Bilba sat with her back against a boulder and tried to glare the princeling to death.

Naturally he didn't comply because he was an obstinate, stubborn bastard whose only reason for existing seemed to be to piss her off.

She was going to kill him in his sleep.

No, wait. That would be too merciful.

She was going to kill him while he was awake.

She would sneak up on him when he least expected it and shove a knife in his gut…or maybe a sword…or both.

Maybe she'd kill him with his own sword. That would certainly be fitting. It'd probably be the only time his sword would be legitimately used.

Every sword deserved to be used for the purpose for which it was created, at least once.

She would only be fulfilling its destiny.

She would kill him and solve all her problems. Then she and Syrath...she...and...Syrath…

Syrath.

Her mood, which had been close to the useless emotion Primula had described to her as happiness, changed instantly and her heart wrenched in her chest as she remembered why she was so angry at the stupid, idiot, good for nothing, bastard Prince.

Her eyes went up, scanning the sky where Syrath and Xalanth had vanished over an hour ago. Syrath had asked her if it was alright if he and his…father…left for a while to try and figure things out without a crowd looking on.

She'd told him it was fine of course. What other answer could she have possibly given? No, please don't go? I'm afraid you won't come back? Her lip curled at the thought of showing such weakness even as her heart screamed at her for not doing it.

She said yes and Syrath left, his absence forcing her to support herself, his loss leaving her back exposed and cold. Everyone always left. She'd known Syrath would leave too, one day.

She'd known it and yet somehow was still stunned it was actually happening.

She was clearly a fool.

After Syrath had vanished with his family the dark haired king whose name she didn't remember, or care to know, had announced they would be returning to Erebor. Bilba had held back and watched as they readied themselves, gathering up their supplies and mounting the dragons. The human she'd rescued mounted the dragon the other princeling rode. She had no opinion of that one. He'd done nothing to piss her off as yet but he was related to the bastard princeling so it was probably only a matter of time.

The others all mounted as well until the only ones left on the ground were the bastard princeling and the chief bastard.

While they'd packed up she'd retreated to the boulder she currently sat against, putting her back against it and gripping her boot knife in one hand. Mentally she made a note to try and track her sword down at some point. Dropping it had been sloppy.

As soon as the others left she'd get up and go. She'd have done it already except she had no doubt she'd be limping and the last thing she wanted was to let them see her weak.

It occurred to her suddenly that the bastard and chief bastard were walking toward her. Within seconds they were both looming over her.

She hated being loomed over. There should be a law against looming, punishable by death.

She'd be more than happy to enforce it.

"Come on," bastard princeling said. He held a hand out to her. "I'll help you onto one of the dragons. You'll be a lot more comfortable in the healing ward in Erebor."

Bilba barely resisted rolling her eyes.

She wasn't an idiot. She had no illusions that any of them truly wanted to help her and she certainly didn't believe for a moment that they wanted her in their precious little kingdom.

They were no different than the orcs.

They didn't want her.

They wanted Syrath.

It just so happened she came along with him so they would smile and behave and offer her aid, all the while secretly hoping she'd get the hint and simply go away. Some of the nobility in Gondor treated her like that on the rare occasions when Aragorn called for her. She only ever went when he called, never on her own no matter how often Syrath suggested it. The nobles there would always smile and act gracious when Aragorn introduced her but, the second he was gone, those same smiles would turn cold. An offer of a tour or meal would be rescinded, doors would be shut in her face.

She was little more than a parasite to them. A broken, mud grubbing slave of little note who'd sunk her claws into something beautiful and pure and kind enough to allow her to stay, at least until something better came along.

She didn't want to see that look in Aragorn's eyes when her welcome wore out. As it had in the Shire. When the welcome turned to discomfort, annoyance...fear. She didn't want to see the look of betrayal, anger and hate when the orcs came, as they always did, and destroyed everything she'd had the audacity to get close to.

She didn't want to hear to hear the disgust in Aragorn's voice when he told her to leave.

She didn't want to hear it in Syrath's.

She got to her feet, ignoring the hand the princeling was offering.

Pain lanced through her leg immediately, so intense her skin prickled and she broke out in a light sweat. She forced her back straight, lifted her chin, clenched her hands into tight fists...and then turned and started walking as best she could away from the lot of them.

The landscape ahead of her blurred slightly and she could feel a headache coming on but she pressed on. She would find some hole she could collapse into until her leg and arm healed, she decided. Then she'd find her sword, or get a new one, and go back to killing orcs.

Alone.

