Dwarves were already sharpening blades, hauling gear, tightening armor straps—preparing, always preparing. Thorin had left her after their moment together to attend to other matters. He needed to find Balin and Dwalin and talk to them about what he and Dain had shared with him.
Ren moved through it all with quiet purpose, her nephews to her sides. Kili had found them shortly after they had left Dain's tent and Ren had already been hatching her plan. They had returned briefly to the elven encampment so she could gather something vital.
As they walked, the queen's presence earned sideways glances and muttered words in Khuzdul she didn't need translation for.
Outsider. Elf. Witch.
It bothered her nephews who exchanged a look behind her, both their faces set in disappointed frowns.
And yet, she walked as tall as ever despite the scrutiny, her chin held high. A vision of dignity as her golden hair billowed behind her, intermixing with her scarlet cloak as the mountain wind tossed them about.
She ignored all the slander as they walked further into the heart of camp until one voice rose louder than the rest.
"Careful where you step, Lady Galaren," came Dain Ironfoot's unmistakable growl. "Wouldn't want you to get mud on those fancy boots."
Ren turned to find him standing with his arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. He was flanked by two of his army's captains who chuckled at their lord's teasing of her, shaking their head at his mirth.
"Or perhaps you'd like to sit inside, have a cup of tea and, let the warriors handle the waiting?" Dain added, chuckling as he went. "Wouldn't want your nerves to fray."
"It won't be so funny when she walks all over you with those very boots," Kili couldn't help himself, he was tired of the ridicule. Dain was still on his bad side after their first meeting.
"Kee," Fili warned, his brow low.
Ren simply held up a hand to silence the boys, "Your concern is touching, Dain," She replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. She took a few steps forward, her hands clasped behind her back. "But I came to ask a question."
That earned a snort from the dwarf. "You don't strike me as the type to ask for anything."
"I'm not," she admitted with a tilt of her head and shrug of her shoulders. "But I want to know your battle plan. Not what you told Thorin. The real one."
The two lieutenants shifted behind the lord, suddenly bristling.
Dain narrowed his eyes. "You think I'd hand that over to an elf just because she asks nicely?"
"No," Ren said coolly. "Which is why I'm offering a trade."
Dain slowly raised an eyebrow and lifted a hand to stroke his thick beard. She could tell he was genuinely intruiged.
She unfastened the elvish clasp at her shoulder and let her cloak fall, revealing her armor beneath—freshly crafted, polished, clearly tailored to movement, not display. She drew her sword out slowly from her side, the blade grinding against the sheath as it was freed. The elf held it in one hand, the blade gleaming faintly in the afternoon light.
"I've fought in countless battles before this," she said, holding her sword aloft so she could look at the blade. "And bled in every one. I've stood against Wargs, trolls, goblins, cold drakes. Name it and I have fought it. But still you look at me and see a name. A face. An elf."
Dain shrugged. "I don't trust easily. And I trust elves least of all." He grunted.
Ren's lips twitched faintly, "Then... let me earn it."
He chuckled darkly, looking back at the men behind him, "You want to spar?"
"I've learned dwarves only trust what they see. And I've no intention of standing behind the line while the real battle is fought before me. I need you to see what I can do."
She dropped her cloak, the red fabric pooling at her ankles to reveal pauldrons upon her shoulders as well. She drew her sword in one clean motion from its sheath, Ringil's steel catching the afternoon light. Several dwarves murmured, taken off guard by the elegance of her stance.
Fili and Kili—watching from nearby—exchanged looks. This was her plan?
"Oh no," Kili muttered. "Here we go."
Dain raised a thick brow. "You want to duel? With me?"
"If not you, with one of your best," Ren said evenly, unblinking. "Unless you're afraid a lady might put your boys to shame."
That did it.
Ten minutes later, Ren stood in the ring opposite a burly Ironfoot captain named Orik, who was already grinning as he swung his axe in slow, lazy arcs over his shoulder. He was thick-shouldered, broad as a boulder, with a beard streaked with iron and a scar across his nose. Close in size to Dwalin, maybe heavier. But that just meant he'd fall harder.
Kili leaned toward Fili, arms folded. "I give him two minutes before he's flat on his back."
Fili raised a brow. "Bit generous, isn't that?"
"She's got finesse," Kili muttered, his smile faltering slightly. "But Orik's got arms thicker than tree trunks."
"Doesn't matter," Fili replied, grinning. "She doesn't need to match force. She just needs to make him miss."
