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Chapter Text

Thorin Oakenshield strode purposefully down the halls of his forebears, a sword in his hand and determination in his heart. Everything was so familiar: every nook and cranny; every stain; every blemish; every crack. The roughly-hewn stone comforted him and bolstered him, and made him feel more secure than ever in his role as King Under The Mountain.

He had made it all the way here, with thirteen of his kin – and one wizard – through mountains and forests and Elvenking’s halls (they only got out of that one through sheer luck) and now he was here, Erebor, the Kingdom of Carven Stone, his birthright.

There was one object still to overcome before he claimed his due, however, and it was never good for your health to leave a live dragon out of your calculations. So now he was on his guard, moving quietly and cautiously on his path to the great Dwarven Treasury. Their burglar, a rather unpleasant dwarf named Grund, had not reappeared since he had entered the mountain. So Thorin, beating down the protests of his young nephews, had followed his footsteps himself, come what may.

Thorin recognized a bend in the tunnel ahead and instantly slowed down, placing his booted feet with the utmost care. His grip tightened on his sword as he rounded the corner and beheld the Treasury of Erebor.

Thick, grey-green pillars dotted the immense space, towering up to support the geometrically carven ceiling. Large platforms were placed here and there, and the vast room seemed to be lit with its own soft radiance.

Thorin stared, dumbstruck. The space used to contain gold and gems and riches beyond measure, the legacy of his people. He lurched out onto the walkway, unable to tear his eyes away from the piles and piles and piles of…

He stood stock still, frozen with shock, for a long moment.

Are those…handkerchiefs?

Thorin shook himself like a dog and hurried down the stairs, stumbling in his haste. He stopped dead at the bottom.

This has to be a dream. It has to be.

He took a faltering step towards one of the mountains of starched white squares of linen, then froze like a deer in the headlights as his foot smashed through something with a despondent crunch. Jerkily, he brought his head down to stare at the shards of…blue pottery.

That’s it, Durin’s heir decided. Too weird. Thorin out.

He had spun around, ready to hightail it out of that creepy-ass place, when a menacing growl stopped him in his tracks. The growl ran on and on, echoing around the cavernous halls, running a razor-sharp finger of dread down Thorin’s back.

It was never good for your health to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, Thorin reflected.

Holding down a hysterical laugh that had bubbled up within him at the thought, he stumbled hastily towards the staircase. He ducked underneath it and pressed his back against the smooth arch. Heart racing, hardly daring to breathe, the dark-haired dwarf stared fixedly at the grey stone opposite him.

After a long stretch of silence, Thorin’s heartbeat had slowed and he began to wonder if he had imagined the growl.

Of course you didn’t, imbecile, snapped a voice in his head. You don’t imagine a dragon growling!

But this voice was very, very small and Thorin was very, very stubborn so he stepped out into the open anyway.

He gazed around at the seemingly endless piles of handkerchiefs and was again robbed of breath by the sheer…the sheer…

Busy struggling to come up with a word to describe his thoughts, Thorin didn’t notice the reptilian head poking over the pile in front of him until it was too late.

‘That was my mother’s favourite urn,’ said the dragon.

Thorin blinked.

‘My apologies,’ he replied automatically.

The dragon had golden-brown scales and wagon wheel sized eyes. Its snout was (proportionally) stubby, about as long as one and a half Thorins, and a line of spines ran from the tip of its nose, down its neck, and out of Thorin’s line of sight. Despite the dragon’s reproachful hazel eye glaring at him, its rather sharp fangs, and the fact that it was big enough to be mistaken for a large hill, he couldn’t help thinking that it was almost…cute.

The dragon sniffed, breaking Thorin out of his thoughts.

‘What’s done is done, I suppose.’

It eyed him disdainfully.

Remembering his manners, Thorin gave a quick bow.

‘Thorin Oakenshield, at your service.’

‘Well, at least you appear to have some decency,’ the dragon said, seeming somewhat mollified. A taloned appendage appeared atop the pile of handkerchiefs as the creature pulled itself over and slithered down the mound. It settled into a comfortable position a polite distance from him and extended a claw. After deciding that the dragon was not lulling him into a false sense of security in order to achieve the correct proximity to rip his head off, Thorin shook it.

‘Bilbo Baggins, at yours,’ it said politely.

The dwarf gave an equally polite nod, screaming internally all the while. Too much. It was too much. Violent, bloodthirsty, kingdom-destroying beasts he could handle, but this?

After a pause, he asked a question that he desperately hoped was not offensive.

‘Erm…may I ask…are those handkerchiefs?’

Thorin cursed himself for stuttering. Stuttering was so not majestic, even when he did it.

The dragon bobbed his head. ‘Yes they are,’ he said proudly. ‘This chamber used to be full of gold and other useless things. You can’t smoke a pipe with gold.’

‘Oh, yes,’ the dwarf agreed quickly, because the dragon had paused. It nodded, appeased.

‘Indeed. There were also some decomposing bodies lying around, I’m not sure what that was about. The old fellow had a very odd taste in décor. Anyhow, I soon traded all of those impractical trinkets for much more useful objects – largely handkerchiefs, I do love a good handkerchief – but there are stacks of pipeweed in the corners, and I brought over a large amount of my mother’s pottery from the nice kingdom I left a few decades back. Oh yes, Bag End was lovely, but the décor here is much more avant la letter, wouldn’t you say? I remember they had the most disgusting vases…’

The dragon prattled on and on about décor and wallpaper and some strange contraption called a 'French Door' while Thorin nodded and ‘mm’-d whenever it paused. He was rather wishing he could escape this highly un-majestic conversation – when on Middle Earth does a King have time for Ming Dynasty vases?

‘…and a great many of my favourite possessions were stolen by Lobelia Sackville-Bagginses. I ended up eating her – there was nothing for it, she was really getting on my nerves. Do you know, she had the gall to replace some of my best silver spoons with tin? I am a dragon, I can tell the difference.’

He snorted violently and receded into an aggravated silence. After what he felt was a suitably respectful pause, Thorin asked a question. He didn’t really care much about the answer, to be honest, but he was honour-bound to ask.

‘If I may, Master Baggins, have you seen our burglar?’

The dragon considered.

‘Squat chap, rather grumpy? Appalling hygiene?’

‘That indeed sounds like him.’

Thorin was struck by a wonderful thought.

‘You didn’t eat him, by any chance?’ he said hopefully.

‘Oh, no, what a horrid idea!’ The dragon screwed up his face, shuddering in disgust. ‘No, I taught him manners, or tried to. He’s over there, the ungrateful imbecile.’

Thorin’s gaze followed the dragon’s pointing talon to a figure sitting by the corner, who was shivering and rocking with a desolate look in his eyes. He looked remarkably clean - even his horrific ear-hair had been trimmed.

‘Didn’t appreciate my lessons at all,’ the dragon sniffed. ‘At least he’s stopped squealing.’

Thorin couldn’t help his grin. ‘Squealing?’

The dragon chuckled. ‘Oh yes, like a pig. Hours upon hours he squealed, like I’d threatened him with a hot poker and not a bar of soap.’

The dwarf smirked. ‘You should have seen him the time he fell in the river! By Durin’s beard, he nearly broke our eardrums.’

‘Our eardrums?’ the Bilbo-dragon said curiously.

Thorin mentally cursed the dragon’s stubby nose and wide hazel eyes. ‘Er, did I say we - our? Did I say our? What I meant to say is, ah…’

Thorin’s unmajestic stuttering was fortunately interrupted by the rest of the Company barrelling onto the platform, weapons waving, eyes flashing, screaming bloody murder.

‘BOOTS OFF!’ the dragon screeched, suitably distracted. ‘AND NO RUNNING IN THE TREASURY!’

The dwarves stopped dead in the middle of their war cries, weapons raised, mouths hanging open. They were completely and absolutely silent, which, Thorin reflected, was a miracle in itself.

After an hour had passed with no sign of Thorin, the more gung-ho dwarves (i.e. Fili and Kili) had decided that they were going to rescue him, no matter the cost or whatever firebreathing monstrosities they might happen to awaken, and the others had folllowed behind. They had been expecting death, blood, laceration and maybe even incineration, but nothing could have prepared them for this.

‘Are those…handkerchiefs?’ 

Chapter Text

Bilbo hadn’t been sure what to expect when the dwarf had entered his halls.

He had been napping on one of his lovely soft piles of newly-starched handkerchiefs, having a wonderful dream about pipe-weed and mathoms, when he’d felt the horrible tug deep down in his stomach. He’d known instantly that another intruder was in his halls, and another vase had been broken, and to top it off the trespasser was another dwarf. His Tookish side – the more avant-garde side, he often reflected – had reared up with a vengeance and Bilbo had let loose an awful growl. It had rather hurt his throat, in fact, but he couldn’t deny his amusement when the unpleasant little creature froze like a deer.

His entrance really had been very rude, trooping mud and filth all over the dragon’s meticulously kept floors and breaking one of his mother’s china vases, but he was much politer than that other fellow – Grund, was that his name? – and Bilbo had actually began to enjoy their conversation when a horde of booted dwarves had positively flown into the Treasury, screaming rather unpleasant things and waving around a host of nasty pointy objects. Bilbo’s Tookish side had made his vision go red, and he had given the ruffians a rather uncharacteristically enraged dressing-down.

