Bilba had always loved flying in storms.
Not because of the rain, but the wind.
The wind was fun.
Syrath could glide forever with little to no effort, the wind buffeting them upwards and down, whipping her clothing about her body. It was truly a feeling like no other. They didn't go out in the truly bad storms, or ones with lightning, because neither wanted to die in the pursuit of a good time, but even those were still fun, if only to watch from the safety of the ground. There had been no storms in Moria, or weather of any kind, and it was one of the many things she'd become fascinated with after her escape. The more violent the storm, the more she loved it. Perhaps it was because violence was so ingrained in her after a lifetime surrounded by it, or maybe it was simply because it was like seeing her joy at being free expressed in the world around her. In either event, she had always loved them.
Had always loved them
The storm she was thrown into upon placing the ring on her finger was like nothing she'd ever experienced. Black clouds pressed in on her from every side while wind slammed into her with all the force of a rock slide. It stole her breath, making her lungs scream for oxygen as if she were drowning. Rain lashed her body, each streak a knife blade that sliced strips of skin off until she was bleeding from a thousand, stinging cuts. Bright bursts of lightning splintered the sky around her, revealing, for just an instant, banks of clouds above and below and no sign of land or sky or anything else.
And the noise.
Thunder, but at a level she'd never heard, so intense her ears nearly burst with every peal, and so loud she couldn't hear the sound of her own screams.
It seemed to go on forever, without pause, until she was convinced the only break she would receive would be her own mind giving out from the bombardment.
The storm vanished.
Just like that. One second it was there and the next...it simply wasn't.
Bilba sucked in a harsh breath, her heart thudding in her chest.
Around her was nothing but blackness. She couldn't see, or feel, anything. She couldn't even say if she was standing on a surface, or floating. It was simply...nothing.
Fool, now do you understand? Morgoth's voice thundered around her and she clapped her hands over her ears, grimacing in pain as it reverberated through the air. Your friends are already dead. They are ash on the wind.
"You're lying." She thought the words, only to jump as they resounded through the air as if she'd spoken.
Am I? How long do you think you've been in here?
"It doesn't matter," Bilba replied with confidence. "If they'd died I'd have felt it."
Communication had been blocked as the Erebor forces had returned from Rivendell but, even then, they had still felt the breaking of soul bonds when it had happened.
Are you so sure? Morgoth nearly purred. I am a bit stronger than that insect who thought to betray me.
The smallest flicker of uncertainty settled inside her, but Bilba still shook her head. "No. I know you're lying."
You know whatever I want you to know! Morgoth thundered, a rage in his voice that had her instinctively crouching in anticipation of an attack. Do you even know how the ring works? His voice was back to being perfectly pleasant, as if the earlier outburst had never happened. It opens a pathway between my mind and yours. Pathways, my dear -
The darkness shifted, like a snake in the throes of death, before pulling away from her. Rock formed under her feet, uneven and chipped beneath her - suddenly bare? - feet.
- work both ways.
Walls towered over her, ringing her in a wide, bowl shaped area. Blood splattered the stone beneath her feet, decorated the walls in whorls and patterns, so thick in places it was nearly black. Past the top of the wall ran crude tiers cut from the rock. All were currently swarming with orcs, screaming, shouting and fighting with each other. The roar was deafening, nearly enough to drown out the cries of the human woman in the center of the bowl currently bleeding out onto the dirt and stone. Past her was the tunnel, a thick, rusted iron gate blocking it off.
She was back in the Arena.
Bilba glanced down at herself and found she was wearing little more than rags, her skin caked in dried dirt, sweat and blood. A weapon that barely qualified as a sword hung limply from her hand, blade darkened with blood. More was splattered on her arm and across her chest. Her eyes flickered to her right, into the stands. Azog lounged there, at the top of the tier with a bored expression. He was alone, his spawn and the female rarely came as it was, but she remembered clearly neither had been there on that particular day.
A low, throaty noise came from the other end of the room and she closed her eyes for a second in resignation. Then she let out a slow breath, set herself, and opened her eyes, hand tightening around the hilt of her sword.
She raised her head, and focused on the far side of the Arena, and the cave troll standing just outside the tunnel entrance.
"If you think this is going to stop me," she whispered, "think again." She'd beat the thing once. She'd do it again.
Fool. Morgoth mocked. Did you think I'd make it fair?
A second troll stepped out from behind the first, followed quickly by a third, and then a fourth. The orcs in the stands screamed their approval. Bilba went rigid, chin lifting slightly in defiance as she struggled to control the way she'd started to shake. "I thought you said there were things worse than death." she taunted. "Isn't this a little quick for you?"
Hmmm, perhaps, Morgoth agreed.
