AN For the full experience, play I See Fire about halfway through the text.


The Company reaches Lake-town sailing on a barge. Thankfully, through Bilbo's foresight and effort, nobody is injured this time. Again, they are led to the Master. Dwalin speaks up in their defence, announcing Thorin's name. Whispers of a prophecy spread like a wildfire, but Bard's warnings fall on deaf ears. Remembering the dragon, the heat of his breath, the stench of burning meat, Bilbo can't look at the bargeman. If the dragon comes to Lake-town, it will ignite like kindling.

The celebration in the tavern is rich in promises and toasts to shared wealth and cooperation, and though tired, Bilbo cannot sleep. Unease gnaws at his stomach. He dozes for a few short hours when the merriment winds down and dreams of mountains of scalding gold, cascading down, burning, burying him underneath its weight. He wakes up with a gasp, ill-rested.

As before, the townsfolk send them off with well-wishes. At the base of the mountain, the Company searches for the stairs, which Bilbo finds once more. He endures the arduous climb without complaint. His fast heartbeat he can write off as the exertion. The stairs end, the daylight wanes and disappears. They search in vain for the keyhole, but, of course, the sunlight doesn't show it.

"Wait," Bilbo says as the dwarves give up and begin descending. "The last light of Durin's day. I think it is a riddle. The day will end at midnight. Just wait for the moon to rise."

The moonlight shines. The keyhole is revealed.

"Quickly!" Balin says. "Before it disappears."

And under the expectant gazes of the Company, Thorin Oakenshield, the rightful King Under the Mountain, unlocks the door to his kingdom. Reluctantly, the door slides open.

Thorin's breath shudders out of his chest in a great exhale. He looks at him with such warmth in his eye, it steals Bilbo's own breath away.

"Thank you, Bilbo."

Bilbo nods. "This is it." He flexes his fingers. "My part of the Quest. What—" He clears his throat, his heart beats too fast now, it almost hurts "—what should I look for?"

"You don't have to. You've done so much for us. Without you, we'd never make it here. We would still be rotting away in that accursed dungeons. If the dragon is alive—" Thorin says, but Bilbo interrupts him.

"I choose to see this through." And Thorin nods, accepting.

"Look for the most wondrous gem you've ever seen. It shines like starlight, like ten thousand sparks of white radiance, shot with glints of a rainbow."

"Right. Right. Wondrous starlight and rainbows. Got it."

Thorin hugs him, pressing Bilbo to his chest. Reluctant to let go, he whispers something in Khuzdul. Perhaps, it is a prayer. They part. And Bilbo walks into the darkness. His every step, he feels as if his feet have turned into logs, too heavy and unyielding.

Pull yourself together, he thinks, it's just a dragon. You've been through so much worse. But fears aren't rational. No matter how many times he died or how horrible his deaths, there is just something primal, an instinct wired into the marrow of his bones that scream to turn away and hide, to not get closer. He doesn't think. Instead, he counts footsteps. On step one hundred fifteen, Bilbo reaches the treasury.

Do not wake up the dragon. Just find the Arkenstone and bring it to the dwarves. Should be easy.

There's only one problem: there are too many blasted rocks on square footage. The piles of gold and riches stretch wider than the Great Smials of Tuckborough. It will take ages to sift through, and anyway, how will he know the Arkenstone from all the other gems? He picks the two closest to him. They look the same — just shiny rocks — and Bilbo puts them down.

"Impossible," he mutters but starts searching, careful not to disturb the coins. And still, Smaug awakes and rises in an avalanche of gold. Bilbo's skin turns clammy; his heart stutters in his chest as he forgets to breathe and freezes. The dragon speaks.

"Come out, thief. I know you are here. I smell the dwarves on you. Did Thorin Oakenshield send you for his precious jewel? Of course, he did, do not deny it. I'm almost tempted to let you have it. Let you watch it take his mind as it has done to his grandfather, let greed consume him, hollow him out." The dragon sighs. It sounds wistful. "Ah, but I do not stand for thievery."

As Bilbo doesn't want to be roasted for the second time, he talks and flatters and prevaricates, but in the end, he doesn't have a choice but use the ring. The dragon fire hits the gold beside him, heating it in an instant. Pain scalds his feet. They start to blister, but Bilbo runs, and stumbles in his rush, and falls.

