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Chapter Text

THUD 

Thorin Oakenshield lies in the cold snow, frost seeping through his blood-darkened clothes. 

THUD - THUD

“I wish to part with you in friendship, Master Burglar….”   

THUD - THUD - THUD

His blood is warm, just like his pain-filled eyes. Soaking wetness lines Bilbo's fingers. With all of his power, he is pressing down at the gash. “The eagles… the eagles are coming, Thorin.” 

THUD

Bilbo stumbles to a halt. His lungs burn; they feel like stone. Somewhere between Esgaroth and the edge of Mirkwood, his body has started to move, purely out of instinct. 

Left, right, keep going, don’t stop, never stop. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been running, only that the further he gets, the less real everything around him feels. Behind him, he has left friends and a body that was meant to be a grave. He simply couldn’t see him being lifted from his cot, all limp. He couldn’t wait for the burial. He had to leave to survive this torment.  

He grips his coat, fingers trembling into the dirty fabric. His hands feel warm and sticky from blood. His mind fills in the weight of Thorin’s body against him, the rasp of breath, the eerie calm in his voice before he.. 

No. He clenches his fingers into the fabric, nearly tearing the delicate hemstitching. Keep going. 

The hobbit that ran down the hills of the Shire to catch up with the company he grew so fond of, merely a year ago, ceased to exist fully the moment Thorin’s icy blue eyes fixated on his lips before he fell out of consciousness and passed quietly into his death. 

His gentle-hobbit-ness was chipped away and replaced with habits he took up from his dwarf friends. But none of these new parts of his soul could have prepared him for the oozy, warm feeling Thorin's blood left on his hands. It was unnervingly intimate, how he hugged Bilbo so close and how calmly his mouth muttered his parting words. The raspy dragon was long gone, replaced with his calm, deep voice, which Bilbo got all too fond of. More than he would like to admit. Except that he did.  

As his thoughts twirled, he found himself standing firmly close to a column in Thranduil’s throne room. As Bilbo assessed the situation, his last memory was of him stopping for a moment, letting his thoughts trickle through the tight gates he constructed before them, and then nothing. Just pure blackness.
'Oh, just great.'

"Where are thy headed, little halfling?" Thranduil’s voice is too gentle. Bilbo barely processes it, barely sees the Elvenking seated on his throne, Legolas firmly beside him. His body is still tense from running. The world feels too still and distant, as though he hears everything through a wall.

"The Shire," he rasps. His throat aches from disuse, from the cold air slicing through his lungs. "I have done my duties." Hobbiton. Bag End. Home. He should be able to say it without hesitation. But the words don’t feel truthful anymore. The only home he knows is the one he had been running from, the one that was left behind, under gold and stone, sound asleep. Forever. 

The thought slips out between his lips before he can stop it. "It’s not home anymore." The moment he hears himself say it, his breath catches. He bows quickly, as if folding in on himself might erase what just happened. But Legolas’ eyes have gone wide. Thranduil only watched, drifting over Bilbo like mist on water, seemingly not noticing what he just said.

"No need," the king says smoothly, his gaze flicking to his son. A beat of silence passes before he nods. "My son will show you your room. Rest, Master Baggins."

Legolas steps forward, placing a firm yet careful hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.
"Come. This way, Master Baggins."

The Elvenking’s halls are just as Bilbo remembers. Cold, damp, and far too silent. The urge to disappear, to slip on the Ring and vanish into the night, itches at his fingers.

But before he can act, Legolas stops at a door, opening it with careful ease. He gestures inside, expression soft with understanding. "Sleep well, Master Baggins. Tauriel will attend to you soon. If you require anything, do not hesitate to ask." The door clicked shut behind him. Outside, Bilbo hears Legolas take a deep breath and retreat the way they came from.

Empty. 

The room behind him is spacious, adorned with the effortless grace of elven craftsmanship. The furniture is carved from pale wood, its curves flowing like water, edges smooth as river stones. A fire crackles in the hearth, its golden light casting long, flickering shadows against the polished walls. Above the flames, an iron teapot hums, suspended from a wrought-iron hook embedded in the stone. 

But it's all so empty. 

The silence pressed against his tired bones. The room is warm, inviting even, yet it holds no weight, no presence. No clutter of belongings, no scattered boots by the door, no low murmurs of voices tangled in argument or laughter. Just stillness, vast and untouched.
Bilbo's travel bag slowly slid off his shoulders as he stepped closer to the armchair sitting in front of the fireplace. Just before he could start to pack out, a small but firm knock filled the silent atmosphere around him.
“Master Baggins?” Tauriel spoke with a hint of uncertainty in her voice. The grand warrior sounded as if she was trembling.
“Coming.” Bilbo exhaled against a piece of cloth he was holding, laid it over the padded backrest, and stepped over to the door. 

As the heavy wooden paneling creaked open, Bilbo found himself standing across a battle-worn, tired Tauriel. “Come on in, I was just about to have tea.” Tauriel seemed glad she didn’t have to speak first, as she murmured a quiet thank you closing the door behind them.  

Silence stretched between them as Tauriel took the free armchair and followed Bilbo's rather ritualistic tea making with her eyes. Her skin was littered with small, healed cuts, her eyes glistened with tiredness, but something in her was cracking apart second by second as the silence around them became demanding.

“Master Baggins..” Bilbo stopped intermixing the water and looked up at Tauriel.
“Yes?” he answered quickly and resumed his frantic stirring.
“How is Erebor?” Her question was uncertain as she looked away at the crackling fire. The spoon in Bilbo’s hand began to tremble.
“He is alive... resting beside Fíli”
“Yes, I know that. Kíli sent me a crow the moment Dwalin told him you left the Grand Halls of Erebor.” She held her tongue, as if she wanted to say more, and looked at Bilbo. “Why are you here? Where are you headed?” Bilbo gripped the spoon so tightly that it was a wonder it didn’t snap. The tremor in his hands spread, an uncontainable thing, a slow quake in his chest, up his throat. The tea sloshed in the cup, ripples forming inside the porcelain.
“Where am I headed?” he echoed, voice thin. He let out a short laugh. “The Shire.” he said, the word still tasting foreign in his mouth. 

He still couldn’t bring himself to call it home, because it wasn’t. And it never will be again.

The warmth of the fire, the stillness of the room, and the weight of Tauriel’s eyes on him started pressing down on him all at once. The spoon clattered against the ceramic as his grip failed. He pressed his palms flat against the table, trying to steady himself, trying to breathe past the phantom feeling of Thorin’s body heavy in his arms. The damp warmth of his blood. His last words.

“Bilbo..” 

His last breath, as his eyes focused on Bilbo’s bloody lips. 

He braced harder against the wood, as if grounding himself to something would keep him from unraveling. But the pressure building inside him had nowhere to go. His nails dug into the wood, desperate to anchor himself in something real. 

“Master Baggins..” Tauriel's voice was quiet and reassuring, but still withholding.
“I had to leave…” his breath shuddered. “I couldn’t wait.. I couldn’t stay and see him being… it would truly make it real…” his voice cracked.
“So you stood up and ran?” Tauriel didn’t look away, with a sense of understanding glistening through her eyes. Bilbo's vision blurred with salt, as his fingers curled up into fists. He shook his head, in an attempt to pull out the vision edged into it.
“I ran.” Bilbo exhaled sharply, shoulders rising and falling too fast.

It still wasn’t far enough. The phantom picture of Thorin's eyes haunted him every step he took, every breath he let fall out of his lips.
Tauriel pressed her back against the soft, embroidered cushion. “Kíli asked me to accompany you on your journey to Bag End. He even sent a written request to His Majesty. The orcs, even though defeated, did not retreat to the shadows,” she sighed, and continued. “When are you planning on continuing your journey?” 

Bilbo swallowed, his throat dry as the dunes of Náfarat. The room still smelled of tea, bitter herbs steeping in water, with a faint trace of honey, but the taste in his mouth was all iron and ash. His fingers twitched against the grain of the table, tightening, loosening, as if unsure what to do with themselves.
“Tomorrow. At first light.” he said finally, voice quieter than he meant. He cleared his throat, as if trying to ground himself, to make the word more solid. “Please, just call me Bilbo...” He wasn’t worthy to be called that anymore. “We are going to be travel partners for a while.” Tauriel smiled, but didn’t respond. Instead, she cast a glance toward the fire, its golden glow flickering against her face. Silence edged between them again, carefully casting light shadows across the walls and furniture. 

Bilbo’s fingers twitched against the teacup. He swallowed, his voice even quieter now. “There’s something you’re not saying.” It wasn’t a question, nor was it an accusation. It was just a quiet observation, spoken into the space between them.

Tauriel’s grip on the armrest tightened for half a second before she released it. “Rest, Bilbo,” she said, softer now. “We shall depart at dawn.”  She stood, her movements fluid but hesitant, as if torn between duty and something else. Just before reaching the door, she hesitated again, her fingers grazing the wood before, as if she wanted to speak again. But her lips remained tightly shut as she bid farewell.

Before Bilbo could mutter out any answer, she was gone, the door shut behind her steps with finality. He sat motionless, his breath shallow. The warmth of the fire did little to chase the cold sinking into his chest. There was something he wasn’t seeing, something just beyond his reach. But whatever it was, Tauriel wasn’t going to tell him. Not tonight. And not in the foreseeable future. 

Bilbo stared at the cold tea, the liquid now still and uninviting. His fingers hovered above it for a moment before dropping back to his side, too weary to even take the smallest of sips. Nothing left to do but lie down, try to sleep, and get ready to move forward. 

He forced himself to stand, legs trembling from muscle ache. The bed loomed before him, its softness mocking his exhaustion. The heat of the fire offered no solace, and the faint glow from the hearth only emulsified the emptiness of the room. He undressed mechanically, throwing his dirty clothes to the floor, uncaring to fold them up nicely. He carefully slipped the mithril off, placed it next to the Sting. He climbed between the sheets that wrapped around him tightly. Everything was alien and different, empty and cold. So cold.

Bilbo lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, though his eyes couldn’t find focus. The shadows from the fire stretched across the walls, twisting and fading, much like the thoughts that wouldn’t stop haunting him.

No matter how he tried to calm himself down and let tiredness sweep him away, the image of Thorin’s eyes flashed in his mind, sharp and unforgiving. 

How tightly his hands wrapped around him in Carrock. The memory stuck into his heart like a well-sharpened blade. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to chase it away, but his body wouldn’t comply. Thorin's searching eyes were all over him, searching him each time Bilbo accidentally locked eyes with him on the road. There was something buried deeply in those icy eyes, under all that sorrow and hurt he had ever felt. 

His mind kept spinning in circles, tugging at memories that didn’t wish to be buried. His breath came in shallow gasps, each inhale sharp, jagged. He could still feel Thorin’s hands gripping him, his voice strained, desperate. “I’ve never been so wrong.”

The warm feeling around him was poison, seeping into his mind like ink in water, spreading further into his nerves. He exhaled a long, shaky breath, but sleep still wouldn’t come.

His heart was beating faster in his chest, drumming against the silence of the room. He wanted to move, to do something, but his body felt like it was made of stone, heavy and immovable.

Bilbo shifted restlessly, turning onto his side. The tears from earlier had dried on his face, leaving salt on his skin, his heart raw. The sensation of Thorin’s eyes on him was the only thing keeping him warm in the barren room.

But what did it mean? Did it mean anything? All the words he murmured into his ear before, will it mean anything to the dead? 

To Bilbo, it meant all his meals spent looking at the golden sun dancing across the horizon, all the fresh flowers Spring would bring by the power of Yavanna. It meant the world. 

Maybe what he saw in those piercing stares, into the offer of mithril, the matching red cloaks and lingering touches really meant nothing. But Thorin wasn’t here to answer.

Maybe all of it was real, part of a sensational dance they did twirling around each other, singing over the truth. But it doesn’t matter anymore. The King is dead, and with him Bilbo died as well. 

He closed his eyes once more, in search of the merciful numbness of sleep. The dark pressed down on him and his brain, finally letting him sleep. With the warm feeling of Thorin's hands around his back, he drifted to slumber, hoping that everything would get better.

The magic ring in the pocket of his vest glistened under the light emanating from the dying embers of the fire, as if winking at the sleeping Bilbo. Oh, how wrong he was. 

The morning was just as dark and silent as the night before. The cold gnawed at the empty spaces, creeping in from the stone walls, settling deep in the floor beneath Bilbo’s feet. The fire had gone out hours ago, leaving only a bed of blackened embers. He shivered in his undershirt as he crouched before the hearth, hands fumbling with flint, trying to breathe new life into the exhausted coals. 

He wasn’t going to let his tea run cold again, so while the fire started, he went into the washroom, dumping the old tea, to retry. He was just starting to get lost in the murky water intermixed with the leaves, before a loud knock echoed in the room.
“A minute please!” Bilbo shouted, stepping away to thug his trousers on. 

Without missing a beat, an answer came. “Master Baggins, I have placed your breakfast tray next to the door. Captain Tauriel will be ready to leave in an hour. She will be waiting for you in the throne hall.” The elf sounded completely indifferent towards the situation or their guest. 

“Thank you, I shall be there.” But Bilbo’s words weren’t heard by her, as her footsteps were already echoing down the hall, leaving him to ease back into the quiet of the morning. Bilbo lingered, before pulling the tray filled with a simple breakfast inside. 

‘They have surely improved their hospitality since last time..’ Bilbo though. He didn’t waste much time on breakfast, after no more than a few minutes he was hooking his pot above the fireplace. No use to idle around. They needed to get going. 

The murky water of the tea swirled before him, steam rising, blurring the corners of the room. He blinked, but the fog did not lift. The floor under him tilted. Cold bite into him. 

Scrape of boots echoed against the walls, mechanisms turning around him, metal clanked against metal. His hand trembled, clutching the cup like a lifeline, until even that slipped away.

Heat dripped.
Gold shined all around him.
Shadows… stone oceans.

Time fell out again.

By the time he regained his senses, Bilbo was standing slumped against the same stone column he was the day before. Thranduil was walking around in silent circles, not even looking towards him.
Seemingly, no one wished to talk to him more than necessary, for which he was glad this once. The servants and officiants were quickly passing by the throne room, only sending knowing glances towards him from the cloisters. The elven king suddenly came to a half, taking a breath as if he wished to speak, but just before he could do so, Tauriel stepped out from the corridors, waving towards Bilbo. 

“We better get going now.” She whispered something illegible in Sindarin to the king, and stepped to Bilbo, shoving a hefty package into his hands.
“Yes, we shall. Lead the way, please.” Taken aback with the sudden weight in his hands, he followed Tauriel out of the Elvenking Halls, the right way. He was glad he didn’t have to utilize wine barrels to get out this time. 

The memory  of twelve dwarves crammed into barrels, floating down the river, made him chuckle softly, but the sound quickly faltered in his throat. He remembered why they had done it. Thorin's rumbling voice echoed in his mind. It wasn’t his plan anymore, it was forged into Thorin's command. He had trusted him, even hesitated when he realized Bilbo wouldn't be joining them right there. The weight of that trust settled heavily on his chest, knowing how badly he betrayed it. Bilbo blinked as the moment slipped away and got replaced by the sound of Tauriel’s footsteps echoing through the quiet halls. 

As his eyes adjusted to the slightly lighter darkness, he glanced back over his shoulder, catching as the massive gates of the Elvenking’s realm shut behind them. The path ahead was clear. Bilbo straightened, shifting the weight of the package in his arms, and forced himself to focus on the road. 

The travel-pair kept up a firm tempo until they reached the edge of Mirkwood. They barely stopped, only to nibble on some lembas bread. Tauriel asked Bilbo to keep his sword on ready, but she clearly was more alert than Bilbo ever could have been. 

The wind stirred the leaves as they stepped into the clearing that separated Mirkwood from the world around it. The familiar scent of the woods filled the air around them, tasting clean. But Bilbo’s mind wandered again, tracing back to the winding paths of his journey, to the faces he’d left behind.

“Beorn.. we must greet him. Could we?” The words slipped out before he could catch them, the rasp of his voice surprising him, as if his throat had forgotten how to speak beyond the dull hum of travel.
Tauriel didn’t hesitate. “Of course. I am waiting on a letter, but even if I weren’t, we could still stop.”
“Thank you.” Bilbo's gratitude felt heavier, it dragged more atoms with the words sliding through the light breeze.

That was the most conversation they had in days, between the usual yes, no, this way Tauriel seemed to be just as tangled up in her thoughts as Bilbo was. But he didn’t mind it a bit. He tried filling the silence up with loud laughs, happy stories, and fairytale songs he kept stored in his mind-pantry. 

They made camp beneath the shelter of an ancient oak, its gnarled roots curling like old fingers into the earth. The fire was small, just enough to keep the night’s cold at bay. Tauriel kept watch, her eyes sharp even in the dim light, while Bilbo curled into his blanket, staring at the stars blinking through the canopy. Sleep came in fits, his mind restlessly trying to make him remember all that went wrong.

Morning arrived wrapped in mist, clinging to their cloaks and dampening the air. Bilbo rubbed the sleep from his eyes, stretching the stiffness from his limbs as Tauriel wordlessly handed him a strip of lembas.

They set off before the sun had fully risen, their steps slower now that the tangled dark of Mirkwood was behind them. The land stretched wide and golden in the early light, the scent of damp grass and rich earth filling the air. Beorn’s home wasn’t far now, and as they walked, Bilbo found himself listening to the rustling of leaves, the distant call of birds, and the steady rhythm of footsteps beside him. But before he could immerse himself in these newfound wonders, they started to approach the field of yellow stretching out, guarding Beorn's house in the distance.

“Oh no.” Bilbo’s feet stopped working. Fear crept up his throat, choking him and before he could do anything to subsidise it, he began to sob violently. His feet gripped the flowers under his soles, his hands shakingly thugged the straps of his backpack. Tauriel snapped around and looked at Bilbo for a second before registering what was happening. 

She moved before Bilbo could crumple to the earth, catching as his knees gave way. His hands clutched at the fabric of her tunic, fingers twisting into the leather straps, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“I am sorry...” he muttered into her shoulders, as wetness streaked down his cheeks, salty and unforgiving. “I’m so..” A sob swallowed the rest of his words, choking it back down his throat.

Tauriel said nothing. She only adjusted her hold, securing him as one would do with a youngling. His feet barely brushed the ground before she lifted him fully, carrying him past the golden sea of flowers, through the fading light.

The scent of warm woodsmoke and fresh earth drifted from Beorn’s house in the distance, but Bilbo barely noticed. He clung to her, face pressed into the fabric of her clothes, his voice no more than a whisper.
“He loved it here..” - “I thought he..” - “We talked and talked..” - “I’m so sorry…” - “It’s all my fault.”
Tauriel did not hush him. Did not tell him to stop. She only walked, her arms sure around him, her breath as even as the quiet night settling over them. Only when the great house loomed close, its golden glow spilling into the twilight, did she shift her hold just enough to murmur, “We are almost there, Bilbo.”

