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— BOOK ONE : HEAVEN —

Iktsuarpok
(Inuit: the feeling of anticipation that causes you to keep looking outside for an awaited guest)

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Time passes in a flurry of half-remembered events and a strange sense of foreboding.

Bilbo knows he should be worried about what sort of higher power has caused this. After all, hobbits do not have much to do with any of the Valar—or, at least, not like the dwarves do with Aulë—and he has no idea who might have sent him back in time. But he decides not to think about it—after all, he has been given this second chance, and he is not one to question such a great gift, no matter its source.

He speaks to Holman Greenhand and young Hamfast daily when they come to tend to the garden, travels to the market (and if he buys more nonperishables than necessary for one hobbit, none of the merchants are stupid enough to ask), interacts with all the neighbors and cousins and friends who see him as the slightly eccentric but perfectly respectable Bilbo Baggins, master of Bag End and one of the wealthiest hobbits in the Shire.

He feels like he's going mad for the anticipation growing in his heart.

He sees off young Drogo Baggins (who he never spoke to much, the first time before the quest—and he regrets it) as he decides to visit Brandy Hall in the east. It's against his parents' wishes, of course, but by now the lad is thirty-three and can do exactly as he pleases.

(Bilbo sees the blush spreading across his cheeks and the way he ducks his head—so reminiscent of Frodo's mannerisms, though the boy scarcely knew his father—and knows Primula Brandybuck lives with her extended family in the Hall. He does not mention it, though, because the poor boy is getting enough heckling from his immediate family about why he's going, and he clearly has no interest in explaining.)

Nevertheless, he pulls him aside and presses a hunting knife into the boy's grasp, asking him to be careful…just in case. Drogo is clearly nonplussed, and rightly so; but seems to accept this as his strange cousin's antics, and only pulls Bilbo into a hug, promising to write often during his three-month stay.

Bilbo only smiles—he has a long wait ahead of him, for Primula is but twenty-one—and wishes him the best of luck.

(That knife had been his mother's—he dug it out of storage months after his return from Erebor, and it has been a prized possession ever since. He knows it is in good hands, though, and does not regret for a second giving it to his cousin.)

Mid-April comes and goes, and Bilbo knows that if he is to join the dwarves on their quest, he should be prepared ahead of time. He stockpiles nonperishables in his second pantry and plans to distribute them among their packs for their journey, because as good as rabbit stew is in moderation, he rather grew to hate it after months and months of nearly nothing else. His primary pantry, in the week before he knows they will arrive, fills quickly with meats and pastries and spices and everything the dwarves could possibly want to cook during their short stay in his home.

He counts and recounts his blankets and realizes that some of his friends must have gone cold that night without their bedrolls, for though Bag End is large, he has no more than eight spares; and so he goes out to the markets again, commissions six more on a rush order—one extra-large, for hobbit blankets are surely nowhere near long enough for Gandalf—and ignores the blank stares of the seamstresses as he hands over a hefty bag of gold.

Tongues, inevitably, begin to wag as the days go on, but Bilbo has long since learned to ignore them. Hobson finds more and more excuses to drop by, an incredulous, worried frown growing deeper each day. Once, he catches Bilbo returning from the market with a slingshot, a replacement hunting knife, and a sturdy oilskin, and apparently this marks the end of his patience.

"You're sure you're feeling all right, Mister Bilbo?" he calls after him as Bilbo bustles up the walk, humming a quiet tune under his breath.

"I'm wonderful—thank you for asking," Bilbo replies cheerily enough, already cataloguing what else he will need to pack. It's the nineteenth of Astron, only three days before Gandalf is supposed to approach him if he remembers correctly, and he has so much yet to do! He'll have to see if he can find the coat his mother bought for his father in their younger years, when she dragged him out adventuring. It was made of leather—sturdy and warm—and last time around, Bilbo's velvet dinner jacket had been anything but.

