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Chapter Text

***

I am not resigned to the shutting away
of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been,
time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.
Crowned with lilies and with laurel they go;
but I am not resigned.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay,
Dirge Without Music

***

This is how it shall be, at the end of all things. The white of the air. The black of the earth.

The burden of the early winter storms was nothing to these ancient firs. Their branches reached like the arms of dancers, long and soft at the hands, perhaps about to spin in slow requiem. In that breath of stillness, right before a dark crescendo. Dís admired them, if grudgingly. Their iron stature, their low creak, the slow whisper to which a long life is meant to quiet. A deep life, fully-faceted, glowing with the wisdom earned through countless winters.

Deep, too, was their silence, for now Dís could hear nothing except for the occasional fall of a clump of snow, finally released from needle and bough. She had left her hunting party behind- dwarrow were not known for their stealth on land, after all. She could not hope to find game unless she broke far away, safety be damned. She knew these woods as well as her own chambers anyhow, having hunted with Víli and later Kíli, long before it became common to do so, and certainly before the recent string of harsh winters demanded it.

“A time of plenty will again come to the Blue Mountains,” Dís had argued with her brother one last time, the day he left with her sons to go across the world. “You need not go. One soft winter will turn our luck around.”

She’d insisted three hard winters in a row was impossible. She’d been wrong.

Whatever else she and Thorin couldn’t agree on that day, in this, at least, he’d been proven right.

Not that it mattered. She pushed thoughts of Thorin from her mind. She was here, and all was silent, and now that she was alone, her mind could be silent too. She’d been tracking a stag. She’d lost him- but now she was back on his trail. Deep, wide prints. One of the ancient race. A stag that size could feed two hundred dwarrow in a great feast, or several families for a whole winter. More importantly, it would bring fresh hope to her people. It would spur the other hunters. It would turn the tide despite the early snows.

You are not the only one who holds lofty dreams for our people-

Yet another moment, where Dís found herself arguing with her brother in her mind.

Mount Dolmed was a steady incline before her, and the sun was quickly falling behind its right shoulder. The trees scattered in every direction, each dark trunk like a corner of a maze. Dís cared not, feared not becoming lost. Dolmed gave away all the secrets of the woods. Knowing well this one mountain, no dwarf could lose their way for long.

Unexpectedly, the trees gave way to a glen, and Dís found herself drawn into its center, as though she needed fear no predator. The respite it gave from bark, branch and shadow was irresistible. Dís went to its center, took a deep breath, and lifted her gaze to trace its borders.

You know why I must do this, ‘Anai.

Dís shook her head violently, as though to shake her brother’s words from her head.

He had not sent word since defeating the dragon. Three weeks ago, that was. That beard-shaving, copper-fondling, arrogant… how dare he leave me in the dark, give no words of my sons on their ancestral thrones, as heirs and sister-sons-!!

“Thorin,” she allowed herself to whisper his name out loud, into the snow.

And that is when she saw it.

At the edge of the glen, as still as the deep blue firs surrounding it, the Stag she’d been trailing- silent and tremendous, antlers reaching far and high, a crown greater and heavier than any living thing could hope to bear. Spokes sharp and challenging. Dewdrops like diamonds from their edges seemed to dangle. The Stag himself had eyes as dark and deep as any cave that any dwarf had ever dared to delve. His head was already tilted just slightly to the side, regarding Dís with a deadly still curiosity.

Snow had begun to fall. The sun was sinking between the trees. Dís went utterly still.

If she moved, the Stag would scare off, faster than she could let fly an arrow. Her only hope was that it lost interest in her, looked away, even for a moment.

But it did not. It stared and stared, neither looking away nor running away. And still the snow fell, piling around them, filling the little glen. And still the sun fell, touching the roots of the trees off to the west so that its dying beams blazed sideways in its final moments. The dark was a deceptive grey, even to Dís whose eyes were meant for the dark.

And still the stag stared, and Dís could see its eyes glowing in the last strain of light, and the outline of its antlers was clear and strong, reaching into the air like lightning.

Dís was spellbound.

She dared not move. The snow piled up around her feet. She no longer felt her toes or fingers. True night was upon her. The full moon was rising in the east, and its sideways light lit the stag in a white fire once more. And still his eyes glowed, and his antlers reached, and a cloudy breath billowed out from his flared nostrils, like smoke from a dragon.

Dís fell to her knees. She did not know when the stag disappeared, but it was gone, and all around her was black shadow and moonlit snow.

The stag was clever, and she was dying.

Amád, Amád-

Her sons’ voices were clear as crystal in the night air around her. Her vision was clouding- but she could see them. Their worried eyes, their smiling faces.

“Am I…” She breathed. Her breaths were small, and she was so tired. “Am I dying?”

You can’t join us yet, Amád-

You have to stay, for now.

You have to wait for us. You have to wait patiently, do you understand?

You can’t come to us yet. You’re needed there.

“Fíli… Kíli… where are you…” Her eyes stung with cold tears. They froze before they fell down her cheek. “Why…”

Her voice was finding itself. It was becoming a low wail.

“Why are coming to me like this- where are you? Why are you not on your thrones? Your thrones, as my brother’s heirs… the bright Hall, the White Stone…” She was breathless, and yet she found breath for this. “Where is Thorin? Why are you not with him? Where are you… why are you here… and not with him…”

We’re sorry, Amád.

You will see us again, but for now you have to wait, do you understand?

We’re so sorry…

Dís roused herself, looked wildly around. There was nothing, but the silent snow-filled glen and the darkness.

“Fíli?? Kíli??”

There was nothing but silence and snow. Dís sank into its soft, cold oblivion, hearing the soft crunch of the snow as her cheek fell against it. How bright and soft it burned against her face. How the flakes teased at her lashes, beckoning her away from this new wild terror.

Do not worry, they tempted. There is no life where you must live without your sons. We can make certain of that.

The snow sang a tempting song indeed- soft and deep, deep as the life-long ache in her bones, that burned in her since she saw her own childhood burn. Later, Dís would have to admit: she was tempted, yes she was.

This was how Dís, daughter of Frís, learned that her sons were lost to her.

***

Chapter Text

The dead, Thorin was realising, are different from the living in two important ways. The first was that the dead had nothing left to prove. The second was that they had no escape from regret.

Six months had passed since the battle, as the living count it- but time felt different, now, both slipping from the hands like meaningless sand, and heavy with slowness, each time Thorin allowed himself to think of- but no- he would not.

Yes, time felt different to the dead- not just Thorin, but all dead who dwelt under the Mountains of Mahal- at the centre of which was the Hall where the Vala himself took audience. Where dwarrow could look upon their Maker, and even speak with him.

This Hall had been described to Thorin: bright, glowing like a great orb of fire- emanating from the forge within. The orb seemed to float, resting on nothing, and a deep, bottomless chasm yawned below it. The one path to the Hall was a narrow stone bridge impossibly suspended over the chasm. It was over a mile long.

The immense cavern, at the centre of which floated this orb-like Hall, was an orrery- massive models of numerous celestial bodies orbited the Hall. They were incredible works of shining metal. At the furthest reaches of the cavern, glowing constellations traversed the darkness.

At least, that was how it was described to Thorin. The purpose was clear- it was a measurement of time, in a place flung far on the other side of forever.

Thorin had not visited the Cavern of the Hall, had not appeared before his maker Mahal, though any and every dwarf could. Thorin had not been to many places at all in these Mountains of the Dwarven Dead. He avoided places, and people. He did not have to eat, after all, and join them in their feasts. Most days he stayed in his forge, heating and hammering one perfect sword after another. One for each of the hundreds who had died because of him.

Sometimes he would set aside his project, and simply stare into the fire. He felt he could turn into stone, if he stared long enough, sat still long enough. If he turned to stone, then forever would feel like nothing.

This was exactly what Thorin was doing, when Frerin knocked on the door. Thorin knew it was Frerin- only his little brother visited him these days. Others, he’d been able to scare off with his dark words or general cantankerous behaviour. And his nephews… well…

Thorin returned to his work, feeding the fire as Frerin let himself in.

“I see you’re pounding your misery into yet another exquisite weapon- you know your brothers in battle are all feasting at the great table of Mahal for Muhudtuzahmerag? Even if they do accept your Griever’s Gift, none will be interested in using them for swordplay today.”

Thorin grunted, reaching for his hammer.

“There is another, Thorin.”

The seriousness in Frerin’s tone made Thorin look up.

“So late? It’s been half a year. But if I missed one, I shall go see him. Take me to him.”

Frerin led Thorin on a winding path, to a remote corner he had never been to. Again, not that Thorin had been many places. Up many lifts and finally ending on a platform with winding stone steps, by the light of one torch, they climbed. More than a thousand of these steps, by Thorin’s guess, before arriving finally at a chamber open to the sky. It was nightfall. Stars spilled across the sky like face powder on black marble.

The chamber itself was utterly dark, but there were soft sounds and movements here and there, as though perhaps the chamber itself was alive. After a while, Thorin recognised the sounds. It had been a while since he heard them. They were the soft flutterings of wings.

Suddenly, a great shadow descended on the two dwarrow, blotting out the stars. Thorin had no time to think, but brought out his arm on instinct- upon it, a giant raven landed.

“Roäc!” Thorin recognised him immediately- but he seemed restored to his youth- no longer bald and decrepit, blinding in one eye- indeed now in the land of the dead he had seven eyes, and a third foot firmly grasped Thorin’s arm. Thorin politely ignored the changes. He could feel himself smiling- a rare occurrence these days.

“Friend of my Sire,” Roäc tilted his head in greeting, let out a soft squawk. “Let us go to a corner where we will not disturb those sleeping above. Follow me.” He lifted off from Thorin’s arm and flapped in great slow flaps, taking a path for Thorin and Frerin to follow, until they came to an alcove with a window carved out of the side of the mountain and reaching high up. Wind howled and seemed to swirl in the rafters. Roäc’s feathers tousled in the wind- but Thorin could feel it not.

“I did not know such a chamber existed, nor that Ravens could roost here.”

“Not just any can come to this place. We are the Ravens of Mahal, sought out by your Maker and invited to be of service in his mountains. Ravens can do many things after life, but it is certainly an honour to serve one of the Valar, especially the one who made the Sun.”

“So you are dead, then.”

“And at your fault, nadad!” Frerin interjected cheerfully. “Since you love making Griever’s Gifts instead of being with your family or learning from your ancestors, I thought you’d be happy to know you have one more to make.”

Thorin glowered at him, and Frerin met his eye with a glint of real anger. Frerin was the only one who had kept his patience with him, and now Thorin could see that perhaps he’d taken it for granted. He looked away, let out a sigh.

“I am… obligated…”

“You have all of eternity to make Griever’s Gifts, Thorin. Stop this madness.”

“Then why did you bring me here??!” Thorin snapped.

The silence hung thick in the air. Finally, Frerin spoke.

“It isn’t worth anything to see your friend, beyond lamenting how you faulted him?”

“It’s his life, Frerin!” Thorin gestured angrily toward Roäc, noticing dimly how rude he was being. Roäc let out a soft croon.

“You dwarrow are strange, how you think of life and death.”

As if agreeing, the wind picked up in the rafters, letting out a ghostly howl. The wood of the perches creaked.

Thorin took a deep breath, calmed himself.

“Forgive me, Roäc. You are a prince among Ravens, and I am acting rudely. Not just to you, but to all whom I’ve encountered here, even family.” He chanced a glance to Frerin, whose glare softened a bit. “Yet can you blame me, with the burden of guilt I have? I am the cause of so much death and destruction. Even yours, apparently. Praytell, how did you die?”

If Roäc could have smiled, he might have in that moment- it was hard to tell in the light of Frerin’s torch.

“After the battle at Erebor, I braved a journey to the Blue Mountains to deliver the message of your and your nephews’ deaths to your sister, the Lady Dís.”

Dís.

So this is why Frerin brought me here. To fight with me about Dís once more.

“The others said I was too old to fly so far,” Roäc continued, “But I wanted to be the one to tell her. She and my lifemate were close, when she was a hatchling in Erebor. But when I flew too near the Old Forest, I was shot down. By a Man of Bree, I believe, who thought I was an ill omen.”

“I am grieved, to discover this. Especially to hear that you were shot over the Old Forest. Your body fell in dark places. None shall recover it.”

“Only those who are bound to walk upon the earth care where their body is laid underneath it. But as it happens, my body was recovered. By a hobbit.”

A Hobbit.

Thorin’s heart thudded so hard in his chest he was sure the others could hear it. He had not allowed himself to think about the hobbit- whom he owed so much, whom he treated so badly. A thousand years of grieving could not clear his heart of this.

But he could not feel angry at his brother, even if Frerin had known about that. All he could feel was the sorrow flooding him.

The hobbit that found Roäc’s body could not be- there must be hundreds of hobbits. Thousands, possibly.

Roäc continued to preen under his wing.

“Understand well: for Ravens, life is the training ground for death. Life is the nest. In death, we fly the nest. My work has only just begun. You need not offer me your grief. Offer me, instead, your joy.”

“I offer…” It was hard to say it. Thorin had no joy in his heart to give. “I offer you my congratulations.” He reached out gently and stroked the sleek feathers on Roäc’s crest. Then, a thought occurred to him. “If you fell from the sky six months ago, why did you only just now appear here?”

“Ravens are busy folk, master Dwarf,” Roäc had a twinkle in his eye. “We have many things to do and places to go after we die, before we choose our next roost.”

“I envy you then, that you can move so freely between the Realms.”

Roäc’s look darkened, and he tilted his head sharply.

“You have some of that power, yourself, yet you do not use it. Do you truly not wish to speak to your sister?”

So even Roäc has heard.

“I did not mean-”

Frerin shook his head in disgust.

“Five times, nadad. Five times, she has tried-”

Finally, Thorin broke.

“I wish it more than anything!”

Roäc and Frerin went still at that.

“I wish it more than anything.” It was a relief to finally say the words out loud. “I wish to see my sister. More than anything. Of course I do. But she would not wish to see me.”

Roäc seemed to study Thorin for a long moment. Frerin seemed to want to say something, but he refrained, deferring to the Elder bird.

“Are you sure of that?”

Thorin had no answer to that. He looked between his little brother, from whom he was parted for a hundred years, and the Raven he met just days before his death. He could not tell what was behind the eyes of either- except perhaps a growing impatience with him.

“As it is,” he mumbled after a moment, “I have no words. There is nothing I can say to comfort her or take her down from this ledge. I have nothing to offer her.”

The first time Fíli, Kíli and Thorin saw Dís, it was like a veil had been drawn back. Dís was kneeling, in snow, clouded as though in a vision, although her voice was clear as day. Fíli and Kíli sank to their knees and wept. They called out to her, begged her to not yet come. To wait for them, as they were now waiting for her. They reached out, tried to touch her.

But Thorin held back.

The winter that unfolded from there stormed with brutal snows. Another Fell Winter, the Men in the towns were calling it, though the mountains got the worst of it. But even so, Dís kept returning to the woods, kept trailing the Stag that brought her to the brink of death. Five times, she found him again. Five times, she could do nothing but sink into the snow. But it bought her a few minutes- a precious few minutes- to see her sons, to talk to her sons once more.

But never Thorin.

He didn’t think he could explain it to them, even if he tried. How it felt to see her there, in the mists behind the veil. Her pleading eyes, her living breath. She would not see him, unless he appeared to her. But how could he? He robbed her of her sons. Her behaviour was so reckless. What might she do, if she saw him- worse- what would it do to her?

“You might be surprised,” Roäc crooned, as though reading the path of his thoughts. “I’ve delivered messages for a century and a half. Those who dare to speak can often find the right words, when the moment comes.”

Thorin gave a small nod. He did not agree- could not agree- but he would argue no longer. “Frerin is right.” He turned to his brother. “You’ve been right all along, nadai. Should she appear again in the mists, I will step forward, and I will speak to her.”

Frerin broke into a grin Thorin hadn’t seen in- he didn’t know how long. He stepped forward so abruptly, Roäc had to lift off. He clapped Thorin’s shoulder.

“I knew it. I knew you would see the truth. I must go- I must tell Fíli and Kíli right away. We will make preparations-” He stopped abruptly to regard his brother once more, suddenly embracing him. “I’ll see you soon. Do not worry. We will help you. You will be ready.” He took off down the winding steps.

Roäc had landed nearby, on a low perch.

“He loves you greatly, Thorin King Under the Mountain.”

“Do not call me that- please. If I could go back in time and leave behind that claim, I would gladly. I’d pass it on to Dís- she would have done a much better job with it, I think.”

Roäc fidgeted on his perch- perhaps still getting used to his third leg- then finally settled, letting out a low croon of agreement. They shared a moment of quiet.

Finally, he couldn’t bear it any longer.

“This hobbit…”

“A lass,” Roäc was so fast in his response, Thorin couldn’t doubt he’d been expecting the question. “Just began her tweens, if my judgement is correct. She found me within the Old Forest, and brought me to a farmland on its border. She and her friend buried me at the foot of a scarecrow.”

“A nice touch,” Thorin was able to rasp. It wounded deeper than he realised it would, to hear of the raven’s death.

“A kind gesture, and imaginative, as young hatchlings usually can be.”

The Raven tilted his head, regarding Thorin carefully.

“Your hobbit is heavy on your mind, I see.”

Thorin shifted uncomfortably. “He is not my hobbit. I have no claim over him.”

“No claim, no claim,” and Thorin remembered that Ravens tended to repeat words they found senseless. “We can watch over him, you know. We Ravens of Mahal can choose to render to a dwarf any service of which we are capable. We are invisible to the living. We would not be seen. We can even deliver things, as long as they are already in that world. Sadly, I cannot take anything to him from here. Nor can I speak to him. None can hear us- none of the races that walk on two legs, at least.”

Thorin knew he had no business considering Roäc’s proposal.

“I cannot impose on him like that. He would not want me reaching out to him.”

“So certain, you always are, that you are not wanted.”

Thorin closed his eyes.

“Some things are easier to destroy than most would like to admit,” he growled, “and my mistakes have been destructive, indeed.”

“Destructive, indeed. What about your sister, then? Your sister-sons already have a team of ravens watching her. And they have reached her through the Chamber of Mysts.”

That took Thorin aback. He had heard of the Chamber of Mysts- every dwarf learned quickly of this way to speak to their loved ones. Most, however, rarely tried it, if ever.

“That is a dangerous risk. Do they not deepen her torment, reaching into her dreams?”

“A dangerous risk. The ravens say she is calm in the mornings after they speak to her stone.”

“That is my sister-sons, however- not me.”

“Not you, so you insist,” Roäc might have sighed. Thorin couldn’t tell.

“What about the hobbit?”

“What about the hobbit?” Thorin realised that dwarrow, too, might have a habit of repeating things incomprehensible to them.

“Have you tried to speak to him, in his dreams?”

“Even if I could- but you know as well as I, I cannot. The Chamber of Mysts is for dwarrow alone. And even then, it must be close kin.”

“Dwarrow alone. You cannot. How do you know?”

“You must call on them by their dark name, of course. You must be close enough to them to know their dark name. That is how the danger is lessened.”

“And the hobbit doesn’t have a dark name?”

Thorin fell silent. But only for a moment.

“Of course not,” he said. “He is not a dwarf.”

“Of course not,” the Raven echoed.

***

Thorin couldn’t sleep. And sleeplessness led to walking for long hours along the exquisite corridors of the Halls of Waiting. But after many nights, Thorin could no longer deny that his wanderings were leading him to the Chamber of Mysts.

In front of its grey doors, in the silence and the torchlight, Thorin stood now.

He stood still as stone for long minutes before finally opening the door.

Thorin had not dared enter here before. Fíli and Kíli told him in energetic detail what he would find here. But that was not the same as finding it.

The mist was thick as the steam of water quelching hot iron- yet still as a tomb. A narrow path of crumbled stone laid before him was all he could see. He followed the path, his steps upon the gravel echoing all around him. This path knew him, as Fíli had described it would- it was for him and him alone. It would lead him to a stone that could help him.

Finally, he came to a small stone statue, little more than a pillar with delicate prongs holding a crystal. A large quartz-like crystal, clear yet laden with many deep and lovely cracks and fissures, reflecting softly the light of two torches at its sides that for the moment bade away the fog.

Thorin dare not try to reach his sister in her dreams. Not in the state she was in. Not until they could speak face to face- if through a veil, then at least with no illusions. But Roäc’s suggestion would not leave him at peace.

He spoke in a whisper out loud, knowing that first, the dark name was needed.

“Bilbo Baggins. Of the Shire.”

It wasn’t a dark name. It was a common name. But hobbits were straightforward folk, with few secrets. Maybe a common name would suffice.

The crystal glowed not. His nephews had said: when the crystal could grant his wish, it would glow. Thorin tried again.

“Bilbo son of Bungo. A Baggins of Bag End.” But for the torches, the air remained dark.

If Bilbo had a dark name, surely it was of a dwarvish nature. Dark names were a gift to dwarrow. What was Bilbo to his dwarf friends?

“Burglar.”

The crystal did not light. Suddenly Thorin caught himself, shook his head with almost a chuckle. His intended recipient may speak Westron, but these stones surely didn’t.

“Akdâmuthrab.”

Thief.

For one brief moment, it seemed like the crystal pulsed with light. But it was gone so quickly, Thorin could not be sure. So he pressed on.

The hobbit was not just any thief. He was contracted by Thorin and his Company. There was a different word for that.

“Tharabâl.” Burglar. Expert Treasure-hunter.

Nothing.

What did the hobbit steal, after all? It was not so simple as the boon of a troll’s pockets, or a dragon’s cup, or even the Arkenstone, from the line of Thror. From the Mountain.

From Thorin himself.

What did Bilbo steal, really? Beyond contracts. Beyond promises kept and broken.

Thorin took a deep breath, let his voice come out low as the song of the earth.

“Akdâmuthrab Kurduaz.”

Heart Thief.

The crystal glowed as quick as a candle. It glowed a bright light, a glow that seemed to live and pulse.

The way was open, for Thorin to speak.

But, Roäc’s advice be damned- He could not find the words at all. All he could find himself saying, over and over, as he sank to his knees, was:

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry-

I’m so sorry, ghivashel.

I’m so sorry.”

***

Chapter Text

It was not until they reached the western edge of Mirkwood, that Bilbo began to wake from the shock.

Until then, he was a ghost- in Dale, then Laketown, then beneath the shadow of Mirkwood’s canopy, as he and Gandalf took the old Forest Road- vague nightmares of the clacking of spider steps filled his sleeping hours, as his eyes closed each night to the soft glow of campfire surrounded by thick familiar shadow. But the nightmares were a relief- for a while, anyway, he could forget that Thorin was dead.

Perhaps Bilbo felt most out-of-body in King Thranduil’s halls. He must have looked normal, for no one remarked how he floated, or suddenly seemed to find himself in places, at this feast or at that gathering, surrounded by elves regaling the great epics or silly rhymes or playing instruments of fine woodland whimsy. They drank hard as dwarves and laughed with conspiracy- it was their laughter that always brought Bilbo back into the present moment. The ways it reminded him of his dwarven friends- or the ways in which it was so… unforgivably… different.

Other than their laughter, the days were a blur. At some point he shook the Woodland King’s hand, and received indulgent words- and every now and again, he saw the inscrutable mask of Gandalf’s face drop, and he looked upon Bilbo with pity. Bilbo hated it.

Once, and only once, did Bilbo give in to the temptation to don his magic ring and wander the deep dungeons. Invisible, he could let the silence sink into him. In the dark, he need not be anybody: neither honoured nor pitied. The torches of the dungeon cast no harsh shadows, so the dark was thick like velvet, as natural here as beneath the Lonely Mountain.

And so, deep into the night, Bilbo wandered its corridors, its winding stone stairs. He followed the watercourse of the portcullis that freed the Company, just a few months prior. He could hear their grumbling like echoes as each of the dwarves fumbled once more into their barrels, in Bilbo’s mind’s eye. As clear and real as the first time, back when Fíli and Kíli and Thorin were living.

Eventually, Bilbo made the decision: it was the most alive he’d felt in weeks. Each step sang in his bones- the cold of the stone floor, how true to silence his feet were. Down, Down, down he went- until he was in front of the very cell where Thorin had been kept prisoner.

He took off his ring and gripped the bars, exactly as he had before. He leaned his head against them. How badly he’d wanted to do that, to touch foreheads with the Dwarven king. He had not been brave enough. He’d battled spiders and parlayed with trolls- but he had not been brave enough for this.

Their long, whispered talk. The flash of his eyes, the humour in his brow- even in those dire circumstances. In his deepest, most secret thoughts and desires, Bilbo liked to think he was the cause of it: the quirk at the corner of his mouth, the radiant warmth in his gaze. But no- it must have been his ambitions rekindled. That’s what Bilbo’s daylight self told him. But had daylight ever seen a dungeon so deep?

Farewells to the Elven King and his entourage came and went- spider dreams returned as Bilbo and Gandalf camped along the Old Forest Road. Spider dreams that Bilbo would miss, once he was again at the house of Beorn. There the evenings were full of mirth and merrymaking as the Men who joined Beorn there carried out Yule feasts- but all Bilbo could hear was the singing of the dwarves: The wind was on the withered heath, but in the forest stirred no leaf- there shadows lay by night and day, and dark things silent crept beneath…

How changed the House of Beorn was: the fire in the centre, instead of eerie and hot in the summer evening, gave light and heat that was welcome now, in these dark winter days. Garlands hung from the rafters and candles lit every table. Now that the animals, walking on hind legs and doing Beorn’s bidding, no longer shocked and startled Bilbo, he could see that they were cheerful and pleasant. Many of the flowers in the garden still managed to bloom, and seemed unbothered by their soft dusting of snow. The bees were gone- asleep for the winter deep in their burrows and hives- but a stunning array of winter birds flitted and perched on the windowsills, berries and branches in their beaks to pad and stow in their nests in the rafters. Waxwings, bluejays, woodpeckers, nuthatches. Finches, titmouses, sparrows and starlings. But Bilbo’s favourite had always been the cardinal, its fiery wings so bright against the black of the branches and the white of the snow. Bright and alive, moving and flying- red and alive against the snow, alive, alive, so unlike the spilled blood-

Bilbo stayed away from the windows- spent most of Yule huddled by the fire.

It was spring, and a misty one if still bright with sun through fog by noon, and a fair one if still grey with soft rains- when Bilbo and Gandalf took their leave at last of Beorn, and on the road they were once more. At last they reached the very pass where the goblins had captured them before. But they came to that high point at morning, and looking backward they saw a white sun shining over the outstretched lands. There behind lay Mirkwood, blue in the distance, and darkly green at the nearer edge even in the spring. There far away was the Lonely Mountain at the edge of eyesight. On its highest peak snow yet unmelted was gleaming pale.

“So comes snow after fire,” Bilbo murmured as soft wind stirred around them. Gandalf pulled out his pipe and puffed on it.
“Snow after fire,” Gandalf hummed, “And even dragons have their endings.”
“And kings?” The words tumbled out of Bilbo before he could stop them.
“...Especially kings,” Gandalf muttered, and encircled the Lonely Mountain perfectly in a smoke ring. Bilbo felt like he might retch. He turned away.

It was on May the First that the two came back at last to the brink of the valley of Rivendell. Again it was evening, their ponies were tired, and rest was needed deeply. As they rode down the steep path, Bilbo heard the elves still singing in the trees, as if they had not stopped since he left- and as soon as they came down into the lower glades of the wood the elves burst into a song much of the same kind as before. They sang in Elvish, in lilting tones, words Bilbo could not hope to understand. Then they came out and greeted them, and led them across the water to the House of Elrond. They were led to the Hall of Fire, where many eager ears waited to hear tale of their adventures. Bilbo feigned drowsiness- nothing could make him want to speak. Not when every thought led back to the deep cavern where Thorin and Fíli and Kíli lay. To the Arkenstone that lay upon Thorin’s heart, now still as a stone itself.

Gandalf gave the tale in soft murmurs over many pipefulls. At last, true drowsiness came to Bilbo, and it seemed the crackle of the fire was the only sound that remained. He closed his eyes.

A mist rose up around him, and he found himself in a cool dark cavern, billowing with fog. A crystal set upon a stone glowed bright from within. And who should be kneeling there but Thorin Oakenshield. His hair tumbled over his shoulders like a waterfall, streaks of silver bright against jet black. No crown sat upon his brow.

Bilbo knew he was dreaming. This had to be a dream- but he was astounded at how real Thorin smelled. Like heated metal, like a forge fire, like sweat and stone and the cool earth- he smelled like the deep pine groves of their many camps, like strong Dwarvish pipeweed, like the wine of the barrels they hid in, like woodsmoke and sweet soft rain. He smelled… living.

And Bilbo knew he was dead. Bilbo knew… but it was as though he’d been offered one more moment with him. As though, if he reached forward, he could touch the worn leather of his tunic.

But Thorin would not rise from his knees. He would not look up at Bilbo with those piercing blue eyes. His face, in fact, was buried in his hands, and he rasped words of grief into the dark. Bilbo dared a step forward, knowing this was a dream, knowing it would end too soon- but he must hear what this phantom was saying-

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry, ghivashel. I’m so sorry.”

Bilbo woke, and the fire crackled the hard truth. The dream was over.

***

Bilbo came down from the chair, stepped outside to watch the slow pale of dawn. And the sorrow of Phantom Thorin’s words came down upon him like a hammer upon stone. And like the creature in the dream that haunted him so, he could only bury his face in his hands.

“Evil things do not come into this Valley,” Elrond’s placid voice floated on the air from behind him. “Except that which we bring in our hearts. And much evil has befallen you, Adventurer from the Shire. What, praytell, weighs your heart so?”

Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat- the sharpness of Thorin’s scent was still overwhelmingly alive in him. His heart raced.

“It is… a small thing, really,” Bilbo’s words were quick and light, and he tried to hide his breathlessness. “I only… wish I picked up more Dwarvish on this long adventure…. All this way and nothing to show for it! But wouldn’t it be nice to say something friendly to the Dwarves who come through the Shire to and from the Blue Mountains? I say, you don’t… happen to know what ghivashel means, do you? I think I heard that one, once or twice.”

Elrond raised an eyebrow, but remained imperturbable otherwise.

“This was said in your presence?”

Bilbo considered this. Was it in his presence, if it was a dream? But then, where did the word come from? He must have heard it before, or else why would it come to him in his sleep? On the other hand, he couldn’t remember when it was said…

Bilbo knew his hesitation was answer enough. He met Elrond’s eye. “Not… not exactly…”

The Elf lord shook his head in regret.

“I’m sorry to say, I cannot teach you any Dwarvish. You might not have been aware of this, but dwarves are very secretive about their language. They very rarely speak it, except among their own kind.”

“But you speak Dwarvish… a-and Ancient Dwarvish! And you being an Elf, at that! Not to offend, of course, I just meant-”

“It’s true,” Elrond gave a soft smile, “I do. I was a friend to Dwarven kind at the time of the First Exile of the Dwarves, more than an age ago. Those I was company to saw wisdom in teaching their language to one of the Undying- a way to keep their culture and language alive, in a time of great uncertainty- when home, hearth, and all they valued seemed lost. However, they swore me to secrecy, and I promised to translate and teach only to Dwarves, and those whom Dwarves consented to witness. Since the Dwarf King and his advisor seemed unbothered by your and Gandalf’s presence when he showed me the map, I took that to mean he consented to your witnessing at the time. But… I cannot extend that to you now. Not without expressed permission from a Dwarf.”

Bilbo felt himself nodding. He ignored the slightly sick feeling in his stomach.

“Was that word… perchance… spoken by Thorin Oakenshield?”

Bilbo’s heart raced. He gave no answer, but Elrond nodded sagely.

“Yes… I thought as much. Thorin Oakenshield was possessed with strong feelings. You probably heard him say that word about the Arkenstone. Rest assured, Bilbo. The King is at peace, now. Such evil cannot follow him where he has gone, nor can it follow you here, if you find the strength in your heart to let it go now.”

“Where has he gone, then?” Bilbo said it quickly, before any of the Elf lord’s other words could reach him.

“Did he not tell you? Gandalf told me you spoke with him on his deathbed.”

“He said… he was returning to the halls of his ancestors, to sit with them.”

Elrond gave a sigh of relief.

“Yes, Bilbo. I am glad he said that much. Then I can at least tell you this: Dwarves, when they die, go to the Halls of their Maker, Aüle, under a great mountain in the far west moulded and shaped by Aüle and blessed by the power of Mandos to hold the Dwarven dead. I see the shadows in your eyes, that were not there when last you came to my House. Be comforted, Bilbo Baggins, that the dwarves you saw die on the battlefield and the friends you lost are now among their brethren and ancestors, in the great hall of their maker, where they will reside in joy and companionship until the remaking of the world. Men- even kings of men- cannot boast such assurance upon death.”

“And… what of hobbits?” Again, the words tumbled out so quickly. If Bilbo let himself think about everything said, he might start to weep and never stop.

“Ah…” Elrond stared off into the brightening pale. Soon the sun would rise, casting soft rays onto the white roses opening softly in his garden. “I have never known a hobbit to worry about his final resting place.”

“Well,” Bilbo cleared his throat. “We hobbits have never thought much beyond the burial. We certainly like dirt and worms well enough. And we’re an easily satisfied folk after all.” He straightened his waistcoat, grateful for a moment to express his old dignity.

Elrond chuckled. “Yes, of course. But who could blame a hobbit for wondering more? Especially one who has seen so much of the wide world. But Bilbo, if languages and culture interest you, I am happy to teach you as much Elvish as I can, while you are here- and send with you on the last leg of your journey as many helpful books as your pony wishes to carry.”

Lord Elrond did indeed bestow upon Bilbo many tomes- great tales, epic poems, and a massive lexicon useful for translation. A book on Elvish script; songs of their greatest heroes and heroines. Bilbo didn’t have the heart to refuse the gift. And if he was honest with himself, the lessons the Elf lord gave him over the next few days were a much needed distraction.

It was to singing again that Bilbo fell asleep a week later on his last night in the Last Homely House, and this time, it was in the Common Tongue.

Sing we now softly, and dreams let us weave him!
Wind him in slumber and there let us leave him!
The wanderer sleepeth. Now soft be his pillow!
Lullaby, lullaby, Alder and Willow!

Sigh no more Pine, till the wind of the moon!
Fall Moon! Dark be the land!
Hush, Hush, Oak, Ash and Thorn!
Hushed be all water, till dawn is at hand.

In the morning, Bilbo and Gandalf rode away from that fair House.

Even as they left the Valley, the sky darkened in the west before them, and rain came up to meet them. There had been comfort, as soft and small as it was, in that house, Bilbo could admit to himself.

“Merry is Maytime,” he found himself saying- words from an old rhyme, though he couldn’t recall the rest. “But our back is to legends and we are coming home. I suppose this is the first taste of it.”

“There is a long road yet,” said Gandalf.

“But this is the last road,” said Bilbo.

“Not the last road for you, Bilbo Baggins,” There was a darkness in Gandalf’s gaze. “Not by half, I daresay.”

That moment with Gandalf felt like… for a moment… he came up for air. Even though it was with foreboding, Gandalf spoke as if there was a future. He didn’t know if he could believe it. He didn’t even know if he wanted it. A future without everything he’d gained and held for such a short time. But if Gandalf spoke it, it had to at least be a possibility. It made Bilbo feel… awake. And he felt that way again, when he and Gandalf finally parted ways on the borders of the Shire, and echoed a similar sentiment.

“Will I see you again, someday?” Bilbo couldn’t help but ask.

“You will indeed, my dear hobbit! I’m certain of it. Now, I have business a bit farther down the road. I’ll see you off here, if you don’t greatly mind. And do not worry-” Gandalf said with a wink. “More adventures await you yet. Though not before you’ve had plenty of time back with your tea kettle and your armchair!”

Bilbo took a deep breath, steadied himself, and gave the wizard a tight embrace. Gandalf would be the last person he’d see for who knew how long, who knew what he’d been through. He watched Gandalf disappear around the bend. Then, sighing, he turned toward home.

And when he continued down the forest path alone, he could see the lush undergrowth, he could smell the summer blossoms. For a little while, at least, that’s all that existed. The beginning of the familiar. It was many quiet days before he would reach Hobbiton. But he walked on, and took solace in the quiet. He walked until the path became a road, and the road turned to a lane, and the lane turned into Bagshot Row. Bilbo was faintly surprised, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he saw no neighbours out and about, no gardeners gardening. Where was everyone? There was no dragon to hide from! Bilbo inexplicably found himself getting annoyed.

“Hobbits!” He scoffed. “Barricading themselves against anything unfamiliar. I’m not that changed, you know!” He found himself yelling to the empty gardens and dark smials. “You’ll know me just fine once I’ve… bathed…” He sniffed himself. Well, he didn’t smell like summer blossoms, that was certain. “I’m not an orc! I’m not a… thief…”

A noise up ahead saved Bilbo from his own thoughts.

“Thief!” He cried, as he turned the bend to find two of his neighbours carrying his very own bedroom bureau. “What on earth are you doing with my mother’s bureau?”

The two hobbits stared at him blankly as if they didn’t know what they were seeing. But another noise caused Bilbo to look away, and as soon as he did, they started their haul again. “Wait- stop-” Bilbo tried weakly, but couldn’t ignore what he’d seen up ahead- crowds and crowds, in front of Bag End.

They’ve gathered to welcome me, some part of Bilbo tried to reason, tried to make sense of what he was seeing. And suddenly he was gone, imagining what it might be like to return to Erebor someday, and be greeted at the ramparts like this, by all of his friends. It would be just like when he said goodbye to them, all lined up just like that, only Fíli and Kíli and Thorin would be there, because they weren’t dead, they were just waiting for him to come back, and when he came back, they would be right there, with everyone else, waving and smiling, and ready to embrace him, and Thorin would embrace him last and hardest of all, because he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t…

“He’s dead!” A shrill voice silenced the murmur of the crowd, and Bilbo was back in front of Bag End. The owner of the voice shoved through the crowd.

“He’s dead,” Lobelia Sackville-Baggins insisted again: “Bilbo Baggins is dead, and whoever this imposter-”

“If you say he’s dead one more time I’ll do you in myself, Lobelia, AND YOU CAN JOIN HIM!”

Bilbo had no idea a roar like that could come out of him, but there it was, and the entire crowd scattered before he could sigh out his exhaustion. Because he was suddenly very, very exhausted. He plodded into the smial and didn’t bother to shut the door behind him. He dropped his bags- he numbly returned outside, freed his pony from the chests and satchels of books, dropped them all right in the front hall, and made it to the hearth before collapsing onto the floor.

Afternoon deepened into evening.

In the light of the setting sun, Bilbo finally rose. He wandered through the dishevelled, mostly empty rooms. One by one, each revealing an emptiness there he had never known. He thought suddenly of his childhood, his parents dancing with him through these rooms. All their things had been taken. Their cosy bed, their tea sets. Bilbo felt like he could throw up- but he’d have nothing to clean it up with, if he did. His chest was so heavy. He needed fresh air. He came back to the entryway, ran a hand along the row of empty hooks. Green hood, brown hood, grey hood, rust; mustard-yellow, mulberry; lilac grey, blood red, brown, olive green.

And Thorin’s… Thorin’s was the color of the line of Durin.

Bilbo had reached the end of the row of coat hooks. He stepped out the open door, over the threshold, and closed that big, round green door behind him. He sat on the step.

The garden before him was mostly trampled- but even if it hadn’t been, Bilbo had to admit he did leave it behind for a year. It was bound to turn feral, and in the moonlight, even the weeds glowed. Bilbo looked up at the moon, high and lighting in white fire a few sailing clouds. Moonlight, now softer and tamer than when it shone so wildly upon the keyhole of the hidden door.

The door…

Bilbo felt his hair stand on end. The door. They trampled the garden, they stole all his belongings… had they done anything to the door?

Bilbo turned around to the door behind him. The markings were there and undamaged. Bilbo heaved a great sigh of relief. Gandalf had told him what they meant: “Expert treasure-hunter wants a good job, plenty of excitement and a reasonable reward.” At some point along the road, he showed Bilbo what they meant, each of the three runes loosely woven together.

Burglar. Danger. Treasure.

Bilbo traced their etching with his finger, over and over. Over and over, until their image was blurred by tears, and Bilbo’s choked sobs made his hands shake. He leaned his head against the door. The moon set before his tears stopped, and he finally slept.

***

The songbirds of the Shire were louder than Bilbo remembered.

The hobbit squinted against the sun, felt the heat of it on his face. It was morning, and Bilbo was on his front doorstep. He sat up, looked around, dazed. Slowly, the events of yesterday came back to him. He stood, walked numbly to his garden bench, straightened his waistcoat, dusted it off- a last habit of decorum. Not that it mattered. His reputation was ruined, and it was the least of all that he had lost. He sat down. He didn’t check the mail. He didn’t fumble for his pipe.

“Hullo there, Mr. Baggins! It’s mighty fine to see ya, sir!””

Bilbo looked up. Hobson Gamgee from down at the end of Bagshot Row was leaning on the gate, chewing on a piece of long grass.

"Folks been sayin’ you were long gone but I’m glad to see it weren't so!"

Bilbo wanted to bury his face in his hands and hide from the world, but Hob had always been a kind neighbour, and Bilbo vaguely recalled him being the only one yesterday trying to get the others off Bilbo’s prize begonias.

“Y’know, I do believe ol’ Grubbs was a’ keepin’ a list a’ yer belongins’, ye could likely track ‘em down an’ get most everythin’ back, I reckon.”

Bilbo gave a distant nod. He forced himself to take a breath, find something to say in response. He looked around.

“Yes… well perhaps they will be easier to bring back than this garden.”

“Aye…” Hobson looked thoughtful. “Ye’ve been gone quite a while, sir. Seen many a flower an’ weed on yer travels, I’d wager.”

Bilbo couldn’t say anything. He could feel Hob studying him. Hob continued.

“Mayhap ye can take what ye saw and bring a piece a’ that t’yer own garden.”

Bilbo looked up, and felt like he was seeing the farmer for the first time. Hob's smile was kind and his eyes were soft. Bilbo hadn't expected this kindness. He blinked back tears.

“That’s… that’s a fine idea,” Bilbo sat up a bit straighter. “You wouldn't perhaps... like to take some work in the garden? I could certainly use the…”

The company. Bilbo couldn’t say it. He started again.

“I could use your wisdom on the matter.”

Hob put a hand on his heart. “Thank ye for the kind words, sir, but I’m ‘fraid I’m a bit too busy, what with the fields and the missus and the youngins’ and me ropin’ business. But my Hamfast is just ‘bout the age to take on a job, an’ I taught ‘em everything I know. I’ll bring ‘em by later today, after he’s helped his ma’ in the kitchen.”

Bilbo could only nod his thanks.

“Ah, it looks like ye got somethin’ on yer doorstep.”

Bilbo closed his eyes, squeezed them shut. He wasn’t ready to talk about the mark on the door. No one was going to pressure him about it, not without getting an earful. In fact, Bilbo never wanted to paint that door again.

“Strange deliv’ry, if y’ask me.”

Bilbo opened his eyes. He turned around. There was no way a delivery could have come without his noticing. And there was nothing on the doorstep when he had woken up.

But there it was, right under the mark on the door.

Bilbo knew exactly what it was, exactly what it meant.

It was a warning.

***

Chapter Text

”Her other problem is,
She is restless.
She gets fired up with passion.
That’s why she never stays in one place for too long.
There is a demon on her path
And he keeps luring her back to misery.
So she follows him,
Because she is obliged to wander:
That’s how destiny works.”

Nguyễn Du, The Song of Kiều

Even if Dís didn’t have a habit of punishing herself for her failures, they followed her around well enough. Literally. Through the corridors. To her meals. In the form of two advisors: sometimes many yards back, sometimes directly apace with her, bringing to her some concern or begging a decision on a matter of little consequence. Always two, and only from the High Council- anything less would be an insult, and they dared not. Besides. It would blow their flimsy cover that they needed her, instead of the truth: they were against her. They didn’t trust her. They thought she was a madwoman. If they could, they’d simply put her in chains like a prisoner. This was what enraged her. She was no criminal. She brought no danger to others, asked no one to aid her. She just needed the freedom to pursue this one thing.

The footsteps of her followers echoed more closely. She was done reasoning with them. Anyway, they couldn’t understand how it felt. To speak with them, clear as day. To see them, unclouded. When they visited her in dreams, their presence was so powerful. The smell of their hair. The sound of their voices. But it was as though through a mist, and burdened with confusion. This way, there was nothing keeping them apart. She need merely reach for them, if she chose.

And, of course, she was going to kill that Stag.

Her clumsy guards had almost caught up with her, but Dís would have none of it today. She reached the door to her chambers. They called out to her, but she ignored them, slamming the door behind her. Right in their faces, she hoped.

The lanterns in her entryway were already lit. She knew what that meant. Bracing herself, she called out casually as she hung her cloak:

“I’ll see no one today. Just because you happen to already be here, doesn’t mean I can’t throw you out.”

“A pleasure to finally put a voice to the name, Dís daughter of Frís.” The voice was one she’d never heard before. She took a throwing hatchet off the wall, spun it in her hand by its neck.

“Who are you, to speak to me in this way? We are not familiar.” She rounded the corner.

Dís could not remember ever seeing the face of this wizened old man in her receiving room. He was running long fingers through the flame of the oil lamp. The play of his fingers was deft and soft, casting shadows upon the wall which then danced of their own accord.

“Who are you…” She repeated, though as she said it, the dread rising in her told her she already knew the answer.

“I’m Gandalf the Grey, though among your people I am known as Tharkûn.”

Her grip tightened on the hatchet.

“Get out. I should run you through this very moment.”

“Milady, your brother-”

“Leave my brother out of this. He is worse even than you, and yet he enjoys the sweet luck of being dead already. Though if he were living, and dared offer me his neck in recompence, still I would sever his head from it.”

“This…” The wizard began carefully, “is not the Dís whom I was told so lovingly about. The dam who laughed often and loved family more than all else.”

Dís scoffed, hot with anger at the image of her brother disclosing such personal thoughts about her. Especially to one such as this.

“Would you laugh ever again, if the craft of your heart was taken from you? Family was my heart’s only desire, and never have I seen it flourish. First Frerin was taken- then my husband. And now the last of my family is gone. My sons.” The grief tightened in her throat, threatened to strangle. “I have nothing- I am left with nothing, with no heart in my body. So no. No dwarf would have described me as this. But this is what I am, and what I am is ready to kill you for daring to show your face here.”

It was more than she wanted to say. It was more than the wizard deserved. Perhaps she said it because no one else dared speak to her these days, except to fawn. Where was Thorin when she needed-

She stopped that thought in its tracks. It was Thorin’s own fault he was not here to challenge her, confront her, be the brotherly match for her he always was. Why… why didn’t he…

“Would you prefer I show my face in the woods, where you go to flirt with death for a moment with your sons?”

“I go into the woods to bring back the Stag,” she slammed the hatchet on the heavy wooden table. “On whose venison my people shall feast.”

“Yet your sons do speak to you there.”

Who spoke to this wizard? Who told him? Spies, all around her. Spies and betrayers everywhere. It was her business, and her business alone, what words she spoke in the silence and the snow.

“My lady… do not forget that there is madness in your line, and your actions of late do not speak to clarity of thought.”

“How dare you. I have never thought more clearly in my life. It’s clear to me now, that I should never have let my sons leave my side. That I should never have let Thorin…” To her surprise, she choked on his name. A gasp, a half-sob, suddenly came out.

“I will prove him wrong- we could have had a good life here. We could have…”

“Thorin is no longer here to prove anything to. Lady Dís, I have journeyed long and far, coming from Erebor and journeying these last months, over hill and under tree-”

“Over hill? You went through the Shire? You were escorting the burglar, then.” She blurted it out before she had time to think. She didn’t want the wizard to know how much she knew about the halfling- yet she had to admit to herself, she wanted to know more.

“Indeed I was,” Gandalf hesitated, and Dís couldn’t tell if he wanted to ask more, or if he was hiding things. Perhaps both, just like her. She watched the wizard carefully now. He was hunched over, head close to the ceiling, weathered face, beard and robes half in shadow. What was he hiding? What might he reveal?

“The burglar is well, then.”

“Yes, indeed he is, and loaded down with a great deal of treasure, as surely your brother would have wished.”

“His share of the gold.”

“No… not quite. He gave away his share of the dragon’s hoard. What treasure he has now is from the cave of a troll which he helped to defeat. And some books as well, from the library of Imladris.”

“A strange creature,” Dís said slowly, “To give away such value. Wondrous things could have been fashioned out of that gold, from his smelter.”

“Ah… Bilbo Baggins has no smelter. Or… should I say… it is flowers that he fashions, out of soil, from his smelter.”

“A garden,” Dís said, after a beat. “Well…” she let out a sigh. “He aided my sons through many dangers. I am glad he lives to forge his flowers once more.”

The wizard let out a soft sigh, sounding relieved and weary all at once. The flames swayed placidly in their lanterns.

“Yes, well… I have seen him safely to the Shire and come directly here. With tidings and council, if you can bear to hear it.”

Dís was weary too, but not enough to give up the fight.

“I cannot. How can you think your words will be welcome here? Whatever you said to my brother-”

“He had been waiting his entire life for this opportunity. I merely gave to him what your father begged for him to have.”

“You don’t know that. Our father was tortured into madness beyond words. Perhaps he wished for you to bury the map and key away, for none to find. Presumptuous of you to make a king’s decisions for him.”

“Your brother agreed with me-”

“Tainted by the madness of our line, let me remind you, since you are so eager to bring that up. Madness in his case you were willing to use to your advantage. So why hold my own madness against me? Why not leave me alone?”

“Please- some of Thorin’s last words were to beg me to seek you out. To console you, council you if I could.”

Dís sighed heavily.

“You cannot console me. Indeed, you’ve done the opposite of console me for most of this conversation. Therefore council me, if you must. But I am of a mind to defy you- you can’t imagine you would have found me of any other mind. And if you don’t understand why, let me spell it out for you now: Thorin’s lifelong ambitions aside, if you did not have your chance meeting with him in that man-village, I would still have my sons.”

The lanterns flickered for a moment, as though a draft came through the room. Dís motioned for the wizard to sit at the heavy oak table- then sat down herself opposite him. She kept the hatchet on the table between them.

“If,” The wizard began softly, “I did not have my chance meeting with Thorin Oakenshield, you might indeed still have your sons. But there would still be a dragon willing to set fire to all of the north, once the right evil tempted him. A dragon could destroy the Shire in an afternoon, the Blue Mountains in a day-”

“We could defend ourselves. We could remain hidden. We are not open and vulnerable like Erebor.”

“For how long, praytell? You cannot deny it: your resources have been spread so thin that every spare hand has been driven into the woods to hunt. Including yourself. Trade routes are dried up. Three harsh winters in a row now. One more bad harvest and your people will starve. Gold there might not be here, not enough to tempt Smaug- but other evils tempt in other ways.”

“What are you saying, Wizard? That a dragon that slept for a century and a half was truly a threat to all of the north, even here?”

“I’m saying all of that and more. I’m saying leave this place, and take up your seat on the council in Erebor. Lend your aid in ruling the mountain your brother and sons gave their lives to reclaim. Lead your people there, my lady- finish the work your brother began. Give a better life to your people- one where they are not one bad harvest from ruin.”

The wizard took a breath, leaned toward her, his eyes aglow in the lantern light.

“Your sons did not die in vain. They helped defeat one of the darkest powers remaining in Middle Earth. One that would have set ablaze all that is good, if tempted enough, and believe me, that temptation was coming. An evil is rising in this land. And you, my lady, I’m sorry to say, have felt it the worst. You have lost your whole family to it. Will you not rise from this madness, and lead your people to a better life? Will you not fight the evil that has destroyed everything you love? Would you not do everything you can to prevent what has happened to you from happening to others?”

Dís was silent for a long time.

“I cannot say I have the strength to perform such lofty deeds, Wizard. As it is, I do not bar my people from making the journey to Erebor. Many have already started. But I myself cannot go until I kill the Stag.”

“You must know by now, that he is no ordinary stag. He is the King of Stags. He is trying to kill you. Dwarrow, men and elves all have ventured into his lands, hunting his people, his subjects, his kith and kin.”

“How do you know this?”

“I talked to him, of course.” Dís threw her hands up and rolled her eyes, but Gandalf did not stop.

“He will not attack you outright, but he will continue to lure you and render you senseless, until one day you fall in the snow and no one finds you in time to save you.”

“I will kill him!” She slammed her fists on the table. “I will kill him and no one in this mountain will go hungry. And we will drink the darkest wine west of Rhûn from the horns of his antlers. And Thorin will rue the day he thought he could make a better life than this."

The wizard looked like he’d been slapped in the face.He stood, and gathered his robes around him.

“I see there’s no swaying you. Give Thorin my best, when you join him in the afterlife, since you will have nothing else to offer him when you get there.” He swept past her and disappeared from her chambers.

When the door slammed behind him, all the lanterns flickered dark.

***

This time, Dís waited for full dark before starting out for Mount Dolmed.

Her bow was strapped to her back. Kíli had made it for her, he had finished it just before he left with Thorin. The balance was exquisite. In her hand was a lantern. Fíli had made it. His runework was unsurpassed. Only when she was far out of view of Gabilgathol did she dare light it.

The journey to Mount Dolmed would take half the night, but she cared not. She ran, strong and steady, and the whole way, her heart soared. She would find the Stag tonight. And when she struck it with her arrow, it would weep tears of blood.

***

Chapter Text

There was no sound but the crunch of snow beneath her feet.

The trees around her leaned and creaked. How gnarled they were, twisted and deranged in their long life. How sadly their branches drooped, like tired old men. Like that damned wizard over his staff. Why should these trees persist when the young and valiant die so swiftly? What do they offer, but shadows for beasts to hide in?

It was an hour before dawn when Dís broke the treeline of Mount Dolmed and came upon the first slopes of deep snow. Moonlight flooded down, soft and glittering upon the snow like a thousand diamonds. Dís set down Fíli’s lantern at the edge of the trees. It still glowed strong, and she let the flame continue to burn in its nest in the snow. She readied Kíli’s bow, arrow knocked and firm against her arm as she continued on. She gripped the bow tightly. She was close, she could feel it.

A scramble, up boulders, and then a new clearing- clouds were rolling in over the moon, swift and sailing in dark billows. Shadows raced over the mountainside. Just as true dark fell upon the mountain, Dís spotted him.

It mattered not that the moon was lost. He glowed of his own accord.

I will kill him, Dís insisted- to whom, she could not say. She no longer feared scaring him off. She drew her bow.

And then suddenly she was on her knees, kneeling before the King of Stags, her bow useless in her lap. She could not stand. She could not move. Her gaze was locked with the Stag’s, the black orbs of his eyes, mist of his breath rising around them. What did he see, when he looked at her? She wondered vaguely. Mist rose from the snow as though a great heat were upon it. And in the mist appeared a veil so familiar now.

“Fíli! Kíli!” She whispered to the veil. But only one figure appeared- a figure whose outline she would know anywhere.

“Thorin.”

His voice was like the soft roll of thunder over barren hills.

‘Anai.

He was so close to her now. If she could move, she could reach out and touch him.

He kneeled before her in the snow, palms open and pleading.

‘Anai. It is too presumptuous of me to come before you. I do not deserve this honour. But will you speak with me?

“Yes,” She whispered, more quickly than she would have guessed.

You have not been well.

If that wizard had predicted Thorin would be before her, saying such words, she would have railed, she would have slain him with words if not with her axe. She would have been ready, ready to punish.

“No,” She said instead. “I have not.”

It is my fault. I am so sorry, ‘anai. I have failed you. I will carry this regret forever, until Mahal reshapes the world.

Dís could say nothing. She only wished she could clasp his hands in her own. She let out a sigh.

The moment was here, and all her words were gone.

Do you wish for me to go, and for your sons to step forward?

“No,” She said- again, so quickly. “No- I would speak with you for a moment.”

Thorin’s smile of relief was a treasure to behold.

I am glad. Then, a pause. Are you glad, ‘anai? To know we are here, waiting for you?

She felt herself nod.

We are not far, you know. Not greatly.

That old anger, hot and boiling, rose within her.

“You are farther than the farthest, coldest star. You know not my torment, if you can say that.”

No, you are right. On this side, we have the privilege of visiting you in dreams. We still get to have hopes for you. You are right. It is not the same.

“How could you, ‘nadad. Take my sons away, take them to their deaths. How could I let you.”

Do not- his voice cracked- it was never your choice. For that, I am sorry once more. It was mine, and it was theirs. They are devastated, to leave you so. But they are glad, to have died in glory and honour as warriors, winning back what was taken from us. They have told you as much- can you be comforted by this?

“It is a cold comfort- it leaves me nothing.”

There must be more for you still, than to seek solace in the snowy wastes of this Stag.

Dís couldn’t help but hear the wizard’s words in her mind. Take up your seat on the Council... finish the work your brother began.

“You are asking me to find another reason to live.” The words came out as a long, ragged sigh.

Thorin bowed his head, hair silver and black falling around his face.

I would not have it said of my sister, that she succumbed to the madness of her line in the snows of exile. I would have you return home in glory and gold, leading our people like one of the Line of Durin.

“Glory and gold?” She laughed softly, though she could not find fault with the rest of his words. “Weren’t they ever your downfall, ‘nadad?”

They were, it’s true. They… they masked my grief well. Now I have nowhere to hide. But glory and gold would be exalted, worn by one such as you. You were always the sensible one, after all.

“Sensible?” She scoffed lightly. “Being sensible has left me bereft, when I, too, would have gladly fallen.”

You had to be sensible, for all of us- and I’m sorry that that, too, was not your choice. Dwarrowdam are the rarest children, the brightest jewels- and take the hardest blows. If I could take this burden from you, I would.

“I know…” Dís let out a soft sigh, and felt her body soften, as though she might be allowed to move any moment. But for once, she was not longing to run through the Veil. “That’s why you left for Erebor, in the first place, isn’t it? To ease my burdens, and those of our people. You always dreamed big, ‘nadad.”

Will you dream big for me, now?

“Why haven’t you visited me in dreams, since we speak of them- the way my sons do?”

Do you wish for me to?

“Of course I do. You must know that.”

Another soft smile, that warmed her heart. Her heart- she realised suddenly- her heart was beating so slow…

“Thorin… be well. Find peace while you wait, if you can? I will go to Erebor.”

Nun’el! Nen’ar! He laughed with relief.

“And on the way, I will check on your hobbit.”

What-

But Dís shook herself out of her trance, knowing her time was running out. She came up to one knee, leaned heavily on it for a moment.

The King of Stags was there, watching her.

“I will leave,” she whispered, and her throat ached with the cold. “My people will leave you. We will hunt in your lands no more.”

The King of Stags tilted his head, as though considering. Snow fell in tiny dustfalls from his antlers, and dewdrops like diamonds flew as he shook them free. Finally, he gave a gentle bow.

A sudden warmth blazed through Dís, and she found herself able to stand. A gift from the Stag. The warmth was enough to get her home.

She would leave for Erebor, but not right away. She had much to do to prepare.

And there was something in her possession that she wanted the hobbit to see.

***

Chapter Text

Bilbo moved- crept, practically- from the garden bench to his front step, not believing his eyes. Three sprigs of lavender lay in front of the door, gently overlapping each other.

He looked back at Hobson. The older hobbit had grabbed a nearby garden hoe and now held it loosely in his hands, like a weapon.

Lavender had many meanings. On a windowsill, it kept away spiders- under a pillow it could bring easy sleep and good dreams. A lavender bouquet meant goodwill, understanding, and forgiveness. Tuck a sprig of lavender behind the ear of one who needed tranquillity, and their nerves would surely diminish.

But on a doorstep? Adders made homes in lavender bushes, so lavender on one’s doorstep could only mean one thing.

Danger within.

Hobson was at Bilbo’s side in the next moment, and Bilbo slowly pushed open the door to his smial.

Shadows stretched long in the morning light. Bag End was as empty as it had been the night before- still, they rounded every corner as though an enemy might burst out from behind it. Only after they had gone through each and every room did Bilbo feel like he could breathe again.

“Well…” They had reached the front hallway where Bilbo had dropped his bags the night before. He pulled an apple from his pack to offer to his guest, and they sat there on the floor. “Don’t quite know what I was expecting to find.”

“Me neither, if I wer’ honest.”

Bilbo took an apple for himself, chewed and puzzled. “You don’t think they meant the broader interpretation, ‘someone untrustworthy lives within,’ do you? Because that would be plain insulting. Not that I would put it past some.”

Hobson let out a nervous chuckle. “It’d be a mighty queer joke fer’ summat t’play, even a’ one such as ol’ Lobelia.”

They sat in silence for a while longer, finishing their apples and keeping watch on the soft shadows.

“At least there aren’t any places for something dangerous to hide, at this particular moment.”

“Aye- tho’ if ther’ be danger, might as well have yer’ comf’terble things ‘round ya.”

Bilbo sighed, knowing Hob was right. How could he let anyone in his home again, if he had no tea to serve them? But at night the emptiness of the smial suited him. Dark and empty and quiet like the deep caverns. And when the hearth fire was lit, nothing was there to distract him from hearing in his mind the songs they had sung.... Thorin leaning over the fire, pipe in hand- eyes grey in that darkness like a coming storm. And his voice…

What did Bilbo need with possessions, anyway? What did any of it matter? If all of it could be scattered so easily by one petty hobbit’s coveting?

But Bilbo learned very quickly that if he didn’t get up in the morning- if he didn’t rise from his sleeping place in front of the hearth and give the day a go, Hob would come knocking at his door- and since gardening could take up only so much time, he needed something to do with the rest of his hours. So he found himself trudging to Grubb’s place, arguing heatedly until the list of auctioned belongings was in his hands, and also realising he might need to get himself a lawyer.

Most of his neighbours were apologetic about the misunderstanding, and gave over his things with no resistance. Old Widow Greenhand gave Bilbo’s tea set back with tears in her eyes- it had been his mother’s, and the first thing he went after, trudging all the way to Tookish land to retrieve it- but Widow Greenhand was uncommonly kind, and she and Bilbo’s mother had been close.

“I couldn’t bear to see my dear Bell’s prized tea set in that small-minded, spiteful-” She choked back a sob, and Bilbo’s heart raced for a moment- no one ever called his mother Bell, even his father. But Widow Greenhand would say no more, and Bilbo left with an awkward bow.

Some neighbours were not so high in their motives, however, and Bilbo found himself opening up his treasure chest for the first time to retrieve his wardrobe from down the lane. Strange it was, to look upon that gold. How it glowed in the firelight. Not terribly unlike a different piece of gold nestled in his vest pocket.

By my life, I will not part with a single coin.

Bilbo slammed the chest shut.

He didn’t need a wardrobe, anyway.

***

Over the next few days, the weather was good for gardening, and the better part of the weeding was nearly done. For someone who said he was too busy to work for Bilbo, Hob came around quite often, with Hamfast in tow and a savoury pie from mistress Rowan’s oven. But when he asked about garden plans, Bilbo didn’t know what to say. Take what ye saw and bring a piece a’ that t’yer own garden, Hob had said. But how could Bilbo cultivate roses such as those at Rivendell? They would never catch the moonlight the same way. There were no white stone trellises here around which they could twist beguilingly. Nor could he coax goldenrod here to bloom as large as in Beorn’s garden- for here there were no tremendous bees for whom to grow so big.

And as for Erebor… if he had stayed to ramble its unscorched valleys and learn what mountain flowers blossomed there… but he would have needed a reason to stay. And his reason was deep under the mountain, and would never see a blossom again.

So Bilbo focused on vegetables. It would remind him to eat, at least.

***

Still, progress was made on retrieving his belongings. After getting the tea set, Bilbo went mechanically down the rest of the list, not caring about the things themselves. Not caring what sort of exchanges he’d find himself in, what impertinent questions he’d be confronted with- and he didn’t even notice the constant staring anymore. It helped a bit when he got some of his old clothes back- but not much.

He’d been back a few weeks when he knocked on the Clayhanger’s door to retrieve his draperies, kitchen table and chairs, and various cookware and dishes. Hob and Hamfast came with him, as well as Andwise, Hob’s older son, to help carry all the items- and a bit to intimidate, as Bilbo really did need his kitchen things, if he ever was going to serve a proper tea again. He really needed to justify having his mother’s tea set, since Widow Greenhand had shed tears parting with it. The Clayhangers were often at odds with the Bagginses, in times past. Bilbo knocked on the door.

“Well, well, an’ a good mornin’ to ya, Mr. Baggins, as it must be agreed that y’are,” Bobber Clayhanger drawled, a satisfied look on his face. His wife Gladiola smirked beside him.

“Good day t’you,” Bilbo tipped his hat- an old straw one that Hob had loaned him. “I was hoping to discuss the matter of retrieving my things.”

“Aye, yea, I heard ye’d be coming, folks are gabberin’ a great deal ‘bout your return, tho I can’t see why so much as an argument is puttin’ on, whether er not yer’ you. I remember that ol’ scowl plain as any!” He and his wife hooted and Bilbo couldn’t help but scowl more. Three Clayhanger children had joined them by this time, clinging to Gladiola’s skirts, and she bent to pick the littlest one up.

“Thoo’ noone can claim yer’ much of a Baggins these days, we’re right worried ye’ve lost all yer standin’ in Hobbiton- ‘best to run away again with the faeries like yer ma?”

“They weren’t faeries, I’ll have you know, they were dwarves, and you leave my mother-”

Bilbo felt a hand from behind steady him at his shoulder, and he took a deep breath. The Clayhangers were Tookish folk- married and intertwined and living mostly on Tookish land, with Tookish ways, Tookish speech, and Tookish rivalries- and Bilbo knew some great enmity had existed between his mother and Gladiola’s, who also had been close to the Tooks. If they wanted to gloat in their moment of power, so be it.

“I’m just hoping to retrieve my belongings, and I’ll name a fair price for them, as well.” For this occasion, Bilbo had braved the treasure chest again, and could feel the weight of the two gold pieces he’d nabbed from it in his trousers pocket.

“That willna’ be necessary,” Bobber waved his hand magnanimously. “We’ll settle fer’ the traditional payment for debts unseemly, as befittin’ the mendin’ of one’s reputation.”

Bilbo glared, then turned to Hob. The old resolution for awkward conflicts such as these- especially when concerned with material goods- was to sing a song, and a jolly one at that- the more embarrassing, the better. He and Hob shared a look, and Hob gave a slight nod, as though to say, go on, yer reputation don’t end here as it is. Bilbo turned back to the Clayhangers. Their silent anticipation was palpable. Even the children stared up in confused awe. In the corner of his eye, he could see the next-door neighbours step out into their garden, watching him.

Bilbo took a deep breath, ready to bark out some jaunty tavern tune. But his mind raced- there was only one song he could think of.

His voice didn’t do it justice. Never could he hope to reach the resonant depths that rushed like a lover to Thorin Oakenshield’s summoning. Never would the halls fall silent for him, breathless to hear the echoes to their last dying moments. But somehow the day felt a bit darker, as though afternoon could not brighten in the face of such a melody- even if only sung by Bilbo Baggins. It must have been a quality of the song itself. Forged in fire, years and decades of pain following it, through every barren field, every abandoned path their exile wound them. The song spoke for itself, as though something greater than Bilbo were singing it.

And Bilbo was glad to feel for a moment that the chambers of his chest and belly could carry something of the depths of that song.

..Farewell we call to hearth and hall
Though wind may blow and rain may fall
We must away, ‘ere break of day,
Far over wood and mountain tall…

Verse after verse, he sang, and closed his eyes. And fires great and small were lit in the darkness of his mind. And the afternoon was gone, and no songbird dared interrupt.

When he finished, one long silent moment passed before he opened his eyes again. Crowds had gathered, and were aghast. Gladiola especially glared at him, eyes hard and jaw dropped with betrayal, that he couldn’t simply indulge her gloating. The babe in her arms started wailing.

“Ye think yer so important, that ye needn’t follow any rules at all! Just like yer daft old ma!” Gladiola spun on her heels off to an inner room and slammed the door behind her. Now the rest of the children started crying, and followed after her. Bobber remained, shaking his head in disgust, but let Bilbo and the Gamgees in to retrieve his things.

As they came out, the neighbours all clucked and tut-tutted. Bilbo’s reputation was in ruins.

***

Not that it mattered much, but if Bilbo had hoped at any point that his reputation would recover, he soon realised there was very little chance of that. Not when more messages kept arriving.

Shortly after the appearance of the lavender, Bilbo found a single iris on his doorstep.

I have a message for you.

“Okay….??” Bilbo looked around. A few Bracegirdles were walking by, frowning at him and the iris at his feet.

Two days later, a tiny buttercup. Neat and childish.

“Ham, boy, did you leave this here?” Hamfast was just pulling up with the wheelbarrow full of late summer seedlings to plant.

“No sir, and yer’ gate’s lock’d, sir, a deliver’r’d have te jump o’er yer fence to drop it there, sir.”

The next day, foxglove. Riddle. Conundrum. Secrets. Insincerity. It gave Bilbo goosebumps. And when he picked it up, he felt like he was being watched. But no one was around. Not even any songbirds.

Then there were the bluebells. Less threatening, but more confusing. Bluebells meant constancy, humility, gratitude. But no hobbit in their right mind would ever pick bluebells. To pick a bluebell was to hear one’s own death knell. Did this mystery messenger want to die?! Who would risk death to leave a flower at Bilbo Baggins’ doorstep?!

The day after that, it was white clover, four sprigs. He and Hob and Ham were in the garden, and he could have sworn that there was nothing on his doorstep a moment before- yet when the three were ready to go in for tea, there they were.

“At least it were a kinder message than th’others,” Hob started. “Good luck is no terrible warnin’.”

“This one here has only two leaves, though,” Bilbo mused as water heated in the kettle over the fire.

Hob nodded gravely. “Unhappiness is coming.”

Bilbo grimaced. More unhappiness. Just what he needed. He set the teacups in front of Hob and Hamfast.

“An’ it could mean revenge,” Hamfast piped up, “if they’re from the ol’ swamp o’er by Mill Run.”

“What d’ye know about that ol’ bur patch, boy?” Hob gruffed in surprise.

“Andy tol’ me, an’ he said ne’er tell a soul, or she’d come after me too, tappin’ at my windows, but I ain’t scared a’ any ghost, an’ maybe it here’s the answer t’yer myst’ry, but nigh’ sixty years ago the swamp o’ Mill Run was the secret meetin’ place o’ Clover Burrows an’ her secret lover, even tho’ she wer’ engaged te Polo Cotman as it were, an’ by her own choosin’!”

Hamfast took a deep breath, chest rising and eyes wide as saucers. When no adults shushed him, he continued.

“But Clover Burrows would tap o’ the window o’ her secret lover an’ they would meet in the rushes o’ the old swamp! Well one night the storms were a’gatherin’, and Polo was a’scared for Clover, ‘cause her ma said she hadn’t come home, so he went out a’searchin’ an’ found ‘em by the swamp, an’ they were in the ol’ boat tied up to the post, an’ they were smoochin’! An’ Polo Cotman was so anger’d, he untied the post an’ their boat floated out t’the middle o’ the swamp, an’ they were too busy smoochin’ t’notice, an’ in a big huff ol’ Polo Cotman went stompin’ away into the night.”

Young Hamfast lowered his voice to as spooky a tone as he could muster.

“Now it wouldna been so bad fer ‘em, fer on any other night, they coulda simply called out an’ be a’rescued, but the storm was a’comin’ in, an’ they couldna swim, an’ so it were weeks b’fore they were found- fer a’course Polo Cotman wouldna say a word ‘bout what he saw- an’ by then they were little more than bones an’ cloth an’ long hair floatin’ half in the water- long gold hair a’Clover, long raven hair o’her lover. An’ now a batch o’clover grows there, an’ if a hobbit should pick some o’the clover, ol’ Clover Burrows’ll come tappin’ on their windows at night- whether t’find her lov’r, or find ol’ Polo Cotman to take revenge, none can say, but that’s what clover from the swamp has come t’mean now- revenge!”

Hamfast hollered the last word like boo- and Bilbo and Hobson both jumped in spite of themselves.

“I hope Andwise didna tell ye what the word ‘lover’ means, anyhow!” Hob gave Hamfast a gruff tousle of his hair.

“No sir, nor smoochin!” What’s a smoochin, da?”

Bilbo and Hob both chuckled in relief.

“I’d also say don’t speak ill rumors of your neighbours, but it’s a bit of a relief to hear gossip about someone other than myself.” Bilbo checked the jar of mint- it was empty. He stepped just outside to grab some more, leaving the door open behind him.

“Tell me son, was Tansy Tighfield in comp’ny when Andy told that story?” Bilbo could hear Hob asking Ham. “I think he had a mind o’impressin’ her.”

“It would be nice if they left more flowers, and of different kinds- or at least different colours,” Bilbo said, half to them and half to himself, as he collected a handful of mint leaves. He came back in, shut the door behind him. “It’s really not typical to send a message using only one flower. How are we to know if it means good luck, unhappiness, or revenge? More than one flower is needed if the message is complicated. I’m quite low in my patience about all this, if I’m honest.”

The next day, three different colours of honeysuckle waited on Bilbo’s doorstep. White- devoted affection. Pink- inconstant love. Yellow- rustic beauty.

He shivered. Had someone heard him, yesterday? But no one had been around.

Soon after: woody nightshade. Danger. Betrayal.

Some days after that: white roses. I cannot.

“Cannot what???!!” Bilbo shouted to no one. Holman Brown and his wife were walking by. They startled and crossed to the other side of the lane.

Finally: anemone. Forsaken.

“Well clearly I’m not, if you keep sending me flowers!!” Bilbo shouted into the air again and stomped back into the smial, slamming the door behind him before any onlookers could gawk. He was sick of this weird attention, of the eerie feeling of being watched, and everyone in the Shire witnessing his queerness.

He stopped getting flowers after that.

***

It was high summer, and the corn was growing tall, and the pears were ripe and blushed, and the final moon of summer was reaching full. It was called the Grain Moon, or sometimes the Barley Moon, and beer was sure to flow easy from the tap- and the day before the moon reached full was the Grain Gathering Festival. The first of the three major harvest festivals. Folk rose early and harvested grain in the dawn hours, and by evening it was baked into loaves of bread that were then shared among neighbours. Throughout the day, beer was brewed, sunflowers gathered into bouquets, black currants and raspberries picked along the lanes. Children made corn husk dolls and baked blackberry pies, and there was dancing all night long. It was also the traditional time to settle disputes with offerings of bread and beer. And so Bilbo’s door was knocked on all day long. At first he answered- sometimes folk were genuinely sorry for one thing or another, be it the auction or spreading a rumour- others came with an apology in hand, but were clearly there just to stare. Bilbo stopped answering the door after a while, or even shouted for them to go away.

The afternoon drifted into evening, as Bilbo puttered around his still very empty smial, finding homes for a few items still stuffed in his pack. The light of the setting sun shot through his now curtained windows, goldening the air. Out the window, flashes of gold glinted off the sickles and scythes of passing farmers on the lane, catching bright in Bilbo’s eyes as he dusted uselessly.

He thought about the light, how it must have glinted off the gold of Thorin’s armour. As he and Fíli and Kíli charged toward their deaths.

He thought about the gold stuffed in the chests in the corner. And the mithril he dare not touch.

The light of day was dying. Soon everyone would retreat to taverns and homes to drink and dance till the sun came back up. Bilbo looked around his empty dark smial, remembering the night it, too, was full of raucous dining and dancing.

Bilbo paced the hallways, came finally to the hearth, and lit a fire. Gold was the colour of the day, from the sunflowers to the ale in the mugs to the corn roasted over fires- and to gold, Bilbo’s mind kept returning. The gold of the afternoon light. The gold in little Ham's hazel eyes as he told his story about Bilbo's clover message. The gold of the buttercup and the honeysuckle. But he wasn't receiving any more flowers, was he? Even his eerie invisible messenger, he'd managed to scare away. But it didn't matter. There were other golds around him. The chests of gold were in a dark corner, but their slats and drawbolts glinted in the firelight. Bilbo thought about the gold within, tried to see it in his mind’s eye- but it always turned to black- the black of Thorin’s hair, of his brigandine- the black of his eyes in the deep dark, as he snarled at imagined enemies.

Bilbo shuddered, and turned his mind back to gold- and remembered at last a different gold he had in his possession. He fumbled for the ring in his pocket, pulled it out as he sat, watched it shine softly in the fire’s glow. He turned it around and around in his fingers, stopping only now and again to feed the fire. He did not know how much time was passing. The sounds of festivity lessened and quieted. Until there was only the ring and the flames. Bilbo laid down, holding the ring, stroking it gently with wordless whispers.

When Bilbo fell asleep, his fist was closed tight around it.

***

Chapter Text

With my heart singing to the stars,
I shall love all things that are dying.

-Yun Dongju

***

Thorin had long understood that dwarrow did not measure time the way the other races of the world did. Mahal had blessed them with the perfect life span- long enough to be far-sighted, to build and craft things that would endure: halls of stone, weapons of steel, and the greatest craft of all- family. Dwarrow were not grasping and covetous like Men who lived so short, and could enjoy life so little- nor cold and uncaring like the Elves who lived too long. That is how most dwarrow viewed the odd obsession that the other races had with time, and Thorin agreed well enough. But the theory left out a key fact that Thorin couldn’t ignore.

The other races lived under the stars.

Of course they would be obsessed with time. Who wouldn’t? The stars wheeled across the sky slow and silent, turning the year and tempering the seasons- Men, Thorin knew, liked to name only four, but any keen dwarvish eye who spent time in the wilderness as Thorin did, would have said a year contains a dozen seasons or more. Each constellation as it slowly appeared on the horizon seemed to herald the coming of its own season. There was leaf-gone season and dim-day season and false-spring season and cedar-fragrant season, snow-storm season and snowblind-sickness season and rotted grass season and muddy-road season and wet-wind season- and these were just in winter alone. One season of Men.

And now three seasons of Men have passed, that Thorin Oakenshield has been dead. This must be why death suited Dwarrow so well- why they alone of the races could happily abide in a land of the dead, freed from time. But Thorin had spent one too many an exiled year wandering the lonely roads of Men. And much to his surprise, he missed the passage of time. He missed the feel of it on his brow, the mark of it above him in the stars. He missed the seasons.

He did not yet see how much of a problem this was.

He missed the blizzards of the blue mountains, over the long winter. He wished he could have been there, taking care of his sister- or more truthfully, tagging along with her on her ambitious hunts. He wished he could feel the wind and snow sting his face.

When spring came, he missed the flowering trees along the low valley trade routes. The deep purple of their blossoms, like raw cut amethysts. The sweet scent of rotting fruit- crabapples, Bilbo had called them. He missed the mud of the road, how it caked his boots. The soft spring rain, the vibrant wind.

Now, in the land of the living, it was summer. The roads would be dusty, dry, and well-rutted with travel. Ferns would grow thick in the undergrowth of the woods. And the twilight would linger deep into the night, until finally it yielded to a thousand diamond stars.

Thorin could see the stars anytime he wanted. He need only pay a visit to the Augury, where the Ravens of Mahal nested. But Thorin had not gone back since the first time he went. Not because he didn’t want to. But because, after he spoke with Roäc, he continued to lay low. He spent all of his time thinking about what to say when Dís found the stag and opened the Veil once more. He had to be ready. So he saw no one, outside of Fíli, Kíli, and Frerin. And he swore to himself- if he did not succeed in talking Dís down from her ledge, he would never show his face to another soul again.

A third season had come and gone in that time. A long time to wait for Dís, but with no seasons in the mountain to mark it, did it feel long, truly?

But finally, late into last night, the moment came, and now Dís was safe, and afterward Fíli and Kíli found Thorin and crushed him in embraces, and they brought him around the entire wing of Durin’s folk finding close family and even many ancient ancestors, proclaiming loudly how Thorin saved Dís. It was too generous of them. Thorin wept freely, unashamed of his tears. Dís deserved no less.

It had taken the rest of the night, and even many who had died at the Battle of Five Armies came up to Thorin, clasped his shoulder or butted heads in greeting. One even had Thorin’s grieving gift on his belt and challenged him with raucous laughter to a match, and since Thorin had no weapon, blocked and parried with nothing but his fists, while the dwarf swatted at him with the flat of the blade until Throin’s arm bands were tatters and the crowd was roaring with laughter. It felt good to accept forgiveness- as much as Thorin could, anyway.

Now it was morning, and Fíli and Kíli had led the way to the eastern wall of the mountain, where the roots of what must have been hundreds of trees split the rock and found their way into the cave at the mountain’s base, bringing with them shafts of morning light where rock had fallen away.

As they approached, Thorin could hear thunk thunk over and over, and saw that many dwarrow were throwing axes at the roots. He turned to Fíli and Kíli.

“How are the roots not destroyed by this?”

“You forget that we’re dead, and everything here is made for us!”

“Mahal sees to our every comfort and amusement. I’m sad I wasn’t offed sooner!”

“You cannot mean that!”

“No, but I enjoy your horror at it!”

“Come closer, take a look-” Fíli chucked a hatchet with effortless grace at the nearest root. Then he grabbed Thorin and brought him to its landing, Kíli in tow. Thorin noticed a mark that had been painted on the root beforehand, right where Fíli’s axe hit.

“Strange that Mahal would let these trees root themselves through the mountain- yet you use them for target practice?”

But even as he spoke, tiny roots sprung up around the edges of the blade, curling upward along the iron, even enveloping the handle.

“If you don’t grab your axe quickly enough, the root will swallow it whole!” He grabbed the handle and lifted it away. The blade came out freely and the tendrils curled down until the axe wound was closed up entirely. The paint mark, now warped, remained.

“Incredible.”

“Now that’s something I wouldn’t mind hearing the elves sing about.”

“Bilbo would confusticate himself.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Dunno, I just heard him say it once.”

“Confusticate!” Fíli snorted.

Thorin’s pulse raced at the sound of the hobbit’s name.

“Thorin Oakenshield!” A voice boomed. “Bored of making Griever’s Gifts and offering yerself up for target practice now, aye?” A group had just arrived, spinning throwing hatchets around their fingers. Frerin too was among them.

“I finished my Griever’s Gifts,” Thorin yelled back, “And now sadly have no excuse to miss dinner with you lot!” The others chortled and he and Fíli and Kíli moved away from the targets. The group threw for a while, overhand, underhand, wrong-hand, two at a time, three at a time- hatchets, wood-splitting axes, battle axes, double-axes- then knives, pry bars- whatever they could get their hands on. Thorin even joined in, once or twice.

“Where is Adad?” Thorin asked Frerin, at one point. “We did not see him at all last night, nor Sigin’adad.”

“Ah-” Frerin paused. “They’re at the Waterfalls.”

“The Waterfalls? To… go swimming?”

“You should go find them, irak’adad,” Kíli butted in. “Sigin’amad is playing tonight at dinner. You could let them know. Let Thrain know, at least. Thror, I wouldn’t bother looking for.”

“Speak plainly,” Thorin couldn’t help grumbling. “Must everything in this place be so cryptic.”

“Believe me, I don’t understand any better than you do. Just go to the Waterfalls, then meet us for dinner.”

***

The Waterfalls were exactly that- a collection of waterfalls finding their tumultuous end deep into the mountain, where there was a great body of water that itself also fell, deep into a dark precipice dared explored by no dwarf. Thorin had been told exactly where he would find Thrain, and there he was- seated cross-legged at a water’s edge between two stone sculptures of ferns curling and reaching in spiraling perfection. His eyes were closed.

Stone Searching was considered quaint at best by most dwarrow. The practice was to sit, as still as a stone, and listen to the stone, resonate with the stone. If one sat still for long enough, they would eventually become the stone, or so it was said. Perhaps this was why some dwarrow even thought it dangerous. But Thorin wasn’t worried so much about danger, as about why his adad and sigin’adad both had taken to the practice. He stood now in front of Thrain- no sound but the steady distant roar of waterfalls fierce and gentle.

“Water over stone-” Thrain began, eyes still closed, before Thorin could clear his throat to announce himself. “Water over stone helps focus the mind especially. If you can’t yet hear the stone, then water running over stone is your first step.”

Thorin took a deep breath. This was not the adad he knew in life- but of course, that was before Dol Guldur.

“I came to find out if you were coming to dinner tonight. In Ruby Hall, at first dimming.”

“Perhaps.”

“Amad is playing. She would love to see you.”

“If I can, I will.”

Thorin fought to control the anger and fear rising in him.

“I do not understand. Why do you choose to spend your time this way. You and Sigin’adad both.”

“Why did you spend your first six months here doing nothing but forging Griever’s Gifts?”

“That is different. I owed them, I am honour-bound-”

“It is no different.”

“It was six months! You’ve been here ninety years! Are we not meant to reside here happily, finding joy in each other, creating joy for each other, and doing the things dwarrow were created to do? Pursue perfection in the crafts that have captured our passions?”

“That is rich, coming from you. As it is, Stone-Searching is as dwarvish as it gets. It is an ancient tradition, the cure for the danger our people often face, of pursuing our ambitions too relentlessly. Stillness. Peacefulness. Listening to the stones. It is a way of listening to the voice of Mahal himself.”

“You do know that Mahal himself resides in this mountain, and we can go listen to him speak whenever we want?”

Thrain opened his eyes and cracked a smile.

“I know how you must feel, dashat. This must not be what you were expecting, when you came to sit with your ancestors.”

“Indeed, it is not, though,” Thorin gave a sigh. “I cannot say what I was expecting. But will you at least come to dinner? Amad would love to see you.”

“Frís is used to my ways by now. But I shall try to make it, since you ask.”

***

It was late in the evening, and Thorin sat alone by the hearth in his chambers. After dinner, he had walked Frís to her chambers, carrying her harp for her.

“I don’t understand,” He had said to her. “Why are they not as they were when living? Why have they lost themselves?”

Frís looked off into the darkness of the hallway before them.

“I don’t know, dashat, I truly don’t. But when the Ravens told me they’d found him in Dol Guldur, my heart broke, and I knew it wouldn’t be easy for him, even after death. He finds comfort at the Waterfalls, and I don’t begrudge him for it.”

“But… they’re here, their lives are over. Shouldn’t their torment be done?”

Frís stopped walking, regarded her son for a moment.

“Why don’t you take up a third mastery? It doesn’t befit a dwarf of such high standing to be under-accomplished, especially in the afterlife.”

“You cannot be serious.” Then, after a beat: “You’re saying I shouldn’t worry about my forefathers.”

Frís flashed a smile. He was struck by how Dís’ smile looked exactly the same.

“Focus on your own problems, dashat. They are, after all, numerous.”

Thorin scoffed, and she gave him a playful swat.

Now, though, reclining in front of the fire, Thorin couldn’t get it out of his mind. What was death, if not the great healer? Why is there no rest- and yet why does food taste good, why is the fire warm, why does an embrace, a clap on the shoulder, a headbutt still feel great, why are things still wanted, sought-

Why does he still want things. Why does he still want Bilbo.

It was no surprise that Thorin found himself an hour later wandering the great corridors of Mahal. Alone, as it was deep into the night. He stood for a long time in front of the Chamber of Mysts, but would not enter. It was a path to madness. Dream-wandering was a mastery all of its own. A few dwarrow pursued it- but they were prophets and seers, not love-sick guilt-ridden idiots like Thorin.

Love-sick.

When had Thorin realised it? When had he known? Too late, as with all the important things in his life.

He couldn’t just show up at Bilbo’s door, needing something from him. Not again, anyway. And certainly not in the Dream Realms, where the living looked upon the dead often at great cost. No- Thorin could not visit Bilbo there- not until he had something truly worthwhile to offer him.

As for visiting his sister? It was too soon. But with her at least, some measure of sorrow had been mended. He needed only wait a while.

Instead, deep into the night, Thorin wound his way up, up, up thousands of steps to the home of the Ravens, the Augury.

He did not realise that dawn was already approaching, but the sky above was turning pale, and Thorin could see the Augury properly. The entry into the Augury was a chamber, with rafters from which many Ravens peered down at Thorin. There were alcoves left and right with windows carved out of stone, with no curtain or pane of glass. But what Thorin hadn’t seen before was that the chamber opened into a softly sloping land with small, twisting trees, evenly spaced. Their branches seemed heavy, perhaps with fruit. Thorin searched his mind for the word- Bilbo had said it once. An orchard. It was an orchard. A garden of trees.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Thorin heard his name announced and a dark form cut across the pale dawn. Thorin held out his arm and Roäc landed there softly, tilted his head in greeting.

“Word has come to us that you have reached your sister through her grief. Well done.”

“It is you who deserves credit, and my brother and sister-sons. But I thank you.” Thorin cast his gaze over the softly brightening landscape. “We are… truly upon the top of the mountain, here?”

“Not the summit. If you were to step out into the orchard, and go to the very far end where the fruit trees end and the pine trees begin, you could look back this way and see the summit, on a clear day. But it is not for dwarrow to look upon the summit, I think. You cannot enter the orchard.” Roäc let out a squawk and a few Ravens lifted from a tree in the distance and started making their way toward them. Roäc lifted off too and Thorin followed him to the alcove.

“Has Carc arrived lately?”

“He is busy,” Roäc answered, clearly not intending to say more. Thorin changed the subject.

“How many of you live here?” There must have been hundreds of trees in the orchard. Just then, four Ravens joined Roäc on a perch nearly eye-level with Thorin.

“This is Jaërg, my lifemate, and three of our hatchlings. They have just returned from an errand in the Living Realm.”

“His eyes are jewels, like his sister,” Jaërg’s own eyes glittered as she said this. “It is rare to capture the sky in one’s gaze. I’m glad to finally meet you. I was close to your sister as a hatchling. These are my little ones.” She tilted her head toward the three Raven children- perhaps just old enough to fly, and unlike their parents, bearing only the customary two eyes and two feet of living Ravens. They squawked and danced in little hops.

“Hello Dwarf!”

“Hi Dwarf!”

“You have so much hair!”

“Can we have some for our nest?”

“Where are the sparklies? I thought Dwarves had many sparklies!!”

“Check his talons! They wear sparklies on their talons!”

“Hello,” Thorin could feel a smile tugging at his lips. “And what are your names?”

“We didn’t live long enough to choose our names!”

“Ravens don’t choose names as fledglings, silly.”

“Yeah.” One puffed his chest out. “We perished young in the fires of Smaug!”

“We were roasted!”

“Toasted!”

“Burnt to a crisp!”

"Yeah! We're so cool for that!"

They hopped up and down and croaked in a manner that might have been giggling.

“Forgive them, they are always very excited to meet a Dwarf. And we just came back from the Living Realm, and they love an adventure. As for names, you may simply call each ‘Little One’.”

The fledglings were hardly little, as they were almost as big as Thorin’s head- but he let it pass, as they were still only half the size of their parents.

“What is it like? To go over there, to the Living Realm, now that you are dead?”

“Hmm,” Jaërg and Roäc both seemed to approve of this question.

“It is peaceful,” Roäc offered, “As though you are cradled by something bigger than yourself. There is a sense of deep safety.”

“But your loved ones you’ve left behind are not safe.”

“Not safe,” Roäc squawked. “It is not in our nature, even when we are alive, to worry greatly about danger.”

“He is curious, for a Dwarf,” Jaërg said to her mate. Then she turned back to Thorin. “Once a Dwarf arrives here, there is usually not much care about the world they left behind. They are contented to know that, even though they are parted for a time from their loved ones, they will eventually be reunited.”

“There is one with whom he never shall.”

The fluttering noises above and behind had stopped, as though the other Ravens stopped what they were doing to listen in. Roäc’s words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, no one spoke. The fledglings looked back and forth between Roäc and Thorin curiously, but even they were wisely silent. As for Thorin, his chest felt so tight he couldn’t breathe- yet nor could he hide.

“Ah,” croaked Jaërg finally. “The Hobbit.”

Thorin closed his eyes tight- but that just made him see the hobbit in his mind’s eye- and he couldn’t- he couldn’t let himself see.

“No wonder dwarrow keep to ourselves,” He rumbled. “If we grew attached to other races, the afterlife would be ruined for us all. Let us hope I am the only one who ever has this problem.”

