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{so now we're back to the beginning—or, rather, the end—}

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ix. (after all, he's never meant anything to anyone…)

Somehow, he finds his way back to his rooms (they're not his, not anymore, because he's been cast out and he's not good enough, he's never been good enough), but instead of packing his meager belongings he simply collapses onto the bed in the middle of the room. It's musty and creaky and, frankly, not in the least bit comfortable; but after months of sleeping on the hard ground, it feels like the softest feather bed Bilbo has ever laid on.

Now, he will never be able to use it again.

He does not know how long he lies there, but he knows his thoughts are spiraling darker and darker as time goes on, and sleep constantly eludes him. He slowly begins to lose awareness of his surroundings, but he does not fall unconscious, because dark and terrible thoughts are roaring through his mind, worse even than when he was in Mirkwood.

He wants to splash water on his face, rub at his eyes until the voice quiets at last, but he knows that the last shreds of sanity holding him away from these whispers (they are not whispers anymore, though; now, they are the screams of a gigantic beast) were the dwarves he thought to be his friends. Now that he does not have even that, he sees no reason to fight against the foreign thoughts.

(No one will miss him if he never returns to the Shire. No one will care if he dies, here, in Erebor. So why should he care at all?)

.

.

The next conscious thing he knows is a light knocking on the door, which dulls the voice ever so slightly and makes him look up. After a moment, the rusty hinges squeak open, and Glóin and his brother file in, carrying great trunks that are surely full of gold. They seem to hesitate a moment, as if not sure where to put them, but when Bilbo gives them no direction they simply deposit them near the door. Óin hesitates a moment before sighing heavily and leaving the room.

Wishes I were gone already, no doubt. Hobbits are not as sturdy as dwarves, after all, and Óin had to tend to him more than any other on this journey. Surely, he is sick of Bilbo by now.

Glóin, however, does not leave immediately. Eventually, Bilbo looks up again to see the dwarf staring at him with a deep crease in his brow, as if trying to discover something or to make a decision…

The dwarf has never been good with words—like many of his kin, Bilbo knows, he prefers to fight through problems rather than think. (He remembers Fíli's words—so far away, now, though it was scarcely hours ago—that his son raged for a week when he was not allowed on the journey. The mental image of a miniature Glóin throwing a temper tantrum almost brings a smile to Bilbo's face, because it is not difficult to imagine at all.)

No, he can't think about that now. Instead, he focuses on what Glóin could possibly want from him after he and his kin so abruptly rejected him. He keeps his eyes away from the treasure—he hates it, he thinks, more than anything else in Middle Earth—and does his best to focus on Glóin despite his hazy vision and his suddenly pounding head.

"Do you need anything else?" Glóin asks at length, his eyes curiously soft as he looks at Bilbo. "For the—journey home. We'll be happy to provide whatever you need."

Bilbo starts to shake his head (anything he takes with him will remind him of Erebor, and even if he is to be accompanied by Gandalf, he thinks such things would drive him mad before they even reached the mountains), but then—"Could I have—a couple of days to prepare? I need to…gather my things, make plans with Gandalf…"

(say goodbye, but he's not sure he'll be able to handle it when they clearly won't miss him as much as he will them)

It's a ridiculous ploy, his wish for more time with the dwarves and to commit the mountain to memory, but he thinks it will do what he wants it to…so long as the dwarves do not see through it, grow impatient with him, and physically throw him out of their home.

(If it were to happen on the battlements, just as it did all those weeks ago, he thinks he wouldn't resist…not this time.)

Glóin does not scorn him for his pathetically transparent stalling technique, though his eyes flash with something Bilbo can't quite identify. "Of course," he says immediately, inclining his head. "I'll see about Gandalf for you, if you want. The wizard's damn hard to find when he wants to be."

The sudden casualness of the dwarf's voice—the type that Bilbo had come to expect of many of his friends during the journey—is both startling and welcome, even as it buries the knife in his heart ever-deeper.

He will leave, and then he will never see them again. As much as it hurts, he needs to realize that there is nothing he can do to change it, and he needs to act like the adult he is and move on with his life.

(Whatever's left of it, of course.)

He must have said "thank you" to Glóin, because the dwarf is waving and making his way toward the door, though his eyes are strangely sharp and calculating as he shuts it behind him. Bilbo would think more on this, would wonder what is so interesting to him when the whole situation has been clearly cut from the start…but the roaring in his mind has started up anew, seeming almost to emanate from the chests of treasure in the corner.

