Thorin came awake seizing, his breath choked off, unable to breathe. With a strangled wheeze he sat upright, clutching his throat. Sharp points pricked the skin of his neck as he convulsed, struggling desperately to swallow past the blockage. The back of his throat tasted of bile and something harsher as well, sulfur or charcoal, and he could not breathe.
Thorin convulsed, falling to his knees and planting one hand on the gold as he hacked and coughed. Wet droplets trickled down the side of his neck from beneath his hand and a chill sweat gathered on his brow as he heaved. The world darkened at the edges; panic blanked all other thought as his lungs burned for air.
The blockage shifted and loosened in his chest and he would have cried out if he had air to do so. He spat blood from where he had bit the inside of his cheek in his seizures, then something black that gave off a chemical reek and splattered in gobbets on the treasure beneath him.
Air hit the back of his throat and he inhaled sharply, sucking it down, and with it sweet relief. Breathing it out and with it—
Fire.
Belching forth from his throat, it shot in plumes across the gold, flashing white across his vision. Blinded he stared, frozen, as his vision blackened and spotted in the afterimage. Flames curled and billowed, racing along the treasure, the soft gold beading to liquid across the surface of the hoard. He could feel each coin as it lost its shape and pooled into a misshapen lump.
Thorin clamped a hand over his mouth and felt skin like toughened leather where his lips would have been. Lower, his hand slipping down unbidden, he found hardened scales like chips of obsidian where the soft flesh of his throat had once been. His hand fell limp to his side and then he was moving, scrabbling through the pinging, clanging coins to find the polished silver bowl. Black scales covered the muscles of his arm in strips, the white flesh curling at the edges where it flaked and peeled away. His hand closed around the bowl and he heard the squeak and squeal of metal.
Wide, strong fingers, used to wielding a blacksmith's hammer or a sword, now ended in sharp black talons. The points glinted, their lengths wickedly curved, sharp as scimitars, and screeched as they bit into the silver . He distantly remembered what must of have been talons digging into his skin as he clutched at his throat. Thorin looked about wildly, and saw too that his toenails matched their brethren.
And in the mirror surface of the bowl…black scales cutting across his face in a jagged scar, stretching from jaw to cheekbone. Eyes that glowed with a baleful inner light now had slit pupils like a cat's. Dragon scale and fire was devouring him from the inside out, tearing at his flesh and twisting him, bone and sinew. Thorin's breath came in sharp, shallow gasps as it all came crashing down upon him and a wild noise, part scream and part groan, built at the back of his throat and was set loose, reverberating through the caverns of Erebor.
"Here is where I must leave you, Bilbo," Gandalf said, as they stood before the hidden door into Erebor.
Bilbo sighed, though he had known this moment would come. All was dark beyond the stone doorway, and it somehow felt colder, less welcoming even than when they had first found it. For then he had his companions waiting for him while he traveled through the tunnels, and now he must go alone to face whatever monsters lay on the other side.
Not monsters, he reminded himself, just Thorin. Which, truth be told, seemed just as fearsome considering their last parting. He squared his shoulders, for if he did not go now he feared his nerve would fail him entirely.
"I should think you will be needing these too," Gandalf said dryly, passing the heavy packs to Bilbo. The wizard had at least had the courtesy to help Bilbo bring the supplies up the hidden staircase, no easy feat for one so much taller than was meant for such a narrow stairway. Bilbo oofed as he accepted. "Will you be quite able to manage?"
"So as long as this is a fortnight's worth of food I believe I shall," Bilbo said with a laugh. "Certainly it's more than we've had at many points in the journey, and that will make the burden seem lighter."
"With any luck, you will not need it," Gandalf said. "But just to be safe. There should be enough even for three weeks, if you are careful and eat like Men rather than Hobbits. There are also some medicines in there, warm clothing, bandages and herbs should Thorin's absence be due to illness or injury. Óin has included some instructions of his own for the more common dwarven ailments, and some vials of his ointment, so be careful not to drop it."
"I will," said Bilbo, shouldering the second pack.
"Well, I must be off, there is no telling what those rascals will get up to with me gone," said Gandalf.
"You do speak of great lords of the Elves and Dwarves," said Bilbo dryly.
"Yes, funny about that," Gandalf said. He stopped just before reaching the staircase, turning his head back a little. "Bilbo, be careful while you are down there. There is no shame in escaping if ought goes wrong. We cannot save everyone, even those who are very dear to us, and there are some illnesses for which there is no cure."
Bilbo opened his mouth to reply when the thought of it finally struck him. Of Thorin in the dark and tomb-like halls of his ancestors, alone. Sick, perhaps, or too injured to move and for the first time since the wall some of the fear fell away to make room for memory, of gentler words and hands that touched in friendship instead of rage. Something seized in his throat then, and he could only nod silently. He hefted his pack and faced the door, dark and unwelcoming as ever, but now only a barrier that must be surmounted. With a little nod to himself he set off, down the winding tunnel and into the heart of the mountain.
