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Chapter Text

In a hole in the ground there was a very flustered hobbit. 

This was no ordinary hole, of course—it was a hobbit-hole, and that meant it was clean, warm, and above all, comfortable. The walls were paneled with polished oak, the floors were polished, and each room was a haven of plush chairs, thick carpets, and cozy hearths. It was, in every respect, the perfect retreat for a quiet evening of tea and a book. Or it would have been, if not for the utter chaos currently unfolding.

Dwarves had invaded, plates had flown, silverware had clanged, Plates had flown, silverware clattered, and food disappeared at a rate that should have been physically impossible for non-hobbits. All of it orchestrated by one meddlesome old wizard who apparently couldn’t take no for an answer.

Bilbo was at his wits end. He had spent the entire evening running back and forth, fetching food and drinks, all while trying to keep his uninvited guests from breaking anything irreplaceable. Even though the dwarves were loud, rude, entirely uninvited, and made Bilbo want to tear his hair out, the Baggins sensibilities Bilbo inherited from his father demanded he try to be a good host. It was, after all, the proper thing to do. But Yavanna save him, it was not easy. 

At least the dwarves had the decency to clean up after their disastrous dinner. Not that the process was any less terrifying than the mess itself. They had thrown his mother’s dishes around, singing and laughing as if it were all a grand joke. Bilbo had needed every ounce of self-restraint—and several deep breaths—to keep from throttling one of them on the spot. They were lucky nothing had broken. If something had, Bilbo would have thrown them out—manners be damned. 

Finally, though, the worst seemed behind him. The dwarves had settled into serious discussion about some sort of epic quest, leaving Bilbo to stand awkwardly at the edge of the room. Although it seemed the evening wasn’t done trying to give him a heart attack just yet. The aforementioned meddlesome old wizard was determined to include him on this mad adventure. As a burglar of all things! The mere thought was ludicrous, a Baggins, a burglar! As a burglar, no less! The very idea was as ludicrous as it was insulting. He had never stolen anything in his life—unless one counted reclaiming stolen silverware from relatives with sticky fingers, which he absolutely did not. That was reclaiming.

The only thing keeping Bilbo from telling Gandalf exactly what he thought of this ridiculous plan was the gravely serious look on his face; one that was shared by all of the dwarves at the table.

Before Bilbo could even begin to process the insanity that had been thrust upon him; and explain to the dwarves that no, he would not be participating; regardless of what Galdalf had told them; a contract longer than he was tall being thrust into his hands. His eyes widened as he read through it, each clause more terrifying than the last, detailing all the potentially lethal outcomes of their journey.

When he reached the part about evisceration and incineration, the stress of the absolute disaster of an evening finally caught up with him. As Bofur described what it would feel like to be incinerated by a dragon, Bilbo’s fingers started to shake and the edges of his sight started to blur. He noticed that the floor seemed to sway beneath him for some reason and the last thought he had before fainting was 'oh dear.'

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A loud crash woke Bilbo. He squinted at the rough wooden ceiling, the familiar knots and grooves spinning slightly as he tried to recall why in Yavanna’s name he was sprawled out on the floor. He could hear shouting from somewhere nearby but it sounded oddly muffled and he couldn’t quite manage to understand what was being said.

He groaned, bracing himself on his elbows, and shoved himself upright.   His head swam, and for a moment, he feared he might topple over again. Then his gaze focused on the chaos before him. 

The rowdy dwarves who had barged into his home standing in a circle with their weapons drawn (as if anything in Bilbo’s home could possibly be a threat to them), staring at something laying on the floor, much like he was a moment ago.

And then it hit him. Weapons. Drawn. In his home.

“What in the Green Lady’s good name are you doing!?” Bilbo yelled, his indignation snapping him fully awake. He staggered to his feet, lightheadedness be damned. If any of them had damaged his walls—or his furniture—they’d be having Words.

“Us!?” one of the dwarves cried out, clearly offended.

“We didn’t do anything! There was a flash of light, and the next thing we knew, this girl appeared in your living room!” the one Bilbo thought was named Fili exclaimed, standing protectively in front of his brother. He jabbed a finger toward the middle of the circle, where the alleged threat lay. 

Gandalf turned his attention from the chaos in the living room towards the hobbit. “Are you quite alright, Bilbo?”

“Am I alright?!” Bilbo exploded, his temper igniting. “I just woke up on the floor to find axes and swords waving about like party favors! What if they’d hit something important? I swear, Gandalf, if there’s so much as a scratch on my walls, I’ll have your beard, you infernal old goat!”

The wizard harrumphed quietly, as if amused by Bilbo’s indignation. Kicking him in the shin was beginning to feel like a sound course of action. But before Bilbo could commit to such violence, Gandalf gestured toward the source of the chaos. “Yes, well, I believe the matter at hand requires our attention.”

Bilbo followed the motion reluctantly, his ire dampened but not extinguished. His gaze landed on the girl sprawled unconscious on his rug. She was taller than him, though not by much, her blonde hair a mess of tangles around a pale, too-thin face. She was dressed in clothes unlike anything he had ever seen, but it was the look of her—sickly, fragile—that struck Bilbo the most. 

Her skin was far too pale, her lips bloodless and chapped, and her frame so thin that her arms looked as though they might snap if gripped too hard. pang shot through Bilbo’s chest, unbidden and unwelcome. The Fell Winter rose uncomfortably in his mind: haggard faces, shivering children, the hollow desperation in their eyes.

No one should look so breakable.

The dwarves lowered their weapons as it became clear the girl wasn't in any condition to be a threat. 

“Oin,” Thorin commanded sharply, his voice cutting through the tension. His chin jerked toward their newest and most unexpected arrival.

The gray-bearded dwarf moved forward with a grunt, crouching down beside the girl. He lifted her wrist with the careful touch of someone who’d done this more times than he cared to remember, checking her pulse. His other hand hovered just below her nose, gauging the steadiness of her breath.

“Her pulse an’ breathin are steady, if weak,” he announced moving his hand to rest against forehead for a moment, “no fever,” he added, though more to himself than anyone else.

Next, he carefully patted her down, his hands moving with the clinical precision of a healer. “I don’t feel anythin broken, or any other injuries.”  he reported, raising his head to address Bilbo. “We can move ‘er somewhere more private an’ comfortable so I can take a better look at the lass.” 

"You can use one of the spare bedrooms," Bilbo offered immediately, wanting to help the poor girl anyway he could. 

Oin acknowledged with a brief nod, carefully maneuvering the girl into his arms. He rose, but apparently, he’d underestimated her weight—or lack thereof—nearly toppling backward. Thankfully Dwalin had been standing behind him and was able to steady them.

The rest of the dwarves started crowding around the pair trying to get a better look at the girl.

Bilbo clapped his hands together, trying to channel the calm decisiveness his mother had always displayed in moments of chaos. “Right, then,” he announced, his tone a bit firmer than usual. “If you’d follow me, Master Oin, I’ll show you to the guest room, and we can see to it that she’s properly tended to.”

“Please lead tha way, Master Baggins,” Oin replied, his voice rough but grateful.

Bilbo led the way down the hall, opening the door to the nearest guest room with a flourish that was meant to be reassuring, but likely came off as slightly manic. Ushering Oin inside, he gave the healer some space to work in peace, returning to the parlor where the others were huddled together.

“How peculiar,” Gandalf muttered to himself, drawing everyone’s attention as he stroked his long gray beard in that infuriatingly cryptic way of his that always spelled trouble for anyone around him.

“What is?” Dwalin grumbled from his spot in the corner, eyeing the wizard suspiciously.

“I am familiar with the energy that brought our mysterious guest to us, but it is one I thought I would not feel again until I left this realm,” he murmured, sounding dazed, “and the power I sensed inside of her should not be possible.” The wizard stared down the hall where Oin was tending the girl. His ancient eyes gleaming from beneath his heavy brows. 

“And what power did you sense?” Thorin demanded, his blue eyes sharp and the line of his jaw iron hard.

The wizard didn’t answer right away, still staring down the hall with furrowed brows. He opened his mouth, seemed to struggle for words—a rare and almost amusing sight—then shut it again. After a moment, he shook himself out of his thoughts and strode down the hall, brushing aside the king’s question with a vague, “I will inform you when I am certain what I felt was real.”

Thorin’s scowl deepened, the wizard’s dismissal clearly grating on his nerves, but surprisingly didn’t march after Gandalf to demand answers. An uneasy quiet settled over the group as they pondered the wizard’s words. 

It was the young dwarf with dark brown hair—Kili, Bilbo reminded himself—who finally broke the silence. “Do you think she could be a wizard?” he asked, practically bouncing on his toes with excitement.

Bilbo sighed, feeling every last bit of stress from the evening catching up with him. He was absolutely done with the day. All he wanted was to crawl into his warm bed and pretend this entire evening was some bizarre, overlong nightmare. Unfortunately, it looked like that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon, and his fraying patience meant his tongue was a little sharper than he usually allowed.

He leveled a very unimpressed look at the young dwarf. “I highly doubt Gandalf would fail to recognise one of his fellow wizards. Not to mention that all the books I've read agree that there are five wizards in Middle Earth, and that all of them have the appearance of old men.”

Kili either ignored or didn’t notice Bilbo’s annoyance, in fact he seemed to become even more excited, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “Then what is she? Where did she come from? What power does she have? It must be something amazing if Tharkûn is so concerned about it.” 

"Tharkûn?" Bilbo echoed, his annoyance fading slightly as curiosity took its place. He was always eager to learn a new word, especially one from a culture as rich as the dwarves'.

"He means the wizard," Balin clarified kindly.

Bilbo nodded his thanks to the elderly dwarf. "Thank you, Master Balin." There were very few records available regarding dwarven culture, especially their language, so any little tidbit was a treasure in itself.

“She can’t be a dwarrow-dam,” Fili interjected, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “She doesn’t have a beard.”

“Could be mixed blood then,” Nori suggested, his eyes narrowing in speculation

“Maybe,” Kili said, though he sounded doubtful. “She looks a bit like a miniature Man.”

“Maybe she’s a hobbit,” Fili guessed (which made Bilbo roll his eyes and ask Yavana for patience).

“Can’t be; she doesn’t have the right feet for it,” Kili countered, as if this settled the matter entirely.

Before the debate could spiral any further, Gandalf returned, his presence instantly commanding silence. The wizard moved slowly across the room, sinking into the man-sized chair by the fire with a frown that spoke of deep, tangled thoughts and perhaps a touch of melancholy. His ancient eyes seemed distant, reflecting a strange sense of longing that was almost unsettling.

“Well, wizard,” Thorin demanded, his tone laced with the same arrogance that had grated on Bilbo’s nerves from the start. The hobbit was beginning to wonder if the so-called king had a single polite bone in his body. “What is it you’ve found?”

Gandalf (never missing a chance to be dramatic, Bilbo thought wryly) took a long drag from his pipe before answering.

"Within her soul lies a spark of the Light of Valinor," he began softly, voice tinged with wonder. "The light of the Two Trees, Laurelin and Telperion, who brought illumination to the lands of Arda before the creation of the sun and moon."

A stunned silence enveloped the chamber, each member of the company absorbing the weight of his words. Even the ever-curious Fili and Kili were rendered speechless, their earlier debate forgotten.

"The light of the Trees bestowed upon the elves of Valinor power and wisdom," Gandalf continued, his gaze distant. "Making them strong, swift, and deadly in their anger. There are very few left in Middle Earth who have seen the Light of the Two Trees and are blessed with their power. Compared to them, the light in her soul is but a candle while theirs is more similar to the sun. Although it is faint, the fact that she has it at all is remarkable.”

A stunned silence filled the chamber as each person absorbed what he was saying. Everyone in the room quietly awed by the mention of the home of the Valar from one who had been there. 

Bilbo felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He'd heard tales of the Valar and their creations, but to have a fragment of that ancient light residing in his home was... unsettling.

"And how exactly did such a remarkable individual end up here?" Balin inquired warily, breaking the heavy silence.

Gandalf shifted in his seat, his ancient eyes glancing over the company before finally settling on Thorin. 

“She was brought here by the power of the Valar. It would appear they have deemed her necessary if you want your quest to succeed. And before you ask,” he added, cutting off the barrage of questions he could see forming on their lips, “I do not know how she will be necessary, only that she is.” 

Bilbo watched as Thorin's features shifted, flickering between caution and calculation before settling back into the scowl he had been wearing all night. His eyes flickered over the faces of his company, no doubt weighing their reactions as he mulled over the wizard’s words.

“It would be foolish to disregard the Valars' guidance.” Balin advised quietly, as if reading his king's thoughts. 

Thorin hesitated for a moment longer, clearly wrestling with the idea before finally tilting his head in what could only be described as a reluctant concession. “If she has truly been sent by the Valar to assist our quest,” he said, his tone begrudging at best, “then I am willing to let her join the company.”

Any further discussion was cut off as Oin returned and everyone shifted their attention to the healer; eager to hear his report on their mysterious guest.

“How is she?” Thorin asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.

“Tha lass doesn't have any injuries, but she’s far from healthy. I don’t know what she went through but she’s malnourished an' has all tha problems that come with it. Her bones an' muscles are weak, she’ll get exhausted quickly, an' overdoing it will make her faint.” Oin reported, his face serious. 

There was an outbreak of concerned mumbling around the group as they discussed what could have happened to her to leave her in such a state. 

“Is she able to travel?” Balin’s voice cut through the chatter, bringing everyone back to the matter at hand.

Oin blinked, clearly not expecting the question. “What would she need ta be traveling for?” he asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Your young patient was sent by the Valar to aid in your quest to reclaim Erebor.” Gandalf summarized for the dwarf. 

Oin’s eyes flickered over to Thorin’s for confirmation. Once it was given, he began to consider the possibility seriously, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he mulled it over.

“It would be hard on her, an’ I wouldn’t recommend it, but it’s possible.” He admitted, before starting to plan out the logistics of bringing the girl along. “We’d have ta be careful. Make more stops ta let her rest, make sure she’s eating small amounts throughout tha day. She won’t be able ta handle big meals for now.” 

He started pacing as he spoke, working out all the details. Bilbo noticed Ori pulling out his journal and scribbling furiously, trying to keep up with Oin’s rapid-fire instructions.

“She’ll have ta ride with someone for at least part o' tha day, she won’t have tha stamina ta ride a full day on her own. We’ll need extra clothes an' blankets for her since her body will have a hard time keeping itself warm. We’ll also need ta be careful ta make sure she won’t hurt herself. She’ll bruise an' bleed easily until she recovers more. I’ll need ta stock up on pain remedies. Tha lass will definitely need them, even if she wasn’t being dragged halfway round tha world.”

Thorin and Balin listened intently, their minds already adjusting their travel plans to accommodate their newest and most fragile companion.

Bilbo hesitated for a moment before stepping forward from his place in the doorway. “I may be able to offer you some assistance,” he said, trying not to fidget under the sudden weight of everyone’s attention. “I have some spare blankets and clothes that might fit her. You’re more than welcome to help yourselves to them.”

“Thank you laddie,” Balin smiled and patted the hobbit's shoulder. “That would be most helpful.”

“No thanks needed Master Balin,” Bilbo insisted, “it really is the least I can do. I'll gather them up and put them in her room.” With that he slipped down the hallway and out of sight of his guests.

Chapter Text

Freya’s vision was grainy, as if the world around her had been reduced to a flickering, old film reel. Darkness seeped in from the edges, swallowing up the fluorescent lights and sterile white walls. She tried to fight against it, to hold onto the world slipping away from her grasp, but the more she struggled, the faster it faded. The shadows closed in, and with them came a dreadful, oppressive silence that swallowed the faint, distorted sounds of people moving and shouting around her. 

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs burned, a raw, searing pain that flared with each desperate attempt to draw in air. Panic clawed at her as her body betrayed her, her heart fluttering painfully in her chest—weak, erratic, and failing, just like the rest of her. It was a suffocating, crushing sensation, like being buried alive.

She’s cold. So cold. The chill was not just on her skin but deep within her bones, seeping through her veins and turning her blood to ice. It spread through her limbs, slow, inevitable. It seeped into her very soul, bleeding out into her arms and legs until she was completely numb. The familiar sensation of pain that had been her constant companion for so long began to fade, replaced by a terrifying emptiness that was so much worse. She didn’t feel anything anymore. She didn’t feel connected to her body. It was as if she was floating in a void, untethered, her physical self slipping away, leaving only her terrified consciousness adrift in the dark. 

She’s scared. She’s so fucking scared. The terror was all-consuming, a primal, instinctual fear that tore at her insides. She thought she was ready for this—had convinced herself that she was—but nothing could have prepared her for the reality of it. She wasn’t ready. Not at all. 

She wanted to scream, to cry, to beg for it to stop, but she was powerless, trapped in a body that no longer responded to her commands. Her body had betrayed her, and now it was leaving her behind. She was helpless, a prisoner in her own mind. 

Then, something shifted. The darkness, once so suffocating and oppressive, began to change. A warmth, soft and gentle, seeped into the void, wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. The bone-deep chill that had paralyzed her began to ebb away, replaced by this soothing warmth that took away the terrifying numbness. 

She would have sobbed in relief if she could. The shift was so unexpected, that it left her reeling. The terror that had been all-consuming moments before was now a distant memory, replaced by a serene, almost tranquil stillness. The warmth was everywhere, filling her, surrounding her, lifting the weight of despair that had been pressing down on her. 

She felt something—or someone—beside her, an intangible presence that exuded kindness, gentleness, strength. It was as if she was being held, protected from the darkness that had threatened to consume her. The terror that had been tearing her apart was gently washed away, replaced by a deep, enveloping warmth. She basked in the comfort, feeling it seep into her very bones, softening the edges of her fear. It gave her the opportunity to calm down and process what had happened.

She knew she was dead. It wasn’t a surprise; she had been dying for a while now, the sickness slowly strangling the life out of her since she was a kid. Every day that passed left her breathing a little more labored, her heartbeat a little weaker. She had been lucky to make it past her 23rd birthday, a milestone she had never expected to reach. 

Her condition had deteriorated rapidly over the past few weeks. The once manageable aches had morphed into relentless waves of pain, surging through her body. The weight of her own limbs had become unbearable, her muscles wasting away until even the smallest movement was impossible. Her family had stayed with her, their voices a distant comfort, even as her ability to respond faded. 

They all knew what was coming and had accepted the inevitable. And they did what families do best—showered her with love and made her last days as happy as possible, though she could sense the sorrow in their smiles, the quiet desperation in their whispered reassurances. It was almost like they were trying to convince themselves as much as they were trying to comfort her.

Freya thought she had been ready. She’d told herself she’d accepted her fate. But as it turns out, no amount of mental prep can really prepare you for the sheer, bone-chilling terror of your life slipping away. It wasn’t some peaceful drifting into the night; it was like her very essence was unraveling, the threads of her soul fraying and breaking apart, leaving her cold and empty. The terror of that moment, the realization that she was truly leaving, was a shock to her system, sending her into a panic she couldn’t control. Turns out she wasn’t as ready as she thought. There were so many things she still wanted to do, wanted to experience. 

She drifted in the darkness, protected by the mysterious presence as she sorted through her emotions. The sensation of floating was strange, disorienting, like she was suspended in an endless void, her body both weightless and heavy at the same time. 

She didn’t know how long she drifted before things started to change. A gentle warmth began to seep through her veins, slow and deliberate, like the first light of dawn breaking over the horizon. It was faint at first, like the softest brush of warmth against her skin, but it grew steadily stronger, coursing through her veins as if life itself was cautiously making its way back into her.

The first thing she became aware of were her fingers. They twitched, a faint, almost imperceptible movement that startled her. The sensation began as a faint tingling in her fingertips, a prickling awareness that gradually blossomed into a gentle warmth spreading through her hands. 

Then, she noticed her chest. The suffocating void that had once pressed down on her had receded, replaced by the steady rhythm of her breath. She could feel her chest rise and fall. The air flowed in and out of her lungs effortlessly, no longer the desperate, labored gasps that had plagued her final days.

As her awareness continued to return, a new sensation caught Freya’s attention: the beat of her heart. It pulsed beneath her ribcage with a reassuring thud, not the erratic, fluttering beat she had grown accustomed to, but a strong, steady rhythm of someone alive.

The darkness condensed around her until it felt like she was laying on a bed. Not the awful hospital bed she was used to, with its hard, sterile surface and annoying beeping machines. No, this bed was so much softer, with fluffy pillows under her head and thick, warm blankets draped over her.

As Freya lay there, she tried to force her tired mind to focus on what her senses were telling her. Not an easy task when everything felt like it was wrapped in layers of cotton wool. Slowly, she began piecing things together, but the more she figured out, the more confused she became. The sounds didn’t make any sense.

She could hear crickets and frogs, which made absolutely no sense cause last time she checked hospitals weren’t in the habit of hosting wildlife. There was muffled chatter from somewhere close by, which was normal enough. But then there was the gentle crackling of a fire, which really baffled her cause why the hell would a hospital have a fireplace. And then there was what sounded like someone shifting in their seat next to her, which was also normal enough.  

She could smell wood, earth, grass, and a faint hint of smoke. Not a single whiff of disinfectant or those god awful air fresheners she had grown used to in her endless hospital stays. None of it made sense. 

The sounds and smells weren’t the only weird thing Freya noticed as she slowly gathered her scattered wits back together. As she started to feel more connected to her body Freya realized she felt better than she had in months. Not that it was a high bar—considering she was pretty sure she had just died (a fact she was aggressively not processing right now)—but hey, improvements were improvements. Her body felt like it had before her health went to complete shit instead of just partial shit. There was still a feeling of weakness, but the overwhelming feeling of heaviness was gone. She was almost positive that she would be able to move her arms and sit up on her own if she tried. Hell, she might actually be able to stand up again.

She forced her eyes open, hoping that seeing her surroundings would help her figure out what was going on and where exactly she was. But as she looked around, she was left even more confused than before, which she didn’t think was possible at this point. She was in a bedroom with walls made of light wood, accented with dark wood furniture, and a green carpet giving it a warm cozy feeling. And most importantly (bizarrely) sitting in the chair next to her was Bilbo fucking Baggins, looking just like he had in the movies.

“What the fuck.” she whispered to herself, although her voice was so weak and hoarse it came out as an incomprehensible jumble of noise. Was this some sort of fantasy created by her dying mind? She was pretty sure she had passed the dying part already and was firmly in the dead category, but she’d never died before so what did she know? Was this the afterlife? She was a big Tolkien nerd but it would still be a bit too weird if the afterlife turned out to be Middle Earth.

Bilbo jolted at the sound, startled out of his thoughts, and looked at Freya, eyes widened in surprise. 

“Oh-wonderful-you’re-awake . How-are-you-feeling?” Bilbo asked, his voice soft and kind. He stood up from his chair and walked over to her. 

Freya blinked twice, her bewildered brain too fried to understand the words coming out of his mouth. Based on his tone he was asking her a question, but other than that she had absolutely no idea what he had said.

“What?” she croaked, her dry throat making it hard to speak.

“Here-lets-get-you-something-to-drink. That-should-help-your-throat,” Bilbo said something else before he carefully helped her sit up, braced against the bed’s headboard. Then he handed her a cup of cold water, which she sipped gratefully.

As this was happening, Freya forced her brain into action, shoving all her chaotic thoughts and emotions into the back of her mind to be dealt with later, (or never, preferably never. Focusing on each moment as it happened seemed like a solid plan—at least it had served her well in the past. Except when it didn’t, but details, details. 

When she finished her water Bilbo took the cup away and asked, “how-are-you-feeling? Are-you-in-any-pain?”  

Now that her brain was somewhat functional and her chaotic emotional spiral had been pushed aside for later, Freya realized it wasn’t that her brain was too scrambled to understand what Bilbo was saying before, she couldn’t understand him because he wasn’t speaking english. .And fuck, that really wasn’t helpful. At all.

“I’m sorry but I have no idea what you’re trying to say,” She told him. 

Bilbo tilted his head, giving her a puzzled frown before letting out a tired sigh. (He looked so incredibly done with the world; which was honestly such a mood.) “Oh-dear, this-certainly-complicates-things.” He pursed his lips, his expression somewhere between deep thought and mild exasperation.“Alright-you-wait-here. I’m-going-to-go-get Oin so-he-can-take-a-look at you now that you’re awake. Maybe he knows what language you're speaking.” 

“Oin?” She echoed, perking up a bit when she picked out Oin’s name from whatever he was saying.

Bilbo looked back at her tilting his head as if hoping Freya would suddenly start making sense if he viewed her from a different angle, “You know  Oin?”

Freya was 70 percent sure she knew what he had asked. “I know about Oin and the other dwarves.” She told him, even though he wouldn’t understand. She paused for a moment before deciding to throw cation out the window, “Oin, Gloin, Fili, Kili, Thorin, Balin, Dwalin, Bofur, Bombur, Bifur, Ori, Nori, and Dori.” She listed out all the dwarves for him. Then she pointed to him, “Bilbo Baggins.” 

He’d probably be a bit freaked out at her knowing his name as well as the names of all the dwarves in Thorin’s company but she didn’t really care. He might as well join her in the ‘confused as fuck club’. Membership was free and came with a side of existential crisis. And besides, he was Bilbo. He was a good person. He was safe and kind and compassionate and she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. 

He stared at her stunned for a solid five seconds, (Ha. Bilbo.exe has stoped working) before rebooting with a couple rapid blinks. “Well, if I didn’t believe you were sent by the Valar before, I certainly do now.” He said to himself, somehow sounding both bewildered and completely unsurprised simultaneously. 

Freya almost wanted to laugh. Welcome to the club, Bilbo. Membership cards are already in the mail.

He let out a heavy sigh, briefly raising his eyes to the heavens as if he were praying for patience —or maybe some sanity— before focusing on her again; he held up his hand in a pretty obvious ‘stay’ gesture and told her, “Stay there. I’ll be right back. Stay.”

Freya nodded to let him know that she understood; it wasn’t like she could go anywhere anyway. Bilbo nodded in return before stepping out the door. Now that she was alone she needed to decide how the hell she was going to handle whatever fuck this was.

As impossible as the situation seemed, everything felt too real to be a dream or hallucination. Her best bet was to act like all of this is real, and not do anything too crazy or stupid that might come back to bite her later. She’d read plenty of stories about characters getting transported to different worlds after they died, maybe that had happened to her. It seemed like as good an explanation as any.

She laid there for a few minutes, most of which was trying to convince herself that she definitely wasn't freaking out, before the door opened once again and Oin stepped into the room.

He smiled as he walked over, “It's good ta see ye awake lass.” He settled in the chair next to her bed, “My name’s Oin . Although from what master  Baggins said ye already knew that. He also said ye don’t speak Common, so we’ll just have ta muddle through without it." Oin’s voice was calm and reassuring, he was using the ‘I’m a doctor and I’m here to help’ tone Freya was used to hearing from the nicer doctors in the hospital. 

She smiled back at him, “Hello Oin.”

“Let me take a quick look at ye an' see if yer up for joining everyone else.” He said as he held his hand out to her. “Let me see yer wrist so I can check yer heart; then we’ll see about getting ye up on yer feet.”

Freya looked at him for a moment, waiting to see if he was going to do anything else before putting her arm in his waiting hand. It was the same gesture that the nurses did when they wanted to start an IV, so she figured that's what he wanted her to do.

Oin smiled and nodded at her reassuringly, before monitoring her pulse for a minute. His touch was gentle, the kind you’d expect from someone who’s done this a thousand times. When he was finished he smiled at her and patted her hand, “Yer a much better patient than I usually have ta deal with. No whining, squirming, or trying to escape. Those rock headed idiots outside should take notes.” 

Freya liked this kind, doctorly side of Oin. He didn’t get a lot of screen time in the movies, or a lot of scenes in the book, so she’d been a little unsure what to expect when he first walked in. But her nerves had quickly vanished with his warm, friendly demeanor. She appreciated him talking to her, even if she couldn’t understand him; it made her feel more comfortable, more normal. Or as normal as she could possibly feel after dying and waking up in Middle Earth.  

“Ye seem ta be alright, so let's try sitting ye up, see how that goes.” Oin announced as he stood up. He mimed out sitting Freya up and swinging her legs off the side of the bed. 

She nodded at him to show she understood what he wanted to do. He supported her as she leaned away from the headboard and scooted to the side of the mattress. He didn’t manhandle her, which she was grateful for, just patiently offered her support. Letting her slowly move under her own power as she figured out how to work her limbs again. It was a relief—no sudden jolts, no rush—just a slow, careful exploration of what her body could handle.

The sensation of moving, of her muscles actually engaging, was strange. It was like her body was both hers and not hers at the same time. There was a dull ache in her joints, a familiar pain but much less severe than what she’d been accustomed to in the months leading up to her death. That pain had been sharp, unrelenting, like hot knives stabbing her every time she dared to move. But this… this was manageable, almost a whisper of pain, as if her body was reminding her of what had once been, without actually dragging her back into the nightmare.

Once Freya was sitting on the side of the bed, Oin slowly took his hand away but stayed close, ready to catch her if she fell. Freya closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, enjoying the feeling of sitting up without any support. Her head spun slightly, but the dizziness wasn’t as overwhelming as she had feared. There was a quiet strength in her body, a resilience that surprised her. She was starting to think she might actually do this.

They stayed like that for a couple of minutes, Freya focusing on her breathing and the way the air felt as it filled her lungs. It was so easy now, so different from the labored wheezing she’d been forced to endure before. Oin’s presence beside her was steady, grounding her in this strange new reality. A reality where she wasn’t bedridden, where her body wasn’t her enemy.

“Are ye ready ta try standing up?” Oin asked, his hands making the motion clear even if his words didn’t.

Freya took a deep breath, trying to psyche herself up. She could do this. She’d been walking since she was a toddler. What’s a couple of months of not being able to walk compared to all that experience? It was like riding a bike, right? She just had to go for it, what's the worst that could happen? 

She nodded to Oin, nervous but determined. “Let’s do this,” She told him, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

Oin nodded encouragingly, his hands hovering near her, ready to assist but not forcing her. Freya braced herself, mentally preparing for the effort it would take.  Step one: stand up. Step two: don't fall flat on your face.

With a deep breath, she pushed down on the mattress and slowly began to rise. Her legs trembled, muscles unused to bearing weight, but they held. She stood, unsteady but upright, and for a moment, she just marveled at the fact that she was standing. Standing. On her own two feet.

The last few months of her life had been a constant battle with her body, every movement a war she couldn’t win. The weakness had been a constant companion, her limbs like lead, and pain had seeped into her bones, making even the smallest task excruciating. But now... now it was different. The pain was there, but muted, like a distant echo of what it used to be. Her muscles burned with the unfamiliar effort, but it was the kind of burn that felt almost good—like her body was waking up from a long sleep.

She wobbled a little, her legs threatening to buckle underneath her, a flicker of panic sparking in her chest as she feared she might collapse. But then Oin was there, one hand holding onto her arm and the other around her waist to steady her. The solidity of his grip grounded her, and the panic ebbed away.

“Just take it slowly,” he instructed. “Give yer body some time ta adjust.” 

Freya could feel her eyes getting wet, and she squeezed them shut, trying not to cry. She was doing it—actually standing again. It was hard to believe.  It hadn’t been that long ago when she couldn’t even sit up without help, let alone stand. But now, even though she still felt weak and unbalanced, she didn’t care. She could stand, and that was more than she had ever dared to hope for.

Oin watched her carefully for a few moments, his eyes scanning her face and posture to see if standing was too much for her. When she met his gaze, he gave her an encouraging smile, the kind that made her feel like he understood just how much this simple action meant. 

“Are ye ready ta try walking a bit, ” he asked, nodding towards the door like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Let’s do this,” Freya repeated, her voice stronger now, with real confidence instead of the shaky bravado she’d been faking moments before.

Oin carefully guided her to the open door, his arm a solid anchor at her side. She was tempted to look around, to take in the details of wherever the heck she was, but all her focus was going into putting one foot in front of the other. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.

Her muscles screamed in protest, the weakness still there, lurking, but she forced herself to keep going. She stumbled slightly at one point, tripping over her own feet, and her heart lurched as she nearly pitched forward. But Oin didn’t let her fall. His hand on her arm tightened, his presence a steady, unyielding force that never wavered in its support.

“Steady now,” he murmured, “I’ve got ye.”

Freya gave him a strained smile. “Thanks,” she managed to say, though it came out more like a wheeze. She was out of breath just from walking a few steps. Which honestly felt a bit pathetic, but considering she’d been flat on her back for what felt like an eternity, she’d take it as a win.

The voices she had been hearing in the distance grew louder as they slowly made their way down the hall. Freya focused on the rhythm of her steps, the way her body moved—still weak, still in pain, but better, so much better than what she was used to. This pain she could handle. This was nothing compared to the agony she’d lived with, the constant ache that had gnawed at her in those last few months. This was almost… tolerable.

When they finally reached the doorway, all the voices stopped talking at once. She looked up to see 12 dwarves, 1 wizard, and a hobbit staring at her with a mix of fascination, wariness, and concern.

As much as she really wanted to freak out and fangirl over the fact that Thorin’s company was literally right in front of her, her body had other plans. Her legs were starting to shake from the exertion of walking here, a not-so-gentle reminder that her body wasn’t up for a grand entrance right now. 

She knew from experience that she was going down in the next few seconds. Freya mentally crossed her fingers, hoping someone would get her a chair before gravity did its worst. Sure, Oin probably wouldn’t let her faceplant on the floor, but collapsing in his arms was not on her list of ‘cool first impressions.’ It ranked somewhere between ‘accidentally insulting someone’s beard’ and ‘tripping over a nonexistent obstacle.’

Thankfully Oin came to her rescue, “Don't just stand there," he barked at the group, "get tha lass a chair for Mahal's sake. " 

That seemed to knock the rest of them out of their daze and most of them jumped into action; nearly tripping over each other in the rush to get her a chair, which made her laugh.

Soon a chair was brought to her and she gratefully sank into it with Oin’s help. The short walk from the bedroom had drained a lot of her energy. Bilbo, bless his kind little hobbit heart, came over and offered her a very cozy-looking blanket. It was soft and warm, and for a moment, Freya just held it in her lap, savoring the comfort it brought.

She smiled at him gratefully, “Thank you, Bilbo.” The words came out a bit softer than she intended, the exhaustion slipping through despite her best efforts. He smiled in return, a warm, reassuring smile that made her feel a little less like she was about to unravel completely. Then he nodded and disappeared down the hall.

Now that she wasn’t in any danger of falling over she was able to really take in her surroundings. She didn’t even try to keep the grin off her face as she looked around, trying to see everything at once. She probably looked like some sort of hyperactive 5 year old in a candy shop, but it was literally impossible for her to care less. She was in Bag End! The Bag End! Her inner (more like outer right now) was doing cartwheels and backflips, shrieking with joy as she looked around the beautiful hobbit hole. The curved doorways, the wooden beams, the cozy hearth—it was all straight out of the movies.

And not only was she in Bag End, but she was also surrounded by Thorin’s company, Gandalf the Grey, and Bilbo Baggins! If this was some kind of heaven for Lord of the Rings nerds, then maybe dying wasn’t so bad after all. Not that she was quite ready to process the whole ‘being dead’ thing. That could wait. Preferably forever.

Speaking of her current company, everyone in the room was staring at her like she was some sort of bizarre zoo animal. The kind that accidentally wandered into the wrong enclosure and now had everyone—including herself—wondering what on earth it was doing there.

Freya quickly shoved her inner fangirl back down, trying to act like a normal, functioning and sane human being. Which was easier said than done when you’re surrounded by the very characters you once read about in books. 

She smiled sheepishly as she fidgeted with the blanket in her lap, suddenly feeling very self-conscious under their collective gaze. “Uh, hi, I guess,” she managed to say, giving a small, embarrassed laugh and an awkward half-wave, as if that would do anything to make the situation less awkward. Spoiler alert: it did not.

Thankfully Bilbo, the wonderful hobbit he is, returned before the silence became too awkward. He brought her a small tray with a bowl of soup, some crackers, and a roll of bread. 

“Thank you again, Bilbo,” she told him, feeling a little wave of relief at having something to do other than sit there like a deer in the headlights.

He gave her a warm smile, “You’re welcome.”

“You’re welcome.” She repeated, stumbling a bit over the pronunciation. 

He grinned at her, nodding encouragingly, “That's right, well done.”

She beamed back at him before turning to her meal, mentally high-fiving herself for not only figuring out what Bilbo had said but also using the phrase correctly. Small victories.

They sat there in awkward silence for a few minutes, the dwarves studying her as she ate. Freya tried not to squirm under their stares, but honestly, it was getting harder by the second. They really were starting to make her feel like some sort of zoo animal. All she needed was a sign that read, "Humanus Cluelessus: Please Do Not Yell At The Confused Girl." None of them really seemed to know what to do next, (not that she had any idea either).

Thorin cleared his throat, gaining everyone’s attention. “The hobbit informed us that you know the names of all the members of this company.” He said something directed at her, but the only thing she understood was the word hobbit.

Freya blinked, trying to piece together whatever Thorin had just said. “Sorry, dude.” (Did she really just call Thorin goddamn Oakenshield "dude"? Freya wanted to smack herself. Thank god they couldn’t understand her.) “I understood ‘hobbit’ and ‘Bilbo,’ but other than that, I have no idea what you just said.” She shook her head, shrugging apologetically, hoping her awkward smile would convey the universal language of "I’m clueless, but please don’t be mad." 

Another few moments passed with everyone staring at each other in silence. Great, now they were all members of the “confused as fuck club.” All they needed was matching t-shirts.

“Oh, I have an idea!” He exclaimed, bouncing on his toes. He pointed to himself, “Kili.” Next he pointed to his brother, “Fili,” then to Thorin, “Thorin.” 

He pointed at Balin next, but didn’t say his name, looking at Freya expectantly and raising an eyebrow. 

Freya caught on to what he was trying to do. “Balin,” she told him. “Dwalin, Oin, Gloin, Bofur, Bombur, Bifur, Ori, Dori, Nori, Gandalf,” She listed, pointing at each one in turn. Then she pointed to herself, “Freya.”

“So the hobbit was right,” horin muttered, his brows pinching together as he scowled at her distrustfully. He analyzed her for a few moments, probably deciding whether or not she was a spy sent by some enemy, before turning to address Gandalf, “Do you recognise the language she speaks?”

Freya turned to find that Galdalf was studying her as well, but while Thorin’s eyes were piercing and distrustful, Gandalf’s held a much more gentle kind of curiosity in them. Like he was trying to solve a particularly interesting puzzle, rather than figuring out if she was a threat.

“Unfortunately, it is not a language I am familiar with.” He admitted, smoking his pipe for a moment before adding, “The fact that it is unfamiliar to me makes it all the more intriguing, and adds to the mystery of our new guest.” 

The group was quiet again as everyone returned their attention to the guest of honor—her. Freya really didn’t want to go back to being silently stared at like some kind of oddity, so she figured she should try to move things along. If she was going to be the centerpiece of this awkward circle, she might as well take control of the situation.

Judging by how everyone was interacting with each other —Thorin’s ever-present scowl, Fili and Kili’s barely contained energy, and Bilbo’s general aura of bewilderment —it was pretty clear that she had somehow landed right at the start of the quest to retake Erebor. With that being the case, there was no way in hell that she was going to let them leave her behind. With all the Tolkien lore crammed into her head, she could definitely help them out—and, more importantly, maybe give some of her favorite characters the happy ending they deserved.

She had a soft spot for those Hobbit fanfics where everyone in the company survived. They were the only ones she could bear to read. She wanted the characters she loved to overcome their challenges and hardships, to get that elusive happy ending. It was probably because she knew her own life wasn’t going to have a ‘happily ever after,’ but that was way too depressing to dwell on for long. Nope, she was here now, and she was going to make sure this story ended the way she wanted.

Clearing her throat, she decided to jump right into the thick of it. “Erebor.” She looked around, meeting everyone’s eyes one by one. “You’re going to reclaim Erebor, and I’m going to help you.” Because there was no way in hell she was sitting this out.

“What do you know of our quest?” Thorin demanded, his scowl intensifying.

Freya pursed her lips in annoyance. Not being able to communicate properly was getting really old, really fast. “Alright, this isn’t working. You're going to have to teach me some basic words or we’re never going to get anything done.” 

“Okay,” she clapped her hands together like a teacher starting a lesson. “Let’s try to get some basics down.”

She looked over at Bilbo, deciding that he would be her new impromptu language tutor, “Bilbo?” she asked, getting his attention. 

“Thank you,” she said in English, then switched to what she was pretty sure was Common, “Thank you.”

He looked at her, clearly confused, so she repeated herself, this time with a bit more emphasis. His brows furrowed as he thought it over, and for a moment, she worried she’d lost him completely. But then, like a lightbulb going off, he perked up, realizing what she was trying to do.

“Thank you,” he said in English, then repeated it in common. Victory! He understood!

She smiled, happy that he had caught on without too much trouble. She nodded her head exaggeratedly and said, “Yes.” Then looked at him expectantly, hoping this next part would go just as smoothly.

“Yes,” he told her, and she could’ve hugged him right then and there. They were finally getting somewhere.

They did the same thing with ‘no,’ which was thankfully a straightforward process.

She gave him a thumbs up. “Good.” Then a thumbs down. “Bad.”

Bilbo gave her the their translations, clearly getting into the swing of things.

Freya held up her hand like Bilbo had done earlier that evening. “Stay.” Then did a beckoning motion, “Come.” Bilbo gave her the corresponding words, and she had to admit, this bizarre version of charades was working really well.

The rest of the group stayed quiet, letting the two of them focus on each other, though she could practically feel Thorin’s eyes burning holes in the back of her head.

They also acted out the words: go, tired, hurt, fight, help, give, and run. The essentials, really. Now that Freya had some helpful base words, she could start trying to talk with everyone. Or at least, try to. And if Thorin thought her knowing about their quest was surprising, just wait until she started dropping some actual knowledge. Things were about to get interesting.

The first thing Freya wanted to do was take a look at the map Thorin had of the Lonely Mountain. It wasn’t every day you got to see an ancient map of a mythical treasure hoard, after all. She turned to address said dwarf, who looked as regal as ever, even while brooding. “Thorin, give Freya map,” she told him, holding out her hand like she was asking for a pen and not a priceless artifact. 

The king frowned at her, brows knitting together in confusion.

Freya pursed her lips as she tried to figure out how to explain what she wanted. “Gandalf give Thorin map,” she drew a rectangle in the air, “and key,” she gestured like she was putting a key in a lock and twisting it. Then repeated, “Thorin give Freya map.”

Bilbo, ever the perceptive one, finally pieced together her charades act. “I think she wants to see the map Gandalf gave you earlier.” He translated, looking pleased with himself for figuring it out.

Thorin scowled, his glare sharp enough to cut stone. It was pretty obvious that he was not thrilled with the idea of handing over such an important heirloom to someone who communicated through air-doodles and half-formed sentences.

“It would be best to let her take a look." Balin coaxed, ever the diplomat. "The Valar sent her to aid us, but she won’t be able to help if we don’t let her.

Thorin’s scowl deepened for a moment, before going back to his normal grumpy expression. He stood from his seat and pulled the map out of his coat. With the reluctance of someone handing over their firstborn, he walked over to Freya and held it out to her.  “Take care not to damage it ,” he ordered gruffly. 

Freya reached out and gently to the parchment from his hand. Carefully, she unfolded it and laid it across her lap so she could look at it. Her fingers ghosted over the parchment as she studied it, her excitement tempered by the fear of accidentally tearing it. She would never forgive herself if she damaged it and she doubted Thorin would either. 

“The Lonely Mountain,” she whispered to herself, “Erebor.” She could practically hear the soft dramatic music from the movies as she took in the various details depicted on the map.

Her fingers paused over the area where the moon runes were written; she racked her brain trying to remember their exact phrasing. “Stand by the stone when the thrush knocks, and the last light of Durin’s Day will shine on the key-hole,” she recited, before adding “Or something like that.” 

When she finally looked up she saw that she was once again the center of attention. Although everyone was staring at her with much more intensity than before. 

“You know what the hidden message says." Thorin growled, his voice low and fierce. He looming over her, his glare matching the ferocity of his voice. The air seemed to thicken, and the weight of his presence pressed down on her like a heavy storm cloud.

Freya felt her heart skip a beat, shrinking down in her chair as a cold wave of genuine fear washed over her and in that moment, she was acutely aware of just how small and vulnerable she was in front of the king. The fierce look in his eyes wasn’t just intimidating; it was terrifying. She had seen this side of him in the movies, but experiencing it in real life was something else entirely. This wasn’t a story; this was real, and Thorin was a king, a warrior hardened by loss and burdened by the weight of an entire kingdom’s fate. And for a split second, she was terrified of him.

“Back up, yer scaring her.” Oin snapped at the king, stepping forward and putting a reassuring hand on Freya’s shoulder. The tension in the room broke, and she felt a wave of relief as Oin’s presence shielded her from the full force of Thorin’s wrath. “The lass doesn’t know what yer growling at her, and she won’t be able to tell ye what tha map says until she learns more common. So there’s no use demanding answers right now. It’s a long way ta tha mountain, we got plenty of time. I won't have ye scaring my patient for no good reason.” he scolded.

Thorin stepped back, the anger in his eyes cooling as he realized his mistake. His intimidating posture deflating under the healer’s stern rebuke. “My apologies,” he conceded stiffly, but with what seemed like genuine regret.

Freya let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and sat up straighter as Thorin returned to his seat. The fear ebbed away, but the memory of it lingered—a not-so-gentle reminder that these were real people now, not just characters in a movie. "You’re going to Erebor,” she said, gesturing to all of them, “Freya come . Freya go Erebor." She told them, trying to sound as confident as possible with her limited vocabulary. 

Thorin frowned, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he studied her. She raised her chin and met his gaze, letting him see the determination in her eyes. She was going to Erebor with them whether they liked it or not.

The king’s attention shifted to Oin, “Are you sure she’ll be able to travel? ” He asked, eyeing Freya doubtfully, as if she might topple over at any moment. Which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely out of the question.

“She’s a bit unsteady on her feet,” Oin admitted, “but I have a feeling that won’t be a problem fer long.” He patted Freya on the shoulder. “It’s strange,” he mused, “from what I can tell she is physically strong enough to walk for at least a short time, she just doesn’t have the balance or coordination. It’s like she hasn’t been able to walk in a long time and is out of practice.”

They all gave Freya concerned looks, the kind that said they were trying to figure out what kind of tragic backstory had led her to this fragile state. Ha, if only they knew. She could practically see the gears turning in their heads, each one trying to solve the puzzle that was her.

Thorin nodded to Oin, “I will defer to your judgment in this matter.” His words were stern, but Freya could see the way his eyes flickered with concern. It was the same look she’d gotten from too many doctors, too many times.

Freya yawned, slumping further back in her seat. The day’s chaos had finally caught up with her, and exhaustion began to seep into her bones. The weariness wasn’t unfamiliar, but this time, it was different. Less suffocating. She didn’t feel like it was crushing her anymore, now it was more like a weighted blanket being wrapped around her.

Oin looked down at her and gave her a fond smile, “I'd best get her to bed. She'll need all the rest she can get before we head out in the morning.” 

He mimed out the word sleep for Freya, she nodded and repeated the word to show that she understood. Oh yes, she was very much looking forward to collapsing into that incredibly comfy bed she had woken up in. She carefully folded up the map and handed it back to Thorin. 

When Oin gave her the same ‘standing up’ motion that he had earlier, she nodded again, though the thought of actually moving made her want to groan. Her body wasn’t screaming in pain like it used to, but it still protested the idea of getting up. She accepted his help to get to her feet, a tiny wince slipping through as her legs protested. They felt like they’d been filled with lead, heavy and uncooperative, but at least they were moving. Again small victories.

He took her shoes and socks off for her, and helped her out of her jacket. Next, he pulled back the covers on her bed and tucked her in, making sure she was comfortable. And it was comfortable—soft, warm, and far too easy to sink into.

As Oin fussed over her, adjusting the blankets and making sure she had everything she needed, a haunting, deep tune drifted through the open doorway, instantly recognizable. Her heart skipped a beat as she heard it.

“Far over the Misty Mountains cold,
From dungeons deep, to caverns old,
We must away, ere break of day,
To find our long forgotten gold.”

Freya and Oin both froze as they listened. She had heard the song when the movie was in theaters and had been blown away by it then,  but hearing it in person was something else entirely. The dwarves' voices resonated in the air, each note vibrating with a sorrow that was almost tangible. She had felt their heartbreak and longing from the other side of a screen, but this... this was different. It was raw, real, and it hit her right in the chest, squeezing her heart until it hurt in a way that felt so much more intense now that she was here, in this world.

“The pines were roaring on the heights,
The wind was moaning in the night,
The fire was red, its flaming spread,
The trees like torches, blazed with light.”

Their voices faded away, leaving the hobbit hole silent for a few moments. The absence of the song was almost as profound as its presence, the air heavy with the echoes of their voices.

Then, Bilbo's soft voice floated through the doorway, breaking through the silence with a simple, resolute statement.

“I’ll go.”

Chapter Text

Bilbo spent the rest of the evening in a state of mild panic, shuffling back and forth in his room as he tried to decide what to pack. This wasn’t some quaint walking holiday to Bree, after all. No, this was an adventure, a word that still sent a shiver down his spine. He stared around his room, utterly at a loss for where to start, the familiar comforts of his belongings suddenly feeling woefully inadequate.

He was so lost in his thoughts that when a voice piped up from behind him, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“You alright there, Master Bilbo?”

Bilbo jumped, his heart lurching in his chest, and spun around. His wide eyes landed on Bofur standing in the doorway behind him, the dwarf’s figure framed by the dim light of the hallway.

The dwarf's face broke into a wide grin, teeth flashing under his thick mustache as he raised a hand in apology. “Ah, sorry ‘bout that; didn’t mean to startle ye. You’ve been standin’ there for a while now, so I thought you might need some help.”

Bilbo ran his fingers through his hair, the soft curls slipping through his grasp as he offered a sheepish smile. "Well, I suppose I could use some advice,"  he admitted, his voice tinged with the uncertainty that had been gnawing at him all evening. “Could you tell me what I should pack for tomorrow? I’ve taken walking holidays through the Shire and ventured to Bree a few times, but I fear that’s the extent of my adventuring experience.”

The dwarf grinned, looking happy that Bilbo had taken him up in his offer of assistance.  He walked over and clapped Bilbo on the shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. “It’s not so different, packin’ for longer. You’ll want some spare clothes, an oilskin if you got one, an’ a good jacket for when it gets cold.” 

“I see,” Bilbo mumbled, filing away in the information. “Is there anything else you can think of that might be useful?”

Bofur tilted his head to the side as he thought, “You’ll need a bedroll o’course, a waterskin, flint for a fire, a sewing kit’s always useful, and bandages just in case. I’ve got my carving tools ta keep me busy in tha evenin’s so ye might want somethin’ ta do as well.”

Bilbo nodded along as Bofur went down the list of what would be useful, committing it to memory. “Thank you for the help Master Bofur, it's greatly appreciated.” Bhe said, offering a smile that felt a bit more genuine now that he had some idea of what he was doing.

“Just Bofur, Master Baggins. I’m just a miner, I’m not one for such formalities,” the dwarf replied with a wink.

“Then I insist you call me Bilbo in return.”

Bofur chuckled and gave him a playful bow. “I’ll leave ye ta your packing then, Bilbo.” With that, he turned and strolled back down the hallway, presumably to rejoin his kin by the parlor’s hearth.

Bilbo let out a small laugh, feeling some of the tension ease from his shoulders. Out of all the dwarves that had invaded his home, he liked Bofur the best so far. The miner seemed like a cheerful, friendly sort, and Bilbo found himself hoping they might have the chance to chat more as they traveled.

With Bofur’s advice in mind, packing suddenly felt less like an insurmountable task and more like something he could actually manage. A small spark of confidence flickered to life within him, and he set about the task with renewed purpose.

He first made his way to the store-room to retrieve his old pack. When he opened it, he was pleased to find his old waterskin and tinderbox still inside. Next, he unearthed his bedroll from where it had been stored. It was a bit dusty from disuse but still seemed to be in good condition. 

Then, with a pang of nostalgia, Bilbo unpacked his mother’s traveling pack from the box where it had been carefully stored alongside her other adventuring items. He smiled as he ran his fingers over the sturdy leather, remembering how his father had commissioned it as a gift for Belladonna. The pack was beautifully made, with plenty of pockets for stowing all manner of travel essentials. He carefully packed Belladonna's old dagger, her waterskin, bedroll, flint and tinderbox, and a pouch of throwing stones

Lastly, he grabbed his walking staff—a trusty companion on his many rambles through the Shire. It would certainly be useful for Freya until she regained her strength.

Returning to his room, he methodically packed several clean shirts, trousers, underclothes, and an extra jacket into each bag. He decided to use his mother’s pack and let Freya have his old one. After placing everything neatly by the door, ready for the morning, he finally prepared for bed.

Exhausted from the evening’s excitement, Bilbo was asleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow, his dreams filled with thoughts of the adventure that lay ahead.

_____________________

Freya drifted peacefully in the darkness of sleep, her mind wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and quiet, before slowly coming to awareness. She wasn't awake, but she wasn’t exactly asleep either—a strange, in-between state where everything felt both distant and vividly clear.

She found herself standing in the middle of the most beautiful garden she had ever seen. It was wide and open, with groves of different types of trees wrapping around three of its sides. The fourth side sloped gently downward to a sparkling blue river that glimmered like a ribbon of sapphires under the golden sun. On the other side of the river, lush green meadows stretched to the base of a spectacular mountain range that seemed to touch the sky.

The garden was a riot of color, a breathtaking tapestry woven from countless varieties of flowers. Delicate bluebells nestled at the base of towering sunflowers, while vibrant roses climbed the sturdy trunks of ancient oaks. The air was thick with the sweet scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, and a gentle breeze carried the soft melody of birdsong and distant wind chimes. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the ground with golden flecks. The peaceful and serene atmosphere seeped into her bones, making her relax in a way she hadn’t since… well, probably since ever.

“Welcome, dear child. How wonderful it is to meet you.” A woman's voice spoke up behind her, warm and welcoming, like rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds.

Freya turned around to see a hobbit woman and a dwarven man standing a few feet away from her. The hobbit woman had a gentle yet commanding presence, her long, curly brown hair catching the sunlight, framing her face like a halo. Freya’s gaze was drawn to the way the light played off the vibrant green of the woman’s eyes, which seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly warmth. A faint ethereal glow surrounding her, like the soft halo of dawn.

The man standing beside her was a little paler than his companion, with deep-set gray eyes that seemed to hold the weight of centuries. His thick black hair and beard were intricately braided, the braids adorned with small, delicate metal beads that caught the light. His broad shoulders and muscular arms radiated strength, the kind of strength that could shape mountains—or break them.

Well… Freya thought, They look important.

"Uh hi, nice to meet you too," she replied automatically. Thankfully she had enough of a brain to mouth filter not to blurt out her first thought. Although her awkward, fumbling, greeting wasn’t that much of an improvement.

She shoved that thought away, trying to focus on the two probably magical people in front of her before freezing as her brain processed what had just happened. She straightened, eyes widening in surprise. “Holy shit, I can understand you!” she blurted out, the words flying out of her mouth before she could stop them.

They both chuckled good naturedly at her outburst, making Freya blush and duck her head. She ducked her head, mortified, and wished the ground would just open up and swallow her whole.

“There’s no need to feel embarrassed,” the dwarf assured her, his voice a deep, rumbling baritone that seemed to resonate through the very earth. “You have been through much in a short time. Your reaction is quite justified.”

"Thanks," Freya said, laughing awkwardly. “Um, well, it’s nice to meet you.” she repeated, not really sure what to say next. Was she supposed to shake their hands? Bow? Bash her head against theirs like dwarves do? She’d rather not do the latter; she didn’t have any brain cells to spare.

“It is nice to meet you as well, Freya,” the woman said with a smile that radiated warmth, making Freya’s nerves ease just a bit. She held a hand to her chest before gesturing to the dwarf beside her. “I am Yavanna, and this is my husband Aulë—or as the dwarves refer to him, Mahal.”

Freya froze, her mind momentarily bluescreening for a solid 15 seconds before rebooting with a jolt. “Huh… You know what, sure, why not,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair. “My life is already so goddamn weird, I’m not even surprised anymore.”

Thankfully, her reaction seemed to amuse the two Valar rather than offend them. Mahal threw his head back, his deep, thunderous laughter echoing through the garden. He clutched Yavanna's shoulder to steady himself as he laughed, the sound rolling like distant thunder. Yavanna laughed as well, her laughter bright and musical, like the clear notes of a flute carried on the wind.

“I knew I would like you,” Mahal said once his laughter had subsided, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You have a fiery spirit, never afraid to speak your mind.”

“Thanks, after I found out I was dying, my tolerance for other people's bullshit drastically declined." Freya grinned, shrugging as if the whole thing were a mild inconvenience rather than a terminal illness. "I didn't have the time or patience to deal with them politely.”  Because really, when you know your expiration date, why waste time on pleasantries?

That set Mahal off into another round of laughter, and Freya couldn’t help but feel a bit proud. 

Yavanna smiled fondly at their antics before stepping forward with the grace of someone who was used to the world bending to their will. She took a seat in the grass, the flowers almost seeming to lean towards her as if seeking her approval,, and gestured for Freya to join her. “We apologize for not speaking with you sooner, but bringing you to our world took a great deal of energy,” she explained. “We needed to rest before we were able to speak to you again.”

Freya nodded as she plopped down beside her, crossing her legs like she was back in kindergarten, “I guess that makes sense. But now that you can speak to me can you tell me what exactly is going on? What am I doing here?” She paused, looking around at the garden, which was far too perfect to be real. “Well not here exactly, but Middle Earth.” She stopped again for a moment, before amending, “You know, on second thought, let's include here as well. Wherever ‘here’ is.” 

“Of course,” Yavanna agreed, “We will explain everything. To start with your easiest question. This is a part of my garden in Valanor. We brought your spirit here so you would be comfortable while we explained our reasons for bringing you to Middle Earth.”

“Huh…” Freya mused, though inwardly, she was struggling not to have a full-blown freakout.

She ran a hand through her hair again, before looking back at Yavanna, (holy shit she was talking to Yavanna!) “So basically, you had me astral project in my sleep so I could hang out with you in Valinor. Neat.” Freya was proud of how casual she sounded, considering her inner fangirl was currently running around in circles, screaming incoherently.

Mahal laughed as he sat down beside his wife, “that is an interesting way to describe it, but fairly accurate nonetheless.”

Freya leaned forward, propping her elbow on her knee and putting her chin in her hand as she looked at the two Valar. “So what exactly am I supposed to do in Middle Earth? I’m guessing you brought me there for a reason? And why me?” She asked, like talking to her two favorite Valar in goddamn Valinor was an everyday occurance and not something she was 100% freaking out over.

The two Valar exchanged a look, the kind that said they were about to drop some heavy information, before Mahal began to speak, “The Valar are not satisfied with the final outcome of the Third Age, and how it affected the progression of the Fourth Age.” He crossed his arms, his expression darkening like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. “The Fourth Age saw the departure of the Elves and the fading away of all the non-human peoples.”

Yavanna picked up her husband's explanation, “The Ents were forever unable to find the Entwives and disappeared. The hobbits never left the boundaries of the shire. The Dwarves were few, and they continued to decline; their contributions to the world were forgotten.” Her gaze was distant, like she was looking into another time and place. Her eyes held such a heavy sadness, it made Freya’s heart ache in. Freya leaned forward tentatively, her hand hovering awkwardly before she finally decided to just go for it and gently grasped Yavanna’s hand. The goddess’s skin was warm and soft, and Freya felt a pang of empathy as Yavanna gave her a sad, but grateful, smile.

Mahal put a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder, his presence solid and reassuring, like the earth itself. “All that was left was the world of Men, and even they were nothing but shadows of their former glory.” He turned, his gaze locking with Freya’s, and she could feel the weight of countless expectations pressing down on her shoulders, making her spine straighten instinctively. “That future is what we want you to prevent,” he declared, his voice like a hammer striking an anvil, each word heavy with the gravity of the task.

“We want you to better prepare the world for the battle against Sauron,” Yavanna told her, voice comforting but no less grave. “The outcome of Thorin Oakenshield quest and the time afterward holds the greatest potential for change. The survival of Thorin and his heirs would be a tremendous advantage in the War of the Ring and would lead the dwarven nation to new heights. Reversely the failure of the quest would ensure Saurons’s victory and lead to the destruction of Middle Earth.” 

Freya had seen a few different theories about what would happen to Middle Earth if Thorin had not defeated Smaug, and none of them were good. “No pressure, huh,” she joked, mentally adding ‘being responsible for the fate of Middle Earth’ to her ‘freak out about latter list’. She absently noted that that list was getting pretty long.

Now it was Yavanna squeezing Freya’s hand to comfort her. “Fear not, little champion. You were chosen to take on this burden because we know you have the strength and knowledge to succeed.” Freya met the goddesses gaze, Yavana’s warm green eyes were solemn but full of confidence.

Freya took a steadying breath, feeling some of the tension in her shoulders unravel. It was nice to know that the two Valar believed in her. (Granted, they were the ones that brought her here so of course they thought she could do it, but it was still nice to hear it out loud.) “Ok, great, appreciate the vote of confidence. That's actually really reassuring to hear. I have a couple questions though. If that’s alright?”

Mahal nodded to her, “Of course, ask whatever you like.”

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, cause I’m really, really happy to not be dead anymore, but why didn't you guys heal me when you brought me here? Wouldn’t I be more useful if I was healthy?” Freya asked, her fingers fidgeting with a piece of grass, hoping the two of them didn’t think she was complaining about the second life she was given. It wasn’t that she was ungrateful—far from it—but a healthy body would’ve been nice, too. Especially if she was suppose to walk halfway across Middle Earth to go fight a dragon and an army of Orcs.

“We were able to take your illness away, but were unable to heal you completely.” Yavanna explained sympathetically, “Your body would not be able to cope with the shock of going through so much in so little time. We are however able to help you recover more swiftly than you would be able to on your own.”

Freya slumped a bit dejectedly, “Alright. I mean it sucks that you can't magically fix me but it sucks significantly less than being dead. Or getting revived then dying again of the same illness.” She straightened up, shaking off the gloom. “Moving on to my second question, is there anything I’m not allowed to change?”

“There are some things fated to happen,” Mahal confirmed. “Bilbo is destined to find The Ring, and should the quest to retake Erebor succeed, Frodo is destined to carry it to its destruction. The battles of Helms Deep, The Ents siege of Isenguard, and the Battle of Pelennor Fields are also destined to happen as long as Erebor is retaken. However, what occurs during these battles is susceptible to change.” 

Freya nodded along to the explanation, mind racing as she thought of all the possible changes she could make. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, smiling at the Valar with new found determination. “Well then I’d best get to it. Can you send me back to my body? I have a journey to start, some dwarves to keep alive, and a world to save.”

Yavanna laughed and said, “We chose our champion well. We would ask for no other. Good luck on your travels, enjoy your journey, and remember that you are not alone.” 

The goddess waved her hand, and the world around Freya began to blur, as if the edges of reality were being erased. She felt herself being gently pulled back, falling into the realm of sleep with a sense of purpose.

Chapter Text

Bilbo woke long before any of his guests, the early hour offering a brief respite from the whirlwind that had descended upon Bag End the previous evening. After double-checking the packs he’d set aside the night before—just in case he’d somehow forgotten a vital item, like his spare handkerchief—he headed straight for the kitchen. Outside his window, the faintest hint of pink edged over the Shire’s rolling fields, heralding the start of a new day.

As he grabbed the fire poker and stirred up the coals in the stove, Bilbo couldn't help but think that a bit of normalcy was exactly what he needed. If he could keep the routine of breakfast running smoothly, maybe he could fool himself into believing the rest of the day wouldn't spiral into utter madness. With that thought in mind, he added some wood to get the fire going and set about the comforting task of pulling out food from the pantry and cold cupboard.

He quickly set to work, pulling out his largest frying pans, a hot plate, several measuring cups, and a mixing bowl. Strips of bacon sizzled in one pan while a dozen eggs were cracked into the other. As he worked, a wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Here he was, cooking breakfast for a dozen dwarves as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Yavanna bless Belladonna for raising him to handle chaos with some semblance of grace, though he doubted even she had this in mind when teaching him to manage a household.

He left the bowl for a moment, going back to the stove to flip the bacon and stir the eggs. He returned to the bowl and started mixing, bringing it over to the stove so he could keep an eye on the bacon and eggs. After a few minutes he set the mixing bowl down, transferred the finished eggs and bacon onto the hot plate and covered them so they stayed warm. Then added more bacon as well as some sausages into the pans to start cooking.

Pausing only to flip the bacon and stir the eggs, Bilbo mixed milk, vanilla, and cinnamon in a bowl, preparing for what was destined to be a mountain of French toast. He was just about to start dipping the bread when a soft shuffle behind him caught his attention. Turning, he found Ori standing in the kitchen doorway, his fingers nervously twisting the end of his scarf.

“Good morning, Master Ori. I hope you slept well,” Bilbo greeted with a cheerful smile. Out of all the dwarves who had invaded his home the previous evening, Ori was one of the few Bilbo found himself liking almost immediately. The young dwarf was quieter than the others and had shown much better manners, which was a refreshing change.

Ori nodded, still toying with his scarf. “I slept quite well, Master Baggins, thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Bilbo replied, turning back to his mixing bowl. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ori shifting from foot to foot, clearly unsure of what to do next. Bilbo hated to see the poor lad so uncomfortable. “Would you like to help me finish preparing breakfast?” he offered, hoping to put Ori at ease. “With so many mouths to feed, I could certainly use an extra hand.”

Thankfully, it looked like his guess was right on the mark. Ori brightened immediately, nodding with enthusiasm. “Of course, Master Baggins. What can I do to help?”

“Why don’t you start by setting the table?” Bilbo suggested, nodding toward the cupboard where the plates, glasses, and cutlery were stored. Bilbo directed him to where the plates, glasses, and cutlery were kept and sent him off to set the table.

The next dwarf to appear was Bombur, who, upon seeing Bilbo at the stove, immediately offered his assistance. “I’m a pretty good chef myself, Master Baggins,” he boasted, his round face breaking into a broad smile.

“That’s wonderful! A good cook is always appreciated in the Shire,” Bilbo responded, grinning back. “I look forward to trading recipes with you.” He had been worried about finding common ground with his new travel companions, but it looked like he would have at least one person to talk to. “Could you take the bacon and sausages off the stove and put them on the hot plate?” He asked, nodding to the sizzling pan.

“Consider it done.” Bombur clapped him on the back with a hearty thump, nearly sending Bilbo tumbling, before heading to the stove.

Bilbo then started slicing several loaves of bread, dipping the slices in the milk and egg mixture before bringing them over to the pans Bombur had freed up. As he began to fry the bread, more footsteps echoed down the hallway. A groggy voice, which Bilbo recognized as Gloin’s, asked, “Is tha’ food I smell cooking?”

“It is indeed, Master Gloin,” Bilbo called over, waving a hand toward the dining area as he focused on the task at hand. “Take a seat at the table; breakfast will be ready shortly.”

Barely a minute passed before the next round of dwarves stumbled out of their rooms. “Pardon me, Master Baggins, but do you have any tea?” Dori’s voice spoke up from behind Bilbo. The hobbit turned to see Dori half-supporting, half-carrying a rather hungover-looking Nori. “I’m afraid my brother had a bit too much to drink last night.”

“The kettle is in that cupboard over there,” Bilbo said, pointing with a spoon, “and in the cabinet next to it there is a tin with some herbs that will help. Us hobbits are quite fond of parties and on several occasions, I’ve had need of a ‘pick me up’ for myself or guests.”

Dori nodded to him in thanks, and deposited his brother at the table before pulling out the kettle and getting some tea ready.

The next to follow the smell of food to the kitchen were Oin and Freya. Despite still needing to lean on Oin, Freya looked steadier than she had the previous night, her movements a touch stronger. She glanced around Bag End with wide-eyed curiosity, like a child seeing something wondrous for the first time.

“Good morning!” Bilbo called over to the pair, scooping the first round of French toast out of the pan with a practiced flick of the wrist.

Freya beamed at him, her enthusiasm bubbling over in a rush of words, “Good Morning Bilbo! Your smial is so cool! I can’t believe I’m in an actual hobbit hole, this is amazing! 

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm, and he noticed Oin was similarly charmed. The healer chuckled as he helped Freya into a chair. “Not sure ‘bout most of that,” Oin said, his gruff voice softened with amusement, “but I taught 'er how ta say ‘good morning’ when I woke ‘er up. She’s quite excited ta learn new words.”

“It’s nice to see such enthusiasm,” Bilbo replied, turning back to his cooking. “It’ll be nice to have a proper conversation with her soon enough.”

As Bilbo focused on the task at hand, Freya greeted each dwarf that joined them with equal cheerfulness, her excitement contagious. It wasn’t long before Gandalf made his entrance, bidding Bilbo a good morning as he strode toward the table.

“And what do you mean by that, Gandalf?” Bilbo teased, his mood too bright to start giving the wizard a hard time about last night just yet. “Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean to say that you are feeling good on this particular morning? Or perhaps you are simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?”

Gandalf laughed at the hobbit’s cheek, his eyes twinkling. “All of them at once, my dear Bilbo. All of them at once.”

Over the next half hour, the remainder of the company slowly found their way to the dining room, drawn by the scent of fresh fruit, toasted egg bread, and piles of bacon, sausages, and scrambled eggs. The table was set as if for a feast, and Bilbo couldn’t help but feel a touch of pride as the dwarves’ eyes lit up at the spread before them.

“It was kind of you to make breakfast to start off our journey Bilbo,” Gandalf said, with nods of agreement and words of thanks from the rest of the group.  

Bilbo waved off the compliment with a modest shake of his head. "It’s really no big deal. I just thought it might be a nice thing to do, since we don’t know when we’ll have the next opportunity to enjoy a meal like this."

“Whatever the case, your efforts are most appreciated.” Gandalf insisted.

The group tucked into the meal, chatting amongst themselves in high spirits. Bilbo, feeling quite full after his third plate, leaned back in his chair to observe his guests, a small smile playing on his lips, when Freya turned to him with a determined look.

“Bilbo,” she said, her tone earnest as she grabbed his attention.

“Yes, Freya, how can I help you?” he asked, sitting up straighter, curious about what she might need.

She didn’t answer right away, her brows knitting in frustration as she struggled to find the right words. Bilbo didn’t try to rush her, instead waiting patiently for her to figure out how to communicate what was on her mind.

“Bilbo” she repeated once she had come up with a way to convey her thoughts. “write” she made a motion like she was writing something, “Thain and Hamfast Gamgee. Bilbo go away with everyone ,” she gestured to the company. “Bilbo write” she repeated the motion she had before, “Thain and Hamfast no Sackville-Baggins in Bag End. Bilbo no write Lobelia Sackville-Baggins steal Bag End.” When Freya mentioned Lobelia she started snatching up any silverware within reach, as if to illustrate her point about his least favorite cousin-in-law.

Bilbo furrowed his brows as he pieced together what she was saying. “You want me to write,” he copied the motion she had made, “the Thain and Hamfast to tell them I’m going away. Because if I don't, Lobelia is going to steal Bag End.” 

A wave of surprise, tinged with indignation, washed over Bilbo as the implications sank in. How on earth did Freya know about his bothersome relatives, and what they were like? But as the realization settled, so too did a simmering anger. She was absolutely right. If he left the Shire without telling anyone, Lobelia would pounce on Bag End faster than a wolf on an unguarded flock. The woman had always been jealous of his home, and if she thought there was even the slightest chance to get her hands on it, she wouldn’t hesitate.

Bilbo was also more than a bit cross with himself. How could he have been so careless as to forget informing his family? It was entirely irresponsible, unbecoming of the head of the Baggins family. He had duties that required delegation, affairs that needed tending in his absence. Not to mention how worried his family would be if he suddenly disappeared. 

He stood up from the table abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor. “Right then, I need to go write some letters,” he announced, his voice firmer than usual. “I need to tell the Thain and my neighbor that I’ll be away for a while. They need to know how to handle my affairs in my absence, and what to do with Bag End. I refuse to let Lobelia Sackville-Baggins get her sticky fingers on my home.”

Thorin scowled at his announcement, his deep-set eyes narrowing. “We cannot waste any more time here,” he growled, the words dripping with impatience. “We have lingered here too long as it is.”

Bilbo stiffened, a hot flame of anger igniting within him. His back formed a rigid line as he sucked in a breath, ready to tear into the disrespectful, ill-mannered brute. The audacity of this so-called 'king' was astounding. Bilbo would have been well within his rights to summon the Bounders the moment the first dwarf had barged into his home last night. But he hadn’t. Instead, he had allowed them to raid his pantry, make a mess of his dining room, and even offered them a place to sleep for the night. And instead of being grateful for Bilbo’s hospitality this pompous ass had done nothing but insult and berate him. He didn’t care if Thorin was a king, Bag End was Bilbo’s smial and if Thorin Broodyshield, of whatever his name was, thought he could continue to show Bilbo such disrespect, he was sorely mistaken.

Bilbo opened his mouth, ready to deliver a tirade that had been simmering just beneath the surface, when Oin intervened. “We can’t leave just yet,” the healer interjected, his tone firm as he addressed Thorin. “I need time ta assess Freya, see if she can handle walkin' on 'er own. Master Baggins can write his letters while I work with 'er.”

“We also need to finish eating breakfast and then clean up before we can leave,” Balin added, casting a disapproving glance at Thorin before turning to Bilbo with a more considerate expression. “You should have plenty of time to sort out your affairs.”

Bilbo drew in a deep breath, reigning in his temper as he nodded curtly. “Thank you, Master Balin. It shouldn’t take too long.” He turned to head to the study, but stopped short when Freya gently grabbed his sleeve.

“Bilbo?” Freya’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, and Bilbo’s irritation began to fade at the sound of it.

“Yes, Freya?” he replied, his voice softer now, patient. He knew she was trying to find the right words, and he waited, giving her the time she needed.

“Bilbo give Freya  a book,” she held out her hands before opening them like they were a book  “to  write in?” She asked hopefully, tripping slightly over the new word.

He thought for a second, figuring out what she had asked. “Oh course wait one moment,” he told her, his tone lightening as he turned down the hall toward his study. Once there, he rummaged through his things, pulling out a blank journal and several charcoal pencils. He returned quickly, holding them out to her. “Is this what you wanted?” he asked.

Freya opened the journal, and seeing that it was blank, beamed up at him, “Thank you Bilbo!”

The last remnants of his earlier frustration melted away completely at the sight of her genuine excitement. He couldn’t help but smile as he gently patted her on the head. “You’re quite welcome,” he said softly before heading back to his study. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Freya grinned down at the blank journal Bilbo had given her. It was just what she needed to write down plans, track the new words she was learning, and maybe even draw a few pictures to help bridge the language gap with the others. But the best part? Bilbo had pencils. Actual pencils. Thank god.

When she’d thought about asking for a journal the night before, a horrifying realization had hit her: Bilbo probably didn’t have any pens or mechanical pencils. She had dreaded the thought of trying to learn how to write with a quill and ink. She was 100% certain that any attempts she made to use aforementioned writing utensils would end with her covered in ink and the destruction of anything she tried to write on.

“Hey, Ori!” she called out, leaning over the table toward the dwarf. “Come here! I need your help with something!” The poor dwarf jumped at the sound of his name, turning to give her a look that was equal parts confusion and surprise. Oh right. The language barrier. That was still a thing. “Oh, shit, um” she tried to recall the words she learned yesterday that would help her get her point across. “Ori, come, help,” she said, pointing to the seat next to her. “Ori, come, help,” she told him.

Ori looked surprised that she wanted his help but nevertheless got up from between his brothers to sit next to her. She grinned at him and opened her new journal. “Ok, my oh so brilliant plan is to write down the lyrics to the songs ‘Blunt the Knives’ and ‘Misty Mountains’ then have you help me translate them and write your language down phonetically,” She babbled at him excitedly. After she got that out of her system, she tried to explain so Ori would understand. “Ori, help, Freya, write. ”

“You want me to help you write something?” Ori asked, his head tilting slightly in that way that made him look ridiculously adorable and cementing the fact that he was a precious little cinnamon roll that must be protected at all costs.

“Maybe it’d be better to just jump in,” Freya mused. She cleared her throat and started to sing:

“Blunt the knives, bend the forks!

Smash the bottles and burn the corks!

Chip the glasses and crack the plates!

That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!”

By the time she finished the verse, every dwarf at the table was staring at her like she’d grown a second head. The looks on their faces were so priceless that she had to fight the urge to reach out and boop one of them on the nose. For a moment, there was dead silence. Then the dwarves erupted into a chaotic mix of confused chatter.

Freya tried to follow along, but without knowing the language, it was like trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

“How in Mahal’s name does she know that song!” Bofur exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up in shock. “She didn' show up till later, right?” he asked something, looking around at the others for validation, his tone a mix of shock and curiosity.

Balin nodded, his expression thoughtful, confirming whatever Bofur had asked. “You’re right,” he said, his tone indicating agreement. Freya guessed he was agreeing that she wasn’t supposed to know the song. “She arrived well after Thorin did.”

“Then how does she know?” Kili asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. Whatever he was asking, no one seemed to have an answer, as the room fell silent again.

The room fell silent again, and Freya could practically see the gears turning in their heads as they tried to figure out the mystery. She wished she could understand them—whatever conclusion they were coming to was bound to be entertaining.

Oin, however, seemed to have come up with a theory. He tilted his head, squinting at her as if trying to solve a riddle, before suggesting seriously, “She could be a seer.” His tone was thoughtful, “That would explain how she knew about tha song, an' our quest ta tha mountain.

A few of the dwarves scoffed or rolled their eyes skeptically at whatever Oin had proposed, while others looked like they were pondering his suggestion seriously. Freya could tell from the mixed reactions—some dismissive, others contemplative—that Oin’s idea wasn’t universally accepted, but it certainly had them thinking.

Freya was happily leaned back in her chair, a small smile playing on her lips as she let them sort out the chaos she had so unintentionally caused. While they muttered and debated, she contentedly finished writing down the rest of ‘Blunt the Knives’ in her new journal, her amusement growing with each passing second. Whatever they were thinking, it was far more fun to watch them flounder than to interrupt.

_________________________

“Her being a seer would also explain how she knew our names. And how she knew about the map,” Gloin added, his brows knitting together as he mulled over the idea. The more he considered it, the more likely it seemed

“It would explain why the Valar sent her to aid us,” Balin conceded, his brows furrowing slightly as he turned to Gandalf, “ Is it possible for her to be a seer? ”
 
Gandalf leaned back in his seat, his expression pensive as he stroked his beard in contemplation. “I cannot say for certain whether or not Freya has been gifted with such an ability,” he finally replied, his tone measured and careful. “Only time will reveal that to us.”

Thorin’s scowl deepened, his displeasure evident in the tightness of his jaw and the sharpness of his gaze. The wizard’s non-answer only served to stoke his frustration. 

Balin, ever the diplomat, spoke up again, his voice gentle yet firm. “Tharkûn’s right,” he said, glancing around the room. “There's no point in worrying or trying to unravel it all now. We’ll just have to wait until she can tell us more herself. Until then, we must focus on what we do know and continue our journey with caution.”

_______________________

Most of the dwarves around the table nodded in agreement to whatever Balin had said, and it looked like that was the end of whatever conversion they were having. Thorin still didn’t look happy, but then again, Thorin never looked happy. The man—dwarf—had practically perfected the art of the 'resting bitch face,’ so she wasn’t really worried about it.

Thorin stood, “Finish eating then clean up,” he ordered, his voice as commanding as ever. “I want to depart within the hour.” He gathered up his dishes and brought them to the kitchen sink before disappearing down the hall, probably to go stare out a window and brood majestically or whatever it was he did to pass the time.

Thorin was definitely a bit (a lot) of an asshole in the first part of the journey. Freya could definitely sympathize with all the hardships he had endured — losing his home, carrying the weight of his people's future on his shoulders; but that didn’t mean she was going to sit back and let him be a jerk to her or Bilbo. The Bagginshield ship would sail, if she had anything to say about it. And she wasn’t about to let Thorin fuck it up by acting like an ass.

“Freya?” Ori’s voice cut through her mental rant, yanking her back to the present. She turned to him, giving him her full attention as the other dwarves began cleaning up around them, the clatter of dishes and low murmurs filling the room. 

“What? Oh ya, let’s get started,” She said, picking up her pencil again. Ori pulled out his own journal to write in as well. He seemed eager to help her learn Common, and in return, it looked like he was trying to pick up some English.

They went through the song line by line, scribbling the lyrics in their respective languages before adding the phonetic translation beside it. Every now and then, one of the other dwarves would chime in with a comment or suggestion as they cleaned, but for the most part, Freya and Ori were left to their own devices.

Blunt the knives, bend the forks!

Smash the bottles and burn the corks!

Chip the glasses and crack the plates!

That's what Bilbo Baggins hates !

Cut the cloth, trail the fat

Leave the bones on the bedroom mat! 

Pour the milk on the pantry floor,

Splash the wine on every door! 

Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl, 

pound them up with a thumping pole! 

When you're finished , if they are whole,

Send them down the hall to roll!

That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!

After they had finished writing everything down, Freya went back through the pages, underlining the words she thought would be the most useful. Her pencil hovered over certain phrases, her mind already trying to hammer them into memory.  With the first song finished they repeated the process with the part of the ‘Misty Mountains’ song the dwarves had sung last night.

Far over the Misty Mountains cold,

To dungeons deep and caverns old,

We must away ere break of day to

Find our long forgotten gold

The pines were roaring on the height, 

The winds were moaning in the night , 

the fire was red, it flaming spread, 

The trees like torches blazed with light .

By the time the two of them had finished, the table was cleared, the dishes were washed and put away, and most of the dwarves had gone off to gather their belongings. 

Oin put his bags by the door before walking over and putting a hand on Freya’s shoulder, “are ye finished writing? ” he asked, his tone as gruff as ever but softened by the hint of a smile in his eyes.

It took Freya a moment to process his words, her mind working to piece together the unfamiliar language. A grin spread across her face when she realized she was able to understand all the words Oin had used.

“Yes, Oin, we are finished,” she replied, her voice carrying a hint of excitement. She glanced at Ori, her gaze searching his for confirmation. Ori’s smile was wide and genuine, and he gave her an enthusiastic nod that made her feel a rush of pride. Look at her, forming a complete sentence in Common—someone get her a gold star.

“That’s good ta hear… ” Oin started to say more but Freya interrupted him.

“Hear? ” she asked, tilting her head slightly. Based on the sentence, she was pretty sure he had said ‘hear,’ but she wanted to be sure.

“Oh ah,” Ori hesitated for a moment, then raised his hand and cupped it around his ear in a gesture of listening. “Hear,” he repeated, his voice gentle as he explained.

“Hear,” she repeated, giving him a thumbs up to show she understood. (She was so happy they used that gesture in Middle Earth.) Then looked back at Oin, “Sorry, Oin. What were you saying? Fuck I mean, what were you …um” she paused, not knowing the word for ‘saying.’

“Saying ” Ori provided.

Freya flashed him a grateful smile. “Thank you , Ori.”

“I want  ye ta try a bit of walking . See how well ye can manage 'afore we get going” Oin told her. 

“Walking. Fun, I can definitely do that,” she said, nodding to Oin with what she hoped was confidence.

He smiled at her before turning to address Ori, “You should go get yer things together so  yer ready to leave.” 

Ori hopped to his feet, “Of course Oin. I’ll go finish packing my things.” He waved goodbye to Freya before darting down the hall.

After Ori rushed off down the hall Oin helped support Freya as she got to her feet. The moment she stood, a slight tremor ran through her legs, her muscles still uncertain and a bit shaky beneath her. A wave of dizziness washed over her, but she breathed through it, steadying herself. 

She felt weak, her balance teetering as she adjusted to the weight on her feet, but hey, at least she wasn’t collapsing. Hurray for improvement. There was a marked difference compared to the night before and she was pretty sure this improvement had something to do with Yavanna and Mahal helping her heal faster. 

As Freya and Oin made a few laps up and down the main hall of Bag End, she focused on each step, feeling the way her muscles stretched and contracted. The initial stiffness in her joints gradually eased, though it didn’t entirely disappear. It was more like a rusty hinge that had finally decided to give in and move again. But that was fine. Progress was progress.

She was slow and still needed some support, but she was able to do it without getting out of breath. With each step, the dull ache in her legs became more bearable, and she marveled at the newfound resilience in her body. The exertion made her legs burn slightly, but it was the kind of burn that felt like progress, like the pain that comes with healing. Freya could feel herself grinning, she was honestly a bit giddy over her improvement. 

Oin smiled at her. “Yer doing good, ” He told her, he told her, his voice a mix of encouragement and caution, “Yer going ta need some help but  you should be able ta walk a bit on yer own.”

“I have-something that will help with that. ” Bilbo’s voice sounded behind them. 

Freya and Oin turned to see Bilbo standing behind them, two large packs slung over his shoulders and a walking stick in hand. 

“It’s good to see you up and walking,” he told her before holding out the walking stick to her, “I thought you  could-use-this  to help you walk.”

Freya reached out and took the staff, letting go of Oin’s arm. It was made of beautifully polished dark brown wood and fit well in her hand. It was light weight, (which was perfect given how much she lacked in the strength department at the moment) but sturdy, so she could lean on it without worrying about breaking it.

“Thank you Bilbo. It’s perfect” she said, giving the hobbit a one-armed hug. He looked a little surprised for a moment, clearly not expecting the sudden attack of affection. But he was going to have to get used to it because she was definitely a tactile person. After a beat, he returned the gesture, albeit a bit awkwardly, before pulling away to set the two packs on the ground.

“Right-then, I have a pack-for-me ,” he said gesturing to the green pack to his right, “and I got-one-for Freya packed and ready to go, but I don’t-know if she-is-well-enough to carry-it-herself. ” 

“Then-it’s a good thing we’re here” 

“to graciously-offer our services .”  Kili, then Fili announced as they sauntered down the hall; grinning mischievously. Holy shit they’re handsome when they smile like that.

Kili swooped down, grabbed Freya’s pack, and slung it over his shoulder. Fili bowed dramatically and offered Freya his arm; like a noble asking a lady to dance with him.

Freya couldn’t help but laugh at their antics. She had to admit the two of them were quite the charmers. She had to brace herself on her new staff but managed a half-decent attempt at a curtsy before accepting Fili’s arm. The brothers grinned at her before escorting her down the hallway. She felt like a goddamn princess.

She led them over to the kitchen before letting go of Fili’s arm so she could open up the cabinets and look through them. She had an epiphany last night and was determined to follow through with it. Because what’s the point of being whisked away to Middle Earth if you don’t live out a few childhood fantasies? 

The two princes gave each other a confused glance before looking back at Freya. 

“What are you looking for ?” Kili asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and bewilderment as she closed one cabinet and immediately moved on to the next.

It was pretty easy for Freya to guess what he had asked. “A skillet,” She told him, “We are going on an adventure across Middle Earth, facing off against wargs, orcs, and goblins on the way.” She didn’t see a skillet in this cabinet either; she shut it and opened the next one. She continued her monologue even though they wouldn’t understand it, “I will be disappointed in myself for the rest of my life if I don’t take the opportunity to go all ‘Samwise Gamgee’ and beat some people over the head with a frying pan. It has literally been a lifelong dream of mine.” 

Well, maybe not lifelong, but definitely since she’d first seen Sam wielding his frying pan in ‘The Fellowship of the Ring’ as a kid. Ever since then she’d wanted the opportunity (and excuse) to whack someone with one herself. Now she had the chance to do so.  

“Ah ha!” she cheered triumphantly when she finally found a very sturdy-looking skillet. Pulling it out to examine, she couldn’t help but grin, somewhat evilly, at the sight of it. It was a medium-sized cast iron skillet—sturdy, but not too heavy for her pathetic noodle arms to swing. Perfect.

She turned back to Fili and Kili, brandishing the skillet. “I’m taking this with me and no one can convince me otherwise,” she declared with the kind of determination that suggested she was ready to fight anyone who tried to stop her. The fact that neither dwarf understood a word of what she’d just said didn’t matter. Her tone and the way she pointed to the skillet and then to her pack made things pretty clear.

