Work Text:
Being courted by the King Under the Mountain and his Majesty’s head of the Royal Guard was quite the experience.
Well. It was surely something, if only Bilbo could come up with a name for it.
Unlike when he was a lad in the Shire, this courting did not linger on, day by day, when hopeful lovers met him at the gate of Bag End and they went walking hither and yon over the gentle rolling fields of the Shire. No, this was Erebor, a kingdom still being rebuilt brick by rough-hewn brick and with caravans of refugees returning every week. This was a place that was still recovering from a dragon’s terrible ire and where the very foundations of such a great nation were in shambles and threatening the lives of the very miners who plumbed such depths.
That was where Bilbo came in.
“Have ye got the ken of it?” Bilbo watched Bofur push back his hat and rub at the tired lines around his eyes. They were all exhausted. The tremors in the emerald mines had started the night of the picnic, tearing Bilbo away from his rather awkward, stilted conversation with both Thorin and Dwalin – really, he was a hobbit, surely he could muster up some sort of decent nattering about something of little consequence, but no, of course his mind went blank as a smoke ring when confronted by the two dwarves! – and drawn Bofur, Bifur and Bilbo down into the deepest sections of the mines.
“I think so,” Bilbo rubbed at his aching neck, the muscles there bunched and knotted from tension and tired of waiting for news. They’d had two exploratory parties in the mines when the tremors started. They’d not heard anything from either group in the twelve hours they’d been clearing rock and reinforcing tunnels as they made their way down the twisting slope.
“I can cut through here,” Bilbo pointed at the map. His months of exploration in the mines were coming quite in handy. There were any number of fissures that were too small for dwarves, but where Bilbo was able to wiggle through, if barely. “Remember? I found it when I was down in the ruby mines.”
“No,” Bofur snapped, causing Bilbo to draw back and stare at his friend. “You can’t go back down there. D’you not remember how sick you were?”
“I won’t be going all the way down,” Bilbo shook his head at the dwarf. Really, he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to go traipsing in all that poisonous gunk yet again. “The fissure starts here, above the nests. I just have to slip around and avoid disturbing the slugs below.” The slugs, they’d found out during a rather disastrous attempt to oust them from the mines, were vicious when faced with being forced from their new home. The spitting of acidic poison was their favorite weapon of choice – as poor Gloin had found out. Luckily the dwarf had managed to escape from being burnt, but had ended up with a shorn beard and a hole in his favorite leather chest guard. Gloin had been furious for weeks over both losses.
“It’s not safe,” Bofur grumbled.
“Of course it’s not safe. This whole tunnel system could give way in a heartbeat,” Bilbo snapped back. “But if the teams are still alive, then I can find them and guide them out through the river tunnels.”
“But,” Bofur’s brows drew together. “We haven’t explored all the way down there yet.”
“You haven’t,” Bilbo sniffed. “I’ve found at least two paths down to the water. It looks like there was an actual road along the river’s edge at one point.”
“Aye, there was,” Bofur’s frown deepened. “But it hasn’t been used since before the Calamity. There was a terrible cave-in that killed hundreds of miners. My great-uncle was lost in it.”
“Oh. I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” Bilbo fussed with his battered leather coat. Dori had made it for him, when Bilbo had first joined the mining exploration teams. It had kept him warm and protected during any number of close scrapes from falling rock and shockingly cold caverns that hadn’t seen the light of day in perhaps ever.
“I wasn’t born then,” Bofur waved off Bilbo’s words, gaze focused on the map spread out between them. “Still. The whole area was sectioned off for most of my younger years. There was some talk of restructuring the tunnels when I was a lad and then later on, when King Thrain became…” Bofur trailed off, shoulders curling a bit. Bilbo could well imagine the rest of the sentence. The gold fever he’d witnessed from the dwarves when they had retaken Erebor – well. It wasn’t a pretty thing, and, later, Balin had been the one to explain the deep shame that came with being overtaken by such desires.
“If they’ve held up this long, what with Smaug rampaging about, then I imagine they’re still holding strong,” Bilbo moved on, careful not to stare as Bofur gave himself a shake, the dwarf’s expression pained for one long moment.
“Maybe, but are ye sure? We’re clearing rubble at a good clip. Won’t be long now before we get to the branching hall.”
“If it still stands,” Bilbo felt he had to point out. “The diamond miners said they heard rumbling coming from these passages for more than an hour. We don’t know how much is caved in ahead of us. Better I go on ahead and see if I can find them and guide them out. Then we can come back later and be more thorough in shoring up the supports.”
