Frodo clung to the branch of the tree where Gil had left him with a stern warning to stay quiet and stay put. No matter what happens, Gil said. Stay in the tree and don't come down. Wait until I come back for you. And so, when he heard shouting and the clash of metal in the distance, he stayed huddled in the tree, his heart racing. He knew he would be more than useless in a fight, and he did not want to get any closer. But it felt wrong to let Bilbo, who was almost a hundred years old (even if he didn't look it) go into danger while he, Frodo, hid in a tree. He wasn't a baby, he was practically a tween. He should be doing something to help.

He heard quiet footsteps pass underneath his tree, and then stop. He held his breath. Had they found him? How would anyone know he was up here?

There was a long silence. Maybe he had imagined it. He shifted slightly, trying to get a look at what was down below. But it was impossible to see from his current position. He stretched out on his stomach, wrapped his arms and legs around the branch, and began to inch forward.

The branch gave a loud crack, as he reached a part that was too slender to bear his weight. There was a startled yelp below.

"Who's there?" a familiar voice asked nervously.

Frodo lost his grip for a moment and slid around until he was dangling from the branch by his feet. For a dizzying moment the world flipped, and then Sam's upside-down face swam into view.

He let go of the branch and tumbled to the ground. It was a good eight feet down, and he might have been hurt if he hadn't fallen on top of Sam.

With a grunt, Sam lifted Frodo off of him, set him upright, and dusted him off.

"Are you all right, Mr. Frodo? Why were you up in a tree?"

"Gil told me to stay hidden," Frodo said. "But Sam, what are you doing here?"

"Who's Gil?"

"He's a Ranger. But Sam—"

"It's kind of a long story, Mr. Frodo, and I'm in a bit of a hurry. Best leave explanations for later." Sam made as if to head in the direction of the bandit camp.

Frodo caught his wrist.

"Sam, you can't go that way, it's dangerous."

"I know. But my axe is back there, and I can't just leave it."

"Your axe?"

Even in the moonlight, Frodo could see his friend's blush.

"Well, I s'pose it's rightly Mr. Bilbo's axe, not mine. You know, the one that Thorin brought, that was over the fireplace. I kind of brought it along with me when I followed you. The bandits took it away, and I forgot to get it back when Thorin and I escaped. So I'm going back for it."

Frodo tried to make sense of that, as Sam tugged free of his grasp.

"I promise I'll be careful. Maybe you should go wait back in that tree."

That was the final straw. Did even Sam think he was useless?

"You can't go back there by yourself, Sam. I'm coming too!"

They crept through the night as silently as they could, until they reached the door of the abandoned cottage the bandits had been using as a camp. The fire was still lit, but although they could hear muffled noises in the distance, the cottage looked empty from where they stood.

"Do you think they're all gone?" Sam whispered.

"There could still be someone inside. Is there a way to check?" Frodo inched around the side of the cottage. There was a window, but it was far above his head. This hadn't been a dwelling built for hobbits. He tried to get a grip on the crumbling wall and pull himself up to get a look, but his fingers could find no purchase and he slid back down.

"We'll just have to risk it and go in the front door," he said, trying to sound confident. "Gil probably drew them all away. That was the plan."

Frodo almost tripped over a large, dark shape lying in the grass. Sam pulled him back with a whispered caution.

"Is that a body?" Frodo demanded, horrified. He'd seen the body of the bandit in the woods earlier, when Gil had uncovered it. He didn't want to see any more bodies. But from where he stood, it looked like there were more limp forms scattered around the grassy hill in front of the cottage.

"Don't look at that," Sam said, pulling him away. "You stay here at the door, keep watch. I'll go get the axe." He darted inside, leaving the door ajar.

Frodo drew back against the cottage wall, trying to get further from the bodies. He had only been waiting for a minute when he heard booted footsteps approaching, and someone breathing heavily.

"Hurry, Sam," he hissed through the door. "I think someone's coming."

It was one of the Big Folk, coming over the hill. It definitely wasn't Gil, so it must be one of the bandits. He hadn't spotted Frodo yet. Maybe he could still get away. But not without Sam.

He nudged the door open a little wider and slipped inside. It creaked behind him, and he winced. Sam was standing in front of the fire, clutching the axe to him like a long-lost friend.

