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It is well into the night when Thorin slips into one of the many pubs lining the street. His fingers draw his hood to conceal his face; it is unlikely he will be recognized in such a town, but a little caution never did any harm.The Men in Bree are loud and boisterous despite the darkness of the hour. Thorin, even with his own desire to stay quiet and unnoticed, cannot seem to fault them. All Dwarrows know the relief of song and drink after a day’s hard work.As he breaks into the tough crust of the bread, the closest voices rise up and invade his private corner.“Right,” one of the Men says after a draw of his drink, “I should’ve never taken this job. Hours are long, the road is rough, money ain’t even all that much, either.”“Money’s ain’t much, neither,” a second echoes, deep in his cup.“No ‘preciation for the work too,” the third chimes in.“If it wasn’t something to send back home, d‘be gone in a heartbeat. Back to that warm bed ‘n my wife's arms.”There’s a hum in agreement.“Knowing it's for my girls is all that’s keepin’ me goin’ but aye, a man really can miss a cosy little spot by the fire.”The three quiet, eyes unfocused as they muse of their homes with their families and warm hearths and memories of old, long before they were lost to a dragon-Thorin’s fingers sink into the hard cheese, feeling a prickle rise up in his throat.Motion from the group draws his eye - the second Man moves as if to clap his commiserator's shoulder, but his inebriation has him cuffing the underside of his jaw instead. Incensed, the first Man swings his fist but ends up toppling out of his chair and the somber moment breaks in a fit of raucous laughter.Thorin quickly rises to his feet, half finished meal forgone in favor of a speedy departure.He shoves his way through the door as soon as he’s paid to feel the chill of the night overtake the drunken ramblings of Men. With his cloak tight around his shoulders, he seeks shelter for the night. If luck is on his side, there will be a smithing job for him in the morning. He'll finally be able to send back a decent amount of coin to his kin in Ered Luin, and with it…He swallows down the rising hope. The letter he had penned shortly after his meeting with the Grey Wizard burns in his pack. He would send it alongside the money and then wait with bated breath for confirmation.For so long the Lonely Mountain has been a dream, one of a young Dwarf prince lost in time. He has ached for it like nothing else, for there has never been a place since that has felt like home.And now, now that its reclamation has been spoken into existence, the promise of it is so sweet on his tongue, it almost stings.Thorin takes the wizard's words to the edge of a quaint place by the name of the Shire. The land is made of dainty flowers and rolling hills with odd little dwellings built right into their sides. The people don't reflect the kindly nature of the land, however, giving Thorin suspicious once-overs, even more so when he trudges past them multiple times. The prospective burglar's house proves to be frustratingly difficult to locate.When he finally does spot the marked door, it opens to a small but expansive house with tunnels branching off and out of sight. It is filled with all kinds of fussy little keepsakes, mirroring its owner, an excitable little thing that fidgets under Thorin's scrutiny.Thorin's eyes sweep over the creature, taking in short curls, expensive night robe over a plump waist and large feet with the same curly down, as if all the hair that might have been on his smooth chin settled there instead. He catches sharp Dwarven weapons piled on the floor behind him and the picture it paints together is laughable.Thorin pushes past him. There is no need to bother himself with this stranger when his kin sit in wait for him just one room over.He has come bearing the unhappy news of no additional members to join their journey, but the familiar shapes of Dwarven faces does much to soften that hurt. The Dwarrows gathered here are the ones who answered the call of an exiled prince and for that, there is only gratitude.Of those seated at the table, it is solely Balin who would be able to recall anything of their lost home. The rest are far too young or had lived elsewhere during the rule of his grandfather.But in all their eyes, Thorin sees pride, pride of the Lonely Mountain. If Thorin had been hesitant, he is not anymore; he would see Erebor reclaimed for not only those with faded memories, but for those who have lived their whole lives on only tales of its glory.The wizard begins the discussion as he eats, spreading the map on the wooden table. Thorin feels a prick of irritation at the cavalier way he reveals information with the halfling nearby. It would be no issue if he was truly to be their burglar, but even if his appearance wasn't enough to make Thorin skeptical, his faint from the simple mention of a dragon is.The soft creature is perfectly suited to the life he lives now. A life that, despite the lack of a spouse or children, has a stuffy armchair in front of a burning hearth and plush bedding.Thorin knows the type; if he was to leave his comforts, there would be no telling how much of a storm he'd kick up about it later.As the wizard instructs a few Dwarrows to brew a cup of tea for the halfling, Thorin rises from his chair and makes his way to the door, not bothering to grab his coat from its hook. He steps out and closes his eyes to the dark sky. It has become instinct now, to seek out the stars, for he has become much more familiar with their twinkling than the cover of a roof overhead.Behind him, the round door creaks.“What is it, laddie?” Balin says. Thorin inhales deeply, bracing his forearms against the halfling’s gate. His voice is quiet when he speaks, as if to preserve the peace.“I did not wait this long to reclaim Erebor for our quest to depend upon some stranger, Balin.”Balin appears at his side, turning his face up to look at the sky with him.“It is a rather odd choice on Tharkûn’s part,” Balin agrees. “But I do not think it would be unwise to have faith in his decision. There is surely great wisdom in one who has lived for so long.”“I should not trust the word of some wizard,” Thorin scoffs. “His motivations are hardly clear.”“He could have kept the key to the mountain door to himself. Does it mean nothing that he indeed kept it safe until he could give it to you?”“It was never his to keep-!”“Perhaps not, Thorin,” Balin says patiently. “But you must remember - it was your father who gave the key to Tharkûn. If you cannot trust the wizard, trust your father. He would not have given such an important object to someone who bore ill will towards us.”He turns to Balin at this and is startled to realize that if all went as planned, Balin, who had forever been his grandfather’s advisor, would soon be advisor to Thorin. Balin’s eyes crinkle as he smiles.“Come inside, laddie. Let us hear what the Hobbit has decided.”Inside, the halfling has been revived and nurses a steaming mug to his chest. The wizard can be heard coaxing the creature to leave his home behind and experience the world for himself, not from the numerous books and maps that line his shelves.But the halfling's response is only confirmation of his character to Thorin. His eyes meet Balin’s. There is no doubt their journey will remain theirs and theirs alone.The night dwindles down after the halfling offers his guest rooms to the Company and scurries off, presumably his own cushy bed. The Dwarrows remain, but there is no unrestrained chatter or laughter among them, only a curious quiet in contemplation of the journey ahead of them. It is not altogether unexpected; this undertaking would alter the course of the rest of their lives and the lives of their kin. And if they were successful in their endeavor, their story would be the kind that passed into legend.Thorin leans against the frame of the fireplace, the dance of the fire printing itself on to the inside of his eyelids. The flames take him far away, to a day when the heat came not from a tamed hearth, but the breath of a dragon. A low hum builds in his throat and when the Company joins in song a moment later, he is devoured by dragonfire once again.There is no lingering once they have sung; they need all the rest they can get before an early departure the next morning. Thorin makes his way to his own accommodations, but pauses by the wizard who sits unconcernedly in a chair much too small for him.“The Hobbit is not coming.” It is not a question - Thorin had heard the clear conviction in the halfling’s words for himself.But the wizard smiles.“Not to worry, Thorin,” he says, “I am quite certain Bilbo will be joining us. We can expect him tomorrow morning with the Company.”Tharkûn’s certainty irks Thorin, especially over a creature that would be undoubtedly nothing more than a burden. Why the wizard chose him as the fourteenth member of the Company is beyond Thorin. He glares at the overgrown nuisance who cheerfully stuffs his pipe from a jar, wanting to shake him for answers.But he knows it would be to no avail. As it was, the only ones who would ever understand the inner goings of wizards were the wizards themselves.The halfling’s voice brings them to a stop at the edge of the Hobbit town, the contract fluttering about him in his haste. Balin’s confirmation of his signature has Thorin eyeing the wizard, who gives him a private smile.But Thorin remains unconvinced. It will only be a matter of time before bitter truth clouds any romanticization of adventure. He hopes it to be sooner than later; he doesn't need an extra body to account for.The Dwarrows are polite to the burglar, but in the distant way strangers are to one another. Murmurs in Khuzdul only turn to Westron if the halfling deliberately interjects. Even then, the words spoken are short and concise, discouraging conversation. Tharkûn might have been decent company for the creature if he wasn't constantly disappearing ahead and reappearing at random. It clearly wears on the halfling, if the muttering to himself is anything to go by, but Thorin pays it no heed. The more the halfling has to complain about, the more fuel it adds to his imminent withdrawal from the quest.It takes a few days, but the burglar finally gets his first break into conversation. Unluckily for him, it just so happens his Dwarf of choice is Glóin.The light of the sun is fading when the Company stops for the night. A few Dwarrows stretch their legs in front of the crackling fire while others mill about, helping in preparation of dinner. Thorin had taken to rearranging his pack.“That's a lovely piece of jewelry, Master, er, Glóin. May I ask who they are?” Thorin hears. His head snaps up to see the burglar peering over Glóin’s shoulder. Sure enough, the infamous locket of Glóin’s is cracked open and resting in his palms.“Why certainly, Master Burglar! This is my wife and my wee lad!”At these words, every Dwarf in the vicinity immediately makes himself scarce. Thorin heads off into the trees nearby, claiming the need for more firewood. He spends a good while searching for fallen branches, breaking them underfoot, before finally making his way back.Glóin is still rattling off tales of his boy when Thorin enters the clearing. The halfling nods along and tries for a smile, only succeeding with a rather painful grimace. But even for one who'd been so desperate for conversation, there is only so much the halfling can listen to before politely feigning weariness and tucking himself into his sleeping roll.The burglar does not make another attempt at conversation for a full two days after.It is only after the Company is nearly roasted alive by three Mountain Trolls that Tharkûn forcibly intervenes.As the Company checks for injuries, the situation is rehashed to the wizard. Tharkûn is turned away from them, tapping his staff on the Trolls rendered to stone by sunlight. Once they've finished, however, the wizard faces them with a scowl. He whirls on the burglar, having to hunch over to even see the tiny thing.“Bilbo Baggins! What ever could have possessed you to decide to take on three Trolls all on your own?”The halfling fiddles with the buttons on his coat. “Really, Gandalf, it's not as if I meant to fight them! I realize it was quite a foolish decision, but I simply thought I might take Fíli and Kíli’s advice and try my hand at burglary. I’d have to possess quite the good fortune to successfully burgle a dragon as my first venture.”He attempts a smile, but these words are clearly not the appeasement the halfling thinks they are, for Tharkûn turns his thunderous expression to the boys.“Was this your idea of a good laugh? To get our burglar killed before he even set eyes on the mountain?”His sister-sons turn shamefaced at this, but Fíli puts up a feeble protest.“Do not try to downplay this idiocy, Fíli. The attempt on the dragon will take a good deal of planning. Not only was this decision hardly thought out, he had three pairs of eyes to account for, not one.”Tharkûn’s eyes find Thorin, but Thorin makes no move; he would not take responsibility. While he hadn’t meant for the disregard of the halfling to result in a foolish play with his life, he had assured the wizard he would not be responsible for the halfling’s fate. Tharkûn seems to remember this, as his expression darkens further and he addresses the rest of the Company instead.