Bilba had spent a lifetime in the presence of evil. A lifetime watching the innocent slaughtered for sport, the strong broken, and the helpless crushed, until the very rocks of Moria seemed to weep with despair.

A lifetime, and if there was one thing she'd learned in all that time, it was how to read the inner workings of a mind bent on malice. She'd known which orcs to avoid, learned to tell when a fellow slave in the Arena meant to harm her rather than help, and could read Azog's moods well enough to avoid the worst of his temper.

And as she stared up at the creature laughing on his rocky throne, a gleam of pure evil in his eyes as he stared down at them all, she knew.

She knew his plans, because after years of living in the shadow of evil she understood there were fates far, far worse than death and this creature was evil enough to exploit them.

She knew because it was what she would have done were their positions reversed. What that said about Moria's influence on her she didn't know, or particularly want to contemplate, but one thing she did understand with utter certainty was this.

They had made a devastating error in judgment.

She was running before she knew it, before the sound of crunching rock told her that Morgoth was crouching down in preparation to take off.

Find the ring! she broadcast to everyone she had a link or bond with. There was no time to explain. To the credit of those she reached, no one asked her too.

If they could find the ring, and get it to someone capable of using it...Galadriel perhaps, or one of the wizards...

A thin line of the red liquid was nearby and she dodged it, running parallel until she reached the edge and could see down into the mass of people and dragons below. If Gothmog's corpse had fallen into that...

Morgoth roared, and then they were out of time. He pushed up and forward, half leaping and half falling off the mountain toward them. Rocks shattered and flew off the mountain, crashing to the ground. Some hit the red liquid at points, sending showers of it into the air. Screams of fear and pain broke out from below and Bilba let out a hiss of her own as drops of the stuff grazed her shoulder and sent white hot, burning pain shooting through her.

A dark shadow eclipsed the sun and Bilba instinctively crouched. Wind rushed over her and she looked up to see the massive, decaying carcass of Morgoth's greatest servant rushing by overhead. There was no way the thing should have been able to fly with one wing broken and the other nearly rotted off but the membranes snapped out and caught the wind as if in perfect health.

The back claw whipped past her, with the tail looping and spiraling behind. Most of it was little more than naked bone, held together by whatever dark power Morgoth was using to animate the rest of the abomination.

Bilba shook her head at her own stupidity, took a deep, somewhat resigned, breath, and then leapt just as the tail lazily snapped over her head. Her hands curled around bone, and then she was being wrenched off her feet so hard it was a wonder her arms weren't pulled from their sockets. Pain shrieked through her injured shoulder and she grit her teeth as a wave of nausea rushed through her and a sheen of sweat broke out on her forehead.

Bilba! So focused was she on holding on, she couldn't even be sure whose voice it was. What are you doing?

We have to stop him!

No kidding. That was Frerin. But I'm not sure how you plan to do that holding onto his tail without a weapon. Are you going to gnaw him to death?

Bilba grimaced. She'd forgotten she'd left her sword behind when Galadriel had yelled for someone to stop Legolas. Past that, however, the mental image Frerin had just provided made her more nauseous than the pain in her shoulder.

Morgoth rose, giving her an excellent view of the battlefield. The armies of Middle Earth appeared incredibly small, surrounded by an ocean of orcs on one side and a river of red liquid and falling rock on the other. Dragons still swooped about, trying to protect those on the ground while simultaneously moving others away from rock and the hot, red mass.

Then she was forced to look away, tightening her grip and struggling to pull herself up. She was far too high now to risk falling.

Morgoth leveled out, roared again, and then took off, body twisting and curving as he raced toward the outer borders of Mordor. He seemed either unware of her presence or, more likely, simply didn't care.

I need the ring! Bilba shouted. And Galadriel, or the wizards!

Anyone capable of using the thing because she knew she certainly wasn't. Wind buffeted her, tearing at her body until her arms felt like they were going to be ripped off if she hung on for even a second more.

