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Chapter Text

Bilba Baggins’ life as she knew it was turned upside down on a bright, sunny morning in late fall.

Usually, Bilba longed for such mornings. Winters were frigid in Erebor and often left her, and the rest of the mountain’s inhabitants snowbound for months on end.

It often made her wonder just what had possessed her ancestors to target the land for their own, especially when those hobbits who’d chosen to continue wandering had sent word of the Shire’s discovery less than two years later.

Deep down, she had a suspicion that the decision to stay came more from stubbornness and pride than any genuine love for the mountain’s bruising stone or its constant, biting cold.

Better to suffer in a stolen mountain than admit they might have been wrong to take it in the first place.

In any event, Bilba loved those rare, sunny days that arrived less and less as the year ticked on toward winter. They were a reminder of what she’d enjoyed during the summer, and a promise of what awaited her on the far side of the harsh months that lay ahead.

On such days she always did her best to stay outside as long as possible, visiting her best friend in Dale or simply wandering the hills around the mountain.

There was no chance of her doing either activity today.

She’d been trapped inside for weeks now, so long that the urge to leave had slowly shriveled into apathy edged with despair.

She stayed in bed for several long minutes after awakening, perfectly still and with her eyes fixed on the underside of her canopy. She had nowhere to be anymore, and nothing to do so the impetus to get up in the morning had long since fled.

As the days had crawled by she’d begun to crave sleep. It allowed her to forget, if ever so briefly, the way her stomach was perpetually tied into knots, or the increasingly dead look in the eyes of those wandering the halls of the mountain.

They all knew what was coming. It was no longer a question of if, but when.

She found the will to move finally and forced herself to sit up, She pushed the blankets back, shivered at the bite in the air, and carefully stood. Her feet slid into the plush rug her bed sat on and she took a second to dig her toes in and relish the warmth under her soles.

Her thin nightgown swirled about her legs and she snagged the matching robe off a nearby chair. As she slid it on and cinched the belt she reflected on the fact that it had been intended as part of her wedding trousseau and, had things gone differently, she’d be wearing it for her husband now instead of an empty room.

A shudder not born from the cold washed over her and acid churned uncomfortably in her gut at that particular thought.

Her intended, Lord Grima, was a nobleman of some note in Gondor, and loosely related to the throne. He was also at least four decades older than her. Despite her pleas, Bilba’s grandfather had accepted his offer of marriage in return for a promise that Grima would try to bend the king of Gondor toward an alliance with Erebor. 

It was an alliance her grandfather had long desired, but which had long been denied for reason Bilba didn’t entirely understand. Gerontius Took firmly believed politics and the like to be the realm of men and it was rare Bilba had any idea of what was going on with her grandfather or his councilors.

Not that any of that stopped her grandfather from attempting to sell her off like a trinket at market. Grima had visited a few times to view his purchase, and his leering gaze and wandering hands had made her physically ill.

She supposed if there were any silver lining to be found in their current circumstances, it was that at least she no longer had to worry about him. Still, had it come down to her marrying Grima, or watching her people suffer as they now were…she’d have chosen the marriage. As awful and miserable as she knew it would have been, if her marriage could have spared her people she’d have gone to it, and gladly.

Well, maybe not gladly, but she’d have gone.

A light knock came on her door and, at her quiet word, it opened to admit her maid, one of the few women in the mountain with a smaller stature than Bilba, which was saying something. In the past, Josie had always dressed more like a Lady in Waiting than a maid, with her blonde hair curled and piled high and her gowns bright and eye-catching.

She’d had a dream, she’d confided once, of catching the eye of a nobleman willing to overlook her class and marry her. A fairy-tale come true she’d said, eyes sparkling with excitement, and hands clasped before her. Bilba had quite agreed and had done her best to steer the other women toward the kinder noblemen, while simultaneously extolling her virtues to them every chance she got.

None of that excited, hopeful girl was evident now in the quiet woman who entered the room. Josie’s hair was in a knot at the back of her head and her gown was homespun and simple. The bounce that was normally present in her step was gone, and her eyes were dull and lifeless.

As if the sight triggered something deep inside, Bilba’s feet began to move almost on their own toward the two large doors that led onto her balcony. Dawn tinted sunlight streamed through the large panes of glass set in the wood frame, casting a reddish orange hue over her room. In the past she’d loved it when it looked like this.

Now all she could think of when she saw it was blood.

“Your Highness,” Josie said, hesitant, from behind her. “Perhaps it’d be best if you didn’t go out there. It’s not safe.”

Bilba’s heart began to hammer in her chest as she curled her hand around the handle of the door and, in one smooth motion, yanked it open before she could talk herself out of it.

It was deceptively quiet, just the rush of air about the mountain and the faint, raucous sound of ravens that liked to roost among the rocks. Her balcony was enormous, dug from the side of the mountain itself and sporting a rock ledge that rose from the edges to nearly her waist.

It was a masterwork of engineering, and one of the few still usable in the mountain. Hobbits were not gifted in the art of stonework, and lacked the necessary skills or knowledge to learn. There were entire sections of Erebor now that were considered unstable and were closed off to the public.

It was quite possible that, had things been allowed to progress naturally, they would have had to leave Erebor in another hundred years or so as it would have simply become to dangerous to continue living there.

Not that any of that mattered now.

Bilba shuffled out slowly onto the balcony, shivering as the cold air bit through her clothes. Now that she was out she could hear it, the faintest clamor from far below, of voices, tack and equipment as bodies awakened and readied themselves for the day.

She let out a slow breath and then, resigned, made her way to the edge. She already knew what she’d see, but held out the irrational hope that once, just once, she’d look down and be wrong.

That her eyes would look out over an empty plain, stretching back serenely toward Dale and farther still until it reached the borders of Mirkwood. That the only movement would be a light breeze dancing through the grass and rustling the branches of trees. That, in the distance, she’d catch sight of the Men of Dale ratcheting open the gates as they readied for a day of brisk trade between their merchants and those of Erebor.

It was a sight that had greeted her daily for most of her twenty years. It was a sight that she’d often considered boring, her restless soul yearning for adventure and excitement beyond the daily, repetitive grind.

It was a sight she’d given anything to see again.

The gates of Dale were shut, as they had been for over a month now, and if there was a breeze dancing in the grass she couldn’t see it.

Instead all she could see was an army. It filled the plain below, swelled against the walls of Dale and muddled the borders of Mirkwood. Row upon row of soldiers, horses, and siege weapons. From the height she was at, they looked like little more than ants milling about the landscape, but Bilba knew they were anything but.

The dwarves, as it turned out, were not willing to wait another hundred years to reclaim Erebor. They wanted it back now and, given how things had been going of late, they would soon get it.

Bilba’s eyes drifted toward the largest tents in the center of the camp, and her heart twisted at the sight of the banners proudly proclaiming their owners. She would never understand. Lady Sigrid was her best friend. She’d spent hours in their home, considered Lord Bard as a surrogate father of sorts. Mirkwood she’d spent less time in but, even so, she was still on a first name basis with Legolas, had attended dances and banquets in both their honor and her own.

She’d thought they were friends, and yet here were the banners of both fluttering alongside that of the dwarves, proudly announcing their allegiance.

The pain of the betrayal cut deep, and even now blurred her vision. Apparently, they hadn’t been as close as she’d once believed. All the while they’d laughed and smiled, invited her into their homes and lives, they’d been plotting behind her and her grandfather’s back. Planning, smiling to her face while simultaneously sneaking around to drive a blade into her back.

It hurt, and it was humiliating. She’d believed them. She’d really, honestly, thought they were her friends. She could just imagine how they must have laughed at her when she wasn't there, mocked her…

Bilba drew in a sharp breath. Her nose burned and she scowled as tears began to track down her face. She needed to get that under control. The writing was on the wall, and the last thing she wanted was to break down in front of them later. It was bad enough that they’d hurt her. She didn’t want to let them see it, and hear their gloating in return. 

“Your Highness?” Josie’s voice came from right over her shoulder. “Perhaps we should go back inside. You’ll catch a cold standing out here.”

Bilba set her shoulders back, and nodded stiffly. “You’re right of course.” She pasted a shaky smile on her face, and turned to face the other girl. “Let’s go.”

Josie nodded and turned to go back in. As she did, Bilba couldn’t help a final look over her shoulder, down to what had become a battlefield far below. Her eyes caught on one tent in particular, the largest in the dead center of the camp.

There she knew she would find the source of all of Erebor’s problems. A bloodline her grandfather believed gone, died out and lost generations ago. A line descended from the evil brute her ancestors had described, and undoubtedly still just as brutish.

A pox on them, Bilba thought bitterly, as anger overcame her. If it weren’t for them none of this would be happening. She clenched her jaw and, with an angry motion, jerked around to follow Josie inside.

As she slammed the doors shut with slightly more force than necessary she found herself wishing fervently and passionately that the Valar would send a bolt of lightning and strike the entire line dead where they stood.

Damn the line of Durin, and all those who supported them.

                                                     ***

Frerin shoved back the flap of his tent and strode out into the open. Brisk, cool air wrapped around him and he relaxed into it. He raised his arms over his head and stretched, nearly groaning in pleasure as his various joints and vertebrae popped and snapped themselves back into position.

There was just nothing positive about sleeping in a tent, regardless of the furs and food and whatever else put in to try and convince him otherwise. The cots were always too small and too hard, and the air quickly became stuffy and overbearing.

He always woke up stiff, sore and drenched in sweat, and with a renewed gratitude for his quarters in Ered Luin. Small and cramped they might be but, compared to a tent, they might as well have been the lap of luxury.

Giggling drew his attention to a pair of human, female archers passing by. He hadn’t thought much about seeing women when he’d chosen to walk out in nothing but his trousers. Females in dwarven society weren’t allowed to fight. They were so rare as it was that risking what few there were in battle would be idiotic.

He raised his eyebrows suggestively at the two archers, and smirked. The women immediately went beet red and scurried off, laughter ringing out behind them.

Frerin chuckled. He could get used to having women on the battlefield he decided as he ducked back inside his tent. When he emerged a few minutes later he was properly dressed and had pulled his boots on. He’d opted for a leather cuirass instead of full armor, and had simply belted on his sword rather than spend time arming himself with the various blades he liked to carry. 

He made his way toward the large pavilion set up several tents away. He wasn’t the least bit surprised to see Thorin already there, pouring over a map laid out on the table before him as if it held all the answers in the world.

“Planning our next battle plan?” he asked in amusement.

Thorin paused long enough to glare at him before resuming his study of the map. They both knew there wouldn’t be another battle plan. The last fight had been over a week earlier, and it had been the last. The hobbits had barely been able to muster a force of thirty, and less than half of them had made it back inside the mountain.

The hobbits had shut and barred the gates behind them, while the forces outside had surrounded the mountain.

It was no longer a fight. It was a siege, the outcome all but guaranteed. The only thing question now was –

“How much longer?” he asked as he approached the table.

Thorin raised his head, eyes directed toward the mountain that loomed over their encampment. He’d been hesitant to use the trebuchets and, in the end, the decision had proven to be a good one. The hobbits seemed to have no siege weapons of their own and, in Thorin refusing to use the ones at his disposal, they’d avoided unnecessary damage to their future home.

