Chapter Text
“Wait!”
The familiar voice echoed through the vast stone hall, carrying farther than it should have, slipping between pillars and vanishing into the dark beyond.
“Wait!”
The four dwarves halted mid-step, boots scraping softly against the ancient floor. For a heartbeat, none of them spoke. Then Oin turned, relief breaking through his worry.
“It is Bilbo,” he said, breath catching with something close to joy. “By Durin, he lives.”
“Stop, stop,” Bilbo called again as he came running toward them, his feet slipping slightly on the smooth stone. He came to an abrupt halt in front of them, hands braced on his knees as he fought to steady his breathing. His face was pale, eyes wide and bright with urgency.
“You need to leave,” he said, the word pressed hard with emphasis. He straightened slowly, swallowing. “We all need to leave.”
Bofur's earlier smile faded, confusion settling in its place. “Leave?” he asked. “But we have only just arrived.”
“I tried to speak with him, but he will not listen,” Bilbo said quickly, words tumbling over one another.
“What do you mean, lad?” Oin interrupted, concern sharpening his tone.
“Thorin,” Bilbo said, more sharply than he meant to. The name echoed through the hall, and he glanced instinctively over his shoulder, as if afraid someone else might hear. His voice lowered when he spoke again. “Thorin. He has been down there for days. He does not sleep. He barely eats. He is not himself. It is this place. There is a sickness here.”
“Sickness?” Kili asked, worry flickering across his face as he glanced at Fili, who had already begun to move past him. “What kind of sickness?”
Bilbo noticed at once. “Fili, wait,” he called, hurrying after him. Kili followed close behind, with Bofur and Oin not far back.
The air grew warmer as they descended, heavy with the scent of old stone and metal. With each step, the glow ahead of them brightened, reflecting off the walls in flickers of gold and amber. When they reached the lower halls, they stopped short.
Before them lay the treasure chamber.
Gold lay piled in sweeping drifts across the floor, rising and falling like frozen waves. Jewels gleamed from every surface, scattered among crowns, goblets, shields, and coins stamped with symbols older than memory. Light danced across faceted gems, casting fractured reflections across the ceiling. It was overwhelming, almost unreal, as though the mountain itself had bled its riches into the open air. To imagine so much wealth in one place felt impossible, like a dream that should not exist.
Then came the sound of movement.
Coins shifted. A soft, metallic whisper followed each step.
From one of the great archways, Thorin emerged slowly. His boots sank slightly into the treasure beneath him, gold sliding and clinking underfoot. His head was bowed, eyes fixed on the floor as though drawn to it. His lips moved faintly, words murmured too quietly to hear, his attention entirely consumed by the glittering ground before him.
He looked almost distant, as if the hall itself had claimed his focus, holding it fast.
At last, he lifted his head.
His gaze settled on them, dark and intent, and for a brief moment something unreadable passed across his face. Then he spoke.
“Behold,” Thorin said, his voice carrying easily across the vast chamber, rich and resonant. “The great treasure hall of Thrór.”
He turned as if to walk away, then stopped. In one smooth motion, he reached down and scooped something from the pile at his feet, flinging it toward them without warning. Fili caught it easily, instinctively, and stared down at what lay in his palm.
A ruby, large and flawless, caught the light and burned red in his hand.
“Welcome,” Thorin said, spreading his arms slightly. “My sister-sons. Welcome to the Kingdom of Erebor.”
The words rang out across the gold, echoing long after he fell silent, while the treasure gleamed on, unmoved, watching.
While Kili, Fili, Bofur, and Ori moved ahead to reunite with the rest of the Company, Bilbo remained behind.
He lingered only a few steps back, close enough to keep Thorin in sight but far enough that he did not intrude. The treasure hall stretched endlessly around them, its vastness swallowing sound and sense alike. Gold lay piled in sweeping drifts across the floor, coins and chains and polished plates catching the light in blinding flashes. Gems gleamed from every surface, embedded in walls and heaped into careless mounds, their colors too vivid, too sharp, as if the mountain itself were watching.
Thorin walked slowly through it all, his boots sinking slightly into the treasure with every step. The soft clink of shifting gold followed him, a constant sound that seemed to echo far longer than it should. Bilbo watched the way Thorin's hand brushed against a stack of coins as he passed, not quite touching, fingers hovering as though feeling the warmth of it without contact.
