THREE:

It made absolutely no sense. There was no way that Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, (former?) Crown Prince in exile of the Kingdom Erebor, could understand what had happened to him over the last few hours.

But here he was, sitting in one of the wagons of a quartet of Halflings…Hobbits, they didn't like being referred to as Halflings, must remember that…who had purchased his freedom with no desire for any recompense, other than seeing another creature freed from cruel servitude. And perhaps he should understand that, being born a Prince of the line of Durin, but attitudes towards other races hadn't been the most…welcoming…in his youth. Of course, they dealt with the Elves of Greenwood and the Men of Dale because they were allied Kingdoms and the roots of this ties went back. It was folly not to maintain amiable relations with your nearest neighbours but even in the Mountain, there were always sneers. Elves were tree-shaggers, Men were weak and Wizards spoke in riddles and were unreliable. He wracked his brain to see if he could recall anything on Halflings but apart from a brief mention by Balin in a lesson on geopolitics that he had been ignoring because was exhausted from a tough sparring session with Dwalin and Warmaster Fanion, there was nothing. He had learned more by observing the hobbits in Bree, noting the short, friendly and easy-going little people who were generally kind, generous and uninterested in harming anyone. Somehow, it was always the Men who caused the trouble.

He closed his eyes. The hobbit, Bilbo, had refused to let the caravan leave until Thorin had eaten the food he had provided and somehow, the dwarf had felt better after consuming more in one meal that he had eaten in either of the previous two days. After that, they had been prepared to set out for home, but there had been a question whether Thorin wished to sit up front on the board or in the wagon with the goods. Glancing at the hobbits, he had scrambled into the back of the wagon, made himself comfortable and closed his eyes as the sway of the wagon began.

He could hear the hobbits chatting up ahead and in the following wagon, their soft voices musical and gentle. A lot was discussion about family or food and he tuned out, wondering what he could do next. He was heading away from Bree, away from Halford and his abusive and controlling environment that he had endured for the previous year but into another unknown-the Shire home of the hobbits. At least there were no men in the Shire and that thought eased a fraction of the tension from his body. And since when did he feel anxious at the prospect of facing Men, at the prospect of change? But he knew.

It had been that day, that fateful day so many years ago yet fresh in his memory as if it had been yesterday. The day the dragon came. The day Smaug annihilated his home. And he had read the signs: his grandfather's excessive love of gold, heaping more and more into the treasury and forming a more and more irresistible hoard to call a fire drake; the growing hostility to other races as his paranoia grew and the sense of anxiety that had prickled his neck since daybreak. He had ducked lessons and gone on a patrol of the defences, leading him to be on the very ramparts above the gate as the boiling wind blasted over the flanks of the mountain, as the flames raked Dale and he raised the alarm, screaming the word 'DRAGON' as the monstrosity circled round and arrowed straight at the gates of Erebor.

So much death: the heat, the screams as defenders were crushed by masonry or the dragon's immense paws or incinerated by its fire. Swept aside like dust, Thorin could only look and run after the calamity as the dragon barged deeper into the mountain, tsunamis of flame blown down into the mountain, collapsing homes and searing hundreds of innocents from existence. And then he had found his grandfather, clawing pathetically at nothing, for he had dropped the Arkenstone into the treasury as the dragon arrived. All that could be seen was a whirlpool of gold, the love of the metal preventing King Thror from leaving even though the dragon was making his nest and had taken possession of the gold. In the end, Thorin had bodily lifted his grandfather and hauled him from the mountain, joining the exodus of dwarrow from the greatest kingdom in Middle Earth. Most had naught but what they held and Thorin, still pushing his dazed and resisting King and his father, equally distraught and incoherent, was searching desperately until he saw Dwalin, escorting the smaller shapes of Frerin and Dis, fortunately wrapped in cloaks and warm clothes. He could still hear the screams and smell the charred flesh of the dead and dying as they broke into the cold shadow of the mountain and stared up-to see the familiar shape of Thranduil on his Elk mount, his arm at the crest of the hill. And for a second, Thorin had hope.

"HELP US! HELP US!"