The last thing anyone wanted was to destroy the very thing they’d spent blood trying to reclaim. 

“There are natural springs inside the mountain,” Thorin’s voice broke into his thoughts, “so they’ll have no fear over water. The biggest question is if they’ve stored food for the winter and, if so, how much.”

If they had stored food, the hobbits could conceivably last months, assuming they were careful and rationed it. 

Frerin chewed on his lower lip as he followed his brother’s gaze to the mountain. If this siege did last months, it could soon erase their advantage. The snows would come, leaving the hobbits safely ensconced inside the mountain, while they would be trapped outside in the elements.

Planning a war with winter fast approaching wasn’t what any of them had wanted, or would have chosen had it been solely up to them. If they could have, they’d have spent time carefully planning before marching in early spring with months of warm weather ahead of them within which to outlast the hobbits.

It hadn’t been up to them, however, not entirely. The previous winter in Ered Luin had been brutal. So bad that it had managed to upset the delicate line they had long walked between extreme poverty, and outright starvation.

He’d lost count of how many had died that winter. Of how many times he’d stood silently alongside his brother and sister as flames had flickered and snapped over the wood of pyres, sending yet one more soul to the Halls of Mandos to await the rebuilding of the world.

Not only had the winter itself been brutal, but it had lasted far longer than normal. The optimal time for planting was long past by the time the frost finally loosened its grip, and many crops that were planted failed to produce. Those few that did were destroyed in a series of spring storms that plagued the mountains.

They had tried reaching out to surrounding areas for help but the grip of winter had spread far and there were none who could spare the resources.

Motion caught his eye and Frerin saw Gandalf emerge from his tent. The man looked grave, as he had from the day the war started. He knew the wizard deeply regretted every life lost on both sides, an irony in some ways as he’d been the one to start this entire mess.

Gandalf had arrived just as all hope had seemed lost, bearing tales of the tyranny of the false king of Erebor. Dale and Mirkwood were ripe for alliance he’d claimed, and he’d been right.

And now here they were, locked in a battle they had to win. If they failed those they’d left behind would starve, might still starve if they didn’t receive word to begin their journey to Erebor soon.

Bard appeared, face grave and worn in spite of the night he’d spent in Dale checking on his family and people.

“Are you all right?” Frerin asked with a frown. “Your family?”

“Fine,” the dark haired man said shortly. “My daughter is angry with me, but she’ll recover.”

He didn’t sound entirely convinced, but Frerin knew better than to press. Lord Bard had been reluctant to ally with them. He detested war, regardless of its justification, and had only agreed in the end when it became clear war was inevitable. All that mattered was whose side he wished to be on.

In the distance, Frerin could hear Thranduil barking orders and he turned just in time to catch a glimpse of Legolas vanishing around a corner in that direction. The elven prince had proven to be a peacemaker, often tempering his father’s more aggressive temperaments.

Said temperament had been on display more and more of late, and not just with him. No one enjoyed the waiting game they were currently engaged in, and less so every day they grew nearer to winter.

Frerin’s eyes were drawn back to the mountain and his stomach twisted uncomfortably inside him. He preferred being in control of his own fate, able to take up sword and fight for his life and that of his loved ones.

Now all he could do was wait, and hope, that fate would play out in their favor. That the Hobbits’ food would run out and they would surrender before the snow hit.

The bite in the air registered and Frerin raised his eyes toward the sky where heavy, dark clouds looked over them.

Time would tell on whose side the Valar stood, and soon.

He could only pray it was theirs.

Chapter Text

Thorin was in a particularly bad mood.

As he'd been irritable since the start of this whole thing, Frerin felt he could be excused for not immediately noticing.

“Problem?” he asked in what he hoped was a mild voice as he dropped onto the bench where Thorin sat aggressively cleaning his weapons. It was a long running joke that the shine of Thorin’s blades were directly tied to his mood. The cleaner they were the fouler his temperament.

Currently, they shone brighter than Frerin had ever seen them.

Thorin’s eyes cut toward his and then, with a violent motion, he yanked a crumpled paper from his inner coat pocket and thrust it out toward Frerin. “A raven arrived this morning with this.”

Frerin took the paper with trepidation. Not all the ravens of Erebor had gone into exile, and what few had weren't all that willing to place themselves in danger. For one to brave a battlefield meant it was news that couldn’t wait.

Frerin steeled himself and spread the paper out on his knee. Whatever it was, he told himself, he’d handle it. Mahal knew he'd handled worse over the last winter. His eyes scanned the words on the page, and a mixture of relief and sadness washed over him. Relief that the news wasn't actually bad, and sadness that it spoke of loss all the same.

“Congratulations." He handed the paper back and Thorin shoved it roughly inside his jacket. He placed his sword across his knees and stared out unseeing into the camp laid out about them.

“I missed the birth of my son.” His voice was hoarse, and his lips twisted with a grimace. “Was it worth it?”

“You know it was.” Frerin rested his hands on his knees and dug his fingers into the worn fabric of his trousers. His eyes went to several dwarves walking past and he could see their clothing was no better than his own. They were a patchwork army, filled with mismatched armor, faded and torn clothing, and inferior weapons. The siege equipment belonged to the elves, the tents to the Men of Dale. “There was no other choice. Even if the cold hadn't forced our hand, your son deserves better. They all do.”

Thorin had hesitated when Gandalf had urged them to retake Erebor, but Jayde hadn't. Frerin could still see his brother's wife, hand resting on her swollen stomach and voice barely wavering as she'd announced that of course Thorin had to go. "Have you told Vili or Kili yet?"

"No." A slight, wry smile pulled at Thorin's lips for a moment. "I'm still trying to decide whether or not to tell Dis about Kili's injury."

Frerin suppressed a shudder. The fight over whether one, or both, of his nephews could come had been legendary. Dis had been adamant against it, while her sons had been just as passionately in favor.

Frerin had been dragged into it entirely against his will. He'd been born late in his parents' lives, long after his siblings, and was only a handful of years older than Fili and Kili. Other than it creating a relationship that was closer to siblings than uncle and nephews, it had never really been something he gave much thought to.

Or at least he hadn't until his sister tried to insist her sons were far too young to go to war. Frerin had no choice but to take their side, since arguing with Dis would have been arguing against himself as well.

He'd have taken their side regardless, not that he was stupid enough to tell his sister that. Fili and Kili were adults, as much as Dis sometimes struggled to see it, and had as much right to fight as anyone else.

In the end, it had been Thorin who'd intervened and managed to reach a compromise. Fili stayed behind to lead Ered Luin while Dis supported Jayde in her final stages of pregnancy. Vili and Kili had gone and Dis had personally threatened the three of them if anything happened to her youngest son.

"I wouldn't mention it," he said now. "You'll write that Kili was grazed by an arrow and she'll decide--"

"That he must have lost an arm and I'm minimizing it," Thorin said with a chuckle. "You're right. We can let Vili tell her when she arrives."

"Perks of her being married," Frerin agreed cheerfully. Thorin's eyes went toward the mountain and Frerin's good mood sobered a bit. "Maybe we should try breaching it," he suggested with hesitation. "There can't be many left capable of putting up much fight."

"None of them were capable of putting up much fight," Thorin said in irritation. "We should have done this years ago." He was silent for a few moments, contemplating, and then finally shook his head. "No, we've lost enough. I won't lose more to impatience. We can wait a little longer."

Frerin clasped his brother on the shoulder. "And that's why you are, and will be, a great king."

Thorin sent him a tight grin and returned to cleaning his weapons. Frerin settled in next to him, rested his hands in his lap, and studied the mountain. It was only a matter of time. Until then, the least he could do was ensure his brother didn't inadvertently start an entirely different war with the elves or men while he was in a poor mood.

***

Bilba sat quietly while Josie worked on her hair. The routine could take an hour or longer and that wasn't adding in the time it took to do her clothes, jewelry and makeup.

According to her grandfather, princesses had two purposes. Gaining favor or alliances and looking pretty at court. Another of his possessions he trotted out to show off before sending her away to her room again the way a child might replace a toy on a shelf once they were done with it.

Bilba was always miserable. She had to wear layers worth of underclothing in addition to corsets and stays and whatever her grandfather thought could force her body into the perfect form. Over all that went heavy velvet or silk dresses dripping with pounds of gems that made her feel as if someone were constantly pressing down on her shoulders.

She was grateful for the warmth in winter but in the summer the heat she was forced to endure had caused her to faint more than once. Carrying a small pouch of smelling salts helped, but there was still a widespread belief in the mountain that she suffered from a weak constitution.

“There we go, Your Highness.” Josie stood back and clasped her hands in front of her. “What do you think?”

Bilba forced a weak smile at the other woman. Josie had taken Bilba's hair, which usually fell to her waist in a thick mass of chestnut waves, and painstakingly curled it. She'd then worked it into an elaborate braid that wound along the side of her head, and over her shoulder. The entire length of it was studded with diamonds, emeralds and rubies.

The jewels matched the velvet, emerald gown Josie had already helped her get on. It was practically dripping with jewels and brocade, particularly along the off the shoulder neckline. The edges of the stones irritated her skin and she was forever fighting the urge to adjust it in a futile attempt to find some semblance of relief.

She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and hid a frown at the makeup Josie had put on that made her appear years older.

She barely recognized herself.

In the main hall leading to the dining room there were portraits depicting past kings and queens of Erebor. All were dressed in their finery and posed perfectly, the absolute definition of royalty. The paintings were all Bilba really knew about them. She didn't know their personalities or what their hobbies had been. She couldn't say if they'd feared the dark or if they would sometimes sneak to the kitchens to get a snack in the middle of the night. They were simply royals, flat images on canvas with the person behind the title long lost to history.

It was how Bilba often thought of herself after Josie got done with her. She was a princess, a living portrait walking about the palace. She doubted anyone could name her favorite color if asked, or state what her opinions were on living in the mountain, or even what made her laugh.

Sometimes, Bilba was afraid she didn't know the answers to those questions herself.

"It looks wonderful, Josie," she said quietly. She kept her voice soft and modulated, devoid of anything resembling a personality. Proper according to her grandfather.

She turned to leave, slow and graceful so that the earrings dangling from her ears barely twitched where the tips brushed her shoulders.

Josie rushed ahead of her to open the door and Bilba put her shoulders back, straightened, and raised her chin. Her stomach twisted and she resisted the urge to wring her hands together with nerves.

Josie gasped suddenly and clapped her hands to her mouth. "Oh, my gosh, I forgot your tiara!"

Bilba's eyes widened fractionally. She had several tiaras, and quite a few circlets, all of which were quite heavy and very uncomfortable. They also needed to be woven into her hair, usually near the beginning of the process, not the end and certainly not after.

"That's quite all right, Josie," she said, trying to hide the sense of panic at having to undergo the process all over again. "I'm sure grandfather won't mind."

He most certainly would mind, but Bilba was hoping he'd be too preoccupied with the ongoing siege to notice.

Josie frowned. "I don't know. I could probably do it quick."

Bilba had no desire to sit in that chair again for any length of time so she simply smiled and started toward the door. "I'd be late. You know how my grandfather feels about me being late."

