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Chapter Text

Zürich is a pleasant town in spring. The trees bloom, and even though the sun is warm on the water, a cool breeze blowing in from the lake ruffles Bilbo's hair. With a sigh he reaches up to restore some order to his curls - he really ought to get them cut.

But between classes, his forthcoming book on geography practices in Eastern Asia (his editor just mailed him the sixth round of final changes) and getting used to another country that is simultaneously more and less like his hometown in rural England he forgets about these things. He regularly forgets to buy groceries, and then finds himself staring go smacked at his empty fridge. And in Zürich, unlike in Berkeley, supermarkets close early.

Really, he'd rather be in his office and start on the comparative project he has always wanted to do. Geography practices are a painfully understudied subject in anthropology, and they do reveal and reflect much about the cultures that produced them.

Instead, Gandalf is making him wait in the perhaps most touristy part of town, in one of the overpriced cafés catering almost exclusively to tourists. He'd better pick up the bill, Bilbo thinks as he takes a sip of his tea. It may not be a Swiss specialty, but they do know how to get it right. Or perhaps they just have enough money to import the not-cheap brands.

"Bilbo," a familiar voice calls and he turns to look over his shoulder.

Gandalf, eclectically dressed as ever in a grey ensemble – the main features seem to be a matching beanie and scarf – approaches at a relaxed stroll. Only when he drops down in the chair opposite Bilbo he takes of his sunglasses.

“It’s been a while,” he greets and judging from his tan he’s been out of country for a while as well.

Bilbo hums. “Indeed,” he says, and then decides to cut to the point, “I was a bit surprised when you mailed me. Didn’t you like it in --- wherever?”

Gandalf chuckles. “Oh, I rather enjoyed Bolivia. But, you know, visa extensions…”

“Really?” Bilbo raises an eyebrow, “Bolivia did not extend your visa? What were you doing?”

“Working,” Gandalf replies evasively, “You know I’m a political scientist.”

“And advisor to various governments,” Bilbo adds, “Though Bolivia did not require your services, did they?”

Gandalf sighs. “No, they did not. And I’m afraid they won’t in the next decade, either.”

Bilbo’s curiosity is piqued, but he stops himself from asking. The less he knows of Gandalf’s work the better – already the fact that they are friends has provoked the one or other not so friendly question at international conferences.

“So you got yourself kicked out of South America and called me up,” Bilbo summarizes and leans back. Behind Gandalf he sees the water glitter in the sunlight. “Which makes me wonder, why?”

Gandalf straightens and casts a glance down at his folded hands before he turns back to Bilbo. “When I was traveling I came in contact with somebody quite interesting,” Gandalf announces in a hushed voice, “He was looking for a fictional place.”

“El Dorado?” Bilbo hazards, though if the treasure hunter sought El Dorado in Bolivia he can’t have paid much attention to the sources.

“No,” Gandalf replies with a smile, “And it’s not one of the places Eco listed in his latest book, either.”

Bilbo frowns. “That leaves still a lot of options.” It’s not that Eco’s books don’t fill up almost an entire shelf in his office. And he can’t strictly claim he doesn’t enjoy reading him either. But sometimes he wonders how the man selects his sources.

“Yes, and that is why I immediately thought of you,” Gandalf concludes.

Suddenly the gulls screeching behind them sound incredibly sarcastic. Bilbo drinks the last of his tea before directing a glare at his old friend.

“Gandalf,” he sighs, “Really. Who is it, what place were they looking for and why did you think of me?”

And Gandalf’s grin widens. “His name is Thorin Durinson. The place a secret.”

Bilbo almost drops his teacup. Thorin Durinson? What is the world coming to? Last time he checked Thorin Durinson was a highly successful Canadian oil magnate who couldn’t care less about anthropology, or cultural geography.

He barely even hears Gandalf add: “And I was thinking that you, as a geographer specializing in cultural geography, might be just the right person to help him out.”

Bilbo is not certain if he is the right person. But Gandalf doesn’t care. Thorin Durinson does not appear to, either. So within a week Bilbo is called out of class by his dean and told to take the term off for research – a sponsor had offered the university a grant for a two lecturer positions on the condition Bilbo is given leave.

Bilbo grumbles, but cannot protest. So once Thursday rolls around, he finds himself boarding a flight to Calgary in order to meet Thorin Durinson.

***

Twelve hours later the plane touches down on tarmac. Even though flying first class meant Bilbo had enough space to stretch out and sleep (not that, being relatively small, economy is too much of a hassle for him), he’s barely caught more than a nap.

Most of the flight was spent reading up on what he knows and imagining the first meeting with Thorin Durinson. On the pictures the man always looks foreboding and menacing – all dark hair and intense, cold blue eyes. Attractive, certainly, but right now Bilbo feels rather intimidated.

Which is ridiculous. He is being intimidated by a picture.

Bilbo shakes his head and reminds himself to smile and be polite to the lady at the immigration counter. Ever since a colleague from Berkeley managed to get himself kicked out of Russia by annoying the border officer, he makes certain to be on his best behavior. Though the lady checks his passport, nods and then presses down the seal.

Wearily Bilbo drags himself through and to his surprise realizes that baggage claim and passenger pick-up are happening in the same area. Which also serves as the airport’s arrival hall.

Well, he thinks to himself, it’s not the smallest international airport he’s ever been to. That dubious honor he believes belongs to Mataveri on Rapa Nui.

“Mister Baggins?” somebody inquires and Bilbo glances up.

And up. Until he sees a bald head with tattoos and sunglasses. The man seems to be made from pure muscle that bulges underneath his sharply cut suit. Bilbo swallows.

“Yes?” he squeaks.

“Mister Durinson would like to meet you as soon as possible,” the man states.

“Now?” Bilbo asks and swallows. He feels sweaty – he just spent twelve hours on a plane and he’d rather take a shower and grab some clean clothes first.

“Yes,” the man returns, “I will drop you off at your hotel later. Name’s Dwalin, if you have any questions.”

“Ah, no,” Bilbo stammers, and belatedly remembers his manners, “Thank you…”

***

Bilbo tells himself over and over again not to be intimidated. Durinson has money, he knows that. But the henchman Durinson sends certainly does not look like the typical taxi pick-up conferences sent to the airport to retrieve their participants.

A too short ride later Dwalin directs the car into the garage of a tall skyscraper somewhere in downtown Calgary. Bilbo forces himself to swallow down his anxiety as Dwalin leads him toward an escalator and presses the topmost buttons.

The ride is spent in uncomfortable silence.

Eventually the doors open with a soft ping, and though a set of wide-open double doors Bilbo gazes into a spacious office and out over town through a ceiling-high window front. The view is breathtaking, and for a moment he feels dizzy.

Then Dwalin moves, the spell breaks and Bilbo manages to stumble forward.

Bilbo's heart skips as a beat as icy blue eyes find his. Thorin Durinson radiates power and tightly coiled strength even seated behind a wide desk. Dwalin says something, but Bilbo barely hears it.

When Thorin pushes aside a document and rises, he finally remembers himself and steps forward. Those cool eyes don't leave him as Thorin makes his way around the desk, and Bilbo feels himself being assessed. Stripped, even. He involuntarily straightens his back, telling himself to calm down. One of the world's most powerful industrials or not, Thorin Durinson is a human being and if the academic grapevine is to be believed, not a particularly good one.

"Professor Baggins," Thorin greets and grips Bilbo's hand firmly, "You read ancient maps?"

His tone suggests severe doubts and Bilbo feels the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise. Unfortunately, he has to tile his head backward to meet Durinson's gaze.

"I'm not a linguist," Bilbo replies, "My interest lies with cultural geography."

"So what legendary places have you located? Gandalf told me this was your skill," Thorin comments.

Bilbo bristles. "Gandalf ought to know better than make such generalizing statements. Mythical places are just that - locating them geographically does not mean they exist as such. The word myth already implies as much, if people would actually pay attention to what they're saying."

Thorin snorts. "I don't have time for word games, Mister Baggins. If you cannot help me, tell me and I will look for another anthropologist."

A week ago Bilbo had looked for a way to get out of the contract. Now, his blood thrums - he is considered one of the best in his field and he will not be cast aside carelessly by this oblivious capitalist. "If you let me look at your mysterious map, Mister Durinson, I might have a much better idea of what we are dealing with. I find it hard to draw conclusions if the other party is unwilling to give me as much as a name - if you had some experience in the field, you might know that there is more than one mythical place around. Also, you might -"

"Erebor," Thorin interrupts, "I am looking for Erebor."

Bilbo frowns, recalling the texts he knows mentioning this place. "The Lonely Mountain filled with gold and governed by dwarves?"

Thorin's eyebrows rise. "So you have heard of it."

"It's not very well known," Bilbo replies, "And rather not discussed currently. Sometime in the 80s somebody from Mexico rather convincingly argued Erebor had been a variation of the El Dorado myth reborn during the industrial revolution."

"But you don't believe that?" Thorin inquires and Bilbo can only shrug with a half-smile, "I doubt you'd be looking for Erebor if that was the case."

For the first time during the entire meeting Thorin smiles. Excitement shines in his eyes and Bilbo feels his heart flutter in response.

“Very well,” Thorin announces and only now offers his hand, “Welcome aboard then, Professor. Dwalin, take the Professor to Balin for the contract and then take him to see the map.”

 tbc

Chapter Text

The map is kept in a high security vault at an unremarkable branch building belonging to a Swiss bank. Bilbo is given a moment to change back at his hotel - though no chance to enjoy the luxurious bed provided - before his driver, a cheerful fellow named Bofur - spirits him away once more.

"Balin," the man introduces himself with a warm smile, "Chief Organisational Officer, but in here I'm in charge of safekeeping our cultural treasures."

Bilbo shakes his hand, blinking. Of course, he's seen Balin's face in the press before, and it shouldn't be surprising that more of the company’s board members are involved, and did he just say "our cultural heritage"?

When he asks, Balin's smile gains an edge that gives Bilbo an idea just how that man made his way up in the hierarchy. "That's for Thorin to explain. But according to the documents we retrieved, they strongly hint that Erebor is more than just a mythical place."

For now, Bilbo contents himself to nod. But if there was truly an Ereborean culture - shouldn't there be more survivors? Shouldn't at least public memory or oral history turn up some references? More than the very infrequent mentions of Erebor in dusty old texts compiled sometime during the last three centuries?

"These are the documents we managed to procure," Balin explains as he leads Bilbo down a number of corridors before stopping and unlocking an elevator by his fingerprint, "We are ninety-percent positive all of them are authentic. Though we have yet to make sense of them."

He smiles at Bilbo and gestures at him to step inside the elevator.

"Before you view them, however, Thorin has asked you sign a contract," Balin offers, "I'll act as witness, so this will go quickly."

"What kind of a contract?" Bilbo inquires. As the elevator rushes downward, his palms grow sweaty.

Balin shrugs. "The usual. If you work with the documents, it will be in service of our company. Any publications and references must be approved by the company, and in exchange the company would further require your services in eventual field work."

"And if the fieldwork turns dangerous?" Bilbo asks thinking of his colleagues who regularly have to evacuate sites in Iran or Libya. The elevator chimes and Balin leads him into another windowless corridor.

"You needn't go if there is substantial danger, though the company will cover anything that happens regardless of where the fieldwork will need to be conducted." Balin replies and punches in a number code next to a steel door.

With a hiss it opens and Bilbo hums unhappily. Inside, several documents are placed on a desk to the left, while two other doors occupy both the wall to the right and the one in front of them.

“To the right is an office you can use. The documents are straight ahead, as well as the map, “Balin explains, “But first the contract.”

From the pile of various documents Balin procures one set of papers with uncanny precision and hands it to Bilbo. He swallows, looks at it and first sees the usual clauses, before the document descends into obscure legal language covering several pages.

Bilbo sets it down. “What am I signing, Mister Fundin?”

Balin, who is already proffering a pen, shrugs. “Nothing unusual. Your monthly salary, and a possible bonus in case of success. Insurance coverage for any harm sustained while involved in the project and a secrecy clause.”

“A secrecy clause?” Bilbo asks and feels his eyebrows climb to his hairline.

“Aye,” Balin replies and Bilbo wonders if the man originally came from Scotland. The accent, however, is faint enough that he isn’t quite certain.

“What do you mean? I’m quite used to keeping unpublished studies away from the public, but in my field you share your results with the colleagues you trust before publishing,” Bilbo says with a frown.

“You are very much required to share your findings with the others on the team,” Balin answers, “But nobody beyond that.”

He offers no further explanation and Bilbo nods with a small sigh. If he needs input from his colleagues, he will bring the issue up then. For now, he scans the contract for other unsettling or surprising clauses, but finds nothing.

And anyway – he has already packed his bags, cancelled his classes and nobody back in Zürich misses or waits for him.

***

Little does Bilbo know that in the office on the topmost floor of the building, Thorin Durinson is gazing contemplatively out of the window instead of studying the report on his desk. There is no smile on his face, but anybody who knows him would have observed he looked almost cheerful.

Professor Baggins, Thorin thinks to himself, is rather different from what the somewhat dull CV promised. Perhaps Gandalf hadn’t been so wrong in his recommendation. Thorin still isn’t going to ever contract Gandalf as a policy advisor again (the company is still banned from Venezuela and the Vatican), but he is a respected scholar after all.

Maybe he could interest Bilbo Baggins in the position.

Thorin snorts. The fellow himself had rather loudly proclaimed to be an anthropologist, and as open as Thorin is in his hiring practices, he doubts HR would greenlight an anthropologist who specializes in cultural geography for a policy position.

And he hasn’t seen any proof to back up Baggins’ claims yet. But the professor had appeared confident, and Thorin had found he rather liked the spark in those wide eyes.

***

Balin provides Bilbo with the necessary access codes to the parts of the building, and then disappears down the corridor. Dwalin has long since vanished, and Bilbo finds himself standing in the windowless room.

A part of him is tired. The long flight, the meeting with Thorin, the contract – his mind hasn’t had a chance to truly process all that has happened in the last hours. But for now he doesn’t feel sleepy, and instead his curiosity gets the best of him.

So Bilbo strips of his jacket, rests it over the back of his chair – or what will become his chair in the weeks to come – and explores. The side room that is his office, considering that it has no windows, appears surprisingly comfortable. A number of lamps provide more than enough light, the double monitors connects to a computer that runs faster than anything Bilbo’s encounter at any university yet and the desk is large enough to accommodate even his habit of stacking books and paper (at least for the first two weeks. After that he may well migrate parts of his papers to the floor).

Whistling, he wanders back out and opens the door to the library. And smiles when he finds three well-stocked shelves. One, he sees provides reference materials – basics of geography, map-making, statistics. Another shelf houses dictionaries for all sorts of languages, including the rare edition of Language of Maps, which Bilbo would have sorted in the first shelf. Though he’s rather glad that this one is present – his students commonly miss it when composing their papers. On the far wall he spies a number of ancient tomes, mixed with magazines and maps holding paper clippings. The primary sources, then.

But what catches his attention most is the safe set into the wall.

Balin had given him the code immediately after he’d signed the contract, and Bilbo wonders just how much faith they’re putting in him.

The answer occurs to him the moment he opens the safe, puts on gloves and takes out the map.

“A facsimile,” Bilbo smiles to himself. And somehow feels relieved as the facsimile already gives the impression of having been based on an incredibly aged and fragile document. As familiar as Bilbo is with these materials, he still possesses a healthy respect for the fragility of aged paper and prefers to work with copies or photographs. At least there he can leave marks and comments – and no librarian will threaten gruesome murder once scribbles appear on the margins of 19th century books.

But as he holds the map up and studies it, he feels his curiosity grow. At first glance it appears proportional, but as Bilbo looks closer, he doubts that impression. The map is decorated with tiny drawings of mountains, rivers, lakes, trees and houses, given the idea of either a small scale, or a non-proportional visualization of distances.

Which betrays as little as the map’s highly stylized inscriptions. They exclude the oldest of maps, but everything after 1500 is fair game. Bilbo has to squint before some of the letters make sense – it’s not a cursive he has seen before, though it evokes the idea of having been written with a brush and not a quill or pen.

None of the place-names ring a bell. The map names Erebor, Mirkwood and the Misty Mountains, but Bilbo has never heard of either of them. The small drawings of spiders and a larger depiction of a slender and long dragon don’t provide obvious clue, and Bilbo smiles to himself.

If it had been easy, Thorin Oakenshield wouldn’t have needed to hire an anthropologist.

***

A week passes, and Bilbo fails to see anything of Calgary, and the map proves resilient. He’s come to a point where he believes to be able to refute an identification of Erebor with El Dorado with certainty, provided the map he is looking at is authentic.

Rather, the brush strokes and the elongated shape of the dragon make him wonder if he should not be looking east.

He also wonders if he should ask to see the original, ask if it’s been x-rayed and dated. His own guess would see a late date of composition – mid- to late 19th century, with an intentional invocation of older traditions – but there’s no need for him to guess if modern technology can provide an exact date anyway.

Rather he turns his attention to connecting the map to known geographical traditions or match its symbols to other maps. None of the places turn up anything: Misty Mountains, the logic behind the name suggests, may exclude some locations like the Atlas in Morocco and the part of the Andes crossing through the Atacama. He’s rather certain neither of the poles are implicated since human settlement there to this day poses a challenge, and he still remembers Thorin referencing to Erebor as a culture, not merely one mountain.

Also, the map suggests it to be reachable over land and not too far from large forested areas. Which also gives Bilbo the notion that while rain-forest covered mountains as those in New Zealand, Brasil and Peru are out of question: these mountains are certainly misty, and Erebor is clearly marked as close to a forest, but not covered in it.

This still leaves him with the majority of Northern America, Sothern Africa, Europe and Asia.

Still, Bilbo hums under his breath as he makes his way downtown on a bright Sunday morning, fully intent on sitting down and trying to narrow down the language family the name “Erebor” itself could belong to.

However, to his surprise his office is already occupied.

For a moment he just stands there, frozen in the doorway, while his mind tries to catch up. Students? Here? And only few of his male students ever had long hair. Or dressed in quite so much leather…

“You must be Mister Boggins!” the dark-haired one exclaims suddenly and bounds over and takes Bilbo by the shoulders before he can make a move to avoid the grab. The smile blinds him, and Bilbo thinks he can’t be older than 18.

“You look younger than I thought,” not-his-student number two comments. This one is blond, not quite as tall as the other one, but shares the cheeky twinkle in the eyes. Bilbo realizes that they must be related – before he’s abruptly spun around.

“I like him,” not-his-student number one declares, “He looks nice. And squishy.”

Bilbo blinks, stutters, while the blond one merely raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” and with that the one currently holding Bilbo in place with a slightly-too-firm grip turns back to the dumbfounded anthropologist, “You know, we were kinda expecting some white-haired old geezer, but Dwalin said you weren’t all that old, and uncle seemed rather convinced, so we just had to meet you!”

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo finally manages to make his voice work again, “But who are you?”

The beaming smile grows impossibly brighter. “Kili!”

“And Fili,” the other one adds smoothly, “Pleased to meet you, professor.”

Brothers then, Bilbo conjectures, and their parents must have been interested in some kind of unusual culture, because he’s taught a number of students with uncommon names, but these are new. Kili moves again, apparently having forgotten that he still has a firm hold on Bilbo’s shoulders and forces him along.

“So, have you found it?” Kili asks, “Where are we going? Uncle’s really been looking forward, and we need to know when to apply for a leave from uni – they’re not that strict, but it’ll be easier if we can get it worked out before the next term starts.”

Bilbo finally manages to get a hold on Kili’s arm and forces him to stop and loosen his grip. “Slow down, slow down,” he says, “I … just who are you exactly?”

Kili blinks, confused, but Fili inclines his head. “Thorin is our uncle,” he explains, “We have a somewhat personal interest in Erebor.”

There is a hard glint beyond that jovial smile and for a moment Bilbo remembers that this quest is more than an academic exercise. Much money has already been invested, and as he’s seen in his encounter with Thorin, his nephew, too, display an interest that goes beyond a business venture.