A rock about the size of his two fists lies right before him. It shines with an inner light. This must be it, the Arkenstone, Bilbo decide. It looks all right, but not enchanting or mesmerising, or even all that pretty. He doesn't understand what's all the fuss about, but it is big. Maybe its value is in its size? He stuffs it in his pocket and keeps crawling away from the dragon, whose every step feels like the earth is trembling.

The dwarves rush inside to his rescue, distracting Smaug, and then they run in different directions.

Thorin reaches Bilbo, grabs his shoulders in a cruel grip, and looks him up and down, his hair wild and gaze too hard and glassy. "Did you find it?"

"What?" Bilbo asks, uncomprehending.

"The Arkenstone, did you find it?" Thorin demands. Dread creeps over Bilbo, becoming all he feels.

"We have a bigger problem at the moment, Thorin. There's a dragon after us." He pulls away and turns to leave, but Thorin's sword is in the way, the point pricking Bilbo's coat.

"Did you find the Arkenstone, burglar?"

He doesn't recognise his voice. It can't belong to Thorin.

Smaug's words ring in his head, crooning of madness in the line of Durin. Bilbo's tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. With shaking hands, he tries to push the blade aside, but Thorin keeps it steady. "Thorin."

The dragon interrupts their stand-off. At least, he's good for something.

But then there is no time for thoughts. Instead, there's a dash across the mountain as Smaug catches a column with his tail, and it collapses. They split, but soon enough, Bilbo reunites with the whole Company. The room is a dead end. It is a tomb. The passage forward had collapsed, and those who sought a way out died here of starvation — dwarrowdams, faunts, infants. The mummified, desiccated corpses stare at him with empty eye sockets, scream silent screams with gaping mouths. They lie together under a thick blanket of cobwebs and dust. Bilbo swallows, hard and painful, but Thorin only spares them a glance, he is so focused on planning. And something in Bilbo's chest twinges, far stronger than the stitch in his side.

The plan is mad: the dwarves want to lure Smaug into the great forge and drown him in gold.

"It won't work," Bilbo says, shaking his head. "He's a dragon. No heat can harm him, and the gold itself? If anything, it will just make his hide thicker."

"You've a better idea?" Dwalin asks. "We are all ears."

But he doesn't.

"We have to try." Thorin's eyes are desperate and wilder by the minute. "I refuse to die cowering and clawing at my throat for air in my last moments."

And so the plan gains traction. The execution is flawless. A golden Thrór meets Smaug and collapses in a cascade of liquid gold that turns the dragon into a shiny statue, just for a moment. Then Smaug shakes himself, and gold slides off his hide in golden clouds.

It fails, as Bilbo has predicted. Instead, it makes the dragon angry. And even worse, the dwarves slip a careless remark between their taunts, and not a moment later, Smaug takes off for Lake-town, departing with a stream of fire.

"And the lake will shine and burn," Bilbo murmurs. "What have we done." What a disaster.

Bilbo stands up, dusts off his pants, comes out from behind a column. He isn't sure what to do. Should they run to Lake-town and try to fight the dragon there? They'll never make it in time to be of any use and, likely, will only find a ruin.

"The worm will return," says Thorin. He stares through the pieces of the broken gate left in the dragon's wake. Gusts of flames light up the night sky farther and farther away. "We must prepare."

Which means they find the armoury and don proper armour as everyone still has what weapons they started out with. For Bilbo, it means a gifted mithril shirt. His Thorin makes a brief come back, but all too soon, he disappears, and in his place is an uncaring stranger wearing beloved face insists they watch for Smaug's return. They see him fall into the lake. The dragon does not rise.

"He is dead. Smaug is dead," Bilbo whispers, staring at the only bright spot left — the burning island floating in the black canvas of merged lake and sky. Blood rushes in his ears, deafening him to the outside world. The prophecy came true. He turns around.

The dwarves are laughing, relief and happiness written across their faces, all but Thorin's. In the moonlight, Thorin is whiter than snow. His lips are bloodless, and his words become the first that Bilbo hears.

"Enemies will come for us. For Erebor's treasures. We must prepare." His skin glistens with cold sweat; the glinting of his eyes makes Bilbo shiver. "We must prepare!"

Till morning light, they fortify the gates, and in the morning, Thorin demands the Arkenstone be found.

A kind of madness Bilbo hasn't seen before overtakes the Company. Without rest or breaks for meals, they go through the treasury while Thorin makes grand declarations about his birthright. They put jewellery on, and Nori is the most ridiculous of all the dwarves. He wears a white gold tiara and loops large golden earrings to hang off on his ears and dons three necklaces, each with a heavy chain, his pockets overflowing with gems.

