Bell shivered so hard her teeth chattered, but her skin felt like it was on fire. Someone smoothed a cool, damp cloth over her forehead and tried to spoon something pungent and herbal into her mouth. She wrenched her face away. She wasn't sure why, but a part of her felt certain she was in a hostile place.

"You need to swallow this," said a male voice she didn't recognize. "It's for your fever. It must come down or your life is in danger." The tone was calm, comforting. Almost paternal. Her head turned back towards the speaker. "Good. I'm trying to help you. I promise, this will do you no harm."

The spoon pressed between her lips and she forced herself to swallow. The liquid tingled against her tongue, a strange, effervescent sensation. She fought the urge to cough when it slipped down her throat. Warmth spread through her chest, easing the worst of the shivers.

"Rest now. I'll return later."

#

When Bell woke again, she still felt hot, but perspiration clung to her skin, dampening her clothes. She groaned and managed to roll up onto one elbow. Opening her eyes, she found herself in a small stone cell. What little light there was came through a narrow opening in the door. It guttered as if it came from a tallow candle.

This must be the Elf king's dungeon. She remembered the confrontation between Thorin and Thranduil, but nothing more before everything else receded into fevered delirium. Where was Thorin? What had they done with him?

A pail of water stood nearby. Bell thought she remembered someone encouraging her to drink earlier, before the strange man and tonic, but she still felt parched and weak. She tried to rise, but a wave of dizziness changed her mind. Instead, she crawled to the bucket and sipped from a cupped hand. Too weary to do more, she slumped back to the ground, her head pillowed on her arm, and drifted towards unconsciousness.

#

The creak of the door startled Bell out of a half-awake state somewhere between dream and nightmare. Her eyes opened, giving her a sideways view of the cell. An Elf stepped inside, wearing a mottled brown tunic over leggings of the same shade. They reminded her a bit of the fabric her own clothes were made of. Made to blend into the surroundings.

He closed the door behind him and turned his gaze to her. "You've moved I see. Feeling a little better?"

It was the voice she remembered from before. Bell licked her lips. "Who are you?"

"My name is Naldor. I am a healer, among other things." He moved closer, extending a hand towards her forehead. "May I?" he asked.

Bell nodded warily.

The Elf's fingers were cool. He held them in place for a moment, then pulled back his hand. "Good. The fever is broken. Do you feel any stronger?"

"No."

She hadn't managed to work up the energy to do as much as sit up. It seemed pointless. Locked in a cell in a place she'd hardly even heard of back in the Shire. Memories lost. Worst of all, utterly alone. Once or twice, she thought she'd heard Thorin's voice through the haze of her delirium, but the falsehoods of a fevered mind were worse than silence.

Naldor poured a bit of liquid from a vial hung around his waist into a small wooden cup and offered it to her. "Drink this. It's more of the restorative. It will help."

Bell shook her head. "Thank you, but no."

He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"It's easier to be numb."

"I do not understand."

Bell sighed. "I'm alone here. A hobbit who's left her world behind, and I'm never likely to see it again. I had companions, but they're gone now. Most of them may well be dead. And even then, I hardly remember enough of them to truly cling to what memory I have. What is there for me?"

"It's true then, when the Dwarf said the Thranduil? You did go into the river of forgetting?"

"Yes."

Naldor settled himself down over his heels. "What did you dream?"

"Why does it matter?"

The Elf swirled the liquid in the cup thoughtfully. "I said I was a healer, among other things. I am also a botanist and herbalist. My wife and I have been studying the effects of the river, to try to find a way to counteract them."

For the first time since she'd found herself in the cell, Bell felt a pulse of life spark through her. "Have you learned anything?"

"Not a great deal. There is an Elf who lives in the forest of Lothlorien. Lady Galadriel. She has a magical mirror, in which the waters reveal visions. They show some things that have been, some that are, and some that have not yet come to pass. It seems the river works in much the same way, and I've encountered a few souls who've managed to find their memories again."

A surge of hope coursed through Bell's vein's like lightning. She lifted her head off her arm. "It's possible I could regain my memory?"

"I don't wish to give you false hope. The few who did remember were those who saw something of the future, then lived through that same moment."

Bell deflated. Her head sank back down again and her eyes focused into the distance. "Then it's hopeless. I dreamed of drowning, like I did when I was a child. My vision was of the past."

