Erebor echoed with grunts and the sounds of rock being broken down and piled upon one another. The company hauled rock with hand and rope and cart, building it up like a wall, sealing the void left from when Smaug had burst through from the mountain. They had been at it for hours, and now the constant hammering was begining to leave a rining in their ears. Thorin strode through them, his fur cloak billowing behind him as he walked with desperate urgency.

"I want this fortress made safe by sunup." He commanded. By 'made safe' he meant protected from the people of Laketown. He thought of them as a plague. They would spill into the mountain, his mountain, and try to take his gold with their grubby hands. "This mountain was hard-won, I will not see it taken again." Fili watched his uncle march past him with a burning in his gut.

"The people of Lake-town have nothing," he said, trying to keep his growing anger and frustration in check. "They came to us in need, they have lost everything." As I have. He watched his uncle turn to face him, no sympathy in his expression. Fili didn't understand. For years he had grumbled bitterly about how nobody had helped his people when they needed it. And now he was the one refusing to give aid.

"Do not tell me what they have lost." Thorin growled. "I know well enough their hardship." And yet you will not help them, Fili thought. Thorin turned towards Dale, aglow with the light of dozens of campfires, a strange smile crossing his lips. "those who have lived through dragon fire should rejoice, they have much to be thankful for." Fili knew that the Dragon-sickness was driving his uncle mad, but in that moment he truly did sound crazy. What did the people of Lake-town have to be thankful for? Their homes were destroyed, families killed, posessions lost. They had nothing. Fili shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh. Before him, Thorin watched shadows move across the walls of Dale, lips curling in a snarl. "More stone!" He ordered, "bring more stone to the gate!"


Gandalf pressed his horse forward, pushing the beast across a baron and dusty landscape at the fastest gallop it could manage. Kili sat in front of him, one of the wizard's arms wrapped tightly around him - for which he was glad of, he was sure his weary body would have slipped to the ground without it. The movement of the horse was making him feel dizzy, the bland colours of the world about him going by in a blur. But he took deep breaths of the wind as it whistled past them, it help to steady him somewhat. He felt Gandalf curl his fingers tighter into his tunic.

"We'll be there soon, lad." He reassured, pushing the horse onwards.


The morning sun began to rise bright on a new day. The survivors of Lake-town had slept fitfully through the cold night, huddled in groups close to the fires, dreams filled with dragon flame and those that they had lost. As they awoke they reflected sadly on the day before. They tried to keep themselves busy, tending to the wounded and making breakfast out of what little food they had. But it was not enough. It would last them three days at most, if they rationed it. Bard walked through them, hearing their hungry cries. He wished he could help, they looked to him now. Yet he still felt useless. He sighed and climbed a wooden staircase.

"Morning, Alfrid." He said. Alfrid raised his head, his eyes bleary when he opened them. He tried to hide a yawn as Bard walked passed. "What news from the night watch?" He rose to his feet, stretching his arms above him.

"All quite sir." He said, "not much to report. Nothing gets passed me." He rubbed his tired eyes and followed Bard out the door, a cold air immediantly biting at his skin. How he missed the comfort of the Master's house, there he did not sleep upright with his back pressed against a wall, dust falling down the back of his neck. He didn't wake up aching in the Master's house, with all it's fine blankets and large, comfortable beds. Still, he supposed, once they got their share of the gold, he could have his luxuries back. He was so deep in his longings for his lost comforts that he almost collided into the back of Bard, who had come to a sudden stop.

"Except an army of elves, it would appear." Bard said flatly. Before him stood hundreds of elven soldiers, dressed in shining golden armor with soft red cloaks that met the ground behind them. In their hands they held exuisitally crafted bows, Bard could not help but marvel at them. Elven bows truly were a sight to behold, he had seen many before, but these were more beautiful than any he had previously seen. Around him, he could hear the people come to see the elves. Many of them had not seen one elf let alone a an army of them. Bard made his way down the stone steps, the elves parting as he reached them. Making a pathway for him to pass. Bard hesitated before moving forward, watching them carefully as he did so. The elves moved back to their original position as he passed them, as though they were sealing him among them. Just as he began to wonder who was in charge, an elf rode into the city on the back of a great, proud elk, its antlers were huge and intimidating. They made the creature look even more beastly. The elf stopped in front of Bard and looked down at the man with piercing blue eyes. Unlike the rest of the elves he was adorned in fine, shimmering silver. And atop his head, hair as white as milk, sat a crown. Bard knew who this was. "My lord Thranduil," he greeted courteously, "we did not look to see you here."