What little time Thorin does not spend pacing over the mountains of gold, he spends in the throne room. He sits on his grandfather's throne, alone and brooding. His cheeks have hollowed, and heavy shadows lie under his eyes.

"Have you found the Arkenstone?" he asks as soon as Bilbo comes into view.

Bilbo shakes his head and offers him a bowl. "I've made you soup."

The bowl clatters on the floor, spilling thin broth, leeks and carrots and a handful of precious grains over the dusty stone. The back of Bilbo's hand is smarting where Thorin struck him. He stares at the dwarf without recognition.

Thorin stands up. A sorry piece of onion gets squashed under his boot. He doesn't notice. This feels a little, Bilbo thinks, like being gutted.

"Until the Arkenstone is in its rightful place, there's no time for any other matters or concerns."

Bilbo sighs. "Just, don't you think starving yourself is counterproductive?"

His words are met with silence and a heavy stare. Bilbo retreats. Of course, he knows their search won't yield results. He contemplates giving the damned rock to Thorin, pretending that he's just found it, but if the mere idea of it has driven Thorin so far into insanity, what will it do to him in his possession? Bilbo fears.

The morning of the fifth day after Smaug's death, a delegation from Lake-town comes a-knocking. The Company greets them from the battlement above the blocked gate.

"Hail and merry-meet, king under the mountain," Bard says, bowing. "I'm glad to see you all alive! Lake-town didn't fare well under the dragon's wrath, however. We've come to seek aid you so generously promised to provide. We have a lot of mouths going hungry and not at all the means to feed them. Will you honour our agreement, Thorin-King Under the Mountain?"

The Men who came with him all look exhausted, some sporting bandages or singed hair. They make a sorry sight, but Thorin bristles and refuses, scorning the idea of an alliance. An angry scowl on his face, he orders a retreat into the mountain and will not hear a word in contradiction. With threats of war, the Men return to settle in the ruins of Dale.

In mere days, the food is running out. No one has come prepared for a siege, but nobody, least of all Thorin, listens to reason.

"The weather is getting colder!" Bilbo says later as Thorin once again sits on his throne. "Think of the children of Lake-town. How will they survive?"

"They shouldn't have come." Thorin's voice is even, and his gaze is absent. Bilbo wonders what sights he sees on the far wall.

"They are just thieves, vultures who came to scavenge expecting our corpses. But no!" the king exclaims, coming to life and focusing on Bilbo with an intensity of a box of Gandalf's fireworks that his Took cousins once set aflame. "We are of sterner stuff! They don't deserve a single coin! We have reclaimed our kingdom; now we will defend it! I sent word to Dáin. He will come soon and with an army."

"But Thorin, what about lost crafts and a permanent home?" Bilbo murmurs. "You used to say that was the most important reason for the Quest."

"It is important. With enough gold, my people will never go hungry again." Momentarily, Thorin's features soften.

"And what about people of Lake-town?" Bilbo tries.

Like a book snapped shut, Thorin's expression closes off. "They aren't my concern."

And everything that Bilbo says after falls to deaf ears.

Days go by. The dwarves work in shifts. Most go through the treasury while one or two are watching for external threats. Thorin's patience is running out. He snaps at everyone, demanding Arkenstone, and soon resorts to threats.

"If anyone should find it and withhold it from me," Thorin says, his voice deceptively calm, "I should be avenged."

He storms off, disappearing between the mountains of gold. The Arkenstone has never been so heavy in Bilbo's pocket.

Balin, the sanest of the lot and least affected, shakes his head and sighs. "Mahal preserve us, Thrór's curse befell him."

"Is there a cure?"

"None that I know of."

Bilbo bites his lips. "What if we find the Arkenstone?" he asks with trepidation.

And Balin sighs again, his shoulders slumping. "I fear it will only worsen."

Just then, Bofur runs by and shouts. "Elves approach!"

The dwarves scramble to the battlement above the gate and watch the Elvenking arrive in all his elven glory on a magnificent elk and with an entourage clad in matching silver armour and black cloaks that stream behind them. They cut an impressive picture. In comparison, the Men who accompany them look even more bedraggle. If only they'd come in friendship.

