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Chapter Text

The shores of the Undying Lands burned beneath a moonless sky. The swan ships of Alqualondë smoked and sank, angry waves capped with froth and foam pulling them under. Screams and shouts pierced the muggy air. The Bay of Eldamar frothed and boiled, the wreckage of Elvish fleets marring its once-tranquil waters.

Bilbo Baggins crouched behind the figurehead of the last ship to leave Valinor. His hands, wrapped tight around the rail, were white-knuckled and shaking. Horror pounded his heart. The destruction, the sheer violence was like nothing he’d ever seen. The Wrath of Morgoth fell like a cureless plague on every village, city, and port of the Valar and Eldar. The White Shores basked in the golden glow of a thousand infernos.

“Bilbo!” A shout from the only other surviving ship pulled him out of his terrified trance. Turning, Bilbo caught sight of Gandalf pointing at something bobbing in the water nearby. “Pull them out! They cannot swim; you must save them!”

Bilbo blinked. For a moment, he couldn’t tell what Gandalf was pointing at. Then a familiar mop of curly dark hair and the flash of panicked blue eyes in the firelight spurred him into action.

“Bilbo,” gasped Frodo as Bilbo pulled him onto deck by the back of his shirt. Frodo turned over, gasping like a landed fish. With the last of his waning strength, he gestured overboard at the frenzied waters. “Sam’s still down there!”

Bilbo jumped up, leaning over the rail and scanning the water for any sight of Samwise Gamgee.

In the darkness, a flash of curly golden hair. There!

Reaching out, he seized Sam’s grasping hand. Sam gripped his wrist, and Bilbo pulled with all his strength. Sam used his free hand to pull himself up; they landed side-by-side on the soaked deck, gasping and panting. Frodo sat up and scooted closer to Sam, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Sam,” said Frodo, a note of desperation in his voice. “Are you alright?”

Sam shook his head. Seawater spun from his sopping blonde curls. “It’s all lost, Mr. Frodo,” he said. “The ships, the archway, the town…”

Frodo closed his eyes. He reached out and gripped Sam’s wrist, moving closer and tilting their heads together. “I know, Sam,” he whispered. Bilbo was just close enough to hear the hitch in his voice. “I know.”

Bilbo turned back toward the shore. The ship was turning, seemingly of its own volition, toward the open waters beyond far Tol Eressëa and the Enchanted Isles. Despite the lack of wind, they were now moving along at an astonishing pace.

“Make haste to Middle-Earth!” cried Gandalf from the second ship. Bilbo turned in time to see a massive wave bearing down on the wizard and his companions—Elrond, Galadriel, and several other High Elves Bilbo didn’t recognize—with unnatural aim and fury. “You must warn them: The Great Enemy has returned. The End of Days are upon us!” And then the ship was swamped, boards creaking and masts crackling like kindling.

Bilbo cried out as Gandalf, Elrond, and Galadriel disappeared. The wave crested, frothing viciously, then retreated. Bilbo scanned the waters desperately. Nothing remained of the second ship but a torn sail and a raft of debris.

Through the ringing in his ears and the grief pounding his heart, Bilbo somehow managed to stumble to the ship’s wheel and take control. Steering the slender, delicate vessel around the curving beaches of Tol Eressëa, he turned his back on the burning shores of Valinor and headed out to sea.

The ruins of Gondor shimmered under the light of a dying sun. Clouds of smoke and ash filled the sky. For weeks, storms of tainted air had been blowing in from the West. A fine layer of dust and ash covered everything.

This isn’t right, Ithilwen thought as she clambered over a wall of crumbling white stone. Something feels off. She couldn’t place it, but a darkness lay over the tombs of the Kings of Old. Something had drawn her to this place—some ancient, deep-set curiosity—and now she found herself standing still and silent, only inches from her father’s grave.

Her father’s tomb.

Grave was the wrong word.

Graves held bodies. Her father’s tomb was empty.

She held her head high, graying hair whipping around a face that had seen too many hard winters. Her eyes were gray, her body lean and wrapped in an ashen cloak. Her boots were worn through, her gloves full of holes.

They had been forced to burn him. A column of smoke rising, joining the sick clouds hanging low over the once-vibrant kingdom. She’d fought, cried, screamed. Clutched her mother’s arm. You cannot burn him, she’d pleaded. He lives! He is not dead!

Later, her mother had explained that the heat of her father’s skin was due to the fever that had taken him. We burn the bodies, her mother said, so that they may find peace. You must understand, my daughter—it is the only way.

Ithilwen bowed her head. She put a hand on her father’s tombstone. Traced the roughly-carven names and titles hewn by shaky, unsure hands. There hadn’t been time for a proper funeral. Unlike his forebearers, her father had no statues or plaques bearing his likeness for future generations to look upon. There was only memory, timid and weary, clinging to Ithilwen’s mind.

Something moved in the shadows. The sun was down, the moon rising. Ithilwen crouched, cold sweat covering her skin, and listened. Her father’s empty tomb cloaked her in darkness like a traveler’s cloak.

The sound came again. Ithilwen dared lift her head to peer over the tomb. To her surprise, it was a bird.

A nightingale. A white nightingale perched atop a broken tomb.

Ithilwen rose slowly to her feet. She approached, one hand on the hilt of her hunting knife and the other pushing her hair out of her eyes. The nightingale turned to look at her as she came closer. It cocked its head, ruffling its tiny feathers. Then it tilted its head back, let loose a few notes of heartbreaking song, and took off into the gathering night.

Ithilwen reached the broken tomb. In the dim moonlight, she couldn’t tell at first whose tomb it was. But then her fingers found the engraving on the broken tombstone, and she inhaled sharply. High King Elessar, it read. First King of the Reunited Realms of Gondor and Arnor.

Someone had taken King Elessar’s bones. Ithilwen leaned over the shattered tomb to make sure, but it was immediately clear that her initial instincts were right. Whoever had broken in hadn’t left the old king’s sleep undisturbed.

In the distance, the nightingale sang a series of clear, high notes. Ithilwen crouched over King Elessar’s tomb, head tilted, listening. The little bird’s sorrow pierced her like a new-forged arrow. Straightening up, she looked around the tomb for any sign of the intruders. At first there was nothing. And then—there! Footprints in the dust, illuminated by a beam of moonlight piercing the ashen clouds.

For a moment, Ithilwen stood still and silent by her ancestor’s tomb. Then, with renewed purpose in her step, she set out into the night.

Whoever had stolen King Elessar’s bones, she would find them. And she would make them answer for their crime.

The feeling was strange. A sort of heat building behind his ribs, a fire kindling in his bones. His blood boiled. He pressed a hand to his heart, grimacing. The cold, hard marble of the Halls of Mandos seeped into his knees and warred with the burning of his blood. His vision blurred, his mind spinning wildly out of control.

That’s right, sneered Morgoth’s voice inside his head. Don’t try to resist me. It’ll only be more work for both of us. And you know how much I hate unnecessary work. The shadow wrapping itself around Thorin’s mind tightened—a python constricting its prey. Or maybe you don’t know. You don’t know me, do you? But soon, Son of Durin, you won’t know where I begin and you end. Your line is prone to madness, are you not? I want you to imagine the way it felt: that moment when you nearly ruined everything, at the Gates of Erebor all those long years ago, when your mind turned against you and brought you low. And then imagine that feeling amplified, magnified, multiplied… The voice faded out, soft laughter like poisoned honey seeping through Thorin’s thoughts. Condensed, compacted, and corrupted in every way you can imagine. That is how it will feel, I’m afraid, when I take you over—mind, body, and soul.

Thorin blinked. His eyes were dry, but his heart thundered with grief. He couldn’t move. Held immobile against his will, his people on their knees behind him, their spirits broken and crying out for mercy, he fought to hold his ground, to not give in to the dark, bodiless presence all around him.

“I will not give you what you want,” Thorin said through clenched teeth. With all his strength, he lifted his head, eyes blazing in the half-light of the Hall. “You will not have me.”

Morgoth laughed again. Oh, good, he hissed. I love it when my prey fights back. Strong wills make for good sport, as my beloved Mairon used to say. Used to say… before your hobbit and his filthy kind stole his strength and brought him low. Ha! But vengeance breeds vengeance, and I am the father of that terrible and unfailing line. I will be avenged, Thorin Oakenshield. And you will be my vengeance.

