Firelight glinted off the smooth gold surface as she turned it over and over in her fingers. Tired as she was, the sight had her half mesmerized, and she let her eyes fall nearly shut as she watched the clean, warm light flash in golden arcs between her calloused digits. Around and around and around. Focused as she was on the patterns of light, she didn't notice that Thorin was watching her from the other side of the fire pit.

The dark-haired dwarf inspected his wife's face, feeling a prickle of fear. It wasn't the first time he'd caught her looking at that ring. She seemed so far away and so... foreign. Not at all like herself. There was a covetous, greedy light in her eyes, far too much like the light that had filled his grandfather's face when he looked on his mountains of gold. An unhappy wail came from the next room and Billa's curly head twitched slightly. It seemed like a great effort to tear her eyes away from the gold ring in her hand, and as she stood to tend to her infant son, she pocketed it.

"Mummy!" Two-year-old Brün ran into her legs and clung to her skirt, peering up the length of her body into her face. "Mummy, Fior is hung'y agin!" Billa stooped to pick up her firstborn and carried him out of the room on her hip. Thorin remained troubled, staring into the fire. There were other things he'd seen. Not just when she was looking at the ring (which seemed to happen more and more often recently). A sharp word, an impatient glance, an insult that perhaps struck deeper than she meant it to, and no apology to follow it. Thorin lowered himself to his haunches and crouched, gazing into the glowing embers as though they held the answer.

"Thorin!" Her voice came through the doorway, as clear and cheerful as ever. "Could you come hold Brün? He's being a little pest again." The little boy shrieked with laughter and Thorin stood, shaking off his dark thoughts. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was just that time of month, and he had lost track of the days. With a sigh, the Mountain King tried to forget his worries as he went to play with his son.

"Could she be having another bairn?" Balin suggested cautiously, studying his king's face from across the table. The dining hall echoed with the sounds of dwarves eating and talking, so there was little chance they would be overheard. Still, Thorin had been nervous recently, and there was something to be said for making him feel more at ease. The dark-haired dwarf gave his friend a strange look, his dark brow furrowed under the heavy gold circlet he wore to keep his braids out of his face.

"Why? She has two sons. There's no reason to have any more. No, I don't think that's it. She's… different, Balin." Thorin glanced around for the fifth time since they'd sat down, gripping his mug tightly. "I don't know how to explain it, but it has something to do with that blasted ring. I don't like it."

"The ring?" Balin was baffled. "How could a ring make her different? Thorin, are you sure you've been getting enough sleep?" The older dwarf frowned at his king. He'd already put off his expedition to Moria by two months, so he could see the newborn prince, but he didn't intend to be delayed so long that winter set in before he could step out the door.

Thorin growled something incoherent and took a long swig of his ale. Balin didn't understand. Balin didn't see the halfling awake in the middle of the night, fingering that stupid ring like it was something… like it was… Thorin suffered a sudden deluge of half-remembered mental images. His grandfather, sitting by the fire, rubbing the Arkenstone covetously between his hands. His grandfather, holding the Arkenstone as though it were a precious infant, watching his son and daughter-in-law as though he were afraid they would steal it from him at any moment. His grandfather, sprinting back to the throne room as the dragon descended on the mountain, so intent on rescuing his precious Arkenstone that he didn't seem to notice the dwarves screaming in pain and terror all around him.

Fear rushed through him like ice water. Thorin didn't have any trouble at all remembering the words of Balin, that dreadful night when Smaug had nearly ended all of them.

There is a sickness on that treasure. A sickness that drove your grandfather mad.

This ring, he remembered, was the one that Billa had told him made her invisible when she put it on. He'd seen it work before and didn't doubt its power, but he'd never held it. Never wanted to. Would it infect his mind too? The Arkenstone was buried deep under the mountain, laid to rest on the bones of Smaug, where the dragon would lay forever encased in rock and stone, guarding the treasure that had cost Thorin so much to give up. Yet when he had released it, he had been freed from the weight of his grandfather's greed.

Balin was still watching him. There was worry in the old dwarf's eyes now, and Thorin thought there was good reason to be worried. The king finished his ale and stood up. He needed to find Billa. The halls seemed resoundingly silent after the cheerful roar that had filled the dining hall. The steps of the dwarf following him were like thunder in his ringing ears. Thorin didn't care. He needed to find his wife. Worry clawed at his heart. He couldn't watch her descend into the greedy madness that had consumed his grandfather and left their people so vulnerable. What if it were him that it left ravaged? What about their sons?