No Raven gave any answer, and Thorin finally gave a sigh.

“I am at least comforted by the fact that he must be home by now, and safe, and happy. He has his armchair, he has his books… his garden… he is content with his pipe and his mailbox, and tea set, and pantry, and all the things he loves. He is happy, and is putting his feet up on his footstool, warming his toes by the hearthfire every night, and never again will he have to contend with the misadventures of a stubborn, stupid dwarf.”

He thought his words would reassure the Ravens. Instead, they exchanged a look that Thorin could not ignore.

“What. What is it.”

They shifted awkwardly on their three feet. The fledglings hopped up and down nervously, looking from parent to parent. Finally, Roäc spoke.

“Bilbo the Hobbit does not fare well.”

Thorin’s breath caught in his throat. “What can you mean. Have you been watching him?!”

“Fíli and Kíli asked us to,” Jaërg explained, “Months ago. We have been watching him since then.”

“They didn’t tell me! Why didn't they tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“They didn’t tell you because they knew it was a sore subject for you,” Roäc answered patiently, “And we didn’t tell you for the same reason. And because you didn’t ask.”

“But- but-” Thorin blustered, then groaned. “Fine, then tell me at least how he fares, and why you have any reason to believe he is not content in his armchair at his hearth!”

“Well,” Jaërg began carefully. “He does not have his armchair, first of all.”

“What?!”

“He arrived at his nest this very afternoon- but many Hobbits were gathered, taking away his things. He argued and yelled with great anger, then shut himself away in his nest for many hours. At night he came out, touched some scratches on the door of his nest, and wept many tears.”

Thorin felt a wave of sorrow and fear wash over his heart. Roäc added to Jaërg’s story.

“Even before that, on his journey home, he was quiet and restless. The light in his eyes that I saw when I met him is no longer there.”

“Why…” Thorin heard his own voice only distantly. “Why is he not happy. Why were his neighbours taking his things. What scratches…”

“The scratches were markings like your people use.”

“Cirth?” Of course. The runes on the door.

Why would the runes on the door bring him sorrow...

“When he touched the scratches, he cried a great wail and collapsed, and sleeps there even now.”

“Bilbo…” Thorin’s voice broke. “Why is he not happy…” He could not bear this.

“You must comfort him. You must make him feel better.” Then an idea came to him.

“You said you could bring things to him, as long as they are already in that world. Is there… some sort of message you can give, or perhaps a gift?”

“As long as it is not too heavy. Is there something you had in mind?”

“I cannot think of anything. What would comfort him? What would comfort a hobbit, if not his home?”

“We thought you might ask,” Jaërg said gently. “We have been trying to find out. We have been speaking with the jaybirds, who live in the Shire.”

“Degenerates,” Roäc croaked darkly. “All of them.” Suddenly squawks and caws could be heard everywhere, not the least of which coming from the fledglings.

“They are the WORST!”

“Their screech is horrendous!”

“Not a one isn’t tone deaf.”

“You know they will decapitate other birds??!!”

“They mob any owls that roost near their nests!”

“How can they do that?! Owls are so cool!”

“They’re terrible to bats, too!”

“Bats are ALSO so cool!!!”

“They steal finch eggs too!”

“Ooh, finch eggs sound tasty though.”

“We finally found one who would tell us anything," Jaërg interjected. "It said that Hobbits love food and flowers most of all.”

Thorin suppressed a groan.

“Food!” A fledgling piped up. “I love food too!”

“What food should we bring to the hobbit?”

“Nuts? Seeds?”

“He told the Elf that hobbits liked worms, shall we bring him worms?”

“He spoke to an elf?!”

“He spoke to Elrond,” Roäc said, “One night in the spring. They were outside, so we could hear them. They were in a garden late at night. They spoke about you. Bilbo asked Elrond where you are now. He asked what your Dwarf word ghivashel means.”

Thorin’s heart thundered against his chest. “He heard me, when I spoke to him. I can’t believe it. He heard me in his dreams. Was he comforted? Did he seem comforted?”

Roäc and Jaërg shifted awkwardly.

“Well- at least- what did the elf say? Did he tell Bilbo what ghivashel means?”

“He would not. But he guessed that you had said it about the Arkenstone.”

“What-?! That presumptuous, leaf-licking-”

The fledglings jumped up and down, eager to join in.

“He called Mahal a wrong word too. He said Aüle. Stupid elves!”

“Yeah! Stupid elves!”

“Come now,” Jaërg said in a gently warning tone. “Elves aren’t stupid, just strange.”

“They’re so afraid of death they have to live forever, Amma! That’s stupid!”

The fledglings and many Ravens who had gathered in the rafters cackled with laughter. Jaërg rolled her eyes but they still seemed to sparkle with a smile.

“This cannot be endured,” Thorin shook his head. “Elves’ stupidity aside, we must find a way to comfort Bilbo. There must be something we can do.”

“I vote worms!” Squawking ensued from all directions.

“Flowers,” Thorin raised a hand and the Ravens quieted. “Flowers will be easier than food, and they are plentiful in Bilbo’s Shire.”

“What flowers shall we bring?”

The Ravens all eyed Thorin curiously, waiting for his answer.

“It can’t be just any flower,” Thorin started slowly. “He already has many in his garden. It must be one that will be meaningful to him as a gift.” He paused, then turned to Jaërg and Roäc.

“Do either of you perchance know the one called lavender?”

“We know a flower called that by many.”

Thorin felt his pulse quicken. “Good. Bilbo showed it to me, the night we met. He gave me some… three stalks.” He did not mention that the hobbit tucked the stalks behind Thorin’s ear- but his cheeks burned as he recalled it. “It has a sweet scent that calms restlessness. If Bilbo is given a gift of lavender, he will be calmed, and he will know that he is cared for- that someone, at least, cares for him. He will know- he must know he is not alone.”

Roäc gave a nod. “We will bring him a gift of lavender. Three stalks, as you say.”

“Put it on his doorstep, under the runes. Perhaps he will remember… though… perhaps he will not be comforted, if he knows who it is that sent them.”

“If I may advise, though I have never flown for you,” Jaërg began, and Thorin bowed his assent. “It is best to be honest and reveal who you are. If it is not you that can comfort him, it is best to know that quickly, so we can sooner discover what can. And after all, you may be surprised.”

Thorin nodded, feeling a little breathless. “Yes, you are right. Under the runes, then.”

"It shall be done right away. As soon as the Hobbit rises from his doorstep, we shall place them there."

"We shall leave immediately." Roäc, Jaërg and many others crouched as though preparing for flight.

"Can we come too?"

"If you listen nicely to your elders."

"Can we bring him some worms?"

"No, but I'm sure we can find something nasty to bring to the jaybirds. Come! We must away." Roäc, Jaërg, their hatchlings and the others going with them lifted off into the air, circled higher and higher, until Thorin blinked and they were gone.

The other Ravens all around him croaked and cawed their approval, but Thorin couldn’t make out what they were saying any longer. The blood was rushing too strong in his veins, loud in his ears. He was breathless with… what was this feeling? He had not felt it in so long. He had not felt it since he held up a certain mithril coat, giving it as a Gift.

Thorin had imagined, this whole time, that Bilbo was comforted by his home and his things. Now that assumption was shattered. But if there could be any chance that Bilbo would be comforted by him- any chance at all-

Thorin thought he would never dare hope that the hobbit might ever feel any sort of softness or friendship towards him ever again. But his thundering heart seemed to have other ideas.

No matter. It did not matter if Bilbo even knew who had sent him the flowers. All that mattered was that it would comfort him. Lavender. It was a surefire cure for disquiet, Bilbo had said so himself. Surely he would feel comforted, when he saw it on his doorstep. Surely he would. Of course he would. What could go wrong?

***

Chapter Text

An hour later, Thorin got his answer.

“Bilbo looked with great worry upon the gift of lavender that you gave him,” Roäc croaked as he landed on Thorin’s arm. Thorin had barely made it down all of the stairs when Roäc appeared out of nowhere squawking to get his attention.

“What do you mean? Why was he worried?”

“He did not say a word about it. Another hobbit was there, speaking with him from the garden gate. When Bilbo saw the gift, he looked back at the other hobbit, who grabbed a long stick with talons and followed him inside. From there, I could not see or hear what happened.”

“I don’t understand… what did we do wrong?”

“I cannot say I understand hobbits well enough to know the answer… are there any in this mountain who know hobbits well?”

An hour after that, Thorin found Fíli and Kíli again at the tree roots. A large group had gathered. Frerin was in contest with another dwarf, and the crowd was watching with baited breath.

“You must help me,” Thorin pulled Fíli and Kíli aside.

“Right now?”

“Frerin has two throws left, if he loses, he has to shave half his beard!”

“It’s Bilbo.”

Fíli and Kíli shared a look.

“What did you do now?”

Thorin was halfway through explaining what happened when half the crowd cheered wildly and the tournament was finished. But Fíli and Kíli by then were too engrossed.

“That is strange!”

“I mean Bilbo was always a strange one but doesn’t he usually, I dunno, like flowers?”

Frerin joined them, his big axe resting on his shoulder.

“I see you still have your beard, irak-adad!”

“He would have had to shave it in front of everyone?”

“That crowd is brutal.” Frerin turned to Fíli and Kíli. “You know your amad was a champion axe thrower in her youth? She taught me everything I know.”

“Really?”

“We did not know that!”

“She was always hunting with us when we were growing up. You know, archery and such.”

“She fell in love with hunting,” Thorin rumbled, “Because of your adad. You should ask him about it.”

“Oh! He’s right over there.” Kíli started off but Fíli caught his shoulder.

“Not right now, we have to help Bilbo!”

“Oh, right! Bilbo!”

“What’s going on with Bilbo?” Frerin asked.

Thorin let out a great sigh. “Oh very well-” And he told the story again. Frerin, Fíli and Kíli were nothing but a bunch of furrowed brows and beard-scratching by the end.

“I don’t understand it.”

“Could you… try a different flower?”

“A different flower?”

“Yeah… you said he gave you lavender the first night you met. Are there other flowers he gave you?”

“Yeah! Ones that also come from memories?”

“Maybe that way he’d piece it together that it’s you!”

“That’s… actually not a bad idea…”

“What was the next flower that he gave you?”

Thorin racked his brain. “It was… on the edge of the Shire, an Iris, he called it. He didn’t… give it to me, exactly…” Thorin shifted uncomfortably. “He picked it, held it out to me, said, ‘you know my Irises are probably in perfect bloom this week, or would be, if I was home taking care of them.”

“What did you say to that?”

“Let me guess- he didn’t say anything, just growled.”

Thorin only just restrained himself from growling at that.

“It’s not the most caring of moments,” Frerin ventured, “But… it might help the hobbit know that it’s you?”

Two days later, Roäc and Jaërg found Thorin while he was eating with Frerin, and gave their report.

“He looked at it, said, ‘Okay…?’ and looked around.”

“What does he mean by that?”

“We cannot say, although perhaps he was looking for the one who left him the flower?”

“He might have thought someone picked his own Iris flower and left it on his doorstep.”

“That sounds like it could be a hobbit tradition,” Frerin tried cheerfully.

“That sounds nothing like a hobbit tradition.” Thorin sighed. “What about… there is a tiny yellow blossom in many fields. Bilbo showed it to me once, held it to his chin.” Bilbo had been much happier that day than on the Iris day. “He said something about butter, how it looks like butter on his chin. Do you know of such a blossom?”

“A buttercup?”

“I truly know not. Your guess is as good as mine. But it is in the fields, not in a garden, or at least likely not in Bilbo’s garden, or he would have said as much.”

“Buttercups are in many fields- it will be easy to find one for Bilbo.”

What wasn’t easy was understanding Bilbo’s reaction.

“Ham, boy, did you leave this here?”

“That was what he said?”

“Yes- to the young one in the garden with him.”

“What was said in return?”

“No sir, and yer’ gate’s lock’d, sir, a deliver’r’d have te jump o’er yer fence to drop it there, sir.” The change in quality of Roäc’s voice was so pronounced it was eerie.

Fíli and Kíli, who were with Thorin in his forge at the time, exchanged a look.

“So… Bilbo thinks another hobbit is delivering the flowers?”

“Sounds like he might be suspicious that it’s not a hobbit at this point, though?”

“I care not greatly who he thinks they’re from,” Thorin sighed, “Only that he is comforted. But instead we are confusing him. I would have thought he would be cheered to see flowers at his doorstep- but there is no sign of cheer. How are his trips to collect his furniture faring?”

“He has retrieved a tea set, and seen another neighbour but failed to retrieve the item he sought.”

“Does his tea set, at least, make him happy?”

“No- he seemed greatly burdened to take back his tea set, and did not smile at all.”

“That is not like Bilbo at all!”

“I remember that tea set! He said it was his mother’s! The cups were so tiny and dainty!”

“Remember Dwalin trying to drink beer out of one?”

“Now that’s a skull-cracker I miss head-butting!”

“Silence!” Thorin bellowed. “Let me think a moment.” Fíli and Kíli hushed up, but mimed Dwalin pinching a teacup between two fingers and trying to gulp while Thorin rubbed his temples.

“The problem isn’t that Bilbo doesn’t understand,” He said finally. “It’s that I don’t understand.”

Fíli and Kíli stopped mimicking- their smiles fell. Thorin continued.

“I don’t understand Bilbo. I never have. He always complained about the road. He always wished he was back at home in his armchair with his tea kettle and his fireplace. And now he’s home, and even retrieving his things does not make him happy. He said he was a simple creature. That hobbits are simple creatures and like home and their pantries and their gardens above all else. But he is not simple at all. I’ve never understood him, and at this point, I don’t think I ever will.”

Roäc let out a soft croon, and Fíli and Kíli exchanged a long, troubled look. Finally, Fíli spoke.

“Have you ever considered that he might miss you?”

Thorin closed his eyes, shook his head. “He cannot miss me. Not after all that I’ve done.”

That night, Thorin couldn’t help himself. He made his way back to the Augury. Roäc and Jaërg flew to greet him, and what must have been a hundred Ravens followed, crowding the rafters. The fledglings came as well, chests puffed out, on their best behaviour.

“We’ve been hoping you would come back quickly. We have news for you.”

“What sort of news? Does Bilbo understand now?”

“No…” Roäc said, “But he did something that might help you understand.”

“What do you mean. What did he do? Is it a clue, about the flowers?”

“Well,” Jaërg started, “He went to the nest of a neighbour, hoping to retrieve many things. The two neighbours were quite rude to him, and demanded a song. They seemed to want a silly song, for they were very upset at the song he did choose to sing.”

“What do you-”

At that moment, every raven began to hum, a deep and resonant sound that Thorin hadn’t known they were capable of making. Ravens as a rule did not often mimic messages exactly, for the sake of modesty- for when they did, it was said that their mimicry was so perfect it terrified. This wasn’t mimicking exactly, no- but it betrayed just how talented they were.

Thorin recognized the melody immediately- but never had he realised how deeply sad it sounded. He wondered if it was a quality of Bilbo’s singing that the ravens were expressing. And now he wished with his entire being that he had been able to hear Bilbo singing this- his soft voice, pure and honest and hesitant and- what Thorin wouldn’t do to hear his voice again. What Thorin wouldn’t do…

The pines were roaring on the height,
The winds were moaning in the night.
The fire was red, it flaming spread;
The trees like torches blazed with light.

Thorin could almost see the clouds darkening the sky as Bilbo sang- the clouds rolling swiftly in, blotting out the sun and then letting it in at bright flashes- lighting up Bilbo’s hair, giving his soft brown curls a sheen of gold.

The bells were ringing in the dale
And men looked up with faces pale;
The dragon’s ire more fierce than fire
Laid low their towers and houses frail.

He could almost see Bilbo, his eyes closed, deep in the sorrow of the song- then opening them suddenly, drawing down upon the world all the power of his hazel eyes, laden with veins of emerald and gold and the brown of the earth he loved so much.

The mountain smoked beneath the moon;
The dwarves they heard the tramp of doom.
They fled their hall to dying fall
Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.

Was it a trick of the Ravens, that Bilbo came to his mind’s eye so freely? That the vision of him was so vivid, and that Thorin could almost hear Bilbo’s voice in the Ravens’?

When they stopped singing, it was as though Thorin had never heard silence before.

***

It felt as though the dawn would never come.

Not that Thorin was looking forward to the dawn. But the endless midnight that this night felt like was unbearable. He paced back and forth in front of his hearth, now burning low- he missed the sky, he missed the pale of dawn, and cursed for the thousandth time that he could not content himself with the mountain, like any dwarf should. He could go to the Augury to see the sky, but then the Ravens would say things he wasn’t ready to hear.

So instead, he paced, and tried to say them to himself.

He might miss me.

He might actually miss me.

If Bilbo missed him, would he be happy to know that the flowers came from him? Would he be glad to know that Thorin Oakenshield continued on, if not exactly in the way that he knew? Would he be glad that Thorin was trying to comfort him? Would he accept comfort from Thorin? Could Thorin dare hope that?

The thousand steps to the Augury felt like ten thousand, but Thorin had to try again.

“We were staying at the House of Beorn,” he began, as Roäc, Jaërg and many others landed in the rafters of the Augury’s alcove to meet him. “There was a certain flower patch where Bilbo would often go. One evening, I joined him there. We shared a pipe. We talked … about flowers, of all things. Bilbo ran his fingers along the stalk of one particular flower. He did not say its name. Its blossoms were blue, and they hung from the stalk tightly clustered together, and were bell-shaped. He said they were his mother’s favourite flower. Do you know of such a flower?”

Roäc, Jaërg and the others conferred amongst themselves for a moment. None seemed to know at first. But then one spoke up.

“O Thorin King Among Dwarves, I know of one called foxglove by many in the gardens of Men at the borders of the Shire. Shall I retrieve such a one for the Hobbit?”

Thorin’s breath seemed suddenly caught in his throat- but he gave a nod. Immediately, the Raven who spoke took off, and many followed, disappearing the moment they cleared the rafters.

The news, when they returned, was not good.

“He shivered, and looked around as though in fear of being watched.”

“Technically he is being watched,” Fíli offered. He and Kíli had joined Thorin for this news.

“Are you sure it’s the right flower? If you’re hoping to have Bilbo recall such a specific memory, it’d better be the right one.”

“Are you saying there’s more than one blue, bell-shaped flower?”

“Hold on, what did you say it was called?”

“Foxglove. The Raven called it foxglove.”

“No, it’s not foxglove, I remember that flower! Bilbo pointed it out to me.”

“He spoke to you about that flower?”

“Well, we didn’t share a pipe in the moonlight over it, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Kíli’s eyes sparkled, and Thorin gave him a shove.

“What was it called?” Roäc croaked.

“Bluebells. He called it bluebells.”

“Mahal’s balls,” Thorin muttered, and Roäc and the others left immediately.

***

It did not seem to matter what flower came to Bilbo, however. The clover that he loved to tuck into his button- even when he spoke of wishing for more flowers, and different colours, and Thorin complied- this did nothing for Bilbo’s comfort. Even the white rose that Bilbo loved so much in Elrond’s garden seemed to spark no recognition.

And then, finally:

“Well clearly I’m not, if you keep sending me flowers!!” And he slammed the door behind him.

It wasn’t clear what Bilbo meant by that, but it was clear that Thorin was failing him.

***

Thorin had no choice. Midnight these days felt like it lasted forever. Time just loved to slow itself down to leave Thorin alone with his dismal thoughts. He needed to feel the change of time. He needed to remember that time was continuing on, into the future- and he needed to speak to the One who could change the future- the future, at least, for Bilbo.

Finally, eight months into his residence in the Halls of Mahal, Thorin decided to pay his Maker a visit.

The narrow stone bridge, over a mile in length, impossibly suspended over an endless abyss- Thorin walked it with increasing heaviness in his step- but the movement of the spheres around him- a great orrery with the Hall at it centre- comforted Thorin, somehow- and the constellations, great fiery lanterns suspended in the depths of the cavern’s unseeable ceiling, gave an oddly hopeful glow. Thorin arrived at the perfectly cut stone doors, glowing with runes ancient beyond ancient, and they slid open immediately for him. He stepped inside.

He stood at a giant smelter, the fires of liquid metal brighter than any dragon’s breath. He looked in every way like a Dwarf, though Thorin would never mistake him for one, and Thorin had never seen a colour truer to stone than in Mahal’s eyes. Thorin knew Mahal was a god of sorts- Vala, as the elves insisted- and he could appear in any form he wished. Thorin knew he was only seeing hints of the brilliance of his Maker. But Thorin was ready to make his demands.

“You have waited so long to see me,” Though he spoke quietly, Mahal’s voice reverberated so deeply the bones of Thorin’s chest vibrated.

“I had much that I had to resolve on my own.”

“But there remains one thing you cannot resolve.”

Thorin swallowed hard. “It is the matter of the hobbit.”

“What would you wish from me?”

Thorin took a deep breath. There was no going back from this- but it was the only way.

“You must make him forget me. You must take from his mind all memory of me.”

Mahal was silent, for a moment.

“Memory,” Was all he said, when Thorin thought he could no longer bear the silence. “You do not understand the power of Memory, if you ask such a thing.”

“Memory is the problem. He is haunted by memories of me. If it weren’t for me, he would be happy-” Thorin’s voice cracked. “Please. Please grant me this one thing. I have taken so much from him. I have ruined his life. And I betrayed him, and- even if it is true, that he cares for me still- I do not deserve it. Please. He deserves happiness more than I will ever deserve anything. Please.”

Thorin couldn’t help it. He buried his face in his hands. He could not show his face to his Maker any longer. He sank to his knees.

“I cannot grant your wish, for I have sway neither over Memory nor over the fate of hobbits,” Mahal began, “But… perhaps I can bring you to someone who does.”

Mahal plunged into water the great sword in his hand that was glowing with fire, and when the clouds of steam cleared, Thorin was no longer in the Hall of his Maker.

The light at first was too bright for his eyes- but then, it had been a very long time since Thorin had seen true sunlight. When his eyes adjusted, Thorin found that he was in a valley, knee-deep in fragrant grasses and bright blossoms. Thorin turned, and saw behind him a cluster of huge towering mountains, the top of which were hidden in rings of white clouds. Out of the side of the largest mountain grew a gigantic tree- it was as tall as half the mountain, and its leaves blushed a brilliant orange-gold.

“The roots… that we have been hacking at carelessly…” Thorin breathed, “They belong…”

“To a prize heirloom, my wedding gift to my husband?”

Thorin turned around. The owner of the honey-toned voice was a maiden, stunning to look upon, dress and headpiece made of flowing blossoms.

It was Yavanna, Queen of the Wide Earth, Giver of Fruits, second of the Valier only to Varda, and Wife of Mahal. Her eyes were dark as the deep earth and held its secrets well. Her lips were full and held the Kiss of Life, and her skin was smooth as river stones, which held the heart of all flowing water. She could not be looked away from.

“I see now how he could have stolen my heart, if he was a creature of your making.”

Yavanna smiled, and her eyes glittered like sunlight on water.

“If I didn’t know you were lost for another, I would say you were flirting with me.”

“Lady,” Thorin bowed, thinking fast. “I would sooner flirt with a dragon.”

At this the Valia laughed, a great, loud, thundering laugh that echoed against the mountain slopes, and finally nodded her approval. “Yet the hobbit you love is as strong-willed as one. I accept your compliment. Come. Walk with me. This is my Valley, one of many meadows in my Pastures.”

Yavanna gestured for him to walk beside her. And suddenly the wind picked up, and Thorin could feel it on his face, feel it tug at his hair, on the cloth of his tunic, sifting in between his fingers.

“What magic is this? That I can feel the wind as though one living?”

“There is life here, but this is not the Living Realm.”

“Is this… where hobbits go when they die?” Thorin dared not hope, but he had to ask.

“No- Hobbits share the fate of men, and that fate is more important than anything they can find in this valley. Even if they themselves believe they are of no import. They cannot know what happens to them after death- nor can you.” She narrowed her eyes suddenly and turned to him. “You were not hoping your hobbit would come to this place, were you?”

“No- I don’t deserve hope, as it is.”

Suspicion still lingered in Yavanna’s gaze. “It is rare for a dwarf to lose his ambitions. And I suppose I believe you. But I am the Goddess of Life, and therefore I must know a thing or two about death. And I know this. He is out of your reach forever. So you must not hope ever to be reunited with him.”

Yavanna’s words seemed to echo against the distant mountains. Even the wind dropped, and the flowers seemed to droop. Thorin tried to ignore the shaft through his stomach. He knew that. He knew that already. He knew better than to hope. He tried to tell himself, anyway.

“You are right, Lady,” He said when he found his voice again, “And it was wrong of me to hope, even for a moment. As it is, I came with a very different request.” Thorin took a breath.

“Make him forget me.”

She raised an eyebrow, but otherwise did not react.

“I cannot. I do not rule over Memory.”

“Then… my Maker said you might have sway over the fate of hobbits. My request is this. Give him a new love. A wife. A husband. Anyone.”

Yavanna stopped walking, looked at him as though for the first time.

“You wish this more than anything.”

“Anything. More than anything, I wish for his happiness.”

Yavanna considered for a long moment.

“It is very hard to do- bend fate either to or away from love. It will take time. And if he loves you, as you love him, his heart will not be easily mended.”

“Please.” Thorin bent to one knee in deep bow. “I beg of you to try.”

After a long moment, Yavanna nodded slowly. “Very well. When I have found his new love, I will tell you. But for now, arise. Walk with me a little. Enjoy my valley. It has been many months since you have felt the sun or the wind.”

Thorin rose, bowed once more his thanks, and they began walking again. Yavanna reached out a hand to touch the tall grasses at her side. Thorin did too, and saw many purple flowers with long thin petals casting out from bright yellow centres like rays from a star.

“This is a beautiful flower,” Thorin murmured.

“Yes,” Yavanna, hearing him, smiled. “It is Aster. Varda once scattered stardust on the earth, and the fields became filled with countless blooming asters. Then I gave their seeds the gift of easy flight in the wind, and when they reach the stars, they become stardust once more.”

“That is quite a journey, to come from the stars here and back again.”

“Yes… a long journey takes great patience. Aster means patience, of course, in the flower language of the hobbits.”

Thorin’s heart slammed so hard against his chest he was nearly knocked over.

“The flower language of the hobbits.”

“Yes.”

“Hobbits have a flower language. They assign meaning to their flowers.”

“I think they would argue that it is deeper than mere assignation, just as the dwarves would argue of their gemstone language.”

Thorin felt the blood rush to his face.

“I have been doing it all wrong.”

“Doing what wrong?”

“When I was sending him flowers,” Thorin said breathlessly. “I thought he would respond to the memories those flowers would evoke. But he is responding to their meaning in a language.”

“You… have been trying to communicate with the hobbit?” Yavanna’s expression looked guarded.

“Do you judge me?”

Yavanna searched his gaze for a moment with her dark eyes- then her gaze softened.

“No… I see your intention is to comfort. And since my husband blessed you with that power, I shall not judge your using it.”

“Then tell me- what does lavender mean, in the flower language?”

“Did you put it on the hobbit’s windowsill, or under his pillow?”

“I put it on his doorstep.”

Yavanna’s eyes grew wide with horror, and Thorin raised a hand.

“Perhaps it's better that for now I do not know. But I must learn this language, if I ever hope to bring him comfort.”

“If you learn the language of flowers, and can bring your hobbit solace, do you still wish for me to find him a new love?”

“Yes.” Thorin said it without hesitation. “Please, I beg of you. I have destroyed his happiness. Please give it back to him, since I cannot.”

It was a long time before Yavanna nodded.

“Very well. I will see what I can do. In the meantime, build me a door in the side of the mountain, next to my Tree’s roots, and facing east.”

“Mahal will allow this?”

Yavanna laughed. “You jest, if you infer that I wait for my husband’s permission. When you have built it, you may open it, and visit me again.”

“I may visit you once more?”

“You may visit me whenever your heart wishes.” Yavanna bent down and picked a delicate spherical blossom- dandy lion, Bilbo had called it. She met Thorin’s eye once more, a soft smile touching her secret-keeping lips.

“I see now how he could have stolen my heart, if you are a creature of his making.”

Then she blew on the seeds of the blossom, and they released into the air, and Thorin found himself back in the deep and the dark of the mountain.

***

“So you’re telling me,” Frerin said later at dinner with Thorin, Fíli and Kíli, “That you met the Goddess of Flowers and you didn’t ask for her help to send a new message?!”

“I may have forgotten,” Thorin rumbled. “She has a rather imposing presence. I do have an idea though. Perhaps I can circumvent the question of flower meanings altogether, and speak a more universal language with him. Will you help me?”

***

Chapter Text

On the evening I came home,
my skeleton came with me and lay by my side.
The dark room opens to the universe:
a wind blows like a voice from- is it heaven?

-Yun Dong-ju, Another Home

***

Bilbo did not welcome the soft sunlight spilling through his windows. How it insisted on landing across the wood panels of his floors, lighting up the dust in soft dancing swirls. The light just felt like betrayal.

Bilbo was lying on the floor. The ring was in his fist. Bilbo opened his eyes and closed them again. The birds were extra loud this morning. A woodpecker was tapping at his window. Tap tap tap. Taptaptaptaptap. Bilbo kept his eyes closed tight. His head pounded to the rhythm of the tapping. He considered bursting open the window to scare the bird away- but then he’d have to get up.

If he turned invisible, he wouldn’t have to hear it.
It would soften into wind.
And the light would become shadow.
The ring was so warm, nestled between his palm and fingers.

“Mr. Baggins?”

Bilbo opened his eyes, turned over. It was Hob at the window, rapping his knuckles gently on the glass. Groaning, Bilbo sat up, pocketed his ring. Why wasn’t Hob knocking at the door? He went to the window, opened it up.

“G’morning, sir!” Hop peaked over Bilbo’s shoulder where he had been sleeping. “We really oughtta get yer bed back, wouldn’t ya say?”

It was Bilbo’s turn to look over Hob’s shoulder- he couldn’t help but notice the lush green his garden had become, despite the challenges. Something in his heart unclenched.

“You’ve really done a fine job out here, Hob,” Bilbo said softly.

“Was your work just as much as mine.”

“And young Hamfast, I shouldn’t forget. Where is the lad? You should come in and get some breakfast- or is it time for second breakfast?”

“Ah-” Hob sounded a little embarrassed. “You’ll need to clear the doorstep a’fore anyone can come in.”

Bilbo’s heart raced. He leaned forward enough to pop his whole head out the window. He turned and looked.

A pile of deep red roses was waiting at his doorstep.

“When did those get here?” Bilbo felt a little lightheaded.

“Since I ‘rrived here this mornin’.”

Bilbo ducked back into the smial and opened the front door. Hob was picking his way through the garden to meet him there.

“Looks like your penpal might be an admir’r after all.”

Bilbo picked up a rose. The depth of colour, the rich perfume made these roses some of the most beautiful he’d seen in quite a while- second only to his own roses, of course- well, if he hadn’t neglected them for a year, anyway. What was strange was how they’d been cut at the bottom. Not a clean cut, as though with clippers, although certainly it was done with something sharp…

“Not the traditional lovers’ number, h’wever,” Hob was muttering to himself. Bilbo looked at the pile- Hob was right. Not the usual lover’s dozen, although thankfully not unlucky thirteen, either, which would be a dreadful wish that the recipient never receive any love at all- no, the number of roses here was not twelve, not thirteen, but fourteen…

“BILBO BAGGINS! THIS CROSSES THE LINE!”

The shrill of a familiar voice came tumbling over the lane. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was marching up to Bag End and had nearly unlatched the gate before a neighbour caught her and held her back. She was wielding a spade and seemed ready to do damage with it.

“Mornin’ Missus Sackville-Baggins!” Hob tried cheerfully.

“Don’t you protect him! HOW DARE YOU, Bilbo, how dare you come after my roses!”

Bilbo was speechless, mouth dropped open, the examined blossom still guiltily up at his nose.

“I can assure you, Mr. Baggins ‘ere had nothin’ t’do with it-”

“My PRIZE ROSES, Bilbo! They were sure to win at the fair this year!”

Neighbours were gathering around, whispering, staring wide-eyed. Bilbo started to feel flush in his cheeks, and a heat rise in his chest. The ring was warm in his pocket. If only he could get it on…

Then he heard it. One neighbour’s remark to another in a lowered voice.

“Only because Bilbo’s own roses were in ill-repair.”

“And wasn’t that Lobelia’s doing anyway?”

“Wouldna be surprised if she trampled ‘em herself.”

Bilbo felt the air in his lungs again.

“Lobelia-” He cleared his throat.

“You were jealous, you couldn’t bear to see my roses win the-”

“Mr. Baggins couldna picked ‘em,” Hob tried again, “I woke ‘im up meself what five minutes ago-”

“He stole them in the middle of the night, you imbecile.”

This caused Hob to turn back to Bilbo suspiciously- but his eyes absolutely sparkled.

“Mark my words!” Lobelia was still struggling to shove off her friend who was holding her back. “This is not over! I’m getting the bounders involved! You wait and see!” With this, her friend finally pulled her away, and the neighbours cleared off.

Only once everyone was gone, and it was only Bilbo, Hob, and the pile of roses between them, did Bilbo and Hob stare first at the flowers- then looked up at each other- and when they made eye-contact, burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter hooting and chortling for long minutes, until finally they collapsed on the ground, holding their aching bellies.

“Now-” Hob started, between fits of laughter, “I beg ya, ya must tell me true- did ya really sneak up into ‘ol Lobelia’s garden and steal ‘er roses in th’middle a’ the night?”

Bilbo shook his head, still snorting. “Although if I knew it’d make me the town hero, I’d have certainly been tempted!”

“Not a one seemed miffed at it, ‘cept the ol’ witch ‘erself.” This caused more peels of laughter, until finally they were nothing but tears and hiccups. A long peaceful stretch of silence followed. Bilbo leaned against the door and watched the clouds drift.

***

Bilbo waited till nightfall. He cooked himself a good dinner, a nice hearty stew over the fire. Rowan would be proud of him. Then he dressed in his nicest waistcoat. When he changed, he took the ring out of his pocket, and, after a thought, put it in a little box on the mantel. Then he found his pipe, carefully packed it with some fine Old Toby from the Whitfoots, and stepped outside.

The air had cooled- it was as fine a summer evening as any hobbit could hope for. September was just around the corner, and the sweet, soft wind was whispering hints of its arrival soon. The cicadas were backing off, and now it was time for cricket song. Bilbo sat on his garden bench. A neighbour had stopped by earlier with Bilbo’s old vase- to hold the roses. So he displayed them prominently on the sill of his large bay window. Bilbo chuckled at that inwardly even now. But then he remembered the serious business he had to attend to. He lit his pipe, leaned forward for one more peak up and down the lane. No one was nearby. Not that it mattered. Bilbo had to do this, whether or not there were nosy neighbours around.

Bilbo took a pull of his pipe, puffed out a perfect ring, and cleared his throat.

“Now see here,” He spoke to no one at all. He was impressed at how evenly his voice came out. He looked around. When absolutely nothing responded to him, he continued.

“And I know you’re listening right now, wherever you’re hiding,” Bilbo took one more quick look around before choosing a random branch on the tree across the lane to focus on, even waving a finger at it. “Or, I’m pretty certain you’re spying on me somehow, since. Well. When I shouted at you, you stopped sending me flowers for a while. Not that I blame you, I am sorry about that. I wasn’t in the best mood that day. Or any of these days really. The reason is- well, let’s not get into that.” Bilbo’s eyes were starting to sting. He blinked several times, fidgeted with his bowtie.

“All I want to say is, well, thank you- thank you, for giving me a laugh today. I haven’t had a laugh in. Well.” Bilbo looked down at his pipe in his hands. Its pipeweed glowed softly with embers. He swallowed hard.

“Anyway. Thank you. And, whoever you are, I should let you know, I’m not exactly in the mood to be courted, not that you meant that by the roses, who knows what you meant- but I’m quite inclined to like you, you know. Although who you could possibly be, I have no clue. Not a hobbit, surely. No hobbit in his right mind would send death threats. Are you a fairy? An ancestor of mine on the Took side is said to have married a fairy- though it was more than fifty generations back, as we have no record of it in our geneaologies.” Bilbo cleared his throat, aware that he was rambling. “So… are you my… Fairy… cousin, then? In any case,” he took a breath, steadied himself.

“Whoever you are, I’m just. I’m grateful. You really gave me a laugh today. Although please do not pull a stunt like that again, I'll get in trouble with the bounders and Lobelia might sue me and the legal battle would be a nightmare, I’m still waist-deep in it trying to convince her lawyers that I am, in fact, Bilbo Baggins, and that I do still rightfully own Bag End, although this piece of, hmm, cheerful vandalism may have proven it to the Sackville-Bagginses once and for all, so thank you for that, too- but you know how finicky legal matters are… or maybe you don’t. Well. At any rate. Just. Thank you. If it wouldn’t inconvenience you overmuch, next time you give flowers, could you, perhaps, give me a clue of who you are? Tell me more about yourself? I’d be much obliged, I’m not naturally one for surprises… despite… what you might have been told otherwise…” Bilbo hung his head a bit, ran a hand through his curls.

“Although… some…” He swallowed hard. “Some can be… the best thing of your life, wouldn’t you know.”

Bilbo had fixed his eyes on the tree branch again- but a soft wind broke his trance, and the tree swayed ever so gently. The moon was peaking behind the clouds. The crickets had quieted, as the evening cooled. Bilbo took a pull of his pipe, listened to the crackle of Old Toby in the bowl. The flowers of his garden leaned into the wind as well. His larkspurs had bloomed particularly tall and lush. They were the only thing in his garden this year that might win a prize. He had an idea.

***

The next morning, Bilbo was greeted at his doorstep by a single purple aster.

Patience.

His heart thrummed in his chest. The fairy was there last night, and heard him, and was now asking him to be patient.

Bilbo bent down and picked up the delicate starburst flower. He could be patient.

“Yer fairy friend snatchin’ flow’rs too, now, I take it?” Hob and Rowan were at the gate, Hamfast and little May and Halfred in tow. Hob nodded to the patch of chopped stalks that used to be the larkspurs.

Bilbo laughed, shaking his head. How easily he could laugh now.

“Thought I’d extend an offer of truce to Lobelia. They are lovely roses, after all.” He gestured back at the vase in the window and Hob chuckled, nodding in approval.

“It looks like a troll came and ate them!” May piped up, pointing at the patch of chopped grass.

“A troll!” Hal’s tiny voice cracked.

Bilbo kneeled down in front of them. “I met a troll once,” He said conspiratorially, and May and Hal’s eyes went wide, and even Hob and Rowan raised an eyebrow.

“Three of them, actually. But these trolls didn’t eat flowers. They wanted to eat me!” The children gasped.

“I was sneaking up on one, hoping to pickpocket him- my very first attempt at burglary, I’ll have you know- and he reached back for his handkerchief- barely a handkerchief, if you ask me, more of a mess rag, and it smelled of farts because it was right near his you-know-what- and he picked me up instead and blew his nose right into my belly. Rubbed me along his nostrils like a shirt on a washboard. He had a hair growing out of a pimple, nearly scratched me across the face. I was covered in troll snot, head to toe. He didn’t even notice me until the damage was done. Thought I’d come out of his nose.”

“How’d ya get away?”

“Yeah! How did they not eat you?”

Bilbo chuckled. “Ah… that’ll be a story for next time. Come for tea anytime you like, and you can hear more,” Bilbo gave a nod to Rowan, “As long as your ma’ says it’s alright.”

***

All through September, on every Wednesday, Bilbo received another aster. The pumpkins were swelling, their vines curling in dramatic swoops. The corn was growing tall. The Harvest Moon festival- the first full moon of autumn- fell on Bilbo’s birthday this year. Bilbo considered throwing a party. Ever since the rose incident with Lobelia, the neighbours had been much friendlier to him- greeting him from their gardens, bringing back things of his they’d won at the auction. Even his bed was brought back to him. On his birthday, he opened up his treasure chests, fished out twenty-two trinkets, joined the Gamgees at their table at the fair, and handed them out as birthday presents. The best ones, of course, he saved for the Gamgee children.

Morning was fair-time but the harvest was waiting, and the full moon meant the hobbits of the Shire would be up all night, bringing in the hay by moonlight. Dances around bonfires in fields all over would give the harvesters a break, and beer and wine would flow freely. Bilbo joined the Cottons in the afternoon, picking apples for them in their orchard- in the evening, he was up in the cornfields with the Bracegirdles.

In mid-October, Durin’s Day came. Bilbo didn’t go out till nightfall. On a whim, he went out to the pond, took a small boat to its centre. He peaked over the edge of the boat. He remembered Smaug’s body at the bottom of Long Lake. The scales of his armour, the glitter of a thousand gold coins chinked into his joints. Reflecting the rays of sunlight that delved too deep.

Here, in the tiny pond, Bilbo could only see black. That was just as well. Some things, we aren’t meant to see.

Instead, Bilbo leaned back in the boat, and spent the whole night watching the moon sail across the sky.

November was quickly dying. The harvests were finished, the fields left fallow. Thorin died, one year ago, and Fíli and Kíli with him. Today, November 23rd, was the anniversary.

Bilbo hadn’t slept again, all night. He tossed and turned. He could only think about one thing.

This was the first year. Of every year, for the rest of his life. That Thorin Oakenshield would be no more.

That Bilbo had to live without Thorin.

In the final hour before dawn, Bilbo got up. He was going to sit on his bench and watch the moon, wish himself back to the Mountain in the moonlight, walking beside Thorin, seeing the hope and joy on Thorin’s face. Bilbo had so much to be grateful for. He was safe- he was home, with his things, among neighbours big-hearted and small, delighting children with his stories, lighting up their faces with gifts from his adventures. He was surrounded by the woods, the fields, the lakes and rivers of his beloved home.

He had all this to be grateful for. But tonight was not the night to feel it. Tonight, there was only one thing he could feel.

He opened the door, and nearly stumbled- on his doorstep was a bouquet.

The soft gold bulbs of yew. Sorrow.
The downcast harebell, weeping dew. Grief.
The modest forget-me-not. Remembrance.
The branch of dying black mulberry. I will not survive you.
And underneath, an oak branch- with a single red leaf, and a single ripe acorn.

Bilbo gasped. His hands shook. Tears stung his eyes, ran freely down his cheeks. He breathed- breathed, only to say one word.

”Thorin.”

***

Chapter Text

The night wind was the only thing that stirred.

Bilbo stared helplessly at the flowers in his trembling hands. How frail they were, as the wind picked up. The last blossoms of autumn, weary from the growing cold. Their message was clear as the night air, stirring all around him and flooded with moonlight. He whispered his name once more, the breath of it warm in his mouth.

“Thorin.”

The night felt so alive. But night was when ghosts walked, wasn’t it?

“Thorin,” Bilbo spoke his name into the wind. “If you’re here, give me a sign.”

The wind swirled on. Clouds small and swift like aerial birds flew across the moon, shapeshifting and lined in its white fire. Bare branches of the trees creaked, their fallen leaves spun softly in the wind that grazed the ground.

Unless Thorin had become the wind, there was no sign.

How. How could Thorin be dead, and yet he feel so alive? How… how could he be gone, yet move somehow in this world?

“Thorin. Thorin… if you can leave me flowers, you can give me a sign. Thorin... if you’re here…” Bilbo could feel fresh tears falling down his face, even as the wind dried them almost as quickly as they fell.

Bargaining. He was bargaining, and he knew it. He would give anything, anything to hear Thorin’s voice again. To see the crinkles at his eyes when he smiled. To see the wind comb through his hair. But Bilbo would never have these things again. A great panic rose in him, as it did every day, especially in the morning, right when he woke up, torn away from the blissful forgetting of sleep. The panic of facing the rest of his life. Without Thorin.

The laughter. The keen gaze. The fond looks. The grumbling, the scowling, the joy. His deep, thrilling embrace. Gone. It was all gone. Bilbo would never have, never even witness those things again. But he did have something else now.

He had a mystery.

Bilbo looked down at the sweet autumn-tired cluster of flowers in his hands. Thorin was not here. That much was clear. But his message was. What had Lord Elrond said? Dwarves, when they die, go to the Halls of their Maker, Aüle, under a great mountain in the far west…

Though Bilbo had seen with his own eyes Thorin’s lifeless body interred deep in Erebor, somehow he was now in a real place, under a mountain far in the west. Far, far, far beyond Bilbo’s reach, forever and ever.

And yet… he was able to send Bilbo a message.

How?

Bilbo didn’t know how late it had gotten. His body ached with the cold of late November. The moon had travelled far on its nightly path, since Bilbo first stepped out. He knew he should return to his hearth. He knew there would be no more answers tonight.

Bundling the flowers and oak branch gently into a bouquet, he stepped back inside, found a small vase for them. Warmed his hands by the dying fire.

Why was there no response tonight, when he spoke into the air, but he had clearly been heard other times this past summer? It made no sense. Was Thorin here, or not? Bilbo could only conclude that he wasn’t. But perhaps Bilbo could still speak with him.

Bilbo went back outside, cast his gaze around his late November garden. Ragweed there still was, and alyssum. Bilbo picked the blossoms gently, tied them together with string. Placed them soft upon his doorstep, and finally, closed the door behind him. Ragweed meant immortality. Thorin was immortal… sort of. Alyssum meant beauty. Together, they could create a question. Is immortality beautiful? In other words, Are you well?

In the morning, the flowers were gone.

Hob hadn’t seen them, nor Hamfast. Who had taken them, and when, in the night?

Three days later, his flower-question had a response.

Three white peonies, on his doorstep. Clever. Peonies meant prosperity. So Thorin prospered, in his far, deep mountain. That was well. Bilbo gave a sigh. But white peonies also meant an apology.

Thorin was sorry.

Bilbo ran his fingers over the soft frail petals. Didn’t Thorin know that Bilbo had forgiven him? Bilbo closed his eyes. He could feel those final moments, Thorin in his arms, his blood-soaked hand in Bilbo’s. He was gone already, when Bilbo touched his head to Thorin’s, whispered I’m sorry over and over. Thorin must not have heard him.

Bilbo’s answer took several days to prepare. The only gardener he could think of who would have hydrangeas this late was Farmer Cotton, who kept a cold cover.

Hydrangeas. Forgiveness.

More difficult still was finding milkweed, rare to find in the meadows in December. He had to venture down into Tuckborough to find it, spend the night at an Inn in Whitwell. It was worth it. Bilbo had to know for sure.

Milkweed. The traveller’s flower. Visiting soon?

Thorin had heard him, when he had spoken into the night air, and when he had yelled, shaking his fist. Had he visited? Will he visit again?

Once more, Bilbo’s flowers disappeared sometime in the night, but it was weeks before he received an answer.

A single, indescribably beautiful white rose.

I cannot.

Of course. Of course. What had he been expecting? Even if Thorin had been there, Bilbo couldn't see him. He couldn't hear his voice or reach out to touch him. He knew this. Tears still burned at his eyes though. It was morning- it was too beautiful a morning to cry. Bilbo knew this also. Still, the tears rolled down his cheeks, warm and soft. Bilbo looked up, into the brilliant blue of the cloudless sky, that perfect winter blue that came after a night of snow. And the ground was still dusted in it, white and sparkling in the sunshine. The wind was alive and crisp against his cheek, and the day was perfect. Bilbo shielded the petals of the rose against the wind.

“Wherever did’ee find that one?” Hob was at the gate, bug-eyed. He opened the gate without a thought, drawn to the rose like a magnet. “That there’s a first-prizer, that’s a-certain.”

Bilbo looked down at it again. “Yes, of course- well I don’t know-” Who would be able to grow roses in the middle of winter? And then he realised he did know, he in fact recognized this exact flower. It was from Elrond’s garden, his exquisite white roses, the likes of which Bilbo had never seen. It was as though they drank the moonlight. And now he held one, in his hands.

“Hob,” Bilbo said, finally looking up. “Come over for dinner tonight? Bring Rowan, and the young ones. This will take some puzzling.”

But Bilbo found he could puzzle no more by dinnertime. He instead gave himself over to cooking, glad to have company. He terrified and awed the children with tales of the goblin king under the Misty Mountains. Then he and Hob smoked a pipe by the fire.

The white rose rested in a narrow vase at the windowsill. Its beauty would not fade for many a month.

Hob followed Bilbo’s gaze to the flower. “Well mayhap th’more import'nt question is, what’ll be yer response?”

“I think it must be… another question, I suppose.”

And Bilbo could feel his cheeks burn with the question he had in mind.

***

Chapter Text

Set me as a seal upon thy heart,
As a seal upon thine arm;
For love is as strong as death-

***

Though he had kept his visits frequent, Thorin shuddered every time he descended into the depths where flowed the waterfalls.

Waters that tumbled and plummeted and sank into a lake far below, so dark it was indistinguishable from the dark around it. Lakes in caves held dangerous things, dangerous secrets. Every dwarf knew this. Still, here, his adad and his adad’s adad silently, unmovingly, lingered.

Every path leading down and away, towards the water, was treacherous. Even a dwarf already dead would loth to risk the fall. Even dwarves had limits. The wise ones, anyway.

Not that Thorin could claim to be one of those. His gaze flitted to the edges of the stone garden as he walked, where many paths disappeared into darkness. Thrain would not say which one Thror took, nor how far, nor how long it had been since he’d last seen him.

“You should see it, Adad,” Thorin was pacing a line back and forth in front of Thrain, who was stone-sitting, eyes closed, as always. “The meadow was flooded with the light of the Moon. Living things of all kinds glowed like jewels, blossoms hanging from stalks as delicate as the finest silver wire.”

“That is well, dashat,” Thrain murmured without opening his eyes. “I am glad you find comfort among the flora you have grown to love so greatly.”

Thorin grew a little pink at that, but pressed on.

“I can entreat the goddess Yavanna to grant you entrance. I am certain I can convince her.”

“You need not bother. I am quite occupied as you can see.”

Thorin huffed in frustration.

“When, praytell, have you last eaten?”

“The dead do not need to eat, if I recall correctly.”

Thorin continued pacing. There must be something he could say-

Thrain interrupted his thoughts.

“Your work on the doors to her Realm must have been exquisite, for the goddess to have opened them for you.”

Thorin stopped pacing, felt a warmth of pleasure at the compliment. He took a breath, considered his next words.

Come see them. I worked ceaselessly for months. Come see them- come, please come, please do anything, but continue to rot here.

“Thank you, Adad,” Thorin swallowed hard. “I… will take my leave of you, until next time. Be well?” He cleared his throat to hide his cracking voice. Thrain did not answer.

***

Frerin, Fíli and Kíli were already at the Augury when Thorin arrived. They sat on the stone floor at the very edge of the orchard where the stonework fell away- above, buttresses arched like half a carcass of some ancient, giant beast, ending fruitlessly in the sky. Below, the stone floor crumbled down the gentle hill into ruins. The dwarves were seated among the rubble when Thorin found them, throwing scraps straight up into the air, and laughing and shouting as ravens dove for them. Thorin looked up. There must have been hundreds of ravens in the nearby trees, beams, and even the buttress-arches. They seemed to be making a game of the scrap-catching. Frerin saw Thorin first.

“Nadad! We’ve been waiting for you! We haven’t started the reports yet.”

“Even for Namad?” Thorin bowed to the ravens above, who let forth their usual greeting of raucous cawing. Roӓc, Jaërg and the Little Ones flew down from a nearby tree and perched on Frerin’s, Fíli’s and Kíli’s shoulders. A Little One perched on Thorin’s shoulder as he sat, and let out a squeak. Thorin craned his neck to face her.

“What are you doing with the flowers Bilbo sets out, by the way? Your amad told me you three were the ones taking them.”

The Little One looked a little terrified to be spoken to directly, but her eyes glimmered with excitement.

“We can’t tell you yet! It’s a secret!!”

Thorin chuckled and turned back to the others, who were readjusting themselves after the Ravens perched on them.

“Well, we did get the gossip on Amad,” Fíli admitted.

“She cussed out another advisor!”

“Go Amad!”

“More pushback about the hunting decree? But many more have begun to leave, and the harvest was plentiful this year. There should be no shortage in the food stores.”

“They want her to leave sooner than she’s willing.”

That gave Thorin pause. “Whatever for? She is responsible for that whole city. Why do they want her to hurry?”

The ravens shifted uncomfortably. Frerin, Fíli and Kíli exchanged looks. Finally, Frerin spoke up.

“Dís’ advisors want her to leave as soon as possible, because she has a claim to the throne of Erebor.”

The ravens stopped rustling.

“They want Dís to rule Erebor?”

They nodded.

“Even though as recently as six months ago, they wanted to lock her up for madness?”

“Well… she claimed they wanted to lock her up, we were never able to actually prove that.”

“Ravens do not go into private quarters, do not forget,” Roäc murmured. “We do not know what was said in secret.”

“Still,” Thorin hummed. “This is a strange ambition. It would cause conflict with the dwarrow of the Iron Hills.”

“Dáin is a reasonable fellow,” Frerin offered, “he might step down after all.”

“It sounds like it’s not what Dís wants, however.”

“We do not know her private thoughts, either.”

“Fíli, Kíli,” Thorin turned to his nephews. “What about when you visit her in dreams? Has she ever said anything about this?”

“We are no dream masters,” Fíli shook his head. “A lot of what we say to each other makes no sense.”

“A lot of what you say at any time makes no sense.” Fíli gave his brother a shove.

“Also we can’t go too often, or she could get lost between Realms! Or something like that.”

“Well,” Thorin said, stroking his beard. “We shall have to wait and see.”

“Hmm,” the others nodded. Silence fell over the group. Roäc and Jaërg preened themselves awkwardly. The little ones started hopping from foot to foot. Fíli and Kíli started whistling.

“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” Thorin grumbled, and was met with mischievous grins. “Alright, alright- tell me about Bilbo. Tell me how he fares. Did he leave a message?”

“He fares well,” Jaërg said warmly. “He steps with liveliness, and runs errands about town, and has invited his neighbours for dinner again.”

“Ah- the old gardener, and his wife?”

"He makes ropes too! They're fun to chew on!" A little one spoke up.

“And their hatchlings were there too!"

“Yeah! And he tells them stories!”

“Yeah! At least that’s what we think he’s doing.”

“Yeah, because they look scared!”

“We can see them through the window! I think he’s telling them about dragons.”

“I think he’s telling them about trolls!”

“Well I think he’s telling them about jaybirds!” All three hatchlings cackled.

“Did he leave a message?”

“He did, O King Among Dwarves,” A few more Ravens had perched closer, and one of them spoke up. “He left a flower the hobbits call milkweed.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow, impressed that the Raven knew the hobbit name for the flower.

“Milkweed,” Thorin rumbled. “I shall have to consult the Valia about its meaning.”

“There is no need, O King,” Another Raven spoke up.

“It is true,” Jaërg said, as she nuzzled a hatchling.

“We have been listening to the hobbits, and learning their flower ways.”

“You are all… spying on the hobbits? All of you?”

“Yeah!” The Little One on Thorin’s shoulder piped up. “Yesterday Lobelia Sackville-Baggins slipped on the ice and was slipping and sliding all the way to her gate!”

“Hobbit legs are so funny!”

"And they flap their wings when they slip but they don't fly anywhere!"

“Milkweed is for wanderers!” Another called out, after the cackling died down.

“It is called the Traveler’s flower,” Yet another cawed from far off.

“It is often used to show one is going on a journey.”

“Only when hung on the door, though.”

“Yes…” Roäc joined in. “We think it means something else. We think he is asking you a question.”

“You mean to say…” Thorin could feel his heart pounding. “He is asking if I shall journey to him?”

A long, soft silence fell upon the group, finally broken only by Kíli.

“That is so sweet! He misses you!!”

The dwarves present broke into poorly hid grins and giggles. Thorin gave them a shove, threw the meat scrap sack at Kíli.

“He must know…” Thorin said after the ruckus calmed. “He must know I cannot go to him.”

“Knowing is different from hoping!” Kíli had a huge grin on his face, prompting another shove.

“Oh, Nadad!” Frerin piped up. “You know how to answer this one. A white rose.”

“It is too dark in the year for roses,” A nearby Raven murmured.

“It’s true, I haven’t seen any roses, have you?” Suddenly, the Ravens above all broke out into raucous cawing as they consulted their neighbours.

“That is well!” Thorin called out: a polite way, he had learned, to get Ravens to calm down. He thought for a moment. “There must be white roses somewhere…”

“Many hobbits have special houses where they grow flowers in the winter- hot houses, they are sometimes called.”

“Or green houses!”

“Or cold-covers!”

“We cannot go into those houses. If a door is generally kept closed, we cannot go in. The only exception is a door into a mountain.”

“I have it,” Thorin realised. “The elf of the homely house. Elrond. His white roses, in his garden, must surely still bloom in winter.”

The Ravens all around them broke out into what sounded like offended murmuring. Thorin looked to Roäc and Jaërg.

“What was it that I said?”

Roäc let out a croak to quiet the others, then looked at Thorin darkly.

“You are asking us to steal from one of the Enduring.”

The silence was palpable. Finally, Fíli spoke up.

“...an elf?”

There was some exasperated muttering from above.

“Oh, I get it!” Kíli put in. “Your realm is the realm of the dead, but since elves don’t die, you have no power among them. Am I right? Did I figure it out?”

More muttering, though less exasperated than before.

“The matter is complex,” Jaërg finally said. “Interacting with the Enduring is not up to us. There are many rules involved, and it can be dangerous.”

“Wait, so, we are talking about elves, right?”

“We can call them elves casually, but this matter is serious.”

“But we can ask our grandsire for help!” The fledgling on Thorin’s shoulder piped up. “He is at Court right now!!”

“...Carc?” Thorin turned to Roäc.

The entire assembly fell silent, eyes wide and sharp upon the Little One. The Little One cowered, and hid her face in Thorin’s hair.

“Carc is well, yes?” Thorin prompted gently. Roäc had been silent on the matter of his sire the entire time Thorin had been in the Mountains of Mahal. After a while, Thorin had stopped asking after him.

“Carc is… he is serving in the Court of the Raven Kings.”

Intense muttering erupted from above.

“Choose your words wisely, Roäc!” A raven called out in the Common tongue. “You are taking a great risk!”

The dwarves exchanged looks. Thorin held up a hand, and the ravens quieted.

“We do not wish to endanger you. You need say no more. We dwarves understand- we have secrets, as well.”

“Not here you don’t!” Another raven called out, and the whole assembly cackled long and hard at that. Thorin, Fíli, Kíli and Frerin could only exchange looks awkwardly for long minutes of their laughter. It was hard to make a dwarf blush, but the ravens were doing a good job of it.

“Truly, though,” Thorin said as the cackling died down. “It is only the matter of a flower about which we speak. There is no need for danger.”

“It is not danger, exactly…” Jaërg trailed off.

“Hard to explain to a dwarf!” Yet another raven from above chimed in.

“The Kings owe them not a word!”

“The Kings owe them nothing!”

“The Kings owe Mahal!” Roäc’s voice boomed, and there was silence.

Roäc eyed Thorin curiously, tilting his head. “We can tell the dwarves some of the matter,” he said to the assembly above. “We have all been looking into their eyes, after all. We know they are trustworthy.” He nodded to his mate.

“There are… two kings,” Jaërg started hesitantly, and Roäc nodded to go on. “Arach, the King of Thought, and Chara, the King of Memory. She and he rule in the Subtle Realms, and Carc and his mate serve in their Court. There has been tension lately in the Subtle Realms… between the Ravens and the Cats.”

“Cats.” Thorin repeated. “This… is about cats.”

“Their Queen Jiaou is cursed!” The Little One on Thorin’s shoulder piped up, unable to contain herself.

“And evil!” Another joined in.

“Sooooooo evil!!!”

“Is she evil because she is cursed or is she cursed because she is evil?”

“Both!”

“Neither!”

“That’s enough! That is all they need to know.” Roäc turned to Thorin. “We can send an envoy to the Subtle Realms to request the taking of a Flower of the Enduring. The Raven Kings will know what to do.”

The Ravens all around the dwarves resumed their intense muttering and the Little Ones jumped up and down excitedly on their shoulders.

“All of this conflict… over a flower,” Fíli murmured to the others.

“Don’t forget the cats.”

***

Thorin was huddled late at night over the rolling mill at his work table some weeks later when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” He said, not looking up. He did not know the hour but the fire in the hearth was dying low.

He recognized Frís’ footsteps and then heard a soft musical thunk- she was setting down her harp near the door. Thorin turned to her immediately.

“I am sorry, Amad- I forgot you were playing tonight.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” She sat on the stool next to the hearth, prodded the embers with a poker. “You have the rest of the Ages to listen to my music.”

“Did you play That Which Burns?”

“I decided to save it for next time, since you were not there, and I know it is your favourite.”

“A sad loss for the others,” Thorin said heartily.

Frís glanced over his shoulder from where she sat. “What are you working on?”

Thorin held up the delicate silver wire he’d just begun to twist when she arrived. She held out her hand, and he gave it to her to examine.

“Finely wrought,” She hummed. “Not a bracelet.”

“A flower. As a Gift of Thanks to the Goddess Yavanna.” He handed her another piece of it, a bud in half-bloom.

“Dashat, this is exquisite. The hammering is exceptional, especially here at the outer edges.”

“Thank you,” He cleared his throat. “I am trying to capture the patterns of delicacy I’ve been noticing in flowers. Their… curl… especially, I wanted to capture.”

“What is the name of this flower?”

“I have not decided yet.”

“It is your own design?”

“Do you think the Valia will be offended?”

“That is not where my mind turned,” Frís laughed gently. “I was simply impressed. I know nothing of the nature of the gods, but from what you’ve said of her, she does not seem terribly fickle. As long she knows it’s not a Gift.”

“She knows I have already given my Gift.”

“Does she?” She turned the bloom in her hands.

“When speaking of beauty, mithril is bound to come up, and when speaking of mithril…”

“I see.” She handed the bloom and the unfinished stem back to Thorin.

“Was there something I could do for you? You are of course welcome here but you do not usually visit so late.”

“I thought I’d see what you were up to- you don’t often miss dinner these days. I was curious to see what preoccupied you.”

“Nothing preoccupies me,” Thorin said quickly. “Just… this.” He gestured lamely at the flower pieces.

“Ah,” Silence for a moment. “So… the hobbit’s latest message isn’t on your mind at all.”

Thorin closed his eyes, let out a sigh.

“Frerin told you.”

“He… was concerned, when you weren’t as glad of the message as he thought you would be.”

“Did he tell you what the message was?”

“He did not. He felt guilty, I think, that you didn’t have more privacy about it.”

“It…” Thorin got up from the table and went to the hearth, leaning on the mantle over the fire. “It was milkweed and winter jasmine.”

“That does sound like a flower message,” Frís smiled teasingly.

“He is asking if I will visit him soon.”

“He asks it again?”

“... in dreams. He wants me to come to him in a dream, as I did once before.”

All the air seemed to leave the room. Frís had been feeding the fire a log but had gone still. Finally, she pushed it into the flames.

“Dashat,” She breathed, and turned to him. “He loves you.”

“We do not know that.”

“He misses you.”

“I- I cannot be certain-”

“He wants to see you.”

Thorin gave up. He bowed his head, watched the flames lick hungrily at the log.

“I should not be doing this. I wanted him to forget me, so he could be free of all the misery I’ve caused him. But now I’m letting him attach to me more. On top of that, the Dream Realm is dangerous. “

Frís started cautiously.

“Fíli and Kíli-”

“That is different. They are blood, they and Namad.”

“Fíli and Kíli have been telling me the rules of Dream Travel. It is much safer now that a year has passed.”

“I can’t-”

“And going periodically need not have ill effects, if one stays careful and ready.”

“I don’t-”

“Even once a moon is considered safe.”

“That isn’t-!” Thorin whirled around to face her. “That isn’t-” He tried again. “That isn’t the only concern.”

Frís raised an eyebrow, waited for him to continue.

“When I went to him, the one and only time I dared- I… I brought only my grief, and my guilt. What if that is all I can give? What if I never had anything I could offer him, except darkness and madness? And what can I possibly offer him now?”

Frís nodded slowly, taking a breath and letting it out. She turned the log with the poker, sending up sparks. After a moment, they quieted again.

“I suppose only you can learn the answer to that. There’s no denying, though, that where once you brought him despair, now you have given him hope. I wonder how you’ll respond to his message.” She suddenly yawned, gave a great stretch, and stood.

“I am so sleepy! I believe I must rest. The hour is late. Hmm, I think I am too tired to take this,” She patted the harp as she approached the door. “Do you mind greatly if I leave it here?”

She didn’t wait for him to respond, opening the door and waving goodbye, the hem of her cloak the last thing to sweep out of view.

Thorin stared long at the door now shut and the harp that stood placidly by. Though surrounded in darkness, its lacquered wood glowed in the firelight, and the gold strings gave a sharp glint in pattern with the movements of the flames.

Thorin’s body seemed to move of its own accord. He stood, he went to the harp. Ran his fingers down the harmonic curve, back up to the shoulder. He plucked a string; its tone rang out clear and bright. Thorin swallowed hard. In one sweeping motion, he picked up the harp and opened the door.

The night was late, but it was not over yet.

***

Chapter Text

Two years later

The wind was roaring in the trees and tumbling through the grasses of the field where Bilbo wielded his scythe. The barley had grown tall but the wind was wild combing through it- if Bilbo tried to cut, his harvest would fly up to the stars.

He eyed his blade- the sharp part shone and glinted. The gusts were so strong they hummed against its curve. Weary, he took the path that wended round the hill into the wood. There, a thousand dragonflies alighted upon the undergrowth, their gossamer wings catching the moonlight spilling thick through the cedarn cover. One rose and landed on Bilbo’s nose, and its wings, when they fluttered, touched the tips of his ears. Bilbo couldn’t understand what the gossamer beast whispered.

So onward Bilbo walked- he surely knew the way, but he was lost. The trees overhead argued and swayed, their voices great ancient moans. He wondered if he should quit, should sit among the ferns and watch the branches above lean and blot out the moon. But then a sound soft and remote came to his ears. Bilbo would know that sound anywhere.

I’m dreaming, he realised.

He hurried down the path, and Hobbiton of nightfall lay before him. The pond was studded with a thousand diamond stars. Bilbo stopped before its shores-

These are not the same stars- Bilbo looked down, into the false mirror of living starlight- then up, and saw the Shire’s clouds and moon. But he didn’t stop long-

Up the Hill was Bag End, lit softly from within- and there, on the bench in the garden, there he was, plucking idly the strings of his harp.

Bilbo had seen Thorin in his dreams many times now- but they were always in a veil of fog, with nothing to say where they were. Only Thorin and his harp came through with great power: his presence, his singing, his melodies clear and living and lingering too through Bilbo’s waking hours. But this… everything around him was vividly real. The wind so alive, the world so aglow with moonlight. And there he was, on Bilbo’s garden bench, as easy as the night they first met.

Bilbo rested his scythe against the fence, and opened the gate. Thorin looked up- a smile tugged at his lips. He turned back to his harp, concentrating. Bilbo’s heart thundered with each step he took, wondering which one might send it all away. But nothing went away, nothing faded. And so, Bilbo sat himself on the bench, next to Thorin.

“The rabbits are out tonight,” Bilbo said, “Dancing, wild and hungry.” His heart was hammering away. He had no control over his words.

Thorin glanced sideways at him, smiling wryly.

“To the Eagles, you are the rabbit.”

Thorin’s voice rumbled like wardrums and wrapped around Bilbo like silk. He played on, hands full of effortless knowing. Bilbo swallowed hard.

“On the back of an Eagle, one day I will come to you.” Where these words were coming from, Bilbo did not know, but they were approaching something truthful- something Bilbo couldn’t say, but had to.

I love you. I love you, Thorin Oakenshield.

“No you won’t,” Thorin’s words were abrupt and cutting. Then he turned, and his smile was sudden as lightning. “Not, at least, on the back of an Eagle.”

The wind tossed all around him, but suddenly Bilbo felt so warm. He breathed, deep as though he could breathe Thorin in, as though by breathing he could not be parted from Thorin.

The dwarf grazed his hands over the strings- first sliding gently down in a scale, then with intent, cascading arpeggios escaping from the strings like sighs. His hair hid his face, except when he turned to Bilbo. And he turned to Bilbo now, his gaze soft.

“Which flowers will you grow this spring?”

A cryptic question. A riddle, Bilbo realised.

“Flowers are memories.”

“Flowers are heartbeats.”

Bilbo looked instinctively out toward his garden, though he would not have torn his eyes away from Thorin for anything. It was full of blossoms, climbing, reaching, open to the moon.

“Ivy,” Bilbo finally said, and naming them gave his garden over to them, and they twined and curled and clung tight to the trellis. He turned back to Thorin, unable to look away any longer.

Thorin’s smile was soft, his gaze sad.

“Ivy never blossoms. And it never lets go.”

Bilbo’s heart thundered in his chest. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe again. No- No- I will not give this up for anything. Please- please do not ask it of me.

But he had to know. He had to know what Thorin wanted.

“Would you have me grow something else?”

Thorin was staring at him, staring deep into him, and shaking his head slowly.

“My garden, too, is full of ivy. How can I ask you to do that which I myself refuse to?”

Bilbo felt like his whole body was glowing. Thorin wanted this, as much as he did. It has been two years now, far beyond guilt and need of forgiveness. This was something more.

“Well then,” Bilbo swallowed hard. “If I can’t fly to you, how-” Suddenly the air was gone from his lungs, the moonlight gone from his garden. Bilbo woke covered in sweat. He cursed under his breath.

***

Chapter Text

***

Stretch out and tell me what’s good
Strung out, but I know that I should
Focus and practice
This love that I’ve lent you-

-Lunette, Made in Heights

***

The full moon was rising over the trees when Bilbo arrived at the gate of the House of Beorn. He looked up at it in astonishment, and then around at his surroundings. The fields were empty except for Beorn’s ponies cantering in play, off in the distance. There was no howl of wolf or warg, no cry of goblin or orc. Just the hoot of an owl and the song of crickets, and soft breezes upon the grass. In Bilbo’s hands was a walking stick.

He turned back to the gate, knocked three times, and the door opened of its own accord. And there before him, Beorn’s house, soaked in moonlight. The moon was rising over the house now. It was always full, in these dreams. Was it always full in real life, too, when these dreams came to him? He couldn’t remember. He pushed the question from his mind. If he thought about it too hard, he risked waking up.

Bilbo crossed the yard and entered the house. A fire was roaring in the centre hearth. He saw the mats of straw just as they were when slept upon by him and the Company, all those years ago. Even Thorin’s elvish blade Orcrist was there, leaning against the wall where it had while he slept. Bilbo gently set his walking stick next to it.

The back door was open. In wandered a massive bee- it made its zigzag way to Bilbo and landed in his hair. Bilbo stood perfectly still. The bee tickled his scalp as it approached his ear. Bilbo could not understand its whispers.

The bee lifted off, and Bilbo made his way to the back door. He stopped at the threshold- the bluebells were in full bloom, giant in the style of Beorn. And sitting on the bench, surrounded by them, was Thorin Oakenshield.

He played no harp this time- instead, he lit a pipe and brought it to his mouth. His cheeks and beard were lit up for a moment by the light of the flame as he took a pull. Bilbo could see the small patch of silver in his beard, the threads of silver in his hair. He sat down next to the dwarven king, who looked at him with a soft expression and handed him the pipe.

Bilbo took a pull- flavours exploded on his tongue- whiskey and baked apple and all the notes one could expect in the finest Old Toby. He puffed out a ring toward the moon- but it wasn’t a ring, it was filled in just like the moon, dark spots and bright spots and all.

“There’s a lake, you know,” Bilbo started, as always with no control over his words, “It’s deep under a mountain, but reflects a bright afternoon sky.”

“Does it?” Thorin, amused, took the pipe back.

“Mmm,” Bilbo nodded vigorously, having no idea what he was going on about. “Do you think a pond could capture the Sun like that?”

It was Thorin’s turn to hum, and he stared off into the shadows underneath the trees that butted up against the wall.

“The Sun is a gift from Mahal,” He paused, considering. “It is Mahal’s will, where Mahal’s gifts go.”

“What about your gifts?” Bilbo said suddenly, his own will breaking free like a thief from a jail cell.

“My flowers?”

“How do you bring them to me?” How was this happening? Was it the years of wondering that were finally pushing through, even through the boundaries between life and death?

Thorin sounded impressed. “You ask such a thing?” He handed the pipe back to Bilbo. For a moment, their hands touched. The tightness of longing pained Bilbo’s chest. He took a deep breath, but he could only nod, blushing, stare at the pipe, and finally take a pull.

“There is a lake not unlike the one of which you speak,” Thorin started slowly. “It lies near the East Gate of Khazad-dûm. Keled-zâram- Mirrormere, in the Common Tongue.” Thorin stroked his beard as he stared far off, and Bilbo traced with his eyes every feature of Thorin’s face as his story unfolded.

“Durin the Deathless gazed upon its surface in the daytime, and a constellation of seven stars appeared as a crown above his head. He took it as a good omen, and built a stone pillar carved with ancient runes to mark the event. What Durin didn’t know was that that was the moment he was granted the gift of returning to life- he is promised to live seven lives, and lead the dwarves into prosperity and peace- until his seventh life, at which point the civilization of dwarves will decline and end.”

Bilbo’s mouth dropped open in protest, unable to imagine that the strength and resilience of dwarves could ever decline. Thorin continued.

“To complete the work of his gift, Mahal called upon the Ravens to set the stars into the sky. It was delicate and difficult work. Seven Ravens were needed, one for each of the seven stars. The stars were heavy, so each Raven had to grow a third foot to carry their star safely into the sky. And since the stars had to be arranged perfectly, each Raven grew five more eyes- seven total, so that one eye could be fixed on each star at all times. When they completed the work, Mahal honoured them with a place in his own mountain, where they could dwell in a Realm between life and death. These were the first Ravens of Mahal, an order who travel back and forth between the living realm and the dead, just as Durin goes back and forth between life and death- and they can do as they please in both realms.”

Thorin leaned a little closer to Bilbo, and that forge-heat that radiated off his body, together with the scent of pine, of lavish trade spices, of the sweet dust of the open road, cascaded over Bilbo, and he wondered if only accidental touches were allowed, or if he could lean in too and kiss the dwarven king, and if so, how long the dream would let him until it tore him back to the dark and sweat of an empty bed.

“But what pleases the Ravens most,” His deep river of a voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “is blurring the boundaries between the living and the dead, whenever and wherever they can.”

“Ravens…” Bilbo whispered, breathless.

“Invisible in your realm. And unknown entirely to living-kind- well, to the races that walk on two legs, at least. They are tricksters, after all. Mahal also scorched them black with the fire of the sun. Hmm,” Thorin paused. “It perhaps doesn’t sound pleasant. But black is the colour of wisdom, after all- I suppose for a reason.” He took back the pipe from Bilbo’s hand, his fingers grazing Bilbo’s gently once more. Bilbo suppressed a shiver, and Thorin re-lit the pipe. “To be scorched by the Sun was an honour- the Sun is one of Mahal’s greatest creations, of course. And the Moon. And Illuin and Ormal, the Two Lamps.”

“And dwarves.”

Thorin chuckled. “And dwarves.” He took a pull on the pipe, and puffed out a perfect moon as well.

“What about the moon?”

“What about it?”

“Is there an animal that Mahal honoured with the Moon?”

Thorin raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You cannot see it?”

“See what?”

“The rabbit. The rabbit, on the moon. Look-” He brought his face very close to Bilbo’s so that they were cheek to cheek, faces almost touching, facing the moon. He pointed.

“There- the ears of the rabbit. See its face in profile, looking left? And its round belly- it never goes hungry- a reward for its kindness.”

“Oh…” Bilbo said, managing a nod.

Thorin moved away only a little. Still looking at the moon, he said, “Mahal one day became curious about life in Middle Earth, and so took the form of a dwarf and explored the surface. He was so fascinated by the mortal realm that he did not realise how hungry and thirsty he had become. A rabbit happened upon him, saw the state he was in, and, imagining the dwarf to be close to death, and knowing there was no food for many a mile, offered himself up to be eaten. Mahal was so moved by the rabbit’s generosity, He put on the face of the moon the rabbit’s likeness.”

“A high honour.”

“And deserved. Rabbits are kind and generous. Careful, alert, aware. They are clever, outsmarting even very large and very dangerous predators. They are soft,” Thorin hesitated, and Bilbo wondered if that was a blush he was seeing, dusting the king’s cheeks.

“Rabbits live in holes in the ground, and are innocent creatures. But they are resourceful too, in their own way. Surely you see the aptitude of the metaphor for yourself, Master Burglar.”

Bilbo gave a huff, but it wasn’t in earnest.

“If rabbits are so honoured, then why did everyone tease me about being like one?”

Thorin shrugged. “Because it irked you?”

Bilbo rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but smile.

“Fine. If I’m a rabbit, as everyone insists, then what animal are you?”

Thorin seemed to consider for a moment. Then a slow, sly grin spread across his face.

“A cat?”

A thrill went through Bilbo, to the very root of him. His mouth went dry. The sparkle in Thorin’s eyes hinted that he was having the same thought as Bilbo.

Cats devour rabbits.

Bilbo swallowed hard. “Oh, really?”

Thorin’s smile grew and he looked away, shifting a bit to ease the tension.

“Cats are independent,” he offered with an effortlessly regal gesture of his hand. “And yet they enjoy company. They are focused, when they have a goal. They are demanding, yet their demands are easily met.”

“And what, praytell, is easy about tramping across the world and killing a dragon?”

“...usually… easily met,” But Thorin licked his lips, clearly enjoying the metaphor. “They’re complicated creatures, and yet simple. They are protectors of home, but often homeless. In spite of that, they are lucky. They can get into all kinds of trouble, and yet somehow manage to survive it.” Thorin’s smile took on a sad note. “Most of the time, anyway.” He cleared his throat and turned back to the moon, taking a long deep pull of the pipe.

“And what of hobbits?”

“What of hobbits?” Bilbo repeated.

“What do you see when you look at the moon, if not a rabbit?”

“Oh! Oh. We see. Well. We see flowers. Can you not see them? There-” It was Bilbo’s turn to lean in close and stretch out an arm to point. “That’s the largest blossom. Then the one off to the left, surrounded by leaves. And then there are those four smaller ones, trailing right and down. And you can see the unopened buds, dotting here, and here… the Moon wears a crown of flowers. Moonflowers, specifically. Also called Silverbloom. Legend has it a Moonflower can open locks, break chains, and even unshoe horses that trod on it.”

“Useful, if ever again you need to open a door that is locked to you.”

“Oh,” Bilbo let out a weak laugh. “It doesn’t exist. The flower, that is. It’s just a legend. A garland only for the moon, I suppose.”

“Ah.”

Suddenly Bilbo felt so tired. Thorin eyed him thoughtfully, passed him the pipe. Bilbo took the pipe, and set it down on the bench on the other side of him. Then, before he could think about what he was doing, he took Thorin’s hand. He held it in both his hands, resting it on his knee. He was blushing furiously. He couldn’t look at Thorin. Instead, he leaned his head on Thorin’s shoulder. He felt like he was jumping off a cliff, like he was falling out of a tree, wind whistling past his ears as he put everything on the line. But then Thorin intertwined their fingers together, his thumb moving in soft, slow circles along the back of his hand. Bilbo closed his eyes. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

After a moment, he felt a hand running slowly through his hair. It brushed across the tip of his ear, tucked back a stray curl. Then it traced softly the line of his jaw, alighting at last upon his chin. Thorin slowly lifted Bilbo’s face to meet his gaze. His eyes were clear and unfathomably deep.

“Bilbo-”

And then Thorin dissolved suddenly, into hundreds of butterflies, bearing the exact same shade as his eyes. Bilbo could not understand their whispers.

***

Chapter Text

Bilbo woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest.

He could still feel Thorin’s hand in his hair. He could still feel how his thumb just grazed the corner of his mouth, as he brought his hand along his jaw. And how, when their eyes met, Thorin’s gaze was so soft, so searching.

Bilbo’s heart pounded with impossible hope.

He didn’t want to get up. He wanted to fall back asleep, find Thorin again. But he knew it didn’t work that way. He got out of bed, started cooking up breakfast. It was a soft winter day- a light dusting of snow lingered on the ground. The sun was draped in a white winter mantle. Bilbo stepped out into his garden. No flower waited on his doorstep, but that was alright. He tried not to look obvious as he looked around- but he couldn’t help but wonder- where were the Ravens? Were they here even now? Where did they like to perch? How many came to visit? Was Roäc among them? He remembered the old chieftain, bald and decrepit, the blue cloud of blindness starting in the corners of his eyes. Was he a Raven of Mahal, now? He certainly seemed distinguished enough to receive such an honour. How did a Raven become one, anyhow? Bilbo wondered if he’d see the moment a Raven dropped a flower out of nowhere on his doorstep. He and Thorin did not exchange many flowers in the winter as it was- and anyway what they discussed through flowers was often as vague and strange as their shared dreams. Bilbo had a breakthrough last summer when he thought of asking about Fíli and Kíli by spelling out their names with flowers whose name started with each letter. The result was eight flowers laid out like letters, half of them irises, and then ending like a question mark with a chrysanthemum. “Fíli Kíli prosper?” The answer, however, was unreadable. Peonies- prosperity. Yellow Carnation: disdain and disappointment. Camomile. Patience in adversity. Coreopsis. Always cheerful. Pink Larkspur: fickleness. Magnolia: nobility. Morning glory: affection. Bilbo laughed to himself about it, even now. It didn’t really matter what the flowers said. Just that they came. That every morning, he could look forward to checking for them. And now, he had even more to look forward to.

Somehow, he had broken the spell of senseless words. Somehow, he had been able to reach out and touch, short as the moment was allowed to be. And Thorin… Thorin had reached out as well. Had it been the simple touch of a friend, hoping to comfort? Bilbo told himself over and over that it was, it had to be, it was silly to think otherwise- but the joy beating against his chest like great soft wings spoke differently.

Winter wearied on and softened into spring. The garden lay fallow but the soil was thawing out. Hob couldn’t come around as much these days, as his roping business was starting to take off, but Hamfast came around quite often and was eager for work in the garden, and sometimes he brought his siblings around at teatime for a story. Their favourite story was still the trolls, even though Bilbo was armed now with a great many epic tales from the tomes he’d been loaned by Lord Elrond.

The tales of the old ages were epic indeed, and Bilbo’s heart fluttered to find the story of the Two Lamps, as Thorin had mentioned- he wondered about Mahal, wondered about the Valar, and the land deep in the West where Thorin now dwelt- dead, and yet. And yet.

And yet the hope that poured out of Bilbo’s heart like honey said he wasn’t- at least not in that final, unreachable way Bilbo had always known death to be. And if he wasn’t unreachable, even now…

Bilbo couldn’t sleep much these days. When his eyes tired from reading by candlelight, he found himself more and more often sitting by his big bay window, wondering if he’d catch sight of a flower falling from an invisible raven. One night, deeply restless, he took a walk by moonlight, into the soft woods of East Farthing where ivy climbed the trees and carpeted the forest floor. He took cuttings, for his own garden. He would plant them at both corners of the smial, once they sprouted roots. Only once they were in their new homes, in little glass vials of water on the windowsill, could Bilbo finally surrender to bed and sleep.

***

In every open road and open space among the dusty ruins of Dale, tents had been set up for the wounded. Bilbo knew exactly where Thorin’s tent was. It was strange that he was not in it this very moment, for he had not left Thorin’s side, night or day, through his long recovery. He looked down: Sting was in his hand, as though Bilbo were rushing into battle. A thrush landed on his shoulder. He couldn’t understand its whispers. Impatiently he shooed it away, and sheathed his sword, starting fast down the lane.

Thorin’s tent was well-appointed and the dwarf was propped up by cushions, sitting nearly upright in bed. He was mending well. He did not wear a crown. That bothered Bilbo. Thorin ought to be wearing a crown. Bilbo’s heart was beating fast. He did not know why.

What bugged Bilbo even more, though, was that the thrush was in the tent, perched on Thorin’s outstretched finger. It was whispering to him.

Thorin looked up, saw Bilbo there in the doorway.

“I do not understand its words.”

Bilbo shooed the bird away. He sat on the bed, facing Thorin. He was hesitant to touch him. He wasn’t sure why.

“Have you eaten? Do you need water?”

Thorin’s look of worry melted into a smile, soft and full of fondness.

“Do not worry, ghivashel. I eat well, here.”

Bilbo let out a snort. “If I have to eat cram for one more week I swear I will chase down an orc and kill it.”

“Kill it… to eat it?”

“No! Kill it in indignation!”

Thorin chuckled under his breath. “Your indignation is dangerous indeed!”

“Well it’s got to have some target!”

“And what shall you target me with?”

“Hm,” Bilbo frowned, thinking. “Soup. Now let me check your fever.”

“I am not fevered, ghivashel.”

“You’re covered in sweat. Here. Let me help you.”

There was a cloth with water on a stand next to the bed. Yes, that would do well. That way he wouldn’t have to touch him. Why was he worried about that?

He brought the cloth to Thorin’s forehead. He hesitated, an inch away. Then gently he pressed the cloth to his brow. Thorin closed his eyes at the touch. Their breath stilled. Bilbo did not move.

“Why do you ignore the thrush?” Thorin murmured, and looked up at Bilbo once more.

“Because of the Lightning Tree.”

“The Lightning Tree?”

“You know. The tree that looks like lightning come down from the sky. Well. The glow upon it is softer than that. But. You know.”

“I do not.”

“You know!” Bilbo laughed and swatted him with the cloth. “You don’t fool me, King Under the Mountain!” He brought the cloth up to Thorin’s face again, this time his cheek. The dwarf was looking at him with devastating fondness, his lips parted just slightly with a smile tugging at them. Bilbo’s face was inches from his. Thorin had no right to be so beautiful, to gaze at him with such open affection, melting his heart into a puddle, giving him so much hope for their future-

“Oh.” Bilbo’s hand fell away. The air was heavy in his chest.

Thorin was watching him. His smile faded away into sad knowing.

“You’re not wearing a crown.”

“No, I am not.”

Bilbo could feel all the breath leaving him with his next words.

“You’re dead, aren’t you?”

Thorin gave the smallest of nods.

“Yes. I am.”

Bilbo gave a weary nod and hung his head. His hands were limp in his lap.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I forgot.”

“I would too, if I could.”

“...I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” He looked up at Thorin then, and saw the answer in his eyes.

“You don’t have to wake up yet.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know. I just hope.”

Thorin looked down, thoughtful, at Bilbo’s hands, and carefully took the cloth that was wrung between them. Gently, so gently, he came close and brought it to the corner of Bilbo’s eye, where a tear had formed unnoticed. Their faces were so close, their foreheads were just touching. Still, Thorin’s next words were so soft Bilbo almost didn’t hear them.

“Would you have married me?”

Something shattered in Bilbo then, never to be mended. He closed the distance between them.

And their kiss felt so real and so vivid it could not possibly have been a dream. Thorin’s mouth was soft and sweet and yielding- but his yearning was an avalanche. His arms wrapped around Bilbo’s waist, pulling him in, pulling him closer. He tasted like untold years of wandering in the harsh forbidden wilds. He tasted like amber and honey and silver and moonlight. He tasted like all the things worth waiting for, searching for, fighting for and dying for. He tasted vast and endless, from the depths of the deepest caverns to the farthest, dimmest stars.

And his touch was like echoing melodies, like summer fields in a storm full of lightning. His touch was like the freedom of winged things lifting off into the endless blue. His touch was a home Bilbo hadn’t known he longed for, until one fateful night when his life changed forever. Thorin ran his hands along Bilbo’s back, along his neck, through his curls like a lost wanderer searching. Bilbo buried his hands in Thorin’s hair, running his fingers along the river of soft strands, arriving to rest upon his face at last like a child returning to his favourite hidden meadow.

He didn’t know when it ended. He didn’t know where he ended. And for some part of him, it never would end. Some part of him would live forever in that moment. Some part of him stopped, between breath, between heartbeats- stopped, and would go no further. Only stay there, safe and loved and loving and holding and living and insisting and unyielding.

***

Chapter Text

The rain this summer simply would not quit. Each day would dawn hot and parched, the cicadas' song an impenetrable drone. But by afternoon, dark clouds spilled over the sky, holding lightning in their palms. The downpour would last all afternoon, sometimes all evening. If the Shire weren’t so hilly, and the soil so strong with root and rock, more fear of flooding would stir. But the only dangers were cancelled parties and many a nose pressed up against a windowpane.

Bilbo didn’t mind. He was too busy living in a world where Thorin loved him.

The rain fell fat on the squash. It puddled the lane. Baby frogs took their first leaps through soft grass. The blossoms opened slick with wet. The mourning doves cooed from their leaf-sheltered branches. Bilbo sat by the window, watching all of this unfold. He wondered if the Ravens could feel the rain.

A flower had appeared on his doorstep, the morning after he kissed Thorin. An exquisite wild rose, the kind of rose Bilbo was glad to pay for with the blood of his fingers. He answered with a rare and luscious red ambrosia. Loved in return.

Bilbo didn’t have to wonder anymore. He didn’t have to hope or fear. He knew. And knowing was like flying.

The rains eventually surrendered to a windy autumn. The first gildings of leaves fluttered in the warm breezes of September. Apples and pumpkins swelled, and blackberries clustered for their final harvest. The flowers of the meadows stretched tall- gold of ragweed, brown cattail. The songbirds gathered in trees and held riotous choruses.

Bilbo was flying- flying, in a great, lofty spiral, far above the world. He was on the back of an Eagle, its massive feathers fluttering in as it swooped and landed softly at the top of the Great Shelf that was the Eagle’s Eyrie. Bilbo slid down its back and the eagle lifted off once more, leaving Bilbo alone with Thorin, who waited for him there.

“Amrâlimê,” Thorin came to him, his voice thick and rasping as he enfolded Bilbo in the circle of his arms. Bilbo felt a kiss lost in his hair, and Thorin murmured in his ear, “Are you well?”

There was only one answer possible. Bilbo wrapped his arms around him, holding tight to him, and gave the deepest kiss he could. Thorin returned in kind, opening to the kiss with the desperation of someone who knew his time was short.

The entire world lay open before them, beckoning to adventure. The Eagles danced far above them in circles- their whispers echoed down, but Bilbo could not understand them. He was no longer trying to.

The sun was setting over the misty mountains, casting their snows in rosy gold. It set as though time were slipping away, like quicksilver, like a merciless god was yanking it into the earth, and the gold cast so freely across the world was lost. The sky darkened into velvet blues and blacks, and when Bilbo and Thorin finally parted from their kiss, the world around them was awash with starlight. The stars hung so palpably present, Bilbo felt that if he reached out, he could touch them.

Yes, Bilbo was well. He was so well he couldn’t sleep- he was carried through each night, into each day, by some vast, incredible impossibility, some ineffable greatness that permeated everything. Who needed sleep, anyway? Eventually he would drift off, sitting on the sill of his beloved bay window, forehead leaning against the glass, once the finches started their chirruping in the hour before dawn. Who needed a bed, anyway? In his bed, he was alone, and would wake up alone. By the window, he had moonlight, and starlight, and crickets singing, and night wind caressing the blossoms, and pale misty dawn. He had candlelight and the quiet, stalwart friendship of his books. It was a book that he held to him most nights, hugging against his chest as he watched for the Ravens, or open in his lap if he could focus. His Sindarin was getting stronger and stronger, as he painstakingly translated the books Lord Elrond loaned to him, committing to memory every characteristic of the Undying Lands that he encountered as he transcribed copies for his own keeping. The Undying Lands- Thorin’s home, even as Thorin himself was now, somehow, undying. Because he wasn’t dead. Not really. He wasn’t. He wasn’t.

He couldn’t be, not when Bilbo could feel the warmth of Thorin’s body enfolding him in the irresistible pull of his embrace. Not when his hands, rough and yet so gentle, caressed his face, wiping the tears from his eyes. Not when his kisses burned so.

