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Chapter Text

Bilbo did not know what kept him in Erebor after Thorin was laid to stone with his nephews. Grief filled Bilbo’s heart and weighed down his legs, even as the mountain around him came back to life. He longed for the Shire, her green hills and cheerful inhabitants. And yet, he remained, wandering the halls, searching for… something.

The Company was loathe to leave him alone, a reasonable concern given his sense of direction underground was almost as bad as Thorin’s above ground. So one was always at his side, trading off through the day and between days depending on who was needed where in the reconstruction efforts. At least the gold-sickness had finally faded from their eyes. Whether it was Thorin’s death, the battle, or just time, Bilbo did not know. But he welcomed having his friends return to themselves.

Dwalin was with Bilbo the day he found the room. It was a small space hidden in the depths of what had once been the royal quarters. The area was partly destroyed and somewhat unstable since Smaug had clawed out a number of walls to reach the gold and gems that had once encrusted the hallowed halls. But this room had survived, if not untouched, then minimally damaged. There was no gold here, no gems. No decoration at all save small stone sculptures tucked in niches carved roughly into the walls.

“What are these?” Bilbo asked, stepping closer for a better look. Dwalin caught his hand before he could touch, however.

“We should not be here.”

“Why not? You said it was stable.”

“This is not for the eyes of the likes of us.”

“Dwalin?” Bilbo peered at his companion, pleading with his eyes for understanding.

The big dwarf sighed, defeated. He held Bilbo back, but did not pull him from the room. “Thorin told me of this place. Shouldn’t exist, but Thrain was a bit… touched sometimes, even before the sickness.”

Bilbo frowned. “There’s no gold here, no sign there ever was.”

“No, no gold. But this…” Dwalin gestured at the statues. “Should not have been left for others. Dwarves have their secret ways, and we keep them.”

“I’ve noticed,” Bilbo said dryly. So long in the company of his friends, and still they hid the meaning of their language from him.

Dwalin frowned. “And yet, somehow I feel…”

“Yes?” Bilbo prompted when nothing followed for a good long time.

“I shouldn’t know this, and you shouldn’t. And yet it wants to be told.” Dwalin stepped closer to a niche, shining more light on the statue within. It looked a like a child, a baby even, curled up in sleep. The stone was rough, a few edges unfinished, but the curve of the cheek reminded Bilbo of Kili.

A gasp slipped from him at the pain of the memory. Oh how he missed the Durins.

“Wants to be told… yes. Mahal made the seven fathers of stone, and the One gave them life. But Mahal was not meant to create, not then, or perhaps he did not think it through, but he did not create dwarrrowdams to go with the dwarrow, so his children could not increase. So he sought guidance from the One and was permitted to teach his children to carve their own children. So the great fathers begat many children, and some of them were dwarrowdams, and in time we began to procreate as others of Middle Earth do. But the way of stone was not forgotten, and sometimes those who could not have children another way would carve theirs.”

Bilbo stared at the small bodies all about him, his stomach churning uneasily. “These are… Whose?”

“Thain and his dam could not conceive, so they turned to the old ways. It does not work every time, but he tried time and again, and three times they were blessed.”

“Thorin, Dis…”

“Ferin. He died at Azanulbizar.”

Bilbo nodded even as he wondered at Thrain’s success.

“Properly done, one should destroy those whom Mahal does not touch.” Dwalin’s hand cupped a tiny cheek without touching it. “Another should never touch, never see a child that was not meant to be. But he would not. Thorin said… he said Thrain told him that he felt some of these were not his, though his hand carved them. He ordered them left here, protected for future generations… but poor protection it proved to be when Smaug came.”

“I wonder if there’s one here who should have been Thorin’s.” Bilbo startled himself, not knowing the words until they came from his own lips.

~o0o~

Explorations petered off. Whatever drove Bilbo to walk the halls of Erebor faded, and he began to turn his eye to the west once more. When Gandalf mentioned he was heading that way, Bilbo started packing. It was time to go home.

The Company pressed presents upon him, far more than he could ever carry. King Dain seemed determined to send one fourteenth of the treasure with Bilbo, despite the complete impossibility of sending even one thousandth with any single person. Bilbo accepted few of the gifts and found other homes for a few others (there were plenty of deserving dwarrow flooding back to Erebor, and more would come as the seasons turned). The contents of his pack were carefully chosen for weight and usability, with a minimum of frills. Save one, oddly light chunk of stone, hidden in the depths.

It did not see the light of day the whole way back to the Shire.

~o0o~

It took Bilbo most of the spring to retrieve his property from the various friends and relations who had taken part in the auction before he returned. Bilbo tried making a visit to Michel Delving to speak to the Mayor, But the head of the sheriffs refused to step into a family dispute. So Bilbo went to Tukborough to speak with the Thain. Cousin Fortinbras was more than willing to bring pressure to bear on Lobella Sackville-Baggins regarding the theft of Baggins property. Confronted with the war leader of the Shire, the gossiping pain Bilbo had the misfortune to call cousin buckled like wet paper.

He might have taken a little pleasure in seeing that.

Once Bilbo had his silver spoons and his mother’s shawls back where they belonged, he did not settle down in Bag End as he had expected. His feet would not be still, the urge to wander hither and yon dragging him out of his armchair and past his door.

He took to traveling across the Shire, stopping in to visit various friends and relations. His feet took him across the Brandywine and on to Bree, then back by way of the Old Forest. And there, in the old woods, so different from Mirkwood and yet just as touched by something else, he found a branch. It was oak, well-seasoned, of no particular shape or heft. But the moment it made its way into Bilbo’s pack, his feet were at ease and his nose turned toward home.

~o0o~

Holman Greenhand was the first to notice Master Baggins had taken up wood carving. As the caretaker of Bag Ends’s gardens, Holman spent more time around the largest home in the Hill than anyone but its owner. He didn’t think much of it, as a traveler would pick up all kinds of new hobbies, until he spotted a delicately carved hobbit foot, and just a foot, in Master Baggins hand one day in late summer.

He thought it odd. Most who went about such things in that manner used a single piece of wood in the seed, but who was the gardener to correct a gentlehobbit?

“Will you be wanting a fall planting or spring?” Holman asked, trying to consider the best spot in the garden in either case.

“Fall, I think,” Master Baggins replied after a moment of thought.

“You’ll want a good mulch bed then,” Holman said with a nod. None in his family had fallen back on such ways in many generations, but the Greenhands still trained their young in the lore. “Gaffer Grange has some good pine needles left.”

“Any source for oak chips?

“Probably could come up with some. Might have some leaves to add too. Maple might be sweeter.”

Master Baggins shook his head, eyes lost on some distant sight. “No, better be oak.”

Bit of an odd choice for a hobbit, but it wasn’t Holman’s child. He shrugged and promised he’d have something put together for the garden.

~o0o~

Hobbits had many secrets, perhaps as many as the dwarfs. But no one knew about hobbit secrets, so no one went looking for them. When Dwalin had told Bilbo of the deepest secret of dwarrow children, Bilbo had kept the deepest secret of hobbit children behind his teeth.

His parents had told him the lore, taught him more carefully than most parents did. Hobbits were a fecund species for the most part, but Yvanna had promised even the exceptions would have a chance and taught them one more use for their gardens. Bilbo had been grown in this very garden, the one success out of many attempts.

Spring plantings were the norm amongst hobbits. A carful carving, some additions to make a viable seed, planted in the spring to take advantage of the warmth of the fertile earth. Bungo and Belladona Baggins had had no luck with spring planting. But they had tried, again and again, until Old Took had come by and suggested a fall planting.

“Give the little faunt time to consider before summer drags him up,” he’d said. And it had worked, if just the once. Fall plantings were more common for Tooks than Bagginses, but Bilbo had a feeling he’d best give this child all the time he could.

It was half dwarf after all.

Or maybe more.

Bilbo did the garden bed preparations himself, with occasional suggestions from Holman. He turned the earth and left it loose to a good depth. He enriched the soil, provided plenty to support and feed a growing plant. Then he covered the plot in mulch and left it be until the fall.

~o0o~

The day of the planting, Bilbo removed a bundle from the bottom of his wardrobe. The bulk of the mass was Thorin’s old coat, the fur trim folded into the center to cushion the contents. At the core lay a small sculpture, smuggled from the heart of Erebor.

The carving was fine, delicate and soft, but incomplete. One arm was either tucked under or missing, and the stone had fractured at the mid shin, leaving the poor child footless. Or perhaps the stone had proven smaller than the child within. Bilbo certainly couldn’t ask Thrain what he’d been thinking when he carved that little face. But when he’d slipped back into the hidden room the night before he left Erebor, he’d known this was the sculpture to take.

The call had drawn him to it just as it had drawn him to the oak branch and the corner of the garden.

Bilbo worked long into the night, fitting the arm and feet he’d carved onto the little stone boy. As he worked, he wondered what the resulting child would be like. Would he grow a beard and be very dwarfish? Would he wear boots or despise them? Would he be as tall as his other father? What color would his eyes be? Gray stone left much to the imagination, as did pale oak.

When Bilbo was done with the basics, he considered the next step. His mother had always told him you must give something of yourself to your child, a gift to give life. Bungo had also said there must be two involved, just as two parents were needed in the normal way. Thorin had not carved this child, was not here to give something to him. Not to mention the initial steps had been taken using a tradition under a different Valar all together. There was no way this would work.

Still, Bilbo felt the need to try. He retrieved the mithril chainmail that Thorin had given him. It was impossible to be certain, but Bilbo had a feeling there had been more to that gift than any of the dwarrow would admit. It took several hours and many prayers, but he worked one link free from the edge.

“Far better than gold,” he whispered as he pressed the link over his son’s heart. “Strong and light, let it protect you always.” He wrapped the child in one of his mother’s knit shawls, the one he’d always loved most, with the bellflower pattern. “I give you shelter and comfort, warmth and protection, my son.” Using Sting, he cut his palm, then pressed the bleeding wound to the little carven face. “Blood of my blood.” From Thorin’s coat, he cut a swath of the trim, the fur matted and stained with Thorin’s blood from one or another of the battles they had shared. Bilbo pressed the fur into the wet stain his hand had left. “Blood of our blood.”

He hoped it was enough.

As dawn lit the sky over Bag End, Bilbo took the bundle in his arms and carried it into the garden. With his bare hands, he dug down through the mulch and soft, turned earth, stopping only when gut instinct told him the hole was the right depth. It seemed a bit much, but he muttered his prayers to Yvanna, added a few to Mahal, and set the bundle at the bottom.

“Please,” he pleaded as he carefully layered good, rich soil over his potential son. “Please let me have something of him to hold onto. You led me this far, Green Lady. Let it be enough.”

“There’s a nip in the air.”

Bilbo jerked upfrom smoothing the layer of mulch over the hole and turned, finding Holman by the fence.

“It’ll be turning cold soon.” Holman held up another bag of mulch. “We should get another inch of cover from this. That’ll keep the warmth in.”

“You’re too good to me, Master Greenhand,” Bilbo said.

Holman shook his head. “Hard enough using the old ways with two. Least I can do to help. You’re a good man, Master Baggins, no matter what they all say.”

A giggle escaped Bilbo. Yes, no matter what they all said. The hobbits of Hobbiton did not know what to make of Bilbo. Had it not been for the draw of this corner of the Shire, this garden above all others, he might have retreated to his Took kin. They at least understood an adventure.