His head was bowed, eyes fixed on the floor of treasure beneath him. His lips moved faintly, shaping words that never reached Bilbo's ears.
“Thorin?” Bilbo said at last.
The name sounded small in the cavernous space. He waited, holding his breath, expecting some sign that he had been heard. A glance over the shoulder. A pause. Anything.
Thorin did not slow.
Bilbo swallowed and followed another step closer, his foot dislodging a coin that skittered away with a sharp ring. The sound seemed to linger, hanging between them.
“Thorin?” he tried again, firmer now, his voice carrying farther across the hall.
Thorin stopped.
Not gradually. Not with any natural easing of motion. He halted as if frozen in place, the movement so abrupt that it sent a ripple through the coins around his boots. The quiet muttering ceased instantly. The hall fell silent, save for the faint settling of treasure.
For a long moment, Thorin did not move at all.
Then, slowly, he turned his head just enough to look back at Bilbo. The lamplight caught in his eyes, reflecting gold upon gold, making it difficult to tell where the treasure ended and Thorin began.
“Yes?” he said.
The word was even, composed, spoken with the calm authority Bilbo knew so well. And yet it did nothing to ease the tight knot forming in Bilbo's chest.
“It has been almost three days,” Bilbo said quietly. “You need to eat.” He kept his tone light, careful, as though he were speaking to someone fragile rather than a king of stone and iron. He very deliberately avoided sounding like an overbearing mother, though the instinct sat heavy in his chest.
“I am not hungry,” Thorin replied, his voice low and distracted. He resumed walking, boots shifting the treasure beneath him with a dull, metallic whisper. His gaze never lifted, drawn forward by something Bilbo could not see.
Bilbo followed, his steps slower now. He pressed his lips together, forcing down the mix of worry and irritation that threatened to rise. After a moment, he drew in a steadying breath and tried again.
“I could bring something down here,” he offered, adjusting his pace to keep beside him. “Just a little. Some bread, perhaps. Ale. I think we might still have some ham left from the packs.”
Thorin made a faint sound in his throat, not quite a refusal, not quite an acknowledgment. His fingers brushed a scatter of coins as he passed, sending them sliding into a new arrangement. He did not look at them, yet his hand lingered a fraction longer than necessary.
“This place provides all that is needed,” Thorin said at last.
Bilbo frowned slightly. He glanced around at the endless sea of gold and jewels, at goblets crusted with gems and armor stacked in careless heaps, at wealth beyond measure and utterly useless for hunger or rest.
“It does not provide supper,” Bilbo said gently. “Nor sleep, for that matter.”
Thorin did not answer. He continued onward, deeper into the hall, the soft echo of gold following him like a second voice. Bilbo hesitated, then followed once more, his unease growing with every step.
Bilbo lingered for a moment, watching Thorin's back as the dwarf moved deeper into the sea of gold, his figure slowly blending into the glow and shadow of the hall. At last, Bilbo let out a reluctant sigh, the sound soft and weary, and turned away. There was no sense pressing further, not now. Whatever held Thorin's attention had its grip set far too tightly.
As Bilbo made his way toward the arched doorway leading out of the chamber, he nearly collided with a broad, familiar chest. He stopped short and looked up to find Dwalin stepping inside, his expression already drawn tight with concern. For a moment, the two of them simply looked at one another, the exchange quiet and heavy with understanding.
“Any luck?” Dwalin asked at last, his voice low as his gaze flicked past Bilbo toward the treasure hall beyond, where the gold still lay in silent, glittering heaps.
Bilbo shook his head, the motion small and tired. “No,” he said, the word carrying more weariness than surprise. After a brief pause, he added, “I am going to bring some food down here. See if that works any better.”
Dwalin gave a short grunt and nodded once. His jaw tightened as he turned away, already moving, his heavy steps carrying him deeper into the hall with purpose. Within moments, his broad back was swallowed by the vastness of the chamber, the sound of his boots fading into the hush of stone and gold.
