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Chapter Text

Green Magic

Part One

Getting to Ravenhill from Dale in the middle of a bloody and ferocious battle had been really fucking difficult.

If he were being honest, Bilbo was not sure if his magic ring had been more of a help or a hinderance in his self-appointed mission to save the sons of Durin from their own heroic stupidity. Apparently, invisibility had its drawbacks when one was trying to weave through swinging axes and whizzing arrows and more Orcs than he could count. He had eventually made it – by Yavanna’s Grace or sheer luck, he knew not – and for a full thirty seconds Bilbo had been utterly relieved; relieved to see Thorin unharmed and free of the gold madness that had threatened to destroy the Dwarf King’s mind.

And then Bilbo had realized who was missing.

“Where are the boys?” Bilbo demanded, the fear that had fueled his anxious race to reach the ruined fortress returning in full force. “Why aren’t Fíli and Kíli with you?”

“I sent them to scout the towers while Dwalin and I dealt with the Goblins,” Thorin replied, gesturing to the fallen bodies around them.

“We need to get them and get the hell out of here right now,” Bilbo urged. “This is a trap, Thorin. Azog has another army approaching from the north. We’ll be surrounded; there’ll be no way out if we don’t retreat now.”

“We’re so close,” Dwalin protested, “That Orc scum is in there. I say we push on.”

“No,” Thorin decided, and Bilbo would have kissed him right then for having the sense to do so if the situation had been even slightly less volatile, “That’s what he wants. He wants to draw us in. Find Fíli and Kíli, call them back.”

“Are you sure about this, Thorin?” Dwalin asked. “We may never get another chance to take our vengeance on him.”

“Do it,” Thorin instructed, “We’ll live to fight another day.”

The ominous sound of drums being pounded filled the air then, successfully diverting the trio’s attention to the top of the tallest of the half-crumbled towers, and Bilbo’s heart stopped.

Azog stood proudly on the edge, his good hand wound in Fíli’s golden hair and his sword at the Prince’s throat. Fíli’s blue eyes were wide with fear and soul-shattering resignation – it was obvious that he fully believed he was going to die.

“This one dies first,” Azog growled in Blackspeech, directing a self-satisfied smirk Thorin’s way, “Then the brother. Then you, Oakenshield. You will die last.”

“No,” the word was barely more than a breath as it escaped Bilbo’s lips.

Something had begun to stir deep down in Bilbo’s core, something powerful that he had no name for.

“Go!” Fíli begged, voice steady despite the threat to his life.

And then that strange something sprouted, green and vibrant and all but feral.

“No!” Bilbo stretched out his hands instinctively as a magic long slumbering began to race through his veins and everything save his desperate desire to save the ones he loved fell away.

Giant, thorny vines burst out of the ground around the tower and pierced through the structure, like a knife cutting butter. Ancient Dwarven masonry began to crumble to dust, crushed by the unyielding strength of nature’s grasp, and dozens upon dozens of Orcs began to screech in pain as hundreds of abnormally large thorns ripped through their bodies without mercy.

By that point, Bilbo was rather beyond any semblance of mercy.

Azog stumbled and lost his grip on Fíli as he slashed his sword-arm at the vines nearest to him, and that was all the opening Bilbo needed. A new form of creeping plant, blueish green with huge silky leaves, wrapped itself around the Dwarven Prince’s person and pulled Fíli away from the Pale Orc, across the frozen river, and over to his family. Fíli was deposited safely on the ground by Thorin and Bilbo shot toward them like an arrow, kneeling in the snow.

“Are you hurt?” Bilbo questioned in a voice that was richer than was normal for him, his magic pulsing over Fíli in waves that he did not know how to control.

“You’re glowing,” was what Fíli said in response, blinking at Bilbo rapidly.

“Where’s Kíli?” Bilbo asked next, focus already shifting as his magic told him that Fíli was physically unharmed.

“Do you realize that you are glowing?” Fíli demanded, “Glowing green and gold, as a point of fact.”

“Focus, Little Lion,” Bilbo returned. “Where is your brother? He’s not safe yet.”

“I… I sent him to the lower levels,” Fíli managed to say, swallowed hard and then continued, “I realized it was a trap, but he didn’t. I had to protect him, I had to.”

Of course, he’d had to. Fíli would do anything for Kíli’s sake, up to and including defying his king. He would have gladly given his life to spare his little brother’s, Bilbo knew. It was a fierce sort of pride that filled Bilbo then, nothing like the gentle delight that Thorin’s nephews – and they were Bilbo’s nephews too, there was no denying it – normally had him feeling.

“I’ll be right back,” Bilbo announced, standing.

Fíli would be safe with Thorin and Dwalin at his side, but Kíli was still on the wrong side of the Celduin and Bilbo had to reach him before anything else had the opportunity to do so.

Ignoring how Thorin screamed his name, though doing so sent pangs straight to his heart, Bilbo called forth more of the blue-green vines to carry him over the river. The, admittedly very small, part of his mind not consumed with righteous purpose noted how the ice transformed as he, and the light within him, passed over it. The air was steadily growing warmer and sweeter and, here and there, flowers and grass were beginning to escape from what had, only minutes before, been frost-coated earth.

At least to Ravenhill, spring had come… and it was wrathful.

The lower levels of the fortress had not been affected by his thorns and so Bilbo was able to race through them with ease, allowing instinct to guide his feet. The few Orcs that dared to get in his way were cut down easily enough – his vines trapped their limbs and then poisonous Belladonna forced down their throats, with barely more than a thought on Bilbo’s part, ended them. Not pleasant deaths, by any stretch of imagination, but Bilbo Baggins was done being pleasant about the mess his family was embroiled in. He was past honor and reason, and he was going to slaughter every creature that dared to pose a threat to him and his, no matter who or what they were.

He would save his Dwarrow, no matter the cost.

“Kíli!” Bilbo recognized Tauriel’s voice… and also that she sounded devastated.

With an extra burst of speed, Bilbo exited the lower levels, into what might have once been some kind of courtyard, and found Kíli on his back, barely keeping Bolg’s knife from piercing his throat with the broken remnants of his much-loved bow. Tauriel was on the ground, bleeding heavily from what looked like a wound in her gut, but still fighting desperately to get to her One.

A blast of magic shot out of Bilbo’s hands and engulfed all three of them. Bolg screamed at the sensation, lurching backward and away from his would-be prey, while Kíli and Tauriel found their feet almost immediately, all their wounds, great and small, healed in an instant. Bilbo quickly and efficiently placed himself between Bolg and the others, earning a frustrated snarl from the Orc.

