((A note to offers to "illustrate" my story. I am not interested in paying people for artwork at this time, especially since I am willing to bet that I will never actually see what I paid for. So if you're a scammer trying to con me with promises of artwork for my story, please note that I'm not that stupid, so you may as well forget it, and quit wasting your time with someone whose IQ is high enough to get into MENSA if I wanted to (I don't see the point in MENSA, but I do qualify, so that should tell you something about my intelligence). Go get a real job, and knock it off. Tweetzone86))

For genuine readers-
I do not own any of the characters or The Hobbit (Just the AU storyline and my OC). Those are the work of the esteemed and brilliant John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, and without his genius, this and many other fanfics would not be in existence.

As always, please review, favorite, and follow -it is really encouraging :D

A note- lots of family stuff going on right now. My ADHD is struggling with being able to put the story together due to everything else that's going on, overwhelming the attention center of my brain. I will update as I can focus, so please be patient with me! I really appreciate it! -Tweetzone86

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Bilbo's stomach growled, and he stared longingly at the freshly-baked bread sitting on the larder shelf. The hobbit was about to help himself to an apple, when he heard elves coming toward the pantry, and had ducked behind the apple barrel to avoid being seen.

The hobbit tried to breathe as quietly as he could. The coolness of the pantry had made the ring colder, and he fingered it in his nervousness. He had almost forgotten several times that he was invisible, including this one. As his hand touched the cool band, he felt a sigh of relief wash over him. There was no need to panic. He was out of sight, regardless of where he had hidden himself. It had been wise of him to duck behind the barrel anyway, he realized. If he hadn't, the elf may well have brushed up against his body and realized he was there.

That will do no good, he thought to himself. No good at all.

The hobbit had somehow managed to follow the patrol into the elvenking's halls, though he had almost found himself squashed between the gates in the process. They had taken the dwarves prisoner, and had bound, gagged, and rushed them through the forest quite quickly, despite their near-starved and exhausted states. It had been all Bilbo could do to keep up behind them, and avoid becoming lost in the horrible forest…again.

The hobbit loved trees, and many an afternoon in the Shire was spent wandering through the woods and hills, by streams and meadows. Many a picnic had been beneath the vibrant green boughs, with the sweet, warm breeze gently flitting through the branches, as cool, clear water babbled over stones and under bridges. The smell of the soft grass, the warm sun upon his face as he lay back and enjoyed a pipe full of Old Toby. That is what he loved.

This dark, dank, spider-infested forest, filled with enchanted streams that reeked of foulness, and went on endlessly for miles upon miles, with rotted tree trucks and matted boughs filled with spider webs was most certainly not enjoyable at all! The mere thought of being trapped in it for one more day, and leaving his friends to their fate, was more than enough to make his tired legs chase after the patrol.

The elf patrol's reception of the dwarves had been decidedly different than in Rivendell, and he was rather appalled at the rough, callous way that Thorin and the others were treated after they were captured. The elves had been none too gentle in their march, and he had no doubts in his mind that they had been taken to the dungeons, rather than supper. Unfortunately, Thranduil's Halls were rather vast, and the elf patrols swift, and he had unfortunately lost them.

Now, they were all trapped in these caverns. They were quite beautiful, especially after having been in the goblin tunnels, and for that, he was grateful. However, he could not reveal himself. Somehow, the ring seemed to give him the power to understand all speech, no matter what tongue it was in. Though he did already speak some elvish, he found that, despite his lack of fluency, while wearing the ring, he could understand every single word that the elves spoke.

From what he'd gathered, the dwarves had indeed been taken to the king's dungeons. Accounts varied as to how many the patrol had captured, from a few to near an army, though he knew the true number to only be thirteen. However, they were less forthcoming as to where the dungeons actually were, much to his consternation.

As he finished the last bite of the bread, he looked down and saw bread crumbs at his feet. It was bad enough that he, a respectable gentle-hobbit, was forced to steal food to survive, but what a state his clothing was in! Missing buttons, a torn tunic, what spider web remnants he hadn't been able to get off, and was he ever so filthy! He was truly stunned that the elves hadn't smelled his rank odor from the beginning! He meticulously picked up and ate every last bread crumb, so that it wasn't obvious he had been there.

Of course, they will notice the missing bread, he thought to himself. His eyes traveled toward the door. Perhaps a little wine to wash it down with wouldn't be too bad. I've already stolen bread and apples. What is a little wine?