"It's just—you're ordering such peculiar things," Hobson continues valiantly, hurrying up the front stoop and preventing Bilbo from closing the door. "Beggin' your pardon, but why on earth would you need such a knife?"

"I'm expecting some visitors in a few days," he replies easily, hanging the oilskin on a hook near the door and quickly inspecting the knife again. The dwarves will scoff at its craftsmanship, of course, but perhaps having such a weapon—no matter how small or poorly made—will soften Thorin's first impression of him a bit. "I might be leaving the Shire to travel east for a long while."

"What—!" Hobson chokes, hurrying into Bag End as Bilbo makes his way to his study. "Leaving the Shire? What's possessed you to—"

"I can promise you that I know what I'm doing," Bilbo says, setting the slingshot and knife down on his desk and turning to reassure Hobson with a smile. "It's not anything terribly dangerous…just a few old friends who might need my help."

"Well, I never—" Hobson seems to be at a loss for words, his mouth gaping open as he takes in all the things spread out on Bilbo's desk. "Who's to tend to your parents' house, then? If you're to be running off—"

"I was hoping you and Hamfast would take care of that for me," Bilbo replies readily, shrugging. Perhaps, if he takes more precautions this time around, he won't have to buy back his own furniture if he returns to the Shire. "Make sure my less savory relatives keep their hands to themselves, if you catch my meaning."

Hobson makes a small noise in the back of his throat, his eyes impossibly wide as he stares at Bilbo, clearly wondering if he has lost his mind. "You're sure this is a good idea? You know what they say, Mister Bilbo—'never venture east, lest you—'"

"Yes, I know the stories," he says, restraining himself from rolling his eyes—after all, he recited it to the dwarves often enough that he's honestly surprised Dwalin never wrung his neck. "I can assure you, it will be perfectly safe. I'll even let you know when I'm leaving, if you'd like. There's absolutely nothing for you to worry about."

Hobson stares him down levelly for several moments before sighing and turning away, toward the front entrance. "Well, I suppose if there's no convincing you otherwise, I've nothing else to say."

Bilbo thinks he should reply to this, somehow—reassure his friend that he's not deserting him, that he will be home in due time—but Hobson has closed the front door behind him, leaving Bilbo alone in the silence of his parents' house.

And it's just as well, he thinks, because such words would be lies. After all, as he's been thinking about this quest more and more—as much as he can remember of the original journey, and all that he must do differently this time—he's slowly realizing that more likely than not, Bilbo Baggins will never be returning to the Shire. Mordor, after all, is his ultimate destination—and even with an unsuspecting Sauron, a scattered orc army and Erebor's relative proximity to Mount Doom, he doubts very highly that he will make it out of this alive.

(And even if he pretends that he doesn't mind this—doesn't mind giving up his life if it means saving the world from such darkness as he saw last time—he would be lying if he didn't say he is so very scared of the task ahead of him.)

But he must do it—he is the only one who can do it—and so he plans and he packs and he remembers—remembers Thorin's scorching gaze as he spoke of his lost homeland (and forgets the madness raging in his eyes as he threatened to throw Bilbo from the battlements), remembers Fíli and Kíli's optimism and loyalty and courage (and forgets the sight of their mangled bodies as they were sealed in stone forever)…remembers Frodo, his young cousin who gave up his happiness and his sanity to save the world…

And does his best to forget that all of this is his fault in the first place.

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Thorin leaves his room as soon as he is able, though he still gets strange looks from Dís and his nephews for taking such a long time getting ready. His breakfast is cooling on the table and he sits down rather numbly, doing his best to ignore his gurgling stomach as he takes in the kitchen he was sure he would never see again.

Dís is puttering around the sink, cleaning the dishes even as she barks to her sons that their help would be greatly appreciated. Fíli and Kíli, for their part, are gleefully ignoring her—the elder is sharpening one of his many knives, and the younger is fletching some extra arrows to add to his quiver.