“You will never touch them again,” Bilbo swore.

“The line of Durin will end this day,” Bolg growled out, “My father and I will cut them down.”

“Durinul ufrukh ma ghurûl karakiki,” Bilbo returned, with far more ferocity, barely registering Kíli’s sharp intake of breath at the statement.

Above their heads, the bats that were blocking the sun and protecting the ravaging Orcs began to squeal in acute distress and then they started dropping, one by one and then in clusters, from the sky. The Great Eagles of Manwë Súlimo had answered Gandalf’s request for aid.

A single beam of sunlight made it through the winged coverage and Bilbo took it into his hands, fashioning it into a spear even as he darted into Bolg’s reach. Before the Orc had time to realize the danger he was in, Bilbo had thrust the weapon of light straight through his neck, burning through muscle and tendons. Bolg’s head tumbled to the ground and his body collapsed in a heap – there was no blood, which Bilbo found strangely disappointing – even as the spear shattered into thousands of golden sparkles that floated every which way.

“Idadith?” Kíli’s voice calmed Bilbo’s wildness ever so slightly.

Bilbo turned in time to catch Kíli in his arms as the Dwarf lunged into a tight hug, not stumbling back under Kee’s weight for the first time, “Little Raven.”

“How… how did you…” Kíli could not seem to figure out exactly what he wanted to ask, “How?”

Bilbo pulled away just enough to look at him, “This Battle isn’t over yet, Kíli. We’ve got to get back to your uncle and brother and Dwalin. Azog is still alive and we need to remedy that.”

Kíli nodded and did not protest when Bilbo ended their hug, though he did have something to say when Bilbo picked up Bolg’s head, “What are you doing with that?”

“I want Azog to see what I did to his spawn before he dies.”

“Because he tried to kill Fee?”

“Yes,” Bilbo confirmed with a shred of guilt.

“Good,” Kíli accepted the sword that Tauriel offered to him and twirled it a bit to test it, “Let’s go hunt some Orc.”

“I can hear your brother,” Tauriel revealed, placing a hand on Kíli’s shoulder as if to reassure herself that he was alright, “East of where we are now; that passage should get us to him quickest.”

They went where she directed them, the passage eventually leading them back to the now-flowing river, and found Fíli and Dwalin fighting back to back, skillfully fending off a pack of riderless Wargs. Judging by the fresh bodies scattered in the mud around them, the beasts had not been riderless for very long.

“We’ve got this, it’s barely more than a skirmish,” Dwalin told Bilbo, as Tauriel leapt directly onto the back of one of the Wargs and drove her sword through its head, “Thorin’s battlin’ Azog by himself again. They were headed toward that last tower.”

Thorin was apparently incapable of making more than a single good decision in a day.

“That idiot,” Bilbo replied, leaving them to it and turning toward the remaining tower at once.

As he reached the base of it, Bilbo drew the much-cherished acorn from his right pocket and cast it down. Where it landed, it burrowed all on its own, taking root deep down, and then branches sprung forth from the earth beneath Bilbo’s feet and lifted him up. It rose higher and higher, stretching out until it was at least ten feet wide at the trunk alone and seventy feet high. Within a minute, Bilbo was standing in a fully grown golden oak tree that he knew would live to see many Ages yet to come.

Thorin and Azog were fighting so viciously when Bilbo reached the top of the tower and stepped from branch to stone that they, neither of them, noticed his presence at first. Bilbo had no intention of taking this kill away from Thorin – Bilbo suspected that his Dwarf rather needed it – but he was not above turning the odds against the Orc. With that in mind, Bilbo summoned a single vine and used it to whip Azog across the back, which resulted in the Orc briefly faltering in step and half turning toward him.

“I have something of yours, Azog,” Bilbo called out, voice utterly devoid of warmth, “I thought you might want it back.”

Bilbo tossed Bolg’s head in between Thorin and Azog, causing the both of them to freeze in different kinds of shock. Azog recognized it at once, of course, and the vengeful roar he unleashed at the sight of it would have frightened Bilbo terribly if he had been the same Hobbit who had dashed, unprepared, out of Bag End all those months ago. But Bilbo was decidedly not that Hobbit anymore and all Azog got was an eyebrow raised in challenge.

Azog spun to face Bilbo completely and began to charge at him, features twisted with hate and rage. He made it less than two steps forward before he halted in his tracks and Bilbo saw the tip of Orcrist sticking out of his already mutilated chest. Azog’s expression morphed from anger to agony and he unwillingly sank to his knees, giving Thorin the leverage to slice his sword in a devastating upward motion that split the Pale Orc’s top half cleanly in two – Bilbo was not sure if it was forethought or luck that Thorin had thrust Orcrist into Azog blade side up, but the result was the same.

The Defiler was dead before his body had finished crumpling at Thorin’s feet and finally the fire in Bilbo’s blood began to settle into something less like an inferno. The boys were safe, his One was safe, their family was safe, and the tides of battle had been irrevocably turned in the favor of the free peoples of Arda. Thorin was staring at him with so much wonder and love that Bilbo felt as if his heart and soul would begin singing in joy.

Everything was going to be alright.

“Do you really think so?” a voice echoed in Bilbo’s head, “You poor, naïve fool.”

Bilbo spun around, trying to figure out where that intrusion was coming from, unwittingly casting a shield of magic that stopped Thorin from coming close.

“Bilbo?” Thorin questioned, “Why… I’m not going to hurt you, Ghivashel, I swear.”

“Your magic isn’t going to help you, little Halfling,” the voice proclaimed, almost amused, “I’m much too close for that.”

“What are you?” Bilbo demanded.

“I… I’m Thorin,” the Dwarf King spoke, terribly confused.

“We’ve been together for months and months and have had so much fun together, little Halfling. I’m hurt that you don’t recognize me.”

“Stop prevaricating,” Bilbo snapped, “Tell me.”

“I thought you liked riddles.”

“What are you?” Bilbo repeated, quickly losing what was left of his patience.

“Are you speaking to someone else?” Thorin asked, looking around in bewilderment.

“Oh, very well. I’m the something in your pocket.”

Bilbo felt his eyes widen and he quickly thrust his hand into his left pocket and pulled out the band of gold inside it. Bilbo had never known anything so foul as the ring resting in his palm; malice and black magic and unadulterated evil were all but dripping off of it. How he had not noticed its malevolence before that moment seemed like an inconceivable thing.

“There we are,” the Ring said, “So nice to meet you properly.”

“Your magic ring?” Thorin spoke, “You’re talking to your… drop it! Bilbo, drop it right now!”

