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Chapter Text

Thorin Oakenshield was a possessive dwarf.

For as long as he could remember, the need to keep everyone and everything that was his within a safe and reachable distance had dogged his every waking moment. Such feelings were normal amongst dwarves, who had an infamous reputation for being greedy and jealous of their most prized possessions. The invasion of Erebor had ripped Thorin's once peaceful life to shreds, casting his people out into the unforgiving wilds of Middle-Earth and stealing every ounce of wealth that the Longbeards had worked so long and so hard to build over the centuries. It was unforgivable.

But now, nearly seventeen decades later, Thorin was finally home again. Endless streams of gold, silver, mithril, precious gems, smooth stone, and the finest furs decorated Thorin's bedchambers, a testament to the continued wealth and expected prosperity of the Lonely Mountain. But unlike his three-years-younger and much more foolish self, Thorin now had a better grasp on what items to be possessive of in his life, including the one that he currently held in his arms.

The King Under the Mountain was standing on the balcony of his bedchambers, a warm summer breeze caressing his bare chest and naked arms. All he wore at the moment was a pair of night trousers, the humid heat of mid-summer chasing away any thoughts he may have had about proper royal attire. If an emergency took place and one of his council members were offended by his hairy and naked torso, then Thorin would just tell them to grow a beard and actually make themselves useful for once in their lives. Or he could just sic Dwalin on them. That always worked, too.

"Thorin?"

Mouth quirking in amusement, the Dwarf-King pretended not to hear his consort's irritated calls from the washroom. Instead, he listened happily to the small puffs of air just beneath his right ear, large hands cradling Frodo's tiny form to his chest. The boy had had a long day playing outside the fortress walls with Donel and Dwina, every part of his little body covered in mud and plant particles by the time Bofur had finally brought them back inside for the evening. After feeding and bathing him, Frodo had quickly fallen asleep in Thorin's arms, the little boy's dark curls and nightshirt all askew as he clung to the royal dwarf's neck.

"Thorin! What did you do with my clothes?"

A small pile of nightclothes lay atop the tall bedchamber bureau, purposely placed there by the Dwarf-King since it was a very warm night and he enjoyed watching his very proper and respectable hobbit run around half-naked looking for them. Another breeze hit the balcony and Thorin felt his tiny passenger shiver, goosebumps breaking out across the little boy's uncovered legs and lower neck. Thorin easily solved the problem by placing a huge hand over Frodo's back and pressing him more tightly to his chest, shielding his youngest nephew from the chillier elements of the night.

"Thorin! I swear, if you've taken my clothes again…"

It still amazed Thorin just how small hobbit faunts were, his left hand completely covering Frodo's entire back without any difficulty at all. Not even Fíli and Kíli had been so tiny as young children, and they'd been undernourished for a significant portion of their early childhoods. Of course, Frodo's small size didn't negate his terrible ability to rip out clumps of Thorin's chest hair in his sleep, which was exactly what the faunt was doing right now.

"Perverse dwarf! Ugh!"

And there went his very irritated and very naked husband, not a stitch of clothing on his pudgy body since Thorin had stolen the wash towels, too. His nephews weren't the only ones in the Durin family with a mischievous streak, although Thorin's tended to be a bit on the perverted side. But only when Bilbo was involved, of course. No one else could bring out the most childish and possessive aspects of Thorin's personality, something that Dís had pointed out on numerous occasions. Bilbo hadn't been too pleased with that tidbit of information, grumbling about terrible privileges and the tendency of dwarves to behave like melodramatic nincompoops.

"Stop looking at my butt! For Eru's sake, you're holding Frodo!"

Thorin shrugged, playing with Frodo's curls while his husband darted around the bedchamber in search of his nightclothes. So long as Frodo had something to cling to in his sleep, then nothing short of an explosion would wake his littlest nephew up. It was a very convenient habit, especially on nights like this. Unfortunately, it also meant that his husband didn't have to worry about keeping his voice down, either.

"Oh, you think this is funny, don't you? Well, the only hobbit you're sleeping next to tonight is two feet tall and drooling all over your back. Have fun with that! Ugh, and to think, I left the Shire for this insanity…"

Frodo just kept drooling on him. Well, at least one hobbit in his life understood a good joke. And Bilbo's disgruntled irritation was always a pleasant sight to behold, even if it meant sleeping in the Blue Room with his nephew. Or Dís could be right, and Thorin really was a possessive lump of pigheaded and haughty idiocy. His sister had an annoying habit of being right most of the time, too.

"The top shelf, Thorin? Really?"

Chapter Text

Bofur prided himself on being a simple dwarf.

Unlike everyone else in the Oakenshield Company, Bofur and his family weren't of noble birth and did not originally hail from the Lonely Mountain. His cousin had once been a soldier under the command of Thrór at the Battle of Azanulbizar, but nobody else in the family of Ur had any further connections to the noble lines of Erebor. However, the siren call of finally having a permanent home had been too much for the simple miner, kitchen cook, and injured toymaker to pass up, their contracts signed and dried the same morning that Balin had released word about the quest in Ered Luin. Of course, the promise of free beer had been quite tempting as well.

Actually living in Erebor had not been quite so simple, though. Bofur wasn't used to being treated like a warrior or hero by those around him. He'd been a miner and tinker his whole life, barely scraping by as he moved from town to town with his family, always looking for new ways to make coin to treat Bifur's ailments or feed Bombur's increasing-and-ever-multiplying appetite. But being treated like a champion amongst the nobles who had once scoffed at his threadbare attire?

That was certainly something new, without a doubt.

And now, five hours into the commemoration dinner for something and someone of the Iron Hills, Bofur felt like ripping his pigtails out and running from the room with a girly scream of epic proportions. He'd already tried getting drunk as a skunk, but a certain someone with very hairy feet had done something to prevent the kitchen staff from filling his tankard with fresh booze every five minutes. Instead, Bofur was forced to listen to the councilmen drone on and on and on and on about tax adjustments and golden cups and an unfair portion of the treasury being blocked off and fussy little hobbits eating up all of the King's time and princes ignoring proper class distinctions and Ironfists attempting for the sixth time to cross into the north and…

Why on Earth was he still sober again?

Oh, yeah, the fussy little hobbit. Bilbo had officially banned all of the rowdier and cruder members of the Company from drinking more than four tankards of anything at the fancy meetings that they were forced to attend on a semi-regular basis. Apparently, telling the Elvenking's ambassador that he was a tree-shagging willow-lover while flipping all of the other elves off wasn't good for Bilbo's heart rate. Even Thorin had had to face the icy, vicious wrath of one Bilbo Baggins on that cold autumn evening. The poor dwarf had not drank a single bit of booze for weeks after that particular incident. And, as usual, Dís just laughed at the stupidity of everyone around her.

"By Mahâl, kill me now…"

"That'd be messy. And give Uncle Bilbo a heart attack."

Bofur didn't even have to look underneath the table to know that a little body was sitting just beside his right foot. If there was anyone who disliked fancy meetings as much as Bofur, it was the small children of their bizarre hodgepodge of a family. Frodo yawned through almost every minute of them, an equally bored Donel typically sitting next to him at the upper end of the table. Both boys had to attend because of their familial connection, something that Donel constantly complained about to his mother, who was now the Royal Translator of Erebor. Neither of them stayed in their seats for too long, though; something that the entire Company helped instigate by letting the kids hide near their feet underneath the royal dining table.

"Well, we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

The miner felt a small hand pat his knee in agreement, smiling when he heard the boys whispering to each other right beneath his supper plate. Another small hand seemed to appear out of nowhere a half-minute later, patting at Bofur's pockets in search of a toy or those delicious little cheese snacks that the older dwarf always carried with him nowadays. Never one to disappoint, Bofur pulled a newly whittled badger toy out of his pocket and pressed it into the grabby hands next to his left knee. What kind of uncle would Bofur be if he didn't spoil the little ones?

"Does he offer us insult?!"

And there went Glóin again, ferociously trying to beat the beard off of some loud-mouthed Ironfist ambassador. To say that a breakdown in negotiations had taken place on that particular territorial issue would've been an understatement of enormous proportions. Food and goblets and plates and axes went flying in all directions, a cup narrowly missing Bofur's head when he ducked beneath the table himself.

Frodo pouted at him. "Are they fighting again?"

"Who's winning?" asked Donel with a gleeful smile. "It sounds like they're—"

Bofur grabbed the dwarfling before he could crawl out from underneath the table, the excited twitch of Donel's fingers and mouth a tell-tale sign about what kind of hobby he'd be participating in several years from now. And then the table was suddenly lurched to the side, a wide array of booted feet stomping the uncovered ground around them. The boys scurried into Bofur's outstretched arms, precious toys clutched tightly in their hands as the miner rolled backwards and away from the dinnertime brawl above them. It should only be a few moments until—

"Ignorant wretches! Sit down!"

Ah, and there were the familiar bellows of Dwalin, son of Fundin. Followed by the equally familiar sound of bodies colliding with the walls and floor. Nori stood directly in front of them, creating an effective barrier between the brawl and the children. No matter how sneaky Frodo and his friends thought they were, Dwalin and Nori always had one or eight eyes focused on them at all times during meetings like this. Everyone knew that the children were more vulnerable to attack than anyone else, so a protective force was on duty throughout all official dinners, parties, and assemblies that they had to attend. And, per his usual request, Bofur was on emergency-babysitting-and-retrieval duty tonight.

You got them? signed Nori.

Of course. They've been at my feet for hours now.

Good. Now leave.

Bofur didn't have to be told twice. He rolled backwards again, disappearing into a dark corner and away from the brawl that was still going strong despite Dwalin's repeated efforts to stop it. A pity, though. Bofur enjoyed a good brawl every once in a while. It was good for a dwarf's soul, his father had always said. But alas, babysitting duties came first, no matter how tempting the tussle.

"Whew, that was a close one!"

Donel pouted in his arms. "We never get to have any fun. I bet Mister Dwalin was getting into all kind of brawls at our age. And winning, too!"

"You are incorrigible."

Frodo's head bobbed beneath Bofur's floppy hat. "Blame Kíli. He's a very bad influence. Terrible role model."

"Ah. Of course."

Chapter Text

Dwalin appreciated inkings far more than the average dwarf.

Ever since he'd been a small lad, the intricate patterns, exact precision, and varying colors of a good inking had always fascinated him. Dwalin's father and mother had both possessed the standard inkings of any good Longbeard worth their salt in battle or behind the forge, but neither of them had been particularly interested in the more elaborate ones that Dwalin had seen many a warrior or guardsman sporting in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. So, once he'd come of age and been in a good battle or twenty, Dwalin had made his way to Erebor's best inker for some much needed skin treatment and a whole lot of body art.

Or, he would have, if a certain fire-breathing lizard hadn't decided to have a gold-and-jewel-fueled orgasm over Thrór's fucking treasure. The filthy beast had probably left some semen along with all of those huge piles of shit in the treasury, too. And Thorin had dove straight into the stuff when they'd first arrived in the mountain. Thank Mahâl for the fussy little hobbit, or else their illustrious King would probably still be swimming around in it like an extra hairy fish of questionable edibility.

"What does that one say?"

Lo and behold, the tiny one had found him again. Seriously, hobbits must have some bloodhound or warg in them to be able to locate actively hiding dwarves so easily in a crowded city. Not that Dwalin was hiding, of course. The Captain of the Royal Guard had no need to hide from a two foot tall, curly-headed, gap-toothed faunt who liked to follow a certain guardsman into the washroom to poke at his inkings and piercings and ask a ton of questions about every single one of them.

Honestly, the kid was like a leech, except you couldn't rip this one off and throw it into the campfire. The Dwarf-King had a renowned habit of chopping off the fingers of anyone who so much as looked at the little bugger in the wrong way. And maybe Dwalin had taken a tongue or seven for similar offences, but who was he to ignore the foul words of filthy, rotten, back-stabbing traitors to his King?

"None of them say any one thing alone," snapped Dwalin, curling his fingers into fists and lining up all of his rune inkings for the nosy faunt to see more clearly. "When put together like this, they say: Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu! Roughly translated, it means: Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you! It is the battle cry of our people."

"Why'd you get them?"

"To honor my kin who had fallen in battle," said Dwalin. He easily weaved through the crowd of dwarves who were clogging the central causeways, internally cursing at the lunch hour rush. "Why are you following me?"

"You told Uncle Balin that you'd be getting a new inking today."

Dwalin's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "And how in the name of Durin did you find that out? We were in my office when I told him that."

Frodo smiled innocently up at him. "It's a secret."

"Ha! I'll bet."

Knowing that he couldn't leave the little boy alone in a crowd of strangers, Dwalin reached down and plucked up Frodo before an adult dwarf could run the puny scamp over. He had an appointment with his favorite inker, so Frodo would be getting an extra close-up look at the inking process several years earlier than Bilbo had planned. Dwalin sighed, silently lamenting the inevitable loss of pumpkin cupcakes for this blasphemous act. Hobbits could be very cruel creatures when they put their minds to it.

"That's an interesting accessary you've got there, Dwalin," said his inker with a smirk. "Are you sure his mother won't be frantic when his absence is noticed?"

"Watch your tongue, Ragin," snarled the guardsman. He carefully lowered Frodo down from his shoulders and placed the little boy on a nearby bench. "Stay here, stay quiet, and just watch. Understood?"

Frodo nodded with a happy smile.

"Believe it or not, I was actually referring to the princess with that one," stated the rough-looking dwarf as he readied his instruments and ink bottles. "She practically tore apart the market last month looking for the halfling and his little friends over there."

"Will you be able to do it?" asked Dwalin as he stripped. "The bottom half is complicated."

Ragin snorted, pulling back his sleeve to show off one of his many inkings. "Of course, I can. What kind of fucking inker do you think I am?"

"One who should watch his tongue around the boy," warned Dwalin as he laid down on a long table. "All black. I don't want any of those sissy colors you've been giving to the men in Dale, got it?"

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good, because you'd lose a couple fingers if you did. Now, I've got work tonight, so let's get started."

"Two hours today, two more hours next week. That good?"

"Fine."

The process was as painful as ever, but Dwalin didn't mind the sting and had long grown accustomed to the feel of bone piercing into his skin. A good deal of blood was always involved in dwarf inkings, so Dwalin had signaled for Frodo to come over to him when the first rivulents started to appear on his lower back. The little boy hadn't wasted a moment, darting over to stand by Dwalin's head as Ragin started to move over his spine. Although Dwalin didn't wince during the whole process, he made sure to talk to Frodo and explain each instrument and part of the inking procedure, not wanting the boy to have any misconceptions about the intricate practice.

"Are you supposed to bleed that much?" asked Frodo, his voice full of worry for the warrior dwarf. "It looks like it really, really hurts."

"It does hurt, especially along the spine," said Dwalin. "But I'm used to experiencing a lot of pain and inkings don't even register halfway on my pain chart. Hey, look at me, not at the blood."

The rest of the session was spent with Dwalin and Ragin explaining various different types of inkings and their meanings to Frodo, the latter appealing to the intellectual that hid inside of the faunt's tiny body. Despite what every other member of the Company might think, Dwalin actually agreed with Bilbo about not wanting Frodo to ever get any inkings or piercings as he grew older. Something about the idea just didn't sit well with Dwalin, probably because of the boy's naturally innocent personality and hobbit-y nature.

"What do they say?" asked Frodo when the inker was finally done. "All of them."

"They're the runic names of each member of the Company," said Dwalin, pointing to each of the runes and saying the name of the dwarf it represented. "And these newest ones here are—"

"It's my name!" cried Frodo after Ragin had finally cleaned off all of the blood. "And that's Uncle Bilbo's name, too. You got our names inked onto you."

"Do you approve?"

Frodo gave him a huge, gap-toothed smile. "Uh huh. It looks really pretty. Like Auntie Amaranth's fancy calligraphy."

"Good to hear. Now, c'mon, it's almost time for supper."

If threats to life and tongue were needed to keep a certain inker's mouth shut about Frodo's particular choice of words, then they were a necessary evil for the superb work of art that now decorated Dwalin's lower back. The lack of pumpkin cupcakes were a very sad loss, though.

Chapter Text

Fíli liked to think he was a good big brother.

Ever since he could remember, it was Fíli who was responsible for watching Kíli while Amad and Uncle Thorin worked during the day to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads. There had been a couple of mishaps, but Kíli had made it past the toddler years with all of his limbs intact and only a few bumps to the head. And then there was adolescence, which was a whole new monster because of the bullies and Kíli's ridiculous need to prove himself.

Fíli loved his little brother more than anything else in the world, but he'd be the first to admit that Kíli hadn't been the easiest dwarfling to deal with or keep alive when street brawls broke out.

And that was why his little cousin had Fíli so puzzled.

For all intents and purposes, Frodo was a normal child with normal interests in normal childish pastimes. He liked to play with his toys and puzzles, mealtimes could be a little difficult if brussel sprouts or spinach was involved, scraped knees and skinned elbows were a common source of tears, and bathtimes needed to be entertaining if you didn't want Frodo to sneak out behind your back. All of this was remarkably similar to Kíli when he was a dwarfling, so Fíli had felt totally prepared when Uncle Bilbo asked him to watch Frodo for all of Hevensday for him.

Then he'd learned the truth.

In stark contrast to dwarflings, Fíli had learned very quickly that hobbit faunts did not take well to roughhousing, yelling, rock-throwing, long separations, being rushed, or anything related to violent behavior in general. By the time evening or supper rolled around, no matter who he had been with for the day, Frodo was ready to be back with Uncle Bilbo and surrounded by the simple, hobbit-y comforts the little boy seemed to crave so much. Thorin, Dís, and the princes were welcomed alternatives, but Uncle Bilbo would always be Frodo's main source of refuge and security in the Lonely Mountain.

"Did you finish your letters, Frodo?"

The little boy nodded, absentmindedly kicking at the bottom of his bedroom desk. Always the diligent student, Frodo had finished his lessons much faster than Fíli or Kíli had ever done as dwarflings, his penmanship already neater than several adult dwarves on the King's Council. It was barely past high noon and Frodo had finished everything on the list Bilbo had left for him: Khuzdul, arithmetic, Westron, plants, and a little bit of Sindarin. Fíli wasn't quite sure what to do with a mopey faunt who didn't like to swordfight or wrestle just for the hell of it.

"Okay, what's wrong, nadadith?"

Fíli set down the knives he was sharpening and walked over to Frodo, easily swinging the little boy into his arms and rubbing a furry cheek against the child's face. This was the first time Bilbo had left the city for more than a few hours, and the knowledge obviously wasn't sitting very well with Frodo. Meeting with King Bard and the farmers of Dale was imperative to Erebor's survival, so Bilbo's presence at the gathering was necessary, as Thorin and the older hobbit had explained to him earlier that morning.

"Nothing."

"Oh, I know it's not nothing," said Fíli, teasing the tip of Frodo's nose with his moustache braids. "Your face is droopier than Dwalin's when he's denied those lovely pumpkin cupcakes of his. It makes you look like a grumpy chipmunk." He gave Frodo a nose-nuzzle for reassurance. "Now, mizimith, tell me what's wrong?"

"Uncle Bilbo's outside the mountain and far away with the big folk," said Frodo with a deep frown. "What if something happens and he doesn't..."

"He doesn't what?"

Frodo sniffled, the beginning of tears appearing in his eyes. "What if he doesn't come back? The orcs almost got him before because I was wearing his shiny shirt, but the healing elf lord saved him that time. But what if there's no another time and there's no one to help because everyone's here and Uncle Bilbo's out there and..."

Ahhh, well, that explained quite a bit, after all.

"Shhhh, mizimith, shhhh," whispered Fíli as he cuddled the little boy even closer to him. "Dwalin and Nori went along with Uncle Bilbo, you know that. And do you honestly think they'd ever let anything happen to him?"

Frodo shook his head. "No, but what if—"

"No, no, no, we won't be having any of those nasty what ifs around here," interrupted Fíli. "It's our job as the adults to worry about that, not you. And Dwalin would sooner chop his own arm off than let anyone with ill intent near Uncle Bilbo. You know Nori would knife them before they'd even get into the room, anyways."

"I don't wanna be alone again," whispered Frodo, so quiet that Fíli could barely hear him. "Mama and Papa promised not to leave, but they still did."

"Oh, mizimith..."

Fíli felt like a heel for not realizing sooner what was bothering his little cousin. Not even two years ago, Frodo had lost both of his parents in a boating accident and, within the span of only a few hours, had become an orphan with a shaky future ahead of him. And despite being in a large, loving family now, the prospect of having it all snatched away for a second time had to be terrifying for the young hobbit.

"Now, you listen to me, nadadith," ordered Fíli, pulling back to make Frodo look him in the eyes. "No one is going to take Uncle Bilbo away, especially with Dwalin, Nori, and King Bard so close to him. He's as safe right now as if he were in the mountain. And even if something, for whatever bizarre and unforeseeable reason, does happen to Uncle Bilbo sometime in the future, I promise you with every fiber of my being that you will never be left alone again. Uncle Thorin would sooner give up the throne and toss himself into the River Running than even think about giving you up. The rest of us feel the same, Mother, Kíli, and myself included. You will never be alone again, do you understand me, Frodo Baggins?"

Frodo nodded, tears and snot running down his face. Accustomed to such a thing from when Kíli was young, the oldest prince simply reached out and gently wiped away the messy fluids. He made sure to gently nuzzle Frodo's nose before pulling back.

"No more tears," cooed Fíli with soft hands and words. "There's no reason to cry, because what did I just tell you?"

The faunt hiccupped a few times. "That I'd never be alone again."

"Good. Now repeat it to me."

Frodo sniffled and said more confidently, "I'll never be alone again."

"That's a good boy." Fíli boosted his little cousin higher up into his arms and made for the bedroom door. "How about we pay Bombur a visit in the kitchens? I think I saw a shipment of apples come in yesterday morning and you know what that means..."

"Apple pies?"

"Uh huh, and fresh apple juice for our favorite faunt," said Fíli with a waggle of his eyebrows. "We wouldn't want to miss out on that, now would we?"

They spent the next two hours in the kitchens before wandering up to the long causeways that overlooked the mining chasms of Erebor, Fíli keeping a careful arm around Frodo the entire time to ensure that he didn't fall off the ledges. It was shortly before dinner when Thorin and Balin found them there, their monthly inspections of the reconstucted mine entrances complete after a long day at work. Frodo immediately leapt into Thorin's arms, hugging the Dwarf-King as tight as his small arms would let him.

"Whoa, what's the special occasion?" asked Thorin with a pleased smile. "I don't usually get smothered like this just for reappearing from work."

"No reason," said Frodo, giving the Dwarf-King a messy kiss on the cheek. "I just love you."

Thorin looked to Fíli for an explanation, but the oldest prince just smiled and shrugged. Frodo would talk to his uncles when he was ready for it. Until then, Fíli would just try to be a good big cousin and guide him along the way.

And, as usual, Balin knew exactly what was going on. He ended up getting a big hug and kiss, too.

Chapter Text

If Óin had been born an elf, he probably would've been the best healer in all of Middle-Earth.

The study of herbs and their affects on the dwarven body had always intrigued him, especially after the fall of Erebor when his people were in such desperate need of effective healing techniques and medicinal practices. Óin's maternal aunts and uncles had been skilled healers in their own right, each of them mentoring their young nephew in the various methods of healing that they were most competent with. By the time the Battle of Azanulbizar was over and Thorin had established a semi-permanent home for the Longbeards in Ered Luin, Óin had gained a reputation for himself as the most knowledgeable and talented healer, astrologer, midwife, and chemist in all of the western dwarven communities.

After the reclamation of the Lonely Mountain, Óin had been given the position of Royal Healer to denote his loyalty to the King and the exceptional healing skills that he offered both to the royal family and to Durin's Folk as a whole. He enjoyed his job on most days, the knowledge that his expertise allowed reconstruction on the mountain to move faster and much more safely acting as a balm to Óin's old, jaded heart. Treating the average workers and their families wasn't too difficult, largely because Óin had little interaction with them beyond their bi-annual doctor-patient appointments. Members of the Company and royal family, as he soon learned, were a completely different story.

"Keep pressure on it! Use your damned clothes if you have to, but don't let the blood soak through! Where are those stupid stitches I asked for?! Idiots don't know what—"

"He's about to pass out, Óin!"

"Mahâl's fucking hammer," snarled the healer. "Keep him awake! Smack him, pinch him, pull his eyelids, I don't care, just keep him from passing out!"

Óin worked like a madman on the bleeding hobbit, moving between two knife wounds with swift fingers, verbally listing every piece of medical equipment he'd need for surgery to his sister, and barking orders at random royal guards about what herbs or tonics he'd need from the apothecary. Always the faithful assistant, Glóril had a stretcher there within seconds and made sure that transporting Bilbo to the healing halls went as smoothly and quickly as possible. Three minutes after arrival, Óin started surgery on the hobbit's lacerated left thigh and lower back, working continuously through the evening and nighttime hours to stop the internal and external bleeding. By the time Bilbo was stitched up and safe from imminent death by blood loss, the sun was rising outside the mountain and Óin hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours.

"He's alive and breathing," said Óin when he left his private surgery room. A large crowd had gathered in the main healing halls and surrounding rooms. "Infection's an almost definite possibility, though. Especially in the next few days. I'll only be able to let the King in to see him for the moment. Understand?"

Everyone nodded and dispersed back to their seats, several of them collapsing onto the benches with loud sighs of relief or muttered cries of gratitude to Mahâl. Huddled on a large bed across the hall, Dís and Dala sat together with the Company's youngest children, Frodo, Gimli, and Kíli passed out from exhaustion in a pile of blankets and pillows that the two mothers had stacked atop and around them. His brother and Bofur sat on chairs along the wall, both of them sporting large bags under their eyes while also keeping their weapons nearby in case of another attack. Dori, Bombur, Bifur, and Ori were all seated at another slew of beds and benches, none of them looking any better than their downtrodden and morose companions. Several other close friends of the family, like Aunt Dhola, Donel's parents, Bombur's new wife, Dwina's mother, four royal guards, and a handful of librarians and kitchen staff, were scattered around the healing halls in varying states of wakefulness or slumber.

"How long before I can see him?" asked Thorin. "Will his leg be..."

"The lacerations weren't very deep since the knives embedded themselves into the wall instead of his leg or back," said Óin, the tired faces of Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, and Fíli pushed right up into his personal space. "But he lost a lot of blood and I'm worried about any infections he might develop in the coming days. Both of the wounds are located in very inconvenient areas, so he'll have to stay here with me and the other healers for at least a week. Once I'm certain that infection's no longer a problem, then we can move forward from there. But for now, it's best just to take things as they come. Agreed?"

The dwarves nodded, all of them knowing that Óin's medical judgments were second to none in the mountain. Not even Thorin had the informed authority to overrule the Royal Healer's direct orders.

"Could I come in to see him, too?" asked Fíli, his eyes bloodshot and cheeks flushed an angry red. "I'll not be more than a minute, I swear. Please, Óin?"

Óin looked at the eldest prince, his old heart breaking for the distraught boy and the guilt he'd obviously be carrying in the weeks to come. For the second time in seven years, Bilbo had thrown himself into extreme danger for Erebor's heir-apparent, but this time it was the hobbit who came out of the ordeal bleeding and terribly injured. An Ironfist assassin had specifically targeted the oldest heir during Erebor's celebration of Durin's Day, throwing two knives at the unsuspecting prince just seconds before Nori buried a serrated knife in the traitor's throat. But then Bilbo had appeared from out of nowhere, slamming straight into Fíli and knocking him onto the ground just as the throwing knives flew past them.

The knives had still cut through the skin of Bilbo's thigh and lower back, the former just barely missing the arteries in Bilbo's leg while the latter passed only a few centimeters away from his kidneys. One more inch to the left for either of the wounds and Erebor would've been in a state of mourning for their lost consort.

