Disclaimer: Not mine. And the prompt came from the kink meme on lj. For the lack of hyperlinking: prompt post 10, p.5.
Warnings: PTSD, angst and political intrigue.
AN: Thank you very much for the lovely feedback. Since some were wondering on "how bad Dain actually is", or how Thorin will deal with it all - it shall all be addressed at some point. This is moving rather slowly, but here is a long chapter, so that we get back to the action sooner rather than later (the majority of this is written out, the only thing I can't make promises for is my updating schedule).
The Price of Gold
Chapter X
Dusk tints the world in shades of purple and grey. No shadows lengthen under the overcast sky, yet everything grows darker. A hush falls over the camps, as one by one their leaders don their finery and weapons.
The tension grows palpable, while rumors make their rounds. Concerning the Arkenstone, which few of the living men and dwarves here have laid eyes on. Among the elves the stone is a faint memory, a fairytale – and its beauty remains unparalleled. And while not as rare, the hobbit who will take into possession this priceless object is a subject of discussions, too.
Wasn't he the one to steal it?
Hasn't he betrayed the King?
And yet, wasn't he a member of this company? Wasn't he the one to brave Smaug? (And is it true that he does not wear shoes?).
Bilbo does not hear the rumors, but he listens to the fading noises as he dresses in the clothes Gandalf brought him. The finery is heavy and unfamiliar – and not entirely dwarvish, either. Bilbo recognizes some patterns and fabrics, others remain utterly foreign.
He is too exhausted to ask.
Instead he even dons Sting, when Gandalf tells him to.
"It's just for show," the wizard informs him, "You'll be surrounded by warriors – they're expecting you to be armed, too."
Bilbo doubts his letter opener will command much respect. He buttons the thick velvet overcoat, and heavy as it is, he is glad for the warmth it provides.
"Ready?" Gandalf asks.
Bilbo nods, even though he isn't. The trick, he tells himself, is not to think now. He can't accommodate those memories lurking in the back of his mind, neither can he give into the emotions warring in his chest. He hates to be reduced to this, and is too tired to actively change it.
And his wish not to be involved further, to go home and recover, will not be fulfilled. So he closes his eyes, draws a deep breath and follows Gandalf outside.
The camp is silent, though to his surprise he finds Dwalin, Bofur and Bifur waiting. Bofur even smiles encouragingly – but they all make certain not to step too close or to touch Bilbo. Apparently the tale of his encounter this afternoon has spread. And Bilbo doesn't quite know whom to hate for this new development that has forced even those he has no reason to fear to keep their distance.
"We'll be watching your back," Dwalin announces, and his voice draws Bilbo from his thoughts. He can't help the shudder that runs down his spine.
Bifur adds something, and Bofur nods. "It's the least we can do," he says.
Bilbo manages a faint smile, just as Gandalf turns. "It is time."
By the time they arrive, the hosts have assembled. There was no call for them, no need for the soldiers to be here – and yet curiosity drew them in. They are forming a large circle around the four "official" parties already there.
Once Gandalf arrives, they all fall silent. Bilbo keeps his eyes fixed on the ground, following behind the wizard. The atmosphere rests heavily on his shoulders, and his heart is pounding rapidly. He fears what will happen once he looks up – he can't faint again, not now.
Not when somehow Erebor's fate hangs by a thread.
Eventually, the feet Bilbo spies in the corner of his vision fade away. A gust of cold night air caresses his cheeks, and then Gandalf takes a step aside, not forward, and stops. Bilbo steps up beside him, even though his knees feel weak.
He hears Dwalin, Bifur and Bofur stop behind him – and even Gandalf draws back a little.
Never in his life has Bilbo been so exposed. The looks of three large hosts of warriors have come to focus on his form – and never before has he felt so small and unprepared. But he can't think about this now.
Bilbo draws a deep breath and lifts his head.
It's worse than he imagined. In the fading daylight he can't see where the ring of warriors surrounding them ends. Elves, dwarves, men – differentiating between them become impossible in the twilight. The gleam of steal, however, remains notable.
If this goes ill, Bilbo begins to think, and immediately pushes that thought aside.
It cannot, and this is a pressure not only he feels. But also the other four "official" parties.
