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"Hey, did you hear about the Castle of Erebor? There's another so-called psychic coming up from the west. Some big shot, has books and a TV show and everything."

"Ha, like that castle is actually haunted. Oh well, it does good for business sometimes. He doing a signing or something?"

"I heard they'll be taping it, maybe bring in some customers. Though you won't see me heading up there. Don't know about you, mate, but I've heard some creepy things about that castle..."

Bilbo, sunglasses covering half his face with his recognizable Perian curls covered in a large knitted hat, sighed to himself. It was hardly a television show -- just a promotion spot on some special last Hallow's Eve, and barely more than a mention. He was far more famous for his parents, film director Bungo Baggins and action movie actress Belladonna Took, and they were the only reason he had been on the show anyway. His mother's old friend Gandalf had gotten him the spot -- had found him this job, too. And they certainly wouldn't be recording it.

Well, it wasn't as if the rumors about the castle weren't true. Even here in the village of Dale at the bottom of the Lonely Mountain, Bilbo could sense the negative energy of the castle some miles up the road. He glanced over the top of his book, looking up to the mountain where the lone castle stood, the spines of its towers a dark contrast against the snow-covered stone.

"So-called" psychic -- hardly. Bilbo Baggins was an exorcist, and a darn good one if he said so himself. There was no telling where the gift had come from; his parents had been perfectly average, barring their extraordinary personalities. His Took cousins had believed him readily, though, whispering about Took ancestors who had similar gifts to Bilbo's "magic," though his father had called the whole idea "poppycock" and had shunned him until just a year before his death, to Belladonna's dismay.

At least his mother had supported him, before she too passed away. She had introduced him to Gandalf, after all, who had a habit of coming up with peculiar but suspiciously lucrative jobs that involved actual work on Bilbo's part, versus the occasional religious ceremony or overzealous history research.

Like Erebor Castle. Built four Ages ago, it had survived countless battles, murders, violence, and the rise of modern civilization. Over time, the walls had been replaced, added onto with new wings, rebuilt as technology advanced, but the stories had remained the same.

Hundreds of souls trapped in one building. A great war had occurred there once, and thousands of Casari soldiers had died within that castle, fighting a battle from within, though hardly any had lived to tell the tale long ago. The war still remained mostly a mystery, as the few survivors had dared not speak about it, and the castle had fallen into ruin for half an age, forsaken until some landowner took control again.

The faintest rumor, that Bilbo had heard only once, was of a king that still ruled over these poor souls, as merciless and cunning in death as he had ruled in life.

The current owners, the unnamed family to which Gandalf had promised Bilbo's services, wanted the castle flushed of its unearthly occupants. To that end, Bilbo would stay the night in the Castle, and probably for a week or two after, depending on how many souls resided within those walls.

Daunting as a job, now that he could feel the negative power radiating from the castle, but Bilbo was nothing if not tenacious. He had a gift for seeing the dead and sending them beyond the Veil, some ancient magic that had manifested in his small but capable hands. He knew the ancient rites by heart now, and though it would tire him out, he was prepared for the job.

Well, best be off, then.

The inn owner gave him an odd look when Bilbo said he was not staying the night, and a few villagers cast him suspicious gazes as he climbed onto his small motorcycle and drove up the long, winding road to the castle. Bilbo paid them no mind; he was already examining the swell of energy that had seeped into every brick of that castle.

Ghost stories had the right of it in some ways, particularly in that ghosts attracted cold air. More than that, negative energy from malicious spirits tended to chase all the warmth away, as if to imitate the lack of warmth in death. The cold energy wove around Erebor Castle like a mighty shield, delving deep into the earth, as if the castle itself was connected to tunnels of souls carved beneath the mountain.

Bilbo grimaced as the cold whipped at his cheeks; there was no telling what he would find. The owners had never entered the castle; they had inherited it from relatives long gone, and hardly anybody ventured into the building to make a layout of the rooms. He was going in blind, but Bilbo had done far more difficult jobs before, and with much less leisure.

Gandalf had given him two months for a deadline. Bilbo thought it would take no more than a week, two at most. Once he got started, the cycle of reading the rites, forcing the dead to relive their deaths and come to peace, and sending them on would take hardly any time, even with a large number of souls, though it could be said that the age of these souls (over a thousand years, at least) might extend the job for a bit of time.

Bilbo was not worried about it. He had a suitcase full of amenities, a supply of groceries would arrive in the morning, and his sleeping bag was the snuggest in all the land. It would be a nice holiday, if nothing else, once he finished cleaning out the souls. After the rites were done, he would purify the castle, leave a few spells to block any wandering spirits from taking up residence, and be on his way with nary a care.

If only -- if only it had been that easy.

The door to Erebor Castle opened with a great iron key, angular and sharp in Bilbo's hand, but the door swung inward with just a feather touch, not even rusted after an age and a half. The monolith spiraled upward against the mountainside, and before Bilbo entered, he looked up, trying to see the peak of the mountain. Some had called it the Lonely Mountain, down in the village, and Bilbo could understand why, looking upon its solitary peak.

He caught movement on one of the ramparts then; a blink and the figure was gone. Usually spirits were most active during the night, but with this much energy in one place, it wasn't a surprise that the ghosts would wander about in the daylight as well. Bilbo frowned a bit, watching the tower, but he saw nothing else.

