Waking up, Bilbo rubs his neck with unsteady hands. He climbs out of his bed, goes to fix a cuppa. He pours water into a kettle, puts it on the stove, tries to start a fire. The flint falls to the floor. Four times.
"Blast it!"
Bilbo sits down on a chair, hands on his knees, and sighs.
It takes a while before he braves the simple task again, and when he pours boiling water over tea leaves, he studies his cup and saucer. He chose a fine porcelain set, with dainty cherry blossoms and a gold trim. A present from aunt Primrose to his mother on her coming of age, Bilbo recalls. He picks it up and hurls it at the far wall. The shards rain down on the floor, clinking softly.
He is unbelievably, perhaps, unjustly, angry. Stalking out of the kitchen, Bilbo picks up his pipe and weed pouch and goes outside to wait for Gandalf there. He sits on his bench, fuming, his thoughts racing, going in circles.
I can't believe it! The gall! And when I saved his life and kingdom! That weak-willed bastard!
He didn't think that cycle would be the last, far from it. He didn't want it to be, not when it would have meant Kíli and Fíli were dead permanently, but Bilbo expected to find a path to Orodruin and die at an orc's blade, caught sneaking through the plain and overwhelmed, or on the Mount Doom's treacherous side, not at the hands of his—Bilbo cut's off that thought, biting his tongue until his mouth fills with blood.
He is too heartsick and too tired of it, and so he chooses anger. He fumes and steams like a boiling pot, stocking the fire of his temper with all injustices he suffered through his endless life. Halfway through the morning, long before Gandalf makes an appearance, Bilbo empties his pipe, uncaring where the ashes fall, and stomps back into his smial. He throws the pipe down with such force, the handle cracks. Bringing out pots and pans, he clangs them onto the kitchen table and starts cooking more out of habit than hospitality. He doesn't know how the evening will turn out, but he doubts anyone will be in a mood to appreciate the food.
The day can't pass soon enough. Bilbo doesn't bother cleaning up. His usually spotless kitchen is full of dirty dishes when he hears the first knock on the door. He thrusts his knife into the cutting board and goes to greet Dwalin and, with a tight smile, gestures him into the dining room, where Bilbo set up the table with the best crockery, arranged to perfection. His pride allows nothing less.
Soon, other dwarves follow: Balin; the princes — Bilbo's heart lurches at the sight of them, full of life and smiles and laughter, and for a moment, he rethinks his plan, but the memory of Thorin's crazed eyes rises before him like a spectre.
The 'Ris and the 'Urs and Gandalf come next. Taking their coats and weapons, Bilbo throws them into a pile in the coat closet. He hides in the kitchen on the pretence of last-minute preparations. After a moment with nothing to do, he does whip up half a dozen pies and puts the first three into the oven. He brings them to the dining table when the last, long-awaited dwarf knocks on his desecrated door.
"Excuse me," Bilbo murmurs as the Company rushes into the hall. Nipping into the kitchen, he follows suit.
Bilbo is wearing his cheeriest apron, the one with apples he embroidered himself, which might explain why Thorin deviates from the script.
"He looks more like a cook than a burglar," Thorin says with barely a condescending glance at Bilbo. "Are you sure we came to the right place?"
Mindful of the density of dwarven bones, Bilbo welcomes the Prick Under the Mountain with his favourite cast iron. His hands are shaking, and his palms are sweaty, but Bilbo puts a lot of feeling into the swing. It still takes him aback when Thorin reels back, stumbling. Blood gushes out of the dwarf's long nose, now crooked at an angle.
The ensuing clamour is worth every second of his satisfaction, even when the dwarves, coming to Thorin's defence, take action a little too vigorously, and a large fist flies at Bilbo's head. A brief shock of pain, and Bilbo wakes up in his bedroom to the morning light streaming through his open window.
This evening, Bilbo decides, he will try his luck with a skillet. It leads to similar results, but despite the somewhat lacking ending, this is the most fun Bilbo has had in a long while, and so he is unwilling to stop. He chooses a kettle next and a brazier after that.
