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Published:
2021-02-17
Updated:
2021-02-25
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2,510
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3/10
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Bitter Water

Summary:

Well, I still taste you on my lips,
Lovely bitter water.

The terrible fire of old regret,
Is honey on my tongue.

And I know I shouldn't love you,
I know I shouldn't love you.

But I do.

———————————————————————————————————

Six years after Bilbo had returned from his quest for Erebor, he has settled down back in Bag End with Kíli, Tauriel, Gimli, and Legolas—and his little son, Frodo—who still doesn't know that he is Prince Under the Mountain. And with his sixth birthday approaching, Bilbo must finally decide whether his son will one day sit on his ancestor’s throne within the Lonely Mountain where his father now stirs beneath in his grave with the Arkenstone in his grip; ready to awaken at any moment from his long-awaited slumber...

Chapter 1: In The Dark Of The Morning

Chapter Text

   Darkness enveloping the early morning, a match struck and flickered with a flame; a trembling hand leading it to a candle. Bursting at the wick, the flame grew for only a second before settling onto the wax, green eyes glinting in the new candlelight. Staring at the flame for a moment, Bilbo Baggins listened to the silence of his hobbit hole as sat at his writing desk, thankful for the lack of noise. Closing his eyes, Bilbo took in a deep breath before opening them once more—his gaze locked upon the leather bound journal at his writing desk. Opening up it’s written contents with careful hands, Bilbo flipped through the ink filled pages until he found an empty one—the hobbit picking up his quill and dipping it in a pot of ink before pausing, trying to find the words he wished to say to him if he could...

  When he did, Bilbo then began to write—the candlelight casting his shadow across the fireplace.

Dear Thorin,

   I apologize for not writing to you in so long. Frerin has been a handful lately, and is growing like a weed. He eats more than Bombur does in a day, and is quickly outgrowing all of his clothes. Tomorrow, he will be six years old. Kíli says he already reminds him of you. He’s been telling him stories about my adventures; painting me as some kind of valiant hero.

   If I only I could tell him stories about you.

   Catching the first rays of the sun in his eyes, Bilbo lifted his head from his writing to see the daze of dawn, the hobbit smiling gently at the warm light before dipping his quill back into the pot of ink and continuing to write.

   Tauriel also tells him stories, mostly about Mirkwood and elvish folklore. Gimli tells him some too, mostly tall tales from the Blue Mountains and Dale. He likes stories. Yesterday evening—after supper—I found him making a mess of one of my bookshelves in my study.

   By the time I had gotten there, most of the books were scattered all around him in a big heap. He told me he was looking for more stories.

    Sunlight now pouring in through the window, Bilbo stopped in his writing to blow out the candle he had lit as he listened to the birds sing in the morning glory; the sound mixing into the pitter-patter of little feet down the hall.

“Papa?”

   Ear tips twitching at the sleepy call of his name, Bilbo turned away from his writing to see his tiny son staring back at him from the hallway— his long, black waves sticking up in tangled tufts as he rubbed at his sapphire blue eyes with closed fists, a yawn escaping him.

“What’re ya doin, Papa?”

    Beaming at him against the sunlight that now filled his study with a golden glow, Bilbo caught his son in his arms as he came barreling forward, Bilbo brushing his messy hair back lovingly behind his little pointed ear as he pulled him up into his lap, his expression soft.

“Writing.”

    Frodo Baggins tilted his head at this and peered over his father’s shoulder at his writing desk where the journal laid open next to his quill and ink pot—the ink still a bit wet on the paper. He reached out to touch it, ever the so curious.

“Stories?” He asked.

   Bilbo shook his head and readjusted his grip on the toddler as he then stood, kissing his son’s head full of messy hair.

“No, just letters.”

   Still peeking over his father’s shoulder, Frodo kept his gaze locked onto the writing desk, part of his fist in his mouth.

“Who’re they for? Can I read?”

   “For a friend—and no, you cannot, because it is not only private but you don’t know how to read yet.” Bilbo said matter-of-factly as he carried him out into the hall, balanced upon his hip. “Now, what would you like for breakfast?”

  At the change of subject to food, Frodo gave a small gasp of joy and removed his fist from his mouth to speak clearly.

“Bis-cuits and honey ‘ake with mar-ma-lade!”

“Biscuits and honey cakes with marmalade?” Bilbo translated with a grin, “I can certainly do that.”

   Cheering aloud at this, Frodo threw his arms up in rejoice as Bilbo chuckled and placed him back down to the floor so the fauntling could go and awaken the rest of the occupants within the smial in his excitement, Bilbo leaving the his journal and unfinished letter to be read by no one but the sun and the silence of his study.

Chapter 2: The Thief At Breakfast

Summary:

Bilbo discusses his plans for the day with Tauriel while a little thief keeps stealing bacon.