That figure had been dark. A malicious entity, then; Bilbo would have to keep his wits about him. He should have expected this, really, given the amount of negative energy he could feel. The very stone of the castle hummed with the despair of the dead; he could hear it now, in the back of his mind. Soft voices whispering, crying, screaming -- but it was only a hum, so low that no normal human would ever realize what the sounds truly were.

Bilbo had excellent ears, for a so-called human. Well, in truth, he was hardly more human than most of the men and women in the village. He was descended from Perian tribes, after all, and most people considered them myth.

When Bilbo looked away from the ramparts and entered the castle, hefting his suitcase, a dark figure materialized on the northernmost rampart while the thick doors swung shut silently. The wind caught upwards and lifted the thick, fur-lined cloak, sweeping long curls away from a narrow face, while broad hands slid light and careful over the stone, as if stroking a lover's skin. On one of those hands, a thick ring with a deep blue stone glinted. Blue eyes swept across the moor, pausing briefly on a lone motorbike; the thin lips sneered.

On the figure's head wreathed a crown shaped as a dragon's horns, the gold gleaming red in the light of the setting sun. The figure turned away, melting into the shadows as if it had never been apart from them.

The wind carried away one word, uttered in a voice so deep and black with hatred and malice, but no one heard it, not even the Perian exorcist who believed in his heritage so proudly.

"Burglar."

Bilbo began the rites at sunset.

A white candle to cleanse, housed in a red lantern to beckon. Three silver bowls of althea and basil (to protect), myrrh and mint (to banish), and rosemary and sage (to purify) were left to burn at the castle's door, while Bilbo walked from room to room, swinging the lantern. He did not speak; he had no need, because the spirits would sense him regardless.

Curiously, they did not come to him, at first. Bilbo thought that they must be clustering somewhere; it was not unusual, after all, for angry souls to cling to one particular place. He knew exactly where, too; down the stairs two flights, halfway down the left hall, and beyond two great doors that were carved as if from dragon scales.

For a moment, Bilbo admired the craftwork on the door; what imagination they had ages ago! The scales gleamed gold as Bilbo lifted his lantern, but beneath the shine, they were a deep, clear red, the same as blood just spilled. They almost looked real.

Bilbo reached out to touch them, stroking his fingers down one of the scales, then hissed and jerked his hand back. A single drop of blood welled on the tip of his finger, and Bilbo frowned slowly, eyeing the door again.

There were no sharp edges on that scale.

"Fantastic," Bilbo muttered, digging into his pocket for his handkerchief and pressing the cloth to the wound. A castle that had soaked in so much energy that it was now as malicious as the spirits that waited beyond that door. Just what Bilbo had always wanted.

"A challenge," he whispered, grinning viciously. This would be a very interesting night.

Carefully, mindful of the blood on his finger, he wrapped his hands around the great iron handles, shaped as if fangs bared to bite, then pulled back, the doors opening smoothly, as silent as the rest of the castle. He expected piles of skeletons, or dusty corpses, or hundreds of red-eyed souls raging at him -- but no.

The great room was empty. Black beyond darkness, stretching deep beyond great pillars that shone with eerie green hues as Bilbo lifted his lantern. The floor was shining, as if just polished; no dust coated even an inch of space within these rooms. Bilbo did not enter; he stared into the shadows, eyebrows furrowed. With this much energy gathered in one place, he should be able to see them now, but it seemed as if a great power had shielded every soul from his keen senses.

Bilbo was very, very good at what he did. No soul should be shrouded from him like this, least of all several hundred.

When he stepped across the room's threshold, the darkness bled away as great fires suddenly flared to life in large stone cups held in antechambers within the walls. Bilbo gaped; the room was massive, reaching deep into the mountain, but every wall was carved perfectly with careful precision, in the old Casari manner of straight lines and harsh angles, forming artwork like Bilbo had only seen in history books. Everywhere, jewels glittered within the walls, as much a part of the building as the rock itself, the strange green stone enhancing each jewel's shining colors.

One could call it beautiful, but the word would only scrape against the edge of the enormity of the room, of the dazzling opulence of its artistry. Bilbo could not find words to describe Erebor; he could only stare, open-mouthed in awe.

When Bilbo's gaze finally swept down from the edges of the room, he yelped and fell back, for standing in front of him was a tall Casari man, his expression fixed in a dark scowl as eyes as clear as jewels glared down at Bilbo. He landed against the doors; they had shut behind him silently, and he scrambled to grab the handles, but they were gone. When Bilbo looked back, the doors had disappeared. ("Be careful of Casari doors," Gandalf had told him, but Bilbo had not believed.)

Bilbo's gaze jerked forward again; the Casari figure still stood there glaring at him. The malevolence of the shade left him shivering from the force of its loathing; he felt, instead, that he might be staring into the fiery gaze of a dragon, for all that the shade was only a head taller than him.

"Burglar," the shade intoned, the voice grating against Bilbo's ears like rocks falling from a cliffside. "So you have returned to me." A quick smile crossed the shade's mouth, and a hand came up to touch Bilbo's face, thick knuckles scraping his cheek, while hot fingers reached back to tug gently at his pointed ear. Bilbo felt something burning on his ear, then, and he jerked away from the shade's grip, covering the side of his face.

The burning faded as quickly as it had happened; the shade released him and turned away, striding into the great chambers. With each step the shade took away from Bilbo, souls began to appear: soldiers of Casari descent in ancient armor; tall Quendi archers with blank, hollowed gazes; ragged Atani men and women in poor workers' clothing, as if returning from a fishing job on the lake on the other side of Dale, but from Ages long past.

