This was a fun chapter for me guys. Mostly because of the ending. I can already hear you screaming. Regarding the scene with the moon runes, I'm aware that Bilbo was actually present for that, but I chose to ignore that. From Thorin's perspective it makes no sense to have him. Bilbo has no worthwhile information to impart and nothing to offer to the proceedings and the Dwarves are terrible secretive with their language. It would be affront enough that he had to rely on an Elf to translate his own letters. He would not share that shame with the Hobbit he has no respect for. Bilbo was only there as exposition for us. I'm hoping I gave him a little more purpose.

Rivendell was different than Bilbo remembered. Or perhaps he remembered a different Rivendell. The first time he had laid eyes on the dominion of Lord Elrond, the only word that came to mind was idyllic. Wide, open architecture with archways, columns, towering heights, and an abundance of nature designed to seamlessly meld with the valley it was carved from.

To a Hobbit unprepared for long days of travelling, camping, and the uncomfortable soreness as he adjusting to riding, coming to Rivendell had been like coming home.

The valley of Imaldris held within all the comforts a respectable Hobbit was used to. Good food, better company and a wealth of history and knowledge. Bilbo knew, because he had originally spent hours ensconced in the Elves' library avoiding the surly and temperamental dwarves.

Everywhere he looked there were memories, from his first journey and his return. That was when he truly learned the Elvish language. He chronicled his unexpected journey to one day give to his nephew, wrote and translated Hobbit and Elvish poems.

None of which would exist this time. He would not write All that is Gold Does Not Glitter for the crownless king Aragorn because Bilbo would not meet the man.

Bilbo had thought he had come to terms with that. Eru had given him a second chance. The only soul since valorous Glorfindel.

The Hobbit knew the circumstances were vastly different. The valor had reembodied Glorfindel because the Elf was a paragon of great bodily, nobility, heroism and spiritual structure, wisdom, and bravery. Bilbo was but a Hobbit, given a second chance not because he had displayed great courage and heroism, but because his life was unimportant in the grand scheme of things and could be exchanged for those more deserving.

And he was fine with that. Bilbo accepted as soon as Galadriel had spoken that, this time, the journey would end with his demise. There would be no returning to his books and armchairs around the cozy, crackling fireplace. He had hoped that it wouldn't come to that, but he would die for any of his Dwarves.

It was no less than he deserved for betraying the Dwarrow anyway. Bartering wealth that wasn't his to give and using the Arkenstone as collateral. For all his good intentions, it was still a betrayal.

"Three were meant to die on this quest. And three it shall be."

That wasn't what he had agreed to. Bilbo would have never accepted Eru's offer if he had known that in doing so, he would condemn two others to share his fate.

Galadriel's cryptic reassurances had been far from helpful. Instead, they had sent his mind into a tailspin, trying to figure who else could possibly die in the place of his Dwarrow friends. Bilbo had been ashamed of himself, to the point of being ill, when he realized he was searching his memories for someone he was okay with sacrificing.

What right did he have to decide their fate? How could he choose from the multitude of beings he had met; Elves, Dwarves, Humans, Beorn the skin-changer? Did he get to choose?

Two more would die in order to spare the line of Durin, and Bilbo felt in his gut that he wouldn't know who until it was too late.

So, instead of taking advantage of the brief respite to be in civilization, Bilbo spent the remaining time in Rivendell fretting.

He fretted about all the things that could change. He recalled every part of his journey, turning them over in his mind, looking for the windows where he could affect the outcome and trying to extrapolate what would result from his interference. It was headache, inducing, to be honest. Bilbo desperately wished for a good pipe to take the edge off a little.

He had considered, at his lowest, only saving one. His life for one Durin.

Bilbo had no right to sacrifice people that should have lived because he had gotten nostalgic and melancholic at the end of his days.

When he had started debating the pros and cons of saving Kíli over Fíli and Thorin (the archer was younger, not quite as entrenched in his race's prejudice, but had the most potential for growth, was willing to look beyond history, grudge, and race) he knew he needed to stop.

