The palace of the Elvenking is wast, cold, and airy, much like the Elvenking himself. In the heart of a labyrinth of caves, he rests on a wooden throne half turned, larger than life and still as a hunting cat. The guards escorting Thorin move away. Silently, they take position on the steps leading to the dais.
As if awakening from a long slumber, the Elvenking rises. Descends. He glides to the side of the platform that forms his throne room and stops, gazing into the distance. Thorin and, unknowingly for the elf, Bilbo — if they so chose to look, and Bilbo does — have a perfect view of his profile: the delicate features of his ageless face are frozen in weary condescension.
A moment passes, then another. Thanking the Valar for Thorin's laboured breathing, Bilbo tiptoes away from the edge of the platform.
"Some may imagine that a noble quest is at hand. A quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon," the Elvenking says at last. His voice is disinterested, detached. He guesses Thorin's plan as if reading lines from a play he saw so many times it got unbearably boring.
Unhurried and graceful, the Elvenking turns, and Bilbo starts and shivers. The insubstantial monochrome of the ring's ghostly world rips and blurs all outlines, making the burnt ruin of the left side of the elf's face a grotesque mask. Cold eyes pierce the space beside the throne, and Bilbo freezes, but no, he is quite safe. He doesn't even leave a shadow. And even were he unconcealed, no one would notice his small form, not while he huddles at the base of the hulking throne. He—quietly—exhales.
Like a bird of prey, the Elvenking circles Thorin until they are but two handspans apart and, looming over the dwarf, proposes a bargain: his help for the return of the elven jewels.
'Yes! Please, agree! We are but fourteen, and a whole army of elves will be of tremendous use.'
But Thorin's wounds run deep; his pride runs deeper. He refuses.
Invisible, Bilbo closes his eyes and curses.
Fool. A justified one, but all the same, a fool, he thinks as Thranduil, the wise and fair ruler of the Woodland Realm, sentences Thorin and the Company to an indefinite stay in the prison cells — to rot forever, forgotten by their eternally youthful hosts. And all for the ridiculous offence of 'trespassing onto the land.'
Or maybe they both are fools, equally stubborn and obtuse, both holding onto grudges with single-minded focus.
With a nebulous promise-threat to revisit the offer of the bargain in a century, the Elvenking waves his hand. The dwarven king's glare is full of loathing as the guards seize him by the arms and drag him away. He stares at Thranduil until the Elvenking is hidden from sight.
Down and down, by long, narrow bridges and drafty passages they go, and Bilbo follows, will always follow after Thorin. Every time.
His heart thunders as he runs after the long-legged warriors. The world is bleak and quivery, like a mirage. He grits his teeth and always — always — stays in the middle of the path.
In a corridor with empty cells, deep under the hollowed hill, they stop at the farthest one. Thorin growls insults as the guards, who might as well be animated statues, toss him inside and close the door with a clang. The lock clicks.
"Mouthy one, isn't he?" a light-haired elf says in Sindarin.
"Quiet," his partner answers in the same language, tightening his lips in displeasure. "Remember the orders."
As swiftly as they marched here, they leave; the jiggling of the keys hanging from the belt of the light-haired elf mark their passage.
His back plastered to a stone wall, Bilbo counts to three hundred and only then he dares to whisper, "Thorin?"
The dwarven king starts and looks around. "Who's there?"
Bilbo pulls off the ring. Colours flood his vision; slowly, so slowly it almost hurts, warmth seeps into his limbs. He feels as if he's been finally awoken after a fitful rest. The relief is immense.
"Just me," Bilbo says, staggering into Thorin's line of sight.
"Master Baggins! You can't imagine how glad I am to see you unharmed!" Thorin grabs the bars, pressing against them. "Where were you? Did these gurnvos'comys find you and let you go? No—" he shakes his head "—those rukhs shirumund caragu wouldn't. How did you escape?"
Bilbo blinks, thrown off by the use of Khuzdul. Occasionally, the dwarves would speak it in his presence but never directed at Bilbo. Assuming Thorin means the elves, he says, "By the time I dealt with a giant spider, and let me tell you, spiders should never be that size!" His mind supplies the images of black glistering eyes and mandibles the size of his forearm. He shudders and mutters, "It's unnatural."
"Then?" Thorin prompts.
Shaking off the memory, Bilbo continues. "The elves had already captured you, so I followed at a distance and sneaked inside the gates."
"And nobody noticed you?" Thorin's eyebrows meet in a heavy frown. "There are a lot of things I call the elves, but poor sighted has never been on that list."
