Bilbo gets the dwarves out of the cells with no complications. It takes some effort, but he manages to find and steal their weapons. The elves chase them, and the orcs attack. As before, Bilbo climbs onto the shore to pull the lever. He is quick and careful about it, weaving between fighters who tower over him at twice his height. The grate comes up, and the barrels rush ahead, bumping along. Jumping into the river, Bilbo is prepared for the worst, but Nori is waiting for him. As soon as Bilbo reaches the barrel, Nori lets go of the wall and pulls him in. It is a tight squeeze, but Bilbo lost a lot of his hobbitish plumpness. Pressed back to back with one of his close friends who still regards him as a stranger, Bilbo tries his best not to impede his movements. Once, throwing a knife, Nori elbows him in the back of his head and mutters an apology, but that's the worst of it.

Somehow, they make it past the orcs. With proper weapons, the dwarves kill a good portion of their pursuers before the river flow carries them too far and too fast to follow, and Bilbo hopes the elves will finish the rest, but with his luck, it isn't a realistic expectation. The river reaches a shallow, and paddling to the shore, they climb onto the rocks. Nobody is dead or injured. Bilbo can't quite believe it. He keeps expecting a sudden attack, his nerves on edge. It seems the dwarves feel the same. Soaked to the bone, shivering and tired, they are on high alert.

A pebble crunches under a boot, and instantly, the whole Company bristles with weapons.

"Who are you?" a Man says. Standing on an outcrop with an arrow primed for release, he aims at Ori. Scowling, Dwalin steps before the young dwarf, ready to intercept the arrow with a swing of his axe.

Despite being outnumbered, the Man does not relax the bowstring. He must believe himself an excellent marksman, on par with elves, for such a confident stance. Diplomacy, however, works much better, which Balin hurries to prove.

"Excuse me, but that barge over there," Balin says, climbing on the outcrop and nearing the Man, sharp eyes taking in all the details. "You wouldn't be for hire?"

"Who's asking?"

"We are just travellers. Simple merchants going to the Iron Hills."

The Man levels Balin with a long look and finally slackens the bow. Wordlessly, he goes to his barge and starts uploading the barrels. Balin follows.

Bilbo steps out of the scraggly bushes, hiding his throwing knife. Nori catches his eyes. They nod.

The bargeman, meanwhile, points at the pits and scratches and other imperfections the barrels acquired in the fight. "I know where these barrels came from. Nobody enters Lake-town without the Master's say-so," he says, rolling them onto his boat. "And if you are in trouble with the elves, he'll never permit your stay. He won't jeopardise their trade."

"Enough with the niceties," Dwalin growls, coming forward. "How much?"

Narrowing his eyes, the Man names a sum.

"We do not have that many coins," Thorin says, staring the bargeman down, and Bilbo thinks the Man is going to refuse. Balin steps in.

"With us right now," he says. "However, we have other items for trade." They haggle and settle on a lower price and a wooden sparrow with flapping wings Bofur made at Beorn's. The bargeman, whose name is Bard, directs them to sit beside the barrels. The Company huddles together — to gather payment and for warmth. They still fall short.

"Glóin?" Thorin says.

"What? You promised me riches, and what I get? All this Quest of yours has done so far is bleed me dry," the dwarf complains, hugging himself and puffing up his chest like a cockerel spoiling for a fight. But then, the barge clears a passage between two high walls, and one by one, they all look up at the view behind Gloin's back. Bilbo follows suit. In the distance, clear as the mist allows, the Lonely Mountain rises above the water, its snowy peak lost to the clouds.

"Oh," Glóin exhales. "Take it! Take it all!" Blindly, he pulls a coin purse and tosses it onto the deck, his eyes on Erebor. "I do not need it anymore! This" — he points at the mountain, and his hand is trembling — "this is worth it."

It must be, Bilbo thinks. This all can't be for nothing.

They sail in silence. The air grows cold, colder, freezing. Snow starts to fall. A snowflake lands on Bilbo's face, waking him. It is a beautiful, wintry day, and Bilbo would like to enjoy it, but his wet clothes are frozen stiff. His teeth are chattering. Squashed between Thorin and Bombur to warm his sides, his feet tucked under him, Bilbo prays to survive long enough to actually reach Lake-town.

