The autumn comes in full. The Shire celebrates it with the new harvest. On market days, tweens and faunts run through the fields and hide behind tall stacks of cheery pumpkins, their laughter ringing in the air. Wreaths of gold and red leaves adorning every door and small bouquets left by the sides of the roads slowly turn deep brown and soft. The cycle ends.
The next begins.
One day, when Bilbo wakes, it is another summer. He gets out of bed. Musing on the dinner for the Company, he sighs and mourns the pumpkin pie he made but didn't eat the day before. Inevitable like sunrise, the wizard comes. The dwarves follow. They greet Bilbo like they often do when he does make an effort — jovially, with gratitude, with reservation, but without warmth. And Bilbo's heart aches. Familiar strangers. Then Thorin comes, and Bilbo meets distrustful eyes that held such tenderness just months before.
"Is this the halfling?" Thorin asks. Like always, he addresses Gandalf.
Bilbo's breath hitches; a rock is lodged in his breast beside his heart.
"He looks more like a grocer than a burglar," the dwarven king continues to the amusement of the rest. As if an honest occupation is an insult.
Swallowing the hurt, Bilbo invites him in, unerringly polite, and silently berates himself for foolish hopes. They do not know me, he thinks, not yet. But as time passes, he doesn't go out of his way to change it. The cycle goes on, and Bilbo goes through the motion.
They reach Mirkwood. Finding new paths, Bilbo leads the Company around the area with spiderwebs. The journey through the forest lasts longer, and Bilbo feels like they are closer to the edge than they have ever come before. It is not spiders that trip them up. It is the poisonous air.
They walk and walk along a narrow path he found, and as the grey light dims, mist creeps in, unrolling like a tablecloth between the thick tree roots.
"You hear that?" Bofur asks, canting his head to the side. The ears of his hat stick up at funny angles. His eyes are glazed over. "Someone's singing."
"Singing?" Dwalin mutters, frowning and focusing on nothing. "I hear crying."
"No, it's music!" Ori says. "I hear harps!"
The dwarves mutter.
"Let's check!" Bofur suggests. "It sounds like a party."
Bilbo strains his hearing, but there are only whispers.
Words too quiet, impossible to understand are breathed in his ear.
Bofur takes off. His brothers go with him.
"I'm going, too!" And Ori, followed by Dori and Nori, walks away at a fast clip.
Bilbo shakes his head. "Wait. Wait!" Ignoring his protests, the dwarves wander off.
"A party must have food," Kíli murmurs.
"Wait," Bilbo says or maybe wants to say but doesn't. The dwarves do not hear him or do not listen. His limbs encased in ice, he watches as Kíli and Fíli step off the path. Three paces in, they disappear in dense fog. And one by one, the other dwarves rush ahead.
The whispers morph into an indistinctive din of conversations, like listening through a closed door of a busy tavern.
"Come." Thorin jolts him forward with a light push on Bilbo's back as he passes by. Willing his feet to move, Bilbo falls into step.
The fog surrounds them. Thick and clinging, it embraces Bilbo with tendrils that seem sentient. They hold him down, slowing his movements. He imagines that swimming through a river of honey would feel the same.
Bilbo looks ahead, but there's no one.
"Thorin," he pushes the name past numb lips. "Thorin!"
No one answers. The din in his ears rises in volume. "Thorin!"
With tremendous effort, Bilbo wretches his limbs out of the milky-white strands that should not be so solid. He staggers forward, hoping that he chose the right direction. Step after step, he walks, blind to anything but the fog. Abruptly, the fog recedes and spits him out. Bilbo falls into a clearing.
Before him is a pandemonium that he perceives in blinding-bright flashes. Shouts and cries, the twangs of bowstrings and clang of steel, the creaks of breaking wood, the scent of blood and wine assault his senses. Upturned tables, broken plates, trampled dishes, and—Bilbo stumbles, his toes meeting something dense and wet. He looks down. There's an elf with a deep gash in his unmoving chest. The silver lanterns paint the blood a glistening black. Stifling a gasp, Bilbo covers his mouth with a clammy hand. He scrambles backwards, trips and falls. An arrow hisses past. Crouching, Bilbo ducks behind a bench.
Later, Bilbo will surmise what happened: the dwarves blundered onto the elven feast, and the elves reacted poorly. Thinking themselves under attack, they went for their weapons. The dwarves answered in kind. For now, fog fills his head — perhaps, it has migrated there from the forest. There's a buzzing in his ears, a swarm of angry bees. His feet are cold and sticky. He doesn't feel his toes.