Their reasons for searching Erebor, the analytical, detached part of Bilbo’s mind suggests, are deeply connected with their identity. Thorin himself had referred to Erebor as a culture – so finding Erebor for these people then is equivalent to relocating their own culture. And their origins.

“Alright,” he mutters and disentangles Kili’s hands from his clothes. For a moment he wonders if he actually ought to believe them – but this facility is well-protected, so Bilbo doubts they managed to bypass security in secrecy.

“As for Erebor,” he says, “Determining the exact location will take some time. At this point, it may very well happen that the texts will indicate it’s nothing but a construct.”

Kili’s eyes widen and Fili’s mouth turns into a thin, hard line. “It isn’t,” he declares stubbornly.

Bilbo shrugs. “Perhaps. All I am saying is that at this point textual evidence point to neither conclusively and we must keep our minds open to all possibilities.”

“But you’ll find it, won’t you, professor?” Kili asks and gives Bilbo the most heart-warming look he’s gotten in a long time, “If it’s out there you’ll find it.”

“I’ll certainly do my utmost,” Bilbo promises, “But for that you’ll have to let me get to my desk first.”

“Certainly,” Fili agrees smoothly, “Actually, professor, we were here to offer our support. We may not have too much research experience, but we certainly can help. So please let us know in case you need somebody to help you out.”

Bilbo blinks, momentarily floored by the offer. Then he smiles. “Thank you. I’ll certainly come back to that if I get to the point- actually, there was one thing I was wondering: the map I have here is a facsimile. Do you know whether the original has been x-rayed, dated and checked for former layers, faded marks or invisible ink?”

Fili takes a moment to answer. “Err. I think they dated it. But you should ask Balin. Or Ori. Have you met Ori?”

Without listening to Bilbo’s protests, the siblings take him to meet Ori, a young linguist whose office is just two floors above Bilbo’s. The young man’s eyes light up.

“Professor Baggins,” he exclaims, “It’s great to meet you! Your last article on the development of map making practices was amazing – is that going to be part of a book?”

Kili bursts into giggles as Ori energetically shakes Bilbo’s hand and it needs a moment until Bilbo has gathered himself enough to reply. “Err. Actually. That was a stand-alone. But, well. You never know.”

“I would love to read it,” Ori assures emphatically, “And I’m really glad you’re with us. Do you think you could help with an article? But not if it interferes with the quest, of course. When did you arrive here? How do you like Canada?”

Bilbo, not unused to barrages of questions courtesy of enthusiastic students, blinks. “I. Well. I will, if you’d like me to. Though, linguistics aren’t my area. But, yes. And uhm, I got here a week ago. I think. And it’s nice?”

He can’t quite help phrasing it as a question. Ever since he started the research, he’s lost any sense for time. The underground office doesn’t help – neither does the persisting jetlag.

“Did you go up to the mountains?” Fili asks conversationally, “There is still some snow left if you want to go skiing.”

“I don’t ski,” Bilbo answers.

“It’s also nice for hiking,” Kili adds.

And Bilbo shrugs. The Rocky Mountains are visible from his hotel room on a clear day or when he’s actually there at a decent time. He hasn’t paid much attention to his surroundings – which Bilbo doesn’t think is odd for somebody specializing in cultural geography. He just sometimes chooses not to notice his surroundings.

“I haven’t been there,” he replies, and all three gasp dramatically.

“What?” Kili exclaims, “You haven’t been to Banff? Moraine Lake? Went up the Icefield Highway?”

“Or down to Waterton,” Fili says, “You really should go!”

“Or have you been there before already?” Ori suggests.

Bilbo smiles wryly and shakes his head. He’s been on conferences in Montreal and Vancouver, but the sightseeing program then had not extended this far. The three before him, however, appear deeply shocked.

***

And this is how Bilbo finds himself settled in a car with Fili, Kili, Ori, Ori’s older brother Nori (whom Bilbo can’t quite make sense of yet) and Ori’s other older brother Dori behind the wheel. The academic part of his brain remarks on the peculiar character of their names – rhymes, clear sounds, short. Northern, perhaps, but he isn’t certain whether the closed pronunciation of the Rs is owed to the English they’re conversing in.

As they’re not speeding – Dori is a very conscientious driver, but after so many years on the Swiss-German border where Bilbo gained the impression people were attempting to break the sound barrier with their cars, every driver appears conscientious. Anyway, they’re progressing at a legal, safe speed toward the mountain and it’s a clear and sunny day and Bilbo allows for the infectious optimism to catch.

Not even the busloads of tourists can spoil anyone’s mood. Not when Moraine Lake glitters invitingly in the sun, the last snows from the glaciers just touching the waterline.

“Up there’s a nice hike,” Kili says and point up to right, where all Bilbo sees is the sign warning of bears. “Get’s a bit tricky toward the end, but the view’s worth it.”

“There may be still snow up on the pass,” Ori cautions.

“Yes, though if you want to go hiking, Bofur said Crypt Lake’s open already.” Fili chimes in. “If you’re up to it.” He waggles his eyebrows.

Bilbo – who has done his fair share of hiking ever since he moved to the Swiss – smiles serenely in return. “As long as it doesn’t require climbing gear, I’m in.”

“Maybe some other time?” Ori asks from the side, “I don’t think we’d make it up and down again before nightfall. And we still need to drive back.”

“You can sleep in the car,” Dori adds, “But you’re not equipped for hiking. So I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on you doing it another time. Thorin wouldn’t forgive me if I let anything happen to his little researcher.”

Bilbo’s smile tightens while Kili throws an arm around his shoulders. “Right, right,” he cheers, “Bilbo’s important. Can’t risk him, can we.”

Their small group nods in good humor, though something in Bilbo tenses. “I think you’re overestimating my importance,” he mutters, ducking his head slightly.

“Nonsense,” Dori calls out from where he’s started leading them over a rocky slope, a full picnic basket slung over his shoulder, “You are so far the only one who has even taken the map seriously.”

“Really?” Bilbo asks, as he makes to follow. The slope is easier than expected – there is a well-cut staircase hidden among the rocks. Worn from the masses of tourists that come this way during the height of summer.

“Yes,” Fili adds, “A somewhat distant cousin of ours works with city planning down in Atlanta. He’s taken a look and downright started laughing.”

“Said it looked like the treasure map of a five-year old wannabe pirate,” Kili adds from the back of the group.

“That’s not very nice,” Bilbo comments, “At least they --- oh, isn’t that nice?”

Their new position allows another view over the lake. Under the sun the color appears a deep, electric blue – minerals, Bilbo knows – but the play of bright blue, the deep green of fir trees and the white and grey of stone and snow take his breath away.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” ,Fili comments next to him, “And I think Erebor must be somewhat similar.”

Bilbo perks up, even as he begins to follow Dori down. “How so?”

Fili gestures to the landscape. “Mountains. A lake. It’s all on the map, isn’t it?”

“And didn’t they find the map in some place like this, too?” Kili adds cheerfully, bouncing past them to where Dori is spreading a blanket over a bench.

Bilbo blinks, wondering why this little tidbit was missing from the information he’s collected so far. “The map was found? Where and when?”

Ori is the one who nods. “Just about ten years ago,” he explains, “You probably heard of Shangri-La having been discovered in China? There is one large Monastery, and they’ve been renovating it and discovered some old texts that had been hidden, the map among them.”

So how did it end up with Thorin, Bilbo wonders. From colleagues working in Chinese archives, he knows that certain documents can be neigh impossible to access.

“They’ve been prepping the place for tourists,” Nori adds from the side. Bilbo flinches at the sudden reappearance, but Nori pays him no mind. Instead he winks. “They were more interested in cashing in on their findings – the place needed a lot of work. And if a foreign investor is willing to pay a decent sum for some old piece of paper – well.”

“They’d still have checked if it was a sensitive document before allowing an out-of-country buyer to purchase it,” Bilbo protests. Unless the business was completely illegal, of course.

Nori’s smile is toothy. “Aye, and isn’t that interesting?”

Before Bilbo can puzzle about that tidbit of information, Dori opens up the basket and procures a beautiful spread of breads, sweet and salty snack and a thermos filled with tea. Kili and Fili have dropped down already, and Bilbo leisurely joins them on the blanket.

“Perhaps Erebor’s the real Shangri-La,” Kili suggests with his eyes fixed on the mountains before them.

Bilbo casts a wry smile in his direction. “It’s a fiction,” he reminds, gently. “Thought,” he adds with a shrug, “They’re certainly doing their utmost to make people forget.”

And people are joining merrily on that endeavor, Bilbo adds to himself. That’s what – to him – makes the entire process so utterly fascinating.

“But didn’t you write the distinction of fictional and real is useless?” Ori protests, a frown on his face.

“I did, and that’s true,” Bilbo says, “And to be accurate, in case of Shangri-La it doesn’t matter where it’s originated – as maps represent ideas of places, the places we built themselves are, often, constructions of what an imagined community believes a place ought to be. Authenticity is but a construct.”

But his mind starts spinning. If the map was found at Shangri-La, or rather Xianggelila County, then this might constitute a connection. The map is the only of its kind, as far as he knows, and hadn’t Bilbo wondered about the stylized dragon and the brush strokes characterizing the writing?

Perhaps the clue he thought to obvious wasn’t all that wrong, and that map truly originated to China. Perhaps it represents a Chinese rendition of another culture.

tbc

Chapter Text

In comparison to Erebor the Shangri-La myth, in spite of its fairly recent origin, is fairly well documented. Bilbo cannot help the wry sense of amusement that assails him as he pursues the tourist guidebooks that enthusiastically engage the myth.

Marketing has gone all out in order to establish Xianggelila County – formerly little-known Zhongdian or Gyalthang County – as Shangri-La. But while the constant affirmation of these ties brings forth an eclectic selection of historical sources, they also overshadow other accounts of local history. Bilbo, trying to look into the monastery where the map originated, frowns when most texts end up being unhelpful.

“I think I can translate that,” Ori tells him when Bilbo finally manages to track down a decent account of the monastery’s history. “Balin is more skilled with classical texts, but this is written in 1996, not merely published then?”

Bilbo nods. “As far as I can tell.”

“Alright. Give me a week or so,” Ori comments and begins to browse the article.

“If possible, take a look on where the monastery’s scriptures came from,” Bilbo adds, “I’ll have a look at the travel accounts.”

The accounts, however, are resilient. One Joseph Rock left not only writing, but also photographs from the early 20thies century. Bilbo spends half a day reading through it, but he cannot shake the feeling that these accounts are too new. The map – though he’s still awaiting the exact date – appears older.

What strikes him are the repeated mentions of varying local cultures. And the comments on how removed from Beijing, and even Xi’an the entire region seems. How different its cultures are.

Bilbo tilts his head. The map, with its brush-written runes, is certainly unique.

And as much as modern fiction is not a reliable source, he cannot quite stop himself from taking Hilton’s Lost Horizon off the shelf. Shangri-La is a recent creation, without doubt. And yet –

Bilbo leans back and stares at the wall. Kili has pinned up a picture from their outing to Moraine Lake right next to a photocopy of the map. A list of translations for the runes hangs next to it.

Hilton set up Shangri-La to be a place appearing Tibetan, but being mixed under the surface. The general assumption is he based his descriptions on Rock’s articles (though there is no proof), and Rock commented on a wide variety of cultures. Rock also travelled not only in Tibet, Sichuan and Qinghai, but also in Yunnan, the province where they’re now proclaiming to have discovered said Shangri-La. And where the map was found.

Bilbo feels his lips curl up. It’s a tentative hypothesis – but it does look promising.

***

About ten minutes after he’s mailed his findings to Thorin, he receives a reply asking him to come to Thorin’s office. Even though they parted on good terms, and Bilbo is rather confident he’s made a good impression on Thorin’s nephews, he can’t quite stop his stomach from twisting.

The way up to Thorin’s office feels much shorter this time around, and when he arrives on the top floor, it’s Dori who waves him forward. “He’s expecting you,” he greets, “And have you had dinner yet?”

Bilbo blinks and a glance out of the window tells him the sun is setting. The last meal he remembers having is breakfast in his hotel room, and Dori just clucks and shakes his head. “Really, Ori is the same,” he tells Bilbo, “Always forgetting to eat. In you go, and after we’ll get you something to eat.”

A bit confused as to the sudden coddling of his person, Bilbo at first doesn’t realize there is another person in Thorin’s office.

“… a risk,” Dwalin is saying with a dark frown on his face.

Thorin shakes his head. “There’s always a risk.”

“At least upgrade security,” Dwalin replies, “I see the point in pretending to be blind until they show their hand, but not without taking precautions.”

Bilbo decides right then to awkwardly clear his throat before he hears anything he really shouldn’t. “Everything alright?” he inquires and pretends not to notice how Dwalin’s hand disappears under his suit.

“Quite so, Mister Baggins, quite so,” Dwalin mutters, “Though you’re surprisingly silent.”

“Old skill,” Bilbo forces a chuckle from his dry throat, hyperaware of Thorin silently watching the exchange, “My parents’ house was full of creaky floorboards. I needed to make being silent an art if I even wanted to reach the fridge without waking everybody.”

Dwalin raises an eyebrow in appreciation, and then inclines his head to Thorin. “We’ll discuss it later, then.”

Thorin agrees and then Dwalin pushes past Bilbo and leaves him standing there, somewhat confused.

“Don’t let him worry you,” Thorin says abruptly and moves over to the table before his desk, “I pay him to worry.”

He waves Bilbo over and fills up two water glasses. “So what have you found? You said Asia?”

Bilbo sits down and takes a deep breath. The setting sun casts a golden light to everything – and Bilbo, who’s always had a weakness for beautiful sunsets, cannot help but smile faintly.

“Yes, I’m fairly certain,” he tells Thorin. The light gives his skin a warm glow and luckily Bilbo is somewhat experienced at speaking through distractions. “If we take into account the location of the map and the mythology and historical sources describing the surrounding area, as well as the oddity that the runes on the map obviously were written with a brush, the pieces come together quite nicely.”

“Yunnan, then?” Thorin asks. A spark is lit in his eyes when they find Bilbo’s.

Bilbo tilts his head. “It’s still too early to say. There is a chance it might be Yunnan, but it could also be Sichuan or Tibet. Northern Burma is a possibility, too. Once we have the age of the map, we might be able to make more of it.”

“Bifur is looking into it, he’ll have the results by the end of the week,” Thorin answers evenly. “Will you need anything else?”

“I’m still looking at sources and collection proof for my hypothesis, so no. Once the map is dated and I have translations for a number of histories, I’ll have to look again,” Bilbo says. He also thinks he may have to travel there at one point, but refrains from saying so for now.

Thorin nods thoughtfully, and then offers Bilbo a small smile. “Impressive work, professor. And you’ve only been here for two weeks.”

Bilbo flushes. “It .. your nephews actually gave me the idea to look into the entire Shangri-La mythology.”

“Did they?” Thorin raises an eyebrow, “Well, I’m glad they’re doing more than just making a nuisance of themselves.”

“They’re nice boys,” Bilbo protests reflexively.

“I heard they took you sightseeing last weekend?” Thorin asks.

Bilbo wonders for a moment whether his contract perhaps didn’t allow for that, but then reminds him that Thorin is legally obliged to let him have time off. And he can spend that time however he wants.

“They did,” he replies shortly.

Thorin chuckles. “Plans to repeat it this weekend?”

“None that they have shared with me,” Bilbo shrugs. He hadn’t planned the first outing either, but he won’t say no to another. As fun as research is, he does enjoy company.

“Then how about having lunch with me tomorrow?” Thorin asks and leans forward.

***

It’s in an exceptionally good mood that Bilbo returns to his underground office. Thorin’s smiles warm something in him and his regard makes him feel appreciated in a way even the most glowing reviews of his latest book haven’t accomplished. Dinner with Dori and Ori after had been enjoyable in an entirely different fashion: Dori had spent the majority of the time groaning about Nori – who apparently once again had left the country without bothering to inform anybody – while Ori and Bilbo had quietly chewed away on their meals.

Back at his desk, he decides he is far from tired and has still enough energy to do some reading. So he takes off his jacket, tips back his chair and begins reading.

'They trade far and wide, and though their mountains are harsh and barren, they consider them their home and their presence sacred," Evariste Huc writes in his inflated travel diary. Within the two hours Bilbo had been reading, the man covered as little as three days of travel.

'And in their primitive naïveté confuse god's presence for that of mountain ghosts and tree spirits. Though in truth -'

Bilbo rolls his eyes. He's read through enough religious tirades so he merely scrolls through the next lines, waiting for the word god to disappear. Eventually, Evariste and his companions arrive at the next village which they regard with equal disdain.

'As ramshackle as the road this village presents, if I may even call it that. Their buildings are skewered and do offer little protection from the sharp wind, but their superstitions are omnipresent in the symbols painted on wall with yak blood. Except for their local priest no man can write and few can calculate. They have access to fields on a steep mountainside which they use to grow rice and stranger plants, most of which they trade for tools. If my eyes are not mistaken, these are of great quality, forged from iron and precious metals. The mountain, the villagers say, gives. The mountain is their god, and of course they would -'

Bilbo glances up, unsure what interrupted his concentration. The door to his office his closed, the night is silent - and then the world explodes.

He sees the door bend impossibly a split second before time catches up, he's thrown from his chair and across the room by an invisible force, and his vision fades into red as his head collides with the wall.

A moment later the room is filled with smoke and he hears heavy footsteps echo outside. Dust covers him, the desk is overturned before him and papers strewn across the floor.

"All clear," a deep voice calls, and there is a responding grunt.

"Good, then let's torch it," somebody else snorts. He hears shuffling, and his heart begins to race.

Burn it all down? But he -

His aching head spins. They want to destroy the documents – but why? Why would anybody try and hinder this academic exercise? Who even knows Thorin Durinson is interested in Erebor? Bilbo coughs into the crook of his elbow, dimly aware that he cannot let this happen. His stomach protests the movement, and his vision swims, and he probably has a concussion.

"The stuff's all over here," a third voice says, too close for comfort, "Good for us. Don't have to look too far, after all.”

"Heh, you say it," voice number one replies, "Not that I mind, but it's always such a mess if there's too many places."

"And people," number two says, "Good on us that it was only that guy upstairs."

Bilbo's heart skips a beat. Did they kill the night guard? Are they - but it's obvious, his mind reminds him. They're here to burn the place down, they won’t be scared of murder. His blood runs cold.

"Damn," number one says abruptly, "Did you take the gasoline, Bert?"

Bert makes a stifled noise. "'It was empty! Tom forgot to top it up."

"Still could've used it," number one shouts. Footsteps make their way past the desk, and Bilbo holds his breath. Dust, debris and paper cover him for now – but he feels them shift with each shudder that runs down his spine.

Number two seems unperturbed, "It's all paper anyway. That will burn nicely in itself."

"Alright. Tom, tell me you at least got a lighter."

“Aye,” Tom grunts, and Bilbo feels faint, “Here ‘t is.”

He needs to get out. If they’re going to set the place ablaze – the smoke makes his head swim, and something warm soaks the collar of his shirt. Bilbo covers his mouth, desperately trying to gulp in air.

“Then do it,” number one – the still nameless henchman utters. Bilbo hears footsteps again, far too close to his overturned desk for comfort, and they’ll see him in a second –

“Freeze!”

Bilbo’s heart jumps, and of course, security will have noticed something happening, but Bilbo barely sees anything except feet, and they’re all dangerously close. His vision blurs for a moment.

“Oi,” Bert snorts, “Whassat?”

“Freeze!” somebody roars and Bilbo hears the safety of a gun click. He freezes, terrified.

“Damnit,” Tom curses, and suddenly there’s shuffling, and the desk is pushed into Bilbo. The papers are sent flying, a boot catches Bilbo’s shoulder and he can’t quite suppress the grunt.

“Fre-“ the shout comes again.

Then the world twists abruptly, pain explodes in Bilbo’s side and his vision fades to black for a moment. When it reshapes again, his stomach is rebelling and he’s never felt so sick before. Something cold and hard digs into the back of his head, and he’s held up only by a trunk-like arm around his chest.

“… else we’ll shoot him!” Bert grunts and the vibration travels down Bilbo’s protesting spine. He blinks frantically, but his vision is hazy, skewered. There’s a black blob of color and he still smells smoke. Even the panic feels distant.