"Quickly, into the barrels," Bard's demanding voice chases the drowsiness away.

"What?" Óin asks, aiming his horn at the bargeman.

Pressing his lips into a tight line, Bard snaps, "Climb into the barrels if you value both our freedoms."

Into the barrels they go. Bilbo squeezes in with Ori. Time passes, minute after minute, and the anticipation that makes a heart beat faster gives way to boredom and tiredness again. Ori radiates enough heat to warm a bathhouse, and Bilbo's eyelids slide shut, sleep taking hold of him despite the uncomfortable position. The barge slows down, then stops. Bilbo's head jerks up. He hears unfamiliar voices. Footsteps. Silence. Then a waterfall of fish pours on their heads.

The dwarves shout in protest, but Bard barks, "Silence or you will alert the guards!" and they subside. The journey goes on, this time with fins and scales cooling Bilbo's skin. Finally, the barge slows down.

"Halt! Goods inspection," Bilbo hears. A stop.

He strains his ears, but the Men talk at regular volume, their words indistinct hum, and what he understands is this: they've reached Lake-town. Now that the Lonely Mountain is closer than ever, Bilbo expects to die. At any moment, he thinks, a guard will shout in alarm or poke our barrel with a spear. But nothing goes wrong. Their barge comes through the gate and glides into the town.

"Quickly, climb out," Bard urges. "My house is watched. You'll have to come in another way."

They suffer the indignity of the disgustingly unsanitary way into Bard's house.

What do the people here think, using the same lake as both the well and outhouse?! Bilbo wonders, quietly horrified. How are they still alive? Every faunt in the Shire knows not to dirty the drinking waters. He puts that thought away lest he makes himself sick.

Bard's children — three tweens, by hobbitish reckoning — welcome the Company to their home. The middle one, Sigrid, provides them with blankets, and soon, Bilbo succumbs to sleep beside the fire — his first proper rest without the ring.

He wakes up to Thorin shaking him awake.

"The dawn nears." Thorin's face is two handspans away. The fireplace was banked for the night, and in the embers' light, Thorin's eyes are deep and dark. "The bargeman came through on our agreement — we have a boat. We must go now." His gaze falls, stopping on Bilbo's lips, before he steps away, offering Bilbo a hand up.

Only when Thorin releases his grip and moves on does Bilbo start to breathe. He rubs his face and sighs. His clothes dried while he rested, but his cheeks are too warm to explain with the heat of the fireplace.

The evening before, Bombur helped Sigrid in the kitchen, and so with a bowl of thin but spicy soup and a chunk of grey, sandy bread to slake their hunger, the Company gathers their supplies — worn but sturdy packs filled with food and necessities. Led by Bard, they sneak out, thankfully, using the proper entrance this time. A Men-sized boat is moored behind the house. While large at first glance, it barely fits the Company.

"Thank you," Thorin says, clasping the bargeman's arm as dwarves one by one step into the boat.

"Don't make me regret it," Bard replies. His severe face, prematurely aged by a hard life, settles deeper into a scowl etched into the lines between his brows.

Guiding the boat through the channels amidst chunks of ice, Bombur and Dori row away, leaving Lake-town behind. Lit with rare lanterns, it gleams like an ember floating on the dark surface of the water. Bilbo regrets not seeing it in the day. It is built on stilts, in a lake. That's not something you see every day.

They reach the shore in the weak morning light and chilling mist.

"Erebor." Thorin sighs, looking at the mountain with longing. "We are almost home. Come!"

"Maybe we should take a break," Bofur suggests. "It's a long way up, and the lads are tired."

"No time to waste." Thorin quells any protests with a glare. "Durin's day is upon us."

While they climb up the base of the mountain to reach an overlook, the sun comes out in full and burns off the fog, revealing the scorched ruins of a city lying on the other side of the valley below with stark clarity.

Thorin pauses for a moment only to spare a glance. "Dale. What's left of it." He makes to move past.

"Wait," Bilbo says. "Aren't we to wait for Gandalf here? He said not to venture farther without him." He bites his lips. There's no way for Gandalf to reach them in time, not when the wizard always comes to Mirkwood a week late. Still, Bilbo feels caution is important now.

