A/n:
Such a speedy update, I know! But don't get used to it haha! I'll try and get at least one more chapter out before the end of the summer, at which point, who knows what will happen.
That being said, I am taking two super cool courses at my university this year.
I'm taking "The Created Medieval History of J.R.R. Tolkien's Middle-Earth" in the fall, and "The Records of the History of Middle-Earth" in the winter!
Hopefully It doesn't kill my love for Tolkien. I might end up posting the cool stuff I learn on Tumblr. If I do, I'll update this chapter (or the next one) with like, a hashtag? idk how that works but I'll figure it out.
Okay last thing!
When I'm feeling a little uninspired with TaBaTA, I've been working on some shorter behind the scenes type stories that take place in the TaBaTA universe. I'll definitely be posting that at some point, starting off with Dwalin's history with the Durins. If you don't already love him, prepare to...
Alright, without further ado, I give you chapter 7! Hope you like my attempt at Tolkien-esque spider taunting :)
They were to leave the next morning. Bilbo had known it was coming, but he could not help the dread that settled in his stomach as the dwarves set about packing, the mood that had been so high only the night before, suddenly dismal. Instead of packing, Bilbo spent the afternoon in Beorn's garden. He laid down among the tall grass and wildflowers and stared up at the sky. At the clouds drifting lazily overhead. What he wouldn't give to feel that weightlessness. To have no cares in the world. As it was, Bilbo had never felt heavier. Everything ached. His mind, though having thousands of little problems to stress about, had pushed the worries to the back, leaving his brain empty. It was a numb buzz, a fog that he couldn't quite push through. The moment Thorin had announced their impending departure, the roiling, anxious pit of despair had swallowed him.
He did not move. Did not even think, just let his mind be empty, let himself be swallowed by the noise. It could have been a long time, could have been minutes. He did not want to dwell on the future, nor on the past. He did not want to leave.
Nothing good would come of the next stretch of their quest. Bilbo's heart ached for losses he had yet to experience, an age old hurt, still haunting him just as keenly as it had when it was fresh. It was hard to allow himself to mourn when what pained him was a lifetime away. A lifetime erased.
How could he justify the pain he felt every time Fíli and Kíli burst into laughter, how much harder it was now that Thorin wasn't treating him with open hostility, but rather gentle curiosity, an openness that Bilbo had seen all too rarely Last Time…
Why were things changing? Why, despite his previous efforts, was Bilbo finding his place so easily amongst the dwarves? How could he have allowed himself to feel safe? To find a family anew, all the while knowing that despite his best efforts, things could still go very very wrong. He should not have let himself get distracted, especially now that he didn't have the Ring. He had to plan.
He just had to bring himself to care.
The forest loomed over them with an intensity entirely unique to these poisoned woods. The trees were tall and dense, and their shadows seemed to fall heavy around them no matter where the sunlight hit, thick and suffocating. A shudder ran up Bilbo's spine as he peered into Mirkwood, and he was struck with a sudden dizziness that threatened to knock him over where he stood. It was familiar in a way that Bilbo did not remember feeling the first time. It felt like dark, shadowy arms were reaching out towards him, grasping at his clothes, his hair, his limbs.
"Here lies the path through Mirkwood."
Bilbo jumped at Gandalf's words, and turned to look at the wizard.
"No sign of the orcs," Dwalin said. "We have luck on our side."
"It is time to set the ponies loose. Return them to Beorn," Gandalf said. Several dwarves grumbled angrily, but did so nonetheless. Bilbo took his time with his, anything to prolong the time spent under the open sky. A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see Thorin, deep blue eyes watching him searchingly.
"Bilbo, is there something wrong?" Bilbo's throat felt dry and he swallowed thickly.
"T-the forest is sick," he stuttered. Thorin frowned.
"Is there no way around?" The dwarf called, turning to Gandalf.
"Not unless we go two hundred miles north, or twice that distance south. Nothing you can afford to lose, Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf said, rather impatiently. "Not my horse, I need it!" He said as the dwarves made to set his loose. Bilbo frowned.
"You're still leaving us?" Bilbo asked, unsurprised, but dismayed. With Gandalf gone, Bilbo was well and truly the only thing standing between the Company and disaster. Thorin stalked away, stony-faced.
"You know I would not do this unless I had to," Gandalf said gravely, putting his hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "Do not despair, Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf said comfortingly. "For there is hope to be found even in a place such as this." He glanced at Thorin, who had gone to join Fíli and Kíli. "Do not carry the burden of the future so heavily. It is of your own making, after all. Fear not the change to come."
"Gandalf, I'm not quite sure what you mean," Bilbo said.
"Hmm." Gandalf raised an eyebrow and gave Bilbo such a look that he instantly felt guilty, though for what he wasn't sure. "Indeed." He then turned away from the confused hobbit and addressed the group. "I'll be waiting for you at the overlook, before the slopes of Erebor. Keep the map and key safe. Do not enter that mountain without me." He mounted his horse, though he was not done speaking. "This is not the Greenwood of old, the very air of the forest is heavy with illusion that will seek to enter your mind and lead you astray."
"Lead us astray? What does that mean?" Kíli asked, face marred by a worried frown.