Bilbo lingered where he was, watching the space Dwalin had disappeared into. The treasure hall felt different now, heavier somehow, as though the mountain itself were holding its breath. With a quiet sigh, Bilbo turned and began climbing the stone steps that led away, his footsteps echoing softly as he left the glitter behind. As he walked, his thoughts turned practical, already planning what he might bring, and hoping, not for the first time, that it would be enough.
By the time he set out again, he walked carefully along one of the many winding paths carved deep into the heart of Erebor, his steps measured to keep from spilling what he carried. In one hand, he balanced a sturdy plate holding two thick slices of bread, still slightly warm, each spread generously with salted butter and layered with slabs of cured ham. The scent clung to the air around him, simple and comforting, a small piece of normalcy carried into a place that felt anything but.
In his other hand, he held a worn waterskin slung loosely at his side, the faint slosh of ale inside marking each step he took. It was what they had left, nothing fancy, but strong enough and familiar enough that he hoped it might tempt Thorin where words had failed. Food had always been grounding, Bilbo thought. It anchored one to the present, to the body, to the undeniable fact that one was still alive and in need of care.
The halls around him stretched endlessly, stone arches rising high above his head, their surfaces etched with patterns and runes worn smooth by centuries of passing hands. Torches burned at regular intervals, their flames reflecting off veins of gold threaded through the rock, casting warm light that danced across the walls. Even after all this time, Erebor still made Bilbo feel small, not in an unpleasant way, but in the quiet, humbling sense of standing within something vast and old.
And somewhere ahead of him, deeper within the mountain, Thorin waited, surrounded by stone and memory and things far heavier than gold.
His footsteps echoed softly as he went, the sound swallowed quickly by the cavernous space. Here and there, distant voices drifted through the halls, dwarves moving about their tasks, their presence felt more than seen. Yet the closer Bilbo drew to the lower halls, the more those sounds faded, replaced by a heavy stillness that pressed in around him.
He adjusted his grip on the plate, steadying it as he turned down another corridor that sloped gently downward. His thoughts stayed fixed ahead, on the glow of gold, on a lone figure pacing among it, and on the hope that perhaps this small offering might break through where reason could not.
However, when Bilbo stepped into the Treasure Hall, the sight he had been bracing himself for did not greet him. Thorin was nowhere among the piled gold and scattered gems. Instead, Balin stood near one of the great stone pillars, his hands folded behind his back, his expression thoughtful and lined with quiet concern.
“Thorin is not here, lad,” Balin said gently, his voice low so it would not carry through the vast space.
Bilbo came to a halt, the plate in his hand dipping slightly before he steadied it again. “Isn't here?” he echoed, surprise cutting through his fatigue. “Then where is he?”
Balin lifted his chin and nodded toward a darker passage branching off from the hall, its mouth half swallowed by shadow. “Down there,” he replied simply. There was something in his tone that made the word feel heavier than it should have been.
Bilbo followed the direction of his gaze, staring into the corridor for a long moment. The light from the Treasure Hall did not reach far into it, fading quickly into dim torchlight and stone. He swallowed, then inclined his head in quiet thanks. Without another word, he turned and began toward the passage.
“Bilbo,” Balin called after him.
He paused and looked back.
“If he does eat something,” Balin said, his eyes soft but worried, “be kind to update me.”
Bilbo nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, earnest smile that did little to hide the tension beneath it. “Of course,” he said. “I will.”
With that, he adjusted his grip on the plate and the waterskin and continued on, his steps carrying him away from the glow of gold and deeper into the stone.
As Bilbo walked down the hall, the air grew steadily colder and the light dimmer with each step. For a time there was only shadow and the soft echo of his own footsteps against the stone, the glow from the Treasure Hall fading until it was little more than a memory behind him. Then, at last, a faint light appeared ahead, warm and unsteady, spilling from the end of the passage like a promise.
He emerged into a room that looked as though it had been forgotten for decades. Dust lay thick across the stone floor, disturbed only in narrow paths, and pale spider webs clung to the corners of the ceiling and the legs of long stone workbenches. Several of them had cracked or collapsed with age, their surfaces scarred and blackened as if they had once endured great heat. It must have been a working station before the dragon's invasion, a place of craft and labor, now left to decay in silence.
At the front of the room, however, there were signs of recent life.