Around him, he sees bodies. Bifur pincushioned with many arrows and Óin with just a single one blooming out of his eye. Nori's fighting an elf, but he's wounded — his left arm hangs limply, broken. The indistinctive voices reach a crescendo, roaring at Bilbo. And over the din of battle, the wordless war-cries and curses, a frigid, clear voice drawls,
"Thorin Oakenshield. I should have known."
"Thranduil."
The voices are cut off, mid-word.
And Bilbo's heart restarts. Alive, he thinks. Thorin is alive. That's good.
Unthinking, he puts his hand into his pocket. The ring slips on his finger by itself.
Two shouted commands — from one and then another king. The fighting stops. With rough shoves and pushes, the dwarves are corralled into a circle and stripped of their weapons. Ice spreads through Bilbo's veins. They are but seven. This cycle is a failure.
Stumbling and wavering, Bilbo follows the surviving half of the Company into the elven city. He rests. With sleep, come dreams — disturbing, half-forgotten things that don't refresh him in the slightest.
He finds the dwarves but has no chance to talk: the guards are always watching. They treat the dwarves harsher, too, feed just enough to survive, and if last time the dwarves thought the food unappetising, now it's unpalatable. A paste, nutritious but tasteless, fills their bowls. The dwarves do not seem to care. Mourning their fallen, they barely speak, and when they do, it's in khuzdul, which Bilbo doesn't understand.
"You shouldn't be here," Thorin says, voice rumbling like gravel thrown on a tombstone. "Go home, Master Baggins. Find the means to travel back to Beorn and wait for the wizard. He might escort you back."
"What happened," Bilbo murmurs quickly, quietly, "it wasn't your fault."
"Wasn't it?" Thorin demands, glaring into the corridor, somewhere over Bilbo's head. "I am their leader."
"Thorin," Bilbo starts.
"No." Thorin shakes his head. His wan, desponded countenance hardens. He looks at Bilbo then, his eyes, though shining in the torchlight, are devoid of life. "Go. You shouldn't have come at all." He turns away and doesn't answer, no matter what Bilbo says. The guards' return forces Bilbo to retreat into shadows.
But Bilbo stays. A quiet presence, he offers what support he can, bringing cheese and bread and — once — wine, which Thorin does not touch.
When the opportunity arises, Bilbo frees the Company from the cells, but their absence is discovered too soon. The elves sound the alarm while the dwarves are climbing into the barrels. Bilbo hurries them up and pulls the lever, jumps after them and—hits his head on something in the river. Nobody catches him. No one pulls him out. Bilbo doesn't resurface.
Next go-round, the Company avoids the spiders and the feast but stumbles on an elven patrol and ends up captured all the same. Since there are no elven casualties, the guards are lax. Armed with a plan, Bilbo is confident this time he will get it right. It even goes well. Until it doesn't.
Perhaps, more than just the butler and the guards partake the Dorwinion wine too much, perhaps, it's something unrelated. The reason doesn't matter — their escape starts smoothly. The barrels hit the river with a loud splash-splash-splash, and Bilbo follows after. The water is, as always, freezing. The first contact is scalding, but Bilbo is ready for it. He swims and catches hold of Dwalin's outstretched arm. The dwarf hauls him closer, and awkwardly, Bilbo loops a rope around him — they wouldn't fit together in one barrel.
The river carries them over waterfalls and rapids. There's a guarded gate ahead, and the dwarves crouch while Bilbo holds his breath, plunging underwater. They pass the gate. The elves, looking outside their border, spot the dwarves. One shouts in alarm, but then—an arrow silences him forever.
Like ants, orcs pour out of the woods onto the rocky shores. A large, brutish orc issues guttural commands, and they attack. An elven horn falls silent, its wielder falling in the river. The enemies are quick to overwhelm the elves. Then, they attack the Company, but even weaponless, the dwarves aren't helpless. They beat the orcs with naked fists and wrench the swords from their hands, but it is not enough. The orcs are just too many.
With no one to distract them, orc archers shoot the Company. Like fish in barrels.
Bilbo wakes up. He hits the bed frame with his foot and curses at the pain.
"Not. Again." The constant starting over is getting unbearably tedious. Once more, he grows tired of the repetitions.
Time goes by, and he is in Mirkwood again. The Company is captured. Again. This time, as Bilbo waits for the Feast of Starlight, he searches for a library and finds it soon enough. Like in Rivendell, it is a vast room with shelves reaching the high ceiling and aisles so long, he cannot see their ends. But there are no windows, no airy balconies look over quiet brooks, and no sunlight.
Weeks go by with Bilbo holed up in hidden nooks. He neglects the Company. Still hoping to avoid the Elvenking's hospitality, Bilbo looks for Mirkwood maps. He finds them for Greenwood instead, and they are old, inaccurate and probably forgotten. Staring at the beautifully drawn lines, the calligraphic script, the lovely illustrations, Bilbo swallows the urge to rip the map apart and set the library on fire. His fingers twitch, crumpling the parchment.