When the dwarves fail to deal a fatal injury, which happens fairly often, Bilbo hastens the next cycle himself. After his many different horrific deaths, taking a lethal dose of medication is no hardship.
He goes through all of his cookware and some of his pottery before he feels like he can let go of the memories of his deaths at Thorin's hands. But the look on the dwarf's face when Bilbo hits him with a porcelain milk jug wrapped in his mother's doilies will always make Bilbo smile. It alone is worth a dozen deaths.
Almost, the sane part of his mind amends, but Bilbo doesn't listen, resolving to cling to his good mood like melted wax to the front of Gandalf's robe — another occurrence he's determined to remember. Bilbo will savour these memories when the dwarven king inevitably falls to madness.
He is past caring, or so he tells himself.
Still, as his ire cools, he realises that it's time to get down to business. Slowly, carefully, Bilbo gathers the shreds of his sanity, and finally, without anger to sustain him, he allows himself to cry.
He hates that blasted ring. He can't destroy it soon enough.
Thus goes the morning, but by midday, Bilbo pulls himself together. Come evening, there's no trace of his break-down. Bilbo returns to his usual behaviour, and once again, he is a perfect host. He greets the dwarves with courtesy and unfailing politeness. The feast contains a lot of food they like — hard cheeses, meats, and pies. The Company is nothing if not appreciative.
When Thorin comes, as it always happens, he looks at Bilbo down his nose and addresses Gandalf, "He looks more like a grocer." He turns to Bilbo. "What weapon do you use?"
And Bilbo says, "All of them." It's true enough. After a pause for the Company to digest his words, he adds, "Though I prefer poison." He gestures to the dining room, noting the widened eyes and slackened jaws of the younger dwarves. Kíli and Fíli, in particular, have paled considerably. "Supper is this way. I saved the mushroom soup — my speciality — just for you. I hear it is to die for."
"M-master Boggins," Kíli stammers.
"It's Baggins," Bilbo says. A smile slices his face, thin like a sickle. "Please, follow me," he addresses Thorin. "You must be starving."
The evening goes well. Bilbo signs the Contract without reading it and, bidding the Company good night, turns in early. And in the morning, he finds his smial spotless. No mud is on the floors, no dirty plate in sight, and even all the doilies are in their places. His eyebrows climb up in surprise, but he is grateful, and so he posts a letter to his cousin Fortinbras and arranges for the Gamgees to look after his garden. By the time the dwarves wake up, Bilbo has packed all he needs and cleaned out the larder.
"No mushrooms this time, I'm afraid." He smiles at the 'Ri brothers when they come into the dining room and find a spread of breakfast dishes. "But I fried eggs with sausages and cheese."
The dwarves thank him and proceed to eat with much appreciation of his culinary talents.
In Bree, as usual, Bilbo buys a bow and a sword. He knows they will do until the troll hoard and Rivendell. He trains at every opportunity. The dwarves join him. For what it's worth, he wins respect by besting all who challenges him to a duel. He does it absentmindedly, however — his focus is thousands of leagues away.
He doesn't go out of his way to stay aloof and unapproachable, and soon, Bilbo and the Company are on friendly terms. Not once, and not a single one of them calls him halfling.
Bilbo poisons the trolls and raids their hoard, and later, he shoots orcs and wargs and meets the elves. In Rivendell, he forges a quick friendship with Forgam and spends most of his time practising archery and dual-wielding with the elf. He doesn't notice at first, but their bouts in the training yard acquire spectators.
"Your friends are here again." Aiming, Forgam looses three arrows so fast, his arm is nothing but a blur. All hit the centre, less than a hair's breadth between them.
"Show-off," Bilbo mutters, a corner of his lips kicking up. He glances at the bushes, and sure enough, the top of a blond-haired head is sticking over the foliage. Leaves rustle to its right, revealing Kíli's position.
Bilbo takes aim, sends an arrow flying. It hits dead centre. He continues, loosing another four. A curved line with arrows a hand's width apart smiles from the target.
Forgam snorts. A blink of an eye later, his target sprouts another cluster of arrows, this one to the right of the centre.
They continue for a time, Bilbo drawing a straight line and two triangles above it, and Forgam creating another cluster with a wavy line beneath.