The trolls vanished, as did the orcs in the stands and Bilba was standing alone in the Arena, a silence she'd never heard in the mines falling over her.
You may regret having said that.
Bilba ignored him. She wasn't as blind as he supposed her to be. Her goal had never been to fight him, only to distract him. Long enough for those at Erebor and in Mirkwood to resist, or flee.
I told you already, they're dead. Your precious mountain burns.
"I don't believe you," Bilba repeated.
Then it is a good thing the truth is not based upon your belief. Let's have some fun, shall we?
Bilba blinked, and then someone was standing in the center of the Arena. She frowned, trying to see clearer, and then sucked in a sharp breath and jerked back reflexively. Her back hit the stone wall of the Arena with enough force to jar her.
It was a young, human male. He was short for a human, but still a head taller than her, with a slender frame. A fringe of dark hair hung over terrified blue eyes set into a face that, seeing it again, appeared even younger than she remembered. She'd always had trouble with guessing human ages, but she believed this one had been particularly young, barely on the cusp of adulthood, if that. He'd certainly fought with all the terror of youth, just as she had.
Blood stained the front of his shirt, and there was a gray pallor to his skin. His had been the first life she'd ever taken. It had been an exceptionally close thing. Neither had fought before, and certainly not to the death. She'd had no choice in the end, one of them was going to die, and it'd been sheer luck that it hadn't been her.
It didn't make it any easier.
It didn't make any of them any easier.
A second figure appeared next to him, and then a third and a fourth. The people who'd died at her hand and, then, because Morgoth was a bastard, the crowd began to grow to include those she mentally listed as having died because of her. The ones she'd failed to save on caravans, and the hobbits who'd fallen in the Shire. She saw Filith with great, gaping wounds, Drogo with his skull crushed and Snapdragon with rotted wings. They all stood in silence, a great crowd, staring at her with empty eyes.
So many, Morgoth said casually. And they call me the monster. Should I add all the orcs you've killed? Or perhaps simply the blood you've spilled? I do believe there'd be more than enough for you to drown in.
Bilba swallowed past the sudden rock lodged in her throat. Her free hand opened and closed convulsively, and the bridge of her nose burned. She didn't try to justify herself to the bastard. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Oh, wait, Morgoth's voice thundered around her. We've forgotten one, haven't we?
Cold washed over Bilba and she pressed against the wall of the Arena as hard as she could, as if she could physically press herself through it. "No," she whispered.
A hobbit woman was standing at the front of the crowd. Unlike the others, her skin was flush with a healthy glow and there was a vibrant light in her eyes. She wore a sundress and straw hat and her long, curly hair was as tousled as if she'd just stepped in from a breezy day.
She looked nothing at all like the ones gathered behind her.
She looked nothing at all like how Bilba remembered her.
"Amad." The word was torn out against her will. It wasn't a word she'd have ever chosen to utter in such a place, in the hearing of such an utter bastard like Morgoth.
The crowd surged forward suddenly, and she gasped, jerking away instinctively. Her head rapped sharply against the stone wall, sending a bolt of pain radiating through her skull. The sword clattered to the ground beside her. It was useless anyway, there was no way she could use it against any of them, least of all her mother, real or otherwise.
They'd all suffered enough.
They all seem quite eager to talk to you, Morgoth mused and Bilba felt white hot hatred rush through her. She'd never hated anyone more than she hated him.
"Easy to sit back and taunt as a disembodied voice," she said through gritted teeth. "Why don't you come face me?"
I doubt you truly want that, came his languid reply. The confrontation wouldn't last long, and I don't want that.
The crowd reached her, crowding around her with her mother at the front. Bilba squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away, digging her fingers into the stone while a groan worked its way between her clenched teeth.
Fingers touched her face, lightly.
"That's quite enough of that," a voice said gently.
Bilba opened her eyes.
The Arena, and the crowd were gone.
She was standing in a black void once more, and the only other person there was her mother. Hesitantly, Bilba put her hand over her mother's where it lay on her face. It felt warm, as if her mother had just stepped in from outside, or almost as if she were still standing in the sun.
"Amad?" Bilba whispered.
"Hello, sweetheart." Belladonna smiled and Bilba threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around the woman and burying her face in her mother's neck.
Belladonna hugged her back, quick and fierce, before firmly pulling away. "I don't have long."
Bilba nodded, reaching up to wipe at the tears running down her face. Her vision was so blurred she could barely see and her breath was hitching in her chest.
Fool, Morgoth's voice growled from the blackness. What good do you possibly think you can do? I'll destroy you, and make her watch!
Belladonna rolled her eyes. "Oh, do shut up. No one can harm the dead. Not even you."