Ren unfastened her cloak and let it fall behind her like a discarded banner to pool at her ankles. She moved with easy grace, steps light in the dirt. Calm. Effortless.
The ring of watching dwarves had grown—dozens now, elbowing one another, muttering jokes and wagers. A few snickered aloud.
"Don't hold back," Ren smiled as she told Orik this, her hands still glasped behind her back.
"I didn't plan to," he snickered, twisting his axe in his hand, "I'm going to enjoy this a lot. Draw your sword."
She shrugged, "I don't think I will."
This caused the captain to falter a moment, her unveiled confidence taking him off guard. Even the dwarves in the surrounding circle were quiet, many of them exchanging glances, some of confusion, others of concern.
Kili looked at his brother, his brow set deeply now in concern for their aunt. Fili's face was stoney and free of true concern. That calmed Kili's unease marginally. He then looked at Dain, his own expression unreadable but he did grunt quietly as if surprised.
"You… don't think you will?" Orik asked.
Ren's eyes sparkled with quiet mischief. "You wanted a demonstration. Not a slaughter."
A few chuckles rippled through the crowd, but it wasn't mocking anymore—it was curious. Tense.
Orik's grip tightened. "Fine. Have it your way."
He charged.
The fight began in an instant—no formal call, no ceremony. Just a blur of heavy, thunderous motion as Orik lunged like a boulder rolling downhill. His axe swung in a wide arc meant to cleave clean through anything in its path. Ren ducked beneath it, the blade hissing over her head as she pivoted and spun behind him. No wasted motion. Her hair whipped past his face, and before he could turn, she was already gone.
"Too slow," Fili murmured under his breath.
Orik snarled and came at her again, faster this time, swinging high and low in quick succession. But she flowed around his attacks like water slipping through cracks. Her footwork was immaculate—measured, fluid, effortless. Each dodge brought her just out of reach, never stumbling, never retreating. She wasn't just avoiding him. She was leading him.
The crowd had gone silent, tension thick in the air.
Ren waited. Waited for the moment his momentum overtook him. Then, she moved.
In a blink, she stepped in close, twisted her body, and caught the axe handle in the hooked edge of her sword—not even drawn fully from the sheath—and yanked.
The weapon tore from Orik's hands and flew end over end, landing in the dirt with a thud. Gasps erupted all around the ring.
Orik barely had time to look shocked before her boot swept out, catching him behind the knee. He toppled like a felled tree, landing on his back with a grunt that knocked the wind from him.
Dead silence.
Ren stepped back, breathing evenly. She didn't gloat. She didn't bow. She simply held out a hand.
Orik blinked up at her, his chest heaving. For a moment, he just stared at her palm, fear and anger in his eyes. Then, slowly, he reached up and accepted her help. She pulled him to his feet in one fluid motion with surprising ease.
When she turned, Dain was no longer smirking.
"You fight like a damned elf," he said, voice gravel-thick. "But I've seen worse."
Ren arched a brow. "Was that a compliment, Ironfoot?"
"It's as close as you'll get." He stepped forward and extended a thick, calloused hand. "You'll do when our enemy comes. I don't trust many beside me."
She clasped his wrist with a firm grip, a smirk twitching her lips. "Then I'll keep your trust."
Their eyes met—his grudging, hers resolute—and in that moment, something passed between them. Not friendship, not exactly. But understanding. Respect.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Keep your king alive. If not for himself… then for you."
Ren blinked, startled. But before she could reply, Dain was already barking orders to his men, stomping away with the kind of thunderous purpose only he could summon.
She turned—and found Fili and Kili watching her with twin smirks.
"You didn't even draw your sword," Kili said, ever amazed by his aunt.
"Didn't need to," Fili grinned, his mustache twitching as he smiled at her. "You had Dain the moment you insulted his pride. The fighting was just showing off. You just made every Ironfoot soldier nervous."
Ren raised an eyebrow as her blond nephew offered her back her cloak, "Good. Maybe they'll think twice before testing me."
She fastened it back around her shoulders. As she walked off, the brothers lingered. They turned then to see Dain was also watching her leave, arms crossed, "Still don't like her."
"She doesn't like you either," Fili said cheerfully.
Dain stayed quiet for a moment, arms folded over his chest, eyes still on the spot where she'd vanished. His beard twitched slightly, as if he were chewing over words he didn't quite want to say.
Finally, he spoke, "She's… terrifying."
Fili stifled a grin. "Aye. We know."
