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Thorin Oakenshield dies with his mind intact, but his body broken, and Bilbo Baggins clutching his hand. Overhead giant eagles glide across a brightening sky, and knowing Azog slain and Erebor reclaimed, he passes at peace.

I

And then he slams back into himself. 

The floor beneath his feet is covered in gold; the crown weighs heavily on his head. Rich, dark furs tickle his nose and armor encases his body. His mind spins, half with illusion, half with confusion, for how can he be here, when he still tastes his own blood on his tongue?

Thorin wets his lips, finds them parched but free of blood. An illusion?

 He looks down onto his hands. They are the same as always, not marred by any new injuries. Nor does his chest ache with every breath he draws – surely, the golden armor is heavy and restrictive, but he is hale. His body unharmed, and yet his fingers tremble.

 What a strange dream –

His mind scrambles to reassert himself. Not so much a dream, he thinks as he reaches up and plucks the crown from his head, but maybe another mad vision he brought onto himself. Slowly the pieces of the last days fall into place, and it is as if he finally can breathe. There is clarity, understanding.

The cursed gold, his grandfather’s madness.

With a shudder, Thorin drops the crown. There is a battle going on outside, and even though he has difficulty telling reality from his vision, he will not stand by idly. No, he tells himself as he marches forward, undoing the latches of the heavy, ceremonial armor, though his mind has failed him, he will not cower and hide.

***

The vision, Thorin tells himself, must have been brought on by the madness. Though it predicted what would happen with eerie accuracy (Kili’s accusations, their charge outside) – it cannot have been real.

Thorin, after all, is alive.

***

Thick, grey wads of fog and cloud drift over Ravenhill. The old watchtower looks abandoned - the way it looked in Thorin's vision. He shakes his head to dispel the chill in his blood - an odd vision, nothing more, he reminds himself. It will pay to remain on guard; not to let himself be distracted by phantoms of the mind.

"Fili, Kili," he says to his nephews, "Scout the tower. Stay out of sight and return at once." His words, too, echo what he dreamt, and he shudders.

Fili, though, gives a nod, and disappears down the crumbling staircase toward the frozen river. Kili follows swiftly and silently, and only the howling wind remains. They need to look for Azog and kill him.

"What do we -“ Dwalin begins, when a soft thud interrupts him. Bilbo Baggins appears from thin air, out of breath and red-faced, and Thorin is frozen by the similarities. How come his vision -

"It's a trap!" Bilbo exclaims.

From above a drum sounds.

Thorin’s heart stops. Light flickers in the crumbling tower, the ruins come to live with jeering and shouting, and dread spreads through his chest. Thorin remembers what is to come. His mad vision should never come true, should never have been so accurate (it was brought on by madness; how could it predict the future?).

"Fili!" Bilbo horrified shout makes Thorin look up. His heart twists in his chest as he sees Fili struggle in Azog's grasp, and the pale orc looks to him. Icy blue eyes bore into Thorin’s, while Fili pleads with them to run, to flee.

"First him," Azog promises, "Then the brother. Then you, Oakenshield!"

Thorin barely hears it. He tastes bile, his eyes fixed on Fili, not looking away even as Azog's blade pierces him.

He could have stopped this, Thorin thinks as crushing guilt envelopes him. Had he listened to his vision; had he picked up on all the small parallels and similarities – he might have saved Fili. Now, his nephew’s blood is on his own hands.

Fili's body hits the ground with a dull thud, and the Kili screams with impotent rage. Thorin's heart twists with horror and nausea, but he forces himself to focus, to unfreeze. Kili will die, too, he thinks with growing fear; Kili died in his vision and he cannot allow that to happen.

"Dwalin," he orders, his voice flat, "Find Kili! Take him back to the mountain!"

"Thorin -"

"I'll go after Azog!" Thorin vows coldly, "I'll kill that filth!" And should, like he saw, the fight claim his own life, it will be well. His failure to listen to the warning, his own part in Fili’s death will forever lie on his heart.

Better to die fighting to make things right.

Dwalin grunts an agreement, and hurries off. He’ll save Kili, Thorin tells himself, as he turns around, sword ready and catches sight of Bilbo. With eyes that look too wide in a too pale face the hobbit stares at Thorin; the shock of watching Fili die written all over his features.

Thorin heart twinges. He should make an apology; at least attempt to make amends for his madness and cruelty on the gate. But his heart feels shriveled from grief, and the memory of Bilbo surviving the battle provides merely a small comfort. "Go back to Gandalf," Thorin informs him, "He'll keep you safe."

"No, wait, Thorin -" Bilbo begins, but Thorin does not listen. Bilbo will live, that is all that matters.

He charges onto the ice, and his blood starts pumping. This is hour; he has already failed with Fili, but he will not allow anybody else to die for his mistakes. If this costs his life, he will gladly pay, but Azog will die today.

The icy air creeps under his clothes, cooling his sweat-covered skin. He tightens his grip on his blade, listens carefully for any noise, but hears only the wind howling. Another wad of fog and cloud blasts past, the ice creaks.

And he catches a whistle.

Whirls around just block the stroke Azog throws down from ahead. Thorin dances backwards, Azog lands hard on the ice, and Thorin is in motion before the orc has recovered his momentum. He stabs forward, aims for Azog's neck. The orc catches Thorin's blade with his own, shifts it just past his neck, and Thorin jumps aside before Azog can strike his side.

His heart pounds loudly in his ears; the world narrows down to Azog and him. Thorin dodges, strikes and Azog returns the attacks with brute force. Where Thorin moves lightly, the Orc slams into the ice, making it groan and crack.

They trade blow after blow. Azog pushes forward with no regard for the slippery ground beneath their feet. Thorin dodges swiftly, dives underneath Azog’s guard and strikes, strikes, strikes; his sword cutting through the orc’s skin until Azog’s body is littered with sluggishly bleeding cuts. His blade always finds its mark, but never manages to pierce through the layers of hard muscle.

Azog’s demented grin widens, as Thorin’s blade once again fails deal a fatal blow and merely leaves a bleeding scratch on Azog’s chest.

Thorin stumbles backward, breathing hard. His muscles ache, his lung screams for air, yet Azog looks barely winded. For all he knows, the orc looks terribly confident, and for a split second doubt assails Thorin: can he win? If Azog still only toys with him, can he truly win this fight?

The moment costs him dearly.

Azog charges forward abruptly, swinging his degenerated morning-star in a wide arc, and Thorin barely manages to jump aside. His foot slips out from underneath him, and he falls backward. Thorin lands on his back with a thud, all air leaving his lungs and the blade flying from his hand. It slides over the ice, just out of reach, and an ill-boding smile spreads over Azog's face. Everything inside Thorin rebels, because no, he needs to kill that filth, he cannot die. Azog is not allowed to win, even in his ill-fated vision Azog died.

