His sixth repetition, Bilbo doesn't reach Rivendell. He doesn't change much from the first try, playing a slightly more willing and prepared host to the Company but otherwise keeping his distance. Every time he looks at the dwarves, he hears their whispers, full of distrust and aimed to hurt, even though their lips are sealed. The echoes of the last iteration keep his mouth shut. Bilbo does buy appropriate gear, however, and is the only one not soaking through when the rain starts. He takes gleeful pleasure in the sight of his waterlogged companions.

He refuses to go anywhere near the trolls.

"Nori is more skilled in this sort of thing," Bilbo tells the royal heirs, crossing his arms over his chest and digging in his heels. The stench alone is enough to dissuade him from even making an attempt. A memory of unbearable pain makes an unwelcome comeback, and Bilbo shudders. He won't budge unless they pick him up and throw him at the monsters.

Kíli's expression and the glint in his eyes say he's considering doing just that. Bilbo glares at him and sidesteps back into the bushes. On light feet, he runs all the way to the camp to deliver the news.

"Trolls?" Thorin spits out, his face like a thundercloud. "And the damned wizard chose to take a walk just when we need him!"

Dwalin brandishes his axes. "We can take them on."

"Now, brother," Balin says, "it might not be the best idea."

The Company dissolves into an argument, but in the end, as Bilbo expected, Nori is elected for the rescue. He doesn't disappoint, saving all but three ponies. The trolls, never the smartest creatures of Middle-earth, blame each other for the loss and their confrontation comes to blows. When morning light touches the tree crowns, bringing Gandalf along with it, sunlight freezes them into statues — two sitting on the ground, clutching their injured limbs, and the last sprawled across the clearing. He didn't regain consciousness after a particularly vigorous hit on the head.

The dwarves cheer and dive into the cave to search for treasures. Gandalf presents Bilbo with Sting. In the commotion of Radagast's sudden arrival, as warg's howls fill the air, the ponies bolt, and again, like the first time, the members of the Company have to run for their lives.

Bilbo's shorter legs carry him as fast as they can, but he barely keeps up with Ori and Nori. Something must have gone wrong: half of the orc's party ignores the Brown wizard. Glancing over his shoulder, Bilbo almost stumbles at the sight of enormous wolf-like creatures and their riders — too close to outrun.

Nori notices that, too. He pushes his sibling to the nearest tree, muttering, "Come on, come on, up you go," his fingers spasming on his weapon.

And while Bilbo doesn't believe it will do any good, he has to try. He climbs after Ori. "The elves will be here soon," he whispers under his breath.

The wargs' paws eat the distance before Bilbo can finish his ascent. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Nori swinging his mace. He hugs the tree trunk, pulling himself up with all his strength.

Sharp pain slashes the back of his right leg as a large jaw closes over it like a steel trap. Bilbo screams. He doesn't know where Nori's gone to, where any other member of the Company is. Later, Bilbo will remember Ori pelting the wargs with stones, but now, as his arms slide over the rough bark losing purchase, the stinging in his palms like mosquito bites, all he registers are the cracks in the dry earth the moment before his face smashes against it, a warg pulling him down. Tasting blood, and dust, and bits of shrivelled leaves, he hears pained cries filling the air. An animal whines. Gandalf's voice booms, but Bilbo can't make out the words.

He goes for Sting as if that'd be much help. Hot, moist breath stinking of raw meat and decay washes over the side of his face. Another jaw clamps onto his arm, teeth cutting flesh to the bone, and all he knows is agony. He doesn't scream himself hoarse only because he doesn't live long enough to do so. Consciousness deserts him when one of the wargs dig into his stomach.

Bilbo wakes up in his out bed, legs kicking off the blanket as he scrambles to sit with his back to the headboard. A trapped sparrow throws itself against the cage of his ribs. His body aches with residual echoes of pain. The sunlight and fragrant smell of flowers do nothing to calm him down. He hugs himself, fingers clutching his shoulders to the point of bruising, and shakes.

"I can do it, I can do it, I can do it," Bilbo mutters again and again. He needs to get to the Rivendell library.

The knock on his front door thunders hours later, shattering the silence. Bilbo flinches, staring at the doorway leading out of his room as if Gandalf can see him through all this distance and wood besides. Maybe he can. He is a wizard.

Eventually, Bilbo pulls himself out of bed, goes about his day. Gandalf, of course, is long gone, but Bilbo knows with the certainty only he possesses that by nightfall, his home will be invaded. He isn't wrong.

This go-around, he is an even worse company for the dwarves. Not that it makes any difference. He's subdued and doesn't offer much of a conversation when Balin asks him about his experience with travelling. The only thing keeping him going is the thought of research. There are so many books he hasn't read. Surely, Bilbo thinks, one of them has the answer. Surely.