Now they were blinking at him and gaping like fishes out of water.

‘Are those…handkerchiefs?’ one of the stockiest dwarves choked. Bilbo was feeling very indignant by this point and was rather fed up with all the dwarves stinking up his nice horde.

‘Yes, they are,’ he snapped. ‘Have you got something to say about that?!’

He shoved his head close to the dwarves, and they quailed under his incensed glare. The miniature hooligan in question dipped his tattooed head.

‘Er- not at all, Master Dragon,’ he stuttered. Bilbo heard an odd noise to his left and glanced questioningly at Thorin to see his form shaking with barely concealed laughter.

A rather nice form it was, too.

Bilbo quickly diverted from that train of thought and glared once again at the intruders.

‘What is your business here, may I ask? Scuffing my nice floors and waving about weapons?’

He narrowed his eye, squinting suspiciously.

‘No, Master Dragon,’ a white-bearded dwarf said politely. ‘We were here to retrieve our leader Thorin, in fact, and were merely under the impression that he had been captured by the beast Smaug and not a fine creature like your goodself, sir.’

‘Oh.’ Bilbo couldn’t help preening, just a little. ‘Well, that’s alright then, I suppose.’

The dwarf gave him a small smile and a respectful bow. ‘Balin, at your service.’

‘Bilbo Baggins, at yours,’ Bilbo replied graciously. Now this was a dwarf with proper manners.

‘These are my companions – Oin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Ori, Nori, Dori, Dwalin, Fili and Kili,’ he said, pointing them all out in turn.

‘At your service,’ they chorused, bowing. Bilbo dipped his head politely in reply.

‘Now, if I may ask,’ he said, settling back down. ‘What are you all doing in my kingdom? And I would be much obliged if you removed your boots before coming down.’

Nods and mutters of ‘of course, of course’ rippled through the group and they all sat down to remove their shoes.

Nasty clumping things, shoes are, Bilbo thought. I don’t know why the odd creatures favour them.

‘You wield great power, Master Baggins,’ Thorin observed from beside him, his voice still full of mirth, ‘to make my relations shut up.’

The dragon hummed with satisfaction.

‘I suppose I do, don’t I?’

Chapter Text

‘…and we sailed down the river. It was only a short journey, we were given ponies by the Men. We waited for a few days by the hidden gate while Grund and Thorin went down, then decided to come after them. You know the rest, of course.’

Balin finished his story with a polite nod and a smile towards Bilbo. He, along with the thirteen other dwarves, were seated in a semicircle before the dragon.

‘Hmm, indeed,’ said Bilbo.

There was a silence.

Well, it was silent aside for the small snortings and snufflings coming from the King Under The Mountain.

Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, was purple in the face trying not to laugh. He clasped a hand over his mouth as he watched Dwalin, Dwalin, the gruff, bulky, warrior-like Dwalin, cower and avoid the dragon’s gaze. The muscular dwarf hid behind Ori of all people, like a rabbit hiding behind a fieldmouse.

Dwalin flinched as the dragon moved a talon, and Thorin couldn’t hold back an especially loud snicker.

The eleven other dwarves turned questioning gazes on him – well, aside for Dwalin, who seemed to be trying to burrow into the flagstones. Thorin swallowed another snigger at the sight, managing to ever so slightly reign in his hilarity and raise his eyebrows innocently at his Company.

The dragon snorted in amusement and Dwalin cowered, letting out a most un-Dwalin-like squeak.

Thorin’s face turned an impressive shade of puce as he bit his lip to avoid positively shrieking with laughter. He squeezed his eyes closed, feeling the tears of mirth bubbling up, and shoved his knuckles against his mouth.

Fili and Kili broke into identical grins at their Uncle’s unusual impropriety. Balin shook his head disapprovingly, Nori sniggered, Bombur was too busy eating a snack to care, Dori was pursing his lips like an iguana, Oin was (conveniently) ‘sneezing’ into his handkerchief, Gloin was smirking, Dwalin was cowering, Bifur and Bofur were having mysterious ‘coughing fits’ and Ori was throwing a completely uncharacteristic honest-to-Eru death glare at Thorin.

‘Something funny?’ the freckled dwarf asked, his normally soft brown eyes drilling into his King, his tone unusually sharp and loud.

‘Er…mmf…no…teehee…’

Thorin sounded like a cat hacking a hairball being tickled while simultaneously being smothered by a pillow.

Ori’s glare intensified.

‘Stop laughing at Dwalin!’ the soft-spoken scribe barked.

‘Aherrrmehermehememjsheehee…Laughing? What laughing…teeheehee…’

 Thorin managed to contain himself (a little) and subsided to the occasional giggle.

Fili wondered, frustratedly, how his damn uncle still managed to look damn majestic while damn giggling, for Eru’s sake.

‘Yes, well, anyway,’ Balin said, casting a wide-eyed glare at the snickering king that rather made him look like an angry, bearded owl, ‘we were expecting much worse than this, er, lovely hall of handkerchiefs, and were much relieved to find it so.’

The Bilbo-dragon returned Balin’s polite smile.

‘Thank you very kindly, Master Balin. It is rather lovely, isn’t it?’

He gazed out proudly at the massive sea of ‘nose clothes’, as his dear mother used to put it.

‘Indeed it is, Master Bilbo,’ Thorin said in his most innocent tone (while wearing his most shit-eating grin) ‘I do believe Dwalin here would absolutely relish a personal tour.’

A good number of the company experienced one of those pesky ‘coughing fits’ and hid their red faces in their elbow – even Balin had to bite back a smirk.

Ori, however, was not amused.

‘Oh, that would be wonderful!’ exclaimed the dragon enthusiastically, before Ori could start shrieking like a teapot.

Dwalin squeaked and redoubled his efforts to dig through the stone.

The Bilbo-dragon threw him an applauding look, seeming to peg his odd behaviour on excitement.

‘We were wondering, Master Bilbo,’ Balin cut in (Ori was swelling dangerously) ‘if you had any of the treasure remaining?’

The dragon sniffed a bit, his great tawny eye disapproving.

‘Well, yes, but I don’t know why ever you would desire such a thing,’ he said huffily, as if insulted by the mere mention of gold.

‘We don’t, Master Baggins,’ said Thorin earnestly, seemingly (mostly) over his fit of hysterics. ‘Our people do.’

Balin noted with interest how the dragon seemed to relax at Thorin’s voice.

‘Of course, then,’ Bilbo replied, his great eye (Balin observed attentively) soft on the dwarf king.

‘Thank you,’ Thorin said with a smile, his ice-blue eyes crinkling. The golden scales on the dragon’s stubby snout reddened as he shyly smiled back. Balin could have cooed, but unfortunately for all involved, he was not the only to notice the exchange.

‘So, Master Boggins…’ Kili began, the very shit-eating grin which Thorin had worn seconds before firmly in place.

‘Do you consider the gold part of your hoard?’ Fili finished, an identical smirk plastered across his face. It was an innocent enough question, but knowing those two devil-sent gremlins they were up to something.

Every single other dwarf was instantly nervous, waiting in undisguised terror for the screaming, cursing, crying and hysterics that was sure to come.

‘Oh, I…er…not really, I suppose,’ the Bilbo-dragon said, finally tearing his gaze from Thorin’s. Innocent to the ways of the dwarrow princes, he did not feel the intense fear of the Company.

‘So, it’s only the handkerchiefs?’ Kili asked innocently.

‘And the china?’ Fili continued, just as innocuously.

‘Nothing else?’

Bilbo gazed, bemused, at the two dwarves grinning up at him. He either disregarded or did not notice the frantic sign-language of the Company behind the brothers, telling him to RUN FOR YOUR LIFE WHILE YOU STILL LIVE!

‘Ah…no…?’

‘So, could you begin to regard other things as part of your hoard?’

‘Living things, for example?’

Bilbo blinked.

‘Er, I suppose I could,’ he said, now very uncomfortable. He noticed the rest of the dwarves groaning and covering their eyes, most blushing, including (to Bilbo’s utter astonishment) Thorin.

Thorin was blushing, the faint redness staining his cheekbones bringing out the perfect dazzling blueness of his eyes. It was spreading down his neck and under his collar, and Bilbo couldn’t help wondering how far it–

Oh dear.

He speedily turned his attention back to the brothers, desperately hoping -for all that is right with this world- that they hadn’t noticed.

Their grins had widened, and he felt like a rabbit that had wandered right into a bear-cave and was now stuck there. With the bear. An incredibly angry, awake bear. That was thirsting some little rabbit bones to crunch.

Maybe I can just decapitate them like I did Smaug, Bilbo thought hopefully.

‘So, perhaps Men?’

‘Or Elves?’

‘Or Hobbits?’

‘Or even…’ here Kili cast a highly suggestive look at his uncle, and Bilbo found himself wondering desperately whether killing Lobelia had been a step too far for his karma, and asking himself frantically how in Middle Earth this dratted business had escalated so swiftly, and wishing fervently that he had run while he had the chance.

‘Dwarves?’

Fili’s huge smirk was too much for both Thorin and Bilbo.

The former advanced towards his nephews, his fists clenching, his face murderous (though still blushing like a teen asking his crush to the prom) with the intent of throttling them, preferably to death (heirs of Durin be damned), while the latter let out a shriek and a (completely accidental) burst of fire.