The torchlight flickered and faded. Thorin fought to keep his eyes open. Behind him, he heard the shuddering gasps of his kin—Fili and Kili, Thrain and Thror, Frerin and Dis, Dwalin and Balin, their spirit-forms writhing and crying out as some unseen force twisted and tortured them…

I will release them from their suffering, Morgoth drawled, if only you pledge yourself to me. Every moment, every instant they are in pain, is because of you. Your stubbornness. Your pride. Are they worth more to you than your own flesh and blood? Than your own people?

Thorin’s eyes closed against his will. His head fell forward, chin resting on his chest. His spirit shuddered, its form shimmering and contorting in the dying torchlight. “No,” he whispered. “Please, no.” He wasn’t sure if he was answering Morgoth’s question or pleading with the growing darkness. Which came down to the same thing: the darkness and Morgoth were one.

Oh come, Thorin! Morgoth sighed, disappointment thick and heavy in his ethereal voice. It’s only fun if you play along. Although I do enjoy watching any creation of Aule suffer. Corrupting his play-things has always been a favorite past-time of mine. Ha! In fact, I’ve waited centuries, millennia, ages for this. Have you ever waited ages for something, Son of Durin? I doubt it. I doubt you’d have the patience. He laughed, soft and dangerous. The sound slid between Thorin’s thoughts like freezing rain through chinks in armor.

I have, Thorin thought. I’ve waited without hope, without certainty of success. A century, an age, it doesn’t matter. Some things are worth the weight of forever.

Morgoth laughed again. Some things, he whispered, or someone?

Thorin’s eyes snapped open. His willpower surged, hands clenching into fists. “Be gone, snake,” he snarled. “I will never bow to you.”

Oh, but you will. You will! Do you know why? The darkness closed in. The torches flickered and died. Smoke furled, hot and thick and choking, through the Halls. You are betrayed. Your mind, open and defenseless, bare as rock beneath rain. Relentless, I will wear you down and shape you however I like. Because I see your heart now, Thorin Oakenshield. And he has a name.

Thorin flinched as the dwarves behind him screamed again. He could not look. Could not comfort them, his kin, his family. Abandoned by their god, left alone to face the Void beyond death. He was trapped in himself, held hostage in his own head. Like the Dragon-sickness, it consumed him, eating away at his core and leaving him heartless and hollow.

You will bow, Morgoth hissed, or they will suffer a fate far worse than death.

Thorin closed his eyes again. His mind echoed, his heart a pit of dark despair. The heat in his blood rose—fire, dragonfire in his veins. Please, he thought, wild and reckless, let it end.

Morgoth’s presence tightened its hold. The darkness wove silken strands through Thorin’s thoughts. Do you consent, Son of Durin? Will you let me in?

“No.” Thorin’s voice broke. “No!”

Morgoth hissed. Let me show you the future, he said. Mandos is not here, so I will prophesize in his stead. The smoke shifted, taking form.

Inside his head, Thorin watched the world appear.

He found himself standing on the shores of Middle-earth. Once-green lands spread away, withered and barren. Fires burned on distant mountain peaks. Cities crumbled, towns turned to ash. Massive creatures soared overhead, their leathery wings blotting out the stars. Thorin inhaled, and his lungs burned. The air was thick with the smell of blood and death.

Morgoth stood beside him. A tall, fair-skinned being, wrapped in a cloak of shadow and crowned in iron. He stood tall as a tower, his head wreathed in smoky clouds. His eyes burned, the pupils slitted like a cat’s. His hair fell in a curtain of black silk around his narrow, sharp face. Thorin caught a glimpse of that face before he was forced to look away, his mind reeling and his eyes burning as if he’d stared too long at the sun.

This is what awaits you. Morgoth’s voice rang out over the open, desolate plains of a once-vibrant world. This is the world as it is. But you, Son of Durin, have a chance to save it—you and many others who have stood against me and my servants before. There was a tilt to Morgoth’s voice, the self-assured confidence of someone who has weighed his odds and found them favorable. I will go after these so-called heroes, of course, with all that I am. But to do so, I’ll need a body. My physical form is tethered, broken. My spirit alone made it through the Doors of Night. There was a pause. In the distance, a plume of smoke rose high into the starless sky. The ground shook and shuddered. The hulking form of Morgoth turned, his blazing eyes fixed on Thorin. And that’s where you come in.

Thorin thought about running. As useless as it was, his instincts screamed at him to get away, get away from him, save yourself, get AWAY…

Morgoth smiled. It was cruel and violent and bright, his eyes flashing fire and his face glowing with a sickly light. Many predators won’t take chase unless their prey runs, Morgoth said. And what a mighty predator am I.

Thorin blinked. The scene around him shifted. The fiery mountains faded, the endless brown wastelands blurring to black. Under his feet, the ground moved. He stumbled back, fighting for balance, and found himself standing on hard, cold stone. His hands were covered in blood, and clutching a familiar sword: Orcrist, its silver blade drenched in scarlet, thick and dripping off its cruelly-curving point.

Under his blade was Bilbo Baggins. He appeared to be unconscious, blood running in rivulets down his too-pale face. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted. Sting lay by his side, the blade shattered, the fragments dully glowing blue. It took Thorin a moment to recognize him, but when he did, he inhaled sharply and took a step back. Or he meant to—his body refused to react, staying stubbornly rooted in place as his heartrate sped and his blood went cold.

Morgoth had disappeared. Physically, at least. His presence, along with his poisoned-honey voice, lingered. You will kill him, Morgoth said, or I will, through you. In the end, the Ringbearers will die by my hand. Whether I claim your form or another, eventually I—we—will end up here. But here’s the thing, Thorin son of Thrain: you care for this hobbit. Would you risk another taking your place in this future? Would you risk a weaker mind, a softer soul? When this moment comes, and come it will, Bilbo Baggins’s life will depend on a triumph of your spirit over mine. Are you willing to risk his life to preserve your own?

“No,” Thorin said, before he could stop himself. A reflex. A truth he couldn’t contain. He stared down at Bilbo’s sheet-white face, transfixed and horrified in equal measure. The little hobbit’s hand was clenched tight around the hilt of his shattered blade. His knuckles were raw and bloody. He’d clearly put up a good fight, but in the end, Morgoth’s strength—Thorin’s strength—had been too much for him. “He is worth a hundred of me.”

Morgoth chuckled. Well, yes. I agree. As much damage as you did, he did substantially more. Or will do. This whole looking-ahead thing is confusing me. I’m starting to mix up what is, what might be, and what has been already. I’m not a temporal being, you know. I am chaos. Time is order. We mix about as well as noonday and starlight.

“They’re the same,” Thorin said. “Noonday and starlight. The sun is just another star.”

Morgoth laughed again. I see you’ve been philosophizing with Gods and Elves, he said. But it doesn’t matter. What I’m saying is, this is getting confusing. Walking through the future is like picking roses—sure, it’s pretty, but you never know when you’ll prick yourself. And in the end, it’s all rather useless. Flowers are brief. Nice to look at, but impermanent. Fleeting. Thorin heard the smile in his words. Rather like you, mortal.

Thorin wasn’t entirely sure what Morgoth was getting at. He was having a hard time concentrating on anything other than the bloodied, unconscious hobbit at his feet. Against his will, the point of Orcrist inched closer to Bilbo’s exposed throat. It was moments from finding its mark. “Why him?” Thorin found himself asking. His eyes were fixed on Bilbo’s face. “Why do you want him dead?”

Morgoth was silent for a long moment. In a field of flowers, he said, which would you pick first?

Thorin didn’t reply. Gritting his teeth, he willed himself to move. But try as he might, his blade moved inexorably toward Bilbo’s neck.

The prettiest, of course. Morgoth laughed. Bilbo Baggins is a bright soul. A pure soul. In the world I plan to build, there is no place for souls like his. When he is dead, I will cast him into the Void with every other being who dared defy me. Their lights will dim. Their minds will crumble. In the end, their spirits will be twisted and changed beyond recognition. And when that happens—when they finally bow to me—I will release them back into the world. They will serve me unto the final ending of the world. That is the fate that awaits bright souls like his.