"Blast it!" he whispers and stills, mindful of the noise he made in utter silence. He counts seconds to five hundred. Nobody comes, and Bilbo slowly relaxes.
Debating with himself on what to do, he smoothes out the wrinkled parchment as best he can, which is not very well at all. Sighing, he rolls the map and shoves it in an inner pocket of his coat. Its absence will be less conspicuous than its current state. Besides, he doubts anyone has had a reason to use it since its creation.
He spies on the guards next and tracks them to the barracks. There, a newer map is pinned to a board. Tip-toeing closer, Bilbo studies the landmarks: the broken bridge is crossed out. Yes, that will do.
Patiently waiting for the evening, he watches as the elves come and go, some staying longer. They sharpen their blades or tend their armour. They gossip, play card games, read books. It seems so normal, soothing, even boring, and sitting in a corner, Bilbo almost falls asleep. He shakes himself awake as many elves leave — must be the time for dinner.
Approaching the board, Bilbo copies the corrections to the map in his possession. His hasty scratches and crosses and the blots of ink his pilfered quill leaves everywhere feel sacrilegious. A large blob lands on the heading, completing the ruination of the work of art. Bilbo doesn't care. Perversely, a part of him is glad for it. He stops.
No. Bilbo bites his knuckles as violent shivers rack his body. It is the ring's influence, he knows. Carefully holding the map, so the ink doesn't smudge, he returns the quill and ink pot and walks away to hide somewhere out of the way. He finds a supply closet. There, among the rags and brooms, Bilbo presses his face to his knees, squeezes his eyes shut, and counts his breaths, dust coating his tongue.
Later, conscious of his unreliable ability to retain possessions, Bilbo memorise the net of trails and roads. And if by the end of it the ink is smeared, thinned with the salty droplets, there's no one to see or question it.
The day of the feast comes, and Bilbo gets the dwarves out. He times their escape just right for the elves to pursue them but not too soon. As the Company nears the gate, the guards alert the elves at the border. The grate is lowered just as the barrels reach it.
Black speech rings out. An arrow finds its target in an elf. Orcs pour out of the forest, and while they occupy the elves, Bilbo climbs to the shore and opens the passage. The barrels bobble downstream. Amidst the chaos, Bilbo jumps into the water and—Thorin catches him.
"All right?" he asks. Wet hair plastered all over his face, Thorin searches Bilbo's eyes.
"Yes." Bilbo licks his lips, blinks away stray droplets. His heartbeat quickens like a rabbit's. "Quite."
They stare at each other as if the battle—briefly—disappeared and only two of them remain. The moment doesn't last.
"Kíli!" Fíli screams and Thorin tears his gaze away from Bilbo.
"Kíli!" — an anguished and disbelieving cry, and Bilbo turns to see Kíli slumped over the rim of his barrel, a throwing knife piercing his neck.
"No," Thorin says. "Not Kíli, Mahal, not him. He can't be dead." Desperately, he struggles to reach his nephew. The current doesn't let him.
An orc runs out through the gap in the foliage just ahead, a ghoulish smile twisting his black lips. He aims. Bilbo has a split-second to push Thorin away. He might as well try moving mountains. As Thorin doesn't budge, Bilbo does the next best thing: he shields him. And wakes up.
"Might as well start over," Bilbo mutters. "What a disaster."
-[break]-
Time after time, Bilbo tries to lead the dwarves through the forest quickly, but no matter what he does, by spiders, by wandering off, or by an elf patrol, the dwarves always find themselves as captives of the elves. It seems they truly have no way to avoid it. Once, Bilbo leaves the dwarves in the cells.
"I'm sorry," he says, and Thorin waits, tense with anticipation. "The guards are watching the Company too closely. There is no way to lead you out of the dungeons quietly. You'd have to fight them all the way."
Thorin hits the bars with his palms. Impotent fury twisting his features, he rages, cursing their luck, elves, Thranduil and Gandalf—Bilbo retreats.
When he returns, the dwarf has calmed down. He sits on his bed — the stone slab is bare of any bedding — his shoulders slumped in defeat.
"I'm truly sorry, Thorin," Bilbo murmurs. "If only we could avoid this blasted forest..."
"It's not your fault." Thorin doesn't raise his gaze. His clenched fists are lying on his knees. "I should have known. We should have started earlier, go around Mirkwood."
Bilbo bites his lips. "Maybe," he starts and pauses, but speaks again, "Maybe you should accept Thranduil's offer."
Thorin goes rigid. "What offer?"
