It's starting to feel a lot like Christmas~~ ^^

All rights go to JRR Tolkien and Peter Jackson, except for anything you might not recognise.

Thranduil ordered two of his elves to pitch up a tent for Fheon and Bilbo, which the two of them were going to have to share. She did not very much mind sharing with him, for she had shared a tent with Hiram and Elijah more than once, and Bilbo did not seem to mind as well, which she was grateful for. As the elves pitched the tent, she, Bilbo, and Gandalf stood back, not watching but not ignoring the elves' work as well.

"Rest up tonight," said Gandalf. "You must leave on the morrow."

"Earlier than the morrow," Fheon suggested. "Thorin might go looking for us."

He shook his head. "No, not back to Erebor. Get as far away from here as possible."

It took a long moment for his words to sink in; at which time, Bilbo uttered a silent question of "What?" Gandalf looked at him with a cocked eyebrow, as if expectantly.

Fheon switched her gaze to the wizard and allowed a hard gleam into her eyes. "We're not leaving."

"Y-yes, you picked me as the fourteenth man," Bilbo added. "I'm not about to leave the Company now!"

"There is no Company. Not anymore," Gandalf insisted. "Imagine what Thorin would do when he finds out what you've done."

Fheon scoffed. "He couldn't kill Bilbo even if he tried. None of the dwarves would let him, and neither would I. We're not afraid of him—"

"Well you should be." Gandalf whirled around and gave her a dark look. "Don't underestimate the evil of gold. Gold over which a serpent has long brooded. Dragon-sickness seeps into the hearts of all who come near this Mountain."

"I've not cared for gold ever since I was a little girl."

"… Almost all."

He shrugged, and Bilbo smirked. Then he motioned to a dark, hunched man that was walking past, and called him over. "Take these two to the kitchens and order them some warm food," Gandalf ordered. "They've earned it."

The man was as ugly as could be: bulging eyes, a large nose, and a thick unibrow. He had raven black hair that reached just below his jaw, looking too slick, as if he had not taken a bath in ages. As he approached them, his neck was hunched forward, resulting in a noticeable bulge just at the top of his spine. Fheon did not want to stare at him any longer and so turned around and started walking, with Bilbo beside her. With slow steps, however, for the man was yet to lead them to the kitchens. As she was making a mental note as to where their tent was being pitched, the faint voice of Gandalf registered in her ears: "Keep an eye on them. If they should try to leave, you tell me."

Fheon frowned slightly, but otherwise pretended as if she had not heard. The hunched man caught up to them and brushed past her, and she had to wrinkle her nose, for he smelled strongly of sweat and raw fish.

"Move it," he snapped, but was already past her. Despite herself, he was still a few feet taller than her. She threw dagger looks at the back of his head, but followed him anyway.

Bilbo was quiet throughout the walk, and Fheon did not offer to make conversation. She was busy plotting out the things that could happen in the morning. If the hunched man was as careless as he looked, then it would be fairly easy to sneak back to the Mountain unnoticed by him. But problems would arise if Gandalf were to put elves on guard by their tent, for their senses were even more acute than hers. If they did not see them, then they would hear them, for the cobblestone was littered with dried leaves and it was impossible not to walk stealthily without stepping on them.

Despite all these things, however, sneaking back to Erebor was essential. They had to be with Thorin when the Arkenstone was presented to him, to help him make the right choice. And Bilbo seemed as driven as she was to not let Gandalf's protectiveness get in the way.

They would leave before the crack of dawn, when it was still dark. But beforehand, they could still gain at least two or three hours of sleep. Fheon felt like she would finally be able to, for the fatigue had already been weighing down on her since the morning.

The hunched man led them to the dining pavilion, which had no walls but a long sheet of tinted orange cloth acting a ceiling, to shield them from the snow. Wooden tables had been set up, and Fheon could count that there were more than two dozen families taking up the pavilion. She nodded gruffly to the hunched man and said, "What's your name again?"

"Alfrid."

The name sounded familiar to Fheon, and she soon realized that he had been the one who blocked their entry from Lake-town, whilst she and the dwarves were in barrels filled with fish, practically freezing to death. She gritted her teeth, gave him a death glare, and muttered, "We'll take it from here."

He pulled his lips up in a sneer, revealing yellow teeth. "Look, I don't take orders from girly girls such as yourself. That wizard you're with ain't even my friend and he's been 'Alfrid here' and 'Alfrid there' like a bloody lunatic. So if I were you, I'd shut up and take what food I give you."