The pain of that single word cut her soul, damaging it in a way she hadn't thought she could be damaged anymore. A massive lump rose up in her throat and her eyes burned. New bursts of pain erupted and radiated up and down her leg with every step but she continued to force one foot in front of the other.

Movement came from behind her and then an angry voice. A hand closed over her arm, an iron band wrapping around her bicep.

She reacted. She could sense his body behind hers, the barest hint of his clothing brushing against her body and letting her know exactly where he stood. She shifted weight onto her bad leg, gritting her teeth as the pain in her leg and arm exploded.

Then, in almost the same movement, she swept her foot back, hooked her leg around his calf and wrenched forward. He released her arm with a shout as he lost his balance and she twisted, her arm already up, palm extended like a blade to drive into his throat as he went down.

A second hand grabbed her wrist. Bilba stopped, stunned to see the chief bastard standing there, holding her.

He hadn't been there a second before. How had he moved so fast?

She looked at him, only to watch in confusion as his expression morphed from one of anger to one that probably matched her own.

The grip on her wrist faltered and she broke it, ducking under his arm and spinning away before he could try to grab her again. He merely watched her though, arms hanging limply at his sides.

Bilba didn't waste time.

She bolted for the forest, hoping to at least make it inside before she collapsed.

She did not look back.

Fili scrambled to his feet, barely pausing to brush the dirt off his clothes. He started to step forward, toward where Bilba was just vanishing into the borders of Mirkwood, only to come up short as Dwalin grabbed him.

"Let go," Fili ordered, jerking his arm to try and free it. At the same time he sent a terse reply across the link to Kili, who was currently shouting in his mind and giving him a headache.

"Stop fighting me," Dwalin ordered. "Your uncle wants to talk to you."

"My uncle can wait," Fili snapped. "Did you see her face?"

Dwalin turned him to face the others and gave him a shove. "I did and she isn't going very far, or fast, on that leg so go talk to your uncle and then go after her."

Fili scowled but obeyed, jerking his arm free before heading over. On the way it occurred to him just what Dwalin had said and he looked at him sharply. "Wait, Uncle talked to you? Through his link?"

Dwalin grunted an acknowledgment. "Guess finding out he's got a grandkid of sorts did him a world of good."

Fili frowned. "That analogy is…really confusing."

Dwalin shrugged.

They reached the others and Fil found himself surrounded by dragons. His uncle peered down at him from where he was perched on the back of Oin's dragon, in the space usually occupied by Gloin.

"Are you alright?" Thorin asked. His eyes were dark and unreadable.

"I'm fine," Fili said. "In fact, you can return to Erebor if you wish. I'm going after her."

Kili frowned. "Are you insane? She just attacked you! Let her go!"

"I can't let her go," Fili shot, "she's my ride partner!"

"She isn't bonded," Thorin said. His eyes went past Fili to focus on Dwalin. "That's what Xalanth reported, isn't it?"

"It is," Dwalin answered.

Thorin frowned suddenly, his eyes narrowing. "Are you alright?"

Fili looked back at Dwalin in confusion. He couldn't see anything wrong with Dwalin and Bilba hadn't laid a hand on him as far as he'd seen. What was his uncle talking about?

Dwalin glowered. "I'm fine," he said shortly.

Thorin didn't look convinced but let it go, his gaze shifting back to his nephew. "If she isn't bonded then Syrath is free to choose another rider if he wishes."

"I doubt he would," Gandalf said suddenly, breaking into the conversation from where he sat with Kili on Lyth. "And I would caution you, Your Majesty, to recall the young woman and the dragon have been together for many years. Attempting to separate them as your first action would not endear you to either."

Thorin grimaced. "You know I have no desire to separate a dragon from its rider but the woman-"

"Girl," Gandalf clarified. "The girl was only in a position to save Sryath because she was enslaved in Moria herself. Trauma of that kind would affect anyone. Surely you would not hold that against her."

"Of course not," Thorin muttered, looking annoyed that Gandalf would even suggest such a thing.

"How old is she?" Fili asked, focusing on the rest of what Gandalf had said.

Gandalf studied him, an annoying knowing look in his eyes. "Elrond is rather protective of her privacy but, from our conversations, I'd judge her to be around your age, Your Highness, if not a few years younger."

There was shocked silence. Even the dragons looked stunned.

"They're both children?" one of the soldiers blurted. "Two kids have been singlehandedly eradicating the orcs the past five years?"

"Hey!" Kili shouted. "I'm not a kid! Mostly."