Notes:

I'm sorry for the long wait I was trying to make sure this chapter was perfect. Im going to edit this later just to double check. With the story I'm leading on, this should only be ten chapters or so--or more. Thanks for reading! Third chapter should be up next week if my classes are willing

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

   Sunlight pouring in through the window in the kitchen, Bilbo quietly hummed himself a tune as he hung a copper kettle over the hearth, the hobbit kneeling carefully before the roaring fire and prodded at the burning logs with an iron poker for a bit before turning to the stovetop to check on the eggs and bacon. Sizzling and popping within the skillet—the hobbit stared at the food before soon realizing one of the many slices of bacon was missing from the pan. Huffing indignantly, Bilbo turned around to the table where Legolas, Gimli, Kíli, and Frodo were eating what he had made so far for breakfast; his eyes landing upon his first suspected culprit.

“Kíli—! Did you steal a slice of bacon?”

   Caught unaware by this question, Kili lifted his head from his plate filled full of crumbs and half eaten biscuits. He gave Bilbo an accusatory look—a bit of honey on his chin.

“No! Of course not!” Kíli replied through a mouthful of food before turning to the red-haired dwarf next to him, “Gimli—?”

At the sound of his name, Gimli paused in his chewing; his red beard filled with bits of honey cake.

“Aye, don’t blame it on me! I haven’t touched the skillet!”

“Legolas?” Kíli called from across the table with quickly reddening cheeks, “Did you do it?”

   With Frodo in his lap, Legolas scooped up a clump of oatmeal from his bowl with a wooden spoon, the elven prince pulling back his utensil at the tip as he looked to the dwarf; a cocky smirk on his lips.

“Nope.”

   Flinging the sticky food at Kíli, the oatmeal hit the dwarf’s nose with a splat, Gimli bursting into hardy laughter at the sight as Frodo giggled and clapped his hands; Kíli seething at the elf.

“You’re dead!”

  Snatching up a honey cake from Gimli’s plate, Kíli then raised his arm to throw it at the elf as Bilbo stopped him with a grip of his arm—the little hobbit flushed and pink in the ears.

“Alright, alright, that is quite enough! Never mind the bacon— all of you go wash up and get dressed, now.”

   Grumbling, Kíli let Bilbo take the honey cake from his hand as he wiped off his face with a cloth and then got up with Gimli at his side, the two stomping out of the kitchen as Legolas placed Frodo down to the wooden floor; Bilbo stopping him before he could leave with a point of his stubby finger.

“Not you—I want a word with you.”

   Going stiff, Legolas stayed right where he stood as Frodo toddled towards his father and raised his arms to him to be held, Bilbo picking him up to be balanced on his hip as the fauntling wriggled the spare honey cake out of his father’s hand to nibble on it; Bilbo lowering his voice to the elf.

“Legolas...why must you always treat poor Kíli like that? I thought you two were good friends—“

“We are!” Legolas replied.

“Then why must you torment him like it’s your job?”

“Because it is.”

   Exhaling, Bilbo turned back to the stovetop to see to the eggs and bacon, the hobbit moving each away from the flame to the hot plate next to it to stay warm before turning back to Legolas.

“No, it isn’t, and I don’t want to see or hear about your bullying any longer! Oh—! And if I find out that you have been doing this all in an attempt to gain Gimli’s affections—!”

Pale cheeks quickly flushing pink, Legolas sputtered, his arrogant demeanor shifting rather quickly.

“Gimli’s affections? W-Why would I...Why...I don’t—I don’t like Gimli as anything more than a friend—!”

Bilbo chuckled, smiling wryly to himself.

“Funny... That’s the same exact thing I told myself when I began to fall in love...”

  Embarrassed, Legolas ran his hands through his blonde hair haughtily as he glared at Bilbo, face now redder than his tomatoes in the garden.

“Can I leave now?”

Bilbo nodded.

“You may.”

   Finally able to escape his own humiliation, Legolas darted out of the kitchen and into the hall as Bilbo listened to his footsteps fade away into the chirping of the birds outside—The sharp, distinct cry of the kettle tingling his ear tips. Alarmed and reminded by the noise, Bilbo slid Frodo out of his arm to the floor as he grabbed a thick rag and unhooked the kettle away from the fire, Tauriel entering the kitchen with an apple in her mouth as she placed a stack of warm-yellowed letters upon the table: the she-elf pulling out the fruit between her teeth.

“Here’s the mail brought today.” Tauriel said before taking a crunchy bite.

“Thank you, Tauriel,” Bilbo said as he poured the boiling water from the kettle into a teapot.

“Your breakfast is ready for you on the—“

   Green eyes landing onto the letters, Bilbo furrowed his brow and placed the kettle down onto the table to examine them; his fingers thumbing them at their worn edges.

“Wha—? What on earth are all of these?”

Tauriel grabbed the plate of eggs and bacon near the stove and sat down at the table, picking up a knife and fork.

“Replies to the party invitations.”

