mithril

XII.

— 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."