"She was like that the whole march north?" Dain asked, side-eyeing them both, still trying to act unimpressed. "Sharp as a blade and twice as fast?"
"You should see her actually fight with her weapons. Her sword isn't even the best part! With her bow, I'm pretty sure she could pin a fly to a wall by its wings." Kili boasted, he himself feeling smug after seeing Dain and his soldiers being taken down a notch.
"I've only been scared of three women in my life... my own mother...Dis... and that pointy-eared." Dain admitted quietly, pointing after her. "And Thorin… married her?"
Fili gave a mock solemn nod. "Of his own free will."
"Poor bastard," Dain muttered.
Kili smirked. "You say that like she didn't just win your grudging respect."
Dain shot him a glare. "I said she fights like an elf, not that I want her as a cousin." He cleared his throat and huffed, gruffer this time, but there was something beneath it—something almost warm. "Still," he said, scratching at his beard, "I wouldn't mind having five more like her on the line."
"Careful," Kili warned, playful mirth dancing across his face. "She'll hear you and expect you to say it out loud."
Dain's eyes widened slightly. "She hear everything?"
Fili just smirked and clapped their cousin on the shoulder. "Best to just assume she does."
The mountain winds had quieted by the time Thorin stepped away from the campfire's edge outside of Dain's tent, leaving behind the murmurs of Ironfoot warriors recounting the duel they'd witnessed.
He hadn't watched. But he'd heard enough.
Ren's name was on every breath—half awe, half wariness, all laced with the grudging respect only earned in steel and sweat.
He didn't go to find her.
He had gone for a walk, just out of the valley of the field before the mountain. Now, he stood on one of the stone outcroppings overlooking the dark valley below, the pale moonlight touching at the silver streaked through his hair, crown forgotten for once. The air was sharp. Clean. And far too quiet.
His thoughts were anything but.
He imagined her movements, sharp and fluid. He remembered the sound her blade made when it met another—how it always sang like wind through leaves. He imagined her face, flushed with exertion, hair undone again by the wind, that stubborn fire in her eyes no one could put out. Not even him.
Especially not him.
His hand clenched over the handle of the dwarven sword at his side. There was pride there, yes—but beneath it, a deep, gnawing fear. Not for her skill. Not even for her boldness. But because she always ran toward danger, never away. Because she would fight for everyone but herself. Because he'd already buried too much, and the thought of losing her—twisted in his chest like rusted iron.
"She shouldn't have to prove herself," he muttered aloud, to no one but the cold night air. "Not to Dain. Not to anyone."
But he knew she would. Again and again. She had the heart of a queen, but the soul of a warrior—and nothing he said would ever change that. It was just who she was.
And it was why he loved her.
A soft breeze tugged at the braids in his hair, and for a moment, he could almost feel her beside him again. Not in armor. Not with weapons drawn. Just… her.
Thorin closed his eyes, breathing deep.
"I should be at her side," he murmured. "Not waiting in shadows."
She wasn't in the shadows. She was firelight in motion. And he loved her for it—damn him, he loved her for it.
Below him, the camp still stirred with the buzz of the match, but Thorin remained where he stood—silent, watchful, aching with the knowledge that the woman he loved was the strongest soul among them all… and that strength, someday, might cost him everything.
Thorin barely flinched when he heard the footsteps come up beside him—heavy, measured, familiar. He didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"You'll catch your death brooding out here," Dwalin grumbled as he stepped up beside him, crossing his arms. "Mountain wind's colder than hell's hinges tonight."
Thorin didn't answer right away. He kept his eyes on the horizon, where shadows moved like ghosts across the snow-dusted peaks as the moonlight shifted behind a few clouds. "She shouldn't have to fight like this. Not to be seen."
Dwalin gave a low grunt. "Aye. But she does. That's the kind of world we built."
Silence fell between them again. Not uncomfortable—just worn.
"She's remarkable," Thorin said eventually, the words low and raw in his throat. "And she terrifies me."
Dwalin huffed a laugh. "Aye, she terrifies everyone. I think a few of the soldiers soiled themselves. You should've seen Dain trying to act like he wasn't impressed. Fili said he asked if you married her willingly or if she just decided it for you."
Thorin's lips twitched, but the smile never fully reached his eyes. "I might not know the difference anymore."
"She loves you," Dwalin said plainly. "And she's doing this all because she sees what's coming. We can all see what's coming. You know that."
Thorin nodded once, slowly. "I know. But every time she draws that blade… every time she steps out there, I see her end."