The two looked at each other before shrugging. They didn’t understand what she said, but she had made it pretty clear what she wanted.

Fili performed another sweeping bow, “whatever-my-lady-desires, ” he declared, all dramatic flair, making Freya laugh, and took the skillet from her and tied it to her pack.
“Now that that’s done, let’s go find the others,” she told them, as if she’d just completed some grand quest instead of stealing one of Bilbo’s skillets. 

She led the way to the parlor where Gandalf and Bilbo were waiting with the dwarves who were already packed and ready to leave. Freya’s eyes lit up when she saw Gandalf sitting there with his staff propped next to him.

“Oh my God! Gandalf! Gandalf! We match!” she exclaimed, practically bouncing on her heels as she gestured wildly between her walking stick and his staff. Sure, one was a simple stick, and the other was a magical artifact of immense power, but the details didn’t matter.

Gandalf chuckled at her enthusiasm, “I see you have-acquired a  fine-staff of your-own-for the journey.”

Freya was practically vibrating with excitement. She would have bounded over to the wizard like an overexcited puppy if her body wasn't yelling at her a mix of “Hey, I just got over dying” and “Please, for the love of god, don’t run.” So, she settled for walking faster—still an achievement, all things considered.

She leaned forward to inspect his staff. She had the biggest smile on her face and her eyes were shining with excitement. “Holy shit, this is so cool!” she gushed, her voice barely holding back the urge to squeal. She looked up at Gandalf with wide, pleading eyes. “Can I hold it!? Please tell me I can hold it!?” she begged. It was obvious to everyone what she was asking for. 

Gandalf laughed, a rich, warm sound,

Gandalf couldn't help but laugh at how excited she was, “How-could I  possibly say no to such a  earnest-request.” He picked up his staff and held it out to her, like he was presenting a royal scepter.

Freya cheered and punched the air in triumph. She leaned the walking stick Bilbo gave her on the wall before carefully—reverently—took Gandalf’s staff from his hand. “Holy shit! I can’t believe this is happening!” she whisper-yelled.

The staff was over a foot taller than her and much heavier than the one Bilbo gave her, making it a bit difficult to handle. As she wrapped her hands around the light brown wood, she swore she could feel some sort of energy humming through it. Or maybe that was just her being overly dramatic. Either way, she was in awe. The twisted wood at the top, the hidden slot where Gandalf kept his pipe—every detail was better than she could have imagined.

Freya grinned wider, spreading her arms out as she yelled, “You shall not pass!” in what she hoped was a suitably Gandalf-like voice. She brought her hands together and thumped the staff on the ground, just like Gandalf had done (would do?) when he faced the Balrog in Moria. Before breaking out into more giggles. 

Nothing happened, (not that she was expecting it to) and the movement was awkward, given how tall the staff was compared to her, but she couldn’t have cared less. She had just recreated one of the most epic moments in Middle Earth history with Gandalf’s actual staff. This was, hands down, the best day ever.

The others in the room, who clearly had no clue what she was doing, were all smiling at how ridiculously excited she was. Freya didn’t notice—she was too busy basking in her own nerdy glory.

Of course, the universe couldn’t let her enjoy the moment for too long, because in walked Thorin, the ultimate fun police and mood killer. “We have-delayed-long-enough and we have a long-way to go,” he announced in that commanding, no-nonsense tone of his. “Grab-your-things and let-us-be-off. ” With that he marched towards the door. 

Everyone complied, getting to their feet and grabbing their packs before following him out the door. 

Freya returned Gandalf’s staff with a grin that felt like it might split her face in two. “Thank you, for letting me hold it,” she told him, hoping her gratitude was coming across despite her limited vocabulary.

He gave her a grandfatherly smile and a gentle pat on the head, “You are most welcome my-dear. ” 

She beamed up at him before turning to the circular green door that led out to the rest of the Shire and the start of their adventure. It would be hard—no doubt about that. Not to mention absolutely fucking terrifying at times, especially with the whole fate-of-Middle-Earth-resting-on-your-shoulders thing. But despite all that, Freya couldn’t stop herself from grinning in excitement and anticipation as she walked to the door.

Chapter Text

Bilbo was the last to step out of Bag End, his hand lingering on the key as he locked the round door behind him. This was it. No turning back now. He took a deep breath to steady himself, letting it out in a huff as if that could somehow expel the nerves along with it.

“Right then," he told the rest of the company, "I just need to give my neighbor Hamfast my key and some letters before we leave. Won't be a moment.”

As Bilbo led the way down the winding path of Bagshot Row, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia. The air was filled with the sweet, earthy scent of fresh morning dew mingling with the fragrance of blooming flowers from meticulously tended gardens. It was the smell of home, of safety and routine, and for a brief moment, he wondered if he was making the biggest mistake of his life. But then, the thought of what lay ahead—the unknown, the adventure—ignited a spark of curiosity that he hadn’t felt in years.

The Gamgee residence, nestled cozily under a hill, came into view, its well-kept exterior and vibrant array of flowers and herbs standing as a testament to Hamfast’s dedication. The garden was a riot of colors, with marigolds, foxgloves, and snapdragons reaching for the sun, and Bilbo found himself smiling at the sight. He always did admire Hamfast’s handiwork; it was a comfort to know that Bag End’s own garden would be in good hands.

As he approached, Bilbo spotted Hamfast kneeling in the dirt, already tending to the garden that was his pride and joy; (as well as the envy of many hobbits.) Rows of vegetables were neatly arranged, their leaves glistening with morning dew, and he could see carrots, beets, and cabbages peeking through the earth. His friend was carefully weeding around the plants, his fingers deftly distinguishing between the unwanted invaders and his carefully cultivated crops.

“Good morning, Hamfast,” Bilbo called out as he reached the gate, his voice carrying over the garden fence. Behind him, he heard Freya gasp, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her bouncing on her toes. “Oh-my-god-it’s-Sam’s-dad!”

Hamfast looked up from his weeding, his eyes widened in astonishment as he beheld Bilbo's unusual companions. He blinked, then blinked again, as if expecting the dwarves to disappear on the second go. When they didn’t, he slowly got to his feet, wiped his hands on his trousers, and made his way over to Bilbo, clearly bewildered.

“Good morning, Mister Bilbo,” Hamfast greeted, his voice tinged with concern. “Is everything alright?” His gaze flicked nervously to the dwarves, who looked hilariously out of place in the peaceful garden. 

Bilbo gave his friend a reassuring smile. "Everything is quite alright, Hamfast," He glanced back at the dwarves, who seemed to be doing their best to appear harmless. 

"I’ve decided to accompany these dwarves on an adventure." As soon as the words left his mouth, Hamfast’s concerned expression deepened, and Bilbo couldn’t blame him. “Nothing too exciting, I assure you.” He added quickly, “Just thought I’d embrace my Took side for once and see what lies beyond the borders of the Shire. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like you to keep an eye on Bag End for me until I return. And I’ve got a couple of letters here—one for the Thain and another for my cousin Drogo—that I’d be grateful if you could deliver.”

Hamfast nodded, though the worried expression on his face remained. If you’re sure about leaving, Mister Bilbo, I’ll watch over Bag End till you’re back.”

Bilbo reached into his pocket, pulling out the two letters and handing them over. “I’m quite sure, Hamfast. Thank you for this—I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Hamfast accepted the letters, his worried frown easing just a fraction as he replied, “I’m happy to help, Mister Bilbo. I’ll make sure these get to where they need to go. Are you leaving right away?”

“That’s right,” Bilbo confirmed, before adding, “Oh, and one more thing—could you do your best to keep Lobelia and any other Sackville-Bagginses out of Bag End while I’m gone? I’ve left instructions with the Thain, but you know how they can be. I wouldn’t put it past them to try and worm their way in.”

Hamfast stood a little straighter, a look of determination crossing his face. “Don’t you worry, Mister Bilbo, I’ll keep them out of Bag End while you're gone.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile at that, feeling a bit more confident about leaving his home in such capable hands. He clapped Hamfast on the shoulder, “Thank you again, Hamfast. Do take care while I’m gone.”

Hamfast returned the smile, “Good luck with your journey Mister Bilbo, I’ll make sure Bag End is taken care of until you come back.”

Bilbo had just turned away to rejoin the rest of the group, when Freya walked over to the two hobbits, eyes glittering with excitement. 

“You’re-all-going-to-think-I'm-crazy-but-I-absolutely-have-to-do-this,” she declared, words tumbling out in a breathless rush. Without waiting for a reply, she thrust her hand out towards Hamfast, who blinked at her in bewilderment.

Hamfast turned to Bilbo, his expression a mix of confusion and polite concern. Bilbo could only shrug, as he wasn’t entirely sure what Freya was up to either. “She doesn’t understand much Common, I’m afraid,” he offered, trying to make sense of the situation. “I think she’s just excited to meet another hobbit.”

Hamfast, still a bit confused, eventually shrugged too. “No harm in being friendly, I suppose,” he said, reaching out to shake Freya’s hand.

Freya’s face split into a wide grin. "It's-really-nice-to-meet-you. Your-son-is-one-of-the-most-badass hobbits in-the-history-of-Middle-Earth.”

she chattered on, completely unconcerned by the blank looks she received in return. When she finished, she gave Hamfast a cheerful wave, adding a little hop to her step as she bounced back to the group.

Bilbo and Hamfast watched her go, equally bemused. After a moment, they exchanged glances.

“Well, I’m off then,” Bilbo said, as if the entire interaction had been perfectly normal. “I’ll see you when I return.” With that, he turned and rejoined the group, heading down the road toward Hobbiton.

________________________________________________________________

If she could, Freya would 100% be skipping and running around like a hyperactive 5 year old visiting Disneyland for the first time. She was in The Shire! The actual shire! This was officially the best day of her life! (Death? Afterlife? Didn’t matter.) Her head swiveled from side to side as she tried to look everywhere at once, eagerly taking in every detail that surrounded her. She realized this probably made her look ridiculous, like some sort of crazed bobblehead. That didn't mean she was going to stop, but at least she was aware of it.   

Freya was at the back of the group since she couldn’t walk as fast as the rest of them. Fili, Kili, and Bilbo had decided to keep her company, with the two brothers flanking her like some kind of royal escort, and Bilbo taking the lead a few steps ahead. All three of them were smiling fondly, clearly entertained by how excited she was.

And how could she not be excited? It was a beautiful morning in the Shire! The morning sun was shining down on them, making the nearby drops of dew sparkle, while fluffy white drifted lazily across the sky above them. The air was alive with the sound of songbirds and insects going about their daily lives, it was a stark, beautiful contrast to the city sounds she was used to.

As they walked down the path Freya heard loud, cheery ‘chink-chink-chink’ bird call coming from nearby. She looked over to where the sound came from and saw a beautiful little bird perched at the top of a nearby bush. The bird's head was a bluish color, while its face and chest were an orange-ish pink. Its wings and tail were black and white. She had never seen a bird like it before and her inner nature nerd was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Bilbo! Bilbo!” She called, to get his attention. 

The hobbit looked over his shoulder at her, raising an eyebrow. “Yes Freya?”

“What that!” she asked, pointing to the bird, her words clumsy but enthusiastic.

Her three companions looked over to where she was pointing.

“That’s a bird” Kili told her.

“It’s a  Chaffinch to be-precise” Bilbo added.

“Bird. Chaffinch .” Freya tested out the new words, mentally filing them away. She was a little confused as to why they gave her two for the same bird, but shrugged it off to deal with later. 
Freya looked back at the bird, wondering if it was a species found only in Middle Earth or if it could be found in her world as well. She didn’t think Tolkien had created any songbirds for his universe, but she wasn’t certain. If it was a bird from her world, she wondered where it was from. The Shire was based off of England, but the movies had been shot in New Zealand.

She let out a resigned sigh. There wasn’t any way she could look it up to find out without the internet or any books from her world. Ugh, no Google. No Wikipedia. The horror. That realization was way too depressing to deal with at the moment, so she looked around for something to distract herself with. She spotted a crow flying overhead and asked the others, “What that ?”

“That’s a -crow” Fili answered this time.

Freya was silent for a moment as she mulled over the three words they’d given her. Okay, so they gave her two different words for the first bird, but only one for the second. Maybe hobbits and dwarves had different names for the first bird? 

Freya pursed her lips as she thought, eyes scanning the surroundings for another bird to quiz them on. She found one—a pretty little thing with a bright red face and yellow patches on its wings.

“What that ?” she asked, shoving down another pang of longing for the internet.

“What is that,” Bilbo corrected her before answering, “That is a goldfinch.” 

Freya was quiet for another minute as she thought. They gave her two words for the first bird, and one for the second and third. So what if the first word they gave her meant bird while the second one was the name of the bird.

She looked at her three companions, “ Chaffinch, crow, and goldfinch are bird?” she asked, trying to confirm her theory. 

“Yes,” Fili confirmed, nodding to her with a smile. “Chaffinches, crows, and goldfinches are birds.”

The bird names he gave her were slightly different then before, so she guessed he had used correct grammar and made them plural. She beamed at the three of them, “thank you!”  

They passed by a field of cows as they continued down the path. “Cows,” Freya announced instinctively, pointing. Like that moment when you’re in a car full of people and you pass a field of cows and everyone stops talking to say cows. Or maybe that was just her family and friends. Either way, it was practically a reflex at this point.

“Those are cows,” Bilbo gave her the name in common, and she nodded her thanks and added the word those to her list of new words. She would have to try and remember to write it down later.

Bilbo provided helpfully, giving her the name in Common. She nodded her thanks, mentally adding the word "those" to her growing list of new words. Another word for the pile—she’d have to remember to write it down later. Or forget it entirely, which was equally likely.

They passed by the pasture and stepped onto a small wooden bridge above a large stream. The water is crystal clear, revealing smooth, colorful pebbles on the streambed. Sunlight danced across its surface, creating a sparkling, dappled effect. 

Just past the bridge, Freya caught sight of the edge of Hobbiton before them. She was once again doing her best impression of a deranged bobblehead, trying to take everything in at once. The dwellings were a mix of hobbit holes dug into the surrounding hills and houses built above the ground—both equally adorable in a way that made her want to squish something. They all had front yards full of shrubs and flowers, enclosed with picket fences, low stone walls, or neatly trimmed hedges. It was like a cottagecore fever dream, but real, and she half-expected a fairy or some other whimsical creature to pop out from behind one of the hedges.

Up ahead, she could see the road they were on intersected by another, forming a ‘T’. Around the ‘T’, a small market was set up, bustling with activity. There were quite a few hobbits milling about the square, haggling with animated gestures, carefully inspecting goods, and generally contributing to the low hum of bartering, coins clinking, and the rustle of goods being exchanged. It reminded Freya of the farmer’s markets from her world, but somehow everything here felt more natural and heartfelt.

As they navigated through the market, Freya noticed the wary glances being thrown their way, particularly at the dwarves and their impressive collection of weaponry.

The dwarves strode through the market, seemingly oblivious to the looks they were getting. Though Freya was pretty sure they were just pretending not to notice, considering Dwalin and Oin had subtly slowed down so they were closer to her and the princes. Like they were forming a protective barrier between her and any potential hobbit hostility.

She also noticed that Bilbo seemed to be embarrassed by all the attention they were getting. He looked like he wanted to melt into the ground and disappear, his attempts at giving casual greetings to the people they passed betrayed by the tightness in his smile. Freya couldn’t really blame him—nobody liked being the center of attention, especially when that attention tinged with suspicion and mild horror.

Freya, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about the looks they were getting and continued to look around as they walked, her gaze darting from one vibrant stall to the next. The rich aroma of freshly baked bread and ripe fruits filled the air, making her stomach growl—loudly enough that she hoped no one else heard it. She spotted a produce stand full of amazing-looking fruits and vegetables, including the biggest, reddest strawberries she had seen in her life. (Two lives? Again, doesn't matter.) Her mouth was watering just looking at them.

She reached over to tug on Bilbo's sleeve, “Bilbo can we please get some strawberries.” She begged, pointing at the stall, eyes still locked onto the strawberries. “I know we just had breakfast but those look so good! I’m begging you. I can’t even remember the last time I had strawberries, let alone ones that look so delicious. Strawberries aren’t exactly standard hospital food,” She rambled at him.

Bilbo looked over to where she was pointing. “You want-something-from the stand? ” he asked, his tone both curious and amused.

Freya didn't wait for a formal invitation, practically dragging Bilbo towards the stand with an eagerness that probably made her look like a maniac. The princes and Oin followed behind them. She heard Dwalin say something to the rest of the company but ignored him, her focus solely on the strawberries. 

The poor hobbit vendor looked like a deer caught in headlights. His wide-eyed, frozen stance screamed 'I was not prepared for this level of enthusiasm about my produce.' 

"Good morning, Mr. Nigel," Bilbo greeted, attempting to smooth over the apparent shock their presence had caused. 

Nigel unfroze, looked at Bilbo and gave his own hesitant greeting, “Good morning, Mister Bilbo.” he stammered, his eyes flicking nervously between Freya and the trio of dwarves looming behind her. “Um… What can I get you?” He asked flusteredly, his hands trembling slightly as they reached for a basket. 

Bilbo turned to Freya, raising an eyebrow in a silent question. Taking the cue, she pointed at the strawberries, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Bilbo chuckled, the sound light and indulgent, “It-looks like I  need to buy-some of  your-strawberries-for-my-companion-here.” he translated, clearly amused by the whole situation.

Nigel managed a small smile, seeming to gain back some of his confidence. “Right  away Mister Bilbo. Your-companion-has good taste. I just-picked-these-this  morning.”

He moved to start packing up some strawberries but then glanced over Bilbo’s shoulder and froze once again. Freya turned around to see what had caused the reaction and was met with the sight of Thorin ‘Buzzkill’ Oakenshield stomping toward them with all the grace and subtlety of an oncoming thunderstorm.

Fili and Kili, the brave warriors they were, decided this was an excellent time to make themselves scarce, retreating before their uncle could unleash whatever lecture he had brewing. The cowards.

“What are you stopping-for. We don’t-have-time-for-useless-delays,” Thorin growled, his tone dripping with impatience. Freya had no clue what he was saying, but judging by his tone and the look on his face, he was not happy with her impromptu stop. Before he could launch into a full rant, Freya whirled on him, thwacking him in the chest with her walking stick. 100% ready to throw down with the king.

“Thorin goddamn Oakenshield, I literally died less than a day ago. Let me have my fucking strawberries or I swear to god I will beat you with my frying pan!” Freya growled at him, her eyes blazing with determination; because apparently, this is the hill she was willing to die on. Again.

Thorin took a step back at the unexpectedly vehement reply. His sharp eyes narrowed, and for a split second, he was vividly reminded of his sister Dís when she was craving something—a terrifying force of nature if there ever was one. Thorin, being a wise dwarf who valued his limbs, decided not to test if Freya had inherited similar violent tendencies when denied said craving. 

He glowered at her for a moment longer before turning and walking away. “Fine-but-be-quick-about it,” he called over his shoulder, his voice losing some of its earlier edge.

Ha! That’s right, walk away, mighty Thorin Oakenshield. Let it be known throughout the lands: Freya won strawberries from the King under the Mountain with nothing but a walking stick and sheer fucking audacity.

She turned back to the vendor, smiling brightly. "Strawberries, please!?" she asked innocently, like she hadn't just threatened royalty over some fruit. Bilbo, ever the gentleman, bought some strawberries for Freya, himself, and the princes and fruit in hand, they walked over to where the rest of the company was waiting, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired.

The group continued on their way, turning left at the ‘T’ in the road and making their way out of Hobbiton without any further stops. The path followed the gentle curve of the stream they had crossed earlier, its quiet murmur offering little distraction from the mounting discomfort in Freya’s body.

She managed to keep walking for another ten minutes before her legs decided they’d had enough of this nonsense. The dull ache in her calves, which she had optimistically hoped would stay dull, quickly intensified, turning into a burning sensation that crawled up her legs and settled deep in her thighs. Every step felt heavier than the last, as if the ground was pulling at her feet, urging her to stop. Her lungs strained with each breath, and it felt like she was trying to suck in air through a straw. A faint dizziness crept in, a warning she was all too familiar with, but she was determined to push through it—just a few more minutes, she told herself.

Unfortunately Oin, who was far too perceptive, noticed her struggling before she could force herself to keep going. He stopped the party, his expression a mix of concern and that no-nonsense look she was starting to associate with him. He didn’t say anything—probably because he knew she wouldn’t understand it anyway—but the disapproving look in his eyes spoke volumes. It was the universal "You’re not fooling anyone" expression that doctors seemed to have perfected across all worlds.

Freya opened her mouth to protest—something about being perfectly fine and not at all about to pass out—but Oin was already steering her toward a nearby rock. She sank onto it, grateful despite herself, feeling the cool stone beneath her hands as she tried to steady her breathing. The burning in her legs slowly eased, though they remained heavy, tingling as the tension reluctantly released. She took a few sips of water, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat and she focused on taking slow, steady breaths, trying to calm the frantic thudding of her heart. After a few minutes, the dizziness began to fade, and the world graciously decided to stop spinning. Though her legs still ached and her breaths were still shallow, she nodded to Oin, signaling that she was ready to continue.

After a few minutes, the dizziness subsided, leaving behind a lingering exhaustion. With Oin’s nod of approval, Freya rose to her feet, still slightly wobbly but more determined than ever. Together, they continued down the road toward the Green Dragon Inn, the rhythmic sound of their footsteps blending with the distant murmur of the stream.

Chapter Text

The Company had just reached the Green Dragon and Bilbo was staring with horror at the dreadful creature they expected him to ride. The pony, far larger than he was comfortable with, eyed him with what he could only interpret as mild disdain.

Gandalf chuckled from atop his enormous horse, as if this were all some grand joke. “Come along, Bilbo,” the wizard encouraged, his voice laced with far too much amusement for Bilbo’s liking.

Before Bilbo could muster a retort, Bifur slapped him on the back with enough force to knock the wind out of him. The dwarf said something in his unfamiliar guttural language -  that Bilbo thought was encouragement - before climbing up on his pony.

“Bifur is quite right, Master Baggins,” Dori called from atop his own mare. “These ponies are properly tamed and docile. There’s no need to worry.”

Bilbo very much disagreed with that assessment. In fact, he thought there was every need to worry. He took a step backward, shaking his head and attempting a dignified retreat. “Ah, no, that’s quite alright,” he spluttered. “I’ve never even ridden a pony before, so I’m perfectly happy with walking.” A fine plan, he thought, walking had always served him well enough. 

A disbelieving snort drew his attention, and he turned to see Dwalin approaching with a look that suggested he found this entire situation somewhere between mildly amusing and downright ridiculous. The dwarf took Bilbo’s pack from his hand and tied it to Bilbo’s pony.

“You planning on walking to Erebor…?” Dwalin growled, sounding vaguely amused. “We can’t afford ta stop an' let you rest whenever you get tired, so either you ride, or you don’t come.” The dwarf’s words were punctuated by a final, dismissive tug at the pack’s straps before he strode off to his own mount.

The hobbit stared anxiously at the pony in front of him, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m quite sure I can manage to keep up. Really. I’ve done my fair share of —Ah!” Bilbo cut himself off with a yelp as Fili and Kili lifted him up by his elbows.

The hobbit kicked indignantly as the laughing brothers hoisted him into the saddle like a sack of potatoes. “Was that really necessary?” he grumbled, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

“Maybe not,” Kili admitted with a grin, “but it was funny.”

Bilbo shot the brothers a half-hearted glare, the kind he reserved for his Took nephews when they were particularly troublesome, before trying to adjust his position in the saddle. No matter how he shifted, the saddle forced his legs into an uncomfortable stretch that made him long for the solid, dependable ground beneath his feet. He sighed, resigning himself to a day of discomfort and silently cursing every Tookish bone in his body that had led him to this moment.

They didn’t have a pony for Freya to ride, and even if they did, Oin wouldn’t have let her ride on her own yet. The dwarves were debating who she should ride with when Freya suddenly spoke up, cutting through their discussion.

“ There’s no way I’m not taking advantage of this opportunity to ride with a good looking dwarven prince,” She announced something before turning to point at Fili. “I go with Fili.” she declared with a tone that left little room for argument, "It will be way more fun to hang out with him and Kili anyway. ” 

Fili looked momentarily surprised, but his pleased grin made it clear he wasn’t about to protest. “Don’t worry Oin,” Fili said, his tone light but sincere as he assured the healer. “I promise to take good care of her.” 

Oin, of course, was not so easily convinced. The healer’s face remained stern, his lips pursed in thought as he considered before relenting. “Alright lad, but make sure ta keep an eye on 'er. Ye'll need ta make sure she's eating small snacks as we go,” he ordered. “She'll be getting tired soon an' will probably fall asleep at some point. If she does and you drop ‘er I'll have your beard,” he warned, glaring daggers at the prince for good measure.

Fili gave an indignant huff, “I won’t drop her! Have a little more faith in me, I’m not Kili.”

“Hey!” Kili spluttered, leaning over to smack his brother’s arm.  Oin rolled his eyes at their antics, while Freya laughed, seemingly delighted by the exchange.

Oin pulled out one of the blankets Bilbo had given them, and laid it across the saddle in front of Fili so Freya would have some extra padding. Then he helped Fili lift Freya into the saddle. For all his joking, Bilbo could tell that Fili was taking his job as Freya’s riding companion seriously. He was careful to make sure she was seated securely and in no danger of falling off.

When they finally set off, it was at a slow, relaxed pace, for which Bilbo was immensely thankful. As usual, he found himself near the back of the group with Freya and the princes—a position he was quickly becoming accustomed to. 

As the company headed out through the picturesque green fields and hills, Freya began to sing, her cheerful voice cutting through the quiet morning air.

“Tell everybody, I'm on my way
New friends and new places to see
With blue skies ahead, yes
I'm on my way
And there's nowhere else that I'd rather be

Tell everybody, I'm on my way
And I'm loving every step I take
With the sun beating down, yes
I'm on my way
And I can't keep this smile off my face
And there's nowhere else that I'd rather be.”

Fili and Kili, ever eager to join in on anything remotely fun, quickly caught onto the melody and began humming along. Before long, Bofur had slowed his pony to better listen, then joined in as well. Bilbo listened with quiet amusement, content to let the others enjoy themselves. Freya’s song was infectious, and he couldn’t help but smile as they all tried to sing along—emphasis on tried. More often than not, they stumbled over the words, sending the entire group into fits of laughter that echoed through the fields.

Bilbo was perfectly content to stay quiet, allowing himself to simply absorb the cheerful atmosphere and admire the peaceful scenery. The Bywater Pool on their left was especially beautiful that morning, with the reeds and long grasses swaying gently in the breeze. Lily pads and water lilies floated serenely in the middle of the small lake, disturbed by the occasional splash of a fish. It was all so familiar, so comfortably predictable, that for a moment, Bilbo could almost pretend he was on a morning stroll rather than on an ill-advised journey with a company of dwarves.

On the Bywater’s northern bank Bilbo could see the smials and water-side gardens of Aldo Topleaf, Fuchsia Proudfoot, Godo Bracegirdle, Petunia Hornblower, and Porto Chubb. The hobbits were quite proud of their water-side gardens and had good reason to be so. It was easy to see how dedicated these hobbits were to their gardens by how beautiful they were. Petunia Hornblower’s marsh marigolds, in particular, were a sight to behold—golden blooms that seemed to glow in the morning light.

The company passed by a medium sized stone mill at the south end of the Bywater Pond and found themselves at the edge of the town of Bywater. 

“Um, pardon me, Master Balin,” Bilbo called out, trying to catch the dwarf’s attention. But Balin was too far ahead, and Bilbo bit his lip, nerves fluttering in his chest. Deciding that hesitation would only make matters worse, he nudged Myrtle into a bouncy trot, hoping to catch up without incident.

Myrtle surged forward with far more enthusiasm than Bilbo was prepared for, and he found himself clinging to the reins for dear life. “Oh dear, whoa, please slow down,” he all but begged the pony, his voice tinged with panic. His heart raced as Myrtle bounded ahead, but fortunately, Balin noticed the commotion and reached out to catch Myrtle's bridle, bringing the pony to a more manageable pace beside his own.

““Is everything alright, Master Baggins?” Balin asked, giving the flustered hobbit a reassuring smile.

Bilbo took a moment to collect himself, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you, and yes, everything is quite alright,” he replied, though his nerves were still rattled. “I just thought I’d mention that there’s a stable nearby where we can purchase a pony for Freya. If we don’t do it here, our next chance won’t be until Bree. There’s also a general store where we can stock up on any supplies we might need, and Garnet Grub’s tailoring shop should have the clothes Freya requires.”

Balin’s eyes lit up at the news, and he clapped Bilbo on the shoulder with a hearty approval that nearly sent the hobbit off balance again. “That information is most helpful, laddie,” he praised, his tone sincere. “I’ll go let Thorin know.” With that, he kicked his own pony into a trot, heading up to where Thorin rode at the front.

The two of them talked for a few moments before Thorin turned in his saddle to address Bilbo. “Burglar! Lead the way to the stable you told Balin about,” he ordered.

Bilbo bit back a scowl, resisting the urge to remind Thorin that his name was Bilbo—not "Burglar," not "Hobbit," and certainly not something to be barked at like an unruly sheepdog. With a small, put-upon sigh that did little to ease his irritation, Bilbo guided Myrtle off the main road and down a narrower side path. The lane wound its way through the fields for a few hundred yards before ending at the front of Perkney’s Stables, where Bilbo hoped they could find what they needed without any further complications.

The stable was a sturdy two-story structure, a combination of well-weathered wood and stone that spoke of years of reliable service. Its large double doors at the front stood slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of hay bales neatly stacked inside. To the right, a hay shed leaned against the main structure, its roof sagging just a touch with age. From their vantage point, Bilbo could see the back of the stable opened into a spacious paddock, neatly fenced off with well-worn posts and rails.

The company dismounted when they reached the beginning of the property. Bilbo and Freya had to be helped down, but they managed it without any injuries; a feat which Bilbo considered to be a small miracle. Gloin and Thorin handed their reins to one of the others, then strode forward to meet the man who had emerged from the stable to greet them. 

The fellow—Heward Perkney, if Bilbo remembered correctly—was a burly sort, likely around fifty, with the weathered look of someone who’d spent his life working outdoors. Perkney's Stables was one of the last businesses in town owned by a Man, which made it something of a local landmark. Heward had inherited the stable from his father, and from the look of it, had done a fair job of keeping the place in order.

As Bilbo watched, Heward led Gloin and Thorin over to the paddock, where a collection of ponies milled about, tails swishing lazily. The two dwarves examined the animals with a discerning eye, their expressions revealing nothing of their thoughts. Gloin immediately began haggling over the price, his voice rising and falling in a way that suggested he was enjoying the process far more than the actual purchase. 

After a few minutes of back-and-forth, Gloin and Heward came to an agreement over the cost of the pony as well as any other equipment they needed, and sealed the deal with a handshake. 

When the deal was finally struck, Thorin and Gloin rejoined the company, Gloin leading the newly purchased mare by the reins. He brought the pony over to Freya, his expression softening slightly as he addressed her. “We chose a nice sturdy pony for ye ta ride when yer ready. Tha man said this one is one o' tha calmest an' gentlest ponies he's ever had. Perfect for a new rider.”

Freya approached the mare with slow, measured steps, clearly trying to avoid startling the animal. Bilbo watched with a mix of curiosity and admiration at how confident she was—especially considering that, as far as he knew, Freya had as much experience with ponies as he did. 

He watched as Freya held out her hand for the mare to sniff. And Bilbo briefly wondered if he should have done something similar with his own pony—though in his defense, Fili and Kili had given him little chance before unceremoniously plopping him into the saddle.

The chestnut mare stepped forward, her nostrils flaring as lowered her head to snuffle Freya’s outstretched hand. The gentle, tickling sensation drew a soft giggle from Freya, and Bilbo couldn’t help but smile at the sight. The mare, apparently satisfied with her new owner, began to nuzzle Freya’s face and hair, earning another round of delighted laughter.

“ Hi-there-beautiful, ” Freya murmured, her voice soft and soothing as she gently stroked the pony’s snout and neck. “What a good girl-you-are.”  

FFor a few minutes, Freya continued to fuss over the pony, whispering nonsense to her as she stroked the mare’s coat. Bilbo couldn’t help but smile at the sight—it was clear she was growing fond of the creature, and the feeling seemed mutual. Eventually, she pulled back and, with a decisive nod, announced, “You’re new name is trinket. You might not be a bear, but I can tell you’re going to be just as awesome as your namesake.”

The pony (Trinket) nickered in what seemed like agreement to whatever Freya had said.

Thorin’s voice cut through the moment, bringing Bilbo back to reality. “Burglar, lead the way to the other shops you mentioned,” He ordered, voice sharp and commanding. 

Bilbo’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he forced a nod, swallowing the retort that threatened to slip out. He at least had been raised with manners, after all, and it wouldn’t do to snap at their so-called leader—no matter how much Thorin’s commanding tone set his teeth on edge. It had only been a day since this absurd adventure had begun, and already, Bilbo could feel his patience fraying at the edges. A burglar, was he? Just because he had been roped into this madness didn’t mean he was some common thief to be ordered about.

With a curt nod towards the dwarf, Bilbo turned on his heel, leading the company back to Bywater Road, the familiar path doing little to soothe his growing irritation. As they walked, he kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead, resolutely ignoring the wary stares of his fellow hobbits. It wasn’t every day that a troop of dwarves paraded through the Shire, after all.

He let out a quiet huff, doing his best to maintain a neutral expression. It wouldn’t do to let his annoyance show—at least not yet. But if Thorin thought he could waltz into the Shire and start issuing commands as if Bilbo were some sort of servant, the dwarf would soon learn how wrong he is. Bilbo is a Baggins and a Took, he could out stubborn any dwarf.

With that thought, Bilbo straightened his shoulders, leading the company with a renewed sense of determination, though the wary eyes of his fellow hobbits still lingered uncomfortably on the back of his neck.

Once they reached the center of town Bilbo stopped and pointed at one of the buildings, “That store over there is ‘Easy Threads Stitching’, Garnet Grub owns and manages the business with her husband Bollo. They have a variety of clothes and other tailoring material, so there shouldn’t be any trouble finding Freya what she needs for the journey.”

As they approached, Bilbo couldn't help but admire the quaint charm of the shop. ‘Easy Threads Stitching’ was a cozy establishment, its walls a mix of sturdy clay bricks and wooden beams, giving it a warm, inviting appearance. A wooden sign, painted in a soft shade of light green, hung near the entrance, adorned with small red and yellow flowers that framed the shop's name

Bilbo then pointed to another shop a few buildings down, where a well-crafted sign reading ‘Great Road Goods’ hung proudly over the doorway. “If there are any traveling supplies still needed, you should be able to find them at Great Road Goods. The shop is run by Jolly Proudfoot and his children, Fulk and Daisy. ”

With a plan in place, the company split up. Bilbo, Freya, Dori, Fili, and Kili made their way into Easy Threads Stitching, while Ori, Nori, Oin, and Dwalin headed over to Great Road Goods. The rest of the company stayed behind with the ponies and supplies.

Upon entering the store, Dori immediately took charge, his keen eye scanning the shelves with the precision of a hawk. Bilbo marveled at the dwarf’s ability to assess fabric quality at a glance. Dori moved with purpose, pulling garments off the shelves and inspecting them with a critical eye, occasionally grunting in approval. If the item met his standards, he would bring it over to Freya, holding it up to her to gauge the fit.  

Dori, ever the efficient taskmaster, put the princes to work immediately, making them follow behind him like ducklings trailing after their mother. Bilbo stifled a smile at the sight of Fili and Kili obediently hauling the growing pile of garments and gear, their arms steadily filling with everything Dori deemed necessary. By the time they’d made a full lap of the store—and convinced Misses Grubb to pull out winter clothes from storage—the princes were loaded down with two saddlebags, padded woolen breeches, a sturdy belt, a thick woolen shirt, gloves, a hooded leather cloak lined with fur that fell to Freya’s knees, and a hooded waterproof poncho that would keep her dry.

For his part, Bilbo decided to be practical and picked up a set of needles, three small spools of thread, and some cloth scraps. With this company, he had a feeling patching things up—both figuratively and literally—would be a regular occurrence on the road.

Once they had gathered all the items, they brought them to the counter, where Dori immediately engaged Misses Grubb in a bout of haggling. Bilbo, though impressed by Dori’s prowess, had no intention of letting the dwarf pay. Bilbo might not have the wits of a burglar or the brawn of a warrior, but he did have a certain level of stubbornness that rivaled even the most bull-headed Took. And today, that stubbornness was going to win.

He was well aware that his skills as a burglar were nonexistent, and his knowledge of the wilderness laughable at best; so he was determined to help out wherever he could. So, if there was anything Bilbo could do to contribute, it was this.

Before Dori could protest, Bilbo had already thrust the necessary coins into Misses Grubb’s hand, giving her his most charming smile. Dori, predictably, tried to argue but it was too late. Misses Grubb seemed more than happy to pocket the coins, giving Bilbo a conspiratorial wink as she did so. 

The look on Dori's face was almost comical—a mix of grudging respect and frustrated resignation. He grumbled, of course but in the end, he accepted it. He and the princes packed Freya’s new clothes into the saddle bags they had bought, before bidding Misses Grubb goodbye and heading back to the rest of the company.

When they returned to the rest of the company, they found that the other group had already beaten them back and were just finishing up stowing their purchases. Fili and Kili set to work strapping the bags to Trinket’s saddle, their hands moving with practiced efficiency.

As Bilbo turned his attention back to the group, he noticed Ori shuffling nervously toward Freya, something clutched in his hands. He ducked his head when he reached her, but Bilbo could see that the young dwarf was blushing. 

“I saw this while we were in the store,” Ori began, his voice barely above a murmur as he fiddled with the item in his hands. “I thought you might need it to protect your journal while we travel. It would be horrible if it got damaged by any rain, or fell into a puddle or something, so I got you a waterproof pouch to keep it in.” The words started to tumble out faster and faster, as if Ori was in a race to get them all out before his courage deserted him entirely. With a final, swift motion, he thrust the pouch out to Freya, still blushing furiously and staring determinedly at the ground.

Freya blinked at him, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to piece together the rush of unfamiliar words. She took the pouch gingerly, turning it over in her hands as if unsure what to make of it. “For Freya?” she asked. 

Ori finally dared to look up, his eyes meeting hers with a nervous flicker. “Oh, um, yes, for you—for your book,” he stammered. “Put the book in the bag.”

Freya glanced down at the pouch, muttering “bag” to herself as she inspected it. Bilbo, curious, leaned in slightly to get a better look. The pouch appeared to be made of leather, with a wax coating that promised to keep the rain at bay. It had a tie at the top, followed by a flap that could be secured over it—a simple, clever design meant to protect whatever was inside from the elements.

“Is it waterproof?” Freya mumbled to herself, her tone growing more excited with each word. “Ooh-I-think-it-is! This-is-awesome! I-didn’t-even-think-about-keeping-my-notebook-dry.” She looked up at Ori, grinning, “Thank you Ori! This-is-perfect!”

Before Ori could respond, Freya wrapped him in a quick but heartfelt hug, leaving the poor dwarf standing as stiff as a board, his face now a shade of red that could rival the ripest of tomatoes.

Luckily for Ori, the hug was mercifully brief, and Freya released him, still beaming. “Ah, yes, well, you’re welcome,” Ori stammered, clearly overwhelmed by the attention. “I’m glad you like it.”

By then, the group had finished loading their purchases onto the ponies, and Thorin, ever the taskmaster, swung himself up onto his mount with a look of mild impatience. “We’ve spent more than enough time here,” he announced. “We need to get moving.”

With that the dwarves started mounting up once again. Bofur was kind enough to help Bilbo onto Myrtle without the indignity of being hoisted up like a sack of potatoes—a courtesy he greatly appreciated, especially after his earlier experiences with the princes. 

Freya gave Ori another quick hug as thanks for her new waterproof pouch before Oin helped her up onto Fili’s pony once more. Bilbo had to stifle a grin at the sight—Ori’s face had turned an even deeper shade of red, and Bilbo wouldn’t have been surprised if steam had started coming out of the poor lad’s ears.

When everyone was mounted Thorin and Gandalf led the way down Bywater Road. Within a few minutes they were passing South Lane and Farmer Cotton’s home at the edge of town and heading back into the Shire’s rolling countryside. 

Chapter Text

The company (minus Thorin—Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure the surly dwarf even knew the meaning of the word cheerful) was in high spirits as they made their way through the Shire. They were now on the Great East Road, having just passed the Three Farthing Stone. That meant they were about five miles away from Bywater and had around fourteen miles to go before they reached Frogmorton.

For the first leg of the journey, Bilbo had contented himself with observing from the sidelines as Ori, Bofur, and the princes took it upon themselves to teach Freya that ridiculous “Blunt the Knives” song from last night in Common. They went over the song line by line, correcting her pronunciation when needed, before adding everything together and singing it a few times. 

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile as he watched them, and even joined in the singing once he learned the words. He had to admit, it was a catchy tune, even if it celebrated the very antics that had nearly had him pulling his hair out the previous night.

After Freya had mastered the song in Common, she surprised them all by offering to teach it in her own language. Bilbo perked up at this; he had always been fascinated by languages, ever since he was a faunt. He’d been fascinated with different languages since he was a faunt. His mother, Belladonna, had nurtured this curiosity, teaching him Sindarin and filling the library at Bag End with books about Elvish lore and histories she had brought back from her travels. Learning something new, especially one so different from anything he knew, was an opportunity he couldn’t resist.

Once again they went through the song line by line, slowly adding it together until they were able to sing the entire thing. It wasn’t easy—some of the sounds were entirely foreign to their ears, and there was more than one bout of laughter as Bofur or one of the princes stumbled over a particularly tricky phrase. When they finally managed to sing the song from start to finish without a single mistake, there was a round of triumphant cheers. Bofur and the princes slapped each other on the shoulders, their voices ringing out with genuine delight; making Freya laugh as they jostled her with their enthusiastic celebration. Though Bilbo noticed, with a touch of approval, how they took care not to be too rough with her, making sure she was never in danger of falling. Ori and Bilbo had been quieter in their celebrations, but no less pleased with their success.

_________________________________________________________________

Freya was really enjoying the start of their journey through the Shire. The sun was warm on her face, the sky was a brilliant blue without a cloud in sight, and the scenery was amazing. Not to mention, she had great companions for the journey. She was glad she had chosen to ride with Fili and Kili; they were fun, easygoing, and had a knack for making her laugh. Bofur had joined their group as well, just as cheerful and laid-back as she had expected. 

Trying to teach them the lyrics to ‘On My Way’ had been a riot. The three of them had been so eager to learn, even though she couldn’t explain the meaning of the words in Common. Their attempts to fumble through the English syllables were nothing short of hilarious. Their thick accents turned the lyrics into something entirely their own—a delightful mess of mismatched sounds and mispronunciations. It was a mess, but it was their mess, and that made it perfect. Watching them struggle to get the words right—while refusing to give up—filled her with a warmth that was hard to describe. 

It honestly meant a lot to her that they were trying to learn English instead of just teaching her Common. It felt like they were meeting her halfway, making an effort to connect with her on her terms. She wasn’t just some foreigner who had to adapt to everything around her—they were adapting too, even in this small way. That meant the world to her. They cared enough to try, and that was something she hadn’t expected. Back in her old life, people were always kind, but there was a limit to how much they'd inconvenience themselves for her. Yet here, in this strange and wonderful place, these dwarves were going out of their way to bridge the gap between them. It was more than she could have hoped for.

Not long after they left Bywater, Freya caught Ori’s attention and had him join their merry little band. Ori seemed so sweet, and she wanted to include him in the friendship she was building with Fili, Kili, and Bofur. He struck her as a bit shy and unsure of himself, so she figured this was a perfect opportunity to help him feel more comfortable. Plus, she really wanted to practice her Common, and what better way to start than with “Blunt the Knives”? She already had it memorized in English, and the others were happy to teach her the words in Common.

The group had successfully taught her how to sing the song in Common, and she had returned the favor by teaching them it in English. Bilbo had even joined in at one point, his curiosity piqued by their little English lesson. It was a strange but wonderful experience, hearing familiar words sung in unfamiliar voices, and she found herself laughing more than she had in months.

After they finished going over the song, Freya took a moment to take in the scenery while the others chatted. On their left, a grassy stretch of land sloped down to a stream that ran parallel to the road. The water sparkled in the sunlight, and she could see dragonflies darting across the surface. She could hear the soft murmur of the stream as it flowed over rocks, mingling with the sound of birdsong from the trees that lined its banks. She closed her eyes for a moment, just to feel the breeze on her face, to listen to the sounds of life all around her. 

Speaking of the road—they were traveling on the Great East Road! A road made by the dwarves in the First Age! The thought sent a thrill of excitement through her. It was well over 6,000 years old, a piece of history beneath their feet. Freya had never seen anything that came close to being that old before. Sure, it was a little boring compared to the other ancient ruins and famous locations of Middle Earth—like Rivendell, Gondor, or Moria—but it was still pretty cool. How many people could say they had traveled a road this ancient? A road that had seen the rise and fall of civilizations, that had been witness to the passage of time itself?

On the right side of the road, rolling grassy hills sprawled out around them, dotted with farms and orchards. There were tons of wildflowers mixed in with the various grasses, their vibrant colors standing out against the greenery. She could see bees flitting from flower to flower, and birds perched on bushes and fences, singing their hearts out. The whole scene felt like something out of a dream, and for a moment, Freya forgot about everything else—her past life, her illness, even the daunting quest ahead of them. She was just here, in this beautiful place, surrounded by nature and new friends.

Freya was really curious about the different kinds of plants and animals she was seeing. She wished she understood enough Common to talk to Bilbo about them. He seemed like the kind of person who would know all about the local plants and animals, and she would have loved to pick his brain. She had been fascinated by nature and ecology ever since she was a kid, spending countless hours watching nature documentaries like ‘Planet Earth,’ ‘Blue Planet,’ ‘Life,’ ‘Nature's Great Events,’ and various Animal Planet TV shows.

Before she got sick, she had wanted to be just like David Attenborough when she grew up—traveling the world, discovering new species, and sharing her passion with others. Even when she was hospitalized, she never gave up her fascination with the natural world. Her parents had even gotten her an Oculus so she could explore the world in VR since she couldn’t do it in person. She had spent hours immersed in those virtual landscapes, losing herself in the beauty and wonder of nature, even when her body was too weak to leave her hospital bed. And now here she was, in a place more breathtaking than anything VR could ever replicate, surrounded by the real sights and sounds of Middle Earth.

Freya’s eyes caught sight of some tall white flowers swaying gently off the road ahead. They kinda looked like really tall daisies, their bright white petals standing out against the green grass. Since Bilbo had been able to tell her about some of the birds they had seen back in Hobbiton, she figured they could probably figure out a way for him to teach her about some of the flowers she saw.

“Bilbo, what is that ?” she asked, pointing at the flowers. 

Bilbo and the dwarves looked over to where she was pointing. “ Do you mean the flowers ?” He asked. 

Freya’s eyebrows scrunched together as she translated his words in her head. ‘Do you… something… the… something.’ Okay, so the third word probably meant ‘mean,’ and the last word was likely ‘flowers.’ But was he actually asking about the flowers she pointed at, or was he confused, thinking she might be pointing at something else—a rock, maybe, or the grass? She’d gotten a little better at piecing things together, but sometimes she still felt like she was grasping at straws.

She pursed her lips as she tried to figure out how to make sure they were understanding each other correctly. She sat up a bit and twisted to look behind her at Fili, “Fili, we go over …” Freya trailed off realizing she didn’t know the word for ‘there’. 

Luckily, Fili seemed to understand what she was trying to say. “ You want to go over there? Where you were pointing? ” He asked, already guiding their pony to the side of the road she had pointed to.

“ Yes, thank you ,” Freya told him, trying to commit the words: want, there, and pointing to memory (and hoping that they really did mean what she thought they did). They reached the patch of flowers she had pointed to earlier, “What is that?” she asked, her voice eager as she pointed at the flowers once more.

“ Those are flowers,” Bilbo told her, as Kili led the hobbits pony over to join her and Fili, “Oxeye-daisies.”  

Freya watched as Bilbo frowned thoughtfully, clearly trying to figure out the best way to explain something more. His brow furrowed, and he glanced around as if searching for inspiration. As he thought, Bofur and Ori brought their ponies closer, forming a small group around her.

“Ah!” Bilbo explained, snapping his fingers as thought of something. He turned to Kili, “Kili, would you be-willing to pick-some-plants for me? I think that would-make it easier to explain to Freya what they are. ”

Freya tried to figure out what he had said but gave up since there he had used too many words she didn’t know.

Kili gave the hobbit a bright smile, “I’d be happy to help .” The young dwarf hopped off his pony and passed the reins to Bofur. “ What would you like-me to get, Master Boggins?” He asked as he walked beside the ponies. 

Freya couldn’t help but snicker as Kili mispronounced Bilbo’s name. She had been a little disappointed that she hadn’t witnessed the initial confusion when Bilbo and Fili first arrived at Bag End, but she was glad Kili was still mangling his name. It was one of those little details she had loved in fanfics—sometimes Kili messed up Bilbo’s name just to mess with him, other times it was because he genuinely couldn’t get it right. She really hoped it was the former because that had a lot more comedic potential.

Bilbo sighed, his tone exasperated but somehow affectionate.  “It’s Baggins, Kili, not Boggins.” 

Kili laughed, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “ sure-thing-Master Boggins.”

Freya had to bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud. Oh, he’s definitely doing it on purpose. Bilbo let out another sigh, this one more resigned, but didn’t bother correcting him further. “Just call me Bilbo then. Could you bring-me-one of the white-flowers I was just-talking-about?” The hobbit asked. “Then-one of the tall-purple-ones-sticking-out of the grass-over-there.”

Bilbo pointed to a spot about 10 feet from the road, where there were 3 foot tall purple flowers sticking out of the grass. The flowers reminded Freya of thistles you could gather in Skyrim.

Bilbo glanced around, “ Oh! And get-some of the yellow-flowers that are right by the edge of the road .” 

Kili darted off, quickly gathering the plants Bilbo had pointed out. He returned with a handful of the white and yellow flowers, along with a few of the purple ones, and presented them to Bilbo with an exaggerated flourish. Freya couldn’t help but laugh—Kili was always so delightfully over the top, and she loved it.

“ Thank you Kili,” Bilbo said as he looked through the flowers.

“Not a problem Master Boggins!” Kili beamed at the hobbit with fake innocence, before mounting his pony again. Freya snickered again. Yep, absolutely on purpose.

Bilbo huffed and rolled his eyes, apparently giving up on trying to correct the dwarf. He arranged the flowers in front of him, securing them so they wouldn’t fall off his saddle, then picked out one of each flower. Turning to Freya, he held out his hand, showing her the flowers. “ this flower is an Oxeye-daisy .” He told her as he pointed to the white flower. “ This flower is a common-knapweed” he said, pointing to the purple thistle like flower. “ And this flower is a Bird's-foot-trefoil,” he finished, pointing to the yellow flower. He handed all three of them to Freya.

She studied each of the flowers. The one Bilbo had called an Oxeye-daisy had delicate white petals that extended outwards from a bright yellow center. The one called Common-Knapweed really did look like a thistle, with a tightly clustered head of tiny, rich purple flowers and spiky leaves at the cluster's base. The last flower grew like a carpet and had clusters of tiny yellow flowers that were tinged with orange. She felt Fili shift a little behind her so he could look at the flowers over her shoulder.

Freya thought over what Bilbo had said. She pointed to the white flower, “flower,” then pointed to the purple one, “flower,” then the yellow “flower,” she said before pointing at them again in the same order, “Oxeye Daisy, Common Knapweed, Bird's-foot-trefoil.” She looked at Bilbo and tilted her head to see if she had understood him correctly.

The hobbit and the dwarves smiled proudly at her. “Yes, that’s right! Well-done,” Bilbo congratulated her. Freya processed the words and grinded back at him when she figured out what he had said.

__________________________________________________________________

Freya worked with her riding companions on expanding her vocabulary in Common while they tried to learn her own language in return. The whole thing was a bit of a mess at first -with lots of pointing and confused looks- but soon they found their rhythm, pointing at things and naming them as they rode. It was like an educational version of ‘I Spy,’ except with more stumbling over words and occasional laughter when someone inevitably mispronounced something. As they learned more words, they started correcting each other’s sentences to make them sound more like, well, actual sentences.

In addition to pointing out objects along the way—“tree,” “sky,” “river”—they also tackled numbers, counting from one to twenty. Freya never thought she’d feel so accomplished just by counting things. After they had memorized the numbers they added them to the words they had already learned, then quizzed each other to practice using them. (10 birds, 5 clouds, 13 trees and the food they gave Freya to snack on as they rode; 3 apples, 14 nuts, 18 strawberries.)

What really impressed Freya was Ori’s ability to write while on horseback. Seriously, how was that even possible? She was lucky if her handwriting was legible while trying to write in a moving car, and here was Ori writing away while riding a freakin pony. The young scribe was busily jotting down all the translations they were learning, his quill scratching steadily across the parchment like they were sitting at a desk rather than bouncing along a dirt path.

They continued practicing for about two hours before Freya started to feel the creeping weariness in her bones. The mental gymnastics of translating words, coupled with the physical strain of riding, were finally catching up to her. She tried to ignore it, determined to keep her eyes open and take in every bit of the Shire, but her body was having none of it. Traitorous thing. A yawn escaped before she could stop it, and she slumped back against Fili pouting.

It wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to fall asleep—she was in the Shire, in Middle Earth, this was a dream come true! Ok sure, she hadn’t done this much activity in years, but she didn’t want to be reasonable. She wanted to stay awake and see all the rolling hills and charming little hobbit holes. Sadly, her traitorous body was loudly reminding her of its limitations, and the battle to stay awake was quickly becoming a losing one. Her eyelids were staging a mutiny, growing heavier despite her best efforts to keep them open. Ugh, this was the worst kind of betrayal.

“You can-sleep. I’ve-got you,”Fili told her something, his voice a gentle rumble against her ear, but she was too tired to try and translate it. Her brain had officially clocked out for the day.

She felt him shift her into a more comfortable position, his strong arms keeping her securely in place as if she were a particularly delicate treasure he didn’t want to drop. The thought made her smile faintly, though it was probably just her half-asleep brain being sappy. She reluctantly let herself relax against him, her head leaning on his shoulder.

The steady rhythm of his breathing was lulling her into a cozy state of half-consciousness. Even as she drifted off, she couldn’t help but let out a small huff of laughter. If she absolutely had to fall asleep, wrapped in the arms of a handsome dwarven prince was a pretty great place to do so.

____________________________________________________________________

After Freya had fallen asleep the group that had been riding with her drifted apart. Fili and Kili slowed their ponies down until they were at the back of the line, where there was less noise that could wake Freya up. Bofur had moved ahead to ride with his family, leaving Bilbo to remain beside Ori. A short while later, Nori, Ori’s older brother, joined them, riding on the other side of his younger sibling.

The hobbit shifted in his saddle, trying—and failing—to find a more comfortable position for his poor aching backside.

“This is why hobbits don’t ride ponies,” he muttered, wincing as another jolt of discomfort shot through him.

“An' why would' that be Master Hobbit?” Nori asked, raising an eyebrow at Bilbo. As Bilbo looked over at the dwarf he realized that Nori’s eyebrows were so long he was able to braid them into the rest of his intricate hairstyle. The detail nearly made him forget his discomfort, almost.

Bilbo gave Nori a wry grin, trying to maintain his good humor despite the growing ache in his rear. “Because our legs are far too short to fit around their fat middles,” he said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “I’ll be walking bow-legged for days after this.” 

He once again tried to adjust himself in his saddle, attempting to mirror Nori’s posture, but he still felt like a sack of potatoes that had been thrown on top of the Mrytle’s back.

Nori let out a snort of laughter, which helped cheer Bilbo up a bit—though not enough to make him forget his misery entirely.

“Would ya rather walk then?” Nori asked, an amused twinkle in his eye. “If ya did that, you’d be complainin’ of sore feet instead of sore legs.” 

“No I would not!” Bilbo cried in mock outrage. “Hobbits are made for walking, we go everywhere on foot! I myself have walked all the way to Bree before.”

“Ori, ever curious, looked up at him with wide eyes. “Is that why your feet are so leathery?”

“That’s correct,” Bilbo replied, smiling at the young dwarf’s fascination. It was rather charming how Ori soaked up information like a sponge. “The soles of our feet are thick and tough enough to walk on most terrain without feeling any discomfort. In fact, hobbit feet are so sturdy that we don’t wear shoes.” He paused, reconsidering. “Well, except for the Stoors, but they’re a rather odd bunch anyway.”” 

Nori leaned around his brother to inspect Bilbo’s feet, while Ori’s quill scratched furiously across his notebook, recording every word. When Ori finished, he looked up at Bilbo again, eager for more information. “Stoors? Is that a hobbit clan? What makes them so odd, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t mind at all,” Bilbo assured him, pleased to have someone interested in hobbit lore. He took a moment to collect his thoughts before answering. “I suppose they could be considered a clan, yes. As for what makes them odd, well, there are a few things. For one, they’re the only hobbits who can grow beards. They also have an affinity for water, and are really the only hobbits that use boats or can swim.” 

He couldn’t suppress the shudder that ran through him at the thought of swimming, a memory of nearly drowning as a child resurfacing unbidden. The cold grip of the water, the panicked thrashing—best not to dwell on it. Bilbo noticed Nori studying him curiously, and the hobbit quickly brushed aside the memory and continued his explanation for Ori. “The Stoors have mostly settled along the Brandywine in Buckland and the Marish. And because they live along the river, they wear boots to keep their feet dry. All in all, the rest of the Shire considers them to be quite odd and un-hobbitish.”

Ori diligently scribbled down everything Bilbo had said. When he finished, he looked up with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “Would it be alright for me to ask you some more questions about hobbits, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo nodded, a warm smile tugging at his lips. The lad’s enthusiasm was infectious, and it wasn’t often Bilbo had an attentive audience outside of the usual gossiping hobbits. “I’d be delighted to answer your questions, Master Ori. And please, feel free to call me Bilbo.”

Ori smiled back at him, “Thank you Bilbo, but if I do then you have to call me Ori in return. I’m not Master of anything yet, and I have a ways to go before I’m considered a Master of my craft.”

Bilbo tilted his head curiously, sensing an opportunity to learn more about his new companion. “What craft are you pursuing?”

Ori practically glowed with excitement, his whole demeanor brightening. “I am an apprentice scribe to Balin. He tasked me with documenting the quest and turning it into a book as my Mastery Project.”

Over Ori’s shoulder Bilbo could see Nori looking at his younger brother, his usually mischievous expression softened by a proud smile.

“After I complete it, I will have to present it to a committee of Master Scribes to be evaluated. If they approve of my work, then I’ll be considered a Master Scribe as well,” Ori finished, his voice tinged with both nervousness and excitement.

“There’s no doubt in my mind that your record of our quest will earn you your Mastery,” Bilbo assured the young scribe, “Even though I met you yesterday I can see how smart and passionate you are. Your book is going to be excellent and I, for one, am excited to read it.”

Ori looked down at his hands, blushing furiously, but Bilbo could see the small happy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He had to admit, it was a bit endearing, the way Ori resembled a flustered faunt who’d just been praised for his first drawing. Bilbo glanced over to Nori, who caught his eye and gave him an approving nod, as if Bilbo had just passed some unspoken test.

“Thank you, Bilbo. I’ll work hard and make sure it lives up to your expectations,” Ori promised, still blushing. He shifted awkwardly in his seat, clearly trying to divert the conversation away from himself. “Um, anyway,” he continued, his voice wavering just slightly, “Since you decided to join us as our burglar, I wanted to include some information about hobbits. There are so few records about hobbits or the Shire, and I would love to learn more.”

“I’m not surprised that you weren’t able to find much information about us. Hobbits are similar to dwarves when it comes to secrecy towards outsiders. Usually, Hobbits don’t leave the Shire, and even the ones that do never go past Bree.”

“Really? Why is that?” Ori asked.
“Us hobbits are peaceful people who enjoy living simple, quiet lives,” Bilbo explained, feeling a swell of pride as he spoke of his kin. “We aren’t concerned with gold or riches, or battle prowess. We place far more value on fertile land to till, good food to eat, good company to spend time with, and the comfort of our own hearths.” A comfortable fire, a well-stocked pantry, and a garden—that was all a hobbit really needed to be content.
“Like I told Gandalf yesterday, most hobbits think adventures are nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things that make you late for dinner,” Bilbo let out an amused snort as he thought back to what he had said. “The only hobbits that would consider going off on an adventure are the Tooks and Brandybucks.”

“What do ye mean yesterday?” Nori asked, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “The wizard told us ye had agreed ta host us a month ago.”

“What, no I didn’t!?” Bilbo looked at him in confusion.

“I must have misheard ya, laddie,” Oin spoke up from behind Bilbo, leaning forward on his pony and holding up his ear trumpet. “It sounded like ye said ye didn’t know we were coming.”

Bilbo turned to the healer, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and indignation. “I had no idea you were coming. I hadn’t seen Gandalf in years before yesterday, and he definitely didn’t tell me that I was going to have thirteen dwarves at my table that same evening!” He could feel his frustration bubbling over, his voice rising with each word. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have been so terrible of a host! Honestly, that level of bad hosting is unheard of in the Shire! It was a disgraceful showing of hobbit hospitality!” Bilbo was working himself up into a full-blown rant, the events of the previous evening flashing before his eyes. He got so carried away that he didn’t notice the entire company falling silent to listen.

“I am a hobbit, and more than that, I am a Baggins and a Took!” Bilbo declared, his chest puffing out slightly. “We are quite used to hosting large gatherings. If Gandalf had asked me to host you that morning as a favor, I would have been happy to do so—if a bit annoyed that he had given me so little warning!” Bilbo continued, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. He could almost see the detailed checklist in his mind, all the ways he would have prepared for the company’s arrival.

“If I had even a half a day's warning, I would have had cooked pig, breaded beef, roasted chicken, at least three different soup options, a few shepherd's pies with mashed potatoes, plates of cheese, fruits, and vegetables for between-meal snacking,” Bilbo listed, oblivious to the looks of shock creeping over the dwarves' faces as he continued his tirade.

“Not to mention the desserts! The Gamgees would have been more than happy to let me use their kitchen for last minute cooking. Bell would have insisted on helping me bake some apple tarts, blackberry cobbler, rhubarb pies, jam cookies, and gingersnaps for dessert. And Hamfast would have helped me air out all the guest bedrooms, as well as the linens needed for the guest beds.” 

Bilbo broke off his rant when he finally noticed the stunned expressions on Nori and Ori’s faces. The dawning realization that he might have, in fact, made a bit of a spectacle of himself was like a splash of cold water to the face. As he looked around, all the dwarves were staring at him in varying degrees of horrified silence. The hobbit froze, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment, the warmth creeping up his neck like a slow-burning fire.

Balin was the first to break the silence, his eyes narrowing as he turned to Gandalf. “Is this true, Gandalf?” he asked, suspicion heavy in his voice.

Gandalf looked distinctively shifty and Bilbo felt a surge of vindication as the wizard refused to meet the dwarf’s eyes. “Ah, well. I thought it would be best to… ease him into it, that way he would be more amenable when it came to hosting all of you.”

None of the dwarves seemed to be happy with Gandalf’s reasoning. And Bilbo was entirely unimpressed with the wizards' manipulations. 

The hobbit glared at the wizard, “You are quite lucky that I am used to hosting large parties. If I wasn’t my pantries would have been completely insufficient! Honestly Gandalf, your attempts last night to catch me off guard and trick me into spontaneously agreeing to ‘go on an adventure’ were definitely not appreciated. And you will be finding out how unappreciated they were for a good long while!”

The company was surprised to see the wizard grimace at the hobbit’s threat, but Bilbo was not. He knew how to hold a grudge—he was a Baggins-Took, after all. If Gandalf thought he could weasel out of this one with a smile and a twinkle in his eye, he was sorely mistaken. A Tookish temper wasn’t something easily quelled, especially when coupled with a Baggins' stubbornness.

Most of the dwarves exchanged dark looks with one another, clearly displeased with how their quest to reclaim a homeland had been reduced to the rather flippant phrase of ‘going on an adventure.’

Thorin, clearly sharing in the collective displeasure, sent a glare in Gandalf’s direction before slowing his pony to ride next to Bilbo. The dwarf’s brows furrowed, his scowl deepening as he seemed to wrestle with his thoughts. Bilbo braced himself for whatever gruff comment or command might follow, but instead, Thorin cleared his throat and turned to address him, “I want to apologize for my actions when we met last night. When I saw how unprepared you were, I assumed you hadn’t bothered to remember what day we were arriving, or that you didn’t care enough to prepare anything. I also would like to apologize on behalf of my company for imposing on you and for any distress we caused.”

Bilbo blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected an apology from Thorin—least of all one so serious and heartfelt. Thorin didn’t strike him as the apologizing sort; that task, he’d assumed, would fall to Balin, who seemed far better suited for diplomacy. But there was something almost touching about the way Thorin spoke, and against his better judgment, Bilbo found his opinion of the dwarf king rising a notch or two. Perhaps he wasn’t as pigheaded as he’d initially thought.

“Well,” Bilbo began, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself, “I suppose it was a bit unexpected at the time, but I don’t regret accommodating all of you.” He looked around at the other dwarves, his smile softening. “I only wish I could have been a better host.”

“After learning all this, yer tha best host I've ever known.” Bofur called out with a chuckle. “Anyone else would've thrown us out.” 

“Oh no, I couldn’t have done that, it would have been exceptionally rude,” Bilbo laughed. “I was honestly just flustered, I’m really quite glad that it happened. You all have nothing to apologize for,” he assured them. Then, his eyes gleamed with a mischief that no doubt spoke to his Tookish blood, and his smile widened into something unsettling. “If anyone has something to apologize for, it’s Gandalf. And I can assure you he will be quite sorry for a good long while.”

The wizard grimaced, clearly recognizing that glint in Bilbo’s eye. “Now, now, Bilbo, surely there’s no need for any unpleasantness. After all, you did just say you were quite happy to host the company for dinner and join them on their quest,” Gandalf attempted, no doubt hoping to placate the hobbit with his usual charm. But Bilbo was having none of it.

He glared at the wizard, feeling the familiar warmth of indignation flare up in his chest, “Gandalf Greyhame, you deliberately forced me into the position of being a bad host. I am still very much upset with you and none of your attempts to placate me will change that.” With that, Bilbo stuck his nose in the air, thoroughly ignoring the wizard’s further attempts at conversation. He slowed his pony until he was out of speaking distance, leaving Gandalf to stew in his own discomfort.

Chapter Text

The company continued on for another hour or so before Oin told Thorin that they needed to stop for lunch. The healer explained that riding for so long would be hard on Freya since she wasn’t used to it and her body was so weak. She would need to stretch and have a proper chance to eat and rest.  Thorin’s eyes narrowed, clearly displeased at the prospect of delay, but after a moment, he gave a curt nod. He knew Oin was right, even if he didn’t like it.

They found a small clearing near a stream, surrounded by trees, that would serve well enough for a brief rest. The dwarves moved efficiently, picketing their ponies and preparing for lunch.

_________________________________________________________________________

Oin dismounted, handing his pony to Gloin, who had agreed to take care of it so his brother could focus on Freya. The old healer’s steps were steady as he made his way over to where Fili and Kili had come to a stop. Kili had already dismounted and was busy picketing his and Freya’s ponies. Fili remained on his pony, Freya still asleep in front of him, her breathing soft and steady against his chest. He could feel the warmth of her, slight as it was, and it made him acutely aware of how fragile she seemed in his arms.

As Oin approached, Kili quickly finished securing the ponies and moved to hold the reins of Fili’s mount. Fili caught the nod of approval Oin gave his younger brother, but his focus was on Freya.  He hated to wake her, but she needed to eat, needed to stretch, needed to be taken care of, even if it meant pulling her from dreams. 

“Come on, lass,” Oin said, shaking her leg gently. “It’s time ta get up.”

Freya twitched but showed no other sign of waking. Fili hesitated for a moment before gently shaking her shoulder. “Come on, Freya, rise and shine. It’s time for some lunch.”

This time, Freya groaned, a long, drawn-out sound of protest that made Fili chuckle. “That’s right, it’s time to rise and shine, sleepy head,” he teased softly.

“Uuggghhh, go away ” Freya mumbled, turning and curling up against Fili’s chest as if she could bury herself in his warmth and shut out the world. The way she nestled closer made something in Fili’s chest tighten. She reminded him so much of the kitten their neighbor had kept back in Ered Luin, all soft and small. He had to seriously fight the urge to wrap his arms around her. His brother's laughter interrupted his thought; he looked up to find Kili waggling his eyebrows at him, a mischievous grin on his face. Fili felt his face heat up, and Kili snickered. If his brother was standing just a little bit closer Fili would have kicked him.

“None o' that, lass,” Oin chided gently, pulling Fili’s attention back to Freya. “Ye need ta get up an' out o' tha saddle for a bit.” He shook her leg a bit harder this time, and Freya responded with a grumbled complaint, her face scrunching up as she reluctantly turned away from Fili’s chest to glare blearily at the world. The sight made Fili think of that same kitten, grumpy and indignant at having its nap interrupted. He couldn’t help but smile.

“There ye are,” Oin said, his tone encouraging. Freya turned toward the sound of his voice, blinking sluggishly as she tried to focus on him. “Nap time’s over for now. Ye need ta get out o’ that saddle an’ walk around for a bit.”

Freya stared at him uncomprehendingly, clearly still half asleep.

“Freya,” Kili said, his voice gentle as he tried to get her attention. He waited for her to look at him before continuing, “You come down and walk.”

Freya was quiet for a few moments, eyebrows scrunched together as she forced her tired mind to figure out what Kili had told her. They could tell the moment she pieced it all together, she scowled and slumped back against Fili and groaned dramatically.

All three of the dwarves laughed. “None o’ that now,” Oin scolded her, though there was no real sternness in his voice. “Ye’ll be sorry later if ye don’t stretch yer legs now.”

Freya pouted for a moment longer, but then, with a heavy sigh of resignation, she mumbled,“fine, lets go.”

Fili carefully lifted her out of the saddle, handing her down to Oin’s waiting arms. She felt so light, almost too light, and it made his heart ache in a way he wasn’t quite prepared for. Mahal had crafted dwarves to be sturdy, resilient, built to weather the world’s dangers and hardships. Not only did dwarves possess great physical strength and endurance they were also immune to human diseases. Fili knew this, had grown up with it, and had never given it much thought. Until now.

That same strength made it all the more jarring to encounter someone like Freya. She was so thin, so fragile-looking, that it stirred a deep, unsettling worry in him. It was as if the slightest breeze might knock her over, or the gentlest touch might break her. He hated that feeling—hated how helpless it made him feel. Not that he was the only one worried. All the dwarves in the company were concerned about her, even his uncle, though Thorin didn’t show it as openly as the rest. Thorin’s concern was there, in the way he watched her out of the corner of his eye, in the slight furrow of his brow whenever she faltered.

Dwarven women were revered, cherished, fiercely protected, and treasured above all else. Only one-third of their population were women so they were more valuable than gold, more than any precious stone found deep within the mountains. And while Freya was not a dwarrowdam, Fili had noticed that the company treated her with the same care and respect they would offer their own. She might not have been born of stone, but in their eyes, she was just as worthy of their protection.

They had only traveled for half a day so it probably wasn’t obvious to Bilbo, Tharkun, or Freya, but it would be obvious to any other dwarf. It could be seen in the way all of them would check on her every so often, the way no one complained at how slow their pace was, or how Thorin didn’t even argue about stopping for lunch when Oin told him Freya needed to rest.

Fili thought about all of this as he watched Oin carefully support Freya when her legs threatened to buckle beneath her. A flicker of concern tightened his chest as the healer adjusted his grip, one hand at her waist, the other steadying her arm. She looked so small, so fragile in Oin's hold, and yet there was a spark of determination in her eyes that Fili couldn’t help but admire.

“I’ve got ye,” Oin assured her, his tone gruff but gentle.

Despite his worry Fili couldn’t stop himself from smiling when he noticed that Freya was glaring at her legs as if she could intimidate them into taking her weight. he had that look about her, the one that spoke of stubbornness and quiet defiance, the kind that he’d seen in warriors who refused to yield, even when the odds were stacked against them. It was... admirable. Endearing, even.

When glaring her legs into submission didn’t work she let out a resigned sigh and shuffled forward with Oin’s help. Heading over to where one of the other dwarves had laid out another of Bilbo’s blankets, and helped her sit down.

Fili shook himself out of his thoughts, realizing he’d been staring. He hoped no one had noticed—least of all Kili, who would surely have something to say about it. With a practiced motion, he dismounted his pony, tying it alongside the others before heading over to join the rest of the company for lunch.

________________________________________________________________

Meanwhile… 

Bilbo was relieved that Thorin had agreed to stop for lunch. He had been snacking as they rode but it wasn’t enough to make up for missing second breakfast and elevenses. Not to mention, his legs were practically begging for a good stretch after being perched awkwardly on the saddle for what felt like an eternity. The thought of solid ground beneath his feet again was nearly as tempting as the promise of food.

When the company finally came to a halt, Bilbo managed to bring Myrtle to a stop without too much fuss—something he considered a minor victory. Now came the more daunting task: getting down. He didn’t want to keep burdening his companions by forcing them to help him mount and dismount the pony. He knew he was a liability with his limited travel experience, and the hobbit wanted to learn as much as he could so he wouldn’t remain such a liability. Even if it meant confronting the terrifying prospect of dismounting Myrtle without assistance.

It couldn’t be too difficult, he told himself, the dwarves made it look easy enough. 

Swinging his right leg over Myrtle’s back, Bilbo attempted to slide down gracefully. In theory, it should have been easy. In practice, it was anything but. He managed to put his foot down but ended up off balance. He tilted to the side and his left foot got stuck in its stirrup. 

Bilbo yelped as he started to fall backwards. In that heart-stopping moment, Bilbo was certain he was about to crack his skull open and end this whole adventure before it even properly began. But instead of meeting the ground, he found himself caught by a pair of strong arms, saving him from what would have undoubtedly been a painful—and humiliating— tumble. He looked up, heart still hammering in his chest from his near tumble, to see who had saved him.

“Bofur,” he said, letting out a sigh of relief. “Thank the Green Lady you were there, I thought for sure I was about to fall and split my head open.”

Bofur grinned down at him, his expression equal parts amusement and reassurance. “We can’t be havin' that now, can we? I figured ye might have a bit o' trouble gettin' down, 'specially since ye mentioned ye’ve never ridden afore.”

“You definitely thought right,” Bilbo agreed. Now that he was no longer actively falling, embarrassment started to creep over him. So much for not being a liability—his attempt at independence had only resulted in yet another dwarvish rescue. “I really am quite rubbish at this.” he muttered, feeling his face heat up. 

“Don’t fret, Bilbo,” Bofur said, his voice cheerful as ever. He didn’t even seem to mind that he was currently supporting most of Bilbo’s weight. “A lot o’ new riders make tha same mistake ye just did.” 

“That does make me feel a bit better I suppose,” Bilbo admitted, hoping that the dwarf wasn’t just saying that to spare his feelings.

“Let's get ye down then.” Bofur said cheerfully. He nodded to Bilbo’s stuck foot, “Ye see how yer foot is wedged in tha stirrup? When ye tried ta get down, I’m guessing ye put yer right foot down while your left was still in tha stirrup. When ye fell yer foot got stuck an' your own weight is keeping it trapped.” 

“You’re right that’s exactly what happened.” Bilbo said. “But if I’m not suppose to put one of my feet down first, then how am I suppose to get down?”

“Let’s put ye back in tha saddle an’ I’ll explain it for ye,” Bofur offered, his tone reassuring. “That way ye’ll be able ta do it on yer own next time.”

“Alright,” Bilbo agreed, grateful for the assistance. If Bofur was trying to make up for the whole ‘not actually invited guests’ debacle last evening, he was certainly doing an excellent job.

With surprising ease, Bofur hoisted Bilbo back into Myrtle’s saddle. Bilbo couldn’t help but marvel at the casual strength the dwarf displayed, as if Bilbo weighed no more than a sack of flour. 

Settling back into the saddle, Bilbo patted Myrtle on the neck, murmuring words of praise. “You are such a good girl,” he told her. “The best pony in the world, I’d wager. Putting up with all my fumbling about without kicking up any sort of fuss. You definitely deserve an apple.” Myrtle’s ears pricked forward at the mention of apples, and she turned her head to look at him expectantly. “I’ll get you one after lunch,” he promised, with a fond smile.

Bofur grinned up at him, clearly amused by the exchange. “I agree with ya there. Such a good pony definitely deserves an apple.”

“Now, back ta showing ye how ta get down. Ye want ta put tha reins in your left hand, but make sure there’s some slack an' your not yanking on them. Put your left hand above Myrtle’s withers an' your right below tha pommel,” Bofur explained.

Bilbo hesitated, a blank expression crossing his face. He had absolutely no idea where Myrtle’s withers were, let alone what a pommel was supposed to be. Apparently, his confusion was written all over his face, because Bofur took pity on him and clarified. “Her withers are right here, an’ tha pommel is this part of tha saddle,” Bofur explained, guiding Bilbo’s hands to the correct positions.

“Ah, thank you,” Bilbo said, mentally filing away the new information and hoping he wouldn’t forget it before the next attempt.

“I’ll explain tha next part all at once before having ye do it. First yer gonna tip yer right toes down an' take yer foot out o' tha stirrup. Then you’ll lean forward an' bring yer right leg over Myrtle’s back. As ye do that ye can move yer right hand over here on this part o' tha saddle ta help balance. After that you’ll take yer left foot out o' tha stirrup, 'en slide down Myrtle’s side till ye reach tha ground.”

Bilbo nodded along, doing his best to absorb the instructions. It all sounded simple enough when Bofur said it, but he had no doubt that he’d manage to turn it into a farce if he wasn’t careful. Still, with any luck—and perhaps a bit more guidance—he might just get the hang of this riding business before they reached the Lonely Mountain.

“It’s not that hard once ye get use ta it. All ye need is some practice.” Bofur assured the hobbit, patting his leg comfortingly. “So are ye ready ta give it a try?” 

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Bilbo replied, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He forced a laugh, one that came out more nervous than he intended. “You’ll catch me if I end up falling again, right?”

Bofur laughed, a hearty, reassuring sound that did wonders for Bilbo’s nerves. “Ay, I’ll be right here. I promise I won’t let ye fall.”

Despite how nervous he was, Bilbo was able to follow Bofur's instruction and dismounted without any trouble.

Bofur grinned proudly and clamped Bilbo on the shoulder once he had both feet on the ground. "There ye go! Give it a few days an' ye'll be jumping off with no problem!"

Bilbo smiled at him, “I hope you’re right about that. Although I doubt that I’ll ever be completely comfortable with riding a pony. Like I said before, hobbits are meant to keep both feet on the ground.”

“You’ll get there,” Bofur encouraged, “you just need practice. Something you’ll be getting plenty of over the next few months. When we head back out, how about I teach you what tricks I know about riding. See if we can get you feeling more comfortable.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened slightly at the offer, a mix of relief and dread washing over him. “I’ll take any help you can give me. Right now, I think a sack of potatoes would be a better rider than me.”

Bofur laughed again, his arm slinging around Bilbo’s shoulders in a gesture that was both reassuring and slightly crushing. “Yer not that bad,” he tried to reassure the hobbit, though Bilbo was fairly certain Bofur was just being kind. “Ye just need some pointers an’ some practice.”

Bilbo sighed mournfully as he thought of the long road ahead of them, “Practice is definitely one thing I’ll be getting a lot of.”

_______________________

Bilbo and Bofur strolled around the small clearing a few times, their steps leisurely, as they stretched their legs after the long ride. Eventually, they joined the others, who had already settled into comfortable spots and were passing around some of the provisions Bilbo had packed. Predictably, the dwarves had grouped together by family, with the exception of Freya, who sat near Oin, and Bilbo, who found himself beside Bofur. Freya looked more alert than she had earlier, though the sour expression on her face suggested that she wasn’t particularly pleased about it.

Lunch was a simple affair—leftover hard-boiled eggs and spiced pork sausages from breakfast, a bit of smoked and peppered cheese, dried apple slices, and some sweet wheat bread. It wasn’t exactly a feast, but it was filling enough and required no preparation, which suited Bilbo just fine.

Without much ceremony, Bilbo tucked into his food. Missing both second breakfast and elevenses had left him ravenous, and he made quick work of his portion. He glanced around, noticing that he’d finished long before the rest of the company—except for Freya who couldn’t eat large meals yet. 

Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder what Freya had gone through to leave her in such a state. The only experience he had with starvation was during the Fell Winter—a time he rarely liked to think about. He wouldn’t wish an experience like that on anyone, much less someone as young and cheerful as Freya.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the Fell Winter—a time he rarely allowed himself to recall. It was a grim season etched into the collective memory of the Shire, marked by hunger, fear, and loss. They had eaten only every other day, and even then, it was barely enough to sustain them. Bilbo had never felt so hollow, so desperate, as he had during those bleak months. The recovery had been slow, agonizing even, as the hobbits had to recondition their bodies to accept food again. The mere memory of it made him shudder.

A voice interrupted his thoughts, calling his name. He blinked, startled, and looked up to see Freya beckoning him over, her expression both earnest and tired.

“Yes, Freya?” Bilbo asked, his curiosity piqued.

She yawned and beckoned him over to where she was sitting. “Come do some stretches with me," she said. "You have never ridden a horse before either. We are both going to be sore tomorrow but it will not suck as much if we stretch now.”  

Bilbo tilted his head, thoroughly confused. He only recognised one of the words she had said so he wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted him to do. “I’m sorry but I don’t understand.”

Freya let out an exaggerated groan and ran a hand over her face in mock despair, “ugh-right-language-barrier. Why-is-there-even a language-barrier-in-the-first-place, it-makes no sense.” She sighed dramatically, her frustration evident. “ I am-not-awake-enough-for-this.” Bilbo didn’t say anything to that since It seemed like she was more ranting to herself than addressing him.

Bilbo bit back a smile, finding her dramatics rather endearing. He enjoyed how lively and animated Freya acted and he could tell that the rest of the company enjoyed it as well. He had seen a few of them looking at her fondly as they rode. didn’t respond since it seemed like she was thinking out loud rather than addressing him. 

“You come,” Freya said before pausing, clearly searching for the right words, "fuck, whats-the-word. ugh, nevermind. Bilbo come,” she finally ordered, pointing to the ground next to her.

Bilbo stood up, amused by her struggle but doing his best not to show it. The dwarves who were paying attention didn’t even bother to hide their amusement, their laughter ringing out in the small clearing. 

Freya gave them a mock glare and stuck out her tongue at them. “I'm-surrounded-by-bullies,” she grumbled petulantly.

Bilbo eased himself down onto the blanket beside Freya, his legs groaning in protest with each movement. He stifled a wince, wondering if his limbs would ever forgive him for this journey. Once settled, he turned to Freya, eyebrows raised in mild curiosity, silently asking what was next.

Freya shifted slightly, sitting up straighter before moving her legs so that the soles of her feet touched. She pointed at him and then gestured to her legs. “You do,” she instructed, her tone leaving no room for debate.

Bilbo blinked, confused but willing to comply. He mimicked her movements, gingerly arranging his legs into the same position. The moment he did, he winced—his muscles, already displeased with the day’s exertions, were now downright mutinous.

Around them, the dwarves watched with varying degrees of interest, no doubt trying to decipher what exactly Freya was up to. Bilbo could feel their eyes on him, but he tried to ignore the growing sense of self-consciousness.

Freya grabbed her feet with her hands, placing her elbows against her knees, and Bilbo dutifully followed suit. “ I know a couple-stretches-from-when I did-PT that should help,” she chatted at him, not really seeming to need him to respond. “Just do what I do.” 

Bilbo was proud of himself for recognising some of the words she was using.

He watched as Freya gently pressed down on her knees with her elbows, nodding at him to follow. When he did, his thigh muscles protested with a sharp stretch, and he couldn’t help but grimace. 

“Ye alright there lad?” Oin asked, leaning around Freya to look at him. 

“I’m fine,” Bilbo managed to reply, though he wasn’t entirely convinced himself. “Stretching like this is just a bit... uncomfortable.” Though that was putting it mildly.

“She’s smart ta stretch an’ have ye join ‘er,” Oin said with an approving nod. “It’ll help ye be less sore while ye get used ta ridin’.” He frowned slightly, as if displeased with himself. “I should’ve thought of it.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Bilbo said kindly, trying to ease Oin’s self-reproach. “You can’t think of everything. Besides, I’m the one benefiting from it, and I certainly didn’t think of it.” Oin didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he let the matter rest. 

Freya released the stretch, and Bilbo followed suit with a sigh of relief. She flashed him a sympathetic smile,“I know-stretching-can-suck-when-you’re-really-sore-but-you’re-doing good. You are do good.”

 Bilbo laughed at how she didn’t even attempt to phrase the sentence correctly. “Doing,” he corrected her gently, a hint of amusement in his voice. “You are doing good. Although, technically, it should be ‘you are doing well.’

Freya rolled her eyes, her expression clearly stating what she thought of his unsolicited grammar lesson, “I am-not-nearly-awake-enough-for a vocab-lesson Bilbo.

Bilbo chuckled again, shaking his head. He didn’t need to understand every word to catch her meaning; her tone conveyed her thoughts quite clearly.

Fili and Kili bounced over to them, having just finished their own lunches. They remind Bilbo of over-enthusiastic puppies that didn’t want to be left out of anything their owner was doing. 

“We want to join!” Kili told them, proving the similarities. Fili nodded in agreement, “it never hurts to stretch when you’re riding for so long.”

Bilbo smiled up at them, trying not to laugh at the mental image he had created. “Of course, you’re more than welcome to join us.” 

The two brothers looked at Freya for permission. She shrugged lazily and gestured for them to take a seat, “ Why-not. The-more-the-merrier. ”  

As the two of them plopped down beside Bilbo, Oin cleared his throat. “I think I’ll join ye as well,” he announced, settling himself on the blanket. “I want ta see what stretches she knows an’ if they’re gettin’ the job done.”

Their group repeated the first stretch two more times before switching to a different one. This time they started by laying on their backs with their legs flat. Freya had them bend their left knee and raise it towards their chest, holding it with their right hand while their left arm was laying straight out to the side. 

At some point during this maneuver, Fili flung his arm out so it had slapped Kili's arm, causing his brother to squawk in outrage. Freya and Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh at their antics, while Oin simply rolled his eyes, clearly accustomed to the princes’ playful scuffles. 

Bilbo could feel the muscles in his lower back stretching as he dropped his knee, it felt uncomfortable but satisfying at the same time. They held that pose for about thirty seconds before slowly untwisting and switching to the other side. Fili tried to inch out of Kili’s reach, but alas, he was too slow and received a well-deserved slap in return. Like the first stretch, they repeated this one three times, with Fili and Kili managing to slap each other at every opportunity. By the last round, Bilbo could feel the tension in his back beginning to ease, the stiffness giving way to a surprising sense of relief.

When Freya finally led them through the last few stretches, Bilbo was pleased to find himself feeling noticeably better. The dull ache in his back had subsided to a manageable level, and for the first time that morning, he didn’t feel like he was made entirely of creaky old joints. He was grateful that Freya had thought to include him in this little routine, sparing him what would surely have been a miserable day after riding. He promised himself that he would do what he could to look after her in return. 

Oin was nodding his approval as he stood, “Those stretches are good. I’ll ‘ave the two of ye do 'em whenever we stop for a break.” He turned a bit to address Freya and Bilbo. “It will definitely help ye be less sore while ye get used ta riding.”

Freya, who had flopped unceremoniously onto the blanket after they finished, lifted her head just enough to reply. “I  don’t-know-what you said-but-I’ll-agree-with-it-as-long-as  I  can  go back to sleep.”

Bilbo looked over to Fili and Kili since they knew a little more of Freya’s language than he did, but the two of them looked just as confused as he was. 