Bilbo’s birthday came and went, and he threw a party, but it was all a blur. So many friendly faces, happy to celebrate him, happy for the excuse of his turning one year older to laugh, to eat cake, to dance in circles arm in arm with each other to a tuneful fiddle’s song. Thorin should see this. Thorin should be here, arm in arm with Bilbo. Where was Thorin now? What was he doing? Was he dancing at some great feast deep in his maker’s mountain? Were there fiddles, and harps, and oboes and drums? Were there great roaring fires sending up sparks to a ceiling that stretched and vaulted as high as his hopes? For he could hope for Thorin, he could hope that Thorin passed his time well, in company with his sister-sons and ancestors, and long-lost brother, and the Ravens crowned with eyes that beheld stars before their making.

And he could hope for Fíli and Kíli, though their lives ended too soon, that they would find their carefree joy in eternity just as they always did in life.

And Bilbo could hope for all dwarf-kind, he could hold that joy and certainty for them. Their future, their destiny was real. And if he couldn’t hold that hope for himself, well, that was alright. Hobbits were simple folk, after all. He didn’t need to hope that hobbits shared in the destiny of Men, some impenetrable secret that only mattered at the remaking of the world. He didn’t care about all that. He wanted something else for himself, he could admit that now. He wanted a chance, and he knew it was impossible, he knew- but it didn’t feel impossible. It felt like all he needed was a map, and a key, and a door.

The carved stone pillars of the Hall of Fire were bathed in darkness on one side and the glow of hearthfire on the other. The hall was empty, but for a lithe and lacquered harp which plucked of its own accord a lush bolero- and Thorin, standing in noble silhouette by the hearth, his arms behind his back. He turned as he heard Bilbo approach, and his outstretched hand was a miracle.

“Let us dance,” Thorin said, and led Bilbo out onto the floor. One hand was engulfed by Thorin’s own, the other rested on his powerful bicep. Thorin led with exhilarating power and grace, and the contact of their arms, their legs, their chests at times when the dance collapsed the boundaries their arms held- it was one thrill after another, as their pace, their movements, their heartbeats mirrored and matched.

Thorin slowed their pace, brought Bilbo close, and for a while they simply hovered in sway together, Thorin gazing half-lidded, smiling down at him.

“Now I know you aren’t the one choosing the places we meet,” Bilbo said, low and laughing. “Otherwise you’d never have brought us here.”

“And how I would be missing out,” Thorin said heartily. “You must know I’d endure much worse to be with you.” With easy grace, he led Bilbo into a spin. “You like them, anyway. The elves. I suppose I must confess my jealousy.” Thorin’s tone turned serious, as he pulled Bilbo back in. “Now I envy them all the more, that they remain to enchant you still.”

“Oh, Thorin! Don’t be ridiculous. It’s you I’m following. It’s you alone, it always was.”

Thorin’s breath hitched at that, and he leaned in and kissed Bilbo, pained and poignant and full of need. When they parted, Thorin’s eyes narrowed just a touch.

“And… whither are you following me now?”

“To the mountain, of course. To take back from the worm what was taken from us.”

Thorin’s gaze was alarmed and searching.

“Bilbo… you do know where we are, right?”

“Of course I do! We’re in the thing that burns.”

“... a fire?”

“A blazing fire.”

“Bilbo.” Thorin’s mouth dropped open, as he searched Bilbo’s gaze with joy and wonder and- was it fear, that he saw there, lurking in the shadows?

Thorin pulled him back into the dance with new energy, and they traced spirals in the floor around the room to the deep chords of the bolero. Bilbo was well- yes, Bilbo was very well indeed.

In the shadows, past the carved pillars, in the window waited a cat. Its ochre eyes glowed as it stared hard at the couple. It did not whisper anything at all.

***

Chapter Text

Thorin often wished he had more privacy in the matter of what went on between him and Bilbo, but… perhaps not today.

No sooner did his eyes snap open as he was pulled from his and Bilbo’s kiss back to the stone of the mist-filled chamber, than he was on his feet straightaway to the Valley of Yavanna. If there was any doubt in Bilbo’s mind that Thorin loved him, then Thorin would remove it now. And anyway, if the dream had to end, well, their connection need not. So he sought her advice about a flower for Bilbo. He wanted to give roses, but had already done so before.

“I know the rose is the most highly desired flower when love is first confessed. But I do not want to confuse matters, since my intent in giving them before was lighthearted. What shall I do?”

Clouds were covering the moon and a rain as soft as mist fell upon the valley. Thorin’s eyes adjusted easily to this soft dark, and he had found Yavanna among a grove of loosely clustered stonefruit trees that leaned down the slope of the mountain’s foothills. She plucked a plum and handed it to Thorin, laughing.

“Well do I remember your trick! A dangerous prank, among Shirefolk. Your hobbit was quick of mind to offer a truce and avoid the magistrate.”

His hobbit. Bilbo was his, just as he was Bilbo’s.

Yavanna beckoned Thorin to a woody glen where even in the dim of storm, blossoms dazzled a vibrant red like the deepest sunset.

“The roses you sent before were cultivated- highly prized, yes, but tame. This is what a rose looks like in the wild- unsurpassed in beauty, and dangerous to come to. Shall I tell the Ravens where to find one?”

And because the Valia, one of the highest beings in all of Eä, continued to condescend to help him, a lovesick idiot dwarf, Thorin then spent the rest of the night making a sculpture- mithril and silver finely threaded- of a flower for her. It was the only thing he could imagine that might please a literal goddess, that he was capable of making. And now, in the morning, Thorin was on his way back to bother her once more by expressing his gratitude. For the rose as well as the plum, which was, after all, delicious.

For some reason, however, he could not seem to visit the Valia without drawing notice. Perhaps it was because the door to her Realm that he built had gained notoriety. Apparently even Mahal had raised an eyebrow in appreciation when he saw it. The door had many admirers, even if there was no particular interest in the Valley and Pastures that lay beyond. It was quite tall, for so was she, and it would be rude to make a door that she could not also use. And the ancient runes of course glowed, as did the lavish designs- along the edges were twisting vines, and in the upper half of the door was a great tree reaching both high and low where its roots descended into the central plane of the door. In the lower half, Thorin repeated the design in mirror image, so that there was another tree that pointed downward, as though a reflection in a lake- a strange choice, he admitted. But he could not place an image directly in the centre, as therein was placed the doorknob. For it was a perfectly round door in the style of hobbit holes. An extravagant design choice by dwarven standards, but… it felt right. Thorin was loth to take credit for the success of the craftwork- for though his stonework and runework were always precise, and he did have a certain amount of artistry he’d inherited from his amád, the result far surpassed his abilities- even his ambitions, which were great. He must have had help. Divine help- either from the Valia or his Maker, was his guess. Nevertheless, praise and incredulous astonishment were heaped upon him. As if he didn’t get enough attention for the things he did in life, both the bad and the good.

The other cause for his notice was that the door stood near the roots of the Great Tree that was Yavanna’s Gift to Mahal. She once told Thorin that she and Mahal did indeed walk together many an evening among its aerial roots. Yet despite Thorin informing dwarrow, both strangers and ancestors, of these facts- that did not stop them from using it as target practice. At least no damage was done. A large crowd was there even now, throwing axes.

“Oy, Oakenshield!” One of them called out, a distant ancestral uncle. “Pay the toll, y’old softie! Let’s see it!” The whole group looked up and came over, and ignoring Thorin’s protests, cajoled him into unwrapping his latest floral sculpture. They ooohed and aaahed appreciatively.

“It looks like a throwing star, can ya use it on orcs?”

“What’s the long part for? Can it stab someone?”

“Would a goat like t’eat it? I sure do miss me war rams!”

“Irak-adad! Wait up!” Fíli and Kíli came running up to join the crowd, long axes on their shoulders.

“We’re still having lunch tomorrow with the Ravens, right?”

“Are you on your way to Yavanna?”

“How’d it go with Bilbo last night?”

Whether it was the fact that he was suddenly tongue-tied, or that a red heat was crawling across his face, the whole group quickly caught on to precisely what happened last night.

“Mahal’s beard, Oakenshield’s in love! And happy in love, at that!”

“Finally grew the stones t’say somethin’, eh?”

“This calls for a celebration! Everyone! To Ruby Hall!”

“To Ruby Hall!”

“It’s ten in the morning!” Thorin finally found his voice, but it was too late. He was answered only with cheers, claps on his shoulders, and shoves toward Ruby Hall.

Ruby hall was the most ostentatious of the many halls crafted by Durin’s folk (for Mahal allowed dwarrow to mine, build and craft however they pleased in his Halls)- but its greatest feature was its mezzanine which looked out upon the great central cavern. High above, Mahal’s forge glowed, suspended with nothing but a single narrow stone bridge to come to it. Above even that, Mahal’s great Orrery marked the movement of time in the outer world, with a great dimly glowing sun and moon that hid and revealed themselves in turns, and all the constellations that wheeled across the sky for mortal kind. Below, the halls, mines, bridges, walkways and wonders of dwarrow craft descended for what seemed like an infinity, as well as the majestic natural features of the mountain itself. Even far to the north, Thorin could make out the jagged crags that marked the way to the Waterfalls.

It was to this mezzanine that the party had been brought. Fíli and Kíli ran off to find Frerin, Víli and Frís, and once they were all near wine and ale, the toasting began.

“To Bilbo!”

“To the Burglar!”

“May his garden never wilt!”

“May his feet never lose their hair!”

“May that silver, dragon-charming tongue never rust!”

“A dragon’s not the only thing that tongue has charmed!” Great gusts of chortling erupted at that.

“Concern yourself with your own tongue, irakadad!” Thorin had drawn some silver of his own and aimed it at his great great uncle’s throat.

“Aye, that I will, lad! I’m not wrong, though!” More laughter ensued, but since the bawdy jokes did not escalate, Thorin sheathed his knife and let it be.

“May his knives never blunt!” Fíli offered, and was met with cheers.

“May he never confusticate!” Kíli raised his cup, and the others agreed, though with confused looks.

And so it went on for several hours, until the dwarrow were all collapsed on the floor under tables or in great ridiculous piles. Only Frís remained to pour Thorin a goblet of water.

“They are carefree in their congratulations,” Thorin muttered, almost to himself. “They surely must understand it’s more complicated than that.”

“Oh believe me, they do. Love is always complicated.” She took a sip of water herself. “That does not make it not worth celebrating.”

Thorin stared at the cup in his hands, tilting it just slightly, watching the surface of the water stretch.

“What is the difference, really, between life and death? We can still taste, touch, see… we still want things, we still have hopes. As for where we are, I would not call being confined to a mountain death. So what is it, really, that’s so different?”

Frís regarded her son for a long moment before finally sighing, reaching for another carafe of wine, and pouring them both a goblet.

“I suppose…” She began, “it’s that we have no more chances. We cannot fulfil any more dreams. You say we can have hopes, but not really, not for ourselves. Only for those still living. You can no longer hope to rule Erebor wisely and restore our people to their former wealth and glory. You must pass that work on to others. All you are now is a legend, and you can no longer matter to others. Only the memory of you can.”

“Then what is happening, when I step into the Dream Realm? Am I not mattering to Bilbo in a new way? Do I not have hope for myself, when I go into the trance?”

“Perhaps- but that is why that Realm is dangerous. The understanding between two dwarrow who meet in dreams is that they are there to give and receive comfort. You know that most dwarrow never try it. In cases of the young, such as with Fíli and Kíli, it is tried more often- but even then, after some years, it must taper off. The living must go their own way. They must go into their destiny alone.”

Thorin left the goblet of wine untouched before him.

“You disapprove of me going to Bilbo so much.”

Frís considered for a moment, then shook her head. “Bilbo is a hobbit. Hobbits don’t have grand destinies, if my understanding is correct. If they are as earthy as they seem, then your visits are unlikely to harm. It is clear you bring Bilbo comfort. If not for your reaching him, he would never have known how much he is loved.”

Thorin grunted. “How frustrating it is to be dead, when we still have so much to give.”

“Give it time, dashat. It’s a lot to get used to. But though we may be dead, we are still the Children of Mahal. We still get to create wondrous things, and we still get to plumb the depths for wisdom. And, we still get to celebrate.” She cast an affectionate eye over the piles of slumbering, snoring dwarrow, the mess of plates and tables littered with scraps of sausage, cheese and bread. Even their raucous singing still seemed to echo.

“Yes… it is heartening, to give and receive such joy,” Thorin sighed. “If only there wasn’t one thing missing.”

“I know, dashat,” Frís’ voice dropped low, and her own gaze drifted to the crags far off north. “I know.”

***

The sun was high but dipping quickly in the valley of the Great Shelf upon which Thorin stood, and clouds sailed in a breathless rush across the deepening scarlet sky. Eagles circled high above- their whispers echoed down- Thorin could not understand them.

Thorin looked for Bilbo- he was nowhere to be seen. Thorin did not worry. Bilbo would come to him. Bilbo always came to him. Momently an Eagle swooped in descent and landed upon the Shelf- Bilbo slid down from its back- Thorin was already running to him.

“Amrâlimê,” He said, as he enfolded Bilbo in a tight embrace, kissing his hair and breathing in his scent. “Are you well?” Bilbo’s response needed no words at all. When they broke from their kiss, the world was newly bathed in darkness and starlight.

“Lie back with me,” Thorin murmured in Bilbo’s ear, “Here upon the cool stone, and let us watch the stars wheel.”

They lay back, shoulder to shoulder, and the Eagles one by one dipped down from the sky and landed in the lower crags to nest. The wind hummed lonesome reedy notes against the cliffs, and the treetops in the distance swayed in the night wind like black candle flames. Thorin and Bilbo were alone.

“Do you ever wonder how many there are?” Bilbo’s voice was soft at Thorin’s side. “Stars, that is.”

Thorin didn’t have to wonder. He knew. “There are ten thousand.”

“You sound as though you’ve counted them yourself.”

“I’ve counted some, and calculated extrapolations. I was rather adventurous in my youth, wandering the forests into the sunset hours. At night, carefree and alone, I watched the stars, watched their movements. Even on the day the dragon came, I had planned to take my brother and sister along for such an outing.” Thorin paused, remembering the light of Smaug’s fire reflected in his siblings’ wide eyes as they looked up into the sky, as the screaming began. Dís was only ten years old, that day.

“It sounds…” Thorin picked up the thread of his story again. “Sentimental, for a dwarf, perhaps, but dwarves have great respect for precision in our craft, certainly in time keeping, and so many of dwarfkind chart the patterns of the stars. But there is one dwarf who has counted them all, and that is how I know their number.”

“Let me guess. It’s Durin the Deathless.”

“It is Durin the Deathless.” Thorin declared, as though Bilbo hadn’t just said it.

Bilbo grinned and rolled his eyes. “Hmm I do rather feel a speech coming on.”

“What are you talking about, I’ve never made a long-winded speech in my life.”

“Ha! Well go on, then,” And Bilbo’s eyes sparkled brighter than any diamond, any star. Thorin grinned and after a long moment where he was tempted to throw out his story altogether and instead involve Bilbo in something that would taste much sweeter, finally turned away from Bilbo’s beautiful face and back towards the stars.

“It was Durin the Deathless who first counted the stars. He saw that their number was ten thousand, and he saw that they travelled in a great wheel around Arda. It was Durin who began the measurement of time, by dividing the wheel of the stars into increments of six. Six is an important number to dwarves- it is versatile, it is the smallest perfect number, and it is unique in that its divisors equal its sum. It is the perfect number with which to divide a sphere, and therefore all of time- for time is circular, and spheres mark its turning- six times sixty degrees, six times two months, six times four hours, six times ten minutes, six times ten seconds. Six is the number of time. But five,” and he turned back to Bilbo, admiring the faint glow of starlight upon his cheek. “Five is the number of life.” He held up his hand. “Five fingers, on each hand. Five toes on each foot to grip and walk upon the earth. Five senses, with which to perceive the myriad and endless phenomena of life. I have been studying the structure of flowers,” Thorin could feel himself blushing as he said it, “And five is the number of petals widely preferred among them. And so, if five is life, then is not ten,” he gestured toward the stars, “simply two lives, brought together?”

He took Bilbo’s hand in his own, and five fingers interlocked with five fingers.

“Only you,” Bilbo said, fighting back his smile and losing, “Could make a lesson in figures romantic. You must know that if you keep telling me these charming tales, I’ll never fall out of love with you.”

Thorin’s breath hitched.

“Did I ever tell you the one about the-”

“Hush, you!” Bilbo gave him a little swat with his free hand. “A hobbit can only handle so much swooning at once.”

Thorin hushed as told, and enfolded Bilbo’s captured hand with his other, running his thumb along the back of it, feeling the soft interlock of their fingers. He brought Bilbo’s hand to his mouth and kissed it gently. Above them, the sky was already quickening toward a rosy dawn. All the world lay open before them, beckoning them to adventure. They could journey whither they pleased, hand in hand, never to be parted- that is how it felt, at least, in that moment- that they could pick a direction and fly towards the horizon, wind stirring on their bodies, blissful to run side by side.

But something was wrong. Thorin could feel it.

***

Chapter Text

“He is not sleeping,” Thorin was pacing back and forth. He was pretty sure he was going to wear down the stone in the path he was creating, pacing back and forth, back and forth in front of where Thrain sat. The roar of the waters falling into the lakes was a quiet echo from far below.

Thorin had greeted his adad, tried to engage him in small talk, gave news on how everyone fared. How Dís had started the journey to Erebor, and her two advisors that she hated decided to join her caravan, instead of remaining in the Blue Mountains. How Víli has taken up the flute and started performing with Amad at dinners in Ruby Hall. Thrain had given a grunt of approval at the latter, a grunt of consternation at the former. Now, finally, he opened his eyes, and his gaze followed Thorin’s relentless pacing. Encouraged by this, Thorin pressed on.

“The Ravens say he does not sleep at night, only sits by his large window and stares out of it, into the garden or the sky, often until dawn.”

Thrain held his gaze long enough that Thorin stopped pacing.

“You are not sleeping either, dashat.”

Thorin threw his hands up in the air and started up his pacing again. “That is different. You know it is different. The dead have the luxury of sleeping only for the pleasure of it. Tired as we may still become, we can yet press forward. Bilbo needs to sleep, if he is to remain well.”

“He is in love, do not forget. I barely slept for a year when I first met your amad.”

Thorin sighed, and gave up his pacing. He sat down in front of Thrain, in the same cross-legged posture.

“The things he says and does in dreams… they are not consistent.”

That brought a smile to Thrain’s face, fond and affectionate. “They are dreams, dashat. The landscape of dreams is shifting sands. You know as well as I that it is rare when a being can control what he says or does in a dream.”

“Yes but… he has control, then he loses it. He can speak his mind, and then he can’t. He remembers I am dead, and then he does not, and then he remembers again. He cannot touch me, and then…”

“As I said,” Thrain actually held up a hand, breaking his posture, to prevent Thorin from speaking further. “Shifting sands. Haven’t you seen the Dream Masters about this?”

“They refuse to read the portents, because he is not a dwarf.”

“Helpful. What about the goddess Yavanna? Does she have any insights for you?”

Thorin flinched at this.

Two nights ago the goddess brought him to a corner of her Meadow where red ambrosia grew, so he could see what the flower looked like, that Bilbo left for him. She always showed him any flower he named for her. The Ravens were like a library, at this point, on the hobbit language of flowers, but they could not show him any flowers, beyond a verbal description. Yavanna, however, could bring him to the flower and speak on their qualities both symbolic and botanic. Thorin himself was becoming a library, in a sense. And he received a great compliment on the flower that he brought for her on that occasion.

“This depth of colour, in the leaves,” Her eyes had widened as he handed her his sculpture- then her gaze turned to him with at least a small amount of wonder. “How did you achieve it?”

“I spent some time in the garnet mines with this project in mind. The effort allowed me to be selective.”

She had nodded slowly, and then gave a radiant smile. “It is rare for the leaves of a flower to have red, as you well know by now- but a red-leafed plant can stay warmer in the winter and do well in the mountains. This shorter stature, as well, would make the plant quite hearty in high reaches- and the bell-shaped flower which hangs its head so delicately-” she hovered her fingers over the small blossoms. As the moon was out, large and bright and casting a glow upon the valley, the shadow of her fingers over the blossoms barely showed. “That is characteristic of flowers always combating the wind. I would give this flower a home in Middle Earth, if you do not object.”

Thorin’s mouth dropped open. “I would be honoured.”

“Good. I am glad. Dwarrow craft very fine things after all- you are truly the Children of my husband.” Her gaze flicked affectionately back toward Mahal’s mountains. “What would you call it?”

Thorin took a breath, not expecting this question. He shrugged.

“Moonflower?”

Yavanna’s smile faded, and she looked up at the moon, then back at Thorin’s face, studying him carefully.

“You know that flower already exists?”

Thorin’s heart started racing. “Does it?” He tried to say lightly.

“In hobbit legend. But you knew that already, didn’t you? A flower that can open locked doors. What is it that you want for Bilbo, Thorin son of Thrain? Do you want him to come find you, or do you want him to have a happy life?”

Thorin shut his eyes against the memory of her rebuke, and Thrain did not prompt him for an answer.

Thorin let out a small breath, and merely listened to the myriad sounds of water flowing over stone all around him. Water trickled in streams that gathered along the slate surfaces, spilling over jutting rocks, and making their way to the larger rivers that then dropped hundreds of feet into the lakes below, which then also spilled over even deeper cliffs- deep, deep into the great Abyss of the Mountains, where few dwarrow dared to delve. Thorin let go of Yavanna’s words in his mind, opened his eyes, and gazed off into its darkness. Thror was down there, somewhere.

“How long has Sigin-adad been in the Abyss? Did he stay a while in the Halls of Mahal, among loved ones, first?”

Thrain’s eyes snapped open. He regarded Thorin with a touch of impatience.

“I cannot say. He came here before I did. When I arrived here, he was gone.”

Thorin had already gathered this from previous conversations- but it was worth asking again. Thrain was very circumspect about Thror, and often refused to answer any questions at all. Yet again Thorin considered approaching Sigin-amad- but that was fraught in its own way. Thorin took a deep breath. He thought suddenly of the delicate flower Aster with its radiant purple petals. Patience.

The fact that Thrain continued to engage with Thorin at all was not to be taken lightly. Thorin did not want to risk losing that.

“Forgive me. I cannot help but worry. About Thror and Bilbo both. And you, Adad. Pray have patience with me.”

Thrain eyed Thorin for a long time before finally nodding.

“You are weighed down with many worries. When Frerin and Fíli and Kíli visit, they sit and stone-listen with me. You should try it sometime.”

Thorin let out a laugh. “Am I not trying it now? Look- I am sitting here right in front of you. I closed my eyes.”

“Hmm, I should have made it clear to you that three seconds is not considered a long time when Stone-Searching.”

Thorin found himself laughing once more. Perhaps his adad was right, and there was less to worry about than Thorin imagined.

As Thorin took his leave, however- he realised Thrain said nothing of Frís visiting him. Did she not visit at all? Thorin had never asked her- it was too delicate a subject to bring up. Perhaps she did visit, only she paced back and forth the way Thorin did. Maybe between the two of them, they could wear down the stone into a moat, pacing around Thrain.

Thorin wondered if perhaps he did need to relax, and not worry so much. He made his way back to his chambers. His latest flower project was waiting for him in pieces on the worktable. This one would be a flower of apology. How arrogant he’d been, to think he could toy with legends. And the fact that Moonflower was the name he blurted out, even without thinking, had to be acknowledged. Was he harbouring a vain hope? He looked down at the pieces of the blossom he’d started. So opulent, so ostentatious, this one. He should make it more contrite. That was something he could easily stay up all night doing, not that he had trouble staying up all night these days.

How did Thrain know he wasn’t sleeping anyway? Oh, wait- Fíli and Kíli must have told him. The prattlers. Sitting and stone-listening, them? Stone-giggling, more likely. Stone-gossiping. Stone-pranking, absolutely. Perhaps he should go with them to visit Thrain, next time. It would probably be much more fun for Thrain than to hear his tired worries and grievances.

Thorin put down the silver wire he’d begun to work on and let out a ragged sigh. Sweet Mahal, did he miss Dís. It was bitterly unfair, that she should journey now across the world to be rewarded with only their tombs. She was the one that should be enjoying her sons’ company- their laughter, their bright humour, their kindness. He had been a fool to gamble away his life and those of his sister-sons. In doing so, he destroyed her happiness. If he could take it all back, and have never gone to Erebor, he would in a heartbeat. Even if it meant never meeting Bilbo. Even if it meant no happiness for himself.

Thorin got up from his work table and went to the hearth, staring at the fire. His harp was near- he ran his fingers idly along the strings. He’d finally made one of his own, when he started playing for Bilbo in dreams three years ago, but he hadn’t been playing it lately. Perhaps that was a mistake. Perhaps he needed to remember that he had started visiting Bilbo in dreams to soothe and comfort him, not to stir up hopes and desires for himself.

Dís’ happiness was out of Thorin’s reach- but Bilbo’s was still in his power. He had to believe so. He had to hope- but not for himself. For Bilbo. Therefore he had to worry. He was failing Bilbo. He didn’t want to bring Bilbo a sleepless love. He wanted for Bilbo unburdened joy. There must be a way.

A soft tapping sounded at his door. The hour was very late, by now.

“Come in,” He called, not looking away from the fire. No one came in, but the tapping started up again. Thorin went to the door, opened it, and was greeted by a squawk and a flapping of massive wings past his face and into his main chamber.

“Roäc!”

The Raven landed on his work table and looked nervously at the ceiling. Then he gave a quick bow in greeting before hopping onto the back of Thorin’s chair.

“Forgive me- I know it is not customary for dwarrow to take visitors so late.”

“Your deigning to visit my close-quartered chambers is an honour,” Thorin said heartily, and bowed in return. “We can walk in more open spaces, if you prefer.”

“You are kind to offer, but I cannot stay long, nor should I speak these next words where they might be heard by others. I’ve come to say farewell- I am leaving, I do not know for how long.”

“This is mournful news! Pray, are you well? Is your family well?”

“They are- I am lucky in that. But I’ve been called to the Court of the Raven Kings to aid in resolving the conflict with the Cats before it comes to war.”

“A war? It has become that dire?”

“We hope not. But they are strange and ferocious- even more so than usual. It is not only Queen Jiaou and her Nine. The Cats of the Citadel and the Cats of the Dome have been causing strife in the Living Realm. Whether or not they are doing so at Queen Jiaou’s bidding, we do not know. But we have discovered that their purpose, whatever it is, has something to do with the Realms of the Dead, so Ravens from each of those Realms have been summoned to Court. I will leave at dawn. Considering how long this has been stewing, I might be gone for many years.”

At this, Thorin sat down heavily in the chair across from Roäc.

“Will it be dangerous?”

Roäc gave a low, gravelly hum. “Perhaps not a life-or-death danger, but there are other dangers that creatures holding death face.” He tilted his head, regarding Thorin with his seven midnight-black eyes. “You are learning this, I think.”

Thorin let out a soft sigh and looked down at his hands.

“I fear greatly for Bilbo. I did not press the issue when last we met, with my kin and your hatchlings present. Everyone wants my happiness, and I am humbled and grateful for that. But their reassurances do not comfort me. There is something wrong- it’s not just his lack of sleep, or his behaviour in dreams. It is something more that is not adding up. And I fear… I fear I am hurting him. I fear that he is turning toward me and away from life.”

Roäc considered this for a moment.

“That cannot be helped. Even if you did not reach out to him, still he would struggle.”

“Yes but he wouldn’t-” Then it dawned on him. “He wouldn’t have hope. That’s the problem, isn’t it? He has said things- ‘On the back of an Eagle I will come to you.’ I thought it was just strange nonsense, but… perhaps he hopes to come find me. Because, if I’m completely honest with myself, I hope that, too.”

“Yet Bilbo will share in the fate of Men, and we know well that Men and dwarrow do not share the same fate- not until the Remaking of the World.”

“Yes… we know that. But to Bilbo’s eyes, my reaching out to him at all was heretofore impossible. Perhaps he thinks other impossibilities could prove untrue as well.”

“So then. If you are to not endanger his heart, you must rein in his hopes. Otherwise he will be heartbroken again.”

“How do I not break his heart, if I destroy his hopes?”

Roäc shook his head. “I do not know. But I do know this: he needs you. You must find a way to make him fall in love with life again. Right now he cannot do it on his own. So it must be your doing.”

Thorin swallowed hard, nodded. He reached a hand out and gently stroked Roäc’s crest with two fingers.

“You will be greatly missed while you are gone. Your council, and your friendship.”

“We shall always be friends.” Thorin thought Roäc would have smiled, if he could. “The Court of the Raven Kings is a secretive place. While I serve there, I cannot visit here. But if I am sent to the Living Realm, I will be able to see Jaërg and the hatchlings, and they can bring you word of me.”

“The way you could share news of Carc?”

“Ah-” Roäc let out a croak that might have been an embarrassed laugh. “You are right. Perhaps I am being too hopeful.” He ducked, then tilted his head. “I will miss you too, friend. This is not easy.”

“No, it is not,” A lump was forming in Thorin’s throat.

Thorin went with Roäc on his shoulder to the Augury to see him off. Roäc flew to a tree in the orchard where Jaërg and the Little Ones were waiting. Many soft croons and soft touches were exchanged, before he lifted off again into the paling sky. The mist was thickening in the orchard. Thorin could hear mournful sounds from the Little Ones. Not a sound came from any of the Ravens in the rafters above him. They must have known Roäc was taking wing into danger.

***

Chapter Text

When it came down to it, Bilbo would have liked to have been left in peace. There was so much to lose himself in: the deepening angle of the sunlight sifting through the afternoon as the sun’s zenith hung lower and lower in the sky each day. The crisp cool wind that would lift the leaves into a riot- how they would dance in whirlwind circles down the lane. The scent of barley down by the river, the dappled moonlight of a midnight walk. They were like extensions of his dreams at night, an aliveness all around him that he needed, that reminded him to breathe, to revel in the unsurpassed beauty of the Shire all around him. If only he didn’t have to talk to anyone.

It began shortly after his birthday. Dwarves from the Blue Mountains started arriving on his doorstep- one or two at a time, once or twice a week, and always right at four o’clock, just in time for tea. How did they know that tea was at four? Did the Company, when he informed them, turn around and inform all of dwarf-kind? His guests would introduce themselves with a low bow and a flourish of their hoods. They’d explain that they wished to meet the famous Burglar, the Riddler of Dragons, the Troll-Trickster, or worst of all, the Hero of the Battle of Five Armies- where they came up with these horrible and offensively inaccurate titles, Bilbo couldn’t say, but of course he had to invite them in for tea, and give account to a rapt audience of any number of the adventures he and the Company had stumbled into on their way to Riddle the Dragon and Reclaim the Homeland. And oh, it hurt, oh did it hurt, to say Thorin, Fíli, Kíli outloud. The hums and solemn nods did not help, and certainly not the platitudes about their heroic deeds being remembered in legend forevermore.

But the gossip, at least, could be interesting, and these visits were how Bilbo learned that the last of Durin’s Folk were leaving the Blue Mountains and making the long journey to Erebor, and that Dís would be among them.

As the weeks went by the information became more and more specific, until Bilbo knew for a fact that she wished to call on him especially, and that she’d be arriving, in fact, on October the 19th, which by then was only a few days away. Bilbo was in a panic. Bag End was a mess- not dirty, exactly, no- something worse. And now that such an esteemed guest would be visiting, he could no longer put the truth out of his mind.

It wasn’t just the dust that had been collecting or the piles of books and unwashed or unfolded laundry- it was the soft sadness of a place that was no longer attended to, and anyone who stepped inside could feel it. It was in the way the windows hadn’t been opened to let in the sweet autumn air. It was in how the pantry was half-empty and how the same provender found its way on the shelves week after week. It was in how all the candles were down to the stub, and instead of being replaced, they were simply no longer lit. Except of course, the candles by the window. That made it worse somehow. That window was bright with life, and the books on its wide sill were the only things that looked loved.

First Bilbo felt panic- but panic didn’t inspire him to clean up, and that only made it worse. It wasn’t until he was nearly out of time that he hit bottom in his heart, a grim depression that poured out of him and sank into the floorboards. He sat on the floor and wept, quiet hot tears as he looked around him and could no longer deny that Bag End was not what it once was.

He would not let any thoughts arise. He would not put a name to this sadness. It was big, and it was all around him, and if he could escape into the moonlit meadows, he would have, but no. Thorin’s sister would arrive, and see what Bilbo Baggins’ world had sunk to: a life that could not be lived among the living. There was no running away from that.

The tears continued, but eventually Bilbo got up off the floor and opened each window, and collected every candle stub, and folded the laundry, and dusted the shelves, and put away the books piled up by the window. At some point the tears dried up, and when he found himself reorganising the pantry, his breathing suddenly became easier, as though everything would be ok. He thought pumpkin scones with cream and apple cider might be perfect to serve the dwarvish princess for tea the next day, and with that final thought, he stumbled off to bed.

October the 19th, of course, was Durin’s Day- and if the weather on the Lonely Mountain had been five years ago what it was today, Bilbo and Thorin and Company would never have seen any last light at all, and would instead be sopping wet and miserable. For the winter rains had started early, and Bilbo watched out the window with disappointment as all the beautiful reds and golds of the leaves were swept away one by one in the winds, to become nothing but a brown carpet on the ground tomorrow, shadowed only by naked trees and grey clouds. Bilbo sighed- it would have been nice to go with the princess on an evening stroll in a countryside where the trees rivalled the sunset. At least she’d had a few fine days in the Shire on her way here, if Bilbo didn’t get to share them with her.

The doorbell rang precisely at four o’clock and Bilbo already knew something about her- that she did not share her brother’s unfortunate sense of direction. That made him smile to himself as he got the door, but it made him forget to prepare himself as he opened it. Of course she looked exactly like him. Of course she did. Why couldn’t she look like her other brother, the golden-haired one? But no- she had the same raven hair, the same Durin blue eyes. They were shaped a bit differently, a bit softer like Kíli’s. And her mouth was a bit fuller, like Fíli’s. Not that he meant to stare. That would be ill-mannered, boorish even. Bilbo was definitely staring. He coughed and sputtered and stammered and finally managed to look away. It was unfair, that she held in her face, in her bearing, in that soft smile, traces of all three of them. He wished he could see all four of them together, side by side, a family. A dry wrenching pain seized his heart. By all the might of the Valar, he wished he could see that. He blinked away the stinging in his eyes.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service and your family’s,” He winced as he bowed low. He should have left that last part out. It didn’t matter that it was the correct thing to say. This couldn’t be going any worse and he had only opened the door ten seconds ago.

“That you have been,” Dís inclined her head in that same regal fashion that Thorin always did. Bilbo shivered.

“Come in, come in,” he was leaving her out in the rain, the lout- not that ten seconds would have saved her much. She stepped in, unclasped her dripping cloak and hung it on a hook. “Come sit by the fire! I have tea on.” Her eyes did a careful sweep of the hallway as she followed him to the parlour, and Bilbo tried not to think about, tried desperately not to think about the way Thorin’s gaze had done the very same thing when he first stepped in-

This was going to be a long night.

“I have gifts for you arriving soon,” Dís started as she took his favourite arm-chair, “Gifts of valour: several treasures from my people and from the Blue Mountains, though not a hoard of gold, as it is now known among us that hobbits do not value such treasure, and… you seem to do well, here,” she paused, looking around once more. Bilbo deserved that. If he’d been taking care of Bag End as he ought, there’d be no doubt that he was the most well-to-do hobbit in that part of the Shire. As it was, she sounded about as sincere as the compliments he sometimes got on his singing. “And I have been told,” Dís continued, “that you refused your reward. So it did not seem worthwhile to offer you all that you deserve- though believe me, that is not by my preference.”

“You are gracious to honour me simply with the gift of your presence in my humble abode,” Bilbo said heavily as he poured tea, wondering how long this dance would last. Though it sounded as though she did not resent him, and that surprised him. Not that he expected the princess to go out of her way just to curse him in his own home. He frowned, picked up his train of thought again. “I would never think to ask of a reward-”

“Then do not think of it now. Though by the end you might wish you had gotten more of one, and been properly paid for the trouble I will put you through tonight. Have you pipeweed? I am fresh out.”

Bilbo hopped to attention by muscle memory alone at that tone, and scrambled for pipeweed and a matchbox. She waved away the matches and welcomed the pipeweed, and Bilbo scurried off to grab the plate of scones from the kitchen. It was four-o-five but it was nearly as dark as nightfall. Bilbo set down the scones and picked up the matchbox, going around to light more candles. The map of Erebor was on his mess of a table. His heart seized. Had she seen it? Quickly and carefully he hid it on the shelf. He came back to sit down across from her. She took a puff of her pipe, and her brow smoothed and her gaze was distant.

“I’m sorry to come to you like this,” She said as she let out a soft billow of smoke. “I am sure I am an unwelcome reminder of my brother and sons, who no doubt haunt you still.”

That gave Bilbo chills- though she could in no way have meant it the way it sounded to him.

“I am so sorry for your loss, Lady Dís. If I could go back in time-”

“I know.”

A moment of silence stretched between them, and she stared at her pipe a good while before taking another inhale.

“I know I look exactly like my brother, right down to the shade of blue in our eyes. Durin blue, I’m sure you’ve heard, and you might have been told that it is considered lucky, but those of us who are direct heirs of Durin know that it in fact isn’t lucky. It has the worst luck. For it is the colour of the sky, Master Baggins, and the coming of children with Durin blue is a portent as sure as the promise of dawn that yet another generation of dwarves will find itself in exile.”

She stared at the fire, lost, Bilbo was sure, in the memory of Smaug tearing through her home with scorching flame. Of years on the hard road wandering in the wilds, under a sky the colour of her eyes.

“So Víli and I thought it good luck, a good portent, when Fíli and Kíli came out with proper dark eyes like the caverns and mines we call our home. Our exile under sky would not last forever. Not as they did in the First and Second Age, for generations upon generations. No, we Durin’s Folk would again walk the halls of our ancestors, in this lifetime. So it was insult added to injury that Fíli and Kíli were killed just when the mountain was reclaimed.”

Bilbo could say nothing. Hot tears stung his eyes. Dís continued to stare at the fire, its flames reflecting their red glow upon her face.

“Some who know this secret have even claimed that children with blue eyes are cursed, for not only do their eyes prophecy exile, but they themselves can never feel at home under the earth. For they love the sky and all that lives in the outside world. They love the outside. They love the outsider.”

Bilbo’s heart thrummed suddenly in his chest. Dís did not look at him. She shrugged.

“I of course do not suffer from this problem at all. I love the dark and the glow of the mines and the sparkle of gems as well as any dwarf. I loved a dwarf, and married him. As for Thorin and whatever curses he did or did not have, still I think he would have loved you, whether or no.”

It was then that she looked at him, her face grave and full of shadows. The firelight moved and danced across the room, and the light outside had died fully. Thunder was rolling in the distance.

Bilbo felt like he was searching a forest full of cobwebs for his next words. He wished his heart wouldn’t pound so loudly, and hoped the flush of red across his face was hidden in the shadows.

“He spoke to you of me.” Then, catching himself: “He wrote to you. He sent a Raven.”

She gave the smallest of nods, and then dropped her gaze. Bilbo noticed the fine lines at the edges of her eyes, and wondered if Kíli’s would have mimicked them, if only he had gotten to grow old.

“I’ve often wondered why you didn’t choose to stay in Erebor, where you would have had every honour and accolade given to a hero. Now that I’ve seen your homeland, which is a rare emerald among the outer lands, I realise you had much to return to.” She frowned briefly at the weather outside, which was not currently proving her point, but something softened in Bilbo’s chest at her kind words. “Before, however, I could not fathom why you would refuse such honours and riches, and the company of so many friends you made along the way. There was only one thing I could think of, that would make you leave.”

She stopped talking, her gaze boring into him, waiting for him to say it. Bilbo trembled, his breath shaky.

“I would never recover if I remained in Erebor.”

“I see…” Dís breathed, and nodded once. “But here…”

“I won’t recover here, either.” The words tumbled out of him before he could stop them.

“I am sorry,” Dís said finally, “That my brother hurt you so, such that you would never wish to see those ramparts again. I have been told what he did to you. I sought you out to mend what I can of that wound, little though it may be, and to ask you something, though that can come later. This mending will not come easily, however. I have something to show you, but I am sure it will bring you more pain before any healing. Will you look at it?”

Bilbo started to stammer out a protest, trying to correct her mistake- but his words died in his throat, and he simply held out his hand. Dís produced three sheets of paper from her pack- a little worn, but well-kept. The top sheet was filled with the runes of Khuzdul, and Bilbo’s hand trembled as he held it. Thorin must have written this. The Cirth markings, which were usually so stately and noble-looking, were here written messy and chaotic, with a slashing sort of violence that gave Bilbo chills. He stared at it for a long time. He knew that Thorin must have written this when under the dragon sickness.

“I have translated his words for you, on the next page.”

Bilbo turned to the next page- and there in calm Westron, were Thorin’s words to his sister.

I see now that I should have insisted that you come, for our arrival here is a glory I should not have let you miss. The dragon is dead, and the mountain is ours. Your sons will take their thrones to my left and to my right as my heirs. The line of Durin is restored. It matters not the tensions that stir outside our gates. Once my burglar finds the Arkenstone- for I know it will be he who finds it- his cleverness alone is worth all the gold in Erebor, though do not worry, I need not exchange one for the other- I shall keep both close to me. Once he has given me the Gift of the Arkenstone, none could argue that it wasn’t meant to be- that he wasn’t meant to be by my side. Then perhaps I shall be worthy to ask him. Perhaps once I am truly king. At least I have found the mithril shirt. It shall be my Gift to him. I have enclosed a likeness of him that I’ve attempted- it is far from masterful, it by no means captures his wit, his bravery, his loyalty. But for now, it must suffice, until you are here in person to share in the glory of our home restored, and behold all the treasure I have won- and the treasure I was lucky enough to find along the way. Treasure that I shall keep close to me all my days.

“The letter went on for a while,” Dís’ voice was not much louder than the snap of the fire. “It’s repetitive, nearly illegible… it makes no sense at all, in some parts. What I’ve translated is the essence of it. I thought perhaps he’d been injured, and did not tell me. My blockheaded brother can take quite a few hits to the head, however, so I didn’t worry. I didn’t let myself worry. I was still angry at him, you see. For heading off on such a foolhardy adventure, when we were decently settled in the Blue Mountains, when we had made a home and a life for ourselves. He was always traipsing off on adventures, when we were young. He was so restless. He was never satisfied. He was never content. It was only when he didn’t write again, that I began to worry. By then, it was far too late.”

She reached out her hand, and Bilbo numbly gave back the papers. She turned once more to the Khuzdul letter, closed her eyes against its words.

“I know a thing or two about evil-”

“Thorin is not. evil.” The low fury in Bilbo’s voice made Dís snap up to meet his gaze. Whatever she saw as she searched his face pleased her, however, and a smile flashed across her face like lightning.

“You know, then.”

“I know what.” Bilbo was suddenly very tired.

“You know a thing or two about evil, too.” She admired him, Bilbo realised.

“I know Thorin was never evil. You’re wrong to think that I ever thought him evil, and I’m sorry you’ve carried that assumption for so long. He never hurt me. He never even made me afraid. I never feared for myself. I only feared for him. Even when he was dangling me off the rampart wall, I knew something else was possessing him. I-” Bilbo broke into a sob, hid his face in his hands. His throat was too tight to say any more.

“Did you know that he loved you?”

Bilbo shook his head violently.

“I didn’t know. He died, and I didn’t know.”

Dís said nothing for a while, waited while he took out a handkerchief and cleaned himself up. Then she spoke again.

“The gift he spoke of in the letter was one of courtship. I wanted you to see those words. Even in his sickness, he loved you. He wanted you. He valued you. I knew it would likely only bring you more pain, and perhaps you would not welcome this new knowledge. But you are like kin now, after all you did for my brother and sons, and keeping such a secret from you would be tantamount to lying.”

Bilbo’s heart burned with shame at that. “And yet that is exactly what I did to your brother. And the fact that he thought my giving the Arkenstone to him would have been proof of my place beside the throne. That it would almost be like my courtship gift to him? That is perhaps the most painful part of all of this. For I kept it from him, kept it secret, and lied, and then bartered it away to his enemies like the lowest kind of thief and betrayer. Surely you know this.”

“Yet you said so yourself,” Dís started slowly. “Thorin was possessed. You were keeping it secret from the thing that was possessing him. Not from Thorin himself.”

Bilbo hung his head to hide his tears. He had not been expecting such quick understanding from the dwarf-woman who lost her entire family to a conflict that he might have prevented. He’d spent months and months after the quest wracking his brain thinking of the thousands of things he could maybe have done differently, that could have possibly saved Thorin and Fíli and Kíli. He always found himself wanting. There was always more he could have done. And yes, he knew that there were many powers at work that day far greater than him. Sometimes he let that fact reach him. Sometimes he let it console him.

“You were the most loyal one to him, in the end.” Dís’ words were as soft as breath. “I don’t know if it comforts you, that your loyalty was returned with love. Perhaps, though it is clear your loyalty is still unwavering, you would not have welcomed his love, and if that is so, I am sorry to bring it to you.”

“I welcome it-” Bilbo said quickly. “I do. Do not be sorry. Please.”

“Then,” Dís took a deep breath. “I should show you the last page of this. For his words were a revelation, but they were mired in madness. They did not convince me that he loved you. But this did.”

She handed him the final page of the letter of Thorin’s hand. On it, there were no words at all. It was a sketch. Bilbo inhaled sharply. It was a sketch of Bilbo, in lines half-wild and full of feeling. It was a perfect likeness of him, curly hair caught in the wind and half his face lit up in the moonlight, the other in shadow. It was him, looking at the moon, the Key of Erebor held in his hands against his chest. Thorin had perfectly captured the lift of his brow, the shapes of light and shadow across his cheeks. His eyes held so much light it was as though they had become moons themselves. His lips in the drawing were just slightly parted as he stared up at the moon and the vastness. Bilbo blushed to see how Thorin saw his mouth- saw every feature, really, but especially his mouth, which here drank the shadows so softly.

A tear fell on a corner. Carefully, Bilbo wiped it away.

“Thank you for this,” He finally managed. He stood, whole body pulsing with energy, and cleared a place on the table. He set the drawing there, stared at it for a long time, and Dís did not interrupt him.

Finally, he took a breath, turned around, straightened his waistcoat, went back to the arm chairs, and poured more tea. Then he sat down, and picked up his pipe, striking it fresh with a match.

“Now,” He looked up at Dís. “What was it you wanted to ask?”

***

Chapter Text

At that moment, a powerful gust of wind blew outside. One of the windows flung open and the wind swept into the parlour, blowing out most of the candles and sending the papers into flight. Instantly Dís was at the window pulling it shut and fixing the loosened latch. Bilbo searched in the half-dark for Thorin’s drawing. It was on the floor, but undamaged. Bilbo gave a haggard sigh.

Dís was soon next to him, also picking up papers. She looked fretfully to and fro.

“Where is it? My father’s map. It was just here.”

With pain in his heart, Bilbo went to the shelf where it had hidden safe from the wind. He hadn’t thought of offering it to her until she’d called it that. Now, he realised he should.

“I have it here- although… it is yours, if you want it.”

Dís raised an eyebrow, studied him for a moment.

“It is an heirloom of Durin’s Folk. You should frame it. Set in crystal, preferably, or blown glass, but...” She looked around Bag End, as though scouting a place for it to be displayed prominently. Then her gaze rested on the portraits of Bilbo’s parents above the fireplace, and she gave a soft smile. “A frame would do nicely, though.”

“Then-”

“I do not want it, I promise you. I thought it lost. I’m glad to see that you have it, to remind you of your adventures.” Her smile grew wider now, and the light in her eyes was very soft. Bilbo wondered suddenly what she and Thorin must have looked like as children- it must not be very far off from her expression now.

Together they picked up all the papers, re-lit the candles and stoked the fire back to life. Bilbo tucked the drawing away safely within the pages of a book.

“Now-” Bilbo started again, once they were settled in, and their pipes packed fresh. “Your question.”

“Yes,” Dís hesitated, studying Bilbo. “It’s about the wizard. Gandalf. What was it like, travelling with him?”

Bilbo had a feeling this wasn’t the actual question, but perhaps it was leading up to it.

“Well he’s no great sorcerer of the First Age or anything, but he’s clever in a pinch, and had some very helpful friends, and his smoke-rings out-raced even Thorin’s, now that was a feat. I’d never seen anything like it, when Thorin told his smoke ring where to go and there it went.”

Dís let out a laugh, and it felt so good to say Thorin’s name out loud to someone who knew him, who was close to him- to whom he would be more than a legend or a signature on a contract.

“I think you are both impressed and unimpressed at all the wrong things, Master Baggins. Though I’m glad to hear my brother amused you, surely the wizard was more useful than just in a puff ring contest.”

“Oh. Well. He did go off a lot on his own adventures and leave us to our own luck. Sometimes he was spying ahead, sometimes meeting a friend, and sometimes solving some mystery or other of his own. But yes I suppose he has his impressive moments.”

“Do you… know why he wanted to help Thorin?”

Now we’re coming to it, Bilbo thought. He tilted his head in thought.

“I suppose he felt the dragon had slept there long enough. He said as much, at one point.”

Dís nodded thoughtfully. Another gust of wind howled from outside. They both turned to watch the window, but this time the latch held fast. Dís turned back to Bilbo.

“He visited me, you know. After seeing you to the Shire, after the Battle. He urged me to go to Erebor, to aid in ruling and defending the mountain. An evil is rising in this land, he said. Do you know anything- anything at all- about what that could mean?”

Bilbo let out a long exhale of smoke. An uneasy feeling twisted in his stomach, and the room seemed to grow darker. Something clawed at the corner of his mind, but it slipped away like whispers in a fell wind. His eyes were drawn to the fire, and he shuddered.

“The only thing I can think of,” Bilbo started, “Is something I overheard while I was falling asleep the night he and I arrived in Rivendell on the way home.”

“Go on.”

“He told Lord Elrond that he had met with the Council of Wizards, and that they drove someone called the Necromancer out of his dark hold in the south of Mirkwood. But then he said that he wasn’t banished from the world, and he seemed anguished by that.”

Dís’ eyes were very dark. There was no sound but the wind howling outside.

“The necromancer, who imprisoned and tortured my father. No longer in Dol Guldur, but at large.”

Bilbo could give no answer to that. Dís took a deep inhale- the flame in her pipe cracked and popped- and she let out a smoke ring that looked like it had flames around its edges. After a long moment, she spoke again.

“I have acted dishonourably, Bilbo.” She said it very quietly, and only the wind howled a response. She went on. “We were settled, in the Blue Mountains, we had a city of our own within Gabilgathol, the ancient dwelling of the Firebeards, who welcomed us when they needn’t have. We were prosperous for many years, under my brother’s rule. And my sons were growing into such fine lads-” tears came fresh to her eyes and she shook them away.

“I argued with Thorin. I told him he shouldn’t go. We’d had some hard winters, but we pulled through, in the end, and have done well these past four years. I was right, after all. But he wasn’t thinking of that. He was thinking of our home, and the richness of our culture that was lost. To be fair, he also wasn’t thinking at all- sneak into the mountain, steal the Arkenstone from under a dragon’s nose, rouse the armies of the dwarves- to do what? Fight a dragon? An invincible dragon that laid waste to our kingdom in an hour? If not for you, Bilbo, who found that it had a weakness. The Ravens of Hallowbold have given word to me that you were the one to tell the Thrush, who then told the bowman. That was incredible luck, that you saw that, and great bravery, that you lasted long enough with the dragon to see it. But still. It was not a plan that my brother particularly thought through. I was right to argue. I was right to tell him how foolhardy and reckless he was being. But… right or wrong, it was dishonourable of me. You see, those weren’t the real reasons I was arguing. The real reason was, I was ok with letting evil win, so long as it pursued me no further. So long as my people were safe, and my sons were safe. I was in denial. I was bargaining. Let me just keep this one thing- let me keep my family safe- and I’ll let you win. But I knew in my heart that’s not how evil works. And so. Here we are. This is who I’ve become.”

“Dís…” Bilbo breathed. He caught himself. He cleared his throat. “Lady Dís. You have not-”

“I have, and I’ll not thank you for your comfort. I was mad with grief at the loss of my sons. I could have ruined everything for our people. They say there is madness in our line. I wonder if it is the madness of gold, or the madness of grief.”

“Lady Dís-”

“You must help me, Bilbo. I’m sorry- Master Baggins. I should not presume. I would appreciate your help, if you’re willing to give it.”

Bilbo saw that he could argue no more. He took a deep breath. “Anything.”

“You are friends with the wizard Gandalf. I am sorry to say that when he visited me, we parted badly. I’ve asked the Ravens of Hallowbold to tell him of my regrets should they ever see him, and they are shrewd folk, strong of eye and willing to search for him when they can- but these four years they have seen nor heard no sign of him. When he visits you next, if he should visit you-”

“You have my word. Whatever you want me to say, consider it spoken.”

Dís let out a breath. “Thank you.”

Bilbo did the one thing he could think of doing. He held out the plate of scones to her. She took one, with a rueful smile, but did not eat it just yet.

“There one more thing I must ask of you.”

“As I said. I am at your service.”

“I should like to write to you, from time to time, if you are willing, and I would love it if you wrote to me, whenever you are so inclined. But if you hear anymore of the necromancer, or of any darkness rising in the land- if ever you can point me in a direction towards it, please, please, write to me without delay. Would you do this for me?”

“Of course.” He said it without hesitation. But he felt the eerie feeling rising again in his stomach. The weird twisting darkness seeming to grow in the corners of the room. Something tugged at his mind, like a lost memory or a song from a dream.

He swallowed back the feeling. He straightened. “And I would love to write to you. It would be a privilege.”

Dís nodded her thanks, looked down at the scone in her hands. The question she was wanting to ask was palpable.

“Bilbo-”

“I loved him,” he answered, and Dís’ gaze snapped up to him. “I loved him in his madness, I loved him long before that, and I love him now. So,” he suppressed a ragged sigh. “You need never wonder about that.”

Dís gave a true smile now, though her eyes were bright with tears. “You must have a great deal of patience, then, to love someone like my foolish stubborn idiot oaf of a brother.”

Bilbo let out a laugh at that. “Hey now! Your brother is no oaf.”

Dís joined him in his laughter then, and they laughed until their bellies ached, and Dís finally took a bite out of her scone, and Bilbo felt himself sigh for his heart’s ease to watch the lass eat. He poured her more tea, and the storm roared outside, but the window latch held firm and the candleflames flickered not.

***

Dís stayed the night, and before that they had a long dinner telling stories of Dís’ childhood with her brother, what Fíli and Kíli were like as children, and even Bilbo’s own childhood, and the stories his mother used to tell, and Gandalf’s fireworks on midsummers long past. They talked of Bilbo’s year with the Company, and Bilbo shared every memory of Fíli and Kíli that he had, until the hour grew very late and finally they had to retire. In the morning, the storm had died out and the garden and lane were a mess of twigs and leaves, and the sky was covered in soft grey clouds.

They didn’t talk about Erebor, and what awaited Dís there. They didn’t talk about the long road ahead. They didn’t talk about the future at all, save to promise each other once again that they would write. And Bilbo said nothing of flowers, Ravens, or dreams. Not that he didn’t want to. Some things just cannot be shared.

Dís headed down the road, turning to wave one more time before she disappeared over the hill, and Bilbo went inside and wept.

Two days later a dwarf knocked on Bilbo’s door and beckoned him outside to his wagon, from which he produced a large treasure chest and a note from Dís. He insisted on giving it, “On pain of death, she told me!” and even carried it in for Bilbo, unloading it on his large oak table as Bilbo quickly moved his breakfast aside. He bid Bilbo a nervous farewell and a low bow, and Bilbo sighed, resigning himself to yet more gold trinkets. He’d never run out of mathoms for parties, if dwarves always insisted on rewarding him so. He unfolded the note in his hands.

Master Baggins,

When the wizard told me that you had foregone your share of the dragon’s hoard but had accepted books from the library at Imladris, I wrote to the elf lord there to learn what books interested you, and have enclosed such tomes as I think you will appreciate, as well as written permission to learn and speak Khûzdul, which, since it is signed by the hand of one from the line of Durin, will never be contested. I must warn you, however, never to speak it except to those dwarrow closest to you, and you must show the document first, lest an upset dwarf remove your head a little too hastily. I hope our meeting will go well, though I fear that it will not. If that is so, please accept these gifts as my apology for imposing on you with such painful matters.

I have the honour to remain
Yours deeply,

Dís

Bilbo’s heart was pounding loudly as he put down the letter on the table next to the treasure chest. He opened the latch. The chest was filled with tomes, bound in leather deeply lacquered and embossed with intricate patterns and runes. The first one under Dís’ sealed letter of permission was a thick lexicon in Khûzdul and Westron, opening with a grammar and pronunciation guide as comprehensive as any for Elvish he’d ever seen. The rest were all in Khûzdul, awaiting only his mastery of the language, save three: books of stories and poems translated page for page into Westron. That night, he chose one and went to the window, holding it tightly to his chest, breathing in the scent of leather and spice and the soft perfume of aging paper.

***

Bilbo took care to keep silent his footsteps as he descended the cold stone steps of the winding dungeon stairwells. Down, down, down he went, running his hands along the elegant carvings of the prison walls, the wrought iron of the cell doors. He peered up into the darkness of the upper levels- no guards were on duty. Grey moths fluttered down in a soft spinning dance. He could not understand their whispers.

Bilbo looked down. In his hands was the ring of keys that he’d stolen from the guards. Hurrying, he made his silent way to Thorin’s cell. Thorin met him at the bars. He made no preamble.

“Why do you wait at the window through the watches of the night?”

Thorin’s hands were upon the bars, his face between them. His eyes had a dark seriousness that Bilbo wished he could shoo away as easily as he did the moths.

He looked down at his hands. He fumbled with the keys. His hands couldn’t seem to choose one.

“It’s time to open the door,” Bilbo muttered. “I’ve come for you.”

His hands chose a key but he couldn’t place it in the lock.

“I’ve come for you. I’ve come for you.”

“Bilbo.” Thorin threaded his arm through the bars, slowly, so as not to startle, and touched the backs of two fingers to Bilbo’s hand. Bilbo ceased his fumbling, looked down at Thorin’s hand brushing against his.

“You have no need of vigil. Now tell me true. Do you take the night watch because of me?”

Bilbo couldn’t look at Thorin. He shook himself.

“I have to open the door to you. I have to. One of these keys must work.”

“You cannot come to me, Bilbo.”

“There is no door to your mountain?”

Thorin hesitated.

“There is,” Bilbo looked up at him, astonished. “There is a door.”

“It does not open to the Realm of the Living, Bilbo. You cannot find it. Not by the last light of Durin’s Day, not by any light at all.”

“But there is a door.”

Thorin sighed. Bilbo fumbled with the lock once more.

“Bilbo.”

Bilbo stopped, hung his head, staring down at the keys and the lock in his uncooperative hands. Thorin had drawn his hand back but only a little, waiting to touch once more. Bilbo couldn’t look up at him.

“Please do not watch for the Ravens. I should not have told you about them. I should not have bothered you at all.”

“No!” Bilbo’s head shot up, his throat thick and hot. “Please. It’s no bother.” He shook his head, his throat closing in. He swallowed hard, forced lightness into his voice. “It’s fascinating, that’s all,” and he chanced a look up at Thorin’s gaze, which was so soft and full of pain. He looked away again.

“But you are right. I should sleep. I will rest well, I promise, and leave those poor birds to their work. They… enjoy flitting about the Shire collecting flowers then?” He looked up once more. The blue of Thorin's eyes was so alive. Bilbo’s chest clenched tightly. Thorin gave a rueful smile.

“They don’t enjoy the jaybirds.”

“Well,” Bilbo cleared his throat. “That makes two of us. Horrible gossips, if you ask me.”

“You understand their words?”

“No, but they sound just like Lobelia, so I’ve drawn my own conclusions.”

Thorin let out a chuckle. His hand waited near Bilbo’s still. If Bilbo wanted to touch Thorin, he’d have to drop the keys.

“Thorin.” He closed his eyes, came closer, so he was almost pressing up against the bars. He could breathe in Thorin’s scent, the oil of his hair, that opulent underworld incense. “I have to ask you something.”

Thorin’s voice was a river over stones. “Anything.”

Bilbo had to look away from the blue of his gaze. He closed his eyes.

“Do you love the sky.”

After a moment with no response, Bilbo chanced another glance at Thorin. His smile had grown, and was still growing, until he laughed gently and looked away with a blush.

“I am sorry,” He shook his head a little. “The things you say here are always so endearing.”

“No- Thorin-” A heat of blush came to Bilbo’s face too. “I’m trying to say-”

What was he trying to say? And would this dungeon of a dream let him say it?

Bilbo took a deep breath.

“Would you love me, whether or no?”

Thorin searched his gaze for a long moment, trying to understand. His breathing seemed laboured, and Bilbo could see Thorin’s chest rise and fall, could almost hear the thunder of his pulse as he looked with desperation and longing.

“Bilbo.” He said finally, his voice a pained rasp. “You came into my life, and I have never been the same.”

Bilbo let out a soft gasp and came close, touching his forehead gently to the king’s. It should have been impossible, their breath mingling like this. Thorin reached through the bars to take Bilbo’s hands.

Bilbo let the keys drop.

***

Chapter Text

Would you love me, whether or no?

At some point in his late-night wanderings, Thorin had discovered a large low-ceilinged cavern unmined and untouched by the dwarven dead, stalagmites and stalactites reaching high and low, forming delicate tapered pillars here and there like a forest always in shadow. In the centre was a large pond, and the cavern was silent except for the occasional drip drip of moisture from the ceiling onto its surface. It was one of those rare places Thorin could go to be completely alone. Thorin sought it out now, ambled among the delicate pillars with a lone torch held high.

The surface of the water was dark and still. The moisture of the pillars glistened in the torchlight.

Do you love the sky.

Thorin couldn’t say the exact moment he fell in love with Bilbo. He could perhaps tell the moment he realised he was in danger of it, or at least in danger of something, and the moment he truly appreciated the danger he was in. And then of course, there was the moment he finally surrendered himself to it. But everything else he had to put together in retrospect, all the clues he’d ignored at the time until, of course, he couldn’t. The strangest of these clues was that, much as Thorin tried to dismiss the idea, the danger started before they’d even met. On his way, as he was lost, his mind only half-focused on the road while he turned over and over all the pieces of this quest coming together and falling apart- the refusal of the dwarven lords to send armies, in stark opposition to the wholehearted courage of his young nephews, for instance, or the promise from the wizard that untold parts of Thrain’s story would that night be revealed, and perhaps not so poignant but still disconcerting, the implications of the addition of an outsider to his Company- he had to turn back and around twice before he set his true attention on his surroundings. It was then that he finally saw what was around him. A quiet land, an unchallenged safety. A ripe moon, bright and benevolent. He wondered why and how any burglar would come out of this place.

That was the start of it.

Of course, that feeling of danger was easy to dismiss as mere curiosity, and then dismiss entirely once he realised the hobbit was no more a burglar than he was the moon. The fair glow of his cheek, the light in his eyes were also easy to dismiss, as Thorin never concerned himself with such things. Not that he meant to go so far as to be rude to his esteemed host, who was opening up his home for their revelry and conspiracy, but he wasn’t going to bring just anyone along to reclaim his ancestral homeland, especially not one so soft as this, with no scar upon his face, no shadows in his eyes. No, the halfling’s sure incompetence was much safer territory for Thorin to dwell on. And anyway. Thorin never concerned himself with such things.

But the evening wore on and Thorin began to wonder if this untested, faint of heart creature wasn’t in fact a burglar, after all. For wasn’t he burgling himself a spot in Thorin’s Company despite? Thorin stepped outside with his pipe at one point, sat on the bench, and blew smoke rings at the moon. The contradiction should have been easy to ignore. It would solve itself, with time. Thorin had more important things to worry about. But just as if thoughts of the halfling summoned him, there he was, hovering next to the bench, probably wondering if he could sit down without being insulted, ordered around, or ignored.

Thorin really hadn’t meant to be rude to him.

“Well, with dinner all cleared up, I imagine you’ll all be wanting an early start? I’ll go make up the beds.” Master Baggins apparently decided he wouldn’t be able to sit down without further abuse.

“We’ll be wanting an early start, I suppose you mean,” Thorin grunted, not turning to face the hobbit. “And I likely won’t be sleeping tonight.”

“Oh I’m sorry to hear that,” the hobbit said a little grandly. “The guest room beds are quite comfortable, though you look like you haven’t been sleeping at night for a while,” Thorin looked up in time to see the hobbit tilting his head as he noted the dark circles under Thorin’s eyes. Then suddenly he disappeared into the dark of the road and was back in a flash, with three sprigs of a purple flower tucked behind Thorin’s ear before he could let out the puff of smoke he’d inhaled.

“It’s lavender,” Bilbo shrugged as though it were the most obvious thing in the world when Thorin looked at him incredulously. “It calms restlessness, which I daresay you seem to suffer from. And it’ll help you sleep.”

Thorin finally let out the puff of smoke. He didn’t mean to blow it in the hobbit’s face, he was just too shocked to do anything else. And the hobbit was standing a little too close. And his hand had just been in Thorin’s hair.

“I’m afraid you mistook my meaning,” Thorin rumbled when he recovered. “I am not sleeping tonight because we’ve yet to start up the music.”

“Music??”

“Bring out the instruments!” He bellowed into the hallway as he stood, shaking loose the lavender and letting it fall to the ground. He should have realised later that he was in danger, when he regretted not putting them in his pocket. But with a light shove the halfling was out of his way and he was back inside, and the interesting part of the evening was about to begin. Yes, the music, and the conspiring, were the interesting parts, not the hobbit, who moved in the dark like another shadow, and who put flowers in his hair with the practised ease of any burglar. For Thorin had felt the burglar’s hand not at all.

Later, Thorin would learn that hobbits had a naturally deft hand with flowers, for Shirefolk took great care with their flower crowns and the sprigs in their buttonholes, and hobbits were always fussing with the loose petals in each other’s hair, as though their carefree mess of curls was anything but beyond help. Mystery solved. Of course by the time Thorin gathered this intelligence from the bits of stories he overheard Bilbo telling Fíli and Kíli and Bofur and Ori and Balin and every other dwarf who hadn’t made an ass of himself being rude to the hobbit from the get-go- by the time Thorin figured it out, it was far too late to make a difference, for a number of reasons. For one, it didn’t seem to matter that there was an explanation for his talent- explanations of anything about Bilbo Baggins seemed to only loosely apply, like a fauntling’s flower crown ready to unravel.

Suffice it to say. Thorin was already in danger that very first night, though he didn’t know it until the next morning when the hobbit caught up with them in a rush, his face pink and his chest heaving as he caught his breath, waving the contract in the air. The pony that stuck its nose suddenly in his face, he greeted with unearned affection, and then immediately expressed his apprehension at riding one. It was all too endearing, all at once. But Thorin dismissed it, as soon as the purses flying through the air reminded him how unlikely it had been that the hobbit would join them at all, and therefore how unlikely it would be that he would stay.

That unlikelihood should have helped him keep his distance. It did, for a while. That is until Bilbo managed to escape deep, dark and foe of the goblin caves, and not only escaped but followed Thorin and the others, and found them on the other side of danger. That should not have been possible. They were separated early on. Those caverns were labyrinthine.

And then his words.

It was painfully humbling. It was a scolding he deserved. Thorin could never again look at the hobbit the same way. He couldn’t look at himself the same way.

Thorin kicked at some loose shale and picked up a nice, flat piece, and skipped it across the black pond. It seemed to speed up as it went, until its skims became a blur of ripples and it landed safely on the other side. He might have been here for three days already, brooding about Bilbo. About Bilbo’s question. He wouldn’t know how long he’d been here, until he stepped back out into the main caverns, looked up into the deep clock of the Orrery, or checked his own timepiece in his chambers.

Would you love me-

What had he meant by that? What was it he was yearning to know? Whether or not what? Thorin’s answer seemed to reassure Bilbo, but the question now haunted Thorin.

And that was the other part of it, wasn’t it? Thorin was haunted. If he figured out when it started, maybe he’d understand what Bilbo meant.

Whether or no. It was a fork in the road, that Bilbo was suggesting. That maybe Thorin could have taken another path, and never loved Bilbo at all. Where was the fork in the road?

Thorin thought back, and back, and back, sorting his memories like coins in a treasure box. There were big moments, of course, branded across his heart as sure as his own dark name. But Thorin was already long in love with Bilbo by the time the hobbit vouched for him in front of all of Laketown, or stood up to him on the ramparts when no one else would, even though at the time it felt like the worst betrayal. No… it was the small, everyday things that Bilbo did, that added up over time. The way he snuck apples to the ponies, and talked to them while they ate. The effort he made to befriend everyone and the ready kindness he afforded others. The risks he took, in the name of trust.

It was in the way he listened to the dwarves’ stories, and learned their songs- and then told stories of his own, and taught them songs of the Shire, and even made up his own ‘ridiculous drivel’ as he called it, and recited it for them on the spot. How he goofed off with them, and took their teasing in good spirits, and in time, gave as good as he got. It was its own kind of bravery, to be cheerful in all that endless trudging, or if not cheerful, then at least clever in one’s complaints. Bilbo was like flint in that way- unassuming yet so sharp. His words were flowers one moment and weapons the next.

It was in the way he was so… generous. So willing.

It was those small things, arising spontaneously and always leaving him slightly breathless, that drew Thorin to him as reliably as a compass needle to North. For that’s what the feeling became, over time. Thorin could feel him, could feel where he was at any time, whether on their trek or making camp, in safety or in danger. Especially in danger, but perhaps more poignantly in safety, when he had no apparent reason to involve himself, no need to strike up conversation or sit near the hobbit or lay his bedroll next to his. Just… the longing to. Just one small wish after another, which he ignored until he couldn’t, because they were so steady, so inevitable, like the sunset, like the drip drip from these stalactites.

When did Thorin give himself over to it? He remembered the moment. There was nothing special about that moment. They were in the woods, they were making camp, they were circled around the fire, telling jokes and stories. An early autumn wind was swirling languorously through the bushes, stirring up the first fallen leaves. Night fell quickly and the moon appeared amidst swiftly sailing clouds. One by one, the others went to sleep, until it was just Thorin and Bilbo, sharing his pipe, talking about nothing in particular. Bilbo was rambling on, not puffing the pipe but not passing it to him either. The moon lit up hints of silver in his hair, while the fire cast him in gold. At one point he ducked his head and smiled self-consciously. He passed the pipe to Thorin. Then he rambled on. Apples, he was talking about. The first crisp apples of September. And Thorin realised he would do anything for Bilbo. He couldn’t, he absolutely couldn’t. He was a king. He had a destiny.

But he would.

The moment itself was pure. It was realising he was no longer in danger of love. He was safe in love. He had fallen, as though from a cliff. He should be dead from the fall. There were moments he was sure he would be. But here he was, on the other side, sitting next to the one who held his heart in his hands. All of Thorin’s defences were down. If Bilbo had asked him for the truth, he would have confessed everything.

Nothing special happened that night. Nothing needed to.

Thorin would, of course, ruin things later.

But he didn’t need to think about that right now. As ready as he always was to gnaw that bone of regret, that was not the aim of his coming here. He needed to help Bilbo.

It was not fair that Thorin got to enjoy greater certainty, while Bilbo sank into doubt.

There is no fork in the road, Thorin realised. If there was, it would have had to appear before the map and key came to Thorin, or before the dragon took Erebor, or before the wizard ever became friends with a hobbit named Belladona Took.

Or perhaps there were thousands of forks in the road, thousands of chances for fate to swerve this way or that, and for Bilbo and Thorin to have never even met, let alone learned to care for each other.

That did not feel right, either.

Where is the fork in the road, unless even fate needs chances?

That’s what Bilbo needed now. More chances.

Thorin didn’t wake directly up in the Halls of Mahal the moment he died. He sat up, suddenly no longer in pain. He felt light as air. He was air, of course, or something akin to it. He saw Bilbo curled up next to him, shaking with soundless sobs. A rush of sorrow fell over him like an avalanche. He reached out to touch Bilbo, not understanding why he wept so, except knowing that it was his fault. Not understanding, until his fingers brushed through Bilbo’s shoulder as nothing more than a chill. He had no substance, he could feel only a small and quickly decreasing fraction of what a living being could feel. He could see Bilbo. He could hear Bilbo when he pressed his forehead against that of Thorin’s body, whispering something that sounded like sorry, I’m so sorry, and when he did, Thorin could almost, almost feel the warmth of his skin, his hands on his face- He could even smell Bilbo, a faint whisper of what it had once been to smell. Somehow, impossibly, after all this time, Bilbo still smelled like lavender.

Thorin followed him, and the company. Watched his and his nephews’ bodies taken away and prepared for funeral deep in the heart of the mountain. He watched the lighting of hundreds of candles, and Orchrist and the Arkenstone laid on his body. He saw the faces of his friends in mourning. He saw Bilbo, inconsolable at times, face shut like stone at others. He saw Bilbo’s farewell to the surviving members of the company. He saw Roäc take off to deliver the news of his and Fíli and Kíli’s deaths to his sister.

It was the thought of his sister that made remaining there unbearable. A deep terrifying panic, a soundless aching howl of regret, and suddenly an unseen hand took him from that place, and all was black until he awoke in what were now his chambers. Fíli and Kíli were already waiting for him outside, already bearing news of Dís. And from there, his regrets crowded in like spiders along webs that he himself spun. But before that, in the first moment of his waking up- the cool of the table beneath his body, the warmth and glow of the fire, its soft crackle- these were as clear and strong as any living sensation. And it seemed unfair that Thorin was allowed to feel, to sense and perceive, when he had caused so much pain. That was a privilege that should have been taken from him. But when it gave him the chance to give comfort to Bilbo- any kind of comfort, anything- he stopped cursing the mercy bestowed on him, and couldn’t believe his good luck that he was a dwarf. And when Bilbo first kissed him, Thorin then understood why elves wanted to live forever, why Durin the Deathless came back again and again. And it was ecstasy, the way it felt when Bilbo’s hands were in his hair, when his fingers traced the lines of his face, when his tongue met Thorin’s, shy and so soft. It should not feel this good. He was dead. He had lost his life. This should not be possible.

After that night, Thorin went to see his Maker about it.

“Your heart still beats,” Mahal rumbled as he set his tools aside to look upon his child, “Because of the races of Arda, you are closest to Source. The Source of Creation, the beginning of the world. You were made first, and so the light and the fire of the dawn of time burn within you. You must feel, you must breathe, the way fire breathes, the way fire creates and consumes. If not for the command of Illuvitar, you would be the ones to live forever. Even moreso than the elves, because you are older than the elves, so old you would not even be able to die. You aren’t able to die. Yet you must. It is Illuvitar’s command. That is why I must take you away, and bring you here. Because I stole the elves’ birthright, and Illuvitar is jealous, and the elves are jealous.”

Just as Thorin was recovering from his Maker having the gall to call the Creator of All Things jealous, Mahal looked up from the hammers and gave a wicked grin. “Your hobbit isn’t the only burglar, after all.”

Thorin could feel the fierce love of his Maker, and wondered at a Vala who so loved his creations, he would cheat, steal and risk death for them. And he felt flushed with warmth that Mahal should deign to liken himself to the hobbit.

“And since you are so Gifted with Life, I have made this mountain- this vast chain of mountains- for you to enjoy your eternal nature, delighting in the senses of the living and taking comfort in the company of your ancestors, and giving joy to your kin and descendents. Which is why it is a shame that you can only think of your hobbit, and cannot ease your heart here.”

“Now it is you who sound jealous.”

Thorin didn’t dare breathe, having said that, and Mahal’s gaze bored into him, the light of the forge fire not reflecting in his stone grey eyes, but a different light coming out of them from deep within. After a moment, he spoke.

“Perhaps I am.”

He couldn’t believe it. His Maker was conceding. Thorin’s heart must have skipped a hundred beats as he said his next words.

“Then bring him here, when he dies. Bring him to me. If you want me to truly be content in your paradise. He wants to find me. It is not fair that we have to wait until the remaking of the world, and even then perhaps not reunite, simply because he is a hobbit and I am a dwarf.”

“You know I cannot do that, Thorin son of Thrain. I am not Eru who made him, and I am not Fate who will unmake him, the way Fate unmade you.”

Mahal would explain himself no further.

Thorin left that conversation with more questions than answers, the chiefest of which was: did Fate unmake Thorin by death, or by love?

***

Chapter Text

How many times Thorin paced around that pond, weaving his way between the tapered columns, he did not know. He had no more answers now than when he arrived- save one.

What if life was a dance between fate and chance. Something about that idea resonated with Thorin. What if Fate needs chances. There was something here, some truth that perhaps could help Bilbo. Thorin himself was a bit like fate, now that he was thinking on it. His path was set out for him with no choice of his own, like a story already written. The greatness and madness stretched back generations, and clawed forward to the end of his life. Erebor was meant to fall, and he was meant to find the key and make it rise again. It was so clean it was as though it was already set in tapestry in the Hall of Kings. Thorin might as well have been a song.

If not for Bilbo. For Bilbo was like chance. What were the chances that they would find each other? That one so secretly courageous as Bilbo would join his company? Thorin’s brave deeds were expected of him. He’d been preparing for this his whole life. But Bilbo… where did it come from? Fate was obvious, with portent and prophecy pointing to it the whole way. For every fated ending, there was a prophecy in the beginning. But chance was as surprising and unpredictable as love. And if Bilbo was going to love life again, he needed more chances with it. And more chances with life meant less chances with Thorin.

Not that Thorin could put it that way to Bilbo. The hobbit would never accept that, no. Thorin had to find another way to say it. He had to borrow a page from the hobbit’s book, and learn to do it quietly. The way Bilbo was quiet. That otherworldly quiet- the kind of quiet that sneaks up on you, the quiet before you realise it’s quiet, but it’s already too late. Just like how Thorin didn’t know what was happening to him with Bilbo, as though the hobbit had quietly burgled his way into the future and already stolen the thing. Several things, as it would turn out. His heart, for one. That was something never prophesied, to be sure. Thorin could never have room for love, with so much fate in the way. And yes, Bilbo’s quiet was the kind of quiet that could perhaps contend even with a dragon. Thorin felt that, on some level, even from the beginning. Perhaps it made Thorin self-conscious. Because Thorin was loud. Everything about him was loud. Even his silence was loud. Especially his silence.

No, he could not borrow a page from the hobbit’s book in this matter. For Bilbo’s weapon was his words, and he could fence with the best- even with a dragon. Thorin was not subtle. Thorin was not deft. All he could be was honest, even if honesty was loud and clumsy and stumbling.

But… Thorin could not let the idea go. Quietly, he must do it quietly. Slowly, he must do it slowly. Not dramatically, the way everything happened in his own life. He would still go to Bilbo three, maybe four times a year, for many years yet. But it would no longer be the same. He needed to fade from Bilbo’s life, become a backdrop like a soft horizon, ever present but never reached. Fade into memory and softness until the pain was gone. Until Bilbo’s heart could accept the truth. That their story was over.

Thorin skipped one more stone across the pond. It bounced again and again and again, flinging in high arcs over the water until it was safe on the other side. Perhaps it was a good omen. Perhaps Thorin could help Bilbo skim across this grief until he was safe on the far shore.

***

The moon was rising late tonight, just as it had the last time Thorin walked among the grasses of this meadow. It was just as he remembered: gentle slopes with a copse of trees near the crest of the hill. A little wooden bridge where a stream bordered the field and the woods. The grasses were not yet tall and dry with the heat of summer- they were soft and lush with the moist earth of spring. For it was April- April 26th. Thorin’s mouth dropped open in surprise as he looked around: he now knew the name of every flower in this field.

Bilbo was just coming over the crest of the hill towards him. A songbird landed on his shoulder, whispering to him. Bilbo did not shoo him away at least. That was a good sign.

“How do you know this place?” Bilbo said in wonder as he reached Thorin. “We couldn’t be here otherwise, could we?”

Thorin did not answer at first, just brought a hand up to gently stroke Bilbo’s cheek. Thorin had more control these days, over how long a dream could last- another way in which he and Bilbo were not equal. He let his hand drop, but Bilbo took it in his own.

“I got lost in this field, on the way to your home, the night we met.”

Bilbo turned toward the horizon. “You’re right- the same moon rises even now. Soon it will shine so bright we won’t be able to see the stars.”

“Nor the stars see us,” Thorin said gravely, looking up. “For the stars are the eyes of Eä, watching and waiting.”

“What are they waiting to do?”

Thorin took a deep breath, and turned back to Bilbo. “To give us chances.”

Bilbo glared at Thorin, then resolutely tugged Thorin down with him into the grass. He waited until he had Thorin’s arms around him. Then he spoke.

“Something’s wrong. Tell me what it is.”

Thorin gave a sigh. “I cannot hide anything from you, ghivashel, can I?”

“Just tell me, please. I never know how much time we have.”

“We have time.” Thorin felt like he was rallying for a hopeless battle. He lay back against the grass. Bilbo gave a sigh of his own, tucked a stray lock of hair behind Thorin’s ear. Thorin closed his eyes at the touch. When he opened them, the stars were still bright above him.

“Stars or no, you and I are out of chances.”

“Thorin, no.” Bilbo shook his head violently. “Don’t you dare say goodbye to me.”

“Bilbo-”

“I can’t-” His voice cracked. “I can’t lose you. Not again. I can’t lose what I have left of you.”

“It’s not fair to you-”

“What is fair?” His eyes were shining and his voice high and reedy as he sat up and put his hands on Thorin’s chest, bunching up the fabric of his shirt. “What’s fair about any of this, to either of us? You cannot tell me this is why you want to leave me.”

Thorin sat up too. “I don’t want-”

“Then what do you want?”

“I don’t want to leave you! I want more of you, not less!” Their chests were both heaving as though they were struggling for air. Thorin couldn’t take it anymore. He came forward and kissed Bilbo. There was no world, there was no time, no place, anywhere, ever, where Thorin did not want Bilbo. He kissed Bilbo hard, determined to make that clear.

“It is dangerous for you,” He said when they parted for breath.

“I’ve shared in your perils before,” Bilbo pulled him in to kiss again. Thorin could not think with Bilbo’s hands on him, first on his chest and then wrapping around his neck. But he pulled away. He had to. Just enough to speak. He brought their foreheads together, stroking Bilbo’s hair as he did so.

“It is not goodbye. It is just less. Three, four moons a year. I cannot come to you every month. I am haunting you.”

“Then haunt me, Thorin. Less if you must, but do not leave me in a world where I cannot find you!”

Bilbo kissed him again, full and long, one hand tracing down to rest on his heart. He pulled him back down into the grass.

Maybe chance and fate weren’t irreconcilable. Maybe the one was just the unravelling of the other.

***

Chapter Text

It was not until she reached the edge of Mirkwood, that Dís had to face the truth.

Until then, she could imagine herself on any wandering road from any part of her old life in exile in the years before settling in Gabilgathol. She was grounded in the daily concerns of caravan travel, troublesome logistics of transporting goods by wagon, proper care of the less travel-hardy, and the daily routine of breaking camp, making camp, open-fire cooking, pony-feeding, and at the end of it all, staring up into the stars before finally yielding to sleep. And Dís had the extra concern of contending with her advisors, with some of whom she had never been able to repair her relationships. Not since the stag, five years ago. She could not blame them, she supposed. But it wasn’t, for once, her own failings that bothered her. For if it were just that they didn’t trust her, that would at least make sense. She could work with advisors who didn’t trust her. In fact it was better to have at least one or two who held her in low esteem. A leader who went unchecked could easily become a tyrant. Better to have daily reminders of one’s shortcomings than only remember when an important alliance was damaged.

But no, it wasn’t lack of trust that was the problem. In fact, it was unearned trust. Especially from Doí and that infernal brother of his. It was from them that came the absurd idea that Dís should lay claim to the throne of Erebor. What could they possibly be thinking? Not even mentioning the terrible insult added to injury, since her heirs were now as good as stone. She almost killed them over it. If only she had had the presence of mind to issue a formal challenge, instead of drawing her blade recklessly in the council room. Five dwarrow had to hold her back from severing their heads right then and there. She could have done it, even then- she could have spoken the words that would bind them to a fight to the death. She would have taken both of them at once. But instead, it was as though a demon possessed her, and her curses were thunderclaps, one after the other, that echoed deep into the mines and even collapsed a few tunnels. After that, they did not show their faces for three years, and she agreed to allow them within her sight only upon their swearing they would never mention the idea again. It wasn’t enough. It was too much of a concession. For even their presence was a reminder of their foul hearts, and she would take that grudge with her to the grave.

But she could do nothing about it now. The time of redress-by-blood was past, and too many dwarrow went through enormous trouble to mediate the “misunderstanding” as they called it. For the brothers were important folk although not in the line of Durin, nor any of the noble families. They had been indispensable in the negotiations with the Firebeards of Gabilgathol to allow the dwarrow of Erebor to settle in the abandoned lower mines and finally bring their wandering to an end. The brothers were from a meagre background, suffered greatly during the long years of poverty, and despite all of this, became renowned scholars and diplomats. Dís tried to remember all of this, as often as she could. She had worked closely with them that entire time, and never had a conflict with them. Until, of course, the Stag.

But grave, death-deserving insult aside, their proposal was troubling for other reasons. They didn’t trust her to go into the woods alone, but mere months later, they trusted her with the throne of Erebor? What about her madness, that so resembled gold-sickness? What about the fact that she was a world away, and responsible for the relocating of an entire people? What about the fact that Dáin was already crowned the new king of Erebor? What would be the good of challenging him, her own cousin? Yes, if her sons had lived, she could make a claim. But. That world would never again exist.

Dís sighed, as she re-lit her pipe and puffed a ring of smoke out into the morning air. She was sitting on a bench outside the House of Beorn the Shapeshifter who had agreed to host her caravan. It was late winter, and the fields surrounding the House were dusted in snow. Dís had heard tell that Beorn and a group of Men were hunting orcs and goblins in the surrounding woods and mountains, including the Greenwood. She and her caravan offered to form orc-hunting parties with them in return for the opportunity to rest and regroup camping in his fields. With strict rules forbidding other types of hunting, Beorn agreed, and was generous with honey, bread, hearty root vegetables stored over the winter, and even mead. And for their part, the dwarven hunting parties certainly did not shame themselves, and were generous in trade and gifts. It was an enjoyable few weeks, all in all. Dís appreciated getting to know the shapeshifter, for she stayed in his house and heard many a tale of the comings and goings of that part of the world. Beorn admitted he used to have less patience with dwarves, until Thorin and his company with the wizard had killed the goblin king and faced down the wargs of the pine woods that used to be Beorn’s land, that he has since reclaimed. Dís appreciated the compliment to her brother, ache of heart that it gave her.

Beorn’s Men were impressive as well- seasoned Woodmen who loved nothing more than to hunt evil things. Dís spoke with them long into the evenings as the fire in the great hearth burned on and on. She listened to their advice and their stories of their villages in the upper Vales of Anduin, and the dark things encountered in the surrounding forests. On the eve of the dwarves’ departure, as an afterthought, Dís described to them the creature Bilbo told her about that he discovered in the goblin caves. She asked if any had ever seen such a creature, grey of skin with a habit of talking and hissing to himself and making a horrible swallowing noise in his throat. Each shook his head no, but promised they’d send word if they did.

Now it was morning, and the caravan was breaking camp getting ready to go. Dís was sitting on a bench surrounded by large blue flowers that seemed unbothered by the snow. Bees which had been sleeping in the bell-shaped blossoms one by one awakened with the rising sun, shaking the snow off their fuzz mid-flight. Bilbo had told Dís of this flower patch in his stories of Thorin. They had sat together on this very bench. She could practically see the memories he shared coming alive in front of her. Fíli and Kíli smearing each other’s faces with honey, or following around the dogs who walked on their hind-legs until one turned around and snapped so quickly they fell backward and knocked over a high stack of bales of hay. What Dís wouldn’t do, to hear their laughter just once more.

She let out a sigh, and pipeweed smoke bloomed before her. A bee flew through it accidentally and zigged sideways with an offended buzz. Beyond the eastern wall within a few days’ ride lay the Greenwood, and a host of wood elves would meet her at the border and escort her caravan through on the Old Forest Road. She would spend one night in the halls of the king and dine with him. She almost refused. She almost insisted her party go all the way around the forest. It was thinking of Bilbo that changed her mind. If he was really like kin now, she could not sully his good reputation with the elves because of her own grudge, as long-nursed as it might be. She had thought long and hard these past months about the stories Bilbo told her. How he witnessed the talk Thranduil and Thorin had, and Thranduil’s face twisted to reveal horrible burning scars when he spoke of knowing dragon fire. She thought about this,knowing well the old tales. She wondered about Thranduil’s dealings with dragons in ages past, perhaps even in the War of Wrath, when the likes of Ancalagon the Black scorched ruin upon the hosts of Beleriand. She scoffed at the idea of Thranduil doing anything other than prance around on his stupid moose, even if he was old enough to have maybe fought in the War of Wrath. Bilbo had been duly impressed by the scars, but elves loved illusion magic, and Thranduil loved his own idiotic face, so who was to say? Dís was glad that what Bilbo loved was books, for now he would get to read the tales of the great host of Gabilgathol who fought off an entire brood of dragons, led by Azaghal, Lord of the Firebeards, facing off against Glaurung on none other than the summit of Mount Dolmed. Dwarrow, too, had their moments.

Suddenly Dís wondered how old the King of Stags was, and if he’d witnessed that battle. Likely not, but… some creatures were old, deeply old.

And Thranduil was one of those deeply old creatures, and he could make trouble for dwarrow for ages to come, and likely would have, but for Bilbo stepping in with the Arkenstone, and later the gems he coveted. Dís would not undo what Bilbo had done, nor would she jeopardise the peace between the two kingdoms whose price had been so dear.

And in truth, she did have one small request that might require some delicacy.

So yes. She would spend one night in the elven halls, one dinner with the elven king.

She regretted her decision almost immediately.

“So it is that Dís, daughter of Thraín shows her true face,” Thranduil drawled, his voice suddenly raised so that everyone could hear what up until then had been a relatively private conversation. “That even after all the tragedy that has befallen her kin, she refuses to learn her lesson.”

His eyes were shining, as though he delighted in discovering proof of whatever ill he suspected.

Dís slammed her fork on the table as abruptly as she dared. “I know not of what lesson you speak.” She forced a smile up at him. “Care to elaborate?”

The rest of the table fell silent. Even the harpers stopped playing. That was a mercy. The few dwarrow in company with her tensed but said nothing. Gimli, son of Gloin sat next to her, and she could tell his hand was tightening around his axe.

She’d been delusional to think that Thranduil would actually consider her request to investigate Dol Guldur.

“You cannot hide your true aim from me. You seek the heirloom of your father. You are just like your brother- just like all dwarves, mining and tinkering away in your dark halls because there is no end to your covetousness. You would ransack the Thousand Caves, plunder the halls of the One joined with the Ainur, and all for a trinket.”

“The dwarves of Nogrod are no ancestors of mine, though I’ll not shy away from defending them, and none of your kind would ever call the Nauglamir a trinket. Speak plainly, if you truly suspect ill will from me, and leave my brother out of this.” Dís gave a huff, but steadied her voice. “As it is, I know of no heirloom my father might have had while held captive. It is not uncommon among dwarves for heirlooms to be kept secret, except among those in line to inherit.” Indeed, if her father did have an heirloom, even Thorin might not know until the very day he received it. It made her wonder what the elf might know that she didn’t.

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed with skepticism and he stared at her a long moment before finally breaking eye-contact and waving for more wine. Elves at the king’s long table eased hesitantly back into their conversations. Dís’ company of dwarrow glared hard at the king and the elves around them but were under strict orders not to interrupt her and the king.

“Then what is your intention, praytell?”

“To give a thought to this Necromancer, whom I’d like to pay for what he did to my father, if I can. To look his evil in the face. I thought it was mere courtesy to ask, since the fortress lay outside your realm.”

Thranduil swirled his wine and did not look up.