Thorin stood at one of the remaining desks, his broad back to the entrance. The heavy fur coat he had worn earlier had been tossed carelessly over the back of a nearby chair, forgotten. The work surface before him had been wiped clean, the stone scrubbed free of dust, and behind him a large fireplace burned bright. Its flames cast flickering light across the room, warming the cold stone and bringing the space back from the edge of abandonment.
Bilbo slowed his steps, watching.
Thorin held a small crucible in his hands, lifting it with steady precision. Inside, a molten substance glowed faintly, its surface shifting and rolling like captured fire. With careful control, he tilted the crucible and poured the liquid into a waiting mold set into the desk. The metal flowed smoothly, filling the narrow channels without spill or hesitation. There was no rush in his movements, no wasted effort. Each action was deliberate, practiced, almost reverent.
The crackle of the fire and the faint hiss of cooling metal were the only sounds in the room as Bilbo stood there, plate and waterskin forgotten for the moment, watching Thorin work in the half light.
Bilbo caught himself staring for a moment too long and quickly shook his head, as if that alone might scatter the thoughts gathering at the back of his mind. He drew in a quiet breath and stepped forward, careful not to startle him.
“Thorin?” he said softly, just loud enough to announce his presence.
“Yes?” came the deep reply, steady and distant, without Thorin lifting his gaze from the work before him.
Bilbo moved closer and set the plate and waterskin down at the corner of the stone table, choosing a spot where they would not interfere with the tools laid out across its surface. “I brought food,” he said, then added after a beat, “and ale.”
Thorin glanced sideways at the offering, his eyes lingering there for only a moment before returning to the mold in his hands. “Thank you, Bilbo,” he murmured, the words polite but absent, as though spoken out of habit rather than hunger.
Bilbo lingered, hands clasped together, watching as Thorin worked. With careful precision, the dwarf separated the mold, easing it apart piece by piece. Nestled inside was a small object, newly cast and still faintly warm. Thorin lifted it with the tip of his fingers and set it onto the stone.
It was silver. Small. Barely more than a glint of pale light in the fire's glow.
Bilbo leaned in despite himself. “What are you making?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle, as if too much curiosity might break something fragile.
For a brief moment, Thorin went very still. His hand hovered over the table, the fire crackling behind him the only sound. It felt as though he were weighing the question, turning it over in his mind before deciding how much to give.
Then he exhaled softly. “A bead,” he said at last.
Bilbo blinked. “A bead?”
“Yes.” Thorin lowered himself onto the stone bench beside the table, the finality in his tone making it clear he had no intention of explaining further. He picked up a small hand file and began to work the silver, slow and methodical, smoothing its edges with practiced strokes.
The soft scrape of metal against metal filled the room as Bilbo stood nearby, watching the tiny shape take form beneath Thorin's steady hands. Each careful stroke of the file was deliberate, unhurried, as though the rest of the world had narrowed to the space of the workbench and the silver resting upon it. Firelight caught on the bead's surface, making it gleam briefly before dulling again under Thorin's touch.
Bilbo said nothing. He had learned, over time, when silence was the kinder choice. Still, his gaze drifted from the bead to Thorin himself, to the set of his shoulders and the way his brow remained drawn even in concentration. There was purpose in the motion of his hands, but also something else beneath it, something restless that no amount of crafting seemed able to ease.
The food remained untouched at the corner of the table, steam long since faded from the bread. The ale rested beside it, the waterskin undisturbed. Bilbo noticed, but did not comment. He folded his hands together and waited, content for the moment to simply be there, a quiet presence in the shadowed room.
At last, he shifted his weight and took a small step back, unwilling to press further. “I will leave it here,” he said softly, nodding toward the plate. “In case you decide you want it.”
Thorin did not look up, but the filing slowed, just slightly. “Mm,” he murmured, neither agreement nor refusal.
Bilbo lingered a moment longer, then turned toward the doorway. As he left, the sounds of the workshop followed him: the low crackle of the fire, the steady rhythm of Thorin's work, the mountain breathing quietly around them both.
Behind him, Thorin continued to shape the silver bead, his focus unbroken, the small, gleaming object slowly emerging beneath his hands as the night stretched deeper into Erebor.