"Aye, you can see him, laddie," conceded the healer. "But only for a few moments. Bilbo needs as much rest as he can get right now."

Uncle and nephew nodded, both of them eager to see their loved one, no matter what state he was currently in. Óin opened the door with a click and allowed the royals to enter his surgery, waving the twitchy dwarves over to the operating bed where he'd left Bilbo a few minutes ago.

"Oh, âzyungel," moaned the King when he saw his injured spouse for the first time. "Sanghivasha..."

Fíli stood beside his grieving uncle, hands rotating between rubbing Thorin's shaking back and running through the matted curls atop his other uncle's head. Unlike the other healers, such displays of emotion from the royal family did not embarrass or ashame Óin, who had seen all of the Durins at both their highest and lowest moments.

"Will he..." Fíli trailed off, wiping at the snot and tears that were obstructing his speech. "Will Uncle Bilbo get better?"

The healer paused in his bandage checks, dark eyes watching as Thorin continued to murmur in Khuzdul and kiss the bloody hand of his beloved consort. It was always difficult to give definitive answers this soon after surgery, but these weren't Óin's usual patients or visiting relatives. Thorin and Fíli were much more than Óin's King and Prince; they were also his friends and family, labels that had been forged through blood and hardship. And by all accounts, those same labels applied to Bilbo as well.

That horrid dragon would still be sitting in Erebor's treasury if it wasn't for the fussy little hobbit, that was for damn sure.

"I'll have him chasing you rascals up and down the battlements by the time spring rolls around," said Óin with a firm nod. He put a fresh bandage onto Bilbo's injured thigh. "Someone needs to keep you brats in line, after all."

Fíli sat down with a watery chuckle. "Blame Kíli. He's the one who—"

CRUNCH!

"And that'd be my ear trumpet," lamented the healer. "Again."

"Sorry."

"I'll make you a new one," promised Thorin, his face buried in Bilbo's limp palm. "With sapphires and mithril. It'll never break again. Bilbo would agree. He loves sapphires. And mithril."

Óin scowled at his squished ear trumpet. "Not from what I've heard."

"Just agree with him, Óin." The prince ran a gentle hand through Thorin's hair, sharing in his uncle's sorrow and grief over Bilbo's terrible injuries, which had been gained in the protection of the prince himself. "Uncle Thorin gets broody and cranky when he's depressed. Or doesn't have Uncle Bilbo to entertain him."

"Sanghivasha..."

Gathering the soiled bandages and his busted ear trumpet, Óin wandered off to his herb cabinets and sat down to prepare another day's worth of pain tonics and poultices for Bilbo. The sound of muttered words in Khuzdul echoed through the room, the healer content in allowing Thorin a few more minutes with his bedridden consort.

"Umzam..."

Chapter Text

Bilbo dearly loved his dwarves, but even he had to admit that they could be incredibly dense at times.

For ten years now, the hobbit had diligently kept Thorin and Thranduil separated from one another at any meetings or negotiations that were needed between the dwarves of Erebor and the elves of Mirkwood. Bilbo, Balin, and Dori typically handled all matters pertaining to the elves by themselves, purposely excluding Thorin, Dwalin, Glóin, and several of the more prejudiced members of his council. Dís and the princes would occasionally sit in on dwarf-elf conferences; but more often than not, Bilbo was the only member of the Erebor royal family to attend any of these meetings. However, as Bilbo soon learned, avoidance could only work for so long and neighboring kings needed to converse with each other for the good of their kingdoms, old grudges be damned.

Of course, that last bit had sounded great in Bilbo's head at the time. But now, with a big dining hall full of elves and dwarves and skin-changers and humans and two little hobbits, it seemed that Bilbo's optimistic approach might result in another three or four-way war in the Lonely Mountain region.

"Thorin, I swear, if I see your fingers move one more time..."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, âzyungel." The King continued to massage Bilbo's hand, a possessive trait that he seemed to display whenever they had interspecies conferences like this one. "The bowl of potatoes was empty, see?"

"You've been flipping the Iglishmêk version of the bird all evening," snarled Bilbo under his breath. "Not to mention all of those other crude hand signs that you think I don't know about. I'm surprised Thranduil hasn't shot you in the ass for it yet."

"Sanmizim, you're worrying far too—"

"No, no, no, don't you dare try to sweet talk me out of this," hissed Bilbo, pinching his husband's fingers when they tried to inch up his thigh. "You've behaved like a five-year-old the entire day and I've had enough of it. Frodo's been more agreeable than you and he's still getting over a cold."

"I don't understand why you're getting so—"

"Uh uh, you don't get to pull that on me," said Bilbo with a sniff. "You know exactly what you're doing, and so does Dwalin and Glóin and Gimli. And that pout won't get you anywhere, so stop it. Right now."

If possible, Thorin pouted even more, which was kind of endearing and reminded Bilbo far too much of their nephews. Surprisingly, both Fíli and Kíli had behaved themselves so far. There had been a minor incident earlier with the seating arrangements, but Kíli had calmed down once he'd been seated between Mirkwood's prince and Currin, the latter of whom had ignored both princes in favor of a giant slab of spiced beef. Honestly, the girl ate like a ravaged dog on the best of days and Legolas looked more than a little disturbed by the copious amount of teeth that were involved in the meal. Kíli, ever the sweet-hearted fool, didn't seem to mind that Currin ate more like a wolf than a dwarf or human ninety-nine percent of the time.

"Insane, the whole lot of them," one council member had murmured. "Just can't keep it in the species, can they?"

"Must run in the family," a second dwarf had snorted. "First, a hobbit; now, a skin-changer. At least there's still hope for the oldest prince, though. Much more sensible, that one."

"Perhaps..."

"The wolf's grandmother is alpha of their pack, which is better than another commoner marrying into the Durin line. We won't have to worry about inheritance or inter-clan issues with the skin-changers. They're a pragmatic lot. Good for trade, too."

"We'll just have to use the connections to Erebor's benefit. They have their uses in the reconstruction, as we've already seen from the hobbit's farming and plant knowledge."

"But a skin-changer?"

"Erebor needs every ally it can get. And they're our eyes, ears, and nose in the north and east right now."

"A strengthened alliance would put the Ironfists on edge, too."

"Fairly logical, I guess."

"The only other possibilities would involve parties that I'd prefer not to think about. A dwarrow might be the traditional choice, but our people can at least tolerate and benefit economically from our present and future...situations."

"Anything's better than an elf, though."

"Very true."

"Quite right."

"Aye, aye."

"No need to bring one of them into the equation. Terrible thought, that is."

Bilbo sighed, nibbling on another potato as he gazed around the dining hall. The Elvenking had scarcely spoken a word to any of the dwarves, pointedly ignoring Thorin and all of the obscene hand gestures the Dwarf-King kept sending in his direction. Glóin and Gimli had both been louder and rowdier than usual, purposely trying to annoy any elf that was within hearing distance of their seats, which Balin had made sure were as far away from the elf delegation as possible. It didn't seem to be doing much good, though.

"This was such a bad idea."

"That pointy-earred bastard's spawn is making eyes at Kíli's chosen," snarled Thorin a few seconds later. "How dare he come into my halls and presume that he can encroach onto my nephew's territory. Disgusting, no-good, tree-shagging, weed-eating—"

"Your eyesight must be deteriorating in your advanced age, my King," said Bilbo as he nibbled on another chicken leg, "Because as well as I can see, Prince Legolas looks much more disgusted by Currin's charming habits than besotted by them. And I don't think Sister Currin would enjoy being referred to in such crass terms."

"She's a wolf," reasoned Thorin. "They refer to everything that belongs to them as territory."

"And since when has Sister Currin been our nephew's chosen, as you like to call it?" asked Bilbo with an incredulous expression. "He hasn't even seen her for two years. This is all because of the elves, isn't it?"

Thorin shrugged, all but confirming Bilbo's suspicions about the dwarves' overprotective and paranoid behaviors. The entire Company had been unusually...attached to Bilbo and Frodo over the last few days, some of them even following the hobbits when they went to the market for Bilbo's weekly shopping cache. Several of the skin-changers had become close friends with the Erebor dwarves in the last decade, so their appearance in the mountain hadn't disturbed anyone in the slightest. The same went for the men and women of Dale, too. The elves, on the other hand, were a completely different story...

"Eru save me from jealous dwarves," Bilbo muttered to himself.

"You might as well just give up while you're still ahead, laddie," advised Balin from the seat directly beside him. "Thorin's grudge with Thranduil and the elves won't be fading any time soon, of that I can assure you. Let's just be happy that, for the moment, neither of them have tried to behead or instigate a war with each other."

"Our little girls are manlier than your men!"

Glóin just couldn't control himself, could he? With a sigh of great vexation, Bilbo tried to enjoy the lovely dinner that the kitchen staff had worked so hard on. Meanwhile, everything around him seemed to explode into chaos, shouts and accusations and insults coming from all directions and every corner of the room. He reached out and grabbed at his husband's robes, refusing to allow the dwarf to charge across the table and tackle the Elvenking in full-out combat. Prince Legolas, Dís, Sigrid, and Balin desperately tried to calm everyone down while the skin-changers just watched everything unfold with their usual levels of shit-eating amusement. King Bard seemed to believe that copious amounts of ale would save him from the lunacy that was inter-species politics. Honestly, what had happened to basic civility and common courtesy?

"I need a vacation."

Chapter Text

Hania was a simple dwarf whose love for food had shaped much of her life.

Like her two older brothers, she had been born on the nomadic road that had come to epitomize the plight of Durin's Folk. Hania's parents had drifted from town to town, working odd jobs in any profession they could find while struggling to keep a roof over their children's heads and food in their malnourished bellies. The constant fear of hunger had dogged Hania's footsteps long after her family had found permanent residence in the Iron Hills, always nipping at her travel-worn heels and urging her to be surrounded by as much food as possible. It was from fear that Hania's career as a kitchen chef had been born, something that she now took great pride and confidence in after relocating to the Lonely Mountain.

And it had been through food that Hania had met Bombur, the sweetest, shyest, kindest, and most gentle dwarf in all of Erebor. Soft-spoken and intensely bashful, it had taken several months for Hania to get more than a few words out of the Company's cook, which a few of her friends had commended her on over their midday meals. Two of them had known the Ur family back in Ered Luin, all of their recollections about the brothers and axe-ridden cousin very positive in nature. And if there had ever been doubts or unkind whispers before, then the Ur family's loyalty to King Thorin and his quest to reclaim the Lonely Mountain had cleared up all of them.

It was only after a whole year of working together in the mess hall kitchens that they truly began to spend quality time with each other, Bombur slowly opening up about his childhood, relatives, and his involvement in the Quest for Erebor. Hania had listened attentively, sharing little bits about herself and some of the more interesting or bizarre aspects of her life. Overall, it hadn't taken very long for her to fall in love with the timid cook of Thorin Oakenshield's loyal and very highly esteemed Company.

However, despite all of this, Hania had never expected for her life turn out the way it had over the past few years. Living a simple life with simple housing and simple friends had always been her ultimate goal. After all, how could the daughter of a nomadic tinker ever hope for more?

"The apple crisp and honey cakes are just about done. Just a few more minutes and...oh dear, are your ankles aching again? I believe Óin left some of that wonderful salve of his right over here."

"Oh, they're feeling quite the same, Master Baggins," protested Hania. "You truly don't have to go through the trouble. After all, it's not like I'm an invalid or anything."

"Nonsense, I'm not needed for anything important today," argued the hobbit. "And it's an honor for me to watch over you two while Bombur and your brothers are at work."

"But I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. We dwarrows are a very hardy bunch and my own mother worked up to—"

The hobbit waved off her protests with a grimace. "I've heard many stories about how difficult the dwarrows had it during the years of wandering and I refuse to allow Bombur's wife to suffer through a similar experience. Now, here's the salve. Óin said to really use a good slather of it. I'll be right back."

"No need...to hurry..."

Hania sighed to herself, uncapping the tub of salve and swiping up a large dollop to spread all over her swollen ankles. Ever since she had announced her pregnancy seven months ago, the entire Company had been acting like a bunch of overprotective nincompoops, a title that had previously been held by her oldest brother. And now that Hania was past Óin's estimated due date, nobody would even let her visit the washroom without a shadow standing by the doors. She was pregnant, not taken with a sickness. All of this mother-henning was truly ridiculous.

"Excuse me, Miss Hania?"

"Oh, hello there, Ori!" said the dwarrow with a kind smile. "I didn't even hear you come in."

"I just got off of work a few minutes ago," replied the scribe with a shy smile. He held a small basket in his hands. "And since I've got some free time this evening and the little one is due any day now, well, I thought..."

"Do you have something for me, Ori?"

That seemed to finally get the young scribe talking in full sentences. "Umm, yes, well, I had a bit of free time over the last few weeks since we're just recataloguing several sections right now and I thought that you'd probably need some things for the baby, since you are the only female in your family and I didn't mean to imply that you're not capable of making anything yourself, but I just thought a few extra things would be—"

"Wait, wait, slow down, Ori!" said Hania with a laugh. And from the kicks in her belly, it seemed that the little one was laughing, too. "Breathe, my dear boy, breathe. That's it. Now, I would just like to say that anything you've made me will be extremely helpful and very much appreciated. And I'm feeling really excited now, too."

"Of course, of course."

The scribe scrambled around in his basket, Bilbo and the children slowly coming to gather around them with several plates of honey cakes, apple crisp, and a large pitcher of sweet lemonade. Hania still had a difficult time accepting that the Consort Under the Mountain was waiting hand and foot on her. It was a very strange situation to be in for a common dwarf like herself.

"I wasn't quite sure what exactly you needed, so I decided to knit a little bit of everything," said Ori. He held up a tiny pair of light blue foot warmers, several others of different colors soon following them. "I made them a bit larger than usual since, well, Bombur is the babe's father."

They all laughed at that and Hania practically squealed over the gifts. "These are wonderful, Ori! They will fit perfectly once autumn starts to come around in a few months."

It took twenty minutes to look over everything Ori had knitted for the baby, ranging from wrist warmers to one pieces to tiny tunics to pillow covers to small winter hats and scarves. Hania's favorite of all the gifts, though, was the baby blanket. It was dark blue in color with leaf-like patterns along the edge and the silver emblem of Durin knitted into the center of it. For the first time since she'd met Bombur eight years ago, Hania felt like an accepted member of the Oakenshield Company and the makeshift family that called it their own.

"Why didn't anyone tell me that it was time for gift-giving?" demanded Dala when she and Dís walked into the royal drawing room. "I have been holding onto my presents for weeks now!"

"It was rather spontaneous," answered Bilbo. "I'll have to go retrieve Thorin's and mine."

Dís nodded in agreement. "I'll just be a moment."

"Someone go get Bofur and Bifur! They've been waiting months for this."

By the time little Billa arrived four days later, Hania had received so many baby gifts that she didn't know what to do with all of them. Even the King himself had gifted her with a half-dozen beautiful beads, all of them specifically designed to show the high status that the babe would hold with the royal family and within the city as a whole. Hania had just laid there and rested for several hours, content to let all of Billa's new aunts and uncles and cousins dote over her, including every member of Erebor's royal family. Poor Bombur had had to pry his newborn daughter away from Bofur, who kept threatening to run away with his little princess and spoil her rotten with every jewel in the royal treasury. The King didn't offer up any objections to this course of action, either.

"She's a beautiful little doll," praised Bilbo during his turn to hold her. Frodo sat beside him, gently petting the baby girl's thick head of red hair. "And look at those lovely whiskers. Someone's going to look just like her pretty mama. But with papa's hair and eyes."

"Most gorgeous little girl ever," said Bofur with a firm nod and proud smile. "Now, hand over my little Billa."

"Wait your turn, Bofur! Baby hog."

Chapter Text

Kíli had always been a bit strange or peculiar by dwarf standards.

The classical features of beauty and charisma in dwarven society stemmed from a broad physique, prominent nose, voluminous lengths of tediously maintained hair, bejeweled clothing and limbs, firm dedication to one's chosen craft, and willingness to defend one's home at all costs. Unlike the other members of his family, Kíli only fulfilled a few of these aforementioned traits, one of which was extremely important in all dwarf cultures. Despite inheriting his maternal uncle's height, Kíli was noticeably thinner and less stocky than average dwarves his age, something that continued to annoy him well into early adulthood. But it was the hair that was the real problem.

Hair was the pride and joy of all dwarves over the age of ten years. The elaborate braids and beads and decorations that most dwarves wore told stories about their standing in society, chosen occupation, marriage status, children, siblings, state of courtship, and the wars or battles they'd fought in. Kíli's family in particular had a reputation amongst the Longbeards for having very ample amounts of hair, a trait that his mother, older brother, uncle, and deceased maternal relatives had worn with great pride. Even Kíli's father, despite being a Firebeard, had possessed a plentiful mane and beard of golden hair, something that Dís often reminisced about when braiding Fíli's wild mass of hair.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Kíli had missed out on every one of these familial traits, instead possessing a small nose, tall yet trim build, preference for simple clothes, and distinct lack of body, facial, and head hair compared to the vast majority of dwarves. And although archery wasn't frowned upon in dwarf society due to its necessity in hunting and fortress defense, Kíli's additional proclivity for the bow and arrow only compounded his already bizarre list of physical and personal features. The whisperings and jabs had only increased as Kíli grew older, his appearance remaining much the same as it'd been in early and middle adolescence.

"His cheeks are barer than a babe's bottom."

"The boy has the same coloring as his mother and uncles, but the similarities end there."

"He can't even seem to grow the archer sideburns."

And that statement right there really hurt since dwarven archers weren't even expected to grow beards. Most of them wore intricate sideburns that they braided back into the rest of their head hair, an innovation to keep from ripping their own hair out while wielding the bow. In compensation for the lost beard, many archers had their necks, chins, and lower lips covered in inkings, a symbol of the sacrifice they had made for their chosen weapons. But, no, Kíli couldn't even manage to grow simple sideburns, either.

"Maybe it's a fungus of some type? I've heard of it happening before. Melts your hair right off, they say."

"The line of Durin must truly be cursed, for one of its princes to look like that."

"I'd have wondered about elven blood if his ears weren't so terribly large and round like his mother's. Quite strange."

"Perhaps something went wrong in the birthing."

"Never seen a dwarf lad so skilled at archery in all my decades. Some elvish blood's in him, I say."

"Looks nothing like his brother. A stout dwarf lad, the oldest prince is."

All of these accusations were ones that Kíli had heard often growing up, especially those that insinuated something about him being a mixed blood dwarf. Unions with outside races were extremely rare in dwarven society, so the offspring that sometimes resulted from male-female unions like those were often ridiculed or ostracized by those around them. But the implications of having elvish blood in him, not human or skin-changer or hobbit, was what truly struck Kíli as being overly malicious and downright cruel. While all three of those other races and their offspring had been partially accepted, for various reasons, in dwarf society throughout history; the mix of an elf and a dwarf was never acceptable under any circumstances.

It was for these reasons that Kíli hated being called a half-anything-but-full-dwarf so much. After all, it had been Kíli who had taken to the dangerous eastern roads, following his uncle in a deathseeking quest to reclaim the greatest dwarf city in all of Middle-Earth from a gigantic dragon. Kíli hadn't seen any of the name-callers volunteering to undertake such an important yet deadly quest. All of them had hid inside of their Ered Luin caves, too scared of a little fire and scales to assist Uncle Thorin on his valiant journey to bring Durin's Folk back to their rightful home.

"Look at them," sniffed one dwarf from a nearby training patch. "Lazy bastards. You'd think they owned the place from the way they act around us."

Kíli stood at the archery range several yards away, overseeing a group of adolescent archers in their afternoon practices. Several of the First Army dwarves were training on the dirt grappling patches behind them, their lunchtime break filled with rowdy yelling, bets on who would win the next few rounds, and insults thrown at the slumbering skin-changers further down the battlements. Balin had mentioned that the skin-changers would be running Erebor's and Dale's perimeters for the next several weeks, their noses and ears and eyes far more effective than any dwarf or human patrol when it came to picking up traces of orc, goblin, or spider. And because of this, the skin-changers were obviously exhausted, six wolves and three badgers in human-form slumbering beneath the afternoon sun atop Erebor's walls.

"Pull the string even tighter," advised Kíli to one of his apprentices. "And remember to breathe like I showed you earlier. It'll make the arrow shoot much straighter, okay?"

"What's this place coming to? Halflings, skin-changers, pretty soon they'll be letting elves live here!"

Kíli gritted his teeth and tried to keep his temper under control. He didn't care what they had to say about him and his peculiarities, but to tarnish Uncle Bilbo's name and heritage? Now that simply wasn't acceptable.

"I don't see you offering to accompany them on nighttime patrols," snapped one of Kíli's apprentices. He'd been standing along the back of the range and waiting his turn for an open target. "Or sneak into treasure troves with a sleeping dragon in it. Those people have all been a tremendous help to Erebor, whether you want to believe it or not."

"And what would you know about warfare or patrols, arrow-boy?" snarled one of the older dwarves. "It's whelps like you, who won't even fight fairly with a sword or axe, that are making this city turn into—"

"You don't have any right!" shouted another archer. "None of your lot even fought in the King's Company or Lord Dáin's army. Who are you to speak against any of them!"

Everything broke out into chaos from there, as was the usual way of dwarves. And despite his best efforts, Kíli's temper got the best of him when he heard insults being flung against the merits of halflings and his archers. It probably would have escalated from there if a very loud and very irritated growl had not rumbled above all of them.

"Awww, shit," sighed one archer. "You woke 'em up."

"It is not wise to make fun of those who provide you with food," growled Currin, unfurling herself from the pile of skin-changers who had been laying in the afternoon sunshine. "The skills of these archers are necessary to your continued survival. You would do well to remember that."

"Despite what your flea-bitten bitch of a Mother might think, we dwarves don't have to..."

As fast as the wolf that she mostly was, Currin came to stand in front of the cantankerous dwarves from southern Ered Luin with fierce golden eyes that belied her external calm. The badger sisters who always accompanied Currin were sitting up now, hackles raised and pupils dilated at the promise of a good fight. With any luck, Dwalin and his guards would arrive in moments and handle the smart-mouthed wretches before Currin or her skin-changers got too offended and decided to bring their claws and teeth out to play.

That would be a diplomatic nightmare. And Uncle Bilbo would be very upset by it.

"If you prize the meats that you've been eating these past few years," said Currin as she stepped closer and closer, "Then I suggest you don't finish that sentence, Master Dwarf."

None of the dwarves moved or said a word. Several of the ruder ones looked like they were physically pained by having to listen to a being who they deemed to be below them in all ways, but they still smartly kept their big mouths shut. Whereas three or four years ago, Kíli would have paid good coin to see his name-callers get the piss scared out of them by a female of any race, the younger prince now knew that such a tussle could cause diplomatic tensions between their peoples. And from the looks of her calm tone and unruffled demeanor, Currin appeared to have come to the same conclusion as well.

"A wise choice," said the wolf with a toothy smile. She tilted her head to the side, pointy ears twitching at something that no one else but her kin could hear. "Good afternoon, Master Dwalin."

"What's going on here?" demanded the warrior dwarf. "Wolf? Kíli?"

"I was just returning to my nap," answered the skin-changer. Her badger kin could be heard snorting in the background. "It's quite the lovely afternoon, wouldn't you say?"

"What the hell are you going on about, lassie?"

The skin-changer shrugged and picked at her teeth. "Nothing much. A friendly little chat, you could say."

"Friendly little chat, my ass."

Kíli froze when the skin-changer paused right beside him, her nose twitching in the tell-tale manner of an animal smelling its prey. He may have become close hunting companions with Currin and her merry band of shape-shifters in the last two years or so, but many aspects of their behavior still unnerved him. Like the constant sniffing and frequent nudity. It was...disconcerting, at times.

"Ah, exactly as I suspected," said Currin with a nod. "You lot need to get your sniffers checked. This one's full-on dwarf. Not a drop of elf blood in him. Or anything else, really."

With that statement out in the air, Dwalin quickly put the pieces of the puzzle together and turned on the assembled group of dwarves with the mighty roar of Erebor's nastiest drill sergeant. Dwalin's punishments via long distance running drills, nighttime guard duties, and one-on-one mace training with him was the stuff of legends.

"You might wanna take a bath, by the way. Or cut back on the mushrooms. Whew..."

"Huh?"

One of Kíli's archers sidled up to him. "Umm, I think she implied that you kinda...stink, my Prince."

"What?!"

"At least she didn't say that you smell like an elf. That'd truly be awful."

"Their noses are creepy."

Kíli just stared for a moment, wondering when situations like this had started being caused by people other than himself. Uncle Bilbo had been spoiling him with strawberry cheesecakes for several weeks now. And that only happened when he wasn't causing any kind of Kíli-specific trouble. Maybe he really was growing up?!

On second thought, nah...

"Yeah, well, she smells like wet dog! Nothing's worse than that, not even compost!"

"Mushrooms are grown in compost, my Prince."

"Shut up."

Chapter Text

Thorin was perfectly capable of caring for a sick faunt all by his lonesome.

Everyone assumed that the King Under the Mountain was above such simple things as wiping a child's sniffling nose, losing sleep due to croupy coughing, or coaxing soup into an achy child's throat. He had done all of these things with Fíli and Kíli as dwarflings, never once hesitating to care for his sick nephews or the drudgery that came along with it. A lot of things could be said about Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, but being a negligent guardian or parental figure was not one of them. Well, except for that one time with that one stone that shouldn't be brought up around his sister or Bilbo without fear of death. But Thorin had improved greatly since then, even going so far as to lock the Arkenstone very deep in his grandfathers' tombs.

Of course, there had always been a little bit of help there, too. Dís was never far from her sons in their early years, ever mindful of possible injuries or illnesses that might strike her fiesty pair of rascals. Providing coin, shelter, and travel for any maladies had fallen to Thorin, his position as uncle requiring him to seek out treatments more often than providing actual hands-on care. The same had seemed to apply to Frodo as well, the young faunt usually falling under Bilbo's attentive care while Thorin supplied all of the physical means needed for treatment. But with Bilbo, Kíli, Bombur, and Balin in Dale for the autumn harvests and signing of several treaties, it now fell into Thorin's hands to fully care for his youngest nephew.

"He's the sixth child to come down with it," said Óin earlier in the evening. "Probably caught it from Donel. His started yesterday morning and the cough's only gotten worse since then. I've already ordered a quarantine for every family with young children in the residential halls."

"Fíli and Kíli never had it," said Dís, her arms full of hacking faunt. "I think I heard some human children with it before, though."

"It's one of the childhood illnesses that seems to move between species without discrimination," explained the healer. "And the croup's a right nasty bug to catch for any little one like our Frodo."

"What are the methods for treating it?" asked Thorin. "Is there a tonic?"

"There's no guaranteed or fast cure, if that's what you're asking," said Óin with a grimace. "Keeping him calm during an attack's very important since crying will only make the swelling in his windpipe worse. Taking him outside for some fresh air or into the washroom for a steamy bath might help, too. Loosens up the lungs, from what I've seen over the years. Lots and lots of water, of course. Fear of dehydration's always a good thing with sick children. And keep him in bed with you for the next week or so. It'll get much worse at night."

"When will Bilbo be back?" Dís had asked afterwards.

"If everything goes according to plan with the harvests and new storage methods," said Thorin, "Then in three days time. And I know what you're thinking, namadith. There's no need to send for Bilbo over a simple cough and cold. I've handled sick children before, in case you've forgotten."

"Sending for him wouldn't be a problem. Bombur's more than capable of handling the food quotas by himself. And it's good practice for Kíli."

"I am capable of caring for my own sick child, thank you very much."