The souls stared at Bilbo, crowding together and blocking the view of the shade that had touched him (with hot fingers, Bilbo's mind whispered, no spirit should carry warmth, they cannot hold it for more than a few seconds). Bilbo could hear them now, groaning and whispering and screaming and cursing at him, though no sound carried the noises.

It was all in his mind.

Bilbo straightened slowly, lifting the lantern and squaring his shoulders.

"I have come to absolve you of your death, o spirit who lingers. Cast away your shame, cast away your guilt! Cast away your chains and return to the Veil," Bilbo intoned, stepping forward and raising his hand. In his palm he held a necklace with a small phial of glowing liquid; a gift from one of Gandalf's friends, long ago.

He held his hand before the first spirit's forehead, and the spirit went rigid, the others backing away from Bilbo. In his mind's eye, Bilbo saw flashes of a terrible battle, of Casari soldiers fighting alongside Quendi in shining bronze armor and poor Atani villagers, defending this very mountain. He saw the ancient monsters they fought; Orcs, if he recalled his lessons correctly.

The Casari warrior before him had died with a spear to the heart, defending his home and king. Bilbo smiled as he held the glowing light to the spirit's face. "Be absolved. Return henceforth to the Veil."

The darkened, sunken eyes of the spirit filled with light, and it faded away, gone beyond the Veil forever. Bilbo lowered his hand and looked at the crowd of shades staring at him. The hum of voices in his ear was gone; he must have shocked them.

"Who's next?" Bilbo asked cheerfully.

Four hundred ninety-two souls had resided in the castle. Bilbo did not know what battle had been fought that had killed so many fallen warriors, but he had hardly made a dent in the number by the time sunrise rolled around. Bilbo knew, too, when sunrise occurred; not only because he kept a pocket watch for that very reason, but also because just as suddenly as they had appeared, the souls faded away into the shadows of the room, leaving Bilbo exhausted and alone. He thought he saw the flicker of jewel-toned eyes in the blackness, but they faded, too, as the flames in the walls were doused.

The doors had reappeared. Nothing stopped Bilbo from leaving the chambers, so he crept back to the little room he had claimed for himself near the front doors and collapsed into his bedroll, sleeping without disturbance until high noon.

Bilbo woke later with a great stretch, rested and just as bewildered as before, for it was not the rays of sunshine nor the tapping of a bird against the glass window (is that a thrush? he wondered) but because his ear itched.

A mirror revealed the strangest part of this job yet.

Bilbo's ears were neatly pointed, like any Took or Baggins, from his Perian genes long ago. In his youth, to be more like his Took cousins and to irritate his father, Bilbo had pierced them multiple times. As he had grown into his gift and learned more about the links between spiritual power and the earth, he had changed his piercings to silver with amethyst, diamond, and a few others besides. He never went without them, nor did he ever change them.

There was a new piercing in Bilbo's ear, a thick cuff that was hard and angular compared to the curving silver of his earrings. Bilbo could read a single cirth on the side of it, but he did not know the old letters and could not understand it. No doubt it was powerful, for though he tried, Bilbo could not tear the cuff off, even though it left his ear red and aching.

The shade had marked him -- for what foul purpose, Bilbo could not divine, though it certainly pissed him off. How dare that spirit do this to him! Calling him "burglar" and touching him -- and what kind of spirit had warm hands, anyway? What kind of spirit had blue eyes?

The more Bilbo thought about it, the more his ire faded away into a heavy pit in his stomach, leaving him wringing his hands anxiously. He wondered if he was in over his head.

No, of course not -- Gandalf would not send him on a job he could not handle. Whatever the shade was, Bilbo would save up his energy to deal with it. It had not hurt him, and it had allowed him to exorcise many of its spirits; perhaps it was not so malevolent after all. Whatever the case, Bilbo would keep on his toes. No reason to let the shade take advantage of him again.

In the meantime, it was time to fix some lunch. His groceries should be waiting outside; afterwards, Bilbo would go down to the village to call Gandalf for advice.

Shit, thought Bilbo, staring down at the valley, which was empty of all civilization. Instead of a tidy village by the river, Dale had transformed into ruins, an ancient city that had been destroyed by -- fire? Were those scorch marks he could see?

Not that Bilbo could go down to the village to check. He could not take another step forward from the castle, yards away from it as he was; an invisible barrier blocked him, and Bilbo suspected the cuff on his ear to be the culprit.

When Bilbo turned around to face the castle, he saw the Casari shade in his cloak of black fur and his horned crown staring down at him, mien twisted in cold satisfaction. Bilbo glared, and the shade snorted and turned away, disappearing into the castle.

"Rude," Bilbo muttered, then raised his voice. "Come out, o shade, and speak to me plainly! What have you done to me? What world have you taken me to? And how did my groceries get here?"

For the groceries had been waiting outside the castle doors, properly shipped with everything accounted for, but Bilbo's motorbike was gone with the village. He was completely alone, save the hundreds of souls still waiting for absolution at his hand, and the shade that now must be laughing at him.

Bilbo realized then that he could, indeed, hear laughter, a deep voice echoing down from the mountain, the same voice that had spoken to him from the same lips that had called him "burglar." He scowled fiercely and stomped across the courtyard, passing through the open doors which shut silently behind him and stopping at the center of the front hall, fisting his hands.