But his own blade is too far, and Azog already draws back his to strike.

With a shout, something small tackles the orc. They both go flying, Thorin gasping in surprise, and Azog lands in a crouch, growls, with Bilbo rolls over ice, clinging onto his sword with desperation.

"Bilbo!" Thorin exclaims, fear filling his veins, because this did not happen, this is not supposed to happen, and Azog is climbing to his feet, his features dark and threatening. This was not part of the vision he saw; this should not happen.

"Bilbo, run!"

Thorin grabs his own blade, scrambles to his feet with his heart racing in his ears, but he won't be fast enough, won’t reach them in time, and his feet slip and slide and time seems to slow down. He isn’t making progress, and Bilbo doesn’t get up, and this cannot be happening -

Azog stalks toward Bilbo with long steps, the hobbit scrambles backward, struggling to find purchase on the ice.

"Die!" Azog roars and Thorin's heart stops.

He doesn’t hear the wind rushing past him as he races forward, clutching his sword hard. Azog doesn’t hear him either, but Thorin’s mind, too, is entirely blanked out by Bilbo’s shrill scream as rusty metal cuts through the soft flesh of his upper thigh. A second wet squelch follows immediately; caused by Thorin’s blade piercing Azog’s throat from behind.

The orc gargles, twitches, as black blood blubbers from his mouth. His blade clatters onto the ice, but Thorin doesn’t stop to watch the sworn enemy of his line finally die. He falls to his knees next to Bilbo who clutches weakly at the stump that remains of his leg. Copious amounts of blood wet the ice; the puddle spreads fast, and already Bilbo looks pale, his eyes wide with shock.

Thorin’s heart races, he fiddles with his belt. Tourniquet, his mind tells him, he must stop the bleeding. Even though there’s already so much on the ground, and Bilbo’s movements are slowing. As fast as possible he rips the belt from his trousers and wraps it around the stump, his hands becoming wet with blood.

He jerks the belt close, though he realizes it’s not enough. Bilbo breathes shallowly, and blood keeps running from the stump. His fingers twitch weakly, brushing against Thorin’s, and with a shuddering breath, Thorin hangs his head.

What a fool he is, he thinks. First he failed to prevent Fili’s death, though he might have. Now Bilbo’s blood stains his fingers too.

“Thorin,” Bilbo slurs weakly, “Thorin.” 

His eyelids are fluttering as he struggles to focus. Thorin shifts his weight, draws Bilbo’s body into his arms. More blood gushes from the wound in this position, yet that hardly matters anymore. Instead Thorin reaches for Bilbo’s hand, clasps it tightly.

He should have never brought Bilbo here.

“I’m here, Bilbo,” he says, gently, “I’m here.” He wants to say more – promise Bilbo all will be well – but he can’t. It’s a lie; and in the end the hobbit’s death will be his fault. For he brought about Fili’s death by disregarding his vision, and Bilbo’s death because he thought him safe. Safe, when in fact he never was, and Thorin should have known.

Should have made sure to protect him.

“I’m glad,” Bilbo murmurs, burying his face in the warmth of Thorin’s coat, “I’m glad I came with you.”

“And for that you will always have the gratitude of all dwarves,” Thorin replies softly, “And mine in particular. Had you not come, we would not have gotten far.” He brushes a hand gently over those matted curls. They used to be soft and light – dust, dirt and blood have stained them.

Will he ever have a chance to touch them again?

“To think I would have … lived out my whole life … without knowing …” Bilbo breaks off with a soft, wet cough. Thorin carefully turns his face, and finds a trickle of dark blood running from Bilbo’s lips.

Not long now…

“I am lucky to have known you,” Thorin confesses, as his heart breaks into pieces, “I was blind before, and I will forever regret not having had enough time. I –“

Bilbo’s chest stills.

The words freeze in Thorin’s throat.

His heart clenches, as the realization fills both his chest and mind. Not just lucky to have met Bilbo Baggins. Not just a deep intimate friendship.

No, Thorin understands at that moment, Bilbo meant so much more to him. And with the hobbit dead in his arms, that chance has forever passed.

***

Later he carries Bilbo’s body back to the makeshift camp. Balin heaves a deep sigh, and Dwalin shakes his head, his eyes red-rimmed. Bofur turns away, almost in anger, while Dain inclines his head and points to another tent.

“Kili,” he says, and Thorin merely catches sight of long red hair through the tent flap, “I’m sorry." 

Thorin’s heart breaks further. So he has failed utterly – and they are all dead, but he lives. His nephews are dead, the other part of his soul has passed, and their blood is on his hands. Had he paid attention to his vision –

He takes a shuddering breath and moves past. Bard and Gandalf find him; both appalled at Bilbo’s fate.

Thorin has half a mind to ask Gandalf if magic cannot resuscitate Bilbo. Is there not a dark magic to raise the dead? Yet Gandalf shakes his head before Thorin can even ask, and he understands that if there was any way to bring back Bilbo, Gandalf would do it at once.

But Bilbo has moved past their world, and yet Thorin sits with his body as the sun sets. He should not have died so far from home – so far from any relative to mourn and bury him. Thorin will do what he can, though it will never be enough.

He closes his eyes.

II

Thorin opens his eyes. He looks at a stone floor, covered in smooth gold that is horribly familiar. The crown weighs heavily on his head.

“No,” he whispers in disbelief. 

But the armor he wears is the same, and his body his whole and hale, and in the hall before the entrance his company sits and waits while Bilbo must be with Gandalf on the battlefield.

“No,” he echoes and shakes his head to dispel the violent images. Azog’s blade piercing Fili’s body. Bilbo on the ice, dead.

That cannot –

He remembers his first vision. Or what he thought was a vision, because it began the same. He stood here, too, and stared at the gold-covered floor, before he decided not to be a coward and face battle.

Then he had thought it to have been a hallucination brought on by madness. Could it not be the same now, too?

His hands shake, and the ground seems to spin. There is no way to tell reality from imagination to him; he cannot find ground, cannot know, but he fears doing wrong. What if he goes out, only to have Fili die again? What if he is the one to get his companions killed?

Ice runs through his veins, he pulls the crown from his head. Without it, he can think easier. Better.

Whatever this is – madness, fallacy, or a twisted magic – there is a battle raging outside. A battle commandeered by Azog, while Thorin sits in his mountain, and for all that is right or wrong with this world, he will not hide.

He will kill Azog. Again, and again, and again, until the Valar, the magic, or his own mad mind are satisfied.

***

"I will not stay here and hide," Kili exclaims angrily, "While others fight our battles for us!"

