Thorin Oakenshield had no idea that who he sat beside at the tavern that one spring evening would change not only his entire life—but also all of Middle-Earth. How could he? He had been thirsty and hungry after his journey, and had paid no thought in which stool he plopped upon, bending over the woodwork as he called to the shopkeeper for an ale.

It had all been so normal. Average. Perfectly routine for the exiled king.

So easily dismissed.

But then his eyes glanced over the ears of the person beside him, and while instinct immediately screamed, "Elf!" logic and double-check assured, "No, wait…he is an unknown creature." Which, in itself, was a strange conclusion to come to, considering the dwarf was well-traveled, and had been to nearly every single corner of Middle-Earth thanks to his unwelcome journeys. So naturally, he should have met every living thing with limbs cursed to walk and toil under the sun.

But this one—this small thing with rusty-gold hair hunched over the bartop and clutching a tankard of…what was that, tea? No, this was definitely one he had not seen before.

And so before he could stop himself, the question was asked—and all of Order shifted in response, making and paving new ways and adventures to accommodate this change in Reality and What Would Be. Not that the two participants of this perfectly ordinary conversation in the tavern late that warm, unique evening had any idea what they had set into motion by engaging in discussion with one another. But it happened all the same.

When Thorin muttered, "What are you?"

And the little thing beside him winced and stuttered, "W-well, I'm a hobbit," Middle-Earth eased beneath them as its saviors finally met.

But Time, constant as it is, did not stop to acknowledge them. It plowed onward, and Thorin straightened in moderate curiosity as he re-scrutinized the young 'hobbit' beside him. "Ah…a halfling. Of course," he murmured, more to himself than the new companion beside him.

The red-gold haired creature straightened, casting startled blue eyes the dwarf's way. "You've heard of us?"

Thorin grunted in affirmative, leaning forward on the counter as he sipped some of his ale that the shopkeeper finally had fetched for him. "Not much, but enough to know you exist." Steel-blue eyes darted to meet the smaller one's, which winced in surprise at such deft speed of contact. "Speaking of which, I thought hobbits never left their Shire. The furthest I have heard of hobbits traveling is to Bree—but you are all the way here on the outskirts of Ered Luin. Why?"

The hobbit swallowed, gaze averting away meekly. He cleared his throat. "Th-that's none of your business, I believe."

Well. Thorin gave a half-shrug in a grudging affirmative. He supposed the little one could be right on that fact. It didn't settle his curiosity and amazement any, though. "Perhaps. But Ered Luin is dwarf territory; whatever it is that has brought a halfling to our borders most likely will concern us, in the end."

The hobbit's face pinched tightly. "It's…it's really not that important. I'm just going to be here for the night. Then I'll be on my way. I promise. It's nothing to…to get people upset or worried over."

"So, personal reasons, then," Thorin muttered before lifting his bottle by its neck to take another swig.

The blue eyes darted to the dwarf's profile as he drank. Soft silence fell between them, and it took a moment for the smaller creature to respond—but when he did, it was with hesitant concession. "Y…yes…" The hobbit turned back around to take a sip from his own mug—perhaps to stall for idle thought. "…you could, I suppose, classify it as such…"

Curious.

Thorin pressed his lips together, before bowing his head as his eyes followed the grain of wood underneath his bended arms. "You don't sound very sure of that."

The halfling didn't answer.

So the dwarf king continued. "I suppose I'll ask again, then: should I be concerned that a halfling is so far from home?"

"No." The answer was immediate, though the hobbit beside him didn't seem any more comfortable, shifting as if he were lying—and why? What was there to lie about?—before he suddenly started to get up, placing coins on the bartop for the shopkeeper as he immediately pardoned, "No. Sorry—I'll—I'll leave. Good day."

But it was then, as the hobbit stood and began to leave, that his absence removed his shadow which had previously, been hiding strange markings left on the wooden counter—sketched with the condensation from his tankard of tea. Most likely idle drivel, Thorin had originally thought, drawn and written by a bored hobbit with nothing better to do while sitting and drinking—but when he looked again, he found he recognized the markings. Recognized them…and knew what they were from—and wait—how would—

—before he was completely aware of what he was doing, Thorin leapt away from the counter, ignoring the shopkeeper who hollered at his back for not paying for his drink—and burst out of the tavern—all in time to catch the little halfling before he walked too far.