"Show yourself, o shade, and face me! What powers have you to appear in sunlight? What powers have you to mark me thus? Show yourself, o shade, and face me!" The laughter grew louder, but no closer, and Bilbo fumed. "Face me, damnit!"

"Would you think it wise, o burglar, to taunt a dragon protecting his hoard?" asked the shade behind him, and Bilbo whirled around to find the kingly spirit staring at him. The laughter was gone. The cruel light was back in those jewel-blue eyes, though the shade regarded him evenly. "For you have entered the dragon's den, burglar, and only thieves and beggars would bravely enter my castle. I am not surprised it is you, though," the shade said then, and something in his glowering, hateful mien softened as he looked upon Bilbo.

Bilbo threw out his hand, fingers stretched wide with the gleaming necklace of light hanging against his palm, but the shade only batted his hand away, sending the phial skittering across the stone floor. "Elvish tricks," the shade growled, grabbing Bilbo's shirt and dragging him deeper into the castle.

"What," Bilbo sputtered, reaching up to tug at the shade's hand -- but what shade wears leathers and silver? What shade carries heat? What shade has skin? -- stumbling after him in stunned surprise. "How did you do that? It repels evil!"

"Obviously I am not evil, then," the shade retorted with a smug tone, leaving Bilbo speechless for a time. The shade took advantage of his shock and carried him down into the castle, taking this hallway or that staircase, that Bilbo could not make sense of, for every time they turned a corner, the space would fade into shadow and he would not be able to see behind him.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked, frantic, but the shade did not answer him. "Tell me, o shade!"

"My name is not 'o shade,'" the creature replied -- for if it was not a shade, it must be something older, something true and real. Something more than just a spirit faded from a terrible death -- like a monster wreathed in darkness.

"Then what do I call you?" Bilbo cried, frustrated and desperate, and the creature stopped suddenly. Bilbo twisted around and found another door, though this was far different than the dragon's doors, covered in spiraling leaves, vines, and flowers, with butterflies and mushrooms hidden in the carven fauna. He startled, thinking it just like one of the old Periani tea sets from the Took ancestral home; then the door opened, and Bilbo was shoved into the room.

He stumbled and fell against a hard cloth-covered surface; groping in the darkness helped him find his balance, but he could make no sense of what had happened. He turned around and stared at the creature in the doorway, at the arching horns of his crown (is that truly a crown?) and the jewel-brightness of his eyes. He looked far too satisfied with himself.

"You would remember my name in time, I suppose, but I grow tired of your nicknames. I am no shade, nor creature of the night, nor monster in the dark. I am King under this mountain, and only you may call me Thorin." Then he turned away, and Bilbo felt darkness tugging at the back of his mind. The doorway tilted, and the last thing Bilbo saw was Thorin walking away from him, his great horns flaring with brilliant red light, like the glow of a dragon ready to release his flames.

When Bilbo woke, he was lying on a long green couch in a lavish room, decorated in bright colors and with such Periani influences that he thought, briefly, he was back in the Shire.

Yet as he looked around the room, sitting up slowly and grimacing as his head throbbed, Bilbo knew he must be somewhere in the Castle of Erebor. He wondered how he had gotten here; surely he would have chosen this room immediately, had he found it when he arrived, but he had not dared venture too deeply into the Castle yesterday. Everything had been dusty, grimy with hundreds of years of filth.

This room nearly sparkled with cleanliness, as if a speck of dust had never touched its contents. A large bed with pristine gold and green covers sat in the corner, and artwork the likes Bilbo had never seen before decorated the walls, along with thick tapestries, ostensibly to keep out the mountain chill. Everywhere, the motif was plants and vining flowers, and Bilbo thought he could relax here, for all that it was too luxurious for him. Even if he was stuck in the middle of a monster's castle!

Turning around, Bilbo bumped into his suitcase and boxes of groceries, which made him stand up straight with memory. That shade -- that creature had brought him here! He had told Bilbo his name, or what was supposedly his name, something shades usually could not do. He was unlike any spirit Bilbo had ever met, something older and darker, something far more powerful -- and something that seemed alive, just the same as Bilbo himself.

"Thorin," Bilbo whispered, and he startled when the king himself materialized in front of him, black wisps of power dissipating with the movement. Bilbo yelped and fell back on the couch, staring up at the king with wide eyes. He could see it now, in the light of this room; Thorin had honest-to-goodness horns; they were not part of his crown after all, but curled up from his temples in glittering black bone, as part of him as his jewel-toned eyes.

Like the horns of a dragon.

"Don't do that!" Bilbo shrieked, clutching at his chest where his heart threatened to burst through his ribs. Thorin smirked and leaned forward, catching Bilbo's hand and bringing it up to his mouth, framed by a thick, dark beard. Silken warmth pressed against his fingers briefly, then Thorin was pulling Bilbo up and setting him to stand properly.

"Prepare your rites. Sunset is sooner than you think, and you have work to do, burglar." Then Thorin melted away, the shadows claiming him once more, and Bilbo was left standing alone, gaping.

"What," he asked the empty room flatly, but it held no answer for him.

Never, ever in Bilbo's long years of life had he ever encountered such a creature. Ghosts, certainly; vengeful spirits, by the handful. But never had a ghost touched him with flesh warm as if still alive. Never had a spirit cursed him into a different world entirely. Never had a shade spoken to him in such a manner; they hardly ever spoke at all, and only the same things, over and over. They did not laugh, either.

