Hello again! This is one of two stories that were inspired by the same concepts. The first was a lack of stories that explore any musical ability that Bilbo might have. It was also sparked when I reread "The Nightingale" by Hans Christian Andersen, though it was more of an inspiration than any sort of retelling.

Chapters for this story will be much shorter than my usual style and far less detailed, and updates will be infrequent as I am currently working on TEN different story projects. I'm playing around with different styles too, so you'll likely see a variance in how I write these stories. This one is somewhat modeled after old fairy tales in that it's much more narrative and less dialogue.

Notes: AU in which Erebor never fell, but the Battle of Azanulbizar still took place. Timelines and character's ages are not consistent with the book or movie verse.

Chapter One

The first time he'd heard it, he was half-convinced he'd been dreaming.

It began one winter night, when Thorin Oakenshield, crown prince of Erebor, had found himself unable to sleep. It was not an uncommon occurrence; ever since the Battle of Azanulbizar, he, like many of his kin, were yet haunted by the horrors they'd witnessed and experienced there. Though they did not fully reclaim the lost kingdom, some comfort was to be found in that the greatest of their foes, Azog the Defiler, had been slain by Thorin's hand, and the number of orcs left to haunt the Misty Mountains was severely diminished.

Thorin lost his younger brother Frerin in that battle, and his sister Dis had also lost her husband. Many of his friends and kin parted from loved ones on the bloody field, and even now, some months later, there was a current of grief like a morning mist permeating the life of Erebor.

That night, Thorin woke from a night terror and was unable to go back to sleep. It was far too early to rise for the day, but he thought he might be able to return to some semblance of rest if he wore himself out with training. It was his own standard remedy for wakefulness, and so he dressed lightly, strapped a common sort of sword to his back, and left his rooms. When he exited the royal wings of the mountain, he was followed at a distance by two guards, but he was used to it and paid them no mind.

The training rooms were located near the entrance to the great gates of Erebor so that they were accessible to everyone, regardless of social standing. The quickest path to them followed a massive, central staircase that wound it's way past the lower class districts, though the descent to them was a workout in and of itself. It was one of the few places in the kingdom that Thorin could claim to be able to locate without assistance. He could find it in his sleep if he wished, which was very well, since he was still a bit groggy.

Erebor never slept, and dwarrow smiths of every trade imaginable worked at all hours, adding to the splendor of their home. As such, one could always hear the clanking ring of the hammer on anvil, resounding throughout the marble halls like a merry bell, or the careful taps of picks upon the stone, their wielders prying gems from the earth as carefully as one might crack a nut. In addition, there were various parts of the kingdom in which voices carried easily and dwarrows less guarded in their speech, to the degree that the Spy Guild need not overexert their skills to overhear gossip and other news of great interest.

It was amazing that Thorin heard it at all above such comforting clamour, but somewhere underneath the tumultuous storm was a simple breeze, a whisper hiding in screams. And thus, as he drew away from the less ornate halls of the nobles and closer to these lower class districts, he began to hear a soft, singing voice.

He stopped and listened. "Do you hear that?" he asked his escort.

The dwarrows glanced at one another in their confusion. "Hear what, your highness?"

Thorin craned his head this way and that as he walked on to find a better vantage to listen, his guards close behind. When they drew away from the corridors overlooking the markets and passed the guilds dedicated to quieter crafts, such as Weaving and Record Keeping, the guards confirmed that they too could hear the voice.

It sounded shaky, unsure of itself, but beautiful nonetheless. It was unlike anything Thorin had ever heard before, which is why he turned his full attention to it. He was a practiced musician himself, and thought he had already heard the best the Lonely Mountain, or even the surrounding kingdoms, had to offer. But he was quite wrong.

The voice sang in a tongue that he was not at all familiar with; he could not even begin to interpret their direct meaning. But it was languid and low, and he guessed with some degree of confidence that it was a lament.

It was utterly heartbreaking, a sob turned into a song, and it pierced his heart in a way nothing else had since he'd lost his brother. In that moment, he felt the stoic walls he had built up around himself begin to crumble, and the weight of the grief that he buried with Frerin returned. Unbeknownst to him, tears unbidden streamed down his face, and he remained motionless in his path.