That sounded like an excellent idea, actually. Bilbo was going to have to revise his estimation of Thorin’s capabilities in that arena.

“I wouldn’t listen to him,” the Ring announced, “Not unless you wish to ensure a most painful and torturous death for him.”

“You can’t hurt him,” Bilbo looked directly at Thorin, voice not nearly as steady as it had been when confronting Azog, “You’re just a bit of gold.”

“Perhaps, but my Master sees all and the punishment he will mete out for defying his will is sure to be brutal. Would you like to see your precious Dwarves flayed alive, raped and defiled, forced to choke down each other’s flesh? They would beg for death long before my Master would give it to them and you, little Halfling, would be made to watch every single moment of their torment.”

Images flashed through Bilbo’s head, images that made him want to vomit and weep and scream all at once.

“No!” Bilbo choked out.

“Bilbo, Ghivashel,” Thorin pleaded, “Drop it! Please, please drop it, I beg you. Whatever it’s saying, whatever it’s showing you, none of it is real. Please, drop the Ring!”

“I can’t,” Bilbo told him.

“Of course not,” the Ring made a mockery of a soothing tone, “You love your Dwarves so much, little Halfling. Everything you have done, you have done for them, because you love them so much. Take me to my Master and they shall live, shall thrive, even. Their long and prosperous lives shall be your reward.”

A tear slipped down Bilbo’s cheek, “Sauron is your Master. You want me to go to Mordor.”

“No!” Thorin yelled, pressing against the shield, “Bilbo don’t!”

“Yes, clever little Halfling.” The Ring agreed, “Now, just slip me on your finger and I’ll show you how to call forth your wings into this plane. We’ll ride the winds to Barad-dûr and then everything will be alright.”

“You’re all going to be okay,” Bilbo murmured to Thorin, “I love you.”

Thorin started pounding his fists against the shield, “Bilbo, please no! Don’t do this! Please drop it, please!”

There were many things that the people of Arda had forgotten, if they had ever known them to begin with, about Yavanna. She was the Green Lady, merciful and kind, and the Giver of Fruits, to be sure, but she was also the inventor of a hundred deadly and terrible poisons. As the Queen of the Earth, her magic was unyielding – no matter how patient she had to be about it, no matter how befouled a portion of her earth became because of dark things, the land she had created would heal and flourish once more in the light; no one ever really won a battle against her. She loved with every fiber of her being and was willing to do anything for those whom she loved.

Yavanna Kementári was a warrior and she had grown all of her children to be, at their roots, champions of light and life.

Sauron might have been the lord of all the foul things that infected Arda, but Bilbo had the Mother’s Grace to guide him. With his deep magic unrooted and swirling around, wild and pure, inside of him, Bilbo would put an end to the greatest threat to Arda’s flourishing that had ever existed – even if it cost him his life, even if doing so unmade him. The ones he loved would live in the light.

The sun was already starting to set, but that did not stop Bilbo from stretching the Ring out toward it and unleashing his magic to call all the light and heat that radiated from the last fruit of Laurelin to them both. A funnel of enormous power began to take shape, throwing everything else temporarily into shadow, and ended on Bilbo’s palm.

“What are you doing, you fool?” the Ring hissed, “No! Your Dwarves shall pay dearly for this!”

“No. My family is going to rebuild the home that was stolen from them, that we stole back. They are going to be safe from the dark for the rest of their days. They are going to thrive,” Bilbo determined, voice stronger and deeper than it ever had been.

“This will destroy you too! No Greenling has ever been able to handle this much power,” the Ring shouted at him.

“Almost certainly,” Bilbo agreed.

A horrible shrieking began to reverberate inside Bilbo’s skull as the full force of the sun struck them and Bilbo saw an eye of fire far in the distance tremble. It was too much power, far too much, and how Bilbo bore it he could not say, but he did. By the time the Ring began to melt, Bilbo was screaming as well. A dark tower began to fall and the land around it collapsed in on itself, swallowing legions of Orcs whole. The Ring became first a perfect circle of molten gold in Bilbo’s hand and then it evaporated into nothing, vanishing forevermore.

Only when Bilbo was certain that it was gone did he release the sun and rein his own magic back in.

He was, decidedly, not dead or unmade, much to his surprise, but he was also not well. He felt a bit like he had when he had consumed far too many sweets as a Fauntling – only the feeling was much, much worse than it had been back in those halcyon days. Bilbo swayed on his feet and was steadied by Thorin pulling him close; belatedly, he realized that his shield had come down when he pulled his magic back.

“Ghivashel,” Thorin brushed Bilbo’s hair away from his eyes, looking as frightened as Bilbo had ever seen him.

“It’s gone,” Bilbo assured him, “He can’t hurt you or the others. You’re all safe, Khaeluh.”

And then, for the second time in his adult life, Bilbo fainted.

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Translations (Khuzdûl)

• Durinul ufrukh ma ghurûl karakiki [The line of Durin will not be so easily broken.]
• Idadith [Little Uncle]
• Ghivashel [Beloved]
• Khaeluh [My Great Wolf]

Chapter Text

Green Magic

Part Two

Every inch of his body ached and, quite frankly, Bilbo would have vastly preferred to sink back into oblivion until it stopped, but Thorin’s voice, beloved as it was to him, simply could not have been ignored.

Thorin was singing, the deep timbres of his voice weaving an ancient and enchanting tale of love and hope and magic. A steady hand was carding through Bilbo’s curls, moving in time with the weighty melody. It took a few minutes for Bilbo to force his eyes open, regardless, but the sight that greeted him – namely, his darling Dwarf gazing down at him with such tender affection that the pain seemed to dull even as Bilbo’s heart swelled – made the effort well worth it.

“Thorin,” Bilbo murmured, reaching up to stroke Thorin’s face.

“Bilbo,” Thorin caught Bilbo’s hand in his own larger one and brought it to his lips, his eyes briefly shuttering in nothing less than absolute relief, “Thank Mahal.”

Bilbo watched Thorin gather himself a bit before speaking, “Are you alright? You look exhausted, dear heart.”

“My One tried to tell me goodbye, possibly forever, and then collapsed, near lifeless, in front of me,” Thorin said roughly, “I did not take it well.”

Bilbo flinched at that, “I’m sorry, but… I had to destroy the Ring, Thorin, then and there. If I’d waited even a few more minutes, it would have found purchase in my mind. I could feel it trying to turn me, growing stronger every moment it got to soak in my magic… I never wanted to believe that something so horrible could even exist until I held the Ring in my palm.”