He listened closely for the almost indiscernible footfalls of elven slippers, and detected none. They were far harder to hear than the heavy stomping of dwarf boots, but his hobbit ears were very keen. Bilbo cautiously stood up, taking care to make as little noise as possible, and slipped out of the pantry. Moving as quietly as he could, knowing how keen elven ears were, he made his way out of the kitchens and went searching for something to satisfy his thirst.

Unable to find the buttery, he had all but given up, when he saw a wide-bottomed glass bottle sitting on top of a table near the kitchen entrance. Someone had partially emptied it, but he certainly didn't need a full one. He had to keep his wits about him, if he were to locate the dwarves and Cirashala. At the thought of her, he quickly snatched the bottle and exited the kitchen before anyone could notice it was gone.

Bilbo frowned as he searched for a place to settle down for the night. He had heard elven wine was strong, and did not wish to be stepped on as he slept it off. He had almost been stepped on while sleeping twice already! Finding an out of the way spot behind a large boulder next to a carven stone bridge passage door, he settled down and popped the cork. As he drank some very delicious wine, he thought about the young woman.

I wonder where this Miriel lives, he thought to himself worriedly. He had overheard the fair-haired elf saying that she was very, very ill, and he seemed very concerned about her. He had been torn about following him, and leaving Thorin's company behind, but the elf had run off so fast that he knew without a doubt that he could not have kept pace with him. He didn't want to leave the dwarves, but he didn't want to leave his friend, either.

He had heard whispers about her. Some said the king's son had brought a mortal child to their healer, and he shook his head.

Cira is not a child at all, he thought to himself. But she is rather small for a Mannish woman. And she does look rather young. Perhaps that is why these tall elves think she is a child? Or is it even her they speak of?

He was fairly certain it was her that they spoke of, because they said this 'child' had been taken to Miriel, and that is who the fair-haired elf had said he was going to take her to as well. He just needed to find the healer, and the dungeons, and find a way for them all to escape this place so the dwarves could finish their quest. He was not eager to meet a dragon, but he was far less eager to remain trapped in these halls, away from his home, stealing food and wine and remaining hidden for the rest of his years.

The wine began to make him very drowsy, and he stashed the now-empty bottle and cork behind a rock. Curling up with a small, smooth stone for a pillow, the hobbit settled down for a well-deserved rest. The first thing he needed to do was find everyone in the company, including Cirashala, and make sure they were safe and alive. After that, he would begin to find a way to get them out of here.

He only hoped that he wouldn't get caught.

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Thorin tried very hard not to scowl as he stood before Thranduil. Here they were, face to face for the first time since the elvenking had turned away his people and abandoned them to die in the wilderness after the fall of Erebor. The wound inside him of that memory had festered every single day since. Every strike of the smithy hammer upon metal, the scowls and scorn of Men, the crying of hungry dwarf children, the screams of dwarf women as their newborn bairns died in their arms, perishing in the terrible winter storms.

The rags. The tatters. The ridicule. The hunger. The cold. The death. It was as fresh in his mind as if it had happened mere hours ago.

After Thror had refused to relinquish the necklace and gems of light, even though Thorin knew that Thranduil had indeed paid the agreed-upon price for the dwarven smith-work, Thorin had been appalled and shocked. His grandfather had always been a dwarf of his word. To renege on his word so callously, so easily, as though it were a minor inconvenience to him, had left the then-young prince reeling. Thranduil had been very angry, but the worst had been yet to come.

The elvenking had accused his father of abhorrent greed, and had warned him that his greed would draw evil things to their people. He pointed out that the wealth of Erebor had become known to all corners of the world, and that even dragons surely would have heard of it. He warned that, if his grandfather would not abandon his greed and honor his word, their kingdom would surely be destroyed, and that day would come sooner than they expected. He said that if he continued down that path, they would all soon taste the bitterness of dragon fire, and the mountain would be consumed until all within had fallen, and all the gold and jewels, and even the Arkenstone, would be forever lost to the foul, fire-breathing beasts of Morgoth.

At the mention of the Arkenstone, Thror signaled his guards to draw swords. Thranduil's guards reached for their hilts. Thorin, though he had been just shy of his majority at the time, knew without a doubt that the elvenking would not leave those halls alive. If his guards drew upon Thror, the king and his guards, no matter their skill, would be slaughtered right before his eyes. He looked to his father, the crown prince and Thror's heir, and even he looked startled.