Dwalin was silent for a beat, then placed a hand on Thorin's shoulder. "Let her fight. Let her do what she does best. But stay with her. Stand beside her when it matters. That's all she needs from you now."
Thorin looked at him finally, eyes shadowed with something older than fear. "And if that's not enough?"
"Then we die trying," Dwalin said, with the resolute calm only a warrior could carry. "But we don't leave her to do it alone."
A long breath escaped Thorin's lungs as he looked back toward the campfires below—searching for her shadow in the golden flicker of the tents, in the sound of distant laughter.
"She'll never be alone," he said at last.
Dwalin grunted again and nodded. "Good. Then come back in before you freeze your balls off."
Thorin gave a faint, dry chuckle, and together they turned back toward the warmth of camp—two dwarves, battle-scarred and weary, moving through the cold toward the woman who had somehow become the fire at the center of everything.
As they neared, they could see down below in the valley, firelight dancing around a small circle where Ren sat with Fili, Kili, and a few of the other dwarven captains from Dain's army. Kili was recounting some tale—likely exaggerated—hands waving with wild animation, while Fili offered corrections between sips from a flask. The accompanying dwarrow had laughed, as had Ren; head thrown back, her hair catching the firelight like molten gold.
Thorin watched her—watched them. That laugh—he hadn't heard it in days. Not like that. Not since the weight of command had settled on her shoulders, not since the mountain closed around them like a tomb.
For a moment, it warmed something in his chest.
But then... it twisted.
He didn't move, but his grip tightened where his hand rested on his belt. Something ugly stirred beneath the surface. She was his. His wife. His Queen. The one light left to him in a world closing in with shadow—and she burned so brightly.
And they—Fili and Kili—they were hers too, in a way. Her nephews. Her protectors. Her joy.
Not a threat, he told himself. They are blood.
Still, a flicker of possession rose like bile. The gold was whispering again. Not of treasure, but of ownership. Of what was owed. Of what must be held close or risk being lost.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Not her. Not her.
The she-elf glanced up just then, catching sight of him just above her camp, her eyes ever sharp. Her smile faltered—but didn't fade. She tilted her head, a silent invitation.
It shattered the spiral of thoughts in his mind. He exhaled and stepped back into shadow, not ready. Not yet.
Behind him, Dwalin's voice rumbled low. "You can't lock away the things you love, Thorin. Not without becoming something they'll fear."
Thorin didn't turn to look at him.
"I know," he said. "I know."
And down in the light, Ren's laughter drifted up again—soft and free. A reminder of what he was fighting for. And what he might lose.
The stars had long since disappeared behind the mountain when Ren finally made her way back through the darkened halls of Erebor. Her limbs ached, her shoulders tight from the weight of the day—but she said nothing of it. The campfires outside had quieted. The soldiers were resting, save for the few stragglers here or there that remained around the campfires on watch.
Tomorrow would come too soon.
Fili and Kili trailed behind her, half-joking, half-silent in that way they always were when exhaustion caught up with them. They had all taken turns climbing up the rope of the battlement and greeted Ori and Dori at the top who had been keeping watch.
"You know," Kili said, rubbing the back of his neck, "if you keep dueling captains, we're going to run out of dwarves to fight." He said the last part of his sentence through a yawn.
"Better they learn now," Ren murmured, tugging her braid loose from its tie she had put it in earlier, the wind rushing down from the mountain aggravating her so she forced it out of her face. "Trust earned in steel holds longer than any speech."
"Dain's warming up to you," Fili said with a triumphant grin.
Ren shot them a look over her shoulder, shaking her head their antics. They had reached the long hall that held the royal family's champers. Her mind drifted briefly to her husband. She had seen him outside on the outcroppings, talking with Dwalin.
More than anything, she had wanted him to join them around the fire, to laugh and jest with the soldiers. To enjoy himself like he used to.
"Boys, it's late. You two should sleep while you can."
"I am not going to be one to argue about that," Kili scrubbed a hand over his face before itching at his short beard, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.
Fili raised a brow at her. "And what about you?"
"I'll follow in a moment. I'll be right behind you," she promised.
They hesitated, but after a few beats, nodded and split off toward their quarters. The quiet returned, more complete now. The echoes of their boots faded into nothing.
She stood alone in the stone corridor, the torches burning low on the walls. Her eyes flicked toward the deeper passageways—the ones that led to the heart of Erebor. Her feet moved before she could stop them, drawn by something familiar, something dark and uncertain.
