Look who's back from the land of the thought-dead writers! Yes, you have every right to throw all your frustration at me. I keep hearing the lady from Game of Thrones ringing the bell and screaming 'SHAME' in my head, so I'm basically going through my own walk of shame, but know that I have no intention of leaving this story incomplete. I got a summer job in a place where I didn't have internet connection, and then my muses abandoned me completely, so I've been struggling to lure them back with every possible means.

So there you are, hopefully I'm back on track, and here's the next chapter. Sorry in advance if it's not good enough, but remember, I'm quite rusty. Thanks to all you readers who stuck with me all this time, thanks to those who favourited and followed, and of course to Guest 1, draegon-fire, 5dreamcatcher, Gracie-luu, Josie, DiscountJoanJett, PurpleCat1245, Guest 2, Guest 3, Pyrassion, Guest 4, Guest 5 for your lovely reviews. They really kept me going during this time.

The song in the end is the English folk song 'The Unquiet Grave'.

Ramifications of the lovesick

The mist of the early hours of the day was all over the lake's surface, morning dew still covering the pine needles of the trees, and Alfrid was enjoying a brief rest from his task. Brief as in an hour long rest, while inwardly mourning over the pass of those glorious days at the Master's side. At least back then he was sleeping on a mattress, hard and mangy as it was, and not on the cold wet dirt. His back was hurting him, and when in pain, his usual nasty self got slightly worse. His respite from the task given to him lasted not as long as he would have liked, mainly because the Bowman's voice sounded nearby as he gave out orders.

At once, the slimy man jumped upright and grabbed the first twigs and branches that happened to be on his way, whistling a tune under his breath as though it was helping him keep a rhythm. Until his downcast gaze came to land on familiar boots, and he slowly rose from his hunching position to come to eye-level with the Bowman, who stood there with crossed arms like a brick wall blocking his path.

"Just gathering firewood, sire."

Bard fixed him with a dark look. "A cheering spectacle," he commented dryly. "Prepare your things and help the others gather what they need most."

It earned him a questioning look, though the Bowman did not grace him with an answer. Only his eyes shifted through the trees and landed on the top of the Lonely Mountain that stood grand and snowy across the Lake.

A calculative smile spread across Alfrid's face then. "You are a genius, sire—taking refuge inside the Mountain. Well, it might still smell a bit of dragon in there, but the women can clean up. It'll be safe and warm and dry, and full of stores—bedding, clothing... the odd bit of gold–"

"What gold is in that Mountain is cursed," Bard replied heavily. "We will only take what was promised to us, only what we need to rebuild our lives."

Then he strode off to help in the care of the sick and the wounded. All this time he had thought much but said little, unless it was to call loudly for the guards to keep an eye open for the messengers, or for someone to bring more wood for the fire. For in the next two days after the dwarves and the Ranger were gone, there was much sickness and the hunger blazed. He had a hard task to govern the people and direct the preparations for their protection and housing. Probably most of them would have perished in the winter that now hurried to arrive, if help had not been to hand. But help would come swiftly; for the messengers he'd sent up the river had found a host of elves already on the move.

Sometimes, you know something's coming. You feel it. In the air; in your gut. You don't sleep at night. The voice in your head is telling you that something is going to go terribly awry, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

That's how Arya felt when she laid eyes upon the Arkenstone for the first time.

The down-on-her-luck Ranger found the winds of ill-fortune blowing even more strongly when Bilbo revealed his little secret to her. Thrust into a different branch of the plan she was already aboard, she found herself agreeing to aid and abet the hobbit in, most likely, a crime, for which the punishment would regrettably be death.

The morning after had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of autumn. A long winter was coming, and something bad came with it. She'd got almost no sleep the night before, instead roamed about the place like a ghost that haunted it, her mind buzzing with thoughts and plans. The end of the path led her to a long corridor where she happened upon the person she was both impatient and apprehensive to speak.

Worry made Kili's forehead crease as soon as he laid eyes upon her. She looked grim—well... more than usual. "What are you doing at such an early hour?"

Arya arched an eyebrow. "Mayhap it's a late one. It really depends on the way one sees it."

Kili remained solemn, not really in the mood for banter. "Well, I reckon it's early," he said. "Too early."

His tone made it sound like there was another hidden meaning behind his words, but perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was indeed too early and, as it was, Arya's head was too clouded by a whole night of thought and reflection to get the hint.

"So why are you up and about? What are you doing?"

"Uh... wandering, mainly."

Kili's brow furrowed.

"You know, wandering? To wander? The slow, weary, depressing, yet determined walk of one who has nothing left in their life except the impulse to simply soldier on."

It was painful how much he was going to miss all those strange little quirks of hers. "Were you seeking me out to make your farewells?"

Would that I could, thought Arya.

