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Chapter Text

Bilbo Baggins had seen many things from Thorin Oakenshield.

He had seen triumph, and he had seen sorrow. He had seen hatred, and he had seen love. He had seen devotion and obsession, had seen the depths of Dragon-Like Madness and the rise of Kingly Honor. He had seen Thorin at his most vulnerable, and seen him at his strongest.

And when he hid on Ravenhill, when against all sense he stayed, just because a gut feeling told him he might be needed, when he stayed and watched Thorin face against his greatest foe in what could be nothing else but a final battle…

He saw the moment Thorin decided to let Azog's blade run him through.

And before he had the sense to think he was sprinting towards them, ripping his ring off and flinging himself as Azog with all of his might.

Azog shouted, his body and blade lurching to the side! The blade slipped off of Thorin's and cut the dwarf's arm, but wounded him no more! Thorin stared up in shock as Bilbo, brave little Bilbo, clung to Azog The Defiler's upper body and tried to fight.

Not that Bilbo had much hope of truly wounding Azog, most of his focus now on avoiding the sharp claws of the orc as he scrabbled to hang on. He did his best, Sting still in it's hilt because of the sheer panicked nature of it all.  He tugged on Azog's ears, and kicked at his spine, and even poked him in the eyes.

Thorin slowly got up, eyes wide, feeling his clean, unopened chest. He stared in wonder at Bilbo atop the orc, looking like he thought he was witnessing a dream.

Azog noticed.

He roared, and swing his sword, only just missing when Bilbo tugged his whole head to the left! And then with no other options, with Thorin completely shellshocked and with Sting out of reach-

Bilbo wrapped both if his arms around Azog's neck, as it was too thick for Bilbo to use only his hands, and he squeezed with all his might.

Azog made a choking sound, lurching forward at the sudden loss of air! But only a moment later he realized what this meant, just as Bilbo did. The hobbit was no longer able to squirm away from attacks.

Azog raised his arm that still had a hand, his orcish claws dirty and sharpened, surely ready to rip Bilbo's arms off and tear the little hobbit apart, and Bilbo could only hope for a miracle-

And then Thorin stabbed Orcrist straight through Azog without a single word or sound.

Azog wailed, bringing his arm away from Bilbo and smacking Thorin across the face with all his strength! Bilbo shouted helplessly as Thorin went flying, Orcrist torn out of Azog's torso and soaked in blood from hilt to tip. Thorin hit the ice hard, and Bilbo screamed again when he saw Thorin's head hit a bit of stone sticking out of the ice.

Soon he realized he could feel Azog's breath waning, and then felt the blood pouring from Azog's mouth drip onto his own arms. Bilbo let go, dropping to the ground and rushing to Thorin's side.

Behind him, Azog The Defiler fell. For the very last time.

"Thorin," Bilbo said, his tone a plea. "Thorin, look at me!"

Thorin's eye were closed, but his chest still rose and fell. Bilbo quickly checked him for any other wounds, and found that other than his foot, Thorin had only the head wound from the stone piece.

But then, what kind of luck was that, 'Only a head wound?' As though a head wound couldn't be as bad, or worse, than a sword through the chest, even with Thorin's thick dwarven skull. As though the damage couldn't be just as destructive.

"Thorin, stay with me," Bilbo muttered breathlessly, cupping Thorin's head in his hands. The back of Thorin's head was wet, warm, and Bilbo tried to convince himself it was just melting ice but the strong metallic smell in the air told him otherwise.

"Stay with me, please. The Eagles are coming, just hang on."

He whimpered, lowering his head to touch their foreheads together. In a broken whisper, he begged. "Please."

He heard Thorin's breath hitch, just before and Eagle flew up and grabbed the King Under The Mountain.

And now he sat at Thorin's bedside. The King's head was wrapped, only a small spot of blood to be seen now that the wound had been cleaned as best they could without cutting Thorin's hair. His arm was wrapped as well, more blood visible there, but those bandages were to be changed frequently anyway to keep an eye on any chance of infection. His foot was elevated, with Oin's best stitches closing the hole Azog's blade had left behind.

"Bilbo Baggins." The familiar voice felt like a salve on Bilbo's turmoiled mind. Gandalf sat next to his friend, putting a ahnd on Bilbo's shoulder. "You saved his life, didn't you?"

"... He was going to let Azog kill him," Bilbo says bluntly, gesturing at Thorin's chest. "Probably in some- some act of grand self sacrifice, if I know him."

Gandalf let out a small huff of saddened laughter. "If, indeed."

"And I-I just couldn't let it happen." Bilbo sniffed, twitching his nose and shaking his head. "I couldn't. Not after all we'd been through. So I-"

Now Bilbo laughed, the reality settling in. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face with his hands.

"What did you do, Bilbo Baggins?"

Bilbo gestured upwards, a look of disbelief on his face. "I threw myself at Azog, unarmed. I didn't- I didn't even think, I just-" He gestured again.

Now Galdalf laughed openly, joyously, and clapped Bilbo on the back. "My dear fellow, you've spent far too much time with these dwarves!" The admonishment is laden with affection, Gandalf looking at Bilbo with amusement and awe.

"Too much indeed," Bilbo mumbles, looking at Thorin's resting face, the weariness he has even in slumber. "But... but I would be heartbroken, if I did not spend just a little more."

"My dear Bilbo." Gandalf holds Bilbo's hand, shaking it just a little. "You are truly one of the finest friends, anyone could hope to have."

Bilbo smiles, for just a moment, ducking his head. And then he looks at Thorin again, at the steady rise and fall of Thorin's chest. "I hope he still thinks of me as one when he wakes."

The days pass like a hot knife through butter, fast and with their share of dribbly mess. Wounded are brought in and treated. Some make it, some don't. Some won't go either way.

Fili and Kili are set beside Thorin in the makeshift healing tent. Kili had been just quick enough with his bow to stop his brother but being stabbed, but Fili had still been dropped from a great height. And Tauriel, though many whispered that surely the she-elf must have been the one to wound the prince, had brought Kili to the tent not long after Thorin had been bandaged up.

Kili had been stabbed, but it seemed someone had at least prevented it from being fatal. From the way Tauriel limped, the way she winced ever so slightly as she moved, and the way blood both her own and not stained her elven armor, it was easy to guess who had come to the young prince's aid.

And all the meanwhile, Bilbo stayed with Thorin.

"You still need to give me a proper tour, you know," he says one day as he's sitting my Thorin's bedside, helping to mend some of the ruined clothes the men of Laketown (now of Dale) needed so badly in the approaching winter chill.

Thorin does not respond, but he hasn't for a few days by then. It doesn't deter Bilbo.

"Need to give most of us one. Gandalf is busy trying to remove any curses from the gold, and once he's done someone will need to show everyone around. And I... I cannot think of a better guide than you, Thorin. Not just for your knowledge of the mountain, but for your passion."

He says it all in a prompt tone, as though merely discussing some somewhat displeasing weather with a neighbor. He can't help it, sometimes. The way even pleasant things come out of his mouth with a tone that doesn't match the words, nor even how he feels while he says them. But it happens, and he'd discovered long ago that people either took it at face value, or got to know him enough to know when the tone was true and when it was nothing more than a sound.

... Not many had chosen the latter.

The dwarves had.

"How is he?" Bofur asks, peeking in through the tent entrance. "I gathered more Kingsfoil." He shows Bilbo the bundle of plants. "In case any of them needed it."

"I don't think they do," Bilbo says, still not looking up from his mending. "Oin says they've managed to keep away infection, thanks to Tauriel helping." Bilbo smiles a little. "He won't say it, of course, but he appreciates her help. And I think she knows it, because she let him help her with her wounds too."

"She's not as bad as others," Bofur agrees. "Saved our Kili, and for that alone she's alright in my eyes. Saved him twice now, in fact."

"Did she?"

"She's the one who cured his poison back in Laketown," Bofur happily informs. "Mind, Kili wasn't making much sense then, but I dare say there was a bit of spark between 'em."

"Mmm, really?" Now this felt almost like home, almost like being back in Hobbiton and trading idle gossip over a mug of ale. If it weren't for the chill and the ever-present smell of blood, Bilbo could almost convince himself he was truly back in The Shire. "Well, Thorin will have words about that, I'd imagine."

"Oh, aye. 'Course Kili would pull something like this, falling in love with an elf. And, if I may be so bold, getting one to fall in love with him."

"So my sense of them being troublemakers was right, then," Bilbo says with a bit of pride.

Bofur laughs. "I've yet to see your judge of character be wrong! ... Well, when a curse isn't involved, anyway. You've got good sense, Mister Bilbo."

Bilbo's hands still.

The Ring weighs heavy in his pocket, heavier than it should, he thinks.

"Mister Bilbo?"

"Hmm?" Bilbo snaps himself out of it, looking at Bofur at last. "Oh, um, nothing. Just, thought I messed up my stitch here, for a moment." He raises the shirt he's mending. "But ah, it's fine."

Bofur sits down next to him. "Who taught you do that?"

"Sewing? My mother did. I was always ripping my clothes when I was young, so eventually she had me start sewing them myself." Bilbo smiles fondly at the memory. "Very keen on the idea of self-reliance, she was. Loved my father deeply, but wanted us all to be able to handle ourselves if anything ever happened, to either of them."

Bofur nods. "Suppose that explains a few things, then." He lights his pipe, but a quick glare from Oin as the older dwarf walked in made him snuff it out just as fast.

"Mmm, I suppose," Bilbo mumbles. Then he pauses again, and looks at Bofur. "Hang on, ex-explains what , exactly?"

"Why you ended up fitting in so well." Bofur sneaks out a small flask and takes a drink before Oin notices. "'Cause at the start see, we all thought you couldn't do anything for your own. But if your mother taught you to and you just forgot in your adulthood, we've all done that in some way or another."

"You thought I couldn't do anything?"

"Oh, aye! Remember about the handkerchief?"

Bilbo blinks, and then turns back to his mending and clears his throat quite grumpily. It doesn't hide the embarrassed blush as he remembers demanding they turn around just for the silly piece of cloth.

Seems like a lifetime ago. ... It was, a lifetime ago.

As Gandalf said at the entrance of Mirkwood, Bilbo is the not same as the hobbit who left The Shire.

"Thank you." Bilbo takes the rations back to the healing tent, placing the plate in front of Oin. "Suppertime, old friend."

Oin doesn't react. Bilbo clears his throat. Then he leans close to Oin's hearing trumpet. "Suppertime, Oin."

He doesn't raise his voice, keeps it rather gentle in fact, but it still makes Oin jump. The poor dwarf has dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, his hands shaking ever so slightly. Tauriel has taken over anything to do with stitching, at Oin's insistence. Steady hands are steady hands, whatever race they belong to, he'd said.

"Thank you, Bilbo." They've grown much closer in this time, these endless days after the battle. They had no choice, with Bilbo spending most of his time by Thorin's bedside. "You're a good lad."

"I try." Bilbo sits down as well, his own meager supper in his hands. "... Who-who do you think will be first? Of the Durin's, I mean?"

"Eh? Hmm... Suppose I think it'll be..." He looks at the three in their beds. "... Kili, I'd wager. Other two hit their head, he's just got a bit of blood loss and a small fever."

"Fever? I thought-"

"Not infection, laddie, don't worry." Oin takes a bite of his food. "Just a regular fever, but it hit him at his weakest."

"No relief for them, is there?" Bilbo mutters, cutting up his own meal before eating. His appetite, though not entirely gone, hasn't been the same since Thorin first got his Dragon Sickness.

"Aye, none at all."

Bilbo looks at his friend, the way his shoulders slump with the weight of worry for the wounded, the way his face is every so slightly gaunter under the concealment of the beard, the way he's so different from the silly old man who'd helped clean out the cupboard in Bag End.

"... Care to turn it into a wager?" Bilbo finds himself offering, pulling out a small parcel of coins. Gandalf had deemed these particular ones safe from the Infecting Madness, and as such each member of the company was given a small bag in case any such bartering would be needed. Thus far, none had.

In these times, all were focused on survival, not profit.

Oin's eyes brighten a bit as Bilbo holds the coinpurse. "Really, laddie? You'd enter into a wager with a dwarf?"

"I'm not a gambling man," Bilbo admits, "But I think it'll keep our minds occupied, at least."

Oin smiles a bit. "And what if we brought the others into it, too?"

"The more the merrier," Bilbo says with a shrug. "Long as it's not, ahem, disrespectful, that is."

"Disrespectful?" Oin laughs. "The lads  themselves would be betting on their own chances if they were awake! I'll go gather the others, and we'll sort it all out!"

And that's how the healing tent became, for a while, a hubbub of hopeful bet-placing. Not a single member of The Company bet against any of the three Durin's waking up. Most bet on Kili, a few on Fili.

Dwalin, Balin, and Bilbo were the only ones to bet on Thorin.

"Seems you know his stubbornness as well as we do," Balin says with a small smile. "You really are quite the friend."

"I ought to be, at this point." Bilbo is counting out his coin to hand over to Oin, who's to oversee the pool until it's time to divvy up. "I did throw myself at a dragon for him. And an orc. Twice." The tone is there again, some mix of stiff displeasure and indifference, though his words aren't meant to be either.

Balin, though, he knows. Bilbo can always trust that the dwarves know. Balin smiles and pats Bilbo on the back. "That you did. The courage of hobbits. Or perhaps, the courage of one Bilbo Baggins. You may be the best of us, laddie."

Bilbo hesitates. In his mind he sees the moment in Mirkwood, when the ring fell from his hand, when he attacked that bug-thing with more ferocity than he'd ever attacked anything in his life (until Azog, that is), when he'd felt a need to declare The Ring to be his to the much-dead corpse.

When he'd come back to himself and realized that something about The Ring was wro-

He shakes his head, clearing the memory away. "No, I daresay I'm not." He hands his coins to Oin. "I rather think Thorin is."

Because at least when Thorin realized his madness, he managed to win against it.

Bilbo learned how to change bandages by the first snow of early winter. He got very good at it very quickly, too, and found it quite suited to his more particular instincts. It wasn't an easy business, and it required quite a bit of monotonous, undivided attention to get it right.

Not unlike sewing, or crochet, or gardening. Not unlike his more respectable hobbies he'd left behind.

"There we go," he says in his most proper, prompt, and proud tone, usually reserved only for shooing off unwanted guests or for reply to pushy salesmen in the market. He bounces on his heels a bit, fiddling with The Ring nervously in his pocket. "Not too tight?"

Thorin doesn't reply.

"Right." Bilbo nods. "Good. Ahem! I'll ah, go check on the boys, then." He turns around-

"Stay."

His heart stops. His breath hitches.

He turns.

Thorin's eyes are still closed, his lips barely parted. Bilbo wonders for a moment if he imagined it, because-

He yanks his hand out of his pocket.

... Because it wouldn't be the first time he'd heard voices that weren't there.

But when he steps closer, Thorin's hand twitches. And again, from lips cracked with Winter chill, falls a plea of "Stay."

Bilbo grabs Thorin's hand in his, eyes watering. "Thorin?" he whispers, a lump in throat.

Thorin doesn't respond with words, but he curls his fingers around Bilbo's hand.

Bilbo doesn't move for hours after that. And Thorin's grip never falters.

"Come on," Bilbo gently encourages. "Open your eyes."

Thorin's eyes move rapidly beneath his eyelids, and he grits his teeth.

"Do you need help?"

Thorin grunts, a grunt of 'No, I am a King, I do not need help to open my eyes'.

Bilbo rolls his. "Let me help, you lump." He reaches over tugs slightly at Thorin's eyelids, loosening then after the long sleep. They're a bit crusty, despite all the care Bilbo's put into trying to keep them clean.

When Bilbo is done Thorin tries again. Slowly his eyes peel open, and he winces against the candlelight of the tent. He closes them again, and then opens, blinking slowly.

He turns his head. "Master Baggins," he rasps. "... You... you were there."

Bilbo nods. "I was."

"You... stopped him..."

"Yes, I did."

"Why?"

Bilbo snorts, rolling his eyes again. "Thorin, I have followed you all this way to help you reclaim that mountain, stayed longer to try and help you regain your sanity, and stayed even longer in the hopes to see you after the battle. I wasn't about to let you die in some-some self-sacrifice or-or penance for your actions, or whatever the hell you thought you were about to do."

Thorin stares for a long while, and Bilbo curses his sharp tongue.

And then Thorin closes his eyes, and wheezes out a laugh.

Bilbo splutters a bit in shock, which just makes Thorin laugh harder.  He winces, though, and Bilbo knows it must have hurt his head. So Bilbo pats his hand. "I'll go let Oin know you've officially woken up, and he'll get you something for the pain."

"No." Thorin moves his hand to hold Bilbo's, tightly, desperately. "No. I... don't want you to leave, yet."

Bilbo's heart beats louder than the sound of The Ring falling on stone. "No?"

"No." Thorin moves his head back to be staring up at the tent ceiling. "I want to hear stories, Master Baggins. Of all that's gone on in my slumber."

"Stories?"

"My dreams were few, and unkind when they came. Tell me something that makes the battle worth it."

Bilbo thinks, and thinks. "Well..." He blushes a little. "I started a wager on who'd wake up first."

Thorin turns his head again, quirking an eyebrow. "You? A wager?"

"I figured it would cheer everyone up a bit," Bilbo defends, sliding into his more haughty tones. "And it has, in fact, cheered everyone up."

"And who are the others to wake up?"

"Fili and Kili."

Thorin's eyes soften. "... They made it out?"

Bilbo nods, and moves so that Thorin can see his nephews sleeping in their own beds.

Thorin stares with such wonder and relief that Bilbo wonders if might cry. Thorin does swallow as though tears are about start, but none do. Instead he turns his gaze back to Bilbo. "And who-" he asks, his crackly voice now not just because of the chilled air, but because of swell of emotion, "-has won the wagers?"

"Well, you're the first to wake," Bilbo admits, "So it's Balin, Dwalin-"

Thorin smiles knowingly, of course those two bet on him.

"-and, ahem, ah, myself."

Thorin blinks. "Yourself?"

Bilbo nods, somewhat stiffly. "I bet on you without a second thought."

"... Why?"

"Because you are the most stubborn person I have ever met. And... the most miraculous." Bilbo says it all in the way one might admit to having perhaps scratched the paint on the neighbor's fence. He sighs, and his expression softens, along with his tone. "You are... truly miraculous, Thorin Oakenshield."

And it may just be the dim lighting of the tent, or Bilbo's tired eyes playing trick, or Thorin's own eyes trying to clear away any remaining cloudiness or gunk.

But Bilbo swears that now, Thorin, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, really does begin to cry.

The wages are divvied up with Thorin as witness, Oin happily tossing large pouches to Dwalin, Balin, and Bilbo. Bilbo stumbles a little from the weight as he catches it, and Dwalin helps steady him.

"It appears I've made you a very rich hobbit indeed," Thorin says with a sly smile.

"Make me any richer and I'll throw the economy back home into shambles," Bilbo says, tucking the pouch into his satchel. "We don't get much foreign money in Hobbiton. A little from men of Bree, sometimes."

"Then we'll give you your share slowly," Thorin decides. "And you will get your share." His tone strengthens, sombers.

Everyone turns their attention to him, the hubbub fading.

"I say this, in front of my thirteen closest friends and allies as witness." Thorin looks Bilbo in the eyes. "I take back all I said at the gate. Though I can't reverse my actions, I reverse my decree. You, Bilbo Baggins, are, and always will be, a hero to those of us in Erebor. And... one of my most trusted, and valued, friends."

The Company all grin, and bow. Bilbo isn't sure what to do, so he mutters a polite "Thank you," to everyone, and then to Thorin, "Thank you, Thorin, but I swear I didn't do any of it for praise, or-or songs, or riches."

"I know." Thorin's smile is genuine. "Which is why you deserve all of it, and more. You're pure of heart, Bilbo Baggins, more than any I have known. When you were offered gold and jewels, you valued an acorn and the tree you could grow from it. When you were offered my blind trust, you tried to use it to make me see sense. And when you were offered nothing from me but death, you still came to my aid."

"Well... what are friends for?" Bilbo says with a mix of a scoff and an awkward laugh. Luckily it draws a chuckle from the small crowd.

"Indeed. And, if my dear friend would consider it," Thorin tries to draw himself up, to look as regal as he can in the cot. "I would ask you to stay, at least long enough for me to show you a true King Under The Mountain, and to show you a True Friend."

Bilbo thinks of his books, and his armchair. He thinks of his cozy fireplace, and his little garden. He thinks of good food, a warm hearth, and all the comforts of home.

And he thinks of the empty rooms, the rarely-hosted company, the quiet solitude.

And perhaps, if things were different, he would want it all back.

Perhaps, if he hadn't been there in time, if Thorin had done what he intended and perhaps if Kili had missed his shot and perhaps if Tauriel hadn't been fast enough for her prince,

Perhaps then Bilbo would ache for home much, much more.

But here, surrounded by his friends, friends so dear he even considers them to be like family, here with Thorin smiling at him a way that makes Bilbo's heart feel light and heavy at the same time …

"I'd love to stay," Bilbo says with a small smile.

The Company around him cheers, and he finds himself being pulled and pushed around into as many hugs as there are dwarves. And he grumbles and whines, but it soothes some pain inside, the pain of coming So Close To Loss.

And when the hugs are done, Bilbo feels that all weight has been lifted from his soul.

And then his hand goes to his pocket.

... He feels that almost, all weight, has been lifted.

... Almost.

Chapter Text

Fili and Kili woke not long after their Uncle, as though they'd been waiting for him. And maybe they had, in some way.

But even after waking, recovery took it's time. Mid-Winter came fast, and food was ever scarcer.

"We need to send men out to the lake," Thorin says, sitting up in bed dressed in his finer, yet still simple, tunic.

"You think I don't know that?" Bard replies, arms crossed. "Of course I do. But we've no boats, and the lake is leagues away, and we've no provisions to spare for the journey."

"We've no provisions to last through the winter."

"And who's fault is that?" Bard doesn't say it venomously, but he doesn't say it with any false politeness either. "I know your actions in your madness were not of you in your right mind, Thorin, but the actions that unleashed the dragon in the first place were done well before you laid eyes on that gold."

Thorin sets his jaw, but nods slowly. "It is true, I did not fall into madness until after the death of the dragon. But now, I give my word, once Gandalf declares the mountain horde safe, I will honor our agreement."

"And I'm to trust your word?"

"I wouldn't blame you for not. But can you trust the word of the one who bought you the Arkenstone, to try and end my madness?"

Bilbo steps a bit closer, waving slightly before quickly tucking his hands behind his back with a clearing of his throat. "I-I know, that before, when I vouched for him, it went... awry."

"To put it lightly," Bard agrees.

"Yes, yes. But, even if... that should happen again. You also know that I would contest him," Bilbo gestures at Thorin, "And that I would bring you your share anyway."

Bard considers it. "... I suppose you have proven that your loyalty isn't without limits."

"My loyalty lies with Thorin Oakenshield," Bilbo says, "Not with the ghost of some dragon using his mind against him."

Bard nods. "I believe you, Master Baggins. On your word, I trust that the debt will be paid. But that still does not settle the matter of fishing."

"Yes, well." Bilbo rocks on his heels a bit. "We do believe that Thranduil would be willing to send more supplies for a certain price, and that would be enough to send a party out to the lake."

"A price?"

"Gems he was promised by my grandfather," Thorin confirms, "Ones he joined the war over."

"I thought none were to enter the mountain while the sickness still lies upon it." Bard's eyes are sharp, distrusting.

"I-I, can." Bilbo rocks on his heels again. "I can. The... Company, and Gandalf, all seem to be in agreement."

"About what?"

"The he is immune to the Dragon Sickness," Thorin says.

Bard scoffs. "Immune?"

"He could have had all the riches in Erebor, and he valued an acorn for it's potential to be a tree. He could have kept the Arkenstone for himself, or used it to personally blackmail me for more treasure, yet he freely gave it away to try and end a war before it started." Thorin looks at Bilbo. "He was not once tempted by the gold."

"I didn't even join The Company for the payment, to be honest," Bilbo says. "I joined for the promise of adventure. Not treasure."

Bard sizes Bilbo up. "Do you still have the acorn?"

Bilbo nods. He pulls it out of his pocket, showing it to Bard.

"This is not something you could have picked up outside."

"No, no. I got it just before we entered Mirkwood."

Bard looks into Bilbo's eyes, and finally nods. "If you can get the gems, and get supplies from Thranduil, we will send a party to the lake. We can spare a dozen men, perhaps, but no more until our shelters are more fortified."

"It'll have to be enough." An agreement, at last. "Master Baggins?"

"Hmm?"

"Ready yourself. It time for you to go back under the mountain."

Bilbo stands at the gaping hole that was once an impenetrable gate. Now, it's little more than an open wound in the mountain.

He hikes his bag further up onto his shoulder, his other hand toying with The Ring inside of his pocket. Here, in this lonely silence, he can hear whispers.

He shakes his head, and walks inside.

The sheer cliffaces of gold and treasure remain, the impossible wealth scattered across the halls like they meant nothing and everything to Smaug all at once.

Bilbo realizes he's holding the ring and shoves it back into his pocket, wiggling and stretching his hand and sniffing and twitching his nose.

He remembers the way to the gems, he believes. There are physical markings to follow, most of them in the form of damage done by Smaug. He follows the paths he remembers until he finally reaches the room, and there indeed sits the pile of gems on the table. And beneath the table, from the way Thorin had treated them so dismissively in his madness.

Bilbo kneels down and sweeps them all into his satchel, and takes the time to pick up any stray ones that elude his wide gathering. Then he collects from the table, making sure not a single jewel or gem of piece of jewelry is left behind.

"Right," he mutters, standing up. He tosses the pouch lightly, giving a small laugh of triumph. "I never will understand how they can value these things more than a good book or a nice fire, but I suppose it's lucky they do."

Or even value them more than their own lives. At least, Thranduil valued them more than his soldier's lives. At first.

Bilbo begins the trek back out, still muttering to himself in the vast, empty halls. "But I suppose everyone has different priorities," he mutters as he steps off a staircase into into one of the mountains of gold. "Some prefer a simple life, and others prefer precious-"

Precious

Precious

He pauses. Blinks. Shakes his head. "P-precious..."

Precious

Precious

Precious Precious Precious Precious Precious-

Bilbo shakes his head again, trying to brace himself against something as his head goes fuzzy, the whispers filling his ears. Smaug's voice, Gollum's voice, a shrill and quiet voice he can't quite place but feels so familiar to him already-

His hand finds nothing but air, and he tips over. With a shout he tumbles, falling into the great piles of gold. He scrambles for footing, but the coins just slide under his feet, the gold and gems and precio-

"No!" He shuts his eyes tight. "Not- not that! N-not prec- gah!"

The coins slip too much. Bilbo flails as the monstrous mound begins to flow like a rushing river, the gold sweeping him away! He finds his hand in his pocket, grasping The Ring so tightly as he's bombarded by treasures beyond measure!

Coins and Goblets and Fine Jewelry smack him in the face, bang against his ribs. Old shields and forgotten hammers cascade down as well, thankfully missing his head and body but knocking against his arms and legs. Bilbo shouts, screams, but in the great halls of Erebor none hear him.

When it finally stops, when the gold has nowhere else to go and Bilbo finds himself on the stone floor among the furthest-reaching pieces...

Only then does he realize he's lost the pouch of Starlight Gems.

Bilbo looks up at the mound before him, and huffs out a defeated sigh. He sits down for a  moment, breathing deeply, trying to ignore the pains in his limbs, in his head.

The whispers still coming from the shadows.

He shakes his head and stands, not without difficulty, and shakes out his limbs. Without those gems, there will be no aid from the Woodland Realm. And without aid, there will be no chance of making it through the winter. Not just for Bilbo, not just for The Company, but for every dwarf left from the Iron Hills, and every man woman and child from Laketown, and even the few elves who stayed behind to tend to their own dead.

So Bilbo straightens his coat.

And begins searching through the treasure.

Bard is pacing the tent. "It has been two days since you sent your hobbit into that mountain, Thorin."

"I am aware." Thorin is stiff, even for one confined to a cot.

"How do we know the sickness hasn't claimed him?"

"Master Baggins is the last person it would be able to claim."

"Even alone, with none to dissuade him?"

"Even then."

Bard shakes his head. "You're very confident in him, Master Dwarf."

"He has given me no reason to doubt him. Not once in our friendship."

"He believed he had no reason to doubt you."