Bofur sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I don’t like this.”
“I’ll be fine,” Bilbo reached out with hesitant fingers and touched the dwarf’s arm. Even now, after months and months of being in their company, Bilbo was still unused to such physical gestures of friendship. Hobbits were creatures of touch, yes, but it had been a many long and silent year of Bilbo alone in his hobbit-hole before his rambunctious troupe of dwarves came stumbling in through his door. It was taking Bilbo a little longer to remember how to touch and be touched in return.
Bofur gave him a shrewd look and captured Bilbo’s hand before he could snatch it back. “Be careful, now,” Bofur gave him a squeeze and let him go. “You’d best get going before we’re set upon by our king on high,” the last was said with a definite wink. “He won’t be too pleased by this idea of ours, no, not at all. Might even have his Royal Kingsguard take you over his shoulder and carry you off.”
“I – he – they would never,” Bilbo sputtered, feeling the tips of his ears go red, even as Bofur laughed and slapped him on the back.
“Off with ya now. And mind your path,” Bofur sobered, clasping Bilbo on the shoulder. “Come back safe, ye hear me?”
“I will,” Bilbo promised and slipped free of his friend’s hold. He trotted down the side tunnel and then slipped in through a crack in the rock. The fissures reminded him of the long and winding path they had taken through the cliffs to Rivendell, only without the comforting light of day peeking out above their heads. Here Bilbo had to move in silent, still darkness, with only the sound of dripping water and the occasional grumble of rock to accompany him. His light was that of the strange moss the dwarves cultivated in the deep tunnels that glowed a pale watery blue-white in the shadows.
After traveling down the fissure and through a series of sharp turns, he was spilled out onto the path down to the ruby mines. Here his steps slowed, noting the slimy trails tracked through the dirt. The last time he’d come this way, the slugs were safely ensconced down a ladder and more than two tunnels away. Why had they come up so far?
The thick shlruping sound was his only warning. Bilbo spun and ducked the spray of acidic poison. Sting, which never left his side these days, was whipped out and swung at the creature. The slugs were half as tall as Bilbo and half again as thick; fortunately for him they were slow, stuck to the ground in their own ooze so Bilbo was able to kill the one attacking him and then flee before the others could turn.
He leapt over the slimy trails, careful not to get any of the mucus on his skin. That turned out to be an effort made in vain, as he turned the last corner before his short cut – only to come face to face with a veritable wall of writhing slugs and dripping slime covering every inch of the tunnel before him. Antae swiveled in his direction. Bilbo dove for the fissure opening, thankful it was far too narrow for the slugs to invade, just as the splatters of thick mucus hit the stone where he’d been standing.
Bilbo wiped at his feet, feeling a scrape near his ankle start to burn, either from the sting of skin being torn or from the poison, he wasn’t sure. The handkerchief Ori made Bilbo during his first month in Erebor had to be sacrificed to the efforts. Bilbo inspected the wound as best he could – but the sound of disgruntled slugs shlruping at the fissure opening hurried him onward.
Down, down and through dusty, cracked crevices Bilbo went. He skirted the fragile sapphire mines, where even Bilbo could see where the pillars were starting to splinter and sag. He held his breath as he traipsed down the cold corridors, hearing the beams groaning above him. He had to stop at a fork in the tunnel, leaning against a solid granite pillar as the rock all around him began to rumble. There was a tremendous crash and thunder as the floor and ceiling trembled. He spared a prayer to the Valar that Bofur and the others were safe before forging on. There would be no going back for him, not up the way he came. No, his only way out was inwards and down.
The last path was littered with rocky debris. Bilbo picked his way over the falls, careful in the dark. The light-giving moss had been all but wiped out during the cave ins. He could barely see where he was going. He didn’t want to end up on top of the very miners he’d come to save by accident.
His luck held as he turned a corner and spotted the yellow light of an open flame. He heard whispers of Khuzdul and the sound of someone panting in obvious pain. “Hello,” he called softly, not wanting to startle the miners too much. “It’s Bilbo,” he added. Most of the miners all knew his name by now, even if he’d not met them all. Bofur and Bifur’s command of the tunnels and Bilbo’s explorations had been the stuff of gossip for months now.
“Well, ain’t we glad t’hear yer voice,” a gruff face appeared, along with a hand and an arm and a body to carry the torch aloft. Bilbo padded towards the miners, noting the dark stains dotting the way.
“How bad?” Bilbo swept past the miner to crouch near the injured dwarf. There were four in all, most of them banged up and bloody to some degree or another.
