset, which caused a panic in the group; Thorin, who had gone first, sprinted up the last few stairs (though Dwalin knew not how, considering they were nearly as tall as the dwarrow themselves), detaching the key and its golden chain from around his neck as he went, and started desperately feeling around the stone for a keyhole. They searched as the sun sank further into the land, and even Kíli tried looking, walking right up to the stone’s face and inspecting every part of it he could. Nothing turned up, and the sun disappeared, taking their hope along with it.

Thorin turned away from the wall, a forlorn expression on his face.
“What did we miss, Balin?” he asked the elder dwarf. “What did we miss?” Balin, ever the comforting brother, shook his head wordlessly, and placed a firm hand on Thorin’s shoulder.
“We’ve lost the light – there’s no more to be done. We had but one chance… but it’s over. Come on lads, come away…” Balin turned morosely away from the wall, gently dragging those who wouldn’t leave it with him. Dwalin turned to follow, but a slight nudge above his elbow stopped him.
“Why’s everyone leaving?” Bilbo asked him quietly, seemingly unaware of what had just occurred. Dwalin supposed he wouldn’t know, since he wasn’t knowledgeable of Dwarvish doors, especially hidden ones. Dwalin never enjoyed being the bearer of bad news.
“We’ve lost our chance, lad,” he said, patting the hobbit’s shoulder comfortingly.
“What do you mean?”
“The last light, it’s gone. That was the last light of Durin’s Day.”
“...But wouldn’t that be the moon?”
“What-” Dwalin froze before any more words could make their way to his mouth. Distantly, in the background, he registered that it was now only himself, Bilbo, and a couple of stragglers on the ledge, and he’d definitely heard a golden chain drop to the ground. As he processed Bilbo’s question, a genuine grin – quite possibly madness – crept up on him. Bilbo looked near frightened, the poor thing, but Dwalin couldn’t bring himself to stop it.
“Get back here, you fools! It’s the damned MOON!” Dwalin shouted across his shoulder as he gently (or, well, as gently as he could in that moment) bumped his forehead against the hobbit’s. The moon! They hadn’t even thought of it!
As curious but downtrodden dwarrow filtered back onto the ledge, they saw Dwalin’s terrifying smile, and immediately sought out Balin, who would surely fix whatever horrific insanity had afflicted his brother.
“Our burglar thinks it’s the moon,” he said as his explanation, and the Company mulled it over. As they did, a thin streak of silver shone through the sky, its light filtering down to them. It became very clear, in that moment, that the hobbit was, in fact, correct; the silver glow lit up a keyhole so bright and obvious Dwalin wondered how they had missed it.
“Where’s the key? Where’s the key?!” Thorin asked frantically, searching the ledge as the other dwarrow joined in, treading carefully so as not to accidentally kick it or step on it. Bilbo stooped down to a small patch of grass just below his feet and picked up the key, along with its chain, and handed it to Thorin, who quickly thumped their foreheads together. He then rushed over to the keyhole and pushed the key in, turning it until a faint click sounded out over the ledge. Now, the dwarrow were silent, reverent, almost, as Thorin, their leader and rightful King Under the Mountain, pushed against the rock; a rectangle formed and swung inwards, agonisingly slow and noisy, like it made its own small earthquake.

Stepping into Erebor for the first time since its fall was something Dwalin had envisioned doing in his afterlife as he entered the Halls of Mahal, which were said to be modelled after the greatest Dwarven kingdoms. Now, in his life, he stood below the stone he’d been born under; carvings detailed every wall, every crevice, and unlocked memories he hadn’t even known he possessed. Erebor’s insides were detailed with extravagant carvings all over the kingdom, and this hidden hallway was no exception; scenes of battle and victory decorated the walls, and a frieze stood above the entry doorway, depicting the Arkenstone, below which was Thrór, the first and only dwarf to own the stone. It glowed, in the frieze, despite it being simple, unpainted stone. Dwalin thought it was beautiful, and it reminded him of his own home here from long ago, which had been covered in similar carvings and adornments.

It was some time later when their burglar was finally sent off down into the treasury; each member of the Company had tried to describe the Arkenstone to him, but the one sentiment that kept cropping up is that he’d simply know when he found it. They’d set up a system, so Nori would be able to listen into the mountain and tell everyone what was happening as he heard it, so if Bilbo needed help, they would know. Balin had walked the hobbit down to the last two hallways before the treasury, though no others went with them; of course, they had to be quiet, but Dwalin had expected Thorin to try to follow the hobbit until the last second. Either way, Balin returned with no hobbit in tow, as to be expected. Then came their wait, with only Nori’s occasional murmurs to ease their anxiety.

–x–x–x–

Wind whipped around as the Eagles of Manwë swooped below the clouds, jolting Elrond from his thoughts; they weren’t supposed to reach Erebor for another few days, were they? Looking down, he could see the winter-ridden trees of Greenwood, now Mirkwood, and stony ruins which reeked of magic, deceptive in its nature. Approaching, a singular arrow appeared out of nowhere, nearly hitting one of the convocation as they all dove and rolled out of its path, scattering in the unusually cold air to avoid the shot. They chirped and whistled to one another before swooping downwards towards the ground, quite a ways away from where the arrow was shot from. Now, they glided above the trees, just high enough to flap their wings without getting caught in the forest, and Elrond was thoroughly aware of their location; ahead, where the stone crumbled upon a dead hill, was Dol Guldur, a set of ruins so enshrouded in evil they were not visited by anyone – and, in fact, the area surrounding them had been vacated millenia ago in fear of living under its shadow. Amon Lanc had been captured while Mirkwood was Greenwood under Oropher’s rule, but that was long ago; since then, though the Woodland Realm had not reclaimed the area, most had assumed it to be inactive – no movement had been spotted around it, and nothing had any reason to go near the area in the first place, so none would know of its defenses.
Elrond had known Oropher when he ruled over the SIlvan Elves of Greenwood, and quite some time beforehand. They’d spent some time together both as neighbouring rulers and dear friends. The white-haired elf had only been a few years older than him – 25, to be exact, which is an incredibly small age gap in the lives of the Elves, Silvan or otherwise. Elrond had also known Oropher when he died in the Battle of Dagorlad, and had wondered if they’d ever recover his body some time in the future. Elrond also wondered whether anyone who had lost their lives in the lands surrounding the Dead Marshes would ever return to their kin.
In the present, however, Elrond did not wonder whether the bodies from various battlefields across time would find their ways home, or whether the elves of the Woodland Realm remembered Dol Guldur. Instead, Elrond watched, almost detached from reality, as the bald hill stood silent, still, while they accelerated towards it from just below its foundation. The structure was intimidating, with sharp stones poking out from the masonry, clearly weathered and beaten out of place over time; it looked old , like it had been made far before the hill had even been taken, or the lands around it were emptied of life. And Elrond could hear it, as could anyone with their senses about them – not a single twig snapped, not a bird trilled in the area. No life existed here, except for whatever awaited inside the dilapidated remnants of a once-feared fortress, its terrible silhouette blocking out the sun.

Approaching the ruins was easier from their lower angle – no enemy expected a group of birds, of all things, to appear from below, even if the place was built on a lifeless hill. As they got closer, words from a source that Elrond recognised could be heard echoing throughout the wreckage; a voice that could only be Mithrandir shouted wordlessly as metal screeched against rock, and another voice joined the cacophony, rising above it in a calm manner which, ordinarily, would have been soothing; in this situation, however, it was not. Galadriel’s powerful voice enveloped the air, filling it and suffocating anything unworthy of her presence, an overwhelming promise of doom encompassing all who heard it. It echoed in his mind in an unnatural way, and then, another sentence rose above the dissonance.
“Come, we require aid,” she said, simple and delicate compared to the screeches and screams he could hear around him. The Eagles seem to have heard too, since they each split off from one another into smaller groups – big enough to defend themselves and prove effective offense, but small enough so their approach was not so clear, both in auditory and visual volume. Elrond, upon the back of Meneldor, was lifted up by the eagle’s wing towards a ledge; Meneldor hooked his claws into the cliff, giving the relatively small elf enough stability to climb onto the ledge. As his foot touched the deep grey rock, jagged and crumbling, Meneldor took off to join his brother, Landroval, and they both disappeared around a column to Elrond’s left.
“Watch out for the Men,” Galadriel’s voice sounded out in his mind again, and Elrond jolted back to himself. Haste was imperative in a situation like this, and he’d spent enough time dallying – the Elf-Lord brandished his sword and stepped between the ruins, joining the labyrinth. He reached Galadriel, and she seemed to be talking to something as she held a large, shrouded item in her arms.
“I am not alone,” she replied to the air, and it was then that Elrond realised what, exactly, she was holding (or, rather, who). He had no time to react, however, as his mind forewarned him of an attack; a ghostly figure lunged out towards her, and Elrond jumped from behind his pillar, sinking his sword into the creature’s side, only to belatedly realise what Galadreil’s warning had meant when the creature fell down a crevice before disappearing halfway down, and reappearing back where it had been. At once, it became a messy skirmish – Galadriel defended herself and Mithrandir, who was hanging limp from her arms, while he and Curunír, of all people, fought back the phantom Men, Kings of cities long lost to time. Steel clashed against weapons of pale darkness, batting them away and stabbing through people not quite there. As he and the White Wizard fought, Elrond briefly registered that Galadriel had put Mithrandir down, and was now coaxing him onto Rhoscír’s sled, which was pulled by several Rhosgobel rabbits. The Brown Wizard took off with a protesting bundle of grey on the back of his sled – a fact which was subsequently useless in Elrond’s eyes, as Galadriel summoned the powers of Nenya, and a bright light filled his vision; nothing could be seen for a long while, until a flaming eye appeared, holding the visages of nine Men, once powerful kings and now slaves to the fires of Mordor.
“You have no power here, Servant of Morgoth!” Galadriel cried, and how she could even continue to think in the blinding whiteness, he did not know. Both he and Curunír covered their eyes while Galadriel continued, voice growing in power and depth. “You are nameless, faceless, formless! Go back to the Void from whence you came!” With one final push, a blast of energy and power burst outwards from her, causing the ruins to shake beneath their feet; light blasted into the now-stormy skies, and a rumbling so loud it couldn’t possibly be thunder echoed above them. With her force, Galadriel had driven Sauron – for that is most certainly him – back.
In the aftermath of such a display of power, many simply cease to exist, or die trying to remain as they were. Galadriel crumpled into herself, Elrond catching her arms just before she could fall to the floor. The three watched as Sauron hurtled towards the horizon where they knew Mordor lay.
“We were deceived,” Elrond said, cautiously checking over his mother-in-law for any significant injuries. Instead of talking in his head as she normally would, she just patted his hand to assure him of her continued health.
“The spirit of Sauron endured,” she said instead, looking between Elrond and Curunír.
“And has been banished,” the White Wizard remarked.
“He will flee into the East.”
Oh, that’s not ideal. “Gondor should be warned,” Elrond urged, the words tumbling from his mouth as he thought of his sons. “They must set a watch on the walls of Mordor.” Oh, by the Valar, he’d sent his sons to Gondor. Sure, he hadn’t known Sauron was active, but that didn’t matter now.
“No,” Curunír spoke after a while. “Look after the Lady Galadriel, she has spent much of her power. Her strength is failing. Take her to Lothlórien.”
“My Lord Saruman, he must be hunted down and destroyed, once and for all-”
“Without the Ring of Power, Sauron can never again hold dominion over Middle-Earth. Go now! Leave Sauron to me.”

Elrond helped Galadriel to her feet as they hobbled together to the entrance, where Meneldor and Landroval were waiting to pick them up. Something really bothered him about the way Curunír was talking about warning Gondor.

“Fetch Celeborn,” Elrond puffed out to the first elf he saw. He had little time to do many things.
As soon as Galadriel was safe with her husband, Elrond left, and the Eagles pushed themselves, travelling further in a day than they would have covered in two at their normal speed.

Alas, it was not fast enough.

–x–x–x–

When he’d signed onto this journey, there was a very large and quite possibly overplayed possibility that the dragon would no longer be alive or inhabiting the mountain. Not only that, but Bilbo had been thoroughly unaware of exactly how large the treasure room was; vast halls were lined floor-to-ceiling with gold, the cavernous interior of the mountain lined with as many valuables as the dragon could supposedly find. It was ridiculous – how the Company expected him to find a white gem in a sea of treasures, Bilbo did not know.

This fact did not deter him from trying, however – Bilbo Baggins was a determined fellow, but he really was only little, and so could cover barely any ground at all. His first hour was spent in silence, and though he could hear nothing, the idea that Nori had been hearing constant whispering as soon as they’d landed on the bank unsettled the hobbit greatly, and discouraged him from speaking.
After all his efforts to remain silent, it wasn’t even the noises he was making which alerted the dragon of his presence.
“You carry gold ,” a voice said, rumbling and deep; it came from below the hoard, and Bilbo felt it rumble as large, red spines poked up all over the hall, twisting around in a sick dance akin to a constrictor snake surrounding its prey. The head surfaced, its eye twice the height of the poor hobbit, who stood, frozen in fear and awe at the dragon’s size. It stared at him, bore a hole right through his mind and into his heart. It sneered, if dragons could do that, and slithered its head through the air to hover right beside Bilbo.
“It’s something you’ve brought with you,” it breathed, huffing out a pile of smoke as it twisted its head around to the other side, getting a good look at the intruder. Bilbo was sincerely glad he’d put down the golden cup he’d picked up when he first entered.
“What?” Bilbo asked – stupid, really, considering he was staring down the snout of a dragon so large even a tooth could skewer him head-to-toe. He was only a little fellow, after all.
“Do not play dumb with me, farmboy,” it scowled, and something about it sent alarm bells ringing in Bilbo’s mind. Everything about the situation did, really.
“I am no farmboy, truly,” the hobbit said, because his tongue was far too quick for his mind to monitor sometimes. “Though I am no Dwarf, either.”
“But you smell like Dwarf,” the dragon said, twisting its head again, seemingly more curious than angry. Like a cat playing with a mouse before devouring it whole. “You smell- intriguing …”
Did the dragon just insult him?
“I reckon you would too, travelling on the road for so long. It’s not exactly fragrant in here, either.” Bilbo wedged his fist in his mouth before he could insult the giant fire-breathing reptile before him any further.
“Ah, but that does not matter,” the dragon said instead, completely ignoring Bilbo’s jab. “For I have my kidîz …” Greed overtook the firedrake’s eyes as it turned towards the gold, which flowed across the halls like an ocean. “See my wealth and cower in its enormity,” it commanded, moving out from beneath the gold so it was stood on two legs with both wings stretched out; its stomach-plates were encrusted with jewels, coins, and gemstones, a smattering of colour and shine that, in any other situation, would have been somewhat beautiful; here and now, though, it was terrifying. Somewhere, in the back of Bilbo’s mind, he also thought it was garish, though he had to admit the scales matched well; the dragon was ruby-red, and not even the brightest crimson gem outshone its scales. Bilbo told it so.
“You flatter me,” it said, leaning downwards. “What are you, who carries the scent of Thorin Oakenshield?”
To say Bilbo panicked would be an understatement.
“Well, I- Thori- no, no, no Thorins or Oak-shields here. None at all! Who on Earth are you talking about?”
“Oh, don’t lie to me , creature… I can smell him, even out there. He’s come to steal from me – or, I suppose he told you he’s taking back what’s his, didn’t he?”
“What-”
“More’s the pity,” the dragon smiled, and it was a horrifying thing, all teeth and malice rather than any actual joy or satisfaction.

“He was my favourite heir.”

–x–x–x–

“-and now he’s telling Bilbo you were-” Nori froze, stock-still, mouth agape and eyes bulging out of his head. He paled, looking unnaturally gaunt in the moonlight, as he turned to Thorin, who only looked when everything went silent. “He said you’re his favourite heir.”

–x–x–x–

The dragon wriggled around in its wealth, tossing coins and trinkets across the rooms with little care for where or how they landed.
“If he is to try ‘reclaim’ my kingdom from me…” it muttered angrily, seemingly digging through its treasure. “There…”
The dragon turned, brilliant red scales illuminating the otherwise golden room, and it wove its way through the hoard to where it had made Bilbo stand, up on the highest hill of gold; from here, the hobbit could see the entire treasury, barring what was hidden behind support pillars or winding hallways. It lumbered towards him, seemingly favouring its left side despite the large gemstone wedged right under its wing. Its claw-hand was closed around something, which it urged Bilbo to reach out towards – then, in his hands was a beautiful white gem, irradiating light. The Arkenstone.
“I’m confused,” Bilbo said, because he really, truly was. “Why are you giving this to me?”
“Perhaps my grandson can see the beauty of it all… he’ll see what a grand idea it is, for me to rule in this form!” Grandson?
“You have children?”
The dragon stopped its self-fuelled laughter instantly, eyeing Bilbo with one large, orange eye which sharpened as a malignant smile crept up onto its face.
“You think I’m Smaug,” it said, turning its head innocently towards Bilbo. It weaved through the air back to him, giving the hobbit little personal space.
“Well, yes,” he said. Clearly, that was the wrong answer, because Not-Smaug reared up back onto its legs.
“Smaug is not so great as I! Dragons are no match for one so versatile as me!”
Bilbo was very much aware that he had to leave, now, before the firedrake killed him, no matter what it called itself. As he sidled down the gold heap, a large claw-hand grasped him tightly, picking him up by his middle like a toy.
“And where are you going? The King did not permit you to leave.”
“What king?” Wrong answer, again.
“Why, the greatest King the Dwarves – nay, the world – has ever seen! The King Under the Mountain! I, King Thrór!”

Bilbo felt like his head was full of water. It must be, for him to have heard that – but, no, the case was not so. Shaking his head, the dragon still had a hold of him, and he was now right next to its eye, its claws grasped firmly around him, squeezing uncomfortably tight, restricting his breathing. Now, the immense sense of darkness made sense; Bilbo had assumed dragons carried the feeling due to their nature, much like orcs, but it was not so, apparently; the immense evil flowing from the dragon’s every breath was because it was not, in fact, a dragon, but a person .
Thrór, once a dwarf and now a dragon, squeezed him tighter, widening his grin. His mouth, terrible and sharp, opened, and Bilbo knew what he had to do. It was not going to be pleasant.

–x–x–x–

“We need to go in! We need to help Bilbo!”
“How, exactly? We’re thirteen dwarves, not an army!”
“And he’s a single hobbit!”
“What are we supposed to do about a dragon ?”
“Dwarf,” Nori corrected, and the Company ceased their bickering. “That is not Smaug in there.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you hear him earlier?” Glóin asked.
“He said Smaug said that Thorin was his favourite heir.”
“Yes…”
“And… that means…?”
Glóin’s face crumpled with the stupidity of his family.
“It means, you two, that that cannot be Smaug,” Nori told the princes, who were looking at one another in confusion.
“How?”
“Because it implies that this ‘ Smaug’ knew Thorin, Frerin, and Dís, personally. Besides, Thrór was a Deathshifter,” Nori answered, still pale and wringing his knives between his hands.
“How do you know that?” Thorin asked; no one outside the royal family had been allowed to know of Thrór’s ability, violent as it was.
“Because he’s talking to Bilbo.”
If it hadn’t been abundantly clear before, it was now; their hobbit was trapped inside the mountain with a supposedly-long-dead shapeshifting dwarf, not a dragon.
No one could quite figure out which they thought was worse.

–x–x–x–

Bard would not tell his children why there were bags packed at the door, nor why he held a long, black spear-like weapon when they’d never seen him hold anything more substantial than a fish knife.

Bard would not tell his neighbours and friends why they should start making go-bags, just in case – he was a sound-minded fellow, they knew, and far smarter than he took credit for, so they did it, just in case.

Bard would not tell the Master anything, least of all about the dwarves which had passed through. If they really were merchants, it was nothing to worry about. And if they weren’t, the dragon was bound to come out of the mountain soon enough.

–x–x–x–

When they finally reached the inside of the mountain, the treasury immediately made itself known, since the entire mountain seemed to be covered in gold. It was hot, unusually so, and smoggy in a way which indicated a recent fire. The dwarrow burst into action with the realisation, screaming Bilbo’s name with no regard for their own safety. They searched across the sea of gold, wading through thick piles of coins near-melted from the heat.

“Over here,” a weak voice said, and Bifur called the Company over to his pile.
Sitting in a deep trough in the gold was their hobbit, who was curled in on himself next to a lump of fabrics, all extravagant but covered in scorch marks. The Company surged forwards to reach their thankfully very much alive burglar, all of them taking turns to greet him and ask after his health. Óin pushed past everyone, swatting them away so he could see his patient.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Bilbo said repeatedly, pale and drawn in his complexion. Some of his clothing was burnt, and four reddish lines glowed around his middle, but he appeared to be mostly fine, and wasn’t struggling with whatever injury he had. “He needs more help,” the hobbit said, pointing towards the bundle of fabric which everyone had ignored. The dwarrow stopped in their movements, tense despite the lack of imminent danger. Óin stepped forwards, calling Bilbo to help him remove the layers of fabric.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the hobbit said, still hugging himself with his hands.
“Why not?”
“Don’t think he likes me.” Óin instructed Bifur to sit the hobbit down and calm him; his eyes were unfocused, and he was disassociating in bouts – clearly, he was in shock. Óin continued alone, uncovering layer by layer of thick, rich fabric covered in scorch marks and burn holes. Beneath it all was a lump of thin grey hair, and a frail-looking figure lying face-down in the gold.
As Óin tried to turn the dwarf over, sharp nails dug into his arms as a wild mouth screamed half-coherent words at him.
“MY GOLD! Th- mine, my Treasure! Thief!” The old dwarf screeched, scrambling to bat Óin away as he hoarded coins in his arms as if to protect them. “...not yours, my- mine, all mine, yes… no dragons, no fire, no one to- no one to take it… mine, yes, yes! Yes! Gold… beyond toil, beyond blood… grief – no, none, none…”
The whispers filled Óin’s blood with ice as he realised why the halls looked so dim; all around him was the dark shadow of a dragon, centered around the head of a king assumed to be dead. He looked to Balin, tilting his head slightly to signal that the dwarf was not in his right mind – though, he supposed anyone with ears that worked could figure that out. He supposed that was good because Balin, along with Thorin, Dwalin, and Dori, stared at the frail dwarf before them, a mix of grief, anger, and horror on their faces. Óin turned back to his patient.
“What’s your name?”
“...it speaks, it- hm? Name…? No, I have none but one- one to be kept, one to keep safe… bright as the Arkenstone, brighter still than all the gold in the world,” the dwarf said, trailing off as his eyes glimmered with greed at the coins around him.
“You know your name,” Bilbo said from afar, still sitting with Bifur, who was carving some toy and humming to the hobbit. “You told me, earlier.”
“Lies,” the dwarf gasped, sending a piercing gaze in Bilbo’s direction. Many of the Company’s eyes followed, though with a much softer look, if a bit concerned.
“Nah, he’s telling the truth,” Nori said quietly to Dwalin – the precaution was useless, as all voices were thrown around the chamber whenever anyone so much as breathed.

So, not only was Óin dealing with a mad dwarf riddled with dragon sickness, but a mad dwarf riddled with dragon sickness who knew damn well what he was doing, and was very much willing to and capable of lying.
“You traitor,” he spat, a sneer pinching his weathered, gaunt face together. “I’d have your beard for that.” The Company were outraged; a threat such as that was so great that it was considered more merciful to condemn someone to hang. All were silent in their shock, not daring to speak out against the clearly insane undead.

Óin had spent three hours coaxing Thrór – confirmed by both Bilbo and Nori, and then later the dwarf himself – into letting him bandage up his various cuts and scrapes. He had wounds from the day he fought Smaug and won, which had been left to fester without even being rinsed first, stuck in time, isolated from the rest of his ageing body while he retained his draconic form. After everything, he demanded to be set up in one of the royal bedrooms, which were entirely unsafe and almost completely collapsed. Instead, he settled in a room near their little camp, refusing to sleep in the same room as anyone not of Durin’s blood. Most of the Company, though they wouldn’t say it, were thankful, and felt safer for his absence.
Óin tended to Bilbo’s wounds, which were deep but grazed when he got around to it – Bilbo’s acquisition of this particular ability was gruesome, by all accounts, but incredibly useful in keeping him alive along the quest. He did also have two broken ribs – Óin managed to get the story from him, and he had been squashed. Quite a lot, it seemed. All the healer could do was apply some of his ointment to stave away infection and promote healing, and give him a bit of whiskey for the pain.

–x–x–x–

Despite the alcohol in his system and salves covering his skin, Bilbo Baggins found that he could not get a wink of sleep that night. It was well into the early morning – about one or two, by his estimate – by the time Óin had finished with him and sent him off to bed. He joined the Company in their makeshift camp, slotting himself on his coat, which was laid next to Bifur. He had found along the journey that the dwarf’s melodic breathing and quiet humming helped him get to sleep many a time, but tonight was not one of those times. Instead of getting the rest he definitely needed, Bilbo instead sat awake upon his coat, hoping the small fire and the dwarrows’ body heat would keep him warm.
Claws handing him a brilliant white stone, smooth on all sides but exploding within, hand wrapped tightly around him, so tight it was peeling his skin from his flesh – a mouth, large and fearsome, curled into a sadistic grin and widened, preparing to devour its new toy, and Bilbo put his hands up, because what else could he do-
“You’re thinking too hard,” a soft, rumbling voice sounded from beside him, just behind his shoulder. The firm form of a dwarf pressed into his side, wrapping an arm around him and sharing the thick fur the dwarf was never seen without. Bilbo scoffed.
“Been a long day.”
“Yes, it has, which is why you need to sleep.” Bilbo absolutely did not lean into the soft, purring voice at his side, nor the broad, warm chest attached to it. He did not.
“You never sleep, though.”
“Yes I do. I always sleep – it’s just whenever you’re not looking.”
“Horseshit.”
“No, neither of those things.”
SIlence washed over them for a while as he and Thorin sat together, taking in the Company, safe and whole.
“Tell me a story,” Bilbo asked, too fed up of his own thoughts, which were too fast and too full of adrenaline still. Thorin hummed, and thought for a while.
“When I was young, before Erebor fell, I wandered into a cave which was uncharted by the miner’s guild. I kept going deeper and deeper – I thought it was good fun, and did not think of the dangers, pebble that I was. I explored it every night, making a map in a notebook my father had gifted me.” Thorin’s speech was slow, and delicate, like it was a secret being shared between the two of them. Like he’d never told anyone this story before. “Each night, I kept visiting the cave, and one day, I found something.”
“What’d you find?”
“Stars.”
“Stars?”
“Aye.”
“Inside a cave?”
“Yes, Bilbo, inside a cave,” he laughed, which Bilbo felt more than heard. “I thought that was what they were anyway. Thousands of tiny glowing specks upon the ceiling, all twinkling like gems set into the stone. I’d barely been outside of the mountain at that point, so you could understand my confusion. After that, I returned there every night, until one time, one of the stars fell down.”
“What?”
“It fell down, all the way from the ceiling. I caught it just before it hit the floor, though I caught my chin in the process.” At that, Thorin moved his free hand to search through his beard, right hand rifling through hair until he found it – a long, thin scar nestled just before his chin on the left side of his face. Bilbo reached up to ghost his hands along the scar, thinking about the loving foolishness of the dwarf before him. Thorin stiffened slightly at the contact, but smiled sweetly at him, just enough to see it through his beard as it was plastered onto his eyes. Bilbo removed his hands, very suddenly aware that he’d done a similar thing in Mirkwood, and again in Bard’s living room. Thorin’s eyes followed Bilbo’s hands, which were subsequently tucked into his lap, and lingered there for a second before they rose back up to Bilbo’s face to continue the story. His words were even more hushed now than before. “It was a glow-worm. There were thousands of them, all lighting up the cave walls with their glittering glow. I sat holding the one I caught for hours, and I only just about left the cave in time to get back into bed before my mother walked in to wake me.” Bilbo grinned softly at Thorin’s story, letting out a small huff of a laugh.
“My dear dwarf, I do believe you’ve made that up.”
“No,” Thorin said, quicker and more energetic than he’d expected the dwarf to be. He shifted slightly, sitting up a bit more which forced Bilbo to do the same, looking towards the dwarf. “I’ll show you, if you’d like. I’ve never taken anyone there before, but when Erebor’s more safe, I’ll take you to the star-tunnels.” His eyes carried such sincerity, such care; Bilbo found that he couldn’t say no, and he didn’t want to.
“I’d like that.”

–x–x–x–

“Tauriel, what can you see?”
The moon shone above them as Legolas asked her this important question. He was a Hawkeye, so he could see far and wide, but she was one of the Moonwake, able to locate anything the moon’s light could touch, so long as she could see it.
“I see nothing,” Tauriel said carefully, looking towards the sky in near-reverence. “Which means they’re either in Esgaroth, or they’ve reached the mountain already.”
“We leave for Esgaroth, then. The Men will tell us if they’ve been seen.”

Tauriel did not tell Legolas that she’d been watching the brown-haired dwarf each night since the escape, nor did she tell Legolas that she’d last seen them rushing into a side-door of the mountain not two nights ago.

Chapter Text

Armed with sleep and food, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield awoke with renewed strength and determination. Now that the dragon was (for all intents and purposes) dealt with, the issue of the Arkenstone arose. Thorin, Dwalin, Glóin, Fíli, and Kíli all wanted to look for the stone, while Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Balin, Óin, Dori, Nori, and Ori all wanted to secure the mountain, strengthen its foundations and protections before looking for any treasures. Bilbo outright refused to step foot within the treasury again, and Thrór laughed hysterically whenever it was brought up. In the end, the Company was split into three groups; Óin and another dwarf would stay with Thrór at all times while all who wished to look in the treasury would do so and everyone else would secure Erebor’s defenses, starting with the gates. It was not ideal, but was a compromise they had to make. So it was that, eventually, everyone had their turn looking after Thrór for a few hours. Some were unsettled by him, which made him laugh manically. Others he either favoured or hated; the former, he’d coddle and lie to, attempting to get them to listen to his narrative of being the best king there ever was, and the latter, he’d hiss and spit at like an angry cat – or, perhaps, an angry dragon. He grew used to Óin’s presence, and after a day, stopped insulting the healer.

Gold travelled further than the eye could see, amassing within the great halls of Erebor, abundant in both volume and value. Gems were scattered in with the gold, bright specks of colour among the metallic textures, which reflected the coloured light, making the gems stand out. Several heirlooms were scattered about, stacked one on top of the other, the disregard for sentimental value blatant in their storage method. 

The more time Glóin spent in the treasury, the more he felt his mind turn to mush, cold and alone as he distanced himself from his thoughts; his mind lingered less on his dear wife and darling child, and more on the gold, its colour and weight and value. He watched himself fall onto the icy slope of dragon sickness, and begged Thorin to let him join in the building efforts with the others.
“We need you in here, Glóin – you’re the best with numbers, values, that sort of thing. We need to know if it’s all here,” Thorin urged, picking through coins one at a time before tossing them behind him.
“Thorin, don’t be daft, we’d need a whole mountain of dwarrow to count all this out before we die! I’d be much more useful managing the lads,” the red-haired dwarf argued. He could not stand the treasury any longer.
“Do you not see what is before you?” Its magnificence, its beauty?”
“I do, my King, I do, but would it not be wise to protect this gold?”
Thorin turned to him at that, eyes distant and calculating – not in the way Glóin’s were, but in the way of a politician, of someone working out exactly how much blood and sweat they could spend. Thorin smiled at him, but it was not warm, even Glóin could tell in his numbed state.
“My cousin, you are truly a genius. Go! Protect our wealth; tell all we live to see another day!”
Glóin ran, and did not look back for fear Thorin would change his mind.

“Brother,” he gasped, out of breath as he burst into the room Thrór had claimed as his own. Óin turned to him, accompanied by Bilbo; the former sat near the former king, monitoring him, while the latter sat in the corner, unwilling to aggravate the old dwarf with his presence. The two looked at him, concerned, but Óin immediately perked up at a glance.
“Brother! Welcome back!” He strode across the room and enveloped Glóin in a loving hug, followed by thumping their foreheads together.
“You can see it?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Yours wasn’t too bad, but you had me scared for a bit there.” Glóin mulled over this thought for a second; his brother, his own, could see dragon-sickness, and could see his. And had said his wasn’t ‘too bad’, which was Óin-speak for ‘not killing you, for the moment’. He dreaded to think what the others were like, if that was the case. Bilbo offered him his seat, nudging his shin and bringing their foreheads together slowly.
“It’s good to have you back,” the hobbit said quietly, patting Glóin as he sat down. Looking to where his brother was, Glóin saw that Thrór was sleeping in his bed, back turned to the chair, facing the other wall. Likely to stop looking at Bilbo, if he’d fallen asleep any time recently.
“Who else?”
Óin need not speak for Glóin to know the answer, but his question was one of blind hope rather than intuition or knowledge-seeking.
“Everyone in the treasury.”
“So, all the Durins?”
“Aside from Balin, aye.”
Glóin deflated, heaving a breath so unstable both his brother and the hobbit asked if he needed water.
“We really are the weakest bloodline,” he bemoaned, morose at his apparent lack of care for his family, his friends. He had cared not whether he lived or died, only that the gold filled his vision.
“That’s not true,” Bilbo said, but it was in vain; Óin agreed, face grim and honest. “You’re the bravest, most caring dwarves I’ve ever known.”
“All folly in the name of such a disease,” Óin remarked.
“And you’ve only known us, anyway,” Glóin added.
“My point still stands.”
“Does it?”
And that was a good question – did Bilbo’s opinion stand in the face of the dragon sickness, or would it fold? Glóin thought about what broke him free of the condition; he had help from his Red Shadow, he supposed, which was constantly overflowed with figures, and they quickly lost all meaning the bigger they got. After his brain became overloaded, he spotted his amulet and opened it, admiring the mechanical work put into it. He barely looked at the pictures before he closed it, and caught himself – that was when he noticed the coldness, the isolation from all that made one feel. It concerned him, and as he continued to think about it, it scared him. And rightfully so – he knew soon after that what was happening.

“It was my wife, which made me remember. And my wee lad, Gimli. I caught myself caring little for their photos, and only for the value of the paper, the amulet they’re tucked into.”
“So we need to make people realise how distant they are?” Bilbo asked after a while, seemingly picking his words carefully.
“I think it’d be best to consult Balin on these types of things,” Óin said. “He’s more knowledgeable about these family-curse-type things.”
They all hummed in thought, and spent the next two hours together in quiet conversation, frequently nudging one another to ensure each other that they were there.

–x–x–x–

The lake shimmered with the light of the cold winter sun, washing calmly against wooden pillars held together by the rot infesting them. Cold morning dew misted the air, making hot breath come out as steam while the breeze nipped and bit at anything warmer than itself. Nothing had moved on the far side of the Long Lake for two days – not since the dwarves had made their way across, cresting over the hill and disappearing into the dead fields beyond. Bard wondered where they were – whether they’d stopped near Dale or Erebor, or whether they’d gone right past it all, preferring not to dwell on the past. He supposed it must be painful; though dwarves were known to be secretive, it was well-known among all that they lived longer than Men, lasting centuries before they passed. It was reasonable to assume that at least some of them – the older ones, perhaps – had been alive when Erebor fell. As he pondered this question, Bard collected the new empty barrels from the shoreline as he had those few days before. It was uncharacteristically quiet that morning, and (being a sensible man), Bard knew that this was not good, because it either meant he missed the ruckus of the dwarves, or something was about to happen. And Bard was the noiseless type, a creature of habit, so the latter was far more likely.
One moment, he was hauling the pristine wood onto his barge, taking his time and looking towards home as he did; the next, he turned, and two Mirkwood Elves stood before him, bows out but not drawn. He froze, pausing in his movements as his brain struggled to process what was happening. It had already been an eventful week – he did not need more to happen.
“Bard,” one of the elves, the taller one, said. He had blond hair, nearly white, which cascaded down his back in what Bard assumed to be a very unhelpful hairstyle both in movement and battle. Shocking blue eyes met his own, and Bard had the feeling he recognised this elf.
“Prince Legolas?”
“Yes, I am, though I failed to introduce myself. This is Tauriel, Captain of the Guard,” the prince responded, gesturing to the fiery-haired elf beside him, who at least had her hair out of her face, though the back was no better bound. “We were wondering if you could answer a question of ours.”
Bard liked the elves, he really did – they hardly spoke to him more than was necessary, and kept their distance until they were needed. A bargeman on their land could go his whole career without seeing one, let alone speaking to one. This did not bode well.
“What is the question?” Bard asked wearily.
“Have you seen any dwarves in Esgaroth?”
Right, the dwarves – they’d paid him to ‘keep schtum’, as one of the older ones had put it, and it was good money, too, so Bard couldn’t exactly tell the Prince directly about helping them. At the same time, lying to an elf was a bad idea, especially if your settlement had an agreement with theirs, and your entire livelihood depended upon the retention of that agreement. So, instead of lying, Bard simply chose his words carefully.
“For a short time, yes,” he said slowly, making sure to keep his eye contact level. “Though I know not where they went.” A lie of omission was more passable than a non-truth.
“Shame,” the Prince said as though it were a curse. “We hoped they'd still be there.”
“I cannot tell you where they are, where they’ve been, or where they might have gone, but I can provide a ride across the lake, if you need it,” Bard offered. He didn’t know why; they’d done nothing for him, and Alfrid certainly wouldn’t let them in without some trouble, but at the same time, he felt somewhat guilty for lying to them.
The two discussed between themselves in that floaty language of theirs before turning back to him, placing their bows across their backs and bowing slightly. Or, well, the Captain did, but the Prince only tilted his head.
“We appreciate your offer, Bard Bargeman, but we travel in a group bigger than you know, and can make our own way across the lake without distracting you from your work.” If he’d been in any other situation, he’d have found it funny how they used his occupation as a surname, but as things were, Bard barely cracked a smile. He nodded his head appreciatively, gently speaking a few parting words, and returned to his work, moving wet wooden barrels from riverbank to barge. When he turned for the next one, the Elves were nowhere in sight.

