Chapter 39,
Bilbo was not meant for grand entrances.
He popped out from behind a wagon like a hedgehog startled from its burrow, brushing straw and snow from his coat as though that might make his sudden appearance less dramatic. "That won't stop them," he announced, his voice rising with clarity that only came from sheer nerves. "You think the dwarves will surrender? Not a chance. They'll fight to the last, even if they have to do it with soup spoons and mining picks."
Gandalf spun on his heel, robes flaring as he stared at the hobbit like a ghost had insulted his hat. "Bilbo Baggins!"
Looking quite pleased with himself for having timed the entrance correctly, Bilbo gave a modest shrug. "Present and accounted for," he said, though the way he tugged on his waistcoat suggested he wasn't entirely sure he should be. The others blinked at him in astonishment—Thranduil arching an elegant brow, Bard trying to decide if this was a blessing or another problem, and Elena watching him with a quiet, dawning curiosity.
Later, in the flickering light of Thranduil's tent, Bilbo stood like a student awaiting a lecture. The elf king observed him with a cool, appraising stare, as if trying to determine whether this was truly the same creature who had once snuck through the Woodland Realm with pockets full of keys and mushrooms. "If I'm not mistaken," Thranduil said at last, "this is the halfling who stole the keys to my dungeons from beneath the nose of my guards."
Bilbo's face twitched into something between a grimace and a guilty grin. "Ah… yes. Sorry about that," he said, tugging once again on his coat as if trying to vanish inside it.
There was a pause—long enough to be awkward—before Bilbo stepped forward and set a small wrapped bundle on the table. "I came to give you this," he said, fumbling slightly with the cloth. When he unwrapped it, the Arkenstone gleamed like moonlight caught in crystal, its soft radiance seeming to silence the room. Thranduil straightened at once, eyes wide.
"The Heart of the Mountain," he whispered. "The King's Jewel."
Bard stepped forward, unable to hide the awe in his face. "And worth a king's ransom. How is this yours to give?"
"I took it," Bilbo replied, then hesitated before adding, "as my fourteenth share." He cleared his throat. "I know that sounds bad—taking it, I mean. But really, it was just lying there… on a pile of gold. And no one claimed it at the time."
Gandalf's lips curled ever so slightly, the trace of a smile threatening the corner of his mouth.
Bard folded his arms. "Why would you do this? You owe us nothing."
Bilbo hesitated, eyes lowering to the stone. "I'm not doing this for you," he said. "Dwarves are maddening. They're secretive, stubborn, loud, argumentative—Thorin especially—but…" His voice softened. "They're also brave. Fiercely loyal. And I've grown… rather fond of them. I don't want to see them die for something that's only making them worse."
He glanced up, his eyes sincere beneath his disheveled curls. "Thorin values this above all else. If he sees it… Maybe he'll remember who he was, before all this." His voice cracked just a little. "Maybe he'll stop."
Elena stepped forward slowly, offering him a smile that was soft but tinged with sadness. "That was well said, Master Baggins," she murmured. "And braver than any sword stroke. You risked his fury to try and save his soul."
Bilbo flushed at that, a deep pink blooming in his cheeks. "Well," he muttered, "I suppose someone had to. And Gandalf always said I had a peculiar talent for stumbling into trouble."
Night had fully settled over Dale, cloaking the makeshift city in velvet shadows and the soft glow of lanternlight. The wind carried the faint scent of iron and pine smoke, weaving between tents like a whisper of the storm still brewing. Gandalf and Bilbo strolled along the perimeter, the edges of the camp quieter now, though tension hung in the air as thick as the frost beneath their boots.
Gandalf stopped beside an old tree whose roots curled like claws into the stone, and his voice, when it came, was low and weary. "Rest up tonight, Bilbo. You must leave tomorrow." His tone lacked the command of an order, but it was clear he meant no room for debate.
Bilbo blinked, thrown off by its suddenness. "What?"