Beside her, she heard Bilbo make a soft clicking sound with his tongue, and from the corner of her eye she saw him start rocking on his feet. She allowed herself a brief moment of amusement before easing onto her face a completely deadly expression—cold blankness. She stepped up to hunched man and glared daggers right into his eyes, and saw the immediate effect it had on him.

"And if I were you," she said, an icy edge in her words, "I would speak to me with more respect." She turned but kept glaring at him from over her shoulder, and then she waved a hand. "Leave us."

He did not object.

Bilbo stared after him, whistling lowly, and then looked at Fheon with wide eyes. Smirking, she put a hand on his shoulder and walked them to the long table at the end of the pavilion, where all the food was laid out. An old woman stood behind it, handing out plates and utensils. When she gave Fheon and Bilbo theirs, Bilbo gave her a reassuring smile, while Fheon only nodded, though not unkindly. The food was still steaming hot when they got to it: slices of roast pig, mixed vegetables in runny brown soup, pearly white rice, and then stalks of greens. There was a large, shallow bowl at the very end of the table holding what looked to be pieces of a baked turkey.

Fheon and Bilbo took portions of each dish—though much more of the rice—and then sat at one of the very few tables that still had two free seats.

Two children sat with them, a boy and a girl, looking to be brother and sister, though they were quiet. Fheon did her best to ignore them and focus on her food. She was ravenous, and finished in minutes, though went back to the long table for seconds. When she returned to her table with Bilbo, she was relieved to find the children gone. They had left their plates, and she politely cleared them out. Sitting heavily on the stool, she continued eating in a much more reasonable pace, taking her time to chew for they were yet to find any water or ale to down the food with.

Bilbo had not yet finished his first plate. He said in a low voice, "You have any alibis for us yet?"

"Not here," Fheon mumbled through a mouthful of rice. He nodded and then said nothing more.

Once they were finished, they took their plates to the ones who were doing the dishwashing. Fheon felt like she should offer to help, but her fatigue overruled her and, in the end, she just walked away with a semi-guilty conscience. "Do you remember where our tent is?" she asked Bilbo.

"Yes, I think so."

"You go on ahead. I have to look for Gandalf."

The hobbit frowned. "Why?"

"Well, Thranduil did say there was still a slight possibility of war, yes?" She cocked an eyebrow, and he nodded once. "And I don't fully believe in my capability to fully convince Thorin to give Bard what he wants, nor do I believe in yours—no offense."

"None taken," he grumbled.

"If there is to be a battle tomorrow, I'd prefer to have full control of my shoulder when the elves are bombarding us with their arrows. Don't you?"

"Can't I come with you?"

Fheon regarded the hobbit for a long moment, before nodding. "Very well. Come on."

They looked for the Grey Wizard for a considerably long while before finally stumbling upon him outside Thranduil's tent. Fheon sighed, unhappy that she had not thought to look for him here sooner, before approaching him from behind and tapping his shoulder. He turned, hobbling in a way that was familiar to both Bilbo and Fheon, and looked at the two of them with a raised eyebrow.

"Fheon, good evening," he said. "Has the food run out?"

"Not at all," said Fheon. "I was going to ask you to heal my shoulder."

"The injury you received in the Goblin-tunnels?"

She nodded. "It's been a constant problem to me. I can't use my bow because of it."

He grumbled incoherently against his smoking pipe, and then said, "And why would you want to use a bow now?"

"Don't play stupid, Gandalf," she chided, earning her crinkles at the corners of his amused, aged eyes. "So, can you heal it?"

The wizard was quiet for a second, before saying, "Describe the injury to me."

She thought about her wound for a long moment—how she had gotten it and what kind of angles hurt her. When she was satisfied that she had all the information she could possibly gain, she started explaining slowly, carefully, so as to not give Gandalf the wrong evidence. She wanted his magic to work as cleanly and efficiently as possible. From what she had heard, magic was a difficult and precise business. She found no relief from the lone fact that Gandalf was one of the most powerful wizards of the age; then she thought back on how he had brought Thorin practically back from the dead, and decided that perhaps she could give him more credit.

When she was done with her vigilant wordings, Gandalf puffed a ring of grey smoke out of his pipe, and then pulled it out of his mouth.