Freya sighed when she noticed the blank stares aimed her way.  “Never-mind-just-let-me-sleep. ”

She closed her eyes and let her head flop back on the ground. “I sleep,” She closed her eyes and let her head flop back onto the ground with finality. “I sleep,” she declared, drawing laughter from Bilbo and the others.

“Not yet ye don’t,” Oin countered, nudging her leg with his foot, his tone a mix of firmness and affection. “Those stretches helped, but I still want ta give ye some of tha willow tea I brewed earlier. It’ll help with any pain yer still feeling.” He rummaged through his bag and produced a small flask. “We’re about ta head out anyway,” he added, as he uncorked the flask. “Ye can go back ta sleep once we’re moving.” 

Looking around Bilbo could see that he was right. The rest of the company had all finished eating by now and were packing everything up.

Freya groaned and rolled so her back was to Oin, a clear sign of her refusal.  “Nope-I-don’t-understand you so you can’t-tell-me-what to do,” she told him petulantly.

“None of that now,” Oin scolded her. The healer tried to sound firm but Bilbo could see a fond smile tug at his lips. “Just yesterday I was saying how good of a patient you were. Don’t make me take that back.”

Freya responded by rolling completely onto her stomach, burying her face in the blanket with a muffled grumble. “Too-many-words, too-tired to translate. I sleep,” she mumbled, her voice muffled. 

Oin rolled his eyes and knelt beside her. “Come on, up ye get,” he said, shaking her shoulder gently, as if trying to coax a stubborn cat from a cozy spot.

“ I don’t-wanna-get-up,” she winned, doing her best to ignore the healer. 

Kili grinned mischievously and began prodding her leg with his foot, joining Oin’s campaign to rouse her. “Come on Freya, it’s better to give in. There’s no way you can out stubborn Oin.” 

Freya groaned loudly, her dramatic flair fully intact. “Fine,” she huffed as she flopped over onto her back and sat up with all the enthusiasm of a disgruntled cat. She glared at them both. “I hate-all-of you,” she grumbled. 

Oin, entirely unrepentant, handed her a flask of tea with a look that said he had all the patience in the world. Freya grabbed it, took a sip, and immediately scrunched up her face in disgust, her surprise turning into a coughing fit. “What-the-actual-fuck-was-that!” She demanded as soon as she could speak again. “Are you trying to poison-me! I just undied, and I -don’t-think-the Valar are-gonna-send-me-back-if I die-again-within-a-day!”  

“Stop making such a fuss, it doesn’t taste that bad.” Oin scolded. 

Freya ignored him and peered into the flask, face scrunched up in disgust. “What even-is that?” 

Oin opened his mouth to continue scolding her but before he could speak someone called out Bilbo’s name. The hobbit turned to see that Bofur was standing next to Myrtle, waving for Bilbo to join him.

With a nod to Oin and the princes, Bilbo made his way over to Bofur, leaving Freya to her fate.
 
 “I thought ye might like ta learn how ta mount up correctly.” Bofur said as Bilbo approached. 

“I’d appreciate that. I’d rather Fili and Kili not have an excuse to pick me up and dump me in the saddle again.” Bilbo had grown fond of the young dwarves, with their boundless energy and infectious enthusiasm, but he was already well aware of their mischievous streak. The last thing he needed was to give them more opportunities to make sport of him.

“Alright, what’s first then?” he asked, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

Bofur handed him Myrtle’s reins and began explaining, “First thing ta do when yer mounting up is ta hold her reins in yer left hand just above ‘er withers. Do ye remember where that is?”

“Yes, right here between her shoulder blades, if I recall correctly?” Bilbo pointed to the spot Bofur had shown him earlier, hoping he had it right.

Bofur’s grin widened. “That’s right. Yer also gonna grab a handful of her mane in yer left hand.”

Bilbo frowned slightly. Wouldn’t grabbing Myrtle’s mane hurt her? He voiced his concern, but Bofur quickly reassured him that it wouldn’t cause the pony any discomfort.

Bilbo nodded, though he still felt a pang of guilt as he wrapped his fingers around Myrtle’s mane, hoping she wouldn’t take offense. “Alright,” he muttered to himself, as much to the pony as to his own nerves.

“Next yer gonna put yer left foot in the stirrup and balance yer weight on yer right foot. Yer other hand is gonna grab that part of the saddle there,” Bofur explained, pointing to the back of the saddle. 

Bilbo carefully followed Bofur’s instructions, managing to get his foot in the stirrup and his hands in the correct position without too much trouble. He couldn’t help but feel a small swell of pride at not embarrassing himself in front of the dwarf.

“Yer doin’ great,” Bofur encouraged, watching him closely. “Now use yer right leg ta push yerself up. Once yer up, ye’ll let go with yer right hand and swing yer right leg over her back and lower yerself into the saddle.”

Bofur stood behind him, ready to catch him if he fell, which Bilbo found both reassuring and mildly embarrassing. Still, it was better than ending up on the ground. Taking a steadying breath, Bilbo pushed up off his right leg as instructed, pressing down a bit with his arms, and—miraculously—managed to swing himself up into the saddle without incident.

“Nicely done, Bilbo!” Bofur congratulated him, patting his leg with a broad smile. “All ye need ta do now is put yer right foot in its stirrup and hold the reins with both hands.” 

Bofur mounted his own pony as Bilbo tried to settle a bit more in his saddle. By this time everyone had mounted up and Thorin called for them to move out.

“When ye want Myrtle ta start walkin’, gently squeeze her sides with yer legs,” Bofur instructed, demonstrating with his own pony. Bilbo copied the movement, and sure enough, Myrtle started forward at a leisurely pace.

“Thank you for helping me, Bofur,” Bilbo said gratefully. “I don’t know how I would have managed without your help.”

Bofur’s smile was warm as he clapped Bilbo on the shoulder. “I’m more than happy ta help, Bilbo. Ye’ve been nothin’ but kind to us, even after we raided yer pantry last night. The least I can do is help ye learn how ta ride properly.”

Bilbo allowed himself a small smile at that, though he couldn’t resist scolding the dwarf slightly. “I already told you there’s no need to feel bad about that. The fault for last night’s mess falls entirely on Gandalf’s shoulders.” He had been irritated with the dwarves at first, but that irritation had melted away the moment he learned of Gandalf’s deception.

Bofur shook his head, his expression a mix of remorse and determination. “I agree that Tharkun is mostly ta blame, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make up for our part of that mess.”

“Bofur’s right about that, Master Baggins,” Dori chimed in, guiding his pony next to Bilbo on the other side. “Even though the wizard lied to us, we weren't exactly the best guests last night.”

Bilbo shook his head, waving off their concerns with a dismissive gesture. “Like I said earlier, it may have been unexpected, but I really am happy to have met you all. The only one at fault for last night is Gandalf, and I have plans for him.” A small, wicked smile crept onto his face as he contemplated the possibilities. Oh yes, Gandalf would be sorry indeed.

“I wanted to ask you about that,” Ori spoke up, nudging his pony closer to his brother. “Tharkun looked worried when you told him that he would be sorry for last night.”

“I was wondering ‘bout that myself,” Bofur added, his brow furrowed in thought. “No offense, but I’m ‘aving trouble thinking of what a hobbit could do ta make a wizard like him worried.”

Bilbo chuckled, understanding their skepticism. Hobbits, after all, weren’t exactly known for their threatening demeanor. “No offense taken, Bofur. Before I answer, let me ask you something: How do dwarves usually react when they get angry at someone?”

“Usually with a whole lot of yelling and exchanged fists,” Nori called from where he was riding behind them, his brothers and Bofur nodding in agreement.

“As I’m sure you’ve noticed, hobbits are peaceful folk. We don’t care much for fighting, so when we’re angry, we don’t get violent—we get creative.” He let the last word hang in the air, a mischievous smile playing on his lips, one that had the dwarves exchanging uneasy glances.

“What d’you mean by creative?” Dori asked hesitantly, clearly wary of what a ‘creative’ hobbit might do.

“Well, it depends on how angry someone makes us,” Bilbo explained, his eyes gleaming with a touch of mischief. “When the offense isn’t too serious, we express our displeasure by giving ‘gifts.’”

“You give the person you’re mad at a gift?” Ori asked, clearly puzzled by the concept.

“You don’t give them just any gift,” Bilbo clarified. “You give them a gift along with a note that deliberately points out what they did to make you angry in the first place. And you have to do it in a way that angers or embarrasses them, while forcing them to accept the gift anyway because they’d seem rude and ungrateful if they don’t.”

The dwarves still looked confused, so Bilbo decided a bit more explanation was in order. “For example, I once gave Milo Burrows a golden pen and ink-bottle with a note saying that I ‘hoped it would be useful,’ because he never answers letters. I also gave Hugo Bracegirdle an empty bookcase with a note saying ‘for your collection, from a contributor,’ since he frequently borrows books and just as frequently forgets to return them.”

The dwarves burst into laughter at his examples, the confusion in their eyes replaced by understanding and amusement. Bilbo couldn’t help but feel a spark of pride. There was something deeply satisfying about seeing these rough-and-tumble dwarves appreciate the subtlety of hobbit “revenge.”

“What’s tha best ‘gift’ you've ever given?” Bofur asked eagerly, his eyes alight with interest.

Bilbo grinned wickedly, leaning back in his saddle. “The best gift I’ve ever given was a bouquet of flowers to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins after I caught her trying to steal my mother’s silverware for the third time.”

“Is that the hobbit Freya told you would try to take your house while you were gone?” Ori inquired, his curiosity piqued.

“The very same,” Bilbo confirmed with a nod. “The very same,” Bilbo confirmed with a nod, the memory of Lobelia’s pinched face bringing a small, satisfied smirk to his lips.

“Why flowers?” Bofur asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Flowers are important to hobbits,” Bilbo explained. “Every flower has its own special meaning based on the type of flower or the flower's color. Bouquets are used to express certain messages to the recipient. For example, daisies mean innocence, forget-me-nots mean true love and memories, and white heather means protection.”

“So what flowers did you give to Lobelia?” Ori asked after he finished scribbling down what Bilbo had told them.

Bilbo gave them his most innocent smile, though it quickly morphed into something decidedly more mischievous. “I presented her with a beautifully arranged bouquet that perfectly expressed my feelings for her. Geraniums for stupidity, foxglove for insincerity, meadowsweet for uselessness, buttercups for childish behavior, sunflowers for delusions of grandeur, and orange lilies for hatred.” He counted off each flower on his fingers, a satisfied smirk resting on his face as he finished. “It was, without a doubt, the most eloquently given ‘fuck you’ in Shire history.”

His audience was howling with laughter by this point. Bilbo was pretty sure he could see actual tears in Bofur’s eyes. The rest of the company that weren’t part of the conversation were giving them confused looks.

When they finally calmed down, Bofur wiped his eyes and grinned. “That is one of tha best things I’ve ever heard,” he said, drying his eyes, “but that still doesn’t explain why Tharkun looked so nervous earlier.”

Bilbo’s grin widened, “Like I said before, hobbits only give ‘gifts’ when we’re expressing less serious anger. When we’re truly angry we get more… hands on, in our retaliation,” Bilbo told them. 

The dwarves exchanged nervous looks at the evil glint in his eyes. “What exactly do you mean by that?” Dori asked cautiously.

“Us hobbits value comfort above all else,” Bilbo explained, his tone growing almost sinister. “So when someone crosses us, we do our best to… disrupt the comfort of said person. It starts small, but adds up quickly until whoever crossed us is hungry, tired, bruised, dirty, and humiliated.” 

He looked up toward the front of the company where Gandalf was riding next to Thorin, the evil look in his eyes growing brighter. “And there are so many possibilities for expressing displeasure when you’re traveling together for such a long time.”

He glanced back at his audience, noting with satisfaction that the dwarves now seemed to be impressed as well as a bit wary of him. Bilbo couldn’t help but feel pleased that they no longer looked at him like he was some kind of harmless rabbit.

“Remind me ta stay on yer good side,” Bofur told the hobbit, only slightly joking, the other dwarves nodding in agreement.

“No need to worry about that,” Bilbo assured them, laughing. “You all have been nothing but kind to me. I doubt any of you would ever give me a reason to be truly angry with you.”

______________

As they continued on, the group’s conversation naturally shifted from exchanging stories to what could only be described as an impromptu riding lesson for Bilbo. To his mild surprise, it was Nori who took the reins, so to speak, in guiding him. Apparently, out of all the dwarves in the company, Nori was considered the best rider.

“Scoot back a bit so you’re sitting on tha lowest part of tha saddle.” Nori instructed as he rode next to the hobbit. With a cautious shuffle, Bilbo inched backward, trying not to lose his already tenuous balance.

The dwarf nodded, clearly satisfied. “Next, ye’ll want ta fix your posture.” Without warning, Nori leaned over and rapped his knuckles on Bilbo’s spine, causing him to jolt upright in surprise. “Keep yer back straight when ye’re ridin’. Roll yer shoulders back—that’ll help ye sit up straight.”

Bilbo adjusted his posture with a series of small, hesitant movements, as if testing the waters, all the while trying to look like he wasn’t utterly terrified of sliding right off Myrtle’s back.

______________

The lesson continued as they rode, with Nori offering Bilbo small tips on how to improve his riding technique. Each adjustment made a noticeable difference, and to Bilbo’s relief, he started to feel a bit more secure in the saddle. Eventually he no longer felt like a sack of potatoes that had been thrown across Myrtle’s saddle.
With his newfound (if fragile) confidence he was able to talk more easily with the others now that he wasn’t also worrying about falling off Myrtle’s back. He chatted with Bofur and the Ri brothers for most of the remainder of their ride that day. With Fili, Kili, and Freya joining them after Freya had woken up from her second nap of the day.

As the sun began its descent, casting a golden hue over the fields, the distant outline of Frogmorton finally came into view. Bilbo’s spirits lifted at the sight—never had the prospect of a small town seemed so appealing. Despite Nori’s best efforts, Bilbo was still far from accustomed to spending an entire day in the saddle. His body ached in ways he hadn’t known it could, and all he could think about was sinking into a hot bath at the Floating Log Inn. And, of course, the thought of food made his stomach grumble audibly—a reminder of the many meals he’d missed that day.

The sight of Frogmorton seemed to cheer the rest of the company as well. Their spirits visibly lifted as they made their way toward the town, the prospect of a warm meal and a cozy bed after a long day of travel brightening their mood.

Chapter Text

As the company ventured forth along the Great East Road, the landscape began to shift. The gentle, rolling pastures dotted with cows and sheep gradually gave way to a patchwork of marshland on the right, where the air grew damp and heavy, and orchards on the left, their branches sagging with ripe fruit. By early evening, they reached the outskirts of Frogmorton, the last warm rays of sunlight casting long shadows across the town’s edge.

They passed between rows of simple, above-ground hobbit-houses, each with tidy gardens and round windows, the scent of freshly turned earth lingering in the air. The road led them to the heart of the town, where the market square sprawled at the base of a large hill, bustling with activity.

Around the square, shops built from a mix of sturdy wood and stone stood proudly, their wooden signs swinging gently in the evening breeze, each bearing painted images that hinted at the wares within. The inside of the square housed a mix of permanent and semi-permanent stalls surrounding a large well at the center of the market. 

The market was alive with the clatter of carts and wheelbarrows bouncing over the uneven cobblestones. Hobbits hurried about, finishing last-minute errands while shopkeepers began to pack up for the evening, their voices rising above the din as they called out to passersby, eager to sell the day’s remaining goods. The air buzzed with chatter, mingling with the savory scents wafting from nearby food vendors.

The hobbits in the market kept a respectful distance, but unlike in Hobbiton, it wasn't out of suspicion of the dwarves. Here, they seemed more focused on avoiding the ponies, giving the company a wide berth out of practical caution rather than mistrust.

_______________

Using what Nori had taught him that afternoon Bilbo carefully maneuvered Myrtle closer to Oin’s pony, trying not to jostle himself too much in the process. He still hadn’t mastered the art of riding comfortably, but at least he wasn’t in constant danger of sliding off anymore. 
“Excuse me, Oin,” he said to get the dwarf’s attention. “I’m not sure if there’s anything you still need to buy for our journey, but if you do, my cousin and his wife own a herbalist shop on the other side of the square.” He pointed in its general direction, though from this distance, it was little more than a vague gesture. “If you’re interested, I can take you there tomorrow morning. Seredic and Hilda’s store is one of the best herbalist shops in the Shire. You can probably find anything you need there.”

There was a pause as Oin mulled over the offer, likely doing a mental inventory of his supplies. Bilbo found himself hoping the older dwarf would accept—he wouldn’t mind one last visit to Seredic’s shop; it would be nice to see him and his wife before he left. Finally, Oin gave a decisive nod. “I think I’ll take ye up on that offer. There are a few things I’d like ta stock up on that’ll be good ta have on tha road. Thank ye for tha offer.”

Bilbo smiled at the dwarf. “I’m happy to be of service,” he replied with a smile, trying not to sound too eager. “It’s been a while since I last saw my cousin’s family, so this gives me a chance to check in on them before we leave.”

Oin nodded, glancing up at where Gloin was riding, “It’s important ta keep in touch with family. I’m glad you’ll be able ta see them before we set off.” 

“I’ll meet you at breakfast, then,” Bilbo offered. “We can head over after we’ve finished eating.”

“That sounds good ta me,” Oin agreed with a smile.

___________________________

Balin led the company off the bustling market square and down a narrow side street toward the river. The further they went, the quieter it became, until only the distant hum of the market remained. At the end of the street stood The Floating Log Inn, a large, two-story building made of wood and stone, its warm light spilling out through the windows and casting a welcoming glow. 

Balin led them around to the side of the inn where a small stable was tucked away, almost hidden from view. The stable hands—a pair of stout, ruddy-cheeked hobbits—hurried over to take the ponies, and Balin handed them a few coins with a nod of thanks. Bilbo found himself absently patting Myrtle’s neck before following the others inside, where warmth and the scent of ale immediately enveloped him.

The inn’s common room was lively and bustling, filled with the clanking of metal tankards and the chatter and laughter of happy customers. About twenty or so patrons were scattered among the tables, most of them hobbits, though there were a few dwarves and even a couple of men among the crowd. The room was lit by a combination of flickering candles and a roaring fire in the large hearth at one end, casting a cozy, amber glow over everything.

The inn’s interior was warm and well-lit, the flickering fire in the hearth casting dancing shadows across the walls. On the far side of the room, a bar stretched out, broken only by an entry hatch where a hobbit bartender was expertly handing out drinks and food to two waitresses. They darted around the room like bees in a hive, ferrying tankards and plates to eager patrons.

The first waitress seemed to be the one in charge of running the inn. She looked like she was middle aged, pretty but a bit disheveled from working. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a haphazard bun, and she wore a simple apron over her dress. Despite her slightly disheveled appearance, there was an air of competence about her that Bilbo couldn’t help but admire.

The other waitress looked like she could be the daughter of the first one. She had the same light brown hair but her’s was pulled back into a low ponytail. She followed the first waitresses directions quickly and efficiently like she'd been doing it for years. 

The hobbit behind the bar was short, even for hobbit standards, but made up for it with his plump belly. His dark curly hair bounced up and down as he rushed back and forth, taking orders, filling drinks; handling the chaos with a smile on his face, clearly used to the evening ruckus. Clearly, he was a hobbit who enjoyed his food as much as his work—a fact Bilbo could respect.

Balin, ever the diplomat, wove through the crowd with practiced ease and approached the bartender. “Excuse me, sir,” he began politely, “might I trouble you for a moment?”

The bartender held up a hand, “Just a moment,” he told the dwarf. He filled up two tankards of ale and slid them down the bar to two waiting hobbits before turning back to Balin. “Right then, what can I do for you?”

“We were hoping for some food and drinks this evening as well as renting some rooms for the night.” Balin told him.

“How many rooms are you looking for?” the bartender asked, wiping his hands on a towel as he spoke.

“How many do you have available?” Balin countered.

The bartender bent down and retrieved a small board from under the counter, scanning it briefly. “You’re in luck,” he said with a smile, “we’ve got seven rooms available tonight.”

“We’ll take the lot of them if you don’t mind,” Balin replied.

“Right then,” the bartender said, jotting something down on the board. “Would you like to start a tab for the rooms as well as the food and drinks, or will you be paying up front?”

“I think a tab would be best if you don’t mind,” Balin chuckled, casting a glance over his shoulder at the company. “There’s no telling how much this lot will eat while we’re here.”

The hobbit laughed along with him. “That’s the case with most folk around here. Eat all you’d like—my boys in the kitchen can handle any amount you order. What name should I put the tab under?”

“Balin,” the dwarf replied.

The bartender wrote the name down and smiled cheerily. “You’re all set, then. Go ahead and pick some tables. I’ll send Gilly or Peony over to take your orders in a moment.”

Balin gave a small bow. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“And thank you for your patronage,” the hobbit replied, nodding in return.

Balin waved for the rest of the company to join him, and they quickly claimed four open tables that sat next to each other. As they settled in, the dwarves began talking and laughing, their voices rising above the general din of the inn. The promise of a good meal and a bed to sleep in had clearly lifted everyone’s spirits.

Soon enough, the younger waitress—Peony, if Bilbo recalled correctly—came over to take their orders. She moved with the same practiced efficiency as before, jotting down requests with a nod and a smile before disappearing back into the bustling kitchen. In no time at all, she returned with trays laden with steaming plates of food, setting them down with the kind of skill that only years of practice could produce. The aroma of roasted meats, fresh bread, and hearty stews filled the air, making Bilbo’s stomach growl in anticipation.

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile as he watched his companions relax, though he noted with some relief that they seemed to be exercising a bit more restraint than they had at Bag End. There were no flying plates or tankards tonight, thank goodness—he wasn’t sure the innkeeper would have appreciated that particular brand of dwarvish exuberance.

Despite the noise, Bilbo noticed that Freya was practically falling asleep where she sat. The poor girl leaned more and more on Oin’s shoulder as the evening wore on, her eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute. It seemed the day’s journey had taken its toll on her. After about an hour, Oin, ever the attentive healer, gently scooped her up and carried her upstairs to her room, returning after getting her settled in. 

Bilbo, for his part, lasted about an hour longer before the day’s travels finally caught up with him. His eyelids drooped, and he found himself stifling a yawn more often than not. Realizing that it was no use fighting the inevitable, he downed the last of his ale and pushed his chair back from the table.

“Well, that’s me done for the night,” he announced, though he doubted anyone heard him over the din. “Goodnight, everyone.”

With a weary sigh, Bilbo made his way up the stairs to the room he was sharing with Gandalf. The climb felt longer than it should have, his legs heavy with exhaustion. By the time he reached the door, he was practically sleepwalking. He barely had the energy to kick off his boots before collapsing onto the bed. The mattress was softer than he’d expected—thank goodness for that—and as soon as his head hit the pillow, he felt himself drifting off. 

_________________________________

Bilbo woke up to the gentle smell of cooked meats, porridge and eggs creeping into his room, and tickling his nose. Based on the soft sunlight streaming through the window it was probably an hour or so after sunrise. 

With a groan, Bilbo stretched, feeling the satisfying pop of his joints as his sore body protested the movement. He allowed himself a moment of indulgence, collapsing back onto the bed with a boneless sigh, before reluctantly forcing himself upright.

As his gaze wandered across the room, Bilbo noticed that the man-sized bed on the opposite side was already empty, its blankets neatly folded. Gandalf, it seemed, had risen early and gone out, though the wizard’s packs still sat by the bed. 

With a resigned sigh, Bilbo got dressed, carefully combed his hair, and gathered up the few items he’d unpacked the night before. After a final glance around the room to ensure he hadn’t forgotten anything, he left his pack on the bed and headed downstairs to the inn’s ground floor.

The tavern section of the inn was already bustling with activity. Townsfolk and travelers filled the room, their lively chatter mingling with the clatter of cutlery and the scrape of chairs on wooden floors.

He spotted Gilly Roper, the elder waitress from the night before, darting over to the bar where her husband, Posco, was working. Their daughter, Peony, flitted from table to table, balancing trays laden with food as she expertly navigated the morning rush.

“Posco, I need biscuits with sausage gravy and a ham omelet!” Gilly called out over the din, her voice carrying above the clamor.

“Coming right up, love!” Posco hollered back, jotting down the orders before disappearing into the kitchen. 

Bilbo looked around the dining room, trying to see if any of his companions had already come down for breakfast. It didn’t take long to spot them—after all, they were the only dwarves in the entire tavern. Thorin, Balin, Dwalin, Oin, and Gloin had claimed two tables in a corner of the room, their presence unmistakable amid the crowd of hobbits. 

Bilbo hesitated for a moment, a little apprehensive about joining them. Of the dwarves he had gotten to know yesterday, only Oin was present. The others, particularly Thorin and Dwalin, seemed intimidating in their silence, their expressions guarded and unapproachable. Sharing a meal with them seemed like a good opportunity to build camaraderie, but Bilbo had a nagging feeling that it wouldn’t be as easy as he hoped. Thorin’s stern demeanor and Dwalin’s gruffness were enough to make any hobbit think twice about joining them.

If only Bofur were here. The cheerful dwarf had a knack for putting others at ease with his easygoing nature and quick wit. Bilbo could imagine him cutting through the awkwardness with a well-timed joke or a lighthearted story. Fili and Kili could do the same with their friendly banter and endless enthusiasm, but after last night’s festivities, Bilbo doubted either of them would be up anytime soon. It seemed that, for better or worse, he was on his own.

As Bilbo stood there debating whether to make a strategic retreat, Oin happened to look up from his breakfast and caught sight of him. The old healer offered him a warm smile and waved him over. Bilbo forced a cheerful smile in return, though inwardly he sighed. There was no escaping now. Steeling himself, he wove through the tables and patrons, making his way to the dwarves’ corner. He greeted them all with a polite “Good morning” before taking a seat beside Oin.

The conversation, or lack thereof, wasn’t as painful as Bilbo had feared. Oin’s presence was a comforting buffer against the more intimidating dwarves. And it wasn’t long before Peony appeared at their table, a harried but friendly smile on her face. "Terribly sorry for the wait," she said, her quill poised above her notepad. "What can I get you?"

“Good morning Peony.” Bilbo greeted her. “Can I get some fried eggs, two lemon poppyseed cakes, and some toast with jam please?”

Peony nodded, writing his order down.

Before she could leave, Oin chimed in, “Bring ‘im a cup of willow bark tea as well, please,” he said, then turned to Bilbo with a knowing look. “I saw how stiff you were walking over. The tea will help.”

Bilbo nodded in thanks, though inwardly he grimaced at the reminder of his sore muscles. The aches and pains of traveling were something he hadn’t quite gotten used to yet, and the thought of drinking more bitter tea wasn’t exactly appealing. Still, Oin meant well, and Bilbo wasn’t about to turn down his advice—especially when his legs felt like they’d been trampled by a herd of goats.

Peony finished writing everything down before rushing back into the morning chaos towards the kitchen.

Thankfully, the food didn’t take long to arrive, and Bilbo soon found himself pleasantly distracted by the simple pleasure of a good meal. The fried eggs were perfectly cooked, the lemon poppyseed cakes light and fluffy, and the toast spread generously with sweet, tangy jam. By the time he set down his silverware on his now-empty plate, he felt considerably more content.

Sighing happily, Bilbo let his stomach settle for a moment before turning to Oin. “Would you like to go to the apothecary I was telling you about yesterday? It should be open by now.”

Oin nodded and got to his feet with a grunt. “Aye, let’s head out. I want ta check on Freya when we get back—give her plenty of time ta get ready before we set out again.”

The two of them waved to the others before retracing their path from yesterday, making their way back to the market square. Bilbo led the way through the rows of tables and booths, their bright tablecloths and colorful awnings fluttering gently in the morning breeze. The square was already bustling with activity, vendors calling out to passersby and customers haggling over prices.

They soon reached the perimeter of permanent buildings and followed the row of shops until they arrived at his cousin’s store. The familiar sight of his cousin’s store brought a smile to Bilbo’s face, and for the first time that morning, he felt truly at ease. Natural Remedies stood as a charming single-story wooden building, its tidy appearance inviting any passersby. Above the entrance hung a painted wooden sign depicting a mortar and pestle surrounded by flowers and leaves. 

As Bilbo pushed open the door, a pungent, earthy aroma greeted him, the scent of fresh herbs mingling with the faint tang of dried flowers. Bundles of various plants and flowers hanging from the ceiling beams and the store’s shelves had a variety of merchandise on them. The shelf closest to the door was dedicated to apothecary tools & equipment, Bilbo could see various mortar & pestles, tea kettles, tea strainers, cheesecloth, funnels, and measuring cups and spoons. 

To his right, the shelf closest to the door was dedicated to apothecary tools and equipment—mortar and pestles of all sizes, tea kettles, strainers, cheesecloth, funnels, measuring cups, and spoons. Another shelf groaned under the weight of countless vials, bottles, jars, and tins, each one jostling for space. Along the far wall, rows of pots filled with various flora and fungi sat in orderly fashion, patiently awaiting their turn to be turned into remedies that would soothe aches, banish coughs, and heal wounds.

Bilbo’s gaze drifted toward the counter at the back of the store, where Hilda Brandybuck stood, focused intently on grinding something with a mortar and pestle. Her brow furrowed in concentration, but there was a contentedness in her posture that made Bilbo’s smile widen. Her husband, Bilbo’s cousin Seredic, was nearby, wandering among the shelves and tidying up as he went, humming softly to himself. 

“Good morning!” Bilbo called cheerfully, stepping further into the shop.

Seredic and Hilda both looked up, their faces lighting up with surprise and delight when they saw who it was. “Bilbo!” Seredic exclaimed, abandoning his task and rushing over to greet him. “It’s been far too long since we saw you last! How have you been?”

Bilbo clapped him on the shoulder, a grin spreading across his face. “I’ve been well, keeping busy with my writing. And what about the two of you? Have you been well?” By this point, Hilda had finished what she was doing and walked over from behind the counter to give Bilbo a brief but warm hug.

“We’ve been well,” Hilda replied, her smile bright. “Our gardens have been flourishing this spring, so we’ve had our hands full tending and harvesting it all.”

“I can see that,” Bilbo said, glancing around at the packed shelves and hanging bundles. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your shop so full.”

“The Green Lady has definitely blessed us this spring.” Seredic beamed at him, pulling Hilda close and kissing her on the cheek. “In more ways than one.” 

Bilbo’s eyes widened as he caught on to the meaning behind Seredic’s words. “You’re expecting again!” he gasped.

Hilda beamed, leaning into her husband as she wrapped her arms around her belly. “We just found out a week ago,” she confirmed, her voice soft with happiness.

“Congratulations!” Bilbo exclaimed, rushing forward to wrap them both in a hug. He was positively thrilled for the couple—they had been trying for another child for years. “I’m so happy for you! How are Doderic and Ilberic taking the news? They must be excited about a new sibling.”

“They can’t wait to have a new sibling to play with,” Seredic told him, still smiling proudly at his wife. “All of us are hoping for a baby girl to pamper.”

Bilbo chuckled, but just as he was about to comment further, he noticed Oin shifting slightly behind him. The dwarf had been standing quietly, observing the interaction with a patient smile. Bilbo quickly realized that they had been so caught up in the news that they had completely neglected their guest.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry—that was quite rude of us,” Hilda said, noticing the dwarf for the first time. She stepped out of Seredic’s arms and offered Oin a warm smile. “Welcome to Natural Remedies. My name is Hilda Brandybuck, and this is my husband Seredic.”

Oin stepped forward and gave them a respectful bow. “Oin, at yer service. And don’t fret—ye haven’t been rude at all. It’s always a joy ta reunite with family, especially when ye have such wonderful news ta share. Ye should’ve seen my brother when he found out his wife was expecting—nothin’ could drag his attention away from her.”

Seredic chuckled in agreement. “I can definitely sympathize with your brother, Master Oin.” He wrapped his arms around Hilda again, his eyes shining with affection.

Hilda rolled her eyes fondly at her husband. “Alright, you’ve had your moment. Now let me go and help these two find what they need.”

“Of course, darling,” Seredic replied, releasing her only to swoop in for a quick kiss on the cheek before dancing away with a mischievous grin as Hilda half-heartedly tried to swat him.

“You are such a lovesick fool,” she scolded, though the smile tugging at her lips softened her words.

“That’s the best kind of fool to be, my dear,” Seredic quipped back with a wink before turning to Bilbo and Oin. “So, what can we help you with today?”

“I’ve decided to go on an adventure. I’ll be traveling with Gandalf and a company of dwarves, of which Oin is the healer. We were passing through town on our way to Bree and I told him your store has the best herbs, salves, and medicines in the Shire.”

Hilda scoffed and swatted his arm playfully. “Stop your exaggerating, Bilbo. We pride ourselves on the quality of our products, but we certainly don’t claim to be the best.”

Bilbo grinned, swatting her back in the familiar way they had done since they were faunts. “The two of you are far too modest, and you know it.”

Oin nodded in agreement. “I have ta agree with Bilbo, madam. I can see how high quality yer herbs are with just a quick look around yer store.”

Hilda blushed, clearly flustered by the compliment. “Thank you, I’m glad everything meets your approval. Speaking of our wares, I need to finish grinding the comfrey I was working on. You two should probably start looking for what you need. As nice as it is to see you again, you didn’t just come on a social call.”

“You’re right as always,” Bilbo agreed, giving her one last hug before letting her return to the counter. He turned to Oin, remembering that the dwarf was the one who actually needed to make purchases. “What do you need to buy for the journey?”

Oin stroked his beard thoughtfully before addressing Seredic. “What tinctures do ye have available fer relieving pain?”

Seredic’s expression shifted to one of businesslike efficiency as he led them to a set of shelves lined with various vials, bottles, and jars. Bilbo couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride as he watched his cousin slip into his role as an herbalist with practiced ease.

He plucked one off the shelf and handed it to Oin. “This is one of our stronger tinctures for general pain relief. It’s made from a mix of White Willow Bark, Cramp Bark, Nettles, Valerian, Poppy, Turmeric Root, Citrus Peel, and alcohol. To administer, have the patient take one to four full droppers under their tongue as needed, depending on their tolerance.”

Oin inspected the vial with a discerning eye, nodding to himself. “This’ll do nicely,” Oin said, his gruff voice tinged with satisfaction. “What types of salves do ye have? I’m lookin’ fer ones that help with muscle pain, as well as a basic one fer bruises, scratches, and bug bites.”

Seredic scanned the shelves with a practiced eye, his fingers hovering over several tins before he quickly selected a couple. “This first one,” he began, holding up a small, neatly labeled tin, “is a blend of rosemary, ginger, beeswax, and sunflower oil. Massage it anywhere the patient is experiencing tension or muscle pain to provide relief.”

Oin took the tin with a practiced hand, popped open the lid, and gave the contents a deep sniff. Bilbo watched as the healer’s expression softened, his eyes crinkling in approval.

With Oin’s approval evident, Seredic moved on, plucking three more salves from the shelf for further inspection. “The second one is also for pain relief,” he continued, opening the tin and holding it out for Oin. “It’s made with peppermint, juniper, and pine, along with the beeswax and sunflower oil. The peppermint causes a cooling sensation that eases muscle aches and joint pain.” He opened it for Oin to inspect, and after a brief sniff, Oin nodded in approval once more.

“The next one,” Seredic said, lifting another tin, “is made with arnica, peppermint, comfrey, beeswax, and evening primrose oil. It’s particularly good for healing bumps, bruises, and pulled muscles.” He handed it to Oin, who took a moment to inspect it, then passed it back with a small nod.

“And this last one,” Seredic added, carefully selecting the final tin, “is made from calendula, lavender, tea tree, beeswax, and evening primrose oil. It’s used on scrapes, scratches, bug bites, and other minor skin irritations.”

For the next 45 minutes, Bilbo and Oin followed Seredic around the store as he picked out whatever Oin needed, adding a few extra items based on Hilda’s recommendations. Bilbo found himself thoroughly enjoying the process, more so because Oin seemed to appreciate the variety and quality of the products. It was heartening to see the old dwarf nodding in approval, his usually gruff demeanor softened by the presence of good, honest craftsmanship. Bilbo was proud of his family and happy that Oin recognized their skills.

Hilda, who had been bustling about nearby, chimed in with her own recommendations, her voice warm and friendly. “You’ll want to try this tea mixture,” she said, offering a small pouch filled with fragrant herbs. “It’s made with white willow bark, cramp bark, ginger, and cinnamon. I guarantee it’ll taste better than the blend Oin has been giving you.”

Bilbo’s eyes lit up at the prospect. The willow tea Oin had ordered for him at breakfast had certainly helped with his soreness, but its taste left much to be desired. Anything that made the experience more palatable was worth trying in his book.

When Hilda learned there was a young lady traveling with the company, she insisted on adding a few more items to their purchase—a bug repellent made with peppermint and rosemary, along with lavender soap and rosemary shampoo. With Bilbo deciding to buy some for himself as well.

As Bilbo and Oin finished their shopping and bid the couple farewell -with Bilbo promising to tell them all about his adventure when he returned - before making their way back to the inn.

Chapter Text

Consciousness clawed its way back to Freya, not as a gentle whisper but as a barrage of agony that demanded her attention. It was as if every nerve in her body had decided to revolt, sending sharp, searing pain through her muscles, which felt as if they’d been shredded and stitched back together with barbed wire. Her joints throbbed with a relentless, bone-deep ache that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. It was as though her body was competing with itself to see which part could cause her the most pain, and every single part was winning.

She whimpered softly, the sound pitiful even to her own ears, and slowly forced her arm to move. The motion was like dragging a limb through thick mud, and her fingers trembled as they blindly groped for the call button that had always been her lifeline. The one thing that could summon relief. But it wasn’t there. Her hand patted the bed next to her with growing desperations, and she nearly sobbed in frustration when she couldn’t find it.

It wasn’t just the absence of the call button that felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. The bed she lay in wasn’t right—she was lying flat, not with her upper body at the familiar, slightly elevated angle that eased her breathing. The mattress wasn’t the uncomfortable, sterile one she was used to, and the blanket covering her was too heavy, too warm.  Even the smells were different—earthy, warm, tinged with something sweet she couldn’t quite place, nothing like the antiseptic sting she was used to.

Even the sounds around her were wrong. There was no steady drip of fluids in her IV, no heart monitor beeping in rhythm with her heartbeat, no hushed conversations from nurses in the hallway, no phones ringing at the nurse’s station. Instead she could hear birds singing, what sounded like children playing nearby, and what bizarrely sounded like some sort of animal bleating.

None of it made any sense and that made her want to cry even more. She was hurting, and she was confused, and all she wanted was for someone to come in and make the pain stop.  

Taking a few shaky breaths to calm herself down, Freya finally forced her eyes open, squinting against the soft, golden light filtering through a nearby window. The room that greeted her wasn’t the sterile, familiar environment she expected. Instead of white walls and the harsh glow of fluorescent lights, she was surrounded by wooden beams and the warm hues of dawn. For a moment, she simply stared, her mind stubbornly refusing to connect the dots. Slowly, the memories of the past two days began to trickle back, the realization hit her with a cold, sinking dread—she wasn’t in a hospital; she was in Middle Earth.

On the plus side, that meant she hadn’t been kidnapped from her hospital room, but the downside was that there was no oxycodone here to dull the razor-sharp pain slicing through her body, and no call button to press for help.

She laid there for what felt like hours, unwilling to move, but her left arm was twisted awkwardly beneath her, and it was starting to throb in protest. Wonderful. Now she had to deal with that too.

She sighed, if she wanted any chance of falling back to sleep she would have to move at least a little, even though the very thought made her want to scream. Her muscles, stiff and aching, protested even the idea of motion, and the mere anticipation of pain was enough to make her chest tighten. But she knew she had no choice. With a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes shut and slowly, carefully, began to shift her legs, turning and rolling to flop onto her back.

The pain that followed was like a bolt of lightning shooting through her limbs, searing and all-consuming. It hit her with such ferocity that her breath caught in her throat, and a sharp gasp tore through the quiet room. She lay there, panting, her chest heaving as she sucked in short, shallow breaths, trying to breathe through the agony.

Over the years, as her body deteriorated, she had been forced to adapt to living in a state of constant pain. It had become a companion of sorts, always lurking in the background. Some days, it hurt so little that she could almost forget it was there—almost. But then there were days like this, where the pain was so overwhelming that it felt like it might swallow her whole.

She kept her eyes closed, forcing herself to take a deep breath in through her nose, then out through her mouth, focusing on letting her muscles relax. It was an agonizingly slow process, the first few minutes so excruciating that she nearly gave up. But eventually, the pain subsided into a dull, continuous ache. 

Now came the million-dollar question: Could she fall asleep like this? The odds weren’t in her favor, but for a few moments, it seemed like she might manage it. Her mind started to drift, the tension in her body slowly melting away. She could almost feel the pull of sleep, soft and inviting.

She’s ripped away from the relative peace when her leg spasmed, the muscles tightening into an agonizing knot. She cried out and made the horrible mistake of trying to reach down to grab her leg. As soon as she tried to move, sharp burning pain lit up her body.

She sobbed, the sound broken and desperate, her body trembling as she tried to hold as still as possible, riding out the storm. The pain seemed endless, every second stretching into an eternity. Finally, after what felt like hours, it began to ease, releasing her from its grip. She lay there, panting, tears streaming down her cheeks and soaking into the pillow beneath her.

Why was she forced to live with this? What the fuck had she done to deserve this kind of pain? She knew life wasn’t fair but did it really have to be this much of a bitch. She was already on the ground so why the fuck did it feel the need to keep kicking her.

She laid there gasping softly, tears dripping down her face and onto the pillow under her. Everything hurt. It hurt so bad, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. The helplessness was suffocating, pressing down on her chest like a weight she couldn’t lift.

Time lost its meaning as she lay there, drifting in and out of awareness, each moment blurring into the next. The pain was a constant, an unyielding reminder that her body was fragile, that she’d pushed herself too far the day before, thinking she could handle a little more. Stupid. She should’ve known better. Now her body was punishing her for daring to feel good, for pushing herself beyond the fragile limits it had set.

She wasn’t sure how long she had been lying there when a knock came at her door, pulling her from the haze of pain.

“Are-ye-awake-in-there-lass? I-brought-some-food-an'-medicine-for-ye .” Oin gruff voice drifted through the closed door. 

A sob of relief escaped her lips. Finally, someone was here. Someone who could help her, who could make the pain stop, even if just for a little while.

“ Somethings-wrong. It-sounds-like-she’s-crying ,” she heard Bilbo say, his voice laced with worry. Maybe he could hear her through the door. Wasn’t there a fan theory about Hobbits having really good hearing?

The door creaked open, and Oin stuck his head in. His eyes widened when he saw her, and he rushed into the room, kneeling by her side. His gaze swept over her, searching for injuries, for some visible reason behind her suffering.

Freya blinked up at him, tears still sliding down her cheeks. “H-Hurts,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“ I-know-lass, I-know. I’ll-have-ye-feeling-better-soon, don’t-ye-worry .” Oin’s gruff voice was low, soothing, a rough contrast to the pain that gnawed at her insides. He gently brushed stray strands of hair away from her damp forehead, his fingers surprisingly gentle.

Oin turned his head to address Bilbo, who was hovering just inside the doorway, his worry evident in his wide eyes. “Go-get-my-brother-an'-ask-the-owner-ta-send-up-a-tub-an'-hot-water-for-a-bath. ”

Bilbo looked slightly ill, his face pale, but he perked up a little at the sound of his name. “Right-I’ll go do-that,” he stammered before leaving, closing the door behind him.

Oin turned and started going through the satchel he kept his healing supplies in. After a moment he pulled out a dropper and a small sealed vial. He carefully cut through the wax seal with a knife and dipped the dropper inside. Freya watched through half-lidded eyes, too exhausted to care much about what he was doing, only that he was doing something.

“ Alright-lass-I’m-gonna-need-ye-ta-open-yer-mouth, this-is-one-of-my-stronger-tinctures-so-it’ll-start-making-ye-feel-better-soon.” The old healer said something before pointing to her and opening his mouth, miming putting whatever was in the dropper into it. 

Freya opened her mouth and Oin squeezed a few drops under her tongue. The liquid was bitter, clinging to the back of her throat, but if it was going to help, then she really didn’t care how bad it tasted. Anything to make this relentless, gnawing pain ease up, even just a little.

Oin set the vial aside and returned to his spot beside her, his expression softening as he gently wiped away her tears with his sleeve.  “Yer-gonna-be-alright.” Oin said something to her, his voice rumbling softly. “I'm-gonna-get-ye-feeling-better-in-no-time."

Freya slowly relaxed, the tears slowing as the tincture began to work its magic. The sharpest edges of the pain dulled, leaving behind a heavy, lingering ache that was still unbearable but somehow more distant, more manageable.

Oin smiled at her, though she could tell it was a strained, and started to gently stroke her hair. “That’s-a-good-lass. Just-lay-still. You’re-gonna-be-alright.”

She laid there with her eyes closed, trying to breathe normally, focusing on the rhythm of Oin’s voice, the gentle touch of his hand. Each breath was shallow, her chest too tight to allow for anything deeper. The rise and fall of her ribcage sent ripples of discomfort through her body, but she forced herself to focus on the steady cadence of Oin’s words, the way his hand moved through her hair.

She heard the door open and someone come inside, but she didn’t open her eyes. It was enough to let Oin deal with it, to let someone else take over. Oin stopped talking to her for a moment to give whoever had come in some sort of instructions after which the footsteps retreat back out the door. 

Oin stopped talking to her for a moment to give whoever had come in some sort of instructions. The footsteps retreated, and she could hear the door close again. 

Over the next little while, Freya could hear people coming in and out of her room, but she refused to acknowledge them. Instead, she let herself bask in the comfort Oin was giving her, letting her mind drift. The pain had faded somewhat - thanks to whatever it was Oin had given her - no longer the sharp, relentless thing it had been, but a dull, throbbing reminder that movement would be absolute agony. 

“Freya,”Oin said softly, breaking through the fog that had settled over her mind. “ We-are-gonna-put-ye-in-a-hot-bath, -tha-heat-will-help-with-tha-pain . Goin’s gonna-ta-carry-ye-ta-the-tub. It’s-gonna-hurt, -but-only-fer-a-moment, -then-it’ll-get-better. Do-ye-understand ?” Oin pointed to Gloin, then her, then the tub.

Freya nodded slowly, the movement small and stiff. She was pretty sure she knew what they wanted, but the thought of moving, of being lifted, made Freya’s stomach twist with dread. She could already imagine the pain flaring back to life, the tender muscles seizing up in protest. Her mind screamed at her to stay still, to avoid the inevitable pain, but she knew there was no choice.

Oin stepped back, moving over to his medical bag while Gloin took the healer’s place beside her. “Are-ye-ready-for-me-ta-pick-ye-up?” he asked, making a lifting motion with his hands, his voice gruff but gentle.

She hesitated, her breath catching in her throat before she forced herself to nod slowly. She tried not to tense too badly, holding her breath as Gloin leaned down, slipping an arm beneath her knees and behind her shoulders.

Gloin paused, looking at her with concern etched into his features, silently asking for permission to continue. Freya nodded again, though the motion was more of a desperate plea for it to be over quickly.

Another nod, weaker this time. Freya held her breath, her heart pounding in her chest as Gloin oh-so-carefully lifted her off the bed. It was a smooth motion, like she weighed nothing, but the smoothness did little to ease the jolt of pain that shot through her limbs, sharp and unforgiving. She whimpered, the sound escaping before she could stop it.

Gloin stopped once he was standing, giving her a moment to adjust. “Ye-good lass? ” he asked, his voice a soft, comforting rumble that vibrated through his chest.

Freya squeezed her eyes shut again, turning her face into Gloin’s shoulder, hiding the tears that threatened to spill. “Go,” she whispered, her voice tight. She could feel his hesitation, but after a moment, he began moving again, each step careful and measured.

Gloin didn’t hesitate this time, carrying her across the room with a care that made her throat tighten. Oin was already there, sitting on the edge of the tub, pouring some oil and herbs into the steaming water. The scent of lavender and peppermint filled the air, but even that comforting aroma couldn't fully distract her from the pain gnawing at her.

Gloin carefully lowered her into the bath, ignoring the fact that his sleeves were getting drenched. Freya grimaced as the change in position sparked a new flare of discomfort, but the heat of the water quickly began to work its magic, dulling the sharp edges of her pain. She sighed in relief, her body finally losing some of its tension as she sank into the blissfully hot water.

Freya leaned her head back against the rim of the tub, letting herself relax as much as she could. The water smelled like lavender and peppermint, just like the herb and Epsom salt baths she’d tried back in her own world as part of her heat therapy. The hospital’s heat therapy had always been her go-to on the worst days.

She must have been lying there for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, just basking in the warmth, when she heard the door creak open. The sound of footsteps followed, then Oin’s low murmur as he spoke to someone outside. She didn’t bother trying to catch the words, too focused on the way the heat had finally coaxed the pain into a dull, manageable ache.  

A gentle nudge to her shoulder brought her back to the present. She cracked her eyes open to find Oin holding a cup of something. Freya sighed, already suspecting it was the same bitter concoction he’d made her drink the day before. It had tasted awful, but it had worked, so she nodded her assent.

Her hands shook as she reached for the cup, and Oin kept his hands hovering close, ready to catch it if she faltered. 

The tea still had that woody, bitter flavor, but it was softened by the addition of cinnamon and honey, making it more palatable than before. 

Freya downed the cup in a few quick gulps, not wanting to prolong the experience any more than necessary. She handed the empty cup back to Oin, offering him a quiet but sincere, “Thank you,” her voice tinged with both gratitude and exhaustion.

Chapter Text

Oin let Freya soak in the warm bath for about an hour, hoping the heat would ease her aching muscles. He’d seen his fair share of pain over the years—battle-scarred warriors, fever-stricken children, kin who’d barely made it through dragon fire—but there was something about this lass that got under his skin. Maybe it was the way she tried to smile through her pain, like she thought she could fool him, as if hiding it would stop them from worrying. He’d seen that kind of stubborn bravery before, but it always left a knot in his chest. No one so kindhearted should have to suffer so much.

When the hour was up, Oin helped her out of the bath, careful not to rush her. She moved like her joints were made of rusted iron, and he could see the toll it was taking, no matter how hard the lass tried to cover it up. Once she was dressed, he guided her back to bed, tucking the blankets around her with steady hands. “Ye’ll be alright, lass,” he said, voice rough but warm.

Oin had tended to all sorts in his time, from battlefield injuries to sickness that crept in and stole life away—but Freya’s ailment was something else. As he sat beside her, fingers on her wrist feeling her weak but steady pulse, he ran through every scrap of knowledge he had. But nothing fit. There were no wounds to treat, no visible signs of what ailed her. Her body, frail as it was, held on with a stubbornness that made no sense to him. It left him with nothing but frustration. Maybe it was the Valar’s doing, keeping her on her feet despite everything. Or maybe there was more at play, something he hadn’t figured out yet.

When Gloin came to take over, Oin gave a curt nod and headed downstairs to report to the others.
___________________________________________________

Gloin settled into a chair by Freya's bedside as Oin left to update the rest of the company. His usual gruff demeanor softened slightly as he kept a vigilant eye on her. "You're in good hands, lass," he muttered, his gaze briefly following his brother out the door.

As he sat there, his thoughts wandered back to his own son in the Blue Mountains. Gimli, with his rosy cheeks and boundless energy, was never far from his mind. A pang of guilt gnawed at him for being so far from home. But the same protectiveness he felt for his boy now extended to this strange lass who had stumbled into their company. Gloin grunted softly to himself, firming his resolve. He’d see to it she was looked after, just as he would for his own.
_____________________________________________________
Oin found the company gathered in a corner of the tavern, their eyes turning to him as he approached.

“Yesterday took it outta her,” Oin said bluntly. “She ain’t goin’ anywhere today. And when we do move out, we’ll have to slow down, stop more often.”

TThe dwarves exchanged uneasy glances. None of them were keen on the idea of a delay, but they knew better than to argue with him. They were just as concerned about the lass as he was.

Balin frowned. “If we slow our pace, we won’t make it to Whitfurrows before sundown. And I doubt a night out in the open would do her any good.”

Before Oin could respond, Bilbo cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “One of my aunts lives about halfway to Whitfurrow,” he said, sounding a bit uneasy. “I can send a note to her, see if we can stay with her and her family tomorrow night. There won’t be enough rooms for everyone, so most of us will have to sleep in the barn. But it’s better than camping, especially for Freya. Like Balin said, sleeping on the ground won’t help her.”

All eyes turned to Thorin for the final say. His expression was stern as usual, but Oin noticed a flicker of concern in his eyes. Thorin might be many things, but heartless wasn’t one of them.

“Send the letter,” Thorin ordered. “Let us know her answer as soon as you get it.”

Oin grunted in approval. It was a small victory, but he’d take it. Freya would get the rest she needed, and for now, that was enough to ease his worries—if only a little.

___________________________________

The company drifted apart, everyone off to find something to occupy themselves with. Bilbo, for his part, retreated to his room to write a letter to his Aunt, explaining their request. He had just finished sealing the letter when a soft knock on the door drew his attention. Before he could respond, the door creaked open, and Ori stepped inside, followed closely by Fili and Kili. 

“Excuse us, Bilbo. Sorry to interrupt, but we were wondering if we could ask you for a favor.” Ori’s voice was a bit rushed, and he fidgeted nervously with his fingers as he spoke. “The three of us were trying to think of some way to cheer Freya up, and I remembered you talking about flowers yesterday—how they all have different meanings. We thought we could make a bouquet of get-well flowers for her.”

Bilbo blinked in surprise, a warm smile spreading across his face. He hadn’t expected Ori to remember their conversation, let alone to suggest such a thoughtful gesture.

“I’m more than happy to help,” Bilbo said warmly, his smile growing. “Why don’t the three of you accompany me to deliver my letter? After that’s done, I can help you gather the flowers you need.”

The dwarves nodded eagerly, and Bilbo felt a sense of fondness for the trio. There was something endearing about their determination to lift Freya’s spirits, and he was more than willing to lend a hand. Together, they made their way down to the local post office, where Bilbo paid for a runner to deliver his letter. The task completed, Bilbo led them through the winding streets of the town, heading toward the houses known for their large, well-tended gardens.

“As I was telling Ori yesterday, flowers are quite important to us hobbits,” Bilbo explained as they walked. “Every flower has its own meaning based on the species, color, combinations with other blooms, and sometimes even the number of flowers in the bouquet.”

He noticed Ori had pulled out his ever-present journal, quill at the ready as he meticulously took notes. Bilbo found the sight endearing—Ori’s thirst for knowledge reminded him of a young hobbit faunt, wide-eyed and eager to absorb everything the world had to offer. He also noted Fili casually placing a hand on Ori’s shoulder, guiding the smaller dwarf and making sure he didn’t walk straight into a lamppost while lost in his note-taking. That, too, brought a smile to Bilbo’s face. The dwarves might have a reputation for being rough around the edges, but they were unfailingly thoughtful when it counted.

“How can you possibly remember all of that?” Kili asked, his tone equal parts awe and confusion. “It sounds so complicated.”

Bilbo chuckled, the sound warm and knowing. “It is, but we hobbits learn it as we grow up, which makes it easier to remember. You might say it’s second nature by the time we’re adults.” That, and the fact that a forgetful hobbit could easily find themselves in hot water if they accidentally sent the wrong message with a poorly chosen bloom. Few things were as perilous as a bouquet misinterpreted by a sharp-eyed auntie with a long memory.

They reached a street lined with quaint houses, each boasting a garden more impressive than the last. Flowers of every color imaginable spilled over fences and clustered around doorways. Bilbo paused, scanning the blooms on either side, mentally cataloging what they had to work with.

“We are going to make two different bouquets,” he announced, a plan forming in his mind. “The first will be a blend of purple and white flowers, while the second one will be a mix of pink and yellow.”

With that, Bilbo led the way to the side of the first house, where rows of rosemary grew along the fence, interspersed with lavender and echinacea. The air was thick with the calming scent of herbs, and Bilbo crouched down to pick a few stalks of lavender, handing some to each of the dwarves.

“This flower is called lavender,” Bilbo began, his voice taking on the gentle, instructive tone he often used with faunts. “It has a variety of meanings, including serenity, calm, healing, grace, devotion, silence, and purity. Lavender is an extremely useful herb with many medicinal purposes. It can help treat insomnia, anxiety, headaches, insect bites, burns, and inflammation, and it even aids small cuts in healing. Not only that, but it can also be used in a healing bath to relieve joint and muscle pain, and its scent helps keep insects at bay.”

Fili and Kili stared down at the flowers in their hands with newfound respect, while Ori’s quill scratched furiously across the page of his journal. Bilbo couldn’t help but feel a touch of pride at their reactions. It was always satisfying to share a bit of hobbit knowledge with others, especially when they were so eager to learn.

“This one flower can do all that?” Fili asked, clearly impressed.

“Yes, as I said, it’s a rather remarkable flower,” Bilbo confirmed, his excitement growing as he saw how interested they were. There was something deeply gratifying about teaching others, and he found himself eager to continue.

He reached over and picked some echinacea—purple flowers that resembled large daisies but had distinctive, spiky centers that looked like tiny hedgehogs. As he passed the blooms to Fili and Kili, he couldn’t resist a small smile at the way their eyes widened in curiosity.

“These are echinacea, or coneflowers,” Bilbo explained, watching as they examined the petals. “They can be used to treat burns, wounds, and insect bites. Because of their medicinal uses, they’re associated with health, strength, and healing. When given as a gift, a coneflower says, ‘I hope you feel better.’”

Bilbo led the group across the cobblestone street, his eyes narrowing slightly as he focused on the house ahead. It was a charming little cottage, its walls adorned with ivy and the garden bursting with color. A row of four-foot-tall valerian plants stood proudly along the fence, their pale green leaves providing ample shade to a flower bed of daisies, foxgloves, and hollyhocks nestled below. 

Pausing by the valerian, Bilbo turned to his companions and gestured toward the tall, fragrant plants. “This flower is called valerian,” he explained. “The flowers have a very pleasant vanilla-like smell and can be used to treat insomnia, headaches, anxiety, and muscle cramps. It represents health and strength.”

He cut a few stalks and passed them over. Then, to the confusion of his companions, he pulled out a small sealable pouch, knelt on the ground, and started digging up the dirt beneath the valerian plant.

“Um, Bilbo, what exactly are you doing?” Ori asked, his quill pausing mid-scratch as he finally looked up.

“Harvesting some of the roots,” Bilbo replied matter-of-factly as he cut a small bundle of roots. “Don’t worry, these aren’t for the bouquet. I have a special task in mind for these.” His voice took on a mischievous lilt, though he kept his expression studiously neutral.

“Why, what do you need them for?” Kili asked, leaning over to peer at the hobbit’s work with keen interest.

Bilbo held out the roots to him, his smile deceptively innocent. “Smell it and you’ll see.”

Kili took the roots, his brow furrowing slightly as he brought them to his nose. The effect was immediate—he recoiled as though he’d been struck, jerking his hand away and gagging, his nose wrinkled in utter disgust.

“Mahal’s beard,” Kili swore, his eyes watering as he turned away, much to Bilbo’s amusement. “That smells worse than Dwalin’s boots.”

“Spend a lot of time sniffing Dwalin’s boots do you?” Fili teased. Kili shoved his brother in retaliation, a playful scuffle ensuing as Kili attempted to jam the roots under his brother’s nose. 

Bilbo snatched the delicate flowers he had given the brothers out of their hands before they could be crushed in the fray. The short scuffle ended with Kili as the victor. He managed to jump on his brother’s back and clap the hand he was holding the valerian root in over Fili’s mouth and nose. Fili let out a disgusted yell and flipped his brother off his back, throwing him into the dirt as he coughed and gagged from the smell.

“That is absolutely foul,” Fili gasped, wiping his nose with the back of his hand while Kili grinned victoriously, dusting himself off. “What in Mahal’s name could you possibly need that for?”

Bilbo chuckled softly, enjoying the spectacle. “This wonderful little plant is going to help me make a certain ‘Disturber of the Peace’ regret his recent decisions,” he said, his tone laced with a barely concealed glee.

Realization dawned on his companions' faces. Ori hid a smile behind his journal, while Fili and Kili exchanged identical grins before clapping Bilbo on each shoulder.
 
“Good luck, and if you need anything—” Fili began, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“—just let us know,” Kili finished, clearly eager to assist in whatever mischief Bilbo had planned. “We’re more than happy to help you out with any revenge plans.”

Bilbo laughed, the sound tinged with a hint of conspiratorial glee. It was a good feeling, having allies in his schemes. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind if I run into any trouble,” he promised, his thoughts already racing ahead to the possibilities. Oh yes, Gandalf wouldn’t know what hit him.

With the matter of the valerian roots settled, the four of them resumed gathering Freya’s flowers. Bilbo led them to the side of the house, where another flower bed awaited, bursting with yarrow, butterfly milkweed, and rudbeckia daisies. 

“The flowers we’re interested in are the white and yellow yarrow,” Bilbo lectured. His three students perked up when he said this, clearly interested in learning more. “Yarrow is another incredibly useful plant, just like lavender.” He could see the glint of interest in their eyes—especially Ori’s—as he continued. “It can help reduce swelling for external injuries, its leaves can be made into a powder that can stop wounds from bleeding, its oil can be made into a balm for healing irritated skin, and yarrow tea can help reduce fevers.”

“I never realized plants could have so many different uses,” Ori marveled, inspecting the stalk of yarrow Bilbo handed him with wide-eyed admiration. Fili and Kili nodded in agreement, clearly impressed.

Fili twirled two stalks of yarrow between his fingers, one yellow and one white, before asking, “These are the same kind of flowers, just different colors, right? What do they mean?”

“Yellow yarrow represents friendship, kindness, joy, and positivity, while the white ones symbolize regeneration, calm, hope for the future, and healing,” Bilbo explained, carefully collecting a few more stalks of each color. He stood, brushing the dirt from his hands as his eyes scanned the rest of the garden. “Now, all we need is some verbena, delicate freesia, and gerbera daisies.”

The four of them were able to find the remaining flowers fairly quickly, with Bilbo explaining their meanings and any uses the plants had as they did so. Pink verbena for protection, healing, good cheer, and kindness. Yellow delicate freesia for thoughtfulness, renewal, and optimism. Pink gerbera daisies for admiration, sympathy, and compassion.

As they worked, Bilbo showed them how to strip most of the leaves from the stems before tying them together with long strands of grass. When they finished, the four of them took a moment to admire their handiwork. Bilbo found himself smiling, the satisfaction of a job well done mingling with the warmth of companionship.

As they began their walk back to the inn, Bilbo’s thoughts wandered. He glanced at Fili and Kili, who were still exchanging lighthearted jabs about the valerian root, their laughter carrying on the breeze. Ori trailed behind them, carefully tucking the notes he had taken into his journal. Bilbo couldn’t help but feel a swell of affection for these dwarves, so different from the hobbits he was used to, yet somehow just as dear. They were brash and bold, with a penchant for mischief that reminded him of the younger Tooks back home. And yet, beneath that rough exterior, they had hearts just as large as any hobbit’s.
Yes, Bilbo thought as he walked alongside his unlikely companions, perhaps this adventure wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

Chapter Text

Oin gave a nod of thanks to the Master Roper and his wife, carefully balancing a tray with soup and medicinal tea in his hands. They’d been kind enough to let him use their kitchen to prepare what Freya needed, and their whole family had gone out of their way to help. Even refused payment for their trouble. That kind of generosity wasn’t something he expected—not anymore. Ever since being driven from their mountain, his people had seen precious little kindness from anyone who wasn’t kin, and even less from those outside their race.

That thought sat heavy, a familiar burden he’d long since grown used to carrying. Trust had become a rare thing, and the dwarves had learned to expect nothing but indifference—or worse—from the world around them. Exile had made them cautious, even of folk with good intentions.

But this family, these strangers, had offered their aid without a second thought, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was easy to forget what real goodwill looked like after all they’d been through. Oin was grateful, though he couldn’t help the flicker of suspicion still lingering in the back of his mind. Old habits were hard to break.

He shook his head, brushing aside the grim thoughts as he approached Freya’s door. No point in dwelling on old wounds when there were new ones to tend. The tincture he’d given her that morning had done its job, letting her sleep and recover. But it was late afternoon now, and Oin knew the pain would soon claw its way back. He needed to wake Freya and get some food in her before giving her another dose. If they let the pain get ahead of them, it’d be that much harder to manage.

He rapped on the door before nudging it open and stepping inside. The room was dim, shadows stretching long across the floor from the window. He gave Gloin a nod, his brother had been keeping an eye on the lass while Oin worked in the kitchen.

Oin’s gaze shifted to the bed where Freya was beginning to stir under the blankets, her movements slow and stiff. She let out a soft groan as she rolled onto her side, and Oin winced in sympathy. He and Gloin stayed quiet, giving her time to come around.  Rushing her wouldn’t do any good; she needed to wake at her own pace, and they had time enough to spare.

As Freya blinked and squinted against the afternoon light, Oin took in her state with a practiced eye. Pale skin, dark circles—she was still wrung out from the morning’s ordeal. Her strength was coming back, bit by bit, but the lass had a long road ahead. Oin felt a flicker of frustration at the helplessness of it all. A healer was supposed to mend things, make them right, but all he could do was keep her comfortable and hope her body would heal in its own time.

Freya’s eyes eventually focused on the two dwarves and she gave them a tired smile. “Hi,”

she whispered, her voice breaking the stillness of the room. This was already a huge improvement from this morning and Oin and Gloin smiled back at her relieved. 

“Hello ta ye as well, lass. It’s good ta see ye awake an’ feeling better,” Gloin told her, reaching out to take her hand.

“Aye, yer lookin’ much better,” Oin agreed as he brought the tray over to the bedside table, before turning to his patient and brother. “I can take it from ‘ere,” he told Gloin, patting his brother on the shoulder.

Gloin grunted in acknowledgment and stood. Before he walked away, he gave Freya’s hand one more gentle squeeze. “Just take it easy, lass. Oin will have ye feeling better in no time.”

Even though Freya couldn’t understand the words, it seemed she understood his meaning. She smiled and weakly squeezed his hand in return. “Thank you.”

Gloin nodded and gave Freya one last soft smile before turning to leave, gently closing the door behind him, leaving Oin alone with his patient.

Oin took up the chair his brother had vacated. He set the tray of food and medicine down on the small table beside the bed. His eyes lingered on Freya, taking in the tightness in her expression, the way her jaw clenched just so—a sure sign the pain was back. The medicine from earlier was wearing off, and while she tried to hide it, he could see the tremor in her hands, the hitch in her breath now and then. It was that stubborn bravery again—one that both tugged at his heart and made him curse the unfairness of it all.

Oin reached out and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Let's get some food an' tea into ye. After that, I’ve got a balm that’ll help relieve any pain yer feeling.” He gestured to the tray of food and tea, hoping she’d understand at least the first part of his plan. Communication was tricky, but they’d managed well enough so far.

He waited for Freya to nod to show she understood before continuing. “I’m gonna get an arm under your shoulders an' tilt ye up so I can get some pillows behind ye. We’re just gonna focus on sitting up a little, not shifting up on tha bed or anything,” Oin explained, miming the action with his hands before grabbing the extra pillows from the other side of the bed.

He gave her a count to three before carefully easing her up, his movements quick but gentle. The effects of the pain medicine he’d given her earlier were clearly starting to fade. Freya bit back a whine of pain as she leaned up just enough for him to tuck the pillows behind her, her breathing harsh but controlled. She was trying her hardest not to let it show, and it pained him to see her fighting like that. A young one like her shouldn’t have to endure such things.

“There ye go, lass, all done. Just lean back now,” Oin murmured, his usual gruffness softened just a touch. He stayed close as Freya sank back into the pillows, her eyes squeezed shut like she was trying to will the pain away. The healer gave her a moment to catch her breath before speaking again.

He gave her a few moments to collect herself before speaking again. “Are ye ready ta drink some o' tha tea?” he asked, motioning to the kettle and cup, keeping his tone light.

Freya nodded, her lips twitching into a smile as she replied, “ I hope you didn’t go back-to-the-first-type-of-brew. That one-tasted-aweful.”

There was a faint lilt to her words, a hint of humor that Oin picked up on even if he didn’t fully grasp the meaning. He chuckled, but the way she put on a brave face despite everything tugged at his heart. 

He’d seen that kind of smile before—the one that tries to hide the hurt, to make everyone else believe the pain’s not so bad. He’d seen it on soldiers who knew they’d not last the night, and on mothers holding’ their dying children close. That smile always made his heart ache, and Freya’s was no different. No one so kind-hearted and cheerful should have to endure so much.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Oin handed her the cup of tea. She needed both hands to steady it, so he kept his own close, ready to catch it if she faltered. But she managed it, without any spills. When she finished, he took the cup and fetched the tray with the soup, settling it across her lap.

He didn’t hover this time, instead busying himself with his satchel, sorting through herbs and medicines while getting the pain-relieving balm he’d mentioned earlier. The silence between them was comfortable, broken only by the sounds of her eating.

Once she was done, Oin took the tray and set it aside, pickin’ up the balm. He handed it over for her to look at, watching as she turned the jar in her hands, that curious look in her eyes. She always wanted to understand things, and he respected that.

“It’s a balm made of Black Seed Oil, Peppermint, Arnica, and Dandelion. It will help ease tha pain in yer joints an' muscles," he explained. He tried to remember what words Freya had learned by now, searching for a way to tell her in a manner she’d understand. “It’ll help the hurt stop,” he said, hoping that would get the point across.

Freya held out her arm, and Oin got to work. He scooped a bit of’ the balm, warm’ it between his calloused hands. The scent of peppermint and arnica filled the air as he rubbed it into her skin, his fingers moving with the practiced ease of someone who had done this a thousand times before.

“The peppermint oil makes it feel cool when applied to the skin and helps numb pain,” he went on, his voice low and steady. He knew she might not follow all of it, but the rhythm of his words seemed to soothe her. “Arnica’s good for bruises, sore muscles, and arthritis. Dandelion helps with pain too—makes the balm stronger.” As he spoke, he massaged the balm into her arm with firm yet tender motions, mindful of the areas that made her flinch.

His thoughts wandered as he worked. He’d seen dwarves twice her size crumble under less strain, and yet here she was, still pushing through, still fighting. Stubborn as a mule, he thought, with a touch of admiration. But that stubbornness worried him too. He’d seen it before, in warriors who refused to rest, in mothers who put their children’s needs before their own. It rarely ended well. He’d have to keep a close eye on her, make sure she didn’t push herself past the breaking point, even if it meant butting heads with that iron will of hers.

He could feel the tension in Freya’s muscles slowly ease under his fingers as the balm did its work. As the knots in her muscles began to loosen, he allowed himself a small sigh of relief. At least for now, she seemed more comfortable.

Oin had just finished helping Freya get dressed again and was putting the balm back into his medical bag when a knock sounded on the door. 

The door creaked open slightly, and Bilbo Baggins poked his head in. The hobbit’s face lit up when he saw that Freya was awake and looking somewhat better. “I hope we’re not interrupting your rest, but you have some visitors that have a gift for you. If you’re feeling up to having visitors, that is.”

Oin glanced at Freya, debating whether to let them in. The lass was smiling—properly smiling for the first time today—her excitement pushing back the weariness that had weighed her down. In the end, he couldn’t find it in himself to deny her this bit of happiness.

“Aye, let ’em in,” Oin finally said, his voice gruff but softened by a small smile. “But not fer too long. She needs ’er rest.”

Bilbo opened the door the rest of the way and stepped aside to allow Ori, Fili, and Kili inside. The three of them shuffled into the room, their usual rambunctiousness tempered by the sight of Freya in bed. They were trying to keep it down, though their eagerness to see her was plain enough. Kili and Ori were hiding what looked like flowers behind their backs as they walked across the room.

The three stood there awkwardly for a moment, glancing at each other and shifting on their feet, like lads caught with their hands in the biscuit tin. Oin’s lips twitched in a smile; it wasn’t often he saw them so uncertain. 

Fili cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Oin told us that you weren’t feeling well, so the three of us,” he gestured to his brother and Ori, “decided that we wanted to do something to try and cheer you up. Ori came up with the idea to bring you some flowers, and Bilbo helped us collect some for you.”

At that point, Ori and Kili revealed the bouquets and presented them to Freya. Oin watched as her eyes lit up, her hands flying to her mouth in surprise. She reached out to take the bouquets. “Oh they’re-beautiful,” she whispered, bringing them to her nose. She looked up, beaming up at the boys, “ Thank you so-much I love-them.” 

Oin couldn’t help but smile at the youngsters as he quietly gathered the dishes from earlier, stacking them onto a tray. He watched as Freya beckoned the three dwarves to sit on the bed, and Bilbo was nudged toward the chair beside it.

He slipped out of the room, letting them have their moment. Freya was asking about the flowers as he made his way to the kitchen. He returned the dishes to the kitchen, chatting with Master Roper and his family for a short while, assuring them that Freya was recovering and thank them for all their help.

When that was done, he made his way back to Freya’s room. He was glad Fili, Kili, Ori, and Bilbo had come, but now it was time for his patient to rest. Her body needed time to heal, and it was his job to see she got it—even if it meant chasin’ off well-meaning visitors.

________________________________________________________

Bilbo, Ori, Kili, and Fili said their goodbyes to Freya as Oin ushered them out of the room, firmly insisting she needed rest. None of them protested—how could they, when it was so clear that their visit, while welcome, had tired the girl out? Bilbo couldn’t help but notice how pale she looked, how her eyelids drooped despite her attempts to stay engaged. It tugged at his heart, seeing her trying so hard to put on a brave face.

The four of them parted ways before eventually converging with the rest of the company for dinner. The meal passed in a comfortable hum of conversation and clattering utensils, but Bilbo’s thoughts kept drifting back to Freya. He wondered how she was faring now, if Oin had managed to coax her into eating something. His musings were interrupted when the tavern door open, and a hobbit in a messenger’s outfit stepped inside. The messenger scanned the room, his eyes quickly locking onto Bilbo before making his way over.

“I have a letter for you, Mister Baggins,” the messenger announced, holding out an envelope with a neat, familiar script. “From Donnamira Boffin, née Took.”

“Wonderful! Thank you for getting it to me so quickly.” Bilbo handed the messenger a couple of coins as a tip, appreciating the expedient service.

The hobbit took the tip graciously, saying, “Thank you, Mister Baggins. Have a good rest of your evening,” before heading back out the door, likely eager to find a good meal and a warm bed himself.

As he carefully opened the letter, Bilbo felt the weight of several pairs of eyes on him. The company had gone silent, their attention fixed on the letter in his hands. He quickly scanned the letter, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards as he read. Aunt Donna would be more than happy to host him and the company; in fact, she demanded they stop by for the evening so she could meet the sparked some Tookishness in Bilbo after so long. Rolling his eyes affectionately, he tucked the letter away, a warmth spreading in his chest at the thought of seeing his aunt again.

He was broken out of his thoughts by the gruff, impatient voice of the company's esteemed leader. “Well Burglar?” Thorin demanded, his tone as sharp as his piercing blue eyes.

Bilbo clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to glare at the impatient dwarf. “My aunt is happy to accommodate us,” he replied, doing his best to keep his tone civil. “She’ll have everything ready by tomorrow afternoon. She also said not to worry if we can’t make it tomorrow if Freya isn’t able to travel, we are welcome to stay the night anytime.” 

Thorin nodded in acknowledgment before turning to address the company. “Pack your things and be ready to leave in the morning,” he ordered, “I don’t want any delays if the girl is well enough to travel, we’ve delayed long enough already.”

With that he stood, leaving the table and heading up stairs, presumably to his room to pack. With that, he stood and left the table, heading upstairs, presumably to his room to pack. Bilbo watched him go, feeling a familiar flicker of annoyance rise within him. Thorin might be a king in exile, but his high-handedness grated on Bilbo more than he cared to admit. 

The rest of the company soon followed, trickling upstairs as they finished eating. Bilbo bid Gandalf and the remaining dwarves goodnight before following suit, deciding it was best to turn in early so he would be well rested for tomorrow.

As he climbed the stairs, the letter still tucked safely in his pocket, he allowed himself a small smile. Aunt Donna was right—he was embracing his Took side more these days, wasn’t he? It felt good, in a way, to let that part of himself out again. There had been a time, long ago, when he had been more Tookish, more daring, before the weight of respectability and Baggins responsibilities had settled on him. Maybe this adventure was exactly what he needed to bring that part of himself back to life.

________________________________________________________

The sound of someone shuffling around her room dragged Freya back into the waking world. The footsteps were purposeful and steady, almost lulling her back to sleep with their familiar rhythm. It wasn’t until a floorboard creaked that she realized it wasn’t one of the morning nurses doing their rounds. Hospitals don’t have floorboards let alone creaky ones.

Freya blinked, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings before remembering how insane her life (afterlife, second life?) had gotten as of two days ago. She turned her head and saw that the footsteps she heard belonged to Oin who was in the middle of gathering various things around the room and packing them into bags. 

Now that she was more awake—something she wasn’t entirely thrilled about—her body decided it was time to file its list of grievances. Unsurprisingly, pain was at the top of the list, but, to her relief, it wasn’t as bad as she expected. Instead of the all-consuming agony that had torn her out of sleep before, or the bone-deep pain that usually followed. What she felt now was more like an all-over discomfort, the kind you get when you've pushed yourself too far. Everything ached in a dull, leaden sort of way that wasn’t pleasant by any means, but was still manageable. She probably had Yavanna and Mahal to thank for the quicker recovery.

Groaning, she closed her eyes and stretched, her body creaking and groaning in protest like an old, rusty gate. Ugh, mornings. When she opened her eyes again she saw Oin looking down at her with a warm smile. “Morning Oin,” Freya grumbled, still half-asleep.

Oin stopped packing and came over to take a seat in the chair next to her bed, “Morning lass. How are ye feeling? ”

It took her sluggish brain a few seconds to process the words, and a couple more to translate them into something coherent.

“I’m good,” She said, giving the healer a tired smile, “Pain not bad. ” 

Oin studied her for a moment, his gaze sharp, probably trying to decide if she was telling the truth or just being stubborn. After a moment, he seemed to accept her answer with a nod, reaching forward to pat her shoulder. “ That's good ta hear. Ye gave-us-quite tha scare-yesterday.” 

Ignoring the second sentence since she didn’t understand it, Freya gestured to the bags Oin had been packing before she had woken up, asking “We go?” 

Oin nodded, “Aye, we're goin', but only if ye think ye can-manage. We can-stay-another day if ye need a bit-more-time."

Freya frowned, brows pinching together as she tried to figure out what Oin had just said. Struggling to piece together what little she knew of their language. The first part was definitely along the lines of ‘yes we’re leaving’ but then he used the word ‘but’ so they might not for some reason. Honestly she only understood the words ‘but’, ‘we’, ‘day’, ‘if’, and ‘you’ out of the second half of what he said. Which wasn’t really helpful.

Her confusion must have been obvious, because Oin took pity on her and explained again with simpler words. “If ye not hurt we go, if ye hurt we stay.”

Freya nodded, thankful for the easier explanation. She was grateful but honestly more surprised that the company would be willing to wait another extra day for her to recover; especially Thorin. She knew he wanted to get to the mountain as fast as possible, and with how grumpy he was (Was? Is? She had no idea what tense to use) at the beginning of the journey she was surprised that he would be willing to delay departing even longer just for her.

Freya quickly took stock of her body, seeing if she was up for another day on horseback. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath; allowing herself to catalog every ache and twinge she could feel.

Her legs felt heavy, as if they were weighed down by sandbags, the muscles sluggish and uncooperative. Her back ached with a deep, persistent throb, the muscles tight and unforgiving, but it wasn’t unbearable. Not yet, anyway. If she could just take a few moments to stretch, to coax her muscles into some semblance of cooperation, she would probably be able to manage. 

With a small sigh, she rolled her shoulders, feeling the tension ease slightly as she worked out the stiffness. Grimacing slightly, she cautiously stretched her arms above her head, the movement pulling at sore muscles that protested the extension. The discomfort was familiar, almost routine by now, but no less irritating.

Overall verdict? Pain, but not the usual “please let me stay in bed for the next week” kind. More like “this is going to suck, but hey, I’ve had worse.” Traveling today wouldn’t be fun by any means but she had years of practice ignoring her body's aches and pains over the years. As long as it didn’t creep up to yesterday’s "death-warmed-over" level, she figured she could grit her teeth and soldier through.

She opened her eyes, blinking up at Oin, who was clearly waiting for her to finish conducting her internal evaluation. “I am good.”  She said, trying for a convincing smile, “I alright to go.”  

Oin didn’t look entirely convinced. His frown deepened into what could only be described as a mixture of skepticism and concern. “ Ye don't 'ave to push-yerself if ye ain't up fer it. No one will-get-mad if ye need-another day to rest. ” 

FIt took Freya a moment to puzzle out his words, but when she did, a warm swell of emotion rose in her chest. These dwarves… She’d known they were good people from reading The Hobbit and watching the movies, but experiencing their kindness firsthand was almost too much. She felt a sudden urge to hug the gruff old healer, but settled for squeezing his hand instead.

“I am good,” she repeated, this time with more certainty. “I can go.”

Oin didn’t look completely convinced— which was fair —but he didn’t argue either. Freya honestly couldn’t blame him for doubting her. She probably scared the crap out of him and the others yesterday, if she were in his shoes she wouldn't believe her either. Freya was pretty sure the only reason she was able to even consider another day on the road was because of the help Yavanna and Mahal were giving her to fast-track her body’s recovery. Without it she wouldn’t even be able to get out of bed let alone ride a horse (pony, whatever).

Oin let out a reluctant sigh, clearly still concerned, “If yer sure.” He stood, releasing her hand and walking over to his medical bag, “Even if yer feeling better I still want ye ta take-some of the pain tincture, give it time ta start-working-before we set-off.” He rummaged through his bag, pulling out the vial and dropper he had given her yesterday and brought it over. 

Freya watched with mild dread as he carefully cut through the wax seal and dipped the dropper inside. Freya opened her mouth and he squeezed a couple drops underneath her tongue. She couldn’t stop herself from grimacing at the taste; now that she wasn’t distracted by soul crushing amounts of pain, she could fully take in just how bitter and gross it was. 

She couldn’t stop herself from grimacing, her entire face scrunching up like she’d just bitten into an orange smeared with toothpaste. Oin chuckled at her reaction as he resealed the vial, clearly amused by her suffering. Freya, being the mature and responsible 23-year-old that she was, stuck her tongue out at him in retaliation.

The old dwarf merely shook his head, still chuckling, and crossed the room to start pulling out clothes for her to wear. As he did Freya forced her body to start moving. She slowly pushed herself up until she was sitting, freeing her legs from the blankets before slowly swinging them over the edge of the bed. Her muscles protested the movement but she was determined to show some semblance of functionality, even if her body wasn’t fully on board with the idea.

Oin returned and placed the clothes beside her. Freya let him help her dress without protest. If fussing over her made him feel better, she wasn’t going to deny him that. Besides, she owed him after the heart attack she probably gave him yesterday. And, if she was honest, his help made the whole process a lot faster and less excruciating than it would have been on her own.

After she was dressed, Oin guided her through a couple of gentle stretches that slowly eased some of the tension and soreness from her muscles. When they finished, he had her sit back down on the bed to rest while he finished packing up the room. 

“We’ll-be-meeting tha rest of the company-downstairs fer some-breakfast." Oin explained as he piled the bags by the door. Freya appreciated his effort to keep her in the loop, even if she couldn’t understand most of what he said. It was nice to have some background noise, though, instead of awkward silence.  "Thorin  ordered-everyone  ta be packed an'  ready ta  leave, that way we wouldn’ be wasting-time if ye were-well-enough ta travel-today.  We’ll load-everything up on tha ponies after-we’ve-finished-eating.”

Oin suddenly turned and pointed a warning finger at her, his expression serious. “ Ye on tha other-hand are gonna sit down and rest-while that's bein'-done. Don’t even-think-about-doing-any-sort of lifting- or anything-else-taxing. All ye need ta worry-about is saving yer energy for traveling. Ye will not help before we go. Ye will sit. ” The healer spoke slowly, using words she knew, making sure there was no way for her to misunderstand him.

Freya raised her hands in mock surrender, her lips twitching with amusement as she met Oin’s stern gaze. For all his gruffness, there was something endearing about the way he fussed over her. As much as she hated being sidelined, she knew better than to argue. She’d only get in the way if she tried to help. “ Yes Oin, I sit and not help, ”she promised, doing her best to sound obedient.

Oin gave her one more warning glare before nodding and grabbing the last bag to add to the pile. “Now-then,  I’ll be carrying ye down ta breakfast. I’d-rather not have ye try and walk down any-stairs-just-yet.” He told her before simplifying it to, “You will not walk down .”

Freya nodded, grabbing the flowers Fili, Kili, Ori and Bilbo had brought her yesterday before she let Oin pick her up. The old dwarf handled her like she weighed nothing, and Freya couldn’t help but stifle a giggle. It reminded her of that scene in Brooklyn 99 when Terry picked up Jake like he was holding a couple of grapes. The mental image nearly made her lose it.

As they descended, a loud cheer erupted from the company gathered in the tavern area below. Freya grinned, raising a hand to give them a little wave. “Hello!” she called, feeling like some kind of celebrity making a grand entrance.

“Freya!” Kili jumped up from his seat and ran toward her and Oin, stopping just short of crashing into them with all the grace of an overexcited puppy.

“You’re up !” Kili cheered, then quickly amended, “ Well not up exactly but you're out of bed !” 

Freya laughed at his enthusiasm, reaching out her arm and pulling him into a quick side hug. It was a bit awkward since Oin was still carrying her, but she didn’t care. “Good morning Kili!” 

Oin shooed  Kili out of the way with a gruff wave, though Freya swore she saw the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile.  He brought Freya over to one of the tables the company was occupying, setting her down on a chair that Fili had pulled out for her. Oin then proceeded to commandeer one of the plates on the table, filling it with food he approved of her eating. 

As Freya started eating, Oin turned to the rest of the company, giving them the all-clear to continue their journey. The company gave her worried looks when he told them that, and she was touched by how concerned they were for her. 

She paused mid-bite, flashing them a reassuring smile. “I am alright to go,” she promised, though she felt a little guilty for stretching the truth. But really, they didn’t need to know that her definition of “alright” was more 'could probably manage without face-planting' than 'energetic and not in pain.'

The company agreed, though somewhat reluctantly, and before long breakfast was finished, and everyone was rushing to get ready to depart. Half the company went to gather everyone’s belongings, while the other half went to ready the ponies. Freya, honoring her promise to Oin earlier, continued to sit at the table, watching the organized chaos unfold around her.

Partway through, the hobbit waiter who had served them dinner the night they arrived surprised Freya with a cup of tea, some strawberries, and a lemony pastry. When Freya tried to thank her the waiter just smiled and gave her a gentle hug, saying something Freya couldn’t understand before going away to work. She figured it was something kind, though, because the hobbit’s smile was so warm it could have melted butter.

About fifteen minutes later, Freya found herself perched on Fili’s pony again as the company finally headed off, leaving the inn behind. She clutched the flowers a little tighter, feeling oddly content despite everything.

Chapter Text

The company had just left the market square of Frogmorten when a haughty, all-too-familiar voice pierced the air from behind them. “Bilbo Baggins, is that you, cousin?”

Everyone turned toward the source of the call—everyone except Bilbo. He was far too busy using every last ounce of his Baggins self-restraint to stop himself from groaning or cursing out loud. Of all the people to run into on this journey, it had to be her. He’d recognize the shrill, nasally tone of his least favorite cousin-in-law anywhere. Letting out a quiet sigh of pained resignation, he forced a wide, utterly insincere smile onto his face before turning to greet the harpy masquerading as a hobbit.

“Good morning, Lobelia,” he greeted, his voice strained in its attempt at cheerfulness. She was stomping toward them with all the grace of an enraged goose, her skirts rustling noisily with every determined step. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was a squat hobbit with light brown hair pulled into an unflattering knot, a wide face perpetually twisted into a frown or sneer, and an unfortunately large nose that twitched in displeasure more often than not.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo caught Freya gasping in recognition, her hand flying out to smack Fili on the arm excitedly. He silently wished he could share in her enthusiasm, but alas, he knew Lobelia too well.