With a growl, he dashed over, grabbing the smaller one's shoulder as he turned him and abruptly shoved him against the side wall of the tavern in a clamorous bang. The few dwarves still out and about at this time of night immediately jumped out of their way, giving them a wide berth as the ex-dwarf-king leaned in close to the startled and fearful hobbit. He breathed dangerously, "How do you know that Word?"

"I—I—I—what? What Word—" The poor thing's mouth gaped open and shut, open and shut, at a loss to form syllables and consonants in order to make coherent sense.

The hand tightened, and Thorin resisted the urge to slam the small body against the side again, instead resorting to demanding in a louder tone, "That Word, Halfling. That you, yourself, wrote down with water—tell me how you know it. It is part of a specific code—only very few know of it; and it is supposed to remain that way. Who told you of it? How do you know? And why would you ever think it safe to draw it—"

"—I—I found it—"

"—found it?" That didn't make sense. What idiot left those kind of letters sitting around for anyone to find? (No one—absolutely no one. At least…no one who could read them and understand them.)

"—yes. Yes." A swallow, a gulp. By Mahal, the hobbit was terrified. It was as plain as day in those bright blue eyes. "I'm sorry—I know they're special—I—I don't mean any harm—really; I don't—please don't hurt me—!"

"But why? Why do you know them?"

"I—I—"

"—answer me—!"

"D-dragonborn! I—" And with eyes wide and blue and frightened and honest, the words repeat themselves with stuttering sincerity. "—I-I'm a..." A swallow. "I'm the Dragonborn."

It…was so strange, that seeming-confession, echoing out in the stillness of the night for only the dwarf to hear, that the instinctive reaction was to think either he had misheard the little thing, or that he was joking—or, even more probable—lying. Bluffing. Coming up with a response—any response—just to appease the exiled king's wrath and allow him escape.

But for a split-second, instead of actually spurring him to respond, the words forced Thorin's mind into a white, catatonic state. And as he stood there, towering over the halfling, he found he…suddenly didn't know what to think.

Dragon…Dragonborn…the Dragonborn?

This little thing?

The wind flew right out of him as soon as those words passed the smaller one's mouth, and he stared uncomprehendingly as those blue eyes peered back with wide-eyed hope, unable to say a thing or grasp any of his previous anger once the hobbit's response finally registered.

But then, his jaw finally parted. "…Dragonborn?"

A hesitant nod. "Y-yes."

More staring, more silence. The hobbit began to squirm. Thorin's eyes narrowed, and Reality—Remembrance that this wasn't possible—surged back through him. "You expect me to believe this? You hobbits aren't very good liars—"

"—th-that's because I'm not! Lying, that is!" The voice hitched and struggled as with returning fear, the hobbit squirmed to free himself, hands grasping at the stonework of the tavern behind him to no avail, no purchase. "Please, don't—I—I know I'm the Dragonborn—that's—that's why I left the Shire in the first place—I couldn't—I—"

"—how am I supposed to believe you? You, a mere hobbit, as the prophesized Dragonborn all of Middle-Earth has been waiting for?" Thorin scoffed, the idea so ludicrous—and so overwhelmingly disappointing—that he could to nothing else but pull away with a dismissive shake of his head.

But the hobbit winced, hands wringing each other as if this reaction was one he had expected—and perhaps had experienced before. "I—I know—I'm not very—"

"—there's no way in all of creation that you are the Dragonborn." The idea still made him sneer, but Thorin reigned it in as he glared with heavier severity. "You're going to have to do better than that, I'm afraid. Now explain yourself: what is the real reason you know that Word?"

"Th-that's—that's it; that's the only reason I have. I…I can't lie," the small thing responded with desperate, bright eyes. "I'm sorry—I know I'm a d-disappointment, but that's really the tru—"

"—Shout for me, then."

The eyes widened again. "W-what…?"

"Shout for me," Thorin commanded evenly, arms crossed over his chest as he backed up and planted his feet apart in the stance he knew so well and even used to employ as king and ruler before his sudden and unfair usurpation. "If you are truly the Dragonborn we've all wanted—" –that I've wanted; and how dare you make fun and try to pretend you're the savior I've been waiting for— "—then you know how to Shout. So do it. Right now."