He took her lack of response for affirmation. A snort escaped him. "So it is true what they say, rainbow in the morning gives you a fair warning."

The woman scoffed. "Forgive me for disproving your weather forecast of the day, but I was merely roaming about and praying to every deity with ears to save the world from all these tribulations."

The prince shot her a concerned look. "Are you sure you feel well? Perhaps you have a fever–"

The woman took a deep breath as her head slumped forward. "Kili," she spoke his name softly and he quietened. She looked at him for a long while, considering how to broach the matter without giving the slightest room for suspicion, and he waited patiently and worriedly for her to continue. "I'm not leaving yet."

"I don't understand," he said in confusion. "Weren't you supposed to leave this morning?"

"Indeed," she nodded. "I think I would stay for a while, though, if that is agreeable with you. I fear a danger still lurks around and I believe I can be of some help. Also, Bilbo would like to... erm, help you settle," she cleared her throat a bit then, "and I won't risk letting him take the way back home on his own."

His mouth twitched in disbelief. "You're kidding me."

In response, her brow twisted in puzzlement. "No," she said.

"Are you kidding me?" Immediately he started to pace up and down the corridor in anger. "Did I really not have any bearing on that decision?" he said with a crazed laughter. "Are you doing this on purpose? Driving me mad–"

"I most certainly do not!"

He walked up to her with the audacity and provocation one might have before starting a tavern browl." Oh, believe me, I am quite mad right now," he said heatedly. "Why? Blast it all, why are you doing this?"

"I don't understa–"

"Why prolong this torment?" he yelled. "I have done nothing wrong to be punished so. Do you think it easy for me to bear living with the constant agony of having to part from you whenever Bilbo sees fit to leave?"

She looked away, muttering to herself, "Alright, I didn't see that coming."

"Didn't you?" he bellowed with irony. "Why would you even tell me that to begin with? You could have lied–"

"I do not like hypocrisy."

"Since when? I do not like hypocrisy," he said mockingly. "But you don't have a problem with cruelty?"

"I did not want to give you false hope," she replied sharply. "Where is the fault in that?"

He did not respond. The seeds of doubt started to grow steeply, festering his insides and clouding his perception. She was partly right, there was no fault in being honest about her intentions. The last he wanted was to yell or fight, but he just couldn't help it. Oblivious to her, she seemed to have found his heel and was constantly bombarding it with arrows. It made Kili wonder how many more arrows he could withstand before she led him to his demise.

Her head slumped forward as she let a big sigh, resting her hands on her hips. "Kili, you have to understand and think with clear mind," she explained then. "He is our friend, and the road is long with many a danger lying on every turn. It is not safe for him to travel alone. Besides, I promised Gandalf to keep an eye on hi–"

"Damn you and your promises!" he erupted, his fist connecting with the stone wall. Had it been any thinner, it would have probably cracked.

"Are you angry with me for leaving at all, or are you angry with yourself for failing to make me promise that I'll stick to your side so we can live happily ever after?" she demanded with challenging voice. "It would really help me to understand with which I am dealing."

Despite refusing to believe it, there was a part of him feeling guilty of that charge. One sentence was all it took her to tear down his defence. One sentence and it felt like she was carving a hole in his chest. He felt exposed, his deepest desire bare before her, and such vulnerability was something he could not handle. Not yet. Seems like seeing herself most clearly through his eyes at times was not a one-sided phenomenon. His insight into himself through her eyes scared him. For it was his belief that he was resigned to her leaving, and he considered himself mature enough to respect her duties and wish, and face their parting with dignity, not riot over it. And there he was now, doing just that.

"I am second in command, Kili," she reminded him fiercely. "With this title comes the sacred responsibility to protect, to defend, to value my comrades and innocent people's lives above my own and, should any of them perish in battle or any other disaster, to live my life in honour of their memory."

"And what of your free will?" he countered. "What of your people's free will? Have all Rangers given such oaths?"

"My people are few and dwindling as we speak. The world's corruption runs too deep. Since long ago it has fallen to us few to sacrifice for the good of many."

The prince shook his head in sympathy—though, what part of it was false, he couldn't say. "Understood," he said evenly, surprising her. "You are right in saying that the road is not without peril and it'd be best if you went with Bilbo. I would also have you know that I respect your duties, as I have plenty of those myself–"

She was staring as though he had grown an extra pair of hands.

"–but in no way am I going to feel guilty or apologise for having difficulty in parting from people I love," his tone, which had softened a bit earlier, was now as sharp and prickly as a jagged knife. "I hope these duties and promises and oaths which, as you've told me, keep you away from me and hinder your feelings, will help you in overcoming them upon your return home."

