Ha! I beat my deadline! *happy dance*
Enjoy. ;)
All the way to Erebor, Bilbo keeps his distance and thinks about Smaug and Lake-town, the burned-down town on the lake.
When the feast in the tavern goes underway, Bilbo slips away. The bargeman opens the door at his third knock, already frowning.
"What?" he barks. "You and your dwarves haven't done enough?"
"Bard," Bilbo says. "I need the arrow."
"What arrow?"
Bilbo gives him an exasperated look. He should know better than to ask questions with obvious answers.
"The last black arrow that can kill a dragon."
Bard startles and, after a sharp inhale, demands in a harsh whisper, "How do you know about it?"
"You are the descendant of Girion. Who else would have it?"
Bard's frown deepens. "But how did you know there's an arrow to have?"
"A lucky guess."
Bard gives him an evaluating look and finds his stature lacking while Bilbo stares at the bargeman and doesn't even blink.
"Who will take on the dragon? You?"
"I have to try."
"And if you fail?"
"Then I will fail trying."
"No." Bard shakes his head. "I cannot risk it. If the dragon comes to Lake-town, at least we have the wind-lance. That arrow is our only chance."
Bilbo sighs, consciously relaxing. "All right. Good night. I won't bother you again."
He turns, descends the stairs, melts into the shadows, and only then he hears a click — Bard closes the door.
The hard way it is.
Bilbo waits until the town is asleep and comes into the bargeman's house, picking up the lock with lock picks pilfered from Nori. He finds the arrow in the last place he looks, disguised as a rod for pots and pans above a kitchen table. Of course, Bard couldn't have stashed it in a closet. The ring is on his finger once again. As quietly as Bilbo can, he takes the crockery off and pulls the arrow down, but it is heavier than he expected. Its metal fletching hits a skillet with a clang.
"Who's there?" Bard storms into the kitchen in his sleep attire but brandishing a knife.
Bilbo freezes, but Bard's gaze sweeps past him — the power of the ring hides everything Bilbo thinks of as his, the arrow included. Tiptoeing to the front door, he leaves and hears,
"Damned halfling!"
He hides. Invisible and cold, Bilbo waits for morning and is the first to climb into their boat. He sits behind a backpack, wrapped in a blanket.
"Where is your halfling?" Bard demands as the Company walks through the crowd of well-wishers.
"Not here." Thorin stops and turns, demeanour equally hostile. "What's it to you?"
"He stole from me!"
Thorin shrugs. "I am not his keeper."
Alfrid, the Master's attendant, speaks up then, and Thorin moves away while he distracts the bargeman. The Company boards up the boat and raws away, and finally, Bilbo slips off the ring.
"Master Baggins!" an astonished voice wakes him up. "I thought you left us! Uncle, look who's here!"
Bolting upright, Bilbo rubs his face. Their boat has stopped. "You thought I'd leave you at the last moment?" He raises his eyebrows, smiling wryly. "Not a chance."
"What did you take from the bargeman?" Thorin asks with an air of curiosity about him.
"Oh, nothing much." Bending down, Bilbo fishes his prize from the bottom of the boat. "Just this black arrow."
Surprised exclamations go around the Company.
"You think we will need it," Thorin says, offering him a hand to help climb out of the boat, which Bilbo accepts, darting a glance at Thorin's face. His expression is tense but curious.
"I am going to face a dragon," Bilbo says mildly. "I take this kind of threats seriously."
He uses a piece of rope to fasten a sling and gets the black arrow on his back along with his backpack. He walks straight to the hidden staircase.
"You coming?" Bilbo throws over his shoulder, and the dwarves fall into step behind him.
The climb with the extra weight is harder, but Bilbo makes it to the top. Inside the Mountain, he picks up a coin and waits for Smaug to wake up and search for the intruder. The dragon doesn't disappoint. He rises on his hind legs, exposing the only vulnerable spot — a missing scale right over his heart.
Invisible, Bilbo positions the arrow. His knees are weak, but his hands are steady as he braces himself and throws the coin at the dragon. And just as Bilbo wanted, Smaug lunges at him and straight onto the arrow. The arrow slides into the dragon's chest. Blood spurts, running down the metal shaft. It drenches Bilbo's hands, arms, splatters his face and chest as Smaug trashes around, howling with pain.
The arrow pierces deeper into the dragon's heart, just as he planned. The only thing Bilbo didn't take into account, however, is that he is in the way of Smaug's not inconsiderable weight. He almost doesn't make it. He jumps to the side and runs but slips and falls, sliding down with a cascading mountain of gold. Behind him, Smaug roars, his voice is even more sinister in the shadow-filled world. His tail hits a pillar and takes it out, but finally, all goes quiet.
