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Chapter Text

A pair of wide, curious eyes peeks at him from behind the threadbare curtains. The white fabric flutters in an icy draft that sneaks past the wooden window frame, and this is not the first time Bilbo noticed his observer. Though then he dismissed them as something conjured up by his feverish mind. Even now, he sees shadows dancing across the floor as the light shifts and dwindles, and the air smells of ash and winter.

The weeks spent sneaking through Thranduil’s dungeons have left Bilbo exhausted and emaciated both in body and mind. The escape brought on a rattling cough, fever and nightmares. Whispers in the back of his mind, strange echoes in the corridors and a cold that has sunk deep into his bones. Now he’s laid up, sick and delirious, and he still can hear the voices, still sees the shadows of elves moving in the corner of his room.

But they always vanish when he tries to focus.

Today he feels a little better. Still dizzy and weak, but at least he’s awake and aware. And so he realizes that the little boy watching him from behind the curtain is no hallucination. Not a hallucination, then, but something seems off about him.

The child cannot be much older than ten, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and curiosity. His clothes have faded to nondescript rags of brown and grey – they do not move in the draft.

“Hello,” Bilbo calls out gently, wondering how the child got into his room. Perhaps he sought to hide here and did not know the Master had let this house to Thorin’s company.

The boy flinches and melts backwards through the wall. All that remains are the fading daylight outside and the draft of icy air.

Oh, Bilbo thinks to himself with a shudder, that’s it.

***

Somebody is holding his hand. There are voices, but Bilbo can't understand them - they seem to be coming from far away, seem to be speaking in a foreign language. He can't open his eyes either, and it appears he is floating?

There was water. Elves, orcs and arrows. His mind whirrs. It had been cold, so bitterly cold, and time had stretched into eternity. Boats on the water, but they had been in barrels - or did he dream that?

The dragon must have been a dream though, gliding on wide wings through a night sky. And the sky itself was on fire, as the world beneath crumbled away while a young boy watched it all.

"Bilbo," somebody is calling him, "Bilbo!"

The dragon roars and he doesn't hear it, and ghosts, it's been a long time since he's seen a ghost. Back when he was young, and during the fell winter, when he was so sick he didn't know what was real and what wasn't.

“Bilbo, do you know where you are?”

The world is a blur, and he wants to answer, because this shouldn’t be a question. He knows where he is, quite well, but then he sees a wide body of water, a town on stilts, mountains and a cursed forest. Recalls elves, trolls, orcs and dwarves – their faces, their voices, and this can’t be home, can’t be a dream either.

The hand on his forehead is too callused to be his mother’s.

Bilbo blinks, and slowly, achingly, the world readjusts itself. The ceiling above is dark, wooden, like in the guesthouses of Bree, and he knows this is not Bree. Under his hands, the blankets are spun from a thicker cotton, and there is a bite to the air. It smells of snow and water. And a hint of ashes beneath.

There are scattered memories of traveling whirling through his mind, of high mountain passes, howling wolves and a roaring river. It feels surreal, like one of those indulgent fantasies he entertained during his childhood.

But as oddly as time passes to him, he knows that those days are long gone.

“Bilbo,” somebody calls again, and when he blinks, Bilbo can make out the blurred outline of somebody leaning over him. A cool, wet cloth is rested against his forehead and he can’t help the small sigh of relief that falls from his lips.

Laketown, his addled brain recalls, he is in Laketown. They escaped Mirkwood and will soon head to the Lonely Mountain. Where the dragon awaits.

The dragon he just saw? The dragon that roared and wrought destruction as he watched on, a cold wind tearing at his clothes, whispering that not only fire can bring death. Wolves and snow – and darkness beckons once again.

“Just let him rest,” another voice says, “The fever isn’t rising further, it seems.”

Of course. The cold. The water had been freezing, and then they’d been outside for so long, convincing the Master of the town, convincing its people. It had grown dark and there had been snow in the air, and of course, Bilbo had fallen sick.

“But he was doing better, why did this happen? What if the fever spikes again?” the voice returns, “If it goes any higher…”

It might boil out his brains. Somebody once said that, Bilbo thinks. It does not sound like his father, so perhaps his grandfather told him, or maybe one of his uncles, but his memories are blurred and stretched and so prone to slipping into fevered visions.

Somebody hums. “I think this will be the worst of it. But somebody ought to stay with him in any case.”

Somebody?

The dwarves, Bilbo remembers, they were traveling. To reclaim the mountain. To -

They don’t need to, Bilbo wants to say, they need to prepare. He does not mind being alone, and … the ghost. The little boy who’d watched him, that poor, young ghosts, he’ll probably come and visit again.

***

It takes two days until he can stay awake and coherent for more than a few moments. And another three until Oin declares him on the mend, though not without a frown and a strict admonishment to take it easy.

“We’d thought you on the mend already, lad,” Oin grumbles, “And then you go and keel over and get worse than you were before. Never seen somethin’ like that before. Warn me the next time.”

And Bilbo blushes and promises, while quietly thinking that what he thought responsible must have been a hallucination after all.

***

He sees the boy again the day Oin allows him to leave the bed. Not for long – just so that he can have dinner with the rest of the company and convince them he hasn’t died yet. A frown remains on Oin’s face all the way through and as the evening draws to a close, Bilbo is glad when

Dwalin slips an arm under his knees and carries him back to his room without comment.

Bilbo is half asleep as he is set down on the bed. The food is heavy and warm in his stomach, and for once the cold has receded. Somebody tugs a blanket up and over his chest, and there is a hushed “sleep well” and then the door closes.

A cold breeze tickles Bilbo’s face. He opens his eyes, sees the curtains billow, and the boy is standing next to the window again. His heart jumps and for a moment he is frozen – wasn’t the boy a hallucination?

But his head feels cool and clear, and Bilbo gulps down the nervousness.

“Hello,” Bilbo calls out once more, “Is this your room?”

The boy twitches, but does not flee. Instead he turns and stares at Bilbo. He is really quite young, even though he may be taller than Bilbo. His face is thin and pale, his skin of a shade that no living thing possesses.

“No, not really,” he says, softly. The voice is nothing like the harsh whispers that have haunted Bilbo’s nightmares in Thranduil’s realm. Then he tilts his head. “You can see me?”

Bilbo nods, as the pieces fall into place. There is a price for this, but the boy does not need to know. Though perhaps he should warn Oin. “I can. Though not everybody does, do they?”

The company would have most certainly noticed a child haunting their abode.

“Yes. Though most, if they see me, are afraid,” the boy replies and looks sad.

“Well, I’m not,” Bilbo answers, making certain to smile encouragingly. His racing heart has calmed – it seems, even far from the Shire some things are not so different, “Or should I be?”

“No, no,” the boy hurries to reassure, “Though… some, some do not like it. Being seen, I mean. They stay in Dale, most of the time. But I don’t. I … it is a desolate place.”

He rubs at his arms and Bilbo’s heart clenches. Did this child die when dragon came? Was he one of the unfortunate souls that perished that day? What place is Dale now? A ruin, full of memories and ghosts?

“It gets lonely, doesn’t it?” Bilbo asks softly, and pushes himself upright. His chest is aching and his throat hurts, but his heart goes out to this strange, sad boy haunting his bedroom. Ghosts are rare in the Shire.

But then, such violent death is rare there, too.

The boy gives a slight nod and turns to gaze out of the window. Night has fallen, and Laketown is aglow by lanterns, their light reflected on the water and ice. A fresh layer of snow blankets most roofs – and early snows often mean harsh winters.

“Well, what is your name?” Bilbo inquires, both to draw the boy from his contemplations and to chase the ominous thoughts from his own mind.

“Gunthold” the boy says and his lips twitch, “But everybody always calls me Gunt.”

“Then I am pleased to meet you, Gunt,” Bilbo returns easily, “I am Bilbo Baggins from the Shire.”

Abruptly Gunt’s eyes widen in curiosity. “I never heard of this place. Where is it? Is it in the South? I heard there are great kingdoms there, and all kinds of strange people and animals live there. And it’s supposed to be always warm. Is that true?”

Bilbo laughs gently– even this poor soul is no different from his young nephews and nieces. “As far as I know, that is true, but I have never been to the south either. I come from the far west, behind the Misty Mountains.”

“That is amazing,” Gunt exclaims, “Have you seen the sea? What animals live there? Are there giants?”

“No, no,” Bilbo shakes his head, “Well, we did encounter stone giants on our journey, and they were – “

A knock on the door interrupts him. “Bilbo?” Bofur calls, “Are you alright?”

“Just fine,” Bilbo calls back. His voice comes out raspy, and he ends up coughing. When he looks up, eyes burning and watery, the boy has vanished.

***

The next day his fever has returned with vengeance. It doesn't quite make sense to the dwarves, and Oin, too, only shakes his head when we walks past Thorin who lingers in the doorway. At least his mind is not as hazy this time, Bilbo thinks and forces a smile on his face. He waves at their leader, who, after a moment, does come in.

"Master Baggins," Thorin says, studying Bilbo with a frown on his face, "I do not mean to disturb you."

Bilbo flops back against the pillow and waves. "Not at all," he rasps, feeling annoyed at how speaking still pains his throat, "The cracks in the ceiling are fairly dull company after a while."

"Oin did recommend more rest," Thorin replies, but he does sit on the chair that Oin just vacated. His presence alone seems to warm the room – and Bilbo senses those soft, hidden tremors in his fingers that he did not tell Oin about finally cease.

Bilbo shrugs. "I suppose I'll tire soon enough.” Dozing off has become easy – his body is exhausted as is his mind. And Laketown is shrouded either in fog or covered in snow; the light never enough to fully awaken him. “But what day is it? Haven't we lingered here for too long already?"

His voice is barely audible for those last syllables, and Thorin's forehead creases further. "That should be the last of your concerns,” he admonishes, “You will need to be sufficiently recovered before we set out."

“But Durin’s Day…” Bilbo rasps.

Thorin gives a small shake of his head. “There is still enough time. Oin is certain you will make a recovery until then.”

Bilbo nods thoughtfully. Oin is probably right. Back in the Shire, conversing with ghosts had only ever left him tired, but then he had been healthy.

And yet his heart is heavy. Once they set forth from Laketown, their path will carry them straight to the mountain and toward the dragon.

Perhaps the residue from his nightmares, or the odd encounter with the ghost have given his fears further fuel, but to him facing the dragon feels strangely final.

He wonders if he will see Laketown ever again.