"Come on," Frodo whispered. "If we can get outside before the bandit gets here, we can hide in the woods. He's big and clumsy, and he'll never catch us."

"Too late," said Sam, looking up. His eyes were fixed on the doorway.

"First two dwarves, and now two hobbits?" said the bandit, stepping inside. He held a jagged-looking knife in each hand. "This day keeps getting stranger. You had me convinced you were an innocent, but I'm not so thick I can't tell what's a coincidence and what's some kind of trick. You led the Ranger here to kill us all, was that the plan?"

"Leave us alone, Cob, " said Sam, waving the axe in front of him. "We don't want to hurt you, we just want to go."

The bandit laughed. "Hurt me? Go ahead and try. Maybe you can drop that thing on someone's foot again." He pointed a knife at each of them. He probably had intended to aim at their throats, but due to the height difference, the blades ended up hovering somewhere over their heads instead.

Sam clenched his jaw. A moment ago the blade of his axe had been wavering as he struggled to hold it up, but now it was completely steady.

Cob let the point of one knife drop towards the center of Frodo's chest.

"Who's your little friend?" he asked Sam. "Where were you and the dwarf hiding him? He doesn't look like he'd be very useful." He started to press down. Frodo yelped as the blade pricked through his shirt.

With a roar of anger, Sam rushed forward. The axe was too heavy for him to swing very well, but he managed to leave a long, shallow gash across Cob's stomach before he dropped it. Cob dropped a knife, and pressed that hand to the wound. Sam stared at the blood welling from between Cob's fingers, his eyes wide with shock.

Cob sent him skidding across the room with a kick, and then advanced on Frodo. Frodo backed away as far as he could, but was soon up against the wall.

The door swung open, and Gil launched himself across the room. He disarmed Cob with a flick of his sword, and drove a knee into his stomach, hard. The bandit howled and collapsed.

"Bring me some rope," Gil ordered, and the hobbits scrambled to obey. Sam trotted over with some long cords that looked like they had been severed with a knife.

"He used these to tie me up earlier," he said. "Fair's fair."

Cob trembled as Gil bound his hands and feet.

"I should kill you," the Ranger said. His eyes were cold.

Cob shrank visibly into himself. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. We were just trying to make some extra money. We didn't aim to hurt nobody."

"You went from simple robbery to attempted kidnapping, and just now I saw you ready to kill children."

Cob shivered.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," he repeated. "It was all Jem Coltsfoot's plan. He was the boss. We were just doing what he said."

"Jem?" Gil sounded surprised. "Jem from the Pony? He's in on this? Where is he?"

"Outside."

Gil raised an eyebrow. "I see."

"Please," Cob pleaded. "I have a family. Please don't kill me."

"If I let you live, will you swear on your own miserable head to tell the truth about what happened here? To let all the people of Bree know how you've shamed them?"

Tears were running down Cob's face. "Please. I swear."

Gil raised his sword, letting the point hover near Cob's throat for a long moment before cutting his legs free.

Stumbling, weeping, Cob rushed off into the night, his hands still tied behind his back. Gil sheathed his sword, and Sam picked up his axe from where it had fallen.

Frodo looked back and forth between them, and wondered if he should make a proper introduction. It didn't seem like a good time, but Bilbo liked him to remember his manners. He would wait, he decided, as Gil started to shepherd both hobbits out of the cottage. The Ranger seemed to recognize that Sam was a friend, anyway.

When they were outside, Gil paused by the body closest to the door, and rolled it over with one foot. Frodo gasped. He recognized the nondescript little man with the scar on his forehead. But he was limp and still, his head lolling to one side as Gil turned him over.

"That's Jem from the Prancing Pony," Frodo said. "Butterbur's assistant. We met him last night. Did that bandit mean he was the one in charge of them? What's wrong with him?"

Gil knelt down by him and gave him a cursory inspection.

"Dead. Thorin broke his neck, although not on purpose, I think. A pity. Now we'll never know if there was something larger at work here than the greed of a few pathetic criminals. I doubt that there was. And yet, he worked at the Pony for more than twenty years. Why suddenly turn outlaw?"

Frodo tugged at Gil's sleeve. It was strange, he should have been frightened of the grim Ranger, whose countenance was streaked with blood and grime, but instead he found his presence strangely reassuring.