“Broken arm, and the bone’s popped through the skin of his leg,” the miner near their injured fellow’s head spoke up. “I’m Batz. That’s Kutz and Goffer. This is Hrok,” a pat to the groaning dwarf’s shoulder was gentle. “You got us some good news, halfling?”
Bilbo frowned and looked around. “Can you carry him?”
“Yes. Won’t be pretty none, be we’ll get him out. Are the search parties near?”
“No. We’re not even down to the secondary entrance. The first arch didn’t hold.”
Grim expressions met his statement. “How’d ya get down here, laddie?” Goffer asked. He was an older dwarf, with more silver in his beard than red. A scar ran the length of his cheek, putting a twist to his mouth that looked painful.
“I walked,” Bilbo spared him a grin. “Now. We need to get this fellow up and start to move. The tunnels are still rumbling.”
“That wasn’t the rescuers, then?” Batz asked as Kutz and Goffer picked Hrok up and started down the path. Bilbo slipped in front of them, leading the way.
“No,” Bilbo frowned as he passed the first of the narrow fissures he’d wanted to take. There was no way he could get the injured Hrok through that maze. He’d have to go further into the mountain, deep into the mines where he’d had little time to explore. “I still don’t know what’s causing the cave ins. Bofur might know.”
“Powder,” Hrok croaked. Bilbo paused, one hand resting against the cold rock wall. He glanced back at the others. Batz and Kutz were grim-faced and silent. Goffer swore in Khuzdul.
“He’s right,” Goffer’s twisted mouth spat out something harsh in his native tongue. “We saw the burning powder all over the mines when we stopped.”
“Burning powder,” Bilbo puzzled over that for a second. “Wait, like Gandalf uses for his fireworks? The kind that explodes?”
“Aye, the same laddie.”
“Why didn’t you turn back?”
“Hrok was the one to see it,” Goffer grunted. “Right before the mine came down on top of us.”
“Is there any here?” Bilbo drew back his hand and looked around. “Wait, should you even have that flame?”
“There’s none here,” Goffer shook his head and waved Bilbo on. “We wouldn’t have risked it. We’d be nothing more than bits and bones if we’d put flame to powder where we’d been standing.”
Bilbo shuddered at the mental image and forged on. “Why would the rescue parties use it?”
“Helps clear the rock,” Batz called. “We use it when we’re clearing new tunnels. The chemists have it all locked away, or did. Don’t know why it was all over the tunnel when we came in.”
“I guess it’s good that Smaug never put flame to this stash of powder, then,” Bilbo couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. “Would have saved Thorin and Lake-town one nasty mess, though.”
“Are ye mad? Putting dragonflame to the black powder would have spelled Erebor’s doom!” Kutz sputtered, red-faced when Bilbo glanced back at him. “Everyone would have died!”
“Sorry,” Bilbo stammered, but Batz cuffed Kutz on the ear before Bilbo could continue on.
“Ignore this one. Where are we going, then? I’ve never been down this far.”
“We need to get to the river,” Bilbo turned back to his path. “Ah. Here. This might do. Mind Hrok now. It’ll get a bit stuffy here in a bit.”
Mindful of his charges, Bilbo led the dwarves into the fissure. There was puffing and cursing from behind him as they snaked their way deeper into the heart of the mountain. The light from Batz’s torch began to reflect off the gems hiding in the rock. Bilbo paused at a narrow point, helping the others get Hrok over a tricky fall of rocks. It looked as though a field of stars had come out, flickering from the shadows like fireflies on a midsummer’s eve in the Shire.
“Would ya look at that,” Goffer’s voice was soft as they all stared up into the shimmering gems. Then they all jumped, arms coming over their heads as the rocks on either side of them let out a thundering growl and dust rained down onto the path.
“That’ll be another explosion,” Batz looked grim as they all held their breath. The rocks trembled and fell silent.
“What’s causing it?” Bilbo had to ask. “There isn’t any flame down here, only what we bring ourselves.”
“Could be gas,” Kutz offered, but from the looks exchanged between the dwarves, Bilbo could guess that they didn’t believe that explanation.
“Or?”
“Or someone’s setting off charges on purpose,” Goffer was the one to say it.
“Why?”
“There are some who don’t rightly agree with Thorin, son of Thrain, ruling under the mountain,” Goffer turned his head and spat, eyes gone hard.