"A sloop," the elf says, and Bilbo hums in agreement.
"A river," he returns.
Forgam raises an eyebrow. "Obviously. But which one?"
Bilbo levels him a flat look but takes a stab at his mental map. "Ninglor."
Forgam's other eyebrow shoots up, joining the first one under his hairline. "I'm impressed."
The bushes rustle as Bilbo and Forgam collect the arrows.
"Another round?" Bilbo asks, returning to the starting line. The elf inclines his head, and they continue.
As days roll by, their spectators grow in number. Whispers turn to muttered suggestions and not so quiet cheers. Soon, the bushes can't accommodate the Company at all, and on the day Dwalin joins Fíli, Kíli, Bofur, Bifur, Ori and Nori for their daily entertainment, he takes one look at limbs and heads sticking out of the foliage, snorts, and plants himself beside a fence right there, in the open.
Bilbo waves in greeting, receiving a nod in reply. One round later, the rest of the present dwarves migrate to sit around Dwalin.
By midsummer, all dwarves of the Company come to the training yard, and most of them practice with their weapons.
Time flies. He feels like he just started a new book and, turning a page, jumped from prologue to chapter five; like Bilbo left the Shire only yesterday, and already, the ring rest in his pocket, and now, he blinks and, having dispatched a number of enemies, he is standing up to Azog, defending Thorin. The eagles swoop before he has a chance to try his luck with killing the Pale Orc.
On the Carrock, the dwarven king embraces him, and suddenly, Bilbo comes alive. He has been only half-existing up to this moment, as if he wandered around in a waking dream, going through the motion but never truly living.
Inhaling the familiar scents of leather, fur, metal, and something that his brain has long ago dabbed uniquely Thorin, Bilbo is taking the first full, deep breath in this circle. Time slows down to its normal speed. A lump is lodged at the base of his throat, making it hard to swallow. His chest constricts. Bilbo feels like crying. Of course, he doesn't, but when he steps back, his eyes are glistening with unshed tears. He looks away and is the first to start descending.
At Beorn's, Gandalf finds him sitting in the garden. The wizard stops beside him, lights up his pipe. Bilbo follows suit. The dusk enfolds them in a quiet cocoon, softening the world. The last sun rays spill crimson ink over the dark and jagged line of Mirkwood trees.
"You used to be such a gentle and carefree lad," Gandalf murmurs, pensive and a little sad. "What forced you to grow up into a hardened warrior, Bilbo?"
"What didn't?" Bilbo laughs, the sound void of mirth. He knows every curve of every road and every loose stone on all the paths from here and to Erebor but can no longer recall most of his childhood nor his parents' voices.
"Life happened, Gandalf," he repeats himself, echoing another cycle.
"I'm sorry it was so unkind to you."
And Bilbo sighs and shrugs. "It's not your fault, but thank you."
He glances at the wizard, who exhales the smoke, reminding Bilbo of a dragon. He shivers and extinguishes his pipe.
-[break]-
The way through Mirkwood is relatively quick. Bilbo leads the Company straight to the elves for a brief respite from all the walking. There, he allows himself the weakness of Thorin's company — Bilbo missed him so much that something deep in his soul hurts; he chooses to ignore it — and then, of course, he springs the dwarves out.
Lake-town, the odious Master, and the last black arrow. This time, Bilbo comes prepared, and on the morning of their departure, Bard is none the wiser he's missing anything, black or otherwise.
The secret passage, Erebor, and Smaug. The dragon's death is calculated if no less nerve-wracking. As soon as it is done, Bilbo runs through the treasury for the Arkenstone. He finds it just as the dwarves spill out of the tunnel and stop to stare at the unexpected sight — the dragon dead and Bilbo as its slayer. The dwarves' obvious regard and admiration, while flattering, is fleeting: the cursed gold takes their minds hostage.
He doesn't hold the Arkenstone for long. While every other member of the Company is searching for the damned gem, clad in jewellery and with their pockets overflowing with gold, Bilbo is in the armoury. He picks up a hammer. The first hit cracks the Arkenstone into three large pieces. It breaks with a melodious, crystalline sound, like chiming in the wind.