He’d have to tell Tilda he’d finally met an Elf.

–x–x–x–

Thousands of footsteps rumbled the ground with the force of a hundred oliphaunts. Tunnels were dug through the earth, under the dirt and through mountains, hills, and plains alike. Whole towns were swallowed by the unstable land, freshly consumed by gigantic creatures so monstrous they were only described in old Elvish lore. The cacophony of soil being eaten and digested in front of them filled the cavernous walkways, each near a mile wide and several times as long.

They were making good time.

–x–x–x–

The sun rose and set with no witnesses aside from a singular hobbit, looking out over the ramparts as he held a small item, his singular connection to happier times.

For three days, Glóin had been refusing to go into the treasury, bringing those within down to a measly four. Out of thirteen. Which contained their leader, most battle-learned fighter, and two of their youngest. In those three days, only the princes had come out of the treasury; it seemed that, as Glóin left, the energy going into keeping him gold-sick was instead redistributed to the remaining Durins. Thorin hadn’t left the accursed hoard-halls, and Dwalin had, but only for twenty minutes to make sure the mountain was defended from intruders before he stalked back in. Everyone knew that none of them were eating unless they were with the group, which meant Fíli and Kíli only ate once per day, while Thorin and Dwalin didn’t eat at all. Balin had tried taking food to his brother once, but the call of the gold was strong, making him back out immediately for fear he would drown in its cold, empty promises. No other attempts had been made since; the situation became more dire with each passing day. Food, a dwarf could last without for a good two weeks, but water? A scant three days was all it took to maim a dwarf, another three to kill, and three days it had been. The Company needed a plan, so a plan had been made; those who felt no pull from the gold would go in and try to convince them to leave, if only for the necessities. If that didn’t work, they’d have to resort to plan B, which was to drag them out kicking and screaming.
There was one problem. Those picked were Bifur, Dori, and Bilbo. Out of those, Bifur had Bofur and Bombur to snap him out of it if he went mad too, and Dori had his brothers. Bilbo rather liked to think he had all of the Company, but the point was made that only family would be able to act in his stead should he decline enough to be unable to make decisions for himself.
“You’d need someone you consider family,” Bifur signed to him. They were open with it, now; Thorin only had eyes for gold, and had apparently (unbeknownst to the hobbit at the time) named Bilbo Dwarf-Friend somewhere in his long-winded speech before their departure from Laketown. Bilbo always listened to Thorin’s endearingly rambling speeches, but often found himself losing focus whenever he switched to Khuzdûl.
“I consider you all family,” Bilbo replied honestly – and he did, he really, truly did. The Company had become closer to him across their travels than any blood relation back in the Shire, excluding his parents.
“Then I claim you as blood-brother, having gone to great lengths to converse with me,” Bifur signed sincerely. The rest of the Company’s (excluding those within the treasury) conversations trailed off, focusing on the apparent familial adoption happening. “As head of the House, I claim you, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, as blood-brother; to be family in all including blood, for ours shall mix, with both Longbeards and Broadbeams acting witness.” The words were evidently part of some sort of ritual or prayer. Carefully – almost reverently – Bifur took his carving knife from its sheath, cleaning it in a pot of hot water someone (probably Bombur) had prepared silently. After a nod from the hobbit, he first took Bilbo’s right hand and cut a long, thin incision in his palm, before doing the same to his own. Placing the knife gently in his fingers, he brought their hands together, so their blood mixed as they held the knife between them. “You understand that you are now a Dwarf of our House, and our kin. You recognise that you will do all to love and protect, as we will for you. You acknowledge that, in your incapacitation, we may make decisions for you, only in your best interests, and the reverse is true. Do you accept these terms?” Bifur spoke this in Khuzdûl, but Bofur translated while Bilbo maintained his eye contact with the salt-and-pepper haired dwarf in front of him.
“Yes. I accept and value these terms.” The words were not rehearsed, but taken from a memory buried deep in Bilbo’s mind; there was a similar process, not often carried out by hobbits due to its gore, but he translated the words into Westron, because they felt right.
“Understood,” Bifur spoke again as Bofur translated. “Welcome to our family, Bilbo Baggins.” Bifur shook his hand firmly, tightening their grip, before releasing the hobbit’s hand and holding the knife out, palm-up. The wooden handle was smeared with their blood which coagulated in the grain, causing a deep red to appear in the crevices between mid-toned wood. The dwarf held it out to Bilbo, and shook his hand slightly, so Bilbo took the knife, unsure of what to do with it as blood trickled from his palm to his wrist, dripping under his once-white sleeve. Bifur laughed, a raspy thing which made Bilbo smile despite knowing he was being laughed at.
“It is yours,” Bifur signed, unhooking the sheath from his belt and passing it to the hobbit. Bilbo took it attentively, almost devout in his movements, knowing how much it meant; this was Bifur’s favourite carving knife, now coated in their joined blood. Bifur dipped a cloth into the water, pressing it against Bilbo’s palm to stem the bleeding. He then did the same for himself, hissing slightly at the pain, but otherwise making no noise.

“So, does that mean I can have your family recipes now?” Bombur asked, breaking the silence as the gathered Company all chortled at his question, roaring with laughter and slapping one another as they often did when they found something outrageously funny. Bilbo laughed along.
“Of course, Bombur,” he replied eventually. He decided then and there that he would never tell the dwarf every single recipe he had shared with him had been a family recipe.

–x–x–x–

Gold.

Cold, distant, but the only warmth around for leagues.

Gold, and lots of it – uninterrupted, pure materials injected with only the smallest amounts of alloys, enough to retain their shape – their beautiful shape, ridged and carved and full of depth and life. Luxurious creations littered the halls, strewn across piles of gold until they formed one organised singularity, large and beautiful mounds of treasure, reaching the ceiling.
They’d reach even higher, one day.
One day, under Thorin’s rule, the gold would pile so high the mountain could not contain it; they’ll find another one to store it in, take it if they have to – a whole range! A whole mountain range, dedicated solely to the riches of Erebor. Of the Company. Of the King.
And Thorin is the King. Thrór – he broke the cardinal rule. The cardinal rule, which- which was what? A dwarven rule is only there for profit. And if it’s not, it is not a rule. Not necessary. An allowance, at best – if it gets in the way? Gone, gone, in the face of gold, all is unnecessary. In the face of gold, of treasure and riches – not needed, not required, not unless it returns to the Mountain, unless it gives to the hoard. Gold, gems, stones cut like swords in sharpness and splendour both; those are what matter. Little else does, without the gold beneath his shoes. Everything is distant, far away, farther than it should be- but that’s the thing, isn’t it? Success makes you see how worthless all else is. How unnecessary. The gold provides warmth. It is still distant, but much in the same way the stars are distant. They are bright, and light the way, though, which is more than all else in a world so dim.
It is unfortunate, that the Company will have their shares. Though, really, they’re his subjects, which makes it his money. A cycle so simple yet so thorough, recycling money through the economy until it returns to him, to Erebor, having amassed friends and followers, interest gained within its travels. Precious time spent away from home, only to come back… better. Much like Thorin.

Much like Thorin, who wandered through his halls, thinking of the fate of his grandfather. If he had the audacity to remain alive, that was up to him; Thrór seemed to know he has no right to rule, knows he cannot live up to Thorin’s glory. Óin would look after him until he withered away, septic from his festered wounds. Thorin felt nothing for him. He’d died long ago, really, when he killed Smaug. He’d been presumed dead, eaten or burned alive, they knew not – now, he lives, but only by a thread, limited in physical and mental capacity, with no Red Shadow to bless him. No way to die quickly. Is it regicide, if he is unfit to rule? Patricide, if he is not any living man’s father? It matters not; Thorin’s hands are clean, and coated in rings. He filters through armour as he walks, taking in his newfound abundance. His fingers reach a cool metal, and, recognising it as mithril, Thorin picks it up.
Looking over it took a while. Thorin knew, somewhere in his mind, who this was for, who was meant to wear it, but as he watched the silver steel play with the torchlight, he envisioned only one wearing such a thing. Such a coat is a mere pittance compared to the treasures of Erebor, and worth every penny spent on its creation. Thorin blithely ignored the fact that, aside from the Arkenstone, the mithril armour was the most valuable thing in the Lonely Mountain.

Aimless wandering was interrupted by voices echoing through the vast chambers illuminated solely by firelight held up in sconces. There were three, each one distinct but fuzzy in Thorin’s mind. The first was rough and spoke Khuzdûl, harsh syllables broken by synapses functioning improperly, cutting the speaker off before they began. The second voice was far more prim and proper – very formal-sounding, like someone raised with the intention of becoming a diplomat or fulfilling another similar role. They had a distinct Western accent, like those found in the nobles of the Mountains of Lune, twanging certain syllables like a child learning Westron for the first time. The third voice was entirely unlike the other two. It was soft, calling out words unheard by their intended target; it lilted in a way Thorin could only describe as mournful, but carried a sense of determinedness which made alarm bells ring through his mind, though he knew not why.
As the voices got closer, one of them – the first – got further away, dragging another voice along with it. This new voice was gravelly and rough, as though it hadn’t been used in a long time. They got further and further away until Thorin could no longer hear them, focussing instead on the second voice, which was talking to two newer voices. These ones were far less parched than the previous one, but also younger-sounding, like the owners weren’t fully grown. There were no dwarflings in Erebor, not to Thorin’s knowledge – he strode from his spot only to come face-to-face with the owner of the third voice. As the King rounded a corner, a force like a minecart going downhill smacked into his chest, fluffy hair tickling against his neck, joining the furred collar of his new cloak. The force looked up as Thorin attempted to move forwards down the hallway to where the other voices were now fading; as he did, small fingertips landed gently against his shoulders as if to push him back. Fingertips became palms as Thorin walked forwards, until the creature was now almost sternum-to-sternum with him. Only then did Thorin stop, pulling his right arm outwards to form Orcrist, materialising it in his hand. It would be quick.
“...Thorin, now- that’s, that’s a sword, Thorin. I did not come all this way to get stabbed by you!”
The indignant tone irked Thorin enough that he finally looked down to the miserable creature who was interrupting his precious time with the gold. A head of the costly material met his eyes, followed by eyes like the Arkenstone itself. They were focussed on his own, angry and righteous. The hands belonging to the creature had not moved; one was on his torso, just below where his shoulders met his clavicle, while the other pushed against the right side of his stomach.
“You’re not even listening to me, are you?”
A voice like the ringing of bells, dulcet tones adored by all who heard them. Cherished by one dwarven King.
This is who the mithril is for.

Wordlessly, Thorin sheathed Orcrist, bringing the mithril up to show the crea- hobbit. The hobbit. Said hobbit stared at the mithril, seemingly confused – what he could be confused about, Thorin knew not.
“Why are you showing me this?”
“For you,” Thorin grunted, surprised when his voice came out raspy and dehydrated rather than deep and powerful as he knew it to be.
“Do you even know who I am?”
That was a good question. Did he?
The King let his eyes roam across the hobbit’s head, taking in curls of pure gold, which reflected the torchlight as though the sun itself was illuminating him. Light skin, soft and smooth, covered his face, though red pooled around the eyes and cheekbones, while the cheeks themselves wore a grey pallor which made Thorin weirdly concerned. Deep circles underlined the hobbit’s eyes, which were the most gorgeous colour the King had ever seen; they were blue, and green, and grey, and brown, and amber, and everything Thorin had ever known, had ever wished to see.
“Bilbo Baggins.”
The hobbit deflated slightly at that, though he squinted at Thorin; he could not tell how long it had been since Bilbo had asked the question.
“And who is that?”
Small hands still rested against his torso, now holding nothing back but remaining for the pleasantness of it; they did not move, did not change, remaining as they are, pressed lightly against rich fabrics which Thorin didn’t recognise. His arms were covered in thin fabric, a once-white shirt embroidered with white thread. Beautiful depictions of vines and flowers rose from the cuffs to the shoulders, where they disappeared beneath a waistcoat, well-worn and embroidered in a similar manner. It hovered above leather trousers, clearly designed for travel, and clearly worth the money spent on them; they were covered in scratches and stains, and in dire need of hydration, as well as a good wash. Unshod feet poked out from beneath the trouser hems – they were large, and coated in the same brass-coloured curls which adorned his head. Thorin raked his eyes back up the hobbit, and wished he hadn’t, because he was met with a stare which was somewhere between utter anguish and erratic distraught.
“You.”
“...Is that it?” Bilbo asked, his voice full of torment, though Thorin knew not why. It bothered him greatly that something could upset his hobbit, and he didn’t know the cause.
“No,” Thorin said, because he really did have more to say, he just had to put it into words first. “Bilbo Baggins is a hobbit. He has copper hair which shines gold in the light, and eyes like the Arkenstone. He has saved…” trolls elves goblins orcs bear spiders elves river man dragon “...us, many times. He is a being of dwarven glory, and is standing before me.”
It might not have been exactly what the hobbit was looking for, because grief still filled his beautiful eyes, but he smiled. It was sad, but it was a smile.
“Yes, I suppose I have saved you many times. All of you.”
The voices from before – two young ones, his nephews – a posh Broadbeam, Dori – a rough Khuzdûl speaker, Bifur – another rough one, though more raspy than actual roughness, dehydrated and gravelly, that was Dwalin. Balin, trustworthy and wise. Óin, a healer and arguably one of the most responsible dwarrow, and Glóin, the best at calculating, the best at finances. Bombur, who cooked their food, and Bofur, who sang and danced and made a fool of himself, both from a poor family with little to lose. Nori and Ori, a thief and a scholar, coddled by Dori. The Company of Thorin Oakenshield, who set off to reclaim Erebor.
Thorin nodded absently, wondering how long it had been; it can’t have been more than a few hours, but his tongue felt thick in his mouth as his throat closed from the dryness and his stomach cramped in hunger. He clutched the mithril like a lifeline in his left hand, while he let his right be commandeered by the hobbit (warm as the gold and much closer), who led the King down several hallways, seemingly avoiding taking a look at the gold, the hoard. As he was about to voice this, however, Bilbo started speaking.

“How long has it been?”
“I do not know.”
“What do you last remember eating?”
“I-” Thorin did not know.
“What’s your full name?”
“Thorin II named Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain.” Then, Thorin did not know why, but he spoke his inner name.

Dwarven inner names are not revealed, as the hobbit would put it, ‘all willy-nilly’; they’re well-kept secrets, known only by the closest family members of a dwarf. Some don’t even know their parents’ inner names.

Bilbo paused for a moment, before continuing. “What was that last bit?”
“My inner name.”
“What’s that?”
“How do you not know? All dwarrow have one,” Thorin asked, incredulous; no leader of a nation could not know things such as these! It would reflect poorly upon him as King if Bilbo did not know.
“I’m a hobbit.”
“Well, Bilbo Baggins, allow me to educate you on the subject of inner names, so that you may speak to our subjects with understanding…”

They entered a room composed almost entirely of stone, with only a small ring of bedrolls near the far end. Several dwarves sat within the circle, talking between themselves as a meal cooked in a cast-iron pot which Thorin recalled belonged to the ginger dwarf – Bombur, his mind supplied. As he and Bilbo approached, some conversations stopped. They sat down silently, and Bilbo released Thorin’s hand to talk to Bombur. What could he want that only Bombur could tell him?
Fire licked against iron, and it was… warm, but only in the sense that Thorin knew it should be warm. It felt distant, far away. Not as warm as the gold, which enveloped him in a sea of heat and weight, stopped only by his skin as it prickled against him like burns. There was none of that now – only the cold air, and an even colder hand from where Bilbo had left his side. Left him! King!

Umber glows filled his vision as Thorin scowled at the fire, loathing its form as though it would change at his behest. He was not a fire-talker, but Bilbo – well, if Bilbo was with him, he could find a dwarf, one who was willing to submit themself to the service of the throne, who would allow Bilbo to take their Red Shadow, so he could control the flames-

“Eat.”
Brownish sludge was placed before him by Bilbo, who stood above the King, watching him like Kíli watched his targets before he struck. Thorin reached up and tugged Bilbo’s hand so the hobbit fell next to him, warmth washing away the cold once again, and he ate. Thorin was pleasantly surprised to find that it was actually not sludge, but a thick stew, composed of rabbit meat, vegetables, and even doughy dumplings, which absorbed the thick broth well.

For the first time in days, Thorin thought his mind was clear; cold constantly penetrated from every angle, but he had food, and he had his personal hobbit, who would stay with him. The thought occurred to Thorin to ask, but he decided against it – his grandfather had always told him that needless questions were a sign of weakness. Thorin – and Erebor – were not weak. They just needed the Arkenstone.

–x–x–x–

Brown feathers floated gently along the wind, following thermals like a fish follows a current in the sea. Eagles – several large, regal-looking eagles with glossy feathers and sharp talons – circled the trees below them, unwilling to leave until someone spoke to them; though they’d been told to go to the mountain, they could see from here that help would be needed, even if none of them had the foresight Lord Elrond had, nor the eyesight some of the Hawkeyes possessed, least of all Elves, for whom Arda was flat, and so the horizon extends on and on, stopping for nothing besides the edges where the world tapers off into a deep, dark nothingness.
After what felt like several days, an elf, pale-haired and coated in a luxurious fabric, strode out above the trees and spoke with them; he told them he would not move to defend, not without a pretty penny to line his silver pockets. They chirped between themselves, and decided that the Elf looked more like a child who’d raided its grandmother’s wardrobe. Thorondor elected not to mention this to the Elf, who remained stony-faced as he tried to use his Silvertongued words against them. Unfortunately for him, Eagles of such high stock are impervious to the whims of mortals (and, no matter what they say, Elves count as mortals, for they can die).
An agreement was reached; the Eagles would act as guides for the Elf and his warrior-kin, and they’d part ways afterwards, though would most likely meet as allies soon after, if Elrond was anything close to correct. Or, perhaps, the battle would be between them, the blood left by Elvish incompetence and greed.

–x–x–x–

They rode to Esgaroth upon the Long Lake, but no sign of dwarves were there; no tracks they could see, no gossip they could hear. They were gone within the day, leaving some of their cohort to investigate further, but taking the rest with them on their road towards the Mountain.

Legolas decided they’d walk around the lake, since getting a boat from the Men would only lead to questions they wouldn’t be able to answer. It did not take them long; elves were the balance between the sprints of dwarves and persistence of humans, able to travel far with haste, though not as far as Men before they required rest. Luckily enough, Erebor was only a four-day-long walk from Laketown, which meant it was two for them. They travelled swiftly, and as sneakily as they could with their number, though they did sacrifice some stealth for the security brought on by more people. Legolas led the group throughout the day and night, while Tauriel took up the rear, watching as her friends and fellow fighters tracked nothing. She kept her eyes on the moon, pleading it to show her something so she could know if the Company of Thorin Oakenshield was alive; the moon had no such evidence to show, which made the red-haired elf concerned. There had been no movement around the Lonely Mountain that the moon could see or touch, not since the Company’s entrance, all those days ago. She knew, logically, that Kíli was alright – he had entered the mountain with the rest of them, and hadn’t appeared to be limping or in pain, so the orcish arrow which had pierced him had either been clean, or had been healed properly.

It wasn’t that she mistrusted their healer – Kíli had gone on about him for hours, talking of how the dwarf had saved him many a time throughout his childhood – but she would have liked to be able to see him, to watch him walk and talk. To ensure his motor functions hadn’t deteriorated, to make sure he could still think.

Rather suddenly, Legolas called for the group to stop; it was just past sunrise, and the group had reached Dale, the city crumbling on Erebor’s doorstep.
“We shall make camp here,” Legolas instructed, nodding at Tauriel for her to join him. She did, knowing full well what he was going to say – he would ask for her to go with him, to the front of the mountain to see if there was any activity. If there was, she would then act beside him as a diplomat, in the place he would normally be beside his father.
“We need to check if the Dwarves are still alive,” he said quietly, pointing his head towards Erebor’s gates for a brief moment. “We cannot all go – it would be too obvious, too dangerous should the firedrake still live.”
“Yes, I’ll go with you,” Tauriel sighed. Legolas was like his father, in that he beat around the bush whenever asking a question.
“I hadn’t asked you yet!”
“But you were going to.”
The silent stare that followed was worth all the money in the world, if only she could have a painting of it to hang up on her wall.

–x–x–x–

“Balin?”
The voice echoed quietly throughout the crumbling remains of Erebor’s library; Balin had been looking through the shelves, dusting off what remained in his attempts to help find an answer to the gold sickness plaguing Durin’s line. In the time they’d pulled the others from the treasury, only Fíli had been pulled completely from the throes of the cursed hoard – Kíli had improved, but his gaze still lingered on the treasury’s entrance, both weary and wanting. Dwalin had also improved, but upon mentioning anyone except themselves, he immediately started ranting about how they’d want the gold, how it needed to be protected. And Thorin – well, he’d been a grumpy sod, really, Balin thought. He was attached to Bilbo by the hip, and when he wasn’t, he stropped and hung around the treasury’s entrance, though no one would grant him access.
They were slowly being pulled back towards the gold, Balin was sure; Dwalin spoke suspiciously of more and more people each day, while Thorin sometimes stared at the doors to the treasury for hours, and when he wasn’t doing that, he gripped Bilbo like a lifeline.
The quiet voice repeated itself again, and Balin turned to find the hobbit he’d been feeling sorry for. His waistcoat was displaced slightly, as were the buttons around his collar, through which Balin could see a sliver of silver shining through. Thorin had gotten him to wear the mithril, then. His shirt’s arms were crumpled from where their leader had been grasping the hobbit’s arms, and he looked tired – far more tired than he had across the entirety of the journey.
“Balin?”
“Aye, laddie?” the grey-maned dwarf answered, unsure of where this was going, but knowing he was not going to enjoy it. His voice was wavering, slightly, and Balin was surprised to find that he felt like he’d been crying. If he had, Bilbo resolutely ignored it.
“What’re you looking for?”
“Information, lad,” he answered, turning back to the books, only to find exactly what he had done the past day: nothing. He turned back to Bilbo. “Dragon-sickness – I’ve seen it before. That look, that terrible need… It is a fierce and jealous love, Bilbo. It sent his grandfather mad.”
“Thrór?”
“Aye, laddie – he was once a just and fair ruler, but in the end, he’d sacrifice all for the gold. I fear it’s getting worse, for my cousin and brother both.”
“So you’re looking to see what can help it,” the hobbit stated, watching as Balin confirmed his suspicion with a nod.
“Aye – Óin was right, in that it takes love to replace what the gold gives them. Fíli’s free, Glóin has been for days now, and Kíli’s nearly there. It’s those two I’m worried about, though – I’ve been looking to see if there are any reported escaped cases, but I’ve had no such luck.” The two stood in silence for a while, Balin needlessly dusting off some tomes while Bilbo ruminated in his thoughts. Eventually, he spoke, breaking the silence – though, Balin wished he had not, for it was a difficult question he asked.
“Balin, if- if Thorin had the Arkenstone… if it was found, would- would it help?” The implication within Bilbo’s tone did not pass Balin by, and he found himself both shocked and completely unsurprised. Of course, Bilbo kept it secret – as far as he was aware, it was a pretty stone, which Thorin was strangely obsessed over.
“That stone crowns all. It is the summit of this great wealth, bestowing power upon he who bears it. Will it stay his madness…? No, lad – I fear it would make it worse. Perhaps it is best that it remains lost,” Balin concluded, raising his eyebrows pointedly at the hobbit, who reddened slightly and tipped his head.
“Thank you, Balin,” he said, nudging the dwarf’s forehead with his own so softly it felt like a pebble’s version. The burglar turned and exited the library, leaving Balin to wonder whether Nori had heard all that over the din of the gold or not.

–x–x–x–

Diverting his route so early was never something Elrond had planned on doing – in fact, he thought he’d be able to reach Erebor before anything could kick off, as it were. He was sorely mistaken.
Of course, he’d been redirected to Dol Guldur, resulting in several days of time loss simply by travelling there, and subsequently to Lothlorien. Now, he was travelling across to Gondor. They needed to be warned about Mordor – but, more importantly to Elrond, he had sent his sons into far more danger than he’d ever expected. Across his lifetime, he had a habit of Seeing things only just before they happened, so he could not prevent them, most usually when those things pertained to himself and his personal relations. He would not risk his family; he knew that diverting his route even further almost certainly set the vision that sent him off in the first place in stone, but he could not help it. He could not lose his children.

Wings beat against the wind as he passed the Gap of Rohan, and along the White Mountains, along the border of Gondorian land. Minas Tirith was his goal; he’d go there first to warn the Steward of Gondor, who would be able to send messages to the rest of the land and increase patrols along Mordor’s mountainous walls.

Some strange restless sensation in the back of his mind made him distrust Curunír; he knew he shouldn’t, given that Curunír was the highest of the Istari, but alarm bells tore themselves apart in their ceaseless ringing, and he took it upon himself to do what his mind told him Curunír would not.

Sunlight, bleak and grey, peaked over the horizon, highlighting the mountains looming over the white city; their shadows nearly reached Minas Tirith, reminding its residents of the danger they were constantly under, and which they were trained to prevent. Tall spires of marble-coloured stone reached towards the sky, their peaks touching bright winter light, creating an almost ghostly image. Three great Eagles flew directly towards the top level; the others had been sent off to their original destination – an attempt to redistribute what resources they had, to still change Elrond’s vision without his presence, if only slightly. Below, a singular tree, grey and leafless, adorned the courtyard, its roots encased with a circle of stones which created a path around it. Guards surrounded the tree, as well as each entrance coming off of the courtyard – one per quarter. They watched in wonder and fear as the Eagles descended, landing towards the Northern quarter in a wide space. A Man burst from the doors of the main hall, hobbling out in a way most would describe as powerful; though he clearly limped, struggling with each step, he created an impression of capability and might, making him a force to be reckoned with. Plain clothing draped across his frame, and a cane snapped with each step he took, metal cap clacking against stone. Turgon had changed much since he was a boy.
“Wherefore are you here? Announce yourself!” the Man shouted, not aggressive but authoritative, like one who wanted for peace, and peace only.
“Lord Elrond of Imladris, and these are the Eagles of Manwë, Meneldor, Landroval, and Thorondor. I come to warn you, Turgon, Steward of Gondor.” Turgon stood for a moment, and then moved into action.
“Guards,” he announced, “Get food for these Eagles! And our Elven visitor – I’ve no doubt he is hungry. Come, Lord Elrond – it feels an age since I’ve seen you, and you do not move without purpose. This does not bode well for Gondor, does it?”
Elrond knew the question was rhetorical. Turgon had always been smart – he knew that Elrond being in his city meant trouble. He knew that Elrond being in his city, and having travelled there by eagle , meant far more trouble than he could handle on an empty stomach. The elf had always appreciated this aspect of Turgon; he made sure everyone was sufficiently watered and fed before starting any serious conversations, for people act less sensibly the less comfortable they are.

Grey stone decorated the inside of the hall, the doors adorned by worn carvings, which Elrond was certain had been done by Man, Elf, and Dwarf in unison, a trio of woodcarvers who worked flawlessly together. It was a signal of the power of Gondor, the unity it represented of the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth. Turgon sat in his plain chair across from Elrond; the two ate together, a dish made quickly but not hurriedly, which filled and energised them both.
“What brings the Lord of the Elves of the West to Gondor?” Turgon was never one to mince his words. Elrond liked that about him as a boy, and liked it now, facing the eighty-six-year-old. It was almost surreal; as a half-elf, surrounded by others like him, Elrond often forgot the mortality of Men, who age faster than both Elves and Dwarves.
“There is a threat upon your land. Things are moving in the East, North from here; I suspect they’ll soon travel downwards.”
“You do not move on suspicion unless you’ve got facts,” Turgon remarked, stabbing his fork pointedly into his meat. He had never been fond of the softness with which Elves delivered news.
“No, I do not. We – Saruman, Gandalf, Galadriel, and I – met an unusual foe in Dol Guldur, near on a week ago. I came as fast as I could. There was a Necromancer there, who had awoken the Nine.” Turgon’s face shifted many times, going from neutral to concerned to outright scared. Beneath the fear, however, was a fierce determination, a surety in the power of Gondor and Minas Tirith.
“Sauron is back, then,” he spoke, staring consideringly at Elrond. The elf stared back; he had not been in Gondor for many years, but it appeared that it was just as strong as ever, and Turgon had every confidence in that fact.
“He is. He has been weakened considerably by our little intervention at Dol Guldur, but I do not believe he’ll wait long before striking again. All he needs is the Ring, and we cannot afford for him to have it.”
“No, we cannot. The guard rotation around Mordor’s borders will be tightened. We’ll also need to notify the rest of Gondor, and possibly Rohan, too,” Turgon considered aloud, trailing off as he thought about what he had to do.
“I sent my sons here some time ago, when I first left Imladris, due to another mission.”
“...Oh?”
“I know not why, but in a few months’ time, you shall have a visitor, who may take an unusual form. I do not know whether he’ll stop here, or head straight to his goal; I know not why it is important. But I know that it is, and have instructed Elladan and Elrohir to do all in their power to assist him. Could I ask you to house them here until this happens?”
“Is this something you think, or something you Saw?”
“It was a vision. I left Imladris immediately, but got rerouted to Dol Guldur.”
“...I will house them. They’ll be eager to help train the new guards, I suppose… Yes, they may stay.” Turgon ate slowly, as did Elrond for the rest of the meal, matching the Steward’s pace. He was old now, though still resembled the little boy Elrond remembered seeing while Thorondir, his grandfather, watched over the land. He was still blunt, and sure of himself and Gondor’s strength.

That night, Lord Elrond mounted the back of Meneldor once again, flying Northwards above the clouds as the moon rose to their right.

–x–x–x–

Lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, Lead, LEAD, LEAD, LEAD, LE-
Voice, unsure and wavering – unsure, not because of itself, but because of the Other, a shadow over the soul… which made two – one Red, one Black, littered with golden glitter, infesting every crevice and corner.
“Come now,” it whispered with no voice. “It is yours , and yours only; none else can have it.”
“Yes,” the wavering voice responded; Red covered the soul, attempting to protect it, but all hues darken in the presence of true Black, true darkness.
“Glimmer, shine,” it spoke with no mouth. “Release us, tarnish the Host!”
“Yes,” the wavering voice responded; Red mixed with a shadow so large it became the sky, tainting the soul by its presence, though still protecting it from the full force of the darkness. It did not matter. Gold glimmered, Black enveloping its target, and though lead was all to be seen, it was not all to be heard.

Chapter Text

Bilbo sat uncomfortably on the mossy rock; it had become his favourite sitting-space, where he would go to clear his head from the fog of the mountain. He blamed it on his nature – he was a hobbit, a creature of the sun; he didn’t belong beneath the ground for longer than it took to cook a meal.
A raven croaked somewhere off in the distance.

In his hand, the hobbit held a small yet significant object; he rolled it over in his palms, gently prodding it as though something would happen. He thought of the past few months, how rough they’d been on the Company and himself. He thought of how many times they’d come close to death, how many times Óin looked over them worriedly as if his ability was telling him they should no longer be breathing, how many times they thought they’d be six feet under. But the sun still rose, and the world still continued on, much the same as ever. Spring became summer, which melded into autumn, which now disappeared into the beginnings of winter, the memories of long, warm days far behind. Now, in the Shire, the autumn harvests would be complete, and the hobbits would be nearly fully prepared for the winter, shelves stocked high with preserved foods and fresh water, along with the odd axe or sickle. They’d be having family dinners while they prepared for the winter solstice, ensuring they had enough provisions to celebrate it thoroughly. Families would be holing up together in the largest smials, or otherwise maintaining their own large familial units; the Men of Bree would gain a week-long influx of trade from the hobbits, mostly for food and farming equipment, before they’d disappear from the rest of the world entirely until winter thawed and spring arrived, blessing their doorsteps once again.
Bilbo knew that he didn’t exactly miss the Shire; yes, he’d like a warm bed, and his books, and his father’s armchair. He’d like to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, and the grass beneath his feet. But those are all things not limited to Bag End. In fact, Bilbo thought, the Shire seemed awfully lonely in comparison to his current life – sure, the Shire is far calmer and more predictable, but the silence would be too much. Even now, he found that he struggled to be alone for more than three or four hours, wishing for the company of another, even if they did nothing, sitting in silence as they continued with their own activities. He’d been sitting outside, on his mossy rock, for about an hour. In the few days since Thorin left the treasury, there had been a great improvement in the general mood of the Company – however, soon after leaving the gold, Thorin grew grumpy and agitated, and clung to Bilbo in much the same manner as a lost child – sometimes literally, gripping his arm a little too tightly, forcing Bilbo to step away or remove the dwarf before he bruised too badly to heal quickly. Sometimes, Bilbo just needed a little time alone, to watch the sky and reminisce about Hobbiton.

“What is that?” The voice behind him was rough and stormy, its owner’s boots rushing towards the hobbit’s moss-ridden stone. Bilbo stood up, a spike of fear running through him as he placed his hands behind his back. “In your hand!”
“It- It’s nothing,” he said, immediately trying to appease Thorin with his tone.
“Show me.”
“It…” Bilbo trailed off, deciding it was better to simply show the dwarf rather than argue with him. He pulled the acorn from behind his back, holding it carefully in his palm. “I pickled it up in Beorn’s garden.”
“You’ve carried it all this way,” Thorin breathed, tone disbelieving. He looked from Bilbo’s palm to his eyes, and the hobbit was elated to find Thorin there, not the creature who had been wearing his skin as of late.
“I’m going to plant it in my garden. In Bag End.”
“That’s a poor price to take back to the Shire,” the dwarf said softly, hands moving to gently encompass Bilbo’s, holding them almost reverently as he watched the hobbit.
“One day it’ll grow. And every time I look at it, I’ll remember – remember everything that happened. The good, the bad. And how lucky I am that I made it home.” Thorin now looked at him clear-eyed for the first time since he’d entered the mountain, and Bilbo nearly gasped at the sheer difference it made to his features; he seemed to soften entirely, abandoning the sharp bluntness that had overtaken his demeanour, instead reverting back to the gentle tenderness he often tried (poorly) to hide.
Bilbo knew that this was it. He hadn’t seen this Thorin in days, and likely wouldn’t for at least another week or two, at best. He knew that he was taking a risk – he knew that, if this didn’t work, he’d likely push the dwarf back into the gold-sickness, a state worse than before. He also knew that there was little else to break him free of its hold.
“Thorin, I-”
“Thorin! Elves, from Mirkwood. They’re camping in Dale,” Dwalin interrupted, thundering out onto the ramparts. Bilbo watched helplessly as Thorin’s face morphed from one of tender care to uncompromising seriousness, gaze lifting from Bilbo’s eyes to the silhouette of Dale in the distance.
“Call everyone to the gate.” Thorin stormed off, turning and nearly running down the stairs. “To the gate! Now!”