Josie grimaced. "True." She pulled the door open with flourish and grinned. "Have a good day, Your Highness."

"Thank you, Josie." Bilba let out a slow breath, arranged her hands in front of her waist and glided out of the room.

Well, glided as much as one could glide when one could not, in fact, float and had to rely on their feet. The action required a surprising amount of control in her legs and usually left them stiff and cramping.

The corridor outside her room was cold, and shadowed. The dwarves had been careful in their design of the mountain, placing the living areas in locations that allowed windows and balconies to let in natural light. For the rest of the mountain they had cut shafts fitted with perfectly cut and polished stones capable of refracting light in a multitude of directions.

Together, in what must have been a masterful feat of engineering and design, they provided light and fresh air to nearly every part of the mountain save the mines where lanterns and other methods had been used.

It was one of the many things the hobbits had taken for granted. Over the years many of the shafts had become blocked or occluded. No one know exactly how to clear the shafts, or replace damaged or missing stones, which had left large sections of the mountain shadowed or in near total darkness.

Bilba had never entirely understood the dwarven resistance to helping keep the mountain in repair, or why they'd left in the first place. Certainly, having a hobbit in charge rather than a dwarf must have been rankling to some, but surely it had been better than what they'd had before?

By all accounts Durin had been a brute and his son little better. Were the dwarves just so xenophobic that they couldn't stand the thought of a non-dwarf on the throne no matter that it was a significant improvement? Every one of them had left and, since then, not a single dwarf had willingly set foot in Erebor even when offered significant amounts of money for needed repairs.

A noble and his wife rounded the corner toward her and Bilba gave a slow nod of the head in greeting. They returned it but, just as they passed, she saw both their faces twist in derision. Her stomach twisted inside her and she clasped her hands together until the knuckles shone white.

She didn't know what she was doing wrong. Usually when she passed she'd get vague nods or greetings but, since the war had started and especially since the siege, she was increasingly getting snide comments, looks of disgust or outright cuts.

She'd tried harder, sat longer in that stupid chair, allowed Josie even more liberty with her hair and clothing, worked harder on the pleasant smiles and pleasantries her grandfather insisted were proper for a princess. Still the slights continued and, if anything, grew worse.

Nothing she did seemed to matter, and she couldn't even ask why because, as her grandfather liked to say, a princess was primarily to be seen, not heard. Unless she were making simple greetings or directly responding to a question posed to her, in as succinct a manner as possible, she was to remain quiet.

The only times she'd ever broken that rule had been with Sigrid, who insisted it was idiotic, and, to a lesser amount, Legolas. She'd trusted them and look where that had led. Perhaps, had she kept her mouth shut as her grandfather had taught her to do they wouldn't have betrayed her. At the very least she wouldn't have the sick feeling in her stomach as she recalled the times she'd opened up to them. All the things she'd said, and all only to now realize how they must have been silently mocking her the entire time.

The doors to the dining room loomed ahead and Bilba's spirits flagged further. Her grandfather's favorite pastime during meals was to watch her and criticize her every movement. From the way she held her spoon to questioning her weight, nothing was off limits to him and it was all generally done in front of whatever councilmembers or lords he'd invited to dine that day.

He'd begun to ignore her somewhat since the Durins had arrived, but she still faced each meal with trepidation that this time would be when he took notice of her again and started up the endless critique. There had been several times she'd been driven close to tears. Sometimes she had the suspicion that was what her grandfather wanted, a game he was playing or a test of some kind.

The guards in front of the door leaned over in concert, grabbed the handles and pulled them open. Bilba took a deep breath, tried to center herself and then swept into the room exactly as she'd been taught to do.

It took her all of ten seconds to realize the room was empty.

Her footsteps stumbled to a stop and her eyes widened. Usually, when she walked into the dining room it'd be to the sight of the massive table near to groaning under the weight of food piled upon it. Servers would be darting about filling the plates and goblets of her grandfather and councilors, and the delicious smells from the multitude of dishes would have her stomach growling in a most un-princess like way.

Today, there was nothing. No sign of her grandfather, or any councilors, no food set out on the table, not even the musicians her grandfather insisted on having in the back corner to play serene melodies while he discussed politics.

Bilba turned toward the doors, but the guards had shut them behind her, leaving her alone in a giant, cavernous room. She'd never realized just how cavernous until this very minute when she was in it alone with nothing but her own silence for company.

She knew she wasn't late. Had something come up? There'd been no sign of panic or rush in those she'd passed in the corridors, and no one had come to her room to alert her to anything.

A shiver ran over her and, since there was no one to see, she crossed her arms over her chest and began to chew nervously on her lower lip.

Her eyes went back to the table again and, this time, lit upon the fact that it wasn't quite as empty as she'd first thought. There was a piece of paper, folded in two, sitting on a small tray at her customary spot. She hadn't immediately noticed it as her eyes had gone naturally to where her grandfather and his councilors usually sat, and not to her seat at the far end of the table.

Bilba tried to swallow down a suddenly dry throat. Dread settled over her and she could feel her body growing tense. Digging her fingers into her arms, she forced herself to take a step, and then another one and another. It seemed to take ages to get there and, once she had, she regretted it not taking longer still.

She picked up the letter with the tips of two, shaking fingers and, before she could talk herself out of it, opened it in a quick motion.

The first few words had her breath freezing in her lungs, while the rest caused her to sink into a chair as her legs buckled beneath her.

The mountain is lost.

You will delay the fall as long as possible to allow Erebor's court to retreat to a safe harbor. You will keep your silence on the manner of our escape so that we may use it in the future when we return to take back what is ours.

You will not fail me.

Bilba read them again, and again after that. She closed her eyes, opened them again, and pinched herself, doing everything and anything in her power to wake up, or to somehow, someway make the words change. Go away. Be something different than what they were.

But no matter how hard she tried to convince herself she was asleep, or how much she wished for things to change, the truth remained stubborn and unyielding.

Her grandfather was gone, and with him most, if not all the council.

Her grandfather had just effectively declared her Queen, which meant the only thing standing between the wolves gathered at Erebor’s gates and those hiding within...was her.

Chapter Text

Bilba bent forward in the chair and wrapped her arms around her torso. She struggled to breathe, air wheezing down a constricted throat. Her chest heaved with effort and black spots hovered in her vision.

Maybe, maybe she'd just misread it. She didn't read all that well. Her grandfather had only allowed her to learn the basics, just enough to be able to read his nightly missives on her daily missteps so she could give an accounting the next day on how she planned to improve.

Princesses had no need for reading. It would cause her to squint and create wrinkles. Or so her grandfather had said after Sigrid had gifted her a copy of her favorite book for her birthday one year.

When Sigrid has asked how she'd liked it Bilba had been forced to lie and tell her she didn't enjoy reading. It was a falsehood she deeply regretted, but the thought of admitting the truth had been simply too humiliating.

She ran her eyes over the note a second time, and then a third but it stubbornly refused to say anything other than what it had the first time she'd read it.

She dug her fingers into her arms and sagged further. Her consciousness wavered, threatening to desert her as readily as her grandfather had.

Boots sounded on the flagstone, and then someone knelt next to her chair.

"Your Highness!" Hands covered hers and a firm voice rose over the throb of her own blood in her ears. "Listen to me, Your Highness. Close your eyes."

The voice was familiar but, in her panic, she couldn't place it. Bilba squeezed her eyes shut and nodded shakily. "Okay."

"Good." The hands tightened on hers in reassurance. "Now focus on my voice, all right? Just breathe."

Bilba struggled to obey. Ever so slowly her pulse began to slow, and her breathing eased. Shivers still racked her body, and her muscles were wound tight, but she felt less like she was about to pass out.

She opened her eyes and felt them widen as she recognized the hobbit kneeling in front of her. "Lord Berold?"

He flashed a brilliant smile and Bilba's heart gave a small jolt. Lord Berold was close in age to her, with curly, sandy brown hair and a trim figure. Most of the young women of the nobility, and a few of the older ones, were infatuated with him.

Bilba could admit she was not immune. Lord Berold was one of her favorites to watch at the many balls her grandfather was so fond of throwing. She was rarely allowed to dance, and then only with those approved by her grandfather. She spent most of her time observing the ball as it moved around the small dais she was required to stand on like a living decoration adorning the ballroom.  

Lord Berold was forever surrounded by eligible women and their hopeful mothers. He was charming, charismatic, and willing to dance with even the most bashful wallflower. Bilba would often spend her time fantasizing about joining the swirl of brightly colored fabrics on the dance floor, partnered with Lord Berold instead of whichever of her grandfather's friends currently had his favor.

She knew better than to think it would ever be more than fantasy though. The nobility might love him, but her grandfather and the rest of his councilors had very little use for Lord Berold. He'd inherited his seat after his father's unexpected passing, making him the youngest on the council by more than twenty years.  

Bilba had heard him speaking once about how he had a lot to learn and was content to simply sit and soak in the experience and knowledge of those older than him.

"Inheriting a seat is one thing," she remembered him saying. "Earning it is another."

Bilba forced herself to offer back a weak smile. "What are you doing here?" He might be the least of her grandfather's councilors, but he came from a wealthy family with plenty of outside contacts and resources. Her grandfather would have certainly allowed him along if only to make use of those assets.

"Ingram," he insisted absently. He let out a huff and shot an annoyed look at the paper she held in her hand. "I'd hoped to get here before you found that silly thing. My apologies."

"Did my grandfather change his mind?" Bilba asked, the tiniest bit of hope flaring to life. "Is that why you're still here?"

"Not exactly." Lord Bero -- Ingram, stood up to retrieve a chair. He sat down, so close his knees were almost in contact with her dress, leaned forward and clasped her hands in his once again. "Your grandfather decided it best if I stayed behind to help hold the mountain as long as possible."

It was a very kind way of saying her grandfather had decided she wasn't competent enough to be trusted with such an important task. "It's imperative they escape," she agreed softly. "What good is saving the mountain if her king isn't there to rule it?"

The words were almost verbatim what her grandfather had been spouting at every opportunity since the siege had begun. In retrospect, Bilba realized she really should have seen all this coming.

"So you're going to help me stave off the barbarian hordes?" she asked, the slightest hint of teasing in her voice. Just knowing she no longer had to face it all alone felt like a massive weight had fallen off her shoulders.

"That I am, and more." Ingram sat back in his chair and clapped his hands on his legs.

"More?" Bilba asked in confusion. "What more is there?"

They were surrounded, rapidly running out of food and now her grandfather and the leadership of Erebor were gone. It certainly seemed that the only option left to her was how soon she'd surrender and in what manner.

"Your grandfather expects us to hold off the dwarves until he can get well enough away, and then surrender," Ingram explained. He leaned forward again, and his voice dropped and grew more intense. "But what if we did more? What if we turned the tide entirely?"

Bilba blinked in surprise. "Turned the tide?" she repeated blankly. "How?"

"Simple," Ingram said with conviction. "We lure the Durins in with the promise of surrender, and then take them hostage. The dwarves want their precious king back, they'll agree to our terms."

Bilba was certain he'd lost his mind. "I don't think that will work," she said finally, slowly. "Durin isn't going to just march into a trap."