Opposite to him he finds Bard and Thranduil. They do not stand next to each other, but are backed by an assortment of their own. Bilbo may recognize a number of the elves that surround Thranduil – all armed, even if they are wearing robes instead of armor – yet any memories bring his mind right back to the edge of that dark, dark abyss.
Bard is only accompanied by three other men, two of whom are sporting visible injuries. They make a stark contrast to the elves – their clothes may be of a good make, but compared to Thranduil they seem faded and worn. Bilbo feels Bard's eyes seek out his – they shared friendly words back in Laketown (what feels like another lifetime) – and that may be concern there, and Bard was there when…
Bilbo looks away as fast as he can without moving too abruptly. He is panting, he realizes, and cold sweat covers his palms. Still, he forces himself to keep his back straight.
Dain stands with his advisors, assistants and guards – twenty dwarves, all dressed in polished armor and fine robes. The gemstones on their jewelry glitter even in the fading daylight. Adjacent to them finally stands Thorin, flanked by his nephews and Balin
They look impressive.
Even without a huge entourage, Thorin manages to command the attention of all assembled. Especially, when he steps forward and raises his voice.
"Fellow warriors," he calls out, "We have fought together for a bitter victory. And on this night, we will take one step further to make permanent this hard-won peace."
It is good that all are looking elsewhere. Bilbo's head spins, and it's all he can do to keep standing. His heart flutters nervously in his chest, and a part of his mind screeches at him to run as far as possible.
"Ere the goblins and orcs set upon us," Thorin continues, unaware and too far away to notice Bilbo's plight, "We found ourselves at an impasse, at this self-same place. A dear member of my company then took it upon himself to resolve this – the hobbit Bilbo Baggins traded the Arkenstone so that we would have peace."
There is a hush. This story does not match the rumors – but then there are many, and Bilbo doesn't dare to analyze the changes now. Neither can he look at Thorin.
Bilbo's fingers tremble and he's glad for the long sleeves of the coat. He forces himself to keep his head up, directs his gaze at a patch of sky over Thorin's head and hopes he does not look as lost as he feels. Even with Gandalf and Bofur only steps away, he is alone in this.
As long as tensions run this high they can't even dare to speak to him.
"From now on peace will no longer rely on this bargaining chip," Thorin declares, "Negotiations may continue, but as we all, as this battle has proven, fight on the same side, we can settle this as equals. And for this sake, tonight, the Arkenstone will be returned into the custody of Master Baggins."
Thorin is looking at him, now, as are probably a thousand more eyes.
Bilbo can't breathe. The sky, he thinks, the sky has grown rather dark –
"Until peace has been settled," Thorin adds, "Then, and only then, the Arkenstone may yet again change hands."
Whatever blood was left in his face drains away. Bilbo knows he can't look to Gandalf, can't scream or protest – can't even reach up to loosen his collar. Too many eyes are watching his every movement far too closely.
"Until peace has settled," Bard repeats, and Thranduil inclines his head in agreement. On the other side of the field, Dain mirrors the movement with a smirk on his face.
Watching Dain, Bilbo almost misses how one of the elves steps forward. When he catches sight of the non-descript, yet familiar box, he feels faint. An echo of a memory rises in the back of his mind – hands gripping the collar of his jacket, his own feet dangling over an abyss – and the condemning curse of "betrayer".
Bilbo shudders. The elf is headed toward him, so he forces himself to step forward as well.
They meet half-way.
The elf looks unperturbed, his face vaguely familiar – but his calmness is all the more striking since Bilbo feels like he is coming apart. Fraying at the seams. He can't breathe under the thousands of watchful eyes and the weight of rumors and expectations.
The elf holds out chest and Bilbo's fingers tremble when he reaches out to receive it.
He feels the more than the weight of the Arkenstone settle on his shoulders. There is a touch of fate to this – within his hands he holds, quite literally, Erebor's future. And this responsibility is something he would not have been willing to bear had he been hale.
Now, however, he has to lock his knees to keep from collapsing on the spot.
"Until we have peace," Bilbo murmurs into the deafening silence and the wind carries his words across the field.
The way back is, perhaps, worse. Attention drifts away from him once Gandalf and Dwalin flank him, and hide him from the spectators' gazes. Chatter rises, and the convention of soldiers begins to drift apart. With each step however, the world around Bilbo spins a little faster, and he can't hear what Gandalf is saying over the pounding of his own heart.