His fingers curled tighter into the fabric, but the sobs quieted, exhaustion weighing heavier than grief. The door creaked open, warmth spilling over them. Tauriel carried Bilbo inside, noting that Beorn must have been expecting them. She placed Bilbo next to the fire and untangled his pack and the Sting from his side. 

Bilbo was still murmuring, but now seemingly asleep. She now understood why believing what wasn’t true is better. Maybe Balin’s orders were right, Kíli just framed it harshly.

Besides the hearth, Bilbo stirred slowly, the warmth of the fire seeping into his chilled bones. His body ached as if he had been dragged through a storm, head heavy, thoughts unclear. Tauriel was speaking quietly nearby, but Bilbo could only catch fragments of the conversation.

“It’s not just grief, Beorn. You must see that… that’s why Kíli asked me.” Tauriel's voice trailed off, as if she were trying to decide how much truth to say aloud. “I don’t know what happened in there,-”

Bilbo’s eyes fluttered open, the flickering firelight dancing on the walls of the room. Beorn was sitting at a table across the room, his broad shoulders set in a stiff posture, listening intently. Bilbo winced as fragments of what Tauriel had said settled into his mind. He wished he could shut it all out, but the words still clung to him, the sting of regret pulling tighter with every passing second.

“I… didn’t mean to..” Bilbo started, his voice rough, as if speaking itself was a burden.

Tauriel glanced over at him, her expression softening as her eyes searched his face. “No need, Bilbo, please rest.”

Beorn turned to him, his face was unreadable. “You’re welcome here, little bunny, anytime.”

Bilbo nodded slightly, but his mind was still clouded. He couldn’t understand what Tauriel and Beorn had been discussing, and seemingly it wasn’t his concern at all. His fingers absently picked at the fabric of his tunic, feeling the remnants of tears on his skin, while his mind wandered back to the field of yellow flowers. The ring in his pocket burned, blazing to be touched, but Bilbo was too tired to care about it 

“Rest now, Bilbo. We’ll figure the rest out in the morning. Beorn and I will keep watch. You are safe here.” Tauriel said firmly.

Bilbo gave a small, uncertain smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He knew they were talking about something deeper, but for now, all he wanted was to let the warmth and crackling of the fire before him fill his mind. He didn’t have the energy to care, and Tauriel seemed to be happy about it, too.
As he placed his head back down, turning towards the dancing flames, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift into dreamland again.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself on that moonlit night, the company stopped at Beorn’s house. Thorin was smoking some terrible pipe weed, sitting on the bench in the garden, alone, deep in thought, still alive. Filled with life, hopes and dreams.

Bilbo’s heart clenched, as his feet were unable to move closer, as if some unseen force held him back. The wind picked up, carrying the sweet scent of earth and flowers, and the rumbling, deep voice over to him. 

“I have never meant for us to meet like this again, Master Baggins.” Thorin’s voice cracked through the silence, and Bilbo’s chest tightened. He wanted to run, wanted to close the distance between them, but his legs refused to move. Instead, he stood, rooted to the earth, watching as Thorin’s form blurred in the mist, his features shifting like smoke.

The dreamland around him shifted, following Thorin's body. Suddenly, Bilbo was no longer in Beorn’s garden. The world spun around him as he found himself standing in a dark cavern. Bilbo reached out, his hand trembling as he touched the cold stone wall. He could hear the sounds of laughter echoing through the cavern, distant voices simmering, dancing around the stone surrounding him.

“Bilbo..” he rumbled, and it was not quite his voice…no, not the one Bilbo remembered from long talks by the fire, nor the one that had carried commands on the road. This was deeper, speaking from the darkness, from the depths of Erebor. 

As he stepped in front of Bilbo, his eyes seeped with need that he last saw when they were frantically searching for the Arkenstone, running around in hills of gold.
Bilbo's breath caught. The weight of Thorin’s gaze settled on him, holding him, if a mere look alone could keep Bilbo in place. His fingers curled into fists, his chest rising, falling, too shallow, too quick. 

“Why do you look at me like that, Master Oakenshield?” Bilbo whispered, though he felt he already knew the answer.
Thorin exhaled sharply, tilting his head just slightly, his voice rumbled deep in Bilbo's ears, as he stepped even closer. "You know why, Master Baggins...” 

Bilbo knew, instantly, his marrow registered the pull of that voice, which he got too fond of. 

Thorin took one more step forward, his raspy breath hitting Bilbo’s reddening face, warm and rich with the scent of longing, of all that had been left unspoken. But before they could collide, Thorin clenched his jaw. His hands trembled, his fingers curling inward, trying to restrain himself. 

“Mahal… I should not.” His voice was greedy but restrained, by himself and by whatever force that lingered in that cavern. “I cannot ask you this.”
“Why not?” Bilbo was lost in the moment, his hazel crystals searched the icy storm before him, gasping to be touched.
“Because,” he hesitated, as saying the truth aloud would pain him even more than the mere thought of it.
“Because I couldn’t leave…” Bilbo finished, but wasn’t exactly sure of what the king wished to say. Still, he kept his gaze fixed on Thorin, a trembling, needy figure, drinking in the sight of life filling the face before him. 

The cavern flickered. The warmth vanished so fast it burned. The mist rose like hands, clawing, dragging, pulling Thorin back into the dark he had emerged from. His voice ripped from the air like an echo snapped in half. 

Thorin’s gaze latched onto his, something desperate clinging to the edges of his expression. He was fading, being pulled back into the mists, the dark, the nothingness beyond Bilbo’s reach.

But before the dream could shatter, before Bilbo was dragged away, Thorin’s lips barely parted, he grabbed his arm, firm and desperate, whispering a plea.
“Come back to me, Ghivashel.” 

Bilbo shot up from his bedroll, gasping, the phantom weight of fingers still curling around his wrist. 

He pressed a trembling hand to his chest. The whisper, the quiet plea, lingered in his ears, as if it would never leave. It edged itself between his ribs, tying a knot of sadness and wetness into his stomach. 

“Come back to me, Ghivashel.” 

The whisper held onto his curls like snow held onto shingles, waiting for the time to let go and fall into someone's neck. Bilbo just sat there, his gaze locked on the smoldering fire before him, big droplets of sweat trickling down his back and forehead. 

Before he could build himself back up from all that happened, the air inside the hut shifted. 

Tauriel tore open the large door, letting in the crisp morning breeze. Sunlight framed her red hair as she looked directly at Bilbo, with unforgiving sturdiness.
“Bilbo, there is no more time under our hands,” she said, already striding across the floor, towards the clueless hobbit. “Beorn’s preparing the horses.” Bilbo took a breath as if he wanted to say something, but Tauriel cut him off firmly. “We will talk later on, please.” 

Bilbo didn’t answer. He simply rose, brushing past Tauriel without a glance, his jaw set tight, moving deliberately. The cold water did nothing to wake him. He was already miles away, and whatever had clawed its way out in his dreams, he tried to seal it back behind his eyes as he packed in silence.

His coldness remained as he got helped into the pony’s saddle, and only lifted when Beorn hugged him goodbye, and wished him a pleasant journey home. 

Home.

Melancholy and edged frustration descended on the group as they pushed towards the edge of the Eagles Lands, a place of such fond memories. Now, it was littered with dark corruption. Poison trailed up the trees, sucking out life and glory from their veins, leaving them as empty shells of sorrow. 

Tauriel tried to break the ice, but she gave up quickly as she saw Bilbo was more interested in counting the hairbuds on his pony's head than in talking to her. 

They stopped as the light seeping through the canopies lowered, in a small clearing. The trees loomed like silent sentinels, the forest quieted down around the pair, offering condolences. 

Without a word, Tauriel set to work, gathering firewood and unrolling bedrolls, her movements fluid and practiced. Bilbo followed suit, mechanically unloading his things, rearranging their bedrolls, and lighting the fire. His gaze fell distant, avoiding the quiet space between them. The fire crackled to life in the cold night air, but even its warmth didn’t reach the chill that had settled in Bilbo’s chest. Before he could turn around and retreat to his bedroll, Tauriel's firm voice shook up the silent atmosphere. 

“I am sorry we had to leave in such a hurry, Bilbo..” she said with a gloomy sigh trickling out of her mouth. 

“It’s quite alright.” Bilbo was as still as a stone and gazing into the fire again.
Sweating, again.
“I… I am also sorry for withholding things from you. You must understand that it is not my place to say." After a long breath, she continued. “Not right now and not from me.”

Bilbo couldn’t answer first, but understood what the elf was saying. After a few seconds of deep breaths, he finally spit out an answer. “Thank you for telling me…” With that, he shifted his gaze back to the fire crackling.
“Kíli was right..” She murmured now, with a light chuckle to her words. “You brood, like only a Durin could.” She laughed.
Bilbo's ice finally lifted from his face as his face lit up with a grin and shot his eyes back to Tauriel.
“You know, I didn’t only master that…” He pointed to their laid-out bedrolls. “I took up a few seemingly odd compulsions. Like the way they always lay their bedrolls the same way, every single time. Or the precise order the logs have to lie in the fire.. from biggest to the shortest, stacked upon each other like a mountain.” he chuckled again. “I was starting to think if I was paranoid, or if this is also a part of their seemingly endless list of 'how-to-dwarf'.” He was laughing as he finished, his eyes shifting over to the mountain-like stack of burning wood. 

Tauriel smiled at the finally happy hobbit, wide and real, the kind that softened her whole face and brought a warmth to her voice.
“Kíli wrote to me,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “Pages. Rambling, heartfelt, a little disorganized…” she chuckled softly. “There was a lot he wished to let me know,” she trailed back to Bilbo's face, looking at her questioningly. She hesitated before continuing, as if she wished to say more. “But most of it I cannot repeat. I am sorry, Bilbo. All that I can say is that both he and Fíli are doing better, and healing wonderfully under Master  Óin's care.” 

Bilbo’s smile lingered, but it faded into something quieter, something worn, like a stone smoothed by too many waves.
“He burns with the fire of Durin’s, Tauriel.” His smile faded into a nostalgic tug, as his mind wandered off. He gave the fire one last glance and lifted his head to meet with hers. “I am glad he is healing well.” 

With nothing else left to say, Bilbo stood and brushed the dirt from his coat, moving slowly towards his bedroll. He settled in without a word, curling onto his side facing the fire. The tiredness quickly swept him away to his dreamland, thugging memory-pastries out of his mind-pantry to enjoy. 

Tauriel watched him fall asleep, and when Bilbo’s light snoring intertwined with the crackling of the fire, she got Kílis' letter out and began rereading it under the firelight.  

On the 14th of December, in the year 2941 of the Third Age, Irak’adad had woken up from his Thraundazukh. And of course, he asked for Bilbo first. 

The script was messier here, his lettering barely readable, like the thoughts had come faster than Kíli could script them down.

We lied to him. None of us had the spine to tell him that we couldn’t stop him; we played along with Balin's plan. We let him go, none of us followed to stop him. Irak’adad, if he had known the truth, would have killed every one of us right there.
Dwalin just stood next to his bed, not saying a word. Poor Ori broke out crying. Fíli wasn’t even there, I had to tell him to keep his mouth shut. 

Her throat tightened as she kept reading. This is going to cause more problems than it ever solved. 

Uncle didn’t believe any of us. Not for a second.
You should have seen his face, Mamarlsi. He looked right through our lies and pushed Dwalin so hard aside from his bed, he stumbled. He kept saying he could feel Bilbo, and that we are all liars.
Which we are.. I am not sure anymore that this ever was the right choice. Balin keeps insisting that we must do this to prevent the madness coming back. 
He knows he is alive. The One’s pull is hard, especially after everything Bilbo murmured to him in his coma. I know he heard it all. There is no mistake in it, though Balin thinks differently. He keeps on insisting that it is not the One, and Irak’adad is simply mistaken, because he has never felt it before.
But neither Fíli nor I believed him, especially me. We all saw the look in his eyes every time he glanced towards Bilbo.
When I can get up from this cot, I must ask Nori to accompany me to go snooping.
I am not sure what to do anymore. It hurts so much to see him in such a terrible state and to imagine what Little Uncle might feel. It thugs at my heart (…)

Tauriel took a long breath, her hands momentarily stilled as the weight of Kíli's words sank deeper into her chest. With a heavy sigh, she tucked the letter back into her bag, her fingers brushing the fabric like it might burn her. She should have guided Bilbo back to Erebor, there is no point in lying to him. The royal quartet of the Elvenking's Halls knows Thorin Oakenshield is alive, and thanks to Legolas’ quiet runny mouth, the whole of Mirkwood knows it by now. Even Beorn questioned if it's a good idea when she asked him not to speak of it, to keep quiet. 

But neither she nor Kíli could outdo what had been done. Only the stars will tell Bilbo’s fate.

Chapter Text

As dawn broke over the jagged peaks of the Carrock, the pair continued their journey towards the Misty Mountains. Every part of Bilbo's body was stiff and aching, the ponies were disoriented, only Tauriel seemed to have it together. 

The weight in Bilbo's chest grew heavier day by day, and though the cold air tried to bite through him. The ring, nestled in his pocket, felt like fire against his skin, an inch begging to be scratched, but there was no reason for him to disappear. If he freaks out and starts running away again, he will quickly find himself being beheaded by orcs or cooked by a group of trolls, again. 

He kept his gaze low as the caravan slowly made its way across the familiar trail, towards the foot of the Misty Mountains. As they arrived, they let the ponies go hoping they would find their way back to the lush greenery of Beorn's cottage.  

The Carrock stood behind them now, its sharp silhouette a reminder of the place where he had found something he would cherish forever. Undying love and friendship.
The memory should have been comforting, but now, it only left him with an ache that stretched across his ribs. The rough obelisks of stone were empty. No one was there anymore, hugging him and telling him what a fool he had been.
He couldn’t look at it.
He betrayed that love. 

Tauriel climbed closely beside him, her face set in its usual mask of quiet strength, though Bilbo saw light cracks appear in it. 

There was something in her eyes as days passed, something unmistakable. Still, she said nothing. They talked, but never about Erebor.
One night, close to the peak of the mountain, they stopped for camp. As warm light flickered from the fire in front of them, a raven appeared in the star-filled night sky, racing towards their camp. 

Tauriel froze as she looked up at it, her breath catching in her throat. The raven’s call pierced the stillness, sounding like a rasp, a final warning. She stiffened, fingers trembling at her side as she locked eyes with the bird. The raven was holding a letter, embalmed with the Durin folk’s coat of arms.

She stepped away from camp, trying to direct the young raven towards her, but the bird was dead set on landing beside Bilbo. Tauriel’s jaw tightened, but she moved quickly, intercepting its path with a practiced hand. The motion wasn’t frantic, more precise like a well fastened arrow slicing through the air. She unfastened the letter in one sharp movement, then let the raven settle beside Bilbo.

Her eyes flicked once toward him, as if weighing something, then she turned away. “Excuse me.” She murmured, then retreated further up the hill, where the moonlight was strong enough to read under. 

Bilbo watched her silhouette, the letter clutched tight in her hands, before his gaze dropped to the raven now curled by his thighs. It looked tired, feathers ruffled from its long flight. With a soft sigh, he crumbled a piece of bread from his pack and held it out. The bird snapped it up greedily, its dark eyes glinting with something almost knowing. “You are more trained than your masters.” He whispered, stroking its soft feathers. 

Up on the slope, Tauriel tore the seal. The parchment crackled as she unfolded it, Kíli’s frantic hand darting across the page in uneven lines, the ink as hurried as the words themselves.

December 23rd, 2941 of the Third Age, 

‘Ibinê, it's worse than we thought.
Balin was mistaken; it is the One's bond. I knew Irak’adad heard it all.
It's bad, really, really bad. 

Tauriel exhaled a sharp breath. 

You have to arrive back at Bag End as soon as possible. What happened at Beorn’s garden will happen again, his mind will worsen as days pass; he will feel as if someone tore his heart out and let it bleed right in front of him.
I do not remember what could have caused his breakdown in the flower fields, Beorn’s mead was great and plenty, but if I get a chance I will try and ask around.
By the time you will receive this letter, Armal, you will surely have passed the Carrocks already. It is a rather important place, at least for Uncle. After their embrace that day, we, well I definitely, noticed the shift in his eyes as they swept over Bilbo.
My warning still stands its ground, you have to get to The Shire quickly. Now that Uncle is awake the pull will even be harder.
Balin plans to resolve this somehow, as Nori and I heard, I was finally allowed to get up. Óin says that my cuts are healed enough for me to practise walking again, however, Fíli wasn’t so lucky.
Balin’s solution is a festival, officially to celebrate the reclaiming of Erebor. Unofficially, it’s the only way he can think of, to invite him back and try and resolve all he got wrong. Bofur and Glóin were already named as Little Uncle’s escort back.
I have no idea, however, who will break the news to Irak’adad… I don’t think Balin wishes to think about it now, understandably. I wouldn’t want to think about my own death.
Irak’adad is still bedridden, but doesn’t talk to us or the company, he only barks orders to Dain and his soldiers. He is in an even worse state than he was with the Arkenstone.
This might be my last letter for a while. Uncle ordered a security lockdown, and I won’t be able to sneak out more letters. Alas, I will try.
Please, get Bilbo to Bag End quickly.
Melin gin,
Kíli. 

Tauriel’s hand trembled as she read the final lines. Her jaw clenched so hard she thought it might crack. She hadn’t expected this. Balin, calm, collected, the voice of reason screwing up something so trivial. 

“By the power of Valar..” she hissed under her breath, crumpling the letter in her fist. Her eyes flicked toward Bilbo, the weight of the message sinking in. Bilbo is going to get so much worse than they first thought, and if the Grey Wizard is right about the ring… they were running out of time quicker than expected. 

She folded the letter back up and descended to their camp. Bilbo was still petting the raven as he looked up at her.
“Something bad?” His voice was collected, eyes glistening with a hint of hope to get more information.
“Yes,” she sighed. “There is something coming, Bilbo, something of  poison and ache. We cannot slow down and stop at Rivendell like we planned. You have to get to Bag End as soon as possible.”

Bilbo exhaled as he nodded along. “Then we will. I will not slow us down.” He didn’t look up to face her, hopefulness seeping away from his face. “Get some rest now and eat.” 

Tauriel sat awake a while longer, the firelight dancing over her face. She kept her gaze fixed on Bilbo’s hunched shoulders, listening to his breath steady into something close to sleep. Guilt pressed against her ribs like a blade. Each night, the lie grew heavier, harder to carry in his presence. She told herself it was mercy, protection, but the look in his eyes when he tried and failed to meet hers said otherwise.

Her hand lingered over the folded letter, thumb tracing the broken seal as if she might undo more than wax with a single motion. She wanted to speak, to confess, yet the words stayed locked behind her teeth. So instead, she kept her silence, watching the flames burn lower until only coals remained.

As the first light of dawn kissed the mountains, she folded her response, with a quiet breath, handed it to the raven. "Take this to Erebor through the secret passage." She murmured, watching the bird lift into the air before turning to Bilbo, giving a small nod to signal it was time to move.