Thranduil, much to Thorin's relief, seemed to recognize this too, and he immediately held up his hand. His guards released their grip on their swords, though he knew they were no less ready to draw them again, should the dwarves charge their king. Thranduil had then glared at Thror, and warned him to consider his words and actions carefully, lest he regret them. The elvenking wisely turned to leave, an act that Thorin knew saved his life.

They didn't realize just how right the elvenking was. Not one winter later, the dragon came. Smaug decimated the city of Dale and killed its king, and then came for Erebor. Thror, rather than taking action to save their people, had taken the Arkenstone out of its place on the visitor throne, and rushed down toward the treasury. Thorin's father had shoved a sword into his hand, and taken charge, ordering the dwarf guards, and any other dwarf who could carry a sword, to the front gate.

The dragon easily tore through the dwarf gate, struggling just long enough to make the dwarves quake in their boots. Those who had come were the ones that had been closest to the gate, with many more of their people rushing to try and get out. The armed dwarves shouted for them to stay back, but their cries were drowned out by Smaug's loud roar.

The moment that gate came down would be forever haunted in Thorin's memory.

Dragon fire burned above his head, incinerating most of the army in mere moments. The dragon's huge form barreled through the front hall, its feet crushing and throwing dwarves like they were naught by ants. His foot barely missed Thorin and his father, Thrain, and the two princes could only watch helplessly as their dwarven kingdom burned. Those who were wise enough to evade the initial invasion rushed out of the gaping hole where the gate had been, screaming as they escaped with naught by the clothes on their backs.

Men. Women. Children. Screaming, crying, running for their lives as the denizens of Erebor spilled out of the Mountain. Trees burning like torches on the mountainside. Dale utterly destroyed as its smoke filled the air. Chaos, pure, unadulterated chaos.

Thorin ran back in, despite his father's cries.

"He is lost!" he remembered hearing behind him. "My son, help your people!" Thorin didn't listen. He had to reach his grandfather. Sadly, he knew where he would be.

Racing down to the treasury, he saw his father just as the elder tripped on a step. Hot, dry wind from the dragon's wings almost swept Thorin off his feet as well. The Arkenstone, the pinnacle of the mountain's wealth, and crown jewel of their people, bounced down into the whirling tornado of coins, jewels, and riches, and fell out of sight.

"No!" His grandfather had cried. The dragon's body was spinning, roars echoing through the chambers as he reveled in the vast treasure he had claimed for his own. To Thorin's astonishment, Thror attempted to crawl after it.

He had to stop him. He was going to be killed!

Thorin rushed down, and grabbed his mad grandfather. Smaug saw them, and roared ferociously. His belly lit up like sunlight, and Thorin knew that dragon-fire was about to spew from his mouth. Dragons coveted gold and jewels like none other, and anyone who dared to touch even a simple copper piece that they had claimed was met with a swift and painful demise. They did not share their wealth, not a single coin of it, with anyone.

His grandfather, in his madness, fought him. He, too, was taken with gold lust, and would not permit the dragon's theft. But, though he was mad, and fought viciously, the grandson was stronger than the aging grandfather, and he grabbed his torso tightly. Pointing his sword at the dragon, he forcibly removed his grandfather from the deep, underground chamber and ran up the steps, all the while feeling his hair singe from the dragon-fire that licked at their heels.

Stumbling out of the mountain as he supported his injured grandfather, Thorin felt more helpless than he ever had in his life. His people were wounded and burned, their clothes in tatters, carrying children as they hugged them close. They ran until they were spent, fearing to remain too close to the mountain lest the dragon re-emerge. Dale was gone, its people fleeing to a small settlement called Esgaroth on the shores of the Long Lake.

The only cover they had from the dragon now was the eaves of Mirkwood. His dragon-fire had scorched even the very earth, leaving nothing left except ash-streaked, crumbling stone. If they could reach the forest, they could potentially elude the dragon. There was only one obstacle.

Thranduil.

To enter the wood was to enter his realm. If they tried to take shelter within it, however briefly, his border patrols would cut them down with their arrows before they'd even reached the outermost eaves. But they didn't have a choice. It was either remain in the open, and subject themselves to the dragon, or other dangers of the wild, or seek shelter with the closest thing they had to an ally, even if said alliance was merely a tense trade alliance.

Thror and Thrain had taken a delegation to speak with the Elvenking. Thorin had been left behind, tasked with guarding the survivors of their people. He saw to it that wounds were bound, with whatever they could find to do so. Several pieces of clothing had to be torn to do so, leaving many down to their undertunics. They washed what wounds they could with the lake-water, and waited for the aid they hoped to receive.