The halls of Erebor felt hollow in the dead of night—grand and golden, yes, but empty, like a tomb lined with jewels. It was as if the mountain itself held its breath. The air grew colder the deeper she walked, and somewhere deep in her bones, something twisted with unease.
She found him where she feared she would.
At the edge of the treasure chamber, his back to her, surrounded by mountains of gold and gemlight. The shadows swallowed everything but the glint of gold catching in his dark hair and the rise and fall of his breath.
"Thorin?" she said softly.
He didn't turn.
"Ren," he murmured, his voice oddly calm. Distant, somehow.
She stepped closer to come stand beside him, her feet soundless on the stone. "It's been a very long day. We should retire for the night and get what sleep we can."
"I know," he replied. His hand reached out slowly—almost absently—and took hers. His grip was firm, but not warm. "It's strange, doesn't it? Being home… and feeling as though you still don't belong."
She frowned and squeezed his hand, moving in front of him so she could see his face. She shook her head, "You belong more than anyone. You reclaimed it."
Thorin's eyes seemed to look through her as he scanned the gold, the countless coins and artifacts spread out like offerings to something hungry and unseen. "I reclaimed a tomb. A grave filled with memories. And now I have to decide what to do with it."
She touched his face gently, her fingers featherlight as they touched his cheek, "You don't have to decide anything tonight. Come to bed."
"I feel like I can see them," he whispered.
Her heart skipped and her brow slowly dipped into a frown. "See... who?"
"My kin. My grandfather. My father. All of them. I can almost hear them in the gold. Hear their voices. Hear their screams."
Ren's blood turned cold.
"Thorin," she said carefully, stepping closer. Her heart started to pound with fear. "There's nothing here but treasure. Treasure, and ghosts that don't belong to us."
His gaze flicked to hers. There was something strange in his eyes—shadowed, flickering.
"You don't hear it?" he asked, almost in wonder. "The way it sings? It wants to be used. It wants to be kept."
She cupped his face and turned it to look at her, pulling his attention fully back to her, grounding him. She forced their eyes to meet so she knew he was seeing her.
"I hear you," she said fiercely, fear beginning to overcome her. "I see you. You're not your grandfather. You're not lost—not yet. Come back to me. Please."
Thorin blinked, as if pulled from some trance. The tension in his jaw eased, just a little. He exhaled slowly.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice ragged now. "I didn't mean to worry you."
"You did," she whispered. "I know what this place can do. I know what this treasure can do."
He nodded, his forehead dropping to hers. His eyes slid shut and for a moment, they just stood there together, breathing in each other's presence. The way her soul ached for him since he had been more absent.
"Just a little longer. Let me… just a little longer."
Her arms went around him. She held him close, even as unease pressed tighter against her ribs.
"I'll be in our chambers," she said softly, unwilling to fight him over this. Not yet. "Don't be long."
She studied him—how his eyes were distant already, pulled toward that glittering sea of gold, as if some invisible thread was drawing him in. The Arkenstone again. Always the Arkenstone. Thorin gave a distracted nod, his eyes never leaving the sea of gold before him.
Ren went to go but then stopped, pausing just before she turned down the hallway. "I love you."
His back was to her now, "And I you."
Thorin stood alone again.
The echo of her footsteps had long since faded, but he could still feel her warmth in his hands. The weight of her concern. The promise in her voice.
And yet… the silence returned. Oppressive. Lingering.
He looked out over the sea of gold—the relics of a kingdom, a legacy... a curse. The coins shifted faintly in the dark, as though moved by some unseen breath. Like a dragon swam beneath them.
He didn't know where it had gone—only that it had vanished. The Arkenstone. And somehow, impossibly, he felt its absence, like a missing heartbeat in the chest of the mountain.
Behind him, a soft shuffle of feet broke the silence.
"You know," came a quiet voice from behind him, "if you stare at it long enough, it starts to look back at you."
Thorin didn't turn. But his jaw tightened.
Bilbo stepped forward cautiously, his soft footsteps barely a whisper on the stone. He had his hands tucked into his coat, shoulders hunched slightly as he gazed around the chamber with a wariness that had nothing to do with danger—and everything to do with dread.
"I saw you leave the dwarven camp earlier," Bilbo continued gently, still stay where he was. Something in his gut told him not to get to close. "Alone. I thought maybe… maybe you needed someone to follow. Someone to talk to. Someone... you didn't have to be strong for."
Thorin finally glanced at him, his face unreadable in the dim light.
"I didn't ask you to."