"Perhaps not Thorin," Ingram agreed with a light shrug of his shoulders. "But who's to say he won't send his nephew or his brother? They'd work just as well."

Bilba hadn't known what the Durin heir's name was, or that he had kin. She suppressed a shiver at the thought of having to face any of them. She'd seen the rows of dead and injured hobbits being brought back into the mountain. The Durins had no more mercy or compassion than their ancestor.  

"We'll offer a truce, ask them to pull back so we can meet in a neutral spot for peace talks," Ingram continued. "Once they get near enough to us, and far enough from their own soldiers, we'll having archers hiding behind the gates reveal themselves and take them into custody."

Bilba frowned. The plan seemed almost ridiculously simple. "Just like that? Why didn't my grandfather do it? Did you suggest it to him?" Perhaps he wouldn't have left at all then and he cold be planning this with Lord Berold instead of leaving it up to her.

Ingram reached into his jacket. He pulled out something that flashed and caught the light and, as he offered it out on his palm, Bilba realized it was a ring. A familiar ring, a blue stone trapped inside a cage of silver.

"Is that my grandfather's ring?" she asked in surprise.

Ingram nodded. "The king wanted me to pass it onto you, so all would know you'd been given his authority and power in his absence."

Bilba sucked in a sharp breath. "What?" The ring was her grandfather's prized possession. It had belonged to the last Durin king of Erebor, given to his hobbit wife after he'd forced her to marry him. Once he'd been overthrown the ring had been passed down to each subsequent hobbit king as a reminder of the evil of the Durins.

She picked up the ring carefully, the weight heavy in her hand, and felt an odd emotion begin to swell inside her. Her vision blurred and the bridge of her nose started to burn. "He really left it for me?"

Ingram nodded. "That he did."

A smile pulled at her lips and Bilba slid pushed the ring onto her finger. It was massively oversized, forcing her to close her hand into a fist to keep it on.

Ingram chuckled and reached under his shirt to pull out a thin chain. He unhooked it and held his hand out for the ring. "Here, let me."

Bilba handed the ring over and he threaded it onto the chain, then stood and stepped behind her. The weight settled against her collarbone, cold against her skin. Almost unconsciously Bilba pulled her shoulders back and raised her chin.

She smiled up at Ingram. "What do you think?"

"Stunning," he replied, admiration in his voice. Bilba flushed and ducked her head shyly. Ingram dropped to a knee suddenly and took her hand in his. "Your Highness," he said seriously, "I'll confess I'm not doing this with entirely pure motivations."

"You're not?" Bilba asked in confusion. She'd picked up the ring in her other hand and was toying with it absently, still unable to believe her grandfather had entrusted her with it.

"No." Ingram's mouth twisted and he seemed to hesitate, eyes darting away for an instance before coming back to hers. "Your Hig -- Bilba, have you considered what will happen to you if we were to surrender the mountain?"

Bilba's good mood evaporated and her stomach clenched. She shook her head. "I've been trying not to," she admitted in a near whisper. Feeling suddenly cold, she tugged her hand free from his so she could wrap her arms around herself once again.

Ingram swore quietly. "I've scared you. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Bilba said with a tight smile. "It's something I have to think about, right?"

"It's all I've considered," Ingram said sincerely, still kneeling, now with his hands clasped in front of him. "You're the crown jewel of Erebor, a bright light in her dark halls. I'd hate to see--" he cut himself off with grimace. After a moment he cleared his throat and tried again. "Anyway, I just wanted to say that I've long -- admired you. I'd hoped at one point to speak to your grandfather but, before I had the chance--"

"My grandfather announced my betrothal to Lord Grima." Bilba was quite certain her face was about to catch fire from the heat currently flooding it. Butterflies started up in her stomach and her heart began to race. She'd seen young women being courted before but had never had it happen to her. It wasn't allowed. "I didn't choose him," she blurted. "My grandfather did, because of the ties he has to Gondor's king."

"I thought as much." Ingram scowled. "I'll confess, that was another reason I didn't speak up. I knew I had little to offer."

Bilba put a hand on his arm and squeezed lightly. "I think you have plenty to offer." Her own boldness startled her, but it was also strangely exhilarating. Her grandfather would not have approved.

Or, she thought as the weight of the ring on her collarbone drew her attention, she wouldn't have thought so. Perhaps he'd just been waiting for her to come into her own and prove herself. Maybe, as Ingram had said, she'd inherited her position but had simply needed to earn it.

"Who knows?" Ingram was saying as he pushed to his feet. "After all this is over, and we're both heroes--" he trailed off and then held a hand out to her. "What do you say, Your Highness? Ready to save Erebor?"

Bilba took a deep breath and nodded. She took his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. As she wrapped her hand around his arm she noted absently that his hair was damp, enough to have soaked his collar. It was probably cold, she thought, and made a mental note to order him something warm to drink from the kitchens. It was the least she could do for the person who was going to help her save the mountain. "What will we do first?"

"We'll start with the guards," Ingram said with a nod. "We'll pick a select few we can trust and explain the plan to them." He stopped suddenly as if a thought had occurred to him and looked at her. "You know what? You should be the one to tell them. I can wait for you in your grandfather's office."

Bilba's eyes widened. "Oh, I couldn't. They won't listen to me."

Ingram lightly picked up the ring she wore, fingers barely grazing her skin near the neckline of her dress. It sent an odd tingle through her that she'd never felt before, not unpleasant, but unusual. "They will listen to you," Ingram insisted gently. "You have the ring, and you're stronger than you know, Your Highness. Trust yourself. This is your time. I won't take it from you."

Bilba nodded shakily and didn't resist when he stepped away, toward the exit leading to the kitchens and the servant's tunnels.

"I'll meet you in your grandfather's office," he said. "Until then, Bilba."

"Until then," Bilba agreed in a whisper.  

They would save Erebor, and her grandfather's trust in her would be proven, and Sigrid and Legolas would regret having betrayed her.

Elation rose up in her and, for the first time in what felt like a very long time, she felt something very close to happiness rise within her.

This was going to work, she decided as she turned toward the doors, steps lightened to a near skip.  

She just knew it.

***

"So, word is the hobbits are ready to discuss terms."

Frerin snorted from where he was sprawled across a bench on the edge of camp, arm thrown over his eyes. "Terms. I can imagine how Thorin reacted to that."

"Which is precisely why he's not going, and you are."

Frerin groaned. Aule, but he hated politics. Give him something to hunt, or fight, or just anything that didn't involve having to sit in a chair listening to politicians drone on endlessly for hours. He'd been forced to attend meetings before and had come away having learned two facts.

One, that it was entirely possible to speak at length about nothing.

Two, it was entirely possible to actually accomplish something only to return the next day to find it the others had decided to throw the whole thing out on a whim and start over from scratch.

He honestly could have lived his entire life happily not knowing either of those things. At least he understood why his brother, father before him and grandfather before him had tended to be irritable.

He moved his arm and opened his eyes as Vili came closer to stand over him. "You're blocking my sunlight."

"They're pulling everyone back enough to allow for a pavilion to be set up halfway between the mountain and the front lines," his sister’s husband said casually as if Frerin hadn't even spoken. "Gandalf, Bard and Thranduil will be there as observers."

Frerin sighed in resignation. He'd been having such a nice day too. Well, aside from the bite in the air threatening an early frost and winter, and then the sheer boredom that was an extended siege.

All right, so maybe not such a nice day after all.

He got to his feet and his eyes, as they so often did of late, turned toward Erebor. A strange thrill ran through him and Frerin was surprised at how his stomach knotted with nerves. It had all been such an abstract thought before this, even during the siege, but it was rapidly approaching the moment when it'd be hard reality.

The mountain he'd only heard about, dreamed about on occasion in leaner times, would soon be in their hands once more. Taken back from the usurpers who'd responded to the kindness and generosity of Durin with treachery and death.

The sons of Durin were taking back Erebor.

Chapter Text

Bilba stood on the balcony of her grandfather's office and stared down over the plain separating Erebor and Dale. The armies surrounding the mountain had pulled back, allowing her to see the ground for the first time in what felt like ages. It should have filled her with a sense of hope, but all she felt was trepidation.

Her eyes went to the small pavilion that had been set up between Erebor's front gates and the invaders. From where she stood all she could make out was the faint shadowy movement of distant figures.

"I thought they'd be closer," she said, crossing her arms nervously. "Can the archers reach them from here?"

The words sounded so odd as she said them. It wasn't that she wanted anyone to be struck by an arrow, barbarian invaders or not. She just...wanted them to go away. Ingram said the archers were only there for effect, though, to make sure the armies stayed back while the hostages were brought inside.  

It would be fine, she told herself sternly. It'd work

Somehow.

Ingram stepped up behind her. “Are you ready, Princess?”

“No.” She suppressed a shiver. She’d stopped by her rooms to have Josie redo her hair and add her tiara and then touch up her makeup. She needed to appear her best if she was going to hope for any respect from whatever Durin had been sent to negotiate.

Her stomach churned, and she let out a slow breath. She hadn’t told Josie about what she was planning to do. She knew the other girl wouldn’t approve, and she was already anxious enough without having to listen to a list of how everything could go wrong.

She knew things could go wrong, but what other choice did they have? At least Ingram had a plan that didn’t involve simply giving up. She couldn’t stomach the thought of surrender. Not just because of the question of what would happen to her, but what would happen to everyone in the mountain? She doubted the Durin heirs would allow the hobbits to continue living in Erebor. Would he kill them, or simply throw them out as winter approached?

Ingram put his hands on her shoulders, and she flinched in surprise. He squeezed and then began to massage the bare skin. Bilba knew he was trying to help her relax, but it made her even more tense. Her grandfather had driven home, repeatedly, the rule that no one was allowed to touch her in any way without his express permission.

Said permission was usually reserved for his allies or, more recently, Lord Grima. Their wandering hands and leering grins always made her skin crawl, and what Ingram was doing was far too similar. She had the horrifying thought that, at any moment, her grandfather would appear to scream at her for her wantonness. She didn’t actually know what the word meant, but her grandfather always made it sound very bad indeed.

She took a step, enough to pull free from him, and turned to face him. She grabbed the ring resting against her collarbone and held it tightly between her fingers. Her grandfather had believed in her, she told herself firmly. Or at least he’d believed her capable of holding off the invaders long enough for him to get away. If she succeeded at driving them away entirely and saved the mountain in the process…

She wouldn’t be the useless granddaughter anymore, her only use in her looks or ability to be used as a bargaining chip.

He might even be proud of her.

“You’ll do great, Princess,” Ingram said with a cheerful smile. “Don’t worry. Just do exactly as I said, and everything will work out.” He held his hand out. “Shall we?”

She gave him a tight smile and then obediently held out her hand to allow him to escort her. As they crossed the floor her eyes drifted over her grandfather’s desk and she frowned. She’d stood before it often enough to know her grandfather was almost obsessively neat, every paper and pen perfectly straight and squared off. Now the surface was a mess, papers strewn about, several pens on the floor and even a few drawers pulled out. “I’m surprised he left it like that.”

“He was in a hurry,” Ingram said with a shrug. “He was more concerned with his own safety than in leaving things neat for the usurper.”