"Well, alright, if that's how you feel. I'll be in my chambers if you need anything, though."

As it turned out, Óin hadn't been joking when he'd said that the coughing would get worse at night. By late evening, Frodo's cough had taken on a hoarse barking sound that seemed to rattle the walls around him. It had been loud enough to draw the attention of Dwalin, Dís, and Fíli several times, their worried faces peeking in the doors of Thorin's bedchambers every other hour. Even Nori had appeared twice from out of nowhere, dark eyes always looking for an intruder or object that might cause harm to the littlest member of their Company. The only thing that seemed to ease everyone's worries was Óin's check-ups every few hours and his assurances that the croup always progressed along in this way.

"Let's see if this will help at all," muttered Thorin as he filled up the washroom bath. "Lots and lots of steam, Óin said. Break up some of that nasty phlegm you've got in there."

Frodo stood at his uncle's feet, arms wrapped around a hairy and inked up leg while the in-ground bath slowly filled up. He hadn't stopped hacking for over an hour now, small face going red with exertion as the wheezing got worse and worse as nighttime approached. It distressed and frustrated the little boy a great deal, tears nearly bursting out on several occasions as Thorin tried to find an effective way to soothe his nephew's constant stridor.

"No, Granite, you can't go swimming in the bath again," warned Thorin, flicking the deerhound on the behind when he nearly toppled into the water. "Go lay on your bed with Beryl and Jasper. Go!"

"Why can't he stay?" whined Frodo.

"Because his fur will clog the pipes and your uncle will starve me if that happens again," said Thorin, sinking into the bath water with Frodo in his arms. The faunt was still too small to take a bath in any of the royal washrooms alone. "Now take some breaths with me, alright?"

Thorin spent a half-hour with Frodo in the steamy bath, the little boy's breathing gradually evening out as the minutes passed. The Dwarf-King was in the process of drying Frodo off when Dwalin decided to make his presence known, loud chuckles echoing through the bedchambers when the warrior dwarf spotted his longtime friend on the floor. A goblet would've connected with Dwalin's thick head if the King's arms hadn't been full of towels and a sickly faunt. So, Thorin settled for kicking him instead.

"Who'd have thought? The great Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain and valiant reclaimer of Erebor, spending his evenings wiping up snotty noses and taking bubble baths with a halfling faunt and his toy dragon?" Dwalin walked over and started to play-fight with one of the hounds. "I'd normally say that such things aren't very kingly in manner, but I also fear that Bilbo would take my cupcakes away. Again."

"It'd certainly serve you right if he did. Again."

"You do realize that he has all of us wrapped around his little finger through the food that he makes?"

"I'm well aware of that."

"Well, except for you," said Dwalin with a shit-eating smirk. "He's got you wrapped around other things."

"Dwalin... We've talked about this. Not in front of Frodo."

"The lad's living amongst dwarves, Thorin. We're a perverted bunch compared to those fussy little hobbits, in case you haven't noticed. He'll be hearing much worse in the corridors than what comes out of my gob."

"And what a filthy gob it is."

They spent the next few hours talking and catching up on the missives that Thorin had let sit over the past couple nights. Thorin kept the sick faunt tucked away in his shirts the entire time, wary of leaving Frodo alone in the bed for even a few minutes. Dwalin called him a worrywart at first, but the barking sound of Frodo's coughs and the redness of his face soon caused the larger dwarf to nod in agreement.

"Dís and Fíli are handling the rest of it," said Thorin, wrapping Frodo and Rupert the stuffed bear even snugger into his shirts before they went for a walk on the battlements. "Óin advised taking him out for some fresh air when the coughs disrupt his sleep."

"Ah, a midnight stroll. Haven't had one of those in a while. Always good for checking on the guards."

"Or making them piss their pants."

"Aye," said Dwalin with a roguish smile. "There's always that, too."

"Leave your pipe."

"Why?"

Thorin looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Frodo has the croup. The smell and smoke of pipeweed would probably make him cough up a lung."

"Uh uh."

"You hush up in there and focus on breathing," advised Thorin with a flick to Frodo's pointy ear. "Now, stop standing there like some sort of infectious lump. I'd like to get some sleep tonight, if you must know."

"You've made our King turn soft, melekûnith."

Frodo's face wrinkled up in confusion. "But everyone else says that he's a grumpy slab of granite."

"I can live with that," said Thorin with a shrug.

And then Dwalin spent the next half-hour scaring the piss out of Erebor's sentries, lecturing any of them who he was able to sneak up on. Thorin just shook his head at that, far more concerned with the hacking faunt against his chest than the training of nighttime guards. It was Dwalin's job to handle them. A few passing dwarves stared at their King with curiosity, bemused by the sight of him cradling a small child in his shirts. None of them stared for long, though; Dwalin made sure of that, too.

"Never seen a dwarf with his child before? Yeah, that's it! Scamper off."

"Dwalin..."

"Pull your ass out of the forge, oh grumpy one. The hobbit lets me do it all the time."

Thorin sighed. "He's just tired of telling you no at this point."

"Whatever works," shrugged the guardsman. "I'm sick of the new arrivals glaring at him and Frodo all of the time, too. It's a win-win scenario if you ask me."

"I suppose that—"

"Hey! What're you looking at, you filthy cur?"

Chapter Text

Dori was a respectable dwarf who did not enjoy being toyed with or treated like an object.

Ever since reaching the age of majority, unwanted attention or distasteful advancements had been a common problem for the eldest Ri brother. Dori had the exact opposite problem of Erebor's youngest prince, his ideal features of dwarven beauty often attracting the eyes of those with less-than-savory intentions. Dwarves might only love once in their lifetime, but prior to finding that one person who made their hearts thump with incomparable joy, many of Dori's dwarven brethren had themselves a jolly good time in the sack with random strangers or acquaintances. Thoroughly disgusted by such behavior, Dori always made sure to give suitors like these a very irritated or revolted glare, their unsavory intentions and crude words not welcomed by a civilized dwarf like himself.

"I don't have time for your nonsense," snapped Dori, fingers flicking through a pile of coins that had been left on the teashop counter. "You can either leave on your own two feet or I'll be forced to physically remove you."

"Physically, eh? I like the sound of that."

Dori ignored the other dwarf with a roll of his eyes, depositing the coins into a restrictive safety box before making his way down to the far end of the front counter where Frodo was working on his afternoon lessons. Outside of the little boy's immediate family, Dori served as Frodo's most frequent caretaker during the daytime hours, overseeing his lessons when Balin wasn't available, taking him for playdates when the others were working, or having Frodo assist him with simple tasks at the teashop. Without Ori to mother and watch over at all hours, Dori had quickly found himself floundering after Erebor's reclamation, not quite sure what to do with the free time that was now presented to him.

"Look at the braids on him. Not even my sister's are that intricate."

"Probably serviced the whole Company on their journey," whispered one of the mining dwarves with a leer. "What other reason would they have to take an aristocrat like him along?"

Another dwarf snickered back in Khuzdul. "I thought that that was what the halfling was for?"

"Nah, the King probably kept that puny butterball all to himself."

"Ha! Looks like Gari's trying to speak with him again. Can't really blame the poor dwarf, though."

"I'd love to have that nose in my beard."

"Honestly, I thought he was a woman when we first spotted him in the markets. Pretty enough to be one, that's for sure."

"Really fussy and snooty, though. Gari's gonna have a hard time with this one. Just watch."

"Maybe I'll have a go myself if he manages it."

"You certainly can't get much higher than the King's Company in these parts, that's for sure."

"I wouldn't mind a round with the princess, either."

"Ha! In your dreams."

Opening The Bag O' Tea and acting as Guildmaster had taken up a great deal of the dwarf's aforementioned free time, but Dori still had not known what to do with himself whenever work or Nori or Ori weren't involved. Dori hadn't had time for hobbies in well over a century, all of his attention devoted solely to his brothers for almost as long as he could remember. So, when Bilbo had come to Dori for some help with watching Frodo on weekday afternoons, the lonely wine connoisseur couldn't find it in himself to refuse the smallest member of their Company.

"If there's anyone who I can trust to take excellent care of Frodo while also providing some good structure and respectable discipline," Bilbo had said with that delightfully warm smile of his, "It's you, Dori."

And if his ears had reddened with happiness at such a grand declaration, well, Dori would never admit to it. No matter what Nori and his witty tongue said. Honestly, Dori's middle brother could be such an eavesdropping brat when he put his mind to it.

"How far along have you gotten, mizimith?" asked Dori, tone much softer and kinder towards his curly-haired charge. "Some of the ones on the bottom are quite tricky, I think."

"It doesn't make sense," said Frodo with a pout. "This one never gets the right answer."

Dori nodded in sympathy. "Ah, yes, this question always gave Ori some issues, too. It's very basic engineering and geometry, but with a sneaky little twist near the end."

"I don't see a twist."

"And that's the whole point," said Dori, gently taking the quill from Frodo's ink-stained fingers. "Now, look right here. We've got a few additions to solve before we can move on to this next part..."

Like most dwarves, Dori was very skilled in mathematics and engineering, his mind naturally picking apart any equation or number-based problem that was given to him. Building Erebor and the other great dwarf kingdoms would have been impossible if not for the innate proclivity that all dwarves seemed to share for the mathematical arts. No other race on Middle-Earth, including the greatest of the elves, could replicate the unparalleled feats of engineering and architecture that the dwarves so often produced in their gigantic mountain cities. And although hobbits didn't appear to be quite as keen on geometry or building materials as Mahâl's children, Balin had made certain that Frodo would receive a sound education on anything related to dwarf society, including the basic mathematics and engineering behind their glorious homes.

"With that solved, you should finish with seven stones left over."

"I don't get it."

"Aye, Ori had about the same reaction, too," said Dori with a sigh. "I'm trying to remember how I got him to understand it."

"I don't like this stuff. Can I go back to the maps?"

"No, we're saving those for last, remember? I'll not have you putting off your least favorite subjects until late afternoon," scolded Dori, fingers deftly picking up the pile of maps before Frodo could grab them. "Math always works best on a fresh, well-fed mind."

"But I don't get it."

Frodo set the quill down with a grunt, curly head buried in his arms as he lamented the perplexing intricacies of mathematics and how none of it made any sense at all. A few of Dori's regular patrons watched this behavior with amused stares, two of the elderly dwarrows chuckling at Frodo's frustrated pouts while comparing him to their own children. It was a quiet, relaxed atmosphere that was conducive to Frodo's studies and afternoon playtime while also allowing Dori to run the teashop without any threat to the little boy's safety. And then he appeared again.

"So, the shop'll be closing around—"

"The answer is no, Master Gari," snapped the teamaker for the second time that same day. "And if you won't be purchasing any tea or wine, then I'll have to ask you and your associates to leave. I've many other customers who need my attention."

Dori gave the rough miner and his equally scruffy-looking friends an unmistakable by-your-leave gesture towards the door, his ever-present polite smile not faltering once under the stares of the dwarves. Dori of Ri had a busy teashop to run and a little boy to mind, which meant that he definitely didn't have time for the silly nonsense of perverted miners.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I've some camomile tea to prepare."

The grey-haired dwarf had barely made it two steps from the counter before he felt a hand grab onto his forearm. Dori had figured that they wouldn't listen or go away quite so easily, but he'd been hoping for some peace and quiet this afternoon since they'd been bothering him for well over a week now. And he hadn't factored Frodo into the equation, either.

"Aww, c'mon, we've come all the way up from—"

"It's rude to ignore someone when they ask nicely for you to leave," said Frodo, his big blue eyes narrowed into slits at the offending hand. "And you haven't bought any of Uncle Dori's tea, either. That's really rude."

"You button up and mind your tongue, laddie."

Frodo leveled the dwarf with a nasty glare. "Uncle Dori asked you to leave. Not me."

"Getting told off by an elfling. Nice job, Gari."

"Runt just needs to—"

The miner had no sooner set his sights on Frodo when a strong hand grabbed him around the front of his tunic and forcibly dragged him towards the teashop door. With scarcely a grunt of exertion, Dori sent the other dwarf flying out into the street, completely fed-up with his behavior, continued harrassments, and the nasty glare he'd dared to level at Dori's pint-sized charge. Dori had quite the long fuse by dwarven standards, but mistreating his little brothers or honorary nephew was a sure-fire way to make that usually docile temper explode. In situations like this, when sweet Frodo or Ori were involved, Dori wouldn't think twice about using his super strength to send an offender crashing head-first into a granite wall.

"No means no, you uncouth troglodyte!" snarled Dori with an irritated sniff. "And if you don't understand that, then I'm sure a nice discussion with the wall would suffice to wedge it into your thick skull."

Dori whirled around to glare at the crude dwarf's friends. All of them cringed under the shopkeeper's glower, astonished at the high air and long distance that Gari had been thrown out into the hallway. One of the other patrons whispered about the teashop owner possessing more physical strength than Captain Dwalin, if such a thing were even possible.

"Well? What are you waiting for, you lot of filthy brutes? Get out of my teashop!"

The miners made a quick getaway once they'd witnessed the sheer ferocity of Dori's icy fury and the sudden appearance of Erebor's crazy spymaster at the end of the street, only their leader lagging a bit behind as he nursed the bumpy head and bruised rump that he'd been given by the protective shopkeeper. With a nod of his finely decorated head, Dori turned back to his teashop and decided to leave the more shady dealings of Erebor to his middle brother. After all, he had a mathematically-baffled faunt to attend to, and that was much more important than the punishments Nori would be dealing out in the barracks tonight.

"Now, where were we, mizimith?"

Chapter Text

Bilbo had an atrocious habit of spoiling his boys rotten when it came to mealtimes.

Unlike the plump hobbits of the Shire, dwarves of Durin's Folk had spent the better part of seventeen decades wandering the beaten roads and dangerous wilds of Middle-Earth. Homeless, ostracized, and discriminated against in every town they entered, the dwarves of Erebor had led nomadic existences that were often haunted by constant hunger and chronic malnutrition, which had resulted in the loss of nearly an entire generation of dwarflings. Because of this, Bilbo felt a compelling need to feed his dwarves the most delicious foods that a hobbit could offer, a feeble attempt to make up for all the difficult and hungry years that they'd spent without a proper kitchen or home.

"How are we doing on time, Hania?"

"None of the guards have signaled their return yet," said the female dwarf from her place at the stove. "And I think we're just about done with everything at this point, so we should finish with a few minutes to spare."

"Bombur?"

"I'm finishing up over here, too. Mighty fine so far," murmured the rotund dwarf with a satisfied nod. "We'd best set up the tables in the meantime. Won't be much empty space left, I reckon."

Bilbo clapped his hands with a wide smile. "Excellent! I'll recruit a few of the guards to help us. A bit of homemade food will do the poor lads some good, too."

"Poor lads?" chortled Bombur.

"Well, of course, they spend their whole shifts standing guard at a doorway or patrolling up and down the hallways," reasoned Bilbo. "Must be terribly boring, especially with delicious smells like this in the air. No need to torture the poor dears."

"If that's your wish," said Bombur with a shrug. "We've certainly got plenty to go around here."

Bilbo scuttled out into the corridors and waved for several guards to follow him into the royal kitchen. He quickly explained that they were holding a small feast to celebrate the good harvest, recent treaties with Dorwinion and several tribes of the Forodwaith, and the oldest prince's majority. A larger feast would be held in the mess halls later that evening, but Bilbo offered the guards a full meal with the royal family if they assisted him in setting the tables. It was, quite frankly, an offer that any self-respecting Longbeard could not refuse, especially since it was coming from the King's Consort himself.

"Okay, lets get the tables settled before the boys return from Dale," said Bilbo with an excited smile. "They're going to be hungrier than a pack of wolves when they finally topple in here."

It took them over fifteen minutes, but Bilbo was able to get everything onto the tables with the help of the guards just before Thorin and his little entourage arrived. A large platter of venison stewed with beef, barley, and mushrooms was situated at the center of the main table, several plates of honeyed chicken with lemon and sweetgrass resting around it. On the side tables were quails drowned in butter and stuffed with chestnuts, carrots, and prunes, a half-dozen smaller platters of trout cooked in a crust of crushed almonds, lemon, and honey, and several large bowls of roasted potatoes, onions, and black mushrooms. The main course ensemble was then rounded off by a twin set of gigantic pumpkins that were stuffed to bursting with carrots, peas, onions, turnips, parsnips, pine nuts, tomatoes, mushrooms, and chunks of spiced beef swimming in a savory brown gravy.

"I think I'm about to pass out from the smells," said Glóril, her nose sniffing all over the table as she laid platters down. "No wonder hobbits are so round and happy, if they eat like this all the time."

"Well, not all the time," corrected Bilbo with a sheepish grin. "This is quite extravagent, even by our standards. But it's not every day that an Erebor prince comes of age, now is it?"

"By Mahâl's beard," muttered one of the guards, "I'm drooling like a babe here."

Each of the tables were scattered with a favorite side-dish of Bilbo's mother, which consisted of grape leaves stuffed with a mixture of raisins, onions, mushrooms, and fiery Dorwinion peppers. Three separate pots of creamy mushroom, tomato, and cheddar soups were resting on the stove, Hania periodically checking them as she deposited a half-dozen venison pies stuffed with carrots, bacon, and mushrooms onto the tables. These were soon followed by small baskets of oatbuns filled with raisins, dried apples, and pine nuts, and an elaborate salad of green beans, onions, pine nuts, beets, sweetgrass, spinach, chickpeas, plums, and peppers stuffed with four types of cheeses.

Bifur always appreciated a good salad much more than the other dwarves.

"Ah, and now to the desserts," said Bilbo, stomach rumbling at the wondrous smells that were floating through the royal wing. "We have everything on the list, correct?"

"I'm genuinely amazed to say that we do," replied Hania as she arranged the various sweets on the counters. "How you kept track of all of them is beyond me, though."

The hobbit chuckled. "I know my dwarves."

Bilbo had a detailed list of what his Company members loved for dessert: pumpkin cupcakes for Dwalin, vanilla cupcakes with lots of icing for Fíli, mixed berry scones for Ori, blueberry tarts for Bifur, blackberry muffins for Óin, honeycakes for Dori, raspberry sticky buns for Nori, strawberry cheesecake for Kíli, pumpkin cobbler for Balin, red velvet cookie sandwiches for Bofur, apple crisp for Bombur, lemon meringue pie for Glóin, and then chocolate and raspberry mousse for the King Under the Mountain himself.

He wasn't above food-bribery if the situation called for it.

"Ah, so that's what those papers were for," murmured Hania, looking over Bilbo's shoulders and at the parchment in his hands. "How on Earth did you even find out all of this?"

"Lots and lots of observation."

His second list consisted of strawberry strudel for Dís, oatmeal raisin cookies for Frodo, chestnut pie with marshmellows for Dala, blueberry brownies for Gimli, caramel apple pie for Glóril, sweet peach cobbler for a very pregnant Hania, and lots of cinnamon cookies for the other dwarflings. The few skin-changers that might show up would literally eat anything that was placed in front of them. Very easy group to please when it came to food, the skin-changers were.

"Never underestimate the sneaking abilities of hobbits," added Bombur. "Especially one like our burglar here. They're very good at not being seen when it suits them."

"Is that apple bread?" asked one of the guards.

"Seven loaves," said Bilbo with a proud smirk. "And I've whipped up some orange marmalade to slather over them, too. It's one of Dori's favorites, along with my mint summer tea and cinnamon tea cakes."

"Along with a dozen bottles of Dorwinion red and white wines," cheered a guard from the kitchen counters. "I knew there was a reason why we needed to be on good terms with those foppish men."

"Don't forget about the ale from Bofur's not-so-hidden still," said Bombur with a smirk. "He always forgets to—"

"I smell food!"

Bilbo was scarcely able to brace himself against one of the counters before a flying mop of Kíli was upon him. The young dwarf was practically jittering with excitement, small nose alternating between rubbing in Bilbo's curls and sniffing at the delicious air around him like one of the family deerhounds.

"Well, aren't you clever today?" laughed Bilbo. "Where are the others?"

"They're on their way," said Kíli, already wandering over to the food-laden tables with wide eyes and clapping hands. "Did I ever tell you that you're the best uncle ever?"

"Only when you want something or have someone's wrath nipping at your heels," Bilbo replied. "Now, stop brown-nosing and dig in before the others beat you to it. I've got to retrieve your brother's cupcake-cake from its hiding place."

"A cake? Is this another hobbit-y tradition thingamajig?"

Bilbo needed the help of four guards to safely move the cupcake stand and the brightly decorated cupcakes upon it to the main room of the royal dining hall. The entire Company and invited guests had already arrived by the time Bilbo entered through a side door, all of them milling around the room and grabbing pieces of whatever food looked most appetizing to them. Thorin was the first to spot Bilbo at the door, eyes widening when he finally caught a clear glimpse of the elaborately colored dessert behind his husband's back, the guards almost teetering under the sheer weight of the thing. Cakes were a must for any hobbit's birthday in the Shire, so Bilbo had spared no expense for their eldest nephew.

"Fíli!"

The oldest prince had been stuffing his gob with some honeyed chicken, Frodo sitting on his lap and sipping on some iced lemonade sweetened with raspberries. Erebor had been unseasonably hot over the past few days, so all of the recently returned dwarves were covered in sweat and a thin layer of dirt from the uncobbled roads of Dale. Of course, Bilbo was quite sweaty after spending six days collecting ingredients and then fourteen hours preparing such a grand feast, but the hobbit was at least assured that all of his hard work would be much appreciated by the food-crazy dwarves around him.

"What? I didn't do..."

And the look on Fíli's face was completely worth the effort, too.

Chapter Text

Nori had a rather notorious reputation amongst his dwarven kin.

For as long as anyone could remember, the middle brother of the House of Ri had been a nerve-wracking, hair-splitting, and migraine-inducing handful of a dwarfling. The death of Dori's father in Erebor and Nori's father in the Misty Mountains had placed a great deal of pressure on Orla, who had been a simple weaver and talented seamstress before Smaug had brought his fiery reign of terror upon the Lonely Mountain. It was shortly after Ori's birth and their mother's death when Nori first started pickpocketing and stealing for a living, the constant shadow of hunger, poverty, and homelessness nipping at Nori's poorly booted heels. Of course, this had infuriated Dori to no end, but food was food and coin was coin and the needs of an infant dwarfling didn't come cheap or easy in the harsh wilds of Middle-Earth.

Little Ori always came first, no questions asked. And if stealing from human pockets and food stalls kept Nori's baby brother fed and healthy and warm, then so be it.

But, like all of the other mental illnesses that dwarves were so prone to developing, Nori's unsavory case of kleptomania was a frequent source of conflict both within his immediate family and within the Longbeard community as a whole. Living a nomadic life had made the profession of thievery quick and easy, something that Nori took full advantage of as they wandered from town to town with Dori's tiny cart of teas, kitchen utensils, and repair supplies. However, once the brothers Ri had settled down in Ered Luin and a certain guardsman picked up on his trail, Nori had had no choice but to run off for several months at a time.

Many things could be said about Dwalin, son of Fundin; but possessing short-term memory loss was most definitely not one of them. And by Mahâl's beard, could that dwarf ever hold a grudge. Especially if it involved being pickpocketed by an adolescent thief with a shit-eating smile.

"What do you have for me, thief?"

Nori flipped in through a side window, footsteps lighter than a dove as he vaulted onto the meatshop's wooden floor. The rolling of eyes could practically be heard in the room, a constant reminder that Thorin's loyal hound wasn't impressed by the flashy acrobatics that Nori loved to employ in his work or for an audience.

"Tidings of bloodshed and assassination."

Dwalin sighed. "The usual, then. How many are there?"

"At least thirteen or fourteen, I think. Our burglar left me a lovely message in the dirt, but a rat must've scurried over it and messed up the counting lines."

"He went unseen?"

Nori snorted. "Have you ever tried to catch a hobbit? An invisible hobbit? I've known many thieves and cutpurses and assassins in my life, but I swear, hobbits have to be the sneakiest of them all. Hands down."

"It must be the feet," said Dwalin. "Something fishy about them, there is."

"They certainly allow him to move quietly," conceded Nori with a nod. "None of my minions heard our burglar when he passed by the back alleys. Unnerves some of them quite terribly, too."

"And you?"

"He's our burglar," shrugged the spymaster. "The day I no longer trust his judgment is the day I resign from my post as Erebor's black widow of retribution."

"That's a lot of faith from a thief."

"Our hobbit outwitted a dragon and prevented an interspecies war of transcontinental proportions. Stuff like that inspires a little bit of faith. Even in someone like me."

Nori could feel the warrior dwarf's eyes piercing into the back of his tri-peaked skull. To say that he and the King's most loyal guard had had a long and contentious relationship was a vast understatement. Dwalin had spent the better part of seven decades chasing Nori all over the Blue Mountains, always one or two steps behind the middle Ri brother whenever he returned home and decided to let his presence be known. There had been a handful of occasions when Dwalin had managed to capture the auburn-haired thief and throw him into Ered Luin's most secure jail cell, but Nori always broke out within a few short hours and left taunting gifts like cloth, lockpicks, or knots for the guard captain to find.

It pissed Dwalin off every single time. And, as Dori liked to point out, it just reaffirmed that Nori was a masochistic idiot with a death wish five miles long and fifteen miles wide. Ironically, for once in his life, the spymaster was inclined to agree with his oldest brother. Strange experience, agreeing with Dori was.

"And have you seen how scary our hobbit-y burglar gets whenever Thorin tries to restrict his movements?" asked Nori with a shake of his head. "I'm surprised his Royal Gruffness hasn't been incinerated into a pile of ashes yet. Or starved to death. That latter one's a lot more likely, I'd reckon."

"He still has Bombur to cook for him. And his sister."

"Oh, yeah, like either of those two are going to side with Thorin over our wide-eyed hobbit," said Nori with a mean chuckle. "Control a dwarf's food and you'll control his entire life. Mahâl has a sick sense of humor, I'd say."

"Thorin digs his own holes of shame perfectly fine. If he ignores our warnings, then he can fend for himself."

"You just want your cupcakes."

Dwalin snorted at that, the fingers of his right hand running up and down Grasper's freshly sharpened blade. He'd been impatiently waiting and pacing for a half-hour now, two dozen of his own guards hidden in the darkened rooms and warehouses of Dale's newly reconstructed meatpacking district. Nori's minions were scattered all over the rooftops and side alleys, hidden in the deep, dark shadows that the Lonely Mountain cast unto the northman city. However, even with so many Longbeards stationed around the Ironfists' meeting place, both Dwalin and Nori were still extremely anxious about Bilbo's unprotected recon mission into the so-called dragon's lair.

"I don't like this."

"You're not the only one, big guy," whispered Nori from his position near the window. "Thorin and the boys are probably terrorizing the entire mountain at this point. Wouldn't be surprised if Dís is, too."

The guard captain shook his head. "She has Frodo for the night. If not for that, she'd have probably come down here herself."

"Bilbo talked her into that?"

"I have no idea how he managed it," said Dwalin, "But our burglar can apparently work miracles as well."

"What a sneaky consort we have. He'd make a good minion."

"Over Thorin's dead body."

"Then it seems I'll have to make do without him," lamented the spymaster. "Erebor's nowhere near ready for the reign of King Fíli. And I don't think my sanity could handle such a riveting coronation so soon, either."

It seemed that no matter how long or hard or diligently Nori worked to manipulate everything in their favor, Fíli always managed to somehow land himself right in the middle of the Lonely Mountain's political conflicts. The Mirkwood elves come to the mountain for a farming and agriculture conference? Fíli accidentally insults the deceased wife of the Elvenking and nearly gets himself skewered by an irate she-elf captain. The alpha of their skin-changer allies convenes with Thorin to discuss territorial boundaries? Fíli gives her a toothy smile and unknowingly challenges her to a duel. An Ironfist lord comes to Erebor and attempts to open up trade relations? Fíli manages to get himself wrangled into marriage talks with said lord's daughter while also opening up the possibility of an assassination attempt against his uncles. It was a never-ending cycle of chaos that was seriously starting to grate on Nori's nerves.