Bilbo pulls off and hides the ring. His heart still beating in his throat, he dares to stand up and turns to look at Smaug, who's laying still, unmoving. Bilbo stares. He stays like that, just looking at the dragon's corpse until the Company arrives, expecting trouble. They stop and stare, too.
"The dragon—" Thorin starts. "It's," he says and stops, uncomprehending.
"Dead," Dwalin finishes for him. "Smaug is dead. Master Baggins killed him."
"The hobbit. Killed a dragon."
"Yes, yes, I did." Bilbo turns around. His coat and his arms are wet and sticky and gleaming black in the torchlight. His face is speckled, and a thick line bisects his cheek — he rubbed it, forgetting Smaug's blood. The Company keeps staring.
"But you'll have to dispose of the corpse on your own. It will start reeking soon. Well, more than it already does," Bilbo amends. "I think you will need to pry off the scales before chopping it up into smaller pieces. It should be easy to burn them in the lava."
The dwarves all still look at him in silence.
"You know what? I think I need a wash." Bilbo turns around and trudges farther into the mountain with vague memories of where to find clean water.
"Did it just happened," he hears Bofur say, "or am I drunk and hallucinating?"
"It did," is Thorin's answer.
The shock is wearing off, replaced with elation. They celebrate.
And Bilbo sits alone on the dusty floor of a guard tower, shaking and laughing. His tears mingle with the dragon's blood.
-[break]-
Clean and calm, his equilibrium restored, Bilbo finds the dwarves in the treasury. The dragon's size has been significantly reduced — they followed his suggestion. The dwarves pulled tarps around Smaug's corpse and old, moth-bitten rags to soak up the blood, all to keep their damned treasure in pristine condition.
"What now?" Bilbo asks.
"Master Baggins!" Kíli exclaims, and leaving their gruesome task, the dwarves hurry to his side.
His hands are shaken, shoulders slapped, he even gets a hug — Bofur, Bifur, and the younger dwarves, exuberant and giddy and relieved, all show their gratitude through physical affection. It's nice, but Bilbo looks at Thorin. A golden circlet crowning the dwarven king, he stands aloof and farther back, his eyes are glinting. It started, Bilbo thinks, shivering with dread.
This time, a delegation of Lake-town people comes to inquire not of recompense but the promised alliance and the shared wealth. Thranduil is with them, accompanied by an elven escort, and even were Thorin inclined to share the Erebor's treasures with the Men, the Elvenking's presence would have stopped him. Of course, he turns them all away.
"What cause do you have to demand anything of us? The Lake-town was unaffected by the dragon."
"We came in the hope of renewing the ties your kingdom once held with us," Bard says, for he is a favourite of his people and their chosen spokesman. "We'd like, in time, to rebuild Dale."
An ugly snarl curves Thorin's features. "You chose to ally with honourless vultures and came in the hope of seeing us burnt, and with us gone, to scavenge our kingdom's wealth. But no! The dwarves live! We killed the dragon, and Erebor and all her treasures belong to her people once more!" He leans over the rail of the battlement. His eyes are burning with a manic fire. "You won't get anything from us!"
The Men do not threaten war, though Thranduil does. Bilbo knows it won't matter in the end. The orcs are coming.
"Go," Thorin scream at their retreating backs, "scatter like vermin! We will show you the taste of dwarven steel! Îsh kakhfê ai'd dur-rugnul! Imrid amrâd ursul ra zaishkhaqwi ai durugnul!"
The ravens fly in two directions — the Iron Hills and to Ered Luin. The dwarves search for the Arkenstone, and, heeding Thorin's demands, Bilbo does so too. He finds it. Staring at the gleaming rock, he can't decide—
"Master Baggins? You found it," a quiet voice takes away the choice. Ori walks over, eyes round and unblinking, his hand outstretched, and Bilbo's fingers curl around the gem. He wants to hurl it at a pillar, smash it with a hammer, throw it into a lava pit. He grits his teeth.
"Yes, it would seem so."
Presenting Thorin with the Arkenstone, Bilbo is bestowed awed looks.
"First, you found me a sword, then you protected my life and stood against one of my worst enemies; you freed us from a prison, killed the worm, and now this." Thorin holds the Arkenstone up, his face illuminated by its strange glow. "What can't you do?" he whispers. "Tharkûn was right to recruit you. You are our lucky fourteenth number."