“As for the rest of you, I would have expected better! Your leader might be headstrong and difficult, but that doesn't mean the rest of you need to be as well. It is good you jumped in to save Bilbo, but I would hope next time, you might keep an eye on one another to stop any unfortunate incidents before they happen.”Thorin brushes off the reprimand, but the rest of the Dwarrows seem to take the scolding, some looking as abashed as the boys. The wizard, having said his piece, turns again to the Trolls with a thoughtful expression.“It is curious they are so far from the mountains,” he murmurs. “They could not travel this far and back under the cover of a single night.”They find the Troll cave not far off, unmistakable by its reek. The Dwarrows wrinkle their noses, but immediately jump to action once they realize there are valuables in store.Thorin heads further in. The cave must have been occupied by others before; much of the loot is covered in dust and cobwebs, and Trolls have no use for trinkets.Thieves, perhaps? Men making use of a temporary storage location? He steps closer to examine the markings on a chest when his boot catches on something hard buried beneath a layer of dirt. He reaches down and unearths a grimy scabbard.It is unmistakably a long sword, light in his hand, yet sturdy, a perfect combination for travel, but as he starts to draw it, he recognizes its origin. The wispy Elvish etchings laugh up at him and he makes to toss it aside.“You could not wish for a finer blade.”Tharkûn's voice is unyielding enough to have Thorin unsheath it with a flourish. It is indeed a well crafted blade, so much so that Thorin decides the hoard is that of thieves. One who had knowledge of weapons would not be quick to let this one rot in storage.Thorin watches the wizard poke around himself for a moment.“This is no walking holiday, Gandalf,” he says as the wizard waves away a cloud of dust from his face. “The threats we will face further down road will be more than that of three brainless Trolls. The burglar will get himself killed.”He knows this is a point he has pressed unendingly, but their first taste of danger is reason enough to prompt him again. The wizard does not acknowledge him for a long moment, instead rooting around a little more and making a noise of triumph as he uncovers his own sword.“We expect the greatest things from the most powerful of people,” Tharkûn finally says, as he turns the blade to inspect it. “And nothing from the most ordinary of people.”He wipes away the grime on the handle with a sleeve and tucks it into his belt.“But I have learned a great deal from both. If you give a chance to those you initially disregard, it might result in a surprise greater than you could imagine.”Thorin scowls. “He would have no way to surprise me if he were dead, Gandalf.”“Yes,” Tharkûn says with a huff. “Bilbo is inexperienced with the world at large, but he is not so incapable. While the rest of you were ready to be roasted for dinner, was it not him who had the nous to play for time?”Tharkûn digs up a second, smaller blade and heads off, leaving Thorin to frown at his retreating back.The days following mark the end of the first month since their departure, and food stores are at their lowest. Even with Bombur's expertise, there isn't much to go around. The scarce meals are bland and nearly inedible at times, but Thorin is well acquainted with the meager style of life on the road.“Mister Bombur!”Thorin looks up from sharpening his knife to see their burglar break through the trees, arms bundled with greenery.The Dwarrows had been more receptive to the halfling since the wizard’s reprimand, starting with the boys. They had declared themselves protectors of the burglar and sandwiched their bedrolls on either side of the halfling's every night since. Bombur was another who had taken to the halfling, expressing admiration of his cooking skills. It soon after became a common sight at mealtimes to see Bombur stirring the pot with the halfling hovering and muttering nearby.“You will not believe what I've found!” The halfling huffs, dropping his armload onto a log. He starts up a steady chatter as Bombur scrutinizes the pickings.“- I just couldn't believe it, Mister Bombur! Just a perfect handful of them growing there, and perfectly ripe as well! How wonderful! I'm sure this is hardly the amount you're accustomed to, you know, in the Blue Mountains,” the voice continues, with a note of uncertainty as Bombur crushes and sprinkles something over the stew.There's a moment of anticipation as the two of them lean over the pot and it isn't until Bombur’s rolling laugh cuts through the camp that Thorin realizes he'd leaned in as well.He glances over at Dwalin who has been sitting with him in companionable silence, but he gives no indication that he's anything other than occupied with sharpening his own weapons. Thorin tries to focus on his own blade.“This is it, Master Baggins!” Bombur exclaims. Thorin watches him ladle the stew into a bowl and hand it to the halfling. “Can you smell that?”The halfling, accepting with a hearty thanks, takes a generous sniff and promptly doubles over to cough.“Easy there, now,” Bombur smiles, taking the stew back to keep it from spilling.“Bit spicier than I expected,” is choked out between coughs.“Aye, that's the taste of Ered Luin.”“I'm a bit partial to rosemary and thyme myself. Reminds me of an early morning as a faunt, with bread fresh from the oven,” the burglar replies, taking a grateful gulp from the waterskin that is handed to him.“In any case, I'd love to try something from your home,” he says and then smiles wryly. “I'll be sure to be cautious this time.”“Be my guest, Master Baggins. It wouldn't be here to try if it weren't for the foraging skills of our burglar. Perhaps we should call you Master Forager instead!”The halfling turns a pleased pink at this and when Thorin resumes his sharpening, he does not look back.Thorin finds himself at a complete loss in concern with the Elves of Rivendell.It stems from the kindness they show, something Thorin has long since disassociated with Elves. The hostility of the Dwarrows is clearly as they expect, but threats are not thrown back, instead it is food and shelter that is offered. The Lord of these Elves even examines Thorin’s blade with no more than a raise of his eyebrows and willingly hands it back once it has its name.Orcrist, he calls it, to which Thorin can do nothing but bob his head in acknowledgement.Wood Elves Thorin knows. They are direct and vicious, not at all frugal in letting their displeasure be known. The Rivendell Elves, in contrast, are disconcertingly unreadable. When Bofur climbs the table, knocking over bowls and spoons to belt out a tune, the Elves watch on, some perhaps with concern, but others seemingly with mirth.Thorin might have left it at that if he had not caught an Elf eating what looked to be a piece of salted meat. She quickly scampered off once she noticed him, an ungraceful motion that Thorin would have snorted at if he hadn't thought of the greater implications. After all, the Elves had gone through great lengths to assure the Company that their diets consisted of only greens.He had not thought these Elves would take part in such trickery, and it is a sobering thought. Perhaps these Elves are even more sinister than their Wood-dwelling kin with indirect methods of attack; the Company wouldn't see it coming until it was too late.With this revelation, their offering of sanctuary becomes increasingly suspect.So when the Company is granted freedom to wander Rivendell, Thorin is careful to choose a stone ledge concealed from any potential Elvish chaperones milling about for his surveillance. He attempts to keeps his own watch on the Elves he spots, but the open expanse of the valley inevitably draws his eyes.The land that unfolds beneath his perch is all forest, bracketed on either side by sheer cuts of colossal stone. Everything trails into the distance, where blue smudges of mountains are dark against the pale sky.The sanctuary itself is built on elevated ground to overlook the view, all spindly Elvish architecture weaved with plunging waterfalls. There is an odd coldness of the light which illuminates the land, as if even the slightest warmth from the sun would scorch the splendor.Thorin does not care for the numbing calm of this place.It is caught in time, he feels, unchanging as the faces of its inhabitants. Too long in a place like this would turn him dull and weary. While there is a lasting strength to Dwarven homes, the accompanying crackle of forges and spirited language of his people bring them to life.It has been an age since he has heard anything of that nature. Ered Luin might have been able to provide him with such a symphony, but he was never there for long, always away as a traveling blacksmith.He closes his eyes and tries to recall it, but as he strains his ears, it is only the rush of waterfalls on the air.“Aye, he's just a bit shy - go on, then Ori, lad, I am certain our gracious host will be able to help you.”Thorin startles at the voice, thinking he's been found, but the words are not for him. He peeks from his spot to see Balin nudging the young Dwarf towards the Elf Lord.“Excuse me, Mister Lord Elf,” Ori starts, “I was wondering if there were any libraries I could have permission to see.”Balin pats him on his back. “Young Ori here is a scholar; I would give my word that he would treat your books with the utmost respect. Gandalf could verify this, if it is necessary.”The Elf Lord, towering with that infuriating calm, offers a pleased smile. “There is no need for that, Master Dwarf. I would be quite delighted to show Ori to our libraries,” he says, with a sweep of his robes. “If you’ll follow me, I will take you to one.”Balin is quick to excuse himself, leaving Thorin to watch the retreating pair. A quick survey of the area reveals a surprising lack of Dori, so out of caution for the youngest of their party (and perhaps a small amount of curiosity), Thorin trails them. The Elf Lord matches Ori’s pace as they make their way down a columned walkway.“... I must confess much of our written work is in our own tongue,” catches Thorin's ear. “Any work in Khuzdul is severely lacking, as I am sure you will understand, but there will be a decent amount in Westron.”As Ori returns the niceties, the Elf Lord stops at a door and pulls it open, ushering the Dwarf inside. Not wanting to risk getting caught, Thorin lets it close behind them before striding towards it. He paces the length thrice before slowly prying it open and slipping inside.The Elf Lord is thankfully already a decent ways ahead, but he is noticed by another who had turned at the sound of the door. He scowls, daring the Elf to restrict his access, but they simply turn back to the shelf they'd been combing through.Thorin takes a quick scan of the library before resuming his prowl. While he was not much for extensive reading, he had been well acquainted with the royal library of Erebor during his schooling. The sheer height of the shelves are therefore unremarkable to him, but the appearance is quite different. As with everything in Dwarvish tunnels, the library had been set aglow with lamps. They were unique lamps, made to contain the flames in a way that would keep them from consuming parchment. The light in this Elvish library pours through windows that take up much of the wall, though there is a careful arrangement of the shelves so that the light does not touch the books directly.Thorin moves forward, studiously avoiding meeting eyes with any other Elves who are perusing the shelves. He hears Ori's voice before he sees the pair and situates himself behind the closest shelf.“-you can verify their validity.” The Elf Lord is saying, laying a handful of books bound in supple cloth on a table. Ori picks up the top volume from his spot atop an enormous settee.“Thank you very much, Mister Lord Elrond. I will try my best.” Ori says, and Thorin twitches at his familiarity. The Elf Lord settles himself next to Ori with his own book in hand.They sit in silence for a long while, long enough for Thorin to decide to leave. He decides that if the Rivendell Elves were indeed scheming, the Elf Lord himself had proven to be quite tame, so there is no need to linger any longer. He slowly rises to his feet from where he'd been sitting when the young Dwarf’s voice cuts the silence.“Some parts are not right, I would say, but there is some truth to it. It makes me miss Ered Luin!”“Ah, I did expect that there would be quite a few inaccuracies,” the Elf Lord laughs. “It is difficult to know as an outsider. I once found myself in a library of the Blue Mountains on a diplomatic visit and was only able to marvel at it.”