Slowly, he raises his head. His eyes are wide. His gaze is sharp and penetrating, it pins Bilbo to the spot. He doesn't move while Thorin stalks the scant few steps of distance to the bars.
"How do you know about that?" the dwarf demands. Then something changes: his face closes off, losing all expressions. "Are you his spy?" His voice is flat and lifeless.
"What? No!" Bilbo sputters. "That's preposterous! I've been hiding in the throne room when you two spoke!" The first time.
Thorin observes him with frosty, distant calmness. "Unless you were under Thranduil's skirt, I don't see where you could have hidden."
And no matter what Bilbo says, all his explanations aren't enough to quell the suspicions. With one suggestion, Bilbo lost his trust.
"All right," Bilbo decides. "You don't believe me. That's fine. I will leave you to it, then."
Thorin turns away, crosses his arms over his chest. The message is clear: he won't deal with the 'traitor' any longer.
Bilbo leaves.
"Ungrateful, suspicious, thick-headed dwarf!" he mutters, marching up a bridge. A passing elf stops and whirls around, searching for the source of a disembodied voice. But Bilbo doesn't care. He is invisible, what can she do?
Throw a knife at him as it turns out. As pain shoots through his back, Bilbo stumbles and cries out. Another knife buries itself in his shoulder. The third has no chance to find its target as Bilbo pitches off the bridge head-first. This death is far from pleasant.
"Stupid, careless idiot, that's who I am!" Bilbo exclaims. What a pair they make! He does deserve the stubborn, paranoid dwarf who sees betrayal everywhere. He learns the lesson well, however, and vows not to forget that invisible doesn't mean invincible.
Bilbo tries again. He draws the map from memory while in Imladris. He now knows which way to go to leave Mirkwood, but as he feared, the elves catch the dwarves. Bilbo hides and follows.
He goes to the dwarves right away. This time, he is their messenger. Whatever news they wish to be conveyed — and there aren't many — he caries to Thorin and returns with his replies. Most of the Company are fine together, but Thorin's isolation is another punishment, a way to break him, and Bilbo will not stand for it.
They talk — significant and unimportant things — and swap the stories one for one. They make a game of it. A clear spring Thorin found in the mountains in exchange for Bilbo's first fishing trip; Belladonna's best thyme pie recipe for Thorin's mother's stew. Fell Winter for the years before Ered Luin. They grow closer. These moments chase away the cold, but it can never last. All heat is stolen with the next touch of the ring, leeched out into the ever-hungry world of never-ending shadows.
Time flies with Bilbo having given up on tracking it. The Feast of Starlight passes by unremarked upon. Bilbo waits. What feels like ages later, Gandalf finally arrives. He comes for Thorin with the elven guards.
"What took you so long, Tharkûn?" Thorin demands, rising to his feet, but then he notices the wizard's cloak is singed, his robe is stained, and his beard unkempt.
"What happened?" Thorin asks with some concern.
"I was delayed during my investigation," Gandalf says. He pauses, debating with himself, but in the end, the wizard frowns, and all he says is, "It's nothing you need to worry about. Not now, anyway. I have arranged your release."
The guards unlock the door. Swiftly, the wizard sweeps out of the dungeon, quick strides announcing his displeasure.
"What day is it?" Thorin asks, matching the wizard's speed with ease despite the difference in heights.
At Gandalf's answer, Thorin halts.
"Durin's Day has passed. We failed."
"Take heart," Gandalf is saying, "there's always next year." But Bilbo, who has been running after them, invisible to all, collides with Thorin, hard. He bounces back and slightly to the side, and—
"Why is it always bridges?!" he shouts, sitting on his bed. The sun is shining in his window. He rubs his eyes, unused to it after the semi-darkness of Mirkwood, and sighs, resigned to start over.
Do this, do that, bring such and such, and train. The tedium creeps in. He doesn't want to start from scratch, to build relationships that never last, not while he isn't sure this time will be the final. Polite and competent, Bilbo keeps his distance.
And in the dungeons of the accursed forest, he asks the dwarven king with whom this time he hardly spoke at all, "What will happen if we miss Durin's day?"
Crossing his arms over his chest, Thorin frowns. "We'll fail."
"But surely you can return in a year."
"And what are we to do in the meantime?" Thorin asks, regarding Bilbo like an outsider who he just doesn't understand.
"You can continue on, go to the Iron Hills. Visit your cousin. Perhaps, he will reconsider and aid you," Bilbo suggests, and Thorin snorts, derisive and dismissive all at once,
"Not likely." He does not elaborate. Turning sideways, Thorin stares at the wall, his lips are pressed tightly in displeasure.
With a sigh, Bilbo leaves him be. There is a keyring, after all, in need of stealing.