What is he doing? Where is he going?

That was Fili. Bilba clenched her jaw and dragged herself an inch forward, only to suck in a gasp of pain as the the wind forced her back three inches.

The pain in her shoulder suddenly increased exponentially as the bone popped right out of the socket. Sharp, blistering pain burst through her shoulder and sent shockwaves radiating down the nerves in her arms all the way to her fingertips. The hand, now useless along with the entire arm, ripped free from the tail. Her second hand followed quickly, unable to hold her on its own, and then she was being flung backward with all the force of a mine collapse.

Bilba had just enough time for a bolt of pure panic to race through her, and then an arm like an iron bar was wrapping around her waist and yanking her forcefully against a broad chest.

Bilba found herself settled on the back of a dragon, held securely in front of a much larger body. She looked down, and felt her heart jolt at the field of gold and black scales spread out underneath her hands.

Clutching her injured arm to her chest, she twisted to look over her shoulder, and looked straight into her father's face. He was pale, expression set in the all too familiar way she'd seen in the mines when someone was in pain but knew they had no choice but to keep moving.

It probably matched her current expression.

Adad? she asked, a spike of fear rushing through her. Are you all right?

"Told you I wasn't going to let you down again," he said, which wasn't the answer to her question, and yet was at the same time. He held his hand out and she saw the ring resting in his palm, along with enough blood streaking his arm and armor that she desperately prayed it wasn't all his.

You never let me down to begin with, she blurted, eyes wide.

He frowned at her, and then grabbed her arm and unceremoniously shoved her shoulder back in place. The bolt of pain caused her to see stars and she clenched her teeth against a scream. Squeezing her eyes shut, she focused on breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth until the worst of the pain had crested and then abated. When she came back to herself, her father had a secure grip on her. She tested the arm with a frown, and knew immediately she'd have limited use. There was far more damage than could simply be shrugged off.

Damn.

Thanks, she sent.

No problem, her father answered.

The creature is faster than I am, Xalanth broke in. He sounded put out, even though a look behind showed he was the only one anywhere close to Morgoth. They'd already risen high enough that the orcs were little more than a black mass carpeting the ground down below. Far behind them other dragons, those that could be spared, were giving chase but it was clear they were never going to catch up.

Galadriel? Bilba asked.

"Injured," her father said shortly, "and the wizards are trying to keep the mountain from burying the armies in fire. The whole thing went up just after the bastard took off."

That would explain the sudden silence from Fili and the others. They were too busy trying to survive. She closed her hand around the ring in her father's palm before carefully pushing up into a low crouch, bringing her head up just under her father's chin. We have to stop him. She looked over her shoulder at her father. You know what he's doing?

He's planning to rip Middle Earth's throat out. Her father's face was grim. If we're lucky, Arathorn and his remnant will have a chance to muster. There's no way anyone can miss him coming.

We can't rely on that. Bilba started to move forward, barely hesitating long enough to shove the ring in her pocket. It might as well be useless now without someone strong enough to use it. They'd have to find another way. What that way would be she had no idea, but there was no one else. We need to get closer, she sent to Xalanth.

Xalanth grumbled, but put on more speed, rising as he did to try and take himself out of the gale force winds being put off by Morgoth.

A silver blur raced past, spinning around them in a smooth, easy motion.

Show off, Xalanth grumbled.

The blur resolved itself into Sardin, riderless, as he settled directly in front of Morgoth's face, and let loose with a massive bout of flame.

The creature roared in rage, jerking back and up. In a normal dragon it would have put his stomach, the most armored part of a dragon, toward the attacker. With this thing, decaying as it was with portions of its stomach gaping, it did little good and Bilba saw charred hunks of what she could only guess were internal organs falling out and spiraling toward the ground below. The stench of rotting meat hit her nose and she gagged, grimacing at the acidic tang of bile in the back of her throat.

Maybe we can stop it the old-fashioned way. Her father's voice sounded in her head. Hack and burn it into as many pieces as it takes to stop moving.