“The libraries in Ered Luin are wonderful,” Ori agrees. “But I would be so honored to even just gaze upon the great libraries of Erebor if given the chance…”Ori seems to realize who he's talking to and in a panic, assures the Elf Lord that his musings are purely hypothetical.The Elf Lord takes it into stride, saying he would not be the only one who'd wish to see the tomes lost to the dragon. To this, a third voice murmurs its assent.Thorin frowns. He had not known there had been more than just the two of them and strains to find the source.Sitting at the opposite end of the settee is the burglar, nearly drowning in cushions. He hadn't thought the burglar to be capable of keeping quiet among company.The Hobbit is nestled comfortably in a spot lit with soft light from one of the tall windows. He must have been occupied with his reading for quite some time as his own stack of books sit atop the other end of the table. There is a profound calm to him as he flips through the pages of the book propped up in his lap.Thorin tries to recall ever seeing that look on the Hobbit's face, but try as he might, he cannot think of a single instance where he has been this content in all the weeks Thorin has known him.It is sorrow which clouds the Hobbit’s expression now.When they finally take their leave of the Elvish safe haven and turn to the inhospitable unknown, the Hobbit closes off, back to something Thorin is familiar with. Thorin does not know when he became adept at reading the expressive moods of their burglar, but this is one he knows. It is the same as when he had reminisced to Dori of his Hobbit home.When he asks if they will wait for Gandalf, Thorin cannot be sure if it is the wizard he is asking for or if it is Rivendell.They take the High Pass across the Misty Mountains. It is a miserable time, with the path made slick from rain and exhaustion settling deep in their bones. Thorin feels half drowned even before the Stone Giants begin their brawl.The stone lip they'd been traversing trembles and quakes under their boots, sending the Company into a flurry. They rush to find a more substantial ledge, but the cliff breaks in two, splitting the Company in half. Thorin can do nothing but cling to his own half as the other goes careening directly against another face of the mountain. Horror climbs up his throat as he watches it crumble into pieces that go plunging into the misty abyss. In a panic, Thorin leaps over to the ledge they’d been flattened against, only to find them strewn about, dazed but alive.“The burglar! Where's Bilbo!?”There, dangling above the sheer drop is the Hobbit, barely holding on with the tips of his fingers. Thorin doesn't take a moment to think - he drops down and grasps the pack on his back, hoisting him up to the waiting hands of the Company. The adrenaline surge drops as soon as the Hobbit's scrabbled back up and Thorin nearly slips off himself, grabbed only seconds before by Dwalin. They all sit there for a long moment, clutching each other as they search for their breath.“We nearly lost our burglar,” Dwalin huffs out in his exerted state and the truth of it all bursts from Thorin.“He has been lost,” Thorin roars, flinging his arm out. “He has been lost since the day he stepped foot from his Hobbit hole.”The Hobbit cowers, hurt in his eyes that has Thorin turning away to hide from, but he cannot stop himself.“He has no place amongst us.”Any other words that might have been exchanged are forgone when a shout from Bifur draws their attention. Thorin strides towards the sound with the rest of the Company hurrying after him and they find Bifur at the mouth of a mountain cave.Before they all pile in, Thorin and a handful of the others check the length of the shallow cave. It would be best if there weren’t any unpleasant visits in the night from dangers lurking in the dark.They all but collapse into heaps on the floor as soon as it’s done, but Thorin allows no flames beyond their small lamps for light. Caves in the mountains are tricky and any fires stoked would do just as much to warm them as it would to attract unwanted attention.Only after a meager meal of rations is eaten and the schedule for the night watch is set does Thorin finally settle down, but he can find no relief in sleep.The echo of his words to the burglar replays in his mind, this time tinged with shame. The halfling had never been shy in expressing the superiority of his home, but he had clearly found the Elvish place comparable by the ease in which he settled there. He had told the Elf Lord of how it had reminded him of Bag-End, and it was then a bitterness rose within Thorin. To be able to find those comforts which he should have only found in his home accumulated that bitterness into anger.But Thorin’s rage towards him rang false.For since the day his people had fled, the Lonely Mountain was all he ever saw with closed eyes.They were both guilty of dreaming of home.He had heard no footsteps, but the voice of the Hobbit reaches his ear during Bofur’s watch.“And just where do you think you're going?” Bofur says in a loud whisper.“Going to where I should have been this whole time,” comes the voice and it is filled with conviction. “Home. I should've never left Bag-End. I don't know what I was thinking. A burglar?”“Thorin was right,” he continues, and something tightens in Thorin's chest. “I don't belong with the Company. I'm not one of you.”Bofur's voice is placating. “Ah, you're homesick. I understand. Why I-”“No, you don't understand! None of you get it. You're used to this - this life on the road, always going hungry, sleeping anywhere,” the Hobbit says in a furious whisper. “You don't get it because you don't have a home!”In the stunned silence that follows, Thorin feels like he can hardly breathe. He cannot see the look on Bofur's face, but he thinks it might be in parallel to the look on his own.“...Bofur, I…” the burglar’s soft voice starts.“No,” Bofur says firmly. “No, you're right. We have no home. We don't belong anywhere like you do.”“Bofur-”“We are grateful you came this far for us. I wish you all the luck in the world. Goodbye, Master Baggins.”Despite all that Thorin had done to goad the Hobbit into leaving, Thorin is dumbfounded when he finally does. But he cannot fault him for turning away.And when the Company tumbles into Goblin hands, they are thirteen once more.The tunnels of Goblin Town are nothing like those beneath the Lonely Mountain.Where Dwarrows savor stone carved to precision and polished to a gleam, Goblins love the ooze of wet earth, like worms wriggling in heaps of food scraps. The roughly hacked tunnels of the mountain are indeed stone, but they are covered in dampened dirt, as if Goblins smeared it by the bucketful along the walls.The moisture soaks the air, lending itself to a dank mugginess that is a chore to breathe. They stumble along in the darkness, but Thorin's Dwarf eyes are quick to adjust.They are stripped of as many of their weapons the Goblins can find before being presented to the Goblin King. He is certain at least a few of Fíli’s daggers remain undetected, but it provides only a small amount of solace. While his sense of direction is unparalleled underground, it would not be enough to find safe passage through miles of unfamiliar Goblin tunnels.It is then a bitter truth hits him, but he does not speak it, for how adamantly he had opposed it. But a traitorous part of his mind whispers it to him anyway; the burglar might have been right to wait for the wizard.Just as the Goblin King declares their fate, however, it seems his silent admission is heard. In an instant, there is a thunderous crack accompanied by a blinding flash of white, felling three Goblins in one go. Thorin squints through the haze to see the waggle of a pointed hat.“Quickly,” Tharkûn cries and suddenly in their hands are their weapons. “To arms!”Hundreds upon hundreds of Goblins descend upon them, with seemingly no end. They come crawling over rocks and rushing in droves, easily cut down due to the chaos of their fervent attacks, but making up for it in sheer number. The Company might have fought for an eternity and still had more Goblins to face, so there is no hesitation in any of them when Tharkûn calls for them to follow.The wizard, cloaked in a shroud of blue light, sprints through the maze of underground passages, pausing only to do away with any Goblins in his way. They pass through giant caverns with cuts of saw-edged rock jutting out threateningly, across rickety bridges held with worn ropes, and through tunnels where there is only space for each Dwarf to follow one behind the other. The Goblins are never far behind, popping up from hidden caves and scurrying up their teetering structures, and Thorin's arm begins to ache for the number of times he has swung his sword.It feels as though they have been running for days, but whatever sorcery Tharkûn calls upon finally answers. At the end of one of the innumerable tunnels comes a light, not from the flicker of a torch, but from the soft glow of the setting sun.The mad dash out of the mountain is so charged that they are halfway down the precipice before they even begin to slow. Thorin brings them to a halt and joins them as they all kneel over to catch their breath, but begins counting heads as soon as he can stand upright. As he counts off the last of the Dwarrows, he breathes a sigh of relief. They are thirteen still. A pleased Tharkûn is surveying the Company as well, seemingly conducting his own checklist when his face drops.“And Bilbo?” he asks. “Where is our Hobbit?”The others swivel their heads as if the burglar could be hiding behind one of them. Thorin keeps to himself, turned resolutely away from the wizard's eyes. He feels as if his guilt would be written plainly for Tharkûn to see.“Last I saw, he had escaped when we had been captured,” Nori exclaims. “Do you think he's still stuck in the tunnels?”The Dwarrows erupt into chaos once more. Dwalin gripes of the nuisance it would be to search for the lost burglar while Fíli starts up a plan of rescue. The wizard watches them all with a frown.“Bofur,” Nori says loudly, drawing the Company's attention to the uncharacteristic quiet of a jovial Dwarf. “What's the matter? You're looking pale.”With all eyes pinned to him, Bofur becomes a tense line, nearly shaking with distress.“Bofur,” Tharkûn repeats. “What is it that you know?”Thorin slams his foot down on a branch, startling the Dwarrows.“He knows what we have all known since the beginning of this journey,” Thorin snaps. “The burglar has done nothing but miss his warm bed since he left home. He saw there was nothing more we could offer each other and turned back. Our quest is our own.”The Company is quiet at this and even Tharkûn's bushy eyebrows draw together under the brim of his hat.“We will not see him again,” Thorin says and there is a peculiar weight to those words. When he turns to them, he is bitter to see the sorrow on their faces. The comradery they had developed with the Hobbit truly ran deeper than it ever should have and it is then he knows that they had indeed lost a member of the Company after all. It is not a welcome awareness that he too had begun to think of the Company as more than thirteen.But there is nothing that can be done but continue to move forward and it is Thorin who must be the one to start them on their path again.“I wouldn't be so sure about that.”There are gasps around him and Thorin spins on his heel to see the Hobbit emerge from behind a tree.“We thought we'd lost you, Mr. Boggins!” Kíli yells.“It’s Baggins, Kíli,” the Hobbit says absentmindedly and that sends the Company into a hardy laugh, Dwarrows clapping his back and picking him up to shake him. The wizard is up in high spirits and even Bofur seems to accept the burglar's apologetic grasp of his hands.“Why are you here?”The question is harshly spat, with no thought to soften the tone because Thorin is at a loss.Why is the Hobbit still with them when his home calls to him? Thorin has done nothing but disparage him since the beginning, yet here he stands. Try as he might, Thorin cannot begin to understand.