No, Thorin thinks, as he sees Kili's emotions mirrored on Fili's face, no, he wishes he could ask them to stay behind, stay hidden behind these walls of stone that they might protect them. But he knows he cannot ask that 

So he draws Kili close, and waves Fili over to hold them both in an embrace. Whatever may come, Thorin vows to himself, they will live.

"No," he tells his nephews, "It is not in our blood."

They leave the mountain, fight their way through the orc ranks, the way they did the last time and the time before. The orcs fall easily under their blades, and the elation of an easy victory spurs on his companions, but his knowledge rests heavily on Thorin. This battle is far from won, their troubles not yet over.

But he will make sure they survive. And Bilbo, too.

"Fili, Kili," Thorin orders, drawing on the reigns to make his goat halt, "You go and fight with Dain!"

"But uncle!" Fili protests sharply, "We're to go with you!" Kili nods firmly and there is a bleeding cut on his face Thorin failed to notice before. They are too young for battle, they should not be here. Despite their bravery, Fili is paler than he should be and Kili's eyes are wide with the rush that comes from fighting for survival.

"Dain needs help!" Thorin instructs sharply, "And so need his people. You are princes of Erebor, it is your task to guide them! 

And if Thorin dies tackling Azog it will be their job to rule Erebor.

Kili looks unconvinced, but the sound of a dwarven horn behind them has Fili nodding. He jerks the reigns, turns the goat back - and Thorin turns his eyes to the hill ahead.

"What are we doing?" Dwalin inquires, barely stopping to hack the head off of an approaching orc. In the distant, a troll screeches in pain and a war tower collapses. Arrows whistle through the air, aiming for exposed orc and goblin flesh, but for each fallen orc, five others appear.

"Go for the head," Thorin declares.

Hopefully his words will not jinx it.

They gallop up as fast as they can, cutting through any orcs they encounter. The Rams are happy to charge ahead, lowering their heads to push through, and jumping their way up with ease. A familiar fog soon envelopes them, the sounds of battle fade away.

Thorin gestures for Dwalin to fall silent. They are later than he was the last time - still, no sign of Azog. Does the orc lie in waiting? 

He looks up to the crumbling watchtower, but spies no movement. No trace of Bilbo either, and though he should have been here by now. Thorin frowns, wonders if sending Kili and Fili away changed the timeline. Certainly, he and Dwalin took longer to reach the top of the tower.

Thorin breathes deeply, fights to calm his racing heart.

A cloud passes by, the ice moans. Overhead, the sky begins to brighten. Once the sun rises above the horizon, the eagles will sweep in and end the battle. If they all make it, perhaps Thorin will not find himself back on the gold-covered floor.

A soft thud cuts through the silence, Thorin sees something drop from the corner of his eye, and Dwalin gasps. He whirls around, and there is something hanging from the watchtower, swinging in the wind like a pendulum.

He recognizes a faded blue coat. And his heart shatters.

Dwalin flings himself forward with a roar, Thorin hears Azog cackle, and that is Bilbo, Bilbo hanging from the tower lifelessly, a rope around his throat, and blood on his coat, and not even the mithril shirt could have save him.

He doesn’t feel himself moving. The world blurs, he isn’t listening to Azog, but instead hears the soft thud with which Bilbo’s body hits the ground. Dwalin is there to catch him, there even before Thorin, and just how terribly did he fail his burglar?

How did he fail this chance, how is it that Bilbo, again, dies, when he thought he could save them all?

Bilbo’s eyes are closed, though there are lines of pain on his face, and dark blood on his lips. Much coats his hair and the side of his neck – one ear is missing, and his arm hangs at an odd angle, the shoulder obviously broken. But it matters not, for the hobbit is utterly still and dead.

Azog laughs. 

Thorin’s heart shatters. And he knows no more.

III

Gold covers the floor before his eyes. 

It is, Thorin thinks, attempting to focus his aching brain, the third time? Is he caught in a time loop or in a snag of his own mind, and none of this is real? But try as he might, he cannot spy anything wrong with this world –

Except for the memory of Bilbo’s body swinging like a pendulum in the icy morning air.

No, Thorin thinks frantically, no. He rubs at his eyes to wipe away the image, not caring that the crown rolls off his head. His heart throbs with terror and hope, because he never again wants to see Bilbo die like this, never again wants to lose him like this.

And he has another chance, one more chance to get things right. 

Thorin pushes himself forward, flying almost blindly through what have now become too familiar corridors. He knows what Kili will say, knows his own response – though he wonders: should he not pray for his companions to stay in the mountain? They will be safer there – but if they stay close to Dain, they should survive.

So they charge from Erebor, and split. Dwalin, Balin, Fili and Kili will go and fight with Dain. Thorin goes to search Bilbo.

*** 

The moment Bilbo turns around the corner and disappears from Gandalf’s view, Thorin is there. He reaches out and drags the hobbit into a doorway, pushing both of them past the rubble, disregarding Bilbo's shriek and initial struggles.

"Thorin, what are you - Thorin!" Bilbo exclaims, tugging at the iron grasp Thorin has on his upper arm, "Thorin!"

They are far enough. Should be safe for now, Thorin thinks and turns to grab Bilbo by his shoulders. He still can remember the limp body in his arms like a phantom pain. How slight and fragile it felt, and he shudders. He must save Bilbo this time, and he does not care if the hobbit will think him mad for it.

"What in the world are you doing?" Bilbo stammers, his wide-eyes searching Thorin for any possible clue. A hint of fear lies in them, but that is well deserved, considering the last time they saw each other Thorin tried to throw him from the ramparts. But Bilbo holds his ground, does not even reach for the blade strapped to his side, and Thorin knows he does not deserve this loyalty and for that alone he needs to ensure Bilbo's survival.

"You need to go back," he bursts out.

"What?" Bilbo explodes.

"To Erebor!" Thorin shouts and he can't help giving the hobbit a shake, "Go inside the mountain, the royal chambers! Anywhere! Dain will keep them safe!"

"What?" Bilbo blinks furiously, "Thorin, what, why?"

"You need to go!" Thorin shouts, and shakes Bilbo again, the hobbit trying to slip from his grip this time around.

"Thorin, what is going on?" he stammers, running a hand through his matted hair, "Why are you here? Why do we need to go inside Erebor? Why didn't you tell the others?"

A shout rings from far too close and dust rains down on them. The building will not hold long, will not be safe, and time is running out.

"You need to get to a safe place," Thorin grunts out. There are no words to explain things now, and maybe Bilbo will never understand and always hate him, but with what happened between them, that is only fair. As long as Bilbo lives, Thorin will gladly do what is required. As long as he does not have to hold Bilbo's dying body in his arms again.