Morgoth began laughing, a low, cackling sound that bled evil. You are worthless then, a specter capable of nothing but watching.
"Am I?" Belladonna asked cheerfully. "You really think I came here on my own power?"
Morgoth gave no answer.
Belladonna gripped Bilba by the upper arms and leaned forward to kiss her lightly on the forehead. "I am so proud of you," she said, giving her a tiny shake to punctuate her point. "Even when you do things out of order."
Bilba frowned. "What?"
"There's only one thing able to resist darkness," Belladonna said, looking amused. "And you went and didn't bring it with you."
Bilba frowned in confusion. "Do you mean Syrath?" She still remembered the intense joy at her bond with Syrath, in part because it meant someone like Azog could never rip through her shields again. "Syrath isn't strong enough. The bastard has him blocked out." Gothmog had done the same, and she could only imagine Morgoth's block was several times stronger.
Belladonna gave her a patient look before leaning in quickly to whisper in her ear, "Syrath isn't the only dragon in Middle Earth, sweetheart."
She released Bilba's arms and stepped back. Bilba took a step after her, but her mother held up a hand and she stopped, instantly. "I can only give you ten seconds, sweetheart." She smiled, pride shining in her eyes. "But I think that should be more than enough for Orcrist."
She gave a bright smile
And then she was gone...
And Syrath was shouting in Bilba's head.
"Bilba! Answer me! Are you okay? Bilba!"
"Syrath isn't strong enough."
"Syrath isn't the only dragon in Middle Earth."
Oh.
A slow, feral smile began to spread across her face.
She got it now.
She reached out to Syrath, and told him exactly what she wanted. He was startled, but didn't question her.
She chose Lyth first.
No one outside the mountain really knew who she was, or had any reason to trust her. Lyth, in contrast, had the rank and status among the dragons to garner trust, and instant obedience.
She barely felt the soul bond with Lyth settle in place.
She had to set aside the traditional exchange of memories and emotion, because she was already soul bonding with Inilth, and Mayre, who'd stayed behind with a fractured wing.
It wasn't like there was anything the least bit traditional about what she was doing anyway.
She managed six bonds before the ten seconds were up and the Arena reformed around her. The crowd reappeared and surged forward again but, this time, Bilba felt nothing but triumph because she could still feel her bonds. They were faint, but there, coiled about one another like a thick coiled rope punching through the darkness to get to her.
It was more than enough to allow her to add in five more dragons. One of them, dimly felt through his exhaustion and pain, was Sardin who, with slurred speech and confusion, reported he'd retrieved her father. Then she was moving on, adding more and, with each one, that mental rope became clearer, and stronger, and she felt less and less alone.
What are you doing? Morgoth demanded. You think this will save you?
"I know it will," Bilba shot back.
The crowd attacked, driving her to the ground beneath their fists and feet. They might not have been real, but their attacks felt as if they were. Bilba curled in on herself, wrapping her arms around her head to try and protect herself.
The dragons inside her roared in anger, and the crowd fell back, flickering in and out of existence. Bilba pulled herself into a seated position, one arm wrapped around her stomach. She felt bruised and battered, one eye nearly swollen shut and her chest tight in the way it was when she had fractured ribs.
There were enough dragons now that she could leave her shields completely down without fear, which allowed still more to join on their own.
And more were coming every second.
Dragons bonded with each other the same as any other race with one notable difference. In the non-dragon races only riders had the ability to create a soul bond. Dragons didn't have that problem; every dragon of any race was capable of bonding with a dragon of any other race.
And she was reaching every last one of them.
With every dragon her range increased, allowing her to reach farther, and bringing in more all the time.
And none of them were joining because of Lyth.
She felt the rogues in the wild respond to her plea, recognizing her by name and answering.
The non-fighters at Rivendell.
The dragons of the Shire.
Even distant, and distracted with trying to survive, those she'd left behind at Mordor.
All of them.
All of them knew her, or knew of her, and every last one of them answered when she called.
If asked in the past, Bilba would have insisted she was known by very few, and trusted by none. That those in the Shire, no matter how they smiled when they saw her, were just as happy to see her gone. That the denizens of Erebor and Gondor viewed her as an interloper, and the elves saw her as simply a burden, and that the dragons of each and every kingdom watched her to see what misfortune she would bring in her wake.
She'd been wrong.
Completely.
She could feel their emotion, and hear their whispers echoing along their bonds.
Hero, they said.
Friend.
Protector.
Orcrist.
Cassie and Ori's faces appeared in their mind, voices shaking with excitement as they met her and, for the first time, Bilba truly understood why.
She'd spent so much time feeling like an outsider trying to find a way in...only to find she'd already belonged.