"All right," he says. "Let's end this."
Bilbo hits the pieces once again and then some more. He doesn't stop until a fine layer of shiny dust is coating the floor. Using an old, barely holding together broom, Bilbo sweeps it on a sheet of parchment, treks deep into the mountain and sends the folded parcel to its final rest — into a lava pit. It doesn't cure the dwarves, but the act is satisfying. That night, Bilbo sleeps without dreams, and in the morning, standing on the battlement, Thorin curses and swears at the delegations from Lake-town and Mirkwood.
Bilbo looks skywards, sighing, and prays for patience. Frankly, he is quite fed up with this whole bloody business.
The Company returns to the treasury and their fruitless search, but Thorin's countenance is sharp and watchful. He walks the mountains of gold, silent and observing, and when an hour has passed, he disappears in the labyrinth of halls. Returning shortly, Thorin pulls Bilbo aside.
"This is silver steel," he says, unfolding Bilbo's mithril shirt. "It was made by my forebears. Take it. Put it on."
"Thank you," Bilbo says, doing as he is bid.
Thorin inclines his head, his gaze takes Bilbo in, heavy like a physical touch.
"It is a token of my appreciation. True friends are hard to come by." Thorin glances at the Company. The dwarves are on their knees, sifting through chalices and bejewelled hair combs, circlets and beaded hair chains, and always coins, countless golden coins. When he looks back, his eyes are hard as stone. "I have been blind, but now I begin to see. I am betrayed!"
"Betrayed?"
"The Arkenstone," Thorin whispers, leaning closer. He shoots another sideways look at the Company. His breathing quickens, skin pale and beaded with sweat, Thorin lowers his voice farther. "One of them must have taken it. One of them is false."
"Thorin," Bilbo tries, knowing the futility of it. "The Quest is fulfilled. You have the mountain. Surely, gold isn't more important than the lives of your people, the people of Lake-town, and your honour."
Then— Bilbo watches Thorin's lips move, it's he who speaks and no one else, but Bilbo hears Smaug. It must be a trick of the mind. The dragon is dead. There's nothing left of him. But even as he thinks it, Bilbo notices the unmistakable sibilant undertone to Thorin's words, the echoing duality.
"This gold is ours, and ours alone. By my life, I will not part with a single coin." Thorin steps back, slowly shaking his head, and closing his eyes, Bilbo admits defeat.
Words cannot reach him.
As soon as night has fallen, leaving only Bifur and Dori awake to keep watch on the battlement, Bilbo enacts his plan.
"Thorin," he says, finding the dwarf in question in the throne room. "Come, I've something to show you."
"Is it the Arkenstone?" the dwarven king demands.
"Perhaps. I'm not at all well-versed in gems, you know."
Thorin frowns but stands up. "The Arkenstone is like no other. You can't mistake it for a lesser gem."
"Mm."
Bilbo leads him through the treasury, but as they come to the secret passage, Thorin stops.
"There's nothing there."
"Not anymore. I think whoever took the Arkenstone hid it afterwards. Not very well, of course, since I've found it."
Thorin looks at Bilbo, looming over him, and even in the near darkness, Bilbo notices how his eyes narrow with suspicion.
"Is that so?" the dwarf asks but doesn't wait for confirmation. "Know that if you, too, betray me, I will not be merciful." He takes three steps ahead, and Bilbo makes his move.
A swift and quiet turning of his wrist, and a metal baton slides into his hand. He clobbers Thorin over the head with all his might. The dwarf stumbles and crumbles to the stone floor. He stills and does not stir. Exhaling, Bilbo mutters,
"I hope I didn't give you a concussion."
He ties Thorin's wrists together and, awkwardly shouldering the dwarf onto his back like a particularly large and unwieldy sack, Bilbo carries him outside, muttering about enormously dense and heavy dwarven bones.
Depositing the dwarf beside the entrance to the mountain, Bilbo wipes his forehead, check that Thorin is still breathing, and sits cross-legged a safe distance away. Bilbo props his cheek with his fist, resting his elbows on his knees, and settles in for the long wait.