"I heard the dragon destroyed your town, I thought perhaps you might need aid." The Elven king turned his head, it baffled Bard how one simple movement seemed so graceful. Bard followed Thranduil's gaze to see large horses carting supplies through the gates of Dale, the wagons brimming with fresh produce. Vegitables, fruit, meat, grains. And as his people, cheering and laughing with delight, clambered onto the carts to pass the supplies out, Bard felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. They would not starve and they would not freeze.

"You have saved us," he said gratefully to Thranduil, still sat upon his elk, "I do not know how to thank you."

"Your gratitude is misplaced." The elf said flatly. The smile on Bard's face vanished. "I did not come on your behalf. I came to reclaim something of mine." Bard's eyes narrowed, his brows pulling together. "There are gems in the mountain that I, too, desire. White gems of pure starlight."


The Mirkwood Elves began to march through Dale with impressive and remarkable consistency. The sounds of their marching and clinking armor echoed off the ruined buildings. Thranduil watched them from atop his Emyn Duir Elk.

"Wait!" Bard cried, running after them, "please, wait!" But the marching continued, the unifomity unwavering. Bard came to a stop beside Thranduil and looked up at him, the elf not seeming to acknowledge his presence. "You would go to war over a handful of gems?" He questioned.

"The heirlooms of my people are not lightly forsaken." Thranduil said, without averting his gaze from his army, his voice dry. He thought of the White Gems of Lasgalen. He had given the finest materials, gold, silver and jewels, to Thror himself, to create a necklace of divine beauty for his wife. But the greedy Dwarven king refused to part with them and kept them for his own. He would take back what was his, rightfully.

"We are allies in this." Bard hissed. "My people also have a claim to the riches in that mountain. Let me speak with Thorin." Thranduil finally turned his head to him, his thick brows pulling together.

"You would try to reason with the dwarf?" He asked, somewhat surprised. Bard stared at him, his jaw tight.

"To avoid war? Yes."


The dwarves had worked all night long to build the wall up high to meet the walkway at the top of the gate. Now late morning sunlight filled the hall, rendering the flame light useless, but still they burnt. For warmth, if nothing else. Erebor was full of drafts and frost had found its way in to cling to the rock.

"Come on." Thorin barked, marching purposefully towards the hastily repaired gate. He began to scale the steps, the company dropping what they were doing and following him. The cold wind hit them the moment they reached the top, autumn seemed to be moving quickly and the air now felt like winter. One by one they froze, not with the cold, but with the sight that met them; an army of elves stood atop the walls and rooftops of Dale. Their golden armor glinting like flames as the sun hit them. It made it seem as though the city was ablaze. They stood as motionless as statues, uniformed, watching the dwarves from afar. The sound of hoofbeats caught Thorin's attention, he dragged his eyes away from the elves and looked down at the road leading to the mountain. It was an elvish horse, but it was not an elf who rode it. Bard pulled the horse to a stop and looked up at the dwarves. He bowed his head.

"Hail Thorin, son of Thrain." He called up, "we are glad to find you alive beyond hope." Atop the gate, Thorin grunted. Forced niceties.

"Why do you come to the gates of the King Under the Mountain armed for war?"

"Why does the King Under the Mountain fence himself in like a robber in his hold?" And with that the niceties were gone.

"Perhaps," Thorin growled, "It is because I am expecting to be robbed!" Bard scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"My lord, we have not come to rob you, but to seek fair settlement. Will you speak with me?" He asked. Thorin nodded once and moved to climb back down the steps.

Bard dismounted his horse and approached the gate. It was a huge structure which loomed high above. And it only seemed to grow in size as he got closer. He regarded it, the rocks that had been piled high. My, my, he thought to himself, haven't you been busy. From the top of the gate burst a raven, feathers as black as inc, cawing loudly as it soared overhead, westward over the mountains. But Bard payed it no heed as he looked through a gap in the rocks. He found Thorin there. "I am listening," the Dwarf said, giving him a sideways glance.

"On behalf of the people of Lake-town," Bard began, "I ask that you honor your pledge. A share of the treasure so that they may rebuild their lives."

"I will not treat with any man," Thorin said with a slow shake of his head, "while an armed host lies before my door." He growled.

"That armed host will attack this mountain if we do not come to terms."

"And your threats do not sway me."

"And what of your conscience?" The Bowman pressed. "Does it not tell you that our cause is just?" The people of Lake-town did not come out of greed, they came because their lives were in ruins. Could Thorin not see that? But the dwarf king said nothing to this, his stony expression did not waver. "My people offered you help. And in return you brought upon them only ruin and death."