“You had that terrible thing for months, since we escaped the Goblin tunnels,” Thorin said mournfully, “I knew about it for nearly as long and it never once crossed my mind to be concerned. I thought it no more than a helpful little trinket. I, who knew about the Rings of Power, who saw one on my grandfather’s hand every day until his death and then on my father’s after, I thought it was nothing.”

“The Dark Lord designed it to be innocuous, to seem harmless to whomever picked it up,” Bilbo remarked. “It was, hmm, hibernating is the term, I suppose, when I found it. When I took it from Gollum. Aware enough to abandon its previous owner, yes, but not truly awake. It probably would have slept for some time yet if I… if I had not woken it with my magic. Even if you had worn the One yourself, Thorin, you very likely would not have recognized it.”

“That’s surely for the best, I can only imagine what I might have done if I’d had…” Thorin trailed off, grimacing. Bilbo could imagine very well what it was the King feared he might have done. When Thorin spoke again, his voice sounded almost defeated, “I’ve nearly lost you so many times now and I only have myself to blame.”

“None of that,” Bilbo urged gently, “I’m alright, Thorin, and I will be perfectly well again soon enough. I’m here if…if you still want me to be.”

“If I still want you,” Thorin echoed in disbelief, “Bilbo, I would have you never leave my side again. The apologies I owe you are innumerable, I know, but I beg of you, Ghivashel, give me the time to make them. Please stay, here, in Erebor. Be my husband and my consort.”

“Of course, I will,” Bilbo promised, “I love you so very much, darling.”

Thorin’s lips were warm and soft on Bilbo’s and for a few moments he felt utterly weightless, as if he were floating. If it were at all practical, Bilbo would have spent all of eternity kissing Thorin Oakenshield and being held close to him – treasured in the most soulful of ways.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin said eventually, “So sorry. The Arkenstone… it is nothing compared to you, Bilbo, and I am so sorry for ever making you think otherwise. It will never see the light of day again.”

“I forgive you,” Bilbo replied easily. “Your voice is beautiful, you know. I think I could listen to you sing for the rest of our lives and never tire of hearing it.”

Thorin flushed ever so slightly, “I think I would run out of songs before too long, Khajmel.”

“I don’t mind if you repeat them. Especially the one you were just singing, about Durin and his Queen,” Bilbo told him. “It was wonderful.”

“You understood it?” Thorin raised an eyebrow at him, “The song?”

“Well, yes.” Bilbo began to struggle into a sitting position and was gratified when Thorin immediately moved to assist him, arranging his own body so that Bilbo could lean against the left side of his sturdy chest, where Bilbo could feel Thorin’s heart beating steadily. “Should I not have?”

“It was in Khuzdûl,” Thorin related in a mild tone.

Bilbo froze, “Oh… I… I think I spoke it during the Battle too.”

“Kíli mentioned it to me,” Thorin did not sound upset, so that was something, at least. Dwarrow were fiercely protective of their sacred language and what little Bilbo had been permitted to learn during the Quest had been hard-earned. “Durinul ufrukh ma ghurûl karakiki.”

“The line of Durin will not be so easily broken,” Bilbo whispered. “I was disappointed when I killed Bolg, disappointed that the method I chose was bloodless. I wanted to revel in it… I hate blood. It smells and it’s impossible to get out of clothes once it’s on them and-” Bilbo cut himself off as Thorin pressed a calming kiss to his forehead. Bilbo took a deep breath, “I think I know Khuzdûl for the same reason that I knew how to, well, how to do everything I did.”

“Are we going to discuss the glowing thing?” Fíli asked, prompting Bilbo to look away from Thorin for the first time since waking. Both of their nephews were hovering in a nearby doorway, “Because I think we should definitely discuss the glowing thing as soon as possible and at length, Idadith.”

“Fee’s been a bit obsessively stuck on the glowing for days,” Kíli supplied helpfully, bounding over to the bed and tucking himself into Bilbo’s free side.

“It’s not as if he normally glows,” Fíli huffed, flopping down onto the bed as well. “He’s not glowing now.”

“Are you both alright?” Bilbo questioned, touching both of their faces in turn to reassure himself that they were really and truly there, whole and hale. “Is everyone else alright?”

“We’re fine,” Kíli assured him, “Everybody else is too. They should be checking in on you again before long, but they had to see to the migrating of everyone into the Mountain before the winter storms arrive.”

“What do you mean days?” Bilbo inquired then.

“Ye damn near fractured your core, Bilbo Baggins” Óin barked out, marching into the room, Dwalin hot on his heels, “According to Tharkûn, though he communicated little else about yer condition to us, the absolute bastard. I told you to alert me the moment he woke, Thorin.”

“You’ve been unconscious for nearly a week,” Fíli said, frowning a bit at Bilbo.

“I sent you to the tower to stop Thorin from bein’ an idiot, Nadad,” Dwalin said without heat, “Not fer you to go be one in his stead.”

“How do you feel?” Óin wanted to know.

“Rather sore, actually,” Bilbo admitted, “And I’m hungry.”

 “Sore where, laddie?”

“Everywhere,” Bilbo said.

Óin exhaled sharply, “I don’t know if that’s normal or not, Bilbo.”

“I… I don’t actually know either,” Bilbo related. “What I did, the magic I used… it’s been thousands of years since the last time such was practiced on Arda. I didn’t even realize that I was capable of unrooting my deep magic or that Yavanna would allow it until, well, until I already had.” Bilbo looked at Fíli and Kíli, “My magic didn’t hurt you at all, did it, when it washed over you?”

“No,” Fíli denied at once, “It was warm and protective and light. It healed us.”

“Of everything. We don’t even have scars anymore, not even that ones we got when we were naught but pebbles,” Kíli revealed.

“I wanted you safe,” Bilbo blinked back tears, every inch of his person trembling at the memory of Fíli as Azog’s prisoner, of Kíli barely holding Bolg’s knife at bay.

“Which we’re exceedingly grateful for, Idadith,” Fíli squeezed Bilbo’s hand in his.

“Indeed,” Thorin intoned solemnly, “There aren’t words for how thankful I am for all that you did, Bilbo, but saving my boys… I will never be able to repay you for that.”

“You certainly don’t need to,” Bilbo returned, “You, all of the Company, are my family and I’m terribly fond of you all. Besides, it was instinct, everything I did. I wasn’t fully in control of my actions up until the point that you killed Azog, Thorin. I knew what I was doing, Green Magic is innate, but, in the heat of it, I might have tried to kill Gandalf if he kept me from reaching any of you before I knew that you were safe.”

“Berserker,” Dwalin muttered in response to that.

“What?”