Orcrist pressed against Bilbo’s throat. A thin line of red appeared beneath the point. Blood welled, vibrant and bright as a lover’s promise. Thorin’s heart threw itself against his ribs, a little bird trapped in a bone cage. No! he screamed silently. No, stop! Stop this!

Will you let me in now, Son of Durin? Morgoth materialized, standing over Bilbo’s body. He leaned down, laying one massive hand on Thorin’s. His fingers wrapped around Orcrist’s hilt. Where their bodies touched, Thorin’s spirit-form burned and blistered. His blood boiled. He tried to scream, but the sound stuck in his chest. Will you sacrifice yourself for a chance to save him?

Thorin’s pride battled with the surge of reckless hope rising like a dormant dragon in his chest. I can win this, he thought wildly. If it ever comes to this moment, with my blade to Bilbo’s throat, I would not kill him. I could not. He looked at Bilbo, and in that instant, emotion rose up inside him, choking him and filling him with overwhelming fury and love unlike anything he’d ever known. Morgoth will not take him from me.

Maybe, Morgoth replied. Maybe not. If you do not submit yourself to me, you’ll never know. Do you accept my challenge, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror? Are you up for a contest of wills?

In a moment of clarity, Thorin understood. It was the only way. The only way to right his wrongs, to undo the evils of his past. He inhaled, held his breath, and focused every inch of his formidable will on retracting his blade. Slowly, inch by inch, Orcrist moved away from Bilbo’s neck. The flow of blood ceased. The pressure of Morgoth’s hand over Thorin’s weakened. It is the only way for me to save him.

Do you submit? Morgoth repeated. His voice was low, intense. The teasing, lilting tone was gone. Each word rumbled like distant thunder.

Like a vase striking marble, the spell over Thorin broke. Thorin turned, Orcrist still clenched in one hand, and faced Morgoth. He forced himself to look up into those harsh, burning eyes. “I do not submit,” he snarled. He fell into a warrior’s stance. He aimed Orcrist’s point at the monstrous god’s chest. “I do not submit, but I do accept your challenge. Although I must warn you—my will is not weak, Morgoth Bauglir. You will find me harder to break than you believe.”

Morgoth leaned down. Even bent at the waist, he towered over Thorin—a great column of living shadow and iron. Extending one massive hand, he offered it to Thorin. Do we have a deal? he hissed. Do you offer yourself to me freely?

Thorin struggled with his pride. Every instinct screamed at him to turn away, to refuse, to endure whatever might come after. But as he turned, he caught sight of Bilbo’s bloodied body and shattered blade. Bile rose in his throat. He turned back to Morgoth, lifting his chin and steeling himself. He grasped Morgoth’s hand, giving himself over to the fire and the heat. “I do,” he said. His voice was steady. Strong. For a moment, he felt like a warrior again—like a king. “I accept your challenge,” he said.

Morgoth pulled him in. The god’s grin was blinding. His eyes narrowed, two golden bonfires scorching pale skin. And then, in Thorin’s own voice, he said, Then it is done. The pact is sealed. You are mine now, Son of Durin. You are MINE!

Chapter Text

The storms of Morgoth continued through the long night. Clouds of smoke and ash rose from the burning cities of the Eldar and the Valar, swept by howling winds into the distant East. The frothing waves churned the wreckage of a thousand elven ships. As starlight faded and the water grew black with approaching midnight, Bilbo held tight to the wheel of the last ship afloat on the Shadowy Seas.

At least he thought it was the last ship. That is, until he spotted a flash of silver sails and polished white wood bobbing between high, cresting waves, and heard a familiar voice carried on the wind.

“Gi suilon!” Legolas cried, standing tall at the prow of his tiny ship. “I did not think any others had survived!”

Bilbo called for Sam to take the wheel, then rushed to the ship’s rail. Leaning over, he blinked against the salt spray of the restless sea. “Legolas!” he cried. “I’m glad to see you’re alright. Or will be, once we’re clear of those islands!” He gestured past the prow of the swan ship to a row of dark, foreboding isles rising like green teeth from the Shadowy Seas. “I don’t know about you, but they look less friendly now than they did on the voyage in.”

Legolas glanced down. Gimli appeared at his side, pulling himself up to peer over the railing. When he spotted the elvish ship and the hobbits clinging to it, Gimli grinned broadly. “Ha!” he said. “Masters Baggins and Master Gamgee. Of all the lucky hobbits in the world, you’re the luckiest!”

Bilbo wasn’t sure ‘lucky’ was the right word, but he kept his less-than-positive thoughts to himself. After all, he had his friends with him—some of them, at least—and they seemed to have escaped the initial assault unscathed. He didn’t count himself lucky; he was, however, quite fortunate.

Legolas and Gimli steered their little ship toward the larger, more elegant one. Legolas turned his vessel so the two ships brushed, then cast a furl of silken gray rope up onto the swan ship’s deck. Bilbo caught the rope and secured it to the railing. As they continued toward the neatly-spaced islands separating the Blessed Realm from the mortal circle of the world beyond, Legolas and Gimli’s ship trailed behind them like a faithful dog on a long tether.

Legolas and Gimli came aboard. The five friends greeted each other with mixed joy and relief. Despite the horrors they’d witnessed, their reunion was like a sunrise, pure and bright. The winds blew, ash blotted out the stars, and waves dragged at their hull like clutching demons rising from the deep, but they were too busy reveling in their shared survival to despair.

At least for a while.

As soon as the greetings were over, a thick, wet blanket of fear fell over the little company, smothering their momentary joy and turning it to sorrow and grief. Bilbo returned to the ship’s wheel while Sam and Frodo made room in the below-deck cabin for Legolas and Gimli. Not that Legolas needed to sleep, but it was important to have a place of one’s own, Sam argued, even if that place was barely larger than a giant’s shoe-box.

They reached the Enchanted Islands (for that was their name—Bilbo remembered Elrond telling him about them as they sailed past on their voyage to Valinor) as the moon reached its zenith. Barely visible through the clouds of smoke and ash, it hung wearily over the row of razor-sharp peaks rising from the pitch-black sea. They passed between two islands with shores of dark sand and thick, close-growing foliage. Occasionally they spotted the rusted wreckage of ships long forgotten, their unlucky passengers deep in an enchanted sleep: Mortals and Elves who had dared set foot on the cursed shores of the Enchanted Isles, lost to time and memory.

“An ancient spell lies on these lands,” Legolas said. He stood at the prow, looking out over the shadowy waters. Gimli had gone below deck with Frodo and Sam, leaving Bilbo and Legolas to keep watch above. “Any who set foot on these shores will fall deep into enchanted sleep until the ending of the world.”

“Well,” said Bilbo, who was more than a little startled and disturbed by this, “we shouldn’t stay long. The sooner we’re past them, the better I’ll feel.”

Legolas inclined his head slightly in agreement. “This enchantment is as old as the gods,” he said. “I would not pretend to contest its power.”

Bilbo steered through the channel with practiced precision. He’d spent many years sailing the waters of the Bay of Eldamar; back then, he’d had Gandalf, or Elrond as his guide. Now, he was alone on the water.

“You are not alone,” Legolas said, as if he’d read Bilbo’s thoughts. He stepped down from the prow and approached the wheel. “Go rest,” he told Bilbo. “I will steer us through these treacherous waters.”

Bilbo wanted to protest, then thought better of it. He nodded. Sudden weariness pulled at his bones, weakening his muscles and buckling his knees. He blinked, watching the dark islands through the creeping mist. “Alright,” he said. “Thank you. If you… if you need me, you know where I am.”

In a haze of sleepiness, he made his way across the deck and down into the cabin below. He found Frodo, Sam, and Gimli fast asleep, lying prone on whatever surface they’d happened to fall on. He had a moment to wonder why they hadn’t made it to their beds before he too fell deep into a dark, dreamless slumber.

Thorin woke up in the dark. All around him, stone walls pressed in. Once familiar and comforting, the unyielding smoothness was now a prison, a cage. He inhaled dust and death. He couldn’t be sure if his eyes were open; the blackness was a weight on his chest, pushing him down, down, down into oblivion.

Get up, commanded a voice in his head. Against his will, his arms lifted. He put his palms flat against the smooth stone slab set over his prone body. With more strength than he naturally possessed, he heaved the slab of solid stone up and off. It fell to the ground with a harsh crack. Something slid to the ground with a clatter, metal striking cold rock. Through the haze of lightless disorientation, Thorin pulled himself upright and focused on breathing.