"Do you see him anywhere?" Thorin demands, gesturing at the rocky plains behind and the road ahead. "We don't have time for his wandering ways. Daylight is wasting." There's a fire in his eyes, a desperate, dangerous sort of conviction. Without a second's delay, he turns to the path and continues on.

Swallowing the unease that manifests as a lump in his throat, Bilbo follows.

At midday, they come to the feet of a gigantic statue carved in the side of the mountain. The dwarf's features — a strong, prominent nose, long hair, proud countenance — bear a striking resemblance to Thorin.

The Company trails to a stop.

"Durin the Deathless," Bofur says. "Fitting."

"Look for the path. It must be here, somewhere close," Thorin says, and the dwarves spread out.

Bilbo doesn't move. He stares at the statue, studies the details — the armour, helmet, axe. Narrowing his eyes, he tilts his head and—there! Right at the sole of a massive boot what at first seems an ornamental detail becomes the start of a staircase.

"I found it! Right here!" Bilbo shouts, pointing and waving the Company over. Thorin reaches him first.

"You have keen eyes, Master Baggins," he says, a giddy smile on his lips. He clasps Bilbo's shoulder but barely spares him a second's look, his eye's on the mountain.

Bilbo tells himself he isn't disappointed in the lack of a more personal acknowledgement. He is not. He squashes the part of him that insists a hug would have been nice.

The climb is tedious. At first, the staircases zig-zag. The steps are hard and narrow and cold under Bilbo's feet, but they are smooth and do not poke his soles with sharp edges. The dwarves are of hardier stock, they do not tire easily. The same, however, isn't true for gentlehobbits. While Bilbo's recent life has seen to increase in his endurance, it isn't unlimited.

They climb and climb, the sun journeying around the sky, and still, they go up and up without rest. Bilbo's breath comes out in huffs. His tunic and coat both stick to his back. His knees ache. He isn't the only one at the end of his tether, but step by step, they climb, tenacity prevailing over common sense.

The light changes from midday-bright to richer colours of an early evening. The stairs do not end.

But finally, he sees it — the last ladder, beside the statue's shoulder. The platform with the door must rest beside its head. But—one mistake. That's all it takes for Bilbo to start over.

He steps too close to the edge. A loose rock tumbles from beneath his foot, and Bilbo falls backwards, arms spinning, fruitlessly attempting to catch hold of something, anything. He falls, tumbling down the steps like a sack of flour, hitting his back, and arms, and legs, and head, and— Consciousness deserts him after the third turn over.

Half the Shire must hear Bilbo's frustrated scream.

"Are you kidding me?! I can't believe it!" he shouts upon waking up. "I was this close!" He holds his thumb and forefinger a hair's width apart to illustrate his point and shakes his hand. He hits the mattress with his palms and screams again, resting his forehead against his knees. He sits like this for one more minute and then stands up.

"This time, I will make it all the way to the damned dragon!" Bilbo swears. His eyes feverish-bright, his lips — a bloodless line.

Like many times before, away he goes on a Quest, and everything repeats with minor variations until they leave Mirkwood behind, once more in barrels: an orc shoots Fíli in the arm. Still, they escape with everyone alive. Once out of the barrels, Óin treats Fíli's wound, washing it as best he can with river water.

"The arrow went straight through, but orcs are known for using poison." Clucking his tongue and frowning, Óin bandages the wound with strips of linen he always keeps in his pockets. He shakes his head. "Nothing else to be done now. Let's hope there's a good market in Lake-town."

The bargeman finds them then and aims at Fíli. The Company closes ranks around him.

"Don't do any sudden movements," Bilbo says, Sting touching the Man's back with just enough pressure to suggest a quick thrust will pierce his kidney. Bard startles, stiffens, and complies. As Balin steps forward, Bilbo retreats. He doesn't notice the admiring nor speculative glances.

Negotiations for the voyage go underway, but Bilbo is prepared. He opens the seams of his coat with quick slashes of a throwing knife and shakes out enough money to double the Company's combined resources.