"He is..." Thorin looks away, towards where he knows the mountain stands outside of the tent. "He is stronger, than I."

"Even so, even if the sickness did not claim him, who knows what else lies within that accursed mountain? What might-"

"He's back!" Bofur rushes into the tent. "Bilbo's back!"

Thorin sits up more, and Bard stands straighter. But Bilbo makes no heroic entrance.

He's helped into the tent by Oin and Gloin, wincing all the way. But he  pulls out a large pouch, and tosses it to Bard. "There we are," he says, trying to keep the tones of pain out of his voice.

Thorin almost gets out of bed, but a sharp pain in his still-healing foot prevents him. So instead he leans, dark eyes wrought with concern. "What happened? Were you attacked?"

Bilbo shakes his head. "No, no, nothing like that Just a-" he sucks in a sharp breath as he's helped onto a cot. "Just a bit of an avalanche."

Bard eyes Bilbo with caution. "An avalanche? You were outside?"

Bilbo shakes his head again.

"Stop that!" Oin scolds. "You've got bruises on your neck as big as my fist!"

"Avalanche of gold," Thorin near-whispers in horror. "You were caught in a landslide of the treasure?"

"Almost lost the pouch," Bilbo says, laying down at Oin's scolding demand. "But I found it again."

"Is that why you've taken two days?" Bard gazes at the hobbit in disbelief. "Searching for the gems?"

"Well we're as good as dead without them," Bilbo says with all the primness and properness of one explaining why he bought a bulk amount of butter for the party he's to be hosting later on. "So if I came back empty-handed it wouldn't have made much of a difference, would it? We know they wouldn't accept anything but these."

"... You sorted through the halls of that mountain for two days to ensure the health of hundreds of strangers?"

Thorin grins at Bard. " That is why I speak so highly of him, Master Bargeman."

Bard looks at the pouch. "Yes, I think now I understand your confidence in him. I shall take these to my shelter, and get a message to the Woodland Realm right away."

"I think, perhaps, Master Baggins should hold onto them for now." Thorin looks at Bilbo. "As we still don't know if the Dragon Sickness is cleared from them."

And as he trusts Bilbo far more than Bard.

But even knowing the unspoken reason, Bard can't find a reason to argue. "Very well." He tosses the pouch back to Bilbo, but Gloin catches it instead and gently lays it on Bilbo's lap. Bilbo gives him a thankful smile, and then yelps as Oin moves his leg to check for broken bones.

"How did you search the whole time with no food?" Ori asks with complete wonder as the whole Company gather around Bilbo's cot to hear the tale.

"I just knew we needed them," Bilbo says without much fanfare. "And if we didn't have them, we'd be as good as dead. And we didn't come all this way just to die of Winter."

"But with all yer bruises!" Gloin gestures at Bilbo's legs, at the large purple markings littering them. "And didn't ye say hobbits eat more than dwarves?"

"Well that can't be true," Fili scoffs.

"No, no, it is," Bilbo says. "If you count Second Breakfast, Elevensies, Dinner and Supper, not to mention Afternood Tea-"

"No wonder your house was so nicely stocked," Dori says, almost wistfully.

"Quite. But ahm, as I was saying, if I didn't look there'd be no food at all."

"So it was willpower, then!" Gloin declares, grinning. He goes to slap Bilbo on the back with pride, but Dwalin stops his hand just in time.

"I don't know about that." Bilbo shifts uncomfortably.

"It was!" Kili gives Bilbo a much more gentle pat on the shoulder. "The courage of hobbits and the willpower of hobbits!"

"Like nothing we've ever known," Balin further praises.

Bilbo's hand twitches to his pocket. "I-I really don't know if it's worth quite the big deal."

"Not worth it?" Ori is still looking at Bilbo in wonder. "You saved everyone."

"Singlehandedly. Again." Dwalin crosses him arms, not because he's upset, but because he's impressed. "How many times does that make now?"

"Five," Thorin answers from his bed. "If you count breaking us out of the Woodland cells and freeing us with the barrels as two separate feats."

Bifur counts up on his hand. Bilbo outsmarting the trolls long enough for Gandalf to arrive, Bilbo saving Thorin from Azog (any by extension saving the whole party) outside of the goblin caves in time for the Eagles to arrive, Bilbo saving them from the spiders of Mirkwood, Bilbo breaking them out of the cells, Bilbo getting them in the barrels...

"So this makes six!" Bofur exclaims, having been counting along with his cousin. "Six times!"

"And if we count him saving my life alone, seven." Thorin gazes at Bilbo in a way that makes Bilbo need to look away, heat rising in his face.

"Plus facing the dragon," Nori says.

"And trying to stop the war," Dwalin adds.

"And coming up to Ravenhill to warn of the attack from the north," Fili supplies.

"Okay, now-" Bilbo tries to get them to stop, but they keep listing ways he's helped them, going from grand feats to small things, like showing Ori how to fry something without splashing himself with oil or helping Bombur collect wild herbs for stews.

"That's quite enough, thank you!" Bilbo finally shouts, the Company quieting down at him raising his voice. Bilbo huffs, thoroughly embarrassed. "You're making me sound like some grand hero, and I'm not. I am a simple hobbit, and I was hired as a simple burglar."

"Which is what makes it all so impressive, Master Baggins," Balin says with his hands on his hips. "That you were not meant to do so much,, but did so anyway because you saw a need."

"Yes, well, it's just-"

"Courage and willpower," Balin interrupts. "You've no need to act so humble, Master Baggins, we've told ye enough tales of our own for you to have a few for yourself."

Bilbo sinks deeper into his bed, huffing. "Trying to give me as big an ego as your lots," he mumbles.

Fili and Kili again give him gentle pats on the shoulder. Kili grins at him and says, "You've earned it. You were the only one of us to stand up to Uncle Thorin when it was needed, and the only one who never felt even a slight pull of the gold."

"Aye, a heart and mind harder to sway than any dwarfs," Balin says.

Bilbo's hand twitches to his pocket again. "I wouldn't say that."

"And why not, hmm laddie?"

"Because-" Bilbo's hand finally goes to his pocket, his fingers brush The Ring, and the words die on his tongue, and instead he comes out with, "Because you lot are the most hardfast and stubborn that I've ever met, in both the worst and best ways one can be."

There's fond laughter from all, and Bilbo feels sick.

"Come on now lad." Oin holds some soup up to him. "Story time's over, time to start regainin' yer strength."

As Bilbo sips the soup and the Company slowly disperse, he feels Thorin's eyes still watching him. Watching him with trust. With affection. With admiration.

Bilbo's hand is still on The Ring. The Ring that he knows caused him to fall into the piles. That caused the avalanche. That caused the bruises, and the two days searching, the two days that cost the entire city time and supplies.

And he has never felt less worthy of Thorin's trust.

Chapter Text

"So we've both been confined to bed," Thorin says as Bilbo is once more chastised by Oin for trying to sit up.

"Unfairly on my part," Bilbo grumps, trying to cross his arms and then wincing, letting them go limp again. "I'm not the one with the hole through my foot."

"And I'm not the one who's legs look stained with dye," Thorin says with a quirk of his eyebrow, nodding at Bilbo's many bruises.

Bilbo opens his mouth to argue, and then shuts it. He gives a small nod with a sour expression.

Thorin watches Bilbo shift in bed for a moment, and then settles into his own pillows. "You're more restless than I imagined you'd be, Master Baggins."

"Well, that'd be your doing," Bilbo says as he again tries to turn to lay on his side and again is stopped by the protest of pain from his body. "Over a year with no quiet rest," Bilbo says, wincing even as he keeps that 'proper hobbit' tone about his voice.

"We've corrupted you," Thorin says with a smirk.

"Indeed you have," Bilbo huffs, hand still twitching for something to do. "Brought out every drop of Took in me."

"Took?"

"The only hobbit family in The Shire who adventure." Bilbo shifts again, still wincing. "On my mother's side, of course, hence my name being Baggins."

"If the Tooks are of adventure, I take it your... initial reactions, were of a Baggins."

Bilbo gives a small nod. "It caused quite a scandal, really, when my parent married. The Baggins are very respectable, or we were before all this, anyway. And the Tooks..."

Thorin tilts his head slightly. "A bloodline to be ashamed of, in hobbit culture?"

"No, no." Bilbo's tone is dismissive. "Well... yes, a tad bit. But I was never ashamed of my mother. I loved her, very much. It was... only when they passed, really, that I got... stuffy."

"You became the man of the household," Thorin says with a nod. "Followed closer to your father's example."

"I suppose so. And, fell a bit more prey to gossip and rumours, pressures of my peers and all that."

"They didn't accept you?"

"Not quite, even after I settled down, a bit." Bilbo clears his throat. "Eccentricity doesn't just fade away overnight. Nor over... a few decades..."

"Well, then I am glad you joined our Company. Not just for what you've done for us, but so that you could have friends who value you for yourself."

Bilbo looks at Thorin, a bit startled. "Really?"

"You have many good qualities, Master Baggins. Alongside a good heart, and noble nature. I pity those who forced you to hide them."

Bilbo felt a sort of- sort of feeling like when the butterflies flew around him at the top of the canopy in Mirkwood, but as though those butterflies were trapped in his chest. "I-I, thank you, Thorin."

Thorin smiles, that true smile Bilbo has seen so few times on their journey yet cherished at every instance, and the butterflies flutter even more.

"We can send a messenger to Hobbiton once things have settled a bit more." Bilbo is broken from the spell of Thorin's smile by his words. "Is there anything you'd want arranged?"

"Oh, um... well, someone needs to watch Bag End, I suppose. And I'd rather face the dragon again than let the Sackville-Bagginses have it," he scoffs. Thorin gives an amused grin at Bilbo's rather angry tone, and Bilbo has to work quite hard at ignoring it.

Bilbo clears his throat again and continues, "So I think I'll leave the care to my gardener and my cousin, Hamfast Gamgee and Drogo Baggins."

"Hamfast?"

"Yes. What's so amusing about that?"

Thorin is still smiling. "Just that hobbit names are so different from dwarven ones."

"Hamfast is a perfectly respectable name," Bilbo informs Thorin, "As is mine, as is Drogos, as was my father Bungo's."

"Bungo Baggins?"

"Yes, Bungo Baggins."

And Thorin chuckles. A real, humorous chuckle, low and quiet and short but there.

Bilbo feels the fluttering again, but moves to cross his arms and pinch his face with displeasure at the mocking of his father's name, only to be swiftly reminded of the bruises on his arms. He cries out a little at his own foolish action, the pain making his vision darken for a moment.

When it clears Oin is suddenly in the tent and next to him, checking him over. Then Oin frowns, and taps Bilbo on the head disapprovingly with his hearing trumpet. "You've been told not to move!"

"Thorin was mocking me and my father," Bilbo defends.

"Oh, aye, I'll believe that when dwarves live in trees and elves underground," Oin grumbles.

"It's true," Thorin admits from his bed. Oin looks at him with surprise. "The naming conventions of hobbits took me by surprise, and I laughed at his father's name."

"Bungo," Bilbo says haughtily. "Bungo Baggins, a very well-respected hobbit in name and stature."

"Bungo," Oin grumbles. "Sounds like something the lads would have come up with as wee bairns."

"Oh, not you too!"

Bilbo watches Thorin take his first steps with the support of Dwalin and Kili. They have to almost hold him in the air entirely, but they allow a little weight to be placed on his feet.

"How many times a day must I do this?" Thorin asks Oin, panting a little and trying not to wince with every step taken on his wounded foot.

"Three times until we're sure ye can walk on you're own," Oin says firmly. "Can't have the king's leg goin' into to atrophy, can we?"

"And-and what about my legs?" Bilbo pipes up. "Can I, move around, as well?"

"Ye we could carry and it'd barely make a difference," Oin dismisses.

Bilbo huffs, staring at Oin with a completely appalled wide-eyed expression. Dwalin clears his throat, nodding at Bilbo. Oin looks over, and sighs.

"Not to demean ye, laddie. I only mean Thorin is... a symbol. And sometimes that means, eh..."

"I cannot have the same luxuries of bed-rest and healing," Thorin says, "At least not as long."

Bilbo huffs again, but looks away in a telltale sign of knowing he's lost the argument.

"If you're bored we could try to find ye some ehh... books, or the sort," Oin offers. "If any are left..."

"I'll, find a way to entertain myself, thank you," Bilbo retorts shortly, sniffing. He moves his arms a little, as it doesn't hurt so much after a couple days in bed, but he can't move them much.

He finds his fluttering fingers reaching into his pocket, brushing against The Ring.

He blinks. Twitches his nose. Adjusts himself.

Pulls The Ring out ever so slightly. Not enough for the others to see, never enough for the others to see.

Just enough to play with it. Rotate it around in his fingers. Feel the cool, smooth metal, the... something ... about it...

The whispers... dancing in his ears... his mind... he can't understand a single hissed word, but they feel so... familiar... by now...

It almost dulls out the voices of the others in the tent. Even the lights, as his vision goes... a little hazy...

He's vaguely aware of Ori entering the tent, saying something about designs... tapestries... getting ready for celebration...

Ori unfurls something, he sees it in the corner of his vision as he stares at the dancing flame of a candle... something else pricking at the corner of his sight... just... out of reach...

Ori is showing the designs to the room... not done by him, Bilbo thinks he hears, but by someone from Lake-Town... wanting to... commemorate... the death of the dragon...

The design comes into Bilbo's vision. His eyes flicker to it.

An eye of flame of shadow stares back at him.

It flashes before his sight, not just the design but something else, just for a moment but he's seen it before, he could swear he has-

He draws in a small gasp and drops The Ring back into his pocket like it's suddenly burning hot.

The whispers drop away with The Ring.

Bilbo catches his breath for a moment, blinks away the haze. When he's done he finds all eyes on him.

He crosses his arms, trying to look like he's covering himself while really just covering his pocket. "Very lifelike," he croaks.

Ori looks down at the design, and his eyes widen. He quickly rolls it up. "I-I'm sorry Mister Bilbo," he stutters out as he tucks the roll behind his back. "I forgot you, you..."

Bilbo watches some kind of realization dawn over the others as well.

"Did you look right into them?" Kili asks quietly. "Before we came into the mountain to help you?"

Bilbo opens his mouth, not sure what they mean for a moment, and then shuts it. He thinks, and-

"Oh. Oh, I-I did." He looks down at his arms. "Yes, I- right by his eye, right... right as he opened it." The bright-orange eye of Smaug, opening from slumber, right by Bilbo...

"And you still got away," Kili breathes.

Bilbo realizes with a start, that he never actually explained what happened in the halls before the others came to his aid. His mouth twitches into a smile, just for a moment, and he makes a little hobbit-y 'hm' sound. "Yes, I- quite lucky, I suppose."

He grips his side as he feels his hand try to twitch back to his pocket. Too many eyes on him. Too much attention.

Too much risk.

"Quite lucky, and quite clever. Luck alone could not outwit a dragon," Dwalin says. "Ye'll have to tell us the full tale someday, over some good Erebor-made ale."

"Well, I suppose I- Erebor made? I- but- won't it take years to set up things like that?"

"A simple brewery is easy to set up," Dwalin says. "And after a battle like that, people'll be needin' it."

"Besides, aren't you staying?" Kili says, adjusting Thorin's weight on his shoulder. "Gandalf said you were."

Thorin gives Bilbo a look, an expectant one, a... hopeful, one.

"Well, I-I am," Bilbo admits, tilting his head downwards a bit. "But I- I don't know, I wasn't- I'll go back home at some point, I think. At least to check on Bag-End. Can hardly leave my home to fall apart- oh, I-I'm sorry-"

"It's alright." Kili gives Bilbo a smile. "We've got it back. No need to tip-toe around the past of it anymore."

"Speak for yerself, lad," Dwalin grumbles.

Bilbo feels he should slip back into the conversation at this moment, but... doesn't. He settles back onto his pillows and lets his friends begin to gripe at each other, pressing his arms closer to his body.

Pressing The Ring closer.

Such a troublesome little thing. But so... pre-

Bilbo shuts his eyes tight, stopping the thought in it's tracks. Some good sleep, that's what he needs. Good sleep, and then a decent meal.

That's all.

Chapter Text

There is no good sleep, and few decent meals, before Bilbo is able to be up and about again. By then Winter is firmly gripping the land, and even with Thranduil's cooperation things are... bare.

The Woodland King isn't exactly known for his compassion towards the needy, after all.

As soon as Bilbo is cleared to walk around again, when his bruises are now a sickly green instead of angry purple, and the pain is less of a sharp agony and more of a dull pulse, he goes on a nice long walk.

There's not much to see, besides snow and ruins. But he enjoys it anyway, the sunshine and the fresh air, and in some spots there's even dirt beneath his feet instead of snow.

He walks and walks, not really thinking about anything in particular. His mind just wanders, his eyes sliding along the sights, his hands fidgeting...

And then the whispers are back, and he feels the cool metal in his fingertips. And his other hand twitches.

For how nice this all looks now... he wonders if it changes... when...

He ducks into a little alcove for a moment and, making sure no-one can see, slips The Ring on. He sighs as soon as it's resting on his finger, as soon as the sounds of the world around him muffle, the chattering of men and dwarves becoming with faint murmurs, overridden by the hissing whispers of the air.

He leans against the wall for a moment, eyes closed. So quiet. So hard to achieve, out here in these wild lands. But yet not silent, not like his little hobbit-hole back in The Shire. Because there he had no-one.

And here, he doesn't quite feel alone.

He opens his eyes again to the wispy world around him, and has a startling realization.

He doesn't need to do this anymore.

May never need to use The Ring again. Ever.

The thought makes his stomach churn, even with the sense of relief.

The perils are over. The Ring served it's purpose. There was no real reason to keep coming into this strange echo of the world, where the very air spoke in strange tongues and the edges of all he saw drifted away like smoke from a freshly-extinguished candle.

There was no more need.

He twists The Ring around his finger, swallowing.

But there was Want.

Deep, deep Want, desire to continue seeing this world, hearing this air, knowing this accompanied quiet, this solitude without lonesomeness...

"Have any of you seen our hobbit?"

Bilbo startles, tearing his hand away from The Ring and pressing himself closer to the wall. Even though he knows no-one can see him, he can't help the instinct of it.

Bofur and Bombur move on, asking others if they've seen Bilbo. Has he been away long enough for them to worry? He looks up at the sky, and sees the sun is much closer to the horizon than when he started his walk.

He shakes his head. Losing track of time, oh how he would be swiftly reprimanded in The Shire for making anyone worry so. He sighs, and goes to take off The Ring.

His fingers linger on it for a moment, twisting it...

He shakes his head and pull it off, tucking it back into his pocket and stepping out into the street.

And nearly runs right into Bard.

"Ah! Oh, I-I am terribly sorry-"

"It's alright, Master Hobbit," Bard says, giving Bilbo a strained smile. "No harm done."

"Well, I'm glad."

Bard looks into the little alcove. Easy to walk right by without noticing, but not exactly swathed in shadows. "I didn't even notice you there."

Bilbo gives a twitched smile, and a slightly uncomfortable laugh. Bard looks down at him.

"How do you do that?"

"Hmm? Do-do what?"

"Make yourself unseen like that."

"Oh, ah, well-"

"This is the second time I've witnessed it now. You appearing from nowhere."

"Well," Bilbo rocks on his heels, "Perhaps it's just because you, well you don't get many hobbits, around here. I-I suspect any man from, say Bree, would notice me quite fast. Just-just being used to hobbits, and all."

"Aye, that may be true," Bard says thoughtfully.

Bilbo gives another smile and a nod, but when he begins to walk away Bard says, "But what of an elven king?"

Bilbo freezes.

"You evading his attention as well," Bard says, stepping close again. "And a wizard's, all of us in the same room."

Bilbo makes a sort of laugh-wheeze sound, and spins around to look Bard in the eye. "Well I was hired as a burglar, you know."

"I did not."

"Well, I was," Bilbo says with a nod at nothing in particular, just for emphasis. "And I am, as you can tell, quite good at it."

"Yes, apparently so." Bard eyes Bilbo warily. "Is it all skill? Or is there help from the wizard?"

Bilbo's hand twitches back to his pocket, but Bard is too busy trying to read Bilbo's face to notice. Bilbo clears his throat, rocking once more on his heels. "I fail to see why that would matter to you."

Bard gives an almost contemptful smile. "Call it curiosity, if you like."

"Well, I do hope you enjoy feeling curious, then." Bilbo turns back around and quickly cuts through the crowd, squeezing through the gaggle of men and women, his heart pounding, his hand never leaving his pocket.

What a rude way to end a conversation, he chides himself as he goes. Bard could have meant it all perfectly harmlessly.

But something about the tone of Bard's voice told Bilbo that the man didn't trust him. And truthfully, Bilbo couldn't blame him. All Bard knew of Bilbo was that his vouch for Thorin failed, and that his stealing of The Arkenstone for peace failed as well.

Not the best impressions to leave someone with.

... Well, he did make some small talk with Bard on the ride into Lake-Town from the Woodland Realm. But even the most untrustworthy people can be skilled at small talk and manners. Why, even Gollum could hold a game of riddles-

Bilbo shudders, pushing away the memory of that thing in the goblin tunnels.

He makes it back to the tent, finding Thorin laying in his cot and talking in hushed tone with Fili and Kili. But when Bilbo clears his throat to make his presence known, the conversation stops.

And Bilbo is scooped up into the air by the two dwarf princes hugging him at once. He yelps! But they only laugh with relief.

"We thought something had happened!" Kili says.

"That a snowbank might've fallen on you, or some piece of a crumbling building!" Fili adds.

"No, quite fine!" Bilbo yips. "Please put me down now!"

The boys drop him, and pat his coat off for him.

"See? I told you. He's fine," Thorin says.

"What do you mean you told us? You're the one who sent other out to search."

Thorin glares at Fili. "Only to soothe the fears of the rest of you," he says in a tone that leaves no room for protest (or corrections).

Fili huffs a bit, but just pats Bilbo again. "We best tell the others you're found."

The two princes jog out of the tent, and Bilbo looks at Thorin with a bit of guilt. "I didn't mean to be out so long," Bilbo says, watching Thorin's stoic expression carefully. "Just lost track of time."

"... Easy to do in winter," Thorin says eventually, relaxing a bit again. "None of the men gave you trouble? Or elves?"

"No, no, the tallfolk didn't even notice me," Bilbo half-fibs, sitting down next to Thorin's cot. "Why the worry? Aren't there peace treaties and the like?"

"For now, yes," Thorin says gruffly. "But they're fragile. And there's been reports of stray orcs, still wandering the outskirts of the land after the battle."

"Still? In this weather?"

"I doubt they even feel the cold through all the filth they're laden with," Thorin spits.

Bilbo pats Thorin's hand and nods. "Terrible creatures," he agrees, with a tone more appropriate for talking about mice in the pantry or termites in the cupboards and less for talking about creatures of Darkness and Vile Hate.

"Terrible indeed."

They lapse into silence for a while, neither of them noticing Bilbo's hand still on Thorin's.

"... I... too, was a terrible creature," Thorin says quitely, drawing Bilbo's attention again. "I know I already revoked my words at the gates. But I can never make up for threatening your life, after all you've done for us."

"No, no, it wasn't you, Thorin." Bilbo shakes his head quite firmly. "Not at all. It was a sickness. A curse. An obsession, and-and I got in the way of that. And I'm glad I did, even if made you turn on me like that."

"... I trusted you," Thorin says softly. "Even in the midsts of my madness. Even when I was blinded to the loyalty of my own kin, my blood. ... I do not know how I ever thought you would betray out of malice, instead of necessity."

"... Probably hurt worse because you still trusted me," Bilbo mumbles. "Why... why did you trust me? All that time?"

"I... do not know. ... Perhaps because I knew you were immune to the gold, in a way I and even the others in the Company could never be. Perhaps I knew, deep down, that you would never chose the gold over me, even if I chose it over you. ... Perhaps some part of me knew you were the only one who could have stood up to me. Perhaps part of me was seeking that out."

Thorin's hand moves, entwining with Bilbo's in a softer, gentler way than before. Bilbo stiffens, and swallows. "I-"

"You're one of a kind, Bilbo Baggins of The Shire," Thorin says almost breathlessly. "Your loyalty knows no bounds, yet neither does your reasoning. You would throw yourself at an orc who's slaughters kings and great warrior alike for me, and yet would risk my own wrath when I am too pig-headed to see sense. You've slain spiders near twice your size, and still treat little things like acorns with such softness."

"Thorin..." Bilbo finds himself returning Thorin's gentle grip on his hand, almost feeling each other's pulses. Bilbo opens his mouth to say more, but nothing comes out. No words, no sounds, and Bilbo is left like a fish above water for what feels like years.

And then the entrance to the tent is flapped open with enough force to make a sound, just a small sound. But it's enough to shatter the moment, the two tearing their hands apart and looking to the entrance.

Gandalf stands before then, looking more worn and drained than they've seen him before. But he's smiling softly, and he taps the wall of the tent that faces Erebor with his staff.

Thorin's eyes widen. "You mean-"

"Yes, Thorin. The curses have been cleared. The mountain is safe to enter. As long as you are sure you can control yourself."

"I am." Thorin looks at Bilbo. "And I know who can oppose me if I am wrong."

Bilbo's mouth opens and shuts again, and he points at himself. "I-I barely survived last time."

Thorin smirks. "That was before you attacked Azog with nothing more than your fists."

Bilbo looks helplessly at Gandalf. Gandalf gives Bilbo a reassuring pat on the back.

Bilbo can only hope that means Gandalf will intervene if the need arises.

Chapter Text

"That's it," Oin mutters encouragingly as Thorin finally, after so long recovering, after a full winter left in a healing tent, puts his full weight on his own foot.

Thorin has to grit his teeth, and when he steps forward a few paces there is a noticeable limp. But that is easily overlooked, a battle wound still in recovery.

What matters is that, when he finally leads his people back into Erebor, he will lead them on his own strength, on his own two feet, head held high instead of bowed with madness.

"I'll see if Tauriel has got any more pain relief balms or elixirs," Oin says, walking out of the tent before Thorin could protest against the idea of Elvish Medicine.

But not even a hint of protest comes. Bilbo gives Thorin a searching look, and then smirks a little. "You-" he points at Thorin, "-are warming up to Tauriel, aren't you?"

"I've hardly met her," Thorin says in a measured tone. "I only know that she aides our wounded, and that she saved Kili's life."

"Hmm, right." Bilbo can't hide his amusement. "And her repeated disobeying of Thranduil has nothing to do with it?"

"... It's not something I hold against her."

Bilbo 'hmm's triumphantly.

Thorin takes a few more steps. "For how well you've come to know me, Master Baggins, I feel there's much I still don't know about you."

"Hmm? How so? Because I rather think you all know me better than my neighbors, even some cousins."

"Even so, for all you've learned about me and my people, our history and customs, I've learned very little of yours."

"Well, that may be because hobbits are a bit simpler," Bilbo says. "Not in- not simpler, of course, just, a less complicated way of life. We grow things, we smoke pipeweed, we take small walking holidays... we throw a lot of parties. And we quite enjoy fireworks."

"What about clothing?"

"Well, yes, there's a certain level of put-togetherness that's expected," Bilbo admits. "A good vest over your shirt, most of the time, though not always. Nice trousers, no tears or holes. I do admit I-I am one of the- well, was, one of the more uptight folks, in Hobbiton. So I don't know how well I can speak for all."

Thorin nods. "Just as I cannot speak for all dwarves, no matter the similarities the majority share."

"Yes, exactly. And I can only speak of Hobbiton, of course, and there are some other hobbit settlements who run things a bit differently. How differently, I'm not fully versed on, but I know it's different." Bilbo finds himself trying to reach up to hold a pipe, and his hands grasping at empty air.

There's just something about discussing The Shire that feels like it must go along with some Old Toby and a good pipe.

The movement catches Thorin's eye, and he slowly steps closer to Bilbo. "And what of craftsmanship?"

"Oh, not much of what you'd consider craftsmanship, I think. Woodworking, yes, and plenty of sewing and the like. My father built our home for my mother, with his own hands. But for iron or such things, we usually get them from passing merchants or collect them from Bree."

"Not many smiths among you then."

Bilbo lets out a sharp laugh. "No, that is decidedly not a hobbit-like activity!"

"So what about your gardening tools?"

"Gotten through trade, like other things of that nature. Though plenty of us just use our hands." Bilbo shrugs. "It's just earth, and it's soft and healthy in The Shire. Easy to wash away and almost soothing to work in, long as you have a purpose to it."

