"You can let go now, if you like," a muffled voice said against Thorin's neck and he thought, to his own pleasant surprise, that he would not like to at all and demonstrated this fact by drawing the hobbit closer against him, him burying his face in his curls and breathing him in: tea and pipeweed and good earth, overwhelmed by the scent of mint that still radiated from his own skin. Bilbo sighed and relaxed against him and for a moment there was only heartbeats meeting in time, and warmth all around that banishes the cold and the loneliness of a dead city.

"Much as I'd like to stay here forever," Bilbo continued. "I am having a bit of trouble breathing."

Thorin started, and loosened a bit the death-grip with which he had clutched Bilbo to his chest. The hobbit gasped for air, albeit a bit theatrically, and gave him a wry grin as his face reemerged. It was flushed and warm and relieved, as if the last of the tension that had stood between them, that kept Bilbo separate as if by a layer of glass, had finally melted away. His hand fell to Thorin's hip but did not stray from there and for a moment they only knelt beside each other and gave a sort of huff of relief, as if a great thunderstorm had blown through and finally passed on.

Thorin at least felt they could breathe easier now, and what with the watershed moment and the ointment across his skin he felt relaxed to the point of bonelessness. It was a strange feeling, one he had not felt in longer than he could remember, as was the tightness in his face which it took a moment for him to recognize as a foolish grin. He cleared his throat and straightened his expression, looking down in an attempt to recover some trace of dignity.

"It's just that I thought…" Bilbo hesitated, gesturing towards the gold. "We should get going."

"So soon?" Thorin said, some of the glow dimming within him. He felt better than he had in days and looking out across the gold.

"I'd rather not," Bilbo admitted. "But there's so little time, I'm afraid to linger. We don't, after all, know how much time there really is. Unless… you would like to leave the mountain?"

Thorin thought of the pathway leading down from the hidden door, of the scales revealed in the light of day and his nephews' eyes as he walked into the camp. Nausea rolled through him, so swift and violent that he shook his head as much in denial as to clear the image from his mind before it made him sick. "No, we will continue with your plan."

"For now," Bilbo said, and Thorin furrowed his brow as he gave him a look. "We give it a day, maybe two, but then we try it my way. As we agreed, right Thorin?" Thorin nodded vaguely, trying not to dwell on Bilbo's words, lest it reignite the rage that left the coppery taste of blood in his mouth.

"You know, needn't come with me into the camp," Bilbo said. "I can fetch help on my own. I understand your reservations about all this, even if I do think them a bit misplaced."

"Then I cannot possibly explain it," Thorin said, for in truth he could not, only that something within him rebelled at the idea. "Very well then, two days."

"Two days," Bilbo echoed, nodding.

"You have no idea how we're going to find this claw of yours, do you?"

"Not a clue."

"Right then, I'll be back shortly," Thorin said as he stood. Bilbo's hand trailed along his side and the hobbit gave him a startled look.

"Where are you going?"

"To the forges to fetch us tools, Master Baggins." Thorin raised an eyebrow. "Unless you plan to dig through the gold with your bare hands?" Bilbo opened his mouth to protest. "I will only be a moment."

Thorin returned a short while later, dropping a second bucket of coals beside the fire and proffering a pair of shovels towards Bilbo. Bilbo eyed the tools and did not take his immediately. The wooden handle was crumbling and spotted with rust, even if the metal itself was still solid. "Are you certain they'll hold?"

"They're sturdy enough," Thorin said, examining the shovels.

"If you say so," Bilbo said, as he reluctantly accepted one from Thorin's hand. His fingers were stained immediately with rust, which he glared at with offended distaste, as if a bit of iron dust on his fingers was the worst thing that had happened to him these past days.

"The rust will not harm you," Thorin said dryly. Then he looked over to the campsite, which he noted was the same as he had left it. "You're not bringing the bedrolls? With all the work that must be done…"

"Oh no you don't," Bilbo replied. "I'm not having us stay out there a minute longer than needed. When we're done at the end of the day, we come back here."

"Seems inefficient," Thorin grumbled.

"It's prudence, not inefficiency. I don't know about you, but sitting right in the heart of a cursed hoard is not my idea of a holiday. I say we spend no more than an hour there at a time, at most," Bilbo said.

Thorin caught his own irritation even as it rose within him, noted and remembered it so that he may begin to recognize which emotions were the curse and which were his own. Still, the blasted platform was cold, save for Bilbo, and he had not felt truly warm since he had last lain amongst the gold. Even knowing of the curse, the prospect of sleeping there again had been a welcome one.

"Very well," he said. "Then there's no time to waste. Where did you wish to begin?"