"I was wondering," Bilbo asks, abruptly, "Did Laketown suffer much when Smaug came?"

Thorin doesn't flinch at the question, but his expression grows thoughtful. "Truthfully," he says after a moment, "I am not certain. Laketown was little more than a port for Dale, so not many people loved there. It burnt, and I am sure many died, but I did not see what happened to Laketown that day."

"I suppose it must have been terrible, anyway," Bilbo replies with a sigh, "I was merely wondering what inspired this reception of our company."

For a moment Thorin's lips quirk upwards, but it is a bitter grin. "The Master is a greedy fool. He has heard of Erebor's riches, and now looks forward to getting his hands on them. He doesn't much care about the danger Smaug represents, which is fortunate. He will not obstruct our goal."

“Bard would stop us, though,” Bilbo mutters, and Thorin’s features darken. “He would.”

Bilbo risks a glance at Thorin through his lashes, and though the dwarf’s face is foreboding, he cannot hold his tongue. “Don’t you think he has the right of it?”

Thorin stiffens.

“I mean,” Bilbo continues, thinking of the ghost he has seen, and the others that are undoubtedly around, “If Smaug attacks, the people here…”

Will all die, but to say it out loud feels like speaking a curse.

With a small sigh, Thorin relaxes his posture. “Bard’s fears are not wrong. I would be fool to think that,” he admits, “But what reason has the dragon to turn onto Laketown? All the gold he covets is in the mountain – and I believe he would rather die than abandon it.”

***

Due to his body’s erratic recovery schedule, Bilbo finds himself wide awake in the middle of the night. Bilbo rearranges himself, drawing the blankets a little tighter – the air in Laketown is chilly – already it is colder than most winters in the Shire. Though, he thinks, it is not merely weather. There is something unnatural that casts its shadow across the waters of the lake, darkening them, enshrouding the lands under its spell.

Once, when he was barely of age, he had visited the Barrow-downs with his cousins, and the air there had felt similar. Not as cold, but just as suffocating. Filled with grief, unfulfilled dreams and death – dragon fire is not the only thing that haunts these parts.

“Master Baggins?” somebody whispers, and Bilbo flinches violently.

With a pounding heart, he turns over to find Gunt peeking in from the window. The boy’s eyes study the room, and finding it empty, he floats inside.

“Gunt,” Bilbo sighs, and gathers himself, hiding his shaking hands under the cover.

“Am I … is this alright?” the boy inquires.

Bilbo casts a glance at the walls. They are thin – he did hear the company’s discussion downstairs some hours ago. And they won’t all be asleep now either – at least one dwarf will be keeping watch. “As long as you’re quiet.”

“Of course,” the boy whispers cheerfully, “I am a ghost. Being quiet isn’t difficult for me.”

Bilbo, who has seen ghosts suddenly stumble into tables or collide with walls they could traverse easily before, is about to protest, but Gunt comes closer. “They say you traveled with dwarves? Those are dwarves in this house, aren’t they? Some seem fairly tall.”

“They are,” Bilbo agrees with a snort, “Quite tall for dwarves. But they are dwarves in the end.”

“Ohh,” Gunt intones, leaning forward. It is odd how easy it is to forget he is a ghost and not living any longer. “You know, they say dwarves bring you luck. You must be very lucky, then. You are traveling together, aren’t you?”

Bilbo is unable to decide, whether or not he is lucky. “Perhaps… They have gotten me into quite some trouble, however.”

“You have to tell me about that. You have to tell me all of it!” Gunt is almost on Bilbo’s bed by the time he has completed his sentence. “Who are they? Why are you traveling together? What are you doing here? And where are you going?”

For a moment Bilbo hesitates. Wonders, if mentioning the goal is going to unsettled this boy, whose life was ended by the dragon.

“Erebor,” he breathes, “Those dwarves come from Erebor. They – we have come to reclaim their home.”

“They want to kill the dragon?” the boy echoes, with wide eyes. There is a spark – one that is not youthful curiosity – in them that makes the hairs on Bilbo’s neck rise.

“If he isn’t dead already,” Bilbo says lowly. His heart is pounding. If this is from exhaustion or fear he does not know.

Determination spreads across Gunt’s face, letting him appear a lot older suddenly. “That is good,” he murmurs, “I remember the day the dragon came – many died then. Many here in Laketown, but so many more in Dale and Erebor. They will be glad to see the beast gone.”

His vision blurs. Ice crawls through Bilbo’s veins, and it feels as if the strength is being drained right out of his body. So many ghosts, he thinks, and it makes his head spin – only now he is catching a glimpse of the desolation Smaug wrought.

“Master Baggins,” Gunt says, still sounding so oddly firm and grown up, “I will tell the others. We may be ghosts, but we want the dragon gone. We –“

He makes a sweeping gesture, and catches the mug on the nightstand. His arm should have passed through it.

But both Gunt and Bilbo can only watch in horror as the mug is swept off the nightstand and shatters on the ground.

“What -?” Gunt mutters, sounding young again, while realization floods through Bilbo’s mind and the door flies open. This shouldn’t be happening, Bilbo thinks, this is what they warned him off, this is –

“Who is there?!” Dwalin bellows, and Gunt disappears into thin air, and Bilbo can only turn a chalky white face to look at Dwalin. His heart is beating too fast, there is cold sweat on his forehead, and his mind is filled with pieces falling into places, forming a terrifying picture.

“Bilbo?” Dwalin asks, lowering his weapon, “Bilbo, what is it?”

Of course there is nobody else in the room. Even if there was, Dwalin might not have seen Gunt. Few have that sensitivity. Fewer survive into adulthood.

Bilbo swallows past the obstacle in his throat. “Nightmare,” he mumbles, and lets his head fall back against the pillow, closes his eyes against his spiraling vision, even though the back of his eyelids offers only further horrors.

He hears Dwalin stomping across the room, checking the door and the windows, before setting to collect the shards of the broken mug.

That is why so few survive, Bilbo thinks. He should tell Dwalin to inform Oin – his recovery is going to be set back by another day at least. But already the blackness is rising to embrace him.

***

As expected, it takes many more days, before Oin finally declares him recovered enough to leave the house. The healer is deeply worried by the number of setbacks Bilbo has suffered, wondering if there is no underlying reason for their burglar’s continued bad health. Bilbo would tell him, but he isn’t certain how dwarves feel about ghosts, and ever since that fateful night Gunt has kept his distance.

The company is treating him with extra care, and Bilbo is fighting an uphill struggle to convince them that he is not made from glass. It is made difficult by each blast of cold air that leaves him shuddering and the terrible pallor that greets him whenever he looks into the mirror.

Encounter with ghosts, Bilbo remembers back from when his parents told him, sap strength in a way that goes beneath flesh and blood. The drain of energy does little to hurt a healthy hobbit where a comfortable bed, sunshine and a full pantry are nearby – the damage dealt to a hobbit that is already sick however, is far more serious.

Thorin takes Bilbo aside, and his hand is a comfortable weight on Bilbo’s shoulder – in this town so haunted by death his dwarves are warm creatures. And there is honest concern in Thorin’s eyes when he asks Bilbo if he is well enough to continue the journey.

The time window is drawing to a close. They cannot tarry much longer – but Thorin will not force Bilbo to continue if his health is still so fragile.
Bilbo casts a glance outside. The Lonely Mountain is shrouded in dark clouds promising an early nightfall, but he knows that their journey’s final destination is near. A shudder runs down his spine.

“I’m quite ready,” Bilbo tells him, and Thorin’s lips quirk.

“Thank you,” he tells Bilbo, “Though we would not blame you should you opt to back out. Few of the dangers we encountered on this journey noted in the contract – it will not bind you, should you not wish for it.”

Bilbo’s heart warms a little, and he puts his own hand over Thorin’s. “True, but as I told you before – I’ll help you in taking back your home.”
Thorin’s fingers press into Bilbo’s shoulder for a moment. “And I cannot thank you enough for it.”

They exchange a smile, an understanding. After all those difficulties, they have finally reached this point where their hopes align. There is still so much Bilbo does not know, and so many things he has not mentioned, but for a moment, all is well.

***

On midday, Thorin announces to the company that they will be leaving the day after. A cheer goes up, and Fili and Kili drag Bilbo along as they go out for a last night of merriment. Most of Laketown dies after nightfall, but the tavern is lively, crowded and warm.

The beer tastes poor, and Bilbo thinks the bread they serve must be days old at least, but Bofur is singing and Bombur stacks up plates. At one point Fili climbs atop the table, toasted to by Dwalin, Oin and many, many men, while Kili is busy in what looks like a very engaged conversation with the barman.

At one point Bilbo steps outside for a breath of fresh air, enjoying the cold for once. Ice is building up on the lake, and Bilbo wonders dimly how the fishermen of Laketown will fare in winter. The wind is sharp and tastes like ash.

“You must be Master Baggins,” a voice says suddenly.

Bilbo jumps. With a hand to his heart he turns around and finds himself face to face with a woman. She is wearing furs and an elaborate hairdo – and Bilbo wonders what she is doing here at this hour, until he realizes that she, too, is a ghost.

“Yes,” he replies warily.

“I heard you want to kill the dragon,” she says imperiously. Where Gunt had been brimming with curiosity, her entire body radiates determination.

Bilbo nods and swallows. He had not expected news to spread so quickly – he had only told one young boy, after all. And now he has to wonder if he has not made a grievous mistake after all. The woman’s expression is fierce.

“Then we of Esgaroth and Dale wish you success,” she says, “Long have we waited for this day. Many of us wish to see the beast fall. And I speak as a messenger of those that remain from that time. Shall it be required, we will help.”

How, Bilbo wants to ask. But he bites down on his lower lip, recalls the shattered mug. Ice in his veins, his darkening vision.

This is not the Shire. These ghosts are not unfortunate souls needing guidance after an unforeseen accident. No neighbor’s boy coming to play even though he’d died a night ago. No spirit of Primrose Rootbed returning home hours after her body had been carried in after an accident at the mill. Or Harbold Wiltree trying to tidy up his study days after he had fallen off a ladder and broken his neck.

Dale’s ghosts have never been peaceful hobbits. Those here have known splendor, riches, devastation and war. They do not wish to tidy up their books or play a game – they wish for revenge.

As if she read his thoughts, the woman’s smile darkens further. “Dale’s records may have burned, but our late priest remembers. Do not worry about the how, Master Baggins. If you have need, call upon us – this is our one chance as well.”

At peace and at revenge.