It took him a few heartbeats to realize he was sitting in a tomb. The clatter he’d heard was Orcrist falling from where it had been laid to rest atop his tomb, the ancient blade striking cold, unyielding stone.

In the darkness, a faint light appeared. At first it was barely a blur of white shot through with swirling color, but as moments turned to minutes, everything became clear: the light was coming from a large rounded gem sitting in Thorin’s lap.

It took him a few heartbeats before he realized: They put it to rest with me. He inhaled, suddenly finding it hard to draw breath. He pressed a hand to his chest, closing his eyes. The glow disappeared. He focused on each breath—in, out. In, out. In. And then he reached out, gripped the Arkenstone tight in one hand, and hurled it as hard as he could against the opposite wall.

Stone struck stone with a shattering sound. Thorin’s eyes snapped back open.

To his mixed relief and disappointment, the Arkenstone remained intact. It would take more than that to destroy it, sneered the voice—Morgoth’s voice—in his head. It cannot be unmade. It is inside you, Son of Durin. It has poisoned your mind and corrupted your soul. You will never be rid of it… or of me. Soft laughter slipped through his thoughts, insidious and inescapable.

Thorin pushed himself to his feet. He was unsteady, his head swimming and his knees weak. With great effort, he climbed out of his tomb and stood, for the first time in an Age and a half, on solid ground. Crossing to where the Arkenstone lay, he picked it up, careful not to let the stone touch his skin. He slipped it into his pocket. It was only then that he realized he was wearing the clothes he’d been buried in. Oddly, although time unmeasured had passed and his original form had likely rotted long ago, he looked and felt like he had just before the Battle of Five Armies, miraculously healed and alive. He put a hand to his chest again. His fingers brushed stiff, blood-crusted fabric. He swallowed the lump in his throat, wincing as panic flooded his body and shook his limbs—whatever dark magic had raised him from his grave had healed his body, but not his mind.

Turning, he located Orcrist in the dark. Gripping the hilt tight in both hands, he stood for a moment in the pitch black catacombs, breathing slow and deep.

Move, commanded Morgoth. I’ve got things to do. Places to be. I can’t watch over you forever. The words were harsh, taunting—as if Morgoth were some sort of twisted guardian rather than a demonic, invasive force. And I want to be there when you find the surprise I’ve left for you in the throne room. It should make this much more interesting! Give me a chance to see how you perform under pressure.

Thorin’s heart sank. Dread formed a black pit in his stomach. Gripping Orcrist in one hand and pressing the Arkenstone to his body with the other, he walked out of the lightless space and emerged into the dull half-light of the hallway beyond.

His eyes adjusted quickly. Like most of his kind, he could see well in the dark, allowing him to notice things in the dim places of the world that others might miss. But even so, the halls of Erebor were strangely lightless, as if a shadow had seeped into the stone itself. Before he knew it, he had the Arkenstone clutched in one hand. Holding it up, he allowed the faint glow of the gem to illuminate the path ahead.

The hall was empty. And the hall beyond that, and the room after that, and the tunnel beyond that…

Thorin was just beginning to give up hope of finding anyone when he took a wild left turn and found himself standing on the edge of the throne room. And then all hope fled completely.

The throne room was full of beds. Stone beds like alters covered in blood, long-dried and rusted. In a trance-like state, he walked between row after row, unable to accept what he was seeing.

He reached the throne and stopped. The Raven Crown of Erebor sat upon it. Setting aside Orcrist, he went to pick it up, and found it had been cemented to the stone by a pool of crusted red. With a grimace, he pulled it free. With the Arkenstone in one hand and the crown in the other, he fell to his knees before the throne of his forefathers. His movement disturbed Orcrist; the blade slid down the dais and struck the stone with a shattering sound that echoed through the high, vaulted ceilings and hurled itself against the encroaching walls.

They fled the Shadow, Morgoth whispered from the corners of Thorin’s mind. But like moths to the flame, they found death elsewhere.

In his hands, the Arkenstone began to bleed. Red, thin liquid tendrils slid up his wrist. It dripped, hot and crimson and alive, onto the rock. With a shout, Thorin stood up, casting it from him. It struck the throne and settled in the seat of the king. The crown fell, clattering against the stone. Thorin stumbled back, down the dais, hands shaking and heart pounding. He wiped his hands on his tunic, only to find that the tendrils of creeping red had vanished like smoke into the night.

Morgoth’s laughter echoed through the halls. You are not alone, Son of Durin, he said. Do not worry—I wouldn’t make you the last of your kind. That would be… well, not unkind. Not compared to my other plans for you. In fact, being the last of your kind is also the last of your worries. Not that you are. But when everything comes crashing down, you will wish you were the only one around to suffer.

Thorin clenched his hands into fists. He snarled, whirling around. He picked up Orcrist, brandishing it as if the flash of its bright blade could scare off Morgoth’s shadow. “Speak clearly, snake!” he shouted. “Or keep your silence.”

Morgoth sighed. I really do have things to do. I can’t stick around tormenting you forever.

“Then be gone!” Thorin’s fingers clenched tight around Orcrist. He turned back toward the throne, forcing himself to look at the Arkenstone. It was no longer bleeding. It sat innocently where it had fallen, glowing bright and clear and alight with color. “Leave me,” he whispered, his voice rough and broken.

Oh, I will, Morgoth promised. And so will everyone else. There is much you’ve lost that you didn’t think you could lose again. I’m here to prove you wrong.

Behind him, something moved. There was a cracking of stone as a massive door was forced on ancient hinges. Slowly, Thorin turned.

They stood in the shadows beyond the great hall. Cloaked in darkness, Thorin couldn’t make out their faces or their forms. But then one cried out in surprise and delight, and his heart shattered at the breathtaking familiarity.

“Uncle!” Kíli launched himself across the room, right into Thorin’s arms. Thorin dropped Orcrist again, unsteady and shaking.

“Kíli,” Thorin said, breathless with disbelief. Fear warred with relief as the cage of loneliness broke. He pulled Kíli against him, holding tight. Closing his eyes, he pressed a hand to the back of Kíli’s head, fingers clutching thick, dark hair.

Fíli approached more slowly. He’d tried to keep his younger brother back, but once Kíli was moving, there was no stopping him. “Thorin,” Fíli said, watching from a safe distance. “How is this… how?” He seemed set to launch into a series of questions, but instead settled for the simplest, and hardest to answer.

Thorin swallowed. For a moment, he thought about telling the truth. But then he realized: if Fíli and Kíli didn’t remember what they’d suffered at Morgoth’s hands, it was for the best. The horrors they’d been through were better left where they’d been perpetrated: in the Halls of Mandos beneath the flickering candles of the undeparted dead.

“I don’t know,” Thorin said. He forced a smile—the ghost of long-forgotten joy.

Kíli stepped back, beaming. He clapped Thorin on the shoulder. “I don’t understand it,” he said cheerfully, “but we’re alive! Somehow, we’re alive.”

Fíli and Thorin embraced. Fíli’s hair shone like gold in the dimness of the ancient hall. Thorin closed his eyes, taking in the moment of connection, breathing steadily for the first time since waking in his tomb.

Touching, said Morgoth, and Thorin heard the grin, sharp and rusted as an ancient blade, in the creature’s voice. See, already I’m rewarding you for your loyalty. Your obedience. I’m giving you a chance—a second chance to change your fate, and the fate of your bloodline. Not because I believe you’ll succeed, but because I’ll enjoy watching you fail.

Fear seized Thorin by the throat. He swallowed, but the feeling refused to abate. He stepped back, breaking free of Fíli’s arms. He gripped his eldest nephew by both shoulders, meeting his gaze. “Fíli,” he said. His voice was harsh, ragged. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something I need to tell you both.”

Careful, Thorin son of Thrain. If you tell them, they will die within the day. Their lives are not only a reward. They belong to me. I can cut their strings at any time, and you will watch them fall. If you disobey me, if you fail to do as bidden, they will suffer. Do you understand?

Thorin’s fear multiplied, sending out tendrils of fire hotter than a dragon’s breath, singing his heart and boiling his blood. He blinked against the sudden sting of tears. He would not let them fall. He could not show weakness, would not let the horrible truth escape him.