“It is the rage that Dwarrow can fall into during battle,” Thorin told him, “We can go Berserk, when all that matters to us is the felling of our enemies – especially where the defense of our loved ones is concerned.”

“Apparently, Hobbits have a bit of Berserker in them too,” Kíli declared cheerfully.

Bilbo briefly bit his lip and then confessed, “I’m not, technically speaking, a Hobbit anymore, Little Raven.”

“What?” Óin demanded.

“A very, very long time ago, when the world was still rather new, Yavanna Kementári was tasked by the One with ensuring that this earth flourished and was defended, by any means she saw fit,” Bilbo smiled at bit as he recited, “Naturally, she determined that the best way to accomplish these goals was via the creation of the Fae. It was a bit of a circumvention of Eru Ilúvatar’s initial vision for Arda, well, she technically had been given His permission – and it was nothing that had not been done before.”

“When Mahal made the Seven Fathers,” Kíli piped up to say.

“Just so,” Bilbo agreed, “And as the Green Lady’s husband made seven clans of Dwarrow, each unique, so did Yavanna create seven distinct species of Fae. There were the Fire Fae, with their wings of rainbow flame and a touch that could melt Mithril. The Stone Fae, with faces like diamonds – little living gems – dwelling deep within mountains in their kingdoms of crystal and encouraging the growth of precious metals. The Sea Fae, with tails instead of legs, designed to protect the deepest waters just as their cousins, the River Fae, were to guard the shallows. The Frost Fae, with their blue-silver skin and gift of everlasting ice, made their homes far in the North, past where even the Dragons dare go venture. And, of course, there are the Wood Fae, more commonly known as Ents, who are the guardians of the great forests. Last, Yavanna planted a seed filled with all the Green Magic she could summon and from that seed sprung the seventh of her peoples, the most powerful of her children with abilities that closely matched her own.”

“The Greenlings,” Thorin interjected softly, “A people greatly cherished by Durin’s Folk in ages past.”

“Durin I’s Queen was a Greenling,” Fíli commented, “Yavanna made her just for him. Briallen and Durin were the first Ones in Arda and their love for one another is still legendary.”

“Durin’s first life was the only one he got to spend with her, though, because Sauron destroyed all the Greenlings before Durin II was born,” Kíli added.

“That’s not entirely true,” Bilbo denied, “Sauron didn’t destroy the Greenlings, or, at least, not in the way that history remembers.”

“What do you mean?” Dwalin asked.

“There were eleven Tribes of Greenlings back in those days,” Bilbo said, “And they were rather spread out across the known world. Unlike the rest of the Fae, they were not leery of strangers and they intermingled with other races heavily, especially when it came to Mahal’s sons and daughters. Briallen’s Tribe, the Underhills, were thought to be the most powerful and one day they were approached by Sauron in disguise. He earned their trust easily enough – they had been so shielded by Yavanna and even Durin’s Folk that they did not know to be afraid until it was far too late – and convinced them to let him show them some ‘magic tricks’. Sauron took them prisoner and thus wiped out an entire Tribe, a group of over three hundred, that much is true, but not by killing them. He took their minds and twisted the Light which blossomed inside each of them into dark and poisonous things. He turned them Mewlips.”

The shock and horror on the faces of his Dwarrow was perfectly understandable. Mewlips were the stuff nightmares were made of. Able to take the face of any being that their intended victim had ever seen before, be it a loved one or a stranger, they lured them into their grasp and then ate their very souls out of them, unmaking their victim just as they had once been unmade. And they liked the taste of young fëa the best.

“It took the Valar sending the Wizards to Arda to completely rid the world of the terrible creatures Sauron made of a once bright people,” Bilbo continued, “And, in the aftermath, Yavanna, furious and bereft at her loss, ordered her remaining Greenlings to band together and vanish until the day came that the Dark Lord could be vanquished for good. So, well, that’s what they did. They found a land, gentle and tame and the complete opposite of the lands they had once treasured, in the west. There, far away from other races, the heads of each Tribe buried the heights of their collective magic so deep into the earth that no Greenling then living could touch it as long as they remained within the bounds of that land. It was a sacrifice of power for the promise of life – for no evil thing could cross the borders of that land – and it was gladly made. The children that grew after, in then unprecedented numbers, were shielded by both the earth they lived on and Yavanna’s will, for She wanted her people hidden and safe above all else. In less than three generations, the term Greenling was no longer used to describe them as a people; rather, they adopted the name Holbytla, which in Westron translates to-”

“Hobbit,” Thorin breathed out in wonder.

Bilbo nodded, “Hobbit.”

“Durin’s Folk always believed that the Amadel created Hobbits in her devastation over losing her Greenlings,” Óin related.

“It was easiest for my ancestors to just let other races make their assumptions as they pleased,” Bilbo shrugged. “Hobbits are most content when everyone else leaves the Shire and its inhabitants alone. They would prefer to be forgotten entirely, you see, and most people who don’t interact with Hobbits regularly do forget they exist.”

“Hobbits are Greenlings,” Fíli said.

“Hobbits are Hobbits,” Bilbo shook his head at him, “As long as they reside in the Shire, they will certainly never be Greenlings. If I had not been away from it for months already, I would never have been able to unroot my deep magic to save you, Little Lion, that’s how entrenched the protections of the Shire are in every Hobbit. I am a Greenling, the first in thousands of years, because I was willing to forsake the gentleness I was born into, but, quite frankly, no other Hobbit would. No other Hobbit would have signed the Contract or let Dwalin into their smial that night. I was always believed odd by my kin, no matter how hard I tried to be respectable. They fear this happening – it’s something that some of the most traditional parents use to frighten their Faunts into not wanting to ever step foot out of the Shire – even though we cannot be Changed without Yavanna’s blessing in combination with our own willingness. I can’t blame them for their fear, because they have good reason to be afraid.”

“Because of what happened to the Underhills?” Kíli asked tentatively.

“I took the Orcs and Sauron by surprise because they all truly believed my kind extinct and not simply dormant, but if they had been prepared for what I can do like they were so long ago…” Bilbo sighed, “There are ways to get around my abilities, ways to block Green Magic. If I had been captured, like Sauron wanted, I would have been used to do horrific things. Greenlings are susceptible to Black Magic in a way that Hobbits are not.”

“No one will ever use you in such a way,” Thorin swore fiercely, “Not as long as I live and breathe, Lasleluh.”

“Aye,” all four of the others agreed at once.

“If you’re a Fae now,” Kíli spoke after a moment, “Does that mean you have wings?”

“Not all the Fae have them,” Fíli reminded, “The Ents don’t and neither do the ones who live in water.”