The moon has risen in the sky when Thorin groans.
"Bilbo? What's going on?" He looks around, features reflecting his confusion. "Why are we here?" He moves his arms as if to help himself get up and, noticing the rope, Thorin freezes. His eyes are wide as he demands, "What is the meaning of this?"
"Feeling better? Or do you still believe gold to be more important than the lives of your people?"
"I…" Thorin frowns, blinks, and his expression shifts into horrified understanding. "Mahal," he murmurs, pain written clear across his face as he reflects on the recent days. "I have succumbed to gold sickness."
"More like gold dickness," Bilbo mutters under his breath. "Yes, you have. Are you all right now, or do I need to hit you again?"
"My mind is clear." Thorin swallows, avoiding Bilbo's gaze.
"Perfect." Bilbo claps his hands and gets to his feet. "I didn't fancy lugging you all the way down the mountain. You weigh a lot, you know."
Untying Thorin is a matter of moments. Accepting Bilbo's help, the dwarf stands up and rubs his wrists and then the back of his head.
"Thank you. I appreciate your assistance if not your method."
Bilbo shrugs. "It worked, didn't it?"
"Indeed." Thorin glances at the hidden passage, but there's only a smooth surface of the wall. Without anything to hold it open, the door slid shut. "I doubt anyone will look for us here. We will have to go to the front gate."
They start descending.
"While we are down there, I figured you can parley with Bard and Thranduil, now that you are you again," Bilbo says, chancing a glance at Thorin, whose sour face expresses his opinion of dealing with the Elvenking clearly enough, but the dwarf climbs down after him and trudges all the way to Dale with neither comments nor complaints.
Watchmen spot them long before they approach the ruins, but nobody impedes them as they go through the camp, and only near Thranduil's tent an elf steps forward.
"Halt. State your purpose."
Thorin weighs him with a contemptuous glance. "Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor and Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, here to speak with Bard of Lake-town and" — his lips twist — "your king."
Another elf glides into the tent, returning shortly after. "You may enter."
The Elvenking is lounging on a throne at the back of the pavilion, for calling it a tent is a major underestimation of its size. Of course. Why Bilbo has expected something different, he doesn't know.
There is a set of tables with refreshments — fresh vegetables, wine, and cuts of fragrant cheese and meats. Another table holds a handful of unfurled scrolls, and Bard and Gandalf stand beside it.
"Bilbo!" Gandalf exclaims, striding forward and opening his arms for a hug, which Bilbo readily accepts. "How good it is to see, my dear fellow!"
The wizard looks harrowed, aged by decades; shadows lie under his puffy eyes, and there's a purple bruise near his hairline. His hair and beard are tangled and knotted. Dirt stains his clothes in places as if he attempted to clean them and was interrupted before he could finish the task. He smells like thunderstorm and smoke.
"I'm glad you are all right as well," Bilbo murmurs, stepping back and darting a glance at the Elvenking, whose frozen features might as well be cut from marble.
"Thorin." Gandalf moves to the dwarf, clasping his forearms.
"Tharkûn." The wizard lets him go, and Thorin looks at the others present. "We've come to parley. No one of Erebor desires war."
"Then you are ready to return what I requested?" At Thranduil's even voice, Thorin clenches his jaw. His hands form fists, and Bilbo would bet anything on Thorin's nails making deep indentations in his palms.
"We must put aside our grievances," cuts in Gandalf. "A war is coming, whether you want it or not. An army of orcs will arrive tomorrow. We must prepare to defend against them."
"And where will they come from?" Thranduil asks, arching a thin eyebrow and turning his head at an angle to look down at the tall wizard.
"The cesspits of Dol Guldur has emptied."
"What are you talking about?" Bard says, joining the conversation while wearing one of his heaviest frowns.
Rising from his throne, Thranduil makes a dismissive sound, pairing it with a careless wave of a long-fingered hand. He glides to one of the tables and pours two goblets of wine, for himself and Bard.
"Clearly, you know nothing of the wizards. They are like winter thunder on a wild wind, rolling in from a distance, breaking hard in alarm." The Elvenking takes a measured sip, casting Gandalf a condescending glance. "But sometimes, a storm is just a storm. My scouts have seen nothing."