He hates that gold more passionately than he's felt for anything in his entire life, he thinks, except for the love he has for his family. He cannot stand to look at it, so he rolls over on the bed, covering his ears as if that will do him any good, and thinking of anything but the gold in the corner, the mountain he's been dismissed from, and the friends—family—he is leaving behind.

And through it all, he pretends he is not slowly losing his mind to the dark voices inside his head.

.

.

That afternoon is simply hell.

Eventually, he forces himself to stand from the bed, to seek out company from someone—anyone—if only to try and quiet the screaming. (It's not even forming coherent words, now; it's just a constant noise that simply will not quiet, but he cannot think straight over it, and he knows that if he does not attempt to counter it soon, he may never break free.)

He leaves his room on unsteady legs, with violently trembling hands and blurry vision and short, harsh breaths, ready to try and engage anyone—anyone—in conversation. He does not want to knock on one of the Company's door, but he will, if he has to. All he needs right now is someone's voice to ground him in reality, and even if the words are a harsh rejection, for his chaotic mind…they will be better than nothing.

He can barely hear his own footsteps over the screaming in his head, but he thinks he's making his way into the public parts of the mountain, perhaps to the kitchens, because Bombur has never been anything but kind to him. Maybe he will allow him a few minutes to help cook, or bake, or simply do something with his hands. Maybe he will engage him in a conversation about the differences between dwarf and hobbit food, and begin to chase this horror away. Bombur's always been the quiet type, in sharp contrast to his older brother, but Bilbo knows he has much to say when given the opportunity…and he does not grow angry easily.

He thinks this is his best bet at the moment, so he stumbles through the mountain, half-paying attention to his surroundings as he struggles to find the kitchens.

When he finally arrives, though, the young woman there says Bombur is not in; he has not been in the kitchens since that morning, in fact. Since he was called away to the throne room, she has not seen even a glimpse of him.

Bilbo, rather numbed by the failure, thanks her—for the information, and for simply talking to him, because he thinks he can feel his heart rate starting to slow—before walking back out, unsure of where he is going next but simply allowing his feet to wander. (And because of his inattentiveness, he misses the worried glance the dwarf sends after him, the way her brows furrow and her hands clench the dough she is kneading. He does not know, but she resolves to ask Bombur about the small halfling who seemed so out of sorts when he stumbled into the kitchen, asking for him in a trembling voice little more than a hoarse whisper.)

Bilbo does not realize any of this, so he soon finds himself back near his own quarters, though he does not know how or why. He supposes he must be avoiding the throne room, because that is surely where Thorin and Kíli are, continuing the excavation of the enormous hall…and he does not want to face either of them. Not right now.

(He does, but he does not; he is so desperate for company, but he isn't sure he can handle actually carrying on a conversation with anyone at this moment.)

(It's a paradox that sends the voice in his head rising to new levels…a paradox that he's sure is going to drive him mad long before anything else does.)

He realizes suddenly that he is not the only one in the hall; there is another small figure, barely larger than him, several paces away and simply staring at him. He realizes after a moment that it is Ori, and he breathes a sigh of relief as he steps toward the dwarf. Surely, Ori will talk with him, at least for a little while. Perhaps they could sit down and knit for a few minutes, if he has nothing else to do; it's a task that will occupy Bilbo's shaking hands and force him to concentrate, pulling his thoughts away from the voice roaring in his head...

Surely, Ori will understand and make things better.

But as he steps forward, Ori only makes a small sound (a sob, maybe, which Bilbo would recognize were he not so far gone) and turns on his heel, fleeing the other way, down the hall. Bilbo falters, his stomach sinking horribly as he realizes what just happened. Ori ran away from him. He's frightened, or angry, or upset—he doesn't want to spend time with Bilbo, does not want to speak with the hobbit who betrayed him and ruined their friendship and—

He thinks of Ori's words all those weeks ago ("You're part of the Company. Even if you're not a dwarf, you're still one of us!"), thinks of the beautiful drawing folded carefully into his pack, and realizes exactly how far he has fallen.

Feeling tears brim in his eyes, he turns slowly and makes his way back to the room where he is staying, shutting the door and collapsing on the bed with a loud sob.

He does not move for hours.

.

.