“Lovely to see you as always,” Bilbo continued, his forced smile never faltering. “I’d stay to chat, but I really must be off.” He made a valiant attempt to end the conversation there and escape, but, predictably, Lobelia wasn’t about to let him get away so easily.  

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lobelia huffed, her arms crossed over her chest. “Running off who knows where with a band of unruly dwarves? Leaving your respectable home and kin behind? Who will tend to Bag End while you’re away?” She demanded, her glare sweeping over the company with the disdain of someone inspecting a particularly muddy pair of boots.

Bilbo fought the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. Of course, she would ask about Bag End. The old vulture had been circling his beloved home for over two decades, waiting for any sign of weakness. And now that Bilbo was leaving, she saw an opportunity to swoop in and claim what she’d coveted for so long—just as Freya had warned him.

“She’s right, cousin,” came the oily voice of Otho, Lobelia’s equally unpleasant husband, as he waddled over to join his wife. Wonderful, as if one Sackville-Baggins weren’t enough, now there were two. “Who will take over your responsibilities while you’re gone? I haven't heard of any arrangements being made for your absence. We demand an explanation, cousin.”

Demand? Bilbo’s polite façade cracked ever so slightly at the word. The nerve of these two! They spoke as though Bag End was already half theirs. He was trying to piece together a polite yet firm response that would cut off any further arguments when Freya’s voice piped up behind him, as innocent as could be.

“Bad hobbits,” Freya stage-whispered to the dwarves who were watching the confrontation unfold. Bilbo couldn’t stop himself from letting out a surprised snort of laughter, thoroughly caught off guard by her bluntness. He wholeheartedly agreed with her assessment.

Lobelia gasped, her face turning an alarming shade of red as she whirled around to glare daggers at Freya. “How dare you!” she snarled, her voice shaking with outrage. “I am a respectable hobbit, and I refuse to be insulted by the likes of you!”

Respectable? Bilbo almost choked on his own disbelief. If respectability was measured in the number of spoons one could pilfer from family members, then Lobelia was the very model of it. But as it stood, the only thing respectable about her was the sheer audacity she had to demand respect she never earned.

The dwarves' reaction was instantaneous. The moment Lobelia turned her ire toward Freya, the company tensed as one, a ripple of protective anger surging through their ranks. Faces that had been relaxed moments before hardened into menacing scowls, eyes narrowing as they locked onto Lobelia with a collective intensity that made the air crackle with unspoken warning. Hands Hands instinctively reached for weapons—axes, hammers, and knives—each dwarf ready to draw steel if needed. 

Kili and Oin, who were closest to Freya, immediately nudged their ponies forward, their expressions darkening as they positioned themselves between her and the furious hobbit. Kili’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his normally playful demeanor replaced by a grim expression that made his youthful features seem suddenly dangerous. Oin’s eyes narrowed beneath his bushy brows, his hand resting on the hilt of his staff as if daring Lobelia to take another step toward Freya.

Lobelia, who had initially seemed ready to unleash her full wrath on Freya, faltered as she took in the sight before her. Her eyes darted from one dwarf to the next, widening in fear as she realized the gravity of her situation. The color drained from her face, her bravado evaporating under the weight of the dwarves’ collective glare.

Freya, however, seemed completely unfazed by the hostile atmosphere. In fact, Bilbo was starting to suspect that Freya might be just as troublesome as his Took relatives, if not more so. She stood her ground, folding her arms and, to Bilbo’s horror and amusement, sticking her tongue out at Lobelia like a child. Oh dear, she really was a Took at heart, wasn’t she? His mother would have adored her.

Lobelia fumed but didn’t make any further moves toward Freya, clearly cowed by the dwarves closing ranks around her. For once in her life, Lobelia seemed to understand that she was outmatched, and it was about time. Seeing her bluster deflated so swiftly was, admittedly, quite satisfying.

A deep voice sounded, capturing everyone's attention, “Why are we stopping?” Thorin demanded as he maneuvered his pony to the front of the group. “We have a long day of travel ahead of us, we can’t waste any more time here," speaking in the same commanding and arrogant tone he had used when Bilbo first met him.

“We have a right to know about our kin,” Lobelia answered, attempting to sound firm, but Bilbo could hear the hesitance in her voice. It looked like she was not better equipped to deal with Thorin’s attitude for the first time than Bilbo was.

“Then let him speak and be gone,” Thorin growled, glaring down at the two Sackville-Bagginses with a look that could have curdled milk. “Our business is none of your concern.” 

Lobelia, looking thoroughly cowed for the first time in Bilbo’s memory, scurried back to her husband. Bilbo had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. It wasn’t often he saw Lobelia retreat so quickly.

Sensing an opportunity to end this dreadful conversation once and for all, Bilbo jumped in. "Rest assured, cousins," he said, doing his best to keep his voice steady and polite, “I've made arrangements for my absence. Uncle Bingo will be managing my responsibilities and keeping an eye on Bag End until I return, and any disputes he is unable to handle will be taken care of by my cousin Fortinbras.” He paused, letting his words sink in before adding with finality, “Now, I do believe you’ve delayed us long enough, so I will bid you farewell until my return.”

He watched with a mix of satisfaction and relief as Lobelia’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. For once, it seemed she was at a loss for words—an occasion so rare it should have been marked on the calendar. With that, he nudged his pony forward, the rest of the company falling in around him. As they moved away, leaving his fuming relatives behind, Bilbo couldn’t resist a small, satisfied smile. For once, he felt like he’d gotten the last word with Lobelia—a rare and precious victory indeed.

______________________________________________________

The Company continued on its way out of Frogmorton and down the Great East Road toward Whitfurrows. The land on either side of the road gradually turned more and more marsh-like the farther they got from the town, with farms and cow or sheep pastures mixed into the landscape. The pastures had neat little drainage channels and man-made (or Freya supposed it would be hobbit-made in this case) streams to dry them out.

At least Freya was pretty sure this type of land would be called a marsh. She vaguely remembered reading somewhere about the differences between marshes, swamps, fens, and other wetlands. It had something to do with whether the water was salt or fresh and what types of plants grew there. But for the life of her, she couldn’t remember which was which, so she was just gonna stick with calling it a marsh. (God, she missed the internet—two seconds of Googling, and she’d have the answer.)

Whatever its technical name was, the land was beautiful. The streams and ponds dotting the landscape were lined with walls of cattails and some sort of towering reeds with frilly purplish flower clusters at the top that kind of look like wheat. One of the coolest plants in the area was some sort of grassy plant that looked like they had giant cotton balls at the top. Bilbo called it cotton-grass when she pointed it out to him, and Kili was nice enough to pick one of the tops for her. Freya was absolutely delighted to find that the tops were just as soft as they looked.

The atmosphere was so relaxing that Freya found herself dozing off in the saddle more often than not. The gentle breezes made the plants rustle softly, creating a soothing backdrop for the humming of insects and the occasional croak of frogs nearby. If there was ever a lullaby written by nature, this was it. Not that she minded; after yesterday, she could use all the rest she could get.

The company stopped a lot more frequently than they had on their first day of travel, a fact Freya was both grateful for and slightly embarrassed by. She knew they were doing it for her sake, and while she appreciated the chance to get out of the saddle and stretch, she couldn’t help but feel a little guilty about slowing everyone down. Then again, Bilbo seemed just as happy for the breaks, so maybe she wasn’t the only one thankful for the extra stops.

Around midday Thorin led the group to a dry patch of grass a little ways off the road for lunch. Fili and Oin, once again playing the role of her personal escorts, helped Freya off Fili’s pony, which Fili had named Myrtle. Freya had already made a silent vow to murder the trolls before they could lay a hand on the pony. Not that she was sure how she’d manage it, but she’d burn that bridge when she came to it. Once off, Oin helped her walk over to the blanket the company decided she (the delicate damsel she was) needed every time they stopped for a break. Not that she was complaining; the blanket was way more comfortable than sitting on the bare ground.

While she was getting settled, Bombur got a fire started, and pretty soon everyone was chowing down on sausages, cold cuts of roast beef and ham, bread, cheese, and some absolutely delicious raspberry scones. Freya had never been so tempted to overeat in her life. Whoever had made those scones was a culinary genius. Stopping herself from devouring as many as she could get her hands on was the ultimate test in self-restraint.

Freya was one of the first people done eating since she unfortunately couldn’t stomach as much food as the others. With great reluctance, she pushed the last scone out of her immediate reach and looked around for something to entertain herself with as the rest of the company finished their meal. 

That’s when her gaze landed on the bow slung across Kili’s back, and a slow grin spread across her face. She quickly downed the rest of the medicinal tea Oin had made for her—grateful that it wasn’t as terrible as it could’ve been—then crawled across the small area between her and Kil.

She’d always thought archery was really cool and had always wanted to try and learn. Her interest started from seeing the cool trick shots archers would do in movies (Legolas!!) and had only grown after she’d played a stealth archer in Skyrim. Who didn’t love crouching in the shadows and picking off enemies one by one?

Being able to do stuff like that—or, more realistically, seeing someone else do it in real life—would be so badass. Now that Kili's bow had caught Freya’s attention there was no way in hell she was going to miss the chance to hold it for herself. 

Kili turned to face her as she settled on the ground next to him, tilting his head with a curious expression, “Do you need-anything?”

Freya nodded, leaning forward excitedly, “Can I please see your bow!?”  she practically begged, drawing out the ‘please’ slightly. “I’ve never had a chance to hold one before and yours looks so cool! Seeing you in action with it is gonna be so badass!” She paused for a second before amending, “I mean, the running for our lives and nearly getting killed is probably gonna be absolutley fucking terrifying when it happens but that’s a problem for future me. Current me wants to see your totally awesome bow.” She was definitely babbling, but she was too excited to care. The fangirl in her was winning this round.

Kili blinked at her, his expression shifting from curious to downright confused. He glanced at Fili to see if he had understood what Freya had said. Fili shrugged in response, looking just as lost as his brother. “Sorry, but-can you slow down? I  can't -understand  you.” Kili asked. 

Freya slumped in annoyance, The language barrier was officially the bane of her existence. How was she supposed to gush about cool things if no one could understand her? “I’m really beginning to hate this whole language barrier thing. It’s such a pain,” she groaned. She mentally sifted through the few words she’d managed to learn so far. “I see your bow,” she pointed to the bow and then mimed shooting an arrow, hoping the gesture would help.

“ You want to see my-bow?” Kili’s expression brightened with understanding. “ Sure I don’t see  why not.” With a quick motion, he reached over his shoulder and drew the bow from its protective covering, presenting it to her with a flourish. 

Freya had to physically restrain herself from squealing as she reached out for the bow. “This is so awesome!” she whispered, her voice trembling with barely contained excitement.

She did her best to reign in her fangirl freak out and carefully took the bow from Kili’s hands. Thank goodness Kili had the foresight to help support its weight until it was securely in her lap because otherwise, she definitely would have dropped it. And that would have been mortifying.

Freya traced over the curved arms of the bow with her fingertips, a mix of fascination and curiosity bubbling within her. It was unlike any bow she had ever seen—not that she’d seen many up close before—but even with her limited experience, she could tell that this one was special. The layers of the bow felt different beneath her fingers, not like the simple, polished wooden bows she imagined most archers used. It was a deep, rich brown, with a surface that wasn’t smooth like polished wood but had a subtle texture, almost like it was made of several materials layered together. The layers caught the light differently, each one adding depth to the bow's appearance.

Kili scooted closer to her, a playful smile on his lips as he gestured to the bow resting in her lap.

“ My bow is called a recurve bow. ” His voice was warm, filled with the excitement of sharing something he loved. He pointed to the bow’s curved limbs, where the tips angled sharply back toward the string. The shape gave the bow an elegant yet powerful appearance.

He picked up a stick and began to draw what looked like a longbow in the dirt next to them. “That one is called a longbow. Compared  to a longbow, a recurve bow is shorter, which-makes it easier to maneuver in tight-areas like forests and caves.

Freya nodded along as she figured out the gist of what she thought he was telling her. She couldn't understand most of the explanation, but it was easy to see how passionate Kili was about his bow. She loved listening to people talk about topics they were enthusiastic about—it was so much fun to learn about what interested them. Her family used to do the same for her when she rambled on about anything in Tolkien's universe or the latest show she was hooked on.

Not only that,” he continued, “but it's more-powerful-than a longbow, which-means the arrows-will-fly-faster and farther.” 

He drew another bow, this one resembling the one in Freya’s hands next to the longbow. He added two lines, showing the paths of arrows—one from the longbow and one from his recurve bow. The line from the longbow ended sooner, while the line from his bow arched farther across the dirt. 

Freya smiled, feeling a little thrill of excitement. She didn’t catch all of his words, but she understood the gist—this bow could really shoot far. She leaned in closer, her fingers brushing against the smooth, layered surface of the bow again. The grip was wrapped with tightly wound leather creating a textured, secure hold that felt solid in her hand. The design wasn’t just functional; it was beautiful, with intricate carvings and line work that ran along the bow’s surface, especially around the grip and the tips. The lines were sharp, geometric, unmistakably dwarven.

“ Look here,” Kili said, pointing to part of the bow where Freya could see the subtle changes in texture and color that made it look like it was made of different materials glued together. “ In order to withstand the strain of shooting the bow is made of multiple-layers of horn,-wood and sinew,-all-glued-together.” 

He picked the stick he’d been using to draw and held it next to part of the bow made of wood. “ This part  is wood.” Then he pointed to the inside of the bow before putting his hands on his head like they were horns, and pointed to other material, “ This part  is horn. Freya’s eyes lit up as she realized he was telling her that the bow was made out of a mix of wood and horn—how cool was that? The horn part of the bow had a slightly darker, glossier appearance compared to the wood, with a faint curve that gave it a springy, flexible feel under her fingers. She made a mental note to ask him what kind of horn when she had a better grasp on Common.

“In a bow made like this, a wooden-core is used to give it its shape and stability-while a thin-layer of horn is glued to the belly here,” Kili pointed to the inside of the bow again, “ since horn is more-flexible than wood under-compression.

Freya listened eagerly, soaking in every word, even if she didn’t quite understand all of them. She could feel the pride in his voice as he talked, and it made her appreciate the bow even more.

Finally-sinews are added in layers to the back of the bow,” Kili’s hand traced along the back of the bow, where the layers of something lighter and fibrous, almost like tightly woven threads, ran along the entire length of the bow’s back. “When the bow is drawn the sinew and the horn store-more-energy-than the wood would be able to alone-,making it  much-more-powerful.”

Freya listened eagerly as Kili talked, fascinated by what bits she was able to understand from his drawings and attempts to simplify his explanation. She was definitely going to ask him to explain it again when she had a better understanding of the language.

“Can I see you shoot it? You shoot?” Freya asked once Kili had finished talking; pointing to him and miming out shooting the bow. The closest she’d ever gotten to watching someone shoot a bow was during the Olympics on TV, and this was bound to be a million times cooler.

Kili’s face lit up as he caught on to her request, his grin stretching wide. He was positively glowing at the prospect of showing off and honestly, Freya couldn’t blame him. If she could do something that badass, she’d want to show off too. He jumped to his feet with a kind of energy that made Freya envious, bow in hand. “I’d-be-happy  to.”

He turned to his brother and asked him to do something, “ Fili, can you pick a target? ” Freya caught the words Fili can you, which was enough for her to piece together the request.

Freya watched as Fili looked around their impromptu picnic site, probably looking for a target for Kili to shoot. At least that's what she thought he was doing before he pointed to a tree that looked like it was over 250 feet away. There was no way that could be right. That was an insane distance for an archery target, or at least it felt insane to Freya. But clearly she and Fili had very different ideas concerning what a practical distance for a target is. 

Fili strolled over to the tree, stabbed his handkerchief into the trunk with his belt knife, and then casually sauntered back as if he hadn’t just set up the most ridiculous archery challenge Freya had ever seen. He clapped Kili on the shoulder with a grin. “Give-us a good show Kili, how about three arrows ?” 

Kili grinned back looking completely confident in himself, “I’d-hardly-call a simple-shot like this a sho,  but I suppose I can save the real showing-off for later .” The teasing lilt in his voice was unmistakable, but Freya could hear the pride underneath it too, and it sent a thrill through her. This was going to be awesome.

Freya glanced around at the rest of the company, who were all watching with varying degrees of interest. It was clear this wasn’t the first time they’d seen Kili in action, but Freya was nearly  vibrating with anticipation. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but with Kili looking so sure of himself, it was bound to be impressive.

Kili slung his quiver over his shoulder before fitting an arrow to the bowstring with a practiced ease. Freya’s eyes were glued to him as he positioned himself, feet shoulder-width apart, his body perfectly aligned with the target. There was something mesmerizing about the way he moved—smooth, focused, and completely in his element. It was like watching a predator zero in on its prey.

In one smooth, fluid motion, he drew back the string, his focus narrowing in on the distant tree. And then, with a sharp twang, the arrow shot forward, slicing through the air with deadly precision. Freya’s jaw dropped as she watched the arrow soar through the air, closing the distance in a blink before nailing Fili’s handkerchief dead center. Before she could even process what she’d just seen, two more arrows followed in quick succession, each one hitting their mark with pinpoint accuracy.

Kili turned back to the group with a triumphant grin, giving them an exaggerated bow while everyone clapped and cheered.

Freya couldn’t help herself. The moment Kili reached her, she grabbed his shoulders and shook him, her excitement bubbling over. “Holy shit Kili, that was awesome!! That was like Olympic level shooting!! That was the most badass thing I’ve ever seen!” 

Kili’s eyes went wide and he floundered for a response, which Freya thought was absolutely adorable. She was just about to tease him for how flustered he was when Fili appeared behind him with a grin that could only mean trouble. “That’s my-brother for you.” Fili declared, popping up behind Kili with a grin that practically screamed 'proud older sibling' before yanking him into a headlock and ruffling his hair. “Best-archer in the Ered Luin.” 

Kili squawked indignantly, flailing as he tried to escape Fili’s grip. When he finally managed to shove Fili away, his hair was an absolute disaster, sticking out in all directions like a bird's nest after a windstorm. The two of them immediately started roughhousing, their laughter echoing through the camp.

As Freya watched them, cheering Kili on, she noticed Thorin out of the corner of her eye. He was standing just a little apart from the group, his usual stoic posture softened as he observed his nephews. And there was a smile on his face; a real, actual smile. Granted, it was small, barely there at all, but it still counted!

And his eyes—those usually stormy, intense eyes that could probably bore a hole through steel—were soft, almost gentle, as they followed Kili and Fili’s antics. There was pride there too, a quiet, steady sort of pride that made Freya’s chest tighten just a bit. It was one of those rare, fleeting moments that made her wonder what kind of person Thorin might’ve been if his life hadn’t been so hard.

But, naturally, just as she was starting to enjoy this brief glimpse into the elusive 'softer side' of Thorin Oakenshield, he noticed her watching him. The transformation was instant, like someone had flipped a switch. The smile vanished as if it had never existed, replaced by his usual scowl. The broody asshole turned away from her sharply, breaking up the wrestling match and growling at the others to pack up their supplies and start getting the horses ready to move out. 

Freya rolled her eyes as everyone rushed to follow Thorin’s orders; good God this man was dramatic. How dare anyone witness His Broodiness having positive feelings. She can understand the whole stoic, traumatized king aesthetic he’s got going on—since he was in face a traumatized king— but he seriously needed to lighten the fuck up. Maybe invest in some therapy. Actually, scratch that—a lot of therapy. Preferably from someone with the patience of a saint and a lifetime supply of strong tea.

________________________________________________

It was early evening when the company crested the top of a small hill, and the homestead of Donnamira Boffin, née Took, came into view. Bilbo felt a familiar warmth bloom in his chest at the sight.

The sprawling home was above ground but still had the same curvy architecture of most smials. The walls were made of clay bricks and hardwood tree trunks, while the sod roof made it look as though the earth itself had decided to grow a home. Flanking the pathway to the front door were twin rows of beautiful blue and pink columbine that Bilbo’s aunt had planted last spring. They were in full bloom now, their colors bright and cheerful against the twilight sky. 

Behind the house stood a two-story barn, its weathered wood catching the last rays of the sun, casting long shadows over the small paddock that connected to it. Next to the paddock, a graceful weeping willow dipped its branches toward the watering trough, its leaves swaying gently in the evening breeze. Bilbo had always loved that willow tree; he remembered helping his cousin Jessamine plant it as a gift to Aunt Donna for Jess’s birthday twenty-five years ago. It had flourished since then, now it was at least 50 feet tall and had a trunk as thick as a healthy hobbit, its bright green leaves turning it into a whispering tower of green beauty. 

The paddock led to a medium-sized pasture where a few cows and donkeys grazed leisurely, their tails swishing lazily at flies. Beyond that, rows upon rows of fruit trees stretched out, their branches heavy with the promise of apples, peaches, and plums. His aunt’s orchard was renowned throughout the East Farthing for producing some of the finest fruit in the Shire, and Bilbo was suddenly struck by the realization that it might be a long time before he tasted those sweet, crisp apples again.

As picturesque as his aunt's farm was, Bilbo’s gaze was inevitably drawn to the scene unfolding in the front yard. He let out a long-suffering sigh of resignation. A large group of hobbits was bustling about, setting up tables and chairs with the kind of efficiency that only a Took-led operation could muster. Even from this distance, he could hear the chatter and laughter, the clatter of dishes, and the occasional bark of an order as preparations were made.

Bilbo had been holding on to the small hope that Aunt Donna wouldn’t make a big deal out of him departing on an adventure, but it looked like he was out of luck. From the sheer number of hobbits present, it seemed like half the Took clan had decided to turn up for this impromptu farewell feast. 

“I hope you are all prepared for a Took family party,” Bilbo said to the dwarves, who were now eyeing the gathering with either suspicion (Thorin and Dwalin) or a mix of curiosity and excitement (Fili, Kili, Bofur, and Bombur). He couldn’t help but feel a bit of amusement at the contrast. “Best thing to do is go along with whatever Aunt Donna says, embrace the chaos, and try to have at least a little fun.” 

The dwarves’ skeptical expressions did little to reassure him that they understood what they were about to walk into. But Bilbo had long since learned that explaining Tookish hospitality to outsiders was a fruitless endeavor. Better to let them experience it firsthand.

“The best advice I can give you is to not challenge anyone to either an eating or drinking contest,” Bilbo added, rolling his eyes as his very helpful advice was met with looks of amused disbelief by his dwarven companions. He huffed before adding, “and if you end up challenging someone anyway don't come to me after and say I didn’t warn you.” 

He could already see it—one of the dwarves underestimating a Took’s capacity for food or drink. It would be a lesson learned the hard way, and Bilbo was almost looking forward to the moment they realized just how formidable hobbits could be when it came to meals. The image of Dwalin, perhaps, being bested by Aunt Donna in a drinking contest was enough to bring a small, wicked grin to his face.

With that he nudged his pony forward towards the chaos as the rest of the company followed. 

Chapter Text

As the company rode down the path, a sudden rustling in a nearby clump of bushes caught Bilbo’s attention. Before he could even react, a small pack of his youngest Took relatives scurried out of the undergrowth, sending a ripple of surprise through the company.

“Oh my god baby hobbits!” Freya gasped delightedly, her wide eyes practically sparkling. “They’re so tiny!”

“Look at the little fellas,” Bofur exclaimed, sounding just as delighted as Freya.

“There are so many,” Dori whispered in awe, as if he’d never seen anything so wonderful. Bilbo almost snorted at that—if only Dori knew what he was in for. That awe wouldn’t last long. Took children were absolute menaces when given half the chance. He spoke from experience. After all, he’d been one of those menaces as a faunt

“They’re so cute! Are all hobbit babies this tiny?” Kili asked. Bilbo knew that first impression wouldn’t last long; Took children were absolute menaces when given half the chance.

“They ain’t much bigger than Gimli was when he was born.” Gloin sighed fondly, looking like he wanted to scoop them up and carry them.

The children, which Bilbo could now see were a mix belonging to his Cousins: Sigisimond, Flambard, and Amaranth, were just as excited to see the dwarves. The children trailed behind the ponies, giggling and whispering to each other. At one point a couple of them got too close to one of the pack ponies, causing the pony to shake her head and snort in agitation.

“Careful back there,” Dori warned them gently, turning in his saddle with a concerned frown, “It’s best to give the ponies some space. We don’t want any of them to hurt you by accident.”

The group scurried back to a safe distance—at least for the moment. Bilbo had no doubt their curiosity would have them back in trouble soon enough. Tooks were nothing if not persistent. Sure enough, after a few moments of whispering and lighthearted shoving, Esmeralda, one of Bilbo’s nieces, gathered up the courage to actually talk to one of the dwarves.

“Hey, mister! Is that a real sword?” she asked, her eyes wide with excitement, pointing to the sword strapped to Kili’s waist

Kili’s eyes lit up, and he smiled down at the girl, clearly pleased with the attention. "Aye, it's as real as they come. Forged by the finest dwarven smith in the Blue Mountains. Would you like to see it?" He asked, patting the sword's hilt. 

Bilbo couldn’t help but feel a twinge of amusement as the children nodded enthusiastically, their expressions a mix of awe and curiosity as they inched forward to get a better look. Kili, ever the showman, wrapped his hand around the hilt and unsheathed the sword just enough for the sunlight to catch its razor-sharp edge. A brilliant gleam danced along the blade, and the children gasped in wide-eyed amazement, their earlier shyness all but forgotten.

"Wow! That's amazing!" Esmeralda whispered, her eyes shining.

Kili chuckled again, pleased by the children's reaction. "Aye, it's a fine blade indeed. Crafted by my Uncle to withstand the perils of Middle-earth and keep me safe.”

This interaction seemed to embolden the rest of the children and soon they were flitting around the company like a curious flock of birds; all of them talking over each other, clamoring for the dwarves' attention, and bombarding them with questions.

“Where are you going!”

"Why do dwarves love mining so much?" 

“Have you fought any goblins before!”

The dwarves, much to Bilbo’s amusement, were clearly not expecting such relentless questioning, and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing at the bewildered looks on their faces. There was something oddly satisfying about seeing these seasoned warriors flustered by a group of pint-sized Tooks.

Dwalin, in particular, seemed utterly out of his depth, his usual stoic demeanor crumbling under the enthusiastic attention of little Faramond.The lad’s eyes were wide with awe as he gazed up at the enormous axes slung across Dwalin’s back. “Aren’t those heavy?” Faramond asked, his voice filled with wonder. “They’re even bigger than the one my dad uses for chopping wood!” 

Dwalin opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to catch in his throat as he glanced down at the eager child. For a moment, he simply stared, clearly at a loss for how to handle the situation. Bilbo bit his lip to keep from laughing. The sight of the hulking warrior, who could probably cleave a goblin in two with a single swing, rendered speechless by a faunt-sized Took was almost too much to bear.

A shrill whistle cut through the air, rescuing the dwarves from the relentless questioning of the young hobbits. Everyone turned in the direction of the sound and saw Jessamine Bolger née Boffin (Aunt Donna’s only daughter) standing in front of her driveway with her hands on her hips, a stance that was unmistakably inherited from her mother.

“That's enough now,” she scolded playfully, her voice carrying the authority of someone well-versed in wrangling rambunctious hobbit children. “You can't just bombard our guests with questions like a flock of starlings! Give them some space to breathe.”

The hobbit children shuffled back, their excitement temporarily subdued, though they continued to shoot curious glances at the dwarves. Jessamine rolled her eyes, a theatrical sigh escaping her lips as she threw a pointed look at the children. "At least pretend you’ve been taught some manners. These dwarves have had a long journey, and I'm sure they'll share their tales after a good meal and some rest."

The children responded with a chorus of “Yes Aunt Jess” before dispersing, though Bilbo noticed they didn’t stray far. He supposed it was too much to ask that they wouldn’t be eavesdropping from around corners and behind bushes.

Jessamine turned back to the company, her expression softening into a warm smile. “My apologies for the ambush. Young Tooks are like a curious bunch of rabbits—always hopping around and sniffing out entertainment and trouble.” She didn’t wait for a response, instead turning on her heel and motioning for them to follow. “Come along now; I’ll show you to the barn.”

The company trailed behind the hobbit, skirting the front yard's perimeter to avoid the area where tables and chairs were being set up for the evening.

Jessamine swung the barn doors open once they made it to the building, revealing the cozy interior of the barn. There were makeshift beds made of straw and blankets as well as a few lanterns to keep the dark at bay.

“I had Milo and Minto, my sons, clean up a bit. Nothing much, just some sweeping and whatnot, as well lay out some fresh hay and blankets for you to sleep on.” She gestured toward the neatly arranged beds with a modest shrug. “It’s not much but I’m afraid it’s the best we could do since there are so many of you, and we only had a day to prepare.” 

“This is more than enough,” Balin was quick to assure her, “We appreciate your hospitality, Miss… Jess, was it?”

Jess startled slightly, “Oh I’m terribly sorry, I completely forgot to introduce myself.” She gave the company a small curtsy, “Jessamine Bolger née Boffin at your service. But please feel free to call me Jess, most people do. I’m Bilbo’s cousin.”

Balin nodded, a warm smile on his face. "Well met, Miss Jess. And allow me to thank you once again for your kindness and hospitality.”

Jessamine waved off his thanks with a bright smile. “Oh, think nothing of it. Now, go on and make yourselves comfortable.”

Balin bowed once more before going back to help the others unload the ponies.

Before Bilbo could start the arduous task of untacking his own pony, the reins were gently but firmly taken from his hands. He looked up in surprise to find Bofur standing next to him, a friendly grin on his face. “Leave your pony to me, Bilbo. I'll untack and brush her while you go catch up with your kin."

Bofur returned the smile with a nod, then shooed him off toward Jessamine, who was still surveying the barn with a critical eye, likely trying to determine if there was anything else she could do to make the dwarves comfortable.

Bilbo wove through the company and their ponies, making his way to where Jessamine stood by the barn door. “Thank you for opening your home to us, Jess,” he said, his voice soft with sincerity. “I know it’s not easy accommodating so many guests on such short notice.”

Jessamine waved away his concern. "Nonsense, Bilbo! Family helps family.” she said, the firmness in her voice leaving no room for argument. There was that familiar twinkle of amusement in her eye as she glanced at the dwarves bustling about. “Besides, it’s not every day you get to host a company of dwarves on a grand adventure. I’m more than happy to help.” 

“Now,” she continued, “I've readied two guest rooms inside; one for you and one for the young lady you told Mother about. Freya, was it?”

“That’s right,” Bilbo confirmed, nodding as he glanced back toward the company, scanning for the girl in question.

Jessamine bit her lip, her brow furrowing with concern as she followed his gaze, no doubt trying to spot Freya among the dwarves. "I hope it meets her needs; I did my best, but like I said, I couldn’t do much with such short notice." Her eyes darted around the barn, searching for any sign of the girl. “How is she faring after traveling?"

“She’s tired, although she’s doing an admirable job hiding it," Bilbo admitted, a hint of worry creeping into his words despite his best efforts. He knew Jessamine would pick up on it—she always did, even when they were children and he’d tried to hide a scraped knee or a bruised elbow. 

Jessamine’s frown deepened, and Bilbo could practically see the gears turning as she considered how best to ease Freya’s discomfort. She was like that, always ready with a solution, whether it was a warm blanket or a hot cup of tea.

“She’s doing much better than she was after our first day of travel,” Bilbo reassured his cousin, trying to ease the worry he saw growing in her eyes. “A hot bath and proper bed will do her wonders.”

As if summoned by his words, Freya and Oin appeared, making their way toward the two hobbits. Bilbo’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the slight hitch in Freya’s step or the way she leaned a bit too heavily on Oin’s arm. The long day’s ride had clearly taken its toll, yet there she was, smiling that bright, determined smile of hers. It was almost convincing, too, if you didn’t notice the faint lines of pain around her eyes or the way her shoulders slumped just a little too much.  

"Jess, this is Freya and Oin,” Bilbo introduced, gesturing to the pair as they approached. “Freya, Oin, this is Jess.”

Jessamine greeted Freya warmly, her concern melting into a soft, welcoming smile. "Welcome, Freya. Let’s get you inside; you'll be much more comfortable there. There's a hot bath and a nice cozy bed for you to rest in until dinner."

Bilbo, Oin, and Freya followed Jessamine inside the hobbit hole, (through the side door to avoid the chaos out front) until they reached the guest rooms.

"Here we are," Jess announced, opening a door to reveal a simple but charming room, complete with a large, plush bed, a small fireplace, and a tub already filled with steaming water. "Freya, you'll be staying here. Oin, will you be able to settle her in alright?"

Oin nodded, already looking around the room with a critical eye, no doubt making a mental checklist of everything he needed to ensure Freya’s comfort. "Of course, thank ye fer providing all o’ this." The dwarf's mind was clearly already busy with plans on how to best take care of his patient.

"Thank you, Jess," Freya whispered, her voice tired but grateful.

Jessamine gave Freya a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Rest well, Freya. You've had a long day. If you need anything, just let me know."

As Jess gently ushered Bilbo out of the room, closing the door behind them with a soft click, Bilbo couldn’t help but feel a swell of affection for his cousin. She had always been the practical one, steady as a rock no matter what chaos surrounded them. It was good to see that hadn’t changed.

She led him to the adjoining room, pushing the wooden door open with a practiced ease. "And this is for you, Bilbo," she said, stepping aside to let him in. The room was similar to the first, equally warm and inviting, with a bed that looked incredibly tempting after days of hard travel. "There's hot water in the pitcher on the side table if you'd like to freshen up."

Bilbo felt a wave of gratitude for his cousin. “Thank you, Jess, for everything.” 

Jess smiled softly, her whole demeanor softening as she met Bilbo’s eyes. "Like I said before; you’re family, Bilbo. We’ll always be here to lend a hand when you need it." Her voice was gentle, yet there was a firmness beneath it, the kind that came from years of dealing with stubborn Tooks and even more stubborn Bagginses. "I'll leave you to rest. Dinner will be ready in a couple of hours. Take some time to freshen up and come join us when you're ready."

With that, she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her with the same quiet efficiency that marked everything she did. Bilbo stood there for a moment, soaking in the peaceful silence, the warmth of the room, and the comforting familiarity of being among family.

________________________

A little over an hour later, Bilbo stood just inside the front door , his hand resting on the doorknob as he listened to the sound of his family's laughter, muffled but unmistakable through the thick wooden door. He opened the door and stopped for a moment to take in the scene in front of him. 

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a soft, golden glow over the gathering outside. Long shadows stretched across the green lawn, where hobbits bustled around the various tables that had been set up for the evening feast. The savory aroma of freshly cooked food wafted through the air, making Bilbo’s stomach rumble in anticipation. It was a feast worthy of the Shire: covered platters of roasted meats, bowls of hearty stews that sent up clouds of steam, trays of golden pastries, and jugs of frothy ale that glistened in the waning light.

Bilbo felt a pang of nostalgia as he watched his relatives moving about with their usual energy and cheer. The sounds of chatter and laughter filled the air, mingling with the delighted squeals of his youngest cousins who darted between the adults, playing a chaotic mix of tag and hide-and-seek. Their giggles and shrieks echoed in the open space, a sound that had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember.

Bilbo closed his eyes, allowing the comforting chaos to wash over him. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed this—this wonderfully chaotic side of his family. The bustle of activity, the warmth of it all, was so different from the quiet solitude of Bag End.

Bilbo's peaceful moment was shattered as a sudden weight crashed into his side. His eyes shot open, and before he could register what was happening, he found himself ensnared in an enormous bear hug that lifted him clear off the ground.

“Bilbo!” Sigismond or Sig (his cousin and favorite childhood playmate) exclaimed. “It has been far too long!” Sig released Bilbo from the hug and took a step back, his grin as wide as ever. “When Aunt Donna told me you were going on an adventure, I couldn’t believe it! The proper and respectable Bilbo Baggins embracing his Took side—I never thought I'd see the day." He clutched his chest in mock horror, eyes wide with exaggerated concern. “Are you ill? Did you hit your head on something?” Sig asked, grabbing Bilbo’s head and pretending to check him for injuries.

“Get off me, you overdramatic oaf,” Bilbo huffed in fond annoyance, batting Sig’s hands away. He tried to sound exasperated, but the corners of his mouth twitched, betraying the affection he felt for his cousin’s antics. Sig had always been like this, ever since they were faunts—always the one to make a scene, to draw attention, and to make Bilbo laugh when he most needed it.

“Now, now Bilbo,” a new voice said, “you can’t blame him for being surprised. It’s been at least three years since you left Hobbiton and now we hear you're suddenly leaving the shire entirely. I could hardly believe it myself.” 

Bilbo turned toward the familiar voice and found himself enveloped in another embrace, this one gentler but no less affectionate. Aunt Donna pulled back after a moment, her hands coming up to cup Bilbo's cheeks as she looked at him with fondness. Her curly brown hair had a few more streaks of gray than it did the last time he saw her, but her eyes twinkled with the same warmth, love, and mischief they’d always had.

“It's good to see you, dear,” she told him, her voice filled with affection that made Bilbo’s chest tighten.

Bilbo pulled her in for another hug. “It's good to see you too, Aunt Donna," he murmured into her shoulder, his words muffled by her thick curls.

“Come along now, everyone is waiting for you.” she said after he released her. Her hand wrapped around Bilbo's arm and pulled him towards the tables with a strength that defied her age. “They are quite eager to tease you about this adventure you’re going on, and it’s bad manners to keep them waiting.”

“Well we can’t have that now can we,” Bilbo sighed dramatically, though he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He let her drag him forward, knowing full well that resistance was futile.

Sig laughed as he followed behind them, not bothering to hide how hilarious he found the situation. Bilbo had no doubt that the teasing was only just beginning, and despite himself, he found that he didn’t mind.

"Look who decided to grace us with his presence!" exclaimed Uncle Hildigrim, reaching over and giving Bilbo a friendly slap on the back as Aunt Donna ushered him into a chair. "Bilbo Baggins! We were beginning to worry that you'd been swallowed by a hobbit-eating tree or something."

“Or had managed to bury yourself under your book collection,” his cousin Rorimac added with a cheeky grin.

The Tooks erupted into laughter, and Bilbo couldn't help but blush.  

Rosa, Rorimac's sister, ruffled Bilbo's hair as she walked past him, her grin every bit as mischievous as her brother’s. "Rori’s got a point, Bilbo. We were beginning to worry that you’d forgotten where we live."

Bilbo rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Oh, don’t you worry, Rosa; even if I did, I would still be able to find my way back. All I have to do is follow the sounds of chaos and maniacal laughter.”

Another round of laughter, along with cheers of agreement, followed his statement, and Bilbo found himself laughing along with them, the warmth in his chest spreading. Despite their teasing, he knew they were genuinely happy to see him, and he felt a stab of guilt for not visiting them more often. It was just so easy to get caught up in his books and his garden, to let the days slip by unnoticed until they piled up into weeks and then months. 

“I didn’t mean to stay away,” Bilbo continued, his voice softer now, apologetic. “I’ve just been busy.”

"Busy with what, Bilbo? Dusting off your books? Counting the spoons?" teased Rosa, leaning over to give him a playful punch on the arm.

"Well,” Bilbo started, tapping his chin with a faux expression of deep thought. “I did encounter a particularly fierce dustbunny the other day. Nearly took my foot off.” 

The crowd erupted into another round of laughter, and Bilbo found himself laughing too, more freely than he had in what felt like ages. It was moments like this that reminded him why he loved his family—loud, loving, and wonderfully chaotic as they were. As much as he treasured the peace and quiet of Bag End, he couldn’t deny the deep-seated joy that bubbled up whenever he was surrounded by his Took relatives. They were a rambunctious, unpredictable lot, but they were his and he was theirs.

"Well, we're glad you're here now," Aunt Donna said, giving his arm a comforting squeeze. "And remember, Bilbo, we're always here for you. No matter how long you stay away."

Bilbo smiled at her, a warm, radiant feeling spread through his chest.

“So Bilbo,” Sig began, leaning forward in his chair and drawing in Bilbo’s attention, “What's with this adventure of yours?” 

Bilbo blinked, caught off guard by the question. His mind scrambled for a response that wouldn’t send his family into a panic. "Oh, well, I’ve been persuaded to join a group of dwarves on a little journey,” he managed, hoping his voice sounded as nonchalant as he intended. “But it's really nothing too exciting, really."

"Come now, Bilbo," Saradas (another of his cousins)  chimed in, his tone playful but laced with curiosity. "You can't fool us. There's got to be more to this than you're letting on. You’re going off with Gandalf and a group of Dwarves—there’s got to be more to it than a simple sightseeing trip."

Bilbo took a sip of his drink, giving himself time to think about how to answer. His family's smiles held genuine excitement, but underneath, he sensed their concern. Bilbo took a deliberate sip of his drink, buying himself a moment to think. He could feel their expectant gazes on him, their smiles bright with genuine excitement, but he could also sense the undercurrent of concern.

A rush of affection for his family washed over him as he realized that he would have to leave out the more alarming details of the quest to keep them from worrying too much. The idea of telling them about the dragon sitting on a mountain of treasure was out of the question. No, best to keep things vague. After all, it wouldn’t do to have them worrying themselves sick over something they couldn’t change. Not to mention, Thorin would probably throttle him if he started spilling the details of their mission

The dwarf had been regarding Bilbo with that same suspicious, skeptical glare ever since they met. Thorin’s intense gaze had a way of making Bilbo feel as though he was being assessed and found lacking. It was clear enough that Thorin harbored doubts about Bilbo’s usefulness on the quest, and honestly, Bilbo couldn’t entirely blame him. What was a hobbit from Hobbiton doing in the company of warriors and kings? A hobbit who, until now, had never ventured far beyond the borders of the Shire, let alone faced the wild and untamed world beyond it?

Yet despite his doubts, a small flicker of determination burned in his heart. The Tookish side of himself that had woken up refused to be ignored. He was going to see the great mountains, the vast forests, and towering waterfalls. He was going to explore the unknown, no matter what Thorin thought of him. The dwarves might see him as nothing more than a nuisance or a liability, but there was more to Bilbo Baggins than met the eye, and he intended to prove it—to himself, if not to anyone else.

But first, he had a family to reassure. Choosing his words carefully, he smiled. "Well, you see, it's a bit of a business arrangement. They needed a bit of assistance, and I thought I could be useful. I promise, it's just a little adventure. A chance to see the world beyond the Shire. Nothing to be concerned about."

He held the smile, hoping they’d take his words at face value. Aunt Donna’s eyes lingered on him a moment longer, searching his face for something she didn’t say aloud. She knew him too well, and Bilbo had the sinking suspicion that she could see right through his half-truths. Still, after a moment, she nodded with a soft, almost wistful smile that made Bilbo’s heart ache just a little. Sig relaxed back in his chair, though not without a skeptical glance that told Bilbo he wasn’t entirely convinced either.

"Now, Bilbo,” Isengrim, his eldest uncle and the current Thain, began, leaning forward in his chair, his voice tinged with the weight of experience, “don't take this adventure lightly. The world outside the Shire is full of perils.” A shadow of grief crossed Isengrim's face, and Bilbo could see the same look mirrored in the faces of those around them. The pain of Uncle Hildifons’ disappearance still haunted his family, even so many years later. 

“Keep your wits about you, and remember to trust your instincts,” Isengrim continued. “Hobbits have a knack for sensing danger. If something feels off, it probably is. Don't be afraid to listen to your gut."

Bilbo nodded seriously, the weight of his uncle’s words settling on his shoulders like a cloak. "I understand, Uncle. I'll be careful and keep my wits about me, I promise.” He meant it too. For all his talk of adventure, Bilbo wasn’t blind to the dangers that lay ahead. He wasn’t some reckless Took charging off without a thought to the consequences. There were risks, real risks, and he would do everything in his power to ensure he returned home safely—to the Shire, to Bag End, to his family. 

Aunt Donna was the next to speak, her voice softer but no less firm. “Not every problem needs to be solved with quick action—sometimes, it’s best to take a step back and think things through before acting. The world is full of dangers, and you don’t need to rush headfirst into them. A calm mind and careful planning will keep you out of more trouble than a quick foot ever could. Keep your wits about you, it’s often the careful step that leads you safely through the darkest paths."

Aunt Donna had always been the voice of reason in the Took household, the one who could quell even the most impulsive of Tookish tendencies with a mere look. And right now, as he stood on the brink of an adventure that promised more danger than he had ever imagined, her advice was like a steadying hand on his back, urging him to slow down and think.

"Make sure to take care of your clothes,” Rosa chimed in, her tone brisk as she adjusted the hem of his coat with a practiced hand. “Mending your clothes might seem mundane, but a sturdy pair of trousers and a well-stitched cloak can be the difference between comfort and misery on the road. Take care of your garments, and they'll take care of you."

Bilbo watched as her nimble fingers fussed over his coat, making sure every stitch was in place, every seam secure. Rosa’s words were a reminder that even the smallest details could make all the difference—a lesson he suspected would serve him well on the road ahead.

"Take note of the stars, Bilbo,” Uncle Hildigrim told him, pointing upwards where the night sky was spread out above them. “They're the best navigational tool out there. My own small adventures taught me that being lost is the last thing a hobbit needs. But even if you get lost, remember that the stars will guide you back home."

The idea of getting lost was a terrifying one, but Hildigrim’s words were comforting. The stars—constant, reliable, and always there, even when hidden behind clouds. If he did get lost (and Bilbo had a sinking feeling that he might, more than once), he’d have the stars to guide him. And with any luck, they’d lead him right back to the Shire, where his family would be waiting.

“Remember, Bilbo,” Cousin Esmeralda piped up, her tone light but serious, “a good story is only worth telling if you live to tell it. Don’t be afraid to turn back if things get too dangerous—there’s no shame in coming home in one piece."

Esmeralda’s words were both a warning and a comfort. She, of all his cousins, understood the allure of a good story, the thrill of adventure that pulled at the heartstrings of every Took. But she also knew the value of a safe return. Bilbo knew there was a chance, a real chance, that this journey could turn perilous. Esmeralda was right, there was no shame in being cautious, in turning back if things got too dire. After all, what good was a hero’s tale if the hero never made it home? 

Cousin Adalgrim gave him a hearty pat on the back. "Don’t let those dwarves push you around, Bilbo. You may be smaller, but you’re a Took! Stand your ground, and don’t be afraid to speak your mind."

Adalgrim had always been the bold one, never afraid to say what needed saying, even when it ruffled feathers. Bilbo wasn’t quite as brash, but Adalgrim’s words reminded him that he didn’t have to be a doormat just because he was outnumbered. He could be polite, but that didn’t mean he had to be a pushover. 

Aunt Mirabella "If you find yourself in a pinch, dear, just think of what your mother would do. Belladonna always had a way of getting out of tight spots with her wits and charm. You’ve got more Took in you than you know."

Bilbo felt a pang in his chest at the mention of his mother’s name. Aunt Mirabella was right—Belladonna had been a force of nature, someone who could charm, intimidate, or fight her way out of any predicament. Bilbo had inherited more from her than just his Tookish blood. He had her wit, her stubbornness, and, hopefully, her ability to wriggle out of trouble when it found him.

“Bilbo,” Uncle Isumbras said, his voice gentle but firm, “don’t let the road harden your heart. You’ll meet all sorts out there, some rougher than others, but keep a little bit of kindness in your heart. You’d be surprised how far a little kindness can take you, even in the most unexpected places.”

Bilbo nodded, it was easy to imagine the world outside the Shire as dangerous and harsh, but Uncle Isumbras had always believed in the power of kindness. Perhaps that was a lesson he needed to remember most of all. After all, he was a hobbit of the Shire, and if there was one thing hobbits excelled at, it was kindness. No matter how far from home he wandered, he’d carry that with him.

Bilbo nodded along as he absorbed his family’s words of wisdom, grateful for the wealth of knowledge they shared. Each piece of wisdom carried with it the weight of generations of Tooks who had faced their own adventures in the past. He felt more confident knowing that he carried the collective wisdom of his family with him. 

Chapter Text

Bilbo sat on the edge of the yard, his cup of ale in hand, taking a small break from the crowd. The main feast had wound down, leaving behind the comfortable hum of lingering laughter, the clinking of tankards, and the occasional burst of song. There was still plenty of food left to nibble on, of course—hobbits were nothing if not prepared for a long night of festivities—but now the focus had shifted to drinking, playing games, and socializing. From his current vantage point, Bilbo could observe the revelry without getting swept up in it, and more importantly, keep a discreet eye on his newfound companions as they navigated the unfamiliar territory of a hobbit party.

Thorin was the easiest member of the company to spot; the dwarf had been keeping to the edge of the festivities all night, standing tall and imposing as he surveyed the scene with an air of distant authority. His stoic demeanor and the unmistakable aura of command attracted curious glances and whispers from Bilbo's family, but it also served as an unspoken deterrent that kept most partygoers from approaching him.

Bilbo’s gaze lingered on the dwarven king. There was something in the set of Thorin’s shoulders, in the distant look in his eyes, that hinted at more than just his usual irritated broodiness. Bilbo wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but there seemed to be a tinge of loss and longing there, a quiet sorrow that clung to him like a shadow. It stirred Bilbo’s curiosity, making him wonder what burdens Thorin carried beneath that stern exterior. Perhaps, in time, he might learn the story behind those heavy eyes—if Thorin ever deigned to share it, that is. For now, though, Bilbo decided it was best to leave the dwarf to his thoughts. He had a feeling that prying too early would only result in a brusque dismissal, or worse, one of those intense glares that seemed to freeze the very air around Thorin.

Tearing his gaze away from the king, Bilbo sought out the rest of the company. The dwarves had initially joined the party with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, clearly uncertain how to navigate the whirlwind of hobbit hospitality that had engulfed them. But Bilbo’s family had been quick to remedy that. The Tooks, undeterred by the dwarves' initial reserve, had taken it upon themselves to ensure the newcomers felt welcome. It had been quite the sight, watching these hardened warriors and stoic travelers slowly lower their guards under the relentless cheer of the Tooks.

As the evening wore on, the dwarves had fully embraced the festivities, each finding their own place amidst the revelry.

Balin was perched comfortably on a weathered bench with a tankard of ale in hand and a circle of wide-eyed faunts around him. It appeared the old dwarf was quite the story teller. His voice, rich and captivating, painted vivid images of distant lands, exciting battles, and treasures beyond imagining. The children hung on his every word, their eyes wide with wonder as they listened to tales of adventure far beyond the borders of the Shire. Bilbo watched, amused, as Balin gestured grandly, his hands sweeping through the air as if he were carving the very scenes he described.

What had truly surprised Bilbo, however, was when Dwalin, the most intimidating of the lot, had made his way through the party to join his brother. Bilbo had fully expected Dwalin to remain on the outskirts, glowering at anyone who dared approach, but instead, the warrior had been quickly surrounded—and climbed on—by a gaggle of giggling hobbit children. Bilbo had nearly dropped his ale at the sight. The same Dwalin who had scowled his way through Bag End, looking every inch the battle-hardened warrior, was now a gentle giant, letting the children clamber all over him as he added his own embellishments to Balin’s stories. 

A loud cheer caught Bilbo’s attention, pulling his gaze away from the brothers. He turned to see Fíli and Kíli in the midst of a heated game of horseshoes with some of his younger nieces and nephews. The two princes, ever competitive, were learning firsthand just how skilled hobbits were with thrown objects. From what Bilbo could overhear, Kíli was holding his own, his laughter ringing out with each successful toss, while poor Fíli was being thoroughly trounced by his opponents. Bilbo couldn’t help but smile at the sight—there was something endearing about the brothers’ unbridled enthusiasm, even when they were clearly outmatched.

Off to the side, Nori had found his own means of entertainment. He was happily demonstrating sleight-of-hand tricks to an astonished group of hobbits who had gathered around him. Coins disappeared and reappeared with a flick of his wrist, his audience gasping and applauding.

"Keep yer eyes on tha coin, my friends.” Nori instructed with a grin, his nimble fingers a blur of motion. Bilbo watched with a mix of admiration and trepidation, silently resolving that the dwarf would never be allowed to become friends with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. He had enough trouble hanging onto his silverware as it was without giving Lobelia the benefit of Nori’s tricks. 

His brothers, Ori and Dori, had been drawn into a conversation with Aunt Donna, their heads bent together over some kind of intricate handiwork. The three of them were close enough for Bilbo to catch snippets of their conversation over the cheerful din of the party, and he couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

“This is called a Jasmine Stitch,” Aunt Donna said, her voice warm with pride as she displayed her shawl, her fingers tracing the delicate pattern.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Ori exclaimed, his eyes wide with admiration as he examined the stitches up close. “The stitches really do look like a flower!”

Aunt Donna beamed at him, clearly delighted by his interest. "Indeed, the Jasmine Stitch offers both beauty and practicality. It's particularly ideal for winter – thick and cozy, yet remarkably lightweight. Perfect for those chilly Shire mornings."

Ori, clearly eager to share his own knowledge, pulled out what looked like a knitted hat from his pack. “This is a fisherman's rib knit,” he said, holding it up for her to inspect. “It creates a dense fabric that can stretch without tearing. It’s perfect for tha mines; it keeps you warm without feeling bulky.”

Dori, who had been quietly observing, smiled down at his younger brother, "Ori is one of tha most skilled knitters in tha Blue Mountains," he informed Aunt Donna, his voice swelling with pride. "There's not many folk that can use a  fisherman's rib knit for large garments like 'e can."

Ori’s face flushed a charming shade of pink at his brother’s praise, and Bilbo couldn’t help but feel a pang of fondness for the young dwarf. It was moments like these that reminded him that, despite their rough exterior and gruff manners, the dwarves had a softer side—a side that Bilbo was just beginning to glimpse. He was happy to learn that at least some of his traveling companions had a fondness for domestic arts. It could be a good starting point to get to know them better.

The dwarf’s enthusiasm for food was infectious, and it wasn’t long before he had charmed the other hobbits at the food tables with his hearty appetite and cheerful demeanor. Bombur’s eyes lit up as he sampled everything from seed cakes to stuffed mushrooms, his deep, contented hums of approval punctuating each bite.

Bilbo managed to catch a snippet of their conversation as Bombur bit into a piece of lamb. "Ah, these spices are similar to some we have in the Blue Mountains, though I must say, your Shire seasoning has a much more delicate flavoring to it!" Bombur exclaimed, his voice brimming with appreciation. The hobbits around him nodded eagerly, offering more recommendations and engaging in a lively discussion about the culinary preferences of dwarves and hobbits alike. Bilbo was happy to see the shared love of food bringing everyone closer.

In another corner of the yard, Gloin and Oin had found common ground with a group of Bilbo’s cousins interested in herbalism and commerce. The discussion was lively, with Gloin enthusiastically detailing the trading practices of the dwarves, while Oin shared his knowledge of various medicinal herbs. Bilbo’s cousins, in turn, offered insights into the agriculture of the Shire and the cultivation of their renowned pipe-weed. The exchange was animated, with hands gesturing and heads nodding as they delved into the intricacies of their respective trades.

Movement out of the corner of his eye drew Bilbo’s attention away from the dwarves. Bilbo’s cousin Doderick and his husband Madoc, had stepped up onto the small stage that had been created for the evening. With a fiddle and a flute in hand, they began to play a lively tune, filling the air with the lilting melodies of the Shire. 

Bilbo’s gaze followed as Bofur and Bifur fetched their clarinets and joined in, their deep, rich notes blending harmoniously with the hobbits' instruments. Though their attempts to play along with the hobbits were initially hesitant, it didn’t take long for the two dwarves to find their rhythm. The collaboration soon blossomed into a full-fledged performance, much to the delight of the gathered crowd. The music floated over the fields, a joyful sound that beckoned everyone to join in the celebration.

Bilbo watched as Jessamine pulled her husband Herugar through the crowd and up on the stage. He chuckled to himself, as he watched Herugar allow himself to be pulled onto the stage, his resistance crumbling in the face of such spirited insistence. The two of them began to dance with a series of simple steps, moving forward and backwards together. As the music picked up, so did their dance, turning into a lively sequence of side steps, skips and twirls as they started to sing. 

Oh you can search far and wide

You can drink the whole town dry

But you'll never find a beer so brown

Oh you'll never find a beer so brown

As the one we drink in our hometown

As the one we drink in our hometown

Encouraged by Jessamine and Herugar's lead, other party goers began to gather and dance in the open space below the stage, their voices joining the couples as everyone launched into a song known to every hobbit from the Brandywine to the borders of the Shire.

You can keep your fancy ales

You can drink them by the flagon

But the only brew for the brave and true

Comes from the Green Dragon!!

Bilbo stood at the edge of the gathering, the lively sounds of music and laughter filling the air around him. His feet tapped in time with the rhythm as his eyes drifted across the crowd, taking in the swirling skirts and the bobbing heads of hobbits as they twirled and laughed with the dwarves. But then, something—or rather, someone—caught Bilbo’s attention, and his tapping foot stilled as he froze in shock.

There, across the crowd, stood Thorin Oakenshield, his usual stern demeanor seemingly lifted, as he tapped his foot in time with the music.

Bilbo couldn’t tear his gaze away. Thorin’s face, normally carved from stone, had softened, the stern, harsh lines smoothing into something gentler, something... happy? Bilbo blinked, trying to reconcile the sight before him with the image of the dour, brooding dwarf lord he had come to know over the past few days. There was a subtle curve of the lips, a hint of amusement flickering across Thorin's usually stern features. It wasn’t a broad smile, not by any stretch, but it was enough to soften the edges of his strong, chiseled face in a way that made Bilbo's heart stutter unexpectedly.

Bilbo blinked again, trying to shake off the strange flutter that had settled in his chest. He had only known Thorin for a few days, but in that short time, he had grown accustomed to the dwarf’s stoic demeanor—the way his brow often furrowed in thought, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders, or how his lips pressed into a tight line of determination, as if he were perpetually bracing for some unseen storm. Seeing him now, standing alone yet seemingly at ease, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, Bilbo couldn’t help but feel a curious pull, like a string tied to his ribcage was being gently tugged.

He found himself staring longer than was probably proper, captivated by the rare softness displayed on Thorin's face. The dwarf should smile more often, Bilbo thought, an involuntary smile tugging at his own lips. It suited him far better than the scowl he usually wore.

Hey ho, to the bottle I go!

To heal my heart and drown my woe.

Rain may fall and wind may blow.

But there still be – many miles to go!

Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain,

and the stream that falls from hill to plain.

Better than rain or rippling brook –

is a mug of beer inside this Took!
 
The lively tune carried on around him, but Bilbo’s attention was firmly rooted on Thorin. This unexpected glimpse into such a different side of him sparked a warmth in Bilbo’s chest—a warmth that he didn’t quite know how to label. He felt a sense of connection that he hadn't felt before. It was as if, in this brief moment, the distance between them had lessened, the vast differences in their worlds had closed ever so slightly.

Bilbo's musings were cut short as the song ended and applause erupted around him, pulling him back to the present. Bilbo shook his head slightly, trying to clear his thoughts. The image of Thorin's unguarded enjoyment lingered in his mind, a stark contrast to the dwarf’s usual demeanor. He found himself hoping that the journey ahead of them would reveal more such moments—more glimpses of the Thorin behind the shield, the Thorin who could smile, even if just a little. 

Trying to push the unsettlingly warm thoughts of Thorin aside, Bilbo glanced around the party, his eyes sweeping over the scene in search of a distraction. The festive atmosphere was infectious, with hobbits dancing and laughing, their joy palpable in the air. It was hard not to get caught up in the revelry, but Bilbo’s attention was soon once again drawn to a figure sitting alone at the edge of the dance floor.

Freya.

She was watching the dancing hobbits with a wistful expression, her bright eyes dimmed by a melancholy that didn’t quite belong in such a festive setting. There was a kind of resigned acceptance in her posture, as if she had already made peace with the idea that the lively world before her was one she couldn’t fully join. Her fingers tapped along with the music, but the usual spark of excitement that Bilbo had come to associate with her was notably absent.

Bilbo felt a tug at his heart as he watched her from a distance. In the few days since they had met, he had grown quite fond of Freya. There was something undeniably endearing about her—the way she marveled at everything around her, the way she greeted each new experience with wide-eyed wonder, despite the challenges she faced. She had a resilience that both impressed and concerned him, and seeing her so subdued felt wrong.

Determined to lift her spirits, Bilbo made his way through the crowd to where Fili was laughing with some of Bilbo's younger cousins. He tapped Fili on the shoulder, pulling him away from the fun for a moment. 

"Fili," Bilbo began, his voice barely above the music, "Do you see Freya over there?" He nodded towards her, a lonely figure in the midst of all the celebration.

Fili’s laughter faded as he followed Bilbo's gaze, the mirth in his eyes softening with empathy and concern.Bilbo didn’t need to say anything more; the unspoken request hung in the air between them, and Fili understood immediately. There was no hesitation—just a quick nod of acknowledgment before he excused himself from the group and began to make his way through the throng of dancing hobbits.

Bilbo watched as Fili approached Freya, noting the way her expression shifted from wistful to surprised, and then to delighted as Fili extended his hand to her.  With the utmost care, Fili swept her up into his arms, his actions as gentle as if he were handling the most delicate of treasures.

The crowd parted for them as Fili carried her onto the dance floor. The music seemed to swell in welcome, the lively tunes of the Shire blending with the laughter and cheers of the onlookers. Freya's delighted laughter rang out as Fili spun and danced with her in his arms, her earlier sadness all but forgotten.  

From the sidelines, Bilbo watched, a warm smile spreading across his face. There was something undeniably heartening about the way Fili effortlessly included Freya in the dance, about the way the company rallied around her without a second thought. For all their gruffness and bluster, these dwarves had a capacity for kindness that Bilbo hadn’t expected.

As he stood there, watching the dance unfold, Bilbo couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—this journey wouldn’t be so bad after all. At the very least, it was already proving to be full of surprises, and Bilbo was beginning to realize that there was more to his new companions than he had initially thought. Perhaps, in the midst of all the uncertainty and danger that lay ahead, there would also be moments like this—moments of light and laughter that made the hardships worth enduring.

And as he turned his gaze back to Thorin, who was watching the scene with a small, almost imperceptible smile, Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder what other surprises the dwarf king had in store.

______________

It was nearly midnight when the last significant event of the evening began to unfold, as it often does when ale flows freely and hobbits are involved. Bilbo was chatting with Rosa when he noticed Gloin’s gaze fix on a small group of hobbits nearby. Sig, Rorimac, Falco, and Saradas were in the midst of challenging each other to a drinking game, their laughter and good-natured taunts filling the air. Bilbo saw the exact moment when Gloin’s eyes lit up with a competitive gleam. 

Gloin slammed his own mug onto the wooden table, ale sloshing over the sides, as he rose to his full height. "I bet I could outdrink any hobbit here!" he declared, cutting through the din of conversations and clinking mugs, drawing all eyes to him.

Bilbo let out a heavy sigh, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose tightly as he closed his eyes in a silent plea to Yavanna for patience. as he silently cursed the rock-headed idiot. Of all the things he had warned the dwarves not to do—of course, the rock-headed fool went ahead and did it anyway.

"You think you can outdrink a hobbit, do you?" Sig challenged, his eyes gleaming with the promise of mischief. Bilbo couldn’t suppress a rueful smile. That look was one he remembered all too well from their childhood—it was one that usually happened right before they did something that ended with his father giving them a stern talking-to.

"Aye, I do!" Gloin responded, his grin unwavering as he puffed out his chest. Around him, the other dwarves erupted into cheers, slamming their fists on tables and shouting encouragement, while the hobbits exchanged knowing looks. 

The crowd pressed in closer, bodies jostling for a better view, as an anticipatory murmur rippled through the air. Bilbo watched the unfolding chaos with a mixture of amusement and resignation. This was going to be a disaster—one he would no doubt have to clean up later—but for now, he supposed he could allow himself to be entertained.

Rorimac stepped forward to lay down the rules, his voice brimming with delight and a hint of wickedness. "We’ve got a drinking contest!" he declared, drawing cheers from the crowd.“No pauses. No spills. First to drop losses. Gentlemen, grab your pints!" 

Gloin and Sig eagerly grasped their cups, their eyes locking in a friendly but fierce competition. Bilbo found himself leaning forward slightly, despite himself. He really should have stepped in—help the dwarf before he got drunk under the table—but there was something morbidly entertaining about watching Gloin dig his own grave. "Ready? ...DRINK!"

And with that, the drinking contest began, with both Gloin and Sig downing mug after mug of ale. The onlookers cheered and jeered, their laughter filling the air as the two competitors threw back their drinks. Bilbo had to admit, he was mildly impressed. Eighteen ales in, and Gloin was still managing to keep up with his cousin. Quite the achievement for a non-hobbit.

But as the contest wore on, it became increasingly clear that Gloin had bitten off more than he could chew. Bilbo watched with a mix of vindication and sympathy as the dwarf’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red with every mug. His eyes, once sharp and determined, were now slightly crossed with concentration, and the simple act of drinking seemed to have become a Herculean task.

The 22nd drink saw Gloin giving himself an enthusiastic, if somewhat slurred, cheer for his own resilience. Bilbo had to admit it was quite the achievement for Gloin to still be standing. But standing was about all he was managing at this point—well, standing and swaying, like a leaf caught in a particularly strong breeze. Rorimac, on the other hand, was still going strong, while Gloin had begun laughing at nothing in particular and slurring his speech.

Rosa, who had been quietly observing the whole debacle with that familiar spark of mischief in her eyes, leaned over to Bilbo, a wide grin on her face "Is it just me, or is our dwarf friend starting to resemble a teapot? Red in the face and about to tip over!" 

Bilbo nearly choked on his beer, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. He clutched at Rosa for support, his shoulders shaking with mirth. The image of Gloin as a teapot, steam shooting from his ears, was too perfect.

“You know, Rosa,” he managed between gasps, “I think you might be onto something. I just hope he doesn’t start whistling.” The thought of Gloin actually whistling like a kettle sent him into another round of laughter.

The moment Gloin crumbled was as dramatic as it was comical. With a final, ambitious gulp, he attempted to slam his 25th mug down with dignity, only to misjudge the distance entirely. His hand missed the table by a good inch, causing his already unstable body to lurch forward. For a split second, there was a collective intake of breath as everyone watched in anticipation—then, with an impressive smack, his forehead met the table with a resounding thud.

Bilbo winced, more out of habit than genuine concern. Based on the headbutt he had seen Dawlin and Balin had greeted each other with Gloin’s skull should be fine. A concerned hush fell over the crowd, but it was quickly shattered by uproarious laughter when Gloin let out a deafening snore.

The crowd exploded into cheers (from the Tooks) and groans of disappointment (from the dwarves). Bilbo, sipping his own drink with a satisfied smile, glanced down at the Dwarf without feeling even a hint of pity. His relatives reveled in the victory, patting Rorimac on the back and laughing heartily. 

As the laughter faded and the night deepened, Bilbo found himself staring into the remnants of his own beer. The warmth of the evening's laughter lingered in his heart, a reminder of the unexpected camaraderie that had flourished. After watching the dwarves interact with his family all evening Bilbo was starting to believe he might be able to fit in with the company after all. 

With a sense of contentment budding in his chest, Bilbo offered his farewells to both relatives and newfound companions. He retreated into his Aunt's smial, ready to sleep for the rest of the night. As he settled down, the image of Gloin's comical defeat flashed through his mind. A soft chuckle escaped him as he closed his eyes, the promise of tomorrow's  adventure lulling him to sleep.

Chapter Text

Bilbo, still a bit groggy from the previous night’s activities, was gently lured from his slumber by the irresistible smell of bacon, omelet, toast, and sausages wafting through the air. It was the sort of smell that could coax even the sleepiest hobbit from their bed, and Bilbo was no exception. He stirred under the covers, blinking blearily at the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he turned his head toward the clock on his bedside table and was pleasantly surprised to find that he hadn't missed second breakfast.

He yawned and followed it with a satisfying stretch, his arms reaching toward the ceiling as his back arched slightly. Despite the lingering temptation to burrow back under the covers and forget the world for another hour or two, the allure of breakfast—especially one that included bacon—was simply too strong to resist. The promise of a full plate and a hot cup of tea was enough to drag him from the warm embrace of his bed, though not without a bit of reluctance.

Following the tantalizing aroma that had roused him, Bilbo padded down the hallway toward the dining room, his feet moving almost of their own accord. As he rounded the corner, he was greeted by the sight of Aunt Donna bustling around the stove, her apron dusted with flour as she expertly flipped bacon in the pan. Uncle Hugo and Jess were busy laying out an array of delicious-looking platters on the dining table, each dish more mouthwatering than the last. The aroma of sizzling bacon, eggs, and freshly brewed tea filled the air, making Bilbo’s stomach growl in anticipation. It was the sort of spread that could make any hobbit forget their troubles, at least for a little while.

The scene before him was so familiar, so wonderfully ordinary, that it almost made him forget about the band of dwarves currently residing in his aunt’s barn. Almost. He couldn’t help but smile as he took his seat at the table, the comforting chatter of his family and the enticing spread of food making him feel like everything was as it should be, if only for this moment.

Aunt Donna leaned forward as everyone settled into their seats, a mischievous glint in her eyes that Bilbo recognized all too well. It was the look she always wore when she had a particularly juicy bit of gossip to share. "You won't believe what I heard at the market yesterday!” she began, her voice tinged with amusement. “Old Mrs. Proudfoot and Mrs. Goodbody are at it again, competing over their flower garden."

Bilbo chuckled, spooning a generous amount of eggs onto his plate. "Really? Didn’t they agree to a truce last year after that disaster with the tulips?" he asked, already picturing the two elderly hobbits glaring at each other over their hedgerows.

Uncle Hugo nodded, his expression caught between exasperation and amusement. "That they did, but it seems Mrs. Goodbody's roses bloomed a tad earlier than Mrs. Proudfoot's this year. You can imagine the uproar that's caused."

Bilbo couldn’t help but smirk as he took a bite of toast. "Ah, the simple joys of a good old-fashioned 'flower war,'" he remarked. And as he did, a particular memory sprang to mind—a vivid recollection of the most infamous episode in the long-standing rivalry between the two ladies.

It had all started innocently enough, as these things often do, with both hobbit ladies trying to outdo each other in the annual Hobbiton Garden Festival. Mrs. Proudfoot, with her well-pruned hedgerows and meticulously arranged flowerbeds, had always prided herself on having one of the most dazzling displays in the Hobbiton. Mrs. Goodbody, however, wasn’t about to be bested. She and Mrs. Proudfoot were almost always neck-and-neck for the title of ‘Best in Show,’ and she was determined to win no matter the cost.

The first sign of trouble had been when Mrs. Goodbody unveiled a new breed of tulips—tall, elegant, and a deep shade of crimson that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. Word spread quickly through Hobbiton, and it wasn’t long before Mrs. Proudfoot heard of the spectacle. Not to be outdone, she immediately set to work cultivating her own tulips, going so far as to import special bulbs from Bree that were said to produce flowers of an even richer hue.

For a while, it seemed like the two were locked in a silent battle, each trying to outshine the other. But then, the mischief began. One morning, Mrs. Goodbody awoke to find that her prized tulips had been mysteriously trampled, the petals scattered across the ground like so many crimson tears. She was certain Mrs. Proudfoot was behind it, though she couldn’t prove it. In retaliation, Mrs. Goodbody decided to teach her rival a lesson. Under the cover of night, she crept into Mrs. Proudfoot’s garden and carefully sprinkled a concoction of salt and vinegar around the base of her marigolds, knowing full well it would stunt their growth.

It was a classic case of tit for tat, with each hobbit trying to outdo the other while pretending nothing was amiss. Mrs. Proudfoot, for her part, retaliated by “accidentally” leaving her garden gate open, allowing a stray goat to wander in and nibble away at Mrs. Goodbody’s prized dahlias. The whole village watched with bated breath, wondering who would emerge victorious—or if both gardens would be laid to ruin in the process.

The rivalry reached its peak during the festival itself. Mrs. Proudfoot had managed to cultivate a stunning bed of tulips, their petals a vibrant orange with streaks of gold, and she was confident of her victory. Mrs. Goodbody, however, wasn’t ready to concede defeat. She’d somehow managed to salvage her own tulips, and they were arranged in a grand display that towered over her rival’s.

But as the judges made their rounds, disaster struck. Whether it was the result of all the sabotage or simply bad luck, no one knew for sure, but the stems of Mrs. Proudfoot’s tulips suddenly began to wilt. In a matter of minutes, her once-glorious display crumpled into a sad heap of drooping flowers. Mrs. Goodbody’s tulips, however, fared no better. As if in solidarity with their rivals, they too began to wither and collapse, leaving the judges with little more than a pile of wilted blooms to consider.

The scene that followed was one of sheer chaos, with Mrs. Proudfoot and Mrs. Goodbody each accusing the other of foul play, their voices rising above the murmurs of the crowd. The festival organizers had to step in to prevent the argument from escalating into a full-blown brawl. In the end, neither of them won the ribbon that year, and the "Great Tulip Disaster," as it came to be known, became the stuff of legend in Hobbiton. It was the first time the rivalry had ended in a truce—albeit a temporary one, with both ladies vowing to "play fair" the next time around.

Jess chimed in, breaking Bilbo’s reverie. “Mrs. Goodbody claims to have grown bicolored anemones—a mix of white and purple that no one else has managed to grow before. But Mrs. Proudfoot isn't backing down; she's hinting at some secret weapon to be unveiled soon."

Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh, imagining the lengths the two rivals would go to outdo each other. The Shire was full of such delightful little dramas, each one more ridiculous and endearing than the last. "I suppose it wouldn't be a proper gardening season without a bit of drama," he mused, taking another bite of his eggs. The thought brought a warmth to his chest, a reminder of how these little rivalries were part of what made the Shire such a unique and delightful place to live.

“That’s not the only bit of excitement going on,” Aunt Donna remarked, shifting the conversation away from the impending battle between Mrs. Proudfoot and Mrs. Goodbody. “Word is, the Bracegirdle twins are both getting married next spring. Quite the excitement for the family, organizing two weddings at once!”

Jess, mid-sip of her tea, nearly choked in surprise. “Both twins? At the same time?” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with astonishment. “That’s going to be a logistical nightmare. Just think of the feast! The Shire will be buzzing about it for months.” 

Bilbo nodded thoughtfully, his mind already spinning with the myriad details such an event would entail. He could already picture the endless lists that would have to be made, checked, and rechecked. “The food, the decorations... Not to mention finding a venue large enough to accommodate everyone. It’ll be the talk of the season, no doubt,” he mused, the prospect of such an enormous gathering both intriguing and slightly overwhelming.

Aunt Donna’s smile widened, clearly relishing the thought of such a grand occasion. “It's going to be quite the affair, what with all the preparations and guest lists. Hobbiton hasn't seen a double wedding in decades!"

Bilbo’s mind wandered for a moment, picturing the bustling kitchens, the rows of tables laden with food, and the excited chatter of hobbits as they discussed the event long after the last toast had been made. He wondered briefly if the Bracegirdles had considered how much ale would be required to keep the guests satisfied—more than a few barrels, he suspected. Weddings in the Shire were notorious for being extravagant affairs, and with two at once, the expectations would be sky-high.

Their relaxed chatter was interrupted by the entrance of Jess's husband, Herugar, returning from delivering breakfast to the few dwarves who were awake.

"Morning, everyone!"  Herugar's cheerful greeting filled the kitchen. "Just finished delivering breakfast to our guests in the barn. Seems like most of them are still sleeping off last night's festivities.”

Bilbo stifled a chuckle, the thought of the dwarves sprawled out in the barn, snoring away with tankards still in hand, brought a faint smile to his lips. 

As Herugar bustled into the kitchen, Oin and Ori followed close behind. Oin's expression was one of quiet concern, a slight furrow in his brow that immediately caught Bilbo's attention. In contrast, Ori’s eyes sparkled with curiosity, darting around the kitchen as though he were committing every detail to memory.

Oin, with a respectful nod to the gathered company, stepped forward. His voice, though steady, carried a note of concern that immediately caught Bilbo’s attention. “If you’ll excuse me, I want ta go check on Freya.”

Aunt Donna nodded, her expression softening. "Of course, Oin. Go right ahead.”

Meanwhile, Ori, with his quill and parchment at the ready, began to pepper the hobbits with questions about life in the Shire, eager to learn about their customs and daily routines. Bilbo couldn't help but smile at Ori's earnestness, a sentiment echoed by his relatives.  Aunt Donna’s gaze softened, her eyes twinkling with quiet amusement as she watched the eager scribe. Jess’s lips curled into a fond smile, and Uncle Hugo let out a gentle chuckle, clearly charmed by Ori's genuine interest.

“Can you tell me about farming here in the Shire?” Ori asked eagerly, his quill poised and ready. “It seems like a large part of your culture. What crops are important here, and how do the seasons affect your work?"

Uncle Hugo leaned forward, eyes lighting up with enthusiasm at the mention of a topic close to every hobbit's heart. "Farming isn’t just a part of life; it’s the very soul of the Shire,” he began, his voice carrying a note of pride that resonated with every hobbit in the room. "We hobbits have a deep connection to the land. We take pride in nurturing it and helping it flourish, not just for the sake of growing food—though that’s mighty important, mind you—but because of the respect we have for the natural world and our desire to live in harmony with it. The land is not just a resource to be exploited but a living being to be cared for and cherished."

Bilbo noticed Ori’s quill moving furiously, trying to capture every word, and couldn’t help but feel a pang of satisfaction at the young dwarf’s interest. There was something heartening about sharing the traditions of the Shire with someone so eager to learn.

Jess chimed in with a warm smile, "The Shire's soil is rich and fertile, perfect for growing all manner of crops—taters, cabbages, carrots, and, of course pipeweed. But it’s not just about what we grow; it’s how we do it. There’s a sort of quiet joy in watching a seed you planted sprout and grow, turning into something beautiful or bountiful. It’s not just the harvest that matters; it’s the whole process—the planting, the watering, the weeding. Each step brings its own satisfaction, and it’s a way of giving back to the land that gives so much to us."

As Jess spoke, Bilbo felt a familiar warmth in his heart, a reminder of the countless hours he’d spent in his own garden, coaxing flowers and vegetables to life. There was indeed a simple, profound joy in it—a joy that made him feel connected to the earth, to his home, and to the generations of hobbits who had done the same before him. He remembered his mother, bending over her favorite rose bushes, her hands dirtied but her smile bright. Jess was right; it wasn’t just about the end result. It was about every little moment in between—the way the soil felt beneath your fingers, the way the sun warmed your back as you worked, the way the first green shoots pushed their way through the dark earth, promising life and growth

Aunt Donna nodded in agreement, her voice soft but filled with conviction. "We’ve always believed that the land and its bounty are gifts, and we hobbits have a responsibility to tend to it with care. Spring is for planting, summer for tending and growing, autumn for harvesting, and winter for rest—both for us and the land. Each season has its own tasks, its own challenges and rewards. It’s a cycle as old as the Shire itself, a way of life passed down from parent to child, year after year."

Herugar, who had been quietly listening, added his deep, steady voice to the discussion. "Farming teaches patience and respect. You can’t rush a crop to grow faster than it will, nor can you force the land to yield more than it’s ready to give. It’s a partnership, really. We give the land what it needs, and in return, it sustains us. There’s a wisdom in the soil, a knowledge of what’s needed and when, and it’s up to us to listen and learn."

Bilbo looked over at Ori again, noticing the dwarf’s brow furrowing in concentration as he tried to keep up with Herugar’s words. There was something touching about how seriously Ori was taking this, as if he understood, even in his outsider’s way, just how sacred these traditions were to hobbits.

"And it’s not just about growing food for our tables," Bilbo added, deciding it was time to contribute his own thoughts to the discussion. “It’s about the community, too. Every hobbit does their part, whether it’s planting the crops, tending the orchards, or even just keeping the gardens in bloom. It brings us together, makes us appreciate the simple, good things in life. And when the harvest comes in, we share the fruits of our labor with our neighbors, with friends and family. There’s something deeply satisfying about that.”

Yes, the Shire was a place of plenty, but that plenty was born of hard work, of hands in the soil and sweat on brows, of shared labor and shared rewards. There was a deep, abiding sense of contentment that came from knowing you’d done your part, that you’d helped feed your family, your friends, your neighbors. And that, in doing so, you’d kept alive the traditions and stories that made the Shire what it was.

"Not to mention the stories,” he continued. “Every plant, every tree, has a history. Some of the apple orchards have been here for generations, tended by hobbits whose names are long forgotten. But their care lives on in every bite of a juicy apple or in the sweet scent of the blossoms in spring. Farming is more than just a livelihood here; it’s a way of preserving the past and ensuring the future."

Uncle Hugo leaned back with a satisfied smile. "That’s right. Farming connects us to the Shire, to each other, and to the very earth beneath our feet. The land gives us so much, and it’s only right that we give back in turn. It’s a bond that’s as old as hobbits themselves, and one that we’re proud to continue."

As Ori’s quill scratched feverishly across the parchment, Bilbo couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride swelling in his chest. The Shire was more than just a place—it was a living, breathing testament to the hobbit way of life, to the simple joys of community, tradition, and the earth itself. Sharing that with Ori, seeing the young dwarf’s fascination, reminded Bilbo of just how special it all was.

Ori’s gaze wandered around the cozy kitchen, his eyes wide with curiosity as he absorbed the warm, earthy tones and the gentle curves of the hobbit-hole’s architecture. The way the rounded beams framed the soft glow of the hearth seemed to captivate him. “Your homes are so unique,” Ori remarked, his voice tinged with admiration. His gaze lingered on the round windows, the smooth wooden surfaces, and the inviting warmth that seemed to permeate every corner. “They’re unlike anything we have in the Blue Mountains. How exactly are they built? What materials are used? And what’s the reason behind the preference for round windows and doors?”

Bilbo launched into an explanation, delighted to share another aspect of the Shire's charm. 

"Our homes are constructed quite ingeniously," Bilbo began, his eyes sparkling with pride. "They're typically dug into hillsides, and blend seamlessly with the natural landscape. We use a mix of wood, stone, and earth for the walls, and then top them off with dirt and grass. It keeps things cool in the summer and warm in the winter."

As he spoke, Bilbo’s thoughts drifted to Bag End, his beloved hobbit-hole. His father had put his heart and soul into designing and building the smial for his mother, every curve and corner a testament to the love and care that went into its creation.

"As for the round windows and doors," Jess added, picking up where Bilbo left off, "it's simply a matter of preference and tradition. The round shapes symbolize harmony with nature and a sense of community, reflecting the way we hobbits like to live—close to the land and close to each other."

"Community means the world to us hobbits," Jess continued, her voice warm with affection. "Our festivals are all about gathering together, sharing our values, and honoring our traditions. Take the Yuletide Festival, for example. It's a time when every hobbit in the Shire throws open their doors, inviting neighbors and strangers alike to join in the festivities. There's plenty of food and drink to go around, and it's all about spreading joy and goodwill."

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile at the memory of past Yules, the sound of laughter and music filling the air as hobbits from all over the Shire came together. It was a time of warmth, even in the coldest winter, a reminder that no one was ever truly alone in the Shire.

Uncle Hugo nodded, clearly caught up in the memories as well. "And let's not forget the annual Hobbiton Fair – it's quite the spectacle! Hobbits come from all over the Shire to participate. From the bustling market stalls filled with fresh produce and handcrafted goods to the, and the competitions—oh, the competitions! Pastry making, pie-eating, you name it. It’s a true celebration of our sense of community.”

Aunt Donna leaned against Uncle Hugo, a tender smile playing on her lips before she addressed Ori, "Our festivals are a reflection of how important community is to us hobbits. Whether it's lending a helping hand to a neighbor or gathering to celebrate life's joys, we know that we're stronger when we stand together."

Ori eagerly scribbled down every detail, his quill dancing across the parchment as he captured the essence of hobbit culture with the passion of a true scholar.

The lively conversation at the breakfast table tapered off as Freya made her way into the room, leaning heavily on Oin for support.

"Freya, dear, good morning!" Aunt Donna’s voice rang out, filled with both concern and warmth. Without missing a beat, she pulled out the chair beside her, patting the seat with a kind of maternal insistence that left no room for refusal.

Freya gave her a tired smile in return, her eyes brightening at the sight of the comforting spread laid out before her. “Good morning,” she murmured, her voice soft but steady.

With a gentle hand on Freya's elbow, guided her to the chair with a gentle hand on her elbow, ensuring she was settled before stepping away to brew a pot of tea. Bilbo recognized the herbal aroma that soon filled the kitchen as the same one Oin had given her yesterday to help ease her pain.

As the others resumed their animated chatter, Freya listened quietly, her eyes flickering with curiosity as they moved from one speaker to the next. She seemed to be trying to piece together the conversation, catching fragments of meaning here and there. Bilbo couldn't help but admire her determination, even as he felt a pang of sympathy for her confusion. It must be exhausting, he thought, to constantly be on the outside of every conversation, trying to decipher the whirlwind of unfamiliar sounds.

Determined to include her, Bilbo made a conscious effort to weave the words she knew into their conversations. His heart warmed whenever her gaze sharpened, a spark of recognition lighting up her face. He wanted her to feel a part of this morning, not just a silent observer.

"Freya," Bilbo began, his voice gentle as he caught her attention with a light touch on her arm. "Would you like some food?" He pointed to a platter of breakfast pastries in front of him, watching with a smile as her eyes lit up at the offer.

Freya nodded eagerly, her stomach giving an audible rumble that drew a few chuckles from around the table. "Yes, please," she answered excitedly.

Bilbo reached for the platter of pastries on the table and passed it to Freya, who selected a small scone and began to nibble on it happily. As she ate, her eyes wandered around the room, taking in the cozy atmosphere of Aunt Donna's kitchen.

Across the table, Bilbo noticed Ori’s attention shift from his writing to Freya. The young dwarf's brows knitted together in concern, the quill in his hand hovering forgotten above his open journal. He leaned forward slightly, his voice gentle when he spoke. "Freya, how do you feel this morning? Better?"  

Freya nodded, her expression brightening as she nodded, "Better," she replied softly. "Thank you."

Bilbo felt a wave of relief wash over him, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was good to see her responding positively, even if it was just a small improvement. "That's good to hear," he said warmly, his eyes meeting Ori's in a silent exchange of reassurance. They had all been worried about her—more than they had admitted out loud. But now, seeing her here, participating in the morning’s routine, it felt like a small victory. 

Ori nodded, his own smile mirroring Bilbo's. "It’s good that you feel better " he said in Freyas’ language, stumbling a bit over some of the pronunciations. Bilbo couldn't help but admire Ori's effort to communicate in Freya's tongue.

Freya's eyes widened slightly in surprise at Ori's attempt to speak her language. There was a flicker of emotion in her gaze, a mix of gratitude and admiration for Ori's effort to connect with her. There was a momentary pause, during which Freya seemed to collect herself before offering a small, appreciative smile. “Thank you Ori .”

The arrival of Oin interrupted any further conversions. He arrived at the table with a steaming cup of tea, his brow furrowed with concern. "Here ye go, lass," Oin said, his voice a comforting rumble. "Drink this. It will help.”

Freya accepted the tea with a grateful nod, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. "Thank you," she murmured softly, taking a tentative sip and sighing in contentment as the warmth spread through her.

Bilbo watched with a keen eye as Freya took a tentative sip, the tension in her shoulders easing ever so slightly, and a subtle flush of color returning to her pale cheeks. With each sip, her posture straightened, and her movements became more animated, as if the tea had breathed new life into her, dispelling the fatigue and pain that had been weighing her down.

A smile tugged at Bilbo's lips at the sight of her transformation, a mixture of relief and admiration flooding through him. Memories of the second day of their journey flashed through his mind, and he had feared that the long hours riding would render her incapacitated once more. But now, as he watched her regain her strength, he felt a surge of happiness knowing that she was recovering well from their recent travels. 

Jess, seated at Bilbo’s other side, caught Freya's gaze and offered a warm smile. "Hello, Freya," she greeted, her voice gentle and inviting. "Do you like the Shire?"

Freya's eyes sparkled with excitement as she nodded eagerly. "Yes, I like the Shire," she replied with enthusiasm. "It’s so nice. The hills and grass are so green, and there are so many flowers!” Her voice was filled with wonder as she continued, “The sun and…” She paused, frowning slightly as she glanced at Ori. “How do you say wind?”