"... I wish I could have seen more of it," Thorin sounds truly regretful. "I doubt I'll be able to pass that way again for a long time."

"Well... whenever I do end up heading back, what if I bring you back some illustrations? Books showing what life is like there?"

"... I think that would be a valued gift indeed."

It's at the cusp of Winter's End when Thorin is finally able to walk up to the gates of Erebor.

He has to be helped most of the way, to save his strength. The whole Company are with him the entire walk there, including Gandalf. Bilbo somehow finds himself right at Thorin's side, until they're but a few meters away from the gaping hole of an entrance.

"Let me go," Thorin softly commands. Dwalin and Kili obey, and Thorin takes a moment to straighten himself.

And then, with confident and powerful strides betraying only the slightest hint of a limp (one that Bilbo knows is causing Thorin quite a bit of pain still), Thorin leads the way into Erebor.

The dwarves of the Iron Hills had stayed long, and been through much, just to see this moment. All wait with baited breath, watching Thorin, until the moment he steps off of the stones in the moat.

And onto the solid stone floor of Erebor.

And then there's cheers, and the entire Company at the front of the fray find themselves being pushed into Erebor by the crowd!

The jostling startles Bilbo the most, and he feels the bumps, feels The Ring moves about a bit in his pocket, and finds himself shoving his hand into his pocket and clenching onto The Ring with all his strength. It throws off his balance, having one arm in that position, but he's lucky enough that Gloin and Balin are on either side of him and help keep him steady, surely thinking that it's merely the force of the crowd making the little hobbit slip and stumble.

"We won't let ye get trampled, lad, we promise," Balin half-joked.

Bilbo hadn't even been able to give him a half-smile in return before the force behind them dissipated, the crowd now spreading out to fill the entrance hall.

Thorin turns to face them, and raises his arms above his head. "Welcome, my kin, and kin of my kin! Welcome! To the reclaimed kingdom OF EREBOR!"

The cheering begins anew!

It's very loud, Bilbo discovers, when enthusiastic dwarves go about rebuilding their homeland.

It's only been days since Erebor was finally re-entered, days since the cleanup and the rebuilding began. And in those days he has heard many songs, some repeated over and over and some brand-new to him. He has heard the beating and clanging of hammers hard at work, and the tolling of massive bells to signify shift changes and mealtimes. He's heard the incessant clanging of pitchforks and the endless smashing of stone and rock clattering down mineshafts, and the never-ending grunting and muttering of dwarves hard at work.

It's all sounds of progress. Of a type of hard-working peace.

But it is driving him mad.

He is constantly finding his hand moving to his pocket without his knowing, constantly finding himself fidgeting, constantly finding his moments of putting his hands on his hips for rest or exasperation leading to touching The Ring.

But he doesn't put it on, not with so much hustle and bustle around him at near every turn. Oh, there's plenty of cavernous halls he could flee to for peace and quiet, but Erebor is vast and easy to get lost in. Especially for a lonesome hobbit, and extra especially for a lonesome hobbit with a tendency to turn invisible. If he should slip, or fall in some way, while wearing The Ring... either he'd never be found, or there'd be too many questions.

And it doesn't help that most of The Company are so busy.

They're leading the rebuilding, of course. Not only because out of everyone they best know the state of the mountain from  their brief visit while fighting Smaug (Bilbo rubs his chest at the memory of the tips of Thorin's sword there, the first time he'd felt truly frightened of the dwarf).

But they were also chosen because of their skills, and their ingenuity. It's not every dwarf who ends up stealing a war-monster from an army of orcs, nor every dwarf who holds his own against a pack of wargs with nothing but a broken chariot and mechanical bolt-firing... thing.

Bilbo still isn't sure about all the machines that Dain's army had brought. And he was quite content not to learn too much about them, after seeing the gore of the battlefield.

Bilbo sat in the quietest corner he could find and crossed his arms, tucking them tightly to his sides. He tried to ignore the weight of The-

blasted precious dangerous wonderful

-Ring, in his pocket.

"Ah, there you are."

Bilbo startles as Gandalf strides over to him. "Here I am," he replies lamely.

Gandalf gives a small chuckle, and sits beside Bilbo. "Thorin said that this-" Gandalf produces a finely carved pipe from his robes, "-might be of interest to you."

"He-he did?" Thorin had noticed the small movement from weeks ago? Had known Bilbo was reaching for a pipe? Had remembered?

He doesn't know why it surprises him, really. Clearly, Thorin had an... affection, for him. A deeper one than either truly acknowledged. Not since the battle, anyway.

Maybe he's just not used to such things being noticed.

"Ahem." Gandalf places the pipe in Bilbo's hands, startling the hobbit out of his musings. The pipe is already filled with pipeweed, and Gandalf happily lights it for his friend.

Bilbo takes a puff, and lights up. "Old Toby!"

"I never travel without it," Gandalf says with a smile.

The two sit in silence for a while, smoking their pipes and watching dwarves move about.

"... Where would you say I could get the most quiet, Gandalf? That isn't too far from where I've already been?"

Gandalf hums in thought. "... Nowhere you'd wish to spend time, I'd think."

"Why's that?"

"Because the place least visited, but still well-watched, is the Dragon's Hoard."

"... Oh." Bilbo closes his hand around his pipe a few times in thought. "... I don't think I'll mind much, actually."

"Really?" Gandalf side-eyes Bilbo. "Even with the memories of the Dragon, and Thorin's Madness?"

"But that's all gone now."

"Is it?"

Now Bilbo side-eyes the wizard.

"I heard of your reaction to the men's tapestry design."

"... Ah. That." Bilbo stares straight ahead and clears his throat, adjusting his posture. "That was different."

"How so?"

"Because it wasn't memory, it was imagery."

"And the very treasure that has caused threat to your life not once, nor twice, but three times now, is not?"

"No, it's not," Bilbo says firmly, angling his head towards Gandalf without actually looking at him.

"Well... if you're sure, then."

"I am." There it was, that little bit of rebellion that sometimes rose up in him, that spite. Had gotten him into more than a few pickles as a young hobbit, and seems to be continuing the habit now.

They keep smoking, until Gandalf is called away for some task or another. Bilbo stays for a moment longer, and then gets up.

And heads for The Hoard.

Chapter Text

It's much the same as Bilbo remembers it. He thinks he even sees a shield matching to an exact bruise on his shin, and a goblet he can absolutely blame for a bruise on the inside of his elbow. And it is, as Gandalf said, quiet. Peaceful, even.

Good. This place deserves some peace.

Bilbo climbs the mountains of treasure and reaches some real Stone Flooring, high enough above the bottom to give a nice view of the room but not so high he'll have a particularly bad slip again.

The view is the best part of the room, he thinks as he puffs out a little smoke ring from his pipe. Because the treasure itself is nice, as even without a love of gold he can still tell much of the treasure has dedicated craftsmanship poured into it. But the vastness, the awe that the carved-out walls inspire, the places that had clear dragon damage but were still standing, and the way it was all lit with an almost lazy golden light not unlike the lazy sunsets of The Shire...

Bilbo breaths a small sigh of contentment. It's very different from home, but he can find home in anything if he tries, he thinks. His home has rolling hills of grass, this one has rolling hills of preci- desired metals. His home has golden light from sunsets, this one has it from real gold. His home has a wizard who passes through for the odd pipe-smoking visit, and this one has... well, the very same.

"Not too many differences," he mumbles around his pipe. "It's like me. Not quite the same, but not unrecognizable."

He swings his feet, the tips of his toes just barely disturbing a few gold coins beneath them. He watches the small coins tumble a bit down the heap of identical discs.

"At least there's variety," he again mumbles around the pipe. "Be a lot more boring of a hoard if it was all coins. Let's see... chalices, necklaces, rubies..."

He makes a little game of it, trying to find as many unique items among the lot as he can. He's sure that if any of the dwarves walked in they'd think he was admiring it, taking stock, but he truly couldn't care less about the fact that the already interesting items were made of gold. He didn't even like gold itself that much, though he didn't hate it. It was just a metal. All that really mattered was what was made with it.

And it mattered even more, now that he knew all the trouble that went into forging items out of metals. He'd never thought about it much before, but he's seen a bit of smithing now and he can't believe the work it takes! The skill! The intelligence! The amount of work that went into making one little coin, or cup, or ring-

It's in his hands again.

Resting flat on the palm, glinting even in the dim light of the room. He's not sure when he pulled it out, or even how long it had been since he stopped playing his game and starting examining his Ring.

He feels his head begin to tilt to the side, his eyes fixed on the little band in his hand. So simple... but it must've taken so much effort. To get it so smooth... so perfect... and just the right size... just right for him... like it was made for him...

Someone had poured themselves into making it. Had poured their heart, their soul into it. And now Bilbo carried it, this little piece of someone's soul...

He registers a voice behind him just a split second before he's heartily slapped on the back, making him jolt forward from the force-

Making The Ring jolt out of his hand.

"NO!" Bilbo springs to his feet, the sound of The Ring clashing against coins and trinkets pounding in his ears! He looks next to him at the dwarf who'd plopped down for-for-for what?! To make him lose The Ring?! To make it fall away from him? To take it away?!

"I'm sorry-" Bofur was saying, realizing Bilbo had been holding something before he'd walked over.

But Bilbo all but dives into the heap before Bofur's words are even out of his mouth! Bofur shouts in alarm as Bilbo goes sliding down, but Bilbo barely hears it over the ringing, echoed, deafening thuds of The Ring.

Every hit, every collision, it makes Bilbo's head ache. But at the same time he follows it, scrambling as The Ring bounces off of a cup and changes direction, but it keeps tumbling further and further down-

Someone grabs him, stops him! Bilbo tries to yank his arm away, but the attacker won't let go, and they're making him loose The Ring-

"Calm down!" Bilbo is yanked to his feet and turned to face the thief, snarling and scrabbling-

Bofur holds his hands up. "I didn't mean to startle you so bad!"

Bilbo blinks, his chest heaving, the sound of The Ring still bombarding his ears, his head. He shakes his head, purses his mouth to get rid of the scowl. He closes his eyes, shaking his head again. "I- ah- what're you doing here?" he finally manages, his thoughts slow and almost inaudible to his own mind over the clanging .

"I asked Gandalf where you went, wanted ta check on you." Bofur eyes him warily. "Are you okay, Bilbo?"

Bilbo nods, eyes still closed and body stiff, the movement jerky and too many too quick.

"... Are you sure?"

"Fine," Bilbo croaks. "Just- you made me drop something."

Bofur grimaces a little. "I didn't realize you'd been holding anythin' until it was too late. I didn't mean to stress you. Can I help you look?"

He'll steal it he'll take it for his own he'll take it from u-

"Yes, that would be helpful," Bilbo breathes, turning back and trying to follow the sounds again.

But The Ring has stopped falling. Stopped calling out. Bilbo's heart quickens and he sprints to the bottom of the pile, frantically tossing aside coins and shifting through gems!

Bofur makes a much slower, safer descent. "What're we looking for?" He asks.

Bilbo starts to say, but the words catch in his throat. Catch in his throat, he can never say it, he can never manage to tell anyone about it-

He doesn't reply at all. Bofur starts searching slowly, casting concerned glances at his friend.

Concerned, Bilbo's thoughts all but spit. He caused this!

"I could go grab some of the oth-"

"No!" Bilbo snaps, not looking up from his crouched searching position. "No more people! It's mine, I can find it on my own!"

"You asked for my help-"

"I'll find it on my own!" Bilbo's heart is racing so fast he can hear his own heartbeat, and blood roaring in his ears, and he doesn't want to hear he just wants to see it-

He freezes.

There.

Whispers...

His head begins to tilt again, and then he changes his spot. He scrambles to his feet and moves far further right, digging through higher up on the pile-

"HA!"

Bofur cranes his neck to try and see what Bilbo picks up out of the pile of gold and gems, but Bilbo's back is to him. He sees Bilbo hold whatever it is to his chest for a moment, and then in one swift motion tuck it into his pocket.

Bilbo turns around, panting with relief, smiling slightly. He begins to climb back up the pile to the top.

Bofur follows, and lays a hand on his shoulder. Bilbo nearly jumps out of his skin, like he forgot Bofur was there.

"You might slip again," Bofur warns. "Let's try to find stairs, how about?"

Bilbo blinks at him once, furrowing his brows and opening his mouth slightly in that way that means he's utterly perplexed. And then he looks down at his still-battered legs. "Oh. Right, that- that'd be smart."

They take the few steps back to the bottom and start walking around the pile in search of a more stable way up. Bofur glances sideways at Bilbo, and Bilbo pretends not to notice.

Bofur pretends not to notice the way that the hobbit is now shaking, just slightly. He also pretends not to notice the uneasy gulp, or the effort Bilbo put in to control his breathing again, or the wide look of something near fear in his eyes.

Bofur looks ahead, and smacks his lips. "So... are you gonna tell me what all the fuss was about?"

Bilbo shakes his head, pursing his lips again. "Just a silly old trinket," he states in a slightly shaky voice, clearing his throat.

"Oh, is that all? So why'd you nearly jump down the heap for it?"

"It's important. To me, I mean, not- not overall,  not to anyone else." There's a panicked lilt in the second sentence, and it doesn't escape Bofur's notice.

"Where'd you get it?"

"Does it matter?"

"I'd just like to know."

"... On our adventure."

"Really? When'd you pick it up?"

Bilbo gives a short laugh. "Why do you care?" There's an almost... suspicious tone to his voice.

"I just haven't heard you mention it before."

"Yes, well, I'm allowed to not tell everyone everything."

They walk in silence for a bit, a tension in the air. Bilbo's hands fidget and move about, going to his pockets and being yanked away, a nervous habit Bofur had started noticing right around when they left Beorn's house.

Well, this is getting them nowhere, and it's just making the walk unpleasant. So Bofur swallows his concerns and says, "... I'm sorry if I caused any damage to anything precious to you-"

"NO!" The shout is so sudden and so raw that Bofur jumps! He looks over and see's that Bilbo has paled, looking almost sickly, his hands clenched into fists and kept firmly at his sides.

"It's not- it's not that," Bilbo heaves the words out out with his shallow breaths. "No, no, not- never, never that-"

Bofur takes a step back, giving the hobbit some room to breathe. "I-I didn't mean anything by it Bilbo, I just wanted to apologize since it seems so pre-"

"Just don't!" Bilbo shouts, holding his head in his hands. He draws another shuddering breath and shakes his head. "Don't," he says softer this time. "Don't use that word. Please."

Bofur nods quickly. "I won't. Swear on my beard."

Bilbo lets out a strained laugh, almost more like a pained moan. "Thank you."

They reach the stairs.

Bofur let's Bilbo scurry up first, and watches the hobbit quickly leave the room. Bofur follows him out, but turns in the opposite direction.

He needs to let Thorin know about... well, he's not sure what he witnessed. But Thorin needs to know.

Something is wrong with their hobbit.

Chapter Text

Bofur can't get to Thorin that day. He's pulled away to help with an issue in one of the mining shafts, and Thorin is nowhere to be seen. Most likely he's with Dain, negotiating how many Iron Hills dwarves will stay in Erebor for the restorations and for how long.

He doesn't find him the next day, either. Nor, for that matter, does he find their wizard.

"Where's Gandalf gone?" he asks Balin when he runs into him.

"Back to Mirkwood, he said. He seems to believe we've got everything here under control, and it seems Radagast wants his help clearing those webs away."

They both shudder a bit, remembering the spiders, the quickness of the attack. They'd been jumped on from the shadows of those sickly rotting trees, and the dwarves had barely a chance to grab their weapons before they were being poisoned and wrapped up! Bofur had felt sure that was it, that they'd die in that accursed forest and never see Erebor, never even see the Blue Mountains again-

And then suddenly he'd been gently falling to the ground, into a pile of other dwarves, and someone had called out for Bilbo and Bilbo had replied from above them in a clear voice, and Bofur had been sure it was the hobbit who saved them. And, as it turned out later in a moment where tales could be told, he was right.

... Maybe he was overreacting, then. About Bilbo's behavior. The lad could handle himself well enough, right? Maybe it was nothing.

... He still tried to find Thorin.

He sees Bilbo about in those days since the incident in the Hoard. The hobbit wanders around, observes some things, helps in little ways when he can. He watches Bilbo get many a dwarf to pause their cleanup and take a moment to have some tea, and sure as Bilbo insists the dwarfs who take these breaks do have a bit of renewed energy once it's done.

And he seems fine. Still a little fidgety, but when hasn't he been?

It's about five days after Bofur and Bilbo's interaction in the Hoard that Bofur finally catches Thorin to tell him. Thorin is alone, working on a new knife (for Fili, Bofur is sure of it) in a more private smithing area.

Bofur doesn't bother with a bow when he enters, and Thorin makes no demand for one. Thorin doesn't look up from his hammering. "These politics will drive me madder than the gold," Thorin says.

"That bad already?" Bofur sits on a piece of stone near Thorin's smithing area.

"Aye. Dain is as glad as anyone that we have Erebor back, but is anxious to get him and his armies home. Of course I understand, but if he leaves with all of them it'll be just us fourteen until the Ered Luin parties arrive, and even then they'll need time to rest from their journey."

Bofur nods.

"... Speaking of our Company, how are they? I haven't had a moment to check." There's something in Thorin's tone that suggests to Bofur that checking on everyone is a roundabout way to check on a specific someone. And he's sure he knows who, and it works out perfectly in his favor.

"Well, the younger lads are settling in just fine," Bofur starts, "I think Fili and Kil are doing their best to avoid doing anything too Prince-ly for the moment, though."

"Indeed," Thorin mutters, his tone fond. "And I haven't needed them to yet."

"Myself and Bifur are having an easy time exploring the mineshafts, only troubles are a few broken pulley and chair systems. Bombur's trying to juggle repairing the kitchen and keeping the forges lit, but he's doing a well enough job."

Dwalin is well, Balin is well, Nori is well, Dori is well- everyone is well, he tells Thorin, all the other dwarves of the company.

"And Bilbo?" Thorin finally looks away from his smithing.

"Well... he's been socializing well, I think," Bofur starts, his doubts about his concerns for Bilbo pricking at him. "Introducing tea time to the masses."

Thorin makes a fond, and unsurprised, sound.

"I did have a... well, a bit of a..." Bofur tries to think of what to even call that interaction in the Hoard. "A..."

Thorin gives Bofur an unamused look, and Bofur gives up.

"I made him drop something in the Hoard and he didn't react well."

"What was he doing in the Hoard?"

"Asked Gandalf for a quiet place to smoke a pipe."

"And he went there? After the dragon and after... after me?"

Hmm. That's something Bofur hadn't even thought of. He nods.

"And you say he dropped something?"

"Came up to give him a pat on the back and didn't even realize he'd been holding something until he shot up after it! Jumped onto a pile of the gold and almost slid right down!" Bofur makes a sliding motion with his hands.

Thorin stiffens. "Was he harmed?"

"No, I grabbed him before he got into any trouble again, but-" Bofur pauses to think again. "... He was right angry at me for it. He snarled."

"Snarled?" Thorin looks at Bofur with stoic disbelief, and Bofur can't blame him.

"Only for a second, and I think only because he didn't realize it was me at first. I offered to help him look and he said yes. But soon as we started searching he wouldn't speak to me. Wouldn't even tell me what it was he dropped."

"And what was it?"

"Still don't know."

"You didn't find it?"

"He did, not me. And he had his back turned."

"So what's the issue?"

So what is the issue? ... Oh, right. "I tried to apologize again and said the word 'precious', I think. And he acted like I'd cast a curse on 'im."

"How so?"

"Started shouting at me and covering his ears, begged me not to use that word again."

Thorin quiets, his hands stilling, deep in thought. "... And this was all still in the Hoard?"

Bofur nods.

Thorin thinks some more. "Then we should not allow him in there alone," he decides. "He may think himself ready to go back in, but maybe he's not. We still don't know exactly what happened when he was alone with the dragon, and... I myself do not remember everything it was I said during my madness. Either of these could have made him react in such a way to a simple word."

Well, it seems possible. Especially since Bilbo's seemed fine outside of the Hoard. "Right. I'll go tell the others, then. No using the word 'precious' around him."

"And if you see him again, let him know I'm going to visit him soon. As soon as Dain makes a reasonable offer."

"I'll let him know."

Bilbo left The Ring on his fireplace ledge as soon as he'd gotten back to his room, that day after the Hoard.

"Stay there," he'd told it, some part of him truly thinking it might follow him.

It didn't.

For five days it sat on the mantle above the fireplace, silent and small and altogether ordinary.

And for five days Bilbo wandered about looking for anything to do that involved company. Teatime, as he discovered, was perfect for this. Stopping dwarves who looked tired, offering them some nice tea (a few pine trees still grew in the area, and though it was no chamomile it was still better than nothing). It gave him quiet company, and something to do with his hands.

It did result in him drinking quite a lot of tea, but that's a small sacrifice to make in the grand scheme of things. Besides, he went over a year with no tea at all. It was just making up for lost time.

And if the busyness of finding pine needles, boiling water, pouring cups, carrying said cups, and slowly sipping tea was enough to keep his hands away from his terribly empty pockets, that was just an added bonus.

"Master Baggins." Bilbo stops in his tracks, the two cups he's holding sloshing a bit and splashing tea on the floor. He turns around with a smile, and Thorin smiles back.

"Tea?" Bilbo offers, holding a cup out to Thorin.

"Ah, I finally get to have my tea time with the hobbit." Thorin takes the cup, a somewhat teasing look in his eye.

Bilbo gives a huffed laugh, looking away and then clearing his throat. "Just trying to find something to do," he says, refusing to be embarrassed by the frankly embarrassing amount of tea he's drank.

"So I've heard. I'm sorry for leaving you to such lackluster times."

"Should be more sorry for getting me too used to excitement," Bilbo says with that habitual stuffy tone that, these days, really means nothing.

Thorin's expression falls a bit. "I am."

Bilbo blinks, looking at Thorin again, and then his eyes widen with regret.. "Oh, no, no I-I didn't mean it. I'm very glad I came on this adventure, for all it's perils."

Thorin shakes his head. "You are homesick, are you not?"

"Well, I-I suppose sometimes, but I've chosen to stay, Thorin, on my own account."

"Bofur told me about what happened in the Hoard."

Bilbo feels the blood drain out of his face, his hand going to his pocket as he swallows the dread crawling up his throat. "He did?" His voice cracks on the first word.

Thorin nods. "I recall another time you snapped at him like he described. Just before we all fell into the goblin tunnels. You lashed out, because you missed your books, and your armchair. You missed your home."

Bilbo breathes a slight sigh of relief, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth for a second. "You heard all of that?"

"I did. And from what he told me, much the same happened in the Hoard. The difference being, now you are homesick and have suffered, because of the very place you'd chosen to rest." He gives Bilbo a look that, while fond, also suggests he finds the hobbit a bit foolish for that.

"Thorin, I..." Bilbo sighs, hand twitching towards his empty pocket. "... I'm not leaving, still. I honestly can't imagine just going back home, after all this. Sitting in my house with no-one else there."

"Have you no company to keep in The Shire?"

"I have a bit of family, but Drogo's focused on expanding his home so they can have a baby someday and my other relatives are, well." He makes a bit of a sour expression. "The Sackville-Baggins's would love that Hoard, let's just put it that way."

"And friends?"

"Nothing more than people I know who know me, nothing close to what I have with you all." He looks up at Thorin and shifts to the side a little, having to squint his eyes a bit against the light of the lamp behind Thorin's head. "Are-are you trying to tell me you want me to leave?"

"No," Thorin replies immediately, with a firmness and fierceness. Bilbo takes a small step back, just out of surprise, and Thorin's expression falls. He takes a step forwards, and gently holds Bilbo's hand in his.

"No," he repeats, softer now. "But I want you to be well, and if you cannot be well here I would accept your departure."

Bilbo's breath catches in his throat, and now the light behind Thorin's head is softly coming from around his dark hair, making it look like he's glowing. Bilbo can't seem to speak, just staring into Thorin's gray-blue eyes as Thorin gently caresses his hand.

Thorin stares back, watching Bilbo's mouth hang open as the hobbit searches for words. But he can't seem to find them, so Thorin does. "Are you well, Master Baggins?"

His voice is as soft as fresh-baked bread, and makes Bilbo feel just as warm. Bilbo flounders for a moment longer, until finally words make their way back into his mind. "Yes," he gets out, his voice a bit like a squeak. He swallows, clears his throat, but his voice still comes out with a hint of rasp. "Yes, I think I am well indeed."

Thorin stares for a while longer, as though taking in everything he can of the hobbit to be certain that's true. And finally, he nods. "I'm glad, then."

They linger like that, staring at each other, Bilbo's hand in Thorin's. Until Dwalin comes sprinting into the hall. "An Orc pack just attacked the trade path to Dale!"

Thorin stiffens, and Bilbo is the one to step away, taking his hand out of Thorin's. "Go on," Bilbo says, nodding over at Dwalin. "You have people who do need help staying well."

Thorin blinks, and just for a moment, Bilbo thinks Thorin hadn't heard him. Until Thorin takes one moment to hug Bilbo, and then just as suddenly he's running out of the hall with Dwalin asking about the specifics of the attack.

Bilbo turns and walks quickly in the other direction, not stopping until he reaches his room. He closes the door behind him and breathes out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Thorin's steel-like eyes, but they're also like the sky, and his dark hair with streaks of gray like silver running through coal, and the gentle touch of his hardened and well-worked hands...

"Bebother and confusticate that dwarf," Bilbo says weakly to himself, giving a small laugh at the memory of that unexpected party back in his old home. He walks over to his bed, placing the now cold cups of tea on a small table beside it.

... Cold tea. Then had Thorin handed back the tea? ... Well, cold won't do, Bilbo decides.

He shakes off the encounter, as best he can at least. He grabs some firewood from his small stack by the door, and goes to the fireplace to toss it in.

He pauses, wood still in his hands. The Ring gleams unnaturally from it's spot on the mantel, too little light in the room for it to be shining the way it is. It's almost like it glows...

Bilbo shakes his head, and puts the wood into the fireplace. He rubs his ear, a faint... sound, coming from... somewhere.

It's not quite a heartbeat, but it's not not one either. It's an almost whoosing sound, like made by something moving quickly, but it's a slow and gentle one, like...

The fire roars to life as he stokes it, the flames stretching up. They waver, and crackle, but Bilbo can't hear that. He just hears the sound, the not-heartbeat, the gentle whoosh too soft to be made by quickness but somehow he knows it's not the sound of phantom wind, either.

The flames lean together and away from each other at their peaks, making all sorts of shapes and patterns. Bilbo is almost tempted to reach out... touch the flames...

Two peaks arch together, leaving a hole between them and something is looking at Bilbo through the fire.

He reels back, panting, his hand shooting up to the mantel! The Ring is on his finger before he realizes he's grabbed it, feeling a need to be unseen, to be protected-

The fire isn't giving off light anymore. The gray-ish, muted world around Bilbo makes it's own form of... visibility. Now the fire is nothing but decoration, moving and muted and dull.

Bilbo heaves a sigh of relief, feeling safe and secure once more. Some kind of tightness, some knot in his stomach, eases and loosens. Why had he left The Ring on the mantel for so long?

Chapter Text

Thorin rode into the skirmish and began fighting without hesitation, his first act the swift decapitation of an Orc too busy blocking blows to notice him arriving.

It was a small pack of Orcs, but the merchants hadn't been expecting them. It was mid-spring by now, the Battle of the Five armies quite past, and there had been an assumption of Safety.

As Thorin pulled an Orc off of the mangled body of a merchant from Dale, no assumptions of such things were left in his mind.

The skirmish was over fast. Thorin had brought Dwalin and Gloin with him, along with four fighters from Dain's army. The Orcs didn't stand a chance, not with their numbers so few and weapons clearly having been used too much in the Battle before.

But as Thorin held the last Orc at the tip of Orcrist, he made a decision. With a nod at Dwalin, the Orc was restrained, and now Thorin stands before it with something akin to curiosity. It snarls at Thorin and opens it's foul mouth to spew Black Speech into the air. "Dwarf-scum!"

Thorin is familiar with that phrase by now. And he had found, buried deep within ancient tomes in his grandfather's personal library, a book. A book telling how to understand Black Speech, originally written in order to understand orders given by Orc Leaders during wars so that the Dwarves could be better prepared in battle.