The tiny mouth fluttered again in empty words. "I—I can't—"

"—ah; so not the true Dragonborn, then? Glad we have that out in the open, now."

"No, no; not that. I…"

"What? What excuse do you have this time?"

"…I've never…I haven't…"

"Haven't…?"

"Ihaven'tkilledadragonyetsoIhaven'tabsorbedanysoul stoShoutwith." Panting afterwards as if such a confession had equaled a long-distance jog, the hobbit then huffed, "There. H-happy? I…I haven't killed a dragon. And I—I don't think I ever w-will…so I…I can't…"

…ah.

Thorin's features eased as this revelation came upon him and actually…made quite a bit of sense. He nodded distractedly, eyes darting away as doubt, thick and heavy still pulsed through his bloodstream and weighed down his limbs and soul. "Then how do you propose that you 'know' you are the Dragonborn? It is not a claim you want to lie about, Halfing. You are lucky I am not particularly religious." Else you would be burned at the stake for such blasphemy. And you still could—if you keep parading around this lie.

"I…I'm not lying…" came the exasperated sigh, more tired now than fearful. "Please, I…" With a swallow and a quick look around, perhaps to check for audience, the hobbit then continued once appeased that the coast was clear. "…there were these human thieves that r-ran through the Shire. Stole…all sorts of precious things to us hobbits and my neighbors. So I…I had gone after them—"

"—you?" Thorin scoffed. And what did this have to do with finding the Word, anyway? "Hobbits aren't so brave—or so stupid, I had thought—"

"—I." A harsh swallow and those blue eyes closed tightly, as if in pain at the idea. "I've always…I've always been a bit d…different than the rest, I suppose…I mean, running off to save imaginary princesses when the other hobbit lads played tea-time should have been my first clue, but…" With a shaky exhale, his small hand passed through his curly auburn hair. "…I had always thought it was the T-Took in me. Never thought it'd actually be…something Dragon…"

The stranger passed him a hesitant, meek smile, as if Thorin could somehow understand this, before continuing. "Yes—well—regardless—I—um." He cleared his throat. "I went after the thieves, found their lair, snuck inside, and got our treasure back—"

"—just like that?" Thorin asked in clear disbelief. "Somehow, miraculously, you snuck by all these expert thieves and got your Shire's belongings back as adept as an actual burglar yourself?"

"I—w-well, I'm a hobbit." And for the first time, those blue eyes actually glared—even if just a little, with just a tiny shade darker hue to their depths than before. Thorin fought the urge to be amused and to show it. "We are able to not be noticed or seen if they want to. Don't you know this?"

Ah. Turning the tables, so now Thorin looked like the idiot instead of the liar. The ex-dwarf king merely glowered, lips pressed into a thin line. "So you got your things. Fine. That doesn't explain, however—"

"—I'm getting there," the hobbit huffed. By now, nearly all trace of fear was gone, and Thorin couldn't help but admit that made listening to the entire story that much easier to bear—especially if it meant less stuttering. The hobbit went on. "To tell the truth, my plan didn't go as well as I thought. I…I did get caught—but unfortunately, the only way I could go after that was deeper into their hollows in order to find another way out—"

"—you realize this story sounds less and less likely the more you go on—"

"—it happened; I'm telling you." The hobbit gasped in dismay. "I—I wouldn't ever be so far from home if it didn't. No, I ran deeper, and the deeper I got, the stranger the hollows became. There were traps—all sorts of traps, as if this place the thieves had taken to hiding in had been used to protect something a long time ago—and then, at the end—that's where I found it."

"The Word?" Thorin asked with a raised eyebrow.