Minutes later, nothing had changed. Arya stood frozen like a pillar of salt, with eyes wide, at a loss for words. Whatever control she had over her face muscles was rapidly slipping away from her and, along with it, Kili as well. She watched him walk away in a daze and, much to her chagrin, her treacherous jaw twitched to call out for him to come back to her. A last strand of pride, however, kept her mouth shut.

Peachy, a wry voice whispered in her head. One down, one to go.

All night Thorin observed and in the morning he was more confused than in the evening.

"Something strange is happening," he said when Balin and Dwalin joined him at the balcony. "The time has gone for the autumn wanderings; yet there are starlings and flocks of finches, and a little far from here, many carrion birds as if a battle were afoot." Suddenly he pointed, "And there is that old thrush again."

Sure enough the old thrush was there, he flew towards them and perched on a stone nearby. Then he fluttered his wings and sang; then he cocked his head on one side, as if to listen; and again he sang, and again he listened.

"He is trying to tell us something," said Dwalin, "I cannot follow the speech." As a matter of fact, he could make nothing of it at all.

"I only wish he was a raven!" said Balin.

For there used to be great friendship between them and the people of Thror; and they often brought them secret news, and were rewarded for their services. They used to live many a year, and their memories were long, and they handed on their wisdom to their children. The hill that extended southward from the mountain, looking over River Running and the valley of Dale was once named Ravenhill, because there was a wise and famous pair, old Carc and his wife, that lived there.

No sooner had Balin finished speaking than the old thrush gave a loud call, and immediately flew away. Before long there was a fluttering of wings, and it was flying back, followed by a decrepit old bird with a bald head and that could barely fly. He alighted stiffly on the ground before them, slowly flapped his wings, and bobbed towards Thorin.

"O Thorin son of Thrain, and sons of Fundin," he croaked, and everyone could understand what he said, for he used ordinary language and not bird-speech. "I am Roäc son of Carc. My father, well known to you once, is dead and I am the chief of the great ravens of the Mountain now. Most of my people are abroad, for there are great tidings in the South—some of joy to you, and some no. The birds are gathering back again to the Mountain and to Dale from South and East and West, for word has gone out that Smaug is dead. You may go back to your halls in safety; all the treasure is yours—for the moment. But many are gathering hither beside the birds. News of the dragon's death has already spread, and the legend of Thror's wealth has not lost in the telling during many years; many are eager for a share of the spoil. Already a host of the elves is on the way and by the lake men murmur that their sorrows are due to the dwarves."

"Our thanks, Roäc, Carc's son. You and your people shall not be forgotten. If you would earn our thanks still more, bring us news of any that draw near. Also I would beg of you, if any of you are still young and strong of wing, that you would send messengers to our kin in the Blue Mountains, and tell them of our feat and plight."

"I will do what can be done," croaked Roäc. Then off he slowly flew and the three dwarves watched him for a little while in silence, pondering on their people's reaction once the news were brought to them.

"My sister will be aflutter with preparations and setting up the caravans for the journey."

The smile was obvious to those who knew Thorin better, yet it faded as quickly as it had appeared.

"Best go inside," Balin advised. "I think the Ranger has requested an audience."

Thorin snorted. "Why ever? Wasn't she supposed to leave at dawn?" And good riddance by the way. Granted, he appreciated her help, but he'd had his fill of Rangers for at least a decade.

The sons of Fundin shrugged their shoulders. And it was that which made Thorin more wary of this odd hearing.

Minutes later, standing in the throne room with an audience bigger than he'd like and smaller than he expected, he was asking the same question, hoping to get an answer in person. "I thought you were leaving?"

"Not yet," the Ranger replied seriously.

The king shifted his weight on the throne and rubbed his chin in thought. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?"

Before the woman could reply, Bilbo had decided to take this one. Instead of approaching the throne he remained beside her, out of fear that everyone would by some tragic mistake sense that the Arkenstone was much closer than they thought. "There's been a change of plans," he said.

"Oh?"

"Yes," he continued. "Arya is going to stay as long as I am. You know, so we can help you settle and all. Also, to keep me company on the way home."

"Make no mistake, master burglar, I appreciate your desire to help," his look shifted from the hobbit to the woman, becoming slightly colder, "but there is no need to–"

"Come, laddie," Balin chimed in with a pointed smile. "The place is in ruins. We could always use an extra pair of hands."

Dwalin was standing between the hobbit and the woman, sensing a tension that seemed not to be there, but felt like it was. "Aye," he piped up, "and it'd be prudent to have someone escort Mr. Baggins back home," one hand clapped Bilbo's shoulder before the other repeated the motion on the woman's.

A distant memory flashed in Thorin's head. "The two of them will form their own alliance. An alliance that will make you change your views on many matters, I believe," the wizard had said. Part of him wondered if that alliance was already in the works, if there was any merit to his suspicion. Alternating his glances between the two and trying to detect an adequate amount of honesty in their sayings, he shifted in his seat once more.