But the Elvenking, still angry over the now certainly lost gems and necklace, chose at that moment to abandon their alliance, and, in his spite, become cruel. He refused all aid to them, denied their people entry into his lands, and, according to Thrain, threatened to kill the delegation if they did not leave his lands immediately. The delegation was forcibly escorted under armed guard to the edge of the forest, and the dwarves were told in no uncertain terms that, if any dwarf were to attempt to enter their borders, in defiance of Thranduil's orders, they would be struck down immediately.

Thorin wasn't privy to the conversation between the two kings, but he had no reason to doubt his father's account. Thror was raving, saying that the elvenking had summoned the dragon in revenge for refusing to pay for his necklace and mourning the loss of the Arkenstone and his riches, and Thrain was utterly furious.

Thorin would never forget the looks on their people's faces as Thrain told them they were on their own, and that no help would come from the elves. He released any and all oaths held, and allowed the people to go wherever they would to find aid. Many decided to try for the Iron Hills, but Thrain chose to go south to Dunland, in the hopes that they might make it far enough south before the winter became terrible.

That winter came early, and was brutal. Many perished, either from starvation, or orcs and warg packs. Trolls also assailed them as they came closer to the mountains, and their numbers dwindled. Newborn bairns perished, and so many children died, their bellies empty and eyes filled with tears. Thror was lost to them, raving about his lost treasures and vowing revenge, having gone utterly mad.
And there was nothing Thrain, nor Thorin could do, but watch their king's mind fail, and their people die, or become homeless, destitute wanderers, abandoned, scorned, and treated as though they were nothing more than impoverished vagabonds.

All because of the haughty and cruel elf that now stood before him.

King Thranduil stared at him, his blue eyes piercing and cold. He smiled, and Thorin wanted to wring his neck until he cried for mercy.

"Thorin, son of Thrain," Thranduil finally broke the silence. "I must admit, I did not expect to see you again so soon. I had heard that you had taken up residence in the old dwarf fortress of Nogrod and Belegost. What business has brought you so far east?" Thorin kept a neutral expression, though internally he was seething.

"My business is my own," he replied curtly. "However, if you must know, my kin and I were merely on our way to visit relatives in the Iron Hills." Thranduil's eyebrow raised slightly.

"If you intended to visit your cousin, Dain, then I'm afraid you have gone terribly off course," he replied, his tone indicating that he knew Thorin was lying. "The east road would have been the far better choice, if that was truly your destination." He began to pace slowly around him, and Thorin knew if he so much as looked at the king wrong, the eight heavily armed guards would ensure that he didn't draw another breath.

"No," the king continued as he moved behind him. "I do not believe your journey ends at the Iron Hills. So, pray tell." He moved back into Thorin's line of sight, and leaned down toward him.

"Where does your journey really end?" he asked. His tone was of a soft-spoken and inquisitive person, but Thorin knew he was prying for information, and he stared him down. Thranduil stared at his face hard.

"No," he repeated. "I believe your journey ends much closer to here. Perhaps…the mountain." Thorin tried not to flinch, but he could not stop his jaw from tightening. He had forgotten how skilled Thranduil was when it came to deciphering people.

"Ah," he said, his eyes scanning the dwarf king's face. "So, it is Erebor. Of course. What else would make Thorin Oakenshield travel so far to the northeast?" He turned and walked toward his throne, before turning on his heel and facing him.

"It would be quite foolish, really," the elvenking continued. "As I seem to recall, a dragon now dwells inside that mountain. I have heard that he is quite formidable, and also quite comfortable in his current abode." At the mention of the dragon, Thorin's fists clenched, though he maintained his stony silence. Erebor belonged to dwarves, not a dragon! Thranduil's gaze traveled to his hands, and he smirked.

"So that's it, then," he said, gaze returning to Thorin's. "I imagine a noble quest is at hand. A quest to reclaim a homeland, and kill a dragon. And yet, by the count of my guards, there are only thirteen of your company. Hardly an army." Thorin was openly scowling now, as Thranduil walked behind him again.

"There are those who would think so," the elvenking said, walking around him. "But I myself suspect a more…prosaic motive." He turned, and leaned in until his nose was mere inches from Thorin's own. His gaze was so piercing, and he was so close to deducing the truth, that Thorin turned his own gaze away, lest he read him even more.

"You've found a way in," Thranduil said quietly. He backed away and stood tall. "You don't intend to kill the dragon with a mere thirteen dwarves. No, you intend something else entirely. Burglary, I suspect." Even Thorin, though furious, was stunned with how quickly the elf figured it out.