“I know you've all doubted me, I know you have since the beginning,” the burglar says, meeting the eyes of all the Company. “I have a home to go back to and I've often missed it. It's a warm place filled with food and comforts that belong to me. And that's why I returned.”When his eyes come to Thorin, his expression is not harsh from the distrust Thorin has shown him, but gentle and knowing. “Because you don't have one - a home. And I will help you get it back if I can.”Thorin doesn't know if he has it in himself to believe.Their peace is broken by a low thrum of growls and they all look up to the base of the mountain. A pack of Warg scouts snarl in recognition of their smell; Orc riders would not be far behind.Down is the only way to go and with open air beyond that, they are forced to scramble up the trees. The last of them has just barely clung to the bottom branches of a pine before the Warg scouts nip at their heels.But they are not safe. A groan of the closest pine is the only alert they get before it begins to topple, straining from the weight of Wargs on its trunk. The Dwarrows at the top cry out, grabbing at the branches of the next tree. But that tree and those after it follow in quick succession, crashing down until all cling to the final tree.There is a sudden cry above Thorin, and a bundle of flames whizzes through the air, hitting the Warg that the first of the Orcs has arrived on. They are quick to be driven back as more pinecones are ignited and tossed. But the momentary relief is undercut by the lurch of the tree beneath them. It slowly tips over the drop and there is nothing they can do but cling for their lives.The dry grass has been set ablaze, encircling them in a ring of fire, keeping their pursuers at bay. The smoke dances high above their line of sight but in a single moment, Thorin catches a face though the flickering flames and his heart stops.The face is one he has not seen for a very long time and one he had never thought he'd see again outside of his nightmares.It is as the Goblin King had said. In the center of the pack, astride a white Warg, sits Azog the Defiler, the very same one who had severed his grandfather's head from his body.The roar of the world quiets to a ringing in Thorin's ears. Perhaps the wizard shouts at him or Dwalin reaches for him, but Thorin's vision is a tunnel to nothing but the pale Orc. His strength is a shadow, but the weight of the moment is more than enough to pull him up, onto the leaning trunk and down the span of the teetering tree. He hefts Orcrist in both hands and then he is running, running with the heart of a mourning grandson, running with the rage of a young prince, running with the regrets of revenge he should have taken years ago.But he is spent from the Goblin tunnels. His weakened state is no match for a Warg. Like a doll, he is tossed aside and the inevitability of his demise becomes clear. The pale Orc approaches, teeth bared in victory, and Thorin gropes uselessly for his blade. There would be no victory in his grandfather's name tonight.The final blow does not come.With what energy he can muster, he squints up. A small figure stands before the Defiler, trembling with fear and the unfamiliarity of wielding a weapon. The name of his savior pops up unbidden on his tongue and Thorin swallows a smile before his eyes finally droop closed.It is Bilbo Baggins who has saved him.And only then does Thorin believe.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Thorin does not speak of his words on the Carrock. Master Baggins makes no indication of it either.The rest of the Company keeps to themselves in turn, with the exception of a deeply scrutinizing look from Balin, a few raised eyebrows from Dwalin, and an exaggerated reenactment of the embrace from Fíli and Kíli.It is sorted with twin lumps growing from his sister-sons’ heads and a short tussle with Dwalin.Balin gets a pass.There is, however, something new in the Hobbit's demeanor. He smiles easily and laughs at the Company's antics, even going to throw in his opinions that make all the Dwarrows hoot and tease him.The words that pass between them are akin to the ones they might have exchanged days ago, but there is an easy confidence to them. As if Thorin's admission released a part of himself he'd been holding back.It gives Thorin an odd sort of relief.Their Company is fourteen now, and Thorin would be the first to admit it.There is still a great distance to cover, despite their first view of the Lonely Mountain. They do not linger in their camps for longer than they must; the imminent approach of both an Orc pack and Durin's Day looms on their minds.But they are in desperate need of aid. Their run in with the Goblins resulted in the loss of much of their supplies, save for the weapons Tharkûn managed to salvage. Bombur spends each meal mourning the loss of his pots and pans. There is only so much they can forage to fill fifteen stomachs.The aid does come. He just does not expect it to arrive in the form of a bear.After their initial disbelief at the appearance of their new host, Thorin turns to the wizard, ready to spit out a refusal. Were they to believe this Bear-Man wouldn't tear them to shreds in the night and instead supply them? But Tharkûn fixes him with an arched brow.“Must I remind you that you are in no position to squander such an offer, Thorin Oakenshield?”They are introduced in pairs by the wizard to their new host and find themselves seated at the Skin-Changer’s table the next morning. He had made it clear his dislike of Dwarves, but a common enemy of Orcs gives them solid ground. There is, however, an interesting change in his conduct once he becomes aware of the Hobbit in their midst.“And what are you, little one?” The Hobbit seems to bristle at this and opens his mouth to answer, but Tharkûn beats him to it.“He is Bilbo Baggins, a Hobbit of the Shire.”“A Small-Folk,” the Bear-Man says in wonder, and the wizard smiles around his pipe. “I had thought you to be a young Dwarf! It has been many a year since I have seen one of your kind.”Their burglar seems to not know what to make of this and mutters a "Pleased to meet you.”“Tell me, is it true you still eat ten meals a day?”“Oh, no, maybe just seven on a good day.” The Company immediately whirls on him at this.“SEVEN?” Bombur bellows.“We’ve been starving you, Mr. Baggins!” Fíli cries.“Now look here,” the Hobbit starts crossly. “I was well aware of the nature of an adventure when I first started, so there is no one at fault here. Obviously there would be no kitchens or pantries stocked with food and I was just going to make do, same as the rest of you. Yes, it's been a bit more difficult than I imagined, but I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”The Company seems shocked into silence and Thorin doesn't know what to think. Had the Hobbit been letting himself go hungry? Thorin had been unaware of any differences in their eating habits, having assumed them to be similar to that of Men.The Skin-Changer bursts into a round of throaty laughs at this. “Ah, the little bunny is a fierce one. Please sit, I will bring you enough to fill your belly.”A parade of sheep trot in a moment later, with bowls of honey, bread, and cream nestled into the wool on their backs.Thorin pulls up a seat next to their burglar, who is scooping up an impressive amount of honey onto his bread.“Ah, Thorin!” he says, jumping a little when he turns to pass the food down the table. “Oh, did you want some honey? Here you are.”Thorin accepts the bowl, but keeps his attention on the burglar. “Master Baggins,” he says quietly. “You can be honest. Have we been starving you?”“Oh, don't you start, Mr. Oakenshield,” he gripes. “I've had enough of Durin coddling from your nephews; I can hardly get up to use the facilities at night without one of them asking where I'm headed off to.”“Seven meals is much more than three, Master Bag-”“I assure you, its fine! Yes, breakfast, lunch and dinner are decently large meals but the others are simply glorified snack times! A little bit of toast for elevensies, one cup of tea for afternoon tea, a slice of pie for supper: it's hardly anything to get in a strop over. I am not going to kneel over if I don't get a little snack here or there-”Thorin's eyebrows furrow at this. The jitteriness of the burglar makes Thorin certain that he is downplaying the extent of Hobbit appetites.Master Baggins, however, seems to mistake Thorin's frown for annoyance and visibly snaps his mouth shut, ending with a short “I'm fine, Thorin. Don't go and start worrying about me now.”Thorin's frown deepens at this, but before he can respond, Dwalin jostles him from the other side.“Oi, Thorin, stop bein’ a hog and hand over the honey,” Dwalin says. Thorin passes it over, but by the time he's turned back, the burglar is deep in conversation with Bofur.The Skin-Changer’s fascination with the burglar does not diminish with time. Thorin nearly draws his sword when he first hears the burglar scream as he's hoisted onto the shoulders of the Bear-Man. It cannot be enjoyable, swaying from that height, but Thorin suspects the Hobbit secretly relishes being able to talk down to the rest of them, including the wizard.He also suspects the burglar has some sort of admiration of the Bear-Man that keeps him from snapping when he gets poked and prodded and tossed around.Late one morning, Thorin is making his way back from an excursion in the woods with Dwalin for sparring. Having won the majority of the rounds, it is Thorin that gets the reward of arriving first, as Dwalin goes to put away their weapons. Right as Thorin turns the corner to reach the door, the Hobbit's voice makes him pause.“Balin told me of the farming done on the side of the mountain,” he is saying, gesturing animatedly. Their host sits on a tree stump beside him, deftly skinning an apple.“Surely the vertical sides would be too treacherous, I said, but he told me it was all carved down, like everything within the mountain. Farming on the face of a mountain! Imagine that!”The Skin-Changer grunts, adding the peeled apple to a barrel at their feet. The burglar places his own in a moment later.“And did you know they farm inside the mountains as well? Supposedly, they take metal sheets, shined to be perfectly reflective and angle them to bring sunlight in! Truly ingenious! I cannot wait to see it all!” He turns to look at the Bear-Man, a little sheepishly. “Ah, look at me, droning on. I must be talking your ear off.”The Skin-Changer tilts his head. “No, my ears are still on. It is good to hear from you. The ewes are not much for the spoken word.”The Hobbit blinks at this. “Er, right.”The sudden weight of Dwalin's hand thumps Thorin's shoulder.“Waitin’ for me, were you? Let's go, I'm starving,” he says, and before Thorin can stop him, strolls towards the door, passing directly in front of their burglar and host.“Master Burglar,” he says with a nod as he passes them. “Master Bear.”The Skin-Changer inclines his head with a look of amusement and Dwalin disappears into the house. The Hobbit, however, swivels around to catch Thorin, as if he had known he'd be lingering just barely out of view. He turns back to their host.“It's nearly lunchtime, isn't it, Mr. Beorn? I should go wash up a bit.”They both watch him run off and with nothing to say, Thorin makes to follow Dwalin inside. The Bear-Man rises to his feet.“Troubled him again, have you?” The gritty voice asks, but when Thorin turns to their host, he has already bounded away.Thorin sinks into the seat next to Dwalin and leans over the table to address Balin.“Have you been telling the burglar of all the secrets of the mountain?”Balin frowns. “Our farming techniques are hardly secrets, laddie.”“What else could it be?” Thorin muses. “He seems much too excited over growing potatoes.”Dwalin snorts at this. “You should've seen him when Balin told him of our mushrooms.”“Our what?”“The mushrooms in the caves,” Dwalin says. “Supposedly all the wee Shire folk go crazy over mushrooms.”“Mushrooms in…how do you know that?”“I was there when he told Balin,” Dwalin says and Balin nods in affirmation.Thorin broods over this for a moment. If even Dwalin was privy to the Hobbits’ ramblings, there was something else at play here. He leans back over the table.“Balin. Is the burglar avoiding me?”Balin scrunches his nose just as Dwalin hacks out a cough.“Thorin,” Balin starts. “You were very… adamant about how much he was lacking in the beginning.”Thorin raises an eyebrow; he had most definitely rescinded that judgment on the Carrock. But Balin shakes his head.“It would probably take more than just one reassurance to make him comfortable.”Thorin scoffs. “It is not as if any of the Company accepted him from the beginning.”The door swings open just then, and the rest of the Company trickles in. Thorin tries to catch the Hobbit's eye, but he wanders to the opposite end of the table, vanishing behind Bombur. Balin and Dwalin turn back to Thorin.“Aye,” Dwalin says. “But none of us are the King.”Master Baggins does not make himself easy to find after their meal. With some of the Dwarrows aiding in clean up, the burglar slips out before Thorin has even passed over his bowl. Thorin searches by the beehives, in the vegetable garden and with the sheep to no avail. It is only after he's given up and wandered to the river that he finds the burglar hunched behind a boulder on the river's edge. He sits facing the slow moving current, a handful of flowers beside him. In his hands, he holds a half plaited crown of the flower stalks, skillfully weaving in more to the ends.“You have heard of the mushrooms we grow underground,” Thorin says in lieu of a greeting. The Hobbit turns in surprise.“I - what? Oh, yes, the mushrooms! Balin had been telling me of them, and I would absolutely love -” Master Baggins cuts himself off abruptly. “Apologies, I can get a little carried away. I'm sure you don't want to hear me babble about mushrooms.”Thorin does not reply immediately, instead surveying fallen tree branches near the bank and picking a suitable piece. He pulls out a small knife from his boot and sits on the boulder.“Tell me, Master Baggins,” Thorin says. There's a short silence and the bewildered look their burglar gives him makes Thorin clear his throat.“Of mushrooms,” he clarifies. The Hobbit snorts and slouches against the boulder, turning back to the flowers in his hands. Thorin begins to carve into the stick.“I will listen,” Thorin says and means it.Tharkûn does not join them for their trek through Mirkwood.The Company pleads with him, but the wizard only waggles his staff and mutters something incomprehensible about ‘greater evils.’ He leaves them at the edge of Mirkwood with a farewell and a warning and there is nothing more the Company can do but take in their last breath of open air before stepping into the shadowed woods.The darkness that envelops them is not of natural origin. Any light that squeezes its way through the tightly knit canopy is swallowed by the first surface it hits. Thorin's eyes do not adjust.They wander the path for a long while and with the loss of the sun, there is no way to track the days.The pot Bombur carries, given by Master Baggins, who had been gifted it by the Skin-Changer, clangs with the promise of warm meals. But once their provisions run dry, they can find nothing edible among the trees. The berries they scavenge pinch to dust beneath their fingers and the movement that catches their eyes are none other than their fellow companions.Their legs begin to drag, as though they are wading through molten rock and their minds follow not long after.“Follow the path, follow the path, follow the path,” the burglar’s voice rambles but Thorin can hardly focus on putting one foot in front of the other.Something rings in Thorin's ear, and he thinks it to be the enchantment worming its way through his mind until his sister-sons perk up.“Quiet!” Fíli hisses. “Do you hear that?”The Company sluggishly comes to a stop. They strain their ears, hardly breathing.“Like tinkling bells,” Nori murmurs.“Over there! A light!”The smallest pinprick of light dances through the gnarled trunks. There is hardly a moment's pause before they're scrambling over roots towards it. It twinkles and sways, growing larger ever so slightly as they close the distance but then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it flickers out.Thorin lets out a groan, which is echoed by a handful of the others.“We've lost it!” Óin says. They shuffle their feet and circle a few trees to no avail.“Wait, I see it there!” Ori exclaims, and the Company is back in action. The light glows as they near, but just as it did the first time, it blinks out.“Alright, enough of these mind games,” Dwalin growls. “Show yerselves or I'll do it for you!”The light, incredibly, seems to respond to the threat, appearing again on the other side of the trees. They race towards it, but instead of fading out again, Kíli, who is in the lead, steps directly into something wet and has to be hauled back by his brother and Dwalin before he tips into the murky water.“A river?” Kíli cries, shaking out his boot.“It's much too far to jump,” Fíli says, squinting towards the far bank at the light that frisks about tauntingly.The group breaks into chatter, some wanting to wade through, others arguing to find a thinner crossing, with others still considering ignoring the light completely.The voices meld together, moaning and murmuring and whispering and Thorin just barely clings to a foggy memory that passes his mind. It sounds like the wizard, and something the burglar might have said, and it makes Thorin look to his boots. The ground beneath them is soft and dark, with twigs and leaves that crunch and it is then a muddled question works its way to his lips.“Where… has it… gone?” he mouths, but the words get lost in the gloom. “The path we must not stray from… where has it gone?”A sudden chill runs through his body and his head snaps up. The unnatural darkness cloaks the distance so he cannot be certain if they are being watched, or if it is simply the shadows. But if they are-“The path!” Thorin barks, and this time he understands its importance. “All of you, find the path!”The Dwarrows blink at him for a muddled moment, but the recognition of the words snaps them to their senses. They scuff their boots against the ground and loop around trees, looking under roots and turning over rocks. They try to retrace their steps and scale a few trees for a higher vantage point, but the light stone of the path evades them. A slow growing dread settles in Thorin’s stomach.“Fi?” Kíli giggles a little ways off, his voice odd and his eyes unfocused. He pokes at a white tangle of mesh and the reverberation runs through it until it disappears behind the trees. His fingers stick and unstick as he plucks at it over and over again, rhythmically, like the strings of a harp.“Don't these look like spiders’ webs to you?”That is the only warning Thorin gets before a giant set of spindly legs encircle him and a pinch to his back renders him unconscious.In the dark of his mind, he knows only the warmth that swaddles him like a Dwarfling and the silk of a soothing song. He does not wish to leave, but the darkness does not choose to keep him.When Thorin is finally forced to his senses, he cannot open his eyes.The song has gone, but he remains cocooned. The rest of his body is the same as his eyes; he can hardly twitch his fingers for how they stick to the substance that he is coated in. He tries to recall anything of his situation, but the pounding of his head makes it difficult to think. He strains his ears and there is silence, but then the soft babble of Khuzdul reaches his ear. He is not alone.“Fíli?” he ventures.“Un…cle?”He calls for Kíli next, who does not answer. He tries to name each of the Company, but maybe half respond to his calls and with his headache, he might have repeated a few names and missed a few others.Orcrist is out of reach, and even if he did manage to snake his hand to the hilt, there would be no way for him to pull it from its scabbard. He can only settle for prying the cocoon apart with his blunt fingers.A quiet whispering grows in contrast to Fíli’s drunken mumbles in the dark and it is not of a murmuring lullaby. It is rough, like dozens of sticks being scratched against a coarse hide. It draws closer and closer and Thorin is struck by the need to be still and silent.His heir does not notice.Thorin starts to call to him, but just as he does, Fíli's voice is punctuated by a subdued groan and then there is quiet.“Fíli!” Thorin cries out, but he too is rewarded with another shot of venom. He exhales as harshly as he can, clinging to the last of his awareness, but then, inexplicably, he is falling.Down, down, down he goes, spinning this way and that and he thinks it might be for all eternity before he hits the ground with a heavy bump.Thorin takes a moment to ponder if he is still alive. A ripping sound breaks the thought and suddenly, a cold rush of air hits his front, no longer obstructed by the thick mesh. Master Baggins’ face peers down at him.“Ah, good - Thorin!” he says. “Quickly, let's get the rest of them!”The burglar turns to a white bundle and slices neatly through it, revealing a groggy Bifur. The lump next to him is Dori, who lurches up and gasps for air. Thorin can only watch as Dwalin appears next and then the familiar scuttle of something furious is upon them again.The Dwarrows that have been freed seem to be up and moving about, but for what, Thorin cannot be sure. He reaches for Orcrist, missing it twice before his fingers are able to close around the handle. Slowly and meticulously, he goes about peeling each stringy web from his sword.An axe flies past his ear, hitting its mark with a sickening thunk and its bearer yells something at him. Thorin blinks at him and turns to see a giant spider dead at his feet.Dwalin is there suddenly, shaking his shoulders.“Thorin,” he says and his voice is firm. “You need to come to your senses!”He is gone the next second.Thorin leans against the rough bark of a tree. His eyes cannot focus on anything before him and Orcrist is heavy in his palm, so much so that he thinks to drop it.“Thorin,” he hears and it is Master Baggins again. “Thorin, I know which way we must go. I know the way to the Lonely Mountain.”“The Lonely Mountain…” Thorin repeats. “... Erebor.”“Yes,” he says and there is something anxious in it. “Erebor, yes, I know the way to Erebor, so you have to get a grip, Thorin. You have to - THORIN!”The whites of his widened eyes are far too dark in the gloom and Thorin thinks it might be the last thing he sees.But then, with feet like pittering rain, come the Elves.Dozens of arrows whizz by, aiding Kíli's lone shooting, and the tides turn.The Dwarrows, weak from hunger and poison, try to keep up with the Wood Elves, but the fight is quick to end and the remaining spiders hiss in fury as they flee. In little more than a breath, the Elves turn their arrows to the Company.The animosity on their faces brings Thorin back on familiar ground. He finally knows what to do.Thorin staggers up, but before he can bludgeon their leader, a red haired Elf disarms him. A dagger is at his throat before Orcrist hits the ground.The blond headed leader turns to Thorin, lithe and tall, a haughty look on his face. He raises his pointy brow.“And what business do Dwarves have in our woods?”Deep in the dungeons of the wretched Wood Elf King, the red haired Elf sits beside his youngest sister-son.Thorin thinks to call for her to leave, but the boys are quick to restlessness, Kíli much more so. He will allow this if just to alleviate a moment of boredom.It has been days since their capture and presentation to Thranduil. He would never have taken the word of the Elf King after their lack of aid to his people, and to think he’d trade his honor for a handful of twinkling stones was laughable. Balin had been disappointed, but Thorin does not despair, not when there is hope of escape. There is one member of the Company who still walks free.Kíli’s voice reaches his ear, rare in its softness, asking the Elf of the celebrations. The Elves had been strangely boisterous for hours now and the echoes of their songs had filtered down to their prison.It is a feast of starlight, she tells him, for the light Wood Elves love best is that of the stars.“I have walked there sometimes,” she breathes, voice warmer than he has ever heard an Elf to be. “Up into the sky, until there is nothing left but the light.”Thorin does not wait to hear Kíli’s response, scowling as he goes to press the musty pillow of his cot over his ears. But the voice of the Elf carries like a leaf on the wind.“That light, it is memory. Memory of family, of love. Of home.”The days in the dungeon pass both far too quickly and far too slowly, with the approach of Durin’s Day.He tries to eavesdrop on Elvish conversation, but he has limited understanding of their tounge and the words spoken for the benefit of Dwarrows are unimportant; short sentences indicating the arrival of a meal and the inane utterances of the Elf by Kíli's door.Chatter is stilted among the Dwarrows and Thorin's fingers are restless. With no weapons, he cannot even carve the days that pass into the wall, marked by the changing of guard.He takes to braiding his hair, carefully setting aside his beads before gently teasing out tangles. The braids he works into his hair are intricate and in his boredom he tries to mimic the styles he can recall; those of his father, those of Dwalin’s father, those of his grandfather. But they are always undone as soon as they are completed - while he would honor them, the two simple braids that hang by his ears are what he returns to. It is all he deserves.He comes to fear it after a long while - a cage. One that would keep him locked away forever while he still has a fight left in him.The only relief Thorin gets is tinged with bitterness and it is when Master Baggins’ disembodied voice makes its way to him. For while he continues to remain free, he still has no way to save them. His power to remain unseen is a mystery to Thorin, but he presumes it to be one of the reasons the Hobbit was chosen as their burglar. Thorin does not grow accustomed to it with time.“That's a lovely one,” a voice murmurs to him one night.Thorin startles and squints at the door, but as usual there is no one there. It takes him a moment to recall what he'd been doing before the surprise of the voice.It was a song he had been humming, one he'd known from long ago.“It sounds quite sad. Is it a song of sorrows?”“No,” Thorin says, and his voice rasps from disuse. “It is a song of joy and the celebration of new things.”It was an ancient song, sung for the most special of occasions, with words that even his grandfather would not have used. The last he had heard it was at his sister's wedding and Thorin had been lost in how happy Dís looked that day.The burglar makes no response beyond a soft “oh” and Thorin does not start up a song again, so the echo of Thorin's own breath seems thunderous in the hollow of his cell. It takes far too long for him to realize he is alone again.A few days pass before the Hobbit is at his door once more.“Thorin,” the burglar says quietly. “I think I can get us out.”Thorin rises to his feet and presses against the bars. “What must we do?”“Nothing now,” Master Baggins says. “There is a celebration tomorrow; we'll use that distraction to get away. But I need you to promise me something. When the time comes, you must listen to what I tell you. We will have no time to waste.”Thorin nods and slumps to the floor. He does not even think to ask anymore, for he trusts their burglar without question.There is the slightest scrape of feet on stone a short while later and Thorin knows that Master Baggins is about to slip away again, but he is not quite ready for the ache of solitude again.