Darkness rises at the corners of his vision.
He hurries his step, and if he stumbles before he vanishes into his tent, Dwalin and Gandalf keep him obscured from curious onlookers. His mind is spinning – he can't even form coherent thoughts anymore. Snatches of memory mingle with pieces of nightmares, and he can't quite breathe deep enough.
The chest falls from his hand with a dull thud.
Bilbo drops to his knees before it, though the world is askew and he isn't certain if he is really on his knees. His own blood is too loud, his pulse too fast – and there may be somebody shouting his name in the background – but now, away from all, he allows himself to finally collapse.
Once this nightmare has concluded, Thorin retreats into the small tent serving as his personal space concurrently. He does not look back, nor reply to any of the questions thrown his way. Keeping his back straight and his face even takes up every bit of self-possession he can gather.
Only when the fabric has closed behind him, he allows himself to fall into a chair, and bury his face in his hands.
Had he not thought himself incapable of sinking any further?
Yet he has stepped out there, denied his own deeds, twisted the tale, lied and pushed all the responsibility on the shoulders of one hobbit. One particular hobbit, that Thorin already owes far too much.
A shudder runs down his spine.
He had not dared to look at Bilbo for long. But what he saw made his chest clench with guilt and horror. When he closes his eyes, he still can see the limp body Dwalin pulled from that thrice-cursed chest.
The gasp he has to stifle is lost, when somebody enters the tent.
Thorin glances up with glare, wondering who would dare to disturb him – and finds Balin staring down, his lips a thin line.
"As I did not find you before," Balin says and his voice is sharp and hard, "You ought to know that the chest was destroyed."
Guilt has coiled itself so tightly around Thorin's mind, that he needs a minute to sort out Balin's words.
"You…," he blinks.
Balin frowns. "It needed to be done. If somebody found it, it could too easily be used against you."
Nail marks, Kili had shouted, Thorin remembers. Nail marks.
He thinks of being trapped in such a small, dark space, scratching at the surface. How blinding must the terror have been to claw at such unforgiving wood? How far gone Bilbo not to notice the pain?
Thorin swallows bitterly and hangs his head.
"Should I abdicate?" he mutters under his breath. Because Erebor is not worth this.
He won that kingdom so his kin could live in peace. This is not peace at all.
When Balin remains silent, he repeats himself, a little louder. "Should I do it? Let Dain have the crown…"
Balin snorts. "You don't want that. Nobody wants that. And you know just as well as I do, that if you abdicate, it won't be Fili on the throne next.
"We could name somebody else from the company," Thorin suggests, even though he knows its futile. Naming somebody – especially should it be not a noble – is perhaps the easiest way to ignite a rebellion. Or a coup.
"They would never accept that," says Balin, "Also, you need to be aware that if they can successfully claim you to be under the spell of dragon-sickness, it will be easy to pin the same onto the rest of us as well."
Thorin remains silent.
"It is lucky, I suppose," Balin continues darkly, "That Master Baggins holds us this dear in spite of everything. I can't think of any other who would have risked heart and health for those that would have left them to die."
There is no denying that Balin is right. Though something strikes Thorin as odd. "But Gandalf agreed to this as well. Doesn't he…?"
"He certainly knows we do not deserve this. No, I believe the wizard is well aware of what is happening," replies Balin, "And relies on Bilbo's kindness in this just as much as we do."
After having, once again, settled an unconscious hobbit against the pillows, Gandalf and Dwalin leave the tent. The wizard is lost in thought – he does not like Bilbo's pallor, nor the way the hobbit seems to be shrinking under all the burdens piled upon him. And he does not like his own part in this – for being the one having brought Bilbo hear, and lately, having allowed for Bilbo to receive the Arkenstone. But with too much going on, even he was hard pressed to find a better solution.
He's gladdened that Dwalin has taken Bilbo's security to his heart. It won't be long until he will be sought out by sycophants and intrigue – at least Dwalin may scare away a few of them.
"Master Gandalf," a new voice cuts through his thoughts.
The wizard glances up and realizes he hasn't even noticed Fili and Kili approach. Both dwarves have stripped off the most ostentatious of their finery, yet they are still conspicuous. Also, the way Fili is leaning on his younger brother casts heavy aspersions on the straight stance he presented on the field.