Do you understand? Morgoth repeated. His voice was low, dangerous and dark.

I understand, Thorin thought. He let go of Fíli, turning away.

“What is it, uncle?” Fíli’s voice was strained, worried. “What do you need to tell us?”

I am going now, Morgoth said. I have work to do in Valinor, and I cannot split myself between two places so far apart. I leave you to your own devices, Son of Durin. If you live, if you die, I don’t care. You are convenient, but you are not essential. Remember that. And then he was gone.

Thorin felt the malice of Morgoth bleed out of him like poison drained from a wound. He fell to his knees, suddenly weak and shaking. Fíli and Kíli were by his side immediately, their hands bracing his shoulders and their distant, incomprehensible voices all around him.

“We must leave this place,” he forced through clenched teeth. He stood up, shrugging his nephews off. He didn’t look at them, bending down to pick up Orcrist. Turning, he approached the throne. The Arkenstone sat, glowing bright, where he’d left it. He picked up the massive gem and stowed it in the folds of his coat. “We should leave now.”

“Thorin,” Fíli said, his voice full of unshielded concern. “What happened? The battle, the Arkenstone… How did we… how are we here?”

“It’s a long story,” Thorin replied. He smoothed the bulge where the Arkenstone lay concealed. For a moment he considered retrieving the Raven Crown, then decided against it. After all, a king with no kingdom wore no crown. “There will be time for me to tell it. But that time is not now.”

Sweeping past Fíli and Kíli, the latter of whom was staring at the bloodied beds with wide eyes, Thorin made for the far door. He pushed it open with his shoulder. “After me,” he commanded. “We shouldn’t tarry here. There is a shadow over this place.”

Reunited in the lands of the living for the first time in over an Age, the Heirs of Durin marched together down the halls of their kin, down, down the long tunnels toward the front gates of Erebor.

Rohan lay in ruins. Ithilwen hadn’t passed through those lands since the fall of Gondor and the self-imposed exile of her people. The once-vibrant lands had grown dusty and ashen with the years. Hills covered in gorse and thistles rose in gentle slopes, hiding the dry beds of long-dried rivers and streams. Crumbling structures dotted the countryside. Sun-bleached bones stuck up like desperate fingers pointing out the last gasp of light hidden behind the eternal, ashen cloak covering all of Middle-earth.

Ithilwen traveled light. Although she was approaching the evening hours of her life, she was still nimble and quick on her feet, dodging low-lying shrubs and diving behind jagged boulders whenever birds passed overhead. She wasn’t sure which birds and beasts owed allegiance to the darker powers of the world, and she wasn’t eager to find out.

The path she followed was faint, but visible. She’d never been a hunter—that had always been her younger sister’s forte—but she could pull tracks from bare dust and bent grass like a fisherman pulls a salmon from the sea. Staying close to the ground, she studied the paths of beasts and birds, separating the bootprints from hooves and claws. The path led across Rohan, turning left toward the Gap of Rohan beyond the once-proud capital city of Edoras.

Ithilwen’s breath caught when she beheld Edoras for the first time in fifty years. She’d been a child when she’d last come here, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old. She remembered the glory of horns and singing in her family’s honor, of heralds rushing out to announce the arrival of the High Queen of the Reunited Kingdoms, and of her daughter, Ithilwen Moonblessed, the princess of Gondor. She remembered the King of Rohan, a strong man with hair like silken straw and hands calloused but kind. She remembered the king’s wife, and his eldest son, and his daughter, with hair like sunlight cut short around a face sprinkled with freckles, lips curled in playful mischief…

Ithilwen shook herself. The memories fell away. Edoras returned to a pile of rubble and rotting boards.

She went around the city and made for the Gap of Rohan. But then a sound made her turn: a nightingale mourning the setting sun, its high, clear voice piercing the smoky air. Looking up, she spotted a speck of silver-white hanging in the air like an evening star nestled among thick, breathless clouds. The bird darted up and down, wings whirring. It sang with its head thrown back, its pure white throat exposed.

“Who are you, little one?” Ithilwen whispered. She took a step toward the bird’s shadow, which lay like a smear of dust upon the ground. “Why do you follow me?”

The bird tilted its head. And then, in a flash, it turned and darted away into the North, in the direction of fair Lothlórien. Its song trailed behind it, pure and innocent and clean.

Ithilwen looked down at the faint tracks rising into the hills beyond Edoras. And then, as she had learned to long ago, she followed her instincts past the fallen city of Rohan, back toward the distant green of Lórien. The nightingale’s song spilled around her, the sound of starlight dripping from every note.

Chapter Text

Wind whipped the sails, tilting the ship and lifting the water into high, crested waves. The air was thick and dark with smoke. The moon and stars were invisible behind the pollution. Bilbo stood on deck, one wrist tied to the mast (just in case the wind tried to blow him overboard) as he kept watch from the bow. Legolas, the most tireless member of their company, stood by the wheel, steering them carefully through the storm.

The rain came down all at once. It washed over the deck and doused the sails, drenching everything above deck. Bilbo didn’t even have time to shield himself from the sudden deluge. One moment he was bone dry, the next soaked to the bone.

“There is a light ahead,” Legolas said, staring out over the dark waters. They’d left the Enchanted Isles far behind, yet the weariness that had fallen over the company (especially the Hobbits) was slow to abate. Since they’d crossed into the open ocean, Legolas had done most of the watching, and all of the steering. His superior vision and ability to continue without sleep made him invaluable.

“Light?” Bilbo ducked his head, wiping his face with his sleeve. Not that it did any good—his sleeve was wetter than his skin. He shielded his eyes with one hand, staring out over the water in the direction Legolas was looking. “I don’t see anything. What sort of light is it?”

Legolas was silent for a long moment. Then he tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. His long, golden hair shone in the faint moonlight trickling through cracks in the clouds. “It is a cold light,” he said. “A blue fire burning on the horizon.”

Bilbo blinked water out of his eyes. The rain whipped against him, nearly throwing him to the deck in its fury. “Should we approach it, or avoid it? If it’s land, maybe we could find somewhere to rest. Is there any land you know of out here?”

“There was, long ago,” Legolas replied. “An island nation that, at the height of its strength and glory, was the greatest kingdom of Men the world has ever seen.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. “Nùmenor?” he said, half unsure he’d guessed correctly.

Legolas inclined his head. “Yes. These waters once surrounded the great island nation of Nùmenor, before it was split asunder and fell back into the sea.”

“So.” Bilbo narrowed his eyes, peering out over the ocean. As far as he could see, the dark waves stretched on unbroken forever. “What you mean to say is, there shouldn’t be land here, but there is?”

Legolas was silent for a long moment. “The light grows stronger,” he said. “It is not a ship.”

Bilbo frowned. “Well, um, should we… get closer, then, and take a look?”

Legolas shook his head. “I would not approach such a fell light unless we find ourselves without another option. If we can avoid it, we should.”

No sooner had he spoken than the ship creaked and groaned, listing horribly to one side. Bilbo cried out, falling against a stack of boxes beside the mast. He clung to the rope tethering him to the ship. His wrist chaffed, his soaked skin rubbing raw.

“Hold tight!” Legolas cried. “We’ve struck something! I fear we may go down.”

Bilbo’s blood ran colder than the pouring rain. He clung, blinking water out of his eyes, hands shaking as disorientation set in. He felt warm blood on his forehead and lifted his fingers to his face. They came away sticky and red. Grimacing, he pushed himself upright. He stood for half a second before a second, more violent shudder ran through the ship. With a great groan, it began to sink into the frothy, furious waves.

Sam emerged from below deck. He pulled Frodo up behind him, and Gimli came soon after. They were all dressed and clutching sleek Elvish weapons they had found in the hold a few days before. Frodo seemed half asleep, as if the magic of the Enchanted Isles still clung like spiderwebs to his mind.

“Oy!” Sam yelled. “What’s happening up here?”

Bilbo wiped his bloodied face on his sleeve. Untethering himself, he crossed the deck to the open trapdoor. He gripped Frodo’s shoulder to steady them both. “We’ve hit something, something large,” he said breathlessly. “We’re taking on water!”