“Tell me of a fond memory, Master Baggins,” he implores.There's a confused titter from the obscured Hobbit.“A fond memory? Of what, Bag End?”With a shuffling noise, his door creaks, as if someone has leaned against it. Thorin thinks it would not be air he’d feel if he reached his hand past the bars.He knits his fingers together in his lap instead.“Well, there are certainly quite a few, so you'll have to be more specific than that. Did you want to hear about my prized tomatoes? Award-winning, those are. Or perhaps my childhood? Those are a bit foggy, to be honest, but there's plenty.”Any response Thorin might have had gets lost as a rumble in his chest, but the Hobbit is far too preoccupied with his list to notice.“Or- Oh! The time I bribed a seller for a frankly gorgeous silk rug specifically because Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had been hoping to get her grubby paws on it since we'd heard of it a month before?“HA! She’d been awaiting its arrival for weeks, but a second cousin of mine - Drogo, he's a good fellow - had notified me not two days before that the seller had just arrived in Bywater. I took some money, and a bit extra in case the seller wouldn't let me haggle over the price outside of a market day, told the neighbors I was just off on a walking holiday and-”There's warmth in the amusement that settles over Thorin and with a sigh he leans his head against the door and closes his eyes. He listens to the Hobbit's voice for a long while.On the last night Thorin spends in the dungeons of the Wood Elves, he dreams, not of a great city beneath a mountain, but of the round of a green door, bright from a fresh coat of paint.Esgaroth reeks of fish and wet cloth.Thorin first thinks it to be the Company with how unceremoniously fish had been dumped upon their heads, but every turn they take and alley they scramble through offers no other smell. The sun is weak in its reach, hardly providing enough light to warm the people, let alone dry their clothes.Thorin keeps an eye on their guide, a bargeman called Bard who slips unnoticed past other Men with ease, although he seems unaware he is doing so. He seems to take Balin’s word at their lie of being simple merchants, but it is not without a distrustful twitch of his lips.Thorin would commend his suspicion if it was not at their expense.The bargeman’s home is as mismatched and patched together as every other house upon the lake and there are three young children who greet them politely, albeit with no small amount of confusion. The Company accepts the blankets and food offered, but they all balk at the weapons.“What is this?” Dori yells, outraged. He throws back the rusted harpoon he had grabbed onto the table.Bofur spins a brittle trident, glowering when one of its prongs breaks off. “It's an insult!”“We paid for real weapons, not for junk!” Óin grouses.“This is the best you'll get from this town!” The bargeman retorts. “The only place you'll find better than this is the town armory, which is always under heavy surveillance. It certainly would not be a place for those trying to keep low and out of sight.”At this Thorin turns to find Dwalin, only to see him already looking back, a question in his eyes. Thorin gives the slightest nod; they would be leaving with those weapons.“Thorin,” Balin says. “Let us take what is offered and be on our way.”“Thorin?” The Man asks, surprise coloring his voice. There is something else in his expression that Thorin cannot read and it makes him uneasy.“A common name,” he lies with a shrug and crosses the room to escape the bargeman’s scrutiny.They discuss their plans to procure the weapons in Khuzdul and Thorin relays this in quiet tones of Westron to the Hobbit. It is all for naught, however, for not long has passed before the bargeman shoots up from his spot at his table. He murmurs something in his son's ear before striding out the door. The son, with determination set in the press of his lips, scoops up a wooden pole and places himself between the door and the Company, with as much of a threatening look as he can muster.“Well, no time better than now,” Master Baggins mutters a short silence later and the Company is up in an instant. The boy hardly has a moment to choose which Dwarf to face before he's disarmed by Fíli. There are protests from his sisters, but they are sensibly wary of coming any closer.“Sorry, laddie,” Balin tells the boy as the Company files out. “You and your sisters can tell your father you tried your best to keep us. He is a good man, but we cannot stay.”They find the armory adjacent to the tallest structure in the town, which is undoubtedly the home of the Master of the Lake. They do not not slip by unnoticed as the bargeman had done, but Thorin pays it no heed, for the Company would not be in Esgaroth for much longer.They make it through the open window in the back and are soon looking over a decent array of weapons. The Company chooses freely; this sorry town on a lake would be more than handsomely compensated once Erebor was reclaimed.But their luck does not hold.Kíli's wounds have not yet healed from the Orcs along their river escape. When his sister-son slips down the stairs, weapons clanging and crashing about him, there is no hope for a quiet departure.They are brought before the Master of the Lake, a plump, balding Man robed in a nightgown of a much finer material than anything Thorin has seen on the townspeople.“Thieves, sire,” says the greasy Man gripping Nori’s arm. “Trying to steal our weapons out from right under our noses.”He turns to sneer at the Company. “But doin’ a poor job of it.”“Thieves, you say,” the Master mumbles. His watery eyes skitter back and forth across the gathering crowd. “Then we should show them what happens to petty criminals who try to make a mockery of us!”The greasy Man steps forward to grasp Thorin, but Dwalin slaps his arm away.“Show some respect,” he snarls. “You do not know to whom you speak! This is Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror! He has returned; the rightful King under the Mountain!”A wave of whispers wash through the people and Thorin knows they are not unfamiliar with the title. He climbs halfway up the steps towards the Master, whose eyes quickly dart across the townspeople again. The expensive glass in the Master’s hand wobbles under Thorin's gaze, clinking against fingers ringed with gold. Thorin turns then, to the people, eyes demure and humble.“I knew this town,” Thorin starts. “Back in the days of old when it was a center of trade, flourishing with wealth and business.“There was plenty to eat, not just slippery fish from a lake, but roasted meat and foreign wines. The cloth not only kept the people warm and dry, but was rich in material and color, strong in its beauty. The homes endured; there were no leaks nor any need for constant repair. And above all, all were merry.” Thorin looks out, listening to the murmurs grow, bubbling with excitement at every word.“I would see those days returned,” he proclaims and his voice is unwavering. “I, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain, would give my word to the people of Lake-Town; I would see Esgaroth restored to what it was in its days of glory!”The rising cheers drown him out, but Thorin has already turned to face the Master of the Lake.“And I remember the gold,” he says, a confession only for the ears of the Master. “The jewels that came down the river in mounds so great it spilled from the sides of the boats. I would see those riches brought back.”He smiles a benevolent smile, full of promise, the same kind a king would share with his subjects. “Will you share in the great wealth of our people?”There are no words of confirmation necessary for Thorin, for just by the quiver of the Master's wispy mustache, he knows that this will be a night of celebration.They are invited within the Master of the Lake’s own lodgings, a lavishly decorated place, if also ruined by the damp of the lake. A feast is set up on a long table, bottles opened, and even jewels are brought out to be appraised by Dwarvish eyes.Thorin is content to listen to the lively chatter of the Company enjoying the banquet but eventually slips away for a chance to catch his breath. He seeks out the sky once more, but this time, it is to gaze upon the Lonely Mountain cutting through the stars.“I suspected you'd be out here.”Thorin jumps, the voice of their burglar in his ear. His Hobbit feet were truly impressive in their silence.“You can't seem to help but brood,” he says and laughs at Thorin's frown. “It must be a kingly thing, to go off and stew in silence.”Together, they do just that for a long while, as Master Baggins sips from one of the crystal glasses of the Master.“I just-,” He starts. “What will it be like once it's all over? And I'm back in Bag-End?” Thorin muses over it, but finds it difficult to imagine the daily goings of a Hobbit.“You will be more than welcome in Erebor, Master Baggins,” he says instead. “We are all indebted to you.”The Hobbit waves him off. “None of that now; I've certainly been saved by the lot of you more than once!”They stare out into the icy lake in silence again. The stars dance across the water as Master Baggins’ inebriated breath whistles a soothing rhythm in Thorin's ear.“Then we will welcome you not because of our debt,” says Thorin quietly. “But as our friend, Master Baggins.” The Hobbit meets Thorin's eyes and the warmth of his gaze on the Carrock is there once more.“You should call me Bilbo,” he says abruptly. “If I'm your friend.”“Bilbo.” Thorin speaks the name softly and at that, Bilbo smiles.Thorin wakes before the day breaks.The boat is set for them, stocked with supplies for their journey up river, but Thorin still takes the time to inspect it for himself. Bilbo appears at his elbow without a word and the two of them don the outer clothing provided.The other Dwarrows stumble to the boat in due time and the gathering of townspeople grow with the rising of the sun. The boys are last to board and it is then that Thorin really gets a good look at his youngest sister-son.Kíli is pale, so very pale, with eyes squinted just to keep them open. He clutches at his leg with one hand and sags heavily on his brother's shoulder. It is unusual for him to have not healed by now, for how hardy Dwarrows are, and with the added vigor of the Line of Durin.“Uncle,” Kíli pleads. He knows it would be to no avail, but it does not stop his stubbornness. “Uncle, please. I belong with the Company. I will be there when we first gaze upon the halls of our ancestors, I will be there-”“No,” Thorin says curtly. “You are in no condition to continue the journey. Durin's day fast approaches and we must make haste. You need time, Kíli, and we have none to spare.”Kíli scowls and Thorin softens at his hurt. “What would I tell Dís if she found her son had perished before seeing Erebor?” He murmurs, pressing his forehead to Kíli’s.“Rest, Kíli. Save up your strength and gaze upon the city of our ancestors when you are strong and healthy again.”Kíli withdraws, sullen faced, and limps towards the stairs. Thorin turns to his heir.“Fíli,” Thorin says, grasping his shoulder. “Get on.”But Fíli tears out of Thorin's hand and follows his brother without a word. The boat creaks behind Thorin and Óin steps off a moment later.“My duty is with the wounded,” he says and returns the bob of Thorin's head. The boat sets off soon after with a blare of trumpets and the cheer of the people and Thorin does not meet the concerned look of Balin nor the questioning eyes of Bilbo.Kíli will heal, with time and care. But their window of time to find the hidden entrance is nearly upon them. It is his duty as king that he makes the choice to press on.The journey must be completed for the sake of all those who should call Erebor home.The trip up river is not a long one, but it seems to stretch on, the Lonely Mountain growing larger with each row of their oars. It ends at the ruins that lie before Erebor, once a thriving city of Men.“What…what is this place?” Bilbo asks.“It is the city of Dale, Master Baggins,” Balin says. “Or rather, it once was before it was destroyed in one fell moment by the dragon Smaug. Many lives were claimed that day, both Man and Dwarf alike.”The Company is silent at this, but there is far too little time to say words for the dead.“Let's move,” Thorin says brusquely. “Durin’s Day is upon us. We must find the door as soon as possible.”They trek through the city, solemn and respectful of the rubble, and before long they are at the foothills of the Lonely Mountain.It is simply awe that washes over the Company at the enormity of Erebor’s design. For nearly all of them, work of such magnitude was only of legend; Ered Luin was much smaller in scale.Balin is the only one to turn away, if for just a moment, and it is to wipe at the tears in his eyes. Both him and Thorin would be the only ones to know that the Lonely Mountain is exactly the same as when they had last set their eyes upon it; the final glance before the people of Erebor left and did not return.It is an arduous task to pry his own eyes from the Front Gate. In his dreams, his first step into Erebor had always been through those beautiful arches. But their purpose here is to steal back a single jewel, and for that, the secret entrance is the safest bet. Despite the sightings of Smaug having ceased, the Front Gate had still been his only method of exit.Bilbo is the one to spot the stairs winding up a great statue of one of Thorin's forefathers. It is just in time. They make it to the top, right as the final rays of sunlight paint the stone orange.