He finds himself staring at them perhaps longer than he should, but he can't help it…not when he's just now noticing the stark difference from the nephews that he remembers seeing in Erebor. Of course, he knows, the journey would have aged them—after such hardships they faced, it's a wonder they were able to keep up their good spirits, after all. But Kíli's cheeks are fuller than they have been since they nearly starved in Mirkwood, and Fíli's hair is bright as it has not been in months; he finds himself blinking in astonishment at the differences, and wonders how he could not have noticed such things before.

It was the gold sickness…of course it was. His memory of having any sense left in his mind starts to fade from the moment they left Laketown, and everything from once they entered the mountain is nothing more than an insane mess of wrath and greed. But he remembers—he remembers the stench of dragon enraging him beyond reason, remembers the need he felt in his heart to find the Arkenstone, remembers—

Mahal help him, he remembers nearly throwing Bilbo from the battlements, remembers the gleeful rage coursing through his veins as he watched the hobbit struggle in his grip, as he listened to Bard and Gandalf scream for his release…

He feels suddenly sick at the revelation, and any thought of eating breakfast is pushed out of his mind as his stomach threatens to upheave all the nothing left within.

"Are you all right, Thorin?" Fíli's voice is a mercy, breaking through his horrified haze and causing his head to snap up. Both his nephews are looking at him in concern, and Dís has stopped washing dishes to listen. Thorin knows he can't tell them the truth—how would he explain such a thing, after all?—but lying to them is absolutely out of the question anymore.

"Just…" he starts valiantly, but trails off, trying and failing to hold eye contact with Fíli before dropping his gaze to the table. (He won't ever forget his nephews' faces as they were in death—warped in agony and terror and grief and he won't let that happen again, he won't he won't he won't—)

"We're absolutely fine," Kíli says after several seconds of silence, twisting to try and catch Thorin's gaze. "It was just a nightmare, I swear it—"

"I know that," he lies, and he's horrified at the catch in his voice; he swallows before continuing, "but it doesn't make it any easier to forget."

Neither of his nephews seem to know quite how to answer that, and after a few seconds, they return to their weapons, the kitchen strangely quiet without their usual chatter. "Thorin," Dís says after a few moments. "Remember, Glóin wanted that paperwork by today, and Bombur wants to know how much food he needs to pack—and Balin and Dwalin should be here any moment, so you should at least try to eat something before then."

He hums noncommittally; she's right, after all, but with his churning insides, he's not so sure he'll be able to stomach it without making even more of a mess. But he's grateful for the reminder—after all, he doesn't remember the details, anymore, of what happened today the last time around…

And Mahal, isn't that a strange thought! He alone remembers what happened the past six months of his life; nobody else remembers the trolls, or the goblin caves, or being locked in Thranduil's dungeons for nigh on a month—

And—he realizes with a jolt—none of his kin remember Bilbo Baggins. He was so sure, half a year past, that the hobbit would be nothing more than a liability, the wizard's afterthought, their lucky number when Gandalf was too flighty to formally join them himself. But after the battle on the cliff—after the barrels and the gods-forsaken dragon—

After returning to grieve at Thorin's deathbed when he had no obligation to be on the battlefield at all, the hobbit has more than gained Thorin's hard-won respect.

But Bilbo won't even know they're coming—Bilbo won't know any of them, will be terrified all over again (and, Thorin realizes with a silent grump, rightly so, to have thirteen large, heavily armed strangers enter your house so readily…he'll have to have a word with the Company about greeting their host), will—hopefully—have to make the same decision, to drop his entire life to travel with these strangers, to desert his home to help them claim their own.

It's awful when he thinks of it like that, but what else are they to do? Bilbo proved himself invaluable throughout the entire journey; indeed, they likely would not have made it out of the Trollshaws intact without his quick thinking. They asked of him an enormous service, offering the only payment they knew—mountains of gold. But then, Thorin wouldn't be surprised if Bilbo had left it all behind when he journeyed home; what use do hobbits have for gold and gems, after all?