He needed to accept that there were things that were beyond his control or he would break. Bilbo could not save everyone. He would have to content himself with the fact that he was building a better future for everyone involved.

Laketown would not burn. The Dwarven kingdoms would rebuild and flourish. And Frodo, his dear nephew, would never feel the taint of the Ring nor journey to the ends of Middle-Earth to rectify Bilbo's mistake.

But what would become of the Ring? It was luck, truly, that none of his friends had stumbled upon him, contemplating and twisting the gold band between his fingers. With his death assured, Bilbo couldn't arrange for the Ring to find its way to Mordor, as had been his initial plan? Perhaps he could leave it to Gandalf? He would trust the Dwarrow more, except they were already prone to gold sickness and madness. Bilbo feared the Ring would twist them for its own purposes.

After a night filled with dark and unwelcome awareness, Bilbo decided it was in his best interest to avoid the rest of the Company.

He couldn't get close to them again. His grief over Fíli's, Kíli's, and Thorin's deaths had torn him apart. How could he look Dori in the eye if this second quest resulted in one of his brother's deaths? How could Bilbo burden them with that crushing anguish by becoming their friend when he knew his time was limited?

"Are you alright, Master Baggins?"

Bilbo startled, not expecting Balin. The only other Dwarf to set foot in his sanctuary had been Ori, and Dori had firmly escorted him out several hours ago. For a meal, maybe? Bilbo couldn't remember.

The wizened Dwarf leaned casually against a column near where the Hobbit perched, a book on Elvish history long forgotten in his morbid musings. "Beautiful place, isn't it?"

"Yes," Bilbo agreed. He couldn't think of anywhere in the world that compared.

"Reminds me of Erebor."

"Truly?" Bilbo had been to Erebor, and while the Dwarven city was indeed grand and spacious, dug out of the very mountain itself, a marvel of ingenuity—though really, would it kill them to install railings on their walkways?—he had never drawn similarities between Erebor and Rivendell. There were none. The two cities were polar opposites.

"Not like you're probably thinking. Our craftsmanship is sturdier, more streamlined and geometric. But I was not referring to the physical aspects. No, this place evokes a feeling of home. When I close my eyes to sleep, I dream of happier times, and wake without feelings of regret or loathing."

Here, Balin favored him with a pointed look. "I notice this is not the case for you, Master Baggins. Your nights are troubled, and we are hard pressed to find a curly hair on your head in the light of day."

Bilbo hunched in on himself, guilt welling up in his throat. What could he say?

"Are you having second thoughts, lad? This journey has been trying. More so for you, I would imagine. A quest like this is uncharted territory for a Hobbit. It would be unfortunate to see you go, but Gandalf could arrange for the Elves to escort you home."

"No!" shouted Bilbo. "Please, don't say a word to the wizard. Yes, it has been an adjustment, but I signed that contract, Master Balin. I knew what I was getting into. I won't back out now."

Balin studied him, likely judging the truth of his words. The Dwarf was particularly intuitive, and his eyes were eagle sharp. To the self-described 'look-out' man of the Company, it was easy for him to find Bilbo's sudden angst suspicious. Bilbo had been painfully cheerful from first introduction. He understood the Hobbit would be curious about his travel companions, so was unsurprised by the request for stories. It was a clever, and seemingly harmless, way to gain information.

The Hobbit had been frustrated by the brusque way his probes were frequently denies, but remarkably, in Balin's opinion, did not actually grudge being rebuffed.

Still, he could see how, when confronted with the home of the Elves, Bilbo might be reminded of his comfortable little hole in the ground, and perhaps wish to return. Only the youngest amongst them made any effort to interact with the Hobbit. To the rest, he was an obligation they needed to keep alive while trekking the length of Middle-Earth because they needed his help to reclaim their home.

When put into perspective like that, Balin admitted he needed to make more of an effort to make the Hobbit feel welcomed. This was a creature that had willingly surrendered the comforts of his home, at the drop of a hat. Balin was still upset with the Grey wizard for his poor handling in acquiring the Company's burglar.