The grins slid off Fili and Kili’s faces, and the dwarves behind the unlucky pair dived for cover.

Bilbo stared at the singed handkerchiefs.

He blinked.

His gaze raised, ever so slowly, to meet the prince’s.

‘Those.’

Kili whimpered like a kicked puppy.

‘Were.’

The dragon’s neck raised, along with the spines along it.

‘My.’

His eyes blazed.

‘HANDKERCHIEFS!!’

The shriek echoed through the stone of the mountain, across the plains, over the lake, past Esgaroth, and reached the ears of a certain Elvenking.

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘It seems that Erebor is ripe for the taking.’

His head was bowed in consideration, his expression unreadable.

‘Tauriel, prepare the armies.’

He raised his head, and he smiled a predatory smile, his icy eyes glittering.

‘We march tonight.’

Chapter Text

Armour glinted under the noonday sun and swords flashed in slender grips as the armies of the Elvenking stood before the Lonely Mountain. They seemed almost neverending, stretching far into the distance in a sea of perfect bronze rows. The King himself sat upon a majestic elk, his flaxen hair spilling down his shoulders, his expression haughty; the elk stood completely stock-still, flanked by two Elves, one fiery-haired, the other blonde. The King raised his impressive profile and glared at the barrier blocking the gate to Erebor, then inclined his head slightly.

‘Is anybody there?’

The blonde-haired guard’s voice echoed up the bleak face of the mountain. There was no answer, aside for a derisive caw from a raven flying overhead.

The King’s impressive nostrils flared.

‘The King of the Woodland Realms orders you to show yourself,’ the elf hissed, his uttered words somehow still drifting up the mountain.

‘Oh well, s’pose I ‘ave to come out, now.’

The army of elves stirred for the first time, glaring incredulously at the dwarf leaning nonchalantly over the top of the wall.

‘G’morning me lovely gentlespoon, and a fine one ‘tis today, innit?’

The dwarf had possibly the most ridiculous hairstyle the Elvenking had ever seen, his brown braids jiggling in the elaborate shape of a starfish.

‘No, Nori, ye got it wrong, mate. It’s noon, not morning.’

Another dwarf’s head popped over the top of the barricade, this one supporting an equally ludicrous hat.

‘C’mon, Bof, lookit, the sun ain’t past its zenith yet, ye tosser.’

‘Oh, aye it is! It’s much closer to the other side, actually, I might call it afternoon.’

‘Ere, that’s th’ wrong side! That’s closer to dawn, not set, so ‘tis.’

‘It’s midafternoon,’ the Elvenking snapped, fed up with the dwarves’ la-di-dah bickering.

The two stared down at him with raised eyebrows like he was an insolent child.

‘Well lookee here, if we ain’t got an army of them tree-shaggers at our doorstep!’

‘Blimey, I think we forgot the welcome mat. How atrociously uncouth of us.’

‘Dear, dear, however are we gonna apologize now, eh? Right toffs like ‘em won’t appreciate the good old cuppa.’

‘Aye, can’t exactly give him a hankie now, can we?’

‘Let us in!’ the Elvenking bellowed, rather beginning to lose his temper.

The dwarves stared down their noses at him again, shaking their heads and tutting.

‘Don’t get yer knickers in a twist, mate, ‘taint good for ye branches n fruit.’

‘More like twigs and berries, eh Nor?’

The two snickered together, and the Elvenking’s temper broke. He urged his elk forwards and drew his sword in a flash of shining steel.

‘Let us in, or the wrath of elves shall be upon you!’

The dwarves leaned back a little to exchange thoughtful looks, tapping their fingers against their beards.

‘We-ell, we could let ‘em in, aye Nori.’

‘Oh, aye, Bofur. But ‘e ‘asn’t been very gracious to us, eh?’

‘Just a tad impatient, aye Nori. And besides, if we do we suffer the wrath of Bilbo.’

The dwarves shuddered collectively.

‘No, sorry mate,’ Hat-man called down cheerily, leaning back over. ‘Can’t let you in this afternoon, maybe toddle by next week and we’ll see if we can fit you in. Ta ta!’

And with that, they disappeared behind the wall.

The blonde guard turned away, pretending not to see (and having to hide a smirk) as the Elvenking let out the most undignified shriek of frustration.

‘GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!’ he screamed.

Muffled sniggering from behind the wall was clearly heard by every elf in the army.

‘Shan’t!’ called one of them in a sing-song voice, and then their giggles faded as their footsteps echoed on the stone walkways.

Had the Elvenking been on the ground, he would have stamped his foot in the most unkingly way. As it was, he barely bit back another high-pitched shriek.

Even the red-haired elf had to suck in her mouth to stop herself exploding with laughter as the dwarves’ next words echoed through the mountain.

‘OI, BILBO, THERE’S SOME AIRY-FAIRY WAZZOCK BEFOULING YER DOORMAT!’

There was a pause, in which the elves presumed the mysterious ‘Bilbo’ was replying.

‘Nah, twas all tickety-boo til Nori here unbolted his pie-hole–’

‘Tha’ is absobloodylutely tosh and you know it, Bof me ol’ tosser. Bofur appears ‘n opens ‘is dear old gob, then Bob’s your uncle it’s a shambles.’

Another pause.

‘No no, mate, ‘e was more of an uphill gardener, if’n you know what I mean.’

A good portion of the Elven army was embroiled in those pesky ‘coughing fits’ that seems to plague every race equally. Indeed, the strength of the blonde guard’s ‘coughing fit’ was such that his face was the exact shade of his companion’s hair.

‘Oh, indeed, I do believe a loverly chat with you is just what the ponce desires, Bilbo me pal.’

‘Yes, time to see a man about a dog, and by that I don’t mean a trip to the swamp.’

A pause.

‘No, chum, this is simply how we discourse. No secret languages or codewords, I swear on me affidavit.’

There was a long stretch of silence, then Starfish-head’s elaborate coiffure appeared once more.

‘’Ello again, mate, and bollocks if we ain’t got a chap ‘ere to see you!’

‘GET DOWN HERE SO I CAN RIP YOUR HEADS OFF!’

‘Well, that sounds right tempting, innit, but I do believe this confabulation is in yer best interests.’

The starfish disappeared again behind the rock ramparts.

There was a moment of silence in which the Elvenking swelled dangerously, and all in the vicinity covered their ears with their slender hands, knowing full well their King’s…traits.

‘Good afternoon! I must apologise for those two. They can be decidedly odd sometimes, but they don’t mean any harm by it really.’

The Elvenking deflated abruptly and silently at the sight of a dragon’s head poking over the top of the barricade.

Blink, blink, went the army of elves.

‘They’re all rather quirky, in fact, and quirky is the polite term for it.’

The lizard-like head was snaking over the wall, the huge golden eye regarding the Elvenking respectfully. There was an absolute and complete silence in which the elves stared at the dragon and the dragon smiled back.

‘Er…’

The Elvenking cleared his throat a few times as his elk shifted nervously.

‘Are you the…ruler of the mountain?’

The dragon laughed and scoffed but looked rather flattered all the same.

‘No, no, I am no ruler, though the mountain and its hoard are mine.’

The dragon was small (for a dragon) stubby, big-eyed and well-mannered, but something in the way he proclaimed the mountain his told the Elvenking not to mess with him.

‘Why have you brought an army to my mountain, may I ask?’

‘We were going to atta– that is to say, check whether the dwarves had succeeded.’

The dragon bobbed his head, seeming to consider the King’s statement, and the elf in question had to swallow a heavy ball of nervousness.

All of a sudden, the bobbing stopped, and the dragon’s face twisted.

The Elvenking gulped.

‘Oh, how fearfully rude of me, I had not introduced myself! My name is Bilbo Baggins, but just Bilbo will be fine.’

The dragon looked at him expectantly, scaled neck craning over the battlements, and the elf quickly struggled to regain his composure.

‘I am Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm,’ the elf said, his slim fingers digging into the elk’s fur. The elk mooed in protest (a rather unfortunate trait, to be sure) and the dragon’s attention turned to it.

‘Is that a moose?’ Bilbo asked, a disquieting gleam in his eyes. ‘I like moose.’

‘It’s an elk,’ Thranduil replied, much too quickly.

‘Oh very well, no need to snap, I’m just feeling rather peckish is all,’ the dragon said huffily. ‘So, I suppose you’re after that gold too?’

The Elvenking cocked his head at the evident disgust in the dragon’s tone. He felt his famed confidence/arrogance begin to return and drew himself up a little.

‘The realm of the elves has suffered much by the hands of dwarves, and we have come to collect the recompense due.’

The dragon sniffed disapprovingly. ‘As you wish. I shall collect Thorin, he’s better equipped for such dealings.’

Bilbo abruptly disappeared behind the ramparts, leaving the elf wondering if all dragons were so strange.

A few minutes later, a new yet familiar head appeared over the ramparts.

‘Well, well, look what we have here,’ drawled Thorin, son of Thrain, King Under The Mountain.

The Elvenking bristled at the mocking undertone to the dwarf’s words, drawing himself up indignantly.

‘I am not some ragged beggar on your doorstep! I am the King of the Woodland Realm, and you owe me promised jewels.’

The dark-haired dwarf leaned on the balcony, his cocked eyebrow visible from twenty metres away. The Bilbo-dragon’s reptilian head returned, snaking down the wall once more; to which the dwarf displayed an utter lack of nerves or concerns of any kind.