That made sense, Bilba thought. They reached the door and Ingram pulled it open. Outside four hobbits in guard uniforms waited to escort her. Bilba didn’t recognize them, but most of the palace guard had already been killed on the battlefield or left with her grandfather and his council. She was mildly surprised at how young and fit they all were as she’d thought everyone of fighting age had long since been sent out but, perhaps, they were simply older than they looked, or even younger, which was a distressing thought.

Ingram led her out and the four closed around her to escort her to the front gates. She received more than one confused look as she passed by lesser members of the nobility, and even a few higher ranked ones her grandfather hadn’t seen fit to take along. With each one she stood straighter and walked with a surer step.  

She’d managed to make the guards listen to her, and Ingram respected her. Once she’d managed to successfully help take one of the Durin’s hostage it would show all of them. Her grandfather, her people and the nobility, Sigrid and Bard and everyone who’d turned on her without so much as a backwards glance.

She’d be a hero. Her grandfather would be able to come back and he’d be so impressed that he’d call off the engagement to Lord Grima and perhaps let her marry Lord Berold instead…

Her face flushed and she lowered her eyes to her feet as if her thoughts could be read on her face. Ingram hadn’t made any promises, she reminded herself firmly. He’d implied, but that could have just been him being kind. There were so many young women who fancied him, most if not all prettier and smarter than she was. She’d count herself lucky indeed if he chose her.

They arrived at the ground floor and she was struck at how eerily silent it all was. Usually, there was a bustling market down there, filled with vendors from both Erebor and Dale. Now, it was empty, darkened booths appearing as little more than abandoned husks, filled with the debris and litter of past splendor.

Near the gates, which had barely been opened wide enough to allow a single person to pass through, she spotted a small group of ponies waiting for them.

Five to be exact.

“Is that all?” she asked in disbelief. They were going to be fairly far from the mountain, and literally in the camp of the enemy, and all that was before they took a hostage. How in the world did Ingram expect four guards to handle all that?

“There is no one else to be spared,” Ingram explained, the slightest hint of censure in his voice. He nodded toward the top of the gates and Bilba saw a few archers lounging against the battlements. “Our real force will be in them. They’ll keep you safe, Your Highness, and protect your retreat.”

“Of course,” Bilba said quietly. Mahal, but she was dense sometimes. Of course she couldn’t expect an entire entourage to escort her. Hadn’t she just been thinking how strange it was for her four guards to be young?

“No one looks to a princess for her brains,” her grandfather’s voice lectured. “Best to keep your mouth shut, and let your looks speak for you.”

Ingram spun her to face him suddenly and she gasped in surprise. He put his hands on her waist and she barely had the change to place her hands on his shoulders before he was lifting her up to sit sidesaddle on one of the ponies.

It wasn’t her pony, Bilba noted immediately, a slow, lazy creature whose chief goal in life was to sleep. This pony was young and eager, moving about and tossing its head the second she was seated. Bilba tensed, but one of the other guards grabbed the reins before she could reach for them and roughly dragged the pony’s head around. “I’ll handle it.”

Bilba nodded shakily. “Thank you.”

Ingram grabbed the pony’s bridle. “You’ll do fine, Your Highness. I have faith in you.”

Bilba forced a small, but genuine smile. She looked toward the slit in the gate and spotted the distant image of the pavilion waiting for her. She let out a slow breath to try and, unsuccessfully, calm her nerves. She was a princess, she reminded herself firmly. She’d been trained her entire life to be in the public eye.

She nodded at the guard holding her pony’s reins and, as a group, they moved out.

She could do this.

***

“I can’t decide if they’re deliberately trying to be insulting,” Frerin said casually, “or if they’re just that stupid.”

Beside him, Bard frowned. “It’s possible they don’t have enough people left to muster a proper guard.”

“If that’s true,” Frerin said, crossing his arms, “it still falls into the later category. Only an idiot would tip his hand this badly.”

Bard didn’t answer. The two of them were standing a few feet in front of the pavilion that had been thrown together. It consisted of little more than a table, a few chairs and the tent around it. That had been put in place so Frerin only had to watch his back from one direction. Dwalin and Vili stood at either side and more guards were ranged past them and behind the pavilion.

All of it completely unnecessary apparently, given the ridiculously small group coming toward them.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bard said suddenly under his breath.

Frerin frowned. “What?”

Bard nodded toward the approaching group. “That’s the princess.”

“The princess?” Frerin had forgotten about her. He was aware there was a princess but knew next to nothing about her. Everything Nori had provided painted the portrait of a vapid young woman obsessed with fashion, wealth and her own status. He’d heard nothing of her personality, assuming she even had one, or her character.

As the group neared, he straightened, wanting to get a better look at this princess. She rode in the center of the four guards, all young men who appeared to have been chosen more for their looks than strength or ability.

The princess herself looked…well, ridiculous if he were being honest. She wore a massive gown that nearly enveloped the pony she rode, so saturated with gems and other fripperies it was a wonder she or the creature could stand under the weight. Her hair was done in an elaborate style that must have taken an obscene amount of time to create and was also liberally covered with jewels. The tiara she wore could probably be used as a weapon if she focused the sun off it correctly, and her face had a level of makeup on it that he felt anyone would find overdone.

She was older, probably the same age as Dis or Jayde if not beyond them. Unlike most of the rest of the hobbits, who’d appeared increasingly thin as the weeks went by, she appeared to still be in the prime of health. Her expression was flat, and she looked past them all as if they weren’t even there.

The ponies drew to a halt and she sat tall in her saddle, head up so she could look down her nose at them. He saw her eyes light on Bard, Thranduil and Gandalf, before settling on him. Her brows furrowed fractionally, and then it was back to the blankness again.

Gandalf stepped forward. “Your Highness. It’s a pleasure to meet you again, my dear.”

“I wish I could say the same,” she replied, her voice quiet. “It would seem you’ve returned a traitor to Erebor, along with those we once thought our allies.” Her eyes shifted for a moment to Bard and Thranduil and then away again.

One of her guards dismounted and went to help her down, an act that proved challenging with her dress draped the way it was. She slid off but her gown hooked over the back of the excitable animal, causing what, in any other circumstance, would have been quite the amusing struggle to free it while maintaining some semblance of dignity.

Scratch that, Frerin decided, it was amusing regardless.

The move was completed finally, and the princess stepped forward. She stopped in front of Frerin, the tip of her head barely reaching the bottom of his chin. He knew that hobbits were generally smaller than dwarves, but she took it to an extreme.

“Your Highness,” he said, a deliberate mocking tone in his voice.

She flushed, or at least he thought she did under the layers of makeup. “I assume you’re the one they’ve sent to negotiate?”

Frerin sketched an overly dramatic bow before settling on what he knew was an outright smirk. “Frerin, son of Thrain, son of Thror at your service, Your Highness. Might I ask why your grandfather hasn’t seen fit to come?”

A flicker of sunlight off her collarbone drew his eye and he frowned at the sight of a ring she wore on a chain. He’d never seen it before but had heard it described often enough to recognize it.

The Durin family ring. Stolen from the hand of the rightful king of Erebor after he was betrayed and murdered by the treacherous hobbits. The ring was a family heirloom, and she was wearing it like some sort of trinket.

It was a very good thing, Frerin decided, that Thorin hadn’t come. He was angry at the sight. His brother would have been far less forgiving.

“My grandfather has better things to do with his time,” the princess said imperiously, hands clutched in front of her. She seemed to be trying to ignore all of them simultaneously, which would make negotiating rather hard he thought. “He sent me to negotiate in his place.”

“That doesn’t seem like him,” Bard said from where he stood a few feet away. “Though, to be honest, the idea of negotiating at all doesn’t seem like him.”

The princess turned her head away, behaving as if the other man weren’t even there. Frerin made a mental note to convince Thorin that Kili needed negotiating experience. Let him put up with petulant princesses the next time around. He nodded toward the table and chairs. “After you.”

She nodded and then swept past him toward the chairs, giving him her back and leaving her guards rushing to catch up.

Frerin caught Dwalin’s eye and saw the other dwarf raise an eyebrow in question. Frerin shook his head in response. The woman had practically handed herself over to them but taking her into custody would do no good with her grandfather still in the mountain.

“This is ridiculous,” Bard murmured from next to him. “She’s the last one he would send for serious negotiations. They have no intention of surrendering.”

Frerin watched as the princess stopped next to her chair, clearly waiting for one of them to pull it out for her. “Which begs the question,” he said, keeping his own voice low, “of just what the Thain is up to.”

Bard started to speak, only to cut off as the distant sound of a commotion came from the front lines located behind the pavilion.

Before Ferin had a chance to process, two other things took his attention. One was the slightest widening of the princess’s eyes as her gaze lingered on something just over his shoulder.

The second was the barest movement of air across the back of his neck.

He had his sword half drawn and was already turning when a soft thwip and a burst of wind raced past his ear. The thunk of an arrow hitting home, followed by the thud of a falling body came next. Frerin completed his turn, sword in hand, to see one of the princess’s guards lying dead on the ground. There was an arrow protruding from his chest, and a dagger lying next to his hand.

A few feet away, Dwalin had the second guard on his knees, sword at his throat. Vili had already nocked a fresh arrow and was pointing it at the ground, the mere presence of it enough to cow the third guard while another of the soldiers had taken control of the fourth.

That left the princess. She was standing completely still, eyes now very wide, and mouth slightly agape. Her eyes flicked toward his and then away, toward the mountain in the distance.

“Don’t bother,” Frerin warned. “You won’t make it, especially not in that dress.”

She chewed on her lower lip, considered and then, in one move gathered as much of her skirts as she could in both hands and bolted toward the mountain.

“Seriously?” Frerin muttered. Her skirts hampered her movements so badly he considered simply walking after her. A shout from Vili, however, had him lunging forward to grab her arm and wrench her back under the pavilion, just as an arrow slammed into the dirt mere inches from her feet.

She screamed in surprise and froze again, which gave Frerin just the time he needed to pull her hands behind her back and hold them. Dawlin approached with remnant of the rope he’d used to secure the other guards and Frerin quickly secured it around her wrists.

The action seemed to snap her out of her stupor, and she jerked, struggling to get away. “Unhand me, you beast!”

Frerin pulled her around to face him and held her by her upper arms. “Beast?” he asked mildly. “I’d have expected you to think kindlier of the person who just saved your life.”

She rolled her eyes. “That arrow wasn’t meant to hurt me. It was to protect me while I escaped!”

“Was it now?” Frerin asked. “Someone has poor aim then. It would have gone right through your chest had I not grabbed you.”

The princess scoffed but the barest hint of uncertainty flickered in her eyes.

Vili approached. “There’s no way they sent that all the way from the gates. Where did it come from?” As he spoke, he kept his eyes trained on the plain between them and Erebor, watching for any further attacks.

“A very good question.” Frerin mused. He raised an eyebrow at the woman in his grasp. “Care to elaborate, Princess?”

She jerked her head away from him and strained to pull free of his grasp. Frerin tightened his grip and pulled her away, toward the back of the tent and the small flap that would allow them to exit and return to the front lines.

“You better let me go,” the princess demanded ago. “We’ve taken one of your relatives hostage, I think, and if you don’t let me go you’ll regret it.”