"Would you really have killed that bandit?"

"Probably not," Gil admitted. "Not in cold blood, not tonight. There has been enough death here already. These were cruel, greedy, thoughtless men, but they were not evil. Do you think I should have done it?"

Frodo shook his head in confusion. "I don't know."

"I wanted to," Sam whispered, still clutching his bloodstained axe. "I might have done it, if my aim had been better. I was really angry."

"Wanting to isn't the same as doing," Gil reassured him. "You were just trying to look out for Frodo, weren't you?"

Sam nodded, his face pale.

"I know you were frightened, but we can't stop for any longer right now," the Ranger said, grasping a hobbit's shoulder in each hand. "We need to go find Bilbo and Thorin."

Thorin was dying. He lay writhing in the darkness, poisoned and alone, and the dead visited him. Thror, lost in Moria, and Fundin, dead at Azanulbizar. Thrain, whose face was veiled in shadow. Fili, dead from a spear that had not been meant for him.

Every ghost filed past and stared down at Thorin. There were so many of them, and he knew then that he had lived too long, through days he had not been meant to see.

You think you have escaped us? they ask him. You think you have escaped the taint in your blood?

He thought he had grown immune to such doubts and horrors long ago, but the poison had conjured them out of the dark recesses of his mind.

Frerin reached a trembling hand towards him. He had been little more than a child at Azanulbizar. Thorin realized how young they had been, then, more than a lifetime ago. They had already lived through the loss of their home, and through years of wandering. They had felt old and world-weary already, but they had been children still.

Frerin's flesh charred and melted away, leaving nothing but the bleached white of bone. Fire blazed in his empty eye sockets.

"How could you burn me, Thorin?" his brother asked. His voice was gentle, even in death. With one skeletal hand, he reached out to grasp Thorin's arm. Thorin's skin burned and froze at his touch. "How could you burn me? Now I'll never find my way back to Mahal, or to the souls of our ancestors. You cursed me to be forever apart from you. "

"There were thousands of dead, and no time to build tombs of stone. So we cut down every tree in Azanulbizar, right down to the shores of Mirrormere, and built a thousand funeral pyres. Instead of burying you in state, I stripped your body bare, and laid you on the pyre, and lit it with my own two hands. What else could I have done?"

"It was sacrilege, Thorin. I was your brother. You should have buried me in stone."

There was nothing he could say to that. Even in his dreams, he could not answer: "I destroyed you, Frerin, and then refused to speak your name for two hundred years, because I knew what I'd done. I swore I'd die in fire too. But I'm still alive, and as long as I live, you'll haunt me, won't you?"

"You're going to be all right, Thorin," said Dís.

Thorin opened his eyes. Of all his ghosts, he feared this one the most. This death was his fault, and his alone. No enemy could be blamed for striking the fatal blow. He had taken her children, the treasure she had given Durin's Folk—and him—amid decades of suffering and hopelessness, and he had nearly lost them both. For that, he could never be forgiven.

Unlike the other visions, his sister was older than the last time he had seen her alive. Her beard was longer, and her hair was shot with gray. The lines around her eyes had deepened. She had died far away in the Ered Luin, and he had never seen her body. Perhaps his poisoned mind was creating her as she would have been, if she had lived.

But it was a strange vision, because Dís was dressed as a man. Not to fool an outsider, they would never know the difference. But a dozen small signs about how she wore her hair and clothing proclaimed her to be male to any dwarf that looked at her. Despite all these things, her shirt had somehow been sliced open, revealing both a jagged wound across her chest and a truth that even the blindest Man would have to recognize.

He closed his eyes, waiting for her words of accusation.

"Lie still," she said, putting a cool hand on his forehead. "Your friends will be here soon. This is all a dream. You should forget it."

But she had not seen what dwelled in his poison-dreams. This was not a dream. The night air on his face was harsh and cold, and the hard ground beneath his back was definitely real. He took a few deep breaths, and the flames that had licked at his skin seemed to recede. He could move again. He was not dead, and not dreaming. And Dís was still there. Her fingers intertwined with his. Solid. Alive.

Suddenly, he remembered Sam's words earlier that day.