"We've got movement, Master Nori."

The spymaster was out the window and beside his minion in less than ten seconds. He used the moonlight glinting off of his ring to signal for Dwalin and his guards to move very slowly towards the taverns four blocks down from them. After receiving a swift report from his minion, Nori ran across the warehouse rooftops and situated himself directly above the alley where several bizarre motions had been spotted earlier. A rowdy tavern lay right beside it, the accented shouts and raucous cheers of its drunken patrons a dead giveaway as to where the Ironfists had decided to celebrate on this fine summer night.

"Were you able to hear anything?" asked Nori.

"Nothing more than shouts. They appear to be pretty drunk at this point."

"Footprints in the dirt?"

"Not that I could see, Master Nori. But there was a lot of movement towards the front of the tavern and I think it might—"

And then the main door to the tavern burst open, a large dwarf toppling out and onto his bum with a mighty groan. Nori could very faintly see the silhouette of Dwalin at the end of the street, two dozen of his guards hidden and waiting in the shadows just around the corners. Minions lined the rooftops and second story windows. Dwalin's eagerness to find, shield, and whisk Bilbo away from any possibility of danger was something that all of them shared at the moment, especially as the familiar sounds of a bar brawl broke out from within the tavern itself.

"There he is..."

Nori watched as the large dwarf's stomach caved in for a split second, his long beard and thick hair seeming to move on its own accord for several moments. The spymaster signaled to Dwalin that the hobbit was no longer inside the tavern, eyes following a tiny trail of dusty footprints as they ran towards the end of the street. A group of irate Ironfists burst out from the door not even ten seconds later.

"Where'd it go?!"

"Someone picked my damned pockets! I'll break the bloody whelp's fingers when I find him."

"He picked mine, too!"

"Button up, the lot of you! I think I hear something over there..."

None of them noticed Nori's minions appearing along the edges of the roofs. Nor the large group of royal guards directly around the corners, a still-invisible Bilbo safely sheltered behind the formidable bulk of Dwalin and his favorite set of battle-axes. The Ironfists had not expected a tiny hobbit to infiltrate their private meetings and steal any piece of evidence that he could find on their motives for desiring an arranged marriage between Erebor's princes and an Ironfist lady. Such marriages were already considered to be quite distasteful and unnecessary by modern dwarven society, so no one had disagreed with Bilbo's vehement protests against his oldest nephews being used as political pawns.

"What are your orders, Master Nori?"

"Time for some fun, boys and girls," whispered the spymaster, dark eyes reading the light signals Dwalin was sending him. "It looks like we've got an assassination plot to foil tonight. And I can finally try out my new knives. It's a win-win, my minions."

Okay, so maybe Nori did enjoy his job some nights.

Chapter Text

Bifur was not the mentally retarded dwarf that so many assumed him to be after the accident.

Unlike the rest of the Company, the Ur family were neither descendents of Durin nor blood members of Durin's Folk. Bifur had been born in the Blue Mountains, the second-born son of a simple Broadbeam miner and talented toymaker who rarely traveled far from home. As was expected of most dwarven children, Bifur's older brother followed their father into the Ered Luin sapphire mines while Bifur and his older sister were apprenticed to their mother in the family's toyshop. By Bifur's forty-fourth birthday, Bofur and Bombur had joined the family of Ur, both of them acting as a perfect mix between their Broadbeam and Firebeard parents. So, even with the huge influx of Longbeard refugees, those early years had been very good to the Ur family and the Blue Mountains were an excellent place to raise five rambunctious dwarflings.

Or, at least, that was what Bifur had thought. The War of the Dwarves and Orcs changed everything, though.

It had been a cold night in Ered Luin when the mining village of Grunzad came under attack from the northeast. By 2798 TA, Bifur had already reached his majority and married a fine, raven-haired lass named Thrûndi. A gifted weaponsmith and avid hunter, his wife had wasted no time in stocking their home full of fresh meats and making sure that her extended family was well-provided for throughout the winter. Their darling daughter, Billi, had been strapped to her mother's back when the first wave of orcs had raced down from the surrounding hills, the alarm coming too late for Thrûndi and the other patrons of her favorite tavern on the edge of Grunzad's market.

By the time reinforcements had arrived from neighboring towns, Grunzad was only a smoldering shadow of its former self. Every bit of life and joy had been stripped from the village. Even the mines were a cursed deathtrap now.

Only Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur had survived the night. Not even Thrûndi's beloved elkhounds had escaped the slaughter of Grunzad. Devastated and bereft at the loss of his family, Bifur had not hesitated when a call to arms for Khazad-dûm had been raised not even eight weeks after the orc attack. Leaving Bofur and Bombur had been difficult but necessary in Bifur's rage-ladden mind. Marching with a Longbeard King was the only way Bifur could ever hope to avenge his murdered family, so the toymaker had not thought twice about what injuries might befall him at the ancient gates.

Death would have been welcomed at that point. After all, what was life worth without Thrûndi? Billi? His parents? Siblings? Friends?

These had been Bifur's thoughts as he'd marched with Durin's Folk to the eastern gate of Khazad-dûm. Thousands of members of the other dwarvish tribes joined them as they made their way to the lost city of Khazad-dûm, but Bifur paid all of the rowdy newcomers little mind or attention. He knew where they were going and he knew where they would very likely die. The toymaker was ready to give up his life if it meant a few less orcs would be wandering the wildlands of Middle-Earth.

However, the Valar could often be cruel in their games of fate. And, as Ered Luin and his cousins eventually discovered, instead of Bifur's life, Azanulbizar had taken his mind.

Physical recovery had taken years to complete. Mental recovery was still a work in progress. Even Bofur and Bombur, who had stood steadfast and loyal at their cousin's side all through his numerous ordeals, were willing to admit that Bifur was a very different dwarf compared to the one they'd known before an orc axe had been buried deep inside of his forehead. Dwarves weren't vegetarians; but Bifur was. Dwarves weren't capable of tolerating elves in any way, shape, or form; but Bifur was. Dwarves weren't fond of wearing a crown of flowers in their hair; but Bifur was. By all accounts, Bifur was a very, very strange dwarf after he'd received a rusted axe to the head.

The thought of ending it all had flitted around Bifur's broken mind for decades. Thrûndi's boar spear was just as sharp as the night she had died. But something always stayed the axe-ridden dwarf's hand. It had seemed so easy at times, and then one of his dear cousins would walk into the room.

"The vendors had some lovely tomatoes," Bombur would say. "Does tomato soup sound good for supper, Bifur? Won't be needing to add any meat to it, either."

"Look at what I found," Bofur always said as he bounced into their shared home. "Five shards of malachite! Perfect for the eyes on that newest toy of yours, nadadugmil."

Bofur and Bombur were the only reasons why Bifur had not ended his own life. Never once had his dear cousins treated him like a burden or broken toy, which had been Bifur's absolute worst fear after he'd awoken from a month-long coma in Ered Luin. And even six decades later, it was still difficult to separate memories and fantastical dreams from the sobering reality that was the present of Middle-Earth. Not being able to speak anything but ancient Khuzdul was extremely frustrating as well. But Bifur had learned how to cope and carry on, if only for the sake of his boisterious Bofur and bashful Bombur.

They were worth it.

"Uncle Bifur! Uncle Bifur!" shouted a voice from across the hillside. "Look what I found! A whole patchful of daisies!"

The toymaker pushed himself up from where he'd been laying against a large stone on the grassy slopes of Dale. His eyes quickly scanned the surrounding hills, immediately locating four small forms and two giant furballs a hundred or so paces away from him. Bifur's boar spear rested on his lap, ever present just in case something ugly and stupid and foul decided to come too close to the newly rebuilt human city at his back. Then again, the deerhounds would smell any beast long before Bifur himself could spot them.

"Ohhhhh, shut up, Donel!" snapped Frodo as he approached their caretaker. "Flowers aren't just for girls! Stupid dwarf..."

Bifur smiled at the little hobbit, holding his arms out when Frodo nearly tripped over a rock in his haste to show the toymaker what he had found at the bottom of the hill. His heart twisted a little bit at the sight, Frodo's happy smile, dark curls, and rounded cheeks reminding Bifur of another child who was no longer of this world. And the affectionate nose-nuzzle that Frodo always gave him upon arrival almost brought tears to Bifur's eyes.

By Mahâl, what amazing joy these innocent children brought to the broken life of an old, addle-minded dwarf.

"These will be perfect for your crown," said Frodo as he dumped a small pile of daisies and long grass at Bifur's feet. "Hmmm, do you think a couple in your beard would look good, too?"

I think it'd be quite fetching, signed Bifur. I brought some extra beads with me.

Frodo gave him a huge smile. "Okay, I just need you to hold still..."

The next half-hour was spent with Frodo intricately weaving a daisy crown into Bifur's hair, several beads and wild flowers forming a pattern of some sort in his beard as well. Bifur kept a vigilant eye on Donel and Dwina, who were both still playing in a small creek that'd branched off from the River Running. Farina appeared to be chasing a large frog through the puddles, dress and leggings covered in clumps of mud and what looked like everything else in the creek. Heavy summer rains had turned the slopes of Dale and the Lonely Mountain into a lush oasis of grasslands, evergreens, and animal life, the desolation finally fading after ten long years of hard work on the part of Bard's farmers and Erebor's plant-loving consort.

"Granite! Stop licking him," scolded Frodo, small hands pushing at the giant and slobbery deerhound. "He's got flowers in his hair, not meat or chicken bits, you silly dog."

He's just hungry, Bifur signed. We'll have some lunch soon. Could you collect some dandelions for the salad?

Frodo snickered at that. "Donel won't be very happy about the green food. He's almost as bad as Ori now. Always complains about becoming a snobby weed-eater."

I brought some smoked ham for him. Good for sandwiches.

"He can't complain too much then," said Frodo, blue eyes watching the fishermen of Dale as they threw their nets into the river. "I'll be back in a couple minutes. I think I saw some dandelions just over that slope there."

Bifur snapped his fingers and signaled for Onyx to follow the little hobbit. One could never be too careful with their children in times like the present. Granite stretched in the warm sunlight next to him, dark eyes watching as Jasper and Beryl frolicked in the muddy creek below them. Deciding that it was about time for lunch, Bifur shouted for the wet dwarflings to cease their playing and come up for their sandwiches.

"Coming, coming! Ewww, Jasper, stop it!"

The older dwarf just shook his head and went back to preparing the children's food. After everything was set out for lunch on the picnic blanket that Bilbo had given him, Bifur took a moment to run his fingers along the various flowers and long grasses that now decorated his hair and beard. Brows furrowing in surprise, the toymaker paused for a few seconds when he finally reached the left side of his forehead.

His axe had a circle of daisies weaved around it.

Chapter Text

Balin looked like a cuddly old grandfather and he very well knew it.

The grand profession of King's First Advisor was neither an easy position to achieve or to hold in success for too long. Balin himself had inherited the dreaded position upon his father's death at Azanulbizar, tears streaming down his face as the bodies of the dwarven dead and dying littered the bloody slopes around him. He had already lost his mother, uncle, and extended family to Smaug's attack on Erebor, so the violent deaths of Fundin, Thrór, and Frerin beneath Moria's eastern gate had ripped Balin's increasingly tattered heart to pieces. The sudden disappearance of Thráin had not helped matters at all. In the end, Balin's only source of true comfort came from his younger brother and the four surviving heirs of Durin.

Living in the Blue Mountains had been good to the Longbeards, although Balin knew that they could not stay there forever. Firebeards and Broadbeams had called those mountains home for much longer than Durin's Folk and the inevitability of overcrowding and future food shortages was not fair to native dwarf populations. So, even if Thorin's quest to retake Erebor had seemed folly in Balin's mind, a change of inhabitance was quickly becoming unavoidable for the Longbeard King. Of course, all of those problems had been solved in subsequent years with the reclamation of the Lonely Mountain, an event that finally allowed the nomadic and weary dwarves of Durin's Folk to return to their rightful home.

And now, for the umpteenth time in his long life, Balin was in charge of educating a young royal on the histories, cultures, and various learned systems of Middle-Earth. It had been an interesting and enjoyable experience so far. At least this little royal paid close attention to his studies, unlike a certain pair of princes who could never keep their bums on a stool.

Aye, Balin quite enjoyed working with the ever-inquisitive Frodo Baggins.

"How are things progressing over here?" asked Balin as he came to stand directly beside his tiny protégé. "I've not heard the scratch of quill on parchment for several minutes now."

Frodo was seated at a small desk that Thorin had had commissioned for him, ink-stained fingers tapping against the numerous maps and charts that were scattered all over the tabletop. The little boy had a pensive look upon his face, blue eyes unfocused as he tried to piece some strange puzzle together inside of his head. Balin was very familiar with this particular look and wasted no time asking the faunt about what was troubling him.

"Are the Khuzdul runes giving you issue again, mizimith?" queried the elderly dwarf as he pulled a chair out to sit on. "Or does your inattention stem from something else?"

Silence stretched between teacher and student for several moments, Frodo's posture remaining distant and pensive as he mulled over various questions in his mind. Unfortunately for Balin, the eventual question that Frodo asked was not at all what he had been expecting. A little bit of forewarning would've been very much appreciated.

"Are Uncle Dwalin and Uncle Nori getting married?"

Balin almost choked on the biscuit he'd been munching on, quill scribbling right off the table as he attempted to regain some semblance of balance on his stool. By Mahâl, he had not been expecting that from the child!

"Wha...ummm, why would you ask such a question, melekûnith?"

"They were wrestling in the fifth floor closet again," said Frodo, fingers tapping at random parts of a Mirkwood map. "The only people I know who do that are married or gonna get married. Like Ori and the Stiffbeard ambassador's daughter, Clona. Or Uncle Glóin and Aunt Dala. Or Uncle Thorin and Uncle Bilbo. They all like wrestling."

"Well...that's quite...hmmm..."

"And you see, they weren't wearing their bottoms, either," explained the little hobbit. "All of the wrestlers down in the arenas wear their bottoms, but no one who wrestles in closets or on beds and tables ever seems to do that. Mama and Papa did it, too. So, they will have to get married to do it properly."

"Oh dear..." groaned Balin. "Your uncles are going to have a hernia when they find out about this."

Frodo's expression turned to worry. "From the closet?! I mean, it sounded like they were being hurt the other night, but my mama always said that it wasn't like that. Her and Papa were just playing around like married parents do, she'd said. Is Uncle Bilbo hurt?"

"No, not at all. Your uncle's fine, mizimith," assured Balin when the little hobbit got more and more upset. "Well, you see, closet and bed and table wrestling are rather...touchy subjects that should only to be discussed among adults and those who are about to enter their...tweenage years, as your uncle likes to call them."

"But I'm fifteen now!"

"And still a whole decade away from being a tween," said Balin without delay. "You've still got a long way to go before—"

"Uncle Dwalin!"

The elderly dwarf turned around on his stool and watched as his younger brother entered through the front door. Dwalin's face had a questioning look on it, eyes flitting between a sputtering Balin and pouty-faced Frodo. Considering how much Frodo loved spending time with the white-haired advisor, it was very unusual to see the little boy anything except happy and curious when he was with the eldest son of Fundin.

"What's happened? Is something wrong?"

"It seems that we've—"

"When are you and Uncle Nori getting married, Uncle Dwalin?"

Balin's brother tripped over his own feet and nearly collided with a large chest of parchment that was sitting beside the front door. If it was possible, Dwalin's face would've exploded from the sheer amount of blood that had rushed to it. Which, in Balin's opinion, was quite the miraculous feat considering how unashamed Dwalin usually was by the more lascivious acts that came with single dwarfhood. Or, in this case, the closet and bed wrestling of not-quite-sure-where-you-stand-romantically dwarfhood.

"Ahhhh! How the...whoa..."

"I had a similar reaction as well, nadadith."

"How?!"

"Apparently, a broom closet in the fifth floor corridor," said Balin with a displeased air. "And really, nadadith, in a broom closet of all places? I thought you had more dignity than that."

"But we..."

"Hobbits are very quiet creatures, Dwalin," scolded the elder brother. "You should know this well after so many years. By Mahâl, just look at those feet. Perfectly designed for sneaking under our noses, it seems."

"Are they getting married?" asked Frodo again. "Will there be a khalâk? I like those."

"You just like the food," said Balin, placing his foot on the bottom rung of Frodo's chair to prevent the child from toppling backwards. "However, I am quite interested in these recent...developments, nadadith. I honestly had no idea that closet wrestling was going on between Master Nori and yourself."

"Closet wrestling?"

"I do believe that was Master Frodo's exact description," said Balin. "Am I correct, mizimith?"

"Uh huh."

Watching Dwalin sputter about like a fool was quite enjoyable, especially since Balin had put up with quite a bit of nonsense out of his younger brother over the decades. It was nice to see Dwalin on the uncomfortable side of explanations for once, even though he knew that he'd have to intervene at some point. Bilbo would be most displeased if his little nephew was scarred for life by Dwalin's crass clarifications.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" growled the younger brother.

"In a way," admitted Balin with a smirk. "Then again, it will probably be even more amusing when Thorin finds out about his darling nephew witnessing you and Master Nori's dalliances in the mountain closets."

"Who needs to tell me what?"

Dwalin ran straight into the chest this time, dignity completely destroyed by the unheard appearance of Thorin right behind him. The Dwarf-King watched his childhood friend with a raised brow, thin lips pursed in puzzlement at Dwalin's bizarre behavior and sudden lack of basic awareness. It was most unlike him.

"Uncle Nori and Uncle Dwalin are getting married!"

The gradual widening of Thorin's eyes was a grand sight to behold. Balin would've laughed himself hoarse if it wasn't for the young child that was still in the room. Honestly, this whole situation was just too funny, even if Balin was slightly upset about not having been made aware of Dwalin's developing relationship. But, for now, he'd just sit back and enjoy the show.

"What?!"

"They were wrestling in the fifth floor closet," explained Balin, dark eyes watching as Thorin turned sharply to glare at Dwalin. "Frodo wandered by and saw or heard them."

"Naked wrestling," confirmed the little hobbit with a nod. "Like you and Uncle Bilbo."

"What?!"

"Honestly, Thorin, I thought your vocabulary was better than this." Balin stood up and gave both dwarves a pat on the shoulder. "And in case you're wondering, I won't be giving our dear faunt the talk this time around. There's a dish of pumpkin cobbler calling my name in the kitchens. Good luck, laddie."

Frodo pouted. "Why's everyone acting so weird today?"

"This can't be happening..." groaned Thorin. "Ugh, Bilbo's going to kill me."

"Nori, too."

"Shut it, Dwalin! This is all your fault!"

Chapter Text

Dís had come to the conclusion that she was surrounded by idiots many decades ago.

The royal line of Durin lacked quite a bit in the common sense and mental stability department, especially in the most recent members of its wealth-obsessed male lineage. Dís only had faint memories of her paternal grandfather's gold sickness, her youth still significant enough at the time to blind her to Thrór's insatiable greed and deepening madness. Her mother and grandmother had shielded her from the darkness that was slowly descending over Erebor, but the arrival of Smaug had destroyed Dís' comfortable and sheltered life in the Lonely Mountain forever. After pushing the youngest female Durin through a side tunnel, Queen Vigdis and Princess Drís had gone back into the main entrance halls to face down Smaug themselves, both of them perishing alongside their own personal guards and the vast majority of Erebor's military forces.

From that point forward, Dís had had to become the female face of the Longbeard's royal family. Everything she did in life was with the well-being of her family and her people at the forefront of her mind. Even the unexpected birth of sweet, fierce Fíli had been a welcome relief off of Dís' shoulders. And chubby little Kíli had simply been chocolate icing on an increasingly lopsided cake. Thrór, Thráin, Thorin, and Frerin had raucously celebrated the births, all four of them overjoyed at the continued assurance of Erebor's claim to the throne of Durin. In Dís' opinion, both of her big brothers were just very happy that they'd escaped having to marry and reproduce themselves any time soon.

And then, a little over twenty years later, the Battle of Azanulbizar had taken Dís' father, grandfather, husband, and middle brother from her. The deaths of Víli and almost every remaining member of her family had nearly broken Dís, her iron will crumbling at the sight of so many dead and burning bodies. In the end, it was the steady presence of Thorin—her devoted, hard-headed, and direction-challenged goob of a brother—that had managed to pull her through it. To this very day, Dís still wasn't quite sure how her brother mustered up the strength and courage to guide their people through Azanulbizar's horrific aftermath, but Thorin had proven himself to be an excellent leader in times of great need. And their people loved him for it.

However, despite the numerous grand skills that her brother possessed, even Dís was willing to admit that Thorin failed miserably in several crucial subjects. For instance, her brother's directional sense was atrocious, his cooking abilities lethal, his diplomatic skills quite questionable, and his pridefulness stupid beyond measure. And now, after a few seconds of deliberation, Dís realized that yet another flaw needed to be added to that long and intriguing list...

The sensible education of hobbitlings. Her dear brother was awful at it.

"You're both complete and utter idiots, in case you haven't already noticed," said Dís, arms crossed and brows raised as she glared at the two dwarves seated before her. "And I refuse to help you escape from Bilbo's wrath, so don't even ask."

Both of their mouths snapped shut.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," sighed the dwarven princess. "Now, where is our dearest mizimith? I haven't seen him for nearly two days now."

Thorin pointed to his huge bed. "Taking his afternoon nap in my coat. Doesn't even ask for permission anymore."

"And why would he have to do that?" asked Dís with a smirk. "He's got everyone in this family wrapped right around his little finger and you damn well know it. Just look at that face..."

"It's pure evil."

"No, that'd be the bickering guild masters that I just spent all morning negotiating with," stated Dís, eyebrow visibly twitching at the hard-headed guard captain. "I had to threaten all of their dwarfhoods in order to get two sapphire and three black granite shipments compiled and sorted before the Dorwinion dignitary arrives next week."

Thorin sighed. "You didn't actually stab any of them this time, did you?"

"Of course not, my threats of genital annihilation were sufficient enough," said the princess. "Unfortunately, I don't think you will get away quite so easily from our favorite hobbit."

"You don't need to remind me."

"No, I truly don't, but opportunities like this are far and inbetween. So, I'm taking full advantage of it, nadadugmil."

"How very kind of you."

Dís walked over to the bed and very carefully peeked inside of the furry cocoon that Frodo had made for himself. Just like everything else in their comfort-laden lives, hobbits loved to sleep whenever given the opportunity and according to Bilbo, afternoon naps were an essential part of any faunt's daily schedule. Frodo's most favorite napping spot was atop Bombur's great belly, but the King's bed or Bilbo's beautiful garden couches were always a good choice, too.

"This is all your fault."

"Oh, and you're not a problem, either? The entire mountain knows how much you like to stare at our burglar's bum."

"It's appealingly ample. I can't be blamed for that."

"Aye, eating seven meals a day and hibernating in the library would soften up anybody's figure. Even a warrior like yourself."

"He works in the outdoor gardens every other morning."

"And that's probably one of the places that our littlest hobbit saw you wrestling with each other."

"Well, at least it wasn't in a dust-filled broom closet, of all places. By Mahâl, I'm surprised the two of you even managed to fit inside of one at all."

"Aye, it was quite the tight fit."

Dís ignored the sexual innuendos and childish banter that was taking place behind her, instead focusing on the constant twitch and squirm and curl of her nephew's tiny hands. It only took the dwarf princess a few moments to realize that Rupert was missing from his traditional spot in Frodo's arms. Shaking her head with a snort, Dís took off to fetch the beloved toy from Frodo's bedchambers, cursing the immaturity and horniness of male dwarves all the while. Honestly, Thorin and Dwalin behaved like a pair of tweenagers whenever they were together nowadays.

"And everyone blames Víli for the boys' personalities," muttered Dís as she walked back to the bed and tucked Rupert into Frodo's twitching arms. "They really need to take a closer look at their King, now don't they, mizimith?"

Frodo just snuffled in his sleep.

"I don't understand what you're getting so upset about. The kid would've found out eventually, anyways."

"But not this way! And not at fifteen years of age, you idiotic elf-lover."

"Nori's anything but an elf. Trust me."

"You do realize that Bilbo's going to exile me from our bed for weeks because of this. Being a King in exile is miserable. Trust me."

"And I won't get cupcakes for a year. Stop whining."

"Cupcakes? You're upset about cupcakes!? I'm the one who's going to have to face Bilbo and explain why our nephew now knows what your penis piercings are designed for!"

"He'd seen them before."

"But only in the communal hot springs! I'd come up with a perfectly good explanation for the piercings and inkings back then. And then you had to go and ruin it with your broom closet fucking."

"Says the dwarf who's got just as many piercings and inkings as me."

"Where are you going? You're not getting out of this, Dwalin! If I've got to suffer through Bilbo's scoldings and disappointed glares, then so do you. Get back in here!"

"And here comes the brooding..."

Dís laid back on the bed next to her nephew, thoroughly amused by the situation that her brother and Dwalin had landed themselves in. Hobbits were quite prudish by dwarf standards, and Bilbo Baggins was not an exception to this rule. Thorin would definitely be on his husband's shit-list once the hobbit discovered what Frodo had seen and how the dwarves had explained the situations to him. It'd be an excellent show, in Dís' humble opinion.

"My day just became a whole lot more interesting," chuckled Dís as she ran gentle fingers through Frodo's unruly curls. "And nothing has been destroyed by the boys yet, either."

The little boy rolled over and grabbed onto her arm with a content sigh. There'd be no getting rid of him now. Not that Dís really wanted to get rid of him, anyways. Fíli and Kíli were both on the very cusp of adulthood, so it was nice to still have a small child around to cuddle and care for. And Bilbo gladly welcomed any motherly affection that Dís wanted to bestow upon his tiny nephew, more than happy to receive any experienced help that he could get with Frodo's upbringing in the Lonely Mountain.

"Eh, an afternoon nap sounded pretty good, anyways."

Chapter Text

Bilbo was a force to be reckoned with when he was angry, hungry, or terribly displeased.

As Consort Under the Mountain and Erebor's only adult hobbit in residence, it was often assumed by the general populace that their King's spouse was dignified and rational all the time, which they apparently thought was the way that all hobbits acted all the time. But this couldn't be further from the truth. There were numerous things that annoyed or frustrated Bilbo, and one of them was currently smoozing around his husband like a two-bit wench from the Umbar coast.

He had mentioned the issue to Thorin the other night, but the Dwarf-King had assured him that Brunna and the Firebeards were simply being as friendly as possible. Bilbo had been unable to provide a counterargument before Thorin had been called to the war rooms about a recent orc attack on the main road between Mirkwood and Dale. The whole conversation had left Bilbo flustered and angry, especially since Thorin often acted like a possessive brat whenever someone showed the slightest bit of interest or attraction to Erebor's Consort.

It was getting on Bilbo's last nerve.

"Dori, would you be so kind as to pass the dates? Frodo enjoys eating them with his garden salad."

"I didn't ask for—"

The little boy trailed off at the sight of his uncle's venomous glare. The Firebeard delegation from northern Ered Luin had been in the Lonely Mountain for five days now, something that usually would not have bothered Bilbo in the slightest. But this group of particular diplomats had brought someone with them that Bilbo really didn't like. Or want anywhere near his home.

"Oh boy."