Her smile is chilling, and Bilbo is only beginning to realize the scope of what he is being pulled into. Not just one ghost awaits in Dale -

“Bilbo,” somebody exclaims from behind them, and Bilbo’s heart skips a beat. But it’s only Ori, coming outside, too. The light from the tavern grounds him, different from the night’s darkness stretching across the water.

“Huh,” Ori mutters, when he reaches Bilbo, “Where did she go?”

“Who?” Bilbo asks.

“The woman you were talking to,” Ori replies with a shrug, “She sure looked interested.”

He smiles, but all Bilbo can think of is the fact that Ori saw her. Either Ori has the same odd gift Bilbo has – though he has always been certain that this gift has only ever been given to hobbits and none else – or something fouler is at work here.

He shudders. “Went home, I think,” he mumbles, and lets the wind carry away his words.

“Well, I doubt Thorin would have liked you chatting to strangers, anyway,” Ori laughs, “And Oin doesn’t think you should be staying out here so long. So, back inside or home?”

Bilbo forces his trembling hands to be still. “Home,” he says.”

tbc

Chapter Text

Bilbo is glad when they leave Laketown, for the wind out on the water blows away the lingering taint of death hanging in the air. So many ghosts in Laketown already, and this was not the site where Smaug wrought the worst damage.

He is growing afraid of what he will find. The dragon is terrifying. But the silent present of the dead, those souls looking for release, for fulfillment, that is truly demonstrating the destruction the dragon brought.

And slowly, the closer they get to mountain, the stiller the air gets. The wind dies down. The waves fade away. The lake's surface has become a mirror, and Bilbo can see his own reflection there, sitting with his back to Thorin, outlined by a red sunrise.

A shudder runs down his spine.

When they make landfall, the air around them has grown silent. Bofur is doing his best to retain his cheer, but even he tilts his head to gaze at the mountain towering above and says "We're here," with an unconcealed sense of awe.

Silence encompasses them as they shoulder their packs. The mountain, stark and snow-capped, demands reverence, and yet, to Bilbo this is in equal parts breath-taking and terrifying.

But as their trek climbs up from the Lakeshore, he does not see even one ghost. Instead, the landscape is empty, all live wiped from it. It feels unnatural and deeply disturbing, and with every step Bilbo is certain he would rather face the dragon than spend one more moment in this desolation.

He doesn't know how long they've been walking, when Balin calls out. "Thorin."

Their leader turns, an odd expression on his face. "I know, Balin," he says, and then he addresses the rest of the company, "We are almost there."

That's good, Bilbo thinks, they've been making good time. It is nearing midday, if the bleak sunlight is anything to go by, and this will leave them with enough time to look for the secret door.

Then Thorin has led them up to the edge of the hill and stopped. "There is Dale," he states, his voice swallowed up by the vast still air around them.

Bilbo's heart skips a beat. It feels unreal to finally be there after having heard so much about it. He crests the overlook, and stops breathing. To his feet, the ground falls away, far down into a rocky, mist-shrouded valley, until, on the other side, it rises again, sharply - the final rise of the mountain, stretching all the way to the peak.

And on the side of the sheer rock face clings the most breath-taking city Bilbo has ever seen.

Dale, even in its ruined glory, is a maze of red-tinted, golden-ornamented building with artfully arched roofs and towers. Bridges span the gaps between the stones, connect buildings at a dizzying height. Streets wind up and down, stairs climb along the mountain, and around them, the air is silent.

There are many ghosts in Dale, Gunt had told Bilbo. And now that he lays eyes on the fallen city, he truly understands the extent of what that little boy told him. Those are not the ghosts of those unlucky inhabitants of Laketown. This is a city of ghosts now, a city where families and clans were simultaneously wiped out by the dragon.

What has been wrought here makes the aftermath of the Fell Winter pale in comparison.

"Master Baggins," Dori calls, "We're moving on."

"Right," Bilbo mutters to himself, and finally remembers to breathe, "Right."

He casts a last glance at Dale, and it leaves him dizzy. If this is Dale, he thinks, how will Erebor be?

***

But there are no ghosts in Erebor.

The path, winding over cold ground, through corridors lit by glowing stone and down dizzying staircases, takes Bilbo deeper and deeper into a silent mountain. The air is still and cool, quiet as in a tomb.

He is looking for moving shadows, for tittering voices. Curious eyes observing him – yet the mountain remains frightfully lifeless. Before he knows it, he steps through a doorway and finds a grand cavern filled with gold and gems.

There must be ghosts he thinks, but all he finds then is a dragon.

***

He can only watch in horror as Smaug glides away, an ominous shadow in the night. Then red explodes, Laketown goes up in flames and Bilbo thinks of Bard and his children. The Master and all those poor souls that came to see them off, hope shining in their eyes, and Bilbo does not want to imagine what they must think now, seeing their homes go up in flames when they were promised so much better.

“Look!” Fili shouts, “He’s been hit!”

Bilbo narrows his eyes. Truly, the dark shape moves oddly.

“It must have been a black arrow!” Balin exclaims, “They still must have kept some!”

“Bard, it surely was Bard!” Kili cries, “He knew Smaug had a weakness!”

And yes, that makes sense, but Bilbo can only watch breathlessly as the dragon crashes into the lake, his death roar echoing up to the mountain.

“He’s dead!” Bofur yells, “He’s finally dead!”

He sounds as if he doesn’t believe it, and Bilbo doesn’t either. Should the great beast have been vanquished like this? Felled by an arrow while they only watched.

“It is done,” Gloin announces solemnly, “The mountain is ours once more.”

A wild cheer goes up in the company, now that after all their hardships their impossible dream has come into fruition. Bilbo smiles and accepts those claps on the shoulder and promises of riches beyond his wildest dream, while his heart still trembles.

They turn to head back into the mountain.

Bilbo casts one last glance over his shoulder. They have won, the dragon is dead. But Laketown is still burning.

***

After two days of counting the treasure, Bilbo detaches himself and goes to explore the rest of the mountain. If he is honest with himself, it is because the treasury makes him feel uneasy. It still smells of dragon and death, and there is an unholy glint to Thorin’s eyes lately.

“We will, once we have found the Arkenstone,” he tells Bilbo when he asks if they’re planning for a feast. In truth, his stomach is cramping and the shrinking portions of cram are doing little to help.

Bilbo sets off with a vague plan to seek out the kitchens, but he does not get far before he becomes aware of a murmuring. He looks up to see the shadows move – his feet have carried him to another hall, one at least as vast as the treasury, but without the gold.

Instead he can make out market stalls, shops and booths in the dim light. Dust and debris cover the ground, and the air is still – but the place not so. Bilbo’s heart skips a beat, as his mind catches up with his eyes.

This is what he expected to find when he first entered the mountain.

Ghosts. Countless ghosts floating between the stalls and the debris, talking among themselves, restless and ever-moving. A shudder runs down his spine – it is colder here, too. Or maybe –

“He can see us!” somebody exclaims. It’s a dwarf, a child probably, and he is pointing at Bilbo with his eyes wide open. “Didn’t they say in Dale that there was one who could? One who came to kill the beast!”

The hall falls silent. Bilbo is frozen to the spot, unable to run, feeling dozens of eyes come to rest on him.

“Is it true?” Somebody whispers, “Is the beast dead?”

“He’s been gone for a long time.”

“He’s been gone longer before. ‘tis just a rumor.”

“But in Dale, they said – “

“Laketown burned.”

“It’s burned before.”

“They said something fell into the lake. Something large – something…”

“Let’s ask,” a woman – or at least Bilbo thinks so, he cannot be certain due to the beard, but the voice sounds female to his ears, “Let’s just ask him.”

And then she turns and marches toward Bilbo, and if he wasn’t frozen in place, his knees would have long since given. With every step she comes closer, he feels ever more insufficient. All those dwarves watching him – warriors, experts, fighters – their eyes are alight with expectations, and what is he but one too-soft hobbit?

“You,” she shouts as she is but three steps away, and Bilbo flinches, “You see us, do you not?”

Breathlessly, Bilbo nods.

The shadow of a smile crosses her face. “Then tell us – is the beast dead? Are the rumors true?”

“Smaug is dead,” Bilbo chokes out, “He was slain by Bard of Laketown with a black arrow.”

His head is spinning and he isn’t certain if it’s from his racing heart of the presence of the ghosts surrounding him. Recalling Laketown brings back memories of his long sickness, and a phantom ache makes his chest tighten.

“He’s gone? He’s finally gone?” disbelieving whispers echo through the hall, growing ever louder. But no true cheer goes up, instead the air remains tense, uneasy.

“Then why do you look so glum?” another dwarf asks and steps forward, “Why are there no celebrations? Why has the kingdom not been reopened?”

“The beast was slain not two nights ago!” somebody else shouts across the hall, “Many have probably died in the attempt!”

“Is it true?” the woman asks, and looks at Bilbo, “Did they die?”

“Who?” Bilbo stutters, “I don’t – I mean, I think probably many in Laketown died, but I don’t know, and – “

“Who came here, then?” a third dwarf inquires, and this one is dressed in armor. One of his hands rests on a sword, and Bilbo takes half a step backward. A ghost should not be able to hurt him, but he remembers a shattered mug on the ground and is not so certain.

“Who has reclaimed the mountain? Who drove out the beast? Don’t say it were men!” he cries.

“Probably Dain!” somebody shouts, “He’s always been a good fighter.”

“And much too reasonable to take on a dragon,” a third person mutters, and the hall erupts in loud whispers, until the armed dwarf shouts for silence.

“Tell us!” he demands of Bilbo and takes another step forward, “Tell us!”

Bilbo finds he has raised his hands and backed away even further. But the exit is far to his left now, and behind him is only a cold stone wall. “I –“ he gasps, “It’s Thorin! Thorin and a group of twelve dwarves, they were the once to reclaim Erebor.”

“Thorin?” the guard echoes, and then an expression of deep satisfaction spreads across his face, “So the line of Durin has not failed.”

Around them, the crowd has grown thicker. Bilbo can hear the pounding of his own heart echo in his head, and cold sweat breaks out on his brow.

“Who were the others?” a young dwarf asks, his eyes wide, “Did they fight the dragon?”

“And what are you doing here?” the guard grumbles, “Have you come to steal now that the beast is gone? Answer! What are you doing here?!”

“Hold it, Bragnir,” another dwarf calls, shoving his way through the crowd of ghosts. He is just as tall as the guard, and has no qualms on forcing the guard back a step. “Don’t frighten the only one who can give us answers.”