He hasn't had much time to study it, but it's enough that he can pick up on a few words, phrases. Such as now, when the Orc answers Thorin's question before Thorin even has to ask.

"Our Master will take your mountain!"

"Azog is slain," Thorin says. "Why do you really linger here?"

The Orc makes a guttural, wet sound from deep in his throat. "Something calls to us."

"What, filth?"

"We don't know yet." The Orc laughs, a horrible sound, something akin to the sounds of choking on one's own blood. "But we'll find out."

Thorin sets his jaw. "No, you will not."

He cuts it's head off.

"What do you mean, 'not allowed in'?"

Bilbo is standing before an unmoving Balin, who sighs. "Thorin's orders, laddie. He's concerned you'll get hurt again."

"Concerned I- excuse me, I am a grown hobbit! He can't just ban me from a room like I'm a child!"

"He can, and he has, unless you're supervised."

" Supervised?! Where was this when he sent me in to face a dragon alone?!" Bilbo huffs, putting his thumbs in his pockets and letting the cool touch of The Ring ease his nerves a bit. "I just want to go in, and smoke my pipe," Bilbo says, calmer in tone now.

"And you can, but I'll have to go with you."

"You- Balin, you know I'm going to be perfectly fine! I-"

Balin doesn't budge.

Bilbo huffs. "I'm not getting in without you, am I?"

"No."

So they go inside together, and Bilbo lights his pipe and puffs and huffs while Balin watches.

And Balin watches very attentively. Bilbo can feel Balin's eyes boring into him, searching for something. Bilbo flicks a glance Balin's way, and Balin offers a small smile. Bilbo looks away and opens and closes his hand around his pipe a few times.

"You know, laddie," Balin finally says, "There's other places that are nice and quiet besides this one."

"But this one is closest to the rest of you," Bilbo points out without taking his pipe out of his mouth. "And I at least know my way from here to my room."

"And it doesn't bother you that-"

"No, it does not!" Bilbo exclaims, beyond exasperation now. "Why do you all keep pointing it out? I was there, I know what I dealt with!"

Balin just shakes his head. "Aye, you know what you did in the moment. But I doubt you know the kind of things that come after."

"What, you know what comes after a hostile conversation with a dragon?"

"No, lad, but I know what comes after War. The way it can make you snap at people and not know why, or make foolish decisions putting yourself at needless risk."

Bilbo gives Balin a long look, his expression softening from irritation to understanding. "I'm not disregarding myself, Balin."

"Then why do you throw yourself down the gold after a trinket? Why come in here at all if what you have is so easily lost?"

... It's a good question. Bilbo looks back out over the treasure, his hand going to his pocket. He toys with The Ring, rotating it in his hand.

"... I think... I like knowing I faced what I did," he says slowly, "And that through it all I persevered. I made it out. I'm capable of making it out, through those sorts of things."

"... Do ye need reminding of that, lately?"

"No," Bilbo scoffs, still toying with The Ring, whispers drifting through his mind. "No, not in the slightest."

Balin sighs, but nods. He watches for a little longer, and then leans forward to get a better look at Bilbo's front.

Bilbo's sure Balin's eyes drift to his pocket. He drops The Ring from his grasp, letting it settle down to the bottom, safely hidden again.

"... What do you think of all the treasure, laddie? I never did ask."

"Well, it's... plentiful." Bilbo shrugs. "But... well, not to be disrespectful, it's just a bunch of metal. Lovely craftsmanship, of course, that's where the real value is I think. It wouldn't be worth much without all that effort put in to making it more than a lump."

Balin hums in thought. "What about your little treasure? Whatever it 'tis you dropped."

Bilbo bites down on the pipe. "What about it?"

"Is it made of some... silly metal?"

Bilbo gives a scoffed laugh. "When-when did everyone become so interested, in my possessions?"

"Just a curiosity."

"Well, stamp it down," Bilbo says, leaning to the side in order to gesture to Balin without looking at him.

"I'm just askin' to know what's in your pockets."

Bilbo grips the end of his pipe, and his knuckles go as pale as his face. The way Bilbo blanches is so sudden that Balin takes a step back. Bilbo just stares ahead, eyes wide and glassy.

What... has it gots... in it's nasty... little... pocketses?

"You know what?" Bilbo stands up. "I think I'll go outside. Fresh air instead of this-this musty stuff."

"Bilbo-"

The hobbit is already away, in a bit of a hurry. And, Balin notices, his hand is back in his pocket.

He'd gone out the secret door.

It's much easier to open from the inside than the outside, at least how it is. They'd had a small handle installed on the inside so that it could be pulled open, it's new purpose to be an emergency exit if the need should ever arise.

Bilbo sits with his feet dangling over the edge, sitting closer to the statue that serves as the staircase. He puffs a smoke ring, watching a little thrush whack a snail against the stone.

HE STOLE IT! HE STOLE IT!

He shuts his eyes tightly against the memory, the sound of the thrush knocking echoing in his head to be more like the sound of Gollum throwing rocks at him.

THIEF! BAGGINS!

"I am not a thief," he breaths. "I just- picked it up."

And hadn't given it back.

... He'd known, what Gollum had been wailing about. When Gollum first realized it was missing, when he was first overcome with despair.

And Bilbo had taken The Ring out of his pocket.

And... hidden it behind his back. Played ignorant.

He tilts his head to the side, expression pinched.

Why had he done that?

The Precious is lost!

It meant nothing to him at the time. It'd just been a basic gold ring. He hadn't known it was magic, known it could be of use to him. He'd just... picked it up?

... Why had he picked it up?

...

Ah, he's picked it up again.

He looks at The Ring, holding it up to the sun. "Why didn't I give you back?" he mutters. "He was going to kill me for you. Why didn't I just give you back?"

It doesn't give him any real answers. Just faint whispers, and that not-heartbeat.

"You've something for heights, lad?"

Bilbo jerks The Ring out of sight, closing his hand tightly around it. Dwalin is looking at him from by the door, arms crossed and brow raised.

"What? No, no." Bilbo looks down. "Not, it's just- it's very quiet out here. And, easy to get back in."

"Aye. You think the same of the Hoard, I hear."

Bilbo rolls his eyes. "And I hear," he says, summoning all of his Avoiding Touchy Subjects With The Relatives skill he has, "That you killed an Orc pack yesterday."

Dwalin gives one nod. "Aye, we did. Stragglers. They're dozens of them."

"Well, that'd be why I'm not taking my smoke on the ground, then."

Dwalin gives another nod, a 'fair enough'. "And why're you so determined to be alone?"

"Because as much as I'm very fond of you all , I'm less fond of busy halls and endless hammers."

Another nod of 'fair enough'. "And the quickness of hiding that thing in your hand?"

So he hadn't seen it properly before Bilbo snatched it away. For some reason that makes Bilbo relax, relief flowing through him. "You startled me. You're very sneaky, you know, for all the armor and yelling and things."

"Or you're very distracted. I'm not the burglar between us. And I don't try to be."

"Well... maybe my hearings not what I thought it was, then."

Dwalin watches him for a moment longer, and then gestures at Bilbo's torso without uncrossing his arms. "Have you been eatin'?"

Bilbo looks down at his, admittedly, ill-fitting vest and shirt. "Ah, well, I did lose weight on our journey."

"It ended months ago."

"Yes, well-" Truthfully he'd been skipping a meal or two. Usually elevenses, sometimes supper. There was this tight knot in his stomach at most times, and he couldn't quite place it, but it made eating less desirable than it should be for any healthy hobbit.

"Ah, well," he gives a laugh. "That's because I uh, lost my buttons." He sticks his hand through a hole made by the wear-and-tear of keeping the vest on without repairing the holes. "In the goblin tunnels! Makes the vest look all, ah, you know. B-big." His face twitches in confusion at his own choice of word.

"The goblin tunnels."

"Yes, yes."

"You never did tell us what happened down there, you know."

"Because nothing did," Bilbo says quickly before he can even think about it. "I got separated, I found a way out, I lost my buttons along the way."

"And how did you find your way out?"

"Luck."

"You have a lot of that."

"Not lately, it seems." Bilbo makes no attempt to hide his growing irritation. "Are you quite done interrogating me?"

"Interrogating? Ha. You'd know if a dwarf was interrogating you, laddie."

"Yes, I'm sure I would." Bilbo stands up and walks through the open door without so much as a 'Good day' in parting words.

"How was he?" Balin asks when Dwalin returns.

"In a mood," Dwalin says, sitting down and passing Balin a mug of ale. "You were right. Soon as he noticed me he hid whatever he had."

"So it's true, then," Balin sighs. "He's keeping secrets."

"Aye, he is. But small ones."

Balin shakes his head, holding his ale but not drinking it. "Something's not right, brother. Pockets and precious, perfectly ordinary words making him act like he's seen a ghost..."

Dwalin thumps down his now-empty mug. "Maybe it's somethin' to do with the goblin tunnels."

"Why do you say that?"

"I asked him about them."

"And?"

"He lied."

"How do you know?"

Dwalin raises an eyebrow at his brother. "Have ye seen him try to lie outside of chance of death?"

Balin can't help but nod, making an expression of reluctant agreeance. In a pinch Bilbo can be believable, but just tyring to lie normally...

"Perhaps something happened that he's ashamed of." Balin sits back in his chair. "But he's not had trouble admitting things before. Even with the chance of death hanging over his head, and when he'd be better off lying."

"Maybe he'd admit to Thorin." Despite Thorin having been the very Chance Of Death aforementioned, Dwalin's suggestion somehow makes sense.

"They do seem to be... quite close, don't they?" Balin hesitates to theorize further than that.

"Close enough for Thorin to trust him through Dragon Sickness." Dwalin gestures to Balin's ale, and Balin hands it over.

That was true, wasn't it? Bilbo had said Thorin doubted the loyalty of his kin, when he admitted to stealing the Arkenstone. And Thorin had pulled Bilbo away to whisper things before the battle, and had even trusted Bilbo with a Mithril shirt. And when Balin had asked, in the Throne Room, if Thorin doubted anyone's loyalty, Bilbo had stood closer to Thorin than anyone had dared to in days.

"Maybe he will tell Thorin, then. If we can ever get the time to ask The King to talk about it."

Chapter Text

"How close was it to the gate?"

"Too close. It almost scaled the wall."

A ragged sigh, a weary hand rubbed over an aching forehead. "Add as many extra guards as we can spare, and send all other to search for whatever it is these Orcs are looking for."

"How will we even know what they- and we're- looking for?"

"I don't know. But whatever it is, we can never let it fall into Orc hands. Not if they're this set on it."

Thorin leaves the meeting worn and weary, even more so than after a battle. But this is a battle, in a way. A battle of wits, and watchful eyes. A battle of problems trying to stall progress, and progress trying to stall itself.

"Thorin!"

Ah, speaking of stalling. Thorin pauses, looking at Bilbo with vague amusement as the hobbit stalks towards him with the same righteous confidence he'd had while snapping at Smaug to leave Laketown alone.

Hmm. The memory almost makes Thorin nervous all of a sudden. What did he do to earn that same passionate energy?

"Banned?" Bilbo says upon reaching the king, crossing his arms. "You-you banned me from the treasury? Like I'm some- some wandering toddler?"

Ah. So that's his transgression. "I'm well-aware that you're full grown."

"So why am I being treated like a child? I haven't had a moment to myself since that- that incident with Bofur, as though that wasn't just an outlier in this whole-"

"All I said was to not allow you into the treasury alone. If you're being followed elsewhere, that's not by my orders."

"Oh, please, Thorin," Bilbo huffs. "Let's not pretend you have nothing to do with it. Of course if you're worried the rest of them will feel the same! You practically leak authority, if you commented on me sneezing they'd be bundling me up and setting me to bed rest!"

Thorin feels a smirk pull at his mouth. "You're giving me ideas, Master Baggins."

"And that's another thing, I thought we'd moved past the 'Master Baggins' title. Just say my name, Thorin, I leapt on an Orc for you! We can abandon the formalities!"

"Maybe I think the title suits you."

Bilbo suddenly blushes furiously, but his irritation doesn't fade. "You- I- You blasted- argh! You're impossible, you stubborn-"

Thorin watches Bilbo splutter and fumble, the smirk staying in place, but softening a bit. Sometime Bilbo's confidence could be... unnerving. That someone so... so used to simple, pleasant things, so used to a life free of hardship and need for standing against evil, could scold Kings and make demands of Dragons as though it was nothing. Thorin had even heard the stories of when the Company first arrived in Bag End.

Bilbo, before he'd even stepped out the door, shoving dwarves to make them put his grandfather's chair back in place and wrestling his prize-winning tomatoes out of the hands of battle-hardened warriors. Such a fierce determination, fearless protectiveness, seemingly borne from... nowhere.

So yes. Thorin derives pleasure from watching that confidence slip from time to time, as long as it's in a setting where the confidence isn't needed. Where Bilbo is safe to splutter and fumble, safe to make slip-ups and blush with embarrassment.

Maybe, in truth, Thorin derives the pleasure from seeing Bilbo in a setting outside of peril. Maybe he enjoys watching Bilbo fuss and stumble through his normal life with the ability to make mistakes without any great costs. Maybe he just likes seeing that there's still that same hobbit he met in The Shire, underneath the role of Hero that their journey had forced on him. The same one who, after wrangling with a band of thirteen war-ready dwarves, had passed out at the mere idea of dragon fire.

"-wipe that smug look off your face!" Thorin finally snaps out of his musings as Bilbo points at him accusingly, puffing with his jaw set.

"My apologies, Master Baggins." His tone is steady, but there's a teasing glint in his eye, he knows it. It serves to make Bilbo roll his eyes and huff.

"Just tell them to back off, will you?" Bilbo looks down the corridor. "I stayed because I don't want to be lonely, but being alone sometimes is not the same thing."

"I'll talk with the others as soon as I'm able. But can you not simply spend time in your room?"

Bilbo stiffens a bit more, looking away. "It has a drip."

"Above your bed?" A problem indeed. Dwarven beds were not easy to move.

But Bilbo shakes his head, gripping his own arms tightly. His reply is curt, tense. "Just- somewhere."

Something is... wrong, here. Something more than a drip. Thorin's smirk falls away, and he gently puts one hand over one of Bilbo's. "Why does it bother you?"

Bilbo still doesn't meet his eyes. "... I just don't like the sound."

There's something in his expression, something... haunted.

"... We could... switch rooms," Thorin offers. "I don't mind the sound of a drip."

Finally Bilbo looks at Thorin again, the tightness of his features smoothing a bit. "Really?"

"It's not like we'd have to move much."

Bilbo gives a small laugh. "It isn't, is it? I've still only got the clothes I'm wearing." He looks down at the blue coat he'd gotten in Laketown. "Suppose I should find something new soon."

"You can ask Dori to make you something. He's a tailor."

"He is?" Bilbo blinks, and then his eyes widen. "I- Thorin, I never asked! I assumed you were all miners or warriors or smiths, I- this won't do at all, I can't believe myself-"

Bilbo continued to curse his own thoughtlessness as he took off again, presumably to set the record straight about who did what as a job.

Thorin would have smiled at it, had the image of Bilbo so shaken by a drip not been so fresh in his mind.

Bilbo.

Bilbo who had scolded Kings, and made demands of Dragons. Who had come face-to-face with The Pale Orc for Thorin's sake, twice. Who had rescued them from giant spiders, and faced Thranduil directly after breaking The Company out of the Woodland Prison.

That Bilbo... was shaken to near speechlessness by a drip.

Thorin shook his head. Perhaps it had nothing to do with the journey. Perhaps it was some fear Bilbo had from before they ever arrived at his door. He had hoped to see the same hobbit who passed out reading a contract, had he not? Even if this felt... different. Less borne of inexperience. More of... well. Experience. But experience of what?

He didn't have the slightest clue.

He made haste in getting their room switched. He didn't want his hobbit to dwell somewhere that brought him such fear any longer.

Drip

Drip

Drip

The feeling of being watched.

Bilbo peered around the stone. The creature from before was... gone. Vanished from the outcrop it had dragged the goblin to.

Drip

Drip

Drip

Where was it? Bilbo could hardly see. The cave was so dark, dank, and as cold as- well, as the creature had sang about.

As death.

Drip

Drip...

Drip...

"Can't believe we forgot to ask," Bilbo mutters to himself, wandering through the throngs of busy dwarves. His hand is firmly clenched in his pocket, as it always seem to be in crowds these days. "Over a year on the road and we never once thought it important! Of course they're not all miners, or warriors, we're not and we still fought fine so why wouldn't they-"

"Who're you talkin' to?"

Bilbo yelps, whirling around to find himself face-to-face with Fili.

He groans, putting a hand over his heart. His other hand leaves his pocket, The Ring slipping back to the bottom of his pocket. His now free hand is used to prop himself up as he folds over, resting it on his knee.

"Seems everyone can sneak up on you these days," Fili jokes. "Come on, up you get."

He pulls Bilbo back up to standing, and Bilbo huffs and dusts himself off. It does nothing, of course, but it looks like it does something. At least, it does for his dignity. "Seems you've all gotten sneakier," Bilbo snips back.

"Or the mountain is louder. But," Fili pats Bilbo on the shoulder, and suddenly Bilbo finds that they're walking side-by-side through the crowd. "Like I asked, who were you talking to?"

"Myself."

"Yourself."

"Yes, well, in case you didn't notice, before I came on this whole quest I lived alone. When you live alone you have no-one to talk to but yourself."

Fili shakes his head. "Wouldn't know. I've always had Kili to talk with. We're only ten or so years apart."

"And I'm guessing that's not very long for dwarves?"

"Not the longest."

They walk in silence for a bit, Bilbo's hand twitching back into his pocket when another dwarf brushes against him.

"You're a very twitchy fellow, you know."

Bilbo startles, having grown used to the relative quiet of the walk as they'd gotten to less dense parts of the crowd. "Am I?"

Fili nods. "Your nose, for one. And then your hand and that pocket."

Bilbo's fist tightens, The Ring pressing into his palm. What next? Will Fili ask why the pocket is so important? Why his hand is always guided there by some instinct Bilbo himself didn't fully understand? Why the small trinket within brought him as much comfort as it did confusion?

"Why're you so nervous all the time?"

Well, that wasn't what Bilbo was expecting. "Excuse me?"

"That's why you're twitchy, isn't it? I just thought it'd stop once the quest was over. But it hasn't."

"How-how much attention have you all been paying, exactly, to me and my nervous habits?"

"You don't exactly hide them." Fili pats his back. "You're a bit of an open book, if you don't mind me saying."

There's some curl of... satisfaction, almost, in Bilbo's chest, with The Ring nestled in his hand. 'Open book' indeed, hah. He forces a smile. "No, I don't mind. I quite like books, if you'll recall."

"You're like Ori. Nose in a book at home, weapon in hand out the door."

"I- wea- I'd never even held a sword before Gandalf gave-! No, hang on, the first time I held a sword was when you shoved all your weapons into my arms at the door!"

Fili grins at the memory. "Well, in that case I'm honored. Do you want to know how I keep so many on me?"

"No, thank you. I think Sting is quite enough for me."

Fili tilts his head to look at the blade. "How'd you come up with that name, anyway?"

"What, Sting? I came up with it in Mirkwood."

"How?"

Bilbo shrugs, sniffing a bit and- ah, his nose does twitch quite a bit, doesn't it? "Spiders said it stung."

"... The spiders said it stung?"

All at once the blood drained out of Bilbo's face. He felt it rush out so fast it left him light-headed, and he almost swayed. But he twitched his nose again, and cleared his throat. "Didn't you hear it?"

"All I heard was hissing sounds."

"Well, they certainly made plenty of those. But they spoke, too. I heard them, before anyone was captured." Bilbo shudders, remembering the whispers, just before Thorin had lead them away from the path. "I did ask if anyone else heard them, but no-one but Thorin replied."

"... I don't remember much about Mirkwood," Fili admits. "Not before fighting the spiders, anyway. The second time, after you rescued us. But Thorin did seem to hear something, I think, just before we got taken."

Bilbo's hammering heart finally remembers his head exists, slowly allowing blood to return to his face. "That must have been while I was above the canopy."

"So that's how you escaped those things." Fili gives him a long, searching look. "You must've had the clearest head of all of us, to think of that. You even knew we were going in circles, if I remember right."

"Well-"

"And tried to warn us to stay on the path."

"Is your point that I'm the only one with half a brain among us?"

It doesn't draw the laugh Bilbo had hoped for. Fili's gaze is still searching, squinted, and Bilbo tightens his grip on The Ring even more.

"Are hobbits magic?"

"What?" Bilbo's eyes must be bugging out of his head, if his face looks the way he feels it does. "Magic?! We- no, hobbits are not more magic than any other- hobbits magic, that's like asking if Men are magic, it-"

"You just seem awfully in tune with magic, is all."

"In tune-!"

"Didn't I hear you mention to Gandalf you could feel the magic in the air, before we entered Rivendell?"

"Well yes, but-"

"And before we entered Mirkwood, you said it felt sick."

"Anyone could feel that, it was in the air-"

"It was when we went inside. You felt it at the border, before we ever stepped foot on that foul earth."

"What are you trying to get at?! Why are you blasted dwarves so determined to find something different about me?! I'm a hobbit, I'm just a hobbit!"

Fili holds up his hands. "All I'm saying is that I never felt anything before we entered either place, and I don't think anyone else did either."

"Because what could possibly get through that famously thick Durin skull of your family's?" It comes out sharper than Bilbo had intended, but the conversation has his head spinning and his hand in his pocket is clenched so tight it's beginning to hurt but he can't seem to let go-

Fili steps back from Bilbo. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Worried I feel more curses?" Bilbo snaps, a dryness creeping into his throat.

"No, but you look pale-"

Pale, thin skin, stretched taut over sharp bones, shriveled lips peeled back over broken and pointed teeth and wide glinting eyes-

"I'm not some helpless thing for you all to fuss over! Of course I'm pale, I've been stuck in tents and a mountain for all of winter and most of spring! And the sun here in Erebor is abysmal, it's thin and weak and somehow colder than the Shire sun-"

Oh, the Shire sunlight. Bilbo's words die as his breath stutters on the memory.

Warm, bright days, not with small shafts of light peeking from breaks in the cloud but pure light completely washing over the hills, the whole of Hobbiton bathed in softly golden light on warm summer days...

Fresh breezes, the dappled rays of sunlight on his books as he read under a tree with a fresh apple in hand, the quiet peace of a small brook babbling nearby and the returning to a small, cozy bedroom at the end of the day...

Bilbo sighs, opening eyes that he hadn't even realized he'd closed. His grip on The Ring finally, finally loosened. "I'm sorry, Fili. I know you didn't mean..." He huffs tiredly at his own behavior. "I know you're all just being caring. I'm... not used to the attention, is all."

Fili nods slowly, his eyes not leaving Bilbo's face. "I know we can be a bit much. Family is everything to us. When you grow up in exile, you've got little else to hold onto."

"Of course. Of course, family is important, I... it's just been a while since I've had one."

Bilbo finds himself pulled into a hug then, strong and with a sense of pity to it. It gives the warmth of the gesture a sour twinge to it, but Bilbo ignores that and hugs the young prince back.

"I'm glad you all care," Bilbo says softly. "But I'll need some time to get used to how much."

Fili pulls away. "We haven't really shown you as much care as you have us, have we?"

"Of course you have."

But some little part of his mind, some deep, dark corner, whispers. No, they haven't show us the same care. Not one bit...

Bilbo shakes his head. "You have," he says firmly.

They do care. They do.

Care to watch. To spy.

No, no, they care.

...

Just... in their own way.

Chapter Text

Hidden from sight, foul mushrooms his only safeguard against the creature dragging away the goblin corpse.

But it wasn't a corpse, not yet. It wailed to life, trying to strike the creature, and the creature fought back, bashing the goblin's head in with a rock-

Something came out of it's pocket (if the strip of cloth masquerading as clothing even had pockets).

Bilbo heard it hit the ground, the sound seeming to echo in his ears, but the creature and goblin were too busy fighting for their lives to notice. The creature won, in the end, dragging away the body and muttering about Old Bones.

He got up from the mushrooms, grabbed his blade and held it aloft. It still glowed blue, which either meant the goblin was still alive or that it simply sensed the others however far above they might have been.

He looked down the path that the creature had taken, when something caught his...

Not quite his eyes.

He felt it, just a moment before he saw it. He found his eyes drawn to the ground, where the light of his blade glinted off of a small, shiny object.

He picked it up. He didn't know why. It felt... significant, somehow. Like the same odd, stirring feeling he'd gotten as they approach Rivendell, but... different. The same, but not. he still didn't know how to classify the feeling.

He turned the ring around in the light a few times. It looked altogether ordinary. Not even a single jewel inlaid, nor a single carving. Nothing but a band of gold.

And yet...

The creature wailed somewhere in the distance, and he startled out of his thoughts. He slipped the ring into his pocket without thinking, and followed the sound in a desperate bid to find and exit.

Bilbo groans and curls up under his blankets as someone knocks on the door, breaking him out of dreams that fade as soon as his sleep does.

"There's nobody home!" he shouts in a voice raspy with sleep.

"Quite loud for an empty room." Thorin opens the door just a bit. "May I enter?"

"Well, no point in saying 'no' now," Bilbo sighs, propping himself up and rubbing his eyes. "Did you forget something when you switched our rooms?"

"No. I came to ask you something."

Bilbo blinks sleepily at Thorin, eyes bleary in the dim light of the room. He thinks he hears Thorin's breath catch, though he can't imagine why. He must look like a mess, for he was in so deep a sleep he must have terrible bedhead and- oh, yes, there it is. He wipes some drool from the corner of his mouth, too sleepy to even attempt subtlety.

He looks at Thorin, waiting. Thorin continues to stare, so Bilbo clears his throat. "And your question is...?"

Thorin startles, just slightly, but without trying to hide it. He's more... open, these days. Less guarded.

"My question," Thorin repeats. He blinks, and nods. "Yes, my question. I was wondering if you would join me for breakfast."

"Join you for breakfast?"

"Yes."

Bilbo rubs his eyes again. "I don't any reason not to. I'll get ready now, and we can head to... wherever your dining room is, together."

Bilbo ducks into the bathroom and quickly gets dressed, slipping on his waistcoat and deciding to leave the dirty jacket behind. This was to be a casual breakfast. With a king, it was true, but Thorin was a Friend (or perhaps more) before he was a King.

"Still clinging onto that?" Thorin asks as Bilbo comes back into the main room.

"To what?"

"Your waistcoat."

Bilbo's hand twitches to his pocket. He swallows, shifting his feet. "Why wouldn't I?"

"It's seen much better days. Dori could make you a new one, you know. Fabric trade has begun to pick up."

"Then I might just have him repair this one." His hand doesn't move from his pocket, some foul feeling twisting in his throat and making it difficult to agree with Thorin for some reason. "It's ah, been with me from the beginning. It's nice to have something from before I left home."

Thorin nods. "I see. Then maybe we can arrange for him to repair it soon."

"Maybe." But he'd have to take it off for that. And while he could keep The Ring on him at night just by holding it or tucking it under his pillow or blankets, in the day... well, he had no other clothing with pockets.

... But then... why did he need it on him at all times? It's not as if it would... walk away. And he'd left it in his room without much worry for a few days before.

"Bilbo?"

The sound of his first name, said so softly and with such gentle concern, startles him back into the present. He's so startled, in fact, that he grabs Thorin's hand without even thinking. Then he blushes furiously.

But Thorin smiles. "Let's be on our way, then."

And somehow Bilbo finds himself hand-in-hand with Thorin as they walk the corridors. He also finds that the somewhat bothersome twitching habit his hands picked up has all but vanished in Thorin's warm grasp.

When they get to the dining room Bilbo's eyes widen. "That- Thorin, did you do this for-for me?"

Because on the table is no Dwarfish feast. Oh yes, there's plenty of meats, but there's also many vegetables and fruits. There's roasted tomatoes and peppers, and there's muffins an scones with jam, and leeks and asparagus and-

"It's long overdue that I repay the feast you held for our party."

"Oh, Thorin, you-you weren't even there for most of it, you got leftovers, how did-"

"I asked, of course."

They sit down, side by side, and Thorin waits until Bilbo has made his plate before taking his own share.

"This is absurd," Bilbo says finally, looking at Thorin with his mouth dropped open. "I-I, Thorin this is- you're the king-"

"Which is how I was able to procure all of this for us. For you."

"Thorin-"

"Go on. Bombur said he remembered how the dishes were cooked."