"You must stay on the path, do not leave it. If you do, you'll never find it again," Gandalf said, at once taking off. "No matter what may come, stay on the path!" He yelled over his shoulder. Bilbo watched Gandalf disappear for a long time, the pit in his stomach sinking ever further.
"Come on, we are losing time. We must be at the mountain before Durin's Day," Thorin said. Bilbo turned and watched him disappear into the forest, swallowed by darkness, and felt a swell of panic. He watched as the dwarves disappeared one by one, their silhouettes being enveloped by the gloom. His eye caught on Bifur and he got a very funny feeling in his stomach. He felt angry, violent, and then oh so suddenly dizzy. He sank to the ground, knotting his hands in his hair.
"Bilbo, are you okay, lad?" Bofur asked. Bilbo felt a large, warm hand on his shoulder and jumped, looking up. "You don't look well." Bofur was staring at Bilbo with concern. Bilbo noticed that it was just Bofur, Dori, Nori, and Dwalin left standing outside the treeline. Dwalin and Nori seemed to be having some kind of argument, while Dori was eyeing them with contempt. Bilbo clenched his fists to slow the tremors and forced himself to stand, Bofur helping him up with a hand on his arm.
"I'll be fine, thank you, Bofur," Bilbo said, trying for a smile that ended up more closely resembling a grimace. Bofur nodded, letting go of Bilbo's arm gently. Bilbo made his way uneasily to the forest gate, Bofur's footsteps close behind him. With a deep breath, Bilbo crossed the threshold.
He immediately knew something was wrong. There was a deep evil in this forest, one that he had felt, but not understood Last Time. Now, however, Bilbo knew without being told, that the one thing Gandalf would deem more important than their quest, was Sauron. And he was here, in this forest. He could feel it in the rank air, the evil that seemed to swirl around him enticingly.
It had been just minutes, and already, there was sweat pooling in the small of his back and his head was throbbing painfully. Bilbo wondered if this was how it felt for Frodo, to be so near the source of evil, to hold the one thing it desires.
His fingers twitched towards his ringless pocket, even in its absence, calling for him to put it on, to go to Sauron and let him claim it. No. He clasped his shaking hands together tightly, and tried desperately to stop his thoughts.
And then he stumbled, a thought striking him so hard he felt dizzy. The reason he felt the Ring's presence is because it had been with him this whole time. He had not left it in the Misty Mountains after all, no he hadn't. It was right there in front of him, waiting for him to claim it. Waiting for him to take what was rightfully his.
No, the Ring was not in his pocket, but he could see it. He could see the Ring. He could see it in Bifur's strange silhouette, always standing out from the other dwarves. He knew where Bifur was always, and he could feel the thrum of the Ring as though it were alive, like a cat's purr that resonates through your whole body. The closer he got to Bifur, the harder it was to control himself. Sometimes he would find himself creeping closer at night, just to watch, he told himself… just to watch.
Days bled together in Bilbo's fevered mind. He hated this damned forest. He hated the ever-present gloom, how he had to squint to see, even in the middle of the day. He hated that they could not light fires at night, as the flames drew hundreds of eyes, peering out at them from the darkness, and moths the size of his hand to flutter over the flames, entranced. He hated how dull the sound was. The noises were heavy and blunt, and the sound of dwarven footfalls seemed so ingrained in his mind, that he heard that incessant beat even in the pitch blackness of night, long after they had stopped walking.
Above all, he hated the Ring. How the darkness, the evil, called to him. How the forest itself seemed to reach for him. The branches were grotesque arms, trying to snare him, entrap him. Each root and twig in his path was waiting for him to misstep, to coil itself up his legs so he could not move any longer. He hated that part of him wanted it.
The air was slowly choking him. He could feel it getting thicker and heavier with each breath, struggling to take it in. His lungs were collapsing in on themselves, and he could hear the laughter, the mirth of the forest as he slowly decayed.
He wasn't sure when he stopped sleeping. He wasn't even really sure that he had. Somewhere between finding his hands in Bifur's bag during his shift on watch, and the realization that it might one day be Bifur's neck, he supposed.
Beyond that, his mind was filled with the sounds of marching feet, and when he closed his eyes, it magnified. It was the sound of an army. They were coming for him, he knew it. He only hoped that when they did, his death would be swift and they took him out before he harmed his friend.
And the clicking of their pincers and the ominous creeping sound they made as they suspended high above you, stinger poised and at the ready. He knew they were coming, for were they not too servants of Sauron? They would come for him, and he would let them. He knew he would let them.
"Yes, yes, I hear you," Bilbo shouted as his doorbell rang once again, aggressive and incessant. "I'm coming." He hurried to his door and flung it open, only for his doorstep to be empty. Frowning, Bilbo shut the door slowly before turning. He was no longer in his entryway, but in his kitchen, and it was overrun with dwarves.
Fíli and Kíli were laughing as though in slow motion, the elder slapping the younger on the shoulder. Bilbo watched the contact ripple along Kíli's body. To Bilbo's left, was Dwalin, yelling something unintelligible, chunks of sausage and spit flying from his mouth. Nori watched Dwalin from behind his back with a raised eyebrow.
Bilbo shook his head, his movements a fraction of a second behind his vision, creating an odd, dizzying feeling.