"Come now," Bilbo says to Bard, meeting the Man's eyes. "Even if the elves have any objections to our presence in Lake-town — which is a big if, might I add — we won't be there long enough to cause any trouble. We'll leave tomorrow, at first light. With any luck, you won't hear of us again."

For several long minutes, Bard regards him with a shrewd look. "I've heard of Halflings. The word is your people don't usually leave your land." The way he says it invites an explanation.

"I have my reasons," Bilbo says evenly, and Bard relents.

"All right, we will do it your way."

-[break]-

Flurries of large, picturesque snowflakes pour over Lake-town, masking the shabbiness of the buildings. The people are another matter. They bear signs of their taxing way of life plain for all to see. With wind-bitten, hollowed cheeks and rough, calloused hands, in patched-up coats and shawls, they claw the means to survive out of the icy waters.

The barge stops at the tollgate, money changes hands, and they are waved through, but a stooped Man in all black spring out of the outpost before they pass.

"Not so fast. Bringing trouble with you, I see?" He glances past Bard with unabashed glee. "The Master has had enough of you disturbing the peace! Now you've done it. Guards, seize him. The Master wants to have a word. And bring these vagabonds along!"

Armed Men encircle them. It is an ambush laid for Bard — the Men are few, and if the dwarves just so choose, they'd overpower them easily. But Thorin shakes his head — no — and the Company subsides. The order to disarm meets stony glowers and growled refusals and is promptly dropped.

"Wait, why are you arresting him?" Bilbo asks, the first to come to Bard's defence. "He did nothing wrong."

The Man in black, a worm if ever Bilbo saw one, slinks forward. "He's a bargeman with a licence for carrying empty barrels. He doesn't have permission to carry passengers, now does he?"

"There's a licence needed for that now? Since when?" Bard demands.

"Since the Master said so," the Man in black says and smiles, baring all his equine teeth.

Surrounded by guards, in silence, they go to a square with the largest house of Lake-town.

The smarmy attendant — perhaps, adviser — slinks to the Master's side and whispers in his ear as soon as the corpulent Man steps out. Of said Master of Lake-town, the less said, the better, such an unpleasant Man he is. Next to his subjects, his appearance — his oily gaze, be-ringed fingers, and rich clothing — is like a jig on a funeral.

Thorin steps forward before the Master can assign the blame. "You must forgive the bargeman his transgression. His good nature won over his sense — he couldn't leave distressed travellers to their misfortune."

"And who are you to speak to me in such a manner?" the Master sneers, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he squints at Thorin with suspicion.

Thorin breaths in deep. His head is held high and proud as he announces his name and heritage, and title.

And Bard turns pale, his lips thin into a fine line. He whirls to face the dwarven king.

"I know what you plan. You can't enter that Mountain. You have no right!"

Thorin turns his head and measuredly, calmly says, "I have the only right."

He makes a speech to the expanding crowd, promising recompense and an alliance. The Master's eyes light up with greed. The way he looks at Thorin reminds Bilbo of Lobelia sizing up his silver teaspoons and his great grandmother's prized cookbooks.

"Have you forgotten what became of Dale?" Bard asks.

"Ah, Dale," the Master drawls. "How good of you to remember the city that your ancestor failed to protect!"

"Arrow after arrow he shot at the dragon," the attendant supplies, "and missed, every one of them."

Bard shuts his eyes, expression pained. "Not every one. One loosened a scale," he murmurs, but his head is bowed. He knows that he lost, still—

"Have you forgotten the prophecy?" Bard asks in a voice void of hope. And Bilbo's heartbeat speeds up, dread filling him to the core as, louder, Bard recites,

"The lord of the silver fountains, the King of carven stone, the King beneath the mountain shall come into his own! And the bell shall ring in gladness at the Mountain King's return, but all shall fail in sadness, and the lake will shine and burn."

"Gladness," the Master says, latching onto the word with speed lest the crowd's mood turns sour. "Gladness, indeed. Unto you, I say, welcome! Welcome to Lake-town, the dwarves of Erebor!"

They follow the Master into a tavern, leaving the prophesied tragedy and its teller behind. The food and drink are in abundance — the Master, it seems, has taken to heart Thorin's promise of shared wealth.