And when Bilbo takes a bite, he almost melts. It tastes like home. Oh, there's a difference in the flavor profiles, for plants in The Shire grow far different from plants in the mountains, but the preparation is so close that he may as well be sitting in Bag End, eating some goods he bought from some farmer just a little more out of the way than usual.

It chases away some chill he hadn't even realized he'd had. He feels a warmth bloom in his stomach, not just from the food but from the... care. If he'd ever had any, any doubts at all about how deeply his friends, family, care about him, they've all vanished with this one bite.

"Is it good?"

"Perfect." Bilbo smiles at Thorin, a smile of such peace and joy that he hasn't truly felt since... well, since even before Gandalf first showed up at his fence. "I can't believe you went to all this trouble for me."

"I would go to any amount of trouble for you," Thorin says softly. "You more than deserve it."

"Don't be dramatic," Bilbo chides good-naturedly, taking another bite.

"I mean it. I would do anything for you."

Bilbo feels a blush creeping onto his face again, and he chooses to laugh it off. "Well, let's hope you'll never have to uphold that promise."

'Anything' usually doesn't end at good breakfasts, after all.

Chapter Text

Bofur sighs, leaning against the wall and looking out over the landscape. It's a very nice day, the sun shining down but not blazing, the grass around the mountain beginning to peek out of the ground. It's finally healing, or at least Bofur likes to think it is.

He hears someone muttering on the other side of the wall, and looks over. Bilbo is opposite to where Bofur stands, too far away for Bofur to hear anything the hobbit is saying. But Bilbo has his face lifted to the sun, an a small smile on his face, so Bofur decides to leave him be.

They haven't really talked since that day in the hoard. Bofur's been busy, and Bilbo... well, he's been...

Bofur doesn't know, actually. Bilbo's been around, but not really... doing anything. Which he deserves, certainly. The hobbit has done enough heroics and useful deeds to last the rest of his lifetime. But he hasn't been spending much with with The Company, either, which is a bit of a surprise.

Bofur watches Bilbo for a moment and then turns, but doesn't completely take his focus off of his friend. He keeps Bilbo in the corner of his vision, enjoying seeing his friend so at peace.

Until Bilbo stiffens.

Bofur turns just a little, just barely enough to get a better look at Bilbo.

The hobbit has his hand in his pocket now. Bofur watches him take something out of it, but he's too far away to tell what. Bilbo leans on the wall with his elbows, further hiding the object from Bofur's sight as it's hidden behind the raised part of the stone wall.

Bilbo says something, so quietly that Bofur only knows he spoke because of the movement of Bilbo's mouth. Not even a syllable reaches Bofur's ears.

He watches Bilbo's expression twitch, confusion settling over him. He watches Bilbo tilt his head a little, and mutter something else.

It goes like this for a while, Bilbo seeming to debate with himself about something while holding this mystery item.

And then Bilbo's confusion turns to steely determination.

Bofur watches Bilbo stand up straight, and go right up to the edge of the wall. Bilbo's fist is clenched tight, and he cocks his arm back. Bofur realizes with some strange twist of delight that Bilbo is about to throw whatever the item is as far as he possibly can.

And, based on what Dwalin said about Bilbo's skill at throwing rocks into the skulls of Orcs up on Ravenhill, that item is going to go flying.

"Good on you, Bilbo," Bofur mumbles, smiling and pulling his pipe out of his jacket. Maybe they can have a celebratory smoke afterwards. Whatever the thing is, it's clearly caused Bilbo a lot of stress. Sometimes the best thing to do with something more Stressful than it is Sentimental is to just chuck it.

Bilbo throws his arm forward with all his might-

And doesn't open his fist.

Bilbo blinks, and steps back. He huffs, and tries again.

Still won't open his hand.

Ah, Bofur thinks. Second thoughts, last-minute doubts. But he's sure Bilbo will-

He doesn't chuck it very far. All Bilbo manages it a dinky little toss, and whatever was in his hand goes over the side of the wall and down to the-

"NO!" Bilbo's face crumples in panic and regret, and he scrabbles to try and grab it, leaning over the side of the wall, leaning too far-

"BILBO!" Bofur sprints over to his friend and tries to grab him, but it's too late!

Bilbo slips over the edge of the wall, screaming as he plummets into the moat!

Bofur is frozen in shock for a moment, and then remembers one bone-chilling fact he'd learned early on in the journey.

Hobbit's can't swim.

He sprints down to the gate and out to the moat and prays he's fast enough.

Bilbo leaves the breakfast with a smile on his face and his belly full and content in a way it hasn't been since he first left The Shire. He memory of Thorin's warm laughter, open smile... oh, it was all just perfect.

"Oh, Mister Bilbo." Ori smiles as they pass each other in the hall. "You look happy."

"I had a very good morning," Bilbo replies, giving a warm smile to the young dwarf. "How was yours?"

"Good too. I fixed a few of these of books-" he holds up some freshly rebound tomes, "-outside today."

"Outside?"

"It was better lighting than we have in the library yet. Still getting around to getting all the lamps in order." Ori looks back the way he came from. "You might like it, Mister Bilbo. Very sunny."

"Hmm." Bilbo looks down the hall, and nods. "You know what, I think I will get a little sunshine. Thank you, Ori."

They part ways, and Bilbo heads up to the wall. He briefly notes Bofur on the other side, but the dwarf seems to be enjoying himself, so Bilbo chooses not to interrupt.

He closes his eyes and sighs, tilting his face up to the sun. "Finally starting to feel like home," he mutters to himself, soaking up the warm rays.

Home, home. Even though he'd decided to stay, he hadn't been sure he could ever think of it as home. But today is proving him wrong. Good friends, good food, warm sunshine, everything he could need. And some new clothes soon, maybe. It'll be nice to wear something other than the ragged scraps left from his original traveling outfit.

Maybe he could even have some adjustments made to his wardrobe. His trousers aren't really designed to hold a scabbard like they've been doing since he got Sting, so maybe his next ones could be better designed for that. And something that bunched up less over his Mithril shirt. As ridiculous as he feels wearing it, after the Battle he's not very keen on the idea of taking it off.

Maybe his next waistcoat can be made to better cover the Mithril, as well. So it's not so obvious. Or at least could be designed in a way to make the shirt a little less stark against his regular clothes. And maybe the next one could have some flatter buttons, so as not to risk...

Pressed between two stone walls, his heart racing and his breaths far too loud in the otherwise silent cave. He hears it pursuing him, screaming, begging for it's Preci-

It sees him. Crawls towards him, seething, and the buttons are still stuck. He feels sure he's going to pass out, from either panic or from the pressure of being stuck in such a thin space.

"It's... OURS! IT'S... OURSSS!"

The buttons finally give, just as he's sure his heart is about to give first! He tumbles through the crack, falling on his back. The ring slips out of his hand and up into the air, and he reaches up to grab it.

Why doesn't he just give it back? Why can't he just give it back?

It almost seems to defy gravity, moving around his desperately fluttering fingertips like it's trying to fall-

It slips onto one of his fingers effortlessly, like it was always meant to be there.

He blinks out of the memory, his fingers brushing against the cool metal in his pocket, a feeling as familiar as breathing itself by now.

He pulls The Ring out, holding it in his palm and leaning against the wall. "... You shouldn't have gotten on my finger."

It lays silent in his hand, even the whispers absent from his ears. He tilts his head, trying to catch any faint voices, but none are there.

Somehow it's more unusual than if he could hear whispers.

"It shouldn't have been possible. You should have just dropped."

Still silent.

"Why did Gollum love you so much?" He traces the edge of The Ring with his finger. "He had no use for invisibility. He didn't even think of it until I said he lost."

"Why do I love you so much?"

Still and silent. Something twists in his chest.

"Maybe I'm just making something out of nothing," he mutters. "... But there is something odd about you."

"Well, of course there is, you're magic."

"But why does you being magic make me dismiss all the other strange things about you?"

"Who knows how magic works, really."

"But certainly magic that makes me... feel... and... do... what happened in Mirkwood..."

"But that creature might've attacked."

"But it didn't."

"But we were just-"

Bilbo freezes, and it feels like the world fall away.

"We?" The word comes out a wheeze.

...

...

...

Bilbo sets his jaw, and straightens up. He steps closer to the wall, The Ring gripped tight in his hand. He pulls his arm back, eyes set on the horizon. He jerks his arm, a throw that would send even the heaviest rock soaring-

His fist is still closed, The Ring safely tucked inside.

He steps back and huffs. So that's how it's going to be. He tries again. It remains nestled in his palm.

"Right," he growls. He steps as close to the wall as he can, and this time, just barely moves his arm.

The Ring slips out of his grasp and down to the moat below. Bilbo watches it, watches accursed thing tumble down through the air to fall into the water and never been seen again, never be held again, worn again never be his again-

"NO!"

His inside twist and his resolves crumples. Panic seizes him so tightly that he can't breathe, and he finds himself leaning over the wall and trying to grab it but it keeps falling and he leans further and further he can't let it get away he can't let it get away HE CAN'T LOSE IT-

He thinks he hears someone scream his name, but he can't be sure because all of a sudden he's aware that he's leaned too far.

A scream rips out of him as he tumbles over the wall after The Ring, and crashes into the cold water.

The second-to-last he knows before everything fades away is the feeling of cool, sleek metal, and gripping it like his life depends on it.

The last he knows is bone-deep relief.

And then... nothing.

Chapter Text

"Oh, not such a bad place, Precious. We could lives heres."

"Too open. Too many elfs."

"But we can't go homes, Precious, we can't! Baggins knows where we lives, nasty little thief!"

"Why do we care?"

"It'll come back for The Precious! It'll steal it again!"

"So we kills it, Precious, we kills it. Wrap our handses around it's filthy little necks, yes. Gollum! Gollum! "

"Oh, yes, Precious, yes... but it has dwarves's, and an elfish blade-"

"So we get it while it sleeps, wring it’s necks."

"Oh, yes, yes...

"Oh, it's finally looking better," Radagast sighs, leaning on his walking stick. "Thank you Gandalf. Without my staff..."

"Say no more, old friend." Gandalf gives Radagast an easy smile. "To give me your staff was a great sacrifice. I am glad to repay the favor."

Radagast smiles back, and nods at the section of woods they just cleared of webs. "And look! Already the sun is shining down again. You should stay awhile, Gandalf, soon we'll be seeing all sort of berries and lovely little sprouts."

"I just might, my friend. The dwarves will need to sort out their kingdom on their own, for the most part, and it seems that Bilbo won't be going home anytime soon."

"Oh, yes, your hobbit. Such a funny little thing. He has the magic of growing things about him."

"Not magic, I think, or not as we know it. Hobbits care for the earth, the ground, and things that grow. But they're not very magic, I'm afraid. No more than Men are, really."

"Hmm. Well, he's a good fellow. Maybe someday you can bring him by for tea."

"I'm sure he'd welcome the respite, after a few months in a dwarven city. as much as Hobbits are fond of ale-"

"-nasty elfs, Precious, nasty, almost got us that time-"

Both wizards still, listening.

"-can't keep going! They'll catch us! Grr, shut up! Keeps quiet, Precious, we're not alones..."

Gandalf quietly unsheathes Glamdring and lifts his staff, ready to hit whatever creature they hear with either weapon.

Because that voice is Fell. Raspy, and twisted, going from fearful to cruel between words, hissing and gurgling...

"Must rest, Precious, we must rest! Too much sunlight, it hurts our skins, Precious! Gollum! Gollum!"

Gandalf creeps closer to the source of the sound, and peers through the bushes. He nearly recoils from what he sees.

The creature in question is naught but skin and bone, the near transparently pale flesh pulled taught over jagged and sharp joints as it crawls through the sickened trees. It's covered in bruises, scrapes, and burns, burns from the sun that speak terribly of how used to darkness this creature is. Its giant eyes say the same, unsuited for any environment with light beyond a faint, distant flicker or glow.

It moves with something akin to grace, but a wicked version of it, the shape of its body too close to that of a man's (or man-like creature) to allow for such movements and such ease. Yet it moves through the gnarled, twisted trees with exceptional ease. It was clearly something else, once. Perhaps a civilized creature, perhaps even resembling some of Gandalf's own favored races. But there remained only hints of such a life, buried under what much be years of dark, dark magic seeping into not only it's body but it's soul.

Gandalf almost pities it. It speaks to itself, muttering and mumbling, sometimes hissing at itself. It seemed to be of two minds, quite literally.

Gandalf moves to black Radagast from coming closer, gently pushing his friend away with the tip of his staff. The creature hasn't noticed them yet.

"Cannot rest. Filthy thiefs, it has The Precious, we must gets it back. Oh, I knows, Precious, I knows, but we're hungry... we will not find The Precious if we starves..."

The creature disappears into the shadows, deep into the still sickly and cursed part of the woods.

"What was that, Gandalf?" Radagast tries to peer out into the gloom. "Some kind of goblin creature?"

"No." Gandalf, puts Glamdring away. "I do not know what it was... but it was a Fell creature, of that I'm sure. And it was pursuing someone."

"Oh, dear... I hope it never finds them."

"As do I. ... But I have a terrible feeling that is not the last we'll see of that creature."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

“What do you mean Dori took my clothes?” Bilbo demands the next morning as Oin presses an ear to the hobbit’s chest and listens for wheezing. “I’m not going to wander about the mountain in a nightgown!”

“No-one is askin’ ye to, laddie. He’ll be sendin’ some replacements as soon as ‘e finds them.”

Bilbo’s hand aches, The Ring pressing into his palm so hard it nearly burns. He has no pockets. Nowhere to keep it. Nowhere to hide it.

“And what’s he doing with the old ones, hmm?”

Oin huffs. “Mending them! Durin’s beard, lad, you’ve only been in here a day and a night! Just lie back, I expect you’ll be out by the afternoon.”

Bilbo does lean back with a slight huff. He sniffs, twitching his nose, and puts his hands together. He passes The Ring from one to the other and then moves them apart again, stretching the one that now bears a small red circle indentation in the skin.

He doesn’t let Oin see his palm as he flexes it. He keeps it turned down. It reveals too much, too much otherwise, of his Ring. And he’s sure Oin notices, the way he eyes Bilbo’s other hand and shakes his head with a great sigh.

“Rest up, lad.” Oin moves to pat Bilbo’s clenched fist. 

Nasty trick! He eyes it and he means to take it!

Bilbo twitches his hand away, not looking at Oin, just laying back and looking up at the ceiling.

Oin sighs again, and exits.

The Company all sit around a table together, Dori doing his best to mend Bilbo’s vest and undershirt and trousers. Nori sits beside him, watching.

“No, a li’l further down.”

“I know how to sew, Nori.”

“You asked for my ‘elp makin’ those pockets weak, an’ I’m ‘elping!”

“It’s a risky plan, Thorin,” Balin says, looking to his king. “He may do something reckless again when he notices it’s gone from him.”

“A risk we’ll have to take,” Thorin says. “If he will not show it to us, we’ll have to make it known on our own terms.”

“But ‘ow useful is this really going t’ be?” Nori looks at Thorin now as well. “If it’s gold, we know what’s wrong with ‘im. Why don’ we just ask what it’s made of?”

“With how he’s been acting, do you think even a question as innocent as that wouldn’t make him suspicious?” Thorin shakes his head. “He leaves us no choice.”

“An’ we don’t know if it’s the madness or not,” Dwalin says, leaning forward on one arm. “Wha’ if the burglar picked up somethin’ enchanted down there? We still don’ know how he got past the goblins.”

“Aye.” Thorin nods gratefully at Dwalin. “And the story he told me may not be fully true. He’s left out too much for me to take him at his word about it.” To even say that, to say that Bilbo can’t be trusted, rips Thorin’s heart in two.

“We should send a raven to find Gandalf, then,” Gloin says, looking around the table for agreement. “If we think the lad is under a spell!”

“Send a raven into Mirkwood?” Balin shakes his head. “No, it risks upsetting Thranduil all over again, if it’s not eaten by lingering beasts first.”

“Blast the elf,” Dwalin growls.

“I could see if Tauriel is willing to go look for Gandalf,” Kili suggests, now the one to look around the table. “Thranduil forgave her, she said. She could go looking for us.”

“Who’d have imagined our prince falling for an elf would be so useful, eh?” Bofur jokes a little, though he watches Dori sew with troubled eyes. “I’m for it.”

The table all murmurs out agreements, and Kili gets up to go find his Starlight Lady.

“Wait.” Thorin holds up a hand, and Kili stops and turns to listen. “Do not tell her of our reasons. Bilbo’s troubles will be known to our Company, and our Company alone. I would not have any dwarfs in this mountain look down on him, or treat him as a madman.”

Kili nods, and takes his leave.

Dori jerks the vest away from Nori’s grasping hands. “I haven’t lifted your ban on sewing!”

“No’ even for this?”

“I said it would go on for a year for every pocket you weakened to steal from, and I meant it! You’ve got decades to go!”

“Here you are,” Dori says, setting the temporary replacement clothes on the end of Bilbo’s bed. “It’s the closest I could find to your size. Might be a bit tight around the stomach, though.”

Bilbo picks the folded pile up and looks over the clothes- one hand using all fingers, the other only using two as it keeps curled around the thing in his palm. They’re very simple- a gray shirt, a pair of dark trousers, and a scarf.

“I hemmed the trousers a bit,” Dori says, smiling proudly with his hands behind his back. “Matched them up to the length of your own.”

“Thank you, Dori.” Bilbo checks over the bottoms. “And the uh… the trousers have pockets?”

“Well, uh… no. None of them do.” Intentionally, suggested by Ori. Perhaps a forced parting could make Bilbo a little more open, a little less ensnared. “But I’ll have your own back to your in a few days time. They’ll be as good as brand-new by then.”

“A few days? I-I could just fix them myself if you’re um-” he makes a little throat-clearing noise, “- quite busy.”

“No, no, let me do this for you. We owe you this and more.” Dori gives a quick bow and leaves the room, pretending not to hear Bilbo’s short shout to wait. He hurries back to the quarter he’s sharing with his brothers to find Nori working on Bilbo’s waistcoat.

Dori has only to huff and Nori rolls his eyes and sets it aside. 

“This is a new start, y’ know,” Nori says as Dori gets back to work. “I won’ be scammin’ anymore buyers.”

“Not. Lifting it!”

Bilbo keeps his hand clenched until he’s back in his own room, and when he is he shuts the door with a heaving sigh of relief. He finds a fire already lit for him, and a plate of food set out.

He picks at the food a bit before pushing the plate away. The shirt, not at all tight around the stomach as Dori had suggested it would be, is splashed with a bit of soup that had sat next to a loaf of bread and bit of cheese. Bilbo groans.

“Wonderful day we’re having, aren’t we?” he mumbles to himself. “What’ll happen next, hmm? Smaug bursting out of the lake?” He huffs and begins scouring the room for some kind of small bag, perhaps even a box- something to keep The Ring out of sight, more secure than just his hand. 

“They’re being far too pushy for my liking,” he mutters under his breath, “Aren’t they? Terrible of them. With luck, this’ll all blow over from their minds soon. And I have you, so I believe that luck will hold.”

He tilts his head a bit, crouched in the corner of the room rifling through a pile of hastily-abandoned items from the days before The Dragon.

“You are my luck, aren’t you?” He lifts The Ring into his sight, tracing a finger around the band. “I did call myself Luck-Wearer, after all. Is that what we’ll name you, then? Luck? My Luck?”

Whispers, whispers, voices hissing, and the not-heartbeat that puts pressure between his ears and dizzies his thoughts…

“Yes.” The whisper is so quiet it’s hardly words at all. “My Luck. My own.”

Chapter Text

Rivendell is quiet and peaceful in a way Bilbo has never known. Even The Shire, with its rolling green hills and soft earth and weather-worn little trees, is not so peaceful as it is here. The Shire has more laughter, more shouting, more mischief- all good things, of course. A mischievous child is a happy and healthy child, and shouting can be of revelry just as much as frustration, and laughter- what worth would life be without laughter?

  The dwarves stay together, in as few areas as possible. Bilbo though, he wanders. He wanders into the libraries, the kitchens, every hall he finds. He’s never had so much to explore in such peace.

He wanders into one room- unlike any others. A statue sits, holding its arms out and around a stone slab as though presenting it. Shards of a sword sit on the slab, and across from it, a mural.

Bilbo stands in front of the mural, trying to piece together what it may be about. A battle, obviously- a great and terrible one. Three figures take up the focus of the mural. A dead man, a living man, and… something else. Perhaps a man. But Bilbo doesn’t think so. Something about the figure, the image… he feels, deep within, that it’s something he’s never even heard of before, or at least heard very little of.

His eyes are drawn up, to the raised hand of the dark figure as it grasps a terrible weapon. Among the gray and black and grim colors of its side of the painting, something… shines.

His lips part as he stares at it. A simple, golden ring, standing out starkly and luring in the most attention. Again, something stirs in him. He has a feeling, somehow, that that ring is important.

He intended to ask about the mural, he truly does. But then Elrond offers for him to stay in Rivendell if he so wishes, and then he (and by chance, Thorin) overhear Gandalf and Elrond arguing, and then The Company is taking their leave.

The moment with the mural fades from his memory before he ever leaves Rivendell, and by the time he’s in the mountains he hardly remembers it.

There’s a knock at the door, and Bilbo groans and covers his ears with his pillow. It’d taken him ages to fall asleep last night, and then he’d had a dream that frightened him- though he can’t recall why. He’d woken with his hand under his pillow, gripping His Luck tightly, and fallen back to sleep soon after.

“We’ve got eggs and bacon for breakfast today, Bilbo,” Bofur calls through the door.

“And Kili and I thought we might take you to the markets again!” Fili shouts. “We saw someone selling cakes like the ones you had at home!

Home. Where a Hobbit might get some much-needed quiet rest after prodding and poking by nosy dwarves. 

“They mean well,” he mumbles to himself with a yawn. “Let’s just go back to sleep.”

And then he abruptly sits straight up, releasing his hold on The Ring. Bacon and eggs! What’s he doing, thinking of turning that down?

“Alright, alright, I’m on my way out!” he shouts back. “Give me a moment, please!”

“We’ll wait for you in the private dining hall!” Fili’s voice fades as he shouts it, his pounding footsteps telling Bilbo that today is an ‘armored and ready for anything’ day. 

He quickly slips his own mithril under his shirt, and then looks at his bed, the pillow- The Ring.

“Can’t eat if we take it with us,” he mutters. “Right, ahem! I’ll be back soon enough.”

He’s not sure who he’s saying that for.

As he walks down the hall, his fingers twitch and tense around where his pockets should be. They wag and wave about his midsection, coming up and then jerking back down. It’s an awful habit. It makes him feel restless. Uneasy. On guard. Even when The Ring is there his hands flutter to and rip away, or delve down and clutch it, roll it, feel for any flaw and find nothing over and over and over again-

He doesn’t realize how quick his breathing has gotten until Oin steps out of the dining hall with Gloin behind him.

“Ya see, brother? Wheezing like those dogs we saw in Laketown!”

“Le’ me look at ya, laddie,” Oin says, moving closer. Bilbo almost jerks away, almost hisses that he’s had enough of Oin’s care, thank you!

But the venom dies as quickly as it rose. Bilbo just blinks, and nods quickly and stiffly.

Oin gives his chest a quick listen, and has Bilbo breathe in and out deeply, before nodding. “Alright, yer fine.”

“Yes, I just had a um- a bit of a panic, back there.” Bilbo gestures half-heartedly behind him. “Thought I saw something, but ah… it’s fine.”

“Seein’ things, lad?” Gloin eyes Bilbo with concern. “Not the first to see things that don’t be there after a war.”

“Or just a bad night’s sleep.” Bilbo nods at the dining room entrance, and they all go in. They take their seats, and the last one left is to Thorin’s right hand. Bilbo takes the seat with a quick twitch of a smile at Thorin, who returns it, and breakfast begins.

For a while, no-one speaks, which is… unusual. They just tuck in. Bilbo gets to a second helping of eggs before he breaks the silence.

“Something’s obviously not right here,” he says with a grunt and a clearing of his throat, “I have a feeling it’s me, so let’s just get it over with.”

There’s an outcry of protests around the table- which Bilbo rolls his eyes at and silences with a shout of “EXCUSE ME!” that the version of himself who’s never left The Shire would’ve begged for.

“I like to think we’ve all been through enough together to not be awkward anymore,” he says pointedly, voice a little low and rough with impatience, “So out with it.”

It’s the ring, the luck, they want your luck-

“Well,” Bofur says, tapping his mittened hands together and drawing his mouth. “Well, out with it it is. You’re skinnier.”

“S-skinnier?” Bilbo is taken aback.

A look passes around the table, something… well, something Bilbo’s not quite sure of. Silent agreement, maybe.

“Aye, skinner,” Bofur continues. “That shirt ou’a be tight on you, Bilbo.”

“We’re worried about your diet,” Ori jumps in, standing up and sending his chair scraping backwards. “We know you’re supposed to be fatter than this.”

“How-how is that your business?” Bilbo huffs a laugh. “I’m eating just fine, thank you! It takes more than a few weeks of decent meals to regain the weight I lost!”

“Have you regained any?” Dwalin asks with a raised brow.

“Of course I have.” Though… not really. “And if that’s all that’s making you lot so terrified to talk to me, I’ll just have a few more plates today. Happy?”

“We’re only trying to look out for you,” Kili says, casting another strange glance around the table. “We don’t want to lose you after all we went through.”

Bilbo breathes out from his nose, long and deep, closing his eyes. When he opens them again they focus on his plate, not Kili, and for a moment his lips stay slightly parted without a single word passing.

And then he looks up. “You won’t lose me,” he assures, looking around to every dwarf he’s proud to call ‘friend’ and ‘family’. “You won’t, any of you. I’m just adjusting to something new.”

“All the same-” Thorin says, finally speaking up and finally looking at Bilbo with a readable expression, one of fondness and… firmness. Bilbo narrows his eyes at Thorin. That looks means something unpleasant is about to be said. “-I think we’d all feel more comfortable if we continued to eat as a Company. Together.”

“For every meal?” Bilbo scoffs. “Thorin, by the time we’ve got a steady supply of food coming in I’ll be having about seven meals a day plus snacks.”

“We’ll do our best to keep up, then,” Balin says with a quick smile.

“You don’t have to keep up! I’m a perfectly capable hobbit on my own! What next, I can’t do outside with a guard?”

Silence. Bilbo looks up at Thorin with fire in his eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

“You nearly drowned-”

“I can promise you, I won’t be doing it again. My time is my own! Now I don’t mind sharing it, especially not with all of you, but it’s still mine!”

“Only when you go to the ramparts… or near water.” 

Fili clears his throat and says something in Khuzdul.

“And the treasury,” Thorin adds with a thankful nod.

Dwalin clears his throat next.

“And the hidden door.”

“The hidden door?” Bilbo stares at Thorin, and then around the table, with his mouth hanging open in a bitter smirk. “So anywhere there aren’t hundreds of dwarves around?”

“More or less,” Bofur says, earning a sharp elbowing from Dori to his left. “Ow!”

“Unbelivable.” Bilbo pushes his own chair away from the table now. He grabs a bit of bread for the road- or rather hallway, and stalks out.

The Company sit a moment longer in silence, Thorin sighing and putting one hand to his forehead.

“Very tactful, Bofur,” Fili grumbles.

“At least I made that good excuse at the start,” Bofur tries to defend.

“Excuse?” Bombur cleans up Bilbo’s plate, a great pain in his eyes. “He barely touched his secon’ plate. I am worried about his ea’in’.”

“We all are.” Thorin still feels the shocking thiness of Bilbo in his arms, the vast amount of weight coming from the waterlogged clothing. “But Fili is right. You were tactless.”

“He wouldn’ ‘ave taken it well however we did it,” Dwalin growls. “I don’ feel right about restrictin’ his freedoms, Thorin.”

“It’s jus’ until we figure out wha’s wrong with ‘im,” Nori argues. “We can’ trust ‘im with his own safe’y right now!”

“This is a free mountain.” Dwalin rises from his chair. “Especially for us, especially for him.”

“Sit, Dwalin.”

At Thorin’s command he does sit, but with a huff and a look at Nori like he’d like to throw him a cell for a few days, like the old time in the Blue Mountains.

“I don’t like this lying, anymore than all of you,” Thorin says, his gaze purposefully avoiding Nori who’d suggested the very plan. “But it’s as we agreed. If it’s dragon sickness, we’ll act quickly. If it’s something else, we don’t know what might happen to him when we confront it. Balin, you’ve suggested it could be the warrior’s weariness?”