"Frerin Fundinson," he whispered. "You. All along?"

She looked angry, and then resigned.

"So Sam told you, did he? What a little brat."

There was so much he wanted to say, and he had so little strength left.

"Why?"

He didn't know himself what question he was asking. Why was she here? Why had she let them believe that she was dead?

At first he thought that she would not answer. Her face was an open book to him, not because it mirrored his own, but because he had watched it so closely for so long, ever since Thror had placed her in his arms as a baby.

Love and hatred warred across her features, mingled with both longing and despair.

"I thought you were all dead, you and my sons. That was what the first messengers from Erebor said, right after the battle. I thought you had all been dead for months, by the time I heard the news. And I couldn't go on anymore. I could not pick myself up one more time, mourn my family, and carry on being strong. I thought I wanted to die myself. But what I really wanted was to be free from all of Durin's Folk, and from you, and from caring. Dís gave everything to her family and her people and her king, for almost two hundred years. She needed to die, so that I could be someone else instead, someone with no duties and no love to lose. Someone who could not be hurt again."

"As it turned out, the messenger was wrong. You were alive, and so was Kíli. I had abandoned my child. If I had stayed in the Ered Luin, I would have known by the time our caravans left for Erebor that spring. Instead, it was years before I heard the news."

Her fingers dug into Thorin's shoulders like talons.

"I almost went to him then. I couldn't bear the thought of what he had been forced to endure. But Dís was years in the grave already. She had nothing left to give. Her heart could not bear it. It would have been a ghost returning to Erebor, not her. I never meant to speak with you, or even come near you, until I met that boy on the Road by chance. But I need to know, I must know—is Kíli all right?"

"He is," Thorin managed. "All right. Grown up. A prince. A survivor, despite what we both thought." And getting married, against their wildest expectations. There might yet be grandchildren. The Line of Durin had not yet come to an end. If only he could find a way to tell her, to make her see. Her place was with him, as it had always been.

Dís was not dead, no matter what she might claim. If she wanted to be free of their past so badly, why had she chosen to wear their brother's name?

"Come home," he urged her. His lungs were starting to burn. It was getting harder to breathe. "Forgive me."

Her eyes hardened.

"Never. Never again."

If there was one thing Thorin knew, it was that when Dís had made up her mind, no amount of arguing would change it. Further speech was beyond his strength, anyway. He stared into her eyes, hoping she would understand. They had both lost so much, but they had always been together. Why now did she want to be alone?

There were voices and footsteps in the distance. Dís gathered her cloak about her tightly, concealing the tear in her shirt. She was going to disappear. Thorin tried to keep his eyes open, to memorize this last sight of her.

For a brief moment he felt her fingers brush across his cheek, in the lightest of caresses. Then she was gone, like all of his other visions.

Bilbo had a moment of panic when he found Thorin slumped against the base of a tree. But when he knelt down and touched his shoulder, Thorin turned to look at him. Alive and conscious, thank goodness.

"Thorin, are you all right?" he asked urgently.

Thorin's eyes slowly focused on him. His lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.

He heard Gil calling for him in the distance, and shouted for him to hurry. "I found Thorin! I think he's injured, though I'm not sure how badly."

The Ranger knelt down beside him, and looked him over quickly.

"I think it should be all right to move him," he said. "Not that we have much choice, we can't leave him out in the woods."

He tried to lift Thorin into a standing position. Thorin's legs crumpled underneath him, and he would have fallen if Gil hadn't caught him up and lifted him in his arms with a grunt.

"He's not going to appreciate that," Bilbo observed, as Gil staggered back towards the cottage. He was impressed, in spite of the seriousness of the situation. Dwarves were heavy, and Gil probably weighed less than Thorin did, despite the extra foot or so of height.

"I don't have time…to get the pony," Gil managed through gritted teeth. "Let's hope the wound to his dignity is more serious than whatever else is wrong with him."

In the end, it took all four of them to get Thorin into the cottage and laid out by the fire. Gil cut off the tattered and bloody remains of his shirt and started checking him over for injuries, grumbling about the poor quality of light. He made a face when he saw the multitude of scars covering Thorin's torso, but did not otherwise comment on them.