"No," he said, stumbling towards Ori, his movements disjointed, yet light, as though he were floating. He grabbed ahold of Ori's arm. "No, you must leave," he said. "You must all leave and go…" he shook Ori's arm, but his hands were empty. Ori was nowhere to be seen. "Go back to the Blue Mountains," he shouted to no one.
"Eat up, kinsmen." Thorin was there now, looking more regal than ever. His blue eyes blazed ferociously and Bilbo felt his body move towards Thorin, caught in his orbit. Bilbo knew this feeling. "This meal is courtesy of the halfling." At his words, Thorin gestured behind him, where Bilbo was surprised to see himself passed out on the floor. Thorin laughed, a cruel glint in his eye.
"We should get an early start," said Balin, eyeing Bilbo's collapsed form with disdain. "We don't want to risk him waking up and joining us."
"He won't," said Thorin with a smirk. Gandalf laughed. Ori jeered.
"Tomorrow we shall be on the road to Erebor," said Gandalf. "The throne awaits you."
"N-no, Gandalf," Bilbo said, his voice somehow falling flat, like the sound had stopped before leaving his mouth, although he was sure he could still hear himself. Wasn't he? "Gandalf, you cannot let them go! It's a death sentence!"
Thorin stood, brandishing his glass to the Company, shouting those words in Khuzdul that Bilbo could never understand. They cheered, drank, then stood in an orderly line and filed out of Bilbo's house, one by one.
"Wait, don't- please don't go!" Bilbo cried, voice cracking as he tried to grab on to their arms, sleeves, hair, but he went right through them. Gandalf was the last one through the door, shutting it right in Bilbo's face. He stumbled backwards and tripped on his unconscious self's feet. He fell and came into contact with his own body. They morphed together and it was dark.
Fíli was not unique in that he hated the forest. He supposed it could have once been beautiful, but it felt dark, and that had nothing to do with the dense foliage that had deprived them of sunlight since they had first stepped foot over the threshold.
When they had first entered the forest, Fíli had been surrounded by trees larger than any he had seen before. They gave off this ancient enormity, and Fíli felt as though he were trodding on the toes of a very large and very old god. He felt very small. Like a tiny little ant, or a shiny black beetle.
The forest was deformed. There were trees growing out of other trees, bent at odd angles and growing against gravity, odd looking fungi, of the likes Fíli had never seen, that seemed to cover the underbelly of every fallen log, or appear in any mossy crevice. Somehow he knew they were poisonous. Everything seemed to be eaten alive by moss, which carpeted the ground, climbed the sides of the trees, and dangled from the branches. It was all alive.
Perhaps it was this feeling that had the Company so on edge. In the gloom of the forest, shapes appeared humanoid and lurking. Danger hid in every shadow, in the old ruins that they passed every so often, and in the overhanging tree branches. The old dilapidated statues that seemed to be as much a living part of the forest as the trees and the moss, radiated an evil beauty. They seemed so lifelike, Fíli was sure he had seen one brush a stray hair back, or pluck a twig from her dress. He tried not to look at them. He was sure one day he would see that they had started following him.
The path itself became harder and harder to follow as giant ferns grew overtop, or piles of rotten leaves covered the stones, their sharp earthy smell filling the windless forest.
And something seemed evil about the woods themselves. The trees, hidden under the moss and layers of bug webbing, were unnatural colours. He could have been imagining it, but they looked like an oil spill, strange and glossy colours bleeding together. Sick. The further they got into the forest, the darker and colder it got. The leaves started to colour and fall, and Fíli cursed this forest and their inability to know when they were. How fast Durin's day approached.
The worst part, though, was the fear. Something was terribly wrong with Bilbo. When they had first entered the forest, he had been troubled, uneasy. He was pale and trembling, but they had not thought much of it, aside from Bofur, who had kept a close watch on Bilbo the whole time. No one was at ease in the pale gloom of Mirkwood.
As days passed, however, Bilbo seemed to slip. There were days where he would seem quite normal, if it weren't for the far off look in his eyes. Other days, he walked as if in a dream, expression twisted into terror, not quite focusing on anything, listless.
It did not take long before he was talking to himself in harsh mutters, glancing over his shoulder with a shifty look. No one knew what he was saying, but occasionally they would catch snippets. Sometimes he spoke softly, almost fondly to some unseen being. Someone he called 'Frodo-lad'. Other times, he would shout out a warning, grip someone's sleeve and tell them not to go on. What really scared Fíli beyond all measure though, was the times when Bilbo would get very quiet and very small, with a greedy glint in his eye.
"It's mine," he would say, voice guttural and rasping. "It came to me. It's my precious, oh yes it is."
Fíli tried to ignore it, oh how he tried. Sometimes he was convinced that he saw a shadow surrounding Bilbo, or else, he imagined this 'Frodo-lad', sitting in front of him, waiting for something. Sometimes Frodo was a hobbit that looked vaguely like Bilbo, other times it was a young elf with dark hair and green eyes, and occasionally a young Man, with curly hair and freckles. Fíli had heard rumours of Bilbo's dead love, and his children. Frodo must be one of them.
Ignoring Bilbo proved to be hard, to Fíli's chagrin. He was not quiet, and seemed to have lost any and all ability to filter his thoughts. There were moments of lucidity, in which Bilbo's mind seemed to clear and he would say something very odd.