Gandalf turned slightly, the light of the nearest fire catching the sharp lines of his weathered face. "Get as far away from here as possible," he said. "Leave at first light. Head east, avoid the mountain. Don't look back."
The hobbit's brows furrowed as he adjusted his waistcoat, his fingers brushing the edges as if it might ground him. "But I'm not leaving. You picked me to be the fourteenth member of Thorin's company. I'm not about to walk away now, not when things are at their worst."
Gandalf's sigh was quiet, but the heaviness behind it made Bilbo's chest tighten. "There is no company anymore," the wizard said, his eyes distant. "Whatever it once was, it's broken. Splintered by fear and greed. And I don't like to imagine what Thorin will do when he discovers what you've done."
Bilbo hesitated, then squared his shoulders like only hobbits do—modest, but entirely defiant. "I'm not afraid of Thorin."
"You should be," Gandalf replied, and now his voice was sharper. "You think this is just a quarrel over gold? This mountain was brooded over by a dragon for two centuries. Its treasure is cursed—soaked in greed, warped by time and fire. Dragon-sickness is no myth, Bilbo. It seeps into the soul. It changes good men. It's changing him."
The hobbit didn't answer right away, and in that pause, Elena stepped softly closer from the edge of the path, her cloak trailing over the ground. She looked from Gandalf to Bilbo, her silver eyes gentler now, threaded with quiet sorrow. "And yet you've resisted it," she said to Bilbo, her voice soft but steady. "You held something Thorin valued above all else, and still… You chose mercy. That's not small."
Bilbo flushed and offered a shy smile, scratching the back of his neck. "Well, I've never liked treasure much," he muttered. "Too shiny. Too heavy."
Gandalf's gaze shifted past him before the hobbit could muster a reply. "You there!" he called sharply, spotting a gangly figure trying to sneak by with a half-eaten pastry. "Yes, you-pointy-nosed and limp of purpose!"
Alfrid froze like a squirrel caught stealing fruit. "Me?"
"Yes, you. Find this hobbit a bed, and see that his belly is filled with something warm. He's earned it."
Alfrid exaggeratedly groaned as he slinked forward, brushing crumbs from his tunic. "Yes, your wizardship," he muttered under his breath. "Bed and food for the little one, as if I haven't got a kingdom to keep from burning down…"
As Bilbo followed him reluctantly, Gandalf grasped Alfrid's arm, holding him in place for just a moment. His voice dropped low enough that only the weasel-faced man could hear it.
"Keep an eye on him. If he tries to leave before I say so, you come straight to me."
Alfrid paled, his eyes flicking toward Bilbo, who hummed softly and examined a nearby cooking pot as if weighing the odds of getting a second supper.
"Right," Alfrid muttered. "Watch The Hobbit. Report to the wizard. Brilliant."
He stalked off, muttering curses as he pushed past a group of soldiers carrying crates. "Move it! Stupid people, always in the bloody way..."
Gandalf remained still for a moment, staring after them.
Beside him, Elena glanced toward the mountain in the distance. Its shadow loomed over the camp like a promise made of stone and silence. She didn't speak again, but the look she gave Gandalf said everything.
They were running out of time.
Night pressed down over Dale like a heavy blanket, the distant glow of campfires flickering low behind thick canvas. In a tent nestled among the elven quarters, Elena sat propped against a slanted wooden beam, half-covered in her cloak but no longer in armor. The faint hum of wind outside sang through the seams, but inside there was warmth, quiet, and the faint scent of crushed herbs from the linen used to clean her wounds. She breathed slowly, trying not to wince as she shifted, her body aching in places she hadn't even known had been struck.
Thranduil sat beside her, his usual composure softened by concern in the furrow of his brow and the gentleness of his hands. He had waited until the healers were done, until the last report had been spoken, and only now, in the hush of a private hour, did he allow himself to look at her honestly. He peeled back the edge of her sleeve with care, revealing the angry gashes that streaked her arm, the skin darkened by bruising and dotted with dried blood.
