A/N: Alright people, time to roll up your sleeves. Things are going to get heavier from here on out. I've been excited to write these next two chapters since I figured what I wanted to do with this story.

Prepare for revelations.

Chapter Warning: Thrain. Attempted sexual assault. Violent images.


Far From Home
Chapter 11

Carved In Bone


They were coming. He could hear them as he heard the beats of his heart. Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump.

Clawed feet. Scaled hide, calloused, scarred, made to rend, made to destroy. Armor and weapons molded of iron and steel clashed, loud and thunderous echoing their approach. Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump.

Sharp teeth. Yellowed and rotten, daggers to pierce and puncture, to tear from bone in thirst for blood. Thirst for pain. Thirst for death.

And laughter. Oh how they laughed, eyes gleeful, maws open, bathing in blood. Bathing in the blood of his kin.

Heads on spikes, eyes gauged, mouths open in eternal screams. They stared at him, over him, damning him through the bloody fissures. Cries of defeat, cries of pain forever silenced.

Yet he could hear them echoing loudly in the hollow of his heart. His calls of pain and loss, unheard and mute without a single soul to witness. The voices of the dead begging to be heard through his rented throat. They cut him with their suffering, just as deep as blades, sinking into flesh and carving their undoing into his bones.

Thump. Thump. Coming. Coming. Always coming. Digging through earth and rock and stone. Burning through brush and tree. Invading, deeper and deeper still.

He could hear them.

And there was that silhouette, bathed in moonlight that shone through his darkness. Gone were the decapitated faces of the dead. Instead another face, small and pale in fright hovering over him so that they could share each breath. Dark curls a shade lighter than midnight bound in braided plaits over thin shoulders, cold fingers touching his lips, eyes wide and searching.

"Are you alive?" a whisper.

How had such a pitiful creature managed to crawl through the slimes of his mind? As if he had any more room left in the wreckage of his soul to house such a memory. A time so long ago that made him writhe with fury and defeat, etched deep into his bones.

"Let me help." Small hands on him, fingers digging into blood caked ropes that bound him down. "I'll get you out." A promise.

Thump. Thump.

Poison, he accused the distraught figure. You are my poison.

"I'll save you." Defiance. There were always defiance in those eyes. How it came so strongly from a little creature that could be broken so easily, he could not understand it. And what he could not understand had to be corrected.

He did not want salvation, for no cure existed in the living realm could ease the pain of his loss. No salve could erase the scars that cut so deep, no potion to cure the poison in his soul. There was a grave mistake made, and he would correct it. He would conquer what was invaded, take back the riches stolen, and rebuild kingdoms of his kin that were lost. He would take, he would seek retribution, conquest will become conqueror and he would sit proud on his throne. The heads of his enemies would be mounted on display, and those who once defied him, resisted and spurred him would be forever bound to him and his.

Never again.

Thump. Thump.
Thump. Thump.

"I am coming."

"Father?"

King Thrain blinked his eye, lid heavy as if rising from sleep. His throne was solid beneath him, the ethereal glow of the Arkenstone above, his council before and son beside him. All eyes staring at him in silence. Always such heavy silence.

He was awake. All was here, all would stay evermore.

"Father," Thorin called to him gently.

Gentle. Always gentle his eldest son. Such an unfitting characteristic of a dwarf prince, a great fault in a dwarf king. He recalled Thorin when young, carrying his brother atop his shoulders, thinking that he would grow to be strong, a worthy heir to rule Erebor.

Never had he been so wrong.

"Speak," he said when it was obvious his son was waiting for acknowledgement.

Thorin nodded, and spoke, "We have received word from the elves."

"How long has it been?"

"Three months."

Thrain grimaced. The message had been sent out by owl the day of his son's marriage. "I assume King Tharanduil declines?"

"He does," his son answered, voice heavy.

King Thrain had known despite his father's alliance with the elves, there was little love between Erebor and their neighbors in the greenwood. King Tharanduil would never jeopardize the comfort of his wood and leaves, as long as he was surrounded by his children, safe and unmolested he would not move a finger to come to aid. However, Thrain he had naively hoped that the elves would join his dwarves as allies, at least in this endeavor.

He did not hold back the sneer that twisted his lips when he announced, "Then let it be known from henceforth, that no dwarf from Erebor ever come to the aid of the elves, no matter how dire the danger. Let them fall alone in the solitude of their arrogance." His made a fist and slammed it against the green stone of his throne with a loud resounding bang. His father's ring of power burned like a fiery brand around his clenched finger, resounding his command.

His council murmured amongst themselves; the nobles present gave each other wide-eyed looks, some nodded their heads, stroked their beards in agreement to the decree. Others, King Thrain set his eye on them, shook their heads, glancing to Thorin beseechingly. They doubted him and looked to his son, always doubting his mind.

