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That night, when Thorin returned to their quarters, Bilbo was not there.
This was not, in itself, unusual. Both had lives and duties that kept them from one another, sometimes for days at a time or more. It was an unfortunate, but unavoidable side effect of rebuilding a kingdom such as Erebor. Of late they’d had more time together, with Fíli fulfilling his role as crown prince and taking some of the work from Thorin’s plate, but Bilbo still had his book and the diplomatic correspondences he maintained as Consort to keep him occupied, and so at first Thorin thought little of the matter.
Yet time wore on. Thorin ate alone, when it was usually their custom on a quiet night to take their meal together. Worry set in as the hour grew later and Bilbo still had not returned. Thorin had no wish to be overbearing, Durin knew that work stole him late into the night as often as it did Bilbo, but even so he usually left at least some mention of this to Bilbo, when it occurred. He checked the room again for a note or message of any sort, and finding none finally sent a runner down to the library to inquire after Bilbo and ask when he would be returning. No emergency, of course, and Bilbo would no doubt laugh at him in exasperation, that his stubborn dwarf could not sleep without knowing the location of his hobbit, as if any harm could befall him in a fortress such as Erebor.
Bilbo was not in the library. The messenger apologized, and asked if his king would like him to search in some other place, but Thorin waved him away. Not in the library? Then there could be any number of places Bilbo might be, not the least visiting with his friends amongst the Company, and Thorin had no wish to send a squad of guards bursting in on an innocent evening of fireside chats. No doubt Bilbo had only lost track of the time, and would be along shortly.
With this in mind, Thorin retired to bed, but found he could not sleep. After an hour of tossing, he rose again, dressed, and set out into the halls of his city. It was now past midnight, but most of Erebor was without sunlight and therefore never truly slept. There were still dwarves going about their business, in particular shipping and carrying great loads through the relatively empty halls, a far easier task at this hour when the foot traffic lessened. A few dwarves recognized Thorin on sight, despite the fact he went without the mithril circlet of his office or any of his official robes. Clad only in a simple shirt and trousers, as was his preference when affairs of state allowed, he was only another dwarf amongst many, not lingering anywhere long enough to call attention to himself.
Thorin checked the library first, but it was by far the emptiest room at this hour. Shadows cloaked the great stone statues, and their forms flickered as if alive by the light of the few lanterns set up at the tables beneath the rotunda. A handful of scholars were working there, crouched over their books and tablets, with a librarian walking the stacks. They looked up at Thorin’s arrival, and there were Men of Dale amongst them, but no hobbits. It was as the guard had said and Thorin ducked out again, passing silver fountains that filled the air with the sweet scent of fresh water and the delicate pling of droplets. Erebor was beautiful at night, silver and serene, with just enough activity to hold the shadows of memory at bay. Memories of a time where it had been little more than a tomb, and he and Bilbo had walked its vast silent walkways lined with the dead, while corruption spread like a rot within his heart and on his skin.
It had been ten years since then, and outside the snow began to fall in earnest as winter descended. Thorin frowned as he considered this. Yes, ten years to the day, in fact, since he had torn the dragon sickness from his own flesh and ended the curse of his line.
He changed his course, no longer heading towards the wing of the palace that housed Balin and the other members of the Company. Bilbo could well be with them, as he initially suspected, but if that were so then there was no reason to worry and he would be along soon enough.
Thorin did not want to consider, would not normally dare... but each step brought him down the honeycomb of corridors that wound their way between the throne room and the treasury, and a suspicion grew like a shadow in his mind. Though he ventured these paths as little as possible, his feet still knew them well, even as they had been bare, black claws clicking on the stone floors when last he trod this particular hallway.
Memory rose around Thorin like smoke as he drew closer, and stopped before the small room where Bilbo had nearly died all those years before. When the Dragon had kidnapped Bilbo, and stabbed him while Thorin slept, threatening to let the hobbit bleed his life out unless Thorin willingly allowed the creature into his mind.
For all he knew, Bilbo’s blood still stained the floor. Thorin had never told anyone exactly where the room lay, had never sent a servant to clean out the dust and horror. Ten years later, there was still ice in his veins at the sight of the runes above the door naming its function.
Thorin rested his fingertips upon the stone, feeling the cold against his skin, swallowing as he noted his blunt nails and reminded himself it was a nightmare from long ago. Bilbo was likely not even here. This was just taking precautions. If he opened his eyes there would be no claws on his hands, no scales covering his skin, and no creature in his mind.
“Amnârabamâ.”
The door cracked open, trailing dust, and the musty, decayed stench of stale air blasted Thorin’s nose. No one here, no one could be, he told himself. He hesitated in the doorway, wondering if he could only peer inside and be off again, assured that Bilbo had not done something so foolhardy, even though it was an empty room, and all the ghosts long banished….
Something moved in the corner.
Thorin swallowed, and stepped forward from the entranceway, into the darkness, trying not to let his heart leap in his throat to leave the safety of the light behind. He was a dwarf, his kind did not fear dark spaces or closed quarters. This he told himself, even as memory clenched like hands around his throat.
“My own, my love, my own…”
A low, rasping voice scraped along Thorin’s ears and dread formed ice in his stomach and veins as he took another step towards a figure. It was curled up in the corner not a foot from where Bilbo’s blood yet stained the floor, a faded brown stain like rust, and this figure rocking back and forth, back and forth, focused on something in its hand.
“My own, my preci— Thorin?”