His fingers moved slowly, tracing just beside the deepest wound, checking for heat, for signs of infection, for pain in the way she tensed. He said nothing at first. The silence between them was thick with things neither wanted to speak aloud—of dragons, of near-death, of what might have happened had fate been unkind. His hand drifted down her arm, thumb brushing a line of half-healed scrapes with reverent slowness.
"I didn't see it," he said quietly, his voice hoarse in a way few had ever heard. "When I arrived, the lake still steamed. Your blood was already on the stone." His eyes flicked up to hers, and for a moment, all his regal stillness cracked. "And I feared… that I had missed my last chance to hold you."
Elena's lips parted, and her breath caught. She searched his face and saw the strain at the corners of his mouth, the flicker of helplessness in eyes that rarely betrayed anything. "I didn't fall far," she said, trying to ease his mind. "Only just enough to scare the whole town, I think."
"That is more than enough," he murmured.
He leaned forward, his forehead brushing gently against her uninjured shoulder. She closed her eyes as his hand stilled against her wrist, grounding her as much as himself. Neither spoke for long moments, the silence thick but comforting, woven with years, scars, shared battles, and what it meant to return from them.
At last, he pulled back slightly, enough to meet her gaze. "You shouldn't be walking. And yet here you are, talking of dragons and war as if your arm isn't half-useless."
Her mouth quirked in a tired smile. "Because someone has to," she whispered. "And it wouldn't be the first time I've fought when I shouldn't have stood."
Thranduil exhaled softly, brushing a pale strand of hair from her face. "Then let me be the one to stand in your place, at least for a while."
And for once, Elena didn't argue.
The tent had grown quiet, the hum of the camp muffled beneath thick canvas and the breath of a shared silence. The brazier crackled softly in the corner, casting golden light that danced across Elena's bare shoulder and shimmered against the silver threads of her hair. She sat half-turned toward Thranduil, her tunic loose around her waist, her arm resting in its sling. The pain was still there, dull and persistent—but it no longer seemed to matter, not with him beside her.
Thranduil's hand moved slowly, reverently, his fingers brushing across the curve of her arm with featherlight pressure. He traced the edge of a healing wound, not to inspect it, but to memorize it—as if learning her all over again, in the aftermath of nearly losing her. His touch was so gentle it barely registered as warmth, yet it left a trail of comfort in its wake. When his thumb brushed along the inside of her wrist, she felt her pulse quicken beneath his skin.
She tilted her face toward him, her breath catching as she met his eyes. There was no crown between them now, no weight of duty, no barrier of silence forged by fear. Just him—her husband, her king, with his brow furrowed in quiet sorrow and a look in his eyes that threatened to undo her completely. She reached up with her uninjured hand and rested her palm against his cheek, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw.
"I'm here," she whispered.
His eyes closed as he leaned into her hand, drawing a breath that trembled slightly at the edges. "I feared… I would find only ash," he murmured. "And I would have gone to ruin with it."
Elena didn't respond with words. She leaned forward instead, slowly, carefully, and kissed him—a soft, searching kiss, full of everything she hadn't said while bleeding on the stone. He responded with equal care, his lips meeting hers like a vow made flesh. There was no urgency to it, no rush or fire—only the ache of reunion, and the promise that, for now, they were still whole.
His hand slipped around her waist, mindful of her injuries, and she felt the press of his forehead against hers when they parted, breath mingling between them. Her eyes fluttered closed as she rested against him, savoring the quiet. The world could wait a moment longer.
"I missed you," she murmured, voice scarcely more than a breath.
"I will never let you go so far alone again," he replied, his hand rising to cradle the back of her head. "You're not just mine to protect—half of my soul. And when you fall, I feel the world tip with you."
She didn't cry—but she did press herself closer, resting her head against the steady rhythm of his heart. It grounded her more than any healing potion ever could. And in the stillness of that tent, surrounded by war and weariness, they said nothing more. They didn't need to.