The hobbit nodded, hands wringing each other as if the memory itself was particularly…disturbing. Almost subconsciously, as if he hadn't noticed it, his voice dropped to a startling quiet, the reminiscence heavy and low, portrayed in his voice. "I…I remember hearing voices—as if something was whispering to me…a-and I had thought that strange, of course—but then the closer I got to the far wall, I saw these glowing symbols—the—the Word—and as soon as I saw it…" The hobbit swallowed, shaking his head. "…the world darkened—I—honestly, I thought I'd pass out because there was a heavy pressure all around, inside and out of my head—but I was warm—and there were these strange lights—and although I've never seen those markings before, I knew what they meant. I could read them as clear as day, as if they were written in Westron instead…"

The dwarf's eyes narrowed, and even without seeing the look, the hobbit whispered the words, as if they had been burned to memory, "'Here lies The Guardian, keeper of the Dragonstone, and a force of eternal rage and darkness.'"

A small pause enveloped them, ticking onward in the silence.

"…that's—that's where I learned the Word. 'Fus.' It…" Blue eyes darted to the side, meek and shadowed. "…it was the one that stood out the most. If that…makes sense."

If it makes sense…

…did it?

Thorin stared long and hard at the hobbit before him, something stirring in the back of his mind that quite honestly, frightened him. Because he couldn't be…he couldn't be believing this crazy tale—could he? No—no, that was absurd—it was entirely illogical…

…wasn't it?

So no—the issue wasn't with logic. There were truer stories with stranger tales than this, so the issue, even more so, was how could a hobbit make this up?

"How did you get out of there?" Thorin found himself asking before he could stop, the words calm and low, far more patient than before—expectant, now, because this was, in a sense, that final test. He had spun a long enough and grand enough tale by now; where was the ending? The resolution?

The hobbit shifted on his feet, but didn't miss a beat. "Well, r-reading the words caused this…thing to wake up. The—the Guardian, I suppose, like the wall called it. And, really, it was quite convenient, because it woke up just in time as the thieves caught up—and instead of attacking me, it charged for them." There came that hesitant smile again, brief and unsure but hopeful. "I, meanwhile, was able to find another exit in the interim."

Thorin's eyes narrowed. "So just like that—you're off free because of the Guardian—you return home, are disturbed by what you've experienced regarding the Word, and then you subsequently left because you were convinced you were the Dragonborn?" That part didn't make sense.

The hobbit before him shrugged, looking pained. "I—I was scared. I couldn't get the Word out of my head, I couldn't…I couldn't bear to face what I knew I would have to, so I…I l-left. I..."

…and in the silence, suddenly, everything made far more sense to the dwarf king.

"You're trying to run away," he breathed, eyes hardening at the realization. "You're trying to get as far away as you can, hoping that Fate will choose to give birth to another Dragonborn so you don't have to do what you were meant to."

The hobbit winced, and Thorin knew, with growing anger, he was right. "I—I'm a coward—I—I know—I know—and I'm sorry—"

"—no. You're worse than that," the exiled king seethed, the rage at being let down so sharply bubbling through him particularly harsh—after all, a Dragonborn was everything he was hoping for. Everything he had been wishing for in order to bring back his kingdom and bring back his people and—and this is what Fate gave him after all his prayers? This trembling little thing who wouldn't even speak a complete sentence to him without stuttering? "You're a traitor. A traitor to every single living being here in Middle-Earth—we've all been waiting for you. And you're just going to run…?"

The shivering thing covered his face in dismay. "I—I'm sorry, but I can't—I just can't kill anything—I'm no hero—I'm—I'm not the Dragonborn everyone wants me to be, and I'm sorry, but I can't—"

—no. No, it wasn't going to be like this. It couldn't.

Thorin pressed his lips together as his shoulders slowly heaved with angry breath, unable to think beyond the repetitive mantra of, It's not going to be like this. It can't. I can't let it happen this way. I can't. I can't.

I can't have hoped for so much only to be let down so hard. No. I will not stand for this.

And in the next second, Thorin Oakenshield, exiled king of Erebor, determined for himself that Fate wasn't going to play out their stories this way. Forget what it said, what it suggested and what it had already set in motion—he was changing that, because he couldn't let this happen. Not after everything he had ever hoped for and all that already was. Not when…not when the future itself could still be…

"Are your bags at the inn?"

The hands hesitantly fell away to reveal startled blue eyes. "Y…yes…?"

"Good. And your name?"

Where…where are you going with this? the look the hobbit sent him said with mixed wonder and fear. "U-uh—Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins. Sorry. And—and yours?"