"Are you sure?" Bilbo asks. "Have you heard from all your scouts recently?"
Thranduil pauses, his expression stilling.
"The White Council confronted the Enemy not two days past," says the wizard. "He fled, but he has summoned his full strength. Orcs bred for war are on the move. If you do nothing, if you don't take this threat seriously, they will crush you and take over Erebor. We must not let it happen."
Evidently, Thranduil doesn't like this answer.
"Say I believe you, and this army you are so adamant exists does so outside of your overeager imagination. Why should I help the dwarves? They have trespassed on my lands, refused my terms of a peaceful agreement, and then fled from their detainment before a resolution could be reached."
"Oh, so it wasn't your greed that saw the dwarves in the dungeons?" Bilbo scoffs, fed up with dealing with people as obstinate as they are tall. Really, does height influence the mind?
"They were trespassing."
"Because you closed the borders, is that it? Then put up a blasted sign!" Bilbo throws his hands up in exasperation. "Maybe then honest travellers won't fall into your trap or, Eru forbid, mistake you for a reasonable and just ruler!"
Thranduil narrows his eyes into slits; his gaze and voice become icy. "I do not need to justify myself to you."
"Peace," Gandalf says, getting between them. "Squabbling now will not help anyone."
Bilbo takes a deep breath, clenches and relaxes his fingers. "All right." He nods to Gandalf and glares at Thranduil. "You won't lose anything if you get ready for war with the orcs and they fail to attack, but you will if they catch you unawares."
"The dwarves of the Iron Hills are coming," Thorin says, regarding the Elvenking with a heavy stare. "They should arrive on the morrow."
"Excellent news!" Gandalf exclaims. "All must unite to withstand the threat."
"I offer your people aid in rebuilding Dale," Thorin says to Bard. "Join us in the upcoming battle against the enemy, and I will sign a treaty right here and now."
"Agreed," Bard says, offering a hand. They clasp forearms, sealing the deal.
Glancing at Bilbo, Thorin steels himself, his already ramrod straight back tenses farther.
"In the interests of cooperation," he says, regarding Thranduil through heavy-lidded eyes, "I will ensure that you receive the gems you so desire, regardless of the battle's outcome."
The Elvenking is silent, and Bilbo thinks he will have more demands, but finally, he answers, "I accept."
The tension thrumming in the air like a too tightly strung bowstring breaks. Bilbo exhales.
Reluctant allies at best, they plan, and then, they send a raven.
The moon is full and bright, high in the cloudy sky, when Thorin and Bilbo leave the camp. As the distance to the gate of Erebor shrinks under their feet, Thorin's steps slow; his posture rigid, fear seems to roll off him in waves.
"Thorin?" The dwarf cants his head in Bilbo's direction, his gaze remaining on the mountain. "It's all right to be afraid. We can stay outside tonight."
For a moment, Thorin pauses, considering, but all too soon, he shakes his head.
"No. But promise me" — he turns to Bilbo, his eyes wide and searching — "if I lose my mind again, you will stop me. It won't be so easy — I'll expect it."
Bilbo catches and gently squeezes Thorin's fingers, offering support. "If that ever happens, I swear I will find a way to free you of the madness."
Glancing at their hands, Thorin returns the gesture. "Thank you."
They resume walking.
Nori spots them first, shouting an exclamation in Khuzdul. A rope is thrown over the battlement, and Bilbo goes first. The dwarves pull him up and over the ledge in record time.
Leaning on the cold stone, Bilbo watches Bombur and Nori and notices a change — their eyes are clearer than they've been since the Company first stepped into Erebor.
The news of an alliance meet joyful exuberance, but Thorin cuts the questions short.
"Get some sleep," he says. "We all need to be well-rested for the battle."
He squeezes Bilbo's shoulder before going into the halls, a murmured 'thank you' said under his breath.
Bilbo returns to his chosen spot in the armoury. The night is short. The morning comes too soon. His dreams are full of blood and suffering — nightmares interlace his memories from previous cycles, mesh and overlap, creating an infinite line of violent deaths.