“Amon Lanc,” he said distantly, staring into the wine like it held his future. “It was Amon Lanc, in the heart of the realm of my father before me, before it was Dol Guldur.” He finally looked up at Dís. “You come very late to ask such a thing. If you had arrived in the first six months after the White Council banished the Necromancer, there might have been something to investigate. But my subjects have had five years to scrub the fortress of his filth. They are mere ruins now, with nothing to answer your sorrow or vengeance but vine and moss.”

“And did any of your subjects find this heirloom you accuse me of coveting? Perhaps I will covet it, if it fell into hands the likes of yours.”

Suddenly ten swords were pointed at her from every elf within reach- except Thranduil, now languidly sipping his wine. To Dís’ surprise, he waved them off.

“They take your threat literally. You see, I was there when the Lord of Nogrod slew Elwë Singollo, King of Doriath, for want of the Nauglamir and the Jewel of Fëanor. So when I speak of coveting, it is a memory, and when you speak of coveting, it is a promise.” He flashed a grin showing teeth. “I will indulge you this once. I found no heirloom, though I suspected one- but since it would have been unknown to any but your father and brother, I’ll suffer no questions about it from you.” Thranduil snapped his fingers and immediately the harpers started up again, and more plates of food made their rounds. Dís took the moment to turn to her companions. Gimli leaned in to whisper to her.

“Y’sure it would be bad diplomacy to test the sharpness of me axe on that one’s crown? He’s askin’ for it!”

“Thank you, Gimli son of Gloin, I’ll well remember your desire to be useful.” She couldn’t help but smile. Then she turned back to Thranduil, who unfortunately had started talking again.

“Why do you wish to rush head first into danger? You are nigh on the doorstep of your reclaimed mountain, and no more dragons can come out of the North. The Necromancer will not appear again in this Age, and none will come for your gold except the petty amongst your own kind, which I’m sure your council will handle.” His gaze flicked to Gimli’s hand, which was still on his axe.

Dís weighed her options. Thranduil would prattle on for the next hundred years if he were allowed to. If she levelled with him, maybe he’d at least say something helpful.

“The wizard Gandalf warned me that there was an evil rising in this land. I wish to pursue it, if I can.”

Thranduil tilted his head, looking at her as though only just now finding her interesting.

“You wish to take up the Watch against the darkness? And what power have you to make any difference, should you find it?”

“That I do not know. Gandalf was the one who suggested I had any power at all, and he did not elaborate.”

“Gandalf,” Thranduil scoffed, “Ever the interference. In this, though, he is correct, that an evil is rising. I have Seen it, as have others of my kind who know the shaping of things. But evil rises and it falls, only to rise again. It is a force of nature, like everything bound by time. All things swell and collapse, all creatures have their bright hour and their dark, and all lands delight in their summer and must endure their winter, save the Blessed Lands I will one day call home. Nothing remains the same, and still everything repeats.”

“Yet we naugrim alone of all the Children of Arda manage to persist unchanging in our greed,” Dís muttered bitterly.

Thranduil regarded her thoughtfully for a long time before he turned away. He said no more to her.

***

Chapter Text

The fog was billowing into the valley and across the lake when the first boats of Dís’ caravan arrived on the shores, such that even though the city was right before them, they could not see it. Erebor was still a day’s travel away and before that, there was business in Dale. Perhaps if the night were colder, Dís would have surrendered and stayed with the others. But she was so close. And there was someone she wanted to see.

The caravan was setting up camp near the shore. Dís saw Gimli and pulled him aside.

“I am heading farther on,” she told him in a whisper and he raised a brow in surprise. Gimli had remained behind when the rest of his family had gone ahead a few years ago. He had been too young to join Thorin’s company, and that made him restless- yet he stayed and helped where help was needed. It had been easy to fall into a camaraderie with him- and she trusted to that camaraderie now.

“Give Bard my apologies, and tell Doí to carry on the meeting as planned. I will arrive at the gate of Erebor around the same time that you do. We can meet Dáin together.”

Gimli could only give a baffled nod and a low bow as she started to turn away.

“Don’t tell Doí until the morning, will you? And I owe you one!”

“I’ll hold ya to that!” Gimli called after her. “Ya must show me how ya do yer five-hatchet throw!”

***

The fog had stayed heavy at the level of the river, such that the mountain hadn’t been seen for days. But as Dís climbed the lower foothills, eventually she reached the fog line, and the mountain loomed before her, black against the indigo, its snows lit just barely in the river of clustering starlight above. A little to the east, not far now, she could make out the edges of the old fortress blotting out the starlight behind it. It caught her breath to lay eyes upon it, and tears suddenly stung her eyes. She looked back down at the path, concentrating on her steps. It was right for her to come to this place, where the last of her family fell.

Here on Ravenhill.

It was a favourite haunt of her youth with Thorin and Frerin. They would play war games along the battlements, spying from the balistraria, when they weren’t adventuring with their favourite Ravens.

The early spring warmth had melted much of the ice of the river- yet not all. The waterfall was still quiet as it flowed along thick bands of ice. Dís had gathered wood and made her way to a lower watchtower. She settled in and made a fire, noting that the rafters above were empty. She went to the doorway, scanned the upper towers for a long time. Finally, when her fire was good and bright, a dark shape came circling down and landed on the sconce in front of the door. Its feathers caught the moonlight like satin and its eyes were black jewels.

“Well met Dís daughter of Frís, the Ravens rejoice at your return to the Lonely Mountain.”

“Well met friend, may your feathers never fall! I was hoping to speak to one Raven in particular, named Jaërg, who was my companion when we were both very young. I have not heard news of her in a long while, though I know many of the Ravens of Ravenhill went south and east during the harrying of the dragon. Has she returned with the others, or if not, is there any news of her?”

“I regret to tell you that Jaërg fell in the last attack by the dragon on Dale before he retreated back to the mountain for his long sleep some years ago. He laid waste to this hillside and his fiery breath killed many Ravens who had stayed to keep vigil, including her, and three of her fledglings were killed as well, who were my little brothers and sister. For Jaërg was my dam, and Roäc son of Carc my sire.”

Dís felt her heart sink to the ground. She had held out hope that the Raveness with whom she spent many a carefree childhood hour was safe, and if not returned, then at least prospering in Rhûn whither the Ravens had fled. At least Jaërg had lived long- more than a hundred years, it sounded- and had found her lifemate, and likely had many hatchlings, and lived well.

“I am so sorry for your loss. I was informed a year ago that Roäc, Chief of Ravenhill, fell from the skies carrying a message for me after the Battle of Five Armies. I am sorry twice more for that.”

“He insisted, and not I nor any other could bar him. I thank you for your words, but you are not to be blamed. We are Ravens. It is what we do.”

“And may the Ravens fly forever! Praytell, what is your name?”

“I am Taërn, Deputy Chief of Ravenhill. Long have we waited for your return to the Mountain. We grieve that you alone of your family live to resettle it.”

“Thank you,” Dís breathed, and Taërn eyed the fire behind Dís. She flew past her suddenly and landed on the ground next to it. Dís followed her in and sat down next to the fire.

“What news of Ravenhill, and the Mountain? I will make my way to the gate tomorrow.”

“The Mountain thrives under the rule of your cousin, and your arrival is highly anticipated, though some look on with suspicion.”

“Suspicion which has no grounds,” Dís sighed, wondering how much of her reputation her advisors managed to ruin. And she herself. “I intend no ill towards Dain or anyone. I merely wish to sit in the Council of Lords as an advisor, though if he objects I won’t put up a fight about it. I have no other ambition, save perhaps… some hunting.”

Taërn tilted her head thoughtfully. “Yes… none of us here on the Hill ever doubted you. As for hunting… we have worked hard to scatter seeds so that new trees may grow, and in the morning you will see that much of the desolation this side of the mountain has been healed. Deer are still shy to roam on these foothills, however.”

“I meant darker things than deer, and I will tell you those stories in time. How about here on Ravenhill? What news?”

“We have been glad to return these past five years, and to serve the dwarrow of Erebor once more. The children of the Chieftains are prolific, and our wings take us to many far corners to hear the turnings and secrets of this world that is fair and dark in turns.” Taërn hopped nervously forward. “Therefore let me swear my service to you, O Daughter of Durin for whom my dam flew in the first years of her hatching, and I will aid you in your hunt, and I will not let you down.”

Taërn bowed low, a beautiful Raven bow extending her long wings, which gave off a soft sheen in the firelight, and Dís’ breath caught in her throat.

“You truly never swore to Dain, or any others?”

“I have waited for you alone,” Taërn said, and bowed again. “These many years, I have waited and hoped to continue the friendship my dam began.”

Tears stung Dís’ eyes, sudden and hot. “I am lucky in my friends,” she whispered, her voice caught in her throat.

They talked late into the night of their lives and the fate of the world unfolding before them. Taërn had a seriousness that reminded Dís of Carc and imagined Roäc also had (she had not met the son of Carc, as he was born after they fled, a few years after Jaërg), but she had the same brightness of eye as Jaërg and seemed to have the same humour as well, once she warmed up. By the end of their talk, Dís had some new ideas of how she could be useful in the mountain. She’d need Dwalin’s help, and possibly Balin’s as well. She would see them tomorrow. In fact, all the company of Thorin Oakenshield planned to meet her at the gate. All who survived, that is.

The fire was ash and smoke when Dís woke in the final hour before dawn. Taërn had flown back to her nest in the upper tower higher on the hill much earlier. Now there was just the view of the moon dipping into the horizon, casting a silver glow on the frozen river. Dís thought she saw a shape move out on the ice. She watched the spot for a long time. When she saw movement again, she stood, quietly as possible, clung to the shadows with her hand on her hatchet until she was close enough to see what it was.

It was a dwarf. Not just any dwarf.

“Thorin.”

She ran to him, threw her arms around him before he could say a word. How dare they tell her he was dead! A thousand confused thoughts whirled around her mind as she held her brother tight in embrace. How dare they…

“Anai-” Thorin tightened his arms around her, but she drew back to bash their heads together and then punched him in the shoulder.

“How could they tell me you were dead?! And how could you let me believe them! Why didn’t you write to me?”

“Anai-”

“I will have Balin’s head for this. And Dáin’s too! They thought they had to worry about me before!”

“Anai.” His tone made her look up at him, and she saw the truth in his eyes.

“You are dead.”

He held her gaze until the truth could sink in. Of course he was dead. This was a dream.

“How could you come here,” she whispered, her breath coming out in mist. “Exactly where I sleep in life?”

“I tried hard to meet you anywhere else, I swear- the Dream Realm did not listen to my wish. Your soul where you are is too strong.”

She punched him angrily in the shoulder again. “Now it is you who speaks nonsense.”

“I fear I have much more of it to say as well. You do not see the flames all around us? Their glow against the stone? My words will once more break your heart, I am certain.”

“No more than usual.” She almost could have smirked. He shook his head, ignoring her.

“This is dangerous, Anai’. I should not have come to you on the eve of the day you will look upon our tombs.”

“I care not,” Hot anger did not keep tears from stinging her eyes. “I would see you here, living, or seeming to, at least. So that I could tell you. I am so sorry. I’m sorry I came here. I’m sorry I get to be here, and you do not.”

“How can you say that? You gave your sons!”

“And you gave your life!” She gave him a shove, and he was pushed back a pace. All the anger and frustration of the past months was spilling out of her now. Thorin rarely came to her in dreams now, and Fíli and Kíli only slightly moreso. Sometimes she had nightmares, searching for them in a room filled with mist with a stone path that twisted and branched, always leading nowhere.

She pushed him again. “How could you do that? Always so selfish about all the wrong things. Hoarding gold but throwing away your own life. This was supposed to be yours!” She gestured angrily behind her at the mountain hidden behind sunken clouds.

“You’re right, of course,” Thorin said, though his eyes did not leave hers. “I am selfish- I kept gold but threw away Bilbo. I threw away my own life but took your sons from you.”

“No…” Dís shook her head, looking down at her hands. “They were no longer mine, that you could take them from me. Come, let’s build up this fire again, and get out of the shadow of the mountain.”

She took his wrist and led him to the tower, and they did not speak until the fire was high and the whole room warm.

“Do you feel it?” She asked Thorin as he held out his hands in front of the fire.

“I do,” He said in a low voice after a long moment, and his gaze was full of its flame. Dís let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and suppressed a shiver.

“Sometimes I fear you’ve all been turned to stone.”

Something alarming flickered in Thorin’s eyes, but it was gone as soon as it came.

“Your sons burn with love for you. They will not turn to stone.”

Dís let out a sigh. “And that is why they left me in the first place. You were right to go- I don’t know if I ever admitted that to you. And Fíli and Kíli were right to follow you. Who did I think I was, trying to keep my sons from the world? They belong to this world, and it was my privilege to give them to its keeping, even its taking away. I don’t grieve for myself anymore. Just for you. I wish they were here, and you, so you could take joy in all that you’ve won.”

“I take joy in seeing you well,” Thorin smiled, a rare smile the likes of which she hadn’t seen since Fíli and Kíli were but pebbles. “I wish I could describe it to you, Anai. How the grey dust of this world falls back, and all that remains of you are the people you’ve loved, and the beauty of every place you’ve walked, imprinted upon you like a child’s handprints into the clay of your heart. I was the worst of fools, to ever care about gold. Nothing I could have made from gold matches a single moment with you or any loved one.”

“You’re wrong, and you know it. Gold can make safety, prosperity, peace- you’ve given all of Durin’s Folk a chance to rise again and bring joy to each other. You have created love that will multiply down through the ages. And there will be no dwarf of Erebor, for all the ages to come, who does not love you, and whose love you do not deserve.”

“You must know that the same is true for you.”

“No-” she shook her head fiercely. “I would have hindered you, if I could.”

“Your part in this tale is not over.”

“My part in this tale will be spending the rest of my life trying to redeem myself.”

“No- you mistake my meaning-” and at this Thorin came closer, took Dís’ hands into his own. “It is for you that I made the journey to Erebor in the first place. It was love for you, and Fíli and Kíli, and my wish to give them a better life. You were my motive. Anyone who sings my praise who doesn’t sing yours twice over is a fool. But even beyond that, though it will remain untold, your part in this tale is not over. You will need my sword before the end.”

“What-?”

“My sword. Lost in the Fountain, found in the Cavern, stolen in the Dungeon, returned in the Crypt. You will need it.”

“Thorin… no…”

“You will need it before the end. Please hear me.”

“I cannot heed you!” Dís pushed his hands away, thought about punching him. “That sword lays upon your body! How could you ask this of me?! I cannot do it, and even if I could, you are sealed in a tomb!”

“I heard the secret words the Runemasters said when they laid the seal upon my tomb. Zai anatu sullu, imrizruk lu’ bannô. The door will open to you if you use them, and none will know.”

“How dare they! Those are bitter words! You could hear them??!” She shook her head clear of her bafflement. “How dare they!”

“They are true words. And one day, you will use them to retrieve my sword.”

“Nadad, no! Speak plainly! This is nonsense- these are dream words, not your own!”

“They are my own, though I don’t know how. One day you will bring flame down to stone, and you will know. I’m not asking it of you. I just know you will need it. I am so sorry, Anai. I cause you nothing but pain.”

“Don’t say that. Please.” She took his hands back, holding them tightly in her own. “I will defy you,” She added stubbornly.

Thorin tried to wipe her tears away, but they kept coming and would not stop.

***

Chapter Text

Twenty years later.

The moon was a waning half in the morning pale, and Roäc was tracing an ever-widening spiral of bliss in the sky. The trees leaned and stretched their branches, final clumps of vermillion leaves waving hello in the stiff breeze. The sun was rising late, and the world was fragrant with soft dying things. It was November.

Here on this updraft, life was simple. Simplicity was a wide circle, an arching dance with the wind high above the shadows on the ground and all the things that hid in them. The story on the ground was complicated. That story was far below. And for now, Roäc was leaving that story behind as he crossed the last of the meadows that bordered the Old Forest before softening into the Shire. He would reach Jaërg and the Little Ones within the hour.

Roäc was careful never to let simplicity be taken for granted. He had a theory that life was simple for Ravens because they held a piece of Eternity. Time was no problem for them, and so why not keep perfecting their craft? Living Ravens could see the dead, and knew they would join their number soon enough. The dead advised the living, and so wisdom was highly treasured among Ravens, as were languages, with which to give and receive wisdom. A long-lived Raven would know a hundred languages by the end of his life. There were the languages of the Walkers, of course: Khûzdul, Sindarin, Quenya, Nandorin, Avarin and Eldarin, as well as the many languages of Men- Westron, Drúadan, Taliska, and Ancient Adûnayân that the Men of the Darkwoods spoke, among others. And then there were the languages of birds- Yaria, the language of songbirds, with its many melodious dialects; Tarash, the common tongue of birds of prey, among others used by fowl and carrion birds. And then there were those of the four-legged creatures of the forests, and the slimy pond creatures, and the moths and butterflies and other insects. And then there were the languages of tree and flower (known affectionately among Ravens and other aviary linguists as the Whispers); and the Immortal Tongues: those of stone and water and sunlight and moonlight. Those were the harder languages, that took decades of listening, and could not be spoken out loud, and whose study was usually reserved for the last years of a long life. And then of course there were the orcish and other foul tongues that Ravens studied so they could spy on their enemies.

Yes, Ravens were lucky in their simplicity, because the one complicated choice in life, the choice between good and evil, was as clear for them as the sky after a storm. Roäc never let himself lose sight of that, of how easy Ravens had it. For Men, Dwarrow and Elves, that was not the case. Men, who lived so short, were easily corrupted by the thing that most resembled immortality: power. Elves, immortal that they were, harboured a secret love for the thing that most resembled death: pride. Dwarrow alone were able to sidestep these traps that led down the road to evil. Yes, they had a reputation for greed, but how could the love of shiny things ever be a bad quality? Ravens understood well the desire to create out of shiny things, for they did this as well, limited though their abilities were. The third foot helped a lot, if a Raven was of Mahal’s Order. But Ravens could never compete with Dwarrow in this talent, nor were they envious to.

No, Ravens bent their talents instead toward the secrets of Death and Life, and Dwarrow had a feel for these secrets, though they knew it not. Perhaps that was why Dwarrow so rarely fell into the traps of evil. And perhaps that was why, though they respected all those who walked with two feet upon Arda, Ravens loved Dwarrow the best. And the best of Dwarrow was Durin’s Folk, and the best of Durin’s Folk was Thorin Oakenshield.

Not that Thorin King among Dwarves saw it that way himself. Those of great sorrow often couldn’t see their own worth. And, well, truth be told, he wasn’t universally considered the best by Ravens. Jaërg disagreed, for one, for she dearly loved his sister, and that was fair, but it was still fun to disagree. In fact Roäc and his mate had argued about this many times, to no avail. Not that they were arguing to come to a conclusion, no- the purpose of such silly bickering could only ever be love, simply love. That’s why Ravens did anything, really. They did it for love.

Now Cats, on the other hand- what was the cause of things with Cats? Certainly not love, no. Who knew what was going through a Cat’s mind as it played with its prey before tearing it apart, or swiped birds down from the sky only to jab at them with a paw and, as soon as the bird tried to flee, trap the poor beast in its mouth and carry it around as though on a stroll? What was going through a Cat’s mind as it knocked everything off every surface, peed on any random thing, or yowled at nothing late into the night, or picked a fight among its own kind, or in the rare instance it was lucky enough to become a housecat, let its owner pet it one moment and then scratch his hand the next? And then somehow charm him to come back for more? Cats were wholly unpredictable, except when it came to causing chaos. On that, they could be firmly depended. It wouldn’t be so terrible if they weren’t so unfairly powerful. Leaping to great heights, able to climb trees, faster than snakes, able to fight any bird of prey that wasn’t giant like the Eagles. Cats were not simple, and Cats did not make life simple for anyone else either. They’d been especially complicating Roäc’s life these past twenty years, and progress with them was infuriatingly slow.

The Ravens had gathered embarrassingly little intelligence of the Cats, considering the first instance of conflict occurred many decades ago. It wasn’t clear why Cats became openly hostile to the Ravens of Mahal. They could see them (of course they could), for Cats were not talented in physical prowess alone. They could see the dead, ghosts and wights of all kinds, some that even Ravens could not see. They could walk through the Dream Realms needing neither Door nor glowing Stone. They also had a certain amount of immunity to death. Incredibly lucky, they dodged death over and over. Roäc had seen it himself just two nights ago, when a glaring of Cats made their way up the great cliffs of the Lookout, the heart of the Ravens’ kingdom in the Living Realm.

It was dusk, and a thick fog descended upon the rocks, such that the Cats were able to ambush the Ravens on patrol, Roäc among them. The Ravens fought hard and had the advantage, but it was too close for comfort. These were large, wild forest Cats, a far cry from the lazy aristocratic city-dwellers, spoiled on cream and cellar mice. Four of them had banded together (a miracle, as Cats loathed cooperating even with their own kind) under the leadership of One of the Nine. Roäc would never forget how they propelled themselves effortlessly up the rocks of the cliff, swatting Ravens aside with a lazy paw as they started sniffing the air, searching for the Door. The Ravens fell upon them with fierce cries of war, a dozen to each Cat, until they were more than just a bother. One by one the Cats lost their footing and fell far below. The fog was clearing, and the night was bright under the full moon. Bright enough for Roäc to see the Cats twist and fold in the air as they fell, until they landed on their feet and stalked around indignantly as though they hadn’t just been pushed off a cliff and fallen hundreds of feet.

Roäc shuddered remembering their ringleader- one of the Nine, they realized at the end, staring up as the mist billowed and swirled. The forest cats were getting ready to try again, but their leader gave a low hiss and they took off, disappearing back into the forest.

The Ravens had known for many years now that the Cats were after the Realm of the Dead. It was one of the few Realms Cats could not freely travel to. They had free rein of the Subtle Realms, and especially held great power in the Forest Realm of Secrets, where whispers were loosed from the trees like leaves when the wind threaded through their branches. They also were rumored to walk the Realms of Prophecy, though no Raven wanted to believe that. At least they kept away from the High Realms, and could not enter the Sky Realms or the Court of the Two Kings. Their power, however, was growing in the Dream Realm, and that was not good. The Dream Realm was perhaps the most dangerous of the Realms, except the very deepest of the Realms of the Dead.

Every limit of the Cats’ power was given thanks to Mahal for by the Ravens of the Court (though Ravens were pretty sure Mahal had nothing to do with creatures so vile as Cats). But every limit seemed to have its unfair counterbalance. For though Cats could not enter the Realms of the Dead, they were too powerful in the Realm of the Living. They even dwelt in the alabaster cities and walked the High Gardens of the Undying Lands. No Raven, living or dead, could alight upon Aman, save for Mahal’s Mountain and the Augury and its Orchard.

So why, why were they unsatisfied with all they had? Why did they now want the Realms of the Dead? The irony in the Living Realm, though, was that Ravens controlled Nine Doors to the Dead, one for each of the Nine to hunt. And so it was a race, in some ways. The Ravens had to find the Nine Cats, before the Cats found the Nine doors. Only Cats could move, and Doors could not. Yet another disadvantage.

Luckily, the Ravens had some advantages of their own- the greatest of which was their unity. Thousands of Ravens belonged to the Court of Kings and served Arach and Chara loyally. Besides those, all of the Ravens of the Realms of the Dead knew of the trouble with the Cats and kept their own Watches. They set up decoys and false trails, engaged in deceptive tactics, and as much as they could, spied on the Cats of Middle Earth.

Roäc was a spy, and he personally felt it was the most tedious job of them all. Cats, for one, were very hard to spy on, always spotting Ravens quickly, even though Ravens of the Realms of the Dead kept a silence true to death. It didn’t matter for Cats, who seemed to have a sixth sense. Worse, when they were able to be spied on, they rarely did anything but sleep and hunt, and almost never spoke. One would wonder if they even had a language, except that it was well-known by Ravens from far back in time and taught from generation to generation. And the city-dwellers at least were heard to speak, although Roäc was pretty sure city-dwellers were the most useless of all Cats, everywhere. Those in Minas Tirith were known as the Cats of the Citadel- not because they formed any sort of organized citizenry, but because the name stuck because it sounded romantic and cool. They gossiped about the most inane nonsense- until they finally noticed the Ravens spying. Then came the yowling and the hissing. They never got tired of hissing. And as soon as Roäc or any other Raven tried to talk to them, they’d yowl even louder and drown out their words. So rude!

Roäc shook off his annoyance. He was taking a rest this morning. Soon he would join Jaërg and the Little Ones, who were on watch for Bilbo’s latest message. The comings and goings of the Shire would be a welcome reprieve from the grim mood of the Lookout, the first Door now definitely known to the Nine and unfortunately, the most important of the Doors. This was bad news. The Ravens depended on secrecy. Particularly because- and this was where they had to give credit where credit was due- Jiaou might be many strange and foreboding things, but she was no despot. At least, she did not muster great numbers of Cats by force. Four, in fact, was the highest number of Cats the Ravens had ever seen working together specifically to find a Door, and they were not compelled: they were clearly enjoying their job. But now that she knew where one of the Doors was, she might entice many more to help her in whatever plan of dominion over the dead she was devising.

Roäc had been one of those who gave pursuit to the leader of the ambush- but her trail after two days was lost. It had been a far-flung fantasy: to corner and interrogate one of the Nine. Was it really too much to hope for, to come to a truce? Cats and Ravens had never been terribly troubled by each other. Even the smaller ravens of the soft western meadows were too clever to often fall prey to Cats. The natural enmity between them had long mellowed since the ancient wild days of the First Age. Until, anyway, some hundred-odd years ago.

It did not matter. Roäc was almost over Hobbiton, and Bag End would soon come into view, and Jaërg and the Little Ones would fly up to meet him. After the battle and two days of hard chase, Roäc and his battle-mates had been put on leave and the Lookout refreshed with double the watch. If no word came from the Lookout, he might even take a long trip with Jaërg and the Little Ones and see Karac and Taërn and Jari and Aeri and Faërj and Dras and Jarg and all their other living hatchlings, and many others of their Clan as well who were back on Ravenhill. What a treat that would be! To gossip and to sing, to play swooping games and darting games, to fly together on errands for dwarrow, even see Dís, though she could not see him. And to huddle in the kingly mountain pines through the chilly nights. Perhaps it would snow, which would give rise to a whole different set of amusements. Roäc sighed. There was more to this world than the scourge of Jiaou. If only he could shake her from his mind.

For Jiaou had never been spotted in the Living Realm, and she was the key to ending all of this strife. And of her Nine, only three had been spotted. Or at least, three times had one of the Nine been spotted. They hoped it wasn’t the same cat each time. For lack of actual names, Ravens referred to them by number.

Cat One was spotted seventy years ago among the Haradrim rulers who threw the Dark Valerin stones in the ash pits of the blue-flame fires of their sorcerers. This spotting was the only time a Raven spy heard words spoken: “Your fire is dying. Your fire is dying.” What was the significance of the blue flames? They were the powder-trick of snake-oil conjurors. Did the Cats not know that? The Ravens trailed her for two months before losing her.

Cat Two was spotted twenty years ago in Nan Curunír at the southwestern foot of Fangorn, and at first seemed terribly dangerous. She led a pack of fierce mountain lions who willingly did her bidding. The Ravens of the Shadow Forest were in an uproar, for Cat Two and her lions kept their den only a few days’ prowl from the Door to their Realm. But Cat Two never seemed to lift her gaze toward her aerial spies, nor turn it north in the Door’s direction. She and her pride bent their energies on the White Wizard whenever he left his tower Orthanc to walk among Fangorn’s gnarled branches. They stalked him, even openly attacked him a few times, though they were always overpowered. The Shadow Forest Ravens kept watch in fascination at the stubborn persistence of their evil. But Ravens did not interfere with the business of the Enduring, and the White Wizard anyway seemed unperturbed. So as long as Cat Two did not find Door Two, no harm would come from her or to her- not from Ravens, anyway.

Cat Three was the one discovered most recently, and for Roäc was the most disturbing. For she was spotted among the dwarrow at market in Dale, and on the Feast of Muhudtuzahmerag last spring shortly after when the Gates of Erebor were open, Cat Three was lost among the throng. Which meant she was most likely living in Erebor, hiding and spying and causing who knew what havoc, and there was nothing the Ravens of Ravenhill could do, save to occasionally ask a dwarf, as nonchalantly as possible, if they’d seen a Cat in the mountain. Ravens of Mahal, on the other hand, could search in the mountain undetected, but they haven’t found her. In the seven months since she disappeared, no dwarf had been known to see her, either, and no unexplained trouble had occurred, so all the Ravens could do was hope the lack of trouble would continue. At least there was no Door near Erebor.

Maybe she wasn’t One of the Nine, Roäc liked to think. They had drawn the conclusion that she was, because of her determination to enter the mountain. But in Dale she was watched simply because she was a black Cat (all of the Nine were black). She’d done nothing out of the ordinary. Roäc could hold out hope that she was just a stray, right?

None of that mattered now. Bag End was just below, and Jaërg and the Little Ones were spiraling up to meet him in the sky. He could already hear the Little Ones’ cries of joy. It had been many months now since last they were able to meet. He swooped and dived, and gave his own exultant caw, and promised himself that for one day, at least, he would not think about Cats.

***

Chapter Text

“Appa! Appa!”

The Little Ones met Roäc in the air and they traced the spiral he cut in tandem against the pale November blue.

“Appa! Come land with us! We’re watching for Mr. Bilbo!”

Jaërg was just below them and she led the way down, and when they both landed Roäc nuzzled her so hard she nearly fell off the fence.

“Roäc-!!” She squawked with laughter. The Little Ones came rushing in on all sides hopping up and down on their tiny two feet each. How bright their eyes were! How glossy their feathers! Roäc’s heart swelled with pride for the millionth time. Not that he wasn’t proud of all his and Jaërg’s hatchlings. But these were their last, and that was its own heartache.

“We think Bilbo will choose a flower today!”

“And what makes you think that?” Roäc nudged the Little One indulgently.

“He’s been doing that thing again. Where he stares at the flowers like he’s angry at them!”

“Yeah! And he rubs at his chin even though he doesn’t have a beard!”

“I bet he learned that from the dwarves!”

“I bet he wishes he had a beard!”

“I wish he had a beard! Then I could ask for some of it for our nest!”

“He couldn’t hear you if you asked, silly!”

Roäc and Jaërg laughed and settled down on Bilbo’s sturdy garden fence. The Little Ones hopped down into the garden, distracted by a worm.

“You’ve been well?” Roäc huddled in close to his mate, studying her face. Her eyes sparkled and her voice was warm with affection when she spoke.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, and nudged him with her beak. “We got news of the battle while you were still in pursuit of the ringleader. Do you think you will be among those summoned to Court to give a full account?”

“Let’s not think about it,” Roäc shook his head and gave off a squawk. “With any luck, I’ll be forgotten and we can spend a nice winter nested up in our favorite Shire tree and forget about the Cats.”

“Cats?” A Jay squawked from nearby. “Did you say something about Cats?”

Roäc groaned inwardly. “Yes, if you must know.” The Little Ones flew up around the Jay, who then landed on Bilbo’s grassy roof.

“Appa’s searching for ten dangerous Cats! One white and nine black! They’re big and scary and evil!”

“Yeah! Evil!”

“Black you say? A black cat has taken up at the Greenhand Smial, over by Dark Hollow heading towards Tookish land.”

“Here, in the Shire??!”

“It cannot be. Hobbits don’t keep Cats.”

“Why not, Amma?”

“They’ll kill all the songbirds, and hobbits love songbirds.”

“Do you think…”

Roäc caught Jaërg’s eye. “One of the Nine? Here??”

“See for yourself!” The jay screeched something that might have been a laugh. Roäc and Jaërg winced.

“What’ll we do? Can we go see the Cat?”

“I’ve never seen a Cat! Will it be big?”

“Will it be scary?”

“The biggest! The scariest!” The Jay leaned in towards the Little Ones as though about to spook them. “Come follow me and see!”

“Hold your feathers,” Jaërg held up a wing in protest. “We’re not going anywhere until we figure out a plan.”

“Agreed,” Roäc said. “Cats are very difficult to approach. They never speak to us.” None of their offerings have ever worked, either. Ravens have killed innumerable mice for gifts throughout the years trying to parley with the Cats in the cities, but to no avail. They always turned up their noses and started yowling.

“I can’t solve all yer problems, and I’ve got things to do! If you want to see, come follow me!” The Jay took off and Roäc and Jaërg had no choice but to follow, Little Ones in tow.

The cold was softening as the sun rose in the sky and Roäc looked back at Bilbo’s peaceful hobbit hole with regret. He had looked forward to seeing the hobbit’s face, chattering with the Little Ones over what Bilbo’s flower-message would be. Bilbo’s and Thorin’s messages had become more and more abstract over the years, almost like the game of chess, where victory depended upon looking deeply at the ever-changing positions and seeing possibilities where no one else did. Actually, that sounded a lot like what Thorin and Bilbo shared- everything they had now depended upon finding possibilities where there were none. Roäc’s heart gave a familiar sympathetic ache at the thought.

Another effect of their messages was that, even though theirs was an endeavour involving many a Raven and dwarf, their abstractness afforded them privacy. The Ravens who worked with Thorin had become quite proficient in the hobbit flower language, and Frerin and Fili and Kili had learned a lot as well, but no one was as fluent and subtle as Thorin himself. With Yavanna as his teacher, how could it not be so? Over the years, as the meanings of their messages became obscured to the dwarves and Ravens, it became its own game of chess to try and decipher them. Many a delicious hour of gossip, jest and word-play were whiled away thus. At some point, making Thorin laugh became more important than guessing correctly. How Roäc missed the laughter of the dwarves!

“Come land on the fence post!” The Jay called out as they approached Widow Greenhand’s home.

“It’s too close! We’ll be exposed!”

“The Cat is within! When it comes out, you’ll have the element of surprise!”

They had no choice but to obey. The five of them landed on the fence lining Widow Greenhand’s small garden. The Jay landed next to them, squawking awkwardly in Roäc’s ear.

“It’ll be out any minute now! You’ll see!”

Sure enough, Widow Greenhand’s door opened just enough to let out a black Cat. Not a big, scary dangerous contender for One of the Nine, no. It was a kitten. It stepped daintily out and sniffed a spider on a bare twig.

“BAHAHAHAHAHA!” The Jay laughed in Roäc’s ear once more. “You were scared! Bahahahahah you idiot!”

“Ugh! Get out of here!” Jaërg lunged threateningly at the Jay and he lost his balance, only saving himself at the last moment. He flapped into the air, laughing obnoxiously as he went.

“Come on,” Roäc said to the others. “Let’s go, we should have known better than to trust a Jay.”

With one more glance at the kitten, Roäc turned to go. Then he did a double-take. The kitten was gone.

“Where…?” Roäc glanced all over the garden, and the others turned to him questioningly.

“HELLO!” The kitten jumped out of nowhere onto the post where the Jay had been, nearly knocking Roäc over in surprise. All he had time to think while he flapped for balance was how green her eyes were. And how close.

“You’re so big! Why don’t you smell? Are you vultures? Mama says vultures carry kittens away so I should be scared of them. Should I be scared of you? I always forget to be scared and then that makes Mama scared and that makes me scared but then it’s too late, ‘cuz Mama gets angry and grabs me by the scruff and then I can’t play anymore. But Mama says vultures are the ugliest birds ever and you’re not ugly. So are you vultures?”

Roäc had hopped back a pace and the little ones were near-bursting next to him- hopping up and down on their two legs each while Jaërg put herself between them and the Cat.

“We are not vultures,” Roäc cleared his throat, trying to regain some dignity as he shook his feathers back into place. “We are Ravens.”

“Why are you so big? Why do you have so many eyes? Do you eat cats?”

“We prefer worms!” A Little One blurted out.

“And rotting fruit!”

“And mice!”

“I like mice too!”

“I bet I can catch one quicker than you can!”

“No way! I’m silent as a shadow! That’s why Mama calls me Shadow!”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Shadow,” Roäc cut in before the Little Ones had a chance to respond. He gave a quick glance at Jaërg, who knew exactly what he was thinking and gave a nod of approval. “We don’t want to eat you but we’d like to ask you a question.” He took a breath. “Have you heard of Queen Jiaou? She is a very powerful Cat, and she has nine others who are her generals, who are black of fur like you. We are searching for them so we might resolve a conflict with them. Might you know where any of them are?”

The kitten tossed herself backwards and rolled around in the dirt, holding her round belly in laughter.

“Me? I’m a kitten! I don’t know anything! Wait!” She sprang up as quickly as she had fallen over, regaining the post in the flash of a second. “My mama knows tons of things! We can ask her! She lives at the edge of the forest, in the Hollow Tree by the Big Rock. Oh,” Her face fell. “But there’s a river in the way and I don’t know how to cross it. Mama won’t tell me ‘cuz she doesn’t want me visiting her. She says it’s too dangerous. Instead she comes to me. My mistress always puts out extra cream when Mama visits. My mistress is very kind. She doesn’t know my name though. She calls me Bell.”

The Little Ones were full of questions for the kitten and landed on the other side of her to ask them. While the four of them prattled away, Roäc and Jaërg exchanged a long look, that kind of silent conversation only soul-mates can have. Finally, Jaërg gave the slightest of nods. They were in agreement. Roäc turned back to the kitten.

“Shadow,” Roäc used the little one’s name hesitantly. “What if you rode on my back and we flew together to see your dam?”

“My mama?” Shadow’s eyes went wide as cream dishes. “You mean… ride up in the air? On your back?”

The Little Ones started jumping up and down excitedly.

“Do it! Do it!”

“Come fly with us! It’s so fun!”

“Fly on Appa’s back! Appa’s the best flyer!”

“No he isn’t! Amma is!”

“But don’t worry! If you fall we’ll swoop down and catch you! I’m the best diver.”

“No you aren’t!”

“That is well!” Roäc squawked, and the Little Ones were gleefully silent. “It’s Shadow’s choice. But you would be doing us a great service if you did. We cannot approach your dam without you. Cats do not like Ravens.”

“And I can see Mama, right?”

“You can visit her as long as she and you like, and then we will fly you back as we came.”

“I want to!” Shadow said immediately, and she was now jumping up and down with the Little Ones. “I want to fly in the air and then play with Mama! Best day ever!”

“Then climb on my back Little One, and hold on tight, but mind you, not too sharp with your claws!”

Roäc cast an eye toward the windows to make sure Widow Greenhand could not see them, for as soon as Shadow touched him, she would be invisible. Ravens of Mahal were veiled in illusion magic, so that their doings in the world were shrouded from the eyes of Walkers- but with a thing as drastic as touching a living animal, it was best to be careful. Since the widow was not near the windows, Roäc hopped down from the fence and stooped so Shadow could jump on his back. When he felt her claws dig into his feathers, he gave a final warning.

“Hold on tight, I’m taking off!”

“Oh no I think I’m scared too late agaaaaaaiiiiii!!!”

And they were off! And Jaërg and the Little Ones took off too, flapping their wings with great power, gaining speed and height until an updraft filled their wings and they could soar, ever higher.

“Waaaaaaaa I’m flyiiiiinnnngggg!” Shadow yowled in delight in her tiny kitten voice and Roäc laughed.

“You’re doing great!”

“We’re so high up!”

“Look there’s your hobbit hole!”

“What’s a hobbit hoooooole!!”

The Little Ones giggled and Shadow plucked up the courage to peak over Roäc’s wings. Or Roäc was pretty sure that’s what she was doing, as he could feel the weight shift on his back. Her next words confirmed it.

“There’s my mistress in the garden! She looks so tiny! And what’s that big blue snake??!”

“That’s the river!”

“Wow, I had no idea it looked like that!”

“We’ll teach you how all the things look from the sky!”

“Especially mice!”

Roäc laughed as they flew over the river and began to approach the far edge of the meadow known as Dark Hollow. He knew well the Hollow Tree of which Shadow spoke. It surprised him to realize he hadn’t spotted Shadow’s dam there before.

“How long has your mama lived in the Hollow Tree?”

“I dunno! At least since I was born, when the leaves were green and the sunshine was so hot!”

“Wow! I bet you’re the same age as us!”

“Yeah! We only just learned how to fly when Smaug the fire-drake roasted us!”

“Wha…?”

Roäc chose that moment to start this swoop downward, and he grunted as he felt Shadow’s claws double down on their grip. When he was sure of her hold, he dived down and swirled, to her yowls of delight. They landed gracefully on the forest’s edge and let Shadow hop off into the undergrowth. She raced up to the tree and mewled.

“Mama! Mama!”

Immediately a voice could be heard. “Shadow!”

A sleek black adult cat came out of seemingly nowhere and sniffed Shadow once before immediately starting to groom her. “How did you get here? I told you never-” she caught sight of the Ravens and jumped in front of Shadow, hackles raised and back arched.

“Yyeeeeeeeeooooowww!!”

The mother Cat raised a paw in warning and hissed.

“We mean you no harm!”

“It’s alright, Mama! They’re my friends!”

The Cat would not take her eyes off the Ravens, nor stop yowling long enough to listen.

“Mama! Please!” Her eyes flicked briefly to her kit and managed to de-escalate to a low growl, then finally one last hiss for good measure.

“Please. We mean no harm. We were hoping to ask some questions.”

“How I won the Hollow Tree is no business of yours!” She yowled.

“Okay,” Roäc said slowly, glancing at Jaërg. “We were hoping to ask about your Queen.”

“I have no queen! I’m my own queen! What do you want with my Shadow?”

“Nothing!” A Little One piped up. “We’re friends!”

“We’re gonna have a mice-catching contest!”

“She’s gonna dig up worms for us!”

“And we can bring you messages from her!”

“Yeah! And presents!” Shadow chimed in.

“Like mice!”

“When did you even say…” Jaërg started, but then stopped short as she saw the Cat studying the Little Ones with narrow eyes. Then her eyes went back to Roäc and Jaërg before returning back to the Little Ones.

“Please,” Roäc crooned, sensing his chance. “We are a family of Ravens in service to Mahal, who made the Sun. Our fledglings here are the same age as your Little One. We approached her merely to see if she knew where we could find your Queen, who has been fighting with our Kings in our territories in the Subtle Realms- but it is not a fair fight, for she is a Living Cat. We hope to find her here, in the Living Realm, where we can hopefully corner her and negotiate a truce.”

The suspicion in her eyes was still bright.

“Please,” Jaërg tried. “My name is Jaërg, and this is Roäc my mate, and our Little Ones are unnamed in their first year of life, by our customs. We are Ravens of honour and high standing among our people, and do not wish to harm your Queen, if we can help it.”

“I told you, I have no queen,” the Cat growled, but at least she wasn’t hissing. Finally, with a huff, she sat down, lowering her hackles, and licked her chest a few times before taking a moment to groom Shadow’s ear beside her. “Cats are ruled by no one. We would never bother with a queen.”

“Then… why is she called Queen Jiaou?” A Little One squeaked.

“Jiaou?” The Cat’s eyes narrowed. “Jiaou the White Spy?”

Roäc and Jaërg exchanged a look.

“She has been described as white of fur…”

“She can’t be living, as you say. She died a thousand years ago, at least. It is a story among Cat-folk. She chose evil, and we were all punished for it.” The Cat gave her paw a lick. “A Cat should know better than to be so malicious. We’re the most perfect creatures in all of Arda. What have we to be vengeful about?”

Roäc nodded politely at this. Very, very, politely. He spoke up before the Little Ones could say anything. Not that he expected them to put their talons in their beaks. But still. Just in case.

“Jiaou is a powerful Cat who can walk between the Realms and yet is still Living. It might be that she is one of the Maiar who never die. What is the tale of her that you know? It might be helpful to us.”

“It is a tale told to kittens as young as at their mother’s milk. The tale of Jiaou the Spy, and her Dark Nine. Before she was born, Cats were welcome in the homes of Two-legs, and were freely gifted with cream and meat. Jiaou was born in the greatest house, the house of the Starry Bowl. But she was so evil, she tormented her mistress, who was a queen, and ruined the reputation of all Cats everywhere. That is why we are rarely welcome in homes, even though we are splendid hunters of mice and snakes, which Men hate. I took a risk, bringing my Shadow to the Two-leg across the river, but I had to. I had been injured badly, and thought for certain that I was going to die.”

“Mama!” Shadow gasped beside her. “You never told me that!” She tackled her dam, licking her face. Her dam allowed herself to be tackled, and smiled for the first time, purring.

“The Starry Bowl..” Jaërg murmured beside him. “I’ve never heard of it…”

“It was a great house that looked like a bowl tipped over upside-down. We cats like to tip our bowls over sometimes.” The Cat looked a little sheepish, and her Little One continued tackling her. “I don’t know about the stars though.”

Stars…

Jaërg drew in a sharp breath. “It’s a dome. The bowl is a dome. The Dome of the Stars.”

“In Osgiliath!”

Jaërg moaned. “The Cats of the Dome have never let us approach, though! How can we hope for any help from them?”

“Have you brought them an offering?” The Cat looked curious.

“Many times. Mice, rabbits… they yowl and hiss, and that’s all.”

“Why would they do that?” Shadow piped up. “Mice are so much fun to catch and then let go and then catch and then let go and then catch and then let go-”

“Sweet Mahal,” Jaërg muttered, “They want living mice.”

“Fiery gods!” Roäc moaned. The Little Ones jumped up and down, eager to join in.

“Well scorch our feathers!”

“And burn us to toast!”

“By a dragon’s stinky breath!”

“Toadspoop!” The Little Ones and Shadow collapsed into giggles.

Roäc, who’d been hearing of the trouble with the Cats for twice as long as the Little Ones had been dead, was glad, he supposed, that at least they could find humour in this.

“We will have to report this to Arach and Chara,” Jaërg said to Roäc as the Little Ones continued their game of silly curses with Shadow. Roäc groaned inwardly- he’d been thinking the same thing.

“Don’t tell them,” Shadow’s mother said in a low voice. She didn’t have her hackles raised, she wasn’t threatening them, but her face was fierce and her eyes bright and dangerous.

“We… would be remiss not to inform our kings of this news,” Jaërg said carefully. The Little Ones and Shadow stopped their game and were watching their parents worriedly.

“I don’t want anyone knowing about me and Shadow. I went through enough trouble to get us here as it is.”

Roäc thought quickly. It was a tough situation the mother Cat was putting them in. What could they tell the kings? That they just learned out of nowhere not only the original home of Jiaou but also how to charm Cats into talking with them?

It didn’t matter. There was only one answer he could give.

“You and your Shadow have done us a tremendous service. Not only will we keep your secret, we can offer you protection and aid for all your years and your Little Ones, if you wish. And we hope you will consider us friends- if not us, then at least our Little Ones as friends to your Shadow. You do not need to tell us, but may we learn, for ourselves at least, your name?”

The Cat tilted her head, studying them thoughtfully. After a moment, she gave a slow blink.

“Fern is my name,” She said, and there was even a bit of music in her voice. Roäc supposed birds weren’t the only singers after all. “I was born in a glen of summer ferns. What do your names mean?”

Morning deepened into afternoon, and Shadow played long and hard with Fern and the Little Ones. Roäc and Jaërg talked amongst themselves- they could tell Fern was listening, even as she was busy with Shadow- but over time, she seemed to relax as it became clear to her that they had no intention of reporting on her.

“It will still be suspicious if I request a transfer to Osgiliath. Especially if I make quick progress with the Cats of the Dome.”

“You could request Erebor first. Seek the Cat that stole into the mountain. If you find her, you can try to offer living mice. Even if you don’t find her, it will at least set a precedent for a transfer request to Osgiliath.”

“But perhaps not a good one. Two transfers in a year could raise suspicion in its own way- others could suspect I’m using my father’s position for my own ends.”

“It would be a petty Raven to accuse such a thing. But also, you’re on leave. You could take time right now and go directly there, see if you can find anything out.”

“If I’m discovered… there’s no natural reason for me to be there. Everyone knows I only ever visit you when I’m on leave.”

“It might be a risk worth taking. It's a seven days’ flight to Osgiliath. Spend three days there, then come meet us at Ravenhill. We could be seen to be leaving together. Not today though. We must be sure that Jay doesn’t suspect anything.”

“Don’t worry about the Jay,” Fern broke away from the others, shaking the dust from her fur as she stood. “I’ll bring Shadow back to the Mistress’ home myself, and Shadow can point out the Jay to me and I’ll strike him down from the sky and eat him whole.”

“Don’t!” Roäc was almost surprised at himself for protesting- but even Jays were birds. “Please. Don’t kill him. He flew off before we started speaking. If you go back with Shadow, he’ll think she’d gone to you, and suspect nothing.” He gave a little laugh. “After all, he did lead us to Shadow, and therefore you. We owe him one.”

“Very well,” Fern said, not without some pain. Her lips curled in almost a smile. “He’s safe from me, then. But maybe I can scare him off of getting into others’ business!”

“Good luck with that!”

Fern and Shadow gave their farewells, and there were many promises of future adventures exchanged between Shadow and the Little Ones. In another moment, they disappeared into the tall dead grasses as silently as, well, shadows.

Roäc and Jaërg turned east and tasted the wind. It was four days to Ravenhill. They would start together, and Roäc would break off on day three and head south. If it was true that Cats had no Queen, and in fact didn’t like Jiaou, then perhaps this could be the beginnings of an alliance.

If there were Cats willing to work for Jiaou, surely there were more Cats willing to work against her.

***

Chapter Text

I’m walking in the air
I’m floating in the midnight blue
I’m finding I can fly
So high above with you

It was the crackle of the torches and the feel of Thorin’s hand running along his arm that startled Bilbo awake. He’d started to doze. It was not difficult to do so here, in this tent thick with shadows and warmth, twin torches on either side of Thorin’s bed giving off a soft orange glow. There was a chair nearby, but Bilbo had at some point migrated to the bed itself, probably to check the wound in Thorin’s side even though it had surely been checked three times already, and probably by him, and in the last hour alone. Although he couldn’t call to mind the memory. He must be tired indeed. Still. He moved aside the blankets to check just once more. No bleed-through. Good. He could push his fears aside for another hour.

Thorin was smiling ruefully at him.

“You’ve checked my wounds three times now.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo shook his head, chuckling at himself. “I just can’t believe you’re here, and that I haven’t lost you.”

Thorin’s smile fell just a touch, and he looked away, past Bilbo into some bitter empty space. The flames seemed to reflect darkness in his gaze, not light.

“Don’t feel guilty,” Bilbo whispered.

Thorin swallowed hard, turned away. “Of course I feel guilty.”

“We’ve argued about this many times.”

“And we’ll keep arguing it.”

Bilbo should have been too weary to persist. As it was, he could barely keep his eyes open. The wind was picking up outside, billowing the tent walls. The cold was deep in his fingers and his toes, deep in his empty belly like a gnawing thing in the dark. Bilbo knew he should let it drop and leave Thorin alone for the night.

He didn’t.

“Balin told me they will be honoured as great warriors.”

“Yes, they will pass into legend,” Thorin’s words seemed to bite the air, but his hand was still on Bilbo’s arm. Bilbo covered it with his own hand.

“Many are recovering,” Bilbo continued, “It’s fine work to help the wounded, and gratifying to see them recover- even if it makes for a long day.”

Thorin finally relented, the corners of his mouth forming the beginnings of that fond smile that always caught Bilbo’s breath. “Which is why you are so tired you fall asleep sitting up- you must be Oin’s right-hand medic.”

“Yes, well.” Bilbo ran a nervous hand through his hair. He had no idea what time it was. Deep into the evening, he supposed. Perhaps midnight. “Maybe I can enjoy the benefits of my success and find the abandoned bed of a recently healed warrior and finally sleep.”

“What can you mean?” Thorin’s grip tightened just slightly on his arm. “Bilbo.”

“It’s fine!” Bilbo forced a laugh. “You can’t think I won’t be grateful for a bed- any bed- after months of sleeping on the hard ground with no escape from the company’s snoring.”

“You’re telling me that you have to search around for a bed every night, fire or no fire, where the wounded were bleeding and dying?”

“Well…”

He looked down. In his hand was Thorin’s crown. He didn’t know why he held it, except maybe he picked it up from the stand where it lay next to the basin and bandage cloths. He was always picking it up, and running his fingers along its edges while Thorin slept. The crown- the thing Thorin crossed an entire world for. The thing he fought and killed and betrayed for. The thing that he would soon wear every day and rule a kingdom with. The thing that took him away from Bilbo once, and would do so again soon, and forever. For how could a king love a hobbit?

“Bilbo?”

How could he admit that he wanted to stay as close to Thorin as possible, while he had the chance? That the shelters Bard’s Men had made were too far away from the wounded, from Thorin, and that if it meant he slept on the ground sometimes, when a re-injured or sickened soldier needed a bed more than he did, well, what could he say?

“Bilbo. You cannot just sacrifice yourself-“ something in his voice was gone, as though some pretense had been dropped. “I can’t protect you here, I can’t make this better for you, if you don’t tell me- I have no idea what you go through- each time-”

“It’s fine!” Bilbo’s protest sounded strangely high-pitched in his ears. “Truly. I’m an old campaigner now! I’ve lived in the wilderness for months. I’ve dealt with much worse-”

“Sleep here.”

All the air seemed to leave the tent, and Bilbo was left with only the crackle of fire and the feel of Thorin’s hand on his arm and the fire reflected in his eyes as he locked his gaze with Bilbo’s, unflinching.

“Sleep here,” Thorin insisted, “With my arm around you, under blankets, with a fire nearby, so you can be warm and sleep well. Please. I insist.”

Bilbo could feel a blush crawl furiously across his face.

“What if- your wounds-”

“I insist.”

He was a king after all, and he said it in a tone Bilbo could not ignore. Heart pounding in his chest, Bilbo climbed into the bed, went under the covers, rested his head carefully on Thorin’s shoulder. Thorin wrapped his arm gently around him, resting his hand on Bilbo’s arm. Bilbo kept his own hands curled up tightly against his own body. He dared not stretch his hand across the dwarven king’s chest, though he ached to do so. But he was pressed up against Thorin, and Thorin’s arm was around him, something he’d never dared hope for. And he was enveloped in the scent of Thorin- the woodsmoke, and the heady pine, and that otherworldly incense he could never place. Soon Thorin’s warmth was cascading through him, and the heavy fur blankets were draped over him, and even with his heart thundering in his chest, the exhaustion of the day pulled him, finally, into a deep sleep.

He awoke in the final grey moments before dawn. He had turned around in his sleep, and Thorin had curled around him, breathing softly into his hair, his hand on Bilbo’s chest, over his heart.

He could feel the rise and fall of Thorin’s chest against his back. The fires of the twin torches carried on burning placidly on either side of their bed. And Thorin’s hand was pressed against his heart, warmth radiating from his fingers. The weight of it on his chest was like a weight lifted. Bilbo couldn’t help himself. He brought his hand to rest over Thorin’s, gently tracing his fingers with his thumb. He felt as though he were floating in a boat in a deep lake, cradled by the liquid stillness, benign and dangerous all at once, deep and dark and silent and breathless. Thorin’s hand was on his heart, reaching unknowingly to claim what had long been his. And his body was pressed up against Bilbo’s, back against stomach, legs against legs. Bilbo’s world was unravelling, like a spool of ribbon tightly wound then suddenly cut free. Each breath that gave rise to Thorin’s chest was Bilbo’s undoing. Each exhale that warmed Bilbo’s hair. Thorin shifted, and his soft movements against Bilbo took his breath away. Everything felt heightened, every touch, every breath, every second, every heartbeat thundering against Thorin’s hand. There was nothing Bilbo could do except breathe, breathe deep in tandem with Thorin. He breathed, and listened for Thorin’s breath. It was a song, it was a dark wind from another world.

Eventually, Bilbo started to hear other sounds too, as the village of wounded soldiers and healers and builders and women and children and everyone else started to wake and go about their business of healing and rebuilding. Balin would come in soon and check on the king, and Thorin would be swept away from Bilbo, and his warmth and soft words would be nothing but a memory, until the next time he could steal a moment with the king, and that would be much harder now, because Thorin was recovering and would be moved very soon into the mountain to prepare to take the throne.

Thorin shifted again, his breathing a bit shallower- he was waking up. With great regret, Bilbo slipped away from Thorin’s embrace and came up to sit. The blanket fell away and the cold air swooped in around him, a mockery of Thorin’s embrace. But Bilbo was warm, so warm, down to his toes, and the scent of Thorin was all around him, and for once he couldn’t smell the harsh metallic stench of blood. He turned to see Thorin’s face. His eyes were blinking slowly as he woke. His gaze was on Bilbo. Bilbo cleared his throat nervously.

“I should be going- they’re moving you today, you’ve got a very busy day ahead of you. Well, I suppose it’ll be a busy rest of your life, really.”

“You speak as though we’ll not see each other again.”

“I cannot be high among your priorities, O King!” Bilbo tried to laugh, tried to say it lightheartedly. “I will of course come see you when you have time for me. But I know it won’t be often. You’ve got a mountain of work ahead of you.”

Thorin did not laugh at his joke. It wasn’t a good one anyway. Bilbo shouldn’t have tried it. People had lost their lives for this mountain. And Thorin was king of that mountain. There would be no more adventuring for them. No more wild and hungry nights watchfully guarding silently together, singing in low voices, passing a pipe or telling tales under the moon. No more sweet aching constancy of presence, always just a moment or an arm’s reach away. How lucky Bilbo had been, to have had that for so long. Well. It was over, and the morning sun wasn’t going to stand still, and Balin or Oin would come any moment, and Bilbo’s courage was all used up. Maybe it would be too painful to stay, so near and yet so far. Maybe he should just go home, back to the Shire where everyone expected he would return.

He rose to go. But Thorin sat up, caught his hand, and he sat back down, turned to face him.

“I will miss having had you so close.”

Bilbo’s heart thrummed back alive, pounding hard and fast in his chest. Thorin’s fingers were weaving through his. He looked down at their hands, Thorin’s thumb tracing the line of his palm.

He was still warm from Thorin’s arms around him. The sounds outside fell away as the wind again battered the tent walls. Breaths of it broke through here and there at the seams. He couldn’t understand its whispers.

Something impossible was happening here. For he could never win the heart of Thorin, any more than he could win the cup of a dragon.

And yet the words somehow found their way out of him.

“How close do you want me?”

He couldn’t look up at Thorin. He couldn’t breathe until he heard Thorin’s answer.

“Closer.”

Bilbo’s body seemed to move on its own as he closed the distance between them, blood pounding in his ears, war drums sounding in his chest like the echo of some memory far on the horizon of the destruction of the world. He brought his lips to Thorin’s, living in terror that he misunderstood, that any moment Thorin would shove him away, banish him back to his old life, a life without him, a life of never knowing him, of never knowing love. But Thorin didn’t pull away. His kiss was feather soft, the barest of touches, and they both hovered there for one breathless, timeless moment.

Then Thorin kissed him back.

And their bodies rose to the touch of each other, and Thorin’s kiss was hungry and deep, like he was searching for answers, like he was in disbelief, and Bilbo was in disbelief too, like this should be impossible, for a thousand reasons stretching back to the dawn of the world and forward to its very end. Thorin still had Bilbo’s hand in his. He guided it around his waist and pulled Bilbo in close, bringing two fingers to his face- tracing his brow, his cheek, his jaw- then straying feather-light down his neck, slipping under the collar of his shirt. Bilbo threaded one hand through Thorin’s silk-soft hair, the other around the small of his back.

“Amrâlimë,” Thorin whispered as he caught his breath, pulling away only a moment from their fervent exploration of lips and tongues and teeth.

Amrâlimë. The word echoed from some far-off world. Bilbo’s eyes snapped open.

I’m dreaming, Bilbo realised.

Thorin is dead. This is all a dream.

The flames continued to cast shadows on the tent wall. Their heat emanated like a real fire in a real world. And Thorin was kissing his cheek now, and now his jaw, and now working his way slowly down Bilbo’s neck.

“‘Ibinê. Halwûn dûr.” He stopped halfway down Bilbo’s neck, planting his kiss deep and soft. Bilbo inhaled sharply at the brush of his lips on his skin.

“Bunnel dûr.”

His voice was like gravel underfoot released in a scramble, tumbling softly down a rocky crag, echoing danger of a far, far fall. He kissed Bilbo’s neck where it met his shoulder. He kissed him at the start of his chest.

“Rum ammâ naidlî hikhthuzul.”

It should hurt, Bilbo thought dimly. It should dig into me like a blade, like it has every time. It was the Khûzdul, this time, that gave it away. Words whose meaning he couldn’t possibly know, if this had been real, if Bilbo was decades back in a world where Thorin lived.

But there was no pain. Not while he and Thorin shared breath, not while Thorin’s hands moved on his skin, claiming him with devastating gentleness.

”E zaikhdêshab hikhthuzul. Gamzûn dûr. Akh dûr.” Thorin had slowly brought his mouth down to the part of Bilbo’s chest just over his heart.

“E zaikhdêshab hikhthuzul, amrâlimë.” He kissed Bilbo lower and lower, and his hands slowly traced down his spine.

Thorin didn’t know it, but Bilbo understood each sweet word he murmured.

My love. My gem. My sweet one, my treasure of treasures. May we dream together always. I will always find you. My fierce one, my fire.

I will find you.

Bilbo had stolen the dragon’s cup, he realized suddenly.

But he’d lost it.

***

Chapter Text

Bilbo woke breathless, hot to the touch. He wasn’t in a dimly lit tent with Thorin’s arms around him while a desolate people woke and went about the task of building hope. He wasn’t in a world with a future. He was in the Shire, where time changed nothing.

The birds sang as they did every day, late in the year though it was. The garden was the rot and briar of a cold November. Bilbo would go out into that cold soon enough. He pulled the covers back and sat up. The sky out the window was full of blue and bare branches and birdsong. Bilbo changed out of his nightshirt, folded it neatly and put it away in the dresser. His best vest awaited him, and down the hall his pantry was full of chestnuts and apples and scones and strawberry jam and eggs and some pumpkin pie brought over by the younger Gamgees. Outside, the garden lay fallow. He worried about it- Ham was coming of age and already in love, and who knew what work he might take on once he married.

It wasn’t that Bilbo couldn’t garden anymore. It was that he couldn’t garden anymore. It had never been the same, after he left and came back. Was the garden holding a grudge? Had he broken some unspoken hobbit rule? Or was it that, by gaining some powers, he’d lost others?

He could feel himself frowning as he buttoned his waistcoat. Gold buttons, that he’d fashioned in celebration of Balin’s visit ten years ago. He had wanted to look properly dwarvish for his friend. He had wondered that day if he should have stayed in the mountain, surrounded by friends and song and the excitement of dwarvish industry. If he should have seen his friends settled into their homes, rebuilding and rejoicing as their dreams came true before their eyes. Maybe one day he’d go back and see them all, see how they had done for themselves. Bofur and his ruby mine, Ori’s restoration of the Great Library; Dís’ sword-dances, whose moves she detailed in long letters recounting her training sessions with Dwalin. She especially enjoyed explaining precisely how one strike or another was meant to impale an orc in the neck or skewer three goblins at once. The letters got particularly lively when she mused how these moves might work on certain advisors during council meetings.

Yes, it was easy to daydream over breakfast about going back to the mountain, especially on a day like this, when the garden boasted nothing but squawking jays and the breeze carried something of a mountain’s bitter winter.

Whispers of the cold of Ravenhill seemed to gnaw at him even now. He wrapped a shawl around himself, got the fire going. Sausage would go well with the rest of his breakfast. They’d sit well in his stomach, especially with some spices, for adventure was calling him, and he was pretty certain his feet would carry him off somewhere- maybe Frogmorton or Buckland or who knew? Maybe Erebor. Maybe today was the day.

Breakfast was gone from his plate and Bilbo at least had the decency to feel guilty for not paying better attention to it. He went to step out into the garden, maybe catch Hob down the road, but his hand stopped at the door.

Why not just grab his knapsack now?

Bilbo did just that, haphazardly filling his sack with this and that, and plenty of food. It didn’t matter what he put in, and what he forgot. Whatever he forgot, he could live without. It was just a walking holiday, after all. The last one of the year, to be sure. The weather would turn soon enough.

He stepped out his door to the stare of many an incredulous neighbor. He must have looked mad, with his gold buttons and disheveled hair and knapsack and a book tucked under one arm. This one was an elvish tome sent recently by Elrond. He hadn’t read anything elvish lately- he’d been deep in the study of Khûzdul.

I will find you.

In dreams, Bilbo reminded himself, shoving the gate open and nearly knocking over a gawking passerby in the process. He tried to remain dignified but after a moment, couldn’t help it. He broke into a run. How good it felt, to be off running again! Cold dust under his feet, stiff mud and dry grass. The wind whistled in his ears and clouds raced ahead of him in the direction he was going. Home was behind, the world ahead.

I will always find you.

Bobber Clayhanger called out to him from the lane where he and his horrible wife were promenading, but Bilbo kept going. Maybe he should carry around his little ring for just these moments. No, no, he needn’t be so petty. He could ignore them openly.

He didn’t stop running until he’d reached East Farthing woods. Then it was a brisk walk under tall, bare branches. Lunch was an apple, a hunk of cheese, a loaf of bread, and after a pipe, he was off again. He’d make it to Brodenborings by nightfall, stay at an inn.

***

When he woke, the weighty oppressive air was all too familiar to him.

“Ughhh,” He moaned, thinking he’d escaped. “I was dreaming I was in a placid Shire wood with a pipe and a book in my lap.”

“Yes, yes, and you’re starving, and you miss your arm chair and tea kettle, and this won’t be the last time I’ll hear of it,” a deep voice rumbled beside him, low and laughing.

“Thorin.” It was suddenly hard to breathe for an entirely different reason. The dwarf was crouched next to him, a bow in his hand and an arrow knocked and ready.

“Thorin. Thorin.” He whispered urgently. “You’re breaking the rules.”

Even in the ugly dim of that endlessly nauseating forest, Bilbo could see Thorin’s smirk, and it was so beautiful.

“Who says we can’t stray from the path here and there?”

“Uh… Gandalf? I believe it was Gandalf.”

“You won’t follow me?” Thorin’s smile was rueful.

Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat.

Of course he would follow Thorin anywhere. Across the world, into the den of a dragon. Across the sea, even. If he ever got the chance. To Faerie where death was halted. To a mountain that housed a god and an underworld.

He would do it, he said, even if he never saw daylight again.

“Good!” Thorin clapped his shoulder. “Because today we are finding that stag.”

Bilbo didn’t know why Thorin sometimes broke his own rules, but he wasn’t about to complain. He jumped up to standing. In his hands was a bow of his own, and a quiver of arrows. Not that he knew the first thing about archery. He shouldered the quiver and took off after Thorin, leaping off the path and into the mud, dodging tree and branch appearing out of nowhere as the fog closed in and drew back in turns. Thorin somersaulted into a kneel, drew his bow in a flash. Bilbo barely had time to glance at the glowing white stag as he fell in beside him. Thorin missed his mark just as lamely as he had the first time. The stag tilted its head in amusement. They could not understand its whispers.

Thorin bellowed out a laugh. “Come! We must give chase!”

At some point, many years ago, Bilbo admitted to himself that Thorin was probably right. That the dream realm was dangerous. Especially when Thorin himself seemed to not know that they were dreaming. In those cases, Bilbo’s instinct was to say nothing to make him remember, and to never let him out of his sight. So far, that had worked.

It of course depended, however, on Bilbo keeping up with him.

Bilbo leaped up and ran at breakneck speed after Thorin, who was already at the edge of some glen up ahead. When Bilbo caught up to him Thorin was crouched behind a bush. In the glen was a pond, where the stag was stooping to sip the waters.

Thorin lifted his bow. “It shall be my wedding gift to you.”

Bilbo placed a hand on Thorin’s arm, lowering the bow.

“I’d rather see it live,” Bilbo said, heart pounding, “And bear witness at our wedding.”

Thorin turned to him, eyes full of pain. “Bilbo.” He rasped. Bilbo didn’t let him continue. He kissed him, full and hard, nearly knocking him off balance.

“Bilbo-” He protested, even as he wrapped an arm around his waist. They kissed again, this time long and slow and yielding. Bilbo’s fingers threaded down his arm, finding his hand. He brought it to his lips. He placed it on his neck. He leaned forward and kissed Thorin again. He could feel Thorin inhale sharply. The bow clattered into the water.

“You still hope for us.”

“It was you who mentioned a wedding.”

“I was dreaming.”

“You’re still dreaming.”

It was Thorin’s turn to kiss, and Bilbo opened to him, and he breathed in Bilbo’s sigh and pressed their foreheads together.

“This is the dangerous part. The hoping.”

Thorin had said it before, and it was no less painful this time than any of the others. Bilbo decided not to answer. He traced his thumb along the line of Thorin’s jaw. He touched his lips to Thorin’s, just barely grazing them. He felt Thorin’s breath. He felt Thorin’s chest rise and fall beneath his hand.

He would be crazy not to hope, when Thorin’s breath was the most exquisite thing he’d ever felt.

***

Thorin was more right than Bilbo wanted to admit. Bilbo wasn’t supposed to harbour hope. And he didn’t! Really! At least he didn’t say it outloud to himself. He didn’t allow himself to think it, either. That didn’t mean it wasn’t there, that he couldn’t feel the possibility. How couldn’t he? When it was blazed in every sunset, when he felt it in every westward wind. Even today, in December’s stiff blow coming from the haunted east as Bilbo made his way to one of the few people he actually enjoyed taking tea with.

“I’m so glad you came,” Old Widow Greenhand ushered him into the welcoming warmth of her kitchen. “I didn’t think you’d make it, what with the winds. They say there’ll be snow tonight, perhaps you should stay over.”

He appreciated the offer, as Tookbank was quite the walk, and over many a hill and meadow where there was no shelter from the cutting wind. He was always glad to make the trip here, to the hills and hollows of his mother’s childhood. He loved hearing stories of their childhood together, and Widow Greenhand could answer many a question about his mother that no one else could. Funny, how the grief never really went away, after all these years. The questions he wished he could ask his mother, the little things they could do- it was the small things he missed, like the way her brow furrowed right before she made a mistake in her embroidery and tossed it across the room. And his father! What he’d give even just to have an argument with him.

Widow Greenhand pulled out her tea set- in fact it was Belladonna’s- it never sat right with Bilbo, how sad she was to return it to him, and so he had gifted it back to her some years ago. He smiled to see its familiar tulip and daffodil patterns.

“Camomile is your favorite, right dear?” She guessed something different every time, because Bilbo never gave a straight answer.

“Anything hot, and with a squeeze of lemon, and that’ll be quite well, thank you kindly.”

Very un-hobbitish, to not have a favourite tea. How then was a host to show off her carefully catalogued treasure trove of knowledge of her neighbours and make a show of having it ready?

But Bilbo’s favourite tea was the clove, ginger and orange peel tea Sigrid and Tilda made for him and the dwarves far away in Laketown, and he and Thorin drank together sitting quietly by the window looking out on Girion’s bow. Clove trees didn’t grow around here.

Widow Greenhand gave an affectionate smile as she poured his cup and passed the lemon slices.

“Prrow!” A musical little chirrup sounded from somewhere near Bilbo’s feet and suddenly a kitten alighted upon the table. Not quite a kitten, but not big enough to be an adult. She nearly knocked the teacup over and had to jump off the table to save herself from disaster.

“Bell!” Widow Greenhand yelped in surprise, and stood quickly. “Sorry about that,” she said, grabbing a napkin and wiping the bit of spilled tea. Then she grabbed another dish.

“She hears the clink of dishes and thinks it’s time for cream.” She grinned and poured a little bit of cream into a dish and set it on the floor for her. “She’s never wrong.”

Bilbo cleared his throat hesitantly. “You… named her Bell?”

He shouldn’t have said it, and he knew it. Widow Greenhand blushed furiously and couldn’t look up for a moment. She recovered quickly, however.

“Her mother brought her to me when she was very small, maybe only four weeks old. The mother was limping badly, but wouldn’t let me touch her. You know cats can be such a nuisance but I felt pity for them, and thought I’d put a bell on the kitten once she was big enough to wear it, so she wouldn’t kill so many birds.”

“Ah,” Bilbo said politely. A clever evasion.

“I never needed to, though.”

“Needed to what?”

“To put a bell on her.” Widow Greenhand sat back down, and leaned over to give Bell a little pat while she lapped up the cream. “She never does go after any of the songbirds.”

“Really?” Bilbo ducked to give the kitten another look, amused at her loud purring.

“Well,” Widow Greenhand chuckled. “She does go after the jaybirds. But she doesn’t kill them. She’ll swat at them, and chase them around. My mornings have never been so peaceful.”

Bilbo huffed out a laugh. Now he was staring at Bell.

They don’t like the jaybirds.

“You don’t… perchance see a lot of ravens around here, do you?”

“Like those ones you sometimes get when a letter from those dwarf-folk come your way? Afraid not, dear, if you’re hoping for a message, you’ll like as not have to wait until you’re back home. But don’t hurry off, as I said, a storm’s coming in, and any self-respecting pigeon would be taking shelter anyway, and I would feel better if you did too, and stayed the night.”

“Where did you hear-??!” Bilbo couldn’t hide his annoyance. “That only happened a few times- I can’t believe the neighbours are still complaining about that, and it spread all the way here. They’re a bunch of ninnies- the Ravens are not that scary.”

Widow Greenhand gave a long laugh and picked up a strawberry tart, putting it on Bilbo’s plate.

“Whether it’s by raven or by those dwarf traders, your neighbors are going to gossip.”

“Well I’d hate to deprive them of their only source of entertainment, but they really should leave off.”

Widow Greenhand waved a dismissive hand. “Pay them no mind. They’re just jealous.”

That gave Bilbo pause.

“Jealous?”

“Oh yes, who wouldn’t be? You’re different now, Bilbo. You’ve been stretched and pulled and you don’t fit in here anymore. In this dull land where nothing ever happens, something happened to you. Or maybe you happened to it.”

She poured more tea for them both and brought her cup up to her lips, blowing gently.

“Yes,” She said distantly. “That might be it. Your mother- she was the same way. She happened to people, to places. Everywhere she went, everyone whose life she touched, no one was the same afterward.”

Bilbo swallowed hard.

How could he tell her she was wrong? About the one who really happened to people, as she put it? But he never said Thorin’s name out loud. He swore to himself he never would, ever since he heard his name on that nosy constable’s lips. Shirefolk didn’t deserve him. Even when he told stories to children, Thorin was just the King Under The Mountain who fought fiercely and was usually grouchy. The one who, together with a wizard, came up with the foolhardy plan to steal from a dragon in the first place.

When he looked up, Widow Greenhand was looking at him with a measure of understanding.

“I think I know your objection,” she said with a gentle smile. “I suppose before we can become the adventure, the adventure must happen to us. But either way, it is an enviable thing. Because for most folk around here, the adventure never happens at all. So. Even if it’s over. It’s always worth celebrating.” She raised her tea cup to him, and he clinked it gently with his own.

“Prrow!” Bell leaped up onto the table again. This time she did knock the tea over.

“Oh! Bell!” Widow Greenhand stood to get a napkin. Bilbo did too.

“Looks like Bell’s your adventure now.”

Widow Greenhand gave a full, hearty laugh at that. “I should have known.”

***

Bilbo did end up staying the night in Widow Greenhand’s small but very cozy guestroom with a four-poster bed and a fireplace. The window had a sill and Bilbo sat there, enjoying the heat of the fire on his left and the cold windowpane on his right. He’d brought along Elrond’s book to read, but he held it to his chest, unable to focus. He’d gotten a few pages in but found it rather dull. Much more interesting was to stare out the window at the snowfall and be alone with his thoughts.

Widow Greenhand was right in one thing. It was enviable, to have had such an adventure. He knew it was because, despite all the grief and pain, he wouldn’t change places with anyone. But she was wrong in another thing.

Because the adventure wasn’t over. And it need never be over. Thorin thought it was dangerous to hope, but Bilbo felt it was more dangerous to not hope. For how could he not go crazy, never knowing when Thorin was going to visit him in dreams, never knowing when he’d get another flower message- and furthermore, how could he not go crazy, wanting so much more than he could have? If he didn’t hope, if he didn’t believe deep down that he could have more.

It was a hope that had been building slowly over the years- becoming something more substantial and possible with each book Elrond loaned him. Bilbo did his best not to think about it. He did his best not to indulge wild hopes, because Thorin cared so deeply that he stay safe. But Faerie- the Undying Lands- was real. It was a real land, with history and geography and even politics. And even some of the homes of the Valar were marked on the maps. Bilbo had a feeling that if he landed on the shores of Aman, all he’d have to do was ask where the Mountains of Mahal were, and any elf would be able to point the way. Yes, Thorin said there was no door to it in the Living Realm. But there was a door, of some sort. Thorin did not deny it.

He was sure the answer lie in one of the books of Elrond’s library. He often thought of simply going back to Rivendell, staying a while with the Elf lord, and reading everything he could on the subject. But Elrond was often away for long periods of time, and even lately was out in the wild with Gandalf and some strange folk, perhaps Woodmen or the like. He wasn’t sure. The letters were always very vague.

So for now he had to simply content himself with the books Elrond sent, or that his daughter sometimes sent in his stead. He wasn’t actually sure which of the two had sent the book that was in his hands now. The courier who had brought it said it was from the House of Elrond. Perhaps it was the daughter who had sent it, and who didn’t know him as well. He’d requested a book on journeys to the Undying Lands, and instead gotten some story about Númenor. He gave a sigh, and his breath made a cloud on the windowpane.

It was fine. He was in no rush. How in the world would he tell Thorin, anyway? Oh, by the way, I’m going to just pop off to your neighborhood for a bit, knock around your mountain, and see if I can convince a god to let me stay with you, what do you think?

Right now, anyway, it was the hope that was more important than the actual plan. He could take his time and piece it together. He could wait. He was getting older, sure, but he certainly didn’t feel older. He didn’t even look older. He didn’t look a day over fifty. He had the luck of the Old Took, it seemed.

So there was no rush. He could wait.

***

Chapter Text

The Redbud trees were blooming on their branches in tight clusters. In a week they’d open and give the illusion of plum-colored smoke. The streams were swelling with the spring rains and flooding the delicate reeds shooting up along the banks. The young willows that bordered the brook tossed their hair softly in the wind. The rich fragrance of fertile loam hung in the air. The farmers were sowing barley in the lower fields and wheat in the upper. Bilbo could hear them hitching their carts to their ponies when he went out walking before dawn after sleepless nights. He could see the ruts of their wheels in the mud of the paths. Sometimes, if he went out early enough, a fox followed along for a while. He almost expected it to start whispering to him. He would toss bits of cheese to it. When he reached the boulders bordering the wood, it always disappeared, just at the moment the sun would rise, cutting its red through the meadow. Then Bilbo would find himself alone once more.

The haphazard beauty of the road followed Bilbo back to his doorstep, however- where, perhaps, it was not welcome. The garden was overrun with briars and thistles, and every small sprouting thing was tormented by wind and rain. Hamfast seemed hesitant to take work in the garden this year, and Bilbo didn’t blame him. Winter always turned the garden into a special disaster while it lay fallow. All the wrong things grew. Although Bilbo also knew that Ham was in that very difficult if happy position of being in love, which meant he had to consider carefully his future path. Ham made several trips to Tighfield over the winter- perhaps to prepare to follow his brother in the family roping business. Well, Bilbo would find out once it was time to plant the more tender flowers, if Ham was ready to commit to one more year. If he didn’t, maybe Halfred or May or Daisy would want to take up the work. Although Bilbo would miss young Ham. Ham was steadfast and serious and by-the-book in the most endearing of ways, very unlike his wise and easy-going father. Both were lovable in entirely different ways. Not that May or any of the sisters wouldn’t be just as lovely to have around. May, Daisy and Marigold were spirited, rebellious and kind, and struck that impossible balance between being adventuresome and proper in a way that the Baggins and Took sides of Bilbo never could. He was in awe of them. The Gamgee family might honestly be the best family in the Shire.

Bilbo planted himself on the bench in the garden as the pale sun slowly climbed, pulled out his pipe. Yes, at eight in the morning. He frowned at the primroses taking over his garden from the gate. Lovely pale yellow flowers with hearts of gold- but they were woodland blossoms, not proper garden flowers. Neighbours smirked at how they crept in from the lane up the hillside to his gate. Bilbo lost his ability to care what they thought. Probably when they were trampling his garden-appropriate blossoms trying to auction off his things. Besides. Primroses meant deep love.

Bilbo’s mind wandered back to the last dream he had of Thorin. Deep love. A love that would follow anywhere. What were these primroses following? It looked like they were trying to reach the ivy that climbed from the edges to the windows. They were looking for a home, he supposed. A home with a plant that never bloomed. Bilbo sighed. He was pretty sure Ham’s wedding to Miss Goodchild would be this fall- although he was a careful lad, and stuck close to tradition. Perhaps he would wait until spring came around again.

It shall be my wedding gift to you.

Bilbo scoffed so loud he startled Mrs. Chubb walking by his gate. She scowled at Bilbo and clutched her basket of rolls as though she expected Bilbo to snatch it.

“Good morning to you too, Mrs. Chubb!” Bilbo yelled and pulled a roll of his own from his knapsack and bit into it, chewing angrily while she scuttled away before settling back into his reverie. He scoffed again, although this time, more quietly. What did that even mean? A stag as a wedding gift. For a feast? What feast could they have?

The wave of despair came to him so suddenly he felt like it slapped him. He couldn’t breathe, his chest was so tight. It doesn’t matter, he tried to tell himself. What we had was far greater than a wedding feast.

The thought made his breathing come easier. He could manage this. He always did. He would step inside and have a proper second breakfast, and wander around the market, and have a nap at noon, and then settle in with his books until evening, when he’d step outside after the neighbourhood had gone to bed, and watch the stars.

***

Sometimes it felt like they were in a dream for years together, struggling through the limitations of life and death.

Dawn hung in the air, painting the sky in the east while the sun peeked through the crack in the stone that Gandalf had split to seal the fate of the trolls. But the rest of the sky was dark as midnight, and an unsettling wind wove slowly through the undergrowth and roared in the trees above. Bilbo and Thorin sat around a wind-harassed campfire, and watched the moss and vines slowly claim the stone trolls that knelt around them. In Bilbo’s hands was a flower crown he was weaving out of kingsfoil. Thorin was poking the fire with a stick and watching him.

“It is useless, my love,” He said finally. “You cannot crown me.”

Bilbo’s hands had been fumbling. He knew the pattern perfectly. His hands knew it on their own. He was a hobbit- any self-respecting hobbit could weave flower crowns in their sleep- and here he was! In his sleep! It should be nothing- especially with a weed so pliable as kingsfoil. Bilbo tried to remember if he saw kingsfoil in this clearing when he was here in real life, so many years ago. Now, it was everywhere, carpeting the forest floor, begging to be picked. An attractive little weed, for what it was, with small, white, star-shaped blossoms. They seemed to glow faintly, as though mimicking the stars above.

The stars are the same.

The same as what? Bilbo gazed up at them, and then back to the half-finished crown in his hands. What had he been doing in this glade, so long ago? He told stories of it all the time. But all he could remember were the faces of the children lighting up as he told it. Tell us about the trolls! they would demand, and proceed to recite his own tale back at him word for word. But he couldn’t remember the words. He could only remember their sweet, glowing faces. Which children were these? Were they grown now? Or were they the new generation, the green boughs of their family trees? The memory of their light seemed to ripple like the ribbons in their hair. Silk ribbons, that Bilbo had bought from a dwarf trader, and given generously on his birthday. Which birthday? Maybe there were no birthdays, just like there would be no sunset, for this dawn lingered unmoving, even as the moss grew thick and the stones slowly crumbled.

Bilbo gave a sigh, and finally looked up at Thorin.

“What if I forget you?”

Thorin turned back to the fire for a moment, its flames struggling against a sudden whip of wind.

“You haven’t forgotten me so far.”

“No,” And Bilbo tossed the crown into the fire. “When I die.”

Thorin’s mouth tightened in pain as he tried to rescue it from the dying fire, but to no avail.

“When you die, you will be free from all this.”

“The way you’re free from all your sorrows?” His response bit with sarcasm, he knew. Sometimes he was astounded at Thorin’s patience.

“You didn’t cause any death, Bilbo. Well,” And here he paused, smirking. “You did contribute to Smaug’s death, that’s worth remembering.”

“And I pointed him directly to Laketown. Hundreds died because of my slip-up.”

“You wouldn’t have had time to slip up if I’d have gone in there with you. Their blood is on my hands.”

“I could be invisible. You had no such protection. You’d be dead if you went in there.”

“I am dead.”

Bilbo nodded wearily, pulled up another stalk of kingsfoil to try again. They’d had this argument before. The familiarity of it was even comforting. Bilbo focused on the kingsfoil, and his hands resumed their fumbling.

Then a larger hand covered one of his. Bilbo looked up. Thorin had come to sit next to him, and was wrapping his cloak around Bilbo and his arm around his shoulder. The fire flickered back to life, and the wind calmed. And then Thorin said something he’d never said before.

“It will not matter if you forget me when you die. Because I will remember you forever. I will not forget a single moment that I have spent with you. I’ll carry our love for both of us.”

Bilbo dropped his head in his hands. “I can’t let you do that.”

Thorin gently took the kingsfoil from his hand and tucked it behind his ear. He lingered there, combing his fingers lightly through stray curls.

“Let’s not talk about the future, or the past,” Thorin murmured, and Bilbo felt a kiss lost in his hair. “We are around a fire, we are under stars. Let us tell stories. Now tell me again. How do hobbit-folk start stories?”

Bilbo rolled his eyes, fighting back his smile. “You know.”

“Ah yes. ‘Once upon a time.’ Ah but this story lies outside of time, so that won’t do.”

“You always have some excuse to use your own.”

“Hmm, yes, I think I shall have to use the Dwarvish tradition, now that you mention it.”

“Of course you shall. Wait, let me guess how it goes- once there was, and once there was not-”

“Once there was, and once there was not,” Thorin said with laughter, and he ducked his head to catch Bilbo’s eye, and when he could not, he brought a hand to Bilbo’s chin, lifting his face gently. Their eyes met, hazel and blue, earth and sky. “Once there was, and once there was not, a goddess who walked among the first trees of the world. They were taller than mountains, and whispered the first words spoken in air. The words took centuries to utter-”

“I thought you said this story was outside of time,” Bilbo murmured, his mouth still distractingly close to Thorin’s. The corners of Thorin’s eyes crinkled as his smile grew.

“They took thousands of years to utter. They took an eternity to utter. They’re still being uttered now, and won’t be finished until the end of all things. There. Is that outside of time enough for you?”

“That is the opposite of outside of time.”

“You sound like one of those fauntlings you’re always telling your stories to.”

“You don’t have a mountain full of dwarves interrupting your stories? Or have you been hiding away again making those grief swords or whatever they are?”

“I should never have told you about those,” Thorin groaned.

“Never heard of a more dwarvish tradition, and by dwarvish, I mean absurd-”

“I understand that hobbit children are a much tougher audience than thousand-year-dead drunk dwarves-”

“Thankyou for understanding. I’d never get away with such an inconsistency-”

“Can I keep going?”

“Please.”

Thorin was smiling, biting his lip, looking as though he wanted to tackle Bilbo with kisses. Bilbo had half a mind to let him, and he felt a tinge of regret when Thorin decided instead to carry on with his story.

“As I was saying. The goddess walked in the shade of trees so ancient and powerful, their branches reached beyond the very edges of time. They always were, always are, and always shall be. Their fate is written. That’s how they are outside of time. But it wasn’t the trees she most adored.” Thorin’s gaze softened, and he ran his fingers softly down Bilbo’s cheek. “It was the flowers, that are here today and tomorrow tossed into the wind.” Thorin was looking deeply into his eyes, and his gaze in the firelight was blue as the midnight sky, and seemed to hold as many stars. “She loved them, precisely because their fate was unknown. They might die in the wind or be thrown into the fire. They might be trampled underfoot. They might live a whole season, before winter’s frost sealed their fate. Or they might live again, sprouting where no one thought possible. And so she loved them, and called blessed all things that did not know their fate.”

The world was blurring around Bilbo. At first he thought he was waking up. Then he realized it was the tears. Thorin took that moment to kiss him. Bilbo felt his eyes shutter closed. The tears rolled down his cheeks. Thorin’s kiss was a deep well that he could drink from forever.

“My turn to tell a story,” Bilbo whispered when they finally broke apart.

“Once upon a time, there were flowers loved even by a goddess, simply because fate was often so cruel to them. But one day, one of those flowers fell in love with a king, and realized, if he were to be united with his beloved, he must become more.”

The wind picked up, and the campfire roared with new life, sending up sparks that caught Bilbo’s eye. He then saw something strange in the fire that formed the shape of a ring. Bilbo hesitated only a moment- then leaned forward and reached with his open hand into the fire. Thorin cried out, but that did not stop him. The fire was not hot to touch at all. Bilbo pulled the shape out.

It was the crown of kingsfoil he’d started- only now the crown was complete. Fire engulfed the crown, but it did not burn.

***

It took Bilbo a few days to find kingsfoil in real life. It seemed like he’d seen it everywhere when he wasn’t looking for it. Finally, he found it in the meadow he shared in a dream with Thorin once- at the old abandoned orchard’s edge. It was sunset by the time he found it. He sat and wove, relishing in the deft, effortless movements of his hands as a hopeful vermillion stained the sky. He decided then and there, that he would leave. Perhaps that very night.

He ambled home along the banks of a stream that gathered here and there in pools of stillness. The Crown of Durin was out by the time he was at his gate. Summer’s Dawn, the hobbits sometimes called it. Warm breezes from the south would soon be cascading through the meadows, and the wheat would grow so tall. Bilbo was ready to go.

Help did not lie east with Elrond, but it might lie westward. There remained, Bilbo knew, a settlement of elves beyond the Tower Hills where, legend had it, the oldest living elf resided. No hobbit in folk memory had ventured beyond the hills, where the three towers stood. From the farthest and tallest tower, it was said if one climbed it, they could see the sea. Hobbits as a rule regarded everything to do with the sea with great foreboding. The sea was a token of death. And maybe it was so. But Bilbo was ready to brave it.

He couldn’t help but feel the burning crown was a sign. Leaves that would not burn or die. Thrown into the fire and then brought back to life. There was some greater power bringing Bilbo and Thorin together, despite everything. Reaching across life and death so that they could touch. Bilbo was tired of hiding his hope.

He gently placed the crown of kingsfoil on his doorstep under the runes. He opened the door. His home, dark and sprawled with moonlight. He suddenly remembered the windswept emptiness of the afternoon he first came home. Now it was cozy again, with all the details of a loved and lived-in home, if not the typical Hobbiton orderliness. Bilbo walked its halls and rooms with the eyes of someone preparing to say goodbye. What preparations needed to be made? He could just leave it behind, the way he did last time. But giving the deed to someone who was not Lobelia Sackville-Baggins would be much, much preferred. He could probably draft a watertight transfer of property tonight by himself, with all that he learned from the meticulous and obsessive bickering the dwarves always got into on the road, concerning the contracts of their ridiculous wagers. Not to mention Bilbo’s own contract. Funeral arrangements, indeed!

But whom would he leave it to?

The answer was obvious. He’d leave it to Ham. Hamfast Gamgee, son of the best hobbit this side of Bree, and just starting out in life. And what a nice start it would be! What would Bag End be like, full of laughter and children? Bilbo imagined it’d be something like the night the Company all appeared on his doorstep, except every day it would be that same blend of rollicking and stressful and messy and mysterious and beautiful.

So. There wasn’t much to do then. Draft up a legal document tonight. Maybe a few goodbye letters, to the Gamgees and Widow Greenhand, to Elrond… he’d have to return the book as well, arrange for a courier for that. Bilbo frowned. That might take a few days.

Reality suddenly dawned on him. He couldn’t go anywhere. Ham was getting married this fall. Bilbo wasn’t sure why he felt he had to attend. Maybe it had to do with the fact that he would never have his own Shire wedding. That in light of that, it was all the more important that he celebrate the happiness of others.