And doubting their king made them crown Thorin, crippled with loss, tears still tracking his cheeks and expecting one so young to lead them onward, as if he, Thrain son of Thror, were dead. They doubted his will to live, his will for vengeance, and took advantage of the gentleness that still resided in his child, whispered cowardice into his ear and urged him to defy his father, take the crown that was not yet his.

"King Thorin," they proclaimed when King Thrain still lived and breathed before them. Scarred but not maimed, reeling in loss but never surrendering to its despair.

"King Thorin," they begged, believing that his son would openly defy him, dethrone him.

Never. For all his faults and weaknesses Thorin was loyal, for all their disagreements Thorin would always bow his head to his command, always come when called to heel. Oh how he writhed, and tried to manipulate, but never would he go against his king.

And that was why King Thorin failed in his rule.

At the announcement of the end of the proceedings, the dwarves began to disperse. Thrain shrewdly watched some of the dwarves, noting the red of Gloin's beard and how the banker was gesturing wildly to his brother Oin even as they walked. Gloin held allegiance to Thorin, he knew he had been called often to Thorin's chamber for private counsel. Strong and proud and wily was that one, keen of mind and learning much from old Oin. A shame that he did not take after his brother in loyalty to the true king.

He lifted his head up, letting the flow of the Arkenstone warm him. His father, King Thror had declared the stone the heart of the mountain, for no treasure could match its brilliance. Taking a moment to admire its radiance, Thrain could almost feel the presence of his father at his back, his Majesty the strongest of dwarves.

...Heads on spikes, eyes gauged, mouths open...

Thrain swallowed thickly, fingers curling into fists. His wrists burned as if still bound, his throat tight as if choked, legs restless as if held down. He wished to throw himself to his feet, to roar and destroy and protect. Conflicted and possessed, he looked to Thorin who stood oblivious at his side. How he wished hold his son close, yet the dark urge to destroy him was strong.

Thorin was loyal, but in that he was the king's greatest enemy. Another monarch with eyes for his throne.

"I tire of this," Thrain said, catching his son's attention. "This waiting. We talk and talk, all for what?"

There was a hard, stubborn look to Thorin's blue eyes. "We cannot win alone, father."

"You doubt our strength," he accused.

His son turned to him fully, keeping his voice in a low whisper so as not to be heard. "We believed in our strength before. Look what came of it."

"The Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills will come."

Thorin shook his head, "And the loss can be even greater." He argued on, "Gandalf warns us of something foul in the mines-"

"And you shy from some obscure danger tattled by a mad wizard?" King Thrain's tone dripped with disgust. "You take counsel of a wizard over your king and father?"

The hurt in his son's countenance was palpable. Thorin crouched slightly, entreating, "The wizard has no reason to deceive us."

King Thrain almost laughed at his son's foolishness. "Gandalf the Gray's history with us is long, Thorin. His reasoning and agendas only known to himself. We know nothing of him or his design."

"Yet grandfather trusted him and called him friend."

Enflamed, Thrain shot to his feet, nearly colliding with Thorin, who had to stumble back. But the king would have none of it, grabbing his whelp by the collar of his robe and pulling him close. "And where was this friend when we were being slaughtered?"

The color had drained from Thorin's face, eyes young and fractured in memory. Their loss cut into Thorin's bones just as deep as Thrain. Two kings bound together in scars.

His son brought a hand to his shoulder, clasping him tightly. "He brought you back to me," he said brokenly.

King Thrain could not bear the look, shoving away and averting his gaze. Too late, the echoes in his heart hissed. Too late, cried the faces of the dead. Too late, accused the gauged sockets of the tortured.

"I tire of this," the king repeated, turning his back to his son.

"Then I shall take it from here," Thorin stated, his voice strong and belying any of the hurt that had just been exchanged between them. There, a hint of a king. Too late.

Without another word King Thrain exited the throne room. He gave no notice to the bows of his subjects, or the saluting of the guards. He could hear words of adulation, and words of scorn on each side, a great rift in the center of the mountain and its dwarves.

Not for long, Thrain swore. Soon, never again.

Those tormented faces would be buried, and their voiceless cries silenced.

Laughter.

The King Under the Mountain felt every muscle in his body seize at the sound. He stood in the corridor of the royal wing, frozen in place at merry voices bouncing off the stones. Not the sounds of his grandsons, Thrain knew immediately, strange yet familiar in tone, the ghost of a memory standing before the glaring moon.

Thump. Thump. Beat King Thrain's heart, loud as a drum. The laughing voice danced around him, brushing close but not touching, coy. One foot in front of the other. Thump. Thump.

His scars sang to him, burning anew with the reminiscence of pain, bleeding anew, and rupturing deep. He was ablaze at the sound, mocking and teasing him. He felt both cold and hot, itching to tear out of his skin.