“Been through a lot, you have. Some good, some bad.” Holman caught Bilbo’s hand as he stood, then clucked disapprovingly. “Should have bandaged that before you dug. Come on. I’ll clean it out good. Cut like that’s always impossible to clean yourself. And you can tell me about this one’s other father. Stories should be told, so he knows who he is.”

“He wasn’t a hobbit,” Bilbo admitted as he let himself be led into Bag End.

Holman snorted. “I should think not. Sometimes I wonder what your parents mixed into the soil when they grew you, Master Baggins. Something special, I’m sure, for you’re not quite like any other hobbit.”

~o0o~

In the spring, Bilbo savored the warmth of the sun and worked daily in the garden, sometimes with Holman and his apprentice, Hamfast, and sometimes alone. He carefully loosened the mulch over the special bed and watched for any growth. Until midsummer, there was no sign of change in the special bed, but it was Hamfast who would not let Bilbo give up hope.

“Sometimes it takes a bit. Not all hobbit, is he. A child of stone might take a bit longer to wake up, to sprout. I’m sure he’ll just prove a stubborn little bulb.”

Hamfast was right. At midsummer a little sprout appeared through the mulch. It was no weed, and its leaves were unlike any other in the garden.

“Small little thing,” Holman commented come fall. “Aren’t dwarrow larger than hobbits?”

“On average,” Bilbo agreed. “And his father was one of the tallest I’ve seen.”

“Might take a bit longer than we expected then,” Holman suggested. “I’ll have Gaffer make up some more mulch.”

When the weather turned, the leaves fell from the vines and the vines withered. Bilbo spread fresh mulch across the special bed, and if he watered it with his tears, that was for him to know.

“Have faith, Master Baggins,” Hamfast said. “My mum always says that little ones take their own time. Dwarrow live longer than us. Maybe they gestate longer too.”

~o0o~

Bilbo took the kind words to heart through the winter and was rewarded come spring with new growth. Bigger, stronger vines grew up through the mulch come spring, and by autumn the whole bed was covered in a tangle of greenery.

“Hmm,” Holman said, tapping his chin. “Strong growth, good leaves, but not a single flower.”

“Maybe he just needs a little longer,” Bilbo suggested. He’d never heard of a hobbit child taking two winters, let alone three, but this wasn’t just a hobbit. Dwarrow were stubborn folk, and Thorin more than most.

“I’ll see about another mulch order. Maybe add some gravel to it.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely idea,” Bilbo said, clasping his hands in delight. “Some granite, and maybe some chalk from the White Downs.” He certainly couldn’t get anything from Erebor, not this late in the season, but he’d write a note for the spring caravan, just in case.

~o0o~

Come spring, the new growth was even wilder and more vibrant than before. Vines took over half the garden, and no one dared trim them back. Hobbits from half of Hobbiton took to swinging by Bag End for tea, with or without an invitation, just to take a gander at the back garden. No one could imagine just how Bilbo, a bachelor, had managed such a thing. And that rumor about the child still under earth after three winters, that had to be just nonsense. Didn’t it?

Lobella and Otho Sackville-Baggins had the pleasure, or misfortune, to notice the first bud.

“Looks sickly,” Lobella insisted.

“Too wild,” Otho added.

“Look, it’s diseased.” Lobella very nearly committed an utter faux pas by touching one vine, but Bilbo slapped her hand away in time, then studied the vine carefully.

“No, not diseased,” he said softly, his voice full of wonder. A calloused hand reached out and gently stroked the vine. “Blossoming.”

By late summer the whole garden was covered in vines, each one dappled with green leaves and little blue flowers. Every flower was the exact shade of Thorin’s eyes.

Bilbo spent every day in the garden, talking, singing, even dancing with the vines when the wind caught them. He told stories of Erebor, stories of the Shire. He sang of the Blue Mountains and Rivendell. And he waited.

The first crisp notes of autumn were on the air when finally, finally, the vines began to shake without any wind. Bilbo pushed his way through the mass that had eaten his prize winning tomatoes, his honeysuckle, his lavender, down to the original bed, so lovingly tended. At the heart, he found a little hand reaching out from the soil.

“Come on,” Bilbo said. “You’re almost there, little one.” He gently touched the hand, and let those tiny fingers cup his. They were bigger than when he last saw them, and more flesh colored.

Another hand wiggled out of the soil and gripped another of Bilbo’s fingers. He held perfectly still as his son used him to lever himself from his long time bed. And when those sweet eyes finally opened from under a head of dark curls, they matched the flowers of his vine perfectly.

When he first heard the rustling, Bilbo had grabbed Thorin’s coat from where it had been hanging by the door all these years. He wrapped it around his son once the little one had extracted himself from the earth of Bag End.

“Welcome home, little one,” Bilbo whispered to lightly pointed ears. Using Sting, he cut away the last connection to the vines that had nurtured his son, then he tickled those tiny hobbit-like feet and watched his son move, flex, and show his strength in the world. “My beautiful boy.”

~o0o~

Holman felt a change in the earth after elevensies, but he stayed home through lunch. Not his place to intrude in those first moments. Still, by the time he strode back into his garden, the ripples were gone. Time for visiting.

He brought Hamfast, and they found the door open. Within the dining room, they found Master Baggins cradling a small child in the folds of that huge coat he’d had by the door so long. They were both filthy with dirt and smiling at each other like nothing else in the world mattered.

“He’s beautiful,” Hamfast offered in gentle tones.

“That he is,” Master Baggins agreed.

“Have you come up with a name?” Holman asked. It was a bit improper. Most babies weren’t named before their first birthday. But this was no simple hobbit child. He could feel the strength in those little limbs from across the room.

Master Baggins chuckled. “Aye. After much soul searching and thought. We’ll make it official next year, but may I present to you both Thorgo Baggins, son of Thorin, son of Thrain.

“At your service, Master Thorgo,” Holman said, pressing a kiss to a dirty little hand.

Thorgo smiled.

Chapter Text

Winter followed autumn, then spring, and Bilbo savored every moment of mushy food, dirty diapers, and fresh washed baby smell. Thorgo was a delight who bloomed in bright sunshine and deep shadow equally. The fellows of Hobbiton were sufficiently delighted by Bilbo's success not to ask too many questions directly, though Holman passed on some rather impressive theories that circled the town as to just who Thorgo's other parent was.

That Bilbo had seduced an elf and stolen the heart of the woods for his planting was Hamfast’s favorite. Holman preferred the tale of Bilbo falling in love with a wandering blacksmith, sharing naught but a few bits of metal for the forging of their child.

No one knew the truth.

Rumors of dwarrow in the Shire came with the warmth of spring, but it was not until one fine afternoon when Bilbo was at market that the rumors were proven true. When he turned from the stall of the candle maker, a towering bald head was looming over the local population, accompanied by Khuzdul grievances and a shock of red hair.

More hobbit heads turned as Bilbo let out a burst of laughter and trotted over. Dwalin and Gloin were pushing awkwardly through the crowd, arguing about something. Pity Bilbo couldn't understand more than general impressions in the dwarvish language. He had a feeling the conversation was one the faunts shouldn't be overhearing, had they understood.

"You're a bit early for tea," Bilbo cried once he was close enough, “but I think I can throw something together.”

A moment later, it was only Thorgo's bellow at being swung about that saved Bilbo from being crushed in an armored hug.

"Who's this?" Gloin asked, peering into the sling slung around Bilbo's chest.

"My son," Bilbo said proudly. "Now, you must be starving. I doubt you’ve had a decent meal since you left Erebor. Look at you, Gloin, thin as you were after Mirkwood. Come on, Bagshot Row is this way." He led the dwarrow in the opposite direction from which they had been going, noting that Dwallin seemed vindicated though both seemed oddly depressed.

Light conversation filled the walk to Bag End. Dwalin and Gloin were on their way to Ered Luin to touch base with family and plan the next caravan of folks moving back to Erebor. Most of the conversation was quickly filled with Gloin's rhapsodic delight at shortly seeing his wife and son again.

"I'm surprised you could stand the delay of stopping by," Bilbo said lightly. Though he was also surprised it had taken this many years for the Company to come back this way or that the dwarrow of Ered Luin hadn’t made their way to Erebor en mass years past.

The comment, however, earned him a slap on the shoulder that very nearly sent him heels overhead across the path. "Nonsense," bellowed Gloin. "Of course we stopped by. We’re here to visit family. Had to check on our burglar."

Bilbo felt warm right to his heart to hear that. Once he got his balance back, anyway.

Dwalin said very little. Not on the road, not over a cold snack back at Bag End, not while smoking in the garden while Gloin dandled Thorgo on his knee.

"When will your wife be back?" Gloin asked after yet another pointed look from Dwalin.

"Ah, no wife." Bilbo laughed, imagining his dwarven friends’ expressions if they heard the latest from Hobbiton on that score. Rumors of Erebor were coming in, and the dragon and crafting Thorgo from one of Smaug’s scales was a popular idea with the faunts.

"But..." Dwalin gestured at Thorgo.

Bilbo smiled a secretive smile. “Oh, we hobbits have our ways.” He scooped his son from Gloin’s arms and planted the lad in Dwalin’s lap. “Same as you dwarrow.”

Dwalin looked at Bilbo, confusion and wonder in his eyes. Then he looked at Thorgo, really looked at him. Thorgo looked back, blue eyes wide as he took in only the second bearded face he’d ever seen. Then he grabbed the tip of Dwalin’s beard and began gumming at it.

“Kili used to…” Dwalin stopped, his eyes wide as he looked over at Bilbo. “You… you never did tell us his name.”

"Ah, it's a hobbit thing,” Bilbo said with a shrug. “We don't announce a baby's name to all and sundry until their first birthday. But I suppose it's all right to tell you. Since you're family."

"How?" Dwalin asked, his throat strangling on the word.

"His name is Thorgo" was Bilbo's only answer.

~o0o~

Dwalin and Gloin left in the morning with promises to return and firm knowledge of Thorgo's naming day, if no other particulars of his birth. Bilbo didn't expect much. Thorgo had been born so late in the fall that no journey to Erebor would be possible after, and like as not Dwalin and Gloin would be back in Erebor long before to tend to whatever duties they had under King Dain.

Summer passed with lazy days, food aplenty, and a growing baby. Thorgo got his first chin fuzz, much to Bilbo’s bemusement.

“Your cousin is surely cursing a blue streak in the Halls of Mahal,” Bilbo told his son, imagining Kili’s face.

Autumn rolled in with warm sun turning to cool rains as the harvest finished. A cold bite was in the air two days before Thorgo's naming day, but Bilbo still had high hopes for an outdoor party. Most of Hobbiton was invited, and there was no room for them all in his smial.

At exactly four o'clock, there was a knock on the bright green door of Bag End. Bilbo dusted off his hands, as he had been deep in forming another pie crust for the various treats he would be feeding to all and sundry two days hence, and answered it. He'd expected a neighbor offering to help out, or maybe the Sackville-Bagginses coming by to be a nuisance. It had been long enough since Thorgo threw up on Lobella that they might come around again. But the face at the door was too tall for a hobbit and both completely unknown and utterly familiar.

Bilbo’s heart caught in his throat. He might have stood in the doorway forever, trapped by those blue eyes, but Thorgo let out a wail in the kitchen and Bilbo snapped back to the moment.

He knelt. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

A large, calloused hand, though neither as large nor as calloused as the one he’d once known, caught his hand and pulled him to his feet. “None of that, my dear fellow. It is I who am at your service, for all you have done for my family.”

“Not enough,” Bilbo said with a shake of his head.