Morning arrived in a slow spill of pale light, stretching across the folds of the tent with a softness that contrasted with the tension beginning to rise outside. Dale stirred quietly—armor creaked, orders murmured low between watchmen, and the faint hum of movement passed through the encampment like the first stirrings of a beast not yet ready to roar. Inside the warmth of the elven tent, the world was still caught in its final breath of peace.
Elena moved slowly, her limbs aching but her mind clear. The bedroll still held the warmth of where she'd slept, tangled in Thranduil's arms, her cheek once resting against the steady beat of his heart. She had not dreamt—her body had been too exhausted, too grounded in the reality of pain and closeness—but the night had left her more at ease than she had been in weeks. And yet peace was not something that lasted long in the shadow of Erebor.
She pulled her underlayers on first, wrapping the linen close to her body and working one-handed to settle the ties around her waist. Each movement sent a dull pulse of discomfort down her side, and when she reached for her armor, her breath caught. The weight of it was familiar, but unwelcome this morning—still slick with memory, still bearing the scent of dragonfire and blood. It clanked softly as she lifted it, dragging the breastplate up and over her shoulder with effort. The sling on her right arm made it more complicated than usual, and her face twisted slightly as she tightened the buckle beneath her ribs.
Behind her, a low rustle stirred the blankets.
Thranduil shifted, one arm moving into the space she had left, fingers brushing the fabric before his head lifted from the pillow. His voice, rough with sleep but still unmistakably his, came softly through the hush. "Why are you armoring yourself?"
Elena paused, her hand halfway to the strap at her throat. She stood with her back to him, the outline of her bare shoulder still visible beneath her tunic where the collar dipped, the gash just beneath it red and raw. The question wasn't spoken as a reprimand. It was gentle. Curious. Touched with something that sounded like hurt.
She lowered her hand slowly and turned partway, just enough to meet his gaze. "Because I need to be ready," she said. Her voice wasn't defensive, but it was tired. Honest. "Thorin hasn't answered. Bard will go again. There's a war waiting at our doorstep, and I won't be caught in a cloak when it breaks."
Thranduil sat up, the silver of his hair tumbling over his shoulder as he moved. His gaze lingered on her injuries—on the way she stood, proud but clearly in pain. He didn't rise, not yet, but the lines of his body shifted, alert. "You should be resting still," he said softly. "This is not your war to fight. Not in this state."
"I know," Elena murmured, finally buckling the strap at her throat with a sharp inhale. "I'm not asking to take up a sword. But I won't sit idle, either."
She looked away, toward the entrance where dawn had begun to stretch into a whole morning. Outside, a horn called out once, short, clear, a signal that the day's movements had begun. Elena straightened as much as her body allowed, rolling her sore shoulder beneath the weight of leather and steel. She hated how familiar the weight felt. She hated even more how necessary it was.
Behind her, Thranduil rose quietly, reaching for the tunic he'd folded the night before. His eyes never left her. And though he said nothing that moment, she could feel his thoughts pressing against the silence.
Thranduil moved with the grace of falling snow—silent, unhurried, and without demand. As Elena adjusted the final buckle of her breastplate, he stepped behind her, saying nothing at first, only watching how her shoulders stiffened at the strain. Her breathing hitched as the strap tugged against the fresh bandages beneath, but she did not stop or complain. She had always carried pain like armor; with all his centuries, he had learned to see through it better than most.
His hand reached forward, not to stop her, but to touch the spill of black hair that had fallen over one shoulder. The strands were slightly tangled, still tousled from the night they had shared, and he let them slip through his fingers like smoke. "You didn't tie it back," he said, voice quiet, touched with concern that lingered behind the simplicity of the words.
"I couldn't," she replied, without turning. "Not with one arm." A pause, then, softer, "I was going to leave it."