He is watching Azog force Thorin to his knees. An abyss lies between them, and though Bilbo wants to run, he is frozen to the spot. His arms are forced behind his back, his hands tied together — Bilbo feels a rope biting into his skin when he tries to pull his wrists apart. The Pale Orc raises a wickedly curved sword and grabs Thorin's hair—
Bilbo wakes up with a stifled gasp, a scream trapped in his throat. His eyes fly open just as Azog's sword comes down and Thorin's head lands on Fíli's corpse in a shower of blood.
Sweat-drenched hair sticks to Bilbo's forehead, the ends falling and clinging to his cheeks. He pushes them aside. All he can think about is how Fíli and Kíli looked slumped at the Defiler's feet, so devastatingly young and small in death.
He crawls to his backpack and finds his tiny sewing scissors. He feels like change is in order, and maybe it's a superstition, but Bilbo hopes by doing something new, he will entice some luck to come his way. He cuts his hair, shortening his curls to a half handspan at the longest.
"Master Baggins!" Kíli gasps when Bilbo comes to meet the Company beside the gate. "What happened?"
"I found scissors."
Impossibly, the dwarf's expression turns even more horrified. "You did this to yourself?!"
"Yes." Bilbo nods, biting down on a smile. "Would you like me to cut yours? I am a decent barber."
"No!" Kíli all but runs to his brother's side. Grabbing Fíli's arm, Kíli furiously whispers into his ear while waving his free hand at Bilbo.
Chuckling, Bilbo turns to inspect the gate. The early morning hours were clearly productive: a chunk of stone of Bilbo's height has been moved aside, opening a passage that can be quickly blocked. Beams reinforce the rest of the makeshift wall, minimising the risk of a collapse. He hums in approval.
The other dwarves give him sidelong glances, but no one else comments on his new haircut.
Bilbo catches Thorin's gaze, and the dwarven king frowns. He is radiating tension, the anticipation of a fight written in the set of his broad shoulders, the rigid line of his spine, but his eyes are clear, not clouded with madness; the dark circles have diminished a smidge, suggesting that Thorin had fallen asleep at some point. He is still pale, but not sickly so, and that is as good as it can get on this fine winter morning. Bilbo nods, concluding his inspection. He will take mildly tired but sane and thank Eru very much for it.
Outside, a line of people is nearing the bridge, steadily walking over the rubble-littered road. Balin greets the women-folk, children and elderly, directing them to Bofur, who leads them to one of the more well-preserved halls.
Bard comes last, making a beeline for Thorin.
"Thank you for doing this," he says as they clasp forearms in greeting.
Thorin dips his chin, his eyelids sliding down in a lazy blink. "We can't risk orcs sweeping through Lake-town while all its defenders are here."
As the dwarves gather together, Bilbo whispers a fervent thank Eru: all of them are in proper armour, the angular planes of polished steel gleaming in the torchlight. He pulls Thorin aside, and, standing side by side, they watch the Company.
"Fíli and Kíli must stay behind," Bilbo murmurs, lowering his voice even as Thorin tilts his head down.
"They will not like it." Thorin's voice is equally low and intimate, a soft agreement where Bilbo half expects a harsh reproach.
"Tough," Bilbo mutters, glancing at the siblings. The last moments of his dream flash before his eyes. "They must."
Appearing at Thorin's other side in the time it takes Bilbo to blink the chilling images away, Balin agrees, "They are the heirs to the throne. If something happens to you, Thorin, they will continue the Durin line."
Thorin sighs — a great gush of air pushed out of his lungs. "You are right, but they still won't like it."
He goes to his nephews. A few murmured words, and Bilbo hears Kíli's protest: "But uncle, we can't just stay behind, safe behind these walls, while our kins die for us. It's not in our blood."
And Thorin's response: "What is in your—our—blood is duty. And duty to our people demands our line to continue, unbroken. You will lead Erebor, you and your brother. For that, you must survive." He points at them in turns. "If all else fails, you are our last line of defence. If we are overrun, if enemies storm Erebor, protect the people under your watch, lead them out through the secret passage." He grips their forearms, looks from one pale face to the other. "Swear to me you will do as I ask."