His visitor snorted, elegantly. “I know better than anyone the impossibility of saving my fool brother from himself. You did enough, Master Baggins.”

“My lady.”

“Dis, please.”

“Then I am Bilbo. Please, come in. I was just about to start tea.” Bilbo finally looked past Thorin’s sister, Fili and Kili’s mother, and checked how many had come. Only Dwalin stood behind his cousin.

Dwalin followed Dis inside but quickly slipped past even Bilbo to scoop up Thorgo from his playpen in the kitchen. Rough warrior’s hands made quick work of changing the baby while Bilbo prepared the tea. Somehow the conversation stuck to small updates and gossip as they sipped tea and munched scones.

Only once the table was bare did Dis pick up her nephew and carefully study him. Thorgo studied her in return, entranced by the beads that tipped the many braids woven in both her beard and hair. Finally, Dis traced a finger down Thorgo’s downy cheek, even softer now with the darker fuzz newly growing, and looked at Bilbo.

“How?” she asked softly. It was not a command or a demand. Rather it was a plea, a prayer.

So Bilbo answered, showing them the mithril and the patch in the garden, describing the vines that had taken over (his tomatoes were still recovering) and the mulch mix he had used. At the end, after the tale of Thorgo’s birth, they sat around the table with a light, cold supper, for Dis would not let Bilbo take the time to cook, and Dis’ eyes were alight with wonder.

“I never thought I should have the chance to hold my brother’s child. Never.”

Bilbo smiled wryly. “Well, it’s hard to say if you are. It was Thrain’s carving I started with.”

Dis shook her head and cuddled the sleepy Thorgo close to her chest. “No, this is Thorin’s child.”

Bilbo wondered if this is what Thorin would have looked like holding his son. The two siblings looked much alike despite differences in age and gender, and the image tugged at every heartstring the hobbit could hold. Still, he wondered at Dis’ certainty.

Dwalin explained. “It’s the eyes, burglar. King Thrain’s were green, and Prince Frerin’s. The blue came from Queen Meris. So Thorgo must be Thorin’s.”

“I don’t know if it was the mithril or the blood, but you succeeded in giving my brother a son.”

“I think…” Bilbo took a deep breath and leaned back from the table, wondering for a moment if he’d be losing his son this day. “I think he was already Thorin’s. I was just lead to the right seed.” He shrugged. “So to speak.”

Dis nodded, eyes distant. “Yes. I think…” She blinked and shook her head, and Thorgo’s arms darted out to catch the silver beads that flew past him. “Mahal works in mysterious ways.”

“Doubly so when the Green Lady decides to help him,” Bilbo offered cheekily.

Laughter filled the room, deep and dwarvish, and Bilbo missed the Company fiercely.

When it settled, Dis asked a question Bilbo did not expect. “What do you know of dwarvish courting?”

Bilbo sputtered a moment and drank some water to cool the blush that flared in his cheeks. “Not much. I might have pieced together a bit from some of Gloin’s tales, but…”

Dis gestured for specifics.

“Gifts. There seem to be a lot of gifts involved, with meanings.” Bilbo plastered on a smile and remembered the games of his youth. “We hobbits use food and flowers, ourselves, and the composition of a bouquet can say a lot about the precise feelings shared. I gathered that the right bead has similar meaning for dwarrow.”

The dwarrow shared a look, and Dwalin chuckled. “I told you he was a clever fellow.”

“Dragon riddler,” Dis said, and Bilbo shivered. “Beads mean much, and there are gifts. But some gifts are far more than simply courting gifts…” She paused and bit her lip.

Dwalin snorted and took over. “She’s trying to say that Thorin was courting with that mithril.”

Bilbo felt his jaw drop as both hope and sorrow welled in his heart. “Courting? Really, don’t be absurd. Thorin was half out of his mind with gold sickness—”

“Do you wonder why my brother’s Company calls you burglar yet?”

“It’s an inside joke. That’s what they hired me to be,” Bilbo said primly.

“We call you that because you stole the unstealable. The arkenstone from under the nose of a dragon and a gold sick king. The kingdom of Erebor from Smaug. The heart of the king in exile.” Dwalin, the hard hearted warrior who had seen so much, done so much, killed so many, clearly believed his words with every fiber of his being. “He was lost in dragon-sickness, and he gave you mithirl, offered you protection from all harm and one of the most valued treasures in his mountain.”

“And in turn, you crafted a son, a gift formed of your own hands and craft,” Dis said. “How can I not believe you loved my brother just as much?”

Bilbo bit his tongue lest he say something to offend. He rolled Dwalin’s words over one way, Dis’ over another. The dwarrow gave him silence, and when he reached out, Dis handed over his son. Thorin’s son.

“I loved him,” Bilbo said into the silence. “I love him still, though I little expected him to understand. I never wanted… a wife, or a husband. I had hoped, someday, to meet someone to share space with, a companion to fill the long hours of the night. Not like that, Dwalin.” He pointed at the dwarf, and sure enough, there was a leer on those cheeks.

Dwalin chuckled and shook his head. “I know, burglar. We all did. Not uncommon in dwarrow.”

“Thorin was the same,” Dis said. “I knew I’d be the one to provide him heirs even before Smaug came. Unless one of Father’s collection suited.”

“You would have been a fine consort,” Dwalin said. “You would have managed the weed-eaters with actual diplomacy and wrangled Thorin in his moods.”

“He would have been a good king,” Bilbo said, pressing his forehead to his son’s.

“Bilbo…”

When Bilbo looked up, Dis was holding out her hand, flat, and upon it sat a single bead. It was silver. No, not silver. Mithril, forged to look like a woven tangle with chips of emerald embedded between some lines. Vines of silver and leaves of green.

“You gave my brother his kingdom, and he gave you mithril. Dwalin and Gloin told me the Company considered you married then.”

“Aye,” Dwalin said.

“Others might have contested. Then. But now… You crafted Thorin a son with your own hands and his gift. Bilbo, you are my brother’s consort. No dwarf in any of the seven kingdoms could contest such a wedding gift.”

“But Thorin was—” Dead. The last word stuck in Bilbo’s throat. Dead before Thorgo was even considered.

“And still I would call you brother.” Dis still held out the bead in her hand and Bilbo could not look away from it. “This was crafted many generations ago by a king of Duran for his queen. It has been worn by every queen or consort since.” She set the bead on the table. “And now it is yours.”

“It belongs to Dain’s wife,” Bilbo said, his voice weak.

“It belongs to my brother’s consort. Will it back to the family when you are no more, but for now it is yours, whether you wear it or not.”

“Thorin would want you to have it,” Dwalin said. He sounded so certain.

Bilbo ran his hands through his curls, the whole mess longer than usual since he’d not thought to have it trimmed of late. “Is there a specific braid?”

Dis grinned. “You can wear any, but we Durin’s have a specific one I will teach you, nadad. For yourself, and for my nephew.”

~o0o~

Long after Thorgo was tucked in and Dis settled in a guest room, Bilbo sat by his fire, smoking his pipe. The bead in his hair was a heavy weight that swung against his neck with every shift. It would take some getting used to.

And yet, every tap and swing reminded him of Thorin. It was a pleasant ache, like looking into Thorgo’s eyes. He’d never really thought about how the dwarrow would react to his son, but the acceptance Dis had expressed was a balm to his soul. Others might disapprove, but Thorin’s remaining family did not.

Though it was possible the conversation would go differently with King Dain, should the occasion arise.

Bilbo huffed a chuckle at the thought and tapped out his pipe. Time for bed if he was going to get all maudlin.

But a shift in the shadows caught his attention, and Bilbo turned to find Dwalin in the doorway, a book in his arms. It was an incongruous image, and Dwalin looked quite discomforted.

“Can’t sleep?” Bilbo asked softly, already considering what in his kitchen might sooth a twitchy dwarf.

“I’m fine. I…” Dwalin paused his words and stepped closer, holding out the book. “Ori made this for you.”

Bilbo accepted the book but just set it in his lap and watched Dwalin.

“I would have given it to you earlier… I meant to…”

“Begin at the beginning,” Bilbo suggested.

“Open it.”

Pursing his lips in frustration at the stubbornness of dwarrow, Bilbo did so. He was immediately fascinated. On the right side was a page of Westron, a story told in oddly stilted language with varying line lengths. On the left side was a page of runes. Khuzdul, he realized in a moment. Skimming the beginning of the story of the making of the dwarrow by Mahal, Bilbo made another connection.

“I thought it was forbidden to… I could learn to read your language from this.” Ori had provided direct translation, maybe even word for word, line for line.

“You are Consort Under the Mountain,” Dwalin said with a shrug. “Beaded by Thorin’s own sister in his name.”

Bilbo closed the book and tapped the simple leather cover. No gems or metal work decorated this book. Nothing to make it stand out in any way. “I wasn’t when Ori wrote this.”

Dwalin smirked. “We might have tried for forgiveness over permission.”

“The whole Company knew?” Bilbo tugged at the braid in his hair. Kili would have found it hilarious.

“Of course.”

Bilbo stood on his tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Dwalin’s cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered and slipped on silent hobbit feet to hide his treasure in his study.

~o0o~

While Bilbo saw only Dis and Dwalin that night, it turned out they had arrived with a small caravan of dwarrow, including Gloin and his family. Gimli proved a sturdy lad who was quite intrigued by his half hobbit cousin. He was even more intrigued by the tweens running about Hobbiton, half helping and half making an utter nuisance of themselves.

Bilbo couldn’t decide if he was looking forward to the utter chaos to come or not, but he smiled when Hamfast invited Gimli to join in the hobbit games.

The dwarrow joined in the preparations, and by the time the party started, half the food table was covered in dwarfish recipes and the hobbits and dwarrow were starting to look at each other with some measure of friendliness. By the time the dancing started, everyone was mixing as freely as the ale was flowing.

At sunset, Bilbo stood at the center of the field and called for everyone’s attention.

“Friends and family, thank you all for coming today. One year ago, I had the greatest day of my life. One year ago today, my son was born.” Bilbo held up Thorgo for all to see. “And today is his naming day.”

Everyone stood in silence, waiting for the announcement. Names came from family, and everyone knew Bilbo was the child’s closest family. No one expected a dwarf to walk up to Bilbo with a soft smile under her beard. No one had thought too hard about why dwarrow had showed up for Bilbo Baggins’ party. Something to do with that adventure of his, surely, but friends should attend a friend’s child’s naming.

“I welcome you all to this celebration,” Dis said. “And I thank Master Baggins for permitting me a part in this day.”

“Oh… but of course…” Bilbo sputtered.

Dis pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s cheek. “Nadad,” she whispered. Then pressed a kiss to Thorgo’s. “Irakdashat.”

She straightened, and in a voice that was both personal and carried through the field, she said, “I name you Thorgo for your grandfathers.” She separated a clump of Thorgo’s curls. “I name you Thorgo Baggins for your father.” She began the seven strand braid of the line of Durin. “I name you Thorgo, son of Thorin, for your adad.” At the base of the short braid, she slipped a small bead. Last night, she had told Bilbo it had been Fili’s first creation. “I declare you a child of Durin. So say I, Dis, daughter of Thrain.”

The cheer of the dwarrow could be heard to Tuckborough.

Chapter Text

So many things change with a knock on the door. And yet, even if a knock leads to the most world altering discovery, it can still change nothing at all.