They're all acting in a charade that is not helping one of them.
Gandalf nods at the two young dwarves.
"How is he?" Kili asks, concern plain on his face.
Gandalf sighs. "Not too good. I hope he'll sleep through the night, for once. He needs the rest."
Fili nods. "He will. Tomorrow, I suppose, we can expect Dain's advisors to go and seek him out."
Dwalin growls at this. Yet they all know, their combined efforts to help Bilbo could not protect him from the chest that now sits innocently in a corner of the tent.
The night does not pass well.
Twice Bilbo wakes, sweat-soaked and screaming. His nightmares are growing clearer. And they always, always include Thorin's face twisted in fury.
One time he's dropped and falls, and falls and falls until he ends in a space so small he can neither move nor breathe. The next time Thorin pushes him down, steadily further down until all light fades and his hands close around Bilbo's throat.
Bilbo doesn't even know what he is screaming for anymore. It may for help, it may be a plea for Thorin to relent – regardless of what, no matter how often he sees those visions, the pain in his chest does not abate.
(He does not know, that at one point Thorin's feet have carried him, once more, to Bilbo's tent – without any idea of how to help, but wishing to do so. He cannot sleep listening to those screams; not without remembering.
Dwalin turns him away with a shake of his head.)
The third time, Bilbo dreams of the chest. Though it looks rather like a coffin, and he can't move at all. There are no footsteps in this dream. Neither does the lid open – only the air keeps growing hotter, and hotter, and Bilbo knows he will die here …
And then he opens his eyes to the pre-dawn light filling his tent.
His heart is racing, and the only sensible thought his mind can come up with is a desire for fresh air. He can't stay inside, no matter how weak his body is.
Blindly, with his vision fading in and out, he stumbles outside, until finally cold air hits his face.
Bilbo draws a deep breath and allows the cold to spread through his body, calming his frantic pulse and mind. He is not in that horrible chest – his body shivers at the notion itself – he stands under a wide, open sky.
It's not hot and suffocating either.
And very slowly, his mind begins to clear. He doesn't dare touching those memories that have been invoked in gruesome detail in his nightmares. Instead, he lets his gaze wander across the camp. Silence lingers, since most soldiers remain asleep, and only a few are already up, preparing the day's work.
The plain remains barren, though the corpses have been removed. Erebor is a dark shape against a s brightening sky. And the air retains the cold bite of night.
Back in the Shire, he thinks suddenly, he would have enjoyed a morning like this. The sky is clear, and watching the sun rise has always been one of his small joys of life.
Not it feels like a very shaky source of contentment.
And somewhere, deep beneath all the confusion, terror and uproar still possessing him, he feels angry. Angry, that he can't enjoy what he used to anymore. Angry, that he can't face his memories – that he has been reduced to this.
"Master Baggins," says another voice.
Abruptly all anger vanishes and Bilbo jumps. Though when he looks over his shoulder he finds Dwalin standing a short distance away, watching him.
"Are you not going back inside?" he inquires.
Bilbo takes a deep breath to steady his fluttering nerves again. It's horrible how just a simple call in his direction unravels him. How he can't even hold onto any emotion other than terror for very long.
He shakes his head. "No, I don't think so."
It may be cold enough out here to make him shiver, but it is better than the stuffy warmth on the inside. The warmth threatens to unearth too many memories. And monsters he can't face. Not when they are already waiting for the moment he dares to close his eyes again.
"Well," says Dwalin, "Then at least take this."
He holds out what looks like a fur-covered blanket. Bilbo realizes he is in little more than a long nightshirt which is neither appropriate for the weather, nor for their surroundings. With a shrug he accepts the garment and wraps around his shoulders.
It's too large and trails on the ground, yet Bilbo can't quite bring himself to care. Neither does Dwalin's observant gaze bother him much while he watches the sky.
"You need to be careful," he says after a while.
Bilbo nods. The moment he agreed (though he never had a choice, did he?) to take part in this political gambit, he placed himself straight at the center of the power play.
"Not only because of that," Dwalin nods into the direction of the tent, "But I doubt the rumors will be quelled that easily."