The longer it took to voice his opinion, the more restless Arya felt. Not that she was expecting a hug and a warm welcome to stay to her heart's content, but a lack of response was worrying. Couldn't he just grumble something and be done with it as was his wont? Damn the man. Damn his royal hide.

With a thoughtful whiffle the king's examining gaze landed on the woman. "I see you are making change of plans a daily ritual."

Arya flashed a disgustingly sweet smile that totally contrasted her overall gloomy appearance. "Only so we can have more heartwarming moments like this together," she said wryly, feeling Dwalin's hand squeezing her shoulder. She glared at him from the corner of her eyes, noting the warning look, and arched an eyebrow in return that made him sigh.

Thankfully, Thorin chose to rid his mind of thoughts of this sudden turn and ignore her presence for the moment and also the moments to come. "Any progress with what we are looking for?" he asked anxiously, but was only rewarded with a negative nod from Dwalin that made him rise from the throne and begin stomping up and down the room angrily.

"It is here in these Halls," he muttered to himself and the despair in his voice was evident. "I know it."

"Thorin, we have searched and searched–"

"Not well enough."

A soft cough came from the Ranger right then. "The Mountain is enormous," she said smoothly. "It could take weeks to find it."

The dwarf king graced her with a haughty look, "Yes, thank you for your input."

"Thorin," Dwalin began as calmly as he could, sidestepping the woman, "we would all see the stone returned."

"And yet, it is still not found!"

The harsh, throaty yell reverberated through the stone walls and for a moment the air felt colder.

"Do you doubt the loyalty of anyone here?" Balin dared to ask.

Time seemed to roll slower all of a sudden, and Bilbo suddenly shifted his weight from one foot to another as Thorin's gaze briefly landed on his form, leaving a light bristle on its pass. The hobbit scrunched up his nose, trying to appear offended on purpose, until he realised that the suspicious look was destined for the person standing right behind him.

"Seriously?"

"Excuse me?" Thorin demanded.

"I've almost died a dozen times in the course of seven months, trying on several occasions to save your hide so that you could arrive in this place alive and unharmed as Gandalf wished. Additionally, I never asked to sign the contract, which means that I, unless you're struck by a surge of kindness and generosity, will be receiving no compensation whatsoever for the services I've provided. And should that ever happen, I would still not accept anything at all, for this is me simply returning a favour to a friend. But you," she emphasised through clenched teeth, "still seem to harbor quite a bit of anger towards me, so, considering the above mentioned and also that we've hardly seen each other in weeks, I'm wondering if there's something I'm missing."

The little rant would have a professional performer of street plays quit their job. It's funny because everything she said was true.

Thorin despised being cornered. Currently he felt like it. He was furious at the zero progress they'd made searching for the Arkenstone and he had no desire to have the Ranger's damnable services and sense of honour rubbed in his face. "I simply do not like strangers meddling in personal matters that are not their concern."

"That is not a personal matter of yours," Balin corrected pointedly, distracting him. "The Arkenstone is the birthright of our people."

"It is the King's jewel. Am I not the King?" he roared.

"Any man who feels the need to point out that he is the king, is no true king."

If Dwalin had more hair, he would be probably pulling it by now. He glared at the Ranger again, whispering, "Do ye honestly care nothing for your own tongue?"

The Ranger looked at him askance. For it was said with concern and not as a threat, which was surprising in and of itself, coming from Thorin's closest friend of all people.

"Do you dispute my right to the throne?"

"No, I'm merely saying that trumpeting your sovereignty helps little in searching for that stone."

The dwarf king gritted his teeth in anger. "Know this," he warned, addressing all before him, "if anyone should find it and withhold it from me, I will be avenged." With that, he crawled back to the throne and perched himself on it, watching with narrowed eyes as Balin ushered the hobbit and the woman out.

Dwalin seemed to have remained behind, possibly to calm Thorin down, so the three of them started back down between the pillars. Blind stone eyes seemed to follow them as they passed. In all the months they had been travelling together, Bilbo did not remember ever seeing Balin's shoulders slumped in defeat.

"You look terrible," he noted.

"Oh, 'tis only natural," said the dwarf with a weary sigh. "I have to deal with the worst kind of madman—a madman with power."

Arya almost did a double take, not expecting that kind of talk from the king's advisor. "What is wrong with him?" she asked softly.

"Dragon sickness," the dwarf muttered darkly. "Madness creeps in unseen, festers the mind and floods the soul. I've seen it before... it drove his grandfather to his grave."

Bilbo sighed heavily. Arya, on the other hand, was occupied with another thought. "Have you told Fili and Kili?"

"They're smart lads, they know the stories," said Balin, "it's likely they've already guessed as much." He glanced to them over his shoulder. "For your own good, do not test his temper. That is, if you want him to believe you."