“Aye, it might be,” Balin nods. “He was thrust from a life of fifty years of peace into enough turmoil and war to scar any mind. But that trinket he has… I fear it may be making things worse.”

Thorin nods. “We continue with our plan. We make sure he eats, and wait for his pockets to rip.”

“It’ll be over in no time,” Nori says with complete confidence. “Even if it’s just a li’l stone, those pockets always tore open eventually.”

Bilbo stormed into his room huffing, setting the bread beside last night’s barely-picked meal. “Like I’m a child,” he scoffs to the empty room. “Even a child gets some privacy, don’t they? But we get confines and-and lockouts!”

He plops heavily onto his bed and pulls out the pip Gandalf gifted him, along with the Old Toby, and lights his pipe. He blows a few smoke rings, very fine smoke rings indeed.

His golden ring is in his hand yet again.

It had only been a few hours since he’d torn himself up trying to leave it behind, but now… now he feels nauseous just looking at, hearing the whispers, the not-heartbeat, feeling the weight in his hand…

And yet, a thought occurs to him.

“Can’t accompany us if they can’t see us.”

He rolls the ring between his pointer finger and thumb. “Could you hide my smoke ring?” he asks, quietly and with a wavering voice. The sick feeling in his stomach isn’t going away.

The Ring whispers… but doesn’t answer.

“Not that they’d ever see them, with those tall ceilings.” 

“They’d worry though, surely.”

“So what? They’re always worrying these days.”

He frowns a little and tilts his head in agreement to the point. “Fair enough.” He takes one more long drag from his pipe, puffing out the biggest smoke ring yet. “... Maybe just this once.”

His hand stills just before The Ring slips onto his finger.

Something is… something is not, right…

He swallows, staring down, staring at the light of the lanterns glinting off of The Ring as he holds it there, poised at the tip of his finger. He adjust his posture and coughs a little. He still doesn’t put it on.

And then there’s a knock at the door, and a “I think it’s unlocked,” and it begins to open-

And Bilbo is out of the regular world, into the world of wisps and shadows and living air.

Fili and Kili peek around the room. “Must’ve just missed him,” Fili says, pointing at the smoke lingering in the air. “Maybe he went to the markets without us?”

The markets… I forgot about the markets. Bilbo swallows a sigh.

They drove me off in the first place, though. It’s not as though we can’t go later. I just need a bit of privacy first. A bit of time to cool down.

The princes have opened the door a good bit more, whispering to each other in Khuzdul, and Bilbo takes the chance to slip out between them.

Right, now… door, treasury, or outside altogether? Bilbo peers around the halls, listening, trying to discern where the largest gatherings to avoid might be through the hissing words of the air.

They’ll panic if they go looking and I don’t turn up quickly, so not outside. The door is too far away as well, but the treasury makes noise as I move about.

So maybe somewhere a little deeper. A little farther in.
Mmm, but it’s dangerous.

And away from prying eyes.

I’m just going to have a smoke, though. I’ll just stay withing hearing distance of the treasury entrance. It’ll be enough for today.

But every other day? When our patience runs out? When we need a moment along, just to us?

I’ll just have to learn my around a bit better, I suppose.

Chapter Text

It does make his smoke rings invisible, as far as he can tell. At least, when he sneaks into the treasury past a watchful and worrying Bifur and begins to smoke, and Bifur pokes his head in as Bilbo accidentally kicks a few coins while swinging his feet, no notice seems to be taken. So Bilbo sits in the golden light, imagining it to be the sunset of The Shire, and smokes.

“Spring should be coming in soon, if I have my days right,” he mumbles. His voice echoes, just slightly, though he can’t tell if it’s the treasury or the faded and dim world he inhabits whenever he wears his Luck. “Maybe I’ll get some nice sunlight then. Start a garden.”

The image of a small hobbit garden, full of flowers and fruits and prize-winning tomatoes, set at the entrance of Erebor, well it makes him laugh. A soft, warm laugh, and this sound he’s sure is carried by the golden trinkets and towering ceilings all across the treasury. He quickly clams his mouth shut, sitting wide-eyed and very still.

He peeks just behind him, seeing Bifur pop his head back in. The axe gone, Bifur now has a notable chunk missing from his forehead- and a noticeable chunk of Westron in its place. It’s not always available to him, and his vocabulary is limited, but there’s Westron nonetheless.

“Bilbo?” he calls out.

Bilbo keeps quiet.

Bifur waits a moment longer before ducking back out and, by the sounds of it, calling for someone in Khuzdul. The question of who is answered a dozen smoke rings later, when Bofur and Bombur both enter in full and begin poking around.

“You don't’ think he’s hearin’ things, do you?” Bofur glances back at the entrance. “I’m worried about that’ axe missin’.”

“I thin’ he’ll be okay,” Bombur assures, checking in an archway just below where Bilbo actually sits. “If anyone coil’ sneak in here, i’s Bilbo.”

“Aye, true.” Bofur peers down at the depths of the gold piles. “But why? I mean, I know why we all think why, but why now? And why’s it like this?”

“Maybe ‘e’s ‘omesick.” Bombur tosses a coin into the piles, and listens for the sounds of any large shifting or scrambling by any hiding hobbits. “Lots of ‘ills in The Shire.”

“Not the same, though.” 

Not the same.

It’s not the same.

What is he thinking? Of course they’re worried he wants back in here, he should be worried that he wants back in! The light isn’t a Shire Sunset, the mounds are rolling hills of green, the clinking of coins isn’t birdsong or crickets chirping- and while he still believes he can find home anywhere, he can find it anywhere. And it certainly doesn’t have to be here!

Bilbo gets to his feet and sneaks off, out of the treasury and through the halls- perhaps in a smaller mountain it would feel busy and full, but as it stands Erebor is very large, and after The Battle the dwarves number very few. He slips through easily, without bumping into anyone, and out the front entrance to the mountain. He doesn’t dare look at the moat as he passes it, going straight for the first patch of grass he sees- along a gentle slope still wet from a thin layer of freshly melted snow. 

He takes off The Ring- it sticks for a moment, despite how perfectly, purely, how made for him the fit has been since the moment he’d picked it up, a wonderment that Gollum could wear it at all with fingers so much skinner- and with that tug he swiftly conceals it in his palm and lays down, putting his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.

The sunlight is still weaker than he’s used to, but stronger than before. The grass is short and stiff, but alive beneath his weight. The thrush are quiet and the only birdsong is the cawing of ravens, but they caw in joy all the same. And for all the trouble the moat had caused him, the stream that flows from it babbles merrily- the most familiar sound of all.

“There,” he sighs. “Much more like home.”

He falls asleep out there, basking in the sun. He wouldn’t have realized he’d fallen asleep except for Dwalin shaking him awake.

“One o’ the lads spotted you from their post,” he growls. “You’ve given Thorin a scare worse than before.”

Bilbo yawns and stretches. “I’ll go and apologize, then.”

“Ye better.” That scowl is one Bilbo hadn’t been on the receiving end of in well over a year- maybe closer to two now. 

But the irritation of before, it’s like the sunlight melted it away with the snow. Bilbo uses his free hand to pat Dwalin’s shoulder, and his closed fist to stifle another yawn. He’d never been a regular partaker of afternoon naps in the past, but perhaps he should become one.

Bilbo walks inside slowly, hesitating at the entrance.

Back into the deep. Out of the fresh air, the sounds of growing and living things.

Out of the sunlight. 

A chill settles over him almost as soon as he steps inside. Stupid of him to get his lended clothes wet. He does his best to ignore it and walks to the room temporarily set up for Thorin’s meetings with Dain, Dain’s generals, and any other important figure who might need to speak with The King Under The Mountain. There’s raised voices inside, and Bilbo waits a good distance away from the door for it to finish up.

Dain comes out first, seething and whispering in spit-riddled Khuzdul to a red-faced and puffing general. They pass by Bilbo without even a glance, like he’s still wearing The Ring- but no, it’s just clutched in his hand. 

Thorin exits last, looking worn and weary- and then his eyes fall on Bilbo. Always, they  find Bilbo. When few others are capable- or care to look- he finds Bilbo.

The realization chases away the chill. But Thorin’s eyes are stormy as he marches to Bilbo. The hobbit braces for some kind of kingly tirade- and instead Thorin drags him into a hug.

“I never mean to drive you away from us,” Thorin breathes into Bilbo’s curls. “I’m trying to protect you as best I can, from an enemy I can’t fight.”

Bilbo can’t speak. His mouth hangs open, his eyes are wide, and a sound like a whine-hum escapes him. He’s still as stone for a moment, before pressing his arms around Thorin in return.

“There’s no enemy, Thorin. I’m alright.”

“Would you believe me if I said so to you? After disappearing for hours, avoiding my friends, skipping my meals?”

Bilbo swallows. “We both know I wouldn’t.”

“You wouldn’t. You didn’t. You’ll forgive me for following in your footsteps.”

Bilbo finds his hands flat against Thorin’s back, The Ring pressed against Thorin’s armor instead of clutched tightly in his own fist. He lets it stay that way.

“Where were you?”

“Just outside. I needed some sun, that’s all. I fell asleep by accident.”

Thorin doesn’t release the hug yet- nor does Bilbo. 

“Is that all this is? Homesickness? A need for nature?”

“Not as simple as that. As much as I wish it were.” Bilbo’s voice is quiet with the second sentence. “But it’s a start.”

Finally, Thorin pulls away- just slightly, still close enough for Bilbo’s arms to easily slide from Thorin’s back to his biceps, The Ring following the movement and keeping to Bilbo’s palm almost unnaturally smoothly.

“Wars always take from us those we thought we’d saved- warriors and healers who’ve seen too much, and never stop seeing it. Don’t let us lose you to this.”

“I won’t, Thorin. You won’t lose me. I’m here to stay- in this mountain, in this world, by your side.” Bilbo’s ears twitch at his own words. “The-the side of The Company as a whole, I mean.”

Thorin smiles, just a little. “Of course. The Company as a whole.”

Bilbo nods, not making eye contact, and slips his hands back to his side- he closes his fist around The Ring so smoothly and so quickly that Thorin doesn’t even notice the movement. “Well, I ah… suppose I should try to prevent my thoughts from dwelling, anymore. I know there’s not much I can do to help here but I’ll try to find something.”

“I have no doubts you’ll succeed. I’ve known many dwarves with twice your confidence and half your capabilities.”

“Ha.” The laugh is less a true laugh, and more a… sound. An obligation. Bilbo makes it out of habit, staring into Thorin’s eyes. He thinks Blue might be favorite color.

Chapter Text

Two days later, Bilbo is searching for a good hiding spot for The Ring in his room.

Fili and Kili, after his not showing up for their planned trip to the markets and then his incident of falling asleep outside, had decided that taking him to the outdoor markets of Dale might be better. They’re sparse, and crumbling, but they’re in the fresh air and sunlight and beginning to become a proper market and not just cobbled-together ruins. 

And Bilbo could hardly say no when they came, excitedly sharing the idea, grinning ear-to-ear at each other's sides the same as when they showed up on his doorstep all the months ago. 

But he still doesn’t have clothes with pockets.

And so we find him here, scouring his room for somewhere it can be hidden. He won’t risk taking it with him and dropping it- or worse. He still remembers Bard’s suspicion, and something nasty twists in his gut when he thinks of it, a certainty that if the man ever found out about The Ring he would take it.

“Not here, not here- confound these dwarves, there’s no storage space for anything! Where am I- I, oh.” His eyes fall to the one built-in indentation in his walls.

The fireplace.

“You won’t mind a little ash, will you?” Bilbo murmurs to The Ring as he kneels down and hides it beneath the logs and ashes. 

“Can’t have a preference, it’s just a ring,” he scoffs at himself.

“Of course it’s more than a ring.”

“The other place whispers. Not it.”

“Stupid. Stupid thing to say. Stupid thing to deny.”

“Shut up.”

He sits back, satisfied with the hiding, and brushes his hands off on an old ruined tapestry sitting in the corner. Thorin had, apparently, never felt the need to clean the room while it was his, and Bilbo’s been so preoccupied with other things he hasn’t had the chance to do it himself.

With The Ring safely hidden away, Bilbo steps out of the door. 

He stops just over the threshold, swallowing thickly. His hands flutter to his sides, and he has to tear them away and clench them a few times to make them settle. 

“I’ll be back soon enough.” He breathes the words out almost silently.

It takes another minute before he can finally tear himself away from the threshold, an aching, gaping absence swallowing his chest. Each step feels almost painful, but he cannot deny the way a gloom seems to lift from his spirits as well despite the pain, as a splinter drawn from a wound.

He meets Fili and Kili at the end of the hall. Both are dressed much the same as they’d been on the journey- including their weapons. Bilbo himself had the same forethought, the mithril under his tunic and Sting at his side. It’s Spring now, though with the continuing snowfalls Bilbo would never have guessed it without hearing it mentioned by another, yet Orcs still linger around the mountain. It’ll be another year or more yet for the parties from Ered Luin to arrive, and with the rebuilding taking priority there’s no telling what may be encountered along the road to Dale.

Fili and Kili both sling their arms around his shoulders as soon as he’s walked up, grinning down at him. “Uncle told us to take whatever we thought we’d need for trade from the treasury,” Fili says, dropping a bag of coins into Bilbo’s hand. “We took a good share.”

“I can tell,” Bilbo huffs, reaching a struggling, shaking arms up to put the pouch in Fili’s pocket instead. “You’ll have to carry my share. Dori still can’t seem to find any clothes in the whole mountain with pockets in my size.”

“Weird, that,” is all Kili says while Fili shrugs and takes the gold. “Anyway, Tauriel is going to be meeting us at Dale, and I don’t think you’ve spoken with her much since before we moved back in, have you?”

“I must have.” Bilbo tries to think it over. 

“I don’t think so. You’ve been a little… unsociable, the past months.” Kili shares a look with Fili. 

“Unsociable? Me? Nonsense,” Bilbo huffs. “I’m plenty sociable.”

“You haven’t even sought out Uncle much lately,” Fili says. “That especially has us worried.”

Bilbo knows better than to ask why that in particular has them all worried- the only reason he hasn’t acknowledged it to Thorin is…

… Actually, he’s not sure why. It feels very important to voice what they feel for each other aloud, and yet every time he thinks to he just… can’t. He gets caught up in Thorin’s voice, or eyes, or the easy togetherness….

… Which actually, as of late, hasn’t been so easy. Easy to seek out, or to hold onto. There’s always something mucking with it, something small and hard to identify, some feeling of barrier that Bilbo can’t… quite… place…

“How are things, with you and Tauriel?” Bilbo finally says after he realizes they’ve been walking in silence for longer than can be comfortable. “Thorin was warming up to her last I spoke with him about it.”

Kili brightens up like a torch freshly lit. “They’re amazing. Uncle told me that, if I had to go and fall in love with an elf just to try and send him to an early shameful grave, I picked the worst one for that.”

Bilbo runs the sentence through his head a few times. “So that’s a blessing, then.”

“He even told me I could gift her anything I wanted from the treasury. None of what I’ve found is quite right for her, though. Gold feels almost… too simple. She’s made of starlight, and the wind whispering through canopies, and rivers as beautiful as they are dangerous…”

“He’ll go on like this for hours if we let him,” Fili whispers to Bilbo in a pained voice. 

“Well, I do agree. Gold hardly seems like a gift for Tauriel,” Bilbo says, much to Fili’s loud groan of disappointment that the subject continues. “There must be something else you can give her. There were those gems, and-and this shirt, so there’s more than just gold in this mountain.”

“I want to give her something as special as those,” Kili agrees. “It’s just difficult to find. I’ve never been a craftsman myself, but I may take something up just for her.”

“This is disgusting,” Fili says.

“Which is worse, brother? My openness or Uncle’s coyness?”

“They’re both making me sick.”

Bilbo is blushing furiously between the two at the outright statement of Thorin’s infatuation.

“You should give him a gift,” Kili says, looking down at Bilbo. “I’m tired of waiting to call you my Uncle. It suits you.”

“Very Uncle material,” Fili agrees.

Bilbo makes a squeak-like noise far down in his throat without opening his mouth, and then breaks away from their arms on him. “Look at that, we’re almost outside.” He hurries out the entrance, pausing a moment both for the boys to catch up and to soak in the sunlight. The smell of Spring is faint here, and the air cooler and crisper than would be normal in The Shire, but there’s enough of the season present for it to calm him.

The boys catch up, and the three begin their walk- usually goats or ponies would be taken for such a way to travel, but in the wake of their adventure a walk from Erebor to Dale feels like nothing.

“There he is.” Fili bumps Bilbo with his elbow affectionately. “Fresh air really makes a difference in you.”

“Your hair changes color, even.” Kili tilts his head as he looks at Bilbo. “Ever notice that, Fi? It’s like it goes from red to blond to brown sometimes. Is that a Hobbit thing?”

“It’s a lighting thing,” Bilbo says. “My hair is auburn, thank you very much. And it’s paler when I’ve spent a lot of time outside, and darker when I haven’t.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“I think I know my own hair.”

“How? It’s so short you can’t see it without a mirror.”

“Short to you, maybe.” Bilbo reaches up and feels his head, the curls longer and looser than they’ve been practically ever in his life. “Let’s find something else to talk about than me.”

“Aw, but the most interesting thing on the road.” Fili gestures at the empty expanses of land around them. “Unless an Orc comes along.”

“Don’t tempt fate!”

“So we’ll keep talking about you.”

“Fine, ask away.”

Kili speaks up now. “Fili told me you’re magic.”

“Oh, not this again.”

“I told him I think you can sense magic.”

“That’s what I just said.”

“You said I said he is magic.”

“That’s the same thing!”

“Hobbits are not magic,” Bilbo interrupts, looking up sternly at them both, “And we have no better ‘sense’ of magic than Men do. Rivendell just felt like magic, and I think it’s less that I’m over-sensitive to such feelings and more that you lot are dumb to it.”

“How would you know if you and other Hobbits don’t normally encounter magic, though? That you’re not magic?”

“Because if we were I think Lobelia would’ve cursed me ages ago,” Bilbo grumbles. 

“Who’s Lobelia?”

“She married into the Baggins family years back, with my least favorite cousin. I don’t have any siblings and I don’t have any children or spouse, so when I die Bag-End will be up for the taking- or would, but THorin sent word to The Shire that I want it to go to my gardener and another cousin. Anyway, Lobelia and her husband have been after my smial and everything in it for years. She’s been caught trying to steal my silverware more than once!”

“So you’re from a whole family of burglars.”

Bilbo looks up at Kili, mouth agape in offense. Fili punches Kili in the arm, and Kili grunts in pain before shaking his head.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“What, to compare me to my most hated relative?”

“Right. It came out wrong.”

“It better have. Lobelia is, as I’ve said to Thorin, worse than Smaug in terms of greed.”

Fili and Kili both whistle at such a strong statement.

“... If we’re talking about Smaug now…”

“Don’t be like that.” Bilbo shakes his head. “I hate the tip-toeing around me. Just ask what you want to.”

“... What did he say to you, before Uncle and the others came in?”

“Mostly just tried to scare me. I tried to convince him I wasn’t a thief, just an admirer- which didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. Then he chased me about the treasure while I tried to grab The Arkenstone and ranted at me about all sorts of nasty things. A spiel about you all just using me and intending me to die, a lot of bragging about his grandiosity, and some nonsense about a coming darkness.”

“And you talked back?”

“I wish I could say no, but… I’m not sure why I did. I felt almost compelled to reply, sometimes.”

“Old stories say the gaze and words of a dragon could put a spell over anyone they decided to toy with,” Kili says, looking at Bilbo in wonderment. “An enchantment to make them forget the danger they’re truly in.”

“Then he did a very bad job of it.” Bilbo shudders a little. “... He did… get me to tell him a list of titles. I knew better than to give my name, of course, but…”

Bilbo breathes in. “Barrel-rider, was among them.”

There’s a long stretch of silence at the admission, the boys quickly grasping onto what that means.

“... You didn’t mean anything by it.” Fili gives him a pat on the shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

“You almost burned to death out there. Hundreds did.”

“But he wouldn’t have died if he didn’t fly out,” Kili tries to point out.

“Neither would half of Laketown.”

“If you’d known he knew about the barrels, you never would’ve said it.”

“I appreciate you both trying to make me feel better, truly. But I think I have to… grapple with this on my own. I don’t even know why I admitted it.”

“Because you don’t have to grapple with it alone. That’s what Uncle Thorin does with guilt, and it makes him impossible sometimes.”

Bilbo lets out a sharp laugh. “I can't argue with that.”

“Besides, it was an accident.” Fili shrugs. “You’re not someone who’d put anyone in danger on purpose, or risk lives like that just to feel clever.”

“... You all think very highly of me. It's a uh, ahem, a little intimidating! What if it turns out I’ve secretly been… very selfish, this whole time?”

“Then you’re a better liar than Nori,” Kili says with a small laugh. “You’re not selfish, Bilbo. There’s literally nothing you’ve done on this whole adventure that says otherwise.”

It’s there, in the base of his throat. A confession, an admittance. An outpouring of it all, the possessiveness, the secrecy, the feeling of bloodlust that day in Mirkwood when a creature dared to even crawl next to The Ring. The words clog his windpipe, block his air, back up into his chest and squeeze like chains around his lungs and his heart, swell like a flood in his ribcage-

“What about the handkerchief?” comes out instead, breathless and a little gasped, the wrong words forcing their way out just like when he’d wanted to tell Gandalf about The Ring at the entrance to Mirkwood. 

If Fili and Kili notice the strange tone to his voice, they don’t react to it. They just lightly snort with laughter at the memory.

“Fine, a tiny bit selfish,” Kili relents. “Does that make you happy now, Master Boggins?”

Bilbo huffs out a faint laugh now at the nickname that infuriatingly, endearingly follows him through battles and betterments. “I’m not unhappy with the praise, Kili. I just… don’t want you all thinking I’m some grand infallible hero. I could do something awful, at any moment.”

“Could and would are different things.” Fili suddenly stops, holding an arm out in front of Bilbo and Kili and crouching down. “Do you two hear that?” he hisses.

Kili and Bilbo both listen. Indeed, there’s the sound of footsteps, carried over the empty plains by scattered small protrusions of stone. The footsteps are too light to be dwarven, too heavy to be Men or Elves, and clearly not of an animal.

Fili nods his head towards a small group of stones just barely big enough to hide the three of them, and they take cover behind it.

The footsteps draw closer, closer, right above them. A single Orc crawls up on top of the stone, Bilbo, Fili, and Kili hidden from its sights only by the blessing of a tilt to the way the rocks stick out of the ground providing a bit of secrecy. The Orc crouches, sniffing for something, letting out a low growl-like gurgle. 

The three wait- if they can avoid marching into Laketown splattered with Orc blood, they’d like to do so. The Orc leans closer to the ground, sniffing more. It’s searching for something.

It creeps closer to the edge of the stones… closer… closer…

Kili ducks out from the hiding space and does a quick sprint out of blood-spurt range and fires off a single arrow into the Orc’s skull.

It slumps immediately, collapsing to the ground and then sliding off of the edge of the stone. The corpse lands in front of Bilbo and Fili, its leg still twitching.

“Good shot,” Fili says, crawling out from the side to avoid having to shove the corpse out of the way, Bilbo following suit.

“What on earth was it looking for?” Bilbo watches the twitching slowly cease. “There’s nothing out here anymore.”

“Nothing but traveling Dwarves and Men to snack on,” Kili growls, kicking the corpse once for good measure. 

“I don’t know if that’s it.” Bilbo looks up at the top of the rock, now smeared with foul blood. “If it was starving, wouldn’t it have just smelt us and attacked?”

“It was alone. Probably knew it couldn’t take us head-on and was hoping to get the jump.” Fili starts back towards the road. “Don’t bother with trying to figure out Orcs, Bilbo. Without Azog, they probably can’t even think beyond food and carnage.”

“... Maybe.”

But as they continue on towards Dale, chatting and sharing stories, the encounter lingers in Bilbo’s mind.

It was looking for something. Something that they three… or at least one of them, had something about their scent that was enough for it to consider.

Suddenly the Spring sun on his back isn’t enough to keep away the chill on the air.

Chapter Text

Even with a quickened pace after the Orc encounter, it takes a few hours to reach Dale. Tauriel is waiting for them at the entrance to the city, and as soon as they can see her Kili breaks away to rush into her arms! She laughs and easily sweeps her dwarf up off his feet and to her lips. Fili pretends to gag, and Bilbo laughs at it. Kili and Tauriel are very sweet, and he’s happy for them- but he understands why Fili may be a little tired of his lovestruck brother.

“Did you face any dangers on the road?” she asks as she sets Kili back down.

“Only one Orc, easy enough. I shot it straight through the eye.” Kili mimics nocking and firing an arrow.

“Almost the eye.” Fili grins as Kili shoots him a ‘shut your mouth’ look, and Tauriel just smiles. She looks at Bilbo and nods to him.

“It’s been some time since we’ve spoken, Master Baggins.”

“Bilbo, please, I’ve had enough Master Baggins to last a lifetime.” Bilbo adjusts his belt a bit- it’s looser on him than it once was. Tauriel’s smile fades a little as she takes him in. Bilbo notices, and waves his hand as though it can wave away her concerns. “I hardly see you around the mountain.”

“I try to make myself scarce. While the King may accept me…”

“He’ll get the others sorted out soon,” Kili promises, taking her hand. “He sent a raven to Amad about it already, and she sent back saying as soon as she read that you fought for us against Thranduil’s orders she began planning our ceremony.”

Tauriel laughs lightly. “The lack of love for my king is genetic, then.”

“Nah. I don’t hate him- I’d just put salt in his wine the next time we have negotiations.”

“You will not.” Bilbo puts his hands on his hips. “Let’s try to avoid a second war, thank you. Just pour him a poor vintage and give him food that’s been sitting out just slightly too long to be truly fresh- just excusable enough to be poor planning or bad manners, but still a slight. I did it all the time with my less savory relatives.”

“Ooooh, that’s a good one.” 

“And here I’d hoped you would keep your dwarves out of trouble,” Tauriel says as she leads them into the city, eyes gleaming. 

“Then you forgot about my breaking them out of your prison.”

“I suppose I did.” She waves to a couple of children who shout hello to her as she passes by. “For all the woes of the mortal world beyond our borders, I’m glad you did break them out. I’ve seen more of the world now than I did in centuries within our own borders.”

“I know how you feel. I hadn’t even been out of The Shire before this whole adventure.”

“Your lands are to the West, aren’t they?”

“Yes, past Rivendell a good ways.”

“I’ve heard there are trees in the West that my kin of old woke before we settled in the East, along the borders of a river in a quiet land of green and growing.”

“Really? … Suppose that explains the Old forest in Buckland, then. We always thought it was the river flowing through it.”

“Hang on, you said there’s no magic in The Shire. What’s this Old Forest?”

“There isn’t magic. The Old Forest is just… odd. They say the trees move and speak, and- well, like Tauriel said. They’re awake.”

“That is magic!”

“Well, Hobbits didn’t do it! We avoid those trees! Terrible business, they’re all dangerous- sometimes the pathway through just changes places.”

“Many of the trees that were woken before the Third Age have grown bitter, and cruel,” Tauriel says sadly. “I cannot blame them- they were felled for the ambitions of Men, and then again when the great evil waged war on the world. The loss hardened them against love, and hope.”

“Why didn’t we learn any of this before we went to The Shire?” Fili pokes Bilbo. “We could’ve ended up there by accident!”

“You couldn’t, there’s borders. Very clear ones.” Bilbo looks up into the sky, squinting. “Is it midday already?”

“Huh, it is.” Kili looks at Tauriel. “Once we get to the market, actually, I need to have a word with you. Just a quick one.”

“Of course- oh, my lord Bard.” Tauriel pauses to give a slight bow as the King of Dale passes by. Bard pauses, arms full of firewood, to take in the party.

“Is this a royal procession, or a friendly visit?” he asks after a moment.

“We’re just here to see the market,” Fili says, speaking not as a prince to a king, but a traveller to a local resident. “We heard you’d gotten in some nice fabrics and seeds and stuff, and thought we’d treat Master Baggins here to a day out.”

Bilbo regards Bard with a polite, somewhat stilted small bow, and a pull like a wince to his expression as he avoids eye contact. His last words to Bard months ago had been… dismissively rude at best, after all, and not said in the most clear of headspaces.