They walked for days with barely a word between them. Only the howling wind, the soft crunch of boots on dirt filled the space stretching out between them. They stopped only when Bilbo collapsed into sleep, and ate in motion when the path allowed. Tauriel led them to the top and down the pass with a sense of purpose, as if hurrying them towards the end could stop what was coming for Bilbo. 

As they pushed, the ring burned urgently in Bilbo's pocket, scorching into his skin like an ember lodged in flesh. Gandalf warned him not to wear it, and who was he to go against a wish of a good, family friend? So he spoke nothing of it. Not when, each time a new burn mark appeared on his chest, he had to quickly soothe it before Tauriel noticed. Not when he started to hear barely audible whispers at the back of his mind. 

The unknown darkness wouldn’t  leave him alone. It sat down on his shoulders and tugged at his ribs. It wasn’t just grief anymore. He felt empty and hollow as a shell. As if something had been ripped out of him entirely, and what was left behind was a body chasing its shadow. He tried to fill the void with pastry-sweet memories, hearty-wine tales plucked from the dusty pantry of his mind, but nothing seemed to work. The whispers became louder and more pressing as the sun passed over their heads.

As they began descending the mountain, his state worsened. Tauriel tried to pay mind to him, only focusing forward with such urgency that nearly mirrored the dwarves' frantic climbing, as the sun’s last light of Durin’s day kissed their long strands of hair.

By the time they reached the winding circle of path that brushed against the edges of Rivendell’s plain, Bilbo’s lips were cracked from silence. The sun was sharp and unrelenting overhead, filtering through the sparse cover of the forest as they approached the forked road that veered beneath Rivendell’s borders. It shimmered on the sweat lining Bilbo’s brow, catching the pale tremble in his fingertips.

Tauriel kept her attention forward. Out here, on the wide plain that stretched before Rivendell, there was little enough to guard against—no trees to conceal an ambush, no shadows deep enough to hide a foe. Yet still she walked as if pursued, her gaze fixed always on the horizon, her stance taut with vigilance. It was easier to pretend she was searching for danger than to face the truth weighing heavier at her side.

Her gaze flicked to Bilbo.

He sat slumped on a flat stone, his small hands gripping his pack-straps until his knuckles whitened. His eyes were dull, unfocused, as if staring at something that wasn’t there. He had not spoken in days. He looked hollow, like bark stripped of its tree, a shell where life once lingered.

“Bilbo.” Tauriel’s voice was low, heavy with concern. “How are you feeling?”

For a long while, he only breathed, shallow and uneven. Then he said out, “I am just tired.”

It was a lie. And they both knew it.

Sweat streaked his temple. His chest hitched, his hand clutched at his shirt as if something inside clawed at him. The Ring burned against his hip—heat crawling up his flesh, seeping into his veins. The whispers came next, slithering, coiling.
He locked you away. Fed you stone and dust.

Bilbo winced, his breath growing ragged. 

“Bilbo?” Tauriel pressed, crouching before him now, but her words slid off the haze around him.

Then another voice rose above the whispers, rough, gold-sick, dripping with venom. Shire rat. Thorin’s voice, inside him, echoing down corridors that weren’t real.

Bilbo cried out, clapping his hands over his ears. His whole body was shaking with fear. 

Tauriel caught him in her arms before he could fold in on himself, holding him against her. “Bilbo. Listen. That is not real. Do you hear me? You are here. With me. Under Valar’s sky.”

But his sobs broke raggedly against her shoulder. “I don’t know what is happening to me,” he gasped. “It burns-everything-” The rest dissolved into a scream, sharp and raw, tearing from his throat like it cost him blood.

He doubled over, clutching his side in agony.

Tauriel seized his wrists, prying them away, and threw aside his vest. What she saw made her breath falter.

The fabric was scorched black where the Ring pressed. His skin was already marred with angry welts, burns patterned across his chest like brands. And at his hip, where the Ring lay, a new wound pulsed, round, raw, its edges glowing faintly, as if molten metal had been poured into his flesh. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat, alive in its corruption.

The air smelled of iron and ash.
“Valar…” she whispered, horror lacing her voice.

Snapping back to herself, she tore out a strip of rag from her pack, soaked in calendula, and pressed it against the wound. Bilbo jerked, a strangled whimper leaving him, his tears spilling freely now.

“Stay with me.” Her voice steadied, even as her hands trembled. She held the cloth firm, though the heat seared through the rag, though it felt as if she pressed against a brand forged in some dark fire.

Bilbo sagged under her touch, sobbing silently, all strength drained from him.

Tauriel’s heart pounded as she looked down at him—the broken hobbit, marked, claimed. This was no mere wound. It was a chain, forged by the Ring, burning its claim deeper with every breath he took.

And she knew, with terrible certainty, their time was nearly gone.

Tauriel’s heart pounded as she looked down at him. He was a shackled, hammered by the Ring itself, searing deeper with every breath he dared to take. The mark pulsed faintly, echoing a heartbeat not his own. And with that sight came the truth she had known for weeks, though never dared speak aloud: their time was bleeding away, and she was powerless to halt it.

Bilbo’s gasps clawed at the air, sharp and frantic, until they dulled into ragged, uneven exhales. His body still quaked against her, every tremor like a rope fraying strand by strand. The Ring clung to him like rot, hollowing him out. She held him tightly, as if her arms alone could anchor him to the world, her silence heavy with words she would not voice aloud.

The quiet that followed was not peaceful. The plain stretched endlessly around them, empty, open, yet Tauriel felt eyes everywhere, watching from the dark, from within the Ring, from within her own conscience.

Months she had walked beside him, and each day Bilbo faded further. At times she thought she traveled beside a husk, some shadow in the hobbit's skin, his small frame moving forward by habit more than will. The laughter she had once heard from him had died before it could take root. 

And still she lied. Still she played her part.
Every step she took at his side was a step on a path he had not chosen with full truth. She bore that deception like a brand of her own, carved deep into her chest. Was she his protector, or his jailer, leading him toward a fate he could not escape? They should have turned back around ages ago..

At last she drew back, though her hands lingered on his arms, unwilling to release him fully. “We must move,” she said, her voice steady only by force. “If we remain, it will only grow stronger.”

Bilbo’s glassy eyes lifted to her. There was no strength in them, only dimly lit recognition. He staggered upright, leaning into her touch more than he likely realized. His breath rattled, shallow, unsteady. The grass bent beneath his bare feet, damp with dew, but the only true weight he felt was the fire gnawing at his side.

Tauriel adjusted his pack, her gaze never leaving his face. She could read every fracture there, every crack in the dam. What was there to do, she couldn’t simply just out right tell him the truth. 

And though she guided him eastward, her hand firm at his back, her own chest was tight with the truth she could no longer ignore, she was not guiding him to safety. She was guiding him toward the edge of a cliff, praying each day he might find the strength to stop himself from stepping over.

“I cannot even imagine what you feel,” Tauriel said softly, breaking the silence between them. Her voice was low, edged with compassion and quiet determination. “Just know that if anything happens, I am to accompany you.”

Bilbo swallowed hard, his eyes flickering with pain. His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried a depth of gratitude that spoke volumes. “I-I am grateful.”

With that, silence once again fell between them, but this time it was filled with resolve. They moved through the darkened forest beneath the moon, each step bringing them closer to the unknown, closer to their goal.

The days passed in a blur of trudging footsteps, each one further away from the safety of Rivendell the comforting scent of the elven woods began to fade, replaced by the sharp bite of open air and the rugged landscape of Arnor. The forest in the distance slowly thinned, the trees becoming sparser and more twisted, and the roads more difficult to follow. They pressed forward, never stopping for more than necessary, pushing through fatigue, fear, and the growing weight of their journey. 

Every day seemed to stretch longer than usual. Bilbo couldn’t keep up with the days passing anymore, he vaguely guessed where they might be. The ring burned, twisted, and churned in his pocket, causing him harm where it could. It rained down whispers, tore his flesh, spat venom into his heart. As the torment went on and on, Bilbo became even more distant from Tauriel. He wouldn’t try to initiate a conversation, lightly sing songs, or even point out some herbs or a pretty flower. He was completely silent. Mute. Withheld from the world. 

As the pair pressed forward between the barren rocks and burned-out grass of the Lone Lands, everything seemed more empty than it was. The once vibrant and lush wilderness of Rivendell rusted away and left them alone in the grey atmosphere surrounding them. The air here felt heavier, the silence deeply unnatural, almost as if the land itself was holding its breath.

“We have to reach the forest’s edge before nightfall.” Tauriel instructed with a calm voice, Bilbo only nodded in agreement. She scanned the horizon. The road ahead was empty, but something was wrong. They picked up their pace and, as the sun edged closer to the horizon to dip over it, letting the moon rule over the endless sky, they were mere steps away from the forest. 

"Nearly there, hang on," Tauriel murmured, though her voice was strained. Bilbo didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed ahead, his body moving with a mechanical stiffness, weight sitting on his chest heavily. He had regained some control, but Tauriel could feel the undercurrent of his unease; the pull was hard, and the ring bumped it up to the max. 

When they finally reached the sparse forest, Tauriel instructed them to move and not to stop. They walked in silence for what felt like hours. The shadows ducked under each tree and barren bush, making it seem as if creatures were watching the pair from a distance. Tauriel’s thoughts raced, every rustle of wind, every shifting shadow drawing her focus. 

SNAP

Both of them snapped their heads towards the sound. Their teps stopped, as Bilbo's hand reached for the Sting fastened to his belt, Tauriel unbuckled her dagger. 

Snap. Amongst the distant shadows, a figure moved. 

Bilbo's heart was beating in his throat. He looked at Tauriel standing firmly beside him, narrowly looking where the shadow had moved. 

“Bilbo,” She whispered. “Stay close.”

Bilbo’s eyes flickered, the whispering of the ring growing louder in his ears, but he seemed to barely be able to hear her. He pressed closer to her side and watched as the moonlight glistened on the Sting's blueishly glowing blade. 

The figure seemingly noticed them as it continued to get closer to the pair, moving swiftly, cloaked in shadows. Tauriel’s grip tightened on the hilt of her dagger, her senses straining for any movement. As her gaze wandered over to Bilbo's drawn blade, she immediately knew that they were dealing with. An orc.

As soon as the orc's face was painted with the silver moonlight, Tauriel reacted. With a swift, fluid motion, she threw her blade, lodging it deep into the orc's forehead with a sickening thud. It crumpled to the ground before Bilbo could even react, dark blood painting the leaves under it. Tauriel’s breath came in sharp bursts, but her focus never wavered; she moved quickly to retrieve her blade, her fingers steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Bilbo, heart still racing, followed after her lead, his grip still tight on the Sting, his mind fogged again by the relentless, barely audible whispers of the ring. But in a moment of clarity, he seemed to push through it. “More... on the way. Move, we have to.” His voice was raspy and scary as it edged into Tauriel like a rusty blade. He was right. They couldn’t afford to linger, not with the stench of orc blood thick in the air. The silence that edged around them was pressing, and as the pair moved along, the wrongness of it all grew larger every step they took. 

They raced under the moonlight, footsteps pounding the forest floor, slipping between roots and shadows as the horizon bled with the first hint of pale light. The dark trees thinned into ragged slopes, and by the time dawn cracked across the sky, they collapsed against the bark of a lone oak. Dew clung to their clothes, seeping cold into their skin, while the morning light crept across their tired faces. The world around them was damp, quivering under the winds biting whiffs. 

Bilbo slumped to the ground, his skin ashen, lips pressed tight against some private pain. The ring had drained his energy nearly hollow. His hands twitched, his eyes were glassy, and his breath was ragged. Tauriel knelt beside him, brushing a lock of damp hair from his brow. “Bilbo,” she said softly, her eyes scanning the hollow face panting next to her. “How are you? Tell me, honestly, please.” And for a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just stared past her, gazing into the distant horizon stretching out before them. 

“It’s loud. Demanding.” He twitched his nose and turned his empty gaze at Tauriel. “It’s not grief anymore, this is something else.. It gnaws at my ribs, claws at my flesh from the inside.” His raspy voice filled the air around them as he continued to ramble on. “I hear, I see vividly… Thorin in between sheets, sitting up, awake and-” his breath hitched as a small tear slid down his cheek. “I hear him, every pressing moment, I can break away from those maddening whispers. I do not know what is real anymore.” he turned back towards the vast blue surrounding them. “There is a part of me that wants me to believe he is alive. But alas, he is not. And I-” he grumbled and quickly fell silent.

Tauriel didn’t speak, only nodded in a quiet understanding. Instead, she fetched a worn scrap of cloth from her satchel and gently brushed the tear from Bilbo’s cheek. He didn’t flinch, his gaze stayed fixed on the horizon.

Her mind wandered to the crumpled letter buried deep in her pack, the last she had received from Kíli. There was no doubt now: when Bilbo’s mind wrestled itself free from the Ring’s whispers, the One’s weight surged in to claim the space. The way Kíli had described his Majesty's descent echoed eerily in the hobbit beside her. His face, hollow and pale, barely resembling his own anymore. That cheeky glint once burning bright in his hazel eyes had long since died, replaced by frozen knobs twitching and scanning, as if seeking some invisible threat, or perhaps… escape.
“..as if someone tore his heart out and let it bleed right in front of him…”

She shook her head and nudged Bilbo, who still sat as if he had turned to stone. “Thank you,” she said quietly, tugging at his coat with a gentleness that betrayed her weariness. “We’d better get going.”

She stood, drawing in one last breath before turning her eyes to the land around them. Barren, lifeless. The edge of the forest seemingly was made of nothing but grey boulders and brittle stems of grass. 

As soon as Bilbo slowly rose to his unsteady feet, they were on the move. Their conversation slipped back to silence. As the sun scorched the top of their heads, pressing out trickles of sweat, they pushed forward, only stopping to eat. The Shire wasn’t that far away now, but Bilbo couldn’t register where they could be. Each step strained his muscles, every breath scratched his lungs, and the world fell out of focus in his eyes. He didn’t hear the rocks rolling down the hills, breaking apart under the strength of erosion. He couldn’t smell the fresh scent of mud carried to them by the wind, and he couldn’t even see the large raven quietly following them. 

As the sun began its descent, painting the sky with streaks of gold and orange, Tauriel and Bilbo came to a halt, their bodies stiff and aching from the days of prolonged marching. They leaned their backs against a large boulder, the weight of their exhaustion pressing heavily on them. Bilbo struggled to squeal a spark of fire to the dry branches Tauriel collected, and collapsed beside it almost instantly. His chest rose quickly, frantically, with an absence of safety even in his sleep. Tauriel, however, lifted her head to see the raven circling above them, with paper between its claws. The raven was the same one that caught up to them on the High Pass and carried Tauriel's letter back to Erebor with an update on their journey and Bilbo's state. 

When the last ray of warm light turned into a cold ray, the raven stopped circling above them. Its bead-like, dark eyes locked onto Bilbo, noticing his arrhythmically rising chest, and with a sudden swoop, it landed in front of Tauriel. It carefully let go of the letter from its claws, and as Tauriel looked for some crumbs in her pack, it nested beside Bilbo’s curled-up figure. Tauriel just smiled at it and adoringly stroked its feather. “Yes.. you see it right. We have played with fate, and now he is nothing but a vessel.” A slight smile sat on her face, portraying her worry buried behind her eyes, to the little creature. She turned her attention back to the letter, breaking the wax seal bearing the Durin crest, and began reading with growing urgency.

January 2nd, 2942 of the Third Age.
Thetrar,
I have received your letter, and after reading it, I have told Balin immediately, but still, he won’t budge from his view, even with evidence lying in front of him. Maybe too much paperwork got to his smartness and stole it away, or maybe the cold wind blew away all the things that once made him solid and steady as stone.
Bilbo’s state is the same as Irak’adad’s. It wounds me to see them affected so badly by something we could have stopped, or at least helped with.
I feel lost. All we did was for the greater good, but now I see it was never good. Balin either misunderstood, or we must now fear the worst. He still says that he will solve it when Bilbo arrives back. Or, more so, the whole issue will solve itself when they are standing face to face. It’s hard to trust in that, especially when I see him avoiding the truth, turning his back on what should have been seen long before.
Irak’adad has risen from his bedrest, but spends most of his time down at his private smith-cave. All I hear day and night is the booming clinking of metal. He never stops, and I doubt he ever will until we figure something out. I think it's either going to be Fili or Dwalin to finally break the news to him, and of course, Balin wants to hear nothing of it.
Amrâl, Bilbo might start to experience bad hallucinations and shivers. 

Tauriel looked up to the stars, and then her eyes shifted to Bilbo murmuring in his sleep next to her. Oh, Kíli, if you knew how right you are. She took a deep breath and continued to read. 

I instructed the little raven if it can get past the security to stay with you. Even if it can get out, I am sure it won’t be able to bring your answer back inside. Erebor’s main entrance is being worked on now. Dain doubled the watch not only there but around the whole of the city. When you arrive at Bag End, armâl, please stay with him, and send me a letter.
I hope they will lift the seal until then.
Melin gin.
Kíli

Tauriel carefully folded the letter back into its sealed wax, her fingers lingering on the cold emblem of Durin’s crest. Her eyes lifted to the dark midnight sky, tracing the constellations she knew so well. The soft crackle of their fire was the only sound breaking the night’s stillness. 

Her gaze flickered back to the hobbit, curled into an uneasy slumber beside her. Bilbo’s sleep was restless, pain sitting out onto his face, twisting his nose, making his breath come patternless. The sky slowly shifted from gold to gray, the stars blinking down on her like distant, cold eyes. She could feel the weight of the world in the air, thick and heavy with the knowledge that time was slipping through her fingers.
Kíli’s words came back to her mind. If this were only the start, how will he be until Balin decides how to resolve this? He plans to pull him over the mud of Middle-Earth again, just because he was so stupid not to have somebody go after him? None of it seemed right, but she couldn’t do much, only to stay beside him, till she could. And that ring? It had to be more than just a simple magic ring… What it's capable of is terrifying.

These thoughts swirled inside her head, and only got pulled back from them when Bilbo, next to him, opened his eyes, and slowly sat up. They sat in silence for a while, until the hobbit, after carefully extinguishing the remainder of the smoldering fire, stood up and looked Tauriel in the eye. 

“Was it from Kíli?” His voice was weak and harsh, but Tauriel saw a flicker of hope in his eyes. She knew what Bilbo dreamt of every night, why he was so restless. She knew he saw Thorin awake, spending all day in the smithy, brooding and seethingly hitting a piece of metal that was unfortunate enough to get under his palms. “Yes..” Her answer remained open in the air, but she simply couldn’t bring herself to tell him. It's not her place to do it, but she won’t lie, just… fashionably leave the main part out. 