"Yes, well." Bilbo wets his lips, gaze sliding down and to the side. He doesn't want the praise, the recognition. Nor does he like the look in Thorin's eyes — possessive and covetous. "I am uniquely qualified to deal with all kinds of threads," he says at last and swallows. "The elves are coming. We should prepare."
Returned to its 'rightful' place in the back of Thorin's throne, the Arkenstone shines like a lantern. Bidding Bilbo to follow, Thorin strides to the treasury. There, he gifts Bilbo a mithril shirt, insisting Bilbo put it on right away, his gaze riveted to Bilbo's body, and even as the familiar weight settles over him, Bilbo shivers, suppressing the urge to run and hide. This Thorin is a stranger. After the unsettling encounter, Bilbo goes out of his way to avoid him, wandering the halls like a restless spirit and waiting for the armies to arrive.
The battle soon commences, and this time, when the Company joins the fray, Bilbo is at Thorin's side. He can't be in three different places, however. The orcs overwhelm Fíli and Kíli, cutting them off their allies on the Ravenhill. Across the field, powerless and useless, Bilbo watches arrows pierce their bodies.
"No!" Thorin's scream rings over the battlefield.
Azog directs his horrible grin at the dwarven king, as grotesque and smug as ever, and hatred ignites in Bilbo's blood. He almost drops his sword, so startled is Bilbo by the strength of the emotion. As Thorin charges at Azog, killing enemies standing in his way with brutal strikes and slashes, Bilbo follows in his wake, guarding his back. He couldn't help the princes. He swears to keep Thorin alive.
The battle ends with Thorin beheading Azog. A blond elf Bilbo saw many times before but whose name he can't recall hearing shoots another large, pale orc who bears a significant resemblance with the Defiler. Without leaders to directs them, orcs and goblins soon scatter to the hills, pursued by the allied armies.
And on the battlefield, heedless of his injuries, Thorin stumbles to his nephews. He steps on corpses, slips in bloody puddles, but picks himself up, leaning on his sword. He doesn't seem to notice when Bilbo ducks under his arm and shoulders half his weight. They climb the Raven Hill, where the princes lie together, still in death, and Thorin falls to his knees.
"I failed you. My boys." With trembling hands, Thorin touches their stark-white faces. Tears stream down his cheeks. "How can I live without you?" He switches to Khuzdul, hugging Fíli and Kíli, and weeps. Bilbo watches him, helpless and lost.
"I'm sorry," he says, crouching down next to the dwarf.
And Thorin looks at him, so broken, it shatters Bilbo's heart anew.
"How am I supposed to live without them? It shouldn't be like this. It was supposed to be me—Tell me, why did Mahal spare my worthless life? Why punish them for my transgressions?"
"I'm so sorry, Thorin," Bilbo says again, the words inadequate and lacking. They won't bring any comfort, no matter how many times Bilbo repeats the sentiment. He puts a hand on Thorin's shoulder, and Thorin just folds over, falls on Bilbo's chest, still hugging his dead nephews, and cries.
Bilbo tips his head back, blinking. His own eyes are wet. He swallows and strokes Thorin's hair like Belladonna did—Bilbo distantly remembers—after Bungo's death.
"Shh." It will be all right, you will see. The words are hovering on the tip of his tongue. He holds them back. They will not help. Instead, he hums the lullaby Thorin sang to him once, lifetimes ago. Thorin cries harder.
Balin and Dwalin find them like that. By then, Thorin's calmed down and slipped into shock. Balin urges him to get up. "Come, laddie. Let's find Óin and get your injuries treated."
"I don't deserve it," Thorin rasps. "Not..." He trails off, his expression anguished. Balin tugs him up.
"Dwalin and I will take care of them," Bilbo says. "We will be right behind you."
The following days are, perhaps, the hardest of his lives. The last time he mourned the boys, Bilbo was alone, but now there's Thorin, alive and wracked with guilt and grief.
The funerals are held in three days' time; the fallen dwarves are returned to the stone in the crypts deep under the mountain. Thorin buries the Arkenstone with Fíli.
Standing with the Company, Bilbo feels awkward and out of place. Thorin avoids his eyes, barely even look at him when he thanks Bilbo for saving his life, again.
Afterwards, Bilbo stalls. The Men of Lake-town get the funds to rebuild Dale as gratitude for their help in the battle and a gesture of goodwill. The treaties are drawn. Thranduil departs with his coveted gems but sans any satisfaction of gaining them. ("You can have them. Take all the pretty rocks you want. I do not care for fiddling matters anymore." Thorin waves a hand, and Balin goes to fetch them. "I wish you to find happiness in their possession.") Through all of that, Thorin becomes a ghost. Shadows lie under his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. The Company worries. Bombur tries to feed him, as does Bilbo.
