The hike down the winding trail, past shimmering cataracts, rainbows glimmering in their misty clouds, should have been a wonder, and Bell tried to appreciate it, but the air of barely contained anger that radiated from Thorin cast a pall over everything. Bell stayed close to Bilbo and paid close attention to her footing, keeping as close to the steep wall as she could.

They reached a long, narrow bridge that crossed over a tree-lined gully. Gandalf strode across, without so much as a glance to the left or the right, despite the lack of any walls or rails. Bell's insides quivered when she stepped onto the walkway. She stared straight at Bofur's back and tried not to think about the precipitous drop on either side.

On reaching the far side, the Dwarves huddled together, while an Elf came forth to greet them. He spoke with Gandalf in the Elven tongue.

Thorin stood in the center of the group, but his bearing-pulled taut, like a bow ready to be released-made him an island. The other Dwarves muttered amongst each other, but none tried to engage him. Bell knew that Thorin had reason to distrust the Elves-even to hate them-but it pained her to see him so.

The thunder of hooves clamored up from behind. A company of mounted Elves cantered across the narrow bridge and circled around the Dwarves. Bell shrunk back with the rest and found herself pressed tight between Fili and Kili. The Elves were so tall. The horses were so tall. She felt as if she were no bigger than a mouse, and as likely to be trodden upon.

A dark-haired elf of regal bearing, a silver circlet crowning his head, detached himself from the rest. "Mithrandir," he said, inclining his head towards Gandalf, "you are welcome in Imladris." The Elf continued speaking, melodious words that Bell couldn't understand flowing from his lips. At the same time, his gaze scanned the company, as if he were weighing each man among them.

He caught Bell's eyes and tilted his head. She wanted to look away, to sink into the ground and disappear, but then the Elf lord's gaze moved on, landing at last on Thorin.

"You also are welcome in Imladris, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain."

Bell bit down on her tongue. Gandalf had forced Thorin's hand to bring him here. This could go badly.

Thorin lifted his chin. "I don't believe we have met."

"You have your grandfather's bearing. I knew Thror, of old. I am Elrond, Lord of Rivendell." He spread his hands in a gesture of welcome. "You must be hungry. Come, eat. Take your ease."

The Dwarves huddled in discussion, looking to Thorin for approval. The exiled King under the Mountain inclined his head, although he did not relax his stiff posture.

"Lead on," said Gloin.

#

Dinner was not what Bell would consider a complete success. The Elves' fondness for vegetarian food caused some dissention among the company. Ori refused to eat at all, while many of the rest picked at their food. Gandalf, Thorin, Bilbo, and Balin sat at a separate table with Lord Elrond. Bell was too far away to hear their conversation, but she saw that at least Bilbo ate with a good appetite, and Thorin maintained his rigidly controlled civility. He ate what he was given, but looked as if he were tasting straw.

Bell tried to keep up a conversation with the Dwarves who were seated with her. She asked Bofur about his flute and looked at the notebook in which Ori scribbled details of the journey during moments of rest. Anything to keep them from thinking too hard about their discomfort with their surroundings, although none of them seemed quite as edgy as Thorin.

She even asked Kili to show her his trick of juggling knives, which he'd tried to show her on more than one occasion. He brightened and made the others back away to give him space. Flashing a glinting grin, he stood up and unsheathed his two belt knives. Bell gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile, although she wondered if she were far enough away to avoid being stabbed if he made a mistake.

In the end, she hadn't needed to worry. Kili finished with a high toss and flourish, then swept a dramatic bow. The Dwarves erupted in applause. Bell ducked her head when Kili reached across the table, grabbed her hand, and pressed a kiss to the back of it. "I know my way around my weapons," he said, with a wink.

"A fine display, Master Dwarf," came a low, mellifluous voice from behind Bell.

She turned. An Elven woman stood in an open archway. Her long dark hair cascaded in silken waves like spun glass. Her deep blue eyes crinkled in the corners and her dark lips curved upwards.

The Dwarves rose as one. Bofur swiped his hat from his head and held it in front of him.

"Please, sit," the Elf said. "I am Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Lord Elrond. I had heard there was a Halfling girl among you."

Bell stood up, wrapping her fingers self-consciously in her skirt. "I'm Bell Goodchild . . . er . . . daughter of Godwin?"

Arwen's smile broadened. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Bell Goodchild. It is rare that we Elves come across something new under the sun. Yours is a young race, and you are the first of your kind that I have met. Would you come with me and do me the honor of telling me of your homeland?"

Bell hesitated. Should she leave her companions alone?

Dwalin waved her forward. "Go on, then."

"Are you sure?"

"We're not going anywhere tonight," Fili said. "Go on."

Bell looked back at Elrond's daughter and knew she would never see another woman more beautiful in all the days of her life. Aware of her own small stature and simple nature, she felt utterly overwhelmed. She swallowed and nodded. "As you wish, Mistress Undomiel."