"No, you didn't," Bilbo said, nodding. "But I came anyway."
A long pause stretched between them. Bilbo did finally decide to move closer, though he kept a respectful, nonthreatening distance, eyes flicking to the piles of treasure.
Bilbo hesitated, "You've hardly eaten. You barely sleep. And you've been… distant. Even from her."
Thorin's jaw twitched. He turned away fully now, walking a few steps into the treasure chamber. Gold gleamed around him like starlight trapped in stone. He breathed it in, felt a comfort in its familiarity.
"There is much to be done. Defenses to strengthen. Promises to uphold."
"You're not yourself when you're in here," Bilbo added, softer now. Still careful with his words. "Not really."
Thorin flinched at that, just a twitch of his fingers at his side. The first one to confront him about it. To not skirt around the haze he had been feeling. Ironic... the hobbit, the bravest of all of them.
"I am who I must be."
Bilbo's brow creased. "Is that really true? Or just what you've told yourself enough times to believe it?"
That landed.
Slowly, Thorin exhaled, a tremor in his chest like a quake beneath the surface.
"Do you know what it's like," he said lowly, "to feel your ancestors breathing down your neck? All their failures. Their triumphs. All of it pressing on your shoulders like iron? To know the weight of what they built—and what they lost?"
Bilbo didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Thorin looked at him again, something raw and fractured behind his blue eyes. "She sees it," he said. "Ren. She sees what it's doing to me. And still she stays."
"That's what love is," Bilbo said carefully. "It stays... Even when it's afraid." Thorin's gaze dropped, his voice quieter now. "You're not supposed to be down here," he said, though the words lacked bite.
"Well... neither are you," Bilbo replied gently.
A pause. Thorin's eyes swept the chamber like a wolf scenting something just out of reach.
"I thought... I thought I saw it yesterday," he murmured, almost to himself. "Just a glimmer, beneath the coins. But when I looked again, it was gone."
Bilbo didn't move and he felt his heart flutter nervously in his chest. "You mean... the Arkenstone?"
That made Thorin turn.
His gaze was sharp, suspicious, but Bilbo met it without flinching. He looked… sad. A little tired. And somehow older than he had the day before.
"You know something," Thorin said slowly, his voice lower now.
"I know this place is starting to get its claws into you."
Thorin's jaw clenched tightly, his head tilting as he looked at the hobbit. "You think I'm going mad."
"I think you're hurting, Thorin."
"You do not understand what is at stake," the King said. "You cannot. I have waited my whole life to reclaim what was stolen. Our home. Our legacy. Everything that lies within these walls—my people died for it. She could die for it. I won't let it slip away again." Thorin looked away, back to the treasure. "You don't understand what it is. What it means. It's not just a jewel—it's a symbol. My people would follow it. Rally behind it. It's proof."
"Proof of what?" Bilbo replied sadly. "That you're king? Or that the gold is more important than the people standing right beside you?"
Thorin's breath left him in a quiet hiss. He was tired. He felt it suddenly, like a weight in his bones. But the hunger was still there. The ache. The missing piece. For a long moment, Thorin just stood there, breathing slowly. Then his voice came—rougher now. Almost broken.
"If you knew where it was…" His voice was more of a rumble in his chest than spoken words, "...would you tell me?"
It startled the burglar, how eerie his voice suddenly sounded like Smaug. Bilbo hesitated, his heart pounding. He swallowed.
"No," he said softly. "I wouldn't."
Thorin turned to him, fury flickering in his eyes—but it didn't flare. Not fully. Not yet.
But Bilbo didn't back down. "Because, if I did, I'm afraid it would destroy you. And I won't help do that. Not to you. Not to my friend."
Something behind Thorin's eyes faltered. Wavered fractionally.
He looked back at the gold, the false gleam, the treasure that had already taken so much from so many.
And for just a moment, he looked tired of it.
"Go," he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. "Get out before I say something I will regret."
Bilbo gave a quiet, resolute nod. "Goodnight, Thorin."
He turned and left without another word.
And Thorin stood alone, the silence pressing closer now. He didn't move toward the gold again. Not yet. But somewhere deep in the mountain, the Arkenstone pulsed quietly in its hiding place. Waiting. Calling to him.
The sun had barely risen beyond the scorched edges of Dale when the clip clop of hooves were heard on the stone path leading up to the mountain. Bard approached where the great gates of Erebor once lay, alone. No banners. No weapons drawn. Just the quiet weight of desperation in his voice and the promise of peace in his open hands.