Bilbo glances around and catches Thorin's gaze. His heartbeat thunders in his ears. His fingers catch and lock but wouldn't still — his thumbs start tapping an irregular rhythm. He swallows and moves close to the cell. Bilbo murmurs, "I have a way to stay hidden." He shifts, his gaze jumps at shadows, returns to the dwarven king and settles on the sky-blue of Thorin's eyes. "It isn't something I can share, but—"
Thorin lets go of the bars but not Bilbo's gaze. "Say no more. It is enough that one of us is safe. What of others?"
"I do not know." Bilbo looks down. He wets his lips. "I followed you. But I will find them."
A large, calloused hand touches his interlocked fingers and stops the restless fidgeting.
"Bilbo."
He looks up. The sincerity on Thorin's face strikes him like an arrow to the heart.
"I have every confidence in you," Thorin says. It might be wishful thinking, but his severe features seem to soften.
"I will find the others," Bilbo repeats, his voice burning with passion and a kindling desire to prove his worth. "And I will find a way out. I promise." It is a promise he can keep. After all, he has nothing to lose and all the time in creation.
"I believe you." Thorin squeezes his hands, releases them, but stays where he is, his face pressed between the bars. "My jailers will return soon. I doubt that spineless coward will want me without supervision for too long. Go now. You must stay safe and hidden."
"I will," Bilbo whispers. He turns and walks away. Stopping on the last stair before Thorin is out of sight, he glances back. Thorin's eyes are closed, his forehead rests on the bars.
Bilbo slips the ring on. The world plunges into the cold and shades of grey. Bilbo rubs his forearms and, eager to see his task done, takes a deep breath, and steps onto a bridge.
It is days before he finds the rest of the Company. Bilbo isn't sure how many. Far inside a hill, where the sunlight reaches only the upper levels and someone is always alert in the halls, it is hard to keep track of time.
Bilbo wanders through caves with walls carved to resemble trees, haunts the endless bridges spanning the heart of the city. He sleeps in corners, never daring to remove the ring. His dreams are dark and full of violence, though he can't remember them upon awaking. Just blood and fire, pain and rumbling laughter.
He finds the kitchens and steals food from the larders. He never takes much — an apple, a wedge of hard cheese, a bread bun. Something easy to overlook, never enough to notice.
On the third day, he discovers a bathing chamber lavishly decorated with flowers and gauzy flowing fabrics. The water smells like a spring garden. He dips the tips of his fingers in a basin, pours a bit on a handkerchief and cleans his face.
Two days later, he stumbles onto a room with a lake. Its water is dark and still. Bilbo tiptoes closer. Stars shine from its depths. Bilbo looks up, just to check, but there is only stone above him. He doesn't see it in the lake. He doesn't find his reflection, either. He doesn't dare touch the water.
Awhile into their stay in the Elven Kingdom, luck smiles upon him. As Bilbo raids the main larder, several guards come into the kitchen. They lift trays loaded with bowls of gruel with ease.
"When will we be rid of those pests, do you think?" one of the cooks asks an elf balancing a tray on each palm.
"Whenever the Lord decrees it," is the reply.
Tilting his head, Bilbo studying the elf's features: his hard expression and tight-lipped mouth are familiar. One look at the elf's companion, and recognition strikes: these are the guards who locked up Thorin.
Swiftly, they collect food and leave. Grabbing a handful of nuts, Bilbo scampers after them.
-[break]-
"You call it dinner?" Bofur sneers as a bowl lands on the floor of his cell. "My mother fed her pigs better than this!"
"Outrageous!" calls Dori.
"The standards nowadays." Balin tsks and shakes his head.
Bifur spits something in Khuzdul and rattles the bars. The elves might not understand the words, but his tone surpasses any language barrier.
"Silence," the light-haired elf hisses in Westron.
The racket only grows.
"Do not encourage them," his partner says in Sindarin.
The first elf huffs, turning on his heels.
"Can't wait to get rid of the lot." His mutter accompanies a resentful glare to rival Thorin at his best. "The Feast of Starlight, and we are stuck on duty." He turns, and Bilbo spies the keyring tied to his belt.
This time, Bilbo thinks, I won't let it out of my sight.
Committing the way to memory, Bilbo shadows the elves. It feels like they walk through the whole hill, passing waterfalls and underground gardens, up and down stairs — again and again — until they reach a cellar. The shelves of the wooden racks are filled with casks and bottles. Large barrels are lying around on the floor. A heavy scent of fermented grapes hangs in the air.