Frodo looked around the table and noticed that his cousins were also watching Bilbo with nervous eyes. Kíli kept trying to engage his smallest uncle in light conversation, but it didn't seem to be working no matter how hard he tried. And Fíli kept poking Dwalin in the arm every couple minutes, head bobbing in various directions whenever the Firebeard ambassadors weren't looking or speaking directly to him.

"Your uncle wants to strangle the Firebeard female," whispered a voice to Frodo's left. "And I really don't blame him."

"Does that mean what I think it means?"

"She reeks of pheromones," Currin said. "It's disgusting and has made me sneeze five times since this horrid dinner began. And here comes another one..."

Currin sneezed so hard that her fangs popped out for several seconds. Table conversation hushed for a minute, all eyes staring at the strange features that had overtaken Currin's face during her temporary loss of control. Frodo glared and waved his fork at them. It was very rude to stare.

"Durin bless you."

The skin-changer sniffled. "Thank you, pup."

"Should I do something?"

"Well, considering how your uncle's blood flow is rapidly rising and the King seems to be completely oblivious, I think that might be a prudent idea at this point."

"Does she want to...wrestle with Uncle Thorin?"

"According to my nose," drawled Currin with a sniff, "Yes, yes, and yes."

"But I thought only Uncle Bilbo could do that?"

"She doesn't think so."

Frodo watched the Firebeard lady lean in close to Thorin yet again. He then heard his uncle's fork jab against his plate. If the china and pottery were no longer safe, then Bilbo's temper was very swiftly nearing the end of its fuse. Because of this, Frodo knew that he needed to do something, and he needed to do it soon.

"Could you please pass me the weird fish, Currin?"

The Firebeards had brought a chef with them who was renowned for making delicious dishes that had raw fish in them. Frodo had tried a small piece the other day and it'd tasted really, really nasty. His tummy had even ached a little bit afterwards.

Currin gave him a knowing smile. "You sure?"

"Uh huh."

"Okay. But if you puke, please do it away from me, alright?"

"No problem."

A few more minutes passed and Bilbo felt like strangling the dwarrow who was hanging all over his husband. Apparently, Brunna's uncle was the Lord of the Firebeards and she had known Thorin during his time in Ered Luin. None of this would have been a problem for Bilbo under normal circumstances. But this most definitely was not normal circumstances.

Brunna acted polite enough and definitely knew her court etiquette very well, but she had also completely ignored Bilbo's presence whenever he'd been in the same room as her so far. There were many dwarves who did not think a hobbit should have been wed to the King Under the Mountain, but most at least respected the Consort position itself. Thorin and the rest of the Company made sure of that.

However, from the looks of this evening, it seemed that Brunna's dislike extended to other hobbits as well. And if there was one thing that annoyed Bilbo even more than a spoiled brat flirting with his husband, it was a spoiled brat who turned their nose up at his little Frodo.

"Uncle Bilbo?"

Pausing in mid-carrot stab, the older hobbit turned to his left and looked down at his littlest nephew. The faunt was curled forward in his seat and appeared to be holding his stomach. It was a very odd position.

"Yes, darling?"

"I don't feel too good."

And that statement had immediately been followed by Frodo vomiting all over the table and floor in front of him. The chunky heaves had only lasted a few moments, but Frodo was a right mess by the end of them. Bilbo didn't hesitate to scoop up the faunt and dab at his face with a handkerchief, quietly cooing to the crying child as he moved them away from the mess. Several servants had already rushed out of the corners to deal with it.

"Oh dear, it was that dreadful fish, wasn't it?"

Frodo nodded into Bilbo's throat, hiccuping beneath his hands as the older hobbit walked them to a nearby hallway. He could feel a half-dozen presences at his back, all of them following him out of the great dining halls and towards the royal wing. Bilbo sincerely hoped that Thorin was one of them, because if he wasn't...

"Fíli, could you be a dear and draw a bath for me? Frodo's in desperate need of one right now."

"Aye. I'll do it in Uncle's suite."

"Kíli, could you please fetch Rupert? We'll be needing him soon, I believe."

"I'm on it."

Bilbo smiled at both the predictability and reliability of Erebor's princes. They really were good boys. He'd have to make them some cupcakes for being so helpful over the last few days. Both of them had been tailing Brunna and deliberately sabotaging any attempts she made to speak with their uncle. Bilbo suspected that Nori was behind a few of their schemes, too.

Tonight's dinner had been a rare and unavoidable exception.

"I'll get him some fresh clothes as well," said Dís with her usual promptness. "This seems like the perfect time to try on the new night-footies that Dala made for him."

"Thorin?"

The King Under the Mountain was there within a moment, wordlessly taking Frodo from his husband's arms and cradling the fifteen-year-old close as Bilbo retrieved some damp cloths and a glass of mint water from Nori. Bathing and tending Frodo took up the rest of their evening, especially since the faunt had a slight case of the runs as well. Bilbo had worried about food poisoning for a good half-hour before Óin himself had ruled it out.

"Are you sure?" Bilbo had asked for the third time.

"Yes, I'm quite sure," said the healer. "He'd be much sicker if it was food poisoning. The raw fish just doesn't appear to agree with Frodo's stomach, I'm afraid."

"Well, if you're sure."

The Lonely Mountain's Consort was lying in the middle of his and Thorin's gigantic bed, Frodo tucked between a massive pillow and his uncle's left arm. Beryl and Jasper were curled up around their feet. It was immensely comforting to Bilbo to have his nephew so close. The last few days had been very nervewracking and the hobbit was relieved to finally have his two favorite people in the same room as him.

"He's sure, Uncle Bilbo!"

Actually, make that four favorite people. Fíli and Kíli had made themselves at home on the plush sofas yet again. Thorin was getting changed into his nightclothes on the far side of the room.

"I don't like her."

Bilbo glanced down. "What was that, sweetheart?"

"I don't like the Firebeard lady," said Frodo. "She keeps wanting to wrestle with Uncle Thorin and she's not allowed to do that. Only you're allowed to wrestle with Uncle Thorin."

"Wrestle?" muttered Bilbo. "What in Durin's name are you talking about?"

"I heard her and her lady friends talking about Uncle Thorin yesterday," grumbled Frodo, his face shoved into the familiar warmth of Bilbo's neck. "They kept asking stupid questions about what kinda inkings and piercings Longbeards get for wrestling. Only you're allowed to talk about Uncle Thorin's special things."

Bilbo just gaped at him.

"And only Uncle Nori gets to talk about Uncle Dwalin's special things, too. It's a rule."

If Bilbo's eyes could've bugged out of his head, they would've been bouncing on the floor. And then Nori's head popped up from behind a fireplace chair. Bilbo hadn't even known he was still there.

"You got that right, mim kalilâl!"

"Special things," Bilbo murmured to himself. "I'm pretty sure I never taught you that. Thorin!"

The Dwarf-King peeked around the corner, his posture much more closed off than usual. He only ever acted like that when he'd done something wrong. Bilbo was not impressed or sympathetic.

"You had the talk with him, didn't you?"

Thorin just shrugged and said, "Dwalin might have been there, too."

"Is that supposed to reassure me?"

"Not really. No."

Thorin looked like he wanted to disappear into the closet and never return. Of course, who wouldn't feel like that when Bilbo Baggins was giving them the hobbit-equivalent of a death glare.

"We agreed to have that discussion together."

"You can blame Dwalin and Nori," said the King. He completely ignored his spymaster's indignant shouts. "Frodo saw them wrestling in the fifth floor broom closet."

"Must you really call it that?"

"What?"

"Wrestling!"

"It seemed like an appropriate term."

"You know it's not, Thorin Oakenshield! By Eru, this is going to be so much more difficult than it had to be."

"We told him the basics."

"I can see that," snapped Bilbo. "Frodo thinks you want to sleep with Brunna!"

"What?!"

Thorin looked more horrified than Bilbo had ever seen him. The Dwarf-King practically scrambled over to the bed, dark blue eyes wide and hands flailing as he tried to reassure his beloved Consort.

"I would never even think such a thing, let alone act upon it! I'm a dwarf, not a man!"

"Then what was that back there?"

Everyone was watching the Dwarf-King with expectant eyes, including all three of their nephews. Fíli and Kíli had been passively hostile ever since the delegation had arrived, both of them expressing the lowest level of passable decorum that they could get away with. They would not tolerate anyone treating their uncle and cousin like second class citizens.

"I didn't realize—"

If possible, Bilbo's glare just got even more venomous. Dwalin had walked in not a moment later, back stiffening when he was blasted with a glower from Bilbo and Nori. Being best friends with the King really sucked sometimes.

"She wants to wrestle with Uncle Thorin," Frodo insisted. "I heard her talking about it. And her lady friend with all the braids and emeralds wanted to do the same with Uncle Dwalin, too. I would've told them that they weren't allowed to do that, but then they started talking about what the special piercings are for and I really, really didn't wanna hear about that. Blah!"

Frodo scrunched up his nose at the thought and Bilbo didn't waste a moment in cuddling him closer. The little boy still had occasional bouts of insecurity due to his parents' deaths, so even the slightest prospect of Thorin leaving Bilbo for another dwarf must've really upset him.

"And Currin said she stank, too."

Kíli's head popped up. "I told you, Fíli! A skin-changer's nose never lies. She wants the throne." He paused and giggled after this. "And Uncle Thorin's special things."

"They are rather impressive, aren't they?" said Fíli around a bout of giggles. He then raised his voice up a few octaves in an impersonation of Brunna. "Oh, my majestic King Under the Gold-and-Jewel-Filled Mountain, nevermind that you're a married dwarf with two amazing hobbits at your illustrious side, your special things are just so special that I simply must experience their specialness. Here, have a cherry tart!"

"No, no, it was a blueberry tart," corrected Kíli. "And remember, she leaned over like this to give it to him."

"So much majesticness, my very rich and special King!"

All three of Bilbo's nephews burst out laughing at that. Thorin looked constipated and downright livid. It was rare to see the Dwarf-King blush, but at that point he looked like one of Bilbo's prize-winning tomatoes. And unfortunately for Thorin, reprimanding Fíli and Kíli for speaking the truth would merely put him even further into Bilbo's bad graces. So, the Dwarf-King remained silent.

"Yes, well, there'll be no more talk about such naughty things where your ears can hear them," said Bilbo. "Of that, I can assure you."

"She called you fat, too."

"Now that's just ignorant!" said Kíli. "Uncle Bilbo's very pleasantly plump. And that makes for excellent cuddling."

"Thank you, Kíli."

"So, what're you gonna tell this lady next time she speaks with you?" drawled Nori from where he'd cornered Dwalin against the doorframe. "And if you think my minions won't report it to me, then you're woefully mistaken."

"I agree with, Nori. What are you going to tell her, Thorin?"

Both dwarves were staring at their partners with embarrassed frowns. Apparently, being the definition of dwarven masculinity, wealth, and power was a massive problem and neither of them had given a second thought to the avid attention they'd been receiving over the last five days. Action needed to be taken as soon as possible if they didn't want to be banned from their beds for the foreseeable future.

"Well?"

"Oh, this is gonna be good," cackled Kíli. "I'm gonna grab some food. And ale!"

Stupid dwarves.

Chapter Text

Currin firmly believed that dwarves were the strangest race to ever walk the surface of Middle-Earth.

When it came right down to the basics, skin-changers and dwarves were about as opposite as two races could ever be. Perhaps even more so than elves and dwarves. Currin and her people cared nothing for gold, gemstones, elaborate clothing, underground cities, or massive throne rooms. While the elves, dwarves, and men were bickering over the Arkenstone and Erebor's treasure trove, the skin-changers had been patrolling the northern borders against a horde of orcs, goblins, and spiders. Their territory, food sources, and the creatures that lived upon it meant everything to them.

As the eldest of seven children, Currin had spent her entire life training under the alphas of her pack, carefully being molded into one of four potential successors to her maternal grandmother. Personally, Currin would have been perfectly happy to leave that position to her cousins, but some degree of compliance was still expected of her when it came to training, familial functions, and territory disputes. Her preference to patrol around the Lonely Mountain did not come as a surprise to her parents, siblings, or other pack members. All of them knew that she didn't desire the alpha position in the slightest.

"Must you always walk around buck naked?"

The wolf smiled up at Erebor's youngest prince, amused as usual by the agitation that her nudity caused him. Currin would never understand why all of the other races of Middle-Earth were so adverse to showing their true skin in public. It was terribly odd and completely impractical.

"Must you always wear the furs of my kin?"

The sound of Kíli toppling out of the oak tree was like music to Currin's ears. However, she didn't refuse the baggy tunic and trousers that the prince handed to her. Currin had promised Bilbo that neither she nor her kin would make a scene at the Durin's Day festival, so clothes, untangled hair, and clean nails were an unavoidable necessity today.

"That was a low blow, Fluffy."

"I know."

"Must you always be so cruel?"

Currin snorted. "So long as you keep calling me Fluffy? Then, yes."

"It's a fitting name."

"And I could say the same about you. Dwarves have no room to joke about hairiness."

"Says the girl who's prone to fleas."

"Oh, shut up," groaned the wolf. "You dwarves have an entire street dedicated to de-flea-ing and de-lousing your mops of hair."

"So hypocritically judgmental. Tsk, tsk, tsk."

Currin waved cheerfully at the table attendants who glared at her. She was accustomed to the hostility that some dwarves showed towards anyone outside their own race. And it was so much fun to annoy the shit out of them, too. Smiling and waving and flashing some teeth always seemed to do the trick.

"Did you roll around in the mud or something?" asked Kíli. "Because there's a clump of pine needles in your hair."

"Shit, not again."

"And I think there might be a pine cone in here, too."

Kíli tried to extract the sticky cone from Currin's mass of curls, but every little tug, pull, or twist seemed to make it crawl deeper and deeper into her scalp. Most dwarves would've given up the instant Currin started snarling and hissing in pain, but Kíli hadn't spent eight years patrolling with skin-changers for nothing. He could predict most of Currin's moods and he was pretty sure that she wouldn't bite him over this.

"You're gonna rip it out!"

"Would you please hold still for one second," ordered Kíli. "By Mahâl, you're worse than a dwarfling on their—"

"Ouch! What're you doing?"

Kíli poked at her scalp a few times. "When was the last time you had a flea bath?"

"You don't ask a wolf that!"

"When said wolf sleeps on my uncle's garden furniture," drawled Kíli, "Then yes, I do."

"Six months ago. Why?"

"I think you've got them again."

Erebor's youngest prince watched as Currin pretended to strangle an imaginary victim. It had been four years ago in the spring when Kíli had first stumbled upon a soapily drenched and very unhappy Currin in the marketplace. Apparently, Tauriel had dragged her there under pain of death. Fleas were a common problem amongst the skin-changer ranks and Erebor's personal patrols were no exception. The personal grooming stalls had been making a killing ever since their arrival, especially in the warmer months.

Even the badger sisters had itchy issues from time to time, although no one was stupid enough to say it to their faces anymore. Three miners had learned that lesson the hard way. And Óin hadn't been sympathetic in the slightest.

"Rowan's dead."

"Fratricide's against the law in both Dale and the Lonely Mountain."

"Then I'll drag him over to Dyr and drown him in the firth," snarled Currin. "The Dyrians have no problem with punishing tricksters and bratty thrill-seekers. Mother won't even notice his absence."

"Mahâl knows she has enough of you furballs running around these parts."

"Seven is a fair number."

Kíli picked at the cone with an arrow head. "To a dwarrow, seven is a small army."

"My maternal aunt has fifteen pups."

"Insanity."

"We're good at birthing pups," said Currin with a shrug. "And if you ever saw an actual litter, you'd understand."

"Yeah, well, that's not too—"

"Owwww!"

"I got it," crowed Kíli in triumph. "And no bald spot, either."

"Stupid dwarf."

Currin accepted a pick and comb from Kíli and attempted to untangle the rest of the unruly blob that was her hair. They'd just made it through the front gates of Erebor and into the outer halls of the royal wing when Currin felt the comb snap in her hands. She held it out in front of her with a frown.

"That's the third one this month," lamented Kíli.

"It's been raining almost non-stop for weeks. My frizz has become a nightmare."

Kíli frowned. "I thought you were supposed to be running patrols along the northern borders until the end of the month."

"And let the Firebeards have their way? I think not."

"You're talking about Brunna, right?"

"I don't like her," said Currin with a sniff. "If you proposition a mated wolf in my pack, you'll land fifteen feet across the field before you can even count to three. Such behavior is disgraceful and downright rude."

"The same usually applies to dwarves. But most dwarves don't have a gigantic hoard of treasure to their name, either."

"Rocks and shiny trinkets. Utterly useless."

"Try telling that to all of the dwarrows who've been dogging Fíli's footsteps. One of them tried to bed him in the gardens the other night." Kíli snorted at the memory. "Uncle Bilbo chased her out with a rolling pin. I think he would've clubbed her over the head if he'd managed to catch up with her, too."

"I would've paid good coin to have seen that."

"Oh, it was astonishing!" said Kíli with a flourish of his hands. "I've never seen Uncle Bilbo run so fast in my life! He came through the side doors like a bat out of—"

"Kíli! Kíli!"

The pair turned around to find Frodo running towards them. An armful of rolled up papers were clutched in his arms, blue eyes wide with excitement as he skidded to a stop. The child's tiny size was an endless source of amusement for Currin. She'd always been drawn to the runts of a litter.

"Look what Ori found for me in the archives." Frodo held out a map for both of them to look at. "It shows the old mountain cities of the Stiffbeards. Aunt Dhola made a whole new copy just for me."

"My grandmother ventured there in her youth," said Currin. "It's very, very cold. Nearly froze her nose clean off."

The faunt's eyes widened. "That must be why they're called Stiffbeards then. Can the cold really freeze your beard stiff, Kíli?"

"I wouldn't know. You could try asking Balin."

"His beard is rather flippy," Currin agreed. "He must use something to keep it that way."

"I knew it," whispered Frodo.

Currin was picking at a particularly large knot of curls when she heard it. The creaking of wooden boards, the frantic rush of blood, and the desperate moans of...

"What's wrong?" asked Kíli when she'd pushed him away from the door. "Did I pull out your brains with the hair?"

"I don't think you wanna go in there."

Kíli frowned at that. "Why not? It's almost lunchtime and Uncle Bilbo always has a full platter waiting for hungry guests."

"Oh, he's got a hungry guest in there, alright."

The she-wolf nearly tripped when she heard a particularly loud moan filter through the double doors that led to the King's personal bedchambers. Normally, Currin wasn't the slightest bit embarrassed about the sexual proclivities of those around her, mostly due to the rapturous noises and musky smells that she was assaulted with on a daily basis in Erebor. As a skin-changer living in a dwarven kingdom, you became accustomed to such things real fast. But this, well...

"Uncle Bilbo has quite the set of lungs on him," whispered Kíli in horror. "And I'm now scarred for life."

"That's an understatement."

Currin's nose twitched when a breeze blew through the cracks of the doors. From the smell of it, the King and his Consort had been rutting for several hours now. The musky scents were overwhelming and Currin knew very well what was going to happen in the next few minutes.

"Are Uncle Thorin and Uncle Bilbo wrestling?"

"I don't think that word does such an...acrobatic act proper justice," said Currin. She winced when the noises started to get louder and louder, internally wishing that Brunna had stumbled upon the royal couple's lovemaking instead of them. "And I think it's also time for us to take our leave."

"Will Kíli be alright?" asked Frodo.

Currin glanced over at the youngest prince. His facial expressions were an intriguing cross between disgusted and catatonic. The poor dwarf was thoroughly traumatized, it seemed.

"Perhaps."

The she-wolf leaned forward and rubbed her nose against the prince's before giving it a quick lick. It only took a moment for Kíli snap out of his funk. And then his entire face went bright red when he finally realized what had just happened.

"Ugh..."

Currin gave the dwarf a small smile and wink before taking Frodo's hand and walking down the hallway with him. Kíli trailed behind the two of them in a dopey daze.

"I think it's about time we had a much needed talk, pup."

"About wrestling?"

"By Yavanna, your uncles owe me so much for this."

Chapter Text

Ori had never been well-versed in the more barbaric and carnal aspects of the world.

By dwarven standards, the youngest Ri brother had always been more than a little peculiar. Only a small handful of dwarflings showed interest in books, maps, or quills; and even fewer aspired to become a scribe in their adult years. Most dwarf parents would've been disappointed if they'd been given a shy and introverted child like Ori, who preferred the company of long-dead warriors and clever princesses to oversized warhammers and ornate gemstones. Such odd proclivities were looked down upon in the dwarven community, especially if they weren't combined with the physical prowess or extrovertion that Master Balin also possessed in copious amounts. The scholarly occupation simply did not bring any benefits to an exiled race of dwarves who could barely keep food on the table or coin in their pockets.

Fortunately, this didn't apply to Dori. The eldest Ri brother had been more than happy to keep Ori far, far away from the battlefield and safely sequestered in the moth-infested scribe halls of Ered Luin. Of course, this had inevitably resulted in Ori being bullied by many of his peers and numerous adults, but the scrawny dwarf had not allowed the opinions of others to dampen his determination. Instead, it only made Ori devote even more time and energy and quills to his studies. And it all paid off in the end, because Ori now held one of the most prestigious positions in the Lonely Mountain: Royal Scribe to the King Under the Mountain himself.

And to the King's Consort or the Royal Princess whenever the situation called for it. Ori didn't really count the princes since they always tried to steal any recordings he made about them. It was terribly annoying.

Nonetheless, Ori had greatly enjoyed watching one of his childhood bullies going googly-eyed when he'd arrived on a caravan from Ered Luin and first heard that particular tid-bit of information. It had been one of the brightest moments of Ori's young life and Dori has been beaming like a proud mother-hen. Well, okay, perhaps it wasn't as high as the whole fire-breathing-dragon-and-look-out-for-incoming-incineration incident, but it was definitely in the top five.

"I need a book on human and dwarven anatomy."

Ori almost toppled off the ladder he'd been using to reshelve several books on the Silmarils and the seven sons of Fëanor. The scribe's hands and feet shifted precariously, dark eyes widening when he realized that the ladder was going to tip backwards and send him flying into the bookshelf behind him. He'd break yet another finger and then Dori would make him wear those silly gloves and—

Then everything came to a stand-still. It took a few moments for Ori to realize this, though. The dwarf had never liked heights and reshelving books on the upper walls was always a challenge. Nori popped in from time to time to do it for him, but Ori's middle brother had been a little...preoccupied over the last few weeks.

"I got it, Kíli. Don't hurt yourself."

"You just have to show off your height, don't you?"

"Would you prefer that I let him go?"

"No! We'd never hear the end of it from Dori. And he's so annoying when he's worried. Tea cups appear in every nook and cranny and he starts knitting like he wants to stab someone. And by Mahâl, the hovering! So much hovering..."

"He kinda reminds me of my mother. Well, in a way. Just more rotund and stout."

"You poor fluffball..."

"Get out of the way, Kíli. Don't make me smack you."

The scribe could hear some scuffling going on directly beneath him. If Ori had not almost fallen to his bookshelf-ridden demise, the young dwarf probably would've been amused by Kíli's and Currin's bickering. It made for good entertainment most of the time and everyone in the Company enjoyed snickering at their pathetic state of obliviousness. However, Ori was more than a little shaken at the moment, so laughing at the absurd would have to wait for a later time.

"Ori? I know you can hear me. Are you ready to come down now?"

"You two are a menace to society."

"Didn't you know? That's the ultimate goal of all skin-changers: to irritate and harrass as many dwarves as possible in our lives. It's a tradition as old as time."

"What do you want, Currin?"

"I already told you," said the skin-changer as she plucked Ori down from his precarious perch, "I need a book on human and dwarven anatomy."

Ori gazed suspiciously at the she-wolf. "Why on Arda would you need something like that? You're already through puberty."

"Clearly," snickered Kíli.

"It appears that young Frodo is in desperate need of some accurate explanations on the subject of rutting," said Currin. "And since no one in this smelly mountain is willing to explain the proper dynamics, I will. Some illustrations would be most...ugh, by Yavanna, would you stop that!"

Kíli yelped when the she-wolf made a clawed swipe at his head. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Ori scurried off to find some books that would suit Currin's purpose. The faster he did this, the faster they'd be out of his beautiful and very fragile library. Books and candles and Kíli never mixed very well.

"What brought this on?" asked Ori as he set four books down on a reading table. "And please keep your voices down for this. Aunt Dhola and Master Ordik will chase you out with a mace if you disturb their work again."

All three of them glared at Kíli.

"What?"

"Yeah, don't worry, I'll keep him under control," Currin assured. "Now, pay attention, pups. It's time to clear some things up."

"Pups?"

"If what I see going on around here is the norm for dwarf society, then neither of you two are as well-versed in the basics of rutting as you'd like to believe," said Currin. "And I can smell that you're both still virgins, so don't even try to deny it. Now have a seat and listen to the age-old wisdom of someone who hears and smells this stuff every day of her life."

Ori didn't even attempt to argue with her. It just wasn't worth it.

"Well, let's get started..."

The next half-hour was one of the most awkward and hilarious of Ori's short life. Currin was easily one of the bluntest people he'd ever met when it came to sexual encounters, and that was really saying something since Nori was his brother. She explained every necessary detail without so much as a blush or a flinch and answered every question that Frodo had with a straight face or flip of a page. And somehow, despite the adult content matter and diagrams, Currin had managed to keep all of her explanations simple and age appropriate for Frodo's sake. It was downright unsettling.

Both Kíli and himself were twitching piles of nerves by the end of it.

"That explains so much," said Frodo. He was looking at the clinical diagram that Currin had found in one of the books. "But what about Uncle Bilbo and Uncle Thorin? They're not girls, so they won't be having any babes, right?"

"Having pups isn't the only reason why people rut or mate with each other," said Currin with a patient smile. "As I told you earlier, my mother's no longer able to bear pups due to her age. She's not a young wolf anymore. However, that doesn't stop my father from loving her or being attracted to her. And trust me, it hasn't stopped the rutting, either. It really, really hasn't..."

Frodo's nose wrinkled. "Ewwww, that's icky."

"Just be thankful you've never had to smell it," Currin said with a shudder. "It's quite distinctive. Just like your brother's."

Ori pointed at himself. "Mine?"

"He's hiding behind the bookshelf on the far left," said the she-wolf. Her nose twitched with several sniffs. "It appears that they've been using the library's broom closet again."

"By Mahâl..."

"I don't know whether to be creeped out or impressed," mused Nori as he climbed down from his perch atop the bookshelf. "Having someone like you in Erebor makes my job description a whole lot more difficult. And you're scarring my dear little brother for life. I can see it in his eyes."

"No, she's not," pouted Ori. "I already knew everything she was talking about, anyways."

"Really?"

"Well, most of it. I've read plenty of books on the subject."

"That doesn't count."

"I had read enough to figure out why you were pulling Dwalin's proverbial pigtails for over six decades," said Ori with a grin. "And it turned out I was right. You liked having him chase you all over creation."

"Dori would be horrified to hear you speak of such things," said Nori with a smirk. "I'm so proud."

Currin leaned over and sniffed the middle Ri brother. "Do I even want to know why you smell like pumpkins?"

"Uncle Dwalin likes pumpkins," said Frodo. He'd phased out of the conversation a good while ago. "He's always asking Uncle Bilbo for cupcakes and says that they're his favorite dessert."

Everyone blinked.

"Well, okay, maybe I am scarred for life," mumbled Ori while hiding his face in his hands. "Dwalin and Nori...ugh..."

"Oh, look," said Currin. "Here comes Clona."

The scribe peeked through his fingers and was horrified to see all four of the table's other occupants smirking at him. Ori just glared at Currin, well aware of what she was trying to do. The skin-changer had smelled his attraction to Clona several months ago and had urged Ori to befriend the quiet Stiffbeard, who was still adjusting to life and work in Erebor without her ambassador father or closest of kin. Poor Ori had balked at the suggestion, adamantly assuring Currin that Clona was one of those dwarves who happily devoted every waking moment to their chosen craft.