His brown eyes shined with something stronger than desperation as he pleaded with Balin to not be sent packing, and Balin could only hope to one day understand what drove this Child of the kindly West to go great lengths for those he knew not and offered him little respect.

"May I call you, Bilbo?"

Said Hobbit blink, perplexed by the non-sequitur. "Yes, of course."

"Then it will just Balin, for me," Balin grinned widely. "If you are set on this course of action, Bilbo, I would make sure your bag is packed."

Where had the days gone? Bilbo wasn't ready to leave Rivendell. "What about the map?"

"Midsummer is tomorrow. The runes were writ on its Eve."

"Tonight," Bilbo confirmed hollowly.

"Aye. The Council of the Wise has come to convene. Likely to put a stop to our quest. Gandalf has chosen to champion our task. As such, I wanted to ask if you would accompany Thorin and I when Lord Elrond translates the moon runes."

Balin was quite pleased by the reaction his request garnered. Bilbo appeared taken aback, clearly not anticipating an invitation to learn some of the secrets the Dwarrow safeguarded so dearly.

"If Thorin does not mind my presence . . ." he trailed off.

"Then it is settled. If you don't mind this old Dwarf's advice, it might be best to get some shut eye. We'll take our leave tonight, under cover of darkness."

"What about Gandalf?" Bilbo asked, perfunctorily. He already knew that the wizard would be late to meet them on the mountain path but arrive just in time to save them from the nasty Goblin King. Just another incident for him to use as evidence that a wizard was never late. Though, if Gandalf had been with them from the start, they probably wouldn't have bunkered down for the night in the cave that was obviously a goblin trap.

"He'll delay the council and join us at the base of the mountain. The wizard was quite insistent that we wait for him before climbing."

Bilbo bit back a sardonic laugh. Apparently not even the warnings of an Istari could convince Thorin to proceed with caution. That explained so much about his original journey.

Bilbo surveyed the chamber where he had gathered, along with Thorin, Balin, and Lord Elrond. The lack of windows or any true kind of wall allowed for the pale moonlight to coat the columns and stone with a soft white.

He had not previously attended this meeting, and he couldn't help but be curious as to the process involved in reading the secretive moon runes. Only the Dwarrow would be so paranoid as to develop silver pens made of Mithril so they could make their secrets invisible.

Thorin, for his part, was looking decidedly set against handing over the map to an Elf, never mind that Lord Elrond might be the only being in Middle-Earth capable of revealing its true message. With slow movements, he withdrew the folded map from inside his tunic and offered it towards the dark haired Elf.

"Erebor?" he questioned after taking it in. "What is your interest in this map?"

Bilbo felt sweat beading at his temple, and it had nothing to do with the warmth of Midsummer's Eve. He had never thought of Lord Elrond, whom insisted that Bilbo was a friend and ought to leave off the formalities—which the Hobbit had never done. Belladonna Took-Baggins would have come back to twist his ear off for being so familiar—as dangerous.

The King Under the Mountain's silence spoke for him.

Lord Elrond held the map up, just shy of a beam of moonlight. "Moon runes can only be read by the light of the moon of the same shape and season as the day in which they were written. These runes were written on a Midsummer's Eve by the light of a crescent moon nearly two hundred years ago."

"Can you read them?" Thorin asked tersely.

Even Bilbo, forewarned of the outcome, couldn't help but feel the suspense. To think, if they had arrived too late, or set out a completely different year, they might have missed this miniscule window. Would it have taken another two hundred years for the date and the moon's phase to align? What would Thorin had done if Lord Elrond had ordained that he could not read the runes.

Unfortunately, Thorin son of Thráin was predictable. He would have chalked it up to yet another instance where an Elf denied his people aid and use it to further his hatred.

"It would seem you were meant to come to Rivendell. Fate is with you, Thorin Oakenshield. The same moon shines upon us tonight."

Lord Elrond laid the worn map down on a stone pedestal. In the bottom right, a block of Dwarven letters gleamed with the moon's iridescence.

"Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the keyhole," he translated.

Balin seemed pleased by the news, though Thorin was taciturn as ever. That left it to Bilbo, being the odd Hobbit out, to ask the obvious question.

"When is Durin's day?"

"'Tis the day that the last moon of Autumn shares the sky with the first sun of Winter. Mid-October."

"Summer is passing," Thorin said anxiously. "Durin's day will soon be upon us."

Balin drew his leader aside, seeking to reassure him that they had enough time to find the secret entrance. Bilbo, meanwhile, waited for the shoe to drop. Lord Elrond's countenance was foreboding, clearly not pleased that they intended to enter the mountain.

"There are some who would not deem your course of action wise, Thorin Oakenshield."

Bilbo could see the dark haired Dwarf gearing up for a fight, and decided it was best to cut it off at the head. "Would you deny them the right to reclaim their home?"

If the Hobbit had hoped to play on his sympathies, he had failed. "Do not mistake my concern for cruelty, Master Hobbit. It is my duty to protect all who reside in Middle-Earth, and a dark beast dwells beneath that mountain. His rage, if unleashed, would be devastating. Smaug has already brought about the desolation of Erebor and Dale."

"The beast is dead," growled Thorin.

"And if you are wrong?" Lord Elrond challenged. "It will be the world that suffers when you wake the dragon. I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to proceed on your path."

The two Dwarrow immediately tense, expecting a group of Elves to come forth from the shadows and lock them away to prevent them from leaving. Sadly, Bilbo couldn't even fault them for expecting the worse because they did share a poor history with the Elves, and King Thranduil of Mirkwood had had the exact same response.

"The dragon has not been seen for several decades," Balin argued weakly.

"You would risk this Age being devoured by darkness and dragon flame."

"What if we guaranteed that would not come to pass?"

All eyes turned to stare at the Hobbit who had spoken. Bilbo met their gazes with unwavering determination, attempting to convey a confidence he didn't feel.

"And then there's you," Lord Elrond said quietly, almost to himself. "Tell me, Master Hobbit, what could the Dwarves offer a simple creature like yourself?"

Bilbo wasn't offended. On the surface, the Dwarrow had nothing a Hobbit would value. They cared naught for gold or wealth or finery, unless the Hobbit was a Sackville-Baggins. But Bilbo did not want for material items. He wanted the connections he had lost, the bonds forged from fighting together and coming out victorious against all odds. The Company had given him something infinitely more precious than even the Mithril shirt Thorin had so casually gifted him.

They had taught him the value of courage, loyalty, and standing up for something greater than himself.

"Why must it be the Dwarves offering something in exchange?" Bilbo turned the question on Elven lord, thinking of his personal mission.

Lord Elrond appraised him. His face was ageless, neither young nor old. The set of his jaw was stern as he weighed Bilbo's heart and intention. The Hobbit worried his lip as the silence drew on several minutes.

"Indeed," he said at long last. "You will find fourteen ponies waiting for you at Rivendell's entrance. They will take you as far as the mountain."

It wasn't a blessing per say, but it also wasn't opposition.

The three members of the Company quickly made to return to their rooms and rouse the rest of their companions, only to be halted once more by Lord Elrond.

"A moment of your time, if I may, Master Hobbit."

Bilbo wavered, uncertain what else the leader of Rivendell might have to say. Thorin cast a baleful glare at the Elf for the interference and swept away with a muttered threat to leave without the Burglar if he was not ready with the rest of them.

For his part, Bilbo was unconcerned. The threat had lacked any of Thorin's typical heat or vitriol.

"Your path is shrouded by a darkness the like of which I have never seen, but the Lady of Light speaks on your behalf." Bilbo doesn't miss how the word 'your' is emphasized, telling him that Lord Elrond was referring to him individually and not the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.

"I know not the arrangement you have made with these Dwarves—"

"Dwarrow. The correct term is Dwarrow."