Bilba nodded. It was as good an idea as any.

Xalanth had swerved, trying to avoid a mid-air collision. The action brought him close to the creature and, without hesitating, Bilba launched toward it, straining to hook her hands into one of the giant rents in the creature's skin.

Unfortunately, in her haste, she somehow managed to forget she was down to only one arm. By some miracle, her shoulder held even with the weight of her body suddenly hanging from it. The pain was excruciating but she'd always had a high pain threshold and fought through it.

In the end, none of it mattered, as the piece of hide she'd hooked onto tore under her fingers. Then she was being flung backwards for the second time. She was thrown straight past her father, barely catching a glimpse of his horrified expression, and then she was falling, Xalanth and the monster already high above her.

A blur of silver and then Sardin was diving toward her, easily catching up. His jaw opened and then he was gently scooping her out of midair and into his mouth.

Thank you, Bilba responded. Moving carefully to avoid the jagged edges of his fangs, she got herself up, over his snout, clambered over his head and onto his back. Remind me to support you the next time you brag about being the fastest dragon in Middle Earth.

Can you tell Lyth how heroic I was?

Of course.

He sent a burst of happiness in reply and then he was streaking upward again.

Morgoth, meanwhile, had changed direction, and was now heading almost straight upwards. Bilba had no idea how high he could go but had a sinking feeling it was probably higher than a living dragon.

We need to be on him, she sent to her father. Before he gets too high!

There was now no sign of any other dragons, all of them having been left behind. It was just her, her father, and the two dragons, against a monster of myth and legend.

Bilba shook her head in disbelief. She was definitely getting that vacation Frerin had mentioned. Moria would be nothing in comparison to all this.

Sardin fell in alongside Xalanth and, together, the two of them soared upwards after Morgoth. It was exhausting, the dragons forced to fight against the wind rather than flying with it. They were already worn from battle, their movements sluggish and lacking the crispness of a well-rested dragon.

Bilba was exhausted as well and her father...she glanced at him and felt yet another flash of fear at the sight of blood speckling his armor, particularly near his side where the metal appeared torn. She saw him give her a look and jerked her eyes away. There was no point in questioning him over it. He'd dismiss her concerns the same way she would had their positions been reversed.

Sardin moved closer to Xalanth. They had managed to overtake Morgoth to the point they were just above the base of his tail, but they were losing ground, quickly. Xalanth's sides were laboring and Sardin had gone silent and stoic in the way of one desperately trying to push past the limits of their own body.

Sardin and Xalanth were flying as close as possible now, Sardin just underneath Xalanth so their wings didn't accidentally tangle.

Sardin rocked, and Bilba felt a presence looming over her. She looked up to see her father standing over her, feet planted firmly on Sardin's back. He grabbed her good arm and pulled her up, wrapping his arm around her waist.

Bilba obediently held onto him as best she could, and then he was shoving off, aiming at Morgoth's back. He held a sword in his other hand and sunk it deep into the muscles of the creature's haunch. It held.

Behind them, Sardin and Xalanth fell back, soon lost in the bank of clouds now laying below them.

Don't die, or I'll kill you, Xalanth's voice came and it was impossible to tell which of them he was addressing.

It was probably both.

Her father still had an arm around her waist, holding her in place. Morgoth was nearly vertical and the full weight of her body and her father's was hanging on that sword plunged into the creature's back.

Is it bad, Bilba asked, that he hasn't seemed to care about what we're doing?

Probably. He hefted her up and Bilba shoved her hand through the rent in the dragon's carcass, finding a bone and grabbing on. Her bad arm was still pressed against her chest, bolts of pain ricocheting through it every time it bumped against her father's body, but she bit her lip and fought it back. She'd lived through worse. It hadn't been fun, but she'd done it, and she'd do it again.

She tried to take a deep breath, and frowned as the amount of air she wanted refused to enter her lungs.