"Sit here," he said, and sat Fheon down on a stool. "The spell I have in mind will not fully heal it, but can… clinch the broken bone back together, if you will."

"… Alright."

"Mind you, the adhesive I will cast won't hold against the weight of another blow. You will be able to draw your bow just fine, but take care that you do not put it under much strain."

No promises, thought Fheon, but voiced out, "Understood."

Gandalf placed his large hand on her left shoulder, applying very slight pressure. Fheon was surprised when she found that even that hurt. Perhaps Thorin's pushing her against the wall damaged the bone more than she had realized. And it also dawned on her that she had not told Gandalf about it, but decided that it would have been best, lest he ask why Thorin had gotten so upset in the first place. She frowned as the wizard took his staff—which had previously been inside the crook of his elbow—and placed the tip of it above his free hand.

Almost instantaneously, a cool sensation spread from where he had placed his hand, like cold spreading up her skin from a single drop of icy water. Yet this was continuous, and soon became itchy, like hundreds of pins were pricking her at once, not quite getting through the skin, but just offering her enough discomfort to make her bite the inside of her cheek. The sensation ran until the hollow of her neck and down until her forearm.

Soon, she was refraining with all her willpower not to scratch her arm raw. But then the cool sensation disappeared from the base of her shoulder, replaced by a heat that was not scorching but not comfortable either. Pain suddenly flared up from where Gandalf's hand was and it was as if someone was carving her shoulder from the inside out. Fheon could not bite back the groan that escaped her mouth.

Gandalf's fingers clenched around her shoulder, and then the pain disappeared altogether. The wizard removed his hand, and she became hard-pressed to regain her breath.

"Sorry about that," he said. "There were some bone fragments I had to get rid of."

Still panting slightly, Fheon repeated, "'Get rid of'?"

He said nothing more, only nodded at her and told her to try moving it around. She did as he asked, swung it here and there, bent her arm and pulled it behind her head, rolled her shoulders—there was no pain, just a slight ache, like something she would feel from sore muscles. Despite herself, her face brightened up with a smile. "Much better," she said, and then thanked him.

Gandalf waved her gratitude away and then said, "Now, go back to your tent and get some sleep."

"Aye," said Fheon, turning and walking with Bilbo to where they came from. Soon, the Grey Wizard was gone from their view and they were left alone with the hundreds of unfamiliar faces passing them by. Fheon marveled at the handiwork of Gandalf, bending her shoulder here and there for another minute before finally heeding his words of not putting his adhesive under too much strain.

They were only halfway back to their tent, however, when the sound of approaching footsteps registered to her. She ignored it at first, thinking that perhaps it was just another man from Lake-town looking to get to his own tent. It could not have been an elf, for their footing was known to be so light it was impossible to hear them coming. She only came to a stop when someone called her name, and it was a very familiar voice, the owner of which she was on even ground with, but not particularly friendly.

She had already turned around when Bard rushed up to her.

"Fheon!" he repeated, slightly breathless. "Where were you headed?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What do you want?"

"I have a message for you."

"Oh?" With this, she became considerably curious. "From who?"

"Elijah."

All interest evaporated, and she straightened up. "Walk away unless you want an early wound even before the battle has even begun."

"He told me just before he fell. I swear, I knew nothing about it beforehand—"

"Bard—"

"He knew, Fheon. He knew that Smaug would attack Lake-town. That was why he told Thorin that he should stay to watch over the dwarves instead of you. He was protecting you." The bargeman paused for a second, and then continued, "He did not want to part with you in bad terms; he said he was sorry, and asked that I tell you no matter the cost, and I have. Do not hate me for it."

Fheon's hands were visibly quivering now; not because of rage or sadness or betrayal; not because of any emotion she knew the name to. Heaviness weighed down on her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe. Through shallow breaths, she managed to say, "Go… now…"

Bard looked at her for a while longer, a sad, almost sympathetic look on his face, before turning around and walking away. Fheon clenched her hands into fists and did the same, heading for their tent with wide strides. Bilbo followed beside her, walking quickly to match her pace. Oftentimes she would sense him looking up at her, but the feeling would soon be outmatched by the utter confusion that her mind was in.

Quickly and wordlessly, they arrived at the tent that was, in fact, theirs. She barely noticed the elf standing by the entrance until he opened the entrance flaps for her. She regarded him a moment, and then entered the tent and sat cross-legged at one corner, facing away from the outside.

