Chapter 1

When Bilbo finally came to, he immediately wished he hadn't. A splitting pain shot through his left temple, making him wince as he blinked against a blinding white light. It was too intense for him to do anything more than squint, but he could make out swirling dark shapes above.

Eventually, the pain subsided slightly, along with the ringing in his ears, and he was able to open his eyes a bit wider.

The shapes had feathers. They darted along the cloudy white landscape, playing a deadly game of chase with a group of monstrously large bats.

"The eagles." His voice was raspy, and slightly muffled by the ringing in his ears. "The eagles are coming."

With a wince, Bilbo pushed himself into a sitting position. He was lying on the snowy ground, his back bruised from landing atop an uneven pile of rocks. The side of his face was damp, and when he brought a few fingers up to touch it, he realized with horror that it was—

Blood. The battle.

Thorin.

He pushed himself to his feet and let out a groan as his head gave a nasty twinge. But there was no time to sit and nurse his wounds. Before he had been knocked out, he'd been trying to find Thorin, to make sure he was safe, to get him out of Ravenhill before the army from the north could arrive.

His feet hit the cold stone in time with the pounding ache in his head and the frantic flutter of his heartbeat. A group of goblins had split them all up. He'd caught a glimpse of Fíli and Kíli and Dwalin fighting in a group, and then he'd been running in search of Thorin. He'd dashed around a corner, straight into a group of orcs and then...

It doesn't matter now. He had to make sure his friends were safe.

A dark shape plummeted from above, and Bilbo jumped back with a yelp. The corpse of a giant bat almost as large as him hit the stone, its neck turned at an unnatural angle and its beady eyes gazing blankly.

Bilbo swallowed hard and pushed on. The snow was getting thicker, and his foot sent up a spray of white as he nearly slipped. He had no idea where Thorin might be—the whole fortress had gone eerily quiet save for the cries of the eagles above.

Abruptly, the maze of solid stone came to an end, and Bilbo found himself on the edge of a pale blue expanse split by cracks of indigo. In the center of the ice was a familiar dark-haired dwarf facing down a white tower of muscle.

Azog swung the blade embedded in his arm, forcing Thorin to take a step back to avoid his throat being sliced open. He dodged again as the orc pressed him with a series of quick, brutal swipes.

Bilbo stepped closer, his heart caught in his throat. He hadn't forgotten the last time Thorin had faced down the Pale Orc. He had no idea how long the fight had been going on, but Thorin was clearly exhausted, his movements getting slower and less deliberate with each step.

Whatever happened, he couldn't let Thorin face this alone.

The chill of the ice cut into his skin, even through the thick soles of his feet, as he stepped onto the frozen surface. Bilbo stiffened as a low crack sounded from below, and the surface began to break apart.

But that was soon forgotten as a low cry echoed across the ice. Thorin staggered back, blood dripping to the ground from the cut in his abdomen. With a growl, he recovered and lunged for Azog. The orc was waiting for him, a cruel sneer revealing sharp teeth. He shoved aside Thorin's blade with his metal gauntlet and drew back his bladed arm.

Bilbo's vision narrowed to that small island of ice smeared with blood, and the two figures that stood upon it. His feet were moving before he'd told them to, and the ice cracked treacherously beneath each step.

The sun flashed on the red-stained blade, and Azog plunged it into Thorin's chest.

No.

It was a resounding thought, a whisper, a scream, and above it all Bilbo could hear the ragged gasp that escaped the dwarf's lips, followed by a rush of blood.

Bilbo reached out one hand towards him, his heart beating so hard it was painful, and everything seemed to slow. His breathing came in ragged gasps, and a strange tingle started in his fingertips.

Azog's sword slid out of Thorin's chest. The ice beneath Bilbo's feet shifted. He glanced down, his hand still outstretched, and realized with a jolt of shock that the cracks were disappearing.

Then time seemed to snap back into motion, and a rush of images filled his vision—

—the cracks in the ice sealing up—a spray of snow falling towards his unsteady feet—the limp corpse of a bat darting into the sky—

Bilbo sat up with a gasp, chest heaving.