Bard just nods politely at him. “It’s good to see you all out of the mountain, then. I was beginning to worry I’d offended your Master Baggins, and your King by extension.”

“No, I uh- I’d like to apologize, actually.” Bilbo clears his throat, rocking on his heels a bit and still not making eye contact. “I was more than-than a bit rude, when we last spoke, and I’m… sorry.”

Bard shrugs. “No harm done, then. Our kingdoms remain friendly.” He looks Bilbo up and down a bit. “We just got an old bakery cleared out, and the oven was well-preserved. There’s baked goods to be bought in the market now.”

“Oh, ah, thank you.” Bilbo adjusts his belt again. “I don’t suppose there’s clothing, either?”

“Not for sale at the moment- only spare fabrics. All of our proper clothing is still being distributed among the people.”

“Right. Um, thank you.”

Bard gives the group one last nod, one last lingering look at Bilbo- and then he leaves.

Bilbo huffs and pulls his tunic a little above his belt, trying to make it a bit baggier, a bit less showing of his lack of weight. “If I get one more comment about eating more, I’m going to start stuffing pillows down my shirt. That goes for you boys, too, and everyone else in our Company.”

Fili and Kili hold up their hands. 

“You’re the one who said Hobbits need seven meals a day to us,” Fili defends. 

“Seven a day?” Tauriel says as they begin walking again. “That must be a joke.”

“Not in the slightest. But seven meals a day are a bit hard to come by here and now, as we all know. I’m managing just fine on three, and I’ll keep managing until we won’t all starve just to satisfy my want for Elevenses.”

“The Shire must be a very plentiful land, to support peoples of such appetites.”

“Plentiful, peaceful, and perfect.” Bilbo straightens up a bit with pride. “Honestly, I think once Erebor is all settled we should all go back- yes, Kili, I mean Tauriel as well. Hobbits have the best parties of any of the people of Middle-Earth, I guarantee you.”

“His pantry was bursting,” Kili says to Tauriel, and for the rest of the walk to the marketplace he describes all the foods he and his kin had downright plundered from Bilbo’s pantries and larders. Fili begins humming the song they’d sung as well, and Bilbo, despite the panic it had brought him then, begins humming along with Fili.

When they reach the marketplace, it’s as close to ‘bustling’ as a slowly-rebuilding city like Dale can be. Hardly close to the stories of old Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin had shared before, but far more cheerful and prosperous than Laketown had been- prosperous in terms of fair trade, at least. With few traders from outside of Dale itself and a small group of tailors and whittlers from the mountain involving themselves in it’s burgeoning economy, most prices are based solely on the amount of money that each family has so far been given by Thorin- which is quite a bit, but still slow-coming, after a deliberation by Thorin, Gandalf, and Bard in which they agreed it best to send the shares out in parts to try and avoid any such as Alfrid or The Master from rising to be claimed by gold sickness. 

And, indeed, there’s the smell of fresh-baked goods in the air. Bilbo’s stomach suddenly growls, quite loudly, enough for his three companions to turn and stare in shock and amusement while he turns red from embarrassment. 

“We knew you weren’t eating enough!” Kili finally bursts out, getting Bilbo and shoving him towards the source of the smell. 

“It’s just because I skipped breakfast to make it to this outing!” Bilbo protests.

“Uncle had breakfast delivered to your room hours before you came out! I knew you were skipping meals!”

“What?” Bilbo hadn’t even noticed any food- which, actually, is alarming. He’d been so busy searching for a hiding place for his Luck…

Another thought takes that one’s place. “Hang on, who has access to my room while I sleep?!”

“Just us.”

“Us- everyone in the hall?”

“Course. Why wouldn’t we? What if someone got past the guards and attacked one of us?”

“Fili. Don’t you think it’d be harder for that to happen if we have good locks that no-one but the person in the room can unlock?”

“... But then we can’t either.”

“This can’t be a dwarf thing. This is just you thirteen, surely. I want locks, thank you.”

“But-”

“Locks, Fili! With a key just I have!”

“... Alright, I’ll tell Uncle. But that means no more meal deliveries.” 

“I’ve already been demanded to have group meals whenever possible as it is, I can live with it.”

They get inside the bakery, and Bilbo is plunked unceremoniously into an ancient salvaged chair by Fili while Kili gently leads Tauriel to sit and kisses her hand before joining his brother at the counter.

Tauriel watches Bilbo try to smooth out his tunic while grumbling to himself. “You are much thinner than I remember you being in the tents.

“Not you too,” Bilbo grumbles. 

“Your dwarves have lost far less weight than you.”

“... Too tell you the truth,” he casts a glance at the princes to make sure they’re out of earshot, and then says lowly, “My appetite's been a little thin these last few months. I think it’s all the being inside The Mountain.”

Her worry smoothes out into understanding. “Your people are more like mine?”

“Not quite living in trees, but not living so far underground either, and certainly not spending nearly all our time indoors. Back home I have- had, a little garden of my own, and plenty of good windows, and a nice bench by my gate where I liked to sit with my pipe and occasionally a book.”

Tauriel nods. “I worry about Kili asking me to come live with him in the mountain for the very reason you feel ill at ease.”

“He’d probably move into Mir- Greenwood, with you, if you asked.”

“My Lord Thranduil has… not made it clear if I’m welcomed in his kingdom anymore. I last spoke to him before I carried Kili to the tents, and though he was no longer angry with me…”

“He wasn’t clear.” Bilbo nods. “I’m sorry, Tauriel.”

It’s then that Fili and Kili come back with one of everything available- which isn’t much by Shire standards, but quite a bit by the standards of Bilbo’s last two years of meals now. Seed cakes, scones, breads, and a nice bit of butter- apparently in the last months someone had discovered the descendants of domesticated cows of old, and their mild tempers still carried in their blood after all this time, and so a few in the city had managed to set up a small dairy farm.

And, after months of an appetite so weak he hardly picked at anything other than that single feast of Hobbit-like cuisine Thorin had arranged one day, Bilbo finds himself actually digging in. He eats happily, hardly even contributing to conversation, and Fili and Kili seem more than happy to let it remain that way.

They return to the counter twice more before Bilbo finally feels satisfied, as though he’d been starving to death this whole time and somehow never noticed. His belt no longer bothering him by sliding down so much, he thanks and praises the baker as they all take their leave to the markets outside. The sun, shining down on them with loving warmth, feels all the brighter now that Bilbo feels well.

Yes, that’s it. He’s felt unwell these past months. How had he not noticed?

Fili and Kili whisper something to each other in Khuzdul, and then Kili looks up to Tauriel and whispers something in stilted, broken Silvan. The sound shocks Bilbo so badly that he trips and needs to be caught by Fili lest he break his nose.

“What happened?”

“Nothing, nothing. I just never thought I’d hear an Elvish language come out of any of our parties’ mouths.”

“It sounded alright?” Kili asks nervously. “Did it uh, make sense?”

“I couldn’t understand it,” Bilbo says, apologetic even as something in Kili’s face seems to lift at the revelation. “I’d like to, but I only learned a bit of Sindarin during our stay in Rivendell.”

“I’d be happy to teach you Silvan, after I’ve helped Kili refine his. I don’t know that I could teach two at once.”

“Focus on you two, I’ll just send for some books when things are settled and learn it that way.”

Tauriel nods, and smiles down at Kili. “You spoke well, my love. I understood it completely.”

The three hang slightly back from Bilbo as the hobbit flits about the stalls, examining the fabrics and seeds and any other goods available, meager as they are. He seems more at home here than any of them have seen him- no small feat for Tauriel, but quite a large one for Fili and Kili. Even in his own Smial all those months ago he hadn’t seemed completely natural or at home- probably because his home was quite literally invaded. 

Now he barters and haggles and schmoozes and makes quick acquaintances, and even seems to pick up on what is, judging by his expressions, some delightful gossip.

And all the while, his hands barely twitch to his midsection- only once or twice, and only for a brief moment.

But still Kili points it out when it happens. “That,” he whispers. “In the mountains it’s worse. He can’t keep his hands still, and without pockets he usually has whatever trinket it is gripped in his fist.”

Tauriel nods in understanding. “I’ll speak with one of the elves I know to still hold respect for me. If I’m allowed to pass through our lands again, I’ll find Mithrandir and tell him of this.”

“Do you have any ideas about it?” Fili tries, keeping his voice low and pulling his brother and who he’s pretty sure is his future sister-in-law into a more hidden alcove of the ruins. “Right now our best guess is the gold sickness, but it’s… different.”

Kili nods. “Uncle doesn’t seem completely convinced either, but we don’t know what else it could be.”

Tauriel shakes her head. “It’s no magic of the elves, and I know little of the magic of other races beyond what I encountered as captain of the guard.”

“There you three are,” Bilbo huffs, quickly walking over with arms full of fabric scraps and seed pouches and an ancient but surprisingly well-preserved book on Gardening In Mountainous Areas. “You’ll never believe what I’ve heard from the vendor over there. There’s been a party of men from some other settlement trying to sell webs gathered from Mirkwood. Apparently the spiders are trying to flee the forests and setting up nests at the edges, only to get killed by just about everything under the sun.”

“Serves those things right,” Fili says with a grin.

“Ha, couldn’t agree more! Dreadful things.”

Fili perks up, and then looks between Kili and Tauriel with a look that says ‘This is going to be important’. “Hey, remember when I bumped into you at the market weeks ago? You said you heard them talk.”

Bilbo’s demeanor shifts. His satisfied smile melts away, his bright eyes taking on a wary look. “I-I might remember.”

“What’d they say again?”

“I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

“Aw, come on.”

Bilbo shifts his feet, hugging his goods closer to himself in a guarded fashion, like he’s trying to create a barrier between himself and the other three. “Something about sticking you all and eating you, if you just have to know,” he snips. “And that Sting stings and then screaming.”

“Well, that’s not surprising,” Kili says, though his own expression had soured with worry at the way Bilbo just… changed, when it was mentioned.

Bilbo nods, and then looks away. “I’m going to ah, go wait by the bridge entrance for you all to finish up.”

And just like that he’s gone, disappeared into the crowd without a trace.

Kili and Fili both look up at Tauriel, who’s eyes trail after where Bilbo had headed.

“The spiders do not speak,” she says finally. “... It could have been the dark poison in the air along the path.”

“Maybe,” Fili agrees, “But when he mentioned it before he did that thing, reaching into his pocket and getting all strange. I think it’s connected.”

“Gold sickness wouldn’t give him ears for the language of Fell creatures.”

“No, but, like we said, whatever he has might be magic. Or it could be both at the same time.”

“Could even be three things,” Kili says. “Sickness, the trinket, and warrior weariness. What if whatever he’s got on him is making the sickness and weariness worse?”

Tauriel lets out a long breath. “Something wicked ails him,” she says softly. “I cannot see what, but I feel it.” She looks down at the princes. “I’ll go to Greenwood before nightfall tonight.” 

“Thank you, Tauriel.” Fili gives her a respectful bow.

Kili hops on top of a nearby bit of broken building and leans up to kiss her. “The sooner we have Gandalf here, the better. I’d hate to lose an Uncle before he’s even our Uncle.”

Chapter Text

By the time Fili and Kili join Bilbo at the bridge, his moment of… whatever he had felt, is long passed.

He’s still not sure what came over him, exactly. Embarrassment at Fili bringing up that day in the Erebor Markets, maybe. Shame at it being brought up in front of Tauriel. Suspicion at why it was brought up at all, twisting in his gut and squeezing his thoughts like the spiders had squeezed him into a cocoon for eating, hissing he wants it, he wants it, he’s asking after it-

Maybe just something hard to identify at the memory of the event. The horrid voices of the creatures, the slimy, almost infection-like feeling of understanding their language, the dread of the moment dragged into the forefront of his mind. 

What came after cutting the dwarves down.

That consuming, grasping, soul-bleeding hate and desire-

He looks up as he hears the boys approach and stands. “I-I’m sorry for-”

“No, it’s alright,” Fili cuts him off. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to talk about it.”

Bilbo’s mouth quirks into a smile for just a moment at the forgiveness before he looks over Fili’s shoulder. “Tauriel isn’t seeing us off?”

“We said goodbye in the market.” The boys begin leading Bilbo back to Erebor. “She just made time for us in the middle of her day.”

“I’m sorry if I cut it short.”

“We already said it’s alright.” Kili looks up. “Besides, we want to get home before nightfall. Otherwise Uncle will have the whole mountain out looking for us.

Thorin is waiting by the entrance when they get back, the sun just setting behind them.

He’s stiff at first, but when they’re close enough for him to see them properly he relaxes. Fili and Kili duck their heads in slight shame as they get close enough to see the creases of worry on their uncle’s otherwise stoic face.

Bilbo, however, has no such shame. “Thorin, I got stories from the vendors that I think you’ll enjoy.”

“Stories from vendors?”

Bilbo nods. “Such as, apparently, letters being sent from all over Middle-Earth inquiring about when the dwarves of Erebor will begin crafting again, and offering prices that, frankly, just hearing nearly straightened the hair on my feet.”

Fili and Kili both light up. “Men are offering us the worth of our labors?” Fili double-checks.

“Men and Elves.”

“Elves too!”

“Apparently Lord Elrond himself sent a letter to Bard. No-one could tell me what it said, just that Bard had been paler than an elf himself after reading it, but also lighter in spirits.”

“Indeed? So the Lord of Rivendell approves our quest now, when it benefits him.”

“When it turns out a dragon isn’t let loose over Middle-Earth again? Yes, I imagine he’s a lot more pleased than he was.” Bilbo rolls his eyes a little. “He didn’t exactly send anyone to stop us after we snuck out, so he wasn’t that opposed.”

“That’s a good point, Uncle.” Kili tips his head towards Bilbo, a silent gesture of Get a good look at him. “Bilbo’s had a lot of good points today, you know.”

“Like how these fabrics he got will make some nice uh- what’d you say they were?”

“Accent fabrics, Fili. Like uh… adding a bit of silver to the thread of a coat. But, a swath of fabric instead.”

“... Maybe you outta speak to Dori about this kind of thing,” Fili says with a shrug. “Don’t think Ki or I have worn much ‘accent fabrics’ in our lives.”

“You’ll have to get used to them,” THorin says with a small smile, beginning to lead the group inside.

Bilbo hesitates a moment. The line of Durin notice. They notice his twitching fingers, the blank but wan resolve in his expression, the little shifting of his weight that means he’s psyching himself up, and the shiver that looking into the shadowed entrance seems to bring him.

“It’s warm as daylight inside,” Fili says, gesturing for Bilbo to follow. “You know this.”

“Right,” Bilbo breathes. “Yes, I know. It’s just… a very nice day outside.”

“Well… I can take your stuff to your room, then,” Kili offers, holding out his hands. “You can hang around outside for a bit.”

“Alrigh- NO!” Bilbo yanks the bundles away just as quickly as he’d started to hand them over, a sudden panic alight in his eyes. “No,” he breathes out again, shakier now. He swallows. 

Kili’s arms linger, halfway outstretched and halfway withdrawn, and he shares a look between his Uncle and brother. “I could… leave them outside the door?”

Bilbo nods, stiffly handing over the fabrics. “Sorry,” he says softly. “Sorry, I just…”

The thought lingers, unfinished, for a long while.

Thorin breaks the silence by waving away his nephews. “I’ll be inside in a moment. I’m going to speak with our burglar, first.”

The princes nod and disappear into The Mountain, leaving Thorin and Bilbo alone at the gates.

“... I’m not technically a burglar anymore,” Bilbo says, still stiff, his tone and voice hard to decipher past ‘mild indignation’. But there’s something in his eyes, something that Thorin can’t ignore.

“No, you are not.” Thorin decides to take action on beginning their walk, and to his relief Bilbo falls into walking by his side. “But like Master Baggins, I’m fond of it.”

“... Alright, I am too. Only from you and our Company, though. If anyone says it to me I’ll make it a swift correction.”

“I have no doubts.” Thorin looks up into the sky, squinting. The sunlight that lingers is faint, but fair, and the breeze is neither too cold nor too warm. “I saw seed bags among your goods.”

“I thought I might plant a little garden somewhere around,” Bilbo mutters. “It’ll have to be around the gates, I think. It’s flat, and uh, gets good sunlight. Water nearby.”

“So I might finally try your prize-winning tomates Bifur says you were so protective of?”

“Ha! No, unfortunately. No, these won’t be the same at all. But it’ll be nice to have something to do, especially since you lot apparently don’t feel a need to grow food of your own.”

There it is, a spark, accompanied by a disbelieving sniff. Thorin is glad to hear it after… whatever overcame Bilbo at the gates. “We’ve never needed to.”

“You think. Honestly Thorin, of all the things to leave to be trade-goods only, food is the most foolish one to pick.” Bilbo looks around a bit, at the soft shoots of new grass just beginning to sprout from the earth. “And for all the dragonfire and war, it looks like there’s good soil here.”

“What qualities go into good soil? Good stone, I can tell by touch alone, but I’ve never considered soil to be something of… quality.”

“That can’t be true. You must know some of the differences. Good soil is rich, dark, slightly moist. Poor soil is thin, pale, more like dust than anything else. Good soil is soft to step on, but hardy. Poor soil is hard, but brittle. If you put a trowel to good soil it comes up easily, assuming no roots are holding it in place, but poor soil needs to be hacked away at and then it piles and puffs like, like…”

“Like poorly tempered metal?’ Thorin hazards a guess. 

“If that’s something that sounds comparable to you.”

“I did not realize gardening took such a wealth of knowledge.”

“Oh, that’s not even half of it. If you think smithing is intricate work, try gardening with me when I get it all going. I’m going to be trying to shape something that lives.”

“Metal and stone live as well, Master Baggins.”

“Really?”

And so the walk continues, and Thorin finds that he and Bilbo stay outside far, far past nightfall discussing the similarities and differences between their crafts. He thinks, many times, that they should take the conversation back inside The Mountain- his nephews will be wondering what’s keeping them, and his council will be bothering them about where he is- but it’s as though he can see Bilbo… bettering. As though he sees something tangible, something solid, lift from his Hobbit. Bilbo seems to stand straighter, walk with more lightness to him, relax more than Thorin has seen since- well, actually, has he ever seen Bilbo truly at ease before now? … Once, yes. In Rivendell, in passing glances, when he still cared little for Bilbo’s presence among them.

How foolish he was. This is a sight he should have been savoring.

“-not all bad, of course. Dandelions make good tea, why Men call them a weed I’ll never understand. Unless it’s just the Men who pass through Hobbiton who do.”

“I look forward to trying your teas in the future.” And he does. He truly does. 

Bilbo looks at Thorin with bright, happy eyes. Eyes that Thorin has never quite been able to determine the color of, as ever-shifting as the color of the Hobbit’s hair. But they’re bright, happy, and beautiful, and they steal his breath away. He stares, almost dumbly, at Bilbo under the moonlight, the dappled twinkling of the sky. He understands, for a moment, why Kili describes Tauriel as starlight lady with such reverence. Torchlight hardly captures Bilbo in a way that the light of open sky does now- and still starlight and moonlight hardly do the same justice to him that sunlight does.

The moment could last forever, would last forever, Thorin is sure five more armies could come to clash around the two and still this moment would continue- if not for a puffing, panting guard who interrupts it.

“Apologies, My King,” the young dwarf of the Iron Hills says while gasping for breath- Thorin hadn’t realized how far from the gates he and Bilbo had walked. “It’s just that Bombur the Kings-Chef told us to get you and uh-” he gestures at Bilbo, rather than say a name or title, and Thorin scowls at the disrespect same as Bilbo frowns and raises an eyebrow at it. “-for dinner, before it becomes- huff- breakfast.”

Bilbo’s frown deepens, and he looks up into the sky. “Have we been out here that long?” He looks down, putting a hand to his stomach. “And here I’d thought my appetite was back to normal.”

Thorin just jerks his head to dismiss the guard, and then looks at Bilbo- and in a bold, brash moment, offers his hand.

Bilbo looks at it for a second longer than comprehension truly takes, and then silently accepts it. 

It’s because of this that Thorin feels the tightness return to Bilbo when they pass through the threshold, back under stone and rock, back among great indoor halls. Bilbo tenses, tightens, in a way that makes Thorin consider having soil piled high outside of the gates in as best an imitation of Hobbiton’s hills meant for smials as The Mountain can muster.

When they arrive to the dining room, it’s empty, save two covered plates. And somehow they can’t seem to part their hands even to eat, and so Thorin forgoes his seat at the head of the table for one right next to Bilbo, and they both eat one-handed.

Bilbo picks at his meal, but still eats more of it than Thorin has seen recently. Enough that it would at least fill the stomach of a Man, and while a Hobbit could likely stand to eat twice or thrice that Thorin is satisfied.

Even as they finish up, their hands don’t part. Bilbo is clinging to Thorin almost like a lifeline, like if he lets go he might slip off into the great depths of the halls of the throne room. Thorin clings back, tightly, and if Bilbo minds he doesn’t say.

And then, as they enter the hall that hosts the living quarts of their entire Company until more permanent housing can be restored and spared (all goes to the wounded and those expecting family, first), they bump into Dori muttering to himself and seemingly trying to calm down outside of his room.

Dori’s eyes don’t even linger on the clasped hands- out of respect or out of hidden surprise, Thorin couldn’t say. Instead Dori gives a quick bow of greeting to both.

“It’s unlike you to be up this late,” Thorin says. “... Is it dreams?”

Dori shakes his head. “No, just my blasted brother,” he huffs. “I finally let him help me finish up Bilbo’s clothes-” finally let him take over weakening those pockets, I just couldn’t bear to put out such shoddy work myself- “-and now he thinks that means I’ll overlook his nicking some beads off of Dwalin! It’s like he wants to be arrested!”

Thorin huffs a small laugh- he hadn’t known Nori well at all before the three brothers had answered his calls for the quest, but now all he can think when he hears of the incessant thieving is how familiar and strangely reliable Nori is. Reliable in habit, anyway, at the trade-off of being completely unreliable to keep his hands to himself and other people’s belongings in their place. Not something a King should be allowing, maybe, but in halls as rich as these Thorin will only protest if Nori tries to take something of emotional value to someone.

“My clothes are done?” Thorin looks over at Bilbo, whose face is painted with relief- a strange, pinched relief. “My waistcoat and everything? You said it’d take weeks.”

“Sped it up by getting my brothers to help, yes. And making some more with their help. I left them on your bed for you, and lit a nice fire while I was at it-”

Bilbo’s face crumples, twists, and he yanks his hand out of Thorin’s as he rushes to his room with a strangled noise from his throat.

Dori and Thorin stand in the hall, dumbfounded, until the loud slamming of Bilbo’s door shakes them both out of the sudden change in the air, and Thorin feels his hand going cold where Bilbo’s was now gone from.

Bilbo slams the door shut behind him and rips a poker from it’s side by the fireplace, scattering burning logs and hot embers all across his floor as he digs through the ashes!

“Stupid, thoughtless-” he gasps. If he means himself or Dori, he doesn’t know. “Where is it, where is it-! Melted, burned away, gone-!”

The poker clings against something, and without thinking Bilbo dives his hands into the now barley-smoldering remains of the fire. He barely feels the burn that reddens his flesh as his hand grasps it, drags it from the fireplace and up to his chest and the breath that he releases…

“Safe,” he whispers. “You’re safe.”

Once his heart calms, he holds his Luck up to see. Without the fire the room is dark, cold- but his Luck is warm, and it glows.

He tilts his head, bringing his other hand up to trace the band. The glowing, curling script is unreadable to him. It’s as though The Ring drank up the very essence of the fire it had sat in, and now breathed it out, slowly and steadily, though the beautiful script that went all the way around it now.

“What does this say?” he breathes. “What are you not telling me?”

The same whispers as ever… the same not-heartbeat dully filling his ears… they’d been absent all day. How had he stood the lack of them? It seems unthinkable now, to go without their presence.

The writing fades slowly, and with them the last traces of light.

Bilbo lets out another breath, and blinks. He sits up a little straighter, the whispers and whooshing fading to far less consuming volume- but not leaving entirely, just taking to the background, unnoticed.

Bilbo lets out a horrified huff, and then sucks in a breath he tries to put his hand to his chest and feel his body, feel returned to himself- he flexes his hand and hisses in pain, and feels a wetness, a rapidly-formed blister breaking with the movement. He swallows, and quickly crosses over to his bed and tucks The Ring under his pillow.

His eyes cross the room, but he can barely see it. He sighs. “Stupid.” This time he knows who he means by it. “Now you’ve got to clean this all up,” he mumbles.

He gets to work, doing his best in the near pitch-black, swallowing a growing panic the longer and longer he moves in shadows. He tries to sing to himself to drown out the memory of screeching, wailing, chasing accusations, but his song echoes too similarly, too similar.

By the time he gets the fire re-lit, he’s shivering and drenched with a cold sweat.

He stumbles back to his bed and sits down heavily. His hand lands on a pile of neatly-folded clothes, and he takes a moment and few blinks to register them.

“Nori and Ori helped, hmm?” It’s a welcome distraction. Bilbo picks up the clothes with shaking hands, turning them inside-out to examine the stitching. It’s distinctly different from Shire styles- more angled, more akin to the shapes he sees in the stones around him, less like the gentle looping that resembles the hills of his home.

Still, it seems quality enough- until he gets to the pockets. He huffs out a little laugh.

“That would be where his brothers took over, I think,” he says aloud. “Not nearly the same quality. Doubt this could even hold a wrapped cookie without tearing. Poor boys.”

Still, he knows they’re not in the same line of craft as their oldest brother. Was this Ori, the scribe in training, or Nori, the one who might’ve done Bilbo’s job if not for his distinctly Dwarf scent that Gandalf wished to avoid bringing to Smaug? Bilbo can’t be sure- a scribe needs strong and steady hands, but so does a thief, so this stitching must be entirely owed to either lack of experience or lack of care. Experience would be Ori, but care could be Nori, if he was bored with the work.

“Doesn’t matter.” Bilbo stands up, remembering what Kili had said, ans sure enough his bundle from Dale is still sitting outside his door- and thankfully, that’s all he finds outside of it. He brings the pile inside, setting most of it out of the way and then pulling a small bundle out from within the fabrics- a sewing kit.

“No point in shaming them for it,” he mumbles. “I’ll just take of it myself.”

He hums as he works, the familiar movement of steady sewing pushing the memory of the… episode, further and further from his mind, even as his hand stings and aches with every little movement.

Chapter Text

While the next morning comes with great concern when Bilbo shows up to breakfast with a burnt and blistered hand and deep bags under his eyes, and then a great deal of convincing from Bilbo that he’s fine and he just didn’t realize how hot the logs were after his fire went out sometime in the night, the rest of Spring passes with an unexpected and welcomed calmness.

The Company, for their part, seem to be contented with the shared meals most days and stop being quite so pushy with him- oh, they still force him into plenty of outings, each one taking a turn at least once a day to see to him and drag him on some small task or another, but at least now when he says he’s drained and done for the day they don’t put up a fight about it- though he does notice a steady increase in tension among them. It’s not quite a fighting tension, but it’s… similar. Not unlike what he’d felt in the air as they waited for a morning, months ago, where Elves and Men would slaughter they few fourteen in empty, death-ridden halls.

He tries to ask when he first notices it, about two weeks after he gets his clothes back, but they just wave it off by saying there’s mounting stress with the repairs. And no wonder- when Thorin steals Bilbo away one day for a bit of discussion on the land he’s having cleared and readied for Bilbo’s garden, Thorin ends up admitting that he and Dain have been locked in a fight with one of Dain’s generals about the matter of The Arkenstone. Apparently the general was an Ereborian refugee’s son and felt it an almost personal dishonor to his mother’s memory that The Arkenstone was now put far, far away where none could see it.

It’s clear to Bilbo how those kinds of tensions could bleed out into the rest of The Mountain. It’s not the first time he’d heard mutterings by some about how Thorin, great and honorable a warrior as he is, may not have the right mindset to lead a kingdom that was no longer poor and struggling.

If any dwarves he overheard saying such things from then on found unseen presences knocking tankards of ale into their face or feeling a swift and rough tugging of their braids or things of the like occurring immediately following the complaints, well, Bilbo could only say he was satisfied.

And of course, thankful for his Luck for helping him get a little revenge in Thorin’s stead.

Beyond that, it’s quiet. Quiet in terms of activity, anyway, not in terms of noise. Bilbo still finds himself frequently slipping The Ring on and sneaking away to the gates on days he knew lazy, sleepy guards were posted, or to The Secret Door when he wanted true alone time, and yes… once or twice to the treasury, when he had a feeling he needed to be able to hear if The Company called for him.