Arwen laughed, a gentle sound like a flowing stream. "My name is Arwen. I give you leave to use it. Come. You have traveled far, and I think you would enjoy a chance to bathe."

#

Bell floated in a slow-running stream, hot, Arwen said, from a spring high above. It fell down the slope of the valley's wall, then circled lazily past a secluded atrium before slipping down again to join the waters of the Bruinen. Steam rose from the water's surface. Bell had scrubbed herself so hard her skin was red, and for the first time in days, her hair was blessedly clean.

All the while, Arwen had waited nearby with a garment she called a night dress, asking questions about the Shire. About holes, and pipeweed, and second breakfasts. Little, simple things that Bell took for granted as a part of everyday life were a source of fascination to the Elven lady. At first, Bell had been certain that she would quickly tire of the conversation, but instead, she had found still more things to learn about.

Arwen averted her eyes when Bell stepped free of the stream and extended the gown towards her. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's a bit long. It belonged to me when I was a child, and that was . . . ever so long ago."

"Thank you," Bell said, and slipped the gossamer garment over her head. Arwen tied a silk belt shot through with silver threads around Bell's waist. The gown was impossibly light, but surprisingly warm in the evening breeze. It was a bit tight at the hips and across the chest-a hobbit simply did not have the willowy build of an elf-but the fabric stretched comfortably and didn't appear to be in danger of tearing at the seams. The sleeves were split and draped away at her elbows.

"I thought you would appreciate something clean," Arwen said. "It's as well that someone gets some use of this. We Elves do not often have children. It is long since there was one among us here in Imladris."

Bell smiled, a little wearily. She was worried about Thorin and she wondered how her companions were faring. Probably hungry. She sighed. Dwarves and their carnivorous tendencies. Well, they had seemed to enjoy her baking from Bilbo's larder well enough.

She glanced over at the Elf lady. "I wonder," she asked, "do Elves have such things as flour, butter, and sugar?"

"We do, but why do you ask?"

"I wonder," Bell looked down at her hands, "if you might be willing to let me use your kitchen?"

#

Thorin sat alone on a bench in a secluded alcove. Moonlight streamed in through the open walls. It felt inherently wrong. Homes should have solid walls. Walls of stone. Walls of earth. Walls of wood, if nothing else was to be found.

Before leaving him to go in search of Lord Elrond, Gandalf had tried once more to convince Thorin to show the Elf the map. Here you stand in the presence of one of the few in Middle Earth who can read it, he had said, and yet Thorin couldn't bring himself to hand the folded parchment into the hands of an Elf. It felt like a desecration, and yet a terrible fear gnawed at him. What if there was more to the map that he was missing? What if this was a mistake?

He rose and paced to the edge of the floor and leaned up against an arched pillar that looked out into nothingness, resting his head against his fist. He'd sent the rest of the company to get some sleep. The noises that made their way from the landing where they'd laid out the bedrolls told him they had yet to take his advice. It didn't make him feel better. He knew that he would not rest in this place, but there was no reason the others should not.

The stars twinkled like diamonds overhead, kindling memories of the deep mines of Erebor. Longing curled in his belly, so hard he could taste it. His home. His father's and his grandfather's legacy. His destiny. If only he could solve the riddle of the door-could discover the fate of the dragon that had killed so many of his kin, while the Elves watched, silent and unmoved.

His fingers tightened, whitening his knuckles. How long was the night? How long must he fight this battle within himself?

A soft rustle of fabric warned him someone was approaching, and not one of his men. He straightened. He would not give an Elf the privilege of seeing his torment.

"Thorin?"

Thorin turned towards Bell's voice. He hadn't seen her since dinner, although the others assured him that all was well. She was with Lord Elrond's daughter. That didn't seem to him to be all well, but there was little he could say.

She stepped out of the shadows into the full light of a moonbeam. It caught and glimmered off a simple white gown that clung to her body like a second skin, then draped to pool on the floor like a soft, shimmering cloud. Her long curls hung loose, silver-pale in the moonlight, falling towards her elbows in a sea of ringlets. Her long lashes glinted.

With her gently pointed ears, she looked almost Elven herself, like one of Thranduil's forest kin. Impossibly fair. The vision both entranced and dismayed him.

She took a tentative step towards him, stumbled over the long gown, and nearly dropped the small platter she held in one hand before managing to right herself. The spell was broken. She was Bell again. Familiar Bell, with all her fumbles and frailties-just wrapped in a gilt skin that hid her simple beauty behind a mask of unnecessary finery.

"I made the company some seed cakes," she said, almost apologetically. "When I found you weren't with them, I asked Balin where to find you. I thought maybe you might . . ." Her words drifted off under the weight of his stare.

"I'm sorry," she said, backing away. "I shouldn't have bothered you. I'll just leave these by the door . . ."