"Thorin Oakenshield." And at that, the exiled dwarf king couldn't help but grin, something dangerous and excited replacing his anger as he rashly muttered, "Now that we are acquainted, it seems as if you'll have to change your plans for tomorrow, supposed little Burglar—whatever they may have been—because—"

"—wait. Sorry, what? Change my—change my plans? Why?"

The grin widened to scary degrees.

"We're going dragon-hunting."

"Ohhhh this—this is a very bad idea, Thorin. Very…very bad idea."

The ex-dwarf king smirked, waiting at the rocky ledge as the hobbit tried to keep up with him. Evidently, even after traveling all the way to Ered Luin, the halfling was still no better adept to hiking or climbing up mountain sides. "Scared?"

"Y-yes!" Bilbo gasped as he scrambled for purchase, clinging desperately to rock and snow, shivering as he pressed on to join the dwarf's side. "Yes, I'm scared—aren't you? Have you faced a dragon before?"

"No," Thorin replied easily, without a care. He was hard-pressed not to chuckle as the hobbit let out a disbelieving and amazed huff, before he turned around and made for another ledge to haul himself up and continue their trek into the high mountain snow-capped peaks. "I haven't yet—but I'm eager to."

That didn't ease Bilbo's worries any, scrambling as he was to catch up with his agile dwarf companion. "This—you're crazy; this is a complete suicide mission—we're going to get killed—"

"—how do you know? You haven't faced a dragon before."

"Yes, and there's a particular reason for that. I happen to like living and living comfortably, thank you," came the immediate and indignant response, laced with tired pants as the hobbit continued to climb after him.

Thorin let loose a small chuckle, finally reaching a large valley between gouging-sky mountain heights in which they could rest for a moment, waiting as they were for a dragon to appear. He turned around in time to see the shaking, weak hand of the hobbit sneak up to grasp the last remaining ledge between them—and then, after a moment, came the head, creeping over with a grunt—before finally the rest of the body followed, rolling over in a final-shove effort to get himself on flat, solid ground.

And for a moment, Bilbo Baggins simply laid on his back, peering up at the sky as he panted away, getting his breath back. Upon catching out of the corner of his eye Thorin's figure, standing tall and proud, and hardly winded, he couldn't help but glare somewhat childishly. "…you're…you're quite the show-off…you know that…?"

The dwarf couldn't help it. Another amused chuckle broke free from him, and he shook his head as he turned away. "You're just inexperienced. But don't worry—that will quickly change if you are, indeed, the Dragonborn. You'll be traveling everywhere, soon enough."

Bilbo groaned. "...how…wonderful…I'm so…thrilled…about that part of the job…description…"

The corner of Thorin's mouth twitched upward, and he gazed skyward, listening and looking for any dragons out and about as he replied, "Then consider this, as well, your final test. Once we kill the dragon—"

"—if we somehow manage to—uh—kill it—"

Thorin ignored the interruption. There was no question, in his mind, of who would be victorious in the coming fight, so no need to argue that point. "—and you accept the dragon's soul, then we'll know for sure your destiny, Halfling. And if you somehow, miraculously, do turn out to be the Dragonborn, know that there will be changes. I will not allow you to run—do you understand? Not until you set things right—for everyone."

Bilbo sighed, apprehension tightening his face into uncertainty as he pushed himself to his feet and dusted the snow off of his shoulders and too-large fur-clothes (made for a dwarf rather than a hobbit, but he needed them while traveling these vast snowy expanses). "I—I know—but I—"

—but the hobbit's voice quickly drained away the instant a shadow passed them over head.

Oh…oh no…

And Bilbo thought he wouldn't breath again the next instant as a loud and almighty roar burst above them—one loud enough—a Shout, he was sure—to make the mountain-ground beneath their feet quake and shudder.

He stumbled, hands reaching out, as Thorin cried, "Finally! One appears! Draw your letter-opener, Burglar! We have a dragon to kill!"

Er—no—Bilbo still didn't really want to fight the thing—he really, really didn't—did Thorin see how huge it was? Especially as it landed and towered over them, its large, bony, grey-leathered body stretching and ugly with scars as its neck bent and it roared—and oh—wow—those were pretty large teeth, after all—yeah, one bite and he would be gone. No trace of him left.