Ori smiled, leaning in slightly. “Wind,” he answered carefully, the word rolling off his tongue.

“Wind,” Freya repeated, a satisfied smile crossing her face. “The sun and wind feel so good, and I like the birds.”

Bilbo felt a swell of pride at Freya's enthusiasm. His homeland had clearly left a lasting impression on her, and he was pleased to see her so taken with the Shire’s beauty.

Jess chuckled softly, her eyes crinkling with warmth as she mirrored Bilbo’s sentiment. “It’s a beautiful place, isn’t it?” she remarked, her tone carrying the quiet pride that all hobbits shared when speaking of their beloved Shire.

“We,” Freya continued, gesturing towards Bilbo, Oin, and Ori, “Stopped in Hobbiton and I ate strawberries, they were so good! Everyone from...” She paused, her brow furrowing in frustration as she searched for the right word. “ Damn it, what’s the word for 'last ’... Umm...” She let out a frustrated sigh. “… Fuck, whatever. Last night was so nice!”

“I...” Freya hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “Shit, I don’t know how to say ‘had’ either. ” She scowled, her frustration evident in her tone as she struggled with the language barrier. “It was good.” She settled with saying,  although her expression made it clear she was far from satisfied with her response. “I liked it.”

Bilbo exchanged a sympathetic glance with Oin and Ori, understanding the struggle Freya faced with the language barrier. Despite the communication trouble, her effort to explain was met with warm smiles and nods of encouragement from her companions.

Bilbo marveled at the progress Freya was making in learning the common. Her grasp of simple sentences and her ability to express herself were improving with each passing day.  It spoke volumes about her determination and resilience.

As second breakfast carried on, the atmosphere around the table remained lively, filled with animated conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. Bilbo took a moment to savor the warmth of companionship, feeling content amidst the hustle and bustle of the kitchen.

Eventually, with plates cleared and bellies full, Bilbo turned to his companions, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Well then, shall we finish our breakfast and prepare for the day ahead?" he proposed.

His words were met with nods of agreement from the others. With a newfound sense of purpose, they set to work, the kitchen soon abuzz with the clatter of dishes and the rustle of activity as they cleared away the remnants of their meal.

_______________________

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting a warm, golden hue over Aunt Donna's farm, Bilbo found himself helping with the peculiar and somewhat daunting task of rousing a group of hungover dwarves. Bilbo, mostly unscathed by the night's indulgences, navigated the aftermath with a mixture of concern and amusement. 

His tolerance for alcohol, finely honed through years of Took gatherings, left him largely unaffected by the previous night's festivities. This made the sight of the dwarves succumbing to the might of Took ale all the more entertaining.

Bofur, Bombur, and Nori presented a rather sorry spectacle, draped over various pieces of furniture or piles of hay with all the grace of sacks of potatoes. Bofur's hat was askew, its brim pulled low over his eyes in a futile attempt to shield himself from the harsh light of day. Bombur muttered incoherently about never touching ale again—a vow Bilbo suspected would be forgotten the moment they reached the next tavern. Nori, usually so light on his feet, shuffled around with a sluggishness that was almost painful to witness, his usual nimbleness replaced by a heavy-footed trudge.

Gloin, to absolutely no one's surprise, was the most affected by the previous night's revelry. The proud dwarf, now a pale shadow of his usual fiery self, was paying a steep price for trying to out drink Sig last night. Bilbo could hear him muttering oaths under his breath about never underestimating a Hobbit's capacity for ale again.

Bilbo felt a slight twinge of sympathy for the dwarf, but it was mostly drowned out by satisfaction. He might have felt a bit guilty for enjoying Gloin’s misery, but he reassured himself that it was entirely the dwarf’s own fault. Bilbo had specifically warned the dwarves not to challenge anyone to a drinking contest, but the stubborn rock-headed fool had gone ahead and done it anyway. He felt a little bad about enjoying Gloin's misery but comforted himself with the knowledge that it was the dwarf's own fault.

Thorin, ever the picture of stoic dignity, didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by the previous night’s excesses. He, along with Balin and Dwalin, were the first to rise, their movements purposeful and steady as they began the thankless task of waking the rest of the group. Bilbo couldn't help but notice how Thorin's gaze lingered just a fraction longer on the slumbering forms of his companions, his expression softening almost imperceptibly before he resumed his usual stony mask. It was a fleeting moment, one that Bilbo might have imagined if he hadn’t been watching so closely.

Before Bilbo could dwell further on Thorin's subtle display of care, his attention was drawn to the two dwarf princes. Fíli and Kíli, much to the dismay of their more hungover companions, were surprisingly lively given the amount of ale they had downed the night before. They wasted no time flaunting their lack of a hangover, much to the annoyance of the older dwarves, who glared at them with bleary-eyed resentment.

Fili, sporting a grin that hinted at trouble, gave Kili a conspiratorial nudge as they sidled up to Bofur. The poor dwarf was still half-draped over a hay bale, his hat now serving more as a blindfold than headwear.

"Behold our sturdy Bofur," Fili chuckled, clearly relishing the situation. "I reckon even a sneeze could topple him at this point."

Kili, grinning widely, didn’t miss a beat. "And here I thought dwarves were made of sterner stuff. Perhaps it's just us, dear brother."

Their laughter attracted the attention of a groggy Bofur, who attempted to muster a dignified look despite his hat still being lopsided. "Oh, enough out o' ye two.” He growled, eyes squinting against the light. “Only reason yer bouncing about is cause there's nothing between your ears ta weigh ye down."

"Not our fault you can't handle your ale as well as you handle a pickaxe," Kíli shot back, ducking as a pillow—launched with surprising accuracy by Bombur—sailed through the air toward him.

"Might be time to swap ale for water, eh?” Fíli added “It might better suit your… delicate constitution."

The exchange drew laughter from those who were awake enough to appreciate it. Even the most hungover among them couldn't help but crack a smile.

Gloin scowled and pointed a finger at the young dwarves. "Just you wait, lads. Age will catch up ta you too, ‘nd then we'll see how you fare after a night of real drinking." 

As the dwarves continued to tease each other, Aunt Donna, Jess and Herugar bustled about with trays of strong tea and hearty breakfasts, attempting to revive their guests. Bilbo observed their efforts, noting the varying degrees of gratitude from the dwarves, ranging from mumbled thanks to enthusiastic praise. 

Aunt Donna's gaze lingered on Gloin, who was still grumbling about his hangover, and chuckled softly, a sound that carried both warmth and mischief. She paused beside the dwarf and grinned down at him. "You dwarves may be tough as mountain stone, but I hope you've learned your lesson about challenging hobbits to drinking contests. We may be small, but we can hold our ale!" Gloin grumbled in response, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Leaving Aunt Donna's homestead proved to be no small task. The aftermath of the previous night's revelry lingered in the air like a thick fog, slowing the group's departure. The barn needed tidying, scattered belongings had to be gathered from where they’d been carelessly tossed the night before, and the company—still groggy and a little worse for wear—had to be rallied into some semblance of order. Bilbo couldn’t help but sigh as he watched them slowly stir to life, exchanging sheepish glances and groans of embarrassment as tales of their antics were recounted with laughter and the occasional cringe.

Thorin, his patience wearing thin, stepped forward to take charge. "Enough delaying," he declared firmly, his deep voice carrying an unmistakable authority that snapped the dwarves to attention. "We have a long journey ahead of us. Gather your belongings and prepare to depart." The command was simple, but it had the desired effect, prompting his companions to move with more purpose, shaking off the last vestiges of their hangovers as they packed up their belongings.

________________

As Bilbo stood in the courtyard, surrounded by his companions who were nearly ready to depart, Aunt Donna approached him. She took his hand gently, her eyes filled with warmth and wisdom. "Bilbo, my dear," she began, her voice soft yet firm. "While you’re off on your adventure I want you to remember something: courage isn't about never feeling afraid; it's about finding the strength to face your fears.”

"You may feel uncertain and afraid at times, but I have complete faith in your ability to overcome any obstacle that comes your way," she continued, her gaze never wavering from his. "Strength can emerge from unexpected places. Even if you feel small and insignificant compared to the challenges ahead, never underestimate your own power. Believe in yourself, Bilbo; you're capable of more than you realize."

Bilbo nodded, grateful for her words of wisdom. He knew Aunt Donna had experienced her own hardships and emerged stronger because of them. Her confidence in him bolstered his resolve, filling him with determination as he prepared to embark on his adventure.

Aunt Donna's smile widened as she squeezed Bilbo's hand affectionately. "And there's one more thing, Bilbo," she said, her voice tinged with emotion. "Your parents would be so proud of the person you've become," she continued, her tone filled with warmth and affection.

"My sister would be thrilled to see her son walking in her adventurous footsteps. She always dreamed of seeing you explore the world and make your mark on it."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Bilbo's lips as he thought of his mother. He had always admired her adventurous spirit, even if he hadn't quite inherited it himself—or so he thought. But here he was, about to follow in her footsteps. He could almost hear her laughter, see the twinkle in her eyes as she urged him on, just as she had when he was a faunt, eager to explore the fields around Bag End. 

"And your father, Bungo," Aunt Donna continued, her eyes misting over with memories of her friend. "He may have been known for his proper manners and good Baggins sense,but he adored your mother's free-spirited nature and adventurous streak. He would have been just as proud as Belladonna to see you stepping out of your comfort zone and embracing the unknown."

Bilbo felt a lump form in his throat as he thought of his parents. They had both passed away years ago, but their love and support had always been a guiding force in his life.

"Thank you, Aunt Donna," Bilbo managed, his voice thick with emotion. "That means the world to me."

Aunt Donna pulled him into a tight embrace, and for a moment, Bilbo allowed himself to forget the looming journey ahead. Instead, he focused on the familiar scent of her lavender soap and the warmth of her arms around him. 

"You're going to do great things, Bilbo," she whispered into his ear, her voice filled with a certainty he was starting to believe. "I have no doubt about it."

Bilbo felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He held his aunt close, drawing strength from her presence, her belief in him. When she finally released him, he took a deep breath, feeling a surge of determination rise within him. With her words echoing in his heart, Bilbo turned to join the rest of the company. As he did, he cast one last glance at Aunt Donna, who stood watching him with a proud smile. It was a smile that bolstered his spirits and made him stand a little taller as he stepped forward, ready to embark on the adventure of a lifetime.

_____________

The company rode toward the town of Whitfurrow, the landscape unfolding around them like a carefully woven tapestry of green. The rolling hills and gentle slopes were draped in lush, vibrant grass, stretching endlessly beneath the soft, late afternoon light. Here and there, the fields were punctuated by wildflowers in bloom—their reds, yellows, blues, and purples dotting the scenery like scattered gems. Occasionally, chalk outcrops jutted starkly through the earth, their white cliffs a striking contrast against the lush greenery that dominated the landscape.

The conversation among Thorin's company ebbed and flowed, a mix of laughter and the occasional good-natured bickering, as they continued their journey. Bilbo, however, found himself drifting in and out of the present, his thoughts returning to the warmth and familiarity of Aunt Donna's party. The merry laughter, the feel of family arms around him, and the sense of belonging still lingered in his mind, wrapping around him like a comforting blanket.

"Hey, Bilbo,"  Bofur's voice broke through his reverie, drawing his attention back to the present. "I couldn’t ‘elp but wonder why there were so many hobbits at your aunt's party last night. It seemed like half tha Shire was there! Was there some sort o' special occasion we joined in on, or did she just feel like inviting tha whole neighborhood over ta see ye off?"

Bilbo laughed, "Oh, those weren't neighbors," he explained, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Everyone you met last night is part of my family, either by blood or marriage."

A stunned silence fell over the company as they absorbed this information. Their expressions morphed into a mix of disbelief and wonder. Bofur, always one to speak his mind, echoed what they were all thinking, "They… they were all your family?"

"But there were so many..." Dori added, his voice tinged with incredulity.

Bilbo observed the dwarves' collective astonishment with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. He couldn’t quite understand what had shocked them so much.

It was Gandalf who stepped in to provide context for their reaction. "Dwarves tend to have much smaller families compared to hobbits.

"How so?" Bilbo asked, curious about how much of a difference there could be.

“Among our kind, the birth of a child is a rare blessing,” Balin spoke up, his voice carrying a note of solemnity that drew Bilbo’s full attention. "Our birth rates are notably low compared to many of Middle-earth's races, a fact that shapes much of our culture and our communities."

Balin paused, and for a moment, Bilbo saw the weight of years and history reflected in the dwarf’s eyes. "Each child born is seen as a precious gift," He continued, his voice carrying the reverence of one who had lived through both joy and loss. "A gem to be cherished and protected. This scarcity means that our families are smaller, often comprising only the parents and one or two children."

Bilbo’s eyes widened at the revelation, the concept so foreign to his own experiences that it left him momentarily speechless. The idea that the birth of a child could be such a rare event was entirely outside his realm of understanding. In the Shire, children were as common as the flowers in spring—plentiful, celebrated, and woven into the very fabric of their lives.

“When a child is born,” Balin went on, his voice softening, “it's a cause for widespread celebration, not just within the immediate family but throughout the entire community. The birth of a child is seen as a hopeful promise for the future.”

Balin looked around at the company, his expression warm yet tinged with a subtle sadness. "That's why we Dwarves value our kin so deeply. Each life is a rare jewel, and losing even one is a sorrow that resonates through the heart of our community. Our families may be small in number, but the bonds that tie us are as strong as mithril, unbreakable and enduring."

"That's... quite profound," Bilbo responded thoughtfully. He looked around at the company, seeing them in a new light. These dwarves, who had seemed so rough and tumble, each carried with them a deep-seated value for life and kinship that was both similar and distinctly different from his own. Balin’s explanation made him realize, not for the first time, how little he knew of the world outside the shire’s borders.

"It's quite different in the Shire," he mused aloud, his tone reflective. "Families are large, and connections spread wide. For instance, my own family tree is a sprawling thing with branches touching nearly every corner of the Shire. We treasure our children and celebrate births, of course, but it's... it's more common, I suppose. The notion that each child could symbolize such a profound beacon of hope—it's both beautiful and heartrending."

He paused, gathering his thoughts. He was aware of the attentive eyes on him, but for once, the scrutiny didn’t bother him. "Hobbits," he began again, his voice steady, "cherish the joy of large families. Our homes are often filled with the constant bustle of life—children playing, family gatherings, and shared meals. It's a different kind of warmth, one that’s always surrounded by laughter and chatter. Being an only child, as I am, is quite rare. And even then, I’ve never felt alone, surrounded by so many cousins, second cousins, and so on."

A small smile tugged at Bilbo’s lips as he recalled the recent party at Aunt Donna's. The noise, the laughter, the endless plates of food—it was a chaos that was entirely comforting. "Last night, what you saw was just one side of my family. Every hobbit you met carries a piece of my history, my heritage. And while we may not celebrate each birth as a rare jewel, we do treasure each connection, each life intertwined with our own. Our large families mean that a child grows up surrounded by a plethora of voices, stories, and unconditional support. It’s a communal upbringing, really. Everyone has a role in raising the children, with multiple generations teaching them the ways of the world."

Bilbo paused again, his expression thoughtful as he considered the differences and the similarities between their cultures. "I suppose, in the end, whether large or small, our families shape us. They teach us about loyalty, love, and the importance of community. Your reverence for each child's birth, the celebration that embraces the whole community, it's beautiful. It shows a depth of care and connection that's truly admirable."

He could see the understanding in the eyes of the dwarves around him, a silent acknowledgment of the truth in his words. There was a comfort in that, a sense of shared values despite the differences in their lives.

"Though our customs may differ, it seems to me that at the heart of it all, there's a shared understanding,” Bilbo concluded. “A child, a family—these are the treasures of life, to be celebrated and cherished, no matter the size of the gathering."

Balin’s smile was warm and genuine as he looked at Bilbo, his eyes reflecting a mix of respect and affection. "That was very well said, Master Baggins," he replied, his voice carrying a note of approval that Bilbo found unexpectedly gratifying. "Very well said indeed."

Chapter Text

The journey to Whitfurrows had been mercifully uneventful, though Freya couldn't have been happier about it. After all, there was something uniquely comforting about the steady rhythm of travel with Fili, Kili, Ori, and Bilbo. The afternoon had been spent expanding her vocabulary—an endeavor that had started innocently enough but quickly morphed into a full-blown theatrical production, courtesy of her favorite troublemaking dwarf brothers.

Not that Freya was complaining. If there was one thing she could count on, it was that Kili and Fili would do everything in their power to make her laugh—and laugh she did. It was impossible not to, really. The two of them had thrown themselves into the task with the same enthusiasm they applied to everything else, their competitive spirits turning a simple language lesson into a full-blown performance. Their faces had contorted into all sorts of overly dramatic expressions, each more absurd than the last, as they acted out happiness, sadness, surprise, disgust, and confusion. Freya had nearly fallen off the pony from laughing so hard.

Meanwhile, Bilbo and Ori, being the responsible ones, had taken a more measured approach, patiently coaching her through forming simple sentences. They turned her stumbling attempts into something that actually resembled real sentences.

Kili pulled an exaggerated scowl—eyebrows furrowed, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in the most ‘angry’ face Freya had ever seen and it was just too perfect an opportunity to pass up. Nodding with mock solemnity, she deadpanned, “Thorin.” She tried to keep a straight face, but the laughter bubbling up inside her made it nearly impossible.

The reactions were everything she could have hoped for and more. Ori had nearly choked on air, his eyes wide with shock before dissolving into a fit of giggles. Bilbo’s laughter rang out, delight evident in his voice. Kili, for his part, was laughing so hard he actually did almost fall off his pony, clutching at the saddle to steady himself. The sight of him, struggling to stay upright while gasping for air, only made Freya laugh harder. And from behind her, she could hear Fili roaring with laughter, his chest shaking with the force of it.

And for a moment, it was easy to forget the aches in her body, the weariness that clung to her bones, and the fact that she was in a world so different from her own. Here, surrounded by laughter and the warmth of shared humor, she felt a little less lost and a little more like herself.

_________________________________

The company made their way into Whitfurrows just as the sun began to set, and found refuge for the night in a cozy two-story inn nestled on the outskirts of the town. The warm, inviting glow from the windows promised comfort, and Freya couldn’t help but feel a small wave of relief wash over her as she followed the others inside. Her legs were practically begging her to stop for the day, and she wasn’t going to argue. 

Once dinner was devoured and the plates whisked away, Freya had seized the opportunity to catch Bilbo's attention. Words were still a struggle, but she was nothing if not determined. With a few gestures, words, and a bit of singing, Freya had been able to ask Bilbo to help her translate the lyrics of the 'Green Dragon Song' that Jess and her husband had sung the night before. 

After Freya and Bilbo had finished jotting down the lyrics, she launched into the opening lines of 'A Merry Old Inn.' Bilbo's expression, a blend of utter astonishment and delight when he recognized the tune, was nothing short of priceless. Baffling everyone by knowing things she shouldn’t was never going to get old. Once Bilbo regained his composure, he helped her translate that song as well. 

When they finished she bid Bilbo goodnight and dragged herself up to her room, where she did a final, half-hearted round of stretches. The steaming hot bath that followed was nothing short of bliss, the heat sinking into her bones and chasing away the day’s aches. She sipped another cup of Oin's tea, savoring the warmth and much improved flavor, and finally, finally, allowed herself to collapse onto the bed. Sleep claimed her almost immediately, the soft embrace of the mattress and the lingering warmth of the bath pulling her under.

_____

The next day was as uneventful as the first. Oin woke Freya up, once again gave her a few drops of the tincture to help make her aching body hate her less, and followed it with a soothing massage with the peppermint-scented balm that helped ease her sore muscles. Once all that was done, she felt a lot more like a human and was happy to head downstairs to join the rest of the company eating breakfast. 

The company set out late that morning, continuing their trek through the same rolling hills as the day before. The landscape was like something out of a painting, with grasses forming a patchwork of greens, occasionally dotted with clusters of trees and shrubs. Bilbo was happy to give Freya another lesson on some of the flowers they passed. Her favorites were the ones he called “Chalkhill Bluebells” and “Pyramid Orchids.” The Bluebells had delicate powdery blue flowers with deeper blue veins running through them and had a soft sweet smell. The Orchids had a tall stem with triangular-shaped flowers forming a pyramid at the end. The tightly packed flowers were an absolutely stunning shade of magenta.

The highlight of the day came when Freya spotted a snake slithering through the grass beside her while the others were busy packing up the ponies after a break. At first, she thought it was just the wind rustling the blades, but then she caught a glimpse of it—a snake, just a little over a foot long, its greenish-brown scales speckled with dark blotches that made it blend seamlessly with its surroundings. She froze, her heart skipping a beat as it lifted its head to glide over a stick blocking its path, revealing a flash of yellow around its neck.

Freya gasped quietly in delight, watching it glide effortlessly through the grass. A snake. An actual snake, right there in front of her. The others hadn’t noticed, too absorbed in their tasks, leaving her alone with this perfect opportunity. She’d always wanted to pick up a wild snake but had never gotten the chance. This was her moment—cue the dramatic nature documentary music. A ridiculous grin spread across her face as she quickly ran through her mental checklist of ‘How Not to Die by Snake Bite,’ she scanned its head, trying to recall everything from the wildlife documentaries she’d binged watched. No triangular head, no slit pupils—perfect. It wasn’t venomous.

Her mind raced, pulling up snippets of information from the endless abyss of YouTube videos she’d watched about handling wild snakes. Calm and gentle, that was important. And something about picking it up from the middle of its body. Easy enough, right? She could totally do this.

“Piece of cake,” she muttered to herself, like this was just another Tuesday and not a potentially disastrous decision involving a wild animal.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she slowly reached out, her hands trembling just the tiniest bit. “Okay, buddy, don’t freak out on me,” she whispered, channeling her inner Steve Irwin.

She was fully prepared to admit that this was probably a really stupid idea—just because it wasn’t venomous didn’t mean it was friendly. But hey, common sense had never stopped her before.

With slow, gentle movements, she inched closer until her fingertips brushed against the snake’s smooth, cool skin. She held her breath, half-expecting it to dart away in a panic. But to her surprise, it simply flicked its tongue out at her, as if sizing her up, then remained still. It was almost like the snake was just as curious about her as she was about it.

Well, that’s a good sign, right? Gaining confidence, Freya gingerly scooped up the snake, marveling as it wound around her fingers. She lifted it higher, letting it coil around her fingers and wrist, and couldn’t help but admire how graceful it was. She could feel its powerful muscles tensing and releasing as it glided over her skin like a living ribbon. Freya could feel her heart racing in her chest, but damn, this was officially the coolest thing she’d ever done.

As Freya marveled at the snake coiling around her hand and wrist, its smooth, cool scales a fascinating contrast to her warm skin, she couldn't help but admire the intricate patterns along its slender body. The little guy seemed perfectly content to rest there, its tiny tongue flicking in and out, tasting the air around them. Freya smiled softly. 

Her peaceful moment, however, was abruptly shattered by a sharp intake of breath nearby. Freya glanced up, startled, and saw Kili frozen in place, his eyes wide with alarm. His face, usually full of mischief and laughter, was now drained of color, his mouth slightly open in shock, as if he'd just witnessed her casually cuddling with a dragon.

"Freya! What in Durin's name are you doing ?!" Kili's voice came out in a strangled shout, his tone a mix of disbelief and terror.

Freya blinked, momentarily taken aback by Kili's panicked reaction. Was he seriously freaking out over this? “ It’s alright,” she tried to reassure him, though judging by Kili’s face, he definitely didn’t agree with her.

Kili, far from reassured, seemed to be losing it entirely. His voice rose another octave, like he was trying to shout and whisper at the same time. "Put that thing down before it bites you!" he ordered.

Freya’s smile faltered. Did he seriously think she was in danger, from this adorable little noodle? She glanced back at the little snake, still lazily curled around her wrist, its tiny tongue flicking out harmlessly. How could anyone be scared of this little guy? She gave the snake a gentle boop on the nose, completely missing how Kili’s eyes grew even wider in horror.

Thorin was the first to react to Kili's shout, barreling over to his nephew with the urgency of someone expecting to find an army of orcs. Behind him, the other dwarves followed suit, their expressions ranging from apprehension to outright panic.

“ What's going on here? !" Thorin demanded, his voice sharp as he pulled Kili towards him, his grip tight, like he was trying to shield his nephew from whatever danger was present.

" She's got a snake! " Kili hissed, his urgency making it sound like Freya had pulled a live grenade out of her pocket. Judging by the collective wide-eyed horror on the other dwarves’ faces, they seemed to agree. Freya raised an eyebrow at the sheer level of overreaction.

“Put  that thing down, lass !" Dwalin barked at her, his eyes wide as he reached out as if to grab her arm, perhaps intending to hurl the snake as far away as possible. Freya instinctively leaned away, cradling the snake protectively against her chest. What did they think she was holding, a Balrog? Did they really need to be this dramatic?

But then, the collective panic in their eyes started to get to her. They looked genuinely freaked out, and her earlier confidence began to nosedive at record speed. It suddenly dawned on her that maybe, just maybe, she hadn't thought this whole snake-handling adventure through. 

Her mind, helpful as always, decided now would be the perfect time to bombard with thoughts that would have been incredibly useful before she decided to play snake charmer. Like the fact that even though back home, the only venomous snakes were vipers, easily identifiable by their triangle heads and slit pupils, there were plenty of other deadly serpents out there that didn’t follow the same rulebook. And she wasn’t even in her world anymore. She had no idea what kind of snakes lived here or how to tell them apart. For all she knew, she was holding Middle Earth's version of a king cobra. 

“I may have fucked up,” she muttered under her breath, the weight of her impulsiveness crashing down on her. Maybe picking up random wildlife in a strange new world hadn’t been the best idea. Hindsight really was the worst—always showing up after you’ve already committed to a questionable decision.

But there was no backing out now. The snake, coiled comfortably around her wrist, seemed happy enough, and she was determined to keep it that way. Which meant no sudden movements, no loud noises, and definitely no overzealous dwarves trying to yank it away. She stubbornly batted away the dwarves' hands as they reached out, trying to snatch the creature from her grasp. The snake was happy right now, not in the mood to sink its fangs into anyone, and she’d really like to keep it that way, thank you very much.

" Stop, no hurt it ." she ordered, trying to sound like she actually had this situation under control. "Mr. Snake is chill, and I'd kinda like to keep it that way." She was positive that a bunch of frantic dwarves manhandling the poor thing would stress it out big time, and a stressed snake was a bitey snake. And that was kinda the thing they were trying to avoid.

The dwarves, bless their stubborn hearts, were all but vibrating with the urge to do something—anything—but luckily, Bilbo stepped in before their collective anxiety could manifest into full-blown chaos. His voice cut through the rising tension like a sword through butter. " Everyone, calm down, " Bilbo said, his tone firm but reassuring. " It's just a grass snake. Completely harmless ." Freya caught a few words, enough to understand that Bilbo was saying the snake wasn’t dangerous. Thank god for Bilbo.

The company hesitated, eyes flicking between her and the snake like they were weighing their options. Slowly, they began to relax—though she noticed more than a few still eyed the snake like it was about to sprout fangs the size of swords. 

Bilbo turned to her, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips that could only mean he was about to tease her. " You’re just as bad as any young Took. Leave you alone for five minutes  and you manage to find some sort of mischief to get into, " he said with a chuckle, gesturing to the snake in her hand.

Freya didn’t need to understand every word to catch his meaning. He might as well have patted her on the head and declared her a certified trouble magnet.

"What can I say,” she replied with a grin, shooting him a look that said she wasn’t sorry in the slightest. "I am a very talented individual."

Kili and Fili were lingering at the edge of the group, their gazes darting between her and the snake with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Slowly, they edged closer, clearly torn between wanting to see the snake up close and keeping a safe distance. 

" Come on, you two, " Bilbo cajoled, waving them over with the confidence of someone who clearly didn’t expect to get bitten today. " There's no need to be afraid. This little fellow won't harm you. Besides, what happened to your sense of adventure?" His words sounded soothing, but there was a hint of amusement in his tone, as if he couldn't quite believe the situation they had found themselves in.

Kili and Fili exchanged glances, their hesitation almost palpable. But eventually, curiosity won out over caution, as it usually did with them. Kili leaned in first, his eyes glued to the snake.

" It does seem harmless," he admitted, though his voice lacked its usual swagger. Freya could practically see the internal battle between his need to appear brave and his instinct to keep all his fingers intact.

Fili, on the other hand, still looked skeptical. " It's still a snake, Ki," he muttered, just loud enough for Freya to catch the wariness in his tone. 

Kili tentatively reached out a hand, his fingers brushing lightly against the creature's scales, and the snake flicked its tongue out in response. Kili froze, eyes wide, but when the snake made no move to strike or flee, he let out a sigh of relief. His shoulders relaxed, and the tension that had been radiating off him like a beacon finally began to dissipate.

" See, it's alright ," Freya said, doing her best to keep her voice steady. She turned to Fili, who still looked like he’d rather face down an orc than touch the snake. "You now ."

Fili gave her a look that screamed ‘are you serious?’ but she held his gaze, offering what she hoped was an encouraging smile. After what felt like an eternity, he sighed, clearly resigning himself to his fate. His hand extended toward the snake, but he barely touched it before pulling back like it had burned him. When the snake remained as relaxed as ever, he let out a sigh of relief, his hand falling back to his side.

" See ?" Bilbo said, a hint of smugness creeping into his tone. " I told you there was nothing to fear ."

With the immediate panic resolved, the rest of the company slowly returned to their tasks, though they kept a wary eye on the snake. Freya continued to hold it, allowing it to wind its way around her wrist in a lazy coil. She watched as it explored her hand, its tongue flicking out every now and then to taste the air.

Kili and Fili watched the snake, their earlier skepticism gradually giving way to fascination. 

" You know, all the snakes back in the Blue Mountains are venomous ," Kili remarked, reaching out tentatively to pet the snake again.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. " Is that so ?"

Fili nodded solemnly. " Aye, that's right. You don't want to go around picking up snakes there like Freya just did, " he added, his gaze flickering to the serpent coiled around her wrist.

Freya’s brain worked to keep up. She pursed her lips, trying to piece together what they were all saying. She didn’t fully grasp the words, but Fili’s tone and serious expression helped give her some clues. You don’t want to something, something up snakes? Okay, he probably said that you don’t want to pick up snakes in the Blue Mountains. 

"Blue Mountain snakes bad ?" she asked, her brows knitting together in confusion.

Kili nodded, his expression grave. " Very bad. If one of those snakes bit you, you'd be in for a bad time, that's for sure."

"Well, I'm certainly-glad we're not in the Blue Mountains then," Bilbo remarked.

She smiled at Bilbo's comment, even if she only understood about half of it. Something about being glad... and not in the Blue Mountains, which, given the snake situation, seemed like a reasonable thing to be happy about.

They continued to chat until it was time for them to continue onwards. Freya gently lowered the snake back onto the ground, watching as it quickly disappeared into the grass.

“Thank you,” she whispered softly, her eyes lingering on the spot where it had vanished. That had been... incredible, honestly. She didn’t quite know how to describe it, but there was something exhilarating about holding a creature like that, so close, so alive.

Bilbo chuckled, clapping her on the shoulder. " I’m happy you had fun, Freya. Just be careful next time, alright? The snakes in the Shire are safe but like Fili and Kili said, there are plenty of dangerous ones outside its borders ."

Freya nodded absently, her mind still half on the snake and half on trying to process what Bilbo had just said. She only caught a few words but that was enough to understand his meaning—more or less. She could tell from his tone he wasn’t scolding her, just... warning. Probably.

Her mind was still on the snake, she still couldn’t fully wrap her head around what she'd just done. As Fili and Kili stood up, Freya shook herself out of her daze and hurried to join them, falling into step as they joined the rest of the company.

________________________

They spent the night at an inn on the east side of the Brandywine river. Freya had hoped exhaustion would pull her under the moment her head hit the pillow, but of course, her brain had other ideas.

She sighed, staring up at the ceiling. Her body was bone-tired, but her brain? Wide awake. Her mind had a spectacular talent for tossing random thoughts at her just as she was on the verge of sleep. Herding her thoughts was like trying to corral a room full of kittens hopped up on catnip, each one darting off in a different direction, refusing to be caught.

She remembered something she’d read once, back when she had access to the internet (oh, how she missed Google). Tolkien always acted like he hadn’t written his stories, like he’d found them—like Bilbo, Frodo, and Sam were the real authors and he was just the lucky guy tasked with bringing their stories to life in English.

Her eyes widened as the pieces clicked into place. That had to be it. That had to be why English wasn’t the same as Common. It all made sense.

She shot up in bed, excitement racing through her veins like a shot of adrenaline. She needed to tell someone. Her hand shot out instinctively, fumbling for her phone on the nightstand, fingers brushing against… nothing. Just cold, empty wood.

Her heart dropped, the excitement crashing down as reality slapped her in the face—hard.

She had to tell… no one.

She didn’t have a phone anymore.

She was dead. Her family, her friends—they weren’t here. They didn’t even exist in this world. The realization hit her like a punch to the gut, winding her. She sat there, frozen, staring at her empty hand.

She was alone.

The realization hollowed her out, draining the adrenaline until all that was left was an empty, gnawing ache in her chest. Her throat tightened, and she could feel the burn of tears creeping up behind her eyes.

No. She wasn't going to cry.

Her hands balled into fists, pressing hard against her eyes as if she could physically push back the tears. She didn’t want to deal with this, didn’t want to acknowledge how utterly, terrifyingly alone she was in a world where no one spoke her language. A world where she didn’t belong. She wasn’t ready to face that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But the tears didn’t care. They pushed harder, and before she knew it, she was curling her knees to her chest, fingers tangling in her hair as she rocked slightly, her breath coming out in shallow, ragged bursts. “Fuck,” she whispered, the word slipping through clenched teeth.

She’d been doing so well. Dammit. She’d been keeping busy, focusing on the here and now, not letting herself think too much about this… this mess. This ugly, terrifying truth of her situation. But here it was, clawing its way back up, demanding to be acknowledged.

No. Nope. Not happening.

She’s not dealing with this right now. She refuses to have an emotional breakdown. 

Freya let go of her hair, forcing herself to take a few deep breaths. In. Out. She could handle this. She had to handle this. With a sharp inhale, she shoved the overwhelming thoughts—the panic, the grief—into that dark corner of her mind where she stashed all the other inconvenient emotions. The ones she would deal with… later. Or never. Never sounded good.

Right now, she needed a distraction. Any distraction. Ignoring the crushing reality of her situation was something she’d perfected over the years. It was practically an art form at this point. 

And luckily, she had the perfect distraction to latch onto. The company had just crossed the Brandywine River, which meant goodbye Shire, hello danger. Bree was their next stop, but between them and Bree lay the Barrow-downs and the Old Forest. Both places were dangerous, terrifying, and—thankfully—way more important than dwelling on the gut-wrenching thought of never seeing her family again.

On one side of the road would be the Old Forest, which, frankly, sucked. 

Don’t get her wrong—it was an awesome place. Really ancient, older-than-the-sun-and-moon kind of ancient. But did she want to visit? Absolutely not. The Old Forest wasn’t exactly malevolent like Mirkwood, but sure as hell wasn’t friendly either. No, the Old Forest was pissed off. Justifiably so, really. Thousands of years of deforestation would do that to a place.

The Old Forest used to be massive, covering most of Eriador before the Second Age. But with time, like 90% of it got chopped down. And not just by orcs and goblins but by humans, dwarves, hobbits, and elves as well.  And what was left behind? A really grumpy forest with even grumpier Huorns lurking in its depths.

Huorns. She shuddered. Most of the time, they acted like regular trees, unmoving, reaching for the sun but always watching. But when angered, they turn into something out of a horror story. She remembered reading about them—and then seeing them in action in The Two Towers when an entire forest of them slaughtered the orcs at Helm’s Deep.

Old Man Willow, from "The Fellowship of the Ring," was one of those lovely, vengeful Huorns. In the book, he trapped Frodo and the other hobbits as they tried to make their way out of the Shire, nearly killing them. Over the years, he'd grown vicious and violent in his defense of the forest from the fires and axes that threatened it. Not exactly something she wanted to experience firsthand.

So, yeah. The Old Forest was officially on her "places to avoid" list.

But then, of course, there were the Barrow-downs on the other side of the road, which sucked even more than the forest.

Originally, the Barrow-downs were a peaceful graveyard for the Dúnedain, the men of the first age who once inhabited the area until they were wiped out by plague and war. Now thanks to the Witch-king, the Barrow-downs had gone from "resting place for ancient heroes" to "haunting grounds for the Barrow-wights. 

Barrow-wrights were dark wraith like creatures, with skeletal hands and horrible hypnotic voices. Anyone that fell under their spell would lose their will and be brought into the tombs to be chained down and sacrificed by the wright, which was something she would rather avoid.

She wasn’t one to get freaked out by ghost stories, but the fact that these ghosts were very real? Yeah, that changed things. The company hadn’t encountered any trouble when they passed through the area in the book, but there’s no guarantee it'll be smooth sailing now. Freya’s presence has already altered things, and it's bound to keep altering them; she just has to make sure they change for the better.

As Freya lay in bed, the stillness of her room seemed to amplify the hollow ache in her chest. She couldn't afford to dwell on her loneliness, not with the dangers ahead of her. For a second time that night, she forced the memories of her family, the ache of their absence back, locking them away and burying them in the back of her mind.

Right as she was drifting off to sleep, Freya sent a quiet prayer to Yavanna, hoping for guidance and protection on the road ahead. Her mind was too tired to really process anything, but for a moment, she swore she felt a strange sense of reassurance and warmth wash over her, like a gentle touch from far away. Then, finally, sleep claimed her.

Chapter Text

As the company departed from the cozy confines of the inn and ventured onto the East Road once again, the morning sun cast long shadows across their path. The light was soft, warm, and comforting—completely unlike the ominous stretch of land ahead. The landscape transformed slowly but surely as they pressed onward. The rolling hills and meadows of the Shire were gradually replaced by thickening woods, the trees to their right growing ever taller and denser until they towered next to them, marking the edge of the Old Forest.

Unease settled over him like a damp, suffocating cloak, growing heavier with every step his pony took along the forest’s edge. The ancient trees loomed overhead, their branches twisted into eerie shapes, as though they were silently conspiring against the travelers below. His heart thumped in his chest, louder than he cared to admit, and his eyes darted toward every creak and groan of the wood.

It’s alive, Bilbo thought grimly, casting another wary glance toward the looming darkness. Alive and none too happy to see us.

The Old Forest was alive in a way other trees weren’t—more awake, somehow. More aware. And that awareness made his skin crawl. Like most hobbits, he had a deep, instinctual affinity for the earth. Hobbits, by nature, were in tune with the land around them, able to sense its well-being in a way few others could. They could sense not just the overall health of the soil beneath their feet but also the well-being and emotions of the plants that grew upon it. The soil in the Shire had always felt warm and inviting, like the familiar embrace of an old friend. But here... here it felt different. There was no hum, no warmth, no sense of welcome from the earth beneath them. Instead, the land thrummed with something darker, something far less forgiving.

The Old Forest wasn’t evil, not in the way the darker parts of the world were. It wasn’t unnatural, either. But it was angry. Bilbo could feel it in the very air—a low, simmering resentment that radiated from every twisted root and gnarled branch. The trees weren’t like the friendly oaks and beeches of the Shire. No, they were old and bitter, their roots twisted with malice. It felt as though the very earth itself had a grudge against anyone who dared walk its borders. 

They resent us, Bilbo realized with a shudder, gripping the reins of his pony tighter. Yes, that was it—resentment. The forest resented them, resented their intrusion. The way the trees swayed and whispered without the aid of wind sent a cold chill trickling down his back.  Even the air felt heavier, thicker, like it was pressing down on his chest with each breath.

His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the reins. There was an unmistakable sense of danger lurking beneath the forest's surface. The forest wasn’t going to lash out, not yet. But Bilbo had the distinct impression that if they took one wrong step—if they wandered even a little too far off the path—the trees might close in, dragging them into its dark, twisting heart, never to be seen again. 

He stole a glance at the others, his eyes flicking nervously from one dwarf to the next. None of them seemed as concerned as he was. For all their wariness and experience in battle, they didn’t appear the least bit affected by the oppressive weight of the forest. Perhaps they didn’t feel it, they weren't hobbits after all, they didn't have the connection with the land like he did. Whatever the case Bilbo envied their calm, though he suspected even the dwarves would feel differently if they truly understood just how alive this forest was.

Myrtle, his pony, snorted, clearly picking up on his discomfort. Bilbo gave her an awkward pat, as if that would somehow settle his own nerves. He urged her forward, inching closer to the group. Maybe being near the others would help ease the tight knot of anxiety coiling in his chest. Maybe their company would make the suffocating grip of the forest a little less oppressive.

It didn’t.

As unsettling as the forest was, it was nothing compared to the land on the other side of the road. Bilbo's gaze shifted, and the knot in his stomach twisted painfully as he glanced toward the Barrow-downs. The Old Forest, for all its ominous presence, at least felt like it belonged to this world—wild and unpredictable, yes, but still part of the natural order. The Barrow-downs, on the other hand, were something else entirely. Something that shouldn’t exist. The very air around them seemed… corrupted, poisoned by whatever ancient evil lingered beneath the earth. It clung to the hills like a shroud, thick and choking, as though the land itself was suffocating.

While the Old Forest made him uneasy, it didn’t stir the same instinctive terror. The forest was angry, that much was clear, but anger was something Bilbo could understand. It was untamed, resentful even, but it was not evil. It was dangerous, yes, but the kind of danger that came from being provoked or threatened. The Old Forest protected itself fiercely, and Bilbo couldn’t fault it for that.

The Barrow-downs, though? They was a different matter entirely. Bilbo shuddered, dragging his gaze reluctantly back to the shadowy hills. The Barrow-downs weren’t like the Old Forest, not at all. 

The land was in pain. It wasn’t the anger of a wounded forest fighting back; this was something else, something far darker. Where the forest was alive, the downs were dead. And not just dead —violated, twisted into something they were never meant to be. It was as though the earth itself had been corrupted by the ancient evil buried beneath. 

The Barrow-downs were hollow, devoid of anything that even resembled life. There was no birdsong, no rustling of leaves—nothing. The very air felt heavy, oppressive, as if it, too, was strangled by whatever malevolence had cursed the land. There was no life here, only gray, lifeless grass, brittle and withered as if the ground had been poisoned. Even the sun seemed to falter as its light brushed against the barren slopes, as if it, too, dared not linger.

He couldn’t look at it for long, couldn’t bear the cold that seemed to seep from the hills and crawl beneath his skin. The tales and warnings he had heard as a faunt came rushing back, unbidden—stories of restless spirits, of ancient tombs filled with malevolent beings that dragged the living down into their dark embrace. He had always believed the warnings, of course, but there was a difference between believing and standing on the edge of those haunted lands, feeling the chill of their corruption seep into his very bones.

A hand landed on his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts. Bilbo jolted, nearly losing his grip on the reins. He glanced up to find Bofur riding alongside him, concern etched into his usually cheerful features.

"You alright there, Bilbo?" Bofur asked, his voice gentler than usual, as if sensing the tension Bilbo was trying—and clearly failing—to hide.

Bilbo managed a strained smile, though he knew it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Oh, it’s nothing," he lied, but even he could hear how hollow it sounded. He waved vaguely toward the looming trees of the Old Forest and the misty, rolling hills of the Barrow-Downs. “Just feeling a bit... unsettled by this place. The Old Forest, the Barrow-Downs… they’re not places to be taken lightly.”

Kili and Fili, riding ahead, slowed at the sound of the conversation. Their curiosity was piqued as they glanced between Bilbo and the eerie surroundings.  Freya, perched in front of Fili, looked wide-eyed and nervous, her usual energy nowhere to be found. Bilbo could see the tension in her small frame, the way her fingers gripped at Fili’s sleeve, even if she couldn’t understand the words, she felt it—the weight of the place.

Kili’s brow furrowed as he surveyed their eerie surroundings. "A bit creepy, isn't it?" Kili remarked, his voice carrying in the unnatural quiet.

Bilbo nodded, feeling a chill as he surveyed the gnarled trees and misty shadows. “Creepy is putting it mildly. The Old Forest isn’t like other forests. It’s alive. I mean, all forests are alive, of course, but this one… It’s different.” He hesitated, glancing at the others, who were all watching him now. His grip on the reins tightened. “These trees—they remember things. And not the pleasant things. No, they remember every wrong done to them, every axe that bit too deep, every fire that scorched their roots. They bear grudges, old ones, and they don’t take kindly to trespassers."

He could see the disbelief flickering in their eyes, but they hadn’t grown up with the stories he had. They didn’t have the connection to the earth that let them to feel the resentment that radiated from every tree. "The trees here—they sway when there’s no wind. They reach out, their roots and branches, and they can strangle you without a second thought. Lost travelers? They’re never just ‘lost.’" He shook his head as the memories of old warnings whispered through his mind. "They were taken. Taken by the forest itself."

"And then there are the Barrow-Downs..." Bilbo’s voice grew quieter, more somber, as his eyes drifted to the hills barely visible through the mist. "No hobbit in their right mind goes near them. We steer well clear of that place. And for good reason. The stories... they aren’t just tales meant to scare children into behaving." He paused, the weight of it settling heavy in his chest. "It’s said that those who stray too far into the mists never come back. And those that do..." He trailed off, the image of haunted eyes and hollow faces flashing before him. "Well, they’re never the same. They come back broken. Empty. As if something reached into them and... stole whatever made them whole."

Fili leaned in closer, his expression tinged with a grim curiosity. “We've heard stories about ghosts and such, but we always thought them just that—stories."

Bilbo snorted, though there was little humor in it. “They are definitely more than just stories.” He could feel his knuckles whitening as he gripped the reins. "The Barrow-downs especially.” His gaze turned back to the hills, his voice dropping lower. "Whatever evils lurk in the Downs are very real and they don’t just haunt the living. They prey on them." 

He shook his head, forcing himself to look away from the hills, though the unease remained like a weight pressing against his chest. "Nothing good comes from the Barrow-Downs," he added grimly, his voice quieter now, almost to himself. "Nothing at all."

Freya’s small voice broke the tension. She looked between them, her eyes wide with concern. She couldn’t understand their words, but she knew enough to catch the mood. "What are you saying?" she asked, her voice small, her hands gripping Fili’s sleeve.

Fili winced, realizing they hadn’t been translating for her. "Sorry," he murmured, “Bilbo does not like the forest or hills,” he explained, his tone lightening slightly as he gestured toward the looming trees and the mist-shrouded Barrow-Downs. But there was an edge to his voice now, a wariness that hadn’t been there before.

Thorin, riding at the head of the company, scoffed loud enough for all to hear, his deep voice cutting through the air like a blade. Clearly, he had overheard their conversation. With a slight turn in his saddle, he cast a stern, dismissive look back at them. "Ghosts and ghouls are merely tales designed to frighten children," he declared, the echo of his words carrying over the group. "Our focus should be on real dangers, not the childish fears of specters in the woods."

Bilbo felt his entire body go rigid, his teeth grinding together so hard it was a wonder they didn’t crack. His hands clenched into fists, nails biting painfully into his palms. The frustration was a hot, bitter thing, swirling up from the pit of his stomach and twisting in his chest like a knotted rope. Childish fears? Childish? Thorin had no idea—no idea at all—what he was talking about. The arrogance of him, dismissing the Barrow-Downs and the Old Forest like they were nothing more than bedtime stories! It made Bilbo’s blood boil. How dare he? How dare he?

A retort burned at the tip of Bilbo’s tongue, sharp and cutting, ready to leap out. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Freya beat him to it.

"Stop being a asshole Thorin," sFreya snapped, her voice slicing through the tension like a well-aimed dagger. It was sharper than anyone had ever heard from her, each word crackling with defiance. Her eyes, usually so wide and curious, now blazed with a fierce anger as she glared at the dwarf king, leaving no room for misunderstanding about the impoliteness of her words. "Bilbo is right. Trees are bad. Hills are bad, bad. They are not safe."

Thorin’s brow furrowed, his stoic mask faltering for a moment as he stared at her, clearly caught off guard. His jaw clenched tightly, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he processed her words. Bilbo, torn between a surge of amusement and genuine concern at Freya's uncharacteristic outburst.

Freya’s hand shot out, gesturing emphatically toward the Old Forest. “Huorn in the trees,” her voice tinged with unease, before gesturing towards the barrow downs, shivering slightly as if the very thought of them sent a chill down her spine. “Barrow-wights in the hills.”

Freya’s gaze darted across the company, fierce and unyielding, daring anyone to scoff or dismiss her words as Thorin had at Bilbo’s. Finally, her eyes landed on Gandalf, who had been watching the exchange silently, his expression thoughtful, almost curious. “Gandalf, tell them,” demanded, frustration creeping into her voice.

Gandalf regarded Freya for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his ancient eyes. Then he nodded, his voice serious as he addressed the group. "Freya speaks the truth," he began, his tone carrying the weight of experience. "The Old Forest is no ordinary woodland, and the Huorns within are not creatures to be trifled with."

He paused, letting the gravity of his words settle over them before continuing. "Huorns are... curious beings. Not quite trees, but neither are they Ents. They may have once been trees that grew entish, or perhaps ents that have become more treelike. Whatever their origin they are wary of intruders and fiercely protective of their domain.” His gaze moved deliberately from dwarf to dwarf, making sure they all understood the severity of what he was saying.

“They move with a swiftness that belies their size," Gandalf continued. "And when roused to anger, their wrath is fearsome indeed. None who trespass upon their domain escape unnoticed and very few, if any, escape unharmed."

A heavy silence fell over the group. Even Thorin, who had been so dismissive only moments before, shifted uneasily in his saddle. His gaze drifted back to the Old Forest, and though he said nothing, Bilbo could see the change in his demeanor—less confident, more wary.

"As for the Barrow-downs," Gandalf’s voice dropped to a more somber tone, "they hold secrets and dangers of their own. Darker and more perilous than those of the forest. For while the forest is perilous, its only allegiance is to itself, while the barrow-downs are influenced by outside forces."

Bilbo shivered involuntarily as he saw a shadow pass over Gandalf’s face, the wizard’s eyes growing distant, as if recalling something he would rather leave buried in the past. "Barrow-wights are no mere spirits," Gandalf continued, his voice low and grim. "They are evil creatures in the service of the Witch-king of Angmar, a servant of Sauron. They possess a malevolent cunning, and a hunger for the souls of the living. They lurk within the barrows, waiting for the unwary to wander too close. They seek to corrupt and consume, drawing strength from the fear and despair of their victims."

A shiver ran down Bilbo's spine at the thought of encountering such creatures, his mind conjuring images of ghostly apparitions and grasping, skeletal hands reaching out from the darkness. He glanced around at his companions, noting how Ori had moved closer to his brothers, and how Gloin's fingers hovered near the hilt of his axe, his jaw set in a determined line. 

"There is, however, no need to jump at every shadow.”  Gandalf added, his tone softening slightly, though the seriousness remained. "So long as we remain vigilant, we should pass by without incident. The dangers in these lands prey on the unwary, as long as we remain vigilant we should pass by without trouble."

Bilbo felt a small measure of relief at Gandalf’s reassurance, though the knot of anxiety in his chest didn’t fully loosen. He watched as the tension in his companions began to ease—Dwalin, who had been gripping his axe so tightly his knuckles had turned white, finally relaxed his hold, though the weapon remained close at hand. Balin gave a firm, resolute nod, though his gaze still lingered on the misty hills ahead.

Bilbo exhaled slowly, the tension still simmering beneath his skin. Thorin might have scoffed at their fears, but even he couldn’t ignore Gandalf’s warning now. There was no denying it—the Barrow-Downs and the Old Forest were dangerous. 

As the company resumed their pace, Bilbo found himself situated in the center of the group, with Ori, Freya, and the two princes. The rest of the company formed a protective ring around them, their eyes sharp, hands hovering near weapons. The air was thick with a sense of foreboding, the quiet broken only by the steady plodding of hooves and the occasional creak of saddles. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Freya, her jaw clenched, glaring so fiercely at Thorin’s back that Bilbo half-expected her gaze to bore a hole straight through him. For such a fragile girl, she carried an astonishing amount of defiance—a stubborn streak that Bilbo had come to admire.

“Thorin," Freya’s voice cut through the tense atmosphere. "Apologize to Bilbo.” She demanded, scowling at the dwarf. The first word was unfamiliar, but its meaning was clear enough. Freya’s scowl was unwavering, her eyes locked on Thorin’s broad, tense back. 

There was a moment of stunned silence, the only sounds being the creak of saddles and the dull clop of hooves on the packed earth. Then, quietly, Bilbo heard the stifled laughter of Kili from just ahead, and he saw Fili trying—and failing—to suppress a grin. Clearly, the princes found Freya’s boldness just as amusing as Bilbo did. 

Thorin’s posture stiffened, his shoulders tensing. Bilbo couldn’t see Thorin’s face, but he could easily imagine the deepening scowl, the stern lines of his brow furrowing further in annoyance or—perhaps—begrudging respect.

After a weighty pause, Thorin’s response came, his voice stiff and formal. "I... apologize, Master Baggins," he conceded. "It was unfair of me to dismiss your concerns so readily."

Bilbo’s heart gave a small, unexpected lurch at the words. Thorin Oakenshield, proud and unbending as he was, had just admitted fault. Thorin wasn’t one to offer apologies lightly—if at all—and the fact that Freya had somehow managed to wring one out of him left Bilbo feeling oddly touched.

Speaking of Freya...

Bilbo’s gaze shifted back to her just in time to catch the triumphant smirk pulling at the corners of her lips. The fierceness in her eyes had softened, replaced by a quiet satisfaction. For someone who barely spoke their language, Freya had a remarkable ability to make herself understood when it mattered.

She turned to Bilbo then, her expression softening further into a gentle, reassuring smile. It was a small gesture, but it held a surprising amount of warmth, and Bilbo couldn’t help but feel his own lips curve into a smile in return. A quiet gratitude welled up inside him—gratitude for her courage, for her willingness to stand up to Thorin on his behalf.

He shifted his gaze back to the path ahead, the dark shadows of the Barrow-Downs still looming in the distance, the Old Forest to their side, but somehow the journey didn’t feel quite as unbearable now. Freya had reminded him that he wasn’t entirely alone in this. 

And for that, he was grateful.

___________________________________________

The company reached Bree just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting long, creeping shadows across the road. Freya slumped against Fíli's sturdy frame, feeling every muscle in her body protest from the relentless pace they'd kept all day. No one had wanted to spend the night on the road, not after she and Gandalf had mentioned how horrifyingly dangerous the Old Forest and Barrow-downs were. It wasn’t like they hadn’t taken breaks—Oin had been quite insistent about those—but they rode fast to make up for them. 

Her legs felt like lead, her back a solid ache, and she was painfully aware of every single bone in her spine, each one loudly complaining about her current life choices. Despite the overwhelming exhaustion, a flicker of excitement sparked in her chest as the gates of Bree got closer.

The dwarves slowed to a halt just before the front gate, their movements fluid and practiced as they dismounted with ease. Freya, meanwhile, stared down at the ground from her perch and felt her body groan in protest. She was absolutely going to fall on her face. This was it. The end. Except Kíli stepped forward to help Fili lower her off the pony.

“Thanks, Kíli,” she mumbled, her words laced with exhaustion and more than a little relief. Her muscles screamed in protest as she hit the ground, legs wobbling like jelly the moment her feet made contact.

She stood there for a moment, trying not to look as pathetic as she felt, taking a slow breath as she stretched. Every stiff joint popped in protest, a series of cracks that sounded way too loud in her ears. 

The gates of Bree loomed ahead, far larger than she’d imagined. And beyond them, the town bustled with activity—a cacophony of voices, clanging metal, and flickering lights. It was... a lot. The little spark of excitement she’d had earlier promptly died, replaced by a nervous flutter that settled in the pit of her stomach like a rock. The buildings, the people, the sheer scale of everything—it was so much bigger than she'd anticipated. So much bigger than her.

She’d wanted to explore Bree, to see the Prancing Pony for herself, but now... now it felt like the place was too big, too loud, too... everything. She swallowed hard, feeling the lump in her throat tighten, and she couldn't help but clutch her walking stick a little tighter, the wood solid and comforting in her grip.

They found a stable near the front gate, parting with a few coins to stash the ponies for the night. Then came the fun part—navigating the streets. Freya moved slowly, dodging the bustling townsfolk as they made their way through the crowded streets toward the Prancing Pony. Her steps faltered every few feet, the press of bodies and the sheer noise pressing down on her from all sides. Each sound seemed amplified—too loud, too close. Every shout, every clatter of hooves, every snatch of conversation reverberated in her skull, making her feel like she might be trampled at any moment. After years spent in the quiet, sterile halls of a hospital, this sensory overload was like getting body-checked by a whole football team. Repeatedly.

For the first time since her arrival in Middle-earth, Freya felt truly small. Bree was nothing like the Shire. The Shire had been warm and cozy, full of Hobbit-sized everything, and it had lulled her into a false sense of security. She hadn’t quite processed the fact that she, too, was now Hobbit-sized. But here? Here, that fact hit her like a brick to the face. Bree was built for humans—big, bustling humans—and she was suddenly, painfully aware of how not human-sized she was. 

Each step brought a fresh wave of anxiety. The clamor of voices and the press of bodies were overwhelming, it felt like she was about to get trampled at any moment. Having spent years in the quiet of the hospital's long-term residents wing, the sudden noise and chaos of Bree hit her like a slap in the face. Every sound seemed amplified, bouncing off the stone walls and filling the air. It was overwhelming and made her feel so very, very small.

Thorin’s company, of course, weaved through the chaos with all the confidence in the world. Like they were born to deal with this mess. Freya wished she had even a fraction of their ease. But no. She was too busy feeling like a kid lost in a crowd, trying not to drown in it.

The market was a mess—people pushing, shouting, brushing past with zero regard for personal space. It was suffocating. Amidst her rising panic, Freya glanced up and saw Dwalin's sturdy, familiar form just ahead. Not as tall as the humans, sure, but still solid, immovable—basically a walking fortress. And right now, she needed something solid. 

In a moment of desperation, she reached out with her free hand and grabbed the edge of his sleeve. Her fingers curled into the fabric tightly, knuckles white as some stranger’s shoulder brushed against her. The brief contact sent her nerves into overdrive, sparking a fresh wave of dread that made her want to crawl out of her skin. Was she being dramatic? Maybe. Was this childish? Absolutely. But comfort was much higher priority than pride at the moment.

Dwalin glanced down in surprise at the tug on his sleeve, eyes softening in a way that didn’t quite match the fierce warrior vibe he usually gave off. His expression shifting from surprised to understanding. His eyes softened, and with a reassuring nod, he let Freya tuck herself behind him, using his broad frame as a shield against the chaos and glaring at anyone that got too close. As they continued towards the Prancing Pony, he adjusted his pace to match her shorter strides, his heavy boots thudding in rhythm with her lighter steps. Freya barely registered the others forming a protective barrier around them, with Fili and Kili flanking her sides and Oin and Gloin covering the rear.

Freya felt a lot safer behind Dwalin’s broad, armored back. He was like a steadfast mountain—unyielding and protective against the sea of towering strangers that pressed in on them from all sides. Each time someone bumped too close or a burst of loud conversation scraped her nerves, Dwalin shifted just slightly, like a barrier absorbing the worst of the chaos. For a moment, she could almost pretend she wasn’t on the verge of a panic attack. Almost.

Her senses were still on high alert—the chatter, the shuffling of feet, the occasional burst of laughter that sounded too sharp, too loud—but at least she wasn’t getting jostled anymore. ‘Focus on Dwalin’ she told herself. ‘Ignore the noise. Ignore everything else. You’re fine. Totally fine.’

When they finally got to the inn, the familiar sign of the Prancing Pony swinging above the door caught her eye, and a small flicker of excitement somehow managed to pierce the thick fog of anxiety. She took a deep breath, her grip on Dwalin's sleeve loosening slightly. Maybe getting off the crowded street would help her breathe again. The thought of a quieter, more controlled environment made her move a bit quicker. 

She followed Dwalin through the door and oh…oh no… this was so much worse.

The second Freya stepped inside, the noise hit her like a sledgehammer to the skull. The noise was deafening, a chaotic jumble of overlapping conversations, clinking glasses, and boisterous laughter that crashed against Freya’s ears like, all blending together into an overwhelming roar. It felt as if each sound was taking turns scraping against her eardrums before ricocheting painfully inside her skull.

And the smells... oh, the smells were awful. A noxious blend of stale beer, greasy food, and the pungent stench of sweat from too many bodies crammed into too tight a space assaulted her. The air felt thick and dirty, like she was breathing through wet cloth. Freya gagged involuntarily, her stomach twisting in rebellion. Every part of her screamed to get out, to run, but her legs refused to move, paralyzed by the overload.

Freya could feel her frayed nerves getting perilously close to snapping. In a desperate attempt to keep from breaking down completely, she let go of Dwalin and covered her ears, hoping to muffle the relentless onslaught of noise. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out at least one of her senses. 

But even with her ears covered and her eyes shut tight, the overwhelming chaos of the tavern seeped through, like cracks in a dam threatening to burst. Except in this case, the dam was her very fragile sanity. The sounds, the smells, the press of bodies around her—it was all too much. Far too much. Freya hunched in on herself, trying to make herself small, to disappear, to shrink away from the noise and the overwhelming weight of it all.

Large calloused hands covered Freya's own. She opened her eyes just a crack, barely enough to make out the shape of Dwalin standing in front of her, his broad frame shielding her from the crowd, his hands now over hers, adding an extra layer of muffling against the noise. His voice rumbled something low and deep, but she couldn’t make out the words. Still, the gesture—his hands over hers—grounded her, tethered her to the present moment, even if just barely. 

Then Dwalin pulled his hands away, and just like that, her fragile calm shattered. Panic roared back, louder than the damn tavern noise, until something soft dropped over her head. Bofur’s hat. The old felt brim flopped down over her ears, muffling the noise.

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against Dwalin’s solid chest, forcing herself to breathe. She ran through her favorite poem in her head—a grounding technique Freya and her therapist found that worked for her—clinging to the familiar words.

‘Hope is a thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings a tune without words

And never stops at all’

Dwalin’s hands returned to her ears, firm but gentle, reinforcing the makeshift barrier against the tavern’s roar. She focused on the rise and fall of Dwalin’s chest beneath her, letting the steady rhythm ground her.

‘And sweetest in the gale is heard

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm

I’ve heard it in the chillest lands 

And on the strangest seas

Yet never, in extremity

Did it ask a crumb of me

They stayed like that for a few precious minutes, Dwalin acting as Freya’s shield as she repeated the poem in her head, trying to let the noise fade into the background. She focused on the rise and fall of his chest, grounding her in the here and now.

After what felt like an eternity—but was probably only a few minutes—Dwalin nudged her gently. She didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to face the world again, but she forced herself to. Reluctantly, Freya opened her eyes and met his gaze. His usually stern expression softened with worry. He motioned with his head, indicating he was going to lift her. Freya gave a tiny nod, barely there, more than willing to let him take control. She didn’t have the energy for decisions right now.

Dwalin scooped her up, his arms strong and sure around her. Dwalin scooped her up with ease, like it was no big deal. Freya buried her face in his shoulder, the scent of leather and fur overwhelming her senses in the best way possible. The noise followed them for a moment, but started to fade as Dwalin carried her deeper into the inn. 

They stopped for a second and Freya heard a door creak open in front of them. Looking up, she saw Oin holding open a door and was gesturing for them to come in.

Once inside the room Freya was relieved to see the familiar sight of a cozy, hobbit-sized room like the ones they’d stayed in before. Her chest loosened slightly, the tension uncoiling like a too-tight spring finally allowed to breathe. Here, in this little space, she could feel normal. Less fragile.

Oin shut the door behind them, muffling the noise from outside. The instant quiet was a balm to her frayed nerves, and she uncovered her ears, sighing with relief as the tension began to ease from her shoulders. Dwalin still cradled her, holding her protectively against him as if he could shield her from the world itself.

With one arm securely around her, Dwalin reached for a nearby blanket, tucking it around her shoulders protectively, shielding her from any lingering chill in the air. His actions were gruff but gentle. Then he readjusted his grip, making sure she was comfy, and pulled her in closer, letting her lean against his solid frame. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm that matched the slow, steady circles he started rubbing on her back with his calloused hand. The rhythmic motion was soothing, calming her frayed nerves.

She couldn’t make sense of the words coming from Dwalin’s mouth—her brain was too scrambled to even try—but the low rumble of his voice was enough. It reminded her of being held by her dad when she was little, when the world was too big and scary, and all she needed was the sound of his voice to know everything would be okay. It was warm. It was safe.

She let herself sink into that feeling, letting the poem in her head drift away as she focused on Dwalin’s steady presence, his hand still moving in comforting circles on her back. She was okay. She would be okay.

And for now, that was enough. 

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Dwalin stood outside Freya’s door, silent as stone, the dim light from the hall casting long shadows across his face. His grip tightened on his axe, the leather-wrapped handle creakin' under the strain as his knuckles turned white, as the evening’s events replayed in his mind.

The soft tug on his sleeve had startled him. It nearly had him reaching for his axe, ready to deal with whoever was foolish enough to try their hand at thievin’ from him. But when he’d looked down, it wasn’t some pickpocket, it was Freya. Her face, scared and pale, had stopped him cold. Small as she was, lookin’ up at him with those wide, frightened eyes, it stirred somethin’ deep in his chest—somethin’ protective he hadn’t felt in a long time.

The lass hadn’t spent much time with him, hardly more than a word here or there. Yet when she’d been scared—truly scared—she came to him for protection. Him. It hit him harder than he'd thought, the weight of that responsibility settlin' on his shoulders. That trust filled him with pride, made him straighten his back, he stood a little taller. If the lass was lookin' to him for protection, then by Mahal, he'd make sure no harm came near her.

Freya was a mystery, no denyin’ that. No one knew where she came from, nor did they understand her strange tongue, but she’d found a place with them all the same; with that bright spirit of hers and a spine strong as mithril. Fragile as she seemed, there was more fight in than most. Earned the respect of the lot of ‘em, though it pained Dwalin to see her. Brought up memories he’d rather leave buried deep, memories of Erebor’s fall, of what they’d all lost.

The fall of Erebor was burned into his soul, as clear now as it was back then. He remembered the fires of Smaug, how the sky had gone black with smoke and the air stank of burnin’ flesh and wood. Screams echoing, mixin' with the roarin' flames.

He’d seen the look in Thorin’s eyes back then, desperate but unyieldin', shoutin' orders 'til his voice was raw, his hands bloodied from draggin' kin and comrades out of the rubble. They’d fled with barely the clothes on their backs, clutching whatever they could carry. They’d fled with barely the clothes on their backs, clutchin' whatever they could carry. He could still hear the weepin'—children callin' for their parents, and parents wailin' for their children.

The journey that followed had been a brutal one. They’d been forced to leave the only home they'd ever known, their strength failin’ as hunger gnawed at their bellies and the bitter cold bit into their bones. Many fell ill, their bodies not able to bear the harsh conditions. Dwalin had watched too many of his kin succumb to the elements, their lives snuffed out like candles in the wind. He’d stood helpless, watchin' as they buried the dead, markin' graves with whatever stones they could find.

Freya, with how weak and frail she was, reminded Dwalin painfully of the children they had traveled with after the fall of Erebor. He remembered their gaunt faces, their eyes wide with fear and confusion, their small hands clutching at whatever scraps of food they could find. He remembered carrying them when their legs gave out, comforting them when nightmares woke them in the middle of the night. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, as the weight of those memories pressed down on him.

Freya’s panic in the tavern—that look of desperation in her eyes—it hit him hard, like a hammer blow to the chest. Without thinkin’, he’d pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her small frame, shieldin’ her from the noise and chaos. She'd felt so fragile in his grip, like a bird with broken wings. He was used to the solid weight of dwarves, the strength of his kin. Freya... she was like nothin’ he’d ever held before. It felt like one wrong move, the slightest bit of force, would have snapped her like a twig.

But the way she clung to him, lookin' up at him with those wide eyes, trustin' him without hesitation—it stirred somethin' in him, somethin' he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. He couldn’t remember the last time someone other than his kin had trusted him so implicitly. The last time a child (and no matter how close Freya was to her adulthood, she was still heartbreakingly young) hadn’t felt the slightest bit of fear of him. He’d forgotten how much he missed that feelin’—holdin’ somethin’ so small and knowin' they trusted him to keep them safe. Forgotten how he’d once dreamt of havin' children of his own. 

The door opened slightly, and Oin peeked out, giving Dwalin a nod before going back inside. Freya was in good hands, with their healer. Dwalin gave a curt nod in return but remained where he was. He wasn’t needed inside, not at the moment, but he would stay nearby. 

He couldn’t undo what had been done to her, couldn’t erase the scars she carried. But he’d make damn sure no more harm came her way. Freya was one of them now, and Dwalin silently swore to protect her with the same fierce loyalty he’d give his kin. She’d placed her trust in him, and by Durin’s beard, he wouldn’t let her down.

Chapter Text

Words Freya has memorized 

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Words she hasn't memorized

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Chapter Text

Oin had convinced Thorin to stay an extra day, allowing Freya more time to recover instead of pushing forward as originally planned. Thorin, albeit with a hint of reluctance, had agreed after the healer pointed out how much pain she had been in on just the second day of their journey. And as much as Thorin disliked altering his plans, even he couldn’t argue with a healer’s advice.

Freya spent the better part of the morning tucked away in her room, fast asleep under Oin’s watchful gaze. Outside the peaceful quiet of her room, the rest of the company had taken advantage of the unexpected reprieve. Bree, being the bustling crossroads that it was, offered plenty of distractions for dwarves looking to replenish their supplies—or find something to amuse themselves with while they waited.

Bilbo, too, had decided to make the most of the extended stay. How long had it been since his last visit to Bree? He couldn’t quite recall, but it had been a good number of years, at any rate. The lively streets and familiar sights stirred a wave of nostalgia. He could almost picture himself as a young hobbit, tagging along with his parents or Took relatives on their own small adventures. A pleasant sort of nostalgia washed over him as he wandered the familiar streets. Bree had changed little over the years, save for a few new faces and a slight expansion of the market.

Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur had accompanied him on his little outing, and Bilbo was more than grateful for their company. The brothers’ cheerful banter filled the air around them, keeping the mood light. Bofur’s running commentary on market goods and Bombur’s keen eye for foodstuffs had Bilbo chuckling despite himself. It was nice to have good company; they made the trip infinitely more enjoyable—and less lonely, if he was being honest with himself.

Bilbo even managed to pick up a few things: a small, intricately carved wooden box to keep his pipe and tobacco dry and a sturdy leather-bound journal for jotting down notes. He’d found himself rather keen on documenting this absurd journey—if only to have something to show the folk back home. Though, truth be told, he wasn’t sure they’d believe half of it.

By the evening, Freya had rejoined them in the hobbit-sized half of the common room. She moved with a tense sort of determination, her steps cautious but resolute. Bilbo couldn't help but admire the girl’s stubbornness. She was clearly still in pain, but her jaw was set, and she walked with purpose. The dwarves, of course, had formed a protective ring around her as soon as she sat down, which did wonders to ease Bilbo’s nerves. He’d noticed that Dwalin, in particular, had taken it upon himself to keep a very close watch—his usual scowl deepening at anyone who dared approach too near.

The only notable occurrence of the evening was Freya’s insistence that it was going to rain for days on end. She spoke haltingly, in broken sentences, but her certainty was unmistakable. 

The company exchanged glances, and even Thorin, the ever-skeptical leader, had the decency to frown thoughtfully instead of outright dismissing her claim. Most of the company seemed more willing to take her word for it. There had already been murmurs among the dwarves about Freya’s potential as a seer. This certainty about the weather was only adding fuel to that particular fire. 

A few of the dwarves immediately headed out again, disappearing into the night to gather supplies. They returned later, arms laden with extra tarps, more fire starters, and additional provisions. Fili and Kili had even managed to procure water-resistant leggings for Freya, insisting that she take them.

As Bilbo sat back, pipe in hand, he couldn’t help but marvel at the odd turn his life had taken. Here he was, miles from home, surrounded by dwarves and an enigmatic girl with a possible gift for seeing the future. It was all absurd, really. But as the fire crackled and the company bustled about, preparing for the next leg of their journey, Bilbo felt, for the first time in a long while, that perhaps absurd wasn’t so bad after all.

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Fog hung low over the town when the company departed early the next morning. Too early. The kind of early that made Freya want to curl up into a ball and sob over the sheer injustice of it all. Who in their right mind thought pre-dawn wake-ups were a good idea? Probably Thorin. No, definitely Thorin. That dwarf seemed to have an aversion to sleep, which frankly, should’ve been illegal. But she had to admit, the mostly deserted streets were a nice consolation prize. Fewer people meant less chance of another sensory overload like yesterday. She could breathe easier in the quiet and could actually take in her surroundings without the overwhelming crush of people. So... silver lining.

Still, pre-dawn? Really? This level of suffering couldn’t be necessary. Freya shivered as the cool, damp air clung to her skin, pulling her cloak tighter around herself. It didn’t do much to stop the chill, but it was better than nothing. She found herself already missing the warm, cozy bed she’d been so cruelly torn from. The thought of being snuggled under blankets, all toasty and undisturbed, was enough to make her sigh longingly. She stifled another yawn, rubbing her eyes as she mentally cursed the cruel fate (and dwarf) that had dragged her out at this ungodly hour.

As they trudged through the foggy streets, the faint clatter of a blacksmith starting his day echoed in the distance. The rhythmic hammering cut through the quiet, along with the faint smell of burning coal mixing with the earthy scent of wet stone and moss. It was peaceful, in a way.

Bree was bigger than the Fellowship of the Ring made it look, which—now that she thought about it—made sense considering its history. The town is really old, like thousands of years old. It was founded in the second age and was located at the intersection of the Great Road going East and West, and the Greenway going North and South.

She smiled to herself, imagining what it would’ve looked like back then—streets filled with traders’ wagons, merchants shouting their wares, children darting through the crowds, laughing as they played. There would’ve been dwarves passing through from the Blue Mountains, elves on their way to Rivendell or Lindon, and men from all corners of Middle Earth, from Arnor to Rohan and Gondor. It must’ve been alive with energy, a hub of cultures and trade.

Now? Well, now it was just a sleepy village, fog clinging to the old buildings like it couldn’t quite let go of the past. The sturdy walls and ancient stone structures were reminders of what the town used to be, but it felt like all the vibrancy had drained away long ago, leaving behind this foggy, quiet shell.

They reached the stable where their ponies had been left, and everyone immediately set to work, loading them up for the day’s journey. Well, everyone except Freya, who was promptly instructed by Oin to sit on a barrel and "rest." She didn’t even try to argue with him—mostly because she was too busy trying not to fall asleep where she sat. The lure of another hour or three of sleep was almost irresistible. Unfortunately destiny waits for no one so here she was, up and about like a functional adult. Ughhhhh.

Freya stretched out her legs, wincing as the dull throb in her muscles made itself known again. Even after all the stretching she'd been doing, her muscles still ached from the relentless days of riding. She rubbed her legs absentmindedly, wincing at the dull throb in her thighs. Yep, definitely still sore. Another not-so-subtle reminder that she was completely out of her depth here, but hey, at least she was getting stronger. Slowly. Very, very slowly.

“Ye alright there lass?"

Oin’s voice cut through her half-asleep haze, and she blinked up at him. His bushy brows were drawn together in concern, his keen eyes narrowing as they landed on her.

She gave him her best reassuring smile, though it probably looked more like a grimace, "I’m alright. Thank you."

Oin didn’t look convinced, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer as if debating whether to push the issue. Eventually, though, he gave a small nod and returned to the task at hand, leaving Freya to her thoughts once more.

Alright might be a stretch, but Freya was more than happy to ignore that fact. She could deal with sore muscles and exhaustion—no need to worry anyone else about it.

She pushed that thought away and focused on the positives like the fresh morning air, the quiet streets, and the gentle hum of activity as the town slowly woke up. Tilting her head back, she let the cool air brush against her face, closing her eyes briefly to savor the moment of quiet before the day’s journey began in earnest. There was a kind of peace in the stillness of it all, in the way the fog wrapped around the town like a comforting blanket. For now, at least, everything felt calm. Peaceful, even. The world seemed to be stretching and yawning alongside her, waking up slowly, just like she wished she could.

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The marshy landscape stretched out on either side of the road in a wild, untamed sprawl; a sea of greens and browns that stretched out around them. Freya’s eyes were drawn to the tall reeds swaying hypnotically in the breeze, their movements creating a soft, rhythmic rustling sound.

The air hung thick with humidity, sticking to her skin like a damp blanket. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but at least it wasn’t unbearable, and the rich, earthy aroma of mud and decaying plants wasn’t so bad once you got used to it. It’s not like hospital air, sterile and cold. Here, everything smells alive. Bird calls filled the air, whistles and warbles echoing around them, making the marsh feel like a living, breathing thing.

Pools of water peeked out between the reeds, reflecting the sky above like mirrors scattered across the landscape. Every so often, a duck or fish would send ripples across the surface, distorting the perfect reflection of the clouds into wavy, abstract patterns. Along the edge of one of the pools she could see a heron stalking along the water's edge, all elegance and deadly focus. Its eyes locked on something below the surface waiting for the perfect moment to strike. 

Bright bursts of yellow and purple flowers dotted the marsh, bold pops of color among the greens and browns, making her smile. Dragonflies and damselflies darted across the marsh in a frenzied dance, their shiny bodies catching the light as they zipped past. One dragonfly, in particular, caught her attention, its metallic red wings flashing as it flew. Freya followed its erratic flight for a few seconds before it disappeared into the reeds.

It’s beautiful and completely unlike anywhere Freya had ever been before. And thanks to that peppermint-smelling oil Bilbo gave her, the mosquitoes in the area were mostly leaving her alone. Which was awesome, since mosquitoes suck.

“Like what you see?”Fili’s voice broke through her thoughts, gentle and teasing. She glanced up at him, catching the playful sparkle in his eyes. He had that look, the one where he was trying to hold back a grin but failing miserably, and felt a smile tug at her lips in response.

Freya nodded, her eyes returning to the passing scenery. “Yes. It’s…" she wracked her brain, trying to remember if she had learned any words like beautiful or amazing; but came up empty. “It’s good,” she finished lamely, feeling a bit frustrated with herself.

Fili chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through her. “Beautiful. I think the word you want is beautiful.” 

Beautiful. Freya blinked, letting the word roll around in her head for a moment. “Beautiful,” she repeated, slowly, testing it out like she was savoring a new flavor. Yes, she liked that word. It felt right. Her smile widened as she looked back at Fili. ​​“Yes, beautiful.”

The way his grin softened made her stomach flutter in a way she wasn’t ready to think about. “You'll see more beautiful sights on this journey,"  he assured her, his voice warm and full of excitement. "Just-wait-until you see the Misty Mountains. They are just as beautiful as this.”

She leaned back a little, resting her head against Fili’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing under her. It was… comforting. Safe, even. “I can’t wait to see the Misty Mountains,” she said, her voice soft and far more wistful than she’d intended. She could practically picture them now—the snow-covered peaks piercing the sky, a backdrop so vast and surreal it felt like something from a dream. Or, well, a movie.

"You’ll love them,” he promised, his voice warm as his arms tightened protectively around her. “Balin says that they are so tall it looks like they are touching the very sky.” He pointed to the sky above them to help her understand what he was saying.

Freya nodded, picturing the awe inspiring peaks from the movies. Sure, the movies made them look incredible, but seeing them for real? She couldn’t even imagine how spectacular it will be.

“And beyond the Misty Mountains,” Fili continued, his voice filled with excitement, “there are the lands of Mirkwood. Balin says that it’s a huge, sorry, big forest, lots of trees, dark and -mysterious and full of danger and worse elves. He wrinkled his nose in exaggerated disgust, which sent Freya into a fit of laughter.

Freya’s smile faltered slightly at the mention of Mirkwood, her mind flashed to the eight-legged nightmares creeping through the trees, ready to pounce. The land of oversized, horrifying spiders. Awesome. Can’t wait. Absently, she wondered if peppermint oil would work on them, the way it kept regular spiders away. Probably not. But she could hope.

“And then there’s the Lonely Mountain,” Fili’s tone shifted slightly, becoming more reverent, “Erebor. It’s our home, where our ancestors once lived. It’s said to be filled  with gold and  treasures. Thorin says it’s the most magnificent place you can imagine.”

Erebor. The name alone sent a shiver down her spine. She couldn’t quite place whether it was from excitement or dread. Probably both. “Erebor,” she whispered, her chest tightening. The place where everything was going to either go horribly wrong or somehow, miraculously right. 

She had seen glimpses of Erebor in the movies—the towering halls, the gleaming piles of gold, the sheer majesty of it all. But those were just images on a screen. Now she was on the path to seeing it for real, in all its overwhelming glory. She was excited, sure, but that excitement was tangled up with fear. Once they got there, they’d have to deal with the whole shit show of the dragon, the gold sickness, and the orc army. And she had to make sure Fili, Kili, and Thorin survived it this time. No big deal. Just, you know, the future of Middle Earth resting on her shoulders.

She quickly shoved that train of thought off a cliff, cause if she didn’t she was gonna have an anxiety attack right here on the pony, and that wasn’t going to help anyone. Nope, bottling it up for later seemed like a solid plan for now. Future-Freya could deal with the panic.

Fili’s voice broke her out of her thoughts. “And we’ll see it all together.”  His smile was warm, like the kind of smile that could convince you everything was fine, even when you knew it absolutely was not. He looked down at her, his eyes bright with excitement. “You, me, and the rest of the company. It will be an adventure like no other.” His arm tightened around her waist, a reassuring weight that made Freya feel safe despite everything she knew was in store for them.

The quiet stretched between them as they rode on, the marsh’s soft murmur filling the silence. Freya leaned into Fili’s warmth, letting the steady sway of the horse lull her into feeling calmer. Maybe, just maybe, everything would turn out okay. At least, for now, she didn’t have to face it alone.

__________________________________________

As the morning progressed Bilbo found himself riding next to Dori. The two of them hadn’t spoken, save for the occasional pleasantries, and Bilbo was curious about the dwarf. They had been on the road for a few days now, and though Bilbo didn't know Dori well yet, he had observed enough to start forming an impression of the dwarf.

Bilbo glanced sideways at Dori, despite the dust and grime that clung to them all after days on the road, Dori always managed to appear at least somewhat presentable. Bilbo couldn't help but be impressed. He appreciated Dori's efforts; it was oddly comforting to know that someone else among their company still valued appearances and civility. It made Bilbo feel less alone, as if he wasn’t the only one clinging to the remnants of home. 

There was something about Dori’s neatness, his attention to detail, that made Bilbo think of his own morning routine back at Bag End—cooking breakfast, setting the breakfast table just so, ensuring his waistcoat buttons were all fastened properly. A sharp pang of homesickness tugged at him, and for a brief moment, he could almost smell the comforting scent of freshly brewed tea.

His gaze lingered on Dori, and it struck him that despite their many differences, perhaps they had more in common than he’d initially realized. Both of them, it seemed, had a tendency to fuss. Dori’s concern manifested as a quiet, almost pessimistic sort of worry, while Bilbo tried to keep his chin up, even as anxiety gnawed at the back of his mind like a particularly insistent mouse. And then there was the matter of the road—neither of them seemed particularly suited for it. Bilbo, with his love for comfort, and Dori, with his meticulous nature, both seemed out of place amidst the roughness and uncertainty of the wilderness.

As they rode in silence, Bilbo’s thoughts continued to wander. He couldn’t help but admire Dori’s quiet sense of responsibility, especially when it came to his brothers. The way Dori fussed over Ori and Nori, always ensuring they were well-protected, reminded Bilbo of his father, Bungo. Both were meticulous, orderly, and more than a little fussy. Bungo had shown his love through his attention to detail, through the way he made sure Bilbo’s world was as comfortable and secure as possible. Bilbo wondered if Dori felt the same responsibility for his brothers.

After a few more moments of quiet contemplation, Bilbo decided to break the silence. “You know, Dori,” he began, “I think you and I might be quite similar in some ways.”

Dori turned his head slightly, raising a curious eyebrow. "Oh? An' what makes you say that, Master Baggins?" His tone was polite, as always, but there was a flicker of genuine curiosity in his eyes.

“Well,” Bilbo continued, shifting slightly in his saddle as he gathered his thoughts, "we both appreciate a bit of civility, even out here on the road. Your fussiness, as some might call it, reminds me of home. It's a small piece of comfort amidst this adventure."

Dori chuckled softly, his expression softening. "I suppose you could say that. I do like ta keep things in order. It’s a habit I can’t quite shake, I suppose."

Bilbo smiled, feeling more at ease. "It’s a good habit, if you ask me.” He gave the dwarf a wry grin, “Sometimes it feels as if we’re the only ones who miss the comforts of home." His tone was light, but he couldn’t help the pang of longing that accompanied the words.

Dori chuckled again, though this time it was more rueful. "You may be right about that, Bilbo. I can’t say that I’m fond of life on tha road. I suppose my fussiness is my way o’ holding on to some semblance of normalcy."

Bilbo’s chest tightened in sympathy. He understood that sentiment all too well. Keeping things in order had been one of the few things helping him feel in control since he left Bag End.

“What made you join this quest, Dori?” Bilbo asked after a beat, curiosity taking hold. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he was prying. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of adventure you’d willingly seek out.”

Dori sighed, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. "Right again Master Baggins. This isn't the sort o’ journey I would have chosen for myself. But I have ta look out for my brothers. Mahal knows what they would get into without me there ta watch out for them."

"Nori and Ori?" Bilbo asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Yes," Dori confirmed, his tone softening as he spoke of his siblings. "Especially Ori. He's still so young an' impressionable. I worry about him constantly." A small, wry smile crept onto Dori's face, though there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. "And Nori... well, Nori has a way o’ finding trouble. I couldn't just let them go off on their own."

"That is very noble of you," Bilbo said, admiringly. "It must be quite difficult, watching out for them and keeping them safe."

"It is," Dori admitted. "I was almost an adult when Smaug attacked Erebor," he began, his voice low. "I was apprenticed ta one o' tha master tailors and was nearly ready ta become a master myself when everything fell apart." He sighed, the weight of years evident in his posture. "Since then, it’s been my responsibility ta care for our family. Our mother couldn't support us after we settled in tha Blue Mountains, so it fell ta me."

Bilbo’s chest tightened with sympathy. How often had he felt the weight of his own family’s legacy, the quiet pressure of being the head of the Baggins family. He thought of his parents, the way he had to step into their shoes far earlier than he had ever planned. After their passing, there were all the little details to tend to—settling accounts, ensuring that the lands of Bag End were properly maintained.

It wasn't just the day-to-day matters of Bag End he had to oversee. Managing the family’s wealth had become his responsibility, too—ensuring that what was left to him was handled wisely, investments maintained, and that the family’s reputation remained intact. He had become the unofficial overseer of Hobbiton. Managing tenants, ensuring harvests were accounted for, settling squabbles over boundary lines—it had all fallen on his shoulders. And if there were ever disputes, be they over inheritance or the boundaries of a garden, it was Bilbo they turned to, expecting him to make the right decision, as a Baggins should.

"I had no idea," Bilbo said softly, looking at Dori with newfound respect. "You’ve done well by them, from what I can see."

"Thank you," Dori replied, a touch of warmth in his voice. "It hasn't been easy. Especially with Nori's... habits." He shook his head slightly, a rueful smile playing on his lips. "We never saw eye-ta-eye, and I worried, what with Ori looking up ta him. But despite everything, they're my brothers, and I'll protect them no matter what."

Bilbo nodded thoughtfully, glancing over at where Nori and Ori were riding ahead, oblivious to the conversation. It must be exhausting, he thought, constantly feeling like the protector. But Dori carried it with such grace, much like Bilbo had tried to do with his own responsibilities in the Shire. "You care deeply for them. It's admirable," Bilbo said softly, his voice filled with genuine respect.

Dori shrugged, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as he looked away. "They’re family. It's what you do."