Two elves walked along the road connecting Erebor to Dale, armed with bows and daggers, carrying no more than a typical Mirkwood ranger. In the city, a small camp could be seen, at which a few elven silhouettes sat and stood, moving slowly like they were in no rush.
“I want this fortress made safe by sunup. This mountain was hard-won – I will not see it taken again.”
Kíli stared at the elves, before turning to his uncle, moving to the front of the crowd of dwarrow. “There’s two of them. They wouldn’t send two to take on a mountain whose inhabitants they’re uncertain of.”
“What, do you sympathise with them?” Thorin asked, shooting his nephew a nearly disgusted look.
“No, I’m using my brain,” Kíli shot back, and something in the way he did made Fíli smile widely and nudge his brother, who smiled back at him. “There are two – two! – elves coming towards us, and a small camp in Dale. They’ve no way to know we’ve taken the mountain – they’re probably after their barrels or something.”
“I care not whether they’re after wood or rock. We need more defences – bring more stone to the gate!”

The Company was dissipated, waved off by Thorin to get more materials and tools so they could fortify Erebor’s gate.
“Is it your redhead elf?” Fíli asked Kíli in hushed tones. Kíli responded in the affirmative, and Bilbo decided to leave them to their conversation in peace.

Instead, Bilbo found his feet leading him to Thrór’s room; the dwarf was withering away, unable to transform to preserve his body from his wounds. Even without them, he was impressively old, and probably only survived to his age because of his draconic form. Bilbo found Óin sitting with him, and surprisingly, Thorin, too; the former puttered around, making poultices and ointments, both for the dwarf under his care and in preparation for the winter. The latter simply stood over Thrór’s bed, unmoving, silent. It was unnerving to Bilbo; Thorin seemed too distant – rightfully so, for someone who had assumed the dwarf before him to be dead for most of his life – but it was unusual. Thorin was detached, impersonal with his grandfather, despite having spoken fondly of him the few times he’d mentioned the old king over the course of their travels.
The scene remained unmoving for so long that Bilbo thought he had been frozen in time; however, eventually, Thrór moved slightly, beckoning Thorin to come close to him. He spoke in Khuzdûl, slow and cracking, to Thorin’s ear, before he slumped back to his bed, the last of his energy drained from him. Thrór stared into the middle-distance, grey-eyed and unfocused, before he seized slightly; Óin was holding him immediately, getting him into the recovery position, but by then, he hung limp in his bed, eyes open and lifeless, his last breath spent on a scream which never came out.
Óin did the checks, waited the time, and pronounced Thrór dead. Thorin turned from the sight, walking straight into Bilbo – the dwarf then grasped the hobbit tightly, and he remained there until Bilbo could no longer breathe, and had to pull himself from Thorin’s grip.

Metal armour lined the stone walls, intricately-carved prayers decorating each piece. Many items were covered in gold or jewels, there to prove the owners had money rather than for any defensive purposes. In the middle, weapons of all kinds adorned the racks, each one having its own specialities and thought-out detailing. Some matched certain suits of armour, but most did not, intended to be wielded by the general guards rather than by anyone deemed special enough to receive a customised weapon, but none were made any lesser than the others. The Company armed themselves with items from the armoury – nothing much, since there was no war yet, but Thorin insisted upon each member at least having a weapon and basic armour. Once the Company were busying themselves within the half-caved-in room, Thorin turned to Bilbo, once again holding his arms tightly as if he was going to run away at any given moment. He ran his hands along Bilbo’s upper arms and collar bone, pulling his shirt apart slightly to check for the mithril chainmail. Once he saw it, he was satisfied, or so Bilbo thought – then, Thorin pulled him into a small corner between two support beams, out of sight of the Company. Bilbo tilted his head slightly, as if to question what Thorin was doing – the dwarf answered readily.
“I have been blind. Now I begin to see – I am betrayed!”
“Betrayed?” Bilbo asked, incredulous – they were talking about the same Company, yes?
“The Arkenstone,” Thorin whispered, so close to Bilbo that the hobbit felt the dwarf’s breath against his cheek. Bilbo tried incredibly hard not to sweat – Thorin was uncomfortably close. Dangerously close. “One of them has taken it. One of them is false,” he rasped, venom dripping from his voice, and Bilbo really wished he hadn’t asked.
“Thorin… the quest is fulfilled, you’ve reclaimed the mountain. Is that not enough?”
“...Betrayed by my own kin,” Thorin continued, as though he hadn’t heard Bilbo.
“Thorin, these dwarrow – they’re your kin and kith. They owe you everything – do you seriously think one of them would betray you?”
“Yes,” Thorin responded readily. He had been lost, then. “My grandfather may not have made the best decisions, but he was a wise man. His last words – he told me to find whoever was keeping the stone from us.”
“Us?” Thorin snapped his hands from where they caressed Bilbo’s shoulders to his wrists, gripping them so tightly the dwarf’s knuckles turned white.
“Of course, Bilbo, us. We cannot trust them!” Thorin urged, so close to Bilbo that the hobbit was pressed against the wall, and only a few millimetres of space lay between them. The hobbit’s heart rabbitted away in his chest, anxiety coursing through his veins; he knew Thorin wouldn’t do anything to hurt him purposefully, but Thorin was also under the impression that he did not have the Arkenstone. “That gold is ours, and ours alone – you are mine, and I will not allow any harm to come to you.”

With that, the Company strode past in one single-file line, heading towards the ramparts. Thorin joined them, and Bilbo trailed behind, only loosely present, his mind elsewhere. He had to get the Arkenstone out of the mountain before he ended up getting someone killed.

–x–x–x–

Footsteps echoed down the stone halls, releasing into the crisp air as the Company stepped out behind the ramparts. Gold shimmered beautifully in the cold sunlight, each piece of armour inlaid with gems and adorned with complex engravings citing protection and strength, surrounded by sharp filigree. Thirteen of the Dwarves of Erebor stood proud and tall, taking in the sight before them. Stone had been piled up against the previously torn open gate, which was now secured by boulders piled atop one another, held together by the sheer construction skills of the builders, who now stood above it, looking to the setting sun, near where Dale lie, still and crumbling even as gusts blew through the ruins.
Two figures approached, walking slowly enough to give an impression of friendliness, but not so slow that they were inefficient. Kíli watched, hawk-eyed as usual, as Thorin had instructed him to; his nephew had already reported their physical features and weapons to the King, but remained on-hand in case they tried anything funny.
They crossed the unseen line between the Path and Erebor, officially upon his land; Thorin raised his hand, bidding them to come to a stop just outside the temporary gate. The blond one stopped first, and the redhead one stopped beside the former, looking at him for a moment before readjusting her gaze to the dwarrow upon the ramparts. Thorin could not recall who the flame-haired elf was, but knew he’d seen her before. The blond one, however, was difficult to forget – he was Legolas, the unfortunate spawn of Thranduil.
“Hail Thorin, son of Thráin! We are glad to see you alive,” Legolas called, waving slightly as he drove his eyes over the Company, seemingly looking for something, but coming away unsuccessful. Good.
“Why do you come to the gates of the King Under the Mountain, armed?” Thorin called back, voice rough and uncontrolled despite his lifelong training. He found that he did not care; he was upon a throne, and they were not.
“Why does the King Under the Mountain fence himself in, like a robber in a hole?” Legolas asked back – just like the Elves, that is, to answer a question with another question. Most unnecessary.
“Perhaps it is because I am expecting to be robbed.” That answered that one – now, their turn.
“Peace, King,” Legolas said, raising his hands slowly as an expression of trust. Pah – peace? No, Thranduil would not have sent his son for peace . “We come to make peace with you, congratulate you, so we might see our kingdoms live beside one another once again.” Thorin could tell from Balin’s face that the statement was only partially true; peace may be the end goal, but through which means was the question.
“You come to our door, armed, having set up a camp in Dale, to congratulate us? No, I think not… Be gone, or let our arrows fly!”
That was the signal for Kíli to fire a warning shot; no such thing came, however, as a host of elves appeared from the treeline of Mirkwood, shocking everyone in attendance.

As the sun set and the two elves strode away, the dwarrow turned to him, all looking like they wanted to ask something, but couldn’t. Finally, Bilbo stepped out from the crowd, voicing their collective question.
“Thorin, what are you doing? We cannot go to war, not against an army of Elves, which they will surely send!”
“This does not concern you,” the King responded, already bored by his hobbit’s proclamations. Before he could turn to ready himself, the Burglar spoke again, incredulous.
“Excuse me, but just in case you haven’t noticed, there is a trained scouting group out there! We- we are, in fact, outnumbered.”
“Not for much longer.” They needed to find the Arkenstone, and they’d be joined by forces from all Dwarf clans, not just Dáin. With those armies, not even Thranduil stood a chance.
“What does that mean?” Bilbo asked, confused and very nearly hysterical. Thorin grasped his hobbit’s shoulders, smiling at him.
“It means, Master Baggins, you should never underestimate me.” He then turned to the rest of the Company, addressing them all. “We have reclaimed Erebor – now, we defend it!”

–x–x–x–

None saw the convocation land. None saw them converse with the pale-haired one, nor his son. None saw them take off, and none saw them land several kilometres away, along a cliff which granted the perfect view of the fields before Erebor.

–x–x–x–

Grey robes whipped through rubble and debris, near-sprinting through the crumbling streets of Dale towards the centre. The moon shone high in the sky, and a tent peaked in the middle of the fallen city. The elves either avoided him, or moved out of his way, not wishing to anger one of the Istari by slowing him down in whatever mission he was on – as such, it was only a short time before Olórin reached the tent he was looking for.
Green cloth stood in the centre of the courtyard, held up by wooden beams and lines so thin they were almost invisible. The wizard pushed himself into the tent, and what he saw was… very nearly what he was expecting.
Warm light coated all within, exaggerating the coziness of what was a quite barren tent in a quite barren city. Two heads of blond hair, one more sundrop and the other leaning towards white, leaned together quietly, as one of a deep brown-black, wet and shoulder-length, sat in the corner. Olórin watched, wondering why it was short for an elf, only to find that it was not an elf’s head of hair, but a human man’s. He wore a grim expression, tired and weary, appearing to be very much done with whatever was happening. Which Olórin subsequently asked about.
“What is going on here, Thranduil?” The white-haired elf, head adorned with a crown of wood shaped to look like antlers, looked up from his quiet conversation, almost surprised at the wizard’s presence.
“Mithrandir,” he started, eyes widening by a miniscule amount. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? Thranduil, what are you doing? Why have you got a man from Esgaroth held in your tent, and why is there an army occupying Dale?” He’d had it up to the tip of his hat with Elves.
“This does not concern you, but you’ve long been an ally of the Greenwood, so I’ll tell. Bard is the man before you, and he is here because he ferried the Dwarves,” he spat, “...from the shores of the lake to Esgaroth, and supplied them with clothing, and no doubt weapons, too-”
“I did not,” the man in the corner sighed, as if he’d already said this before. Several times. Knowing Thranduil, he probably had. “They asked for no weapons, only dry clothes and enough fresh food and water for two weeks of travel. It was a lot, but they paid me well, how could I have refused?”
“After this, money will be no problem of yours,” Thranduil stated, which made Bard pull a weary face. He had likely heard this several times, too.
“Thranduil, do you intend to take the mountain?”
“No, Mithrandir – I simply intend to apprehend the escapees from my dungeons.”
“Your- Thranduil, do you hear yourself? The dw- no, not now, Thranduil! You cannot go to war! There is an army of Orcs making their way here now . You must fight alongside the dwarrow, or die.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we forced Sauron’s hand – the Council and I, in Dol Guldur, where he was keeping some of his forces. You need to make peace with the dwarves now, or they will fight.”
“It will not come to that,” Bard said plainly. “It is a fight that they cannot win.”
“That won’t stop them” a familiar voice puffed, heaving for air as Olórin turned to face the owner of said voice. Before him was Bilbo Baggins, hunched over to regain his breath, red in the face with deep bags under his eyes, and a slight greyish hue to his skin. His curls hung limp and dark around his face, a stark contrast to the bright, bouncing curls the wizard had seen at the start of the journey. Olórin wondered if Bilbo knew how he looked. “You think the dwarves will surrender – they won’t. They will fight to the death to defend their own.”
“Bilbo Baggins!” the wizard chuckled, no longer able to contain his utter joy at seeing this particular hobbit alive, even if a little worn. Bilbo walked towards him, and the two shared a hug like they hadn’t since the hobbit had been young.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Thranduil spoke after some time had passed, “this is the halfling who stole the keys to my dungeons from under the noses of my guards.”
“I’m not half of anything,” Bilbo responded, though without much venom. “I’d apologise, but I’m not particularly sorry about that – you did imprison my friends for walking on a public footpath, after all. Kind of your fault, really.” As he talked, Bilbo walked towards the centre of the tent, where a small, circular table sat. If he had looked up at any point in his little speech, he would have seen Thranduil’s mouth hanging down to the dirt. Instead, he reached into his waistcoat, producing a small, brown package. “I came… to give you this.”
Brilliant light escaped the packaging, and before them all was the Arkenstone, glowing brightly in the low light.
“The Heart of the Mountain! The King’s jewel,” Thranduil muttered, peering at the stone reverently.
“...And worth a king’s ransom,” Bard added. “How is this yours to give?”
“I took it as my fourteenth share of the treasure.” A sneaky lot, the Bagginses were, and Bilbo, son of Belladonna Took and Bungo Baggins, was no different.
“Why would you do this? You owe the Elves no loyalty,” Bard asked. He had a very good point.
“I’m not doing it for you. I know that dwarves can be obstinate, and pig-headed, and difficult – suspicious, and secretive, and with the worst manners you can possibly imagine,” Bilbo said, sending a sad yet humorous look to Olórin. “But they’re also brave, and kind… and loyal to a fault. I’ve grown very fond of them, and I’d like to help them, if I can. Now, Thorin values this stone above all else – in exchange for its return, I believe he will give you whatever you’re after – and you’re after something , a whole host of elves don’t just sit on the doorstep of a new kingdom for no reason. There will be no need for war!”
Gandalf the Grey had a reputation for being a bearer of bad news. It tore him apart to watch Bilbo’s face fall as he learned of the Orcish army heading towards them.

–x–x–x–

So there really is no hope.
An Orcish army was headed right for them, only a day away by Gandalf’s estimates, and was completely prepared to decimate any who even thought about getting in their way. Thranduil is after something, Gandalf knows more than he’s letting on and less than he thinks he knows, Thorin is struggling between the gold-sickness and his grandfather’s un-death and subsequent death, and Bard just wants to go home. Bilbo found he agreed, though he did not think of the Shire – he thought of thirteen loud, rambunctious dwarrow, raiding his pantry and singing vulgar songs on his tables. He thought of thirteen chaotic, caring creatures who turned a blind eye to his mistakes and shortcomings, and who always made sure he had a piping hot portion of the evening meal. He thought of the loving, dear family who had absorbed him into their lives, and the thin little cut along his palm, already scarred over by his overdriven healing. He thought of blue, blue eyes, bluer than the sea and the sky, than ice and goblin-sensing swords, blue as myosotis, the forget-me-nots in his garden. Bilbo had known he was falling, but in that moment, he realised how far. It swallowed him whole, the need to defend, to protect, to love, and it was killing him, because in place of any living being was the cool touch of uncaring metal imprinted with a king’s face.
Gandalf walked quietly with him, shaking Bilbo from his disassociated state with an utterly bizarre and nonsensical statement.
“Rest up tonight. You must leave on the morrow.”
“What?” Bilbo asked, caught completely off guard. Does Gandalf believe he doesn’t belong? That he doesn’t wish to be here?
“Get as far away from here as possible,” the wizard said darkly, glancing at him with a sorry look.
“I’m- I’m not leaving, you picked me as the fourteenth man,” Bilbo retorted, fuelled by the sheer audacity of the grey wizard. “I’m not about to leave the Company now!”
“There is no Company, not anymore. And I don’t like to think of what Thorin will do to you when he finds out what you’ve done.” Gandalf spoke sharply at first, but softened towards the end, and did not look at Bilbo, choosing instead to examine the treeline as if another hidden Elf army will pop out at any moment.
“I’m not afraid of Thorin.”
“But you should be!” Gandalf exploded, quieting himself down to a harsh whisper designed for faunts who did something they really weren’t supposed to. Bilbo would know. “Don’t underestimate the evil of gold – gold over which a serpent has long brooded. Dragon-sickness seeps into the hearts of all who come near this mountain.” Gandalf then looked at him – properly, really looked at him, and his wrinkles lifted and lowered into a small, sorrowful smile. “Almost all.”
Gandalf then called someone over – a slimy-looking character in black clothing, somehow appearing to be covered in fish oil despite the furs he was wearing, which were drenched in the same oil as the rest of him. He grumbled and moaned as he walked over.
“Keep an eye on him. If he should try to leave, you tell me,” Gandalf told the Man. If Bilbo knew Gandalf any less, he would have supposed the wizard was trying to be sneaky, and failing miserably. But Bilbo knows Gandalf – has known Gandalf – and so knows that everything he does has a purpose, even if one cannot see it yet. This? This was fairly obvious. He wanted Bilbo to know he was being monitored, so he didn’t try anything stupid. The man huffed again, waving his wrist as if to call Bilbo to his side like a dog.
“Move it! Stupid…” the man trailed off, knowing he was being watched by Gandalf, and only just stopped himself from kicking Bilbo, who had his hand on Sting and was very much ready to start a fight. No fight started, and Bilbo was placed in a child’s bed in a tent too small for anyone else, left to his own devices by a Man who clearly thought height and intelligence were directly proportional.

With everything he needed on him and a thin soup in his stomach – far worse and more tasteless than Bombur’s stews, though with more ingredients – Bilbo reached within himself, pulling at his bones and flesh, reknitting muscle and tendons, sculpting marrow and fat until he no longer resembled Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, and instead resembled a fox he’d never killed.
As he ran across the edges of the field connecting Erebor to the rest of the world, Bilbo wondered just how expansive Thrór’s catalogue of shifting forms was. He had been surprised by his idea – he knew not whether Thrór’s capabilities would carry over, and was both pleasantly surprised and very nearly sick when he realised that it did, and each one carried a feeling, an emotion the old king had felt when he’d claimed that life, the feeling of the creature as it took its dying breath. The fox was fine – no pain, no suffering, only the confidence and satisfaction of a good shot.
The rabbit had been what he had tried first, and it had been too much.

–x–x–x–

Bard was surprised when the two elves from the river turned up at his front door, bows in hand as they commanded his presence in Dale. He had scoffed and refused, unable to leave his three children alone – yes, alright, Sigrid and Bane could look after themselves and Tilda, but they didn’t need to know that. Alas, he was pulled from his home anyway, along with the black arrow which sat in the netting above their rickety wooden table – he guessed one of the elves was a Hawkeye, for being able to see that detail. Either that, or they’d been spying on him.

He was led across the water and over the hills, to a central tent in the ruins of what was once Dale, the greatest trading city in the East. Rubble littered the cracked cobble streets, but the Mirkwood elves had somehow managed to make it look neat. Elegant, almost, aside from the very obvious army legion inhabiting the space. Bard’s attention had been drawn from one point to another, all across the place until he felt dizzy with information. Why were they there? What were they doing?
None of his questions would be answered until much later, when the blond elf – Legolas, he recalled – recounted talking to the dwarves . In Erebor . The kingdom with a dragon in it.
“Perhaps they killed the beast,” Thranduil proposed in such a manner that Bard couldn’t tell if he actually believed it, or was just having fun imagining the group of dwarves chasing after an age-defying monstrosity. Bard knew this couldn’t be the case, because the only remaining black arrow was nested against his shoulder, one hand wrapped around it, wielding it like a spear. Not that the bargeman knew how to wield a spear.
Then, as they discussed, a wizard dressed in grey burst in, speaking of Orcish armies marching their way to the mountain, preparing to unleash an all-out attack against it, regardless of who inhabited the area.
And after that, a face Bard had never imagined he’d see again had appeared, and practically gifted them the most valuable rock on the face of the planet. Not that Bard disliked this development – much the opposite, in fact, as he’d liked the little Baggins well enough along their trip across the lake, and while they occupied his home. Tilda seemed fond of him (or, well, mostly his stories). The only thing was, Bilbo’s presence meant that the dragon had indeed been killed, or at least booted from the mountain, which was impossible, because they had no black arrows and no dragons had been seen near the mountain since the beast’s original occupation of it. Bard knew, because he’d been watching. Which meant that the dwarves were still alive, and Bilbo knew something about that, but couldn’t, didn’t tell them, because he claimed there was no need for war.
He hadn’t known about the Orcs.

Candlelight flickered along the sloped tent ceiling, creating cross-hatched patterns in the canvas. Bard thought about his day, and about what the next held, and he found it very difficult not to grieve.

–x–x–x–

Morning dawned as everyone prepared for the Big Moment; either a deal would be reached, or they’d all die.
Or, well, most of them would die. Thranduil found he cared very little whether or not the dwarves lived. The residents of Esgaroth would be a felt loss, but not too disruptive – Mirkwood may have to tighten its belt and hang back on the feasts, but nothing much would change. Elves, though? Elvish blood would be lost, and none will be gained for another few centuries yet, and any new births would not be enough to restock their population within the age.
As life is.
Time continues, the sun still drags across the sky, and Thranduil breathes yet.

Just before they started their ride, Mithrandir pounced upon Thranduil and Bard, with whom the former was discussing (read: lecturing) about the balance of socio-economic classes in long-lived kingdoms, and how those of Man are much weaker than those of the Elves. Mithrandir moved all over the place, but was not often hasty, so it struck Thranduil as odd that the wizard would rush up to them unless something had happened.
“Bilbo is gone, and he hasn’t said goodbye” he whispered, the words rushing from his lungs in one breath. Bard reacted immediately, almost looking fearful for the halfling as though the bargeman had known him.
“What do you mean? Where is he?”
“Why does it matter to us where he is?” Thranduil asked before Mithrandir could get a word in edgeways. He didn’t wait for an answer, because there wasn’t one. “What matters is that he does not go back on his own plan. So long as he adheres to it, we may not die.”
“But he might! Do not so easily dismiss the power of gold, Thranduil!” Mithrandir scolded. Thranduil thought he was being rather unfair, relating it all to that of all things. The Ring was a stain on them all.
“What is the life of one in the face of many?” Thranduil asked instead, avoiding the wizard’s words artfully. It truly was a valuable skill. The Elvenking knew better than to enthrall the wizard with his words, however – he’d tried it once, when he was young, and Mithrandir had only looked at him disapprovingly, and recommended to his father that he should have more sessions in social etiquette and safe ability usage. “His fate is devised of his own choosings.”
Mithrandir grumbled, stomping off to do something wizard-y – not that Thranduil would ever say that aloud.

Clear skies sailed above them, barely a single cloud in sight; it was uncharacteristically bright for a winter’s day, and the sunlight nearly felt warm against his skin. He rode his elk, and Bard, the Man, rode a simple horse, chestnut brown with a strong build, trained to carry soldiers into war rather than simple Men into political negotiations. Thranduil almost felt sorry for him, out of his depth as he was – if he wanted a life of peace, though, he never should have talked to the Dwarves of Erebor, and never should have kept that black arrow.
They rode to the front, the army behind them, walking with complete uniformity. They had been trained for this their whole lives. Thousands of years, in most cases.
Sunlight reflected on their brass-coloured armour over deep forest-green fabrics, made to allow for both movement and defence, tailored to each individual as they grew and bettered themselves as soldiers and fighters.

Standing upon the battlements of Erebor were thirteen dwarves, each one decorated in armour; most were made to defend, but there were a few dressed in more illustrious pieces, made only to embellish and exhibit their wealth. If Thranduil was honest with himself, they were ugly flaunts anyway, purely by being Dwarvish in nature; Elves could do better, with only a metal sheet, a hammer, and a decent tree stump.

One of them, black-haired and wearing the most gaudy piece of armour Thranduil had ever seen, drew a bow from seemingly nowhere, and shot an arrow at their steeds’ feet.
“I will put the next one between your eyes!” he called, and Thranduil was both appalled by the behaviour, and thrilled that the new Dwarven King of Erebor was making such a fool of himself. Thorin Oakenshield drew the bow again, restringing it with an arrow which appeared from no visible source. Some of the dwarves clamoured heartily, while others watched stoically, as if viewing their own deaths before they occurred.
Thranduil, Elvenking, raised his hand, speaking a one-word command to cease their racket, which they did, enthralled by his voice. He knew at least one of them was a Silvertongue, so he could not use it during the negotiations, but he could no longer stand their needless noisemaking.
“We’ve come to tell you,” he started, choosing his words wisely, “that payment of your debt has been offered… and accepted.”
“What debt? What payment?! I gave you nothing! You have nothing!” If Oakenshield hadn’t been angry before, he certainly was now, red in the face with fury.
“We have this,” Bard said from beside him, and Thranduil did not turn to look at the stone; instead, he watched each dwarf’s reaction as it was revealed. Most of them simply stared, shocked or enthralled by it. A few shook themselves, seemingly from a trance of some sort. Then there were the other two, the most gaudily-dressed – Thorin Oakenshield, and a balding dwarf beside him, who had two overlarge axes strapped to his back. They looked at the stone like it was the world, like Eru Ilúvatar had appeared in front of them to grant them a wish.
“They have the Arkenstone? Thieves!” the balding dwarf screamed, so loud and hurt that one would assume he’d just lost his love instead of a shiny stone. “How came you by the heirloom of our house? That stone belongs to the King!”
“And the King may have it – in our good will,” Bard said, slipping the Arkenstone back into one of his pockets, hiding it from sight. A good chunk of the dwarves glanced at the one who protested, and a good chunk more glanced at their supposed King, who had remained silent and stewing throughout the whole process. “But first, we must speak as neighbouring kingdoms to preserve our lives.”
The Dwarf King whispered to himself, and the few dwarves around him looked as though he had just hit himself over the head with a stick, or like one would at a confused old relative. It was clear to Thranduil that the dwarf was unfit to rule from the start.
“The Arkenstone is in this mountain! It is a trick!” he bellowed, leaning over the ramparts like a starved man waiting to attack his newfound prey.
“It-it is no trick,” a small voice said, clear in the silence despite its quietness. “The stone is real. I gave it to them.” Up on the battlements, Bilbo Baggins stood, previously unnoticed by Thranduil, and everyone else too, judging by the collective hushed gasps around him. Even the dwarves seemed surprised to realise he was there. Thorin, however did not, and his expression morphed from fury to sorrow to grief to fury again, open rage against the ha-hobbit for his actions. Suddenly, Thranduil felt a little guilty for saying his life had little worth.
“You…” Thorin said, tone speaking of more hurt than any had expected as he turned fully towards the hobbit, who stood fast in the face of a wrathful king. The other dwarves stepped back slightly, subconsciously making space for whatever was going to happen.
“I took it as my fourteenth share.”
“You would steal from me?”
“Steal from you? No, no. I may be a Burglar, but I like to think I’m an honest one.” Here, the hobbit paused slightly, eyeing the king up before forging onwards with his utterly stupid decision. “I’m willing to let it stand against my claim.”
“Against your claim? Your claim?! You have no claim over me, you miserable Shire rat!” The king dropped his bow, and it clattered to the stone floor, echoing over the fields as everyone below held their breaths.

–x–x–x–

Why?
What convinced him to come here, to do this?
Blue eyes, distant and cold – not like ice, but like a once-warm fire doused prematurely by buckets of water – bore into him as their owner strode forwards. Around him, the dwarrow stepped back; out of no decision Bilbo knew, but out of fear.
“I was going to give it to you,” Bilbo started, knowing his voice was cracking and begging it to stop. “Many times, I wanted to, but-”
“But what, Burglar?” The tone was not a question, but a challenge, the frothing anger hidden behind a simmering mask which was falling further and further every second.
“Because you’ve changed, Thorin! The dwarf I met in Bag End would never have gone back on his word, would never have doubted his kin!”
The dwarf I loved is gone.
“Do not speak to me of… loyalty,” Thorin whimpered the last part, and it shattered Bilbo even further. They were not going to survive this. Before he could think any more on the subject, a roar tore him from his heart’s thoughts. “Throw him from the rampart!”
What?
No, no, no, Thorin, why – why?
The rest of the Company stepped away, as confused and scared as Bilbo, and he could see Dwalin beginning to break free of the sickness behind Thorin, eyes clear and unsettled by his kin’s behaviour. Thorin looked around wildly for support, becoming more frenzied as the dwarrow stepped further away.
“Do you hear me?!” he screamed, grabbing Fíli’s arm tightly; the lad pushed himself out of Thorin’s grip, rubbing his bicep as Kíli worried over him. If Fíli thought it hurt, things were worse than Bilbo had thought. To hurt him, yes, he’s a hobbit, but to hurt his own nephews? Thorin was far away, and the creature who puppeted his body was in control. “I will do it myself,” he declared, and lunged for Bilbo.
Sharp stone dug into his back as hands forced him against the ramparts, surrounding his neck and squeezing with all the might of a lover betrayed. But they were not lovers, and Bilbo- well, he supposed he had betrayed Thorin, in a way. He’d given away the only thing he still cared about to a Man he barely knew and an Elf he despised. Thorin’s hands squeezed. Ice-blue eyes pierced his own, and the hobbit scratched and kicked, scrambling to free himself from hands which once would have been welcome. Behind the object of his affections, Bilbo was loosely aware of movement, along with shouts coming from all angles, asking – begging – for the King to free him, joining in to pull him away. Thorin’s hands squeezed. Fat, hot tears streamed down those beautifully sharp cheeks, reddened with righteous anger and violence, and behind him, a balding dwarf arrived, grasping and pulling, all the while the only thing Bilbo could think was to get his dear dwarf to stop crying, to smile brighter than the sun once again as he wiped a tear away with the pad of his tumb. Thorin’s hands squeezed.
“Tarnish the Host,” he whispered, and Bilbo was plummeting through the air, struggling to fill his lungs as his world spun and flickered. Muscles contorted, bone realigned, and skin changed to something Other, something different, and he was no longer plummeting, but swooping over the wind’s currents, arms dragging into the air above to pull himself upwards.

–x–x–x–

He had been too late.
Tharkûn had stormed through the Elvish ranks, summoning all his power and influence, only for his pleas to be ignored by Thorin. The Dwarf King threw the hobbit from the ramparts, and everyone watched as he fell.
Bifur could not bring himself to watch him hit the ground.
Dwalin managed to pull Thorin from the ramparts, and Thorin did not fight. Instead, he fell, crumpling downwards onto the floor as he stared blankly at the wall, tears streaming down his face. A wordless scream of loss escaped Thorin, bending in on himself as if he was only just realising what he had done; judging from the clearness in his eyes, he was. Dwalin released him, though kept a hand on his shoulder, both disgusted by his kin’s actions and understanding of them. All was silent below them, and Bifur peered over the edge; he did not look down, because he could not handle it, instead choosing to watch where everyone was looking. The bargeman, Bard, had his eyes closed, and faced downwards towards his saddle, slumping upon his horse. Beside him, Thranduil stared at a spot halfway between the ramparts and the ground, and between them both, Tharkûn stared straight at Bifur, as if trying to read what he knew. The wizard’s face was old, and incredibly fragile-looking, and that alone was enough to cause Bifur to place his aching head in his hands, the still-healing cut brushing against his skin. It only made things worse.
All was silent below them, and Bifur peered over the edge to find no movement, no saviours or healers, no miracles or magic.
He had seen enough.

–x–x–x–

Upon the horizon, a little brown dot moved up and down, getting bigger and bigger as it approached. In time, he could see it was a thrush, heading straight for them. That in and of itself was unusual – smaller birds usually left them alone, preferring to keep to themselves, though often enjoying the benefits which came with the territory. This one appeared to be different. It also appeared to be injured, for as soon as it reached the small rocky outcropping, it crash-landed like a fledgling, and immediately fell unconscious.

Chapter Text

Cold steam rose from their breaths as silence possessed the room, atmosphere morose and sober. How could it be, after the last few hours? What had happened – well, it wasn’t clear, but it wasn’t muddy, either.
Balin sat to his right, closer than normal as if to comfort him, and Kíli was attached to his side, practically holding his left arm like a child would a blanket. Across from him was Thranduil and Legolas, and next to them was the bargeman who had helped them across the Long Lake. Tharkûn stood in the corner, unmoving in such a way that he looked dead.
Fíli tried not to think about the liquid prickling at the corners of his eyes.

“I see you have not sent your King,” Thranduil started, though it was not malicious; in fact, it was far from his usual tone, and seemed almost gentle compared to how he had sounded in Mirkwood.
“He is in no condition to negotiate for the moment,” Fíli replied, and Balin nudged his foot under the table – something they’d all picked up from Bilbo – as if to congratulate him for remembering his manners. It only made him miss his newest uncle more.
“So you, as Crown Prince, are acting in his place.”
“Aye.”
Silence filled the tent again, the air heavy with loss despite the battle having not yet begun. There was none of the bite usually present in anyone’s words, and the very world itself seemed grey with grief.

“How did you kill the dragon?”
The question caught the dwarrow off guard, coming from Bard, who, up until that point, had not spoken a word, not even when greeting one another. Thranduil half-nodded in his direction, furrowing his brow in thought, while Legolas hummed as if to agree with Bard’s question.
“Well, there was no dragon. Not in the way we thought, not really-” Fíli began, cutting himself off as he realised that none but the Company knew of Thrór’s survival and acts. He turned to Balin, who shrugged.
“Might as well be out with it all, laddie.” Balin patted his shoulder, and Fíli could feel that he was trying to let every bit of confidence seep into his bones; this would not be an easy tale to tell.
“We found a way in on Durin’s Day,” Fíli began, barely keeping his voice from wavering. “We sent Bilbo in, as per his contract. He was supposed to go in and steal the Arkenstone, which we were then going to use to summon support from all seven Dwarf clans, so we could kill the beast. He went in, and- well… we had Nori keeping an ear on things.” At Bard’s and Thranduil’s confused looks, Fíli realised they were lacking much-needed context. “Nori’s an Eavesdropper. That’s his- ability, I believe you call it?”
“Yes, in Westron,” Thranduil responded quietly. Even Tharkûn was now looking at Fíli, having not known the ins and outs of the story. Which means Bilbo either chose not to tell him, or never got the chance.
“Bilbo taught us that one,” Kíli said, voice sounding much louder than it actually was due to the complete silence following his comment.
“Yes, he did,” Fíli responded, patting his brother’s arm. Both he and Kíli were- had been close with Bilbo, and had quietly started calling him their uncle – Uncle Boggins – behind the Company’s turned backs. He dreaded to think how Bifur felt, losing his only brother.
“Nori can hear more than any, so we had him sit at the door, listening to make sure Bilbo wasn’t in trouble,” Fíli continued on. “He soon heard the dragon, and filled us in on his and Bilbo’s conversation – we couldn’t just burst in at any time, otherwise we could have gotten Bilbo ki- killed, so we argued over it, until Nori told us an interesting comment Smaug made about Thorin, as if he knew Uncle personally. We… we quickly pieced together that it was not Smaug down there.”
“What do you mean? The dragon could not have left the mountain, or the people of Laketown would have noticed,” Bard asked, both mortified by the story and perplexed by the implications of Fíli’s last sentence.
“Yes, you would have. That’s because it hadn’t been Smaug in Erebor since day one.”
Tharkûn made a funny sound in the back of his throat, like one of his hums got stuck and decided to abort its mission. His eyes were so wide Fíli worried they’d pop out of his skull, and he would have to pick them up for the wizard. Thranduil had gone white – or, well, whiter than normal, and given the circumstances, Fíli thought the Elvenking was actually doing a very good job of keeping his composure. He didn’t know an awful lot about Thranduil’s personal life, but as a Prince, he’d been taught the basic life stories of every kingdom East of Ered Luin. Thranduil had faced dragons before.
Bard, the poor Man, was just as pasty, though it looked to be more from the cold rather than any shock; instead, he simply gawked like a fish, mouth opening and closing as his brain tried to make heads or tails of it all.
“We don’t know any definites, we never managed to get any out – but Thrór, my great grandfather and the last King Under the Mountain before Erebor’s collapse, was a Deathshifter. We don’t know how, or when, or why, but he managed to stay in Erebor, and killed Smaug, turning into him. Then Bilbo forced him to turn back.”
“How?” Tharkûn asked; Fíli thought that he, of all people in this tent, would have the most knowledge of Bilbo’s Red Shadow. The wizard’s face was nearly curling in on itself with strife, and he now leaned on his staff, like he’d aged a century over the course of three sentences.
“His ability.”