Gandalf came to the Shire with a simple task, introduce the new chief of the Dunedain and Rangers to the Thain. Since the Fell Winter, he’d been working to improve relations between the Hobbits and the big folk, and Gandalf had a feeling Aragorn would well fill the gap. Obliging boy. That was Elrond’s influence.

While he’d meant to swing up to Hobbiton and check on Bilbo, see if he couldn’t introduce the boy to Aragorn while he was at it (he just knew the two would get on like a house on fire), he was saved the trip. For who should answer the main door of the Great Smials but Bilbo, a young child on his hip and a smile on his lips.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo cried with delight. The wizard bent down and bestowed a hug with great relish.

“Bilbo Baggins, I did not expect to see you here. Surely you have not abandoned Bag End?”

“Certainly not,” Bilbo said with a huff. “Bag End is well. Just visiting family. It’s a lovely summer for a walking holiday. But I’m sure you’re here to see Cousin Fortinbras. Come in. Most of the family took a picnic out today, but they’ll be back in a few hours, if you want to wait.”

“Thank you. I’ve no desire to go wandering hither and yon looking for them if they’ll be back soon enough.”

Gandalf entered and Aragorn followed, both only having to bend a little as the Great Smials had excellent headroom.

“My I introduce my friend Strider. He’s one of the rangers here abouts.”

“Welcome to the Shire, Mr. Strider,” Bilbo said most pleasantly. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service. Can I tempt you both with some tea? I believe Aunt Rosemary made scones this morning.”

“Oh yes, please. Never let it be said I turned down Rosemary’s scones. She’s one of the finest bakers in the Shire.” The big folk chairs were always kept by the wall in the dining room, so it was easy to pull two up to the table. Gandalf folded down and took a closer look at the little fellow on Bilbo’s hip. “Might I take your burden while you prepare?”

“You remember stories of Gandalf, don’t you?” Little arms reached out, and Bilbo grinned, an oddly amused look. “He’s all yours, but I warn you, he’s got a thing for beards.”

An odd penchant for a hobbit, but proven true immediately. The moment the little faunt hit Gandalf’s lap, he tried to climb the wizard’s wiry, gray beard. Bilbo just laughed and shuffled off to the kitchen.

Gandalf studied his new friend. And wondered.

“Which of your cousins took up with a dwarf?” he called loudly enough for Bilbo to hear. “It’s the beard, you see,” he added in an aside to Aragorn. “Hobbits rarely grow them, and never before their tweens. But this little fellow has as much scruff as you do.” He chuckled.

“None of them,” Bilbo called back. He was most definitely laughing for some reason. “Why do you ask?”

“Your little cousin has a beard. Someone has clearly been running about with dwarrrow.”

“Not my cousin,” Bilbo said, grinning madly as he set a plate of scones on the table alongside all the necessary fixings.

“Is that clotted cream?”

“And Aunt Mirabella’s raspberry jam. Do you have a preference as well, Mr. Strider? We’ve got a fair range in the pantry, even some orange marmalade shipped up from down south.”

“Any chance of blueberry jam, Master Baggins?” Aragorn asked politely.

“Of course. Black or green tea?”

“Black, thank you,” Gandalf said. “And you’re not going to distract me from my question.”

“He likes the honey, if you would, Gandalf. And of course someone’s been running about with dwarrow. You introduced me to them.”

That set Gandalf back a moment. He looked at the boy in his arms again. Black hair, curled as any hobbit save the two braids before his ears. Blue eyes like sapphires. Wisps of a beard. Hairy hobbit feet. Young, barely a faunt. Maybe five-years-old? He looked familiar. Was that Bilbo’s nose?

“He looks a bit young, unless you took up with someone from the Blue Mountains.”

Bilbo laughed.

Gandalf offered the boy a piece of scone with honey and ignored the sticky crumbs quickly coating his beard and lap. “What’s your name, little one?” Surely he was old enough to answer.

Blue eyes looked guilelessly up. “Thorgo Baggins,” said a little voice. “Son of Thorin.”

“Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf bellowed. He cradled Thorgo in his arms and stalked into the kitchen. “What have you done?”

Green eyes looked up just as guilelessly as the boy’s. “Surely you wouldn’t begrudge a lonely old man a bit of company to support him in his dotage?”

“Old? You’re not even sixty. How did you end up with a son?”

“Are you honestly telling me we hobbits have managed to keep a secret from you? The great wizard?”

Gandalf deflated a bit. Well, yes, he’d been aware of the whole garden thing. But this? “He’s half dwarf.”

“Took a bit longer, admittedly, but it worked.” Bilbo pushed close and rubbed noses with his son. Definitely matching noses.

“His family… when they find out…” For once, Gandalf lacked words. To interfere with the line of kings… The consequences could be devastating.

“Really, Gandalf, you think I would keep this from his kin? Half the old Company has been through to meet him. And Lady Dis did his naming. She adores him. And me, fortunately. Now go sit. The tea’s ready, and your guest has been left all alone. What will he think of hobbit hospitality?” Bilbo bustled past, tea tray in hand. “Mr. Strider, how was your journey?”

Somehow most of an hour passed in quite conversation about travel and places everyone had seen or some wanted to go. Previous topics were forgotten, for the moment, until Bilbo turned his head just right. A glint of silver behind his ear arrested Gandalf’s focus.

“What is this?” He reached out and tugged. A silver bead lifted from beneath Bilbo’s curls. No, not silver. “Bilbo, this is…”

“Really, Gandalf, you didn’t know? After complimenting my fine gift from Thorin? The whole Company knew.”

“Bilbo…”

“Though Dwalin and Gloin had to come explain it to me. Dratted, closed mouthed dwarrow.”

“I didn’t realize. I’m sorry, Bilbo. So sorry.” It did rather explain a lot, however.

Bilbo smiled broadly. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not. Well, I miss him, of course, but I’ve got Thorgo. Dis says she’s never heard of a better wedding gift.” He pressed a kiss to the top of his son’s head as the faunt drowsed in his lap.

“Forgive me, my friend.” Gandalf turned to Aragorn. “I’ve been remiss. I failed to make proper introductions.”

Both parties tried to protest, but Gandalf would have none of it.

“Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dunedain and King of Arnor. May I present Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took, widowed consort of Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain, Restorer of Erebor.”

“Restorer of Erebor?” Bilbo muttered dryly. “That’s worse than half my titles combined.”

“So says the dragonriddler,” Gandalf teased.

“Dragonriddler?” Aragorn said lightly. “That sounds like quite a story.”

“One could say that,” Bilbo replied teasingly.

“Besides, it’s a title shared by most of the Company, yourself included, Bilbo. However, I wasn’t done.” Gandalf cut in. “And this is Thorgo, son of Thorin, son of Thrain, crown prince of Erebor.”

“Crown prince?” Bilbo spat. “I think not.”

“He’s Thorin’s son,” Gandalf protested.

“Dain is King Under the Mountain now, and doing a fine job from what I hear. He’s got an heir and I’m not about to shove a hobbit-raised boy of mixed race into the middle of that. Be like lighting a fire under a hornet’s nest. Goodness. What a mess.”

“He’s Thorin’s son,” Gandalf repeated pointedly.

“And if, when grown, he wants to go argue with Thorin Stonehelm about who’s got the better right to the throne, that’s his business,” Bilbo said stiffly. “For now, he’s just another faunt.”

“Wearing the braids of Durin,” Aragorn said, but lightly, teasingly.

Bilbo’s mouth dropped open for a moment. Then his jaw flapped, but no noise came out.

“I was fostered by Lord Elrond in Rivendell. I wasn’t allowed close, but I did see your party when they came through. I drove Ada mad with questions about dwarrow that summer.”

“Your right, they are the Durin braids,” Bilbo said, a gentle smile upon his lips. “He is a Durin. His aunt has proclaimed it, and I won’t take that from him. Dis sends teachers in dwarfish matters. He’s as much dwarf as hobbit, Durin as Baggins.”

“If that boy isn’t more Took than Baggins, I’ll eat my hat.”

Bilbo looked pointedly at Gandalf’s hat. “I’ll be interested to see if I get to remind you of that someday.”

~o0o~

Hobbits were very interesting people. On the surface they were very simple, focused on food and song and living happy lives. But below that were strange secrets and the same complexity as other races. And somehow the race had produced a member who riddled dragons and tamed dwarrow. Aragorn wished he had a month or twenty to spend in the Shire to try and make sense of the dichotomy.

Unfortunately, and fortunately, negotiations with the Thain had gone well and Aragorn would be leaving the next day. The rolling hills were nothing like Rivendell, but he still felt the same peace here as he remembered from his childhood home. Though it was a unique experience to feel so tall at the same time.

When Aragorn spotted the mysterious Mr. Baggins smoking on a garden bench, watching a number of children playing amongst the flowers, Aragorn walked over. “May I join you?”

“Please, Mr. Strider. Can I offer you some leaf?”

Aragorn accepted eagerly. The South Farthing blend was superior to anything he’d had before. The two smoked in silence for several minutes. Bilbo’s smoke rings were nothing on Gandalf’s but quite a bit better than Aragorn’s.

“You have a lovely son. How old is he?” Aragorn gestured at the children with his pipe stem.

“Seven this fall,” Bilbo said with a fond smile.

Aragorn considered it had been closer to ten since the death of Thorin Oakenshield and immediately filed that away under the mysteries hidden in the heart of the Shire. “It must be difficult to raise a child of mixed race.”

Bilbo sighed. “Sometimes. But I do my best not to let him feel different.”

“He has a beard. At seven.” Aragorn could not dismiss his surprise.

“Some dwarrow are born with them. But he also has a hobbit’s sturdy feet. I think he shall be considered most handsome by both races.”

“He is lucky then.”

“He’s my miracle, a true blessing.”

A yell of pain echoed through the garden, and Thorgo was the first to the side of his injured cousin. He too played support as the crowed moved to Bilbo for succor and lead the chase as they returned to play once all injuries were tended.

“He seems a natural leader.”

Bilbo chuckled. “He told me last fall that he intends to know how to be a king, whether he is one or not. To make his adad proud when they finally meet.”

“A fine goal.” One Aragorn could respect and understand in his heart of hearts.

“I just hope he takes after me with regards to diplomacy.”

Remembering a troop of dwarrow bathing in the fountains of Rivendell, or the vicious messages from Mirkwood after the Battle of the Five Armies, Aragorn could understand that hope.

“I hope my ada will forgive me for volunteering him, but you might take Thorgo to Rivendell when he’s older. Elrond may not know about being a dwarf or a hobbit, but he does know about straddling boundaries between races and making peace with yourself.”

Bilbo smiled at Aragorn, the wide, true smile that seemed normally reserved for his son rather than the light but empty smile most of his other relations received. “Thank you. I may do that. Though I hope you might come around from time to time as well. I think you have the potential to be an excellent influence.”

Aragorn nodded. “I’d be delighted.”

“Tea is at four. And don’t mind the grumpy dwarrow. They visit on sufferance.”

“Thorgo’s tutors? Do you have trouble with them?”

“Not as long as they take off their boots when they come in the smial and remember to keep a civil tongue in their mouths,” Bilbo said dryly.

“Oh dear.”

“They’re improving. I think the legend of Bilbo Baggins is growing in the Blue Mountains, however.”

“Will you take Thorgo there someday?”

“When he’s older, and to Erebor when he’s grown, or send him off if I’ve gotten too creaky. He should know his kin.”

“Send word to the relay in Bree when you’re planning to travel and I’ll ensure you have an escort.”