One of these days they had come across the river that Beorn had warned them of. In the gloom, the water seemed to be black and glossy, and there was a distinct air of evil about it. The bridge, or what was left of it, was rotten, the majority of it having long since fallen into the river. And though the water was still, there was a constant dripping noise that seemed to echo loudly in their ears.
"We must cross," Thorin said, his voice having lost the urgency it normally held. He leaned heavily against a tree, eyes dull.
"There's a boat." Bilbo's voice came from near the back of the group. Bofur, who had appointed himself as caretaker of the hobbit, put a hand on Bilbo's shoulder as he made his way forward.
"What do you mean, lad?" Bofur asked. Bilbo stopped next to Thorin, who curved to make space for him.
"There's a boat on the other side," Bilbo said, pointing dreamily across the river. Thorin and Bofur exchanged pained expressions and Bofur ushered Bilbo off to the side. He shook free of Bofur's hands, expression livid. "I said there is a boat on the other side!" Bilbo yelled, fists clenching and unclenching in an uneven pattern. Thorin did not look convinced, but addressed his nephews.
"Fíli, Kíli," Thorin barked. "You have the keenest eyes, is there a boat?" Fíli moved as far forward as he could and squinted through the fog. There was something there…
"It's hard to tell," he said.
"It's possible," Kíli added.
"It's there, I'm telling you," Bilbo said, stamping his foot down, causing him to lose his balance and stumble. Bofur's arms shot out to right him. "Just… Fíli, throw some rope. Pull it to this side." Fíli looked at Thorin, unsure if he should follow the hobbit's directions. Thorin nodded.
Fíli missed the first throw, and the rope splashed into the depths of the river. He pulled it back gingerly, not wanting to touch the rope, now dripping with enchanted water. He looked at Bilbo, unsure of why he was deferring to his authority in the state the hobbit was in, but doing so anyway.
"It's fine to touch," Bilbo said absently. Fíli nodded and continued to pull the rope in. "Just don't fall in, Bombur." Fíli took a peek at Bombur, just as he shot Bilbo a hurt look. Bilbo turned away, expression serene, which was no less disconcerting than the terror Fíli had grown accustomed to. He turned back to his task.
"I think I've got it," Fíli cried as he felt the rope catch onto something.
"It's tied down," Bilbo said, having come up silently behind Fíli. How could Bilbo have known that? There's no way he could see that from here. Fíli heaved with all his might, but the boat did not budge. Only after Kíli, Dori, and Gloin had all added their strength did the boat finally come loose. Sure enough, not only had Bilbo been correct about the boat, but also the fact that it had been attached to the other side. Fíli shot Bilbo an incredulous look, but Bilbo was fiddling with the hem of his pocket, and did not notice.
"How do you suppose he saw that?" Fíli asked Kíli, voice low. Kíli shrugged animatedly.
"Hobbits have good eyesight?"
"He was standing behind everyone. There's no way he could have seen it past them," Fíli argued. Kíli frowned and glanced at Bilbo, who had sat down and was staring at his reflection in the water with a look of unease.
"You're sure? There's no way he saw it… some other way?" Kíli asked.
"Of course I'm sure."
"Fíli, Balin," Thorin boomed. "Get the boat ready. You'll ride with me and Bilbo." Fíli nodded and clapped his brother on the back before heading towards the bank. He watched his uncle approach Bilbo slowly. He spoke to the hobbit with a gentle air that Fíli didn't often see in his uncle, but Bilbo did not seem to hear him. Suddenly, Bilbo's eyes snapped on to Thorin and he smiled sadly, reaching forward and playing with a lock of Thorin's hair. Thorin froze.
"You're not really here," Bilbo said. "You can't be here." He shook his head gently. Almost everyone had stopped to watch. Fíli felt an odd sort of panic in his chest and looked around for Dwalin, who met his gaze with a comforting expression.
"I am here," Thorin said, with an almost desperate reassurance.
"Are you a ghost then?" Bilbo asked pleasantly.
"I'm not a ghost." At Thorin's words, Bilbo seemed to crumple.
"No. Of course you aren't," he said, looking down and stepping away. "Silly me, I'd forgotten." He looked so forlorn, arms dangling listlessly at his sides. Thorin stood in front of the hobbit, mouth slack, unsure of what to do or say, eyes fixed on the morose Bilbo.
"Come on, Bilbo," Fíli said with a falsely cheery smile. "Into the boat with you." Bilbo's eyes locked onto Fíli and he winced, but made his way over and clambered into the boat. Thorin followed shortly after, looking stricken. Balin helped Bilbo into the boat and kept a watchful eye on him. The mood was somber, as the rest of the company crossed the river. This hobbit was a far cry from the Bilbo that had taught them to dance, and made them flower crowns in Beorn's garden, just weeks ago. What if Bilbo never recovered? What would they do? How could they, in good conscience, send him in to face a dragon?
"Bombur, stop!" Bilbo cried, as the large dwarf made to get out of the boat on the other side. "Wait." Bombur stopped, sitting back down on the bench, a look of confusion on his face. The confusion was replaced by fear, as an enormous white stag barrelled towards him, just narrowly missing hitting the boat. "Don't waste your arrows," Bilbo directed as Kíli fitted his bow. In that moment of confusion, the stag disappeared. "I said don't fall in, and now you haven't." said Bilbo, looking dreadfully pleased as Bombur clambered onto dry land.