Tiny light wells drilled into the ceiling provided pinpricks of illumination along the way, once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom. He had just about settled into a comfortable pace, shifting the packs around when they grew heavy, his confidence growing with each step, when he heard it.
A groan that rose to a scream, rising with the subterranean winds, its tones overlaid with some monstrous echo. A chill of horror ran through him, draining the blood from his face, and he would have dropped the packs and bolted then had not the far more horrifying thought occurred to him.
The sound had come from Thorin.
The only alternative was that some other creature had made the caverns their abode side by side with Smaug, somehow passing unknown to the great worm. Unlikely, as Smaug had not seemed one to share his home. A sound like a wounded animal, he now realized, as the gooseflesh that prickled his arms at the clamor eased and he found himself running towards it, rather than away. What if this had been one of many screams, growing more ragged with each day as Thorin cried out, broken and alone, calling for aid that never came…? Bilbo redoubled his speed.
It may have been a short distance were it straight, but the path wound snakelike through the mountain, and Bilbo was out of breath when he came to the wide stone platforms that overlooked the treasury. There he skidded to a halt, surveying the glittering hoard beneath.
"Thorin," he squeaked then coughed, clearing his throat, and shouted again, "Thorin!"
There was no response, and the high ceilings with their cathedral-like arches swallowed all sound from the air. Placing the extra pack of food down, Bilbo selected the one that held the first week's food and medicine, racing down the steps and across the golden dunes.
Terror made Thorin's breath come short and fast, the world spinning around him, and once again he was on all fours amongst the gold, struggling to catch his breath. It felt better there, closer to the ground; the dizziness overcame him again when he tried to stand like a dwarf. The gold was like satin beneath his fingers, soothing his mind of cares. All was not lost. He had the treasure of Erebor, the halls were his. All would be well, all would be well, the gold sang to him.
…with fingers that now end in talons, skin that splits and shreds with each movement, walking on all fours as a beast…
There was a sound. Thorin's head jerked up and all frantic and tumbling thoughts stilled. A deadly calm fell upon him.
Silent as a shadow and swift as death, he climbed free of the bed of gold, surveying the hoard. There was a scent on the air, a familiar one though he could not place it. No matter, he would be ready for the intruder. Limbs would crack and blood would flow, he would cut them down and devour them as sheep for daring to enter his halls. He dodged pillars that lay scatted like fallen trees over the gold and slipped into their shadow.
He could hear the thief long before he saw him, though his footsteps were as light upon the coins as the rustle of leaves over stone. The thief called out a word, but he could not hear it over the pounding of rage in his blood. Heat gathered in his throat and his talons clenched. A figure stepped in front of his hiding place.
The thief squawked as he fell upon it and they tumbled together back onto gold, the metal clanging and clattering as they rolled end over end. He snarled in frustration as his talons, strong and sharp as swords, dug into what should be soft and yielding flesh only to be stopped, turned away by something tougher and harder. The ground gave way beneath them and they slid further, picking up speed. Coins jangled and clashed around them, a whirlwind of gold.
They stopped with a sickening thump. The back of his head struck unyielding stone, and stars exploded across his vision. The thief landed atop him with a groan.
When his vision cleared, Thorin blinked as he came back to himself. He looked up. Horror swept him.
"Bilbo?" Thorin breathed
"Ah… aaaah…" Bilbo panted above him, his face white. A gurgling sound came from the back of his throat. "Aaaaah…?"
"What are you doing here?" Thorin snarled, grabbing at the hobbit's arm, but Bilbo leapt, tumbled backwards, kicking himself away and landing hard.
Bilbo raised a shaking hand from where he lay on his back, pointing at Thorin. "Ah?"
Thorin looked down. Like charred paper, the white of his flesh had peeled away at the edges to reveal black scales. Yet where only the day before the scales had been only speckled patches, now they covered his chest, his arms and throat in wide strips. The baleful glow of his eyes reflected in them, two points of unearthly blue light. What flesh had not fallen away was dusky gray, stretched taut over scales waiting to break free. He touched the back of his neck, feeling the hard ridge that covered his spine and trailed down his back. He swallowed, hard.
Thorin looked back at Bilbo. The hobbit was pale and shaking, eyes wide and liquid while his mouth and throat worked, but no sound came out. Silently screaming. At Thorin. Flesh crumbling to dust around him, acid in his stomach, Thorin saw himself in Bilbo's eyes with more clarity than he had in the silver bowl, and saw a monster staring back. A single thought pierced a mind clouded in a haze of gold and fire.
"Bilbo," Thorin said, his voice trembled and he reached out one hand in entreaty. Bilbo flinched back. "Help me."
Thorin could not say what he would have done had it been otherwise, but at that moment a change came over Bilbo. His trembling ceased and his lips drew to a thin line. His nose gave a twitch. Then he nodded to himself and sat up.
"Right. Well, give me a moment and I'll put the kettle on."
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
Author Note: Thank you for reading so far! Next update in 3 days at 4pm EST. If you're enjoying the story, please take a moment to leave a comment. A lot of time and effort goes into writing and editing this story, and your thoughts are only repayment asked :)