Frerin fought the urge to laugh. “You think? I think I’d disown any of my relatives foolish enough to let themselves be taken hostage by your forces.” He pushed open the flap and made a show of looking out toward the open land between them and the front lines of soldiers. From where he stood, he could see a commotion had died down already. “And, pray tell, princess, how exactly would your people have gotten a hostage from there back to the mountain without anyone seeing?”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t say,” she said, mockingly, “how do think they got from the mountain to the front lines to begin with?”

Frerin paused. From a few feet away he heard Bard swear under his breath. Gandalf shifted and appeared to speak but stopped when Frerin held up a hand.

“That,” he said quietly, “is an excellent question, Your Highness. One I’m sure we’ll be discussing in great detail.”

He hesitated and then grabbed the ring lying against her collarbone and yanked, easily snapping the chain it sat on. She gasped in surprise and gave him a dark look but didn’t comment as he shoved the ring into his pocket. His brother was bound to be angry enough without seeing her wearing a royal heirloom like a pretty bauble.

As he steered her out of the pavilion, Bard stepped up on her other side and gave him a pointed look before taking her other arm. Vili arrived on his other side and frowned.

“Do you suppose they’re lovers?” he asked in Khuzdul, nodding toward Bard and the princess.

“I hope not,” Frerin answered. That sort of complication was the last thing they needed.

“The wizard doesn’t seem happy either,” Vili added, but Frerin simply shook his head.

“One thing at a time.” He tightened his grip on the princess’s arm as she tried, yet again, to pull away, and firmly steered her toward the front lines.

Time for the usurper’s granddaughter to meet the rightful king of the dwarves.

Chapter Text

Bilba thought she might pass out and, for once, not because of her clothing.  

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

The guard that had tried to kill the Durin was still back at the pavilion, which was patently unfair. He was the one who’d decided to enact his own stupid plan, not her. She’d even tried to explain this to the Durin but had been roundly ignored.

At least they’d untied her hands. Trying to march her across the plain in her gown without allowing her to lift the hem had been next to impossible. Now she held bunches of the heavy fabric in her hands as Bard and the Durin held her arms and pulled her inexorably toward the front lines.

She really didn’t want to go over there.

It was all that guard’s fault. If he hadn’t decided to go rogue, then she’d already be back safely in Erebor and…

Her brow furrowed as she recalled the order of events. The commotion at the front lines had drawn the attention of everyone at the pavilion. Even without the guard, would they really have let her just up and leave without first finding out what was going one? Especially when she’d been expected to engage in negotiations?

And what about that arrow? The Durin claimed it had been intended to kill her, but that couldn’t be right. It had to have been a mistake. An overzealous guard, frantic to protect her and overly aggressive when he’d let his arrow fly.

That had to be it. Just a list of unforeseen complications that, together, had led to things going terribly awry. The Durin, Frerin, as he’d introduced himself, was lying to her to try and throw her off balance. Why he would ever expect her to believe him, rather than her own people, she had no idea.

Her thoughts turned to Ingram. He must be beside himself with worry. Maybe he’d launch a rescue for her? She held onto that thought and used it to try and rally the tattered threads of her own courage. Just hold on, she told herself firmly. Ingram wouldn’t leave her to suffer at the hands of the barbarians, she was sure of it.

Images of what could happen to her in the meantime flashed through her mind and she fought back a wave of nausea. She risked a short glance toward Bard, who had his own gaze fixed ahead. There was a set look to his face that she recognized from when Sigrid was dead set on getting her way, and he was just as dead set on the opposite.

Sigrid was as headstrong as they came, but when her father had that look, she usually didn’t win. Bilba couldn’t fathom what the look might mean now. She’d always looked at the man like a father, but he had utterly betrayed her grandfather. He’d utterly betrayed her. He’d fought alongside the barbarians who, even now, were starving her people. If push came to shove, would he help her or leave her to rot?

She had a feeling the answer was the latter.

The front lines were nearly upon them and Bilba’s stomach began to churn. Row upon row of humans, dwarves, and elves stared at her in silence. She could only imagine what they must be thinking about her, and none of it was pleasant.

Almost subconsciously, she held herself taller and raised her chin imperiously. She was a princess of Erebor. She represented her mountain, and its people in everything she did. The least she could do was show these barbarians, and the traitors who helped them, the strength and fortitude of the hobbits of Erebor.

Maybe if her grandfather heard about it, he’d be a little forgiving over the fact that she got captured to begin with.

Her heart was hammering in her chest, and she felt sick, but refused to let it show. Her grandfather had drilled her on keeping her emotions under control. He’d berate her ruthlessly, in front of his councilors and in private, all with the goal in mind of ensuring she could face anything without so much as flinching.

Princess did not flinch, and they certainly did not cry in public. Crying was a sign of weakness as well as unattractive. Princesses were intended to be beautiful, and crying was not beautiful.

She focused her eyes on some distant place past the heads of the soldiers she was being led into, and hoped that if anyone did notice her shaking, they would simply attribute it to the cold.

She might not have managed to singlehandedly save Erebor, but she could at least present herself as a proper princess.

***

 The woman was pure ice.

Her entire plan, whatever it had even been, had fallen apart and she was being marched into the midst of the enemy camp. Frerin would have expected anger, tears, possibly even hysterics. Something.

Instead, he and Bard might as well have been escorting the woman on a daily ritual of greeting her supplicants for all the concern she showed. She walked between the two of them as if they were little more than her vassals, rather than her captors.  

As they reached the first rows of troops, he half expected her to demand they kneel. Thankfully, she stayed silent, proving she did have at least some semblance of common sense.

The strategy tent came into view, a massive structure that Frerin always felt just announced to their enemies where all the important people were, and he pulled the princess in that direction. He saw the flap move, and then Thorin stepped out followed by Thranduil and Gandalf.

“Here.” Frerin tossed the ring he’d taken from the princess. “Thought you might want that.”

Thorin caught it with ease and went still, eyes fixed on the object in his hand. Frerin heard the princess inhale, as if planning to speak, only to suddenly cut off as, on her other side, Bard made a short noise. It was becoming increasingly clear there was some sort of relationship going on there, though what exactly it was, and whether it could be used for or against them, was unclear.

“Finally,” Thorin said, his voice hoarse. “An heirloom of our people has been returned.” He looked up and fixed red rimmed eyes on Frerin. “The first of many.” His eyes darkened as they settled on the princess. “Everything you wear is stolen. Remove it.”

Frerin bit back an oath. He loved his brother, and he’d be first in line to extol the kind of king Thorin was. Before him, the dwarves had largely been scattered, nomads wandering the land and finding work and food as they could. Thorin had carved them a home from barren rock in Ered Luin and ruled so well that it had lasted far longer than it should have.

He was a great king, but he had his flaws and the worst one was his penchant for doing and saying things when angry that he would later regret.

The princess hadn’t reacted to Thorin’s words, but Bard and Thranduil had both startled while Gandalf looked exasperated. Before any of them could properly respond, Thorin took a threatening step forward, only to find his way blocked by Bard.

“Really, Thorin,” Gandalf’s voice cut through the sudden tension. “That is hardly the way to treat a princess.”

Thorin snorted in disgust. “She is no princess, merely the spawn of a usurper.”

“Bilba Baggins is as much royalty as you are, Thorin Oakenshield.” Gandalf said sternly. He sounded as irritated as Bard looked. Even the usually unflappable Thranduil appeared annoyed.

Frerin sighed and, for not the first time, wished Jayde had been able to make the trip. When his brother was angry or under stress he tended to act like an asshole, and she was the only one who could get through to him in such times, usually loudly and with dramatic gesturing.

“Her bloodline comes from a usurper,” Thorin refuted, “with no more royalty in it than—”

“Than your forefathers had,” Gandalf interrupted. “Every royal bloodline, eventually, is traced back to one who had no more claim to a kingdom than the hobbit who took your throne.”

“In other words,” Frerin said quickly before his brother could say something that would permanently alienate their allies. “She’s a princess. Now that we’ve got that settled, let’s move on to more important things, shall we?” He frowned. “Where’s Kili? Is he all right?”

He seriously doubted that whatever harebrained scheme the princess had come up with had been successful but there had been some sort of commotion at the front lines. It was always possible his nephew had sprained a rib laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of things.

“He's fine,” Thorin said, his voice a low growl. “The hobbits barely made it inside our ranks before they were stopped.”

Frerin nodded. “We had our own fun back at the pavilion. It would seem the princess never had any intention of honest negotiations.”

Thorin snorted. “Is it really surprising? She’s as false as her kin.”

“Better false than a tyrant.” The words were soft, but clear, lacking the harsh notes Frerin had heard her speak back at the pavilion. “At least our presence improved lives. Yours has only taken them.”

Thorin looked about a step away from having her assassinated.

“That’s enough,” Bard’s voice held steel, and Frerin felt his heart sink at the confirmation that they were absolutely going to have issues with him over the princess. “I’ll take custody of her—”

“Out of the question,” Thorin interrupted. “I won’t make the same mistake her ancestors did. She stays in our control.”

“I’m afraid I have to agree.” Frerin felt the princess try to pull away from him and tightened his grip, holding her in place. “Those idiots got here without being seen, and an arrow was sent at us from seemingly out of nowhere. The princess implied she knew how.”

The princess shifted beside him, and he saw the slightest widening of her eyes. It was the first true reaction Frerin had seen from her and it was strangely gratifying to see that she wasn’t completely carved from ice.

“She spoke out of turn,” Bard said quickly. “She wasn’t privy to her grandfather’s plans. She has no idea how the hobbits made it to the front lines.” As he spoke, Bard shifted, his stance becoming more aggressive as he stood in front of the princess. “I’m not just going to hand her over to you.”

“I didn’t know you had the authority to dictate her movements,” Thorin growled.

Gandalf heaved a sigh and cast his gaze upwards. “Might I suggest we place the princess under guard, and then discuss the matter like civilized folk?”

“Fine.” Thorin glowered at Bard. “We’ll place her in one of my tents, under guard.”

“We can put her in one of my tents,” Bard countered. “Under guard.” The way he parroted Thorin’s words sounded mildly insulting, and a glance at his face strongly suggested it was absolutely intended that way.

Thranduil let out a exasperated sound and said something in elvish that Frerin guessed was also probably insulting. “We’ll put her in the strategy tent,” he said in a tone that said he was done with the lot of them. “We can post all post guards, while we discuss what comes next.”

It was surprisingly diplomatic of the usually caustic elf. Thranduil had wanted no part in the war, not from any loyalty to the Thain, but more because he had no desire to embroil his people in a war that, as he said, did not concern him. It had been Gandalf who had pointed out that the victor, no matter who it was, would not look kindly on his inaction. It was in the best interest of his people to have peace, and that would only be gained by supporting a side and hoping that side came out the victor.

Thranduil had agreed, begrudgingly, and while he had been a staunch ally since, he’d also wasted no time in making it abundantly, and repeatedly, clear that this was the last place he wanted to be.

The fact that Thranduil had offered his own guards in addition to theirs registered and Frerin bit back a groan. Apparently, they were going to have issues with the elves and men over the princess.

Great.

“Fine,” Thorin growled. He nodded toward Frerin. “See to it that she’s restrained.”