“Dain and Balin ordered a security closing of Erebor, as they are still fixing the main gate. So...” She took a deep breath and turned to the raven hovering around Bilbo's legs. “This little one won’t be able to fly inside Erebor for a while. He instructed it to stay with us.” Bilbo nodded slowly, and that flicker of hope faded back into the same hollowness that haunted his eyes ever since they had been on the road. There was no more to say, only the road that continued to stretch before them, intertwined with the quiet understanding between two souls walking towards pinpointed uncertainty. 

After an audible exhale, Tauriel rose and quickly dusted her moss-green cape off. She quickly threw her pack over her shoulders and held Bilbo’s up before him. “Come, we are not so far away from the borders now,” she lightly smiled, her voice soft as the first bloom on a peach tree. “All the time we had left trickled through our hands..., what we can only do now is clear.” Whatever cryptic thing she was hinting at seemingly didn’t bother the tired hobbit, shifting his backpack around. Tauriel wasn’t even sure if he even heard what she said at all. 

As the pair took to the road, the first thing Tauriel noticed was the trees changing. No longer skeletal and wind-burned, but gentle, rounder at the edges. Everything flowed and shifted by the wasp power of greenery surrounding them. Flowers were blooming where the sun broke through the dense canopy, birds chirped happy songs on top of branches. Small animals ran beside them, burying themself between lush bushes. The scent of Yavanna’s sweetness filled the air around them, lifting the months of mud and dirt out of their lungs. And yet, Bilbo couldn’t seem to understand how close they were to his home. It wasn’t his home anymore.

He stumbled more often now. He roughly mumbled under his breath in a language Tauriel could not understand, but was familiar with. Fragments of old rhymes, names, curses, which he shouldn’t have known how to say. Once his words echoed Thorin’s name, barely as a whisper rolling off his tongue. Once he wept, drying tears, without even realizing it.

As their steps came closer and closer to the curling chimney smoke in the distance, Tauriel kept her eyes fixed on the road and the vast greenness surrounding them. She tried not to notice Bilbo’s murmurs in Khuzdul, she tried to skim over how he tossed and turned instead of sleeping. He was hollow, deprived of his thoughts, unable to control his movements. He wasn’t alone in his mind, not when daylight graced his faded skin, not when moonlight thugged between his long curls. 

Bilbo fell behind Tauriel as their steps got closer and closer to Bag End. He tried to follow through with her plan, as they approached his smial from the back, not to let anyone see him in such a state. If his mind had let him, he would have thanked Tauriel profusely, but not a sound emitted from his tired throat. The lush greenery around them felt oppressive, like it was closing in on his lungs. 

As they circled behind his neighbouring gardens, a sharp pain suddenly stabbed through his chest, as if someone had buried a blade right into it. He gasped, his hand instinctively moving to his pocket, fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the ring. The moment he touched it, the pain grew sharper, spreading through his veins like molten steel, but he couldn’t let go of it.

Tauriel, walking ahead, didn’t notice the way his body froze, how his breath came in shallow gasps. His heart was hammering, each beat a cruel reminder of everything he left behind. With each staggering beat, a new murmur flashed into his ears, derailing him, feeding poison to his mind. It was more than he could ever bear, whipping at his sweet memory-pantry, destroying every glance of those icy blues he cherished. Whatever power the ring possessed was eating him whole, not letting go of his veins, drinking up his blood, turning it into dark ooze. He couldn’t break free.

Bilbo staggered, his vision blurring as the pain intensified. Every step towards the end felt like a betrayal, each inch dragging him deeper into the grip of the claws digging into his muscles.

By the time they reached the back gate of his garden, Bilbo could barely keep his feet. Fire crawled beneath his ribs as if some ancient forge had been lit inside him; the world blurred behind the film over his eyes. And all the while the Ring crooned at him, close as breath, cold as iron. Its words were not words so much as promises and commands braided together: “Come home, forget the stone” - “Be mine, pulse to my rhythm.” - “Break them, spill them for me.” Each syllable fell like a hot grain under his skin.
"Who else will keep you but me? It hissed. "Leave your breath for me, I will protect you.." The whispers piled, impatient and bright, until they were no longer separate sounds but a single command pounding in his mind: Let me in.

With a final, desperate effort, he forced himself to walk into the garden where once his grand prize-winning roses bloomed, where once his lush kitchen-garden grew. Now stood a mountain of furniture, thrown on top of each other without a care for their value. As his eyes wandered over the pile, he saw his favorite armchair tipped over, drenched in mud. The same armchair he read many books in, the same armchair his father told him stories from, and the same armchair Thorin Oakenshield sat in, nurturing a glass of red wine, listening to Gandalf's explanation of why he would be the perfect candidate. It broke him, completely. 

He gave up whatever power he had left and surrendered his soul to the ring. 

Chapter Text

The world was unexpectedly cold as it swam into shape around him. 

His eyes snapped open to the Misty Mountains, though he did not remember closing them. The rocks beneath him were slick with old rain, crumbling with every breath. Wind tore through the peaks, sliding between the sharp edges. Water trickled down his scalp, dampening his long braids, cold as regret, sinking into the collar of his tunic.

He tried to stand still, but his footing slipped, boots scrabbling on the narrow path. A scream cracked the wind in half. Sharp and familiar, kin. His body turned of its own accord, a puppet to the past, while his eyes struggled to anchor to anything unmushed.

The ground under his boots suddenly vanished. The mountain folded beneath him like paper. The heavy mistakes of the past dragged him into the unknown darkness beneath him. 

As Thorin’s eyes blinked open again, sudden warmth hit his face. The cold rain was replaced with long, gold rays of light. His booths were smaller, now firm against the stone. A freshly made braid swung in his shorter hair, as his hands reached towards someone running before him. Frerin’s hair was even shorter than his, as he was just a pebble, merely 21. His hearty laugh rang in Thorin’s ears as he darted past him in the tapestry-lined hall. But before he could charge after him, his foot caught the edge of a rug, making him crash, headfirst, into an armor stand. The clang rang out like a bell of doom. An even smaller pebble, Dís, caught up to him and tried to frantically get Thorin out of the piercing metals. 

Silence fell as the warm, joyful air shifted in the hall. Slow, measured steps echoed under the tapestries, the shadow as it got closer sharpened up. As it stopped above the siblings, its booming, cold voice filled the air.
“Get up.” and without waiting, lifted Thorin out of the armory by his hand. The light shifted around them, darkening as Thorin's eyes pierced his grandfather's. Next thing he felt was a heavy, tingling blow to his cheeks.

“A king does not fall,” Thrór’s scolding was as sharp as the weapons lying on the floor. “He does not weep. He does not fail.” 

Dís was still kneeling next to the oily metals, Frerin was further up the hall, but before Thorin could turn his head to face them, one last time, the light disappeared around him, the sharp bite of the tears he never let fall lingered in his chest as he shifted again.

He now stood in the Throne Room of Erebor. The hall was empty, the silence ringing louder than any shout. The stone columns stretched high, but no kin walked beneath them. Only the echo of his ragged breath filled the space. The Arkenstone was glistening in its mount, covering the hall in a sharp, unforgiving light. As his boots stopped, everything else around him stilled. 

The light of the Arkenstone felt like a weight pressing against his chest, cold, suffocating. A rash, loud voice echoed, twisting in his head, tightening his heart. 

“I will never part with a single coin.” 

His hands trembled, a slight movement, barely noticeable, but enough. The stone seemed to pulse, fast and deliberately, for Thorin to reach out and grab it. 

“I am betrayed - the Arkenstone, one of them has taken it...” 

Thorin’s breath hitched, his pulse spiking, wild. The voice sharpened, curling deeper into his thoughts, digging like claws into his skull. His feet were rooted into the cold marble under him, his eyes fixated on the pulsing stone before him. 

“One of them is false - This gold is ours.”

The voice was raspy and heavy, crumbling him like a howling wind that crashed through mountainsides.
He remembered now, his mind was clear.
He said these words to Bilbo. He was the one accusing them, not the gold deep down. He accused them right in front of the traitor. 

“Not one piece of it.”

The words ripped through him, echoing, clawing at his thoughts. His breath stilled in the air before him. Faces flashed up before him. Dwalin, Fíli, Kíli, and Bilbo all blur into a storm of accusation. 

“Traitors...”

“King...”

“No... no, Thorin, please...”

They were everywhere. All around him, their words slashing, their eyes filled with the same fury, the same cold anger. His chest burned, his heart pounding as though it might burst from the strain. He couldn’t escape his newly found memories.

​​The voices crashed around him, each one a wound, each one his fault. The Arkenstone’s light burned him, the greed in his veins choking out any other thought.

They were his kin, his blood, and he betrayed them for mountains of gold, that meant nothing now. 

Thorin collapsed to his knees, the stone beneath him cold and unforgiving as ice. The Arkenstone was pulsing, suffocatingly, but it was nothing compared to the weight that crushed his chest now.

His vision continued to blur together, twisting and churning the faces he loved into a mass of flesh. From the mass, a familiar face broke free, cursed, poisonous madness circling in his eyes. Durin blue, the same icy stare that berated and disregarded him during all those years. Thrór’s voice was loudly crashing into his chest, forcing him to the ground. “This is what you are, Thorin. A king of nothing. Betrayed by his own kin.”

Thrór’s face danced around him, representing all Thorin had feared. The madness, the isolation, the fear. Deep, crawling fear of losing, of feeling. Bilbo’s voice of reason was no use now, he was his grandfather. Always been. He inherited the same poison carried in their DNA. 

The vision shifted around him, molten and sharp, breaking apart from the twisting faces. He was now kneeling, with layers of dust and mud tangled in his hair. The ground under him was soaked with blood, battlecries filled the heavy air. 

The weight pressing him down disappeared, pulling Thorin’s head up from the ground and making him stand. 

His legs moved without will, dragged forward by the rhythm of dying steel. A hill rose before him, littered with bodies. At its peak stood Azog, white as bone.
Smiling.

Thrór stood defiant, blade trembling in his grasp. Thorin felt his heart beating in his ears. Then Azog struck.

Steel met flesh.
Blood painted the stones, flowing like a fresh spring.
A crown rolled from his head like a coin tossed to the hoard of gold, worthless. 

The grey halls of Khazad-Dum fell silent. Thorin, this time, couldn’t move. He just stood there, frozen in time. Beside him, a shadow shifted. His past self, full of life, charging forward and becoming a living legend. But he couldn't look. His icy eyes remained bound to his grandfather's head, to the crown soaked in dark, filthy blood.

His past self dashed forward, blade raised high, charging at Azog with a cry that split the sky. Steel met steel, the clash ringing loud as chains torn apart by a Siege Troll. In that instant, the world shifted again. His ears were hurt by frictional sound metal, breath caught in his throat. 

Thorin stood on the outlook of Erebor, the wind tearing through his hair, flapping the metal beaded braids against the sharp edges of his crown. The clang still rang in his skull, battle cries, steel on stone, Azog’s white snarl. As his vision cleared, the orc was gone.
And in his place…

Not again.

In front of him, on the rough edges of the broken lookout, lay Bilbo, his small back pressed down with all the anger to the cold stone. Breathless and wide-eyed. Thorin’s grip was ironclad, one hand clenched around the hobbit’s throat, the other digging into his shoulder, pushing him towards the edge. Closer and closer. 

Bilbo gasped for air, his chest heaving in broken rhythm. His eyes shone with pure terror; in the reflection of his tears, Thorin saw himself. Anger and deep, poisoning madness curled between his teeth as he shouted. The greed in Thorin’s head swelled, deafening, and the gold beneath the mountain seemed to whisper louder than thought. His body was stiff, grip tightening around the hobbit's neck. A thief. A betrayer. His hazel curls were stuck together, his skin chalked with coal and rubbish. 

The moment stretched forever, before strong hands clasped on his shoulders, trying to get Bilbo out of his grip. But he wasn’t moving. He couldn’t. The fingers were unsuccessful.

Thorin’s iron-cloaked fingers cut deep into his soft, dirty skin, the carved stone stretched under his back like the lands of Rohan. Bilbo was silent, tolerating all that pure power straining at him; he only wheezed as his eyes filled up with more tears. But he didn’t let them fall. 

He wasn’t observing like he did with Azog. He was actively doing, pressing, feeling, killing. 

“You would steal from me?"

His voice was booming, loud. His breath was fire against Bilbo’s broken face. He was terror, fueled by betrayal. 

“Your claim? You have no claim over me, you miserable rat.”

He didn’t let go. 

Thorin’s hand dug mercilessly into the curve of Bilbo’s neck, the tips of his fingers grinding into the cords of muscle, his pulse throbbed against his index finger, frantically like a raven stuck inside the mountain. Bilbo, his burglar, was choking, truly now, as in a desperate attempt, his lips flew apart, wet and lilac, gasping for air. His small hands tried to push Thorin off, clawing weakly at his arms. Fingernails raked against the metal and fur, but there was no strength in them, not an ounce of resistance.

His feet scraped against the stone. The back of his head struck it. And still, Thorin bore down.

Veins rose in Bilbo’s skin like blue-black rivers, snaking up toward his cheeks, his ears. His lips, once pink and cracked with wind and travel, now shifted toward a dusky purple. His whole body was trembling, trying to fight against the weight pressing down on his neck. But his eyes? Those beautiful, shining gemstones glistened with terror and surrender. Bilbo wasn’t fighting. Not against him. 

The rasp wheezing slowed with each drawn out minute. Then stilled.

His mouth hung open, slack, as a high, reedy wheeze barely slipped through. The air couldn’t reach him anymore. His fingers twitched, then loosened. His arms fell away from Thorin’s armored ones like discarded cloth. His eyes rolled just slightly, still watching Thorin even in that final, helpless moment. 

His heartbeat, still beating against his fingers, was beginning to slow down. Thorin felt it as the fluttering beneath his thumb slowed. That wild, frantic pulse faltered, then stuttered, then… 

He snapped. This wasn’t how it played out. He quickly let go of Bilbo's soft neck, now bruised and lilac where his fingers lay. The imprint of his fury lived there now, each ridge and press of his grip painted in shadows across the hobbit’s skin.

Marked.

Bilbo didn’t move. His body crumpled sideways like a marionette whose strings had been sliced. His chest didn’t rise. His mouth hung open, a faint whistle trailing off into silence. Thorin stared, frozen, unable to breathe, unable to exist outside this moment. His hands trembled at his side, the outlook was twisting into shadows around him. The walls around him were silent, not echoing anymore. Everything went still. 

A voice escaped from the darkness around him. It was low and cracked and slick with condemnation, curling up from the marrow of the mountain itself. It was his grandfather’s voice, Thrór, proud and venomous. “You killed your One.”

“NO, NO NO I DID NOT, THIS DIDN’T HAPPEN” 

His voice was nothing like he remembered. It was dark and ominous, tearing and ripping every atom standing in its way. It echoed off walls that weren’t there anymore, walls that curled inward and blackened like burned pages, as the outlook shattered beneath him. The world twisted sideways. The mountain, the edge, Bilbo’s limp body. All of it crumpled into dust before him. The last thing he saw was the bruising on Bilbo’s neck, a reminder of what could have been. 

A scream ripped out of him like steel shrieking against a whetstone. His knees crashed to the floor with the weight of a mountain behind them, and his hands clawed at his face, trying to tear out the vision, the memory, the feeling of pulsing rawness. 

The bruises were on his hands. The bruises were in his bones. Bilbo’s gemstones were glassy, bulging, watching, always watching him. The frame burned into the back of his mind like a mark of failure. 

You killed your One. 

Thrór’s voice had sunk its talons into his spine. His grandfather, the madness, the gold, it was all in him now, heir of madness.

Azog’s blade, Frerin’s scream, blood in the snow, the Arkenstone grinning from the guts of a corpse. 

The Company lies still in the battle’s mud. Fíli and Kíli bleeding out in the snow, Balin’s refusal of his feelings, the weight of Erebor pressing down like the mountain wanted him crushed.

Bilbo’s mouth slack and gasping, his hand still pressing down on that delicate, silky smooth…

He let out a sound that wasn’t human, more like the roar of a dying dragon. He struck the floor with both fists, over and over, until blood spattered from his knuckles and the skin peeled back, until the pain finally caught up to him, but still he did not stop. “STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT NOW.” But it wouldn’t.

The visions poured through his eyes, through the very air around him, the walls bleeding memory and madness. His crown was molten iron biting into his skull, each breath came hot with fire and old death. He spat up dark, oozing tar mixed with blood. 

But as quickly as the visions came to life, they faded to black. The voices stopped, like their vocal cords had been suddenly cut. 

Thorin was kneeling in his own splattered blood, in the Grand Hall of Erebor, the real one, not the twisted half-memory. The floor was smooth beneath him, cold but whole, not a crack appeared in the stone structures, as if the years of decay had simply been erased from them. 

He was shaking, his chest rattling with every broken breath, his hands held up before his face as though they were foreign to him, as though he might not recognize them. They were bloody, broken, his skin was completely scraped down to the muscles. 

Silence and darkness edged around him, twirling like smoke lifting towards the stars. Thorin lay down, his hands hurting, burning, his chest bleeding. His breath came in shallow, jagged gasps, lost in the weight of a thousand unspoken regrets. Stillness and black, unshifting darkness were his only company for what felt like an eternity. He just laid there, warmed by his blood and cooled by his never-ending flow of tears. Thoughts spun in circles, too twisted to grasp, dancing on his brain waves like an elegant dwarrowdam. 

​​The darkness was thick now, oppressive. But just before he could be suffocated by it, just at the edge of his awareness, a whisper cut through it all. 

“Thorin…” Bilbo. His mind immediately recognised the voice. He spoke just barely above a whisper, his voice was raw as if he had been crying for days. He wished to move and find him, but the darkness chained him to the ground. “Thorin.. I am not sure why I am telling you this. But, I have to… I love you. I have loved you ever since that night you showed up at my door.” Thorin gasped so loudly, the walls of nothingness echoed with it. 

“As my parting gift to you, Thorin Oakenshield, I gift you my heart… Even in death, keep it with you and let it warm you in the afterlife under the lush trees of Yavanna’s garden. I forgive you for all you have done, and I hope even if you think of me as a friend, you will keep my heart safe, as it now belongs to you.” Bilbo stopped as a small hiccup echoed in the stillness. Thorin just laid there, taking it all in. 

“I love you, even in death, you are just as beautiful as on top of the Carrocks, when sunlight seeped through your raven dark hair and danced with your silver streaks...” The voice stopped again, but now with finality. Quiet sobs filled the emptiness around him as Bilbo’s voice faded shut. And Thorin wept, not like a king, nor a warrior, but like a child forgotten in the dark depths of a closet, tired of playing hide and seek. 

Bilbo’s voice lingered in the air, as a memory pressing itself into the marrow of his bones, and Thorin bowed his head as if in reverence to it, as if the very shape of those words had carved a wound he could not name. Even in death, in ruin, Bilbo had loved him, and Thorin felt it now, not as a revelation, but as something that had always been true, waiting for him to become quiet enough to hear it. 