“Greenlings have wings,” Bilbo said. “I can feel mine, resting in another plane. I think it might take a few weeks before my magic recovers enough for me to make them visible or corporal, though. My core is… delicate right now.”

“Please don’t overexert yourself,” Thorin entreated. “I would much rather never experience the fear I felt up in that tower again.”

“He hasn’t let us go more than twenty feet from his person since the Battle,” Kíli tattled shamelessly.

“I won’t,” Bilbo assured Thorin, nuzzling his nose against Thorin’s in affection.

“I’m going to fetch you lavender oil from the Healing Halls to rub into your skin – I’m sure Thorin won’t mind assisting you with that – and I’ll get Bombur to fix you some peppermint tea along with a good meal,” Óin announced. “Those should help ease the pain you’re in, hopefully. Apart from that, you’re on bedrest until I say otherwise, laddie.”

Bilbo decided that it was in his best interest not to argue, “Yes, Óin.”

“And be prepared to be bombarded by the others. They’ll be in here as soon as they learn you’re awake at last,” Óin called out as he exited the room.

As threats went, that was a rather pleasant one. Bilbo would enjoy seeing for himself that all of his Dwarrow were well.

“If we’re not in the Healing Halls then where, exactly, are we?” Bilbo questioned, finally taking in the intricately carved stone walls and rich, if dusty, furnishings that surrounded him.

“The Apartments of Carven Stone,” Fíli relayed, “The suite of rooms meant for the King Under the Mountain and his spouse.”

“There is no place more defensible than these rooms, and we needed to be able to keep you safe as you slept,” Thorin illuminated.

Bilbo’s wrinkled his nose in confusion.

“Everyone knows what ye did, Bilbo,” Dwalin stated, arms crossed, “Ye commanded the sun, for Durin’s sake. There are Men and Dwarrow in the Mountain with more fear in their blood than sense in their heads and we weren’t about to provide them with an opportunity to do ye harm.”

“Is that why I’m still wearing my Mithril armor?”

“Yes,” Thorin inclined his head, “Tharkûn’s refusal to provide any explanation didn’t help matters, though he did threaten to turn anyone who thought about harming you into a toad for the rest of their days.”

“He couldn’t have given you one. An explanation, I mean,” Bilbo explained. “Gandalf and the other Wizards swore to safeguard the secret of Yavanna’s hidden children with every fiber of their beings before they were sent here. Even now, I don’t believe he will discuss it with you.”

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Translations (Khuzdûl)

• Durinul ufrukh ma ghurûl karakiki [The line of Durin will not be so easily broken.]
• Idadith [Little Uncle]
• Ghivashel [Beloved]
• Khajmel [Gift of all Gifts]
• Nadad [Brother]
• Amadel [Great Mother (Yavanna)]
• Lasleluh [My Rose of all Roses]

Chapter Text

Green Magic

Part Three

“A hunting party left the Mountain to see if there was any game to be had this morning,” Thorin related as he massaged lavender oil into Bilbo’s neck and shoulders.

In the two and a half weeks since Bilbo had woken, Thorin had been diligent about applying the healing oil every single day, even after Óin had, albeit begrudgingly, decided that Bilbo was well enough to be out of bed. The ending of the healer regimented bedrest had not meant, Bilbo had learned, that he was permitted to do anything even remotely strenuous, however. Mostly, Bilbo spent his time in the Mekebel with Ori – and at least one other member of the Company to “guard” him – sorting through the ancient tomes and scrolls and books. Bilbo did not protest the extra protection because he knew that his Dwarrow needed it and because it would have been rather hypocritical of him if he had. After all, Fíli and Kíli had either been within his or Thorin’s reach whenever they were not in the Royal Wing since the Battle had concluded.

“Did they find anything?” Bilbo asked, relishing the sensation of Thorin’s strong fingers pressing against skin that still ached when he thought about it.

It had been theorized that the pain would remain in some fashion until winter had passed.

“A few deer, a dozen geese, and some Ebrian rabbits,” Thorin said, “Enough fresh meat to give us a break from fish for a little over a week. They hunters shall go out again next Mersday morn and, when they’ve returned, I’ll seal the Mountain for the season. Winter promises to be fierce this year and until its over there shan’t be any fresh supplies coming our way.”

“We’ll have to be very creative with how we serve the Mountain Trout once the other meat is gone,” Bilbo commented, referring to the large, rainbow-scaled fish that were almost overly abundant within the kingdom’s internal lakes and rivers. They were, unfortunately, rather bland on their own, and so had never been a popular meal choice amongst Durin’s Folk, but they were a thousand times better than the Dragon-tainted fish from the Long Lake, “Lest we grow sick of them. There are several Shire recipes I could adapt for them to, hopefully, make them more flavorful. Thankfully, there are plenty of mushrooms available to us in the caverns and those always help with taste.”

“The party stopped at Ravenhill to check on the state of things while they were on their way back,” Thorin stated.

“Oh?”

“While there, they discovered tomatoes the size of large pumpkins, pumpkins the size of hefty boulders, great leaves of spinach, pea pods as long as my arm, and bean stalks as tall as the old towers,” Thorin revealed. “Not even the blizzard three days hence was able to touch the perpetual spring you set over the abandoned fortress. The Dwarrow and Men are quite in awe of it.”

“I summoned quite a lot of power to destroy the Ring and cleanse Arda of its dark magic, and energy like that doesn’t just disappear – it was absorbed into the earth of Ravenhill. Winter is basically nonexistent in the Shire, you know. The only time it ever even snowed in living memory was during the Fell Winter and that was black magic. Admittedly, the giant plants are new.”

“The vegetables were harvested, at any rate,” Thorin said, “And Tauriel checked them over for anything harmful – she said they were pure in a way rarely seen. So, you won’t have to be concerned about a lack of green food over the next few months.”

Bilbo was rather proud of how far Thorin had come in accepting Tauriel’s presence in their younger nephew’s life. He could not have imagined Thorin pre-sickness going to an Elf for help for any reason. That the King was willing to set aside old prejudices to ensure Kíli’s happiness was a monumental step in the right direction.

“I’m sure Tauriel and I shall enjoy them immensely,” Bilbo said, “And Gandalf too, I suppose. Since we’re the only three people in the Mountain with sensible ideas regarding food.”

Bilbo had known that convincing his Dwarrow to expand their diets beyond meat and starches and ale would be an uphill battle – one of their greatest holidays was the Amrâgu Hasas Matakrabi – but he had been properly horrified to learn that the Men were even more biased against vegetables. Imagine, believing that tomatoes, of all things, were poisonous! It was really no wonder that they were all so painfully thin.