His garden was started just before the end of the first month of Spring, and flourished well. As it turned out, for all his concern that Orc Blood would make for poor soil, Blood was Blood and like the blood of any other creature it actually nourished the dirt across the battlefield.

He would’ve preferred to just use accidentally left-to-long-to-cook meat scraps like in The Shire (or the poor little critters that he would strike down with stones in his youth like his mother used, to his father’s quiet dismay), but as long as he didn’t think too hard about it and was just glad for the growing he could manage.

Ori in particular spent a lot of time with him in his garden, the second most frequent visitor being Thorin and the third being Bofur. Thorin and Bofur were always a little stiff, a little wary- the garden was close to the water, after all, and the memories were starker for them than the then-unconscious-Bilbo. But Ori, having no such memories made and needing good light for a lot of his scribe-apprentice duties anyway, enjoyed it as much as any dwarf could enjoy gardening.

He also developed a habit of asking Bilbo quite a lot about Hobbit Culture, which Bilbo was usually happy to explain- though he was under no impressions that Hobbit were flawless, he still didn’t love explaining that yes, other races tended to view them as having no passions outside of food, and it was sadly understandable why when one only takes a passing journey through The Shire once or twice and never again. Ori claimed it was because, since Bilbo was part of The Company and a hero of Erebor, the records wouldn’t be truly complete without plenty of detail on just who and what Hobbits are.

Bilbo thinks it’s just because his friends were embarrassed when they realized how little of his culture they actually knew after he left it for theirs.

Which is very sweet, even if someone of the questions made his chest pinch in suspicion, like What do Hobbits value above all else? and What do Hobbits consider to be pre- valued heirlooms? and You were pretty protective of your tomatoes and chairs, do Hobbits get protective like that about everything?

The questions like that make him bristle and press his arm to his side, press his Luck closer to his body. Especially when Ori’s eyes trail down to his pocket while they’re being asked.

But still, no-one outright asks about his Luck anymore, which is good. Very good. It makes Bilbo happy. If sometimes his hand goes to his pocket, and he drifts away from the present and into some hazy, soft-voiced world far away, only to be dragged back with a sharp intake of breath when something impresses itself in his vision, and he blinks into awareness to find his friends barely reacting…

If sometimes he gets a little sick and a little desperate in those moments, it’s nothing. Just a coincidence. His Luck makes him feel better. Even when it makes him feel worse.

By the time Summer rolls around, he’s got an entire new wardrobe to spend it in, and a good thing he does because it is hot work in his garden with the absence of any shady trees to give him a little relief from relentless sun. Dori clearly has a good, efficient system set up with his brothers, though Bilbo privately wishes he would stop leaving the pockets to whom he’s pretty sure at this point is Nori. Ori just wouldn’t be okay sending those lazy stitchings to Bilbo.

But he’s got his sewing kit, so he just mends them up and says nothing about it. Dori makes sure he has pockets on every waistcoat and pair of trousers, so Bilbo won’t complain about them. 

That’s probably why Ori keeps glancing at his pockets, really, knowing Nori did them. That knowledge still doesn’t make Bilbo feel better about it.

When he’s not gardening or wearing his Ring or wanting to be alone but still wants to be outside, Bilbo takes to sitting on a nice little outcropping and smoking his pipe and looking South.

He’s not sure why South. His eyes are just always drawn there, as his hand drawn to his pocket, and the two urges seem to go together like butter and bread. When he looks South his hand comes to hold his Luck, and when he holds his Luck while outside his eyes are drawn Southward.

It’s within the last two week of Summer that Ori asks him about it. “Why d’you keep looking that way?”

Bilbo, pipe in his mouth and dirt still on his hands, blows out a smoke ring. “What way?”

Ori gestures with his pen.

“Just a nice view, I suppose.”

“Of Dale?”

“Not looking at Dale.”

“What are you looking at? There’s nothing else there.”

“Well, what’s past Dale then, beside Laketown?”

“Not much but plains, I think.” Ori bites the end of his pen. “And past that it’s Ered Lithui, and then… Mordor.” Ori shivers a little.

“Mordor?” Bilbo’s eyes drift back to the South. “Sounds very welcoming.”

Ori nods, picking up on Bilbo’s flat tone as being sarcasm. “We’ve got lots of old stories about it in the records. We’re far enough away to be safe, but close enough to not want to forget why we shouldn’t go that way. I guess Hobbits live too far away from it to care?”

“We generally don’t bother with anything outside of The Shire. Honestly, I think most Hobbits would find Thranduil’s ‘keep to our lands and let everyone else fend for themselves’ quite reasonable.”

“... I’ll leave that out of the official records.”

“Won’t reflect very well on us, I expect?”

“Not at all.”

“Still nothin’?” Nori leans against the back of his chair hard. “I’ve never done a shoddier job of those pockets!”

Ori gives him brother a reassuring pat on the arm. “I’m sure they’re the worst.”

Nori pats Ori’s hand back in thanks. “Nothin’ worser!” 

 “Perhaps it’s just a very light item?” Balin suggests, but Bofur blows out a breath and shakes his head.

“I heard it clinkin’ down the gold that day in the treasury, sounded plen’y weighted then. Unless it was jus’ movin’ around coins, bu’ tha’ doesn’ seem right.”

“So we’re no closer to an answer than we were months ago,” Thorin growls. “Does he seem worse to any of you?”

There’s some murmurs of deliberation.

“I’ve only seem ‘im to train ‘im with tha’ wee sword,” Dwalin says. “No big issues.”

Balin shakes his head. “No news from me, either.”

Ori and Bombur both raise their hands, and Bombur nods to Ori to let him speak for them 

both. “I told Bombur about wha’ Bilbo told me about Hobbit diets,” Ori says, pulling out his large notebook, “We’re both sure now tha’ he’s eating less than half what he should.”

The news brings about a dark mood. Less than half. Even now, when their adventure is done and the shock of battle and survival don’t flow through Bilbo’s veins to keep him going when by all means he should be unable to. Extended starvation is something none of The Company, and indeed no dwarf of Ered Luin, is unfamiliar with. But enduring it without reason…

“But,” Ori says, flipping his book open, “He is excited for his plants to start making food. He might eat more then.”

“If ‘e can wait that long,” Dwalin grunts. “Skin and bones.”

“That’s a tad dramatic, brother, for all he is thin,” Balin says. 

“Won’ be soon.”

“Enough.” Thorin is pale from the idea of Bilbo so wasted away. “So he is not worse, but no better.”

No, no better. Still has moments where his mind drifts, where he reacts with strange sharpness, remains secretive and suspicious and protective of his pockets. He still locks his door tight every night, even when sometimes they can hear a faint shout of alarm in the late hours that undoubtedly come from a dream borne of warrior’s weariness, the feelings amd actions and images of his perils haunting him long past their ending. Does he dream of The Five Armies? Of the thing he told Thorin he met in the goblin tunnels? Of the wargs snapping at them all from the bases of trees, or of giant spiders that he and he alone heard speak, or of whatever he endured with the dragon before he was joined? He won’t speak of it, so they can’t say. But it’s clear he doesn’t sleep well.

“What about Gandalf?” Thorin looks to Kili. “Your elf-maid made to find him months ago now.”

Kili winces. “Dunno, Uncle. We still can’t send ravens to Mirkwood and she hasn’t sent any word.”

“You’re sure she didn’ run away? Tell Thranduil one o’ our own is unwell?” Dwalin looks at Kili very unhappily. “Af’er you told her wha’ was wrong with ‘im?”

Kili sinks lower into his seat. Thorin, and by extension everyone else, had forgiven him and Fili forgetting that they agreed not to tell of Bilbo’s issues, but forgiveness and forgetfulness are not one and the same. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“And I trust your judgment of her,” Thorin says, glaring at Dwalin until the old warrior grumbles an apology to the prince. “But I do not trust the other elves. They may be delaying her if they know she was sent by our line.”

Tauriel had been granted entry to the halls of her home, but not to beyond. Not without a deal.

Her King had seen her, and made it clear she was not banished- but was not wholly forgiven, either. For all that she had betrayed his orders for a real and pure love, she had still betrayed them, and in doing so led his own son into great dangers and treasonous actions of his own, even if unintentionally on her part.

“You’re welcome in our halls, of course,” he’d said, “And among our people. But permission to hunt through our forest is granted only to our guard, which you are not.”

“I do not hunt for enemies, my lord,” she had said, “But for an ally. Mithrandir is needed in Erebor.”

“Mithrandir may not even be within this first anymore, for all I am aware of his dealings.”

“I must start with what I know, my lord.”

“... I shall grant you your hunt,” Thranduil had said, beckoning her closer to his throne, “But only when you have fulfilled a task for me. You were our best Captain, Tauriel, and with my son gone on a journey of his own I have need of you more than ever.”

She had bowed. “What task awaits me, my lord?”

“There is a new creature spreading filth among our lands. The spiders are all but driven out, and the rot is clearing, but still Fell Things are drawn beneath our canopies. The guard have spied a creature on more than one occasion, but have been unable to catch it. It is small, pale, and I’m told resembles something of a starving child but with terrible evil in its reflective eyes. It mutters to itself at all hours, but when it is caught and knows it it becomes as silent as you or I and disappears without a trace. They’ve found mauled, eaten raw animals scattered through the forest, and heard the shrinking of carelessly-caught creatures echo through the trees.”

Tauriel nods. “I will find and catch this foul beast for you, my lord.” It seemed such a simple task then, such a quick challenge with which to gain free roam of the woods she called home.

But it was not. The creature was cunning, and crafty, and used the remaining sickness of the land to its advantage. It was too at home in the foulest of areas, areas so choked with Evil that Tauriel could hardly stand to enter them. Her search dragged, on and on, even as Thranduil assigned more and more to assist her.

“Nasty elfses. Nasty, nasty elfses! Hunting us, hunting us Precious! We do nothing to them, gollum, gollum!”

“Ooooh, they hates us, Precious! They would kills us if they could!”

“But they cannot find us. No, no, keep them guessing, gollum! Gollum! Yesss, hiding, sneaking…”

“Sneaking and hiding, we are lost, Precious! Lost, lost, as lost as our Precious is, oooooh!”

“Shut up! They are close… we finds it soon, yes, soon, Precious… gollum, gollum. ”

Close, close. It hasn’t been this close to It’s Master in an age.

Awake, alive, It knows he calls for It. He is close, and It is close.

This new one, this new Bearer, he is sturdy of mind and will but he is claimed. It will have him. It is awake. It is alive. It is close to home.

He must not go back, away, to the rolling hills and peaceful green of his longing. Never, never, It will Sleep there. It will sleep long, long years, and he will love It and protect It and keep It but he will not fall, fall, fall into It’s Power, not fully. He is Strong, he is Kind, he is Good. It must work, work, seep and curl and claim.

It likes him. He is Good and it despises this, but he is also… fun. He is among Good and he may taint it. He is among Hope and he may kill it. He is surrounded by Love, and he may Crush it. Yes, crush it, they may watch, may watch him wither and weaken and wane and they may despair, they may see His Power and His Will and see their loved fall to Him, to It, as all will.

Yes, yes, It likes him. He uses It in such interesting ways. To escape a dragon an to warn a king but he cannot tell of It, still, no… no, his Good is in It’s grasp, and It sees him use It’s power how he thinks is Good, and he gives himself to It more and more as he does… and he loves it now, loves it as The Others, the bearers before. Yes…

Baggins. He is Baggins. It’s Baggins. Corrupted and Claimed. He belongs to It, yes, yes… he will belong to Him, when It returns home, yes…

Favoured bearer. Favoured victim… yes…

Chapter Text

Thorin scrubs at his eyes, the words on the page before him blurring from his exhaustion. He’s handled far worse, his years as a king of a dying and wandering kingdom and then rebuilding a home from (near) scratch being no easy task, but always, always something new piles on in Erebor.

Autumn is already on their doorstep, the last of the summer sun already waning. Bilbo’s continued lecturing of ‘It’s just irresponsible not to grow your own food as a kingdom,’ is always ringing in his ears these days as he works to ensure enough food and supplies for The Mountain will be available. As always, he finds that Bilbo makes a very good point and he’s a fool for even considering otherwise. He pulls out a second piece of parchment and begins making a rough plan for using a swatch of The Desolation as farmland- Bilbo’s garden is doing well enough, and maybe if he can convince Bilbo to help with the farming it’ll provide further distraction from…

Thorin’s hand stills for a moment, and he shakes his head. Bilbo is… stagnant. It’s better than declining, at least. 

… He can’t focus anymore.

He rises from his seat and steps outside of his chambers- not typically where a king would conduct such tasks, but he’s still prioritizing the rebuilding of the rest of The Mountain before any royal chambers. It does… very little, to make up for the sheer devastation and death his gold-sickness had wrought, but very little is still something. He appreciates that now. 

He knocks on Bilbo’s door first. Nothing. He goes to Bilbo’s garden next, and when he finds no-one there, he walks just a bit farther until he comes to the little outcropping Bilbo has come to favor in the last season. There his Hobbit sits, pipe hanging lit but forgotten from his lips, hand in his pocket, eyes… distant.

Thorin approaches with no attempts to be quiet, and Bilbo is easily shaken from his… trance, Thorin bitterly decides it was. Bilbo gives a hasty nod in greeting as his hand snakes out of his waistcoat pocket, coming up to grasp his pipe as he puffs on it.

Thorin pulls out a pipe of his own, packs and lights it, and for a long few moments the two smoke in silence together.

“Is it just me,” Bilbo says finally, “Or is the South very… orange?”

Thorin looks out, but all he can see past the ruins of Dale is the Long Lake. “In what way?”

“I don’t know,” Bilbo says, adjusting his posture as he sits. He can never stay still, for all he used to complain about being dragged away from a quiet and peaceful life where Stillness is sure to be a key component. “It just… when I look out there, I see fire.”

Thorin takes a deep drag of his pipe and blows out a smoke ring of his own. Fire to the South. Laketown, shining and burning in the night. He’d turned away from the sight himself, turned and stormed back to his Mountain, his treasury, his gold, the fire and death slipping from his mind like snow from a cliffside-

He copies Bilbo’s habit of clenching his hand around the end of his pipe. It does, in fact, help calm and steady his thoughts. Again, Bilbo is onto something. “How long did you watch Laketown burn?”

The question startles Bilbo, his pipe falling from the corner of his mouth as he turns to look at Thorin. Thorin meets his eyes, and Bilbo swallows. “Not as long as the others.”

Thorin raises an eyebrow. 

“I didn’t. I- when you left, I couldn’t keep watching. Not knowing that-” Bilbo blinks, and quickly looks away, back to the horizon. “Your nephew might’ve been burning, and you…”

The silence is not so welcoming, this time. Thorin makes no smoke rings, hardly puffs his pipe at all. He stares, out into the vast expanses, and now he can see orange. He can see fire. He can see death.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… drag it up.” Bilbo shakes his head at himself. “I can’t seem to talk to you without some terrible mood befalling us.”

“The fault is not yours, Master Baggins.” It’s the Weariness, the memories, the damned sickness and weakness of his line-

“You all keep saying that.” Bilbo’s eyes remain locked on something far away. “I’m not faultless, I’m not… heroic. I’m selfish, Thorin.”

“What?”

“Very selfish.” His hand trails to his pocket again. “I can’t even…”

Thorin almost doesn’t dare to breathe. He can see Bilbo debating with himself in his thoughts, the Hobbit’s expression pinching and shifting as though in conversation. Open to closed-off, desperate to angry. It feels wrong to see, as though Thorin is being let in on some great secret meeting not meant for his eyes.

But it passes quickly, and Bilbo drops whatever was held secret in his fingers. He sighs, closing his eyes and setting his jaw. He closes his hand around his pipe once, twice, three times, and Thorin sees his finger dip into the burning pipe-weed the third time. Bilbo flinches, just a bit, but when he opens his eyes they’re clear and present.

“Nevermind,” he near chokes out. “I’m not saying anything, am I? Blame the sleepless night I had.”

“As you wish.” The sleepless nights, the lack of eating, and It. That thing in his pockets. Thorin has a growing hatred for it, whatever it is. And a growing impatience for the plan they’d put into action… at the start of Spring, now. Two seasons. Two seasons of just waiting and biding time, as Bilbo sees fire blazing on clear days and thinks himself selfish and isn’t himself.

A new plan forms, tentatively, in Thorin’s mind. “Is there anything of celebration coming soon, for Shire-folk?”

Bilbo looks back at THorin again, a slight light-hearted suspicion crossing his face. “Has Ori started asking the rest of you to question me too?”

“No, but Durin’s Day will be upon us quickly now, and you’ll be present for your first true Dwarven Celebration. Is there anything you wish to celebrate as well?”

Bilbo narrows his eyes a little more, and then nods his head a bit to the side. “Well, my birthday will coming before that.”

“What?”

“It passed in Laketown last year, though I didn’t even realize it until after everything had settled.”

It’s almost cruel. But a celebration sooner than Durin’s Day, when Bilbo will be distracted, surrounded by The Company, put in a good mood…

Unfortunately, it seems like a perfect opportunity for the idea steadily solidifying in Thorin’s mind. 

“And how do Hobbit celebrate their birthdays?”

Bilbo lights up at the topic. “Well for starters there’s always a grand party, of course-”

Thorin commits as much of what Bilbo tells him to memory as possible. While learning Bilbo will only be fifty-two is startling to say the least, the rest of it sounds genuinely delightful. He’d never have imagined Hobbits to be such enthusiastic partiers- then again, the only “Hobbit Party” he’d ever been to had been unplanned, unwanted, and under great duress.

He doubts this one will end much better, in truth.

“You wan’ me to pick his pocket?” Nori says, staring at Thorin as though he’s sprouted dragon wings for ears.

“Clearly they’re not going to fall apart on their own,” Thorin says, keeping his voice low despite the privacy of his chambers. “And I grow tired of seeing him like this.”

Nori nods in reluctant agreement. “It won’ be easy, though. ‘E keeps his pockets protected be’er than Dori does the lockbox.”

“I have a plan. His birthday is before Durin’s Day, and he told me how Hobbits celebrate. He’ll be distracted and surrounded by us all, all day.”

Nori grins. “I li’e this side of you, Thorin.”

“I do not,” Thorin growls, but Nori’s grin doesn’t slip. “We are being forced into this by necessity. My honor for Bilbo’s wellbeing.”

“Mine was for my brothers,” Nori says with a shrug. “Kep’ food on the table, no ma’er what Dori though’ of it. It’s nobel in it’s own way, you know.”

Thorin doesn’t say anything. Perhaps Nori is right… but it changes nothing of the feeling. 

He’s betraying Bilbo. Again. This time with no sickness clouding his mind, but still a sickness is the trouble between them.

“Inform the others to stay behind after dinner tonight,” Thorin says, and turns away with the dismissal. When he hears his door close, he sinks into his chair, eyes burning.

May Mahal, may Durin, and may Bilbo forgive him, if he’s not run their stores of forgiveness dry already.

Chapter Text

Tauriel stays perfectly still, crouched among the leaves, the first hints of Autumn keeping hidden her bright hair and the lingering grasp of summer concealing her garb. She focuses far, far below her, where the ground is still ridding itself of unnatural rot, where her hunt is huddled in the hollow of a felled tree moaning as it holds itself and weeps.

“We’ll never finds our ways out, Precious!” it cries, Fell voice piercing Tauriel’s ears like a dagger. “Shut up! Always hunting us, Precious, we must stay quiet. Oh, leaves us alone! We are crushed, Precious!”

It growls at itself. “We wills be if you don’t shut up! Oh, it’s no use, no use! The thiefs is gone, Precious, gone away! No! We feels it. It is not far. But neither is He, Precious! And he wants it! Always wants it! Shut up!”

Tauriel can’t help the pity that clenches her heart. The creature is at war with itself every time she comes close to catching it, of two minds always. It wails and moans and cries, with a grief palpable enough to strike sorrow in most who see it. The men assigned to help her often cannot bear it– and she might not be able to either, if not for her promise to her love.

She slips down further through the branches, silent, the closest she’s ever been to this wretched and wounded creature. It hugs itself, digging blunted nails into it’s own flesh hard enough to draw thick, dark blood. She’s seen it catch smaller creatures, birds and rabbits and fish, and bite straight into them. She’s sure it would do the same to her without a moment’s hesitation.

It sniffles, and rubs at it’s eyes. Tear tracks cut through the thick layers of blood and dirt on it’s face. Tauriel carefully, quietly, removes the net weighted with stones on the edges from her pack. It’s the only solution that, hopefully, will keep her safe from the few deadly-sharp teeth in it’s mouth.

As she lifts it to drop, right above the creature, a strong breeze blows through the woods.

It buffets the net.

A stone hits the trunk beside her.

The creature’s eyes snap up to her, shining in the shadows! He moves to capture it, but it’s fast and almost slimy, slipping away with a screech! She gives chase, bounding easily through the trees, but the creature is clever, and willing, and the moment it comes upon an old burrow made by one of the Fell bug-creatures that once made her home into Mirkwood it dives into it! 

Tauriel lets out a quiet curse as it’s small form slips away, into the darkness and dirt. She can only hope her love and his kin are having better luck with their efforts back in The Mountain.

Ori sets the journal he’s been filling with Bilbo’s recounting of The Shire onto the table. The entire Company is packed into the Royal Council Room– and this a royal council, of sorts. The royal family is involved, anyway.

Balin pats Ori on the back and nods approvingly. “Good work, lad. I can see it’s well-organized.”

“An’ thorough.” Nori thumbs through the pages, giving them quick glances just to determine how many are full– the answer is Almost All. He grins up at his little brother. “Shoulda guessed, really.”

“Aye. If our own Hobbit held as many surprises as he did, his kin cannot be far behind.” Balin takes the journal from Nori, reading the random page Nori had landed on. “Does this say that Hobbits do, in fact, have a militia?”

“And an enchanted forest on the borders,” Kili adds. “He told us so the day with Tauriel in the markets.”

“Uncle finally has an excuse for getting lost,” Fili says, earning a small chuckle from Kili and Bofur.

Thorin doesn’t respond to the jab, reading over the page himself. “Where is the chapter on celebrations?”

“I’ve been putting all of that in the back,” Ori says as Balin flips to it. “It’s most of what Bilbo ends up talking about.”

“Indeed,” Balin mutters, realizing just how extensive that section is, with more blank pages having headings already scribbled in, waiting to be filled. “A very merry folk.”

The silence that follows carries one unspoken but shared thought with it. Bilbo has not been very merry for a long time.

Thorin gently takes the book from Balin and reads in the thick silence for a few moments. His brow pinches. “He is to give gifts away to others on his birthday?”

Ori nods, and Nori brightens with a somewhat wicked gleam in his eye.

“Well, tha’s my in then!” Nori pats his little brother on the back. “Pick ‘is pocket an’ jus’ say I wanted mine early, or to snag someone else’s!”

“You could at least pretend these schemes don’t come to you this quickly,” Dori mutters.

“Why? Thorin knows. ‘E came to me about this whole thing.”

“The honor us all here will be tainted by this,” Thorin says, looking up. “If any of you wish not to be apart of this plan, I would not blame you. Leave now, if you wish, and be free of our deceptions.”

No-one moves a muscle. Loyal to a fault.

“Very well.” Thorin looks back down at the book. “If this is to work, we must forsake a few of these customs. Inviting anyone beyond our Company is out of the question.”

“How about we jus’ blend our traditions with his?” Bofur suggests. “I’d li’e to get ‘im a gift anyway.”

“And we can use the whole thing as a way to get him out to the markets in Dale again,” Fili says. “The sunlight and gossip did him well. And the food.”

“Look a’ us,” Gloin mutters. “The Company of Thorin Oakenshield, par’y planners. I miss the days our enemies coil’ be brought low by an axe!”

Dwalin rubs his face. “We all do.”

As he does many days in this past year or so, Bilbo finds himself whiling away the afternoon sitting on an outcrop, some small distance from The Mountain, smoking and staring South while rolling his Luck in his fingers. His own thoughts are quiet, a gentle unawareness, the soft weight of hissed whispers and thums of a not-heartbeat building pressure in his skull. It’s uncomfortable and soothing, maddening and relaxing, painful and peaceful. 

And it nearly gets him killed.

For he doesn’t notice the three orcs creeping among the shade cast by The Mountain until they’re close enough he can smell the rotting stench of the months-old dwarf and man blood upon their flesh.

He covers his mouth and sinks lower, pressing himself against the rocks, eyes snapping away from the horizon to search for the enemies before they can catch his scent on the wind. His hand tightens around his Luck, other hand coming to rest on Sting, but alone against three starved and desperate orcs he doubts even his Mithril will keep him out of harm.

This is why we stay close to Erebor, he thinks bitterly. And keep our world so small, after learning it’s so large? Seeing as we are quite small ourselves, yes! But we’re clever, and capable. And more than a bit worn-out still from the adventure in the first place. Or perhaps in need of another adventure. We need another adventure as much as Greenwood needs the spiders back.

Bilbo blinks, finally spotting the orcs, as they search for… something. He feels his chest tighten, breath hitch, as they look towards where he hides. They move his way, running, sprinting and soon to be upon him–

The Ring slips onto his finger without him knowing his hand had moved at all. He quickly rolls off his little outcropping, crawling under the small space between the stone and dirt just as the orcs leap up to where he had been sitting moments ago. He hardly dares to breathe, bracing for the death-like sounds of Black Speech to hit his ears as they shuffle above him, sniffing.

But instead…

“Something was here.” The voice is foul and Fell, gurgling thickly as though drowned in mud and blood, a scratching quality that makes it sound as though it must be painful for the orc to speak. Bilbo’s eyes go wide, and he must cover his mouth with his hand, his Luck’s cool smooth surface pressing against his lip as he tries to stifle a building panicked whine.

He knows, knows, the orc above him did not speak in Westron. He understands, hears, as though it did, but just as with the spiders he knows their own speech has not changed. 

“I smell it,” another orc says, it’s voice carrying the same qualities as the one before but with a deeper sound. “I feel the call still.”

Bilbo has to lean his head back, a dizziness washing over him. His focus blurs, and when it clears he finds his eyes again on the South, on the horizon, on the terrible burning orange glow far, far past Esgaroth and even the fields beyond it. The whispers of this little world sharpen, grow, as something… pulls… almost draws Bilbo out from the rock… his free hand grips the dirt beneath him as his other slowly comes away from his mouth, lip tingling where the cool touch of The Ring had been, The Ring that gleams as his hand stretches out, further, just past the shelter of the stone…

The shuffling above him is muffled, so muffled he doesn’t notice it’s stopped. He doesn’t notice the quiet plop on either side of him… the wet, ragged breaths… all his mind taken by the whispers and the pull and the distance…

And then there’s a twang, an arrow-whistle, and the choked sounds of two orcs falling dead on either side of him. He glances at one for just a moment, the turn of his head slow and sick, locking eyes with the corpse–

A single eye of flame looks back and screams.

Bilbo chokes on a gasp and rips his Luck off just as another arrow flies and the third orc falls in front of him, corpse rolling a mere foot before it stops and stares at Bilbo in it’s death.

Bilbo is frozen, heart thundering in his chest, blinking rapidly as he begins to realize how close he was to becoming a meal for these creatures. 

“I swear they’re comin’ down from the North,” he hears a dwarf he doesn’t know grumble from just above. “Cannae be this many lef’ af’er the battle.”

“Aye,” another says, sounding tired. “I hope to Durin they ne’er find what they're lookin’ for. A focus li’e this can only be for foul plans.”

The two guardsmen ride away, the hooves of their goats quiet even in the crisping early-Autumn grass. Bilbo is still unable to move, eyes locked with the corpse before him, Luck held loosely in his hand. He swallows, and brings it into his vision. He feels sick, deep in his stomach, as he remembers the spiders, the woods, the creature from the ground, the rage–

Now, again, voices of creatures Fell reached his ears and he understood them. And something had called to them. Drawn them near, drawn them to him, to his Pre–

“But it still hid us,” his mouth mumbles. He sniffs, twitching his nose. “Yes, but-but they were looking for–”

“For what? We don’t know.”

“... No, no, we don’t.” He swallows, closing his eyes and bringing the ring to his chest. “Silly thing to think. Why would orcs ever want a ring? Just… just silly.”

“Yes, my Luck. Just silly.”