Bilbo was back in the study by this time. He lit the candles on the desk and sat down a little heavily on the cushion at the windowsill. He looked around at his desk covered in linguistics notes, the paintings of his parents over the hearth. The map of Erebor, now framed and on the wall. Maybe there was more he couldn’t bear to part with than he’d first cared to admit. He gave a sigh, put down his knapsack that he’d started unconsciously packing. What was he doing? Everywhere he looked, love was staring back at him.

Bilbo could feel himself on the edge of some great precipice, a dark unknown that beckoned to him. But that didn’t mean everything else he’d loved was worth abandoning. At least- not thoughtlessly. No- he’d wait until Ham’s wedding. That would give him six months at least, a year at most, to make all the necessary arrangements. And to say goodbye. Then he would turn west, and fill his heart with the sound and the breath of the sea.

Bilbo leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. Well, there was one thing he could do tonight. He picked up Elrond’s book, which lay on the cushion next to him. He could try one more time with this dull story- that way he could send it back knowing he gave it a full good-faith effort, and hopefully not offend the poor daughter. He ran his fingers along the embossed title. Akallabêth, it said. Bilbo had no idea what the word meant, as it was neither Sindarin nor Quenya. It must be Adûnaic, one of the old languages of Númenor. Bilbo took a deep breath and summoned his patience.

The story told of the coming of Men, guided by a star, to an island that rose out of the sea between Faerie and Middle Earth. Bilbo drew in a sharp breath when Lord Elrond’s name was mentioned. Not that that was uncommon, but Bilbo never knew that Elrond had a brother. Apparently both he and the brother could choose between eternal life and mortality. Something in their genealogy allowed this. It struck Bilbo as very sad, that Elrond’s brother chose to be mortal. Why did he do that? The story didn’t say.

Bilbo couldn’t suppress a yawn as the story shifted back to the Men of Númenor, who seemed to love the sea as much as hobbits didn’t. But he jolted up again when the story suddenly mentioned that the Men were not allowed to sail west. So this was a journey-west tale. But why…?

... the design of Manwë was that the Númenóreans should not be tempted to seek for the Blessed Realm…

The breath caught in Bilbo’s throat. A sudden flush came over him, hot with embarrassment. Bilbo in his innocence never once wondered if the land of Faerie might be forbidden. Magical, yes. Overwhelming, sure. Far away and dangerous upon the seas, absolutely. Not… forbidden.

Not that Bilbo had to worry about that. Faerie was an elf-land. Bilbo was an elf-friend. But… these Númenóreans were elf-friends too, and they were forbidden. Why…

Bilbo’s throat was dry. The room was closing in on him. He read on.

...Now this yearning grew ever greater with the years; and the Númenóreans began to hunger for the undying city that they saw from afar, and the desire of everlasting life, to escape from death and the ending of delight, grew strong upon them; and ever as their power and glory grew greater, their unquiet increased…

...Thus it was that a shadow fell upon them, in which maybe the will of Morgoth was at work that still moved in the world…

...And some there were who said, “Why should we not go to Aman, and taste there the bliss of the Powers?”

Bilbo read with bated breath as these words travelled back to the ears of the Valar, who then sent messengers with their response.

”The Doom of the World… One alone can change who made it. And were you so to voyage that escaping all deceits and snares you came indeed to Aman, the Blessed Realm, little would it profit you. For it is not the land of Manwë that makes its people deathless, but the Deathless that dwell therein have hallowed the land; and there you would but wither and grow weary the sooner, as moths in a light too strong and steadfast.”

Bilbo couldn’t breathe. His world spun away. The book fell from his hands open to the floor.

He was not only forbidden… he would die if he went, and swiftly.

Long moments that might have been hours passed while he sat at the window, staring dead into the emptiness. The candles burned to stubs, their wax a melted mess over the candleholders. The paintings of Bilbo’s parents seemed to dance in their shadows. The dragon on Erebor’s map danced.

Bilbo could not go to Faerie. He could not go to Thorin. What had he been thinking. Of course he couldn’t go. He was dreaming. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe this was a dream, and all was well and he could leave tomorrow. This thought enfolded him for one last moment of blissful denial. Then the tears started to fall.

A pale dawn light was beginning to pour through the windows. The portraits of Bilbo’s parents continued to stare at him, as though in pity. No… his father’s stare was of pity. His mother’s… it was almost like one of knowing. Like she knew something he didn’t, and was daring him to figure it out. He stared at her for a long time, wishing her back, wishing she was here. He had never needed her courageous spirit more in his life.

The sun broke through, and cast a beam across her portrait like a slash. Suddenly she was obfuscated, half by utter darkness and half by a blinding and terrible gold. And in that beam of light was a glint of gold, real gold- gold on the tiny hinges of a little box that rested beneath her portrait on the hearth. Bilbo’s mouth dropped open slightly as he realised what it was. In all his planning, all evening as he prepared to leave, he never once thought of his little ring.

His ring, that could grant him invisibility. So that he could walk even where he was forbidden. And whether it was elf or valar that dealt out the death and withering they so cruelly warned, he could evade even them.

Bilbo rose and crossed the room like a ghost until he was in front of the little box on the hearth. He unlatched the lid and pulled out the ring. Immediately it was warm and inviting in his hand.

He didn’t need to live immortal in the Blessed Realm tasting the bliss of its powers. He just needed to make it to the mountain.

Bilbo closed his fingers around the ring into a tight fist. He would wait, yes he would, while he worked out the details of his new plan. And in the meantime, from now on, he would carry the ring in his pocket wherever he went.

For the ring was precious to him.

***

Chapter Text

The scent of fallen fruit rose as thick as the fog lingering between the trees of the abandoned orchard. Here Thorin wandered, his hand reaching idly out to trace the curve of the leaves on the branches. Bilbo was waiting for him, sitting with his back against a tree. He did not stand to greet Thorin, so Thorin sat across from him.

“Let us throw the bones,” Bilbo said, and Thorin wondered what he meant. Bilbo said a lot of strange things in the Dream Realm. But then from behind his back he produced a handful of small bones.

Thorin’s heart seized in a strange kind of dread. Bilbo cast the bones on the moss between them.

“What… animal… are these bones from?”

Thorin thought of the hundreds of creatures who had come to them in the dreamscape whispering in a language unknown.

“Raven bones, of course.”

The cast bones began to glow. They had formed in their fall the shape of a wing.

“Why of course?”

“To defeat death, my love. The bones will tell me how to come to you. And see? On the back of a Raven, I will come to you by wings.”

Thorin couldn’t breathe. Bilbo was smiling at him with wild delight. An eerie light flamed from within his gaze that had not been there before. He reached down and began collecting the bones.

“Bilbo.” Thorin had the feeling he could not speak to Bilbo directly. He looked around desperately.

“Why don’t we bury these bones, and let the Raven rest?”

The wind suddenly picked up, shaking the trees and clearing the mist, rising away from the ground in vapours like flames. The gust released several small apples from the tree Bilbo leaned against, and they fell among the bones. Bilbo picked one up. It rotted in his hands. He seemed unaware of this, smiling down at the mealworms.

“Bilbo-”

Suddenly the hobbit collapsed, fell asleep among the apples and the bones. All around his body, tender stalks shot up through the earth and erupted into brilliant red blossoms. Thorin reached out to touch him, but Bilbo shuddered away before he could.

***

Thorin inhaled sharply as he woke from the dream, seated in front of the glowing stone of the Chamber of Mysts. He stood, walked out in a daze.

Not a soul was in the halls. When he arrived in the main cavern, the Orrery showed the stars wheeling past midnight. There was only one place Thorin could go. Floating, it felt- like a ghost- he climbed the thousand steps up to the Augury. He hoped that Jaërg would be on watch tonight, or nested in the lower rafters of the stone tower, and not far off in the trees of the orchard. The night wind circled around him, but he could feel it not. It came in from the Living Realm, after all- not Yavanna’s meadows or the Dream Realm. Thorin gave a sigh, knowing his breath didn’t join the wind. Then he called out in a whisper.

“Jaërg.”

He was not disappointed. He heard a few rustles of feathers, a low croon or two. Then he heard a sleepy cry.

“Amma!”

“Shh, Little One. Sleep.”

One more soft fledglings’ croon and then silence, until after a moment Thorin heard the barest flapping of wings. He held out his arm on instinct, and Jaërg landed there.

“I am here, Thorin King,” she whispered and bowed. “At your service.”

Thorin shook himself, snapping out of his daze.

“Can we speak privately?”

“No one will hear us in the stairwells.”

“That is well,” Thorin whispered, and he took Jaërg on his arm down the fifty steps to the first landing. He sat in the flickering light of a sconced torch and Jaërg landed just above him, on a windowsill looking out to a waning moon.

“You’ve been looking after Bilbo as you always do. Have you noticed anything strange at all in his behaviour?”

“No, Thorin King. He is ever as he always was. He shows his love for the Shire in his long walks, where he runs his hands gently along leaf and tall grass. He speaks cheerfully to the family whose son tends his garden. He gratefully takes and shares the pies they bring him, and sits on the bench some evenings talking and smoking with the old one. He grumbles at neighbours he doesn’t like, and makes many-hour trips to visit the ones he does like. He runs carefree through fields when no one is looking, and sings while he bathes in the summer streams. At night his window is luminous with candlelight at the desk where he sits and writes or reads. Sometimes the words he writes are folded into messages that he seals with his favourite red wax, and whenever he writes to the Sackville-Bagginses, he uses the ugly wax that has no sheen. And sometimes the words he writes are closed up in journals, or flung aside on scattered loose paper. Every few years a Raven of Ravenhill appears, and he uses red wax with silver embossing for those letters. And he always gives the Raven fresh scraps of meat and a small piece of shiny metal. He is very considerate. But he never leaves jewels except to us Ravens of Mahal.”

Jaërg might have blushed if she weren’t a creature of feather, and it was worth waiting through her report to see her look so pleased, even if Thorin did already know everything she said. Thorin was the last person, after all, who could complain about a long speech.

And anyway. He loved how the Ravens loved Bilbo. Ravens argued and bickered and competed and downright fought to be on Bilbo’s lookout team every month. Well. Thorin swallowed hard. That might be coming to an end.

“So there has been nothing suspicious since he left the crown of kingsfoil on his doorstep in the spring? No strange occurrences, or visitors?”

“Nothing. And if anything, he is more cheerful and confident than ever.”

“Jaërg,” Thorin implored, his voice cracking. “Mighty Chieftainess- you must help me, please. Bilbo is unwell, if my visit to him in the Dream Realm just now gives any clue. I don’t know what changed, but I fear for him.”

“We will double the watch.”

“No! Please. Everything must appear as normal, and the Little Ones must not know. In fact, it would be best if only you were to watch.”

Jaërg narrowed her many eyes. “You don’t want to ruin our happiness. You would rather suffer alone in fear and silence than ruin the happiness of Frerin and Fíli and Kíli and the Ravens. You wouldn’t have even come to me, if it weren’t for the danger. What danger is there, then? Tell me of this dream.”

Thorin sighed, bowed his head in his hands.

“We were in an orchard, not unlike that of the Augury- though it is only a humble Shire orchard, one I traversed on my way to Bag End the first night I met Bilbo.”

“I know it well. It is the old abandoned one, yes? Whose apples cannot be eaten.”

“Indeed. In that orchard, Bilbo produced from his pocket a handful of bones. They were Raven bones, and he threw them upon the ground in the style of the Cursed Seers, who foretell doom from such things.”

Jaërg went very still at his telling.

“And so you see I am caught. For I am desperate to know what is haunting Bilbo, or corrupting him- yet it seems there is danger for any Raven-kind who might help me discover it.”

Jaërg let out a soft croon, shifting her weight between her three feet.

“Yet the truth is worth the danger.”

“It’s not just Bilbo in danger. It’s you as well.”

“We’ll find a way. We’ll come to the truth, and we’ll protect the others. You must do me a favor, however. We Ravens never enter the Dream Realm except in the way that all dreamers do. Those bones cannot be true bones of a Raven, therefore. But they might be something else. Go to the Dream Masters and tell them about this dream, and find out if there is any danger for Ravenkind around the hobbit.”

“Very well.”

“When you do, come find me, after midnight, when no kin of yours might be here. We will come up with a plan.”

“You cannot know what this means to me,” Thorin stood, gave a deep bow, hand on his heart. Jaërg gave an offended squawk.

“You forget, Old Dwarf! I too have loved ones I’d hazard worse than death for.”

Thorin’s breath hitched, and he knelt before her, hands folded as though in prayer at her feet.

“Forgive me! It was my loneliness speaking, forgetting all good things but the one lost. Please. Please forgive my thoughtless words.”

Jaërg tilted her head as she considered this, and a moment of silence stretched between them.

“You have no idea how much we Ravens love you, Thorin Oakenshield. We would do anything for you, and anything to take away your loneliness, even if just for a moment.”

With that, she took off, disappearing effortlessly around the curve of the stairwell.

Thorin stayed kneeling, his hand still at the spot where Jaërg’s feet were.

“I am a fool,” he muttered into the damp silence. “How can I be worthy of anyone’s love.”

***

Thorin was up all night making the a scuplture of the flower he saw in the dream, sprouting and blossoming around Bilbo’s sleeping form. They were many-petaled blossoms, fine as silk and clustered together in haphazard swirls, taking on the look of a flame. There was a great circling restless wind when Thorin found Yavanna deep in her valley, seated upon the bank of a stream, running her hand along the moss until it sprouted on the back of her hand and grew from her hair.

“You’ve caught me deep in song,” She said, and he nodded, though he’d heard no singing.

“I have a favour to ask.”

She pulled her gaze from the dazzling light upon the water’s surface, and looked up at him.

“Your requests are rare these days,” she hummed. “Surely you know the name and meaning of every flower in this valley. How shall I help you?”

With no other ceremony, Thorin held out the sculpture of the dream flower. Yavanna’s mouth dropped slightly open.

“How is it you know of this flower?”

“Is it a flower that exists? I saw it in a dream, and wondered at its meaning.”

Yavanna rose slowly from her moss-spell until she was hovering over Thorin. She took the sculpture from his hands and breathed upon it until it became the living flame-blossom Thorin saw in the dream.

“It is the Naruzâir, of the Valley of Ezellohar. When Morgoth and the spider Ungoliant destroyed the Two Trees, they left a great Darkness in their wake. So I sent the Naruzâir to grow there, and glow like flame until the darkness is transformed.”

Her eyes darkened, and stormclouds gathered on the horizon.

“The Naruzâir only appears where great Darkness has fallen. You say you saw it in a dream?”

Thorin struggled to nod, his throat too dry to say yes.

Yavanna gave no response, only her breath was stilled, and all the wind of the valley seemed to have stilled with it.

***

Chapter Text

His plan had been to leave at dawn, but strangely enough, Roäc found himself hesitant to leave the gentle ruins of the city of Osgiliath. The columns that burned gold in the bright afternoon, the feral gardens that climbed the stone walls, that overran the streets with moss and tall grasses.

The golden light of the afternoon, streaming across the bone-crumbled arches, drawing benign shadows in the cracks. Statues of forgotten oracles, solemn of brow, halting hands, the folds of their veils caught in an eternal wind. Even the weathered grotesques, favored ornaments of the Dark Numenoreans, long broken off their rooftops and slowly crumbling to dust on the cobblestones, clawed and scowled only at some forgotten past, and held in them no harm.

Roäc had a strange ache in his heart to see the golden light cast once more over these stones- to fall in harsh angles over the bridges, to cast the Dome in the glow of its former splendour, its shadow floating midway on the waves of the mighty Anduin. His ancestors spoke of the Old Days, before the Plague and Decay brought the False Seers, hovering over the Stone and counting Ravens as omens of death. Cats weren’t the only ones who had suffered a bad reputation. Before the Plague, Ravens were as valued and treasured as they are on Ravenhill. No more, among Men.

The Men here, in the Ruined City, lived here only temporarily. They were guardians of Minas Tirith, camped in the abandoned houses- some staying for six months, some staying for three, riding back to Minas Tirith whenever they could to steal a few days of rest with their loved ones. Danger was never too far off from the fell places of old, and the bands of orcs came frequently enough that the soldiers could never become complacent. A gathering of the best of them went scouting into the woods of Ithilien, keeping constant vigil. Pressured like a diamond by the dark lands of Mordor to the east, the mercenaries from down the river in the south, and even the political pressures of its own allies, Rohan and Isenguard, Osgiliath sparkled like Telumendil. Its forest, Ithilien, was once the fairest land in all of Middle Earth. Many a great Raven of Old enjoyed the privilege of stewardship of the graceful boughs of those ancient trees. They conversed with the trees over many a blessed decade. What secrets were whispered are now only a legend among the young folk.

It wasn’t just the legends and the light that Roäc appreciated about this city, nor the dappled shadows upon the undergrowth of the fair groves to its east. The Men, too, spoke words noble and just, and their songs at night around the fire- they didn’t know it, but here and there they sang the fire’s language, and the fire sang back to them.

And even the Cats, keeping their own vigil- protecting the food stores of the Men from mice, and free and affectionate in their companionship to them. They had their own treasure to protect, as well, and now that they knew she was safe with Roäc the Cats of the Dome were cheerful and friendly- unlike the Cats of the Citadel, who persisted unflagging in their snobbery. These Osgiliath Cats had a lightness to their step and bounded with sleek athleticism over boulder and wall, and were friendly with each other- again, not a thing that could be said about the Cats of Minas Tirith, who yawned and splayed in the sun and more often than not let the rats gnaw the barrels to uselessness. Roäc had come from there not three days ago. At least they tolerated him now. It helped that he came alone. It was not until some months after meeting Shadow and Fern, and sneaking off in secret to the Cats in the South, slowly and painstakingly building rapport, that he learned that Cats deeply disdain creatures that aren’t solitary like themselves.

Once Roäc learned this, he came clean to Arach and Chara about what he knew- withholding, of course, Fern and Shadow’s part in the tale. He was pardoned with surprising speed, and allowed to continue with full authority. Apparently Jiaou had been growing stronger in the Dream Realm, hounding the kings night after night- “Let me into your Realms of the Dead-”

The kings were grateful for any hope of change. Even Carc’s potions and poultices (for the dreams were becoming violent) gave little reprieve these days.

Roäc only wished he’d been able to learn more from these last several months “courting” the Cats. They certainly didn’t start worshipping him the moment he dropped in front of them a living offering (a task he’d mastered with great awkwardness). And once they did start talking, each new piece of intelligence was as mysterious as the last: why did the Cats refuse to look upon the White Tree? Why were a handful of them obsessed with the Window of Anor? Why did they love the foreigner Thorongil and not their own lords, whose armour shone so brightly in the morning sun? What were the Cats of the Tombs planning? Three Cats they were, and in league with Jiaou, though Roäc knew nothing more, despite having spent many an hour trying to spy on their meetings.

These were all questions Roäc was still working on answering. It was aggravating work, though some of the lower courtyard and library Cats were amiable enough, if not much able to help. At least there was always good gossip.

In Osgiliath, however, Roäc had found ready friends, once enough trust was built. These Cats knew more of the lore of Jiaou, too. She couldn’t be one of the Maiar- at some point, she’d been a mortal. Immortality was part of the curse put on her. And- perhaps most disturbing- Jiaou could See. Cats could be gifted with Prophecy- but it was very rare. There was debate as to whether the gift of Prophecy was also part of her curse. More fear might have been harboured by the Cats about this- except they had a Prophetess of their own. The Jewel of the Bowl, they called her. And when Roäc was finally allowed to meet her, he could see why. She was an old Cat, haggard with matted grey fur and her eyes watered, and there was gunk in their corners, and her paws were splayed and cracked and worn with age. But her eyes were deep and serene like pools of water in a forest gathered from a storm whose winds tossed themselves against the treetops, tortured with questions.

Manyeou was her name, and she was ancient for a Cat, yet when he was brought to her, she cried out “Appa!” as delighted as though she were his own hatchling, and bounded over to him as quickly as her frail body allowed, giving him an affectionate sniff. “I want you to laugh with your whole being, with your whole heart and all of your life-beyond-death. The time will surely come when you shall, and I will do my part to bring you there.”

Never before in all his years had he been greeted with so much trust and joy, by a creature so unlikely. Roäc decided to adjust his opinion of Cats slightly, after meeting Manyeou.

The world was greying into dawn. Roäc was nesting in a nook under the arch of a great stone doorway. The sun would rise a pale yellow, and the soft summer mist would burn away. His route would take him along the Anduin, brushing the edges of fair Caras Galadon by nightfall, or the field of Celebrandt if the winds were not with him. Then four more days would bring him to Ravenhill, where Jaërg and the Little Ones would meet him.

But something nudged at him to stay. Just one more soft gold afternoon. Maybe he would hunt along the riverbeds, or perch on one of the bridges and eavesdrop on the Men. Maybe he’d bring an offering to Manyeou. Not that he had to, they were well beyond that now. Ah but she was deep in Vision right now, and wasn’t expected back for many days. Roäc shook off his disappointment and took off, flapping up and up until he caught a warm updraft and circled, circled, swooping ever closer to the Great Bridge where the Tower of Anárion stood, and the remains of the Dome. Men kept watch in the Tower, as it was intact on the western side of the bridge, which had been decimated in the middle some five hundred years ago.

The men on the balconies were at ease, tossing rations to one another. Roäc landed on the roof above them and watched them for a while, tending the fire, singing, repairing their bows. The sun climbed and blossomed the morning into something bright and wafting warmth. Roäc didn’t know why everything felt so alive, so exquisite.

“Yiaou!” A greeting came from far below- a smoky grey Cat’s hello! A few of the Men peaked down and greeted cheerfully back in their human way, and dropped down a scrap of meat. Roäc had seen the Cat before, but didn’t know his name. The Cat ignored the meat, and yowled up again.

It was then that Roäc realized he might be the one the Cat was calling to. He swooped down and landed on the stone rail of the bridge, just above the Cat.

“Was it me you were calling to just now, master Cat?”

“The Jewel has asked me to find you! I told her you had planned to be gone by now but she told me where to find you, and here you are! You must come with me. She has an urgent message!” The Cat bounded away and Roäc lifted off into the air to follow him, into the ruins of the Dome where Manyeou kept a chamber hidden and undisturbed by Men. The opening to it was quite small and high on a ledge. Roäc landed there and huddled to gain entry. The smoky Cat leaped up a path of ledges and outcroppings to join him, calling out as he did.

“I found him! He arrives!”

The only light within the room shone down from cracks in the outer wall. Manyeou’s eyes were glowing, and she could not see him in front of her. She was still there- she was not in this Realm. But she called out to him, in her sweet, strange voice.

“I have seen the one you Seek- she is within your reach this very night, before the Moon reaches his peak in the sky. You must go this very moment, lift off and put the mountains of Mordor behind your right shoulder and the forests of Fangorn behind your left! Fly below the level of the fog, down to the very surface, as high as a small shrub- difficult and dangerous flying it will be, but you must do it! You will find her, if you persist, for she will not give up her hunt this night nor the next, unless you force her to! And that you must! Go now! Do not despair- hold onto Hope like it is the last bright star smiting you like cold iron! And whatever you do, do not look into the flames!”

Roäc gasped, stumbled back.

“Go now! Go now!!” Manyeou’s eyes rolled back and she collapsed onto the floor.

“Manyeou!” Roäc cried, and rushed toward her.

“No!” The smoky gray Cat jumped in front of him. “You must do as she says!”

“But-”

“Do as she says! Leave now! Or her Vision will be for naught!”

Roäc jerked back, cried out once more, and rushed through the opening back into the ruined dome. He flapped his wings with great effort, turning sharply to land on the high exposed buttress. Not turning to look back, he dove sharply down to the river, skimming the surface with his wingtip before catching an updraft and lifting up. Mordor behind and to his right, Fangorn behind and to his left. That would point him northeast. Desperately, he called to mind all of her words as he rose higher and higher. He had two nights to find Jiaou. She was hunting something. He had to fly close to the surface to find her. Fly below the fog. What fog? It was summer. Fog was rare during the day, except high in the forests that climbed the arms of the mountains west and north. What great fog could lie ahead?

Slowly it dawned on him like a cold and pale dread. The Dead Marshes. The Dead Marshes lie straight ahead, on the path that Manyeou has sent me.

The Dead Marshes were not to be flown over, by any bird, under any circumstances. Every bird knew this. The fog alone that hovered unceasing over it on the horizon was enough to give any bird pause. Roäc had heard some stories. But it wasn’t the stories he was told that scared him. It was what the Elders refused to say.

He was alone. There was no way he could get a message to Jaërg. He had no time to stop and find help, either, and there were no other birds in sight as it was. The land ahead stretched brown and barren.

The sun was beginning to dip into the western sky behind him when the fog of the Dead Marshes appeared ahead. Roäc braced himself as he entered the fog.

The stench hit him immediately.

It was a reek that hung stifling in the still air. Slowly and carefully, Roäc descended. Mists were curling and smoking and yet the air didn’t seem to move. After a while, dead grasses and rotting reeds could be seen looming through the mists, and a scum of weed on the dark greasy surfaces of the waters. A deep, sullen silence overwhelmed every strangled plant reaching for life. The Marshes were a network of fens and mires that opened into wide stagnant meres the deeper Roäc dived. Night had fallen, but the Moon was rising, a full moon illuminating through the fog in a way that the sun couldn’t. Roäc chanced flying a bit higher, as the mist was clearing. He could see what looked like the glow of the moon in bits and pieces, like shards of a broken mirror, under the surfaces of the swampy waters.

Roäc found a large tussock to land on and survey his surroundings.

And there he saw it- in the distance, a large, lumbering shape rose out of the fen, made some great shuddering motion, then after a while, collapsed into the water.

Heart pounding, Roäc took off, hoping the nightfall was enough to cover his approach. There she was- a white Cat, practically glowing in the moonlight. Roäc circled wide, trying to see what she was doing or where the shape was that he had seen collapse in the distance. He landed silently on a thick bramble branch behind her. If she had seen him, she ignored him.

She appeared to be sniffing the water, stepping delicately in the reek. She peered deep into the water, and then whispered one word. Since the air was perfectly still, the sound traveled.

“Rise.”

She jumped back, and out of the spot where she’d been, a large figure broke the surface of the water and rose. Noisome fumes cascaded, nearly knocking Roäc over. Water dripping off the figure, perfectly still, his face was as pale as death.

He was a dwarf.

He was the corpse of a dwarf.

“Open your eyes,” Jiaou commanded, and the dwarf opened his eyes. A white film covered them, and they were unseeing.

“Show me your heart,” Jiaou commanded next.

The dwarf, staring straight ahead, lifted his hands from his sides to his heart, and started clawing at the waterlogged leather of his brigandine until a tear occurred, exposing his chest over his heart. Then he started clawing at the rotted flesh of his chest.

“No!” Roäc cried, unable to contain his rage and horror. He lifted off and dove at Jiaou. She turned and jumped up, twisting in the air as she jumped, and smacked him out of flight like he was nothing. The wind was knocked out of him. He was flung far and he dropped like a stone. Where he landed was not ground. It was the water of the marsh, thick with slime and grease. Suddenly he was submerged entirely. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t have to breathe, his mind reminded him somehow through the panic. How deep he had sunk into the water, he did not know. He had spun while falling through the water. Which direction was up, he had no idea. The water was thick and oily and gravity betrayed no clues. He had to find up. He opened his eyes, all seven of them, hoping to find a glimmer of the Moon through the water.

What he saw were faces.

Grim faces and evil, noble faces and sad. Many faces proud and fair, and weeds in their silver hair. All foul, all rotting, all dead. Their hands were near their faces, cupped and holding pale flames that erupted in fits and spurts. The faces opened their eyes. White, filmy eyes, boring into him, beckoning him. Down, down, down, into the darkness.

You are like us, they said, their mouths bobbing up and down with the undertow. Stay with us, and light a candle of your own. They were surrounding him now, opening their hands to show him.

Roäc had nowhere to look, but into the flames.

***

Chapter Text

Thorin sat before the white stone of the Chamber of Mysts, hesitant to speak. Fog swirled lazily all around him, and the path behind him, he knew, disappeared. There was nothing to break the silence except the softest whisperings of the fog.

“You shouldn’t be going to the hobbit in dreams at all,” the Dream Masters told him when Thorin first went to them again, telling them of the nightmare of Bilbo. “We have told you this before.”

“Yes, I understand that, but is there danger for the Ravens?”

“There’s always danger for the Ravens! You think the work they do isn’t dangerous, just because they do it with open and eager hearts, and make light of it? They won’t stop, no matter how much danger you tell them there is! So just accept it and do what you will! Not even the fires of Melkor will stop an idiot in love- or a Raven, for that matter.”

One of the Masters was so angry he knocked over his bottle of mugwort wine in his haste to storm off. The dark liquid spilled slowly across the stone floor.

In the end, Thorin and Jaërg decided to tell everyone the truth. They gathered the Ravens, and Frerin, Fíli, Kíli and Frís, all together at the very edges of the orchard of the Augury. Under a sky full of stars, Thorin gave every detail of the nightmare. When he finished, the others turned to each other hesitantly.

Finally, the Little One who loved to perch on Thorin’s shoulder spoke up.

“I know why Bilbo was smiling at the rotten apple! It’s because he likes worms! Remember? He said so!”

“My dear…” Jaërg began gently. “Bilbo said what he did about worms to Lord Elrond because he was trying to say that hobbits don’t worry about death. That they don’t mind that the fate of their bodies lies in the bellies of worms.”

Another long pause while the Little Ones looked at each other.

“OooooOOOOoooo so he doesn’t eat the worms. They’re his friends!”

Thorin could feel the tug of a smile in spite of himself.

From there, everyone started talking all at once.

“If this is Bilbo’s idea of a prank,” said Frís, “It’s weird but very effective.”

“I am never eating a Shire apple again,” Fíli said to Kíli.

“You’re never eating a Shire apple again anyway,” Frerin pointed out.

“Can you imagine if Bilbo did that the night we met? We would have run screaming out the door. He would have saved himself a lot of trouble, that’s for sure!”

“What does Bilbo need with oracle bones anyway? He must be lonely.” Thorin flinched at Fíli’s words. They were a little too close to truth for comfort. His nephews didn’t notice though, and continued. “We should go visit him in a dream and play Conkers!”

“Or wrestling!”

“Or mud-slap!”

“Troll-darts!”

“You’ll have to guess his dark name first,” Thorin pointed out.

Fíli and Kíli turned to one another, exchanging knowing smiles before they blurted out their answers.

“Boggins!”

“Troll-Snot!”

“The Great Sack of Potatoes!”

“I-Wish-I-Had-My-Handkerchief!”

“Perhaps…” Thorin’s heart ached that he couldn’t join in the jests. “We should take this more seriously…”

They must have heard the pain in his voice, for everyone quieted down.

“I think you’re underestimating the hobbit,” Frís said gently. “What I’ve gathered from your stories is that Bilbo always ends up surprising.”

Perhaps they are not wrong, Thorin thought as he knelt. In twenty-two years of dream-sharing, we have never shared a nightmare before now. Perhaps it is not so dangerous. Finally, he finally breathed Bilbo’s dark name to the Stone of Mysts.

At first he thought it was the desolation. It had the same feeling of endless openness, the view from Ravenhill of the wastelands stretching out from the western slope. But this… this was something different. Thorin struggled to place where he was, and finally realised: in all his years of wandering, he’d never been to this place. The openness of it was almost too much. It was a windswept hillside, grassy and alive, and at its crest was a tower, white and gleaming in the sun. Thorin climbed the hill and found the tower door open to him. He climbed the elegant alabaster staircase to its top, and there was Bilbo, leaning against the parapet, facing westward.

Thorin joined him at the parapet. Bilbo’s eyes were closed and he was breathing in deep the lofty winds. When he opened his eyes, he looked not at Thorin, but out over the vast expanse of hills. Thorin too, thither cast his gaze.

“What is that?” His breath was caught in his throat. A shimmering soft grey lay far out and flat upon the horizon.

“It’s the sea,” Bilbo said, not looking away from it.

The only sea Thorin had ever laid eyes upon was the Sea of Rhûn, and that was nothing like this. This was grey and silver and shrouded in a fair mist like a mirage.

“Have you been here before? How are you bringing us here?”

“I have not been here before,” Bilbo murmured beside him. “But one day I will come here, and I will cross this sea, and come find you.”

“Bilbo…”

Bilbo always ends up surprising.

“Bilbo. Why did you go down into that tunnel, and face the dragon?”

Bilbo finally turned to face him.

“I did it for you,” He said simply. He laughed a little, shaking his head. “You awakened something in me. That very first night. And by the time I was on that doorstep, it was just inevitable. I had to try.”

Thorin didn’t know what to say, in the face of such love.

“But-” he faltered, groped for words. “I was terrible to you. I was so rude.”

It wasn’t that these words hadn’t been said before. But now Thorin hung onto Bilbo’s answer like Bilbo’s life depended on it. Perhaps it did.

“You think your rudeness would have deterred me? The match can’t stop the flame.” Bilbo’s next words were quieter, and he gave that sly smile. “Besides. After dealing with you, a dragon was hardly a challenge.”

Thorin couldn’t help but laugh, and he pulled Bilbo toward him, an arm around his waist.

“How do you know I’m not just another dragon,” he whispered, his lips just barely grazing the tip of Bilbo’s ear. He meant it as a joke. But the truth of it fell hard on him, and he pulled back a bit to study Bilbo’s gaze. “A greedy creature who will just destroy you.”

Bilbo eyed him squarely, with that twitch of a frown he always had when Thorin was trying to convince him of something crazy.

“I’d rather be destroyed by you, than linger unchanging in a world where I never knew you.”

Thorin’s breath hitched. Bilbo came up on his toes, wrapped his arms around Thorin’s neck. He planted a kiss just at the corner of Thorin’s mouth- then another, on his neck just below his jaw. He pulled back to look at Thorin, and the wind tossed his hair, and there was such serenity in his eyes-

Why not, then? Thorin thought wildly. Why not let him come to me? To cross the sea and all its perils. If he can face a dragon, why not then the dispassionate Valar?

Bilbo offered his hand, and Thorin took it, and Bilbo led him down the spiraling steps of the tower onto the grassy field. And suddenly they were running, down hill and through valley, until they reached at last the water sparkling forever onward.

Thorin was out of breath, but the vast expanse of land covered felt like only a few moments. Now they were here, at a dock, with a small ship nested in the serene waters.

“Okay,” Thorin said. “Come find me.” And he kissed Bilbo, his heart thundering at the touch of their lips, at the way Bilbo opened to the kiss, putting both hands on his face and pulling him in deeper.

When they parted, breathless, Bilbo took his hand, and led him onto the boat.

Then the sea turned to fire.

“I found this on the shore.” Bilbo’s quiet voice resounded easily over the roar of the flames. He seemed unaware that the vast ocean had become a raging fire, bright with evil against a black sky from which daylight had perished. In his hands was a conch shell which he held out to Thorin. With great foreboding, Thorin took it and held it to his ear.

Sounding from within the shell were the bells that tolled when his body was interred. It was his own death knell.

At that moment, Bilbo’s eyes rolled back and he fell as though dead.

“Bilbo!” Thorin dropped the shell and caught Bilbo, and they both sank to the floor of the boat. He had his arms around the hobbit. He shook him gently.

“Bilbo. Bilbo.” He whispered, his hand on Bilbo’s cheek now. He was cold and stiff. Already his lips were turning blue.

“No-” Thorin was choking back tears. “No- Bilbo. Don’t you dare. Bilbo. Come back to me-” The sea of fire raged on all around them, waves of heat rocking the boat back and forth, but Bilbo was cold.

“Bilbo- you can’t-” Thorin was holding him to his chest now. Bilbo was motionless, one arm dangling from Thorin’s hold. “You can’t be dead. Please-”

The boat rocked back and forth, the flames climbed ever higher.

I’m in the dark now, was Thorin’s last thought. I’ll always be in the dark now.

***

Thorin woke from the dream falling forward onto the floor, sobbing, his arms holding nothing but themselves.

He’s dead. He’s dead, and it’s my fault.

His sobs were so powerful his chest burned and he fought for breath. At last he opened his eyes and saw that he was in the Myst-filled chamber.

He’s not dead. It was a dream. He might not be dead.

Thorin needed to go to Mahal. This was deeper and more dangerous than Thorin had ever imagined. But he needed to know right now whether Bilbo was alive. Wiping his tears, Thorin knelt once more before the stone.

“Akdamuthrab Kurduaz.”

The stone glowed to life. Thorin gasped. Bilbo was alive.

And then the world grew dark.

***

“Thorin. Thorin.” A whisper came to him in the darkness, distant and echoing. “Thorin. Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

Thorin opened his eyes. A cold blast of wind and snow met his face and combed frosty fingers through his hair. The grey figure of his grandfather’s statue loomed in front of him, a silent warden of his destroyed kingdom. For Thorin was upon the ramparts over the crumbled gate of the Lonely Mountain. And Bilbo was in front of him, his hands at the collar of Thorin’s brigandine.

“You… have brought us here,” Thorin whispered, tears already coming to his eyes. Bilbo was alive, and whole and hale, his brow furrowing as he was fussing with Thorin’s collar. In his hands was a long, blood-red cape that he was now fastening around Thorin’s shoulders. He tilted his head in that way that always made Thorin’s heart ache in endearment. Bilbo frowned, adjusted the fastenings once more, then nodded, satisfied.

“Why did you bring us here?” Never once had they shared a dream upon the ramparts, where Thorin so badly betrayed Bilbo. And it was clear that the power to choose where the dreamers went was in Bilbo’s hands now.

“I thought you could use some air,” He smoothed the fabric of the cape around Thorin’s shoulders. “Before your coronation.”

“My- coronation-”

“Hmm. Smaug will be there, of course, since he is your only subject, having scorched everyone else.” Bilbo sighed. “Ah well, such is the way of it. I say, the gold of your armour will look perfect, what with the gold crown and all, but your outfit is missing something… it needs more… red,” and something viscous flashed in Bilbo’s eyes for just a moment, and a shadow fell between them.

Bilbo pulled something out of his pocket.

It was a large gem, set into a brooch- oval and deep red- the deepest of reds, a dark blood-crimson, and deep within there was a flame, captured and encapsulated, but it was still flickering, licking the insides of the gem as though it were a wildfire just waiting to be released and consume all things.

“Consider it… an early wedding present.” Bilbo blushed and looked up shyly at Thorin. “It’s dragonfire- a great eye, wreathed in flame, lidless- piercing cloud and shadow, mind and soul. Great will be your reign, Thorin son of Thrain, and I shall always be by your side.”

Thorin shook his head, stepping back.

“No- Bilbo- please-” The world was blurring all around him.

Bilbo stepped forward, reaching up, and fastened the jeweled eye to Thorin’s collar.

“Please, Bilbo. This isn’t what I wanted.”

“Nonsense. This is what you’ve always wanted.”

Thorin shook his head, closing his eyes tight against the tears.

“Not like this.”

***

Chapter Text

Stay with us. You are just like us.

The bodies swayed in the water with the weeds.

Jaërg… Jaërg…

She was the only thing he could think of as the lights grew, beckoning him into their depths.

Jaërg!

Roäc closed his eyes tight, picked a direction, swam right into a corpse. He clawed against its chest, using the momentum to propel himself in what he hoped to Mahal was up. His wing got tangled in a weed. With the force of sheer panic, he wrenched himself free, and finally broke the surface. His wing was torn badly and his shoulder pulled out of its socket. Still, he hurled himself at Jiaou, his wing allowing him to flap into the air just high enough to dive at her. She was so focused, whispering her evil commands to another dwarf corpse that Roäc thought for sure he would land his blow- but at the last moment, she turned and swiped him once more out of the air and back into the water.

Roäc desperately kept his eyes closed. He felt sick to his stomach from spinning through the air a second time. He could feel his lungs filling with water. He swam wildly this way and that, but with only one working wing he could go nowhere.

And he was tired.

Stay with us. You are like us.

We will keep you company.

Roäc thrashed about, his eyes squeezed tight shut, but the grease and filth of the dead had coated his feathers. He neither floated nor sank- he was suspended in oily water, stretching seemingly forever in every direction.

Stay with us.

The whispers were so soft and kind.

Stay with us. We will take care of you.

The suspension of the water was so soothing.

Stay.

Roäc let his eyes open.

The little flames of corpses were all around him. They illuminated the dark waters alluring shades of green and blue. The grey faces were almost comforting, bobbing their heads up and down, their white eyes staring at nothing. And the flames, so soft, so gentle, so beguiling. Roäc wanted one of his own.

Jaërg- was his heart’s last whisper.

Jaërg. Jaërg. Jaërg.

Something closed around him, and he knew nothing.

***

When Roäc woke, it was to flames- but they glowed like true fire, and radiated warmth. Roäc was out of the water, somewhere dark except these flames. He tried to call out but felt a great pain in his lungs.

“Your chest is full of water. Cough it up.”

Like magic, Roäc was suddenly coughing up all the water in his lungs.

“Jaërg,” He said in a ragged, desparate whisper. He risked opening his eyes again. Three fires there were, surrounding him calmly. And between two of them was Jiaou, stretched out without a care, grooming one paw.

Rage burned again in Roäc but when he tried to lunge at her, all he could do was cough up more water.

“You’re too weak to fight me,” she said coolly. “Wait until you heal. Then you can fight me, if you must.”

The world was spinning.

“Where am I?” Roäc rasped. It seemed he was in a cave, deep within where no great wind reached. Roäc was wheezing but at least he could breathe. Every part of his body ached, but the worst was his shoulder. It was healing, he could feel it- if he were a living Raven, his wing would never be the same. Of course, he’d also be dead twice over.

“We’re in a cave in the cliff of jagged rocks away from the marshland of corpses. The Men call it Emyn Muil, if I recall. I had a dwarf pull you out of the fen, and bring you here, out of the cold and away from the lights.”

Roäc coughed again, uncontrollably for a moment.

“You rescued me?”

The Cat stopped grooming her paw and met his gaze with an unreadable expression.

“Your fire was dying.”

Roäc couldn’t understand, couldn’t think. Finally, exhaustion overcame him.

***

He didn’t know how long he slept, but when he awoke, the three fires were still there and Jiaou was grooming the same damn paw- but Roäc at least felt a bit better. He was no longer wheezing, either. But he was so tired. He lay there for a while, appreciating the feeling of air going in and out of his lungs, and at the same time, watching Jiaou with hate and suspicion. She paid him no mind, only bit at something under her claw.

“Why did you rescue me?” Roäc finally croaked, having no energy other than to just lie there.

“I told you. Your fire was dying. And it was my fault. I can’t have that.”

“What does that mean?”

Jiaou stretched out a paw and arched her back.

“Why won’t your kings let me into the Realms of the Dead?”

“We could never!” Roäc yelled. “Why do you want to go there?! Why do you haunt my kings?!”

“How did you find me, anyway? That was more than mere luck.”

“Why were you desecrating the dead??!” Roäc’s yell erupted into a fit of coughing.

Jiaou looked away, and went back to grooming, this time the other front paw. When Roäc’s coughing subsided, she spoke.

“It was a longshot, I admit. I was desperate. I thought perhaps I would be lucky, and find the dying fire among the dead that I could reach. I must do everything in my power, you see.”

“No, I don’t see- Jiaou-” Roäc sighed, closed his eyes. He’d wanted a truce this whole time. Now was his chance, and he hated the idea. He swallowed down his burning anger.

“Queen Jiaou-”

“I am no Queen.”

“Jiaou.” He tried to lift his head, but immense pain shot through him. He gave up. He’d have to negotiate lying there, completely vulnerable.

“You say you have to let me heal. What are we going to do once I heal? Fight?”

“I’m not going to fight you. I’ll knock you senseless with one blow and leave, and you will never find me again.”

“How dare you!” Roäc exploded. “I swear on the fires of Mahal I will never stop looking for you! I will find you and fight you forever!”

“Do not fight me. You cannot fight me. Just go and live your afterlife. Enjoy the croons of your loved ones, and leave me to my work. If you fight me, I could destroy you. “

“Not if I destroy you first!” He knew it was an empty threat, but he couldn’t help himself. “We’ve crossed a line, you and I, that’s clear to me now. You need me, otherwise you’d have left me behind with the dead.”

“I don’t need you,” Jiaou said quietly, not looking at him.

“Then leave me! Why don’t you leave me now, if you don’t need me?”

Jiaou looked stricken, as her eyes flicked back to him.

“Your fire is still dying.”

Roäc moaned. “What are you talking about.”

Jiaou glared at him impatiently.

“Go home, Roäc son of Carc. Go home to your Jaërg, whose name you spoke so loud in your heart the very mist heard it, and echoed it to the stars. Go home to your loved one, where your fire is safe, and leave me to my work.”

“I can’t,” Roäc spat. “I can’t go home. I don’t know why you need me, but I need you as well. I can’t kill you, and perhaps my people cannot even stop you. But if we talk, perhaps we can resolve this.”

“Talk,” Jiaou scoffed, her ochre eyes bright with disdain. “All birds do is talk.”

“You are stuck with me Jiaou,” Roäc crowed, and let out another painful cough at the end of it. “At least talk to me, since you must stay. Tell me why you want to enter the Realms of the Dead.”

“A fire is dying. I must reach it.”

“What do you mean?! Speak plainly!”

“I don’t speak!” Jiaou yowled, and bunched up as though wanting to attack. She bared her teeth, hissing. “I am not supposed to speak, other than to say your fire is dying.”

Roäc thought quickly. “Okay, so… you are breaking the rules, to speak to me. Whose rules?”

Jiaou rolled her eyes, stood up and paced around, gave an agitated shake of her fur.

“I am not breaking the rules,” She sulked, then finally turned back to him, glaring and giving a huff. “Are you sure you cannot just go home?”

“If my fire dies it’s your fault, so you say. So help me. Because I cannot go home, until you leave the Realms of the Dead alone forever.”

Jiaou glared at him, long and hard before something changed within her, and her gaze softened just the slightest.

“Fine. What do you want to know.”

“Everything.”

“Everything?” Jiaou’s lip curled incredulously. “Two thousand years, I’ve walked upon this earth! Tell me at least what you already know, and we can start there.”

Roäc tried lifting his head again, to no avail. He shifted, clawed at nothing with his talons.

“Fine,” He relented. “You are called Jiaou, sometimes Queen Jiaou or the Spy. You have nine generals, and you are immortal, and can walk through many realms, and command corpses, apparently, and even create fire, if these flames around me are truly yours. You have devoted servants among Cats, but many also hate you. You’re cursed, though we don’t know why, or how, or with what, and you’ve spied in the dreams of Ravenkind for nearly two hundred years, and have been tormenting my kings in their dreams for decades now, demanding to be let into the Realms of the Dead. Is that a good enough start?”

Jiaou looked about ready to snarl, but she turned away, stalked about the cavern a bit. Wherever she went, Roäc’s eyes followed her.

“Yes,” She finally said, and flopped back down in front of him. “I suppose it is.” Her eyes grew distant, and she stared long and deep into the flame beside her.

“I don’t know how to describe it. We Cats are not like you- we do not care about words or thoughts or past or future. Only the spoiled and undignified among us gossip. Therefore we’re not storytellers. I never thought I’d be telling my story to anyone, much less a Raven who has named himself my enemy. But now that you’re here, and I must speak, I suppose I do wish to be understood. A rare thing, you must know. We Cats never care about the opinions of others. But… how could you understand, if you were never there? So much of what was beautiful and glorious of this Age has faded, and though I should never have lived to see its passing, and certainly would never have cared… still, when I think about it, I cannot help but feel sorrow. We Cats… we aren’t great at thinking. We live in the moment. It’s how we’re so great at landing on our feet, it’s what allows us to be endlessly curious. But… if I could trade my curiosity forever, and have back my innocence..”

Jiaou narrowed her eyes as she looked in pain at the fire, before finally turning away and starting her story again.

“Osgiliath at the dawn of this age was the jewel of the West. The sun-baked stone steps of the Bowl, the wide airy bridges of water so clear you could watch the fish swim in glittering patterns all day. The fragrant spices so fun to sniff, children’s puppies to wrestle, bowls of cream and sweet pats on the head. Drapes off market booths the merchants would let us claw, and gardens full of mice to hunt. But it was the people we loved most, the Two-legs. The race of Men, they call themselves. We loved them dearly, for we were so curious about them. In those days we never thought about good and evil. We only ever cared about play, rest, and adventure. But the Men cared, and I think that was what fascinated us, though we couldn’t name it. Their bright armour, their proud stance, and the way they sank so deep in their thoughts, gazed so far off, made war and peace among each other. All those beautiful things they made with those clever hands of theirs, from the smallest of kitten toys to the grandest stone towers. This city was loved- it was made with love, it was made to be loved. It still pains me that it could not last.

“It began with Beruthiel, of course. Before her, the struggle of Men with good and evil was unknown to us. It was just something we saw in their eyes and words and deeds but had no name for. Beruthiel was different from the others. She didn’t struggle with good and evil. She was completely given over to evil, a servant of a Great Shadow, and her darkness surrounded her like a cloud. To this day I don’t know what made her that way. Nothing could make her happy, though she was the queen and lived in the great Bowl, and her husband was kind and the people wished to love her. She was so bitter. And she hated Cats. That was our undoing, the fact that she hated us. How could anyone hate Cats? We were profoundly curious about that. She scowled and hissed at us. That was enough to scare most Cats off, but there was a handful of us who became only more curious. We started to follow her around. We should have known better. How could we have known? And yet… there was a moment. A turning point. It was our undoing. It was the moment when mere curiosity became pleasure taken at her discomfort. It began to amuse us, how she hated and feared us. Then came greed for more amusement. We followed her constantly. We snuck into her chambers. We watched her from the shadows, knowing our glowing eyes would terrify her. We even pounced on her, jumping from above and landing on her shoulders, delighting in her screams even as she tore us off of her and threw us to the ground. And I was the worst offender. I became the ringleader, coming up with the cleverest schemes, all new ways of doing evil. I was the worst. And I also was the first one that she captured. I deserved it.

“It was not long before she twisted me, in her tortures. We were drawn to each other, unable to get enough of hurting each other. Eventually she got under my skin, and broke my mind, and I felt a sick love for her, and would do anything for her. I learned her language, and taught it to my gang- my generals, as you call them. She captured and tortured each of them in turn, and they became her spies, going out into the city to spread her fear and hatred among Men. And in a final evil twist, she set me to spy on my own followers, turning us against each other in a vicious cycle of malevolence.

”She was so terrible to her subjects, she was eventually banished, and went by sea back to the city of her birth, and we were banished with her and put on her ship. Only we never made it to her city. She threw us overboard, one by one, and watched us drown.

“We awoke in a cavern of a cliffside overlooking the sea in which we had drowned. A maiden- she looked like an elf- was with us in the cavern, and she spoke to us. She revealed that she was one of the Aratar, and her name was Nûri Qalmë-Tári, the Mistress of Death, the Sighing One. In her mercy she bid Ulmo Lord of the Waters to rescue our bodies and bring them there. Then she brought us back to life, and told us of our doom.

“ ‘You have entered into a terrible evil, far beyond any your kind were ever meant to know. For this, your only fate can be to be cast into the Void, with Melkor the Betrayer, for you in life were his servant, carrying out unquestioningly his will.’

“By then, we had known the terror of drowning and death, and that already was enough to wake us up to the evil that we had done. But to be told our fate was to be cast into the Void was too much. We mewled and yowled our pain and begged for a way to redeem ourselves.

“And so she told us many things, so that finally we could understand what had been done to us. Do you know of the Secret Fire?”

Roäc managed to shake his head. The pain was less this time.

“It is not a thing much known by mortals. It is the fire within each of us, the desire to do good. It is our passion, our love for life. It is our desire to see things grow and renew, and to add to the beauty of the world. The Secret Fire is our hope, and when our fire dies, we fall into despair, and become a tool of evil. And if we fall far enough, we become a servant of the Dark Lord who rules the Void. Beruthiel, lost in a cycle of darkness and despair became twisted, and without knowing it, became a tool to carry out the Dark Lord’s will. And being twisted by her, so did we. Our fires went out, and we would have perished, but not for the Lady of Tears. But she could not simply restore us to our innocence, as though we had done nothing wrong. No- we needed to work to redeem ourselves. And so we were given this task: until the last of the Great Shadow departed forever from Middle Earth, we must find those whose Secret Fire was dying, and we must warn them.

And because in life we had been reduced such that it was all we knew, we must warn them by tormenting them.”

“You are like the Dark Maiar of Old, warning of the Doom of the World. Messengers of darkness striking terror into the hearts of all who see you.”

Jiaou’s eyes flared bright. “That is it exactly. We were given great power to carry out our task, on par with the powers of the Maiar. We could walk in the Forest Realm of Secrets, so that we could listen for those words of despair whispered in the dark. Then, we could find those whisperers in their dreams, for we can walk in the Dream Realm as well. We were given fire, to remind them of their fire. And in the dream realm, we grow ever more disturbing in our actions until we are tormenting them. Anything to show them that they are on a path to evil. Sometimes we find them in the Living Realm. It is not just despair we look for. Greed, and pleasure at others’ pain, like we ourselves had- fear, anger, malice, all of these. We use darkness to point towards light. Only when the Great Shadow is gone shall our work be finished- though there will always be some darkness in the world. But that is the task the Mistress of Death gave us, and we accepted it gratefully.

“So you see the work I am bound to. We cannot reach every fire, and we cannot save every fire that we do reach. Many continue on in their path. Once their fire has died, there’s nothing more we can do. Many we do save, and they find their way back to burning bright.

“But one day, many years ago- we heard the whisperings of a fire we could not reach. We did not understand why. He had been lingering on the edge, his fire nearly dying, for many years. But then he disappeared. We had gone into his dreams. We had seen that he dreamed of Ravens. So we started to go into the dreams of Ravens, searching for clues of where he went. We knew we were causing strife among your kind once you started finding us in the Living Realm and spying on us. We employed spies among Cats to help us- first, just to evade you, then to help us find the missing fire. Then, about twenty years ago, there was a strange… shiver, a shift of sorts. The whispers of the lost dying fire grew stronger, and we could tell that he was in a Realm of the Dead.

“Never before have we had to concern ourselves with the Realms of the Dead. Men who die- well, I cannot say what the fate of their fire is when they die. It is a Gift, a secret to everyone but the One. And elves get their fire restored when they are remade in the Halls of Waiting, and dwarves have their fire restored to them in the Mountains of Mahal where they are remade. But this one- his fire wasn’t restored. It was still dying, even in the Realm where it should have been reforged. He is a dwarf, you see.”

Roäc could feel his heart beating faster. Jiaou continued.

“So. When we realised this, we started to enter the dreams of your Kings, asking and then demanding to be let into the Realms of the Dead. We need to find him. As long as a fire flickers near death, our work isn’t done. There are so many flames to look after. But every single one in danger that we know of, we must do all we can to save it.”

“The one you seek… is a dwarf?”

“Now you understand why I was desperate, and sought to wake the dead dwarrow under the marshes. In the Living Realm I can see the fire of any living creature simply by looking in their eyes. But the eyes of the dead are filmy, and I could see nothing. The Secret Fire actually lives in the heart. So I hoped I could see it in their hearts.”

Roäc shuddered, wanting to vomit.

“What you were doing was unspeakable.”

“I’ve lived many, many years doing unspeakable things. Still. I was desperate. And I am sorry. And I will make amends with those dead dwarrow.”

“And this Secret Fire isn’t related to the flames of those corpses underwater?”

“No, never!” Jiaou fell back as though struck, truly rattled for the first time that Roäc had seen. “That is a fell light! They are cursed, for their loved ones can never light the funeral pyre for them. So they are trying to light a pyre for themselves.”

Roäc shuddered at the memory of the candle he wanted to light.

“So,” Jiaou said, standing and shaking herself off, then puffing out her chest in a businesslike manner. “Now you know my whole story, and everything I intend to do. Will your Kings let me into the Realms of the Dead? Or do I have to destroy your Doors and torment Ravenkind forever?”

“All this strife, for one soul.”

“One soul is every soul.”

Roäc drew in a shaky breath, and considered this.

***

Chapter Text

The fire burned low and quiet, and the cast iron kettle hung over it, heavy as the air in Thorin’s lungs. An eternity came and went, and it let out a low whistle, melodious in the stillness and the silence. Thorin lifted it off its hook, and poured its water into the teapot on his table: a ceramic piece that Thorin had molded and fired in the kiln himself, in voluptuous hobbit style, and had painted across its belly wild windswept roses. In the pot itself were fennel, cloves, cinnamon, ginger, coriander. Thorin let the tea steep, then finally poured it into a cup. Steam curled into the darkness like a question. It was midnight.

Thorin had been to Mahal. In his forge leaned three towering stone tablets against the wall into which he was carving Cirth of ancient make far beyond the rune-lore of Thorin. Mahal breathed upon them, one by one, and the dust was released into the air in spiraling plumes, and the runes glowed to life and hummed deep and low like the bottom of the earth.

“What you do is for you to decide. I cannot take that from you, nor can I reveal to you the nature of the powers at work.”

“If only this decision was never mine to make in the first place.” Thorin looked down at his empty hands. “Death should have been the ultimate boundary. I should never have had that power. I’ve abused my power.”

Mahal paused in his work, turned his stone-grey eyes to Thorin.

“You have never entered the Dream Realm frivolously.”

“I have not- always- been judicious-”

There were nights when Thorin tossed and turned, driven crazy by the memory of his hands buried in Bilbo’s hair, his mouth on his, the interlock of their fingers as they pushed and pulled against each other, a tangle under worn blankets or soft velvet or on cool earth, under an unblinking moon. His moan as Thorin pressed a long slow kiss against him, as hands wandered the length of skin, lingered along secrets that ran like veins of molten gold through depths and darkness. It was the kind of wandering that would never make him homesick- it was the most exquisite exile.

On those nights, Thorin tossed and turned until finally he got out of bed and found some work for his hands to do, preferably hammering something raw and scorching into something beautiful, with the roar of the hot forge to drown out his thoughts.

But there were other nights, when the distance between him and Bilbo seemed to suffocate Thorin, when he could feel the finality of death, the immeasurable distance between him and the hobbit, and ninety or sixty or thirty or even three days’ wait was worse than the wait of all the ages to come. In those moments, the memory of the most delicate of touches seemed to burn in Thorin’s hands. The first time Bilbo rested his head on Thorin’s shoulder and slipped his hand into Thorin’s. The gentle tug of his sleeve. And the memory of Bilbo’s smile- the glow of moonlight or sunlight or firelight upon his brow- the memory of his laughter-

It was like his heart was being choked. Like the wind was knocked out of him, and everything beautiful about life was also searing pain, and Thorin understood why beauty was also called terror.

Sometimes, on nights like those, Thorin’s will broke, and he found himself in front of the Stone of Mysts, whispering Bilbo’s dark name once more.

That didn’t make it right.

Mahal took an excruciatingly long moment to answer, staring back at the runes in front of him.

“And now you fear you have put your hobbit in real danger.”

“Please.” Thorin had dropped to his knees. “Tell me how to heal him.”

“That, my child, I do not know.”

“Is there any way you can help me?”

Mahal breathed upon another rune, and it glowed to life.

“I created you, I gave you a heart, I gave you a soul that walks the bridge between death and the eternal. The One allowed you to come awake, and gave you the power to make choices. Beyond that, this life is yours.”

“But how do I keep from hurting him?”

“You can’t. You love him.” Mahal turned to Thorin, offered his hand. Thorin took it, and Mahal brought him to his feet effortlessly, as though Thorin were weightless.

“Love without sorrow,” The Valar gave a soft sigh. “It is perhaps beyond hope, until the remaking of the world. Do you dare to love, knowing that you will hurt, and be hurt? Yet we created you so that you may love. I cannot help you, Thorin my child. The price I paid, in begging Eru to breathe life into you, was that I had to let you live.”

So. Here Thorin was, night after night- in his hands, fire and metal; in his throat, everything he wished he could say. The number of days was dwindling before Bilbo would be expecting him. Thorin had no time, and no idea what to do.

The tea cooled as Thorin stared into the emptiness where the steam and darkness met.

He almost didn’t hear the tapping on the door: it mimicked the fire spitting and crackling. But when Thorin recognized it, he rushed to the door.

“Roäc!”

The Raven flew up to meet him upon his arm, flapping vigorously and squawking with joy. Thorin couldn’t help but laugh, and would have embraced him if he could. Instead he stroked the feathers on his crest, and Roäc responded with a playful nip.

“How I have missed you!”

“It has been many years, O Thorin Beloved King of Dwarves!”

Thorin blushed at the flourish. He brought Roäc to a stool by the hearth. Roäc eyed the fire uncomfortably.

“Here,” Thorin remembered suddenly, watching Roäc’s reaction to the fire. He offered his arm and brought Roäc up to a metal sculpture he’d made after Roäc’s last visit: a tree branch clamped to the mantle above the hearth, the branches spaced perfectly for Roäc’s three feet. Then he pulled a plum from a bowl next to him. “From Yavanna’s garden. Let us settle in. There is much to say.” He grabbed his tea and pipe and stuffed its bowl while Roäc ate the plum with pleasure.

“Have you just arrived? You cannot know how glad I am to see you.”

“That feeling is shared more than you know. I have urgent news. Will you hear it? My tale stretches long.”

“I will hear anything from you.”

Roäc was almost finished with his tale when there was a knock on the door. Thorin bellowed “Go away!” at first, but when the knocking continued, he stood and answered the door. Frís, Frerin, Fíli and Kíli all toppled in.

“Thorin! Roäc is back! We’ve just heard!”

“We’re going to the Augury to see him!”

“Oh! There he is!”

“Ha! We know which dwarf is Roäc’s favourite now!”

“Peace! He has urgent news. Leave us be.”

“It is well, Thorin King- they can stay to hear my tale. It is good to see all of your faces.”

The dwarves settled in and Roäc repeated his tale, with many a horrified gasp from his listeners.

“So did you come to a compromise?”

“She agreed to withdraw her demands on our kings and give up her pursuit of the Doors to our Realm- in exchange for my promise to do everything in my power to find the dwarf in question. I am to bring him to the Chamber of Mysts and have him meet with her in the Dream Realm. She even told me her dark name.”

“A great risk, on her part.”

Now you can go and haunt her dreams!”

“Somehow I don’t think she’s terribly concerned about that. Besides. We Ravens don’t use the Dream Stone.”

“How does she even know her dark name? Most creatures have no idea about it. We didn’t even know other creatures had dark names until we came here, and we’re supposed to know all about them.”

“Well, I mean she’s had two thousand years to figure it out.”

“Not that she gives herself a lot of free time.”

“And I thought shoeing horses was drudgery!”

“So the first thing you must do is find this dwarf. Do you have any idea who he might be?”

“I have a handful of clues- the first is that, when he lived, he often dreamed of Ravens.”

“That could be anyone! Durin’s Folk have the Ravens of Ravenhill, the Firebeards have the Hollowbold Ravens…”

“And even the Stiffbeards east of Rhûn have the Gatchi Ravens of deep blue feather. What are the other clues?”

“Jiaou said she found out that he was in the Realms of the Dead twenty-six years ago. She said there was a ‘shiver’ of sorts, and she knew he was dead.”

“That’s the year I died,” Thorin heard himself whisper.

There was a long, awkward moment of silence. Finally, Frís spoke.

“You aren’t the only dwarf who died that year.”

Fíli and Kíli’s heads suddenly snapped up.

“You!” Fíli pointed at Kíli.

“You!!” Kíli pointed at Fíli.

“It’s you!”

“No it’s you!”

“Your fire is dying!”

“No your fire is dying!”

“Boys!” Frís bellowed, and they jumped to attention.

“Somehow I don’t think either of you are in danger of your fire dying.”

They all turned back to look at Thorin.

“I-”

“Twenty-six years ago was not when the dwarf died,” Roäc interjected. “It’s just the year Jiaou realised he was dead.”

“Do you know when he died then?”

“It would have been the year he disappeared beyond her reach. It was 177 years ago.”

There was a pause as everyone looked at each other.

“That is a long time for this Cat to have been spying on Raven dreams,” Frerin finally broke the silence.

“Like I said. We’ve been in conflict with the Cats for quite a while.”

“Roäc,” Thorin said, a grim feeling rising in his chest. “Say it again. How many years ago was it?”

“177 years ago. The year 2790.”

“I know who it is. The dwarf Jiaou is looking for. Beyond all doubt.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s Thror. It has to be.”

There was a moment of tense silence. Then everyone started talking at once.

“Dashat,” Frís finally spoke over the crossfire. “How can you be sure?”

“I am certain it is him. He has more cause to be tempted into despair than any dwarf who has perhaps ever lived. And that is the year he died. You said his fire had been dying for a while, even before he disappeared beyond Jiaou’s reach. How long was that?”

“Many years, she said. Since 2760.”

“Hold on a second,” Fíli interrupted. “How did she know his fire was still dying, if she could no longer find him in dreams?”

“She could still hear his whispers in the dark.”

Silence for a moment, until Kíli finally broke it.

“Can I just say this Cat sounds incredibly creepy?”

“Wait a minute. 2760 is not the year the dragon came to Erebor.”

“No, it wouldn’t be that year,” Thorin said grimly. “Thror was sick with gold for many years before. That is the year his greed started to twist him. I was young, but… I remember.”

“This is ill news,” Roäc murmured. Thorin looked at him, drew in a sharp breath.

“Roäc! You cannot go down into the Abyss. There is no way I can let you.”

“I must-”

“No. You cannot go. I’ll go.”

“Irak-adad, no!”

“Dashat!!”

“I’ll go,” Frerin stood, shoulders back and hand on his heart. “Long have I dwelt here, and yet I’ve never tried to find him, never suspected that he could be in danger, despite all of the signs.”

“How could you have? There aren’t any signs. The Abyss is deep and dark, not evil!”

“Thror isn’t the only dwarf who has sought solitude there,” Frís added.

“It cannot be you, nadai’-” Thorin raised a hand in protest. “I am his heir.”

“What does that matter? So am I!”

“We’ll come with you, Irak-adad!” It was Fíli and Kíli’s turn to jump up. “We are his heirs as well! We owe it to the line of Durin!”

“No,” Thorin said fiercely. “You must stay for the same reason Frerin must stay. You must look after Dís.”

Frerin, Fíli and Kíli all stopped short.

“Thorin-”

“You were always her favourite brother anyway, nadai’. I know you still visit her as often as is safe. And you, unlike me, manage to visit her without starting an argument.”

Frerin, Fíli and Kíli all lowered their gazes in a stunned and sorrowful silence that lasted a full minute.

“She doesn’t love me more than you,” Frerin’s soft voice finally cut through the silence. “If she favours me, it’s only because she had less time with me.”

“Still.” Thorin’s throat was tight. “You all must stay behind, and take care of her, along with Víli. Everyone she’s ever loved is dead. You must look after her. I must go, and alone.”

“It is my task!” Roäc suddenly squawked, but Thorin was undaunted.

“Pass this burden onto me. I’ll not let you down.”

“Thorin, no! It could take years!”

“Exactly why you cannot go! You cannot live that long without the sky.”

“I’m not living, don’t forget. I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t be fine!” Thorin finally jumped to his feet as well, facing Roäc eye to eye. “You just went through a terrible ordeal in an abyss of another kind. I’ll not risk your fire dying.”

“I have no choice-”

“Please. I will go in your stead. I see better than you in the dark. I can hold fire, and carry weapons, and it is my grandfather. If anyone can convince him to meet Jiaou, it’s me.”

“But- Bilbo-”

Everyone in the room went completely still at that. Thorin looked away, unable to meet anyone’s gaze.

“I’ve not had the chance to tell you. Things have turned ill with him. Perhaps… perhaps it is better this way.”

“What happened between you two?”

Thorin couldn’t bear to say it, in front of everyone there. He turned away.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave that story for others to tell. Your One knows the tale in its entirety. Roäc, please-” He turned back to the Raven. “Will you let me do this for you? I would gift you with the sky, and ease you of your burdens, as you eased mine for so many years. I would see you rested, and that darkness in your eyes healed. Please. Please- everyone leave us. So that Roäc may tell me the Cat’s dark name, and send me on my way.”

***

Thorin didn’t have a finished flower- just a bud on a twisted stem with one jagged leaf. He brought it anyway, and was surprised at how tight his chest was, placing it into Yavanna, Queen of Life’s hands. Evening was stretched out against the sky and clouds were pinned to the horizon like moths. Snow was dusting the wild roses, tall and arching overhead on their path. The moon had risen, waxing and hanging in the east by its swell.

Yavanna had only to glance at the flower sculpture before her eyes snapped up in worry.

“Something is wrong.”

“I’ve come to say goodbye. I regret not having a more complete gift to give you.”

“I’m not worried about your gift, I’m worried about you. Where could you be going, that you have to say goodbye?”

“I go into the Abyss, the depths of your husband’s realm. It will take a few years to complete my errand, at least.”

“Your errand is grave, indeed. Is there any strength I can lend you?”

“Only that I beg you look after Bilbo, if you can.”

“I will. You have my word, I’ll do what I can.”

Thorin bowed, and turned to go.

“Thorin,” She called after him. He stopped.

“I was going to wait to tell you until I knew more. But since you are leaving, I will tell you now. I have found him.”

Thorin’s heart seemed to turn to ice.

“...him?” He asked, throat dry.

“The one you asked me to find for Bilbo. The one Bilbo could love. I have found him.”

“You have found him,” Thorin repeated, not comprehending. His body turned toward her against his will.

“I cannot see him yet,” She continued. “I can only feel that he is near. I’m sure Bilbo could not love him, if he weren’t worthy of Bilbo’s love.”

“And how I regret ever asking for him,” Thorin closed his eyes tight against the pain. His heart seemed to be slowly dropping through his body and sinking into the moist, fragrant earth.

“I don’t have to bring them together,” Yavanna said, and the wind loosed petals from her hair. “There is not much I can do, as I have told you. I have little sway over fate and love. But I did as you asked, and I searched for the one he could love, and I have found him. They might never even meet, but… fate will have its chance. When it does, I can point the way to him. But I don’t have to do it. Do you wish for me not to?”

“No-” Thorin held up his hand, even as he sunk to his knees. “No- I do wish it. I wish for Bilbo to be happy. I wish for him to be free of me. He deserves better than me. Someone who can love him in life, spend his life with him. Even though I hate him for it.”

Yavanna took his hand in hers, and brought him to his feet. When she took her hand away, three stalks of lavender were in his fingers.

“They will never lose their scent,” She said. “Every scent that reminds you of him- honey clove, apple, all of it- is woven there for you. Do not lose heart when you are in the depths. Love is never lost, much though it seems in these dark days. Just because Bilbo can love again, doesn’t mean that your love was not meant to be, or that it doesn’t have a purpose greater than you can know.”

“It is greater than me indeed, for my jealousy shows just how small I am.”

“That is not true, and you know it. Despite your feelings, still you set him free.”

“If this is comfort, I cannot bear any more of it. Pray let me part with you now, and have my final words with Bilbo.”

She walked with him back to the Door to his Realm by way of the orchard. She took a scarf from her hair and bundled it full of plums.

“For your journey They will never spoil. I know you do not need to eat. But when the memory of life seems far from you, these will give you strength.”

Thorin bowed his gratitude.

“And here-” Yavanna held out her hands and made a strange hissing sound. Suddenly a dozen cicadas flew from all directions into her hands.

“They’re whispering,” Thorin realized.

Yavanna's eyes met his, bright with conspiracy. The cicadas’ wings all fluttered in her hands until they became a long flute made of rosewood.

“To give power to your breath.”

“Thank you,” Thorin rasped as his hands closed around the flute.

“And Thorin- bring a hammer, and a chisel.”

Thorin nodded hesitantly.

“One more thing,” She called out to him as his hand was on the knob of his door. Thorin turned around. “My husband will not be able to hear you in the Abyss, should you cry for help. So think twice before you draw your sword.”

***

The wood of the dock creaked old and dark beneath Thorin’s steps. Above, the moon hung low dipped in blood over Erebor deep in the distance. Bilbo waited at the end the dock, a boat rocking in the restless waters. In his hands was a rope for the boat. It was looped like a noose.

“Shall we look upon the dragon’s eye below? His scales still glitter with gold beneath the surface.”

Thorin swallowed hard, his throat thick. It was true- beyond Bilbo shimmering like a mirage, Smaug’s body lie coiled in the shallows his scales chinked with his coveted coins. Thorin gently took the rope from Bilbo’s hands, looped it back over the dock’s post. He took Bilbo’s hands in his own. A shadow gathered on the horizon upon the slopes of Erebor, like a great grey monster of smoke.

Thorin brought his gaze back to Bilbo, drinking in the dark of his eyes.

“I cannot go with you, and I wish that you won’t go. Bilbo- I have a journey of my own I must take- and where I am to go, I cannot come to you.”

Bilbo looked at him, almost unseeing.

“I have no worry about that. I am coming to you. I’m leaving soon enough. I’ll come to you, Thorin. Don’t worry. I’m nearly on my way already.”

“No, Bilbo- do not come to me, please. You must live your life here. You must forget about me. We are on a path to madness, you and I like this.”

“What madness, Thorin?” Bilbo let out a shrill laugh. “I want to be with you. What is so crazy about that?”

“Don’t come to me- please. Please hear me.”

“I’m coming to you, and that’s that. I’m not afraid of any peril! It’ll be fine! The sea will be as calm as Bag End, and my ship will be steady as the evening star. Do not fear.”

“Bilbo-” Thorin grasped his shoulders, strong yet gentle. “I have something I must tell you. In the year after my death, when I despaired of ever bringing you comfort, I begged the goddess Yavanna to send you a new love. She has found that new love for you now.”

Bilbo went completely still, stared at Thorin uncomprehending.

“I can’t- I can’t love anyone else. I’ll never love anyone but you.”

“You can, and you will. You must. I cannot keep you, I cannot reduce you to this. Please, Bilbo. Take your heart from me, and give it to someone new. Be free of me.”

Bilbo remained one more moment in shock, before his face twisted into rage.

“How dare you!” He screamed. The waters trembled at his words, and the monster of smoke far upon the mountain turned to look. “How dare you make that choice for me! It’s my choice! I chose you! Damn you, Thorin! I chose you!” He shoved Thorin so hard Thorin faltered, stepped back.

“But- I died-”

“I don’t care! I died with you!” Bilbo buried his face in his hands, and shook with silent sobs.

“No… Bilbo…” Thorin stepped toward him. “You still have life, you still have hope… you have someone out there, waiting to love you.”

Bilbo’s head snapped back up, his eyes hard and glinting.

“I don’t care! How dare you play god with me! I’m not a toy for you to just give away! Curse you, and Yavanna who helped you! Damn you and curse you! I’ve never heard of anything so hard and cruel in all my life!” He shoved Thorin again, so hard he tripped and fell backwards, into the dark waters of the dragon’s corpse.

“Thorin!” Bilbo gasped, reaching for him as he fell. He could see Bilbo’s look of horror, his mouth forming a wail of no as Thorin was plunged into the water, as the body of the dragon woke up all around him, his fiery eye fixed on Thorin, already coiling his tail around Thorin's body in a death-squeeze.

***

Thorin woke to the pale cool mist and the flicker and sputter of the white stone in front of him. He was shaking all over. He was covered in sweat. He ached as he came to his feet.

“Farewell, my Heart-Thief-” It came out as a choked whisper. He pressed his lips to his fingers, his fingers to the stone. Tears streamed freely down his face. Eventually he wiped them away with his sleeve, and turned to go.

He had a long, dark journey ahead of him.

***

Chapter Text

Thirteen years later.

There it was, as always. The tower atop the windswept hill, bright as the morning. Bilbo climbed the hill. What else could he do? He reached the tower, circled it once, tracing his hand along its girth. Ancestral markings lingered in the cracks and seams. Bilbo climbed the stone tower, counting the steps as he went. When he reached the top, no one was there. He was always alone.

The sea in the distance was a haze of grey, as though a grim twilight had painted it and the afternoon sun had no power to restore it to blue. But Bilbo knew, either way, it would turn to fire. These things always ended in fire.

Bilbo sighed, and wished he could stay just a moment longer at the parapet, gaze lingering off to the sea, remembering a time when he was joined here by one other. But no- the dream always pulled him, back down the spiraling steps and down the hill. He took one last breath of the fresh air atop the glittering tower. At the bottom of the path, he knew what waited for him.

Bilbo gasped- his eyes popped open. He was on the road- well, just off the road slightly, taking shelter under a lush dogwood tree not yet in bloom. The rain had gotten much worse- it must have been the thunder that woke him.

He was on his way to Brandy Hall- very, very reluctantly. He almost never went to Buckland, though he had family out that way. Too many people, too many tongues wagging, fingers poking at his frayed clothes, at his too-thin belly, at the book in his hand. Pointless, absurd, excessive talk. And then stunned, offended silence whenever Bilbo did bother to open his mouth. Nothing he said was ever correct anymore. Well. It didn’t matter. There wouldn’t be much talk on this occasion. One of his cousins had died in an accident. Bilbo felt a pang of guilt- it was Drogo, a fine, upright, and perfectly proper hobbit, and had always reminded Bilbo of a young Bungo. Drogo was a Baggins and no one would ever mistake him for anything else. But he was also truly kind, endlessly patient in a way that Bilbo could never be. And like Bungo, he’d also made a surprising match- not a Took, but a Brandybuck was very nearly a Took, and the two families intermarried so much the names might as well be interchangeable. And the Brandybucks, unlike the Tooks, dared to make home right up against the edge of the Old Forest. Queer folk, everyone in Hobbiton muttered, shaking their heads.

Bilbo rubbed his eyes, ran his hands through soaking wet hair. Guilty as he felt that he hadn’t paid more attention to his kind and gentle cousin while he was living, Bilbo wished he could skip this whole affair. Buckland made him uneasy. It wasn’t just Brandy Hall. Maybe it was that anything east made him uneasy these days. Anything east, and anything west. In his heart, east would always point to the Mountain. And west…

Bilbo closed his eyes again, wandering the landscape of his recurring dream now with his waking mind. He could see the tower, clear as day- the grassy hillside, the soft sea- he could see Thorin, eyes full of foreboding. Thorin spoke of fire but Bilbo hadn’t seen it. Not until he was gone, and Bilbo found himself again and again in that dream alone.

How was it that he could go there in dreams? Bilbo had never been to Tower Hills in his life. But he was sure that was the place, described often enough in stories and elvish poems. He wondered if his mother had ever gone, in one of her famed adventures that nobody ever gave any details about. He wished he could share dreams with his mother. He dreamed of her often, of course- but it wasn’t her. It was just her memory. He couldn’t ask her questions, and learn the answers. He couldn’t tell her how much he missed her.

He couldn’t ask his father: what gave you the courage to love someone so remarkable? He couldn’t help but wonder- if he’d had his father’s wisdom available to him, would he have failed so terribly, with his own extraordinary love?

Bilbo had thought a lot about that over the past thirteen years. Belladonna, remarkable eldest daughter of the Old Took. Her eyes were like smouldering embers, her smile hidden and then revealed like the moon behind smoke. She was unfathomably talented- in painting, in music, dance, and with words- all things lyrical wove themselves around her fingers, opulent and delicate like lace. They were there for the witnessing, and gone just as fast as fireflies- the turn of phrase, the bar of harmony, the dip of a toe into a pond with the grace of a swan. She was enchanting, perfect as a fern, wild as a squirrel. Everyone thought she’d never marry. How could she? She was always off on some grand adventure. So everyone was aghast- jaws dropped all the way down to the pebbles- when she disappeared in company with one Bungo Baggins and came back married.

Speculation over this mystery never went out of style. And Bungo was too proper to speak on it, and Belladonna’s endless energy to scandalize, it was said, was fueled by the power of secrets alone.

So how did he manage it? Bungo Baggins, taming the untamable Took? It was the hobbit hole he promised her, obviously. At least that’s what the jealous neighbours always said. Well, whether or not she was tempted by that or he even promised it at all, he certainly did deliver.

But Bilbo did wonder if there was something to that theory. Not so much the splendour and status of such a sumptuous, handsome smial- but the idea of a home. Bilbo often wondered if Belladonna’s wanderlust and her subsequent acceptance of Bungo’s proposal didn’t both stem from the same thing: that she didn’t have, but then finally was offered, something to come home to.

Bilbo wondered- if only he could have been a home for Thorin- if only he could have been a safe harbour- perhaps- if only- and yet- and yet- Bilbo wasn’t a doily! He wasn’t a tea set or a pipe or a garden or a hobbit hole. He was a living, agonizing thing, and the Took in him was fully awake, and in love with danger. So what if he was so sick with love and grief that he wanted to throw his life away on an impossible quest? How dare Thorin forbid that!!

Bilbo’s rage at it all fired up in him again, as hot and angry as those humongous dwarven forges. How dare he! That bastard! Of all the hypocrisy- that he could go out and waste his life on danger and then bar Bilbo from doing the same! That he could call Bilbo his One, and then set out for him another love! How dare he!

Well, at least that plan had failed. Thirteen years had come and gone, and Bilbo hadn’t met any such so-called love. That he had been meticulously careful not to meet anyone new had nothing to do with Thorin’s failure. It was going to fail anyway. Bilbo’s heart was his own. His.

The rain poured on, with no sign of stopping.

Bilbo closed his eyes, let out a deep sigh. His heart was no more his than the moon.

Bilbo wiped away the salt and warmth. On the whole, it was much easier to just be angry.

The rain rambled on in its own argument. An argument with itself that would likely last all day. Bilbo stood and put on Hobson’s old straw hat that he’d hastily borrowed on his way out. He’d make it to Brandy Hall by nightfall, attend the funeral tomorrow, and then be on his way.

***

The rain cleared away by the time Bilbo reached Brandywine bridge, and the last of the afternoon skies were soft with lingering clouds. Then as Bilbo turned south along the river, the sun dipped low in the sky and the west was painted red and purple, and the clouds were like crowns for the hills.

Bilbo was lost in those clouds, as he wended his way through the waterlogged grass. The sunset lighting his hands in gold. He was lost in that gold. So lost that he didn’t at first hear this name being called.

“Mr. Baggins!” A figure in the distance waved vigorously.

“Andwise!”

Hob’s oldest child was making his way over the hill with a lantern in his hand.

“Mr. Baggins! Good to see you out in these parts! How’s Pa doin’, and ol’ Ham and Bell? Their babe is like to pop out any day now, right?”

“Any day now. Scarlet, if it’s a girl, Sam if it’s a boy.”

“Aye, so’s they told me!”

“What’re you doing way out here? You didn’t know old Drogo did you?”

“Rest ‘is soul, poor feller, I did not, tho’ Tansy what knew Prim from ‘er leadin’ strings, what her being half a Brandybuck ‘erself, an’ growin’ up in these parts, ‘afore ‘er da’ founded Tighfield. Tansy’s beside ‘erself. It’s a right shame, is what ‘tis, yessir, an’ now what their little ‘un gone missing.”

“Little one?”

“Aye sir, their little ‘un. Just shy a’ thirteen, hardly more ‘an a babe, an’ lost both ‘is parents. An’ now he’s lost too, a runaway. Can’t bear to see ‘em in the ground, I reckon. That’s what we’re all out ‘ere doin’ now, is a-lookin’ fer ‘im. Little Frodo.”

Frodo. Something about the name sounded familiar.

“I… didn’t know they had a child, him and Primula.”

Andwise looked like he’d swallowed a bug, opening his mouth and promptly shutting it. Gamgees were like Bagginses in that way- too polite to say the truth. The truth here being that Bilbo would have known about the child, if he had not shut out all his relations, and talked to anyone besides Hob and Ham, which he definitely hadn’t, especially since poor old Widow Greenhand died some years back- and if he hadn’t passionately ignored every piece of mail he could. Of course he’d been sent news of their baby. Of course he’d never opened it.

“Well,” Bilbo drew in a breath. “Shall I join the search, then? Least I can do.”

“Mistress Goold said he was just as like to be hidin’ in the wine cellars an’ would pop up at dinnertime, an’ a group of us disagreed, so we’ve been searchin’ these parts all over, but hadn’t seen no sign of ‘im. We’re headin’ back now, tho’ it makes me uneasy, what with night fallin’ so fast.”

Mistress Goold. The person he was least looking forward to seeing. Menegilda, mistress of Brandy Hall, was as gracious as an adder. Just the thought of her made him want to turn right back around and avoid this whole drama. Bilbo wondered if the fauntling wasn’t in fact just hiding from her.

“Why don’t I take that lantern, and do a round? Put your mind at ease.”

“But you’ll be late for dinner! An’ like as not, the mistress is probably right, an’ the fauntling’ll show up once the smell a’ soup’s in th’air.”

“Even so. I don’t mind. I could use the fresh air, anyway.”

Andwise gave a smile and a shake of the head that said all you do is get fresh air, and handed over the lantern to Bilbo. Then he waved, and ran off down the hill toward Brandy Hall. Bilbo watched him go, then looked off toward the last dying rays of the setting sun.

Frodo.

Why did the name sound so familiar?

Bilbo looked north, watching the path darken away back to the Brandywine Bridge. He looked south, where Brandy Hall waited beyond the hillocks. West was the wide and steady Branduin rippling in the spring wind. Then Bilbo turned east.

At the bottom of the gently sloping hill in the distance rose the Hedge- the hobbit’s barrier to keep at bay whatever unnatural things lie in the forest. Bilbo felt chills down his spine, seeing beyond it the tops of the trees clawing into the sky. He shuddered, turned away. Stopped.

There were lights in the forest.

Beyond the Hedge, he was certain. Shining through, from within the forest. Bilbo’s feet were moving before he had any thought about it- quickly and silently down the hill until he was right in front of the Hedge. A small opening between two branches revealed itself.

Frodo went this way- Bilbo was sure of it, though he had no idea why. Where were the lights now? Where had they gone? What in fact were they?

Bilbo knew better than most the consequences of following lights in the forest at night. But there wasn’t just Bilbo’s danger to consider. His heart pounded as he stepped into the thick shadows of the Old Forest.

They say the trees whisper to each other in the Old Forest, passing along plots in the fell words of some forgotten tongue- whispering, until they abide no longer the stranger walking hapless on their paths, and they lift their roots and move, surrounding and suffocating. Bilbo heard no such whispers. He heard nothing at all, in fact, except the occasional drip of moisture from the branches to the pools of water gathered at the roots. Still, the air was thick and ominous. Then there was a distant snap of a branch. Bilbo stopped dead still, listened- he held his lantern high, trying to pierce his gaze through the deep shadows of the growing night. When his trepidation abated, he lowered his lantern and continued forward.

Bilbo gasped- there were a child’s prints in the mud.

Forgetting all caution, Bilbo followed the prints down the twisting path. An hour could have been a minute, or a minute an hour. Bilbo could not have known- then finally, he reached a glade open to the stars.

On a rock, in the center of the glade, was a hobbit child, his arms folded around his knees, staring upwards.

Bilbo suddenly remembered where he’d heard Frodo before.

It was an old Khûzdul epic poem, the tale of the battle of Azaghâl and Glaurung the dragon-king of Nargothrond. Even with the help of fierce friends and Firebeard blades powerful beyond the make of any of this age, Azaghâl knew he had no chance against the worm of Angband.

He had sat on a boulder in a clearing like this one. It was in the thick forests of Mt. Dolmed, the night before his doomed encounter. Unsettled, sensing his death, his fate hovered near, unknowable and yet certain.

“I have no hope,” He spoke into the silence.

The god of that forest heard him, and whispered in the air.

“Go. Go without hope. Go with your will alone.”

Dō. Frodō. Dō wōdinaz eallān.

Frodō. Go without hope.

Bilbo slowed his approach.

“Frodo?” he called out gently. He stopped a stone’s toss from the lad, not wanting to startle.

The lad turned his gaze to Bilbo.

“Who are you? Are you alive?”

Maybe not, Bilbo admitted to himself.

“You think I’m a ghost?”

The lad shrugged, looked down at his feet. “They say there are ghosts in these woods. I thought I’d see if… maybe…”

Bilbo took a step forward. The world was blurring all around him. The tears lingered heavy in his eyes, ran hot down his cheeks. He drew his sleeve across his face. He cleared his throat.

“Mind if I sit?”

Slowly, the lad nodded, and moved over so Bilbo could join him on the boulder. Bilbo set down the lantern, sat, leaned back on his hands a bit, and stared up at the stars. The lad’s gaze, too, followed his up to the inky blackness.

“Not a bad conclusion to draw,” Bilbo began after a long moment. “That you might find your parents in woods like these. Why not, after all? But… not all roads are ours to go down, Frodo-lad. Sometimes those we search for, would rather us stay put. Not that- not that I’m one to talk-” Bilbo gave a pained chuckle. “I’ve had all sorts of misadventures.”

“You have?” Frodo looked up at him, mouth agape. Bilbo met his gaze- and just barely kept from gasping out loud. Frodo had blue eyes- blue like the sky, blue like the Curse of Durin- even in the moonlight, Bilbo knew that colour. Especially in the moonlight.

“I- yes, I-” Bilbo gave a real laugh now, shaking his head as he gazed back up at the stars. “I’ll have to tell you all about them sometime- but as for you- if you’ve set your mind on wandering and adventuring, you really ought to know how to find your way home, don’t you suppose?”

Frodo suddenly looked around as though he were seeing where he was for the first time.

“I- well I- I think-”

“Not to worry. If there are stars out, you’ll always be able to find the Sickle. It points to the North Star, and from there you can find home. Do you see it?” Bilbo pointed the way, and Frodo squinted, tilting his head until he could see the shape Bilbo described.

“Now can you guess which direction Brandy Hall lies?”

Bilbo looked down to see Frodo’s eyes shimmering, brimming with tears as he dropped his head.

“Brandy Hall isn’t my home,” he said in a low voice.

Bilbo didn’t know his heart could drop so low.

What could he say to this child? He who grieved and yearned for thirty-three years, and had gotten nowhere. Who didn’t know if the loving had been worth the ruins it had left him in. He- Bilbo- who didn’t know anything at all.

He sighed, lifted his head, begged silently to the stars.

“Someone once told me,” He finally began, “The stars are the eyes of Eä. Watching and waiting.”

“What’s Eä?”

“Ah,” Bilbo smiled a little. “It’s everything, I suppose. Everything, all around us, and even deep into the sky. The universe.”

Frodo nodded gravely, and joined Bilbo in looking up at the sky. Just then, a star shot across and split the sky in two. Frodo inhaled sharply beside him.

Bilbo breathed in- he felt like he’d been drowning his whole life, and now had finally come up for air.

“Sometimes we lose the things we love,” Bilbo said softly, still looking up, “And the people we love. And we go looking for them, even in dangerous places. But love is never really lost. It’s in the stars, waiting to come back to us in a different form.”

Bilbo turned to Frodo, met his gaze squarely.

“Be watchful, like the stars. And wait patiently, just like the stars. Because they are waiting to give new chances to you. And sometimes we get chances where we least expect them.”

Frodo’s eyes were very wide, and he nodded solemnly.

***

A few hours later, when Frodo was safely returned to Brandy Hall and tucked into his little bunk bed, Bilbo pulled Menegilda aside.

“Let me take care of him,” He spoke to her in low tones. “Let me adopt him. He can live in Bag End- there’ll be plenty of room and fresh air, and he’ll be kept a close eye on.”

“Bilbo Baggins,” Menegilda’s eyes were sharp as daggers. “How dare you come into my home and tell me what to do with a child under my care. You insult me, insinuating that you can do a better job raising him up than I can.”

“I only meant-”

“I don’t care what you meant.” She had taken the lantern Bilbo had borrowed, and was now holding it up between them in the hallway outside of Frodo’s room that he shared with six other lads. She ducked her head in a moment to make sure they were still asleep, then swung back to glare at Bilbo, nostrils flaring.

“To be sure, I’m grateful for your retrieval of the lad this evening. Mayhap we couldn’t have done it without you. But don’t you dare go sticking your nose in places you’ve turned your nose up at for years now. Not one of my invitations have you even bothered to answer, in thirty years!”

“Menegilda-”

“Do you think you’re better than us? Is that it? Of all the absurd- how on earth do you think you could possibly take care of a fauntling? You, of all people. Look at you.”

She flicked his shoulder, took a hold of his frayed collar like she wanted to strangle him.