Explaining the rest from there was like trying to explain a dream long after it has been had; nothing is solid, and everything moves too much to make sense of it as it happens, only fully able to be seen after the fact. Fíli did as best he could, with occasional interjections from Balin and Kíli, who told things from their own perspectives. He and Kíli were shocked when Balin told everyone Óin had seen the gold-sickness over them, and ashamed to admit that neither of them noticed it until Glóin left.
“That’s when Bilbo came here,” Tharkûn said, just after Fíli had described the start of the day before, spent building up defences and raiding the armoury, even though they had done those things several times before. It was what Thorin had commanded, and none of them spoke against it.
“I suppose it must be,” Balin replied, musing away at something in his mind.
“Though, that begs the question,” Thranduil began, “...of why he returned to Erebor.”
“Oh, that’s simple,” Kíli said, speaking with an unwavering, strong voice for the first time since they’d entered the tent. “We are his family.”
“His family is back in the Shire,” Tharkûn said indignantly, and Fíli was about ready to punch the wizard before the most unexpected thing happened: Bard did it himself.
The Man stood in front of Tharkûn, and spoke, strong and somewhat fond, gesticulating wildly with his hands as his speech went on.
“I may not be able to speak for Bilbo, having only been in his presence for a day, but that does not negate the relationships he has with these dwarves,” Bard stated, seething with the wizard’s words. “On my barge, he was the only one to ask me my name, and somehow, they all know. He checked in with each one of them in my house, and slept on my floor with them. I only know as much as I do about dwarves now because of him telling me about his family . It might have only been an hour or so that we spoke, but he mentioned nothing of the Shire besides its warm weather and bountiful harvests.” Bard now had his arms crossed. No one moved or spoke for a good long while, before Fíli stood; he remembered that, while Bilbo was their hobbit, he was not only their hobbit. He had made friends everywhere, and Fíli realised that they’d have to inform Beorn of the little bunny’s passing. The blond dwarf walked to Bard’s side, and though he couldn’t reach the Man’s shoulder as he would have liked, he could reach the elbow. Patting it firmly, he remembered that Bilbo had done the same to him and Kíli when they had done something good. Fíli resolutely ignored the sharpness in his breath and instead directed his energy to his words.
“Thank you, Bard,” he said, though he felt like the words weren’t quite enough. “Thank you. Un- Bilbo would’ve appreciated that.” He then turned to Tharkûn, and glared at him. “ Especially because he was Bifur’s blood-brother. Bifur will be sorting out his- his will, and things.”
Tharkûn stared, gobsmacked as if he hadn’t been there most of the journey, hadn’t paid attention at Beorn’s, when they were all already so close. As if he hadn’t been there when Bilbo saved them the first time, and the second, and then specifically saved Thorin from Azog.
“His will?” Thranduil’s questioning tone echoed throughout the tent.
“...Yes, one’s will is typically dealt with after their death,” Balin told Thranduil gently, and of course – he was an Elf, they saw little death outside of a battlefield.
“Death?”
Surely they would not have to explain the concept of death to a King?
“But Bilbo isn’t dead,” Bard said.
What? No, they’d watched him- they’d watched Thorin throw him from the ramparts, choke him until he cried-
“He turned into a bird before he hit the ground.”

–x–x–x–

Purple light illuminated her workstation as Arwen read, studying ancient texts on healing diseases which, really, hadn’t been around since before she was born. But she’d finished her training, and became bored, and she knew she still needed to practice, just in case her father was right and had need of her skills, so she had moved on to the library, pouring over books and tomes alike.

An old map made from animal hide and inked with hammer and nail unfurled from the thick tome before her. It had been difficult to move, hefty and dense. The map curled outwards from the last page, rolling down the table as she followed it with her eyes; it was tan in colour, and well-preserved, but it had obvious wear at its edges, and the corners curled in on themselves like a well-read book. Looking over the map, Arwen supposed it was cleverly placed – someone could read the tome while looking at the map, using it to keep track of locations and distance. She watched it, following the curls and flourishes of the ink as it swept further and further into the land, and something caught in her heart. As she looked over one portion, far to the East, a deep ache settled in her chest, both grief and violence mixing together to create a cocktail of doom, which settled beneath her heart in an audacious manner. Dread. It was an unwelcome feeling, and though she could not locate any specifics, she knew it was bad; the last time she’d gotten a link from a map, the Dwarves were trying to retake Moria.

–x–x–x–

He should be bald.
It was too kind, really, to kill him, and the only one capable of doing so was dead.
The one who should have taken his braids from him, ripped them out of his scalp. The one who should have shorn his beard and removed his beads, melting them into nothing but molten metal. The one who should have cast the remains into a Shaven bead, to forever display his misdoings, his carelessness.
The one who had, instead, wiped his tears away as he was dying.
The one who had laughed and joked with him about everything and nothing as they were surrounded by bees larger than housecats.
The one who had held his hand in Elrond’s halls, sneaking through passageways and ceilings to show him a sword most dismissed as legend, all that time ago.
The one whose first instinct had always been to look out for them all, to protect him, even from himself, when he could not recognise his own madness.

He should be bald, but there was no one to make him so.

–x–x–x–

Twilight rose over them all as hundreds streamed out from Esgaroth, having packed their lives into singular bags or rags tied cleverly into packs. All who were old enough held a weapon, and all who were old enough walked, the remaining few too young to do so held by their exhausted parents. The elderly creaked along, matching their paces to those around them despite the debilitating pain it would bring; children ran to keep up with their parents’ long strides, and those who had the strength carried those who did not.
Ten Elves led them, carrying torches and heavy packs, surrounding the group like sheepdogs herding a confused flock. Humans cannot see in darkness as well as Elves or Dwarves, and so torches were carried by many, though were often put down or passed between themselves in favour of letting their arms rest. Eru knew that they would need it – all of Esgaroth was moving out, aside from the few who chose to stay and fight, defend the little living they’d made for themselves upon the water.

Tauriel led the mismatched group onto the forested path, where they were filtered down into smaller groups – a single-file line with so many civilians and so few Elves was impossible, but they would not get everyone through the forest alive travelling as an unorganised mass. They walked, morose but not quiet – babies cried, he elderly grumbled, and those in between shouted their woes to the world as though it were listening. Surprisingly, the most quiet were the children; they watched their parents rant and rave, watched the newborns as they shrieked tearlessly, watched as ten strangers led them through a dark forest. They didn’t say a word, and instead, shushed the babies while their parents shouted, or guided those who could not see. They were kind to each other and those around them in a way their elders seemed to be incapable of. Tauriel understood why Humans might want children, aside from the purpose of keeping a civilisation going.

She looked upwards to the Moon, who told her everyone who wanted to follow was doing so. It also told her that the Master was revelling in his gold, and had sent his few remaining soldiers into the streets, to his peoples’ homes to search for their valuables, anything that could be resold to visitors or stashed away in his own little hoard. None of them would survive what was coming.

A little hand tugging against her tunic brought her attention back down to the ground.
“Are you scared?”
The young child stared up at her, owl-eyed and blinking blearily; deep, dark eyebags surrounded his eyes, and she felt somewhat responsible for it.
“No, young one. I know this forest like the back of my hand – the Moon tells me where to go.”
“The moon?”
“Yes, the Moon. It speaks to me, tells me where things are.”
“Oh. Like when you tell your ma you can’t find anything and then she finds it straight away?”
“That’s one way of putting it, yes,” Tauriel laughed lightly. The child seemed satisfied with the conversation, and turned, heading back to wherever the family was.
Bravery always came from the most unexpected sources.

–x–x–x–

Sharp air cut against his skin, unprotected in the cold winter sunrise. Gravel crunched beneath his cheek, pushing into his flesh uncomfortably; moving shifted it all, and small rocks tumbled down the cliff face, falling somewhere below him, though he never heard them land. Soft chirps filtered into his ears as the world returned to him, becoming louder and sharper as he became more aware; they hurt his head, and he must have done something, because they quietened down again, returning to what one could equate to a whisper. Opening his eyes, he was met with a plume of brown, a gentle material which tickled at his nose and blocked his vision.

Bilbo Baggins was laying on his stomach, his face pressed into the gravel below him, back covered with naught but a swath of oversized feathers. A thick, bumpy toe nudged his arm – the owner of the plumage covering his vision – and a strong beak came downwards to bump against his shoulder and head.
“M’up,” the hobbit said, his voice cracked and raspy. He sat up slowly, taking several pauses to wait for the world around him to stop spinning before he fully managed it. A gentle beak pushed soft cloth into his arms, and Bilbo realised quite sluggishly that he was holding his shirt, which he subsequently pulled over his head. He supposed he probably looked like a child dressing himself for the first time, but decided it was not important in that moment to look dignified; memories washed over him as he tried to remember where he was, and why he was there. His waistcoat was handed to him as the Eagle picked left-over feathers from him, piling them all in front of him like a collection. It spread a wing to better protect him against the wind, and he looked up to it as he dressed.
“Why’re y’helping me?”
The bird said nothing, but dipped its head back down to brush against Bilbo’s neck, causing a wave of pain to surge through his body, up towards his head and down his spine. The hobbit brought his own hands upwards, and immediately felt the bruising; it must have been swollen at some point, but Arathorn’s ability had dealt with that. Images of a dwarf, eyes like fog, pushing him against the ramparts with his fingers around his throat and throwing him from the battlements filled his mind, occupying the little space he had. Wings beating so hard he thought they’d fall from his shoulders. A sheer cliff, inhabited by Eagles.
He looked up to the one shielding him now, watching him as he dressed himself. He was passed the coat he got from Bard, and the gloves he got from Ori were in the pockets, as they should be; the Eagle took great care in it all, and Bilbo realised something. This one had a dark line from just under its eye to the middle of its lower jaw, which dipped inwards and created an odd feather pattern. This is the Eagle which had carried him from the Misty Mountains to the Carrock, those few months ago.
“Bilbo Baggins,” the hobbit said, because he knew in his mind that he should probably introduce himself. “We’ve met.”
The Eagle chirped affirmatively, approving of Bilbo’s memory. Warmth surrounded him once again, and Bilbo looked tiredly at the Eagle, who looked over its shoulder before stepping aside; another Eagle, larger and more golden in colour, walked over to them from behind, where the little ledge he found himself on widened, and housed several other Eagles.
“My name is Thorondor,” he said – said , in Westron .
“You spoke,” Bilbo said dumbly. Because the Eagle spoke.
“Yes, some of us can do that,” Thorondor replied, and had Bilbo been any less lucid, he’d have called the Eagle out on the chuckle hidden in his voice. As it was, he wasn’t looking to get his head lopped off by an Eagle, not after his recent experiences (though the Tookish part of him decided it would be an effective way to deal with the pain). The first Eagle dumped a heavy-sounding item in front of him, and now, Bilbo was staring at the mithril coat, glimmering and gleaming in the morning’s light. He knew not how long he sat there and stared, before he stripped back down to his shirt and pulled it over himself. The metal was not cool, but warm, like it had kept the little heat radiating from his body, understanding it to be precious – the collar, especially, was warm, imprinted with the heat of Thorin’s hands as he-
Nope. No. Not at all, no. Don’t even think of it.
“I have to help them,” Bilbo said to Thorondor. “There’s an army heading their way.”
“More than one, by the looks of it,” the Eagle answered, nodding his head towards the East. “Dwarves are on the way, though angry they seem.”
“There are tens of thousands of Orcs out there!” Bilbo rasped – it was supposed to be a shout, but he couldn’t even raise his voice enough to be heard clearly over the gusts surrounding the sheer cliff. “They can’t battle that alone!”
“No.”
“They’ll die.”
“Yes.”
Let it never be said that Bilbo Baggins is not stupid, for a stupid decision is the one he made in that moment, hang the consequences.

–x–x–x–

The earth shuddered and crumbled beneath their beating feet, and they sang songs of whips and ways while mammoth worms writhed with wrath in the soil’s soul. Under the world they dug, and under the world they trudged, until over the world they would rule.

–x–x–x–

Dinner the previous evening had been morose, mournful and emotional, and barely any of them had spoken to one another, opting instead to simply sleep. If anyone had moved a little closer, no one else said a thing. Thorin had sequestered himself away, deep into one of the hidden caverns, if Dwalin suspected correctly.
Then, at silly-o’clock in the morning – not even the arsecrack of dawn, but its spine – Fíli, Kíli, and Balin burst in, shouting excitedly and shaking their comrades awake. Dwalin wondered what they were so happy about, enough to wake the Company – then, Balin’s wrinkled hands came to shake his shoulders, and his brother bumped their foreheads together, exhaling roughly and laughing.
“Bilbo’s alive.”

To say the Company had reacted to the news would be nowhere near dramatic enough; they had leapt with joy, cried with relief, and ended up in a little heap, before separating themselves so they could sit in a small circle. Bombur fired up the little pit they’d been using to cook, and melted down some sweet cinnamon and honey they’d found. Dwalin lost track of whatever the ginger dwarf was doing, but eventually, a hot mug was fitted into his hands, and drinking from it felt like being a pebble again, listening to his Amad tell stories with him on her lap and Balin sat at her side, the three sat on a dusty carpet which had seen better days, but which had been so treasured by Dwalin he had gotten its central pattern inked into his skin to remain there forever.
They all sat up as they drank their drinks and undid their mourning braids, knowing full well that they’d likely die the next day – and that’s the way things were. If Bilbo was alive, Dwalin, in secret, had full confidence that the hobbit would manage to get them out of whatever troubles ailed them. He’d already saved their sorry arses from being cooked, skewered, imprisoned, and – arguably – charred by their former king. That wasn’t even covering the political fallout following that day, nor the way he’d used himself as insurance, to make sure none of them thought it was a hoax.

Dwalin fell asleep next to his brother in the warm light of a cooking fire, stomach filled with a thick, nostalgic drink, his fondest memories of the last year circling his mind.
An over-glorified family holiday, indeed.

–x–x–x–

Rows of Elves lined the grass patches of the fields between Erebor and Dale, taking a defensive stance, protecting the Lonely Mountain and the city beside it. They knew which direction the Orcish army was coming from, thanks to Gandalf, and had ridden themselves of any who wouldn’t or couldn’t fight, or help with the healers; the people of Laketown were safe in Thranduil’s halls beyond the treeline of Mirkwood, which acted as a barrier to any who might enter. Those who remained were fighters, warriors, or those capable of helping in some manner, be it medical or political.
All was silent in the morning mist – a serious tone had settled across the entire Elvish army the day before, witnessing what they did, and the dwarves were no different, having not only watched their leader throw a member of their family from the ramparts, but also having believed that family member to be dead for a good long while. Bard could see now in their postures that they knew – they were all determined, and strong, aside from the King, who was nowhere to be seen.
Bard hadn’t known the dwarf long enough to make heads or tails of him, not in any way which would give him an accurate understanding of Thorin Oakensheild. He had seemed alright, if a little gruff, and better for the company of others. He droned on about things, especially to Bilbo – or, rather, the hobbit was the only one with the balls to listen. Either way, he severely hoped the dwarf king was at least alive; the world needs no more violence, and yet a war is on their doorstep.

Cold mud covered his boots, already coated in an unhealthy amount of oil and mulch; the Man could feel a chill creeping in, and knew that this day was to be quite possibly the worst of his life.
Or, close enough to it.

Rumbling sounded out over the hills towards the East – and that wasn’t right, wasn’t what they’d prepared for. As one, the Elf army turned, facing the new threat, already-strung bows tense as they prepared to Loose as one. It was apparently a favourite method of the Elves, as Thranduil had told him. Bard wasn’t quite sure if he trusted the Elvenking, though it mattered little now; they would fight, side-by-side, with a wizard and twelve dwarves, defending a kingdom regained so it could not again be lost. He was sure the Elves were as anticipatory as he was, but if they were, they showed no sign of it on their faces; some focussed on their weapons, while others simply stared at the hill, behind which the rumbling approached.
A man – a dwarf, and a General of some sort by the looks of it – crested the hill astride a ferocious-looking boar, all sharp tusks and metal plating. It shone with the armour placed upon it, and looked about ready to tear into anything that came within ten feet of it.
Behind the dwarf – also armoured, Bard noted thoughtlessly – came several hundred others; the first line were all on foot, carrying shields and spears, while the lines following held swords and hammers, axes and flails; each dwarf had a weapon which looked designed to fit them , rather than all being stuck in the same armour with the same kit as everyone else, like the Elves were. The two armies made a brilliant dichotomy, Bard thought – one coated in gold like sunlight, the other in steel like the Long Lake at night. It was not lost on him, the futility of this thought, but he couldn’t help it – being a father, he’d made up his fair share of stories for his children, and being a bargeman, he had plenty of time alone to refine his stories.
The army was flanked on each side by more boars, upon which were more dwarves. The first one, which led them all, drew closer, and Bard could now see that he was ginger, though his hair became a shock of white where it met his jaw. He had two protrusions shaped like boar tusks coming from his beard, beaded and bedazzled in beads which looked both decorative for their intricacy and practical for their sharpness.
“Good morning! How are we all?” the dwarf asked, much in the manner of someone who expected no answer, and was not interested in one. “I have a wee proposition, if you wouldn’t mind giving me a moment of your time-”
“Dáin!” The shout came from Erebor – the dwarves were gathered, obviously confused and talking between themselves. The one who had shouted across the field was one of the taller ones, balding at the top of his head, which was covered in tattoos. “What’re you doing here?”
“Why, Thorin called, of course!” the dwarf, Dáin, replied. He looked extremely confused as well. “Are we not warring with these tree-shaggers?” A wave of Elvish shock and offense rose throughout their ranks; they did not talk, but some did shake their heads while others patted themselves down in ways that, to Bard, seemed quite vain.
“No! They’re helping defend the Mountain!” the bald dwarf cried, and though Bard could not properly see his face from this distance, he could tell through his voice that the dwarf was both outraged and exasperated. It appeared that none of those upon the battlements of Erebor knew Dáin was coming. With an army.
“What are yous fighting against? I see no scum here!” Dáin called, and as he did, an echo reverberated through the air, bouncing around the field to create a sort of magnified echo. It sounded like a whirring – not a mechanical whir, not like a machine of any sort, but like an animal, a creature which whirled the elements with its fingertips. Behind him, Bard heard Gandalf say something extremely worrying.
“Were-worms.”
Gargantuan creatures, limbless and terrifying, shot out of the ground and writhed in the air like prey which had been shot poorly; they writhed in the open air before diving back downwards, collapsing into the earth as dirt spilled from their mouths, within which were rows upon rows of jagged, sharp teeth, spinning to digest the inordinate amounts of soil they consumed. Eventually, they wriggled out of their breach-holes, burrowing back into the earth, churning up the soil below them. All stood silent for a moment, and that was the last of the sound Bard would experience for the next several hours.

–x–x–x–

A blue river flowed far below them, joined by the natural springs at varying points. Each one was in one way or another connected to all the others – whether those passages were visible or not was a different story, though an interesting one, to the right people. To most, though, the warm water was enough; its clearness was enough to see it was clean, despite its bright teal hue, which was explained as tiny little organisms which thrived in heat, described by many as ‘wee spring-things’. Much loved were the springs, for their warmth, their cleanliness, and their use.
Since they were constantly met with flowing water, none of them remained stagnant for too long, and because they were invariably hot, no harmful beings could survive in their depths. As such, the springs were renowned as a source of not only cleanliness but fun, for many a dwarf played within them as a pebble.

His first time in one of these pools, he had been young – probably too young to be going, but he was accompanied by his mother, who showed him the ways of the currents, invisible yet just enough to pull you down should you go deep enough. She showed him how colourful yet transparent the water was, like crystal; she explained how they worked, and answered his questions when he inevitably asked them. Water trickled above and below as green grew from crags and crevices, and all was right with the world.

That was not the case any longer.

He’d lost hope; in fact, Thorin had started to wonder whether he’d even had any going into Erebor in the first place, surging forwards to find a hobbit he assumed to be long dead. Did he lose hope then, as Nori was retelling the events within to the Company? Was it when, in a fit of panic, his grandfather admitted to his lies? Or was it when he died?
Or, was it long after, when he’d killed someone whose eyes he could compare to the most precious jewel in existence, and still find the jewel lacking?

He felt, of course he did. Sorrow drenched his heart as anger thrashed through his veins; anxious tadpoles wriggled through his body, and the agony of anguish thrummed within his airways, filling his lungs and making him forget how to breathe.
Of course he felt, and it was not doing him any favours, so Thorin did what he always had done; he pushed it down, stood up, dusted himself off, and summoned a sword, silently stepping away from the firefly caves and hot spring caverns in favour of a blood-drenched battlefield.

Ferocious battlecries filled the air as Elf, Man, Dwarf, and Orc met in vicious battle, skirmishes and dogfights breaking out everywhere the opposing armies met, making way for more to fill the gaps, each side advancing upon the other. Bloodshed surrounded him, and Thorin joined the fray, hacking and slashing, summoning knife after knife to throw at sneaking Orcs, and arrows enough to fuel the entire Elvish army for thirty days and nights. The dwarf carved his way through, and, somewhere on the battlefield, met Dáin.
“Cousin!”
“Dáin!” Thorin shouted back, lopping off an orc’s head as he did. He turned to face his cousin, who slammed one orc in the side with his warhammer while headbutting another. Both went down, and did not move.
“Cousin! What took you so long?” Before he could answer, Thorin was pulled into a short but powerful headbutt, and Dáin continued talking, as he always did. “There’s too many of these buggers, Thorin. I hope you’ve got a plan.”
Truth be told, up until that moment, he had not; he’d been fighting recklessly, careless of whether he lived or died, of whether he was celebrated or hated, or faded into history entirely, unremarkable aside from his wrongdoings. He deserved it.
As he looked around, blinking blood from his eyes, Thorin spotted Ravenhill. Upon it was an orc; no detail was distinguishable from the distance, but he was easily recognisable, as Thorin had spent the last several decades envisioning this particular Orc on a skewer.
“Azog…” he muttered, only partially aware of his mouth. He turned to Dáin, who happily headbutted another orc, smiling maniacally as he did. “Aye. We’re going to take out their leader.” Dáin looked up, following his line of sight, and Thorin, in another life, would have paid to watch the expression change on his cousin’s face.
“Azog…”
All Durins really were the same, after all.
As he thought that, a pair of young-looking dwarrow – one blond, one brunet – whizzed past, one slashing at orcs with his daggers while the other shot arrows faster than one could call out a warcry. Fíli and Kíli had both grown impeccably since their journey began; they were more mature, more resourceful, and infinitely more skilled than when they had left. If either of them had any lasting injuries, Dís would castrate him and place his head on a pike, as a warning to others not to harm her sons.
A battle-ram charged past him, and an idea formed in his mind – one so idiotic, it might work.
“I’ll kill that piece of filth!”
“Lead on, Cousin!”

–x–x–x–

Metal clashed against metal, weapons clanging to the floor as everyone hacked and slashed at their foes. Armour was pierced and dented, leaving large craters or gaping holes, through which shrapnel sunk into flesh, biting into skin and drawing blood. A swath of brown hair fought at his back, firing arrow after arrow at every opponent who dared step within his range, and stabbing any who got close enough to warrant it. Fíli fought just below Kíli’s spot, preventing waves of Orcs from overwhelming his brother; they pushed and pulled, losing and gaining land like waves against the sand. It was an intricate dance, battle – it ebbed and flowed, speeding up and slowing down as its participants grew weary of death or were energised by it.

A blur of chestnut fur crossed his vision, coming to a stop just beside him. It was one of the battle-rams, decorated in blood-dulled silver, and upon it was Dwalin.
“Get your brother! We’re going up top!” Dwalin waved Grasper around behind him towards Ravenhill; as he did, Fíli followed his hand, and off in the distance, a little ways away, he spotted something he hadn’t expected to see. His Uncle, astride a battle-ram, lopped a head off of an orc before turning and swinging a hammer – not one for battle, but a normal, regular hammer – into the skull of another.
Heavy breathing behind him alerted the blond dwarf to his new steed, which was decked in several layers of metal and leather, much like Dwalin’s battle-ram. Looking up, he watched as Kíli hopped onto his own ram, beaming down at him and Dwalin, even as he shot another arrow from the beast’s back.

Crags and ledges were all that supported the rams as they galloped their way up the cliffside at frightening speeds, ceaseless in their efforts. They scaled near-vertical walls, and within a bare few minutes, they were up to the top of Ravenhill, surrounded by cold silence.
“Why are we here?” Kíli whispered to him. Fíli wondered if his dear brother had suffered a concussion.
“To kill their leader,” Fíli whispered back, pushing it out forcefully in a failed attempt to make it quieter, more surreptitious. It would not do, to be found through unnecessary mutterings.
They surveyed the area, clopping cautiously along the outskirts of Ravenhill’s plateau; icy brick towered over them, the remnants of Ravenhomes long claimed by the land. No plants grew, and no water flowed, the river frozen over by the whipping winds and sub-zero temperatures.

Before long, a plan had been made; Fíli and Kíli would go into the tower, which had previously served as a sort of hub for the Ravenhomes, and search the floors, one-by-one, reporting back on their findings. Thorin and Dwalin would look after the other two buildings, which were slightly smaller than the tower, though far less stable-looking.
“Do not engage under any circumstances,” Thorin growled out, giving each brother a small headbutt for luck. “Return to us, alive.”
“We won’t do anything stupid,” Kíli responded.
Fíli said nothing, because what Kíli said was almost certainly going to end up being a lie.

It’s like trying to goad a moth into following the dark, or stop a stray from eating; futile, with the very notion being ridiculous – no one can change the course of instinct.
Bitter winter gusts licked at their faces, numbing their hands as they approached; the tower went both up and down, and was hardly lit, though sconces covered the walls – Fíli supposed it must have once been an incredibly active area, full of Ravens and letters and Dwarrow, and who knew what else. Kíli walked beside him, his soft footsteps padding against cold stone flooring; he had his sword at the ready, though a hand hovered over where his arrows were. In their youth, the brothers had played many a game involving Kíli’s enhanced vision; while they had meant nothing by it, the two of them were delighted to discover they had been training Kíli’s aim, and his throwing skills. Though a bow could place much more force behind an arrow than any creature, be they Dwarf, Man, Elf, or Orc, Kíli had a distinct talent for throwing things. His sight made him a lethal fighter at long distances, but mid-range was where he truly threw people off-guard.

“You take the lower levels,” Fíli murmured, nudging his brother in the arm. He had a strange gut feeling about the upper floors, and knew he was more well-equipped to deal with it. “We’ll meet back here in ten?”
“Nine!” Kíli responded, darting down the hallway to where they’d seen stairs heading downwards when they first entered.

And that’s when it all went tits-up.

Fíli found himself surrounded, wall sconces lighting themselves down winding hallways and around tight corners; before long, he knew his time was up, and he was dragged by his hair upwards, further and further towards the sky with each floor. Eventually, a sharp force tugged on his scalp, and he was released from the grasp of whichever Orc had handled him. The young dwarf made to stand, but was immediately winded by another force, this time on his throat; it grasped him, and he sucked in a breath so large he was sure his lungs would pop, filling them out of fear rather than any particular thought crossing his mind. Instinct told him to, and he obeyed, no questions asked.
Pale, scarred fingers gripped his neck, not quite ridding him of his airflow, but restricting his intake, certainly; it was dirty, and a tactic used only to inflict fear – the Orc who held him could easily change its grip, tighten its fingers ever so slightly, and end his life there and then, painful and slow as he lost his breath.
Instead, a voice – a terrible, recognisable voice – sounded out from behind him, every syllable dripping in the need, the want for violence and death. It rebounded against the walls and was spoken into his ears, too close, and yet, Fíli found it to be too far away, hidden beneath the thrumming in his ears. Freezing wind buffeted him, and he looked down to find nothing but the open air, and a frozen river several floors below him. Wide eyes followed his own as Thorin and Dwalin watched from their respective buildings, scrambling to get down so they could- could do what? They can’t fly, they can’t stop his fall. They can’t get to him in time. There was nothing they could do to distract Azog. The only thing Fíli could hope for was that his brother lived.
Cool steel pressed gently against his back as Azog spoke again, addressing Thorin and Dwalin as they tumbled onto the stone where they’d first split up. Sometimes, Fíli wished he could cover up his thoughts like Thorin; instead, they spoke aloud upon his face like Kíli and in his eyes like Amad. He knew they could see he was scared, but that wasn’t what he feared; what he feared was them knowing he’d given up.
The point in his back pushed itself forwards, and pain blossomed in his lower back as hot red blood streamed its way from the new wound – all the while, Fíli stared at his Uncle, doing his very best to communicate everything he’d always wanted to say.
You were always the best to us. You raised us as your own, like our father, and we never thanked you for it. You worry too much. You need to fix things, but you’ll survive. I love you.
As Fíli accepted his fate-to-be, a thunderous sound jerked Azog out of his blood-induced stupor, and a large, unsettling grin settled upon his face.
“You did not kill the Dragon after all,” he spat, Westron words curdling in his mouth before he even spoke them.
Grey clouds darkened above them as a great shadow crossed the skies, hints of red poking through like the clouds themselves were ablaze.

–x–x–x–

Storm-grey skies surrounded him, enveloping his mass and hiding him from those below the dense layer of angry clouds. Eagles flanked him – far enough to be safe should he make any manoeuvres, but close enough to gain defence from his bulk, and communicate with him. One of them dove in and out of the cloud cover, and trilled, the shrill sound echoing in the empty atmosphere.
“We’re here,” Thorondor said lowly, careful of how loud he was being. He had enough volume to command the winds themselves – a great skill for one of his kind, but only when controlled.
Large eyes blinked slowly, and horns dipped downwards and upwards in a careful nod. The Eagles retreated slightly, and once they were far enough away, he launched himself up towards the sun, releasing one booming roar like the rolling of thunder, and dove.

Armies scattered below, but that is not what he was looking for; his eyes locked onto the frosted rock below, higher in altitude than the rest of the battlefield. Upon it were two dwarves – Dwalin and him – looking upwards at whatever was at the top of the tower. Its roofing was crumbling, the infrastructure weakening from his presence, suffering from the whipping whirlwinds he created.

Sharp talons landed heavily upon the side of Ravenhill, facing the tower; in it was Fíli, held aloft by Azog, who stared at Bilbo like the cat who got the cream.
“SMAUG!” He roared, the word harsh and gnashing in his mouth. He then grinned monstrously, before holding Fíli outwards, above a seven-storey drop. Blood dripped from the young dwarf’s back, and a small pool soon formed in the snow below him.
Bilbo spoke, though the words felt jumbled in his too-large mouth, his sibilant syllables hissed through sharp teeth.
“Release him.”
“Eager?” Azog asked, licking his lips. He flashed a rather insane smile downwards, towards where Thorin and Dwalin stood, just in front of Bilbo; Thorin stared directly at Azog, not removing his eyes from Fíli’s form, while Dwalin looked between the scenes in front and behind, most likely wondering how he managed to get to a point in his life where he sided with a dragon.
Or, well – someone who looks like a dragon. Currently.
Azog laughed a cruel cackle, and released Fíli from his grip on the dwarf’s neck; Fíli fell limply, though not unaware – it is clear that he’d already resigned himself to his death before Bilbo’s arrival. Hooked claws attached to a webbed wing-hand shot outwards, as did a long neck and head. In his hand was Fíli, who was winded, with drops of warm blood leaking from his back onto Bilbo’s palm. Even as he withdrew from catching Fíli, back to his previous perching position, Bilbo could feel the flow slowing, and he had never been more grateful to share an ability with someone.

He walked forwards – a difficult feat, for one so large – and stepped out onto the frozen river, coming face-to-face with Azog, who stood, vaguely confused and awaiting the supposedly imminent deaths of the dwarrow before him.
“Mine,” Bilbo huffed in a voice not his own, the word coming naturally to him. He found that, when transforming, he gained some of the characteristics of whatever he was becoming; while a fox, he was sneakier, and as a thrush, he was less wary of those below, and more paranoid of those around.
As a dragon, he felt a strong pull towards each and every one of his dwarves – his hoard, he supposed.

Heat rose in his chest, impossibly violent, wrathful as it was natural. Instinct. Firedrakes are not names for their wings, their size, their ferocity – they’re named for the scorching infernos they could spit from their jaws, and with good reason; all around, everyone would be able to see the beacon which was now lit upon Ravenhill.
By nature, Hobbits are not aggressive creatures; in fact, they’re much the opposite, non-confrontational and gentle. The most substantial thing any given hobbit living in the Shire has ever harmed would be with words alone. A certain wizard might argue that one particular hobbit had committed worse. Bilbo would fail to find a reason behind why the flames spewed from his mouth in the first place.

–x–x–x–

Thick black smoke swelled upwards into the sky, merging with grey storm-clouds before they could start to release their watery burden. The sources of the smog screamed, a gut-wrenching, awful sound, made by suffering creatures as they clung onto life with every last piece of energy they had. Stone smothered the blaze, but flesh fuelled it, charred bodies littering the tower’s upper floors. Chaos surrounded them, penetrating the very air itself.
The firedrake recoiled, as though it had never intended to create such destruction, before it placed Fíli down gently onto the snow, which it carefully packed onto his back before leaping over ice and onto the stone foundations of a building ablaze. Thorin waited no longer to watch the beast; it seemed to be after the Orcs, so he cared not about it. Fíli lay on the plateau before him, fresh snow smothering his back, where he bled outwards; it hadn’t yet ceased, but red was absorbed by white, rather than the other way around. Thorin heard himself running, pounding footsteps skidding to a halt just before his nephew, who looked up at him from his prone position. Thorin kneeled down, placing a hand on the other dwarf’s back.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Fíli said, seemingly distracted by whatever the dragon was doing to his right. Thorin looked to where Fíli’s eyes lay, and deemed it unimportant; whatever it was, it could wait.
“You’re injured,” he said instead, coaxing his nephew’s focus back towards him.
“A bit. Very good timing on his part.”
“Did the beast hurt you?”
“The beast?” Fíli asked, confused – did he have a concussion? Had he lost too much blood? Óin, they needed Óin, now- “Oh, right, yeah – the ‘beast’ – not at all.”
“Are you sure?” Thorin responded, ignoring whatever Fíli said and checking him over anyway. He was no healer, not by a long shot, but he knew the basics, as all warriors did – if it looks like it’s not supposed to be there, it probably isn’t.
Dwalin drew to their side, axes drawn in a defensive stance as he watched their surroundings.
“Is ‘e alright?” he called over his shoulder.
“Getting better already,” Fíli responded, smiling sheepishly at Thorin’s harsh stare.
As a child, Fíli had always played rough, games of bulldog and irresponsible tree-climbing dominating his free time throughout his youth. It was only when he fell from one of his trees that his Red Shadow was revealed – a bone stuck out of his forearm, detaching his wrist from the rest of the limb, for all of three days, before it sealed itself back up. Óin had estimated it would take several weeks to heal, and was entirely taken aback at Fíli’s ability to move his fingers so soon, which led to the discovery of his healed arm. Afterwards, Fíli only got more excited by danger and challenges; he still felt pain, but had the security of knowing he’d probably live through it.
Then Kíli came along, and the wee pebble was no larger than a dinner plate. His brother was what made Fíli change from a rough-and-tumble troublemaker to a mature, enduring presence.
Thorin had used his glare many times throughout his nephews’ childhoods, and what few years of adulthood they had experienced. After a while, however, it stopped being so effective, and they almost outright ignored him most of the time. It was times like this, when one of them looked truly chastised, that Thorin remembered they were truly just children. Children he’d brought on the quest – by their asking, yes, but upon his own agreement.

Soft shadows fell from above them, and a scaled claw armoured in red placed, oh-so-gently, another beside them all; a brunet dwarf, the youngest and most foolhardy of them all.