The air thins the higher you go, Dwalin said in answer to her unspoken question. Syrath's too young to get that high yet.

The air was thin, but more than that, it was getting hot. Why was it getting hot?

Now that I don't know. Her father's face was slick with sweat and he was ashen. I'm guessing it won't be good for our health though.

Bilba shook her head. She sent an idea toward him, more a mental picture than anything else, and he nodded. He reached to hook his own hand around the bone she was holding, using the weight of his body to hold her in place against the creature's hide. Bilba began to squirm forward, staying under him as much as possible to try and protect herself from the wind. There were no straps here, and no dragons to catch her if she fell. One false move, and it would be her last.

Just past where her father had stabbed the creature, was a larger opening in its hide. As the heat continued to intensify, sweat soaking her hair and clothes, Bilba reached the hole and tumbled in, sliding under the ridge of the creature's hip bone. Her father joined her a moment later, struggling to get his much larger body in and under the bone. Bilba helped him as best she could and then, together, they moved, holding onto vertebrae to steady their passage. The body was more intact farther up and they made their way slowly, avoiding gaping holes with sucking wind whipping through them, and a long, long drop below.

They had to push aside several organs, mercifully dry and absent of liquid but still holding a stink strong enough to make her eyes water. The heat chased them, though not as strong as it had been outside. They clambered along the ribs of the beast until they reached the heart. It was still and unmoving and, with a muttered curse, her father used a knife to cut into it. They clambered in and settled in a lower chamber, Bilba reaching to grab the membrane and pull it closed as much as possible.

"All right," her father muttered. "Dragonhide is supposed to be fireproof and I figure it must hold true for their organs, right?"

Bilba nodded. Dragons produced fire from within their bodies, so it must hold that their internal organs were designed to withstand heat. Whether or not the theory would hold to the insides of a dead dragon, or if it would protect them, remained to be seen. Waves of heat were washing over them now, as stifling as when Gothmog had dragged her and Frerin across the wastelands just before Mordor. It beat against them like a physical thing, sweat running down their bodies in near constant streams. Bilba could feel her mouth drying as her body lost its water, her tongue sticking and her throat beginning to burn.

As if all that weren't bad enough, sheltering inside the beast did nothing for the rapidly thinning air or the way her lungs were aching as they strained for breath. Morgoth clearly did not have to breathe, but they didn't have the same good fortune. If they didn't change course soon, the heat wouldn't matter.

Something in her gut shifted and she tensed.

We're turning, her father said, bracing himself.

Bilba felt a rush of relief. She shut her eyes, feeling the movement as her sense of balance went haywire, and then tried to orient itself.

For a brief, brief second, they were suspended, moving neither up nor down.

And then they were falling.

Fast.

Bilba clenched her jaw, and didn't resist when her father wrapped an arm around her as if he could hold her in place. He punched his hand through where the membrane of the heart was thinnest and grabbed hold of a rib. If possible, the heat seemed to get worse, before just as suddenly getting better. Fresh air rushed into her lungs and she sucked in a greedy mouthful, lungs relaxing as they suddenly had access to what they needed.

Bilba's heart was thudding and she was shaking from the adrenaline rush. The sensation was similar to what she and Syrath liked to do but a thousand times more extreme. If they had been outside, without straps, they'd have been ripped off by the sheer force of the wind.

Black spots danced in front of her eyes and Bilba tried to concentrate as blackness threatened to overtake her. This was not the time or place to pass out, especially not when her father didn't look to be similarly affected.

It felt like forever before the creature began to level out. As it did, her father grabbed her hand and pulled her up. "Let's go. We're not doing any good sitting here."

Should we stab the heart? Bilba asked.

He shook his head. "Doubt it'd do any good. The thing doesn't appear to be using it anyway."

There was an odd note in his voice as he spoke, and a strange feeling coming across the soul bond. Unwittingly, the last time she'd seen her mother flashed across her mind and her heart shuddered in her chest.