Lord Elrond inclined his head, smoothly inserting the new terminology, "Dwarrow, but I would advise caution. They are a race of selfish creatures. They would see the world burn to reclaim that which was lost."

Bilbo smiled wistfully, derailing any further arguments the Elf Lord may have had. "They search for a place of their own to call home once more. Would you be content to sit idly as your people fell destitute and squalor? No," he shook his head, eyes never straying far from Lord Elrond's, "you would ferry those who remained across the seas to the Undying Lands. We're all selfish, Lord Elrond. Every last one of us. He is doing what he deems best for the survival of his people."

"Does that include yourself, Master Baggins?"

His answering grin displayed more teeth than warranted in polite conversation. "Me most of all."

Bilbo held the Elf's discerning gaze, knowing he had deliberately misunderstood the question and that the other was aware as well.

"I cannot imagine this is the life Belladonna would have wanted for her son."

Bilbo felt a burst of hate, which he quickly squashed. "My mother has passed and I'll thank you not to bring her into these matters. I signed up of my own free will. It is shameful that the Dwarrow have gone this long without aid, and I may be small but I will do what I can for them. It's fine to say that home is where the heart is and that we need only hold those we love close to our hearts, but the reality is a home still needs walls to keep the softest parts of us safe. The heart would not last long without the protection of your ribs."

It was an odd analogy, Bilbo knew, but it was the only way he could describe the Dwarrow's drive to reclaim Erebor. It wasn't necessarily about the gold, but what the gold could do for them. Reclaiming Erebor's riches meant the Dwarrow would no longer struggle day after day to support their dwindling numbers. As a race, they were highly calculating, and thus they had run the numbers. They could not continue to survive as they were.

They're only option was to retake the mountain.

"I will say but one more thing. Being equal in quantity does not mean things are equal in quality."

And Bilbo could only stare at his retreating back and wonder what his word could possible mean, before the reemergence of the crescent moon reminded him that he had other places to be.

First Gandalf. Now Galadriel and Lord Elrond. What was it about being thousands of years old that made one speak in riddles?

The journey up the mountain was tense. The Dwarrow set a furious pace, concerned that they might be forced back at the White Council's whim. Dwalin and Dori kept glancing at the sky, monitoring the thunderous black clouds as they moved in.

Bilbo found himself in the middle of the group. Ostentatiously the most defensible spot. He had argued against it, preferring to keep all thirteen Dwarrow in his sight. But Thorin had grumbled that they would not slow for him, so the Hobbit found himself at the epicenter where he could be pushed, pulled, and prodded along depending on which Dwarf came to his aid when he lost his balance. Bare feet and slick stones were not a good combination.

The winds picked up as they climbed, carrying away words as soon as they were spoken. The rain continued to pour. Bilbo hadn't been this agitated since the Hobbit's annual spring baking festival at which he had been swindled into judging the pie contest. Hobbit's put their honor on the line for that blue ribbon, going as far to sabotage gardens to improve their chances.

As it turned out, living through the thunder battle once did not prepare him to do so a second time.

The terrain was treacherous. As the battle escalated, the Dwarrow panicked. They scrambled to find handholds and cling to the rock.

Vaguely, he heard Thorin roar, and the Hobbit took a moment to marvel at his lung capacity. Then he was flailing, trying to regain his balance as Bofur gripped him by the collar of his favorite walking jacket and shoved him forward.

Bilbo eyed the gap in front of him with obvious apprehension. The giant he's standing on took a step backwards and the gap transformed into a gorge he had no hope of clearing. Bifur, Bofur, Gloín, and Nori are still behind him, and the star-haired Dwarf took the opportunity to bet one of their buried chests from the troll horde that he could land exactly on the edge or something equally and stupidly as dangerous.

Bilbo looked at him, horrified. "Are you crazy?! I can't jump that! There's no way I'll make it."

"Time's wasting," Gloín rumbled.

"Can't we just wait until the giants stop fighting?" the Hobbit suggested weakly, knowing he had just as much of a chance as Bombur leaving a meal unfinished.