When he turns to Bilbo, the hobbit can see steel behind the friendly expression. “Let him talk and explain what brings him here and what he knows of Thorin.”

Bilbo swallows. Blinks away the black spots encroaching on his vision. “I – My name is Bilbo Baggins,” he mumbles and then forces himself to speak up, “I’m a hobbit from the Shire. And I was asked along to be the fourteenth member of the company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Who were the others?” the child calls, though he is immediately shushed.

Bilbo glances into his direction, even so – at least the child is less threatening than the other ghosts. “There are Thorin’s nephews, Fili and Kili, and his cousins, I believe, Balin and Dwalin, as well as Oin and Gloin. Then there are Dori, Nori and Ori, and Bofur, Bombur und Bifur.”

He receives no immediate reaction. Instead, the dwarves turn to converse among themselves, and all he can catch are snippets.

“… still alive, I told you.”

“… going to outlive us all.”

“… owes me money!”

The guard, Bragnir, inclines his head. “You mentioned nephews,” he growls, “Thorin’s nephews?”

“Yes,” Bilbo nods, “His sister’s sons, as I understand it.”

“He,” Bragnir’s companion snorts, “Knew you could leave it to her. Always been the most level-headed of the bunch, the Lady Dis. Do you know what became of the other brother?”

Bilbo averts his eyes. He has overheard Thorin and Balin talk, though he does not think he is supposed to know.

“Ah, well,” the dwarf who asked shrugs his shoulders before Bilbo can even answer, “The past years have not been kind to us. But now the beast is gone, and the line of Durin has reclaimed the mountain. Better days should lie ahead!”

Bilbo wants to nod and then run away. With every second he lingers, he realizes that these ghosts are nothing like their counterparts in the Shire. Their desires are far more consuming, their presences nearly overwhelming.

“So why does it not feel as if the curse was lifted?” a woman shouts, pushing her way to the front as well, “Why do we linger? Why does the mountain still feel so ill?”

“Why indeed?” Bragnir’s companion questions and looks to Bilbo.

Suddenly the walls seem to be closing in. Bilbo’s mouth feels dry and his throat closes, and then the world tilts –

***

When he wakes up, he stretched out on a cocoon of cloaks and blankets in a corner of the treasury. His head aches fiercely, and Bilbo can’t help the small groan that escapes his lips.

“Bilbo!” somebody exclaims, and a moment later Kili is hovering over him, “How are you? No, don’t get up – Oin said you have to stay down! And tea – you need to drink something!”

Kili disappears, only to reappear a moment later brandishing a mug.

Bilbo blinks, his mind still sluggishly trying to figure out what happened, but his memories are blurry. Kili holds out the mug, and Bilbo clears his throat. “You’ll have to let me sit up if I’m to drink that,” he says, and his voice comes up out raspy and barely above a whisper.

Speaking hurts, too, and Bilbo is surprised just how bad he truly feels. Kili is gentle when he pulls him up, but every single muscle in Bilbo’s body hurts. He’s grateful to accept the mug from Kili, though the supposed tea has gone cold long ago.

The young dwarf watches anxiously, as Bilbo slowly sips the beverage, and now he can’t really hide the tremor in his fingers.

“Bilbo?” Kili asks after a while, “How are you, really?”

There is an undertone to his voice that reminds Bilbo how young Kili truly is. His heart goes out to him, and he wishes he could tell Kili that he’ll be alright. But these are not Shire ghosts. And he knows that before this is over, his health will probably suffer.

“I have been better,” he manages.

Kili snorts. “That’s obvious,” he shoots back, “But ever since Laketown – you’ve not really recovered. Oin’s been saying how you’re too thin and even Dori’s been worried over how pale you’ve gotten. It’s as if – “

He stops himself, voice catching terribly. Bilbo blinks, and then carefully sets the mug down on the sheet, before reaching out to touch Kili’s hand. He knows his hand is cold and trembling, but hopefully it will banish Kili’s fears.

“Kili,” he calls out, softly, “I know I’m not doing well. But you know, we haven’t had too much food lately, and it’s been cold. We hobbits – well, we don’t like the cold all that much, so it’s not surprising I caught a cold. And between that and running from Smaug, I’m simply a bit worn out. I don’t think any of us is looking very healthy right now.”

He can’t help but recall the mad glint in Thorin’s eyes and wonders where the other dwarves are – probably searching the treasury for the Arkenstone again – and his heart sinks, even as Kili snorts. “You might be right. But we’ll have better supplies soon,” he promises, “Still… the next time, just let us know, please? Last night – we’d almost gone to sleep before Bofur noticed you weren’t there and when we finally found you, you were so cold and still and wouldn’t wake up – “

“Kili,” Bilbo tries to wrap his hand around the dwarf’s, “Kili, please. I’m sorry I worried you – I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even know – I mean, I wouldn’t have wandered off if I had felt that badly.”

Kili makes an odd sound that might be a sniffle, but before he can say anything, somebody else comes down the staircase that shields the sleeping ground from the rest of the treasury.

“Kili,” Thorin calls, and his voice sounds almost normal, “Are you – Oh, Master Baggins, you are awake!”

Bilbo swallows and looks up. There is a smile on Thorin’s face, but his eyes remain flat – it distorts his entire expression and a shudder creeps down Bilbo’s spine.

“Are you better, now?” Thorin inquires, and Bilbo nods dumbly.

“That is welcome news indeed,” Thorin announces, “Though I hope you do not mind if I ask Oin to check you over once more? For our peace of mind? Everybody has been very worried.”

And there is warmth in Thorin’s voice that brings tears to Bilbo’s eyes. If only that dull glint would vanish – if only he could believe Thorin’s mind to be free of the Arkenstone’s treacherous call. If only –

He swallows down the bitter knot in his throat and nods.

“Kili, go and fetch Oin,” Thorin announces, “After that, I would ask you to help me look again. I hope you understand that this is not meant as an offense against you, Master Baggins – but we do need to find the Arkenstone soon, if we are to truly reclaim the mountain. Already, men have come to our doorstep and demanded a share of our treasure.”

“What?” Bilbo asks, as his heart sinks further.

“Do not concern yourself,” Thorin says, “We have made our position clear. Not one piece of our treasure will fall into undeserving hands.”

***

A long while after Oin has returned to the search Bilbo finally realizes he is not alone. The ghost of a dwarf – the one who kept the guard in check before – sits on a chest, swinging his legs and watches Bilbo quietly.

“Quite a mess,” he says, when he notices Bilbo looking at him, “Really, it seems the mountain is not yet truly reclaimed.”

Bilbo remains silent. Now, with his pack at hand, his thoughts are turning quickly. If he just gave – but no, it would not solve their problems. Nor would it bestow Laketown the promised reparations.

An idea forms, but Bilbo squashes it as madness.

“You do know that this is not unprecedented, do you?” the dwarf inquires, and now his gaze is seeking.

“What do you mean?” Bilbo asks. He has heard the rumors – was there for that ill-timed conversation between Gandalf and Elrond.

“The spell that has taken hold of your companions,” the dwarf explains, “It’s, well, in a way something that can happen to every dwarf. We are attracted to gold – other races may call us greedy, and while they miss the point, they are not utterly wrong. Gold can inspire a dwarf to go beyond and above his capabilities, and that is the secret beyond our craft.”

He stands from his perch, floats to the ground. “But while this inclination is normal, what you are seeing here is not. This is what has been called goldsickness, and the line of Durin has been cursed by it. Thror, the last King, went mad from it – offended Thranduil and a number of other dignitaries, lost all sense of propriety – and though they called it goldsickness, at the heart of it lay something else.”

“The Arkenstone,” Bilbo mutters, “Were you there? Did you see it happen?”

The dwarf nods. “I was there. Forgive me, I believe I never introduced myself – Noldir, son of Adir. I was a friend to Thorin – not as close as Dwalin, but we did train together. I watched what happened to Thror – and it is what is happening to Thorin now.”

“Is there a way to stop it?” Bilbo asks, his heart trembling in his chest.

Noldir casts his eyes aside. “We never found out. Thror’s madness summoned a dragon. Now that the last one is gone, I do not know what will happen.”

The silence is ominous, so Bilbo eventually clears his aching throat and asks: “And what about you? I … At home, ghosts go on once whatever caused them to linger has been resolved.”

Noldir grimaces. “And we linger even though the dragon is gone,” he states, “That is a good question, and I do not know the proper answer. But what my chest tells me, that not only the dragon is what holds us here, but it is the unrest and disturbance of the land – many died that day, many do linger – and what they wish is for peace to be restored.”

“So as long as Erebor does not make peace with Laketown, you cannot move on,” Bilbo concludes, before he is assailed by a violent coughing fit. It bends him over, and the wet, hacking coughs leave his chest aching.

“Yes,” Noldir says, looking at Bilbo strangely, “But I believe I will leave you to rest now.”

***

On the next morning, the blast of a trumpet wakes Bilbo abruptly from disturbing dreams. His body aches as he stumbles outside, following his bleary-eyes companions. Thorin seems not to have slept at all, and Bofur pats his back, mumbling something.

Bilbo’s stomach growls, and when he mutters “Food?” he only garners a shrug from Ori in return.

Then daylight hits them, and Bilbo is blind and would have walked off the mountain had not Gloin caught a hold of his shoulders and drawn him against his chest. “Easy there,” Gloin mutters, “You don’t look so good. Should’ve stayed abed.”

Bilbo squints until his vision finally clears. “I’ll be alright,” he mumbles, distracted as he turns to gaze out and his heart plummets.

The vast land is covered with tents and troops, banners fluttering merrily in the wintery breeze. A thin layer of snow covers the ground, and Laketown is nothing but a smoking ruin in the distance.

“King under the Mountain!” a herald proclaims, and only now Bilbo finds the small group that is approaching the gate. He recognizes them – Bard, two guards from Laketown and even Thranduil.

The King of Mirkwood sits atop his elk, dressed in armor.

They mean war.

The sun is out and shining, but all warmth flees Bilbo’s body. Ice creeps through his veins, encloses his heart and squeezes – he can barely breathe, as his mind starts spinning. War – they mean to fight. Both Bard and Thranduil have brought armies, armies that have equipment and supplies, that number hundreds and that are well-rested and unhurt.

“We give you until sunset to prepare your reply, King under the Mountain!” the herald proclaims, and though Bilbo has never heard the demands, he knows Thorin will not agree. The king’s face is dark and angry.