That night is the most difficult he's had since his parents died.

He cannot sleep; really, he doesn't think he should be surprised. His mind is still howling, drowning out any rational thoughts he may have had, and the world is going too fast too fast too fast but at the same time is crawling by, unbearably slow. He does not know the time, but thinks it must be dark by now, must be the middle of the night, because he has been lying here for so long…

(Useless. Why don't you do something helpful, like find Gandalf or pack or plan your journey? They clearly don't want you anymore, so the faster you leave, the better.)

His mind is still screaming and his hands are still shaking beyond his control. His breathing has not yet evened out, still coming in short gasps as he struggles to keep his sanity, at least through the night, until he can try and find someone who will consent to talk with him.

(Even a stranger—one of the elves or men who clearly look down on him for his race and his status—would be preferable to this empty not-silence.)

He has not touched the gold still in the corner of the room. The great chests are beautiful, are already rigged to be strapped to a pony's saddle, but he cannot look at them without wanting to be sick. That gold—it's what started everything in the first place. It's what brought Smaug to the mountain, a century and a half ago; it's what took Thorin's mind from him, brought upon the battle and could have so easily killed his friends…

It is sick and disgusting and wrong, and he recoils from the fact that the dwarves obviously think that the gold is all he's ever wanted from them. They've given him the treasure he was promised, all those months ago in Bag End, and now are simply sending him on his way, as if the gold is more important than any friendship he's formed during the journey.

(Of course, he knows now that those friendships are not real, that his love for them has never been reciprocated, but he'd like to try and keep up the illusion, if only for tonight.)

(He can't fool himself for very long, though, because the clinical way Thorin offered him his reward and told him to go back to the Shire still cuts through him like a knife.)

Thorin has never cared about him, and neither have the others. He's been left alone, just like he always has…and he needs to learn to accept it.

The gold is abhorrent, disgusting, and Bilbo cannot bear to face it; so he turns, facing the other way on his bed as he continues to stare at nothing. Something in his pocket is weighing him down as he tries to sort through his still-frenzied thoughts, something small yet heavy that seems to call out to him, as if a beacon in the darkness of his mind—

The ring.

He knows nothing about it (and feels as if he should hate it, because gold is a terrible, terrible thing that will never have a place in his life again) but he feels strangely drawn to it, as if this little band knows what he is going through, is willing to offer him comfort and solace when no one else will.

He remembers thinking the ring seems sentient, and seems lonely…and somehow, he feels that it understands him better than any of the dwarves do now.

He realizes that it is telling him he has to leave right now.

He barely hesitates before complying, pulling parchment and quill from his bag, writing a short note with still-shaking hands (they may never love him, but he owes them this much, at least) before pulling on his pack and his sword, slipping the ring onto his finger, and making his way out the door.

The voice in his head is screaming ever-louder, apparently infuriated that he is listening to the ring's wishes, but he can only think that he needs to get away from those who do not want him. He needs to get away because it is what will make them happy, and he will do anything to achieve that goal…even at the expense of his own sanity.

And so he steps into the hallway, makes his way to the front gates of Erebor, and tells himself he does not look back.

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x. (…right?)

Something is not right in the air when the dwarves wake the next morning.

All of them are crushed by Bilbo's imminent departure, of course; but they shouldn't be surprised. After all, as much as they wish he would want to stay, they know that he misses his home in the Shire, know that he feels out of place among so many dwarves…know that they have ruined any chance of true friendship between them after the gold sickness and the battle.

(Thorin does not speak of Bilbo, barely holds his composure when the hobbit is mentioned in his presence. They all know that he blames himself, because when he fell victim to the madness, he said things no friend would ever say, did things that nobody could easily forgive.)

(They think the guilt is probably well-placed, but there is nothing they can do about it now.)

And yet the mountain still feels wrong, that morning, when they wake early and begin to prepare for the day. None mention Bilbo outright, and none mention the meeting the previous morning where they had hoped—so desperately—that Bilbo would contradict Thorin. They wanted him to claim that he did not wish to journey back to the Shire, wanted him to ask instead that he be allowed to stay in Erebor…

(They would have agreed in a heartbeat, if only he had asked. But his agreement to the terms of his departure were a tacit acknowledgement that he no longer desires their company, and that was the end of that. Forcing him to stay against his wishes would be nothing short of cruel.)