"I think that's a great idea, Bifur."

Bilbo whirled on said axed Dwarf. It was a mistake, as it gave Nori access to his undefended back. The middle of the Ri brothers hefted Bilbo with a monstrous strength the Hobbit hadn't known he possessed and launched him into the open air.

The stone giant creaked and swayed, one knee dipping lower, and Bilbo was suddenly on a collision course for the side of the platform the separate members of the Company stood upon. Bilbo cursed his short stature, stretching his arms to the absolute limit to try and catch the edge of the rock. Or any sort of purchase so that he didn't tumble down to be dashed upon the rocks and crushed underfoot. He came close enough to actually grasp the ledge but holding his entire body weight was too much to ask of his fingertips. Bilbo slipped.

A pair of hands latched around his wrist and yanked him upwards, stopping his freefall. Bilbo screamed as he felt his right arm being wrenched from its socket, and only stopped screaming when his momentum slammed him into the rock wall and punched all breath from his body.

The Dwarrow work together to pull him up to the relative safety of their ledge. Bifur, Bofur, Gloín, and Nori made the jump with little fanfare. Nori did land exactly on the edge and nearly pinwheeled backwards over it. He was saved only by Dwalin catching one of the thick braids beneath his ear.

Oín tutted as he inspected the burglar. "Needs to be forced back into place. This will pinch, laddie."

"You can fix the Hobbit later. Right now, we need to find shelter. The cliffs are too dangerous."

Several Dwarrow began to protest Thorin's orders, Fíli and Kíli the loudest. Bilbo felt his heart tighten at their defense, unexpected after the time he spend avoiding them and the rest of the Company in Rivendell. Thorin silenced them in their language, sharp Khuzdul spilling harshly from his tongue.

"He is nothing but a hindrance, serving only to slow us down. The Hobbit has no place on this quest. Oín can deal with his arm when we are certain no more of us will suffer injuries rescuing him from his own ineptitude."

Distracted by the fire that is his arm, Bilbo realized too late that the cave they chosen to seek shelter in is the one rigged to drop them in Goblin Town.

All of a sudden, he was overcome by despair. What was the point of reliving this life if nothing changed? How many caves existed in these mountains? How did they choose the same exact one on two separate occasions? Was he going to be able to change anything at all? Thus far the only changes he had witnessed had been negative. Fíli's and Kíli's encounter with the trolls. Kíli being injured as they fled to Rivendell. Bilbo nearly fell off the mountain again but under different circumstances.

And there's absolutely nothing he can do to convince Thorin to move from this place. The King Under the Mountain would not seek another shelter on the words of a Hobbit practically delirious from pain.

The Dwarrow unclipped and unrolled the bedrolls from their packs, graciously provided Lord Elrond, not knowing they wouldn't even get to enjoy their comforts for one night. Bilbo, arm feeling less ablaze and more like pins and needles now that Oín had worked his magic, settled into reclining position with Sting laid across his lap for all to see.

The blue glow of his letter opener would be the only warning they had that the cave floor was about to drop out beneath them.

His eyes ached. It was a struggle to keep them open. Every so often they would drift close and his chin would dip toward his chest. The motion would startle Bilbo back to alertness.

This drowsiness was unnatural.

Bilbo looked at Oín with glazed eyes. "What did you do?"

"A tonic to help ye' rest. Sleep is the best medicine."

Oín was surprised that Bilbo looked wounded at the admission. He had thought the Hobbit would be grateful from the reprieve. He wouldn't have to deal with the pain or Thorin's scornful eyes. Next time, he vowed to ask for the Halfling's permission, first.

Bilbo woke brutally when he slammed into something hard. Dazed, he recognized that the goblins have sprung their trap. With their overwhelming numbers, the Dwarrow and their burglar are quickly subdued. They prodded and jeered at each Dwarf as they stripped them of their weapons and forced the Company to march their rickety walkways. Then it was his turn. d

The goblin took one look at his hairy feet and let out a screech. "Hobbit! Hobbit! We caught a Hobbit!"