But it was either bravery or stupidity—pure recklessness, most likely—that made Thorin charge at the beast, large sword and shield drawn as he yelled and ran.

And Bilbo Baggins was pretty sure he was dead meat.

Both of them were.

Yeah…yeah, that was a given.

All the same, he drew his sword, anyway—Sting, he knew its name was, even if his newfound dwarf (friend? Companion? Acquaintance? Whatever) had taken to calling it a 'letter-opener'—and held it with both shaking hands as he stood there in the snow, hobbit feet cold and bare, but braced against the tremors of the ground beneath him as the beast roared and tried to bite at Thorin—but the dwarf was too quick, to nimble. He would duck, roll, spin and jump to his feet, sword ever-so-strongly gripped in his fist as he never lost momentum. A swipe here at a leg, a stab at a neck that would instantly evade, before back-stepping in order to dodge the swing of an oncoming claw.

Then, in frustration, the dragon suddenly roared once more, flitting about on the snow as it coiled its throat and suddenly—Bilbo knew what it was about to do—especially as it aimed its gaping jaw at the charging dwarf—

"—Thorin, look out—!"

—but it was too late—that spark in the back of the dragon's mouth was aflame, and it was pillaring out in a steady stream, and oh, the dwarf was in the wrong spot, and wouldn't be able to move fast enough—

—and Bilbo prayed what novice-like spells he knew would be enough.

Without thinking, he cast out Lesser Ward, feeling the magick drain from his inexperienced body in a snappish flash as he blanketed it over Thorin—and although the fire instantly broke through such a meager shield like a bullet through glass, it was just enough time—a fraction of a second—all the dwarf needed to allow him to roll and tumble away desperately—the flames only catching his side in a graze of a burn that he could quickly put out and sooth with the nearby snow.

But with such a move, Bilbo had given his position away.

Knowing this with cold dread, Bilbo sharply stiffened as the dragon's head snapped towards him—the little offender who had thwarted his mighty flame—and time, for a split-second, stopped as understanding passed between the two.

Something behind the dragon's eyes recognized him, much to Bilbo's horror—perhaps knew, somehow, the Spirit the little hobbit harbored within—and then with startling desperation and anger, it gave a Shout, bounding forward and oh shoot shoot shoot shoot it was headed his way.

And Bilbo had barely the time to turn and try to run, before suddenly another Shout sent him sprawling on his stomach to the snowy ground, earning him a mouthful of earth and white powder as a claw landed above him, large nails scraping at the ground—only the edge of one actually managing to nick his back, and Bilbo could never remember being so thankful he was so small that those large instruments mostly missed him entirely—and then as he rolled onto his back, there was a roar right in his face, all over his body, reeking and loud and earth-shattering, pulling his hair away from his face as the claw was lifted above him to strike again—

"—Bilbo!"

He—he needed—oh gosh—he needed to do something—where was Sting? He must've dropped it—

—but as his hand scrambled against the cold earth, searching for his blade, that claw came down again, and Bilbo was forced to abandon his quest, rolling over and over until it dug harmlessly into the ground where he had just been barely a minute ago.

Gasping, nearly sobbing with relief that holy halls of Valinor, he was still alive, Bilbo shakily pushed himself to his knees, looking up in time to see that the dragon was leaping for him again, mouth open and arched in order to fire another burst of flame—and oh—his magick wasn't ready yet, wasn't replenished enough to defend himself—what—what could he—he could nothing but fall back on his rear as he tried to stand, failed, and desperately reached to scramble away—

—Thorin.

All of a sudden, the dumb dwarf was there, leaping in front, shield thrown straight into the dragon's open maw, splintering as soon as the giant worm reflexively snapped his mouth shut. Teeth crunched through the wood and steel so easily, so cleanly, so effortlessly—and if Bilbo wasn't watching, undistracted by the fragments and shards flying everywhere, he would have missed the fateful moment when Thorin swung his sword to—and through—the joint between the beast's chest and its throat in a deep, bursting wound that instantly killed it.

As it was, blood flew and covered both hobbit and dwarf, and next thing either knew, the dead, lifeless body of the lizard suddenly lunged in the shudder and stop of momentum, towering over them as it began to fall.