Bilbo looked at Aragorn thoughtfully. “Now why would you do that? We’re but simple hobbits, not some folk an important chieftain should be keeping track of.”

Aragorn remembered just how shrewd Bilbo’s comments had been during negotiations with the Thain and dismissed the downplay. Not only was this hobbit important to the dwarrow, he was important to the hobbits. “You’re the dowager consort of Erebor and your son is the late king’s son, whether he takes the title of prince or not. Were I to let you be harmed within my lands, it could be seen as an act of war by the dwarrow.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“Well, maybe, maybe not, but it would look good for me to be seen supporting you.”

“Ah ha, you want my help with the dwarrow of the Ered Luin.” Bilbo pointed the stem of his pipe at Aragorn.

“Mostly I want to be there when you tell Ada that Thorin Oakenshield has a son,” Aragorn said with a grin. “But improved relations with the dwarrow wouldn’t hurt. I’m a young ruler, and my people have been without proper leadership since my father’s death when I was a boy. Our alliances could use improvement.”

“Hmm.” Bilbo nodded and puffed on his pipe. The peace of the Shire shimmered about in the afternoon sun. The children—faunts played merry games between the flowers. “I’ll take your concerns under advisement.”

“I can ask for nothing more.”

“Consider the invitation to tea open to any of your rangers passing through. Thorgo should know of as many different peoples as he can.”

Aragorn bowed his head formally. “On behalf of myself and my people, thank you.”

“Though my scones aren’t half as good as Aunt Rosemary’s.”

“Even half as good, I fear you may have to watch your pantry with care.”

Bilbo laughed, his voice light yet earthy, nothing like the silver-bell laughter of the elves. “I’ve hosted thirteen dwarrow and a wizard on no notice. I assure you, my pantries can handle most anything.”

Thorgo came charging up just then, barely ahead of the pack of faunts. “Dad, Dad, story.”

“Story, Bilbo. Story,” cried the other faunts, all settling about the bench.

“A story? Well, I’m not sure I have one,” Bilbo said. “You’ve surely heard all mine before.”

Small voices protested. Several cried out for the tale of the trolls. Others wanted to hear about the dragon.

“But you’ve heard those,” Bilbo said.

“Tell us something about dwarrow then, about Adad,” Thorgo asked, and Bilbo melted, his eyes sad.

“Perhaps I can offer a tale,” Aragorn said. “I once saw thirteen dwarrow and one hobbit come through Rivendell when I was a lad.”

“You saw them? Was my dad and my adad there?”

“Yes they were. Now I was living with the elves, and they wanted to keep me away, but I was so curious. I wanted to know more about the dwarrow, and one day I climbed the trees around the Last Homily House to try and spy on them.”

“The fountain?” Bilbo asked around his pipe.

Aragorn laughed, deep and hearty. “Aye. I saw the whole thing.”

“Saw what, Mr. Strider, sir?”

“Well....”

Chapter Text

"And what did the tree-shaggers do next, Ugshar?"

"Thorgo Baggins." Bilbo stared at his son. Then turned his temper on his son’s teacher and the probable source of such unacceptable behavior. "Get out of my smial."

"Mister Baggins, I have been hired by the Lady Dis—"

Bilbo drew himself up to his full height and glared. "Dis may have sent you, but I have the last word on who educates my son. I will not have him taught your wretched prejudices. Get out of my home. You are no longer welcome in this smial. You are no longer welcome in this land. If I have to call the Thain to throw you out, I will." He ended on a snarl worthy of Thorin himself and took small pleasure in the way the dwarf shrunk away, just a little.

"Da, don't be melodramatic."

"Melodramatic?" Bilbo turned back to his son. He was small for a tween, the dwarven blood probably, but he was acting out just like any other hobbit over twenty. Still, this? A little rebellion was one thing. Bilbo would not permit this. "Go to your room, faunt."

Thorgo scowled, and for a moment all Bilbo could see was Thorin. "I am not a faunt."

"Aren't you?"

"I'm twenty-two, Da."

"And half dwarf.”

“I’ve been raised a hobbit. I’m mature enough—”

Bilbo shut that down with a snort that was pure Took. “Mature? Barely so by hobbit standards, and no hobbit would use such words as you let slip today.” He shot a glare at the dwarf slinking from the room. Grayven was new, first time in the Shire, and for all the gray in his hair, a poor choice for training Thorgo. Oh, he had skill with a blade. Even Bilbo could see that. And Thorgo was of age for that level of training. But his attitude was unacceptable and his treatment of the hobbits questionable from day one.

“Da, it was nothing, just a conversation between dwarrow.”

“Are you a dwarf or are you a hobbit then?”

That caught Thorgo flat footed, and he finally started thinking. Maybe.

"I’m Thorgo Baggins,” Thorgo finally said through gritted teeth.

“Are you now?” Bilbo said flatly. “Well, whatever you are, if you would claim the name Baggins, I’d expect you to act with a bit more decorum.”

"What?"

"We Bagginses are proper, and proudly so. In all my seventy-six years on this green earth, I have never used a derogatory term for another race. And I traveled with thirteen dwarrow in horrific circumstances to take back a mountain from a dragon. If I can hold my tongue in Thranduil's dungeon, you can do the same in your own smial."

Thorgo finally had the sense to look sheepish. "Ah."

"Ah?"

"Sorry, Da. Please don't send Grayven away. I won't do it again."

"Too little, too late."

Grayven was out the smial within the hour, though Bilbo was hobbit enough to see the bastard son of a dwarf and a warg (he only wouldn't say it. Never promised he didn't think it) was well supplied for the journey back to Erid Luin. Bilbo made sure to send a very pointed message by raven to Dis about her latest choice in teacher. It would be some time before she could reply, and longer before a new teacher could be sorted, so Bilbo would tend to his son's education for the year.

He considered his options overnight. One bad experience was no reason to be hasty. And yet, there really was only one option. The Tooks would encourage this behavior. The Brandybucks would be worse.

At dawn Bilbo sent two more ravens and two letters, with a third tucked in the second for whenever Aragorn returned to the north. After all, if Bilbo was going to break a promise to the young chieftain, he could at least apologize for it. He was a Baggins after all.

~o0o~

Thorgo yawned his way through breakfast. Still, even half asleep he’d watched his dad carefully. The old hobbit was up to something.

“Go pack,” Bilbo finally ordered once the breakfast dishes were put away.

“Tuckborough or Buckleberry?” It might have been Michael Delving, but Da was rarely interested in anything from there but furniture. There was some bad blood between him and the Mayor, but no one would explain it to Thorgo

“Neither. Pack light and sturdy. We’ll be out with minimal chances for supplies for a few weeks.”

Thorgo jumped to his feet and stepped up to his father. “Da… Weeks?”

“It seems if I want you well rounded, I had best expose you to something other than hobbits and dwarrow. Insular, the lot of us.”

Well that put a trip to Erid Luin off the table. But there were the ranger camps. And Rivendell. “Oh… Da. Rivendell?”

“Go pack.” Bilbo refused to say more, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

“I’m going to meet the elves,” Thorgo whispered as he ran off to pack.

~o0o~

But the Prancing Pony was easy enough to find, and the owner not only knew what a hobbit was, he had facilities for them. It wasn’t Bag End, but comfort was comfort in a world otherwise gone too large.

Bilbo did have to put his foot down on the pints. Thorgo was wide eyed at the idea, but Bilbo did not need to deal with a drunk son while they waited for their escort.

Fortunately, there weren’t any dwarrow visiting Bree to egg Thorgo on. The hobbits just heard the name Baggins and smiled politely and asked after the latest gossip from loved ones. And the men… well, the men didn’t seem to notice anyone lower than their chest height at all. Until two in gray and green, with six pointed stars on their cloaks, walked up during tea and sat at Bilbo’s table.

“Good day, gentlemen,” Bilbo prompted politely, trying not to notice how Thorgo was fondling the head of the axe Gimli had sent him for his twentieth birthday. He’d been doing that a lot of late, even back at Bag End. Probably Grayven’s influence.

“Master Baggins?” the elder of the two asked, tugging the lock of hair next to his left ear.

Bilbo tugged the lock of hair next to his left ear, revealing the green and mithril bead braided there for just a moment. “Yes?”

“Please to meet you. I am Halbarad, and this is my son Halamford. Your letter said you were traveling to Imladris?”

“That is my plan,” Bilbo said, even as Thorgo hissed at him, “I knew we were going to see the elves.”

Bilbo gave his son a pop on the head more worthy of a dwarf than a hobbit. “I apologize for the short notice, but matters have come to a head.”

Halbarad nodded. “Our chief thought you would make this journey sometime soon. He left strict instructions.”

“Then you will provide an escort?”

“I promised I’d be there, so I could describe Lord Elrond’s exact expression…” Halbarad frowned. “Though I do not know what exactly he will be reacting to.”

“Not here,” Bilbo said, glancing about. There were men watching the conversation with curious expressions. And while Thorgo’s origins were hardly a secret in the Shire, they also weren’t bandied about. “But I promise you’ll know what to listen for when the time comes.”

~o0o~

Halbarad had not just brought his son. There were four Rangers all told, and each had a horse.

“No ponies,” Bilbo had tried saying. But Halamford had just chuckled and assured them no ponies before throwing each hobbit onto a horse behind a ranger. Fortunately, this time Bilbo had remembered his pocket handkerchief. Unfortunately, Thorgo had not inherited his father’s allergies and thought the whole experience was quite delightful.

Bilbo spent much of the journey muttering darkly about the enthusiasm of youth. And the horror that was anything on four legs.

~o0o~

“Da! Da!”

Bilbo didn’t reply. He was frozen as he realized where they were. He knew the remains of that farmhouse, though he hadn’t seen it in many, many years.

“Da! Is this it? The trolls? Can we see them?”

“Master Baggins?” Halbarad asked politely.

Bilbo had thought he was past the horror of that night. Coming back, raiding the hoard with Gandalf, had not hit him this hard.

“Left, past the uprooted tree,” Bilbo said softly, pointing. He added more loudly for Thorgo, “No more than an hour. We still have places to be.”

Thorgo leapt down from his horse, landing on light hobbit feet the moment the trolls came in view.

“You went up against these, Da? They’re huge.”

“They seemed even bigger,” Bilbo admitted. He stayed clinging to the back of his horse. From this height it almost seemed safer.

“How did you know these were here, young Master Baggins?” Halamford asked, looking at the trolls in as much wonder as Thorgo.

“Da’s stories. He stopped them from eating the whole Company when they were traveling to Erebor.” Thorgo clambered up one of the trolls and perched on its shoulder. “Oh… Oh, Da, you can feel the difference. These aren’t stone. It’s… squishier.”

“Pardon?” Bilbo let himself be lowered to the ground by the ever silent and watchful Dorgadol, a Ranger who rather reminded Bilbo of Dwalin in human form. Once he was safe on his own feet, Bilbo walked over and poked a troll leg. “Seems as solid as stone to me.”

“Of course they do, on the surface,” Thorgo said, rolling his eyes. “But under that… Maybe you have to be touching their heads.” He scampered back down and pressed his hand to the same leg Bilbo had touched. “Nope. Still squishy.”

“I’ve heard of dwarrow having a sixth sense for stone, but never hobbits,” Halbarad said.

Thorgo tugged on his beard, a rather impressive growth for his age, just long enough to braid this year though he insisted he wouldn’t until he came of age, whenever that proved to be. “Da, do you think…?”

“I’ll talk to your aunt,” Bilbo said thoughtfully. “Though there’s not much to train you on in the Shire.”