“Should, upon that time, you have not replied, we will –“

Thorin acts so fast, nobody can intercept. In one move, he snatches up an abandoned crossbow, sets it and fires, and Bilbo just squeaks out a breathless “Thorin!” while Gloin’s hand closes around his shoulders.

“Thorin!” Balin exclaims, too, but they all see the bolt miss, though the messenger has fallen silent, and Thorin steps forward, up onto the parapets.

“I do not need until sundown to compose my answer!” Thorin proclaims proudly, “I will not bow to underhand threats and foul attempts at coercion! We have taken back our kingdom and not one piece of dwarven gold shall be given to those that stood by and did nothing when we pleaded for help! That abandoned us in our hour of need! No gold shall be given to those that seek riches only now that the dangers have passed!”

“Then this is your answer?” Thranduil calls, his voice easily carrying across the distance.

“This is my answer and it will not change, no matter how many armies you bring or what threats you make!” Thorin roars.

“Very well,” Thranduil inclines his head. “The next time we shall meet as enemies.”

And with that he turns his stead and rides back. Bard throws a last, baleful glance upward – his clothes are not nearly in a condition as good as Thranduil’s. He doesn’t want to fight, Bilbo thinks. Laketown has suffered so much already.

But with winter coming, Laketown will need to look out for their own first.

Thorin turns to stomp back into the mountain, the other dwarves hot on his heels. “Continue looking for the Arkenstone!” Thorin orders, as Balin catches up with him.

“Thorin,” the white-haired dwarf counsels, “Perhaps we should attempt to stall? We are fourteen, after all, and they – “

Thorin shakes his head. “A raven came this morning. Dain will be here in three days at the latest, and he is bringing at least six-hundred men.”
Balin nods, and Bilbo wants to moan and hide his face in his hands. This will end in bloodshed, and that is not what he risked his life for.

***

"That is terrible deed you are committing," Noldir comments as Bilbo, with his heart in his throat, hides the Arkenstone under his coat.

"I know," he mutters, "I know." And he does. The mad staccato of his pulse tells him, as do his sweat-soaked palms and the faint tremor running through his fingers. Exhaustion makes his eyes burn, and he is simultaneously tired and wide awake.

A part of him tells him to lie down, to sleep. Tomorrow will be another day - let the others sort out this mess.

Nodir hums. "They will never forgive you."

Bilbo flinches, "I know," he hisses. He doesn't want to think about that. Doesn't want to imagine losing his newfound friends.

"They might try to kill you for it. Especially Thorin, once he learns you had the Arkenstone."

"Then tell me, what shall I do?" Bilbo asks, and reaches to tighten his belt, "I don't know what to do anymore, and one of these days Bard and Thranduil will not be patient to wait and march. There is winter coming, and they need gold to trade for food and supplies. If there is another option, please tell me."

The ghost sighs and glides closer. "There is none, master hobbit. Your deeds may save them all yet - but it will cost you something terrible."
Bilbo closes his eyes and nods sharply. He doesn't want to pay that price, but he can't stand by and watch those he cares about die.

"Those of us here, after the dragon came, we realized how the gold had blinded us," Nolir continues, "Gold is of little use to the dead. We understand that now, but few of our kind do, once the spell sets in. You have seen it happen to your friends, but I wonder if your actions will truly save them."

"They must," Bilbo protests, "There is no other option,"

Noldir does not appear convinced, though he nods. "I wish you all the best in your endeavor. And no matter what comes, do remember that the dead of Erebor are with you."

***

The ghost accompanies Bilbo until he makes his way down from the gates. Around them, the air is silent and icy, the taint of death thick – but it is not enshrouded in sickness as the inside of the mountain is, and Bilbo takes a deep breath.

His knees are weak when he reaches the ground. He can’t tell if the exertion is to blame, the poor nourishment of the increasing contact with the ghosts.

Bilbo shakes his head and forces himself to sneak forward. The ring helps him into the elvish camp, and relief blossoms in his chest, when he catches Gandalf’s voice emerging from one of the tents.

From then on, it is relatively easy. Reveal himself, share his mad plan with Gandalf, Thranduil and Bard and bring it into fruition. Bard nods thoughtfully, though Gandalf eyes Bilbo with worry.

“And what will you do?” he asks, leaning forward.

Bilbo purses his lips. “Go back,” he says with a shrug. Even if this will not end well, he cannot turn his back now. He is still fighting for his dwarves, even though they may not realize it.

Gandalf’s bushy eyebrows rise. “That is risky.”

“Would you not rather stay here?” Bard agrees, “The King will not be happy to know we have this.”

He nods at the Arkenstone and something curls in Bilbo’s stomach. Before he can reply, Thranduil tilts his head. “It’s not just them, though,” the King intones, and then a curious, half-smile spreads across his face, “It has been long indeed since I’ve encountered one of your kind, Master Hobbit. I did not know this talent still existed.”

Bard and Gandalf both turn to stare at Bilbo in askance, but for once he ignores them. “It is rare, and even more rarely needed,” Bilbo says firmly.

“No, I imagine this part of the world is rather different,” Thranduil states and leans back in his seat, “But with this, I do think you understand what you are doing.”

He puts his wineglass aside and rises, while Bard blinks, confused. Gandalf’s frown remains directed at Bilbo, while Thranduil inclines his head. “Mirkwood will keep the peace guaranteed by the Arkenstone.”

And with that, he sweeps from the tent, leaving Bilbo to Bard’s and Gandalf’s inquisitive gazes.

“What did he mean when he spoke of your talent?” Bard asks, and Bilbo can see that Gandalf is curious, too. It is not a particularly well-kept secret – but not exactly spoken of to outsiders, either.

And if Gandalf, with all his years of wandering through the Shire does not know, Bilbo will not tell him. So he shrugs. “It’s, well, it’s difficult to explain. Hobbits are quite connected to the earth – you know, while the Shire is very fertile, most of us are exceptionally talented gardeners as well. A feel for the land, some call it…”

It’s close to a lie, but not quite. Hobbits have a sense of the earth, the way stone speaks to dwarves. And Bilbo understands that this ties in with the rare hobbit talent of seeing and speaking to the dead – bodies return to earth, after all – and the sites of vast battles always make his kind uncomfortable.

“Thranduil thinks it will help you?” Bard inquires.

Bilbo shrugs. “It may. Though I believe, I ought to make my way back before my absence is noted.”

Gandalf wants to protest, but this time Bilbo makes his escape quickly. And once out of the tent, he puts on his ring and disappears into the night.

He is numb as he treks back to the mountain, Gandalf's concerned gaze boring into his back. The air is cold, freezing, but Bilbo doesn't feel it. Doesn't feel anything really, even the hunger is gone.

His head is spinning.

What has he done? What has he dared? How can this be real, how can he risk this? It feels as if somebody else was moving his body, making these decision and Bilbo can only watch in horror.

But he's done it. He has given the Arkenstone to Bard, and now he is stumbling back to the mountain. A traitor who can't even finalize his betrayal. Is he truly so despondent, so utterly inconsequential? Will all he attempts end in disaster?

Thorin will not forgive this, so why is he going back? Show his loyalty? He has heard Thorin rant, has felt those hard fingers digging into his shoulder. Has seen the flat light in his friend's eyes.

Whose forgiveness is he hoping for? What does he expect, when Gandalf expressed concern for his safety?

"That was a mad thing to do," a voice cuts through his contemplations, and Bilbo flinches. He didn't notice the specter floating up to him, though its soft glow makes it visible even in the dark of this cloudy night.

"A mad and truly brave thing," the ghost continues, "And I apologize, I don't believe we have met. I am Frinar or Erebor, and I have heard much about you, Bilbo Baggins."

The hobbit shrugs, because he either does this or he falls apart. The ghost - a dwarf, he recognizes now, one of so many others he has met - easily keeps pace with him.

"Your deed will be remembered, whatever the outcome," Frinar continues, "And I believe my kind, we would honor you for it if we could. All treasure is cursed, the Arkenstone most of all."

Bilbo nods. He has felt the stone's thrall himself, even though hobbits do not much care for precious gems and jewels.

Then the wall rises steeply before him. The basket he climbed down in is still there, and Bilbo sighs. Had it been gone, had he been unable to return - oh, it would have been easier had the decision been taken from him.

So he bites down on his lip and reaches for the rope. He will see this through to whatever end.

"Take courage, master hobbit," Frinar calls, "We have heard from Dale, and they, too, will be with you, should you wish for it."

***

The fallout is worse than Bilbo anticipated.

“How came you by this?” Thorin roars and Bard presents the Arkenstone to him. Bilbo’s knees are trembling, and he wishes they had chosen another way to go about this, wishes they could have done without the public proclamation with everybody watching on breathlessly.

“Thieves!” Thorin thunders, “Who stole my treasure? Who did you –“

“I did it,” Bilbo cries, wrenching himself forward, vision blurring, “I did it, Thorin. I, I, I am sorry. Everybody, please, understand – you were so obsessed with finding it, you were forgetting to eat. You did nothing but look for it and I was afraid – “

Thick hands grab his shoulders and spin him around, and it grows dark and then Thorin’s face is much too close. Bilbo’s heart is racing and he shouldn’t have done this, he knows he should have stayed silent, should have never given the stone away –

“And to think I trusted you!” Thorin spits, “Descendent of rats! Traitor!”

The hands wrap around his throat and squeeze.

“Thor-“ Bilbo chokes out, but the grip is too strong, and he can’t breathe, can’t move – his feet are no longer touching the ground and somebody is shouting, and a tumult breaks out behind him, but his vision is tunneling, and he can only see the mad glint in Thorin’s eyes.

“I should throw you to the rocks,” the mad King hisses.

And Bilbo wonders if he did so as his vision fades away.

***

Twelve dwarves watch in shell-shocked silence as their King flings an unresponsive body away from him. Bilbo hits the ground with a dull thud and does not move.

“Get him away from here,” Thorin orders in disgust as he turns away.

“Bring back my burglar!” Gandalf shouts from down below, “Thorin Oakenshield, I demand you return him!”

“Dwalin,” Thorin says, and Dwalin is the first to unfreeze. He moves stiffly as he collects the body from the ground. Bilbo looks terrible up close, too pale and too thin, and maybe they just expected too much of him.

At least he is welcome among men and elves.

tbc

Chapter Text

“It was an admirable deed, master Hobbit,” Bard tells him.

Bilbo barely looks up from the corner he is sitting him, a blanket draped across his shoulders, hiding the bruises forming on his throat. A mug of some steaming beverage sits next to him, waiting to be drunk, but he feels incapable of moving further.