Bilbo, shocked and horrified at the sheer amount of red everywhere that he had never seen so much of before, would not have been able to move on his own. So he was glad, in the end, that Thorin was still running, still moving and capable of self-preservation for them both, because as the beast's head came down upon him, the dwarf had surged forward, wrapping his arms around the hobbit as he shoved them both rolling and rolling out of harm's way, passed the dragon's jaw as it collided with the ground, stilled, and failed to move.

And finally, in the aftershock of chaos, quiet remained.

The two panted heavily, trying to come to grips with what had just transpired—and before Bilbo could even take a look at both his surroundings and Thorin himself, the dwarf was pulling off of him, grey-blue eyes heavy and fierce, startling against the darkened, reddened skin on the side of his face (slightly burned, Bilbo remembered from the fight, and the fire he was unable to completely stop) as he uttered, "Are you all right? Your back…"

…his—his back? What had happened to his—

—oh. Wait. That was right. The dragon's claw had gotten him. He hadn't thought it was too bad, though—he had barely felt the injury in the rush of things.

But as Bilbo nodded and tried to sit up and move, immediately, sheer fire scorched up and down his spine, originating from some tear on the small of his back that felt like a gigantic, open and gaping blister. He gasped, wincing, and Thorin was instantly there to help him to his feet, before turning him around to gaze at the wound with dark, troubled eyes.

The hobbit, however, didn't want that.

Immediately, he shook his head and waved the dwarf away as he stumbled forward, trying to walk on his own and march off the lingering, stinging pain as much as he could. But every step he took him involuntarily wince, feeling the torn skin stretch and stick to his shifting pelt-clothes, so it was altogether a very useless exercise—but somehow necessary for the wounded halfling, just in order to mentally confirm for himself that he was okay, they were both okay, and that they had lived through this. "I—it's fine—"

"—no it's not; you're bleeding bad. He must have gotten you deep," Thorin mumbled, and what—was that concern in his voice?

Confused, Bilbo turned around to see the fire-bitten dwarf who appeared very much as if he had slept out on his side in the sun too long, trying to read his expression as he opened his mouth to answer—but then, Something Else suddenly cut him off.

At first, he wasn't quite sure what it was—but as soon as the lights like feather strands and reaching fingers wrapped around him, Bilbo could feel an indescribable warmth threading through his being—and suddenly, he Remembered. He Remembered…and something inside, like a closed door, suddenly and unexplainably opened.

And Bilbo's soul Drank.

It was over a moment later—and the hobbit was very glad that this time, there was no heavy, mind-numbing pressure and no blackness taking across his vision. Which, apparently it's different when you're actually absorbing a dragon's soul, he mused as he came back to reality, his eyes dizzily and blearily blinking back open before sharply wincing as the sun seemed too bright against the red-and-white splattered ground.

Then, he heard Thorin mutter, "By Mahal…" and knew, with a sudden comfort and satisfaction, that the dwarf had seen it all.

Hesitantly, Bilbo raised his eyes to the ex-dwarf king's.

Silence enveloped them both.

And it was strange, really, the looks shared as their eyes met once more. Both covered in blood, both injured—and both, suddenly, now, on the same page and understanding—they looked upon one another with far more equal footing than they had yesterday, or even a few hours ago, after having shared in this conquer and experienced first-hand the proof of the Destiny before them.

It was, however, Thorin who spoke first, mentioning it with quite awe. "…so. Dragonborn."

Bilbo nodded tightly. "Dragonborn."

The wind blew softly by.

The corner of Thorin's mouth quirked upward, just the tiniest budge. "I…I suppose I should still feel disappointed, but…that wasn't…" Clearing his throat, he finally looked away, breaking their eye contact. "…well, for never having fought against a dragon before, youweren't…bad. I don't think."

Bilbo blinked, and then couldn't help the tiny smile that stretched across his face. "Y-yeah? Well…you weren't, either."

Thorin let out an amused hum, nodding.

Silence blanketed them again, falsely serene on the scene of so much blood and battle. Bilbo was careful not to glance at the bony corpse of the dragon they had slain, already queasy enough as he was at the sight of all the lifestream soaked around them. Instead, he swallowed, gazing down, and then back up. "So…so we're going to have to do this again?"