His guards had been keeping a respectable distance when they started out, and even when Thorin had stopped and strained to hear the strange song, they did not fully approach. But when several long moments passed with no further progress, they warily drew nearer and tried to prompt some response.

Thorin could never remember how he came to be back in his room, curled and weeping on his bed. The only thing he knew for certain was that when he woke late the next afternoon, he did not feel nearly as burdened, and he was no longer ashamed to admit his struggles to his family.

He didn't know why, but he believed that was the aim of the mysterious voice.

Several days had passed before he gave thought to the song again. He had been otherwise preoccupied with reassuring his father that he was well, and would henceforth resist his inclination to conceal his worries from him. Thràin's fears were not unfounded. The former king, Thròr, had descended into a madness that ultimately claimed his life, leaving his son and grandson to wonder if such a fate would be theirs. Thràin had worried that Thorin's increased silence and seeming lack of sorrow was an early warning sign, but thanks to the sudden outburst, his concern was subdued, for the time being.

Thorin began to ponder the source of the voice during a drawn-out meeting with his father's council. It was male, of that he was sure, but higher than that of the average dwarf. It was a smooth tenor, capable of reaching up to a low alto at times. He had heard both dwarrows and elves perform in that range, but there was such a different quality that led him to believe that the singer was neither. There was a humility and honesty to it, and Thorin could admit that such things were not the defining attributes of his people's music, and it was certainly not so of the elves.

He wanted to meet him, whoever or whatever he was. Even he didn't clearly know his purpose for this, but Thorin was not one to change his mind once it was decided. Unfortunately, his duties as Crown Prince dictated how his day progressed, and he wasn't willing to lay this task on another. Instead, he chose to spend at least some time at night returning to the area where he'd first heard the voice, hoping to hear it once more. If his guards guessed the reason for his nighttime wanderings, they said nothing, neither to him or their superiors.

Some time passed before he finally heard it again. He was on his way to the Weapons' Forge to work on a birthday gift for his nephew, Fili. His escort was actually the one who pointed it out this time, stopping him with a tentative prod.

"My lord... listen!" he said.

Thorin glanced up from studying his sketch for a set of twin swords and concentrated. Once more, the gentle strains of a melodious song waded placidly amidst the tumult of iron, steel, and silver being beaten into forms both beautiful and deadly.

It was not a weeping dirge this time, but rather something lively and jubilant. He wondered if the vocalist was celebrating some joyous occasion. Rapid, staccato notes jumped high and dipped low like a fit of uncontrollable laughter, and Thorin let his own mouth twitch in amusement with the zealous singer.

He considered setting aside his task in order to search for it again, but thought better of it. He resumed his journey to his personal work space in the forge, internally debating which ores and gems to use in his project. Hours passed in pleasant labor, and it wasn't until much later that he realized that he'd spent the entire time humming the quiet, catchy tune.

The winter months passed ever slowly. Thorin heard the voice many times over the course of the season, but he was never able to locate the source. He heard it most clearly when he was near the low class districts or the markets, but the dense population and sheer size of those areas rendered that realization of no use.

The songs it uttered varied with each performance. He heard more laments, lullabies, possibly some drinking songs, and something that he guessed might have been a folk tune. Every one was sung in that same, unknown tongue, and while Thorin was no scholar and took little interest in other languages, he craved to know the meaning of the words.

In his mind and heart, he called the singer Ik-kemath, that is: The Voice. Thorin knew no other address or title to call him, but he was determined that he would learn the true name one day.

Sadly, his desire was thwarted when all traces of it abruptly ceased as winter faded, and the doors of Erebor were thrown open to welcome the spring. No matter where Thorin wandered and no matter the hour, he could not find even a whisper or hum of Ik-kemath again. His mood darkened at this, but no amount of effort on his part brought him any closer to solving the puzzle of the voice.

At the turn of the year, new tasks were laid upon Thorin, draining his energy so that he could no longer afford to give up rest for his private quest. They always changed with the seasons, and the warmer months meant that he was busy arranging new trade deals with the men of Dale and Esgaroth while his father dealt with their other allies.

On the whole, Thorin felt discontented, though was unable to provide a cause for it. He had plenty to do, and time with his family sometimes quieted his unease, but the voice never truly faded from his mind.

To be continued...