Of course, Thrandruil's arrival makes the situation worse. The Elvenking's demanding the return of elven treasures is like pouring oil on an open flame.

"Prepare for war," declares Thorin in retaliation.

Bilbo spots Gandalf in the crowd gathered before the gate, but the wizard's presence goes largely unnoticed.

That night, Bilbo hangs a rope off the battlement and climbs down. He sneaks across the plain and into Dale and finds the largest tent around. Inside, the Elvenking holds court.

"I will speak with Bard and Gandalf only," Bilbo says right after greetings.

"To evade my guards" — Thranduil studies him with a dangerous glint in his quicksilver eyes — "you must have considerable skill. I wonder was it you who let the dwarves out of my dungeons?"

Gandalf steps between them. "You will not touch my hobbit."

Thranduil inclines his head. "Then you should keep a better track of him, lest he becomes a pest."

Bilbo clears his throat. "I'm here to negotiate a truce with people of Lake-town only."

"Speak, halfling." Bard regards him calmly. "What does your treacherous king have to offer in reparation for the ills his actions brought?"

Craning his neck to look the Man in the eyes, Bilbo steels his spine. "I'm here as myself, not as a mouthpiece of the dwarves. As per our contract with the Company, I am entitled to a share of the wealth. I took a precious jewel that Thorin values above all else, the Arkenstone, as payment. Give it to Thorin in exchange for gold with an agreement to cease all hostile actions, and no war should ever be between you. Your people have suffered greatly, but so did his. If I can, I will help to broker peace."

Bard frowns, considering his offer. "Pretty words, but what does the King Under the Mountain has to say? Will he agree to it?"

His nails biting into his palms, Bilbo replies, "What I decide to do with my reward is my own business." He slams the Arkenstone onto the table. "Do you agree?"

Bard spares the jewel a glance, no more. "Very well. We will try your way."

"Thorin is ill. There's something wrong with the lot of them, none of the dwarves are themselves, but he seems the most affected," Bilbo says, retreating to the shadows.

"You should stay here, Bilbo." Gandalf's worry exudes off him in waves.

"I, I have to go. They are my friends. I can't just leave them."

The wizard doesn't stop him, which, later, Bilbo will regret. Now, however, he is hurriedly pulling himself up the rope. His arms are burning by the time he makes it to the top. His palms are red and rubbed raw. Quietly, he tiptoes inside and curls up on his bedroll, his back to unforgiving stone. He is alone. The dwarves are either in the treasury or sleeping in the watchtower. And Bilbo? Bilbo longs for Thorin. His Thorin, not the imposter sitting on the throne.

The morning comes, and Bard with it, but the negotiations do not go as expected.

"You—you great betrayer! You worthless worm, a snake! I should have known!" Thorin spits insult and accusations, but worse than that, he grabs Bilbo's shoulder, wrenching his arm with his strength, and slams Bilbo against a wall. Dazed, Bilbo scrambles to get his feet under him as Thorin drags him to the battlement and in one move hurls him over it, and only Thorin's hands around his neck prevent him from plummeting down. His bruised heart shatters.

The Company does nothing to interfere. Oh, they mutter and murmur, and Fíli even shouts, "Uncle, no!" and something in Khuzdul, but not a single one of them stops Thorin. He is their king. Just or not, his word is the law.

Dangling over a long drop, Bilbo claws at the hands slowly strangling the life out of him. Distantly, he hears Gandalf's voice, but the words are indistinct, meaningless. The madness in Thorin's bloodshot eyes is the last thing Bilbo sees as his vision darkens and fades.

Betrayed, angry, hurt, and heartbroken, he cries bitterly into his knees.

When Gandalf comes, he declines the offer of sharing in an adventure. In fact, in the most unhobbitish way possible, Bilbo tells the wizard to shove his offer up his arse and marches inside his smial with the image of Gandalf sputtering in indignation firmly committed to memory.

Come evening, Dwalin knocks on his door anyway. Sighing, Bilbo steps aside lest the dwarf tramples him in the quest for promised food and resigns himself for yet another raucous dinner with unwelcome company.

And later, he aims a kick at Gandalf's shins, but the wizard sidesteps, moving deceptively quickly for his age, and Bilbo loses his balance. His pride hurts worse than his tailbone. Perhaps, it is unfair to blame Gandalf. It's not his fault that Thorin went insane and killed Bilbo. Bilbo doesn't care. It all — the ring, the cycles, endless deaths, his inability to die once and for all — it all began with the wizard and his adventures.

