"I, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, sentence you, Bilbo Baggins, for the crime of stealing the Arkenstone, to banishment. You have 24 hours to leave Erabor, or be killed on sight."

He had said it so well, like he'd practised in front of a mirror before the trial; making sure his face conveyed nothing. Thorin's voice had lacked its usual gruff, booming quality, and had been entirely one note, cold, calculated. The dwarf had severed himself from what he was about to do.

So that he could cope.

But nobody ever asked how Bilbo was expected to cope.

The hobbit remembered feeling smaller then he'd ever felt, the ceiling of the throne room was as high as the heavens; purposely to make one feel insignificant. The place had been empty save him and Thorin, not even the king's closest advisors had been present; which was odd, considering Thorin's tendency towards public humiliation. But the echo of the King's proclamation was surely audible all through the rock and brimstone, so every dwarf would have heard it, including Bilbo's cries.

24 hours to leave. Or be murdered, by his friends, his company, his One.

Had that meant anything?

Bilbo often pondered who the task would have fallen to, if he had been a fool and lingered, begging for forgiveness, like the creature of yesteryear that he had been. A soft spoken and unspoiled Baggins, with a Tookish streak. How could he still have been naïve, after what he had done, seen.

What a metamorphosis had occurred since.

Maybe Dwalin? He'd always disliked Bilbo, even after he'd proved himself a hundred times over there was always a lingering doubt like a spiteful spark in his eye when he looked at the hobbit. Or worse, Thorin might have sent Fili, or Kili, or both, or maybe even maybe one of the watched while the other cut out their friend's heart. Now, that would have sent a very clear message; you do not cross the King under the mountain.

The gold gobbling, stone hearted king.

Bilbo was sure it wasn't good for his mental stability to reminisce like this, but when he was alone, his thoughts seemed to scream inside his head; demanding his imagination to set them free. Every time the hobbit remembered the story was different, not by much, but some little detail was changed; depending on what mood he was in, which varied these days. When he was feeling forgiving, Thorin had a sad expression as he cast out his companion, other times (most the time) when he was feeling melancholy, he only thought of the laughs he'd shared with the company on their travels, and Thorin's lingering glances. When he was in his dark place, he fantasised about Thorin being swallowed by the dragon's fire.

He'd prayed for that same fire when he found himself lost on that hated mountain side. Not cold enough to freeze to death, and he'd not die of thirst for a good few days, left to linger, left to ponder. It had not been Thorin's intention for Bilbo to lose his way, but as long as the hobbit suffered, did it matter? These thoughts, these wisps of hate scared Bilbo at first. His cheerful temper never bore such things, and they were alien to him. It was the mountain. It was poison. It had claimed his One, and had spat the unwanted Hobbit back out. Then he was lifted into the air, and carried away by men unknown.

That must have been a year ago. More.

Bilbo opened one of his eyes, his chamber was dark, as it normally was, with only a flickering candle for reading. Hiding underground did have its benefits, but it did limit his access to sunlight, so he had to make do with what was available. It was quite ingenious really, because who would descend into the hillside in search of him? Or any of his comrades? His old hobbit hole had of similar ilk, granted much more luxurious, but still a hole in the ground no less. Not a burrow, vermin live in burrows. A hole was a home, a nice place. Why should Bilbo wish to leave it?

The Shire wasn't his place anymore.

There were a great number of papers on the hobbit's makeshift desk, he'd had Erabor's letters intercepted weeks ago, and it was surprisingly easy: a mixture of theft and bribery. Dwarves did love their gold. Besides, letters go missing all the time. Not that everything his scouts brought back was of value, and they risked discovery if the mail was delayed too often for too long, but it was worth it to get just a glimpse into the fortress. Bilbo had seen the names of his old company written on paper dozens of times by now:

Bofur

Bifur

Balin

Dwalin

Fili

Kili

Gloin

Oin

Nori

Ori

Dori

Bombur

Thorin.

He wasn't sure what he was trying to achieve in the long term, but with no one to question him he could do as he willed. Or get his thieves to do as he willed. They were surprisingly obedient; Bilbo took it as a compliment, as they must have found him competent enough a dictator to obey rather than murder as they'd done to his predecessors. Their numbers were growing; as Bilbo never liked to turn away anyone offering their services to him. He chuckled. They came to him, bared their neck to a rapid beast that was known to bite, and still. He tried to be a fair leader when appropriate, but his shyness had been replaced by an almost dwarf like coarseness, so he wasn't afraid to punish when needed.

They'd taken him in on a whim, feeling pity on such a lost little creature, thinking nothing of it. Bilbo told them he was a burglar and was granted an instant pass to the brotherhood. All for one and one for all in the thieves' world it seemed. Bilbo quickly impressed them with his sneakiness and cunning, his hobbit feet made no noise as he walked, and his small size made it easy to slip away undetected. He quickly rose up to considerable status, and it was easy to stage a few… accidents on the mountain side to deal with any of his critics. They were a rag tag bunch really, a mixture of banished dwarves, loners, and con men, but a little organisation made them significantly more formidable.

Bilbo was in charge.

The power was going to his head, no, had already gone to his head and roosted there. But Bilbo couldn't find it in him to care. He liked it, this feeling of elevation after being such a humble hobbit.

Bilbo fiddled with an overly large ring on one of his fingers, the man who had worn didn't have the need for it anymore; so Bilbo was happy to mind it for him. It dimly reminded him of something Thorin had shown him…

"Oh Thorin, it's beautiful."

"Yes. A thing of beauty, it was my mother's… come here."

"Thorin?"

"As I thought, it's too big… why do Hobbits have such small fingers?"

"So we can burgle more easily. You daft old dwarf."

It seemed an age ago, that conversation. It was better to forget it ever happened. Forgetting everything could have saved the old Bilbo, but this Bilbo needed those memories. They fuelled his wrath.

He as Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo Baggins, of the Shire, a burglar, now Lord of the Hills, a king of thieves.

And he was after Thorin Oakenshield.