The Ranger kept dragging a heavy dark cloud with her as they went. Her gaze was distant and her mind wandered to places far, far away as the two men exchanged looks.

"Whatever do you mean by that?" asked Bilbo.

The dwarf did not reply. Instead he turned to look at the Ranger with his ever shrewd eyes. He'd had his suspicions since the moment they announced it, but had wisely not given them voice. "What is the reason of your staying?"

"Would there be a better reason than to ensure the safety of a friend?" Arya responded quickly, their voices pulling her out of her silent woolgathering just in time to catch the end of his sentence.

To someone not privy to their little secret, it made sense. The road back was dangerous and to tread that alone would be even more dangerous. To them, her words held an entirely different meaning. For it wasn't beasts or foul weather that she wished to save him from, but the wrath of a nation.

"For the joy of our company, surely," Balin said lightly. "And there is Kili, of course."

"What of him?" asked Arya, unsuccessfully trying to hide the wavering in her voice.

Suddenly his pace came to an abrupt halt and both the Ranger and the hobbit nearly bumped into him. The look on his face was more than enough to make a fool out of her supposed indifference, but he decided to humour her. His hand rose to her head, which elicited a deep frown and prompted Arya to recoil from his grasp as though scalded.

The dwarf was not deterred. "Make no mistake," he said and then picked out the loose plait from where it was carefully tucked under a ton of black hair so as not to be seen, "if this braid and Kili's hair clip at the end of it don't tell the story–"

The woman almost choked on her saliva.

"What, you thought that slipped past me?" the old dwarf chuckled. "I'm not that old yet."

Bilbo was eyeing the braid with wonder and puzzlement, surprised that he didn't notice earlier. "Does that mean...?"

"No," she said a little too defensively, "it doesn't mean what you think it means."

"It is but a token of his love and devotion to her," Balin aptly offered. "Mahal have mercy on us if it was something more. Thorin would have them both hanged upside down at the Front Gate."

"He wouldn't react so badly, now, would he?"

Balin fixed his good friend with a look of disbelief. "Have you met Thorin?" Then he turned to the woman, "See to keep that braid under your hat, at least until Kili decides to speak to him."

Arya's face contorted into a funny expression which mirrored her feelings. "I really doubt it will ever come to that–"

"Let me stop you right there, lassie," Balin politely lifted a hand before her face. "What two hundred and ten years in this world have taught me is to expect the unexpected when it's least expected. So enjoy yourselves while you're still alive."

"There is no enjoying ourselves happening, mainly because there is no 'we'. 'We' stopped being a thing of any relevance before it ever had the chance to flourish. So can we please stop discussing my personal life and focus on more pressing matters?" she said with a pointed glance at her accomplice.

"Ah, yes. Balin," the hobbit immediately cut in, "if Thorin had the Arkenstone, or if... if it was found, would it help him face this? Would it make him better?"

"Bilbo, that stone crowns all. It is the summit of this great wealth bestowing power upon he who bears it. Would it help him?" His face twisted into an expression of pain. "No, laddie. I fear it would make him worse." Then he gave a pointed nod, evidently aware of how things were, "Perhaps it is best it remains lost."

The other two shook their head in affirmation and they continued their walk down the corridor.

Until Balin's voice sounded once more. "Whatever is it that has twisted his sanity, I wish not to see Thror's fate befall him too," he sighed. "He is like a younger brother to me, whom I am concerned for."

"You're concerned for the man that he used to be," Arya pointed out, "not the man he is now."

"That man is still there in him," Balin said softly.

"You'd have to dig very, very deep to find him—he's changed completely," said the Ranger. "It is not just the betrayal by his own mind, no... it runs deeper than that. Power is eating his soul."

Surprisingly, she actually felt a little sad for him. And even more so that Fili and Kili had to deal with this. She wondered if his state was a reversible act and honestly hoped it was, though her instincts leaned towards the opposite.

The room was in a commotion. The dwarves moved up and down, carrying barrels and filling their cups with the golden liquid, blessing their luck that the bloody serpent's stay had left the cellars intact. It would be nice if there were any salted meat left. Though aged for decades, eating it would probably prove rather unsanitary. But who even cares for food when there's fifteen-decade-old wine and mead at hand?

"'ere, drink this," Nori offered a steaming cup to him. Bilbo accepted with a small, appreciative nod.

"Grandma Tia's recipe, light on the mead."

Ever the gourmet, Bilbo brought the mug closer to his nose and sniffed at it tentatively. Then he gave it a try, only to grimace immediately at how strong it was. His wide eyes fell back on the dwarf and he choked out, "I must say I love her definition of 'light'."

The dwarf tossed his head back, laughing.