Throughout the evening, Bilbo worries. The dwarves, so set on following their own prophecy, disregarded Bard's words without a second's thought. He, however, can't forget them. They sound in his mind in rare quiet moments, in lulls of conversations and breaks between songs.

He watches the Company eat and drink their fill, ale, and beer, and wine flowing like rivers. The dwarves dance among and with the hardy Lake-town folks, all but a few. The first is Thorin. Silent but seemingly content, the dwarven king sits beside the Master at the grandest table. His chin is resting on his fist, he listens to the Master's words, his mind elsewhere.

And at another table is Fíli, whose skin is pallid and greying, marred with red splotches, and Kíli sitting at his side, trying to coax his brother to take a sip of broth. As soon as the matter of their possible imprisonment was put to rest, Óin treated Fíli's arm with Mannish medicine, but Bilbo is doubtful it helped.

The evening goes on and turns into the night. The candles melt and are replaced. Unable to resist exhaustion, Bilbo hugs his knees and falls asleep where he is, too used to dozing off in corners.

He dreams of fire on the lake — the burning water, melting ice; the sky reflects it with red-orange flashes. He wakes uneasy and ill-rested. His neck is aching and left leg asleep. Around him are mostly empty tables — the mugs with dregs, the crusts and bones, and one half-eaten pie. And, Bilbo notices, he didn't fall asleep alone. Bofur is snoring on the floor, Bombur is on a bench beside the princes. The rest are missing.

Before he can start searching, Dwalin comes for them.

"You're awake, good." He nods at Bilbo, shakes Kíli's shoulder and almost stomps on Bofur's hand.

"Wake up, you lazy sod! We've gotta get provisions."

"'m up," Bofur mumbles. Dwalin snorts, grabs a mug of water and splashes it onto Bofur's face. The miner bolts upright.

"What did ya do it for?"

Crossing his arms over his chest, Dwalin smiles. "Now you're up. We've gotta go to the market."

"Fíli is burning up," Kíli says, pale and withdrawn beside his feverish brother, whose bandages are bloodstained.

"I'll find Óin," Bilbo says, all aches and discomfort of hard sleep forgotten. He dashes outside along with Dwalin, Bofur not far behind. They do meet Óin reasonably quickly, and he requests they find Kingsfoil.

"Kingsfoil?" a merchant says when asked. "Why would I sell weeds? We feed it to the pigs."

Through narrow streets and wide boulevards, they search for it, but there aren't many places for plants to grow. All seems hopeless. Perhaps, they'll need to go to the shore — the road leading to Mirkwood can't be a barren wasteland. But finally, Bofur calls, "Found it!"

He brandishes a bunch of slightly chewed stems crowned with tiny white flowers. Exchanging lightning-quick grins, there and gone, they hurry back and at the door meet Thorin.

The dwarven king forgoes greetings. "Gather your things. We are leaving."

"But what about Fíli?" Bilbo ask. Surely, he can't mean—but no, he does.

"He's staying. We can't afford to bring him along."

Bilbo blinks. "But—"

"But nothing," Thorin cuts him off. "He'd be nothing but a burden." He doesn't see it, but behind his back, Kíli's face falls, his shoulders slump and curve forward.

"I'm staying, too. My place is with my patients," Óin says from, true to word, the chair beside Fíli.

As if borrowing the healer's hearing affliction, Thorin commands, "Come quickly. We mustn't delay any longer," and shoulders past Bofur.

Inside, Bilbo finds a small pack left for him — someone must have purchased it in the market. He checks on Fíli, but the dwarf is unconscious. His unwrapped wound is seeping dark, almost black blood.

"This isn't good," Bilbo murmurs.

"No, lad, it is not," Óin says, grounding Kingsfoil. The pestle scrapes the bottom of the mortar. "With luck, he'll pull through." He sighs. "Go. You shouldn't disobey the king's command."

Bilbo glances at white-faced, miserable Kíli, who holds his brother's hand, and at the tavern, empty but for a Woman cleaning up the tables. "He isn't my king." He hands the pouch with all of his remaining money to the younger prince. "You will need to pay for accommodations."

Reluctantly, with heavy a heart and troubled mind, he leaves.

The townsfolk have come along with Master of Lake-town to bid them farewell. A troupe of musicians heralds the Master's speech.