‘First of all, this is not technically my doorstep, we are being temporarily accommodated, and second of all I did not promise you riches of any sort.’

It’s hard to look cool and majestic sitting on an oversized moose staring up at a dragon and a dwarrow king while wearing a ten-kilogram crown made of hedgehog spines upon your head, but Thranduil somehow managed it.

‘You promised me gems, white gems of pure starlight, were I to give you aid.’

‘Which you did not provide.’

‘My forces protected you and your ilk from the orcs pursing you! We saved your miserable lives.’

‘Protecting, you call that? I name it greed.’

‘Greed?’

‘You would prevent others from killing us, because you desired that prestigious honour.’

‘Why, you self-satisfied worm–’

‘Self-satisfied worm? Dear, dear, Thranduil, no need for profanity!’

‘Llie n’vanima ar’ lle atara lanneina!’ the Elvenking bellowed, sounding rather like a spoilt child in the midst of a tantrum.

The blonde guard let out a particularly loud choking sound, and the red-haired elf opposite him covered her mouth with a slim hand, muffling her own ‘coughing.’

‘What did he say?’ Thorin asked, frowning at the dragon by his side.

‘He said – er, he said–’

The dragon’s face was also strangely red tinged, and he was making decidedly odd strangled noises.

‘He said, well, that you’re ugly and your mother dresses you funny,’ Bilbo managed, making a sound suspiciously similar to sniggering deep in his throat.

Thorin stared at him for a moment, head cocked to his side, eyebrows furrowed, before nearly falling off the wall in a fit of hysterical laughter.

‘Perfect!’ he gasped, smashing his fist into the rock, tears of mirth pouring down his cheeks. ‘Absolutely perfect!’

His back slid down the barrier in the throes of his hilarity, holding his aching sides, while the dragon snorted beside him.

The Elven army watched, some bemused, most on the ground embroiled in ‘coughing fits,’ dropping all decorum in the light of the Elvenking’s...insult.

Oh, aha, I mean, they couldn’t help it. They were coughing. Helplessly.

Just coughing.

‘LET US IN OR LET THE DWARVES DOWN!’ Thranduil shrieked, his voice nearing registers invisible to the mortal ear, pointed or no.

The dragon’s head snaked down further, temporarily forgetting his hilarity.

‘Well, you see, the dwarves are mine and you can’t have them.’

The dragon’s suddenly menacing voice carried layers upon layers; a high keening which brought Thranduil’s teeth to the edge, a medium growl carrying insurmountable amount of unspoken threats, and a deep bass snarl that made the Elvenking cower like a dog in a thunderstorm, to name but a few. The elves gazed up, breathless, as the dragon’s eyes flashed gold and a snarl exposed his pointed incisors. There was a long moment of terrified silence.

‘I suppose that excludes the first option, so I shall allow you inside.’

At the blink of an eye, the dragon had reverted back to his impeccably polite, harmless exterior, and Thranduil found himself robbed of breath as the dragon withdrew his neck and ambled down the stairs.

Thorin smirked unashamedly at the flabbergasted look on the Elvenking’s normally arrogant face.

---

‘Make sure your fingers are clean, your hair is brushed, and there must be a complete lack of footwear. Additionally, if you touch one of my china pieces or wrinkle one of my handkerchiefs, I will lecture you on Ming Dynasty vases until your ears bleed.’

Thranduil gulped as Thorin and the twelve other dwarves snickered.

Bilbo stomped off into the sea of handkerchiefs, leaving the Elvenking and his two guards alone with the posse of dwarrows.

‘Would he really?’ the blonde guard asked, looking vaguely interested.

‘Oh, aye lad,’ Dwalin grinned, not-so-subtly eyeing the green shade tinting Thranduil’s features. ‘But for King Tree-Shagger here, ‘twould be much worse.’

‘Indeed,’ Balin said, nodding grimly.

‘Yes, ‘e would dream up much worse tortures,’ Dori added, jumping in with an uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

‘’E’d maybe strangle him with a handkerchief.’

‘Or stick ‘is ‘ead in his mummy’s best china!’

‘Beat the manky chav to death with ‘is favourite silver spoons!’

‘Scrub ‘im raw then drown ‘im in bathwater!’

‘Force-feed the prat Bombur’s vegetable soup!’

‘Shove Brussel Sprouts up ‘is nose!’

‘Cut ‘im up and make a luvly asshole casserole!’

The dwarves roared with laughter at the delicate shade of chartreuse gracing Thranduil’s features.

‘No, you’re all wrong,’ said Bilbo as he slithered down one of the mountains of linen. ‘I would dress him as a lettuce and feed him to the snails; it would be an exceedingly slow death.’

The Company cackled with delight, and the two elven guards let out the most inelegant snorts, stuffing their knuckles into their mouths. Thranduil was reinflating once more with rightful anger as his own subjects dissolved into ‘coughing fits.’

‘That is enough!’ Thranduil boomed (or squeaked, depending on how generous you want to be). ‘I will not stand here and be insulted by a band of…a band of…dwarves!’

‘Well, go on and stand over there if you please, it doesn’t make much difference to us.’

Thranduil hissed like a cat, narrowed eyes furious upon Thorin, whose shit-eating grin was most likely not helping matters.

‘If I throw a stick, will you leave?’ he snapped.

He was actually feeling quite proud of himself until Thorin replied, cocking an eyebrow.

‘Depends, will it be the stick from up your ass?’

Thranduil stared at him, his mouth slightly open, unsure of how his comment got turned back on him so effectively. His two guards had dropped any pretence of coughing and were rolling on the floor with the Company, shrieking like banshees.

‘Enough!’ the red-haired one pleaded weakly, slapping her hand on the cobblestones. ‘Enough!’

‘What’s the matter?’ Thorin innocently asked the stricken Elvenking. ‘Did you use up your entire vocabulary?’

Bilbo made a noise like a mouse being stomped on, followed by a few like a cat hacking a hairball, as he tried to contain his mirth. Thranduil made a little strangled sound, his eyes bulging.

‘Oh, look, now he’s choking on all the stray bullshit floating around after his last sentence,’ Thorin observed dispassionately.

It was this rather unfortunate comment which pushed the Elvenking over the edge, and he leapt at Thorin with a screech and murder in his eyes.

Only to be instantly smacked out of the air like a buzzing fly.

He blinked the stars out of his eyes and looked out to see the dwarves sniggering or rolling their eyes, his two guards looking a bit surprised, and the dragon…cuddling Thorin like a teddy bear.

Thorin resigned to his fate with a little sigh as Bilbo pinned him against his scales. From experience, the dragon wouldn’t let him go until at least tomorrow, if not next week.

Let’s just say this was not the first time.

The dragon glared at Thranduil with an incensed golden eye like he was trying to set the elf on fire with the power of pure concentration, hiding the dwarf from view with one massive wing.

‘Try another stunt like that and I’ll fetch my snails,’ Bilbo snarled, a manic gleam in his eye. 

Somehow, Thranduil knew the dragon wasn’t joking.

Chapter Text

Thorin woke up to a cacophony, to say the least.

‘I WILL NOT LET SOME DIRTY BARGEMAN BEFOUL THESE HALLS! ALL OF THESE DWARVES ARE BAD ENOUGH!’

‘DIRTY BARGEMAN? YOU CHURLISH, BEEF-WITTED, DUNDER-HEADED EXCUSE OF A HOBGOBLIN! A  BRAIN-ADDLED STINKWORM COULD COME UP WITH A BETTER INSULT!’

‘A HOBGOBLIN, IS IT? I’LL SHOW YOU, YOU – YOU – WHINGING HAMSTER!’

‘HA! I LAUGH IN THE FACE OF YOUR FOLLY, YOU BESLUBBERING BEETLE-BRAINED CLOT-POLE!’

‘Wow, quite impressive things ‘e’s spouting, eh?’

‘Oh, aye! Very impressive indeed. Might take some notes.’

‘Hush, you! Ori! Cover your ears!’

‘Ahh, be reasonable. Don’t deprive the laddie of such an educational experience.’

‘DOO-DOO HEAD!’

‘Hmm…I suppose it could be useful. In future situations.’

‘LOGGERHEADED ONION-EYED SCUT!’

‘Do you suppose the Elvenking will ever come up with a good insult?’

‘PEPE FACE!’

‘I’m going with no.’

‘Bard’s insults are th’ bee’s knees though, aye?’

‘LUMPISH HEDGE-BORN FLAP-DRAGON!’

‘Oh, aye, ‘e’s right brassed off.’

‘TREE-TICKLER!’

‘Bilbo’s about to blow ‘is stack. I’m givin it fifty pops.’

‘MANGLED MILK-LIVERED GIGLET!’

‘More like ten. ‘is precious handkerchiefs are in danger, and ‘is chi is being disturbed.’

‘F...RAPPY TWERK!’

‘INFECTOUS HUGGER-MUGGER!’

‘WILL YOU SHUT UP!?’

There was an abrupt silence. Thorin had finally reigned in one of his now all-too-common giggling fits enough to be able to peer over his nest of handkerchiefs and down into a clearing amidst the sea of starched linen. The scene below was odd, but by this point Thorin was well-versed in odd and did not think much of it.