He reached out, though not with hand nor word, but with a light strum of a harp inside his soul. The beat sang of longing, warm thumping filled him up to his fingertips, like a good, hearty soup or sweet red wine. The feeling was new and sensational, as if a new kind of gemstone had been found inside his mind-mine. 

And Bilbo reached back to him, not letting him push him away, back down into the light-deprived chasms of his heart. A pressure, gentle and immense, like a stone warmed by the sun after a long night of frost, like a mountain holding its breath to listen.

But this sensation didn’t last long. The warmth was torn out of his chest, stripping him bare like a newborn pebble. He was left with nothing, no more lingering echo, no soft tether of presence. Only silence circled him, so complete it roared, louder than any battlefield, louder than his blood as it surged and retreated, like waves collapsing against stone. He could feel it, unmistakably and without mercy, the moment Bilbo pulled away, not with his hand or voice, but with his presence. The moment the last thread of connection between them loosened and gave way, it slipped from his grasp like a dying breath.

Bilbo Baggins gave his heart to him fully, and left without it beating inside his chest. Maybe he ran, maybe he was pulled away, or just simply walked away, Thorin couldn’t tell. All he felt was the empty, unbeating hollowness aching where his heart should have been and the thumping small, red gemstone he held between his fingers.  

Left alone and bare again, twisting and aching in the depths of the dark, his only company was the painful memories he had to relive and the parting confession of Bilbo. He kept replaying it, word for word, until every breath he took between the words was carved into his mind, leaving gaping wounds behind.

He stayed like this for minutes, hours, days, months? Who knows… The dark was uninviting and uncomfortable, his only warmth was his blood, and the only thing he heard were those poisonous three words, spoken by the sweetest being under all the stars of Durin. I love you.

As the mist twirled, something else came with it, intershifting with the molecules of nothing. Not a sound, at first, but pressure. The kind that settles over a battlefield just before the first arrow pierces the ashy sky. 

The torches along the Hall now lit up green, dim at first, then stronger, curling like ivy through stone. The air thickened as though the mountain itself exhaled something sacred. Time slowed, or perhaps ceased altogether. And out of the stillness, the shape of a presence stepped forward.

He was not made of flesh, though he bore its likeness. Formed from gold-veined obsidian, from riverbed stone polished by eons, from the heat of stars collapsed beneath mountains. Mahal stood tall before him, stretching towards the ceiling, matching the height of his ancestors' sculptures. His great beard fell in long, solemn braids heavy with ancient beads that whispered against one another like old ghosts. But one braid hanging down just over his heart was different, shining green, alive, not of stone or fire but of growth. Yavanna’s gift, sworn into his very form.

When he breathed, the walls seemed to tremble and curve to his will. When he stepped, the stone softened to receive him. And when he looked upon Thorin, it was not with cruelty, but with the only truth forged in fire. The silence was his to command, it ended when Mahal chose to speak.

“Thorin Oakenshind, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, last rightful King under the Mountain, heir of Durin the Deathless. Do you know where you are?” Mahal’s voice was loud and deep, but it wasn’t pressing or demanding, instead, it was calm and collected. 

“In- In the Grand Hall of Erebor before the fire, my maker.” Thorin’s voice was quiet, broken compared to the beings standing before him. He was kneeling in front of him, clutching his hands over his wounds, looking up and eyeing his Maker’s carefully woven braids. 

Mahal stood unwavering. "Do you know why you are here?"

Thorin shivered under Mahal's gaze, his head feeling heavy with the ghosts of all his failures. The question still hung there, unanswered, like a criminal swaying with the wind. He’s already been broken by gold, by his pride, by the weight of those who bled for him. But what has been done cannot be changed anymore, the past is still the past. He failed them all, he failed his kin and his heart.

“I-” His voice cracked, pitying the thought he was about to mutter aloud. “I failed my kin, and I failed you. I lost my pride, and I have broken my own heart.”

Mahal’s eyes, like burning coals, looked at him. His deep voice rumbled again, heavy with the weight of eons. "You see it now, my creation? You are not your upbringing but your actions, and even if you like them or not, you still did them.” 

Thorin nodded, slowly. "Yes. I have nearly killed my kin, my friends. I let the gold consume me, I stepped in my ancestors' mistakes, and I let my pride lead me to my grave." The mountain quieted around them as Mahal watched him, his gaze unyielding.

“You have seen your mistakes, Thorin Oakenshield,” Mahal says, the words heavy but still so kind. “But,  still, you failed to see one thing you were gifted with.”

Thorin’s chest tightened up. He knew the answer. It has always been inside him, buried under layers of guilt, anger, and the crushing weight of being a king. Buried deep behind his icy blue eyes, only shining through when he glanced at that hobbit's unruly curls. And now he knew he was not alone in this chasm of feelings. “My grandfather and Bilbo… was it not a vision?” 

“Your grandfather did many things, my child, but to you he never lied, not even when nailed down by poison.”  Mahal smiled at him, lightly, and continued in his caressing tone. “Yet, you don’t believe a confession from the one that has your heart. You still kneel, broken before me. But is this how you wish to remain? Shackled by your own pride, burying all of your feelings, believing every lie but not the truth when it’s uttered in your presence?”

Thorin’s breath hitched, his chest tightening up under the weight of Mahal’s words. The air around him felt thick, pressing down on his shoulders. His hands began to shake, blood still staining them, as the memory of Bilbo’s lifeless eyes flashed through his mind. A reminder of all he’s broken.

“How could I? … I don’t know how to undo what I’ve done,” Thorin said. “I’ve failed them all. That is unforgivable. I…” Mahal’s gaze sharpened, his voice soft but resonant.

“Forgiveness begins within Thorin Oakenshield. You cannot change the past, but you can choose what lies ahead.”

Thorin lowered his gaze; the weight of his mistakes sat heavy on his chest. The ghost of the past tried to derail him again, but something more powerful stirred within him. Bilbo’s face flashed again, it's no longer lifeless. A warm light danced between his curls as a smirk sat on his pinkish cheeks. Another memory flashed up of his beloved nephews smiling and rushing towards him, down the snowy roads of the Blue Mountains. 

“I will try,” Thorin murmured, eyes lifting to meet Mahal’s. “I shall do what I must to regain my loyalty and virtue. For my kin, for my ancestors and myself.”

Mahal regarded him, his expression solemn but not without approval. “Then rise, Thorin Oakenshield. The past cannot be undone, but the future is yours to shape. The choice is yours. Do you wish to return to the mortal world?”

Thorin bowed his head, and his usual braids fell, dangling in front of his eyes. The choice was obvious to him now, undeniably right. “I do.” he said, his voice a low hum, deep, steady, forged in certainty. He stayed folded, his gaze following his braids' light swing. “Until my last breath escapes my chasm, I will try again and again.” 

Mahal exhaled proudly, his hand slowly extended, and gestured to Thorin to face him again. “Very well, my creation.” he said in a soothing tone. “Then know this, Thorin Oakenshield. All flesh rots, all stone crumbles with time. What endures the passage of time are your soul and your deeds. That is how your kin, your mountain, and your heart will remember you till the stars fall from the sky.” His hand stretched out even more, placing his palm onto Thorin’s head. “The path ahead will not be easy; it never was. Your mistakes in the past cannot be erased. But take heart, forgiveness flows swiftly, like molten lava under the right conditions.”

Thorin flinched under the sudden, warm touch on top of his head. “Give me your right hand son.” Mahal asked with a hint of pride in his tone. Thorin rolled up the sleeves of his tunic, revealing his ink markings, and put his forearm into his maker's hand. Mahal's hand, steady and deliberate, hovered above Thorin's forearm, just below the inked crest of Durin's line. Under his hand, a word appeared: altân. 

“This mark I place upon you shall be the symbol of your journey. A ringing testament to the path you have chosen, and you must stick to.” Mahal spoke with a voice that now resonated with the walls of the hall around them. 

His eyes lingered on the pulsing ink, fierce and fiery, reminding him of his duty. Not only for himself but for his kin. They need him to finally be king, not a dragon sitting on the beaten-down throne under the mountain. Before him, his maker stood radiant and silent, the weight of divine purpose carved deep into the stillness between them.

“Go now, son. Open your eyes and remember your oath. We shall meet again, in the forges of forever.” The words echoed like the final clank of a hammer against an anvil, resounding into stillness. His maker's shining braids faded, twirling into a mixture of darkness, folding silence in on him. All at once, the golden, caressing warmth of sacredness disappeared, and Thorin was falling again. Not through darkness or air, but through a tingling sensation, he felt himself re-entering his own body. 

His breath hitched as a shiver crawled over his skin, sharp and biting. The stone-cold breath of Erebor wrapped around him, filling up the space left behind by the sudden shift.  His fingers twitched. His heart allured a beat so loud he felt blood travelling through his veins. 

His eyes snapped open, frantic and searching. The hall around him was crushingly quiet. He felt the fresh bandages around his torso, wrapping him like a broken present. His breath came quick and ragged, a frantic exhale rumbling from deep within, tearing a way in his lungs for the air of home. Home, he finally had. 

In an instant summoned by his sudden rumble, Óin was there. His precise movements already checking Thorin, measuring his blood pressure. He pressed his hands against Thorin’s chest, checking the bandages with practiced care, each motion efficient and confident.

Óin’s gaze was focused, his presence unwavering. Thorin’s newly regained vision was already beginning to blur, but just before he could slip back, his hand caught Óin’s. The healer stilled, his gaze now searching his face. 

“Where is he?...” Thorin spoke so quietly that it felt like every letter he muttered took a heavy toll on his energy. “Where is… where is Bilbo..” but just before Óin could answer, his vision faded to black again. 

He stayed put for, to him, what felt like mere seconds. In reality, when his eyes were graced by the soft, humming light of fire, it was late into the afternoon of December 14th. The world around him returned from fragments and formed together fully and sharply. The aiding ward of Erebor was still cold, its atmosphere was still littered with the choking ash of war. 

Thorin’s eyes opened with a gasp that cut into the quiet like a blade. The light painted the faces he grew familiar with, now standing around his cot, in a tight-knit circle. But as his gaze looked over them, something seemed off. 

They were fixed in place like they were posing for a painting. Dori stood with a bowed head, Bifur’s fingers fidgeted along the hilt of his axe. Glóin’s shoulders were set, though his eyes brimmed. Bofur’s knuckles were white around the brim of his hat, and Bombur shifted his weight from one leg to another. Nori moved like he was about to turn around and leave. Ori looked pale, like someone caught in the final moment before a dam breaks. Dwalin stood closest to him, but even he bore that same fractured look, fearing the same thing, they all felt. 

On his other side stood Kíli. Silent, unmoving, his gaze fixed somewhere above Thorin’s head, unable to look into his frantically searching eyes. And Fíli? Fíli was nowhere to be seen, Kíli’s side was empty without him pressed next to it. 

Thorin tried to sit up. Pain flared white-hot down his side, but he forced his arms beneath him anyway. “Where is he?” His voice cut through the still, withheld atmosphere like the last released breath. Not one of them answered him. They didn’t even move. 

He searched their faces, desperation scraping his ribs raw. “Where is he?” louder and angrier now, still his words fell on deaf ears. At least they flinched now. Kíli looked down. Ori bit his lip. Dwalin took half a step forward, but as if he changed his mind, he retreated to his place. 

“Say something to me.” Thorin growled, pushing himself higher, teeth bared with the strain. “Where is Bilbo?”

Before he could continue, now wanting to shout at their faces, Balin stepped to the foot of his cot, facing him. The old dwarf looked older, weariness seeping deeply into the lines of his face. “My king,” his voice was too gentle, too coaxing. “Bilbo Baggins did not survive the battle. He passed away soon after you faded out of consciousness.” Silence tried to fall after his word, but Thorin didn’t let it. 

“No.” He shook his head, voice trembling with fury. “No, you liar. You all are liars.” The words tore out of his chest, like a war cry. 

“Thorin…” Dwalin tried to step forward again, but Balin shot him a look, making the great warrior freeze in place. 

“You dare look me in the eye and speak such rot?” He shouted, voice booming against the stone walls of the hall, seemingly closing in around them. “You think I would not feel it in my blood, in the marrow of my bones?”

“Thorin,” Balin shook his head. His gaze remained unreadable, unmoving, and distant. “What you feel, or ever felt, is not what you think. You are simply mistaken.” 

Thorin swung his legs over the cot, pain forgotten, and pushed Dwalin back with a furious shove. The warrior stumbled, caught off guard. He tried to stand up, his legs giving up immediately under his weight, making him fall back to the cot. 

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW?” he shouted, pure anger and adrenaline circling in his veins. “He is not gone!” He clasped his hands over his heart, feeling it beating quickly. “I felt him, his voice broke through the deep darkness of my Thraundazukh.” he took a deep breath, his eyes washing over the company and stopping at Balin’s face, still unmoved. “You think of me as stupid? That I cannot see right or wrong because you think I am still affected?” 

None of them could look at him now; only Balin dared to. Kíli’s shoulders hunched as though the weight of guilt were breaking him. Dori turned away. Nori’s mouth trembled. Ori let out a choked sob and crumpled under the weight of it all. He buried his face in his hands and wept, helpless, broken by the lie he’d helped carry. Dwalin immediately looked at him, stepped out of the circle, and led him outside. 

“I am simply telling the truth.” Balin was cold, his voice grew even more distant. 

Thorin’s chest heaved, his breath like the bellows of the forge, wild and roaring. “You speak of truth,” he spat, keeping his icy, cold stare locked on Balin. “Then tell me, oh great counselor of kings, what truth demands silence? What kind of truth makes my kin unable to look at me?” His hand pointed at Kíli standing next to his bedside, frozen in place, his eyes quickly moving between his uncle's fingers and Balin’s face. 

“Hurtful ones. You felt love, that might be true, but he was not your One. I have told you before..; You are a king for Mahal’s beards' sake.” 

“Do not spea-” his hands clasped over his chest, as a painful ache cut his answer in half. A sharp agony lanced through the place where steel had once torn him open. The wound flared like it, too, had heard the lie, rejecting it with fire and pressure. He gasped, shoulders lurching, his breath refusing to steady. 

Óin was at his side at once, tearing away into the circle. His hands were firm but gentle, eyes catching the tremor beneath Thorin’s skin. “Enough.” the healer said with determination. He turned away from the bandages, facing his kin, voice rising like a shield over Thorin, “Out. All of you. You’ve done enough for now.” The Company did not argue. One by one, they followed the same round Dwalin and Ori took, trickling out of the ward, like gold coins falling out of the hand of a corrupt advisor. The hall emptied; only one of his kin failed to follow Óin’s demand, Kíli. 

Thorin didn’t speak. His jaw had turned to iron, clenched so tight it ached. His eyes, dark and fierce, locked on Kíli with a fury so deep it hollowed out the space between them. There was no warmth left in them now, scorching only with the flame of betrayal, like a blade forgotten in the blazing fire for too long. His hand, still trembling from pain and wrath, lay on top of his chest, and when Kíli stepped closer, it did not move.

Kíli stood next to him, his knees brushing the sides of his cot. Pale and trembling, sweat clung to his brow despite the mountain’s chill. The last of his wounds had closed, but not without leaving marks of faith behind. He bore them like quiet ruins, remnants of war. His lips parted once, as if to speak, but no sound came. The words died where duty strangled them, and all that remained was a boy torn in half, staring at the man who had been his father-figure and hero all his life, now looking at him with unearthly coldness in his eyes. Kíli looked as if a ghost wore his face to pull an elaborate scare on Thorin. 

Still, despite the rigidness of his movements, Kíli reached out for his resting hand and gave it a quick, tight squeeze. He couldn’t speak; all he wished to say, he pressed into that squeeze. Duty. Guilt. Love. Truth. 

It was a quiet thing. That gesture, to anyone who might have seen them, probably would have meant nothing, but Thorin felt as if he was thrown into the icy cold water trickling in the depths of Erebor. That squeeze was not offering condolences, a shared burden of grief. It was a silent, unsayable confirmation of truth. Kíli knew, and still he had stood there while the lie was told. Duty tied him to what they did, but for what reason, and what even was the full truth, Thorin might never know. 

Thorin’s eyes flared wide, then narrowed into slits searching for an answer in his nephew's eyes. He lightly squeezed back, but the anger and fury didn’t fade away from his face. His body began to tremble again, under the gnawing hurt and stinging medicine. He took one deep breath and nodded at Kíli, silently thanking him. But Kíli couldn’t return his gesture. 

Kíli, the brave one, the heart of the Company, the reckless soul who once faced orcs without blinking, fled. He broke from the cot like he had touched forgefire and bolted, stumbling toward the hall’s mouth. But he couldn’t truly leave the entrance behind, he couldn’t vanish into the heart of the mountain. Thorin didn’t see his face, only the trembling line of his silhouette, washed in the gold light spilling from the corridor beyond.

Another shadow stopped him in his tracks. Thorin couldn’t see, but it wasn't like he needed to. Kíli only stopped for one person in the whole of Middle-Earth, his brother, Fíli, whose absence was so noticeable when his golden hair didn’t press against his brother's shoulder. 

They spoke in a tone barely above a whisper, not a word they exchanged was heard by Thorin, but it's not like he cared. Caring was cast down from the mountainside as soon as they assisted whatever lie chained the truth down amongst them. One of their boots scathed the surface of the rock under it, as if trying to move towards him.

Thorin turned his head away from the door. He did not want to see if Fíli tried to come and see him, but was pulled back by Kíli, or if they went away. He did not care. If Mahal himself walked in now, Thorin would not lift his eyes. He would not offer warmth to the cold-hearted, nor forgiveness to his kin who decided that duty was worth more than their pride. 

“Cowards.” he whispered to himself, his eyes burning holes through the structural beams of the ceiling. His chest rose and fell with slow, heaving breaths. It hurt so much, it was worse than being dipped in molten lava. Dark blood seeped through his bandages, each drop leaving his veins hurt, as if something willingly kept dragging them out of him.

The wound across his chest gaped, flesh torn deep and even, the blade that had struck it never hesitated, nor held back. Dried blood crusted thick around the black stitches Óin had threaded through muscle and sinew, and the skin surrounding it was flushed with heat, angry and tender to the touch. His left thigh bore a gash, the cut wide and jagged, cleaving through the meat of him, deep enough that the bone beneath had been kissed by steel. It was a miracle, according to Óin, that the blade didn’t slide further in. Scattered across his torso were a few, smaller, already half-healed cuts that will not remain, but oh, how much he longed to tear each one open again, to bleed himself dry of the blood of punishment and unforgiveness. 

Mahal’s words disappeared from his memory, pressed out of his brain, replaced by the ever-ringing sound of anger pounding against his skull.

He lay still, breathing hard, eyes blazing, as though he could burn them all from memory. But he could not. Their betrayal was etched into him deeper than blade or stone. It lived behind his ribs, gnawed at his marrow, whispered through the echoing dark that no kin should have chosen silence over truth, not with him, not with Bilbo. And in the deepest halls of his mind, the forge had already begun to roar.