Bilbo, and the rest of the Company, were startled by the turn of events. The goblins swarmed him, squeezing his arms with a punishing grip as they dragged him into line with the rest. Bilbo stumbled, trying to walk under his own power.

He was terrified. He had not been present for this part before. Instead, Bilbo had fallen deep into the tunnels, to Gollum's cavern. He didn't know what to expect.

Goblin town was a cacophony of noises. The creatures lined every available surface, cheering as the Company was paraded through. They banged on every source of metal they could find as the Company was led to stand before a truly monstrous creature.

Bilbo hadn't known Goblins could become so large. The king, he surmised from the mockery of a crown upon its head, stood taller than most men and was nothing more than rolls and rolls of fat and flesh. A handful of goblins scurried to form a stepstool so he could descend from his throne.

And of all the horrible things Bilbo imagined could come next, it wasn't what happened.

The Goblin King broke into song.

"Clap, snap, the black crack
Grip, grab, pinch, and nab
Batter and beat
Make 'em stammer and squeak!
Pound pound, far underground
Down, down, down in Goblin Town

With a swish and smack
And a whip and a crack
Everybody talks when they're on my rack
Pound pound, far underground
Down, down, down in Goblin Town

Hammer and tongs, get out your knockers and gongs
You won't last long on the end of my prongs
Clash, crash, crush and smish
Bang, break, shiver and shake

You can yammer and yelp
But there ain't no help
Pound pound, far underground
Down, down, down in Goblin Town"

The worst part wasn't that Bilbo had to acknowledge that the goblins that dwelled deep in the mountain were surprising lyrical and capable of carrying a tune, but the casual way in which the Goblin King speared two of his minions on the stick he carried. One was quickly flung from the weapon, but the other hung limply for a few more swings. And even once they were gone, Bilbo could still see their blood that had dripped on the skull decoration beneath them.

The goblins deposited their weapons in a pile before the king as the abomination climbed back into his throne.

"Who would be so bold as to come armed into my kingdom? Spies? Thieves? Assassins?"

"Dwarves, your malevolence. And they've brought a Hobbit."

The goblin spat out the last word like it was a curse, causing several of the Dwarrow to cast Bilbo sidelong looks. He could only shrug, confused as to what he had done to earn the enmity of these creatures.

"Bring him forth," snarled the king.

The Hobbit was yanked to stand between the Dwarrow and the Goblin King. He glared up at the monstrous figure, refusing to be cowed. He had faced much worse evils and knew that the Company escaped his clutches. What did he have to fear?

Looking the Goblin King dead in the eye, Bilbo saw hatred and was reminded of the story Gandalf had told of him of his great-great-grand-uncle Bandobras Took slaying a goblin chieftain by knocking his head clean off and into a rabbit hole. Clearly, the goblins remembered the insult.

Bilbo took a steadying breath. Gandalf would come soon. He only needed to stall until the wizard arrived.

Thorin did not like the Hobbit and he would be the first to admit so. He was a fussy creature used to the comforts of home. He had no place on the road, no fighting skills to speak of. Already he had been captured by trolls and injured his sword arm. Eventually, his Company would be forced to pick up his slack. They would have to slow their pace to accommodate him because the Halfling had never spent a week on the road, never mind the months they had ahead of them. The wizard had practically coerced him into coming. He was too young; a burden they would have to protect until they reached the mountain so he could perform the act he was contracted for.

Not that Thorin believed the Hobbit capable of stealing from a dragon. He did not think anyone could succeed at such a task, but a Hobbit even less so. He was no burglar.

But he felt uneasy, watching the goblins drag the Hobbit forth for the king's inspection. He looked not at the king, but at the servants milling around. Hatred, glee, and satisfaction was etched on every one of their faces.

He may not have like the Hobbit and his soft ways, but he did not hate him, as this entire underground kingdom did.

"Send word to Azog that we have his prize." The Goblin King's eyes never strayed from the Hobbit as he issued his commands. Curiously, the Hobbit has drawn himself up to his full height as if his backbone was suddenly forged of mithril.