Bilbo's knees buckled, and he sank to the floor numbly, staring at the closed door for what felt like an age. His stomach growled then, so Bilbo shook himself of his stupor and rummaged around in his groceries for something to help him think. No sense could be made on an empty stomach, after all, and Thorin was right. The sun would set soon, and Bilbo needed to be ready.

When the sun had finished its descent beyond the horizon (though this Bilbo did not see; he only knew by the watch in his pocket and the list of dates and times in his journal), Bilbo stood ready in front of the door. He had his lantern lit, the herbs smoldering in their bowls, and though he had lost the light of Eärendil, he had other methods of exorcism. He would have his answers, too, once he finished his job, or even before. Thorin would not escape him this time!

Yet during the whole night, Bilbo saw neither hair nor wisp of King Thorin.

His door opened onto the hallway where the dragon doors waited, though Bilbo was positive that his room was much higher in the castle. A trick of magic, to be sure, and Bilbo ignored it for now, stomping into the great chambers with a scowl. Thorin was nowhere to be found, but the souls of the dead remained.

A gleam caught his attention, and Bilbo saw his necklace lying on the floor nearby. It was unbroken, to his great relief, but the dastardly king who had stolen it was gone. He did not answer to Bilbo's shouting, either, so Bilbo took his frustration out by exorcising the spirits without pause, until the sun rose again and the souls, now greatly reduced in number, faded into the shadows once more.

Bilbo was so exhausted that when he left the dragon chambers, clutching his lantern and scowling into the shadows, he hardly noticed the whisper of breath beside him, even when his vision sank into black and he knew no more, until he woke again in his room.

This time Bilbo woke upon the bed, groggy and dull with bone-deep exhaustion. Doing so many exorcisms in one night was bad for him; and seemingly the castle agreed, because it would not let him out of his room that day. The fire stoked itself, and a great copper tub filled itself with hot water at his leisure, but Bilbo was left alone in the room with nothing but his belongings and his own anxieties.

So instead of losing his temper and cursing Thorin into nonexistence, Bilbo meditated.

When he came back to himself, Bilbo was alone still, but now level-headed with clarity. He saw to his physical needs and began his preparations again. Something told him that Thorin would not reveal himself again, not until Bilbo had exorcised every lingering spirit in this castle, nor would he release Bilbo from this fading, crumbling world of shadows and ghosts.

Well, Bilbo was not afraid of a challenge.

So the nights continued with Bilbo swinging his lantern and pressing the light of his power into the lost spirits. With every soul that went back to the Veil, Bilbo saw a bit more of that ancient battle. He saw the death of four hundred ninety-two souls who had followed their kings, both crowned and not, into a battle they could not hope to win. It was a hopeless battle for a hopeless cause, over gold hoarded by an ancient Casari king that in turn was hoarded by a dragon.

Yet as Bilbo worked, collecting memories along the way, he realized that the battle had been won, in the end. Allies had come from the north to protect the armies, and the leaders of the monsters had been defeated, though the historic king of the mountain had fallen into darkness, fighting some evil deep within its halls, and their princes with him. A terrible battle, to be sure, but the evil had been defeated, and Erebor had been taken over by the dead king's cousin.

Yet the dead did not rest, and the despair of the spirits who had lost their lives in vain drove the family from the mountain, and too the survivors from the valley.

All this time they had waited, caught in their hatred and fear and love of that old king.

At last, the last soul faded away beneath the light of Bilbo's gift, and when it had crossed the Veil, the castle seemed to sigh in relief. The cold negative energy had been released from its confines, and no longer did the great chambers frighten Bilbo with their blackened walls. The flames went out, one by one, until only shadow remained. Bilbo turned away; then he heard a soft clink, as if coins falling over each other, and he looked back in curiosity.

The chambers were filled with gold, as far as the eye could see, enormous piles of it, and jewels and cups and plates besides, shining brightly as the sun. Bilbo turned as if struck, blinking in shock, but he was only gifted one glance; the golden treasure faded away as his lashes brushed his cheek again.

Well. That was that, then.

Grounding his energy was one of the most important aspects of his gift. The floor of his room had a nice clear space by one of the larger paintings, where Bilbo laid out a black rug, setting the corners according to his compass. Even behind the veil of another time and space, north pointed true, and Bilbo set white candles out to burn along with a bowl of lemongrass and sage for clarity, the herbs relaxing him as he sat cross-legged in the center of the rug.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then another, until the tension began to bleed from his small frame. Pooling his energy was a simple task, but time-consuming; mental strength purified it, took the darkening edges from its light. Soon Bilbo had soft sparks of light floating around him, the same as in his phial, his eyes half-lidded as he meditated.

Some of his older Took relatives had called it magic, and Gandalf had remained obstinately silent on the subject of exactly what Bilbo's gift was. Nowadays, most people of Arda thought of this sort of work as foolish fancy, believing magic no more real than the myths of Ents or fairies, but Bilbo had been born with a Sight that could look beyond the realm of everyone else's reality. He knew the truth, just as his mother did.

Gandalf had told Bilbo, once, that if he wished to use his gift in other ways, he would surely be able to do so; from manipulation of the elements to physical shields of defense. Bilbo, who had seen how the public viewed the supernatural, had told him simply that he was happy sending spirits to rest and had no concern to learn more, except perhaps a bit of earth magic, if Gandalf knew it.