Let them mourn his silence. Let them pace the stone floors in worry and whisper his name into cold walls that would never answer back. Let them choke on the clang of his forge, on the sound of steel screaming into shape, as it rang ceaselessly through corridors that once held laughter. Let them know what it is to hear a king weep not with tears, but with hammer strikes. They buried Bilbo Baggins in falsehood, but he will not be tricked by lies anymore. They shall feel and hear the consequence of their actions. 

Balin wants a king, fine, he will get a king. He would not speak to them more than needed. He will be withdrawn from them, just like his grandfather was. Let them believe Bilbo Baggins was never his One, and all he feels is nothing more than a passing frenzy. Let them believe they buried that one year inside the deepest mines, under the hardest minerals, so that it will never resurface again. 

When they would come to him, they would find only the hiss of quenching iron and the scent of fire-soaked sorrow. They would find his crown thrown to the ground, his royal garments burned and torn from the flames and anger. They would find him reborn, his bones holding together the mass of fury and grief, a cold beast. Not Thorin Oakenshield, not Irak’adad. 

Thorin the Second, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, the last rightful King under the Mountain. 

He will mourn Bilbo Baggins, his One, his only sunshine under the dark, murky mountain, as if he was truly dead.

Chapter Text

The sharp light of the moon fell on his bare skin as if small blades cut into his flesh, peaking out from the dirty clothes. As Bilbo turned away from the muddy pile of furniture, his face became even more hollow. Tauriel, seeing the tremor in his frame, stopped beside him and glanced over the scattered, laid out ruins of his life. Without a question asked, she gave Bilbo’s shoulder a tight squeeze, and got to work, pulling out the antique pieces of wood from the mud. 

“I will…” she said, her fingers tightening around a floral-patterned chair’s leg. “I will salvage what I am able to.” Even if her words reached Bilbo or not, she turned back to the pile and continued. Bilbo didn’t answer, he watched her for a few minutes, and shuffled towards the round, green door. 

Bag End stood tall in front of him, empty and strange as the silver moonlight shone on its opening. His eyes shifted to the bottom right, running along the carved, straight lines of Gandalf’s year-old rune. 

His last remaining will to restrain the looming power of the ring inside of him left him, splintering outward with the fall of a single tear. The rune stared back at him, as if mocking the mess he had become, and the change he went through, projecting the Shire’s reaction. It wasn’t fair.

Everything that had happened to him, the good, the bad, he promised to remember, was now twisted and churned inside of his liver, turning simple thoughts of Thorin and his friends into burning flames of grief. 

The door tore open before him, and with it, the world tilted.

Bag End stretched like a mouth opening wide. The familiar, gentle curves of the hallways fell in too long, the ceilings hung too low, the walls bent inward like ribs caving in over a wheezing lung. 

As he stepped over the threshold, his backpack’s straps began to slide off his shoulders. The world before him continued to shift around, like fallen leaves stirring around in the autumn wind. With an echoing thud the door, seemingly on its own, closed behind Bilbo, excluding the only form of light.  Fiery beatings of the ring echoed in his ears, making him unable to hear.  

Bilbo clenched his fists around his ears, but the sound only grew, bursting through his fingers like floodwater. His knees gave out beneath him, and he collapsed against the warped wood with a shuddering gasp. The sharp bang was harsh as his left knee struck the floorboards, bruising the bone.  He smacked his forehead against the wall in an attempt to silence the war inside of his skull, as if he could knock the voices out by brute force. The ring howled inside his waistcoat, for him to put it on. 

No, he cannot. He promised Gandalf.

But the banging didn’t stop. It formed into oxymoronic sentences, splitting his mind in two.

"Why didn’t you die with him?"
“You are not alone anymore.”
“Coward.”

A sob tore from him as he slid further down the wall, curling in on himself. In desperation, driven to fury by the rising flood of voices, he turned his grief on his flesh. His hands dropped to his thighs, and without thinking, without hesitation, he dug his fingernails in. Through the worn wool of his trousers, into the soft flesh beneath. He bit down on the inside of his cheek as small droplets of wine red patterned his trousers. The sting grounded him, just enough to remind him that he still had a body to punish for all he had done. 

“You should never have helped those dirty dwarves.”
"You left him when he needed you the most… You left us all."
"You are free now, he cannot tie you down.."

“No,” Bilbo rasped, barely above a whisper. But to him, everything sounded as if it was shouted directly into his ears, even his own words. “No, no, no…”

He drove his nails deeper. The burning feeling of veins scraped open wasn’t enough. The voices only grew louder. 

A canopy sang inside of him, mushed together, screaming about his failings. The ring's power pulsed with them, beating like a war drum against his ribs. The entire hall swam around him, walls bending inward, trying to crush him. 

"Master Baggins"

A new voice emerged, cutting through the others like an axe. It was deeper and undisturbed by any of the other voices. It was crystal clear, seemingly realistic. 

"He has been lost ever since we left.”

He jerked, striking the back of his skull against the wall with a rough thud. The sharp tang of iron filled his mouth, he’d bitten through the inside of his cheek. His vision began to swim around, twisting the already warping Bag End around his neck like a noose. Blood ran down his temple, hot and tickling, curling beneath his jaw like a lover’s touch.

He slowly rose and crawled inwards, where his backpack finally slid off his shoulders. He staggered into the foyer like a man dragged under, one hand trying to grip the walls for balance, blood still sliding down his face, sketching a river down. Bag End groaned around him, low and wet, like lungs filling with mud. He didn’t know why his feet had brought him here until his eyes lifted.

Bilbo Baggins, Master of Bag End, stood before the empty coat-hangers of his once-inviting home.

Empty. 

The five iron hooks stared back at him like a row of teeth, bare and stripped of what it was supposed to hold. Coats in all sizes and colours, clasps crusted with dirt, but they were gone. The twelve will never be held by his coat rack again, gone with the songs, the laughter, the fondness. Once twelve, but never again. One would always be missing. 

Bilbo reached out with his fingers towards the hooks, but as the cold metal brushed his skin, something in him buckled. He dropped to his knees so fast it jarred his spine, coughing as the taste of smoke flooded his mouth. His ribs spasmed as he coughed again, wet and hacking. Something thick and black spilled from between his lips like ink, running down his clothes, staining them and the floorboards along with it.

It kept coming, making him gag and heave under the sudden fit of warmth coming up his gullet. As if his body was trying to get rid of the Ring’s rot, but it was too deep now. It mixed with his bloodstream, filling up his veins with dark, oozing pus. Between coughs, he raised his hand, reached into his waistcoat, and curled his fingers around the gold band as if it was a dagger. 

To hell with Gandalf. To hell with the journey. To hell with it all. Let there be rot, blood, dark freezing poison.

The Ring slid onto his finger as if it had always belonged there.

The moment it kissed his skin, the air snapped. The world tore open like a wound. A soundless scream ripped through the smial curling inward on itself like burning paper. A blast of wind, salt-bitten and ancient, roared through the corridors. Bilbo staggered back as the floor cracked beneath his feet, splintering like bones under pressure. Through the rupture in the hallway, a new space festered into being. 

Ashy, power-reeking cliffside. Black-stone ran under his feet like acidic rain. Erebor’s jewels painted the sky grey, smoke curling from her jagged mouth like rot from a corpse too long left to the sun. The rampart was not like how he remembered, and as he stepped closer, the company came into view. 

Oh, no. 

As his eyes glanced over the twelve, he spotted Thorin, standing tall, broad-shouldered, looking into the horizon stretching out before him.

As he slowly got closer, he realised, who person he saw was no longer Thorin. It was no longer the dwarf he had fallen so deeply in love with. 

His crown has warped, the pointy apexes melted into his skull, forming horns of sulfur and gold. His face was carved in shadow, eyes ablaze with molten gold. They were slitted now, bestial and scary. 

His beard was now long, unkept, and frizzy. Soaked red with gore and masses of flesh. From the corners of his snarling mouth, blood leaked freely, dripping in long, syrupy trails down his chin, seeping into his royal attire. Bits of flesh clung to his teeth. Between them, caught like a deer under arrowsight, hung scraps of fabric. Dark wool, frayed brass buttons, strings of familiar blue stitching. His overcoat. 

Bilbo stopped, but he was too close to the beast now. Unlike Smaug, Thorin had already noticed him. 

But his eyes didn’t glisten with recognition, only yellow, burning rage. The yellow slits moved around frantically searching him, looking at him, hungrily. Betrayal circled in his veins, painted gold, making his skin look like a pot glued back together.

The wind screamed again, except it wasn’t wind. The sound sang as it was coming out of a throat too old, too scratched to talk anymore; it was only able to scream. Erebor, Her Majesty wasn’t singing anymore, she screamed of her betrayal. The Company behind Thorin didn’t move. They stood like statues carved of ash and marble, faces blurred, as if Bilbo’s memory could no longer shape them. Or perhaps the Ring no longer allowed him to. 

His hands twitched at his sides as Thorin turned to face him, so slowly, it looked as if the motion was sewn together from different paintings. 

“You have changed.” Bilbo’s mouth moved on its own as he stood rooted to the ground. He quickly clasped his hand over it, but to no avail. Thorin was now looking into his soul with fires burning up behind his twitching, slit irises. 

“Have I changed?” His voice was deep as it rumbled, slimy and sly. “How come you tell me who I am, thief?” Thorin moved towards him with measured steps. The lousy light flashed up on his armour, glistened on his claws as he got closer and closer. But Bilbo couldn’t move. Yavanna knows he tried, but his feet remained glued to the old, cracked stone. 

Thorin was so close to him now, each breath he took, Bilbo heard the rumbling in his chest, and felt the hot air he blew out of his nose.

“So tell me now, you miserable rat,” Thorin smirked. “Have I really changed? Or you just simply never saw me as who I truly am.” Before Bilbo could answer, Thorin moved and swiftly clasped his hands around his collar and lifted him. His toes scraped against the stone before losing contact entirely, legs kicking into the air. Thorin’s grip was unyielding, his claws digging under his dirty clothes into his skin, as he hoisted Bilbo up, like he weighed nothing. Bilbo’s arms, out of instinct, shot up, fingers scrambling at Thorin’s wrist and shoulders, but it was no use. “Answer me, burglar.” 

“I-I wish to believe I saw who you were.” Bilbo’s breath hitched as it tried to catch up with the sudden shift. His voice was weak, his eyes twitched between Thorin’s claws and eyes searching for a piece, a small chance that the dwarf he met in Bag End was still there, behind the scales. However, he was only met with coldness. “You are not the dwarf I followed through the wilderness.” Bilbo couldn’t look at him anymore. 

“I was,” His sentence was cut short as Thorin let go of him, letting Bilbo fall back to the ground with a loud thud. His hands immediately caught his throat, but still his eyes remained fixed on the walls of Erebor. He refused to look at that creature any longer. 

Thorin stood hovering above him, his claws back to his side, twitching. “Stand up.” Bilbo obliged, but his head didn’t turn back. “Finish your sentence.” Thorin hissed his words out like a snake, sounding just like Smaug did. 

“It’s no use.” Bilbo cut his answer short as his eyes wandered to the Company. “Words are meaningless.” He closed the conversation as his eyes stopped at the faces of Fíli and Kíli standing side by side in royal regalia, unmoving. 

“Yes, you are right.” Thorin smeared and reached forward again. He caught Bilbo by his throat and lifted him back up, forcing his head to look at him. As if he weighed nothing more than a feather, Thorin turned and moved towards the ledge, with Bilbo still hoisted up high. “Actions are what matter, and you stole from me.”

As they got to the ledge, Bilbo’s feet were dangling over the stretched-out darkness under him. He tried to wiggle himself out of the ironclad grasp but to no avail. No one moved around them; the only thing alive was the fierce anger lighting up Thorin. He didn’t say anything else, just stared at the hobbit in his grasp with hunger.

And then, just as Bilbo took one last look at Thorin’s morphed self, he let go. 

A scream tore from his chest, so loud it shook up the darkness he was falling into. The last thing he saw was something tearing out of his chest, casting rays of light into the darkness. 

With a loud thud, he hit his head against the paneling behind him. Bilbo’s ears were ringing as he tried to grasp the reality around him. Tauriel was in front of him, kneeling, her hands digging into his shoulders, trying to shake him awake. She was speaking, possibly shouting something, but Bilbo couldn’t hear it. 

His eyes focused on the golden band on his middle finger. He looked back up to Tauriel, and down back to the ring, wheezing and shaking. 

With a quick snatch, he tore the ring from his finger and chucked it far, towards the empty fireplace. The ringing in his ears immediately cut out, silence drenched over his mind, and only his rapid breaths filled up the atmosphere around them. Bilbo looked back at Tauriel, bringing his arms up and wrapping her in a tight hug.

“What happened, Bilbo?” Tauriel’s voice was calm and sweet as ever. “I came in as quick as I could when I heard you scream…. but I think you woke some neighbors up...” She plastered her face with a coy smile, eyeing Bilbo for an answer. 

“I…” he took a deep breath. “Where is the little raven? We need to get Gandalf.” 

“Can you stand up?” Bilbo nodded. “Fetch me a penna and some paper, please. I will get the raven inside.” 

They huddled around the kitchen table, Bilbo trying not to notice the little scratches left behind by some boots and knives. They laid the paper out, and while Bilbo held it down, he couldn’t find his paperweight, Tauriel wrote. 

Gandalf the Grey, 

Bilbo and I have arrived back at Bag End, however, we have run into something that neither of us has accounted for. Please answer this letter and send the raven back.
Hurry.
I fear we have made our luck run short.
Tauriel, daughter of the Woodland Realm

She didn’t even let the ink dry; she swiftly tied it to the claws of the little raven and instructed it. As soon as its dark feathers were no longer visible in the midnight sky, she turned her attention back to Bilbo, standing dumbfounded in front of the fireplace. 

He looked a bit better already than he did in the pale moonlight, but that empty, ever-consuming sadness didn’t leave his eyes. She stepped aside, towards the side door, and began bringing the furniture she had fished out of the mud inside. 

As the living room began to fill up with heirlooms and well-taken care of furniture, dirty with mud, a speck of life trickled back inside of Bilbo, as he took a sharp turn, and arrived back in the room with a rag and steaming hot water in his hands. 

They worked until the morning sun shone through the round windows, and until a large-ish crowd gathered in front of the main gate. By the time the auctioneer arrived, not a single belonging of his was outside, and Bag End was filled to the brim, once more. 

When the knocking came, Bilbo was just about to get up from his knees and lead Tauriel towards one of the guest rooms, to let her get some well-deserved rest. But before he could get up from his knees, Tauriel was at the door. 

“What may I assist you with?” Her voice was cold and demanding, her piercing eyes scanning the gathered crowd. 

“I.. uhm.. we -” the auctioneer babbled. “We were supposed to have an auction here today, you see the owner…”

“Master Baggins is perfectly fine and well, thank you for asking.”

“But, but miss-us…” 

“My name is none of your concern, halfling.” Half turned around, looking at Bilbo, saying sorry with her eyes. “Now, leave the estate grounds. Give Master Baggins peace.” With that, she smiled once more and closed the door in the face of the hobbit. 

“I am sorry, Bilbo, but I mustn’t let them see you like this. Please take care of your needs, I will keep watch for the raven.” Her tone changed completely, now she was back to the same, calm voice she used. 

“No… no Tauriel. Please, let me show you the guest room. You have done enough.” Bilbo looked at her with a half-smile and a face that didn't take no for an answer. “Just… please.” 

Tauriel turned around, her hand reached into her pocket and grabbed something circular. As she stepped in front of him, she pushed it into his hand and nodded. “Alright, your home, your rules. Show me around.” She laughed out with a fond look on her face. 

She followed Bilbo casually, but her eyes moved with purpose. As Bilbo led, she noted the exits without meaning to - two doors, three windows large enough to slip through, and a narrow pantry that might serve as a blind. Her hand brushed the hilt at her side unknowingly, but as Bilbo came to a halt before her, she moved it back immediately. 

“Here we are,” Bilbo pushed the door open and led Tauriel inside. He leaned on the doorframe, his hands gesturing for Tauriel to do as she wished. “Feel yourself at home, I will be in the kitchen if you need anything.” Without waiting for an answer, he closed the door behind him, leaving Tauriel to wind off.

The sun dipped over the horizon when the raven landed on the fence. Tauriel was possibly asleep, and Bilbo was just about to cut into freshly made bread. But as soon as his eyes landed on the little black circle, he pushed his meal aside and hurriedly brought it inside. 

Tied to its claw was a letter, not the one they had originally sent, but something freshly inked, on clean parchment. The wax seal broke easily under his thumb.

Dear Tauriel and Bilbo, 

I am not more than 3 days away from the Shire on foot.

Bilbo sighed. He needed to fetch Tauriel… but she had to rest. 

I shall be arriving not sooner or later, just when the moon shines upon the lake of the morrow. 

Bilbo wrinkled his nose. “I am glad he still has his humor, or whatever this means.”

The miracles of the dead still plague the world, I am afraid what you face is no small trick of fate. Until I arrive, it would be wise to keep the Ring far from either of you. Lock it away, and let it be forgotten for a little while longer.

Gandalf the Grey

 “What fate has to do with anything?” Bilbo stared at the letter for a minute or two, then turned around and hurried away to get Tauriel. 

Bilbo padded down the hallway, the letter clutched in his hands. He hesitated a moment outside of Tauriel’s door, but given that she was more than anxious when the raven would return, Bilbo guessed she wished to write to Kíli. He wasn’t stupid after all, just terribly tired. 

A knock echoed gently on the wooden panels. “Tauriel?” he called. “The little raven is back.” There was no sound at first, then a faint shuffle of feet. 

The door opened quickly as Tauriel appeared in the archway. Her face was composed, her hair was let loose, streaming down her shoulders. She looked as if she had slept for years. 

“The raven?” She repeated softly, as a familiar glint swept over her eyes. When Bilbo held up the letter, she gave a small nod. A smile sat on her face, but inside her heart was hammering. 

“I take you wish to send a letter?” Bilbo said with a small, knowing chuckle. How did he become so relaxed so quickly? Tauriel’s eyes looked over at him. He was still hollowed in; he looked even smaller, but something else was behind the facade. 

“Oh, yes. Thank you, Bilbo.” She gave another curt nod. “What did Gandalf write?”

“I shall be arriving not sooner or later, just when the moon shines upon the lake of the morrow.” He read aloud from the letter as they walked back to the kitchen. “Whatever it means. I guess that he will arrive tomorrow. We shall see.” 

With that, he placed the letter on the table and pushed the ink and penna towards Tauriel. “Tomorrow morning, I have to go to the market. My pantry, as you might have seen, is empty. And also…” 

He grabbed Tauriel's hand and pushed Kíli’s stone back into it. 

“He is strong. You should visit him, instead of going back to Mirkwood. Gandalf surely has a great excuse for you.” He smiled and shuffled away, towards the heart, pushed a log onto the crackling fire, settling into the least worn armchair facing the fire. Bilbo glanced forward at the other one as if he had seen a ghost. 