“You can barely take care of yourself. I’ve heard the things they say about you- gossip does travel here, even if your letters do not.”

“Whatever Lobelia has said-”

“It’s not just Lobelia, it’s everyone who has eyes, save perhaps those Gamgees who are too soft to see the truth. That their favourite neighbor is queer, cracked in the head, and useless for anything but daydreaming on the open road.”

Bilbo’s mouth dropped open. He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“Menegilda- please-”

“It wouldn’t have been that bad, you know.” Her eyes were bright with her pain, shining in the lamplight as she whispered low and bitter. “We’re not exactly Hobbiton posh- we’d have been happy to ignore the rumors- that your garden is wild as a tumbleweed and your pantry is more likely full of books than food- that you can’t properly clothe and feed yourself to save your life- that you’re the laughingstock of Hobbiton, the shame of your family- that you burn your mail- that you’d sooner sing a dirge than a jig, or talk to fairies than shirefolk- we’d have gladly ignored all that, if only you’d have come and visited us- even just once. And now you traipse in like you own the place, insinuate that I can’t run my own home, and propose to adopt your cousin you didn’t even know existed until today. For goodness’ sake, Bilbo! He shares your birthday!”

The breath was fully gone from Bilbo’s chest. He looked down, his face burning a deep red.

“I’m so sorry,” He whispered. He closed his eyes tight against new tears. “I’ve been a fool. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Not two hours before, he’d felt hope kindle in his heart, and he spoke about chances. Now his chance had slipped away, quick as it came, at his fault alone.

“I’m sorry. I’ll- I’ll leave you alone. I’m so sorry.”

Bilbo turned to go, and Menegilda practically snarled as she grabbed him by the sleeve. She looked like she wanted to slap him.

“Bilbo Baggins, you absolute dolt! Do you not hear me? Do you not hear that we want to see you? That Rory and I are worried about you? Did you not know that Drogo was worried about you, when he was alive? We care about you, you idiot! If you want to help take care of Frodo, then come visit us. Come back in two weeks. We’re having a party after the first barley planting. You should cook with us! That way we can see for ourselves whether you actually eat, or if you really do live off apples and cheese.”

“I-” Bilbo coughed. “I do take a loaf of bread-”

Menegilda rolled her eyes, and smiled for the first time that night. “I remember when your mother threw the most splendid parties. You were in the kitchen with her all day. Prize-winning pot-pies in the summer.” Her gaze lost focus for just a moment, as if she could almost taste the flaky crusts- then she turned back to Bilbo, eyes sharp and exacting. She wagged a finger at him.

“Two weeks!”

“Very well,” Bilbo breathed, nodding in agreement. “Two weeks.”

Menegilda searched his eyes for one more moment, then nodded, and turned away, starting down the hall.

“And every two weeks,” Bilbo called after her. She turned.

“I’m serious, Menegilda. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove myself to you.”

Slowly, she gave one more nod, then turned away and disappeared down the hall, the light fading with her.

Bilbo peaked into Frodo’s room one last time. Seven lads were sprawled across various bunk beds, tangled up in blankets, clinging to various stuffed toys. Frodo breathed deep in dreamless sleep. His face was still red from his tears.

Two weeks.

Bilbo thought of Bag End- dusty, empty-yet-cluttered, mess-of-a-hobbit-hole waiting for him.

He had a lot of work to do.

***

Chapter Text

My Dear Lady Dís,

Thank you for your letter. I commiserate with you on that trade agreement- whyever would Erebor need so much salt? Did Doí forget how to do sums? Perhaps Floí has preternatural vision and anticipates a winter that will last three years? Perhaps the brothers mean to gift it to Thranduil, as a subtle hint that he and his people should go west across the sea?

Things are well over here in the Shire. The spring rains threaten to drown the first barley planting if they continue like this. I’m due in Buckland in a handful of days and will be cooking for more than a hundred people! Not alone, of course- but I haven’t cooked for a group so large in such a long time- I never would have used “useless in the kitchen” to describe myself but I do fear exactly that. I’ve been cooking for the Gamgees every day to practice- not that I wouldn’t have been cooking for them anyway- their fifth child was born on April 6th, just last week! A sturdy, stout-hearted little fellow I should think. There’s always much debate when a babe is born, over whether it’ll grow up to be a gardener or a cook- somehow, I think he’ll be both.

Speaking of children, I met a child whose name has a meaning in Khûzdul, I think. Would you mind terribly translating for me lines 2417-2424 of the Epic of Azaghâl? Including the transliteration of the runes? I just want to see if I got it right.

Looking forward to your next letter-
Yours,
Bilbo Baggins

***

Dawn had just started to creep over the eastern foothills when Dís arrived at the sparring grounds just outside of the Armoury. The spring snows left a soft dusting overnight, but it was beginning to melt even as Dís crossed the arena to the other side where Dwalin waited for her. He tossed her a sheathed sword and she caught it easily. A handsome broad-bladed sword with a many-jeweled hilt of fine dwarvish make. The wind picked up, sending sprays of snow fine as stonedust.

“Careful your footwork,” Dwalin said as they circled each other. “Don’t slip in the snow.”

“How about we salt the snow with Doí’s latest shipment?”

“Or his tears.”

Dís barked out a laugh at that, and they began their swordplay. It was the highlight of her day, to blow off steam with her kinsman, before sparring in an entirely different way with his brother across the Council table. Dís had great affection for Balin and admired his statecraft- but she could not agree with many of his decisions lately. She was grateful that at least with one of the brothers she could find simplicity.

Things could not be more simple with Dwalin. Dwalin never considered matters of diplomacy any deeper than whether or not an offense warranted a skull being split in two. And he never asked complicated or personal questions, such as why a champion axe-maiden like Dís would bother to learn swordcraft. He never asked, so she never had to lie. It was perfect.

Taërn and a number of other Ravens flew down to watch their sparring, squawking in surprise at every close call, as if they didn’t see their sport every single day. Dwalin managed to smack Dís a number of times today with the flat of his blade and she did even slip once, though she didn’t fall.

“You’re distracted,” Dwalin observed.

“Raise your sword arm!” Someone croaked from the perches.

“You’re showing your shoulder!”

“Watch your feet!”

“Your weight is too far forward!”

“My stance is fine-”

“Get him now, while we’re distracting him!” The Ravens all cackled, but it was Dwalin who chose that moment to attack. Dís fended him off nicely and gave a quick parry, not hitting him but knocking him off-balance. She charged forward. Dwalin recovered easily though, and they continued, well-matched today in luck and skill. The Ravens squawked and cheered and heckled, tossing little shiny trinkets with their beaks as was their wont. The snow had melted in the morning sun by the time Dís and Dwalin were finished. Taërn and Dwalin’s messenger Jari flew down to join them at the ground level.

“Well met, Children of Roäc! How fare the winds?”

“Fair and far, and we in the lee!”

“What news from the Iron Hills?”

Taërn tilted her head in a commiserating way.

“The princes back Doí’s decision.”

“Mahal’s hairy balls!” Dís would have spat, if she weren’t in such high company.

***

Even late into the evening, Dís knew she would find Ori deep in the stacks of the great library of Erebor.

“Lady Dís! An honour and a pleasure to see you!”

“It’s good to see you, Ori. Have you eaten?”

“Yes, yes, we’ve had to take a break from restoring the East Wing while the structural integrity is tested, so yes, I did eat today.”

Dís had to laugh. “Well come any time to the dining hall in the Royal wing, and bring friends. One of the Company would always be welcome, and I love having guests to cook for.”

“Thank you very much, Milady!” Ori’s gentle voice lilted and he smiled sweetly. “And what brings you down to the stacks so late tonight?”

“Ah, I would have come earlier if I’d had time. I was betting on catching you even at this late hour. I’m hoping to take a look at the oldest version of the Epic of Azaghâl that you have.”

“Certainly! Though it’s not much older than the one in your personal library, if I remember yours correctly.” Ori sighed. “Erebor has many treasures, but the most ancient texts are in places where no dwarf walks any longer, I’m afraid.”

That is a curious thing to say, Dís thought, regarding him carefully.

“The Blue Mountains house many of the ancient works first carved in Dorthonion, Ered Wethrin, East Beleriand… if you went there with the high rank you have now, I am sure the Firebeard Kings would grant you access to those works for study.”

Ori only sighed again, and beckoned Dís to follow him to the tales of the Dwarves of Belegost.

“Here is our oldest manuscript,” Ori brought the tome out and placed it gently on a nearby table, opening it to the Epic of Azaghâl. Dís turned to the lines Bilbo specified. He’d enclosed his own translation, and Dís produced it from her pocket and compared it to the original in front of her. It was perfect in every way. Dís let out a low whistle. The hobbit was a clever one.

“Anything I can help with?” Ori had begun to peak over her shoulder. Quickly she folded up Bilbo’s paper and put it back in her pocket.

“No, no, everything is fine.” Surely Ori was her friend, and Bilbo’s besides, but the fewer who knew that Bilbo was learning the secret tongue of dwarrowkind, the better. Still- she felt a pang in her heart at the secret kept.

“You’ve done incredible work here, Ori. This library would probably have been neglected another fifty years if not for you.”

“My lady is too kind. You’ll visit again soon?”

“You first! Venison stew tomorrow if you like. Bring your brothers.”

Ori nodded enthusiastically and Dís made her way home, a meandering route that, without her planning, brought her past the stairwell leading deep, deep, down to the crypts. A cold wind seemed to drift up from the grey shadows.

Dís shuddered, quickened her pace, and bit her tongue against the curses she wanted to hurl at Thorin even now.

***

Chapter Text

I had all and then most of you,
Some and now none of you
Take me back to the night we met

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,
Haunted by the ghost of you
Take me back to the night we met

When the night was full of terrors
And your eyes were filled with tears
When you had not touched me yet
Oh, take me back to the night we met

Lord Huron

***

It felt like Bilbo had swallowed a dozen dragonflies, and they were now thrumming along humming in his stomach. He didn't know why he felt this way, or what it was exactly he was feeling. In the moment, it had made perfect sense to offer to take on the care of Frodo. It just made sense. Bilbo had a home. Frodo didn’t have one.

A home.

Why wouldn’t Bilbo want to help? Wouldn’t anyone in his position want to do the same? Give a home to one who had lost his own. It made perfect sense. Until Menegilda reminded him that it absolutely did not make sense at all. How could Bilbo make a home for someone, when he himself acted homeless?

And as these two weeks passed, things only got more confusing. So Bilbo took out his confusion on the dust and the laundry, the floors, the rugs, the candlesticks, the dishes, the fireplace, the pantry, the bedroom. Elbows deep in ash, he scrubbed the hearth until even the smoke shelf was clear. Every piece of clothing was threadbare or at least in desperate need of mending. He sewed until his fingers were poked and bruised raw. He ended up at the market every day picking up something he’d forgotten or had intended to pick up but never got around to or had been just fine living without thank you very much, you’d be surprised how little you need when you’ve been on the road for six months with thirteen dwarves who smell like wet dog and snore like trolls and keep you up all night with singing and who are the best friends you could ever hope for, thank you very much-

It was no use. He’d left behind that life long ago. He wondered if his friends missed him as much as he missed them. Of course they didn’t. They had lives. They had moved on. Still, when a Raven tapped on his door coming from the Blue Mountains, he scribbled off eleven letters as quickly as he could, tied them together nice and tight, and gave the Raven the best parts of his dinner, and had a very nice if somewhat eerie conversation with the Raven about worms, of all things, and sent him off the next day with all the well wishes and polite nothings and eleven pieces of his heart-

Most of the dwarves were hopeless, and would maybe send back missives and requests for Shire limericks sometime in the next five years, though much more often than that a trading caravan would come through bearing gifts for Bilbo- gorgeous if rather opulent wrought iron trellises for his garden or solid gold waistbelts or jeweled necklaces, or wondrous mechanical toys from Bifur and Bofur, which always kept Bilbo popular with the children. But Balin tended to write actual detailed letters and Ori once in a while penned a boisterous tale and Dís was a faithful correspondent, or as faithful as couriers and Ravens were available, which, understandably, was not always.

And so two weeks fled and spring was getting bolder, rays of sun gleaming strong and true across crisp hearty mornings, and the rains rolled away leaving only moist, strong grass and the weather was perfect for barley planting, and when Bilbo opened every door and window of his home, he felt maybe the dust really didn’t have a chance, if only the wind would come through and sweep his heart clean.

What was this feeling? It was some sort of tightrope, a clenched feeling in his chest, an anxiety, an ill feeling, and he resisted it as much as he could, being just as curmudgeony as any other day thankyouverymuch, and was quick with a comeback at any jabs from his neighbours, yessir, he wasn’t holding his tongue or patiently bearing the condemning looks and eye-rolls of the gossips-

The truth, in fact, was somewhere in between.

Something held him in check for the worst of it- and when he could get away with it, he wouldn’t let others get away with it. Some new level of sparring, now that he couldn’t just avoid the worst offenders, or worse, use his ring to disappear like he had started to-

He’d put that ring away a while ago. He’d put it away when he lost hope of going west.

How could he have done it? Pushed Thorin away like that?

Something about meeting Frodo was bringing back all the worst grief of that, and after long days of cooking and cleaning and putting on a smile, Bilbo found himself at night wretched, wracking sobs shaking his body in the dark.

Those first weeks after it happened, Bilbo was in shock. He was torn between the betrayal he’d been dealt and the danger he’d put Thorin in, shoving him into the lake, watching him be taken by the dragon. He wasn’t sure which was more traumatic. At some point he convinced himself it was only a dream, Thorin was safe on the other side. Bilbo had died in dreams before. Thorin wasn’t dead. He wasn’t.

Well.

It was easier to just be angry. To try and pick up the shattered mess of his heart and claim it as his own again. That was easier, so much easier, than facing the truth.

That he had no claim over Thorin. That Thorin could call upon the power of the gods to push Bilbo away. That whether it was true danger or just his guilt, Thorin had never been fully comfortable coming to Bilbo in dreams. And no matter how much Bilbo insisted, no matter how much he dreamed and ached and hoped and schemed, in the end it was his will against Thorin’s. And Thorin’s had won.

In the end, Bilbo could not win him.

As senseless as it was, Thorin’s death had felt like a rejection. Maybe it wasn’t so senseless. At times it seemed suicidal, what he did. Maybe Thorin always had a deathwish. And maybe he did choose that over Bilbo.

It was so heartbreaking at the time, Bilbo didn’t let himself think about it. That first year was worse than death, being haunted by all the things he couldn’t face, all the ways he failed. If he hadn’t betrayed Thorin… if he’d told Thorin the truth… the truth- the truth of his heart- would Thorin have despaired? Would the battle have been different?

And then, out of nowhere, beyond all hope, beyond even the possible- Thorin came back. Or at least, enough to say the unsaid. Enough to reach across the impossible and touch. It was impossible already, that Bilbo’s love was returned. It was more than he deserved.

At some point, he forgot that, and got greedy. And it lost him his love.

Oh, it was so much easier to be angry at Thorin’s betrayal. Rather like when he betrayed Thorin.

Bilbo was on the road again, a three days’ walk to Buckland. The dawn was roses in a clear blue bowl, and the trees wore clusters of tight green buds and the air was fragrant with fresh tilled earth beyond every fence.

What was this feeling? It grated on Bilbo, it grew like weeds. He wished he could root it out and throw it in the fire.

It couldn’t possibly be hope. Menegilda had schooled that right out of him. Well, not entirely. He hoped to be helpful. That was reasonable, wasn’t it? Why not give a child a home, who needed one, when you had one? Why was that crazy? But Bilbo knew he had to be practical about this. He could prove to be a good caretaker. It would take time. Of course it would. For the first time since he came back to the Shire, Bilbo regretted ruining his reputation. But he could repair it- enough to convince Menegilda, at least, that he was fit to take a child under his wing. He would show her, most of all with patience.

Bilbo had loads of patience. He wouldn’t even think about Frodo. The lad would be fine, with all of his cousins and aunts and uncles to keep him company. Maybe he would even be better off staying in Brandy Hall. It was fine. Bilbo would be patient, and watch events unfold.

When Bilbo arrived in Brandy Hall and set to work in the kitchen, he was unstoppable. Slow-roasted spring lamb with rosemary and garlic. Barley and mushroom stew, smoked trout, savory herbed cakes with wild greens, spring onion and leek tarts, dandelion and nettle salad with a lemony vinaigrette, porridge with cream and honey, mushroom pastries, and wildberry tarts for dinner. Menegilda had an impressive collection of wines: elderflower, dandelion, rose petal and meadowsweet, and the Brandybuck clan ate and drank and sang and danced and laughed and told stories deep into the night, and at dawn, everyone was out on the fields, planting seeds along ready rows as the earth breathed morning mist.

Bilbo caught glimpses of Frodo the night before, mostly tugged along by his cousins this way or that, and Bilbo set aside his disappointment and was glad the lad had an army to keep him in good cheer. This morning, however, Bilbo was alone tending the far edges of the field, so mesmerized by the scattering of the seeds onto the soft soil, that he didn’t see Frodo seated on the fence ahead of him until he was nearly upon him.

“Frodo lad! What brings you all the way out here?”

Frodo looked up from the stalk of larkspur in his hand. His eyes widened like saucers when he recognized who it was.

“You’re real,” he breathed. “I was beginning to think you were a dream.”

Bilbo let out a laugh, ran a self-conscious hand through his hair.

“Dreams and reality are more closely woven than you might think.”

Frodo squinted, as though trying to judge for himself the realness of Bilbo.

“Are you my cousin? Amaranth says I have a cousin who tells tall tales about fighting trolls and dragons. Are you him? Everyone’s scared of the Old Forest except you so I’m guessing you’ve fought at least a few dragons.”

“What about you? You weren’t scared of the Old Forest. And yes, I am that very same cousin. Bilbo’s the name. I’m a Baggins, like you.”

Bilbo picked a larkspur bud himself, and hopped up on the fence to sit next to Frodo.

“Did you really fight dragons?”

“Well. A dragon. And not fight him, so much as try to hold a conversation without passing out.”

“Really?? You talked to a dragon?? That’s more amazing than fighting one, I think.”

Bilbo huffed out a laugh. “And why is that?”

“I dunno,” Frodo tilted his head and studied Bilbo’s face. “It just is. Everyone fights dragons in the stories. No one talks to them.”

Something seemed to burn in Bilbo’s chest, like too much barley beer swigged all at once. That feeling that he wanted to weed out, with roots worse than weeds.

“So tell me,” Bilbo found his voice again. “What are you up to all the way out here, on the far edge of the field? Looking for a dragon yourself?”

Frodo turned and gazed off into the woods behind him.

“Well… Auntie Menegilda says I can’t wander off again… but I was hoping to go to my mum’s favourite place. She used to take me there, every spring. It’s not far from here.”

Bilbo’s throat tightened in pain. He gazed into the shadows of the woods in the direction Frodo had been looking.

“How about,” He began, “I take you, and that way you won’t be wandering off. You’ll be with a cousin- or uncle, if that sounds more official- and I’ll make sure we’re not gone too long and that we don’t get lost. How does that sound?”

A slow smile grew on the lad’s face, giving a glow to his apple cheeks. He nodded once.

“Good!” Bilbo hopped down to the other side of the fence, and Frodo hopped down after him. “Lead the way!”

The sun was slowly burning through the mist and casting long deeply angled rays across the trees of the forest. The shadows were dappled with its light. Bilbo vaguely remembered the lights that he followed to find Frodo. What were they? Fireflies?

The thought flew away from him like a puff of smoke as he had to jog to keep up with Frodo, running and jumping over vine and root. Finally, the woods opened up to a field- an abandoned field, bordered by a stone wall. Frodo ran ahead to its nearest edge.

The first thing Bilbo noticed as he started to approach was the scarecrow in one corner. A ray of sun caught the scarecrow in its light and suddenly a glinting like many coloured stars shone across it.

“Huh,” Bilbo stopped and stared at it, not comprehending what he was seeing.

“The flowers!” Frodo exclaimed, jumping up onto the wall. “It isn’t too early. Look! They’re in bloom!”

Bilbo shook his head, came closer so he could see over the fence. He gasped.

The field was a carpet of flowers. And the flowers told a story.

At the foot of the scarecrow was a lush lavender bush. In the bush’s shadow, irises clustered tall and strong. Then at their feet, a trail of buttercups warm in the morning glow. At the end of the trail, foxglove shot up, its bell-shaped blossoms bowing humbly, a deep purple-blue. Beside them, bluebells, almost identical in manner and blush. After that, a carpet of white clover- and then honeysuckle: white, pink and yellow. Then spiraling outward from there, woody nightshade. Then a bush of white roses. Anemone.

Bilbo was breathless, speechless. They spoke as loud and clear as they had the first time.

Danger within. I have a message for you. Neat and childish. Riddle. Conundrum. Secrets. Insincerity. Constancy. Humility. Gratitude. Death. Good luck. Unhappiness is coming. Revenge. Devoted affection. Inconstant love. Rustic beauty. Danger. Betrayal. I cannot. Forsaken.

The path of flowers continued outwards. It no longer held Thorin’s flowers, for at this point, Bilbo had started keeping them, putting them in vases on his windowsill. The remaining flowers were Bilbo’s. His messages to Thorin.

Ragweed. Alyssum. Hydrangeas. Milkweed. Winter Jasmine.

Is immortality beautiful? Forgiveness. Visiting soon? Visiting soon in dreams?

Bilbo’s side of a twenty year-long conversation fanned out from there, spilling out even to climb the stone wall and sprout through its mossy cracks into the sun.

“How…” Bilbo breathed, unable to believe.

“My mum told me once she found a dying raven. When it died, she buried it here, under that scarecrow. Then every year when she returned, new flowers were growing, until the whole field became a garden. And jewels started appearing too, on the scarecrow’s face. You can see if you look closely. Come on! Let’s go see.”

They wove a careful path through the flowers, disturbing many a sleepy bee, until they were in front of the scarecrow and the lavender. There embedded like a dusting of stars were hundreds of tiny jewels that had lived at the bottom of Bilbo’s treasure chest, that he had left for the Ravens of Mahal over the years.

“It looks like the night sky,” Frodo said wistfully.

The scarecrow itself must have been tended to as well, for the straw was fresh and fragrant. It stood in serene, unhurried vigil, great and hidden. It was an enduring work of love.

Frodo smiled up at Bilbo, the glow of a shared secret in his eyes.

It was love, Bilbo realised, that was taking over his heart. Rooting itself, deep and quick.

It’s inevitable. Just as it was with Thorin. That I should love this child as the son of my heart.

How lucky, that this should happen to me.

***

Chapter Text

As it happened, Dís discovered Balin’s secret quite by accident.

She’d come back to the Library of Erebor. Bilbo’s letter had gotten her thinking. It was peculiar, though not unheard of, that a name might bear resemblance to an ancient Khûzdul word. The thought of it reminded her that an older version of any particular word might render a different meaning than one found in the poem’s context. Dís was no linguist, but she loved Khûzdul, was proud of the secret language of her people, and wondered if this foray might reveal something as yet to her unknown. And the excuse to study Azaghâl again was hard to pass up. It was her favourite poem. She gave a sigh. Her mother had put a version of it to music long ago. It came to her, now and again in mist-filled dreams. If only she’d taken to the harp the way Thorin had. How she longed to hear her mother’s voice. How she longed to hear his. Even if she’d only end up yelling at him. Those dreams were long gone now. The veil between this world and the next, as it turned out, was thick indeed.

“Ori?” Dís called at the heavy stone doors that stretched to the library’s vaulted ceiling. Ori had told her when she first arrived that the dragon’s breath had scorched many of the lower shelves, coming in as it must have from under the bolted doors. The tremors alone from Smaug’s general rampaging had caused many a collapsed shelf as well. But since he would have smelled no gold, he seemed to have never bothered to attempt entry. The doors had also been barred from the inside, a good enough deterrent. Some passionate soul had done it, hoping to protect the books from Smaug. Their skeleton had remained to tell the tale.

Now the Library was rebuilt to its former glory, with gold-threaded tapestries and illuminated manuscripts on display. It was lit with thrice-tempered fire-resistant glass lanterns, and in the evenings only few were kept lit so that the spacious room was dim, and that is how Dís found it now, and largely empty. Ori was nowhere to be found.

Dís meandered a while, running her hands along leather spines, taking in the titles of the great masterpieces of Dwarrowkind, floating awhile in the dream of their possibilities. By the time she reached the tomes of the Dwarves of Belegost, the last of the library’s other patrons had left, and there were only a few lanterns on tables here and there. Dís grabbed one, raised it high above her as she tried to find the book Ori had shown her. She could not find it. She sighed. There was a similar version she found, and opened it on the nearest table. She turned to Azaghâl’s words of despair.

Her other problem was, Bilbo had never said which word, exactly, was the one the child was named.

It would be a fun academic exercise then, until Bilbo responded to her response (which, in truth, she had yet to send to him), to see if she could figure it out on her own.

She wondered which line might contain the word. Her eyes rested upon the passage.

-the god of that forest-

Her lantern flickered.

She held it up, examined its seams. It looked structurally perfect. She checked the oil. No oil. It flickered again, sputtered out.

Gently, she rested it on the table. There were two other lanterns- one on a very far table and one on the next table over. Dís went to that table, and was surprised to see the very tome she was looking for, open to the very same passage.

“Huh,” She stared at it for a moment, wondering at the odds. Ori had definitely put it back on the shelf when she had handed it back to him those few weeks ago. Ah but then perhaps it was Ori himself who had taken it out again, having the same thought that she did about ancient etymology. Perhaps he had in fact discovered something just a while ago, and had run off to find her, and they simply missed each other in the hallways. As if to confirm her theory, a pile of papers rested next to the book and the lantern, bearing Ori’s gorgeous handwriting. She picked up the top leaf, smiling softly, wishing to admire his elaborate calligraphy.

Her heart started beating very fast.

It was not a scrawling record of delightedly captured eurekas. It was a list- an accounting of items and values and figures. Pick-axes, mattocks, shovels and spades, mine carts, rails, ropes and pulleys. Wood and timber beams, metal support braces, stone cutting tools, axes, warhammers, crossbows, armour, runestones, barrels, hardtack, surveying equipment.

The sum of their value was the exact same number as what Doí and Floí had paid for their absurd extravagant order of salt.

“Lady Dís!” Ori’s gaze had fallen upon the paper in her hands, and he stopped just short of her, looking suddenly very pale.

“Doí and Floí aren’t making negligent errors in our trade agreements,” Dís felt lightheaded, absently picking up another list. “They’re funding an expedition. Or should I say Erebor is funding an expedition? Does Daín know about this? Why do you have these?”

“Please- milady-”

“Where in Arda could they possibly be going?! To the last desert East of East? To Angmar? Have we not yet had enough of dragons and Were-worms? Must we go search for more? Daín can’t possibly know about this. And yet this is enough equipment for a hundred dwarves-”

“Daín knows, milady.” Ori hung his head. “The High Lords of the Iron Hills know.”

Dís’ mouth hung open, speechless.

“We were going to tell you, at some point. Balin wanted to wait until-”

“Balin?? Balin is involved in this??!”

“He’s… leading it, milady.”

A queer, empty feeling filled Dís’ chest. She had always counted Balin as her friend.

“Please understand,” Ori took the papers gently from her numb fingers. “We knew you would be opposed to the expedition. Balin wanted to rally support from the Blue Mountains before he came to you with his final plan. I urged him to tell you before he left.”

“He’s- gone?”

“Leaving tonight, milady. I’ve just come from seeing him. I was meant to bring those with me-” He gestured regretfully at the pile of ledgers.

“Ori,” Her voice came out breathy, and she felt faint. “How many years has this plan been in the making?”

“That I don’t know. But- it’s been many.”

“And… where are they going?”

At this question, Ori stood up a little straighter, and met Dís eye-to-eye.

“Khazad-dûm,” He said, lifting his chin. “We would see it restored to its ancient glory, the first and greatest of the Dwarven realms.”

“You’re going with them?” It came out like an accusation.

Ori gave a small nod, shrinking back just the slightest bit.

Dís shook her head dizzily. “Me opposing a plan is not enough reason to keep it a secret from me. I know I’m no king, but I thought I would have been valued more than this. That my friendship-”

“Please- I cannot say I know or understand why the other lords did not want to inform you.”

“I don’t have the power to deter them as it is-”

“Balin did intend to tell you soon-”

“Soon? And how many years have passed already?”

Ori shook his head helplessly. A moment of thick, painful silence passed before he drummed up the courage to speak again.

“If milady wishes to go see Balin now-”

“No,” Dís shook her head woodenly. “No, he wants to slip away without even saying goodbye, I’ll let him. There are others I must contend with.”

***

Chapter Text

The wind was an eerie evening song in the valley where Bilbo took shelter for the night. A large rock outcropping at the crest of a hillock next to a copse of tall beeches gave all the protection the hobbit needed from the wind. Bilbo stared up at a sky dotted with clouds that burned like white fire against the moon and wore like a necklace dripping with diamonds a river of stars at its horizon. Some of the stars flickered here and there, like they might any moment dance away like fireflies.

Bilbo sat up straight, almost knocking his head against the boulder leaning over him.

It’s too early for fireflies.

How could he be so stupid? This was the love Yavanna had found for him. It was she who had led him to Frodo.

Bilbo shouted to the heavens. “You could have told me it was a familial love!” His words disappeared into the wind like they were nothing. Bilbo laid back down, watched the moon pick its way through the branches of the trees.

Somehow Bilbo had the feeling Thorin hadn’t known. Otherwise why would he have looked so miserable, telling Bilbo?

Bilbo let his gaze drift to the flowers of the meadow basking in the moonlight. Dandelions, forget-me-nots. He would pick some, in the morning- lay them upon his doorstep, when he reached home.

For Thorin.

Even though Thorin was far beyond his reach. Even though Thorin might never find him again.

***

Hob sighted Bilbo from the shores of Bywater Pool as Bilbo walked by, on the very last leg of his walk home from Buckland. Bilbo waved him over and Hob joined him, fishing rod over his shoulder. They walked in companionable silence for a while, after an exchange of greetings. It was that final hour of golden light spilling across the world.

“I love spring.” It was a casual thing to say, but it felt like a confession.

Hob nodded sagely. “Just when ya think the cold’ll never finish. But it’s always done by April.”

“And this April has brought your family quite a bundle.”

“You as well, so I hear. Folks say young Frodo won’t speak two words t’any grown hobbit, ‘cept for you.”

A quiet stretched between them, as those words sank in.

“I mean to adopt him,” Bilbo said softly. “If I can.”

Hob nodded, still looking forward.

“He’d do well in yer care.”

“You think so?”

“Y’always hold close t’ya the things y’love,” Hob said, and his eyes landed just for a moment on the bundle of forget-me-nots in Bilbo’s hand. “No matter how much time passes.”

Bilbo, too, looked down at the flowers in his hand. He shook his head.

“It’s been years,” he said, “Thirteen years since I’ve left anything for him.”

Him.

Now that was a confession.

Hob nodded, as though he knew everything, when in fact he knew nothing, and had never asked. Bilbo blushed, forced himself to look up at Hob. He was gazing off thoughtfully.

“Thirteen years,” He said finally, “ain’t much time, when’t comes down to it.”

The road had settled into dusk, and Bag End was a fair shadow against the rosy hues of evening.

“Ye’ll do fine raisin’ up young Frodo. He’s a curious lad, from what I hear. Ye’re just the right ‘un t’guide a hungry mind.”

Bilbo felt himself smile at that.

“I hope he’ll do well in Bag End. There aren’t as many children here as at Brandy Hall, but young Hamson is of an age with Frodo. They’d get along well.”

“Hmm,” Hob pressed his lips tight together.

“What is it?”

They walked a few paces in silence before Hob was able to respond.

“Hamson might end up workin’ for Frodo. A friendship b’tween ‘em might not be proper like. Beggin’ yer pardon.”

Bilbo looked at Hob aghast. He opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it quick. They’d arrived at Number Three Bagshot Row, but Hob kept walking. He walked Bilbo to Bag End and without a word, they sat down at the bench. Hob pulled out a pipe from his pocket, started packing it.

“You’re right, of course,” Bilbo finally said, much as the truth pained him. “I’m sorry.”

“Whyever for?”

“For- forgetting- for my lack of decorum. For not respecting boundaries.”

Hob lit his pipe and let out a perfect circle.

“Seems like that’s yer talent,” he said. “Breakin’ boundaries.” Gently, he took the bundle of forget-me-nots from Bilbo’s hand. He let them drop on the bench between them. Bilbo almost cried out in protest- then Hob picked a few choice stalks, and started weaving them into a crown.

“It was th’king, wasn’t it?”

“Pardon?” Bilbo’s heart was suddenly hammering against his chest.

Hob picked more stalks, worked the delicate blossoms with deft fingers.

“Y’never say ‘is name. In yer stories. All those dwarves in yer stories have names, save th’king. All these years, y’never said the king’s name.”

“He- the king kept himself quite aloof most of the time-”

Hob leveled Bilbo with a look that told him he wasn’t fooling anyone. Then he handed Bilbo the finished flower crown.

“Kings must wear crowns, an’ adventurers must test boundaries, an’ everyone must love. Frodo’ll do well here. He’ll have plenty a’friends. An’ I’m glad I ne’er worked fer ya, an’ can call m'self yer friend.”

He clapped Bilbo on the shoulder as he stood, pipe in his teeth as he whistled, ambling down the hill towards Number Three in the final moments of dusk.

***

Bilbo was in thick darkness that echoed like a cavern as tall as the sky. The dark was so thick he could not see his hands in front of him. And the ground was moist and sticky beneath his feet. There was not a sound. Bilbo turned around carefully, blind in his steps. Not far from him was a torch on the ground. Its light seemed powerless, cold and weak against the inky black. Bilbo went to the torch, bent to pick it up.

He gasped.

“Thorin!”

The dwarf was sprawled out on the ground, a deep cut in his chest bleeding a steady stream. There was blood everywhere. The sticky stuff under his feet had been Thorin’s blood, Bilbo realised faintly. Bilbo rushed to him, dropping the torch next to them, placing his hand on the wound. The blood would not quit. Bilbo let out a strangled cry as hot tears came to his eyes.

“No no no no no no not again, do you hear me? Thorin-” He pushed Thorin’s hair out of his face, cupped his cheek in one hand. Thorin’s brow furrowed and his eyes were shut tight against some nightmare.

He’s dreaming, Bilbo realised. I’ve come to him, in his dream.

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispered, slipping one arm under the dwarf’s head and lifting his head and shoulders into his arms as best he could. “Thorin. Thorin. Wherever you are, I need you to hear me. I’m here. I’m here holding you. I have you in my arms, and I’m not going anywhere. And you’re not going anywhere either, do you hear me? You are not going to die, I’m not going to lose you again. Do you hear me?”

He squeezed Thorin’s hand- it was warm and strong. Thorin was breathing steadily. His wound would not stop bleeding- but he wasn’t going to die. He wasn’t.

“Listen to me Thorin,” Bilbo whispered, stroking his hair and drinking in the lines of his face. Even in this fell darkness, he was so beautiful.

“You are going to be ok, I swear to you. You can’t die. Please. Please. You still have to show me that trick you do with the smoke rings, remember?” He tightened his hold around Thorin’s shoulders. He had no idea what he was saying. Anything to keep Thorin with him. “You never showed me your secret. You’re going to get better, and then we’ll sit on the side of that mountain of yours and blow smoke rings till the remaking of the world. Thorin. Thorin. Do you hear me? I still love you. I’ll always love you. You have to know that.”

He ran his thumb along Thorin’s brow, rocking him gently against him. A low hum started to come out of Bilbo, and it slowly unfurled into a song.

And he sang and sang, and his voice gave no echo, but at some point, the furrow in Thorin’s brow smoothed away. The bleeding of his wound ceased. Thorin gave a soft sigh, and in his sleep, he reached for Bilbo’s hand.

***

Chapter Text

Dís was the only one in the Axe Hall when she heard the heavy iron doors open up behind her. It was late- very late. Halfway through the night at least- the torches were burning low.

She knew who it was without having to turn to see them. Ori had offered to bring Doí and Floí to speak with her.

She had been mid-aim when the doors opened. She turned, gave them a cursory glance, and turned back to her target, threw her hatchet. Bullseye.

“Good evening, Lady Dís,” Ori began tremulously. “I’ve kept my promise, and brought the Oí brothers to you.”

Dís grabbed another hatchet, took only half a second to aim, and landed it an inch to the right of the first axe. Then she grabbed a third, and just as quickly, landed it perfectly in pattern with the first two. She let the thunk echo satisfyingly through the hall. Then she turned to the brothers- not looking at them, but at least facing them.

“I just want to know,” She said softly, running her fingers along the handle of another hatchet. “How long you’ve been planning this.”

Finally, she looked up at the brothers. Ori was off to one side, thoroughly cowed. The brothers exchanged a look.

“Well, we would like to know,” Doí trembled as he spoke, “why it concerns you so.”

“Surely you needn’t involve yourself in every affair of dwarvenkind,” Floí said smoothly with a placating gesture of a hand. “You’ve done remarkably well leading our people through the Ered Luin winters, and finally here to the Lonely Mountain.”

“Don’t condescend,” Dís bit back, picking up the hatchet and spinning it by the handle as she did so. She held it up so she could look down the length of its edge, checking its sharpness. “I’m on the High Council of Erebor. You took great care that I shouldn’t know.”

“Why should you know?”

“Balin is my cousin!” Dís hurled the axe at the target. It hit the back of another axe, fell to the floor.

“Your distant cousin,” Floí spat bitterly. Dís whirled around to him.

“Have you been poisoning Balin against me?”

“You did a good enough job of that yourself, milady.”

“Let’s not make hasty accusations…” Ori tried to intervene.

Was there a chance that Dís valued her kinship with Balin more than Balin did? True, their lines diverged many generations ago- but they were still considered part of the royal line. Not that royalty mattered. Kinship mattered. And that would matter more to Balin as well, more than anything someone could say. Could he truly be persuaded not to trust her?

“No,” Dís held up a hand. For once, there wasn’t an axe in it. “Go on. How did I ruin my own kinship? It can’t be my statecraft. I hold no land, I cast no vote. Everyone knows my only power in that council room is my words. I’m a lowly advisor, not the king. Sweet Mahal- have you poisoned Dain against me too?”

“Dain and Balin have great affection for you,” Doí let out a nervous giggle.

“But not respect,” Dís finished the unspoken thought, stunned. “This cannot be true- this- the Ered Luin winters, you said. This cannot be about the Stag!”

A glint of triumph flashed across Floí’s eyes and he gave an oily smile.

“One’s reputation is not carved in stone until it is ruined, as the old saying goes.”

Dís’ heart twisted with rage at his satisfied smile. A distant part of her noted it was probably a good thing that there were no more sharp blades within her reach. She turned away from Floí.

“That was thirty-nine years ago-” She felt sick. She turned to Ori.

“Surely you do not think I’m some half-crazed, dangerous-”

“I only wish to touch with my own hands the runes of Durin the Deathless himself.” Ori’s voice sounded thick. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I was sworn to secrecy. I never meant to hurt you.”

Dís breathed a sigh, turned away from them, walked limply to the target, collected her axes with numb hands. She laid them down on the table, all in a neat row. Some of these axe-heads were generations old, their iron weathered and tempered by countless battles. Dís closed her eyes.

“News of my doings in the woods of Mount Dolmed would never have reached Erebor. I have the hearts of my people as surely as they have mine. It must have been you who brought it here. Why? Why ruin me?”

Doí tapped his fingers together apprehensively. “Well, milady does seem to forget-”

“Oh, come off it!” Floí shouted. “You ruined us first! You ruined our reputations, and our plans too, if not for Balin-”

“Your plans. Your plans to make me king, is that what you’re talking about? Mahal wept, this is what that was about? This has been going on that long??!”

“Milady, please-” Ori stepped forward. Dís pounded her fist on the table.

“Why did you need me to be king, Floí? Tell me!”

“So Dain would lead us to Khazad-dûm! Why else would we need you? If you stepped up to be King of Erebor, Dain could take the even greater throne of Moria. It’s simple math.”

Dís felt like the breath was knocked out of her.

“You needed one from the line of Durin to legitimize this expedition. The higher in the royal line, the better- but you'll settle for a distant cousin to the throne.”

“You would have been the perfect one to lead it,” Floí scoffed bitterly. “Only we knew you never would. You’ve never been able to see past the survival of your family. You made that clear when you stood in Thorin’s way-”

“HOW DARE YOU!!” Dís lunged at him- Ori and Doí were quicker, grabbing her by each shoulder and holding her back. “Even if I wanted to go to Moria, I’d never do so as the pawn in one of your schemes! The treasure you’re expecting from this must be great indeed, for you to lower yourself to such vile manipulations!”

“The only treasure I think of is treasure for all our people! The veins of mithril flowing like rivers once again! The glory and power of our people restored! Never in fear of exile again! Never again the shame of poverty! We dwarven-kind create riches for all the rest of the world and yet we are spat upon by the other races! How dare I?? How dare they! They will see, Dís! Men do nothing but make war and elves are worse than useless. The world has always been ours to transform!”

“You’re sick,” Dís said, but it came out weakly. The years of poverty were a thorn in her own heart, too, that could not be ignored. She shoved off Ori and Doí, and they let her go. “Why the secrecy then? Are there others you don’t trust, or only me?”

Floí let out a huff, straightened his cloak. The fire in his eyes seemed to lessen. “The settlers will come from the Blue Mountains. They gave us the financial backing. They did not want this opportunity open for the dwarves of Erebor, who already enjoy great riches. Ori is the one exception, besides us and Balin."

Dís gave a painful laugh. “So diplomatic.”

“Diplomatic? You speak to me of diplomacy?” The glint returned to Floí’s eyes, and he stepped forward. His gaze traveled to the hatchets on the table. He lifted one up, tested the sharpness of its blade with his thumb.

“Your reputation isn’t entirely ruined,” he said with an arched brow. “Half the world knows of your prowess with throwing axes. It does make me curious, however, why you waste your time learning swordplay with that surly cousin of yours, when you’d never touched a sword before in your life.”

“Distant cousin,” Dís’ pulse strangely quickened. Floí gave another oily smile. He placed the hatchet back on the table, gave it an indulgent pat.

“Perhaps you’d do better to stick to what you know, and leave to the experts what is out of your ken.”

He turned to go, his robes sweeping behind him. Doí and Ori followed, the latter looking miserable. The door was nearly shut when Dís called out.

“Ori!”

The scribe appeared at the door, slowly crossed the distance back to Dís.

“You realise they’ve been planning this for nearly forty years. This must be something deeper than mere expedition.”

Ori hesitated.

“Milady forgets, Doí and Floí have no noble blood and were among the most impoverished in the years of exile. Even once they were accomplished diplomats, it would have taken this long to gain the influence and power they needed.”

Dís shook her head. “I don’t buy it. Something else is going on here.” She picked up the axe Floí had handled, and grimaced. With a steady eye she checked its blade, then chucked it with only the most cursory aim. It hit the bullseye, dead in the center.

“They’re using the line of Durin for their own ends,” she muttered, picking up another axe. “Doesn’t it bother you that Durin himself was slain in Khazad-dûm?”

“That doom of the First Age is gone. There are no more dragons, except in the farthest northern reaches. Probably there are no more in all the world, and we are safe from their fire at last. Shouldn’t that be a matter to rejoice? Even if you yourself do not wish to go- even if your heart can hold nothing but Erebor and the ones you lost.”

Dís turned to Ori, shook her head gently. “I’m allowed to have my suspicions. Listen, I will keep your secret, but this is not over for me. Still, I do not wish us to part in anger. When do you leave?”

Ori gave a hopeful smile, wrung his hands together, and Dís’ heart melted a little at the sight. “I don’t leave for a few years yet- not until Balin sends for me, when the whole company is ready.”

“I’m glad to hear you’ll be around for a while yet. Plenty of time to argue this again. Perhaps, if it comforts you, not around so many axes.”

Ori blushed and giggled, then gave a parting bow and ran off, the heavy door shutting behind him. Dís thrummed her fingers on the table for a moment, hearing the tap tap tap echo into silence.

And the sound was like the soft echo of dark and distant drums.

***

Chapter Text

It wasn’t a place Dís liked to go. She’d rather take her grief to the Swordyard or Axe Hall, or even Ravenhill where they fell- but sometimes, she couldn’t help it. She ached to see their faces.

The narrow gallery was dim, lit by only a single torch at the far end. Its flicker cast long shadows across the worn faces of tapestries, fading thread stitched by long-dead hands. Dís held a torch of her own, and it illuminated the three final tapestries in front of her.

They were newer, of course- crisp of stitch, colours still resplendent. Her sons had never become kings, yet Dain had commissioned them all the same. Dís didn’t like them. Their eyes, set in a determined calm she’d never seen in them. But- perhaps that’s what they were like, in the end. Dís’ heart was in her throat. She preferred the dreams she sometimes had of them, running wild in the forests of their exile, forgetting everything that was to come, never knowing that those would be the best years of her life. Wisps of dreams, like memories, yet more. They say the dwarven dead can reach their loved ones in dreams. Dís believed it. She believed they were more than mere dreams. Especially her dreams of Thorin.

Fíli and Kíli were like a lost and faded paradise, but Thorin felt realer than real, like he’d stepped out of time, like he’d crossed worlds, and his eyes carried the storms he’d been through.

What was worse- his words were prophecies.

My words will once more break your heart.

In between her sons was the likeness of Thorin. His face, younger than she remembered. His brow was shadowed, but his eyes burned.

Your part in this tale is not over.

The world felt like it was closing in on her, as she stared into a weaving of eyes she had not looked into except in dreams for forty years.

And even in dreams… not for a long, long time.

Nothing existed, outside of the circle of her torchlight, and the face of the departed one it illuminated.

You will need my sword before the end.

“I knew I’d find you here,” came a low voice from behind her.

“Dwalin,” She breathed, whirling around to face him. He carried a torch as well, which cast his face half in shadow. He set it in an empty sconce and stopped just far enough that the silence could stretch between them.

Dís gave a small smirk and turned back to the tapestry. “You knew because you followed me.”

Dwalin gave a small shrug. “Ya dinna often miss our trainings. It’s been three days now.”

“And so you knew something was wrong.”

“It’s to do with Balin leaving, isn’t it?”

Dís took a deep breath. She was about to break their unspoken agreement for the first time. No more simplicity between them now. No more mere escape for them from the troubles that hemmed in close.

“Did you know?”

“I dinna know his plans. But I know Balin. Something’s been off. But I thought- wasn’t my place t’ask.”

Dís returned her gaze to the tapestry of Thorin.

“They say you confronted my brother. In the hour of his deepest madness.”

“Aye. I did.” Dwain sighed. Boots echoed- once, twice against the stone, and then he was next to her, facing the likeness of his king. “An’ now, it seems, I’ve grown cowardly, and wilna’ even confront my own brother.”

“You truly don’t know what they’re planning?”

“I take it you do?”

Dís turned slightly, enough to give him a sideways glance.

“What made you suspicious, and how long has it been?”

“You wilna tell me what y’know, then?”

Dís gave a sigh of her own. “I cannot. It’s not my choice. It’d bring you into my confidence if I could.”

She turned her gaze back to her brother, woven in golden thread. The world was starting to fade away again when Dwalin finally spoke.

“I kinna say for sure. A year or two. Maybe three. Nothin’ he said or did in particular. Y’know I dinna follow the politicking. But… there’s been a strange tone, growing in ‘is voice. A strange light in ‘is eyes. Like a hunger.”

Suddenly the air felt so heavy. It was too much. Balin… how did I miss the signs? How could I have failed you?

She stepped toward the tapestry and reached out, her fingers ghosting over the woven likeness of Thorin’s hand wrapped around the hilt of Orcrist.

“Do you think… that gold sickness… can only happen in the direct line? And that only gold can cause madness?”

“Course not,” Dwalin said gruffly. “All kinds of madness in this world. And yet… the line of Durin has more than one curse on it. Don’t matter how far off the direct line y’are. So the legends say.”

“You believe the old legends?”

Dwalin met her gaze for the first time that night, and his next words dropped into something like softness.

“Ye’ve lost everyone ye loved. Your sons. Your brothers. Your One. I kinna look at ye and not conclude the gifts of Durin are also curses.”

Dís thought again of the years in the wilderness, of Fíli and Kíli so small at her side. A memory came to her: once, the three of them happened upon a lake where hundreds of swans were gathered. They were strange and gorgeous: their long necks and large bodies, the darkness around their eyes. The way they circled each other. The sumptuous ripples trailing behind them, each one a silken thread upon the lake. Dís and her tiny intruders gasped, and Kíli slipped and fell to the water’s edge. They weren’t even very loud- yet they startled the entire flock, and the swans as one took fight. But the strange thing was that they flew toward them. Spreading their gigantic wings, they flew so close above them that Dís had to duck down, snatching Kíli back and wrapping her arms around both her sons. The three of them looked up in terror and wonder- the sound of hundreds of wings flapping was louder than any thunderstorm. Then, in a mere handful of seconds, they were all of them gone, threaded through the treetops and disappearing into the sky.

Their years in exile. The best years of her life.

“Or perhaps…” She whispered, “the curses are gifts.”

Dwalin made a soft noise beside her, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. Suddenly the air no longer felt so heavy, and she wished she could just lean against him for one moment, head against his shoulder. Her breath caught in her throat, and she braced herself to say her next words.

“Víli wasn’t my One.” She paused, surprised at how wildly her heart beat. When Dwalin said nothing, she continued.

“I loved him, to be sure. I was always grateful for him. He gave me my greatest dream. He gave me children. A family of my own. And we were a good match. He was so cheerful, so carefree and easy. Everything was simple for him. I’m glad he passed those traits on to Fíli and Kíli. He lifted them out of the tragedy of the line of Durin. And he was so kind. A wonderful father. I was always grateful for him. He is… perhaps… the only fulfilled love of my life. But… he wasn’t my One.”

Dís drew in a shaky breath, staring resolutely at the image of her brother, not looking at Dwalin.

“I’ve been wondering lately, of the types of madness. I’ve wondered if there was a shadow madness in the line of Durin. That no one talks about. The madness of grief. I wonder if my early losses- my home, my mother- kept me from ever finding my One.”

“Most never find their One, Dís,” Dwalin’s words came out in a rush, his voice sounding thick with pain. “It’s mere superstition, at this point. Poetry and legend.”

“Then… why did you assume Víli was my One?”

The silence stretched long and thick. It was Dwalin’s turn, now, to stare resolutely ahead.

“I s’pose I hoped for ye. Ye seemed so happy with ‘im.”

“You hoped for me,” Dís breathed, barely a whisper.

Something in her heart lifted with the hush of great soft wings.

***

Chapter Text

The library of Erebor was hushed in a way that did not feel merely quiet but consecrated- sacred, like the tomes held therein knew the secrets of a god long lost. The deepstone walls held a thousand years of breath, and the scent of vellum and old oil lamps clung to the air like memory.

Ori was waiting for her. He held a sheaf of scrolls. He greeted her with a smile as open as the gates of a city that had only known peace. But the torchlight touched his smile like a warning.

“What calls to you tonight, milady?”

Dís considered.

“Doom, I suppose. Khazad-dûm. Blades of the First Age. The Curse of the One.”

Ori nodded solemnly. “Follow me.”

He led her through the stacks, torches casting slow golden light on polished dwarven runes etched into stone shelving. They came to the section on Khazad-dûm—wonders of the ancient realm, rituals of fire and forge, trade routes below the world; songs of stonecraft, instruments of the deep halls.

“There,” Ori gestured, “You’ll find more than enough to start.”

But even as Dís stepped toward the shelves, a voice called Ori away. He bowed his head, apologizing, and left her alone.

She turned back to the shelves. Her hand brushed one of the titles—Of Mithril Veins and Vaulted Halls.

Ahead of her, she saw another section. Verses of Union and Parting: Love Songs Through the Ages. Drawn by something she could not name, she found herself in front of it, she pulled a book bound in leather lacquered red like blood. Love and the Soul Hunters its title was, and she opened it, letting the pages fall where they may.

The pages fell open to a poem.

He lit her name with fire
in the halls beneath the world,
And she, unburned, turned toward his flame.
Their shadows carved into the slate
Ash and ruined fate-
They touched the hush of madness,
Where no sun abides.
And in their wake, all light has fled-
Rush of ash that buries and hides.

Dís hadn’t realized she’d been whispering the poem outloud. But when she finished, a glint appeared- a sliver of something not quite right in the wall of books—a seam. A hidden doorway revealed itself within the runes of the bookshelf.

Breathless, she took the lantern from a nearby table and pressed her hand to the seam. With a groan, the shelf yielded.

Cold air rushed out like breath held too long. She stepped through, closing the shelf behind her.

A stone spiral staircase twisted down into darkness.

She descended.

On the first landing, the walls narrowed. Books rested on weathered wooden shelves, bound in old leather and strange sigils. The air was thick. A tome on Runes of the Deep Earth caught her eye. Another was titled Bindings and Burnings: Love Beyond the Veil.

Beneath the stone where secrets sleep,
Where none but fire dares to creep,
A whisper wound in molten thread
Spoke of the living who love the dead.

A forge once roared where hearts were bound,
In rings of flame beneath the ground.
The fire kissed what none could hold—
A love too fierce, a grief too old.

They drank of light, they wept in gold,
They called it love— it did not fold.
It seethed. It burned. It would not cease.
It fed on longing, not on peace.

Beware the soul who hears its call,
For flame remembers that which falls.
And those who love what should not be
May wake in chains. May never flee.

She closed the book. Her hand was trembling.

For a moment, the air itself seemed to still. As if the library had taken a breath and was now holding it, waiting. The lantern flickered in her grasp, casting sharp shadows that danced along the walls like things half-alive. Something stirred in her—a cold tug, deep in her gut, as though a thread had been caught and drawn taut by unseen hands.

Then she noticed the second staircase.

It curled beneath the landing like the throat of the earth itself, each stone step worn smooth with centuries. She hesitated. Her fingers tightened on the lantern’s handle. She could turn back. Ori would be returning soon.

But something in her—something older than caution—pressed her onward.

Down she went, step by step, into silence so thick it seemed to swallow the light.

The air grew colder. Moisture slicked the stones beneath her boots. The walls closed in, tight as a tomb. And then, suddenly, the stairs opened into a wide chamber. She stepped forward—

And saw the sarcophagus.

The room was carved into a perfect circle, stone polished mirror-smooth. A thin line of ancient dwarven script traced the circumference of the room, but her eyes barely registered it. They were fixed on the open door of the tomb at its center.

And within—

Orcrist hovered.

The sword gleamed, suspended in the air as if by spell or spirit. Its edge caught the lantern light and shimmered with a cold, hungry brilliance. The blade glinted silver-blue, as if moonlight had been poured into steel.

There was no sign of Thorin’s body. Only the open tomb. And the sword.

Dís stepped closer, though every part of her screamed not to. The air here was heavier than anywhere in the mountain. Each breath burned, like the air in a forge—but colder, crueler. She raised the lantern higher.

Her mouth opened to speak, but no sound came.

Dís jolted upright, heart pounding. The chamber was dark, save for the low orange glow of the dying fire in the hearth. The shadows danced across thick velvet curtains and dark wood beams, painting the room with warmth and hush. She was safe. Her skin was warm, her sheets soft.

A voice, low and rough with sleep: “Mmmm. Easy, lass. Come back to bed.”

Dwalin.

He gently pulled her back down to him and curled around her, one arm heavy across her waist, the other tucked beneath her shoulder. His breath stirred the hair at her neck.

She could feel her pulse still racing. The dream was fading, but its weight had not lifted. She stared at the velvet above her.

Dwalin stirred again, sensing her unrest. He kissed the back of her neck, then her shoulder.

“You’re shiverin’. What is it?”

She hesitated. “A dream.”

He nuzzled closer behind her, pressing a low, steady kiss into the space just beneath her ear. “A bad one?”

She gave a nod so slight she wasn’t sure he’d catch it. But he did. Of course he did.

“Tell me?”

Her voice barely made a sound. “If I did something terrible… would you try to understand?”

Silence. Then, after a pause so long she wondered if he’d drifted off—

“I dinna try to understand ye now.”

She laughed, breathless, a single burst of disbelief. But then she felt his hand shift. Slow. Deliberate. Fingers sliding along her ribs, rough calluses grazing soft skin. He pulled her closer, his weight coming over her like a blanket of safety and flame. The dream was gone. The tomb forgotten. Her name burned on his lips, not with fire or ruin, but with the kind of need that knew exactly how long it had waited.

Her breath caught.

“So go on,” he murmured against her neck, his voice gravel and heat, “do your terrible thing—”

He kissed lower.

“—and see if I wilna still burn for ye.”

***

Chapter Text

The day would end in silver, Bilbo knew—but the Grain Moon always began in gold. The gold of dawn stretched out across the sky. The gold of wheat ripe in the fields, the gold of corn tassels and silk. Of light dazzling on the water as the Sun rose through sleepy mist. The Grain Gathering Festival was underway, and Bilbo was up at dawn with the rest of Brandy Hall, for there was no way he could have slept, even if he wanted to. Children were already tumbling out into the lanes, still in their nightshirts, chasing each other with laughter that rang clear in the early air. Their bare feet slid in the dewy grass, and their arms stretched for the seeds of sunflowers five times as tall as themselves, as they scrambled onto fences to reach. Older sisters followed after with hastily tied kerchiefs and baskets for the flowers, calling out not to trample the marigolds.

In the lower kitchens of the Hall, fires were being stoked, kettles filled, and the scent of warm yeast and honey filled the corridors. Morning loaves were being shaped by practiced hands—braided, notched, and brushed with golden yolk. Each year they were baked from the first grain of the harvest, ground before dawn and milled fresh at the waterwheel just beyond the Hall.

Outside, farmers with scythes slung over their shoulders were already gathering near the path to the south fields. Their shirts were linen, rolled to the elbow, and the quiet camaraderie of the early hour passed between them in nods and murmured jokes. Some had brought beer from the previous night’s barrel—light, golden, and cool as the river mist—to pass around before the cutting began.

Brandybuck lads in the brewer’s wing had been up even earlier, stirring copper kettles and muttering about barley ratios. They’d opened the windows wide to let the scent of steeped malt and hops float into the gardens. In a nearby grove, lasses laid linens across long wooden tables, readying them for the pies and jams that would arrive by noon.

All around, the world glowed: hayfields catching fire with the dawn, orchard trees painted in honeyed light, bees already humming from blossom to blossom. Up from Deep Hollow came a cart laden with blackberries, the driver whistling an old harvest song. And atop the hill, Brandy Hall’s round windows gleamed like lanterns lit from within.

The fields were already alive. Even before the first full light spilled over the ridgeline, long rows of mowers were at work in the outer pastures, where the grasses stood tall and golden. Their scythes moved in perfect rhythm—swoop, draw, pull—singing their low, wet hiss with every stroke. Each blade shone wet with dew. They moved together like dancers in a practiced line, the sound of their blades a grounded counterpoint to the thin trilling of larks in the hedgerows.

Behind them came the rakers, drawing long, even strips of hay with wide wooden rakes, the skirts of the lasses catching in the breeze like sails. Some had tied wildflowers into their hair. Others wore straw hats that caught the sun as it crested the horizon. Farther behind, two lads with pitchforks walked in tandem, flipping the turned hay in toward the strips so it would catch the best of the sunlight. A cart creaked slowly in their wake, drawn by a dappled mare with kind eyes and a patient gait. Her hooves made soft, forgiving thuds in the earth, and the scent of crushed grass rose in her wake.

Bilbo joined them just after sunrise, after helping see the younger children off with their baskets for sunflower gathering. He came to the hayfield with a kerchief tied around his neck and his sleeves rolled to the elbows. He was given a light rake, and took up a place beside the others. There was little talk at first. The hush of morning still lingered like dew clinging to the grass. But the rhythm took hold, and before long, someone started a tune.

"Gold in the morning, gold in the sheaf—"

"Lift with the rhythm, sing in relief—"

They called and responded, rake and scythe and pitchfork falling in time with the beat. The rhythm of their work became a kind of song, and Bilbo, at first shy in voice, found himself singing loud and hearty with all the others. There was joy in it. The call of harvest, the shared pulse of many hands moving as one.

He moved easily beside them, his feet sure in the damp grass, his eyes stinging with the dust of the hay.

A shout went up from the hedgerow. “Storm’s coming!”

They all paused and turned. In the far distance, thunder rolled across the sky like a drumbeat. Dark clouds massed above the woods and spilled over the hilltops. A delighted murmur ran through the field. The air suddenly smelled of rain longing to fall, bright and sharp. The wind picked up. The rhythm faltered, then fell still. The final note of the song hung unfinished in the air. Everyone startled when the thunder cracked, even though they were expecting it—then a thrill of laughter rippled through the field. Then came the first flash of lightning, a crack like mountains splitting, and someone whooped aloud as the first raindrops fell.

They scattered, laughing, toward the carts and the tree lines, some diving under wagons, others into haystacks. Bilbo huddled with two other workers beneath an old lean-to, breathless and grinning. The rain spattered hard, then poured down in silver sheets. One of the younger lasses nearby let out a shriek of delight and twirled in the field, arms raised.

They were content at first to be soaked in the rain and the voice of the thunder. But as the rain turned cold on their skin, one by one, and two by two, they bolted for the edge of the field. Some flung their scythes and sickles in high arcs into the grass, others tucked bundles of hay under their arms like they’d win a prize for bringing it in. Bilbo dashed alongside a wide-eyed lass from Overhill and a stout fellow with curls like a weathered mop—feet skimming over the churned field, heart pounding like hooves.

By the time they made it to Brandy Hall, everyone was soaked to the bone and roaring with laughter. Frodo was among a band of children who came skidding down the hill from the orchard, arms raised to the sky, shrieking with delight. Someone had already lit the hearthfires. Warmth wrapped around them like a welcome home. Hats were shaken out, cloaks hung dripping by the door. The smell of baking bread met them like an embrace.

Menegilda oversaw the great kitchen with her usual look of careful reserve. Bilbo caught her eye as he washed up, appreciating in her what he now understood was amusement and suspicion hiding in the corners of her eyes, and a sharp wit hiding behind her tongue like a whip. Just then Hob came through, bustling between the pantry and the cutting boards, scolding and humming in equal measure. Andwise was elbow-deep in pastry, laughing with Tansy as she dusted his nose with flour. Children ran wild underfoot—elbow-deep in flour, blackberry-sticky.

Bilbo was handed a towel, then a bowl, then a knife, before he had time to think better of it. He was set to chopping late summer squash, carrots and rosemary, elbow to elbow with Tansy who teased him relentlessly for his precise cuts.

“By the blossoms, Bilbo, do you carve your vegetables with a ruler?”

Bilbo looked down. His carrots were diced into perfectly even cubes that glistened in the lamplight. Dori suddenly came to mind, out of nowhere, sorting the white gems with an anxious look. Bilbo’s breath caught. He hesitated.

“And what if I do? Good stew demands elegance.”

“And you’d better not burn the stew with all that elegance,” Hob added, stirring the pot like he meant to drown the season in it.

"I swear you look younger every year, Bilbo," Fosco Boffin said with a grin, sidling up beside him.

"You’re just getting older faster," Bilbo replied, taking a swift draught of his beer. "It’s a trick of perspective."

The others laughed.

“Bilbo’s tales age almost as well as he does,” Menegilda swiped a towel for a spill almost before it happened. “Which one will you regale us with at the bonfire tonight? The twelve dancing dragons or the giant with the bird’s nest in his beard?”

“Ha! It’s you who embellishes, not I. Or someone or other. I don’t know who. Liars and fibbers, all of you!” The others roared with laughter as Bilbo shook his fist in mock-offense. He went back to his chopping. The summer squash was now two rows of perfect half-moons, each just waiting for a night sky to hover over a wilderness full of danger.

“As long as you’re there tonight, I don’t care what you tell,” Menegilda said warmly. “The fauntlings are beside themselves with anticipation. None of us’ll get any peace until you’ve filled their heads with dragons.”

As if summoned by mention, Frodo, hair still damp and cheeks pink from his dash, came tumbling through a nest of aprons and slipped to Bilbo’s side. “Uncle Bilbo! Tosto and Folfo and Daisy and me are gonna make corn husk dolls! Will you help us?”

Bilbo glanced at Menegilda. “Go on, Bilbo,” she said, taking the knife gently from his hand.

Bilbo smiled and turned back to Frodo, heart tugged soft. “Of course,” he said, wiping his hands and letting the scent of thyme and woodsmoke follow him as he bent to take Frodo’s hand.

Outside, the rain had passed and the world glistened. The air hung thick with the sweet scent of hay and storm-washed grass, and shafts of sun poured down between the parting clouds. Children spilled out from the kitchen, Frodo in the middle of the throng, a clutch of cornhusks and string in his arms. Bilbo followed, holding a towel he’d forgotten to put down, a sprig of rosemary still tucked behind one ear. He paused a moment on the threshold—the smell of rising bread and stewing meat behind him, the shimmer of Brandy Hall’s wide hill and the Brandywine below catching every glint of returning sun ahead.

Frodo had set himself cross-legged beneath the wide old elm, husks already in hand, his brow furrowed with the solemnity of creation. Folfo was braiding hair for his doll with bits of twine, and Daisy had fashioned a hat from a buttercup leaf. Bilbo knelt beside them, folding himself down slowly, and began threading husks with care. His fingers remembered their lessons quickly. When Frodo looked up and smiled, Bilbo’s heart flooded with the same stunned wonder it always did. This child had so many smiles.
And still, each one felt like the only one in the world.

The clouds eased, lifting and drifting to the east, leaving behind a wide afternoon drenched in golden hush. Heat still rose gently from the fields. Across the hill, the long trestle tables were being set out, covered in homespun linens and decked with blooms—sunflowers, black-eyed susans, and sprays of goldenrod bursting like fireworks from jars of glass and clay.

Ribbons arrived in baskets, carried two at a time by giggling lasses, and soon they streamed like comet trails in every color of the harvest. The lads whooped and dove for the longest ones, spinning them around their heads like lassos. A small knot of musicians gathered near the orchard’s edge, tuning up—first a whistle, then a deep-voiced drum, and at last, the fiddle. Its first notes floated up like dragonflies on the breeze.

The children leapt to their feet with their finished dolls to play among the apple trees. The game shifted: now it was “who can steal Farmer Maggot’s crop,” and the dolls were sent as decoys, spies, or hostages.
Laughter pealed out across the meadow, quick and endless as the wings of sparrows.

Bilbo stood, brushing husks from his lap, and took in the whole of it—the Brandywine, slow and shining in the distance. The tables, the flowers, the music. Hobbits barefoot on the packed earth, curls bouncing as they danced in spirals of joy. The air tasted of apples and woodsmoke.

A ribbon landed across his shoulder. He turned and found Frodo there, out of breath and beaming.

“Come ribbon-dance with us, Uncle Bilbo!”

“Well now,” Bilbo said, offering an exaggerated sigh, “I’ve just spent the morning dancing with haystacks and the afternoon with dolls—I’ll be all out of breath if I keep this up!”

But Frodo only grinned and tugged him along, and Bilbo laughed, letting himself be led.

***

The last sunbeams stretched long across the meadow, gilding the dancers as they circled and spun. The ribbons caught in the breeze, twisting overhead like the tails of comets. Hobbits young and old joined in the steps, an easy spiral of feet and laughter, tapping and turning as the music quickened, then slowed again to a lullaby of strings and whistles.

Someone passed around mugs of honey-sweetened beer, and someone else slipped blackberry tarts from a basket when no one was looking. Children clung to their dolls even as they ran, breathless, through the dancers’ legs.

The sky deepened to plum, and then to indigo. Candles were lit in hanging glass jars strung between the orchard trees, and soon the night sparkled in firefly constellations.

Someone called out for the bonfire, and cheers rose up at once. The musicians struck a bolder tune, and a few of the lads sprinted toward the great pile of wood stacked near the clearing’s edge. A single flame caught, then roared skyward—and all around, voices rose with it.

Bilbo found himself with Frodo’s hand in his again, the boy tugging him forward into the firelight. He gave in with a soft laugh and let himself be drawn into one more dance. The flames crackled, casting leaping shadows on the dancers' faces, giving the whole meadow a mythic glow. Bilbo saw Tansy twirling little Daisy in the air, and Menegilda sipping cider with narrowed eyes that missed nothing.

But soon, as always, the younger children began to yawn and nestle in parents’ arms, and the older folk drifted to the quieter rings of fire that dotted the slope below Brandy Hall. These were for stories, and stew, and second mugs of beer.

Bilbo, feeling the gentle ache of a well-spent day in his bones, led Frodo toward one such fire, where Hob and Andwise and Tansy had already settled with their brood. A few neighbors from Bucklebury were there as well, and waved them over, and someone was handing out slices of hot plum cake, sticky and rich. Bilbo accepted his with a nod of thanks, then sank down onto a wool blanket beside Frodo.

The fire here was lower, softer, and the voices around it were quieter, threaded through with stories and the occasional lull of silence. Frodo leaned against him, barefoot and flour-dusted still, and let out a long sigh of contentment.

Bilbo gazed into the flames. The night around them was velvet now, and somewhere deep in the trees, a whippoorwill called. The music from the great bonfire still reached them, fainter now, like a memory.
One of the younger children who’d settled in around the fire tugged at Bilbo’s sleeve.

“Tell us a story,” she said, wide-eyed and sticky from sugared plums. “A real one. Not the troll one. We heard that one.”

Bilbo raised a hand to his heart, feigning injury. “You wound me. The troll story is a classic.”

“We know it by heart,” said another child. “We want a new one.”

“A good one,” said a third, already sprawled on his belly with his chin in his hands.

The adults quieted too—many smiling, some sipping, all settling in.

Frodo looked up. “Will you, Uncle?”

Bilbo felt a smile come on, slow and full, from a place deeper than memory.

“Well,” he said, sipping from his mug, “shall it be about twelve dancing dragons? Or shall I tell you the secret tale of the dwarf who stole summer?”

Frodo’s eyes went wide. “The dwarf! The summer!”

Bilbo’s heart seemed to catch in his throat. The words had come out before he’d had time to consider them. His voice felt suddenly thick.

“Well then. A fine tale for a night like this, when the moon’s not yet risen and the fire does all the shining.”

Bilbo took a long sip from his mug, letting the taste of plum and cinnamon anchor him. The fire crackled, and the hush around the circle grew thick and expectant.

“There was a time,” He started slowly, “I climbed the stone stairs of Erebor at dawn, long before the forges were lit, and the mountain’s belly still held the cold of ages. But-”

A blush was crawling up his cheeks. He hoped the shadows and the deepening evening hid it.

“But- there were dwarves awake even then. Dori was already brewing Rhûnish coffee-”

“Dori was the one who always carried you, right Uncle Bilbo?”

“Hey now! He only carried me once. Or twice. Now as I was saying, Bifur and Bofur had gotten honey stuck in their beards again-”

“The toymakers!!”

“TOYmakers!!” a very, very small pebble of a hobbit chimed in.

“Did Bifur and Bofur make our toys?”

“The ones from my birthday last year? Why yes they did- I special-ordered them just from them!”

“What will you special order this year?” The faunt who was asking struggled over the word ‘special’ and Bilbo couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Well, it’s a surprise. Frodo chose what to order. He and I will be celebrating our birthdays together from now on.”

All the children around the fire looked in open-mouthed awe and excitement at Frodo. Bilbo took the opportunity to pick up his tale once more.

“Now as I was saying. Bifur and Bofur had gotten honey stuck in their beards again, and Bombur had tucked a single flower behind his ear. I don’t remember what kind. Something small and gold. Perhaps a buttercup.”

Of course, Dori and Bifur and Bofur and Bombur had not been there at all. There was no coffee, there was no honey. There had been no morning in Erebor that the company shared, that had an ounce of joy. But Bilbo pressed on.

“It was the first summer after the mountain was reclaimed. The dragon was gone. The halls were echoing with new songs. But oh… there was an ache there still, like a missing tooth in a grin.”

He paused, voice catching. Frodo curled closer beside him.

“One day,” Bilbo continued, “The king led us out beyond the gates- I never have told you the King’s name, have I?” His heart was racing. His eyes flicked to Hob, who nodded him onward.

“You said his name was King Dwarf!” A fauntling protested.

“Yeah! You said he had no name!”

“You said his name was Under-The-Mountain!”

“You said we’d never guess it in a million years!”

“Ah-” Bilbo chuckled. “Right you are. Under-The-Mountain is his name, and one day, he led us out beyond the gates- beyond even the watchtowers of old Ravenhill where scraggly black birds older than your mother- and bigger than her, too!- keep watch on the comings and goings below, always watching… for… goblins!”

The hobbit children all shrieked and the littler ones hid their faces. The adults chuckled as children dived for their laps and skirts. Frodo tugged Bilbo’s sleeve.

“You said this story was about summer!”

“Yes, yes, of course- right you are, Frodo-dear! Now the Dwarf King led us out beyond Ravenhill. It was midsummer, and he wanted… I don’t know what. To remember? To forget?”

It was a dream from a lifetime ago, in those first years of dream-sharing after they’d finally dared to touch. Thorin had led him up into the foothills beneath the stars, past the sleeping watchfires, through whispering grasses that caught at their ankles like ghosts too shy to speak. They climbed in silence, their breath fogging in the crisp air, their cloaks gathering the dew of the world before dawn.

At the edge of a high meadow, they paused. The sky was a hush of deep indigo, the horizon just beginning to bleed rose. Below, Erebor was shadowed and still, but above—above, the whole sky held its breath.

The wild thyme brushed against Bilbo’s fingers as he knelt. Tiny blooms, pale violet and silver-edged in the moonlight, perfumed the air like something sacred. Thorin sank beside him.

They did not speak.

They lay together in the meadow, side by side, heads touching, shoulders brushing, cloaks spread like wings. The stars dimmed. The world held still. And the sun rose.

It rose not gold but crimson, veiled in mist and heavy with radiance. The red light spilled over Thorin’s face, gilding the curve of his brow, the bridge of his nose, the dark sweep of his hair.

Bilbo turned his face toward him.

Thorin was already watching him.

When they kissed, it was slow. As though the world had tilted just for them, and time had slid sideways. Bilbo felt his heart rise up, higher than the mountain, higher than the stars, higher than the breathless hush of morning. A kiss like fire wrapped in velvet. A kiss that made the thyme tremble and the sky deepen.

And Thorin said-

Thorin said-

“Uncle Bilbo?”

Frodo tugged on Bilbo’s sleeve once more.

“I think it’s not the king but your uncle who’s forgotten, Frodo,” Tansy teased. “A little too much honey-beer, Bilbo? Campfire heat getting to you? I could splash some water on your face.”

“Ha! You try going on a year of adventures and remembering them all forty years later!”

“The only adventure I’m ripe for is another plum cake. Anyone else want one?” Tansy stood and a chorus of cheers from the adults answered her. She was back with a tray full before Bilbo could catch his breath.

“Now where was I? Ah yes.

“We climbed until our cloaks were soaked through with sweat and the mountain lay behind us like a sleeping beast. And there, on a high meadow where wild thyme grew in the rocks, we found a patch of summer the dragon had never touched. Bees in the heather. A creek so cold it sang like bells. And the King laughed like a great booming bell. And do you know what he did?”

The children all shook their heads, wide-eyed.

“He lay down in the tall grass, arms behind his head, and said, ‘This. This we shall steal. Let Durin’s sons be thieves of joy for once.’”

If I could but steal summer, have it glow upon your skin within the mountain- bend the sun to my will, so that her face would always shine upon you. Would that I had the power to take away all your sorrows.

Bilbo gazed in turn at each pair of wide, expectant eyes before him. He shook away the mist and smoke of the dream before his eyes. It was time to deliver.

“For the dwarves, you see, were jealous.”

The children gasped, delighted.

“Yes,” Bilbo said, leaning forward. “Jealous of the heat, the bloom, the golden hush that fell across the hills. They were tired of living in the shadows. So they made a pact…”

***

The fire was low when Bilbo woke, and the hour was edging toward dawn. The circle around the campfire was a pile of sleeping bodies, soft snores erupting in tandem. The children were curled against their parents, warm in blankets. Frodo was a bundle by Bilbo’s feet, his chest rising and falling with the heavy breath of dreams.

Hob was awake, leaning back on his hands and watching the light slowly bloom on the horizon. He turned when he heard Bilbo, nodded his greeting. Another long moment stretched in silence.

Finally, Hob said it. Low like the hum of bees in the meadow.

“So what was ‘is name? The king.”

Bilbo swallowed hard. He stared into the fire, and saw the blood slowly pool across that dark cavern floor.

Where could he be, that he could bleed and suffer, even in death?

“Thorin,” He whispered, just over the hush of the fire. “His name was Thorin.”

***

Chapter Text

The courtyard stones were slick with fallen leaves—copper, ochre, and crimson—flattened into mosaic in the corners where the wind couldn’t touch. Steam rose gently from the forges nearby, curling in low, lazy spirals that glowed faintly in the early light. The sun had not yet fully risen; the sky was pale and full of hush.

Dís stood at the far end of the sparring circle, breathing slow and steady, her boots rooted, her left shoulder forward. Her braid was tight against her back, the end bound in crimson thread. Across from her, Dwalin rolled his shoulders, the heavy blacksmith’s muscles shifting beneath his tunic. He tilted his head once, like a nod, and stepped forward.

A circle of ravens gathered above the eaves.

“Steel sings!” croaked one, flapping once to settle more firmly.

“A wager, a wager!” cried another.

“Feathers on the dame! Her footwork’s finer!”

Dís didn’t recognize most of them these days. Many came in from the east and south, and many even from the Blue Mountains. Balin’s Raven was among those, joining in with a cackle on the wager.

She met Dwalin in the centre, and their swords met with a sharp clang, scattering a few leaves in the wind of their blows.

Dís turned her blade and slid it down the length of Dwalin’s with a spark, pivoting on the ball of her foot to dance past him. He followed, low and watchful, his stance, coiled readiness of a mountain cat. They circled once, twice—then she lunged.

Her blade slashed in a shallow arc, testing, and Dwalin caught it with a backhand block that sent vibrations ringing up both their arms. He grinned—just barely—and pressed forward. Dís bent at the waist, ducked a high strike, and kicked a scuffed stone beneath his foot. He stumbled, but recovered, and they broke apart, breathing heavier.

Mist clung to their brows, a fine sheen of sweat at their temples.

“The lady fights like autumn wind-” A Rhûnish Raven announced.

“-and he like the mountain that stands against it,” finished a Hollowbold.

The next clash was faster. Dís moved like the sound of sik being torn—light, precise, unrelenting. Her feet barely touched the stone, yet each step landed with perfect weight. Dwalin met her force with his own, rooted and immovable. Their blades rang, locking above their heads in a moment that shivered with tension.

She twisted suddenly, dropped low, and swept his legs in a blur of motion. He went down hard on one knee, laughing noiselessly as she leveled the tip of her sword just below his throat.

But she did not hold it long.

Instead, she pulled back, her breath high in her chest. Dwalin rose, slow and steady, the lines of strain and admiration in his face softened only by the flicker in his eyes.

“They are not enemies, yet they do not speak,” a young Raven croaked low, head cocked.

He turned to Taërn, who watched from the highest perch. Dís saw that she did not answer, only blinked once, solemn and silver-eyed.

A handful of red leaves swirled past between, and the courtyard wind picked up, threading through the stone arches like a song half-remembered. With it came the first hint of snow—no storm, only the delicate arrival of change. The flakes were tiny, hesitant, like something testing the edges of the world. They spun lazily in the air and melted the moment they touched warm skin.

A few caught in Dís’ hair and clung there, fleeting stars against raven black.

Dwalin's gaze drifted to them.

And in the stillness between stances, he started to reach- only a breath of a movement, a shift of his hand. But then he stilled again, his fingers curling once before returning to his hilt.

They began again.

This time, everything slowed. The earlier fire gave way to something heavier, quieter. Each step was deliberate. Their boots slid against damp leaves, crushed gold and bronze clinging to the stones beneath their feet. The swords still moved, but with restraint now, a kind of reverence in every strike—parry, pause, advance.

Snow gathered in her lashes, in the curve of her collarbone, on the knuckles of her glove. The world was softening. And in that softening, Dís felt everything sharpen inside her. Every sense of her body in space- her breathing, the rhythm of her pulse, the weight of the blade in her hand held the sharp clarity of awareness.

Of him.

The hush deepened. The Ravens no longer spoke. Only the wind, and the rasp of breath between them, and from somewhere distant, a forge bell—just once, round and low as a memory.

Their swords met a final time.

They stood too close- far too close. The steel of their blades pressed between them, but neither moved.

The clash held, taut and humming. Their breath mingled in rising clouds. His eyes were lit with something unspoken.

The snow kept falling. In the silence, the mountain watched them both.

***

Dwalin followed her as they headed inside, breath slowing, blades sheathed. The snow had thickened, brushing their shoulders in soft white threads. The Ravens said nothing as they watched them disappear into the shadows.

The armory stood tucked beneath a low arch of stone, half-forgotten at the edge of the training yard. Dís reached it first and pushed the heavy door inward. It creaked open on worn hinges, and a quiet met them, dim and golden from a single forge lantern left burning low.

The door to the armory groaned shut behind them.

They had exchanged no words. Just a look- mutual, slow-burning, impossible to misread- and the next thing Dís knew, she was being backed into the quiet sanctum of steel and shadow.

The air inside was thick with the scent of oiled leather, of forge-smoke long cooled, of whetstone and ash. Rows of weapons stood sentinel, each blade silent in its cradle, each suit of armor like a memory half-forgotten. The stones beneath her boots still held the warmth of the forge, faint and secretive. And Dwalin—Dwalin was heat incarnate, all coiled restraint and aching presence.

She reached for him, and he pressed her back against the wall, not roughly, but with the full certainty of his body. His lips at her neck, her hands tangled in the fabric at his chest.

There was no softness here. No bed, no furs, no candlelight. Only the low hush of the armory, the chill creeping in through the stone, and the searing warmth rising between them. Her fingers threaded through the bristles of his beard, then her hand came to rest on the nape of his neck, drawing him to her.

Dwalin’s hands spanned the curve of her waist, the wide armor-strong breadth of them making her feel both powerful and impossibly delicate. Her own hands traveled down his back, memorizing the slope of muscle that she for so long hadn’t allowed herself to admire, the scars she had for so long known only through rumor. He kissed her jaw, her throat, the place behind her ear that made her bones melt. His beard scratched deliciously against her skin. She gasped.

Outside, the wind howled once, a long silver cry. The snow fell soft beyond the thick stone walls. Inside, there was only the sound of breath and heartbeat, the clink of a sword jostled in its stand.

She was fire and earth, molten and rooted. He was stone and storm, steady and wild. Their eyes met and held. There was nothing shy about it- nothing coy, no hiding. Just the rawness of being seen, and the sacredness of being touched.
His forehead pressed to hers. Her breath hitched against his mouth.

Outside, snow spiraled in the wind, unseen. Within, the hush was deep- the silence of mountain roots, of deep caverns where water sings. It was a silence that held every word they’d never said.

***

Chapter Text

Everywhere in the mountain, the fires were generously fed to stave off the cold of the impending winter- and the library was no exception. The grand hearthfire in the reading room at the library’s center was in full force, and even in the far wings, the air was still warm with hours and hours of breath and lamplight. The library was a busy place during the High Moons, Durin’s Day most of all. Every secret was there for the thieving, for the feeding of the songs and tales that would be told around fire and table and ale. Dís loved to see the library like this: the crackle of energy in the air, the excitement, the thirst for the sacred and the hidden. Even if her own hunt was much darker.

The scent of aged paper and leather hung heavy in the air. The exasperated mutterings and excited whisperings created their own sort of quiet, among the turn of pages and occasional thunk of a book on a table. Dís made her way across the reading area and the grand hearth, boots quiet against the slate-tiled floor. She passed a row of heavy tables where Ori was working with his team of restoration apprentices. Ori himself was bent over a half-peeled scroll, his head nearly touching that of a younger dwarf who looked to be copying something by hand. Dís raised her fingers in a small wave as she passed. Ori looked up, blinked, and gave her a distracted smile before turning back to the task at hand.

She smiled faintly to herself, then turned deeper into the stacks, the way to the shelves of Khazad-dûm all too familiar to her now. Her feet carried her down the familiar aisle, past the carved wooden placards and the subtle shift in dust scent that marked the older shelves. She was nearly at the corner where the texts on treasures began- for that was what she must find, if she were to get to the bottom of what Floí and Doí truly intended. There must be a treasure that they want- for they were already wealthy these days, and had no better chances to deepen their riches in Moria than they did right here in Erebor. Especially not from mining mithril, which was much more difficult to mine than gold, and more dangerous as well. And Floí and Doí were not especially talented miners. They were scholars, and blacksmiths before that. No- Dís had a deep feeling that they wanted a treasure. Something unique, something one-of-a-kind, the kind of thing an obsessive academic would spend a lifetime trying to collect. Some ancient artifact, perhaps of great power, to adorn the high shelf of their tower of superiority.

It was an ill thought, but it was one she couldn’t shake. She’d come here time and again these past eight months, and so far found no leads- but that didn’t mean anything. There were over a hundred books on the treasures of Khazad-dûm alone. Not to mention the lore, or the culture, or the songcraft-

The songcraft of Khazad-dûm was a thing Dís had found herself guilty of drifting into, when she meant to focus on her mission. The Halls of Resonance were apparently wondrous and deeply varied in the sounds and echoes they could produce. Instruments were crafted especially for those halls. But beyond that, most of Dwarvish music theory had been established in Khazad-dûm, and even without any Halls of Resonance in Erebor, the repertoire of Moria that could be played here was unsurpassed. Dís was glad when she passed that section, to see many of the books pulled from the shelves and many a dwarf at the tables nearby, most of them musicians known to her. Erebor did have the Hall of Echoes, after all, and that was not nothing. Tonight’s concert there would capture all the wonder of a true Durin’s Moon- when the moon and the sun could be seen in the sky together on Durin’s Day. The Hall of Echoes had massive balconies with great stone doors that would open for that final hour of the year, and then as the sun set, the concert would begin.

Dís was too distracted, thinking of these things- she was not looking where she was going, as she watched in appreciation a group of musicians in a heated whispered argument about the interpretation of a score. So she did not see Gimli at all when she ran straight into him. The book he’d been looking at fell to the floor: The Glory Days of Khazad-dûm. Gimli stooped anxiously to pick it up.

“Gimi! Are you alright?”

“Sorry- sorry- are y’alright, aunty Dís?”

“Yes, I’m fine-” She noted the way his shoulders sagged. "No harm done. Are you alright, truly? You look as if you've swallowed soot."

He grimaced. "It's nothing."

"Gimli."

He hesitated, then let out a long sigh. “It’s fine. I just- first I was too young, and now I’m not from the right clan, and I just- I fear I’ll never be the one to go on an adventure!” Gimli moaned with a great deal of feeling. Dís tilted her head at him. Her eyes dropped again to the tome in his hands.

“Gimli… were you hoping to go on an adventure?”

Gimli suddenly realized his mistake. “N-n-n-n-n-no! Of course not! Whatever do you mean! Adventure? Pshaw! Who wants an adventure!” Even as he said it, he cradled his book on Khazad-dûm tight to his chest.

“Gimli… is there a secret you know that you’re not supposed to know?” His eyes gave away the answer as he looked up at her in wonder.

“You- you know too?”

“How did you find out, lad?”

“Me ama’ and ada’ were talking about it late last night. I dunno how Ada’ found out, but he’s close to the king, so… I declared that I would go too, and he said I couldn’t. Only the Firebeards of the Blue Mountains could go.” Gimli sighed, and if Dís had thought his shoulders couldn’t have slumped more, she was wrong.

“I wanted to go on the Quest for Erebor… but Ada’ wouldn’t let me. I was too young. And now this… but again, I can’t be chosen. When will it be my time?”

Part of Dís wanted to laugh at the irony of it. If this were forty years ago, she would have felt great pain and insult that Gimli would admit something like this to her- even if cornered. And maybe she did feel some pain- the ghosts of her sons were in Gimi’s eyes. But she felt no insult. Gimli was a heart full of passion for adventure. His yearning- his innocence, his heart’s true desire- Dís couldn’t laugh. She put her arm around his shoulders.

“Come. Let’s go to a table. Show me this book of yours. Is it the wonders of Moria you wish to see? Or do you tire of our tedious orc hunts and wish to find greater glory and danger in the mithril mines?”

They went together to a wide, low table, its surface deeply etched with the notches and ink stains of a hundred years of study. A sconce nearby cast a warm, amber glow across the polished wood, and the air here was quieter than in the main room- muffled by the weight of books, the hush of stone, and the reverence that clung to old things.

Gimli opened the book with careful fingers, as if it were something living. The vellum smelled faintly of smoke and beeswax. Across the first open spread was a rendering of the Pillared Halls, sketched in meticulous charcoal detail- their shadows falling long across the page, like the ribs of some sleeping god.

“These,” Gimli said quietly, “were carved during Durin III’s reign. No one’s quite sure how they got the ceiling to hold.”

They turned the page, and the Endless Stair spiraled down across two leaves—an architect’s rendering that captured both its majesty and madness. At the bottom corner, a footnote in Khûzdul speculated about the Stair’s true end: not the roof of the mountain, as was widely believed, but perhaps some long-lost observatory or echo chamber used to chart the songs of the stars.

“Imagine standing at the top of that,” Gimli whispered. “And singing.”

Dís felt something shift in her chest. “You would bear all that trial and danger, just to sing.”

He nodded solemnly. “Aye. Always wanted to see Mirrormere, too. They say the lake remembers your face… the way you were meant to be, not just how you are now.”

They lingered a while longer, Gimli’s fingers tracing the inked pillar of Durin I, and Dís watching him.

She thought of her sons- how Fíli had once brought her a crumpled page with a sketch of the Endless Stair, how Kíli had dreamed of sliding down it, yelling all the way.

Could it be… that Floí and Doí only wanted adventure, too?

She swallowed. “Somehow, I have a feeling your adventure will be more than gazing upon dusty relics of the past, however grand they might be.”

He frowned slightly, searching her eyes. “You really think so?”

She gave him a slow, wry smile. “I do. And anyway… if you wait long enough, with a patient heart, you’ll never have to go back. You can say goodbye to your old life forever, and you’ll never be the same. It’s something my mother used to tell me. She waited a very long time for her adventure.”

Gimli’s expression changed- curiosity and wonder mingling on his young face. “What was her adventure?”

“Love,” Dís whispered.

And the word fell between them like a great, dark secret.

***

Even as Dís stepped through the threshold of the Hall of Echoes, she could feel the sound—held, reflected, deepened—by the careful geometry of stone and arch. The doors to the outer balconies had been thrown open for the final hour of Durin’s Day, and the evening air swept through in silver gusts, stirring the braziers and setting the lantern chains swaying.

The music had not yet begun. The crowd was still gathering, dwarves filtering in with hushed voices and heavy cloaks, their breath misting faintly in the cool air. High above, through the great arches, the sun had just touched the horizon, while the moon had begun its slow ascent. For one breathless hour, both would share the sky.

Dís moved along the edge of the hall, keeping to the shadows on the balcony side of the hall. The echo here made a unique effect as it escaped through the great stone doors. Dwarrow were gathering in, standing room only, except for the high seats for the king and his son. There were two floors for dancing- one on the far side and one on the balcony side- but as the night deepened, the music would grow livelier, and the entire hall would be for dancing. Crowds pressed in, the murmur before the hush.

Her eyes swept the room before she was even aware she’d begun searching.

There.

Dwalin stood a ways behind her, near one of the pillars, speaking to no one, arms folded across his chest. His head was tilted slightly, as if listening for something far away. A torch crackled beside him, casting deep relief into the lines of his face. He hadn’t seen her yet.

She looked away.

It had become a pattern she could not unlearn- every room, every gathering, her gaze drawn to him like a lodestone. She knew it, and she let it happen. What she did not let happen was more. What they were- what they were becoming- she had no words for it. The quiet of comfort became the silence of passion. But silence had a way of breaking open like the crack of stone under a great weight. Silence could not hold forever. And yet Dís couldn’t speak-

She turned- just enough to glimpse him again. He seemed made of things unspoken, of the long night watch, and when he looked at her, she could not always read the meaning.