"It wasn't your fault, Thorin," Bilbo says. For once, they are alone in the throne room, and Thorin sits not on the throne but on the first step of the dais.
"You've never called me by name."
"What?"
"Before." Thorin leans forward, rests his chin on his fist. "I was always Master Oakenshield."
"Forgive me my presumption, King Under the Mountain."
"Please, don't. I do not want to hear such formality from you. You, or any other member of the Company. It's Thorin."
Bilbo nods. "Thorin," he says. "You need to forgive yourself."
"How can I?"
"It wasn't your fault."
"But it was! I shouldn't have brought them with me!" Rising to his feet, Thorin hurls the crown he only wears at Balin's insistence. It hits the floor and clatters, rolls a few turns and stops, quickly forgotten. Neither of them spares it a glance.
"They were my responsibility!" Thorin says. "What good am I?.." With a wordless exclamation, he turns and kicks the heavy stone throne. It does not move. With a roar coming straight from his soul, Thorin pushes it with all his strength and, finally, tips it to the side. The throne's mighty crash is deafening. Thorin kicks and beats the glorified carved stone chair until his limbs grow weak, his sudden burst of energy petering out. Only harsh, stilted breaths break the ensuing silence. And Thorin stands there, utterly defeated.
Tentatively, Bilbo approaches.
"Thorin," he whispers. He touches Thorin's arm, and the dwarven king crumbles, sinks to his knees, and hides his face in his hands.
Bilbo sinks down beside him and, for a long time, hugs him while Thorin grips the front of his coat with white-knuckled fingers, his whole body shaking as he sobs. (He will apologise once more, afterwards, and Bilbo will hush him: "I understand." They will not talk of it again.)
Dís comes to Erebor. She screams at Thorin, her voice echoing in the grand hall, and falls into his arms. The other dwarves file out of the room, leaving them to grieve together.
The next day, Thorin refuses to be officially crowned and passes the title to his sister. Bilbo finds him on the battlement.
"I can't stay here," Thorin says. "I do not trust myself not to fall prey to gold sickness. I can't take that risk."
"Where will you go?" Bilbo asks, studying Thorin's profile as he watches a caravan of carts drive up the road to the gate. At last, the dwarves are coming home.
Thorin sighs. "Back to Ered Luin. Some of our people might remain there."
Bilbo bites his lips, but Thorin needs a purpose, and so he says, "I have a task I must complete. I would welcome your help." He outlines the matter, and a spark of life starts to glimmer in Thorin's eyes.
"You do not want to tell others? The wizard may be of some help."
Bilbo shakes his head. "The fewer people are aware of the ring, the better."
"But you trust me," Thorin says, his gaze unreadable.
The words catch Bilbo off-guard. He blinks. "I, yes. I suppose I do."
Catching Bilbo's hand, Thorin squeezes his fingers briefly.
"Thank you." The short phrase contains so much gratitude that Bilbo can't regret his decision, but doubts linger in the farthest corners of his mind.
What if? What if?.. — a near-silent not quite whisper.
They gather supplies and depart with a group of dwarves going to Ered Luin. Though the members of the Company want to join them, Thorin talks them out of it.
"Dís needs reliable people. I could wish for no one better to watch her back and help her. You are no simple miners or bankers anymore; you are the Lords of Erebor."
And so they are to travel in the company of strangers, and Thorin sheds the regalia of royalty, returning to wearing his old, worn coat. He looks freer for it.
They pass through Mirkwood with an elven escort, who keep their distance while leading their group along well-travelled and fairly well-maintained roads. The few detours they have to make are uneventful. In barely a fortnight, they reach the border of the forest.
"My thanks," Thorin says, bowing his head. It is the first time he addresses the elves directly.
The blond elf Bilbo knows from the battle inclines his head as well. He seems to think it over, and as Thorin starts to turn away, he murmurs, "I'm sorry for your loss. I hope wherever you are heading, you will find solace."
Thorin doesn't speak a word until the morrow. He and Bilbo leave the dwarven group behind soon after. They do not owe anyone an explanation, but they provide one anyway.
"I wish to visit an old friend. He lives not far from here," Bilbo says, and Thorin nods with weight and meaning, standing at his side. There is no one to contradict or stop them. They travel down the river, and Anduin is murmuring and whispering and roaring in turns.