“Oh, Da, can we go to Erid Luin then? Please? I know you don’t want me going to Erebor yet—”

Bilbo held up his hands and Thorgo silenced himself immediately. “I said, I’ll talk to your aunt. Patience.”

“So he is dwarvish,” Halamford said. “We’ve been wondering.”

“Half,” Thorgo chirped cheerfully. “Hey, can I check out the cave?”

Bilbo pointed to where the troll cave hid, then turned on the Rangers. “I trusted your chieftain with this knowledge, and he trusted you to send you to me.” He tapped the bead behind his ear, a nervous habit when thinking about Thorin.

“Strider told us to watch out for you, that it would serve our people well to ensure Bilbo Baggins of Bag End and his son were well cared for. But he said nothing more,” Halbarad said.

“I did promise to explain before we got to Rivendell.” Bilbo sighed. “It’s complicated, but that”—he gestured toward the cave his son had vanished into—“is the son of Thorin, who was for a very short time King of Erebor.”

“Thorgo, son of Thorin,” Dorgadol breathed, perhaps the first words Bilbo had heard from the man.

“Son of Thrain, son of Thror,” Bilbo finished.

“Half dwarf, half hobbit,” Halbarad said. “An interesting destiny that boy’s got.”

Bilbo huffed. “Tell me about it.”

“Explains the beard,” Halbarad said.

“And the axe,” Halamford added.

“I rather think it more explains the feet,” Bilbo countered, and the Rangers laughed.

“So, about this cave?” the youngest Ranger, Gerondol, asked, and Bilbo pointed the way, explaining that it had been the trolls’ hiding place. A moment later, Bilbo and Halbarad were the only ones outside the cave.

“I think there is more to Lord Elrond’s surprise than one child,” Halbarad commented, stepping close to Bilbo and speaking quietly. “I don’t know a great deal about dwarrow, but I do know they guard their beads and braids jealously. And mithril?”

Bilbo shrugged. “They also hide their courting rituals. I didn’t realize we were married until he was dead.” He tugged the bead out for a moment, then tucked it back away.

“The dowager consort of Erebor, living in our territory.” Halbarad shook his head. “No wonder Strider wants you watched after.”

“I’m sure Lady Dis will express her thanks when she next travels through.”

“And will that be soon?”

“Well, given recent events… and when I tell her Thorgo’s stone sense has gone active… probably.”

Halbarad rubbed his forehead. “Right, I’ll tell the lads to be on the watch for royal dwarrow. This had to happen while the chief is running round the southlands.”

Bilbo patted the Ranger on the side, since that was as high as he could reach, and tried to look sympathetic. “That’s how these things work, isn’t it?”

“Time’s up, Thorgo. We’d best be off,” Bilbo yelled down the cave opening a few minutes later.

“Just a minute, Da.”

“Now, Thorgo.”

There was an unpleasant rumble, followed by the sound of things falling. Heavy things falling. The three Rangers ran from the cave, or as best they could given the small opening and their own towering heights.

“Thorgo?” Bilbo yelled, and only Halbarad grabbing his arm kept the hobbit from jumping down the hole now billowing dust and bits of rock.

“Throgo!”

“Da.”

Bilbo wilted at the sound of his son’s voice, collapsing to the ground. He watched from his seat as his dusty son crawled from the still open mouth of the cave, grinning like he had just taken his teacher down in training.

“Look what I found.” Thorgo held something up, but Bilbo never bothered to look, taking in instead the features of his son. There would be a bruise on his cheek, and his hair was mussed indicating something had hit him there too, but he was standing tall and straight.

“What did you do?” Bilbo growled out.

“There was a hidden nook. I could feel it, but I couldn’t figure out how to open it. I wonder if—”

Bilbo threw a rock at his son’s chest, and the daft boy shut up. “Never do that to me again.”

Thorgo finally looked around, and took in the billowing dust, the shaken look on the Rangers’ faces, the pale face of his father. “Oh…”

“We’re leaving. Now.”

“Yes, Da.” Thorgo shoved his prize into his trouser pocket and let himself be hauled up onto his horse. Bilbo never took his eyes off his dusty son, not for the rest of the journey to Rivendell.

~o0o~

They rode into Rivendell through the general entrance, the one Gandalf had brought Bilbo by on the way back from Erebor, rather than the hidden cave entrance the Company had come through. Every step into the hidden valley drew more tension from Bilbo’s shoulders. The whole place radiated such a feeling of peace…

Definitely worth considering retiring here. Lord Elrond had offered once before, and Bilbo might yet take the elf up on that. Though… He glanced at his son, eyes wide behind his curls and trying to look at everything despite the risk of falling off the horse if he leaned any further. No, Bilbo wouldn’t be settling in Imladris just yet. He had too much still to do.

Several elves awaited on the steps of the Last Homily House, with Lord Elrond front and center.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Lord Elrond said even before Bilbo had been deposited safely back on his feet. Clearly the guards had sent word. “I did not expect to see you back in my lands so soon.”

“Lord Elrond,” Bilbo said with a respectful bow. “I apologize for intruding on your home with no warning. Circumstances left me in difficult straights and a visit to you was the truest solution I could devise. I beg leave to impose upon your hospitality for a month or two.”

“You are always welcome within my halls,” Elrond said, offering a respectful bow of his own. “All Arda owes you for your help in events not so long past.”

Bilbo huffed. They’d had this talk before, mysterious riddles about how disposing of the dragon was far more important than anyone believed. Gandalf usually started it though. Bilbo didn’t know what he believed. “Thank you, my lord. Though it is not just I who has intruded.” He turned and waved to Thorgo, who was hiding behind Halamford.

“Oh?”

“Yes, may I introduce my son to you?” Thorgo hadn’t budged at the first gesture, so Bilbo waved his arm harder. “Don’t make me come over there and drag you out,” he hissed in Khuzdul.

Thorgo flushed vivid red under his beard before stiffening his spine and breaking cover. With all solemnity, he stepped to Bilbo’s side and bowed low.

Bilbo fixed his eyes on the elves, Elrond especially, and watched them take in Thorgo, from his furry feet to his beard and braids. A few eyes widened, Elrond’s included.

“I was not aware you had a child,” Lord Elrond said politely, yet haltingly, and with barely veiled curiosity. “Welcome to Imladris, young master Baggins.”

“Thank you, my lord. I am Thorgo Baggins, son of Thorin, at your service.”

The valley went dead silent for a moment. Even the wind seemed to stop its murmur. Elrond’s jaw actually dropped, just a bit, his mouth coming open before he caught it.

Then the whole population of the valley began muttering.

“Impossible gossips,” Bilbo muttered.

Thorgo snickered.

Elrond blinked. “Mister Baggins, it seems we have much to catch up on.”

Bilbo smiled.

“Perhaps over lunch.”

“Now you are talking.” Bilbo rubbed his hands together.

~o0o~

It took two days before Elrond felt he had the full story. Well, as much as cultural secrets would allow. It appeared there were things about dwarrow and hobbits that the great elder did not know.

Bilbo was most amused.

Thorgo, delightfully, found himself utterly entranced by the elves and was happily dashing about the valley learning and making a minor nuisance of himself.

As long as he was learning about other cultures and not insulting them, Bilbo was inclined to let him run wild. Once he promised to practice his Sindarin extensively, anyway.

Though Bilbo was a little concerned just what his son might get up to in the company of Elrond’s sons. Bilbo well remembered an incident on his return through Rivendell including three elves, a goat, and enough soap bubbles to drown the dining hall, all masterminded by the twins.

Oh, Eru, Bilbo was doomed.

~o0o~

“I am surprised news of your little secret has not spread further,” Elrond said as they shared tea one fine day.

“Dwarrow rarely speak to anyone but dwarrow about such matters. And hobbits happily speak to no one outside the Shire whenever possible,” Bilbo said. “Who do you expect to have come telling tales?”

“Well, given it seems the Rangers knew something—”

Bilbo chuckled. “Ah, but Aragorn was so hoping to be here when you found out.”

Elrond frowned, then shook his head with a wry smile. “Gandalf?”

“Found out at the same time. I rather think your son bribed him somehow to stay silent on the matter.” Bilbo thought a moment as he sipped his tea. “Well, or he kept quiet for his own reasons. One never really does know why Gandalf does anything.”

“True.”

“Da?” Thorgo peered around the doorway to the balcony. “Ah, I can come back.”

“Not at all. Come in, young master perdornhoth,” Elrond said.

Thorgo frowned a moment, but came in. “I think I prefer amlâkhuzd,” he said.

“Thorgo,” Bilbo hissed. “Not in mixed company.”

Elrond raised a well groomed eyebrow.

“Though truly, I don’t see why half-hobbit isn’t just as accurate,” Thorgo continued as if he were ignoring Bilbo, but at least he stopped using Khuzdul. “Why must I be defined as one or the other? I am part hobbit and part dwarf.”

“Ah, a sentiment I can understand. I am called peredhil, though in truth the mix is far more complex. And yet, one must choose something to go by, if only to explain to others more easily.”

Bilbo snorted softly. “I suppose you can always go by that appellation your cousins like.”

Thorgo frowned. “I admit it’s not my favorite.”

“Might I ask for enlightenment?” Elrond asked.

“Gimli, son of Gloin, whom you might recall, thought calling Thorgo a dwobbit quite the best thing ever. And he did so in the Shire—”

“Where all the elder siblings of my childhood friends heard, and passed it on.” Thorgo scowled. Then shrugged. “Ah, but it is accurate in it way, and acknowledges both my fathers. It just sounds…”

“A bit absurd?” Bilbo suggested.

“A bit childish, perhaps,” Elrond offered. “And yet, as you said, accurate to both dwarf and hobbit heritage. Still, as you are the only of your kind, that I am aware of, you do have some say in your naming. Coming to it several generations in, I fear I was not so lucky.”

“That is an excellent point,” Bilbo said. His knowledge of the perehil family tree was not complete. Maybe he could question Elrond on that or dig through his library. Before he could open his mouth to spew forth questions, Elrond turned back to Thorgo.

“You looked as though you had something on your mind when you arrived, Thorgo. Please, speak. Do not let my choice of words distract.”

“Umm.” Thorgo looked a little sheepish and dug a hand into his pocket. “I forgot about this, but I was digging through my clothes and… well, I thought I should ask if anyone knows what it is.” He pulled his hand free and held it out, palm up. Sitting atop his hand sat a golden gem almost as big as his palm, glinting sunlight from its many facets. Something had been carved into the top face.

“Where did you find this?” Bilbo asked, standing and moving closer for a better look at the carving. It looked like a circle with something coming out from it.

“The trolls’ hoard,” Thorgo said softly. “It was hidden in one of the cave walls.”

Elrond plucked the stone from Thorgo’s hand before Bilbo could decide if it was sea creature or perhaps a sun.

“I am uncertain,” the elf said, turning the stone to study it from all angles. It caught the light of the sun, flashing golden rainbows about the balcony. “But I believe there is one here in Rivendell who might shed light on this. You say you found this in a trolls’ hoard? Not possibly the hoard your dwarrow raided on the way to my valley years ago?”

Bilbo nodded. “Same one, I’m afraid.”

“Amazing. I wonder how the dwarrow missed this treasure.”

“Well, Da said there was some gold back then. Might have distracted.” Thorgo looked oddly affronted and yet proud. “And it was rather well hidden.”

“Yes,” Bilbo said dryly. “He almost brought the cave down on our escorts, and his own, heads.”