“You and Tharkûn made up then?”

Bilbo flushed a bit at the reminder of the minor tantrum he had thrown only a few hours after waking.

To Bilbo’s shock and vexation, Gandalf had decided to tell everyone outside of the Company that Bilbo had never been a Hobbit at all, but, rather, a Greenling hidden by Yavanna amongst the gentle and isolated people of the Shire because Sauron would have never thought to look for him there. That Bilbo’s purpose had been to find and destroy the One Ring and, thus, the Dark Lord. Intellectually, Bilbo had recognized the soundness of the plan and that it was probably the best way to protect his people from any foul-minded individual or group who might try to force a Change in their ignorance. It was that the deception hinged on Bilbo not actually being the son of Belladonna and Bungo Baggins that had so greatly and adversely affected Bilbo. Combined with the then delicate state of his magic and, well, his reaction to learning of Gandalf’s scheme had been emotional and visceral, to say the least.

“I understand why the lie is necessary,” Bilbo sighed, “The important people know the truth, so I can be content with that. And he promised to bring me my parents’ things from the Shire come the thaw.”

“I’ll tell Nori he can cease sneaking salt into Tharkûn’s tea then,” Thorin stated blithely.

Bilbo fought back at grin; the Company, who put a great deal of stock into the importance of family, had not once questioned Bilbo’s distress and had even been quite irritated on his behalf. Bilbo had learned that Dwarrow could be enormously creative when it came to pranks when provided with the proper motivation – the salt in the tea had been the least of them.

“I have to admit to being glad that the White Wizard doesn’t know the truth. Saruman was a Hodhur Rukhsaz Hubmarakit the entire two days he was here. Thank the Valar he chose not to stay for the coronation tomorrow.”

Thorin huffed in amusement, “I do believe my kin and I have been a bad influence on you, Ghivashel. The Baggins of Bag End would have never used such language. We’ve utterly corrupted you.”

“Changed me,” Bilbo corrected, “And for the better, Khaeluh. I wore a mask all my life and then you all came barreling into my world and gave me the courage to take it off.”

Thorin kissed the nape of Bilbo’s neck and then moved his hands down to two very specific spots – the base of where Bilbo’s wings would be once he could access them – rubbing circles into bare flesh.

Bilbo shuddered and groaned in pleasure, and then he spun in Thorin’s arms, pushing the Dwarf back onto their bed and straddling his waist, “Not fair, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin had confessed, on the first night they had lain together, his fear of harming Bilbo while lost to passion. Bilbo had eagerly shown him that such worries, which might have been valid while Bilbo’s magic remained unrooted, had no place in their bed. Bilbo’s strength was more on par with Thorin’s now and he was far less fragile than he had been as a Hobbit. When Thorin was tender with him it was because he wanted to be and not because he had to be.

Instead of looking at all chastised, Thorin smirked up at him proudly and reached to carefully tug at the Betrothal Braid in Bilbo’s hair, “I’m a terrible Dwarf. You should definitely punish me for it.”

Bilbo kissed him, hard enough to bruise, winding his fingers through Thorin’s ebony hair and then pulled back to murmur, “Incorrigible.”

“Most certainly,” Thorin agreed, moving his mouth to Bilbo’s neck to nip and suck at the sun-kissed skin there, eliciting gasps from Bilbo and leaving marks behind.

Bilbo allowed it for several minutes and then his impatience own out, “Fuck me now, Thorin.”

A growl escaped Thorin’s throat and he yanked off his nightshirt in a single, smooth motion, casting it to the floor, leaving him as unclothed as Bilbo – neither of them had worn smallclothes to bed since exchanging beads the day after Bilbo woke.

“Do you want to be on your back?” Thorin asked, two fingers slipping inside of Bilbo easily due to the natural slick it produced.

Hobbit and Greenlings were creatures of pleasure, after all, and there was no need for that pleasure to be hard-earned unless they wished for it to be.

“I want to ride you,” Bilbo returned, rocking back against Thorin’s fingers, “I want to be able to still feel you tomorrow when we’re standing in the Throne Room. When I finally get to call you ‘my king’ I want you to know that I’m aching in the most delicious of ways because of you when I say it.”

Thorin’s eyes darkened at that and he removed his fingers from Bilbo’s hole only to swiftly replace them with his cock, thrusting inside all the way to the hilt in a single, rapid motion that left Bilbo momentarily breathless.

Bilbo barely gave himself time to adjust before he ordered, “Tashf.”

Thorin obeyed without protest and Bilbo grabbed ahold of Thorin’s shoulders for balance as the Dwarf began to fuck up into him almost rhythmically. Bilbo treasured every moment he spent with Thorin, but being with him like this, unembellished and unaffected and almost primal, appealed to the wildest and most natural parts of him in ways that he could have never fathomed before leaving the Shire.

“Uthurukul,” Bilbo begged, “Ubzar.”

His Dwarf obliged him, quickening the pace and pulling Bilbo closer with each thrust.

“Thorin, I’m so close,” Bilbo managed.

“Come for me,” Thorin instructed, pounding almost viciously upwards as he did.

With a shout, Bilbo did, the orgasm hitting him in brutal fashion, leaving him dizzy with relief. Thorin came shortly after, Bilbo’s name on his lips, and then pulled Bilbo down to lay with his head on Thorin’s broad shoulder, peppering Bilbo’s hair with small kisses and murmuring dozens of endearments into Bilbo’s ear.

He was not sure how long they lay there, basking in the aftermath, before Bilbo felt a new magic dancing inside of his core, prodding at him. He sat up without warning and inhaled sharply.

Thorin followed suit almost immediately, “Bilbo? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing at all,” Bilbo laughed in excitement, tugging at the magic eagerly and snapping his wings into existence.

“Your wings,” Thorin breathed, sapphire eyes blown wide, “By my beard, Bilbo, they’re gorgeous.”

Bilbo slipped out of their bed and fairly skipped over to the full-length mirror on the far wall to examine his wings for himself. They were primarily green in color, with swirls of what seemed to be molten gold and a purple that glittered marvelously as the light touched it moving across the surface of them. As wide at the tips as Bilbo was tall, they emitted a soft and almost opalescent glow that could be nothing except magic.

“They’re made of Mithril,” Thorin supplied in wonder, coming to stand beside him, “Green Mithril, which was said to be invulnerable, and gold and amethyst.”

Without really thinking about it, Bilbo made his wings flutter and then gasped in surprise when his feet left the ground. He stilled his wings at once and dropped back down, grateful when Thorin caught and steadied him instinctively.