Bard made a noise like he planned to object, but then bit it back. Frerin tightened his grip on the ice queen’s arm and tugged her toward the entrance of the tent. “Let’s go, Princess.”

The woman didn’t resist as he led her past the others and into the shadowed interior of the strategy tent. Inside maps and other papers were laid out across a large table that dominated the center of the large space. Several chairs were scattered about, and a handful of weapons and other random items lay strewn about.

Frerin snagged a chair with a hand and pulled it over to the center of the tent. “Sit.”

The princess preformed a motion that caused the voluminous layers of her skirt to swirl about her body before gracefully sinking into the chair. Her skirts somehow ended up lying in a perfectly smooth layer about her as if she’d sat down and spent time adjusting them. She folded her hands on her lap, fixed her gaze straight ahead and proceeded to aggressively ignore him.

Realizing he didn’t have rope, Frerin drew a knife from a sheath at the small of his back and dropped to one knee. “Hope you don’t mind losing part of your dress.” It probably wouldn’t even be noticeable, given the sheer amount of fabric.

“Your brother might.” Her voice was still surprisingly soft but held ice.

Frerin raised his eyes to hers and flashed her a rakish grin. “He’ll get over it.” His eyes caught on the wide sash layered around her waist. “Change of plans.”

He stood and leaned over her to cut through the sash. The princess turned her head away and leaned back, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. Frerin did his best to hold himself back as he unwound the thick fabric. He wasn’t in the habit of intentionally making women uncomfortable, no matter his personal opinion of them.

 He managed to free the fabric and dropped into a crouch again, this time behind her. He grabbed her arms and was mildly surprised when she resisted. “Come on, Princess. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

She pulled against his grip but couldn’t break it. Her arms were slender, contradicting the idea that she’d been binging during the siege, but he would hazard to guess she was still more well fed than most of her people. Typical, spoiled little princess who felt her blood made her superior to those she was meant to serve.

An idea suddenly occurred to him, and he couldn’t help the slow smirk that spread across his face. If it failed, no harm done, but if it worked it could end the standoff immediately. If they hoped to have their people come from Ered Luin before the first snows fell, they would need to leave as soon as possible. Given the time it would take for someone to travel back and tell them to come, it was imperative that they win the mountain as soon as possible.

Frerin released her arms and looped the sash around the woman’s body and arms, before tugging it behind the chair and securing it with a quick knot. He stepped around to see the woman giving him a look that, by all rights, should have dropped him on the spot. Frerin bowed as sarcastically as he could. “At your service, Your Highness.”

He spun on one heel and exited the tent. His brother was embroiled in yet another argument with Thranduil and Bard while Gandalf stood a few feet away looking like he was regretting ever setting out on this endeavor.

Thorin glowered at him as Frerin approached. “Is she secure?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Frerin said cheerfully.

Thorin’s eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Frerin clapped his hands together. “What it means, dear brother, is that if all goes well, we may find ourselves dining in Erebor tonight.”

Chapter Text

Bilba slumped in the chair. 

She’d felt resentment toward her grandfather at times for the way he treated her. He acted like like she was entirely useless, without so much as a  modicum of intelligent thought. Unable to perform basic functions without careful oversight. While she accepted that she was deficient in many ways, contrary to what Sigrid and Bard said, she’d never felt she was as truly hopeless as her grandfather claimed. 

Clearly, that belief had been little more than hubris. 

Ingram must be so disappointed in her. He’d trusted her to do one simple thing, and she’d failed. 

A shiver ran over her. The dress she wore was more suited for a banquet than a battlefield and the air inside the tent was only slightly less bitter than it was outside. She could feel blisters forming on her feet from the forced march in uncomfortable shoes, and her stomach had started to remind her that she’d skipped breakfast and it was probably now nearing lunch. 

She wished she’d just stayed in bed. 

Someone walked past the outside of the tent, and she tensed. Whoever it was passed, just as the last four had done, and she soon slumped in misery once more. 

She wasn’t even important enough to question. 

The image of Bard flashed through her mind, and she tried to ignore the stab of pain that accompanied it. He’d always treated her like one of his children, as important to him as Sigrid, Bain and Tilda. He was one of the very few people who’d made her feel like she actually mattered, and some deep, dark recess of her being had wanted to still believe it. Wanted to believe everything that had happened was all somehow a mistake, a misunderstanding that would be rectified as soon as she saw them. 

Yet here she was, a prisoner in the enemy’s camp and Bard…was nowhere to be seen. She’d thought, for a moment, that he’d shown some concern but hours had passed and…nothing. She hadn’t so much as heard him speak from outside the tent. He’d handed her over and just…left. 

He’d never have done that if it had been Sigrid or Tilda. 

The shadows were lengthening outside the tent. Had she really been sitting there all day? It wasn’t the first time she’d had to sit and do nothing for an entire day, and it never ceased to surprise her how tiring it was. Her body ached, her mouth was dry from lack of water and her head throbbed with the beginning of a headache. She desperately needed to relieve herself as well, but was doing her best to ignore it.

Footsteps shuffled in the shadows outside the tent flap and she felt a burst of relief at the thought that someone might have finally remembered that she existed. 

The image of the dark haired Durin who’d tied her up flashed through her mind and she shook her head to rid herself of it. Whenever her mind had tried to conjure a Durin she always pictured them as brutish, closer to orcs in appearance than dwarves. The surly one, Thorin she remembered Gandalf calling him, matched that description in temperament, but he’d been surprisingly normal looking in appearance. 

The other one, however, whose name she’d never heard or had simply forgotten…he neither looked nor acted anything like what she’d imagined. Instead of brutish he’d been lean and fit, and rather than looking like an orc he’d been…attractive. More attractive than anyone had a right to be really. His personality had been unexpected as well, gruff and sarcastic but lacking the surliness of his kin. 

Bilba frowned. What in the world was she even thinking? He was a Durin for Yavanna’s sake, and he’d tied her to a chair and promptly forgotten about her. She shook her head. She must be more tired than she thought. 

She shifted her weight, trying to find a comfortable position, and the poorly tied sash looped around her body slid still further. It was so bad now the thing was mostly pooled around her waist and could have been easily shaken off if she wanted. She was half afraid they would accuse her of trying to escape when they saw it, rather than accept that one of their precious Durins didn’t know how to properly secure a prisoner. 

The footsteps from outside came again. A second later, the flap of the tent moved and someone stepped into the dim interior. There had been little enough light as it was, but the quickly fading daylight had left the tent in near darkness some time earlier. It reminded her of the days her grandfather would lock her in one of the unused rooms to reflect on some action or failure he considered particularly egregious. 

“Your Highness.” The shadow moved forward and the last rays of the setting sun outlined the shape of a female elf, dressed in leathers and with her hair pulled back in a low, dark colored bun. She dropped into a crouch and rested her hand on Bilba’s knee. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Bilba said slowly. The woman looked vaguely familiar, probably one of Thranduil’s ever changing guard. She didn’t ask the woman’s name for fear she should already know it. “Did Thranduil or Legolas send you?”

“Someone who supports you did,” the woman said vaguely. She drew out a boot knife and, in one easy swipe, cut through the sash, unwound it from the chair and tossed it on the ground. She stood and held out a hand. “What do you say we get out of here?”

Bilba hesitated, unsure. “How?” She wasn’t exactly dressed for subterfuge, and her movement was limited thanks to the sheer weight of everything she was wearing. “And why?” Thranduil was on the side of the Durins, not hers. She couldn’t imagine why anyone from his army would help her, and especially not so late. The battle was over, anyone could see that. 

“There is no love lost between the elves and the dwarves,” the young woman said. “My king’s quarrel is with your grandfather, not you. He has no desire to see you harmed.”

She moved to the front of the tent, listened for a few seconds and then turned and headed to the back of the tent. She waved at Bilba who hesitantly walked over to her. 

The woman knelt and, with surprisingly ease, lifted the heavy fabric of the tent. Cold air rushed in, icier now that the sun had set, and Bilba felt an entirely new level of cold. The woman vanished under the raised flap and, a moment later, poked her head back under. “Come on, Your Highness. It’s clear.”

She said it like it was so easy. Bilba lowered herself down slowly, grimacing as the various corsets and stays resisted the movement. The layers of her gown tangled around her legs the second she tried to move forward, and the gems lining her neckline scratched harder against her skin as she leaned forward. 

Grabbing handfuls of the gown in her hands, she managed to hike it up to her thighs and scooted under. The ground was hard and she flinched as dirt and small rocks bit and scraped her knees but she managed to make it outside the tent. 

The elven woman grabbed her arm and helped her to her feet. They had come out in a surprisingly dark area, where the strategy tent lay close to other tents and created an isolated space. She could hear faint voices, and caught glimpses of people walking past several yards away, but the chances of anyone noticing them was slim. 

“Now what?” she asked the elven woman. She felt surprisingly numb about the entire situation. Her day had swung to such extremes that it was hard to find any sense of hope or excitement in her escape. Perhaps once she was certain of safety, and had a chance to eat, and change into something less constricting. “Are we going to try and reach Mirkwood?”

The woman nodded, and then seemed to hesitate with a concerned look on her face. “I overheard the Durins earlier. They’re planning for a final assault on the mountain tomorrow.”

“Really?” Bilba asked in surprise. She’d thought the army intended to simply wait for them to surrender. The thought that they’d be willing to risk more lives shouldn’t have surprised her. The Durins only cared about their own power and greed, the lives of the people they were meant to protect meant little to them. 

The woman nodded. “My friend, Luna, has been here, fighting alongside me. I’ve been worried every time we go into battle that something might happen to her. I’d thought I could finally lay that fear to rest but now –”

“I’m sorry.” Bilba said sympathetically. “That must be hard.”

The woman gave a slight smile. “It is, but, hopefully, it’ll be over soon.” She cast a glance in the direction of the mountain. “What about you, Your Highness? Do you have anyone like that inside the mountain?”

Josie, Bilba thought. Guilt ate into her. How could she have forgotten? If she ran off to Mirkwood she’d be abandoning Josie. What would she do when the attack happened? Josie wasn’t like Sigrid or Legolas, there was no way for her to defend herself. 

“I–” She started to take a step toward the mountain, only to freeze as she realized she was still in the middle of the enemy camp. “My maid, Josie. I can’t just go to Mirkwood and leave her behind.”

And not just Josie, she realized with a sudden start. The mountain was filled with innocents, women, children, and the infirm. There were injured soldiers taken off the battlefield who, even then, were lying defenseless in the infirmary. What would happen to them? So far, there hadn’t been any reports of the army committing any atrocities but it was unlikely she’d have heard of any even if they had. Her grandfather’s narrative had been one of strength and stability throughout, even as their forces crumbled. 

The woman frowned. “That’s not possible, Your Highness. It’ll be hard enough to get you to Mirkwood. Going to Erebor, even at night, we’d be spotted crossing the plain. Even if we did make it, the gate is closed. There’d be no way to get inside, even if we could be assured of reaching it.”

“I can get us there,” Bilba said, shyly. “We can use the tunnels.”

The woman stared at her blankly. “The what?”