Bilbo opened and closed his mouth a few times before giving his head a sharp shake. There were traitors in Erebor? Did Thorin even know? “We have to get you lot out of here,” Bilbo turned and eyed the rest of their path. It looked clear enough. The dwarves got Hrok back up into their arms and shuffled along behind him, tripping every so often on loose rock that had fallen from the ceiling.
“Hrok?” Kutz called at one point. “His eyes are shut!”
“Keep at it, laddie,” Goffer grunted back. “Come on, now. Just keep moving!”
Bilbo hurried their steps and before long he could hear the rush of the river. “There,” the scent of water hit his nose. “We’re almost there.”
“Thank Mahal,” Goffer said. Bilbo led them out onto the stone-paved road. It ran along a cliff that sat twenty feet over the river and was as wide as two large carts sitting side by side.
“Take him that way,” Bilbo grabbed Batz’s shoulder and pointed. “Just keep following the road. It’ll take you to the mouth of the river. Bofur knows I’m taking you out through here. There should be a rescue party headed this way now. They’ll take you the rest of the way into Erebor.”
“What about you?” Batz caught his arm before Bilbo could step away. “Where are you going?”
“There’s another party in the left hand shaft,” Bilbo slipped free of the miner’s hold. “I have to go back.”
“But!”
“Keep going,” Bilbo shook his head and gave Batz a small shove to get him moving. “Hrok needs a healer and I don’t know how much longer the paths will stay open.” He gave them an awkward wave as Batz continued to gape at him and then turned to make his way back up through the fissure. It was faster going without an injured dwarf to slow him down. Bilbo retraced his steps up to where he found the others, keeping a wary eye out for the black powder the others were talking about.
Up the mineshaft, just before the rubble of the cave in that had battered Hrok, Bilbo caught a trace of said powder. He paused, eyeing the wall and the way the powder was spread, stuffed into a crack in the rock, like someone had been trying to further weaken the shaft. He shook his head, mouth set in a thin line. This was not good. If someone was mad enough to try and sabotage Thorin’s mines, then what else would they be willing to do? He hoped the report got back to Bofur and Thorin in a hurry. Who knew what more damage these mad creatures could wreck on Erebor’s mines and those who worked the depths if someone didn’t put a stop to it?
Bilbo almost missed the fuse. The light from the moss was weak, causing shadows to flicker at the corner of his eyes. He froze as he heard someone cursing in Westron. He flattened himself to the side of the shaft and then slipped his ring on, just in time. Shadows appeared on the far side of the tunnel, right before two dwarves came shuffling around the corner.
“Mind the bloody casket,” someone said in Westron. Bilbo blinked and then blinked again, but no, that was a Man bringing up the rear. The dwarves holding the barrel of powder grumbled but kept on going.
“The ones we caught said there was a second team sent down here,” another man appeared behind the first. They were grimy, hair tangled and greasy where it fell about their shoulders. Their speech had the same lilt as those Men Bilbo had met in Lake-town. But why would Men be working with dwarves – or vice versa! – to collapse the mines? Bilbo held his breath as the men passed, gagging at their stench.
“Grab that fuse,” the first man said to the second as they passed. Bilbo had to hop from foot to foot as the second man yanked at the cord, almost catching Bilbo’s ankle in a noose.
“We’re good as dead if we go much further,” the second man grumbled as he brought up the rear. Bilbo drifted along behind them, listening in.
“Our route out is fine. Old Drudder knew his mineshafts, sure did. Pity the poor fellow fell asleep with a knife at his throat. Nasty business, having too much drink like that.”
Harsh, ugly laughter rang down the tunnel. “Old Connel will be pleased. That bastard calling himself King Under the Mountain will have to ask for aid, now.”
Bilbo pursed his lips, thinking. He could not recall any Connel in Bard’s company as the men of Dale began their rebuild.
“Bard will help him, that’s for sure.”
“Bah. That fool would help an elf if they asked nice enough. If we do this right, and old Swifty pays a visit to Bard like Connel paid him to, then we’ve got that dwarven bastard right by the balls.”
Bilbo closed his eyes for a moment, having to breathe through his nose. This was going far, far beyond a bunch of disgruntled dwarves who did not think Thorin was fit to rule under the mountain. No, Bilbo needed to get clear of these murderous men and alert the others to their vicious plans.
Maybe even in time to save Bard’s life.
That left Bilbo with one very large problem. The only way out for him was through the passage that contained the men and the traitorous dwarves. He didn’t know if they were going to blow the tunnel behind them – and nor did he know where this Drudder’s path out of the mountain led.