Legolas appeared, his usually collected expression betraying fear and doubt. “We must abandon ship!” he said. “The hull’s been breached. If we do not escape on my craft with all haste, we shall be pulled into the deeps when this ship goes down.”

Gimli swore loudly in Khuzdûl. He immediately turned and disappeared back below deck.

“Gimli!” Legolas called after him. “It is not safe. The cabin is flooding!”

“Ya think I dunnae know that?” Gimli called back. He appeared a few moments later, soaked through and smelling of brine. “I’m not gonnae leave behind everything I own just because we’re sinking.”

Bilbo wiped his eyes again. Through the deluge, he could just make out the lumpy shape of Gimli’s satchel and axe. In a moment of panic, he wondered what he’d left below deck. And then it hit him: Sting!

“Uncle!” Frodo cried out as Bilbo turned suddenly and launched himself down the ladder and into the flooding below-deck compartment.

Bilbo ignored him, blood pounding in his ears and boiling his blood. His chest was tight with adrenaline. Immediately, the freezing waters of the ocean hit him, and he gasped aloud. He waded through the rising waves to the cabinet beside Frodo’s shipboard bed. Prying open the top drawer, he felt for Sting’s hilt in the blackness. The lights were out. The cabin was pitch-black. Closing his eyes and pinching his tongue between his teeth in concentration, he searched until his fingers found metal. Holding tight, he drew the blade from its place of concealment. Immediately, the cabin was bathed in a dull blue glow.

It took him a moment to realize that the ghostly light was coming from Sting. He had one moment of confused horror, and then water flooded in, bringing the tide up to his neck in an instant. Gasping and shaking, he turned and half-walked, half-swam back to the ladder. Soaking wet and weighed down by saltwater brine, he stuck Sting through his belt and climbed toward the narrow point of light several meters above. The water rose around him, pulling him back and down almost faster than he could climb. For a second he thought he would be sucked into the rising tide and drowned. But then hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him up by the ragged edges of his travelling cloak. He fell to his knees on deck, clutching Sting tight in one hand and pressing the other to his throat. His pulse was wild under his fingertips. His blood was frozen in his veins.

Gimli swore again, louder and longer this time. “Orcs!” he snarled. He pointed to Sting’s glowing blade. “There’s Orcs nearby.”

Sam and Frodo helped Bilbo to his feet. The ship shuddered. It had sunk so low that the hungry, grasping waves washed over the rails and flooded the upper deck.

“Come!” Legolas waved a hand for them to follow. Racing across deck, he found the rope tethering his smaller craft to the sinking ship. He pulled the undamaged boat in until it bumped against the railing.

The others followed as quickly as possible. Gimli reached the boat, vaulting over the railing and making for the bound sails. He unwound the lines around the sails; they unfurled and sagged immediately as the rain drenched them. The boom swung wildly as the wind dashed it back and forth.

Bilbo, Frodo, and Sam piled into the much smaller craft. Bilbo collapsed on the deck. Frodo knelt beside him, while Sam stood by Frodo, hands clenched into fists as if he were ready to fight whoever (or whatever) might try to harm them.

Legolas jumped off the larger ship as it disappeared into the waves. Whirling, he drew a slender dagger from the sheathe strapped to his back. Standing with one foot on the rail, he drew up the Elven rope connecting the two ships and sliced through it with a deft flick of his wrist. Turning, he called to Gimli, “Make haste! Make haste, before we’re pulled under!”

At first, Bilbo didn’t know what he meant. But then they began to move away from the place where the sails of the Elven ship were disappearing, and he realized: the massive ship was creating a whirlpool as it went down. If they had been any closer, they would have been drawn down with it. He held his breath for a long moment, hands clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

“Mr. Bilbo, you’re bleeding,” Sam said. He put a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, keeping the other firmly on Frodo’s arm.

Frodo turned. His face was drawn and pale. His eyes, bright and blue, widened when they passed over Bilbo’s face. Although Bilbo himself could not see the damage, he assumed it wasn’t pretty, judging by the looks on his companions’ faces.

“Here, let me—” Frodo began, reaching for the handkerchief in his pocket. But before he could draw it out, the little boat shuddered all the way down its length. The Hobbits were thrown to the side. Bilbo barely managed to keep his hold on Sting as he was thrown against a crate. The air rushed out of his flattened lungs. He caught hold of Frodo, who had been thrown against him, and raised his head; he noticed Sam a few paces away, clinging to the rail with a look of surprised fear on his face.

Legolas and Gimli were yelling at each other. Bilbo couldn’t hear what they were saying over the thundering of blood in his ears, the crashing of waves, and the incessant roar of the rain. But then a second, longer shudder ran through the boat, and it tilted dramatically. “The ship is damaged,” Legolas cried. “We must steer ashore!”

“But the light!” Bilbo protested, despite his confusion and fear. “You said we shouldn’t approach.”

“Unless our need was dire, and we saw no other path,” Legolas replied. “That time is upon us now! Gimli, steer us right and straight ahead. We must make landfall before the damage is irreversible!”

Bilbo straightened up. Blood dripped into his right eye; he swiped it away impatiently. He was shaky but managed to stay on his feet. He helped Frodo up, and Frodo went to help Sam. Bilbo made his way to the back of the ship, where Gimli and Legolas were struggling with the sails. “Can I help?” he asked, already sure what the answer would be.

“Look out!” Legolas said. Bilbo ducked just in time—the boom swung around, nearly taking off his head. The sail billowed. The little ship turned violently right.

“What’s that?” Gimli hauled hard on the rudder’s handle, correcting the boat’s path. He pointed ahead. A cold gray light filtered through the smoke and mist, floating eerily over the water. “You cannae tell me that’s where we’re heading.”

“I am telling you,” said Legolas, “so stay your course!”

Gimli grumbled something under his breath. Bilbo couldn’t make it out, but he’d bet on more swearing.

The light grew brighter. Or rather, it grew more. It wasn’t a bright light—in fact, if it weren’t for the fact that it was glowing in the dark, Bilbo wouldn’t call it a light at all. It was more like a presence, an aura cast around the tiny speck of land floating in the waves. But whatever it was, it was getting closer.

Unlike the larger Elven ship, Legolas’s boat was small enough to bring in close to shore. They sailed until the front struck sand. Legolas hopped off at once, hauling hard on the bow line to pull the craft up onto dry land. Once it was reasonably far out of the water, he returned to help his smaller companions (except for Gimli, who insisted on getting down himself) off the boat and onto the shore.

The rain continued. It came down harder onshore than it had at sea—it seemed to be attacking the tiny island with relentless, merciless force. Bilbo kept both hands over his face, shielding his eyes. The bleeding seemed to have lessened; he wiped at the cut on his forehead, and his sleeve came away with only a fine smear of red. He walked a few paces down the beach, then turned to look back at the others.

“This feels wrong,” Sam said as soon as he was off the boat. He shivered, moving closer to Frodo with his head bent and his eyes narrowed against the rain. “Do you feel it, Mr. Frodo? There’s something off about this place.”

Frodo shivered violently. He shook water out of his dark curls. “I feel it, Sam,” he said miserably. Raising his hand, he pressed his fingers to his left shoulder, grimacing. “I feel it.”

Bilbo’s heart sank. “Frodo,” he said, “are you alright?”

Frodo didn’t have time to answer. At that moment, Legolas motioned for them all to get down and be silent. They obeyed without a thought. “Your blade,” Legolas whispered, his gaze locked on Sting’s bright-blue blade. “There are Orcs on this island.”

Gimli clutched his axe in both hands. He snarled, baring his teeth. “Let them come!” he said. “It’s been an Age since I had a proper fight.”

The others looked at him incredulously. “This should not be,” Legolas said. “The island of Nùmenor fell into the sea. There should be no land between the Enchanted Isles and the shores of Middle-earth. For what evil purpose has this island been raised?”

“Let’s find out,” growled Gimli. Before anyone could stop him, he began to move up the beach, away from the boat and toward the gray glow at the island’s center.

“Gimli!” Legolas whispered in distress. Gimli either didn’t hear him, or pretended not to, and continued on toward the source of the ghostly light with his axe held tight.

Legolas turned to the Hobbits. His expression was caught between resignation and wariness. “Stay close,” he said. “Foul things are afoot.”