"No," Thorin said. "Don't go."

He'd sought out solitude, but Bell's presence didn't rankle him. Not like the others' would. In the company of his companions, who had so often shared fireside rants over the Elves' betrayal at Erebor, he feared he would slip into the familiar pattern. A dangerous one in this place. As long as he remained under the roof of Lord Elrond, he must maintain his civility.

Bell picked up the gown's hem and crossed the open floor to where he stood by the precipice, although she kept a wary distance from the edge. She held out the plate of seed cakes towards him. Thorin shook his head. The thought of food curdled his stomach, although he was sure the others had appreciated the offering. "It's kind of you to think of us, but I can't."

She didn't argue or look put out. Just nodded her head, set the platter on a nearby table, and inched closer, her eyes going wider the closer she came to the drop-off.

"It's all right," Thorin said, offering her his hand. "I won't let you fall."

She took it, grasping hard. The hobbit lass was stronger than she looked, or at least her fear of the height made her so.

He drew her forward until she stood beside him, framed in the archway. She said nothing for a long time, nor did she release his hand. Thorin closed his eyes and focused on the soft fingers clasped within his own. The quiet inhale and exhale of her breathing. It was oddly calming. For the first time since stepping foot into the Valley of Imladris, he felt his rigid muscles begin to release some of their tension.

He did not know how long they stood there, not speaking. It didn't matter. Bell's nearness was an oasis of peace in a hostile place.

"This must be so different from your home," she said at last, breaking the spell.

"We live in the mountains," Thorin said. "Not on them."

"A bit like our holes, then?" she asked.

The thought of comparing a prim and proper hobbit hole to the vast majesty of the Dwarf kingdoms startled a laugh from him. He hadn't thought that was possible in this place.

"Not at all," he said.

The breeze stiffened, pressing hard against them and unsettling Bell. She took a step closer, so close her pale hair tangled with his in the wind.

"Tell me about Erebor?"

Thorin stared out over the abyss, up towards the sky. "See the stars?" he asked.

Bell nodded.

"Imagine the sky is the rock that forms the mountain. Each of those stars is a precious gem, ready to be delved free." He let his mind drift back, to the time before the coming of Smaug. "The great hall of Erebor stands nearly as tall as those hills across the valley. Statues honoring the kings of old guard the entrance, tall and strong and born of the mountain. Some said that in times of danger, those statues would come to life and defend the halls of the king." He shook his head and his voice dropped low. "They did not. Nothing more than a children's legend."

Bell squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry."

Thorin shook himself. He would not dwell on that time. Not now. Not here.

"My grandfather's throne stood in a place of high honor and it was crowned with the centerpiece of Erebor-the Arkenstone. The Heart of the Mountain." His heart beat faster with the memory. "A jewel like none seen before or since. An orb the size of a man's fist, lit from within as if it held a constellation of stars."

"I wish I could see your kingdom," said Bell.

"You will one day," Thorin replied, looking down at the top of her head. "You will."

She didn't reply for a long time, and when she did her voice was so quiet he hardly heard her. "Not if you can't find the door."

Thorin closed his eyes. "How can I ask Elrond for help? How, when the Elves stood by and watched Erebor fall?"

"Was Lord Elrond there on that day?"

"No," Thorin replied. "It was Thranduil who watched my kingdom burn."

"Then why paint the Lord of Rivendell with the same brush? You do not know what he might have done."

Thorin knew these things, so why did it feel different coming from Bell's lips? How long had he fanned the flame of rancor in his heart? Had he burned away his own ability to weigh truth and necessity?

"Don't lose this opportunity, Thorin," Bell said. "Not and risk the chance of regretting it for the rest of your life."

With a deep sigh, Thorin backed away from the opening, drawing Bell with him. He grasped her gently by the shoulders. She looked up at him with an expression that mingled fear that she might have pushed him too hard and a stubborn tilt to her chin that told him she wouldn't back down.

"I'll think about it," he said. "There's one more day. Lord Elrond offered to re-provision us, and I think we must accept. We lost too much with the ponies. The supplies won't be ready until late tomorrow."

It wasn't the answer she wanted to hear-he could tell from the way her shoulders drooped-but it was the best answer he could give. He would think about it. Would try to look at the balance of what there was to be gained against what remained to be lost, with clearer eyes and keener vision.

An overwhelming weariness slipped over Thorin. His eyelids felt heavy. The energy of holding his guard in place had left him exhausted.

"You should sleep," Bell said. "You can't think if you can't keep your eyes open. That's what my father always told me."

Thorin had resigned himself to a long night of wakefulness, but finally felt calm enough to try to sleep. "I think your father must be a wise man."

"So you'll come?"

"In a minute." He picked up the platter from where it sat atop the table. The sweet scent of the seed cakes reminded him of the Shire, now a not altogether unpleasant memory. "First, I think I might eat something."