“… now!” And that is the still unnamed henchman shouting. Bilbo’s world blurs as he’s shaken, and a weak groan makes its way past his lips.

He’ll be sick, he thinks.

The gun Tom holds to his head strangely enough doesn’t upset him. Not when his vision is fading in and out, and all he wants to do is lie down and sleep.

“…the professor!” somebody else demands. The arm around his chest tightens, and Bilbo wonders if they’re moving or if he’s hallucinating. A swooshing sound rises in his ears, blurring out the conversation.

His eyelids are terribly heavy.

And then there’s a yell, something bright rushes past Bilbo and he’s falling but for the life of him can’t get his limbs to move. The world rushes past him – and then he’s caught. Hands find his shoulders, and he’s drawn against another body. A fine scent of pine hits him, and he feels soft fabric against his cheek.

A pounding ache blossoms in the back of his head, and his consciousness wavers. Colors blur into each other, and he doesn’t know what way is up. The pain is constant, blinding, though when he blinks he finds dark hair and a piercing gaze fixed at him.

The features are familiar, and Bilbo’s lips move of their own accord.

He’s been thinking about this for a while already, after all. “Thorin… your names …” he murmurs, and can’t even hear his own voice over the noise, “… so uncommon. … have to tell me … where. May… be a clue…”

He thinks the grip on his waist tightens. But it doesn’t matter, for the world finally falls silent and dark.

tbc

Chapter Text

Thorin stares at the limp body in his arms. Blood darkens the curls, though the pulse under his fingers is steady and strong. The professor is smaller and lighter than expected and dazedly Thorin bends down to scoop him up. Then he casts a look around and realizes the ambulance hasn’t arrived yet and smoke still hangs in the corridor.

“That one’s still alive,” one of the security personnel calls from inside and Dwalin turns to Thorin with a frown. “We’ll have to hand him over to the police. And then we won’t get answers.”

Thorin wonders why police and ambulance are taking so long to get there in first place. “Never mind,” he grumbles, “Nori can make inquiries.”

“Nori left,” Dwalin says and raises an eyebrow when Thorin doesn’t hand over the unconscious professor to one of the security guards that offered.

“Does that matter?” Thorin asks, hiking the body in his arms a bit closer to his chest, “It’s not as if he’s somewhere out of reach.”

“Unless he’s crossing the Atacama again,” Dwalin replies, “Is he okay?”

“The cut and a concussion, I think,” Thorin answers and casts a short look down. The professor’s face is lax in unconsciousness, his eyes closed. He has surprisingly long eyelashes, and looks strangely innocent. It’s odd that a man Thorin’s age can evoke such an impression, Thorin thinks to himself. Then again, Bilbo Baggins with his wild curls and wide eyes stuck him at their first meeting.

Perhaps he should have held to that first impression and protested the professor’s involvement. Then, at least, he wouldn’t have gotten hurt.

The body in his arms is barely a weight to him, and he turns back to Dwalin. “An ambulance was called?”

Dwalin nods. “Yeah, though they only know about the body upstairs. Best you’d go up, anyway.”

And that’s Dwalin’s way of telling Thorin to remove himself from the scene. Usually he’d protest, especially when they aren’t yet certain what the burglars have been after. Thorin frowns and turns to walk up the corridor.

They’ll have to make inquiries regarding the killed guard’s family, Thorin thinks. Sad as it is, but he hopes he didn’t have a family. He still has nightmares about having to tell Fili and Kili about their father. He doesn’t ever want to tell anybody else their loved ones died.

The security mechanisms at the elevator have been forcibly disabled, Thorin notices. He’ll have to ask Dwalin to check the security cameras, but it’s likely those have been taken out first. Perhaps Bilbo can shed some light on the situation – from what Thorin saw the professor’s presence surprised the burglars as much as they surprised him.

He casts another look down and finds the professor remains deeply unconscious. Thorin forces away the oncoming concern – Bilbo had been conscious and had recognized Thorin, even if he had been incoherent.

Hopefully the professor will remain on the case. Thorin cannot deny a certain fondness – but he will not deny Bilbo the chance to walk away after this.

***

Bilbo awakens to soft pillows and an unfamiliar white feeling. He can hear leaves rustle in the wind and birds chirp, but the faint echo of the busy road near his home is missing. When he opens his eyes he finds the lids heavy, the corners of his eyes crusty from a long sleep.

The confusion lasts a short moment before he remembers the fire. His body feels strangely weightless and free from pain, and he recalls collapsing against Thorin and babbling whatever came to his mind.

A warm flush comes to his face. He couldn’t have chosen a much more embarrassing way to go out – but at that thought all former warmth vanishes from his body.

Bilbo can still feel the cold metal of a gun pressing against the back of his head. The feeling of utter helplessness – diluted as it was by his injury. Now, though, his mind is clear and the memories frighten him. He buries trembling fingers in the blankets and tells himself to breathe deeply, to stay calm.

He’s safe now. They got him out.

His heart does not stop racing though, and even the nurse that checks up on him remarks on his pallor. Bilbo barely can produce a paltry smile in response to the news that pending a last check-up from the doctor in charge, he is free to leave the hospital.

He doesn’t want to leave. Not when he doesn’t know who the men were, why they came after his files and if their employer is not still out there, waiting for the next opportunity.

A knock on the door draws him from his contemplations, and before he can say anything the door is thrown open and two wide-eyed young men tumble through.

“Fili, Kili,” Bilbo greets, surprised.

“Bilbo,” Kili calls and hastily tugs a loose strand of hair back, while his brother steps up right to Bilbo’s bed and studies the professor with a concerned frown.

“Are you alright?” Kili asks, “Uncle said not to wake you up, but the nurse said you were awake and we could visit, and how are you doing?”

“We were worried when we heard what happened,” Fili adds a note calmer.

Bilbo gapes at them for a moment. Why did Thorin Durinson tell them – he’d make certain to keep his family as far as possible from any kind of danger.

“I’m alright,” he stutters reflexively, and sees Kili’s shoulders slump in relief. Even Fili smiles at his words, though his eyes remain hard. There is a grim set to his jaw Bilbo hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps, he thinks, there was no keeping Kili and Fili from this danger anyway. Not when Thorin is so prominent and their names are so remarkable.

Bilbo can practically feel the grey cells in his brain beginning to whirl again. He’s babbled to Thorin about their odd names before fainting. But even with a clear mind he realizes it is a question that needs to be answered.

“… this morning,” Fili says, and pulls Bilbo from his contemplation.

“We haven’t heard anything from Nori yet,” Fili continues and a hint of unease crosses his face, “Though Balin has gotten the police report. The men claimed they’d been hired through some sort of agency to set the place on fire.”

A shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine. He can still taste the smoke in his throat.

“Which means they won’t find the employers,” Kili summarizes unhappily. “But maybe Nori will find out something. He’s got connections.”

He wiggles his eyebrows and Bilbo can’t help but snort in amusement. The iron fist around his heart relaxes, and even Fili’s expression loses some of its sternness.

“Maybe,” he agrees, “But we’ll have to be careful. Dwalin had been worried before already…”

Bilbo recalls snatches of a conversation. “Why was he worried anyway?”

Back then he’d thought it was something that came with the territory. Thorin Durinson is wealthy and powerful – as far as Bilbo knows (from the novels and movies he watches while correcting essays that bounces back and forth between promising and abysmal) threats against his person shouldn’t be too unusual.

Fili frowns. “Apparently other people have been inquiring after the map. Or rather, that was what Nori mentioned. Nobody contacted uncle directly about it, but Dwalin finds that all the more suspicious.”

“But we’ll make sure nobody gets to you, Bilbo,” Kili chimes in, “We’ll be on the lookout from now on.”

Bilbo smiles. “I think the best you can do is look out for yourselves first,” he returns, “And leave the rest to the professionals.”

***

After a last check up where the doctor confirms Bilbo is well on the mend, but reminds him to take it easy. He’s cracked two ribs and the cut on his head needed four stitches, which is not as bad as the time Bilbo ended up stumbling through a glass door when he was twelve.

“Hello Professor,” Bofur waves at him, “I’m here to pick you up.”

Bilbo returns the greeting and is rather glad to be handing over the small suitcase filled with clothes and pain medication. He feels a bit dizzy on his feet. “Thank you,” he mutters when Bofur cheerfully directs him toward the parking lot.

“Company’s arranged another hotel for you,” Bofur tells him while Bilbo sinks into the backseat, “Dori’s brought your stuff over earlier – we hope you don’t mind. But Dwalin didn’t think it a good idea to let you go back to your old place as long as we don’t know who was behind the entire affair.”

Bilbo nods along. The city passes outside the window and he feels strangely removed – he has yet to see more of Calgary than his hotel, the grocery store next door and Thorin’s office tower. It makes him feel out of touch –

“… the boss asked to meet you tomorrow,” Bofur says when Bilbo refocuses on the conversation.

“Mr. Durinson?” Bilbo asks.

Bofur glances at him in the rearview mirror. “Yes, him. But only if you feel up to it. The doc will come and check up on you tomorrow morning, if you’re not feeling well, let him know and we’ll postpone. If not, I’ll pick you up at eleven.”

***

The following morning Bilbo feels a little more put together. His ribs smart when he sits up and stretches and fearsome bruises cover his chest, but he slept through the night without nightmares. Outside the sky is cloudless and blue, and the doctor proclaims Bilbo well on the mend.

His mind has already returned to the puzzle of Erebor. The attempt to set fire to the documents make the mystery even more compelling, and Bilbo has to wonder at himself all the way downtown. The burglars frightened him and he is under no illusion that they would have killed him had they noticed him earlier.

The gun pressed to his head, however, feels like a strangely distant memory now, and rather than feeling afraid, Bilbo has questions. Perhaps Thorin Durinson will be able to answer a few.

“Professor,” Thorin greets him and ushers him directly into large, indecently comfortable chair and doesn’t sit down before he’s made at least three inquiries whether Bilbo is in need of anything. Bilbo shakes his head with a sense of wry amusement, even though his body still feels like a giant sore.

“I hope your new hotel is to your likening?” Thorin inquires. He’s wearing a smart, black suit today and the tie matches his eyes. Bilbo wonders if Thorin has also hired a stylist.

“It’s very nice,” Bilbo replies, simply because the suite is too ostentatious for his taste.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Thorin inclines his head, “In any case, please let me know if you have any further wishes or requirements. Arrangements can easily be made.”

Bilbo flushes a bit under the close attention Thorin pays him, but then Thorin clears his throat and casts a gaze to the window. “Well. Professor, I would like to express my sincerest regrets concerning what occurred. Furthermore, in light of the harm inflicted on your person I would offer you opportunity to leave the project. The contract would be amended as such. Of course, we would still cover all costs connected to your recovery.”

Bilbo blinks. “Err…” he manages to eloquently mutter, “Actually. I, well. I mean, I was scared and I think it may take me some time to get over it – you know, cultural geography isn’t usually so exciting – but, well. I wasn’t going to leave the project.”

He shrugs, and curses himself when the pain blinds him for a split second. Bilbo bites down hard on his lower lip, and then finds Thorin staring at him as if he’d told him the exact location of Erebor.

“Truly?” Hope lights up those icy blue eyes, and transforms Thorin Durinson from a respected (and feared) oil magnate into an adventurer.

Bilbo finds his lips twitch upward in response. “Yes. I’m a very curious person, Mr. Durinson, and I’m afraid I’m unwilling to leave at this point.”

It’s not that Bilbo is particularly courageous or that the brush with danger did not scare him. But he’s never been all that good with rational decisions (most of his family had turned their eyes heavenward and prayed for a miracle when he’d decided to major in cultural anthropology when the Baggins clan had since run a successful dairy business), and his curiosity is stronger than even his fear.

Maybe he’ll regret it at some point, Bilbo thinks. But not now, not when Thorin rewards him with the most handsome smile he’s ever been graced with.

“The offer does not expire, but I have to admit I am pleased you’re willing to lend us your expertise a bit longer,” Thorin says, “Also, please feel free to call me Thorin.”

“In that case I’m Bilbo,” Bilbo replies, “And if it’s not too much of a bother, I have some questions.”

Thorin raises an eyebrow. “I’ll be glad to help. Though, I believe I owe you lunch? Would you be adverse to having lunch now?”

Bilbo follows Thorin’s gaze to the large clock. It’s past twelve already, and abruptly he becomes aware of the hole in his stomach. “Of course,” Bilbo agrees cheerfully.

***

Thorin is used to turning heads whenever he visits restaurants. At least the waiters mostly know him by now and direct him straight to one of the side tables. Today, he realizes some people stare a bit longer, and he feels Bilbo beside him shift uncomfortably.

He should have taken time to think this through before dragging the professor to one of his favorite places in hopes of plying him with tasty steak and good wine. While Calgary’s business crowds – unlike their counterparts in New York or London – don’t bat an eyelid at the presence of people not wearing suit and tie, the white bandage and obvious bruises Bilbo sports are rather conspicuous.

He catches the click of camera and thinks he ought to warn Balin to keep an eye on the tabloids tomorrow.

“Are we going to make front page?” Bilbo asks him when they sit down.

A wry smile plays on his face, and Thorin cannot help but feel the tightness of his chest evaporate. “Gossip rags and local papers, perhaps.”

“Not the Times?” Bilbo affects an expression of utmost disappointment.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to do something a bit more dramatic for that,” Thorin answers, “But I’d suggest to postpone dramatics until after lunch.”

Bilbo happily agrees and after that Thorin can only watch in silent amazement as the rather small professor makes short work of a sizeable steak and still manages to uphold a conversation at the same time.

“You know, you once called Erebor ‘our culture’ and your nephews and Balin made similar remarks. Why is that?” Bilbo asks before taking another hearty bite.

Thorin finishes chewing. “It’s a family story,” he responds, “Balin is a distant cousin, as are a lot of us on the project. There are some other families I know who are also familiar with Erebor.”

“It’s not a very well-known myth,” Bilbo agrees since apparently he has no need to breathe between eating and talking, “But as it’s unlikely to have been circulated widely if it had only been restricted to one family.”

“Well, if Erebor was a historical kingdom, wouldn’t that make sense that at least some remember?” Thorin inquires.

Bilbo casts him a look over his steak, and the spark in his eyes does strange things to Thorin’s stomach. “Naturally. And as most of the sources tell fairly consistent versions of the myth, this makes a good case of suggesting Erebor was an actual kingdom and not a myth. But you said ‘our culture’ – does your family consider itself descended from Erebor?”

Thorin purses his lips and takes a sip of his water (it’s too early in the day for wine, Bilbo had remarked) to stall. The question brings forth a number of uncomfortable memories and things he would rather forget. But the white bandage wrapped around Bilbo’s head reminds him that the professor has already been put in harm’s way for his cause – he deserves to know.

“My grandfather used to say so,” Thorin offers hesitatingly, “And while he never told me the entire story, he was obsessed with finding Erebor and ‘taking it back’, as he called it. My father once called himself a descendant of the King of Erebor and to find the Mountain as his duty.”

His lips curl sadly. “But at that point his sanity was already starting to slip. He vanished searching for Erebor somewhere in Greenland. We never found him.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo offers, and the honesty in his words takes Thorin – who has known sycophants and false declarations of sympathy – aback.

“I had put it from my mind,” Thorin continues, “We were poor, my family, and my sister’s husband – the boys’ father – died early, so I did what I could to make sure we got by. At some point I promised myself to just forget about Erebor – it destroyed so much, and I had found another way to succeed. And then the map was found…”

When he looks at the professor he finds to his amazement that Bilbo has emptied his plate. The professor is watching him thoughtfully, though, and Thorin cannot help but smile. “Dessert?”

“I’m not going to say no,” Bilbo returns, “Also, there was another thing I wondered: your family has a particular set of names – all connected to old Norse, aren’t they? Is that something of a family tradition or connected to Erebor?”

Thorin has a feeling the professor already suspects the answer. “It’s related to Erebor. You probably noticed that everybody connected to the myth or still invested in it today has a name like that.”

“I did,” Bilbo replies, “But then again, some of these names aren’t that uncommon. Though, do you know if you have Norse ancestry? In that case perhaps we ought to refocus on northern Europe.”

“A while ago Oin – I don’t know if you met him yet, he’s the emergency medic at headquarters, though he doesn’t consider this his main job – had done a gen analyses for his brother and himself,” Thorin tells Bilbo, “There’s no connection whatsoever to Vikings or and only some slight similarities between their genes and those of inhabitants of contemporary northern Europe.”

“So with whom did they match up?” Bilbo inquires and leans forward, forgetting even about the dessert for a moment.

“You should ask Oin for the exact explanation, but from what I remember he said we’re more closely related to Chingis Khan than to Attila the Hun,” Thorin replies, “What I believe makes the Norse names even more curious.”

“Actually,” the professor says and directs a wide smile at Thorin, “I’ll have to check a few sources, but I think that makes sense.”

tbc

Chapter Text

“Oh, hello Mr. Baggins,” Ori calls when Fili and Kili lead Bilbo to his new office one day later. He will still have his own office, though the general space he will have to share with Ori, at least until they can prepare a new set of rooms for him. Bilbo had ended up telling Balin that wasn’t necessary – with the exception of his term as guest lecturer in Abu Dhabi, his offices so far have not been particularly spacey.

“How are you doing?”

Bilbo’s throat remains sore, but ever since his lunch with Thorin he’s feeling motivated to solve the puzzle. “Quite well, thank you,” he replies with a smile, “I see my books have found their way here.”

“Those we managed to salvage,” Ori returns, “I think Balin had a list with everything. The replacements ought to arrive soon.”

Bilbo, used to waiting months for his orders to arrive (unless, of course, either postal services or customs decide to complicate the process even further), cannot help but marvel at the sweet, smooth processes possible. “The facsimile remained intact, didn’t it?”

His memory is blurry, and he doesn’t like recalling the events very much, but he thinks the three henchmen never even noticed the safe at the back of the small library.

“It is,” Ori replies, “Oh, also – I’m almost done translating that essay. Unless the author left anything out the majority of the gifts to the monastery originated either in Lhasa, Beijing or the general area.”

Bilbo hums thoughtfully. If the map is one of the gifts then it’s unlikely it originated in northern Europe as the runes might suggest. Unless of course it is far older than Bilbo has pegged it to be and reached Asia via the silk road.

“The monastery was only founded in 1679, wasn’t it? Was there anything before that they took over?” Bilbo asks.

“According to the text there used to be a smaller temple there,” Ori says, “But it belonged to the Kagyu school – the ones who took over belonged to the Gelugpa, and from what I know that wasn’t a very friendly takeover.”

“They wouldn’t have kept any sacred objects?” Bilbo asks and Ori only shrugs. “I’m not an expert on that part of history, less on the takeover practices among Tibetan Buddhists in the 17^th century.”

He’ll have to look into that, Bilbo thinks, and then remembers that the technical analysis will hopefully provide an exact date for the map soon. But another idea forms in his mind and he walks over to his new desk, grabs paper and pen and frowns.

“Say, 17^th century – would Lobsang Gyatso have been involved in that takeover?” Bilbo hasn’t had much to do with Buddhism, but the fifth Dalai Lama is known among his colleagues for his political and strategic maneuvering and a continued person of interest (or headache) to researcher embroiled in Sino-Tibetan relations. To Bilbo he’s known as the person probably depicted on the 1667 Kircher map.

“He was mentioned several times,” Ori replies drily, “According to the text, he picked out the founding site for the monastery himself.”

“On top of an older temple belonging to a rival school associated with his former rivals from the civil war he’d just won with help of the Mongols. Or rather, a particular tribe,” Bilbo recalls from his own study of local history. Once he’d only been interested in the information that had inspired the Kircher map. He’d ended up reading not only Grueber’s account, but several volumes on the intricacies of the time and ended up with his head spinning worse than after that infamous conference in Vladivostok ten years ago.

“Oh dear,” Ori replies. And then blinks as he obviously tries to establish the connection between their map of Erebor and the issues Bilbo just brought up.