They have settled him here after everything had been said and done. Thranduil with a nod of his head, and Gandalf had wrapped the blanket around him before he, too, had left. And Bilbo feels like a piece that has played its part and can now be discarded.

Only Bard has come back and tried to make him feel better, even though Bilbo does not think he will ever recover. Everything has fallen into pieces. Shock and disappointment on the faces of his friends. Thorin’s hands on this throat. The abyss beneath him.

It does not feel like an admirable deed, Bilbo thinks.

“You stopped a senseless war,” Bard continues, “You saved their lives, and one day they will understand.”

But that is a hope Bilbo finds he cannot share. Maybe future generations of dwarves will understand, but not those that Bilbo calls friends. Not those that matter.

It feels as if he should be crying, but his eyes are dry.

“You – “ Bard begins, but is interrupted, as an elf strides into the tent.

“Master Bard,” the elf says, and something in his voice catches Bilbo’s attention.

“What is it?” Bard asks, just as Bilbo thinks that it cannot be good. The elf is pale, and the air has changed. It –

“An army of orcs has been sighted,” the elf announces, “They will be here by nightfall.”

***

Bilbo does not quite know where his feet have carried him, but he needed to get away from the consolations, from people lauding his deed with despair in their eyes. “You have done well – you couldn’t have known you were saving them to be slaughtered by orcs,” is what rings in his ears, though the words are unsaid.

He stumbles out of camp his mind confused. Didn't he trade the Arkenstone to stop a war? Hasn't he paid with the peace of his mind, with those hard-won friendships for peace?

And now an army of orcs will turn it all to naught.

They pretended to be secure, pretended to be able to win, but Bilbo has seen the fear in Bard's eyes, the worry in Gandalf's. This host is too large, their numbers to great. Even an alliance will not win without grievous losses.

And Bilbo wonders why he even tried.

"Master Baggins," a voice calls him, and only it's odd quality makes Bilbo look up. He's almost out of camp, and in the dim light the odd luminosity of the ghost before him is even more pronounced.

Its heavy robes billow, though the air is eerily still around them. Dark grey clouds have covered the sky and the hair on the back of Bilbo’s neck rises. This ghost is unfamiliar. Different.

Powerful.

“I am Halion,” the ghost inclines its head, “I was the head priest of Dale.”

Bilbo’s heart skips a beat. He remembers the woman in Laketown. Telling him not to worry about the how, that there is a way.

Something cold runs down his spine.

The ghost studies him intently, and Bilbo shudders under the gaze. Ever so slowly, the ghost smiles. "Come to Dale, Master Baggins.”

His heart is pounding, Bilbo realizes. But this is fear – this ghost knows better than to feed on Bilbo’s own life force – this particular ghost possesses a frightening degree of control-

“You know what the night will bring,” the ghost continues, his voice as ageless as his face, “You can feel the darkness crawling across these lands, covering them – you sense these things. And you know we do as well.”

He comes closer, and Bilbo bites down on his lip to keep from retreating. The voices from the camp have all but vanished – has he wandered this far? Or is something else at work here?

“Come to Dale, Master Baggins,” Halion repeats his supplication, “You know that we can stop this evil from spreading. That we can win the battle. Already they are taking up positions – you know that peace will not keep until tomorrow. Come to Dale and ask us to fight!”

Bilbo shivers. "But...," he protests weakly. This is beyond him. These powers – he has an inkling of what the ghost implies, but he is afraid of what these actions will bring. Already, his plan with the Arkenstone wrought nothing but grief and heartache.

"And not only we of Dale, but those in Erebor and Laketown will to join, too," Halion continues with vigor, "We want peace, Master Baggins. We do not want the darkness to spread. We do not want orcs crawling through our homes, desecrating the little that is left. After all these years living in fear of the dragon, we want our peace and we will fight for it."

"How?" Bilbo swallows, his heart pounding, “How will this happen?"

Halion’s expression softens. "Come to Dale and we will show you. Though I should warn you – there is a price."

Bilbo takes a deep breath, and his trembling hands finally still. Around him, the air silent, but he can imagine things moving. Orcs creeping through the plains, up the foothills. Elvish archers and dwarven swordsmen taking up positions. The air is ripe with tension – and he knows that soon it will burst. And Bilbo finds a grain of determination blossoming in his hart.

“I expected there to be,” Bilbo tells the priest, and he can’t quite keep his voice from shaking. What Halion proposes is madness – and yet the only solution Bilbo knows.

Halion watches Bilbo closely. "The ritual - the ceremony needed to render us corporeal enough to fight,” he states, “It may take your life."

Bilbo nods. His knees are weak, but he does not fear that prize. Not when it is necessary to fulfil his purpose and restore peace. "Agreed," he says grimly, and thinks “Agreed, and I hope this will be enough.”

Halion purses his lips, tilts his head. "You should not trade your life away so easily," he reprimands Bilbo, "And you should realize, that no matter how desperate the situation, I do not have the right to ask you to give your life."

Once upon a time Bilbo would have agreed. Once upon a time he would have taken his pack and set out on the way home long ago.

But he is not the same hobbit anymore, and now Bilbo thinks that this change is irreversible.

"I would probably die in battle, either way," Bilbo returns, " I can't fight, can't wield a sword - and I think my luck has run out already anyway. So I'd rather do something useful."

"You shouldn't give up this early, either," Haldion says gently, "But for once I will condone this madness, selfish as that might be. Though I would have you promise to hold on as long as possible."

"Very well," Bilbo agrees, touched. It warms his heart that this ghost cares – but he must know how futile this hope is. Not, when there are thousands of ghosts awaiting him and the ghost of one little boy was enough to render Bilbo bedridden for days.

But it is not his own survival that Bilbo has agreed to this bargain for. This for something greater – and he can only hope that one day his friends will understand.

Halion casts a gaze up to the rapidly darkening sky above them. "Time is growing short. Let us leave."

***

The ghosts of Dale welcome him. They swarm around him in good cheer, and the air is buzzing with their voices. Their translucent forms light ruins and brickwork, their clothes a shadow of rich patterns and heavy fabrics, and even the dead can feel determination.

Bilbo shudders as his is surrounded by ghosts as he follows Halion over rickety bridges, past destroyed palaces and continuously uphill. The air grows colder, and smells of snow.

"It is time," he hears a whisper that carries, and another announces, "We will be free."

Goosebumps rise on his arms, but Bilbo allows himself to be guided onto a huge square sitting before an enormous dome, half its roof long since collapsed. The tiles on the floor are covered in ash and debris, but Bilbo can see runes and scriptures and wonders what they will unleash.

A wind picks up, carrying to them whispers and soon, Bilbo thinks, soon the orcs will be upon them all.

Before him, Halion climbs atop a raised platform in the middle of the square. It’s cut from a stone Bilbo does not recognize, decorated in a script Bilbo cannot read. Madness, he tells himself, madness – because he cannot allow himself to be afraid or to hesitate, not when so much rides upon this mad gambit.

"The hour has come," Halion announces to a crowd of ghosts, "The dragon has been slain – and peace would be ours, but for a new darkness that has risen."

There gasps and tittering, and Bilbo casts a glance over the see of ever multiplying faces. So many, he thinks, so many that died when Smaug came.

Halion’s face darkens. “It is a darkness that would deny our peace evermore. It is a darkness worse than the dragon – and I will not let it pass. Therefore, tonight, those that are willing I ask to fight! To avenge ourselves and reclaim our peace! Tonight will decide our fates!”

The ghosts mumble, and a voice emerges, "How? How can we do this?"

Halion inclines his head, raises a hand and points to Bilbo in a wide, sweeping gesture. "One of Thorin’s companions, one from a far land and with a rare gift, Master Baggins here has agreed to lend us his strength. You recall the ancient rituals – you know that there is a way for the dead to fight – if one with the gift will lend their strength and asks us to rise. And tonight that moment has finally come."

A breathless cheer rises from the crowd. "Truly?" Bilbo hears a whisper, "After all this time, it is finally happening." He does not find any misgivings on the face gazing up at him, only expectant hope.

Then a man dressed in rich robes - the commander of the city watch, Bilbo realizes, but only, because Laketown has the same uniforms, if worn down by age and use - pushes forward, and inclines his head.

"Then we will fight for you," the commander says, and a cold gust of air tickles the skin on Bilbo's neck, "If you ask, we will give you our loyalty and our swords."

"You do not owe me or anybody down there a service," Bilbo replies, and he can't help the desperation that is in his voice, "I would not ask this of you, not you who already lost everything."

"And that is why we will help you," a young woman shouts, "There is nothing more we can lose. We can only gain from this battle - it is for our freedom, too!"

The shout of agreement goes up, louder than before, and when Bilbo looks up, the entire space has filled with ghosts. Even the streets leading away have become populated, and there are curios faces watching him from every window.

He gulps. "Very well."

"People of Dale, of Erebor, of Laketown. Years ago the dragon came and took all that you possessed. Now the dragon is gone, but there are orcs threatening your lands," he pauses. He has given speeches in the Shire before. But never like this. Never to rouse an army of ghosts to fight for him.

"In this hour, I would ask you: fight for me! Reclaim your homeland, and protect your legacy. I beg you, help me protect those that have return here to resettle those lands. Protect those that will restore happiness to these lands - help me in this, and I will do what I can to give you your peace!"

"We fight!" a high voice screams before Bilbo has even closed his mouth, and then the head guard raises his sword to the heaven and shouts, "To war!"

And the crowd takes it up. "To war! To war! To war!"

"To death and destruction," Halion adds, "So that tomorrow, the sun may rise in a brighter sky. Come now, Master Baggins, we have a ceremony to prepare."

***

The dim light grows weaker over Dale as evening falls, and outside Bilbo can hear the ghosts muttering amongst themselves. They seem more corporeal already, as if the destructive magic sunken so deeply into the ground was at last showing its true power.

Bilbo swallows and follows Halion into the large dome that thrones over the rest of Dale. A shudder runs down his spine.

“The orcs are drawing near,” Halion says, and then gestures for Bilbo to enter the building, “We must hurry.”

The dome is crumbling, and fire has melted away part of the ceiling. Still, the frescos remain, as do the traces of former splendor. Runes written onto the walls, into the floor – and Bilbo can tell that this ground is special.

He feels dizzy.

Halion casts a gentle smile at him. “It’s not too late to back out.”

And Bilbo takes a deep breath. Recalls laughing with Bofur. Kili’s and Fili’s annoying habit of cuddling up to whomever they slept next to. Dwalin’s hidden love of sweet things. Dori’s love of sewing.