Bilbo’s indecision saved his life. He stood, shifting from foot to foot, trying to weigh the pros and cons of rushing out without looking for the other party, when the men and dwarves came hurrying back through the passageway. Bilbo flattened himself to the wall as they passed, just barely missing the bulkier of the two men. He shadowed them through the tunnel, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth when he came upon the remains of the second exploratory team. They had not been crushed beneath rocks as Bilbo had feared, but rather cut down and killed – probably by the men and dwarves in front of him.
Bilbo clenched a hand on Sting’s hilt. He followed them down the tunnel, slipping behind them as the smaller Man turned and lit the fuse. “Run,” the man cackled and rushed past Bilbo into the dark, the second man cursing and scurrying after, the dwarves right behind.
The blast sent tongues of flame licking into the emerald mines. Bilbo trailed after the men and dwarves, deeper and deeper into the mountain, until they came upon a huge cavern. Bilbo shivered as he stepped out onto the vast floor. He could see huge crystals studding the walls, larger than a full-grown hobbit. The ceiling disappeared into shadow, but Bilbo could make out scaffolding running along one wall. It looked like it was close to new – but how could that be, if these particular mines had been closed off for years before the coming of Smaug?
“Come on, now. We’ve done our bloody work for the day,” the men called the dwarves as they made their way into the dark. Bilbo snuck along after them, keeping far enough back that his shadow wouldn’t be spotted when the men lit up torches to guide their way through the gloom.
Before long they came upon the same river road that Bilbo had found during his own explorations. The Men and dwarves turned left, heading in the other direction from the entrance Bilbo knew about. He hesitated, wanting nothing more than to creep after them and put Sting to good use – but Thorin and the others needed to know what was going on, and not to mention there was Bard’s safety to consider.
Cursing silently, Bilbo turned his back on the murderers and ran for the river entrance. If he was swift, perhaps he would be in time to alert the guards and capture the party before they could disappear into the wilds of the make-shift shanty town that had grown up around Dale’s walls while the men and dwarves of Erebor worked to repair the once-great city.
His progress was slowed by two rock falls that had taken out the road that ran along the river. It took some tricky footwork, as well as a nimbleness Bilbo had thought he’d lost in his tweens to make his way over the mess. He was panting and covered in sweat by the time he began to hear the sounds of frantic Khuzdul and the sound of picks on stone.
He rounded a corner to find a large party of dwarves camped outside the fissure Bilbo had led the miners from. He felt his heart stutter when he caught sight of Bofur sitting with his back to the wall, head in his hands, while Bifur watched the excavation team work with a grim expression. Thorin and Dwalin were there, and there was such a look of pained sorrow on their faces that it made Bilbo’s pace falter.
“He might have made it out the other tunnel,” Batz was there, wringing his hands together as he stood next to Thorin and an eerily silent Dwalin. “He – he might have gone further into the emerald mines.”
“Where the shafts are supported by crumbling wood?” Thorin’s harsh tone made Batz – and Bilbo – flinch. “You are sure you saw the flames?”
“They came out of this very fissure,” Batz wrung his hands again, shoulders up around his ears. “You can see the scorch marks.”
“He might have made it,” Kili spoke up. “It’s Bilbo. He’s swift on his feet.”
And with that, Bilbo put two and two together and nearly brained himself for being an idiot. Of course they thought he’d been trapped in the explosion. They had no idea how fast he could travel through the mineshafts when on his own. He hopped down from this perch, lifting a hand – and no one turned to stare. With a start, he realized he’d quite forgotten about the ring on his finger.
Odd, Bilbo twisted the cool metal around his skin, reluctant, even in the face of his friends’ panic, to take it off. I should’ve realized I had this on. He slipped it off with a sigh, tucking it into his pocket and snatching his hand back before he could let his fingers linger on the gold.
“You’re quite right, Kili,” he called, making the party of dwarves shout and turn in his direction. “And here I am!”
Thorin and Dwalin were on him in a flash. Bilbo let out a squeak as strong hands caught him up and crushed him between them. He flailed – or, rather, tried to – fingers twitching in Dwalin’s thick beard and the breath whooshed from his lungs. A hand was curled around the back of his neck, an arm tight around his middle and both were pressed so tight to Bilbo that he could feel them breathe in tandem.
“I’m fine,” he found his voice as fingers tightened in his hair. “Really. I was well away from the flames. But,” he struggled a bit. “Really. There were Men in the mines.”
That made Thorin start and draw back a fraction of an inch. “Men?”