Bilbo smiled. "Soft spot for her?"

Sitting beside Nori, Bifur almost choked on his drink. Half the dwarves broke into a fit of laughter when the dwarf with the axe on his head said something in Khuzdul.

Bofur had the good grace of acting as a translator. "Blimey, no! She was a bloody old hag!" he cried in mocking outrage. "Tho' certainly knew how to get a dwarf pissed like!"

Another round of laughter began and it felt as though it'd be a good night. Even Kili was there, drinking and laughing, seemingly with no care in the world, rebutting Bilbo's belief that he would be as unsociable and distant as was his other half.

The next two days after their little tiff had seen the Ranger move restlessly around in Erebor, through dark chambers and dusty staircases, always hidden in the shadows and unwilling to talk or even step into the light. She had barely slept, she had not eaten—not that there was much to eat, anyway; her mind was preoccupied with a man, of all things. A man! Not that she would admit this even in a thousand years. This was something entirely unheard of. Arya of the Dúnedain never, ever before had allowed that to happen.

She had always been in firm control of herself and her emotions, and often prided herself on that. Both she and her brothers had self-restraint and the sense of independence drummed into their heads since... well, practically childbirth. Arya had taken this to heart, certain of her tough character and believing there wouldn't be a time when she'd have to rely upon another being or need their support. And now, trying to get Kili to understand her reasoning and failing was driving her to the edge of insanity. It scared her how badly she needed him to believe and support her, because she was strong and capable and proud. She didn't need anyone else, but she wanted him. Maybe that was what threw her off more than anything.

She sat quietly there, playing and replaying the fight in her head until her vision blurred and she couldn't see straight. Yet she saw everything anew, from another perspective, and felt guilty.

"What is wrong with me?" she thought, but the ramifications of that question roused another voice in her head, "Oh, don't open that door."

As she threaded and unthreaded the fingers of each hand with the other, physically unable to take back her words to Kili but somehow wishing she could, she wondered if telling him that was even a good idea. For every word that left her mouth seemed to hurt him. Mayhap he should have been left to blissful ignorance as long as humanly possible, believing that she was indeed staying for him. Or would that be wrong?

And she puzzled, and she threaded and unthreaded fingers, and she strove to navigate through uncharted waters of emotions while trying not to suffocate under the oppressive air of the Mountain.

From the first moment she'd stepped foot in that place, she did not like it. She did appreciate its majestic grandeur, for sure, but her initial discomfort gradually increased to the point of a dire need to escape confinement.

She was one of the Dúnedain, was born in Rivendell, an ethereal place filled with lush vegetation, towering waterfalls and clean air, far to the west of the Misty Mountains, at the edge of a narrow gorge of the Bruinen River. The entire dwelling of the Elves was basically a very big garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods and pine trees spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers. Everything was and would remain ever unsoiled, sacred even. A visit at the hot springs would convince anyone of that. It felt as if the purest water in the world flowed through miles of sugarcane fields, scattered with lilacs and orchids, passed through a forest of cedar and cherry trees, then poured over a pristine granite cliff straight into a natural cavity, reminiscent of a natural bathtub.

Even the North, where the home of her forefathers was and where her own home was supposed to be, despite having waned into abandonment centuries ago, was a better place to live. The scarce farmlands in Eriador slowly gave way to small woods, the hills rose higher and wilder with each passing mile, until they turned into cold blue-grey giants with white peaks. Whenever the wind blew from the North, long plumes of ice crystals flew from those peaks like banners. Something about the perpetual piercing cold, the howlings of wolves at nights, the ruins of the great cities of old Arnor covered in snow come winter... there was a beauty to all these that not many people saw, even less so appreciated.

These dwarves had a different sort of dwelling. Although grand and magnificent, in her eyes Erebor was a dark, primal place, with many of the most functional parts of a town buried several feet —maybe miles— deep into the ground, untouched for more than a century as the gloomy walls of the mountain rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. No trees and flowers grew in there; the fruits that were produced here were hard, coming in various shapes and colours, and, mainly, inedible. Oddly, those were considered far more precious than the actual fruits one could eat. In contrast to Rivendell, this was a wood of lifeless sentinels in the form of statues, armored in mighty stony shields and axes, of an infinite maze of staircases, and a stifling air possibly as old as the realm itself. Here, the aged roots of thick black trunks coated the stony walls, wrestling each other in a perpetual contest of growth. This was a gargantuan place of stifling air, deep silence and brooding shadows, much like Thorin himself.

No wonder why, when the others gathered for supper around the fire at dusk, she reverently chose to spend her time alone sitting on a boulder outside at the half-derelict balcony, where she could feel the chill air of the changing seasons on her skin and gaze at the sky should the clouds allow it. It was sort of an illusion, a reminiscence of her freedom in the Wild.