Bilbo smiled, feeling a deeper sense of connection to the dwarf beside him. He thought of his Tookish relatives, wild and adventurous and the Baggins who prided themselves on their respectability, yet all of them were bound by the same sense of loyalty and love. "Well, if it means anything, Dori, I’m glad you decided to come." He chuckled softly. "It's comforting to have another who appreciates a bit of order and civility amidst all this adventuring."

Dori chuckled again, the sound lighter this time. "And I’m glad you’re here too, Bilbo. Perhaps we can remind each other of the comforts o’ home as we go."

______________________________________________

The company halted their ponies at a small hill, its gentle slope rising just enough to offer a dry clearing amidst the Midgewater Marshes and the perfect place to have lunch. The dwarves dismounted with grunts of relief, stretching their stiff limbs. Bilbo watched as Dwalin rolled his broad shoulders with a series of satisfying cracks, while Bofur rubbed his lower back, wincing slightly. 

The air buzzed with the persistent hum of insects, the marshes alive with the sound of chirps and croaks. Bilbo waved a fly away from his face, grimacing. The scent of damp earth was overwhelming, though the wildflowers scattered across the hillside offered a rare reprieve. The ponies, blissfully unaware of the discomfort their riders were in, eagerly tore at the grass beneath their hooves, tails swishing contentedly. 

The company began their usual routine: Thorin briskly unstrapped his saddle, his movements efficient and precise, while Nori and Dori carefully inspected his pony's hooves. Bilbo hovered uncertainty on the edge of the clearing, feeling out of place amidst the purposeful bustle of the dwarves. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his waistcoat as he watched them unpack supplies, groom the ponies, and set up makeshift seating. He stepped forward, then hesitated, unsure of what to do or how to help.

"Burglar!" Thorin's voice cut through the air, sharp and irritable. Bilbo flinched as if struck, his shoulders hunching involuntarily. "Stop standing around, make yourself useful or get out of the way." 

Thorin's piercing gaze bore into him, and Bilbo’s cheeks flushed, the sting of the words biting deeper than he wanted to admit. His fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, nails pressing into his palms as he resisted the urge to snap back. Thorin’s gaze was unyielding, and Bilbo swallowed down his retort, though it sat bitterly on the back of his tongue. He didn’t need to be reminded of how out of place he was. Every awkward, uncertain moment of this journey had done that quite well already.

Before he could decide whether to stomp off in a huff or sulk quietly by the ponies, a warm voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts. "Bilbo, why don’t ye come over here an' help me with lunch?" Bombur’s invitation came with a smile, his round face full of the kindness that Bilbo hadn’t realized how much he needed.

Bilbo exhaled slowly, allowing himself to unclench his fists as he nodded and hurried over to Bombur, his spirits lifting with each step. "I’d be happy to assist. What’s on the menu today?" he asked, rolling up his sleeves with a tentative smile, doing his best to shake off the lingering sting from Thorin’s rebuke.

Bombur's eyes twinkled as he revealed a bundle of spiced sausages, their rich aroma wafting into the air. "Thought we might skewer these an' roast them over tha fire. A warm meal would do all our bellies some good,” he said, his voice filled with enthusiasm.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Bilbo replied. He took a deep breath, the earthy scent of the marshes mixing with the more comforting smells of dried herbs and spices Bombur had unpacked.

Together, they set to work. Bombur hands Bilbo a set of wooden skewers and a bundle of spiced sausages. Together, they began skewering spiced sausages. Bilbo found the rhythmic motion of their work relaxing, his fingers deftly sliding the sausages onto the skewers.

Still, despite the peaceful nature of their work, Bilbo found his thoughts wandering, his eyes flicking toward Thorin, who was now deep in conversation with Balin. Did he always have to be so blasted prickly? Bilbo frowned slightly as he shifted another sausage into place. He had tried—truly tried—to be helpful on this journey, but every misstep seemed to earn him another glare or curt remark. Not that Bilbo had expected a warm reception from Thorin Oakenshield, with his regal airs and brooding silences. But still, a little appreciation now and then wouldn’t hurt. Just a nod, maybe? A grunt of approval? Something to show he wasn’t just a nuisance dragging along behind them.

Bombur, clearly noticing Bilbo's distracted expression, gave him a gentle nudge with his elbow. "Don’t mind Thorin too much. Ye’re doin’ just fine, laddie."

Bilbo blinked, startled out of his thoughts, and offered Bombur a grateful smile. "Thank you, Bombur." The words felt light, but a part of him still couldn’t shake the frustration gnawing at the edges of his mind. Was he really doing fine? Or was that just Bombur being kind?

As they continued working, Bombur’s large hands moved with surprising dexterity, each sausage skewered with precision. Bilbo had to admire the dwarf’s skill—cooking seemed to come as naturally to him as it did to any hobbit. As they worked in companionable silence, Bombur began to chat, his voice filling the space between them.

"I couldn’t help but notice when we were leavin' tha Shire that hobbit spices are quite different from what we dwarves use," Bombur said, his eyes gleaming with interest.

Bilbo looked up, curiosity piqued. "Oh? How so?"

"Well," Bombur began, his eyes lighting up as he spoke, clearly passionate about the subject, "we dwarves prefer stronger flavors. Lots o’ smoked paprika, cumin, an' a touch o' cayenne for heat." He gestured broadly with his hands, as if sprinkling the spices in the air. "Hobbit spices, on tha other hand, seem ta be milder—thyme, rosemary, sage, if I’m not mistaken?"

Bilbo nodded, a smile tugging at his lips as he skewered another sausage. "Exactly. We also use black pepper, saffron, and a good deal of parsley. It all depends on the season and what we’re cooking. Our food is more about bringing out the natural flavors, rather than overpowering them."

Bombur hummed thoughtfully, nodding. "I’ve heard hobbits are quite tha cooks. Perhaps ye could show me some o’ yer recipes sometime."

"I’d like that very much," Bilbo agreed, his mood lifting at the thought of sharing a piece of home with someone who truly appreciated the craft. "You seem to know quite a bit about cooking yourself. Are you a chef of some sort?"

"Aye," Bombur said, his chest puffing out slightly with pride. "I’ve been tha head cook at The Bronze Tankard tavern for nearly a decade now. It’s a lot o’ work, but I love it. There’s nothin' quite like seein' folk enjoy a meal ye’ve prepared."

Bilbo smiled warmly at the dwarf. "I understand completely. Cooking is a pursuit near and dear to all hobbits.”

The conversation flowed easily as they worked. They shared stories of their culinary adventures—Bombur recounted a particularly ambitious feast he'd prepared for a dwarven celebration, his gestures growing animated as he described the various dishes. Bilbo spoke fondly of the harvest festivals in the Shire, where tables groaned under the weight of pies, roasted vegetables, and savory meats, his mouth watering at the recollection. He could almost hear the laughter and chatter of his fellow hobbits, smell the rich aroma of freshly baked bread mingling with the scent of pipe smoke.

When Bombur mentioned pairing the sausages with spiced nuts and barley flatbread, Bilbo’s eyes lit up with the excitement of inspiration. "Why don’t I forage for some fresh greens?" he suggested, clapping his hands together as enthusiasm surged through him. "We can make wraps with the flatbread and add a bit of crunch." Foraging, after all, was something he knew well.

Ori’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Bilbo noticed the subtle glance he exchanged with Fili and Kili. The brothers, naturally, were always up for anything new, and their wide, mischievous grins made it clear they were eager for the prospect of something adventurous, even if it was just gathering plants. Kili leaned forward slightly, "Can we come too?" he asked, barely containing his energy.

"And me," added Freya, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she carefully rose to her feet, her walking stick steadying her movements. There was a determination in her expression that Bilbo couldn’t help but admire. Despite her frailty, she always seemed so eager to join in, never wanting to be left behind.

Bilbo smiled, genuinely pleased at their enthusiasm. "Of course you can join. The more the merrier!" It felt good to be sharing something he knew with them.

“Alright then,” Bilbo began, glancing around the marshy landscape, his nose twitching at the earthy scent of damp soil. “We’ll start with cattails. They're a marvelous plant, providing both shoots and roots that are quite delicious. Follow me, and I'll explain each step."

He led them to a clump of tall, slender cattails swaying gently in the breeze. The marsh was alive with the sound of croaking frogs and the soft rustle of reeds, and for a moment, Bilbo found himself at peace, surrounded by nature. It wasn’t the Shire, but it had its own kind of beauty—untamed and wild, but still somehow welcoming.

Crouching down by the water's edge, he felt the cool, wet mud squelch beneath his fingers. A wave of nostalgia washed over him—how many times had he done this as a child, trailing after his mother as she showed him the best places to forage near Hobbiton? The memory made him smile.

"First things first," Bilbo said, glancing up at the group, who were watching him excitedly. "We need to find the younger shoots. They're tender and the easiest to harvest. Look for the ones that are still green and haven't fully grown yet."

He pointed to a clump of green shoots sprouting from the base of an older cattail. "These are perfect. Now, gently grasp the shoot near the base and give it a firm pull." He demonstrated, pulling a shoot free from the mud with a satisfying pop. "See? Easy enough."

Ori, Fili, and Kili eagerly followed suit, their faces set in determination as they tugged at the shoots. Each successful pull was met with broad grins and excited chatter. Freya, with a bit of help from Bilbo, managed to extract one as well, her face lighting up with a triumphant smile. Bilbo noted the dirt smudged on her cheek and the way her eyes twinkled with accomplishment, reminding him of a faunt proudly showing off a prized find. He couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride for her.

"Excellent!" Bilbo exclaimed. "Now, these shoots can be eaten raw or cooked. They have a flavor similar to cucumbers. But there's more to cattails than just the shoots."

He moved to a larger cattail, its brown, sausage-shaped flower head towering above. "Next, we move on to the roots," Bilbo continued, pushing back his sleeves. "This part can be a bit messy, but it's worth it."  He began to dig carefully into the mud around the base of the cattail with his hands, feeling the cold, wet earth squelch between his fingers as he worked.

As he worked, he couldn’t help but glance at the others. Ori, scribbling notes furiously, his brows furrowed in concentration; Fili, already mimicking Bilbo’s careful technique; Kili, grinning from ear to ear, clearly enjoying the adventure of it all; and Freya, watching with wide-eyed curiosity. They reminded him of himself as a young hobbit, eager and wide-eyed, always ready to learn something new.

He dug for a few moments, before pulling a thick, white root out of the mud. "Here we are!" He held up the rhizome, the mud dripping from its sides, for everyone to see.

"Can we eat them just like that?" Ori asked, his voice tinged with curiosity, his quill already poised to capture Bilbo’s answer.

"Not quite," Bilbo replied with a smile, shaking his head. "The roots need a bit of preparation. They can be peeled and boiled, roasted, or even ground into flour. It's a bit more effort, but worth it for the flavor."

Fili, always quick to jump in, knelt beside him, his knees sinking into the mud with a soft squelch as he began digging up a root himself. "It’s not as hard as it looked," he said, grinning up at Bilbo.

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile back, a swell of pride in his chest. "That’s the spirit!" he said, nodding approvingly. "I’ll make a proper gardener out of you yet."

But before the foraging could fully turn into a competition—which, knowing Fili and Kili, was entirely likely—Bilbo’s expression shifted, growing more serious.  "Before we gather more, there's something very important I need to tell you all," he said, glancing around at his companions. The playful glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by a quiet but firm resolve. "Foraging is a wonderful skill, but we must always do it responsibly."

"Never take more than nature can spare," Bilbo continued, holding each of their gazes in turn, making sure they understood how serious he was. “Only the foolish strip a plant of everything. We should leave enough cattails so they can grow back and continue to provide for the animals and other creatures that rely on them."

He gestured broadly to the marsh around them, the sweep of his hand encompassing the vibrant landscape. "This place is home to many living things, and we must respect that. By foraging wisely, we help keep the environment healthy and ensure that there's plenty for everyone."

For a moment, a flicker of uncertainty crossed Fili’s face as if he hadn’t considered the impact of pulling up plants before. Ori, on the other hand, was nodding earnestly, his quill scratching away as he translated what he could for Freya.

Bilbo allowed a small smile to return as he clapped his hands together, the sudden sound breaking the somber mood. "Now," he said, his voice bright once more, "let's gather some more and have ourselves a proper marsh-side lunch!" His enthusiasm was contagious, and soon enough, the group returned to their task with a newfound sense of purpose, their earlier lightheartedness slowly returning.

The air filled with laughter and idle chatter as the four of them worked side by side, their hands moving deftly through the mud. Bilbo watched with quiet satisfaction as the dwarves adapted quickly, harvesting the cattails under his watchful eye.

As the company put away their cattail harvest, Bilbo spotted another treasure to add to their meal. "Now that we’re done with the cattails," Bilbo said, "I see a few other plants around here that might interest you all."

He pointed to a cluster of broad, arrow-shaped leaves poking out of the water nearby. "Those there are arrowhead plants," he explained. "The roots, or tubers, are edible and quite delicious. Come along, I'll show you how to harvest them."

He moved with purpose, leading them toward the water’s edge. Kneeling down, he began to dig at the base of one of the plants, his fingers feeling for the tubers beneath the surface. "You need to dig around the base and feel for the tubers," he said. "They’re like small potatoes." As he pulled up a tuber, he held it up with a grin, "You can boil, roast, or even mash these. They're very versatile."

Ori scribbled more notes with fervor, his brow furrowed in concentration, while Fili and Kili eagerly joined in the digging, their hands quickly covered in mud. Fili’s fingers moved deftly through the soil, a determined smile playing on his lips, while Kili’s laughter echoed as he unearthed one tuber after another. Freya watched, her face lighting up with a delighted smile as she successfully unearthed her own tuber, her eyes reflecting pride.

"Good job, Freya!" Bilbo praised, helping her rinse the tuber in the water. Freya beamed at him, her cheeks flushing with pleasure at the compliment.

As they finished gathering the arrowhead tubers, a familiar, peppery scent tickled Bilbo’s nose. He turned, his keen hobbit senses leading him to a patch of small, green leaves. "Ah, and here’s some watercress!" he exclaimed. "This will add a nice bit of flavor to our meal."

Kneeling again, Bilbo began to pluck the delicate leaves, the fresh scent filling the air. "Pick the youngest, tenderest leaves," he advised, his fingers nimble as he sifted through the foliage. "They have the best flavor."

Kili, ever the brave one, popped a leaf into his mouth, his eyes widening in surprise. "It’s got a nice, spicy kick!" he said, grinning at the discovery.

"Exactly," Bilbo replied, a twinkle in his eye as he gathered a small bundle of leaves. "A little watercress goes a long way."

He stood up, brushing the dirt from his knees, though it didn’t make much difference by this point. "Now, let’s move on," he said, leading them a bit further from the water’s edge, where the ground was firmer beneath their feet. Bilbo’s sharp eyes scanned the area before landing on the tall, green stalks of wild onions. "Here we are! Wild onions," he announced with satisfaction.

He knelt once more, his hands brushing the soil away from the base of the plant. "You can use both the bulbs and the green tops," he explained, pulling up a bulb and slicing off a stalk. "They’re perfect for soups, stews, or even just to nibble on if you fancy something with a bit of bite."

Freya bent down, carefully pulling up a wild onion and smelling it. Her face lighting up in recognition. “Oh cool, this is an Onion,” she pointed at the onion while saying a word in her own language.

“Is that what it’s called in your language, Freya?” Ori asked, his brows raised in curiosity as he scribbled the new word down in his journal,

Bilbo looked at the gathered plants with satisfaction. "Well done, everyone. This will certainly make our meals more interesting."

He led them back to their camp, their arms filled with cattail shoots, arrowhead tubers, watercress leaves, and wild onions. “Remember,” Bilbo said, turning to look at the group as they walked, "foraging is all about knowing what to look for and being respectful of nature. Take only what you need and leave enough for the plants to regrow." He glanced at each of them to make sure his words had sunk in.

The four of them nodded, clearly enjoying the new skills they were learning. Bilbo couldn't help but feel a warm sense of pride. He wasn’t useless after all. Maybe, just maybe, he had something to contribute to this journey.

The five of them returned to their campsite with their newfound bounty, eager to incorporate their latest finds into their meals. Bilbo gathered the foraged ingredients and set them on a makeshift table near the fire.

"All right, everyone," Bilbo began, rolling up his sleeves and flexing his fingers, feeling the familiar excitement of preparing a meal. "Let’s get started. Bombur, you'll be my sous-chef today.”

Bombur nodded eagerly, and the others gathered around eager to learn.

"First," Bilbo said, holding up a slender green stalk, "are the cattail shoots. Peel them like this—carefully—and then slice them thinly." He demonstrated with practiced ease, peeling away the tough outer layers to reveal the tender white core underneath. "Cattail shoots add a nice crunch to our wraps," he continued, placing the thin slices neatly on the wooden surface before him. "Go ahead, Bombur. Give it a try."

Bombur took a cattail shoot and mimicked Bilbo's actions, peeling and slicing with surprising finesse for someone with such large hands. Bilbo couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows slightly in appreciation. "Like this?" Bombur asked, holding up the neatly sliced pieces for inspection.

"Perfect!" Bilbo praised, genuinely impressed. "Next, we have arrowhead tubers,” Bilbo continued, picking up one of the starchy roots. He sliced through it with the same practiced precision, his knife making swift work of the tuber. “We want to slice these into thin strips. They have a slightly nutty flavor, which complements the other ingredients nicely."

"Can I try?" Freya asked, her voice quiet but eager as she stepped forward.

“Of course,” he replied, passing her the knife with a gentle nod. “Just be careful. Take your time.” Freya nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration as she took the knife, cutting the tuber with careful and deliberate movements.

As Bombur and Freya continued working on the arrowhead tubers, Bilbo turned his attention to the rest of the group. "Next up, we have watercress leaves. They're a bit peppery and add a fresh taste to the mix. Make sure to wash them thoroughly so there's no dirt hiding in the leaves."

Fili and Kili rinsed the watercress in a small bowl of clean water, their hands moving quickly, splashing water as they shook off the excess moisture. "Here you are," Fili said, handing the cleaned leaves to Bilbo with an exaggerated flourish, his eyes twinkling with excitement.

Bilbo laughed at his antics.  "Thank you, Fili," he replied, shaking his head with amusement.

“Now for the wild onions," he continued, picking up a handful of the small bulbs. "These will be sautéed to add a sweet and savory base to our wraps," Bilbo explained. “Chop them finely." He demonstrated with swift, precise movements, the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of the knife against wood oddly satisfying.

"Now, onto the cooking," Bilbo said, setting a pan over the fire with a slight wince as the heat licked at his fingertips. Olive oil glistened as he poured a thin stream into the pan. "Butter would work too, if you have it," he added. "Then once the pan is hot, we add the onions." 

The onions hit the pan with a satisfying sizzle, and a rich, fragrant aroma immediately filled the air. Bilbo stirred them with a wooden spoon, watching as they softened and turned golden. It didn’t take long for the scent to attract attention. Bifur, Bofur, Dori, and Balin wandered over, drawn by the unmistakable promise of something delicious. Bifur tilted his head, his eyes lighting up with curiosity as he sniffed the air.

"What are you making there, Bilbo?"  Bofur asked, peering over his shoulder into the pan.

"We're preparing some wraps with some foraged ingredients to go with the sausages," Bilbo explained, unable to hide the small, satisfied smile that crept across his face. It wasn’t often he had such an attentive audience. "It’s a bit different from your usual fare, but I think you’ll like it."

The new arrivals gathered closer, the curiosity evident in their expressions. There was something oddly gratifying about being the center of attention like this—though Bilbo tried not to dwell too much on that thought.

"Smells delightful," Balin remarked, his nose twitching as he took in the aroma.

“Thank you Balin,” Bilbo grinned at the old dwarf before turning back to Bombur. "Now that the onions are fragrant and golden, let's assemble the wrap."

Bilbo laid out the flatbread. "Spread the sautéed onions evenly over the bread," he instructed, demonstrating the process. Bombur followed suit, carefully spreading the onions.

"Next, we layer on the foraged ingredients," Bilbo explained. "First, the cattail shoots." He scattered the thin slices over the onions. "Then, the arrowhead tubers." He added the crunchy strips. "And finally, the watercress leaves." He spread the vibrant green leaves over everything.

"Season with a pinch of salt and pepper," he continued, sprinkling the seasonings lightly. "Just a little, to bring out the flavors."

Bombur, Ori, Fili, Kili, and Freya watched intently as Bilbo carefully rolled up the flatbread, tucking the fillings securely inside. "And there you have it," he said, presenting the finished wrap with a small flourish, as though unveiling a grand masterpiece. "A fresh, foraged wrap, ready to eat."

As they finished assembling the wraps, Bilbo and Bombur began passing out the sausages and the freshly made wraps to the company. The dwarves eyed the wraps with a mix of curiosity and skepticism, their usual enthusiasm for food somewhat dampened by the absence of meat.  Bilbo couldn't help but feel a pang of nerves. What if they hated it? He’d been confident in his cooking before, but dwarves—dwarves were an entirely different audience. He glanced at Bombur, who gave a cheerful nod of approval, but that did little to calm the flutter in his chest.

Dwalin was the first to voice the collective suspicion, his gruff tone filled with doubt. "There's no meat in these wraps?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as if Bilbo had suggested they eat raw cabbage.

"Trust me, give it a try," Bilbo encouraged, handing him a wrap with a reassuring smile. He had to swallow a laugh at the way Dwalin gingerly accepted it, as if expecting the thing to bite him instead of the other way around.

Bilbo’s attention flicked nervously to the others. Ori, Fili, Kili, and Freya were the first to dig in, their faces lighting up almost immediately. Relief flooded Bilbo, lifting the weight pressing on his chest. 

Kili, with his mouth half-full, grinned and exclaimed, “This is actually really good!" The words came out muffled, but the enthusiasm was clear enough.

"Yeah, I wasn’t expecting something made of just plants to be so good," Fili added, his grin widening as he took another bite.

Their approval seemed to trigger a chain reaction, and soon enough, the rest of the company was tentatively trying their wraps.

Bofur was next, grinning as he tore into his with gusto. “I like it!” he declared, winking at Bilbo. "It’s a welcomed change really. You’ll have ta cook fer us more often.”

Bifur nodded enthusiastically, a broad smile on his face as he chewed. He patted his stomach and gestured to the wrap, his approval evident in the happy expression and the way he kept nodding, clearly agreeing with his cousin.

Dori, more reserved but still curious, took a cautious bite. He chewed thoughtfully before nodding in approval. “Not bad at all. Quite flavorful, actually.”

Nori, on the other hand, shrugged after a moment’s pause. “It’s okay, I suppose. But I prefer something with a bit more substance.” He reached for a sausage, clearly intent on ‘improving’ the wrap to his standards.

Gloin took a hesitant bite, frowning slightly as he chewed. "Not bad, but I still think a proper meal requires more than just plants and bread." He, too, reached for a sausage, though he gave Bilbo a nod of acknowledgment. It wasn’t outright rejection, at least.

Bilbo’s shoulders had just begun to relax when he noticed Thorin, sitting stiffly and eyeing his meal with what could only be described as thinly veiled disdain. "This is hardly what I would call a proper meal for a warrior," he said scornfully.

Bilbo felt a familiar wave of irritation rise in his chest, hot and sharp, like a kettle threatening to boil over. Of course, Thorin had to find something to complain about. By the Valar, the dwarf could make even a simple meal into a challenge. He found flaw in everything, and Bilbo's fingers itched with the urge to grab the nearest sausage and launch it straight at Thorin’s thick, kingly head. He pictured it for a moment—Thorin blinking in surprise as the sausage hit him square between the eyes. The thought was extremely satisfying.

But no, manners. Good manners, as his father had taught him. Those were what separated a Baggins from any common hooligan. Although on second thought his mother would have wholeheartedly approved of the sausage-throwing idea. Belladonna Took had never been one to shy away from a little chaos or revenge when the moment called for it.

But before Bilbo could entertain that idea any further or Thorin decided to grace them with more of his grumbling, Balin intervened. The elder dwarf’s silvered eyebrow arched in a way that made Bilbo think of his grandfather dealing with someone particularly annoying as Thain. 

"Aye, Thorin," Balin began, his voice calm but with that subtle bite that made Bilbo’s heart swell with no small amount of satisfaction. "Because nothing says 'warrior' like grumbling about a meal prepared with care and shared in good company."

Thorin paused, his mouth opening as if to retort, but he faltered when he met Balin’s unyielding gaze, the raised eyebrow daring him to continue. With a grunt, Thorin made the smart choice and turned his attention back to his wrap, taking another bite without further comment. 

Bilbo couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips, a sense of triumph warming his chest. He might not have hurled the sausage, but seeing Thorin so effortlessly shut down by Balin was nearly as satisfying.

Bofur clapped Bilbo on the back, the force of the gesture making Bilbo stumble slightly. “Don’t worry, Bilbo. You’ve got quite a few fans here. Maybe next time we can add a bit o' meat ta tha wraps fer those who prefer it.”

Bilbo smiled, feeling a sense of accomplishment despite the varied reactions. “I’ll keep that in mind, Bofur. Thank you.” His heart swelled with a mix of pride and relief as he watched the dwarves enjoy the meal—well, most of them, anyway.

Picking up the last wrap, Bilbo approached Gandalf with a polite smile, masking the mischief bubbling just beneath the surface. "Here you are, Gandalf. This one's for you," he said, his tone smooth and deceptively kind.

"Thank you, Bilbo," the wizard said, accepting the wrap with a nod, blissfully unaware of the trap set before him. Bilbo kept his expression as innocent as possible, though it took every ounce of restraint not to let his glee show. He had waited days for this moment, biding his time, luring Gandalf into a false sense of security. Gandalf probably thought Bilbo had long since given up any grudges from their chaotic start. Well, Bilbo mused, today would prove just how wrong a wizard could be.

He had planned this moment meticulously, choosing the ingredients for Gandalf’s wrap with the care and precision only an angry hobbit could muster. Mustard greens, notorious for their sharp, spicy kick, chicory leaves to add an extra layer of bitterness, and a hefty dash of mustard powder for good measure. But that wasn’t nearly enough. Oh no. He'd also added raw garlic, pungent and sharp, guaranteed to linger unpleasantly. And just to make the experience truly memorable, a few fresh mint leaves—because why not throw in something cool and refreshing to utterly clash with the rest? It wasn’t just a wrap—it was a symphony of clashing flavors, each one louder and more obnoxious than the last. In fact, Bilbo had gone to great lengths to ensure the concoction packed the perfect punch—something to remind Gandalf that inviting thirteen hungry dwarves into one’s peaceful home without warning required some form of justice.

He watched with a carefully controlled sense of anticipation as Gandalf took a bite. The moment the wrap touched his tongue, the wizard's eyes widened, and a cough erupted from him. Gandalf's face turned a peculiar shade of red as he struggled to swallow. Exactly as Bilbo had anticipated.

“Is something wrong, Gandalf?” Bilbo asked, voice dripping with exaggerated concern. He tilted his head ever so slightly, the very image of innocence, though inwardly, he was savoring every second of the wizard's misery.

Gandalf coughed again, his usual calm composure shattered as he struggled to swallow the offending bite. He looked at Bilbo, recognition dawning in his watering eyes. He knew this was retribution. And he knew—oh, he knew—that he had earned it.

Gandalf coughed again, desperately trying to regain his composure. "Nothing at all, Bilbo.” Gandalf croaked, attempting a weak smile that did little to mask the suffering he was clearly enduring.  “Just... a bit stronger than I'm used to."

Bilbo suppressed a snicker, eyes gleaming with triumph as he watched Gandalf struggle. Gandalf, eyes watering, tried to discreetly set the wrap aside. "I think I’ll save this for later," he managed to say between coughs, voice strained and entirely unconvincing.

Oh no, you don't, Bilbo mused, watching with narrowed eyes. He wasn’t about to let Gandalf escape so easily, not when justice had only just begun to be served.

"But Gandalf," Bilbo interjected, eyes twinkling with mock innocence. "You wouldn't want to waste it, would you? After all, Ori, Fili, Kili, and Freya worked so hard to gather the ingredients and prepare it," he said, his voice carrying an edge of sincerity that made it impossible for Gandalf to refuse.

Fili and Kili exchanged glances, clearly catching on to Bilbo’s little plot. Fili, ever the instigator, gave a subtle nudge to Kili, whose mischievous grin was already forming. They both leaned toward Ori and Freya, whispering quietly, their fingers pointing Gandalf. The conspiracy was growing, and Bilbo couldn’t have been more pleased. It was nice to see the dwarves getting on board with Bilbo’s plan to make Gandalf suffer. 

Ori’s eyes widened with understanding, and Freya barely suppressed a giggle.  She might not understand every word, but she was sharp enough to recognize an opportunity to cause chaos.

"Please, Gandalf," Fili said, his voice dripping with exaggerated earnestness. He put a hand over his heart, his expression imploring. "We worked so hard on it."

"It would mean so much to us," Kili added, clasping his hands together with wide, beseeching eyes, his expression one of pure innocence. An innocence that, of course, wasn’t fooling anyone.

Ori, playing his part perfectly, nodded enthusiastically. His naturally youthful and innocent looks only added to the effect, making him seem like a wide-eyed child eager to please. "Yes, Gandalf, Bilbo taught us how to gather and cook it ourselves,” added, his tone full of sincerity, though his sparkling eyes revealed the mischief beneath.

Freya, the final conspirator, chimed in with a heart-wrenching look, her wide eyes glistening with mock tears. "It’s not good?" she asked, her lip quivering with the perfect imitation of a crushed spirit. If Gandalf hadn’t already been doomed, Freya’s performance would have sealed his fate.

The wizard sighed, utterly defeated. Bilbo watched with no small amount of glee as Gandalf, resigned to his fate, resumed eating the dreadful wrap. Each bite seemed more tortuous than the last, his face contorting in various shades of discomfort. Bilbo's smile never faltered, his eyes shining with a quiet but unmistakable triumph. This was only the beginning, there were so many more days left on this journey. Plenty of time to make Gandalf regret ever inviting thirteen dwarves to Bag End without so much as a by-your-leave.

The rest of the company, having initially watched with a mix of concern and confusion, quickly caught on to the game. Amusement spread like wildfire through their ranks, a few dwarves barely able to contain their laughter as they watched Gandalf’s suffering. They hadn’t forgotten what Bilbo had said a few days ago—how hobbits didn’t take grand revenge with bold declarations or duels of honor. No, hobbits chipped away at your comfort, little by little, until you were left tired, bruised, dirty, and, in this case, dreading your next meal. Subtle, clever, and all the more devastating because of it.

Standing off to the side, Thorin looked uncharacteristically pensive. Bilbo caught the brief flicker of something on his face—was it regret? Fear? It was hard to tell, but it was clear that Thorin was beginning to reconsider his earlier behavior. Good, Bilbo thought with satisfaction, let him stew on it for a while. Perhaps next time, the King Under the Mountain would think twice before speaking—or at least keep his temper in check.
 
Bofur, who was lounging nearby, raised an eyebrow and leaned toward Nori, his lips twitching with amusement. “Remind me never to get on Bilbo’s bad side,” he murmured, his eyes glinting with admiration.

"Aye," Nori agreed with a chuckle, folding his arms across his chest. "Lesson learned." He cast a sideways glance at Bilbo, his expression one of newfound respect.

Dwalin’s deep chuckle rumbled through the camp as he nudged his brother. "I like this hobbit more each day," he said, his voice gruff but undeniably amused.

Balin nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “Indeed, there’s more to Master Baggins than meets the eye.” His eyes twinkled knowingly, as if he had suspected it all along.

As the company began packing up to continue riding, Fili and Kili approached Bilbo with wide grins plastered across their faces. “That was brilliant, Bilbo,” Fili said, clapping him on the back, “I’ve never seen Gandalf so out of sorts."

Bilbo chuckled softly. “Well, someone has to keep him on his toes,” he replied, trying to downplay the satisfaction that still hummed in his chest.

Kili’s grin only widened as he elbowed his brother, clearly enjoying the moment. "Remind us to stay on your good side, eh?" There was a playful glint in the younger dwarf’s eyes, but Bilbo detected the hint of genuine respect beneath it.

“Don’t worry,” Bilbo said with a wink, feeling a bit bolder than usual. "Just treat me as you have been, and we’ll get along just fine."

Fili and Kili exchanged a quick glance before laughing, and Bilbo couldn’t help but join in.

As he mounted his pony Bilbo allowed himself a moment to reflect on the past few days. When he had first set out from Bag End, the thought of an adventure had filled him with nothing but dread. It was chaotic, uncomfortable, and entirely outside of his element. But now, as he glanced back at the company of dwarves around him—some laughing, some packing—he realized that maybe, just maybe, this journey might be more enjoyable than he had initially expected.

He cast a quick look over his shoulder at Gandalf, who was still grimacing from the effects of the meal, his expression one of resigned suffering. Bilbo allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Yes, perhaps this adventure won’t be so bad after all.

Chapter Text

They stopped at a dry patch in the marsh about an hour before sunset. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and the faint, ever-present murmur of insects buzzing around them. There was already a ring of stones set up for a campfire, logs arranged around it like a makeshift gathering space, courtesy of past travelers. The sky above was painted in vibrant shades of orange and pink, the fading light reflecting off the surface of the water like something out of a postcard. It was picturesque, really. Freya might have appreciated it more if she didn’t feel like she’d been hit by a car, dragged down the highway, and then reversed over for good measure.

The day’s ride had drained every last drop of her energy. All she wanted to do was collapse into a useless heap, which is exactly what she did the moment she slid off Fili’s pony. There was no use pretending she could help—Oin was already hovering, insisting she sit down instead of trying to unpack. For once, she didn’t argue. She just plopped down onto the ground, leaned back against one of the logs with a grateful sigh, and tried not to think about how much her muscles ached. She hated feeling so useless, but right now, she couldn't muster the energy to care.

She opened her eyes and watched the others bustle around, setting up camp with practiced efficiency. Everyone had their job, their place, moving with the kind of ease that made everything look effortless. Thorin was organizing the group, his deep voice carrying over the murmur of activity. Dwalin, Gloin, Bifur, and Bofur were unloading supplies, their movements swift and coordinated, like a well-oiled machine. And here she was, slumped against a log, trying to remember what it felt like not to ache all over.

She stretched her legs out in front of her, wincing as her muscles screamed in protest. She couldn’t wait for the day when she’d be stronger, when she wouldn’t feel like she was half-dead every single evening. But today was not that day. Nope, today was ‘your body hates you and everything is painful’ kind of day. She tried not to dwell on it, but the frustration gnawed at her anyway. The dwarves never made her feel like a burden, not once, but it was hard not to feel that way when all she could do was sit and watch. You’d think she’d be used to this by now, after living like this for years, but it never got any less aggravating. All she wanted was to be strong enough to do things for herself. Was that really too much to ask?

Her thoughts drifted as she watched Fili and Kili bickering over something, their banter light and teasing.  Kili’s voice rose in mock indignation, his hands flying around in exaggerated gestures, while Fili responded with that insufferable smirk of his and a dramatic roll of his eyes. Their banter was light and teasing, the kind of easy back-and-forth you only got with siblings who’d spent a lifetime getting under each other’s skin. Despite everything—despite how exhausted she felt—Freya found herself smiling. It was hard not to when those two were involved. Fili looked over at her and gave her a wink, probably seeing how wiped out she was. He was always good at making her feel like part of the group, even when she was just sitting there, doing nothing.

Her gaze wandered around the camp. Everyone had their role. Everyone knew exactly what to do, and they did it with ease. That’s what she wanted—to have a place, a role, something that made her feel like she belonged. Bilbo and the dwarves had been great. They’d welcomed her in, taken care of her without a second thought, but there was always that underlying sense of being different hanging over her. She didn’t speak their language. She wasn’t from their world. She had died. It didn’t matter how well they got along, how much they joked and laughed, there was a part of her that would always be separate. And that...that made her heart ache in a way that was worse than the physical pain.

Freya closed her eyes again, letting the sounds of the camp wash over her—the crackle of the fire, the distant calls of birds, the soft murmur of the dwarves talking amongst themselves. It was soothing, in a way, like white noise that helped drown out the endless thoughts swirling in her head. When she opened them again, Oin was standing in front of her, a steaming cup of tea in his hands.

"Here, lass. This'll help with the pain," This'll help with the pain," he said, his voice rough but warm.

Freya gave him a tired smile and took the cup from him."Thank you, Oin."

"Yer welcome lass,"

he replied, patting her shoulder in that gruff, comforting way of his before moving off to help with dinner.

Freya took a slow sip of the tea, feeling the warmth spread through her, easing some of the tension in her muscles. It didn’t take away the ache entirely, but it helped. A little, anyway. The dark thoughts seemed to fade with each sip, and she found herself breathing a little easier. 

A blanket was draped over her shoulders startled her from her thoughts. She blinked, glancing back to see Dwalin standing over her. His expression was softer than usual, the harsh lines of his face gentled by the flickering firelight. 

She smiled up at him, and patted the ground next to her, silently inviting him to sit. "Thank you," she said, gesturing to the blanket that now wrapped her like a cocoon.

Dwalin settled beside her with a grunt, the solid weight of his presence grounding her in a way that felt oddly reassuring. "Ye need to keep-warm,"

 he muttered, gruff as ever, but there was a familiar gentleness beneath his words that always made her feel safe. Dwalin acted tough, and on the outside, he definitely was—the axes strapped to his back were enough proof of that—but deep down? He was more like a giant, intimidating teddy bear. 

Freya wrapped the blanket tighter around herself, feeling the warmth seep into her tired bones. She slumped against Dwalin's surprisingly comfortable shoulder, her eyelids growing heavier by the second. The day’s exhaustion was catching up to her fast, and the soft crackling of the fire wasn’t helping her stay awake. Just as she was about to drift off completely, a gentle nudge against her shoulder pulled her back from the edge of sleep.

"Hey now, lass,  no sleepin' yet.” Dwalin’s deep voice rumbled beside her. “Ye need to eat somethin'-first."

Freya grumbled under her breath, wanting nothing more than to stay right where she was and sleep for a week. But before she could protest her stomach, the traitor, gave a low rumbling growl that made her realize just how hungry she actually was. She sighed, realizing Dwalin had won this round.

"Fine," she muttered, sitting up and rubbing her eyes, trying to shake off the fog of sleepiness. Her gaze drifted up to Dwalin again, and that’s when she saw them—the axes strapped to his back, gleaming faintly in the firelight. 

"Can I see?" she asked, pointing to the axes before her brain could catch up to her mouth. 

Dwalin raised an eyebrow, his expression somewhere between amused and cautious. For a moment, Freya’s heart stalled, wondering if she had overstepped, but then he gave a small, approving nod. "Aye, but they’re  heavy. I'll  hold 'em for ye."

Freya blinked, hardly believing her luck. Her heart did a little flip as he reached behind him and drew the axes with a smooth, practiced motion, one in each hand. The sound of metal sliding from its sheath made her stomach flutter. The weight of the axes seemed to settle into his hands effortlessly, as if they belonged there, like extensions of his very being.

God, these are the real deal, she thought, her pulse quickening as she stared at them. Grasper and Creeper. The actual axes. Not props. Not replicas. The real things. Her fingers twitched with excitement, almost afraid to reach out and touch them.

She hesitated, but only for a second. Slowly, almost reverently, she extended her hand, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the cool metal. The sensation sent a shiver up her spine. These axes were legendary, weapons that had probably seen more battles than she could even imagine. And here she was, touching them. It was surreal.

The dark, single-sided blades were brutally simple. Straight edges, polished to a sleek, dangerous finish that glinted in the dim firelight. All harsh angles and solid lines, these axes didn’t need fancy decoration or swirling patterns. They weren’t crafted to look beautiful on a shelf or to be admired from afar. No, they were made for hacking through whoever stood in their way. 

Carved into the flat side of the axe head were Khuzdûl runes: ᛟᛒᛏᚢᛦ and ᛟᚴ⸝ᛅᚢᛚ. She couldn’t read them, but she knew they were the axes names. 

Her hand drifted down to the handle, fingers sliding over the rugged leather that wrapped around it. It was worn and dark, clearly having seen more than its fair share of battles. The grip was solid and unyielding, perfectly fitted for Dwalin's massive hands. The handles were slightly worn, the leather marked with the passage of time and use. It was clear that these axes weren’t just weapons; they were extensions of Dwalin himself, forged to withstand the harshest of battles and to come out on the other side victorious.

Freya couldn’t help but admire how perfectly these axes suited Dwalin. They were as fierce and steadfast as the dwarf himself, built for someone who didn't just fight but dominated every battle. She could easily picture Dwalin in the heat of battle, these axes in hand, carving a path through any foe with relentless determination. They were the perfect weapons for a dwarf who was as unbreakable as a mountain.

"They're amazing," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper

She looked up at Dwalin, wide-eyed and filled with admiration. She didn’t have the words to fully express it—at least not in this language—but she hoped her tone would carry the weight of what she felt. "Beautiful," she said, trying to put everything into that single word.

Dwalin’s stern expression softened at her obvious awe, a small, pleased smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Aye, they are," he said, pride evident in his voice. "Grasper and Keeper," he added, pointing to each axe in turn. "Named in Khuzdûl, o'  course, but that's what they mean in the common-tongue."

Freya nodded, sleepiness forgotten in the thrill of being so close to something so legendary. "Beautiful,” she whispered again, her eyes still wide with awe as she traced the runes with her fingers. These axes had seen battles, saved lives, taken lives, and here she was, actually touching them. 

Dwalin chuckled. "Ye've-got a good eye, lass,” he said, his tone warm, approving. “These axes have-seen-many-battles and protected-many-lives."

Freya blinked, trying to follow his words. Something about her having a good... something? His tone, though, was unmistakable. He was proud of his axes and happy that she respected them.

Before she could say more, Bombur’s voice rang out across the camp. "Dinner's-ready! Come and get-it, everyone!" The announcement was met with cheers and the sounds of eager footsteps.

Dwalin got to his feet, giving Freya a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Stay put, I'll bring ye a plate," he said before heading over to the fire where Bombur was serving up the evening meal. Freya watched as Dwalin moved with his usual efficiency, collecting a plate of food and making his way back to her.

Freya watched as Dwalin walked over to Bombur, collecting a plate of food and making his way back to her. He handed her the plate with a small smile. "Here ye go. Eat up."

She took the plate with a grateful smile, feeling the warmth of the food seeping into her hands. "Thank you, Dwalin," she said again, this time more for the food and the company.

Dwalin settled back down beside her, keeping a watchful eye as she ate. "Ye need to keep yer strength up," he said gruffly, but the gentleness in his tone was unmistakable.

The two of them ate in comfortable silence, content with watching the others talk amongst themselves. She couldn’t understand most of their conversations, but she didn’t need to. The moods were easy enough to read. Laughter and teasing flowed like a familiar rhythm through the campsite, and even though she couldn’t understand the words, the warmth was unmistakable.

The easy atmosphere was interrupted for a moment when Gandalf took a bite of his stew and coughed, his eyes widening as the taste registered. He froze for a split second before letting out a long, disappointed sigh, the kind that spoke of deep, existential weariness.

Freya blinked, glancing over in time to see the wizard’s eyes narrow as he cast a withering look at Bilbo, who sat across from him, casually sipping his own soup as if he hadn’t just sabotaged Gandalf’s meal for the second time. Bilbo returned the wizard's glare with a bright smile. 

Freya couldn’t help it—her giggle burst out, barely stifled by a hand clamped over her mouth. The sound of Dwalin’s deep, rumbling laughter next to her only made it harder to hold in. The other dwarves weren’t much better, chuckling into their mugs or hiding smiles behind their hands.

Gandalf shook his head, his expression a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement, as though he were both impressed by Bilbo’s audacity and resigned to the fact that there was simply no escape from the hobbit’s revenge. With another sigh, he looked down at his now very unappetizing stew, the once-steaming meal mocking him. Slowly, as if accepting some unavoidable fate, he took another bite, his expression one of pure, defeated acceptance.

The rest of the meal passed uneventfully, though the occasional chuckle still broke through. Freya set her plate aside with a contented sigh, feeling the pleasant, heavy warmth of a full stomach. Sleep—glorious, blissful sleep—was calling her name. She closed her eyes, her muscles already starting to relax, fully prepared to embarrass the sweet call of unconsciousness when Oin appeared, a stern look on his face. “Ye can’t sleep yet lass, ye need to stretch first.”

Freya felt her entire soul groan in protest. Her head lolled back, and she let out an exaggerated, dramatic sigh that could probably be heard all the way back in the Shire. "But I don’t wanna move," she whined, her tone a mix of playful and genuinely exhausted. 

Of course, she knew she needed to stretch if she didn’t want to wake up feeling like she'd been run over by an elephant, but at that moment, the idea of moving seemed downright criminal.

Dwalin chuckled at her antics, clearly amused (though sadly unconvinced) by her Oscar-worthy performance. "None of that now," he said, standing up and extending a hand to help her up. "Come on, up ye get."

Freya scowled half-heartedly, grumbling about injustice under her breath, but took his hand anyway, letting him pull her to her feet. The world tilted slightly, her legs protesting the sudden demand for effort, but Dwalin’s steady grip kept her upright.

Dwalin and Oin guided her through the stretches, their expressions a mixture of patience and mild amusement. And as much as she’d like to keep grumbling about the unfairness of it all, she had to admit (albeit reluctantly) that the movements were easing some of the tightness in her muscles.

Once she finished, and felt more like a functional human being, she noticed that some of the other dwarves had folded up blankets and even a couple of pillows— pillows that suspiciously looked like they’d been swiped from Bilbo's house—to make her a little soft bed in the center of the camp by the campfire.

Freya felt a wave of gratitude and warmth towards her companions, her previous grumbling forgotten in the face of their thoughtfulness. "Thank you," she said, smiling softly, her heart swelling with affection for these gruff but incredibly kind-hearted dwarves.

Dwalin draped the blanket around her shoulders again and helped her settle onto the makeshift bed. "Now ye can sleep," he said with a small, satisfied smile.

Freya lay down, feeling the softness of the blankets and the comfort of the pillows. The fire crackled softly nearby, casting flickering shadows that danced across the faces of the dwarves as they talked quietly among themselves. 

As she drifted off, she couldn’t help but think that if this was what life on the road was like, with blankets and stolen pillows and dwarves who insisted on stretching routines, she could get used to it. She would follow them to Erebor with only mild complaining. With that thought, Freya let the warmth of the fire and the gentle chatter around her lull her to sleep.

______________________

The company had settled down for a midday break, and Freya found herself sitting on the ground next to Ori, who had picked up a stick and was now using it to draw in the dirt. This had become something of a routine between them—these impromptu language lessons—where they’d exchange words, Ori in Common, Freya in English. Practical, useful, and, if she was being honest, a lot more fun than she’d expected.

Ori started by drawing two simple shapes in the dirt: two circles far apart. “Far,” he said slowly, pointing at the gap between the figures. His Common was careful, deliberate, making sure she caught every syllable.

She nodded, mimicking his careful tone, and pointed to the circles. “Far,” she repeated in Common, before flipping open her notebook and jotting the word down. Next to it, she wrote ‘Far’ in English, then pointed to the drawing and repeated, “Far.” This time, in her own language.

Ori’s eyes lit up with curiosity, his lips quirking into a small smile. He repeated the word, though it sounded different coming from him. “Far.” There was a charming little quirk to his accent, the ‘r’ rolling just a bit, and Freya had to suppress a grin at how serious he looked.

Ori frowned slightly, and tried again, determined to get it just right. After that he carefully wrote down the English word in his own journal. His stick moved again, drawing another set of circles, this time close together, almost touching. He tapped the dirt between them. “Close,” he said, tapping the dirt between them.

Freya smiled and repeated, “Close,” before telling him how to say it in english.

before telling him how to say it in english. She watched as Ori’s brow furrowed again, the subtle tension in his expression as he wrestled with the pronunciation. It was kind of adorable, really—like watching a puppy try to figure out a new trick. Her lips twitched at the thought, and she had to bite her tongue to stop herself from giggling. Ori was very serious about this, and she didn’t want to embarrass him.

Ori wiped the dirt again and sketched out a large object next to a much smaller one. “Big,” he announced, then tapped the smaller one, “Small.”

Freya repeated the words, then added the English versions, pointing to each in turn. “Big,” she said, “Small.”

They went back and forth like this, their makeshift classroom filled with the sounds of scribbling and the occasional rustling of grass as the breeze swept through the clearing. Ori’s stick moved swiftly, creating images that were simple yet effective. 

For ‘forest,’ he drew a bunch of trees. For ‘hide,’ a little figure behind one of the trees. He drew a cave entrance for ‘cave’, and ‘look’ was a person peering around as if searching for something.

Their impromptu lesson was interrupted when Kili and Fili wandered over, curious about what they were up to. Kili plopped down beside her, his shoulder brushing hers as he leaned in to inspect the drawings in the dirt.

“ What are you two up to?” he asked, peering over Freya’s shoulder.

“Learning,” Ori replied, holding up his journal as if to prove his point. "I’m teaching her more words in Common, and she teaches-me- how to say them in her-language."

Freya shifted her attention between Ori and Kili, trying to piece together the conversation. From what she could gather, they were discussing the lesson, but the specifics were lost on her.

Fili crouched on Freya’s other side, his eyes sparkling with interest. "Sounds like fun. Mind if we join?" He looked at Freya, pointing to the drawings in the dirt then at himself and Kili then made a circling motion with his finger to indicate the group.

"Join?" she asked, trying to make sense of the new word, her brow furrowed in concentration. “You want to help? You want to draw with us?”

Fili nodded eagerly, his grin widening. " Yes, we want to help you learn more," he said, emphasizing the last word.

Freya blinked. More . That was one of those words she had heard tossed around before, but she still hadn’t quite pinned down its meaning. She had a hunch though. To test her theory, Freya took the stick from Ori and, after a moment’s thought, drew three groups of circles in the dirt. The first group had just a few, the second more, and the third the most.

“ More ?” she asked, her voice filled with curiosity as she looked up at them, searching their faces for confirmation.

Fili’s grin widened as he nodded. "Yes! More!" he repeated, clearly thrilled with her breakthrough. 

Freya felt a small surge of triumph—she had guessed right. " More ," she echoed, trying the word out on her tongue.

She glanced back at Ori, eager to continue, “What’s next?”

Before Ori could respond, Kili started rummaging through his pack. Freya’s attention shifted to him, watching as he pulled out a water flask and casually popped the cap. He poured a little water onto the ground, creating a small puddle, and pointed at it. “Water,” he said clearly, pointing at the liquid.  

“Water,” she repeated in Common, and then said it again in English, nodding toward Ori so he could scribble it into his ever-growing list of translations.

Fili picked up where his brother left off. He pointed to the water, then mimed bringing an imaginary cup to his lips, taking an exaggerated gulp, and finishing with a dramatic wipe of his brow as if he’d just crossed a desert. “Thirsty,” he announced, clearly proud of his performance. Freya laughed at his theatrics, nodding as she added the word to her list before repeating it in English for Ori.

Ori started drawing again, this time it was a person clutching its stomach, with an apple hovering just out of reach. "Hungry," he said, and Freya repeated it in English for him.

Kili, sitting nearby, suddenly perked up as if struck by a brilliant idea. His hand moved to his side, and with a soft metallic hiss, he unsheathed his sword. The sound of metal scraping against leather immediately caught Freya’s attention. Kili held the sword out proudly, angling it just right so the light caught the polished steel. “Sword,” he said, voice filled with pride. 

Freya’s eyes widened, and she found herself staring at the weapon with a mix of awe and fascination. She wasn’t an expert on swords—far from it—but damn, this thing was cool. The blade was broad and solid, yet it gleamed with a sharp, dangerous edge. It had a groove running down the middle... was that to make it lighter? Or maybe it was just for aesthetics. She had no clue, but whatever the reason, it definitely added to the badass ‘dwarven vibe’ the sword had.

Kili grinned and held the sword out toward her, tilting it slightly as though inviting her to touch it. “Go on,” he urged, his eyes twinkling with a mix of pride and encouragement.

Tentatively, Freya reached out, her fingers brushing over the deep red leather wrapped around the handle.It was surprisingly soft, almost comforting in contrast to the cold, unforgiving steel of the blade. The cross-guard thingy was engraved with intricate, Norse-like patterns, the kind of details that made it clear this wasn’t just any sword. It was the weapon of a prince, and it showed.

“It’s amazing,” she told him, her voice tinged with wonder.

She glanced up at Kili, expecting to see him grinning as he usually did, but instead, she noticed a slight change in his expression. His smile was still there, but it softened, and a faint pink tinged his cheeks. Freya realized he didn’t know what “amazing” ment, but even if he didn’t fully understand the word, she could tell he appreciated the sentiment behind it.

Kili blinked, and for a split second, his grin faltered, softening into something almost... shy? His usual bravado remained, but the faint pink rising in his cheeks gave him away. She could tell he didn’t know what “amazing” meant, but the sentiment seemed to have gotten through anyway. He might not fully understand the word, but the pride twinkling in his eyes made it clear—he appreciated the compliment.

Before she could say anything else, Fili—who clearly had no intention of letting his younger brother hog the spotlight—stepped forward with his trademark grin. “If you think Kili’s sword is impressive wait until you see mine.” With a swift, practiced motion, Fili unsheathed his sword, the steel sliding free with a satisfying shing. He held the sword out horizontally, one hand gripping the handle while the other supported the flat of the blade.

Freya couldn’t understand everything Fili said, but she caught the tone—teasing, confident—and the way he presented the sword spoke volumes. She didn’t need to know the words to get the message: he was proud of this weapon, and she could definitely see why.

The sword was unlike anything she had ever seen, and honestly, she didn’t know whether to be more intimidated or in awe of it. She settled for both.

Freya hesitated only for a moment before reaching out to touch it. Fili nodded encouragingly, his grin widening as she gingerly ran her fingers along the blade. The metal was cold under her fingertips, solid and unyielding —definitely not something you’d want to be on the wrong side of.

The blade was a little darker than Kili’s, with a slightly rough texture that made it seem as if it had been carved from some ancient stone. Its edges were sharp, wickedly angular, tapering to a point that looked like it could pierce through steel as easily as it could slice through paper. Grooves ran along the length of it, similar to Kili’s sword but somehow more aggressive, more pronounced, giving the whole weapon a layered, almost jagged appearance. It was like a piece of deadly art. 

Her gaze drifted down to the handle, which was no less impressive. It was wrapped in metal bands, each one carved into angular shapes that mirrored the jagged design of the blade. The geometric patterns were all sharp lines and angles, fitting perfectly with the rest of the weapon. It was, in a word, badass.

Freya glanced up at Fili, who was watching her with a satisfied smile, clearly pleased with her reaction. “It’s incredible,” she finally managed, her voice tinged with wonder. She wished she had a better word for it, something grander that could properly convey just how amazing it was, but "incredible" would have to do. Not that it mattered. Fili didn’t understand her words anyway, but the look on his face said it all. He didn’t need to know the language to get the message.

____________________________________

Fili’s confident smile wavered, just a touch, at Freya’s words. He wasn’t entirely sure what “incredible ” meant, but the way she said it—soft, almost breathless—sent a flutter through his chest. There was something about the way her voice dipped into awe, a genuine admiration that he wasn’t quite used to hearing directed at him. A sudden warmth crept up his neck, and he quickly averted his gaze, trying to mask the bashful, flustered feeling that had caught him off guard.

“You… like it?” The words slipped out more awkwardly than he intended. He tried for nonchalance, tried to keep the casual air of a seasoned warrior, but Freya’s praise had stirred something unexpected—an odd mix of pride and self-consciousness he wasn’t sure how to handle.

Freya nodded eagerly, a smile lighting up her face. “I like it,” she echoed, her voice still carrying that same note of wonder.

Despite himself, Fili felt his own smile creeping back, a flush now spreading to his ears. There was something about her excitement that was infectious, something that made his awkwardness feel a little less sharp.

That was when Kili, never one to miss an opportunity to tease him, leaned in with a mischievous grin. “Careful, Fili,” he murmured, his voice low but teasingly familiar. “If you keep turning that color, someone might mistake you for a tomato.”

Fili shot him a quick glare, though it was more out of habit than anything else. The warmth in his cheeks only deepened, and he knew Kili had him cornered. Too flustered to come up with a clever retort—and unwilling to give Kili more ammunition—he grasped at the only escape he could find. “Would you like to hold it?” he asked Freya, gesturing toward the sword with an air of forced casualness that didn’t quite match the pink steadily climbing his neck.

Freya’s eyes lit up immediately. “Yes!” she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet. Fili couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped him, his awkwardness easing at the sight of her boundless enthusiasm. It was hard to stay flustered when she was practically bouncing on her toes like a child unwrapping a gift.

“Alright then,” Fili said, his tone softening as he carefully placed the sword in her hands. He was mindful of her smaller grip, making sure the blade wouldn’t slip, but the moment the weight of the weapon settled in her hands, he saw her excitement falter. The sword was clearly much heavier than she had anticipated. Her knuckles whitened with the effort of holding it steady, and despite her best efforts, the blade barely rose a few inches from the ground.

Fili’s smile faded into a look of concern as he saw her struggling, though he resisted the urge to step in immediately. He knew how much Freya wanted to handle the sword herself, but the sight of her tiny frame trying to manage the massive weapon tugged at his protective instincts.

Before he could decide whether to intervene, Kili was already there carefully taking the sword from her hands. “Maybe the sword’s a bit much for now,” he suggested, his tone kind despite the obvious amusement dancing in his eyes. “How about something lighter? Like a dagger?” With a practiced flick of his wrist, he produced a sleek dagger from his belt, spinning it effortlessly between his fingers.

Freya’s gaze shifted to the dagger, her eyes lighting up once again. “A dagger?” she echoed, as though testing the word on her tongue.

“Much easier to handle,”  Kili assured her, spinning the dagger once more before holding it out for her to take. “Here, let me show you how to hold it properly.”

Fili watched quietly as Kili handed the dagger to Freya, her small hands wrapping around the hilt with a determination that almost made up for the fact that the dagger still looked large in her grip.

“Hold it like this,” Kili instructed, his voice low and patient. He reached out slowly, his hands hovering just near hers, waiting for the subtle nod of permission before his fingers closed in to adjust her grip. His touch was careful, guiding her hands into place with precision. “Thumb here, fingers there.”

Freya’s brow furrowed in concentration, her lips pursing as she tried to mimic his movements. Fili could see the determination in her eyes, the way she focused on every small adjustment, absorbing each instruction like a sponge.

As Kili made small adjustments to Freya’s grip, Ori, who had been observing from nearby, stepped forward. “You’re doing well, Freya,” he said, his tone thoughtful and encouraging. “Just remember to keep your wrist firm when you strike—like this.” He mimed the motion with a hand, his movements precise and deliberate.

Freya glanced at Ori, her brow still furrowed, but she gave a determined nod, adjusting her wrist as he had shown her. “Like this?”

“Yes,” Ori confirmed with a small, approving smile. “It’s all about control. You’ll get the hang of it in no time.”

Freya’s determination grew, and she refocused on the dagger, her grip steadying as she practiced the motion. Kili stepped back slightly, giving her space to try on her own.

“Try this,” He said mimicking a basic stance, holding an imaginary dagger in front of him. “Like this.”

Freya watched closely, her eyes narrowing in concentration. She attempted to mirror his stance, though her movements were a little stiff—understandably so. Fili noticed the slight tremor in her arms as she held the dagger out, the weight unfamiliar in her hands, but the set of her jaw told him all he needed to know—she wasn’t about to give up.

With a quick, jerky motion, she thrust the dagger forward.

“Good start,” Kili praised, his voice warm and encouraging. He moved in again, this time placing a gentle hand on her shoulder to guide her posture. “Keep your arm steady… like this.” He demonstrated the motion again, slower this time, making sure she could follow his lead.

She nodded eagerly, determination written all over her as she prepared to try again. This time, her arm was more confident, though the dagger still wobbled slightly in her grasp. Her muscles trembled from the effort, but there was a spark of triumph in her eyes, her smile widening as she realized her progress. She repeated the motion, and despite the trembling of her arms, there was a noticeable improvement. The dagger cut through the air with more grace than before, if only just.

Ori’s smile widened at her success. “Very well done, Freya,” he said warmly, his tone full of pride. “You’re learning quickly.”

The praise made Freya smile wider, and Fili felt something warm settle in his chest, watching her bask in the glow of accomplishment.

Kili’s grin broadened. “Well done,” he praised, his tone warm. He glanced at Fili knowingly and Fili gave him a half hearted glare, his earlier embarrassment fading in the face of Freya’s obvious joy.

Freya’s gaze flicked up, meeting Fili’s for a brief moment, as if seeking his approval. He offered her a nod of encouragement, trying to keep his expression steady; there was something about her beaming smile—so full of excitement and trust—that made his heart stutter, like missing a step on a flight of stairs.

The moment was interrupted by the sound of Thorin’s voice calling out and the familiar clatter of gear being packed echoed around them. Fili turned, glancing over his shoulder to see the others gathering their belongings, already preparing for the next leg of the journey. He turned back to Freya, a hint of reluctance in his smile. “We’d better get going.”

Freya nodded, her small hands still wrapped around the dagger’s hilt. For a second, her fingers tightened, and her shoulders sagged the smallest bit as she reluctantly relinquished the weapon, handing it back to Kili with a soft sigh.

Kili accepted the dagger with a smile. “We’ll practice more later,” he promised, giving her a playful wink, his tone light and reassuring.

“Later,” she echoed, her voice quiet but filled with a quiet determination that made Fili’s chest swell with pride.

Fili watched as Kili tucked the dagger back into his belt, then turned to Freya with a grin. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the rest of the company. “We don’t want to get left behind.”

Freya nodded, quickly falling into step beside them as they began to rejoin the group. Fili walked on her other side, casting a quick glance at her before offering another smile. It was a small thing, really, but the way her face lit up when she returned it made his heart do that same unsteady flutter.

As they walked toward the others, that same flustered feeling from earlier crept back in. It sat in his chest, warm and strange, but this time, it was tempered by a sense of quiet contentment. He glanced at Kili, who was smirking knowingly, eyes flicking between him and Freya. Normally, Fili would’ve shot back some sarcastic remark, but for once, he didn’t mind his brother’s teasing.

Chapter Text

The late morning found the company riding in a comfortable silence along the East Road, the steady rhythm of their ponies' hooves blending with the soft rustle of wind sweeping through the marsh grasses. The warm damp air clung to them, carrying the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves—a lingering reminder of the swampy Midgewater Marshes they were finally leaving behind. 

As they crested a small rise, the wind shifted, carrying a chill across the company. Dwalin, riding a little ahead, narrowed his eyes as he scanned the horizon. "Storm's coming," he grunted, gaze fixed on the distant hills.

Thorin’s head lifted immediately, his sharp gaze following Dwalin’s. The path ahead sloped upward, the marshland giving way to the rocky rise of the Weather Hills. Ancient boulders jutted out from the earth, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain, while tufts of hardy grass clung stubbornly between the cracks. Beyond the hills, dark clouds gathered ominously, heavy with the promise of rain.

He tugged on the reins, halting his pony and the rest of the company followed suit, the rhythmic sound of hooves faltering as all eyes turned toward the darkening sky.

"Aye," Balin sighed, tipping his head back to observe the approaching storm. His white hair fluttered in the cold wind, his expression grim. "And it looks like it’s bringing a fair bit of rain with it. We’d best make ready before it hits."

At Balin’s suggestion, the company began to dismount, boots hitting the ground with soft thuds. They quickly set to work, rustling through packs in search of their waterproof jackets—thick, well-worn leather garments oiled and ready to fend off the worst of the rain. The ponies shuffled restlessly as their riders moved to secure tarps over the supplies, ropes pulled tight with the practiced efficiency that came from years of traveling the road.

Bofur glanced up from fastening the corner of a tarp, his gaze flicking toward Nori, who was busy securing the ropes with quick, deliberate movements. “She said it, didn’t she?” He said, voice breaking through the hum of activity and drawing curious glances. "Freya told us back in Bree. Said there’d be rain."

Nori didn’t pause, his fingers working steadily. "Aye," he grunted. "An' here it is." His tone was as casual as if Freya’s prediction had been no more than a passing comment, but the furrow of his brow suggested otherwise. "Makes ye wonder what else she knows."

The comment earned a murmur of agreement from a few of the others as they worked. Freya’s strange foresight was becoming harder to ignore. She seemed to know things—things no one had told her, things she couldn’t have guessed. She knew the names of people she’d never met, could sing songs in her strange tongue that mirrored their own, and now this—predicting the weather. There was more to the girl than met the eye. She hadn’t confirmed their whispers about her being some kind of seer, but there was no denying that Freya had a habit of knowing things she shouldn’t.

Thorin stood slightly apart from the group, his arms crossed over his chest, gaze fixed on the horizon, but every so often, his eyes flicked toward Freya. She was sitting on a rock off to the side, staring at the hills with an expression he couldn’t quite read—calm, but distant, as though her mind was somewhere far beyond the hills. Thorin’s frown deepened. He didn’t believe in prophecy or fate, but he wasn’t fool enough to ignore what was in front of him. There was more to the girl than met the eye.

Still as much as it unsettled him, he couldn’t sense any ill intent in her, no malice behind her strange foresight. That, at least, was a small comfort. For now, that would have to be enough.

He shook his head slightly, pulling himself from his thoughts. "Coincidence or not," he said, his voice gruff as he turned back to the company, "we’ve got a storm coming, and we’ll not have our supplies ruined by a bit of water. Make sure everything’s secured." His gaze swept over the dwarves, ensuring their focus was back on the task at hand.

The dwarves picked up their pace, tightening ropes and securing the last of the tarps over the ponies' loads.

Dori straightened from his work, casting a glance at the dark clouds. His lips pressed into a thin line. "We’ll be lucky ta make it to the trees before it hits," he muttered, his gaze shifting between the oncoming storm and the distant line of trees beyond the hills.

Bilbo, who had been quietly adjusting his oilskin jacket, looked up, following Dori’s gaze. The hobbit’s heart sank at the sight of the approaching storm. A good rainstorm, back home in Hobbiton, was something to be enjoyed from the warmth of his armchair, preferably with a pot of tea and a book by the fire. Out here, it meant cold, wet misery.

The prospect of a drenched evening left him longing for the comfort of his cozy hobbit hole. But there was no escaping it now. He sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. "At least we were warned," he murmured, glad that they had listened to Freya’s warning and had bought more supplies.

Oin, who had been preparing a woolen blanket to serve as a modest screen for Freya to change into her waterproof gear, overheard Bilbo's muttering and grunted in agreement. He frowned slightly as he approached the girl, noticing the faraway look in her eyes as she gazed toward the hills lost in thought.

“Lass?” Oin called gently, stopping a few paces away. Freya didn’t stir. Her eyes remained fixed on a solitary mound that rose above the surrounding hills, jagged and stark against the darkening sky. Weather Top loomed in the distance, its ancient ruins casting long shadows over the landscape.

"Amon Sûl," she whispered to herself, almost reverently, though her voice barely rose above the wind.

Her words, though soft, seemed to carry on the wind, reaching the ears of those around her. Conversations faltered, and for a moment, the company stilled, all eyes turning toward Freya then to the ruin in the distance.

Gandalf, leaning against his staff, raised a bushy brow and fixed his sharp gaze on Freya. His eyes gleamed with curiosity, recognition flickering across his features. "Amon Sûl," he repeated, his voice low and contemplative, as if recalling a distant memory. "An old name, and not one you hear often in these times."

The rest of the company exchanged puzzled glances. Most of them had little knowledge or interest in ancient Elvish names, but Gandalf’s sudden interest piqued their curiosity. 

Gandalf’s gaze lingered on Freya for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before he turned to address the company. "In the common tongue, it is known as Weathertop, but Amon Sûl is its true name in Sindarin,” he began, gesturing toward the distant peak. "Once, a great tower stood upon that hill, the Tower of Amon Sûl. Built in the days of Elendil, it housed one of the palantíri, the seeing-stones."

“A palantíri?” Ori piped up, his wide eyes bright with curiosity. "What’s that?"

Bilbo shifted where he stood, glancing between the young dwarf and Gandalf, his curiosity piqued as well. He had read of such things in books, but hearing it from the wizard made the tales feel more immediate, more real.

Gandalf’s eyes flickered toward Ori before answering. "The palantíri were crafted by Fëanor, the greatest smith of the Elves,” he explained. “These stones allowed those who possessed them to see far and wide, and even communicate with others who held their counterparts. Elendil placed one in the tower of Amon Sûl for the realm of Arnor but when the kingdom of Arnor was divided, Amon Sûl became a point of contention among the heirs of Eärendur. Each son desired the tower, or more precisely, the stone inside.”

His voice lowered, taking on a somber note. "In time, the hill came under the control of Arthedain, the last kingdom of the northern Dunedain. But in the year 1409 of the Third Age, the Witch-king of Angmar, whose power had grown unchecked, brought his forces down upon this place. The walls of Amon Sûl were broken, its tower reduced to ruins, and the palantír was lost. Now only ruble remains."

Silence followed his words, a brief and heavy pause as the company digested the tale. 

Thorin remained silent, his arms still crossed as he listened. His mind, however, was not on the palantíri, but on Erebor. Ruins. Lost stones. Fallen kingdoms. He clenched his fists, the weight of his own kingdom’s fall pressing down upon him. A knot tightened in his chest, and he forced his gaze away from the distant ruin.

Freya, meanwhile, remained seated on her rock, her eyes still fixed on the distant mound. Oin, after a moment of hesitation, gently nudged her, pulling her out of her thoughts. "Time to get ready, lass," he murmured, his voice soft with concern. She nodded absently, slipping behind the makeshift screen to change.

While she changed, the company resumed their preparations with renewed focus, though the air buzzed with the remnants of Gandalf’s story. The storm was coming fast, and though the rain had not yet fallen, the air was heavy with the promise of it.

Soon, they were ready to press on, hoping to find some cover before the rain began in earnest.

"Let’s move on," Thorin ordered, his voice firm and resolute. He cast one last glance at Weathertop before turning his back on the ancient ruins, his expression hardening. There’s no use dwelling on the past, he thought, shaking off the lingering shadow of Gandalf’s words. The others followed his lead, though their thoughts still drifted back to the stories of towers and seeing-stones. They urged their ponies onward towards the gathering storm. 

__________________________________

The first fat drops of rain began to fall  just as the company ducked beneath the shelter of the trees. Bilbo let out a relieved breath, grateful that at least they weren’t caught in the open when the storm broke loose. The canopy overhead provided some protection, but it wasn’t long before the rain intensified, and soon, even the thick branches could do little to stop the downpour from soaking the ground beneath their ponies’ feet.

The forest around them was dark, the sky above obscured by heavy clouds. The rain fell in angry sheets, hissing as it struck the leaves, the sound building a droning rhythm that only served to heighten Bilbo’s discomfort. The ground beneath Myrtle's hooves became a treacherous mix of slick mud and pooling water, each step accompanied by a wet squelch that made him cringe.

Bilbo grimaced, adjusting his grip on the reins with fingers that had grown stiff from the cold. His saddle had become an altogether miserable place to be, and shifting around in it only made matters worse. His hood, despite being pulled low, did little to keep the rain from slithering down the back of his neck. His once-curly hair was now plastered to his forehead in damp, clinging strands, and every wriggle he attempted sent a cold, soggy reminder of how thoroughly soaked his clothes had become beneath his cloak.

Riding a pony was bad enough, but riding in a rainstorm? That was entirely too much for one hobbit to bear.

"This," he muttered, his voice nearly drowned out by the patter of rain, "is precisely why hobbits stay at home. Warm fires, dry feet, and a nice pot of tea—what more could anyone ask for?" He waved a hand in a gesture of futile exasperation at the dreary, wet world around them. "Not… this."

Bofur, a few paces ahead, turned in his saddle and grinned back at him through the downpour, his hat tilted precariously to one side, somehow managing to stay atop his head despite the rain. "Cheer up, Bilbo! It could be worse."

"How?" Bilbo replied, raising an eyebrow, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Could the rain get wetter?"

Bofur chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that was somehow still audible over the storm. "Aye, well, we coulda been caught out in tha open. At least under these trees we’re only half-drowned!"

"Half-drowned," Bilbo muttered, though despite himself, he found a small smile tugging at his lips. The dwarf had a point—being half-drowned was, in fact, better than being fully drowned. Still, it did little to improve the overall situation. No amount of cheer from Bofur could change the fact that every part of him felt soggy and miserable.

Myrtle’s hooves slipped slightly on the muddy path, and Bilbo let out an undignified yelp, tightening his grip on the reins. His heart pounded, but he quickly shot a glance around to ensure no one had heard his outburst. Thankfully, the rain seemed to have swallowed the sound.

He bit back a groan, reminding himself that complaining aloud would only bring more attention—likely from Thorin, and Bilbo didn’t want to give the dwarf king another reason to growl at him. No, best to suffer in silence. Even if his Tookish side, that odd part of him that had foolishly agreed to this madness, was now as dampened as his clothes. Bilbo shot a sidelong glare at Gandalf, who rode nearby with that infuriatingly serene expression on his face. The rain seemed to slip right off his wide-brimmed hat, leaving the wizard looking annoyingly composed.

The familiar surge of irritation rose in Bilbo’s chest, and he didn’t bother to suppress it. “Gandalf,” he muttered through clenched teeth as the wizard drew near, “remind me again why I agreed to this?”

Gandalf chuckled, the sound annoyingly cheerful, his eyes twinkling beneath the brim of his hat. “Adventure, Bilbo,” he said with far too much enthusiasm for the hobbit’s liking. “The open road, new experiences, the thrill of discovery.”

“Right,” Bilbo snorted, pulling his hood further down over his eyes in a futile attempt to shield himself from the worst of the rain. “I must have been out of my mind.”

As Myrtle continued her precarious march through the mud, Bilbo’s attention drifted to the rest of the company ahead. Most of the dwarves seemed unbothered by the rain—at least, not to the extent he was. Dwarves were built for harsher elements, and while they grumbled and wiped water from their eyes, none of them appeared as miserable as Bilbo felt.

Except, perhaps, for one.

His gaze fell on Fili’s pony, where Freya sat bundled up in front of the dwarf. She was wrapped so completely in her waterproof clothes that only the tip of her nose and her eyes were visible beneath her hood. Her tiny form seemed swallowed by the thick cloak, though it did its job of keeping her mostly dry. Even from a distance, he could see the distinct look of someone questioning every life choice that had led to this exact moment. He could sympathize.

Fili, for his part, seemed to be doing his best to shield her from the worst of the storm, keeping one arm wrapped protectively around her middle as he guided the pony with his other hand. Every so often, Bilbo noticed him glance down at her, murmuring something quietly that was lost to the rain. Freya didn’t seem to respond beyond a slight nod, but Bilbo could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her body curled inward as if she were bracing herself against the elements.

As Fili murmured something else to Freya, Bilbo’s mind wandered back to when she had first joined their company. It still baffled him how someone so frail and out of place had been swept up in this mad journey. And yet, here she was, sticking it out just like the rest of them—albeit with a bit more assistance. He wondered what kind of thoughts must be going through her head right now. Maybe she was silently cursing the Valar for dropping her into this mess, much like he was mentally cursing Gandalf for dragging him along.

Bilbo smirked to himself. If he had to guess, Freya’s inner monologue probably wasn’t too far off from his own.

______________________________________________

This. Fucking. Sucked.

No, scratch that; this didn’t just suck - this was absolute fucking misery.

Freya couldn’t feel her toes. Or her fingers. They were gone, replaced with ice cubes masquerading as extremities. Sure, the waterproof clothes Oin and Fili had bundled her into were keeping her mostly dry, but nothing, and she meant nothing, could protect her from the bone-deep cold or the sheer misery of being out in this downpour. 

Calling it “rain” didn’t do it justice. This wasn’t rain. Rain was something manageable, a soft drizzle, maybe a little sprinkle that might leave you mildly inconvenienced. This? This was nature’s version of waterboarding. A full-scale, tactical assault. Water wasn’t falling from the sky. It was hurling itself at her like it had a personal vendetta, each freezing drop determined to turn her life into a soaking-wet hellscape. 

The cold seemed to burrow its way into her joints, making every movement feel like her bones were being ground to dust. Her body, frail as it was, couldn’t handle the strain of constantly shivering. Every involuntary tremor sent a sharp, burning ache rippling through her muscles, pulling them tighter and tighter until it felt like her entire body was one step away from snapping.

Behind her, Fili shifted slightly, his body heat the only thing standing between her and outright hypothermia. And while she usually would’ve felt bad for subjecting him to her constant shivering and grumbling, right now? Fuck that. If he didn’t like it, too bad. She wasn’t cut out for this kind of suffering and wasn’t about to pretend she was. She’d already died once, and now she was stuck here, dragged out of the afterlife to freeze her ass off on the back of a pony. Fili could deal. 

Her teeth clattered as another gust of wind swept through the trees, smacking her right in the face. Fan-fucking-tastic-. As if the freezing rain wasn’t bad enough, now the wind had decided to join the party, personally adding to her suffering. She clamped her mouth shut, gritting her teeth against the urge to scream, cry, or maybe both. Honestly, at this point, she was about this close to sobbing.

How the fuck did no one think to buy an umbrella?  Seriously, of all the things they could’ve packed, no one —not a single genius in this entire company—had the foresight to think, ‘Hey, maybe an umbrella would be a good idea?’ She knew they existed in Middle Earth. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had one, for fuck’s sake! But no, here she was, caught in the middle of this watery nightmare with nothing but a jacket and a vague hope that she wouldn’t freeze to death before they made camp.

She wasn’t built for this shit. She wanted a roof over her head. A warm blanket. A fire. Hot chocolate. She wasn’t built for this bullshit. She needed a roof over her head. A warm blanket. A fire. Hot chocolate. God, she’d kill for hot chocolate. Hell, she’d sell her soul to Sauron himself for her heated vest from back home. That thing was a gift from the gods. But no, instead, she was here, freezing her ass off in some gods-forsaken forest, her body screaming with every shudder.

Fili’s arm tightened around her waist as if he sensed just how close she was to losing it. And while she appreciated the gesture, even his warmth couldn’t chase away the chill that had settled into her very soul. Every time a shiver hit, it felt like her joints were being yanked apart, twisted, and then haphazardly shoved back together. She let out a long, defeated sigh. This was it. This was her life now. Miserable, soaked to the skin, and slowly losing the will to live.

At this rate, it wasn’t going to be the dragon that killed her. Or the orcs. Or the endless, grueling journey to Erebor. No, it was going to be the fucking rain that did her in. Death by weather. That’s how she was going to go out.

_______________________________

Bilbo sat beneath the tarp, trying in vain to ignore the relentless drumming of the rain on the canvas overhead. It had been pouring since midday—a steady, dreary downpour that seemed determined to dampen not just the earth, but his spirits as well. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, though it did little to chase away the damp that clung to his clothes despite the waterproof layer he'd been wearing. It seemed no amount of cloaks or tarps could stop the feeling of wetness that had seeped into his bones. He sighed, feeling a deep yearning for his cozy hobbit-hole back in the Shire, with its warm hearth and the comforting smell of tea brewing.

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably on the soggy ground. The earth beneath him squelched with every movement, as if it was determined to remind him that he was far from the comfort of solid floors and hearth fires. The unpleasant sensation of mud squishing between his toes made him shudder. It made him question, for the hundredth time, why he had agreed to this mad adventure in the first place.

He sighed, gazing out at the gloomy landscape. In his mind's eye, he could picture Bag End: the fireplace crackling, the soft armchair in front of it, the smell of freshly baked scones drifting through the air. It was all so far away, so tantalizingly out of reach, that it almost hurt to think about it. A sharp gust of wind sent a cold spray of water splattering against the side of his face, and Bilbo hunched further beneath the tarp, muttering a string of words his polite upbringing would never allow in civilized company.

But, miserable as he was, a flicker of gratitude managed to break through his frustration. Freya’s foresight had been invaluable. Without the extra tarps they’d picked up in Bree at her urging, they would’ve been much worse off. He shuddered at the thought of being caught in this downpour without any shelter. So, though he was wet and uncomfortable, at least he wasn’t entirely drenched and huddled in the open. That wouldn’t have done at all—not for him, and certainly not for Freya, who was suffering far more than anyone else in this wretched weather.

Bilbo glanced to his left, his gaze falling on the small bundle wrapped in layers of cloaks and blankets beside him. Freya was huddled against Dwalin’s broad frame, her head resting on his chest, her eyes closed in exhaustion. She looked so fragile, even more so than usual, her face pale from the cold. Every now and then, a slight tremor would run through her body, despite the warmth of the thick blanket Dwalin had wrapped around the both of them. 

Dwalin shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket to tuck it more securely around Freya, his expression unusually gentle. One of his large hands rested on her back, rubbing small circles, trying to coax some warmth into her chilled form. It was a strange sight, seeing the fierce warrior so tender, but then again, Freya had a way of softening even the hardest of hearts.

A knot of worry tightened in Bilbo’s chest as he watched her. Freya’s health had been a point of concern for all of them since she’d joined the company, but now, in this wretched weather, her frailty was even more obvious. The cold seemed to seep straight into her bones, and no amount of jackets or waterproof layers could stop the chill from taking hold.

Oin had been the first to notice her decline earlier in the day, his sharp eyes picking up on the uncontrollable shivers that wracked her small frame, the paleness of her skin, and the way she’d leaned desperately into Fili on their shared pony, trying to steal whatever warmth she could. 

It was clear that her body, still weak from whatever she had endured before she met them, couldn’t cope with the cold the way the rest of them could. She simply didn’t have the strength to generate the heat needed to keep her going. And so, despite the layers of clothing they’d provided, Freya had grown dangerously cold.

The healer had quickly wrapped a tarp around her and Fili during the ride. The younger dwarf had held her close, his body heat serving as a shield against the biting chill, but even he couldn’t fend off the cold entirely while they were on the move. Now, as the camp was being set up, Dwalin had taken over the duty of keeping her warm, his large frame acting as a barrier against the cold.

Beside him, Bombur muttered curses under his breath as he coaxed a fire to life. The usually cheery cook was dampened—both literally and figuratively—by the miserable weather, his hands moving with less enthusiasm than usual. Still, he worked swiftly, stacking the dry kindling they’d managed to keep safe thanks to Freya’s foresight. Bilbo watched the flames sputter to life, a small but vital flicker of warmth in the damp gloom. Without that firewood, he didn’t even want to imagine how miserable they’d all be right now—cold, wet, and huddled together in the rain, with nothing to chase away the bone-deep chill.

Bilbo sighed again, pulling his thoughts away from the dismal weather and toward the more immediate problem of dinner. There wasn’t much they could do in these conditions, but he had enough ingredients to put together something warm. A stew, he decided, pulling out dried vegetables and salted meat. Simple, but hearty and warm—exactly what they needed tonight to fend off the cold.

The rest of the company moved quietly around them, the low murmur of activity blending with the steady patter of rain. Bilbo could hear the soft snorts of the ponies as they were untethered and relieved of their burdens, followed by the clinking and rustling of gear being unloaded. Despite the miserable conditions, the dwarves moved with practiced efficiency, their motions precise and purposeful. Extra tarps were strung up with quick, sure hands to create more shelter, and supplies were shuffled beneath the makeshift awnings to keep them as dry as possible. The rain, relentless as ever, showed no signs of letting up, but thanks to Freya’s strange foresight, they weren’t entirely at its mercy.

A crackle from the fire drew Bilbo’s attention, the warm glow flickering brightly against the dull gray curtain of rain. Bombur, crouched over the growing blaze, added another log, sending a spray of sparks swirling into the damp air. Despite the cold that had settled deep into his bones, the small warmth offered by the fire was enough to coax a faint sigh of relief from Bilbo. He rubbed his hands together briskly, trying to urge life back into his fingers as he watched the firelight dance against the tarp above them. The tension that had coiled tightly in his shoulders began to ease ever so slightly as the warmth started to creep through the space, though it wasn’t enough to banish the damp entirely.

Dwalin shifted closer to the fire, the thick woolen blanket draped over both his and Freya’s shoulders shifting slightly as he opened it up, allowing more of the heat to reach her. Freya, who had been sitting rigid and shivering under the blanket, softened slightly as the heat seeped into her. 

Oin appeared at Bombur’s side, his weathered face serious as he knelt near the fire. “Heat up a few rocks in tha fire Bombur,” he instructed, his voice soft but commanding. “Wrap 'em in cloth an' give them ta Freya. That'll help warm 'er up faster. An’ put the kettle on—I’ll brew her some tea. She’ll be needin’ somethin’ warm in her belly.”

Bombur grunted in acknowledgment and began shifting a few fist-sized stones toward the heart of the flames with a long stick, careful not to disturb the growing fire. The fire hissed and crackled, sparks leaping as the stones heated up, their surface darkening under the growing heat. Oin cast one last assessing look toward Freya before he moved back to help the others with the camp. 

Bombur tossed another log onto the fire, before rigging the trammel over the flames, hanging the water pot with practiced care. The fire was growing steadily now, its warmth radiating outward, and even though the rain still drummed against the tarps, there was a sense of growing comfort among the group—if only just.

Bilbo busied himself with preparing the stew, his hands working through the motions almost automatically as his mind wandered. The rhythmic chop of dried vegetables and the familiar slice of salted meat gave him a sense of purpose, something to focus on besides the miserable cold. The rain wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was the cold. But at least with the fire crackling steadily and the promise of a warm meal ahead, things were starting to feel just a little more bearable. Maybe they’d get through the night without too much trouble after all.

Bombur pulled one of the heated stones from the fire, carefully wrapping it in a thick cloth before handing it to Dwalin. Wordlessly, Dwalin took it, his rough hands surprisingly gentle as he passed it to Freya. She accepted the stone with a soft, grateful sigh, cradling it close to her chest like a lifeline. Bilbo noticed how she curled around it, her thin shoulders finally relaxing as the warmth began to chase the cold from her bones. For the first time since the rain had started, she didn’t look quite so small, quite so fragile.

One by one, the rest of the company began to gather around the fire, their figures emerging from the rain-soaked gloom like bedraggled ghosts. Bilbo watched them trudge over, sodden jackets clinging to their forms, water streaming from the ends of their cloaks and dripping miserably onto the ground. Logs and rocks were dragged over for makeshift seating, the company peeling off their wet layers the moment they were under the relative protection of the tarps.

Kili flopped down near the fire with a groan, stretching out his legs and running a hand through his sodden hair. “If it rains any harder, we’ll need a boat,” he muttered. Then, with no warning whatsoever, he gave a hearty shake like some overgrown, drenched dog, sending water flying in all directions.

Bilbo flinched as cold droplets splashed onto his cheek. Wonderful, just what I needed, he thought dryly, giving Kili a withering look. Of course, the young dwarf either didn’t see it or chose not to, his face brightening already as the fire’s warmth began to work its magic. Bilbo wiped his face with a damp sleeve, resisting the urge to say something snappish.

Fili settled down beside his brother, noticeably quieter. His expression was lined with concern as he cast a glance toward Freya. His eyes lingered on her, brows furrowing slightly as though waiting for a sign she was alright. She caught his concerned glance and offered a small smile in return. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it seemed enough to ease the young dwarf’s worry. Fili visibly relaxed, his shoulders dropping as he finally allowed himself to focus on warming his hands by the fire.

Bombur removed the kettle of water from the fire, steam rising as he poured it into a cup for Oin. Oin worked quickly, adding his mixture for Freya's tea with practiced ease. The way his brows knit in concentration made it clear how much care he took with the task. The sharp, earthy scent of the herbs soon mingled with the smoke, creating an aroma that was both soothing and sharp.

As Oin busied himself with Freya’s tea, Bombur filled up cups of a non-medicinal tea for the rest of the company. Bilbo accepted a cup with a grateful nod, cradling it between his cold hands as the warmth seeped into his fingers. There was something magical about a hot drink on a miserable day—a good cup of tea could make even the darkest clouds seem a little lighter. He took a careful sip, savoring the way the heat spread from his throat down to his belly, chasing away the cold that had been gnawing at his bones all morning.

Bilbo glanced over at Freya who was sipping her own tea. She looked a bit better now—her face was still pale, but there was some color creeping back to her cheeks. Her shivers had also stopped and she no longer hunched forward in that small, defeated way she’d held herself since the rain began.