He felt his eyes meet Thranduil's saw the coldness in the Silvan Elf's gaze. Thror had refused Thranduil the white gems he coveted, the reason for the refusal spurious and though Thorin knew the act had been wrong, there had been nothing he had been able to do to reverse his grandfather's judgement. But now, he saw the Elven King weigh up the scene, knowing the enemy they faced and what was in it for him..and he turned away. Betrayal had stabbed Thorin in the gut, anger filling his mind and hatred of the Greenwood elves that he swore he would never forgive. Now was their last chance to counterattack…but their only hope was gone. Dale was in flames, the Men scattered and now the Elves had betrayed them. Their home was lost.

And Thorin had been forced to lead, for Thror and Thrain were both beyond reason. So the future, the hope of Erebor had been laid on his young shoulders and he had no option but to rise to the occasion. The dwarrow were shell shocked, unprovisioned and many hurt. They could not go home and in desperation, he had led them on, through disappointments and disasters, through the cold nights and deaths-so many deaths, from wounds and injury, cold and broken hearts and hunger. They had camped out, slowly making their way across the merciless hostile lands. Every death had been a wound on his soul, because he felt it was his fault and only the wise counsel of Fundin and Balin had stopped him giving up completely-that and the presence of his younger siblings Frerin and Dis. He had no luxury to wallow in self-pity or grief like his sire and grandsire because when he had finished leading his people, he had them to reassure and comfort. Devastated by the loss of their home and their sudden fall, Thorin had always ensured they knew they would be protected and safe, ensuring they were warm at night and fed-even at his expense. And the trust and love in their eyes was enough to give him the strength to go on. He pushed himself harder than anyone, making his way through the desperate and shocked people. Sometimes, he met anger, sometimes grief and always shock, that they could be ousted so easily from their home. He met every challenge equably, trying to reassure the dwarrow and accepting the anger and rage of the older Lords and warriors at his woeful performance as a leader and his apparent failure to retake Erebor, instantly find a new home and the shortages. There was nothing he could say because there was nothing to be said.

Even when Thror had finally reasserted his authority, he laid much of the load on Thorin's shoulders, allowing his grandson to deal with the burdens of finding food and shelter. Thorin had found that the dwarves were not welcome in Greenwood-not even allowed to pass through and so they had taken the long way north, crawling along the edges of the trees, camping for several days until moved on by the Silvan Elves. As they headed towards the northern mountains, they found Man villages and farms and reluctantly, Thorin and some of the others had worked, to earn food or necessities for the homeless dwarrow. And all the while, as Thorin toiled to keep the people housed and fed, his grandfather and father had plotted one after another insane plans: to retake Erebor, to attack Mirkwood, to take the Grey Mountains for themselves, even to attack the ancient mines of Moria and claim them as a new home.

Thorin and wiser, cooler heads had counselled the King to seek sanctuary with his cousin Nain, Lord of the Iron Hills. Thror had rejected the notion out of hand, not even considering allowing the weak and those with close kin to leave the exodus to achieve safety, preferring all of his people committed to the purpose of rebuilding the glory of Erebor-and the goal of Moria, the greatest dwarf Kingdom of Khazad-Dum. And for that, he would need all his people, not just those who had nowhere else to go. The arguments had raged and harsh words had been spoken, accusations of treason and curses upon dwarves who had always been loyal but who were shocked by the callous disregard of their King. Thrain would say nothing against the insane orders, watching as divisions were sown between the people when unity was needed more than ever. But knowing the order was wrong, this time Thorin had arranged for those who wished to go to their kin to leave under cover of night, accepting the castigation of his King and his father for his actions. Everything he did was in the best interests of his people, starving and dying in the wilds and being accused of disloyalty, of treason by an increasing deranged King was a small price to pay. Attacking Moria was a dream, a hope that Thror peddled to his desperate people as the time passed and they wandered the north, stopping a few months or years here and there, a ragged remnant of the proud people they had once been. He blinked, the brief memory of the sword pressed against his throat when Thror had learned of his part in sending those who wished to the Iron Hills. Thorin knew he would not be banished…though it had been close…but the dishonour and shame had still been hard…

"Are you okay?"