Bilbo widened his eyes to her and gave a small gasp, a smile forming on his lips.

“Good gracious! Already—?”

“They all said they were coming—Well, all except for the Sackville-Bagginses,” Tauriel said as she turned to smile down at a beaming, marmalade covered Frodo,

“Who are demanding you ask them in person.”

   Bilbo then, without even looking, took a napkin from the table and handed it to Tauriel as the she-elf then wiped the fauntling’s face clean; Frodo giggling as Tauriel teased the little boy in elvish—Bilbo ripping open one of the letters with a scoff.

“Over my dead body!”

Tauriel laughed at this, pulling Frodo up into her lap.

“Im sure they would find that quite agreeable.”

Bilbo snorted with a chuckle.

"I'm sure they would...I'll have to look into the pantry and see all that I have before going to the market today."

  Eyes scanning down the letter, Bilbo muttered his thoughts to himself before folding the letter back up into the envelope and looking to his son—who was now covered in grease and eating Tauriel’s final slice of bacon. He gasped.

“Oh, Frodo—!”

   But before his father give his tiny son a proper scolding, Frodo squirmed out of Tauriel’s lap and ran out of the kitchen on unsteady feet, licking grease from his hands. Muffling her laughter with a hand, Tauriel turned away from the amusing sight as Bilbo just stood and watched him in shock; a slow but sure grin forming on his face.

“Well...It looks like we have more burglar in this hobbit hole..." the hobbit said before chuckling to himself.

"That’s my boy...That's Thorin's boy..."

Notes:

Frodo: Does something bad
Bilbo: And Don't EVER do that AGAIN!!!

Also Bilbo: *Sobs* That's my boy and Thorin's!!! Go cause havoc, MAKE YOUR PARENTS PROUD.

Chapter 3: The Three Kings

Summary:

The three kings and Gandalf bicker of what is to become of Thorin’s heir.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

   The cream-colored canvas of the tent glowing with a yellow hue, Thranduil became distracted as he balanced his chin upon his fist; listening only half-heartedly to the discussion on his throne. Next to him, sat Bard in his own chair, looking just as apprehensive as the grey wizard next to him as the three listened to the dwarven king’s royal advisor.

“…Whether you would like to accept it or not, Frerin is the rightful heir to the throne of Erebor, which means he is a prince,” Balin continued, “And as is written in tradition of dwarven royalty, the prince will begin his grooming to become future king when he has turned of suitable age—”

“Of ‘suitable age’?” Bard quoted across from him, “By the one, the child is turning six—he is much too young—!”

“Even worse, in halfling and dwarf years, he would only be about three or four years old…” Thranduil trailed off before removing his fist from his chin and sitting up within his makeshift throne— sky blue eyes locking onto Fíli and Balin.

“Now, what kind of monster would do that? To rip a mere toddler away from his father’s arms...”

   Fíli fixated his once bright, youthful eyes onto the elven king—his blue gaze aged and exhausted from time and power. He gently gripped the armrest of his chair, his shoulders tensing.

“We are not going to ‘rip’ him away from Bilbo, Thranduil. We are going to inform him of Frerin’s birthright as son of my uncle, and urge him to come with us to Erebor. There, he will be raised amongst his kin and take his rightful place as Prince Under The Mountain. And one day—King Under The Mountain.”

“And what will you do if he refuses?” Gandalf questioned.

   At this, Fíli turned his head to the wizard and leaned forward in his chair with a roll of his broadened shoulders; the golden crown of his folk sitting heavily upon his brow.

“It will not come to that.”

  Shaking his head, Gandalf muttered to himself in elvish as he turned away from the three kings, enraged by this answer.

“Curse the stubbornness of dwarves!”

  A stormy brew of clouds shrouding his head, the wizard then stomped out of the tent in a huff with his staff leading him forward, Fili moving to get up and follow after him.

“Gandalf—!”

   But before the dwarven king could stand up, a sword slashed through the air and hovered at his neck—Fíli lifting his head to meet the ice-blue gaze of Thranduil without fear. Instinctively, Balin reached for his own weapon—Fíli stopping Balin from doing so with a small gesture of his hand as Bard stood, grabbing the elf king’s arm.

“Thranduil—“

“Let this be known,” Thranduil, began, “that if you or your other vile little companions take Bilbo Baggins or that child outside of The Shire, I will not hesitate to hunt you all down and kill you, one by one.”

“Is that a threat, King Thranduil?” Fíli asked.

“It can be if you wish, King Fíli.” Thranduil snarled with a mocking smirk, “But I prefer you take it as a warning.”

   Sword lowering, Thranduil then swung it about elegantly in his hand and sheathed it near his waist as he exited the tent, The three watching him leave in shock as Balin sighed and shook his head, mumbling to himself.

“Durin save us and his sons...”

Notes:

I apologize for the long wait and the shortness of this chapter, School has been kicking my ass. I may add on to this later a little bit if I have the energy to do so.