“We’ll probably be able to understand it better once we know how old the map is,” Bilbo says, though he wonders if the map may not have been placed in the monastery on purpose. Should the fifth Dalai Lama have indeed handpicked the place, he would also have decided on a first set of objects to be venerated there.

Though a map like this seems a very odd choice. Bilbo frowns. “Do you know if anything else pertaining to Erebor was found in the monastery?”

“You have to ask somebody else. Perhaps Gloin, he oversaw the acquisition. But I don’t know if there’s anybody with a complete list, and a lot probably got lost during the Cultural Revolution,” Ori replies, walking back to his own desk, “I think the paper mostly mentioned sutras being gifted to the monastery. But again, that list is probably incomplete.”

Bilbo nods. “Do you think that paper is credible?”

Ori blinks, and then tilts his head. “Mostly, I guess,” he replies, “It concentrates on the positive things that happened after 1949, but I don’t think that period is particularly interesting?”

Which doesn’t mean that history isn’t interesting to contemporary politicians, especially in regards to Sino-Tibetan relations, Bilbo adds to himself, but Ori knows that and indeed, Erebor is probably of little interest to the Chinese Communist Party. Then again, if there should indeed be an interest in keeping Erebor a secret, the arson attempt suddenly appears twice as scary. But, Bilbo tells himself before he can shudder, the heritage office approved the map’s sale – they would have to be fully aware of its portents.

***

“Nori,” Thorin greets and feels Dwalin tense behind him, “Ori said you figured something.”

“Oh, yes,” Nori does not appear particularly tense and casts a short glance away from the camera. In the background Thorin can hear the soft noise of waves and gulls and the sky behind Nori looks invitingly blue. It’s getting warmer in Calgary, but the weather remains unstable.

“So what is it?” Dwalin growls, leaning forward so that he’s in the picture too, “And where are you?”

A smirk crosses Nori’s face, and Thorin wonders if there is some way he can stop those two from antagonizing each other – especially when he has an appointment in about forty minutes. “Not where you think I am,” Nori trills, and Thorin interrupts, “Regardless of where you are, what have you found?”

Nori sobers slightly. “Recently quite some inquiries concerning your map have been made. Larger sums were offered for its retrieval.”

“We know that,” Dwalin says.

“But do you know who was behind the offer?” Nori asks. Thorin casts his mind back to the letter – sent through a London-based solicitor, but offering no details as to what private collector was being represented.

“Do you know?” Thorin asks.

“The trace leads back to China,” Nori tells them, “Somebody appeared very unhappy with the fact it’s been sold.”

“The authorities approved,” Dwalin grunts over Thorin’s shoulder, and Nori, as if he’d been waiting for it, grins.

“The heritage bureau did,” Nori replies, “And it seems somebody disagrees with them. If you’ve looked at the newspaper – I sent you the link, maybe ask Ori or Balin to translate or run it through google – rather insistently so.”

A small ping informs Thorin of the link, and he follows it wordlessly. Unease coils in his stomach. What pops up is a short Chinese article next to the picture of a burnt out car and two bodies covered with sheets.

“Terrorists?” Dwalin asks.

Nori shrugs. “I don’t know what the article says. But what I know is that those two were employees at the heritage bureau and involved with handling the objects found in the monastery.”

“You think there’s a connection,” Thorin says and thinks of the ongoing police investigation in his building. If there’s a connection between these incidents, their adversary is perhaps even more dangerous than they anticipated.

“Yes,” Nori’s reply is short and to the point. “I could be wrong, of course, but I don’t believe in coincidences like this.”

“Do you know who’s behind it?” Dwalin inquires while Thorin leans back in his chair.

“Working on it,” Nori says, “But I’d recommend you keep an eye open, too. I’m not certain if whoever is behind this merely wants to have the map or stop you from finding Erebor, but in both cases, you’d do well to be cautious.”

“Arrangements are in place,” Thorin replies. While the local police have increased their surveillance on the building as long as the arson attempt remains unexplained, Thorin knows better than to put too much faith into their work. Their opponent has already proven themselves ruthless.

“Do you think the professor’s a target?”

Nori’s eyebrows rise, as do Dwalin’s, but Thorin ignores their telling reactions. Fili and Kili know better than to go out alone, and Thorin makes certain he’s either in public or accompanied by trustworthy friends.

“I think…” Nori begins, “And that is a hypothesis at this point, but well. From what you told me, we’re looking at attempted arson – aiming to destroy the map, not steal it. Which would imply whoever is behind it doesn’t want the map for themselves, they’d rather it didn’t exist. If their reason for this desire is indeed for Erebor to remain unfound, they will probably target anybody and anything that stands between them and their goal.”

Dwalin is already nodding and Thorin wonders if he can ask the professor to his office for another conversation. Perhaps over dinner today.

“I don’t think they’ve been aware of the professor before,” Nori continues, “But they probably know now.”

Dinner it is, Thorin thinks.

***

Ori left a while ago with Dori – both rather unwilling to leave Bilbo – but the professor is rather content among his books and research. The quiet only makes him nervous for a short time before his mind picks up the puzzle and tries to make the pieces fit.

He still misses the very central piece of the map’s date of origin, but a picture has started forming. After turning it over, Bilbo decides to email Gloin about the finding of the map – perhaps there are pictures of the original state of things?

Bilbo gnaws his lip and writes down several more ideas. The finding place – Ganden Songzanlin Si – might be chance and might be not. Currently he is more inclined to think the map was placed there a long time ago, probably on purpose. His research has found no text- or map-based talk of Erebor through the 19^th and 20^th century, suggesting the map had either not been moved during that period or moved by somebody without noting its contents.

The narrative of the monastery – Ori had completed his translation just before leaving – offers some very detailed lists of the objects gifted to it, the vast majority sutras. Local monks stored their writings at the monastery. Perhaps one of them added the map? It all certainly points to Erebor not being too far from the Monastery and a quick recourse to actual and online maps leaves Bilbo’s mind turning further.

The area – though now host to tourism infrastructure – remains difficult to access. Some of the mountain ranges tower at over 5000 meters, and even the valleys are at a height of 3000meters and more. While historically part of a trade route, that route – and today’s tourism infrastructure – center along one main north-south corridor. The maps note a few settlements east and fewer to the west – and about no visible west or east connection from the main highway for almost 600km.

There is decent chance for relics to have remained hidden, Bilbo thinks.

***

“Thorin,” the professor greets when Thorin leaves the elevator. A few heads turn as they make their way through the lobby, but most employees are used to seeing their boss from time to time. As long as they’re not seeing him about their work or performance, Thorin has found they even appear to mostly like him.

The professor is more than happy to talk about his work on their way to the restaurant. “You remember we were talking about genetics the last time,” he says and unconsciously tilts his head up to look at Thorin, “And I thought I remembered something, but I had to check it. You probably know that there’s been quite some migration from west to east.”

Thorin nods. It’s a bit later than he thought, he realizes, since the sun has set, but darkness hasn’t completely fallen. The air is warm, and it will probably be summer soon. He wonders if the professor intends to take a vacation.

“And while quite a lot Mongolian ancestry in Caucasian people is related to the expansion period of the Mongol empire, I was thinking that if Erebor is indeed located in Yunnan, the ties between the Mongols and the people of Erebor might have been rather close.” A small smile plays on Bilbo’s face and Thorin thinks the professor’s enthusiasm rather makes him look younger than he is. In general, however, he is glad to see Bilbo’s pallor improved, and a part of him is surprised at how easily he bounced back after the attack.

“But there is no writing left of Erebor,” Thorin says, but Bilbo shrugs. “As far as I’m aware, not many Mongolian texts survive. Even a lot of Mongolian history is pierced together from different accounts, so I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s either no account left, or that nobody has thought to connect Erebor with a place mentioned in an account. If they knew of Erebor, who knows what they called it.”

Thorin blinks and finds he can only nod along. “So do I need to order copies of Mongolian historical writing?”

Bilbo purses his lips. “If I’m correct and you intend to puzzle out the complete history.”

“I’d prefer finding it first,” Thorin replies drily. “Also, I was thinking that restaurant.” He points to a steakhouse on the other side of the street. After their last luncheon Thorin has rather gained the impression Bilbo is likely to prefer a hearty fare over soups and salads.

“Wonderful,” the professor sings and all Thorin can do is trail after him and postpone any conversation until Bilbo is done pursuing the menu and placing their orders.

“You know the best places,” Bilbo compliments him.

“I have lived here for some time,” Thorin replies with amusement, “And had to fend through my share of business dinners.”

“I’ve sat through my share of those as well,” Bilbo answers, “And honestly, I like eating with my students better. At least they’re fun after a bottle of wine or two.”

“I don’t know why, but I somehow had the idea that among academics you’d just continue your intellectual conversations. Over a salad or so,” Thorin suggests with a small smile, hoping his attempt at a joke isn’t going to fall flat.

Bilbo blinks, and Thorin adds. “Naïve of me, I believe.”

And a responding smile blossoms on Bilbo’s face. “Indeed. I’ve broken up bar fights and ended up with tomato ketchup in my hair.”

“And I’ve had clients singing on the table,” Thorin answers. They both dissolve in giggles, which is, naturally, when their waiter appears with the wine. Their attempt at looking composed probably doesn’t convince the waiter, but he pours the wine without comment.

“Oh dear,” Bilbo mumbles when he’s gone and raises his glass.

Thorin raises his in response and the dry taste of the red wine actually reminds him of why he asked Bilbo to dinner. “Actually, Bilbo, some concerns have been risen in regards to the arson attempt.”

The professor sobers, but doesn’t pale or flinch. “Did the police find out who was behind it?”

“No,” Thorin replies, “And my own investigation has only found one trace that’s leading straight back to China. The men who greenlight the map’s sale were murdered.”

“Oh,” Bilbo pales at that.

“We don’t know for certain,” Thorin continues, “But it appears somebody wants to either destroy the map and every trace of it or stop us from finding Erebor. Probably both.”

“Which would make me a target,” Bilbo continues and reaches for his glass again. His fingers shake when takes a gulp, but his eyes when he meets Thorin’s gaze are firm.

“Yes. As I mentioned before, you are free to leave the project,” Thorin starts, and Bilbo shakes his head, “But I already have a target painted on my back by now.”

“Probably,” Thorin admits, “Actually, what Dwalin suggested was giving you security.”

“Like bodyguards?” Bilbo actually looks amused at the idea.

“If necessary. Most on the project are trained in self-defense, and we make a habit of either staying in highly populated areas or simply not moving alone. Only when none of that is possible we get bodyguards involved,” Thorin explains. He and Dwalin share a certain distrust of hired muscle – most are decent people, certainly – and yet their salaries are not that high and they are privy to a lot of happenings and insider information that could fetch a high price with the right buyer.

On the other side of the table, Bilbo nods. “That sounds reasonable.”

“But if you would feel safer, it won’t a problem to hire somebody,” Thorin tells him. He can always offer an extra incentive.

Bilbo chuckles. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” he replies.

“You’re taking this quite well,” Thorin says and is surprised at how easily the words come. He isn’t a great conversationalist at the best of times and expressing personal sentiment is nothing short of a nightmare – but somehow with the professor these obstacles have vanished.

Bilbo shrugs. “I don’t know about that. I’ve been told I develop a tunnel vision when I’m working, so maybe I’ll sit up once this all is done and over and feel utterly terrified. But as of now I’m rather curious to find Erebor myself – and maybe figure out why somebody wouldn’t want it to be found.”

Fluffy and harmless as the professor looks in his woolen sweater and with his curly hair, Thorin thinks, he is certainly not somebody to be trifled with. And while that, in any business associate, would have made Thorin wary, he rather finds it makes conversation with Bilbo simply amazing.

***

When Thorin arrives – slightly later than usual thanks to the late night before – at his office, he finds Balin and Gandalf almost shouting at each other, Dori muttering under his breath and Dwalin glaring at all of them.

“What’s going on?” he asks as he sets his briefcase on his desk. There’s no print out marked with urgent lying there, just an envelope.

“Bifur sent in the results of the technical analysis,” Dwalin tells him.

“Not good?” Thorin asks.

“More than good!” Balin proclaims, turning on his heel to face Thorin. A flush on his cheeks tells Thorin he has been arguing with Gandalf for a while, “We have the date of origin and the location – we’re good to go!”

“And you have a text you cannot read,” Gandalf reminds him, standing at his full height. Thorin wonders for a moment just how Gandalf made his way into his office anyhow (he has a system in place that is supposed to warn him in case Gandalf is in the vicinity), and then repeats. “A text? The runes were deciphered.”

“Yes, those were,” Dori fills him in, “But the x-ray found another layer. A script that’d been added after the map was made, and has since faded.”

“What does it say?” Thorin inquires before the conversation he heard catches up with his mind.

“We do not know,” Balin adds in, “But it might just have been a scribble. I doubt it’s very important.”

“It may very well be,” Gandalf protests, “Really, just get somebody to do the translation. I don’t think that’s –“

“That is a security risk, and you know it,” Dwalin grunts, “The more people we show the map the more openings we give to whoever’s after it.”

“Elrond is a friend of mine and I vouch for his reliability,” Gandalf pronounces.

“Like you vouched for that colleague of yours?” another voice asks and Thorin sees Bilbo walk in. The professor is still wearing his jacket, so he has a late start today, too, “Saruman, I think his name was? Is he still in Almaty?”

Gandalf huffs. “He’s brilliant, he –“

“Just doesn’t subscribe to the idea of democracy very much, yes Gandalf,” Bilbo completes for him, “I’ve met him, as you undoubtedly remember.”

Thorin – who has indeed heard of Saruman – wonders how that meeting could have gone. Gandalf appears to deflate a little.

“Anyway, what is the matter? Ori said the results had been sent, but I only saw the summary and they said the entire thing was here?” Bilbo asks them.

“They are on the desk,” Balin tells him, “And I think with that we have enough info.”

Bilbo blinks, and Thorin nods at him to take and open the envelope. Bilbo opens it, but keeps looking at Balin, obviously waiting for more information.

“They concluded that the map was written around 1682 and the paper came from a bit further north. It had no former usage, but they discovered a scribble that had been added later and disappeared,” Balin summarizes.

“And that scribble is illegible?” Bilbo inquires, browsing through the documents next to Thorin’s shoulder.

“Yes, and I think we need to understand what it says. I doubt the scribble was places there on accident,” Gandalf insists.

Bilbo frowns. “And yet it could have been. What language was it in?”

Balin huffs. “It’s written in classical Chinese. But it doesn’t make sense.”

Bilbo perks up at that. “A Chinese rendition of another language, then. Well…”

“There is somebody specializing in southwestern China at Qing times in Heidelberg,” Gandalf puts in, “If you’d just show him the transcript, he might make sense of it.”

“And might end up either selling us out or with a bullet in his brain,” Dwalin snorts. “It’s a security risk.”

As the discussion picks up speed again, Thorin casts a glance at the professor. Bilbo is studying the map – not the original, but a copy with the additional scribble added in. It’s placed on the lower half of the map and utterly illegible to Thorin, but Bilbo is worrying his lower lip.

“What do you think?” he asks, “Would the scribble help?”

Bilbo turns a lopsided smile to him. “That is difficult to decide as long as we don’t know what it says. It could be somebody’s grocery list.”

And it could be a comment useful in determining Erebor’s exact location.

Thorin nods to himself. Dwalin won’t like it, and Gandalf will probably gloat, but if Bilbo deems it necessary, then it is.

“We’re going to Heidelberg.”

tbc

Chapter Text

A mere five hours pass between Bilbo’s suggestion to consult with Professor Elrond and boarding a plane. Not the company jet since that, as Fili tells Bilbo, cannot travel overseas. But perhaps –and here Kili casts a hopeful glance into Thorin’s direction –one day the company might purchase a newer one with a wider ranger.

“After all, we’ve been looking at oil fields down under,”Kili adds cheerfully.

“You’re only looking there to get away from here in winter,”Dwalin grumbles, while Fili wonders loudly what’s wrong with that. With a chuckle Fili rolls out of the lounge chair and overhead the loudspeaker announces their flight is beginning to board.

Bilbo casts a disconsolate look out of the window at the plane sitting there innocuously. His head is spinning, still, from the rapid developments. He carries nothing more than the clothes on his back and his notebook, everything else still sitting in his hotel room. Among crowds of trolley pulling business travelers he feels rather out of place. Also, the idea of boarding a long distance flight without even a toothbrush disorients him severely.

Thorin places a hand in the small of his back and urges him forward. “Are you afraid of flying?”

“No, not at all,”Bilbo replies, with a bemused shake of his head, “Well, most of the times. I dislike turbulence, as do most people.” He still wonders what he is doing here and if anybody thought to check if Professor Elrond currently actually is in Heidelberg. The speed at which Thorin makes decision certainly deserves his utmost admiration, however, Bilbo somewhat doubts its rationality.

“Kili used to love turbulence,”Thorin tells him and watches his nephews bound over to their seats, earning frowns from a group of businessmen in the vicinity.

Bilbo nods sagely. “He’s the type to go ‘again, again’, I imagine.”

“Quite so.” Thorin chuckles and only now thinks to remove his hand from the small of Bilbo’s back. Strangely enough, he finds he misses the contact.

Bilbo finds that Thorin’s seat is next to his. Balin’s on the other side of the aisle and Dwalin sits in front of them. Kili and Fili’s places are bit further to the back –the rest of the company stayed behind.

"Actually," Bilbo says as he observes Dwalin stow a black carry-on into the overhead compartment, "I may have to go shopping once we land." At least he is carrying his credit cards and passport in his wallet.

Thorin raises an eyebrow. "Missing the Swiss chocolates?"

Bilbo's lips quirk. "Certainly a perk of the region, but no. I was rather concerned with the fact I haven't even one change of clothes with me."

"Well, as I believe Balin arranged for a bag to be checked for me, you could always borrow some of mine." Thorin waggles his eyebrows suggestively and for a moment Bilbo wonders if he isn't talking to one of his students. Then again, he has already found that maturity among his colleagues is mostly a facade and apparently the business world also harbors individuals who only learned to pretend being older than twenty-five.

"You know what," Bilbo tells him the moment he's done gaping, "I'll come back to that."

***

Which is why, when they have made their way out of the airport roughly eleven hours later and are met by a gust of rain and temperatures more suited to autumn than mid-summer, Bilbo glances at Thorin. And demonstratively shivers in his light summer jacket and short sleeves underneath.

Thorin grimaces. "Alright, alright," he mutters and shrugs off his coat. It does feel a bit weird to Bilbo to allow Thorin to help him put it on - but the coat is warm and after a long flight he always feels a bit grumpy. Fili's and Kili's giggling he ignore. And when the clerk at the car rental station does a double take, Bilbo blames it on Thorin’s all-too remarkable face. Perhaps it’s the long flight – even though he slept through much of it – but his thoughts keep straying.

He likes Thorin, did like him from almost the start. In spite of his image as a ruthless oil magnate, the Thorin Bilbo has come to know has a quirky sense of humor, enjoys matching wits just as much as Bilbo does, and doesn't mind quirky anthropologists disrupting his schedule. It's time, Bilbo thinks, to seriously question whether what is developing between them is not more than friendship.

While he's never made a great deal of his sexuality - as progressive as ivory tower thinking may be, as archaic its power structures still are and he’s rather of the opinion that his colleagues have no business knowing about his preferences, old-fashioned though it may be - he's aware that for a man in Thorin's position the rules are different. And while he's not heard of a wife, a girlfriend or even seen Thorin in the press with any female companion, the evidence is not conclusive. At this point, Bilbo tells himself, he’ll just enjoy whatever happens. It will be better not to expect too much, though.

"We'll take it, then," Thorin grumbles at the poor, by now quite sweaty, clerk and slams his card on the desk. The poor man flinches and barely manages to stutter out his reply. His colleagues are nowhere to be seen, either.

"It'll be like the road trips we took when we were small," Kili chuckles in good humor. As far as Bilbo knows he spent the majority of the flight playing games, but even now looks wide awake. At least Fili appears to have suffered somewhat from the long flight.

"You always got sick on those," he reminds his brother, "once even all over Dwalin's lap."