"This isn't safe!" Thorin declares, before ducking underneath Bilbo's surprised expression and scooping him up. The hobbit barely weights anything, thrown over his shoulder like a sack, and small fists glance of Thorin's armor without making a dent.

"I'm sorry," Thorin says, as he ducks around a rotten door frame, reaches for his sword, "But I need to know you safe!"

He flings himself back into the field, dodging past fighting pairs of elves and orcs, cutting down goblins until black blood mattes his blade, until he finally spies a building that feels solid. Dale's former bank, he recognizes, the colors long gone from fire and weather, but their vaults should have held.

Dwarven-made, they should still stand, and Thorin kicks open the bent copper door, ignores Bilbo's confused exclamation and disappears into the darkness, still pulling Bilbo behind him. The hobbit stumbles, blind in the dim light.

Unrelenting, Thorin steers them down into the cellar, and then into a vault. Only when he has shut the door behind them, he releases Bilbo.

“Thorin, what is going on?” Bilbo asks, his voice trembling. He cannot see anything in the darkness, and Thorin spies him carefully shifting his weight.

With a heavy heart, he reaches out and takes Bilbo’s wrist; gently this time around. “I … am trying to keep everyone safe,” he says. Now that his heart begins to calm – that the door is closed and they are safe – he realizes how mad his actions must seem to Bilbo. “I apologize if I scared you.”

“I’m … not scared, but I don’t understand, Thorin,” Bilbo says hesitatingly while Thorin leads them over to a corner, where a lone surviving shelf might double as a bench. It should at least hold up Bilbo.

“Let me try to explain,” Thorin starts, “But sit down first.”

“Where? I can’t see a thing!”

And Bilbo is terribly brave to remain so calm in a room where he is blind with a King who last tried to murder him. He should not have to be so brave, Thorin thinks, and wets his lips. “Allow me,” he says, before reaching out to carefully lift Bilbo by the hips and set him down atop the shelf. 

The hobbit gasps, but does nothing except shudder.

Thorin waits until his breathing has slowed down, before he leans against the wall next to Bilbo. “I … it is difficult to explain, but I had a sort of vision. It warned me that were I to charge blindly out of Erebor, many would die. Fili, Kili, and you, Bilbo.”

“I could not allow that to pass.”

Bilbo swallows. “I see,” he offers, “Where are Fili and Kili? Are they still in Erebor?" 

Thorin shakes his head. “They fight with Dain and the others.

“Then we should go and help them!” Bilbo exclaims, jumping up from his perch, “Thorin, they are in danger!" 

Thorin purses his lips. “Perhaps,” he admits, “But they are skilled warriors.” Unlike Bilbo. And its Bilbo’s blood he still feels on his fingers; the memory of Bilbo’s eerily swinging body that makes his stomach twist.

Bilbo frowns. “I can protect myself. Really, Thorin! I have the mail you gave me, and I’ll stick close to Gandalf. Please, you should look out for Kili and Fili! If they are in danger…”

“Dain and the others will look after them,” Thorin promises and takes hold of Bilbo’s hand again. The wrist feels eerily birdlike under his fingers – as if he could crush the bones if he gripped too hard. Under the skin, the pulse races, because once again, Bilbo pretends to be braver than he feels.

“They will be safe,” he vows, and prays his words may come true, “And I … I worried for you. What the vision showed me –“ He breaks off, unable to put into words what he watched. Lived through.

Bilbo observes him, wide-eyed.

“I had to make sure you were safe, Bilbo,” Thorin explains and hopes his words are enough.

Bilbo exhales loudly and relaxes onto his seat. He doesn’t retract his hand from Thorin’s, but instead leans closer. The silence stretches between them, and Thorin’s own whirling mind slowly begins to settle. Panic, fear, and confusion – they drain from his veins. In the noiseless darkness around them, the world seems to have vanished, and it is easier now to banish those terrifying memories.

Think about what was before – the memories that have begun to fade.

Thorin swallows. “I would apologize,” he begins, “For being blind. Not just to your worth initially, but for failing to see when we reached Erebor. You tried to warn me, I see that now.”

Bilbo flinches. “It’s … I did not do the right thing either, Thorin,” he returns, “I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to give you the stone, but –“ He trails off. Like Thorin, he is unwilling to call madness by its name.

“But you saw and you tried,” Thorin replies, “It’s good you did not give me the stone.” He shudders at the thought. Would it have truly driven him beyond the brink of sanity? Would it have turned him into a rampaging madman?

“I should not have given it away, either. At that time I thought it was a good idea, but looking back, I think I should have found another way to get an agreement,” Bilbo sinks back against the wall.

Thorin tightens his grip on Bilbo’s wrist ever so slightly. “I think you did well,” he says, “It’s not as if you had any help or any idea. Forcing a standstill was for the best.” Would have been for the best, had not Azog arrived.

For a moment Thorin wonders how the battle fares. Will Azog have grown suspicious at finding his trap empty? Is dawn approaching? Does his company survive?

Bilbo returns the pressure; his fingers trying and failing to wrap around Thorin’s wrist in return. “Still. I am sorry for hurting you and the others. I did not mean to betray you.”

“There is nothing to be forgiven. Not when I tried to throw you from the ramparts in return.” Thorin shudders.

Bilbo chuckles drily. “Aren’t we a matched pair?” he asks, “You, driven out of your mind by a curse, and me, stumbling around in the dark and ending up betraying everybody. We both made a mess of things.”

Only that is was his madness that forced Bilbo’s desperate deal, Thorin thinks to himself, but does not protest.

“I wonder if that is what history will remember us as,” Bilbo states out aloud, “The mad King and the fool? The traitor? The idiots that managed to win back the mountain and make the worst mess possible of it?”

Thorin’s heart aches. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, “That likely would depend on who writes these things.” And how the story ends. Should they walk from this, Thorin will decree that Bilbo is never to be called a traitor.

Should they walk away from this, and continue on with their lives.

Thorin takes a deep breath and tries to imagine the future. Will Bilbo stay in Erebor? How will they make it through the winter, when will the first caravans arrive? How long will it take to remove the last traces of the dragon? When will Dale revive?

Is he truly cut out for ruling? Would it not be better if he faded from story here? The hero that reclaimed the mountain and then vanished?

Perhaps Bilbo will allow him to come to the Shire. Maybe he can live out his days peacefully among rolling green hills and bright blue skies. Away from pain, madness and fear. Away from all these horrors.

Maybe they can have a happily ever after.

IV

As Thorin's vision clears to focus on a smooth golden floor, a bleak sense of exhaustion spreads through him. It failed again, he failed once more.