“The key!” Ori puffs excitedly. Thorin's fingers reach beneath his collar to grasp it as Nori and Dwalin begin running their fingers across the rock, searching for the keyhole.The minutes stretch.Thorin clings to his patience as the light slips down the slab of rock. Glóin soon joins the search, tapping for hollows with his ear pressed against the wall.“It's not showing!” Nori sputters.“It is the last light of Durin's Day!” Dori says, going to press his own hands to the stone. “It must be here!”Thorin exhales harshly, turning to Balin, but Balin only turns to him with a wrinkled brow. Dwalin draws his axe and looks to Thorin. He has no better solution.“Break it down!”The weapons chip and scratch, but the door does not budge. Panic flairs as the sunlight flickers down towards their boots. Thorin rushes to the stone, hands frantic, but there is nothing more he can do when the land is finally washed in the blue of evening.The silence that falls is strung high with disbelief.“Have we…?” Glóin starts, and the unasked question drives a knife through Thorin's heart. Had they truly come all this way, faced all those trials for their journey to end here, mere steps away from Erebor?His gaze drops to the key. It sits innocently on his palm and, suddenly furious, he clenches a fist around it, but just as suddenly, lets his fingers open. The key falls with a hollow clatter on the rock.“Wha - you can't give up now!” Bilbo cries. "We - there… there has to be another way, something we're missing! We can't just leave!”But Thorin only hesitates for a moment before turning away. He makes it down the first section of stairs before he stumbles, dropping to his knees.Had he waited this long for his homeland just to be turned away?He does not rise, even as the others linger. They sit on the steps, glancing to the top, as if waiting might change the outcome.He does not rise, even when he feels a firm hand on his shoulder.“Thorin…” Dwalin starts, heavy voice trailing off. There is nothing to say.He does not rise, even as the moonlight illuminates the stone around him.But then, Bilbo's shout cuts through the air, sharp and clear, without a trace of sorrow.Thorin rises.When he finds the burglar standing where they had left him, it is to see his face, glowing with delight, for their journey had not ended in failure after all. There, just below his fingers, is the keyhole, clear as day.“The last light,” Bilbo crows. “It's the moon!”The key fits perfectly.The time has come for Bilbo to take his leave of them and venture alone, deep into the stolen city, down to where a dragon lies. There is nothing more the Dwarrows can do but place their hopes on the Hobbit that they had met so long ago. So they let Bilbo disappear beyond the door and then they wait.For a very long time.Thorin has grown numb to the burn of a long wait, but now, with Erebor dormant beneath his feet, it is torture.There is something that grows during this time, something Thorin does not notice at first with the quiet chatter and bored scuffs of the Dwarrows’ shoes.It comes from within the mountain, the quietest call that slithers its way to his heart. It grows from a miniscule nudge to a sweet whisper in the shell of his ear. It cajols him with stories of riches and splendor, days of old and glory.Thorin jolts up from his seat, startling the others and lurches towards the door, but Dwalin pulls him back.“Where are you going, laddie?” Balin says, concern etched in his brow. Thorin breathes out through his mouth, trying to steady himself.“The - the… Balin, the Arkenstone.”“We were to wait for the burglar, Thorin,” Dwalin says.“No - no, he has been in there far too long -”“Let’s give him a chance, now, Thorin. We might do more harm than good, going in-”“How can I know - How can I trust some - some - burglar to know the true worth of our people's treasure?”Balin’s eyes widen with a sudden recognition, but Thorin does not get a chance to find out of what, for the mountain shakes beneath their feet. A deep roar echoes through the caverns and this time, no one stops Thorin when he pushes past to the door.For the first time since the desolation of Smaug, the King under the Mountain steps foot into the great city of Erebor.The dragon is dead.It is so cruel a joke that Smaug should perish so easily after how long he kept the Dwarrows from Erebor. But Bilbo confirms the dragon's fall over Lake-Town from their perch in the ruins of Dale. There had not even been a need to rally Dwarrows across the land to the Arkenstone.But Thorin does not dwell on it for long, not when the Lonely Mountain finally sits vacant. He stands in a quick motion.“We make for Erebor,” he says, but he is greeted by silence. He turns to see the Company staring at him blankly. Ori makes a hesitant gesture.“What is it?” Thorin snaps.“Maybe we should… help…”Balin squeezes Ori's shoulder. “He's right, Thorin. They offered us aid in our time of need; it is only right we do the same-”“Erebor stands unoccupied,” Thorin says roughly, silencing him. “Do you not think news will spread of the dragon’s death? If it is left unclaimed by us, anyone will have a chance at the rightful claim of our people. Only once it is secure can we give aid to those who deserve it.”The Company does not meet his eyes, shuffling their feet with furtive glances towards the lake.“Did you not hear me?” Thorin barks. He grabs Bilbo's arm and pulls him towards the splintered door.“We leave now.”The trek to the mountain is a quick one, now that there is no door to find nor dragon to be wary of. Thorin presses a hand to the jagged edge of Erebor's broken doorway, taking in a measured breath before entering.The dragon has left so much destruction. Giant boulders are strewn about, broken from pillars that held the weight of rock above them. Banners have been ripped and hang in ribbons. Most horrifying, however, are the bones, many broken and many others scorched from dragonfire. Thorin does not let his eyes linger on the skulls.There would be time, later, to honor the dead. There would be time to mend the banners and rebuild the broken stone. Even the rooms that have collapsed or teeter unbalanced with broken supports will have to wait.The time now is for retrieving the Arkenstone.The Company descends through the city, murmuring to each other at the sights they see, things they hadn't noticed when there had been a dragon to deal with. Thorin does not let them dawdle and before long, they stand at the edge of the great treasure hoard.Gold.For as far as the eye can see, gold and silver and gemstones and silks and the most precious of items lay in mounds and mounds through the colossal cavern. The fires they light send sparkles dancing over the pillars and the astonished faces of the Company. Thorin smiles at them. It is time to start their search.It is but a short while later, when all the Company have been put to work scouring the mounds, that Bombur groans and clutches his stomach. Beside him, Balin lets out a puff of air.“Well, now is as good a time as any,” Balin says, standing up with creaking knees. “Come on, Bombur. And you too, Bilbo.”Thorin stops them in their path.“Where do you think you're going?”Balin huffs. “Lad, are we not allowed to walk the halls-”“Balin,” Thorin intones, and the sound is so heavy that it seems to echo through the entire mountain. Balin clears his throat.“We're just going to see how the balcony farms are doing. I don't expect much, for how long they have been neglected, but sometimes the ravens will drop seeds-”“You will have time to do that once the Arkenstone has been found.”“Thorin,” Balin says with a frown, “You're being unreasonable-”“Erebor needs to be rebuilt, Balin. What Dwarf will answer the call of a king who does not wield the Arkenstone-?”“Oh, let us pass, Thorin,” Bilbo crabs. “We just want to get something to eat. It's been nearly a day.”Thorin frowns. It could not have been more than a few hours that have passed, but the nods from the other two has him bewildered. He lets them leave, but it is not without reluctance.They return with a cart of greenery and the rest of the Dwarrows gather around, eagerly sorting through it. Thorin forces himself to eat the handful of berries Bilbo passes him, but does not take anymore, going off to sit a little distance away. The Company sits together, chattering away.“Stop that.”The Company falls silent, turning to Thorin who has his fingers pressed to his temple.“Stop…what?” Nori ventures when no one else volunteers.“The hissing,” Thorin groans. “It is all I can hear.”“Hissing?” Nori says with his head tilted. “I don't hear any hissing.”The others nod and give Thorin odd looks, but the sound does not cease. Thorin sighs noisily and picks himself up, wandering to a small room not too far off. It is one his Grandfather had once used to rest, but any peace Thorin might have found is thwarted by the continued hissing which neither slows nor quiets.The Company has fallen asleep by his return, so Thorin wades out into the gold by himself, torch in hand.He is pawing through gemstones when he hears it.
<...gold…my gold…>
“Who's… there?” Thorin tries to ask, but the words are thick on his tongue.
<...every piece… mine, my own…>
“..yes,” Thorin murmurs, swaying with unsteady knees. “I am the King under the Mountain… the treasure belongs to me…”
<...foolish…to steal from me…>
“Foolish,” the King under the Mountain agrees. “I need - I… I need the Arkenstone. I will… rally the Dwarrows to me - that will teach them. How dare they-?”“Tho- er, my King?”The King whirls on Glóin.“Is everything alright?”The Dwarf King stares at him, thoughts still on the treachery of Men and the slippery fingers of thieves. The Dwarf before him rocks on his heels.“Wake the others up,” the King demands. “There is no time to lose. None should rest until the Arkenstone is found!”In the days that follow, forgotten artifacts of Erebor are found - the crown of Thror being one of many - but the King's Jewel remains elusive despite their ceaseless searches. There is no way for it to be anywhere other than within these halls, for Smaug had no reason to value it above others. So as the early days of searching shift into weeks, the Mountain King begins to grow suspicious of its fate.He should have known when they first arrived. When the shifting eyes of the Company would not meet his. When the dragon was felled and there was no reason to fear its fire. He feels it in his bones. The heart of the mountain, his heart is-
<Stolen!...thief in the shadows…>
It is one of them, one who has traded their loyalty for treachery, one who seeks to usurp his throne-
<...do not try and deceive me…>
One is false.He strides down the hall, ready to question each of the Dwarrows thoroughly. He would start with those who protested their non-engagement with Lake-Town and end with his sister-sons, who had arrived not too long ago. They would have had less time to steal away the King's Jewel, but he must be thorough in his search.The Dwarf King rounds the corner and catches sight of his burglar. There is something in his hands, something he holds with a great reverence-
<...I'm almost tempted to let you take it…>
“YOU.”The Hobbit jumps at the King's voice, instinctively closing his hands.“What is that?” He demands, reaching for the cupped hands. They part to reveal a small object, round with a tapered bottom. It is so out of place that it takes a long moment for him to recognize it as an acorn. The Mountain King stares, waiting for an explanation.“I- I was going to plant it in my garden,” the Hobbit babbles. “In Bag-End, at the end of the lane. I picked it up in Beorn's garden, you see.“Once it's all grown, I'll look back on it and remember all of it- the good, the bad, and everything in between. I'll think of it all fondly by then, I think, and I'll be happy with those memories for the rest of my days.”The King’s arms drop from the hold they have on the burglar's wrists.It is an odd desire this creature has, to dream of trees and plants instead of treasure and gold. Yes, if the King remembered from their first meeting, the Hobbit had always been well versed in all things related to comforts and home. Once the King’s place as King under the Mountain was irrefutable, Erebor would need to be rebuilt. It would need to become a home again and with the help of the Hobbit, they would transform Erebor back into the great city it once was. With this little Shire mouse, he would bring back the-
<days of glory…>