Naldor bowed his head. "I am sorry to hear it, but don't lose heart. My wife and I will not cease in our studies. Enough of our own people have been affected by this curse. There is still a chance."

"I wish you well, but hold no hope for myself. I'll die in this cell, I fear. Alone and forgotten."

"You are not alone, nor are you forgotten." Naldor looked towards the back wall. "Dwarf," he said, "there are no guards about. It is safe to speak."

There was a pause, then a familiar deep voice filtered into the room. "You're not alone, Bell."

"Thorin?" she whispered. "You're here?"

"I'm here. Just on the other side of the wall."

An incoherent sound somewhere between a sob and laugh escaped past the lump that had unexpectedly lodged in Bell's throat. She pressed a hand to her lips.

"You need to do what Naldor asks of you," Thorin went on. "Let him help you."

Bell pulled her hand away from her mouth and wiped her sleeve over her eyes, damp with tears. "I will," she said, barely able to speak for relief.

"There are sometimes guards," he said. "When they're here, we cannot speak, but remember, I'm still with you, whether you can hear me or not."

"I understand."

Naldor's lips twitched towards a smile. He helped Bell to a sitting position and handed her the cup. "Drink this."

She obeyed and felt the familiar effervescent tingle sweep down her throat, warming her from the inside outward. "Thank you," she said.

The Elf took the cup back and turned for the door. He looked back over his shoulder. "I have to go now, or I'll be missed. You should drink more of the water, and eat, too. Build up your strength."

Bell nodded. "Yes."

"Good. I'll check in on you again when I can."

Naldor slipped through the door and bolted it behind him, but the clang felt less final now. The room, less empty.

Bell scooted herself across the floor until her back rested against the rear wall. "Thorin? Are you all right?"

"Better now that I hear your voice."

"They haven't hurt you?"

"No."

She closed her eyes and let out a relieved breath. "I'm very glad." The rush of the tonic ebbed away, leaving a hollow weariness behind, as if the marrow had been leached from her bones. "And so tired."

"Sleep. Recover." His voice wrapped around her like a woolen blanket, furry and warm.

"You're sure?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

#

Days passed. Long days filled with worry and snippets of conversation stolen when the dungeon guards left their posts. The guards seemed to be more of an ornament than a necessity. Thorin had gone through his cell in search of any flaw, but found none. If a Dwarf could find no weakness in stone, there could be no real need for guards in the hall. Still, more often than not, they were there.

Naldor came twice more, finally pronouncing Bell healed. Of Legolas, there was no sign, and of the rest of the company, no word.

Thorin picked up a nut-loaf and held it with both hands. There should have been word by now, of the company's life or death. It had been too long. Surely the Elf prince would have found a way to let him know if they'd been captured. He's taken the initiative to tell him his companions were being tracked. Why wouldn't he follow through, unless they were dead?

With a sharp motion, Thorin twisted the loaf into two pieces and threw one at the door. It hit with a thud and fell to the floor. For a moment there was no sound, then a sharp tapping on the far side of the wall. Three short raps, then two longer ones. Bell's signal that there were no guards visible on her side.

Thorin forced his frustration down long enough to stalk to the far side and check outside his own door. Nothing. "It's clear," he growled.

"What's wrong?"

He picked up the torn loaf half and dusted it off. "Nothing's wrong."

"Don't lie to me, Thorin. Please."

Thorin turned away from the door and began to pace. Round and round his cell he'd walked, so many times now that he half-expected to find a worn trail in the stone. It didn't help, though. No matter how many times he circled the room, the same caged energy sang through him, and it couldn't keep away the worry for his kin.

He didn't mean to answer Bell. To burden her with his worries didn't seem fair. She had enough to contend with. He'd heard every time she cried in the night. How she sometimes called out for her father in her sleep.

Yet somehow the words slipped out. "They may be dead, Bell," he said, "and it's my fault."

"Thorin, no-"

"Yes. If I hadn't forced the issue, if I hadn't stirred them to it, they'd never have come on their own. It was my arrogance, my pride, that drove this."

"You're wrong," she said. "The company chose to follow you, because they believed in you and in the line of Durin."

Thorin paused beneath the vent. "I was not the only heir of Durin. My nephews. Fili. Kili. Durin's blood also ran in their veins." He leaned his head against the wall. "I watched them grow from toddling boys to men newly testing their own strength. Fili would have made a fine leader. He always had more sense in him. And Kili, so full of energy he could hardly contain it . . . what a support he would have been. There could have been no more loyal brother."