The King Of The Tree-Shaggers was standing with clenched hands and purple face, glaring at a tall grim-faced man who was also shaking with anger. The twelve dwarves of the Company, along with Thranduil’s escort and three human children, sat cross-legged watching the spectacle with appreciative smirks. Bilbo had appeared from behind one of his mountains, and he did not look all too happy.

‘You are disturbing my chi with all of this racket!’ he barked. ‘Whatever is going on?’

‘This…water-rat…has seen fit to befoul the air with his presence!’

‘Water-rat?! Is that the best you can do, you fat-kidneyed pignut?’

‘Why, you–’

‘Oh, hush the both of you! You are behaving like spoilt faunts, and not the descendants of kings! Yes, I know you, Bard of Dale, and your ancestor Girion for that matter. As for you, Thranduil, I made it clear while allowing you to stay that you would not spout any more of those pathetic insults!’

‘They were not–’

‘Did I order a mug of your opinion?! No! So kindly hold your tongue!’

Thranduil subsided into resentful grumblings and stormed off into the sea of handkerchiefs, as Bilbo took a deep breath to try and restore his chi.

‘My deepest apologies, Master Dragon,’ the Man said, much more politely. Speaking to a dragon did tend to have that effect.

‘Oh, think nothing of it. I often wish to put the King in his place, and I daresay your insults were impressive.’

‘Why, thank you. My eldest has never been a good influence upon me.’

He raised an eyebrow at his oldest daughter, who smirked back. The dwarves’ brows slowly climbed up to their hairline.

‘Ye mean to say…the lassie showed you all of that?’ Balin asked, his eyes squinching up in disbelief.

‘Taught him all he knows,’ the girl said proudly, as her siblings nodded in fervent agreement; evidently they had been the recipients of such ire before.

‘Well, tha’ would be a sight to see and no mistake.’

The dwarves nodded fervently, in clear agreement with Gloin; even Thorin couldn’t help being a little impressed. Bilbo, evidently, did not share the same views.

‘Yes, yes, but I believe we have other issues to discuss. Namely, the matter of your arrival?’

He looked at Bard with wide eyes, which Thorin supposed was his equivalent of raised eyebrows. The Lakeman nodded respectfully and gestured to his children, as the blonde princeling drifted off with a resigned sigh to find his father.

As Thorin prepared to vault over the pile of handkerchiefs, he noticed with interest the way in which his youngest sister-son watched the red-haired she-elf. He knew those puppy eyes well; he had seen them used on four dwarrow women in Ered Luin, two hobbits from the Shire, three Elves from Rivendell and indeed the fiery elven Captain from Mirkwood. The captain in question looked like she was very used to that sort of attention (Thorin had suspicions about the princeling) as Kili trailed after her with an adoring smile.

Thorin straightened up and brushed himself off smugly, unashamedly proud of his leap. He noticed the rest of the dwarves sniggering and rolling their eyes; ignoring their guffawing, the dwarf instead looked to Bilbo as the dragon spoke.

‘Well, if we are to have a discussion, what better place to have it than over a feast?’

---

Bilbo was absolutely, unashamedly, hilariously drunk – and, oh, wasn’t it a sight to see.

‘Again!’ Fili bellowed, raising his tankard all too enthusiastically and causing the ale to slop all over his arm. The chant was echoed by the rest of the dwarves and Men until they were slamming their drinks down onto the lovely mahogany table. The dragon, who usually would have been outraged at this sort of indecent behaviour, gave a muffled giggle and obediently grasped a barrel between his jaws. Bending his snakelike neck back, he emptied the entire barrel of mead down his gullet, much to the delight of his spectators. Even the three Elves shrieked with laughter when Bilbo gave a great sneeze and two streams of fire snorted out of his nostrils, scorching the flagstones.

Bilbo grinned ridiculously at his audience, his golden eyes unusually bright; Thorin seemed determined to top the dragon’s drinking, and tipped back an entire tankard of ale in one go. This resulted in him going cross-eyed and falling off his chair, much to the amusement of his nephews.

‘To th’ blooming King Under The Mountain, may ‘is porkies never be discovered!’

The dwarves roared with laughter and waved their tankards for Nori’s somewhat garbled toast. The Men and Elves looked slightly confused, but copied the gesture with much vigour.

Sigrid struck up a rather bawdy drinking song, which the Company swiftly got the drift of and joined in raucously. It was evidently a favourite with her younger siblings, who bellowed the lines along, and the Elves yelled some made up lines to a questionable tune. This left the uncontrollably sniggering dragon in a brown-scaled heap, with Bard sitting at the chair nearest to him, tapping his foot along absently.

‘If I may ask, Master Dragon, how did you become to get ownership of this lovely place?’

Bard was in an incredibly tipsy state, so the likewise-inebriated Bilbo decided to let slip his terrible grammar. Just this once.

‘We-ell, I left my old – hic – kingdom because the – hic – décor was not to my taste.Not a – hic – at all.’

Bilbo gulped down another hiccup and shook his head drowsily, trying in vain to shake off the tingling of the alcohol. Bard was leaning towards him, unconsciously it seemed, and he was near falling off his chair.

‘And what of the old worm? Was he already dead?’

‘No,’ the dragon replied, barely stifling a hic. ‘I disembowelled hi – hic – him. Messy business it – hic – it was. Oh yes.’

‘Indeed?’ the Lakeman asked, now dangerously drooping like a wilting flower. ‘Impressive, that is.’

‘Thank you kindly,’ Bilbo replied, visibly preening. ‘The uncouth twit cost – hic – cost me one of my lovely scales!’

He narrowed his eyes in anger, head almost dropping to the floor. The chorus of Sigrid’s song was now getting incredibly loud, but oddly enough to Bilbo there was a buzzing in his ears that was much louder than the lyrics; he seemed to be floating in a content state, swimming happily around in the mush which used to be his brain.

‘Why, that boil-bottomed blackguard! I would have given it to him, I assure you!’

The inevitable happened and Bard slowly slid from his chair to the flagstones, the scowl on his face never budging. Somewhere in the fog of his mind Bilbo wondered if the man even noticed his drop.

‘Yes, my lovely – hic – lovely armour will never quite look the same. Look!’

Bilbo reared up onto his back feet, displaying the slightly paler scales of his chest. There was a noticeable gap in the golden plates, but it was filled with a pure white gem surrounded by a gentle rainbow halo.

The loud singing abruptly stopped.

Bilbo didn’t think much of it and kept babbling on indignantly to Bard.

‘It’s a – hic – pretty gem, yes, but my coat is forever defiled! All because one – hic – one fat slug was too greedy to share!’

The dwarves stared at him with wide eyes, the sight of the Heart Of The Mountain piercing their minds even in their state of intoxication. Balin was the first to regain the use of his tongue, managing to choke out a single sentence.

‘Pretty…gem?’

‘Yes,’ Bilbo sniffed. ‘Or maybe it – hic – isn’t good enough for you dwarves!’

Dwalin leaned towards a dumbstruck Thorin, widened eyes still fixed on the swaying dragon.

‘He has the Arkenstone,’ the muscled dwarf pointed out unnecessarily, his mouth hardly moving.

‘Aye,’ Thorin breathed back.

Bilbo blinked suddenly and shook his head, still oblivious to the drama he had caused in the throes of his inebriation.

‘I’ll be – hic – turning in now. Don’t stay up too late.’

And he waddled away into the sea of handkerchiefs, leaving thirteen dumbstruck dwarves, three highly confused Elves and four snuffling heaps that used to be Men in his wake.

---

Bilbo shifted happily, eagerly surveying the huge spread of food in his mind’s eye. He snorted softly and flicked his tail, burrowing deeper into the pile of linen. The handkerchiefs were heaven beneath his hot scales, and the cool air felt like a blanket as it wrapped comfortably around him. He was in a  lovely sort of contented half-doze, in slumber yet aware of his surroundings; the aftermath of the twenty barrels of mead was still a tingling wrap around his thoughts, allowing him a few more hours of rest before the real aftermath. Or until he woke up.

Which one enormously unlucky dwarf was about to cause.

It was, once again, the stabbing deep down in his gut that alerted Bilbo to a sneaker. He inwardly huffed in irritation – these thieves, honestly, trying to steal from a dragon? A hungover dragon, at that?

Bilbo felt his Tookish side rise venomously and did nothing to stop it, but when he cracked open his eye to take a peep at the impudent sneaker the Tookish side froze rather suddenly.

---

‘GEEEEEEEEEEEEEET OUT!’

‘But Bilbo–’

‘NO BUTS, YOUNG DWARF! GET OUT NOW, ALL OF YOU!’

‘My children–’

‘SHUT UP!’

‘Bilbo, you can’t–’

‘GET OUT OR I’LL THROW YOU OUT!’

‘Please–’

‘OUT!’

Bilbo trampled about before the puzzled group, his massive wings flapping agitatedly, looking more like a dragon with each passing second (albeit a very fussy, adorable one.)

‘What happened?’ Bofur managed to yell over the dragon’s rantings.

‘None of your business!’ Bilbo screeched back, buffeting them towards the door. Even the usually light-footed elves stumbled backwards, and the dwarves were knocked over and sent rolling towards the entrance.

Fili, in between rolls, noticed the signature brooding look in his Uncle’s eyes. A sudden suspicion blossomed up inside him and he leapt to his feet, narrowly avoiding the dragon’s lashing tail.