From what Ori had already seen, prying Clona away from her research on Belegost and Khazad-dûm would be all but impossible. She was even more dedicated to her craft than Óin, and that was really saying something.

"She looks particularly..." Currin trailed off as she tried to think of a word. "Dwarvish today. And she smells like elderberries and parchment. That's always a plus, right?"

Kíli raised an eyebrow. "Must you smell everyone, creeper-wolf?"

"It's my nature." The she-wolf's golden eyes flickered towards the library's massive double doors. "And you should be thankful for it because here comes your uncles. They're quite...stinky..."

Frodo leaned forward and whispered, "They smelly icky because they've been rutting, right?"

"We talked about this, pup. Outside of my people, it's more commonly called having sex. Or making love, in the case of your uncles. And you shouldn't bring it up in front of them, that's just plain rude."

"But you do it all the time."

"I'm a skin-changer," said Currin, "We don't count."

"How come?"

"Because we're a bunch of furry lunatics who hear and smell everything around us. It desensitizes us. And seriously, Ori? Nori?"

Ori squeaked in surprise, eyes darting away from Clona's bent over form across the room. He patted all over his body, desperately trying to get rid of whatever scent Currin was picking up from him. He really wished that Clona had not braided her beard and hair into such an attractive style today. It was terribly intricate and distracting. Among other things...

"I should've never came into work today. Nothing good ever happens on Trewsday around here."

Meanwhile, the middle Ri brother just continued to glow with contentment. Nori had no problems giving Currin the most shit-eating smile that his face could produce, arms crossed and bum wriggling with satisfaction as his little brother sputtered and Frodo stared up at him with curious eyes. Honestly, Nori would never understand why everyone was so uptight about sex. Where did they think dwarflings came from?

"Whoa, starfish-head, please turn off the pheromones. I'm choking here."

Kíli snickered and snorted, eyes watering at the hilarious eye-waggling that Nori kept directing in his little brother's direction. Ori's face had gone redder than Smaug's and his fingers kept twitching closer and closer to the anatomy book on his right side. The youngest Ri brother looked sorely tempted to box Nori over the head with it.

"Did Uncle Nori have sex?"

Currin sighed. "Well, at least he's not calling it wrestling anymore."

"Four times."

"Nori!"

Whack. Whack. Whack. Thump.

"Owww! Ori!"

Chapter Text

Frodo could be a manipulative, scheming brat when he really put his mind to it.

The sudden and shocking deaths of Drogo and Primula had hit their young son very, very hard. To Frodo, there was nothing scarier in the world than the thought of losing another loved one to death's unforgiving clutches. Because of this, Frodo made sure to stay close to his Uncle Bilbo at all times during their journey to the Lonely Mountain and the first few months they lived there. The fauntling had initially viewed the Dwarf-King with wariness and suspicion, blue eyes watching Thorin's every move and word when he was around Uncle Bilbo. No one was allowed to hurt his Uncle Bilbo, and Frodo was determined to make sure of it. The prospect of being orphaned in a strange land had nearly made the faunt physically ill on several occasions.

But then, something odd had started to take place. The Dwarf-King had cared for Frodo and his uncle during their bout with the flu. He had valiantly protected them during the traitorous raid by the Rhûn dwarves. He spent all of his spare time with the pair of hobbits and his own family and Company. And then King Thorin slowly started to morph into Uncle Thorin, the emotionally constipated Dwarf-King who couldn't seem to figure out how to properly court a handkerchief-loving gentlehobbit. Frodo had tried to help Uncle Thorin along at certain points, but the dwarf always ended up choking at the last second. Honestly, Frodo had not understood what the problem was; Uncle Bilbo had clearly like-liked Uncle Thorin a whole lot.

It took a little while, but both Uncle Bilbo and Uncle Thorin eventually figured things out for themselves. Frodo had been delighted when the Dwarf-King had finally become his official uncle by marriage, which also made the Lady Under the Mountain his aunt and the princes his older cousins. Fíli and Kíli had wasted no time in accepting the faunt into the Durin fold, both of them ecstatic to have a little cousin to dote upon and pull pranks with. The rest of the Company had been similarly elated and all of them treated the dark-haired hobbitling like a favorite nephew. Ironically, it was Dwalin who spoiled Frodo the most.

And because of this spoiling and doting, it hadn't taken long for the faunt to realize that all he needed to do was whimper or cry in the right way and fourteen dwarves would come running without a second thought. Uncle Bilbo was harder to influence because of him being a hobbit, but Frodo hadn't lived six months in Brandy Hall for nothing. He just had to be more creative and pitiful when it came to swaying Uncle Bilbo's favor.

That, however, did not in any way apply to Uncle Thorin.

The King Under the Mountain was very protective of his fauntling nephew, perhaps even more so than he'd ever been with Fíli and Kíli, whose dwarven heritage made them much sturdier and thicker-skulled than their younger and smaller hobbit cousin. It wasn't unheard of for the King himself to personally take care of Frodo when his husband was away on diplomatic or agricultural business. Such devoted parental care was neither common nor required amongst the male royals or nobility, and most aristocratic fathers did not take an avid interest in their child's upbringing until their early adolescent years.

Bilbo scoffed and snarled at that tradition and called it utter hogwash. No one besides Thorin and himself would be raising Frodo, that was for damn sure.

"When's Uncle Bilbo coming back?"

"If all goes well, then he should be back within the week," said Thorin. He was reviewing a trade agreement with the Gondorians and Dorwinians at the moment. "And that is the sixth time you've asked me that this evening, mizimith. Is there something going on that I should know about?"

Frodo shook his head. "No, I just miss him."

"I do, too. But unfortunately for us, your uncle has the greenest thumb this side of the Misty Mountains. Perhaps even more so than those blasted weed-eaters. So, whenever anything goes wrong with the crops in Dale, we have no choice but to allow Bard and his farmers to borrow Bilbo for a few days."

"Doesn't it make you lonely?"

Thorin's brow furrowed in confusion. "Well, when he's gone for more than a week, yes, it does. But I still have you, your cousins, and Dís to keep me company. And Dwalin. But he's more trouble than he's worth most of the time."

A large head plopped down on Thorin's lap. He gazed down at the neediest of his small hoard of deerhounds. The other three furballs were lazing about in the corner. Bilbo and Bifur had purchased them a large doggy bed from Dale to accomodate their need to cuddle with each other.

"Yes, Jasper, you're good company, too."

The Dwarf-King set aside the papers on his desk and scooped up Frodo from where he'd been sitting on a nearby settee. There was a large feast being held in honor of the Firebeards tonight and the royal family had no choice but to attend it. And despite the long and very intensive morning that Thorin and Bilbo had spent together, the King still wasn't very pleased to be separated from his husband at such an event. He truly enjoyed showing Bilbo off to visiting delegations. None of them had a spouse as handsome and brilliant as Thorin's sassy burglar.

However, Frodo always made for a fine substitute and Thorin never hesitated to take full advantage of his nephew's young age and early bedtime schedules. No one ever argued with the King when he needed to put his fauntling to sleep for the night. Bilbo insisted that they should be the last ones Frodo saw before he went to sleep, which was apparently a staunch tradition among parents in the Shire. And as Thorin had learned, messing with Shire traditions or the safety of faunts and underage princes just wasn't smart when your husband was Bilbo Baggins.

Frodo gave his uncle the side-eye. "You don't let anyone else come around, do you?"

"That's a strange question, mizimith," said Thorin as they entered the communal dining halls. "Why would you ask such a thing? Has Kíli been telling you that trolls live in the closet again?"

"No, just snuffle-puffs," said the little hobbit. "And they're very sneaky. I've found three holes in my favorite trousers this month. I tried to tell Uncle Bilbo about it, but he just told me to stop playing in the mud puddles."

"Your uncle might have a point." Thorin handed the faunt off to Dís, who always sat in Bilbo's seat during his absences. "Dwina and you two boys have been quite filthy over the last few weeks."

"Aunt Dís, I have a question?"

The princess smiled at her favorite nephew. "And what would that be?"

"Well, I was just wondering," said Frodo as Dala filled his plate with taters and steamed noodles, "Uncle Thorin doesn't have sex with anyone else while Uncle Bilbo's away, does he?"

A massive wave of hacking, choking, and snorting descended upon the King's feasting table. Ale shot straight out of Fíli's nose, the oldest prince nearly toppling out of his chair with laughter. Bofur choked on a piece of cheese while Bifur looked like someone had pissed in his soup. Ori's face turned beet-red and Dori crushed his favorite teacup. The entire Firebeard delegation stared with mouths hanging open, their eyes darting back and forth between the Dwarf-King and his youngest nephew. Fíli just kept hacking and ranting about how much Kíli and Gimli would've enjoyed seeing this.

"I think our dearest King would sooner stab his own eyes out and then toss the Arkenstone into the depths of the Withered Heath before he'd bugger any bum besides Bilbo's," drawled the princess with a smirk. "And I'm sure every skin-changer in this mountain would wholeheartedly agree with me."

"Dís!"

The princess flashed Brunna and her maidservants a nasty wink. "A strong relationship between a King and his Consort is essential to the stability of any dwarven kingdom. And from the sounds I heard this morning in the royal wing, Erebor is going to be very stable for a very long time to come."

"What in Durin's name has—"

Frodo gave his aunt a conspiratorial wink. "That's good. Uncle Bilbo sounded really happy."

"I can't breathe," gasped Fíli. "I can't breathe!"

"Well, that was certainly something I didn't need to hear about," mumbled an elderly member of the Royal Council. "More ale! We need more ale over here!"

"It would explain why the King's been so mellow over the last few years," whispered another advisor.

"I knew there was a reason why I liked that hobbit."

"Aye. He's a good influence."

"Thank Mahâl that Master Glóin isn't here. He'd try to turn this whole thing into a competition over whose spouse is more fulfilling."

"Aye," said another advisor. "He accompanied the hobbit this morning to Dale. I heard him muttering quite vehemently about those damn tree-shaggers and their ridiculous trading quotas."

"More ale! Can nobody hear me? More ale!"

"I told you this evening would be interesting," Bofur said to Dori and Balin, his eyes darting between the royal family and Brunna. "Our little Frodo isn't as naïve as everybody thinks."

"Can I have some cheesecake, Aunt Dís?"

"Only after you've finished your taters and those bean things that your uncle's so fond of," said the princess. She ignored her older brother's and Brunna's glares. "I think Bombur made some oatmeal cookies as well. You'll need to save room in that tummy of yours."

"Yummy!"

"I know what you're doing, Dís. Stop encouraging him."

The princess stabbed another tater with her fork. "I'm just reassuring my nephew that the marriage between his beloved uncles is as strong and stable as possible. And the council members seem to be quite satisfied with that piece of information as well."

"You weren't aiming at either of them and you know it."

"Well, Frodo's reassured and that's all that matters," stated Dís with finality. "Master Dori, could you please pass the spiced beef? It smells absolutely delicious. Bombur and Hania have truly outdone themselves tonight."

"Are you constipated, Uncle Thorin?"

The King glanced down at his nephew. "You're an evil child. I hope you know that."

"Oh yes," giggled Frodo. "I know."

Chapter Text

Gimli really didn't understand what was so great about the snot-nosed weed-eaters.

The trade delegation from Mirkwood had arrived less than three weeks after the Firebeards had settled into the mountain. Gimli didn't trust the whole lot of them, and he made his displeasure known by tailing the King's hobbits whenever he was able to. Well, okay, there had been a few vocalizations made, but Gimli still stood by his earlier claim that the tree-shaggers were about to charge. Bilbo had not been amused and Gimli lamented the loss of blueberry brownies that he'd have to suffer through for the foreseeable future. But the ass-faced twats had stopped poking at Frodo and Bilbo all the time, so Gimli didn't regret his actions in the slightest. Of course, throwing a bowl of apples at prissy-lipped elves was always an enjoyable event in the dwarven calendar.

Several of the Firebeards had clashed with the elves as well, but Bilbo had put those incidents to rest with a few glares and stern words to both parties. Not even Glóin or Dwalin had dared to defy the Consort on that particular issue, and Thorin himself had ordered Nori's minions to keep a closer eye on the two groups' interactions in the future. However, this hadn't stopped Gimli from following Bilbo and Frodo wherever they went in or outside of the mountain.

"I don't like him."

"Now, Gimli," said Bilbo with a warning glance, "We've talked about this."

"And I still don't like it. Or him."

"They're only going to be here for a few more days," reasoned Bilbo as he examined a sack of almonds. "And I know that interacting with them isn't easy or pleasant for you, Gimli, but I hope that you will at least try to be civil at dinner this evening."

Gimli just grunted in response.

"I don't need you to even speak to the elves if you don't want to," said Bilbo. "Keeping Thorin and your father under control will be a nigh-impossible feat as it is, so it'd be an enormous help and relief to me if the princes and you would actually behave yourselves for once in your mischievous lives."

"That's asking a lot from a dwarf."

"Yet I know you're capable of it," said the hobbit as he fingered Gimli's barely-there beard. "And there's a whole lot of Dala hiding beneath the miniature Glóin who's standing before me."

"I think my mother would differ with you on that particular subject."

Bilbo flashed the young dwarf a mysterious smile. "I wouldn't be so sure about that. Now, what do you think will taste best with the almonds? I'm leaning towards cinnamon right now."

"You bake it, I'll eat it," said Gimli with a shrug.

They ended up buying a jar of every spice on the racks. With a grunt of annoyance, the dwarf snatched up the heavy sacks of food before the vendor could give them to Bilbo. Not even the infamous hands-on-hips stance could dissuade Gimli, who adamantly refused to let the Consort carry any of their purchases. He wasn't about to let Bilbo take a tumble down the market steps again, as had happened nine months earlier during yet another stupid shopping expedition for a hoity-toity diplomatic dinner. Glóril had barely managed to catch the hobbit before he'd bashed his soft head on an iron railing.

"Stop hovering, Gimli."

"I'm just assisting you in reaching the top shelves."

"No, you're hovering," said Bilbo as he rifled through the shopping sacks and baskets. "Now make yourself useful and fetch me some broccoli, carrots, arugala, and beets from the garden. I promised Bifur a nice salad and vegetable soup for this evening's dinner. I'll be needing at least four heads of lettuce as well."

"Ugh, greens..."

"Don't worry, Hania's preparing several platters of black forest ham, spiced beef, and herb crusted venison for you picky carnivores," said the hobbit with a knowing grin. "Now, hurry up, my dear boy. We've only got a few hours left before the banquet and I want to finish with some time to spare."

Gimli wandered out to the terraces that Thorin had gifted to Bilbo as a first anniversary present. Aside from the battlements, a few balconies, and seven watchtowers, they were the only part of the Erebor that was exposed to the outside world. Intricate glass and moveable stone structures were situated around the edges, specifically designed to protect the sensitive gardens from the nighttime air, winter winds, and inclement weather. Even Gimli, who was much more fond of hard stone than soft greenery, marvelled at the nigh-impossible engineering that had been used to create the Consort's beautiful gardens.

"If you step on my tail again, I'll eat you."

"How am I supposed to step on your tail when you're in human form?" snapped Gimli as he picked at a patch of arugala. "Blah, how do they eat these tasteless weeds."

"I think she may have been referring to her legs at this particular juncture."

"What are you doing up here?!"

The two elves smiled at the fuming dwarf. "We mentioned to Lady Currin that being without sunlight for so long can be stifling for our people. So, she was kind enough to bring us up here to enjoy some natural light."

"It's quite wonderful," said the elven prince. "I didn't know dwarves were capable of such exquisite botanical engineering."

"The wind doesn't even seem to harm the plants," mused Tauriel. "I've not seen mint leaves or green peppers this healthy since my last visit to Imladris."

Gimli glared at Currin. "Why did you bring them up here?"

"Elves start to stink when they're kept out of the sun for too long," drawled Currin as she dozed on a plush bench. "I was tired of smelling them, so I solved the problem."

"Outsiders aren't supposed to be in the royal wing."

"Don't get your beard twisted into a bunch. I asked Kíli's permission before bringing them here."

"Ohhhhh, of course! Kíli never tells you no."

"Your Consort had offered to show us his gardens during a previous visit," Legolas said when the skin-changer started to growl at the dwarf. "We were unable to take him up on the offer due to time constraints at the time, but I do not think it would be too bold of me to assume that the offer still stands in the present."

"And would you look at that? The princeling is already making himself at home."

"Gimli! What is taking you so..." Bilbo trailed off when he saw the three visitors sitting in his gardens. "Legolas! Tauriel! Well, good afternoon, it's so good to see you. I assume Currin brought you up here?"

Tauriel nodded. "The lack of natural light can be quite stifling at times."

"I completely understand," said Bilbo with a sympathetic nod. "I honestly don't know how Frodo or I would've kept our sanity if my husband had not designed these gardens for us. It can be so...Gimli! Stop that!"

The young dwarf was glaring up at Mirkwood's prince, his stout back and legs straightened as far as they would go so as to appear more intimidating to the willowy elf. Bilbo had seen such behavior from the tween before, which meant that a swift intervention was now necessary to keep Gimli from attacking Legolas with an axe or bushel of apples. Bilbo would never understand why dwarves and elves couldn't just get along for everyone's sake.

By Yavanna, they were like a bunch of spoilt children, always bickering and squabbling over the silliest things.

"Okay, you're coming with me," said Bilbo as he grabbed Gimli's arm and dragged him towards the kitchen. "Currin, would you be so kind as to show Legolas and Tauriel around? And do you know where Frodo is?"

The she-wolf sniffed at the air. "He's in his bedchambers with Donel and Bofur. I think they're playing dungeons and dragons again."

"And the boys?"

"Fíli's sleeping through Balin's lecture on proper courtly conduct," said Currin with a giant yawn, "And Kíli's training a new batch of recruits. They stink of fear, so Dwalin must be helping him."

Bilbo gave the elves a knowing look. "You see? This is why we keep them around."

"The nose knows."

"My tomatoes have just recently ripened," said Bilbo. "If you're a bit peckish, feel free to try some of them."

With that said, Bilbo dragged the dwarf into the royal kitchen and sat him down at a nearby table to chop vegetables for the soup and salads. Gimli was uncharacteristically quiet through the whole thing, thick fingers handling the cutting knife with a startling level of precision. Over the past couple years, Bilbo had become just as familiar and close to Gimli as he was with his own nephews, which was saying quite a bit since Bilbo usually spent a few hours each day with Fíli, Kíli, and Frodo. They were needy lil' brats when they put their minds to it.

"What's bothering you, Gimli?" Bilbo finally asked after several minutes of silence. "You're never this quiet in the kitchen with me."

Gimli just continued dicing an oversized carrot.

"Am I going to have to ply you with cookies and cream again? Because I'm not above bribery and you know it."

The hobbit didn't push any further and allowed Gimli to speak in his own time. Like his father, Gimli didn't respond well when pushed for information, so Dala and the rest of the Company usually waited for the young dwarf to come to them when he was upset about something. Unfortunately, once Gimli finally did open up, it was similar to a dam breaking from the strain of the water behind it. But Bilbo didn't mind, because no matter what Thorin and other dwarves said, it wasn't healthy for—

"Why do you like elves so much more than us?"

"Pardon?"

"I know we're not as elegant or graceful or immortally perfect as the weed-eaters are," continued Gimli with a deep frown, "But that doesn't make them any better than us."

"Gimli, why in the world would you think that I like the elves more than you?"

"You always get so excited whenever they come to Erebor for trade summits or harvest exchanges," said the dwarf. "And then you talk to them in that sissified language of theirs, like it's more important than Khuzdul or Iglishmêk. Our Consort shouldn't have to speak to them in anything but Westron while they're here. It's uncivilized."

"What else would you want me to speak to them in?" asked Bilbo. "Speaking Khuzdul is forbidden in the presence of outsiders. And although I enjoy practicing Sindarin with native speakers, it could never replace the importance that Westron and Khuzdul hold in my life."

The red-haired tween didn't say anything.

"Gimli, would you please look at me?" asked Bilbo, his hands resting on the dwarf's wrists. It took a few long moments, but Gimli eventually raised his eyes to meet Bilbo's. "I do not like the elves more than you or any other dwarf in this mountain. Do I enjoy speaking with them when they visit? Yes, I do. Very much, in fact. But I could never love or enjoy their company more than that of my own dwarven family and people."

"Then why are you always so nice to them?"

"Just because I don't want to sock Thranduil in the nose doesn't mean that I'd ever choose him or any other elf over my loud, gem-loving, and boisterous dwarves." Bilbo gave Gimli a light tug on the beard. "And please, do attempt to be civil with Legolas and Tauriel. They're trying their hardest to foster strong trade agreements between Erebor and Mirkwood, and quite frankly, we need every piece of food that they can provide to us right now."

The tween chewed at his lower lip. "Are you sure?"

"Considering how much you dwarves eat? We need every bit of food we can get. And yes, you have to be nice to them as well. I really don't want to have to play mediator between Thranduil and Thorin ever again. The last time nearly killed me and I don't think my hobbit-y heart could take another scare like that."

Gimli's eyes widened and he vigorously shook his head. He'd heard many stories about the Arkenstone debacle and Gimli never wanted such a horrible incident to happen again. The Lonely Mountain wouldn't survive another tragedy of that magnitude, especially if it resulted in the death of their beloved and very diplomatic Consort.

"I can do that," said Gimli. "Well, most of the time, at least. I can't make any permanent promises."

"That's all I'm asking for," smiled the hobbit. "Now, finish cutting up those carrots for me. I'd like to get this soup done before the banquet actually begins. Hmmmm, where did I put those blasted onions..."

"But Bilbo?"

"Yes?"

"I still don't like them."

Chapter Text

Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain and direct descendent of Durin the Deathless himself, was completely and utterly lost without his hobbits.

For fourteen long months, Bilbo Baggins had been visiting the Shire with Frodo, Bofur, Bifur, Glóril, and a slew of Ereborian guardsman at his side. Thorin had sent Roäc and numerous other ravens to check up on his hobbits throughout their journey and stay in the Shire, but the Dwarf-King also knew that his nerves wouldn't be satisfied until Bilbo and Frodo were back within the safety of Erebor's granite halls and Thorin's protective arms. Everything had been going fine on their return journey and Thorin was expecting both of his hobbits to arrive home later this afternoon. The autumn harvest had begun earlier in the week and Bilbo always insisted on helping Bard and his farmers with their crops, so Thorin wasn't surprised when the caravan didn't show up right on time.

The Dwarf-King smiled from where he stood on the battlements. His husband never returned from Dale's harvest without a cart of pumpkins or several bushels of apples, and that usually meant a lot of delicious desserts would be gracing the Company's dinner tables for weeks to come. Fíli and Kíli had been ridiculously vocal about how much they missed their uncle's cooking and baking, both of them lamenting the utter incompetence of Erebor's pastry chefs when it came to cupcake-making. Bombur and Hania especially would be happy to have their Consort back, if only to relieve them of being the princes' primary chefs and snack providers. If there was anyone besides Dís who could keep Fíli and Kíli obedient and under control, it was Bilbo Baggins.

"Glaring at the horizon isn't going to make your hobbits arrive any quicker, nadadugmil."

Thorin shrugged. "Stranger things have been known to happen."

"Well, Kíli couldn't contain himself any longer," said Dís, her finger pointing to the small figures that were dashing towards Dale. "Not that his students were upset about practice being canceled. The badgers decided to accompany him."

"And what about Fíli?"

"I believe he's almost done with your request. Will Gandalf be arriving with them?"

The sound of horns in the distance interrupted their conversation. Brows furrowed in surprise, Dís and Thorin moved to a higher parapet on the eastern battlements, neither of them quite sure what to make of the unusual bugle. And then another, more familiar horn sounded off in the distance.

"Shit," cursed the princess. "They're under attack."

The royal siblings raced down to the mountain's entrance, both of them shouting out orders and signaling for the Royal Guard to assemble immediately at the front gates. Loud bells and horns echoed across the hills from Dale, where the Erebor dwarves knew that King Bard was already leading a charge against whoever was foolish enough to invade their lands. Goblin and orc attacks had become increasingly rare over the past decade, but Thorin attributed that to the skin-changers constant presence throughout the valley and the rapidly growing strength of Erebor and Dale in northeastern Rhovanion. A few caravans had been ambushed from time to time and Thorin cursed himself for not being more watchful as Bilbo's return approached.

"Your Majesty!" called a young man. Thorin recognized him as one of Bard's visiting diplomats. "My retainers and myself have already saddled our horses. We can give you a swift ride to the battle site if you desire."

Dís shoved him towards the group of men. "Their horses are far swifter than our ponies. Go with them."

"We accept your offer."

Within less than a minute, Thorin, Dwalin, and several of his guardsmen were riding straight for the caravan that had been ambushed. The attack had occurred directly along the River Running in a swampy area that was full of thick foliage and lots of small streams; it was a popular spot amongst the children of Dale for frog-hunting and catching muskrats for their pelts. However, a very steep incline lay on the opposite side away from the river, making the caravan path that ran between the river and the neighboring mountain a blind-spot due to its low elevation. Bard usually ordered patrols to move through the area several times a day, but the harvest had likely diverted many of those regular guards to other areas of the kingdom.

They were nearly upon the ambush site when Thorin saw six large forms race straight down the mountainous inclines, Kíli, Bard, and his militia archers narrowly evading a troll's club as the figures leapt right over top of them. The largest wolf sunk her teeth right into the troll's skull, muzzle twisting from side to side as she attempted to rip and tear the creature's eyes clean out. All of the other wolves went straight into the fray, their powerful forms providing ample protection to the caravan members. Thorin and his guards didn't waste any time in attacking the goblins and orcs, their swords and axes lobbing off heads and limbs as the humans controlled the horses they rode upon. The skin-changers dealt with any warg who was stupid enough to cross their paths.

"Thorin!"

The Dwarf-King looked over at the edge of the incline, watching with wipe eyes as his husband, nephew, and two human children hid behind Currin's massive frame. The skin-changer snarled at the troll in front of her, fangs gnashing and biting at any piece of unprotected flesh she could get a hold of, arrows littering the foul creature's neck and skull where she had already created several sizable holes. Bofur had also smashed the troll's kneecap with his mattock, but nothing seemed to be able to bring the huge creature to the ground.

"Bring it down!" shouted Kíli and Bard from atop the incline. "Shoot its eyes and throat!"

The troll took another swing and clubbed Currin in the ribs. Pushed into a corner, the she-wolf crouched into a defensive stance that completely shielded the hobbits and children from view, her teeth sinking deep into the troll's throat when it ventured too close to her. Thorin ordered the man he was riding with to push towards Currin's position, his heart pounding frantically when he heard a yelp from the skin-changer. And then came the crack...

"Shoot it!"

A slew of arrows rained down on the troll, Bifur and Bofur both slamming into the creature's knees with their weapons. Another large gash suddenly opened up on the troll's lower throat, an invisible figure repeatedly stabbing the collapsed creature over and over again in the neck and upper chest. Thorin immediately jumped off of his horse and ran over to the invisible form. With gentle hands, the Dwarf-King grabbed his husband and pulled him away from the dying troll.

"That's enough, Bilbo," whispered Thorin into his husband's pointed ear. "It's dead, âzyungel. It's dead."

With a gasp of exertion and despair, the hobbit dropped Sting onto the blood-soaked ground and leaned back against his larger husband. Thorin didn't hesitate to reach down and remove the magic Ring from Bilbo's limp fingers. He'd barely done that before Bilbo was scrambling out of his hold and towards Currin's limp form.

"Oh, sweet Yavanna..."