The comfortable silences he shared with Thorin. His honest desire to retake Erebor, not for its gold, but for its people. So that their kind may have a home again.

The Arkenstone may have tainted those memories, but they are enough. Bilbo shakes his head. “No, let us do this.”

“Very well,” Halion states, “I do not know how the rules for Hobbits are, but men, if we do wish to see the dead or interact with them, we have to sacrifice a part of our live.”

Bilbo remembers dizziness, headaches and fatigue. “It weakens us. Not much under normal circumstances, though.”

But it may harm him. He is not healthy, and he is not planning to interact with a single ghost. There are thousands, thousands of lost souls in Dale, Erebor and Laketown awaiting his input in this spell.

He is not going to survive it.

Bilbo gulps, and Halion seems to pick up on his realization. But he does not address it, instead continuing to explain the ceremony. “You must concentrate on turning us corporeal. The runes here on the floor will help channel this wish into the land – I will activate the runes.”

This explains why the runes do look unlike anything Bilbo has ever seen before. It is not a dwarven script, nor any form of elvish Bilbo has ever seen. Perhaps some magic from the far east, the part of the world that not even Rivendell has maps of?

“Are you agreeing to this?” Halion asks and draws Bilbo from his contemplations, “I warn you again. This has never been attempted, and while my position as priest of Dale requires me to beseech you to do this, as a man I must warn you that this may very well kill you.”

Bilbo shivers. He does not have a death wish. But he cannot see a future, either. “If it must, I will pay that price,” he replies. And then forces a small smile. “And even if I turned back, I believe the orcs would find me before I’d even make it back to Laketown.”

***

Thorin is ducking and twisting, stabbing and hacking. He does not know how long ago this macabre dance has been going on, but his heart pounds steadily and the burn in his lungs in familiar.

A step to the side, a dodged blade, and Orcrist slices cleanly through Orc flesh. Dimly he is aware of the presence of his company around him, but the rush of battle has him blinded.

Hack, slash and repeat. A step back, a step to the side. Dodge, turn, advance. The Beat of this dance does not change, and it will not, even should he grow tired. There is no end to the orcs that keep coming; for every one he slays three new ones appear.

The battle is not going well, Thorin can tell. Even with three combined hosts, the numbers of the orcs are greater, and they fight with no care for life or limb.

The sun has set what feels like ages ago, and now only the fires render the night in a flickering glow. Few torches remain in their orderly positions; the fighting has disrupted all their earlier strategies. Orcs have a good night vision, but Thorin takes comfort in the ground under his feet.

He drives Orcrist into the chest of another orc, steps past him, and realizes that he is surrounded by strangers. Fili and Kili are out of his sight, and even Dwalin has gotten separated. Something twinges in his chest –

But they will be alright, he tells himself. Dwalin is a skilled warrior, and his nephews have the rest of the company and Dain’s host looking out for them. They must be alright. No matter how this battle ends, they must survive and bring about a future.

Even if he cannot be the one to place the crown on Fili’s head.

Thorin sucks in a sharp breath, and turns back to Erebor – how he got so far away, he does not remember – but then he sees him. Upon the crest of the hill to his right, the white body of the pale Orc glows in the fire’s shine.

Thorin’s mind grows blank. For a moment, the world is still, frozen in time and narrowed down only to Azog and himself. He remembers Moria. Thror. The harm the Defiler has caused the dwarves of Erebor over all the years.

Then Azog, too, sees Thorin and all unfreezes. Sound and movement return to the world, as a red haze spreads across Thorin’s vision. His hands tighten around Orcrist’s hilt.

“Azog,” he hisses.

And though there are many, many orcs between Thorin and Azog, they part for him easily, falling to his sword like flies. Blood is dripping off Orcrist, and Thorin’s face, but the burning fury in his chest subsumes it all.

A dark smile spreads across the Defiler’s face as Thorin cuts down the last orc between them.

“So the last one,” he sneers, “Has come to die. You stink of fear, just as your grandfather did.”

White hot rage is blinding him, leaving him beyond words, and Thorin smashes down Orcrist with a roar. Azog block, but is driven a step back, and his grimace turns feral. “I will cut off your head like his!” he promises, “And show your kind just how pathetic you were!”

His mace is up, and Thorin’s blood is boiling.

“And then I’ll cut off the heads of those two whelps, too,” Azog drawls, “Nail them on the front gate.”

Not Fili and Kili. Not his nephews.

Thorin throws himself at Azog, not caring if he leaves himself open, hacking and slashing, and Azog can’t keep up under the barrage of assault. The orc growls, but there is black blood running down his head, and he has to go back – however, Thorin follows, not stopping to breathe or recover.

His mind can only envision Azog exacting his revenge on his nephews. And he will not allow for this to happen.

Orcrist bites into orc flesh, cutting deep, and a choked howl falls from Azog’s lips, the Orc falling back and tearing the blade from his flesh. The damage is done, and Thorin thinks that this is the hour, this is when he will finally kill the Defiler –

And then something slams into his shoulder.

Just for a moment, and the arrow does not even penetrate his armor, but the impact throws Thorin of balance, and in the next breath, Azog is there, his mace held high, and it crashes down, against Thorin’s chest.

He is flying.

Just for the blink of an eye, then he hits the ground, no air in his lungs, and rolls, and rolls, and Azog is following, black blood smeared over his face and chest, and there is a limp to his step, but Thorin can’t get up, and his head won’t clear, and Azog is raising his mace again, and this can’t happen, this –

A shrill scream pierces the air. A noise Thorin has never heard before, a sound unlike any living being.

Azog glances aside. And then there is a blade buried in his back.

But this cannot be happening, Thorin thinks. This –

The orcs start screaming in terror. Men shout in confusion. Weapons are dropped. Azog gurgles, as the blade is pulled out. A dwarf holds it, his face familiar.

It cannot be –

“The dead! The dead have risen!” a man yells.

“Flee! Flee! Flee this cursed place!” an orc shouts across the plain.

There is a thud, and Thorin sees Azog’s body collapse onto the ground. Without breathing, he turns to look at the dwarf who saved him.

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Hail Thorin, King under the Mountain,” he says, “I am Noldir. Perhaps you remember me?”

Thorin’s head is spinning. He cannot believe what he is seeing, but cannot deny it either. Around him, the battle is drowned in a cacophony of screams.

“I – I… “ his voice fails.

Noldir inclines his head. “I died when Smaug came, you remember that correctly. But those of us that died that day, most of us never found our peace.”

He shrugs and turns to gaze out into the night. The fire makes him appear even more otherworldly, and true fear fills Thorin for the first time this night. This he does not understand. With battle, you die or you win.

There is no record of the dead winning a battle.

“We thought it was the dragon,” Noldir says, “But perhaps it was also the unrest sunk into the ground. One of your company has done his best to restore this peace, though you did not appreciate his actions.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin gasps, allowing himself to think about the hobbit for the first time this started. He did not dare before, because after all that has happened, he cannot accept that Bilbo may die so far from home and believing himself friendless.

With the goldsickness gone, clarity came with a bitter taste.

“Indeed,” Noldir nods, “And I think you ought to speak to him before this is over.”

“Why?” Thorin asks, before he can stop himself.

Noldir frowns, and Thorin suddenly realizes that he is still on the ground. “Do you truly think this comes without a price?”

No, Thorin thinks and swallows. Gazes at the battlefield, where the orcs don't stand a chance. When they see the ghosts, they panic. Their ranks fall apart, some flee, some are overrun. Within moments, the tide of the battle is turned. Where men and elves and dwarves were losing before, they now find their opponents running away.

This must come at a terrible price, he thinks and dread spreads through his chest. “Where is he?”

Noldir smiles grimly. “Come with me.”

***

Bilbo cannot feel the stone beneath him any longer. It is so cold, he can barely breathe, and his lungs burn. His heart is stuttering, and he concentrates on keeping it beating, keeping it going, even as his strength continues to drain out into the ground.

He can hear the roaring, the clatter of weapons, and shouts. Hopefully they herald victory, a battle won, but his vision is blurry. He can still see his hand where it rests on the floor, though it might be a stranger’s. It has gone white, and the fingertips are turning blue.

He is dying.

Bilbo holds no illusion that he may live to see the sunrise. He hopes that this effort is enough to win the battle. Enough to help the ghosts, too – they have suffered long enough. That is all he wishes.

In another lifetime, he may have longed to see his smial again. Walk the winding roads of Hobbiton, enjoy the feeling of the sun of his face. But that all has grown distant, and his mind is clam, his body sluggish.

He could close his eyes and fade away.

But he does not know if the battle is yet won, so he will cling on as long as he can.

Bilbo blinks as his vision further tilts, and then the door to the dome is abruptly thrown open. Two figures stumble in, and Bilbo doesn’t recognize them, but Halion turns, and they can’t interrupt this and then –

“Stop this madness!” Thorin shouts, hurrying over.

His heart stops. Thorin.

What is the King doing here?

Bilbo must pass out for a heartbeat, because all of a sudden, Thorin is leaning over him, pale and dirtied, and Halion is next to him, and Noldir is here as well.

“It is enough,” Halion tells him gently, “You can stop.”

“The battle is won,” Noldir announces, pleased.

“Bilbo,” Thorin whispers, reverently.

And suddenly relief crashes over Bilbo like a giant wave, and it’s the most pleasant form of drowning he has ever experienced. His vision fades in and out of black, and he can feel warm, corporeal hands reaching for him, drawing him off the floor, as the tension seeps from his body.

He can let go…

“Rest now,” Halion says, and reaches out to caress Bilbo’s face, “It is done. Peace is returning – we may linger for a few more days, but the land will recover.”

Noldir bows deeply. “You have our everlasting gratitude.”

Perhaps it is his vision, but Bilbo thinks they are fading. Their outlines are growing blurrier, less corporeal. Perhaps he has really succeeded at this impossible task.

So he hopes he gives them a smile, though he cannot quite move his face anymore. “’m glad.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin says, drawing the hobbit’s attention back to himself. And Bilbo realizes he is clutched in Thorin’s arms, though he cannot feel the embrace any longer. Already it is only Thorin’s shoulder holding up his head.

“You’re cold as ice,” Thorin mutters, “Bilbo, what have you – what can I do? Please, tell me! Please! Bilbo!”

There is nothing, Bilbo thinks. Nothing that can be done. But he is glad that there is no more madness clouding Thorin’s eyes. That he can spend these last, precious moments wrapped in Thorin’s arms, feeling beloved again.