Bombur, having finished with the tea, now turned his attention to the cooking pot, filling it with water before setting it over the fire. Bilbo took the vegetables and meat he’d chopped earlier and brought them over, slipping seamlessly into the rhythm of preparing food. The sound of cooking, the crackle of the fire, and the low murmur of the company’s conversation all mingled together—a kind of comfort amidst the dreariness.

Most of the talk was the usual banter—gripes about the wet boots, soggy clothes, and mud that clung to everything like an unwelcome guest. Bilbo caught snippets here and there: Nori grumbling about his cloak being more water than fabric at this point, Bofur cursing under his breath as he wrung out his hat.

“Mr. Gandalf, can’t you do something about this deluge?” Dori’s voice cut through the low grumbles, polite as ever but tinged with the frustration everyone shared. 

Bilbo glanced over at Gandalf, who sat under the tarp’s edge, puffing leisurely on his pipe like he hadn’t a care in the world. The wizard’s expression was one of infuriating calm, as if the rain was merely a passing inconvenience instead of the miserable downpour it was.

Gandalf took his time before responding, exhaling a plume of smoke. “It is raining, Master Dwarf,” he said finally, his voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement, “and it will continue to rain until the rain is done. If you wish to change the weather of the world, you should find yourself another wizard.”

Bilbo stifled a chuckle, though Dori's muttered grumbles suggested he was far less amused. The hobbit could relate—he was cold, drenched, and entirely sick of mud. But Gandalf's words piqued his curiosity. Another wizard? It had never occurred to him that there could be more.

“Are there any?” Bilbo asked, glancing toward Gandalf, curiosity getting the better of him.

Gandalf raised an eyebrow, smoke curling lazily from his pipe. “What?”

“Other wizards?” Bilbo clarified, sitting up a little straighter. It was a fair question, after all. The idea of a whole order of wizards wandering the world was intriguing

“There are five of us,” Gandalf explained, pausing to take a long puff of his pipe. "The greatest of our order is Saruman, the White."

At that, Freya, who had been quietly sipping her tea beside the fire, suddenly grumbled, “Saruman is a punk-ass-bitch.” Her voice was soft, but the words—whatever they meant—carried a sharp edge.

Bilbo blinked, glancing over at her with raised eyebrows. He hadn’t the faintest clue what she had just said, but judging by the look on her face, it wasn’t complimentary. Freya’s expression was sour, her lips pressed into a thin line, and Bilbo could only assume that this Saruman fellow wasn’t someone she held in particularly high regard. The rest of the company exchanged glances, clearly curious, but no one pressed for an explanation.

Gandalf, on the other hand, seemed entirely unbothered by the interruption, continuing as if nothing had happened. “Then there are the two Blue Wizards,” he said, tapping his pipe against his knee. “You know, I’ve quite forgotten their names.”

Bilbo tilted his head, intrigued. How had Gandalf ‘forgotten’ their names? Did wizards not keep in touch? 

“And who is the fifth?” Bilbo asked.

“Well, that would be Radagast, the Brown,” Gandalf said, his tone shifting to one of fondness. “He’s a gentle soul who prefers the company of animals to others. He keeps a watchful eye over the vast forest lands to the East, and a good thing too, for always Evil will look to find a foothold in this world.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “Is he a great wizard, or is he… more like you?” he asked, unable to resist teasing Gandalf just a little. His lips twitched upward in a smirk as he waited for the response.

Gandalf shot him a look, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I think he’s a very great wizard, in his own way,” the wizard replied, just huffy enough to make Bilbo’s smirk widen.

Bilbo let his mind wander as he returned to the task of helping Bombur with dinner. Five wizards. He’d never imagined there could be so many. Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever meet one of these other wizards during their journey. He hoped it wouldn’t be Saruman, if Freya’s muttered insult was anything to go by. Radagast, on the other hand, sounded… interesting. A wizard who preferred animals to people—Bilbo could relate to that, in some ways.

___________________________________

Bilbo awoke to the persistent drumming of rain against the canvas tarp stretched above them, the sound grating against his nerves. He hadn’t known it was possible to grow to hate the rain—after all, back in the Shire it was a simple part of life, coaxing flowers into bloom and filling the air with the rich scent of damp earth. But here, far from the comfort of Bag End, with nothing but cold, wet mud beneath him and a seemingly endless gray sky overhead, he found himself cursing the endless drizzle with every fiber of his being.

The faint light of morning bled through the edges of the tarp, casting the camp in a muted, colorless gray that did absolutely nothing to lift his spirits. Bilbo let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he sat up, feeling every ache and pain ripple unpleasantly from his neck down to his toes.

He shifted on his bedroll, grimacing as he stretched his arms overhead, his spine popping in protest. Why had he gotten himself into this mess again? His body wasn’t made for this sort of thing—sleeping on packed earth, chilled by the damp air that seemed to seep into every crevice of his bedroll. No soft pillows, no warm hearth, and certainly no second breakfast. Just endless, wet misery. He longed for the soft, plush comfort of his bed back at Bag End, with its warm blankets and the steady crackle of a fire nearby. But instead, he was here. In the mud.

With a small groan, Bilbo stretched again, trying in vain to loosen the knots in his back. The muscles seemed determined to stay twisted, as if mocking him for ever leaving the comforts of Bag End. Honestly, how did the dwarves manage this? As he glanced around the camp, he saw them rousing with little more than a grunt or two, unbothered by the aches and discomforts that were quickly becoming the bane of his existence. They stretched their limbs, muttered greetings to each other, and began their morning routine as if this entire ordeal was perfectly normal, as if sleeping on the cold, hard ground was just another minor inconvenience to be shrugged off.

His gaze drifted to the far side of the camp, where Oin was crouched beside Freya, speaking to her in that calm, steady voice he always used when tending to someone. Bilbo's brow furrowed in concern as his attention shifted fully to Freya. She was curled tightly into herself, bundled beneath her blankets in a way that made her look even smaller, as if she were trying to disappear into the fabric entirely. She looked small—too small—and fragile in a way that unsettled him deeply. Her face was twisted in obvious pain, her lips pale and tight as she drew shallow, uneven breaths. 

A pang of worry twisted in his chest. He had seen her like this before—on their second day on the road when she’d been in such agony they’d had to delay their departure by an entire day. She could hardly move back then, and although she seemed to be fairing slightly better now, it was clearly not by much.

He watched as Oin pulled out a small bottle—one of the pain tonics Bilbo had come to recognize. Oin knelt beside her, uncorking the bottle with practiced ease. “This’ll help,” he said softly, his tone gentle in contrast to his usual gruff demeanor. She opened her mouth obediently, letting Oin give her a few drops of the tonic. Bilbo could see the way her face scrunched up immediately afterward, the taste clearly unpleasant, but she swallowed it without complaint.

Oin barked a few orders to the others, telling them to put water on to boil. Once the water was hot, they filled the skins and brought them to Oin, who used them as heating packs. One for each of Freya’s arms and legs, and three on her back and shoulders. Bilbo watched as her face relaxed, the tension in her features easing as the warmth began to seep into her muscles.

The camp slowly began to bustle with life around them, but Bilbo’s attention remained fixed on Freya. Even the mouthwatering sizzle of sausages over Bombur’s fire couldn’t tear his mind away from the worry gnawing at him. He felt helpless, watching her struggle and knowing there was little more he could do to ease her pain. How did she manage it? She never complained, not the way he would if he were in her place, and that resilience made her seem all the more vulnerable in moments like this.

After a quarter-hour or so, Oin knelt beside Freya again. He removed the heating packs and began to carefully massage her limbs, his rough fingers surprisingly gentle as they worked to ease the stiffness and knots in her muscles.

Freya winced here and there, her face tightening when Oin hit a particularly sore spot, but for the most part, she stayed still, her breath slow and controlled, clearly trying to relax as much as she could. Bilbo could see the sheer effort it took for her to remain calm, to push through the pain. Guilt flickered in his stomach. Here he was, grumbling over a few stiff muscles and an uncomfortable night’s sleep, while Freya looked like she was barely holding herself together. The ache in her expression was unmistakable, and yet she hadn’t uttered a word of complaint. It made his own discomfort feel trivial, and a wave of shame washed over him.

“Oin's got her taken care o', Bilbo,” came a familiar voice, pulling Bilbo from his worried thoughts. Bofur stood beside him, offering a kind smile despite the concern etched on his brow. “She’s tough, that one.”

Bilbo forced a smile, though the knot of worry refused to loosen in his chest. “I know,” he replied softly, his gaze still fixed on Freya. “I just wish... I wish there was more we could do.”

“We’re doing all we can,” Bofur reassured him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Oin knows what he’s about. She’ll pull through, he'll make sure o' it.”

Despite Bofur’s comforting words, Bilbo couldn’t shake the helplessness gnawing at him. As Bofur wandered off to help the others Bilbo forced his gaze away from Freya, and focused on the rest of the company. They were going about their tasks as usual, but Bilbo could see signs of concern in their faces, the way they flicked toward Freya now and then as they went about their tasks. Even Thorin, ever stoic, seemed more subdued this morning, his gaze lingering just a little longer on the far side of the camp. 

It was small comfort, knowing that the others shared his concern, but it didn’t ease the heaviness sitting in Bilbo’s chest. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, as if he could physically scrub away the worry gnawing at him. No amount of fretting would change things, he knew that. Freya was tougher than she seemed—Oin had said as much, and Bilbo had seen it for himself. But it was hard to reconcile that strength with the frail figure curled beneath the blankets.

________________________________

They continued on their way once Freya was well enough to move, though none of them truly believed she should have been riding in her condition. Bilbo couldn’t stop himself from checking on her every few minutes. Freya might have insisted she was fine, but no one was truly convinced. She was still so pale, her skin almost translucent in the dull light of the overcast sky, and he couldn’t shake the image of her trembling uncontrollably the day before. Every shiver she had tried to suppress had felt like a punch to his gut.

They had done their best to learn from yesterday’s mistakes, wrapping her and Fili together under a tarp to shield them from the relentless downpour, the dwarf’s solid frame providing both shelter and warmth. The arrangement seemed to help, but Bilbo still fretted. Freya sat slumped against Fili, lips pressed tightly together to hide what had to be a considerable amount of pain and although Bilbo admired her bravery, it did nothing to lessen the ache of concern curling deep in his stomach.

Bombur, Yavanna bless him, had come up with the brilliant idea of saving coals from the morning fire, putting them in his cooking pot along with some stones, creating a portable source of heat. Every so often, they would stop to hand Freya a cloth-wrapped stone to carry with her. She always smiled, a tired, grateful little curve of her lips that somehow made Bilbo’s heart twist. Her eyes, dulled with fatigue, would brighten momentarily, the flicker of relief evident in the way her fingers curled around the stone, clutching it as if it were a lifeline.

"Here, have one yourself," Bombur said, his voice gruff but kind as he pressed a warm stone into Bilbo’s hands before he could even think to protest. “Yer not used ta this either.”

The heat seeped into Bilbo’s cold, stiff fingers, and he sighed in quiet relief, feeling the warmth spread through him like a gentle wave. It was a small comfort, but one he clung to, closing his eyes for a moment as he let the tension ease from his shoulders.

"Thank you," he murmured, clutching the warm stone.

Bombur smiled back at him, and Bilbo felt a twinge of gratitude not just for the warmth, but for the companionship.

Time passed in a miserable blur of rain and mud, broken only by their brief stops. Freya’s condition dictated their pace, and while the dwarves might have trudged on without complaint, Bilbo found himself silently grateful for those pauses. If not for Freya, he was sure the dwarves would have pushed on without complaint, trudging through the storm like it was nothing more than a passing drizzle. But with Freya’s suffering forcing them to stop, Bilbo had time to breathe, to feel the warmth of a fire, to eat a hot meal.

He hated himself for thinking it—Freya was clearly suffering far more than any of them—but having those short moments to rest was a small mercy in what had become an otherwise miserable day.

Sometime before evening, the rain finally began to soften. Bilbo dared to lift his head and glance around, noticing the subtle shift in the air. The drumming of raindrops against the sodden earth grew softer. The clouds, though still thick and heavy, seemed less oppressive now, as if the sky had finally exhausted itself.

By the time they made camp, the rain had stopped entirely, much to everyone’s relief. Bilbo let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, dismounting Myrtle with a groan as his muscles screamed in protest. Every joint ached, his legs were stiff from the hours spent in the saddle. He staggered away from the pony, feeling every year of his age in his bones as he moved to join the others.

A fire soon crackled to life, its warmth a balm after the endless hours of cold, Bilbo allowed himself to finally relax, easing down onto a log near the edge of the circle. His body protested every movement, his legs were stiff, his clothes clinging uncomfortably to his damp skin. Every part of him ached. But at least the rain had stopped.

His gaze drifted to the other side of the fire where Freya sat leaning against Dwalin, much like she had the night before. A small smile tugged at the corner of Bilbo’s mouth—Dwalin, of all dwarves, with his gruff exterior, had become something of a living pillow for her. Freya was cradling a cup between her hands, the steam curling up from her pain-relieving tea. 

She still looked exhausted, the strain of the road evident in the dark circles under her eyes and the way her body seemed to sag, as if even sitting was an effort. Every so often, she winced when she shifted, her body protesting the long day of travel. It made Bilbo’s heart ache just watching her. She had pushed herself far beyond what was reasonable, but there was relief in her expression that was unmistakable—the rain had stopped, and that small mercy seemed to bring a flicker of light back into her eyes.

Around them, the dwarves were going about their usual nightly routine. Bombur hovered over a pot of stew, his hulking frame hunched as he stirred the broth, the smell of simmering herbs and meat slowly filling the camp. The sound of soft murmurs and quiet conversation blended with the crackling fire, the deep rumble of the dwarves’ voices forming a soothing backdrop against the quiet night.

Bilbo’s gaze lingered on the flames, watching the way they danced and flickered in the cool evening air. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the fire wash over him, the ache in his bones slowly easing. For now, at least, they were warm and dry. And for that, he was grateful.

Chapter Text

The morning sun stretched lazily across the camp, casting a soft, golden glow over the remnants of breakfast. Birds flitted between branches overhead, filling the air with bright, lilting songs that seemed almost a celebration after days of relentless downpours. 

The company was scattered about, soaking in the warmth. After two days spent slogging through mud and rain, they had agreed on a late start, if only to allow Freya a chance to ease into the day.  She was still wrapped snugly in her bedroll, blissfully unaware of the morning bustle around her.

Bilbo sighed, glancing down at his feet, which were now encased in a thick, grimy layer of mud. "Awful," he muttered to himself, wrinkling his nose.

He’d been wanting to clean them for days, sleeping with dirty feet was one of life’s great miseries—the way bits of dirt flaked off against his blanket at night was downright maddening.  But between the ceaseless downpour and the marshes they’d trudged through, any attempt to keep himself clean would have been, frankly, wasted effort. Now though, with the skies clear and the sun shining, it was the perfect opportunity to reclaim some small sense of decency.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Bilbo set off toward the stream just beyond their camp. The cool water slipped over his feet as he dipped them in, coaxing a contented sigh from him. The soft babble of the stream was a welcome balm to his ears, a gentle contrast to the relentless drumming of rain that had plagued them for the last two days. He wiggled his toes, watching the dried mud gradually dissolve, drifting away downstream like tiny, stubborn memories of their journey through the muck.

Bilbo kicked his feet around in the water for a few moments, watching the last stubborn bits of mud swirl away. Satisfied, he lifted his feet out of the water and rested them on a nearby rock, reaching into his pack to retrieve his comb. His face twisted in mild horror as he inspected the state of his foot hair—a tangled mess that looked more like it belonged to a wet sheepdog than to a respectable hobbit. 

With a resigned sigh, he pulled his knees up to bring his feet closer, and set to work, diligently combing through the tangles. The sun, still low in the sky, cast a warm glow over the camp, and the gentle chatter of the others formed a peaceful backdrop to his task. Slowly but surely, he coaxed the curls back into their usual state of hobbit respectability.

“There we are,” he said with a triumphant smile, admiring his work. His feet looked much better, though he knew well enough that by tomorrow they’d be right back to their bedraggled state. Still, in the here and now, they were clean and tidy, and that was a small victory worth savoring. 

The sound of footsteps squelching through the damp earth pulled him from his thoughts. Bilbo looked up to see Bofur sauntering over, his usual broad grin in place despite the lingering dampness of the morning.

“Mornin’, Bilbo!” Bofur greeted, his voice warm and chipper as always. "Looks like ye've found yerself a bit o' luxury, eh?"

Bilbo chuckled, setting his comb aside and glancing down at his now-clean feet. “About as luxurious as things get out here,” he replied with a grin, flexing his toes appreciatively in the sunshine. “If I’d gone another day without cleaning my feet, I might’ve gone mad. There’s only so much mud a hobbit can take before he starts to lose his sanity.”

Bofur laughed, a deep, hearty sound that made Bilbo smile even wider. “Aye, I don’t blame ye. My boots have practically merged with tha ground—I'm not even sure where they end an' tha mud begins anymore.” He plopped down beside Bilbo with a dramatic sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him. His boots were indeed caked with layers of dried and wet mud, cracked and peeling like old bark. 

“Looks like it’s cleared up, though,” Bofur said. “Nice ta see tha sun again, eh?”

Bilbo nodded, tilting his face toward the wonderfully clear sky that peeked through the canopy, soaking in the warmth. “I couldn’t agree more. Let’s hope it stays this way for a while. I don’t think I could’ve handled another day of rain. Felt like the sky was trying to drown us.”

“Or wash us right down tha road!” Bofur added with a grin, giving Bilbo a gentle nudge with his elbow. “But ye’ve survived so far!” 

“Barely,” Bilbo laughed, though there was a certain truth to it. The comforts of his hobbit hole had never felt more distant than they had during that storm—the cozy hearth, the well-stocked pantry, even the creak of his old floorboards. “I’ll admit,” he said with a sigh, “I’ve never missed Bag End more than I did in that downpour.”

“Aye,” Bofur agreed, his voice softening. “Nothing like getting soaked through ta remind ye how much ye love a dry fireplace.” He leaned back on his hands, his posture casual but his gaze lingering on Bilbo with a quiet thoughtfulness. "Speaking o' surviving… how’re ye holding up? Really?" The playful lilt had dropped from Bofur’s tone, leaving something gentler in its place. “These past few days could’ve soured even tha cheeriest o' folk, an' you’re not exactly used ta this kind o' life.”

Bilbo hesitated, surprised by the genuine concern in Bofur’s voice. It wasn’t the sort of casual inquiry he’d grown accustomed to in the Shire, where ‘How are you?’ was often just a pleasantry. This felt real, and it took him a moment to find the right words. He fiddled with a stray leaf on his trousers, giving himself time to think.

“It’s... different,” he admitted finally, his voice quieter now. “I’ve never been one for adventure—still not sure I am, if I’m being honest.”

Bofur nodded, “I can imagine. It’s a lot, ‘specially for someone who’s more used ta... well, dry feet an' second breakfast.” He gave a half-smile, though there was no teasing behind it, just sympathy. “But yer doing well. Better than some o’ us thought, if I’m bein’ honest.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile creeping onto his face. “Oh? And what exactly were you all expecting, if I may ask?”

Bofur chuckled, the sound lightening the mood again. “Well, not everyone thought you’d last a week—let alone through a storm like that. Ye looked like ye were having a rough go o' it, no offense.”

Bilbo huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “And here I thought I was being discreet about how miserable I was.”

“Discreet?” Bofur snorted, raising an eyebrow. “I hate to break it ta ye, but ye looked like a drowned hedgehog.”

Despite himself, Bilbo laughed, the image so absurd that he couldn’t help it. “A fair assessment, I suppose. I certainly felt like one.”

“But look at ye now,” Bofur said encouragingly, his grin returning full force. “You’ve made it through mud, rain, and Thorin’s temper, an’ here ye are, drying yer feet in the sun. That’s something ta be proud of, Bilbo.”

Bilbo shook his head, though he couldn’t suppress the small, proud smile that crept onto his face. “I suppose when you put it that way, it does sound like quite the accomplishment.”

“There ye go!” Bofur grinned, giving him a little nudge. “Yer tougher than ye give yerself credit for. Ye might not feel like it yet, but yer getting the hang o’ this adventuring business.”

“You think so?” Bilbo asked, the doubt still clear in his voice, though he appreciated Bofur’s words.

“I know so,” Bofur replied without hesitation. His grin widened as he gave Bilbo an encouraging nod. “And just remember—if it ever does get a bit too much, yer not in this alone. You’ve got us. We’re a company, after all. We look out for each other.”

"Thank you, Bofur,” he said, his voice soft but sincere. “I... I truly appreciate that.”

“Ah, don’t mention it,” Bofur replied, grinning as wide as ever. He gave Bilbo a final, friendly clap on the shoulder before tipping his hat. “Just make sure to keep those feet o’ yers clean. We can’t have our burglar going mad on us, can we?”

Bilbo chuckled. “I’ll do my best.”

_______________________________________________________________________________

The company rode down the winding road, the ponies’ hooves splashing softly in puddles that reflected the now clear sky. Bilbo took a deep breath, the sweet scent of damp earth filling his lungs. He couldn't help but sigh in relief—this was a vast improvement from yesterday. His clothes, though still a bit damp in awkward places, no longer clung to his skin with horrible, soggy persistence.

He wasn’t alone in his relief—there was an unmistakable lightness in the company as the sun chased away the last of the gloomy weather. The grumbles and complaints that had persisted over the last two days were gone, replaced with light-hearted chatter and the occasional bursts of laughter. Even Thorin, perched on his pony at the front of the line with his usual straight-backed stance, seemed less brooding, and Bilbo swore he saw the faintest hint of a smile when he glanced back at his kin.

“A fine day to sing, don’t ye think?” Bofur called over his shoulder, his voice carrying on the light breeze. Without waiting for an answer, he launched into a tune, his rich voice carrying on the breeze, as rhythmic and sure as the beat of a hammer on steel.

“I thought ta make a pickaxe and asked my hammer thus
He said, ‘I'll ask the anvil what ye require of us’”

Bilbo smiled, there was something undeniably infectious about dwarves when they sang—like the very ground beneath their ponies’ hooves hummed along with the melody. 

“The hammer asked the anvil and she at once agreed
That they should meet together in the way that I decreed”

The others quickly joined in, their voices rumbling in perfect harmony. The song swept over the company like a gust of warm air, lifting everyone’s spirits along with it. Bilbo found himself tapping his fingers against the saddle, matching the steady beat of the song.

“And it's sparks a-flying, passion strong
I am the blacksmith singing
The hammer and the anvil song”

Grinning from ear to ear, Bofur nudged Bombur, who was riding next to him. Bombur’s smile lit up his face as he took up the next verse, his deep, rumbling tone matching his size.

“I thought to forge an heirloom, with iron, fire, and stone
The hammer and the anvil, in rhythm all their own
So they worked there together, beneath the mountain deep
Creating works of beauty, for future kin to keep”

Bilbo glanced toward Thorin again, and was startled to find the dwarf king quietly nodding along with the rhythm. His usual frown had melted into something that resembled—dare he say—contentment? The small, almost imperceptible curve of Thorin's lips made Bilbo’s heart skip. It was remarkable how even the smallest hint of joy could soften Thorin’s face—how the sharp lines that usually framed his expression melted into something almost gentle.

The company’s voices surged together once more, filling the forest around them with the chorus and breaking him out of his thoughts.

“And it's sparks a-flying, passion strong
I am the blacksmith singing
The hammer and the anvil song”

Bilbo glanced to his right, where Fili was riding with Freya bundled up in front of him. She still looked tired and a bit pale from the rain, but there was a small, contented smile on her lips as she rested against Fili’s chest, taking comfort in the warmth of both the sun and the cheerful song.

Ahead, Gloin took up the next verse with a fierceness and pride that seemed to rumble from deep in his chest.

“I thought ta craft an axe-blade, for battle's mighty call
For though we wield the hammer, we answer when wars fall
For every blow we temper, in fire's glowing light
Is meant ta forge the strength within, ta stand and join the fight”

Bilbo chuckled softly to himself as he listened, feeling surprisingly light-hearted. There was a joy in the way the dwarves sang that was hard to resist. It was as if every word rang with a deep, unshakable pride—pride in their craft, in each other, in the very act of creating. The melody lifted his spirits, and before he knew it, Bilbo found himself humming along to the chorus.

“And it's sparks a-flying, passion strong
I am the blacksmith singing
The hammer and the anvil song”

As the song came to a triumphant end, the company’s laughter rang out, bright and carefree. Bilbo glanced around at his companions, feeling lighter than he had in days. He wasn’t sure if it was the sunshine, the song, or the fact that everyone seemed genuinely happy. Perhaps it was all of those things wrapped together. Whatever the reason, Bilbo smiled—and this time, it wasn’t just out of relief.

He smiled because, for the first time since they’d set out, he felt like he belonged.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Bilbo stretched his arms overhead, savoring the satisfying pull in his muscles as the company paused for lunch, giving Freya a much-needed rest. The satisfying crackle of his joints was almost enough to distract him from the dull ache in his lower back, a stubborn reminder of the morning’s long ride.

He glanced around the clearing, his eyes skimming over the tangled mess of wet undergrowth and glistening patches of dark soil until something near the base of an oak snagged his attention. His heart gave a pleased little thump. Mushrooms! How could he have forgotten? Mushrooms were the best part of the rain. 

A grin crept across his face. “I’ll be back shortly,” he called over his shoulder, grabbing a small sack from the pack at his feet. No one seemed particularly interested in his departure—Thorin barely glanced up, and Bofur gave a half-hearted wave, too preoccupied with helping Bombur sort through his cooking supplies to ask where Bilbo was off to. 

There was a newfound lightness to his step as he darted toward the trees, the lingering ache in his legs momentarily forgotten. The forest seemed to welcome him, its branches swaying gently overhead, flicking droplets of water onto his curls.

At the roots of the oak, nestled in a bed of damp, decaying leaf litter, stood a cluster of fly agaric mushrooms. Their vivid red caps speckled with white dots like miniature, polka-dotted umbrellas. He crouched down, a satisfied smile pulling at his lips. These would do nicely.

He plucked a few, careful not to disturb the smaller ones still sprouting. There was an art to foraging, after all—take too much, and the forest might stop sharing. He tucked them gently into his sack, then pressed deeper into the woods, weaving between the trunks of towering oaks and ducking beneath low-hanging branches that dripped with the last remnants of rain. 

His eyes darted over the forest floor, alert for any sign of more fungi. This was the start of prime hunting time, and he wasn’t about to waste it. Rain may have soaked him to his very bones, but it had also ushered in the perfect conditions for a mushroom hunter like him.

This was the kind of adventure he could appreciate—no ponies, no rain, and certainly no Thorin barking orders and glaring at him disapprovingly. Just the gentle rustle of leaves, the occasional drip of water from the canopy above, and the promise of hidden treasures beneath the undergrowth.

Further ahead, an ancient log lay crumbling beneath a blanket of moss, its bark peeling away in brittle strips. At its base, Bilbo spotted a tiny patch of Blushing Wood Mushrooms, their pink-tinged caps delicate against the dark earth. “Hmph,” he muttered, crouching to inspect them. Too small to bother with now. A shame, really—they’d be delightful fried with a bit of butter.

He rose, brushing his hands off on his trousers, and continued his search. Soon his patience was rewarded. Not far from the log, a small glint of gold caught his eye beneath a bush thick with glossy leaves. He crouched down and found a cluster of Honey Fungus, nestled cozily in the damp shade. He shook off the damp soil clinging to them and added them to his sack.

The further he ventured into the trees, the more the sounds of the company and their conversation faded into the background, until Bilbo was left in the serene quiet of the woods. He made his way over the tangle of gnarled roots stepping carefully around them, his hands trailed absently over the bark of passing trees, the rough texture grounding him, connecting him to the quiet rhythm of the forest.

He paused by a dense patch of brambles, crouching low to peer beneath their thorny branches.  There, half-hidden in the shadows, a cluster of chanterelles gleamed, their bright yellow caps gleaming like little bursts of sunlight against the damp forest floor. 

“There we are,” Bilbo whispered to himself, a satisfied grin tugging at his lips as he carefully gathered them. He turned them over in his hands. He loved chanterelles—so versatile, and they’d add just the right touch to tonight’s supper.

His sharp gaze flitted across the forest floor as he continued forward, and just beneath a patch of undergrowth, he spotted a cluster of freckled dapperling mushrooms. Their delicate, speckled caps blended almost perfectly with the leaf-strewn ground, but Bilbo’s trained eye knew exactly what to look for. “Got you,” he murmured triumphantly, as he knelt to collect them. 

Bilbo sat back on his heels, wiping a smear of dirt from his hands as he inspected his finds with a satisfied sigh. Not bad at all. Especially for the first day after the storm. Mushrooms always thrived after rain, and with any luck, he’d find even more in the coming days. He’d have to go foraging whenever they stopped.

Bag in hand, Bilbo headed back to the clearing where the company had made camp, the late afternoon sun filtering warmly through the trees. The air carried the faint scent of woodsmoke from the campfire, and Bilbo could hear the familiar sounds of the company settling in for lunch: the scrape of pots and pans, the low murmur of dwarvish conversation, and the occasional snort from the ponies as they munched contentedly on wet grass.

Bofur was the first to spot him, a grin already spreading across the dwarf’s face. "Where’d ye wander off ta, Bilbo?" he called, tipping his hat back with an easy gesture.

Bilbo held up the bag proudly, like a fisherman showing off his catch. “Just gathering mushrooms.”

Bofur chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. "Ah, mushrooms, is it? Thought ye might have finally gotten sick o’ us and run off back ta tha Shire."

Bilbo gave a short laugh, shaking his head as he approached the camp. "Tempting as that sounds, no such luck. I’m afraid you’re all still stuck with me." He found a comfortable spot on a fallen log at the edge of camp.

"And we’re glad we are," Bofur grinned, voice sincere, before turning back to help Bombur stir the contents of a large pot hanging over the fire.

Bilbo loosened the drawstring of his bag and leaned forward, carefully pulling out a few mushrooms to inspect them. He was brushing dirt off a particularly fine chanterelle when a flicker of movement caught his eye.

A hand. Sneaking toward his mushrooms.

Fast as a snake, Bilbo's hand shot out and smacked Kili’s outstretched fingers with a sharp thwack.

“Oi!” Kili yelped, snatching his hand back as though he'd been stung by a wasp. He cradled it to his chest with an exaggerated pout, as if Bilbo had mortally wounded him.

“Try that again,” Bilbo warned, narrowing his eyes, “and I’ll make sure your supper will taste as bad as Gandalf’s.” His tone was light, but there was enough bite in the words to suggest he wasn’t bluffing. Mushrooms were no trivial matter, after all.

The camp erupted into laughter, the other dwarves exchanging amused glances while Kili gasped as if Bilbo had just cursed him. “Worse than Gandalf’s?” he repeated, his eyes wide with genuine horror. “That’s... that’s just cruel Bilbo.”

This only fueled the laughter, the dwarves chuckling and shaking their heads as they traded looks of mock sympathy with Kili. Even Thorin, seated near the fire, allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward—just barely—as if fighting the urge to smile outright. Bilbo caught sight of it, feeling a flash of satisfaction. That might just be the closest thing to a laugh he’d get from Thorin Oakenshield.

Seated nearby, Gandalf let out a low chuckle, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. “You would do well to heed his warning, Kili,” the wizard said, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Never steal a hobbit’s mushrooms. They’re more protective of them than dwarves are of gold. And even if they weren’t, it wouldn’t be wise to indulge.” he added, his voice laced with amusement. “You see, hobbits have a peculiar immunity to poisonous plants, so they’ve developed a taste for some rather... dangerous delicacies, especially in regards to mushrooms. You’d best be careful what you take from them or you might not wake up the next morning."

Kili’s face paled, his wide eyes flicking nervously between Bilbo and the mushrooms. "You’re joking," he muttered.

Bilbo gave him a sweet, innocent smile that was anything but reassuring. “You could always try one and find out,” he suggested mildly, brushing a speck of dirt from the cap of a freckled dapperling.

A few of the dwarves exchanged wary glances, inching just a little farther from the log where Bilbo sat. They’d been around him long enough to know that a smile like that from the hobbit was not to be trusted. 

"I think I’ll wait for dinner," Kili muttered, inching away from Bilbo’s log as if distance alone would guarantee his safety.

“Wise choice,” Bilbo said with a satisfied smirk, tucking the bag just a little further out of reach. 

_________________________________________________________________________

The early evening sun dipped toward the horizon, casting warm, golden light across the clearing where the company was making camp for the evening. The dwarves moved with the practiced ease lifting packs, checking ropes, setting up the fire pit. 

Bilbo stretched, feeling the muscles pull and protest after the long day's ride. As he rubbed at a sore spot on his lower back, his gaze drifted to the forest's edge, where the fading sunlight bled into the darker shadows under the canopy.

“I think I’ll go look for more mushrooms,” he announced to no one in particular, already half-turning toward the trees. The little pouch of mushrooms he’d collected earlier at lunch was decent enough, but there was always room for more. One could never have too many mushrooms.

Kili raised an eyebrow, amusement playing at the corner of his lips. “More mushrooms? Didn’t you pick enough of them earlier?”
Bilbo huffed, his hands firmly on his hips. “One can never have enough mushrooms,” he replied, the words falling from his lips with all the authority of a hobbit well-versed in fungi foraging.
“Riiight…” Kili drawled, drawing out in a way that suggested he wasn’t quite convinced. He straightened from where he’d been untying the packs, wiping his hands briskly on his trousers. “Well, you don’t get to have all the fun. I think I’ll join you—see if I can’t catch something for supper.”

Bilbo hesitated, casting a wary glance toward the shadowed trees just beyond their camp. He hadn’t planned on having company, but if he was being honest, the idea of tramping through unfamiliar woods alone, so close to dusk, set his nerves on edge. Yes, he decided, Kili’s company was a welcome, if unexpected, development.

“Suit yourself,” he said, striving for nonchalance. “Just don’t go trampling over my mushrooms.”

Kili’s grin widened, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he slung his bow over one shoulder. “Don’t worry, Master Baggins. I swear I won’t step on any of your precious mushrooms,” he replied.

They fell into step together, slipping away from the camp and into the cool shade of the forest. The air shifted as they walked deeper under the canopy, carrying the sharp, woody scent of oak mingled with the rich smell of damp earth. Birds chirped softly, their songs lazy and subdued as they settled for the night, and every now and again, a breeze would stir the leaves overhead, sending dappled patterns of light shifting across the ground.

Bilbo inhaled deeply, letting the familiar scents wash over him. It was comforting, the smell of wet bark, old leaves, and distant flowers. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was back in the Shire, wandering through the woods near Hobbiton with nothing but a basket and a carefree afternoon ahead of him.

He scanned the forest floor with a practiced eye, his gaze flitting over patches of moss and clusters of ferns. Years of foraging had taught him what to look for: the soft upheaval of dirt where mushrooms might sprout, the pale caps peeking from beneath rotting logs, or the telltale glisten of fungi nestled in damp, shaded hollows.

Kili walked beside him with the easy grace of someone at home in the wild. His bow rested lightly in his hand, and his keen eyes flitted over their surroundings, ever alert. Despite his playful demeanor, Bilbo noted the subtle tension in the young dwarf’s movements—the practiced way he distributed his steps to avoid snapping twigs underfoot. 

“I hunted all the time back home,” Kili said casually, his voice low enough not to disturb the quiet around them. He kept his eyes on the ground and surrounding underbrush, occasionally glancing at the trees. “In the Blue Mountains. My brother and I used to set traps near the forest’s edge or track deer when we had the time.”

Bilbo hummed in response, intrigued. “You must be quite good at it, then,” he remarked, trying to picture the two brothers in those distant, snow-covered mountains.

Kili grinned, eyes lighting up with pride. “I like to think so. It’s not just the hunting I enjoyed, though. The forests there are beautiful. The pines grow tall and strong, their dark green needles reaching for the sky, standing proudly on rocky slopes. And in the morning, when the sun hits just right, it’s like the whole place glows—mist hanging low, clinging to the rocks and trees, while the peaks rise above it all. You can hear the wind whistle through the trees and the rocks, almost like they’re talking to each other.”

Bilbo nodded, a pang of longing stirring in his chest at the thought. There was something in the way Kili spoke that made him yearn for those places, even though he had never seen them. “It sounds wonderful,” he murmured. “I’d like to see it someday.”

“I’ll take you there after the quest,” he promised, and though his tone was light, Bilbo could tell he meant it.

“I’m good at tracking animals,” Kili continued with a note of pride, his eyes scanning the forest around them. “But plants and trees... well, I never learned much about them unless they had something to do with hunting—like what’s good for cover, what animal likes to eat what, and which berries won’t poison you when you want a snack.”

Bilbo chuckled softly at that, “It’s the opposite for me. I could tell you all about the plants—what’s useful for cooking or healing, or which flowers bloom in which season—but when it comes to tracking animals, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Kili’s grin at him. “Come here. I’ll show you. ”

He knelt beside a patch of soft earth, motioning for Bilbo to join him. Bilbo hesitated but followed, the grass brushing against his calves as he knelt awkwardly beside Kili on the soft earth. “See this?” Kili pointed to two oblong impressions pressed into the dirt. “That’s a deer track.”

Bilbo squinted at the marks. They looked like nothing more than vague dents to his untrained eye. “How can you tell?”

Kili smiled, clearly enjoying the role of teacher. His enthusiasm was infectious, and Bilbo found himself leaning in even further, eager to understand. “Look at the shape. It’s a bit heart-shaped, with two points at the front. That’s the split in the hoof.” His finger traced the edges of the mark, slow and deliberate. “And here—” Kili gestured to two faint indentations behind the main print, barely visible in the dirt—“those are the dewclaws. They leave marks when the deer lands hard. That means it was running.”

Bilbo’s brows furrowed as he leaned even closer, studying the tiny details Kili pointed out. It was like reading a story written in the dirt, he realized, marveling at how something so subtle could hold so much information. “What was it running from?”

Kili shrugged, glancing around. “Could’ve been anything—a predator, a loud noise, or the smell of something in the air. Deer are easily startled.”

He stood and moved a few paces ahead, pointing toward a broken branch. “See how this twig is snapped and the branches are all leaning slightly away from us? That’s another sign. A deer brushed past it in a hurry, bushing through the branches and snapping some of them.”

Bilbo nodded slowly, impressed. “I’d never have noticed any of that.”

Kili flashed him a grin over his shoulder. “It takes practice, but once you know what to look for, it’s hard not to see it.” 

They walked a little farther, the forest around them alive with the rustling of leaves and the distant call of birds. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke—a reminder of the company’s camp not far behind them. 

Kili crouched again, motioning for Bilbo to join him. “Now, this—” he pointed to a faint pawprint beneath a tangle of leaves—“is a fox print.”

Bilbo peered over Kili’s shoulder, squinting at the mark. “How can you tell?”

“See the central pad here?” Kili tapped the print gently with a finger. “And the four oval toes surrounding it? See how there’s a bit of space between the toes and the pad? That’s how you know it’s a fox. Dog prints, or wolves for that matter, are heavier and more spread out. Fox tracks are more delicate.”
Bilbo tilted his head, studying the print with newfound appreciation. “And this fox… what would it be doing here?
“Hunting mice, probably,” Kili answered with a casual shrug. “Foxes stick to the undergrowth. They don’t leave much of a trail unless you know how to read the signs.” He pointed toward a patch of leaves scattered across the path. "See how the leaves are disturbed? That’s from it pouncing. They leap when they hunt—like this.” Kili waved his hand in an arc, mimicking the fox’s leap.

“I’ve seen them do that a few times,” Bilbo remarked, a small smile tugging at his lips as a memory surfaced—foxes darting across the fields near Hobbiton, their sleek forms vanishing into the underbrush with a flick of their tails. “They hunt by scent and sound, don’t they?”

Kili nodded. “Aye. Their hearing’s sharp—they can even hear a mouse moving under snow.”

They wandered deeper into the forest, Kili pointing out faint tracks in the soft earth and explaining what each one revealed. They found more deer tracks, a flattened area of grass where a herd had rested, and a set of badger prints worn into the earth along what Kili called a ‘run’—a well-used path between the badger’s den and its feeding ground.

Down by a narrow stream, Kili crouched beside a scattering of overturned rocks. “Raccoon tracks,” he said, tracing a line from the prints to the disturbed stones. “They’ll flip rocks like this looking for food—crayfish, frogs, anything small enough to catch.”

Bilbo marveled at the wealth of knowledge Kili carried, impressed by the dwarf’s sharp eyes and easy confidence. It was fascinating to learn these small things—like adding new stitches to an old quilt, each small thing they discovered weaving itself into the broader tapestry of the world around them.

In return, Bilbo shared what he knew about the forest around them. They followed the path along the stream until Bilbo stopped near a tree with a tangled knot of roots spilling from the ground. “Take a look at those roots there—see how they’ve tangled themselves up with the roots of the tree next to them?” He knelt by the roots, tapping one with his knuckles. “It’s not just a mess—they actually fuse together, sharing water and whatever else they need.” 

Kili looked at him, eyes wide. "Trees help each other?"

"Oh, yes." Bilbo patted the nearest root affectionately. “Trees understand that every single one of them is important. They’ll reach out, lending a bit of strength to their neighbors, just to keep the whole forest healthy. It’s not just about surviving alone – it’s about making sure everything thrives together.”

Kili rested a hand on the root, "Like a family, then?"

Bilbo’s smile widened. "Exactly. They know they can’t thrive alone—so they look after one another."

They continued along the stream, the quiet hum of the forest settling around them. Birds chattered overhead, their songs weaving through the rustling leaves. Bilbo stopped beside a tree with thick, scarred bark and ran his fingers along the ridges, feeling the rough texture beneath his palm.

“You know,” he said, “trees aren’t so different from people—at least, not in some ways. Take bark, for instance. If you look close, you’ll see little marks here and there—cuts, knots, odd patches where the bark’s thicker or rougher. Those are scars, just like the ones we get on our skin. And, like ours, every scar tells a story.”

He traced a long, jagged line that snaked up the trunk, his fingertips brushing the rough edges. “This one here—this is from a lightning strike. You can tell by how it runs straight down the trunk, almost like a bolt carved through it.” His hand followed the scar, feeling the way the bark dipped inward where the strike had blasted the tree’s outer layer apart. “See how the edges curl outward? That’s because the lightning caused the bark to explode.”

Kili leaned in closer, studying the tree with newfound interest, his fingers brushing the bark. Bilbo tilted his head up, studying the scar. The wound was raw near the top, a long gash that looked like the bark had been ripped away, exposing pale wood underneath, smooth but scarred like an old burn. Dark streaks flanked the scar’s edges, remnants of where the lightning had scorched the wood, and little ridges had formed along the wound, like layers of skin trying to knit themselves back together. Toward the edges, new bark clung to the wound—pale, thin, and papery, like the scab of a healing cut. 

Kili followed Bilbo’s gaze. “It’s incredible that something could survive that,” he murmured.

Bilbo smiled, “It didn’t just survive.”  He tapped lightly on the scar where new bark had begun to form. “See how the edges curl outward? That means the lightning strike happened a long time ago. If it were recent, the wood would still be raw—splintered and jagged like an open wound. It’s healing, little by little, though you can see how the bark won’t ever lie flat again.”

Kili's fingers followed Bilbo's gesture, tracing the darkened streaks where lightning had burned the wood, then shifted to the edges where new bark fought to knit the tree back together.

They moved on, leaving the stream and soon another tree caught Bilbo’s eye, and he led Kili toward it, tapping the rough bark with a finger. “This type of scar is called a frost crack.” He ran his fingers along the narrow split that stretched from the base of the tree up along the trunk, its edges raised and jagged. “See how it runs thin from the base, widens in the middle, and then thins out again near the top? In winter, the wood inside freezes and expands. Sometimes, when it’s too much for the bark to handle, it splits open."

Kili crouched to get a closer look, his dark eyes glittering with interest. He ran his fingers along the crack’s ridges, lips quirking into a small, thoughtful smile. “Like ice breaking rock,” he said, glancing up at Bilbo.

"Exactly." Bilbo smiled, impressed by the dwarf’s quick understanding. “And just like with the lightning scar, the tree will try to heal. You can see where it’s managed to seal part of the crack—here, where the bark is smooth and unbroken. But sometimes…” His fingers lingered on the rough, uneven edges of the wound, “...some wounds are too deep, too stubborn to heal properly.”

Kili nodded, his expression momentarily somber. He looked up at the tree, his hand still resting on the bark. “Just like us,” he said softly, running his hand along the scar.

Bilbo blinked, surprised by the depth in Kili’s words. He wasn’t used to the young dwarf being quite so introspective. He opened his mouth to respond but found that no words came. Instead, he let the silence settle around them, comfortable and unspoken.

As they continued walking, they fell into a comfortable rhythm, their conversation punctuated by the sounds of the forest—the rustling leaves, the songs of birds, the gentle creak of branches in the wind. 

________________________________________________________________________

By the time they made their way back toward camp, Kili’s game bag swung at his side, filled with two rabbits and a pheasant, and Bilbo’s sack of mushrooms hung comfortably from his hand, pleasantly heavy with the day’s haul. It had been a surprisingly fruitful outing—even better than he’d expected. He smiled to himself, thinking of the spoils tucked away inside. Clouded funnel, horse mushrooms, a few giant puffballs, and an impressive amount of oyster mushrooms. A respectable haul, if he said so himself. 

He reached into the sack and plucked an oyster mushroom, holding it up for Kili to inspect. The smooth, pale cap gleamed slightly in the dimming light. "Here, try this one," he offered, tilting the mushroom toward the young dwarf. "It’s safe for you to eat, I promise."

Kili raised an eyebrow, glancing warily at the mushroom. “You sure about that?” he asked, his tone half-joking but with an edge of genuine skepticism, likely remembering Gandalf’s earlier warnings about hobbits and mushrooms.

“Absolutely,” Bilbo insisted, his tone steady. He waved the mushroom a little closer to Kili’s face. “Oyster mushrooms have a texture similar to meat. You’ll like it.”

Kili hesitated for a moment longer, his eyes darting from Bilbo’s face to the mushroom. Then, with a small shrug, he plucked it from Bilbo’s hand and took a tentative bite. There was a heartbeat of silence as Kili chewed thoughtfully. Then his expression brightened, eyes going wide in surprise. "Not bad!" he exclaimed, already taking another bite. "You're right—it’s almost like eating chicken!"

Bilbo smiled, pleased with the reaction. “Well, I found plenty more of them, so I suppose I can give some to Bombur for dinner." He shook the sack playfully. "They’re even better when cooked, after all."

Kili nodded eagerly, his smile widening. “Bombur’s going to love that. He’ll make something amazing with these.”

The thought of a hot meal—mushrooms sautéed to perfection, perhaps in a thick stew with the game Kili had caught—made Bilbo’s stomach rumble in anticipation.

As they continued through the woods, the forest seemed to shift around them, its mood softening with the encroaching dusk. The lively birdsong that had accompanied them earlier faded into a series of sporadic chirps, as if the birds were saying their final goodnights. The shadows between the trees stretched long and deep, draping the forest in cool twilight.

Bilbo drew in a deep breath, savoring the damp, earthy scent that filled the air—a mix of moss, decaying leaves, and wet bark. It was a smell that reminded him of home, of evenings spent in his garden with a cup of tea, watching as the sky melted into twilight. There was a comfort in it, a sense that no matter how far from the Shire he wandered, certain things would always feel familiar. 

The smell of woodsmoke greeted them as they neared the edge of the camp, curling through the cool evening air. It mingled with the faint sounds of the company—low voices, the clink of cooking pots, and the occasional burst of laughter carried on the breeze.

Kili picked up his pace, energized by the promise of food and company. "Come on, Bilbo!" he called over his shoulder, his voice bright with excitement as they emerged from the trees. "Let’s see what Bombur makes of your mushrooms!"

Bilbo chuckled softly, unable to resist Kili’s infectious enthusiasm. "Yes, let’s," he agreed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

With a satisfied sigh, Bilbo slung his mushroom sack over one shoulder and followed Kili toward the fire, the comforting murmur of camp life rising to meet him.

Chapter Text

Bilbo woke before dawn, grimacing as a sharp rock dug stubbornly into the small of his back. It had worked its way beneath his blanket sometime during the night, and now it seemed determined to make itself a permanent part of his spine. He shifted left, then right, trying to dislodge the offending lump, but each movement only seemed to prod at new knots in his muscles, sending dull aches radiating through his limbs. Eventually, he gave up with a frustrated huff, resigning himself to the fact that sleep had well and truly abandoned him for the rest of the morning.

“Blast it,” he muttered under his breath, shoving the blanket off with a bit more force than necessary. The cold morning air slipped beneath his clothes, biting at his skin like an unwelcome reminder of how far he was from the comforts of his bed at Bag End. 

“Wonderful,” he grumbled under his breath, rubbing slow circles into his lower back. He shot a glare at the offending rock as if sheer willpower might make it disappear. Alas, the rock remained stubbornly embedded in the earth, unmoved by his displeasure.

He sighed, looking up to find the sky still trapped in that peculiar shade of twilight where night and morning blur together. It was a soft, velvety gray that hinted at the promise of dawn just beyond the horizon.

Bilbo sighed again, running a hand through his unruly curls. There was no sense in trying to sleep now. His mind was already too awake, busy cataloging every ache and discomfort like a fussy gardener inspecting wilting flowers. A walk, he decided, might help loosen the stiffness in his limbs—and perhaps improve his mood. There was something peaceful about the world before anyone else was stirring—a moment of quiet before the day began in earnest.

He stretched his arms over his head, groaning softly as his joints popped with the satisfying crackle of old hinges. 

He cast a glance toward the remnants of the campfire, where Thorin, Balin, Dwalin, and Gandalf had already gathered. Thorin's expression was unreadable as always, but he gave a brief, curt nod when their eyes met, Balin met Bilbo’s gaze with a small smile, Gandalf tipped his hat in that infuriatingly cheerful way of his, and Dwalin merely grunted—a noise that Bilbo had come to recognize as the closest thing to friendliness one could expect from the warrior before breakfast. 

Bilbo offered a small wave in return as he left the camp but didn't bother explaining his intentions. He doubted anyone would care to join him and, frankly, he preferred the solitude at the moment.

The forest greeted him with a quiet contentment, as if still stretching after a long, much-needed nap. Every branch and leaf seemed refreshed, washed clean by the rain. He felt it beneath his feet too—a subtle hum in the soil, a gentle pulse of satisfaction. The soil, refreshed by the storm, whispered promises of healthy roots and budding leaves, and Bilbo felt its contentment in the marrow of his bones. This forest—so different from the Shire but still achingly familiar—welcomed him with open arms, as if recognizing a kindred spirit. The feeling warmed Bilbo from the inside out, easing the last traces of his earlier frustration.

As he walked, the forest slowly woke around him. The birds had already begun their morning songs, filling the air with delicate threads of melody. Robins chirped bright, cheerful notes from low branches, while blackbirds added sharp, insistent calls from the canopy above. Somewhere nearby, a woodpecker drummed against a distant trunk, adding a steady rhythm to the lively chorus. Each sound folded into the next, creating a gentle chorus that seemed to rise and fall with the breeze, like waves upon a quiet shore.

The path beneath his feet twisted gently through the trees, drawing him deeper into the forest until he reached a small clearing. In the center stood an old oak stump, gnarled and weathered by years of wind and rain. Its roots twisted into the ground, half-buried in moss, like fingers clutching at the soil. 

Bilbo ran his hand along the stump’s surface as he passed, the wood cool and smooth under his palm. He imagined the tree that had once stood here, tall and proud, sheltering the creatures of the forest with its wide branches. Even in death, it remained a part of the forest's tapestry, contributing in its quiet way to the land’s well-being.

With a contented sigh, Bilbo lowered himself onto the stump, rolling his shoulders as he settled into a comfortable position. He tilted his head back, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the forest wrap around him like a familiar old blanket. The rustling of leaves in the breeze, the gentle babble of a nearby stream, the soft murmur of birdsong—all of it mixed together into a soothing lullaby. He could feel the forest's contentment—a soft hum beneath the surface, like the purr of a well-fed cat.

A sudden squawk jolted Bilbo out of his reverie, the sound sharp against the tranquil hum of the forest. His eyes snapped open to find a magpie glaring down at him from a low-hanging branch, feathers ruffled and puffed with unmistakable indignation. The bird’s black-and-white plumage shone faintly in the dim pre-dawn light, its beak parted as though scolding him for daring to exist in its domain.

“Well, good morning to you too,” Bilbo muttered, lifting an eyebrow and smiling slightly at the bird's obvious displeasure. 

The bird responded with a sharp chirrup, fluttering a few inches farther down the branch. It shuffled in place, rustling its feathers with the air of someone deeply inconvenienced before flying away. 

A soft rustling in the underbrush to Bilbo’s right caught his attention. Two sparrows burst free, wings a blur as they spiraled through the cool air in playful loops, their excited chattering a bright counterpoint to the magpie’s grumbling. He watched them twirl and dance, a small, contented smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

High above, a chickadee’s familiar fee-bee call drifted through the air, sweet and clear. Bilbo glanced toward the sound, and a moment later, the tiny bird appeared, fluttering down to perch delicately on a thin twig just a few feet away.

"Good morning little one.” he murmured softly. “Am I interrupting your morning routine too?"

The chickadee cocked its tiny head to one side, black-beaded eyes gleaming with curiosity. For a moment, it seemed to consider his question, as though judging whether the hobbit’s presence was an affront or a novelty. Then it chirped once in response—a cheerful, inquisitive sound that made Bilbo chuckle under his breath.

Another visitor soon joined the gathering—a small warbler, flitting down to settle on a nearby branch. It puffed out its bright yellow chest and let out a merry trill, as if pleased to participate in the morning’s events.

“Quite the audience today,” Bilbo whispered with a grin, glancing between the warbler and the chickadee. The warbler gave a brisk nod of approval before hopping up to a higher perch, satisfied with its brief inspection of the hobbit.

Then, to Bilbo’s surprise, the chickadee fluttered closer, landing lightly on his shoulder. He blinked, freezing in place, unwilling to startle the bold little creature.

“Well, aren’t you brave?” he whispered, his smile widening as he felt the delicate press of tiny claws through the wool of his coat.

The chickadee chirped twice, a sound that seemed almost smug, as though it took great pride in its audacity.

Bilbo let out a soft, contented sigh, sinking deeper into the forest’s quiet rhythm. The sounds of birdsong layered around him—chirps, whistles, and trills blending into a gentle symphony, each note carrying the promise of the day ahead. A breeze stirred the air, cool and fragrant with the scent of damp earth and leaves, ruffling the edges of Bilbo’s coat. The forest hummed with life, as familiar and comforting as the fire crackling in a hearth at home.

The quiet calm of the forest settled over him, easing the lingering ache in his muscles and soothing the nagging thoughts that always seemed to trail after him. There was no rush here, no pressing tasks or expectations. Just the forest, slowly waking around him, its ancient rhythm carrying on with or without him.

From the corner of his eye, Bilbo noticed another rustle in the underbrush. A rabbit emerged, its long ears twitching as it gave a lazy stretch, hind foot scratching at its nose. The rabbit gave a delicate sniff, whiskers quivering as it tested the air, then ambled closer, pausing just a few inches from Bilbo’s feet, its soft, dark eyes gleaming with mild curiosity.

Bilbo remained perfectly still, not wanting to disturb his tiny visitors. The rabbit, apparently satisfied that Bilbo posed no threat, gave a dismissive flick of its tail and turned to nibble at a patch of grass, its quiet munching blending into the soft rustle of leaves stirred by the breeze.

A sliver of golden light slipped over the horizon, spilling through the branches and spilling onto the forest floor in warm, golden ribbons. The last traces of mist lifted from the ground, curling like silver smoke before vanishing into the warming air. As the forest awoke fully, more birds joined the morning chorus, their melodies weaving into a vibrant tapestry of sound, bright and alive, celebrating the arrival of the new day.

The soft crunch of footsteps on dry leaves drifted from behind him, and Bilbo’s ears perked slightly at the sound. He didn’t move—didn’t want to startle the chickadee or the rabbit. The footsteps stopped just at the edge of the clearing, and whoever it was stood there in silence, watching.

The sun climbed a little higher, warming the back of Bilbo’s neck as he sat quietly, basking in the peace of the forest. The chickadee chirped softly in his ear, and Bilbo smiled to himself, thinking how ridiculous he must look—a hobbit sitting in the woods with a bird on his shoulder and a rabbit nibbling at his feet.

Eventually, the unseen figure shifted, the soft crunch of leaves signaling their departure. Bilbo didn’t turn to look. There was something comforting in the knowledge that someone—probably Balin—had come to check on him. They must have been making sure he hadn’t wandered too far or gotten himself into any sort of trouble. It was a considerate gesture, really, even if a bit odd that they hadn’t said anything.

The rabbit gave a lazy hop, disappearing back into the underbrush with a soft rustle. The chickadee chirped twice in farewell, a bright little sound that made Bilbo’s heart lift, before it flitted off his shoulder in a blur of feathers. He watched as it disappeared into the canopy, vanishing among the oak leaves and morning light.

Bilbo stretched, raising his arms above his head until he felt the satisfying pull of his muscles waking up. A contented hum settled deep in his bones, a quiet reminder of how much he treasured moments like this. No rush, no fuss—just the forest and the gentle unfolding of the morning, as easy and familiar as a second breakfast at home.

It was time to head back to camp, though part of him wished he could linger here just a little longer, listening to the forest and letting the world wake up around him. But there would be breakfast waiting—hopefully something hot—and the others would be wondering where he’d gone.

With one last glance at the sun-dappled clearing, Bilbo turned and made his way back through the trees, his footsteps soft on the forest floor. A sense of quiet contentment followed him, as though the forest itself had granted him a moment of peace to carry with him for the rest of the day.

___________________________________________________________________

The company had stopped for lunch, settling into a small, sun-dappled clearing just off the road. It was one of those spots that practically begged you to stay a while, the kind of idyllic place that made you momentarily forget about deadly quests and fire-breathing dragons. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting warm patches on the forest floor that danced with the gentle sway of the leaves above. 

Around her, the dwarves—along with Bilbo and Gandalf—had fallen into a comfortable lull, each busying themselves in some way. Ori had his nose buried in his sketchbook, Kili was sharpening his sword, and Nori was trying, and failing, to swipe a piece of dried fruit from Bombur, who caught him each time with a surprisingly sharp side-eye.

Freya had found herself a comfortable patch of grass, grateful for the chance to sit down and give her aching legs a break. She stretched them out, feeling the tightness in her calves complain before grudgingly easing. The sun on her face was a welcome relief, and for a blissful moment, she let herself close her eyes and just exist. The sounds of camp life surrounded her: the rustling leaves, the metallic clink of utensils, and the occasional snort from one of the ponies. It was almost—almost—peaceful.

She opened her eyes and spotted Thorin, standing apart from the group. He looked like he’d prefer setting trees on fire with sheer rage over enjoying a lunch break. His glare was so intense Freya half-expected a nearby bush to combust. She shook her head slightly. Nope, not touching that with a ten-foot pole. The rest of the company seemed to agree, they had adopted a collective strategy of tiptoeing around him with looks that practically screamed, “Please don’t smite me.” Even Dwalin, who normally took Thorin’s moods like a champ, seemed content to ignore the king and busy himself with sharpening his axes on a stone near the fire.

Freya took another bite of her lunch, and decided not to worry about His Royal Broodiness. She’d seen enough grim expressions in her life to know when to steer clear. She finished her lunch, wiped her hands on her pants, and decided it was as good a time as any to brush up on the Common words she’d managed to pick up. Maybe if she stared at her journal long enough, something would stick.

She reached for her bag, ready to retrieve her journal, but as her fingers curled around the strap, it suddenly gave way with a sharp snap.

“Oh, fantastic,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at the limp strap dangling from her hand, its frayed edge mocking her. Great. Just what she needed. She gave the strap a half-hearted shake, as if it might magically decide to reattach itself. It did not.

“Fili,” she called, letting the strap dangle pathetically from her fingers. “Help .”

Fili’s head popped up from where he was leaning against a tree, a mostly-eaten apple in one hand. His blue eyes twinkled with a mix of curiosity and amusement as he took in her predicament. He tossed the apple core behind him, brushing his hands on his trousers as he walked over with that easy, boyish grin of his. “ What have you done now ?” he teased, though his eyes softened when he saw the frayed edges.

His smile faded into something more thoughtful as he took the bag from her. His fingers traced over the frayed edge, turning it over to inspect the damage. “ Hold on ,” he said, glancing around before raising his voice. “Bifur!”

Bifur, seated not far off and tinkering with a small metal contraption, perked up at the sound of his name. Curiosity flashed across his face as he rose, brushing off bits of metal and wood shavings before making his way over. 

Fili gestured at the strap, handing the bag over with a slight nod. “ Think you can do anything with this ?” he asked.

Bifur took the bag with a nod, his calloused thumb brushing over the frayed edges as he assessed the damage. After a moment of consideration, he handed the bag back to Fili and signed something in Iglishmêk, his gestures swift and confident. 

Freya’s eyes went wide as excitement sparked inside her chest. She’d seen Bifur sign before, but never this closely. This was actual Iglishmêk—real dwarven sign language, right here in front of her! One of those intricate, beautiful details that Tolkien had woven into his stories, a piece of history and culture she never thought she’d witness firsthand.

She couldn’t resist trying it herself, her fingers itching to mimic the gestures she’d just seen. After a moment of hesitation, she lifted her hands. The gestures weren’t easy—her fingers fumbled through the sequence, far from the practiced, natural flow she’d seen in Bifur’s hands. Still, she powered through, feeling her cheeks heat as she fumbled from one sign to the next, painfully aware of her messy attempt.

Bifur’s eyes widened at her attempt, his bushy eyebrows lifting in visible surprise. His expression softened almost immediately, warmth spreading across his features as he watched her clumsy attempt. She didn’t know if he was amused or touched, but there was no mistaking the spark of encouragement in his gaze.

A grin spread across her face before she could stop it, a mix of pride and relief washing over her. She wasn’t exactly nailing it, but she was trying, and Bifur seemed to appreciate that. 

Encouraged, she decided to switch gears, falling back on what she actually knew: ASL. If she couldn’t mimic his signs, maybe she could at least show him her own version of sign language, something from her world to share in return.

She pointed to herself, tapping her chest with her index finger to indicate "I." Then she brought her fingertips to the side of her forehead, hand bent and palm facing down “KNOW.”  For “SOME,” she positioned one hand, palm up, and slid her other hand across it in a slow, gliding motion, like she was cutting something. Then, she lifted both hands, index fingers pointed towards each other, moving them in little circles in the air, demonstrating “SIGN.” She ended by tapping her chest with a flat hand for “MY,” then formed ‘L’ shapes with both hands, touching thumbs before moving them apart in a gentle wave for “LANGUAGE.”

Bifur’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly. There was a spark of curiosity lighting up his face as he watched her hands move—intense, but not intimidating, more like the way people get when staring at IKEA furniture instructions. It was the kind of focused attention you’d expect from someone trying to piece together an intricate puzzle without all the pieces. Beside him, Fili tilted his head like a confused golden retriever, clearly intrigued.

When she finished signing, Bifur turned back to Fili, his hands moving again in slow, deliberate gestures. It was different this time, almost exaggerated, as if he wanted to be certain she could follow along. Freya looked between them expectantly, her eyes practically drilling into Fili, who chuckled under the weight of her demanding stare. 

“Bifur likes your …” Fili hesitated, his brow furrowing in thought. “Signs .” he finally said, gesturing toward her hands so she’d catch his meaning. “ He would be happy to teach um, have you learn some Iglishmêk, if you want. "

“ Yes!” The word exploded out of her, louder than she intended. Heat rushed to her face, and she cringed inwardly at the outburst. But Fili and Bifur didn’t seem to mind. Their laughter—loud and unapologetically warm—softened the edges of her embarrassment.

“I want to learn. ”she said, quieter but just as earnest. She glanced between them, and the glimmer of approval in Fili’s eyes told her she’d done something right.

Bifur’s expression softened even further, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he signed to Fili, his movements still intentionally slow.

“He says he is happy you want to learn, ” Fili translated, his voice tinged with genuine delight. “He also wants to learn more of your signs. Your Iglishmêk.”

Freya’s chest tightened in the best way, her heart swelling so much it felt like her ribs might crack. “I want to!” she blurted out. “We can learn …” She faltered, her momentum crashing against the realization she didn’t know how to say ‘together’ in Common. Her teeth sank into her lip as frustration bubbled up, sharp and insistent. She wracked her brain, searching for a workaround. After a moment, she tried again, slower. “ I am happy to learn with you .” 

It wasn’t quite right—it didn’t have the exact meaning she wanted— but Bifur’s gentle nod and the warmth in his eyes told her it was close enough.

“Before you start learning we need to get your bag fixed.” Fili cut in, his voice laced with that ever-present mischief. His smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he gestured toward the strap that had started this whole conversation.

Freya’s gaze followed his hand to the bag in question, her cheeks heating. Right. The broken strap. She’d almost forgotten about it.

Bifur nodded and disappeared for a moment, leaving Freya and Fili in comfortable silence. He returned soon after, carrying a small, well-worn satchel and an assortment of tools that clinked softly as he settled beside them. Freya straightened, curiosity sparking as he settled beside them, laying out his tools.

She leaned closer, fascinated by the way his fingers moved—they moved with the kind of steady, practiced precision that came from years—maybe decades—of experience. Each motion deliberate, purposeful. She leaned closer without realizing it, completely absorbed as he worked the thread through the torn strap, his fingers never faltering.

In what felt like no time at all, the strap was as good as new, but Bifur wasn’t done. He rummaged through his satchel again, pulling out a small, intricately carved button shaped like a flower. With deft movements, he secured it in place, the lines of concentration on his face giving way to a look of quiet satisfaction as he handed the bag to her.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft but earnest, trying to cram as much gratitude as possible into the two little words. It didn’t feel like enough, so she followed it with a quick ASL sign for ‘thank you.’

Bifur blinked, his expression shifting to one of interest. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he mimicked her gesture. His movements were a little clumsy, but the effort behind them made Freya’s heart squeeze. Bifur paused, his expression turning thoughtful, before signing something else. His movements this time were precise, deliberate—just like his work with the thread.

“He’s showing you how to say ‘thank you’ in Iglishmêk.”  Fili explained, his voice warm and encouraging as he translated.

Freya’s heart swelled again, so much it was starting to feel unfair. Her cheeks ached from the grin spreading across her face as she clumsily tried to mimic Bifur’s gesture. Her hands shook a little, the sign coming out more wobbly than graceful, but Bifur’s soft smile and approving nod told her it didn’t matter. Trying was enough.

______________________________________________________

Freya felt every single bump and jostle from the pony’s stride, each one a firm reminder that her body was not, nor would it ever be, built for horseback riding. The ache in her back was already making an appearance, and it was clearly here to stay. 

At least Fili was there. His arm, snug around her waist, provided a reassuring anchor—part shield against gravity’s occasional attempts to throw her sideways, part heat source. 

Sunlight filtered lazily through the canopy above, dappling the forest floor with patches of light and shadow. It was…nice. Really nice. She inhaled deeply, letting the earthy smell of leaves and damp soil fill her lungs. If only her spine would stop screaming, she could maybe enjoy it without fantasizing about heated vests and ibuprofen.

Freya shook herself mentally. Focus. She was supposed to be being productive. Bifur was riding alongside to teach her some Iglishmêk with Fili still acting as her personal translator. Although Bofur and Kili had also joined in to help with that task. 

She watched as Bifur, riding alongside, lifted one hand, moving slowly so Freya could catch every detail. He pointed to himself, then traced a small circle over his chest.

“That means ‘How are you? ’” Fili explained, his voice low but clear, blending with the rustling leaves and the clop of hooves.

Freya nodded, trying to mirror the motion with her own hand. Point, circle. Easy enough—or it should have been. Her hand wobbled slightly, the pony’s uneven steps throwing her off, but Bifur’s patient, encouraging nod made her feel like she hadn’t completely botched it. 

“Good start, ” Fili murmured, his arm tightening briefly around her in a reassuring squeeze. It was the kind of casual gesture that felt as grounding as it was comforting. A nonverbal you’ve got this.

Renewed determination flickered to life, and Freya tried again. She focused on each part of the motion—point, circle—her fingers moving with slightly more precision this time, the tremor in her fingers smoothing out. When she glanced up, Bifur was smiling—a broad, genuine smile that lit up his whole face. She grinned back, a surge of satisfaction sparking in her chest.

Bifur moved on to the next sign with the same steady patience. He touched his chest, then made a motion that was somewhere between a wave and a thumbs-up. 

 “That one means ‘I am good .’” Fili explained.

Freya repeated the phrase under her breath as she mimicked the motions. Her fingers felt stiff, like her body was actively rejecting the concept of grace, but she made it through the sign without too much trouble. Progress! She looked at Bifur expectantly, and when he gave her an approving nod, her heart did a little fist pump.

“ Yer gettin’ it! ” Bofur’s voice called out from behind, cheerful and encouraging as ever. Freya narrowed her eyes slightly at the word gettin . What did that mean exactly? His tone was encouraging, so it had to be something positive. Maybe ‘doing well’? ‘Getting there’? Either way, she decided to mentally toss it into her collection of maybe-Common words. If she was wrong, well, future Freya could deal with the embarrassment.

Twisting just enough to glance back at him, she flashed a quick smile. Her back protested the movement, but she ignored it. “Thank you!” she called out, doing her best to sign the phrase as well. Her fingers fumbled halfway through, but the grin that spread across Bofur’s face made up for the awkward attempt. He looked downright proud of her. If dwarves handed out gold stars, she was pretty sure she’d have one by now. 

And oof that thought was like a knife to the chest. She and her mom had a running joke of saying they got a gold star whenever they did something they were supposed to do, like unloading the dishwasher, or taking out the trash. She quickly pushed that aside before it could hurt more. Telling herself to focus on the moment.

Thankfully, Kili saved her from sinking too deep into her thoughts. He nudged his pony closer, the mischievous glint in his eyes already promising trouble. “ Now for an important one.” he said with a playful grin. Freya furrowed her brow, ‘now for a _____ one’. Was it something that mattered? A big deal?   “Bifur, show her ‘I am hungry.’ We can’t skip that .”

Another new word. Freya tilted her head. Kili’s tone was light and teasing, so maybe it meant something like ‘miss’ or ‘ignore’? If it did, that would absolutely check out with his sense of humor. She snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. Of course Kili would consider “I am hungry” a linguistic priority. If survival hinged on vocabulary, food-related phrases would probably be at the top of his list.

Bifur’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he nodded, clearly entertained by Kili’s antics. He tapped his stomach and then mimed scooping invisible food into his mouth, exaggerating the motions enough to make Freya laugh.

As Freya’s laughter died down, she noticed Bilbo guiding his pony closer, a thoughtful expression settling over his features. He glanced between Bifur and Freya, he tilted his head, curiosity and a hint of nerves playing across his face. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Might  I join your lesson-? I’d… well, I’d like to learn Iglishmêk too. You know, to talk to Bifur properly.”

Freya blinked, her brain stuttering as it tried to keep up with Bilbo’s words. Might. Lesson. Properly. Nope, not happening. Too many unknowns. Her poor, overworked brain threw up its hands in protest. Still, between Bilbo’s earnest tone and the way he gestured vaguely toward Bifur, she pieced together the gist of it. He wanted to learn Iglishmêk too.

Bifur’s eyes lit up, and he glanced at Bofur, and they exchanged a look—a quick flicker of surprise and happiness, as though they’d stumbled upon something unexpectedly delightful. Freya couldn’t help but feel that this simple moment carried more weight than it seemed.

Bifur turned back, his movements fluid as he nodded eagerly and signed something. Fili caught the gestures and smiled. “ He says, ‘Of course, you’re more than welcome to join us, Bilbo.’ ”

“Wonderful !” Bilbo said, his face brightening. “ Right then, where do we start ?”

Fili shifted his pony to the side, letting Bilbo see Bifur more clearly. “Let’s start with something simple. Bifur, show us ‘yes’ and ‘no’ ”

For ‘yes,’ he brought his index and middle fingers together to touch his thumb, forming a pinching motion before tilting his hand forward slightly.

Bifur gave an encouraging grunt and held up his hand again, this time showing ‘no’. His fingers formed a loose fist again, but this time he flicked his thumb downward sharply.

Freya tilted her head, analyzing the motion. It looked easy enough. The movement felt a bit clumsy, but she managed a decent approximation, or so she hoped. Behind her, Bilbo was doing the same, his brow knit in concentration.

Next, Bifur placed one hand flat against his chest and then extended it outward with a small push. “I am ready,” Fili translated. Freya tried the sign alongside Bilbo, her hands moving slower this time, trying to find the rhythm in the motion.

“You’re getting it, Bilbo!” Kili’s voice rang out, playful as ever. He reached over to give Bilbo a hearty slap on the shoulder, sending the hobbit lurching precariously. Bilbo grabbed the reins with a startled yelp, barely avoiding an unceremonious tumble. Bilbo shot Kili a glare, equal parts indignation and begrudging amusement. 

“You’ll pay for that,” Bilbo muttered, adjusting himself with as much dignity as he could muster. Freya snickered, earning a mock-scowl that made her laugh even harder.

Bifur wasn’t deterred by the chaos—if anything, he seemed to find it motivating. He moved on showing them how to sign for ‘good morning’. He raised a hand, touched it to his lips, then swept it outward in a gentle arc. Freya copied the motion and felt a spark of pride when she nailed it on the first try. 

She glanced at Bilbo, who was determinedly making the same motion, his brow furrowed with concentration. Just as he seemed to get it right, his pony shifted beneath him, throwing him off-balance. He wobbled, arms flailing, until Bofur caught him and steadied him with a hearty laugh.

“Thank you, Bofur,” Bilbo mumbled, cheeks pink.

“No problem, Bilbo,” Bofur replied, his grin as wide as ever.

The final signs of the day were 'I like this' and 'You did good.' For 'I like this,' Bifur tapped his heart and then gestured outward. Freya copied the movement, finding it surprisingly similar to an ASL sign she knew. Bilbo, despite wobbling once more, managed the gesture with a triumphant smile.

Bifur clapped when both students completed the sign to his satisfaction, a proud smile lighting up his face. Freya’s chest swelled with a flicker of accomplishment. Apparently, her clumsy approximation hadn’t been too embarrassing. Or maybe Bifur was just generous. Either way, she’d take the win.

Finally, Bifur demonstrated “You did good,” forming a fist and tapping it lightly against his chest before giving a thumbs-up. Freya repeated the gesture, her grin widening as Bifur nodded in approval. Beside her, Bilbo completed the motion with the same flourish, his earlier embarrassment forgotten in the glow of accomplishment. 

Chapter Text

Bilbo glanced around the campsite, making sure everyone was preoccupied before walking over to his pony, Myrtle. The pony lifted her head and snorted softly, her ears swiveling forward with interest as he fished an apple out of his pocket, its red skin glistening slightly in the firelight. 

“Hello, girl,” he murmured, his fingers brushing through the coarse strands of her mane.Myrtle accepted the treat with a loud, satisfied crunch, her breath warm against his hand. “That’s a good girl. It’s our little secret, Myrtle; you must tell no one.”

Myrtle flicked an ear, chewing noisily. Bilbo chuckled, reaching back into his pocket. His fingers brushed against another apple. Surely one more wouldn’t hurt? She deserved it, after all—putting up with his awkward mounting, incessant fidgeting, and complaints about his backside. She’d been far more patience than he probably deserved.

Just as he started to pull the apple free, a piercing scream shattered the quiet. The sound tore through him, sending a bolt of icy terror straight to his core. He froze, the apple slipping from his hand and landing on the ground with a dull thud.

“Oh dear,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

He stumbled back toward the fire. His heart was hammering so wildly that he was half-convinced it would burst right out of his chest. “What was that?” he asked nervously.

“Orcs,” Fili replied, his voice disturbingly nonchalant.

“Orcs?” Bilbo repeated, the word catching awkwardly in his throat. His stomach churned unpleasantly. 

“They’re throat-cutters,” Fili continued, eyes glinting as he exchanged a look with Kili. “There’ll be a dozen of them, give or take. The Lone-lands are crawling with them.”

Kili leaned forward, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. “They strike in the wee hours,” he added, his voice low and ominous. “When everyone’s asleep. Quick and quiet—no screams, just lots of blood.”

Bilbo swallowed hard. The pit of his stomach dropped, leaving an uncomfortable hollowness in its wake. He had no words, only the dawning realization that he was very far from Bag End and even further from safety.

Then, abruptly, Fili and Kili burst into laughter, their voices loud and jarring against the taut, brittle silence of the night.

“You think that’s funny?” Thorin’s voice cut through the laughter like a blade. Low, sharp, and cold.

Bilbo flinched, and the brothers stiffened, their grins vanishing as Thorin strode toward them. His movements were deliberate, his anger coiled and tightly controlled, but no less dangerous for it.

“You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?” Thorin growled, his voice dangerously low.

“W-We didn’t mean anything by it,” Fili stammered, his earlier confidence crumbling under the weight of Thorin’s glare. Beside him, Kili shifted uncomfortably, his grin long gone.

“No,” Thorin snapped, “you didn’t.” He stepped closer, towering over the pair, his fury barely restrained. “You know nothing of the world,” he spat before turning sharply and heading for the edge of the camp.

The silence left in Thorin’s wake felt suffocating. Fili and Kili sat with their heads bowed, their earlier bravado replaced by quiet shame. For a moment, Bilbo considered speaking, offering some sort of comfort, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Don’t mind him, laddie,” Balin said quietly, his voice cutting through the oppressive stillness. The elder dwarf’s tone carried a quiet sympathy that softened the sharp edges of the tension rippling through the camp. He eased into their circle, the flickering firelight casting deep shadows across his lined face. “Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs.”

Bilbo followed Balin’s gaze toward Thorin, who stood motionless at the edge of the camp, silhouetted against the dim horizon. There was something brittle in his stance, as though he were held together by sheer will alone. The weight he carried was visible even from a distance, and it tugged at something deep in Bilbo’s chest.

“After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain,” Balin began, his voice heavy with memories, “King Thror, Thorin’s grandfather, tried to reclaim the ancient kingdom of Moria. But our enemy got there first.”

There was no mistaking the gravity in the old dwarf’s tone, nor the pain that threaded through his words like an old wound reopened. Bilbo shifted slightly, his gaze fixed on Balin, drawn into the unfolding tale even as an unspoken heaviness settled over the camp. The dwarves, who had been scattered across their sleeping spots, began to stir, some sitting up while others leaned in closer to the fire.

Balin’s words painted a grim picture of desperation and loss: of a kingdom fallen, of legions of orcs led by Azog the Defiler, a name spoken with venom that seemed to darken the very air around the fire. Bilbo saw Freya flinch at the name.

“Azog swore to wipe out the line of Durin. He began…” Balin faltered, visibly struggling against the weight of the memory, “by taking the head of the King.”

The image struck Bilbo like a blow, vivid and horrifying. Though he’d never set foot on such a battlefield, he could see it with unsettling clarity: the chaos of war, the towering orc with its cruel sneer, and a proud king brought low. His stomach churned at the thought, a sickening mix of revulsion and sorrow. He swallowed hard, suddenly hyper aware of how little he belonged here, among these hardened souls and their stories of blood and loss.

“Thrain, Thorin’s father, was consumed by grief,” Balin went on, his voice quieter now, each word weighted with sorrow. “He disappeared—killed or taken prisoner. We never knew. We were leaderless, our numbers dwindling, death looming over us.”

Bilbo’s gaze flicked to Thorin, searching for some reaction, some crack in the stoic armor. But Thorin was still, as unmoving as a statue carved from stone. His face, bathed in the flicker of the firelight, betrayed nothing, yet there was something in the set of his shoulders—a rigidity that spoke of wounds long buried but never forgotten.

“And then I saw him,” Balin said, his voice softening, awe overtaking his sorrow, “a young prince standing alone, defiant in the face of the Pale Orc. He wielded nothing but a broken branch as a shield.”

Bilbo could almost see it: Thorin, much younger, his armor battered, his face set in grim determination, wielding a makeshift weapon against an unstoppable force. The thought made something stir in Bilbo—a flicker of admiration, maybe even awe. To stand against such odds, to inspire others in the midst of despair… it was a kind of strength he wasn’t sure he could understand, let alone possess.

“Azog learned that day,” Balin continued,  his voice swelling with pride, “that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken.”

The words brought a quiet murmur of agreement from the company. Balin continued, his voice swelling with both pride and pain. He spoke of the dwarves rallying to Thorin’s cry, of the battle turning in their favor. But his tone darkened as he recounted the cost. 

“There was no feast, no song, that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief.” he said, hollowly. “We few had survived.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down on Bilbo like a physical weight. Even the fire seemed to dim under the burden of Balin’s words. Around the circle, no one moved, no one spoke. The shared grief among the dwarves was a presence, raw and heavy, binding them in a way that Bilbo could never truly understand.

“When I saw the young prince framed in the sunlight, holding his oaken branch, I thought to myself, there is one I could follow,” Balin said, his voice thick with emotion. “There is one I could call king.”

Bilbo turned his gaze to Thorin, who stood apart, his back to the group. The firelight outlined his form against the darkness beyond the cliff, casting long shadows that seemed to merge with the night. There was no mistaking the respect in the eyes of the company. It was a reverence carved from pain, from shared grief, from a belief in the strength of one who had borne the unbearable and kept moving forward.

For a moment, Bilbo’s gaze lingered on Thorin, the firelight catching the faint glimmer of silver streaked through his dark hair. He looked not like the proud leader who had brusquely invited himself into Bag End but like someone who had carried the weight of a kingdom’s loss on his shoulders for far too long.

Bilbo’s chest tightened as he studied the dwarf. To lose so much—his home, his grandfather, his father—and yet find the will to keep going? It was staggering. Bilbo wasn’t sure he could ever understand that kind of strength.

A knot of emotion lodged itself in his throat, but he pushed it down, focusing on the fire instead. It was safer to look at than the dwarf—the king—standing just beyond it.

“And the Pale Orc?” Bilbo asked, his voice hesitant, breaking the thick silence. “What happened to him?”

A new voice cut through the silence, low and resolute. “He slunk back to the hole whence he came.” Thorin stepped into the firelight, his gaze steady as he looked toward Balin. “That filth died of his wounds long ago.”

The statement hung in the air, final and cold. The dwarves nodded solemnly, some exchanging looks of grim satisfaction. But as Bilbo glanced around, his eyes caught on Freya.

Her hands gripped her knees, her knuckles white, her face taut with some unspoken thought. She didn’t look relieved, like the others. No, there was something else there—something that gnawed at her, like she knew something the others didn’t.

______________________________________________

The fire crackled, spitting tiny sparks into the cold night air, but Freya might as well have been sitting in an industrial freezer for all the warmth it gave her.  She pressed her hands against her knees, nails digging into the fabric until they bit into her skin. It wasn’t much, but the faint sting helped keep her grounded. Because right now, here in the circle of firelight and the company’s quiet voices, she felt like she was unraveling.

She’d known this moment was coming. Balin’s story had been familiar, even if most of his words blurred into sounds she didn’t fully understand. She didn’t need the translation, anyway. The scene was playing on repeat in her head, crystal clear and in high-definition horror.

Then Thorin’s calm, resolute declaration that Azog was dead snapped her back into the present and sent a cold jolt through her chest.

Because he was wrong. So, so wrong.

Azog the Defiler wasn’t dead. Oh no, that hulking, snarling nightmare of an orc was alive, kicking, and probably sharpening his monstrous claw-hand as he waited for his and Thorin’s little ‘reunion’. Worse, she knew exactly when and where he’d make his grand entrance. Her stomach twisted painfully at the thought, the knowledge pressing down on her.

She could see it all too clearly: Azog looming in the firelight, every inch of him radiating malicious glee as he sneered down at Thorin. Back home, it had been just another climactic action scene, a spectacle of CGI villainy she’d watched from the safety of her couch. But now? It wasn’t a movie, but an impending, horrifying reality.

What the hell was she supposed to do? Stroll up to Thorin and casually mention, ‘Hey, so, funny story; Azog’s not actually dead. He’s alive, kicking, and oh yeah, actively plotting to kill you. Thought you should know.’

Yeah, that’d go over brilliantly.

Freya’s hands tightened on her knees, her knuckles aching as she tried to steady herself. She couldn’t imagine Thorin reacting well no matter how she broke the news.

She’d already seen flashes of his temper. That first night, when she’d been holding the map, his voice had cracked through the room like thunder. The storm in his eyes had been enough to leave her shrinking in her chair, swallowing the instinct to run. Thorin Oakenshield wasn’t just a character anymore. He was real—stubborn, fierce, and absolutely terrifying when angry.

How in the world was she supposed to tell Thorin that Azog, the orc who had torn his family apart was still alive? That the monster who had ripped Thror’s head from his shoulders, who had left Thrain shattered, hadn’t been brought to justice after all? How could she destroy his belief that he’d avenged his family, that he’d done right by their memories? Tell him that the triumph he’d carved from his grief and fury was nothing but a cruel, hollow lie? 

But she couldn’t just not tell him either. Her fingers tightened their grip as she imagined what would happen if she stayed silent. If she let him march forward with the false certainty that Azog was gone. The fallout would be catastrophic. Thorin might realize she’d known all along. He would be furious. More than furious. He would feel betrayed. She could almost hear his voice, sharp and accusing: ‘You knew? You knew and you didn’t tell us? You let us walk into this blind?’ 

The thought of his anger—cold and cutting, full of the weight of betrayal—made her insides twist into knots. She couldn’t let that happen.

Her gaze darted around the campfire, sweeping over the company. The dwarves were quiet, soaking in the weight of Balin’s story. Thankfully none of them seemed to notice her barely-contained spiral. But when her eyes flicked to Bilbo, she froze.

The hobbit was watching her. His head tilted slightly as if to say, ‘Are you okay?’ Freya looked away quickly, her pulse pounding in her ears. No, she was not okay. Not even a little bit.

She had two choices: tell Thorin now and face his wrath, or wait until Azog made his grand entrance and let all hell break loose. Either way, she was screwed.

But this wasn’t about her fear, was it? This was about Thorin, about the company, about their quest. They deserved to know that Azog was alive. Thorin deserved to know.

Her grip loosened slightly, her fingers uncurling with deliberate slowness. She dragged in a shaky breath, her chest tight as she stared into the flickering fire. If Thorin was going to be furious, then fine. Let him be furious. Let him rage and shout and glare daggers at her—as long as it kept him and the others from walking straight into Azog’s claws, unprepared. She could handle it. Probably. Maybe. 

Her gaze flicked back to Thorin. He was staring into the fire, his face a mask of stone. The flickering light cast shadows over the hard lines of his jaw, the set of his mouth, the weight of grief and rage carved into his brow.

This was going to suck. A lot. But she was going to do it anyway.

Freya braced herself, drawing in another deep, shaky breath that did absolutely nothing to shore up her courage. The fragile calm around the fire was teetering on the edge, and she was about to punt it straight into the abyss.

“Thorin.” Her voice cracked, but she forced the words out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But Azog…” She swallowed hard, the words threatening to choke her. “Azog is not dead. ”

The world stopped.

The fire hissed as a log shifted, sending a spark spiraling high into the night before fizzling into nothing. No one moved. No one breathed. Every pair of eyes locked onto her, wide and disbelieving, their combined weight pressing down on her like a boulder.

And then there was Thorin.

The king’s gaze snapped to her, the firelight flickering dangerously in his eyes. “What ?” His voice dropped into a low, menacing growl that sent a shiver racing down her spine. “What did you say ?”

Her chest tightened, ribs straining against the frantic pounding of her heart. She wanted to curl into herself, to let the earth swallow her whole, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. She needed them to believe her. They needed to know Azog was still out there, hunting them.

“Azog is not dead,” she repeated, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to keep it steady.

Thorin’s expression twisted, his features hardening into a mask of fury. “ How dare you ,” he snarled, venom lacing every syllable. He surged to his feet in one violent motion, and Freya couldn’t help the way she flinched. He loomed over her, a shadow blotting out the firelight. His fists shook at his sides, knuckles turning white, as if he were holding himself back from breaking something.

“ You know nothing ,” he spat, his voice shaking with barely contained rage. “Azog the Defiler is dead! I killed him at Azanulbizar.”