In truth, he is not surprised. Hiding with Bilbo in the old bank building may have soothed his soul, but now makes him miss the hobbit even more fiercely. There was, no doubt, a price to pay for the hours they had together. And now whatever amends he made are fully undone once more 

While he does not know who died, he feels as if he can tell. Fili. Kili. His kin.

Those he had sworn to protect.

And he sacrificed them for hours with Bilbo? Thorin sighs, and pulls the crown from his weary head. It aches with exhaustion, and he feels tired to the bone.

Of course, he cannot keep his company safe when he hides. He should never have tried – had time not reset, he doubts he would have been able to live with himself. So it is for the best that he has another chance.

One more chance to make things right.

But how, he wonders, and looks at the floor. Fighting is too risky. He’s already seen them die, more than once, and he doubts they stand a chance. Of all places, the mountain is the safest. Staying inside then is not honorable. Yet it will ensure their survival.

Or at least that of his dwarves.

Thorin purses his lips. He knows that once he leaves the mountain, they will follow. They will only stay if he, too, remains in place.

Which leaves Bilbo in Dale.

Thorin thinks of the fragile wrist bones under his fingers, the wide eyes, and Bilbo’s unending courage, and wishes he could go out and safe him. Bilbo does not belong in battle; he belongs to his books and armchair. To a peaceful land.

However, this Thorin cannot grant.

He sinks down onto the gold, places his hands on the ground. “Please Gandalf,” Thorin thinks, “Keep Bilbo safe.” Because he will stay here. Stay and wait and pray time does not reset itself. His nephews will survive and so will the rest of his company.

And if Gandalf does his job, so will Bilbo.

*** 

Thorin does not know how much time passes. He remains sitting on the ground, his mind adrift. Sometimes he sees Bilbo dead, sometimes alive. Pieces of their adventure get whirled to the forefront – they now feel like shards from another lifetime.

Everything seems so far away, unreal.

If this ends, Thorin doubts he can just continue. His memories are fragmented, blurred. Somebody else will have to rule, and is that not for the best, anyway? With some luck he will be able to make amends with Bilbo. Bring his nephews to forgive him.

And even if they don’t, as long as they live, Thorin will gladly bear their scorn.

At some point, he closes his eyes.

V

When he opens them, he is still alone on the floor of gold, but the light has shifted. Time has reset itself again. 

“No,” Thorin curses, “No!”

Bilbo must have died. Even when all members of his company stayed safely inside the mountain, out there, in the battle, Bilbo must have found his end.

Did Azog come for him? Did Gandalf slip up? Distracted for a split second that was all that was needed to extinguish the light in one small hobbit’s eyes? A blow to the head, a cut to the thigh – even with his mithril shirt, there are still so many ways for Bilbo to die.

And Thorin feels as if he has now seen them all.

Anguish fills his chest, and for a moment he wavers. Should he not just stay? What worth has it to struggle, if only to return here anyway?

But, his mind reminds him darkly, if he stays, Bilbo will die again. He stayed within the mountain the last time, too.

So Thorin takes off his crown and his armor, walks up to his companions, ignores their questions only to say that he will go and fight. Let them do as they chose.

Alone, Thorin doesn’t make it far. He is felled by an arrow to the throat before he even reaches Dale, and gone before his body hits the ground.

VI

Thorin finds himself back in Erebor, the taste of blood still on his tongue. In the gold, his reflection is one of a mad King clad in shining armor.

Mad, he thinks, is perhaps an apt description. For who can see his beloved and friends die so often and claim to remain sane? No, Thorin tells himself, this is another type of madness, and this is one set to wrench his heart apart.

“I understand,” he says once Kili has completed his tirade – Thorin now knows it by heart – and turns to his companions as one, “And I apologize for how long it took me to see. I have no right to ask it of you, but would you listen?”

Kili hesitates, itching to go out, but Balin is the first to mutter an “aye”, among a number of curious nods. Only Bofur eyes Thorin with thinly veiled contempt – but it is well-earned, Thorin knows.

Thorin takes a deep breath. Perhaps this time it will work, he thinks, and speaks: “I had a vision, I believe,” almost the same as what he told Bilbo, back during another round, “Or a warning, I do not know. I saw many of you die in battle, but it also warned me that if we stayed here, the orcs would win.”

It’s not entirely true. But it’s not as if they’ll find out – if this fails, Thorin will back in Erebor, and his companions without memory. If they win, they do not need to worry about orcs.

“What do we do?” Dwalin asks, shifting his weight. 

Thorin swallows. “We stay together,” he orders, “Do not go and fight on your own. Stay away from Ravenhill until the right time comes.”

“Alright, laddie,” Balin agrees, and stands, “Anything else?”

“What about Bilbo?” Bofur asks.

Thorin inclines his head. “He’s in danger. I would ask you, Fili and Kili, to go and seek him out. He will be in Dale unless I am much mistaken. Find him and bring him here; he should be safe.”

Kili looks as if he is about to protest, while Bofur nods sharply. “Aye, will do that,” he agrees, before Thorin’s nephews can mutineer. Thorin senses the confusion lingering about his company, and knows that they have every reason to doubt him. First he succumbed to the gold, now he speaks of visions –

And perhaps following him will only lead them into disaster.

“If, at any time, you come to perceive my actions as mad, or find your own life in danger,” Thorin speaks again, softly, “I ask you to save yourself first. Whatever end this may bring, my only order for you is to survive.”

A heavy silence ensues. It is a big order to give – they have seen the battle out there, know their chances.

“I’ll follow you anyway,” Gloin declares eventually, “You’ve brought us this far – let’s finish it!”

The others cheer in agreement, and Thorin’s heart aches. This degree of trust is undeserved – but he will take it, take it and hope this time they will make it through.

*** 

Thorin leads his company to Ravenhill. He does not know how Fili, Kili and Bofur fare – he hopes they succeed. If fate is kind, they are back in the mountain with Bilbo, safe and unhurt, and waiting for word from Thorin.

Any other outcome does not matter.

So Thorin grips his sword tightly and keeps his eyes open. Azog must hide in the tower – even if Thorin is late to arrive, the orc is unwilling to relinquish his trap.

“It’s all silent,” Dori exclaims, shuddering in the wet fog rolling over the frozen river, “Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Quite so,” Thorin replies grimly. He thinks he saw something move in the crumbling ruins next to the tower. “Keep low; there are goblins and bats nearby.”

Upon his word, they emerge. Sheer endless numbers of goblins crawl out from cracks, while bats soar over the sky, blocking out the little light, their screeching painful to Thorin’s ears. The company yells in confusion, Dwalin shouting to stand their ground, fight.

“It’s only a hundred,” Thorin shouts, whirling around to stab a goblin, “Get them!”

He slices through the numbers easily. Once the others find their bearing, it becomes a one-sided battle. The goblins are relentless, but outclassed; their blood soon paints the ice black. Azog must be watching, Thorin thinks.