And Thorin's words last night did not clear up the confusion. Bilbo can't quite decide whether he would have wanted Thorin to straight out lie about his theft of the Arkenstone or just speak the truth. He doesn't think he would have survived either.
Naturally, rumors of the Arkenstone's theft – of his betrayal – linger.
"So just, when you go out like this, make sure you don't go alone," Dwalin says while Bilbo thinks about what dwarves do to traitors, "Make certain either Bifur or myself are with you. Gandalf, too, in case neither of us is available."
He looks so pleading Bilbo has to let go of his nightmarish vision, and whispers an "Alright" in reply. Then they fall silent and watch the sun rise.
Bilbo does not feel like going back into the tent. His pulse has settled, and while he still feels exhausted, he dreads sleeping. And the box in his tent.
Instead, he sets out for a walk, Dwalin following him. They don't make it very far, before they run into Dain and his advisors, on their way to council.
"I hear you are suffering from night terrors," says Dain.
Bilbo wants to grimace at this. Instead he forces a self-depreciating smile. "The entire camp will have heard that, by now," he replies, and likes the way Dain's advisors stiffen at this.
"One wonders what may have caused them," one of the advisors – Loni, Bilbo thinks his name is – wonders aloud. Dain remains observant, and doesn't check what Bilbo feels is a question too personal. Behind him, Dwalin stiffens.
But Bilbo has fended off enough relatives while feeling less than his best, and he won't let himself be intimidated by these dwarves – there are already enough things he fears.
"A dragon, among a number of other incidents," Bilbo responds calmly. It's a nice reminder that Dain and his men had no part in slaying the dragon – or the entire quest, to be quite honest. And it's not even a lie – Smaug has featured in Bilbo's nightmares – though they do not need to know that this wasn't recently.
And indeed, Dain's advisors pick up on the thinly veiled accusation. There's some whispering in Khuzdul, which leaves Bilbo utterly unimpressed – really, he may not understand them, but they certainly aren't inspiring any confidence here – and Dwalin growls.
Eventually, another advisor – this one clad in a dark red fur robe – steps forward. "And, we believe, Lord Thorin's behavior has probably not helped matters?"
The dwarf goes too far on several instances, and from the corner of his eye Bilbo sees Dwalin reach for the grip of his axe. The motion does not go unnoticed – but it is perhaps only Dain and Dwalin who see Bilbo's signal for Dwalin to remain.
"His majesty," says Bilbo with emphasis, because Thorin is King under the mountain, not a mere lord, as these dwarves would wish him to be, "reacted to a perceived betrayal."
"Yet it was perceived. And I believe your efforts were repaid quite harshly," protests the advisor.
Bilbo feels his patience run thin. The entire issue dances dangerously close to those memories he can't yet touch – but he can't allow these dwarves to see that.
"Even a perceived betrayal will feel like a real one," replies Bilbo since he believes that Thorin would have been angered even without the spell of dragon-sickness had Bilbo secretly traded the Arkenstone to his enemy, "The rest of the matter is between ourselves."
"My cousin still appears rather grieved by whatever occurred," Dain weights in, a curious glint in his eyes, "It must have been rather bad."
Bilbo silently counts to three, and forces his trembling hands behind his back. He hopes he can retain his calm façade under Dain's inquisitive gaze.
"Yes, well," Bilbo replies, managing to makes his voice sound almost light, "It was rather harsh, indeed."
"I have been told he held you over the parapets by your neck and threatened to throw you down," Dain says bluntly.
This time Bilbo can't stop himself from grimacing. He isn't quite certain if the words make it sound worse or better than it was – they certainly can't encompass the suffocating emotions Bilbo felt then.
"He did," Bilbo replies, deciding to be just as direct.
"He threatened to kill you?" Loni exclaims, scandalized.
Dwalin shifts his weight, and Bilbo glares at Loni, though he is rather thankful for the opening. "Well, he thought he was betrayed. I had been given to understand that betrayal is not a crime taken lightly among dwarves – I believe under other circumstances," he casts a meaningful glance at Dain's company, "I would have found myself dead sooner rather than later."
Dain stiffens at that. It's almost imperceptible, but Bilbo catches it.
"Anyhow," Bilbo continues politely – in the same tone he used to get Lobelia out of his door -, "I believe this is between his Highness and myself. Good morning."
tbc