Dwalin growls something unintelligible and Bilbo finds himself wondering at the before Kili references. Probably before the cooperation went to become internationally successful - and he finds his heart warming at the idea that even global success and money haven't torn apart the close, familiar ties between the people he has met.

But perhaps this relates to their shared belief in Erebor. Perhaps that imagined source of community has created ties of loyalty even the promises of riches could not break. Perhaps then, Bilbo has to wonder, if locating Erebor, if demystifying that story will not in the end also destroy these ties.

***

The thoughts keep haunting him as he follows Dwalin and Thorin toward their rental car. Fili, Kili and Balin trail behind them, the nephews distracted by trying to push each other into the rain and Balin playing the faithful kindergartener herding them along. Their rental car is not the sleek limousine he expects, but rather a cheerful, bright yellow family van capable of seating their entire group. The clerk stammers another apology that due to an exhibition nearby they’re out of limousines, and Thorin eventually sends him away with a terse thank you.

“The press will love it,” Fili mumbles with an ear-splitting grin.

Dwalin's bulk seated behind the steering wheel looks unintentionally hilarious, and Kili has to stop and snap several pictures. Bilbo shuffles into the back, where Thorin joins him, but once they hit the highway, Bilbo's eyes close of their own account.

He awakens to a parked car with Fili, Balin and Thorin trying to make sense of the signpost indicating whether or not the parking space is legal. Bilbo shuffles outside and takes a short look at the abbreviations - his German is rusty and has never been that good anyway. From his colleagues he has learned that understanding street signs – especially all the unspoken rules – constitutes an art in itself. As Bilbo last drove about ten years ago, he has never seen the necessity to bother with this obscure type of communication.

Eventually he shrugs and turns to the rest of the group. "I don't think they'll tow the car if we leave it here. Might get a fine, though." At least according to the rule of thumb his colleagues told him.

Thorin huffs. "Doesn't matter." Balin glances at his watch. "We should be going anyway. Professor Elrond expects us in ten minutes."

Their parking space, it turns out is not far from their destination. Bilbo glances left and right curiously, but Heidelberg hasn’t changed since his last visit almost twenty years ago. He wonders if the old bars are still in existence, though he knows he may not be able to find them - his memories are rather blurry.

They also almost don't find the institute either.

“How do the students even get here?”Kili wonders out loud as the eventually march through a garage door into the backyard of a building, “I’d never have found this place.”

“It’s fairly well hidden,”Fili agrees and Thorin snorts.

“Perhaps they don’t want to be found,”Dwalin mutters and Bilbo cannot help the small chuckle. Not a few of his colleagues have offered similar sentiments in regards to their students, though Bilbo finds he rather enjoys teaching.

“Come on, we’re about to be late,”Thorin calls and they all follow him into an utterly nondescript stairwell. It could be any apartment building anywhere, Bilbo reflects. The only thing missing really is the potted plant in the corner.

But as they go up, solid doors have been replaced by glass and signs point to the various offices and classrooms. Eventually, the right one crops up and they make their way down the corridor followed by the curious and somewhat wary gaze of assorted students.

Professor Elrond receives them cheerfully enough. Bilbo's gaze is immediately drawn to the large maps on the wall, one a contemporary map of China and the other a historical one Bilbo would date to the late 17th century. Unsurprisingly, the region he has placed Erebor in is more an afterthought on the periphery.

"You are here for consultation on a translation, I was told?" Elrond inquires once introduction have been done, "Gandalf mentioned something about a map."

Thorin seems to hesitate, and instead glances at Bilbo. "That's correct," Bilbo confirms, "I've been investigating a map and my current conclusion would suggest it to be depicting southwestern China. However, analysis of the map produced a hidden text we could not make sense of. Gandalf recommended we consult you on that matter."

Balin procures a clean copy of the text, and Bilbo cannot help but notice that the map itself is missing. Even though he understands the need for secrecy, he wonders why keeping a scholar like Elrond from it is necessary.

"Southwestern China. Quite a diverse area," Elrond mutters as he picks up the copy, "Perhaps a Chinese rendition of a foreign text, then. You'll find it frequently, especially in Buddhist works."

"That was my suspicion," Bilbo confirms, "But it seems irregular."

He glances at Balin, but the elderly company executive makes no move to mention his own observations. Elrond hums, forehead wrinkling in concentration. Bilbo unconsciously worries his lower lip, wondering how long understanding this may take Elrond. The professor is certainly renown, but he is no wizard and Bilbo himself knows just how long sense-making can take.

"Highly irregular," Elrond comments, "This rendition, I believe, constitutes a very peculiar code. Not a secret language, but a code."

Bilbo blinks. "Not a transliteration of another language?"

Elrond frowns. "I cannot exclude that possibility entirely, especially due to the many local dialects. Even if I limit the possibilities to dialects common in southwestern China, we still have possibilities ranging from Burmese to Mongolian. But the text is quite short - transliteration usually are lengthy."

Bilbo sees Balin nod, and while Bilbo agrees, it leaves him feeling anxious. Thorin's face is dark when he steps forward. "Can you make sense of it?"

Elrond casts Thorin an inquisitive look. "With a bit more context, I might be able to figure something out. Otherwise, prepare to wait at least a year."

Thorin looks to be a hair's breadth away from shouting, but Bilbo - familiar with the stubbornness aggression can inspire in his colleagues - lifts his hand. "It's a research project," he begins, "On a rather unique map discovered fairly recently."

Elrond tilts his head. " A mystical place, then. Which is why you would be involved."

"Gandalf got me in," Bilbo admits with a shrug and Elrond gives him a wry smile in return. Knowledge of Gandalf's eccentricities has long since crossed borders and disciplines.

"His latest project caused quite a bit of stir. Thranduil is rather unhappy, as is Saruman," Elrond offers. Thorin stiffens and Bilbo wonders how an antique map may have caused such a stir. "Saruman is never happy with Gandalf," Bilbo suggests, "But Thranduil?"

He's never met the Haifa-based tourism researcher himself. But Thranduil has made himself quite a name as somebody vehemently protesting tourism development as an economic strategy. Naturally, Bilbo thinks, he would also view locating Erebor as potentially destructive to existing local structures. But since Thranduil cannot know of Erebor, he may be protesting Gandalf’s latest project on principle alone.

Elrond frowns. "Nobody has yet seen it fit to give me the details. But Gandalf has been looking at south-east Asia for a while. Tourism development, mostly, but recently there’s been some mumblings of drug trade and weapon smuggling.”

Thorin flinches, Bilbo does a double-take and Dwalin growls "What?"

"I take it you weren't aware, then," Elrond resumes and Bilbo dizzily wonders just what Gandalf got them involved in. Dwalin clears his throat. "No. But there have been offers made for our map. And somebody attempted to torch it."

"Oh," Elrond looks at Bilbo, "You may want to ask Gandalf for the details. As far as I know Interpol is involved, too."

"And how does this relate to our map?" Thorin grumbles, and Bilbo is grateful he’s brought the conversation back on the ground. Really, he knows Gandalf dallies in curious things, but he wants to stay as far away from these issues as possible. He’s investigating an antique map, not trying to track down mafia networks.

Professor Elrond merely shrugs in reply. “I don’t know if it does. You said attempts have been made and having known Gandalf for a while, he at least must suspect some connection between your map and whatever his objective is. But maybe we leave that to Gandalf. Can you contextualize the text for me?”

Bilbo swallows and decisively pushes away the nagging worries. “The map we are examining was produced in 1682, in, I believe, Ganden Sumtseling Monastery, where it remained until it has been recently rediscovered and subsequently sold," Bilbo summarizes, "It is the only one of its kind and peculiar as it is written in runes, though it's design places it in the Chinese tradition. Though the center is neither Beijing nor Lhasa."

"Even though the map was produced in an area that had, at that time, just gotten under Tibetan control with support from Beijing," Elrond adds, "I see. The runes you mention are curious, though. I have never heard of such a map before - I would very much like to see it at some point."

Uneasily Bilbo turns to glance at his companions, though Elrond raises his hands. "At some point," he repeats, "I am rather busy right now, and I think I see your angle already. I'll email you once I have an idea concerning your code. But I think what I can give you right now are maps."

He walks over to one of the unstable bookshelves and after a few moments pulls out one volume. "Maps of Yunnan, Late Ming to early Qing," he tells Bilbo, "You should be able to piece it together, I believe. For further references, you’ll find quite some of the more popular maps online.”

"The Mongolian maps are lost?" Bilbo asks, accepting the offered volume. The book is slim, but large and Bilbo thinks they may have had a copy in Calgary before the place had been torched.

Elrond shrugs. "If there ever were any of that area, they certainly have been."

It does fit with Bilbo's theory. He can see that Elrond has already reached the same deductions he has. It will be up to Bilbo, however, to pinpoint the location and bring together the various strands into a clear narrative.

"Thank you," he tells the other professor, "I believe that will help."

Elrond smiles warmly. "Let me know what you figure out. I will contact you about that translation, and come winter, we were thinking of having a workshop on Chinese cosmology. I'll forward you the details."

Bilbo inclined his head. "I'll look into it."

And with that they take their leave. Outside the clouds have cleared and the sun is drying the street. Thorin’s nephews greet them in the corridor and Kili grumbles at their conversation having taken too long, while Fili immediately asks for the results.

"The translation may take a while," Bilbo tells him with a sigh and follows Thorin who is stomping outside. Truly, it may have been a bit naive of them to expect Elrond to miraculously provide them with the solution. And the text still may not provide further information on Erebor's location.

They turn the corner and their car still is parked there. In his mind, Bilbo resolves to return to his maps and maybe tell Thorin a bit more about his suspicions later - he likes him better when he smiles, after all. And there is the odd edge that makes Bilbo want Thorin to like him.

He noticed Dwalin stiffening abruptly. Thorin's steps falter.

“Get back!” Dwalin shouts abruptly.

A hand closes around Bilbo’s shoulder and jerks him back before he can blink. Dwalin is running towards them and then the world explodes. They’re thrown off their feet, and several windows burst. Somebody screams, they hit the ground hard, and Thorin immediately rolls them over, pressing Bilbo to the ground with his larger bulk. A gust of heat rushes past them, scorching but gone in a second. Shards of glass and debris clatter on the ground.

The acidic smell of smoke hits his nostrils when Bilbo remembers to breathe. His heart is pounding, and Thorin’s fingers finally loosen.

“Are you alright?” Thorin shouts into his ear, “Are you alright?”

He’s turned over before he has a chance to gather his bearings. Bilbo manages a shaky nod. Thorin’s eyes are wild and wide, and Bilbo’s gazes over to their car – a smoking wreck is all that is left of the sunny yellow van, with small fires still melting down the remaining plastic and rubber. All around them, people have stopped and approach while others are looking out of the windows.

Several have their mobiles phone out, Dwalin yells for somebody to call the police. Then he turns and inquires whether anybody got hurt, and Bilbo is relieved to find everybody – and most of them appear to be students, and fairly young at that – looking unhurt, if frightened. Kili and Fili, too – but they were behind Thorin and him, farer away from the blast. They look as pale and shaken as Bilbo feels.

“They’re on their way,” somebody says and Dwalin nods.

“What, what was that?” Bilbo murmurs while Thorin helps him to his feet. His suit is slightly rumpled, and Bilbo automatically reaches out to dust him off.

Thorin blinks in surprise, but allows the touch, though he ignores Bilbo’s question. Balin steps up next to them, a frown on his face. “They appear fairly well-informed.”

Something cold runs down Bilbo’s spine and he doesn’t allow himself to turn away from Thorin’s jacket. Had they been but five minutes earlier they would have been inside the car.

“But either their timing is off or they’re alright with merely delivering a warning,” Dwalin snorts and flexes his fists. Thorin nods contemplatively, before he catches Bilbo’s hands.

“Are you alright, Bilbo?” His expression is strangely gentle and makes Bilbo want to melt against him. Instead, he swallows down the dread and nods. “Just shocked, really.”

Sirens come closer. Some of the crowd begins to disperse as the fires go out. All that is left of their rental car is a charred and smoking ruin, the smell of burnt rubber acrid in the air. The cold fear he hasn’t felt since he cowered behind his desk listening to three intruders discussing arson spikes again.

Whoever they are up against obviously is ruthless. And has resources. They must have been able to track their passports and Thorin’s credit card and within few hours track their car and arrange for a bomb to be planted.

“Probably a warning,” Dwalin concludes when Bilbo resurfaces from his thoughts. His wrist is warm where Thorin still holds onto it, unconsciously. “They’re might still watching us, though.”

Thorin's grip on Bilbo's wrist tightens. "Let them," he growls, "We make our move. Balin, get us on the next plane to Hong Kong. Tell the others to meet us there. We've waited long enough."

Balin nods, and calmly fishes out his mobile. Dwalin remains standing still nearby, one hand still inside his jacket. A shudder runs down Bilbo's spine.

"Professor," Thorin asks, "Bilbo. I know the translation will take time. But can you figure out the location?"

Bilbo swallows down the panic crawling up in his throat. His ears are still ringing and Thorin is more or less holding him upright. But his mind still works, as far as he can tell, and the copies Elrond gave him are safe in his bag.

"I think I can. It will be an educated guess," Bilbo stammers, "But I can do it."

***

In a hotel room somewhere in French Polynesia Gandalf looks at the screen of his tablet. “Oh dear,” he murmurs as he scrolls through the small news item. Car explosion in Heidelberg, assassination attempt suspected as the car had been hired by oil magnate Thorin Durinson. On the grainy picture Gandalf can not only make out Thorin and Dwalin, but also Bilbo.

He has a feeling Bilbo will not be willing to provide input for his next publication. Which is a pity since the lead Gandalf is following may be connected with the story Bilbo is unearthing. His lead here has more or less come to an end anyway.

With a sigh he straightens from his beach chair and selects a familiar number. After three rings, a familiar voice picks up.

“Gandalf, I was just expecting you to call,” Galadriel greets cheerfully, “Heidelberg, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Gandalf sighs, “I think our enemy is getting hasty.”

Galadriel chuckles. “Well, I’ll inform the local team then. Where are we going?”

Gandalf casts a longing glance at the clear water before him. He hasn’t even been here long enough to get more than a sunburn. “China.”

tbc

Chapter Text

Bilbo does not know what magic Thorin and Balin weave, but the policy let them leave after taking their initial statements. In fact, the officers inquire twice whether they don’t want to get a check-up at the hospital. And while Bilbo would be glad to agree, Thorin keeps declining and Dwalin appears increasingly nervous.

Whoever is after them, Bilbo thinks, will have easily followed them here. May be still observing. Could strike again.

A cold shudder runs down his back. In the artificial light of the police station, his fatigue returns with vengeance. He finds himself suppressing a yawn and unconsciously slumping toward Thorin. Fili rests a hand on his shoulder, however, and keeps him from toppling over.

“You can sleep soon, Bilbo,” he tells him, “If you look at your mobile, you should have gotten your ticket.”

Bilbo blinks owlishly and fishes the device from his bag, fingers brushing past the map collection Elrond has given him. For a moment, his desire to solve the puzzle of Erebor wars with his exhaustion. However, while Thorin is explaining that yes, this is not the first attack on his person, and no, he has his own lawyers to handle the case, and certainly, the company is engaged in several projects that have inspired violent protests, trying to decipher an ancient map might not be helpful.

The number of emails in his account makes him sigh for a moment, though the majority is – as always – newsletters. An update from Oin concerning his theory on the people of Erebor and their genetic ancestry – he’ll have to read through the attachments later -, several inquiries from his students back in Zürich, some still waiting for grades on papers handed to Bilbo before Thorin spirited him away – they deserve at least a short note – and the ticket Fili mentioned. Bilbo doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry when he realizes the flight is leaving today. They haven’t even been on the continent for twenty-four hours. Then again, he’s done his fair share of quick visits for lectures when he was still vying for tenure.

“Kili and I will fly over tomorrow morning,” Fili tells him, “Dwalin will be on your flight, Balin’s coming with us. The others are also flying in tomorrow.”

Bilbo nods and skims through the rest of his inbox. Two articles to review, a colleague asking for input, conference announcement – it feels like an eternity since he did actually check his university mail account. There’s a note from Gloin about a proposal of compensation regarding the arson attempt.

With a shake of his head he glances up and sees Thorin still deep in conversation. Their competitors, he tells the officers, at times also try underhand or scare tactics. And the company just put forward a generous bid for a suspected oil field in northern Alberta.

A notification blinks up and Bilbo is surprised to see an email from Elrond. The professor inquires after their well-being, having heard the explosion. And:

The code, eventually, did not prove particularly difficult. While I am not certain of its meaning – and therefore the following translation may have to be rethought – I would suggest the following:

After fire comes snow. Dragons, too, have [their] endings.

It may be of interest to note that the solution came from your aside notion of runes on your map. As you are probably aware, the individual runes of the Elder Furthark possess meaning, though they are not ideographs. I found the Chinese text – allowing for regional pronunciation at the time – can be matched fairly closely to Furthark rune pronunciation, as such allowing an easy transcription into runes. Above translation results from the runic text.

As such, I do very much hope you will publish your results once your work on the map is finished. It may allow for a very interesting reexamination of local history.

Bilbo’s fatigue is gone. He bites down on his lip to suppress a sudden fit of giggling. But it fits, fits so much better than he expected. The day the dragon came was what the actual runes on the map had said. That the hidden runes now join the chorus creates a surprisingly coherent picture.

And Bilbo already has a suspicion what the dragon symbolizes. Concerning fire and snow… He frowns. The map’s author wasn’t one for subtlety, after all.

“Fili,” Bilbo says lowly, “Can you and your brother do something for me?”

Fili nods and turns back to watching Thorin gesticulate at the officers. “Sure.”

“Get maps and google earth. Draw a three-hundred kilometer radius around the monastery where the map was found. Look for lakes and areas where the trees aren’t as tall in the surroundings. Or if you can make out any sites of fire.” Bilbo bites his lip.

A lake may have dried up in the three-hundred years that passed, all traces of a forest-fire vanished. But then again, they may just get lucky.

“And maybe have a look if you find any inconsistencies between earth and actual paper maps,” he adds. Fili nods quietly.

“Yes, thank you,” Thorin tells the officers with a sigh, “Yes, contact my office with any further requests. Thank you, but I’ve had enough coffee, and we need to get going.”

***

Dinner has come and gone and the light in the cabin have grown dim. Thorin scrolls through the last report Nori mailed him with a frown, before setting the tablet aside. His eyes feel dry and he knows he should sleep, though his body still thrums.

Fili and Kili will be alright, he tells himself. The car bomb had been a threat, not a move to kill and they have Balin with them. Their enemy, whoever it is, should leave them alone.

And yet Thorin knows he’ll feel better once they have figured out who they are actually up against. He’s probably forced their hand by boarding this plane, and while he is more than ready for a confrontation, he worries for the people he has involved.

With a small huff he casts a glance across the aisle where the professor is stretched out on his cot, blankets drawn up to his nose. He’s forgotten to pull up the screen and Elrond’s map collection still lies on the table. Thorin feels a small smile tug on the corners of his mouth. Bilbo Baggins is a marvel – not only in tackling and solving the mystery of the map of Erebor, but also for being unafraid. For challenging Thorin, for making him laugh. It all makes Thorin a little less guilty about the dangers he brought upon the professor. Truly, it makes him wonder, since any rational person ought to have taken the compensation and walked.

But for some reason Thorin does not know, Bilbo Baggins stays. Through arson, through a car bomb – and Thorin hopes he can at one point find a way to repay Bilbo for his support.

“Thorin,” a voice cuts through his thoughts and he glances to his left to see Dwalin looking over his screen, “You read what Nori wrote?”

Thorin nods.

“You realize they’ll be watching our every step once we land?” Dwalin inquires, “And we still don’t have the faintest who we’re up against? Except that they can hire arsonists back at home, send a car bomb to Germany and get officials in Beijing murdered pretty much at the same time?”

Thorin’s lips twists. “Though, as Nori mentioned, the arsonists weren’t the brightest crayons and were hired, and remotely exploding a car bomb isn’t exactly rocket science. Their reach may be global, but they’re obviously facing limitations if whoever their outsourcing to isn’t quite up to delivering.”