There it is, Tauriel thought, glancing at him.
But let us leave the questioning until Gandalf arrives.

And with that, she turned her attention to the parchment set out on the table before her.

Meleth bîn i-Oron, 

We arrived under the cover of night, on the twenty-fifth of January. I am well. Bilbo has given me the room where you and your brother once stayed.
Bilbo, however, is not doing well. The night we arrived back, his whole house was stripped bare, every piece of furniture was dragged outside into the mud. He went inside, while I tried to get everything in order outside. The only thing I heard was a blood-freezing scream.
Your Little Uncle was on his knees, curled upon himself, with blood flowing down his forehead.
Whatever the mountain of furniture had brought up, it broke him. He slipped on the Ring, but what he saw then, I do not know. But when I reached him, his lips murmured your uncle’s name.
He casted the Ring aside when his senses returned and has not touched it since.
Gandalf ought to arrive in two days' time, but I shall not depart with him.
Bilbo still wears the look of one haunted. Right now, he is just staring into an armchair as if he had seen a ghost. I simply cannot leave him.
In your last letter, you wrote about a festival and an escort back to Erebor. I shall wait until Master Bofur and Master Gloin’s arrival and depart with them. Do not worry, I will follow them to Erebor, but given the current situation within the mountain, I'd better use the secret passage, again…
Send this little one back to me as soon as you receive my letter, when we will ‘split up’ in Mirkwood, I shall send you one.
I worry for you, day and night, meleth nín. Despite all that stirs, I pray you are well.
Melin gin,
Tauriel

Tauriel set the finished letter aside with a small sigh, tying it carefully to the raven’s claw. The little bird gave a soft rustle, tilting its head aside, awaiting instructions.
“Secret passage again. Be careful, little one.” She whispered and patted it. She opened the oval window in the kitchen and watched as it launched into the cold night air, wings cutting through the dark. 

Inside, the fire crackled low, casting warm light in the living room. Bilbo’s curls hadn’t moved from the cushion. Tauriel glanced at him, small, silent, eyes fixed on the worn fabric across from him, the armchair that, for some reason, haunted him so badly. Ever since they restored the furniture, Bilbo never got close to it, even when they cleaned it. Tauriel had the pleasure of getting the mud out from between the carvings. 

Morning came, pale and thin, the sky stretching over the rolling hills. Bilbo did not stir when breakfast time came, he didn’t wake to go to the market. Tauriel quietly slipped on her cloak and walked the little path herself, gathering various fruits, vegetables, meat, and pastries from wary hobbit hands, her foreign presence setting the market whispers buzzing. She spoke little, returning to the round green door in a hurry. 

By the second day, the quiet had grown so heavy that even the walls seemed to groan under it. Bilbo sat in the same chair again, barely moving or speaking. Wrapped in a blanket, his eyes occasionally flickering between the fire and the armchair in front of him. Tauriel could feel the tension settling back onto him, like heavy rain seeping into the ground. 

That evening, just as the last light dipped over the green hills and shadows deepened across the Shire, a faint sound reached her ears. The clop of hooves on the path, slow but sure of their way.

She rose silently, stepping to the window. 

Bilbo stirred behind her, blinking heavily, confusion sitting out onto his hollow face. But before he could mutter a word, a firm knock echoed on the round door. 

Tauriel hurriedly crossed the room and pulled it open. 

There stood Gandalf, tall and weather-worn, staff in hand, the moonlight shining on his back.

“Well?” The wizard said with determination, a warm smile tugging his lips. “Shall you let me in, or must I stand here all night?”  

Chapter Text

Gandalf stepped inside, shaking the twigs and whatever the road dirtied his coat with, off. He glanced over Tauriel's shoulder, bidding a small, welcoming nod towards Bilbo. 

“Well now,” the wizard murmured, pulling off his cloak. “It’s been some time since I was under these roofs.” Bilbo audibly gulped in the living room. Tauriel, silent as ever, stood on the wizard's side, seemingly glancing over the whole situation as if nothing had happened before he entered. 

 She gave a nod, reaching out for his staff, but Gandalf waved her off gently.  “No need, I am still able to mind my own things.” He turned, reaching for the row of iron hooks fixed beside the doorway, casually slipping his cloak on one of the empty hooks.

Bilbo, still standing by the hearth, flinched again. His eyes flickered once, just once, toward the row of pegs, then dropped back to the floor. 

Gandalf let out a slow breath and turned towards Tauriel.
“Daughter of the Woods, would you see me to the kitchen?” he murmured, leaning in. “I feel we must do this sitting down.”
With that, the wizard moved, leading himself into the kitchen. 

The kitchen was warm, the air thick with something larger than the scent of bread and ash. The last embers of the fire cast flickers of dim light across the worn table. Gandalf slowly eased into a chair too small for his size. But just before he could turn towards Tauriel and continue with his presumptions, Bilbo appeared at the other end of the kitchen, as if he had warped out of thin air. His arms were wrapped tightly around himself as he suddenly moved towards the counters, his face like a frightened mouse. 

“Gandalf!” Bilbo wheezed out, between two trembling breaths. “I will make tea. Or-or perhaps you’d rather something stronger? Given that you have arrived so quickly, I am sure you haven’t rested for a while… I have some pastries left, if Tauriel hadn’t eaten them… Oh, where could they be?”
He bent over the cabinet, then immediately closed it again and moved on to another. His hands were trembling.

“Ah! Tea, tea,” he slammed shut another cabinet, “here it is! Good hobbit stock hah,...!” his laugh cracked sharply, high and unreal, “Tauriel, you’ll want some too, right? Don’t even move, let me handle this… And some for you too, right, Gandalf?” 

Bilbo’s ritualistic tea-making fell apart, his hands darting hastily, switching frantically between tasks. He spun towards the lit stove, hitting his hips into the side of the cupboard. Water sloshed over the edge of the kettle as he filled it too quickly, splashing onto his wrist. “Ow- no, no it’s fine, it’s alrighty- I’ll just…” He jammed the kettle onto the hook, his breath picking up in pace, as he shook the water drops off his hand. 

“Bilbo.” Gandalf said softly, but he didn’t even register that he was being spoken to. 

He bolted towards the pantry, his words tumbling behind him like loose stones. “Biscuits. We have biscuits... right? Or, or maybe jam! The scones must be rock hard now - Tauriel, where have you put those,... Oh, here they are! Oh, wait, no. This damn weather, making my scones… our scones! All moldy. The weather’s been awful, hasn’t it, ha, hah, I should really fix that roof, the rain’s been coming in near the eaves -”

Gandalf’s brows furrowed as he glanced over to Tauriel. “Bilbo.” No answer.
Tauriel, moving quietly, pulled out three sets of teacups and set them on the table. Her eyes flickered over to the wizard.
“Thank you for your swift arrival, Gandalf the Grey.” She whispered, nodding her head in appreciation. “Bilbo barely moved in two days. He just sat and watched the same armchair, as if it were a ghost.” She sat down beside him, looking concerningly at the pot.

“Bilbo..?” Gandalf asked again, and when no answer came, turned his head towards the elf sitting on his left. “Which armchair?”

Tauriel gently pointed at the worn, patterned armchair facing the crackling hearth. A sad smile sat on Gandalf’s face. “How much do you know, friend?”

“Well, Kíli hasn’t told me much, I mean the depths of it… The company is extremely secretive when it comes to those days.” A rather frantic laugh rippled through the smial. They both turned towards the source, only to find Bilbo standing under the archway, out of breath. 

He stumbled back to the kitchen, a few scones and biscuits falling out of his grip. “Oh, - oh, no, that’s fine, it’s alright - I’ll get them - they are half good anyway, haha, so tell us, Gandalf! You’ve come such a long way, we mustn’t keep you up for so long.. and the furniture’s all fixed now, did you see? Did you notice? We…We-we even scrubbed the mud out of the carpets, it’s-it’s all fine now, everything’s fine-”

“Bilbo Baggins.” He squeaked as the wizard's hands came down on the table with a sharp thud. “Sit down, dear fellow.”

The room seemed even dimmer, the shadows curled tightly around the wizard's silhouette. His eyes met Bilbo’s, no longer kind and patient. “Enough, now.”

Bilbo’s heart was beating in his throat as he slowly let the pastries fall out of his hands onto the table. He sat down opposite them, wringing his hands. 

Gandalf leaned forward, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “Bilbo, what happened inside the mountain?”

Bilbo sat stiffly, wringing his hands so tightly the knuckles gleamed white. His breath came fast and shallow.
“There’s no point, really, Gandalf,” he babbled, words tightening his throat together. “What’s done is done, isn’t it? It-it’s all behind us, now… all wrapped up nicely, let's pour a veil over it…, hahh.” Gandalf’s eyes stayed fixed on him, calm and heavy.

Bilbo’s knee bounced under the table, his fingers twisting the edge of the napkin.

“I-I mean, what is left to say…” He wheezed. “He is gon…e” Bilbo couldn’t finish, voice failing him before he could squeeze the name out. 

“My friend.” Gandalf's voice was soft, but determined. 

Bilbo flinched, glancing over to Tauriel. She met his eyes as her face was overshadowed by worry. Slowly, deliberately, she reached across the table and laid her hand gently over his.
“Let us help you and ease whatever is oppressing your mind.” She said, squeezing Bilbo’s hands. Bilbo’s breath hitched sharply. His hands trembled under hers.

“I-I don’t know what you mean, I-I’m fine, I’m perfectly fine, why wouldn’t I be, it’s all, it’s all over now, done-” 

Gandalf swiftly stood up from the table. “Come, let us discuss this more comfortably.” Bilbo jerked up suddenly, pushing back from the table. “I should check the kettle.”

“No,” Gandalf gently shook his head. “Go sit down in the living room with Tauriel, I will bring over the tea.” The command was final, Bilbo simply couldn’t oppose, and let himself be led. As they reached the sofas, he froze. 

“I, let me get you a-” 

“No, I know where you keep the spare. Sit down, please?” Tauriel shoved him into the worm armchair and swiftly put a blanket over him. She hurried away towards the spare rooms, looking for a chair. Bilbo sat still as stone, when Gandalf brought the tea and sat down opposite him, glancing at his pale face. Tauriel pulled a smaller, padded chair between them, facing the hearth. 

“So much better.” Gandalf leaned closer, his voice lowering to a hush. Bilbo sank back further into the chair, his chest heaving, his figure trembling. 

Tauriel faced him, speaking softly as if she were talking to a youngling. “Kíli told me about a few things…” she sighed, leaning back into her chair. “But, the armchair, Bilbo, what is wrong with it?” 

“They sat just like… like us..” Bilbo looked back up, his eyes darting frantically between the wizard and the elf. “Tho- Master Oakenshield and Gandalf - before we… the night before we left. He sat in this chair.” Tauriel just nodded and pulled out Kíli’s stone from her pocket, fidgeting with it. 

“Bilbo, my dear fellow, tell us, what happened before the rampart?” Gandalf’s gaze stayed steady. “You are safe here.”

Bilbo’s arms wrapped tightly around himself, head bent into the blanket covering him, shoulders shaking. His breath rasped shallow, uneven, as if he was trying to swallow every sound, every memory, back down into his chest.

“Safe? Safe… I thought I was safe there, too. By his side. He was supposed to keep all of us safe.” He spat, the words sharply cut through the air. 

“By his side. I thought-if I stayed, if I followed his orders, maybe I could help… All I wanted was to help…” His fingers twisted in the blanket until the fabric strained. “He ordered me there. By his side. Always by his side.”
His voice cracked. “He said nothing for days. Just… watched me. Every sound I made felt wrong, every silence worse. The air in that hall was thick, like walking through water. If I looked away, he noticed. If I tried to leave, his voice stopped me before I reached the door.”

Bilbo swallowed hard, his breath beginning to shudder. “It was like being buried alive. I told myself it was only his fear, his sickness.. that he is still in there.. somewhere.”

“I thought if I stayed, I could help… but I wasn’t enough.”

Tauriel leaned closer, resting her hand on Bilbo’s pulled-up knees. Her eyes were wide with shock, but her face stayed warm. “Bilbo…” But the other didn’t hear her. 

“He wouldn’t let me speak to them. Dwalin tried once, but he-he got so angry. He-he pulled me back, held my wrist so tight…” Bilbo choked on a sharp gasp, his hand flying up instinctively to cover his mouth. His face became even paler as he shook his head. “But… it isn’t his fault, he wasn’t himself. He was- he was sick…” His voice died down, but his eyes remained out of focus, deadpanning at the bookshelf next to Gandalf. 

The wizard just listened to him, and when Bilbo stopped, he pulled his chair closer, pulled Bilbo’s hands out of the blanket, and squeezed them, not letting go. “Listen to me now, and listen well. No one will ever blame you for mistakes that were not yours to commit. You must tell us the truth.”

Bilbo let out a soft, desperate whimper as he shook his head. “No, I… I don’t want to remember it- I can’t..” 

“You must. I have spent the time since you descended from that rampart, worrying for you. Let us help. We will never tell anyone, right Tauriel?” He turned over and smiled at the elf. 

“No, no one will ever get a word out of me. Not even Kíli.” She nodded her head. 

Bilbo’s chest hitched once, twice, his eyes still peering far away. “Yes… Alright, okay.” He whispered. “I will tell you.”

He leaned back into the cushion taking deep breaths until his shaking subsided. With a newly earned fake calmness he began talking as if he was simply telling a story to the younglings. 

“Everything was okay for a few days…” He spoke slowly, his panicked breathing settling word by word. “After Bard shot down Smaug, we celebrated modestly, of course, but everyone seemed happy. Brothers were dancing around, we told stories, laughed, and… Master Oakenshield even smiled. But as the days passed over our heads, he became more and more obsessed with finding the Arkenstone. I debated it so many times, I wanted to give it to him, but I felt uneasy each time he looked over to me.”

“A week passed since the death of the dragon, when he started acting… oh, how must I say… weirdly regarding me. As the others searched day and night for that blasted stone…he ordered me to stay by his side in the throne room. Always. He didn’t speak to me, barely even looked at me, but whenever Balin or Dwalin came in, he tensed. His shoulders stiffened, his hand clenched around the hilt at his side. Like I was something he had to guard, or keep, or… I don’t know.”

“This went on for like a week, then worsened. Not only was I not allowed to leave his side, but when he caught Dwalin trying to talk to me, he grew furious. Truly furious. He grabbed me by my wrist so hard it bruised, his gold rings imprinting me. He dragged me…dragged me.., slammed the doors behind us so hard they echoed down the halls. I tried to speak, I tried to ask why, but he didn’t care… as if I were talking to a piece of stone. He yanked me towards the carved and decorated… the-the what is it called?” Bilbo paused and thought for a second.

“The courtroom, yes. We don’t have anything like it here in the Shire. It was cold and empty. His voice… it echoed. Calling me, things. Accused me of betrayal, of meddling, saying Dwalin tried taking what was his. He… he spoke about me as if I wasn’t even a person. Like I was just another piece of mineral, another scrap of gold in the hoard. I wasn’t allowed to speak, wasn’t allowed to leave. For days, I sat there. By his throne. By his side. With him. Only him…” Bilbo’s face tightened, and his voice began to tremble.

“I did as I was told. I just existed beside his throne.”

“After Bard showed up asking for aid, I decided not to return to the room and instead I tried to-… I thought maybe if I helped, if I did something, he’d regain his senses. I only tried to help…” Tears began rolling down his cheeks. 

“I went down to the treasury with Bofur and Ori to help them look for the stone, but as I tagged along, everyone else became uneasy, the atmosphere darkened around us, but at least they finally spoke to me… well, Bofur did. Ori just looked at me with the same sadness that filled his eyes ever since the incident with Dwalin… I gave up after an hour or two and went on my way back to the courtroom. I sat on the steps with my notebook. I was happy, for a moment, just happy that I’d spoken to someone. That I wasn’t sitting in silence. I didn’t hear the footsteps. I didn’t hear the door. I just looked up, and there he was, rushing in, his face twisted in fury.”

Bilbo’s voice thinned to a whisper.
“When he asked me what I was doing, I thought he was joking. I… I laughed. I laughed right at him.”

“I laughed and told him I just wanted to do something finally, not just sitting around. He-He didn’t comment on it, well not with words at least… He came towards me, and just as I closed my notebook, he pulled me up by my collar-” Bilbo took one more shaky breath. “He yanked me up…, his grip crushed the breath out of my chest. I didn’t even see his fist coming. He hit me so hard my nose burst. Blood trickled and painted my clothes red. But it wasn’t enough, I had to pay. He started shouting, dangling me in the air like a piece of gold chain..” His voice cracked again, sounding smaller, more fragile. “I felt like a deer hanged to drain it’s blood.”

 “I don’t know how I got to Óin, I can’t remember what I did…I…I just didn’t try to help after that.”

“Whatever happened after that day changed him. He stayed distant, but still, his eyes were looking at me every time we were in the same airspace. Everyone kept their distance from me, I felt so lonely… I was lonely. I wandered around Erebor every day, and I thought about giving the Arkenstone to Tho- Master Oakenshield again… I thought he would talk to me again… but just as he came up to me before Thranduil and Bard showed up, I changed my mind.” Their eyes met in the dim firelight, heavy with unspoken worries.

“When I showed him the acorn I picked up at Beorn's garden, I saw, just for a second, the dwarf I…there is no use circling around it now, right?” He chuckled nervously. “I loved so much… I thought there was a chance, for me, for us to pull him out of the sickness…but as Dwalin came and called him away, the same obsession sat back onto his face… I decided right there that I would never give him the Arkenstone; it would just worsen everything.” 

“After Thranduil came, every memory of mine is blurry, and I…I do not wish to talk about the rampart.”  Bilbo’s voice cracked with a finishing sob as tiredness overtook him. His shoulders sagged deeply, and his head tipped forward, as if even holding it upright had become too heavy.

Across the firelight, Gandalf sat perfectly still, his eyes shadowed and thoughtful. He took in a slow, measured breath. “You have said enough for us, my friend. Thank you.” Tauriel’s brows furrowed as her mind ran circles around names and details Kíli had left out, around truths Bilbo would never speak. 

Bilbo let out a weak, broken laugh that sounded like an exhale. “It’s not enough,” he murmured, tears glistening in his eyes. “But, it’s all I can say… He was sick, not himself…” His body sank deeper into the cushion, still pale, fragile, and thin. 

Tauriel met Gandalf’s eyes across the small circle, her own filled with unspoken questions. Gandalf gave the faintest shake of his head; now was not the time.

The wizard's gaze shifted, his eyes sweeping through the room, darting from furniture to door, glossing over the far side of the living room. 

To the study door. To the chest beyond it. To the pulling presence that transcended over the smial, tucked into a small, family heirloom. 

Bilbo’s body stiffened as he followed the glance. For a heartbeat, not one of them spoke, letting the horrors sink into the floorboards.