Frodo was standing over the skin-changer's bloodied head, her crushed muzzle leaking copious amounts of blood and saliva from where the troll's club had collided directly with her unprotected skull. Even now, the she-wolf tried to force herself to her feet, small yelps and whimpers escaping from her broken throat. Gandalf appeared not a moment later, his grey robes covered in blood and dirt from the battle.

"What has happened?" demanded the wizard. "Where are our hobbits?"

"Right here, Gandalf," said Bilbo as he attempted to keep Currin from standing up. "We're alright. Just a little bruised and dirty. But Currin..."

The wizard marched straight over and ran his hands over the skin-changer's trembling form. A high-pitched yelp echoed through the air when Gandalf grazed her ribs and muzzle. Frodo scratched her gently behind the ears, blue eyes darting about as the other skin-changers started to descend upon their location. The gasps of Kíli and two of Currin's brothers prompted Thorin to intercept the three of them.

"Is she alright?" demanded the King's middle nephew. "I want to see her. I need to—"

"You need to give Gandalf space to work," said Thorin. "And getting in his way won't help Currin at this point."

Two sets of golden eyes glared at the Dwarf-King, but neither Rowan nor Gwaine pushed their way past Thorin to attend to their ailing sister. Just like Kíli, they watched and listened with baited breath, both of them pacing as Gandalf continued his medical assessment. Meanwhile, Thorin could hear Bard shouting orders in the background, the human King immediately assuming command while the dwarves tended to their wounded. It seemed that another group of orcs and goblins had been spotted further down the road towards Esgaroth, but Thorin was confident that Dale's militias and his own patrols would be able to handle a group of marauding scum.

"What happened?" asked Dwalin.

"She was protecting Bilbo and the children," said the King. "And she used herself as a shield until backup could arrive. I'm surprised she lasted as long as she did, being cornered like that."

The larger dwarf just shook his head in despair. "Always was outrageously stubborn and daring, that girl. She did all that damage?"

"I think she tried to rip its head off. Almost managed it, too."

Kíli was silent at Thorin's side, the young prince leaning heavily on Bilbo as the older hobbit tried to comfort him. Frodo was still at Currin's side, his tiny hands petting the she-wolf whenever she'd whimper in pain. The King could hear his husband whispering softly to Kíli, his hands brushing the young dwarf's tangled hair and upper arms as Currin's brothers paced behind and around them. The rest of the skin-changers, except the badger sisters, had gone ahead to help Bard's militias fend off the next batch of orcs and goblins.

"I've done what I can," announced Gandalf a few moments later. "Thorin?"

"Yes?"

"I need you to send word immediately to Mirkwood and the northern plains," ordered the wizard. "Currin's condition is beyond my expertise. I have done what I can, but the elven healers are the only ones who can save her from a slow, painful death at this point. Do you understand?"

Thorin felt dozens of eyes suddenly land upon him. He had said on numerous occasions that he'd rather throw himself into Erebor's depths than ever ask for help from that tree-shagging, fruity-crown-loving asshole that called himself the King of Mirkwood. Every dwarf in attendance had nodded their heads on agreement during those incidents, heartily agreeing with their King about the uselessness of elves. Bilbo had, of course, kicked him underneath the table, but Thorin stood by his decision that avoiding any and all unnecessary interactions with the Mirkwood elves was ideal for the future.

"There are several others wounded as well," said one of Bard's patrol captains. "At least four of them are quite serious."

"Uncle," whispered Kíli, "Please..."

With a deep exhale of frustration, Thorin signaled for one of his guardsman to come forth. Glancing around to make sure everything was under control in the immediate vicinity, the King handed his seal over to the burly dwarf. He felt Bilbo lean against his side, the hobbit's small hands gripping at the King's armor in relief.

"Fetch me a raven. We must hurry."

Chapter Text

Legolas was more than accustomed to the fierce animosity that existed between elves and dwarves.

For hundreds of years, the youngest prince of Mirkwood had listened to the annoyed grumblings of his father, older brothers, and fellow elves. Legolas himself had not been in contact with many dwarves before the fall of Erebor, mostly due to his young age and his father's overprotective nature. In Thranduil's eyes, Legolas would never be ready to strike out on his own or fight against the spiders that had slowly infested their homeland. It had taken several decades for Legolas' older brothers to convince their father that his youngest child was more than ready for archery lessons. Hunting, tracking, and close-combat lessons had been just as difficult to procure, especially once the darkness had fully descended upon the Greenwood. But healing lessons with Lord Elrond...

Well, that was a completely different matter.

"Aren't they done yet?" asked Erebor's youngest prince the twenty-third time. "You said that the healers would be done before nightfall. What's taking them so long?"

"Your friend was gravely injured and surgery is always a delicate procedure," explained Legolas for the fourth time that evening. "Lossel and Arthon have been healers for longer than I have been alive. I can assure you, they will not commit any act that could endanger Lady Currin's life."

"And your father? What will he do if it's not to his—"

"Kíli!"

The dwarven prince flinched at his uncle's harsh tone. Bilbo and Dís were both seated on the large benches that lined Erebor's infirmary, a slumbering Frodo nestled between the two of them. Most other members of the Company and Currin's pack had opted to stay there as well, all of them very concerned for the young skin-changer and the other seven other dwarves who had been injured in the attack. Thorin, Dwalin, Fíli, and Glóin had had numerous meetings with King Bard and his captains over the past week, and it hadn't taken long for them to realize that the elves needed to be brought into the situation. From what Bard's trackers could tell, all of the marauders' tracks had led back to Mirkwood, not Rhûn like they had originally thought.

"That's enough," said Bilbo. "Fits of temper won't do Currin any good."

To Legolas' surprise, the young dwarf seemed to shrink in on himself. It had taken several days for the elves to arrive from Mirkwood and Legolas strongly suspected that the Lonely Mountain's youngest prince had slept very little in that time period. His mother and hobbit uncle had tried to lure the prince into sleep a few hours earlier, but Kíli had vehemently protested their efforts with a scowl and complete refusal of cupcake bribes. Legolas had had to grab the young dwarf several times to keep him from storming into the surgery room, which had earned him a nasty glare from the King himself and an inappropriate poke from a red-haired dwarf with anger management issues. The latter had been a nuisance ever since and Legolas wondered if shooting him in the ass would be bad for interspecies relations.

"Why are you still here?"

Legolas didn't even glance down at the abrasive dwarf. "As I have already explained to you, master dwarf, both Tauriel and myself are diplomatic and protective escorts to my father's most talented healers. So long as they remain within the Lonely Mountain, we remain as well."

"So you think we're a threat?" asked Gimli with an even deeper scowl. "Dwarves are the finest hosts in all the east, unlike you—"

"The surgery is complete."

Every head in the hall swiveled to stare at the blond-haired elf who had just emerged with Óin and several other dwarven healers from the surgery room. Kíli and Currin's brothers ran forward and immediately started to bombard the healers with questions. Visibly exhausted and exasperated, Óin grabbed his trusty ear-horn and loudly blew it in their faces.

"Button up, the whole lot of you!"

A hush fell over the room as the healers gathered their wits about them. Meanwhile, Kíli narrowly avoided being clobbered by the elderly dwarf's ear-horn and Legolas was quick to drag the prince away from the disgruntled and very tired-looking chemist. Bilbo appeared at their side not a moment later, his gentle and familiar touch calming the distraught young dwarf. Behind them, Legolas could hear the princess and Gimli's mother attempting to soothe a groggy and confused Frodo. The faunt had obviously been awoken by the sudden chatter and was more than a little distressed about his toothy friend's failing health.

"Calm yourself, zundushith," said the hobbit. "There will be time for questions later. Óin?"

Legolas inwardly smirked at Master Baggins' subtle assertion of authority. He had visited the Lonely Mountain several times over the past decade and it hadn't taken long for Mirkwood's youngest prince to figure out who was the true power behind the Longbeard throne. Bilbo held an enormous amount of sway over his husband, sister-in-law, and two nephews, not to mention the rest of the Company and numerous other dwarves within the mountain. To be honest, Legolas suspected that the hobbit didn't even know that a single word or frown or smile of his could massively influence the entire eastern realm. King Thorin's immense affection and respect for his Consort was obvious to all who took the time to look for it.

"We've managed to keep all of them alive so far," said Óin. "Two of the men's conditions are still rather precarious, but Currin and the rest should pull through. However, it'd be best if they remain isolated for now. There's still a high chance of infection and several of them have already started to show the beginning signs of it."

Kíli pointed up at his face. "What about Currin's..."

"We were able to save her eye," assured Arthon. His fellow elven healer had wandered off to speak with the six human families behind them. "However, there will likely be a significant amount of scarring along her scalp and the upper left side of her face. Lady Currin's jaw was also broken in four places, so it'll be several weeks before she can speak or eat solid foods again."

"Can I see her?"

The elf looked torn for a moment. "I will allow you and her brothers a brief visit, no more than a minute, but you must first thoroughly wash yourselves with soap and under no circumstances may you touch her. Understood?"

All three nodded.

"Follow me," said Arthon. "And don't dawdle. I've still much work to do and none of them are out of the woods yet."

Legolas stood off to the side again, an outsider among the dwarves that called the Lonely Mountain home. He still held some reservations about them despite the forgiveness that Bilbo had awarded Thorin and his ilk after the Battle of the Five Armies. The hobbit was a kind soul who had been sorely mistreated by the Dwarf-King and several other members of their Company, all for the sake of gold, gemstones, and an arrogance that seemed to rule the kings of the East. Not even the Arkenstone beads that were woven through Bilbo's hair could erase Legolas' memories of the wall and King Thorin's unconscionable actions on that fateful day. And despite being far more tolerating of dwarves than his father, Legolas still couldn't shake the wariness that he felt when Bilbo and Thorin were in the same room.

"Who spit in your beef stew?"

"A thoughtless dwarf who can't seem to control his temper," said Legolas. Although he had spoken to Gimli, his eyes followed the Dwarf-King as he entered the infirmary and came to stand beside his smaller husband. "And you, Master Dwarf?"

"A tree-shagger who thinks his piss tastes like honey mustard dressing."

"Strange," drawled Legolas, "But I thought dwarves didn't partake in green meals of any sort."

Gimli grimaced. "Bilbo gets upset if no one eats his vegetable casseroles or Dorwinion pepper salads. It's a painful sight. Best just to eat and be done with it."

"Does the King follow this philosophy as well?"

The young dwarf looked at Legolas like he was crazy. "Of course, he does. It's Thorin who enforces the eating of Bilbo's green meals. And if we refuse to comply, then we're forced to share a plate with Bombur and go hungry for the night."

"Good to hear."

Legolas watched as the King conversed with his husband, sister, and oldest nephew. Frodo was now snuggled in Thorin's arms, content to doze in the King's neck while the older dwarves and hobbit discussed Currin's condition and the patrols that Bard had posted along the northern borders. The elven prince made a mental note to himself to spend some time in Dale before returning to Mirkwood. It had been several months since he'd last spoken with his human friend.

"He treats him well, you know."

The young dwarf had obviously been watching Legolas' eyes and the deep frown that still sat upon his face. Despite the many jokes that people made about Gimli's temper and abrasive personality, he wasn't stupid by any stretch of the imagination. A great deal of Dala's shrewd observational skills rested just beneath the surface, quietly waiting for an opportunity to show themselves.

"We heard a lot of rumors in Ered Luin about the King and the Arkenstone Debacle, as many dwarves have come to call it. I've heard several versions of the story from over two dozen people, and all of them involve Bilbo being dangled from the battlements by Thorin's hand. You witnessed it, too, I presume?"

Legolas nodded.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, then you should know that Bilbo's the true power behind the throne. Not everybody knows it or would even believe it, but that hobbit has an enormous amount of sway over the King. He doesn't use it very often, of course, what with him being a hobbit and not well-liking of politics, but I reckon that Thorin would do anything to keep Bilbo happy now. And Frodo, by extension."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because they act just like my own parents," said Gimli as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And if that doesn't tell you something, then, well, you weed-eaters are a whole lot more senile than I thought."

Bilbo was now tucked up close to his husband, his small form almost completely hidden in the King's great surcoat. The princess was wheedling Óin for more information on Currin's condition, her face set into a stubborn frown that was far too reminiscent of her older brother's trademark scowl. It was an intimidating sight to behold, even for an elf of Legolas' stature.

"The Arkenstone is gone," said Gimli. "No one's quite sure what Thorin and the princes did with it, but those shards in Bilbo's beads are the last glimpses anybody's seen of it in well over a decade. I suspect that Bilbo would not have returned if it was still within the mountain."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Gimli shrugged. "Ori's about to release a book called The Hobbit Under the Mountain, so it'll all become common knowledge pretty soon, anyways. He hopes that it'll rival the tales of Beren and Lúthien, but I can't see you elves or men appreciating a good dwarven love story. Much too poetic for the whole lot of you."

"Of course."

"But don't worry, Master Elf, you won't see the King mistreating our hobbit ever again," assured the young dwarf. "My mother reckons that he'll be spending the rest of his years trying to make up for the Arkenstone incident. Though I think the garden terraces have helped out a lot, too."

Legolas allowed himself a small smile. "That's good to know."

Bilbo fussed over Kíli after he returned from visiting Currin. The youngest prince didn't turn away from his more demonstrative uncle, instead seeming to melt into the kindly hands that patted at his elbows and lower arms. It was quite obvious who was the mother-hen of the royal family. Then again, Legolas had seen dwarven parents throw big rocks at the heads of their misbehaving children, so hobbits were probably just much more delicate and picky in their parenting styles when compared to dwarves. His own father claimed that it was their thick skulls that prevented the dwarves from properly learning their place in the world.

"When did you say Master Ori's book would be completed?"

Gimli cackled in delight. "Two weeks."

"I think I would like a copy. My father and brothers might appreciate a poetic, dwarven love story."

"Oh, I'm sure they will."

Chapter Text

Glóin was madly in love with his beautiful, stunning, bewitching, comely, charming, hilarious, and downright ravishing wife.

When it came to beauty, his Dala was the most gorgeous creature to ever grace the lands of Arda and perhaps even Valinor itself. Glóin didn't give a shit what those fruity elves or men said about Lúthien or Elrond's daughter, because no one in all of Middle-Earth could ever hope to rival the luster of Dala's deep green eyes, the rosiness of her apple cheeks, the strength of her jeweler's fingers, or the supreme fineness of her ample beard. For many years, everyone else in Ered Luin agreed with Glóin and never once tried to contradict his truthful claims. After all, it was very easy to see that Dala was the most beautiful dwarf to ever live within the Blue Mountains. It was an undisputed fact and no one ever dared to say anything against it.

And then came the other spouses...

Glóin really should've seen it coming, even he was willing to admit that. Dala had been warning him about his big mouth for decades, but arrogance had always been an issue in the line of Durin.

"Owww! What the fuck?!"

Standing at the far end of the corridor was Thorin, an entirely unpleasant expression on the other Durin's face. Two of the Dwarf-King's prized deerhounds, Jasper and Beryl, stood just a few feet away from Glóin's toppled form and the door that had slammed into him. One of them had a large stick in her mouth; the other just stared at Glóin like he was a strange puzzle. The red-haired dwarf's head, nose, and jaw throbbed when he touched them, but a few pokes proved that nothing was broken. The double doors that led to the mess hall were swinging back and forth from where the hounds had charged through in pursuit of their prized stick.

If he had been any other dwarf, then he might have simply brushed off the whole debacle as an unfortunate accident, but Glóin had been around his cousins long enough to recognize malicious and homicidal intent. And Glóin had seen that particular expression aimed at the bush-fuckers and their lords more than enough times to know that Thorin was out for blood. The line of Durin had a slight... issue with exacting vengeance on those who wronged them, and Glóin had apparently done something stupid to piss off the King of all Durins.

Just his luck.

"Beryl! Jasper!" shouted the King Under the Mountain. "Stop fighting over that stick and get back here. Now! And stop gnawing on Glóin's boot!"

"Uncle Thorin!"

The Dwarf-King turned around and easily scooped up his youngest nephew. Frodo gave the King a kiss on the nose and then jabbered on and on about everything Dwina's uncle had shown him down in the armory. Thorin listened with the rapt attentiveness that every doting parent possessed, but Glóin knew better than to be tricked by the innocent acts that his cousin was a master of putting on. All three of Thráin's children had been devious little bastards as dwarflings, and Glóin could recognize Thorin's evil tendencies from a mile away.

"That sounds fascinating, mizimith. Does Bilbo know you were down there?"

"Well..."

"I suspected as much."

Frodo gasped and scrambled out of Thorin's arms after this. "What happened to Uncle Glóin's face?"

"He had an unfortunate accident with the mess hall doors," said Thorin without a hint of remorse on his stupid-ass face. "I think you may need to pay Óin a quick visit before dinner's served, my dear cousin."

Frodo leaned forward and gave Glóin a kiss on his bloody nose. "Does it feel better?"

"Aye, it feels a whole lot better, laddie," said Glóin. He forced himself not to glare up at Thorin, just in case Frodo thought it was meant for him. "Perhaps another kiss right here to make up for my hand being in the way."

The little hobbit didn't hesitate to smack a kiss on both of Glóin's cheeks. "And now you need to see Uncle Óin."

"I plan to, laddie."

"Come, mizimith, we mustn't keep your uncle or aunt waiting." Thorin tugged at Frodo's hand and grinned, looking far too much like Azog's despicable white warg for anybody's liking. He definitely didn't look like the stoic yet rational older cousin he'd always been to Glóin. "You be careful in the guild halls today, cousin. A great deal of territorial warfare is brewing down there, if Dori's latest complaints are anything to go by. And I'm sure you're quite aware of just how dangerous those skirmishes can be, aye?"

Glóin was quite concerned for the safety of his dwarfhood at this point. The King wouldn't kill him, but he'd certainly make Glóin's life miserable.

"What on Arda did you do to Thorin?" demanded Dís a few days later. "He's been beating the rocks out of you for days in the arena and he's been posturing like a peacock around Bilbo every other hour. It's driving me insane."

"He's jumped Uncle Bilbo at least four times since yesterday morning," grumbled Fíli from where he was playing a board game with Gimli and Bofur. "It's utterly horrifying."

"Did you see his newest inkings?" asked Kíli.

"No..."

"Well, it looks like his entire dwarfhood is covered in them now," said Kíli with a grimace. "I walked in on them five hours ago. In the gardens. On the lettuce patch."

Fíli literally shuddered in horror.

"I really didn't need to know that," mumbled Dís. "And don't you dare draw them!"

"My eyes have already been burned out of my skull," said Kíli as he poked absentmindedly at the fireplace. "Uncle's acting like a hound dog in heat. And poor Uncle Bilbo's been avoiding the dining hall for days now."

"I was wondering why he wouldn't eat with Bombur and me the other night," mused Bofur. "Sitting must be quite...painful for the lad."

Fíli groaned. "Change of conversation, please!"

Dís turned back to Glóin and glared at him with her hands on her hips. "Well? What did you do?"

"Just fess up," advised Kíli. "She always finds out."

Glóin flopped down into his favorite chair with a groan. "I might have accidentally compared Bilbo's ears and lack of beard to an elf. And then I might have started singing about Dala's finest attributes. Oh, don't look at me like that. I was drunk!"

"You know how Thorin gets about anyone disparaging Bilbo's hobbit-y features, Glóin," snapped Dís. She even gave him a smack upside the head for good measure. "And to hear something like that from his own cousin? No wonder he's trying to maim you."

"Kill me. I'm pretty sure he's trying to kill me."

"And he's trying to scar the rest of us for life by molesting Uncle Bilbo every chance he gets," said Kíli. "I refuse to go out into the gardens again. You can't make me go back out there."

"Well, Ori will be delighted to know that lettuce is off the menu in the near future," Bofur joked.

"Not now, Bofur."

"Sorry."

And as it turned out, Glóin was right about the whole Thorin-trying-to-kill-him issue. On Mersday, he found a massive cricket inside his office, deposited right in the middle of his desk. It was one of those awful, multi-legged atrocities from deep within the Lonely Mountain's bowels, equipped with painful pincers and a bug-eyed stare. Dwarves were taught at a young age to handle these little bastards one of two ways: smash 'em with a weapon or just avoid 'em at all costs.

Many a dwarf had lost fingers or braids to the northern cave weta.

The only reason Glóin didn't run out shrieking or smash it with his axe was because the insect had been placed inside a glass case that had obviously been designed for the express purpose of housing an exotic pet. An Easterling merchant had started selling the boxes several months ago in Dale, if Bifur and the children were to be believed. A small note was atop the box, too. Glóin inched forward and grabbed the small slip of parchment, eyes widening when he read through his cousin's spiky hand-writing: There's more where this came from.

A very nasty and colorful arachnid was drawn at the bottom. By Mahâl...

Glóin stared at the box for another ten or so minutes until he finally gathered his wits, threw back his shoulders, and stomped over to pick up the case and take it down to Bifur for him to deal with. The axe-ridden dwarf was more than happy to take it.

"Is it venomous?"

Bifur nodded his head, eyes alight with excitement over his newest pet.

"What's wrong, âzyungel?" Dala had asked him later that evening at dinner. "You look pale. And you've barely touched your stew."

"My cousin's lost his mind. He's gone barmy."

"Which one?"

Glóin glanced around before saying, "Thorin."

"Really?" Dala looked genuinely surprised. "Huh, I always thought Dwalin was the crazy one of you lot."

"That's because of that ridiculous mohawk he used to wear."

Dala giggled. "Oh, it's a whole lot more than the mohawk, âzyungel. But the lasses liked it, I think."

"Not that it did them any good."

"Dwalin's happy with Nori," said Dala with a little smile. "I've never seen so much sexual tension between two dwarves before. Well, except for maybe Thorin and Bilbo, but I never actually saw that with my own eyes, just heard about it by word of mouth. But I'm glad they're not glaring at each other anymore."

"They're too busy rutting in every closet and unoccupied room in Erebor. Maybe Dale, too."

"So long as it keeps them out of Dori's beard, I don't care what they do. It's much quieter when that dwarf's not complaining and fussing over every little thing."

Glóin poked at his baked potato. "Have you ever seen a giant brown and yellow spider before?"

"Has Gimli been bringing strange pets home again? Because if he has, then you need to have another talk with him. Bear cubs don't make good pets. Period."

"Ugh, no, well, nevermind."

He spent the following night reading up on various Rhovanion and Harad wildlife—courtesy of Ori, who had stared at the non-academic dwarf with something close to trepidation—and came to the conclusion that the Haradwaith was the scariest place on Arda. It was apparently home to over two hundred species of venomous snakes and spiders and giant lizards, among other deadly animals. The whole region was a fucking deathtrap. Sand drakes roamed the entire thing, wild mûmakil trampled anything that got in their path, and venomous snails waited in the poolsides of many a desert oasis for unsuspecting travelers. Even the rodents were lethal. And Mirkwood should be condemned. How the elves could stand to live there was beyond him.

And Thorin was out of his mind.

It was the next day when Glóin found himself being thrown all over a sparring ring by his older cousin and maniacal King. A few members of the Firebeard delegation stood off to the side, all of them watching the King Under the Mountain with wide eyes. Dwalin had buggered off somewhere to rut with Nori, which was a normal occurrence now. Fighting had always been a turn-on for the giant dwarf. And Glóin could hear his sweet Dala up on the balconies, her voice excited as she showed Bilbo and Frodo all of her newest jewelry designs. Neither of them paid their bull-headed husbands any mind.

"I can't feel my arms," groaned Glóin once they were done.

The King stood directly beside him, pointedly ignoring Brunna and her little band of Firebeard admirers. Glóin did not envy the amount of attention they were giving Thorin, especially since Dala would have ripped off their heads if their positions had been reversed. Bilbo's astounding ability to stay calm and dignified around those leeches was nothing short of admirable in Glóin's books.

"How would you feel about getting a new inking, Glóin?"

The red-haired dwarf stared at Thorin like he'd completely lost his mind. Not even one minute ago, the Dwarf-King had been beating him to a pulp with a viciousness that he usually reserved for elves, orcs, and traitors. By Mahâl, Thorin had been terrorizing him for well over a week! And all because he'd made a few stupid comments about Bilbo while drunk, both of which Glóin would've happily apologized for if given the opportunity. He'd already given Bilbo a particularly fine set of new trawls in a bid for forgiveness from the sweet-natured hobbit.

"I thought your bitty parts were already covered in tributes to Bilbo," said Glóin, making sure to speak loud enough for the Firebeards to hear him. "You can't possibly have any space left down there."

Thorin smirked. "I could say the same about you."

Glóin just stared at his King, not quite sure what to do with the situation. However, then he heard a series of laughs from above them, Thorin's severe features immediately softening at the sound of his husband and youngest nephew. With a sigh, Glóin patted his cousin on the shoulder. He wasn't about to turn down an olive branch if it'd get him back in Thorin's good graces.

"Alright, what were you thinking about?"

The King pulled out several drawings from his supply bag. All of the designs were based on Ancient Khuzdul runes that offered tribute to a dwarf's spouse and the children in their life. Glóin actually liked the looks of the second design, and his thighs did look a little bare compared to the rest of his body. It'd be a nice surprise for Dala, too.

"No more insects?"

Thorin chuckled and folded up the papers. "No more insects."

"What are we waiting for, then?"

Chapter Text

Gandalf the Grey had a very, very bad habit of bringing trouble and mischief unto the heads of those he visited.

For twelve long years, Bilbo Baggins had thought that that accursed Arkenstone was gone from the mountain. He wasn't sure where or how, but the reticence of the Company and the un-jeweled throne had led Bilbo to assume that Thorin had either smashed or spirited the rock away before his and Frodo's arrival in Erebor. A few small shards could be found in Bilbo's courting and marriage beads, which had supported the first of his erroneous assumptions. But then he'd walked in on Thorin and Gandalf in the throne room, the former holding a very familiar stone in his hands.

Bilbo had immediately charged into the chamber and demanded to know what that awful thing was still doing within Erebor's halls. Both wizard and dwarf had attempted to placate the irate hobbit, but their desperate and hurried explanations had only made Bilbo angrier and angrier. The mere sight of the Arkenstone had brought Thorin's cold betrayal and gold madness right back to the forefront of Bilbo's mind. He had then accused his husband of caring more for that blasted piece of rock than he did for either of his hobbits. So red-faced and incensed was Erebor's Consort that not even Dwalin or Dís had tried to intervene.

And everything had gone downhill from there...

"Umm, Uncle Bilbo," Frodo said, a little nervously. "Do you want to do something about this?"

Bilbo looked up. Thorin's overgrown raven was perched in front of him, glaring. He stared at the letter gripped in its talons. What did he want?

The hobbit had seen his husband a few times since The Incident. Outside the mess hall after dinner or walking through the corridors with Balin, Dwalin, or one of his other advisors. Bilbo had done his best to keep himself quiet and aloof and, most of all, absent on these handful of occasions. He didn't think Thorin had any idea how close he was to getting kicked into the side of a mountain.

Bilbo stared blankly at the gargantuan bird, mind racing. What could Thorin possibly have to say to him now? Maybe he'd written out everything he thought about Bilbo so he would have a handy pocket guide of his failures. No, it probably said something like: Dear Bilbo…I still like a lump of shiny minerals more than you. Just thought you'd want to know. Thorin. He didn't want to read it. He had been fine.

"Take it back," he said to the raven. "Return to sender. Big guy, lover of shiny objects, and unpleasant disposition?" The huge bird's black eyes just stared at him. He grabbed the letter from its talons, and then gave it back. It remained impassive. Blast. Even his husband's bird was impossible. When Bilbo rose and left the table, it flew after him. Perfect. This was going to make gardening a tad awkward.