“I said I was sorry,” Thorgo muttered.

Elrond laughed, and Bilbo filed that reaction away to share with Aragorn whenever the Ranger returned from his explorations of the world. But before Bilbo could decide whether to berate his son more or let it go, another elf stepped onto the balcony. It was one of the golden variety, and though he wore no armor, he moved with a warrior’s grace in addition to the natural grace of the elves.

“Ah, Glorfindel, thank you for coming so quickly,” Elrond said.

Bilbo wondered how this elf had known to come since the hobbit could have sworn no message was sent.

“My lord,” Glorfindel said with a bow.

“This young one has found something that might be familiar to you. If my memory of the old tales is true.” Elrond held out the stone, and without moving a muscle, the golden elf still managed to look shocked.

Glorfindel took the stone and brought it into the light, his eyes glowing with wonder. “I had never thought to see this again.”

“What is it?” Thorgo asked. He could have sounded a bit politer, but he was still a child, so Bilbo did not chastise.

“You are the one who found it?” Glorfindel asked, his attention turning to Thorgo, a hint of confusion crossing his features.

“I am.” Thorgo stiffened, taking on a grand air that was so reminiscent of his father that Bilbo had to smile.

“Thank you.” Glorfindel’s gaze returned to the stone. He caressed the edges. “I had thought all from Gondolin long lost.”

“This is from Gondolin?” Bilbo asked. “Ah, I see the connection, Lord Elrond. Do you think it was stashed at the same time as the swords?”

“Swords?” Glorfindel turned to Elrond. “Where was this found?”

“The same troll hoard as contained Glamdrung and Orcrist in recent years.” Elrond smiled at Thorgo. “If better hidden.”

Glorfindel smiled at the stone a moment longer then held it out to Thorgo. “Thank you. It was a pleasure to see something from my past.”

Thorgo did not take the proffered item. “It was yours?”

“The sigil of my house, once, long ago.” Glorfindel looked infinitely sad and world weary. “A dwarf carved this for me from a fine piece of citrine. I thought it lost with the city.” He held it out to Thorgo again.

“Then it is yours still.” Thorgo closed the elf’s fingers about the stone and stepped back.

“A dwarf passing up on treasure?” Glorfindel said, looking honestly surprised.

Bilbo bit his lip and watched Elrond’s eyes twinkled.

Thorgo looked affronted and took a sharp step back. “I may be perdornhoth, Master Elf,” he said dryly. “But I am hobbit raised. I would rather a fine meal and a good garden than a pretty stone with no meaning for me. I’ll not go stealing other’s legacies to build my own hoard.” He spat the last word.

Glorfindel studied Thorgo, perhaps truly looking for the first time. Finally, he nodded slowly. “Well said, young master.” He smiled as he tucked the stone in his pocket. “I will treasure this both for the history and for the fine young hobbit who returned it to me.”

~o0o~

Bilbo walked to Thorgo’s room quite distracted. Dinner time had drawn him from the Library, but he was still puzzling the recent rash of disappearances the head librarian had been complaining off. The old elf insisted his favorite quill would turn up again.

“Does this from time to time. Like it has a life of its own. Who knows. Dwarf made, you know, from Moria in the last age.”

But three different elves had mentioned disappearances when the head librarian asked about, and there was a look in their eyes that Bilbo found suspicious. If Nori had been in the area, Bilbo might have wondered if the thief was up to tricks, but the dwarf was off in Erebor guarding Dis and Dain, or he should be.

Caught up in his thoughts, Bilbo almost missed what Thorgo held in his hand when the door opened. Doubly so since Thorgo immediately shoved it from view behind his back. Except that was a rather suspicious action which instantly triggered the parent in Bilbo.

“What is this?”

Sheepishly, Thorgo held his hands before him, their contents visible.

The metal quill glinted in the sunlight in a manner Bilbo was well familiar with.

“Mithril… Thorgo.”

“It’s nothing, Da. Really.”

“You’re holding something that does not belong to you,” Bilbo said, stalking up and snatching the quill from his son’s hand. “How is this nothing?”

Thorgo cowered back a moment before stiffening his spine. “It’s a challenge, a joke. I’ll return everything shortly.”

“Everything?” Bilbo grabbed his son by the tip of his pointed, hobbit ear. “What else have you stolen?”

“Nothing,” Thorgo squeaked.

“How dare you insult our hosts so. To think a Baggins should act so,” Bilbo lamented.

“I haven’t stolen anything. Borrowed, temporarily only. It’s the challenge, a scavenger hunt, to show I can get everything on the list. I’ll give it all back at dinner in three days.”

Bilbo considered the deadline a moment and huffed, releasing his son. “Elladan and Elrohir.”

Thorgo looked sheepish. “They said it’s a challenge around Imladris. Lots of folk have tried. They say they’re the only ones who ever made it through the whole list.”

“And you want to be considered an adult.” Bilbo set the quill on Thorgo’s bed.

“Oh, don’t give me that, Da. Elladan and Elrohir are adults. Games are games.”

“Hobbits do not steal.” Not beyond a pie or two as children, anyway.

“Says the Burglar of Erebor.”

Bilbo bit his tongue and tasted blood before he could calm himself. “Get it all, now. You’re giving it back tonight.”

“Da, no,” Thorgo cried. “ Elladan and Elrohir are back from patrol in two days. I’ll give everything back, publicly, apologize even, but let me show I can do this.”

Frowning, Bilbo asked, “What did they say?”

“Da?”

“You wouldn’t react this way to a simple challenge.” Child or not, Thorgo knew better and Bilbo knew his son. “They offered some deeper insult.”

“They questioned how a hobbit could sneak under a dragon’s nose,” Thorgo said darkly. “Then they said I was too much dwarf, that they’d hear me a mile away. Aragorn only made it halfway down the list… They said I couldn’t even get that far.”

A smirk quirked the corner of Bilbo’s lips. “What did you take?”

“I palmed a knife each before they left, and swapped their wineskins for water.”

Bilbo chuckled, then frowned. “They’re orc hunting. Stealing a warrior’s blades—”

“Eating knives, Da. They’ll have to eat with their daggers, but it won’t do any real damage to them.”

“I’m going to regret this,” Bilbo muttered. He didn’t get to say anything else as Thorgo threw himself at his father, flinging his arms around shoulders that were almost on level. When had the boy put on another inch?

“Thank you.”

“Don’t get caught,” Bilbo said into his son’s braids. “And every scrap goes back, with a public apology.”

“Yes, Da. Promise.” Thorgo was grinning brighter than the sun. “They’ll understand, you’ll see.”

“Understanding or no, after this, no elf of Rivendell will underestimate a hobbit again. You make a good show of it.”

“Yes, Da.” Thorgo’s lips quirked into a smirk, that one that had gotten Bilbo into such trouble when he’d seen it on Thorin’s lips. “I know just the way to play it. Nori taught me—”

“Nori?” Bilbo spat. Nori had stayed for a few weeks either side of a trip to Erid Luin two years before. Surely that wasn’t enough time to… “You said he was just teaching you knife throwing.”

From Thorgo’s expression, that was far from all he’d learned from the king’s spy.

“I’m going to cut his beard off.”

~o0o~

Elladan and Elrohir returned with enough fanfare that Bilbo knew dinner that night would be the reveal. Thorgo had assured him the night before that he had everything but one, and that had to be picked up at the end. Bilbo was trusting his son with this but still couldn’t settle into his book in the Library that afternoon. He was too busy questioning both of their sanities. Falling for the ploys of two elves… was that better or worse than being manipulated into a quest by Gandalf?

Maybe it was being lost in memory, hearing Thorin’s deep voice singing by Bag End’s fireplace, but Bilbo didn’t notice Thorgo’s arrival (or hear aught of his approach) until his son was standing before him.

Bilbo most definitely did not let out a startled squeak.

“Come to actually do some studying?” he asked dryly. He’d need to get some history work into his son, especially now that he knew learning by exposure resulted in elvish sneak thief challenges.

“Nah,” Thorgo said lightly, but he was tense.

“I thought you’d already hit the library in full.”

“I did.” Thorgo raised his hands. “Not here for that. Um…”

“Spit it out or stop interrupting me.”

“Elladan and Elrohir don’t believe me when I say I’ve got it all… but they added one thing, something they’ve never gotten.” Thorgo bit his lip, hard, and the rawness of his flesh indicated he’d been doing so for a bit. “I can see why… but I’ve got to…”

“Thorgo…”

“Can I borrow your ring?”

A flash of horror, abject terror, and seething rage all flowed through Bilbo. “No!” he spat, the rage raising his voice loud enough to get a glare from two passing elves. “It’s mine!”

Thogo’s eyes widened, and he looked shocked, almost scared. He never looked scared, not even under Bilbo’s lecture about Nori. But he bit his lip and tried again. “Please, just for a few minutes. Not even now. At the beginning of dinner.”

Bilbo felt horrible. He never wanted his son to be afraid. But his ring… “No,” he said, this time sounding calm and rational, or at least closer to it. “My ring is for emergencies. Dragons and prisons.”

“You use it all the time to escape Aunt Lobelia.”

Bilbo snorted. “I said dragons, didn’t I?”

“Just a few minutes at the beginning—”

“You want to perform this challenge, you’ll do it on your own.” Bilbo stuffed down another burst of rage. “I haven’t prevented it, but I won’t help either.”

Thorgo sighed meaningfully and lingered a moment, but eventually he nodded. “All right.” He sighed. “I had to ask. I’ll probably fail, but doing as well as Elladan and Elrohir isn’t bad.”

For a brief moment, Bilbo wanted to hand the ring over. The pride of the Bagginses was on the line, the pride of all hobbits in fact. But the very idea of his ring on his son’s finger sent cold chills through Bilbo. No, it wasn’t a toy. A magic ring was an item of power, best kept from the hands of children.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “Fail? Perhaps. But you’ll put your all into it, won’t you, lad?”

“I’ll show them what a Baggins can do,” Thorgo said firmly.

“Yes, you will.”

~o0o~

Bilbo didn’t notice when Thorgo showed up to dinner, just that at some point the lad was in his chair. They were seated at the high table, with Lord Elrond and his three children and a few other notables such as Glorfindel. Bilbo shot his son a questioning glance when he first noticed his company.

Thorgo grinned back and made a gesture Bilbo was fairly certain meant “wait” in Inglishmek. Bilbo’s grasp of the dwarven gesture language wasn’t as good as his Khuzdul.

Frowning a little, Bilbo waited.

After the main course, instead of bringing dessert, a most anticipated course for Bilbo, the serving staff brought out trays containing a single item. The trays were placed before elves, each exclaiming in delight at the return of their property.

Elladan and Elrohir looked more than a little sour seeing the tray laid out in front of them.

“I see my sons have snared a new victim in their little… challenge,” Elrond said dryly.

“My deepest apologies, Lord Elrond,” Thorgo said, stepping up onto his chair and bowing. “And to all others affected by my actions.” He bowed to the room at large. “Please feel free to keep the trays as recompense.”

Bilbo peered over at the tray just now set before Lord Elrond himself, containing a silver necklace. The tray itself was steel rather than the silver Bilbo had thought them to be from a distance. They were delicately crafted and finely engraved with flowers overlaying a geometric design that was rather dwarven. Bilbo needed a closer look, but he was fairly certain the flowers on Lord Elrond’s tray all expressed friendship and apologies.

“My word, Thorgo,” Bilbo muttered, realizing his son had crafted the trays himself. “I didn’t realize you’d gotten so good.”