Food and cheer and song, indeed. If only he had not been so blind.

But Fíli and Kíli are standing up to clear their plates, tucking their weapons away at last, and grinning cheerfully at their mother as she levels a mild glare at them for avoiding their chores. "We're thinking we want to go sparring for a bit," Kíli announces to the room at large. "And then we'll check for ravens for you, Uncle, as you're like to be busy. Dáin's should be coming any day now, right?"

"Aye," Thorin agrees, for he remembers this much—he could not have expected Dáin to traverse the entirety of Middle Earth for a small council (already past, and he's grateful for it—he doesn't want to deal with the other lords again, treating him as lesser because he does not rule his forefathers' mountain). A raven's message is more than enough for the two of them, for though they are close kin, they both have their duties to attend to.

After all, he knows his cousin's answer and knows its sting in his heart, though Dáin came to him at the last for a mad, hopeless defense against Esgaroth and Mirkwood.

Mahal, he cannot let that happen again.

"It's much appreciated," he nods to his nephews, and Kíli stands a bit straighter, his smile broadening; he and Fíli quickly disappear down the hall to collect their weapons and head toward the training fields.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Dis asks, mere seconds after they've called their farewells and closed the front door behind them. He's still sitting at the table, his breakfast barely touched, and she sits next to him now, turning her chair to face him with a stern look. "That must have been some nightmare, brother. Are you sure we shouldn't call Óin—?"

"I swear to you, I am fine," he says, and forces himself to meet her gaze, for it would be stranger yet if he did not. And when he looks at her, her concerned gaze, her fists balled loosely on the table and her brow furrowed deep, he is so close to letting loose, to telling her everything. She is the one he most owes an apology to, beyond her sons and beyond the rest of their kin and beyond even Bilbo—for she is the one he left all alone in the world, without a single member of her family left.

She would have persevered, he is sure. She has always been strong—stronger than him, for sure—but it would have been awful. Impossible.

He can't do it.

She doesn't look like she believes him one bit, but sees something in his face that stays her demands; she only sighs, reaching out to grasp his hand—"What are you so afraid of? Yesterday, you were all too arrogant about this quest, but there's something different in your eyes, now."

He doesn't know how to respond to this around the lump in his throat (Fíli's chest was crushed despite the glorious armor he wore, destroying his heart and choking his lungs all too quickly; The spears rending Kíli's body stuck from him at grotesque angles, and the memory makes him want to be sick all over again). He only tightens his grip on his sister's hand and drops his gaze; she waits patiently for an answer, unwilling to let it go, and eventually he says, "I don't want to watch them die again. I can't. It was…"

He trails off, and to his horror feels his eyes burning; he blinks quickly, looking away in shame and anger, but Dis does not let it go. Her free hand comes up and pulls his face toward her again, and her expression is compassionate in a way he only rarely sees now on her aging, grief-stoic face.

"I trust you with their lives," she says, her grip tightening, "and they trust you with far more than that. They would follow you to the ends of the earth, and I know you would do anything to protect them. You are their king, and they are your sister's sons. If there is a stronger bond between living creatures on this earth, I do not know of it."

He swallows, opening his mouth to speak (she's wrong she's so wrong, none of them should ever trust him but how to tell her he can't he can't); the only thing that comes out is a pathetic, desperate noise from high in his throat. Dis' face crumples, and she leans in close to embrace him, her fingers disappearing into his hair to rub at his back soothingly. "You have nothing to fear," she says quietly. "I trust in you and in this quest. It has been too long since we have had a proper home, and you are right, I think, to reclaim it."

"We face a dragon," he responds, his voice cracking as he tentatively reaches to embrace her in return. "You cannot—I could be leading every one of them to their deaths, and for what? Our grandfather's gold?"