Then Bilbo pushed himself up, almost on instinct, almost as if trying to escape his skin. He stumbled forward, blanket falling off his shoulders, his breath sharp and ragged. His steps were slow, dragging, his hands trembling faintly as he reached the study.

Gandalf half-rose, but Tauriel gently touched his arm, whispering. “Let him.”

Moments later, Bilbo returned. His hands clutched a small, carved wooden box, holding it at arm’s length as if it might bite. His face was even paler, and the warm light did no justice to the dark circles carved under it, like valleys carved by water. 

Without a word, he thrust the wooden box into Gandalf’s chest.
“Take it,” he rasped, his fingers trembling around the box. “It was my mother's jewelry box… I cannot look at it. Take it far away. I can’t- I can’t see that vision again…” 

Gandalf’s face softened in quiet sorrow as he reached to his chest, wrapping his long fingers gently around the box. He felt the faint pull, creeping out between the polished fibers.

“I will see to it. It shall never bother you again, Bilbo.” Swiftly, he put the box into one of his many pockets. 

Bilbo exhaled shakily, nodding a silent thank-you. His hands clutched at the sofa’s backrest as his legs finally gave out, boneless with exhaustion. Tauriel moved quickly, guiding him gently towards his room. As Bilbo dropped onto his mattress and rolled over, falling into sleep the moment his head hit the pillow, she lingered a while, watching. Finally, with a soft sigh, she pulled the door quietly shut.

Tauriel eased back into the living room, settling into Bilbo’s chair, facing the wizard. She picked up the cooling cup of tea from the side table, taking a slow, thoughtful sip. The room was dim and hushed, the fire’s glow flickering softly against the walls. Across from her, Gandalf sat still, his sharp eyes resting quietly on her. Tauriel set the cup down gently, folding her hands in her lap.

“Did you truly not know, Mithrandir?” she asked, her voice low and steady.

“No, I did not.” Gandalf let out a long sigh. “I feared the sickness, and I knew what it had done with his ancestors, yes, but this? His own heartsing..?”

Before he could continue, Tauriel cut him in half. “You know?”

“I have eyes, dear child.” He smiled, but it hadn’t reached his eyes. “But Bilbo has no idea he survived, why?” 

“Balin.” Tauriel’s voice darkened. “Bilbo ran from Erebor in panic, Dwalin went after him late, the soldiers couldn’t reach him. When our scouts found him passed out near the castle grounds, he looked like he hadn’t stopped for days. Bilbo has no idea he survived. And the King was told that Bilbo was lost to the battle when he woke.
All because Master Balin thought it would prevent the madness coming back. And now the entire company is lying to the king, even his nephews. Whoever we encountered had to lie to Bilbo, I had to lie to him.” She shook her head sharply. “And now Master Balin is planning a celebration. Instead of telling the truth, he plans to resolve it with plain, old confrontation.” 

“It will not end well.” The wizard agreed. “We will need answers. What do you know about the celebration?”

“It officially will be for the Reclaiming of Erebor. Master Bofur and Master Gloin will be the ones escorting Bilbo back to the mountain. I sent a letter to Kíli yesterday, but it will take at least two weeks for his answer to reach us. The king ordered a security lockdown over the whole kingdom.” 

“Is it that bad?” 

“Yes. According to Kíli, he barely leaves his forge, day and night, all they hear is the clanking of metal. He doesn’t talk to them, only to Dain and his soldiers.” 

Gandalf nodded. “Balin, you were always the clever one.” The wizard sighed, rubbing his brow. “I cannot wait here idly. As you get the reply, send the little one my way. I am guessing you will be following them till Mirkwood?” 

“To Erebor.” Tauriel corrected the wizard and shot him a smile. “If they truly arrive within weeks, he will not be ready for such a long journey. And I promised to see him to safety.” 

“I am sure of it. Now, one last thing before I go on, how badly did it affect him?” 

“His state worsened as we left Beorn’s, it is hard to tell what caused what...Until then, just a few murmurs here and there, missing time. But Bilbo had a breakdown as we stepped over the flower field. He cried and whispered in his sleep. As we progressed on, he became more and more hollow, and as we edged closer to Rivendell, he started to murmur in Khuzdul..” She explained. “It was bad, the ring burned his torso, leaving marks and bruises alongside it. Whenever he found the strength to break free from it, his mind was clouded by the One’s pull. It felt as if I were dragging a corpse around. He didn’t sleep, only tossed and turned. He truly forgave the king, yet he is tormented by loss.” She pressed herself into the cushion, awaiting the wizard's answer. 

Gandalf’s eyes stilled, and looked at her in awe. “Bilbo spoke in Khuzdul? Are you sure of it?”

“I am more than certain. I have recognized a few words.” She said with certainty, arching her eyebrows. “Why? Bilbo was around dwarves for more than a year, I am sure he could’ve picked up a few words.” 

Gandalf shook his head firmly. “No, outsiders cannot speak or even learn a single word in Khuzdul without permission. Dwarfs and their secrecy…” he waved his hand dismissively. “Balin dug us a deeper hole than the mines of Erebor. Have you told this to Kíli?” 

“Wait, wait. It doesn’t have anything to do with the Ring?” 

“No, now answer my question.” Gandalf looked at her sharply, speaking with simple directness. 

“No, I have not, but,” Before she could finish, the wizard moved, leaning as close to her as proprietary allowed, whispering. 

“The letter you shall receive will not bear good news. Whatever had happened, their bond had become embedded with mithril, and if Bilbo had really spoken Khuzdul… I fear the King is suffering the same, if not worse, torments than our friend.” He declared dryly and pulled back into his armchair. Tauriel’s breath caught. She had no words to say.

“I will most likely be close to Rivendell by the time you receive it.” Gandalf said after a while, letting the slowly dying amber paint his tone. “Send your answer to me, the same day. With luck, I will be able to reach Erebor before Bofur and Master Glóin start their journey; if not, I might be able to intercept them.” 

Tauriel’s nails dug into her palm as she searched for an answer. “I will do as you wish Mithrandir.” 

“Thank you. It is their fate I fear for. One wrong move and we might have another rampart on our hands.” The wizard offered a sad smile as he got up from the chair. “You-” his words were bitten off by a sharp screech emitting from Bilbo’s room.  

“This is my quote to leave. May the flowers blossom in your way, Daughter of the Woods.” Gandalf moved quickly to the door and, in the blink of an eye, was already closing the round wood behind him. Tauriel bid farewell to the wizard, exhaled once, steadying herself, and moved quietly toward the bedroom door.

As she pushed the door open, cold air hit her face. Her eyes darted to the crackling fire and then back to the bed. Bilbo was visibly shaking between the sheets, tangled around him, panting. His face was still pale, deprived of all life, lips parted as he tried to squeeze air into his lungs, eyes shut tight, his bouncy curls laying flat on his forehead, soaked with sweat. 

Tauriel’s pulse tightened. She crossed the room with two swift steps, crouching beside the bedframe. 

“Bilbo,” she whispered sharply, fingers pressing into his shoulders. No response. His fists clenched the sheets tighter, his knuckles whitening. His breath broke quicker, bearing a name or a half-word, Tauriel couldn’t decipher. 

“Bilbo!” Her voice cut sharper now, as she began shaking Bilbo awake. He jolted up, hitting his forehead into one of Tauriel's arms. His eyes bore no recognition, only pure, primal panic. 

“Shh,” Tauriel patted his back with her free arm, forcing Bilbo into a half-hug. “You are home, nothing to worry about.” 

For a moment, he simply shuddered, fists tangled in the sheets, then, at last, his gaze sharpened, breath slowing. He sagged like a bag of potatoes in her hands, and as minutes passed, Bilbo was lightly snoring. 

Tauriel let go and gently placed him back between the pillows. She stayed a heartbeat longer, watching the shadows tremble at the edge of the room, before slowly rising. She easily untangled his limbs from the sheets and draped them over him. 

Tauriel let out a sigh as she left the door slightly open behind her. It wasn’t over with Gandalf taking the Ring. 

Inside, Bilbo stirred faintly under the covers, a soft exhale slipping from his lips. His fingers twitched against the pillow, brows drawing together in restless tension. Sleep pulled him inside its grasp again, sliding its claws against his back.  

In the dimming warmth, Bilbo’s breath slowed, the world around him sinking away.
Darkness lapped at the edges of his mind.

And then,
As Bilbo blinked his eyes open, rough sunlight shone right into them. 

He was standing in an endless wheat field. Wheateras lightly danced around in the wind, stroking his skin like a gentle mother. As his eyes got used to the beaming light, he glanced around the field, spotting a silhouette in the distance. 

Out of instinct, he stepped. He could move. He opened his mouth, and he could shout. 

Bilbo picked up his pace and ran towards the silhouette, passing between the wheat like a deer pacing around a creek. As he got closer and closer, the silhouette sharpened.

“Thorin!” Bilbo screamed as he got within earshot. “Thorin!” The dwarf turned around with a beaming smile on his face, his arms caressing the wheat. 

“Amrálimé…How are you-” Thorin’s sentence was stopped midway, when the hobbit landed on his chest, pulling him in a tight hug. Thorin’s breath hitched softly as Bilbo crashed into him, his strong arms wrapping around the hobbit without hesitation. Bilbo buried his face into Thorin’s chest, his hands clutching at the rough tunic as if anchoring himself to something solid.  Solid. 

Bilbo’s ears perked up, listening to the loud throbbing in Thorin’s chest.  Alive.

He pulled his hands back, running them up and down, touching the dwarf's face, arms, and hair, focusing on the speeding heartbeat. 

“You...Are you? It doesn’t matter.” Bilbo whispered as he tied his hands back around Thorin's back. “Just let me stay like this, for a little bit… a little,” A quiet sob cut his words, forcing them back down his throat. 

“Anything you wish.” Thorin’s voice rumbled as he pulled Bilbo close, burying his chin into his curls. Thorin’s arms tightened around him, no royal weight, no battle-calloused pride, just the dwarf who sat and hummed quietly in his armchair. 

The sun shone, the wheat around them swayed with the wind as they stood still, seemingly forever embedded in the moment. 

“You know how much I longed to do this again?” Bilbo murmured into the rough fabric stained with his tears. Thorin nodded, pulling from Bilbo to look him in the eye. 

His icy blue eyes pierced him with warmth; all the possessiveness, the gold veins, the anger, and the duty were missing. Thorin stood before him, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I hoped,” He murmured, voice low and velvety. “I have caused you so much harm, I cannot understand you.”

“You were sick, Thorin, not yourself, though I might never forget, I have already forgiven you.” Bilbo declared, with a voice so firm, it even surprised him. 

“My aubade…” Thorin sighed. “I cannot recall all my memories, but you cannot let this slide so easily. It still frightens you, I felt it. I can only wish for your forgiveness.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Thorin…you are-” Bilbo stopped mid-sentence to focus on his dwarf's heartbeat. “I do not wish to mope around about the past.” He smiled and didn’t let his hands drop. “Just, stay?” It didn’t matter if it was a dream, he could feel, smell, and see everything as if it were real.

“I do not wish to leave.” Thorin squeezed Bilbo closer. He just smiled into the metal-scented tunic, breathing in the scent of smoke and pine trees. The world was golden, the wheat, the sky, the skin under his palms. For the first time in weeks, there was no weight, no ache. Only them.

But something shifted.

The breeze that had once carried warmth now turned sharp, slicing through the stalks like a knife. The scent of sunlight faded, replaced by something colder, older. A ringing in the air. A sound like steel on stone.

Thorin shuddered against him. His breath hitched not with peace, but with dread.

“Thorin?” Bilbo whispered, tilting his head up.

The dwarf’s eyes were still on him, but they were glassy as if already looking far away. “It’s pulling back again,” Thorin murmured, voice thin. “It never lasts, Ghivashel. I get to see you, and then I wake alone again.”

Bilbo’s hands flew to his face, his chest. “No, no, don’t say that. You’re here, I’m here. Please just… just for a little while…”

Thorin cupped his cheek, thumb tracing the tear that hadn’t even fallen yet. “You feel alive. You are alive. Mahal help me, I can feel you like fire in my bones.” The wind howled, slicing between them like an ancient sword. 

“I miss you,” Thorin said softly as if he wasn’t allowed to speak. “I miss you so much, I forget how to breathe.”

Bilbo reached for him again, holding onto the fabric so strongly, his knuckles began to whiten. “I cannot… no, no, no I can’t lose you, not again…” 

Thorin leaned in, placing a kiss between his curls. His voice trembled, barely more than a breath. “You are the only warmth I know in the dark.”

The golden light around them thinned, pulled back from the edges of the wheat field, draining away as though the world itself was receding. The wheat turned grey and moldy, wasting away as mere corpses of the light. 

Bilbo’s hands tightened in Thorin’s tunic, but the fabric was softening beneath his grip, losing weight, losing form. The arms around him trembled, then began to fade.

“Don’t go,” he whispered. “I cannot, please…” 

Thorin’s fingers brushed his cheek, slow with sorrow. “I’ll find you,” he said, voice already unraveling in the wind. “No matter how far. Even if it takes all I have.”

His voice curled away with the wind as the dream collapsed in on itself, tearing each atom away from Bilbo’s grasp one by one. He was gone. 

The field disappeared grain by grain. The wind fell silent until the only thing that remained was pain. 

Bilbo shot up and immediately regretted it. A dull throb bloomed at the base of his skull, his throat felt raw, his skin was sticky with sweat. The room around him was dim, the hearth newly stacked and smoldering low, casting long, familiar shadows against the round walls. On his nightstand sat a pitcher of water and a bowl of fruit awaiting his awakening.  

He stirred and slowly climbed out of his bed, leaving the warmth behind just enough to ease his thirst. He lifted the pitcher, knocking the cup slightly as he poured. His hands shook, spilling a few drops onto the blanket. He drank greedily, the relief unsatisfying. 

His temple was still pulsing, each throb sending a shockwave down his spine. Stillness stretched around him, everything fell silent and unmoving. His fingers curled into the blanket, gripping the folds. His chest ached with something deeper than thirst, something new but not fresh, longed in his soul. 

Everything about that dream felt real, so real. The voice, the touch, the skin. Thorin felt real. As if he were standing in front of him, alive and well. 

I’ll find you, he said, and it sounded so determined as if he could still move and decide. But dreams lie, speak in riddles, they make you remember things you wish to forget.

But what if they didn’t lie this time? 

Bilbo closed his eyes, trying to ease the tremble starting to spread through his limbs. 

No, he better not entertain that idea. Thorin is dead, and he ran from him, leaving him to be buried alone. This is his punishment.

He pressed his eyelids harshly together, his lips quivered. 

Before he could open them, a firm knock echoed in the room, startling him. 

“Bilbo? Are you awake?” He sighed as his eyes snapped open, but he didn’t move.

“Yes, I am…” 

“May I come in?” 

“Please do, Tauriel.” 

“Something happened?” The elf pushed the door open with a swift move, looking as refreshed as ever. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she stepped closer to the bed frame. 

“No…yes-” Bilbo sighed. “I dreamt of him, but it wasn’t like before. Not at all…” His eyes wandered around, seemingly lost in thought. 

Tauriel sat down on the edge of the bed, eyeing him. 

“A memory again?” 

“No, I- I don’t know.” He whispered. “A ghost or a moment, but more of a punishment. But it felt real as if he was right there… alive.” 

“I am sorry.” She reached forward and took the empty cup from his hand. “Gandalf left already, you have been asleep for four days…”
A gentle smile curled from her lips. “I do not like to play the waiting game alone.” She stood up. “Come on, you must be hungry.” She helped Bilbo out of his bed and pulled him towards the kitchen. 

The next days passed slowly, like mist dragging through the fields.
Bilbo drifted between long silences and soft recoveries, rarely straying far from the hearth. He spoke little but ate when asked, walked when guided. Sleep came and went in fits, but no more dreams haunted him.
Tauriel spent her evenings by the round window, eyes often turning to the sky.
Seven days passed since Bilbo’s initial awake, quiet and thick with waiting.

Then, one morning, just after dawn, a raven circled low over Bag End, wings taut with distance, claws curled around a sealed scrap of parchment.

Bilbo was still asleep then Tauriel tore the window up in excitement, waving for the little bird to get inside. The letter was tied strongly to its claws, bearing the crest of Durin. 

Tauriel's fingers easily broke the wax seal, as she folded it open, falling into a chair in the living room. 

Zirizkhîê,
I am glad to read that you are doing well, despite the task I drenched over you. Thank you for taking care of Irak'adadith.
Things under the mountain became even more hectic regarding Irak’adad’s state, but it's nothing I didn’t understand based on your letter.
He hasn’t been sleeping for days, only walked around the castle aimlessly, looking like he is half delirious. His eyes are empty, he cut a lock of his hair in anger. It means no good. Oh, Armal. He met Bilbo in his dreams just a mere hour ago, and awoke with a loud scream. He has been down in the forge ever since he woke.
However, I do have some happy news to share. We have finally figured out a way to try to lessen the damage done by Balin!
Well, to be specific, Dwalin straight up had enough of Uncle’s brooding and I think it will be soon when he breaks the truth to him. I have talked with him after yesterday's council meeting, and he is growing more and more irritated, especially with the way Uncle acts with us. He had a few ideas on how we should deal with Balin, but as Dwalin said, it’s not only his responsibility to ‘blow sense’ into his brother's mind.
Balin has been adamant to focus the council on the celebration as soon as the front gates have been rebuilt. The work is coming to an end, and when I talked with Bofur, he said that they have been ordered to be ready to get going any day now.
However, I had to close our chats short, because of Balin’s sudden appearance. I think he is onto our little plan, but like I care. If he won’t face his mistakes, then we’ll have to solve them for him.
Our trouble-solving team now consists of Nori, Fíli, Dwalin, Bofur and Ori. I have told them of you following the escort back to Erebor, and Nori promised to help you to get in easier.
I worry what the meeting will bring, but I am hopeful that we will succeed. How hard can it be?
I, sadly, cannot tell you more about Irak'adad, he hasn’t talked to me in days, he hardly does anything besides clanking in his forge and sitting silently in council meetings. All I can confirm is that we are more than sure that their bond is strong, but how strong I have no clue.
Be safe, I am sending another letter with Bofur.
Melin tye, sincë melda nín; nályë er haryala i nárë ninyallo calima.
Kíli

Tauriel read the letter twice before folding it slowly in her lap, her fingers lingering on the parchment. ‘He met Bilbo in his dreams just a few hours ago.’ Her breath hitched.

It had been real.

Not a long repressed memory, not grief trying to worsen the pain.
The One’s bond made them share a dream. 

She turned her gaze toward the hallway, where the door to Bilbo’s room stood cracked open. He was still asleep. Curled small beneath the blankets, his face soft in the fading light. She couldn’t bring herself to wake him. Not now. She still had to figure out how to lie about this. 

The escort might have already left, and even if Gandalf is able to get to Erebor, the wizard would definitely miss the ones on the road.
They shared a dream, Bilbo spoke in Khuzdul.
It was no simple bond. 

They cannot keep dancing around the truth forever.