‘Uncle! What did you do?’

‘Nothing,’ Thorin snapped.

Fili dodged a spurt of fire and furrowed his eyebrows so hard he wasn’t sure they would ever come apart, bitingly sarcastic words making their complacent ways to the forefront of his mind.

‘Oh, yes, nothing. Nothing, because of course Bilbo would just go schizo for no reason, at the exact same time when you recede under your cloud of brood! Uncle! Tell me what happened!’

Thorin sighed as he ducked a flying chunk of concrete, resigning.

‘I…may have tried to retrieve the Arkenstone.’

‘You WHAT?!’ Fili shrieked, his eyes bugging.

Thorin watched his heir swell up like a bullfrog, and felt the inevitable sense of doom that comes with being trapped in a room with an incredibly hungry tiger. Luckily for the dwarrow King, at that moment Bilbo gave an extra-large wing-flap and the entire group went flying out like so many blades of grass in a storm.

The door slammed shut with an incensed crash.

‘Well,’ Bofur sighed, adjusting his hat. ‘That could’ve gone worse.’

Turning to see the immense army advancing across the plains, Bofur instantly decided that a dwarf – or any mortal being, indeed – should never, ever say that should have gone worse.

Erebor had been their only stronghold, and their host had kicked them out.

‘Fur azgen niedin,’ Thorin growled, and Bofur couldn’t help mournfully echoing the statement.

Chapter Text

The sky was blue and the dust was gold, and certain death was approaching happily across the plains towards the Company and…company.

Ori glared at the approaching armies, perhaps wishing that he could scowl strongly enough to burn the roughly ten thousand orcs to ash where they stood. Dwalin was, as ever, a stocky sentinel beside him, fully recovered from The Incident with the dragon (or so he claimed).

Dori was bouncing anxiously about in circles around his younger brother, silver braids flapping; Balin was watching him, amused (and strangely calm in the face of imminent cessation); Bifur, Bombur, Gloin and Oin had stolen Bofur’s hat (which Nori effortlessly pilfered in under two minutes); Kili was trailing after the red-headed Elven captain, joined by the blonde; Thranduil was again throwing insults at the Lakeman (and getting suitably pwn’d) and Fili was having an intense discussion on the correct method of dismembering an Orc with Bard’s eldest.

And Thorin was in the corner.

Now, you may be wondering how on earth Thorin managed to find a ‘corner’ when on a barren wasteland before a quite literally Lonely Mountain; but when he must brood, he broods (majestically) and if he wants to brood in a corner, he finds a corner (majestically).

Logic does not apply to Thorin Oakenshield when he wants to brood.

And neither does logic seem to apply to a certain grey-dressed wizard, who at that very point in time appeared out of thin air with a faint popping sound and a benign smile.

‘Makk aln ha'ak!’ Dwalin shrieked, leaping behind Ori.

Ori transferred his glare to Gandalf.

Gandalf twinkled.

‘Good afternoon, my dear dwarves! May I ask why you are labouring out here, instead of inside your Mountain?’

‘We’re out here because–’

‘Uncle’s an idiot.’

‘Bilbo kicked us out.’

‘Thorin wuz a block’ead.’

‘Bilbo ‘ad the Arkenstone.’

‘Bilbo’s wings could roll us like barrels.’

‘Aye, sent us arse over tit, ‘e did.’

‘Alright, alright!’ Gandalf tutted, flapping his arms like he was aiming to achieve lift-off. ‘Slow down, all of you!’

‘That’s what she said,’ Sigrid whispered. Fili snorted loudly and Gandalf gave them a quelling glare.

‘I have deduced from your comments that Master Oakenshield–’

‘Broodypants,’ Fili corrected under his breath, earning a snicker from Sigrid and another scowl from Gandalf.

‘Master Oakenshield attempted to retrieve the Arkenstone from…did you say Bilbo?’

‘Thorin did, last night,’ Sigrid snickered, sotto.

Fili snorted again in the most un-princely manner.

‘Aye, that we did,’ Balin said, pulling an uncanny resemblance of a grumpy housecat as he eyed the two snickering heirs.

‘Mmm…indeed…’ Gandalf hummed.

‘He blew us out just a few minutes ago–’

Fili and Sigrid’s giggles had surpassed the point of supressed laughter and reached a level akin to choking, much to the consternation of Gandalf and the Elvenking and the badly hidden amusement of the dwarves, Man and Elven guards.

‘As I was saying,’ Balin snapped, ‘Bilbo ejected us from his mountain–’

He was cut off yet again by the cackling of the two eldest heirs. Most of the others were at least hiding smirks, and the youngest Elves and dwarrow looked like they may be about to join them.

Balin huffed as he tried again.

‘We came rolling out to see a whole army of orcs coming towards us–’

Their laughter had escalated to an uncontrollable level, one some may call ‘hysterical,’ and indeed they were crying and trying (in vain) not to fall over.

‘ENOUGH!’ Balin barked. ‘There is an army c–advancing while you two idiots laugh your heads off! They have daggers and swords and spears and will not hesitate to kill you!’

There was a pause.

‘How big are these swords?’ Fili asked innocently.

Balin gave up with a sigh and a look to Gandalf as the youngest group lost all semblance of decorum and rolled on the floor, shrieking.

Gandalf tutted. ‘I see now what you have to deal with…Bilbo is an old friend. Perhaps I can talk sense in to him. In the meantime, pull Master Oakenshield over there out from his cloud of brood and at least attempt to calm those down.’

The wizard swept huffily off to the door of Erebor, while Balin listened to the crowing of the group and rubbed his forehead in resignation.

---

‘Bilbo Baggins! What are you doing hiding away like a fauntling?’

Gandalf gave his best patronizingly questioning look to the door, slightly disappointed that it was wasted on the inanimate slab of stone.

‘I am not hiding,’ came a sniff from inside.

‘Then open this door!’

A pause.

‘Shan’t!’

Gandalf pursed his lips, getting the feeling that this would take a while.

‘Bilbo, please, there is an army–’

‘Don’t care!’

‘They will all perish without your aid!’

‘Those rats deserve it,’ Bilbo huffed. ‘Do you know what they did? They tried to steal my favourite rock!’

Gandalf raised his eyes to the sky, cursing childlike dragons and stubborn dwarves and the world in general (aside for his goodself, of course).

‘Yes, yes, but only one tried, the others did not–’

‘The others didn’t stop him.’

‘Oh, for Yavanna’s sake, Bilbo–’

‘Can’t hear you!’

Taking a steadying breath, Gandalf pinched the bridge of his nose.

‘Bilbo, please, this could alter the fate of Middle Earth!’

‘Well, Master Oakenshield shouldn’t have tried to steal my stuff!’

‘You are being childish!’

‘He started it,’ Bilbo snapped mulishly. ‘I’ve heard enough, I’m going.’

Gandalf groaned softly as the distinctive sounds of a dragon stomping away in a huff reached his ears.

‘Curse these imbeciles,’ he muttered to himself.

---

The army of Mordor poured across the plains like the blackest of oil across darkening dust. Intimidating war-worms that looked remarkably similar to oversized maggots thrashed and oscillated their pointy teeth; Orcs and goblins shouted rough war cries and shook their spears; huge war-bats chittered and flapped through the evening sky; Wargs snarled and shook their beastly heads, and all manner of monsters, fiends and horrid little devils gathered on the dust before Erebor. And at the head of it was one huge pale Orc on his huge pale Warg, brandishing his upgraded fake arm with a feral grin.

‘We,’ proclaimed Kili cheerfully, ‘are so screwed.’

The rest of the Company grumbled in agreement, hefting their respective nasty pointy objects. The Elves were silent and lock-jawed, ethereal features as sharp as razorblades, and the Men were twirling their longswords in their capable grips. Well, only Bard and Sigrid were; Bard had eventually managed to convince Bain to leave after telling him he had to look after Tilda (which was absolutely unnecessary and much to the contrary). Gandalf had stormed off to sulk, after reusing his old dialogue (‘Myself!’) but in exchange Thorin’s brood had been broken by an exasperated Fili.

‘Aye, lad,’ Bofur muttered. ‘Stuffed like teddy bears, we are.’

Thorin scowled, but he had been scowling anyway so no one thought much of it.

‘Our last stand,’ Balin murmured, a strange glazed look in his eye. Dori put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, transferring his mother-henning tendencies away from Ori for once.

The dwarf in question was stroking his fingers through Dwalin’s beard; Bofur and Nori were muttering quietly; Bard and Thranduil were glaring at each other; Kili and the red-haired guard were exchanging soft looks, while the princeling watched with a sad song playing in his head (oneeeee is the loneeeeeeliest numberrrrrrrr); Bombur was lovingly caressing a muffin; Bifur was fixing Oin’s ear-trumpet; Gloin was staring at the image of his wife, and Fili and Sigrid were pulling faces.

‘Ugh, too much love in the air. I’m choking.’

Fili winced in agreement.

‘Aye, I don’t think there’s anyone who isn’t mooning over something or another.’

Sigrid paused halfway through her nod of agreement and gave the dwarrow prince a questioning look.

‘My Da and the Elvenking are glaring at each other,’ she pointed out, jerking her head to where they shot metaphorical daggers. (Maybe not entirely metaphorical, but that’s irrelevant.)