Fíli swallows thickly. "I swear. I swear it, irak'adad."
And Kíli nods and echoes his words.
"I'm proud of you, mizimîth." They hug, their foreheads touching — a circle of heavy plated armour topped with two dark and one blond head.
The minutes tick by as they stay still, suspended in the moment of closeness, and Bilbo watches them across the hall, caught in the orbit of their family, a cruel fist clenching his heart.
Bard comes into his line of view, breaking the spell. Bending low, he goes outside, and Bilbo turns away, runs an unsteady hand over his face. He must be ready. He follows the bargeman.
"Itrid 'urmu," says Thorin, the last to come through, just before the passage is blocked.
The sun is cheerful on its way up the cloudless expanse of light blue sky when the Company and Bard trek to Dale, cold air nipping at their skin, reddening their cheeks.
A perfect day for a ramble down the river with a basket slung over an arm and berry pies packed for second breakfast, Bilbo muses idly, to distract himself of what is to come, not a day for an epic battle.
But all is silent. No bird is circling over the hills, no rodent scurries under the bushes. The very air tastes of ashes and anticipation.
They hide inside the burned-out buildings, Men, dwarves, and elves alike, and wait. But not too long. The morning mist has just dissipated when with the pounding of a hundred heavy feet and paws, the enemies come pouring into the empty valley.
They wait, and only when the enemies are all laid out in the space between the shell of Dale and Erebor do they move. The elves, light and fleet-footed, go first, raining death from the higher buildings. A horn rings out, piercing and mournful. The dwarves of the Iron Hills and Men of Lake-town kitted out in dwarven armour come out of hiding, attacking from three sides and pressing the enemy's army to the mountain.
It is a brutal battle, and much of it Bilbo perceives in snatched glimpses: the glint of sunlight on a falling sword as he ducks under an attacker's arm and skewers him through the armpit; the whizzing of an arrow flying over his head as an elf runs past him; Dáin's surprisingly high, hoarse voice shouting, "For the King!"
The Company keeps together at first, but of course, as they cut into the enemy lines, the dwarves get separated, and only Bilbo and Dwalin are at Thorin's side. As Bilbo came to expect, time dilates and contracts in turns, inevitably losing meaning and leaving only deep-seated, aching fatigue in its wake when the battle is over.
Sweat is pouring into his eyes. The sun is blazing, too warm and too bright and unbearable. It seems indecent for it to illuminate so much blood and suffering. And Bilbo's arms are heavy, almost impossible to lift, his feet are leaden, but he pivots and thrusts, turns and slashes. Over and over, he sidesteps, evades, backstabs, and hamstrings. The flow of enemies eager to take Thorin on is without limit, and Bilbo's always close, here to protect him. And then—
Azog.
Bilbo finishes his latest foe, pulling Sting out of a goblin's flesh, and turns around. His heart just about stops at the sight that greets his eyes. The Pale Orc, a gruesome smirk firmly in place, is towering over Thorin, who's bleeding — there's a gash in his sword arm. And Dwalin is nowhere close.
Bilbo sees them in profile, watches Azog deliver a powerful blow, which Thorin manages to deflect, but the dwarf is tiring, his arms are straining to hold his sword against the relentless assault of his sworn enemy's unmatched strength.
All thoughts flee Bilbo's mind. He sprints forward, circling the combatants on silent feet until he is behind the Defiler. He aims for the orc's kidney — Sting slides into Azog's back like a knife into butter, all the way to the hilt, and—
Bilbo doesn't know what happens next. The back of his head explodes with pain.
Everything goes dark.
A.N. The final chapter is coming as soon as I edit it.
Fortinbras Took II is the current Thain in the Shire.
A sloop is a one-masted sailboat.
Cognitive recalibration for the win. [dons sunglasses indoors and throws a peace sign up] If it works for Marvel, it works for me.
irak'adad — uncle
mizimîth — jewel that is young, plural form
Itrid 'urmu — watch the worm, meaning Alfrid. Where else would he be if not hiding inside the mountain?