Her father had to have felt it across the bond but he didn't react, simply leading the way out of the heart and toward a new hole in the hide. He got out first and then reached back to pull her out next to him.

We have a problem, she heard him say and frowned.

We have a lot of problems, don't we?

His only response was to point ahead of them. Bilba followed his gaze, and knew why Morgoth hadn't cared about their presence.

He knew they wouldn't have time to do anything of consequence because, there, rising from the landscape and towering toward the sky, was Erebor.

Bilba let out a breath as if she'd been punched, eyes wide. How? It's not possible, even as large as he is! We shouldn't be anywhere near here! No dragon can fly that fast!

"No living dragon," her father responded grimly.

Cold rushed through her as Bilba realized they were already in the vast plain that lay between Mirkwood and the Iron Hills, the river scrolling lazily through it beneath them. Directly ahead was the Long Lake, upon which sat Lake-town. There was no way Arathorn could rally whatever forces he had left in Gondor in time, no way those left behind in Mirkwood or Erebor or Lake-town could muster any sort of response.

And what sort of response would it even be?

Who had been left behind?

The injured.

The young.

The old.

Those unable to fight.

The dead.

All of them left behind because, in their darkest nightmare, no one had conceived of a mind so twisted by evil that it would choose to target them.

What do you think? Morgoth's voice suddenly boomed in her mind and she jerked upright with a gasp. Behind her, her father also tensed. Should I start with the elves? They provide their own kindling. Or perhaps your precious dwarves? Tell me, how well do you think stone will stand up to the likes of my servant?

Don't do this, Bilba thought desperately but the only response she heard was mocking laughter.

They lowered yet again and now the land was rushing by just below them, close enough that small waves were whipped up on the river by their passing. The wind lessened as Morgoth slowed, approaching the town on the lake. From this distance, Bilba could make out the individual homes, and see the slowly growing panic as people realized death was storming toward them.

In her mind she remembered her first trip there with Fili, and the resulting assassination attempt against Dis. Cassie's face rose in her mind, and she swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat.

Boats were fleeing the town, rushing haphazardly in every direction. Bilba found it hard to breathe, flashes of the Shire rushing in. How many had died then? How many now, and how many more would have to die before it was all over?

Morgoth roared, and overshot the town, racing past toward the other end of the lake. Bilba didn't fool herself into thinking he was passing them by.

He was prolonging it, toying with them.

Just as he reached the opposite shore, he turned, spinning back around to head toward the town again. The move threw Bilba off balance and she dropped to one knee, barely managing to grab onto rough patches of the hide in time to catch herself.

It took nearly ten seconds before she realized she no longer felt her father behind her.

Adad? she sent, shakily. Adad?

She tried to look behind her but they were already far past the point where Morgoth had made the turn. Bilba struggled to stay calm. She could still feel the soul bond with her father, she reminded herself firmly. It hadn't broken.

Of course, that could simply be because he was drowning and it would take a few minutes.

A strangled cry escaped her, and then her attention was distracted by Morgoth unleashing an inferno of flame from his maw.

That just isn't fair, Bilba thought in a mix of anger and despair. The thing was dead, decaying. How was it able to still produce flame?

The dragon spun for another pass, and Bilba clenched her teeth until her jaw hurt at the sight of the wooden buildings and walkways as they caught and burned. Screams of fear and panic split the air, adding to the long litany of screams already in her head.

From Moria.

The Arena.

The Shire.

Erebor.

Mordor.

Everywhere she'd ever been.

Blood, and pain.

And screams.

Some of them were hers.

They swung around for another pass. It took them near the spot where her father had fallen and she cast about desperately, trying to find him. She couldn't jump off herself, they were going so fast the impact with the water would probably knock her out.

It may well have knocked her father out.

Adad? she cried.

I'll get him. The voice was exhausted, and so faint she barely heard it. Movement came from her left and then Sardin was there, diving straight down toward the surface of the water.