He stopped beside a door, sealed for so many years yet cracking open, key forgotten in the lock, the tow-headed dwarf of the young scribe emerging from it. "There is much more, Master Bilbo," young Ori was saying, head turned away from his king unknowingly. "I'll just run to the library and fetch them!"

The scribe turned and halted with a stutter, nose nearly colliding with the royal robes of King Thrain. Eyes were already wide and petrified by the time they lifted to meet him, mouth dropping open in a mortified "o". Thrain did not give him a change to utter a word, his arm snapping forward and hauling the young dwarf out the door and flinging him away. He grabbed the key and entered the room, slamming the door shut and cutting off the scribe's cry. With a swift twist he locked himself in with his ghost.

Dis's room looked nothing as it was. Skeletons and bones swathed in cloth and dust, forgotten and buried with the memories of the past, when there was always laughter and the halls were occupied by his kin. Even her scent, the perfumes she used to wear, the soaps she washed her hair and beard with had decayed with the years of absence. Yet, where there should only be the silence of the abandoned was light cast from the open balcony window, the scent of moist green and soil, and the small figure of the hobbit standing at its entrance.

Any merriment that had once stretched across those pale features was gone. Thin lips were pressed tight, the little body tense as taut rope about to snap as he faced the King Under the Mountain. Thrain had stayed away all these months since the marriage between his son and the acquisition, the demands of the throne outweighing his desire to seek out the hobbit. He knew his son kept his consort's schedule tight, his servants making sure that the two never had the opportunity to cross paths. King Thrain was never bothered by it for he knew that with a simple command he could render the contract null and take what he initially intended before his son convinced him otherwise.

The halfling now stood before him, for the first time alone before the true king and master. He was dressed simply, brown trousers stained at the knees as if he had been kneeling in dirt, held up with bracers over a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His little hands were clenched at the sides, covered in dirt as his knees. The blond curls on his head were windblown and tousled. Truly, such a simple creature, crawling in dirt as he should when faced with the majesty of a dwarf king.

Did Thorin have him crawl on all fours before him? Did he have the hobbit kneel while servicing him? What had his son taught the creature after all these months of taking him to bed?

Thrain had always known his own design when he had first planned his conquest. Except what he wanted was long passed. No dark braids, no figure in the moonlight, no white fingers to touch him, no voice promising to save him. Yet he could see his poison standing before him in the body of this Bilbo Baggins, the sound of laughter was undeniably the same. It was there, its' memory his to keep and his to take. Why should he deny himself when it was taunting him so?

The hobbit must have ascertained Thrain's decision, for his eyes widened in alarm and he sprang away, darting behind a cloth covered table. The pitiful attempt was amusing, and Thrain raised his hands, fingers empty and harmless.

"Come now," his voice was hoarse and hollow despite the flame burning within him. "Has my son not taught you to pay respect to your king?"

The hobbit shook his head. "King Thorin is my king," he said, his curls shifting atop his head and around his neck. It had grown longer over the months, yet still not adorned by the royal clasps. A silent defiance. Always defiance.

So different, yet the same. His poison appeared before him in different shades.

King Thrain surged forward, muscles stiff from years on the throne, age in his cracked bone, springing to new life. The halfling cried out as he tried to twist away, the table serving as fragile barrier between them. The will of the king was mighty and his desires would not be denied. In an instant the table was overturned and he had the small creature in his hands, shoulders thin as memory fighting against him in earnest. Clenched fists beat at his arms and chest, little stones against armor, little nails sank into the skin of his hands, bare feet stamping and kicking at his legs.

Blond curls and dark braids were the same. Pale face, accusing eyes, his poison again, rejecting him again and again and again.

Thump. Thump. Little fists beat him. Thump. Thump.

"What are you doing?!" The hobbit shouted in outrage as the king pushed him down with such force that his legs buckled from the sheer weight, his struggle intensifying. Thrain went to his knees, crouching over the hobbit, blood singing as he caught flailing arms and pinned them down to the heaving chest with one large hand. "Get off!" Fear was speedily replacing the angry defiance, just as it should.

Just as it had before, so long ago.

Surrounded by the ghosts of a past life, Thrain sank himself onto the thrashing body and pressed his face into that pale straining neck and inhaled.

The hobbit stiffened, going still and quiet with a little gasp. Encouraged, lifted his head to look down at him. His face was terrified, turned away, cheeks red from exertion. Charmed, the king reached down and touched his little thigh, studying how the face twisted in helpless misery.

"Yield to me," he ordered, gripping the thigh, thick fingers digging into soft flesh beneath thin trousers.

The hobbit kept his face averted, eyes hard and away.