But Thranduil did not let her. With a silent nod, he retrieved the carved bone comb from the chest beside the bedroll and moved slowly. He began to work through her hair with delicate strokes, untangling knots with patient fingers that had held both sword and crown—but in this moment, held only her. His touch was warm and steady, and Elena closed her eyes as the tension in her back began to unwind with each pass of the comb. No words were needed, for in that silence, she felt everything he couldn't say aloud—how close he had come to losing her, and how much that truth still haunted him.
When the last snarls had been eased away, he began to braid. His fingers moved with practiced grace, weaving the strands together like he was weaving something sacred. "You always wore it tighter than this," he murmured, more to himself than to her. The admission made her smile faintly.
"I didn't know you remembered."
Thranduil paused for the briefest moment. Then, softly, "I remember every inch of you. Every scar. Every laugh. Every time you walked away from me and came back with more fire in your eyes than when you left."
Elena's breath caught in her throat. She didn't look back but leaned slightly into him, allowing his presence to anchor her in a way nothing else could. When he finished, he tied the end with a soft leather band, one worn from use, and let the braid fall gently along her shoulder.
His hands lingered at her shoulders, thumbs brushing the edge of her armor as he leaned close. He placed a slow kiss at the back of her neck, just above where the metal met skin, and then rested his brow there, breathing her in like something precious that had been returned to him. "You are still my heart," he whispered. "Even when you go where I cannot follow."
She turned then, carefully, her eyes finding his—and for a moment, the world outside ceased to matter. The tension, the horns, the inevitable march of time all fell away. Elena reached for his hand with her good arm, pressing his palm flat against her breastplate, right over her heartbeat.
"I always return," she said. "Even when I shouldn't."
Thranduil kissed her again, not with urgency or fear, but with a devotion born from years of longing and loyalty, knowing that love is sometimes a battlefield of its own. He kissed her as if the day ahead could not touch them, and perhaps, for this quiet moment, it couldn't.
The kiss lingered in her memory even after his footsteps had faded. The warmth of it still clung to her lips like the last touch of sunlight before the storm. Elena stood alone in the tent, the silence stretching around her like a second skin, her armor a poor match for the softness she had allowed herself to feel. But the moment had passed, and now the weight of reality settled over her shoulders again.
"I'm going to the wall," she murmured, more to the still air than to the space where Thranduil had stood. Her voice was calm, but beneath it, a quiet ache threaded through every word. She wasn't going to fight. Not today. But she would not let the day unfold without bearing witness.
It took her longer than usual to reach the edge of the encampment. The stones beneath her boots were uneven and slick with frost, and every step jarred the wound beneath her ribs and tugged at the half-healed tear in her arm. But she kept walking, refusing the hand of a nearby guard who moved to assist her. She had not come this far to be led.
The wall was little more than a line of raised stone and timber—built hastily and reinforced by elven hands—but it offered a vantage point over the dead lands between Dale and Erebor. She climbed it alone, one hand bracing herself against the cold surface as she ascended. At the top, she paused, the wind catching her braid and pulling it over her shoulder, the chill pressing against her exposed skin like a warning.
From here, she saw everything.
The elves were already forming ranks below, their movements like wind passing through tall grass—silent, beautiful, and precise. Thranduil rode at their head, the great elk beneath him moving with regal strength, its antlers casting long shadows in the morning light. Beside him rode Bard, dressed in leathers marked by soot and time, his expression solemn, his back straight. Behind them, Dale's soldiers gathered, rough but resolute, flanked by the quiet awe of a people who had already lost too much.
Elena's hand rested on the stone, her fingers brushing moss crusted with frost. She felt small, standing there, less than the warrior she had once been, not quite the queen they still whispered about. And yet, she was all of those things. She was a wife. A friend. A woman who had bled for the mountain and bled for its people.
Her gaze followed Thranduil with unwavering focus, tracing the proud line of his shoulders and the fall of his cloak in the wind. He did not look back, but she knew he felt her—he always did. Some of her had followed him into the field, even as she remained behind.
The horns sounded again—one long note, echoing through the valley like the breath of something ancient awakening. Elena's chest tightened. It was the beginning.