The quirk at the edge of the dwarf's mouth grew to a small, understanding smile. "We're going to have to do it again." And at Bilbo's slightly hesitant look, he added, "It'll be easier, now—you can Shout, of course. That should…help matters."

There…there was that. He supposed.

"We have to, anyway." Thorin finally turned back around again, face regaining seriousness, and Bilbo couldn't help it—the dwarf looked actually very terrifying with his half-red face and bloodied hair-mane of grey-streaked black. So much so, he appeared as if he should be the Dragonborn—as if it was him who should have been born with the spirit of a dragon—instead of the small, totally un-warrior-like hobbit before him. Bilbo swallowed. "You're the Dragonborn. It's…" With a short sigh and shifting of weight, the dwarf grunted, "…I know you may have wanted to run, but that's out of the question, now. This is…this is something you have to do, regardless of what you want. For everyone who's ever waited for you."

A tense pause followed, in which Bilbo remained nervous, standing uncertainly in the bloodied valley, fists clenching and unclenching themselves—before finally, finally he nodded in defeat. "I…I know. So that's why I…" With another nod—this one tighter, this one more sure—Bilbo lifted his head to stare with daring at the ex-dwarf king before him. "…I won't run, now. I…y-you're right. I can't. I just…I have to do this. For…for everyone. Everyone who's ever…believed in me." A grudging, allowing shrug. "Even if I'm not the…the ideal Dragonborn, I…I'm still the only one Middle-Earth's got, so…so yes, I—I suppose that's how it's…how it's got to be. Regardless."

The hobbit swallowed, empty hands wringing one another, and at the sight and words, Thorin's smile grew. He lifted his chin in acknowledgement and pride, something easing in his chest with hope. "Finally," he couldn't help but breathe. "Finally the Dragonborn dares to take up Voice and Courage to walk among us."

Bilbo's face reddened modestly, but clearing his throat and straightening himself subconsciously to fit the title he had been born with, he smiled back—and that was it.

Beneath their feet, Middle-Earth began to sing, praising and reverberating with joy that what it had hoped for finally was going to be. Things were shifting, now, with the wind—etched into stone as the blood was seeped and stained into the snow beneath their feet. It was promising, it was hopeful, it was everything uncertain and everything beautiful.

And it would not be easy—not for Thorin to take back a castle, or for Bilbo to save a world—but oh, it would be wonderful. It would be wonderful, and it would be legendary, and how all of Middle-Earth would never forget the way its mountains shook in their combined aftermath, blinking dazedly through the shockwaves of Reality that rippled in the wake of their footsteps upon its surface. It would be terrifying, it would be strange, it would be lovely—and nothing would ever be the same.

(Not after a little hobbit decided he could dare to roar, and an exiled dwarf-king decided he could dare to believe.)

"Now, come. Let's get that back taken care of."

"And your burns."

A half-grunt, half-chuckle. "Fine. And my burns."

(No…not after that.)

Crystal's Notes: Forgive me taking creative liberties with the Skyrim spells. ;A; I know Lesser Ward and stuff don't exactly work like I mentioned in the dragon-fight, but...y'know. ;A; It's AU. I thought I could...stretch it. (Forget the fact hobbits normally can't even cast spells...in this case, it's due to Dragonborn privileges, I imagine. xD;; )

But yeah! It's a bit of a stretch, but I couldn't get this AU idea out of my head when it first came to me. 83 Bilbo Baggins as Dragonborn...and Thorin as an exiled king (kind of like, not really, Ulfric Stormcloak's very, very modified shoes)? It has potential further stories that I may or may not divulge in (I suppose it depends on the success of this oneshot, first), such as Smaug playing the role of Odahviing, the dragon you can call in the Shout "Call Dragon," and Kili and Fili starring in the Gray-Mane issue with missing Thorald (in which I like to imagine Kili is in Thorald's place, taken to someplace like Northwatch Keep…and Fili, naturally, is in Avulstein's place 8D as concerned brother and all).

Anyway, I dearly hope you've enjoyed this little adventure, however strange and of a different pace it was! Thank you for reading, leave your thoughts if you feel so kind, and do have a wonderful, wonderful day!