Khazad Dûm, even in ruins, was breathtaking.

As the company walked through Dwarrowdelf, Gloin was the one who noticed the glow of natural light coming from the open door of a side chamber. Thorin didn't even need to give an order, before the whole of the company was rushing forward. He glanced up at Gandalf. If Bilbo was correct, the way out was through this room, but he wanted to be sure. He was loath to spend more time than was needed, even if it meant an escape from the suffocating darkness.

But the old wizard only sighed in relief, shoulders slumping somewhat.

"There it is; come along, Thorin. The path out should be just through here."

When Thorin stepped into the Chamber of Mazarbul, he noticed a raised dias in it's center. It looked to be some sort of table, set under a shaft of natural light for the convenience of the writer or reader. Yet it was far to easy for him to imagine it re-purposed with dwarven craftsmanship into a tomb.

Ori, upon entering the room, was ecstatic. He rushed over th one of the many bookshelves, pulling tomes off of it both swiftly and with great care. He gently opened one of them, lovingly tracing the Khuzdul letters.

"This is a record of the smithing done several levels below us."

He selected another of the ancient journals.

"And this one tells of the Mithril excavations done here during the second age."

Balin walked over to the bookshelves, and it was only because he was so close that Thorin could see the tears collecting in his eyes.

"These… these are the records of our people. The tale of the dwarrows who lived here long ago, before Durin's bane came and drove them out."

No one spoke, and for the first time the air was not heavy with the weight of infinite darkness, but with the great honor it was to each and every one of them to be standing in this hallowed room. Thorin wondered what it had been like for those survivors wondered if maybe in with all of these books a journal detailing Khazad-Dûm's last days. He doubted it. Few dwarrows were as dedicated to the art of writing as Ori.

Gandalf walked up to the shelves as well, running his fingers over the ancient bindings.

"These are too fragile to move from here. I would suggest that we move on quickly."

Ori whipped round, a look of mild panic in his eyes.

"But we've only just got here!"

Dori threw his younger brother a sharp glance.

"Perhaps we could camp here for the night, then move on tomorrow. After all, I daresay none of us have rested properly for quite a bit, and we're not out of the woods yet."

Ori nodded vigorously, and Thorin thought he saw Balin breath a small sigh of relief.

"I agree with Ori and Dori. We shall camp here for tonight, then move out tomorrow morning. If all goes well, we should reach the Dimrill Dale by noon."

The company immediately set down their packs and supplies. Although he suspected that most would be loath to admit it, the sight of sunlight streaming from the outside seemed to chase away the melancholy of the darkness. Within moments, everyone was asleep.

Bilbo woke with a crick in his neck, groaning slightly as he pushed himself off the floor. Would it kill him to just once have a decent sleep while on this blasted adventure?

Rolling to the side, not quite ready to get up yet, he saw that a familiar figure had decided to set down his bedroll next to him. When Thorin was asleep, it was always easier to ignore the lines of care worn into his face. Bilbo sighed, shaking his head, and as he got up he pulled the dwarven king's blanket a little higher on his shoulders. It wouldn't do for their esteemed leader to catch a cold, now would it.

Never mind that dwarves never seemed to get sick ever, unnatural creatures. They were as strange as a unstolen spoon in Lobelia Sackville Baggin's home, and as endearing as a fauntling whose face was shining with pride after making his first flower crown.

Stretching high, working out some of the tension in his back, Bilbo noticed that he wasn't the only other person awake. Ori was sitting in what little early dawn glow was seeping into the room, reading a massive tome while writing rapidly in his journal.

"Couldn't sleep?"

The dwarf's face shot up, and he looked almost guilty for a moment. Then, when he saw it was Bilbo, a radiant smile broke open on his face.

"Sort of. I've been working on a transcript of some of the more important historical documents here; they're truly fascinating!I also tried to strengthen the binding on some of them, but well..."

He looked sorrowfully at collection of loose pages be his side.

"It didn't work very well."

Bilbo smiled, sitting down beside Ori.

"I see that they were the first ones you transcripted."

Ori nodded vigorously.

"Of course! I can't just damage a book and not try to preserve it somehow!"

Bilbo felt his heart twist a little, as Ori began to explain to him animatedly about how the dwarves in Khazad-Dûm had funneled a special type of air hidden within the rocks into their lamps, making lighting up entire chambers for hours on end possible without the use of ridiculous quantities of wax. It reminded him too much of the way that he had enjoyed talks like this with Ori in the past; the way he had always envisioned the Dwarf's energetic manner when reading his letters. It also reminded him of the terrible grief he had felt when he learned of Ori's demise, deep within the remains of another abandoned dwarven kingdom. It seemed even dwarves could press their luck a little too much.

"...So that's why you never, ever light a lamp when it smells like rotten eggs. Although I've heard rumors about there being many more different types of rock air. I think that I'd like to come back here and do some research into the subject when I'm older."