“And dwarves. They had a casket of the exploding powder. They also killed our second exploratory team,” Bilbo tried to keep his voice from shaking and by the way Dwalin tightened his hold, he failed rather spectacularly. “Oh! And we need to warn Bard!”
“Bard,” Thorin repeated. He leaned down to cup Bilbo’s face with his large, warm hands and Bilbo quite forgot what he was going to say. “You are well? They did not harm you?”
“They didn’t even see me,” Bilbo met the piercing gaze and didn’t look away. “They wanted to ruin the mines so you would ask for aid from the Men of Dale. I think they’re trying to kill Bard so they could take over – they’re led by some man named Connel, I believe.”
“Nori,” Thorin’s hands dropped from Bilbo’s face, coming to rest on his shoulders and stay. “What do you know of a man named Connel?”
“Nothing good,” the Company’s wiliest dwarf had taken over a position in the mountain that Bilbo did not quite understand – and had the feeling he might not want to delve into, too deeply. “He was a merchant in Lake-town, before Smaug ruined the old settlement. Lost a lot in the fires and has since been thrown out by Bard from their camp for trying to cheat the folk there with weighted flour sacks.”
“I see,” Thorin stepped away and Bilbo felt a touch light headed from holding his breath. Dwalin was still pressed close to his back, hands curling over Bilbo’s shoulders where Thorin’s hands had rested. “Get our fastest riders down to Dale and find Bard. He will need to know of this.”
“The mineshafts are ruined,” Bilbo added as dwarves began to sprint off. Bofur pushed through the crowd and surprised Bilbo by scooping him up into a hug that had Dwalin letting out a rumble of a growl at his back.
“I’m fine,” Bilbo patted his friend on the shoulder as Bofur muttered something in Khuzdul Bilbo couldn’t understand. “Really. I took all precaution. Also,” he drew back, rubbing at his neck and trying to fight down an embarrassed flush. “We have a problem in the ruby mines.”
“The ruby mines?” Thorin swung back to them. “You went down there again?”
“I had to,” Bilbo flapped a hand at the glowering dwarf. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I was fine. However,” he hesitated and Thorin’s brows drew together. “The slugs have…moved, since last I was there.”
“Moved?”
“They’ve taken over the upper shaft, right by where I had to cut through. Terrible things, really, the whole wall was covered in them. You know, I never understood old Gaffer’s hatred of the things, and now I do. I really, really do.” He rubbed the back of one foot against the ankle he’d scraped. The burning had worn off, so all was – probably – well.
“You risked your life -,” Dwalin began. Bilbo turned to get a good glare over his shoulder – really, there was no need for such a tone!
“I was fine,” he cut the dwarf off with a firm nod. “If the slugs had not moved up a level, I wouldn’t have been anywhere near them. I had absolutely no intentions of dealing with their effects yet again, so do me some credit for being sensible. Also, there was no time to waste, getting to the miners I did manage to find. Which,” he turned back to Bofur, who had a hand covering his eyes and a pinched look to his mouth. “How is Hrok?”
“He’s alive,” Batz answered for a still-silent Bofur. “The healers are working on his leg, now. They think they might be able to save it.”
“Good,” Bilbo sighed in relief. “Oh! There’s also the problem of the scaffolding I saw in a large chamber, back that way.” Bilbo pointed down the road. “There were such huge crystals in there! Bigger than me, I dare say, and maybe even some dwarves. The equipment looked new, or as new as I could tell. The men and dwarves that killed our miners went the other way on the road, although I can’t see where they could come out of the mountain from that end. I haven’t explored down there, yet.”
“And nor should you,” there were grim expressions being cast around from all the miners in their crowd. “That’s the crystal caverns. Mining in there is what caused the Great Felling, before Smaug came.” Bofur dropped his hand and shook his head. “If there’s been men mining in there, it’s a wonder half the emerald mines haven’t come down on top of them.”
“It’s unstable?” Bilbo looked between his friends with a frown. “But why would the men venture inside?”
“There was a large demand for the crystals,” Thorin answered, a furrow etched between his brows. “The men of Dale sold them far and wide, but for what purposes I do not know. When the Great Felling took the lives of so many of our people, my grandfather put a stop to the operation and no other veins of the same type of crystal have been found, since. As I remember, there was a great uproar from some of the merchants in Dale, but the furor was soon put down by the leaders of the Men. They must have found the other exit to the river road that had been lost during the accident.”