He was back in the courtyard where he'd been knocked out.

Shaking, he reached up to find the blood on his face was still wet. The eagles were still soaring above, and his head was still throbbing.

What on earth just happened?

Perhaps it had all been a dream, a disturbingly realistic nightmare caused by a rather nasty blow to the head. After riding barrels to escape from elves, facing down a dragon, and walking over enchanted gold, a strange dream was hardly out of the ordinary...whatever "ordinary" even meant anymore.

Bilbo stood up, wobbling on unsteady legs. Having a headache was no excuse for not finding his friends in the middle of a battle, and neither was a strange dream. He pushed himself into a run again, trying in vain to quell the feeling that there was something terribly wrong.

The feeling only intensified as the bat fell from the sky again, nearly landing on his toes. Bilbo barely spared it a glance as he ran on, though the image remained burned in his mind.

This—whatever it was—was happening all over again, exactly the way it had before. And if it continued like that, if he reached the ice and had to watch…

The snow slid beneath his feet, nearly throwing him off balance. Bilbo sucked in a panicked breath and pushed himself into a sprint. He couldn't let it happen again.

The same scene was waiting for him when he reached the ice—Thorin fending off blow after punishing blow from Azog's massive form.

Bilbo hopped in place for a moment, trying to find a safe path across the ice. With a groan of frustration, he stepped onto the shifting mass and fought to regain his balance as the piece beneath his feet tilted. He rushed to the next one, walking across the slippery surface as fast as he could. More cracks began to form with each step, though thankfully the ice did not break.

But he couldn't find enough traction with his bare feet, and he was still a good distance away when Thorin was struck once more. Azog's blade whipped to the side, spattering the white surface with red.

Fear, absolute and overwhelming, rose in Bilbo's chest, threatening to drown him. He couldn't watch this again. Desperation burned through the fear in the form of a harsh cry.

"Stop!"

He wasn't sure why he shouted that particular word, but it...worked.

The sparse flakes of snow hung suspended in the air like the ornaments they would use to decorate the Yule trees back in the Shire. Azog stood still, a droplet of blood stuck to the end of his sword. Thorin's face was caught on the threshold of pain and anger.

A slight tingle had started in his fingertips, and as Bilbo focused, the snow began to rise. Azog's blade moved backwards across Thorin's chest, sealing the cut it had caused. The cracks in the ice beneath Bilbo's feet vanished.

The tingling grew in intensity, becoming almost painful, and Bilbo finally let go. The snow began to fall once more, and Thorin stepped back once more to avoid Azog's strikes.

Bilbo drew his sword and charged.

Thorin caught sight of him a moment before Azog did. His eyes widened, the beginnings of a warning forming on his lips, but Bilbo lunged forward and sunk his little blade into the orc's thigh. Azog roared in pain, his metal gauntlet slashing out and catching Bilbo in the side of the face.

Pain exploded along his cheek, and Bilbo fell with a gasp.

The sharpness of the sensation, combined with the blood running fresh down his skin, only served to sharpen his senses. He could feel the biting cold of the ice beneath his fingers, could see the flitting shadows of the eagles on the slick surface, could hear the echoing cry of Thorin's voice followed by the wet, awful sound of a blade cutting through flesh.

He winced, biting down against the taste of blood in his mouth, and pushed himself to his feet. The broken piece of ice they were standing on wobbled dangerously, nearly sending him to the ground again.

In the next moment, Thorin's hands were on his arms, pulling him upright, and his concerned face was inches from his own. "Bilbo. Are you all right?"

"I—" He broke off with a groan. It hurt to talk.

Past Thorin's shoulder, he could see Azog's still corpse, pinned to the ice by Orcrist.

"Come on." With both hands still on his arms, Thorin guided him towards solid ground. It took them a while to make it over the slippery surface, but eventually they both made it to safety.

Bilbo could hear the pounding of his pulse in his ears. Now that neither of them were in danger, his adrenaline began to fade, and there was nothing left to distract him from the magnitude of what had just happened.