"Stop talking like they're already dead. You don't know that. You can't assume it."

"What else can I do?" His hands clenched so hard the nails dug half-moon gouges into his palms. "If they're dead, I killed them."

"I won't give up on them," Bell said, her voice trembling. He could almost see her lifting her chin, the way she always did when she was trying to be brave. "And I won't let you either."

Thorin sank down beneath the vent and pressed his back against the wall, trying to imagine her there on the far side. The warmth of her small body leaning back against him. His pulse rushed in his ears, guilt and anger chilling him through.

"What can I do?" she whispered, barely audible.

Thorin wedged his elbows against his knees and laid his head in his hands. "Distract me. Tell me a tale of the Shire. Something peaceful. Happy."

"All right. Every autumn, we have a festival in Hobbiton. There are prizes for cooking, for smoke-ring blowing, the largest pumpkin, and there are races. All kinds of races. The boys always ran off, so to speak, with the ribbons for sprinting, for distance, and the three-legged race, but one year, I set my sights on winning a blue ribbon. I can run well enough, but I'm certainly not the fastest. I needed a particular kind of race, if I had a chance of winning."

"How old were you?"

"I was eleven."

Thorin forced himself to try to visualize the young girl Bell might have been. All hair and eyes and spindly limbs, he supposed, with roses blooming on her cheeks. Despite his dark mood, one corner of his lips pulled back at the image.

"My father learned they were adding a new race that year. One I thought I had a fair chance in. A race where you had to balance an egg on a spoon. If the egg fell, you lost. Well, you know that I know my way around a kitchen. I knew eggs, and I knew spoons, even at that age. I practiced in the evenings, when my father wasn't watching. At first, I had to cover for the eggs I broke, but soon enough I mastered the art of it."

"A willful one even then, were you?"

"I prefer to think of it as driven. Anyways, the day of the festival came and when they called for entrants for the egg race, I joined the boys at the starting line. A few of them complained, but when one of them pointed out that being afraid of a girl only made them look silly, they gave it up."

The stone at his back was warm now, and Thorin could tell from how close her voice sounded that Bell was just on the far side of the wall. "I would have liked to have seen it."

"The race was closer than I would have liked. I wasn't the only one who'd been practicing. But in the end it came down to me and one other runner. You know him. Mister Bilbo Baggins. We were nearly neck and neck coming down the hill towards the finish line. He was older-taller and faster, but I had better control of my egg. It was anyone's race."

"Until Bilbo tripped over his own feet, dropped his egg and stepped on it, leaving himself covered in egg-innards, and Bell Goodchild to win the day," came a familiar voice from Thorin's door.

Thorin leapt to his feet and raced to the slot. "Bilbo?" A glance through showed him nothing. Not a soul moved in the hallway.

"At your service," came the voice again, inches from Thorin's face.

"What's going on?" Bell called. "Whose voice is that?"

"It's me, Bilbo Baggins," said the voice, a little louder, then in the space of an eyeblink, Bilbo materialized just outside Thorin's door.

Thorin staggered back. "That's impossible. You're dead."

"Unlikely, yes. Impossible, no. And I'm most assuredly not dead. Nor are the rest of the company. They're imprisoned here in the Elf king's dungeons as well, though in a different part of this honeycomb. I've been lurking about here for ever so long, with a little help from a magic ring I came across in the Misty Mountains."

Thorin wrapped his hands around the thick edges of the slot. "What happened? Tell me."

As the hobbit told his tale, Thorin felt his jaw drop wide and snapped it back closed again. Spiders and stings, invisibility rings and the lifting of the terrible aching guilt that had clung to Thorin like a storm cloud.

"You have to get us out of here, Bilbo," he said. "You must find a way. Time's passing swiftly, and if we're to reach our goal before Durin's Day, there's little time to spare."

"I shall do my best," Bilbo said, "but for now, I must disappear again. Someone's coming."

The hobbit vanished and Thorin hurried back towards the vent. "Keep up your courage, Bell," he whispered, giving the four quick raps to warn of an approaching guard. "We may get out of this yet."

#

Author's Note: This was fun to write. Naldor is an original character that I have referenced before, once upon a time, although I've never actually written him. He's the father of the OC I created for my first ever fanfic, a Lord of the Rings Legolas/OC romance called Elfsong. I wrote it over a decade ago now, and it's been fascinating to me to go back through it and see the difference in my writing between then and now.