"So I haven't," said Bombur with a nervous smile. "Thankin' you kindly, Mister Bilbo."
"That beast would surely've knocked him in, if he'd been standing," said Bofur, looking at Bilbo with a funny look. "How'd you know it was there?"
"How did I know what was there?" Bilbo asked, looking dazed.
"The stag," growled Glóin, who had very little patience for nonsense.
"Oh, I've seen it before," Bilbo said as though it should have been obvious. With that, the hobbit clammed up, and no amount of questions or promises would bring him back. Fíli exchanged a loaded look with Kíli. Something was very off about their burglar, and they were going to find out what.
"Wake up," Bilbo said in a harsh whisper. "Wake up, my lads. We must go at once!" He turned to give the boys some privacy, facing the dark, dying forest. He walked forward, eyes on the skyline, watching. The darkening sky was illuminated by a fiery red, the ground shaking. He backtracked unsteadily to his travel companions.
"We must hurry, we're running out of time," Bilbo said.
"Mister Frodo hasn't eaten as yet, Mister Bilbo," Sam said, arching protectively over Frodo, who was still sitting on the cold stone where they had taken shelter.
"He can eat on the road," said Bilbo. "Give him some lembas." Sam nodded and pulled out a leaf-wrapped parcel.
"I've rationed it," Sam said. "We need to be careful or we'll run out. You go ahead and eat that, Mister Frodo. There should be enough."
"For what?" Frodo asked. Bilbo watched the two with a sad look.
"The journey home," Sam said with a desperate look that Bilbo recognized too well. He knew that hope.
But then, he too recognized the responding shock on Frodo's face. His heart shattered for his poor nephew, so young to look so defeated. Frodo believed himself to be walking to his death.
"It must be getting near teatime," Sam said. Bilbo looked over his shoulder at Sam who was walking a ways behind him, dodging overgrown prickly vines and weeds. Oh how Bilbo saw his younger self in Sam. "Leastways, it would be in decent places where there is still teatime."
"But we're not in decent places, Sam, my lad," said Bilbo. There was something in his chest that was tightening. He loosened his shirt around his neck and swallowed thickly.
"Mr. Frodo? What is it?" Sam's voice carried forward and Bilbo turned. Frodo had come to a stop and was standing, an expression of grim acceptance on his face.
"It's just a feeling," Frodo said. "I don't think I'll be coming back."
A jolt ran through Bilbo's body. A deep shock and sadness. How could he have let this happen to his nephew? This should have been his burden. He did not like hearing this echo of his own thoughts coming from Frodo's mouth.
"Yes, you will," Sam said, with a tenderness that did not quite fit the situation. "Of course you will. That's just morbid thinking. We're going there and back again just like Mr. Bilbo. You'll see."
A lump lodged itself in Bilbo's throat and he felt his eyes burn. Unbidden, the image of Sam's face when Bilbo and Frodo sailed away to the undying lands came to the forefront of his mind. The sheer brokenness. The fear of living the rest of his life without Frodo. How unfair. How unfair that Sam had to go through such peril, and the one he went through it with, the only one who could truly understand, the one he had grown to love, left, never to return.
Oh and maybe he was projecting, what of it? Had he not earned that at least? This small comfort?
"Do be careful, Frodo-lad," said Bilbo, heart in his throat as Frodo's feet slipped on the dark stone, nearly plummeting hundreds of feet. "Watch your footing, young thing, for these stairs are treacherous."
Bilbo made it to the next ledge and let out a breath he had been holding. He offered a hand to Frodo, who grasped it gratefully and pulled himself up, loosening a thin little chain about his neck. On that chain was strung a little trinket of gold, the sight of which made Bilbo's heart stutter and his blood run cold. As Frodo caught his breath, Bilbo fell back, eyes locked on the Ring.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he stalked forward. "Isn't that… isn't that odd now? Yet, after all, why not? Why shouldn't I have it?" His hand reached for the Ring as if of its own accord.
"Mr Frodo!" Sam had made his way to the ledge and had drawn his little sword. "Don't you harm one hair on his head!"
Bilbo wanted to laugh at the poor thing, wracked with loyalty and love. He was weak, he held his sword all wrong, and really, what could he do to stop him? The Ring was his. It had come to him.
And yet, he changed his course, choosing instead to brush some dirt off of his nephew's shirt.
"Why Frodo," Bilbo said, a hurt look on his face. "Whyever does your companion distrust me so? I have been nothing but good to him… To his family…" Sam put away his sword, having the good graces to look ashamed, yet there was still a harsh scepticism there. "I of all people understand your burden, Frodo, my boy. I understand its call. Your gardener could never comprehend the magnitude of its weight, but he wants it, oh yes he wants it. And given the chance, he will take it from you, oh yes he will. But not me. Not your old Uncle Bilbo, no."
Frodo turned to Sam, his companion, and his friend, eyes cold. He shoved the Ring under the folds of his shirt and looked away. Bilbo hid a smile.