"For our home," she says immediately, her grip tightening. "And Tharkûn is coming as well—if anyone is capable of slaying a dragon, it is that impossibly irritating wizard. I think you have nothing to fear, brother."

Thorin remembers Bard the Dragonslayer—grim-faced and grief-stricken, struggling to provide for his children and his people—remembers turning him away so callously at the gates of the mountain—and cannot find it in him to reply.

They sit like that for a long few moments, though Thorin's thoughts spiral in dizzying patterns that would not make sense even if he tried to decipher them. But eventually, there is the sound of the front door opening again, and he reluctantly leans back, away from his sister, wiping a traitorous wetness from his eyes. He needs to compose himself. He can't let anyone else see him like this—Dis is bad enough, but—

"Thorin?"

It's Balin's surprised voice that greets him, and when he looks up, the younger brother is not far behind; both look at him with raised eyebrows and worried eyes, and, of course, for good reason. "Is everything all right, lad?"

"Aye," he says forcefully, and offers no further explanation; Dwalin, especially, shoots him a sharp look as the two of them move to sit at the table, but Thorin isn't willing to answer any more questions right now. They speak of the logistics of the quest at length; Thorin lets most of it wash over him, for he's experienced all of this before: knows what path they will take, how long each leg will take, how long the food will last…

(Bilbo ate more than any of them had expected—at first, Thorin saw this as greed and selfishness, but once he heard the hobbit's stomach growl loudly after a full meal, he realized that hobbits simply need more food. He accommodated for it—because even if he thought Bilbo useless, he was not in the habit of being cruel to creatures who had done nothing wrong.)

He has no way of telling Balin and Dwalin this, though…not without revealing what he knows, which he thinks he is unwilling to do. Dwalin would support him through the fires of hell without question (already has); but Balin would not be happy with vague descriptions, would want details of the quest, of what they should avoid, of…of the end.

(Madness and his own death are one thing. Dead nephews are another thing entirely, especially when they would have almost certainly lived had he not been dying himself. It's entirely his fault.)

So he keeps his silence, only suggests that, to be safe, they should err on the side of caution when it comes to food. Both of them—and Dis, likely more sensible than any of them—agree that there'd be no harm in doing so, and that's the end of that.

Can he keep lying like this? Telling falsehoods to the people he trusts most in the world: his sister and nephews and cousins and those not even his kin, who still are putting everything on the line for his foolish dreams? They deserve—they deserve everything, so much more than this…

But nothing good could come of it, he's sure. He has the entire journey clear in his mind…but none of the others do, and they would second guess, they would wonder…they would want to change things when, perhaps, they would better be left alone.

(Fíli and Kíli come first.)

He passes through the conversation, engaging when necessary but his mind spinning through ways to protect his nephews. His first thought, of course, is to leave them behind entirely—but he discards it nearly as quickly, because they would never allow it, and honestly, he's not entirely comfortable with the idea, either. Of course, if it were the only way, he would demand it without question, but…

As Dis said, they are his sister's sons, and Durin's heirs beside. They have every right to enter the mountain the moment it is reclaimed. He would not wish it any other way.

He's still mulling this over—with no real solution, except to forcefully bar them from the battle—as the conversation ends, and he knows he is distracted as Balin and Dwalin stand up, the elder tucking a roll of parchment back into his robes. "Thorin." Dwalin's voice is a low rumble, as always, and Thorin can see something strange in his eyes as he looks him up and down. "A word, if you don't mind."

It's not a request, but the two of them have long understood each other; he nods and heads toward the door to his bedroom, hesitating for a moment before simply turning and leaning against the stone wall. Dwalin closes the door heavily behind him, and turns to level him with a dark glare.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," he says on reflex, but his friend doesn't believe it for an instant; Dwalin steps forward, crowding into his personal space and glaring at him, nearly eye to eye.

"We're sitting in there discussing your quest, plans to keep your people safe on this journey across half of Middle Earth, and you're sitting there daydreaming like a dwarfling in his lessons! Something's wrong, and if we're to follow you on this journey in less than a fortnight, I expect to be told the truth."