Fili stared at the wizard, his own mind struggling to rewrite the image he'd created in his head. Granted he'd barely met Bilba but he'd already pictured her older. It'd actually worried him that someone of her age and experience might not consider him as anything more than a child. The way she carried herself, the way she interacted with others, her fighting ability and talents with a blade, all spoke to age and experience. But then the look in her eyes when she'd turned around…

He'd thought she was angry but when she turned to face him…her eyes had been redlined and the look on her face had been one of utter devastation. And, again, when Dwalin had surprised her and grabbed her arm. He'd seen fear, for just a split second before her mask came back down.

None of that spoke to age, just experience.

"The Arena," Dwalin said suddenly. "That would explain her proficiency with the blade."

"And her age would explain her less than stellar social abilities," A random solider, whose name escaped Fili at the moment, broke in. "Not to mention the trauma as the wizard says." He looked at Thorin. "I've met some of the escaped slaves, Your Majesty. Even the older ones struggle. I can't imagine how a child would have coped."

Fili knew about the Arena. The slaves that occasionally escaped from Moria spoke of it sometimes, usually in hushed whispers and broken voices. Most who entered didn't live to talk about it. Those who did, or those close enough to hear the screams, spoke of blood and bone and unimaginable horror repeated over and over and over until death became a sought after reward.

He tried to imagine his little brother in that environment, forced to kill in order to live. He tried to imagine himself in it.

"You know what?" he said suddenly. "I'm going to find my partner. I'll see you back at Erebor."

With that he spun on one heel and strode toward the woods.

He didn't know who Bilba was yet. He'd barely met her. Was she Orcrist? The woman who faced down legions of orcs without flinching? Was she Bilba? The same age as he was, as Kili, enslaved and forced to fight for her life?

Or was the truth somewhere in between?

He didn't know.

He did know one thing, however.

No one who'd been through something like that deserved to be alone.

She was being punished for escaping from Azog. She just knew it. How else could it be explained that Syrath ended up being the son of the dragon that the chief bastard rode?

Or that Syrath's other rider was a stupid, useless princeling who also happened to be associated with the chief bastard?

Or the fact that neither bastard would leave her alone?

She could hear them approaching even then and was absolutely not the least bit impressed that they'd managed to find her. She'd only made it a short distance inside the woods before her leg had given out, forcing her to seek cover under the branches of a low hanging tree.

It wasn't because she'd expected them to come after her. It was because she knew she was never safe, not even on the edge of Mirkwood with a group of dragons a short distance away.

The footsteps stopped on the other side of the trunk and she went still, pressing her back to the bark, the sharp edges digging into her spine. She had her legs pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Now she put her head down and closed her eyes, mentally praying to whatever Valar had ignored her mother to please, please, just this once listen and make them leave her alone. She didn't want to be yelled at for attacking the princeling, dragging Syrath into battle, causing the destruction of the Shire or a million other ways she'd left death and carnage in her wake everywhere she went.

It was little wonder her father never came for her.

The footsteps rounded the tree, dry grass crunching under boots and she felt despair drape over her.

Clearly the Valar had no more love for her than they had held for her mother.

She tensed, her fingers digging into the skin on her leg. Her hand was close to the burn on her bad leg and sharp daggers of pain vibrated through her flesh.

There was silence but she could feel them standing over her. If she looked up she would undoubtedly be able to see them through the branches.

The last two people she'd ever want to see her looking weak.

It wasn't just that the Valar had no love for her.

They absolutely hated her.

Movement came from in front of her followed by the sound of branches moving. Bilba felt her muscles bunch, her hand nearly aching from the desire to have her boot knife in it, or her sword.

Someone sat down next to her, close enough she could feel the fur of their jacket brushing against her arm.

Fur. The bastard princeling had a fur liner on his coat.

The other presence receded. That would be the chief bastard then, running away like the coward he was.

She waited for the princeling to say something…and waited…and waited…and waited some more.

Finally she couldn't stand it any longer.

Patience had never been her strong suit.

Why are you here? You got what you wanted.

"What is it that I wanted?" Fili asked.

Syrath Bilba said. Everyone always wants Syrath.

He shifted slightly, his body coming in closer contact with her. Bilba moved away.

I don't want to take Syrath from you. Fili said. If anything, I've been afraid you were going to take him from me.

Bilba lifted her head in surprise. What?

Fili's face was cast in shadow but she could still see the look of pain in his eyes.

"You two have been fighting together for five years," he said, switching to speaking audibly, the slightest trace of bitterness in his voice, "but you never came to find me. When Syrath showed up today I thought maybe it was because he just wanted help rescuing you…and that you'd both leave after that."

Bilba frowned. You thought he would reject YOU? Why? You're a Prince.

He shrugged. "So what? My rank has nothing to do with it."