Bilbo only nodded, mouth pressed tightly closed. If he had any say in it, Ori would never set foot in Khazad-Dûm again.

The rest of the company rose slowly, taking their time packing up their bedrolls and double-checking their equipment. Finally, they began to move out.

As they gradually left the chamber of Mazarbul behind, instead of feeling dread at leaving that one patch of sunlight, Bilbo felt more at ease as they came closer and closer to the entrance. Everything had it's own time, and place. If one of the two didn't fit, then events could be avoided.

That would be useful in the future.

~Why in the name of Mahal had none of his fore-bearers put a railing on this bridge? Thorin felt as though he was going to fall off at any time, and go tumbling straight into the abyss. Thank Durin that Ereborian architecture was far more practical.

The bridge's suspension held remarkably well for it's old age, and Thorin felt a surge of relief when the company exited Khazad-Dûm and beheld The Dimrill Dale. Now all that they had to do was travel northwards a bit, to reach Beorn's home and replenish their supplies.

As they all descended into the valley below the gate, Thorin watched Gandalf. The wizard was looking westwards, an almost wistful look on his face. Then, he turned to the company.

"I would suggest we head northward from here. I know a place where we can rest for a bit, and possibly restock our provisions."

Thorin raised an eyebrow.

"A place where we are expected, and in absolutely no danger of possibly being mauled by our host?"

Gandalf shot him a glare.

"Do you honestly believe that I would lead your company into danger?"

Thorin shrugged.

"The last time you found us a place to stay, it was with elves. I'm just making sure that this time we will find some more… supportive assistance."

Gandalf's expression softened, but he still shook his head.

"The elves were perfectly accommodating, I'll have you remember. As it happens, I have not yet met our next host. However, a friend of mine, Radagast, happens to know him very well, and I am quite sure he will have heard of me before. There are few who have not."

Bilbo chuckled under his breath, but Thorin did his best to ignore it. They could both have a good laugh at Gandalf's god complex sometime when they were alone together.

"Very well, then, lead the way."

Bilbo always made sure to keep careful track of the days when the company was traveling. It made the journey seem shorter- and meant he had a clearer idea of when it was compared to past events.

He didn't know the exact dates of most of the things that happened in the quest, but he could easily make an educated guest by comparing the distance they had traveled. And, if his internal calendar was correct, they were fast approaching a date he knew he would never forget.

~As evening fell, Thorin gradually began to relax more and more. He was exceptionally glad that they had left the dark corridors of Moria behind, and even more so that they would soon reach the base of The Carrock. Despite the length of their trip through Khazad-Dûm, they were making good time. When the day had reached it's end and it was time to make camp, he was in a fairly good mood.

Bilbo walked up to him as the others began to make camp.

"Look."

Thorin followed Bilbo's fingertip to a tall stone spire only a little ways off in the distance.

"We'll be at Beorn's soon."

Thorin could still remember that day that he and Bilbo had stood upon the Carrock, of opening his eyes and his first memories being of the hobbit ramming into an orc, saving his life. He could still remember how right it had felt, holding Bilbo in his arms, pulling him close and shielding him from the rest of the world. As he looked upon his companion's fair, clean-shaven face, he felt a stirring of some emotion he could not quite name. But, in time, he suspected that maybe, just maybe…

"Yes. We should start planning for Mirkwood. I'd like to avoid almost being killed by spiders and then captured by elves."

Bilbo laughed, the sound light and airy.

"I rather think I agree with you, Thorin."

He tiled his head upwards to look into Thorin's face, evening light shining on his eyes.

Then, Thorin heard a low, deep growl sounding from an escarpment to their left.

"MOVE!"

The Warg came out of nowhere, nearly bulldozing the two over before Thorin slipped Orcrist from it's sheath and buried the blade deep into the beast's chest.

"It's a scout!"

Dwalin, who had been collecting firewood nearby, rushed over.

"Which means an orc pack is not far behind."

He cupped his hands over his mouth, shouting loud enough to wake the dead.

"EVERYBODY! WE NEED TO MOVE!"

For a few moments, everyone was simply dumbfounded. Then, the entire company was up and running quicker than Thorin could blink.

As they all raced forward, Thorin's mind was spinning frantically. It was all happening again. He wasn't even surprised when he glimpsed Ori back-handing Dwalin's war hammer into the skull of a warg. He had seen it all before.

Which meant that, pretty soon…

As he looked up, he saw that the ground gave way not to far ahead of them. They were standing at the edge of a cliff face. How was this even possible? He was gald that they were at least a few mile down from where they had originally confronted Azog, otherwise he might have blacked out from sheer deja-vu.

Oh.

Azog.

He looks larger than the last time Thorin saw him. It might just be the added height his enormous Warg is giving him, but he does. When those pale eyes rest upon him, high up in his perch, he can feel the fires of an old hatred running through his veins.