Bilbo doesn't listen. Instead, he watches Thorin: the grim determination of Mirkwood, the softer side he showed there, all gone, replaced with jittery anticipation. The Master's speech winds down, and the troupe starts an upbeat melody. The townsfolk cheer, hopeful smiles lighting tired faces. In the crowd, Bard's condemning eyes watch them from a mirthless face, still and sorrowful like an ice carving. Bilbo bites his tongue.

Dwalin and Dori work the oars, taking their boat away. The cluster of wooden buildings gets smaller with the distance. The clouds part. Awash in reddish sunlight, Lake-town floats amid the splashes of red-orange. Bilbo looks away.

At the base of the Mountain, Bilbo pretends to look for the stairs and is, of course, the one to find it, and up they go. They climb, again without rest, with Thorin in the lead as their relentless leader. Bilbo's legs ache, his throat is parched, he is exhausted, but as the last staircase comes into view, he clings to the mountain. Carefully, slowly, he makes it to the ledge. He made it.

"The door. It must be here," Thorin says, studying a blank expanse of wall. "We have a key. There must be a lock. Nori."

And Nori starts the search. He listens with his ear pressed to the stone while knocking with a spoon. "It's here," he confirms.

The light waning; the dwarves grow agitated.

"It's almost over," Thorin says. "Look again." They all search for the elusive keyhole, but even as the last sun rays shine upon the wall, the lock is not revealed. Nothing. A shocked, disbelieving silence spreads among them.

"I'm sorry, Thorin." Balin pats his shoulder. "We tried."

Thorin hangs his head. He stays still, frozen by the crushing disappointment.

"No." Bilbo shakes his head. "This can't be it. Our journey couldn't have been for nothing. We've come so far, and you are giving up?"

"What's here left to do? We failed. This door has powerful enchantments — there is no way to open it by force." Heavily, as if the weight of Erebor itself is put upon his shoulders, Thorin turns to the stairs. "Let's go. The way down won't be easier."

As the dwarves start the arduous descent, Bilbo stays behind. He won't give up. He didn't live through all the deaths and perils of countless journeys just for a paltry slab of rock to stop him. No, a million times no. If not the blasted secret door, he'll find a way to Smaug through the front gate. He saw it from a distance half-destroyed. He will crawl to the blasted dragon if necessary, and he will feed it with the ring. Who knows, perhaps two evils will cancel each other.

Lost in thoughts, he stares at the wall. A shaft of moonlight falls across it and—Bilbo's eyes widen as right before him a patch of stone sinks in, revealing a keyhole.

"Thorin, come back," he says, staring at it lest it disappears. "It's here. The last light of Durin's day is moonlight." He glances over his shoulder. "Where's the key?" A glint of metal on the very edge of the platform catches his gaze.

"Of course," Bilbo mutters. He falls to his knees and approaches it this way. No need to tempt his luck. The key secured in his fist, he scoots back. A deep breath in.

The key turns. A click, a change in pressure, and with the sound of grinding gears, the door pops open. The passage is pitch-black — a yawning maw of an unknown beast with damp, stale breath.

He looks back. No one has returned. Bilbo is alone.

Steeling his resolve, he marches in. He makes his way by feel, hands trailing along the wall. His fingers find recesses and raised lines — it must be decorated. The smooth, cold floor under his cautious feet is slightly wet. His footsteps echo. He doesn't know how long he walks, but at some point, lighting changes, and Bilbo steps into a dimly lit cavern. He's inside the Erebor, at last.

The treasury is the vastest room he has ever seen. Mountains of coins topped with coloured rocks and jewellery lie as far as the eye can reach. No hint of scales, however. The dragon must be sleeping, and Bilbo needs to find and wake him up. His heartbeat speeds up. This is it, he thinks and jumps, and lands on coins.

Sharp edges prick the soles of his feet. He walks, then climbs. The coins shift and clink — he doesn't care to be careful or silent. A rock gets underfoot, and Bilbo stumbles. He curses as an avalanche of gold shift the unsteady ground. And when the coins stop, the silence doesn't last. The noise is such as if the mountain itself wakes up. Two steams of air send the coins tumbling, revealing giant nostrils. The ground moves and heaves. And Bilbo can only stare as the gold rains down. A frantic thought flies through his mind: How big exactly is this dragon?!