“Er, I suppose I shall have to practice using them,” Bilbo said.

“I’ll have one of the training yards refitted for that purpose,” Thorin declared, “So you can learn how to defend yourself in the air, as well as on the land. We can create all kinds of obstacles to help you train.”

“You don’t need to refit an entire yard just for me, Thorin.”

Thorin cupped Bilbo’s face between his palms reverently, “There is nothing I would not do to ensure your safety, Lasleluh.”

Bilbo leaned forward to nuzzle their noses together, “I know, darling. Believe me, I know.”

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“Your wings are solid,” Kíli said with a frown.

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed, “They are.”

The Company had been shown Bilbo’s wings that morning at breakfast and they had been mesmerized by them. They had all also been on board with Thorin’s training plan, volunteering lots of ideas of their own. Bilbo had not appreciated the suggestion that they use catapults to train him to dodge, even if they had amended the proposal to include pillows instead of rocks.

“But they pass right through your clothes,” Kíli pointed out. “Right through your shirts and your waistcoat and even the armor!”

“Well, they’re magic, Kíli,” Bilbo shrugged.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Kíli insisted.

“Magic,” Bilbo repeated and, when the bells began to ring and the Dwarrow all around began to straighten in anticipation, then promised “We can discuss it more after the coronation, little raven. Your uncle is fixing to walk in.”

At the seventh toll of the bells, the huge stone doors to the throne room opened wide and the singing – a blessing in deep, guttural Khuzdûl – began. Thorin entered, moving at a steady and measured pace down the glittering walkway. His clothing was finer than anything Bilbo had ever seen him wear before, made of black spider silk with silver filigree telling the story of Durin the Deathless across the hems, and his fur cloak, dyed a vibrant cobalt color, had been fashioned from the thick pelt of Azog’s white warg. Silver wire was woven through his dark hair and his Betrothal Bead from Bilbo, made of magic and luck, hung where all could see it. Orcrist was strapped to his hip and, in his hands, he held the Baruk Bavonaz Dohyaraz Ra Gimlaz, the Axe of the Crown, Anvil, and Stars, a scared weapon that could only be wielded by the rightful King of Durin’s Folk.

As Thorin approached the thrones – he had commissioned two new seats made from the beautiful green granite that was so abundant in Erebor instead of the traditional one and had them carved with ravens and roses – he never once looked away from Bilbo.

Bilbo, for his part, was so ridiculously proud of him. They had come such a long way from that inauspicious meeting in the Shire and the truth was that Thorin had changed just as much as Bilbo had. Bilbo would gladly call him ‘King’ from that day forth and, once spring returned to Arda in all its glorious force, ‘husband’ as well. They would continue to grow in love for the rest of their days – and there would be many, many days indeed thanks to Bilbo’s magic.

The ceremony was long, complex, and conducted almost entirely in the Dwarven tongue. For each vow Thorin made, seven in total, a tenant of rule was marked onto his sword arm quite permanently in a black ink that shone blue when the light hit it just right – a kind of contract between Thorin and Mahal, it had been explained to Bilbo, and Dwarrow did so love their contracts.

Âzyung. Amnâsu. Belk. Bukh. Bahyur. Shomakhâl. Hurm.

Love. Loyalty. Strength. Courage. Wisdom. Guardianship. Honor.

It was Gandalf who placed the crown – not the Raven Crown but one crafted from polished obsidian and Mithril and set with blue diamonds in a complex geometric pattern called Emùlhekh – upon Thorin’s head when the time came, “Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, I, Gandalf Grayhame, have heard and witnessed your oaths and do hereby proclaim you the Lord of Silver Fountains and the King Under the Mountain from this day until the end of your days. Long live the King!”

Bilbo and every Dwarf present unsheathed the thin, golden swords they had been given for the rite as Thorin moved to take his place on his throne, raising the ceremonial weapons in the air as a promise of fealty and chanting, “Sigin ifrikh Melhekh!”

‘My King,’ Bilbo mouthed the words at Thorin with a cheeky grin when the Dwarf looked his way once again.

Thorin’s ensuing smile was like the dawn breaking over the horizon after the longest night of the year came to an end, wondrous and inspiring of the most overwhelming sense of hope.

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Thorin found him on the battlements, watching the sunset as it turned the clouds orange and crimson and gold, “You’re missing our nephews’ inspiring rendition of your ‘Bath Song’, Ghivashel.”

“They’re playing in the blasted fountain, aren’t they?” Bilbo laughed.

“Aye,” Thorin confirmed, “Along with half of our Company. They’re drunk off their arses.”

“How did we get so lucky?”

“Divine intervention,” Thorin said, “Combined with the awe-inspiring bravery and unyielding love of the greatest Burglar in Arda.”

“Do I know him? He sounds interesting.”

“He stole my heart,” Thorin intoned, wrapping his arms around Bilbo’s waist and pulling him close.

“Oh, how dare he,” Bilbo returned, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “It’s very impolite to go around stealing hearts. What’s the punishment for that?”

“Marrying me,” Thorin answered.

“Well, now, that doesn’t sound so bad. I rather think it would make him happier than he has ever been before.”

“I love you, more than anything in this world and the next, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin related, “You are my home and my One and my best friend. My heart is yours until the very end of time.”

Bilbo briefly pressed his lips against Thorin’s, “Every part of me belongs to you, my darling, for better or worse, in sickness and health, in safety and peril, for now and for always. I left Bag End desiring an adventure and, at your side, I’ve found one that shall never end. I love you so much.”

Thorin kissed him properly then and Bilbo responded in kind, pouring every ounce of the great devotion for him that Bilbo possessed into the gesture. As long as he had Thorin Oakenshield in his life, Bilbo knew, he would remain exceedingly happy until the end of his days.

THE END

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Translations (Khuzdûl)

• Mekebel [Great Library]
• Amrâgu Hasas Matakrabi [Feast of Fried Meat]
• Hodhur Rukhsaz Hubmarakit [Orc-faced Arsehole]
• Ghivashel [Beloved]
• Khaeluh [My Great Wolf]
• Tashf [Move]
• Uthurukul [Harder]
• Ubzar [Deeper]
• Lasleluh [My Rose of all Roses]
• Baruk Bavonaz Dohyaraz Ra Gimlaz[Axe of the Crown, Anvil, and Stars]
• Âzyung [Love]
• Amnâsu [Loyalty]
• Belk[Strength]
• Bukh[Courage]
• Bahyur[Wisdom]
• Shomakhâl [Guardianship]
• Hurm [Honor]
• Emùlhekh [Majesty]
• Sigin ifrikh Melhekh! [Long live the King!]