Kíli sat silently over his brother, looking worse for wear; though he had no immediately obvious medical concerns, a large gash covered his shin, and the vambrace on his right arm was chipped, like he’d brought it upwards to protect himself.
“Azog’s still alive,” he whispered, staring into the snow pressed tightly on Fíli’s back.
“What?”
“What?!”
“Even after the fire?” Dwalin asked, and Thorin supposed that was probably a better question than a one-word exclamation of disbelief.
“Yep,” Kíli said, bringing his arms inwards to curl around himself. The large shadow had moved off as soon as Kíli arrived, but another smaller shadow still remained – Thorin looked to his left, where an Elf, tall and weary, stood. Flaming hair framed a pale face with eyebrows drawn in worry, and her hands threated at her side – like Bilbo’s did when-
No. Not a helpful thought.
Dwalin looked to him, the others gathered, the tower, and then back to him again, nodding his head downwards slightly as if to tell Thorin to make his choice.
“You,” Thorin said, eyeing the Elf beside him. “Are you healthy?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding slightly as she did. Many emotions were present on her face, but intimidation was not one of them. Good.
“You will help Kíli take his brother down to Óin. There should be a medical camp set up somewhere. Make sure his back stays packed, and pick up anyone you see struggling along the way, if you can take them.”
“But what about Azog?” Kíli asked, a fire in his eyes once again instead of the vacant expression he previously wore.
“We’ll take care of him.”

War raged on as Eagles descended from the skies, dropping a bear into the midst of a group of goblins, who had tried coming up Ravenhill from behind. A firedrake swooped down, grasping handfuls of Orcs and dropping them into the Lake or other Orcs, like a sadistic game of bowling; only once did it use its fire, taking out thousands who had yet to even reach the battlefield, all Orcish in nature; it neglected to use such an ability again, perhaps to preserve the lives molten flame could take.
Upon Ravenhill, in the snow and upon the ice, Dwalin fought against a horde of goblins and Orcs, assisted by Beorn in his bear form, the two tearing apart dark creature after dark creature, black blood staining their bodies, the sour nectar of battle covering them head-to-toe. Behind them, Thorin cleared out the last survivors of the fires which had consumed those within the tower, as well as those from the first group who tried to flank; the lack of organisation within their ranks made such a manoeuvre incredibly difficult, and highly unlikely to be pulled off. Then, a voice rose above the others, recognisable in its thick, preternatural tone. Azog stood at the end of the ice, wielding a large flail-like weapon made of a stone cube in his hand, with a sharp, cruel blade stuffed through his stump to act as his missing arm. Black teeth flashed themselves at him, and Thorin was reminded of everything at once – why he was here, what he was doing, how he’d managed to cock it all up.

Steel met steel before a word otherwise could worm its way within his mind, Orcrist meeting an unnamed blade dipped in the blood of his nephew. They fought ferociously, like animals – he supposed they were, fighting for their lives like wild things. Ice below them cracked and wobbled, splitting with each stab and jab which missed its target or was redirected towards the ground. Soon, they found themselves atop an ice float, balancing only because of the other’s weight. No hand. Azog slammed his crude flail into the ice, missing Thorin by a hair, and it started tipping; immediately, Thorin knew what to do. He threw his sword behind him in favour of the cube, unexpectedly heavy, either from his exhaustion or by its design, he did not know; he launched it back towards its owner, who cack-handedly caught it, slipping below the surface as Thorin stepped away, removing his weight from the float to counter Azog’s. The Orc fell, floating along the river beneath, and Thorin followed, a sick part of him wanting to view the creature’s death. He had created so much pain in Thorin’s life, was responsible for his father’s and brother’s deaths, Fíli’s injury – responsible for it all, without an ounce of remorse. A creature of darkness, made with wrath and hate, who deserved nothing more than death. Thorin followed along, and thought about those he’d lost – copper hair and eyes like agate – as he stepped slowly along the river.

Steel pierced through his foot, releasing an involuntary scream from him as he lost his balance, staggering while the Pale Orc launched himself upwards through the thin ice. Shards of frozen water sprayed outwards as Azog pushed himself forwards, lunging onto Thorin as he fell, unable to counter in his staggered state. A bloodied blade met his own, the two struggling for power; Thorin was fighting a losing battle, his own sword being the only barrier between Azog’s and his torso. It was a battle of strength, and Thorin had no leverage.
As a child, Thorin had torn his clothes many a time as he summoned kitchen knives and, once he was old enough, training swords in as many ways as he could think.
In this moment, the only way to get to Azog would be with his legs. He had boots on – he’d made the mistake of summoning a knife to his foot whilst he was wearing shoes once, and it had been a painful affair. Thick fabrics and chainmail covered most of him, but his knees – now, that could work.
It was instinctual now, and Thorin chose the first thing that came to his mind; an intricate kitchen knife from a small, wooden house beneath a hill. He brought his knee upwards in one jerking motion, impaling Azog’s arm with the blade, which he could now see was three-sided, and not meant for any type of food he’d ever seen; it seemed designed to inflict pain, and he twisted his knee to the left. Azog screeched, exhaling a sharp breath as he recoiled, but damaged himself more as the blade refused to budge from between the muscle and bone of his healthy arm, and a distant feeling of warmth registered in his mind. Between one moment and the next, Thorin had gone from being beneath Azog’s dirty blade to holding Orcrist with both hands, a fully-impaled Orc torso attached to the ice beneath it. He breathed heavily, sat atop Azog’s corpse to assure himself of his death, before he finally stood, barely able to pull his weapon with him as he did; he stumbled back to the plateau, and sat, watching over the icy waterfall as it turned black, the sun setting upon a war won.
Spots in his vision and a pool of blood below him was what alerted him to his injuries.

Chapter Text

Blood covered the snow as a thrush flitted through the bitter air, fleeing for its life. Below, tents were set up upon the fields between Erebor and Dale, and minute figures flowed from white to blue to yellow to green, rushing from tent to tent as though the cloth itself was trying to eat them. Upon the battlefield were hundreds, thousands of bodies, blood both black and brick in colour, innumerable and still and terrible.
The bird had first stopped upon a river long iced-over, kneeling over a body he never thought he’d see. He’d taken his time to mourn, but it had been cut short, a tall figure arriving just barely after he got away. All he had to show for it was a knife from his mother’s glory-box. How it got there, he knew not – but he would not take it for granted, and was thankful for its presence, despite his confusion.
Now, the thrush flew against the wind, rising and falling at its whims. He flew, for fear and for love, having lost all in the tides of war. A family left behind, either dead or alive, though he knew not which, nor did he know which would be worse: them being dead, or very much alive, and quite possibly after his head.
It was all or nothing now, and a whisper filtered into his mind, despite his efforts to keep it silenced.

–x–x–x–

Meneldor’s large wings flapped once again, though this one was jittery where they were normally smooth, shaking with trepidation or another emotion. The motion stirred Elrond from his half-sleep – not that it had done him any good, anyway, for Elves need to be fully tranquil to experience rest in the way Mortals do. Elrond was everything but relaxed. His sons were headed to their deaths, his daughter was walking a thin line, and his vision haunted him more with each and every wingbeat, bringing him ever closer to the truth. Was it precautionary? Or was it solidified, set in stone by actions already put into motion?

A solitary peak arose upon the horizon; on the grasses below were hundreds of tents, small shadows moving between them like a kicked anthill, each one busy and speeding to their destinations. Among the clouds, several shapes came into view, circling around them and trilling – the Eagles were joined once again. Elrond would see at least one happy reunion today, though he felt it would be the only completion anyone this side of the Misty Mountains would feel until the sun set and rose again.
“Take me down?” he asked Meneldor, who chirped calmly, and began a twirling descent. Eagles are, by no means, silent; in fact, they’re quite loud birds, as evidenced by the upturn of hundreds of faces towards them while Meneldor continued the descent. He landed softly in dewy grass which crunched unhealthily beneath his talons – watered by something not so pure, much more thick and viscous. They were within walking distance of the tents, but far enough that none would be disrupted by the power such a large wingspan could create – and far enough to keep Meneldor safe. Giant birds are not common in these parts, and for good reason.

Elrond thanked Meneldor, patting the Eagle’s side before he launched himself back into the air, ready to land again if he was needed, but far away enough that no one could bother him or be bothered by him. Cool mist formed before his face as he breathed, and it was with a start that Elrond realised just how cold it was; white smoke steamed seamlessly from everyone’s lips, releasing into the air as it devoured their heat like it was trying to warm itself. Many were wrapped in thick clothing, and those who weren’t were bundled up in layers upon layers of thinner fabrics, stacking them up to increase their insulation. Few walked about with anything but their faces and hands showing, and even fewer walked around with un-rosied cheeks or stiffened limbs. The few who cared to watch the Elf who had arrived by Eagle stared, jaws agape and eyebrows raised, as if expecting some sort of mythical god to appear. Most carried on with their tasks, rushing about to assist the wounded and accompany the dying. There were many of those here; people who had seen many things, and been through too much – those who died on the battlefield hadn’t yet been grieved, and still people were dying. Wounds, infections, blood loss – people too damaged to continue on with life, pushed even further into the pit by frigid temperatures and a lack of medical professionals. Healing fingers itched to assist, but he had a job to do; he knew not why, but Elrond found his mind steeling himself for whatever was to come. He knew it was important – it was the why that eluded him.

–x–x–x–

Flat white plains stretched on leagues beyond vision or comprehension, decorated only with vague shapes in its geometry, lumps indistinguishable from the invisible horizon. Every direction was nothing, and no direction existed. It smelled of nothing. No scents, no sounds, no textures or feelings or forces. Just a blank expanse. Nothingness, with a hint of white.

Despite the lack of direction, lack of sense, he kept walking, and turning, and looking around. Then, a voice infiltrated the silence, eradicating it from its unnatural existence.
“You’re not supposed to be here yet.”
A blond dwarf stared at him, face blank in both expression and features; slowly, as the world around them changed and formed a bubble around them, and the dwarf’s previously unadorned face came into view. It was unremarkable. He had thick eyebrows, which connected into a long, straight nose, either side of which were strong blue eyes, like the summer’s sky. His jaw was coated in a short, light beard – not unrespectable by any means, but definitively youthful in its lack of content. Only two beads adorned his hair, which was loose; both hung like windchimes from a braid behind his left ear, unmoving with the stale air, even within their bubble.
“No,” he responded, because he wasn’t.
“You don’t even know who I am.”
“Yes, I do.” He was sure he did.
“Who am I, then?”
“Frerin.”
Now, that’s a name he hadn’t heard in… how long had it been? At least a year. Maybe more. Frerin , here, in front of him, which meant-
Ah.
A slight smile crept up on his younger brother’s features, which turned into a smirk as he spoke.
“You’ve not a clue, brother, of Amad’s thoughts on your Quest. Amad wants to meet your Consort, so you’d better start praying Mahal will let him in, otherwise you’ll get your ears boxed when you do finally get here.” Frerin had, at some indeterminable point, started walking, and he’d started following. The words only caught up to him minutes – minutes? – later.
“Consort? I have taken no such relation.” He’d missed the way Frerin’s eyebrows rose above his hairline whenever he was shocked. Now it was happening, he wasn’t so sure.
“He saved your life. You gifted him Mithril, and spoke your inner name to him. That seems to me to be a marriage of Dwarven legend.”
He needed to sit down.
He could not feel his legs – hadn’t, since he’d been here – but he knew he needed to leave. He needed to run, he needed to find his Consort, to- his Consort .
“Brother, I have fallen in love.”
Frerin laughed as he booted his fool of a brother through a previously unnoticed door, summoned from the milky white around them.

Cold greys and browns filtered into view as his eyes roved around the room. The last thing he could remember was an Orc, pale in both colour and epithet, with a knife stabbed through his arm and his face contorted into a pain full of frothing anger rather than fear or an overwhelm of the physical sensation. No , his mind recalled. His vision was fuzzy, and he felt warm; in the depths of his memories was a blank slate, scrawled with cries from a horribly recognisable voice. What did he do? What had he done to create a sound so vile?
Grey shapes came into focus across from him slowly, unmoving as they were – the rest of the world swirled, but Tharkûn stood before him, still as mountains on the horizon. He was leaning heavily on his staff, and looked old, too old – wrinkles of worry and wrath lined his face like deep crevices in a long-droughted desert.
“You’d better have a good explanation for this,” he bit, venom dripping from his voice as the rage became cold, full of wretched misery.
Hidden by his blankets, Thorin only cried in anguish, a lament for a body he thought he’d never see.

–x–x–x–

Pain.
Pain unlike anything she’d ever experienced.
Pain like she was walking with her legs cut off.
Pain like she was drowning.

Emotions do not travel well in air. This is a well-known fact of the world. It is why so many Soulspeakers enjoyed open lands. It is also why many of them hated the sea.

Many times, growing up, Arwen was told, along with her brothers, of those who loathed the sea, and yet crossed it, only to end up in a place of amplified life, a place which existed to emulate the purity of it all. It suffocated them. They were in too deep, buried beneath mounds of healing and light, millenia of troubles both big and small. Arwen had never been told to forfeit Valinor, but she’d not exactly been incentivised to it – those of her kind who approached the gods got a quick and quipped ‘sorry, can’t do much about that’ and were sent on their way. Perhaps learning to heal wasn’t such a bad thing, if her heart kept tugging at her.
It felt heavy, as though it were made of wood rather than flesh, rotted and dead – except, it kept beating.

From a young age, she’d get rogue feelings; a bit of joy found in a food she didn’t recognise, a joke in a language she didn’t know, a laugh she’d never heard. A graze on the knee, a tear rolling down a child’s cheek, the loss of a loved one not loved by her. The list goes on and on; she learned how to listen, how to respond in kind. But that did not mean she liked it.

Pain was never fun, least of all when you didn’t know why.

–x–x–x–

Blankets, food, water – all necessary items for a wounded army, and all in short supply. Bard handed out what he could, but being one of only a few Humans – all either uninjured or dead – meant little for both Elves and Dwarves; they kept to themselves, usually, but in this mad frenzy of a war, had begun helping one another. He was pushed and pulled between groups of the two peoples, who avoided talking to each other like the plague, despite fighting back-to-back in battle as brethren. He didn’t understand it, but then again, he didn’t think they did, either.

“Thank you,” a Dwarf said gruffly, shuffling away to a group of the injured, spreading the blanket out among them. They piled together below it, sharing what heat they could retain. A sigh released itself from his mouth; it was tiring work, and would be until the cold receded, its invite rescinded by warmer months. Those warmer months were many moons away.

A flash of red hair whipping around tents caught his attention, and he suddenly wondered how his children were.
“‘Lo!” he called, his voice cracking with disuse. He hadn’t spoken much since the battle commenced, finding it pointless first amongst the shouts of warriors, then among their screams upon their victory. Despite his internal conflicts about how shouting was a less than impressive idea, the red-haired Elf turned around, and he knew she was the one he had been looking out for. She wore green, with an intricate-looking dagger attached to her back. As he walked over to her, he realised that her leather armour had twisting vine patterns embedded into it, made more obvious by the blood coagulated in the divots.
“You are the one who led the peoples of Laketown to safety, yes?”
“Yes,” she replied, surprise filtering onto her face for a second before it became entirely neutral again. It was almost uncanny how quickly Elves could contort their features. “Me and some of my Guard.”
“Thank you,” Bard sighed. “Are they safe?”
“Yes, they are safe, and they are well-fed,” the Elf answered, seemingly judging his questions before he asked them. “They will remain so until Laketown can get to its feet.”
Bard thanked her almost embarrassingly profusely; he was relieved beyond belief – his children were okay. They were going to be okay.

Another Elf arrived from the sky not too long afterwards. Elves today, it seemed, were quite large fans of dramatic entrances.

He walked to the edge of the camp before breathing deeply and visibly preparing himself – something the Mirkwood Elves did not often do. This one didn’t look like them; where the residents of Mirkwood were all blond hair and cold looks, this one had long hair of ebony, more tanned skin, and wore elegant armour above practically-cut robes. It was impressive how put-together he looked from the neck down – especially compared to his face, which was pale, wan, and weary, much like the rest of the camp.
His eyes drove over the tents, and caught Bard’s gaze, and the Elf’s face flickered for a moment into a strange, detached smile before returning to its morbid expression, recognition dawning on his face. Bard knew not what for, since he’d never met the Elf in his life.
Today was a day for the improbable, though, as the Elf drew towards him slowly, and stood silently with him for a few seconds. Then, he spoke.
“Could you take me to Mithrandir?”
His voice was like old family velvet, and he spoke words Bard did not understand. “Who?”
“Gandalf, the Grey Wizard,” the Elf corrected, shooting him an apologetic glance.
“And who are you?” Bard asked – yes, the Elf looked fancy, but that meant nothing in the face of a wizard.
“Forgive me my manners,” he said tiredly, “for it has been a long few days. My name is Elrond, Lord of Imladris, otherwise known better in Westron as Rivendell, the Last Homely House East of the Sea.”
Bard started to wish he hadn’t asked. The Elf appeared to be a lovely person, really, but there are some things which are too far beyond him. His life has started to feel like an exponentially-growing side quest in one of those poorly-written novels Sigrid was fond of.

He walked alongside the Elf towards one of the blue tents; there was no organisation in their layout, so they had to weave between tents of all colours and small clearings between large groups where the uninjured laid themselves down whenever they found the time to sleep. It had been no secret within the mish-mash camp that Gandalf – the Grey Pilgrim, as some further South call him – could almost always be found within the Dwarfking’s tent, staring at him like he was daring the King to wake up, and very much prepared to punt him back into sleep when he did.
As he and the Elf-Lord entered the tent, Gandalf barely moved, his eyes not leaving their sole target. Two younger-looking Dwarves were also in the tent, but were visited by doctors constantly as they slept, while the third – the King – was visited only by one, with the wizard… looking after the rest of his care, whatever that meant for him. The less Bard knew, the better.

Soon, the Lord Elrond nudged Gandalf, and Bard thought he was about to witness a murder; instead, the wizard launched himself at the Elf, holding his shoulders and speaking in hushed Elvish, like any within the room actually knew it. The Elf replied in equally as hushed tones, before recalling Bard’s presence and turning to thank the man. Probably to bid him his leave, as well, but before Bard could escape, the King awoke.

Blood still covered his hair, and the dirt was only superficially wiped from his face; Bard almost desperately hoped the rest of him wasn’t nearly so unclean. The Dwarfking muttered in Dwarvish, before blearily opening his eyes, staring Gandalf down for several seconds before another Dwarf burst into the tent, white hair sticking out in all directions like a child standing upright in a thunderstorm.
“Balin,” the Dwarfking choked, and the dwarf – Balin – nearly leapt over to him, after calling something in Dwarvish behind his back to the tent’s flap-door. Bard thought he could recall Balin being one of the more responsible ones.
“Thorin! Don’t try to speak, Óin would kill you if he-”
“You must bury me while I still yet breathe.”
…Okay, Bard could admit he’d heard some pretty odd things about Dwarves, but that was not one of them.
Balin seemed to think so too, since his reply was a one-worded, gobsmacked question.
“What?”
“I have killed my Consort, and so must be buried alive, as per Durin’s tradition. I heard him calling.”
“Consort?” Balin asked, and everyone within the tent was still; it was a very good question, indeed. Gandalf must have thought so, for he was the one to break the silence.
“You took a Consort ? Upon the Quest?” the wizard asked, a delicate balance between curious and enraged. In all honesty, Bard felt a little bit bad; while the Company had been staying at his house and travelling on his barge, the Hobbit had been the only one to talk to him properly, and had seemed quite enamoured with the King. Bard supposed he most likely didn’t retain those feelings now, after everything, but it did strike him as odd that, between then and now, the King had managed to both find and kill a Consort.
The black-haired dwarf turned his attention slowly back to Gandalf, and a look so pathetic it reminded Bard of a newborn kitten appeared on the King’s face.
“One of your very own suggestion.”
Gandalf looked as confused as Bard felt for all of a millisecond before whatever the Dwarf said seemed to click, and understanding dawned on his face. It was followed by rage.
“You killed my burglar?!”
“Master Baggins is dead?” Lord Elrond asked quietly, sounding far more fragile than Bard would expect of an Elf. His previously lightly-concerned expression dropped, a fragile upset lingering over his features, which appeared to grow older as the seconds passed by.
It was Balin’s and Bard’s turn to be confused.
“Bilbo’s not dead,” Balin stated, squinting between Dwarf, Wizard, and Elf. Bard found himself wanting to support the tired Dwarf. He had been fairly nice, after all.
“He’s right. Bilbo fought in the battle too, everyone saw.”
“There was no place for a creature so gentle on a field so bloody,” the King said softly, gazing at his hands as though they still carried the remnants of those he’s slain upon them.
“Try telling that to the poor bastards who have to clean up charred Orc,” Bard muttered; the downside of having made himself known is that he had, in fact, made himself known, and was reaping the consequences. Everyone turned to him, confusion highlighting their features.
“He was the dragon?” Balin asked, piecing it together quite easily. Bard wondered who Balin thought the dragon had been, if not Bilbo.
“Aye, of course.”
Lord Elrond very suddenly looked sick.
“Where is Bilbo now?” he asked, urgent and wide-eyed, a stark contrast to the tiredness with which he’d arrived just minutes before.
“I don’t know,” Bard answered honestly. He liked the little Hobbit, yes, but that did not make him his keeper.
“We must find him,” the Dwarfking stated, attempting to sit up; Balin pushed him back downwards easily, speaking firmly to him.
“When did you engage?”
“We did not court traditionally, but I spoke my inner name to him.”
Whatever that meant, Balin was taken aback, physically recoiling backwards and removing his hands from holding the Dwarf in a lying position. Gandalf and Lord Elrond seemed equally as flabbergasted, with the latter pushing his head forwards, and the former donning a smile that, had Bard been any braver of a Man, he would have called soppy.
“When?” Balin asked incredulously.
“He asked me my full name. It was when I gave him the Mithril coat.”
“You gave him what ?”
Bard had a very bad feeling about this. He didn’t know the intricacies of the Dwarven stock market, nor did he know much about forging, but he knew for a fact that Mithril – silver steel of the Dwarves – was a highly sought-after material, and incredibly valuable for its rarity.
The Dwarves continued in their back-and-forth, a painfully slow way of drawing information from the King.
“I’m afraid,” Balin sighed, holding his head in his hand and pinching the bridge of his nose, “that your marriage is completely valid, and that Bilbo is indeed your Consort… and, therefore, responsible for all of Erebor until you can lead again.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Bard said, not really very sorry for interrupting. “But does Bilbo actually know you’re married?” Balin’s face dropped again, Gandalf and Lord Elrond sighed wearily, and Thorin short-circuited, a deep furrow appearing between his brow.
“I explained the intricacies of inner names to him.”
“Aye, that’s well and good, but does he know?”
“The lad’s right,” Balin heaved, inhaling and exhaling deeply to calm himself. Bard wondered how many international incidents the old Dwarf had dealt with or prevented due to the stupidity of those above him. “We’ve no way of knowing if Bilbo is aware of your marriage at all, but either way, he’s officially the King Consort of Erebor, and has been for… about a week or so, by my reckoning.”
“It might possibly be two,” Bard commented, trying to think back to when the Dwarves hired his barge. It had been a long week, if it truly was only one; everything was muddy, and thinking about it more only gave him a headache.

–x–x–x–

Once, many moons ago, a young Hobbit, not yet of age, left for home, six months older than when he’d arrived and much less enthusiastic. He’d gained something, but lost more, and Elrond could not begrudge him for leaving as soon as the healers allowed. Even then, he’d left two months before any of them had expected he’d have been able to.

Now, that same Hobbit had gained something, but lost more, and the Elf-Lord knew exactly what Bilbo Baggins did when he lost things.

“I don’t see it that way,” Bilbo said, looking down to where his feet dangled off of the bench, barely touching the grass below.
“Well, how do you see it, then?”
“I don’t, really.” What an odd thing to say.
“You see no point in attempting to preserve the quality of life in one’s final moments, and yet, you have offered it to Arathorn?”
Bilbo nodded.
“Why?” It was something Elrond couldn’t wrap his head around – why would the Hobbit, a child, stick his neck out, endangering his social reputation and clearly electing to do something he did not enjoy, for a stranger?
“Because he is nice,” came the simple answer, and maybe things were as simple as that. “He has a sharp mind, despite the- his injury, and he doesn’t frown upon it. He doesn’t see it as the people of the Shire do.”
“How does he see it, then?”
“He doesn’t. But he’s seen how others suffer with it, and- well, I think he knows a bit more about me than what I’ve told him,” Bilbo said, looking slyly up at Elrond before returning his vision to the flowers. A child the Hobbit may be, but Elrond would be wise to remind himself of the craftiness of Belladonna Took.
It was with Bilbo’s next utterance that Elrond remembered he really was just a child, even one on the cusp of adulthood.
“He reminds me of dad.”

When Arathorn died, he offered something to Bilbo. Elrond knew not what, but it wasn’t his business, and never would be; the two had grown close within a very short period of time, and Elrond thought they reminded one another of their own father and son, respectively. Despite the best efforts of the Elves, through both direct and indirect means, Bilbo Baggins left almost immediately after Arathorn’s death. He’d spent many moons with little to no sleep, and had a rather nasty habit of bursting into fits of panic, often ending up spending the evenings alone, curled up somewhere he thought no one could find him – only to wake up hours later, starving and embarrassed, avoidant of all except the one Man he’d known. Arathorn died, and it was like Bungo all over again.
Bilbo slipped away quietly, and Elrond didn’t see or hear from him again for a fair few years.

“We need to find the Hobbit,” Elrond stated, bringing the hushed conversation within the tent to a standstill. He’d been lost in memories, but one glared at him, clawing at the back of his mind as it begged to be seen, examined, understood.
“That much has been established,” Mithrandir said slowly, though he tilted his chin up like he knew Elrond had something to say. He probably did. “What envelops your mind so, Elrond?”
“Bilbo Baggins has experienced much loss before,” Elrond started, unsure of his words as they stumbled their way out of his mouth. He didn’t want to divulge sensitive information, but a life was very possibly at stake here. “If he is not here, then he believes something has happened – and, when he does, he becomes somewhat… self-destructive.”
“How so?” Balin, the older Dwarf, asked, as Thorin whipped his head back up to ask the very same thing.
“He is careless of his own needs should he believe there is a greater one.”
Both Dwarves became uneasily quiet, looking between one another like they weren’t allowed to talk.
As always, nothing is ever easy for Lord Elrond, because just at that moment, another Dwarf and an Elf stormed into the tent, the former following the latter as he ranted and raved.
“Thorin Oakenshield!” Thranduil screeched, throwing his hands into the air in a dramatic reenactment of a mother whose vase had been found broken. “Where have you put the Arkenstone?!”
“...What?” Thorin asked, somewhat dumbly – Elrond almost felt bad for him, confused as he was.
“You’ve taken it! You greedy little-” Thranduil advanced as he spat the words out of his mouth, and Elrond moved to hold the Elvenking while Mithrandir stepped between him and the Dwarves. Thranduil sneered, looking nearly surprised at Elrond’s presence, and purely annoyed at the wizard’s.
“Thranduil, this is madness! Whatever do you mean, the Arkenstone is gone ?” Mithrandir asked, conjuring a gravitas only a truly disappointed parent could. Elrond briefly wondered if the wizard had ever adopted any children.
“I mean,” Thranduil replied, leering at the Dwarves behind Mithrandir’s back, “that it’s gone, and one of these Dwarves has stolen it.”
“I told you, it weren’t one of us, it was- someone else,” a voice sounded from near the entrance, and Elrond peered over Thranduil’s shoulder to see another Dwarf – the one who had entered with him – who looked completely and entirely done with the situation already. He appeared to be exasperated by Thranduil, like he’d been saying the same thing over and over again for hours. He probably had.
“And who was that ‘someone else’? I need names , Dwarf!”
The Dwarf remained silent, though he stared directly at the Elvenking, fuming.
“Nori?” Balin asked, and the Dwarf – who, Elrond was just realising, had the most ridiculous star-shaped hairstyle he’d ever seen – breathed a sigh of relief, switching to rushed Khuzdûl. Elladan and Elrohir would probably compare his verve to that of an auctioneer. Instead of listening, he instead watched for the other Dwarves’ reactions, and they did not disappoint; Balin’s jaw progressively dropped lower and lower, while Thorin stared, silent and unchanging, before releasing a wordless shout which Elrond suspected was some sort of curse. The tent remained silent for a tense few minutes before Balin finally spoke.
“I… believe we may know where Bilbo is, Lord Elrond.”

They were all in a circle, some sitting and some standing, as the star-haired Dwarf found his words. They’d let the healers come in to change the boys’ bandages, and Mithrandir pronounced some sort of ritual before everyone settled back to business.
“None of us have the Arkenstone,” Nori started, and Thranduil immediately interrupted, his Silvertongue ability cutting across Nori’s words.
“Lies, if you ask me-”
“We did not,” Balin said, dispelling Thranduil’s hold over everyone. Elrond was very much aware of the dangers of Thranduil being a Silvertongue – he’d witnessed the outrage within Mirkwood when he rose to the throne – and became infinitely appreciative of Balin, and incredibly glad for his ability. “Let Nori speak.”
“...Thank you, Balin. Anyway , as I was saying – none of us have the Arkenstone, because none of us stole it. Someone else did – not a Dwarf, Man, or Elf, but a Hobbit by the name of Bilbo Baggins.”
“That sly-”
“What use would Bilbo have for such an artifact?” Elrond nearly shouted in his attempt to cut Thranduil off.
“Well, he’s the one who gave it to me, so I suppose he wanted it back, the little thief,” Thranduil said rather snottily.
“Thranduil,” the Man in the corner said, speaking again for the first time in a while. “That’s not exactly true, is it? He gave the Arkenstone to us – me, you, and Gandalf – to help the Dwarves. It was no gift to you.”
Thranduil huffed, but he at least had the decency to look properly chastised.
“So, Bilbo stole the Arkenstone from the Dwarves to give to you three as some sort of peace offering, and has stolen it back, only to disappear?”
“That’s about the sum of it,” Nori shrugged, before he turned to stare into the wall behind Elrond, expression carefully blank as ever, like he’d been trained for it. “‘Cept, he’s got a good reason.”
“How so?” Mithrandir asked.
“There is… somethin’ else, he hadn’t told you lot,” Nori started again, directing it mostly towards the Dwarves and wizard. “When he was in the goblin tunnels, he picked up a little ring. It whispered to him all the time, and did my bloody head in. We borrowed one of Óin’s lead-lined pouches to drown out the noise.”
Last Elrond had heard of a ring that whispered to people, he’d tried telling a Man to put it into the fires of Mordor. It had not worked, and caused quite a lot of strife.
“What does this ring look like?” Mithrandir questioned, already running along the same thoughtlines as Elrond.
“It’s a little gold band, he told me, though he didn’t let me see it. Wouldn’t shut up aside from with lead. I don’t think he liked wearing it, and he got quite upset when I told him I felt like it was watching me. Told me to look out for an Eye , whatever that means, and it means something, ‘cause it’s Bilbo.”
“Did he seem protective of it at all?” Mithrandir asked, but another question plagued Elrond’s mind.
“When he told you about the Eye , did he say he’d heard that before?” Nori opened his mouth to answer Mithrandir, but stopped as Elrond’s question slipped from his lips, and gave him an almost analytically evaluative look before responding, leaning in and speaking in hushed tones despite the privacy of the tent.
“He never said anything – not to me, anyway, and not directly. But he made me promise my little finger that if it got worse, or I saw some sort of eye, I’d tell him. He looked a bit upset at the time.”
“Yes, I suppose he would be,” Elrond murmured, staring into the middle-distance as memories of the news of Belladonna’s and Bungo’s deaths swirled in his mind.
“Wossat supposed to mean?”
“We all know Bilbo’s ability, yes?”
“No,” said Bard, and Thranduil scoffed at him.
“In these situations, Bargeman , we stay quiet, so we may learn more.”
“That’s quite dishonest, Elvenking.”
Elrond decided he didn’t want to get involved, so he moved on.
“Whatever we say in this tent does not leave it,” he prefaced, making sure to catch Thranduil’s eye as he looked around. “Whose ability did Bilbo take?”
“Thrór’s,” Thorin said, after a minute of silence from the Dwarves.
“ Take? ” Thranduil gasped, and everyone elected to ignore him.
“He was a Deathshifter. Apparently, Bilbo absorbed all his previous… capabilities, along with his Re- ability,” Nori amended.
“Which is how he appeared in Smaug’s body,” Balin added. The picture was not yet full, but gained definition with each sentence from the Dwarves.
“Self-destructive in the face of a goal, you said?” Mithrandir asked softly, and a horrified understanding dawned over the wizard. Elrond himself had thought it several minutes ago, but now, it was practically confirmed.
“What’s the likelihood he worked it out?”
“He’s a smart Hobbit, Bilbo, but he can’t know the intricacies of the Ring-”
“He may not know its origin, but its nature is easy to figure out for someone such as himself. He’s experienced enough of the stages before death to understand.”
“Can someone please inform the room of what we speak?!” Thranduil demanded more than asked, and had Elrond been in any lighter a mood, he would have laughed and asked why the Elf didn’t stamp his foot. However, his spirits were not so high as that. He exchanged a nod with Mithrandir, and sighed wearily before starting the arduous task of detailing everything in as compact a manner as he could manage.
“One Bilbo Baggins is in possession of the One Ring of Power. He may not know its true history, but he certainly knows it’s evil, from what Master Nori here has said. Presumably, he’s stolen the Arkenstone so he can destroy the two together. Where he is now is the only question.”
“Why doesn’t he turn into a dragon and destroy them?” Bard asked.
“It’s likely he tried that,” Elrond replied tiredly. “There are no dragons powerful enough to create that kind of firepower left, not on this side of the world.” Bilbo Baggins was nothing if not thorough. It was part of why he was so dangerous.

“Your Eagles are talkin’ to each other,” Nori spoke into the thoughtful silence, looking between Elrond and Mithrandir, who was standing next to him.
“And what do they say?” Mithrandir asked.
“Well, I don’t speak Eagle, do I?”

Two Eagles materialised from the skies, landing once again far enough from the camp that it wouldn’t blow the tents over, but close enough to reach quickly. Golden feathers appeared dim beneath the overcast skies, despite Thorondor having looked quite fine before they’d plunged below the clouds. Another stood beside him, moving himself from foot to foot in his impatience.
“What ails your mind, Thorondor?” Elrond called out as he walked, followed by Mithrandir and Nori. Balin had elected to stay with Thorin, and Bard decided it would be better for one of the larger folk to be there should Thranduil decide to display his lack of emotional maturity yet again.

“It is not mine, but Gwaihir’s which itches.” Gwaihir trilled in agreement, tongue flicking outward to the scar on his face as he closed his mouth. “He believes he may have useful information to you.”
“And you have come to translate for us – I thank you greatly for your presence, Thorondor, Lord of the Eagles.” Thorondor dipped his head in thanks, which still hung greatly above Elrond’s, and he remained taller than Gwaihir while doing so. His sheer size was intimidating when he was up close. Gwaihir, however, was more reasonably-sized, like Landroval – though he was still bigger than the rest.
“Gwaihir has learned from Meneldor who you may be looking for.” Elrond nodded, but he didn’t remember telling the Eagle about Bilbo at all. This was top-secret stuff – one doesn’t talk about a Valar’s servant’s magic ring in anything other than a secured room. “There is a Halfling, is there not?”
“Hobbit,” Elrond found himself saying, and was surprised to find Nori and Mithrandir had both had the same knee-jerk reaction. The three shared a look, and knew immediately that the others had been kicked or punched at least thrice for their misstep.
“Yes, he said much the same thing.”
“You’ve spoken to a hobbit?” Mithrandir asked, looking up hopefully to Thorondor. Elrond wondered whyever the wizard had brought Bilbo along in the first place, considering he seemed not to even know of Bilbo’s Burglar title during their discussion in Imladris those months ago – in fact, he’d never delved into the possibility of Bilbo’s ability being abused.
“Yes, by the name Bilbo Baggins, though he was a thrush when we met him.”

–x–x–x–

Lead. Lead. Lead thicker than skin, older than trees, contaminating the Bearer’s skin as it protected the miserable creature from its lulling whispers. Not for long, not for long – broken minds were far easier to get through to than whole ones, that much it had learned in the five-century-long bout with… whatever it had become. Maybe this one would be like it; they started out the same, after all.
“Come to me,” it whispered through the air, watching as the atoms of its containment crumbled, imbuing themselves into thick flesh. “Tell me what you know.” The creature knew something . “We’ll always be here, to listen to you. Not like that King of yours.”
If a thrush could huff, then he did – an odd motion to create while held aloft in the air, morphed into the flesh of a Deathshifter as he flew.