Bilbo released a sigh. "I'm afraid to say it, but the crater itself really is the most sensible place. The miasma there was so strong even I could sense it. With any luck the source of the curse will be somewhere near the surface, and we can be in and out of there quickly. If not, we move on to the next plan," he said, hesitating and looking to Thorin out of the corner of his eye.

"As you say," Thorin said, inclining his head, and trying not to acknowledge the relief that swept through him at the thought of returning to the gold.

In truth, the distance to the crater was not very far, indeed it would have been five minutes, but with the shifting coins under their feet and the hills and valleys, it took longer. Steep were the walls of the crater, and they skidded down barefooted, the coins streaming to either side, before coming to rest at the bottom.

Thorin sagged as the warmth of the gold seeped in through his feet. There was nothing more he would have liked then than to lie down amongst the treasure and sleep for a year. His eyelids were heavy, there was the distant clank of his shovel hitting the ground and he was swaying, slipping…

"All right then, where is it?" Bilbo said. Thorin pried his eyes open and looked at the hobbit, eyelids falling as if they were weighted down with lead. Bilbo stood in the center of the crater leaning on his shovel as if it were a walking stick.

"Where is what?" Thorin said, noting how he had barely closed his eyes, yet his voice was thick and slurred as if he had woken from a deep sleep.

"The piece. The… claw, or tooth, whatever it is. Can you sense where it might be?" Bilbo said.

Thorin's eyebrows drew together as he mulled over Bilbo's words. They seemed to slip through his mind like quicksilver, forming no discernible pattern. "Sense it?"

Bilbo rolled his eyes and made no attempt to hide it. "Yes, sense it, is there an echo in here? Where should we start digging?"

Digging... digging where…? How should he…? "How in Durin's name would I know that?" His eyes drooped again and when he opened them Bilbo was standing in front of him, his hand bracing against Thorin's shoulder.

"Thorin, you said the gold is warm here. That you can sense it wherever it lies. It stands to reason then that if there is a source you should be able to sense it too. So where is it? Where do we start?" Thorin blinked at the rapid-fire questions, irritation flaring.

"Do you want an answer or the truth?" Thorin snapped, rousing himself.

Bilbo's face fell. "Not good?"

"There is no source," Thorin said flatly, sweeping out his hand to indicate the whole crater. "There is no particular spot in here where it begins or ends. It fills this place, like water in a bowl."

Bilbo's shoulders sank, and he pressed a hand to his forehead, shaking his head from side to side. "I don't know, I don't know what to do then, Thorin. It could take us weeks to dig through all of this, it must be ten feet at least to the floor." He dragged a hand through his curls and looked up, his expression pleading. "Please could you…could you at least try?

Thorin looked at him stonily. It was impossible. The heat came from all directions, as if he was indeed immersed in a hot bath. It was soothing, bewitching, and robbing his senses of all focus. To try to find one point in that swirling tide was ludicrous, it was folly. Not to mention pointless, for in his heart of hearts he knew that he was only humoring Bilbo, that the chances were so slim as to be impossible.

Then again, he had never shied away from impossible odds.

"Very well." Thorin sighed, and walked over to the center of the crater. Not far away lay his old shirt and boots where he had discarded them the first day, and the silver bowl where he had first caught sight of himself. He ignored them and crouched down, closing his eyes and pressing his fingertips to the gold as if it were stone. He waited, thinking on how ridiculous he must appear, how it had been foolish to entertain Bilbo's hopes when he must dash them immediately.

Then a thrum passed through Thorin, and he felt as if his body rang from head to toe, like a bell that had been struck. Every coin, statue, goblet and gem in Erebor was here and it was his. The treasures did not only have a presence, they had a pulse, and that pulse was the song that lulled him to his sleep. He crouched lower and closed his eyes, placing his other hand on the gold. As he did, he dislodged one of the coins and as he did he felt it, he felt the infinitesimal shift in its position amongst millions of other pieces, like a stone dropped into a pool left ripples on its surface that travelled in every direction.

There was something there, in the crater with them. Eyes closed, he could pick out Bilbo by scent alone, wool and pipeweed and earth on his feet. He knew where Bilbo stood by the way the gold shifted and buckled beneath him.

There was something else too. Something that had indeed been buried, and whatever it was it had power. Power radiating like heat from a forge, billowing in the air, spreading to the gold around them, calling. Its voice was weak, sleepy, for long it had lain below the earth, amongst the rock and stone, out of the light. But it had awakened now, just a fraction, at Thorin's call, reverberating in the space between them, naming him. He knew how to find it, he wanted to find it and knew that it wanted to be found, it sang a clear golden note in the air. He merely had to take it from the place where it lay hidden.