Damn elves and the Valar! He thought to himself angrily. Am I that easy to read?!

"You seek the king's jewel," Thranduil said, his eyes shining with the excitement of a puzzle solved. "The Arkenstone. The other dwarf kingdoms so admired it that they pledged their fealty to the king who wields it. With it, you can call an army of the seven dwarf clans, and defeat the dragon. But—" His eyes became piercing again.

"Without it, and a kingdom, they will not answer the summons," he concluded. The king paused for a moment, and Thorin was torn between hitting his face with a hammer for giving him away, and hitting Thranduil with the hammer instead. The latter proved very tempting, and likely would have been attempted, if he had a forge-hammer handy.

"I will help you." Thorin did not expect that. He looked up at the elf king, and he could see the calculating expression in his eyes.

This is not magnanimous. This is a trick.

"I'm listening," he said, keeping his voice cordial sounding. He was curious what this stoic elf had up his sleeve, too.

"I will let you go," Thranduil explained, "If you return to me what is mine." Thorin smirked.

"A favor for a favor," he confirmed. Thranduil nodded his head ever so slightly.

"You know of what I speak," Thranduil reminded him. "The Arkenstone is precious to you, for many reasons. I understand. There are gems in the mountain that I, too, desire. White gems of pure starlight. You were there that day. You know what happened." Thorin did, indeed, and would have still been appalled, if it weren't for what had happened after the dragon attack. Now, he was just angry.

"You know those gems and that necklace are rightfully mine," Thranduil continued. "I will let you go, if you return them to me. I offer this, one king to another." Thorin had enough. Keeping his hands in the open to avoid alarming the guards, he slowly turned until he was overlooking the vast cavern.

"King?" he cried, loud enough for his voice to echo through the hall. "I would no sooner call Thranduil king, should the end of all days be upon us!" He turned around, no longer hiding his fury.

"You lack all honor!" he yelled, pointing at a startled and stunned Thranduil. "I have seen how you treat your friends! We came to you! Starving, homeless, begging for food, medicine and refuge! But you turned your back, and threatened our people with death for merely asking for aid! You turned your back on the suffering of my people, and the inferno that destroyed us! Imrid amrad ursul!" Suddenly, Thranduil's face was in his own.

"Don't speak to me of dragon-fire!" he hissed, his expression changing from shocked to furious in an instant. "I know its wrath and ruin!" The elvenking winced, as though he were suddenly in great pain, and his face changed. Suddenly, where there had been a smooth, clear face, there was now a face marred, the skin gone, the muscles inflamed, the eye sightless and cloudy. Thorin was more than a little startled by it, and barely hid his surprise.
"I was there," he said, his voice sounding very strained and hoarse. "I faced the great serpents of the north when they came upon all in hordes!" Within a moment, the image disappeared, and Thranduil's face was restored. He stood up, his expression both unsurprised, and very disappointed.

"I warned your grandfather of what his greed would bring, but he did not listen," he reminded him, his voice resigned and apathetic. He climbed back up to his throne, waving his hand ever so slightly. Thorin suddenly found himself being yanked backwards by the guards who had brought him up from the dungeons. The indignity at being dragged backwards only served to increase his anger, and he glared at the king and fought their grip. But they held fast.

"Stay here if you will, and rot!" Thranduil hollered as they dragged him away. "A hundred years is but a mere blink in the life of an elf! I am patient! I can wait!" His expression was so patronizing, so infuriating. He had the upper hand, and they both knew it.

Thorin was unceremoniously dragged back to his cell. Eventually, the guards turned him around, likely to make their trip faster and less difficult as he fought against them. Shoving him from behind, he almost careened into Balin, who has been forced to share the small cell with him. He spat through the door as the guards left.

"Did he offer you a deal?" Balin asked. Thorin sneered.

"Aye, he did," he confirmed. "I told him he could Ishkh khakfe andu null! Him and all his kin!" Balin's eyes closed, and he sighed in resignation.

"Well, that's that, then," he said, sighing. "A deal was our only hope, and that is now gone." Thorin glared at the wall, when a thought popped into his head. He turned to Balin and smiled slightly.

"Not our only hope."

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Khuzdul translations:
Imrid amrad ursul- "May you burn in dragon-fire!"

Ishkh khakfe andu null- "Go pour my shit on your head!" (not very nice, Thorin...lol)

Thanks to all who review, favorite, and follow! You guys are amazing! : D : D : D