So proud, this simple creature. Always rejecting him despite the honor of interest the king;s interest. With a cruel twist he turned his hand to the hobbit's clothed crotch, squeezing harshly and holding him down when the halfling arched up in pain.

"Yield!" he commanded.

Instead the hobbit turned to him and spat.

They stared at each other, frozen in that instant, breathing heavily into one another.

Same. They were the same. The hobbit was his the moment he laid eyes on the figure crouching over him in the moonlight, claiming salvation and poisoning him forever. His poison. His darkness. His moon.

Thump. Thump. Beat king's heart.
Thump. Thump. Beat the hobbit's heart.

There was a dagger at throat, seeming to manifest from the shadows themselves, the sharp blade pressing into his skin.

"Again," Thrain laughed out loud, not taking his eyes off the hobbit beneath him despite the threat. "This is always how it ends between us, my dear."

His poison. His moon rising in his darkness.

And still he laughed, even when a cloth pressed over his nose and mouth, foul and overwhelming. He was falling unconscious, his hold loosening. But there was an arm around him, holding him steady not letting the king fall to injury. One of his son's servants then, he blearily thought.

If it had been Thorin, King Thrain thought, it would have been perfect.


In his defense, Nori was not used to attacking kings.

Sure if it were a human king or an elf king, an orc king or goblin king, Nori would have gladly struck down the threat without a moment's hesitation. But a dwarf king...Nori found himself stalling to intervene, even when it became obvious that help would not come in time to save Bilbo Baggins from injury. This was King Thrain son of Thror, father to his liege King Thorin. Nori may not have the blind loyalty as his brothers, but it was a daunting task to raise a violent hand against his Majesty.

Even if his Majesty seemed inclined to rape his son's consort.

Nori had not anticipated such an assault. Was quite taken aback when his brother Ori was yanked from the room and in his place the scarred king appeared, fevered eye trained on a trapped hobbit who had just moments ago been happily gardening. He had thought at first that King Thrain intended to frighten Bilbo a bit, perhaps shake him to reinforce their positions as King and royal whore.

As the situation escalated rapidly, Nori found himself breaking out into a horrified sweat as King Thrain demanded the hobbit to yield to his desires.

When Bilbo spat, it spurred Nori into action; halting any further assault with a well-placed dagger, and ascertaining his anonymity with s sleeping draught on a cloth. It would not do well for his occupation to be recognized.

King Thrain laughed and murmured nonsense before succumbing to unconsciousness. With great care, Nori rolled him off the hobbit, keeping the cloth over the king's nose to make sure that he would not awaken on them suddenly.

There was a shuddering gasp, and Nori winced when he looked towards Bilbo Baggins. It was the first time they were before one another in clear sight. Nori had studiously followed the hobbit all around Erebor, and even the few times he ventured into Dale City, but never had they been so close.

Bilbo's eyes were wide, face still pale from fright, but they were darting over him, in no way assessing him and what dangers he posed. Then, a small breath and Bilbo said, "You're the spy."

Almost, Nori laughed. All those times the hobbit accused Thorin, and here he was, living proof. Thorin would never be able to live it down. Nori had the sudden urge to take Bilbo Baggins's lips to his in a passionate kiss. He was so clever, yet not a single dwarf in the mountain understood the true tenacity of the hobbit. Even Thorin, with his growing obsession, was blind.

Instead, Nori offered a hand to Bilbo, enjoying how the dark blue of those eyes watched his every movement. Wary, the hobbit accepted the hand and Nori helped the King's Consort to his feet. Once sure Bilbo was stable, he slowly lowered himself to one knee, and holding that beautiful gaze brought the hobbit's small hand to his lips gently.

"The Spy," Nori introduced himself. "At your service."

At the chaste kiss, Bilbo pulled his hand away behind his back, frowning at his audacity. "I highly doubt your mother named you 'Spy'," he accused.

Nori granted him a cheeky grin. "I would make a poor spy if I handed out my name so easily."

Bilbo's face pinched in unhappiness, but he nodded his head.

They turned to the locked door, hearing loud shouts on the other end.

Finally, Ori had managed to alert the guards and convince them of the danger.

"I guess that means you should be making yourself scarce, Mister Spy," Bilbo said, frowning slightly. He took a breath, his shoulder's steeling like a warrior facing battle. He gave Nori a sharp look, "Well then, off with you!" He waved a hand as if to shoo Nori away. "I can handle it from here."

Again, Nori resisted the strong urge to kiss Bilbo Baggins. Such a waste, he thought when the hobbit turned away from him and strode with a sure step to the door. As he hid himself in the shadows of the room, eyes never leaving Bilbo's deceivingly fragile looking back, Nori almost pitied the storm that Thorin would have to weather this night.

Bilbo Baggins' silence was over.


End Note: So...have some things begun to make sense? Or have I confused everyone even more? Next chapter: Bilbo demands answers.