‘And?’ Fili prompted, raising an eyebrow.

Sigrid frowned at the two glowering monarchs. It clicked after a moment.

‘Oh. Right.’

A barbed spear sailed past millimetres away from Sigrid’s ear and she watched its path with a sort of detached interest.

‘D’you reckon we should form up now?’ she asked the dwarrow prince, giving an appraising look to the advancing ranks of orcs.

‘Probably should, aye.’

‘In that case,’ Sigrid replied casually. Before Fili knew what hit him she had an extra (and familiar) karambit in her palm, seeming tiny and insignificant beside her falchion.

‘Is that my…’

Rudely, a screaming orc scout interrupted his question by slamming in to him and attempting to stab him through the jugular. Offended, Fili promptly unsheathed his neck knife and sliced open its trachea.

‘How rude,’ Sigrid sniffed. Fili tutted in agreement.

Their attention was caught by Thorin drawing his sword with a flourish. He’d always had a flare for the dramatic.

‘My brethren!’ he bellowed, the wind very majestically catching his dark hair; Fili could almost forget that he had been sulking like a two-year-old a few minutes ago.

‘Today is the day we avenge our brothers, our sisters, and complete our quest for Erebor. We may not survive, but we will live on in the tapestry of the Fates. We may fall, but our people will rise. We may go down, but by Mahal, we will go down in flames!’

The Company and Company cheered and bellowed and stabbed their swords into the darkening sky. The advancing orcs roared in reply, their cries shaking the ground and rattling the defenders’ bones. Fili turned towards the army, knives in hand, Sigrid at his side, and thought that perhaps this was not the worst way to go.

And then Thorin was shot through the side.

---

The battle was surprisingly short, much shorter than even the most pessimistic of the Company expected. Only this time, the pessimistics’ fears did not come true, except for perhaps those of the orc army.

The orc army was suitably and undoubtedly, to use the best possible word, pwn’d.

Of course it would never have been possible without Bilbo.

---

It was only a few seconds after Thorin was hit by a Morgul arrow that Bilbo came bursting out of the doors of Erebor, murder in his eyes and a handkerchief in his claws. Pausing only to give Thorin the handkerchief, exasperatedly, Bilbo took to the skies.

A completely accurate description of the ensuing  battle is encaptured in the following chapter.

Chapter Text

Bilbo totally pwned everything in his path and Sauron’s army got rekt. He especially enjoyed tearing Bolg’s head off and the giant worms made a nice appetizer.

It was a 360 noscope.

Chapter Text

Bilbo wheeled over the armies of darkness, raining molten fire and scoldings upon their dirty heads. Thorin watched with wide eyes as the army was totally pwn’d, and a single thought ran through his mind:

I am going to marry that dragon.

---

But of course, Bilbo was not having any of that.

‘If we are to marry, first I will court you correctly,’ the dragon explained, drawing himself up pompously. ‘With all the proper dragon customs.’

Said customs seeming to incorporate a blend of the most ridiculously embarrassing things that Thorin had ever been subjecting to, including but not limited to: tea parties in the garden, elvish music (that one took a lot of convincing) and romantic dinners in the moonlight. Seeing as most of these involved Bilbo, Thorin was not overly opposed – he was a man (dwarf?) in love, and it is often said that love is blind.

He was not so blind, however, to miss the funny side of Bilbo trying to hold tiny utensils in his massive claws. But even the hilarity of Bilbo’s shriek after his fifteenth broken fork was not nearly enough to keep the dwarf engaged through his fiancée’s blathering.

‘And so, you have to wait a few days before watering them once more, as the poor things will drown! Agapanthuses require a strict caring procedure, blah blah blah gardening blah blah photosynthesis blah blah blah plants.’

Of course, Bilbo did not actually say ‘blah’, but to the dwarrow King, that was all the nonsense translated to; staring with glazed eyes at the chunnering dragon, the minute knife in his claws waved about passionately, Thorin was forced to consider his life choices.

How in Middle Earth did he end up before a garden trestle, listening to an elvish princeling mournfully strumming a harp, sitting across from a dragon lecturing him about agapanthuses, with a cup of tea before him? Chamomile tea, no less.

Well, at least Kili isn’t here this time, he reflected mournfully. At their last tea party, Thorin could barely hear himself think over the prince’s cackling; Fili’s laughter had thankfully not been added to the crescendo, seeing as he had been spending more and more time swordfighting with Bard’s eldest. And being mercilessly flattened, every time without fail.

Thorin reluctantly took a sip of the admittedly delicious tea, sighing to himself as Bilbo moved on to the topic of doilies.

This was so not majestic.

---

The humongous mountain of white flesh and muscles, scarred with deep weals and clumsy stitches, hunched behind a pile of lichen-encrusted stone, wincing beneath the glare of the midday sun.

Azog the Defiler was far from dead, and he was burning with a fierce desire for vengeance.

Snarling to himself in Black Speech, his horribly pale gaze raked over the kingdom before him. Clenching his intact fist, he flexed his not-quite-as-majestic-as-King-Thorin’s muscles and brought the shining tip of his blade up for scrutiny; seeing it sharp as Winter’s touch, thirsting and ready for dwarf blood, he allowed a feral smile to twist his ugly features.

‘Hey, you!’

The Pale Orc most definitely was not taken by surprise by this; he most definitely did not jump at the shout, and he most definitely did not let out a girly squeal as he whirled around.

Faced by the sight of two youthful dwarves, leaning on each other nonchalantly, Azog grinned wolfishly. If he murdered the two in a spectacular enough way, it may even make up for his…habits.

‘Come to die,’ he snarled, eyes shining with bloodlust.

‘Gotta catch us first!’ the younger sang gleefully, and just as Azog charged at them with a roar they disappeared into thin air.

Azog stared about, bemused.

‘Over here!’ came a trill from behind him. He whirled clumsily to once again see the two dwarrow princes standing with their arms linked, identical smirks plastered across their faces.

‘RARRRRRRRRRRRRR!’ Azog bellowed as he charged once again, ploughing towards the heirs like an enraged bull. Fili, watching interestedly as his steel blade shone under the midday sun, wouldn’t have been surprised if the orc would have started snorting.

Azog dove forwards, a victorious cry already on his lips as his sword scythed towards them,

only to be met by thin air and a rather unfortunate face-plant into a rather unfortunate pile of mud.

‘Hnnnng!’ Azog gritted as he pulled free from the mud with a horrible sucking sound.

‘Oi, fatso! Get that tubby butt out of the mud and geddover here!’

Azog complied with a shriek that sounded uncannily like metal tearing, and even more uncannily like a certain Elvenking. Steaming towards the two princes, who were now lounging atop a boulder, Azog wiped the mud from his face with a snarl.

‘You will perish in the flames of hellfire!’ he promised, guttural tones designed to send shivers down the spine of any within hearing range.

‘Well, at least it’ll be warmer than this freezing hole,’ Kili said optimistically. Fili nodded seriously in agreement, pulling his foot out of the way as Azog snapped at it like a piranha.

‘Mm, nice and toasty.’

Azog let out another shriek as his intended prey was pulled away.  Bunching his still-smaller-than-majestic-King-Thorin’s muscles he gave a great leap, flying at the two princes,

only for them to promptly disappear and for him to promptly nose-dive into the ground.

 ‘AGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!’ he screeched as watery mud slid down his cheeks. The roaring of laughter behind him did little to dissuade his anger; in fact, when he turned yet again to face the dwarrow his eyes positively burned with rage.

Charging yet again (he really was not the brightest crayon in the box) he waved his blade maniacally, all semblance of intelligence flying out the window. Or, flying into an unyielding rock surface, and being promptly flattened – as his nose did when the princes disappeared yet again, the sound of their giggles lingering in the air.

‘WHY WON’T YOU JUST LET ME KILL YOU?!?!’ Azog screamed at the princes. They raised their eyebrows where they lounged on a patch of warm sand, exchanging considering glances.

‘What d’you reckon?’ Fili asked speculatively, as Azog barrelled towards them, screaming bloody murder.

‘Eh, I’m getting tired of this anyway,’ Kili shrugged.

They grinned in mutual agreement and disappeared once again as Azog’s blade slammed into the patch where Fili’s head was not a nanosecond before.

This time, however, their method escape was left open; before he could stop himself, Azog was tumbling down a rough stone tunnel, an ear-piercing shriek tearing itself from his throat.

---

The massive Orc smacked into the ground with a noise like a hunk of particularly juicy meat slamming into a wall. He moaned, slowly raising his head; his fearsome eyes were crossed, his sharklike teeth exposed by his gaping mouth. Unfortunately, his (already limited) mental capacity seemed to have been irreparably damaged by this last fall, his mentality tipped over the edge of insanity.

‘Daisies,’ he breathed reverently, as if he had just realised the meaning of life. ‘Daisies and buttercups.’

Rising to his feet, Azog giggled as he swayed from side to side. Peering blearily OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK AM I WRITING OKAY CONTINUE at his surroundings, he took in the massive arches and spotless floor with a childish delight.

‘Pretty,’ he sang as he wandered down the massive hall. ‘Pretty, pretty, pretty. Smiles and rainbows and fairies and unicorns…’

He continued to hum as he meandered between columns of gargantuan proportions. He tittered though a huge forge room, ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ through a massive room filled with suspended walkways, and gave a final giggle as he stood at the mouth of the biggest room yet.

‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ he sang, peering appreciatively at the sea of handkerchiefs. A trickle of mud ran down his appallingly filthy arm as he reached for one of the pristine linen squares, his eyes widening as his fingers inched closer…closer…

‘NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!’ came an outraged shriek from his left, and without further ado a wall of something-or-other slammed into him for the billionth time that morning, and he was catapulted across the room. His rather impressive flight was fortunately impeded by yet another slab of stone.

Unable to even summon a moan after the crunch the impact made, Azog slid down the wall soundlessly like a gnat on a windshield. Coming to rest in a heap, the Pale Orc gazed blearily at the dragon standing over him.

‘No one,’ the creature snarled, ‘touches my handkerchiefs.’

 ---

The next few hours can, thankfully, be summed up with a few short sentences.

Pain. Horrible, terrible pain. Bloody water.

And a scrubbing brush.

‘AGGGHGRAGHGRAGHRAGH!’ Azog bellowed, thrashing and flailing madly.

‘STOP WRIGGLING!’ Bilbo shrieked, claw cuffing him about the head as the brush scrubbed mercilessly behind his ears.

Trying to impale the dragon with his blade, Azog recalled too late that the dragon had unceremoniously lobbed the sword away, seconds before he had turned to the Orc with a manic gleam in his eye.

The throwing of which had been accompanied by a cry, and a subsequent thud, but we’ll get to that later.

‘AGHRAGHAGRAGHRARGHRAAAAAAAA!’ the orc shrieked back, wrigglings doubling in intensity.

The eager watchers on the sidelines roared with amusement, cheering and punching the air. Bilbo let out a (quite accidental) spurt of flame as he wrestled with the orc, soap suds and muddy bathwater flying into the air.

‘I WILL MAKE YOU CLEAN YET!’ Bilbo snarled, waving the scrubbing brush threateningly. He dove back into the fray, great golden eyes narrowed; the cheering of the spectators increased in intensity, spearheaded by a certain Thorin Oakenshield. The dwarrow King watched his fiancée torture an orc with naught but a scrubbing brush, his eyes soft and his hands clasped.

He decided that the dragon was, without a doubt, worth sitting through lectures on doilies for.

---

Now, we shall return to what occurred after Bilbo threw the brush. As you may recall, there was a cry and a thud following the dragon’s reckless throw.

Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm was meandering through the sea of handkerchiefs, a sad song echoing through his mind and images of Tauriel and the dark-haired dwarf talking and laughing together imprinted on the back of his eyelids. He was just deciding to give up, let them be happy, when a slight whistling noise alerted him to the presence of a very pointy object approaching him at terminal velocity.

Luckily for his continued existence, he was smacked on the head by the blunt end and not the sharp one. He crumpled to the floor, out like a light.

The ramifications of which would be much more far-reaching than expected.

Two hours later, Bilbo and Thorin were sitting together, the dragon curled possessively around the dwarf; the young humans were playing (read: wrestling to the death) as their older sister looked on approvingly, and Bard and Thranduil were arguing yet again.

‘ARTLESS FOLLY-FALLEN MAMEET!’ Bard bellowed, shaking with anger.

‘UGLY PICKLE!’ Thranduil shrieked. His usually ethereal features were red as a tomato, and his luscious locks were dishevelled and dirty.

‘RUTTISH POTTLE-DEEP LEWDSTER!’ the Man shouted back.

‘COME HERE, YOU USELESS WORM!’ Thranduil bellowed, his arm out.

‘FINE, YOU SCABBY RECTUM!’ Bard snapped, cuddling into the elf’s side. Thranduil wrapped his arm around him, sending out burning glares to whoever dared glance at the two of them.

As for the dwarves, most of them were simply trying (and failing) not to burst into hysterical laughter. Aside for the notable exception of one, whose source of sadness was currently cosseting a certain elven prince.

Tauriel was kneeling, Legolas’s head in her lap, as she stroked her fingers through his hair and hummed to him softly. The Elven prince had a huge, giddy smile on his face, which both the Elvenking and Kili threw oddly similar resentful looks at.

Said dwarrow heir sat hidden in an alcove of handkerchiefs, arms crossed, mulish expression upon his face. He’d tried his best to follow his Uncle Thorin’s example and majestically brood, but all he could achieve was to look like a kicked puppy.

He looked up mournfully at Sigrid, who was watching approvingly as Tilda flipped her brother over her shoulder.

‘Sigrid,’ he called forlornly.

Sigrid turned, her amused expression instantly moulding into one remarkably similar to the one achieved when viewing an injured baby rabbit.

‘What is it?’ she asked breathlessly, darting to his side and kneeling by him, hand hovering about his shoulder as if he were too special to touch.

‘Will I…will I ever find love?’ he asked, melting brown eyes gazing up at her from behind his dishevelled fringe.

Sigrid looked like she’d just been stabbed through the heart.

‘Of course! Of course you will, Kili. Of course,’ she added one more time, in a desperate attempt to wipe off that wounded look from the dwarf’s precious face. Kili smiled hopefully as the brood moved on, finding a new host.

Fili looked away unhappily, hanging his head in dejection.

---

A mighty scowl twisted the face of the King Of The Woodland realm. Icy eyes narrowed above a downturned mouth as Thranduil carded his slim fingers gently through Bard’s hair; Bard hummed a little, his trademark grim expression never leaving his face, and rested his head against Thranduil’s side.

Thranduil stiffened like a dog on the hunt as he espied a certain two people.

‘Oh, hell no,’ he barked. ‘Excuse me for a second, doo-doo head.’

He slipped away from Bard, glare glued to where Kili and Sigrid knelt.

‘Hurry up, you bat-fowling fustilarian,’ Bard muttered drowsily, brow furrowed irritably.

Thranduil swept off towards the two, eyes narrowing in righteous indignation.

‘You two!’ he barked. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘What I want,’ Sigrid barked back, glaring up at him from where she cuddled Kili.

Thranduil drew himself up regally, nanoseconds away from stomping his foot and screeching in irritation.

Which he subsequently proceeded to do.

‘I will not have my daughter coddling with some…with some…dwarf!’ he shrieked, wagging his finger at her. ‘My son is bad enough!’

‘You’re not even my dad yet,’ Sigrid snapped, patting the sniffling Kili on the head as she glared up rebelliously.

‘But I will be,’ Thranduil bellowed (shrieked), ‘and I forbid you from fraternizing with this sloppy-haired, funny-looking, childish excuse of a dwarf prince!’

Sigrid glowered at him a bit more, before leaping to her feet and placing her hands on her hips. ‘Fine,’ she barked. ‘Fine!’

Steaming over to where Fili lingered desolately by a pile of handkerchiefs, Sigrid threw her arm around his neck without much ado, giving him her warmest smile.

‘Hey, Fili,’ she said sweetly, pointedly ignoring her father.

Fili flushed a deep red, his cerulean eyes glued disbelievingly to the beaming girl.

‘I love you,’ he choked, and Sigrid promptly turned an impressive shade of magenta.

Thranduil shrieked again as the two gazed into each other’s eyes; yet even he admitted that there was not much he could do, and Sigrid, sneaky bastard that she was, had found herself a loophole.

Kili watched with a sly grin, all sadness mysteriously vanishing into thin air.

---

The treasury was bathed in the syrupy light of sunset, the cavernous room almost under a sleepy spell. The dwarves, Men and Elves lay in a peaceful tangle of limbs with their respective partners; birdsong floated dreamily on the breeze; Azog and Grund sat rocking in the corner, scarred for life; the smell of mead and honey lay sweet upon the air, and Thorin lay against the warm flank of the dragon, comfortably sheltered by his massive wing. Bilbo’s usual little snufflings and shiftings as he slept calmed the dwarf’s mind; he watched sleepily as Azog and Grund compared their “scars”, desolate look never leaving their eyes.

He hummed in his throat and trailed his fingers absently down Bilbo’s scales; his hand froze when it reached the tip of the Arkenstone.

Thorin’s eyes glued to the stone inseparably, watching the halo of light radiating from its pure whiteness with blank eyes.

He dazedly cast his gaze out, sweeping over the treasury.

He could see the Orc and the Burglar, heads close together as they whispered.

He could see Bard and Thranduil, snuggled up against each other and frowning even in sleep, the youngest boy wedged between them.

He could see Dwalin, a mop of brown hair just poking out from the secure circle of his muscular arms.

He could see Balin, sitting against a pillar with his head tilted towards Dori, a fragment of parchment limp in his hand, like they had fallen asleep reading it together.

He could see Oin, fingers entangled in the black-and-white mane that rested upon his chest.

He could see Gloin, his locket pressed to his heart.

He could see Bofur, hatted head propped up against Nori’s shoulder.

He could see Bombur, his muffin clenched in his meaty fist.

He could see Kili, arms around the little human girl, who had one small fist wound around his braid.

He could see Fili, who was stretched out, using Sigrid’s stomach as a pillow.

He could see Bilbo, golden scales shimmering even in the half-light of the treasury.

And he could see the shards of blue pottery carefully stacked in the corner, all that remained of a Ming Dynasty vase that met its prompt end at the foot of a stomping Dwarf King, more than four months ago.

Thorin rested his head against Bilbo’s scales, and decided that the Arkenstone had always looked better on him anyway.

-fin-