"Hurry on, you lot. These barrels should have been sent to Esgaroth hours ago. The bargeman will be waiting for them," the dark-haired guard says.
With a smile, an elf admires a jug he is carrying. "Say what you like about our ill-tempered king, but he has excellent taste in wine." He takes a sip from a goblet and smacks his lips. "Come, Elros, try it. It's marvellous!"
"I have the dwarves in my charge," the dark-haired guard replies.
"They aren't going anywhere; they are locked up," his partner says, hanging the keyring on a hook and grabbing two goblets from a small round table with a deck of cards stacked neatly on the edge. "Stop being such a sour spot."
Elros hesitates, and Bilbo holds his breath.
"Fine." The guard sighs. "But just to taste."
Slowly, Bilbo exhales and settles in to wait. Hiding in a corner, he listens to idle gossip. One jug runs dry, and then another. They open up a barrel. The wine seems endless, as is the elven capacity for it. The claws of hunger scratch at Bilbo's belly. Soon, the pangs will start. Not daring to take his eyes off the guards, he eats a handful of pine nuts one by one.
He watches as empty barrels are loaded in the centre of the room. Most elves leave, and only the two guards and the butler stay and drink.
As time passes, the elven voices do not change — the elves do not slur or shout. They do, however, sing and laugh more freely. As lovely as the songs are, the growing impatience robs Bilbo of enjoyment.
The elves drink, and sing, and joke, and drink some more. And then, quite suddenly, like three extinguished candles, they fall asleep with faces resting on the table.
Cautiously, Bilbo jumps off a crate and has to take a moment to stretch his tingling legs. Tiptoeing to the hook, he reaches for the keys and curses elven height. A glance around doesn't yield a suitable stick or a convenient fireplace poker.
Of course not, Bilbo mouths and rolls his eyes. Unsheathing Sting, he hits the keyring. It sways. He tries again. The tip of his tongue peeks between his teeth as Bilbo lifts the metal ring. Slowly, carefully—The keys fall down with a loud clatter. The nameless guard stirs.
Kill him, the not-quite voice not quite whispers. Kill them. It will be easy. They won't feel a thing.
Bilbo's breath stutters. He tightens the grip on his sword. It is so easy, he thinks, to slip and fall into the trap of following advises of awful, malevolent forces.
Sting stabs into its sheath.
The keys in hand, Bilbo stalks out of the cellar. The elves quietly snore on.
-[break]-
He frees Thorin first. The dwarf is lying on a bed — a carved slab of stone protruding out of the wall that somehow conveys elegance and sophistication — when Bilbo creeps up to the door. The keys not so much jingle as click against each other before he muffles the sound, clenching them in a fist.
Thorin's eyes snap open. He props himself on his elbows. "Bilbo?"
"Yes, yes, it's me," Bilbo whispers, exposed but elated to be seen after so long in the world of shadows. With shaking hands, he turns the first key in the lock. It doesn't work. He tries the next.
"You didn't return," Thorin says, and Bilbo hears hints of worry in his even tone.
His fingers fumble the keys, and his tongue stumbles over the details as Bilbo explains his plan. Key number fourteen turns. The lock clicks.
"Hurry," Bilbo whispers, pulling the door open. He glances back at the corridor.
A sudden pressure on his shoulders startles him so badly, Bilbo is a hairbreadth away from jumping out of his skin. He flinches, whips his head around and gets a faceful of fur. The smell is a little musky, and Bilbo fleetingly wonders what kind of animal donated its pelt for Thorin's coat.
The pressure increases, pulling him flush against a firm and oh, so deliciously hot chest. Like sitting before a fireplace after a ramble on a late autumn morning. Oh. Thorin is hugging me. Again, he realises, and, desperate for contact, for a connection with another living being, Bilbo returns the embrace. For the first time in what he suspects is years, no matter, however briefly, Bilbo feels safe.
"I never doubted you, Master Baggins," Thorin murmurs, sending shivers down Bilbo's back. A fire kindles in his belly.
"Just Bilbo, please. Remember?" He looks up into the eyes the colour of a cloudless sky and realises that no, Thorin doesn't. Because for him, it never happened. Bilbo hasn't asked, not this time. The warmth sours; the fire dwindles to a spark, burns to ashes.
"We mustn't delay. The celebration must have started by now." And Bilbo slips out of Thorin's grasps and looks away, avoiding the prettiest blue eyes he's ever seen that now are filled with confusion.