Near the destroyed farm, he spurs Myrtle into a gallop until she is head-to-head with Gandalf's horse. He pulls on the reins and clears his throat.

"Hello, Bilbo. A pleasant day, isn't it?"

Grey clouds, heavy with the threat of rain, blot out the setting sun. The temperature dropped during the night. A piercing wind sneaks its fingers under Bilbo's collar. He shivers.

"If you say so," he murmurs, voice full of doubt. He beacons for Gandalf to lean down. With an inquiring look, the wizard complies. "I've heard rumours," Bilbo says, "about people disappearing around these parts." He chances a glance back and meets the dwarven king's scowl. "You saw the farm we've just passed. What happened, it wasn't like that a month ago."

A frown settles between Gandalf's eyebrows. "This is troubling." He straightens in his saddle and Bilbo shifts in his. "Oh, but do not worry, my friend. Whatever the danger is, I will be there to protect you." The corners of his mouth turn up with good-natured humour, and Gandalf pats his shoulder. Bilbo forces his lips into an answering smile.

The warmth of the wizard's hand lingers long after Bilbo has returned to his customary place; the promise, however, feels solid like a soap bubble.

With Gandalf warned of the danger, they easily avoid the trolls, going farther than usual. Of course, some of the dwarves insist on fighting them, Fíli and Kíli most vocally, but Gandalf refuses, and with the support of the older generation, the matter is settled. In the morning, he deals with Tom, Bert, and William himself. Bilbo considers how many different poses he's seen them take and laughs with what must be the gallows humour.

This time, he makes sure the ponies are properly tied. It doesn't change the outcome. Urging Myrtle to run faster, he leans forward, hugging her neck and hoping to make himself smaller. The pace is brutal. His thighs, unaccustomed to the saddle, flare with pain on every step. Myrtle's mane surges up, tickles his face, and Bilbo sneezes. His eyes water and his nose is about to leak. When a spear hits her flank, he feels the shudder that shakes her whole body a moment before her front legs buckle.

His pony pins him to the ground, too heavy for Bilbo to crawl from under her; his bones are broken. Warm blood spurts from the wound in Myrtle's side, mixing with his own. Lying on the scabbard, his sword impossible to reach, all he can do is wait for a quick death, panting and whimpering. A toothy, grey-skinned monster delivers it with a slash of a rusty scimitar across his throat.

With a shout, Bilbo bolts upright. The softness of his mattress is a sharp contrast to the hard ground of the previous moment, but his breath stutters in his chest. His heart beats as if preparing to explode. He tries to stand and crashes to the floor, trapped in his blanket.

Laying there, his mouth full of dust — he needs to clean under the bed more often — and all of his right side aching, his face scrunches into a grimace. Moisture slides across the bridge of his nose, gets into his ear.

"I can't," Bilbo moans later. The sun rays have left his bed and moved to the wardrobe. His skin feels tight and salty. "Not anymore. Please, why won't it end? Just end it already!"

He turns onto his stomach and bangs his fists against the floor until they hurt. He hits it with his forehead, kicks with his knees. And all the while tears fall on the wood, collecting in decades-old scratches.

The day floats past him like fog. If Gandalf comes — of course, he does — Bilbo doesn't hear his knocking.

Going around the smial, gathering supplies into his mother's battered backpack, Bilbo's mind is perfectly blank. He knows what he has to do, what food and how much of it to cook. His hands wash, and slice, and dice, and when the dwarves come, the table in the living room is covered with dishes.

He doesn't say a needless word aside from greetings and signs the contract without questions.

On the road, Bilbo fluctuates between flinching at every loud noise and lapsing into silence when his attention wanders, staring into the distance with unseeing eyes. The library, his mind insists, the library is where you need to go. He nods, agreeing, and doesn't see the looks the dwarves give him.

The whispers among the Company that he is loony, not quite there grow louder. He doesn't care.

When Gandalf stalks off in a huff, leaving the camp for the night, Bilbo doesn't think at all. Nobody asks him to deliver the food to the royal siblings. He spends the time watching flaming tongues change shapes as they dance in the fire.

The shouts take him by surprise. Bilbo flinches, hugs his knees to his chest, and hunches his shoulders. He doesn't know that the trolls eat Ori and Nori and Kíli. They maim those who offer the most resistance — Dori, Dwalin, and Thorin. The dwarven king dies by morning, missing a few limbs and a lot of blood.

He will find out later.

For now, Bilbo stays at the campsite, palms pressed to his ears, and hums him mother's lullaby to tune out the screams.