"We've nearly made it, Mister Frodo, look, a doorway!" Sam cried, staggering under the weight of Frodo, who was draped across his shoulders. Sam was dusty, dirty, bloody, and covered in a sheen of sweat, illuminated by the fires of Mount Doom.
"Poor Samwise, you always were too loyal for your own good," Bilbo muttered, coming up behind them as they neared the top of the stairs. He jumped on top of them, lithe and agile, and pulled his nephew from Sam's back. The Ring was so close, lying prone on Frodo's neck. It was his. It should be his. "Give it to me. Give me the precious!"
"Why are you doing this?" Frodo asked, his expression tortured. "You swore to protect me, Uncle."
"I lied," spat Bilbo, enclosing his hands around Frodo's soft little neck. Frodo gasped and spluttered for breath, his eyes protruding from his skull, bloodshot and fearful.
"Take that," yelled Sam, and Bilbo was hit by a rock, hard on his face. He fell back with a yell, but was not deterred. He dove again for Frodo, only to be knocked to the ground by Sam's body on his. Bilbo let his fists fly, getting in every punch, scratch, and kick he possibly could onto the larger hobbit's toughened skin. He then leaned over and sunk his teeth into the exposed skin between Sam's neck and shoulder, and Sam cried out in pain, pushing Bilbo off of him. In a split second, Bilbo felt a sharp burn across his chest and watched a cut open on his skin with a detached curiosity. He staggered and his legs gave way for just long enough for Sam to catch sight of Frodo, who was running towards the doorway. Sam ran after him and the two were swallowed by the fiery glow.
Bilbo let out an angry, guttural scream and ran after them, heartbeat throbbing in his ears. He entered the doorway and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the glow of the lava, bright and hot.
"Destroy it!" Sam pleaded. "Go on, Mister Frodo, cast it into the fire!"
Frodo stared at the Ring in the palm of his hands, his expression blank.
"What are you waiting for?" cried Sam, tears and sweat making tracks down his dusty face.
"No," said Frodo. "The Ring is mine."
"We Bagginses, so alike," said Bilbo, panting heavily. Sam jumped and trained his sword on him, his eyes wild. "Neither one of us can resist its call."
"It- it's mine," Frodo said. "You left it to me. It was you who did this."
"But I can take it back," Bilbo said, approaching Frodo cautiously. "I can take it back from you and you'll never need worry again. It's just a silly little ring." He held out his hand to Frodo, who looked at Bilbo with a curious look on his face. All too soon, his face grew cloudy.
"No," Frodo said. "I think I shall keep it." And then slipped the Ring on his finger and disappeared.
"Not by my life," Bilbo shrieked, and ran to where he had seen his nephew disappear. He felt his body hit something solid, and latched on, yelling all the while. He pulled his dear Frodo's hair and bit at his skin, pinched, scratched, and prodded. And then he was suddenly weightless. He fell, his limbs intertwined with Frodo's. He felt no fear, no sadness, but a deep, deep rage, as Sam's horror-struck face watched the two hobbits plummet into the depths of Mount Doom.
"Look," Dori cried, drawing the Company's eyes to him. "A tobacco pouch! There's dwarves in these woods!" Bofur stumbled over to Dori and took the pouch from him, an expression of awe on his face.
"Dwarves from the Blue Mountains, no less! This is exactly the same as mine!" Kíli watched these proceedings with a frown. Something was not quite right.
Beside him, Bilbo groaned and scrunched his face up, lowering himself to the ground slowly. Kíli stooped in front of him, hoping to crouch, but losing his balance and ending up sitting on the forest floor as well.
"Hey mate," Kíli said, blinking heavily as his vision swam before him. "What's wrong?" Kíli heard heavy footfalls behind him and knew, even in such a state, that his brother stood behind him.
"I-" Bilbo stuttered, grasping at his overlong curls. "I- We're going in circles," Bilbo managed, looking pained. "It- that is Bofur's pouch." He pointed in Bofur's general direction, and Kíli knew without looking, that Bilbo was right. Behind him, Fíli swore and Kíli's stomach sank.
"Uncle," Fíli said, moving towards Dwalin and Thorin. He looked slightly blurry and Kíli resisted the urge to laugh. "We're lost. Going in circles," Fíli stated plainly.
"We are not lost. We keep heading east," Thorin said with a growl, holding onto a tree branch for support.
"But which way is the east? We've lost the sun!" Dwalin groused. The three were silent for a moment.
"Then we must find the sun," Fíli said confidently. "We'll send someone up a tree."
"But who? The lightest among us is Bilbo, and I will not send him up in such a state," Thorin said, eyes falling on his youngest nephew and Bilbo. Catching Thorin's eye, Kíli felt a deep sense of despair fill him.
"I shall go myself!" Fíli said stubbornly. "Or we could send Kíli or Ori." Kíli had been watching his family with interest, but he was distracted by an odd sniffle. He turned back to Bilbo only to see him red-faced and snivelling, tears welling in his cloudy eyes.
"Bilbo," Kíli said, alarmed. "Whatever is the matter?"
"You're just so young," Bilbo said with a bubble in his throat, voice pinched and tight. "So very young."
"I'm older than you," Kíli said with a worried frown. Bilbo stared at him intently for several moments.