Bombur wakes first, as the kitchens start early in order to provide breakfast for the workers before their first shift. He arrives there shortly before dawn, met by one of the cooks from the Iron Hills: a young dwarrowdam with long, dark braids and an uncharacteristic crease in her brow.

"What's wrong?" he wants to know, mentally running through things that could have happened since he was last in the kitchens. He didn't return yesterday, after Bilbo's decision…was too upset to do anything but sit with his family, wishing things could have gone differently.

"Yesterday afternoon," she says after a moment, staring up at him with a frown, "a halfling came in, asking for you. He seemed…out of sorts, as if something was terribly wrong. I tried to ask him if he was all right, but he left as if he didn't hear me."

Bilbo. Something settles in his gut, something dangerous and uncertain and maybe this isn't what we think it is. Why would Bilbo make his way down to the kitchens, asking specifically for Bombur, if he no longer desired to be his friend? His mind whirls through the possibilities, each worse than the last, and he barely has the presence of mind to tell the girl to start breakfast without him before racing out of the kitchens, making his way back upstairs.

Something is so horribly wrong…and he fears he may be too late to fix it.

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.

By the time he makes it back to their living quarters, the entire hall is in an uproar.

The others apparently sensed that something was wrong as well, because Balin and Nori ventured into Bilbo's rooms to try and talk to him…and found him gone.

The bedroom is not entirely empty, of course. Bilbo is missing, along with his pack and sword…but the gold is left, untouched, in the corner of the room, and a note on a scrap of parchment is written out in a shaky, near-illegible scrawl—

"I'm sorry for everything, my friends."

Ori is near tears, and Bifur is roaring unintelligibly in Khuzdul; Dwalin's face is beet red, and Glóin's is pale as he shakes his head numbly, staring at the note in shock. It's so clear, now, to every one of them, how stupid they have been; and Bombur wants to be sick as he realizes exactly what must have happened.

Kíli confided in them weeks ago—some time before the gates to the mountain were reopened—that Bilbo blames himself for not being able to stop the battle. And Kíli had done his best to reassure him that he had nothing to apologize for, that everything he did was with good intentions, and he very well may have saved their lives…but the hobbit was clearly unconvinced, and Kíli had been at a loss as to how to continue.

None of them, truly, had known what to do…eventually, they decided that since Bilbo had not brought it up again, he had realized that they were not angry with him. They—mindlessly—came to the conclusion that he had been able to move past it and realize that they think no less of him for any wrongs he thinks he might have committed…

Clearly, that is not the case…and no matter how distraught the dwarves have been because of Bilbo's imminent departure, Bombur realizes that the hobbit must be feeling so much worse.

"We have to find him," Fíli says loudly, when nobody else seems willing to speak up. "He can't have gone far, can he? When did we last see him?"

"I…I saw him out here in the hall, yesterday, just before dinner," Ori says tentatively, wiping furiously at his eyes before the tears can fall. "I didn't talk to him, though…thought he wouldn't want to…" His voice chokes off, and he squeezes his eyes shut and covers his mouth as the situation truly crashes down upon them. Bombur realizes, with a sort of cold horror, that they truly brought this upon themselves.

Though they have so desperately wanted Bilbo to stay with them in the mountain, they have given no indication as such…have barely hinted at all that they wish he would not go home. Fíli has been spending a lot of time with the hobbit, Bombur knows, showing him around the mountain while the others work…but they have been so caught up in the beginnings of the renovation that they have not had much time for talking at all.

And then they thrust that offer upon him yesterday as if there were no other option, telling him that they would see him back to the Shire…how must that have sounded to Bilbo, insecure and hesitant as he already was?

They have been utter fools, he realizes. Looking around at the pale faces of his companions, he knows they have come to the same conclusion. This is all their fault—this terrible misunderstanding, the pain Bilbo is surely going through at this very moment…

They must find him. Soon. Before he is too far out of their grasp, before he is beyond their help…so they can salvage this wreck of a situation that should never have happened at all.

.

.

.

.

It is bitterly cold when Bilbo finally allows himself to rest in the ruins of Dale.

He did not account for the weather when he fled the mountain, barely taking more than a jacket out into the early winter's night. He is miserable, and so he finds a relatively sheltered corner by a long-collapsed wall, huddling down and curling into himself for warmth.

He wishes terribly for a fire, for the companionship and warmth that comes along with it…but he knows such things are out of his grasp, now, and forces himself not to dwell on it.