“Smaug may have caused another cave in that cleared the rubble,” Bilbo mused, eyes focused on a far-distant point. “If the men have been poking about, they could have found it when we weren’t looking. Bofur has had the area cordoned off, due to fear of shaft collapse. We wouldn’t have noticed a thing until the whole area fell in on itself.” He shivered at the thought. The crystal cavern had been huge, arching up into shadow far, far above his head. He started at a large hand curling around his hip. Bilbo glanced back at Dwalin, who had pulled Bilbo close, fingers curled into the fabric of his trousers.
“Nori,” Thorin turned back to the other dwarf and a flurry of rapid-fire orders in Khuzdul were bandied about. Bilbo let Dwalin and Thorin lead him out from the mountain, leaving Bofur and Bifur behind at the fissure to clear up the crews and divide the excavation teams into groups for the necessary repairs.
The trip down to the shantytown surrounding Dale was a harried affair, with only a small contingent of Erebor’s fiercest and loyalist guards surrounding them at all times. Bilbo found himself snugly between Thorin and Dwalin at all times. Nori’s messengers had done fast work; Bard met them at the gates of Dale.
“King Thorin,” Bard gave them a deep bow. The relations between dwarves and Men had improved over the slow months of rebuilding both Erebor and Dale. Still, Thorin’s answering bow was a touch stiff at the edges.
“Bard,” Thorin replied. “I am glad to see you unharmed.”
“Things would be quite different, if not for your swift messengers.”
“Oh!” Bilbo exclaimed, spying blood on the man’s neck. “They got to you?”
“Only as your message reached me,” Bard’s smile was much warmer as he stepped forward. Bilbo never understood why Thorin and the others couldn’t stand the man. Bard had always been perfectly kind to Bilbo, in all the time the hobbit had spent with the newly chosen leader of Dale. “I seem to owe you my life yet again, Master Baggins.”
“Goodness, no,” Bilbo felt his face grow warm as the combined stares of both dwarf and man settled on him. “I was only in the right place at the right time. Did you manage to capture the would-be assassin?”
“He killed himself, rather than be taken alive, I’m afraid,” Bard turned and gestured for them to follow him to a large tent set up by the gates of Dale. Inside a curious combination of man and dwarf worked together on the plans to rebuild the once great city. The tent was large enough to host a series of separate rooms.
“Master Baggins,” Bard offered him a chair at the large table in one of the interior rooms. Bilbo heard a growl and then found himself between Dwalin and Thorin, the two dwarves sweeping forward and taking the seats on either side of Bilbo without a word from Bard. Bilbo caught the man raising one eyebrow at the display, but said nothing as he sat down a few seats from Thorin.
“What about this Connel fellow?” Bilbo broke the silence when it appeared that Thorin was more content to glower at Bard than to speak.
“Ah,” Bard’s mouth twisted as he settled is arms onto the table and leaned forward. “As for him, I’m afraid we’ve quite lost him.”
“Lost him?” Thorin growled. “How? There is little to lose him in.”
“On the contrary, there is quite a bit of forest to vanish into,” Bard held up a hand as a chorus of grumbling came from the dwarves. “The men of Lake-town and the elves of Mirkwood have long had an understanding between them. There are sections of the greenwood that King Thranduil gave over to our people when Dale and Erebor fell to Smaug.”
“How kind of him,” Thorin bit out. Bilbo winced.
“We believe this Connel has fallen back into the wilds of the forest. None of us here are able enough trackers to find them, not in that dark place, so we sent word to the elven king.”
“What?” Bilbo heard the word roared in stereo from both Thorin and Dwalin.
At that moment the tent flaps swept open and the elven king himself stepped inside. Bilbo, as he always was, felt just a tiny bit awed as Thranduil glided forward. Bilbo had never dared to get very close to the king during the long days of concealment inside the Mirkwood palace. Thranduil seemed to have an eerie glow to him, which had made Bilbo fear he would cast a small, pudgy shadow in the elf’s wake.
“Master Baggins,” Bilbo scrambled to his feet as Thranduil swept forward, cutting right past a sputtering Dwalin to kneel in front of Bilbo and take his hand.
Bilbo felt his flush return with haste. “King Thranduil.”
“You may address me simply as Thranduil, Master Baggins. For without your clear reason and calm sense, we would be in very different circumstances now, wouldn’t we?”
Oh, yes. Bilbo tried not to hunch in on himself when the dwarves on either side of him let out low snarls. Thranduil always, always managed to sneak in a barb about the Arkenstone every time he and Thorin had met in the months since the great battle of five armies.