"He took a nasty blow to the head earlier, and these cuts on his scalp bled all over him. But I don't think that's the problem, since he was moving just fine when I saw him before. Doesn't seem to be bleeding anywhere else, other than this little cut on his arm. But what's this?" His hand was under Thorin's back, and he rolled him over to reveal a concave mess of scarring the size of his palm, near the base of his spine.

"Orc mace," Bilbo said. It was grotesque, but it had looked a lot nastier when it was fresh. "About fifty years ago."

"How is he still able to walk, after that kind of injury? It shouldn't even be possible."

Bilbo shrugged. "Obstinacy, I think. Or that's what the healers in Erebor decided to call it."

Sam appeared next to them, holding out a knife to Gil.

"The cut on his arm was from this," he said quietly. "Jem had it."

He seemed shaken to Bilbo, but he supposed it was only natural that the boy would be a bit subdued after the day's experiences.

Gil held the knife up to the fire, and then sniffed it.

"That's nasty stuff," he said. "But Thorin's not showing the symptoms of…"

He checked Thorin's pulse, and his breathing.

"If he was poisoned, it doesn't seem to be affecting him the way I would expect. But I suppose it's possible. My father—I've heard that dwarves respond differently, even erratically, to many substances."

He set to work at once, boiling water and grinding some dried leaves he kept in a pouch. He added the water to the leaves in a little bowl, let it steep for a minute, and then poured the water off again, leaving a mushy sort of paste. This he spread in a thick layer over the cut on Thorin's arm, which was so shallow that it had already stopped bleeding. He tore a strip from the cleanest looking part of Thorin's destroyed shirt, and bound it over the wound.

"That should draw out the rest of the poison, " he said. "Otherwise, we'll wait until morning. I don't think he's in danger at the moment. I'd rather not spend the night here, but we don't have much choice at this point. I'll take the first watch. Hopefully tomorrow we can be on our way again, and leave this mess behind us." Wearily, he got to his feet and headed out into the night.

Bilbo made makeshift beds in the corner for Sam and Frodo, and settled down next to Thorin to keep his own watch. He couldn't help worrying, no matter what Gil said. Gil was a Ranger, not a healer, although Bilbo remembered him mentioning that he had some experience with herblore.

A few minutes later, Thorin's eyes fluttered open.

"Bilbo?" he asked. "You're not dead, are you?"
At least he was talking again, even if he wasn't making any sense.

"Not last time I checked," Bilbo said. "Should I be?"

"In Erebor, all those years ago, there was a rumor that you bound me to life when I was dying. That there was some strange hobbit magic at work."

"That's crazy," Bilbo said, completely astonished. "Someone really thought that? You're just too stubborn to die. I had nothing to do with it. How could I?"

"I thought it was madness as well, superstitious nonsense started by those that believed you were Gandalf's creature and thus must have magical powers. But there's that magic ring of yours. I know you still have it."

"It's a ring that turns me invisible," Bilbo said. "Invisible. It does not grant me mysterious powers over life and death. That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"Then why aren't you aging?"

"Thorin," said Bilbo. "I know Gil said you were going to be fine, and given the amount you are talking right now, I am inclined to agree with him. But the poison is clearly still affecting your wits. Shut up, and go to sleep."

For the first time in two and a half centuries, Thorin Oakenshield did as he was told.

Finally, a chapter that doesn't end on a cliffhanger ;-) And also, finally, the reveal you've been waiting for! Now you know who Frerin really is, and why he/she wanted Sam to get information about Kíli for her.

So yes, "Frerin" is actually Dís, Thorin's sister, mother to Fíli and Kíli. Tough, stubborn, and a little wild–definitely a force to be reckoned with:) Well done to all of you who guessed it, there were quite a few of you! I hope you've all enjoyed reading her as much as I enjoyed writing her. It was really weird to finally switch to using female pronouns after five chapters of calling her "he" in other POVs. And don't worry, we definitely have not seen the last of her.

It's hard to believe I've been working on this story for almost a year now. There's still a long way to go. But I really appreciate all of you who read, review, follow, and favorite. Thank you so much! Hearing from you and seeing your enthusiasm for the story gives me the motivation to keep working on such a big project. This chapter was a bit on the dark side, but I hope you are all having a wonderful holiday season, and thanks for letting me share this story with you!