"When did the men of Lake-town come to our aid but for the promise of rich reward?"

"A bargain was struck." Bard hissed, slowly loosing his composer. He could feel anger welling in his gut, he was trying to suppress it, but Thorin's stubbornness and blatant indifference was making the task difficult. He curled his fists as his sides.

"A bargain?" Thorin spat, "what choice do we have but to barter our birthright for blankets and food? To ransom our future in exchange for our freedom? You call that a fair trade?" Thorin's face was as hard as the stone which he hid behind, and as shadowed as the deep halls of the mountain. "Tell me, Bard the Dragonslayer, why should I honor such terms?"

"Because you gave us your word." Bard said slowly. Had Thorin truly forgotten his promise? Or was he simply ignoring it? It was most likely the later, Bard decided. "Does that mean nothing to you?" Thorin's eyes fell, and for a moment, Bard thought perhaps he was getting somewhere. But then the dwarf stepped backwards and out of Bard's sight.

Thorin leaned back against the newly rebuilt wall, he could feel the edges and cracks of the patch-worked rock against his back. He looked forward to see the company stood before him, watching him. Their faces were pulled into saddened and disappointed expressions. They did not understand, he was protecting their kingdom, he was doing his duty! They did not understand!

"Begone!" He bellowed at Bard, "ere our arrows fly!" He heard an enraged grunt and the sound of the Bowman's palm slamming against the rock. The company shook their heads sadly and departed, feeling a guilt upon their shoulders. They wanted to help the people of Lake-town, it was what was right, but they could not go against Thorin.

The only member of the Company that did not leave was Fili. He remained stood there for some time, staring at his uncle. No. This was not his uncle. This sick, greedy, uncaring person he saw before him was not his uncle. He felt ashamed of this person, hated this person. How could Thorin leave the people of Lake-town to suffer? It was their fault they lost their home, they were the ones that had released Smaug. And Thorin could not find the decency to help them, to give them what he had promised? He had halls and halls of gold, piles higher than four of them stood on top of one another, yet he could not part with even a little bit of it? To try to amend what they had done? Bard had said it himself, they wanted the share they were promised "so that they may rebuild their lives." Fili's conscience pulled at him, at his heart. This was wrong, all of it!


The Company watched Bard ride back towards Dale with heavy hearts, nobody daring to speak against Thorin's decision. Nobody, that was, except Bilbo.

"What are you doing?" The Hobbit cried, exasperated. "You cannot go to war."

"This does not concern you." Thorin grumbled, dismisively as he continued to watch Bard shrink into the distance.

"Excuse me," Bilbo's voice steadily began to raise, feeling his patience run thin, "But in case you hadn't noticed, there is an army of elves out there." He pointed towards Dale, the elves still decorating its walls like individual golden flames. "Not to mention several hundred angry fishermen. We are, in fact, outnumbered." Thorin turned to face him, a knowing smile spreading across his lips.

"Not for much longer." He said.

"What does that mean?" Biblo asked, brows knitting together. Thorin stepped towards him, his hands folded.

"It means, Master Baggins, that you should never underestimate dwarves." Bilbo could feel the cogs in his mind begin to turn as he tried to make sense of Thorin's statement. It was then he recalled the raven which had flown over his head when Thorin went down to meet Bard. At first he thought nothing of it. Erebor was cavernous and for the past few days there had been a hole in the side of the mountain. Plenty of birds could have flown in and settled in the many vast halls, taking shelter from the cold. But he knew that ravens were used to carry messages. Had Thorin sent a message to someone? "We have reclaimed Erebor. Now we defend it!"


Bard rode with a fury in his gut, it made his fists curl so tighly around the horse's reins that his knuckles turned white, where before they had been red from the cold. Thorin was a fool! A damned fool! But he had tried, he had tried to make the dwarf see sense, to remember his promise. But it seemed an impossible task. Thorin's judgement was clouded by his greed. By this sickness, Dragon-sickness, that is what it was called. He had heard the tales. It had done the same to Thror. But, he had not risked war. The dragon had got to the Mountain before that had happened. Thranduil was waiting for him in front of the gate, his army still behind him. It seemed that not one of the hundreds of elves had moved even a single inch. They may as well have been made of stone. Bard regarded them before turning his attention to the Elven king, who seemed to know what he was about to say.

"He will give us nothing."

"Such a pity. Still, you tried." But there was no disappointment in his voice. If anything he sounded glad, he wanted this result. He would have been more disappointed if Thorin had agreed to the terms, Bard supposed. In fact he was sure of it.