The cold brings him back to his senses, if only slightly, though his mind is still raging so quickly that he can barely keep up. He thinks he should be able to take the ring off; it's not likely that anyone will come looking for him, after all, and all of the orcs have been driven out of this land. He should be able to rest peacefully for a few hours before making his way to Laketown at first light, where he hopes he will be able to beg a bed and supplies from the Men before braving the forests of Mirkwood.

But he realizes that he doesn't want to remove the ring; it seems almost a part of him, now, and it understands him. He feels a kinship with this odd little piece of jewelry, and it has followed him through so much hardship these past several months…

It is precious to him, and he thinks he would not like to be parted from it again.

So he hunkers down, invisible, in the ruins of an ancient city, pulling his coat more tightly around his body. He does not bother to take his pack off, instead using it to cushion his back against the stone wall; but he lays his sword across his knees and closes his eyes, waiting silently for the sunrise.

.

.

He must have fallen asleep at some point—an astonishing feat, as his mind has still been howling at full capacity, and he doubted last night that he would get even a moment's sleep. The next thing he knows, though, the sun is shining down on him from the east, and the ruins around him are thrown into sharp relief for the first time.

There are still remnants of the great battle here, though all of the dead have been carried away. Great bloodstains—all dried black, now, despite their origins—coat the walls and the ground, and Bilbo is nearly sick as he realizes he spent the night sitting on top of one of them.

(Someone was killed on this very spot—someone died here because he wasn't able to stop the battle, because he wasn't good enough, despite what Kíli might say—)

In the haze of his barely-awake mind, he can almost see the ghosts of the battle fighting around him, see the corpses of the fallen and hear the great roars of the orcs as they bear down on the defenders. It is absolutely terrifying—and Bilbo very nearly screams when an orc turns toward him, because he does not understand, and because even if he knows this cannot be real, the monster seems so very alive—

But, of course, the wicked blade never meets his skin, and the shadowy figures fade into smoke as a clear voice pierces the morning, making him jump—

"Bilbo! Bilbo!"

It's Bofur, his voice carrying from far off, but it takes him a moment to realize it. After all, why in the world would the dwarf be looking for him? He has half a mind to get up then and there and make toward Laketown so he doesn't have to talk with Bofur, doesn't have to prolong what will, inevitably, be a very painful goodbye…

But for some reason, he seems frozen in place, the ring on his finger weighing him down as he hears Bofur's voice growing steadily closer. He tells himself he does not want to see his friend; he does not want to have to talk with him, not after…

Bofur comes into view soon enough, his face twisted in terror and concern as he continues calling for Bilbo. But he keeps absolutely silent, praying that the power of the ring will not wear off, hoping desperately that Bofur will decide he is not here and move on…

But as the dwarf spins in a slow circle in this place—which might have once been a grand courtyard—Bilbo realizes his mistake once Bofur's eyes lock onto his general location.

Even with the ring, his shadow is cast by the sun.

He hurries to stand and get into the shade, but this only seems to convince Bofur that he is there, because he moves swiftly, grabbing blindly for Bilbo before finally catching a grip on his shoulders. Bofur searches for Bilbo's face for a moment, never loosening his grip, before finally settling his gaze somewhere on the hobbit's chin.

"Bilbo? We don't want—we never meant—please, just let me explain!"

Bilbo thrashes against the dwarf's grip, the roaring in his mind swelling again until he can hear nothing but his own heart pumping through his ears, drowning out whatever Bofur is trying to tell him.

(But he realizes suddenly that anything—anything—would be better than losing himself to that madness again.)

He tries to fumble for his right hand, but his arms feel like dead weights, and he is nowhere near strong enough for such a task. But Bofur seems to understand, for he trails down Bilbo's arms, searching for his hands, and at last—at long last—the dwarf's gloved fingers pull the ring free.

"Bilbo," he says, his features falling in relief as he takes in the hobbit's face. "Bilbo, we thought we lost you—"

"What are you—" he tries to say, but his voice catches, and he has to swallow thickly before trying again—"Why did you follow me?"