Despite himself, the bowman felt a chill deeper than the wind as he passed between the encamped armies. The Elves, at least, regarded him with cool grace. But the dwarves? Their eyes followed him with suspicion, their hands never far from axes and hammers.
He kept his posture firm and his pace steady as he approached the gates—or what remained of them. The great entrance to Erebor had been shattered by dragonfire, now sealed with a high wall of stone and timber, hastily fortified and manned.
From the battlements above, a few figures watched him. Among them, Bard spotted a young dwarf scrambling off toward the inner halls—presumably to fetch those Bard truly sought.
"I seek no quarrel!" He called up to the men on the wall. "I just wish to speak to your King."
"And you shall," this dwarf was older, his beard and hair white as snow. The one who had bartered with him for use of his barge... Balin? "If only just give us a moment to fetch him."
Him? Bard hoped not. Them. Her.
Moments later, a shadow fell across the upper rampart, and Bard's hope faltered. He held his breath as he watched Thorin Oakenshield appear up on the battlement, the wind tugging at the heavy cloak draped across his shoulders. His eyes were harder than Bard remembered—steel sharpened against stone, dulled by sleep and sharpened again by sleepless nights. If it was just the King, surely there would be no hope—
But Bard's heart lifted when Ren appeared just a step behind him.
She wore a crimson long coat, like blood against the colorless grey of the mountain behind them, her hair braided and windswept. She came to stand beside Thorin, shoulder to shoulder, the warmth of her presence nearly reaching even the ground where Bard stood.
The dwarf king had come to bed that night, when... she did not know. But the fact that when she awoke this morning and he was there... that was what had really mattered. It had soothed her frayed nerves enough for the time being.
Together, they looked down at him.
"Hail Thorin, son of Thrain! We are glad to find you alive beyond hope."
Thorin did not blink.
"Why do you come to the gates of the King Under the Mountain, Bard?" he said at last, his voice low and rough from sleeplessness.
"Why does the King Under the Mountain fence himself in?" Bard replied carefully, "Like a robber in his hold?"
"Perhaps it is because I am expecting to be robed!" Thorin bit back.
"My lord, we have not come to rob you but to see fair settlement," Bard defended, treading carefully. His eyes then fell on many soldiers from the dwarven army watching him from the right and the handful of elves watching from the left. "Will you not speak with me?"
Thorin's jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed.
Ren stepped closer, her voice low. "He's not your enemy,"
"He stands with one," Thorin snapped, a flicker of heat in his tone as his gaze drifted toward the Mirkwood encampment in the distance. "Thranduil waits with his soldiers while the so-called 'dragon-slayer' plays at diplomacy."
Ren folded her arms, the wind tugging at her hair and coat. "He's only trying to protect his people. They lost everything."
"We lost more," Thorin growled. "And no one came to our aid when Smaug descended. No armies rallied to defend us. We bled alone."
Ren's voice softened, "Then don't become what you despise. Don't repeat the silence that let you suffer. Be better than them."
His jaw tightened, and for a moment she saw it—that flicker beneath the surface. Not anger. Fear. Worry, masked in steel and bristle. The kind that gnawed through even the proudest heart when the world began to slip from one's grasp.
Ren glanced sideways, "Let me go."
Thorin did not look at her. "You think you can soften this, turn hunger into reason?"
"No," she said quietly. "But I can listen. And so can you."
After a long pause, Thorin exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.
"Very well. Step forward, Bowman."
Ren descended first, her steps swift and purposeful down the winding stone stair. Thorin followed, slower, heavier, the fur trim of his cloak dragging behind him like the weight of Erebor itself.
They came to stand before a narrow opening in the barrier wall, low enough for them to see Bard without fully lowering their guard.
"I am listening."
Bard looked back toward Dale, where smoke from cookfires and temporary shelters curled into the pale sky.
His voice was steady, but his eyes were heavy, "On behalf of the people of Laketown, I ask that you honor your pledge. A share of the treasure so that they may rebuild their lives."
Thorin did not blink.
"I will not treat with any man while an armed host lies before my door."
"That armed host will attack this mountain if we do not come to terms."
"Your threats do not sway me."
"What of your conscious? Does it not tell you our cause is just?" Bard asked, struggling to keep the anger from his voice. "My people offered you help and in return you only brought upon them ruin and death."
"When did the men of Laketown come to our aid but for the promise of rich reward?"
"A bargain was struck!"