“King Thranduil,” Bilbo tried to free his hand from the elf’s grip, but Thranduil’s tranquil smile stayed frozen in place, even as his fingers tightened around Bilbo’s. “We seem to have stumbled upon a rather nasty situation.”
“Tell me how I might be of help to you.”
“There are human criminals taking shelter in your forest,” Thorin cut in, stepping close next to Bilbo. A large, warm hand pressed against Bilbo’s lower back. Bilbo could have sworn Thranduil’s smile grew a fraction, even as the elf tilted his head to one side, his strange, unsettling eyes flicking up and down Thorin in a dismissive glance.
“Are there?” Bilbo felt rather pinned as Thranduil’s gaze returned to him.
“Yes? I mean,” Bilbo looked over to Bard, who was sitting back in his chair, one arm wrapped around his chest, the other hand hiding his mouth. “Bard told us that’s where the man – Connel – that’s where he’s hiding. Connel seems to have planned to murder Bard and take over as the new leader of Dale. He was also rigging the mines to collapse, to force Thorin to ask for help from the men outside. A terribly nasty business. They killed one of our exploratory teams! The forest is vast, as you know, so we’re in need of trackers who know – do you mind?” Bilbo couldn’t help the way his voice spiraled up to a squeak as Thranduil’s free hand wrapped around his ankle.
“You are injured.”
“I got a few scrapes, yes, while I was inside the mines – that, sir, is most certainly not my ankle!” Bilbo jerked back as Thranduil’s questing fingers trailed up the outside of Bilbo’s calf towards his knee – even going so far as to lift the cuff of his trousers! The cheek!
Strong arms swept him away from Thranduil. Bilbo found himself in Dwalin’s arms as someone shouted for Oin.
“I’m fine,” Bilbo protested, feeling more than hearing Dwalin’s growl as Thranduil stood and stepped towards him.
“Bilbo,” he heard Thorin say and then glanced down at his leg.
Which, now that he got a proper look at it, had black veins radiating from the scrape on his ankle.
“Oh, bother,” Bilbo managed and then passed out.
~*~
Later, Bilbo would learn that King Thranduil had led the hunting party into the greenwood himself. The elves found the hidden den of criminals and put them in shrew’s fiddles, leading the thieves and murderers out on a long chain to the gates of Erebor. There Bard and Thorin passed judgment on the lot, some executed on sight, others exiled and put on a forced march out to the wastes, with a warning to never return on pain of death.
Bilbo, however, was quite unaware of the whole ordeal, as well as the armed expedition sent into the tunnels to clear out the ruby mines of the poisonous slugs. The hunting parties were led by Dwalin and while the poisonous spit had a ruinous effect on worked leather, against mithril and beaten metal armor it met its match. It also turned out that the slime, which had such a disastrous effect on hobbits, had a much, much milder effect on dwarves.
Bilbo would learn all of this later, after careful days of recuperation and rest, being coddled by all the members of his Company. First, though, he would wake to a deeply shadowed room, lit only by a banked fire in the hearth. Bilbo felt like he was dripping with sweat. His entire body ached, as if the smiths in the forges had taken their collective hammers to all his bones.
He shifted on the bed, blinking a few times until the lumped shadows on either side of him resolved into the sleeping forms of Thorin and Dwalin. Their faces were creased with lines and dark shadows lingered under their eyes. Thorin’s head was cradled on his arms, one hand lax and stretched out, as if he had fallen asleep while reaching for Bilbo. Dwalin had a hand wrapped around Bilbo’s calf and was snoring softly with each inhale.
Bilbo reached out and shifted a lock of hair from Thorin’s face, the only one of the two he could reach. The dwarf came awake with a start, hand fastening around Bilbo’s wrist in a flash.
“Bilbo,” Thorin’s voice was a gravelly murmur. Bilbo felt the bed jolt as Dwalin came awake with a snort.
“You’ll hurt your neck, sleeping like that. The both of you,” Bilbo winced at the raw feeling in his throat.
“We should get Oin,” Dwalin murmured. Bilbo reached out for him, finding a muscled forearm and wrapping his fingers around it. His eyes felt so heavy and the painful scratch to his throat left him in no hurry to speak more than what was necessary.
“Stay,” he whispered, closing his eyes. He would rest for just a moment, enjoying having both of them close. Just a moment and then they could fetch the healer and light the room.
He felt the bed shift and dip as two weights settled in on either side of him. Bilbo was unaware, as he drifted off back to sleep, of how both dwarves kept a careful hold of his hands, their fingers tangled with his, until dawn. All Bilbo knew was that he was safe, and warm, and that all was right in the world.