“You believe Nori when he says he suspects they’re based in China?” ,Dwalin asks lowly before accepting another glass of tomato juice from a passing stewardess.

“Might as well,” Thorin sighs, “It’s where the first offers came from, before the mysterious London party got involved.”

“Going to China in that case does not seem to be very wise, then,” Dwalin remarks drily, “As they obviously have the advantage.”

Thorin shrugs. “The professor says that’s where Erebor is. As far as I’m concerned, that’s my first priority.”

“Alright,” Dwalin says, “We’re doing what we can. Though I doubt Nori’s going to get the visa for China.”

Thorin glances up and realizes that Nori’s obviously written him a different email than Dwalin. “No,” he confirms, “Nori’s headed for London.”

***

Hong Kong, at eight in the morning, is already hot and humid. Bilbo stares longingly at the coastline their pick-up passes on the way downtown. Already the short distance from the terminal to the parking lot was enough to make him sweat through his already three-day old shirt.

He does feel twice as scruffy when they walk up to the reception at the Mandarin Oriental. Eyeing the crowd of exceptionally well-dressed employees and guests, Bilbo gives in to his instincts and attempts to hide behind Thorin and Dwalin. At least Thorin reputation as an oil magnate assures they don’t get complimented right out. Though Bilbo isn’t certain he likes the many mobile phones more or less inconspicuously pointed into their direction any better.

He is mostly looking forward to the shower and the one attached to his he-doesn’t-want-to-know-how-much-per-night deluxe suite delivers. The second blessing is that he can exchange his worn clothes for a hotel-provided, fluffy bathrobe and even though it’s not yet noon and from the window Bilbo can see a blue sky stretching over Hong Kong’s skyscrapers, the bed currently looks far more inviting. The fact that his head still spins does not help much.

With a sigh, he collapses backwards on the king-sized bed. The last two days were exciting. And Bilbo is used to a high workload and to ever-pressing deadlines, but this kind of excitement is different from wondering whether or not his project will receive funding or his proposal will be accepted. He’s not sure if he’s made for the spy-action-movie lifestyle, though he does enjoy the company.

When he wakes, the sun has moved considerably and Bilbo knows that at least his subconscious has reached a conclusion on his feelings for Thorin. At his age, he thinks as he wanders into the bathroom, this sort of reaction is more amusing than embarrassing – he thought he’d left the pining and dreaming stage behind sometime during his tween years. At least once the issue has been addressed his libido makes no reoccurrence as he spend the rest of the afternoon piercing together his information.

***

Night has long fallen when the last member of Thorin’s company have reached the hotel. Dwalin’s frown grows continuously – “they’ll know we’re here” he’d muttered, eyeing the ceiling-high windows of Thorin’s suite suspiciously. Bilbo twitches at the reminder.

During the afternoon spent going through historical sources, his notes and Elrond’s maps, he’d given more thought to his infatuation with Thorin than to the threat. Thorin who has miraculously acquired new, well-tailored clothes and tied his hair into a ponytail at the back of his neck. A flush creeps onto his cheeks and he almost laughs at himself.

Fili helps him set up his notebook, connect it to the flatscreen tv and make certain all the slides of presentation work. There aren’t many – the narrative Bilbo can present is still a hypothesis still, and he will stick to the facts he can prove. Though when the first slide, titled “Erebor – a preliminary narrative” appears on the screen, the conversations die down and twelve pairs of curious eyes come to rest on Bilbo. A faint smile on Thorin’s lips, while Kili and Ori look particularly inquisitive.

“The narrative I will present,” Bilbo begins with a smile, “Is, as it says there, preliminary. A hypothesis, if you will, constructed from the facts we have found so far. I’m reasonably certain of it, though confirmation can only be achieved through actually finding Erebor.”

Bofur chuckles at that, and Thorin flashes him a smile. It is amazing how Thorin’s smiles light up his entire face, Bilbo thinks, and then embarrassedly realizes he is staring. Hurriedly, he turns back to his notebook and switches to the next slide.

“The people of Erebor,” Bilbo says and points to the map depicting the reaches of the Mongolian Empire at the height of its power, “Originated as a Mongolian people, as Oin’s genetic analysis suggests. Like other tribes, they followed the Khan and his successors west as the Mongolian Empire expanded. During this expansion, I believe, they came into contact with northern European cultures. Determining when or where the encounter took place is not possible at this time, however, I believe this encounter marks the origin of the Ereborean people. A community built from adopted cultural practices, among them a runic alphabet and norse-style names.”

Balin nods thoughtfully, Ori watches with rapt attention and even Kili and Fili appear thoughtful. Bifur tilts his head, but no question is raised and Bilbo decides to continue with his hypothesis.

“When the Mongolian Empire contracted, the Ereborean people migrated to the east first, and to the south second,” Bilbo explains. “A straight route east would have led them to the icy plains of Siberia, but they could not have stayed this far north, not with the climate developments in the 14^th century. Frosts and snow must have forced them south, up into the Himalayas.”

Dwalin shakes his head at that and Bofur quips “That wouldn’t have been much warmer.”

“No,” Bilbo agrees and goes on to show a map of contemporary southwestern China, “But settlements and trade routes ran through the Himalayas, so they could have traded for whatever they needed. Though – and this is where understanding Ereborean culture better may be helpful – instead of settling in Tibet, they apparently chose to continue moving until they reached an area suited to their needs. Not too remote, but far enough to keep to their own cultural practices.”

The anthropologist in Bilbo is gleefully rubbing his hands at that question. Getting to describe an entirely new group of people posits the dream subject for any kind of study, and for a people to so succinctly keep to their own culture displays an astonishing degree of social organization.

First, however, he needs to prove Erebor existed. “They established Erebor in southwestern China and mostly keep to themselves. Then Tibet drifts into a civil war and the Ming dynasty collapses. And only when the Qing is reestablished and the Fifth Dalai Lama has unified Tibet they seem to take notice of Erebor.”

“The Day the Dragon came,” Balin mutters. Thorin’s face has grown dark and even Dwalin turns away from the window to look at Bilbo.

“Yes,” Bilbo replies calmly, “The Dragon symbolizes the Chinese Empire. On the request of the Fifth Dalai Lama and probably also in response to requests from Mu Kingdom, the Empire turned onto Erebor.”

A short glance affirms his audience remains spellbound. Bilbo feels his lips twitch – he wishes his students would pay this much attention. “There may be historical sources supporting this thesis, though finding those will require further research. My suspicion is that either few survived – based on the small number of people identifying as Ereborean today – or that the survivors were assimilated into Tibetan or Chinese society. The map’s origin suggests this.”

“How so?” Gloin asks, leaning forward in his seat. Next to him, Bombur twists his beard between his fingers.

“The monastery received a number of texts as donations, though the registers only list Buddhist scriptures. Other materials stored at the monastery then have probably been produced on site, meaning whoever wrote the map – shortly after the Monastery’s construction which itself follows the conquering of the area by the Dalai Lama – must have had at least knowledge of Erebor. The fact that the hidden text says “Even Dragons have their endings” implies that they rather hoped to see Erebor rise again.” Bilbo explains. He sees Thorin’s eyebrows rise and Dwalin takes a step forward, but Dori beats him.

“Does that mean the Chinese government wants to stop us from finding Erebor?” he asks, scandalized, “Is that who we’re going up against?”

“No,” Thorin answers with a short shake of his head, “They sold the map, after all. And Nori said those two officials in charge died.”

“Tibetan nationalists?” Gloin suggests.

“Unlikely,” Ori is quick to suggest, “From what Bilbo presented, the story of Erebor has obviously been mostly forgotten. Also the destruction was dealt by Chinese troops.”

He casts a short look to Bilbo who nods. “Yes. On the behalf of Tibet, though. And I do think it is more likely Erebor has indeed been forgotten rather than a conspiracy to conceal a military campaign over three hundred years ago.”

“It’s not the sort of story to be concealed,” Balin agrees, “However, the Chinese authorities are no monolith and there may be particular interests to consider that may run counter to state-sanctioned actions.”

Bilbo can only shrug at that and looks to Thorin. “Even in that case,” Thorin says, “We should have no difficulties obtaining our visas tomorrow. They are obviously not all that powerful, even if their reach is long.”

Dwalin looks as if he wants to disagree, but Thorin turns to Bilbo instead. “If we’re still going there?”

Bilbo can’t help himself and smiles brightly at Thorin. His cousin would have long since been able to divine his crush, but luckily nobody of the group present knows him well-enough to do so.

“We are,” he confirms, “First, though, Fili, Kili, did you find anything on the maps?”

Kili shakes his head and Fili frowns at him. “Nothing remarkable, and no areas that would imply a large-scale fire. But, and you said that, after such a long time, the forest will have mostly recovered. There are a lot of lakes all over the area, many of them fairly high in the mountains.”

“I didn’t think there would be anything remarkable on the maps,” Bilbo agrees since he has spent most of the afternoon looking through the publicly available maps online, “There are other indicators, however.”

He turns back to his audience and switches to his last slide, a map with several possible locations for Erebor marked. “Mapmaking practices have not always regarded scale as essential,” he says, “And maps more often than not expressed meanings and beliefs, which is why often you will find monsters or other strange creatures located in peripheral regions of ancient maps. Chinese mapmaking displays similar characteristics, though these were influenced by the Tianxia weltanschauung until the early 20^th century.”

And Bilbo has to cut himself off to not give a spontaneous lecture on the characteristics of Chinese maps and Buddhist maps and the way they resemble each other. Erebor, he tells himself, Erebor.

“Now, while these maps generally place the area we are interested in on the periphery, a study of maps from subsequent ages reveals certain constants. These demarcate either continuing believes of entities existent in this area or actually existent entities like town, buildings, lakes or mountains,” Bilbo says, “If we compare the historical maps with today’s maps, the scale is entirely different, but certain entities remain – the geographical features.”

Ori nods enthusiastically and Thorin looks mildly impressed. Bilbo feels a smile spread on his face. “The five places I have marked on this map are locations on which entities have been marked on a continuous number of historical maps, but are no longer existent on contemporary maps.”

“Can you tell which location it is?” Kili asks immediately. Before Bilbo can reply, Bofur waves his hand. “Actually, why don’t we check out all of them? There might be treasure hidden somewhere.”

The group chuckles at that and Balin eventually raises his head to say “Amazing, professor, truly amazing.”

Bilbo feels himself flush. “Actually,” he stammers, “I’m fairly sure I can rank those five according to likelihood.”

“How so?” Gloin asks, a wide grin on his face, “Where are we going?”

“Well, from why I gleaned, locations two and four are related to sacred sites of folk beliefs. Site five references an amazon kingdom, though there is no lake nearby and site one is quite distant from the Monastery. If you look at the mountains, the valley of site five is connected to another north-south corridor and you’ll see that even today there are very few west-east connections crossing the mountains.”

“Site three it is?” Fili suggests cheerfully.

“I think so,” Bilbo confirms, “The reference is a kingdom below the earth, and that is not a term usually applied to any of the mythical spaces of Buddhism.”

“So we’ll be going to Xianggelila, then, “ Dori concludes and rises, “And from there – it doesn’t look as if there’s a road going to that location, is there, professor?”

“I don’t think so,” Bilbo replies and Balin adds: “As far as I know there are some location that can only be reached either on foot or by horse. But since it’s become a popular tourist destination, the infrastructure could have improved.”

“And we could probably always hire a guide,” Kili says.

“No, we shouldn’t,” Dwalin immediately replies, “Whoever is responsible for the bomb – and the arson and at least two murders – will know when we arrive there. And if the professor is right, that is when they will grow nervous.”

His face darkens considerably. “So far the attacks have probably been only a warning. However, the moment we appear close to our goal, they may not be content to warn us off. We should be prepared, and I believe we should not stay at any place for very long. The sooner we disappear into the wilderness, the safer we will be.”

A cold shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine and Thorin merely nods. “We will have to check in at a hotel, and I believe it may do us all well to catch a rest. But you are right, we cannot linger there for long.”

He also rises from the couch and takes a firm step into the center of the sitting room. “We must prepare here as well as we can. Tomorrow, Balin and Ori will go and apply for the tourist visas, Dori, would you be so kind and find us flights and a hotel? Bilbo, can you map a path to the location?”

Dori nods and Bilbo frowns. “I will see what I can do. We may have to accommodate topographical features – some of these mountains are over six thousand meters and I doubt we’ll be able to scale them.”

Thorin’s lips quirk. “Well, except for Bifur, nobody in this group is an experienced mountaineer so we’ll follow your recommendations.”

This is insane, a part of Bilbo’s mind tells him. You are an anthropologist, not a wilderness guide. The fact that you can find your way around with a map and a compass does not mean you’re cut out for navigating the Himalayas. And yet, for some obscure reason that may be very well related to Bilbo’s own curiosity and Thorin’s enthusiasm, he only feels excited for their mad quest.

tbc

Chapter Text

Thanks to the alarm he remembered to set, Bilbo actually wakes up in time for breakfast. He didn’t stay up all that late last night – they did have a wine after Bilbo’s presentation and even Dwalin’s gloomy predictions had been unable to disperse the good mood – but the jetlag makes itself known. For a moment, Bilbo just lies on his bed, watches the play of sunlight on the carpet and wonders if he shouldn’t just turn over and sleep on.

Then again, he knows just how long it takes for him to adjust to a different time zone – and didn’t that use to be easier back when he was in grad school? With a groan he gets up, shuffles to the bathroom and makes himself presentable. And also notices, that he still has only one set of clothes which does not stink yet, but with the heat outside Bilbo thinks it may not be long.

Clothes shopping ends up high on his to do list for the day. He meets Thorin, Dwalin, Fili and Kili at breakfast and learns that Balin has already left to arrange visas. Dwalin concurs that clothes shopping in general may be a good idea, since due to the hasty departure, they certainly lack in robust outdoor gear. Fili and Kili offer to meet up with him later – promising to find the shop matched to their desires online first – to purchase these items.

For some reason Thorin accompanies Bilbo to the first few department stores, looking slightly out of place while Bilbo fumbles his way through shirts and trousers until he figures out just what size fits. Part of him is glad he doesn’t understand what the sales ladies whisper to each other when Thorin hovers just outside his changing room. He does, however, put his foot down when Thorin offers to pay for his purchases, quoting his abrupt decision for Bilbo’s lack of wardrobe.

“Is that everything?” Thorin asks, when Bilbo steers them back to the hotel. The sun’s high in the sky and he can feel his shirt sticking to his back. A cold shower and fresh clothes will be heavenly, as will the general escape from the thick humidity and exhaust fumes.

Even though Thorin appears strangely disappointed by Bilbo’s decision to turn back, they both exhale in relief as the walk into the air-conditioned lobby of their hotel.

“Bilbo,” Thorin asks as they step onto the escalator, “I was thinking about going out for dinner later. Do you want to come along?”

Bilbo agrees, and is positively surprised when the location Thorin guides them to turns out not overly posh, but a bustling, back-alley restaurant. Thorin and Bilbo squeeze into a small corner, barely large enough to hold a table and two chairs, from where they have a good view of the rest of the place which is astonishingly busy.

Once the food arrives, Bilbo realizes why. He has had Dim Sum before. Enjoyed them a lot. But in comparison it feels as if he’d never eaten any real Dim Sum and he barely manages to suppress a moan around a mouthful of food.

“This is amazing,” he tells Thorin without looking up from his food, “Really, you know the best place. Are you secretly a culinary critic?”

Thorin chuckles, eating more sedately. “I’m not and I’m afraid you’ll find I wouldn’t make a particularly good one, either. When they were younger, Fili and Kili routinely got fastfood, arranged it nicely and I didn’t catch on until four or five years later.”

Bilbo chuckles. “Still, you know excellent places.”

Thorin smiles. “Well, I have guests to entertain and every now and then I get invited to nice places. This one a Hong Kong investor pointed out to me.”

“I do hope you signed whatever contract that was about,” Bilbo declares, “The food alone’s worth an investment.”

“I may have to change business venues for that,” Thorin replies and their conversation pauses for a moment, both busy enjoying their food.

“I just wanted to say, I think we were all quite impressed at your deductions last night,” Thorin says, somewhat abruptly, “You left before I remembered to tell you.”

Bilbo replies with a wry smile. “Thank me when we actually find something. Right now it’s only elaborate guesswork.”

“I am sure we will,” Thorin says and Bilbo can only grin around a mouthful of dim sum. The flavor of the crab-and-some-spices-he-doesn’t-recognize filling makes him almost miss Thorin’s next comment.

“Dori got flights for the day after tomorrow. Will that be enough time to prepare everything?” Thorin asks, “We can change to a later date. I merely wanted to make sure we have tickets first.”

“No, that should be alright,” Bilbo says and contemplates whether or not ordering a second serving will make him appear a glutton, “There is only so much we can prepare – as long as we don’t see the terrain and the weather, we’re making guesses. We may have to wing it at some point.”

Thorin is not showing his food quite as much gusto as Bilbo is, but his plate empties, too. “I believe we won’t have a problem with that. Everybody is mostly used to … outdoor adventures. Scouting potential oil fields sometimes gets, well, adventurous?”

Bilbo can vividly imagine it. However, he also recalls something else he forgot to ask. “Everybody is going to come? I mean, except Nori, obviously, but even your nephews and Ori? Wouldn’t it be too dangerous?”

For a moment the hustle of the dining room fades into the background as Thorin sighs, his forehead creasing. “They know they do not have to come if they do not want to. We don’t know what we will find, and Dwalin’s concerns that whoever is trying to stop us from finding Erebor will make true on their threats is valid. I don’t want anybody in danger on my behalf. That includes you.”

Something warm sparks in Bilbo’s chest and he smiles. “Well, I –“

“Though I already put you into grave danger,” Thorin continues. The fingers of his right hand brush over Bilbo’s left – a touch too concise to be an accident, too fleeting to be a caress. And still, the blood rushes to Bilbo’s cheeks and for a moment the busy din of the restaurant fades away.

“I don’t think I can truly apologize for that. But I must admit, I truly underestimated you. Not only did you figure out the map in a few, short weeks – ask your dean, I offered your university a two year deal – but that, in spite of everything, you’re still here.” Thorin’s smile makes Bilbo’s heart skip a beat.

This is a point where you either lean in or take his hand, a voice in the back of his head comments and Bilbo shuts it down by recalling that he is an adult, this is not a romantic movie and they are in a very public place where Thorin is a potentially very well-known figure.

“What can I say,” Bilbo replies with a shrug, “The steak convinced me early on.”

Thorin chuckles, leaning back and the undercurrent tension disperses. Bilbo regrets letting it go – he wouldn’t mind exploring where it leads – but this is not the right venue. Perhaps another time, he tells himself, and stands by his decision.

They do not explore that connection further that night. But they do order several more rounds of Dim Sum and other dishes through the night, switching to deserts and alcoholic beverages later. Conversation flows easily between them and Bilbo is glad to hit his own bed eventually – he already knows he will suffer a headache come morning.

***

Two days later a connecting flight via Kunming delivers them to Diqing. The sky is bright and clear and the sun burns the way it always does at this altitude, but within five minutes of getting into the hired bus, Bilbo begins to feel sleepy. He fights against his drooping eyelids, studies the buildings and the landscape.

Many of the newer buildings bear Tibetan symbols, though he doubts they are little more than simulacra. The landscape is rough, yet greener than he expected. Snow covers the nearby peaks and the air, when they leave the car, has is fresh.

While he wants nothing more than to collapse into the inviting bed of his hotel room, he forces himself to join the rest of the group as they head over to the Monastery. It’s not far – and yet the hotel management insists they hire a driver since the main ticket office is a kilometer down the road.

The golden roofs have been recently restored as have the murals. It creates an impressive picture, though Bilbo wonders if, at any point in history, the monastery truly looked like this. He is no stranger to reconstruction efforts and the way these attempt to pinpoint the past and usually end up with a romanticized image of it. Which, however, may turn out to work for tourists and locals and Bilbo generally likes to stay away from the moralistic discussions of anthropology.

Which doesn’t render him above cursing human desire for grandeur which leads to steep and long staircases at more than 3000meters of altitude. He’s completely out of breath once he has reached the top, while Kili and Fili skip merrily ahead.