"Azog is dead!" Thorin snarled to deaf ears.

"We've waited a long time for one of you Hobbits to leave the safety of your hills." The Goblin King's mouth twisted into a facsimile of a joyous grin, baring a row of pointed and rotted teeth. "Bring out the Bonemasher."

His Company roared out threats of death, dismemberment and dishonor, as if goblins had any to speak of, as the torture device is rolled out. Thorin eyes the contraption with trepidation, not understanding how it would function. He assumed, with a name like Bonemasher, it would have been something capable of delivering great force in a single blow. Instead it was a rack designed to restrain someone by their limbs.

The Goblin King pointed his skull adorned staff accusingly at the Hobbit in their midst. "You will pay for your kind's crimes against the goblin nation."

The Hobbit opened his mouth and Thorin couldn't decide if he was brave or stupid for intending to antagonize the monster fixed on torturing him.

"My name is Bilbo Took."

The announcement rang across the cavern. The goblins' reaction to it was immediate and dramatic.

Shrieking the name 'Took,' the goblins scrambled over one another to get away from the Hobbit. The king's eyes actually widened in fear. Thorin looked at the Hobbit, taking in his wane complexion, how he looked like a good breeze would be enough to topple him. He appeared a bedraggled Hobbit. Certainly not worthy of the mass panic his name had inspired.

The Goblin King raised his meaty hand, Thorin can't help but notice its almost the same size as the Hobbit, and whipped it down to backhand their burglar, flinging the Hobbit off the platform and sending him plummeting into the depths of the goblin tunnels.

Several cries of "Bilbo!" reached his ears. All Thorin could think, staring at the spot where the Hobbit had stood previously, was that he didn't scream. Silence had rung supreme the moment his hairy foot had disappeared over the edge until his Company had bellowed their outrage.

Their escape from Goblin Town was a blur. Gandalf arrived, but he could not say how. The goblins had gone into a frenzy, something to do with the Elven blade Thorin carried. The Dwarf was staring down the business end of a dagger carved from bone when a bright white light threw the creature off him.

They cut their way through swathes of goblins, trailing the wizard to some unknown exit. Navigating the treacherous and crumbling wooden bridges that twisted like the world's most inconvenient maze while fighting had been a challenge.

At one point, the Goblin King sprung up from beneath, severing the walkway and blocking their path forward. When Tharkûn slayed him, the bridge snapped at either end under the beast's dead weight, sending the Company plummeting down a sheer cliff same as their Hobbit.

Once outside the mountain, Thorin rounded on the wizard, safe to finally unleash the fury that has reached a crescendo within him.

"You're late, Tharkûn. Where have you been?"

"A wizard is never late. He arrives precisely when he means to." The wizard's eyes narrowed at the dark tone. "And I would have been with you had you waited at the foot of the mountain as we planned."

"Take a look around, Gandalf!"

The Grey Wizard was equal parts concerned and surprised by the hostility he was faced with. He surveyed the Dwarrow, unable to discern what could possible have good-natured Bofur snapping at him like a turtle.

"Where is our Hobbit?" he posed, finally noticing that Bilbo was not amongst them.

"The Goblin King threw him over the edge," Thorin said flatly. "So tell me a second time that you weren't too late, Tharkûn. That you meant to arrive after the Hobbit perished."

Thorin immediately regretted his harsh words. The wizard sagged before his eyes. The only thing keeping him upright was his white knuckled death grip upon his staff. The Dwarf briefly admired the craftsmanship, for it hadn't snapped under the punishing grip.

He opened his mouth. Maybe to apologize. More likely to dig the blade in further. After all, it was Gandalf's fault the Halfling was dead, his mind whispered darkly. Their quest was doomed to failure now.

A warg howl rent the air.

Thorin scanned his Company. They were weary and grief stricken and in no shape to fight. But they had no choice but to take a stand. They had come too far die here.

"There will be time to grieve later," Gandalf said flatly. "Run you fools."