"I do not understand," Bard said, turning his head to the mountain, "why would he risk war?" At that moment a huge crash echoed across the land, bouncing off mountain and hill and rock. Bard watched as the stone likeness of a dwarf, a towering statue collapsed onto the bridge to Erebor, turning it to rubble. Bard's lip curled back angrily. The dwarves had sealed themselves off even more.

"It is fruitless to reason with them, they understand only one thing." Thranduil said, freeing a sword from a scabbard on his hip. It whistled through the air, elegant and slim. It was beautifully forged, the finest blade Bard had ever seen. Thranduil regarded it, a ghost of a smile appearing on his face. "We attack at dawn." He span his elk around and began to walk back into the city. "Are you with us?"

Bard thought about this. He didn't want a war, but, it seemed, he had no choice. Thorin could not be reasoned with. He had tried. War was inevitable. And so he rode into the city. He needed to arm every able-bodied man and boy of fighting age. The people of Lake-town were not warriors, they were fishermen, net-makers. Most had not used a proper sword. And much of the guardsmen had perished. As Bard rode through Dale on the back of the elvish horse, he looked down at their sunken faces. They would need to train, they needed to know how to use a weapon. "We attack at dawn." They did not have much time to learn the skill. He could hope that the battle would not come to Dale, but hope would not save them if it did.


In the mountain, the dwarves too were readying themselves. They took weapons that had lay unused for one hundred and seventy one years. In that time the only things that had touched them were dust and spiders. But once all that was wiped away, it shined like new. The Dwarvish armor was not like that of the elves, it did not swoop in leaf-like curves, it was angler and sharp, adorned with geometric patterns so common to the race. It's hard lines symbolizing the hardiness of the dwarves. But it was no less striking than Elven armor. For even adorned for war the elves looked elegant, but not the dwarves. No they look tough, dangerous. But even so, as Bilbo watched his friend arm themselves. He could not help but worry for them. A deep concern in his gut. He did not wish to see them march into battle.

"Master Baggins," came Thorin's stern voice, "come here." Biblo turned to see him dressed in golden armor worthy of a king, it clinked as he walked. In his hands he held a garment of fine silver metal. It did not look dwarvish in the slightest. It did not have the heavy roughness. It seemed too delicate.

"You are going to need this, put it on." Bilbo frowned, but did not question, as he removed the blue coat he still wore from Lake-town. The rest of the company had not seemed pleased with the clothing the Master had given them. But Bilbo quite liked his coat, it was comfortable and the thick material kept away the chill. "This is made of silver steel." Thorin held it up high in front of him. Bilbo could see his face through it. Surely it can't be armor, he thought, it is much too thin and light. "'Mithril' it was called by my forebears. No blade can pierce it." Bilbo lifted it from over his head and let it slip over his tunic. I was very light indeed, it added very little extra weight. Suddenly he could feel the eyes of the company on him. Thorin could feel them too. "A token of our friendship." He shot a doubtful sideways glance at the others. "True friends are hard to come by." He placed a rough hand on Bilbo's shoulder and pushed him forwards. "I have been blind, but now I begin to see" he said in a low voice as the pair walked, "I am betrayed." Bilbo's heart skipped, his gut plummeting. Did Thorin suspect him? Did Thorin know?

"Betrayed?" He asked, trying to cover the nerves in his voice. Thorin took a step forward.

"The Arkenstone," he said darkly. Bilbo's heart jumped again. Thorin knew, he must have known! The hobbit could see it in his eyes. But how? Thorin leaned in, gaze burning like fire. "One of them has taken it." At first Bilbo felt relief. Thorin didn't know that he had the Arkenstone. He suspected someone else. He looked down the hall, at the company as they continued to arm themselves, studying the various weapons, feeling their weight. Bilbo sucked in a breath. Suddenly feeling a guilt upon his shoulder. He did not want someone else to feel the sick king's wrath for something he had done. "One of them is false." Thorin's voice was little more than a whisper now.

"Thorin." Bilbo said, keeping his voice almost as low, "the quest is fulfilled, you've won the mountain. Is that not enough?" Thorin's eyes narrowed.

"Betrayed by my own kin." He threw a quick glance at the other, Bilbo could see him trying to figure out the most likey suspect. "Now, you," He began, trying to change the subject. Needing to change the subject. "made a promise to the people of Lake-town. Is this treasure truly worth more than your word? Our word, Thorin. I was there too."

