— XII —
Bilbo Baggins is not entirely sure he should be here right now. Not standing in front of the throne, not under this Mountain. And certainly not positioned so close to the dark-haired Dwarf. He watches Thorin carefully.
The Dwarf is staring at the empty slot in the stone just above his seat. His fingers drag over the indent where the Arkenstone should be, the space slashed through by the claws of the dragon all those years ago. Bilbo's pocket feels heavy with his hidden secret. The truth of his lies to Thorin and the very reason he's second-guessing his presence within Erebor.
"It is here in these halls. I know it," Thorin mutters, more to himself than Bilbo or the surrounding Dwarves.
"We have searched and searched," Dwalin tells him.
"Not well enough," the Dwarf mutters, turning on his friend.
"Thorin, we all would see the stone returned. Can you not spare your mind a moment from thinking of it?"
"What could be more important?" Thorin hisses in response.
"Léra," Bilbo whispers. The tall Dwarf shows no sign of recognition at the name, or that he heard the Hobbit at all. The Halfling raises his voice. "Léra is, Thorin. She was in that town, as were your own kin. Will you forget the members of your company so quickly? What if they...what if they are gone?" He chokes out, thinking of Fíli and Kíli, Óin and Bofur. The raven had arrived just before Smaug reached the town, telling the Dwarves of the arrival of the Orcs and the ones who hunted them, as well as Kíli's recovery at the hands of the She-Elf. Two Woodland Elves and the Dúnedan had entered that floating town. Three more that might not have made it out alive. It has been hard for Bilbo to think of his friends caught in that brutal firestorm.
Thorin wheels on the Hobbit, his mouth set in a deep scowl.
"I will not waste my thoughts on a human who dared to betray us to Thranduil, that forsaken king."
"She did it to help you, and you know that," Bilbo scolds him quietly. Thorin doesn't answer.
"The Arkenstone is the birthright of our people," Balin starts lightly, casting a warning look in Bilbo's direction.
"It is the King's Jewel. Am I not the king?" Thorin shouts, his fist meeting the arms of his throne. The sound of the impact echoes through the chamber.
"You don't need a jewel to be a great king, Thorin," the older dwarf speaks softly. "But what you do need is faith in your own people. In those who have shown that they will hold true to you. Kin and others alike."
"Know this," Thorin continues as if he hasn't heard Balin. "If anyone should find it, and withhold it from me, I will be avenged. I start with the head of that blasted Dúnedan," he roars.
Bilbo's eyes go wide. He fights the bile that rises in his throat. The Thorin he knew would never threaten Léra like that. The Thorin he knew would never leave his own family for dead in the burning city of his own making. Balin looks away quickly.
"Leave me," Thorin hisses. "Do not return unless you have her pale head on a golden platter."
The Hobbit tries to keep his pace slow and void of panic as he follows Balin from the throne room. The older Dwarf leads him to the scroll room deep within the mountain, far from prying eyes. Far from listening ears. Bilbo sits next to Balin, his head sinking into his hands.
"Dragon-sickness," the Dwarf whispers in distress. "I've seen it before." Bilbo's heart drops. "That look. The terrible need. It is a fierce and jealous love, Bilbo. Coveting all he can. It sent his grandfather mad."
"Balin...if Thorin had the Arkenstone, if it was found, would it help him?"
"That stone crowns all. It is the summit of this great wealth, bestowing power upon he who bears it. Would it stay his madness? No, laddie. It would make it worse. But..." Balin pauses, looking troubled. "It might not be the worst thing that could fall into his hands. It would make the sickness worse, yes, but its effects would be nothing compared to..." Balin grabs Bilbo's arms tightly. The Hobbit looks at him in surprise. "Bilbo, should Léra be alive, she must never enter this mountain. Never. I fear the kind of man Thorin will become if she does. He will stop at nothing to protect her. He would kill his own kin if they looked at her the wrong way."
"But why? He's just told us he wants her dead," the Hobbit whispers. Balin's head is shaking before he finishes.
"The image Thorin has of her is ruined by the Elven touch because she has not yet entered this mountain. He hasn't seen her while the sickness besets his mind. If he does, those worries will fall away. The greed for gold is strong, my friend, but the greed over another living soul is even worse. It starts true, with the feelings of care and love in one's heart. The sickness, as with all feelings, makes it evil in intention. There is something about that Dúnedan that draws him in. I have seen it.What he feels for her will be magnified and darkened."