She laughed in delight, and Morgoth roared in anger. The crowd and arena dissolved into a massive, towering fountain of smoke. The storm reformed inside it, a violent, swirling vortex arching high over her head. The sound of it was like a thundering waterfall and the wind was strong enough she felt it could tear her apart if it got close enough. The sheer size and violence drew an instinctive flash of fear as it surged toward her, and slammed into an unbreakable shield that formed just in front of her. It was made of interlocking, honeycombed shapes, of every color and hue, unyielding even in the face of Morgoth's rage.
Bilba straightened. A glance down showed she was wearing her armor again, the very set the orcs had taken from her in Erebor. In her hand she clutched the sword Fili had given her and, at her neck, she could feel her mother's ring pressing against her collarbone. The cuts and bruises inflicted on her by Morgoth faded away, and when she reached to wrap a hand around the ring at her throat it was warm and light in her hand.
Around her, the shield expanded, forcing the vortex back and slicing it to ribbons in the process. The darkness faded, and then Bilba was back in her tunic and trousers on Morgoth's back, the woods of Mirkwood just below her. Between them and Morgoth flew a company of dragons, many wounded and lagging, but all fighting to protect the ones huddling in the woods below.
Bilba was bonded to every single one of them, could feel their pain and exhaustion, as well as their dedication and determination.
We're almost done, she sent.
Then she turned her attention to the corpse of the dragon under her feet, and the thing currently inhabiting it. With all the force she could muster, and all the hatred and rage of what this monster had done to her and the ones she loved, she gave one, pointed command.
BURN
The corpse that had once been Sauron shrieked, and the mind of Morgoth came against her in full fury. Alone, Bilba would have stood no chance. With all the dragons of Middle Earth behind her, however, it was Morgoth who lacked the power to stand against her.
Bilba felt the hide beneath her feet lift and she crouched, hooking a hand over a protruding section of rib to hold herself as they rose into the sky.
Bilba! Syrath's voice broke through the babble of others in her head. Jump off!
Not yet, she returned. I have to make sure he can't turn back.
She didn't know the full extent of the ring's power, if proximity was needed to make it work and couldn't risk losing the chance she'd been given. They rose higher, the angle growing steeper and Bilba added her second hand to the rib, holding herself in place. They didn't go straight up as they had the last time, but headed instead for the sun where it sat in its place in the western sky.
Beneath her, those dragons capable of it gave chase but were soon left behind as they flew too high for any to follow. Heat began to build and Bilba could feel sweat running down her face in rivulets and soaking her clothes. Her lungs grew tight and began to struggle for oxygen and black spots danced in her vision. Around her chunks of the dragon, damaged by the others left below, began to break off and fall into the expanse of sky about them. The hide and rib under her hand grew almost unbearably hot, and the pain in her shoulder increased, threatening to pop her shoulder back out of joint.
Do you think this is the end? Morgoth asked. He'd grown silent the higher they'd gone, until the only sound was the rush of wind and the thrum of his wings. You cannot kill me, only send me away for a time. I will return. I will always return.
And someone will always be there waiting to face you, Bilba returned shortly. As they were the last time, and this time.
I will return, Morgoth threatened again. And I will remember you.
I look forward to it. Bilba replied and, then, as the heat became nearly too much to bear, she did the only thing left for her to do.
She let go.
The wind caught her, and then she was falling, toward a ground so far away it appeared to be little more than a flat piece of parchment. She managed to flip herself about and watched as Morgoth grew smaller and farther away.
She laughed, throwing her arms out wide and arching her back as the wind buffeted her. The last time she'd done this had been when she'd leapt off Syrath to go after an orc, but that hadn't been nearly so high as this.
This is why I don't bond with children, a deep voice informed her, a dragon but not one she knew. They're so reckless.
Oh, hush, a female voice cut in. Leave the girl be. She's earned a bit of a break.
Hunting for whales is a break, yet a third voice chimed in. Falling from great heights is not.
Whales? That was Syrath, excited. You hunt for whales? Can I come?
Bilba allowed the babble to dwindle away as her adrenaline faded. There was nothing more she could do, and her body knew it. Tension leeched from her muscles and the stiffness and pain of the past battles clamored for her attention. The air was still silent, and the wind gentle. Overhead, the black speck that was Morgoth was beginning to separate into many as the tortured body he inhabited gave way to greater forces.
It was over.
Bilba sighed, and allowed the wind to flip her back over, to face the ground as it rushed toward her. Blackness ate at the corners of her vision and she gave into it gladly, grateful for the respite. The last thing she saw before it took her completely was a wave of shapes rushing toward her, led by a glittering, twisting spark of blue that was calling her name.
And then she was gone, and the safety of Middle Earth became someone else's problem.
At least for a time.
