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Bilbo grumbled as he followed his best friend Bofur into the ballroom. 

Somehow, Bofur had convinced him to go to the masquerade ball in Erebor Castle, a fortress that had been carved into the mountain that legends said once belonged to the fiercest of dwarves to have ever lived, the Durins.

Of course, that was aeons ago, when the world was divided by different races.

Nowadays, everyone was human, though scientists claimed traces of those old races still lingered. In all of them. Looking at Bofur beside him, a man of medium height but a stocky build, and then at himself, an absurdly short adult whose waistline grew quickly if he wasn’t careful, Bilbo could believe that Bofur’s ancestors had been dwarves and his own hobbits. Not that he would brag about that because apart from a few select hobbits, there were no legends or myths wrapped around them the way the other races had theirs.

Apart from the old tales of the One Ring, hobbits were obsolete. But then, looking at what must once have been a phenomenal dwarven city and was now nothing but a tourist attraction, he supposed that was true for all things long past.

Now Erebor stood shrouded in light, but in truth, she was now nothing but a mined-out husk. There was no ore left, nothing of the grandeur Bilbo had read about, only a chill in the air, one that Bofur didn’t seem to feel but that Bilbo felt seep into his bones.

Bilbo had always avoided Erebor. There was a nagging thought he’d never allowed to surface every time it came up in conversation. Whatever it could reveal would bring him nothing but heartbreak and ruin, and Bilbo wanted nothing to do with either.

“Come on, Bilbo,” Bofur said excitedly, a beaming smile showing through his bear mask. Somehow, he had convinced Bilbo to wear a bunny mask to this upscale masquerade ball, and the two had gone all out, getting the most expensive outfits with real gems sewn in, the most expensive they could afford. They were heading into Erebor, once the wealthiest city in all of Arda, after all.

That wasn’t to say Bilbo didn’t feel like a fool, and yet all his fears about his looks vanished when he actually stepped into the ballroom. It was magnificent. The light from the sconces glittered off decorations scattered around the room. It felt like stepping back in time, into another world, and yet all Bilbo could feel was a sense of wrong he didn’t understand.

As he stood there, his vision flickered. The grand ballroom vanished, replaced by a hall full of treasure, so much that it made him feel sick. And there, amongst it, was a single being Bilbo wanted to chase after, to grab, to hold, and never let go of.

“Bilbo!” a voice called. He turned quickly to see Bofur, who had apparently been calling him for some time. “You ok?” Bofur asked.

“Yes, sorry, just … it’s very impressive,” Bilbo replied with a fake smile, relieved when Bofur finally let it go. A moment later, Bofur left him to greet someone he recognised, leaving Bilbo standing at the edge of the ballroom alone, near a corridor that Bilbo knew would lead to a small room, one that could fit thirteen dwarves and a hobbit eating nothing but cram and drinking water from Erebor’s pure springs.

Bilbo shook his head. How would he know the size of thirteen dwarves and a hobbit, honestly?

As he shook off the absurd thought, he turned and saw him.

The being from his vision.

The one his very soul cried out for, even though Bilbo didn’t know why.
Bilbo took in the other’s back: a thick fur coat, one he somehow knew felt soft beneath his fingers, and long black hair that he knew would run through his fingers like silk.

His feet moved before his mind could think, following the figure down dark hallways and tunnels that were supposed to be off-limits. Bilbo didn’t care. All he could think was that he needed to reach this being before him, that he couldn’t leave until he had the other in his arms.

He had no idea who they were, but he knew they were his, as he was theirs, and he refused to let them go again.

He didn’t know how long they had been walking when suddenly the being stopped and turned. The most handsome face Bilbo had ever seen was now looking at him, smiling softly, and Bilbo’s eyes filled with tears he didn’t understand the cause of.

“Bilbo…” the being said, holding out a hand.

Bilbo stumbled forward, his vision blurred by his tears, and reached out. 

As soon as their hands touched, a lifetime of other memories flooded through Bilbo: memories of a past life, of a hobbit who had lost this very being, his very heart, once before. His hand tightened as he took a step forward.

“Thorin…” Bilbo whispered through his tears as he moved closer.

“That’s it. Come then, join me,” Thorin said, though Bilbo realised the others’ voice sounded wrong, distant, as if only a whisper was reaching him.

“What do you mean? Thorin?” Bilbo asked, fear warring with the love he felt for the dwarf.

Thorin took a deep breath, stepped closer, and pulled Bilbo into his arms. 

“Join me for eternity. I will not let you go again,” he rasped.

Bilbo looked up in fear and realised these were not his Thorin’s eyes he was looking into. These were the eyes of one overtaken by gold, greed and possessiveness.
.
“No!” Bilbo shouted, but it was too late.

He was falling.

Falling into the darkness deep beneath Erebor.

Bilbo screamed, knowing no one would save him, not as he plummeted down into the dark faster and faster.

Yet through it all, the ghost, or wraith, or whatever version of the dwarf he had once loved fell with him, promising that this time they would never be separated, that nothing and no one would ever take his Bilbo from him again.

Bilbo sobbed in his dwarf’s arms as he fell, with nothing but the wind in his face and Thorin’s voice in his ears.