"You great big idiot," Bofur says, and despite his harsh words, there is no cruelty in his tone or on his face. All Bilbo can see is blinding relief as the dwarf grasps his shoulders again, dropping the ring unceremoniously to the ground. "This has all—we were being stupid, of course we were, but what can you expect from us—"

Though his heart has calmed and the voice in his head has quieted to some degree, Bilbo still has trouble deciphering Bofur's babbling as some strange sense of vertigo catches up with him all at once. He sways on his feet, and Bofur immediately helps him sit down, his face twisting in alarm as he pats him down, desperate to find the source of the dizzy spell.

"Bilbo? Bilbo! Are you all right? Are you injured? Did something happen—?"

"M'fine," he says after a moment, steadying himself by grabbing Bofur's arms. "Just—felt faint for a moment."

"We should have Óin check to make sure," he says, and his tone leaves no room for arguments as he helps Bilbo to his feet again, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Head injuries don't just heal overnight, you know, or even over a few weeks—if you knocked something when you fell in the battle—"

"I'm fine," he insists, though he's still not entirely sure what's going on or why Bofur seems to be leading him back to the mountain. "Why're you—I thought you wanted me to leave—"

"No, see, that was us being halfwits, like I mentioned," Bofur says immediately, and his tone is full of remorse as he continues, "We thought you'd want to leave, seeing as you always talked about that hobbit hole of yours—and I must admit, it was a fine house, but we were hoping you'd want to stay in Erebor—"

Bofur continues to talk animatedly, sheer relief pouring off him in waves, but Bilbo can barely pay attention through his suddenly-throbbing head. He's not sure what brought it about—because he hasn't hit it, not once, since the battle, and it hasn't pained him in weeks—but he can feel himself going light-headed again as he trips in Bofur's grasp, struggling to stay standing.

Bofur halts abruptly, holding Bilbo up by the shoulders with a horribly worried look on his face…he thinks the dwarf is shouting something at him, but he cannot hear the words.

The last thing he knows is the heavy weight in his pocket of the ring—that he is sure should have been left behind in Dale—before the world goes dark.

.

.

Worried chatter greets him when he wakes again, and his head throbs terribly as several voices assault his ears all at once.

He must be in Erebor again, he realizes. Bofur must have carried him back to the mountain to seek medical attention (though he can't imagine what caused the episode out on the plains)…and, of course, the others would have been alerted to his return.

But why is he back in the mountain? Why has Thorin allowed him entry, when he made it so clear only yesterday that he wants him gone?

He tries to sit himself up despite his still-splitting headache, if only to quiet the dwarves around him, but there is immediately a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down and making sure he stays there as Óin hovers over his face, concern creasing his brow.

"Bilbo? How are you feeling? Gandalf is on his way, we think this might have something to do with magic, so we thought it best to ask him—"

(Magic? When has he ever come into contact with magic, since they left Mirkwood?)

(And more importantly, why has he been allowed back home?)

He has so many questions he needs to ask but cannot find the words to do so, so he only squints up at Óin carefully, trying to decipher the answers in the old dwarf's face. There is nothing there, though, except honest concern for his well-being…which, he supposes, answers one question. For some reason, the dwarves have changed their minds…and have decided that they want him to stay.

"How does your head feel?" Óin tries again after several moments, squinting as he studies Bilbo's face. "Can you speak?"

Bilbo sees Kíli shift nervously and glance toward Bifur, and he realizes suddenly why Bofur had been so concerned about his head injury. He's not sure how he could have forgotten; of course, the dwarf would worry when others hurt their heads, when his own cousin had survived such a trauma.

He doesn't think his is quite as severe as Bifur's, though, because despite the splitting pain radiating from his forehead, his thoughts are clear. They're remarkably clear, in fact: more so than they have been in several days.

He wonders suddenly where his ring has gone, because it is not in his pocket, and he greatly desires to hold it. (Why? It only seems to have brought him grief, after all.)

"Head hurts," he is able to say to Óin, and his voice is rather hoarse as he continues, glancing around the room. "Where's my ring?"

All of the dwarves seem to stiffen, and Bofur steps forward carefully, holding something wrapped in cloth, stopping a good distance from the bed.

"You know, it's funny…because I specifically remember dropping it on the ground when I found you, and I didn't see you pick it back up…but somehow, it wound up back in your pocket."

He pauses, studying Bilbo's face, before continuing carefully, "There's something funny about this ring, there's no mistaking that. We think it might be what's causing you problems with your head, so we're going to ask Gandalf to look at it for us before we let you have it back. Is that all right with you?"