Gandalf had laughed fondly and given him a book of gardening spells, all the while watching him with a twinkling gaze that, when Bilbo thought about it afterwards, seemed quite sad.

Bilbo understood too well. He had never really fit into their world as it was, either.

Hours later, his energy recovered and his power floating lazily around him, Bilbo opened his eyes to find Thorin sitting in front of him, missing his crown and cloak, clad in only black leathers with his horns glittering with faint red power, just as Bilbo's magic glowed white. Lost in thought, Thorin blinked slowly when he realized Bilbo was staring at him, a frown fixed on his small mouth.

"You are not a ghost," Bilbo told him, and Thorin's lips quirked with humor.

"That I am not," the King agreed, nodding. He sat lazily with his back against the wall, one long leg extended past Bilbo's rug, careful not to nudge the candles, his arm resting across his knee. Bilbo noticed his boots, then; heavy and made of leather with squarish, engraved metal cuffs over the toes. Bilbo himself was barefoot; he preferred it, and were he not afraid of stepping on some ancient blade here, he would walk the castle without shoes as he pleased.

"All the weapons were put in storage long ago," Thorin said off-handedly, and Bilbo startled, then scowled.

"Quit reading my mind!" he snapped, unsettled by Thorin's easy glances into his thoughts. "You are not a ghost, nor a spirit nor shade, nor any creature I have ever encountered before. You have horns, for goodness' sake. I want answers. Who are you, and why are you here?"

Bilbo's demand was met with silence. Thorin regarded him evenly, jewel-blue eyes sparkling in the low light, opulent as a multi-colored gem of a similar name. Then he stood, graceful as a King would be, and pulled off his heavy leather gloves, tossing them aside.

Thorin's hands were transformed; they had faint scales running up his knuckles and over his tendons, hued a harsh, golden red. His claws were long and black as his horns, and on his finger rested a gold ring with a great blue stone.

Thorin held that clawed hand out to Bilbo. When Bilbo looked up at Thorin's face, he saw the same red-gold scales creeping up his skin, as if the illusion of being a man had finally melted away. Something in his jewel-toned gaze was familiar to Bilbo, beckoning him to Thorin's side.

"Dragon," he breathed, and Thorin's solemn expression softened as if pleased with Bilbo's cleverness. He reached up without thinking, and the flames of his candles blew out as his fingers touched Thorin's hand. Thorin pulled him up, drawing him close and turning to press soft lips to the cuff on Bilbo's ear.

"You have the right of it, as always, o thief in the night, but not quite true at the same time," the dragon-king murmured, still holding out his hand. "You were clever then, my burglar, to fool me thusly, though you meant to save me. I wish you had, back then. I was a fool for not believing in you as you always trusted me."

Bilbo froze, something in those words clinging to his memory. He turned his head to look up at Thorin, catching sight of those jewel-blue eyes, thinking them familiar to a vision from one of his dreams long ago. "You were the king they died for," he whispered, and Thorin sighed against his curls.

"True as well."

"You were heir to the throne," Bilbo continued, warming to his theory. "A king on a fool's quest, to reclaim your homeland from the dragon of old. But... you fell, fighting that dragon... and he cursed you for it."

Thorin was silent against him, his broad hand stroking down Bilbo's back and resting on his hip. His claws danced delicately over Bilbo's skin, sharp enough to slice him open, but they nicked not a single time. Bilbo was safe within Thorin's grip, for all that Thorin could be called a monster.

"A curse lay upon that gold when I claimed the mountain from Smaug, and I fell victim to it far too quickly. You were the only one who thought I could be saved, you know," Thorin murmured, bringing Bilbo's hand up and pressing the tip of one of his claws to Bilbo's finger, at the reddened spot where Bilbo had cut his hand days ago. Bilbo could barely flinch before vicious red began to drip down his hand, and he stayed silent, frozen, as Thorin brought the bloody fingers to his mouth, sucking on Bilbo's skin with a burning, silken tongue.

Bilbo must have made a noise, because Thorin's gaze fixed on him suddenly, keen and malicious and so very angry, the insanity of a king lost to gold sickness.

"You were the only one I could trust," Thorin whispered again, pressing Bilbo back against the wall. "Yet you betrayed me too, in the end. How foolish I was," the king laughed, wrapping his long fingers around Bilbo's throat and tightening his grip, as Bilbo gasped and clutched at his wrist. "To trust a Shire-rat. All that I did, I did for you," he whispered, his mien crumbling, wretched with despair before Bilbo's fearful gaze.

"You will know my agony. You will know the years I have waited in these haunted halls -- you will know the pain I have suffered. You will rue the day you ever agreed to join my quest, Bilbo Baggins," Thorin raged, and he threw Bilbo away from him, staring with a blank, bright gaze as Bilbo landed on his meditation rug, knocking the bowls of ash over and scattering the candles.

Bilbo jerked his gaze up to meet Thorin's eyes, realization flashing through his mind, alongside memories of Ages past. "Thorin," he cried, scrambling up, but Thorin was stalking away from him, the door flying open to let him pass. Bilbo flew after him, and already the door was slamming shut -- but Bilbo squeezed through just before it closed, and the bang echoed through the castle. Thorin was gone.