“Do you think we might find something here?” Ori asks him, while Bilbo is holding his side, “About Erebor?”

Bilbo looks around. Tourists populate the main square, intermingling with a few monks. “I doubt it,” he replies, “While the map was hidden here, I doubt the author could have gotten away with leaving another clue that would have survived until today. Also, I’m not familiar enough with Tibetan iconography to recognize any clue.”

“Right,” Ori nods thoughtfully, “Well, I’ll go and have a look around, then.”

And he skips off, leaving Bilbo to regain his breath and find Thorin smirking at him from nearby. Bilbo gives him a glare, before making a show of stomping toward the hall entrance and ignoring him.

All in all, the excursion ends after four hours and Bilbo is glad to return to their hotel. Thorin asks them to meet him in his room, later, but first, Bilbo thinks, eyeing his bed happily, he will sleep.

**

"So it takes six hours to get over there?" Fili asks. They’ve set up camp in Thorin’s room, which, while luxurious, is not quite as spacious as his last suite and it feels a little cramped. Bilbo has spread a topographical map on the table

Gloin frowns. "That seems long, considering the distance.”

“Yes, but look at the mountains,” Ori chimes in, “The altitude difference is quite immense.”

Bilbo nods. “We have to make detours unless we want to end up scaling a cliff or two. Also we might not move as fast at this altitude.”

“He’s right,” Oin harrumphs, “And you –“ he turns to Balin – “should really stay here. You, too.” He nods to Bombur. Both, Bilbo notices with surprise, are pale – didn’t they get the medicine?

“Allergic,” Thorin tells him from the side, “They are allergic to one the ingredients. But, Balin, Bombur, Oin is right. Going on a hike at this altitude if you’re unwell is unlikely to be a good idea.”

“You can be our contacts here,” Kili suggests, “Make sure we check in with you regularly and send out a search party in case anything happens.”

Dwalin frowns. “They might –“

Thorin interrupts him, shaking his head. “It’s actually a good idea. Of course, you ought to be careful in case whoever is after us ends up targeting you – but I have a feeling they might rather go after the rest of us.”

Bilbo swallows nervously. Thorin’s leg pressed against his is a reassuring sensation, but he cannot help the dread coiling in his stomach. Setting off into high-altitude territory with every intention of leaving the marked trails behind is daunting already. The idea that somebody may come after them with ill intentions is frightening.

“Anybody who would not risk it,” Thorin is saying, “Can stay here or travel back home. What we are about to do is dangerous and I cannot guarantee your safety.”

The hair on the back of Bilbo’s neck stands, but on the other side of the table, Bofur merely snorts. “We knew that the moment we got on that plane.”

***

They leave their hotel when sunrise is but a tiny sliver of blue in the distance. The air is freezing and the mountains pose stark, black silhouettes against the starry night sky. Bilbo directs them west, leaving Ganden Sumtseling to their right. Soon, even the few remaining streetlights have faded from view and he’s grateful the night is clear.

Moon and stars provide enough light to see by and they follow a small path to the west, cutting through the uneven grasslands. In an hour the terrain will change, Bilbo knows from his maps. He hopes they will have better light by then.

And he hopes nobody has noticed their early departure.

“Can we talk now?” Kili whispers from the back of their line, “I think we’re far enough away.”

“The mountains may carry the sound,” Gloin returns, uneasily, though Dwalin just says “As long as you don’t shout.”

Bilbo casts a glance over his shoulder and sees only a soft glow beyond a mountain. Xianggelila is behind them. The next settlement, according to his map, is roughly seventy kilometers to the southwest – across a stretch of mountains and valleys. They shouldn’t run into anybody.

“Everything alright?” Thorin inquires, and Bilbo nods. He’s no longer quite so cold, though he feels rather short of breath. The altitude, he tells himself, and then turns back to their path.

Under the rising sun they have to cross a first, deep crevasse. Bilbo nervously eyes the drop until Thorin announces a break for everybody but Fili and Kili. The two navigate their way down the crevasse and back up with astonishing ease – and fix ropes on the other side so that they span the width of it.

Bilbo gapes and Thorin pats his shoulder. “It’s safe,” he announces even as Bofur is the first to make his way across.

“Easy ‘s walking,” he calls to the rest of the group. Bilbo watches with a sinking feeling as first Gloin, then Bifur, then Ori and even Oin make their way across and arrive at the other side without being so much as out of breath. Dori looks slightly frazzled, but Bilbo cannot even imagine wrapping his limps around the rope and shimmying across.

“Your turn,” Thorin announces and Bilbo stumbles forward. His stomach has dropped to somewhere around his knees and it feels rather surreal when he kneels down to grasp the rope. Thorin knots another rope around his waist and tights and fixes it to the second rope across the crevasse. Safety, the analytical part of Bilbo’s mind remarks.

It’s unlikely anything will happen. But somehow that doesn’t sound quite so convincing when the ground drops away and the wind playfully tugs at his hair. Before his eyes, the rope vibrates and the coarse fabric digs into his fingers, but he forces himself forward.

Don’t look down, he tells himself, just don’t look down. But the wide, endless sky overhead is dizzying, and even when Bilbo’s feet touch solid ground once more his knees feel utterly weak. Bofur laughs and hands him a sandwich and they watch Thorin shimmy across in moments.

“We’ll have to leave the ropes,” Gloin announces with a frown.

“We have more,” Thorin replies evenly, and accepts another sandwich, “Bilbo, are we much behind schedule?”

With shaking fingers he manages to fumble the map out of his front pocket. “No, not really,” he says, “We moved a bit faster earlier on.”

“Great!” Kili exclaims and stretches his arms, “I liked this part. Where to next?”

“Down there,” Bilbo points to their left. The ground drops away into a lush valley dotted with red flowers and low bushes. By now the sun is almost completely up, the sky a clear blue and though Bilbo’s nerves have calmed a little, he can’t quite suppress the small smile from forming.

The weather is fine, the company agreeable – and if the odd notion of a potential danger following them ceased to exist, he’d rate it among his favorite hikes ever.

“Anything in particular we should look for, Bilbo?” Fili asks from further ahead, “Maybe some clue?”

“Any fresh tracks of humans,” Dwalin grumbles. “Or older tracks of humans,” Bilbo adds a tad more cheerfully, “Maybe fireplaces or sepulchral steles. Ancient weapons.”

“Wouldn’t that be awesome if we found an old sword or anything?” Kili asks, “Or maybe treasure! Gold coins and jewelry!”

“Then we’d have to hand them over anyway,” Gloin reminds them, “Though they’d most probably have rusted away. Winters in these climates aren’t kind.”

The low-ducking bushes confirm his words, Bilbo thinks. It’s difficult to imagine storms raging over this valley, bathed in sunshine as it is right now. But they are above the tree line and all bushes grow close to the ground.

Hopefully the weather won’t turn on them, Bilbo thinks and casts a glance above. To their left, the snow-covered peaks of nearby Shika Xueshan have become visible. In the far distance, he sees lofty peaks tower even higher than Shika’s 5000 meters – perhaps Kawa Karpo.

“We should really return just for a hike,” Dori says with a shake of the head, “The landscape is much too nice to be ignored.”

Nice does, however, not make it easy to navigate. They proceed downhill for about an hour without anybody slipping. Hidden between the flowers they discover a mountain stream and finding stones large enough to create a crossing takes time. Eventually they all make it across without wet feet and Bilbo leads them on. He turns a little further left, and their path begins to ascend once more. To their right, the land falls away into an even deeper valley, but – as Bilbo once again confirms with his map – this is not their direction.

“Let’s take a break,” Oin suggests, wiping sweat from his brow. The air has started to warm up, and Bilbo can feel the skin on the tip of his nose beginning to burn. Everybody happily takes the opportunity to divest themselves of their warmer layers and several more sandwiches and water bottles are unpacked.

Thorin drops down next to Bilbo. “What are these mountains?” he asks, and points to the snow-covered peaks towering above them.

Bilbo glances at his map and swallows down a piece of sandwich before replying. “They don’t have a name. Actually,” he gestures at the topographical map on his lap, “They aren’t really on here, either. It shows an elevation, but no peaks like these.”

Thorin raises an eyebrow. He is, perhaps unconsciously, leaning closer and Bilbo licks his lip. “The map is wrong?”

“I don’t think so,” Bilbo replies, “Rather, these mountains aren’t really visible from anywhere else and it may just be a case of the cartographers not knowing any better and trusting their predecessors a little too much.”

He lets his own body sink toward Thorin a little – he remembers the feeling of hard muscle against his own bare skin quite clearly. And as far as he can tell, Thorin remembers, too.

“It’s not uncommon,” he continues, enjoying their closeness, “Every now and again cartographers find mistake. Like the Rhine being actually about 90kilometers shorter than everybody thought. They’d initially made a mistake during measuring and nobody thought to check the numbers again. Our maps are probably full of errors like this.”

“Listening to you,” Thorin replies after a moment, “Makes me feel as if there is a lot to this world we have absolutely no idea of. So many assumptions we have already found to be wrong.”

Bilbo’s heart hitches. He isn’t certain they are talking of maps and geography anymore   “I think it is indeed so,” he says and gives Thorin a small smile. After all, even in the 21^st century humankind still clings to more than one misconception.

“Perhaps we should move on,” Dwalin says, interrupting them. “Is it still far?”

Bilbo glances at the – admittedly not accurate – map on his lap. “Not really,” he replies, “But the last bit will probably be the most exhausting.”

He stands up and turns to the peaks overhead. Four rise up against the blue sky, lows between them almost at level with the snow line. “Just on the other side of those, I believe,” he tells their entire group, “If we aim for the lowest pass – the one on the right – we should be able to make it in about two hours.”

His announcement is met with some complaining – after all, hiking uphill is far more strenuous and it takes them longer than Bilbo anticipated to reach the pass. Even if the sun burns on his skin, the air up here is significantly colder and the view – when he turns to gaze behind – is amazing. Mountains upon mountains, their peaks covered in eternal glaciers and not a cloud in the sky or a trace of civilization to be found.

He knows that there are villages and roads hidden within the valleys, but from these peaks none are visible. It also matches his suspicion that these four peaks are not visible from any village either.

Thankfully, the pass itself is free of snow, though Bilbo slips his warmer jacket back on. The other side reveals a similarly breath-taking panorama: mountains upon mountains. And a deep, green lake down in the valley.

“It seems you were really quite on,” Thorin comments and Bilbo cannot quite stop himself from grinning. This must be the place – the lake is there and even some shrubbery. Not the great forests the map indicated, but with distances skewered on there, those forests may be those found in the lower valleys.

Now he only needs to find Erebor.

Bilbo bites on his lower lip. Perhaps some tools left near the lake? It is difficult to determine whether the lake changed its outline in the intervening years, but it would have been used by the local community.

He’s just about to suggest going down, when something else catches his attention. On the far left of the mountain they stand on, perhaps a hundred meters below, he can see the entrance to a cave. And zigzagging path leading down from it.

“Dwalin, do you have binoculars?” he inquires, “Over there – do you see that cave?”

“Is that it?” Kili questions, “Is that Erebor?”

“It would make sense,” Thorin mutters, “They did call it Kingdom under the Mountain.”

Which Bilbo had taken for a reference to a location just at the foot of a mountain. But a cave would explain how Erebor could have so silently vanished from all memory.

“We should check it out,” Kili proclaims and Bilbo is suddenly assailed by a sense of unease. Something gnaws at his mind.

“Inform the others first,” he suggests, “Tell them we have a clue. We’re due an update anyway.”

“Alright,” Fili agrees easily and Bilbo accepts the binoculars from Dwalin, seeing his concern mirrored on his face. The cave entrance is dark and he cannot see inside. It is large – not impossibly so and while the shape could have been formed by nature, Bilbo gets the impression that the rock has been shaped by human tools.

It’s hard to tell across the distance, but he thinks there are carvings on the stone next to the entrance. Also, the platform before the entrance is smooth and even, though the path leading away obviously is makeshift. A couple of crumbled, larger pieces of rock down the slope give the impression that they might have formed a steep road – or one of the locally popular staircases.

The zigzagging path cutting across the slope disappears down into the greenery. Bilbo thinks he can vaguely trace its outline over the valley – the vegetation appears flattened there – until it disappears around a bend.

Something cold runs down his spine. “Everybody,” he says, quietly, “The path leading to the entrance – it looks recent. I mean, it doesn’t look like a path that has been out of use for several hundred years.”

“Do you think somebody is here?” Thorin inquires and Bilbo can only shrug. From the corner of his eye he sees Dwalin slip a hand underneath his jacket.

“It’s possible,” Bilbo says uneasily.

“What would they be doing there?” Ori asks.

“They might just be sheltering,” Thorin states, “Or they might be dangerous. We should be careful. Dwalin?”

The other man snorts. “First of all, we need to be quiet. Second, Fili, call Balin and tell him we may not be alone. If we don’t check back in an hour, he’s to inform the police. Make sure to give him our coordinates.”

Fili nods calmly, while Bilbo can feel the hair on the back of his neck beginning to stand. His former elation has faded and only knot of tension in his stomach remains.

“Next, we should split up,” Dwalin advises, “A small group goes and scouts out the cave. If it’s empty, we all go down, if it’s not, we need to be prepared to sneak away as quietly as we can.”

tbc

Chapter Text

Dwalin is firm in insisting Thorin and Bilbo stay behind, calling them both too old and out of shape for reconnaissance. Even when Bilbo cites his skills in reading landscape, Dwalin merely snorts. "We know what we're looking for now, professor. Our main objective is to confirm your hypothesis without being seen."

Much to Thorin's distress, Dwalin enlists both Fili and Kili. Sure-footed on terrain, quick and probably best of their group in running away should that become necessary. Ori, while similarly experienced, is quickly asked to stay behind. "We're not looking to engage whoever is there in conversation." Dwalin says and Dori nods along frantically.

Bifur is the last Dwalin accepts into the scouting team and armed with hiking poles they set off. Dori and Bofur begin to shuffle their equipment out of sight, but Bilbo can’t tear his gaze away, watching together with Thorin as the four grow smaller in the distance.

When they reach the cave, they turn around. Fili waves, Dwalin gestures, and next to Bilbo Thorin exhales. “Clear so far,” he tells Bilbo, “They’re going in.”

And when Bilbo turns he just catches sight of Kili’s bright blue jacket vanishing into the cave. His heart clenches and he tries to reassure himself that they ought to be fine. That, rationally, he should not feel so afraid. But he can’t quite swallow down his unease, and neither can Thorin.

***

Hours pass. The sun crosses its zenith and they unwrap more snacks. The cave entrance remains empty, though Bilbo sees birds flit through the valley every now and then. There is a curious lack of visible animal activity, he notices. He knows it to be partly due to the altitude and its prohibitive characteristics. And yet it strikes him as strange that the birds appear nervous and that they obviously avoid their group.

Of course these birds may be familiar with humans or other large predators from the surrounding towns and settlements. Or they might be wary from local human activity.

"Who do you think might be occupying a cave out here?" Gloin asks conversationally, "Doesn’t really look like a location to set up headquarters of your international crime syndicate."

"Too far out there," Dori agrees, though Ori tilts his head contemplatively. "There is still cell coverage," he says.

"Probably somebody harmless, though," Bofur suggests, "A group of vagabonds or some obscure Buddhist sect."

"Well, sought after outlaws could also seek refuge in a place like this," Ori chimes in and a storm cloud passes over Thorin's face.

"Probably vagabonds," Dori echoes. 

And yet time passes. They check with Balin back at the hotel, who, too, is uneasy. He agrees not to inform the local police just yet – but he has already found the relevant phone numbers and researched the names of the officials in charge of local search and rescue missions. If a call comes, Balin promises, he will be ready.

Bilbo knows it should make him feel safer. It doesn’t. 

"How large could that cave possibly be?" Thorin asks, turning to Bilbo. Bilbo bites his lip, understanding the real question to be "why aren't they back yet?" and can only stare helplessly at the still undisturbed cave entrance in the distance.

"Large," he replies after a moment, "They called it a kingdom under the mountain - this alone would suggest an enormous cave system. Also, the mountain is huge, and we do not know how deep down the caves expand."

The longer he studies the cave entrance, the more he has begun to think that it is unlikely to have been the main entrance. Even if there once was a staircase leading to it from the valley, it would still have constituted a tremendous effort to carry everything up from the valley. However, what former entrance may have existed, it has by now probably collapsed or been buried by an avalanche.

"It could take this long to explore?" Dori echoes carefully.

Bilbo sighs. "Some caves take days or weeks to explore. Others they still haven't finished exploring." He doesn't say that these are not necessarily those occupied by humans. "However, if we don't start on our way back now, we won't make it back before nightfall."

And even now they won't exactly make it, Bilbo thinks, looking at the sun.

"We have gear to spend the night," Ori states.

"But it won't be comfortable," Gloin grumbles and Bilbo thinks that it will be freezing. It's difficult to remember when the sun drives sweat down his back.

"Dori, can you try to reach Dwalin? If not, you start heading back,” Thorin announces, “Spending the night here will not be beneficial.”

“And you intend to stay here?” Dori asks in return, but deals the number. Even Bilbo can hear the ring in the tense silence, but nobody picks up.

Thorin closes his eyes. “Call Balin. Tell him to send reinforcements.”

Dori presses his lips together and nods sharply. Bilbo feels his stomach sink. Did they run into danger? Did they have an accident? Perhaps the cave wasn’t stable and –

“I’ll be going in,” Thorin announces, “You wait for the others.”

“What?! No!” Bilbo protests immediately, climbing to his feet. Gloin sputters and Bofur fiercely shakes his head. “You’re not going in there alone.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Thorin insists.

“Which should stop any sane person from going in there!” Ori exclaims loudly.

“Those are my nephews down there!” Thorin yells.

“Those are my friends as well!” Ori returns, and Bofur steps up next to him. “And my cousin. Face it, Thorin, you’re not going in alone.” 

Thorin’s lips twist, but instead he whirls around and stalks over to Bilbo. “But you have to stay. Somebody needs to inform Balin when he gets here.”

Bilbo shakes his head fiercely. “I’m not staying behind. Look, I am not a geologist, but I know caves, and I can tell you something about their inhabitants. I’m going with you.” His heart is hammering in his throat and a part of his mind wonders why he is so quick to discard safety. But he knows in his heart that he cannot stay behind, not when he can possibly do something to help these people.

Thorin purses his lips. “We don’t know what awaits us there.”

“And that’s why I’m going!” Bilbo declares, “If there’s a clue, I’ll be able to find it!”

And maybe he is overestimating his abilities, but he will not Thorin run headfirst into danger. Or anybody else.

“Somebody should stay and wait for Balin,” Thorin says, “Ori. Please, I know you want to –“

“Ori will stay,” Dori announces, shutting down his mobile, “And I will stay as well.” His lips twitch and Bilbo can tell he isn’t happy with staying behind. “But the moment Balin gets here, we’ll be coming after you, no matter what.”

Thorin inclines his head. “I’ll be coming with ye,” Bofur says with a shake of his head, “Cousin.”

“Aye, and I’ll come with you, too,” Gloin declares. Thorin frowns uneasily, and while the presence of Gloin and Bofur makes Bilbo feel safer, he knows that if Dwalin and Bifur were not enough to keep the first group safe, the threat might easily be beyond them.

But it could have been a simple, annoying accident. A rock slide, cutting off the exit. Something entirely natural – nothing featuring human involvement. A cold shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine and he casts another look toward the cave. The shadows have begun lengthening and somehow the black entrance now seems menacing.

“Nori has been in contact with Balin,” Bilbo hears Dori say, “The London connection was hired help, like the three back home. And the officials were a contract job as well. He thinks this might be a network point, but not the center.”

Bilbo bites down on his lower lip. Accident, a part of his mind attempts to assuage him. Nothing but an accident keeping their first group from coming back. Another part has started contemplating the other option – human involvement. And not in form of squatters hiding away among the ruins of an ancient civilization.

“Well, do we have any weapons?” Gloin inquires, “I have a pocket knife.” He laughs sharply and Bilbo flinches.