It's not, Bilbo realizes suddenly, as a flash of hatred surges through him. He wants to rage at Bofur for stealing his ring; he wants to take back what rightfully belongs to him, using force if necessary. It's his—he found it—it's his pr—

Terrible memories, though, stop that train of thought abruptly, and all Bilbo can see is the emaciated creature in the bowels of the Misty Mountains. The madness so clear on its face was terrifying to behold as it argued with itself, as it screamed over the loss of its ring when Bilbo fled, taking what was not rightfully his…

And, perhaps even more terrifying: he is reminded vividly of Thorin, only weeks ago, caught wholly in the throes of the gold sickness. He ordered his kin to search tirelessly for the Arkenstone…threatened to end Bilbo's life for taking it, even if it were to stop a war…

The parallels are stark and frightening, because he realizes that for a moment, he was ready to physically harm Bofur, should he not agree to give the ring back; and he thinks that if it were lost, he would not stop searching until he found it.

He knows that these dwarves—his family—have lived through such horror once already. He will not subject them to it again.

So with great difficulty he agrees to Bofur's proposal, only adding that he would "greatly appreciate it if you keep the damned thing out of my sight, thank you very much. I've had enough of gold to last me a lifetime." And when he says this, the dwarves seem to relax as one, as if Bilbo's answer to that question is the catalyst for everything that will come after.

(And, forcibly shoving down the longing he feels as Bofur carries the ring away, Bilbo thinks it probably is.)

.

.

Later, once everyone has settled down (Bilbo still suffers from a splitting headache as he sits up in bed, but his mind is clearer than ever…and if his thoughts often wander back to that little golden ring, he forces them down and away), he is able to ask the question that has been gnawing at his gut since he first awoke. All of the dwarves—even those who he suspects should be working elsewhere—have settled into his room, Fíli and Kíli sitting on the enormous bed while the others have made themselves comfortable on the floor.

None of them seem willing to leave him, even for a second, and he has to wonder why…especially after they offered to escort him home less than two days ago.

Why, now, are they so eager to see him stay?

He voices the question during a lull in the conversation, a light-hearted thing that he only half paid attention to. They grow quiet immediately, sharing uneasy glances…and Bilbo wonders suddenly whether he's interpreting this wrong after all, whether they truly do not want him here, but feel obligated, at least until the mess with the ring is sorted out—

(No. Stop thinking about it.)

But then Balin speaks up, his face grave as he says, "Laddie, we would be honored to have you stay here with us, in the mountain. But after everything that's happened…we simply thought you would prefer to return home, to the Shire."

This, of all the possible answers to his question, was the one Bilbo least expected; he only stares at Balin for a moment, his mind blanking as he struggles to reply. Eventually, looking around at all the dwarves, who are staring at him expectantly…"Bag End—that is home," he says at length, and he sees Fíli visibly deflate before he continues hastily, "but I never—I never felt at home there, if you understand my meaning. My neighbors and relatives—we never truly got along, not like I have with all of you. I've been hoping—I've been planning for months, now, hoping that you would let me stay here." He feels the heat radiating from his face, and ducks his head as he finishes, "I would much rather live in Erebor than go back to the Shire, if you will have me."

Utter silence fills the room for several moments, and Bilbo dares not look up, in case somehow, something has gone horribly wrong, and he misinterpreted their meaning yet again, and—

But abruptly, he is knocked onto his back by two strong pairs of arms, and his vision is full of blond and dark hair as Fíli and Kíli engulf him in an enormous hug, practically shouting in his ear their enthusiastic approval of his decision. Bilbo winces as pain shoots through his head, but does not have the heart to shush them or to push them off; he only wraps his arms as far around them as he can, patting their backs and returning their grins when they finally release him.

The elder dwarves are more sedated in their reactions, but wide smiles have split every one of their faces. Even Dwalin and Thorin—usually so serious and stoic—look very pleased, and as Bilbo watches, Dwalin punches the king's shoulder lightly, standing up and saying loudly, "I think this calls for a round of ale!"

The dwarves' enthusiastic approval seems to shake the entire mountain.

.

.

By the time Gandalf arrives, Bilbo has almost completely succeeded in forcing down the thoughts of his ring. If he loses focus, there is the strange, nagging longing constantly at the edges of his mind… But after an ale or two—though Óin has forbidden him to drink any more, which he thinks is probably wise—he is so engulfed in the antics of the dwarves around him that he does not even have the chance to miss it.