Bilba sucked in a harsh breath when she saw him. His scales were dulled and near colorless and his tail hung limply as if he lacked the strength to lift it. He flew in an unbalanced, staggering fashion, losing the wind under his wings a few times and falling before, somehow, managing to recover. Dark streaks marked his body and the edges of his wings, though not the membranes themselves for some reason. They looked suspiciously like burns, something Bilba had never seen, and shouldn't even be possible, on a dragon.

Bilba had only seen one other dragon look that bad.

Quenth.

Sardin, she called out to him. What did you do?

I made a promise. He folded his wings, and hit the water, vanishing in a single knife stroke.

Bilba? a new voice asked. Is that you? What's happening?

Bilba's heart froze in her chest.

Syrath.

What's this? Morgoth nearly purred in her mind. Does the gnat have a dragon of her own? I thought the upstart was yours. Hmm, perhaps we should say hello?

No. She didn't beg. She wasn't stupid enough to think it would make a difference.

Morgoth turned toward Mirkwood, having already dismissed the burning remnants of Lake-town behind them.

Bilba? Syrath asked again.

Bilba couldn't breathe. She kept trying, her chest heaving as she struggled, but her lungs refused to expand. Behind her, neither her father nor Sardin had reappeared yet. Before them, Mirkwood was rapidly growing larger.

Lyth was there, as well as the baby ringleader dragon and the other young dragons, and Inilth, and countless injured and non-fighters and Syrath. All of them, and with help leagues away.

Something inside her seemed to settle. Then, slowly, a burning, liquid anger began to spread through her.

Azog.

Gothmog.

Morgoth.

They were all the same. They enjoyed suffering for the sake of suffering. They preyed on the helpless and the weak.

They were the literal embodiment of everything she'd fought since leaving Moria.

Her eyes narrowed and she unconsciously straightened, hands curling into fists at her side. She raised her chin and her eyes narrowed. Time seemed to slow, the trees of Mirkwood approaching at an almost leisurely rate. Above the treetops, dragons began to appear. Many were clearly struggling, others were scared, and some were far, far too young. She caught sight of Lyth, pale and stiff but still there, still willing to do her part.

As Fili was, and Kili, and Dis and Thorin and Frerin and her father and Sardin...

As was she.

It simply wasn't true that help was leagues away.

There was still one person left.

Orcrist.

She existed to protect those who could not protect themselves.

And so she would.

Bilba slid her hand into her pocket and curled her fingers around the cold metal of the ring.

Oh, does the gnat think to bait the dragon? Morgoth almost purred in her mind. You know you have no chance.

Bilba ignored him. She didn't have to defeat him. She just needed to slow him down. Even a little, anything to give those about to fight him a chance.

Bilba? Syrath asked again, a note of panic in his voice. What are you doing?

Don't worry, Bilba sent back. I'll be all right.

It wouldn't be the first time she'd faced death. She'd faced it in the mines, in the Arena, and countless times since she'd escaped. She'd faced it just a short time ago on the gates of Erebor.

She'd long lost her fear of it.

There are fates worse than death, Morgoth reminded her, sounding almost cheerful. You don't have the strength to resist me. I doubt your pitiful little mind will survive.

Words from the past floated through her mind.

You want me to just stand here and let it happen?

The words she'd said to Frerin as Gothmog had prepared to murder innocent citizens of Erebor in an attempt to force Fili to give himself over.

"Yes, I do."

She'd obeyed him then.

Not this time.

She pulled the ring out from her pocket.

Bilba?

She'd been saved so many times, by so many people.

Her mother, Frerin, Syrath, Primula and Drogo and all the people and dragons of the Shire. Aragorn and the Rangers, the elves of Rivendell, Fili and all the Durins. Xalanth and Sardin and baby dragon and so many more.

Her father.

All of them had saved her at one time or another.

It was her turn now, to save them.

It'll be all right, Syrath. You'll see.

And, then, with a smile,

She slid the ring on her finger.