Tonight was no exception. The voices of the dwarves sounded in the distance, half merry half arguing. Not talking out loud allowed for exquisite conversations taking place in one's head. Arya had counted a few more than a hundred of those already, and the muscles around her mouth felt sore after falling into this brief disuse. She wished she had the heart or the nerve to walk inside and share a word or two with anyone; Bifur even, despite that she wouldn't get a single word in Khuzdul. But pride and fear crippled her legs and made her stay put.

For she had seen the red sun rise that morning they set off from Lake-town and the scant sleep she'd managed to get the past few days was plagued by the same troublesome dream:

The ground under her feet felt grainy—sand. She was on a beach. Eyes peered curiously around, searching for a sign of any other living soul, but found none. No one else was at this godforsaken place but herself and the vast ocean, whose colour mirrored the heavy dark clouds on the sky that heralded a storm. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't remember how or why this place felt familiar. Driven by some impulse she did not understand, she started running as fast as her bare feet could carry her, away from the shoreline, away from the dark waters.

She ran and ran and ran, until her feet began to hurt and her lungs were out of breath, yet the distance between her and the ocean never seemed to dwindle. An anguished cry rose up her throat when the threatening sound of rushing water loomed near and, before she could even let it out, the great wave crashed violently against her back with the force of a thousand anvils, pulling her under and swallowing her whole into the abyss.

She would jerk awake at that point, drenched in cold sweat, teeth grinding and hands curled into fists. A fresh, even more shadowed hue would paint her already clouded face and she would slump her head forward in frustration. It might as well be a coincidence, but, more often than not, the dream was a dark omen.

Dread had coiled within her like a snake since the very first time she'd seen it. Now it felt like an entire family of them had taken up residency in her gut.

Her gaze travelled swiftly to the company of dwarves several feet away. When she forced herself to steal a glance at the back of the man she loved, this man who put no faith in signs and foolish superstitions and now avoided her on a regular basis, despair washed over her and the dark notions that plagued her mind made her realise that her navigation through those uncharted waters was doomed to fail; for, instead of finding a lighthouse, she continued to drift aimlessly in a vast sea of self-pity.

So absorbed she was by those grim thoughts that her ears barely caught Bilbo's voice calling for her. It was not until she felt a hand tug at her arm that she deigned to look at him.

"Happy is he who has a roof over his head and a warm corner to rest on such a night."

Part of her silently thanked him for giving her the opportunity to use her tongue again. Another part would rather she was left alone. She cleared her throat to reply, but even then the voice came out hoarse and strained. "I could have an entire mountain above my head for a roof; a hearth big enough to warm up three rooms," her hand pointed past her shoulder, "and yet on such a night, I choose to sit out here. What does that make me?"

Evidently, Bilbo did not have an answer to that. "Confering with your kin?"

The woman's brow furrowed. "Beg pardon?"

He gestured towords the skies. "They call you Storm, do they not? I can smell the rain coming." Arya snorted as he sighed softly and plopped down beside her, leaning back against the boulder behind. "How are you feeling?"

"Honestly?" she asked wearily. "There's rock bottom, then fifty feet of orc shit, and then me."

"Charming," he commented dryly. "If you weren't sitting right here for me to see you, I'd reckon it was my late Uncle Bingo speaking." The woman snorted again. "Truly," he insisted, "the resemblance is uncanny."

The snort bloomed into a light chortle. "You should hear me after a month or two alone in the Wild. I sound like that one time I attempted to smoke a pipe."

Bilbo narrowed his eyes in disbelief.

"Oh yes," she asserted. "My sixteen-year-old self lived for danger."

He laughed under his breath and she briefly joined in, until the sound could do nothing but die down and let silence reign again. He snorted once or twice before he resolved to address the matter once and for all, "I don't mean to be blunt, but... what stops you from being with him?" He promptly found himself faced with an arched eyebrow.

"You must be joking..."

"Not at all," he said with all the seriousness he could muster in a look. "A young lady like you in her prime—he'd be a very fortunate dwarf."

"Big talk, my friend."

"But your heart must tell you–"

"In the current situation, it is wiser to use one's head."

"But why not?" he persisted. "In the future, at least, if not now."

She let a low chuckle. It was anything but genuine. "One, he is a Dwarf and I am one of Men. Two, if his people were ever to find that my father was a Man and my mother an Elf, they would call me all sorts of names, out of which half-breed would be a relatively kind one." She sensed his discomfort at the obscenity, but couldn't quite care. Sometimes the truth was unsettling. "Not to mention how much he'd be frowned upon and all the names they'd call him for choosing me. Three, he is a Prince of the greatest dwarf kingdom in Middle Earth. I am a raggedy Ranger with issues; lots of issues. Four, if my enemies knew I had someone special, they wouldn't rest unless they got to me through him."