A snout rises first. It alone is as tall as three hobbits standing on each other. Bilbo can't look away. His knees grow weak. The dragon's head is even taller than its snout. The rest of him — enormous, beyond compare.

"Thief," the dragon says, his voice is deep and rumbling.

"I-I," Bilbo stutters. He licks his lips and swallows, tries again. "I am no thief, oh Smaug the Magnificent."

"Are you not, indeed?" The dragon raises to full height. He sniffs the air. "Then why did you come if not to steal?"

"To witness your perfection. Tales of your beauty and might have reached far, but hearing about you, I knew I needed to see you for myself."

"And do I measure up?" The dragon sounds idly curious.

"Oh, yes, you outdid my expectations, oh Smaug the Stupendous."

"Hm." The dragon tilts his head. "For a lier, you are polite. You stink of dwarves. Where are they? Cowering outside my kingdom, too scared to show themselves?"

"Dwarves?" Bilbo's hand drops into his pocket. "I don't know anything about any dwarves. My journey is mine alone."

The dragon sighs. "Very well, cling to your lies. It doesn't matter. Alone you say? Then you will die alone."

Steam is coming out of the dragon's nose, his chest and throat are glowing like embers, and Bilbo wants to faint. A furnace with wings, Bofur had called him. As Smaug rises on his hind legs, Bilbo dives to the side while putting on the ring. A stream of fire hits the treasures.

"Where are you, would-be thief?" The dragon moves, steps forward. "I smell you." His voice insidious and sly, he says, "Do not be shy, show yourself." A long exhale. "I smell gold on you."

Swallowing, Bilbo scrambles to hide behind a column. He is not careful enough. Each of his steps leaves coins shifting, tumbling in his wake.

"A-ha, here you are," the dragon says and spits a gust of fire.

Turns out, a dragon can not, in fact, melt the damn ring. It is, in a way, a good thing, for Bilbo is roasted along with it. He wakes up with the dual feeling of disappointment and relief.

"That could have gone better." He sighs and rubs his face, trying to forget the phantom scent of cooking meat that turns his stomach. It's time, Bilbo decides, to ask how to actually get rid of the accursed thing.

Soon, Gandalf visits, and the Quest restarts. There's no roast at the dinner table.

He travels with the Company to Rivendell, and there Bilbo waits for the Company to leave. He stays behind. Two days have passed when he approaches Lord Elrond at the head of the dining table and is invited to join him.

Bilbo climbs onto a chair made for a person of a taller race. His feet don't reach the ground.

"My lord," he starts when goblets have been emptied and topped trice. The elves partake the wine freely, but Bilbo doesn't. "Say, hypothetically speaking, if you needed to dispose of a magical item." He pauses, gauging the reaction: a piqued interest, no recognition. "An item of some power." Still nothing. "Clothed in a simple form. Perhaps—" his tongue darts to wet his lower lip "—a ring?"

Lord Elrond stills. His pupils constrict and then dilate so far, Bilbo fancies he can see in them his reflection.

"A ring."

"A ring," Bilbo agrees. He sips his tea, puts the delicate porcelain cup onto the saucer — a quiet clink. "Mind you, this is just a mental exercise, you understand."

He isn't worried.

"Say, hypothetically," Lord Elrond starts, "is it a ring no simple means can harm?"

"Just so."

"Then I would urge its finder to caution. There was a ring thought lost, but if it's ever found, the only way to destroy it would be the fires of Orodruin where it was forged."

"I thank you, my lord, for indulging my curiosity."

"And Bilbo?" Lord Elrond waits for Bilbo to meet his eyes — unfathomable, ageless, troubled. "If that ring were found or is found in the future, I would like its bearer to keep in mind that he can always find help with us. He needs only to ask."

Bilbo nods. "I will remember."

He finishes his tea. The blend is exquisite — light, fruity, and warming — a hug on a summer morning made into a liquid. He'll miss it in the days to come. He puts the empty cup aside and, wishing his host a good night, retires to his room.

The cycle is about to restart.