"Come now, my dear hobbit," the old goat says, extending a hand, "is it any way to greet your guest?" His eyes are twinkling with good humour.

Ignoring the wizard, Bilbo gets to his feet on his own. He brushes off his breeches the dirt and dust that heavy boots have trailed into his formerly spotless hallway and glares at the Maia. "I wasn't aware I invited any guests at all."

An awkward silence following his statement doesn't last long as the dwarves unpile themselves from his welcome mat and turn to question Gandalf. Bilbo doesn't care. He marches into the kitchen and fixes himself a cup of tea, then goes outside and smokes his pipe. The Company can find their our dinner; they did before, and they will do again. He does not care.

When Thorin shows up on his doorstep and bestows Bilbo with unimpressed, judging looks and unmerited condescension— The heart he thought was wrenched out of his chest and shredded with a grater gives a painful lurch. And Bilbo just can't take it anymore.

"He looks more like a grocer than a burglar," Thorin says. The dwarves laugh.

Oh, yes, a grand joke. Everything before him tints red, and Bilbo punches that long, majestic nose. Thorin's head snaps back. Bilbo's vision whites out as pain bursts into life in every broken bone of Bilbo's knuckles — he forgot to take the density of dwarven bones into account. He jumps on one foot, clutching his arm to his chest, while every damn of the thirteen dwarves plus one irate wizard invading his home erupts into shouting.

Ignoring their demands for an explanation and calls for a justification and whatever else they want from him, Bilbo bolts into his bedroom and locks himself inside, refusing all and any interactions. After a while, even Gandalf tires of admonishing the door and leaves him with a parting, "I am disappointed in your behaviour."

Like you have a foot to stand on, you meddlesome old bastard, Bilbo thinks with resentment. If it wasn't for you and your cursed scheming, I wouldn't be caught in this mess.

It is, perhaps, undeserved. Bilbo might even concede that blaming Gandalf isn't fair, but there's nothing fair about this situation. Besides, Bilbo ceased to be reasonable the moment Thorin let him go. He doesn't feel like reason is warranted any longer. He thinks he's due for at least a token reparations.

Sitting on his bed with his back against the headboard, he listens to the racket of his 'guests' and fumes. Bilbo seethes. His hand hurts like murder, keeping him awake. He should see a healer, but that would mean going past the dwarves and—

It is the middle of the night. The smial is dark and silent. Bilbo lights a candle and finally surrenders and searches for his medical supplies.

There's a tincture he took when he broke his toe uncountable years past. Bilbo takes it. Its bitter taste coats his throat and numbs his tongue. His dreams are strange, distorted things, and when he wakes, it is the start of a new cycle.

He skips this summer, needing a reprieve. He goes camping in Bindbole Wood. He fishes on the Water. It's nice and peaceful, and when the summer ends and the Quest for Erebor looms ever closer, Bilbo thinks he's all right to try again. It's as the dragon said, a sickness, and Bilbo knew the dwarves were ill, and Thorin most of all. But as the time approaches, his nerves are strung tight.

Another summer, evening, feast for dwarves. He fumbles with the dishes, spills the salt. His answers are distracted and disjointed. The dwarves leave him be, content to have the food and drink aplenty.

Then Thorin comes. The knocking on the door falls into a sudden lull like thunder.

"He's here!" Gandalf says.

The Company stands up, the chairs scraping over the polished floor in their hurry. Bilbo drops a skillet.

"Blast it!" he curses, jumping backwards. His toes are splattered with cooking oil, but that's the most he suffers. Throwing a rag at the spillage, he mops it up and is the last to greet the dwarven king.

Stopping in the doorway, Bilbo looks at his... Who? He doesn't know how to define him. Friend? Murderer? Beloved? All would fit, but that's not a comprehensive list of Thorin's titles. A lump blocks Bilbo's throat that he can't swallow.

"But where's Bilbo?" Gandalf asks, searching the hall. "Ah. Come, dear hobbit, let me introduce you to the leader of the Company."

The dwarves crowding the way between them part and turn around, and Bilbo finds himself a target of fourteen pairs of eyes.

"I." He swallows. "Hello. Welcome." He meets with Thorin's gaze and knows Thorin sees a stranger. "Please, come inside. The supper's on the table." He can't. It's worse than lack of recognition. He won't. "Excuse me, I need to—" Pivoting on his heels, Bilbo hurries into the kitchen.