"I have seen it too," Bilbo whispers. His mind returns to the night in the House of Beorn. The night had been late when voices stirred him from sleep. He had risen from the floor, observing the two figures in the blue of the dark hour. He had seen, all too well, the care with which Thorin's hands moved through her hair. The tension between them as they stood close. And the entire company had seen it stirring in long glances, touches that weren't overly necessary. A hand squeezed in thanks when Thorin passed her a bowl of soup. His strong hand against her back as she twirled a bright sword in her hands. There was a tender care between them that Bilbo had been afraid to acknowledge. Doing so now felt even more dangerous.
"She is the most dangerous treasure of all. Thorin will lose himself in her presence. He will covet her. Lock her away as he tells himself he is keeping her safe. She will never see another living soul as he holds her dear as the peak of his entire wealth. He will go to war over her, I fear."
"She's stronger than that. She wouldn't let him do that."
"Is she?" Balin asks. "And how would you react if Thorin spoiled you with endless riches and treated you as the most valuable thing in the world? Would you turn his affections away?" When Bilbo doesn't answer, Balin shakes his head. "No, I fear we do not yet know how the Dúnedan would react, but we must take every precaution. Assume the worst."
Balin leaves Bilbo to mull over his words. The Hobbit is more nervous, more fearful than before. The dread in his heart only increases with each passing hour, especially as the survivors of Lake-town are seen amassing in the ruins of Dale. Bilbo sits atop the ramparts, watching with apprehension as the Dwarves carry out Thorin's commands to bar Erebor's dragon-made entrance. He watches each giant stone fall into place, every rock creating a resounding crack that seals Thorin's fate more.
And always is the Hobbit watching Dale, hoping he sees a flash of brilliant pale hair between the ruins. He fights the worry that needles through his chest. Tries to ignore the very real, very terrifying realization that his worst fears are becoming a reality.
Bilbo is still hunched in his watch, half-asleep, hours later. It is well into the next morning when he becomes aware of Thorin moving through the dark halls. Silently, he submerges himself in the shadows of the stones as he follows the Dwarf. Léra would be proud of him using the skill she tried to teach him many times over. After all, Hobbits were naturally quiet and good at sneaking. He had taken the lessons in vain after he found the Ring. Why be a shadow when you could simply become invisible?
Thorin, in his never-ending cycle of sleeplessness, is returning to his hoard of treasures. Bilbo slides the ring onto his finger as he follows the Dwarf across the piles of endless gold. Thorin stops before a small, solid table. The block is hewn from pearlescent white rock, obviously ancient and priceless. But more priceless are the gems strewn about the surface of the rock. Covering every inch and spilling off the sides as Thorin drags his hand through them.
White gems. Gems of pure starlight.
"The White Gems of Lasgalen," Thorin murmurs to himself as his finger snags on the fine silver chain of the necklace nestled into the gems. He lifts the jewelry into the air, studying it with great interest. "I know an Elf Lord who would pay a pretty price for these."
The Dwarf is about to throw the intricate necklace back onto the pile of glittering stones when he pauses, staring directly into their cold brilliance.
Gems that remind him of something.
White and silver. White and silver. A crown of silver, strands of white. Braids between his fingers and draped across his knee. The glint of a circlet in the moonlight of midsummer.
White and silver.
Silver and white.
Elves. Elves. Elves.
"Where is the Silver Wolf?" Thorin asks the air. "Where is she?" He breathes. His eyes go glassy with need. With desire. "Where is my Silver Wolf?" He doesn't seem surprised as Bilbo appears next to him out of thin air. His strong hands grab the Hobbit by the shoulders. "Where is my Silver Wolf?" He repeats, desperate.
"Léra?" Bilbo volunteers carefully, testing out her name lightly.
Thorin shakes his head suddenly. The gems fall from his hands, sending many white stones clattering to the gold trinkets of the treasure hoard. The light twinkling sound fills the hall. Fills his head. It turns into laughter in Thorin's head. The lilting, high sound of joy from the full lips of a woman as she smiles wildly at him.
Bilbo is frozen, watching Thorin reel away and grasp at his head. The Dwarf is muttering to himself, a pained expression on his face. The Khuzdul is unfamiliar to Bilbo, but he understands the yearning tone. The keening of a lovestricken man.
"Thorin?" He asks tentatively. The Dwarf doesn't hear him.
Inside his tainted mind, Thorin's thoughts are filled with one thing and one thing alone.
Her.