And realizes abruptly that as the bats block his view of the watchtower, they must also render Azog blind.

This is the opportunity he was waiting for.

Thorin charges forward.

***

Azog does not expect him. The orc reacts quickly, but he does not have his bastardized morning star-like weapon at the ready, and the close quarters give Thorin the advantage. Where the orc stumbles over stone and slams into walls, Thorin dances out of reach, hides behind protruding edges and ducks easily under low doorways.

“You will die, Oakenshield,” Azog promises, enraged, “You and your kin, your entire filthy line will die!”

Thorin’s blood pumps, not with fear, but for once with hope.

He jumps forward, timing his strike for the moment Azog draws back – and his sword slides through the skin and muscle of the orc’s chest easily.

It’s a fatal blow.

Thorin’s heart soars in triumph. Azog roars in pain.

And with a whoosh Azog’s sharpened prosthetic buries itself deep in Thorin’s side. He gasps, stumbles. The light fades from Azog’s eyes; the body drops from Thorin’s blade. It falls to the ground with a dull thud; Thorin’s vision flickers. Something hot runs down his side, he warily presses a hand to it.

Already, he can hear his heartbeat echoing in his ear.

“Thorin! Thorin!” Dwalin – but when did he get here, Thorin wonders, where did he come from? When has the world shifted, when did he lie down? 

The throbbing in his side has dimmed, but he barely feels his toes and fingers. Could not lift his arm if he wanted to, and feels the tension flee from his body.

“No, Thorin, hold on!” Dwalin shouts, reaching out to press down on Thorin’s side.

It should hurt.

Thorin doesn’t feel it.

He tries to smile. Wants Dwalin to know that this is alright. That he is fine with dying – Fili, Kili, Bilbo and everyone else will live. They will wake tomorrow, greet a new day and continue their lives. They will find happiness.

This is a good ending.

VII

So close, Thorin thinks as he stares at the golden floor, he was so close. If he only had seen Azog’s move, if he had dodged a little more quickly.

It could have been over. 

Had the fates been kind, it would have been over. Fili would have ruled in his stead, and all would have lived happily ever after. But apparently, he is cursed to repeat this day until he finally gets it right.

He presses his lips together. Perhaps he failed the last time, but now he knows how to proceed. This chance he will not squander.

Thorin marches out, speaks to his companions the same words he spoke the last time around. This time, the conviction comes to him easily, and he feels it sooth his friends’ doubts. This time they will succeed.

Fili, Kili and Bofur set off to find Bilbo.

Thorin leads his company to Ravenhill. Waits for the goblins and bats to emerge, and then slips into the tower.

This time, he heads straight for Azog. Doesn’t give the orc a chance, waits for Azog to stumble in a narrow corner, before throwing a stabbing blow around the corner.

His sword sinks deep into Azog’s chest. Azog’s parting blow glances off stone.

And then Thorin is left standing with Azog lying dead before his feet.

He takes a deep breath, feels a weight lift off his shoulders. It is done, he thinks, done and over. He has finally succeeded. His company lives, Azog is dead. Even he himself is alive, and can now start living again.

What happened before feels like a lifetime ago, but he remembers that he must make amends. Bard deserves an apology, and so do his friends. He will not apologize to Thranduil, but will not spoil for war.

And most of all, he wants to talk to Bilbo. If the other loops are somewhat true, their friendship can be saved, and there is nothing Thorin longs for more.

His lips begin to pull into a smile. Thorin walks from the tower, his sword still ready, but the fight outside is just about won. Bodies of bats and goblins and orcs litter the ice. He spies Nori fighting on a cliff, hears Bifur shout something, and allows a hint of happiness to seep into his blood.

It is done.

Behind the clouds, the sun climbs over the horizon, and with a loud cry the eagles sail in. The battle below will end soon, too, and then they have won. Their home is reclaimed.

At a high price, Thorin thinks and looks at Erebor.

His vision swims, and he blinks. Perhaps sand, he thinks and rubs at his eye.

VIII

And when he opens them again, he is back in Erebor. In utter disbelief, Thorin stares at the golden floor 

This is not possible.

They won!

Erebor was saved! Azog slain, everybody alive! Why did time reset again? Why is he back here? What madness is happening?

“I did it!” he roars, his voice echoing in the empty hall, “I killed him! What do you want? They were safe! What must I do?!” 

Of course, Erebor’s stone walls give no reply. Thorin buries his head in his hands, tears at his hair, and the pain barely registers. What went wrong, what went wrong; he cannot stop wondering. He killed Azog, twice, and also managed to survive the second time. So did the others –

At least he thinks so.

Thorin stumbles, sinks to his knees. Yes, he thinks, yes, that may be the answer. Dori, Nori, Ori, Bifur, Bombur, Oin, Gloin, Dwalin and Balin – yes, they all were safe with him. And he had thought Fili, Kili, Bofur and Bilbo would make it safely to Erebor. Gandalf and Dain would have been helping them, protecting them.

But what if they didn’t? What is something went wrong and they died, and Thorin simply never knew?

Yes, he tells himself, that must be it. There is no other explanation for why the events keep resetting. Something must have gone wrong, but how does he make it right? How does he defeat Azog, and keep his nephews, Bilbo, and his company safe?

He shakes his head – he does not know the answer. But if he stays here there will come a moment when he closes his eyes and finds time has reset again.

And he does not wish to endure this endless loop any longer.

This time he marches out and keeps the crown and the armor. When his company sees him, he cuts Kili’s tirade short. “I will go out and fight,” he announces flatly, “Follow me or not, I relieve you from any oath.”

“Uncle -!” Fili protests, just as Dwalin jumps up and Balin utters a shocked “Thorin!” But the King under the Mountain has turned on his heel.

“Bring down the wall!” he shouts.

*** 

Thorin is aware that his company is following him. Despite proclaiming them relieved, they are here, keeping the enemies from Thorin’s back and helping him cut his path toward Dale. The block and stab and hit and maim, and black blood soon covers Thorin’s face and armor.

He roars and throws himself forward into the next wave of orcs and they part like water. There is no plan in his mind – only a vague idea that he needs to find Bilbo. Needs to see the hobbit again, see him alive and fine, and after that maybe go after Azog?

Thorin’s mind draws a blank, so instead he concentrates on killing as many orcs as he can. Cutting a trail of blood and destruction for all to see, and soon he hacks his way past the gates. Dale’s cobblestone lanes are awash with blood. Dead bodies line the streets; men and elves and dwarves, and Thorin blindly fights past them.

Bilbo will be near the old citadel, with Gandalf. If the fates are kind, he is hale. If not, Thorin does not know what he will do. 