"What just happened?" he hears Thorin ask, and Gandalf's thoughtful, "I'm not sure," before the door cuts off whatever else is said.

He lets the door support his weight and ground him in the moment. Bilbo bends forward, hands on his knees, and forces his lungs to expand and fill with air.

I can't, I can't, I can't, tolls in his head, and Bilbo bites his knuckles. "Pull yourself together, you silly old thing," he mutters. "Nothing will resolve itself without you. Can't put it off forever."

To cut his losses, climb through the kitchen window and run off into the night is oh, so tempting. The buzz of conversation seeps through the gaps and cracks. The night is quiet otherwise, Bagshot Row is empty.

"I faced down a dragon. Twice. I can do it."

With that, he slips into the room and hovers at the edge, behind the wizard. The explanations go as they always do, with shouting and speeches, and when the moment comes for Bilbo to step in, he does come forward.

"A burglar," Gandalf says, and Bilbo murmurs, "I will do it."

Before long, Balin brandishes the contract.

"It's just the usual — summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, the funeral arrangements, and so forth."

Bilbo unfurls the scroll, and Bofur comments, "There's a section on the causes of death."

"Yes, yes. Lacerations, evisceration, incineration," Bilbo quotes aloud. "That one's the most unpleasant death by far. Beats even falling from great heights," he mutters, picking up the quill and scribbling his signature at the bottom. He misses the looks sent his way and the frowns.

"All right," he says, straightening and returning the contract to Balin. He never looks at Thorin, only in his general direction. "Good night. I'll see you in the morning."

On silent feet, he hurries away and outside through a side door. It's not a back door because of its location.

It's late, he realises. The moon is high and very round, like a wheel of cheese. The Gamgees are already asleep — no lights are in their smial.

Bilbo's puffing on his pipe when he hears singing. Of course, he knows the lyrics. He blinks, his eyes are stinging, but he keeps them dry. Enough crying.

Later, there's the sound of his front door opening and closing, and heavy footfalls, and a heavier exhale.

"Would you mind my company, Master Baggins?" Thorin asks. Bilbo's heart clenches.

"No, of course, not." He forces his fingers to relax before he breaks the pipe and gestures at the space beside him. The bench dips down under Thorin's weight. Bilbo stares resolutely ahead.

"I understand that you don't know us, and that may be the reason why you are so uncomfortable in our presence." For once, his voice is low and even, not laded with censure and contempt that Bilbo half-expected given his usual performance.

"But, if you are to go on this Quest, I need to know that you will be able to work with us," Thorin continues. "Where we are going, we will need to rely on each other, and I can't have one member of the Company shying away from the rest. Are you..." he pauses. Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo sees Thorin tilt his head to study his profile.

"Do we scare you? I can assure you, whatever rumours you might have heard, they aren't true. We aren't greedy mongrels Men like to paint us as."

"No, that's not—No! I'm not—" Bilbo shakes his head. His short curls fly over his forehead, glinting like liquid gold in the candlelight spilling from the windows behind them. "What nonsense!" Indignantly, Bilbo straightens up and looks at Thorin with fire in his eyes. "I'm not afraid of you."

And at this moment, Thorin is mesmerised.

"It's not fear I feel. I—It's complicated." Bilbo debates explaining, but how is he to convey 'You went insane and killed me, but I still love you' without coming across as bloody barking? "I will get over it. No need to worry."

A moment passes, then another. Bilbo's foot starts tapping. Thorin takes out his pipe, and wordlessly, Bilbo offers him his pipe-weed pouch and stands up.

"Good night," he says to Thorin's shoulder.

He settles down in his bed. His pillow is too flat. He fluffs it. Now it's too puffy. The blanket makes him hot. Without it, it's chilly. The night is over all too soon, and Bilbo slept, perhaps, an hour.

The Quest starts well. All are alive in Rivendell. Though Bilbo can't quite look at Thorin still, he makes it work — there are Bofur and Dori to talk with if Bilbo wants company. Not that he does. They did betray him, too, as he remembers. And anyway, what reason would he have to build friendships with the dwarves? None, that's what. He is their burglar, nothing more. He keeps alone and to himself and minds his own business. And if he keeps forgetting his resolution and in quiet moments finds himself gazing at Thorin with painfully conflicted heart? What of it? He does so with discretion.

All are alive at Beorn's. And here, Bilbo leaves them.