They do move on. Through silent corridors, they sneak into another part of the prison. Scouting ahead, Bilbo checks that no one is on watch, then gestures to Thorin an all-clear.
Shouts of surprise and joy bounce off the walls as the Company greets their leader. Bilbo bites his lips. Bofur, whose cell is first, cheers him on, quite loudly at that. Squinting, Bilbo measures his girth. Concealing Thorin behind him will be as likely as a peach harvest in winter.
Before too long, however, Thorin commands silence. The volume drop to hushed whispers.
A click of the lock, and, pulling the keys off the ring, Bilbo divides them into three parts. Next, Kíli, then Nori join them, and soon, all members of the Company are free. The dwarves hug each other like they have been separated for leagues and years. Bilbo stays out of the way, on the stairs, listening for the light footsteps or melodic tones of elven voices that never come.
With as much stealth as thirteen dwarves can manage, which is surprisingly a lot, they reach the cellar undetected. Thorin directs everyone to hide inside the barrels and like a hawk watches them disappear one by one until he is the last dwarf left. He catches Bilbo's arm.
"What about you?"
Bilbo stops his frantic pacing. "I'll, I will be fine." He nods twice. "Now, get in. Get going."
And Thorin hesitates for just a moment, his hand a heavy but comforting weight.
"All right," he says. "I trust you will follow."
Bilbo swallows, caught in the endless blue. "I will." He licks his lips. "Always."
With a last lingering look, Thorin climbs in.
"All right," Bilbo mutters, wiping his sweaty palms on his breeches. "All right." And louder, "Hold your breath!"
Bilbo pulls the lever.
The floor inclines. The barrels tumble down.
Bilbo looks around. Too late he realises the flaw in his plan: there's no empty barrel left for him. The trapdoor is swinging back, and Bilbo hesitates just for a second.
An elf — the butler — snorts and lifts his head. A bleary grumble. And louder but farther — the sounds of alarm. That settles it. Taking a deep breath, Bilbo dives in, falling, falling, falling into the rushing river.
He hits the surface with a hard impact. Ice-cold water scalds his skin and freezes the air in his lungs. He goes under.
No, no, no, tolls the bell in his head as Bilbo struggles to breach the surface. His arms pinwheel the water, but nothing seems to change. In the darkness of the underground cave, blind and helplessly lost, Bilbo panics. A scream trapped in his chest works its way free. Stupidly, Bilbo opens his mouth, but his voice is muted, and only bubbles escape his mouth.
Someone catches the back of his coat, tugs him upwards. Coughing and sputtering, Bilbo blinks the water out of his eyes and clings to the edge of a barrel.
"I've got you," Thorin says, holding him close.
The current carries them forward. The alarm bells — real and imagined — continue to ring.
Bilbo shivers. His teeth are chattering. His fingers spasm on the slippery wood.
"Waterfall!" someone ahead screams.
And suddenly, the river plunges, and Bilbo's stomach goes along with it. A moment of free-fall. The barrels hit the water and bump into each other, dislodging Bilbo's grip. He goes under, but someone else — Balin — catches his arms, pulls him out. Bilbo holds on.
The river narrows, tall boulders form its jagged walls, and the currents are only speeding up. The barrels hit the boulders, again, again, and — one wrong turn — it's not a barrel getting hit. It's Bilbo.
His back in agony, he grunts and grits his teeth.
The river rushes on, rotates the barrels, and cascades. And Bilbo's fingers slacken, lose their purchase.
"Another one!" cries Nori.
The fall is longer and, despite the warning, no less unexpected. Bilbo hits the water, tries to swim, but the currents are faster still. He plunges underwater once again. The river goes over rapids, treating him like a dog playing with a rag-doll, throwing him over rocks and into a boulder. He hits it with his head, and pain explodes across his skull. The water fills his mouth, pours into his nostrils—
Bilbo opens his eyes, warm, dry, and safe, and at his home, again.
His breath is quick, his lungs are burning with a remembered need for air.
Drowning, Bilbo decides, is far from the worst way to go. Top five of the best, actually, he thinks and laughs, and laughs until his throat is sore. He feels like sobbing would be more appropriate.
Instead, he laughs some more and keeps his eyes shut — this way, he doesn't have to acknowledge the moisture on his cheeks. It is just water. Ha-ha-ha. Just. Water.
He spends the summer visiting the Stoors in the Marish. He fishes, practises with a bow, and learns how to swim.
A.N. Dwarven insults [gurnvos'comys - tree humper; rukhs shirumund caragu - beardless orc dung] are from WattPad.