He pushes past fighting men, does not stop even as he is hailed. Balin halts, attempts an explanation and Thorin grateful to him. If he gets another chance, he will thank him, but now his mind is caught in a spiral.

And then he turns a corner and catches sight of matted curls and a faded blue coat.

“Bilbo!” he shouts, and the hobbit turns. Bard reaches for his sword, and Gandalf, too, tenses.

“Thorin Oakenshield!” the wizard thunders, “Why did you come?” He slides directly between Thorin and Bilbo, blocking his path, and as Thorin stops the entire square around them forgets to breathe.

“What do you want?” Gandalf demands and Thorin glares up at him.

“If you must know, wizard,” he hisses, and a wave of anger wells up in his chest, “I have come here again, and again, and again, and each time I trusted you, you have failed to keep safe my burglar! So I will do it myself!”

Gandalf staggers a step back, though Bilbo perks up.

“What do you mean ‘again and again’?” Bard asks, just as Gandalf waves a hand over Thorin, and he feels the tingle of magic.

“I am under no curse wizard, not any longer,” Thorin growls, “And we need to leave. Bilbo!”

The hobbit hesitates, eyes Thorin warily. He has no reason to trust Thorin, especially when he is sprouting such madness.

“We need to go,” Thorin repeats, “Or you will die.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo begins, “What on earth are you saying? How do you know –“

“I have seen it,” Thorin replies and steps past Gandalf. Bilbo tries to step back, but he’s not fast enough and Thorin catches his sleeve, tugs him closer. “I have seen you die, and I will not allow that to pass.”

Bilbo falters long enough for Thorin to drag him away. Gandalf sputters, but does not interfere. And isn’t that telling, Thorin thinks with fury boiling in his veins, that despite his proclamations of friendship the wizard does not risk Thorin’s blade to help his friend. Bilbo Baggins, to Gandalf, is merely another pawn.

Not any longer, Thorin vows to himself. Bilbo is no pawn, and should never have been.

He turns a corner, and Gandalf does not follow and relief slams into Thorin like a physical blow. He stumbles against a crumbling wall, Bilbo’s wrist sliding from his grip. The hobbit stares at him, wide-eyed, and abruptly Dwalin is yelling.

“Thorin! Thorin, hold on!” Oin shouts and Thorin doesn’t remember sitting down. But Bilbo looks down at him, his lips move, while hands roam Thorin’s clothes, tug at his coat, but it’s stuck, and something hurts his back. A dull, bone-deep pain, nothing sharp.

Fatigue crawls through his veins.

“No, Thorin,” Bilbo shouts, holding Thorin’s face in his hands, and Thorin revels in the touch as the world drifts away, “Hold on, please. Please, Thorin, open your eyes!

Please, Thorin, please!”

IX

This time, Thorin thinks feverishly as he strips of cloak and crown, this time he will make it. How often has he done this, walked over this gold-covered floor?

Kili jumps to his feet the moment Thorin emerges, but time is of importance. “Listen,” Thorin begins, before his nephew can speak, “I have no right to ask this of any of you. But will you follow me one last time?”

Because he intends for this to be the last loop. He will get it right.

And fueled by this conviction, they charge out.

***

Fate, however, is unkind.

An arrow fells Fili’s goat, sending both animal and dwarf tumbling. Thorin is too far to help; can only watch as Fili rises sluggishly, fumbling with his swords. Blood mats his hair, Kili shouts his name, Dwalin curses –

And a second arrow slams into Fili’s back.

“Fili!” Kili screams.

Thorin’s oldest nephew and hair sways. Falls. And stays down.

No, Thorin thinks, despair rising in his chest, no. This cannot be happening. He was supposed to get it right this time around; he knows how this works. Why Fili, whywhywhy –

“Stay together!” Dwalin shouts, but Kili is already charging off, firing arrows. Driven by the same rage that fills Thorin’s veins, but the fire is already dying. He realizes that this time, he will not win, either.

Time will reset again.

“Thorin?” Gloin asks, “Thorin, what do we do?” He looks after Kili anxiously, but his youngest nephew has disappeared into the mass of fighting bodies.

He will not see him again.

Thorin’s heart begins to break. “Go after him,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. He doesn’t know what to do. Seek out Azog, end this? Wait for another chance to come around? Struggle on, until time is up and he gets sent back automatically?

Ice spreads through his veins.

He barely even notices his company split. Bofur, Gloin, Ori, Dori and Nori ride after Kili; the others stay with him.

“Thorin?” Balin asks, softly, “Thorin, what should we do?”

Balin must know better than Thorin. All he knows is that it is lost. “Dale,” he murmurs, “We go to Dale.”

Bilbo is there. Perhaps they will have a few moments.

*** 

His second mistake Thorin realizes far too late. Azog must have been watching his movements from Ravenhill. Even before the dwarves reach Dale, a flood of orcs and goblins rushes down the narrow streets, killing all in their way.

When Thorin’s group finally makes it to the citadel, they find a massacre. Elves, men – all dead; the ground slippery with blood and innards. And still the streets echo with orcish screams. Impotent fury wells up in Thorin’s chest.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t how things usually go.

Azog will pay!

“Thorin,” Balin calls gently, and his tone warns Thorin. Dread fills his heart, he turns and finds Balin kneeling over a small body in a faded blue coat.

“No,” Thorin bursts out. He expected this, but it tears his soul apart. “No!” Not Bilbo, not again. He runs over, falls to his knees.

“He’s still alive,” Balin mutters, even though they both can see that only moments remain. Already Bilbo’s skin looks papery white, and though Thorin cannot see the fatal injury, he recognizes the signs.

But he carefully gathers Bilbo’s pale hand in his and is rewarded with fluttering eyelashes.

“Peace, Bilbo,” Thorin murmurs. One day, he vows to himself, he will not sit there and have to ease Bilbo’s passing. One day they will both survive.

“Thorin…” Bilbo murmurs and his fingers twitch. “I –“

“I’m here,” Thorin replies, “And I’m sorry. You were right all along, you have always been right. Do not worry about it, I see now.”

The words barely register with Bilbo any more, but tension drains from his body. Seeing Bilbo so peaceful calms Thorin’s upset heart a little.

“Everything will be alright,” he murmurs, “You see. I will make it so.”

And with that he leans forward and presses his lips to Bilbo’s forehead.

***

When he reaches Ravenhill, Thorin is alone. The fire in his veins has cooled to a freezing hatred. Even though it is in vein, even though time will reset –

He will have Azog’s head. For Fili, for Kili, for Bilbo. For all the lives he couldn’t save.

For making Thorin relive this nightmare over and over again.

The fog parts and Thorin sees Azog standing at the end of the frozen river. He beckons. Thorin smirks. And charges.