They moved together up the beach after Gimli. They reached the crest of a sea-side hill covered in thick green seagrass. They crouched for a moment behind an outcropping of ocean-smooth boulders and driftwood. Then they continued, single file, with Legolas leading and the Hobbits following as close as possible.

Beyond the hill, a flat, grassy clearing stretched away to the foot of what had once been a magnificent tower. It had long-since crumbled, massive stones lying in heaps around the broken door. It was barely a story tall now, but judging by the amount of rubble, Bilbo estimated it had once been over fifteen stories tall—a great tower laid low by the slow decay of time and age.

Legolas approached cautiously. They caught up to Gimli, who was standing just outside the door. Bilbo glanced back to make sure Sam and Frodo were close behind. Frodo was clutching his shoulder, face contorted in a mix of confusion and pain, while Sam held him steady.

“It’s no good,” Sam whispered when they caught up. “Whatever’s in there, it’s hurting his old wounds. I don’t like it. I think we should go back.”

Frodo closed his eyes, swaying slightly. “I thought they’d healed,” he said. “In Valinor, I thought these hurts were gone for good.”

Bilbo moved to put a hand on Frodo’s shoulder. It was strange, how similar they were now in age and vigor—he’d always been used to being older, and wiser, than his nephew. But in the end, Frodo had endured many things Bilbo had never had to face. Although Bilbo had lived longer, Frodo seemed now older—weighed down by the memory of pain and suffering—and the shift in their relationship that had come about in Valinor was still somewhat strange to Bilbo, even after all the many years they’d spent together in the Blessed Realm.

“You may return to the ship, Master Gamgee,” Legolas said. “I must see what is happening here. If we are to survive this menace that has come out of the Void, it would be wise to know the extent of its power.”

“Aye,” Gimli said. “And if there’re any Orcs in there, I have someone I’d like them to meet.” He patted the blade of his axe tenderly.

Sam kept his hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “Mr. Frodo,” he said. “Let’s go back to the ship. There’s no point in you suffering more than you need to.”

Frodo opened his mouth, and for a moment, Bilbo thought he would protest. But then he nodded, looking weary. “Alright, Sam,” he said softly.

They began to walk away. But then Frodo turned, looking at Bilbo. “If you haven’t returned in a reasonable amount of time,” he said, “I promise we’ll come looking.”

Sam nodded. “We promise,” he agreed.

Sam and Frodo had made it halfway across the field when the light inside the broken tower exploded outward in a searing flash of blistering cold. The company was knocked to their knees, hands over their eyes. A rushing sound like a dam breaking surrounded them, drowning out the roar of the rain. By the time the light retreated, and they regained their feet, it was too late—they were surrounded.

“Wraiths,” Legolas breathed, knife in hand, as he surveyed the ghostly, swirling light-forms approaching from all sides. The ghosts were horrible, twisting and contorting as they drew wicked, eerie gray blades. The closer they got, the brighter Sting glowed. “Orc-wraiths! What evil could raise such a force?”

“Morgoth?” Bilbo whispered. He held Sting up, hands clenched tight around its hilt. He grit his teeth, preparing for battle.

Legolas’s whole body tensed at the name. “Morgoth is in Valinor,” he replied, still in an undertone. “This is not his doing. Some other evil awakens—these creatures are of Morgoth, but he has not raised them. I fear to think what power dwells in that tower!”

The wraiths closed in. Bilbo looked for a way out, but there was none.

They were trapped.

Chapter Text

Thorin stood looking out at the ruins of Dale. The city had been rebuilt, he realized, then returned to dust by time and age. He bent his head, going down to one knee in front of the Gates of Erebor. He stuck Orcrist in the dirt, hand wrapped tight around the antler hilt. His chest ached. His eyes stung. The view had changed so much since he’d last stood on the doorstep of his homeland. It was the same, yet not—the Desolation of Smaug had been repaired, but a century of smoke and war and death had stained the ground again, returning lush greenery to burnt, blistering wastelands. From the West came clouds of ash, falling around Erebor and settling in Thorin’s hair in a cruel imitation of a gentle spring rain.

A hand fell on Thorin’s shoulder. He looked up to see Fíli standing at his side. Thorin regained his full height, still gripping Orcrist so tight he felt the skin of his knuckles would split.

“What’s happened?” Kíli seemed half in a daze, eyes wide and lips parted. “This… it’s different. I don’t remember it being like this before the battle.”

Thorin swallowed the explanation that rose like bile in his throat. Morgoth’s spirit had left Thorin’s body, but the memory of vengeance lingered. He shook his head. “Kíli,” he said, “this world is not as we left it. Many centuries have passed since we retook the mountain.” He let his words linger, waiting for the stroke of meaning to fall on his nephews.

Fíli was the first to regain his voice. “You mean,” he said, “we did die, but somehow…” he paused, as if searching for the right phrase, “…somehow we have returned?”

Thorin nodded. “I cannot guess how much time has passed, but it has been long since we walked through these gates.”

Kíli frowned. “This is the future?” he said.

“You sound disappointed,” Fíli said dryly. “Does it not live up to your expectations, Brother?”

Kíli shrugged. “I kind of hoped that, if I were ever reincarnated, it would be in the middle of some great moment in history.” The dazed look remained on his face, even as he joked and smiled. “Maybe a great battle, or in a new Age of valorous deeds and epic quests.”

Thorin slid Orcrist into its sheathe, finally relinquishing his death-grip on the hilt. Be careful what you wish for, he wanted to say. But he couldn’t let on how much he really knew. So instead, he straightened his longcoat, adjusted his belt, and started down the rocky road to the abandoned ruins of Dale. “Come,” he called over his shoulder. “The sun is already setting. I wish to reach the ruins of Dale by nightfall.”

Dale was abandoned. Like the throne room of Erebor, its city hall was full of empty, bloodstained beds. Red-stained rags soaked in alcohol lay on tables scored with what appeared to be claw-marks or knife gouges. They found a hastily scrawled note pinned to one wall, the writing spidery and faded.

“What is it?” Kíli asked, standing behind Thorin and Fíli as they took the note down to examine it. “What does it say?”

“Erebor has fallen,” Thorin read aloud. “The Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain have fled to Moria to seek shelter from the Shadow that has fallen over these lands. They passed through Dale not five days past, and already our people have begun to fall to the darkness they brought with them. If anyone finds this, be warned: the end is coming. We cannot stand against it. Flee, and save yourselves. Dale is lost. The end is coming.”

“Well that’s cheerful,” said Kíli. “At least we know for sure where all the Dwarves went.”

Fíli took a step back, frowning as he walked up and down past the bloodstained beds. “This Shadow they speak of,” he said, “it seems to have destroyed the entire town.”

Thorin’s heart was a rock behind his ribs. He folded the letter, stowing it in his coat. “We must move on,” he said. “We cannot linger here.”

“That’s what you said about Erebor,” Kíli said. “Where can we linger? We cannot walk forever.”

“We’ve walked maybe a league since waking, if that.” Fíli raised an eyebrow at his brother. “I think you can walk a little further before sleeping.”

Thorin stopped them before it could escalate. “We must keep quiet,” he warned. “This Shadow is still unknown to us. It may still linger over Dale, listening and waiting.”

Kíli half-smiled. “It reminds me of when you used to tell us ghost stories,” he said. “Only I think you’ve lost your talent for suspense, Uncle.”

Thorin ignored him. “We continue to Laketown. Perhaps they’ve rebuilt in the time that has passed since the Dragon’s death.”

“Perhaps,” Fíli said. “And if not?”

Thorin paused, considering. He set his jaw, clenched his fists, and sighed. “Then we continue to Mirkwood.” He didn’t miss the flash of interest in Kili’s eyes—of excitement, and something suspiciously like hope. “Although I do not think the Elves would welcome us, they may have information that could be useful.” He did not mention that there were likely no Elves left in Middle-earth at all, that they’d sailed away into the West long ago. Into the Undying Lands, whose name had become a cruel parody of itself, a realm of malice and smoke filled with the battle-cries of the Eldar, the Valar, and the host of Morgoth.

Kili nodded. Hope lingered in the upward tilt of his mouth, the way he strode with confidence out of the sickness-stained streets of Dale toward the shores of Esgaroth beyond. “There may still be boats,” he called over his shoulder. “It would be faster, and safer, to go over water rather than by land.”