Bilba studied him, trying to decide if he was sincere or lying to her, though she couldn't imagine why he would bother. Was today the first time you used your sword?

Fili frowned in confusion. "What?"

Your sword, Bilba repeated slowly, as though talking to an idiot. Was today the first time you used it? Aside from practice.

"No," he answered, confused. "I go out on patrols sometimes with the guard. We don't kill orcs every day like you've been doing but we've seen our fair share." He grinned suddenly. "I doubt anyone has seen as much action as you have."

He was pretty when he smiled, Bilba thought, and glowered. That was another mark against him. Pretty things were useless. Pretty things sat on shelves and gathered dust. Primula would complain about having to clean them and how they took up space but she never got rid of them. She'd drag Bilba out to look at flowers or birds trying to tell her to appreciate how pretty they were but all Bilba ever saw was what a giant waste of time it all was.

Pretty things served no purpose.

But the princeling…if he was telling the truth…wasn't useless. She thought back to the battle. She hadn't paid much attention to him then but, the brief glimpses she had seen, he'd been, calm, confident.

Not the image of someone in their first fight.

And, now…he couldn't possibly be serious about not wanting to take Syrath from her, could he?

Regardless, she didn't like him accusing Syrath of rejecting him. Syrath shouldn't be blamed for things that were her fault. Syrath wanted to come. I kept stopping him.

His eyes widened. "Why?"

She didn't answer but his expression was already shifting to one of realization. "You already said why. You thought I'd take him away."

Bilba didn't answer.

Fili sighed in exasperation. "You know what? Can we just start over?"

He shifted and Bilba frowned as his hand suddenly appeared in her line of sight.

"I'll accept that you and Syrath weren't rejecting me and you accept I'm not trying to take him from you. How's that?" He smiled again. She hoped he didn't do that a lot. It was annoying.

I still think you're a useless princeling.

"Okay," Fili said slowly, looking slightly nervous suddenly. "That's a start…I guess. It's better than you thinking of ways to try and kill me at least."

Bilba rolled her eyes. I already did that, it didn't take long.

He laughed, suggesting he was insane in addition to being utterly useless.

She scowled. He, in turn, showed no sign of retracting his hand so, in an effort to make him stop; she finally reached out and grabbed it. She still didn't understand the concept of holding someone's hand and moving it up and down to seal an agreement but it seemed to make other people happy so she put up with it.

I accept you might not intentionally try to take Syrath from me, she allowed, and if I'm forced to kill you I'll make it quick instead of making you suffer.

Fili gave her an incredulous look but then simply nodded. "Fair enough."

Bilba sighed. The fact that he apparently wanted her to stay, for some such reason or another, didn't mean Syrath would want her to stay and it certainly didn't mean the rest of the dwarves would want her.

But getting to be around Syrath, even for just a little bit longer, was to tempting for her to pass up.

Still, she was going to regret this.

She just knew it.

Several yards away, Dwalin slowly released the hilt of his sword as it became clear the girl didn't plan to murder the Crown Prince of Erebor. At least not yet.

He studied her as she settled back again, the emotions on her face suggesting she was trying to decide the degree to which she now disliked Fili.

And she did still dislike him, regardless of any truce they may have arrived at. The anger she felt toward Erebor's prince was almost strong as the hatred she seemed to have personally reserved for him.

He couldn't begin to imagine why. She was far too young to have been one of his soldiers at Moria. He didn't allow them to enlist until they were eighty.

If she wasn't one of his, though, then he couldn't understand why she would hold any sort of personal animosity toward him.

And she clearly did. Every time she looked at him there was nothing but seething hatred in her eyes. He'd seen them widen with recognition the first time she caught sight of him and had felt her physically restraining herself from attacking when he drew near.

She knew him, even if he didn't know her.

And he had no idea why.

He also didn't understand the reaction he'd had when he'd grabbed her arm to stop her from hitting Fili.

When she'd turned and he'd seen the look of pain and grief in her eyes.

When, for a brief second, just the briefest of instances, his heart had jolted in his chest and a familiar laugh had bubbled up in his memories.

He could still remember looking down, watching the landscape fall away beneath him as Xalanth carried him away. He could still see her small figure, chestnut hair blowing around her in the wake left by Xalanth's wings, face upturned and hand raised as she wished him a safe journey.

His journey had been safe.

Hers had not.

He shook his head slightly, trying to dislodge the memories. He hadn't thought of that scene in years but every time it he did the pain was as bad as it had been that first time.

He didn't understand why the sight of the girl in pain had evoked the last memory he had of his wife.

He didn't understand how she knew him or why she hated him.

One thing he did know, however.

He was going to find out.