“How about hiking poles?” Bofur suggests, lifting his with an almost cheerful grin. “Might be better than nothing. And will make us look like hikers.”

“Alright,” Thorin snorts, “And now, let’s go.”

***

They make their way carefully downhill. The slope is not too steep, but loose gravel requires them to watch their steps. Bilbo keeps them slightly above the entrance level of the cave, telling himself it may protect them from immediate discovery. He knows it is a fool’s hope – with their colorful hiking jackets they posit brightly colored spots against the grey stone of the mountain. Within a few moments sweat makes his shirt stick to his back. The sun glares down unrelentingly, and the cool breeze does not reach nearly enough of his skin. 

As they get closer, Bilbo becomes aware of a hum filling the air. The noise is quiet, deep and even, but seems to vibrate through the mountain – and Bilbo realizes it must be a generator. Which means the mountain is occupied.

He swallows nervously, now almost upon the entrance. Up close he can see the hard edges cut into the stone, giving away human interference. The dust on the ground before the entrance is disturbed, hinting at recent movements – but that could just have been Kili, Fili, Bifur and Dwalin. There might be a completely harmless explanation, but Bilbo’s heart speeds up.

A hand lands on his shoulder and he flinches. “Stay here,” Thorin mutters, gently moving Bilbo to the side. “Gloin and I will scout the entrance. If anything’s there… 

Gloin nods sharply in affirmative and marches past Bilbo before he has gathered his wits enough to reply. He finds himself situated almost directly above the entrance and a cool wind tugs at his hair. The shadows have lengthened, he thinks as Gloin and Thorin scramble down. Bofur flops down next to him, tugging his jacket shut. The sun doesn’t reach this part of the mountain, and half of the valley is already bathed in shadow – Bilbo blinks, wondering when so much time passed and how this peaceful, tranquil place turned vaguely threatening.

“You know, if anything – “ Bofur begins, but a shout from Gloin cuts him off. “Wha – “ And a stranger shouts back in sharp, clear Chinese. Bilbo and Bofur jump to their feet, and Bilbo’s heart leaps to his throat, his mind racing. Maybe some hidden research base? A military outpost?

“Come out!” the voice comes again, this time in faintly accented English, and now he can hear footsteps. Not just one pair, but several. Bilbo swallows and makes to move, but Bofur tugs on his arm, shaking his head.

“They don’t know you’re here,” he mouths. Bilbo wants to protest – if this is a government base, it will be easier to clear up a misunderstanding if they’re honest, they don’t have anything to hide, after all, and they certainly are no spies, but –

Much as he wants to discard conspiracy theories, if this place is supposed to be secret, their honesty may not mean much.

Bofur shuffles past him, cheerfully raising his arms. “I’m coming, I’m coming, don’t fret,” and there is a sharp command given in Chinese and somebody else replies. Bilbo is frozen to the spot. He still stands there when a lone man, dressed in military uniform, exits the cave with a gun at the ready. The man gazes to the valley, to his left and right but fails to look up – and turns back without having seen Bilbo or heard his frantically pounding heart.

White noise is filling his ears. What to do, he thinks, what to do. Calling emergency services will not be useful, Balin was already charged with bringing in reinforcements. Ori and Dori won’t be able to help, and he himself can’t stage a rescue, but his conscience rebels at hiding here. It’s the safe and rational thing to do, his mind tells him, even as he reaches for his mobile, really, you’ll only endanger yourself.

With shaking fingers, he types a short message to Dori – he can’t see him or Ori and hopes they’ve either started hiking back or found a safe place to make camp. Sitting still will become uncomfortable quickly as temperatures drop and the wind picks up. He watches as the message drifts away, surreally normal amid this madness, before biting down on his lower lip and carefully, slowly navigating his way down.

The entrance to the cave gapes black, unwelcoming and silent. Bilbo swallows down the knot in his throat and takes the step forward, expecting to be shot momentarily. But nothing happens. Only the generator’s hum and the wind remain and nothing moves. Cold sweat makes Bilbo’s shirt cling to his back and he moves forward further.

Three steps in and his eyes are slowly growing used to the darkness, though he fumbles for his mobile phone. His red jacket is conspicuous enough, the use of a flashlight will not further any risk of discovery, but may rather save him from unexpected holes in the ground. With baited breath he advances, cellphone in hand. However, the cave does not grow darker. Instead he grows aware of a golden glow in the distance – and the generator’s hum grows louder.

Lights, Bilbo thinks to himself, and while the installation appears far from professional, their existence indicates that the occupants of this cave are far better organized than they dared to expect. And that the gun-wielding man in military clothes was not randomly dressed so.

Perhaps now would be a good time to turn around, a small part of Bilbo’s mind remarks. It is unlikely an anthropology professor can hide or outwit a military or paramilitary organization. Another part of Bilbo’s mind recognizes the carvings underneath the lamp as runes. The same as used on the map, and he involuntarily draws near. Time has certainly worked at them, but their appearance is still clear, they are mostly legible, and this means that Erebor did exist, that it was not merely a hypothesis and a myth, and Bilbo’s heart soars in spite of the danger surrounding him. He’ll have to ask Thorin about publishing, because locating Erebor would be a milestone and reveal so many different and new perspectives on anything from local maps to Chinese history.

He isn’t here for deciphering runes, Bilbo tells himself sharply. And hesitates, because cold sweat beads his forehead and he isn’t really cut out for this madness. And don’t happy endings belong mostly to Hollywood, anyway? He’s more likely to end up a sad statistic.

Yet his feet move forward, deeper into the mountain. Bilbo keeps close to the wall and it is not long before he hears the faint echo of voices. The tunnel tilts downward, expanding. Ahead the light appears stronger and not before long, Bilbo comes to a complete stop, his heart pounding in his ears. 

Ahead and a ladder below lies a large, brightly-lit cavern. He crouches low, trying to blend into the shadows and catches sight of two men in military slacks sitting next to a steel door. They are smoking and a deck of cards lies on a picnic table nearby – boredom, then, Bilbo hazards, especially when one of them keeps shaking his mobile phone in frustration.

The steel door is obviously a recent addition as are the bare plastic chairs and the table. But Bilbo can see the trace of human workmanship in the stone – the cavern’s vaulted ceiling is cracked and crumbling in place, though even in the dim light the old reliefs remain visible. The three corridors branching off from the cavern also display significant human influence in their shaping, though they do lack the more recently added doors.

Bilbo has a fairly good idea what lies behind the door and the reemergence of voices confirms his guess. The voices are familiar – he cannot make out what they are saying – but his heart jumps. And panic wars with determination in his veins.

He has never actively tried to hurt another person, the last time he actually swung a punch at somebody he had been 21, drunk and quiet enraged by a distant acquaintance smugly calling anthropology outdated and not a science. But those two guards are unlike said tall, but equally-drunk acquaintance and have guns in addition.

If he manages to distract the two guards there is still a solid door left. Bilbo frowns. The keys are on plain sight on the plastic table, which means they are completely out of reach. Somehow he needs to get to the keys and to the door, but he is neither invisible not is there any likelihood of the guards falling asleep.

Rationally he should retreat and wait for backup. Emotionally he is too worried to withdraw. So he ends up doing something utterly irrational.

Bilbo leaves his hiding place, dons a bright smile and steps into the caverns. “Hello,” he calls out cautiously, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but have you seen my friends?”

The guards jump to their feet, shouting and their guns click. Bilbo doesn’t have to act his fear as he raises his hands. “I’m harmless, I’m harmless,” he insists, loudly and hopes his friends hear him in their cell.

“What do you want?” one of the guards asks in stilted English and Bilbo gives him his nicest expression.

“Ah, I’m looking for my friends? We were on a treasure hunt around here and they didn’t get back…”

“Are there anymore of you out there?!” the guard shouts in response, but Bilbo can see that the word “treasure” caught their attention.

He shakes his head. “Err, I’m missing my friends? I don’t know where they are.”

The first guards says something to the other who gives a short, sharp nod, turns on his heel and disappears down one of the off-branching tunnels. Down to one guard, Bilbo thinks, and hopes the others are listening in.

“What is going on?” he asks loudly, “I’m sorry if I disturbed you – did you find the treasure already?”

The guard gestures at Bilbo to step forward. “What treasure?” He asks, “This way!”

Bilbo complies, realizing he is being herded toward the large door. “An ancient gold treasure. Did you not see the runes carved into the walls? They speak of a tribute to be paid in gold that local bandits waylaid and brought into the mountains.”

The guard is obviously curious. But in order to unlock the cell door, he needs to set aside his gun.

“Would you look at that!” Bilbo exclaims the moment the lock clicks. The guard turns – and Dwalin throws himself against the door from the other side. It flies into the guard who makes a choked noise and drops to the ground, fumbling for his weapon, but Dwalin is on him with a roar. Bilbo belatedly jumps out of the way as Thorin shoulders his way into the open past Dwalin.

Bilbo is relieved to see he is unharmed. Bofur, Gloin, Fili, Kili and Bifur follow at a slightly more sedated pace, watching with wide eyes as Dwalin knocks out the guards and picks up the gun.

“We need to get out,” he announces, “They’ll have heard this.”

Right, Bilbo thinks and then with dread recalls the lonely mountain valley. “We won’t be safe outside,” Thorin protests gruffly, eyeing Bilbo strangely.

“Maybe we can hide inside the mountain?” Bofur asks.

“They’ll know it better than we do,” Gloin protests. A heavy hand settles on Bilbo’s shoulder and he jumps. “Are you alright?” Thorin inquires, while Dwalin shouts that they need to make a decision now and Bilbo only manages to breathlessly nod, while his head spins.

He thought once they’d be out they’d be safe.

“They’re coming, we need to go!” Fili shouts and Bilbo can hear the echo of distant footsteps. His heart drops, and only Thorin’s hand is holding him upright.

“Out, we go out!” he yells, and pushes Bilbo forward. He stumbles, foot catching on a stone that isn’t there, and Kili rushes past him, and he wonders if they’ll make it as he casts a stare over his shoulder.

Three men with machine guns emerge from the corridor behind them. Something clicks, but all Bilbo can think that this is it. A bullet will bore into his head and that will conclude not only this adventure, but everything.

A flash explodes and Bilbo is blind. He sinks to his knees, coughing, blindly grasping for Thorin and the others. His ears ring and he can hear shouting, his eyes burn and before he has managed to gather himself, large hands take him by the shoulders and lift him up. He struggles, but the hold is simply switched and he finds himself lifted off the ground and carried away while his vision pulsates white and black stars.

“… gins,” somebody’s voice begins to filter through. Bilbo twitches, still securely held in somebody’s grip and he feels the air change – they must be outside now, the wind sharp and icy and a blessing against his eyes.

“Bilbo Baggins,” the voice repeats. It’s familiar but Bilbo can’t place it, his head still racing. His memory is in shambles, he can’t quite piece together the last few moments. He is settled somewhere and now he can hear more – shouting, but without any undercurrent of panic, the hum of engines, helicopter blades.

When he tries to open his eyes, he catches sight of grey fabric, before the pain forces him to close them again. “Are you alright?” he is asked, and he finally manages to place the voice.

“Gandalf?” he sputters, bewildered, “What are you - ?”

“Oh, that is a long story, but I’ll tell you in time,” Gandalf replies, “Now, I do however need to know whether or not you are alright.”

“I’m –“ Bilbo hesitates for a moment, but aside from the shock still deep in his veins and the tremors running through his fingers, he hasn’t sustained anything except bruises. “Fine. Quite, quite fine.”

Gandalf pats his shoulder. “I am glad to hear that, my friend.”

And Bilbo wants to call him a number of choice names in return, but finds his tongue tied. “The others?” he asks instead, “Are they well?” 

“Mostly some minor scrapes,” Gandalf returns, “Kili dislocated his shoulder and Dwalin lost his left earlobe to a bullet, but that’s the worst of it.”

Bilbo sighs in relief. He can feel the adrenalin drain from his body – there are still so many questions that need to be answered. Who were the men in the mountain, how has Gandalf been involved – but his eyelids start to grow heavy. It is in the middle of the night and he is nicely warm and cozy under two blankets, even the icy mountain air. He’s been up since before dawn, even though leaving behind their comfortable hotel feels like a lifetime ago.

“There is somebody who wants to speak to you,” Gandalf says, drawing Bilbo from his contemplations. He barely manages to lift his head – when has it grown so heavy – and blinks owlishly up at Thorin. With a bruise on his forehead and wrapped in two blankets himself, Thorin Durinson still cuts an intimidating figure. The illusion shatters quickly when he gives Bilbo a weary smile and flops down next to him.

“Alright?” he inquires gruffly, blowing on a cup of steaming beverage that makes Bilbo feel slightly jealous.

“Quite,” he mutters, burrowing deeper into his blankets instead, “You?”

“Also,” Thorin hums. Silence descends, because they both are too exhausted to hold a conversation and Bilbo thinks there is nothing that needs saying anyway. He is content to sit here and let himself be lulled away by the hum of machines and the echo of distant conversation.

“Bilbo,” Thorin says, “I … what you did. There was no need for you to come after us, what with reinforcements on the way. You put yourself into grave danger – they could have shot you. You really should have waited outside, especially after they got us.”

Bilbo hunches his shoulders. Now, with the adrenaline gone, he understands. “I know,” he mutters into his blanket, “But … I was afraid they’d kill you.”

“Even in that case I’d rather have they didn’t get a chance to kill you too,” Thorin replies and then sighs. He holds out his steaming cup to Bilbo. “However, I think I can leave lecturing you to the Interpol people. While I don’t like that you took such a risk on my account, I won’t deny feeling grateful.”

The warmth Bilbo feels spreading through him has nothing to do with the teacup he takes from Thorin. Interpol will certainly make him feel miserable about his decision-making skills, but the small smile playing on Thorin’s lips makes it worth it. It feels natural to let his body tilt sideways and lean against Thorin after that.

Something tugs at Bilbo’s mind, however. “Interpol?” he asks, tilting his head up.

“The tall blond woman over there?” Thorin nods downward where Bilbo can make out a number of persons dressed in civilian clothes next to the helicopters. The flickering light makes it difficult to recognize specific features, but he thinks he can pick up whom Thorin is referring to. “She’s known as Galadriel – a codename – and one of the highest with Interpol.”

“How do you know?” Bilbo inquires, strangely calm. But after today he thinks it may be a long time until any can properly rattle him again.

“Once when we were scouting an oilfield in the Baltic Sea a local drug cartel got mixed up in the business.” Thorin replies.

Bilbo blinks. “Drugs? Was that what they were doing here?”

Thorin sighs and his shoulders slump. “From what I can tell. The mountain obviously was used as some sort of headquarters for an illegal trade.”

“Which is why they tried to stop us from finding it,” Bilbo concludes, the last pieces of the puzzle falling into place. “A shame, really. To use Erebor like this.”

Thorin chuckles almost inaudibly and slings an arm around Bilbo’s shoulder. “I completely agree with you.”

“Well it is,” Bilbo insists though his eyelids begin to droop again, “Who knows what they destroyed. All the old carvings and runes – barbarians.”

Before his closed eyes he can still see the runes carved into the walls. If he only had had more time – he surely could have interpreted them. Found another piece of Erebor’s fragmented history. A small smile tugs on his lips. Who would have thought – that after all they truly managed to locate the legendary kingdom of Erebor.

***

Bilbo’s breathing evens out and Thorin realizes he has fallen asleep against his shoulder. He casts a look down on the tousled curls, finding himself once again bemused at the anthropologist’s capacity to simply deal with the most harrowing experiences. He’d been taken aback after the arson attempt, half-certain Bilbo would take compensation and leave the project – he wouldn’t have blamed him. Instead he stayed and followed them straight into danger. It’s not necessarily a sign of sound decision making, Thorin thinks with a small smile. But it’s a quality of Bilbo he admires.

“Thorin,” a familiar voice calls out and Thorin glances up to see Balin approaching.

“Balin,” he returns, “Thank you for helping us out.” He told him before, but he’s only seen Balin shortly back when they had shuffled Kili and Fili into a helicopter to get Kili’s shoulder looked at.

“Not a problem, not at all,” Balin returns and the late hour is written across his face, “I’m just glad you all got out in one piece.”

“Yes,” Thorin says, knowing that it will probably take days for it to register how easily everything could have gone wrong today.

Balin shakes his head. “Truly. This – Nori called. Apparently he forwarded some information to Interpol as well, and Gandalf had realized that there had been rather curious policy requests from this corner of the world.”

“So officials were involved?” Thorin asks, unconsciously pulling Bilbo a little closer towards him. The other snores lightly, before settling against his shoulder once again.

“On the county level,” Balin returns, “And it appears they were bribed with a share of the sales so they would allow the trade to continue. But the trade – from what I heard it’s actually a far-reaching network and this is but a point. This is why they so easily managed to set people on us at home and in Heidelberg and why the bids for the map came from London.”

Thorin frowns. “So this wasn’t their headquarters?"

Balin shakes his head. “No, but losing Erebor still constitutes a heavy, strategic loss to them.”

It is still not what Thorin expected to do when he set out to find Erebor. And he cannot help but feel slightly disappointed.

“If I am reading the situation right, quite a number of people are inclined to thank you for this, Thorin,” Balin continues, “Interpol has been after them for a long time. And while this wasn’t the ring’s head, they still may find incriminating intelligence. I also am inclined to believe the Chinese authorities may be slightly more inclined to listen to any other bid you should make on any project." 

Thorin nods. Good news, he tells himself, good news. But it pales in comparison to everybody simply being alive. There were points during this night when he had been afraid he’d led all of them to their deaths.

Balin gives him a small smile. “Furthermore, I believe that once the evidence has been collected, you may have good chances for a bid on the exploration of Erebor.”

***

Before he quite understands what is happening, Bilbo finds himself back in his flat in Zürich. Summer has not quite begun waning, daylight still only begins to fade at eight in the evening. The lake glitters and Bilbo's neighbor has taken good care of his plants. His study sits undisturbed, the notes for his last research project still on his desk.

It feels like a lifetime ago. He reads over the notes and they make sense, but he can't quite summon the enthusiasm he remembers. His books, his armchair - his entire life abruptly feels hollow.

Certainly his students are glad to see him back for consultations on their thesis and papers. His dean is surprised and quick to tell him while he certainly won't stop Bilbo from teaching during the fall term, he has no funds to pay him for those lessons. Isn't Bilbo still on Durinson's project? Some of Bilbo's colleagues have heard that *something* happened in China, but with Interpol and the Chinese government heavily involved, Bilbo is unsurprised to find more rumors than truths in these questions. He avoids saying what happened - nobody told him to keep quiet, but with Erebor's existence still not confirmed, he would rather not be the one to blurt it out.

He recognizes that a part of him misses the adventure. The excitement of puzzling out the map, putting together the clues, hiking through the wilderness. Even arson, car bombings and violent end to their excursion, after all, did not faze him all that much. Instead he finds himself missing the fresh air.

But he knows that that was a once in a lifetime experience. So he settles back into his life, works on his next book and watches the leaves begin to change their colors. Until, in early September an email from a familiar sender appears in his inbox.

"Dear Bilbo," Thorin writes, "I apologize for not contacting you sooner in spite of what I, at least, consider a highly unsatisfactory parting. On the chance you are not utterly fed up with Erebor at this time, I have managed to work out a deal with the Chinese authorities and Interpol regarding Erebor: while Interpol retains the right to restrict access to Erebor in light of their ongoing investigation, they have completed their onsite work for now. The Chinese side agrees on holding back an announcement on the discovery of Erebor until more research has been conducted, and while they will name the bulk of the scholars conducting the research, I was thinking about recommending you.

I, as all the others of Ereborean descent, will naturally be included, and since I have enjoyed our cooperation until now very much, I would like to continue it. In case you are interested, please let me know and I will arrange a meeting. I was hoping you could help me with establishing a research team for my side and am looking forward to hearing from you."

Bilbo feels the smile on his face growing. This time, he sports a wide grin when he climbs on the plane and as they fly through the night, high above the northern Atlantic's drifting icebergs, he dreams of snow-capped mountains, ancient caverns and Thorin.

The End