"How very real you are," Bilbo said with a watery smile. "I feel as if I could reach out and touch you." And touch him he did. He reached his shaking little hand out and placed it directly on Kíli's face. Kíli stilled, unsure of what to do. He heard Fíli telling everyone to stay put, and the familiar footfalls as he approached cautiously. "Your beard is so short," Bilbo said and Kíli flushed.
"It'll get there eventually," said Kíli, trying to keep his tone light. "Just a few more years."
At his words, Bilbo let out a wail. And Kíli's heart sped up as he floundered, unsure of what to do or say.
"No," Bilbo sobbed. "It won't get there. You'll never get there." Bilbo once again buried his hands in his curls and started yanking on them ferociously. Kíli watched on, unsure of what to do or say. It was rather disconcerting to hear Bilbo speak like this. Did he think Kíli was going to die? He knew it was just the forest, but even still, he felt something dark and uncomfortable coiling in his stomach.
Luckily, Fíli seemed to know what to do. He grabbed Bilbo's hands gently in his own and started muttering in a soothing voice.
"Don't worry, Bilbo," Fíli said, gently lowering their interlocked hands away from Bilbo's hair. "Kíli is fine, we're all fine. We just have to get out of the forest and you'll be all better, you'll see."
"No, no," Bilbo moaned. "He won't be fine. You're going to die, don't you understand?" Bilbo asked, eyes wide and unblinking. Fíli was silent for a moment, watching Bilbo with an unreadable expression. Kíli felt oddly lightheaded.
"Bilbo, why do you think Kíli is going to die?"
"I don't think, I know," Bilbo said morosely. Suddenly his expression shifted and he grasped Fíli's hands with vigour. Fíli, to his credit, did not flinch. "Fíli, I can change it." Bilbo's expression had morphed into a frenzied awe, an eerie grin splitting across his face. "How have I been so foolish, it doesn't have to happen like that again! I have to stop getting in my own head like that. Oh, but I am a silly creature."
"What do-" Kíli turned to Fíli, who was looking just as lost. Bilbo turned to Kíli and put his hands on the dwarf's face, putting their foreheads together.
"Your beard will grow," Bilbo said seriously. As odd as the situation was, Kíli knew a vow when he heard one. "You will grow a beard and you and Fíli will see your mother again."
If the situation were different, Kíli might have laughed, played along. Instead, something icy was making its way through his veins. Nonsensical though they were, there was something in Bilbo's words that scared Kíli. He turned to his brother for some kind of relief, expecting to see his disbelief or humour or anything, but Fíli's face was somber, thoughtful. He did not meet Kíli's eyes, but Kíli knew that he too was feeling the discomfort, the fear that Kíli was feeling. Kíli looked back at Bilbo, who now had a fond smile on his face as he watched the brothers.
"Thank you, Bilbo," Fíli said after several beats of uncomfortable, fearful silence. "For what it's worth, we will all protect each other, keep each other safe." He paused again. "But if you know something... Something that could help us…" Bilbo looked confused for a moment, and then his face fell.
"Spiders!" he shouted, launching himself clumsily to his feet. Kíli flinched back instinctively, hands flying to his weapons, eyes scanning their surroundings. "The spiders are coming!"
"You'll just sleep anywhere, won't you, dear?" Bilbo said quietly when he came across Thorin's snoring figure in Bilbo's father's old chair. Thorin's face was still, his mouth slightly open, his brow free of wrinkles or lines. "Well, there's nothing for it, I suppose." Bilbo unfolded a blanket, gifted to him by some assorted cousin or other, and laid it across the sleeping dwarf. He smoothed it down, making sure Thorin was fully covered, then brushed a strand of hair from his face.
"Right, time for tea," Bilbo said aloud to himself, making his way to the kitchen. He busied himself with putting on some water, and then paused, staring out his little kitchen window to his garden outside. It was a beautiful summer's day in the Shire. The plants were lush and green, and the sky was a vibrant blue. He jumped when someone laid their hands on either of Bilbo's shoulders. "Oh, bother, you're getting far too good at sneaking for my liking, you silly old dwarf."
"I've learned from the best," Thorin said, planting a soft kiss on Bilbo's curls. "I've heard he's actually a burglar by profession."
"Oh, is he now?" asked Bilbo, his smile audible in his voice. "He must be quite a rogue. Probably rather dangerous too, I'd wager."
"Oh he is," said Thorin, spinning Bilbo around to face him, a devilish look in his eye. Bilbo flushed. "It's part of what I like so much about him."
They were interrupted at the sound of the kettle, and they broke out into gentle laughter. Bilbo removed the kettle from the heat and poured their tea. He reached for the sugar and a spoon but knocked the spoon to the ground. It clattered and skidded to a halt somewhere unseen beneath a cabinet.
"Don't strain your back dear, I've got it," said Bilbo, bending down to find the missing spoon. It had fallen far backwards, into the darkness. He felt around blindly, and finally, he felt the cool metal in the palm of his hand. He clutched it hard and stood back up. "Found the silly thing," Bilbo said, but the words died on his lips. He was alone. "Thorin?"
Thorin was nowhere to be found. He went back to the living room, where Thorin had been napping, but the chair was empty and the blanket was folded and put away. He wasn't in any of the bedrooms, the bathroom, not even the study. He wasn't out front smoking, and he wasn't in the garden.
"Thorin?"
