Prologue

He was not supposed to be alive.

That was his first coherent thought, as he came awake all at once and sat bolt upright. Drawing in great lungful's of air, he looked wildly about. There was a low fire burning in a hearth across from him, and the soft flicker of candle flames were licking walls of stone. Walls he did not recognize.

Where am I?

Images began to flash through his mind. Shiny metal scales, a terrible hissing voice, teeth like razor blades…a dragon. Smaug. The dragon cloaked in gold, roaring out of the mountain. The great beast falling from the sky and into the lake below. The relief he had felt then, and the sorrow for the people burned alive in Laketown. Short-lived, that sorrow. Replaced by the gold lust rushing in, choking him, drowning him so much more effectively than the liquid gold had drowned Smaug.

Was it all a dream? He shook his head as if to clear it, causing long unkempt hair to brush against his bare shoulders. The sensation startled him. He jerked, and pain bloomed under his ribs, so intense it clouded his vision with red and he collapsed backwards. Strange. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt pain.

Except he did remember, didn't he? So much pain, and the least of it physical.

Dead. My nephews are dead.

The images came faster now.

Fili's broken body.

Kili cradled in the she-elf's arms.

Azog before him on the ice. Ice moving beneath him, unstable, he was sure to fall in, but drowning would be sweet if only that scum drowned with him.

A blade slicing through his own chest. He would join his nephews soon.

And yet somehow he'd killed Azog. He had finally stuck down his enemy. And then, miraculously, the hobbit was there.

The flashes of memory stopped whirring before him. He could remember with perfect clarity those last few moments spent with Bilbo.

Lucky, he had felt so lucky. Azog was no more. The mountain had been reclaimed. The one thing left to do was to make amends with the burglar. And he'd been given that chance. Most who died were not so fortunate. To die honorably was all he had ever wished for, and he'd been granted that. He remembered Bilbo crying, pleading with him to live, his voice fading away as a calm, peaceful darkness had enveloped over him. The end had come.

Yet here he was, back in the present. The present where everything hurt.

I should not be alive. His mind began screaming it at him, over and over. This is wrong. This is wrong. This is wrong.

He felt panic welling in his chest, shortening his breath. He could not calm down. The pain beneath his ribs was excruciating, but he could not stay still. He needed to get out of this bed. Out of this place. He wasn't supposed to be here.

He threw himself from the bed, dizzy with his pain. His bare feet hit cold flagstone and he was upright for a moment before his vision began to swim before him. In that moment, legs locking and consciousness fading, he saw a small shape outlined in the open doorway. A shape with curly hair and over-large feet. A shape that was rushing towards him and calling out.

"Thorin!"


"Well, Bilbo, whatever did you do to him?"

"Me?" squeaked the hobbit. 'Why, nothing at all! I came into the room to check on him and he was staggering from the bed! How he got out of it in the first place is a mystery. He hasn't moved for weeks."

"He was likely frightened. He should not have woken up alone."

"I know. Thranduil warned us all that he could wake suddenly and that someone ought to be with him. I was only gone a moment, Gandalf, I swear it!

The old wizard gave Bilbo a small smile. "It's alright, Master Baggins. Thorin hasn't done himself any real harm. He is still too weak to do much at all. Come, grab his legs. I shall need your help to lift him back into the bed."

They made quite a pair, the tall wizard and tiny hobbit. They tried to be gentle, but the task could not be accomplished without a bit of jostling. And with each jostle, Thorin let out a low, breathy moan.

"He really has come back to us," said Bilbo, as he struggled to lift Thorin's legs up on to the bed. "What with the noises and all. I didn't quite believe Thranduil when he said he'd healed him. It seems ages since then, and he's been as still and silent as death."

"Lord Thranduil healed his body. The mind and soul take their own time. You must remember, Bilbo, that Thorin had already left this world behind before Thranduil got to him. His soul had to make the decision to journey back."

Bilbo chewed his lip. "Will he remember that? Making the choice, I mean? He did have a choice, didn't he? He wasn't forced to come back?"

Gandalf was silent for a moment as he propped the dwarf's heavy upper body against a pillow. Thorin made another low moan before titling his head to the side and settling into a deeper sleep.

The wizard turned to look at Bilbo.

"He wasn't forced. But if he'll remember…it remains to be seen. He may be quiet unhappy for a while, Bilbo. We must all prepare ourselves for that."

The little hobbit looked haunted as he gazed at the figure in the bed. "Perhaps we shouldn't tell him how we got Thranduil to agree to save him. Just that it was a miracle he's here. Yes I think that's better…"

"Do not be foolish. We will tell him. Thorin may be angry. He may well hate all of us. But if he knows, he will keep on living, Bilbo. And that is the most important thing."

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