***

Their fight drags on. Past sunrise, past the eagles’ arrival. There is no Bilbo to proclaim it this time, and yet recalling the first time Thorin lived through this makes him understand the ending.

It’s been so long ago he almost has forgotten.

But Thorin bravely lowers his guard. Offers Azog an opening. 

The pale orc takes the invitation. Steps forward and drives his blade through Thorin’s chest. Pain floods through his veins, his body is on fire, and for a split moment Thorin forgets his plan, forgets everything.

Then he sucks in a sharp breath and drives his own blade straight into Azog’s heart.

The orc stills. 

His blade slides from Thorin’s chest, clatters to the ground, and the orc’s body follows with a thud. Thorin remains standing, panting for breath. His pulse races too fast, his vision swims. Already a sense of sweet release begins to crawl through his veins.

He staggers away. One step, to steps, until he can see Erebor again. Her snow-capped peak glows in the morning sun. Below the eagles remove the last orcs, and the battle draws to its conclusion. Not long now, he thinks, and allows himself to sink to the ground.

The ice doesn’t feel so cold any longer.

Thorin takes one last breath. At least he does not need to wait until time resets itself. Instead he can close his eyes and look forward to seeing them all again – Fili, Kili, and Bilbo. And maybe then he can save them.

0

Thorin opens his eyes to a smooth marble floor. The stone is flawless, the air soft and perfect, and he knows things have changed. No floor covered with gold, no stifling air stinking of dragon – he is elsewhere. 

No, Thorin thinks, desperation soaring in his heart, no! Has it been this time that his chances have run out? The one time everybody ended up dead?

Thorin takes a deep breath and lifts his head. Golden light fills the hall; a long breath-taking corridor leading toward a gate filled with light. And he is moving forward, though he barely feels himself moving; his body light and uninjured.

This, he realizes, just as he steps into the light, are the halls.

He has come home. After many returns, after living through the same day so many times, he has finally found his way here. 

A weight lifts off his chest – the way it ought – but Thorin’s mind snags on his failure. They are all dead; all dead and he has no chance to make it right. This should not –

“Thorin,” somebody calls, and Thorin spies a small dwarf moving toward him. Only it is no dwarf, he finds as his eyes focus, it is a hobbit clad in dwarven clothing. Golden curls bounce with every step, and the haggardness has vanished from Bilbo’s features. He looks whole and healthy – radiant to Thorin’s eyes – and his smile is the most beautiful thing Thorin has ever seen.

“Thorin,” Bilbo greets, faltering now that he has come closer, and there is a hint of shadow lying over his face. But death has taken away the cuts and bruises, and left behind something perfect down to the coat decorated with dwarven runes.

“Bilbo,” Thorin breathes, and opens his arms.

He remembers Bilbo’s body stilling in his. Now, the body he draws close is soft and warm, and small hands come up to bury themselves in his hair.

It is beautiful.

And terrible. 

They are dead, Thorin reminds himself. He felt Bilbo dying in his arms; he felt death crawling through his own veins. For all that Bilbo in his arms feels real and solid, he is dead; and they have no second chance left to fix this.

“What are you doing here?” Thorin mumbles against Bilbo’s curls – soft again, no longer matted from dust and blood, “How did you come here? Do hobbits go to the halls?”

He feels Bilbo shake his head. “No, Thorin,” he mumbles, “I’m not sure. Thrain told me there was magic involved – and that you lived through battle more than once?”

Bilbo draws back – not out of Thorin’s arms, but just far enough so that he can look into Thorin’s eyes, and no amount of afterlife serenity can banish the terrible memories that haunt Thorin.

“I did,” he confesses, trying to stop the memories from rising.

“Oh Thorin,” Bilbo shakes his head and tightens his grip, “That must have been terrible.”

“Aye,” says Thorin, recalling Bilbo dying so often and so horribly, “It was.” He shakes his head to dispel the image. “But I don’t understand why now,” he continues, “Why it stopped.”

“You were granted a chance,” another voice proclaims, and Thorin turns to see his father. Thrain stands at a distance, and next to him Thorin sees other faces that make his heart ache with sweet pain: Fili, Kili, his mother, his brother, his grandfather and his grandmother.

They are all here –

“Quite unusual, too,” his brother says cheerfully, “Doesn’t happen to the rest of us." 

Thorin finds himself glued to the spot, happiness and confusion warring in his chest. “But how?” he asks.

“Nobody knows, son,” Thrain says with a small shrug, “It must have been some strange power. Perhaps your hobbit knows? It brought him here, after all.”

“And he’s probably the first hobbit ever to set foot into our halls of waiting,” Frerin adds with a wide smile, “He must be special. Are you sure he isn’t magical?”

Kili grins (and how it makes Thorin’s heart sing to see his nephews smile and grin; to see the wariness and pain washed from their faces). “Sure he isn’t, but he’s quite something, our Master Boggins.”

“Baggins, Kili, you know it!” Bilbo shouts.

“We’re just calling you Bilbo anyway,” Fili replies.

“Though I guess we could call you uncle?” Kili suggests.

Bilbo mutters something under his breath, while everybody else chuckles. And Thorin should be exploding with joy, because Bilbo is here, and he is welcome, and that is beyond his wildest imaginations yet –

“If this was a chance to set things right,” he wonders out loud, “Why are we dead? Or are these not the halls?”

“They are, Thorin,” his mother replies, “And we do not know either. I understand that it must upset you, but I fear there are some things set in fate that we may not change. Our line ending may have been one of these. Yet, in this ending you managed to bring us all together.”

“And your hobbit, too,” Frerin adds. 

Thorin looks back to Bilbo, who smiles at him slightly bashful. “I don’t have memories of the other rounds,” Bilbo tells him, “But I think – or there seems to be a recollection in my heart – of a great pain. And when I think that I might have lost you, I know I would have done everything I could to get you back.”

“So perhaps there was some magic to you, Master Baggins,” says Thrain, “For there is little magic in us dwarves.”

Bilbo’s lips quirk. “Neither is there to hobbits. But I did have a magic ring which I lost at some point during the battle.”

And that may be the explanation, Thorin thinks. A desperate wish; magic clashing with things set in stone. Maybe there never was a chance of ending the battle with him alive. Maybe the line of Durin had always been fated to end, then.

But in this ending, they are together. They leave behind a home reclaimed, and a land purged of orcs and goblins. Erebor will heal, their descendants thrive. 

And for a spark of magic, Bilbo and Thorin will be together in the aftermath.

End (Or is it?)

On the bottom of the Celduin, the Ring of Power waits. Much power it has used to get rid of its former bearer. Now it will lie until a new bearer comes by to ensnare.

And then it will return to its master.