Bumble dashed out after them, clearly wanting to play. Bilbo swore softly. He was sure Thorin's raven would be more than happy to play, too…only the game would be Food Chain and Frodo's cat would be at the bottom of it. Bilbo carefully trapped Bumble in his cupped hands, and took him back to Frodo, who reddened. When Bilbo left the gardens, bird behemoth trailing behind him, Bumble was careening around inside Frodo's robes, purring happily.

This was demented. Speeding up, turning, shouting, and heaving bread rolls smuggled out of the kitchens—nothing had any effect. He felt like some brainless bimbo in a fairy tale; any second and Radagast would pop out of a closet and he'd be singing a duet with a woodland creature. Bilbo smiled politely at the passing servants, who were looking at him curiously. Feigned nonchalance probably wasn't very effective with an ostrich following you around. There was no way he could ever feel any more idiotic than he did right then.

How could he get rid of it? What kind of projectiles or foods would be effective but not too damaging? Bilbo really didn't want a raven-avenging Thorin showing up in Frodo's rooms or his gardens, shouting about the hobbit molesting Roäc's greenhorn replacement.

Water. Birds hated water, right? Bilbo ducked into a public washroom, darting into a shower stall and angling the showerhead behind him before turning the water on full blast. Bilbo smiled at the annoyed squawk as the bird darted out of the stall. Yes! Sure, he was slightly damp, but he had also struck a blow for mammals everywhere. Bilbo turned off the water and sauntered out of the stall.

The raven was waiting. It immediately flew to follow him.

Raven: 2, Bilbo: 0.

Okay…what were his options? He could stay in the washroom; eventually, it would give up. As stimulating as Bilbo's company was, it probably couldn't compare to snacking on corn kernels or field mouse innards. Who would want to hang out in a washroom all day? Huh, maybe this was how Radagast and his poopy-hair had started out! Mahâl. Bilbo was leaving now.

He felt a sharp tugging on the back of his head, and turned to look. The bird had entwined some of his hair around its talons, making fleeing an impossibility. As Bilbo left the washroom, the feathered felon flew directly above him, causing some of Bilbo's hair to be pulled toward the ceiling.

Okay, he had been wrong. He felt more idiotic now.

Bifur! Bifur was great with animals. He'd just run down to his apartment and see if he had any suggestions. If Bifur couldn't come up with anything to get rid of Thorin's new and eerily silent familiar, then maybe Granite, fine fellow that he was, would eat it. He quickly moved back down the hallway towards the northeastern halls.

"Bilbo Baggins."

Damn.

The hobbit turned and smiled as innocently as possible at Gandalf the Grey. He coolly surveyed Bilbo, eyes narrowing a bit as he examined the raven. Bilbo knew that Gandalf was going to lecture him on the stubbornness of dwarves and hobbits, but what reason could he possibly use? Interfering with the mails? Excessive and distracting personal ornamentation? That's what they had used to ban Kíli's ridiculous headscarves. Did ravens violate the dress code?

"I know this seems strange…" Bilbo said, his voice trailing off. Gandalf's eyes glittered in amusement. Or possibly evilness. A person could never really tell with the guy. The raven settled on a sconce and peered at both of them.

"Bilbo Baggins, the most remarkable facet of this situation is how unsurprising I find it to be," he said. "Explain."

"There's a raven tangled in my hair." Simple. To the point. Elegant, really.

"Explain, not describe, my friend."

"I'm sorry, but the bird's motivation is shrouded in darkness." He opened his eyes as widely as possible, and bit the inside of his cheeks trying not to laugh. This technique always caused Gandalf cognitive dissonance; he could either accuse him of having the brain of a Sackville-Baggins or of being incredibly disrespectful. As those were both pet theories of Gandalf's at times, it probably pained him to have to choose.

Gandalf stared back at Erebor's Consort, blue eyes glittering. "I believe the bird's rationale is clear. It has a letter to deliver. It is your motivations that are somewhat inscrutable. I hypothesize that this is just a frustrated hobbit's rather sophomoric attempt to attract attention. The fact that your clothes appear to be wet is somewhat puzzling, but I will not inquire."

Confusticate him. And bebother Thorin, too.

"You've found me out. I thought it would impress my subjects if I had feathered and furry minions," Bilbo said sunnily, gesturing at the bird. "The hunchback will arrive on Mersday."

"Take the letter, my dear hobbit," Gandalf said with a sigh. "Then your husband's bird may be on its way. I would not want Thorin to use his raven's absence as pretext for a visit." His voice clearly suggested that had been what Bilbo was planning. "We all know how Thorin can be when he's begging for your forgiveness."

With a huff, Bilbo reached up and angrily snatched the letter away. Both beady-eyed, hook-nosed sadists continued to stare at him. Frodo now stood a few feet to Bilbo's left side, gently poking at the raven's talons in an effort to make the bird talk to him. Most of the ravens of Ravenhill were quite fond of Thorin's youngest nephew, likely due to the shiny trinkets and tasty treats that Frodo always carried in his pockets for them.

"Open it," Gandalf ordered. "I think the courier would be reassured if he saw evidence that you actually understood the process."

"Someone's cranky today..."

"Considering I've had to listen to your husband gripe and moan and scowl for four days straight now, I don't think you can really blame an old man for being a bit flustered," said the wizard with a glare. "Thorin Oakenshield truly is insufferable when he doesn't get his own way."

"You have no idea."

Bilbo ripped open the letter. Odd. It was a map of the western shores near the Blue Mountains, a large X resting directly on the Port of Forlond. With a derisive squawk, the bird finally flew away, taking a few strands of Bilbo's hair with it. Off to harass His Royal Gruffness, no doubt. Bilbo turned back to Gandalf with a puzzled glare.

"What is this supposed to mean?"

"That is the route and destination that I was planning to take with the Heart of the Mountain."

A grunt of disgust automatically escaped Bilbo's throat. Just the mere thought of that awful stone being within Erebor was enough to make Bilbo queasy. He could still feel Thorin's hands around his neck, calloused fingers squeezing the very life out of him while Thorin's blue eyes stretched wider and wider with a murderous rage that would forever be seared into the darkest recesses of Bilbo's mind. Stomach knotted with dread, Bilbo automatically reached out for Frodo and drew his young nephew to his side, reveling in the calming scent and warmth that was his most precious jewel.

"What do you mean by take?"

"Your husband and I agreed shortly after your wedding several years ago that the next time I passed through Erebor, I would take the Arkenstone with me and banish it to the darkest depths of the Belegaer," explained the wizard. "It was only within the last few weeks that such an opportunity presented itself. Unfortunately, my dear hobbit, you walked in on the exact moment when Thorin and myself were making the exchange. Your husband was more than happy to be rid of it."

Bilbo groaned in disbelief.

"I would suggest speaking with Thorin as soon as possible," said Gandalf. "He's been downright miserable for days. And Lady Dís suspects that he hasn't taken a bath in just as long, so a certain degree of hast might be necessary at this point."

"By the Valar!" Bilbo charged off towards the throne room, Frodo right behind him. "I am married to the most stubborn, pig-headed, and frustrating dwarf to ever grace the caves of Arda!"

Gandalf just shook his head with a laugh. "I wholeheartedly agree with you, my friend."

"Confounded dwarves!"

Chapter Text

Bombur was the Head Chef to the Royal Household of Erebor and multitasking was a way of life for the youngest Ur brother.

The sound of violent coughing echoed throughout the second-floor hallway of the Ur residence. Soft voices could be heard downstairs as the coughing continued to get louder and louder before slowly tapering off into a whistle-like wheezing as the cougher collapsed in exhaustion. Bombur hobbled into the room moments later, a bowl of fresh water balanced precariously against his right hip while his left hand clutched both a tiny cup and a green bottle. Quickly placing the items on a nearby nightstand, Bombur rushed to his bedridden brother's side and helped him sit up before another bout of coughing could set in again.

"Sorry it took so long," whispered Bombur, gently moving Bofur into an upright position while dampening a cloth in the water, "Gimli kinda spilled the first bowl coming up the stairs."

"S'okay," mumbled Bofur with a tired grin. "You both've always been klutzes. Even before the busted foot."

The expression on Bombur's face lightened a bit as he unfolded the cloth and flopped it none too gently onto Bofur's entire face. "If you weren't so sick, I'd hurt you for that comment." He grabbed the green bottle from the nightstand and poured some of the syrupy brown liquid into the small cup. "But instead of smacking you, I think that the taste of this lovely, chunky goop will do just fine."

Bofur inwardly shivered at the mocking smile his brother was giving him and softly squeaked, "No thanks, I'm good," while trying to suppress another bout of coughs. That cough medicine tasted like lactic acid and he didn't want any more of it going down his poor throat. Maybe if he hid under the covers Bombur would grow a soul and decide to leave him alone.

"We can either do this the easy way or the hard way, nadadugmil." Bombur gave him a patronizing look. "Which do you prefer?"

No such luck nor empathetic soul in sight.

Bofur eyed the little cup with trepidation, wishing more than ever that he had not removed his helmet, no matter how obscured his vision had been. He knew that taking the revolting slime was necessary if he wanted to survive, but that didn't make the experience any more pleasant. Oh well, bottoms up…

"You see," grinned Bombur, gently removing the cup from Bofur's hand once he had downed the syrupy liquid, "That wasn't so bad."

"Says you!" he hacked, his face drawn into a disgusted grimace as he attempted to remove the putrid taste from his mouth, "That stuff's more like rotary acid than any kind of medicine. Ugh, Mahâl…I think it's in my nose!"

"Oh, stop being so melodramatic," he tutted. "Decongestants always taste awful when mixed together with herbs and potions."

"My tongue's burning and you don't even care!"

"It would be rather quiet without your babbling. Not that anyone has the slightest clue what you're talking about most of the time, anyways."

Bofur pouted with a glare and a cough.

"Hmmm," murmured Bombur to himself, reading the ingredients scribbled on the back with a raised eyebrow, "Extract of pine, that's a new one." He looked over the rest and chuckled at the end. "Well, what do you know, it's flammable, too."

Bofur froze at that, staring incredulously at his younger brother before making an unsuccessful lunge for the dark green bottle. "It's what?! And you're giving that stuff to me? Have you lost your mind?"

"Nah," replied Bombur as he gently pushed the distressed miner back into bed before moving to check him for a fever, "Óin said your blood shouldn't react to it, so no sudden explosions or spontaneous combustions for us."

He pressed a hand to Bofur's forehead and then switched over to his own cheek for a more accurate reading, hot beads of sweat a definite sign that Bofur's body was still fighting against the illness.

"Still got a fever, hopefully these new tonics will do the trick."

Bombur ran a tender hand through Bofur's matted hair when he pulled away, not at all happy with the croupy cough that was wreaking through his brother's body. Bofur and his mining crew had seemed fine the first day or so after the mine explosion and subsequent cave-in, but their relatives and friends had all noticed that something was seriously wrong the other night when several miners' small coughs had transformed into painful fits of hacking. Bofur had coughed so hard that the wound in the back of his head had partially reopened, much to the distress of his family members.

They had rushed Bofur to the healers when his hacking refused to subside and his breathing became compromised. Óin and the other healers had diagnosed all of the miners with a moderate case of ash poisoning, an infection of the respiratory tract that was caused by contact with the ash-covered microbes released in a dragon's fiery breath. It was an illness that had plagued the dwarves and men of Dale directly after his attacks on both Erebor and Esgaroth, and it carried a very high death rate if not treated swiftly after the initial onset of hacking fits. The ashen microbes completely covered the inner linings of the airways and would eventually suffocate the victim if not purged from the respiratory system. Hence, the reason why Bofur was coughing blackened phlegm into a separate bowl now.

"The ash must've been trapped down in the mine pockets all these years," Óin had theorized. "And then the uncontrolled explosions must've disturbed and then dispersed it throughout the immediate vicinity."

"Does that mean that the mines are now unusable?" Bilbo had asked.

"Only for the next few weeks." Óin had pulled several nasty-looking tonics out by that point, all of the miners groaning at the sight. "But just to be careful, I'd suggest not using that particular seam for at least the rest of the winter. I've never had to treat patients from indoor ash poisoning before. It could be much deadlier and concentrated than an outdoor desolation like we're used to."

The miners' conditions had rapidly deteriorated after that, and all of Erebor's mining operations had temporarily shutdown on orders of the King. Bilbo had spent the last couple days flitting between Bofur's bedside and the other dwarven families, desperately attempting to soothe their worries while also combing through as many Elvish healing books as he could find in the library's archives. In the end, it had been Ori who'd found the recipe for several concoctions that the Númenóreans and the Noldor elves had once used to treat various forms of ash poisoning.

"Don't try to fight it, nadadugmil," cooed Bombur, gently running his hand up and down his brother's back as the coughing continued to worsen, "Take deep breaths and just let it out. That's it, don't fight it."

Bombur could feel the presence of his cousin, wife, and Consort at the door. The process of removing the ash was an extremely unpleasant and painful experience for any person. Once the violent hacking finally tapered off into pained whimpers, Bombur sent their burglar to get another bowl of water.

"It's okay, nadadugmil," whispered Bombur, holding the trembling miner in his arms and pressing a tender kiss to his forehead, "Just take deep breaths, breathe with me, that's it, deep breaths."

This process continued throughout the rest of the night and well into the next day, the whole Company taking shifts in caring for their ill friend. Bofur was not left alone for more than a few minutes at a time, his raspy wheezing keeping his friends and family on edge all throughout the purging procedure. They had to make sure he kept spitting up phlegm after each treatment or it would build up in his lungs, which could lead to pneumonia on top of the ash poisoning. And that was something they did not want happening.

"How're you feeling?" Bombur asked on the eighth day. He pressed a hand to Bofur's forehead, smiling wide at what he felt. "I think the fever's broken."

"Better." Very little wheezing tainted Bofur's voice. "Breathing's easier now. Not as painful."

"Think you can keep some food down now?"

"Worth a shot."

Bilbo appeared not five seconds later with Hania at his back, both of them carrying small trays that were laden with soft biscuits, a weak vegetable soup, and two cups of a sweet lemon tea that Aunt Dhola swore by for all illnesses. Little Billa could be heard just down the hall, her happy babbles a balm to everyone's nerves. Gimli had offered to take care of her for the day, which had resulted in the tween's ample hair being braided into dozens of Longbeard twists.

"How's the babe?"

After placing the tray on a nearby table, Hania gently patted her swollen belly. "Kicking up a storm and playing pole-ball with my bladder. I think it'll be time in just a few more days now."

"You better tell her to stay in there for at least a week then," said Bofur around a cough. "Uncle Bofur doesn't want to be stuck in this room when his newest niece says hello to the world."

Bilbo chuckled. "Predicting another girl?"

"Damn straight," said Bofur, his brow furrowing when Bombur tried to spoon-feed him the soup. "She'll be a tough lil' lass, too. Uncles know these things. Intuition."

"Well, then it seems that my intuition is downright awful," said Bilbo. "I'm never quite sure what those three rascals of mine will be getting themselves into next. Did you hear about what Kíli did the other day?"

Bofur shook his head.

"He decided to see how many targets he could hit while slipping down the frozen battlements." Bilbo shook his head in disbelief. "Unfortunately, he forgot about the statues that call that portion of the battlements home. Ran straight into one, face first. Óin had to reset his nose."

"That boy never learns."

Bilbo chuckled fondly. "Only what he wants to. Drives Thorin and Dís absolutely bonkers."

They continued to talk for several more minutes, slowly feeding Bofur the small meal that they'd made for him. Gimli had brought three-year-old Billa up to visit her sick uncle halfway through the meal, her cheerful giggles and slobbery kisses doing more to brighten Bofur's day than anything else. A few more days passed after that, and most of the miners slowly recovered, although it would be many weeks before any of them were physically ready to return to work. Three dwarves were lost to the poisoning, their families and all of Erebor mourning the damage that Smaug still caused twelve years after his defeat.

But there was some good news...

"I hear crying," groaned Bofur from his sickbed. "That was definitely crying. I'm not staying in this damned bed a moment longer."

Glóin pushed him back down. "Don't you dare get up, laddie. The last thing we need is for you to get another coughing fit again. Your brother might sit on me this time as punishment."

"I don't care. I wanna see my—"

And then the bedroom door opened, Bombur's formidable bulk standing in the darkened hallway. A small bundle was cradled in his arms, the distinct sound of whines and whimpers coming from the newborn babe. Glóin clapped Bofur on the shoulder and the two friends shared a wide smile at the Company's newest addition. A tuft of dark hair could be seen peeking out of the blankets.

"There's my little Bilba."

Chapter Text

Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain and direct descendent of Durin the Deathless himself, was the most handsome dwarf in all of Middle-Earth.

Or, at least, this was what his husband thought. And considering the view he'd had for the past few hours, Bilbo was pretty confident that his opinion was all that mattered on that particular subject. The Yule celebrations always brought out a softer side to his husband, and Bilbo always made sure to take full advantage of Thorin's attentive moods and increased libido. Bilbo giggled quietly to himself, eyes moving across the room to watch the door that his husband had disappeared through five minutes earlier. They had been in the middle of their second round of lovemaking when a loud thump had sounded on the adjoining door between their primary bedchambers and Frodo's rooms. Despite being more than a little grumbly about the interruption, Thorin had wasted no time in throwing a towel around his waist and checking on their youngest nephew.

"What's wrong, mizimith?"

Frodo had whimpered a quiet, "I think I burned my fingers on the fireplace. They really hurt. And feel kinda melty."

"Well, then how about we take a closer look at them?"

Bilbo could still hear the two talking through the open doorway, his husband soothing Frodo's protests about Óin's salves being icky and always sticking to the bed sheets like a Brandywine leech. For hobbits in the Shire, there was nothing more attractive in a potential spouse than their ability to care for and love their children. Thorin was never more attractive in Bilbo's eyes than when he was being loving and paternal to their three nephews and the other children in their life. Be it combing Kíli's wild mess of hair, reading a dwarven bedtime story to Frodo, or bumping foreheads with Fíli before a particularly long day of Open Court, Bilbo absolutely adored Thorin when he was showing affection to their precious boys. And Thorin was never sweeter than when he was trying to help Dís with her daily chores or braid his little sister's hair into a favored style that only Drís had done in their childhood.

"Are his fingers alright?"

"Just slight burns along the tips and along the meat of his left palm," said Thorin as he returned and closed the connecting door. "I've warned Frodo a dozen times not to play with that poker, but I think he's finally learned his lesson now."

"Should I call on Óin?"

"There's no need to wake him at this late hour. I've already applied some of the salve that Óin sneaks into my desk drawers. The pain tonic should help him sleep, too," assured Thorin. He removed the towel from around his waist and returned both bottles to their rightful places in his office. "I swear, those three boys are going to be the death of me one of these days. It's almost like trouble's attracted to them."

Bilbo snickered. "I have no doubts about who they get that from, âzyungel."

A quiet rustling sound came from Thorin's office, which Bilbo could just barely see through a side doorway. He openly ogled his husband's inked back and buttocks, dark eyes admiring the intricate black designs that twisted all around Thorin's upper arms, thighs, torso, and nether regions. Most of them were Khuzdul runes that spoke of the Dwarf-King's victories in battle and the reclamation of his homeland, but the ones along his spine and nether regions were special. The former represented his family members and closest friends while the latter were a permanent, visual tribute to Thorin's chosen mate. And despite the hobbit's personal aversion to inkings on his own body, Bilbo would never tire of looking at the ones that decorated his husband's granite-like physique.

"I can feel your eyes, umzam."

Dwarves tended to be much more accepting of nudity than hobbits, and Thorin was no exception to this rule. The Dwarf-King was confident in his own skin and never failed to use that confidence in the seduction of his shyer husband. Where Bilbo was soft and plump, Thorin was hard and muscular; where Bilbo was hairless and pale-skinned, Thorin was extra-hairy and covered in scars or callouses. Aside from their general shortness compared to other races, dwarves and hobbits could not have been more different when it came to physical appearance. Even their bodily needs were vastly different, with hobbits eating an average of seven meals a day compared to the dwarven two or three, an issue that had come up several times on the journey to Erebor.

As all had learned very quickly, it was much easier for a hobbit to starve to death than a dwarf. There was a good reason why hobbits were so devoted to farming and rarely left the Shire, as Bilbo's protruding ribs and sunken cheekbones had clearly shown to anyone with eyes and a lick of sense. Two meals a day was simply not enough to keep a hobbit sustained or remotely healthy; a fact that the Company had learned the hard way.

"My eyes like what they see," Bilbo sassed back. "And you can't blame them for being drawn to certain areas. Some things are hard to overlook, my King."

And by Yavanna, was Thorin ever hard to overlook in the equipment department. Not only did dwarves like their inkings, but they also highly favored genital piercings among their warrior populations. It had apparently been a prerequisite for marriage in the past and was still considered highly desirable even in the modern era. Bilbo had been quite shocked to see such strange piercings on the journey to Erebor, the Company's river bathing sessions leaving nothing to the imagination. Dwalin, Balin, Glóin, and Thorin had done nothing to cover theirs up and Bilbo had cringed at the thought of how painful such a procedure must've been for them.

"It's nice to know that hobbits can appreciate some of the finer aspects of dwarven culture."

"And here I thought I'd been appropriately vocal in my approval over the last twelve years," said Bilbo with a pout. "After all, âzyungel, you must have endured quite a bit of pain to enhance my pleasure."

"Six months of pissing into a cup was well worth it."

Bilbo giggled at this. He was always amused by how tough the warrior dwarves tried to act in regards to their piercings and inkings, all of which were extremely painful and tedious to receive from what Bilbo had witnessed in recent years. He really wasn't looking forward to Fíli and Kíli undergoing the process in the next few decades. However, Bilbo was never going to complain about Thorin's performance thanks to that neat lil' barbell down there.

"Oh, it was worth it," said Bilbo with a smirk.

The hobbit reached out and ran his fingertips over Thorin's thick girth, purposely teasing the straight barbell that passed through the dwarf's sensitive glans. Thorin moaned in pleasure, quickly crawling onto the massive bed and covering Bilbo with his larger form, calloused hands gripping the hobbit's ample hips so they could grind and thrust and kiss each other without any barriers. Both of them were panting and breathless within less than a minute, their bodies moving in a natural rhythm that had been cultivated over many years of lovemaking and marriage.

"Start where we left off?"

Bilbo curled his fingers in Thorin's long mane of hair, keeping him in place, and Thorin ran a large hand down his husband's spine, over his ass, and squeezed the hobbit-y plumpness that he had become so enamored with over the years. Bilbo stuttered, mouth opening in a gasp, and Thorin took full advantage, tongue tangling with Bilbo's as they continued to grind against each other. And then...

"By Mahâl, I think you get hairier every time we do this," gasped the hobbit. "It's like a forest down there. And back here."

"I thought you liked my hairiness," said Thorin as he mouthed and sucked at Bilbo's left ear. "Said it was manly and very appealing to a smooth bum. Like this one..."

"Ouch! Stop that, you silly dwarf!"

Thorin continued to pinch at his husband's plump bum and belly, enjoying the smacks and giggles and indignant hair-pulls that Bilbo kept bestowing upon his person. After so many years of marriage, playful romps and teasing frisks had become as common as passionate lovemaking in their sex life. Sometimes, the goofing around and play fighting and wrestling was more fun than the act itself.

"How can I stop when there's so much to play with?" Thorin rumbled, thick fingers poking at Bilbo's ribs and soft belly. "Those honey cakes have been making you even more sweet than before, sanghivasha."

Bilbo pulled at his husband's hair. "When did you become so corny?"

"The moment I married you, melekûn."

"Oh, so I'm to blame?" He flicked at Thorin's hook-like nose, but the dwarf was too preoccupied with Bilbo's hairless belly and hips to care. "Well, I think you were just hiding your corniness before—"

And there was no more talking after that, both Ereborian royals far too engrossed in their sexual escapades to care about anything outside their little bubble of blankets and sweaty warmth. Bilbo woke the next morning with a groan of satisfaction, his bum throbbing with a pleasant ache that he'd never grow tired of. A few quiet barks could be heard through the far wall, a clear sign that Frodo and the deerhounds were already awake and getting ready for first breakfast. With a giant yawn, Bilbo reached down and pulled the blankets more snugly around Thorin and himself.

It wouldn't due to have Frodo walk in on them buck naked again. That had been terribly embarrassing.

"My bum aches," Bilbo whispered. "And it's all your fault."

"I didn't hear you complaining last night," said Thorin with a lecherous smirk. "And if I recall correctly, I do believe you were begging for it."

"Kíli better not have stolen my cushion again."

Thorin just grunted in agreement, strong arms wrapping around Bilbo and depositing the small hobbit atop his chest. Perfectly content to use his husband as an extra-furry pillow, Bilbo stretched languidly and allowed himself to doze for another hour or so. Large piles of snow could be seen through the balcony windows, the winter wind howling against the Lonely Mountain's slopes. However, despite the frigid air outside, Bilbo was nice and toasty with Erebor's powerful fireplaces and Thorin's body heat to warm him.

"The boys are awake," mumbled Thorin an hour later.

"I don't care."

"You will when they charge in here."

"They know better."

"No, they really don't," sighed the King in defeat. "We should've trained them better. I blame myself."

"They're not dogs, Thorin."

"Kíli certainly looks like one sometimes. And Fíli looks like a cat."

Bilbo snuffled into Thorin's ridiculously ample chest hair. "And you look like a bear. How do you dwarves even manage to keep all of it so clean and braided? I don't think there's an inch of you that isn't covered in it."

"My nose."

"Nuh uh, there's hair inside of it. Doesn't count."

"Picky hobbit."

"I think I just heard the door open. Or am I imagining things again?"

"Nope."

Bilbo opened his eyes and came face-to-face with his youngest nephew, who was standing at the foot of their bed with a biscuit in his hand. Big blue eyes stared impassively at both of them. Frodo had long since grown accustomed to his uncles laying in bed together like this, their bodies as naked as the day they were born. So long as they pulled the covers up over themselves sometime in the night, then Frodo really didn't care and had no qualms about letting himself in after sunrise.

"My hand hurts."

"Come up here and let me see it," rumbled Thorin around a yawn.

Frodo climbed right into bed with them and held out his injured hand for inspection. The Dwarf-King drew the reddened appendage closer for a good look, dark eyes carefully assessing the damage as he turned Frodo's hand and fingers from side to side. After several seconds, he finally announced that they'd be paying Óin and the infirmary a visit first thing this morning.

"My life would've been so much easier if I'd had nieces instead of boys," groaned Thorin as he rolled Bilbo to the side and then stood up from the bed himself. "Well, c'mon, let's get you checked out, mizimith."

"It's not that bad," groused the little hobbit. "Just kinda red and melty..."

"Listen to your uncle, Frodo."

The faunt just grumbled in reply before disappearing into his rooms to get whatever he needed for the day. Meanwhile, Bilbo watched his husband struggle to get into a pair of pants and a simple tunic, which Bilbo had always thought was a particularly dashing ensemble on his ruggedly handsome lover. Thorin was muttering to himself the whole time about naïve faunts and dwarflings and the unpleasant predicaments they always managed to land themselves in. It was an endearing sight if Bilbo had ever seen one.

"Thorin?"

"Why won't this stupid thing just...what?"

"I love you."

The Dwarf-King stopped fighting with his boots for a second and turned to look at his lounging husband. Bilbo was smiling at Thorin with a look of complete adoration in his eyes, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the marriage bead that rested behind his left ear. At that moment, Bilbo Baggins was the most beautiful being that Thorin had ever laid eyes on, and he wasn't afraid to admit it, either.

"And I you, âzyungel."

The pair smiled at each other, both of them content to just bask in the other's presence after a long night of lovemaking and a new day of minding their mountain together. And then they heard another crash and yelp from Frodo's rooms. Thorin ran a hand over his face in exasperation.

"I hate growth spurts."