The words jerked him back to the present and the shape of Bilbo, who had scrambled back and was perched on top of a box of spices. He blinked.

"I am fine," he admitted calmly, not wanting to betray anything. Bilbo smiled, the expression open and kindly.

"I didn't mean to make you feel awkward," he apologised. Thorin inspected him, his expression guarded. "But when I realised what was happening…" The dwarf grimaced.

"You heard," he stated, his deep voice toneless. A blush flamed on the hobbit's cheeks.

"Not intentionally," he admitted. "But hobbits have very good hearing and…" He sighed. "I'm sorry." Thorin looked up into the embarrassed face.

"Why did you do it?" he asked, not meaning the eavesdropping. Bilbo shrugged.

"You are a person like me," he said slowly. "With the same rights and hopes and dreams. What kind of hobbit would I be if I saw a fellow being in need and I did nothing?"

Pain and shock stabbed through Thorin's head, the revelation almost unbearable. This young hobbit was expounding a set of values that were admirable but so alien to those he had encountered throughout his life. He knew his own people would not step in to help a member of another race who was in trouble and the consideration he had encountered in his travels from others had been as scant. He shook his head.

"I think…you may be in the minority in that regard," Thorin murmured. Would he have helped if the situations were reversed? And the coil of shame in his gut confirmed the answer. Bilbo smiled.

"I can only be me," he shrugged. "Can I ask a question?" Thorin inclined his head, his expression still wary. "How long have you been…?"

"A slave?" The words were rough and Bilbo looked away.

"Away from your family and people?" he said awkwardly.

"Three years," Thorin murmured.

"And won't they be relieved that you are safe?" the hobbit asked quietly. He shook his head.

"I made my choice," Thorin murmured and closed his eyes. "It can never be taken back." And with that, he refused to answer any more questions until Bilbo finally gave up.

-o0o-

Food was distributed at lunch and as twilight drew in, they found a suitable camping place. Barius and Flambard dealt with the ponies while Adelgrim and Bilbo made the fire and set to cooking, working together in Hobbit-like ease and chattering cheerfully over the food preparation. Thorin jumped down, helped gather firewood and then prowled the perimeter, like a caged wolf, eyes scanning the darkening trees and the line of the rolling wolds against the fading sky. The lands were rolling and stretched away into the darkness, the sounds of wildlife and the hooting of owls eerie in the gloom.

"This is not a good defensible position," Thorin commented, crouching by the fire. Flambard sat down and shrugged.

"No one really bothers hobbits," he admitted. "The Thain and the Bree Council don't want interruption of trade. The Rangers watch over us as well. And we are no threat to anyone." Thorin inspected him remotely, blue eyes glittering with exasperation.

"Not everyone cares about your local trade," he reminded them. "And there are those who are less than law abiding." Adelgrim nodded.

"We have never been bothered-and we have been trading with Bree since the Shire was founded…" he pointed out but Bilbo inspected their guest.

"We can't really go any further tonight," he pointed out. "Minty, Myrtle, Blossom and Daisy are all tired and the road is a little tricky…"

"I'll take the watch," the dwarf said evenly. There was a pause as the others shared a small look.

"Thank you," Bilbo said, feeling mild irritation at his cousins. He knew exactly the look they were giving to the dwarf, the look of mild suspicion and wariness that was poor payment for the offer he had made to protect them. "That is much appreciated." Then he rose and inspected the pot, inhaling the aroma of the stew. "I think we're nearly there," he added.

After a good meal and a long and lively discussion over which cousins would be courting who in the coming seasons, the hobbits curled up round the fire, sleeping peacefully and Thorin took the watch. He wasn't sure what to make of their suspicions: how could he blame them for being wary of his offer when he himself had raised the spectre of danger? What did they truly know about him, since he had been reluctant to offer anything other than his name, though he owed them far more than that? Yet revealing anything was just like ripping the scabs off a particularly deep wound, knowing the pain would come and the blood would well up and he would have to go through the whole healing process all over again.