Somehow, with but a gesture of his hand, he had turned back time, had saved Thorin from death.

The image came to him once more, sharper and more painful than a blow to the face—Azog's sword embedded in Thorin's chest, blood rushing from the wound—

It was Thorin's hand on his face that finally brought him back to reality. Gently, the dwarf tilted his chin up so he could better inspect the wound on his cheek. "It isn't too deep. We'll still have to get you to a healer, though."

Bilbo looked back at him, looked past the layers of blood and grime, and relief melted a measure of the fearful tension he'd been carrying with him for the past few days. Gone was the grim, hostile mask he had worn under the dragon sickness. All that was left now was Thorin—his kindness, his courage, his quiet strength.

Without quite knowing what he was doing, Bilbo leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the dwarf's neck, savoring the opportunity to be close to him again. Somehow, they'd both made it through the nightmare that had been the past few weeks.

A moment later, Thorin returned the embrace, fully closing the distance between them. His heartbeat was a comforting rhythm against Bilbo's chest, gradually slowing from its frantic, battle-ready pace.

"I owe you an apology," Thorin said, the slight tremor in his voice betraying just how much of an understatement he believed it to be.

Bilbo drew back, absently noting that some of his blood had been smeared on Thorin's coat. He'd been dreading having this conversation—though given recent events, he should have been grateful that they were having it at all.

Thorin's voice was low and unsteady. "I would take back my words and my deeds at the gate. You did what only a true friend would do. I...I was too blind to see." He lifted his gaze to the wound on Bilbo's face. "I'm so sorry that I have led you into such peril."

"Thorin." The pain in his cheek flared up as he spoke, but he pushed past it. "I'm glad to have shared in all your perils—each and every one of them. It's far more than any Baggins deserves." He drew in a shaky breath. "I forgive you. Of course I forgive you."

The uncertainty did not disappear from his face, but Thorin nodded nonetheless and said, "Let's get out of here. We need to get you patched up."

They made their way down from Ravenhill, through the scarred plains beneath the mountain, and into Dale, where a group of buildings had already been designated for the wounded.

The battle had been won, the orcs driven away from the mountain, but Bilbo had not been prepared for what it had cost them. There were countless bodies strewn about the battlefield, and many on the streets of the city as well. He tried to keep his eyes focused ahead, tried not to dwell on the image of blank eyes and twisted limbs, but it didn't help much—and that wasn't counting the smell. The scent of death and blood and excrement seemed to hang over the whole area like a haze.

Bilbo didn't remember entering a building, but the next thing he knew, he was sitting on a bench indoors and someone was dabbing at his face with a damp cloth. He glanced around, hoping to find Thorin, but it seemed he'd gone elsewhere.

"This'll need stitches," said the woman cleaning his face. "It'll probably scar, too." She pulled out a flask of something and poured a bit onto the cloth. "This is going to sting. Badly."

Despite her warning, Bilbo still wasn't ready for the agony that flared up as soon as the cloth touched his face. He leaned back with a yelp, one hand flying up defensively, and the woman froze.

"S-Sorry, I didn't think it was going to hurt that...much…" He trailed off as he realized she was not listening to him at all. Her hand was still holding the cloth out towards his face, her eyes focused on the spot where he'd just been, and she was not moving at all. Just outside the door, an elvish soldier was frozen mid-step.

Oh, dear. I've done it again. The tingling had begun again in his fingertips. He looked down at them, expecting to see some sort of ethereal light—anything to indicate that something strange was happening, but there was nothing.

As soon as he relaxed, the world jolted into motion again. The woman only sighed, as though she hadn't noticed anything strange. "Hold still, now."

This time, Bilbo was prepared for the pain, and clenched his jaw as she cleaned his wound. It did help that he was a bit preoccupied.

What had happened back on Ravenhill had been real. Somehow, he had really turned back time, and it seemed he could do it more than once.

He had never heard of such a thing, not in legends nor stories. When he saw Gandalf again, he'd have to ask him about this.

But if this new ability had allowed him to save Thorin, then perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing at all.

Will I ever stop posting new stories? Maybe...

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