"For that, I am grateful." Thorin smiled. "It was nobly done." Bilbo had never seen a smile vanish from someones face as Thorin's did in that moment. That brief flash of warmness turning into a bitter glower in an instant. "But the treasure in this mountain does not belong to the people of Lake-town." He spat. "This gold is ours, and ours alone." Thorin took a step back. "And I will not part with a single coin. Not one piece of it." In that moment the armed dwarves marched past, their armor and weapons flashing in the torch light. And in that moment Bilbo truly understood how consumed Thorin was by the Dragon-sickness. He would risk the lives of his friends, those who had supported his quest, those who had already lost so much, in order to satisfy his lust. In that moment he knew that Thorin was beyond talking to.


The people of Dale busied themselves. Men prepared the weapons, forging swords and fletching arrows, and the women prepared the meals to keep the would-be-soilders strong. Then through the gates cantered a large black horse with two rider on its back. The crowds dispersed, with shocked cries, to let the beast through, not doubting its ability to crush them if they did not. Gandalf pulled the steed to a halt in the square, dismounting quickly and reaching up to help Kili to the ground. The young dwarf wobbled slightly when his feet hit the floor. He sucked in a deep breath and straightened up. Once he felt himself steady, he looked about him. Dale. He had heard so many stories of the place when he was growing up. His mother, uncle, even Balin and Dwalin, told he and his brother numerous tales. In those tales the city floureshed, full of color, it's people skilled an happy. But all he saw amongst the crumbling buildings were the survivors of Lake-town, battered and bruised, scuttling about. He watched a group of men practice with swords, the weapons whistling and clashing. It reminded him of training with Dwalin in Ered Luin.

"Oi! You! Pointy hat!" Called a voice, he and Gandalf span to see a small, weaselly man glowering at him as he descended the stone steps. Kili could not help but think that he'd heard his voice before, but he could not place where. But it felt like a lifetime ago. "Yes, you. We don't want no tramps, beggars nor vagabonds around here. We got enough trouble without the likes of you." Gandalf scowled at him, huffing. "Off you go, on your horse!" Alfrid looked down at Kili, nose scrunching up. "What are you doing here, dwarf?" He spat. "shouldn't you be hiding in the mountain with the rest of your lot?" Kili felt a stab of anger. Was this vile, ratty man insinuating that his friends were cowards? He growled and went to lunge forward, Alfrid jumping back, but found his path blocked by Gandalf's staff. The wizard looked down at him and shock his head, before turning his attention back to Alfrid, who continued to scowl at Kili. And Kili scowled back.

"Who is in charge here?" Gandalf demanded.

"Who is asking?" Bard appeared through the crowd. Weapons still clamoring behind him, the men were too busy training to have payed any attention to the wizard and the dwarf. For in a battle, you could not take your attention from your opponent. A moment was all it would take for them to run you through. Bard stopped dead as his gaze fell upon Kili, the bowman visibly stiffening. Looks of fear, apprehension, anger and hatred, flashing across his face in quick succession. "Get him out of here." He said, voice hard. "I don't want him anywhere near my people. He is no dwarf, he is a monster." Kili flinched at the word, his eyes falling to the ground. He felt a pain in his heart like a dagger.

"No, he is not." Gandalf said to Bard. "His body was taken over by a dark, unnatural force, but it is not anymore." He placed a soft hand on Kili's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "Now he is just a boy who has been through a great horror. Now I must speak urgently to whoever is in charge." Bard looked from Gandalf to Kili, still wary of him, not sure whether to believe the wizard or not, and then back again. He was silent for a moment before huffing.

"This way." He said. Gandalf nodded and followed, the hand on Kili's shoulder guiding the young dwarf forward.

He is no dwarf, he is a monster. The words echoed in Kili's mind as they walked, Bard's distrusting eyes glancing back over his shoulder at him with constant intervals. Kili's heart felt heavy with guilt and shame.


-AN-

You know what they say 'you wait forever for a bus and then two come along at once.' The same goes for fanfiction, it would seem. 'two come along at once' meaning two come along in two days, of course. But that's close enough!

Howdily doodily readerinos? I'm getting used to this 'two chapters in two days' stuff! I hope you are enjoying them! I hope to have the next part up by tuesday or wednesday. And I'm very excited because KILI IS NOW IN DALE! Oh, our boys are so close to one another, and poor Fili doesn't even know it. Don't worry, Fee, next chapter! I am able to add/twist scenes now, so I'm very excited! No more 'following the movie scenes exactly' for a little bit! Woop!

As usual, fave, follows and (especially) reviews are appreciated! There's no better feeling than knowing that people are enjoying your work :D