His words—they're truth, all of them, and Thorin knows it even as he struggles to reply. He can't—he wants to tell him, suddenly, because who else would understand him better than Dwalin?—but his own mind is still whirling with memories (the awful battle that happened scarce hours ago, bleeding out on a filthy cot because he demanded his soldiers be given the clean ones, dying as his cousins looked on with blood on their faces and tears in their eyes—)

He's barely keeping up with the world he's suddenly been dropped into, barely holding himself together through the grief and self-hatred still fresh in his mind, so how is he supposed to explain this even to Dwalin?

Then, suddenly, he knows.

"I want you to promise me something," he says, and this is the most desperate request he's ever made, the most serious and the one he's sure Dwalin will refuse in an instant.

"When have I not?" Dwalin snorts, but there's something else in his eyes, now, that looks a bit like worry. "Out with it, then."

"Promise me," Thorin says, "that if I fall to Thrór's madness, you will kill me before it causes any more senseless death."

Silence.

"Dwalin," Thorin says, working to keep his voice level. "You wanted to know why I'm preoccupied—I am terrified of becoming my grandfather. You must promise me."

He's silent for several moments longer, and Thorin starts to wonder whether Dwalin might punch him here and now. But he only sighs heavily, his eyes growing dark as he asks, "What's brought this on?"

"I—I had a dream last night," he begins, and it's a testament to the gravity of the situation that his friend doesn't scoff. "An incredibly vivid dream. I went mad, in Erebor. And in my madness…" he chokes, looking down and away, "I caused Fíli's and Kíli's deaths."

The silence is longer this time, and Thorin finally musters the courage to look back up to Dwalin's eyes. They're darker still, and his brows furrow deep as he crosses his arms across his chest. "I swear that I will stop you from falling to madness," he says at length, his mouth forming a thin line. "I won't let it come to that, Thorin, I promise you."

"But if it does?" he presses—it's not good enough. After all, didn't they argue, in the throne room, and didn't he cast his friend's words aside? Didn't Dwalin try to reason with him, and was it not futile?

His cousin lets out a heavy breath through his nose, but he says, nearly through his teeth in his reluctance, "I will do what must be done."

"Thank you," Thorin says, feeling himself nearly sagging with relief. And without much thinking (because he hates to ask this of his closest friend, but who else could do it? Who else would? Who else would understand the horror in his darkest thoughts of becoming exactly what he swore to avoid?), he reaches for Dwalin's shoulder, pulling him close and pressing his forehead to his own. Dwalin does not seem surprised; he only exhales heavily again, closing his eyes and reaching up to grip Thorin's shoulder as well.

"You are stronger than your forefathers," he murmurs, pressing against Thorin more firmly for a moment before pulling away. "Your dreams are only that. You shouldn't worry, Thorin-King."

He feels his throat clench as Dwalin's hand falls, but he knows he cannot be weak now. As Dwalin said, he has a dozen dwarves—nay, thousands of dwarves—relying on him to lead them safely to the mountain. His own fears, no matter how well-founded they may be, are nothing when compared to the needs of his people.

Thorin-King. This is who he is, and who he must be—he feels himself stand straighter, doing his best to push the memories and fears to the back of his mind for the moment. After all, why else would he have been given this second chance, if not to make right by his family and his people? He grips Dwalin's shoulder tightly for a moment before letting his hand fall as well, meeting his cousin's eyes with renewed determination, no matter the phantoms that mock him from the back of his mind. He will overcome them. He has to. He owes it to his sister and his nephews and everyone—everyone—else to be the strong dwarf his forefathers never were.

But even as he and Dwalin go back to the kitchen, to Dis' silent worry and Balin's piercing gaze, the silence is filled with the memory of Kíli's screams, and his vision is blocked by Fíli's blank, dead eyes.