Breaking this one was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

Brown leather bootstraps pulled tightly as metal and wood clattered to the floor, spilling what little food they had between them. No one moved for what felt like a century, stilled by news of a name they’d half-deemed dead. Bifur looked up slowly, hands still gripping his bootstrap as his foot had been jutted into the shoe by the force with which he pulled. Balin stood before them all, glassy eyes looking over them as he shrugged.
“ Married ?” Dwalin’s choked voice echoed, and at that, all the dwarrow started raving and questioning Balin, drowning one another out as they deemed their thoughts on the subject the most correct. It only served to further throttle Bifur’s brain inside his head.
“How didn’t we know?”
“That couldn’t have gotten by us!”
“Someone would have told us!”
“When did it happen?” Bifur asked roughly, cutting across the others in harsh Khuzdûl. They quieted down immediately, acutely aware of the bandage upon his head and the absence of the large chunk of axe which he’d been wearing as a hat for the past several decades.
“After Bilbo got him out of the treasury, and before they entered for dinner.”
“So, pre-brotherhood?” Bofur asked, plainly seeing Bifur’s train of thought.
“Yes.”
“Any news on the lads? Or Bilbo’s whereabouts?” At this, Balin took in a laboured breath, and released it nearly painfully slowly.
“The lads aren’t yet awake, but they’re healing, slowly. Kíli’s Elf is looking after them.” General sounds of cheer and gladness rippled quietly over the Company, but they stayed quiet, for both Balin and Bifur’s sakes. “And Bilbo has left to get rid of the Arkenstone. He set off as the battle was over, we think.”
“The Arkenstone?”
“How’d he get it back from that poncy wankstain?” Dwalin asked, nose wrinkling at the mere thought of the Elvenking.
“Stole it, I reckon,” Nori said slyly, appearing from who-knows-where behind Balin. He sat heavily in his place within the circle, and looked around. “Where’s the food?”

Sunlight, pale and cold, filtered into view through trees so close to death they would fall if you sneezed too close. It had been an uneasy night, filled with memories new and old, in Khuzdûl and Westron and Iglishmêk, all mixed up together like one of Bombur’s stews. None of it made sense, and yet, it did. It’s like his progress had been reset; when the axe was first lodged into his brain, he had to learn Khuzdûl again, and even then, what he had was still broken. Now, he spoke Khuzdûl a bit better than before, but only after several hours of memory-jogging, and the initial panic that came with only knowing Iglishmêk. What he’d give, to be able to talk – no speech impediments, no undefeatable language barriers. Just his mind, and his mouth.

–x–x–x–

His eyes look like his mother’s, soft and brown, but the rest of him? A carbon copy of his father, only younger, filled with more wonder and wanderlust. His combed-back hair was wispy and poking outwards like a lion’s mane within minutes, much to his father’s behest.
“He may have my sword,” a sorrowful but determined voice answered.
“And my bow,” the soft-eyed boy added, barely containing his excitement at being able to help. He was a good egg, that one.
“Bugger it all – he can have my axe, too,” an unexpected voice joined in, causing everyone to turn their heads.

–x–x–x–

Wisps of hair were slicked back into place, and Legolas’ patience was gradually growing thinner and thinner. The mask his father wore outside of Greenwood was even more exhausting to deal with than the one he wore in front of his subjects. It was only when it was them that he became easier to deal with – Thranduil was a proud Elf, and sometimes, that got in the way. Like now, when Legolas was busy doing his hair when he could be doing something productive instead.
“We can’t have those Dwarves thinking we’re savages now, can we, Legolas? You’re a Prince – one of few. Do not take your reputation for granted!” Yes, his esteemed reputation as a stalwart warrior and weird elf-child who speaks to trees. That reputation.
“Ada, this is utterly unnecessary. Shouldn’t we be planning our next moves? The refugees of Esgaroth, what of them? Or what about-”
“This is slightly more important in the ways of the world, son,” his father had said mysteriously and sternly, before walking out to his own tent.

Some hours later, as the sun rose above a dead treeline, he and his father – the regal Elf king and his combed-down wild child – walked across slushy sleet and cold mud towards a yellow tent, wherein a meeting would take place. They ignored the newly-erected white tent – though Lord Elrond was highly dependable, the newness of the tent within the encampment would draw attention to their meeting, so instead, the Man’s tent was chosen, littered among the few other Men who had elected to stay and lost within the crowd of off-white tents Dáin had brought along with him.

Pleasantly clean scents filled the air as soon as they entered, the air within formed of both fresh morning dew and good airflow. As soon as they were within, however, all flaps were closed off, and the door had guards in front of it – even they did not know what was to be discussed.

A circle of seats, mismatched and odd-looking, sat around an old wooden table so riddled with rot Legolas was surprised it could hold its own weight. He supposed it, along with the chairs, were from Laketown, having been moved for the purposes of the meeting. The table was small, and must have been for displaying items rather than dining, for it stood in the centre of the tent, and was only about a foot in diameter. Between it and the chairs was enough room for everyone to get up and walk around comfortably. Most of the chairs were already occupied, and Legolas followed his father silently, looking around while Thranduil strode snootily to his seat. Along the back, closer to the wall than any of the other chairs and not within the circle, was a Man with shoulder-length hair, wearing well-worn clothes. He was the one who had stayed, who had offered to help the Dwarves and stayed behind to deal with the consequences. Ada had told him the Man was rude and abrupt, but Legolas didn’t believe a lick of it – in fact, he believed the Man would rather be doing anything but this, and was most likely dealing with it all better than his father.
Sitting down, the chair creaked, and Legolas barely refrained from throwing it across the room; tensions were higher than he’d realised, and now that there were no openings in the tent’s walls, the air felt heavy with anticipation.

“I trust we all know what we are here to discuss,” Lord Elrond began, standing to address everyone. He looked around at them all, and Legolas could have sworn he saw the Elf nod at him. Several answers of ‘yes’ and ‘aye’ answered Lord Elrond, and he nodded. “We may introduce ourselves. I am Elrond, Lord of Imladris, the Last Homely House East of the Sea.” To Elrond’s left was Mithrandir, who stood as the Elf-Lord sat.
“You may know me by many names, but in Westron, it is Gandalf the Grey. I am a wizard, as you all know.” Mithrandir sat back down, and Legolas realised he looked much older than he remembered. Next to him was a Dwarf wrapped in bandages, who was helped up by the elder one next to him. Legolas had not expected to see Thorin Oakenshield up again so soon, nor had he expected the Dwarf to heed their call.
“Thorin, named Oakenshield, son of Thráin, King-Regent Under the Mountain,” he said, voice surprisingly strong and unwavering. As Legolas thought this, the words themselves made their way to his brain, and shock settled in; even the Dwarf beside him looked a little wide-eyed, as if he hadn’t expected that. Firstly, he’d only introduced himself with his father’s name, as a lower royal might, and secondly, King-Regent ? “King-Regent, until Bilbo comes hom- is found. And chooses,” Thorin added, seemingly painfully aware of the pure oddity of his introduction. He sat slowly as if that explained everything, with the white-haired Dwarf’s help, who stood quietly for a moment before shaking himself.
“Balin, son of Fundin, member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield,” he said, bowing lightly before sitting. “Consorts have as much say in the leading of a country as their royal-born spouses,” he added, explaining the previous Dwarf’s introduction. Equal power, which would mean equal right to give punishment. Right, not tragic in the slightest.
The next figure intrigued Legolas greatly; bandages were wrapped around his salt-and-pepper hair, which was wild and untamed, much like his own before Ada made him spend three hours on it. He suspected that’s what he looked like now. He stood, and started speaking, his voice husky and hushed; he spoke Khuzdûl and used some sort of sign language, while Balin translated.
“Bifur, head of House Ur, and blood-brother to Bilbo Baggins, and therefore his closest relative.” So, they had become close – close enough to claim each other as family. Legolas briefly wondered what the Dwarf was like, before he sat down, and suddenly, it was his own turn.
“Legolas named Greenleaf, son of Thranduil and Prince of the Woodland Realm,” he recited, standing and sitting swiftly so as not to take more time than necessary. Ada hated it when he was slow at introducing himself, as he often was, and despised it when he simply forgot. Lord Elrond nodded at him again, before looking towards Thranduil.
“Thranduil, son of Oropher and King of Greenwood the Great.” Ada sat back down gracefully, and shot Legolas a look from the corner of his eye. Woodland Realm – Greenwood the Great – right, sure, very different things, and not at all used interchangeably.
The Man in the corner stood as Elrond looked at him, contemplative with his words, as though he hadn’t expected to be included.
“Bard of Laketown,” he finally said, simple and effective. He shrugged, and sat back down.
“Descendant of Girion, Lord of Dale, if I recall,” Lord Elrond said, smiling, before returning his attention to the entire group. Impressive titles left out – from humility or embarrassment, Legolas wondered.

“We’re gathered to discuss the fates of two items, and the person who holds them. Bilbo Baggins, a Hobbit of the Shire, carries both the Arkenstone and the One Ring of Power, and has left, presumably, to dispose of them. We know not where he is, nor his true purposes with these items, but we know that Sauron is gathering power – I, along with Gandalf, Saruman, Galadriel, and the Eagles of Manwë forced him from Dol Guldur.”
“Have we knowledge of Master Baggins’ whereabouts?” Ada asked, his tone carefully neutral.
“Not as of yet. Arwen lies in wait in Imladris, and Elladan and Elrohir, I sent to Gondor. They should be near Minas Tirith by now. Should they see him, they know what to do.”
Guttural syllables escaped the Dwarf with the head-bandage, Bifur, before Balin apologised to him quietly.
“What is wrong, Balin, son of Fundin?” Elrond asked, squinting slightly. His gaze was uncanny, and eerily similar to Mithrandir’s own before he divulged information which would have been helpful several moons ago.
“Ah, apologies, Lord Elrond – we had not planned on bringing Bifur, and he, along with the rest of the Company, don’t know about the One Ring. They only think Bilbo’s got the Arkenstone.”
“I see,” Elrond said, and Legolas thought it made sense – keeping the One Ring’s presence a secret was going to be one of the hardest parts about this venture, he could tell. Magical items do not often appear, and when they do, a buzz follows them.

–x–x–x–

To say the walls were yellow would be… somewhat correct, if a little off. They were more of an off-white, tinged with warmer hues by decades of disuse, infused with tobacco smoke and tea-stains. Probably fish oil, too, if the smell of Laketown was anything to go by. In fact, it was quite inaccurate to call them yellow – thinking about it, they’re more of a buff, like light ochre.
None of this information was paid any attention as it wandered through Thorin’s mind, picked up a few mathoms, placed them down, and made its merry way out of his brain, without so much as a by-your-leave. Instead, he was thinking. There were many things to think about, especially when one makes so many mistakes, they create an international Problem (capital P, as Dwalin would put it, because it’s a pain in the arse for all involved).
Bilbo has the One Ring of Power, and holds half of all the power in Erebor, without even considering his power over Thorin’s life. And no one knows where he is.
As Lord Elrond explained the intricacies of Bilbo’s options – he might very well bury them – Thorin considered the effects of such items on a creature so pure; one made of such light surely must experience an eclipse, an overwhelm of all the darkness about him.
“He won’t bury them,” he said absently, entirely unaware that the conversation had moved on from that several minutes ago. He barely registered Balin clearing his throat, nor the pointed look he received. “Items of that nature do not belong within the earth and soil. He’ll be very much aware of that fact.”
“Well, what do you suppose he’ll do with them, since you know him so well? He can’t destroy them, we’ve already discussed this, in case you weren’t here,” Thranduil snarked, his disapproving face so loud Thorin was half-surprised the Elvenking ceased his superfluous elaboration.
“He’s more stubborn than an army upon one man’s doorstep. He will find a way.” Sure, not the most creative comparison, but he was – the hobbit would either find a way or wait it out.
Thranduil huffed, before returning to wherever they’d left off before Thorin derailed the conversation. Bifur’s approving grunt only served as an addition to the soundscape, though Thorin found that, somewhere within, he appreciated it.

“Appreciation is important for simple living,” Bilbo said, watching the treeline as he walked. It was a warm day indeed, and they were resting where they could below the forested canopy – it acted both as a source of shade, and as cover from the remnants of Azog’s Orc pack, who were still chasing them; daytime wasn’t so bad, but at night, howling could be heard off in the distance between the valleys and riversides, getting closer and closer each eve.
“However do you mean?” Thorin asked, because comments like these always led somewhere – usually some sort of dig at regal behaviour or the fall of Durin’s line. He resolutely ignored his phrasing’s similarities to his hobbit’s speech patterns.
“Makes you enjoy things more,” was the only answer that came. It was… simple. The burglar did not expand, nor did he bedeck his thoughts. They were straightforward, and held no hidden meanings. It was refreshing.
“I do suppose it enhances the worth of one’s lot in life, yes,” Thorin found himself agreeing, watching Bilbo watch the grassy knolls around them as the sun bounced off the edges of his features, highlighting their dimensionality in amber light and forming a halo around his copper hair, which glowed like brass under the sunshine.

“...Which is why we must send someone, yes-”
“May he have my sword?”
Lord Elrond stopped mid-sentence, turning stone-still before looking slowly towards Thorin, like a hunter watching a deer fall unexpectedly into a bear trap; he straightened himself out, cleared his throat, and replied.
“You do not need to seek permission, Thorin Oakenshield.”
“I do not wish to push myself to look for Bilbo should it be detrimental to his quest’s success,” Thorin replied carefully, properly thinking his words out before he released them. Had this been any other situation, Balin would have been proud – as it was, he looked mortified that Thorin, a king by all means, had asked a foreign Elf for permission to partake in an informal mission.
“Are you sure it is wise-” Thranduil began.
“He can go,” Tharkûn interjected, his mind made up quite swiftly. Thranduil seemed affronted by Tharkûn’s abruptness, but was quickly distracted by his son joining the conversation.

“Then, may he have my bow?” Prince Legolas asked, taking after Thorin’s example – he realised with belated certainty who Legolas reminded him of. Golden hair and round brown eyes are two features he’d seen a lot in his life, and which he missed sorely. His boys, asleep in their tent, and this one, sat in front of him, doing exactly as they had that year ago – offering up their life for something they knew not wholly of, against their sole parent’s wishes.
The Elvenking began laying into his son in Sindarin, hushed but loud in the relative silence of the tent.
“Thranduil-king,” Lord Elrond called, bringing attention back to the meeting at hand. Once Thranduil shut his trap, Elrond spoke again. “Thank you. Now, Legolas – you may join if you wish.”
“Then I shall,” the Prince said easily, as though it were not a difficult decision – as though it were second-nature to him.

“Bugger it all – he can have my spear, too,” Bifur said, the syllables harsh compared to Westron – Balin jarred slightly, before translating Bifur’s proclaiment to the rest of the tent, though in a much more polite manner. Thorin thought it could have done without the bureaucratic wording, but Balin… is not the type for such crude words. Not in public, and not while sober, at least.
“If Thorin goes, I’ll look after the lads while Fíli acts as Regent,” Balin sighed; Thorin could tell that the old warrior wanted to help, desperately, but knew he was needed elsewhere.
“I shall also stay. My children need me,” Bard said quietly, surprising everyone, as they’d forgotten he was there. “If you have need of me, though, never hesitate to ask – I will offer what I can.”
“I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say thank you, Bard,” Tharkûn replied gently, a docile look upon his face. War had ravaged them all, but the wizard appeared the most tired of it all. “I, of course, will join, though I cannot guarantee my persistent presence.”
“Any and all help is welcome,” Lord Elrond said, more as a thought spoken aloud than a statement directed at any one person.
“In that case,” a tinny voice said behind them, “I’ll be coming along too. Y’need someone to find our Bilbo, an’ I think I suit that role quite well.”
Everyone’s heads turned, whipping around to find the source of the proclaiment. Leaning against Bard’s small kitchen countertop was Nori, sharpening his knives casually like a cat would its claws. Thorin felt the blood leave his face – he didn’t know why he was surprised, truly, but was astonished nonetheless. He could sense the startled faces behind him, despite being unable to see them, and a sudden desire to leave arose in his heart.
“How did you get in here?!”
“How much have you heard?”
“Nori, son of Heri, daughter of Fari!” Tharkûn shouted, near causing Elrond a heart attack, judging by the Elf’s sudden intake of breath. “Why were you eavesdropping?!”
“I weren’t droppin’ no eaves. Not my fault you’re all so loud,” Nori answered, slinking away from Bard’s kitchenette. He draped himself lazily over the back of Bifur’s chair, toying with one of his daggers by moving it between his fingers. If Dori were here, none of them would live to see the sky again. “Plus, you’re not gonna find ‘im with all that noise you’re making. He’ll hear you all a mile off.”
“And how do you suppose you would be able to find him, as opposed to any other Eavesdropper?” Lord Elrond asked, sceptical of Nori from his sneaky entrance alone. Thorin was just glad no one had pointed fingers at the dwarrow for planning it – he was so appreciative of that fact, he barely registered the incoming argument.
“Again, as I said, I ain’t droppin’ no eaves, green lights or otherwise,” Nori began, completely blowing past the fact that none aside from the dwarrow would know what green lights meant. “An’ I’m the Dwarf for the job, ‘cause I had to hear that damned Ring from Goblintown to near Beorn’s.” Lord Elrond sighed, and Thranduil looked like he was about to have some sort of conniption.
“He is right,” Elrond finally admitted, sighing again like a tired babysitter. “Nori, son of Heri, will you keep this quest secret, and act in the best interests of all living creatures?”
“Oh, naturally,” Nori replied. Lord Elrond seemed unimpressed by the delivery, but seemed to be able to sense Nori’s veracity.
“Legolas, Bifur, Thorin, and Mithrandir, do you all understand this too? That we must act for the betterment of the lives of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, even if it conflicts with Bilbo’s best interests?”
Numerous agreements varying in hesitation filled the room, and it was done; three Dwarves, an Elf, and a Wizard were to find a Hobbit in the vast world before he ended up in a bad state.

–x–x–x–

Pale peaks filtered into view as panicked paws pattered against the ground in a fiercely fearful set of movements; panic and dread thrummed in his veins and kept his heart pumping. Small brown feet landed again and again among leaves and dead grass, galloping over and under and through in their desperate attempt to escape, escape and see the sun, see anything – but, as it was, desaturated blues and yellows and greys dominated his vision, and there were too many smells and sounds to focus on sights. Thundering hooves followed him, hunters on his tail, and he felt them in the way the ground shook below him. A shot of red through grey grass – yes, of course, a very good choice. Not at all stupid, or feverish, or any number of debilitatingly dumb thought processes.
But it was too heavy.
Exhaustion had forced him downwards, down onto dirt which hadn’t seen water in several months, onto dirt which was watered with the dying poor’s tears. It cramped his shoulders, stuttering his otherwise nimble steps, making what would have been an easy run into a deadly dance for his life.
“Eat them,” it whispered, voice lapsing in and out of reality, much like a waking dream. “Become something bigger, and feast!”
Somewhere between darting right and looking up, a host of trees had appeared – a small woodland, not nearly a forest, but a chance. Earth-hardened feet carried him swiftly onwards, dashing madly for a last hope in the dry sun. He ran harder than he knew he was capable of, fuelled by panic and fear and dread.
Ahead, a small hole in the ground made itself known; it couldn’t be seen, but it reeked of badger. It was the lesser of two evils, he decided, as several hunting horns sounded out into the open air. Who they could be calling, he knew not – it’s not like anyone lived close by, and the few who might have were almost certainly too poor to care.
Diving for the burrow, a shocking sensation registered in his mind, but he ignored the blaring warnings in his mind, instead choosing to focus on getting deep into the sett. Dirt, dirt, and dirt. Dirt. Just a bit more dirt- aha! The tunnel came to a stop in a small hemisphere-shaped room of sorts, also made entirely of dirt (what else?), which was just about big enough for him to curl up into. His tail wrapped around him, and as he calmed himself, he very suddenly realised that his leg hurt. A lot.
With good reason, too – for, poking out of his left knee was an arrowhead. The shaft had been shot entirely through his leg, from the back to the front, angled downwards so it entered halfway down his thigh and exited just above his knee. The shaft had been snapped in half at some point, either by him or by his restrictive surroundings – the only thing he could see of his hind-side was a tiny piece of wood which poked out from behind. It looked like a splinter.
Rather nasty splinter , he thought, and drew in many shallow, high breaths; he loathed that he couldn’t talk like this, but also thanked whoever deemed it wise to stop him, as he was certain he’d be rather loud in any other form. As he was, he said nothing, but released a high-pitched warble, like a pigeon’s cooing. It was pathetic, and everything hurt, and he was tired, and he had had enough, so he went to sleep.

Wet skin against his ribcage is what awoke him; he’d been sound asleep within the sett, and the dirt below was cool. It was dark – as it had been when he first arrived, but now, no light filtered in from the entrance. And he wasn’t alone, either – no, a small badger nudged his side, as if it was telling him to move. Part of his brain told him to bite, yowl, bark or attack, but he knew to resist it – such actions would only hinder him. The badger was small, yes, but it was most certainly an adult. He made to stand, but released an embarrassing yelp as soon as his rear lifted from the floor, the intense pain causing him to collapse back to his previous position. The small badger chittered and backed away slightly, preparing to defend, and while all he wanted to do was bite and scream, he knew, in what little of his right mind was left, that he could not do that under any circumstances – not to something which could provide him a resting ground, if only for a few hours.

Slowly, he lifted himself upwards with his front legs. It was painful, but bearable, and he found he could see his injury much better like this, even in the low light.
Dried blood coagulated around the entry point, already crusting over the fur around it, even as fresh blood trickled down the back of his leg from where he’d moved and reopened the wound. The arrowhead side was faring no better – again, blood had pooled and dried around the opening, and around the bottom of the arrowhead. His best bet for removal would be to drag it out from the front – the arrowhead’s position, though harmful for having gone the whole way through, meant he had something to grip onto. With the other side, he wasn’t so lucky, and would likely have to transform to reach it. Beady eyes surrounded by white and black blinked at him, the memory of a stalwart medic taking over for but a moment before receding, and it was a badger once again. Decision made, he looked towards the still-chittering badger, and nodded his head towards the tunnel. How animals communicate, he had no clue – though, the badger backed up more so it was standing at the entrance rather than within the pocket he’d squished himself into. It didn’t leave, and his mother had always taught him to take what he could get and be thankful for it. He was pretty sure she wasn’t thinking this kind of thing when she said that, but then again, he’d never thought, especially back in April when he first set out with his fami- Company, that he’d ever do anything remotely similar to what he was about to do.

Jaws wrapped around a metal arrowhead, and he began to pull.
Excruciating pain shot through him, grasping his leg like a warg’s claws, seizing the muscles and causing them to tense, but he continued to pull, aided – or hindered – by the weight pulling his neck downwards. Pain is a temporary emotion. He had learned that many years ago, leaning on a Ranger’s deathbed.
Like a dam finally released, blood flowed freely from his wound, starting with an energetic burst before settling into a rushing river of thick, viscous liquid. As desperate as he was to lick it – bloody animal instincts, always trying to get him to do silly things – he knew doing so could impede his healing.
It was not long before he licked it.
To stop the bleeding , he reasoned. I rarely get infections anyway. I’ve had worse.

–x–x–x–

Singing was not fun when there was nothing to sing about. Arguably, it was worse when there was too much to sing about – singing about war and tragedy was, in Bofur’s opinion, far worse when you were living in that war and tragedy. He found that happy songs rarely helped, either – he sang them anyway, as he always did, but more so because he needed to say something or have a task to focus on. Otherwise, he started to think , and that was dangerous.
“It’s not dangerous,” Bombur said, and Bofur belatedly realised he must have said at least some of his thoughts aloud. “No, you just think so loud I can hear it. Remember, brother, I’ve known you our whole lives.”
“You were born several years after me,” he felt himself reply, aiming for joking but falling miserably short.
“Everyone knows you’re not conscious until you can eat an olive without scrunching your face up in disgust.”
A small, wheezy chuckle escaped him – though he was known as the joker amongst his family, Bombur often had a quiet sort of comedy about him. It wasn’t always the contents of his words which were funny, but the fact that he was always incredibly correct.
“So Bifur wasn’t conscious until the axe?” he asked through giggles; many strange things had occurred after Bifur’s accident, but one of the most unexpected was the complete 180 when it came to his tastes. Before, he wouldn’t have touched anything that came from a plant with a ten-foot pole. Now, he would not only touch it with a ten-foot pole, but use the ten-foot pole in combination with another ten-foot pole as chopsticks, with which to eat the produce of all plants within reach. Bombur shook silently with mirth, his mind probably taking a similar route.
“Not like you can talk,” his little brother said between soundless chuckles. “Your face still sours like a pebble eating a lemon!” Uproarious laughter filled their little room, and it was into this which Bifur walked.
“What’ve you two done now?” he asked lightly, speaking as well as signing to signify his presence as he knelt down to his pack.
“Nothing which concerns you,” Bofur responded, a lazy grin settling on his face. It was nearly painful, the muscles contorting with disuse. He hadn’t had a good laugh in a while.
“That concerns me,” he signed back, lifting his hands over his head instead of turning to face either of them. Bifur had never – in recent memory – been fond of prolonged or unnecessary eye contact or direct address. It was normal for him to look at someone’s mouth or hands while he spoke. It was not normal for him to not bother facing someone while signing – not unless they’d annoyed him, or he was doing something more important. It was usually the former, though, as of late, the latter had become apparent.
As it was apparent now that something was taking precedence over himself and his darling brother.
“Awh, Bif, don’t‘ya love us anymore?” Bofur joked, though Bombur sent him a look from across the room. It was full of some sort of sorrow, and a heavy warning against speaking – it reminded Bofur an awful lot of their parents. He was in for a bollocking, then.
Bifur finished rummaging through his pack, before turning to them.
“I love you,” he signed, face neutral as always, ignoring the bag behind him like it wasn’t even there. “But there is someone I owe a familial goodbye to.”
The words sobered him, and hung heavily in the air, accentuated by the far-off hustle and bustle as everyone settled in for the evening. In their little shared room, it was just them, and the world outside was, at best, a mirage.

It had to be done. They’d all adopted Bilbo into their family, yes, but Bifur had claimed him as a brother. By all Dwarven laws, he was Bilbo’s closest relative, and therefore responsible for his funeral if he died. And if he didn’t – if he left Dwarven society – Bifur was to see him out properly. Bofur sighed.
“It has to be done,” he uttered, walking towards Bifur and pushing their foreheads together softly.
“S’what family’s for,” Bombur murmured, joining them at the end of Bifur’s bedroll.

There they stayed for a long while, muttering goodbyes and I’ll-miss-yous and please-come-backs. It wouldn’t be abnormal within Dwarven tradition for Bifur to just leave with Bilbo if he found that Bilbo was, in fact, leaving – but Bifur promised to return.
“If our hobbit chooses to live elsewhere, we’ll visit him.”
“Agreed,” Bofur and Bombur replied.
They packed Bifur’s bag together, ensuring no one forgot anything; Bombur loaded him up with rations and emergency water supplies, while Bofur ensured he had an adequate amount of flint and spare bandages. Blankets found their way into his pack, as did a small wooden toy – it was intricately carved, if a little amateurish, and depicted a mole. Bofur had carved it many, many moons ago, just before adulthood, and gifted it to Bifur. He’d given one to each of his family, depicting an animal they reminded him of, or an animal that reminded him of them, and knew the old sod kept it on him. He’d loathe to admit it, but he was quite a soppy bastard. Bofur took it, nearly reverent in his handling of it, from Bifur’s bedroll – which, really, was more like a pile of furs and a blanket – and placed it in the top pocket of his pack. Something to remember home along the way.
“How’re you gonna find him?”
“I’ll figure it out,” Bifur signed back, settling the pack’s weight on his spine.

–x–x–x–

Light snores filled the air, both sources sound asleep, sprawled across their bed rolls and bundled up snugly under enough blankets to cover the whole room, if they were spread out. Grey braids poked out on one side while a light tawny, like down, lay on the other. Nori was never more pleased than in that moment with the decisions of three leaders; not twenty hours prior, Bard, Thranduil, and Thorin had unanimously agreed to move all who could stand into Erebor and Dale, leaving the tents only for those who would risk death at their moving. While Nori hadn’t been fond at first – they had to share with Dáin’s dwarrow – he now found himself immensely grateful for it. Within Erebor were hundreds – possibly thousands – of secret tunnels and passageways accessible only to those who know of their existence. It was worryingly easy to sneak into his own room, where his brothers slept, and pack, hyper-aware of his own volume as he did. Knife, knife, dagger, knife, bandage, dagger, knife, dag- oh, right, yeah, clothes – dagger, knife, knife…
Within minutes, Nori was back in the tunnel, with a strangely light pack upon his back. Though, he supposed, he always carried the essentials on his person – so, really, all the pack held was his spare clothing, bedroll, some bandages (which someone else was bound to bring), and several poultices and ointments stolen from Óin. Some of them had even gone off, which – much to his delight, and Óin’s disgruntlement - formed some very tricksterish poisons.
He won’t be missed for a day or two – as much as Dori disliked it, he knew what Nori did. Ori wasn’t half as oblivious as either of them would like to believe, either. But, by the time it would be seen as something to be concerned about, they’d be long gone. If they were lucky enough, they might have even found Bilbo by then.
Just in case, he’d left a small letter for his brothers, hidden under all of Dori’s braids. They wouldn’t find it until they redid his hair when it was wash day. One week.

–x–x–x–

“I don’t know what you’re planning,” Óin commented as he re-wrapped Thorin’s foot, “but you’d better stop thinking about it. You’re giving yourself a headache.”
Thorin mumbled something vague in response; he knew that, if he spoke now, Óin would somehow figure it all out. Even if he only said three words. Healers were, unfortunately, impeccable at preventing plans, especially when those plans bordered on self-sacrificial.
“I know you’re planning something. This is the first time you’ve asked me to redress a wound. You’re the first Durin to ever do that, actually, now that I think about it,” Óin trailed off, stopping briefly before continuing his work. “Pah, well, whatever it is, don’t go ruining my nice work.”
With that, he turned and left, though not before giving Thorin a long, evaluative look. The way his eyes roved around him rather than on him made his heart quicken in anxiety; did he know? What could he see that others could not? He’d said he’d seen the dragon-sickness – which means he can see more than just physical pain. The thought drove him up the wall – and the ceilings, too, as well as the furniture, before coming to a stop when it reached his cot again. He heaved a sigh, which felt rather more strenuous than it probably should, and pulled his leather pack from beneath his other items. It hadn’t been touched since it had been left within Erebor’s walls all those days ago – he traced his thumb over green vines embroidered into leather, acting as a border to the bag’s opening flap. When he first found it, he’d searched it over and over for a clue, a location, anything – nothing, of course, came up, but the bag did contain a few curious items which screamed its owner’s name, had no one figured it out from the outside. A little handkerchief was one, embroidered in opposing corners, stuffed into the bottom, and just above that had been a pen. It was round, and filled with a deep red ink. Thorin hadn’t seen it in several months – actually, he realised with a jarring thought, he hadn’t seen it since Bilbo had signed the contract. The pen belonged to him.
Now, Thorin sat with the bag before him, filled with adventuring gear yet again, though fit for a Dwarf this time instead of a Hobbit. His thumbs traced along the embroidery, and he realised it was slightly uneven – he knew nothing about sewing or crafts of its kind, but the uneven-ness, the colour… even the weird little flowers on the vines reminded him of Bilbo. His thumbs had other thoughts – they led him to a small label, stitched neatly into the back of the bag.
Property of Bilbo Baggins , it read, and, beneath that, in a slightly less neat embroidery, was And modified by him, too . It was at least two decades old, if not more, and Thorin heard a sad laugh escape him as he envisioned a small Bilbo sewing unevenly into his nice leather pack, copying some older relative’s techniques, and using it so much the embroidery grew as worn as the bag itself. With it, Thorin fell in love with Bilbo Baggins just a little bit more.

Wait-

–x–x–x–

Gently-glowing ruins lit the late evening skies, activity simmering down as the night drew onwards. Few Elves meandered the streets, as did even fewer Men, and only a few adventurous souls from Dáin’s army – most likely offered up like sheep for a slaughter rather than anything else.

As a general rule of thumb, Elves don’t sleep. Instead, they enter a dream-like state of meditation, which is technically unnecessary, but mightily helpful to the mind and body, aiding in memory processing, exhaustion, and injuries to both skin and soul. It was in this meditative state that Legolas found her – sitting cross-legged upon a stone, eyes closed, beneath the misty light of the moon.
“Tauriel,” he hissed, bent low so as not to draw attention to himself. He then realised that it probably drew more attention than standing normally would, but doing so now would draw even more attention, which is exactly what he didn’t want, so he stayed half-crouched like a crook by Tauriel’s side. She did not respond.
“Psst,” he tried again, leaning closer to her ear. No response, yet again. He clicked against the side of his mouth, and whispered her name once more – that rewarded him with a loud exhale. Perfect.
See, the thing about Tauriel was that she was very serious. Far too serious, in fact, and quite possibly serious enough to warrant a capital S, though she sorely lacked in the moroseness of their elders when it came to permanent seriousness. Rather, she took her job and herself seriously, and had a very serious way of thinking, but she didn’t sleep, drink, or eat seriously like some of those diplomats (ahem, Ada) did. When they got down to it, she was only a few hundred years older than him, and they’d grown up together. Which meant he knew exactly how to annoy her.
“I know a song that’ll get on your nerves, get on your nerves, get on your-” Legolas’ wonderful performance was cut short by a long hand clamping down on his mouth, effectively shutting it and rendering it useless.
“Shut it,” Tauriel said. Her eyes remained closed, and she still faced the sky, unmoving aside from her arm. Her arm, which was connected to her hand, which was holding his mouth closed. Doesn’t mean he can’t hum.
“Mm mm m mmm m-mm mm-m-mm-mmmmm, mm-m-mm-”
“What do you want?”
“Oh, glad you asked, dear Tauriel!” She was looking at him now, slumped over in annoyance. She looked like she sincerely regretted releasing his mouth, and watched him as he flitted from side to side as a cat would a fly.
“Well? Out with it, or did you interrupt my time with the Moon?”
“Calm yourself, I didn’t interrupt your marriage, did I?” Tauriel raised an eyebrow silently, an unimpressed look settling on her features. Her legs readjusted, almost like a sit here, I’ll wait . “Oh, fine, then, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Since, you know, you can commune with the moon,” he blathered on, ignoring the other Elf’s statement.
“The Moon.”
“Yes, that’s what I said – anyway, you’re good at finding things, no? Great, would you be interested in going on a quest?”
“Another? We just finished this one, and it ended in an all-out war!”
“Yes! And this one might, too, but it’ll be the last one, I can guarantee that.”
“The last quest, or last war?”
“Yes.” Tauriel stared blankly for a moment, before pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing a deep, heavy breath. There she remained, sat on her stone, for several minutes, hardly breathing as she mulled the thought around in her mind. Legolas grew antsy – Tauriel hardly said no, but when she did, it was definitive. Finally, a very small, very done-with-it-all voice answered.
“When do we leave?”

–x–x–x–

Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight – red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning.
An old saying, often mixed around for which message the shepherd and the sailor gave, if any at all, but faithful to its use nonetheless.
A solitary black peak sat to the side as Dale’s deep slate-coloured ruins decorated the bottom of his vision, framing the sky in a very similar manner to the way grass often does in childrens’ drawings. Above, where water becomes gaseous and winds reign supreme, where the moon had peaked and now was dipping back into the void, crimson clouds decorated a sky of indigo and cerise, which was starting to become yellow at the edges where the horizon met the yet-unrisen sun.
Olórin sighed heavily, the movement entirely unnecessary but so infused into him after centuries of interacting with the living that it was second-nature, and stranger now to avoid it. All are changed by those around them – it appears that applies to celestial beings as well, despite their traditionally ‘higher’ origins.
A light rustling beside him alerted Olórin to Bifur’s presence. He only grunted in greeting, a decently-sized pack upon his back, and they both turned to watching the horizon once again with anticipation, seeing if the clouds would become white or grey.
The next time he heard rustling, Thorin came through the dried bushes, sporting a pack which concerned Olórin. As the Dwarf drew nearer, the wizard was surprised to note that Nori was beside Bifur, communing with him in Iglishmêk silently.
“The Prince is not yet here?” Thorin asked, half-whispering to conserve the silence of the night.
“Give him some time,” Olórin replied easily, looking back out to the skies before giving Thorin a very pointed glance. Surely, the oblivious Dwarf would not miss that . He’d probably smell the look before he saw it. “Where did you get that bag?”
“It’s Bilbo’s.” Well, yes, obviously – they’d all been on the road together for several months. Only a blind man wouldn’t recognise it as Bilbo’s. At the wizard’s uncomfortably long stare, Thorin finally elaborated, though not without difficulty. “He- it was left in there, in the mountain, in Erebor. He might- he might want it back?”
“Are you asking me?”
“No.”
They stood silently after that, and even Nori and Bifur stopped their conversation, instead opting to stand around awkwardly. Thorin seemed completely unaware of his graceless answers, seemingly distracted by something internal – knowing the Dwarf, it was either something none of them had yet thought of, or something they’d all picked up months ago.