Her mind reeled back to the last conversation her and Elijah had had together, at the docks of Esgaroth.

"Someone has to stay and protect the dwarves, Fheon."

"They have weapons. They can take care of themselves."

"And what of their reputation? Who will keep them from making foolish mistakes; like robbing another armory or—"

"You are making a foolish mistake. Do you really think I would allow us to be separated like this?"

"True siblings can work when they are apart just as well as they can when they are together. Father was the one who said that, long ago. Do you remember?"

"I remember."

Tears gathered in her eyes and a choked sob tore its way out of her throat.

"Promise me… Promise me we will see each other again."

"You're overreacting, sister! I'll always be with you. Enjoy your journey! And remember… The Company goes first."

She opened her mouth, though covered it with her hand, in a voiceless howl of understanding and pain. He didn't promise me, she thought as a single tear strayed down her cheek.

A soft shifting of fabric came from behind her, and she knew that it was Bilbo. She just refused to acknowledge him. Not yet. And he remained silent for as long as she did, for two minutes, for four, for five—perhaps even an hour passed; she couldn't be sure—and she was grateful. Eventually, however, he spoke: "Fheon?"

"You know our last words to each other," she said, almost whispering. "You were there."

"I was, I remember."

"I didn't want to part with him badly, but…" She sniffled. "I was so angry… so betrayed. He hadn't told me about it beforehand. It wasn't like him…"

"He wanted to keep you safe."

"I understand that," she hissed, though not unkindly. "But I don't understand why he didn't ask me to stay with him… I could have, and we both could have gotten out of there alive."

"You don't know that. There would still have been a chance of both of you dying, and Thorin didn't need that."

"Thorin didn't need that—" Her hands tightened around the sides of her head as she struggled to cope with the fact that her brother knew that he would die and that he had stayed behind willingly. Her breathing turned shallow again and she struggled to compose herself, hastily swiping at her cheeks and clearing her throat. And then Bilbo placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, and she almost fell apart again. Almost.

Faintly, she heard the hobbit sigh. "I don't know how hard this must be for you. I really don't," he said. "But as I recall, his last words were, 'The Company goes first.' Am I correct?"

"Yes," she was able to say in a steady voice.

"Then, if I were in your shoes, which I'm not," Bilbo added quickly, "But if I were, then I would think that it would probably be a good idea to respect those last words."

Comprehending his explanation, she nodded. "Do what he would want me to do."

"Exactly."

With less difficulty than before, Fheon collected herself. She swiped at her cheeks again, and then her noise, and straightened up in her seat. Over her shoulder, she informed Bilbo, "I haven't gotten any sleep in three nights. Did you know that?"

She knew that it was a petty excuse—true, but an excuse nonetheless. But the hobbit only nodded and said in a not-so-serious tone, "Ah, that's why," which coaxed a half-hearted laugh out of her.

"Yes." Over her shoulder again, she said, "You shouldn't have to see me like this, Bilbo. Get some sleep."

"I'm not the one who hasn't slept in three nights," he retorted. "No, you go to sleep. I'll stay awake a while longer."

It was futile to resist him, she knew. She nodded once and then lowered herself onto one of the sleeping bags the elves had laid out for them, careful not to show too much of her blotched face to Bilbo. Once she was in a comfortable position, she mumbled into the blanket—though made sure that he heard, she said, "Thank you, Bilbo."

He was quiet for a moment, and she was starting to think that perhaps he had gone out of the tent for some odd reason. But then she heard him say, "You're welcome, Fheon," and let herself relax.

For the first time since finding out about Elijah's death, she felt fine. Not at all perfect or completely serene, for the after-effects of his passing were still there, at the back of her head. But something was different. She felt lighter, no longer so constricted or tortured about the fact that Elijah had died for her. He had done so of his own free will, which, she understood now, was because of his love for her. Yes, she still felt that it was a foolish decision on his part, but it was a foolish decision made out of concern. She knew that it would do no good for her to be angry with his protectiveness now; she'd spent so long wallowing in her own self-pity and forlornness that she had forgotten to heed his final words—

The Company goes first.

—which meant that whatever happened in the morning, he would have trusted her to do what was right. With this in mind, she closed her eyes and fell asleep as easily as she would have if Elijah had been lying right beside her.

Not to worry, all. There'll be action soon enough. I figured all of you would need some time to recuperate, before the storm hits. And let me tell you, what a storm it will be. :)