This time, he saw her. She turned away quickly- then the music began.

The first notes were soft, almost hesitant. A cluster of minor chords, played on the harp. In an instant the hall fell utterly still.

A low, dark chord lingered in the air, then vanished. And again, like the soft rumble of distant thunder.

Not quite a melody, not yet. Just the painful promise of one. As though someone were gathering memory from a battlefield, piece by piece, each one laced with ash.

Dís froze where she stood, heart thudding.

She knew this.

The next chord bloomed like smoke- slow and aching, as though the harp itself remembered pain. Beneath it, a viola crept in like moss over stone, shaping the shadows into something living. The rhythm did not move forward. It circled, hovered, hesitated- grief caught in its own echo.

Then the melody began, threading through the silence like veins in marble. It wound its way upward with exquisite restraint, every note sharpened by restraint, and restraint made it sacred. Dís felt it bloom inside her ribcage like something unhealed coming awake.

This was not a melody meant to soothe. It was a melody meant to remember- the way exile sears into the bones, the way you hold your breath for decades and then don’t know how to let it go. It carried the smell of wet stone, the quiet of tunnels too long abandoned, the aching sweetness of firelight glimpsed from far away.

The harp climbed higher, and a second stringed voice joined it- a cello that moved beneath the melody like history itself, dark and deep and low, pulling at her.

But who could have brought it here? It was her mother’s song, and no copy of it survived the years of exile, and Thorin was the only other one who knew how to play it, and Thorin had been dead for forty years.

And just then, she understood.

Her head turned slowly, irresistibly. Her eyes found him again.

Dwalin’s arms were no longer crossed. He stood tall, unmoving, the flickering firelight painting gold into the edges of his gaze.

She moved before she could think, weaving through the gathered dwarves with barely a glance.

All the grandeur of the hall- the open balconies, the moonlight slipping in through the carved arches, the golden flicker of a hundred lanterns- it all dissolved into that one chord that had shaped her life.

She stopped at his side.

“You,” she whispered. Her voice trembled. “How…”

“Shhh…” Dwalin came in close, forehead pressed just a moment against hers. He took her hands in his, and led her out to the balcony, to the sweet spot between the doors where the echo made the song bloom.

“Dance with me.”

Before she could protest, he brought her hand to his shoulder and slipped his free hand around her waist. And he knew the dance- he knew it like it was any old two-step, and not the intricate and difficult bolero that it was. They spun around each other, eyes locked as the music curled like incense around them- slow, deliberate, burning.

The bolero was not a young dance. It did not flirt or rush. It circled. It tempted. It smoldered.

Their steps moved in perfect counterpoint- her body poised and sharp, his rooted and unwavering. Dís felt the rhythm settle into her bones, felt the press of his hand guiding her not with force, but with memory, as if this dance had lived unspoken between them for years.

Their feet traced a spiral on the stone, hips brushing, breath quickening with every turn. When they came close- truly close- their chests almost touched. Her head tilted toward his, and his gaze didn’t flinch.

There was reverence in his eyes. Reverence- and hunger.

The music swelled around them, echoing from the arches, from the carved balconies, from the deep pockets of the Hall that had not heard this song in two hundred years. Each note felt like it had traveled across time to find them. Like it had waited.

Their hands shifted- her fingers curling against the nape of his neck, his palm sliding across the arch of her back. Their movement slowed- grew softer, more intimate. It was no longer a dance- it was a confession.

Dís didn’t remember when she closed her eyes- only that when she opened them, he was still there, still looking at her like she was the song itself.

The final note fell like a single shimmering thread that stretched across the stillness and vanished into the bones of the mountain.

There was a heartbeat of silence.

Then the hall erupted- roaring applause, thundering feet, voices rising in awe and delight. But none of it touched her. Dís stood with Dwalin, breathless and weightless, the echo of the music still ringing through her limbs.

He didn’t let go of her hand.

Instead, he tugged gently- wordless- and led her out through the arch again, past the pillar where he’d stood before, deeper onto the balcony, into the hush. Behind them, another song began- bright and sweet and calm. But they did not return to the hall.

Here, in the outer quiet, the sun had just dipped below the jagged teeth of the far peaks, leaving behind a sky lit with wildfire. Orange and rose clung to the edges of the stone, and the moon had claimed what remained- a pale coin in a violet sea, sinking slow, measuring the final hour of the year.

Dwalin pulled her close again. Their foreheads met. And they swayed- barely a dance, more the echo of one. Her hands slid up over his shoulders.

“How…” She whispered against his ear as they swayed together.

That Which Burns. He’d found it for her.

Her throat closed in on her. She tried again. “How did you manage it?”

His breath stirred the wisps of hair near her temple.

“Thorin transcribed it for me, when we were young in the years of exile. When I learned it was your favourite. The parchment cost all the coin I had at the time. But… your mother was lost t’ya, an’ I wanted to keep a piece of her for you.”

“Dwalin…” Dís whispered, breathless.

“I could’na give it to you- you were already courting. But… I kept it. In case one day there’d be an acceptable way to share it. I never dared hope you’d receive it as a Gift.” He pulled back to look at her, eyes very soft, a rueful smile on his face. “Mayhap I should’na dare hope even now.”

“Dwalin…” She let herself collapse against his chest. Her next words trembled against his collarbone.

“I cannot fall for you.”

Her voice was barely a breath, but it cracked through the stillness like a faultline.

Dwalin stilled. And then he leaned back, just enough to look at her. The torchlight from the hall flickered behind him, but his face was shadow and starlight, his eyes unreadable at first- and then suddenly, so simple. His smile grew into a true one, deep and affectionate.

“Lass… if what we’ve been doing these last eight months has been you not falling for me…” He gave a soft, incredulous shake of his head, “…then I dinna know if I can handle it if you do.”

That startled a laugh out of her- sharp and soft and real. She pressed her face to his chest. He pulled her closer.

She began again.

“I cannot let myself fall for you. I cannot. Everyone I’ve ever loved has died a bitter, tragic death.”

Dwalin’s gaze didn’t flinch, but held the deep empathy of their shared history, and the love in his eyes did not falter. He gave the barest of shrugs.

“Aye… but I’ve survived worse odds.”

Something in her unraveled- like she’d finally dropped a blade she’d been holding to her own throat. He pulled her closer, curled her hand into his.

And her soul lit up, burning like a blazing fire.

***

Chapter Text

The grass had grown soft again over the south-facing hill. The grave lay beneath a hawthorn tree, its leaves just tinged with gold. A few late flowers lingered—purple asters and white wood-sorrel—as though they’d stayed behind out of courtesy. The earth smelled of loam and sun-warmed roots.

Bilbo had never been to this slope before. It was the Gamgee burial plot.

A breeze passed through the branches, rattling the last of the summer’s green.

Bilbo stood near the back of the gathering, hands folded over the head of his walking stick, watching the curve of Rowan’s shoulder as she knelt beside the grave. A small jar of honeysuckle and clover sat tucked at the base of the headstone—an old Gamgee offering, brought by Bell, he thought, or maybe Andwise. A small thing to sweeten the parting.

The service had been simple. A few words from the family. A handful of shared memories. May had recited a bit of verse, voice trembling. Hamfast, silent and tight-faced, had taken up the spade with his brother and laid the final earth himself. The soft sound of soil falling on wood had made Marigold cry.
Bilbo had not spoken.

He wasn’t sure he would have been able to. His throat felt thick and unfamiliar, as though it belonged to someone else entirely.

Family and neighbors stood in quiet clusters—brown coats, green bonnets, shawls of plum and russet. Bell held little Marigold close, her curls tucked against her neck, and Samwise clung to her skirts. Other neighbors stood farther off, near the tree line, pale and still, as if the hill had grown thornier since the news. And Lobelia was there too, in a too-tight hat with an expression like a thundercloud, glaring at Bilbo the entire time with the tenacity of a wasp defending its nest.

Bilbo pretended not to notice.

His eyes remained on the grave. The stone was not yet carved, but it would bear Hob’s name, and below it, the simple line that Rowan had chosen:

His kindness lingers still.

Bilbo swallowed hard. The wind stirred again, lifting a leaf that had landed on the fresh mound. It fluttered once, golden, drifted toward the hedgerow and was lost among the seedheads of wild fennel.

Bilbo exhaled and turned slightly, prepared to say a few soft words to Bell or offer Rowan a final glance of comfort as the crowd slowly made its way downhill and across the lane, where a spread of scones and tea had been set out- but the moment he moved, a ripple passed through the nearest group of neighbors. Two of them glanced away too quickly, and one muttered something behind a cupped hand.

He frowned.

It had happened before, now and again—strange silences when he entered a room, an odd tone- but here, on this hill, on this day, it felt colder than usual.

He caught sight of Andwise coming down from the hawthorn, and the younger hobbit waved and made his way over.

“Andwise,” Bilbo greeted him quietly and shook his hand.

Andwise managed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Mr. Baggins. I hope you’re bearing up.”

“I am,” Bilbo said. “Or trying to. You?”

Andwise nodded, brow knotted and lips pursed like he was chewing on a thought. Bilbo hesitated, then leaned in a little as they walked a ways behind the others, lowering his voice. “Tell me… is something the matter? I’ve felt a chill all day that has nothing to do with the wind.”

Andwise sighed, flitting one knowing glance at the neighbours before looking down at the narrow path before them wending gently down the hill. For a moment, Bilbo thought he might feign ignorance. But then he lifted his eyes, steady and honest.

“There’s been talk,” he said softly. “More than usual. About… well. About you.”

“Me?”

“Not unkind, not always, anyway, but…” Andwise scratched the back of his neck. “Folk’ve noticed things. Ye’ve not changed, Mr. Baggins. Not since y’came back, all them long years ago. Y’haven’t aged a day. Some sayin’ it’s Elvish trickery. Some sayin’ wizard-work. Some sayin’ worse.”

Bilbo stared at him, mouth slightly open.

Andwise’s voice gentled. “It’s not that any’un thinks ye’ve done wrong. Not really. But Da’ was only five years older’n you. And not that I want ya to- well- nobody’s sayin’ ye should be- well. We all wish ya good health, a’course we do. But all them wishes seem t’come true fer ya mighty easy, and, well- not sayin’ my ol’ da’ didn’t live a good long happy life, an’ none in the fam’ly begrudge ya, an’ Da’ most of all would never- but- well- you two were close, an’ people take notice, an’ some folk don’t take kindly t’not knowing what ye are.”

“I’m a hobbit,” Bilbo said, a little too quickly.

“Aye,” Andwise replied. “And so am I, an’ I sure as sunshine believe ya. But belief don’t keep whispers from spreadin’.”

They stood in silence for a moment. A few children ran down the hill, laughing—not from the funeral, but from a footpath just beyond. Their voices rose like birds, cheerful and piercing.

Bilbo straightened his coat. “Is there… someone in particular, to whom I should defend myself?”

Andwise shrugged, reluctant. “Lobelia’s been goin’ on about it for months now, ever since Da’ got sick. She’s sayin’ it plain as daylight- sayin’ ye’re not natural, that ye’ve bewitched Bag End too. She’s sayin’ ye’ve brought some dark thing back with ye from th’Wild. And folk… well, some are startin’ t’listen.”

“Unnatural…” Bilbo shivered, though the breeze was warm. “That’s absurd.”

“Aye… so ‘tis. But some folks find comfort in suspicion. It gives ‘em a shape to their fear.”

Andwise gave his shoulder a brief squeeze, then drifted off toward Tansy and the children, his feet crunching softly the scattered seed husks on the path.

Bilbo remained where he was, halfway between the grave above and the crowds below.

Only a few lingered on the hill now- Rowan still kneeling by the grave, Hamfast and Bell now seated on a stone with Sam curled drowsily against her shoulder. The breeze had gentled. Lobelia was long gone after she made sure to shoot a final glare his way, her perfume trailing after her like the ghost of a threat.

His eyes flicked to the hawthorn overhead, its first golden leaves catching the light.

Rowan still knelt in front of the grave, her hand resting on the new-turned earth. She hadn’t looked up once since the service ended. But Bilbo paused, just for a heartbeat, and bowed his head in her direction.

He would come back. He would come back when the silence between them could bear the weight of memory.

His kindness lingers still.

Bilbo bowed his head, turned, and walked down the hill taking a path winding off far away from the neighbours, the wind following close behind him.

And for the first time in years, he felt old.

**

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Ori muttered, teeth chattering, clutching a bottle of wine like one of his nervous apprentices grasping a scroll. His boots scraped uncertainly across the narrow ledge that edged along the outer wall of the mountain, the wind tugging at his cloak.

Dís gave him a sideways glance, shifting the basket under her arm where two more bottles clinked gently against parcels of bread and soft cheese wrapped in cloth. “You’ll be glad of it years from now, when you’re looking back on your time in Erebor, your legacy… you’ll be glad of the good memories and the proper send-off.”

“If this wind doesn’t send me off this ledge,” Ori peaked down at the long fall below.

“Not to worry!” Gimli called from up ahead. “We’re here!”

A flicker of starlight caught the edge of the key Gimli pulled from his pocket—a small, wicked-looking thing, clearly well-loved, clearly not meant for him. He grinned as he crouched beside a heavy brass latch on a narrow stone door nearly hidden in shadow, the library’s outer access balcony carved into the mountainside above one of the old air vents.

“Isn’t it glorious?” he whispered. “A secret farewell toast in Ori’s most sacred place in Erebor. If the librarians catch us, they’ll flay us with paper cuts.”

“I’m on staff, I’m the Head of Restorations,” Ori moaned, glancing around nervously as though the snowy landscape below were littered with guards. “I have a reputation.”

“You’re abandoning us to dig through piles of moldy scrolls in Moria,” Dís said with a wink. “You can abandon your reputation too.”

The lock gave with a soft click, and the door creaked open like the groan of an old vault. A hush spilled out, cooler than the mountain air—an ancient quiet of dust and vellum, wax and parchment, ink and memory.

Gimli ducked inside first, torch raised. “Into the hallowed halls,” he intoned with mock solemnity.

Ori and Dís were about to follow when a voice squawked down from above.

“Is that wine?”

All three of them froze mid-step.

Dís slowly lifted her gaze. Perched a ways above, unseen to them before, was Taërn. Her dark feathers were puffed against the cold.

“No,” said Ori, very unconvincingly.

Taërn dropped down to a ledge just above them, claws scratching clacking softly against the stone. “You’re breaking into the library,” she said, puzzling out the possible logic of their actions. “At midnight. With wine.”

“It’s just a little celebration,” Dís said quickly. “For Ori. It’s his last night in Erebor!”

“That is not, I believe, how libraries work,” Taërn regarded the trespassers with well-deserved suspicion.

Gimli stepped forward, eyes bright. “We brought cheese,” he offered, as though that made everything perfectly reasonable.

Taërn tilted her head as if considering.

“Actually,” she said slowly, “I came over when I saw you because I have something for you,” She tilted her head to indicate Dís. “It has just arrived.”

“Oh?”

“A letter came,” Taërn said. “My brother Jari picked it up from the Raven Outpost west of the Greenwood, where the latest trading caravan was traveling. It is from the Baggins.”

Taërn fluffed her feathers and extended one claw. A small envelope, sealed in wax, hung delicately from her talons.

Even Gimli’s grin fell quiet.

Dís took the letter gently, gaze lingering on the fine script. She pressed it against her chest for a moment.

“Come with us,” she said suddenly, looking up at Taërn again.

The raven recoiled slightly. “Come with you? Come with you. Under the Mountain? Absolutely not.”

“It’s news from the Shire,” Dís said. “We’ll read it aloud. Toast him. Weep to Mahal for how soft and maddeningly good that hobbit is. The ceiling is very tall, I promise.”

Taërn didn’t move. Her eyes narrowed.

“We have cheese,” Ori said, holding up the cloth-wrapped bundle like an offering.

Taern sighed, clacked once, then gave an exasperated rustle of her feathers before flapping down and landing squarely on Dís’ shoulder. She adjusted her weight and gave a warning nip to a strand of Dís’ hair that had come loose from her braid.

“I’ll come along,” she said in a low croak. “I should like to see this place you come to at great risk at the dark hour- also, I’ve never seen a library before. Are not wine and fire, however…” she eyed the lantern Gimli was taking out of his pack and sparking to life- “...a danger to paper?”

“Exactly why we have to break in!” Gimli declared, waving the lantern in a grand gesture.

“Dwarrow love danger,” Dís said laughing, “Didn’t you know?”

“I didn’t know!” Ori squeaked.

“What are you talking about?? You broke into a dragon’s lair!”

“That was years ago! I’d forgotten all about danger!”

“Perfect! We’ll remind you. Then maybe you’ll stay with us!”

Ori puffed out his chest. “Not a chance! Let’s go!”

They crept forward into the library’s outer halls, the soft light glinting off iron sconces and old stone. Dust stirred underfoot, and the old scent of ink and lore bloomed around them. Every distant creak or soft thunk from the wood beams overhead made them jump, and each time they did, they collapsed into muffled laughter.

“This was your idea,” Ori whispered accusingly to Dís, clutching his wine like a relic.

“It’s a great idea,” she hissed back.

Finally the tunnel opened wide—and the warmth of the central reading hall enfolded them like breath. The ceiling arched high overhead, lanterns hanging like starlight, and at the room’s heart, the great hearth stood cold but noble, flanked by shelves and well-worn rugs and wide, soft-cushioned chairs that dwarves had sunk into for centuries.

Ori stepped in and gave a little sigh of reverence. “Are we lighting the fire and telling tales in the big chairs?”

Dís shook her head. “We’re letting Khazad-dûm tell the tales tonight. Come!”

Without hesitation, she turned and seized one of the massive reading chairs by its carved arms and began dragging it across the stone floor. It made a soft, steady whumph with each pull.

“Gimli! You too!”

Gimli saluted, clearly delighted, and grabbed the next overstuffed chair in sight, heaving it behind him with gleeful determination.

“You’re going to get us caught!” Ori hissed. “The echo!”

“I’ll check,” Taern croaked- Dís had a suspicion the Raven’s amusement was growing- and with a beat of her wings she was airborne, circling once through the reading hall and swooping down again to land neatly on a shelf as they paused by a junction of wide halls.

She gave a single click. “Empty. Just us.”

At last, they arrived at the far wing—Khazad-dûm carved proudly in old runes above the archway. Dís swung the chair into the middle of the stacks with great satisfaction. Gimli followed suit, planting his beside hers with a flourish. Ori, still somewhat reluctant, took a seat, and Dís pulled Gimli’s favourite tome from the shelf- The Glory Days of Khazad-dum- and handed it to him before settling on the floor in front of them like a commander before her council.

“Hand me that wine!” she barked.

Ori passed it over without protest. Dís uncorked it with her teeth and pulled a small bundle of travel mugs from her coat. “Standard adventuring issue,” she grinned at them, pouring a generous measure for each of them.

“Now then,” she said, holding her own cup high and gesturing towards the book. “Gimli, your favourite poem. Let’s have it.”

Gimli grinned. “Ah, but my favourites- I know them by heart.” He took a long, satisfied pull from his mug, exhaled like a true bard about to begin:

By hammer’s ring and forge’s light,
We carved the halls beneath the height.
The stars above we left behind—
To shape the dark with fire and mind.

Each pillar stood, a thunder-struck tree,
Roots in stone and crown set free.
Our voices rose in cavern vast
And woke the echoes of the past.

Mirrormere’s face held still the sky,
A world below where dreams don’t die.
And when the deep-veined silver shone,
Then the fire danced in stone

A shadow waits in every gem,
A song lies deep in every stem
Of crystal veined with living fire—
We built, we burned, we dared, we dared…

…and still the halls remember us.
Though wind now sings where none discuss.
And light must fall through broken stone,
Yet stone remembers. Stone has known.

As Gimli’s voice faded, even Taërn was still. Somewhere behind them, a tall shelf groaned faintly, its joints whispering like old bones. The silence swelled like breath held close to the chest.

Then Dís reached for the second bottle. “To memory,” she said.

“To memory,” Ori echoed.

“To madness,” croaked Taërn with what could have been a wry smile.

“To Khazad-dûm!” Gimli cried, lifting his mug like a warhorn.

“To Khazad-dûm!” Ori echoed, his voice high and merry.

“To Khazad-dûm,” Dís chimed in, and grabbed the tome from Gimli.

“Let’s see what the old poets have to say.”

She let the pages fall where they may. Her finger landed squarely in the middle of a weather-worn poem, the ink faded but still legible in the firelight. She cleared her throat with exaggerated grandeur and began to read aloud:

Seven black feathers on windless air,
Three feet tread where none should dare.
Eyes like coals that do not burn-
They fly for one who won’t return.

They carry no message, yet stories unfold,
They scatter no seeds, yet mountains grow old.
They bring no battle, they bear no peace—
Yet stir the heart and never cease.

Who calls them forth from deepest cave?
Who sends them silent to the grave?
They come unbidden, go unseen-
The messengers of what might have been.

A hush followed the final line. Ori leaned forward, eyes wide. “Well, that’s ominous.”

“It’s a riddle, isn’t it?” said Gimli, sloshing a bit of wine as he gestured. “Something old and veiled. I like it.”

“Something haunted,” Ori muttered. “Three feet? What creature has three feet?”

“A stool,” Gimli said proudly, then belched. “A very angry stool that’s lost its way and wants revenge.”

Dís laughed. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m a genius,” Gimli insisted, flinging his arm wide and nearly toppling from his chair.

Then suddenly they remembered who was with them, and all three of them turned, as if on cue, to where Taërn perched like a dark statue, claws gripping the shelf behind Dís. Her silver eyes blinked slowly.

“Well?” Dís asked. “Any insight, oh winged mistress of lore?”

Taërn tilted her head. “Poems are like tunnels. You think they’re empty until they echo.”

Ori blinked. “...Is that a yes?”

“It’s a riddle about riddles,” Gimli muttered. “We’re doomed.”

Taërn smoothed her feathers. “I didn’t say my insights would be helpful.”

Then, with the deliberate grace of someone very aware of her own mystique, she turned her head away and began preening a single, immaculate wing.
***

The wine had dulled the edges of their voices now, smoothed them into warm, sloshed affection. Ori had slipped out of his jacket and propped his boots on a stool he dragged over from nearby. Gimli, flushed and wide-eyed, was reading aloud- again- from The Glory Days of Khazad-dûm, but mostly just the headlines now.

“‘The Unbreakable Bridge of Anarûn!’” he bellowed.

“Read the bit about the river stairs!” Ori slurred, waving his mug. “It’s got carved water-spouts shaped like dragon heads!”

“They spouted water?” Gimli asked, scandalized.

“Of course they did, you melon. They were spouts!”

“I thought it was metaphorical!” Gimli cried. “I’m not emotionally prepared for plumbing!”

Dís was howling with laughter, tears gathering in her eyes. Multiple poetry books lay open in a halo around them like petals flung from a long-forgotten wedding. Someone started singing. It might have been Ori. It might have been all of them.

An old dwarvish hymn rose from their circle, shaky and slurred but sung with real feeling. Their mugs swayed in time. Taërn was perched like a gargoyle on the edge of the shelf, her eyes beginning to droop.

Then, slowly, the song softened. The last notes echoed against the stone, then vanished.

Dís leaned her head back against a chair. “You’re a good dwarf, Ori.”

Ori blinked, startled.

“I mean it,” she said. “You are. Kind. Brave. Good. You deserve this adventure. I hope it’s everything you want and more.”

“Thank you, milady,” Ori was near tears.

“Call me Dís!! How many times-”

“Are ya entering Moria from the east?” Gimli interrupted suddenly. “I know a secret entrance in the east! Close to Mirrormere!-

A guardian stands by Mirrormere,
His gaze is deep and holds no fear-
What he lacks, a lock will show
What he lacks, you must find,
If you’re to go.”

Ori blinked again and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Ah. I’m actually going over the Misty Mountains first- I’ll meet with Balin’s company in the Shire and we’ll enter from the west.”

“The Shire?” Dís burst out, nearly dropping her wine.

Gimli sat up straighter, alarmed. “That’s where Bilbo’s from!”

“Dear Bilbo,” Dís said. “He’s too good. It makes me violent.”

“D’ya think he has tiny little furniture?” Gimli asked, eyes wide. “How small do the chairs get?”

“Very,” Ori said solemnly.

“He must sleep on a pillow that’s just one big fluffy biscuit,” Gimli added dreamily.

“You make him sound like he’s the size of a chipmunk. He’s taller than Ori!”

Taërn cleared her throat—an elegant, pointed sound that cut through the warm haze of drunken affection like a feathered knife.

“You still have his letter, you know.”

“Bilbo’s letter!” Dís pulled it out, smoothing the fold. The parchment smelled faintly of rosemary and pipe-smoke. She cleared her throat and began to read aloud.

To Lady Dís, most esteemed of the House of Durin, with fondness and regard from your humble friend, Bilbo Baggins, writing from the fair Shire, spring 2985.

My Dear Dís,

I hope this letter finds you well, with the fires of Erebor burning brightly and your halls filled with good cheer. Summer has finally arrived here in the Shire, and with it comes the usual delightful nonsense—midsummer blossoms tumbling out of every hedgerow, bees in a frenzy of purpose, and hobbits with rather less purpose lounging about under the sun pretending to be busy. I’ve had to fight off no fewer than three invitations to garden parties this week, and it’s only the second of June!

The roses outside Bag End have outdone themselves, I must say—one can barely see out the window for the blooms. I’ve threatened to prune them, but they don’t seem to take me seriously. It’s a dangerous business, gardening. One step out your front door and you never know where the vines might take you.
Now, as to Frodo- he’s turning seventeen this fall, if you can believe it, and he will be stepping most enthusiastically into his troublesome tweens. The lad is every bit as curious as I was at his age, though rather more adept at getting himself into scrapes. Last week he “borrowed” a cart to race down the lanes of Bucklebury. I say borrowed in the loosest sense.

He’s still at Brandy Hall for now, though I’ve been itching to bring him here to Bag End properly. I’ve asked Menegilda more than once, but she keeps finding reasons to delay. I can’t help but wonder how much Lobelia Sackville-Baggins has taken it upon herself to broadcast every idle suspicion. She’s always had her eyes on Bag End, you know, and no doubt hopes that without an heir in place, she might yet claim it. Over my dead body! You know, Thorin once suggested her claim to Bag End was reason enough alone for me to survive our adventure- and I agree he wasn’t wrong!

But enough of that. I must finish this letter quickly- Dwarven traders are passing through Bywater on their way to your mountain, and if I want this to reach you before year’s end, I’d best get it into their hands before they leave. Do give my love to all the Company, especially your Dwalin, that old softie- and to Gimli Gloïn’s son, whom you speak of with such glowing praise. I hope to meet him one day.

With all fondness and gratitude for your friendship,

Yours ever,
Bilbo Baggins
***

Dís paused, the letter resting in her hands.

A quiet fell over the group—like the hush in a forge after the flame has gone out. The kind of quiet that only Bilbo could leave behind.

Gimli broke it first.

“He writes like he’s not even trying to be wonderful,” he said, his voice thick with tipsy awe.

“He isn’t trying,” Ori said proudly. “That’s what makes him dangerous.”

Dís raised her mug. “To Bilbo. May he outlive us all and still have the last word!”

“To Bilbo!” Gimli echoed.

Then Ori burst into song:

“Oh Bilbo Baggins, short and stout,
He’ll charm the pants off any lout-”

Gimli leapt in, mangling the melody:

“He reads old runes and digs up ghosts,
And always makes the perfect toast!”

“No, no,” Ori interrupted, “ Bilbo Baggins has nothing to do with runes and ghosts, you’d do better in the realm of tea kettles and doilies-”

“What’s a doily?”

“-And anyway you’re not even in tune,” Ori cried, laughing. “Let me do it properly!”

“You’re both fired from poetry!” Dís shouted, laughing.

***

The door creaked softly as Dís slipped into her rooms, easing it shut behind her with the gentlest pressure. The warmth of the room wrapped around her like a second skin—low lamplight, the scent of cedar, the faintest crackle from the banked coals.

Dwalin looked long asleep, one arm flung across her side of the blankets, beard smudged against the pillow. For a moment she thought she might leave him undisturbed. She padded quietly to her dressing table, loosening her braids, combing the wine and dust and candle smoke from her hair.

Behind her, the bed rustled.

“So,” came Dwalin’s voice, low and gravel-soft, “how was yer… ‘secret party’?”

She turned, grinning. “It was magnificent.”

“Mhmm. And did the books think it was magnificent, or are they all covered in wine now?”

“Ha! Every drop landed in someone’s belly, I’ll have you know. Not mine, so much. Only two mugs for me.”

He cracked one eye open, amused. “Dinna trust ‘em not to start a fire?”

“Something like that,” she murmured, slipping out of her tunic and into a loose linen nightgown. “Maybe I was waiting to start a fire of my own later.”

“Were ye?” Dwalin gave a soft moan as she slid under the covers, tucking herself against the warm line of his body. His arm curled around her waist automatically, anchoring her in the dark.

“Taërn crashed the party,” she added, half into his shoulder.

“Did she now?” Dwalin rumbled. “Why was she invited and not me? I’m hurt.”

“You’re not sworn to secrecy,” she whispered into his chest. “Taërn is bound to me, and she cannot tell. You are bound to no one.”

He shifted, nuzzling her hair into a mess. “Aye. Free to ruin everything.”

“Dwalin!” His beard brushed her neck and she let out a surprised laugh, squirming.

“Mmm?” he murmured, nuzzling in again, shameless.

She twisted just enough to see him, eyes sparkling with sleep and mischief. Their gazes met.

She touched his cheek, fingertips grazing the silvered edge of his beard, tracing the old scar near the corner of his eye. He leaned into her hand without hesitation, his breath warm and steady. The calloused weight of his palm came up to cover hers, pressing it to his face like a gift. He bent forward and kissed her palm. Then her mouth.

His kiss was slow and unhurried, tasting of warmth and dreams, like honey left in the sun. She melted into it, tangled in the certainty of him, the quiet hunger. His beard tickled her chin, and she laughed against his mouth—but he only kissed her again, deeper this time, and her laughter became a hum in the back of her throat.

She caught his waist, drawing him closer to her. The linens twisted between them.

“Still free to ruin everything?” she teased, breathless.

He grinned into her neck. “Aye. And doin’ a fine job of it.”

She gasped when his mouth found the pulse beneath her jaw, that secret place where her skin was thinner than anywhere else. He kissed it once, twice, then bit gently, just enough to make her arch with a stifled yelp. She swatted at his shoulder and he caught her hand, lacing their fingers together.

“Bruzûm,” she whispered.

“Ghazrûn,” he replied, dragging his beard down the curve of her neck until she squealed and thrashed, laughing helplessly.

He kissed her again—slow and unrushed, like they had all the time in the world. Her fingers gripped the back of his neck, pulling him closer, as if closeness could keep the future at bay.

“Amrâlimê,” she whispered, and felt the words settle like embers between them.

He stilled for half a breath. Then he buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, held her tighter, and kissed her again—this time like a dwarf carving his name into the world, into her, into the breath they shared.

“You,” he murmured, the words muffled against her hair. “My flame-hearted jewel. My wild, beautiful storm. Full a’ secrets. Full a’ fire.”

His voice was thick with desire. His kisses moved slower, a trail of worship down her throat and over her collarbone. “My stubborn, brilliant, gods-damned light,” he muttered, kissing each word into her skin. “Ye make the stone sing.”

She smiled, half-lost in the warmth of him. “You say such things, and then expect me to get any sleep?”

“I expect ye to ruin me right back.”

Dís did not need any more invitation than that. She rose to meet him like a forge flame finding breath. They tangled together in a knot of limbs and linen, laughter and desire and burning need, until the world fell away and only they remained, like molten gold poured into the mold of night.

She had no idea that she could count on one hand the number of years she had left with him.

***

Chapter Text

The sun had gone, leaving the sky an uneasy gathering of ash and iron clouds. The last of the leaves clung stubbornly to the trees outside, pale brown and brittle, shivering with each restless breath of wind. November’s chill had settled deep in the earth, in the stone paths and the hedgerows, in the paths along the hills, in the rattle of the briars at the scurry of some creature underfoot. It settled in the bones of Bag End itself, though Bilbo had lit every hearth.

The windows glowed against the growing dark, golden circles on the hill’s face. Inside, the world was warm, though quiet, the hush of evening broken only by the soft shuffle of Bilbo’s feet against the floor as he paced.

He had lit the candles not long ago, tall and slender, their flames straight and watchful. The scent of rosemary and smoke still lingered from the meal he had prepared, though the dishes rested untouched on the table, covered with cloth to keep in the warmth. A pot of mulled cider simmered gently near the hearth, casting a faint spiced sweetness into the room.

The Khuzdûl books had been hidden away, tucked behind a false back in one of the smaller cabinets. There was no need for them to be seen. This was meant to be a simple evening. A visit between old friends.

Still, Bilbo paced.

Outside, the wind sighed along the hill, rattling the bare branches. A fox barked, sharp and sudden in the distance, then fell silent again. The world felt poised on the edge of something—though what, he could not have said.

Then, at last, the bell rang.

Bilbo didn’t bother with a cloak. He hurried down the hallway, the soft light from the candles flickering along the walls, and reached for the latch. The wind pressed against the door as he opened it, bringing with it a rush of cold and the scent of leaves and distant hearth smoke.

There they were—Balin, broad-shouldered and smiling beneath his snowy beard, and Ori just behind him, his cheeks pink from the cold, both dwarves clutching small chests that gleamed faintly even in the dimness.

Bilbo’s eyes dropped to the chests and he laughed, delighted.

“Really now,” he said, stepping back to let them in, “at this rate, by the time I die, you’ll have smuggled Smaug’s entire hoard into Bag End!”

“A gift from Dain, as he knew we’d be passing through! You can’t blame us if we worry about you, knowing how much you spend each year on toys.” Balin gave a wink and chuckled.

“And anyway, how else are we to pay you for your tea blends you send us?” Ori shifted his chest with a bit of a huff.

“You’re both ridiculous,” Bilbo said fondly, ushering them inside. The door shut behind them with a soft thud, and the chill was cut off at once, the quiet warmth of Bag End wrapping around them like a welcome.

Balin hung his scarlet cloak with practiced ease, his fingers brushing the worn fabric as though it still carried the mountain air with it. Ori’s grey one followed, a little damp at the hem, and they stood for a moment, stamping the last of the cold from their boots.

Bilbo clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “I daresay you both remember where the dining room is?”

“Mostly I remember your larder,” Ori grinned.

Bilbo laughed and led the way, his feet light on the wooden floor. The soft glow of candlelight deepened as they stepped into the dining room, where the table was already set—a hearty stew steaming gently in a wide earthen bowl, crusty bread nestled in a basket, roast duck glazed in honey, buttered carrots, and a wheel of cheese waiting beside a knife.

Balin and Ori took their seats with the contented sighs of well-worn travelers and Bilbo pulled a dusty bottle of Old Winyards from a small rack and popped the cork with a flourish. He poured the deep ruby wine generously into three stout glasses next to the mugs of cider. He raised a glass.

“To old friends,” he said, voice steady.

Balin and Ori lifted theirs.

“To homecomings,” Balin added.

“To good food,” Ori grinned.

Their glasses clinked softly and they drank, and for a moment the only sound was the quiet tick of the old clock on the mantle, and the soft hush of wind brushing against the windows, carrying the scent of fallen leaves.

Balin sighed with great satisfaction as he sank into the chair, the red of his cheeks vivid against the soft, earthy tones of Bilbo’s dining room. Ori followed, adjusting his seat with care, glancing eagerly at the spread before them.

“Now you must tell me all about the comings and goings of these parts,” Balin pointed his fork at Bilbo like a stern school marm as they settled into their meal, passing dishes back and forth in an easy rhythm of old friends long accustomed to one another’s ways. “It’s been too long since I’ve laid eyes upon this fair emerald land.”

“Balin, you were here ten years ago! That’s not terribly long, you know. Why didn’t you visit me on the way back from the Blue mountains, by the way?”

“This is my trip back from the Blue Mountains. I’m visiting now.”

“Really?” Bilbo stopped mid-chew of his bread. “You’ve been away from Erebor that long?”

“It’s a season for adventures,” Ori raised his glass and drank cheerfully. Balin nodded, raising his glass as well.

“And speaking of adventures, you must tell me everything happening in the Shire. What of that charge of yours, your nephew? How is he faring?”

“Ah, Frodo!” Bilbo could feel his face lighting up with that particular mix of pride and exasperation known well to the guardians of rascals. “He’s been climbing trees all summer. Had a rough fall a handful of days ago ‘chasing crows’ as he called it- otherwise I would have brought him here to meet you. I’d been looking forward to having him meet you since your messenger stopped by a few weeks ago.”

“We’re sorry to miss the chance,” Ori said regretfully and took a bite of carrots. “Are you still planning to adopt him?”

Bilbo’s smile was tight as he shook his head.

“Menegilda wants him to stay in Brandy Hall,” he tried to keep his voice even. “I’m certain Lobelia has something to do with it. She spreads rumors about me like there’s a contest for it. She’s friends with Menegilda and while Menegilda is usually fair-minded, Lobelia has her ear on this one. Lobelia wants Bag End, of course- if I adopt Frodo and make him my heir, there’s no hope of that anymore.”

Bilbo didn’t want to say anything about the nature of the rumors, that the whole town these days looked ill upon him and resented his good health. How could he help it if all his walking holidays kept him in good shape? And yet… he didn’t want to talk about it. Every time he thought about it, Hob’s grave on that hill flashed before his eyes- and Rowan, crouched down in front of it, wind combing through her curls like her husband’s lost caress.

“How old is young Frodo, by the way?” Balin’s question pulled Bilbo out of his thoughts.

“He just turned twenty earlier this fall. Why?”

“And when do hobbits come of age?”

“Well-” Bilbo thought for a moment as he settled back in his chair. “Well, we consider them to be adults when they turn thirty-three- that’s when they’re expected to be responsible, get married, take care of their parents, start families… why do you ask?”

Balin didn’t answer right away. He tapped his pipe against the side of the chair.

“And what does Shire law have to say about the matter?”

Bilbo found himself tilting his head as though Balin were suddenly sideways. “What… do you mean?”

“Oh! I know what you’re referring to!” Ori dropped his fork in his excitement. He leaned forward eagerly. “In Dwarvish law, it’s a bit different. Dwarves don’t come of age until forty- but at thirty, we’re allowed to make certain life decisions on our own.”

“Such as?” Bilbo asked, curious now.

“Choosing one’s apprenticeship,” Ori said. “If a parent and child disagree about what trade the child should pursue, the child has the right to break guardianship and choose their own path at thirty.”

Bilbo blinked. “That young?”

Ori nodded. “It’s very common, actually. Sometimes entire family lines diverge that way. Dwarvish hearts are passionate and jealous, after all,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Neither parent nor child is considered at fault if things get heated concerning the matter. The law is a clever compromise.”

“Exactly,” Balin joined in. “Even if young Frodo isn’t of age by your laws, it doesn’t mean there’s no path forward. You could make him your heir now, legally, and that might put to rest the problem with Lobelia, at least.”

Bilbo opened his mouth, then closed it again. He ran a hand through his curls. “You make it sound so easy,”.

Balin shrugged with a grin. “It’s a bit of parchment and a signature. We’ll draft the contract for you in the morning.”

“Dwarves and their contracts,” Bilbo groaned, pressing his palms to his face. “Listen, if I overstep-”

“Why, Bilbo Baggins,” Balin said slyly. “You were less worried about stealing the Arkenstone than you are about this lad.”

“I’ll have you know I was plenty worried about the dragon,” Bilbo protested, nearly spilling his wine. He steadied his cup. “Lobelia’s her own kind of dragon, I suppose. And this is Frodo we’re talking about. I haven’t cared this much about someone since…”

The words stuck in his throat. He stopped. The table fell quiet.

“Aye, laddie,” Balin finally said, his voice low and soft.

“I can’t mess this up,” Bilbo felt like he was going to suffocate. He stood suddenly, started gathering their plates. “Shall we move to the study for a smoke? And none of that harsh dwarvish weed, I’ve plenty of Longbottom.”

He caught Balin and Ori exchanging a glance as he turned away, and they stood silently, following him with more empty plates to the kitchen. Bilbo came back around, topping off their glasses of wine, and brought them with him to the study. The room welcomed them with the scent of old paper and cedar, the shelves close-packed with books and trinkets, heavy curtains drawn against the cold. Bilbo knelt at the hearth, coaxing a small flame into a steady blaze. The firelight flickered against the walls, throwing gold into the curls of smoke that lingered faintly from an earlier fire. Then he sat down a little hard into his favourite armchair and started packing his pipe. He passed the pouch to Balin, who had settled into the other chair. Ori had wandered over to the bookshelf, where the candles cast gentle halos against the walls.

“You’ve more books since last time,” He said softly.

“They multiply when I’m not looking,” Bilbo called over his shoulder as he lit his pipe. Balin finished packing his and did the same. It was a moment before anyone spoke again. Finally, Balin broke the silence.

“Have you asked him, lad? Have you asked him if he’d like to live with you?”

Bilbo looked down at the pipe in his hands. “I haven’t asked yet. I… hope… but…”

Balin reached over, placed a gentle hand over Bilbo’s. “Maybe it would help to know for sure- even if it doesn’t change anything.”

Bilbo nodded, suddenly feeling like he could breathe again. “You’re right. Just knowing…”

“It’s a very sad thing, when a question hangs in the air and you never get to know the answer.”

A blush crawled hot and sure over Bilbo’s cheeks. Ori coughed, grabbed a book and wandered down the hall with it.

“Balin…” Bilbo’s voice came quiet and uneven. He didn’t look up. “What—what happens to dwarves, when they die?”

A pause. Balin adjusted in his chair, the old wood creaking faintly beneath him. He took his time re-lighting his pipe, shielding the match from the fire’s glow with one gnarled hand. Then he drew a deep breath through the stem, held it, and let out a slow plume of smoke that spiraled into the air like a drifting ghost.

“We go to Mahal,” he said at last, his voice low but sure. “To the Maker’s halls beneath the world, where stone sings and the anvils never sleep. It’s a place where every soul is met by kin long passed. There’s feasting, and laughter, and no end to what you can shape with your hands.”

He gave a soft, wistful smile. “It’s not the end, Bilbo. Just a deeper delving.”

Bilbo was silent for a moment. Then, with an unsteady breath, he asked, “And… are they safe there?”

Balin blinked. “Safe?” He studied Bilbo’s face. “What danger could touch them, lad? There’s no blade sharp enough to cut the dead.”

“I… I don’t know,” Bilbo murmured. He looked down at the pipe in his hands, then took a slow pull of Longbottom Leaf. The embers flared briefly, then faded.

“I had a dream,” he said softly, smoke curling from the corners of his mouth. “About Thorin.”

Balin stilled. “A dream?”

The tone in his voice shifted—gentler now, but edged with something deeper. Caution, perhaps. Or recognition.

“What kind of dream, lad?”

“It was years ago now, and I’ve not dreamed of him since,” Bilbo said, his voice barely above the hush of the fire. “I used to dream of him often, in the early days. Then, for a while… nothing. Not a flicker. Until this one.” He paused, swallowed. “He was in a vast cavern—endless, empty, dark. And he was lying on the stone floor. Alone. A river of blood was spilling from his chest… from his heart.”

The words hung heavy in the warm air. The fire crackled, distant thunder in a far-off hearth.

“I don’t know what that portends,” he said after a moment, his tone as careful as if he were speaking over a sleeping child. “But Thorin… the true Thorin… he is beyond fear now. Beyond pain. I think your dream is telling you something not about him, but you.”

He shifted slightly, his gaze flicking to the fire. “They say the bedfellow of fear is hope. That you cannot feel one unless you feel the other. If you fear for him, Bilbo… then you also still hope for him.”

Bilbo didn’t answer at first. His pipe had gone cold. He stared into the flames, their light catching faintly in his eyes.

“I should know better than to hope,” he said finally. “It’s like planting seeds in a frost. You think spring has come… but the cold always returns, and whatever you dared to grow—” his voice hitched. “—it dies.”

Balin looked at him gently. “The heart doesn’t care about seasons,” he said. “It hopes because it must. That’s all it knows how to do.”

He leaned forward, his voice soft but insistent. “Ask Frodo, laddie. Just ask him. You’ve put so much love into that boy—it deserves a place to land. It’ll ease your heart to know what he wishes.”

“He has a life over there-”

“That means nothing. You had a life here, and yet you followed us across the world. To face a dragon, no less!”

Bilbo found himself half-smiling.

“I mean. That at least promised to be very interesting.”

“And living with you would be so boring,” Balin teased, a twinkle in his eye.

Ori wandered back into the room, his eyes heavy-lidded and bloodshot, a dreamy smile lingering on his lips as he cradled the book he’d taken and leaned against the wall near the window. Bilbo and Balin watched him for a quiet moment, then turned back to each other. Bilbo passed the pouch of leaf, and they refilled their pipes in companionable silence.

“Speaking of boring,” Bilbo said at last, striking a match and relighting his pipe, “Dís and the company must find my letters intolerably dull these days. I haven’t heard a word in a few years now.”

“Ah, lad,” Balin’s voice darkened. “That’s no fault of yours. I’d wager they’ve written you plenty. It’s the roads. They’re not what they were.”

He leaned forward, his pipe forgotten in his hand. The fire threw shadows up across his face, and for a moment he looked far older even than his advanced years.

“There are goblins again in the northern passes. We lost two caravans last season- small ones, yes, but still- one where the mountain pass meets the Old Forest Road, left splintered and smoldering like an offering to the trees. The other vanished near where the Rhimdath meets the Anduin. Nothing left but wheel ruts and a few torn banners bobbing in the waves.”

He shook his head slowly.

“But worse than that are the roads that feel too quiet. Almost as bad as Mirkwood. Like the whole forest is holding its breath.”

Bilbo felt a chill creep up the back of his neck. He nodded once, lips tight.

Balin took a long breath and went on, softer now. “Dain sent word. Orcs in the woods again. Not bands- we’ve always had the odd band- but movements. Organization. Smoke seen rising in places where no hearth should be. And Dís-” he trailed off, then smiled faintly. “Dís has taken to leading the hunting parties herself. Fire in her blood, that one. Dwalin at her side, fighting like the gods forged him from iron and stubbornness.”

He sat back, gazing into the fire. “At least… that’s what the reports were like some years ago, when the Ravenhill Ravens were still willing to brave the trip to the Blue Mountains. They have outposts, to break up the journey, and messages from Dain sometimes get through… but the Wild seems ever ready these days, to swallow travelers like ash swallows fire.”

There was a silence.

“And it’s not just the orcs,” he added. “Wargs, lean and red-eyed, roaming deeper than they used to. And the crebain…”

“Crebain?”

“Crows. Coming up from the south. Hundreds of them, silent. Not scavenging. Just watching. They perch in the tallest trees and stare. Like scouts that forgot how to blink.”

The fire snapped softly in the hearth, casting fleeting patterns on the walls. Bilbo took a shawl from the back of his chair and drew it around his shoulders.

“What can crows do?” Bilbo said softly, not really wanting to know.

Suddenly Ori gave a snort, and Bilbo and Balin jumped in their chairs. They turned- Ori had curled himself into the windowsill like a cat, legs tucked beneath him, the book resting open across his knees.
His head had nodded with the weight of the hour, and his eyes had drooped fully shut.

Balin squinted over his pipe. “Ori! Get ye to bed, laddie, before you drool all over Bilbo’s cushions!”

Ori startled, blinking hard, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks. “I wasn’t—I’m not—”

Bilbo chuckled, rising to take his glass to the sideboard. “You’re not fooling anyone, dear boy. Your room’s down the hallway, last door on the right.”

Ori rubbed his eyes, groaning softly as he stood. He glanced at the book in his hands, hesitating, clearly reluctant to part with it.

“Take it with you,” Bilbo said, waving a hand.

Ori beamed, clutching the volume to his chest. “Thank you.”

“Mind you don’t fall asleep reading it,” Balin warned, wagging his pipe stem. “You’ll wake up with dreams of Elvish riddles and none of them will make any sense.”

“I like riddles,” Ori mumbled, already half-turned toward the door.

They watched him shuffle sleepily out, his footsteps fading into the hallway. A door clicked softly shut.
The room settled again, the fire’s glow deepening into gold and shadow.

Bilbo shifted in his chair, the carved armrest warm beneath his fingers. He tapped out the last of his pipe against the hearthstone- ash and sparks scattering like startled thoughts.

“Well then,” he said, with an airy sort of cheer that didn’t quite disguise the note of unease beneath it. “What brings you back on the road, then, Balin? Unless you’ve taken a liking to danger for danger’s own sake.”

Balin’s eyes glinted. “Well now… can you keep a secret?”

Bilbo arched a brow. “I can keep one well enough.”

“I mean it, lad. Truly. The matter’s dangerous.”

Bilbo held his gaze, the warmth of the hearth brushing his face like breath. “On my life,” he said quietly, “I promise.”

Balin nodded once. Then he leaned in, voice low. “Have you ever heard,” he said, “of the Rings of Power?”

At once, Bilbo’s eyes flicked- almost without thinking- to the small, dark box perched neatly on the mantle. Balin followed the glance, and his face softened into something wry and faintly wistful.

“That where you keep your little ring, is it?” he said. “Don’t fret, Bilbo. That ring is certainly useful, but it’s just a fancy parlour trick, and nothing more.”

He settled deeper into his chair, the firelight catching the silver in his beard.

“But the Seven,” he murmured, as if invoking something half-mythic. “The Rings of Power- gifts to the dwarf-lords, in an age when fire still lived in the bones of the mountains and kings named their sons for storm and stone. Each one was forged to strengthen our hands, deepen our craft… and sharpen our hunger.”

“We say they brought wealth,” Balin murmured, “but that was never the gift that mattered. No- what they gave us was will. Not the kind that wavers, nor the kind that waits. The kind that burns low and steady, like a forge deep in the mountain. The kind that does not sleep. The kind that digs and digs and never grows weary.

“Gold from dust. Silver from stone. Wealth beyond reckoning. That was only the shadow of their true power. It was by those Rings the seven great Dwarven Kingdoms were built. One by one, they were lost- swallowed by the dark, taken by greed, crumbled under time. But one kingdom… our kingdom....”

He looked to Bilbo.

“The Ancestral Kingdom of Durin’s Line. Do you know its name?”

Bilbo had read enough dwarven lore to know a great deal more than just its name.

“Khazad-dûm.”

Balin’s eyes softened. “Aye,” he said, voice thinning like mist on stone.

He turned again to the hearth, as if the flames could conjure the past.

“In the days of Durin the Fourth, Khazad-dûm was the jewel of the world. The crown beneath the mountain. Halls vast as cloud-shadow, arching like the sky itself, held up by pillars like living trees of stone—roots sunk into the bedrock of the world. The walls were memory made solid. Runes carved deep with the names of our dead, songs of battle, oaths that bound bloodlines for generations.”

His voice dropped to a hush, reverent.

“Rivers of light ran through those halls- gems veined in the ceilings, strung like stars. The crystal lamps would catch them, and it was as though the heavens had come to live underground. And always the sound of the forges. The ringing of hammer and anvil. The glow of mithril flowing like spring water from the roots of the world- true-silver, treasure of treasures. Even the haughty elves came to marvel at what we made with it.”

Balin’s hands moved faintly, shaping the memory. “There was no hunger. No fear. Only work. And laughter. And light.”

He fell silent a moment, smiling faintly, his eyes far away.

“I can almost see it,” he whispered. “If I try hard enough, I can almost hear it- the echo of voices, the clink of tools, the warmth in the stone. It was…” he exhaled, slow, “a place where the world felt whole.”

Bilbo was quiet, watching him. Then, gently: “It sounds… wonderful.”

But a different song was rising in Bilbo’s mind, unbidden. It came like mist curling from deep memory, a melody long buried and suddenly sharp again, dark and mournful.

The world is grey, the mountains old
The forge's fire is ashen and cold
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls…

The words hummed in his chest like a ghostly refrain. Outside, the wind pressed a soft moan against the pane, and the flames in the hearth hissed low and slow, casting long shadows on the study walls. The fire’s warmth could not quite reach the back of the room.

Balin heard the wind as well. He didn’t speak at once, just let the quiet settle.

Then, in a voice low and strange with feeling, he said, “Aye…”

He turned, only partway, as if still caught between firelight and memory. His eyes shimmered faintly, the lines on his face deepening like etchings in stone.

“The Kingdom of Durin… of the line of Durin…” He shook his head, reverent. “It is our inheritance, lad. Older than Erebor, older than the Blue Mountains or the wild teeth of the East... But the wealth, the wonder- the true power and potential of Dwarvenkind was not revealed until the Ring came to Durin. Wealth, beyond imagination, drawn up from the bones of the world, by the strength of Durin’s will and the power of his Ring. And by that same power, I will see it restored.”

“Balin.”

His name landed gently but firmly in the air between them. Balin looked up, blinking. Then he chuckled- an old sound, like gravel shifting in the mountain paths.

“Ah, yes,” he said, rubbing at his beard. “That’s quite a lot for an old dwarf to say. I’ve no claim, not truly. I’m a far cry from a true heir of Durin. I’ve no crown. But still…” His gaze returned to the fire, voice dropping again.

“You know. Thorin would have wanted-”

“Thorin?” Bilbo’s voice was sharp.

Balin hesitated. “Well- yes-”

“What would Thorin have wanted?”

Balin’s brow furrowed. He turned to face him fully now, the fire outlining the silver in his beard.

“Thorin wanted what every dwarven king wants. What every dwarf wants. He wanted our people to thrive again. To see the Seven Kingdoms rise from ruin. To walk again in halls where the gold runs like river-water and the walls sing with the light of jewels. He wanted dwarvenkind to be mighty- not hunted, not scattered. He wanted the treasures of the earth to be shaped into glory, not buried in dark. And more than that…”

He leaned forward slightly, voice thickening with conviction.

“He believed, like we all believe, that we were made to bring light out of shadow. Like the sun and moon, our skybound kin, shaped by Mahal’s hands just as we were. We were not made to dwindle in exile. Thorin would have wanted Khazad-dûm restored. Aye- if the dragon had never come to Erebor, he might have gone there himself. Or sent his brother, Frerin. He would not have left it to rot.”

“You make quite a jump,” Bilbo said quietly, “from what Thorin wanted… to what he would have wanted.”

“I did know him his whole life-”

Bilbo didn’t flinch, but his tone struck flint. “He regretted wanting the things he wanted, in the end. You may have known him all his life, Balin, but I was there at the end of it. I saw what it did to him.” He drew in a tight breath. “Don’t you ever wonder if you might come to regret them, too?”

“Thorin did not regret taking back the Mountain-”

“I- cannot-” Bilbo’s voice caught, then surged, raw and low. “Balin, I can’t argue with you about Thorin any longer. I cannot bear it.”

The room stilled. Even the fire seemed to draw inward.

“It doesn’t matter what he would have wanted,” Bilbo said more softly now, almost to himself. “He’s not here. And no number of retaken kingdoms is going to bring him back. So the matter is meaningless to me. Why did you bring him up at all?”

Balin exhaled through his nose, long and low, and looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry I brought him up, laddie. It’s not about him, not really. It’s me.” He tapped ash from his pipe with a kind of reverence. “It’s my own feeling of unworthiness. That’s why I invoke the name of someone who was worthy. It helps me believe in what I’m trying to do.”

The fire crackled quietly, a small orange breath between them.

“That’s part of why this venture is a secret,” Balin continued. “It should be someone of royal blood leading it. A son of Durin. My legitimacy is too thin. There are others who’ll challenge me the moment I make my claim—louder voices, deeper coffers. And I mean to give my company a fighting chance, not set them in the middle of a political brawl.”

He leaned forward, folding his arms over his knees.

“There’ll be enough to face in Moria. Orcs, goblins, trolls... I can’t be fending off dwarves as well.”

Bilbo sat in silence for a moment, then lifted his head slowly. “So… this is a secret to everyone?”

“Aye,” Balin nodded. “Everyone in Erebor, save Dáin. The others believe I’ve gone to the Blue Mountains on a diplomatic mission. Same as I told you when I passed through here ten years ago, with Floí and Doí.”

“And you think your claim is so weak that your plans must be hidden from everyone?”

Balin didn’t answer immediately. He turned his pipe between his fingers and stared at the fire like it might give him one.

“Well, no…” Balin admitted, rubbing a thumb along the stem of his pipe, “but there’s still the matter of the Ring of Power.”

He leaned back, the firelight flaring briefly in the hollows of his eyes.

“Seven Rings, one for each of the Dwarven kingdoms. But the greatest of them all was forged for Durin himself, Father of the Longbeards. A masterwork. A legacy. The others have been lost, swallowed by time and shadow… but Durin’s Ring survived. It survived because it was kept secret. Passed down, hand to hand, hammer to hammer, from king to king for near five thousand years. It came to Thror, who concealed it with magic, but I saw it.”

He paused, eyes far off, like he was peering through the layers of time.

“I was but a beardling then, always underfoot. Loved games of spy. And once- once- I hid in a chamber I shouldn’t have, behind an ancient tapestry, quiet as a pebble, when I heard him speaking to his son, Thrain.”

Balin’s voice had softened, as if the memory had been tucked away a long time and carefully unwrapped.

“He showed him the Ring, Bilbo. Held it up like a flame cupped in his palm. Gold so deep it looked
forged from the bones of the earth, and a gem- red like trapped dragonfire, like it could burn right through stone. He promised it would pass to Thrain in time. And after that day, I could see it on his finger, plain as anything. Most thought it lost. Even Thorin believed it gone. But it wasn’t. It lived, hidden in plain sight.”

The fire crackled sharply, scattering light across the hearth like gold coins flung on stone.

“Then came the exile. We were in Dunland, despondent and begging. And Thror… well, his spirit dimmed, but not his pride. He took a single companion- Nár- and went north.” Balin’s voice dropped low. “They say he went to see the bones of Khazad-dûm… but I think it was more than that. I think he meant to reclaim it. To raise it from the dark.”

Bilbo said nothing. The quiet in the room thickened like wool.

“But the city was crawling with orcs. Thror entered alone by the East-gate, over Redhorn Pass. Nár waited in the wild for days. Then one morning…” Balin closed his eyes, as if he could see it. “They threw him out. His body. His severed head.” He opened his eyes. “And on his brow, in runes carved by a butcher’s hand- AZOG.”

A silence fell, like ash settling after a fire.

“And that was what started the Battle of Azanulbizar,” Bilbo said quietly.

“Aye,” Balin nodded, but his voice was bitter. “Blood for blood. Steel for shame.”

He drew a breath. “Before Thror left, he gave Thrain his map and key- you know the story of those,” he added with a wink, though his eyes stayed hard. “But they say he also gave him a ring. And soon enough, one appeared on Thrain’s hand. Gold again. A ruby burning like it remembered fire. Word spread- the Ring had returned! The fortunes of Durin’s Folk would rise again.”

He tapped his pipe against the side table, ash spilling like old snow. Then he looked up.

“But it wasn’t the Ring of Power, Bilbo. It was a fake,” Balin said softly, the words heavy with sorrow. “A wonderfully made one- it had to be, to fool the eyes of kings. But it didn’t fool mine.”

His gaze dropped to the rim of his glass. The firelight caught in the wine, staining his knuckles crimson.

“It tricked Thrain, I think… only because he needed it to be real. He needed something to hold on to, after his father was butchered and cast down like refuse.” He paused, and his voice roughened. “He wore that ring like it could stop his grief from swallowing him whole. But grief seeps into the cracks, Bilbo. It carves deeper than time.”

The fire hissed and popped, and for a moment neither of them spoke. The shadows on the ceiling swayed like memories trying to slip away.

“Over the years he changed,” Balin continued at last. “The sorrow turned sour. He began to hunger for gold- not for its beauty, but for its promise. Its power. He saw visions in his sleep, called them omens. He believed Erebor would rise again if only he could return there first. But the madness twisted him and drove him out into the wild alone.”

“And we know how that ended.”

Balin only nodded. “Yes. We do.”

A silence fell again. Bilbo shifted, the weight of the pipe in his hand suddenly very real. “So the Ring was lost, then?”

“No, laddie…” Balin’s eyes sharpened. “I don’t believe it was lost. I believe it was hidden- by Thror- or worse, taken by the orcs that gutted Khazad-dûm.”

Bilbo’s brow furrowed. “And you… you mean to find it?”

“Aye.” Balin’s voice was calm, steady as iron laid across an anvil. “That is my true aim.”

The study seemed to grow colder. A log shifted in the hearth, the flame guttering low for a moment before leaping up again.

“When Floí and Doí came to me with a plan to reclaim Khazad-dûm, I knew my chance had come. The Ring is meant to return to the line of Durin, even if it’s through a lowlier hand like mine. I may not have royal blood, but Mahal gave me will, and will counts for something.”

He laughed—softly, but there was an edge to it. “Perhaps I’ll gift it to Dain, if I find it. That’d be the noble thing, wouldn’t it? But I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t be tempted to keep it.”

Bilbo didn’t laugh. A chill curled beneath his ribs, despite the fire.

“It would help me restore Khazad-dûm,” Balin pressed on, his eyes catching the firelight like burnished stone. “Make the forges sing again. The dwarves would be strong once more—never again scattered and wandering. Never again looked down on by Men, or Elves, or wizards. We would become what we once were. What we were always meant to be.”

“And that…” Bilbo said slowly, “that could all be promised… by a ring.”

“Of course!” Balin leaned forward, his face flush now, alight with the fever of it. “You’re missing the scale of it, lad. That very ring gave Thror the power to raise Erebor from stone and snow. The wealth he drew from that mountain- you saw it! Gold flowing like water. Jewels blooming from the rock. Wonders revealing themselves, singular and priceless, like the Arkenstone.”

“And the dragon,” Bilbo said quietly.

The words landed between them like a dropped blade.

“Aye,” Balin said, after a pause. “The dragon too.”

He didn’t flinch, but the certainty in his voice seemed to temper, as if passing through a forge once more. He looked into the fire. “But there are no more dragons in the world, Bilbo. Their age has ended. What remains are shadows and stories.”

The flames hissed gently, as if offering their dissent.

“It’s true,” Balin continued, “the wild is stirring again. Orcs have grown bold, yes. There are whispers in the stones, and rumors in the roots of trees. But we’ve seen all this before, haven’t we? Fifty years ago, the world trembled too. And yet since the dragon’s fall, we’ve had peace- peace enough to grow strong again.”

He leaned back, pipe held low, his voice softer now. “The great evils are gone, lad. If there are orcs still festering in the depths of Khazad-dûm, then we’ll smoke them out. That’s why we must go. To restore what was ours. To be a force for good in the world again- not just a memory in songs, but a strength that holds back the darkness.”

He gave a small, half-grin. “But as for dragons… they’re long vanished. Extinct, they say. Their kind is no more. Have no fear.”

Bilbo gave a small nod, though something in him tightened. “Well,” he said quietly, “I see that your heart is settled on it. And I wish you luck, Balin.”

Balin’s face softened. “Thank you, lad.”

He stood, brushing crumbs from his tunic, and knocked out the last ash from his pipe. “And mind you,” he added with a wink, “keep it secret. Floí and Doí don’t know about the Ring. Not even Ori.”

“You have my word.”

Balin stretched, then rolled his shoulders with a sigh. “Well… I should be off to bed. Second to last door to the right, was it? The one next to Ori’s?”

Bilbo nodded, rising as well. “That’s the one.”

The dwarf turned, his boots quiet against the woven rug as he headed for the hallway. But Bilbo lingered, eyes distant in the firelight.

“Balin,” he called softly.

The dwarf stopped, glancing back.

“If Thorin were alive,” Bilbo said, “and sitting on the throne of Erebor… and you did find the Ring- would you give it to him?”

Balin hesitated.

“Of course…” he said after a beat, with a forced lightness. “He was the heir, after all. Of course I would.”

The fire crackled. Neither of them spoke again.

Balin offered a small, weary smile and disappeared down the hall, his footsteps muffled on the thick rug.

Bilbo did not follow. He remained where he stood, one hand resting lightly on the back of his armchair, the other absently stroking the curve of his pipe stem. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows that danced across the walls, flickering like memories too near the surface.

He sank back into the chair and let the silence gather. The warmth of the room pressed against his skin, but it did not reach his heart. He drew a breath, and the taste of smoke lingered on his tongue.

Something didn’t sit right. The threads of Balin’s story tangled in his mind, too tidy in places, too frayed in others. Gandalf had once said it was Thror’s greed that drew the dragon to Erebor- that it was his lust for gold that brought fire down from the north. But now Balin claimed the gold came forth not from greed, but from a ring. So was it the Ring, then, that brought forth Thror’s greed?

Could something so small really destroy someone’s character?

He leaned forward and covered his eyes with one hand.

The fire popped in the grate, and a coal crumbled to ash.

The next few days passed quietly. He accompanied Balin and Ori down to the East Road where the caravan waited, gave them warm farewells and a satchel of treats, and waved until the caravan disappeared over the crest of the hill.

But the unease remained.

And then, one ordinary evening as the sun dipped low behind the hills, the thought struck him like a bell.

Thror couldn’t part with his Ring.

If he had truly meant to pass it on, if he had truly believed his son worthy and the time ripe… why craft a false ring? Why deceive Thrain?

He couldn’t part with it, Bilbo thought again. The words nested beneath his breastbone like a cold, hard seed. He couldn’t part with it, not even for his own son.

And what had he become, in the end?

He thought again of that grisly tale- Thror’s head flung down the steps of Khazad-dûm, the name of his killer carved into his brow. But what else had Thror carried into that dark place? What had possessed him so thoroughly that he would face such doom, alone?

They say there is madness in our line. I wonder if it is the madness of gold, or the madness of grief.

The madness of gold… the madness of grief… or the madness of a Ring.

Bilbo’s fingers tightened around his pipe.

If my little parlour trick ring could tempt me to act so rashly and so terribly that I pushed away the only one I loved… what could a Ring of Power do?

A wind rattled the windowpanes, and a branch tapped like a cautious knuckle.

His thoughts turned to that night, so many years ago, when Dís had come to Bag End. Her eyes were fierce then, and her voice like tempered steel.

If you hear anything… if ever there’s darkness rising in the land… if you can point me in its direction…

Write to me, without delay.

Bilbo stared at the fire, now little more than a low red breath.

Balin had made him promise to keep the secret.

But his promise to Dís was older. And deeper.

Like a ghost, he rose and crossed the room. The desk was waiting, its surface neat, the inkwell full. He took up his pen, his hand trembling only slightly.

Outside, the stars had begun to prick the sky, cold and indifferent.

Bilbo paused a moment, staring out the window as if the constellations might offer absolution.

Please let me be wrong, Bilbo silently prayed to whatever gods might be listening. Let me be wrong. Let no there be no evil there. Let no one I love ever again be touched by evil.

Then he bent his head and began to write.

***

Chapter Text

The sky was the colour of steel rinsed in fire, a molten blush just breaking along the edges of the eastern peaks. Dís stood at the edge of the sparring circle, her braid coming loose, damp at the temples with the sweat of effort that never quite burned away the weariness. She rolled her shoulders once and winced. The bruise beneath her ribs, earned in the woods the night before, had begun to bloom.

Overhead, the Ravens circled- wide gliding arcs that thinned and swooped. Dís tilted her head to follow their movement as they called to each other in their secret tongue. Taern did not join them in the air- she balanced on a far ledge, tilting her head and croaking low as though having words with ghosts.

“I’d take advantage of yer distraction, if it were any other day,” Dwalin’s voice rumbled low from across the sparring circle. Dís couldn’t help but smile. She tossed the practice sword on the ground, and went to him. He sheathed his own and met her in the centre. He smelled like oil and ash and leather, and something softer beneath that she would never name aloud.

“We should have slept.”

“We couldn’t sleep. That’s why we came out here.”

“Maybe tried harder?”

Dwalin gave his own tired, pained grin as he took her hands, pressed his forehead soft against hers.

The fight last night, in the woods… vicious, twisting things, creatures born out of shadow and filth. Three dwarrow had been killed.

Now the mountain air felt thinner and colder. Below the circling wings, the field was empty except for the two of them. They stood in the silence after movement, blades away, the clang of iron replaced by the soft shifting of feathers overhead.

The sound of boots on gravel broke the hush. A young dwarf- broad-shouldered, not long out of his forging years- was hurrying across the training grounds, one hand clutched around a scroll, the other hovering over his belted axe as though he feared he’d need to use it.

He bowed quickly, awkwardly. “My lady, Master Dwalin. The king requests a report on the incident in the woods last night. The orcs, he said. And our losses. He wants to hear it straight.”

Dwalin let out a breath, low and gravel-edged. “I’ll go.”

The lad looked between them. “He asked for Lady Dís.”

Dís narrowed her eyes, then shook her head. “Tell him I’m indisposed. He’ll survive the disappointment.”

The lad hesitated, but Dwalin nodded at him. “You heard her. Off with you.”

He scurried off without another word, boots ringing against stone.

Dwalin turned to her. “You should-”

“Hey,” she said, and wrapped one arm around his neck. She kissed him- a fierce, clean press of her mouth against his. It was brief and burning, like a star falling in the untold dark.

“It’ll be alright,” she said, brushing her hand across his cheek. He looked at her in wonder, eyes always searching. She would never tire of that look.

He turned away, his broad form fading into the rising sun.

Overhead, the Ravens wheeled- closer, now.

***

The water had only just stopped steaming in the basin. Dís sat wrapped in a robe the color of dark quartz, her hair loose across her back in heavy waves, half-damp and catching the candlelight in the mirror like threads of bronze. The comb in her hand moved slowly, rhythmically, as though she were drawing her weariness out strand by strand. On the small table beside her, a heavy mug sat untouched, wisps of steam curling up from the black Rhûnish brew. Its scent was rich and bitter, earthy with hints of clove.

She had told herself the coffee would help. That the heat of it, the sharpness, would drive out the ache in her limbs and the veil over her mind. But even the promise of a sharper edge hadn’t been enough to rouse her to drink.

There was a knock at the door.

She frowned and set the comb down. No one disturbed her at this hour unless it mattered, and it certainly wasn’t Dwalin- he needn’t knock, and he knew it.

“Come in,” she called, wrapping her robe around her tighter.

The door opened a crack, then wider. The same young messenger from that morning stood in the threshold, a little breathless, a little paler than before. He bowed.

“My lady… apologies. This is what the king wanted you for.” He held out a weather-worn parcel, stained in something dark and bitter. “The patrol returning from the eastern range found wreckage from a caravan. One from four years ago, lost in the Grey Pass. It was found.”

“Found?”

“Driven off a cliff. Rockfall must’ve taken them. There was nothing left of the wagons but bones and splinters. But… they recovered some cargo among the wreckage.”

He held out the leather wrapping, insistent. Her breath caught. She took it slowly. The shimmering red wax seal was unmistakable.

She dismissed the messenger with a nod, not trusting her voice. The door clicked shut behind him.
Back in her chair, she turned the letter over in her hands. The oilskin had done its job: the parchment inside felt dry, nearly untouched by time. She broke the seal with a thumbnail, unfolded the letter.

Bilbo’s handwriting bloomed on the page in dark brown ink, spidery and elegant. Her name at the top.

Dearest Dís.

Her eyes blurred. She blinked, hard. Then, softly, she began to read.

Dearest Dís,

I am afraid I must be maddeningly vague. I am sworn to a certain secrecy- a promise I regret having made. You once asked me, if ever I should sense the darkness stirring again, to point you in its direction.
Well, Dís. Its direction lies in Moria.

I wish I could say more. I wish I could give reasons for my deep foreboding. Perhaps what I can say… is that… a dark idea tempted me once. Its promise to me was irresistible. I recognize it now in… I cannot say more. But please. Please hear me. If you are still in pursuit of darkness, look to Moria. Save your kin.

Ever Yours,
And wishing you well with all my heart,
B

“No… no, no, no, no no nonononononono…” She whispered it like a prayer, begging Mahal. “No no no…” she flipped the parchment over and back again, as though doing so would make Bilbo’s words disappear. “It can’t be, it can’t be…”

Everything was fine in Khazad-dûm. Nothing was wrong. The king received updates regularly- so he told Dís and the two others who knew, at least- he received one as recently as last month. A secret team of Ravens were dedicated to bringing news. The king was going to make the announcement and publicly declare the colony’s establishment next year. Khazad-dûm would no longer be off-limits to the dwarrow of Erebor. Thousands were expected to join them.

Thousands.

Dís had been pacing back and forth across her chamber. She flipped the letter over one more time, its words facing up again. Its direction lies in Moria. Save your kin.

Four years ago, the messenger had said. It was a caravan that had been lost four years ago. That was when Ori had left for Khazad-dûm. He said he would first be crossing over the Misty Mountains, and meeting Balin in the Shire. They must have visited Bilbo.

What happened, that Bilbo saw? Ori… or Balin… must have said something. What could they possibly have said, that would sound evil enough for Bilbo to have to warn Dís?

What could be so evil? What could possibly be so evil?

She read Bilbo’s words, over and over. A dark idea tempted me once. What could that mean? Bilbo? Truly? In darkness?

“This is a forgery…” Dís thought numbly. “There’s nothing dark in Bilbo.” Her voice sounded light and strange to herself, as she reasoned in the silence. The fire in her hearth flickered on, the expensive Rhunish coffee had gone cold.

“Bilbo doesn’t have dark ideas. He’s good…” She suddenly felt dizzy, breathless. She sat heavily in her chair, took a gulp from her cold mug.

His letters, all these years… delightful. Kind. Riotously funny. Cheerful and hopeful and full of lighthearted, chattering gossip. His walking trips, his halting attempts at Cirth, his questions, his tales of summer storms and children’s parties. His meeting the lad Frodo, the friendship sparked between them as he slowly took on more and more responsibility caring for the lad, bringing him up. The lessons in reading. The soft adventures in woods and streams. Nothing dark, nothing dark all these years…

Frodo. Go without hope.

Dís thought back, farther and farther, until finally she thought of the evening she and Bilbo had first met. At the time, she hadn’t thought about it- but… there was a darkness there. He was world-weary. A tiredness clung to his movements. He secreted away the map… her heart ached for him when he offered it to her. It was the only thing he had left of her brother. The tears that came readily to his eyes, as she told her tale. The pain, sharp and gutting, that caught his breath, when he first laid eyes upon her. He was dark. He knew darkness. Of course he had. She was dark too, at the time. So deep in the dark of her pain.

How easily dark ideas can tempt us in our grief.

She laid the letter gently down onto the table and stared at its words until the ink blurred. The wax seal lay in two pieces next to it.

This was no forgery. Who, anyway, could mimic those erratic scrawling loops? Bilbo knew darkness well enough. He’d know it in Balin’s face, or Ori’s. Who gave warning to his heart? It must have been Balin. She’d bet a dragon’s hoard on it. What did he say? What was he after? Had Doí and Floí been with them? But Bilbo didn’t know them. He knew Balin. He’d know if something was wrong with Balin. All this time, she’d thought Doí and Floí were the ones not to trust…

Dís took another gulp of the cold Rhunish coffee. Her hand trembled as she set down the mug. She looked at the timepiece behind her in the mirror’s reflection. Midnight. Dwalin wasn’t coming over tonight- he was on the North Watch. If only she could talk to him. Bilbo wasn’t the only one who regretted keeping a secret. Dís let out a moan of disgust. Of course something treacherous had been going on this whole time. Why else would secrecy be needed? That stupid political excuse… Ereborians not allowed to go…

“Ughhhh…” Dís moaned again. “How could I have been such a fool…”

She stood, started pacing again the length of the room.

She could go to the king. Arrange a company. No. Dain could be in on it. Whatever the treachery was, it could easily be something he stood to profit from. What could she do then? Send a letter to Ori? He could have been corrupted- or misplaced his trust just as easily as she had. What could she do, then?

The answer was obvious before the question was finished in her mind. She had to go there herself. Dwalin would insist on coming, of course…

Dís stopped her pacing. Suddenly her heart was racing very fast.

I don’t want him to come, she realized. A painful whisper, like a ghost at her ear.

I don’t want him in danger.

She shook herself. Started pacing again. That was absurd. They faced danger together every time they went out into the woods to fight orcs- which happened more and more often these days. And Dwalin was the finest warrior since Durin the First, becoming only stronger and more skilled with the years. Nothing could kill him. The trolls and stone giants of the Misty Mountains didn’t stand a chance.

Squaring her shoulders, she went resolutely to her trunk, where a rucksack lay. Without thinking, she began to pack it with supplies. She and Dwalin would leave in the morning…

Her hands paused mid-air at the thought.

Don’t bring him, the ghost-instinct whispered. Her heart raced away.

I can’t bring him, she realised. I can’t do it. I have to go alone.

She took a deep breath, resumed her packing. It didn’t matter. It would be ok. She would be gone six months, a year at most. She’d get to the bottom of whatever the threat was, then come back home to him. To Dwalin. Her love. Her One.

Her pack was full. It lay unassuming on her bed. She stepped back, stared at it for a long time.

I can’t bring him… I can’t put him in danger… some deep danger must lie ahead…

She grabbed travel clothes, got dressed. Braided her hair. She went back to Bilbo’s letter, picked it up.

Dwalin cannot know where I’m going.

She stared long and hard at the letter, committing each word to memory. Then she threw it in the fire. She was ready. She would leave this very moment. She just needed her axe. She whirled around to the place where it hung. It wasn’t there. She left it at the armory when she switched out her belt for her practice sword. She would-

Her heart slammed against her chest.

“Sweet gods of old..”

She’d been doing it so long, she’d forgotten why she started. Her sword practice.

You’ll need my sword before the end.

“No…” The weight of the horror was dawning on her now. “Thorin… you bastard… how dare you make it come to this.”

***

The air was full of ash and myrrh.

Dís stepped softly, her boots barely brushing the cold stone. The crypt was vast and sunk like a valley, tiered in concentric rings that sloped downward into shadow. The paths were lined with low mausoleums carved directly into the mountain’s stone heart. Thorin’s tomb was one of these, tucked deep beneath a black-veined arch of obsidian and quartz. She paused at the threshold.

Up above, far on the higher terraces, she could see acolytes holding vigil over the tombs of Gruk, Harg, and Érdrik, the three fallen from the orc attack the night before. Their mourning chants echoed like smoke through the halls. The low drumbeat rolled in pulses, slow and sorrowful, like the heartbeat of the mountain itself. Its vibration passed through her chest. Through her teeth.

A thousand tiny flames flickered from here to there, reaching up the slope. A beautiful grief.

And here she was. About to desecrate a tomb.

Dís glanced upward, her hood drawn close. The acolytes were too far to make out clearly. Their heads were bowed. Their voices unified in ritual. The slow procession of their grief meant their backs were turned. No one looked down. No one looked toward the tomb of Thorin, flanked on each side by her own sons.

She knelt at the seam of the stone doors. She closed her eyes.

“Zai anatu sullu, imrizruk lu’ bannô.”

With a whisper of grinding stone, the seam split- quiet, deliberate, a low, sorrowful exhale, as though the mountain had been holding its breath. The doors slid inward, revealing a narrow threshold and the faint glow of a soft white light.

The Arkenstone, upon his chest.

Dís’ heart thundered. She looked again toward the high slope. No one looked her way. Her hands trembled.

The door remained open, the stone maw yawning before her. Cold air crept from within, and Dís wrapped a thick cloth around her nose and mouth. She stepped forward. Her boots clicked softly on the floor. The air was heavy and dry. Her breath was loud in her ears. Tears were sliding easily down her cheeks. They never blurred her vision long enough, though, for her not to see his face.

He looked… asleep. Pale, and asleep. It didn’t matter how death clung to his hair, stilled his form, swelled his hands. He wasn’t dead. Just asleep. Dís let out a gasping sob. It echoed strangely in the tomb, muffled by the cloth though it was. She yearned desperately to touch his face. She dared not. She thought she’d curse his name when she got here. She thought she’d want to scream at him for insisting upon this. But, gods, she just wanted to hold him. To sink to her knees, crumble against the stone, and be lost.

“Nadad…” she whispered in a shaky sob, knowing she had no time. “I’m sorry…”

Carefully, she pulled the sheathed sword out from its place tucked in his arm. Thorin had prophesied it, and now Orcrist was hers. She hid it in her cloak, dared one more moment to look upon Thorin’s face.

He’s only sleeping, she told herself.

Where are you, Nadad? It cannot be here. This cannot be you. So where are you really?

Where are you, Thorin.

***

Chapter Text

So this is what it is like, at the end of all things. The dark, endless. The silence, alive.

Thorin could not see his hands in front of him. Each step was painstakingly slow, like wading into a swamp, never knowing what will bite or what he will sink into. The echo seemed to say there was no great drop- that the land was flat and the cavern ceiling as high as a sky- but he couldn’t be sure. The dark here was final- a patient dark, a torch-swallowing dark. There was no way around it, there was no turning back. The only way out was through.

Thorin’s senses stretched and strained. The scratch of his footsteps against stone and slate. That scratch echoed soft, and his ears were alert to every small change, every shift in weight telling a story, filling his mind with song. The air against his hands, against his face. The air that filled his chest. The air, unmoving, dead to wind or any soft caress. Now and again Thorin knelt slowly to the ground, ran his hands along the cool stone. If he found a pebble, he would throw it with all of his strength, hear its clatter and echo in the distance ahead, quiet as a drop of water, brief as a flicker.

He did this now, coming down to one knee and running his hands along the slate of the ground. Its grain was easy enough to follow- at least he knew he wasn’t going in circles. Here the stone was smooth enough- he lay down and stared up into the thick dark for one long sigh of breath. Then he closed his eyes.

When he first entered the Emptiness, as he called it, and resigned himself to this velvet choke of darkness, of course Thorin thought of the light of Erebor. The braziers, the hearthfires, the torches in sconces, the cunning bronze and gold mirrors reflecting and diffusing shafts of stray light high into the vaulted depths. Its glow, its certainty. Its warmth to the eyes. How it asked no questions.

Now, though, however many months it has been…

Thorin had no way of knowing the passage of time in this endless abyss. But at least, for most of the way, there had been light. His torches, blessed by Mahal, that could never be used up. How the walls glittered against him in the light of those torches! In those first tunnels, after the long descent down the cliffs of the waterfalls. How each facet seemed to greet him, how each jewel seemed to know his name. So many stories in the silence they wanted to tell.

Glowing, too, were the lakes, with their luminescent creatures, suspended serenely in the dark water, swimming gently among the glowing cavern-lotus blossoms. The snakes, too, with their black eyes and bright stripes, making their supple way among the floating vines. And of course, there were the runes that Thorin chiseled into the wall at every entrance, every cavern mouth. With the music of Yavanna’s flute, they glowed to life.

Each rocky valley, each dark river, had its light source. And if not, Thorin had his torches. Until the Emptiness. This endless plain, whose black wrapped itself around even Mahal’s blessed fire. Eventually Thorin gave up on the torches, packing them away. He’d been in utter darkness before. The rules were simple. Move slow, and open up your other senses, like they had to drink the sky, like your life depended on it.

It was tiring, even for someone who could carry on forever. It was why Thorin stopped, every once in a while, only for the time it took to take ten deep breaths- he laid down on his back, felt the cool of the stone beneath him, closed his eyes, and thought of the stars over Bilbo.

He would pick a season, and dream. He would call to mind all the fragrance of memory. The lilacs of spring, the heady pine sap in summer. He would imagine himself in some sweet hollow, soft with grass, with Bilbo beside him, and stars wheeling silent and forever out of reach. Just like Bilbo.

He must be happy now, Thorin tried to assure himself. He has met his new love, surely. Soon, Yavanna had said. What were Bilbo’s days like now? Sweet with new laughter, with the intertwine of new hands. He probably had a beautiful smile, one that could light up even this blackness. Who was he? A traveler, someone from afar? A hobbit? A dwarf? Did he remind Bilbo of Thorin?

Hopefully not. Hopefully Thorin was long forgotten. Just a handful of memories that hurt no more. That cursed king who took and took and took. That king who is long gone now, and who will never see Bilbo again.

Yes, this new love must be someone entirely different- someone easy and happy and carefree and simple and untroubled and able to give Bilbo everything he ever wanted. Someone with whom he could spend long summer nights, cooking and eating, taking a pipe out onto the bench and blowing smoke rings that the wind would carry over the hill. Someone to putter around with in the garden all day long- someone with whom to trade stories and songs, someone who made him laugh, someone who, when he kissed him, felt like home.

What did he look like? What color were his eyes? What would Bilbo be drawn to? What would bring them together? Something easy, Thorin hoped. A fine summer day, a walk along the lane, a chance meeting, an apple passed to and fro, a pair of walking sticks, a bit of dust from the road, and then love. A smile, a conversation, that’s all that would be needed. Not like with Thorin, who needed to die before he could learn how to love.

Thoughts of this nature comforted and tortured. Which was why he tried to take a break. Every thousand steps. Ten deep breaths. Then up again. Thorin began counting his steps anew. He didn’t think about what their wedding must have been like. Flowers piled upon picnic tables, trees streamed with ribbons and lanterns, fireflies dancing among the ferns as a viol and pipes and drums took the rounds. Dancers in circles around Bilbo and his new love. Fingers intertwined and vows exchanged. Tears of sweet, soft, aching joy. Finally, he’d be home. What crown of flowers would be in his hair? Pink lilies, perhaps? Support, devotion, enduring love. Sunflowers for the lover? For giving light and warmth in a way that Thorin never could? Thorin could go on like this for days, and definitely had. He knew every flower in the Shire, and many more that Yavanna showed him from every corner of Arda; blooms that Bilbo had never laid eyes on. He could play this game forever.

It didn’t matter what flowers were in their hair when they married. It only mattered that a new love was in Bilbo’s life, and Bilbo was happy. He was happy. He must be happy. He was in love. Love made people happy. Only with Thorin did love turn into poison.

Ok, so maybe that was an exaggeration. Bilbo surely didn’t love some world-saving hero. No love was perfect. It didn’t matter if it was perfect or not. What mattered was that Thorin was no longer involved, and Bilbo had moved on. Bilbo was living his life. He was spending quiet winters with someone by his side, in the armchair across from him. They were whiling away each evening telling stories and singing songs and bickering and everything else happy people did. In the spring they were ambling along muddy paths, in the summer they were blackberrying and haymaking, in the fall they were apple-picking and celebrating Bilbo’s birthday by the light of the harvest moon, in the fields as Bilbo so loved to do. Thorin detailed each scene in his mind. He held nothing back. Each thought was a wish, after all. It did not matter how painful.

There was a certain comfort, when it came down to it, in being forgotten. For it seemed, in the end, that memory was pain. Starlight was memory, after all- he’d heard the elves say that once- and the stars burned. Is that all we are? Memories to be burned in the fire?

Would the pain get easier, over time? It must. Surely it must. Bilbo was alive, and impossibly far away- but if things had turned out differently-

-But one day, Bilbo will be no more, and all Thorin would have left are his memories, and that was always going to be how it would end, even if they had lived long together, and Thorin loved better than he had. Even then, Bilbo could never follow him here. They could never be reunited in death. Curse the fate of Men, the chosen of Eru! The followers of the firstborn, and their stupid secret destiny.

So one way or another, it was always going to come to this. One day, hundreds of years will have passed, and there will be no pain left, just the sweetness of things that once were. Once enough time had passed, pain would be replaced with hope. For wouldn’t the world one day be remade?

The ground was steadily rising. Something in the air was changing. Thorin bent down, broke off a piece of slate, and hurled it forward into the distance. Its echo sounded strange, strangely blunted. He slowed his pace. A great chasm must be up ahead, though the ground kept inclining upward. There must be a sharp fall over a cliff into an even deeper emptiness. Step by step, Thorin slowly marched forward. In the distance, he began to see a difference in the darkness- as though there were a horizon up ahead, marked only by a dark slightly less than black. Over time, that dark became a grey, and then a glow. It was enough that Thorin could see the land ahead of him- the same steady slate that gave safety to the otherwise dangerous dark. Finally, Thorin arrived at the cliff overlooking the deeper valley. He drew in a deep breath.

A mountain loomed on the far side of the valley, its slopes losing themselves in the dark, a crown jagged and black against more nothingness. Draped across its flank like a shadow come to life was a spider the colour of ash, its legs jointed like pillars, its body giant as Smaug. It was still, and the stillness was worse than motion- an unhurried menace. Eight red eyes burned in its head, steady as lanterns left to keep vigil.

Between here and there, the land broke into a basin of molten rivers- a slow and viscous fire, breathing and folding in on itself. Thorin traced the glowing veins to their source: a torrent pouring from a rent in the mountain’s side, white-hot at its birth, darkening to blood orange as it spread through the valley. It was a network of long pools and narrow channels, twisting like a map of wounds. Here and there, black stone rose in jagged causeways, thin as knife-blades, the only possible paths through. Heat swelled from the valley in long, shuddering breaths; the air shimmered, distorting the far shore so that the spider’s vast form wavered and multiplied, as if there were a dozen of them watching.

As far as Thorin could see- to the left, to the right- the molten waterways stretched, vanishing into the dark. Thorin stood for a long moment, letting the heat wrap him, tasting the air- metallic, scorched, tinged with the faint bitterness of stone turning into glass. The spider did not move. The red eyes did not dim. The best he could hope for was to remain beneath its notice. That hope felt thin as a thread.

Thorin found a trail worked into the cliffside, its edge crumbling in places where the heat had eaten the stone. He descended carefully, each step tapping out a small echo in the abyss below, until the cliff gave way to the jagged floor of the valley. The heat pressed close now, a living thing, and the glow of the lava painted every shadow in restless light. He fixed his gaze on the first black ridge and began to move, slow and deliberate, across the rock.

The first ridge rose beneath his boots like the spine of some ancient, petrified beast, its surface fractured into knife-edged shards that bit into his soles. Each step sent a faint ring through the stone, swallowed quickly by the surrounding heat. The lava moved sluggishly on either side, thick and heavy as molten gold, folding and breaking against itself with a sound like slow breathing. Heat shimmer rose in rippling curtains, distorting the world into a wavering dream; the distant mountain and its spider guardian quivered and blurred, then sharpened again, as though watching him through water. The air seared his lungs, smelling of scorched metal and the bitter tang of stone turning to glass. Sometimes a bubble would break the surface of the lava beside him, spitting up a bead of fire that burst with a hiss on the cooling rock. His shadow leapt and twisted in the flickering light, merging with the molten glow until he could not tell where he ended and the valley began. Once in a while he paused, setting one hand against the stone to feel the deep, slow pulse of the heat beneath it- a reminder that all the black ridges he trusted could, at any moment, split and fall into the fire. He kept his gaze forward, resisting the pull to glance at the mountain’s flank, where eight red eyes burned steadily through the haze. The path ahead narrowed, rose, and fell again into dark troughs, each step a small negotiation with balance, patience, and fear.

At last, the shifting ridges and pools gave way to a wide shelf of stone that sloped up toward the base of the mountain. Thorin’s breath was ragged, each inhalation tasting of ash and copper, his skin tight with heat. He had not looked up in some time, choosing instead to keep his eyes on each treacherous step, but now- at the mountain’s foot- the weight of its presence pressed against him, and he raised his gaze.
The spider loomed far above, clinging to a sheer outcrop as if spun there. Its grey bulk was still as stone, legs folded in a deathly patience, eyes like red coals half-shuttered. They did not seem to be fixed on him. No tremor of movement betrayed its awareness. Slowly, carefully, Thorin let the air drain from his lungs, a breath that felt weeks in the making.

He slipped into the shadow of a narrow gorge at the mountain’s side, the rock walls cool beneath his fingers after the blistering passage through the valley. The path wound sharply, a tight throat of stone that eventually widened, spilling him out into open ground. The mountain’s bulk was now behind him. The air was cooler here, though still tinged with the metallic ghost of the lava-fields, and for a fleeting moment, he felt the vast relief of having passed unseen.

Some doom made him glance back.

