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The tunnel was pitch black, far taller than anything hobbit-made, and as cold as a winter morning. Bilbo shivered, pulling his old blue coat tighter about his middle, frowning when he realized that it closed without any strain. Food for hobbits was a necessary thing, made all the worse by this to-ing and fro-ing in between and out. All of them were starting to show wear from it, the faunts worst of all. Fall was already upon this part of the world, making it impossible to get anything planted though the farmers were trying. There were some root vegetables that might make it through the winter but no one was sure on that. Thankfully most of the harvest from the Shire had been brought in and the contents of all their smials had come with them in between, so they were not facing a complete famine.
At least not yet.
The Thain was already in talks with the Mayor about rationing and most all of them – saving the ones born after – well remembered the Fell Winter and the hardships they'd all gone through during that time. It would be grim but they had no other choice. They still did not dare show themselves to the dwarves who were exploring deeper and deeper into the tunnels – armed now – and their doors opened no where else. Yet.
Which led Bilbo to here, stepping out of his front door and into the tunnels of Erebor, where he was Outcast. Each step felt like walking on shattered glass. Their kind held fast to oaths and being named Betrayer, Outcast, Thief...well. There were consequences to all things, he supposed. Bilbo chewed on his inner cheek as he made his stealthy way up through the halls, following the old signs their hunters and trackers had made in the walls, far lower than most dwarves would think to look but where hobbits could brush their fingers over and find their way.
From what Bilbo understood during his talks with the Thain and the rest of his kin was that they were somewhere deep inside the mountain, far deeper than any hobbit ever dared to build a smial. No one knew quite why they ended up here, least of all Bilbo to whom many had looked for answers. Perhaps it was because the treasury was buried so deep inside the Mountain. Perhaps because when his dwarves were going mad with the gold-sickness Bilbo had fled to these dark tunnels, trying to find some semblance of home in this strange place when he had been denied the open air of the outside.
Hobbit feet made little to no sound when they weren't paying attention. Now, even though each step was an agony, Bilbo made no sound at all, keeping close to the edges of the tunnel, ready to step in between at a moment's notice. The tunnel was rounded at the top, functional yet still carved as were many of the places in Erebor that Bilbo had dared to explore before his...well. Before.
Some of the trackers thought the main tunnel many of their smials opened up to might have once been a mine shaft, but Bilbo didn't think so. There were no ruts in the center of the tunnel, no signs of wear from carts being pulled to and fro. From what little Bilbo had learned from Bofur during their quest was that dwarven mines – of whatever kind – were built for practicality and function. There would be rails for the carts to glide along, making it easier to transfer the contents of the mines to the surface or to the forges if need be.
This tunnel had smooth floors, almost glassy, and there were more carvings starting about head-height on hobbits, or eye-level for dwarves. Bilbo stopped to rest his aching feet at one point, wishing for a strange moment to have Thorin or Dwalin's boots and then blushed at the boldness of his thoughts. Bilbo patted his cheeks, trying to calm himself and push down such a scandalous idea. While he was waiting for some of the pain in his feet to ebb away Bilbo let his fingers wander over the carvings just above his head, still sightless in the complete blackness.
The lines were angular, cutting down at points but not in any pattern Bilbo could puzzle out. Were they words? Some sort of street signs that only dwarves could read? But at points there were other designs, like the ones Bilbo had seen on Thorin's armor, or Fíli and Kíli's. Were they clan signs? That would not do, if they were encroaching on such spaces. There were Rules about that. But such thoughts would have to wait. Bilbo knew when he was procrastinating. So with a breath to steel himself against the pain, Bilbo stepped away from the wall and continued his cautious way down the hall.
Bilbo blinked watering eyes when the opening of the tunnel appeared as he came about a corner. There were a number of branching ways out of the main tunnel their smials opened onto and Bilbo had taken one of the higher ones, hoping that he would come out somewhere well above where most of the dwarves were inhabiting. During the start of the gold-sickness Bilbo had listened as Thorin and Bofur spoke about the structural stability of Erebor's upper halls. Bofur had used a lot of terms Bilbo didn't know and didn't remember but from what he could glean the upper halls of Erebor were sound, but the staircases to get to them were not. Something about the dragon forcing his way in through the main gates compromising some of the main arches. Or something like that. Bilbo wasn't sure. Either way it meant that there technically should be far fewer dwarves up where Bilbo planned to come out at.
Bilbo shivered as he paused at the tunnel's end. There were two tall statues on either side of the tunnel, some strange device over their faces, with each of them holding their swords, point down, in between their feet. Almost like they were guarding the tunnel entrance. But beyond that...