“I didn’t make them all so ornate,” Thorgo admitted. “I didn’t have enough time.”

“I should think not,” Glorfindel said, leaning over to look at Elladan and Elrohir’s tray. “But your father is correct, these are quite well done. Do you do swordsmithing as well?”

“Mostly decoration at this point. The trays were easy enough to shape. But a good blade requires special skill to keep it strong, light, supple, and sharp. I have not yet even been permitted to work on knives.”

“I will be interested to see the results when you are,” Glorfindel said. His smile turned to shock when one last tray was set before him, a dagger laying on the steel surface. He patted his belt at his back once, twice, then turned his attention back to Thorgo. “You…”

All color drained from Elladan and Elrohir’s faces. “No. You couldn’t have,” one said, though Bilbo wasn’t sure which.

Thorgo stood there looking more than a little smug. “Of course I could. I did.” He gestured at the dagger.

“No one can steal from Glorfindel,” Elrohir said.

“We’ve been trying for decades,” Elladan said.

“Have you now,” Elrond said, picking up his necklace and placing it about his neck. “Most impressive, Master Thorgo. I could have sworn I put this necklace on this morning. How did you manage?”

“A light touch and a lot of luck,” Thorgo admitted.

“A very light touch,” Glorfindel said, tapping the blade of his dagger with one finger. “I had this dagger when I sat for dinner.”

“Yes,” Thorgo said.

“Impossible,” Elladan said. “How…?”

“A light touch and a lot of luck,” Thorgo said again.

Elrohir frowned. “We were away for some time. Perhaps he simply asked—”

“Are you accusing me of cheating?” Thorgo snapped.

“I most certainly did not give him your mother’s necklace,” Elrond said darkly.

“Or my dagger,” Glorfindel said.

Further protests came from about the room.

“All I did was not report my perfume bottle missing,” said an elleth down the room, “so others would not be forewarned.”

“She was first,” Thorgo muttered to Bilbo.

“My son did not cheat,” Bilbo said firmly. “He is a Baggins. You really shouldn’t underestimate hobbits so.”

“Are all hobbit so skilled?” Elrohir asked.

“I wonder the same,” Glorfindel added.

“We all are quiet and good at sneaking,” Thorgo said. “We train on pie and garden raids. But I admit I have a few advantages over that, being the son of the Burglar of Erebor.”

Bilbo felt his cheeks heat. “Brat.” He spat the word, but the smile on his face belayed all upset. “I fear it has more to do with receiving training from a very talented thief of our acquaintance… who will be receiving an earful from me on that front when next we meet.”

“A hobbit thief?” Elrond said. “I rather thought you were the only one, and only so due to circumstances.”

“You mean due to Gandalf,” Bilbo corrected, which made Elrond laugh. “Yes, well, I am the only one I am aware of. No, this thief is a dwarf, and I’m quite certain is using his skills for the King Under the Mountain these days. Which does not excuse his teaching my son such skills.”

“Certainly not,” Elrond said, but his eyes were twinkling such that it was impossible to take him seriously.

“I don’t suppose this dwarf would offer us lessons?” Elladan asked. “To teach someone skills enough to get past Glorfindel…”

Bilbo held back a laugh at the thought of Nori’s face if the twins dared to ask him.

~o0o~

Ravens had followed Bilbo to Rivendell, and he had sent a few updates to Dis, so he was not surprised to see a raven. He was, however, surprised when one land on the table at dinner.

“Lorac?” Bilbo said politely. But the raven was not looking at him. Rather, he landed before Elrond and spoke directly to him.

“I bear a message for Lord Elrond Perehil of Rivendell from Lady Dis, daughter of Thrain,” Lorac said.

“Be welcome, Lorac. I will hear your message,” Elrond said.

“Lord Elrond, my deepest gratitude for taking in my kin and showing them the full hospitality of your house,” Lorac croaked in his raven voice. Yet somehow he managed to bring the essence of Dis’ voice to life. “You have shown the greatness of your line and your home. If the line of Durin can aid you in any way, know you have but to ask.

“I hear also that one of my brother’s company has taught my nephew questionable skills. You have my apologies for any distress that comes from this teaching. Please let me know how I may mitigate the insult.”

Lord Elrond looked grave. No, serious, but with a twinkle in his eyes. Bilbo wondered that the elf did not laugh more. He was clearly often laughing within. Thorgo, on the other hand, looked only worried. He was probably wondering what Dis would do to him when next they met.

“Will you take a message back to your lady?” Elrond asked.

“Of course, good lord,” Lorac said.

“To Lady Dis of Erebor from Lord Elrond of Rivendell. Greetings from Rivendell. We have been honored to host your kin and seek no recompense but deeper friendship between our peoples. As for the matter of the challenge set by my sons to your nephew, know no insult has been taken or will be. The challenge is an old matter, and your nephew showed naught but excellence and propriety throughout. Know we of Rivendell seek no mitigation, but we warn that our sons are now quite interested to meet a dwarf who can teach a perdornhoth to sneak up on Glorfindel.”

When Elrond finished, Lorac nodded and turned to Bilbo.

“Oh?” Bilbo asked, noting how Thorgo was shrinking back in his chair, not at all mollified by Lord Elrond’s kind words.

“To Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, Dowager Consort Under the Mountain.”

Bilbo huffed, as he always did at that title, but he tugged at the bead behind his ear.

“From Lady Dis, daughter of Thrain. Brother, I am relieved to hear you and my nephew are doing well in Rivendell. I could live without hearing of my nephew’s behavior, but if you insist he had not shamed the Line of Durin, I will accept your word.”

Thorgo let out an explosive breath and sank into his chair.

“I extend my deepest apologies again for the behavior of Grayven. I have investigated the situation in Erid Luin that caused him to be sent in place of Derius, my chosen teacher. Unfortunately, I have been informed that Grayven challenged Derius for the right to train Thorin’s son. Derius was injured but is recovering well. I am on my way to the Blue Mountains to see what foolishness has overtaken our kin. I will sort this matter out in full.

“I hope that you will accept my invitation to visit Erid Luin next year. You expressed the belief that Thorgo is coming in to his stone sense, and it would be easier to start his training under the mountains. I am bringing with me appropriate teachers whom I trust. No further incidents like Grayven, I swear it.

“One of those teachers will be Nori. Rather, whatever is left of him when you are done with him, Brother. I leave his punishment to you.”

Bilbo smirked and nodded. He’d expected as much.

“And no, I have not warned him.

“If you will visit, send word with Lorac with where you shall be. I will send guards to escort you to our halls.”

“Thank you, Lorac,” Bilbo said. “If you would care to rest, I would like the night to compose my response.” The raven left with an elleth offering him his choice from the kitchens. Bilbo considered his options through dinner, ignoring Thorgo’s broad hints that they should stay in Rivendell through the winter.

“You are welcome in my halls, Mister Baggins, for as long as you wish to stay,” Elrond said as they shared one last glass of wine at the end of the evening.

“I would enjoy staying,” Bilbo admitted. “But I must do what is best for Thorgo.”

“I admit my sons may not be the best of influences,” Elrond said.

“Da, please,” Thorgo interrupted. “I want to stay.”

“After your little foray into thievery?”

“Borrowing for a challenge,” Thorgo countered. “And no one was upset.”

“Truly, hardly the worst we’ve experienced,” Elrond said. “Glorfindel was most impressed with your son. As have all his teachers been. We have not had the pleasure of one so young since Estel left.”

Bilbo noticed a wistful look in Elrond’s eyes. “Well…”

“Please, Da. I’ll keep improving my Sindarin. And Elladan thinks I might have potential in archery, but I need more practice.”

“I want to see you working on your reading more,” Bilbo said thoughtfully, mostly watching the animation of his son’s face.

“I should work on my written Sindarin. I can work through some of the legends of the first age and I’ll give you reports. I promise, Da. Please.”

“He seems in earnest,” Elrond said.

“Aye, he always does at the start.”

“Da,” Thorgo protested.

“But we shall try.” Bilbo settled comfortably into his chair. He’d be able to get through a few more records of the second age. And he wanted to copy the records of the Gwaith-i-Mirdeain, the elvish-jewel smiths of Eregion, outside Moria. They’d make an excellent coming of age gift for Thorgo, whenever he should succeed in maturing so far. “I’ll send word to Dis to collect us here in the spring.”

Chapter Text

Thorgo thoroughly enjoyed his year in Rivendell, and the next spring Dis arrived with a small entourage, including Dwalin, Nori, and their child.

Dwalin and Nori expressed much gratitude to Bilbo for their success. It turned out they’d been trying to craft a child for some time, but had never succeeded. Bilbo’s success with Thorgo made them realize using only Erebor stone was a stumbling block for them. Nori hadn’t even been born in Erebor. So they had traveled with Dis to the Blue Mountains, and melding stone from both places had been blessed with their beloved Lorin.

Bilbo was delighted, though it did not stop him from verbally eviscerating Nori for teaching Thorgo how to be a sneak thief.

Of course Nori was utterly entranced by the whole idea and accepted the Twins’ challenge. Of course, it’s possible Thorgo had given him a heads up. Either way, Nori managed to decimate not only the entire challenge, he did it in a very tight period of time due to the scheduling of Dis’ departure.

Elrond was delighted.

Thorgo got to spend the next year in the Blue Mountains learning to understand rocks and getting more hands on training as a dwarf.

There were no further embarrassing exclamations about elves.

Years later, Bilbo did take Thorgo to Erebor, where he was welcomed as consort and his son as prince. After meeting Dain and learning of his father’s home, Thorgo formally renounced any claim to the throne of Erebor, declaring himself a traveling scholar by trade.

When Thorgo came of age, or somewhere between Hobbit and Dwarven expectations thereof, he set out to travel the world and see the mountains of the north and the deserts of the south. By this point his cousin Frodo was living with Bilbo at Bag End and Thorgo was quite emphatic that Frodo should inherit. Thorgo wanted to travel, but he’d appreciate if a room was kept for him to visit.

When Bilbo made his eleventy-first birthday, Thorgo was waiting outside the party to escort his father to wherever he wanted to go. Since Rivendell proved to be the limit of his strength, Thorgo remained a time before wandering off again.

When the whole matter with the ring was going on Thorgo was well to the south, but he picked up on the ruckus and decided to get out from under foot and head north again. He followed the coast and visited the Gray Havens before returning to the Shire. He was most disquieted to find Frodo gone and remained, to get sucked into leading a gorilla defense against Saruman and his blasted orcs.

After Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin returned, they sorted things out with Thorgo’s help and got the Shire back on its feet. Thorgo remained for several more years, worried for Frodo. His cousin was even more disinclined to the company of others than Bilbo had been, though he loved his friends dearly. Still, it made it all too easy for Frodo to hide away and disappear into the blackness that haunted him.

For some strange reason, Thorgo decided around this time that he wanted a child. He wanted someone to teach all the stories he had been learning from around the world and show the wonders he had seen. But he didn’t particularly want a lover or a family. Frodo completely understood and agreed to help Thorgo plant a child. They used stone from Erebor, oak from the old forest, one of Primula’s shawls, mithril from Bilbo’s wedding gift, and a smear of both their blood. A year later little Fresia crawled from the soil of Bag End.

Thorgo and Fresia started taking travels locally as soon as she could walk, and by the time Frodo left for the Gray Havens, they had to schedule carefully to make it back in time to see him off. After that, Thorgo left the Shire and never returned, though Fresia may have stopped back to visit her friends from time to time.