Silence enveloped them as Bilbo considered each argument. There was a frown on his face when he found some truth to at least half of them. "Still, you deserve to be as happy as anyone else," he said.

"I don't."

"Oh, excellent argument," he muttered wryly. "Arya, you're finally getting in touch with your emotions. You let your barriers down for someone–"

"You see, that's the problem. They shouldn't have come down in the first place and now I can't seem to find a way to get them back up."

"The problem is not the problem. The problem is your attitude about the problem. Why on earth would you get those barriers back up?"

"Does no one here comprehend the gravity of the situation?" she burst in exasperation. "Because these emotions are bloody inconvenient, that's why! I've taken oaths which are not to be broken, whether they make me happy or not. He, on the other hand, deserves to be happy and, mainly, alive."

"But he will be happy with you."

"No, he won't," she insisted. "He deserves someone who's not– Someone less... dangerous; someone better than me."

A small sigh escaped his mouth. "This is one of those times where we pretend that we both don't know that you're lying. From the little I know you both, no one will be better suited for him than you and the other way around."

"My Chieftain would not find it particularly agreeable if he ever learned that I'm considering abandoning my post–"

"I am certain that your Chieftain, who, from what I've gathered, happens to be very close to you, would be happy to learn that there is someone to love you so–"

"Bilbo, please!" she cut him. "I do not need you to put evil notions in my head. There are legions of those already there and the last they need is company."

"You do not wear denial well, Arya."

"'Tis a fine line between denial and hope, and it's a lot nicer on my side."

"Should it ever come to a choice," he said solemnly, "rest assured that he'd pick you, no matter the consequences."

Her head tilted to the side and she looked at him from the corner of her eye. Bilbo used to think he knew sadness when he saw it. Now, with a couple of interactions with that woman under his belt, he decided not to label without knowing more details. She was past the point of sadness long ago; right now, she seemed tormented.

"He shouldn't pick me," she said grimly. "I wouldn't pick me."

Bilbo realised that she was in no mood to see reason, so he did not insist. As he set aside his mug, his mind momentarily dared to slip towards what was hidden in his pocket beside the Arkenstone. As of late, the little artifact had been occupying his thoughts more than he would like to admit or it was socially acceptable for a hobbit of age. Again, he was swallowed up in a sudden temptation to put on the ring. The desire to do this laid hold of him, and he could think of nothing else for a few devastatingly long moments. He did not forget that he was in the presence of the Ranger, nor his almost slip of the tongue to Gandalf right before they entered Mirkwood; but something seemed to be compelling him to disregard all warnings, and he longed to yield to the ring's beguiling appeal.

A lightning shone in the distance, followed by a rumbling sound moments later, and pulled him out of the blazing trance the very thought of the ring had thrown him into. After a time, as the clouds bubbled thicker and darker, the feeling of disquiet left him, and he pulled his slightly oversized coat tighter around him. He began to hum softly, as hobbits had a way of doing, especially when smoking their pipes as the night drew close. With most hobbits it was a supper-song or a bed-song; but, in this instance, drear were the words, to a tune that was as old as the hills. He remembered Old Took singing it one time they had visited grandma's grave.

Cold blows the wind today, my love,
And gently falls the rain;
I never had but one true-love,
In cold grave she was lain.

I'll do as much for my true-love
As any a young man may;
I'll sit and mourn all at her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day.

The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak:
Oh, who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?

'Tis I, my love, sits on your grave,
And will not let you sleep;
For I ask one kiss of your sweet lips,
And that is all I seek.

My breast is cold, the land is clay,
My breath is earthly strong
And if you kiss my cold grey lips,
Your days they won't be long.

How oft on yonder grave, sweetheart,
Where we were wont to walk
The fairest flower that e'er I saw
Has withered to a stalk.

When will we meet again, sweetheart?
When will we meet again?
When the autumn leaves that fall from trees
Are green and spring up again.

Another thunder rumbled above their heads, coincidentally marking the end of the song.

For a moment Arya was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding and reflected on her home and life in the north. She looked at the stone figures that stood guard at the Front Gate and breathed deep in the chill silence of the night. She could feel the eyes of the dead. They were all listening, she knew. And winter was coming.

Aaand cut. I hope it was good enough for a comeback, I'll do my best so that the next one is better. There will definitely be more Kili and more insight in his thoughts and feelings.

Also, I'm pretty sure the last chapter was uploaded a few days before GoT season 5 finale, and a few of you asked me in your reviews to tell you what I thought of it. Well... four months late, but still. It was just awesome! Maisie Williams acted the shit out of her scenes and Jon Snow lives. Lives. Definitely lives. I can't and won't accept anything else. Peace, I'm out.

Please, review! Feed my muses so they can return!