Bilbo walked down into town, his feet slapping against the ground, echoing in an eerie way. He was right in the centre of the market, and he could not see a single hobbit, let alone their resident dwarf.
"Thorin!" Bilbo called, feeling his eyes burn. "Thorin, where are you?" His breathing became laboured and he clenched his fists. He was surprised to feel cool metal in them. He must still be carrying that dratted spoon.
When he opened his palm, his eyes fell upon the Ring.
A jolt ran through his body and he blinked, his sight adjusting to the gloom of Mirkwood. The first thing Bilbo knew was an odd, buzzing numbness and he blinked sluggishly. He was lying alone against a tree in an unfamiliar clearing. The daylight was ebbing and it took several moments for his eyesight to adjust. The Ring was secured tightly in his hand, and it felt both as if he could breathe and think clearly again, and that he was slowly losing his mind, all at once.
He stood, using the tree trunk to help him up, and surveyed his surroundings warily. Where was he? Where was everyone else? He did not look at the Ring in his hand, but felt its presence ever so keenly. How had he come by this? How had he gotten it from Bifur? Could he have taken it? By force? Is that why he was alone? Could they have abandoned him for his deeds? For truly, he had no memory of his actions in the slightest. He could not tell what was real, and what was another one of his twisted nightmares.
He wracked his mind, panic growing in his chest. Perhaps they had been taken by spiders, and he had not been around to save them and they were now all dead. With dread growing in his stomach, not wanting to think about how long he had been unconscious for, he looked around, watching for any signs of a struggle, any remaining webs or misplaced weapons. There was nothing. He was truly lost.
With nothing left to do, Bilbo ventured out cautiously, hoping beyond hope that there would be a sign to lead him in the right direction. He needed to find his friends. He knew not to yell, that it was pointless to lose himself to his fear, but he felt so forsaken. There was a mad chant going on in his head, telling him that his friends were dead, and that he had as good as killed them. No, no, we mustn't think like that. Bilbo thought to himself sternly. He would find them.
After a frightfully long time, he finally found the scene of the attack. His eyes fell on the broken brush, the tangles of web on several branches, and a singular knife that Bilbo recognized as Fíli's. Heart speeding up, Bilbo pocketed the weapon and took off at a near run, following the path of webs and flattened plants. The light was truly fading by now, and he knew he would not be able to do anything once nighttime fell. He had a very limited window for this rescue. Making far more noise than usual, he crashed through the trees, only slowing when he could hear the piercing whispers of the spiders. He slipped the Ring on, and shuddered as he began to understand their speech.
"Kill them. Kill them! Eat them now while all their blood is running." Bilbo's own blood ran cold. This second encounter with the giant spiders was no less pleasant. Enormous and grotesque, the spiders were black and hairy, their multitude of eyes staring unblinking at their prize. They were countless, all strong and hungry.
"Their hide is tough, but they could be juicy inside."
Bilbo watched as a spider approached the fattest bundle of dwarf and sunk its teeth into poor Bombur's nose, which was sticking out of the web awkwardly. Bombur kicked out, hitting the spider hard and causing it to fall from its branch, just barely catching itself with a web.
"Stick it again. Stick it again. Finish it off," cried the spider, crawling back up angrily.
"The meat's alive and kicking," said another spider, and Bilbo could have sworn he heard amusement in its tone.
"Kill them, kill them now. Let us feast, feast, feast. Feast, feast!" The spiders echoed this chant, calling to kill them, to gorge themselves on the poisoned dwarves, and Bilbo panicked. He grabbed a rock from the ground and hurled it as hard as he could right at a spider. It fell off its branch, dazed.
"What is it?" called many a hissed voice, peering towards where Bilbo stood, invisible. Bilbo took another stone and launched it towards the nearest spider, hitting it right in the face. It fell, body landing far below with a crunch of broken legs.
"Curse it! Where is it? Where is it?" The spiders stampeded towards him and he, quiet as a mouse, crept away. He continued throwing stones, advancing farther into the forest, hoping to lead them away from the dwarves. He invented a song, singing it loudly as he moved.
Laggard old spiders, looking all around
Doaty old spiders, can't be found
Come leave your Branches
Come leave your webs
Better watch out as I tear through your threads
At that moment, Bilbo took out Sting and slashed viciously through a web. Sting, the spiders saw, and rushed towards it, only Bilbo had once again disappeared. Hissing and moaning, the spiders started spinning their webs all around, hoping to catch him.
"Nasty little thing, we'll catch you yet." True enough, Bilbo would soon be caught, if he wasn't careful. The spaces between trees were now ghostly and white, and he could hear the spiders' evil laughter. He thought desperately of more ways to taunt them. He took Sting out again, and broke through one of their webbed fences, and felt hundreds of eyes searching for him.
Old bespawler
Nasty Crawler
Weave your webs and bind me
I'm far sweeter, and far less meager
And still you'll never find me
He took off his Ring only momentarily, so the spiders spotted him far ahead in the trees, then secured it firmly on his finger again, rushing out of the way of the throng running towards him. He made his way as quickly as possible back to the dwarves, only to be halted at the feeling of hard metal against his throat.
"What is this?" came the haughty voice of a tall, dark haired elf. "What's a halfling doing so far east?"