He opened his eyes and stood in one languorous motion. His nostrils flared at the scent and the gold shifting beneath the talons of his feet. As he stood, his shoulders flexed and with a sound like the tearing of cloth his skin split and flaked away, armored scales emerging from the dead flesh to cover his back and sides.

"Do you know where it is?" a voice came and Thorin turned his head to face the source.

"It's you," Thorin mused, his voice a deep and harsh like the rumble of stones in the dark places of the world.

"Me?" Bilbo said, taking a step back that rang through the hoard. "What in the world does that mean? Did you feel the source of the disease? Thorin… Thorin, good heavens what happened to your back?" Thorin smelled the cold sweat of fear as it prickled the hobbit's forehead, and he took another step forward.

"It is on you, a thing you carry," Thorin said and sniffed the air. "Small." He took another step and stood before Bilbo. Black claws, long again as his fingers and sharp as blades, delicately clasped Bilbo's shoulders as Thorin leaned towards him. Bilbo's breath brushed Thorin's throat as he leaned in and yes, he could smell it there. He whispered into Bilbo's ear, "Something made of gold. But it is more than that. It is…" he looked Bilbo in the eye, the glowing blue of his gaze bathing Bilbo's face, "precious."

Bilbo trembled beneath his hand, and his mouth fell open with a sharp intake of breath.

Then he vanished.

Metal shrieked and cloth tore as Bilbo dragged himself free of his enemy's grip and in a second he was off, scrabbling up the edge of the golden bowl, coins and gems clanging and tumbling behind him. A sharp, hysterical cry rose at the back of his throat as he scrambled, expecting any minute to feel a hand close around his ankle.

So he ran.

But his precious did not grant him silence and he heard the sound of pursuit, a bellow of rage and the clash of feet on gold. The ring burned on his finger and he might have ripped it off in that moment if not for the ice of terror.

Gold. He had to get off the gold, and onto hard stone where he would not be heard. Even with what light there was reflecting off polished metal the room was a muddle of shadows, the strange gray swirling mist of the spectral world. He dared turn once to see a figure with eyes that burned blue as the heart of a flame, a creature of obsidian and stone, its wild hair streaming behind it as it gave chase. With a strangled gasp, he ran on.

His breath was ragged in his lungs and loud, too loud, in his ears. The sound of the coins clashing together behind him grew nearer. He saw his chance: the door to the treasury lying open, unguarded, and beyond the many rooms and dark holes of Erebor. Hide, he needed to hide. To go down beneath the earth, dark and deep, like an animal to ground and wait, wait for this creature to give up.

His feet hit the stone floor and in a renewed burst of speed he was flying, quick and silent as a shadow.

The pursuit grew nearer.

Then his enemy stepped out of the darkness, in front of the doorway.

He skidded to a halt, swallowing back a cry. The enemy, the monster, could not see him. Its eyes roved, blue and baleful, seeking him out and he realized he had a knife, a small one, meant for eating meals, but enough to reach its heart and if that failed, he had his hands, clever fingers to wrap around the creatures throat and squeeze until its face was as blue as its eyes. He licked his lips, mouth gone dry from running and from the thought of killing this creature in front of him, the one that had tried to take his…

Ring. It was just a ring. Gold and magic but not…Bilbo swallowed back bile. It was not worth Thorin's life. He shook his head and the haze fell away. It was not an enemy in front of him, it was Thorin.

But even if Bilbo knew Thorin in that moment, the same could not be said for the dwarf. His eyes were those of a stalking predator and those horrible black scales now covered his entire chest and back save for a patch at the shoulders, and another on the left side of his chest, over his heart. Half of Thorin's face too was scarred with them. There was no recognition in his eyes. His hard lips were drawn back in a rictus and he sniffed the air, turning his head slowly to look straight at Bilbo.

The halls. The halls were still as fine a plan as any. They were many and winding, filled with dozens of rooms that might buy Bilbo time. Like the caves of the Misty Mountains all over again, he must make a leap.

He still had his knife, for Sting was back at the camp, where he would be expected. There was hardly any point to the little thing, but its edge was sharp. He took it from its sheathe, looking at it, then to Thorin.

Then he turned and threw it into the hoard.

It clanged off the side of a golden cauldron and struck a shield that rang like a gong. Thorin's head went up like a hound and Bilbo knew this… creature… was not his Thorin. His Thorin would not have fallen for so simple a trick, but Bilbo could not question fortune when it came, even if the cause turned his heart to dust in his chest.

The creature, Thorin, or rather the thing that wore Thorin's body, and who knew for how much longer his shape, charged back towards the gold and Bilbo dashed up the steps and into the wide stone corridors of Erebor.

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land

Author Note: Hope you're enjoying the story so far. Do please leave a comment if you are, I love hearing from you all!