Bilbo was alone --

-- he had stood alone in these halls once before, listening to the fading steps of his friend and dreading the dragon he would face below; all he needed was a gold cup, a glimpse of the monster within the mountain, but his king wanted a certain jewel -- out of greed or duty, he could not tell --

-- but now he knew where he was and what must be done. There was no other choice; not when it came to Thorin Oakenshield.

Grimly, he straightened his shoulders and walked forward into the darkness, the shadows swallowing him down into the mountain. Thorin had laid the path already, with the cold energy marking the path that spiraled downward, and all Bilbo needed to do was follow him.

He would not lose Thorin to dragon sickness again, not if he could help it.

He had nothing but himself, none of his herbs or protections, only the magic that he had been born with, that he must have been given for this reason. What other purpose did he have for this life, but to find Thorin again and save him, as he could not during that terrible battle?

Perhaps Gandalf had known some part of it that he could not have told Bilbo before; hence, why he had gifted book after book of old spells that Bilbo had not cared to learn, but which he had read anyway, eager to know more about the mysterious power that dwelled within him.

Now he used those powers to create light, so that he may see the halls of Erebor once more. Small orbs appeared around him, shining white light upon the carven walls, and Bilbo walked silently, looking upon Erebor as if reliving an old memory. Now he could see that Erebor was not just a castle built into a mountain, but an entire city.

Soon Bilbo stood before the dragon chambers once more, staring up at the glittering scales and wondering how Thorin had turned the hide of a dragon into a pair of doors. He would have to ask later; as it was he was already running behind schedule. Thorin had retreated far beyond the limit of where Bilbo had tred in the castle, and he would be walking into a world unknown. Whatever dragon-magic had fused with Thorin's soul, Bilbo had no defense against it, save the gifts he had been born with in this life.

"I'm coming in there whether you like it or not," Bilbo said to the doors with a scowl. Then he pulled on the handles, and to his surprise (I should not have doubted you) the doors swung open silently, as easily as nights past. Within the great chambers lay piles and piles of precious, shining gold, a great wealth that Bilbo ignored as he walked forward. The coins dug into his bare feet, but Bilbo was descended from Hobbits, and there was no floor he could not walk barefoot.

"Curse you, Shire-rat! Leave my halls at once!" came a great bellow from deep within the chambers, and Bilbo's eyes narrowed. So it was Erebor after all, and not Thorin, that sought to help him.

"Fat chance of that," Bilbo shouted back. "I'm not done speaking with you, Thorin Oakenshield! Dragon sickness or no, you have a lot to answer for! Come out here and face me!"

Thorin did not reply, perhaps shocked that Bilbo had used his old name. Bilbo set forth with single-minded purpose, and along the walls and pillars, flames leapt to life in the great bowls; Erebor wished to give him every assistance.

Bilbo ignored the gold, though; there was only one thing in that great hall that he needed.

"Balin was right, you know," Bilbo called out, his voice ringing through the halls. "I asked him about it, this gold sickness of yours, and he told me then. He told me! He told me that the Arkenstone would make things worse! And I foolishly didn't believe him," Bilbo breathed, stumbling down a great pile of gold and stalking around a corner, glaring at the gathered shadows that vanished when his voice was heard.

"You were right! This is my fault!" Bilbo shouted to the gold, to the sickness that Smaug had left behind, and to Thorin who had no choice but to listen to him.

"Silence," Thorin whispered beyond him, but Bilbo charged forward, skidding around a pillar and hurrying on. Thorin's malevolence raged around him, but Bilbo was running now; perhaps it was Erebor that led him the right way, or perhaps it was his own true memory. Thorin could not stop him now.

"This is my fault, because I gave you that stone! And you threw me off the battlement for it, you great sodding Dwarf!" Bilbo sobbed. "Then you went and got yourself killed! And Fíli and Kíli too!"

"Silence!" Thorin roared, manifesting in front of Bilbo, but Bilbo charged forward and shoved him back, glaring up into his brilliant dragon-sick eyes as he grabbed onto Thorin's clothes.

"If I hadn't given you that stone, you might have lived! A proper life, a quiet life with me!" Bilbo shouted through his tears, and where Thorin had raised his hand to strike, the King froze, staring down at Bilbo. "Whether here or in the Shire, I would have lived the rest of my days with you! But I ruined it," Bilbo whispered, leaning into Thorin's chest. "I ruined you."

"Bilbo," Thorin whispered, the madness in his eyes fading for just a moment, leaving the same expression that had enchanted Bilbo years and years ago, when he was a Hobbit in love with a Dwarf.

"I'll not do it again, Thorin," Bilbo told him, his voice shaking with the force of his emotion. "I'll not lose you to this madness again." He let go of Thorin and backed away slowly, and when he was far enough away from the King, he opened his hand, where the Arkenstone lay.

"No," breathed Thorin, jerking forward, but Bilbo pressed his hands against the sides of the Arkenstone and closed his eyes. With everything that he was, everything that he held dear, he pulled every spark of magic within him and poured it into that shining gem.

"Stop! Bilbo, it will kill you!" Thorin shouted, rushing toward Bilbo, but he was thrown back by a burst of brilliant white light. Bilbo began to scream as pain tore up his hands, and then the Arkenstone exploded.

Darkness took Bilbo's vision before he even fell, and all he could hear was Thorin's voice crying out for him.

Not again, he begged, and then Bilbo knew no more.