Bilbo looked up, eyes wide and glinting in the light from the door, his features pale and twisted with something darker than fear. He clutched his hands together to his chest, teeth glinting.
“What are you doing here?” Bilbo hissed.
Thorin froze, his shadow falling across Bilbo, and he could not help but think he saw Bilbo’s eyes glow for a moment in the darkness, like a cat’s. “I could ask the same of you.”
“Had to hide,” Bilbo muttered to himself, wringing his hands around whatever was clenched there. “Wasn’t safe, not out there, not so… exposed…” He glared up at Thorin. “What does it want?”
Thorin’s features went stiff as the dread increased tenfold and he wondered if he had wandered into a nightmare while his body lay curled up in his bed. This could not be Bilbo, not with its face so twisted, such hatred burning in the depths of its eyes.
“Come away, Bilbo,” Thorin said, his lips barely moving from the paralysis that stretched its cold fingers over his limbs. “We should leave this place.”
“Why, so it can try to steal the precious from us like it did before?” Bilbo spat. “I know your face, Dragon.”
Thorin stopped, horror welling up from pits of memory long buried in his mind. That name. “What did you say?” Thorin breathed.
“The Master of the precious knows it too, he will not let you escape so easily this time,” Bilbo said, then choked, coughing deep in his throat, a horrible sound like a strangle, guttural name repeated over and over.
Yet fear did strange things to Thorin, always had, sending him charging in where others would flee. He stepped forward again without thinking, and crouched before Bilbo, hands hovering inches above him. “What are you talking about?”
“He will find it, he will take it, he is there, the first fires are lit in his tower. He is coming for it,” Bilbo wheezed.
“For what, Bilbo, who is he? What is he coming for?” Thorin put his hands on Bilbo’s shoulder, and at the touch something seemed to crack in the air, shattering the moment.
Bilbo blinked, and looked around himself in a daze. His hand moved compulsively to his pocket, placing something there, then up and he rubbed his eyes. “Thorin? What on earth is going on?”
Thorin stared, and didn’t even know when he had begun to shake but he was moving forward, seizing Bilbo by both shoulders and pulling him close in a crushing hug. His body trembled and he could not still it, whether it was the room, or the memory or that terrible voice that he already wished to convince himself.
“Nothing, a nightmare,” Thorin said, and buried his face against Bilbo’s hair.
“A nightmare? What have I been sleep walking? Oh… oh gracious, Thorin,” Bilbo’s voice went tight and thin with fear and realization. “What are we doing here?”
Thorin shook his head, drawing Bilbo closer. “I don’t know, Bilbo, I don’t know. We will discuss it later, only please come away.”
If Bilbo had not risen, Thorin would have carried him, so quickly did he wish to leave that place, and he barely glanced back except to make sure the door had vanished behind them, and Bilbo’s hand was in his and he only did not run so as not to leave Bilbo behind. Bilbo’s face was pale, but it was the pale of sleep and sudden waking, while Thorin’s skin felt cold as ice.
“Now hang on a moment, why in the world were we in there? Is this some idea of a joke?” Bilbo exclaimed. “Why would anyone...oh. Oh goodness, it’s been ten years, hasn’t it? I’ll have you know that kind of anniversary is in very poor taste, Thorin.”
Thorin stopped and rounded on Bilbo. They had reached the edge of a crowded hallway, dwarves milling about not a few feet away and finally there he felt safe enough to lean down and meet Bilbo’s eye, searching it for a trace of that thing he had seen crouched in the corner of the room. “Bilbo, who is the Master of the precious?”
“The precious?” Bilbo said, and there it was, the first flicker of a fear that matched Thorin’s own. “I… I don’t know. I haven’t heard that word in, well, so long I’d hardly remembered it.”
“Where?” Thorin insisted.
“I… I’d rather not talk about it, something from my childhood I suspect. A nightmare, perhaps, as you said,” Bilbo looked away as he spoke, but when Thorin cupped his cheek, guiding his face back his eyes remained downcast and lidded.
Thorin’s lips drew to a line, but the horror was fading, enough that he felt the sweep of exhaustion that followed adrenaline, and he shook his head. “It is no matter, we can discuss it later. Will you come to bed?”
“Bed? But it’s not even that late, I was supposed to meet Ori in the library before sundown,” Bilbo frowned.
“Bilbo… it is well past midnight,” Thorin said slowly. Finally, finally, Bilbo’s face fell.
“Midnight?” he echoed. His hand brushed his vest pocket, then came sweeping up to card through his curls, he grabbed them, shaking his head, then looked at Thorin. “I’ve lost eight hours?”
“Perhaps the stress…” Thorin began, but could hear the lie ring hollow in his voice even as he spoke. A comforting lie, one that would allow them to return to their lives as if nothing had happened. Bilbo looked at him, and it was clear they both knew it, both saw it that something was wrong, but then Bilbo only nodded.
“Yes, the stress. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix,” Bilbo said. “I’m sure it will look better in the morning.”
Bilbo took Thorin’s unresisting hand and now it was he leading them back to their quarters, while Thorin lingered behind, watching him with blue eyes gone shadowed.
It was not the first of Bilbo's blackouts, Thorin would learn, and it was far from the last time. But it was the worst for many years, and it would be many years more before word came from the south.
That day, for the first time in over two thousand years, fires had been seen in the ruined lands of Mordor, a beacon in the black tower of Barad-dûr.