Thorin didn't look back to see if Azog was there this time. He vaulted up the side of a tree, pulling Fili and then Kili up to join him. But he couldn't stop his knuckles from turning white where they clutched at the branches, or his ears from hearing the grating, slithering syllables as an all to familiar voice taunts him in the black speech.

It's all he can do to stay in the tree and not leap out to slit the bastard's throat.

Vaugely, he could hear the sounds of the others screaming and shouting, could see the bright sparks as flaming pine-cones pummeled their foes. Azog, though, was never hit. He sat astride his mount almost casually, a wicked smile playing on his mutilated face.

It made Thorin sick.

Then, the wargs begin to claw at the base of his tree, and it was all he could do to hang on for dear life.

'Don't forget to jump' Some distant part of his mind that sounds suspiciously like a certain hobbit chides him. He pushed off the falling tree, miraculously landing in the branches of another. But it would only put off the inevitable.

All too soon, there is only a single tree left. Thorin only has time to think it's a miracle that it can support such weight, when the groaning of breaking roots reaches his ears. The world tips backwards, and it's all he can do to hang on for dear life.

This time, the tree falling doesn't take him by surprise.

He thrusts out and manages to grab a hold of Ori, holding him securely too the tree as it topples. One less problem couldn't hurt. Then, he lifts his eyes to Azog. This time, he isn't planning on charging him. All that they need to do is hang on for a few more moments, and the eagles will be here, they'll save the day like they always manage too.

He managed to cling to that glimmer of hope until his eyes fell upon the base of the tree. The roots still connecting it to the cliff side are failing fast, cracks already visible. From the look of near panic on Dwalin's face, he can tell that his friend has come to the same conclusion that he has.

They aren't going to make it.

The only way to get out of this would be to drastically reduce the weight of the tree, and there's no real way for them to do that without plunging to their deaths.

Unless…

He looks up, past the tree's base, to take in the sight before him. What remains of the trees they had been running through are now blazing bright, illuminating the sickly pale skin of a gargantuan orc. Azog.

His gaze shifts back down the tree trunk, and he makes eye contact with Bilbo. For a few moments, they simply stare at each other. Then, slowly, his burglar's head nodded once. Without preamble, Thorin scrambled up onto the now horizontal trunk of the tree, sprinting headlong towards the bristling weaponry of his foes.

Through the pounding of blood in his ears, he hears Bilbo yelling his name,racing only a few feet behind him. If the sound of Dwalin's roar and a branch snapping are anything to go by,the two of them aren't the only ones in the fray because of a lack of support.

This time, when Azog's mace came swinging towards him, Thorin's mind was clear enough to duck in time. There was no haze of fury to cloud his judgment, and it only took a swift thrust between Azog's warg's ribs to put the two of them on equal ground. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of steel ringing on steel and lesser orcs shreiking; no doubt Bilbo's handiwork, making sure he and Azog have some space to themselves. Good.

This time, he's going to finish Azog off right here, right now.

He dodges Azog's mace again, then narrowly skirts getting impaled by his claw. Not for the first time, he's thankful for his elven sword's longer reach, helping him to reach the soft spots between Azog's metal plating. But even when he does manage a cut, it's only superficial, and if anything it only make's the fiend's smile grow.

Suddenly, a side kick catches him off guard, and for a moment, he's seeing stars as he crashes to the ground. This time, it isn't a lowly orc minion leering over him as he clings to the edge of consciousness; it's the real deal. He only has time to think,

Well, at least this time he saved me a trip. Leaves are so much more comfy than ice…

Then, the leer vanished from Azog's face. For a moment, Thorin's ears were ringing in the complete silence, and then he heard the sound of birds calling in what sounded like the distance, but the pale orc cursed vehemently in the black speech, then raced away. As giant talons scooped him up, Thorin finally let go of his awareness.

~It looked like everything had turned out alright after all.

Thorin gasped as his eyes flew open, Gandalf peering over him. It might just be his imagination, but the man looked very pensive. Their travels must be getting to him. Or it might just be the fact that he had to use magic to bring one of his friends back form the edge of death.

He sat up slowly, noticing the sighs of relief and slumping his shoulder of the rest of the company. Mahal, his head hurt. It didn't make any sense, he hadn't even been hit on the head this time!

Bofur leaned over to Dwalin, murmuring;

"What's he goin on about?"

Thorin froze. Had he said that out loud? He must be more injured than he thought. Something was wrong. There was something different; he couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something was missing. He lifted his gaze to Gandalf's storm grey eyes.

"The hobbit?"

And he desperately, desperately hoped that he was mis-reading his old friend, because that couldn't be loss that caused his shoulders to tense, his face couldn't be crumpling from the force of grief, Bilbo was fine, he had to be fine, Bilbo was always, always, fine.

"He was taken by one of Azog's underlings. If I were to guess, I would say that he is being taken to Goblin Town, far under the misty mountains.

Thorin was almost glad when darkness took him once again.