When Bilbo opened his eyes, he first saw the golden skies of dawn, ushering the stars away one by one. The breeze caught him next; he was outside Erebor in the field, his belongings laying around him. The great well of cold, negative energy beneath the mountain was gone; Bilbo had purified the entire ancient city. He could feel nothing within Erebor, nothing at all.

"My dear boy, what on earth are you doing out here?" asked a deep and familiar voice, and Bilbo tilted his head back to find Gandalf standing behind him, in a soft grey sweater and a neatly buttoned white coat.

"Gandalf," Bilbo murmured hazily, "it hasn't been two months yet."

"No, it has actually been nearly three, which is why I have come to fetch you," Gandalf replied, lifting his thick eyebrows in question.

"Three months," Bilbo repeated blankly, then bolted upright, whirling about to stare at the castle, but he saw no trace of Thorin, no trace of any spirit at all. "He's gone," Bilbo said numbly, not noticing as tears began to drip down his cheeks.

He curled forward, bowing his head into his hands and sobbing. Once again he had failed; Thorin was gone, and Bilbo would never be able to apologize to him, never be able to hear that precious voice again. All he had wanted was to save Thorin, and he had failed again. It wasn't fair!

"Thorin," he gasped to the ground, rocking himself. His arms burned with untold pain; he saw them now, his sleeves torn to shreds and his arms laced with white lines of power. What good did his power do, if he could not use it to protect the one person he loved the most? "I couldn't save him!"

Gandalf stared down at him, head tilted curiously with ancient eyes glittering in a time-softened face. Then he leaned down and gently helped Bilbo up, brushing the dirt and grass from his clothes and offering him a handkerchief. "I think, perhaps, that you saved him after all," he murmured.

When Gandalf looked up, a king with horns of a dragon stared down at them from the ramparts. When Bilbo looked up to follow his gaze, the figure was gone, and Gandalf never said a word of it. Instead he led Bilbo away to a waiting car, leaving his attendants to deal with the strewn belongings.

Jewel-blue eyes watched them leave, clearer than they had been for hundreds of years.

"Did you hear about the Baggins boy? Fell ill, he did, after exploring some ancient ruins out east some months ago."

"Oh, my! What old Bungo would have said! And after the Bagginses died so recently, too."

"I heard he's taken over Bag-End, though the Sackville-Bagginses will be challenging him on it. Mad little Baggins won't keep it, you know, I hear he's much too odd for this neighborhood --"

"I wouldn't believe everything you hear," snapped a deep voice, and the gossipers flinched away from the tall man with dark hair and sunglasses covering his eyes. The man sneered at them as they fled and slid the sunglasses up to reveal jewel-blue eyes, staring up at the round green door with a short sigh.

Bilbo was likely to shout at him again. Well, if it meant a quiet life with his burglar, Thorin would take all the shouting, and the tears and the handkerchiefs and the stubborn wills, because he would not lose this second chance.

Not when it meant coming home to Bilbo.

"I'm not letting you go, you know," Bilbo sulked into Thorin's chest. The Dwarf-turned-dragon snorted, lazily reclining on Bilbo's floor with Bilbo huddled on top of him, arms wrapped securely around Thorin's waist. Many of his belongings were broken, crumbled or shattered where they had hit the wall. He had been aiming for Thorin's head.

"That is fine with me," Thorin rumbled in reply, sounding far too satisfied. Bilbo looked up and made a face at him, eyeing the blackened horns and the scales climbing up Thorin's neck.

They were both marked by power that was older than time itself; such was the price of a dragon's curse. Thorin had remained transformed and would carry his dragon-magic till the rest of his days, and Bilbo could never let his hands be seen in public, though his own powers were now greatly depleted. He likely would not be able to banish spirits again for some years yet, though it hardly mattered now. Wearing gloves all the time would be a pain, though.

"And you're cleaning this up," he griped, while Thorin snorted again into his curls, running long, clawed fingers up his back.

"Also fine with me, though I have no idea where your unbroken crockery goes," Thorin murmured, making Bilbo huff.

"Then you can buy me some more and we can put it away together," Bilbo shot back, pressing deeper into Thorin's arms and sniffing.

Thorin hummed in reply, muttering something like, "And gloves, too."

"And stop reading my mind!"

"I cannot help it," Thorin said quietly, opening his eyes to gaze down at Bilbo. "Your thoughts are my own. Your heart is my own. They are my treasures," he said, smirking when Bilbo began to blush. "Would you keep a dragon from his treasure hoard?"

"Oh, do shut up," Bilbo muttered, leaning up to kiss him. "How did you even find me, anyway?" he demanded after a moment, shifting to cuddle against Thorin's side, and in response Thorin took up his hand and pressed his lips to the small reddened mark on the tip of Bilbo's finger, that had not faded even months later.

"Your blood is known to me now, Bilbo. It sings to my heart. I can follow you anywhere," Thorin murmured against his skin, and Bilbo blushed to the roots of his hair, snatching his hand away and turning away from Thorin, mumbling as Thorin curled an arm around his waist.

"Rude old Dwarf," Bilbo muttered into his arm, and Thorin grumbled into his curls.

"Dragon now."

"It doesn't matter what you are, you're mine and you're staying right here, so you won't need to follow me anywhere. Is that clear?" Bilbo retorted, and there was a long pause of silence; then he heard Thorin's soft voice deep in his heart, as his lips brushed the cuff on Bilbo's ear.

"Always, my burglar."