Two sets of footsteps moved lightly and swiftly behind them, and from Dale’s wall came Legolas, along with another Elf. Both were dressed in leathers and light armour specifically designed for them, carrying weapons with the same properties.
“I took the liberties of adding Tauriel to our group,” he murmured by way of greeting, waving his arms towards the red-haired Elf beside him like a salesman attempting to sell his produce.
She looked competent; she wore leather armour, like the rest of the Elves from Mirkwood, and carried a wide range of weapons on her person. A green cloak was wrapped around her shoulders, the hood ready to be drawn should secrecy be required, and she had been light on her feet, quiet as an Elf could be.
“The more, the merrier,” Olórin smiled, already knowing one of the Dwarves would say something.
“And why do we need another member in our party? I was under the impression it was to be secret,” Thorin asked – it was more civil than Olórin expected, but still had a nasty undertone of coldness which soured the air between them.
“I’ll have you know she’s very good at finding things,” Legolas began, but was quickly cut off by Tauriel herself.
“Yes, thank you, Legolas. My name is Tauriel, as he said, and I am a Moonwake. So long as the Moon can see it, I can, and I hear you’re looking for something.” Thorin looked about ready to respond, but before he could, Nori spoke.
“We’ll catch you up on the way. Come on, the best way to leave without being spotted by anyone in Dale is this way.” The Dwarf led onwards, into the darkness beneath the treeline, obscuring their view of Dale and Erebor as they walked. The rest of the party followed, shrugging shoulders at one another, confused but pleased by Nori’s statement. After nearly thirty minutes, Nori slowed to the other Dwarves’ sides, no longer needing to lead the group as the Elves took over. Olórin walked between them, separating them for the time being, just in case.
“I can hear you thinking. Yes, we can trust Tauriel. Kíli trusts her.”
No sounds followed aside from a considering hum – either way, no fights broke out, so the wizard considered it a win, especially compared to the start of their previous journey. Another introduction like Bilbo’s, while funny, would definitely have caused a slower start.

–x–x–x–

“Kill him.”
“No, absolutely not, you dolt.”
“Why not?”
“Killing people is wrong.”
“Fengel is a liar and a cheat. Wouldn’t it be better to rid the world of such people?”
“He’s also a king with no obvious heir. No, I don’t want to place an entire kingdom into civil unrest, thank you very much.”
“You’re no fun.”
“You’re an inanimate object made for decoration. You’ve got no voice here.”
“And yet, you talk to me.”
“...It gets lonely. No, don’t aww , you’re still a dolt.”

–x–x–x–

Golden rays filtered into view as birds chirped happily outside, filling the bleak winter atmosphere with sounds too lively to be real. Cool white sheets pressed against his skin, light yet thick, designed to keep heat in, though obviously suffering with age.

He arose, sitting upright and stretching, blond hair cascading downwards to pool in his lap. Across from him was another cot, with only a head visible.
“Come on, Kí, wake up. Uncle Bilbo has the One Ring.”
He’d been talking to Kíli for days now. Not that anyone knew, no – not even Óin knew he was awake yet. The perks of having a subtle Red Shadow.
“Wossat?”

Chapter Text

White light arose and set above dried-out plains, cold and distant to all; grasses no longer grew green, but grey, malnourished and tired, each blade crumbling with a gust of wind. No water had fallen over the plains for several months, and another several months before that, months upon months of drought stacked on top of one another. The people of Rohan were suffering, and the King’s party hunted.
Orcs had been spotted in the area, and war was visible on the horizon – not for them, no, but for wherever the Orcs had been headed, singing their war-songs as they marched throughout the night.
Rohan had no dealings with such Orcs, not if they left the people alone; within their borders, though, as sentient beings, the Orcs were subject to their laws, and so, upon attacking and raiding one of the smaller towns, fleets of hunters were sent, and patrols along travel-roads were tripled.
Then, the Orcs left, taking little with them aside from food – which, in a country starved for years, was almost all they had.

Not that he couldn’t fix the issue, no, that would mean he was a weak king – no, no, indeed. Fengel could fix the issue. He could buy food, trade with other kingdoms and cities, populations and such – but the closest to them were two Elvish kingdoms and a town of Men, who were poor enough as it was. Hardly worth trading with, when all they could offer was fish which would rot before reaching their destinations. He could pay for merchants, pay for land, pay for seed to feed farmlands.
He was not going to, because doing so would deplete his wealth; give the People one thing, and they ask for two more. It was a lesson drilled into him from his youth, just after Erebor fell – riches no longer flowed from the Lonely Mountain, and so riches no longer flowed from Rohan – what little they had left stayed in strongholds and among the rich, where it belonged.

Two days ago, Fengel’s party had run out of food.

It is often good for a ruler – especially one of his age, as much as he despised thinking of it – out and about, doing things for the betterment of their people. Fengel was old. He knew it. He had an heir, but the boy – not a man, no – was in Gondor, supposedly to ‘escape’ his father’s ‘uneven distribution of wealth’ and ‘tax evasion’. He’ll learn, soon enough, but ideally, it would be sooner, because Fengel was aging and needed someone within Rohan who he could trust to maintain his lineage’s success. Thengel was a smart lad, really – he just had to toughen up his soft heart.

Two days ago, Fengel’s party had run out of food. That evening, they’d chased a rather strange-looking fox – slightly larger than those usually found in Rohan’s lands, walking with an odd trot, leaning heavily on its front as if it carried the world on a chain around its neck. They’d given chase – all of them – and someone had managed to shoot it, but it dove into a hole in the ground, and did not come up. They waited around for an hour, but by then, they were wasting time awaiting an event which would not come. The fox had most likely died in the hole, or would do so, and there was nothing they could do to retrieve it.
With heavy hearts and rumbling stomachs, they turned and left, riding at a slower pace to conserve their horses’ energy. It was still a further day’s ride to the next town.
Two days ago, Fengel’s party had run out of food, and all Fengel thought about was the feast he would receive upon his return.

–x–x–x–

Sounds of dripstone reverberated throughout the cave.
Not that anyone was there to appreciate it, no – instead, its sole inhabitant was curled up in a corner, unsettlingly still, barely even breathing, nor did it blink. The usual chatter and hacking which filled the cave no longer did, and in its place was a heavy, slow, raspy breathing, which was sickly in nature, like strings of mucus between the lungs refusing to budge. No, the little creature within was far, far away. And then, one day, he was gone.

–x–x–x–

“D’you see anything yet?”
It had been a scant four days since they’d set off from the comparatively luscious fields between Erebor and Dale, and now, before them were more fields, more trees, and more nothings. Nothing, nothing was there, not in the distance, not in any direction; along the River Running – or, as the Elves called it, Celduin – they had walked, day and night, hoping to catch up to their little friend. Most of their little group had, at one point or another, travelled with Bilbo, and so knew of his habits, his mannerisms while walking, and – perhaps most importantly – his speed. For someone with such little legs, he walked fast, especially when something precious to him was at stake. Or, at least, if he believed it to be so.

When they’d first left, the red-haired Elf, Tauriel, had told them the moon told her that Bilbo was somewhere in the sky, a thrush flittering through the fresh evening air. Other than that, they’d had nothing to go off of, so they originally started heading West. It was reasonable to assume that, if he didn’t know what to do or where to go, he would seek home, if only to see it. They all knew how homesick he’d been; there were several times across the journey that he’d admitted to daydreams of his armchair and memories of his books, as if he had something to be guilty about.
He carries far too much guilt, most of which isn’t his to shoulder.
Two days ago, they’d lost sight of him. Or, well Tauriel had, anyway. For a brief few hours, they’d watched Tauriel watch the moon, speaking of seeing a fox running through dry-grass fields. Then, she’d let out a sound of shock and excitement, followed by a grumble of annoyance.
“He’s somewhere in Rohan,” she’d said, almost conspiratorially. “The bad thing is, the King’s party shot at him, and he went into a hole to escape.”
She revealed that she didn’t see whether any of the arrows had struck true; that in and of itself was nearly enough to send all three dwarrow and the wizard into their own separate rages, but all were able to maintain level heads (assuming one doesn’t look close enough) at the thought of knowing where Bilbo was.

And so, over the past two days, they’d been anxiously awaiting updates from Tauriel. They were too far for Nori to be of any use in the hobbit-locating sector, so he was placed on lookout duty with Legolas.
“No, I still see nothing,” she replied, sighing in that slight, delicate manner only Elves and pansies are capable of. Bifur then realised he’d mentally insulted Bilbo, and was shaken with a wave of morose longing for his blood-brother, and closest family. He wished to remember what the hobbit looked like when he smiled at a stupid joke, or sang a merry song completely out of the blue – those were things he hadn’t seen in at least the past two weeks, and he was surprised at how much it was grating at him. Though, he knew he really shouldn’t have been – he missed Bofur’s bawdy tavern tunes and Bombur’s juxtaposing nature in much the same way.
“At this rate, we’ll never catch him,” Nori huffed, frustrated. “All I can hear are bloody birds.”
“Hey, at least we’re near the middle of Rhovanion now!” Legolas chirped from ahead. He was always optimistic about simply being in nature, outside; Bifur wondered just how long he’d been kept, sequestered away in Mirkwood.
“The lad’s right,” he signed, spotting everyone’s darkened features. Letting the boy verbalise his optimism did them no harm; yes, he understood, as a soldier and warrior himself – and brother to both Bofur and Bombur – that sometimes, the whims of the happy-go-lucky type are absolutely not what anyone wants to hear. But none of the rest of them made conversation of any use, only using their tongues to disparage their progress, so why shouldn’t Legolas be allowed to speak as though all was dandy with the world?
And, he was right – they were now in the centre of Rhovanion, and were nearing the East Bight with verve. They knew where Bilbo was – or, at least, had recently been – which was more than they’d had going for them when they left those few days prior.

Morning dawned faster than any of them had expected; either winter was getting shorter after it had just begun, or they were using up far much more time than they thought.
“We must stop to rest,” Tharkûn eventually called out, causing everyone to stop in their tracks and centre around him, each protesting despite knowing it was useless. The wizard had made his mind up, and so to it, they would adhere.
“We do not need to rest long,” Legolas argued, the affronted expression on his face eerily similar to Thranduil’s, though lacking in spitefulness.
“We must continue our search,” Thorin added – and that was a surprise, wasn’t it? Thorin had hardly spoken in the past few days, offering nothing more than vague grunts or hums to indicate agreements or disdain. And for his first words to be agreeing with an Elf! Either he’d come a long way, or he was hallucinating with exhaustion. Judging by the dark circles beneath his eyes, Bifur grimly thought it may very well be the latter.
“You can hardly keep your head up. None of us can, and it’s slowing us down,” Bifur signed loudly, using large, exaggerated movements in place of volume.
“I didn’t know Dwarves had an organised sign language,” Tharkûn commented vaguely, staring at Bifur’s hands as if he’d just cast a spell.
“You don’t know a lot of things, it seems,” he signed, getting a giggle from Nori. At least someone appreciated his comedy gold.
“What is your friend saying?” Tauriel asked, the question directed mostly at Tharkûn and Nori. Bifur found he couldn’t blame her, not with the moody look Thorin had.
“That we should sleep,” Tharkûn replied, added onto immediately by Nori.
“And that our wizard here knows nothing. Although, he can apparently read this sign language which he was surprised to learn existed. Care to explain that?”
“Oh, naturally,” Tharkûn replied, “though only once we’ve set up our camp. I’ll tell you the story while we get some rest.”
Needless to say, the camp was set up within three minutes, each member of their group – which Elrond had given a special name that they’d promptly all forgotten – surrounded the grey wizard, who looked a lot like he wished he hadn’t said anything. That’s how they learned just how dense some, even those of higher origin, could be; Tharkûn had once come across a Dwarf using Iglishmêk in the First Age, and thought it was an isolated scenario, even after being taught some of the language. They all laughed and teased him until he threatened to give them each personal rain clouds – such a threat was empty, really, since at least three of the group knew from Tharkûn’s own admissions that he couldn’t control the weather, but it was enough to get their sleep-deprived brains to lay themselves down and close their eyes.

–x–x–x–

In his corporeal form, there had been nothing Mairon hated more than walking. Not even among mortals, not among other Maia, not even among the Valar themselves was it enjoyable. This hatred had only ever been amplified since the One Ring’s creation; as part of him, it absorbed his goals and personality, and part of that meant it got tired of walking very quickly. Then it had spent several years among Men, a few thousand in a river, followed by five centuries with one Hobbit it had degraded into a nutjob only to land in the hands of another hobbit. Unfortunately, the little creatures could indeed walk, though this one did so with purpose; not like Men, who walked desperately even if they were out for fun, or Elves who complained about minor aches and pains to no end, or even that other hobbit who wandered around in circles aimlessly until a fish or creature of darkness came along and met its end in his habitat. No, this one walked with determination, like someone who had virality, and life, and something to live for. Or someone.
“Do you feel guilty?”
No answer. Not to worry – the creature did answer it sometimes. It just had to catch him when he felt particularly lonely.
Three hours passed, and an answer came.
“What for?” The voice was strangled, and oddly gravelly, like the accent upon its tongue didn’t belong.
“All of it.”
A huff responded, which sounded more comfortable and in-character – though what character was the question. It could feel itself being wrapped in the lead-lined pouch, which meant Baggins wasn’t in animal form, but it felt too high up, like it was hung from the creature’s head instead of his neck.
“You are a fool, Bilbo Baggins,” it said instead. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. No answer. “...And you made a great mess of that business with the stone.”
“Shush.”
“And there was a battle, in spite of all your efforts to buy peace, and the fault lies with you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, but I do,” it whispered – finally, the Bearer was conversing with it again, like a person. With vulnerability. “I was there, I heard it all happen. I may not have seen, but when you hear everyone’s thoughts, it’s hard not to understand,” it said, voice dripping in venomous sympathy. It was all performative, really, and as a ring it had quite limited emotions, but it was having fun with this Bearer, especially after the last one. The Ring did not enjoy having control of a body only half of the time; it was worse than none, because it had no control over when .
“You can hear everyone’s thoughts?”
The voice was unexpectedly fragile, even with the odd scratchiness to it. It was almost childlike in nature, cautious and unsure, not knowing whether the answer would burn or soothe.
“Of course,” it answered. It needed to play its cards right.
“Such as?”
“What someone wants for, what someone needs… they speak to me unknowingly, their desires laid bare within their unprotected minds.”
A beat. A slight hum, immediately aborted before it became audible to any but those who knew it had happened. Then, a question.
“So can you read Gandalf’s mind?” This Bearer was interesting. What had Gandalf to do with anything? It was going for emotional openness, not questions about dirty wizards.
“Yes.”
“But surely it is protected?”
“Ah, only if he keeps it up,” it replied; strangely enough, it had to think about the answer, since it had never put the concepts associated with its limited senses into words before.
“And if he doesn’t?”
“I read his thoughts like a book.”
“I thought you said you hear them though?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Nope.”
If it were at all possible for a ring to sigh, it did, long and loud and heavy. “Yes, you do – you’re a smart one, Bilbo Baggins, I will grant you that.”
“Why, thank you. Now, why are you telling me this?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You intend to- well, you intend something . You’re trying too hard.”
“So what do you suppose I do, Hobbit?”
“You could start by getting a personality that isn’t just ‘manipulate people’. That might help – you might even get friends, that way. Are there other rings – sorry, Rings – for you to befriend?”
“Many,” it responded, voice dripping in sarcasm. Sometimes, it wondered whether this one was on some sort of substance, or whether he was just defective.
“Well, you can’t say I didn’t try,” he said simply, and the Ring got the strong feeling Bilbo shrugged. “I’d be your friend, but you appear to be attempting to upset or provoke me.”
“How sweet.”

So, Mairon had hated walking, but for some reason, the Ring was starting to dislike it instead.

–x–x–x–

Why was his father so far into the East Emnet?

It was an important question with no answer, so he went to Turgon.

“Your father was in the East Emnet?” the Steward replied, features a calculated calm – however, they’d known one another long enough for Thengel to see the shock in his eyes.
“Apparently so, should Cir be correct in her judgement.”
“She hardly ever isn’t,” Turgon said, the words making their way sluggishly from his mouth as though he struggled with the thought itself. Judging from his (admittedly well-covered) confoundment, Turgon trusted Cir, as everyone did when it came to visibility, but could not, for any reason, picture Fengel anywhere aside from his feast hall. To be fair to Turgon, Thengel couldn’t, either, and had, in fact, very nearly called Cir a liar on the spot, despite having known her since she spoke of joining the Guard as a child. His father’s erratic movements made little sense; why would he approach Rohan’s border, only to leave with nothing but word of mouth to show for it? It was entirely uncharacteristic of him. The silence between the two men widened as they both became lost deep in their thoughts, pondering what could have possibly brought Fengel away from Rohan’s heart, only to turn back immediately afterwards.
“It’s interesting, is it not? I must admit, I know not whether to be concerned or elated.”
“Elated?” Turgon enquired.
“Elated, yes – surely, my friend, you must know how little my father leaves his halls without the call of gold leading him. If he has gone to the East of his land with no drive but his own? It may very well be near time for me to return.”
Turgon only hummed, placing his head on a curled-up hand as his eyes unfocused, becoming lost in the forest of his imagination once more. A brilliant man, Turgon was, but subtlety was no friend of his – maybe to those who knew him not, but to any who’d spent more than three minutes in his presence, the disdain was obvious upon his face; he disliked the idea of Thengel leaving.
He’d thought about it a lot, recently – Fengel was getting old, and it would take days – maybe even weeks – for news of his death or decline in health to reach Gondor. As his sole heir, it was Thengel’s job to maintain a smooth transition between his father’s death and his own kingship, which would be difficult to achieve in their current state; Thengel visited Rohan often, but did not often reach its heart, only speaking with those in the outer villages, preferring to surround himself with the common folk rather than the power-hungry bootlickers his father employed.
“I will need to go back at some point.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Turgon sighed, all guards dropping so his thoughts were laid bare on his face. “Should you wish for any preparation, do not hesitate to ask. I shall keep Cir on watch for your father, and shall alert you should he pass close by again.”
“Thank you.”

–x–x–x–

Deep grey cloth flapped in the intense gales blowing against them, swishing them every which way with no thought nor effort. Above the fabrics, the ceiling rose high, coming to a point in the middle to create a sort of cone, irrigated with sharp iron and steel features – whether they were for decoration or structural integrity was another point entirely. From the middle of it hung no light, nor were there sconces upon the walls; instead, the sole light source of the circular room stood in its centre, upon a black pedestal engraved with scenes of battle and glory. Dim light thrummed around an orb, marble-like in nature, though with the reflective capabilities of a pencil; within, it swirled and changed, intense and senseless as the sea, greys and whites and blacks and oranges all fighting for dominance, pushing and shoving one another to be seen.

It hadn’t changed in months. The colours had grown neither stronger or weaker, and the light had not brightened or dimmed. It remained as it had been, and as it will be, ceaseless in its internal warring, but otherwise unmoving, much like a dead animal; it was unnatural, how little it changed. Then, someone had to go and tell everyone else a certain Necromancer had appeared, and then another someone had the audacity to create what was essentially a big magical middle finger of light. Gandalf had always been one for the dramatics, but Galadriel? They ought to spend less time together – not that they did much anyway, not to his knowledge, but they certainly had similar thought processes and flairs for drama.

“Come,” it whispered, shifting like sand over itself, the not-quite-voice echoing with age and power. He obliged, walking towards it with no small amount of curiosity. He’d been waiting for it to move, to speak, do anything, really – it gave out an intense wave of emotion any time it wanted to communicate. Now, he stood before it, almost nose-to-orb, awaiting his instructions.
“Not that close,” it said, anticlimactically. He stepped away in small increments until the annoyance at the back of his mind left. “Good. Now, do not act right away – you will know when. Keep an eye on Gondor.”
“Yes, my liege,” he answered, voice dripping in loyalty and honour – all ideal for a leader’s right-hand man. The orb acknowledged his answer by sending a chill up his spine, and ceased its speaking, the tides within calming once again to their usual arena-fighting ways.

Cold mud stomped into place held up the majority of his operations; a single earthquake, a storm, a landslide – even a sneeze in the wrong place – could bring it all down. But, magic is a powerful tool, when one knows how to use it. Unfortunately, he was not one of those wizards, who practiced something belittling and useless, no – he practiced the arcane, pursuing power inimitable by those below them in the order of being. Eru made all, but not like them – no, there were parameters for the Mortals, who relied upon physical bodies and afterlives. They could not achieve greatness such as he. Which is why he thought lower of the Istari who chose trivial subjects, like the weather or grief or gardening as their specialities. What use have they for that?
“Quite a lot’f use, Sir,” one of the Orcs said. It was repulsive, hideous, malformed, and, unfortunately for his eyes, the smartest of the bunch. It could read. “Y’could make the land more stable, fr’a start.”
“Do you wish to keep your tongue?”
“Attached to me as is, Sir.”
“Then shut up.”

Keep an eye on Gondor.

–x–x–x–

Pleasantly warm flames licked the walls, warming up stone and metal despite their cool nature. Fires fought against the cold to create their heat, and those around relished in the few moments of peace they could get, warming themselves by firepits and sconces before returning to work, bustling about Erebor and its fields, sorting what remained of the dead and ensuring safety to all who entered the mountain’s halls.

Above him stood a grey ceiling, and around him were grey walls. Stone, cold and yet warm, surrounded the room, insulating them with nothing but its existence. It was undecorated, and lay on the fourth floor, far from the ground floor where most were being held in the halls; no, they were up high, having been moved a few floors up as neither of them required intensive care any longer.
Not that they’d really needed it in the first place. Sure, he’d been knocked out, but it surely couldn’t have been that bad. Fíli was worse off, out of the two of them; he’d been turned into a kebab and dropped unceremoniously, caught by a dragon – which had likely saved his life. But Fíli could heal, that was his thing. Heal, he did, and apparently, he was the first brother to awaken as well. Kíli had, by all accounts (with ‘all’ being Fíli, and Fíli’s conversations with Óin when the healer came to check on them, under the impression Kíli had not yet awoken) he’d missed Tauriel by not much time at all.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Fíli whispered across to him harshly, breaking the cool silence surrounding them. It was odd, to be in a mountain so full, and yet only hear chaos in the distance. Ered Luin had always been busy, even at night or in less-populated areas. Not a dull moment, in those mountains. Amad would like it here, with how quiet it was.
“Shut up,” Kíli said, smartly; one thing he missed was his vocabulary. Though his concussion had subsided, he still had a few aches and pains, but the thing that bothered him the most was the brain fog; he could not, for his life, think of the right words. There was always something dancing on the tip of his tongue before it leapt off, leaving him to draw a blank each time Fíli spoke to him.
The ceiling was not decorated.
“What do you reckon this part of Erebor used to be?” he asked, staring up at the ceiling as if it held all the answers – and, really, it did. There were very few rooms within a mountain left undecorated; it was a Dwarf’s pride, the beauty within their architecture, covered in geometric designs, each one with deep and intense meaning and history. It’s how the younger ones used to learn, according to their Uncle – he’d spend his history lessons laying on his back as his tutor taught him what each carving portrayed. “Can you miss something you never had?”
“Kíli, what are you on about? Come on, get up , it’s nearly time.” O-kay, then. In another life, Kíli liked to think Fíli would have ended up as a clockmaker, or even better, a time-keeper – the people who go around, adjusting everyone’s clocks.

Slow and steady wins the race, but sneaky wins the war. Or something like that, anyway – Uncle Bilbo had said so.
“Shut it, Kíli,” came Fíli’s dramatic whisper, to which Kíli sighed. “And, no, he didn’t.”
“Who didn’t what?”
Fíli shook his head, exasperated, and knelt down to poke his head around the next corner. Kíli thought it was somewhat smart – anyone looking for nighttime wanderers would be looking at adult Dwarf eye-level, not hip-height, though really, it ought to have been Kíli doing it – not only could he see better, but there were very few blond dwarrow, so if they were spotted, it would lead back to them quite quickly. After three minutes of following Fíli silently, Kíli voiced his question.
“While that’s a very good point, brother, you don’t know where we’re going, and you’re still loopy on whatever Óin’s been giving you.”
“So it’s not just my concussion?”
“No,” Fíli said, absurdness entering his voice. He turned fully to face Kíli, and concern marred his features. It made him look a bit like Amad. “Kíli, you’ve been taking medicine you really don’t need for the past six days, what did you think would happen?”
“Oh, right, yeah, you’ve got a point there.”
Onwards they continued, until finally, after what felt like forever – but Fíli informed him was more like forty-five minutes – they reached their destination, which… was a dark room in the middle of nowhere.

It was shaped like a dome, the floor flat as the ceiling curled inwards on itself, converging in an impressively symmetrical hemisphere. Nothing lay within but them, and the emptiness caused an echo so outrageous Kíli thought he could see it if he tried hard enough. The walls were bare aside from a small notch carved into the back, as far from the small entrance as it could be. Kíli heard himself approach it, and despite the darkness, he could see the individual scratches making up its form – it had clearly been done with no equipment aside from whatever the Dwarf who made it had on hand. Most likely a knife, judging from the paper-thin divots. Upon the underside was a simple arrow, carved into it so that it could only be found through touch, and though Kíli had ease of access to the first part – finding the notch in the first place – he still felt proud of himself for finding it. Looking below, a small grate made itself clear, though nothing appeared to be behind it. The grate was curved perfectly to fit the wall, and decorated with numerous intricate patterns, which changed like a kaleidoscope, morphing between one another in an almost hypnotic way. It was quite beautif- oh, no. He was starting to think like a horrible amalgamation of Tauriel and Bilbo. Of course! They’d both appreciate the structural expertise that went into the production of this grate, and he was standing there, ogling at it like a pebble seeing their first sword.
“Pull it off,” Fíli instructed, squinting, following Kíli’s line of sight. He followed his brother’s words, and the grate came off easily, which, in any other situation, would have been concerning, and reported to the King. Considering Fíli was acting as King until someone with half a brain got back, Kíli decided he wouldn’t, in fact, take the looseness of this particular grate to Fíli’s desk.
It would likely end up on Balin’s, instead.
Fíli leaned down and retrieved something from the grate’s hole – something shining and small. A key. He stood wordlessly, staring at Kíli (and he really looked like Amad) until he put two and two together, and promptly returned the grate to its previous home. It looked much better in the wall, anyway.

“Come on, we can’t be late.”
“It’s just us, how would we be late?”
Fíli raised his eyebrows, unimpressed – and, as if to make a point, shuffling could be heard down the hallway. The changing of the guards occurred every eight hours. By the distant sounds of clinking armour and quietly clashing weaponry, it was that time again.
“Time to go.”

–x–x–x–

Light filtered through something up high, burning into the ground like a lamp, filled with so much flame it exploded. It’d been a while since they’d last seen a lamp, yes – a fun word, that one, very fun indeed, though the thing itself, not so much, not so much. Bright and unnecessary. Pretty, sometimes, though.
The giant lamp in the sky turned on too soon, and though they weren’t physically there – their body stowed away in a cave, safe and dark, yes – it hurt, scalding skin and sclera with its emissions, glowing, but not like glow-worms or squid – like Grandmother’s Big Light, the one in the atrium which remained on at all times, flooding the smial with its vicious glow. His stomach rumbled, as it always did, and it had had enough of its non-verbal mutterings, their mind occupied by his need for food – with no way to physically exert it, he’d taken to speaking in their brain, rocketing his thoughts around and between them until either one took action.
Water was nasty, but not so nasty as others; you can’t die from water, no, Grandmother had taught him that, him and Déagol. Or was it the opposite? Water is dangerous, no? Or did it not matter, dictated by action and word?
“Shut it,” it spat, voice croaking like frogs – frogs! Oh, frogs, fat and juicy, worse than fish but better than goblins, stringy but sufficient, frogs, yes, that’ll do. “We’re near a pond. Just make sure the, the lamp doesn’t burn us.”

–x–x–x–

Great white walls loomed over the surrounding landscape, casting a shadow over empty fields, creating a sort of optical illusion, the impression of a lake or sinkhole standing upon the floor despite no such thing existing. All sounds echoed impressively within the fields the city looked out on, bouncing back and forth between the vast nothingness before and the overwhelming mountains behind.

Very few flowed in and out of the city, its grand gates opening for a scant few hours each day as its public prepared for something, keeping to themselves and buying whatever they could off of merchants before turning them away, warning them to be careful on the roads. Nothing acted yet, but one cannot be too cautious in times of strife.

Their horses turned from gallop to canter, stopping dramatically before the gates – just as their father had taught them. Not by word, no, he was too modest for that – he led by example, and unfortunately for his preferred persona of humility, he had a natural flair for the dramatic. It came with being an Elf, really – even if you’re only half.

A series of clicks, which would have been concerning to any stranger, sounded out, and a small slit in the door appeared, through which a pair of beady green eyes could be seen.
“Name and business?”
The twins looked between one another, before both replied as one.
“Elladan and Elrohir of Imladris, here on business of the Lord Elrond.”
The eyes squinted even further than they had been – impressive, if slightly creepy – before they looked downwards, and their owner scoffed.
“And do you speak for this fella? He’s not even talking to us.” Looking down, beside Elladan was a Dwarf – a shock of tawny hair decorated his head, done up in braids which were messy and windswept, like he hadn’t the opportunity to redo them; it stuck out in all directions like static, and he had tattoos covering his ears. A large beard adorned his face, as most Dwarves had, white seeping into it in thick streaks, and he was dressed in an odd way – like someone had mashed together all the clothes they had, just so they would fit. If he was wearing armour, it wasn’t on display; all together, beside Elladan stood a highly unusual Dwarf indeed.
He looked to them, wide-eyed, and, in a broken, unsteady voice, muttered something.
“Sorry?”
“Said, don’t know much Westron,” the Dwarf repeated, louder, and his voice wasn’t as dark as Elrohir initially thought; instead, it was quite light, but churned like rocks beneath the sea, unsteady not through emotion or instability, but through its nature. He flung his hands about as he spoke, like he was trying to talk with them.
“What kind of Dwarf doesn’t know Westron, I asked him, and he hasn’t given me an answer,” the doorman huffed, still eyeing up the Dwarf like a drunk man trying to figure out how long he’d last in a barfight. The Dwarf made no sign of having heard, neither turning his head nor flicking his eyes away from the twins, and instead, he pointed two fingers from his right hand to just in front of his right ear, and three to his left. “And he keeps doing all that… that hand stuff! I can’t let you two in until he leaves, or talks.” Wonderful.
Unfortunately for the doorman, he’d said that to two Elves who were trained diplomats – though they hardly ever used that particular skillset, both Elrohir and his brother were able in the compromising department.
“Well, good doorman, let us help you with this Dwarf! We are experts on character,” Elladan called out, as Elrohir directed his own horse so that he and Elladan sandwiched the Dwarf.
“Who are you?” he asked, voice clear and slow. The Dwarf looked between him, his mouth, and his horse, who puffed outwards, clearly bored with all this standing around. Elrohir privately agreed; their quickest way in was to get the Dwarf to run off, or get the Dwarf in with them.
“I am B- Baraz,” he answered, slow in his speech and squinting slightly, like he was trying to hear.
“Alright, Baraz ,” Elrohir started. The Dwarf stuttered so much on his own name – it couldn’t be true; Elrohir, for a brief moment, thought he could recognise the Dwarf from somewhere, but the moment passed, and the name Baraz lodged itself in his brain despite his mind whispering about it being wrong. “Why are you here, and why won’t you answer the doorman? Do you know where ‘here’ is?” Once again, the Dwarf stared at his mouth, eyes only occasionally flicking upwards to meet Elrohir’s eyes. “Do you dislike Elves?”
“I mean no disrespect, El- master Elf, sorry. I can’t hear,” Baraz replied, eyes now switching between Elrohir’s and the ground. The whole time he spoke, he moved his hands about like they formed their own little words, and when he said he couldn’t hear, he placed his fingers back up to his ears again, and tapped them a few times to emphasise their presence.
“Elladan! We may have a deaf Dwarf on our hands!”
“Oh, just what I needed today,” the doorman muttered dramatically. Neither Elf took notice, as doormen were always dramatic. Possibly more so than even Thranduil. “Ask him why he’s here, would you?”
“We shall do, kind sir!” Elladan responded, buttering up the poor man in case things didn’t quite go to plan. Fortunately for them, things always went to plan – not that there ever was a plan, spoken or otherwise, but being so close allowed them to predict one another’s movements, speech, and decisions with uncanny accuracy. Or, at least, that’s what Arwen told them. Elladan, sneakily as he could, set up a mute-space around them, isolating their speech so others would hear nothing but the crickets.
“Master Baraz, why are you here?”
“Er- just passing through, really. Wanting clothes.”
“Yes, we can see that,” Elrohir murmured, taking in the truly poor state of Baraz’s clothing. He turned his attention back to the doorman, who looked at them expectantly, and Elladan dropped his mute-space. “Just looking to make some trades, he’ll be gone by tomorrow.”
“...Fine. But only because you two are here on business, and you don’t seem the type to leave,” the doorman replied, and the slit he peered through vanished. Another series of eerily quiet clicks sounded out, and soon, the gates were opening – not enough for them to fit side by side, but wide enough the horses could get through without trouble, and Baraz limped along between them.

Gleaming was an understatement when it came to the cleanliness of Minas Tirith; it practically glowed in the sunlight, though as they watched, the walls became visibly dirtier the lower down in the city one walked. He supposed it made sense – more traffic, be it by foot or cart, would cause more dirt being kicked up, more dust. That is to say, the city was not unclean in any way; no, it was nearly impressive, and would have been, had they not been there before. Their horses were stored in a little paddock dedicated to Elven visitors, their chestnut beauties fed and watered satisfactorily, and they walked through the first level. The twins parted ways with Baraz just before ascending to the second level of the city, which he wouldn’t have been cleared to enter; he thanked them profusely before hobbling away, and both found it funny how he lengthened his Ls – it amused them so much that they began calling one another Elf, with an increasingly longer L each time.
“Very odd how he did that,” Elladan said as the two walked, bee-lining for the entrance for the third level.
“Indeed,” Elrohir answered, mind wandering; Baraz always seemed like he was going to call them something else, but stopped himself each time. “He was probably trying to stop himself from cursing at us in Khuzdûl.”
“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t cursing at us the whole time in that hand-language of his. Some of them seemed… rather rude, in all honesty.”
“Ah, but there is a difference in culture to be considered.”
“That, brother, is true.”

They wove through streets and side-alleys, dancing through vendor booths, past houses, and at one point, through someone’s garden, and they ascended all the way to the top, where a grand hall awaited them, its doors open as news of their arrival travelled up the city’s ranks.

Within was a large hall, with benches surrounding the outer walls. In the centre, towards the back, a large throne-like chair stood, empty, cloth placed reverentially over it as though awaiting the right person to sit there. Beside it was a smaller chair, occupied by a Man; he was old and grey, and looked incredibly weary despite the early morning hour, though he nodded respectfully to the twins.
“Your father told me to expect you. You’re welcome to stay in our Elvish visiting quarters, for as long as you need; I must warn you both, though, for I feel your father has not. What we’re dealing with is worse than he thought.”

