Disclaimer: I don't own Hobbit or any of the characters.

Chapter four: Ghosts that we know

He came over the top of the down as the last light failed and could almost have cried with relief at the sight of the wood below. He longed to fling himself down on the short stubbly grass and stare at it, the dark comforting shadow which he hardly hoped to see. Thus only could he cure the stitch in his side, which grew and grew with the jolt, the jolt of his stumble down the mountain. The absence of the hot wind from the cave that had buffeted him for the last hour seemed like a puff of icy air on his face, as he dropped below the level of the sky. As though the wood were a door swinging on a great hinge, a shadow moved up towards him and the grass under his hairy feet ganged from gold to green, to purple and last to a dull grey. Then night came.

A hedge sprang up before his eyes at the distance of a few yards. His confused tired senses became aware of the smell of the last year's blackberry leaves wet with past rain. For a moment the scent swathed him in a beautiful content and left him with an ache for time in which to rest here. The grass grew longer as he neared the hedge, and a little later his feet were heavy with wet earth and he knew that he was on a path. It was his feet rather than his mind that knew it. They made a rumbling progress, now in the muddy centre of the way... His mind was a confusion of scents and sounds, the far hush of a river, a memory of rattling pebbles, angry voices, imaginary footsteps. They were jumbled together like the pieces of a puzzle, and they were half forgotten because of his fatigue and fear.

The fear in his mind told him that paths were dangerous. He whispered it out loud to himself 'Dangerous, dangerous', and then because he thought that the low voice must belong to another on the path beside him, he scrambled panic stricken through the hedge. Must get over, must get to the company.

The blackberry twigs plucked at him and tried to hold him with small endearments, twisted small thorns into his clothes with a restraint like a caress. He took no notice and plunged on. The fingers grew angry, slashed at his face with sharp, pointed nails. 'Who are you anyhow? Who are you anyhow?' He had to leave. Now. The last twigs broke and the night became darker under trees, his vision blurred through the latticing of the leaves.

Bilbo Baggins awoke with a jolt, his stormy blue eyes filled with terror. Subconsciously and rather illogically, he touched his face to be assured it was only a dream, and realised that he had broken out in a cold sweat. He sat up, struggling from under the blanket covers and with slightly trembling fingers reached for the candle on his bedside.

He just needed a moment to compose himself. It was not the first time after all. When he woke up from a nightmare, depending on how bad it was, sometimes he'd bolt upright in bed and just sit there, thinking for a minute and sometimes his breathing got heavier, most of the time he couldn't go back to bed afterwards. But this... This wasn't a nightmare or, to be honest, anything remarkably frightening. Nevertheless, the more these strange dreams appeared, the more Bilbo wished that the night terrors came back. Anything but these unexplainable flashes of images, he had no association with, yet couldn't get out of his mind.

And it wouldn't be too long after for the humble hobbit to realise, that there was something terribly wrong happening to him.

Balin could not conceal the longing in his voice, as he tried desperately, and rather unsuccessfully, to keep up after his king. It was just too much to suppress. He said.
"Tomorrow we have a meeting with the men of Dale."

No response.

"The Yule Festival is not far away either."

Once again he went thoroughly ignored by the younger dwarf, but the old advisor did not give up on his mission to force some sense into their fearless leader.

"Thorin!" he called pointedly and the mentioned dwarf came to an abrupt halt in front of him.

"You have known about this all along." snarled Thorin, turning around sharply. "Yet you chose to speak nothing of it!"

Balin sighed wearily. "Yes and yes. But that has nothing to do with your decision to venture to the Shire. What good will it do you?"

"What good will it- I will cross the Middle Earth if only to twist those two rascals' ears and tell them what exactly I think of their heroic deeds!"

"But Thorin, be sensible. Dozens of men and women are going to arrive, heading for any world you can name, and all that-"

Thorin cut him off impatiently, all the while searching his desk for a map, he was not going to find any time soon. "I know, Balin. I also know that we... I have been avoiding this exact situation for far too long. I would have had to do this sooner or later one way or another."

Thorin Oakenshield owed much to Balin's patience and kindness when it was needed, but even patience and kindness could be overdone. He knew that him and the Council would be able to handle the mountain for a few days or weeks... but this was definitely not the time to act like a stubborn and reckless mule.

"And what are you going to do, Thorin?" Balin asked gently, "Once you're there, what are you going to say to him?"

The king looked up briefly from the table, his posture was comparably slight, but the look in his blue eyes was as intense as it had ever been, and right now there was a trapped look in the way his fingers curled against the edge of the board.

"Bilbo Baggins will receive his share of the gold as promised." he responded slowly. "And if he wishes to hear me, I'll inform him that he is no longer considered a traitor among my people and that he's free to visit Ered Luin, whenever he feels like it."

Balin watched him. It was better, he thought, those first weeks when Erebor was reclaimed and everyone, especially their king, was wavered into view and practically dragged into a life, full of duties and responsibilities. However, later when all the mayhem had comparably cleared out, and the whole weight of the situation had downed on all of them, brought rather unpleasant consequences to Thorin.

The old advisor hesitated for a moment, then, making up his mind, asked. "And...and the stone?"

Thorin frowned slightly. "What about it?" he replied disinterestedly.

Balin blinked a few times, before shaking his head in disbelief. "I think you have forgotten what the Arkenstone means..."

The other said. "I remember very well what it means. It means nothing! You're the one who's forgotten that. The Arkenstone means nothing to you, it means nothing to me, Thorin Oakenshield, and," he added softly, "it must have meant nothing to our burglar, Bilbo Baggins."

AN: Hello, dear people, who are still sticking around this fic(patient you and lazy me). Well, that's not entirely true, it's just that recently I've lost my inspiration for this story and anything related to hobbits in general. But since the second movie is nearing( not to mention the trailers that came out and that Sheeran's marvellous song for the DoS) I decided not to abandon this story. Yet. But I must warn that I won't be able to update this fic nearly as frequently as I would like( God bless school and math and all the rubbish in between). So umm...there, thank you for reading anyway. Peace.