Chapter three. Once more, I do not own any of the Hobbit or LotR.

Bilbo dreamt. He dreamt of light, seeping through the leaves, and grass, moist with dew fresh in the morning; moss and the ever green of the trees in Shire, and the rolling hills of his Bag End. He dreamt of his cozy hobbit hole, filled with books of old and mysterious, cups of fine porcelain, and doylies made by his grandmother's fragile hands, as she sat upon the rocking chair in front of the fire, and told little hobbits tales of old, when their race still lived on the other side of the Great River, and struggled to find their place. And then his dreams shifted, and he was suddenly on an old mountain road, being rained on hard and the relentless pace set by the figure in front of him. He wants to call out, to tell him to stop, to slow down, because he can't keep up, and more and more figures pass him by, leaving him slowly behind.

Bilbo dreams. He dreams of a dark forest filled with vile and disgusting creatures, who all want to swallow him up. He dreams of a tight embrace by silken threads, and a sting of a spike driven through him so many many times, he thinks it's not him that's being caressed by the pain, but rather so many of those he holds dear, and he is taking on their pain as good as he can.

Bilbo dreams of a cold cold dungeon, and loneliness, and fear. Of being alone, of being cold, of being hungry, of being found, and most of all he dreams the fear of failing.

Water. So much and so cold, and so fast, and so deep. The smell of wooded barrels and the feel of them between his legs, as he tries desperately to hold on, to keep his eye on every other vessel that holds his friends, but they are sinking, and slamming, and drifting away, and he is just so cold, and so afraid.

Bilbo dreams of blood. Of angry shouting, and war cries in so many languages. He dreams of man, elf, and dwarf slamming into each other wall to wall, the Battle of Five Armies that feels as though the whole Middle Earth is shaking with the fury. He dreams of staying alive, and running, so much running! He fears that he will never stop now that he started to dash from one seemingly safe place to another, never staying for longer than a moment, never having an option to just walk away, as more and more try to impale, stab, hurt, and kill him. Bilbo tries so very hard to find someone, someone important, someone he knows he should be near.

Bilbo dreams of running to the heart of the battle, that's taking place right under the gates to the Lonely Mountain. He wants to be closer; for once he wants to protect, to be the one they can rely on. To not be a burden to them and to him. Oh he would do anything to be useful to him. And when he sees the figure he so desperately tied to find, about to be stabbed in the back, while holding his own against other opponents, he doesn't think. After all there is nothing to think about.

Bilbo dreamt of pain, and cold; of stone and ice; of metal and gems. He thinks that he is filled with them. Bilbo dreams of fear, and uncertainty, and helplessness. He dreams of doubt and cold, and glittering metal, and safety.

Bilbo dreams. And in his dreams he sees the one he loves protecting him. And suddenly he thinks…This is better. He is here. I did my part and now he is king, he is home, and he is safe. And I can rest now, because I protected him.

Bilbo dreams of stars trailing down his head and he is delighted, for stars have never came to him before. He dreams of harsh hands, caressing his fingers and he feels warm, and cherished. He dreams of lips and hair, and roughness, and he is content, for he is loved. And from that love he will never walk away.

Bilbo sleeps. And in his sleep he smiles at the caress of rough fingers, and shivers at the feeling of a beard, tickling his face, as his lips are claimed again and again. He sleeps, and in his dream he is happy, for the one who brings him happiness is there.

Thorin lies on the bed of silks and fur, and trails his fingers over the face of the one he loves. He sees the smile, and entwines his hand with the others. He feels the shudder and kisses the sweet lips. He presses closer and looks at the door that spouts locks and chains, and at the small incense burner that hangs over the head of the bed, streaming chains of smoke down and down, into the mind and body of the one he loves. And he dreams that if he was to take the incense away, if he was to throw the gift of the Necromancer out, his love would still stay with him on his own free will.

And this is it. This is the end of Treasure Under the Mountain.