Thorin was not so sure. As the sun set, stars flickered into being overhead, slender rays of dull light dancing on eerily flat water. But he held his tongue and followed Kili to the lakeshore. He would not give in to fear. He would not let Morgoth’s shadow consume him. And he certainly wouldn’t let it take his sister-sons, the last of his kin, and perhaps the last of their race. He did not know what they would find in Moria, but unlike Kili, he did not trust to hope. Hope, he had found, was in short supply.

He would not waste what little he had on Moria.

The orc-wraiths were terrified of fire. It was Gimli who discovered this; pulling a flask from beneath his armor (which he had made for purely sentimental and ceremonial reasons, as none of them had expected to fight another battle so soon, or ever again), he doused his axe’s blade in strong-smelling alcohol, struck it on a nearby stone until sparks flew, then brandished it like a torch. Despite the pouring rain, the axe stayed alight long enough to warn the wraiths back, creeping into shadows with wary looks on their contorted, skeletal faces.

“Well done, Gimli!” said Legolas, earning a surprised look from the rest of the party. “Now quick, we must return to the ship.”

“Boat,” said Bilbo, who had spent quite a bit of time (especially for a Hobbit) on the water since arriving in Valinor. “It’s a boat. Not big enough to be a ship.”

“Ship or boat,” Sam said, “it doesn’t matter. The hull’s all torn to shreds. We’d have to repair it first, only I reckon that’d take longer than we’ve got. Fiery axe or no, those wraiths won’t take long to get their courage back.”

“Aye.” Gimli eyed the shadows around the fallen tower. “And the fire is about spent.” He swore under his breath, uselessly fanning the dying flames.

“What do you suggest, Sam?” Frodo said. Bilbo noted the look on his nephew’s face, the raw trust and expectation as he looked at Sam.

Sam shifted, clearly uncomfortable with everyone staring at him. “Well, I was thinking,” he said, his tone suggesting this wasn’t entirely true, “that maybe, well, maybe we could…”

“Look!” cried Legolas suddenly. Bilbo turned around, and through the rain and shadow, he saw a faint glow coming from a hole in the ground a few paces off. And not a nice hole, either—a dirty, wet, doorless hole full of an eerie grey-green glow. Not the kind of hole that anyone, save maybe Orcs, Goblins, and worms, would appreciate sheltering in.

“Well,” said Bilbo, who was none of those things, “down we go, I suppose.” Somehow, he felt more miserable then than he had surrounded by wraiths. Wraiths he had seen before. Whatever was down that hole… well. Who could say? And as much as he loved a good surprise (a fact that would have appalled his relatives back in the Shire), he preferred when they came in boxes, bags, or chests. The kind of surprise found in nasty old holes on nasty old islands in the middle of stormy seas on the edge of the world was not something Bilbo was interested in, thank you very much.

The rest of the party seemed equally unwilling. Even Gimli, who had faced down the wraiths without a hint of fear, seemed put off by the glowing tunnel. But when it came down to it, there was nowhere else to go. The tower was in ruins, the boat unseaworthy, and staying above ground in the middle of a ferocious storm while orc-wraiths lurked in the shadows was out of the question.

“Follow me.” Legolas took the lead, and Bilbo hurried beside him with Frodo and Sam on his heels. Gimli dropped back a few paces, muttering something about guarding the rear. Bilbo smiled slightly, but his humor didn’t last. Because then they were slipping down the steep slope of the tunnel, their feet in a river of mud and debris. Down, down they went, into the deep, toward the dull grey-green light emanating from the heart of the island.

The Hobbits piled up at the bottom of the slope with Legolas flat under them and Gimli lying on top. A Hobbit sandwich, Bilbo thought. Unfortunately, thinking about sandwiches made him hungry, or perhaps it was the hunger that had given him the thought. The whole situation was too confusing to parse out, so he gave up before he could give himself a headache on top of everything else.

Once everyone was back on their feet, Bilbo took the lead. Legolas was looking uncharacteristically rumpled and disgruntled, and didn’t seem excited to continue. The indignance on his face as he wiped mud from his hair made Bilbo smile. He turned away and coughed into his hand to hide it. After all, nothing added to the indignity of falling flat on one’s face like being laughed at by one’s friends.

They continued down the tunnel for what could have been a minute, or two, or two hundred, for all Bilbo knew. Like in Valinor, time seemed less firm and more fluid, like a winding river rather than a slow-growing sapling. Both faster and slower, where a single spring could last a hundred years while winter’s chill passed in a day.

The tunnel went on and on, down and down, but the green light never grew brighter. Until…

BOOM!

The sound of stone hitting stone rang through the tunnel, bringing Bilbo to a dead halt. Legolas tripped over him, and Gimli grabbed the Elf by the hem of his tunic to keep him from reacquainting himself with the floor.

“Shh!” said Bilbo, much louder than he meant to. “I mean, shh. There’s something up there.”

“Or someone, more like,” muttered Sam. His golden curls had stuck to his forehead, glued down by mud and rain. One hand was on Frodo’s shoulder, the other clenched into a fist. “With our luck, it’s more wraiths.”

“No, Sam.” Frodo sounded completely exhausted, but he stood tall (as tall as a Hobbit could) and his eyes were bright in the gloom. “With our luck, it’s something much worse.”

“I certainly hope not,” said Bilbo. “But hope is in short supply right now, so we’ll just have to rely on being smart and silent instead.”

“That should be easy enough.” Legolas shot Gimli a meaningful look. “Should we take the proper precautions.”

“Ach, like you’d know,” Gimli shot back. “Pointy-eared bastard thinks he knows everything. I’ll have you know I know just as much as any poncy Elvish princeling, and I’ve been working on walking as silently as one, too.”

“Well,” said Legolas mildly, “perhaps you should work on speaking like one. Even the most oblivious Orc would have heard you by now.”

“And I think they have.” Bilbo pointed through the mist, which had parted suddenly, revealing a circular room full of shifting shadows. For a moment he stood frozen, blinking against the glow of green-burning torches. And then he realized: it was a tomb, covered in symbols scratched into the walls, exuding cruelty and malice despite the fact that Bilbo couldn’t read them. But he did recognize them—he had seen this language before, although never in the Undying Lands. Black Speech, the language of Mordor. The language of Sauron.

Around the tomb, the shadows solidified. Their faces were hidden, but their robed bodies were corporeal. There were seven of them. The tallest stood at the head of the tomb, and at its feet was the discarded capstone. That was the sound they’d heard, Bilbo realized: the dull thud of stone striking stone. He couldn’t see inside the tomb, but he felt a presence there. A dark, terrible presence that crept into his mind and clung to it, embers singeing the edges of his thoughts, flames licking his skin. A presence wreathed in fire, bound to spite and a fatal desire for power.

“Do we run or do we fight?” Gimli hefted his axe. “Because I know which one I’m rootin’ for!”

Legolas shook his head, placing a hand on Gimli’s axe. “We run. If they have not yet sensed our presence, they soon will.”

“But the wraiths!” Frodo gestured back up the tunnel. “Aren’t they still up there waiting for us to return?”

Bilbo sighed. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

“Well,” said Sam, “if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather take my chances down here. We could move up the tunnels and find a place in between, as it were. Not in the pan, not in the fire, if you catch my meaning.”

“But caught between the two,” said Bilbo. “Which I suppose is preferable to one or the other.”

“Unfortunately,” Legolas said, and Bilbo noticed him reaching for his knives, “I think the time for preferences has passed.”

Just then, a vicious, ethereal snarling sounded in the tunnel behind them. At the same time, the figures around the tomb turned, and in the pale green glow, their eyes glowed like sickly flames. At the sight of them, Bilbo’s blood froze, and his breath stopped. His heart paused, then restarted at twice its normal pace.

“Ah!” said Gimli. “To keep with the metaphor, our pan has just fallen into the fuckin’ fire. And the choice has been made for us: now we fight!”

Bilbo was about to protest, but he never got the chance. As one, the figures around the tomb raised their hands. The symbols on the walls glowed. Then, in a burst of fiery gold and red, the tomb exploded. Bilbo heard a sound like an avalanche, inhaled ash and smoke, and, with a yelp, fell to the ground. In the moments before passing out, he heard the cries of his companions, and the howls of wraiths. And then everything faded to black, and he knew no more.