“The tunnels,” Bilba said, her excitement building. “Didn’t you wonder how anyone made it to the front lines to try and capture one of the Durins? They used tunnels. They’re all over the place. They connect to the escape ones already built into the mountain.”

She spoke as if she’d known about the tunnels for ages but, in truth, she’d only just found out about them that morning. Ingram had shown her the maps in her grandfather’s office, and pointed out the route the soldiers would use to try and take one of the Durin heirs hostage. “Are you sure?” the woman asked. “Even if we could get in, how would we get everyone out? I doubt we can march everyone out through the center of the camp.”

“The tunnels don’t go through the middle of the camp,” Bilba said absently. It was pure luck for the Durins that they didn’t. The closet tunnel lay near the edge of the front line, making it near impossible to use without the benefit of a distraction that was likely to only work once. “There are others that go out on different sides of the mountain. We can get everyone out without the Durins realizing it.”

The woman still hesitated, glancing toward the mountain and then back again. “Are you sure?” she finally asked. “I was told to take you to Mirkwood but, I have to admit, the idea of abandoning those in the mountain bothers me. I have many friends who live there.”

Bilba wished she could say the same. Aside from Josie, there was no one inside Erebor she would count as a friend, and only two outside that she’d mistakenly thought were her friends. Even so, she owed it to those still inside to try and save them. She wouldn’t run and hide while they suffered. 

Not like her grandfather did.

Her eyes widened and she tensed as if he could somehow hear her thoughts from wherever he was. It wasn’t the same, she told herself firmly. Her grandfather was important, it was vital that he escape to continue leading and keep morale high. 

“We should probably stop wasting time and move,” the woman broke into her thoughts. “Before someone notices you’re missing.”

“All right,” Bilba said with a small smile. “Let’s go.”

Maybe, if she could get this right, her grandfather would overlook her stupidity in getting caught so far. 

Maybe Ingram would forgive her too. 

***

It wasn’t easy getting through the encampment unseen but the elven woman seemed to have an innate sense for when backs would be turned, or footsteps would carry a sentry away from them. Bilba hurried after her when gestured forward, skirts gathered around her knees to give her the room to scurry from shadowed area to shadowed area. 

It was uncomfortable and cold, and a huge relief when they reached the tunnel entrance and she was able to drop her skirts back down to swirl about her ankles once more. 

The entrance was hidden among the rocks lining a nearby slope, barely a slit one could squeeze through if they turned sideways. During the day, it would look like little more than a natural shadow between two boulders. 

Bilba went first with the woman coming in close behind her. 

“I had no idea this was here,” she said as she came in, her voice echoing slightly in the cramped tunnel. “And you say there’s more than one?”

“There’s an entire network,” Bilba explained. Ingram had shown her the map. She’d easily get lost if she just tried wandering aimlessly, but she was confident she could retrace the route Ingram had shown her, as well as another he’d absently pointed out as being the one her grandfather had used to escape. Having to remember her grandfather’s neverending list of rules had left her with an excellent memory. 

“One second, Your Highness.” The elven woman slid past her, and snagged a torch shoved into a crudely made scone barely clinging to the wall. She pulled something Bilba didn’t recognize from a pouch on her waist and soon had the torch lit. The small amount of heat from it made her want to step closer, but she resisted the urge. The last thing anyone needed was for her hair or dress to catch fire. 

The flickering flames revealed a narrow, low tunnel dug from the rock and dirt of the hillside. It angled down sharply, and the temperature fell along with it until Bilba was quite sure she’d freeze to death before ever reaching the mountain. Every so often they would come to branches in the path and Bilba would indicate the one to use so they could continue. 

“Why do you even need all these?” the woman asked at one point.

Bilba shrugged. “Maybe to be able to still travel when it snows?” She’d seen paths traveling to both Mirkwood and Dale on the map. The snow got deep enough to keep them locked in the mountains for months at a time, having tunnels to allow for passage under it all just made sense.

The woman frowned. “But have they ever been used for that?”

“Maybe the snow never got deep enough?” Bilba offered. She could distinctly remember several years where the snows had gotten deep enough to lock them inside the mountain for months, but they’d had enough food to survive, so perhaps her grandfather hadn’t seen the need? 

Beneath their feet, the ground began to slope upwards and the air became marginally warmer. It was still freezing, but it wasn’t the bone biting cold that came from being underground. 

They turned a corner and the dirt walls surrounding them gave way to to hewn rock. The corridor widened enough to allow several to walk side by side, and the crude scones changed to finely crafted bronze pieces, attached solidly to the walls. 

“This is where the tunnels connect to the secret passages in Erebor,” Bilba explained. “From here you can go just about anywhere.”

“Perfect,” a voice broke in from behind her. “That’s just what we needed.”

Bilba’s breath caught in her throat and she whirled to see Bard, and the Durin heir who’d tied her up striding up the tunnel toward her. 

No. The word whispered through her mind, along with the brutal realization that she’d been tricked. That she’d failed. Again. 

Almost frantic, she whipped back around and tried to run but it was impossible without pulling her skirts up and she had no chance to do that. An arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back against a broad chest. She opened her mouth to scream in the faint hope that someone would hear outside the passage, only to have a hand clap over her mouth and pull her head back. 

“Stop, Bilba.” Bard’s voice spoke next to her ear. “You don’t understand what’s going on.”

Didn’t she? She wrenched against his grip, hoping to either stomp on his foot or even heatbutt him, but his hold was unbreakable. 

The elven woman had vanished, leaving a lit sconce in her wake, and the Durin was standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest. Bilba expected him to say something nasty, but the look on his face was pensive. He made eye contact with her and, for the briefest of seconds, she thought something almost like sympathy crossed his face. 

Then it was gone, and he was turning away. “I marked the path. I’ll get the others.”

He vanished, and she was left alone with Bard. The combination of the corsets she wore and his hand over her mouth made it hard to breathe, and she dragged at his hand, trying to get him to remove it. 

“Don’t scream, Sweetheart.” Bard released her, and then turned her to face him, holding her by the upper arms. Bilba hooked her hands over his forearms, and focused on his boots, unwilling to see whatever expression it was he currently wore. 

Bard sighed. “Come here.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. 

Bilba hesitated and then pulled her arms together and buried her face in his chest. She was pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Bard had utterly betrayed her, and here she was letting him comfort her? 

She could barely process it. The fact that she’d failed again. That, even then, the Durin and his army was preparing to march straight into the mountain thanks to her. 

“No one is going to get hurt,” Bard said, as if reading her mind. “There can’t be anyone left capable of fighting.”

“Why did you do this?” Bilba mumbled dully against his chest. She was just so tired, and hungry and thirsty and a thousand other things that had her wanting to just curl up on the ground and fall asleep. “You tricked me.”

“I had no choice. They knew you knew how the hobbits got to the front line. They wanted to use you to find a way in. I refused to allow it unless I could personally ensure your safety.”

Use her, wasn’t that what everyone wanted? She pulled back from him, but kept her eyes on his shirt and vest. She didn’t know why she couldn’t face him, but the idea of making eye contact seemed beyond her ability. 

“You say that but you’re the one who helped put me in danger to begin with.” Bitterness colored her tone, and she made no attempt to hide it. Ire began to build within her and, with it, her ability to finally look up and make eye contact. “And you claim to protect me now, but from what? Ingram? My own people?”

“Ingram?” Bard asked in surprise. “That little weasel on your grandfather’s council?”

Bilba flushed in annoyance. “He’s braver than you! At least he tried to protect the mountain, rather than sell us out at the first chance.”

Bard’s eyes narrowed. “Did he send you out there? Is that what happened?” 

Bilba glared at him and stepped back, crossing her arms. “He was trying to save us! He’s braver than anyone else on the council.”

“He’s an idiot,” Bard said, his voice almost a growl. “Not to mention conniving, underhanded, and corrupt. I wouldn’t trust him farther than I could throw him.”

Bilba stamped her foot in irritation. “Ingram is the only person, so far, to show a shred of concern about my well being, which is more than I can say for some.”

“He’s a parasite.” Bard’s voice had risen, and he’d raised a finger to punctuate his point. “He rides on the success of others, because he lacks the intelligence, or ability to do anything for himself.”

“That’s not true!” Gathering her skirts up around her knees once more, Bilba went to stomp away, only to stop as Bard grabbed her arm. 

“Where do you think you’re going, young lady?” Bard demanded. 

“To see Ingram,” Bilba shot back. “It might be possible to still get people out before that barbarian gets here.”

“You’re not seeing him,” Bard said, pulling her back. “That asshole nearly killed you!”

“He wasn’t aiming at me!” Bilba nearly shouted. “It was a mistake!”

“It was an attempted assassination!” Bard grabbed her by the upper arms again, not hard, but with enough force to get her attention. “Listen to me, Bilba. He sent you out there expecting you to be killed. When it didn’t happen, he had an archer try to do the job. The only reason you’re alive is because Frerin pulled you away in time.”

“Liar.” Bilba’s voice trembled slightly. “You’re lying. Ingram wouldn’t hurt me. He said–”

“He lied,” Bard cut in, gently. “Bilba. Sweetheart, listen to me. Of the two of us, who deserves your trust. Me or him?”

Bilba wanted to say Ingram. She really did. Bard had betrayed her. He’d sided with the Durins, and taken up arms against Erebor. Ingram had done the exact opposite. He’d stayed behind when her grandfather had fled. He’d come up with a plan to try and save the mountain, and her along with it. 

So she really, really wanted to say Ingram. 

She should say Ingram. 

She should…except…she didn’t actually know Ingram. She’d seen him, certainly, and knew who he was of course. She’d pictured herself talking to him, dancing with him, in a ball, but she didn’t know him. 

And Bard…

Everything he’d done…siding with the Durins…tricking her now…betraying her…none of it could erase the years upon years of memories she had with him and Sigrid. Birthdays, trips, days spent with Sigrid following Bard about his daily tasks. Memories of riding on his shoulders as  little girl, or him talking them all out to fish on a sunny day. Those trips had mostly ended after her parents died but, even so, but the relationship had continued. The time she was allowed to spend with Bard and his family represented the only true thread of happiness that had followed her after her parents had gone. 

She’d felt like she still mattered, and even if she didn’t understand why he and Sigrid had made the choices they’d made, and she’d tried to push it aside and bury it…she couldn’t change that one simple truth. 

She trusted Bard. 

He’d released her arms, and she still stood with her skirts gathered up, studying the rock beneath her feet. She did trust Bard, even when she didn’t understand the choices he’d made…but she still wasn’t convinced that Ingram had actually tried to have her killed. Bard hadn’t been there. His suspicion could be the result of an honest misunderstanding. 

And none of that mattered at all in light of the soldiers who, even then, were probably marching through the tunnels toward the interior of the mountain. 

She hadn’t led the elven woman through the tunnels to save Ingram. She’d done it to save Josie, and the rest of the innocent people in the mountain. 

She looked up at Bard, and saw his expression change as he read hers. “Bilba…”

He started to reach for her, only to have her jump back, out of the way. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I do trust you, but I don’t trust the Durins.”

He made another grab at her but, with her skirts safely gathered up, she was lighter on her feet, and far more nimble than he was. She darted out of the way and, in one quick spin, turned her back on him and darted away. 

Straight into the mountain.