Once the wizard enters the room holding the small bundle of cloth, though, everything comes crashing back down.

Everyone stills immediately, instinctively tensing as Gandalf unwraps the cloth, careful not to touch the ring as he inspects it carefully. He hums to himself but says nothing for several moments; the tension in the room builds and builds and builds, and Bilbo doesn't realize he is leaning toward the ring until he feels Dori's strong grip on his arm, holding him in place.

Eventually, the wizard looks up, his gaze taking in all fourteen of them before he addresses Bilbo—"You found this under the Misty Mountains?"

"Yes," he says, nodding slowly, and he thinks he is grateful for Dori's hand, grounding him in reality as he continues, "There was a small creature—almost a wraith—who I tricked into helping me escape, and I took it from him."

Gandalf hums again, his eyes narrowing before, abruptly, he steps toward the roaring fireplace and throws the ring into it.

The cry that leaves Bilbo's lips does not sound at all like himself as he tries to leap forward, held in check only by the impossible grip on his arm. Many of the dwarves jerk at the noise, but Gandalf does not so much as twitch, only staring at the ring intently as the flames lick at it for several moments.

Eventually, the wizard picks up the tongs and carefully fishes the undamaged ring out, blowing on it gently before raising his eyebrows and simply dropping it back into the cloth in his hand. Many of the dwarves cry a warning, but Gandalf reassures them, "It is quite cool."

Dori does not seem willing to let Bilbo go any closer, but Gandalf gestures for him, so the dwarf leads him forward, never loosening his grip on his arm, ready to jerk him away should the need arise. Bilbo steps forward carefully, unwilling to let himself be drawn by the ring…but at the same time, he is entranced by its beauty, by the way the flames seem to flicker and dance along the band as they are reflected by the metal.

"Do you see anything, Bilbo?" Gandalf says loudly, cutting through his suddenly muddled thoughts and forcing him to blink, looking up rather dazedly. "Is there anything appearing on the surface?"

He looks back down more closely at the ring, and is more than slightly surprised to see a script he does not recognize appearing in burning strokes, encircling the ring for a few moments before slowly beginning to fade from view. "There are words there," he says, narrowing his eyes and forcing himself to attend to the task at hand, "but I cannot read them. I think they're in some form of Elvish."

Gandalf lets out a great whoosh of air, covering the ring abruptly and securing the tie, handing it after a moment of hesitation to Bofur. The dwarf accepts the package with no small amount of surprise, staring up at the wizard questioningly as he quickly retrieves his staff and hat, heading for the door before anyone can even realize that he's leaving.

"Wait, Gandalf! Where are you going?" Bilbo calls after him, rather desperate. "What is this ring, exactly?"

"Tell no one it is here," the wizard says, his voice low and dark as he turns, a few steps from the closed door. "That ring does not exist until I tell you it does. Do not handle it, under any circumstances—keep it hidden, in a safe place, and do not speak of it again until I have returned."

He turns away, clearly finished with the conversation, but Thorin steps forward with long strides, his face murderous as he accuses the wizard—"If this ring is so greatly affecting one of our own, I expect you to give us more information than that."

Gandalf looks levelly at the dwarf for a moment before shifting his gaze to the rest of the Company. "As you suspected, this is a ring of power, but it is far greater and more powerful than any that consumed the kings that have gone before you. No one is safe while it still lives, but you cannot destroy it. Do as I say, keep Bilbo hidden here, and I will return when I know more."

He slams the door behind him with terrifying finality…and Bilbo realizes now that though this first conflict has ended—the dragon and the mountain and the great battle before the gates—there will likely be many more to come. (He has never seen Gandalf look so terrified.)

Though he tries to ignore it, though Bofur quickly does his best to put distance between Bilbo and the package in his hands, the whispers in his mind are calling to him…

Whatever this new horror is, whatever terrible things this ring has wrought upon them all…Bilbo has been dragged into it, and they will be forced to fight. But Bilbo knows, looking at the grim expressions of those around him, that these dwarves will stay with him until the bitter end. They—all of them—will see this done; and when they have eradicated whatever new evil is lurking in the dark corners of this world, they will finally have their hard-won peace.

And despite the darkness even now encroaching upon his thoughts, Bilbo thinks that is more reassuring than anything else in Middle Earth.