It’s a good feeling to close his eyes to.

***

“Bilbo!” Thorin screams, “No! Bilbo! Don’t! Stay with me! Bilbo! Bilbo!”

He shakes the limp body, but Bilbo’s head lolls against his shoulder. The hobbit’s skin is freezing against his hands, and it’s like holding a doll, lifeless and unmoving, and Bilbo cannot be dead.

Cannot die here when Thorin has so much to make up for. When the hobbit is so far from his own home.

“No,” he murmurs, pressing his ear against Bilbo’s chest. But the heartbeat he finds is slowing, and he knows death is imminent.

Desperation floods his veins.

“Noldir!” Thorin shouts, turning panicked eyes onto the fading ghost. “Noldir! Tell me how – how to undo this!”

“It cannot be done,” Noldir shakes his head. The ghost beside him – a priest, Thorin guesses – tilts his head.

“How do I save him! Noldir, please!” Thorin does not care if he has to beg. He cannot let Bilbo die, not when he owes their little burglar so much. “Please! He won the battle for me! Please let me at least save his life!”

Noldir sighs sadly and averts his eyes, but the priest turns back to Thorin.

“Maybe,” he mutters, and even as he is fading, he approaches, “These runes on the floor, we used them to interact with the dead. But we do not know their origin, we never found out the scope of their powers – they have been transmitted from some older, far distant culture. But perhaps, perhaps they will grant your wish.”

The priest kneels down. “I will activate them. I cannot predict what happens. You might die.”

“But it could save him?” Thorin asks, one hand on Bilbo’s chest. The hobbit’s heartbeat is almost gone.

The priest sighs. “Perhaps.”

Then he mutters something, and the runes flare to life. And Thorin wishes for Bilbo’s survival more desperately than he ever wished for anything before.

***

Bilbo wakes, feeling warm and sore all over. His back is stiff and his chest tight, and the sun is making his nose itch. But it warns him not to open his eyes too quickly.

“Bilbo?” somebody asks, the voice familiar.

It’s Gloin, he recalls a split second later. And the memories follow. His dwarves, the quest, the dragon. The betrayal. The ghosts. Dying in Thorin’s arms.

“He’s awake!” Gloin shouts in the background, “Inform the King!”

He shouldn’t be awake.

The comfortable warmth vanishes, and Bilbo opens his eyes, trying to push himself up. Why is he still alive, when the last thing he remembers is dying? That blackness was final, so how was he pulled back? Or what –

“No, no, you stay down,” Gloin says, and a hand firmly presses him back into the mattress, “My head will be on a pike if I let you get up.”

“Gloin…” Bilbo mutters, shell shocked. The hand on his chest feels real, warm and alive. It does not pass through him either, and he can feel his own heart beating.

“What…?” he mumbles, but Gloin doesn’t hear him.

“After all the months of waiting, they’ll be glad that you’re awake. They’ve been worried, all of them. The lads, even the Lakemen and those elves – apparently your stunt with the Arkenstone did rather endear you to them,” Gloin says, “And, erhm, I will apologize on the behalf of all of us for not realizing what the treasure was doing to us. I think they all will want to apologize singly and properly later on, but that wasn’t our finest hour. I hope you’re willing to forgive us, and of course, if you want compensation, we will do what we can.”

Bilbo blinks, most of the words passing by without registering. He still cannot believe he is alive.

“Gloin…” he mutters, and finds his voice hoarse, “How…”

“Ah, sorry, here is some tea. Oin said tea rather than water after all that time, and you need soup, later, Bombur will surely make stew the moment he learns you’re awake. We’ve all been terribly worried, especially – “

Gloin’s rambling is cut short by a knock on the door, which is thrown open a split second later. Thorin stumbles in, completely out of breath, Balin, Dwalin, Fili and Kili on his heels.

“Awake?” he gasps, “He’s awake?”

Bilbo blinks. He doesn’t hear the other exclamations, his vision tunnels in on Thorin and the honest hope he finds on his face.

Something in his heart falls back into place. Thorin approaches the bed, before he sinks down to his knees next to Bilbo’s side.

“Master Baggins,” he whispers, reverently, “Bilbo…”

A hand is stretched out, but does not dare to touch. Up close, Bilbo sees the new lines in Thorin’s face. His hair, too, has more streaks of white and grey than before.

Bilbo forces his own trembling hand to meet Thorin’s and draws it to his chest. The dwarf’s hand is warm, and Thorin’s shoulders relax as he feels Bilbo’s heartbeat for himself.

“Bilbo,” he shakes his head and turns down his eyes, “I was so afraid I’d lost you.”

Bilbo swallows. Raises his eyes and finds all the dwarves gazing at him, and it feels surreal. It feels as warm as dying felt, and he can scarcely believe this is real.

“How…?” he rasps.

“Kili, Fili, will you go and look where Oin and the tea are?” Balin asks, clears his throat and steps forward, “I believe Gandalf can explain better than I can, but basically, you fed the ghosts your own life energy so they could fight and help us. Thorin then fed you some of his life force so that you did not die. But, as for the details, you will have to ask Gandalf.”

Bilbo blinks and turns to gaze at Thorin in wonder. The new wrinkles. The white hair. All for Bilbo’s own sake.

“You …” he whispers, and Thorin’s hand turns to grasp Bilbo’s in response.

“After all you have done for us. For me,” he mutters, “How could I not at least attempt to do the same?”

Bilbo remains speechless. After everything, even after his betrayal – the dwarves still care so much. This is –

“Your actions saved the day, laddie,” Dwalin growls from his place next to the door, “Twice. You should demand at least some groveling to make up for it.”

Balin nods with a chuckle, and Thorin looks as if he might cry, and Bilbo can only blink in disbelief. His mind is spinning, and he does not know where to look or what to say – then the door opens again and Oin marches him.

Takes one look at Bilbo and turns to the company. “Did I not tell you not to ambush the poor lad the moment he wakes? He’s about to pass out again.”

***

The second time Bilbo wakes it is to the sound of soft snores. He blinks and shuffles – his back is stiff, but his body feels not quite as weak. Still, he barely manages to lift his own head, much less pull himself up – his throat is dry – before his muscles tremble under the strain.

“Bilbo!” somebody exclaims, and Bilbo finds the snores have stopped. Instead, Thorin is sitting upright on the chair, watching Bilbo intently, “You’re awake!”

The hobbit nods and gestures to his throat.

“Of course,” Thorin mutters and holds out a mug that Bilbo gratefully accepts. Even drinking manages to be a chore – he’s truly pushed his body beyond its limits.

But then again, the white hairs on Thorin’s head are proof enough.

Bilbo swallows, feeling rather solemn all of a sudden. “Thank you,” he rasps, thinking he wouldn’t even be here if not for Thorin’s determination.

Thorin blinks. “Whatever for?” he asks, “I should be the one to thank you – though truly, what you did for us deserves a greater reward than I can give. And also, I need to apologize, though if you do not – “

“Stop,” Bilbo orders, and coughs, “Stop, I know. You weren’t yourself.”

“But I should have stopped it,” Thorin protests, “I knew what happened to my grandfather. And before I know it the same is happening to me and I don’t even realize it.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not asking you for forgiveness, Bilbo. You would forgive me, though I do not deserve it, and that would not help. I can see how tense you become in my presence – you may not be conscious of it, but it makes sense. I did almost kill you, after all. So let me seek my penance, and do not say you forgive me.”

Bilbo swallows. Thorin’s might be right, but to figure this out, he would have to remember. And right now Bilbo is glad to escape the memory of those terrible days, glad to simply rest and breathe.

“I’m … How long was I asleep?” he asks instead.

Thorin inclines his head. “You slept for a long time. Three days since you last woke. And two months before.”

“Two months?” Bilbo echoes, surprised.

Thorin nods. “Nobody knew if you were going to wake up - you were so still at first we thought we had lost you. But Gandalf came and said not to give up - and he was right, again.”

Bilbo nods, biting his lip. “Yes… but, two months. Back at home, by now they must think me dead for all purposes. They’re probably – “

His voice just fades out, a painful reminder that his body is still healing.

Thorin clears his throat. “I believe Gandalf said he would take care to inform your relatives that your return might be delayed.”

***

In the end, the delay is longer than Bilbo expected. His recovery takes months, and while the ghosts are gone, his health remains too delicate for travel for a long time. The dwarves coddle him, ply him with coats, blankets and hot food, but it’s almost a year before any of it begins to take effect.

And while his heart longs for his home, his extended stay allows him to see Erebor revive. The market hall is no longer filled with ghosts, the debris cleared from the entrance. Corridors are cleaned and airways unblocked. It is a slow change, but one day Bilbo realizes that Erebor feels no longer like a tomb. Life has gained a new foothold.

At the same time, age seems to catch up with Thorin. His back is bowed under responsibilities and guilt, nowadays. Bilbo wishes to forgive him, but the King will not hear this. Not yet, he says, not when Bilbo sometimes still flinches when Thorin reaches for him.

But they grow closer.

Until one evening Thorin asks if Bilbo would allow him to come to the Shire.

Erebor needs a new vision, he explains. He has reclaimed the mountain, but it cannot be the old kingdom anymore. Few dwarves today remember Erebor how it was, and the world has moved on since then. And Thorin is not growing any younger – he can feel it in his bones.

Bilbo looks at him with wide eyes as he realizes what Thorin proposes.

“I will leave the crown to Fili,” he explains, “He is young, but he is clever – he can rule. And if you will have me, I will accompany you and live the rest of my life in a gentler place.”

For a moment Bilbo thinks to protest. This is Thorin’s home, this is what he fought all his life to reclaim. Then it dawns on him – this, too, is a place filled with memories of a time that can never be reclaimed. Thorin fought for a home that no longer exists – and Bilbo’s heart aches for him.

He throws his arms around the King. “Of course, of course,” he mutters, “Come with me, come to the Shire. We, we’ll cause a scandal. Upset all the neighbors – steal carrots from farmer Maggot.”

Thorin chuckles and Bilbo buries his face in Thorin’s hair, feeling strong arms wrap carefully around his back. “We’ll spoil all my little cousins, and I think my grandmother, she’ll love you. And – “

And they will be happy. Bilbo can see it, now, finally, after so many years. He can see them sitting on the bench before his smial, smoking in silence as they watch life go on across Hobbiton. The sky will be clear and the flowers in bloom, and war and ghosts and bloodshed will be nothing but a distant memory.

The End