But these creatures weren't his enemy. None of them had done anything other than help-with more or less enthusiasm, to be sure. They all seemed carefree and unworried about the harsh realities of the world-and in truth, the lands between Bree and the Shire tended to be quiet and safe, for there was an unspoken oath of protection that covered the area. The Elves of Rivendell expressed concern about the hobbits of the Shire and the Rangers patrolled the borders, casting their protection over the unarmed and oblivious Shirefolk. But out here in the wilds, there were other dangers, men and orcs and wolves. Not every road was safe and the unwary and the unlucky could pay the highest of prices…as Thorin had.

He rose and walked around the perimeter, pausing to stare into the darkness and taking station away from the little puddle of light that bathed the sleeping hobbits. His gaze lingered on Bilbo, the hobbit who had saved him and freed him, expecting nothing and waving away all thanks with quiet modesty. And he could have gone-the hobbits would not have stopped him. He could have walked away, seeking solitude and some space to work out what to do now with the wreckage of his life...but he hadn't. He couldn't. Because he still clung to the last vestiges of the Prince he knew he had been, the faintest shreds of his honour that were the only souvenirs of his youth.

A twig cracked and he tensed, crouching and reaching for a branch. He didn't have a proper weapon-unlike that horrific night-but he had stealth and he couldn't hear more than one set of breathing. The shuffle of leaves and dry grass came closer and he reared up, the branch raised-and then he froze, looking down at the shocked shape of Bilbo. He reeled back, eyes wide and the branch fell to the dry ground with a thud that was loud in the silence. Bilbo looked white.

"I probably should have cleared my throat," he said shakily as Thorin backed away. He shook his head.

"No…" he murmured.

"Of course, I didn't want to wake the others," Bilbo continued, standing by the dwarf, looking up into the neutral face. Thorin's mask was back in place, expert and impenetrable…except his eyes, which offered the smallest clues to his shock and shame at almost attacking his rescuer. He pulled the taller dwarf to the fire and settled down. "What happened?"

"I-I can't say…" Thorin murmured. His baritone voice was shaken, the reluctance to speak obvious. The hobbit looked at him and his hazel eyes softened.

"It was at night," he guessed. "An ambush. People who meant no good and overpowered you…" He glanced up. Thorin's face was expressionless. "You said you surrendered."

"I did," he breathed. Then his shoulders sagged. "I was travelling with my family-my sister and nephews and cousin. It was a dreadful night, rain lashing and winds howling. We could see nothing and we sought whatever meagre shelter we could manage. There was no visibility-but a group of outlaws and slavers found us in the small hours. They outnumbered us four to one and they overpowered us. My sister and her sons were their targets-but our women are few in number and I would die before I allowed her to suffer…or her sons. So I bargained and gave myself up for them. My cousin-my friend-was roaring to take my place. But I was the only one who could go in their place. It was my duty as their kin. I watched them ride away to safety as they closed the bands around my wrist and burnt the brands into my flesh."

"You did an incredibly brave and noble thing," Bilbo told him quietly.

"I surrendered to slavery and forfeit everything I was that hour," Thorin murmured.

"And your family? Won't they be worried for you?" the hobbit asked, his eyes uncomprehending.

"My father will have made my brother his Heir," Thorin reluctantly ground out.

"And your sister? Your nephews? Wouldn't they like to know that you live? That you are safe?"

Thorin shook his head.

"All I am…is a reminder of something lost," he forced himself to say, his voice thick with pain and bitterness. "They are better off without me, better off forgetting who I am and recalling who I was." He pressed his hands to his face and then took a shuddering breath. Then he looked up, his eyes desolate. "Get some sleep, Master Bilbo. I will keep watch-and call you if I meet anything untoward…" Recognising that he wouldn't get any more information that night, Bilbo allowed himself to yawn and then nodded, offering a small smile.

"You know, I will do everything I can to ensure that you regain what you have lost," Bilbo promised him as he rose and headed back to his place. For a long moment, Thorin watched him before he rose and scanned the dark once more.

Thank you-but there is nothing you can do, he thought despondently. I made my choice and nothing can restore what was lost.