“You belong to Erebor,” He hisses and his arms are back up, his grip tight. “Do not leave this mountain.”The creature in his hands startles, pulling weakly at his grip.“Wha- Thorin, let go!” he cries. “I don't understand Kuzhdul - let go, you're hurting me!”He hears a shout at the end of the hall and two Dwarves are on either side, tugging at his arms.“Uncle, what are you doing-?”“He is not to set foot-”“Let Mr. Baggins go!”“It will be rebuilt-”“THORIN!”Thorin?That is what they call him, is it not?His brow crinkles as he looks down to find the Hobbit locked in the cage of his hands. The King forces his hands to unclench and lets them drop to his sides. His sister-sons push themselves between the two of them, chests heaving from the struggle.“Burglar,” the Mountain King says gruffly, although he does not know in which tongue. “Have you not seen the great libraries of Erebor?”He lets the boys whisk the Hobbit away, watching with a churning in the pit of his stomach. There is a heat there, an intoxicating, rising warmth, working its way up his throat so that if he could breathe it out, it might scorch the entire city. He just barely catches the burglar’s rushed whisper.“Fíli, what was that? What was he saying?”“It's nothing, Mr. Baggins. Let's - we'll take you to the library-”“Yes, you'll love it, Mr. Boggins! It's got books-”“-and more books-”“-Baggins, Kíli-, and l’ve already seen-”The Dwarf King presses his back to the wall as the heat dissipates. He forces himself up and there is nothing he can do but wander down, down, down to the whispers of the treasure hoard of Thror.The next time he sees the Hobbit, it is to find he is betrayed.The Men of Lake-Town have finally made their way to the mountain, ragged and weak, begging for gold that is not theirs. They stand alongside the Wood Elves and the Mountain King can only sneer at the scene of the Elf King perched haughtily upon his enormous elk. From his place high upon the arched entrance, the Mountain King is ready to end the chatter and dismiss them when the bargeman - the dragon-slayer - pulls something from his coat.The King under the Mountain nearly falls from the height, for his eyes deceive him.They must, for it seems as though what the dragon-slayer holds in his hands is the heart of the mountain.Just as fast as he believes it, suspicion creeps in. It cannot be the Arkenstone, not when it has been sealed away in the tomb that Erebor is.“It's real.”The King whirls to the Hobbit. He stands straight-backed, undaunted, and the creature's eyes do not lie. There is guilt in them; he feels pity for the King.“I know it's real,” the creature says, turning to the others. “Because I gave it to them.”With that admission, all the air in the King's lungs disappears. He grasps at the stone in front of him, wheezing out as the others clamor behind him. He feels the thump of multiple hands on his back, but he cannot find his breath.“A slow breath now, laddie!”“He's choking - get the furs off him!”“What’s wrong with him?”That last voice - it tugs at a hazy memory. It takes him to the glittering of his roost beneath his claws and the faceless voice that woke him from his slumber. He had forgotten it - the voice that spun charming words and flattery; he should have known better than to trust the words of the-
<Ring-bearer, luck-wearer, barrel-rider…pretty names for one who is nothing more than a thief and a LIAR>
He is up in an instant and his vision narrows down to the thief. His face is not one of fear, but the King thinks it should be.“How dare you, barrel-rider?” He snarls. “You would steal from me?”The Dwarves titter in shock, but they mean nothing to the King. He pushes through them, grabbing the ring-bearer by his collar.“See if you could do such a thing again if all your bones were broken.”He makes to shove the creature over the edge, but his fingers hesitate and his legs stall for a reason he cannot discern. His pause gives enough time for the others to pry the creature from his grasp and shield him behind them.“Balin,” the barrel-rider says with an urgency to the Dwarf beside him. “What is he saying?”“That is no tongue I know,” the other replies and the fear on his face is the same as the day the-<-DRAGON - TAKE COVER>The Dwarf steps back and presses a hand to the barrel-rider’s chest.“That is no tongue Thorin Oakenshield knows either.”One of the others begins to push the creature to the ledge and the Mountain King thinks it is to complete the task he could not, but there is instead a rope secured to the edge.“I'm not afraid of Thorin-” The ring-bearer starts, but the white-haired Dwarf stares at the King with wide eyes.“Aye, laddie,” he says. “But this is not Thorin.”The luck-wearer grabs hold of the rope shoved in his hands and with a last look at the King, disappears beyond the walls of Erebor.It takes a long while for the Mountain King to remember the barrel-rider had been one of their own.It makes it all the more devastating.How could it have been him, the one who had saved the Company so many times - the one who had proved the King wrong over and over again - the one who had proved himself to be someone worthy of trust?How could his burglar have been the one to betray him?How could Bilbo Baggins?The King's eyes drag across the reflections of the floor, mirroring the high ceiling and crumbling stone. He has sealed himself in this room, the place where the dragon had nearly drowned in gold, for he cannot stand to be with anyone but himself. His feet pause in their pacing.Could there be more to it?With the Hobbit gone, the memories of him come back in strangled snippets, and the more he pours over them, the more he cannot fathom a betrayal. Why would Bilbo have done such a thing?
<Why would I trust anyone but me?>
The Dwarf King squeezes his eyes shut at the unbidden voice in his mind. “Get out!”When he opens them again, they catch on his own face, reflected on the bright floor. His cheeks are sunken and his skin is pale. It seems to ripple and shake the longer the King stares and then suddenly his pupils are slits and his lips part to reveal flat teeth turned to jagged fangs. His dragon face smiles up at him.
<I know the taste of Dwarf flesh…>
The King tears his eyes away, doubling over and dry heaves. He wipes roughly at his mouth with the back of his hand.“ENOUGH,” he bellows to the air, “LEAVE ME!”
<I know the sound of their screams as the fire devours them->
“Stop,” he sobs. “Let me go!”He does not know where he finds the strength, but he grabs the crown atop his head and flings it from him. The high tinny that rings through the air as it hits the hard floor is the clearest sound he has heard in days.It might have been days or weeks or even years that pass before he rises from the spot he had crumpled in. The Dwarf that sways where he stands is not the King Under the Mountain.He is Thorin Oakenshield.The line of Durin does not let others fight their battles for them.And so, like all warriors of legend, their destinies cannot escape the lure of the battlefield.It is perhaps sorrowful, however, to think that despite having broken free from the dragon's curse, fate has chosen Thorin's last breaths to be taken on the frozen heights of Ravenhill. He has not been himself again for even a single day before he lay gasping on the ice, blood pooling beneath his coat.His mind wanders.He thinks of his cousin, who rallies the Dwarrows under Thorin's name. Of the Men and Elves fighting alongside the Dwarrows and how there was no time to make peace with them, not with Orc attacks on two fronts.He does not know of Dwalin’s or Kíli’s fate and he does not linger on that of his heir’s. He had rode up to Ravenhill, knowing it would be the last time he would ever fight Azog; he had vowed that only one of them would leave Ravenhill alive. The fight was his, but he would never have been able to dissuade the boys or Dwalin to let him take the journey alone. It was shameful to think he had doubted their loyalty for even a second.The sky is so peacefully blue above him and he thinks it should be red, red as the blood spilt for the freedom of Middle Earth. A sky such as this would only fit in a place like Bilbo's Shire.His thoughts spin full circle and the Hobbit is on his mind once again. He has not seen Bilbo since the day at the gate. There is much he would give to be able to take back his words, to part in friendship before Bilbo left for his beloved Bag-End. He would be content to even just lay eyes on the Hobbit once more.Fate is not so cruel, he thinks, for as soon as he wishes it, a familiar halo of curls obscure the ill-suited sky. He struggles to hold Bilbo's gaze, now crinkled with tears, and wonders when he had begun to think of home when he saw those warm eyes.“I - I would take back my words,” Thorin chokes out, desperate to resolve his misdeeds. “At the gate… I wish to part in friendship-”But Bilbo is shaking his head and his words are out in a rush. “No, no, you silly Dwarf, there's nothing to forgive. And we can wait for all those goodbyes after Erebor's in decent shape again, don't you think? I'm in no hurry to be running off back home just yet.”“Yes…home,” Thorin gasps out, hardly following the conversation. “Go back to your books and your armchair. Plant your trees, watch them grow.”His fingers find the divots of the mithril Bilbo wears beneath his coat. He is selfishly glad to see he has kept it on, for it is the only good he can remember doing from his time under the dragon's spell. His hand falls slack, but Bilbo catches it with his own before it falls.“-yes, I will, and you’ll come visit, won't you-? Thorin, stay with me-”Thorin gives a weak smile and there is a coppery tang on his tongue.“Go… go back home, Bilbo.”“Home,” Bilbo laughs, but it has no joy. “Home - Thorin, I didn’t realize, but all my stories of home were missing something.”Bilbo shifts the grip he has on Thorin’s hand. “It's the people, Thorin, it's the people that make a house a home… Please keep your eyes open - look, the eagles are here - Thorin-!”The Hobbit is trying to tell him something, Thorin thinks, but the ice chills his bones and the darkness is much too persuasive.When Thorin wakes, it is in the halls of his forefathers.The ceiling is high and carved with the geometric designs that Dwarrows so favor. It is an echo of the city beneath the mountain, the one he had waited for, had fought for, had died for. And now he would never see it again, for his part in the history of Erebor was done, and it was his time to join with those who had come before him.He cannot regret. There are words he has not spoken, actions he has yet to take back, but he cannot regret, for Mahal has decided it is his time. His eyes follow the paths that weave through the ceiling over and over again, because it is his time, but maybe he could pretend for just a moment that it is not. So his eyes remain glued to the carvings that are so far above his head and when he tries to raise his arm to trace them in the air, he finds he cannot.He looks down.There, against his thigh, rests a head of curls, pinning his arm to his side. He slowly slides his hand out to rest softly upon the head.It is Master Bagg- Bilbo. Thorin does not know what sorcery allowed for a Hobbit to enter the Dwarven ancestor halls, but he is both terribly grateful and terribly sorrowful. It could only be by the grace of Mahal that Thorin has been given this gift. Mahal must have taken mercy on him.Bilbo lurches up suddenly as Thorin’s hand smoothes over his hair again. He turns wild eyes to Thorin.“Thorin!” he gasps. “You’re awake!”He blinks and fumbles around, confused with sleep. Thorin smiles, small and sad.“Bilbo. Why are you here?”“Why - what - why am I here? Well of course I was going to stay until you woke! Did you think I’d just go happily gallivanting to the Shire without knowing-”“You were supposed to live.” At this, Bilbo blinks.“I - You’re not dead, you daft Dwarf,” Bilbo gripes, “We’re alive. All of the Company is alive - Kíli’s, he’s awake and Tauriel should be with him. Fíli, he’s got a nasty wound, but Óin - Oh, Óin, I’ll go get him-”Bilbo shoots up and makes to leave, but Thorin grabs his arm.“Bilbo.” Thorin’s heart is caught, halfway to hope. The Company is alive - his sister-sons, injured, but recovering, and Erebor is reclaimed with Smaug dead. It is hope beyond hope that all of this could be true.“Yes, what is it?” Bilbo murmurs as he sits back down.Thorin cannot think of what to ask. What can he, when a dream so long awaited is reality?“A story,” Thorin decides, prompting Bilbo. “A story of home.”Bilbo huffs a breath of laughter.“There’s one I can think of - a story of thirteen Dwarves, including their stubborn and headstrong leader, one meddling wizard and a very charming and quick witted Hobbit,” he says with a serious nod. Thorin's lips quirk.“The Dwarves went on a journey to reclaim their homeland and had to deal with all sorts of characters along the way; Trolls, Elves, Men, and even a great fire-breathing Dragon. They fought a great battle and nearly lost their lives for it, but in the end, they were successful in their endeavor.“And now,” he says. “Now that the Dwarf King has reclaimed his home, he will finally, finally be able to have his own stories of home and won't need to pester his burglar for them.”Thorin shakes his head at this to which Bilbo frowns.“That is where you are mistaken, dear Master Burglar,” Thorin says quietly. “A charming and quick-witted Hobbit once told me that it is the people who make a house a home. If that is the case, then..."In his hand, he takes Bilbo’s and intertwines their fingers."The Dwarf King already has his own stories of home.”