"A bargain?!" Thorin's voice began to grow louder, his fuse growing short, "What choice did we have but to batter our birthright for blankets and food? To ransom our future in exchange for our freedom? You call that a fair trade?"
Ren flinched slightly. Her voice was low, "Thorin—"
But he wasn't finished.
"Tell me... Bard, the dragon-slayer. Why should I honor such terms?"
"Because you gave us your word. Does that mean nothing?"
Thorin stared, face carved from stone.
The bowman turned his eyes look at the woman through the wall, seeking her out, "Ren...?"
"Be gone! Our our arrows fly!"
"My people are starving," he said plainly. "We're trying to rebuild, but winter is coming faster than we can prepare. I ask only for a share of the treasure—to feed them, to clothe them. Gold for grain. Tools. Healing herbs. Blankets. Anything. We are not greedy... we are dying."
Ren looked toward the ruined city, toward the distant movement of men and women scurrying like ants between broken stones.
Bard studied her face. "Do you see a threat in us?"
"I see good people desperate to survive," she said. "But I cannot answer for the King of this mountain."
"Then you condemn us as much as he does."
The she-elf disappeared then behind the wall, his words striking her deeply and yet, she was powerless to help. The air thickened, as if the mountain itself was holding its breath.
"Be gone!" Thorin yelled, having had enough of the conversation. "Our our arrows fly!"
Bard's growled in anger and in desperation, struck the wall between them with his fist. Slowly, deliberately, he returned to his horse and rode back toward Dale.
Ren remained standing, her hands clenched into the folds of her cloak. She watched him go, the silence hanging heavy between her and Thorin.
"You said you would listen," she whispered, without looking at him.
"I did," he replied. "And I heard nothing worth yielding for."
Thorin was already striding away, his cloak trailing behind him, crown glinting faintly in the dim torchlight.
She followed.
"Thorin," her voice echoed down the hall.
He didn't stop.
"Thorin." This time it cracked with sharpness.
He halted at last, spine rigid, shoulders high with tension. When he turned, his expression was carved from iron. But his eyes—Valar, his eyes looked like someone trying to hold back a rising tide.
"You turned him away."
"He comes with an army behind him."
"He came with open hands."
Thorin's jaw clenched. "And behind those open hands were blades and bows, Ren. Don't mistake diplomacy for virtue."
She stepped toward him, voice low but firm. "You think I mistake anything anymore? I see more than you know. I saw the way he looked at you—not as an enemy, but as a man desperate to save his people. A man that reminded me a lot of you."
He scoffed and turned away again.
"You are becoming the dragon you buried," she said, her voice trembling—but not with fear.
That stopped him cold.
"Careful," he warned, voice low.
"No." She stepped into his space now, blocking his path. "I have been careful. I have held my tongue and stood beside you, even as I watched the gold tighten around your heart like a snare. But this?" She gestured back toward the gate. "This is not the King I believed in. This is not the man I—"
She cut herself off. Her breath caught in her throat.
He stared at her, and for a moment, there was vulnerability. Just a flicker. The way his hand twitched as if he might reach for hers, but didn't.
"They would strip us of our birthright," he murmured. "They would take what is ours. What rightfully belongs... to the both of us"
"And you would burn the world down to keep it."
Silence.
"You gave your word, Thorin."
He looked away again, as if the stone walls might spare him from the weight of her eyes.
"I am King Under the Mountain."
"Then act like it."
She stepped back, her voice softening just slightly, but it was no less resolute.
"The gold has no soul. It will never love you. It will never follow you into the dark. But I would. I have. And yet... I will not follow you into this madness."
His face tightened, wounded.
"So what, then? You would have me hand over the treasure to every beggar with a sob story?"
"No," she said quietly. "But I would have you remember who you are. And why we're still alive. Why if it weren't for that man, I would have frozen to death in your arms and we would have been slaughtered by a park of orcs."
A heavy silence fell between them. For a moment, it seemed he might respond—but instead, he turned and walked deeper into the mountain, into the shadows.
Ren stood alone in the cold hallway, her breath visible in the still air.
It was in that moment that she knew what she had to do. She would have to act. Quietly. Carefully.
Soon.
Because Thorin Oakenshield, Son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain… was slipping away from her.
And she wasn't sure how much longer she had before he was lost entirely.
Wow, another update already! Look at me go!
Here's another chapter. Happy Easter or if you don't celebrate that... Happy Sunday!
I have seen that some people have been reading my chapters after being gone for so long and I have to say, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
You're a huge reason why I keep doing this.
Love,
Blue