–x–x–x–

Dry grass surrounded them, expanding outwards on all sides, not a lick of green in sight; even the treetops seemed deadened, unenthusiastic and desaturated.
“Where do we go now? We’ve got no lead,” Tauriel asked, addressing the group as they searched the area surrounding Bilbo’s last appearance. They still hadn’t seen him since he may-or-may-not-have-been shot all those nights ago. They’d rested, and continued at a much more sustainable pace, though with no less fervour, racing to converge upon Bilbo’s last known location. They had searched and searched, but nothing came up – not even after a day of looking.
They needed to think. Where would Bilbo go, after being shot? Where was he trying to get to originally?
“I can’t hear anyone around,” Nori said, squinting into the middle-distance as he focused on his hearing. “Can’t hear any foxes either.”
“It’s likely he changed by now,” Bifur signed, and Thorin translated to the Elves and Tharkûn.
“It’s true; he’d not stay in one form for longer than necessary, especially after being caught. And if he’s injured, it wouldn’t be uncharacteristic of him to disregard his injury in favour of moving on. He’s done it before,” Thorin spoke, thinking out loud for the benefit of those around him; he’d noticed they’d often end up at a conclusion quicker if everyone took part, and though he felt he had no right to speak for Bilbo, every piece of information or idea was assistive. The quicker they found Bilbo, the better – his hobbit was a self-destructive idiot. From the way he smiled at the corner of his mouth when he was in disbelief to his little indignant huff, Bilbo was a creature of nature, and, unfortunately, his nature was to help at all costs – even if the cost was his life.
His self-destructive idiot.
But he had no right to claim that, did he?
Oh, Mahal, he’d gone and found his One, only to quite literally royally cock it up.

“We could wait until you see him, or move on to the closest town, ask if they’ve seen anything.”
“I’m not guaranteed to see anything,” Tauriel replied. “We should keep moving, even if it’s only to the next town.”
“We’ll let Legolas do the talking, though, agreed?”
Several ‘aye’s and ‘definitely’s answered, and Tharkûn produced a map from his sleeve – limitless pockets, they appeared to be, storing all manner of things.
“Minas Tirith will be our best bet.”

–x–x–x–

“Close one, that.”
“Indeed.”
“Could’ve stuttered less.”
“Do you want me to turn into a fish?”
The Ring reeled back (as much as a ring can) at that, inhaling through what, on a physical body, would have been gritted teeth. They’d had some trouble getting up the last part of the Anduin, and Bilbo had turned into a fish to swim downstream, only to be violently shouted at by the Ring, which vehemently condemned water in any capacity. To learn they shared a hatred of water made Bilbo see it as less of an object, and more of an equal; it had absorbed a personality from somewhere, and was making it his problem.

It really didn’t help when, while trying not to give himself away, all he could hear in his ears was a poorly-sung rendition of a Gondorian tavern song the Ring was singing to him, to give a ‘history lesson’ – it added to the lie’s believability, as Bilbo really had needed to watch Elrohir’s mouth to see what he was saying, but all he had wanted to do the whole time was throttle the little pouch around his neck.
“I helped your performance.”
“You did little but annoy me like a petulant child – or, perhaps, a drunken Elf,” Bilbo replied, muttering under his breath so as to avoid adding to the wary glances he was already getting.
“A drunken Dwarf would be more appropriate, surely,” it purred, voice echoing through his mind – it was a similar sound to being in the caves with that creature, or walking through the treasury, any and all noise ricocheting against each and every surface.
“Thematically, perhaps, but realistically, Elves are far messier when they’re drunk.”
“And how would you know?”
“Oh, don’t lie, you were there,” Bilbo said; memories of two very, very drunk Elves in the basement of a half-baked kingdom falling further and further from grace with each of their king’s antics flashed within his mind. They’d fallen asleep, eventually, but by the Valar, they’d been loud beforehand. And childish. And utterly vulgar . They were quite possibly worse than Bofur, whether he was drunk or sober, and that was a concerning sign for anyone wishing to retain even a slither of dignity.

He didn’t really need to be in Minas Tirith, not for clothing, no matter what he’d told Elladan and Elrohir. No, he was there for a particular something, from a particular someone. Or, rather, to leave a message for a particular someone, and possibly gain some knowledge in the process.
Minas Tirith was well-known across Middle Earth for being vast and great, and many recalled its use in battle, remembering the feats by its stewards and kings, and the tactical prowess it holds over the South-East portion of the continent. But what many forgot about were the libraries.
Gandalf had talked about them, once, to his mother when he was but a faunt, waddling around and laughing with flour in his hair and daisies in his hands. He’d told her of their grandeur, their size; the requirements for one to get into them, and the secrets they held. The city was a haven for records and historical accounts, keeping them safe throughout many a war and fight. Its records were so old, so preciou-
“Not that word.”
Alright, you dolt, Bilbo thought, his thinking caught off guard by the Ring’s intervention. How had it read his mind? It had some connections to his thoughts and feelings, as had been established, but only momentarily – to be able to pick out specific words was… new. And did not bode well. He would have to stop talking to it so much – really, it concerned him how quickly he’d started thinking of it as a person rather than a thing. Bilbo ran his fingers along the hems of his shirt, and decided he would test the Ring, see what it could respond to and what it knew.
Libraries, he’d been thinking about – and he wondered whether or not Erebor had had libraries. Surely, it must have, as a kingdom so powerful in its day – it must have held records and books and knowledge, must have had educated civilians and open access to information. He wondered what they were like; did they stand tall and intimidating and beautiful, like the rest of the mountain’s architecture, or was it small and secluded, built in a rush with little regard for its purpose? But no, it couldn’t be, dwarrow enjoyed making things far too much to allow such a creation to go undecorated, to be underwhelming. No, it must have been vast and wondrous, much like its inhabitants.

By now, he’d walked almost the entirety of the first level of the city, and would need far more clearance than he had to get any higher up; so, as he walked, he thought. What could he be, which was inconspicuous, but not something which flew? He knew the Ring was too heavy for him as a thrush, and his likelihood of getting away with anything bigger was so low it was practically underground. He couldn’t stay a Dwarf, either, as he would surely bump into someone he knew, and he’d had enough trouble as it was with Elladan and Elrohir at the gates. No, he needed to transform, but what into was the question. He paced as he thought, pinching his hems between his fingers, and a little spider crawled past him, climbing the stone before entering a previously unnoticed hole in the wall.
A spider would do nicely.

It was hard work, pulling himself up, the Ring’s weight sometimes dragging him downwards – luckily, he was small enough to be caught by even the slightest imperfection in the wall’s surface. A stone which had been laid slightly outwards had acted as a ledge for him many times, and Bilbo found himself thanking the flawed nature of mortality. It was only when he got through the library’s window and onto a shelf that he realised he needed to transform into something else, big enough to read but average enough not to be noticed. He hadn’t killed any members of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth before, but knew Thrór had; it was interesting, really, how he’d discovered he could turn into a Dwarf. And horrifying. He’d had to raid some poor Man’s drawers for his clothing, as nothing more than a squirrel, sneaking away in the night, trailing a pair of trousers and a shirt entirely too large behind him.
It was strange, really – along with Thrór’s ability, he’d absorbed his skillset, and a weird type of intuition which told him what options he had. He knew, sitting upon a dusty set of scrolls in a dark corner of the library, that he could transform into a Man – many Men, really. But he wasn’t so sure the clothes would fit, and was certain he’d be kicked out if he was spotted anyway.
Writing the note first and hoping he wasn’t caught was the best plan he came up with.

Still as a spider, he gently – and slowly – took a piece of paper from the front desk, crawling back to his dark corner to write; he became a Man, and loathed how tall it made him; he had not quite the height of an Elf, and not quite the stoutness of a Dwarf, and feet far too small to be Hobbitish in nature, and all of it made him wildly uncomfortable. He’d originally been surprised at how much easier it had been for him to wear shoes as a Dwarf – now, he hated that he knew what it felt like, and missed feeling the grass between his toes. He’d even take the dingy carpet below him over the leather which covered his feet.
Black hair coated his jawline and a shorn head of hair poked at his skull; aged arms greeted his vision as he looked down, mottled from exposure to the sun, speckled with moles and freckles and sun-spots. His nails were dirty, and a thin cut ran along the width of his new neck, though it did not bleed. He felt terror, and remembered just how intense the initial emotion was whenever he transformed; it had, as of yet, not been something nice.
He penned his note quickly and quietly, making sure to include only the most necessary information. Now, hiding it well would prove difficult; he had to find the right book. So, he took the note in his mouth, and became a spider once again – this time, of the jumping variety, so he could dart between shelves without risking being stepped on. There were few within the library’s large hall, but he didn’t wish to risk death via unplanned dissection. Some poor Man would step on a spider, only to look down and see a graphically gored Hobbit wearing Big Folk clothes. Besides, the note would give him away – it was difficult to traverse with it, but jumping with something so large was infinitely better than risking injury or death. He read each section’s placard before moving on, waiting to see if there were any likely candidates for his note. In the dim light of the library, he saw very little, but out of the corner of his eye, a silver placard caught the light just at the right time, highlighting its text. A Khuzdûl section. Bifur couldn’t read Westron – not with the fluency he had in Khuzdûl, anyway, so he often didn’t. If anyone came looking for him, it would be Bifur.
He placed the note carefully in a page of a tome of Dwarven legends; he couldn’t read it, but it displayed a picture of a ring, which he hoped would point the Dwarf in the right direction. Next up was research.
Night fell and the sun started to peek above the horizon once again by the time Bilbo ceased in his reading. He’d gone through much of Elvish legend, along with many of the wars of Minas Tirith, and Gondor as a whole, reading its history in both its condensed and detailed forms. Then, he obsessed over geological maps, reading about the topology of the areas surrounding Gondor, as well as logs about its caves, of which little was known.
The word ‘scary’ would be a gross understatement. Over the course of eight or so hours, he’d learned that the little ring he carried – his Ring – was likely one of the famed Rings of Power, made millenia before Hobbits even came into being, and able to be destroyed only by the means with which they were forged. He’d studied their histories as far as he could; the Dwarven ones were locked behind a language he didn’t understand, though from the Elvish papers, he found that many seemed to have been lost or destroyed, as had those of Man. The Elvish ones still yet persist, though their locations were documented as being protected, the knowledge itself sacred and dangerous; and, when he read of the One Ring, Bilbo supposed that was quite sensible of them – though, perhaps dismantlement would be a better alternative. That was what he was to do – destroy the Ring within the fires of its birth. A volcano many called a mountain, under the name Amon Amarth, colloquially Orodruin; the Mountain of Faith, the Burning Mountain, one of Fiery Red – epithets for a rock borne of the world’s movements, placed in Arda and fulfilling one sole purpose. In Westron, it was called Mount Doom.

–x–x–x–

The problem with being a medical professional for Dwarves is that Dwarves do not think they need medical assistance, and medical practitioners cannot force someone to accept medical assistance unless they are proven to be a danger to themselves. Dwarrow often fall under the impression that, because they are physically squatter and sturdier-looking than most, they don’t need as much time to rest and recuperate. This is untrue.
Unfortunately, getting two princely patients to believe that had already claimed its space in Óin’s mental list of impossible tasks; this was only exacerbated when he found their beds empty, and no sign of either Prince, nor their weapons and key belongings.
If he didn’t find them, Dís would hang him by his balls, and his head would be shorn over and over until they returned, at which point his hair would grow quickly due to the blood rushing to his head from the aforementioned ball-hanging.
If he did, he would give them a good ear-clipping, followed by forced bedrest for three weeks in a room shared solely by their mother and Dori. The two, when together, made a formidable duo; each care endlessly for those they consider family, and are often classified as exemplary dwarrow, in both Dwarven beauty and strength. They only ever made each other more intimidating to everyone else, and it had become a game of theirs, over the years. Óin sometimes wished he were a fly on the wall, the days they were placed in the same building.

“I’ve called a meeting, as you’re aware,” he spoke, the remaining Company hanging onto his words. He’d never called a meeting – not unless they counted the time he advertised a wrestling match at Beorn’s, utilising the fine green garden he’d given them access to. “We’ve a slight problem.”
“Can’t get much worse, can it?” Bofur joked light-heartedly. Óin pretended he hadn’t heard.
“Our esteemed Princes have gone missing.”
Groans and exclamations circled the oddly empty table, cries of stress and disbelief which reverberated around the room – all of them felt it.
“The good news,” Óin continued, hoping to bring the meeting back to a meeting and not a pity party, “is that there is no sign of a struggle. Wherever they are, they’re armed, equipped, and have their necessities.”
“Oh, goody,” Dwalin started sarcastically. “The toddlers have knives!”

It had taken them a good long while to figure out what they were going to do; all of them had known Fíli and Kíli in some capacity since they were born, and they’d all spent the last several months together around the clock, so they all thought they had a decent chance of figuring out where they’d gone.
The only thing was, none of them could help the feeling that they were missing something. Something important.

–x–x–x–

Cool night air caressed against his skin like a sharp blade, tantalisingly close to creating a cut, but too sharp and momentary to bother. It paled in comparison to the deep stabbing sensation which slammed into him at the sight of a familiar lot of cloth; along the river, upon its Eastern bank, lay a small, significant pair of garments, consisting of fabric woven together in a tube-like shape, and several holes towards the top, each sized and placed with exact measurements, specific to their owner. Their owner, who cared an awful lot about the one who’d made him those gloves, wearables made with love and concern; Bilbo was a sentimental creature, and did not let such things go so easily.

To say Thorin wept into the night holding the shells which covered his hobbit’s hands would be accurate. To say he cried alone, would not, though he certainly wailed the longest, until his throat became hoarse and he could no longer speak.

Chapter Text

Once, many moons ago, there was a maiden, a bloom like snow; she chose a Man, whose life was short, and in return, she received naught, but love. In moonlight they did dance, and the sun grew jealous of their love; when they shared songs with the day, the night wept at the loss.
She was not the last, and never would be, for love transcends physical form – souls link together like chains, across lifetimes and through the most unlikely of connections, and it is said among some of the smaller folk that little invisible ribbons tie you to your love, be they platonic or romantic in relation. For some, the lady is less fair, and for others, the man is more heroic, but in all tales, they are both worthy of each other.
Many know of the love story of Beren and Lúthien. Their story travels across time and space, indiscriminate in who enjoys it.
When Beren died in her arms, Lúthien became overwhelmed with grief – not for the first time in her life, nor for the last. She travelled to the Halls of Mandos, and sang for a mortal life, which was granted to her and Beren, and they lived out their days, dying as mortals do. It was a choiceless decision which led her to Mandos, begging through music, the language of all who Sang the Song, for personhood once again, a chance to experience a life instead of just living. He gave her a choice, and, hopeful, she chose, though there was only ever one option for her.

Arwen had been told this tale many times throughout her life; her epithet, Evenstar, reflected Lúthien’s, and though she knew it was for their similar beauty and blood relation, she knew she felt some of that grief now; for, along the map folded out before her, edges curled and paper tanned with use, a fault ran through it, each glance sending unfathomable pain and loss into her heart. Surely, no mortal could experience such sorrow, such suffering? To have experienced life for such little time, only to be able to feel the agony of losing – to be wholly lost, confused and angry at the way life has unfolded – that requires a depth of love seen and heard only in those kinds of legends, formed strong and steadfast as trees taking root. Lúthien wept as Beren died, and begged the Valar for another chance. In the map, Arwen could feel the same desperation emanating from two different beings, close enough to reach but too far to run; one on a march to his own funeral for the benefit of others, and the other on a barely-fuelled mission to keep his One alive.
One.
That meant one of them was a Dwarf.
How Ada was dealing with it, she did not know; the likely answer is that he wasn’t, and wouldn’t. The map was so intense, like a heatwave and blizzard all at once, so she simply left to her room, where everything went blank, and she finally could rest.

Her grandmother’s voice was the last thing she expected to awaken her.

–x–x–x–

Flying was hard work. His shoulders hurt, his feathers ungroomed, and he had a muscle cramp from where the Elf had been sitting on his back for the last few hours, restricting his movement and placing extra pressure on his flapping to keep them afloat. Eagles were not designed for so much long-distance flying in such a short amount of time.

–x–x–x–

Few birds sang within these woods, preferring to keep their beaks closed for fear of being tracked and devoured by giant arachnids which scuttled hungrily among the trees. Silence dominated Mirkwood, the Southern half’s lack of sound amplified by its emptiness; no one lived there, nor did anyone want to. Water rushed to meet the sun, running out of the shadows cast by Mirkwood’s trees, hoping to warm itself with light-heat, though no sun stood in the sky; the moon hung in its place instead, reflecting but never producing, cool and calm compared to the sun’s intensity. Not an owl hooted – or trilled, chirped, squeaked, or squawked – and no bats flew through the trees, and even flies were minimal in number. No crickets danced, and no foxes sang. Silence, thick like clay, lay in the atmosphere, smothering any signs of life which might have otherwise occurred. A complete lack of auditory input was unsettling at the best of times; now, two still-recovering dwarrow stepped as silently as they could, sticking close to the forest’s edge so as to keep themselves hidden from possible threats. Night was especially dangerous – they could see easily, but Dwarvish vision is designed for seeing in caves and mountains with minimal lighting, not open plains, the likes of which covered the majority of the Southern portion of Rhovanion. Even the occasional ridge or crevice would have been welcome.
As it was, their boars walked freely in the plains, trained not to wander too far, but far enough that their sounds weren’t indicative of anyone’s presence to enemies or threats. For all the flack Dáin got for being weirdly obsessed with the animals, he knew how to train them, and train them well.

Fíli was pulled from his never-ending thoughts by a splashing sound echoing around them, bouncing off of the trees to their right and into the open lands to their left. He need not look to know that Kíli knelt as he did; he could hear the action happening, feel it behind him as his younger brother struggled to remain silent, forcing himself to be quiet despite the myriad of thoughts running through his mind (which, in his current state, still had the habit of skipping over his tongue before he could even finish thinking). They looked to one another, nodding – investigate .

Amad taught them how to be smart. Unfortunately for her, both he and Kíli had spent the last several months around Uncle Thorin, who made notoriously dumb decisions in the heat of the moment, and around one another. Though the latter differed no more than what normally occurred – they were very close – they had no Amad to stop them, with the closest thing to it being a mix of Balin’s sweet Silvertongue words and disappointed gazes, Óin’s professionally perfected phrases (which were strong enough to cause ego-death in any sane being), and Uncle Bilbo’s phenomenally outlandish tactics; since they’d spent most of their lives building resistance to the first two, Bilbo was really the only thing that made them stop and consider whether or not a plan was a good idea.
Bilbo was not there.

“Twice like a barn owl, once like a brown owl,” Fíli breathed, barely making a sound so as not to disturb the silence around them, or whatever was making the splashing. Kíli nodded once, and the two crept forward slowly, swerving their way through Mirkwood’s not-too-densely packed outer edges, making sure to watch their step lest they step on a leaf or twig. They knew how much that could hurt in a forest like this.
Eventually, a speck of pale, near-translucent looking flesh appeared, before flashing back downwards, dipping into whatever hole in the ground it was looking at. Fíli stilled, attempting to recall a creature such as that – he hadn’t gotten a good look at it, but its colour was so sickly, so malnourished in nature that it shook him to even consider what could have caused it. He instead turned to face Kíli, batting his hand downwards in midair in a command to remain low to the ground. Treading like the very ground itself would shatter should they step wrongly, they advanced once again, and Fíli realised how advantageous it would have been to have Nori or Bilbo here – either of them would be able to indicate how to walk quieter, or give a reference for how loud they were being. As it was, they had to guess themselves; being accustomed to the heavy footsteps of dwarrow, Fíli found himself becoming increasingly aware of the fact that he had no reference for volume, aside from the splashes they were investigating.

“Nasty, nasty fishes, isn’t it, Precious?” The voice stopped the dwarrow in their tracks, and they looked wide-eyed at one another, each turning to get a better angle so they could see the speaker. It was mucus-y and dark in nature, like a cat who had phlegm stuck in its throat, and it spat out its words as if they hurt.
“Well, they makes us a fun game, doesn’t they, Precious?” a second voice replied; it was similarly mucus-y, though much lighter, and sounded eerily childlike. As Fíli advanced, he came to a standstill; before them both was a small lake, perfectly blue as if it was pulled from a children’s book, reflecting the moon on its surface. Weeds and grasses grew around the edges, taller and greener as they got closer to the water source, with some sprouting weird bell-like growths; Bombur would have easily told them what it was if it was edible, and Óin if it was medical. Bilbo, even, if it was anything otherwise. But, once again, with no allies present, Fíli was left to push the thought to the back of his mind, prioritising the creature before him instead. He’d avoided looking at it, for the sight brought a sickness to his throat, and conjured pity into his chest; Kíli looked the same, staring instead at the oh-so-blue water, and Fíli wondered what details he was seeing that caused his eyebrows to draw together and his face to crumple up as it had.
It was pale, gangly, and – as he had guessed from its skin – malnourished, the severity of it making him want to gag.
Silence, tense and yet full, sat thick under the dark canopy as they watched the creature sit at the lake’s edge, whispering inaudibly to itself, with only its rasps and gurgles audible. Then, like an animal being hunted (or, perhaps, the hunter), it darted into the water, pulling a fresh fish out between its teeth, and ate it whole as it writhed in the creature’s bony hands.

Fíli looked to his brother, who hadn’t moved a muscle throughout the whole ordeal, but was looking at it with a distinct expression of disgust; in fact, he looked a bit green, like he’d had a tad much to drink. One look, and they nodded – it was time to leave. As they reversed, slow and cautious so as not to alert whatever it was they’d just watched for the last however-long (too long), it spoke again, though to what, neither could see – it was the second voice, happy and childish, deceptively light.
“Good, good, we’ve eaten, Precious! Now, we finds a cave, we do, and get the nasty, tricksy Bagginses…”
It muttered as it began to walk – thankfully in the opposite direction to the forest’s edge, where they were headed – but at its last word, both dwarrow stopped, staying stock-still as the realisation hit them: whatever this was, it was looking for something by the name of Baggins.
“It’s looking for Bilbo,” Kíli whispered, barely breathing so as not to alert the creature, and Fíli nodded, mimicking Kíli’s volume.
“Can’t be for anything good.”
“Nothing good, it says, does it?” a voice asked, reverberating around them as though they were surrounded by the voice; it encompassed them, and Fíli recognised it to be the first, dark and choking. He stilled once again, before looking to Kíli; they didn’t know where it was, or what it was capable of, both mentally and physically. Fight or flight would normally have taken over in situations like these – they’d start fighting back-to-back as they had outside Erebor, or would’ve run for their lives like they had done so several times over the last few months; either would have been easy, as they had no short amount of practice. But, as it was, Kíli was still loosely affected by his concussion and subsequent medication, and this creature was, at best, unpredictable. But it had met Bilbo – or, at least, someone carrying his name – and survived. So, really, the question was not what should they do – it’s what would Bilbo do?
“Do you know a Baggins?” Fíli asked into the trees, standing slowly and turning to address all possible angles. Kíli looked at him, shaking his head aggressively as he pulled Fíli down from his sleeve. Fíli shook his head in turn, and stood back up, slow and sure in his movements – it wouldn’t do to upset the creature. “You know, short, curly hair, kind of sneaky?”
“Sneaky, sneaky, indeed,” the voice said again, though from a different direction. Though he couldn’t see the creature, he guessed it was moving around them. “A Thief, Bagginses is.”
“Thief?”
“Yes,” it hissed, horrifically close; Fíli turned to see the creature behind him, on all fours, wavering as it stood like it couldn’t bear the thought of sitting still. Kíli was leaning back on his arms, half-squatting, obviously having fallen over as the creature got closer. “He stole it! We’re finding him, Precious!”
“You’re finding him?” Fíli found himself asking, mind detached from whatever his mouth chose to do; Balin’s training was the last thing he thought of, but might very well be the thing that’ll save them. The creature brightened again, the second voice coming out.
“Oh, yes, we are, Precious,” it said playfully. “We’re finding Bagginses – we knows where it is – and then we takes it back, we does, and then, then we- what will we do, Precious?” It sat thoughtfully, looking to the canopy like it was trying to think, before a chesty coughing fit caught it; it sounded almost like a word – gollum – but pained, and choked out rather than spoken. Then, the darker voice answered.
“We kills it, that’s what,” it said gloomily. “So it doesn’t takes from us ever again.” Great – it spoke to itself, had coughing fits, and was aiming to steal something from Bilbo and kill him afterwards.
“Well, what if- Mister, erm- we didn’t quite catch your name?”
“Names, Precious? We talks between ourselves, no nameses needed. Gollum-”
“-gollum, well, Precious, we does have nameses, doesn’t we, Precious? But, but we doesn’t use them, no, not just for us.”
“...Alright, then,” Fíli said unsurely – he and Kíli would figure it out later, if there was a ‘later’ to consider. “Well, what if we teamed up – us and you – to find this Baggins, eh? Then, you take what you need, and we’ll make sure he doesn’t see you again.” Kíli’s jaw dropped like Fíli had just made an incredibly stupid decision – which, judging by the creature’s faces, he had. It sat in its spot, face morphing between a pained expressions, one after the other, as it mumbled to itself in a strange way; its mannerisms while speaking were soft, and the way its speech rolled up and down, its intonation – it was oddly familiar. Fíli elected not to think about it in favour of helping Kíli up, slow and quiet so the creature wouldn’t react. Finally, it snapped its head up at them, and smiled unsettlingly, displaying a whole nine teeth, each one a blunt knife poking out of its mouth, positioned with no obvious pattern.
“What does you have to offer us?”
“Protection, and travel – we’ve got boars.”
“No need for either, no… if you takes Baggins away, we’ll come.”
“Agreed.”

–x–x–x–

Celadon leaves coloured the ground, Lothlórien’s forests green even as the world grew colder. In the autumn, it turned orange, though its leaves never shed, instead turning a mystic green-grey before rejuvenating into a wondrous, vibrant green when springtime came around. It was beautiful. Its ethereal atmosphere was, no doubt, assisted by its inhabitants, all clad in white with pale skin and hair, not too dissimilar to the palette of their home – however, one particular inhabitant increased its unworldly ambience much more than the others; she could speak without speaking, even across great distances, and wore Nenya, which expanded her impressive abilities even further. The Lady Galadriel awaited his report, and he was to deliver. Afterwards, he would bid the Eagles adieu, thankful for their service but absolutely enervated by his travels as of late, and return to Imladris on foot.
Alas, as it often is within Elrond’s life, such a plan would never come to fruition; instead, as the Eagles swept downwards towards their destination, he could feel himself start to lose his hold, slipping further and further from feathered flesh-

Ash rained down upon all, a great terrible cloud, covering whatever stood in its way, ploughing through civilisations like not even Ancalagon could compete against its might and size; all who were caught in it perished, and those who were not suffered, homes, whether above or below ground, collapsing in on themselves from the sheer volume of mass falling down onto them. Grey snow covered all land, and the sea was no longer visible below its thickness.
Then, starting again. The world was as it is, and Elrond was sat on the back of an Eagle, just about to dive towards Lothlórien; this never came to pass, as, just before their dive, a rumble sounded out throughout the land and sky, disturbing wind currents and pushing a powerful blast outwards from the epicentre – the South-East. Looking towards the source, a plume of smoke and ash and fire surged outwards from Orodruin, lava cascading down its sides and consuming whatever it touched. Upon a rock was a sole figure, watching the world around them die, seemingly speaking to someone as they sat – and, eventually, they were consumed by molten rock, drowning in it.
The silhouette of a bird appeared just as the figure’s head was swallowed by the fires of Mount Doom.

White sheets and brown feathers were all he could feel or see, and the world felt like a boat, rocking unsteadily upon a river’s rapids. Thin fabrics covered his legs, which contrasted the thick cloaks he was used to wearing; through their lightness, they almost felt unreal, a figment of his imagination, but it was not so – something so delicate would never feel so real if conjured by the mind. In contrast to the gentle white fabric were soft, thick, heavy brown feathers, a wing resting upon him as a duvet and personal heater. The owner of said feathers slept soundly, nestled up between the bed he was laying on – again, delicate in nature – and the wall, bright and lacking any windows. It was disorientating, really – a creature so large, which he’d watched tear many a creature apart, sitting beside him with care and fragility as it spread its wing over his form. It is then that Elrond belatedly realised he was not cold, nor warm – he shuffled upwards, sitting against his pillow, and checked himself over, moving each body part from his feet upwards to ensure he maintained full movement. He ached, yes, and appeared to have a nasty bruise on his back which, after further inspection, covered his right side from just above his kidney to his neck, centring around his shoulder blade, which ached more than the rest of him, though was completely mobile. It felt like he’d been bodied by a ten-tonne brick; judging by the Eagle’s ruffled feathers and the Elf-shaped indent in its plumage, Elrond concluded that he had (though, even in his pained state, could tell ten tonnes was a mite dramatic).

As he shifted, the Eagle awoke, blinking blearily before turning to face him fully, chirping – now that he could see the face, he could tell it was Meneldor, who couldn’t talk but had an impressive ability to convey incredibly complex sentences through chirps and head movements alone. If the Eagles of Manwë weren’t already blessed with the Valar’s own domain, Meneldor would have been a dangerous Silvertongue, or an even worse Soulspeaker. The Eagle in question looked to him, as if sensing his apprehension; despite his current safety, and the fog smothering his thoughts, Elrond was suspiciously anxious, like he was supposed to be doing something. What had he done? Last he remembered, he had been flying as normal on Landroval’s back, and then he was falling, but why had he fallen?
“Why did I fall?” he asked aloud, and felt rather like a confused child for it; Meneldor, however, indulged, doing a comically exaggerated impression of the Elf. He puffed out his feathers and slicked down the ones upon his head, sitting as upright as possible, chirping as if talking absently like Elrond so often did while travelling with Eagles. Then, Meneldor stopped, staring harshly at the wall before creating a high-pitched whistle and dropping his head.
“You should be an actor,” Elrond remarked, laughing to himself as Meneldor squawked indignantly. Nudging him, he ruffled his feathers again, before settling down grumpily. Elrond turned away, looking ahead of him, where, upon a white chest of drawers, was a beautifully-sculpted stone dragon-
not even Ancalagon could compete against its might and size -
Right.
“We need to leave,” he said to Meneldor, who cheeped like a sighing mother, full of disagreement but fully aware he had no control over what Elrond would choose to do.

Not an hour later, they were up in the sky again, followed only by Landroval, who had grouchily agreed to their plans; every second was precious. It was a race for the fate of all.

–x–x–x–

Grasses were growing. Grasses, in the desolation.

Some said it was a gift from the Valar, their way of congratulating mortal-kind for reclaiming Erebor, and killing one of the last few draconic menaces left, eradicating its havoc from their corner of the world. Others said it was the world, grieving for the little fellow who’d been caught up in it all; though few knew what he was, and even fewer knew it was Hobbit and not Halfling, everyone – somehow – was aware of their affinity for plants.

“Da, are all of them alive?” Tilda asked, looking up to the monolithic mountain with her big, soft eyes.
“I’m not sure, Tilda,” Bard replied truthfully; he knew not where any of them were, or how they were doing, and – as the newly-appointed Lord of Dale – he’d been dealing with Balin, not any of the core members of the Ereboian royal family. Not that he’d told anyone. It wouldn’t do to cause political upset in an already-unstable allyship, just barely gaining its footing – he didn’t want to go so long without seeing his children ever again.
He placed an arm around Tilda, watching the mountain with her.
“I’m not sure, but we’ll muddle through whatever comes next.”

–x–x–x–

One of the first things a Hobbit learns as a child is how to forage. See, many faunts have the instinct to just… pick things up, and put them in their mouths. In most settlements – those of Man or Elf or Dwarf – this is annoying, but not particularly dangerous, in that the only dangerous items are made, and can easily be removed from the premises until the child is old enough to understand that it is usually a bad idea to stick something in your mouth as a response to not knowing what it is. This is not the case in the Shire; within Hobbiton alone, several poisonous plants can be found, growing both naturally and in private gardens, should they have another use besides making someone ill. As a result, most Hobbits tend to have strong stomachs – they can withstand much more than most, and can digest almost anything. It doesn’t come without repercussions, though, and becoming unwell as a faunt for eating something you shouldn’t is a sort of rite of passage in Shire culture.

Despite this freakish ability to eat anything green, Bilbo found himself hungry. Nothing green grew here; it was all red and grey, dirt and stones littering the ground like it’d never known life. He hadn’t even entered Mordor yet – the damned thing was surrounded by mountains. There was a front gate, he’d read, but deemed it an unwise idea to go there – he’d almost certainly be seen, and after that? Misery would be kind. As it was, he was walking around, sticking close to the mountains, waiting to see if he saw anything.
“There,” it whispered to him, precious voice ringing out in his mind, so clear he almost mistook it for being real.
He need not ask where; the Ring pointed him in the right direction, where, hidden behind a crag and the shadow it cast, was a steep, tall staircase. He sighed irritably, though showed no other signs to the Ring – he was being very, very cautious of it, in much the same way someone would if they were to share a room with a cousin they weren’t fond of.
Not that he’d had experience, no – the implication that he doesn’t like his cousins is untrue.
He doesn’t like his cousin’s wife.

Black rock towered over him, casting a deep shadow despite the dimness of the sun’s light;  jagged stairs cut out from the mountainside wound around indecisively, changing direction frequently. From his perspective, he could see no landings, nor a place to stop; it was going to be a long one, then. How he wished he could become a thrush again, and fly the rest of the way – but alas, it was not to be, for the Ring grew heavier with each step he took.
“Right. Best get on with it, then.”
With that, he began the inelegant task of climbing the first step, which was nearly hip-height for him; he was not a particularly tall Hobbit, and Hobbits are hardly known for their largeness, but this was ridiculous. The stairs must have been built for someone much, much bigger than he, or even Gandalf, for their height was unnatural, though they were slim, only just wide enough for him to pull himself up each one.

As he climbed, Bilbo’s mind wandered; the stairs were cut oddly and poorly, and he began wondering what each of his dwarrow would think of them, were they there to see. Homesickness hit him in a wave, thoroughly soaking him with its intensity – he sorely missed his- the dwarrow. The dwarrow, not his. Bifur, maybe, and Bofur and Bombur by extension, but otherwise? He knew not what they thought of him.
“You wasted it,” the Ring said, giving the impression of a shrug.
“Oh, and how much love have you experienced, exactly?”
“Enough.”
“Non-specific, avoidant answer? You’re worse than Thranduil.”
“Now that’s a low blow,” it answered pensively. “Love is universal.”
“Sure,” Bilbo replied, attempting to end the conversation he was hostage to; he couldn’t just abandon the Ring – that was the whole reason he was there – but he did not want to speak to it. Not after realising it could hear at least some of his thoughts.
“Oh, stop worrying, you clot. Your Dwarves still love you.”
“Dwarrow,” came the automatic response, before the sentence and its implications caught up with Bilbo. He then shut his mouth forcefully, his teeth clattering together in his haste.
“Dwarrow, apologies… but, you know they love you. You know you’re being unreasonable. Why don’t you just go back? Live with them, in peace? Rule alongside your dwarf-spouse as Kings?”
“You just want the power for yourself, really, and- dwarf-spouse ?” Mahal’s balls, what did it mean by that ?
“You know, the Dwarf that you married?” At Bilbo’s silence, it continued. “You know, when you asked his full name? I was there, I heard it all.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Bilbo asked faintly. He could feel the colour draining from his face, could feel it return with a vengeance, causing him to flush, unable to think back to what occasion the Ring spoke of.
“Oh, don’t tell me- you were given the full name of a Dwarf king, inner name and all, as well as a Mithril coat, for goodness’ sake! Did you seriously not know what that meant?” The Ring’s botheration mildly amused Bilbo, though it was lost on him in the moment – he was instead thinking back to when Thorin had explained the concept of Dwarven inner names to him, and- he had said something Dwarvish at the end of his name, hadn’t he?
“What’s the significance of the Mithril coat?” he asked suspiciously; if he were to take marital advice from a ring , he truly had reached a new low.
“The signif- the significance! The significance is that it’s worth more than the entirety of the Shire combined! You could buy the whole thing twice over and still have enough to live off of for the rest of your life!”
“Well, it hardly matters now,” Bilbo sighed, continuing his climb. “Though, it does mean I did one of the Proper Hobbit things before I died.” Married, to Thorin – well, it certainly wasn’t the worst going-away present he could think of.
“You’re speaking like it’s already happened,” the Ring voiced, disappointedly.
“We’re entering Mordor right now – I’m about to set off a volcano. I hardly think it’s too early to begin processing my inevitable death, no?”
The Ring did not respond.