The spider’s eyes were open wide now, and locked on him. For one stunned heartbeat, the world was silent. Then it moved.

It came down the mountain like an avalanche given life — legs striking stone with a force that shook the ground, body weaving side to side as it descended in a blur of grey and red. The hiss that rose from its fangs was like steam bursting from a fissure, echoing off the cliffs until it seemed to come from every side.

Thorin had no time to run. His hand was already at his belt. The familiar weight of his sword leapt into his grip, steel catching the faint grey light. He planted his feet, knees bending, shoulders low, the point angled toward the onrushing mass. The air between them trembled with heat and motion. His pulse roared in his ears.

The spider’s descent ended in an explosion of movement — legs stabbing into the stone with the sound of splintering bone, body twisting as it came for him. Thorin pivoted aside, the rush of air from its strike tugging at his cloak. Another leg stabbed downward; he rolled clear, heat blooming against his skin where the blow split the rock. The ground shuddered beneath its weight, shards skittering across the slate.

It was faster than anything so large had a right to be. Thorin kept moving, breath burning in his lungs, every muscle coiled. Twice more he evaded its strikes, feeling those red-lit eyes tracking him through every feint, every step. Then it reared back, legs spread wide, shadow blotting out what little light there was.

It lunged.

Thorin’s body moved without thought. He surged forward into the opening, sword arcing upward with all his weight behind it. The steel met the grey chitin in a ringing impact- and for an instant he felt triumph flare in his chest.

Then a searing pain.

A line of fire tore across his chest, so sudden and deep it stole his breath. His sword was still embedded in the creature, yet somehow the slash bloomed in his own flesh, hot blood soaking through the layers of his tunic. The shock wrenched his knees loose; the world tilted, and he staggered back, the sword slipping free from the spider’s body.

The wound on the monster was his wound- the same angle, the same depth, the same cruel bite of steel.

The spider’s red eyes pulsed like heartbeats in the dark. Thorin’s own breath came shallow, harsh. He pressed a hand to his chest and felt the warm slickness seep between his fingers. His knees gave way, and the slate rose up to meet him.

The spider shifted, its massive bulk sliding across the slate in slow, deliberate arcs. Each leg touched down with a sound like stone grinding stone. It circled him, drawing closer with every pass, the air thick with the scent of scorched iron and something older- dust, perhaps, or the memory of dust.

With great effort, Thorin rolled onto his back. A heavy shadow fell over him. The spider bent low, its fangs glinting in the cold light of its eyes, and nudged him with the blunt joint of one leg. Then it sniffed, slow and deep, drawing in the scent of him, as if sorting through the layers of his life.

It moved on to his pack, prodding open the flap with deft, strange care. Something clattered free and rolled across the slate- one of Mahal’s blessed torches. It had been cold and dead for who knew how long. The spider leaned close and exhaled.

A flame shivered into being- pale and thin like a moon torn by clouds.

The spider’s voice rasped like silk dragged over stone.

“So you can see your life bleed out of you.”

Thorin’s gaze stayed fixed on the weak fire guttering in the torch the creature had breathed to life.

“I have no life to bleed out.”

The spider’s fangs unfurled in slow, deliberate menace, each glistening with something thick and black.

“Not anymore.”

“What is the difference, then?” Thorin’s voice cracked in the emptiness, echoing upward to a roof he could not see. The question struck the spider like a stone; it halted mid-creep, limbs folding close for a moment of stillness. “Between life and death.”

“A tremble,” it said at last, “on a thread.” Its words seemed older than stone.

“And who are you,” Thorin demanded, “who takes both from me? Do you serve Mahal, or fear him?”

The spider’s red eyes dimmed to embers. “He will not hear you here.”

“Why kill me, then? Is it Mahal’s will, or no? Why not let me go in peace? I am nothing to you.”

“You are everything to me,” the spider breathed, each word a pulse of cold across his skin, “just as I am to you.”

Thorin reached uselessly for his fallen sword. “Why deal out death to me, then?”

“It was your blow that dealt your wound.” One foreleg tapped the stone, and Thorin felt the faint tremor shudder through his own bones.

“Then tell me how to heal myself,” Thorin said hoarsely. “And you.”

“That secret belongs no more to me than to your shadow.” The spider’s many eyes seemed to blink out, one by one, until the dark consumed them, and it was gone.

The cold flame guttered in the torch, casting no light beyond the length of his arm. And though he had spent countless hours in impenetrable black, the dark seemed thicker now than ever, eager to drink what was left of him.

He drew in a breath that tasted of dust and deep stone. “Mahal!” His voice rang out, and the echoes rolled away into the abyss, fading without answer.

Again, louder, rawer: “Mahal!” The name shivered the flame, but no answer.

A third time, with the last of his strength: “Mahal!” His cry seemed to break on the unseen walls,
scattering into pieces too small to find their way back.

Silence gathered close.

The torch fire flickered like a dying eye. The taste of iron filled his mouth; he swallowed against it, and the darkness seemed to tilt around him.

“Bilbo…” The whisper was only a breath, carried no farther than his own lips.

***

Chapter Text

“No no no no no no not again, do you hear me? Thorin-”

The voice wove through the dark- distant, fragile, impossible. A sound from another world, carried into this emptiness by mercy or madness.

“Thorin-”

A feather-light touch- fingers ghosting across his brow. Then a palm against his chest, firm as an oath.

How are you here… The thought rose sluggish, half-formed, drifting on pain.

A strangled cry tore from the voice as the hand lifted, finding wetness.

Blood… my blood… No, Bilbo, please… Thorin could not force his eyes to open. The lids were stone, his body lead. Please don’t come to me when I’m like this. Not again.

Arms slid beneath his head, strong though trembling, and drew him up as if he weighed nothing. He felt the thud of another heart against his ear.

“Thorin. Thorin. Wherever you are, I need you to hear me. I’m here. I’m here holding you. I have you in my arms, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Why are you here, my burglar? You were supposed to forget me.

Cool fingers traced his cheek, smoothing away the sweat, the furrow in his brow. He was powerless against such gentleness. His eyes remained sealed, but he leaned into the touch as though it anchored him.

“And you’re not going anywhere, either, do you hear me? You are not going to die. I’m not going to lose you again. Do you hear me?”

How many times must I fail you before you finally forget me? His own words echoed hollow within him, bitter as ash.

“Listen to me Thorin,” Bilbo whispered, his voice fraying, urgent. “You are going to be ok, I swear to you. You can’t die. Please. Please. You still have to show me that trick you do with the smoke rings, remember?”

There’s no trick, Ghivashel. Thorin tried to stir, to laugh even, but the agony coiled deep in his chest and pinned him like iron. He could feel warmth running down his side, the ebb of himself. Thorin gasped, expecting pain, but there was none- only a strange stillness.

And what about your tricks? How your hand commands my wound. How you can come to me when I call, where a god cannot.

“Shh, shh…” Bilbo soothed, fingers hovering over his brow, brushing away the weight of shadow.

“You’re going to get better, and then we’ll sit on the side of that mountain of yours and blow smoke rings till the remaking of the world. Thorin. Thorin. Do you hear me? I still love you. I’ll always love you. You have to know that.”

A silence fell after those words. He could feel Bilbo lean forward and press their foreheads together. The scent of him flooded Thorin- pipe ash and apple peel, wool and rain- and his hand closed over Thorin’s for the press of a heartbeat that said stay.

And so, Thorin stayed, in that impossible moment, for as long as it dared to last.

***

The last thing Thorin had done before entering the Abyss was beg his adad to leave the Waterfalls, and return to Mahal’s Halls and the love of his kin.

The distant roar of the waterfalls below filled the silence between their words like constant thunder as Thorin knelt before Thrain. He felt strangely small against that cascade, a sudden vertigo that never bothered him before, that came with knowing it was now his time to go.

“Leave this place. Please.” Thorin’s voice was ragged with pleading. “I will find him, and whatever binds you here will be undone.”

“You speak of what you do not know, dashat. I choose to be here.”

“Then choose to go back,” Thorin snarled. “Amad misses you. We all miss you.”

“I am here for everyone to visit.”

“Dís cannot visit you here. But you could visit her. You could give her comfort. Please. I have given her a terrible task. She could use your guidance.”

“You should not have prophesied to her.”

“You think I had a choice?!” The vision of her face above him, awash in the light of the Arkenstone, tears flooding her eyes as she took his sword- it was so powerful, it flooded every sense- it was so urgent, he had to speak the words. The flame it would rend, the searing heat, the screech from the deepest bowels of the earth.

Thrain opened his eyes then. His eyes, once keen as the edge of steel, had dulled to weary embers. “No, I suppose you did not. I should know better than anyone, how powerless we are in the hands of fate.”

“And who decreed that it was your fate to remain here?”

“I merely… await…” His usually confident answers had been wavering, and now his next words were laced with a rare pain. “I wait… for what he promised me. If it had truly been mine, I could not have lost it.”

“Your words,” Thorin’s voice was a pitiless growl, “make no sense. What you await is the light in Amad’s eyes when she sees you again. That is what is lost. That is what you refuse to restore. I do not know what breaks my heart more—that she won’t come to you, or that you won’t go to her.”

No more could be said between them, and Thorin found the path down the cliff that led into the Abyss without once looking back at Thrain. He offered one final prayer to Mahal- more silence than words, more grief than hope- before setting foot on the descent. Soon he lost all sense of day or hour. The way twisted endlessly: sometimes sharp drops where he had to steady himself with both hands, sometimes long winding slopes where his steps echoed back faintly, as though he were chasing the sound of his own passage.

The valley floor, when at last he reached it, was a forest petrified into nightmare. Twisted and stunted trunks reared up like claws, their branches frozen in the act of grasping. The air clung thick as resin, unmoved by wind or breath, and every path seemed a gnarled root splitting from some buried tree.

The paths wound and forked like the veins of some vast stone-heart, twisting endlessly, each branch a threat of being lost forever. Thorin stood at one such fork, staring into two equal darknesses, each as silent and blank as the other. A dwarf without sun or star had no compass here, no mountain peak to steer toward. It struck him then, like a hammer ringing true: if the Abyss had no map, he would carve one.

The realization filled him with a fierce steadiness. Drawing the chisel and hammer Yavanna had bid him bring, he pressed the point into the bark of a petrified tree, the sound sharp as thunder in the stillness. He carved deep and deliberate, each line biting into the wood. On instinct, after his first carving, he set the flute to his lips and breathed out a simple tune. It shimmered like cicada song in the heat of summer. The runes stirred, waking into a faint blue glow, as though Mahal’s own fire had quickened them.

At every path he abandoned, he retreated to its beginning and struck a warning rune- sharp, claw-like marks of negation. At every fork he carved like a vow the rune for home into the trunk of the path he had left behind. In caverns where the silence grew unbearable, he lingered to carve on the stone floors, wide circles that blazed faintly under the music. These markings became his constellations- stars scattered in the black, the only measure of distance in a place that devoured all sense of time.

It was true- in coming here, Thorin had left time behind. And Bilbo belonged to time. Time healed- time gave love anew for his kind. Thorin left knowing Bilbo would be safe in another’s keeping. He left time behind, and instead stepped into only space. A vast, endless, prevailing darkness. Deep and silent, thick and immortal. This was a fool’s task. There was no way he would ever find Thror here. At best, he was buying time for the Ravens to not have their Realm destroyed. These Cats, with their endless power- even if they were good, and their purpose was noble, the nature of power is to destroy, and no creature could avoid its corruption. These Cats have lost their way, if they were demanding entrance into realms that were not theirs to protect.

Still. It was worth it to Thorin, even if everything he had was gone. Not gone, no. He had his mind, he had a body that could still heal if he fell. He had his thoughts, he had his memories, he had a problem to solve. Several, in fact. And he had this vast land to wander, and darkness to which, with the help of Yavanna, he could add a little bit of light.

And so when he first landed on the valley floor, he gave himself to his task. Map out the underworld. Find his grandfather. Time was gone, perhaps forever. And it didn’t matter, because he would never see Bilbo again.

Until now.

What did he mean, “I still love you”? The words burned like a brand. He was lying. He must be. He was being generous. Thorin was dying, all over again. Of course he’d say words of comfort. Was it even him? Was any of it real? Was Thorin still this ruled by his jealousy, that he’d conjure up a phantom Bilbo who still loved him? Why would Bilbo still love him, after all this time? He couldn’t. It was unfair to him. He needed someone new. He deserved someone new. Why would the gods be so unfair, to never give him another chance? He wasn’t a dwarf, who only loved once. He had more chances. He was made of chances. He created chances for others. Why did he get none for himself?

***

He heard the sound coming from far off. It was soft and peaceful, floating on the air and darkness, familiar but not yet named. Thorin was in a valley of jagged bones, a graveyard of massive beasts whose skeletons jutted out of the rock like cages. Moss gathered in damp pools and climbed up the bones.

The far-off sound echoed strangely against the bone-cages, until it gathered in Thorin’s memory old as bare rock, rising and falling with the unhurried patience of a thing that has crossed many winters.

Thorin stilled. The Abyss seemed to tilt toward the sound.

From the far end of this cavernous beast-ossuary a shadow detached from shadow and came on, skimming the dark like a boat over black ice. Oil-sheened pinions drank what little glow his runes and torch gave; the beak was a soft crescent moon- the eyes, seven distant evening stars. The scent came next- clean cold, iron rain, a resin-ghost of mountain fir. Home.

“Roäc,” Thorin breathed, and the name rang along the ribs of giants.

With a triumphant cry the Raven flared once and settled, sure as a seal on stone, upon Thorin’s forearm. Talons pricked, then gentled. For a heartbeat they only looked: dwarf and bird, two old things who had outlived too much. Then Roäc crooned and pressed against Thorin’s brow with the weightless knuckles of his beak.

“Hail, otherworlding friend,” Roäc’s voice was like a slow bell struck with velvet. “By the deep and by the high, I have found you.”

Thorin’s laugh broke out raw, half-sob, half-joy. “By Mahal’s mercy… You have found me.”

Roäc gave Thorin’s fingers a playful nip. “I found you much sooner than I thought I would, thanks to your markings. Those were yours, were they not? Your curse-marks for dead-ends became more and more creative, the deeper down I went.”

“They are mine, and I cannot believe my good luck, in their leading you to me. Why are you here, Roäc? Why did you come find me? Is all not well? Is your family alright? And the Ravens? And my family?”

“Peace, King Among Dwarves. All is as well as it can be. At least it was when I left them behind, and entered this Abyss.”

“How long has it been?”

“Between your leaving, and mine? Twenty-five years, Thorin. And a handful more have passed, I am sure, before my reaching you.”

The number hung between them, immense and simple. Thorin swayed as if a wave had hit him in still water. His breath shortened, then steadied by an act of will.

How many years do hobbits live?

The thought passed like a knife carefully sheathed.

“Tell me everything. Start with your family, then with mine. Does Dís live still? Are the Raven realms protected?”

“Let us continue on the path, as we talk. In my flight against the ceiling of this cavern, I have spied light a great distance off. I know the direction. Let us start.”

They began their trek together through the gravelands, bones arching overhead in pale colonnades; Roäc’s shadow slid from rib to rib as if counting them, until finally he flew up and started hopping along them overhead as Thorin walked.

“My family are well, and my living hatchling Taërn still watches over Dís, who carries on in the mountain and brings great honour to herself and to the line of Durin, such as it is.”

Thorin’s breath left him in a low groan, half-prayer, half-release. His boots slowed over the gravel path, and he touched one broad hand to a bone pillar where moss clung damp and black. “Thank Mahal,” he breathed. “Then she has defied my prophecy.”

“So far- since I left, at least.”

“Why did you leave? Is your realm in danger of the Cat?”

Roäc tilted his head, eyes gleaming like metal filings. “Jiaou has kept her promise. She and I meet once a year at the border of one of her Realms so that I may bring her news. I have been searching the realms of the dead for any dwarf who might be the one she seeks. Just in case you are wrong. My search has been fruitless. Still, Jiaou is satisfied with our effort. She makes no threats, and carries on with her other work.”

“I am glad I have bought you peace- or at least, time.”

“Do not fear that your effort is in vain. The Raven Kings, as well, have been working toward peace and an alliance with all Cats. It is… touch and go, let us put it that way. But there is progress.”

They came upon a shallow pool, its water dark glass, bones breaking its surface like the stakes of an abandoned fortress. Thorin crouched, dipped fingers into the water, tasting iron. His eyes stayed low as he asked, “Then you do not think Jiaou’s power has gone to her head?”

“She seems to care only about her work. As long as she can work, she is not dangerous.”

“This is good news,” Thorin said, rising again, water slipping from his knuckles. “This is better than I had hoped. And Dís lives in honour and peace. That is more than I dared to hope, as well.”

“There is more. She has found a new love.”

The words echoed strangely around him, a mockery of how they had been echoing in his head all these years.

“A new love,” He repeated, disbelieving. Somewhere in the far cavern, a drop of water fell into a pool and rippled outward, faint as breath. “This… is not what I was expecting. We are speaking of my sister?”

“Even hearts that refuse to be reforged sometimes don’t have a choice.”

“It is not the way of our people.”

“Every rule has its exceptions. Perhaps your sister is Durin reborn, and therefore used to loving more than once.”

The idea brought a smile to Thorin’s lips, and suddenly he found himself laughing- a great booming sound full of sweetness and relief as it came out of him. “I am foolish indeed, to put limits on what my sister can and cannot do. But who is he? This new love of hers. Who could possibly be worthy of her?” He found himself looking around, scanning the cavern floor as though some mark might tell him who had taken her heart. Then his breath caught a moment. “Unless…”

“If I know you as well as I think I do,” Roäc cut gently, “then I think you’ll be pleased with her choice.”

The pause was a chasm. Thorin’s lips parted; his voice came as a whisper, reverent, disbelieving. “...Dwalin? Can it be?”

Roäc let out a long affirmative croon, and Thorin laughed once more.

“Blessed Mahal! Is he her One, then?”

“Dwalin is her One, she has told him so under the sky, which gratified us Ravens greatly.”

“Bold of her! Not that boldness from her surprises. I wish I could toast with you. To their health and long years together.”

“We will toast soon enough,” Roäc promised, hopping from one giant skeletal rib to another, the torchlight shivering along his feathers. “Your kin await the tales you’ll tell.”

Thorin’s step faltered, his shadow in the torchlight dipping low across the bone-spires. “Soon enough… you mean when I return with Thror? Roäc, that could be a thousand years from now.”

Roäc’s voice was quiet as he leaned forward on his perch as though to catch Thorin’s gaze. “Do not despair now.”

Thorin ran a hand through his tangled hair, smearing grit across his temple. “I must despair,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word must. “I cannot allow myself to hope. As long as I am down here, Jiaou will keep the peace, and everyone can move on without my terrible love destroying them. Perhaps if I stay down here, my prophecy will stay with me, and Dís will never come to harm.”

The torch hissed faintly, one thin thread of smoke curling upward, and for a moment, Thorin stood shrouded in his own shadow.

“This isn’t only about Dís. You still carry guilt about the hobbit, don’t you? After all these years. Even though you bent the rules of death to heal his heart. Even though you sent him a new love.”

Thorin’s eyes snapped up at that. “So it is true then? Well.” The old monsters of jealousy churned at his insides. “Tell me then. Tell me everything. Spare me no detail.”

“You might be surprised.”

“I am sure nothing can be more painful than what I’ve already imagined. Just tell me. What is his name? Who does Bilbo love now?”

The pause was just long enough for the sound of distant water to make itself known again, a slow, steady dripping into some unseen darkness. The heartbeat of the Abyss.

“Bilbo loves… as a father loves a son. He has taken under his charge an orphan child.”

Thorin had been holding his breath, and now his heartbeat thrummed loud in his ears against the burning in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He shook his head, as though that would make Roäc’s words make any sense.

“I… asked Yavanna to send him a husband.”

“I too was confused on that matter,” Roäc said, hopping closer, wings rustling softly. “I went to see her about it. She said your words were, ‘a new love… a husband, a wife… anyone.’ Perhaps your language needs more words for love. Though no one in the realms above is complaining about the misunderstanding.”

Thorin found himself sinking to his knees. “Then… he has not taken a husband.”

“He has not.”

“But… his days are filled with joy and companionship.”

Roäc’s nod was an elegant tilt.

“And yet… he still remembers me.”

“He still loves you.”

Thorin had not dared utter those words aloud, and the sound of them now smote his heart. His breath caught, his throat ran dry.

“How.” The word came out as a desperate rasp. “How can he forgive me. When I’ve done so much to push him away.”

“Thorin Oakenshield!” Roäc gave an exasperated squawk, a rare break of his composure. “You have wandered in the dark for too long, and forgotten all the light you have given. Come back with me. Abandon this quest. We will make peace with Jiaou somehow.”

“Absolutely not. Is this why you’ve come? You cannot possibly think-”

“I can think as I wish! And it is better than these dark words you carry with you! Is this why you insisted on going? To wallow and waste, where no voice of reason can reach you?!”

“I have not been wallowing,” Thorin growled, “I’ve been grateful for the peace that honesty-”

“Your honesty is poison!” The words rang out in a terrible echo absorbed by bone and moss.

“You feel guilty for letting me go. That is why you are here.”

“No. No.” Roäc gave his head a shake in the style of walking creatures. “No.” Then a pause. “Yes. Yes, It is true. This was my task, not yours. And… I have missed you. You are missed by all of us, up in the world you have left behind. And though we knew you wouldn’t be gone forever, it started to feel like you would.”

Thorin let out a breath, came slowly to his feet.

“It is not so terrible down here,” he said at last, and they began their way again. “I have often wondered what death felt like for Men. This cannot be unlike it. A dark, an oblivion. Even when I wallow, as you put it- the emptiness here… it becomes a spaciousness, forever holding, and accepting. The grief… softens. There is a certain amount of peace, though still I do not envy Men their death. Do you think they live again?”

“What I think matters not- but yes, indeed I do. Not like your Durin, who returns with the same face, and only seven times. They probably come back countless times, over and over.”

“How? Why? Why do you believe this?”

“How? I know not. Why? Simple… because they want to.”

They continued in silence under the arching bones for a long while before Thorin spoke.

“I hope you are right. It is unfair that elves and dwarves should carry on, and they should not.”

“You do not hold hope in the promise of Illuvitar?”

“I want more for Bilbo than a god’s promise.”

“You have given him much more than a god’s promise- or at least, something much more immediate. Do you truly think you’ve done nothing but push him away?”

“I have not let myself feel close to him, these thirty-odd years. I had surrendered myself to the losing of him. And now you are telling me I have not lost him at all.”

Roäc gave a soft, throaty click, as if swallowing his own regret. “And now you see my guilt.” He shifted his wings uneasily. “All this time, that you could have spent together with him, in that dreaming realm you share. I have taken that from you. And now you’ll never see him again.”

Thorin slowed, stopped, turned to regard the many-eyed gaze of pain his friend gave him now. He let out a soft sigh.

“Do not feel guilty, Roäc, please, if you can help it. Strange as it is, I am glad to be here. And… I have a feeling I will see him again. Perhaps I’ll find Illuvitar down here, and he’ll let me speak with him once more.”

He hesitated, the next words catching in his throat. His hand tightened around the haft of his torch. “Or… perhaps he’ll live again, as you say. What’s more…” he drew in a shaky breath- “he came to me, in a dream.”

Roäc’s beak dropped open and he jerked back, feathers rippling in the sudden stillness.

“A dream? How?”

“I don’t know how… but he came to me, all the same.”

“What did he do? What did he say?”

“He healed my wound, when I thought I was dying a second death. And he said… he said he still loves me.”

Roäc gave one brief pause and leveled him with a look. “And you didn’t believe him, did you?”

“No,” Thorin found himself smiling again. “No, I did not.”

Roäc clicked his disapproval, fluffing his feathers out as he did so and shaking his head once more.

“Foolish dwarf.”

Thorin could not help but laugh again, and took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. “Come. Tell me about this orphan child. What is he like? You’ve gladdened my heart more than you can know, and now I ask for more. Tell me everything.”

***

Chapter Text

Roäc insisted on staying by Thorin’s side even through the innumerable days it took to cross the graveyard valley, until Thorin beheld the light that he had seen. When they reached it, Thorin understood why.

At the bottom of a vast gorge lay a lake as blue as the sky on a cloudless spring day. Or rather, it was a sky- hidden, secret, underground- its surface impossibly bright, holding within it a shining sun so brilliant and blinding it bathed the entire cavern in living gold. From the ceiling above, descending toward it like a lover’s hand outstretched, was a tree- colossal, wild-limbed, glowing from root to crown. Its branches, sharp and reaching like cracks in glass, coursed with white-gold fire. From its crown poured golden blossoms in long, pendulous sprays, vivid as trumpets, clustered in fragrant trembles.

Thorin gasped to look upon it.

“The lightning tree…” he breathed, undone. “The lake… with the sun…”

“There’s a lake, you know-”

Bilbo had said it sitting beside him on Beorn’s bench, surrounded by bluebells. He’d been puffing a ring of smoke out to the moon- but it wasn’t a ring. It was the moon itself, a perfect image of it, dark spots and all.

“It’s deep under a mountain, but reflects a bright afternoon sky.”

It was in those early days- not the earliest, when Thorin could only come to Bilbo in a fog, unable to do anything but play his harp- but those first fragile years when they could exchange words, though not touch. When the Dreaming Realm still held firm grip on them, and Bilbo had no control over what he said.

“Why do you ignore the thrush?” Thorin had asked another time, when Bilbo held no memory of Thorin’s death, and Thorin could not ask the more painful question.

“Because of the lightning tree,” Bilbo had answered, laughing, eyes soft, face mere inches from Thorin’s.

“The lightning tree…” Thorin whispered once more, and Roäc crooned softly at his shoulder.

“You know this tree?”

Thorin had not words to answer, and Roäc let it be. They made their careful descent into the valley, where strange grasses and silver-bladed nettles waved gently in the warm light. Pale moths shimmered between shadow and glow. The air was heady with a fragrance like elderflower and memory. Here and there, tiny yellow star-shaped flowers pressed their faces to the light. And above, far above, the lightning tree bloomed wild and bright, a thousand golden clusters pouring down like offerings- Yavanna’s last golden laughter, rooted in the roof of the world under the underworld.

At the shore of the lake, something waited.

It was a boat- narrow and curved like a curled petal, carved of silverwood veined with mithril. Its hull shimmered faintly, like something that had dreamed itself into being.

Here at last, Thorin and Roäc turned to each other.

“You truly do not regret-?” The Raven could not finish.

“There is nothing to regret,” Thorin murmured. He meant it truthfully. It was a lie.

Roäc nodded, eyes shimmering in the golden light.

“Then we part,” he said simply. He leaned forward and touched his crest to Thorin’s forehead. Then he launched off, and Thorin watched him go, wings bathed in light as he ascended, until there was one final flash of black against gold- and he was gone, into the shadows.

The boat waited, gently brushing the golden shore. Thorin stepped in.

For a while, he could see us. It happens, sometimes, among those who walk- especially among young hatchlings whose loved ones are lost to death. We cannot help but gather around the grieving- it is our way, for we take the darkest watch. Frodo could see us. In those rare moments when he ceased to bow his head and would look up into the branches, he could see us, watching over him. His gaze would linger on us. Once he even counted us. But he was not curious, nor did he have the energy to be afraid, fearsome as we may look. Soon he would bow his head again, lose his heart among the grass. He spoke of us to no one. He didn’t think to. I am sure he has no memory of us now.

That was how Bilbo found him, and the first thing he did was to teach him to look up again. He called the stars the eyes of Eä- said they were watching and waiting, to give new chances. He taught Frodo how to always find north. A fitting thing to teach a child who had lost his way. Bilbo knows what it means to be alone, after all. It was wise, I think, that he didn’t just take Frodo’s hand and bring him back to safety. He was teaching him, from that very first moment. Teaching a child how to be alone. For surely that is Frodo’s doom.

The boat rocked beneath Thorin like a breath held and released. It moved of its own accord, slipping away from the soft bank without sound, skimming across the surface of the sunlit lake.

You know of course, that Bilbo had become a wanderer, setting off in all directions as often as the weather would allow. You know that he often as not let the wind choose his path for him. That he had gathered the disdain of his neighbours like leaves along the lane, and yet had ears only for the gossip of birds. Not that he could understand us.

The lake was vast, far vaster than it had seemed from above. Its mirrored surface, clear as glass and glowing with impossible blue, held the illusion of sailing across the heavens. Above Thorin loomed the branches of the lightning tree, immense and outspread like the bones of a god. Below him, the clear blue sky rippled faintly, only just disturbed by the motion of the boat.

Yet he was changed, once he met Frodo. His mind became singular- his only direction, that which led him to the child. Disdain died as others saw him tend the flame of that young soul. We saw it- we Ravens did not know we could love Bilbo any more than we already did. But we saw him, slowly, surely, bring the light back to Frodo’s eyes. The time they spent wandering among the orchards and muddy paths along the river. The proper waistcoats, the curls combed through so there were no tangles. And the stories told in the moonlight! Your Hobbit has grown wild in his storytelling. No plot is too outlandish for him to push, no detail too beyond belief for him to offer to skeptical hobbitlings.

The boat slid onward, cutting gently through water that shimmered like woven light. Time slipped, and for a while the lake had no end, only unfolding stillness.

He speaks of you, you know. In his stories. He never tells your name. You are the King Under the Mountain, famed now among hobbit children. It is to protect his heart, of course. He still whispers your name when no one can hear.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the light began to change. At first, Thorin noticed it only in the periphery: how the brightness behind him began to grow warmer, like the soft orange of a late afternoon sun. Then it grew golden. Then pale. Then thin. He turned- the lake’s sun had passed behind him, a fading memory on the water. Before him, the far side of the cavern was coming into view, a long stone bank beneath jagged arches of rock. The gold was retreating now, stretching out across the lake like the fingers of a dying fire.

I am nothing now, but a name my beloved cannot even say to others. I can do no more good, except be woven into a tale for children.

Thorin could not say these words to Roäc, nor beg the Raven to cease breaking his heart. But Thorin had never felt so dead as he did now.

The sun had passed into twilight, and then shadow. The dark ahead was cool and vast.

The boat slowed as it reached the far shore, and Thorin stepped out. As he turned to look back, the lake behind him had already dulled, the reflection of the lightning tree now distant, like a dream passed in sleep.

He stood at the mouth of a narrow passage. The air here damp; the walls pressed close, jagged with quartz veins and drips of ancient moisture.

He moved forward, one step at a time. The path forked. He chiseled, and chose left. Then another fork, and he chose right. A narrow bridge. A chamber filled with still water. He marked his path. He left light in his wake.

Silence continued. Nothing hunted. Nothing watched. The air was still.

For a time- how long?- his thoughts were just as quiet as the dark. He breathed in rhythm with his feet. Carve. Breathe. Walk. Carve. Breathe. Walk. The mind slipped into simplicity. It was almost peace.

But slowly, like a drumbeat beginning far off in the night, a rhythm arose in his thoughts.

How many months has it been now?

A fork. He carved. He breathed. He walked.

How many years?

A bridge. A tunnel. He lit another rune.

How long do hobbits live?

The questions crept in the way a low pulse presses against the skull when sleep is thin. The way hunger coils, unnoticed at first, then biting.

The lake seemed impossibly far behind him now. Roäc was gone. The lightning tree was a flicker of a moment in a storybook long closed. The runes gave off light, but not warmth.

Then came a change.

The air grew warmer- a faint radiance was breathing against the stone. Thorin slowed. Around a bend in the tunnel, the dimness parted like a veil, and there, in the center of a wide chamber, stood a perfect circle of gold- a great ring, a doorway- tall as a dwarf and freestanding- rising from the stone with the aliveness of something grown. Its bricks were golden, unpolished but softly gleaming, each one fitted with a stonemason’s reverence. It shimmered faintly, as if it had caught the last light of the sun and was still remembering it.

Within its bounds was only more darkness, but a darkness of a different kind- velvety, expectant. Looking through it was like peering into deep water under starlight: the longer he stared, the more shapes seemed to gather on the far side. Not forms exactly, but suggestions. Movements half-seen. Longing, half-felt.

He stepped forward.

The doorway pulsed gently as he approached, its light goldening. A living warmth, coaxing something in his chest that had been cold for longer than he dared name. He circled it once, slow and cautious, footsteps hushed against the cavern floor. From every angle, it remained the same: perfect, unyielding, ancient beyond reckoning. He could not say if it had been forged or sung into being or left behind by gods.

As he passed in front of it again, something new emerged: carvings, faint but unmistakable, running along the base of the door.

He drew closer.

And then, at last, he understood.

He leaned in, heart hushed in his chest. The edges of the runes shimmered faintly with the same internal glow as the gold that held them, like fire within fire, or a dream waking into yet another dream. He brushed his fingers gently across them.

“By Durin’s Gate the chosen pass,
To live anew, as was, and was...”

He blinked. The couplet echoed in his mind like a drumbeat struck once and still reverberating. He whispered it aloud, and the door seemed to shimmer at the sound.

“By Durin’s Gate the chosen pass,
To live anew, as was, and was…”

It was a riddle, and not. A promise. A path. A warning, perhaps. He could walk through. If he did, he would be reborn.

“This is how Durin does it,” Thorin murmured in realization. “This is how he comes back, again and again.”

Thorin stepped back from the Gate. His hands began to tremble.

A memory like a tide flooded his mind- it was Dis, when she was a tiny pebble, trailing after him with her stout little legs and messy braids, her eyes round with wonder when he so much as lifted a hammer. How she cried when he left the room, gifted him pebbles and scraps of ribbon as if they were treasures of old. He remembered the way her small hand used to tug at his belt as they walked through Erebor’s stone halls, how she would echo his words in a whisper, as if to learn the shape of being brave. When she loved him with the whole bright force of her little soul.

When she looked at him, and no grief yet shadowed her eyes.

What if there was hope of that once more?

What if he could find Bilbo, reborn, and make different choices? What if he could go back, and change everything? What if none of it had to end in blood, in fire, in the sound of breath leaving a broken chest?

Watching and waiting, to give new chances.

This was his chance.

The silence around him thickened, a hush that felt almost holy.

They would never know he escaped. The Cat would believe him still on the task. Peace would hold. No one would be harmed. He could be free.

He took a step forward. The Gate pulsed in quiet answer.

No one would know. And if they did-?

Would Roäc betray him?

Would the Ravens even speak of it?

Even if he bore the same face, even if the old light remained in his eyes- who would blame him?
Who in all the long ages of the world is offered such a grace, save Durin himself?

Another step. The glow deepened, curling around him like warmth in winter.

Fíli. Kíli. Frerin.

They would understand.

Surely, they would understand.

He closed his eyes. And behind them rose the memory of Bilbo, tossing his head back as he laughed. The touch of a hand gripping his in the dark. Dís, eyes hard with tears when he said goodbye and didn’t look back.

“You are taking all that I have,” she had said, too quietly for him to respond.

“How dare you, Thorin.”

He staggered, a step halting mid-stride.

What if he could hold them again? What if he could feel Bilbo’s arms around him, not in dreams or in ghosts of memory, but real and warm, with the sun on his face and no crowns but those made of flowers?

The Gate shimmered. The air around it smelled like spring rain on stone. Like hope.

And yet-

What was the shape of a life begun again?

Would he know where to find them?

Would he even remember?

Would they remember him?

And who would walk the path in his place?

Who would keep the promise he had made?

He pressed a hand to his chest.

“I am not wrong to wish to live.”

He took another step.

The Gate waited. Patient. Golden. Open.

It would take him. It would forgive.

“But I-” His voice broke. “I swore… I promised I would walk this path-”

He was almost pleading with the Gate. It did not answer. It waited patiently.

He bowed his head. His hands shook at his sides.

One last breath.

“I cannot set aside my task,” he whispered, as if speaking the words would break something loose inside him. “I promised.”

And then he turned.

He tore his gaze from the pulsing light, and ran- ran like something was breaking behind him, like his soul would tear if he stayed a moment longer.

Back through the tunnel. Back into the darkness of the Abyss.

***

Chapter Text

Dís knelt beside a crooked alder, fingers raw from the cold, her breath clouding the quiet air. She pulled back carefully the loop of her snare, slipping the rabbit into her satchel. It was a simple thing—just twine and patience, tied to a bent sapling and baited with apple peel—but it had served her well this past month as she made her way to Khazad-dûm.

The woods here were dense and damp, the browning moss thick underfoot, the trees black with autumn rain. Dís moved along their edge like a memory, half-vanished beneath her dark cloak, her boots muffled by years of leaf-fall. The wind tugged strands of her hair from her braid, and far above, jays called to one another in the dim afternoon.

The Greenwood stretched on her right ahead and behind, all deep-rooted quiet and moss-draped patience. Here along the southern edge, Dís had watched the season thin from autumn gold to grey and silver. The wind smelled of damp bark and dying ferns. High above, the last leaves clung stubbornly to black branches, trembling like thoughts not yet let go. Here and there, a flicker of red- hawthorn berries, the rust of a withering bramble- broke the grey like a held breath.

Dís crouched just within the shadows, sheltered by a leaning spruce whose roots knuckled through the soil like old hands. On her left, the barren fields of the south yawned outward, sloping gentle and wide beneath a lid of pewter sky. She set her flint to the fire with an easy strike, and coaxed it into life. The dry twigs caught with a breath of smoke. She fed it slowly, watching the orange tongue curl upward, licking at the chill.

When the fire took, Dís drew her knife and set to her work. The rabbit’s fur peeled away cleanly beneath the practiced pull of her hands, the warmth of the pelt giving way to the cool sheen of flesh. She rinsed the carcass with a splash from her waterskin, skewered it on a green stick, and set it to roast above the low flame. The smell of fat and woodsmoke mingled in the damp air as she ate, faint but comforting.

A rush of wings cut the silence.

Taërn descended in a black sweep of feathers, landing on a moss-slick stone with a scrape of talons. Her voice came sharp and low. “There’s a large band of orcs heading this way. Eastward, along the edge of the woods. I counted over fifty.”

Dís stilled, now empty skewer in her hand, the fire crackling at her feet. She turned her head toward the open slope beyond the trees, wondering how far it was to the river she had hoped to cross before nightfall.

“If we stay low and move quickly, we could outrun them.”

“They’re too close already,” said Taërn. “We’d be seen the moment we leave the shadows.”

“They don’t have the eyes of Ravens.”

“Do you want to risk it?”

Dís muttered a curse under her breath, old and Dwarvish and not fit for polite company. Still, yet another wave of gratitude coursed through her that Taërn had found her not two days into her journey, and insisted on coming with. It was to her that Dís owed her not being seen thus far, whether by orc, elf, or dwarf. Not to mention how much more bearable the journey became, now that she had a companion to distract her from her regrets.

She shook those thoughts from her head, and glanced westward, where the woods deepened into older, denser growth. The Greenwood was no friend to strangers- especially not those carrying dwarven steel and secrets- but the alternative was worse.

“Fine,” she said. She knelt and began smothering the fire with handfuls of damp leaf mold. The smoke hissed and curled into nothing. “I suppose I prefer Elves to orcs.”

She followed Taërn into the deeper wood.

They moved north and westward under the darkening boughs, where the sunlight no longer touched the forest floor. The trees were older here, thick-trunked and moss-veiled, their roots like great sleeping beasts beneath the leaf-littered earth. Taërn flew ahead, circling back now and then to ensure Dís still followed, her voice a soft murmur from the shadows.

The path- if it had ever been really one- faded to nothing. Brambles clawed at Dís’ cloak. The hush of the woods grew heavier with each mile. Soon the air had thickened with a damp, uneasy stillness, and the trees seemed to crowd closer together, whispering above their heads. The way out was unclear. Dís clenched her jaw and pressed forward.

Suddenly, the forest broke.

They stepped into a large clearing ringed with tall ash and beech, where the canopy opened to reveal a swath of sky, silvered with twilight. The clouds had parted near the horizon, and in that brief window, the red-gold disk of the sun was visible, sinking low. West. That was west. Dís let out a breath.

Then Taërn made a low sound in her throat.

Far beyond the trees, above the broken line of the forest and on a distant hill, a dark silhouette reared against the sky. Black-stoned, jagged, and cruel in shape, it pierced the horizon like a ruined crown. Even from this distance, it radiated malice.

“Dol Guldur,” Dís murmured. The fortress looked as if it were watching the Greenwood like a spider in its web. She stared for a long time.

Then she turned away, westward again, her mouth tight.

Beyond the far edge of the field, against the blue hush of the horizon, a lonely plume of smoke curled into the sky.

Taërn shifted on her shoulder, feathers rustling faintly.

“Someone’s made a fire.”

Dís narrowed her eyes, trying to trace the source. The smoke rose from somewhere tucked back into the woods, from a shape low and square, barely visible.

“An elf?”

“We’d already be captured, if it were an elf. Besides. It’s not elvish fire.”

Dís gave her a sharp glance.

Taërn only preened her wing as though bored with the obvious.

“If it were, we’d smell pine pitch and sweetwood. This is peat and old oak. Earthier. Like something half-buried.”

Dís tried not to roll her eyes as she smiled.

“Only a Raven would make out of a riddle, another riddle.”

“A tradition among winged creatures of all kinds.”

A shiver of warning ran through Dís at her words.

“Well, what do you think it is, then? A wizard lives in these parts, I hear.”

“Not a wizard. But perhaps it is a friend, not a foe.”

“In a place like this?” Dís shot one more furtive glance at the jagged shadow looming on the barren hill. In that moment, Taërn took off without a word, a soft shadow against the darkening sky. Dís adjusted the strap of her pack and rested her hand on the hilt of her blade. It was almost full dark now. The last light slanted westward through the grass, drawing long lines across her boots.

She watched the smoke disappear into the dark. She didn’t have to wait long.

Taërn returned with a soft whistle and landed on a low branch beside her.

“A hut,” she said. “Rough stone and moss. Window open. A cooking fire outside. The door is shut, but above it…” She tilted her head, expression unreadable.

“There’s an axe. Dwarvish make. Old. Very old.”

“Not something elves usually hang. Describe it.”

“Dark haft. Ashwood, I think. Carved. The blade is broad, beautiful. Runes of Durin across its base.”

Dís’ breath caught. No elf would carry such a weapon, nor own it, unless it had been given… or taken.

She started walking, slow and deliberate.

“If it’s a friend,” she said, voice low, “we’ll accept hospitality.”

Taërn blinked.

“And if not?”

“Then someone’s stolen a dwarvish axe.” She touched the hilt of her own axe. “And that can’t go unanswered.”

The raven gave a small, approving click of her beak.

They crossed the last stretch of meadow in silence, keeping to the longer grass and the shadows cast by the trees as dusk bled westward. A hush had fallen over the clearing, the air heavy with moss and memory. Somewhere nearby, a nightjar began its clicking cry.

The structure was little more than a tumble of stones, half-sheltered by the rise of a wooded hill behind it. Moss coated its sides, and a lean-to of firewood slouched against one wall, neatly stacked and dry despite the rain of late. The roof was thatched with weatherworn reeds, and beside the narrow doorway, the dwarven axe hung like a sentinel, curved blade gleaming faintly in the dusk, haft wrapped in worn leather, the head engraved with runes so old they looked more like cracks in stone.

Taërn murmured on her shoulder. “There. A shadow, moving.”

A moment later, the shape of a dwarf passed across the narrow windowpane: short, broad, unmistakably dwarvish, with the slightly stooped posture of age.

Dís took a steadying breath. Her hand tightened on the hilt of her own axe. She stepped forward and knocked.

The door creaked open.

A dwarf stood in the doorway, ancient as mountain bones. His beard was white and thin in places, braided loosely down his chest. A cap of faded green sagged against his brow, and though his back curved slightly, his eyes were sharp as a pickaxe’s bite. One hand rested on the doorframe; the other held a hatchet, loosely but deliberately.

He took one look at her, and something in him stilled.

“Daughter of Durin, so you’ve come.” He stepped aside without another word.

The air inside was thick with woodsmoke and rosemary. A small hearth crackled at the far end, with a cast-iron pot hung low over the coals. The room was one large chamber, its walls lined with shelves of old crockery, herbs hung to dry, and small trinkets carved from stone and bone. A dusty tapestry covered one wall, showing an abstracted map of the Misty Mountains. There was a narrow bed tucked beneath a window, a worn table with two stools, and a low perch near the hearth that Taërn immediately claimed.

The old dwarf moved to the fire. Without asking, he ladled thick stew into a bowl carved of ashwood and set it before her. Then, from a pouch near the firewood, he drew out a handful of dried meat and crumbs and scattered them on the hearthstone for Taërn, who gave a pleased crrr.

Still wordless, he sat on the second stool and leaned his hatchet against the wall.

Dís sat. The warmth seeped into her bones. She held the bowl between her hands, breathing in the scent of lentils, garlic, and something like sage. She didn’t eat right away. She looked at the old dwarf across from her, her heart growing slowly wide with astonishment.

He moved with the solemn gravity of old stone, not merely an elder but something older still. A vague and foreboding familiarity tugged at the edge of her mind.

He had not asked her name, but now he spoke it, voice low as shifting embers.

“Dwarrow never come this way,” he said. “Not since the Red Day. And certainly not you, Dís daughter of Frís. Whose father was slain in the fortress that casts its shadow over this meadow, and whose grandfather was beheaded in the valley below.”

Her spoon paused in midair. The breath caught in her throat.

The old dwarf turned to her then, his eyes glinting with a light that came from memory, not the fire. “You did not know how close you were. Another hour westward, and you would have cleared the woods and glimpsed the Three Peaks. Another day, and you would have stood where he fell.”

She set her bowl down, slowly.

“Do you know the stories well? If so, then I have questions for you.”

“Know them? I was there, child. And once I was there, I never truly left.”

“I thank you then, for the blood you spilled that day, and the vengeance you achieved.”

“You won’t once you know who I am.” His hands stilled over his bowl. “I am Nár, companion of your grandfather. I am to blame for his death. My failure was what caused all that bloodshed.”

The room swam slightly. Dís gripped the edge of the table.

“How are you still living? You must be four hundred years old! You are one of the Ancient Ones, the rare long-lived-”

“Long-cursed, you mean. Aye, that is my fate. And what fate has brought you here? So close to where your sires were struck down.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hand found her spoon again, turning it slowly in her fingers.

“How is it you know who I am?” She was stalling for time to think. Of course he knew who she was. She was cut from the line of Durin like gem from stone- hair dark as pitch, nose sharp and proud, and those unmistakable eyes.

He tilted his head slightly, as though puzzled that she would ask.

“You have the bearing of your grandmother,” he said.

She stiffened. Her voice came out cool, tight.

“Ferrain, Thror’s wife?”

He didn’t need to nod- the hard glint in his eyes said everything.

“I always thought I had the bearing of my mother.”

“No. I mean you bear something, like a weight on your back, like a burden, exactly like the burden of your grandmother.”

“And what burden is that?”

“Betrayal.”

The word hit like a thrown stone. Her shoulders pulled back. She could feel Thorin’s sword hidden away pressing against her shoulderblades.

Did he know?

He couldn’t know.

I am not betraying anyone. Thorin insisted. He came to me in a dream. It was a prophecy, just as in the days of old, and if it weren’t for my regard for Bilbo and the love of my friends, I would have defied it. There is no betrayal here.

Another voice from deep in her heart disagreed.

You could have told Dwalin.

“She did not keep her marital vows. It happens,” Dís said, voice sharp now. “Betrayal is a harsh word for a dam being honest and following her heart. It was no secret that Thror wasn’t her One.”

It was a weak argument. Everyone knew Thror took a turn for the worst after she disappeared. Only a few months later, he himself left. He was like a ghost in those final days.

Nár gave her a look that said she wasn’t convincing anyone, and turned to the fire, stirring the embers in silence.

“I think you’re the one with something to hide,” Dís called after him, “you blame yourself for Thror’s death, and then you blame another, to relieve yourself of your burden for a moment. I know that game. I’ve played it before.”

He said nothing.

“You’ll be stuck in grief forever if you keep playing it.”

Still he did not speak. Only his hand on the poker tightened.

She tried a different tack. “Why not return to Dwarrow life? Erebor is prosperous and stronger than ever. There are no more dragons in the world.” Nár turned to her with a strange look in his eyes at those words. Dís pressed on. “You can finally go home.”

“I’ve no home anymore.”

“And so you dwell in the shadow of the memory of two hells?”

Nár’s gaze flicked to the wall behind her. She turned to follow his gaze. There, mounted on the stone, was a shield. Darkened, burnished, but by the runes in its centre, unmistakable.

Thror’s.

A strange stillness settled over her. The hearth cracked once, sharply.

He loved him, she realized. He loved Thror. That’s why he’s here. He won’t leave him.

Taërn ruffled her feathers in the silence.

Dís rose, slowly. Her joints protested the damp, and the weight of her cloak seemed to double with the night. The fire had sunk low, and the old dwarf’s shadow swayed upon the stone like a wavering branch. She glanced at Taërn, then at the shield above the hearth, before dipping her head.

“We’ll leave you now,” she said. “I’m sorry for the intrusion. Thank you for the shelter, and for pointing us toward our road.”

The words were out before she heard them. Her stomach tightened; the air in the hut seemed to close around her. Too much. She had said too much.

Nár’s pale eyes glinted beneath his brows. “Your road?” His voice rasped like gravel. “So you’re bound for one of these hells, are you? Which one calls you, eh? Not Dol Guldur, that spider does not hide from its flies. No, no… it must be Khazad-dûm.”

Her misstep burned in her chest. Fool. You utter fool.

“I need not explain my errand.”

“I know your errand well enough.” He gave a short, dry laugh, and yet more alarm jolted through Dís. “Still, I’m surprised. You were always the practical one. I thought you’d know better than to follow Thorin Oakenshield. You won’t find it.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs at the name. Thorin.

The damp air seemed to thin. “What do you mean, follow Thorin?”

Nár looked at her for a long moment, his face half in the glow, half in smoke. “He’s only the latest in a long trail of blood and doom,” he said at last.

Dís hands clenched tight, but relief flooded over the alarm, and the sorrow in her next words was heavier than the anger- like a stone that had been carried too far to be thrown.

“You should not speak of him that way. He was so much more than just his doom.”

For a moment, Nár’s expression faltered, his mouth tightening. “Aye, I suppose not,” he muttered. “But I’m trying to warn you.” His gaze flicked toward the shuttered window, as if listening to something beyond. “But warnings never take with the line of Durin. Stubborn, all of you.”

Dís drew in a shaky breath and took a step closer, anger and dread twisting together once more. “And find what? What won’t I find?”

He hesitated; the fire popped. “Never mind,” he muttered. “It’s late. The Dale crawls with goblins on nights like this- coming up from the south, sniffing for an entrance back into the mountain.”

She frowned. “They are not coming from the mountain?”

“Not in the last hundred years. I’ve been keeping the entire Dale clear, and into the mines as well, up to Durin’s Bridge. I’ve not sighted a goblin beyond the bridge in a century. The goblins and orcs around here are coming up from the south, trying to find a way back into the mountain. To claim it. To gain a stronghold. They’re different, now. More focused. More dangerous.”

“I’ve seen the change. In the woods beyond Erebor, as well, their attacks are more determined, as though they have a new leader.”

Nár nodded darkly. “I finally sealed the entrances for good, some years back, when their numbers grew too great for me to fend off, and I came here to live out my remaining days. No one can get in, not on this side of the Misty Mountains.”

“Then… we need to cross the mountains to enter Khazad-dûm?”

“Do not think of that now.” He stood with effort. “Stay the night, Dís daughter of Frís. I’ll not deny it is an honour to shelter a daughter of Durin, however doomed your errand may be.”

He hesitated, and his voice softened. “It is your mother’s bearing you keep, you are right- and… it is good to look upon the face of one who so takes after Thror. You have his eyes.”

He prepared her a straw bed in the corner, laying a woolen cloak atop it. The fire burned low. Dís lay long in silence, watching it flicker and shift. But her mind would not let her sleep.

What am I doing here, without Dwalin? What was I thinking, leaving him behind?

***

In the morning, a pack of rations waited for her on the table. Nuts, dried fruit, a twist of cheese, and a heel of dark rye.

“I have one more gift for you,” Nár said as he came in from outside, setting down an armload of firewood near the hearth. He crossed the room to a low chest and rummaged inside. At last, he emerged with something clutched gently in his hands.

A black iron claw.

He set it down. Taërn squawked and flapped to the table, hopping close. Dís leaned forward.

It was a raven’s foot. Carved and aged with soot and time.

“I’ve sealed every entrance this side of the mountains,” said Nár, “save one. Only because I could never open it. This-” he touched the claw gently, “is the key.”

He met her eyes.

“The entrance lies north of the Stairs. It’s the way Thror took, when he went in, and I hid like a coward in these trees. Perhaps I should have persisted in solving the puzzle, but I didn’t have the heart. And knowing the goblins needed this key to open it… I saw no point. So it has remained intact. Perhaps you’ll have better luck than I.”

Dís picked it up. It was cool, heavier than it looked.

“If not,” Nár added, “you’ll have to take the Redhorn Pass. And that’s no easy task, with winter coming on.”

Dís closed her fingers around the claw, feeling its weight, and nodded once.

“I suppose we won’t be coming back this way to tell you about it.”

“Then go with better courage than I did. That’s my hope, and my warning.”

***

Chapter Text

The land opened before them like a sea without tide. Gone were the sheltering trees of the Greenwood- here the earth rolled outward in vast, whispering swells of yellow grass and dry heather beneath the pale morning sun. The wind came unhindered across the plain, combing the hills in long waves. Far to the west, the three peaks of Khazad-dûm hid in the shrouding mists of dawn. Dís drew her cloak close, feeling the cold bite through wool and leather. Taërn wheeled above, a small black star against the clouds, her cry carried thin and clear upon the wind.

By mid-morning the land dipped toward a wide, stony channel where the Anduin ran thin and cold. Here the river spread itself into many winding shallows, no deeper than a dwarf’s thigh, braided with pebbled bars and patches of reed. Mist rose from the surface in slow curls, catching the pale sunlight. Dís tested the current with her boot- it tugged, swift but manageable. She hoisted her pack higher. Taërn glided above the water, her reflection rippling like black silk. Dís waded in, teeth gritted at the icy bite. Halfway across she slipped on a slick stone, steadied herself with a growl, and pressed on until the river gave way to grass once more. When she turned back, the far shore was already veiled in silver mist, as if the East had sealed itself behind her.

By afternoon the land began to rise again, swelling into long, rugged slopes strewn with scree and thorn. The air grew sharper, colder, bringing with it a sour tang of smoke and iron. Near a shallow gully where the grass grew trampled and blackened, Dís crouched to study the ground. The prints were fresh- broad, clawed, and deeper than usual. “Nár’s orcs,” she muttered grimly to herself.

It was evening when at last she crested the final ridge, the valley opening before her: Dimrill Dale bathed in the slanted red-gold light of the sinking sun.

The Dale lay hushed, as though holding its breath. Below her the waters of the Mirrormere stretched still and dark as obsidian, drinking the last of the light into its fathomless depths. No ripple marred its surface. No bird skimmed its edge. The silence pressed close, thick as a held note. Even Taërn circled lower without a sound, her wings beating slow and deliberate.

Dís descended the slope, boots sliding on loose shale. Each step echoed strangely, as though the mountain listened. The air changed as she drew nearer the lake. The wind no longer smelled of grass and burning fields. Here it smelled of stone- deep stone, star-silvered and silent, waiting.

For a heartbeat the whole valley, except for dark Mirrormere, burned with light. Then the sun sank behind the western ridge, and the world dropped into silver-blue dusk.

“Khazad-dûm,” she whispered.

Taërn landed lightly on a boulder at her side, feathers ruffled by the falling chill. Her dark eyes fixed on the distant cliffs where the Dimrill Stair climbed into shadow.

Dís followed her gaze. There- high upon the far slope- stood the outcropping Nár had spoken of, a jagged black mark against the gathering night.

The secret entrance.

She tightened her grip on her cloak and started toward the lake’s edge.

At last the slope leveled, the shale giving way to smooth stone worn by ages. Mirrormere lay before them, dark and untouched, reflecting not at all the afterglow of sunset held in the sky overhead, but rather the deep blue of midnight. Dís approached slowly, leaned over it, expecting to see her face waver back at her. Instead, the water showed a slush of stars, bright and ancient.

“It is the sky of the First Age,” Dís said in a low voice to Taërn at her shoulder. “Only Durin can see in it the Crown which graces our night sky now.”

“This… was the sky before Durin’s Crown?”

“That is how he remembers who he is, each time he comes back. He is drawn here. He must come here. If he sees the crown, then he knows he is Durin returned. Then he knows he can swim to the bottom of the lake and find his crown and reclaim his throne of Khazad-dûm. Otherwise, the lake will swallow him.”

Taërn tilted her head, eyes deep and inscrutable.

“Is this the treasure Balin is after, I wonder?” Dís said half to herself. She tore her gaze away from the glittering starscape below. She moved instead to the tall column of stone that was unmistakingly Durin’s Pillar. Moss and lichen clung to its sides like a faded cloak. The runes were shallow with age, but still sharp enough to catch the dying light.

Dís circled it in reverent silence.

“So this is it,” she murmured. “The marker Durin himself set when he first beheld the Crown. If all the entrances are sealed, Balin could not have come here yet. Unless he left by the West Gate and came over the Redhorn pass. Do you think he made it here?”

Taërn’s gaze drifted back east, as though seeing again the trampled grassland and smelling the sour tang of foul things.

“If he did it would have been dangerous. Especially if he came by the Redhorn. No easy retreat into the mountain, should the valley be overrun.”

“Let us hope he has kept some sense, then.”

Dís looked again at the lake, then at the statue, reaching a hand unconsciously toward it.

The runes shimmered faintly under her fingers. She brushed away a strand of lichen.

One rune caught her eye- something about its form tugged at her memory.

“Ravens…” she murmured. “This one names the Ravens. One of the few Cirth of the First Age that we still know.”

Taërn on her shoulder was very still.

Dís turned toward her, regarded her out of the side of her eye.

“What have Ravens to do with Durin’s Crown?”

Taërn’s feathers lifted slightly along her spine. Her eyes flicked to the lake, then to the sky, then back to the stars spilled across the water.

“We love shiny things,” she said with an arch tone. “What wouldn’t we have to do with it?”

Dís smiled and shook her head. “You are no help at all,” she said, and Taërn croaked what might have been a laugh.

They followed the curve of the lake northward until the far cliff face rose steep and shadowed above them. There, carved into the rock ran the Dimrill Stair: a long, staggered chain of stone steps over which narrow waterfalls cascaded.

Water spilled in silver ribbons, leaping from ledge to ledge with a music like distant bells. Mist clung to the air, feathering their cloaks and braiding itself into Taërn’s black plumage. The white rush of water glimmered faintly in the growing dusk and the waxing moon rising nearly full in the East.

Dís placed her hand against the cold stone, grounding herself.

“This way,” she murmured, though her heart thudded with equal parts awe and dread.

As they climbed, the roar of the falling water swallowed every sound but their own breath. Spray wet Dís’ hair; the stone steps were slick beneath her boots. The higher they went, the more the valley receded behind them, the lake shrinking to a polished jewel cupped in the hands of the mountains.

“Steady,” Taërn murmured, hopping from one jut of stone to the next with enviable grace.

Dís huffed. “Easy for you to say. You can fly.”

At last the stair bent sharply around a spur of rock, and the waterfalls veered away into a hidden chute. Beyond that turn, the world fell suddenly quiet- no thunder of water, no wind, only a heavy, waiting stillness.

A narrow platform jutted out from the cliff face. There, half in shadow, half in moonlight, stood the entrance Nár had promised.

It was little more than a dark seam in the rock, an unremarkable cleft barely large enough for a dwarf to pass through. But out of the rock wall beside it reached a sculpted branch upon which stood an ancient grotesque- a raven, wrought of black iron. Its beak was open in a silent scream, tongue curled, wings extending as though about to dive at the unfortunate victim it stared down- in this case, Dís herself. And it stared not with two, but with seven eyes, each catching a glint of living moonlight. It balanced on one leg, the other clawed very high at the air. Its feathers were etched with exquisite detail; the metal caught and swallowed the moonlight.

Taërn landed lightly next to it, her wings folding tight. She tilted her head this way and that, staring at each of its eyes. Dís swallowed, darting her gaze from one to the other. Then she pulled the iron Raven’s foot from her pocket.

“I guess it was too much to hope it would simply be missing a foot.”

Taërn squawked but said nothing. Dís held the foot up to each of the Raven statue’s, comparing. It looked like a match. It looked like it belonged there. But it wasn’t positioned exactly like the others. It was reaching out, like the foot raised into the air- but not as high, not as stretched. What’s more, the statue looked complete, like it needed nothing.

“Taërn, do me a favor? Can you mimic this Raven’s position?”

Again Taërn made a squawk that sounded like a laugh, and did so- her imitation was excellent, in fact a bit terrifying.

“Its body is a bit wider than yours.”

“I get more exercise.”

Dís wanted to shove her off the branch.

“There must be some key to the puzzle. Is there another statue?” She already knew the answer though. If there was anything else of note on this ledge, she would have seen it. With a sigh, she let herself collapse into a seat in front of the door. She stared up at the moon, now touching the statues’ beak and giving a sheen to Taërn’s feathers behind it.

“You must know something. You’re the one with the Raven lore,” Dís moaned to her companion.

“As though you have no lore of your own.”

Dís gasped, sat up straight. “Of course,” she breathed. “Moria!! All those nights, all that poetry with Gimli! What about that night when we were all together, and you were there, too. We got drunk and read poetry out loud all night. Do you remember anything from the lore, that might help?”

“Of course I do.”

“Of course you do!” Dís clapped and leaped up to a stand, hands now in tight fists of anticipation. “With that beautiful Raven memory of yours! Why didn’t you say so before?”

“Protocol,” She croaked, and started preening her feathers.

“Protocol-” Dís huffed. “You are going to tell me, aren’t you?”

“And deny you the joy of remembering it yourself?”

“You are kidding me. Taërn!! We don’t have time for games!”

“What do you mean? We have all night. You have rations enough for weeks.”

“And orcs that could show up any minute.”

“I can see the entire valley below. We would be hours ahead of them.”

“You mean hours already within the mountain, I hope. I cannot believe you!”

“You don’t want to remember everything that happened that night? It was quite amusing.”

“You-!!!!” Dís threw her hands up in the air, started pacing back and forth. “We clearly have different priorities in life!!! Fine. But you must help me. We snuck into the library using the outer wall. We brought wine. You discovered us. We convinced you to join us. A fact I should be very grateful for right now but can’t seem to be for some strange reason.”

Taërn croaked so hard Dís could see the muscles in her belly contract. Dís was suddenly certain this was what a Raven’s laugh sounded like. She continued.

“We moved furniture around. I don’t know who got more drunk- probably Gimli. Ah! How I wish he was here! He would be loving this! Not to mention he would know exactly what to do.”

“So he proved, that night.”

Dís let out another gasp. “The entrance! He spoke of a secret entrance! He knew a poem! Something something Mirrormere… gaze… deep… something… fear…”

Taërn made a noise like clearing her throat.

“A guardian stands by Mirrormere,
His gaze is deep and holds no fear,
What he lacks…”

“What he lacks,” Dís picked up, memory coming back to her clear and strong.
“What he lacks, a lock will show-
What he lacks, you’re to find,
If you’re to go!”

She whirled back to the statue. “What lock, though?” She held up the iron foot in her hand. “What he lacks, you’re to find, if you’re to go. This must be what he lacks. And we, by all the luck of Durin, have found it. But this statue doesn’t lack anything.”

She sighed, kicked a pebble off the ledge and heard it echo a long fall. She took a deep breath of the chill night air. A cloud was heading for the moon. Its edge was touched with white fire.

A moment passed before Taërn spoke again.

“You remember nothing more?”

“... There’s more to the poem?”

“That is not the only poem you read that night.”

“No… you’re right…” Forgetting her original impatience, she tried to remember back. “There was the first delving- something… something like… hollow world…”

“Our voices stirred the hollow world,
And all its secret depths unfurled…”

“Yes!
Dust rose, shining in the glow,
A silver storm in caverns low-”

Taërn picked up the poem from the beginning, its rhythm like hammers ringing, rising and falling until the silence settled once more with its crisp night air.

“And there was the one… about the lanterns…”

“The Lanterns of the Lower Ways?”

“Yes!
Down where the mountain’s pulse is slow,
Where forge-smoke thins and embers glow,
A row of lanterns, small and bright,
Sows constellations in the night-”

Taërn continued:

“Children chase their pebble games
Through honeyed pools of lantern-flames,
The lanterns burn with gentle grace-
A kindly rhythm, place to place-”

“Oh! And there was the other one! Gimli’s favourite-”

“By Hammer’s Ring and Forge’s Light?”

“Yes!”

And Taërn solemnly recited the verses, deftly weaving threads of Gimli’s character into her voice like a hidden tapestry that always lived within the song. To Dís’ astonishment, tears stung her eyes.

“Can you truly remember everything you’ve ever heard?”

Taërn hesitated, and Dís wondered for a moment if she was considering her usual snarky answer. But the Raven tilted her head slightly, and her eyes shone just a bit brighter.

“We remember the words- those are easy- the shape each sound forms, those live in our body without effort, like softly sleeping animals, ready to awaken whenever we wish.

“Then, beneath that, we remember the breath- a breath can blow out a flame. A breath can save a life. Breath was there at the beginning of all things- and so too shall it remain at the end.

“Then, beneath that… there is the heart. Beating even before breath. What the heart beats for, we do not make words for this. But we hear it, and we can recite it, deep within the words spoken, like a poem of its own, hiding and waiting.

“And then… beneath that… there is the forgotten. That which we must remember, for those who cannot. The first children, and the children that followed, and the children who woke and then slept- they do not know it, but they carry the forgotten, deep beneath their words. Ancestors, loved ones, hard fought, long gone. They do not know. But we know. And we love them. We love them beyond hope. So for them, we remember.”

“Taërn…” Dís breathed. “I- I had no idea-”

Her throat burned. Her eyes stung. Her hair stood on end. She tried again.

“You- you keep us. You- you do not let us fall.”

Taërn preened a feather suddenly as though it were the most urgent matter of the evening.

“Well,” She finally said. “I am a flyer, after all. You walkers are so slow- we can’t let you trip all the time, if we want you to keep up with us.” She shook her feathers and puffed out her chest in a dignified manner. Dís let out a laugh.

“Fair, I suppose,” she said, shaking her head. “We are an awkward bunch, we walkers. But Taërn, I-” She took a deep breath. “I was going to say-”

“Don’t worry about it,” The Raven squawked, as though she already knew exactly what Dís was going to say. “Let us focus on the task at hand. We were recalling the ancient songs of Khazad-dûm, remember?”

“Right. Yes. The songs we sung that night. The poetry we read.”

“Exactly.”

“Well there was- what about- wait a minute- there was one about Ravens! Flying… over…”

“The Ravens over Zirakzigil?”

“Ack! You are scary good at this! Yes! That one!! Wait a minute- let me try to remember-

Above the halls where deep fires sleep-
beyond the gates of the mountain’s keep-
The wind carves paths no dwarf can tread-
a world of frost for wings instead-
There ravens ride the silver gale,
black runes against a sky grown pale.

Snow breaks loose like shattered glass,
skimming stone where cold storms pass,
Feathers stroke the biting air,
threading silence, thin and rare,
On Zirakzigil’s jagged crown,
they stitch the dusk in black and brown.

Long they fly where none endure,
guardians of the high and pure,
Leaving no track, no mark, no cry,
only flickers in the cornered eye-
But dwarrow who lift their gaze uphill,
promise home lies where the Ravens will.”

“You are improving.”

“Time is thinning, as you say.”

“Fair enough. Then tell me- can you remember the other poem sung about Ravens that night?”

“There was another?!?”

“Yesss, Imash’ma-” It was Taërn’s pet-name for Dís, only used in moments of great intimacy, and she never did explain what it meant- “Try to remember. It was one that you found, it was as though it was waiting for you to read it, there in the Young One’s favourite Tome-”

“I remember!” Dís could suddenly see it in front of her, as though the book were in her lap this very moment, the pages delicate, trusting to her fingers once more. Was this, too, a talent of the Ravens? She looked down, saw the words blaze across the page:

“Seven black feathers on windless air,
Three feet tread where none should dare.
Eyes like coals that do not burn-
They fly for one who won’t return.
They carry no message, yet stories unfold,
They scatter no seeds, yet mountains grow old.
They bring no battle, they bear no peace—
Yet stir the heart and never cease.
Who calls them forth from deepest cave?
Who sends them silent to the grave?
They come unbidden, go unseen-
The messengers of what might have been.”

Dís blinked, and suddenly her hands in her lap no longer carried the heavy, dusty tome. They were empty, and she was alone on a ledge overlooking a sacred valley among her people, while a waterfall roared away- and beyond, a grassland unfurled desolate into hopeless winter.

“Three feet…” She whispered, as though awakening from a trance. “Ravens with three feet.”

Her body moving of its own accord, she rose, Ravens-foot-key loose in her hand. She stood in front of the Raven statue, tilted her head as though seeing it with new eyes. Unthinking, she lifted her hand, and placed the Raven’s foot in the center of its wide belly, the perfect place for a third foot to reside.

A soft blue glow emanated from there foot and feather met, and the foot, reaching and clawing, found its place as the middle talon, and the three feet together created a perfect cascade of talons reaching and clawing and balancing into and against air and earth.

The seams of the entrance glowed blue and the door opened with the gentle groan of deep stone.

Dís turned to Taërn, and they stared at each other for a moment.

“Taërn-”

“Say nothing. Say nothing at all. I am ready.”

“No. You must hear me. This is where you and I must part. Ravens do not live in the mountains. But you cannot nest unnoticed outside. You must go back to Ravenhill. Will you give a message to Dwalin for me? Tell him I am well. Tell him I’ll be home in six months. Tell him… tell him not to follow me.”

“I cannot- please. I cannot. Do not ask it of me.”

“What can you mean? Is the journey that dangerous by Raven’s flight?”

“You were seen,” Taërn blurted out, and hung her head. After an eternity of a moment, she spoke again. “You were seen, in the place of the dwarven dead. You were seen stealing from your brother’s tomb. Word among the Ravens is that there is a quiet price upon your head. The king does not want to dishonor you, but you cannot remain alive.”

“...Daín…? Wants me dead?”

“Does not want. Must decree. Dead. Beheaded, if possible. Secretly, most importantly. Everything about it is being kept secret, only a handful of dwarrow know anything at all. Faërj told me. He is sworn to Daín, you know. If he weren’t sworn first to me as his blood, he would have had to tell Daín that I have gone after you.”

Dís gave a heavy sigh. “And now I see why Ravens swear to keep secrets, not to reveal secrets.”

“I cannot go back. It will be assumed by now that I went after you. You are hunted, Imash’ma. They would capture me, interrogate me. I would never betray you, but- there is no life for me there now.”

“But you cannot go into the mountain! Nor can you live out here!” Dís let out a sudden sob. “Oh- Dwalin- he must know by now. He would have been told. What must he think of me?”

“He trusts you,” Taërn said fiercely. “And he loves you.”

“Trust and love I do not deserve!”

“Do not say that! You were obligated!”

“Yes, and I could kill him for that! Thorin!!” Her voice broke on his name, barely a whisper.

“We do not yet know why he prophesied to you,” Taërn murmured.

“It cannot be for any good reason,” Dís said bitterly. “What good can I possibly do? Ugh- Dwalin- why didn’t I tell him-”

“He was not called. You were called.”

“Of course Thorin called me. This is no less than what I deserve.”

“You are not that same Dís. You left that dam in the wilds of Dolmed long ago.”

“I may have left her, but I still need to atone for her.”

“You need atone for nothing.”

“Then why did Thorin come to me? Why did he task me with this??!”

Taërn could not say anything at that. She hung her head.

Dís wiped her face with trembling hands.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said hoarsely. “Here I am, with a sword I should not possess, and a warning of a great evil ahead. It doesn’t matter if I can’t turn back. It doesn’t matter if my life is over. I only wish… I only wish I could have seen Dwalin once more.”

Taërn came to her shoulder, pressing her beak to Dís’ cheek.

“You will see Dwalin again.”

“I will not.”

“You will- I promise. This is not the end.”

“Only because death is not the end.”

***

Chapter Text

The light of the rising moon flooded the entry and reached into the darkness like the arms of one who was drowning. As soon as Dís was out of its path, stepping down winding stone steps, the beam fell clean and cold upon a distant ribbon of stone suspended over immeasurable black. Her breath vanished. Her pulse throbbed at her wrists, at her throat.

The Bridge of Khazad-dûm arched delicately before her, no broader than a cart plank, a single impossible span thrown across a chasm that devoured all light. The air here was deathly still, cold as sealed stone, and her own breath sounded too loud, too mortal.

She sank to her knees upon the steps- Taërn swayed for balance, one wing flaring and catching briefly against her hair. Her trembling hands fumbled in her pack for her torch; when it flared to life, its glow danced feverishly against the first few yards of the abyss.

She turned back towards the entrance. The nearly-full moon stared in like the eye of a giant, peering through a keyhole. In that sudden, stark light she saw, half-buried in shadow, another black-iron raven wrought into the stone. She climbed the few steps back toward it and, guided by instinct rather than thought, reached for the center foot clawing at the air.

It detached easily, almost willingly.

The stone doors groaned in answer, and the crack of moonlight narrowed, narrowed- until it disappeared entirely. The mountain had swallowed it. And her, now. Forever, perhaps.

Dís’ grip tightened around the cold iron claw. She took a shaky breath, and put it in her pocket.

The darkness beyond the torch’s reach felt suddenly alive, and the silence pressed tight against her ribs.

“Well,” Taërn murmured at her ear, her voice low and taut. “Forward, Imash’ma. Back is gone.”

The steps descended sharply to a small landing overlooking the chasm. Dís could feel the presence of the gulf, a cold intelligence, a patient, waiting hunger. She forced her breath steady, lifted the torch higher, and continued her descent until the steps brought her to the bridge itself.

She knew its architecture was perfect. That it had been standing since the Years of the Trees, built by Durin the Deathless in those first days when the mountains were young and knew no evil. Yet it looked so delicate, like a breath could scatter it easily as ash. So Dís held her breath as she set one foot onto its first span.

It held.

She exhaled.

Her second foot followed.

It was a thread of stone strung between two immensities. The torchlight gave sight to only the next few steps ahead. Dís steadied her pace, sure and rhythmic. Taërn tucked against her neck, half-buried in her hair. Dís wondered if she was peaking with one eye up toward the stone where the sky should be. Dís herself was trying not to look down at the sky where stone should have been.

The abyss below did not stir, but Dís could feel her heartbeat reach for it, as though drumming against a vast, unseen chest.

Halfway across, her torch guttered in a draft she could not feel on her skin. The flame thrashed sideways- then steadied. Dís swallowed. Her throat was dry as old stone. Her pace faltered.

Taërn’s claws tightened on her shoulder.

“Do not stop-” the Raven whispered. “The bridge will not forget it, if you do.”

Dís kept going.

The far landing loomed at last- only a darker shape in the dark, but growing, solid, real. Her legs threatened to weaken in relief, but she held steady. Only when the world widened again and the gaping mouth of the abyss was behind her, did she let her knees give way, and sank in a trembling breath to the floor. A long climb of stairs was ahead of her. She turned her chin toward Taërn.

“Still there?”

The Raven’s claws were gripping so tight that blood was surely soaking Dís’ tunic. She did not care. She brought a hand up to her friend- she knew it was heavy and clammy as she stroked her back and the wings folded tightly against it. Taërn did not seem to mind. She let out a breath- Dís could see its plume- she ruffled her head against Dís’ hair.

When she was free of the tangles, she lifted her head- gazed up at the black, forward at the black, then finally behind at the eternal dark they had crossed.

“Here I am… here with you. Welcome home, Durin’s Daughter.”

***

Three days passed before another living voice found them.

They traveled through the mountain’s bones, through passages old and spare, through narrow tunnels opening into low, abandoned shafts where rusted tools lay half-buried in powder-fine dust and broken rails vanished into silent gulches of collapsed stone. They passed pick-marks dulled by thousands of years, lantern hooks long empty, and wall-ledgers faded until no rune survived to tell who had once worked there, or what had been found-
or what had been lost.

The silence was absolute.

So complete that the soft tap of Dís’ boots felt like an intrusion, the faint rustle of Taërn’s wings like a trespass.

But slowly, almost imperceptibly, the ceilings began to lift. The walls smoothed into deliberate lines, the floor leveled beneath Dís’ feet.

Then, as though the mountain drew a breath, the tunnel widened into a slow, spreading glow of space.

Dís lifted her torch. Its light flickered in the walls- not brightly, but like embers waking in an old forge. Thin grooves appeared- polished channels running like veins of glass carried through stone. Light-echo conduits, engineered to catch even a single flame and carry it onward. A deep, slow gleam, a dim glimmer like the fading tail of lightning.

It was the kind of mechanism that loved movement, that welcomed a wandering flame, and beckoned the sojourner to walk farther in- deeper and deeper into its corridors of secrets.

The further they descended, the more the stone remembered itself. The walls shed the roughness of abandoned shafts and took on the deliberate geometry of dwarven-craft- soaring planes of polished black granite streaked with veins of mithril that seemed to fly in the stone like dragons as they caught the light of Dís’ torch. The ceiling climbed with every step until, at last, the darkness above them unfolded into vast fan-vaults, ribbed and sweeping like the undersides of monstrous wings.

The Eastern Arches.

Colossal columns rose by the hundreds, their fluted sides webbing upward into a lattice of arches so high that no amount of mere torchlight dared hope to find their crown. But at the bases- unexpected, impossible- burned the steady, living glow of flame. Not echo-light, not memory-light. Torches. Dozens of them.

Dís inhaled sharply. Then again, like a second heartbeat.

Here it was: the threshold of Balin’s colony, of his story. The first pulse of life in the mountain that Dís had yet seen. The first sign that Khazad-dum breathed again.

The resurrection of Dwarrowdelf.

“What do you think, Mistress Raven?” Dís murmured to Taërn at her shoulder. “We have our own kind of love for sky, do we not?”

“You Dwarrow do not stop until your ceilings can fit small thunderstorms,” Taërn breathed as she peered up and up and up. “It is beautiful. I could love this place. Don’t tell Gimli I said that.”

Taërn was about to take off from Dís’ shoulder, test her wings against the air of this place, when a low rumble of voices trembled through the stone. Dís and Taërn froze. Then a clatter- a scrape of metal. A harsh, echoing bark of surprise.

“Hold!”

A dwarf burst from the shadow of a column, torchlight blazing behind him. His axe was already raised, its edge catching amber fire as he sprinted toward them.

“Show yourself!” he roared. “Name your loyalty or be cut down where you stand!”

Another torch flared behind him- then another- silhouettes emerging like ghosts from the deep, shouting warnings, boots pounding stone.

Dís didn’t move- the shock of seeing faces after so many days alone with only Taërn in the dark seemed to steal her voice. Taërn’s feathers snapped tight against her body, a low hiss vibrating in her throat.

The first dwarf reached them, breath heaving, eyes blazing beneath his helm. He yanked his torch higher, flame-light spilling hot over their faces. His jaw dropped.

“You-” he choked, voice breaking on disbelief. “By Mahal’s hammer- Lady Dís?!”

A shuffle of movement stirred behind him- more dwarves arriving behind him, hands on weapons, ready to defend- but the name rippled through them like a current of disbelief, flickering from voice to voice:

“Lady Dís…”

“Thrain’s daughter?”

“Here-?”

“By Mahal-”

But one voice rose above them all- high, incredulous, breaking on a gasp:

“DÍS?!?”

Before she could even turn, Ori barreled from between two columns, cloak flying behind him like a sail caught in the wind.

Taërn gave a wild, indignant squawk, flapping skyward just in time as Ori collided with Dís in a full-bodied, bone-crushing embrace that drove the breath from her lungs.

“ORI-!” Dís choked, half-laughing, half-sobbing as he spun her in a circle. “Put me- put me down, you lunatic-!”

“You’re here!” he gasped. His voice was shaking. “You’re actually- by the Kings- I never thought I’d-”

He set her down only because they were both losing balance. His hands stayed on her shoulders as if afraid she might vanish like smoke.

A black swoosh suddenly landed back on Dís’ shoulder and nipped at Ori’s hand.

“If you’re quite done with my perch-”

“TAËRN?!?” Ori’s face split into a disbelieving grin. “Oh, by every scroll I’ve ever laid eyes on- LOOK at you!!!!”

He extended both hands toward her like a child greeting a long-lost pet. Taërn alighted neatly on his forearm, preening with exaggerated dignity.

“Your eyes are bright like jewels now,” her croak was warm and affectionate. “Hail to the power that gives glow to the eyes of Dwarrow in the dark!”

Ori laughed. “Oh how I’ve missed you- we simple folk are never grand enough for your poetry. Though this place might come close…” He turned, raised his torch high in the air, illuminating once more the giant columns reaching tall and silent into the webbed darkness, and Taërn crooned admiringly as she followed his gaze. Dís took a moment to glance at the other dwarves around them- some were clearly guards, but many had the look of Ori: scholar-delvers, with gentler hands and an array of precise tools at their belts. All of them- guard and scholar alike- were looking upon the reunion of friends with soft grins and misty eyes. She recognized some of them, from her time in the Blue Mountains.

“Nari, is that you?”

The dwarf in question gave a booming laugh upon Dís’ recognition and came forward. She clapped his shoulder.

“Good to see you, Lady Dís. Been a long time since the hard winters, and you look well.”

“Indeed it has, and thank you. How is your family?”

Others came closer, and there were many head-butts and words of greeting, until finally Ori’s voice rose above the din.

“Come- come! You must come now! Balin- Balin will fall over dead when he sees you!”

“I’d rather he didn’t!” Dís said, wiping her eyes with a shaking thumb, and Ori practically seized her wrist, drawing her into a swift, excited pace between the torchlit pillars- Taërn launching with an offended croak from his arm to glide alongside them.

“So tell me! What are you doing here?” Ori burst out. “How fares Erebor? How are Gimli, and Dwalin? How are my brothers?”

“Your brothers are well!” Dís answered, trying to keep up with the flood of questions—and with Ori’s absurd walking speed. “Gimli is itching for an adventure, as always. He’s joined the orc-hunting parties. And Dwalin…”

“I’m surprised he didn’t join you!” Ori crowed.

“I won’t stay long,” Dís said quickly. “Only six months.”

“Ah! So you’ll return to him soon. Next time bring him with you!”

“Of course,” she said- far too brightly, far too fast. Her own voice startled her; she cleared her throat, hoping he hadn’t heard the strain.

Ori must have heard it.

Because without missing a step he blurted, “And how is the wide world these days?”-cheerful, forced, his tone pitched a little too high. “Beautiful? Terrible? Both? Both, of course it’s both. Tell me everything!”

“It is… more beautiful. And more dangerous,” Dís admitted. “We came in from the East-”

“Nevermind!” Ori yelped, so sharply that his own torch wobbled, sputtering sparks. His voice cracked. “Nevermind that, forget I asked!”

Taërn gave a sharp, affronted croak from above.

“Ori,” Dís said, frowning. “What…?”

“Not important!” he squeaked, flapping a frantic hand so close to a sconce that Dís instinctively reached to steady him. “Irrelevant. No bearing on anything. Absolutely none. Let’s talk about- ME! Yes. My work. Perfect. My work is- exceedingly important.”

He marched ahead as though chased, boots clicking too fast over the polished stone. Dís exchanged a look with Taërn, who merely tucked her beak under her wing in theatrical patience, and followed.

As they descended through the ever-widening pillared halls, Ori began speaking at a breathless pace.

“We’ve cleared nearly all the rubble from the main library- oh, Dís, you won’t believe it. Whole aisles intact. Shelves older than the First Exile. We’ve been restoring the fire-corridors and the glyph-lanterns too, and Balin has been so supportive- well, mostly supportive- Floí has Opinions- but never mind that- anyway! We’ve made wonderful progress!”

They passed under an archway carved with a parade of stone kings, their faces worn hollow by years of dust and neglect. Ori gestured toward a sloping hall to the right.

“That was where we were headed, actually- my team and I- when we heard your voice. A sub-level record chamber under a collapsed hall. The ceiling gave way centuries ago, but the lower vault stayed intact. At least- mostly intact. We think it may contain Dimrill Gate schematics or first-era mining treaties, or possibly grain inventories but the exciting part is that no one’s been inside since Durin IV.”

Taërn flared her wings, impressed despite herself. “Ancient secrets under rubble,” she mused. “You Dwarrow bury treasure like squirrels bury winter nuts.”

“Exactly!” Ori beamed at her. “Only our nuts are historically significant!”

”Have you found the Endless Stair?”

”Not yet- but I am certain we will soon!”

“And… any treasures you’ve already found?”

Ori’s chest puffed, pride radiating from him like heat from a forge.

“Oh, Dís- where to begin? Durin’s Axe, for one- yes, it’s been recovered! And the beryl Oath-Stones- still glowing faintly, can you imagine? Then Fellhammer’s Mirror- Floí nearly blinded himself with it; there is a reason the chronicles warn you not to light it indoors– oh! And the Stonelore Codex- sealed in resin, perfectly preserved. And a vault of aria-crystals! We think they’re tuning stones for the old resonance chambers- I must show you, you’ll-”

His cascade of words cut off suddenly as the hall ahead widened into the heart of Dwarrowdelf.

Taërn landed silently on Dís’ shoulder, let out a low apprehensive croak.

The central hall yawned before them- an immense basin of shadow and torchlight- rising into seven tiers of balconies, each carved like the petals of a colossal stone flower. Great lamps hung down in spirals of chain, their flames steady and solemn. The air smelled of iron, resin, and the faint, aching memory of incense.

It should have felt grand. It should have felt triumphant. Instead, a stillness, and a silence, tense like a harp-string stretched too tight. Many were gathered, and the sight of Dís caused dangerous murmur in the crowds.

And at its center-

Balin.

He sat upon a simple black granite throne, raised on a modest dais. His hair, once bright as winter wheat, had dulled to a heavy grey; his beard was braided too neatly, like someone was tidying him endlessly. His eyes, when he lifted them to Dís, flickered with something thin, tensile, unspoken.

For a heartbeat she saw a warmth in him surge to the surface- then, like a door closing, the expression shuttered. Politeness slid over him like a mask. He adjusted the beads in his beard with ceremonial precision, forcing formality into his very breath.

“Lady Dís,” he said, rising to his feet. His voice was warm, but layered with other things. “By the Maker- your presence is… unexpected…”

Floí and Doí stood flanking him. Both stiffened when she and Ori entered- Ori himself faltered, his face falling as if he’d walked into a room he had prayed to avoid.

“Balin” Dís said softly.

For just a moment, something fragile trembled in Balin’s gaze. And for just a moment, Dís lost her purpose in it. Then she took a single step toward the dais and dropped to one knee.

A collective gasp rippled through the hall like a tremor. Helm-clasps clicked; someone stifled a shout. Even the great chains of the lamps above seemed to sway.

Balin inhaled sharply. Floí’s brows snapped downward in suspicion; Doi straightened as though preparing for conflict. And Ori- caught between pride, awe, and sheer panic- made a small strangled sound behind her.

But Dís did not look at them. She bowed her head, hand over her heart.

“I have come,” she said, her voice steady, resonant, carrying to all seven tiers, “to declare my support for your claim. Word in Erebor is that you will stake it six months hence.”

Silence dropped like a stone into deep water. The silence of a hundred held breaths.

Balin’s hands tightened imperceptibly on the arms of his throne. For one suspended heartbeat he seemed cut free from time: his eyes fixed on her, widening with disbelief, relief, grief, and something dangerously like yearning.

Then the emotion shuttered. A mask slid into place so decisively it was almost audible, like the click of a helm closing.

But before he could speak-

“What elegant timing you have, Lady Dís,” Floí’s voice cut across the hall like a blade, “to arrive just in time for the glory, and having shared in none of the toil.”

A ripple shivered through the gathered dwarves.

Dís hadn’t had to kneel before Balin. She could never be anything less than his equal, even if he became King of Moria like the great kings of old. But now that she had knelt, etiquette called for her not to answer anyone but Balin until invited to rise. Floí’s interruption was not an accident. It was a blow.

Ori stiffened beside her. Taërn, who had not left her shoulder, drew her feathers tight, body lowering in silent threat.

“Lady Dís can be of great service,” Ori burst in, “especially in the archives, if it is a question of-”

“How,” Floí pressed, taking a step forward, “did you enter the mountain, as it were? One assumes by the Dimrill Gate.”

Nevermind, Nevermind! Ori’s warning now roared like a drumbeat in her skull.

“You may speak,” Balin said, though he did not bid her rise.

Before she could open her mouth, Nari stepped briskly forward, striking the stone with his heel in salute.

“She came from the South,” He said loudly. “Through the long tunnel, from Nan Curunir.”

A murmur chased itself around the hall.

Dís turned her eyes to Balin- slowly, carefully. His face- gods- yes, relief. Actual relief. Floí’s, meanwhile, had turned to granite.

“The secret trade tunnel,” Doi said flatly.

“That’s how she found it,” Nari replied smoothly. “Talking to traders crossing the Limlight.”

“And the traders,” Floí’s voice was honeyed poison, “gave her the passwords?”

“Who would refuse Lady Dís anything she asked?” Nari said, lifting his chin. “She has the respect of all Dwarrowkind. One might say she engenders trust wherever she walks.”

Gasps. Someone choked on air. Nari had just stepped a hair’s breadth from treason.

A long, stretching silence. Like stone preparing to crack.

Then Doí spoke, voice thin and sharp:

“Curious that you encountered her coming up from the south, when today’s errand took you and your team to the Eastern Arches.”

Ori froze. His panic was a living thing.

“We- we changed our plans,” Ori said, his voice trembling. “We, ah- we detoured to the Chamber of Records, and then took the ring-tunnel from the southern-”

“A pity you could not enter from the East,” Floí murmured, sliding neatly over him, each word deliberate. “The entrances have been tampered with. The ithildin is corrupted. No one can enter that way. Not that you would have known that until you arrived there.”

His eyes locked onto Dís.

“Tell me- how was it to look into Mirrormere? You are the only one among us who has seen it with your own eyes.”

The hunger in Balin’s gaze- sharp, pained, yearning- hit her like a blow.

But Dís merely bowed her head.

“I… could not ford the Anduin until it joined with the Limlight. By then I was closer to the Southern Gate.”

Floí’s lips curled.

“And the Limlight is where you met the traders.”

“Of course.”

“Of course.”

The hall hummed with suppressed energy, but Balin’s look faded back into a strange, tired relief.

Floí, however, was not satisfied.

“Well, since we know the Eastern entrances remain sealed, since you clearly did not enter from there, perhaps you could lend your efforts in the extraction of Singing Quartz.”

“Surely not, Floí!” Ori cried out before he could stop himself, eyes widened in horror.

“Singing quartz…” Dís breathed, dread falling over her like a shadow.

“It coats the ithildin of the Dimrill Gate,” Floí explained crisply. “It has been corrupted. If we can reapply untainted quartz from this side of the mountain, the Gate may yet be restored.”

“Replace… all of the Singing Quartz? To extract that much… that is a massive undertaking…”

“Not for a Lord such as Balin! But of course you support his endeavor, so you understand the importance of controlling the Dimrill Gate.”

“But surely you cannot insist-” Ori tried desperately, “it’s dangerous enough as it is, without the new-”

Floí lifted a hand, waving Ori off, never taking his gaze from Dís. “How can we announce our triumph to the world, without it? The Dwarrow of Erebor will come in droves, entering from there- and I can’t imagine they’ll be as unlucky in their river–fording as you were.”

Dís swallowed.

“Of course,” she said. The words hurt.
“Anything for Balin.”

Balin lifted a hand- heavy, almost trembling- and said, louder:

“Rise, then… Dís, Lady of the Singing Crystal.”

And the hall thundered:

“HAIL, DÍS, LADY OF THE SINGING CRYSTALl!”

The sound shook the stone.

Then fell suddenly into that same heavy, terrible silence-

The kind before an avalanche.

***