Despite his better judgement, Bilbo allows himself to grow close to Thorin. They are alone for leagues in all direction, with only silences and grief for company. All Bilbo wants is for Thorin to feel better. It is impossible to put aside the loss, he knows, but time will heal all wounds to scars if given half a chance. One evening, sitting beside a campfire, he asks,
"Tell me about them. What were they like as faunts?" There's no need to clarify about whom he speaks.
And staring at the fire, Thorin starts talking, his features softening and eyes glazing with memories of happier times.
In many ways, the journey isn't easier together, but Thorin's unobtrusive presence keeps the loneliness at bay. They fall into a rhythm of walking, fishing, camping. The closer to the fortress of Dol Guldur they get, the more uneasy Bilbo feels. He fears starting fires, but Thorin teaches him a stealthy way to make it, digging two deep, connected pits. Still, they cook their food only before sunset and douse the fires for the nights. They slip into the habit of sleeping back to back, of course, for warmth and not for any other reason. And if Bilbo wakes up curled at Thorin's side, encircled in his arms, neither of them acknowledges it.
Between the two of them, they carry enough provisions to pass through Brown Lands without hunger. Emyn Muil and the Dead Marshes are easier to endure in company.
"What is this foul sorcery?" Thorin says, staring at floating candlelight above the muddy water of the swamp.
"It's not real," Bilbo murmurs, grasping his hand and tugging him forward. "Don't look at it. It will entrap you."
Keeping each other safe, they travel as far as Mordor's plain. They ambush a group of orcs and kill them for the armour, and in a daring move, they brave Cirith Ungol and its steep steps. The constant danger and the whispers of the ring keep Bilbo silent, short of breath. He fears the unknown threat that took his life before. The steps run out, changing to steep stretches of sharp rocks. They climb them and come to a set of tunnels.
"Webs," Bilbo whispers, not daring to make any unnecessary noise.
"We should search for another way," Thorin mouths, understanding the reason for Bilbo's hesitation.
They find another tunnel, more crumped, rough-hewn, with a lower ceiling. They almost make it outside when the hair on Bilbo's neck stand up. He whirls around, and here it is — a giant spider the like of which he has never seen, descending noiselessly upon them.
"Thorin!"
"Mahal preserve us!"
Running is pointless. They make a stand, unsheathing glowing elven swords.
Thorin hacks off the spider's leg, and Bilbo pierces its thorax. The spider shrieks and flails. One of its many legs catches Bilbo in the chest and sends him flying through the air. His back connects with solid stone. He falls. His consciousness deserts him for a moment.
"Bilbo?" Thorin is crouching before him. The spider is nowhere to be seen. "Are you wounded?" He pulls the hobbit's coat open, revealing his mithril shirt.
"I'm fine," Bilbo mumbles, feeling woozy, and when he raises his hand to check the back of his head, blood coats his fingers. He pulls a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and—a clang. Thorin's gaze slides to the floor, where the ring is glinting, innocuous and simple and enticing. This is the first time Thorin sees it.
Snatching it up, Bilbo stuffs it back into his pocket, and as his skin comes in contact with the golden band, the ring's voice screeches in Black Speech.
Strong fingers catch his wrist. The look in Thorin's eyes is anything but reassuring.
"You should have shown it to me earlier." His voice is unnaturally calm. His grip is bordering on painful. "Let go. I need it!"
"Thorin," Bilbo says, but Thorin's other hand finds his throat and squeezes so suddenly, he stops mid-word. Thorin's bloodshot eyes are wide and glazing over. He leans so close, their noses almost touch.
"If I had it, I would have had the power to save them. My nephews would have been alive if not for you, halfling!"
Somehow, this latest of betrayals strikes him hardest. As Thorin's fingers tighten their hold, Bilbo wants to scream about the unfairness of those claims. He claws at the dwarf's arm with his free hand, but Thorin's eyes are ripe with madness.
"Give it to me!" he shouts in Bilbo's face.
Never, Bilbo thinks, grey spots converging on his vision. It will destroy you.
He dies clutching the trice-damned ring.
Îsh kakhfê ai'd dur-rugnul! Imrid amrâd ursul ra zaishkhaqwi ai durugnul! — May my excrement be poured upon the naked-jawed (ones). Die a fiery death, and I will spit upon your grave.
You can find Khuzdul lessons at Khuzdul for Durins on wordpress and The Dwarrow Scholar com.
Cirith Ungol is a pass or cleft through the Ephel Dúath — a mountain range also known as the Outer Fence — located near Minas Morgul. At its heart is an Orc stronghold, near the caves of Shelob's lair.
Only one chapter left, I think.