Bilbo had seen very little of Erebor besides the rooms around the treasury and what few tunnels he had managed to escape into. And the battlements, but he tried not to think about those. The vast chamber that opened up before him was larger than any hall or house or even cave Bilbo had ever been in. High above him thick shafts of sunlight streaked through the dark, hitting some sort of mirror or surface that illuminated the area. Thick pillars held up floating staircases and ramps that had not a single railing in sight. Those stairs went this way and that, soaring through that open air like magic. All was covered in a thick layer of gray dust but underneath that Bilbo thought he could make out brilliant crimsons and the glimmer of gold and the shine of silver. Once these halls were painted so brightly it must have dazzled the eyes.
As Bilbo stared he started to pick out flaws in the vast beauty. One of the main stairways was cracked and crumbling, more than halfway destroyed. One of those thick pillars looked as if it was tilting to one side. Some of the archways above and below the level Bilbo was standing were cracked, some completely covered in rubble while others looked as though one sharp kick would cause it all to come tumbling down.
The dragon had done far more damage than Bilbo had thought.
Then Bilbo gave himself a shake. He couldn't linger in the hall like this, in the full light of day. All of his people were relying on him to find Gandalf and speak to him. They had to find a way to fix this strange stickiness of their in between. Even the matrons had tried to move it and nothing could be done. So to the wizard they must go. And that was why he was here.
Eyeing the damage he could see, Bilbo decided it would be best to stick closer to the walls, just in case. He could always throw himself in between should he need to but that would lead to other problems and one dislocated shoulder was quite enough for him, thank you and good morning.
It felt like it took an Age but was probably less than half a candlemark found Bilbo at a crossroads he did not expect. He had not thought he had come so low through the tunnels, for he knew this wide walkway. He knew the tall pillars with the severe angles and wide doors with the narrow tops. He knew that breeze that blew down through the hall, making a strange whistling noise that sounded more like a scream each time Bilbo heard it. Like his scream.
The battlements were a handful of steps away. The floors were clean, with obvious signs of regular use. As he stood there he thought he could hear the thud of boots on the stone floors. Surely...surely there would have been more guards here, right? Had...had his Company declared this area unstable? Or...unclean? Bilbo shivered, clutching at his coat. His feet felt stuck to the floor. He wanted to go forward. He wanted to see the sky. But on the other hand he did not want to go back there. He did not want to see the place where Thorin had grabbed him and dangled him over the wall, letting him go with that mad smile that for one strange second looked so – so –
Bilbo took one step forward. A second. A third. That strange moaning wind swept around him as he stepped out onto the battlements, eyes closing and hands releasing their death grip on his coat to turn palm-up to the sun. His breath caught in his throat, some strange emotion making it hard to swallow and a few hot tears streak down his face. It had been weeks since he had felt the sun on his face. Oh, how he wanted...
“Bilbo?”
The whisper felt like a punch to the chest. Bilbo's eyes flew open as he turned, hands coming up to – what? He didn't have Sting with him, not even a stone to throw. He was defenseless. He was such a fool. At the far side of the battlements was Balin, looking far older than Bilbo remembered him last looking. Balin had always been white-haired and his beard long, but he seemed...frailer to Bilbo. As if a strong wind could blow him away. But even so Balin still had his mace strapped to his side, with one hand on it.
As if he was about to pull it forth.
“Don't. Please,” Bilbo stuttered out, stumbling back from the dwarf. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry –”
“Lad,” Balin breathed but all Bilbo could see was Balin's hand on his mace, which he still had yet to drop. Were they still so angry at him? Would nothing he do prove his –
Bilbo turned his face away, feeling more heat on his face. Then he forced his eyes open, not daring to look away from Balin for a moment. He had to get out of there. He had to – he had to get back to the tunnels, but not the one where their smials opened to. He had to – he had to lead them away, he had to do something –
“Bilbo,” Balin said, louder. Then, to Bilbo's horror, he saw other shadows on the far side of the battlement, heard other boots coming their way, slow at first but at Balin's almost-shout they began to run. Bilbo turned to flee in the other direction but pulled up short when he saw Bofur staring at him with wide eyes, a bare arms length away. Balin blocked one exit, Bofur the other, with what sounded like an entire party of dwarves headed their way at a sprint.
Bilbo had no way out. No way out but one.
It felt like time had turned to molasses. Bilbo felt each thud of his heart in his chest, each rasp of his breath as it tore through a too-tight throat. He felt hot and yet frozen, with a faint buzzing in his ears that almost sounded like someone crying out his name. But that could not be. It could not be. Thorin would never sound like that. Dwalin would never cry out like that. So Bilbo forced his feet to move, to take one step, another, darting out of reach of Bofur's sudden lunge, a foot on one block, then a higher one, then the next. His foot spiked with agony as he leaped, twisting him around so that he was forced to see his beloved Company so angry, faces red and shouting as Bilbo fell backwards off the battlements, just like he had...
And, as his body plummeted towards the gates, going from warm sun into frigid shadow, Bilbo closed his eyes and reached...
To step in between.
And he was gone.