Her instincts screamed at her to retreat, to curl up and make herself as small as possible, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to hold her ground.

“I do know! ” The words tore out of her, raw and desperate, surprising even herself with their ferocity. Thorin froze, just for a moment, his anger faltering beneath the force of her shout.

“I know, ” she said again, quieter now but no less firm. Her hands trembled as she curled them tightly against her lap. “I saw Azanulbizar.” 

A ripple of unease passed through the company. She could feel their eyes on her, darting back and forth between her and Thorin. The air grew heavy, charged with the kind of tension that prickled against her skin like static.

“ You saw Azanulbizar?” Balin’s voice finally broke the stillness, soft and careful, as though he were stepping onto ice that could shatter at any moment.

Freya turned her gaze toward him, grateful for a reprieve from Thorin’s searing glare. She nodded, swallowing hard against the lump that had lodged itself in her throat. “ Yes ,” she managed, fumbling for a moment as her brain fought to remember the right words in Common. “ I saw many dwarves and orcs. They were fighting by Moria. Khazad-dûm.”

She faltered, the memories from the movie slamming into her hit her like a punch to the stomach, dragging her back to the scene she’d watched so many times before. Except now, it wasn’t a movie. It wasn’t some Hollywood masterpiece with fake blood and perfectly choreographed stunts. It was horrifyingly real. Her stomach twisted, nausea curling in her gut at the thought.

“ I saw Azog come ,” she said, her voice faltering. She remembered how the pale and monstrous ork cut through ranks of dwarves like they were nothing. Except they hadn’t been nothing. They’d been real. Real warriors—flesh and blood, with names and families waiting for them to come home. Real dwarves who fought. Real dwarves who died.

“He fought …” Her words were barely audible now, her throat thick with grief she hadn’t been ready for. “And many dwarves fell .”

She took a deep shuddering breath before continuing, “I saw Thrór fight Azog.” 

Thorin’s sharp inhale cut through her. She risked a glance in his direction and wished she hadn’t. The haunted look on his face broke her heart. The mask he wore had cracked, just enough to let the grief show, raw and bleeding.

“I saw him fall ,” she whispered. The words felt like glass, sharp and cutting as they left her throat.

Thorin’s expression shattered completely for one unbearable moment, like a dam breaking under the weight of too much grief. Then the mask slammed back into place, his face cold and unyielding as stone. The sight of it made her chest ache, made her want to take back the words, to undo the pain she’d just caused. But she couldn’t.

Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. “I saw the dwarves fall back . Thorin, I saw you fight Azog. I saw you fall too—your sword and shield lost .”

“ I saw you find your sword and tree shield. I saw you cut off Azog’s hand.” Her hands moved almost without thinking, mimicking the swing of a blade, though the motion was pathetic compared to what she’d seen. “The orcs—they took Azog into Moria.” 

“Thorin held his sword high and the dwarves came back. They fight again. Orcs went back into Moria.”

"The fight finished and there were so many hurt .” Her voice broke, and she clutched her arms around herself, tears from pooling in her eyes. The battlefield from the movie had been littered with bodies. There had been hundreds, maybe even Thousands. “ So many dead .”

Her eyes burned with tears she couldn’t stop, and she bit back a sob. The faces she’d seen in those split-second glimpses weren’t nameless extras anymore. They were people like Balin and Dwalin’s father, Fundin. Like Thorin’s younger brother, Frerin. They were real people that had died.

Freya’s thoughts spiraled, memories clawed their way to the surface, memories she had spent so long shoving down into the darkest corners of her mind. Memories she couldn’t deal with.

She remembered dying.

She remembered the terror. Remembered the exact moment her heart stuttered and stopped. Remembered her lungs failing, the desperate, impossible need to breathe even as her body refused to obey. How the cold had seeped into her bones, filling her veins with ice until there was nothing left but horrifying, emptiness.

She squeezed her arms tighter around herself, her nails biting into her skin as if she could somehow block out the thoughts. 

How much worse had it been for them? The dwarves on that battlefield, lying broken and bleeding in the dirt. How much more had they suffered? Had they felt every blow, every agonizing second as life drained out of them? Had they felt that same agonizing nothingness she had?

 A sound escaped her then—some awful, choked mix of a sob and a gasp—and she pressed her forehead against her knees, curling in as tightly as she could. Maybe, if she made herself small enough, the memories would leave her alone. Maybe they’d forget she was here. 

Maybe she could keep from falling apart.

Chapter Text

The good news about having an emotional breakdown-slash-panic attack-slash-existential crisis? No one was willing to interrogate her about what she had said before the breakdown. So hey, silver linings. Score one for mental instability.

The bad news? Waking up feeling like she’d been trampled by an oliphaunt, dragged through every mud puddle in Middle Earth, and then had her soul wrung out for good measure. She was exhausted, depressed, and absolutely sick of her own existence. But, oh well, that wasn’t exactly a new state of being for her. 

Freya shoved all the emotional wreckage and trauma stirred up by last night into a metaphorical box, duct-taped it shut, and mentally shoved it into the darkest, dustiest corner of her mind. She made a mental note to label it "Do Not Open, Ever."

Was this the healthiest way to handle her problems? Probably not. Did she care? Also no.  If it worked for now, that was good enough for her. Future Freya could deal with the fall out if it didn’t.

Speaking of emotionally repressed people with bad coping mechanisms, Thorin seemed to be dealing with the fallout from last night about as well as she was. Which was to say, not well.

While Freya’s coping strategy leaned toward bottling everything up and forcibly ignoring it, Thorin seemed to be channeling all his unresolved feelings into brooding intensity and thinly veiled rage. If the company was being careful around him yesterday, today they were practically tiptoeing through a minefield. No one wanted to be the unlucky soul who set Thorin off.

Freya wasn’t exempt from the tiptoeing either, though for entirely different reasons. Everyone looked at her like she might shatter if they so much as breathed too loudly near her. Which, honestly? She didn’t mind. Her emotional state wasn’t exactly what anyone would call *stable* at the moment. No, she wasn’t going to burst into tears or collapse into hysterics (probably), but she still felt brittle, like a fractured window waiting for the wrong gust of wind to finally shatter.

Also weirdly, but thankfully, they seemed to be taking her claiming to see the battle of Azanulbizar really well. Maybe they were chalking it up to some mysterious prophetic thing. Or maybe they were too freaked out to question it. Whatever the reason, she wasn’t about to complain. She’d take their weirdly quiet acceptance and run with it.

The day passed in blessed, albeit awkward silence. Freya spent most of it napping, recharging her mental and emotional batteries for the next fun little disaster on the horizon: convincing Thorin to go to Rivendell.

She knew that the orcs and wargs Azog had sent to hunt them would catch up to them after the trolls, and if they wanted to survive that mess, they needed to go to Rivendell.

Originally, Gandalf was supposed to be the one to bring it up once they reached the burned barn, but after yesterday? Freya figured she might as well rip this bandaid off herself. Her emotional breakdown had left her fresh out of fucks to give, and if she was going to light this particular bomb, she might as well do it while she was too emotionally drained to care about the fallout.

She gave Thorin the day to brood in peace, waiting until after everyone was finished with dinner to set off the next metaphorical bomb.

“Thorin," She started, grabbing everyones attention. "Azog is coming for us. We need to go to Rivendell.”

The weight of the silence that followed her words was almost comical. Almost. Every pair of eyes turned to her, and even the fire seemed to crackle a little quieter. Thorin froze, his broad shoulders tensing as he slowly turned to look at her, his expression carved from stone.

Oh yeah. This was going to go great.

______________

The response to Freya’s statement was immediate—and volcanic.

“Help us?” Thorin’s voice, low and sharp, sliced through the night like a dagger, each syllable dripping with disdain.

Bilbo stiffened, feeling his stomach twist into knots. Thorin’s fury was about to erupt, and knowing the dwarf’s temper, it wasn’t going to be a small eruption.

“The elves?” He let out a bitter laugh that sounded more like a snarl. “Do you know nothing of elves? Or of their so-called ‘help’?”

Bilbo sank a little lower in his seat, hoping the shadows might swallow him whole. He had thought Thorin was angry before, but this—this was a new level of wrath. It was a miracle Freya wasn’t already incinerated by the sheer intensity of Thorin’s glare.

“When Smaug came upon us, breathing fire and death, where were they? I’ll tell you where—they were standing at the edge of the forest, watching! Watching as my people burned, as our halls crumbled to ash, as our children fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs! And did Thranduil, in his infinite wisdom and grace, extend a hand to help us? No!” 

Bilbo dared a glance at the others. Around him, the company sat frozen, their gazes darting nervously between Thorin and Freya, though none dared to speak. Freya, however, stood her ground. Arms crossed tightly over her chest, her shoulders stiff with tension, but her expression was unreadable. Bilbo couldn’t decide if she was incredibly brave or utterly mad. Perhaps both.

“He turned his back on us!” Thorin roared, pacing now, his heavy boots crunching against the dirt. “He marched his army home, leaving us to die in the shadow of the dragon he dared not face. And now you suggest we seek their aide?”

“And you think Elrond Half-Elven, who sits in his jewel-studded halls, far removed from the troubles of the world will be any different?” Thorin sneered, gesturing wildly. “That the Lord of Rivendell will offer his sanctuary so freely? That he is some benevolent lord, eager to aid a band of wandering dwarves? No! He’ll turn up his nose, lecture us on the ‘errors of our ways,’ and send us off with empty platitudes and smug smiles! I will not crawl to the elves like some starved wretch, begging for protection while they sneer at us from their high walls.” 

He turned back to Freya, his eyes blazing. “And let me tell you this—”

THWACK!

The crack of iron meeting flesh reverberated through the camp like a whip. Thorin stumbled mid-sentence, his head snapping to the side as his hand shot up to clutch the point of impact.. The silence that followed was absolute.

Freya stood there, her frying pan still raised. Her cheeks were flushed a furious crimson, her lips pressed into a thin, uncompromising line. She looked ready to take another swing.

“Did she just—?” Bofur’s whisper shattered the stillness, his tone hovering somewhere between disbelief and awe.

“She did,” Nori murmured, his gaze fixed on the scene as though stunned to blink.

Bilbo blinked, his mouth hanging open as he tried to process what had just happened. He wasn’t sure what was more shocking—the fact that she had moved so quickly, or the fact that she’d just hit Thorin Oakenshield with a frying pan.

__________________________________________

Freya glared at Thorin, her chest heaving with anger, the frying pan steady in her hand. The logical part of her brain, the one that had been gently but persistently reminding her that whacking dwarven royalty probably wasn’t a long-term survival strategy, was firmly shoved into a corner and ignored. She pointed the pan at him, ready to swing again if necessary.

Thorin, to his credit—or maybe out of sheer shock—didn’t move. His blue eyes were wide, his hand frozen where it pressed against the side of his head. Was it possible to concuss a dwarf? She hoped not because she wasn’t done yelling at him.

“You can talk as much shit about Thranduil as you want,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the stunned silence around the campfire, “but don’t you dare insult my boy Elrond!”

She jabbed the pan into his chest and Thorin flinched. Just slightly. And damn, was that satisfying. “He has been through so much shit in his life. He lost his home not once, not twice, but so many fucking times! And the first time? He didn’t lose it to orcs or dragons or any other acceptable Middle-earth bullshit. Oh, no. He lost it to other elves!”

Freya started pacing now, her fury fueling her steps. “His parents? Gone. His foster parents? Also gone. His brother? Best friend? Wife? All gone. All of them. Do you think he let that turn him into some bitter, hateful, twisted asshole? No! Not even close!” 

She jabbed the pan again for emphasis. Thorin’s eyes narrowed slightly, but Freya wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. “He looked at the absolute shitstorm that was his life and went, ‘You know what? I choose to be kind.’ Kind, Thorin! Not grudges, not bitterness—kindness!”

“He could’ve built a fortress. He could’ve walled himself off from the world and said, ‘Screw this, I’m done with people.’ But no. Instead, he built Imladris. A literal safe haven. A homely house! A place where anyone—ANYONE, Thorin——could come and find healing, advice, and sanctuary. He adopted kids. He gives his time, his wisdom, his kindness freely. He preserved knowledge so that people like you—yes, you—could have something to cling to when the world was falling apart.”

Her pacing stopped abruptly, and she rounded on Thorin again. “You don’t have to like him. But you will Not insult him. Got it?”

Her hands were trembling now—not with fear, but with adrenaline and sheer, righteous fury. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the logical part of her brain once again whispered that she might have, just possibly, gone too far. But honestly, she didn’t care. She’d made her point. And it felt damn good.

Thorin’s expression was unreadable, which was either a good thing or a very, very bad thing. Around the campfire, the rest of the company stared at her with varying levels of wariness and confusion. Oh. Oh no.

It hit her like a slap to the face. She’d been ranting in English. Nobody here spoke English. Nobody had any idea what she’d just said.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” she groaned, throwing her hands up in frustration. The frying pan swung dangerously close to Thorin’s head again, but at this point, she was too pissed to apologize. Instead, she whirled on Gandalf, zeroing in on the only one here that would know Elrond's history.

“You!” She pointed the pan at him, channeling all her frustration into the gesture. “Gandalf! You tell them! Tell them about Sirion, Earendil and Elwing, about Maedhros and Maglor, about Gil-galad! —everything!”

Gandalf’s brows lifted slightly, his pipe still firmly clamped between his teeth. “Well,” he said mildly, with a nod that was far too calm for the chaos Freya was radiating, “if you insist …”

________________________________________

Bilbo watched as Gandalf took a slow, deliberate draw from his pipe, his eyes distant as he considered where to begin. The firelight flickered across his face, making him seem older and wearier than usual. The company had fallen silent, and Freya had retreated to the edge of the firelight, arms crossed and frying pan still in hand, clearly daring anyone to interrupt the wizard.

“Elrond Half-elven, as you know him now, was not always the lord of Rivendell,” Gandalf began, his voice solemn. “His story begins during the twilight of the First Age, in a time when the world was far darker and more perilous than you can imagine.”

The dwarves exchanged glances, some leaned forward, eyes glinting with interest, while others, like Thorin, sat back with folded arms, their faces unreadable.

“Elrond and his twin brother, Elros, were born in the refuge of the Havens of Sirion,” Gandalf continued, the embers of his pipe glowing softly. “It was a place of hope amidst the chaos of Beleriand, where their parents, Eärendil and Elwing, had fled after the fall of both Gondolin and Doriath—two great Elven realms, both lost to war and treachery.”

“But even in that sanctuary, peace was fleeting,” Gandalf said, his tone darkening.  The Sons of Fëanor—a group of Noldorin Elves bound by a terrible oath—attacked the Havens in search of a Silmaril, a jewel of immense beauty and power. They had sworn to reclaim it at any cost, an oath that led them down a path of ruin. It was the third time they had spilled the blood of their kin, and the havens burned beneath their assault.”

Several dwarves shifted uncomfortably, muttered exclamations of disbelief breaking the silence. 

“Elwing, rather than surrender the jewel, cast herself into the sea, and by the grace of the Valar, she was transformed into a bird and carried to her husband, Eärendil. Together, they sailed to Valinor to plead for aid against Morgoth, the Dark Enemy. They never returned. Elrond and Elros, mere children of six, were left behind.” 

Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat. Six. Six years old. He tried to imagine two small children, no older than the Gamgee boys, caught in the aftermath of war, but the image was too horrifying to linger on. He glanced around the fire and saw similar reactions mirrored in the faces of the company. Even Thorin’s composure faltered, his jaw tightening as he shifted uncomfortably.

“Six?” Balin’s voice was a whisper, his eyes soft with sorrow. “Only six years old…”

“The Havens were destroyed,” Gandalf went on, his voice heavy, “and the twins were taken in by Maedhros and Maglor, the last surviving Sons of Fëanor. Yet Maedhros and Maglor did not harm them. Strange as it may seem, those two were not monsters. They were brothers who had loved their kin, who had fought valiantly in defense of their people, who had sought, however misguidedly, to honor their father's legacy. Even in their most dreadful moments, when the weight of their oath drove them to bloodshed and betrayal, they were never wholly consumed by evil.”

Bilbo blinked, caught off guard by the complexity of Gandalf’s words. Not monsters? He couldn’t wrap his head around it. A moment ago, these were villains—destroyers of homes and takers of children. Yet Gandalf spoke of them as if they were more than their worst deeds, as if they were… human. Or, well, elven.

Thorin frowned, his deep voice breaking the silence. “Not monsters? They slaughtered their own kin, destroyed the Havens, and tore children from the ashes of their home. What, in Mahal’s name, does that make them if not monsters?”

“It makes them tragic,” Gandalf said, voice filled with pity, “bound by an oath they could neither break nor bear.”

"When they came upon Elrond and Elros, standing amidst the ashes of their home, I believe it broke something in them—broke and mended at the same time. They took the children into their care, not as prisoners, but as wards, as family.”

Family? Bilbo’s eyebrows shot up before he quickly schooled his expression. That word felt... out of place, sitting uncomfortably next to the destruction and grief Gandalf had just described.

Kili’s brows furrowed, his voice tinged with a mix of anger and confusion. “Family? After everything they’d done to their real family?”

Gandald nodded, "They sought, in raising the twins, to atone for what their oath had made them do, to salvage some sliver of the honor they had once held. They wanted, if only in this small way, to act not as the sons of Fëanor, bound by pride and fire, but simply as themselves—Maedhros, the once-noble leader, and Maglor, the gentle poet.”

Fili leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his voice quiet but skeptical. “And yet, all that atonement couldn’t undo the blood they spilled. Does it truly matter in the end?”

“It matters to those they tried to save,” Gandalf replied softly. “It mattered to Elrond and Elros.”

The fire crackled, filling the silence that followed. Bilbo’s gaze drifted to the flames, the dancing light casting fleeting patterns on the ground. He wasn’t sure what to think—what to feel. Could someone truly make amends for such unspeakable acts?

The fire crackled, filling the silence that followed. Gandalf’s voice softened as he continued. “The War of Wrath came soon after, bringing with it the downfall of Morgoth. But victory came at a cost. The land of Beleriand was swallowed by the sea, Maedhros perished, unable to bear the weight of his Oath, and Maglor wandered into exile. The twins were given a chance to choose their own paths.”

“Their own paths?” Ori prompted, his brow furrowed.

Gandalf nodded, his tone steady but tinged with sadness. “The Valar gave them a choice: to be counted among Elves or Men. Elrond chose the life of an Elf, to watch over the changing world and endure all it would bring. Elros, however, chose to walk the path of Men, becoming the first King of Númenor.”

“That choice separated the brothers. While Elrond endured the unchanging march of time, he watched Elros’s descendants rise to greatness, only to fall to the influence of darkness and defy the Valar. The island kingdom of Númenor was destroyed because of this defiance, swallowed by the sea at Eru’s will. And with it’s destruction, yet another tie to Elrond’s family was lost.”

Gandalf’s voice grew heavier as he continued. “Elrond became the herald of Gil-galad, the High King of the Noldor, and fought beside him in the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. He stood at the foot of Mount Doom and witnessed the deaths of Gil-galad and Elendil as they struck down Sauron.”

“After the war, Elrond returned to Rivendell, a sanctuary he had built as a refuge in an ever-changing world. He sought peace, and for a time, he found it. He married Celebrían, daughter of Galadriel, and together they had three children: Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen. Yet even that joy was not to last.”

Bilbo swallowed as Gandalf’s tone darkened. “On a journey through the Redhorn Pass, Celebrían was captured by orcs and tormented. Though Elrond healed her wounds after she was rescued, he could not heal her soul. The trauma from her captivity ran too deep. She chose to sail to Valinor, leaving him to raise their children alone.”

Ori broke the silence, his voice small. “He’s endured so much. How does he find the strength to keep going?”

Gandalf leaned back, exhaling a puff of smoke that spiraled into the night sky. “Elrond’s life has been marked by loss,” he said finally, his voice low and reflective. “Yet through it all, he has chosen to remain steadfast, offering wisdom, healing, and sanctuary to those in need. It is no small thing to endure so much and still choose to be kind.”

The company sat in silence, the firelight casting flickering shadows over their solemn faces, each lost in their own thoughts. Bilbo stared into the flames, his heart heavy. No small thing indeed. He wondered if he would have that strength—to keep standing, to keep giving—when so much had been taken. He wasn’t sure. His life had been one of comfort and safety, with troubles so small they now seemed laughable. But what if he were faced with a fraction of Elrond’s burdens? Would he crumble under the weight of them? Or would he find something within himself to rise above it?

He glanced at Freya, who stood just outside the circle of light, her expression tight with a mixture of defiance and exhaustion, her grip on the frying pan unyielding. He couldn’t help but admire her fierce defense of the elven lord, even if most of her words hadn’t been understood. She had spoken with a fire that matched even Thorin’s, and that was no small feat.

Thorin, who had been silent throughout Gandalf’s recounting, stared into the fire, his features shadowed and unreadable. For all his usual defiance, he seemed shaken. Though Thorin’s pride would never allow him to admit it, Bilbo suspected the tale had struck a chord.

Gandalf turned his attention to the dwarf king, his gaze sharp yet tempered with understanding. “Thorin Oakenshield,” he began, his tone steady, “your pain is great, and your anger is not without cause. The fall of Erebor, the scattering of your people, the long years of exile and hardship—these are burdens few could bear without bitterness.”

Thorin’s jaw tightened, but he did not interrupt. Gandalf continued, his voice growing gentler but no less firm.

“But you are not the only one in this world who has known loss,” Gandalf said softly, the weight of his words settling heavily over the company. “Elrond has endured a life of heartbreak—he has buried loved ones, seen his home destroyed more than once, and yet, he does not let the shadows of his past define him. He has chosen to rise above them.”

Bilbo’s gaze flickered back to Thorin, whose head turned slightly. His expression was still unreadable, but there was a stillness about him now, as though Gandalf’s words had slipped past his defenses

“Hatred can blind even the noblest of hearts, Thorin,” Gandalf continued, his voice hardening. “Do not let it consume you. Do not let it drive you to cast scorn upon those who have done nothing to deserve it. Elrond is not your enemy. His house, his wisdom, his strength—they are gifts he offers freely to those in need, not out of pity, but out of compassion. And compassion, Thorin, is a strength you would do well to recognize.”

Thorin’s gaze stayed locked on the fire, his features carved in stone. His jaw worked, and for a moment, Bilbo thought he might snap back with one of his sharp, biting remarks. But instead, Thorin let out a slow, measured breath.

“I will consider your words,” Thorin said at last, his voice controlled but carrying the faintest undercurrent of something softer. It wasn’t an apology, but it wasn’t a dismissal either. Coming from Thorin, it was as close to an olive branch as anyone could hope for.

Gandalf inclined his head, his pipe still in hand. “That is all I ask,” he replied, his voice gentle.

Chapter Text

Morning sunlight filtered through the trees, casting golden and obnoxiously cheerful light across the camp. Freya groaned, shoving her face deeper into the blanket, as though that would shield her from the world stirring awake around her. Muted footsteps crunched against the forest floor, the faint clink of cookware carried on the air, and low voices hummed with a purpose that grated against her very soul. The dwarves were up and moving, their efficiency almost offensive at this hour. Didn’t they understand that mornings required at least two hours and a hot, caffeinated beverage before doing anything remotely productive?

Her body ached from the uneven ground beneath her, every joint staging a protest as she stretched cautiously. She sat up slowly, wincing at the sharp pull in her back and shoulders. The only redeeming quality of this miserable morning was the warm sun on her skin, like it was trying to bribe her into forgiving everything else.

The camp bustled with energy she could only envy. Fili and Kili were tending to the horses, brushing down their coats and packing up saddlebags. Dori and Nori moved efficiently, gathering scattered belongings and making sure no supplies were left behind. Bilbo and Bombur were busy preparing breakfast. The smell of oats and honey wafted from a large pot Bombur was stirring, and her stomach grumbled in response.

With a dramatic groan, she forced herself upright, grimacing as her muscles reminded her of just how much they hated her. She gave her clothes a half-hearted brush, then ran her fingers through her hair in what she hoped would pass as an attempt at grooming. The result was less ‘traveler ready to face the day' and more ‘feral forest dweller’ but at this point, she didn’t have the energy to care.

Freya shuffled over to the fire, her steps slow and deliberate as her protesting muscles begrudgingly remembered how to work. As she walked she could feel the others watching her. Not openly, of course. That would be rude. But there was a lot of that sneaky, sideways glancing happening—the kind people did when they thought they were being subtle but were, in fact, very much not. 

Their expressions ranged from cautious curiosity to vague concern, which—fair. She had, after all, dropped some serious doom-and-gloom prophecy on them the past few nights. If the situation were reversed, she’d probably be staring too.

Didn’t make it any less awkward, though.

Sighing, Freya sank onto a log by the fire, curling her arms around her knees as the warmth started to soak into her, loosening the worst of the stiffness in her joints. She tried not to take the looks personally. The others were still figuring out what to do with her, how to categorize the strange, cryptic human who had inexplicably appeared in their midst. It was understandable.

Did it mean she enjoyed feeling like the weird, foreboding oracle in a traveling troupe of skeptics? No, not particularly. But oh well.

The tension broke when Dwalin, of all people, took action. No words, no fanfare—just the heavy crunch of his boots across the dirt before a thick woolen blanket was unceremoniously draped over her shoulders.

Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

The weight of it was warm and solid, unexpected in a way that made her freeze for a half-second. By the time she looked up, Dwalin was already halfway across camp, busy tying down bedrolls like he hadn’t just committed an act of pure, unfiltered softness.

Her lips twitched into a small smile as she tugged the blanket a little closer around her. Oh, he was such a dad. An absolute softy wrapped in about fifty layers of gruffness. He’d deny it with his last breath, but the evidence was mounting.

She was still processing that when Ori appeared, hovering like he wasn’t entirely sure about this plan but was already too deep to back out. Without a word, he pressed a bundle of dried fruit and nuts into her hands, ears already turning pink.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Ori made a noise that might have been words, then he scurried off so fast it was honestly impressive.

Freya stared down at the little bundle in her hands, warmth blooming in her chest.

They didn’t know what to do with her—not really. They weren’t sure what to make of her cryptic warnings or her strange knowledge of things she had no business knowing. But… they hadn’t pushed her away.

She tugged the blanket a little tighter, letting the quiet, wordless gestures of care soak in. Maybe she was still the weird, foreboding oracle of the group. Maybe she’d always be a little bit of an outsider. But these small moments—the unspoken offerings of warmth, food, and kindness—reminded her that even if she was a bit of a mystery, even if they didn’t quite understand her she wasn’t alone.

Dwalin and Ori’s gestures eased some of the awkwardness, but the camp was still weighed down by the heavy silence of unresolved tension. Thorin stood on the outskirts, his shoulders taut and his movements unnervingly deliberate as he checked over his gear. The way he handled each item with slow, methodical precision screamed ‘I’m fine, don’t ask’, which only made it clearer that he absolutely wasn’t. 

Breakfast didn’t do much to lighten the mood. The company gathered around the fire with their bowls of porridge, eating in an unusually quiet huddle. Every sound—spoons scraping against bowls, a muffled cough—felt amplified in the absence of conversation. Freya ate slowly, letting the warmth of the meal sink in while the silence pressed down on her. She wasn’t sure what was worse: sitting in this tension, or the possibility of Thorin deciding to break it by yelling at her again.

A shadow loomed over her, and she jolted, nearly spilling her porridge. Thorin stood stiffly in front of her, his expression hovering somewhere between neutral and deeply uncomfortable, which was honestly impressive. In his hands, he held a steaming cup.

Her sleep-deprived brain lagged a second behind reality. Tea? Why is he holding—? Oh.

It was Oin’s tea. The one he made for her every morning. And now Thorin was holding it out to her.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The entire camp collectively froze, every single dwarf pretending they weren’t staring while absolutely staring. 

Slowly, Freya reached out and took the cup, her fingers brushing the warm ceramic. “Thank you,” she said, giving him a small, genuine smile.

For a moment, his jaw tightened, and she could’ve sworn there was something like embarrassment flickering in his eyes. Then he gave a curt nod and turned away, his movements still stiff but less rigid than before.

Freya cradled the cup in her hands, the warmth spreading through her fingers and chest. Her heart swelled, pride and relief mingling in equal measure. She knew how much this gesture must have cost him. It wasn’t just a cup of tea—it was an acknowledgment, a quiet apology, and a peace offering rolled into one. Thorin, in all his gruff, moody glory, was telling her he wasn’t angry anymore. Or, at least, not as angry. That was progress.

She took a sip, the earthy taste grounding her, and as if on cue, the camp started to breathe again. Conversations started up in hesitant trickles, then gained momentum, rising into the familiar, comforting hum of voices. The occasional laugh broke through.

And then, because peace never lasted in this company—

“Well, lass,” Bofur drawled, grinning as he leaned toward her. “Looks like you’ve survived the wrath of Thorin Oakenshield.”

Freya squinted at him, she didn’t know what he said exactly but his tone was very suspicious.

Her instincts were immediately proven correct when Fili perked up, which was never a good sign. “Speaking of, we should-talk-about your deadly weapon, Freya .”

Deadly—? Oh. Oh, no.

Kili grinned. “Aye, I've never seen Uncle take a hit quite like that before. It was very-impressive.”

Freya pressed the cup to her face, trying (and failing) to smother the very undignified laugh bubbling in her throat. “No—”

“ C’mon now ,” Bofur wheedled. “It was a good hit. Should be immortalized, really.”

Freya peeked over the rim of her cup, torn between horror and an alarming amount of smug satisfaction. She lowered the cup just enough to peek at him. “Good hit ?” she asked, a slow, mischievous grin pulling at her lips despite the warmth creeping up her face.

“Good ?” Fili repeated, aghast. “Freya, that was beautiful. ”

Kili nodded sagely. “Truly, it was like art. 

Freya felt something dangerously close to pride unfurl in her chest. She knew hitting Thorin had been a bold move—probably even a very stupid one—but, well… he’d deserved it.

Across from her, Bofur tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin. “This moment-should be recorded for future-generations.”

“Absolutely ,” Fili agreed solemnly. Then, turning to Ori, “You got that journal of yours handy?”

Ori, bless his artistic little heart, perked up instantly. “Oh! I could do a sketch.”

Freya groaned louder, half-horrified, half-delighted, already regretting everything, as Bofur clapped Ori on the back, beaming like a proud father.

Everyone in this company was a menace.

And she loved them for it.

______________________________________________

Thorin stood at the edge of camp, adjusting the straps on his saddle with the practiced ease of a warrior who had spent half his life on the road. His hands moved with purpose—tightening, securing, checking, and rechecking. It was a welcome distraction. Something to keep his mind from dwelling on unwanted thoughts.

He wasn’t ready to face the others. Not yet. Not when old wounds still pressed against his ribs like iron bands, not when his temper smoldered just beneath the surface, waiting for the wrong word to set it loose. He needed time—space—before he could join them again.

From his vantage point, he watched the company gathered around the fire. They were subdued but stirring, shaking off the tension of the past two days. 

Ori was hunched over his journal, his charcoal scratching across the page in quick, precise strokes. Bofur leaned over him, gesturing wildly, his voice carrying just enough for Thorin to catch hints of exaggerated, unhelpful advice. Every so often, Ori shot him an exasperated glare before refocusing, his determination winning out over Bofur’s antics. 

Nearby, Fili and Kili worked in tandem to secure the packs, their quiet banter threading through the morning air. Fili laughed and teased his brother like always, but Thorin didn’t miss the way his gaze flickered toward Freya every so often, his expression tightening with concern.

Thorin’s eyes followed his nephew’s, settling on Freya. She sat perched on a weathered log beside Ori, shoulders swallowed by the thick blanket Dwalin had tossed over her earlier. She looked small among the company, fragile in a way that made her stand out against the hardened warriors surrounding her. But there was a fire in her, a stubborn resolve he couldn’t deny. He had seen it the night before, as she stood her ground even as he’d turned the full weight of his anger on her.

The memory of her voice twisted in his mind like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. 

“Azog is not dead.”

It had gutted him. Azog the Defiler. The name alone was enough to set his blood burning, , to crack open the grief and fury he had spent years trying to bury.

The battle at Azanulbizar was etched into his very bones, a wound that had never truly closed. The screams of his kin, the clash of steel, the stench of blood and fire—none of it had faded. He had been so certain Azog had fallen that day, so sure that he had delivered the fatal blow. And now, that certainty was gone.

The company had taken to calling the girl a Seer. The word left a bitter taste in Thorin’s mouth. He had no patience for prophecy—no faith in riddles spun by charlatans who wrapped themselves in mystery and half-truths. He had met their kind before, all deception and performance, offering nothing but empty omens. But Freya was different. She did not offer riddles; she did not speak in veiled half-truths. When she spoke of Azanulbizar, it was not like someone recalling old tales—it was as if she had been there, as if she had stood on that battlefield among the fallen. As though the cries of the dying still echoed in her ears, just as they did in his.

And then there was the other matter she had spoken of: Elrond. 

Thorin’s grip tightened on his sword, leather biting into his palm. The name soured his mood, dredging up memories better left buried—Thranduil’s cold indifference, his refusal to help when Erebor burned. The elves had turned their backs on his people, had left them to die. Thorin had not forgotten. He would not forget. The bitterness had long since turned to stone, hard and immovable.

And yet—Freya’s defense of Elrond still rang in his ears. There had been fire in her voice, a conviction he hadn’t expected. He hadn’t understood all of her words, but her meaning had been clear. She trusted the elf-lord.

The thought churned in his gut. How could she? How could she put faith in a people who had abandoned his own in their darkest hour?

But Elrond is not Thranduil. 

The thought came unbidden, unwelcome. His jaw tightened, and he exhaled sharply through his nose. He didn’t like it. Didn’t want to consider it. But Gandalf’s tale had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He had listened in silence as the wizard spoke of Elrond’s past, of the losses he had endured. It was… familiar. Painfully so. Thorin had wanted to dismiss it outright, to smother it beneath years of hatred and distrust. But the words had lodged themselves deep, a splinter he couldn’t quite dig out.

He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself. He wasn’t about to forgive the elves. He might never. Thranduil’s betrayal had carved wounds that hadn’t healed, jagged and raw even after all these years. But perhaps… Perhaps he could set the anger aside. For the company. For the quest. For the home they sought to reclaim. 

The thought sat uneasy, a sharp-edged thing, fragile under the weight of his doubts. If Elrond offered aid—if the elf-lord truly had the answers—could Thorin bring himself to take them? To trust an elf's word?

His jaw clenched. He shook his head, forcing down the uncertainty. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down, not now, not ever. But he could listen. He could watch. He could set his anger aside—if only long enough to see where this led.

Thorin straightened, shoulders squaring as he turned back toward the camp. The weight of leadership settled over him, solid and familiar. He would judge Elrond with his own eyes. He would guard his heart, keep his mind sharp. But if an elf could help them reclaim their home… He would not turn away.

________________________

The company rode at a steady pace, the ponies’ hooves crunching against the road. Fili tried to focus on anything but his thoughts—the warmth of the sun, the sway of his pony, the low hum of Bombur’s melody. But nothing could push away the storm that had been raging in his mind for two days.

"Azog is not dead."

His gaze flicked toward the front of the line, where Thorin rode with his head held high. To anyone else, his uncle might look unshaken, and steadfast as ever, but Fili had long since learned to read the subtle cracks in his uncle’s armor. The tension in his shoulders, the tight clench of his jaw—they were small tells that spoke volumes. Freya’s revelation had shaken him, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

Fili had never seen Thorin lose his temper like that. It wasn’t just fury—it was molten rage, the kind that scorched anyone who got too close. But beneath the anger had been something else, something Thorin would never willingly let slip. Pain. Fili had heard it in the way his voice cracked, seen it in the brief flicker of grief before his mask slammed back into place, hard as stone.

And then there was Freya.

Fili couldn’t shake the image of her standing there—shaking, but firm—her voice breaking as she begged them to believe her. She had stood her ground against Thorin’s fury—a feat that would have sent many a dwarf scurrying for cover—and forced him to listen.

He thought back to the way she spoke of Azanulbizar, the raw emotion in her voice when she described the battle. The way she had talked about the battle, it wasn’t the detached recounting of history. It was too vivid, too personal. As if she had walked the battlefield herself, stood among the dead, seen their faces, and carried their memory with her. The kind of grief she had spoken with couldn’t be faked.

Fili’s hands tightened on the reins as his thoughts circled back to Azog. The Defiler. His name was a scar carved deep into their family’s history, one that would never truly heal. Fili had grown up hearing the tales of Azanulbizar, of the great battle fought at Moria’s gates. He had heard of the Defiler’s death at Thorin’s hands so many times it had become fact.

And then Freya had torn that certainty apart.

How could she know the things she did unless she really was a Seer sent by the Valar? It was the only explanation that made sense.

He glanced toward her, riding just ahead with Kili. She sat slumped in the saddle, weariness dragging at her shoulders. Kili had his arm looped loosely around her waist to steady her as the pony walked. For all her fire and defiance, she looked fragile enough to shatter at a touch.

Fili’s chest tightened at the memory of her breaking down by the fire two nights ago. Her walls, always so stubbornly in place, had crumbled under the weight of whatever it was she carried. The sound of her sobs echoed in his mind, raw and guttural, scraping against his soul in a way he hadn’t expected. He’d seen grief before—plenty of it. He’d lived through loss and felt the crushing ache of mourning. But this... this had been something else entirely. It wasn’t just sorrow; it was something deeper, darker. It was as if the very foundation of her had cracked wide open, spilling out everything she had fought so hard to keep hidden.

He had stood frozen, unsure of what to do, of how to help. Her shoulders had trembled violently as she curled in on herself, her arms had wrapped around her small frame as if she could physically hold herself together, as if that was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely. The sight had terrified him. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel so helpless. For all her frailty, Freya had always seemed invincible in her own way—stubborn, fierce, unyielding. But at that moment, she had looked… lost.

Fili clenched his jaw, the memory twisting something deep inside him. He’d wanted to do something—anything—to shield her from whatever haunted her, to take even a fraction of the burden that was so clearly crushing her. But he couldn’t. None of them could.

And yet, despite everything, there was something about her that refused to be broken. Beneath the exhaustion and pain, beneath the vulnerability that often made her seem too fragile for the world, there was a quiet kind of resilience that Fili couldn’t help but admire. Freya carried a weight none of them could begin to understand. Whatever secrets she bore, they were heavy enough to crush anyone else. But not her. Somehow, she kept moving forward.

That kind of strength wasn’t something Fili had seen often. It reminded him of Thorin, though the comparison felt strange. Thorin’s strength was like a mountain—sturdy, unyielding, immovable. Freya’s was different. It was quieter, more like the roots of a tree clinging stubbornly to the earth no matter how fierce the storm. Not as obvious, but just as unyielding.

He bit back a sigh at the thought of his uncle. Thorin hadn’t taken kindly to Freya’s insistence on going to Rivendell last night. His distrust of elves was as old and unshakable as the mountains themselves, hardened by years of hardship. But Freya had stood her ground, and when Thorin dismissed her words, she took a frying pan to him.

A faint smile tugged at Fili’s lips. The memory of it—Freya, cheeks blazing with fury, gripping that pan like it was a battle-axe—was as ridiculous as it was impressive. Thorin had been caught off guard, and had frozen mid-rant, struck by the sheer audacity of it. Fili could still hear the clang of the pan hitting the back of his uncle's head. 

Yet it wasn’t just the spectacle that lingered in Fili’s mind. It was the fire behind her actions, the conviction in her voice, even if he hadn’t understood the words. She had believed in what she was saying—so much so that even Thorin, for all his legendary stubbornness, had hesitated.

And when Gandalf had shared Elrond’s history afterward… Fili couldn’t help but feel his own perspective change.

He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, frowning at the road ahead. What would it mean to trust an elf? Could he? The very idea felt wrong, like wearing a boot on the wrong foot. He had grown up on stories of elven betrayals—their cold indifference to dwarven suffering, their insufferable superiority. Thorin had no shortage of tales to reinforce that distrust. Fili had seen the scars of those stories etched into his uncle’s heart, in his anger, in his pride. He understood why Thorin hated them.

And yet.

Freya’s defense of Elrond gnawed at those convictions. It had forced him to consider—really consider—whether those stories were the whole truth or just one side of it.

Before last night, Fili hadn’t spared a thought for Elrond of Rivendell. An elf was an elf, after all. What did it matter? But hearing Gandalf recount Elrond’s history—his struggles, his losses—it was impossible to ignore the weight of it. Fili had pictured elves as untouchable, their long lives gliding past the kind of hardship that forged dwarves into steel. But Elrond’s story—his pain—was the kind Fili had seen in his own kin.

His frown deepened as Gandalf’s voice replayed in his mind, recounting the destruction of the Havens. Elrond and his brother, just children, caught in the violent tides of war. The losses Elrond had endured—his parents, his brother, his wife—were heartbreaking. And they weren’t so different from those that had shaped Thorin.

His gaze shifted to his uncle, riding ahead with shoulders as broad and unyielding as ever. Thorin carried himself like a fortress—impenetrable, indomitable. But last night, Fili had seen something unexpected. When Gandalf spoke of Elrond’s losses, Thorin’s armor had cracked—not much, just enough for Fili to catch a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. Thorin wouldn’t speak of it, of course. He’d bury it beneath his pride, pretending the tale hadn’t affected him. But Fili knew better. The story had left a mark.

It had left a mark on him too.

Chapter Text

The rhythmic clop of hooves against the dirt road mingled with the rustling of leaves in the wind, the occasional snort of a pony breaking through the quiet. Normally, the sound was steadying, a background hum of their journey, but today it felt almost too loud. Conversations drifted through the group, but Freya couldn’t shake the prickling sensation at the back of her neck. Something was off.

The company was acting strange.

She let her gaze flit from one face to another, searching for clues. Sure, the dwarves were still chatting, but it wasn’t their usual boisterous banter. The laughter was muted, half-hearted and they weren’t poking fun at each other like they normally did. Instead, their eyes kept flicking toward the treeline like they were waiting for something.

At the front of the group, Dwalin’s posture was stiff, his eyes darting between the trees as his fingers drummed a steady rhythm against the hilt of his axe. Behind him, Balin glanced over his shoulder every now and then. His usual warm demeanor edged with something sharper. Even Bofur, who usually had an endless stream of songs and bad jokes, kept his cheerful whistling to a bare minimum, his head turning sharply at every rustle and shadow.

Freya’s stomach tightened as she turned her attention to Fili, riding a few feet away. On the surface, he looked calm, his expression neutral as he guided his pony forward. But his hand rested just a little too casually on the hilt of his sword, his fingers curled like he was waiting for the moment he’d have to draw it. His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the horizon like he could spot trouble before it arrived. 

Then there was Bilbo, looking like he was seconds away from passing out. His knuckles were bone-white as he gripped his reins, his pony tossing its head like it could feel his nerves through the saddle.

And that’s when it hit her.

Oh. Oh, no. This was about Azog.

She inhaled sharply, the pieces snapping together with sickening clarity. Of course they were tense. She had told them Azog was alive, that he was hunting them, but she hadn’t exactly given them any comforting details—like, say, when or where he would actually show up.

Oops.

_________________________________________

When the company dismounted in a small clearing for lunch, Freya all but collapsed onto the soft grass, groaning as her legs tried to remember how to function after hours in the saddle. The sharp ache in her thighs felt like someone had taken a hammer to them, and she winced as the muscles protested every tiny movement. She stayed there, sprawled in the grass like some tragic Victorian heroine. 

The others left her to her one-woman pity party. Busying themselves with setting up a cooking fire and distributing rations, but their movements were still cautious, their gazes darting around the clearing. Freya gnawed on her lower lip, debating how to broach the subject. She’d been watching them all morning, and the constant tension in the air was giving her anxiety. She needed to fix this.

But how the hell was she supposed to explain it? 

She couldn’t just casually drop “Oh, don’t worry about Azog, he’s not showing up yet!” without them asking when he would show up. And since she didn’t know exactly what day the wargs and orcs would attack, that meant she would have to explain everything she did know. Which meant… the trolls. 

She pressed her hands to her face and groaned again—this time from sheer, cosmic unfairness of it all. Because, of course, knowing the future didn’t mean knowing how to deal with it. If she told them about the trolls, things would change. Drastically.

She could already see the ripple effect: If the dwarves knew about the trolls, the ponies wouldn’t get stolen. Which meant Fili and Kili wouldn’t strong-arm Bilbo into sneaking into the troll camp. Which meant the dwarves wouldn’t have to fight the trolls to save him, end up tied in sacks, and spend a memorable evening as troll hors d’oeuvres until Gandalf killed the trolls at sunrise. 

If she told them then they’d have time to plan an attack. But what if planning didn’t help? What if they botched it? What if someone got hurt—or killed—because she meddled?

Her stomach twisted at the thought. Maybe she could just…not. Play dumb. That wasn’t exactly a new skill for her and honestly, it sounded downright appealing right now. 

But no, they already knew she had some weird foresight thing going on. If she suddenly ‘forgot’ to mention three giant, man-eating trolls, they’d start looking at her like she was an actual lunatic who was just choosing not to warn them about imminent death. And, okay, she was a little unhinged, but not that unhinged.

With a deep breath and a regretful look at the nice comfy grass, Freya rolled onto her side, wincing as she pushed herself upright. Her legs immediately protested, but she ignored them, grimacing at the sharp pains shooting through her thighs.

“Right, then,” she mumbled, dusting herself off. “Let’s go meddle with the timeline. What’s the worst that could happen?”

She made her way over to the fire, accepting a bowl of stew from Bombur and spent a few minutes poking at it while she steeled herself. The moment she spoke, there’d be no going back.

“Um,” she started hesitantly, the word feeling ridiculously loud in the quiet clearing. 

Fantastic start. Very eloquent. Gold star.

All eyes turned to her—of course they did. Two bombshells in as many days in as many days had earned her the dubious honor of being the company’s weird, psychic harbinger of doom.

“ About Azog,” she continued, her voice a little steadier this time.

The atmosphere shifted immediately. Conversations died mid-sentence, utensils froze halfway to mouths. The only sound left was the crackle of the fire, a faint reminder that time hadn’t completely frozen. 

“Azog is not coming yet .”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. “Explain,” he demanded, his voice low and commanding.

Freya didn’t know the word, but she sure as hell got the vibe. She swallowed, wishing she’d rehearsed this a bit more in her head. She glanced at the group, their faces turned expectantly toward her, and decided to start at the beginning of when shit would hit the fan.

“Right. Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Many things will happen fast. It starts when we get to a burned home. ” 

A ripple of unease passed through the group like a bad omen. Bombur froze mid-chew, glancing nervously at Bofur, who had stopped mid-swig of his drink. Fili and Kili straightened slightly, exchanging wary looks, while Balin leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing in concern.

Thorin’s brow furrowed, “ And what, exactly, will happen there ?” he asked.

Freya hesitated, her mind scrambling to bridge the gap between what she knew and what she could actually explain. Words wouldn’t be enough. Not with how limited her grasp of Common was. Plan B it was.

She yanked her journal out, flipping through the pages until she found a blank one. Pencil in hand, she started sketching—quick, broad strokes. The outlines of three hulking trolls emerged, looming over a massive cooking pot, with the crumbled remains of a house in the background. 

When she was done, Freya turned the journal toward the group, holding it up so they could all see. “There are three trolls. By the home ,” she said, jabbing the pencil at the figures to emphasize her point.

The dwarves crowded closer, murmurs rippling through the group as they studied the drawing.

“Three of ‘em, eh ?” Bofur whistled low under his breath, adjusting his hat. “ Bit of a challenge, that. ”

“Aye,” Gloin grunted, folding his arms across his broad chest. “ Takin' one down’s hard enough, let alone three. ”

Dwalin scowled, his hand flexing instinctively around the haft of his axe. “ Yer sure about this, lass ?” 

Freya nodded. “Yes. Three mountain trolls .”

The weight of those words settled heavily over the company.

Thorin’s lips pressed into a thin, displeased line. “- Since- when do mountain trolls venture this far south?”

She tried to piece together what Thorin had asked, but some of the words escaped her. When do mountain trolls...something...this far...something? It was probably something along the lines of ‘Why are trolls this far south?’. Which was a good question. Not one she particularly wanted to answer though. It wasn’t like she could just say, ‘Oh, you know, narrative convenience and the slow decay of this world's balance thanks to Sauron’s return.’ That would go over well.

Gandalf, thankfully, saved her from having to figure out an answer. The wizard, who had been quietly observing from the edge of the group, finally spoke, his tone thoughtful and concerned.  “ Not for an age, ” he mused, stroking his beard. “ Not since a darker power-ruled-these-lands. They must have come down from the Ettenmoors. ” His gaze shifted meaningfully to Thorin, his eyes sharp beneath his bushy brows. It was not a reassuring look.

“ We need to fight them ,” Freya said firmly, before anyone could start questioning whether or not this was a battle worth picking. “They need to die .”

A beat of silence.

“ Why, lass ?” Balin finally asked, his tone gentle but probing. “ What’s so important about these trolls ?”

Her brain scrambled to translate. What’s so... something something... trolls? Probably something like ‘What’s so important about them?’

She glanced at Thorin, then back at Balin. “ They have a cave. Inside, there are swords .” She pointed to Thorin, Gandalf, and finally Bilbo. “Orcrist, Glamdring, Sting. You, Gandalf, and Bilbo will need the swords. We can’t leave them behind. ”

“ A sword? Me? ” Bilbo’s voice cracked in panic, rising an octave higher than normal. He looked about ready to faint. “I don’t need a sword! I wouldn’t even know how to use one !”

Freya didn’t catch every word, but she didn’t need to. The sheer panic on his face filled in the gaps. She turned to him, her expression firm. “ Yes, you. You are taking the sword, ” she said, leaving no room for argument. “ You’ll need it .”

Bilbo’s face went pale, his eyes wide with alarm. He looked like he might faint on the spot.

“ Don’t worry, Bilbo,” Fili said, clapping him on the shoulder with a reassuring grin. “ We’ll teach you how to use it. Right, Kili?”

Kili nodded enthusiastically. “ We’ll make sure you don’t lop your own-foot off. ”

Bilbo didn’t look reassured in the slightest by whatever the two were saying.

Before Bilbo could protest further, Freya pressed on. “After sunrise, Radagast will come. He needs to talk to Gandalf.”

The mention of Radagast made Gandalf’s brows lift in surprise. “Radagast?” he echoed, his tone a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

Ori leaned forward, curiosity lighting up his features. “Radagast? Isn’t he one of the other wizards you told us about, Gandalf?”

“ Yes ,” Gandalf said slowly, still looking at Freya. “Radagast the Brown. He rarely-leaves Rhosgobel. If he’s coming here, it must be urgent.”

More missing words. But she got the jist of what he said. Radagast showing up wasn’t normal.

Freya nodded quickly, her voice growing more urgent. “After Radagast gets there, orcs and wargs come. Azog is not with them but there are too many to fight. We need to go to Rivendell.”

Thorin’s hand went to his sword, his jaw locked so tightly it could probably break stone. “Rivendell,” he repeated, his voice low and grim, as if saying the name itself physically pained him.

“Are you certain of this, Freya?” Balin asked again, his eyes searching hers.

“Yes ,” she said, voice unwavering. “ We have to go. Or we die .”

___________________________________________

The company fell into a long, heavy silence, digesting Freya’s ominous words. 

Bilbo, for his part, tried very hard not to panic. They hadn’t even made it to the Misty Mountains yet, and they were already talking about certain death? He had known this journey would be dangerous—Gandalf had made that much clear—but knowing something and standing among a group of seasoned warriors calmly strategizing how best to avoid being ripped limb from limb were two very different things.

“Well, I’m sold,” Bofur said at last, rocking back on his heels with a casual ease that was utterly at odds with the moment. His grin was light, but his eyes were sharp. “Be a shame ta go an’ die so early in tha quest, eh?”

Bilbo swallowed hard. While he very much agreed with the sentiment he wouldn’t have put it a little less casually. Dying wasn’t exactly on his to-do list. In fact, if he had any say in the matter (which, let’s be honest, he rarely did these days), it would stay firmly at the bottom of his itinerary for the foreseeable future. 

“Right then,” Nori clapped his hands together, scanning the group with a calculating look. “How do we go about takin’ down three trolls without gettin’ ourselves killed?”

“We separate them,” Balin said, his voice calm, like they were discussing a minor inconvenience rather than imminent death. “Even three trolls would be hard-pressed to hold their own if we pick them off one by one.”

There was a murmur of agreement at that. 

“Problem is,” Dwalin grunted, resting a hand on his axe, “how do we get ‘em apart?”

“Well,” Kili said, straightening with a little too much enthusiasm for Bilbo’s liking, “they’re bound to be hungry, yeah? And stupid. What if we… made them think there was food somewhere else?”

A beat of silence.

“...Go on,” Thorin said warily, his posture stiffening like he already regretted asking.

Kili gestured vaguely, as if the plan was obvious. “Y’know. If they heard something they thought was dinner, they’d go looking for it.”

Bilbo already hated where this was going.

“Like what?” Ori asked curiously. “What do trolls eat?”

“Anything with meat on it,” Bofur supplied helpfully, tipping his hat back. “Which, unfortunately, includes us.”

Bilbo’s stomach twisted unpleasantly at that. Lovely. Just lovely. Exactly the sort of detail he’d been hoping to hear before facing three trolls.

“Well, they’re camped out near a farm,” Fili pointed out, rubbing his chin. “They must’ve already eaten the livestock. We just have to convince them that there’s a sheep or cow they missed nearby.”

Kili nodded, his excitement mounting. “We could mimic animal sounds. Lead one away at a time.”

“That…” Gloin started, rubbing his beard, skepticism warring with intrigue. “Might actually work.”

“If we can separate them,” Balin agreed, his expression calculating, “a well-placed ambush would give us a fighting chance.”

“Aye,” Dwalin rumbled approvingly. “One against thirteen? We’d take ‘em down easy.”

“I don’t know about easy,” Dori muttered, “but it’s better than rushing in blind.”

“I like it,” Bofur grunted, rolling his shoulders. “Trolls ain’t bright enough to question it, not if we’re careful. If we do this right, we can get ‘em one at a time.”

“Which means we don’t get turned into a fine paste,” Nori said cheerfully.

Bilbo felt faint. This was madness. Absolute, unfiltered madness. He had gone along with some truly questionable decisions thus far—leaving Bag End with a group of complete strangers, for one. Enduring the horror that was pony riding, for another. But this? This was on another level entirely.

Because if he was understanding this correctly, the plan currently on the table involved standing within earshot of three enormous, flesh-eating trolls while attempting to impersonate a farm animal.

Bilbo briefly entertained the notion of simply walking into the forest and never being seen again.

“Who here can mimic a sheep?” Bofur asked, looking around expectantly.

Silence.

The company exchanged glances. Some of them, Bilbo noted with increasing horror, actually appeared to be considering it.

“I can try,” Ori said hesitantly.

Thirteen pairs of eyes turned to him. Ori, realizing a moment too late what he'd just volunteered for, flushed under the sudden scrutiny. But to his credit, he squared his shoulders and said, “I mean… how hard can it be?”

There was a moment of hesitation before Ori inhaled, opened his mouth, and let out an awkward, strangled, “Baa.”

It was the single most pathetic sound Bilbo had ever heard.

“...That was terrible,” Dwalin said bluntly.

Ori flushed red. “Well, excuse me for not practicing sheep calls in my spare time,” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“That was more of a—” Bofur waved a hand in the air, as though trying to pluck the right term from thin air, “distressed goat than sheep.”

Ori scowled. “I’d like to see you do better.”

Bofur, never one to back down from a challenge, straightened, rolled his shoulders back, and let out a loud, enthusiastic, “Baaaa.”

A long pause followed. Then, slowly, Gloin turned to Bofur, “...I hate that that was actually decent.”

Bofur grinned, utterly self-satisfied. “I’ve got many talents.”

Bilbo rubbed his temples. “I cannot believe I left my home for this.”

“You’re just upset because you can’t do it,” Bofur said smugly.

Bilbo scoffed, lifting his chin. “I’ll have you know that I am quite proficient at different voices. My nieces and nephews adored my storytelling because of it.”

Bofur’s grin widened. “Oh? Prove it, then.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes. He was not about to be outdone by a group of dwarves in something as ridiculous as animal impersonations. He inhaled, focused, and let out the most convincing sheep call he could muster.

It was, by all accounts, flawless.

The company stared at him.

Nori cleared his throat. “Well, that was… impressive.”

“Downright uncanny,” Bofur muttered.

Fili clapped Bilbo on the back, grinning. “Looks like we found our bait!”

Bilbo froze.

Oh.

Oh, no.

“That’s not what I—” He started, but it was too late. The company had already decided.

Bilbo inhaled sharply, exhaled through his nose, and reevaluated his life choices. He was going to be eaten by trolls. All because he had let himself get goaded into a sheep impersonation contest.

Yavanna, grant him strength.

Fili grinned at him, utterly unrepentant. “C’mon, Bilbo. You want to contribute, don’t you?”

"Yes! But preferably in a way that doesn’t involve luring enormous, carnivorous monsters directly toward me," Bilbo shot back, his voice climbing an octave as he gestured wildly to emphasize the sheer insanity of their plan.

Kíli slung an arm over his shoulders with the easy confidence of someone who was not, in fact, being volunteered as live bait. “You have to admit, that was an incredible sheep impression.”

Bilbo shoved his arm away. “That does not mean I want to play the part of bait,” he snapped, stepping back as he folded his arms tightly across his chest. “I was demonstrating a skill! That does not mean that I should be put in the direct path of a troll’s dinner plans!”

"Ye don’t have to get close," Gloin said, waving a dismissive hand, as if Bilbo were complaining about a mild inconvenience  rather than the very real possibility of being crushed or eaten alive. "Just let out a few of those flawless baas of yours from a safe distance, and we’ll do the rest."

Bilbo’s skepticism remained firmly intact. “And what exactly constitutes a safe distance from a troll?”

“Further than arm’s reach,” Nori replied cheekily.

Bilbo pressed his lips into a thin line. “Not reassuring.”

“You’ll be fine, Master Baggins,” Balin said in the same tone one might use to calm a spooked pony. “Ye simply need ta get them ta go looking for ye.”

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed. “And if the troll doesn’t go looking for me? What if he just picks up a rock and throws it instead?”

A brief, unsettling silence settled over the company as they considered that particularly unpleasant possibility.

“…Well,” Bofur said at last, scratching his chin. “Guess you’d best start running if that happens.”

Bilbo groaned, running a hand down his face. Why, oh why, had he let himself get dragged into this madness? He could be at home right now. Right this very moment. He could be sitting in his favorite chair, enjoying a warm cup of tea and a slice of seed cake, possibly debating whether to have a second slice just to be indulgent. Instead, he was about to risk life and limb because he had, at some point, mistakenly trusted a wizard.

Fili clapped him on the shoulder again, "Think of it this way—if this goes well, we won’t have to fight all three trolls at once."

"If this goes well," Bilbo muttered, rubbing his temples. He wasn’t at all convinced that it would go well. "And if it doesn’t go well?"

Bofur grinned. "Then at least we’ll have a good story to tell."

Bilbo groaned again, longer this time, and seriously reconsidered all of his life choices.

“Look,” Nori cut in, a rare note of seriousness creeping into his voice. “If it really goes south, we’ll figure something out. But you heard Balin—the best way to win is to get ‘em alone.”

Bilbo inhaled deeply, releasing the breath through his nose, already regretting what he was about to say. “Fine,” he said at last, voice tight. “I will try—” he shot a sharp glare at Fíli and Kíli before they could so much as open their mouths—“try to lure one of them away. But I want it on record that this is a terrible idea.”

“Duly noted,” Kíli said, entirely too pleased with himself

“Enough,” Thorin said gruffly, silencing the last of the murmured amusement among the company. His gaze swept over them, dark and serious. "Now that we’ve settled how we’ll lure the trolls, we need to focus on killing them."

The mood shifted, as it always did when Thorin used that tone—the one that meant he was done entertaining foolishness and expected absolute focus. 

Thorin turned his sharp gaze toward Balin and Ori. “You two will stay with the ponies and keep them calm. We’ll need to leave the moment the trolls are dealt with.”

Balin’s expression didn’t change, though his fingers tapped idly against his belt. He had been expecting this. “Aye,” he said simply, nodding once. “We’ll see it done.”

Ori, however, straightened in alarm. “What? But I can fight! I—”

“You’ll stay,” Thorin said, his tone brooking no argument. “The ponies need to be ready to leave the moment we’re done. We can’t afford to waste time gathering them in the dark if things turn.” His gaze flicked briefly to Freya, who had been quiet throughout the discussion, before settling back on Balin. “Keep her safe.”

Balin's expression softened into one of quiet assurance, his eyes warm and steady. "Aye, we'll watch over her and the ponies," he said gently, his voice full of calm certainty.

Ori hesitated before closing his notebook, pressing it to his chest as though it could shield him from his own frustration. “Alright,” he said softly, his disappointment evident but somewhat soothed by Balin’s calm acceptance. “We’ll look after them.”

Satisfied, Thorin gave a single nod before addressing the rest of them. “We take them down one at a time,” he continued, his voice even and commanding. “Once one is drawn away, we strike fast. Dwalin, Bifur, Gloin, Dori, and I will move in first. The rest of you will flank, cut off any retreat.”

“Do trolls retreat?” Ori asked hesitantly, his grip tightening on the edges of his notebook.

“No,” Thorin grunted, “but they do thrash about when they realize they’re about to be killed. We need to keep them contained. The last thing we need is one of them running back to the others before we’re ready.”

Bilbo did not like how grim that sounded. Not one bit.

“We strike as soon as we have them alone,” Dwalin added, cracking his knuckles in anticipation. “Hit fast, hit hard, and don’t give it time to fight back.”

Balin nodded, rubbing at his beard thoughtfully. “We’ll need to make sure we pick the right location for the ambush. Somewhere with enough cover that we can hide, but not so thick with trees that we get in each other’s way.”

“Should be easy enough,” Nori said, his tone light but his expression sharp. “Trolls aren’t exactly known for their brains. We can lead ‘em wherever we want.”

Bilbo tried very hard not to let his imagination run wild with all the possible ways this plan could go horribly, horribly wrong. A single misstep, a moment of hesitation, and the entire company could be fighting for their lives. They might have decided on a strategy, but that didn’t mean he had to like it—or the part where he was somehow the bait.

Gandalf cleared his throat, drawing ewveryones attention. “I’ll stay back and be ready to intervene,” he said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just shattered Bilbo’s last remaining hope of being quietly excused from this madness. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll be there.”

That was, perhaps, the most reassuring thing Bilbo had heard all evening.

Across from him, Thorin turned his gaze toward Freya, “You said the Orcs and Wargs will come the morning after we kill the trolls.”

Freya nodded, “Yes after trolls are dead Orcs will come.”

Thorin’s mouth pressed into a firm line. “Then we don’t linger. Once the trolls are dead, we take what we need fron their cave and leave before first light.”

Dori grunted in approval. “Aye. Wouldn’t do ta celebrate a victory only ta walk inta a trap.”

“That’s if we pull this off.” Bilbo muttered under his breath.

A warm thump on his back nearly sent him sprawling forward, and he turned to glare at Bofur, who was grinning like they were discussing the weather and not troll-slaying.

“Relax, Bilbo,” Bofur said easily. “Ye won’t be alone. We’ve done this plenty of times before.”

Bilbo eyed him warily. “You’ve tricked trolls into chasing an invisible dinner before?”

Bofur shrugged. “Not exactly. But I’ve gotten outta worse scrapes than this, and so have the others.” He shot Bilbo a wink. “Besides, if somethin’ goes wrong, I’ll be right there. We won’t let any trolls snack on ya.”

Bilbo wasn’t sure how much of that was genuine reassurance and how much was just Bofur being Bofur, but he exhaled slowly and nodded. He still thought this was a terrible idea. He still wished he was anywhere else. But if he had to do this, at least he wasn’t doing it alone.

“Alright,” Thorin said, swinging into the saddle of his pony with a decisive air. “We’ve wasted enough daylight. Mount up—we move now.”

Chapter Text

The rhythmic clop of hooves slowed as the first acrid traces of burnt wood hit the air. One by one, the company’s voices trailed off. Even the ponies hesitated, ears flicking back, steps uncertain. The smell was thick—charred timber, scorched earth, and something worse. Something sharp and ugly that lodged itself in the back of Freya’s throat and refused to let go.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, trying to force the nausea down. She had known this was coming. Had braced herself for it.

It didn’t help.

The farmhouse lay in ruins before them—a skeletal husk of what had once been a home. The walls had collapsed inward, jagged remnants clawing uselessly at the sky. The roof was gone, broken beams caved in on themselves like rib bones crushed underfoot. There was no smoke now, no fresh heat, but the air still carried the ghost of the fire, thick and clinging.

She had seen places like this before. In movies. TV shows. News reports. Tragic scenes, distant and detached, confined to the safety of a screen. But this wasn’t a story anymore, wasn’t someone else’s loss playing out for dramatic effect. This was real—and standing here, breathing in the ashes, was so much worse than she had ever imagined.

A shiver ran down her spine before she could stop it, and Fili’s arm tightened around her waist—a silent I’m here.

“This it?” he asked, voice low.

She forced her throat to work past the tight knot of nausea. “Yes.” Barely above a whisper.

Ahead of them, Thorin reined in his pony, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the only sound was the restless shifting of hooves, the wind whispering through burnt timbers. Then, his voice cut through the stillness, quiet but firm.

“-Search- the -ruins.”

No one questioned the order. The others dismounted, moving with grim efficiency, sifting through the wreckage to ensure no survivors were left behind.

There wouldn’t be any survivors. She knew that. Had known it since before they even arrived.

But as she sat frozen in the saddle, staring at the remains of what had once been someone’s home, she still found herself wishing she could be wrong.

Fili’s arm tightened again, just for a second, before he slipped off his pony. He turned back immediately, steadying her as she swung her leg over the saddle and slid to the ground.

She should move. Help. Do something besides standing here, stomach twisted into knots, hands clenched uselessly at her sides. But all she could do was stare at the ruins, the charred beams and broken stone, the pieces of a life that no longer existed.

Someone had lived here. Woken up in this house, stretched in a warm bed, stepped outside to greet the morning light. They had cooked meals at a now-destroyed table, laughed by the fire that had eventually consumed everything.

Had they seen it coming? Had they fought? Had they run?

She swallowed hard.

By the time they had finished their search, Thorin’s expression had darkened further. No survivors. No bodies.

Only remnants of a struggle—scattered belongings, drag marks leading away from the ruins. Evidence of what had happened, but no sign of where the people had gone.

Freya exhaled slowly, but it did nothing to ease the knot in her chest.

She had known this was coming. Had braced herself for it.

It still wasn’t enough.

__________________________________________________

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably, the scent of charred wood clinging thick in the air, turning acrid at the back of his throat. Smoke and soot had long since settled into the earth, but the stench remained, thick and oppressive. 

The farmhouse—what was left of it—loomed before him, a hollowed-out husk of blackened timbers and crumbling stone. The skeletal remains of furniture jutted out from the wreckage like broken ribs, their twisted shapes illuminated in the fading afternoon light. 

This had been a home. Someone’s hearth, someone's table, someone's bed. Now, it was nothing but a graveyard of ash.

A slow exhale pulled his attention away from the wreckage.

Thorin stood a few paces ahead, surveying the destruction with a grim set to his jaw, his sharp eyes flicking toward the dark sprawl of trees beyond. His face gave nothing away, but Bilbo wasn’t fooled. He recognized it now—that tension in his stance, the way his fingers flexed ever so slightly at his sides. A quiet fury and sorrow simmered beneath the surface, not yet spoken but present in the rigid line of his shoulders.

“Nori. Kili.” Thorin’s voice cut through the stillness, quiet but edged with something sharper. “Scout the forest. We need to find where the trolls have set up their camp and where they’re cave is before they come out at nightfall.” His gaze flickered between them. “You have two hours. Meet me back here when you’re done. The rest of us will set up camp nearby.”

The two nodded, swift and sure. Kili slung his bow over his shoulder, the strap of his quiver drawn tight with a sharp tug. He glanced at Fili, a brief flicker of something—anticipation, perhaps, or reassurance—passing between them. Nori, ever the shadow, pulled his hood up, letting it cast his sharp features into obscurity, already poised to slip into the wilderness like a ghost.

It should have ended there.

But then Gandalf spoke.

“Bilbo should go as well.”

The words sent a jolt through Bilbo, like a bucket of icy water poured straight down his spine.

Surely—surely he had misheard.

He turned, expecting—no, praying —to see some flicker of mischief in Gandalf’s expression, some telltale twinkle in the wizard’s eye that would confirm this was all some elaborate joke at Bilbo’s expense. But Gandalf, damn him, only met his gaze with unnerving calm, as if this was the most reasonable suggestion in the world.

“No one is quieter than a hobbit when they set their mind to it,” the wizard continued, stroking his beard. “They can move unseen and unheard, and even disappear with an ease that neither man nor dwarf could ever hope to match.”

Bilbo stared at him, aghast.

Surely someone would object. Surely Thorin, who had made no secret of his doubts, would scoff at the idea and wave him off as an untested fool with no business trailing warriors into danger. Surely Dwalin, practical and sharp-eyed, would point out that Bilbo couldn’t so much as swing a blade, let alone navigate a forest crawling with creatures that would eat him for supper.

Surely someone—anyone—would have the good sense to stop this before it went any further.

But no such objection came.

Instead, Thorin turned to him, expression unreadable. He studied Bilbo for a long moment, weighing him in that sharp, assessing way of his. Bilbo fought the urge to shift beneath the scrutiny, his hands twitching at his sides.

For the briefest moment, something passed across the dwarf king’s face—something almost reluctant, almost concerned, but it was gone too fast for Bilbo to be sure. Then, at last, Thorin spoke.

“You are our burglar.” The words were quiet, even measured, but there was no mistaking the challenge in them. “Prove it.”

Bilbo’s breath caught.

The words were not cruel. Not dismissive. Not even the cold skepticism he had come to expect whenever Thorin turned those piercing eyes upon him. No, this was something else. Expectation. A test.

Thorin Oakenshield was offering him a chance. An impossible, maddening, utterly unreasonable chance.

And Bilbo did not know whether to be grateful or terrified.

He wanted to refuse. He wanted to argue, to insist that being a burglar in name was quite different from being a burglar in action—that he had been chosen under false pretenses and was, in fact, quite hopeless at all of this. But the words lodged in his throat, trapped beneath the weight of Thorin’s stare.

He could feel the eyes of the company on him, waiting, watching, judging. And the Tookish part of him—wild and stubborn, insistent and foolhardy—stirred.

Bilbo exhaled slowly. He could feel the faint tremor in his hands but forced his voice to remain steady.

“Fine,” he said, tipping his chin up in what he hoped was a passable imitation of confidence. “I suppose it’s about time I proved my usefulness, isn’t it?”

Kili’s grin widened, bright and eager, while Nori’s sharp eyes flicked toward Bilbo, unreadable, but not unkind.

And Thorin—Thorin said nothing.

But the ghost of something—approval, perhaps—flickered across his face before he turned away.

_____________________________________________________________

Bilbo swallowed against the dryness in his throat as he trailed after Kili and Nori, the ruined farmhouse shrinking behind them. The moment they stepped into the shadow of the trees, the world shifted. The air thickened with the scent of damp earth and leaf rot, drowning out the lingering acrid tang of burned wood. The whisper of branches overhead carried none of the still, heavy silence of destruction—only the steady murmur of life continuing as it always had.

The tension in his shoulders loosened, just slightly. This was better. The weight of green pressing close, the hush of a forest long-settled into itself. It wasn’t the Shire, not by a long shot, but it was something close. He took a slow breath, filling his lungs with moss and pine, letting it settle in his chest, easing the tightness in his ribs.

“This way,” Nori murmured, voice barely louder than the rustle of the leaves. He moved with practiced ease, slipping between trunks like a shadow, each step placed with the kind of precision that spoke of long years spent navigating places he wasn’t meant to be.

Kili, by contrast, moved like a restless fox—light on his feet but brimming with barely-contained energy. His bow shifted in his grip, fingers drumming idly against the curve of the wood as his eyes flickered between the trees. Watching. Searching.

They moved in silence, keeping to the thicker part of the woods where the gnarled roots twisted through damp earth and the dense canopy shrouded them in shifting gloom.

For a while, the only sounds were the whisper of the wind and the careful press of their own footfalls against moss and fallen leaves. Then, at last, Nori came to a stop. He turned, sharp-eyed in the dim light, and gestured toward a fallen log where the ground dipped into a shallow ravine.

“We split here,” he murmured, his voice low, measured. “We’ll cover more ground this way. We meet back ‘ere in an in an hour ta check in. If one o' us doesn’t return—”

“We’ll assume they’ve been eaten,” Kili finished brightly, flashing a grin that Bilbo thought was entirely uncalled for.

Nori rolled his eyes but didn’t bother correcting him. “If ye find something, mark tha trees as ye go. Small notches, nothing obvious. Don’t leave a trail straight back ta us.”

Bilbo nodded, trying to ignore the uneasy weight settling in his gut. Kili, still grinning, gave him a quick clap on the shoulder before vanishing into the underbrush, moving with an effortless confidence that made it seem as though the forest itself welcomed him. Nori disappeared in the opposite direction, silent as a shadow.

The trees pressed in around him, their quiet weight settling into his bones. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, and forced his feet forward. He could do this.

No—he would do this.

Bilbo was a hobbit, and hobbits knew the land. They felt it. The way a sailor read the tides or a bard felt the pulse of a crowd. He stilled, one hand brushing the rough bark of an ash tree, the other splayed against the damp soil. The forest breathed around him, old and steady, its presence a low hum in his chest.

He listened.

Not with his ears, but with something deeper—something older.

The forest here was old, its roots ran deep, old and tangled, weaving through the ground like veins beneath skin, slow-growing and steady. Bilbo could feel them beneath his feet, silent witnesses to centuries of change. The undergrowth stirred in the wind, the leaves quivering in faint response to some distant movement, but the trees themselves were calm. Untroubled.

He let out a breath, the tension in his shoulders easing as he took a careful step forward, then another. His fingers trailed absently over the moss-covered trunks, feeling the stories written into their bark. The ferns, soft and undisturbed, told him that nothing large had passed this way recently. The oaks, their deep roots unshaken, carried no tremor of recent upheaval. Even the scattered patches of mushrooms—sprouting in clusters from fallen logs—whispered of a quiet, undisturbed place.

Bilbo nearly smiled. For all the dangers of the road, the land itself was still familiar.

Then—

Pain.

Bilbo froze mid-step, breath hitching as something deep in his bones ached, raw and foreign. His fingers, still resting against the moss, twitched. It was like a discordant note struck in an otherwise perfect melody, a wrongness that sent his nerves singing with unease.

His feet moved before his mind caught up, carrying him forward, drawn toward the source like a leaf pulled along the current of a stream. 

He came across the broken stems of ferns still bled their pale sap, their delicate fronds crushed beneath something heavy. A disturbance, recent enough that the forest had not yet begun to heal. Bilbo traced a jagged edge of a snapped branch, its wound still fresh, the lifeblood of the wood seeping into the damp earth.

Something had come this way. Something big.

The trail stretched ahead of him, a wound carved into the land itself, clear as ink spilled across a page. The farther he went, the worse it became.

What had started as crushed undergrowth turned into flattened bushes, trampled saplings, and deep furrows carved into the soil. A young tree, barely past its first few decades, had been wrenched from the ground, its roots splayed out in a gnarled tangle, torn from their home like severed limbs. The trunk lay twisted and broken, splintered wood gleaming pale against the dark earth. Its leaves, still green, still whole, whispered faintly in the wind, unaware that they were already dying.

Bilbo’s stomach twisted.

This was no natural fall. The forest had not given this tree up willingly.

Something had been here. Something massive, something careless, something with no regard for the land beneath its feet. The wounded roots, the crushed ferns, the bruised earth—Bilbo could feel their silent cries. The pain of disruption. The ache of being broken.

His chest tightened.

Then, suddenly, the trees thinned.

Bilbo stopped short, his breath catching in his throat.

Before him, in a small clearing, lay the unmistakable remains of a campsite.

The fire pit was massive, a circle of blackened stone and charred wood, still faintly smoldering. Bones were piled haphazardly nearby, gnawed clean. He had found the Troll’s camp.

Bilbo’s breath came slow and measured, but his heart was hammering against his ribs like a caged thing desperate to escape. He forced himself to remain still, to fight against the instinct to bolt. Panic would do him no good here.

Bilbo took one last sweeping glance at the clearing, committing every detail to memory. Then he turned, moving with as much care as he could manage, stepping lightly to avoid the patches of churned-up mud and broken branches.

The forest closed in around him once more, swallowing the clearing behind him, but the sense of wrongness lingered, clinging to his skin like damp air before a storm. He kept his breathing even, counting his steps to steady himself, forcing his mind away from the images of massive, gnarled hands and teeth crunching down on bone.

He had time.

Nightfall was still two hours away. The trolls wouldn’t return until then. All Bilbo had to do was get back to the meeting place. Back to Kili and Nori.

Back to safety.

He moved as quickly as he dared, careful to retrace his path without disturbing the forest more than necessary. The air was cooling now, the first hints of evening creeping in beneath the dense canopy. The golden light of late afternoon dappled through the leaves, casting long, flickering shadows across the ground. He had always loved this time of day in the Shire—when the sun dipped low and bathed everything in warm light, when the fields smelled of ripe grain and sweet grass, when supper was just around the corner.

But here, in this unfamiliar wood, the light felt different. Not warm, but thin. Fading.

A reminder that time was slipping away.

Bilbo picked up his pace, feet light against the mossy ground, his ears straining for any sound out of place. A bird flitted somewhere above him, wings rustling against the leaves. A distant snap of a twig sent a bolt of panic through his chest, but he forced himself to breathe, to listen properly. A rabbit, most likely. Something small. Harmless.

Still, his heart didn’t settle, not fully.

As he crested the shallow ridge, his pulse finally eased. The meeting place was just ahead, nestled in the natural hollow of the ravine, where the roots of an ancient oak curled over themselves like the fingers of some great stone giant. And there, leaning against the trunk with his arms crossed, was Nori.

The dwarf’s sharp eyes flicked up the moment Bilbo stepped into view, his posture shifting slightly—relaxed, but alert, like a wolf who had caught the scent of something unfamiliar. “Took yer time,” Nori murmured, pushing away from the tree. His gaze swept over Bilbo’s face, assessing. “Found it, did ye?”

Bilbo swallowed hard and crouched beside him. “Yes. I—” He exhaled, composing himself. “I found their camp.”

Nori clicked his tongue, thoughtful. He didn’t speak right away, but Bilbo caught the way his fingers twitched, like he was working through something in his head. Planning. Calculating.

A sharp rustling in the undergrowth made Bilbo’s heart jolt, his breath catching in his throat. But before he could fully give in to the spike of panic, Kili emerged from the shadows, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips despite the tension in his eyes.

“You two look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Kili remarked, his voice light but quiet. He crouched beside them, glancing between Nori and Bilbo before his expression turned serious. “Found the camp?”

Bilbo nodded, still catching his breath. “It’s just beyond the ridge. A clearing.” He swallowed hard, pushing past the lingering unease curling in his stomach. “They… left their fire pit behind. And it looked like they were planning to return.”

Kili shot a glance at the thinning light filtering through the canopy. The golden hues of afternoon had deepened, the long fingers of dusk creeping ever closer. “We’ve got time,” he said, more to himself than to the others. His mouth twisted. “We just need to find their cave before nightfall.”

Bilbo swallowed against the last remnants of unease curling in his stomach. The knowledge that they were actively looking for something as dangerous as trolls sat uneasily on his shoulders, but there was no turning back now.

He squared his shoulders, nodding toward the ridge. “It’s this way,” he murmured. He forced his feet forward, leading them down the narrow, root-knotted path. The forest shifted around them as they moved—silent but aware, as if it, too, was waiting.

They followed the trail of destruction until the trees thinned, and the clearing opened before them once more. Bilbo halted at the edge of the undergrowth, motioning for the others to stop. They crouched, eyes sharp, scanning the space ahead.

The campsite looked no different than before—fire pit, bones, the faint stink of rot hanging in the air like a warning.

Nori made a quiet noise in the back of his throat, expression unreadable, but his hands flexed at his sides, fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to check for his knives. Kili had gone still, his gaze flicking between the smoldering pit and the trampled path leading out of the clearing.

“Their cave’s gotta be close,” Nori murmured, voice barely louder than a breath. His sharp eyes scanned the landscape, reading the tracks, the broken branches, the way the forest had been shoved aside by something too large and too careless to move with any grace.

Kili tilted his head, frowning. “If we spread out, we can cover more ground.”

Nori glanced at the darkening sky. “Fifteen minutes,” he said firmly. “We meet back ‘ere in fifteen minutes. No more.”

Kili gave a sharp nod, slipping into the underbrush to the left—a restless shadow against the dimming light. Nori disappeared to the right, quieter than a breath, melting into the trees like he’d never been there at all.

Bilbo let out a slow breath and turned, picking his way toward the edge of the clearing. He moved carefully, the damp earth soft beneath his feet as he weaved through the undergrowth. The fading light painted the forest in deep gold and dusky blue, the fading remnants of daylight slipping through the canopy in fractured beams. Every rustle of leaves, every distant creak of branches set his nerves alight, but he forced himself to breathe, to focus.

His fingers trailed over rough bark, the damp scent of moss clinging to the air as he scanned the earth for disturbances. He paused now and then, crouching low to examine a patch of upturned soil or the splintered remains of a broken sapling. But the signs were old, the damage already softened by time and weather. 

Nothing fresh.

Nothing useful.

Bilbo straightened, rolling his shoulders before glancing toward the sky. The light had dimmed further, the golden hues of late afternoon sinking into the deep blue of approaching dusk. It was time to head back.

He turned, slipping between the trees, retracing his steps back toward the clearing.

When he arrived, Kili was already there, crouched low near the fire pit, turning over a charred scrap of bone between his fingers. His brows were furrowed, the usual easy grin absent from his face.

Nori emerged from the trees a moment later, his expression unreadable. His sharp eyes flicked between Bilbo and Kili before he jerked his chin toward the tree line.

“Found it,” he murmured.

Bilbo inhaled sharply, straightening. Kili shot to his feet, his fingers tightening around his bow.

Nori gestured for them to follow, leading them away from the clearing with careful, measured steps. He kept close to the thicker part of the undergrowth, weaving between the trunks with practiced ease. Kili trailed just behind him, silent now, his usual restless energy focused into something sharper, more deliberate.

Bilbo moved last, his own steps lighter than either of theirs, his heart drumming a steady rhythm in his chest.

They slipped through the trees, then, finally, Nori stopped. “There.”

The cave entrance was wide and dark, the rock around it slick with moisture that gleamed faintly in the fading light. A foul, musky scent clung to the air—thick with the rot of old kills and damp earth. It made Bilbo’s stomach twist, the sharp tang of decay settling unpleasantly in the back of his throat.

Kili let out a low whistle, his fingers drumming absently against his bowstring. “They’ve got themselves a proper den, then,” he murmured. His voice was light, but his stance wasn’t—his weight was balanced, every muscle poised like a drawn bowstring.

Nori nodded, his keen eyes never leaving the cave. “Seems like they've been 'ere a while,” he murmured. “Tracks go straight in, but there's nothin’ fresh comin’ out.”

“Well.” Bilbo cleared his throat. “That’s that, then. We found it. Now what?”

Nori’s expression was grim. “Now, we wait. Someone’s gotta keep an eye on it, make sure they don’t slip out while tha others are gettin’ into position.”

Bilbo’s stomach twisted harder. Wait here. Until dark. With a trio of flesh-eating trolls slumbering inside a cave fifty yards away.

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

He took a measured breath, willing his shoulders not to bunch with tension. “Right,” he said carefully. “Of course.”

Nori turned, pinning him with an unreadable look. “Not you, Baggins.”

Bilbo blinked. “Pardon?”

Kili grinned, though there was something tight in the expression. “We need someone to go back to Thorin. Let him know what we’ve found.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to argue, then promptly shut it again.

Because really, what was he going to say? That he was the best choice to stay behind, crouching in the dark, watching a troll cave? That he, a hobbit whose greatest act of bravery thus far had been not bolting at the first sign of trouble, was somehow better suited to lurking in the shadows of a nest full of man-eating giants?

No. No, he was not.

And yet.

Something in him curled tight at the thought of turning back while Kili and Nori remained. It settled in his chest—hot, tangled, shame and frustration twining together like choking vines. He was supposed to be part of this company. He had agreed to this—had agreed to help. And yet, he was being sent away.

He swallowed, straightening slightly. “I can stay,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended, but steady.

Nori snorted. “No, ye can’t.”

Bilbo bristled. “I—”

Kili clapped a firm hand on his shoulder before he could argue further. “Look, Bilbo, we need someone who can actually get back to camp quickly without making a racket.” His grin was easy, but there was something serious beneath it. “You’re the best at moving quietly.”

Bilbo hesitated. He hated that what they were saying made sense. He was the best choice. He could move faster than either of them without breaking a twig or disturbing the undergrowth. He could get back to Thorin before darkness settled over the woods. But that didn’t make him feel any better about it.

Kili must have caught the hesitation because he squeezed Bilbo’s shoulder. “We’ve got this,” he said, voice low but certain. “You did your part finding the camp. Now let Thorin know.”

Bilbo exhaled slowly, shoving down the lingering unease curling in his ribs. Right. Yes. That was his job now. He could do that. He squared his shoulders, nodded once, and stepped back. “Fine,” he murmured, voice even. “But if I come back and find you’ve both been eaten, I’ll be very cross.”

Kili grinned, the expression bright even in the sun creeped lower towards the horizon. “Noted.”

Nori huffed in amusement before turning his attention back to the cave mouth. “Get goin’ then, before it gets dark.”

Bilbo shot one last glance toward the yawning black of the cave before nodding, pulling his coat tighter around himself as he turned back toward the trees. 

The fading light made the undergrowth a patchwork of gold and shadow. He moved quickly but carefully, weaving between trunks, his ears tuned to the shifting quiet around him.

It wasn’t far to camp. 15 minutes at most, if he was quick.

Eventually the forest began to thin, the trees giving way to open land. The charred skeleton of the ruined farmhouse loomed ahead, its blackened beams stretching against the deepening sky.

Bilbo spotted them before they saw him—Thorin and Dwalin, standing near the husk of a crumbling wall, their silhouettes sharp against the last light of the sky. They were speaking in low tones, their words lost to the hush of the wind. But the tension in their stances was unmistakable.

Bilbo swallowed hard and hurried forward, his breath uneven from the run, his pulse still pounding in his ears. The movement caught Thorin’s attention first. His head snapped up, piercing gaze cutting through the dim light as Bilbo approached. Dwalin turned a half-second later, one hand already shifting toward his axe out of habit before he recognized him.

He slowed as he neared, drawing in a breath to steady himself. “We found it,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “The trolls’ camp.”

Dwalin’s expression darkened. “And the trolls?”

“No sign of them,” Bilbo admitted, shifting his weight. “Not at the camp, at least. But their cave—Nori found it. Just a short way from the clearing. Kili and Nori are watching the entrance now, making sure they don’t leave before we can set up the ambush.”

Thorin exhaled through his nose, a quiet but measured sound. He turned to Dwalin, his voice low but edged with steel. “Get the others. We move now.”

Dwalin nodded once, already turning, boots crunching against dry earth as he strode toward the camp without another word.

Silence settled between them. Thorin’s gaze flickered over him, unreadable in the dim light. Bilbo fought the urge to shift under the scrutiny, his fingers twitching slightly where they hung at his sides. Whatever Thorin was searching for, Bilbo wasn’t certain, but he must have found it—because after a long moment, he gave a curt nod.

“Get what you need,” Thorin said, voice firm but quiet, the command carrying a weight Bilbo felt settle against his ribs. He turned without another word, his coat sweeping behind him as he stepped away from the ruins. “We leave as soon as the others are ready.”

Bilbo exhaled, only then realizing how tight his chest had become. He glanced once more at the skeletal remains of the farmhouse, at the broken beams clawing at the darkening sky. Then, with a final steadying breath, he followed.

Chapter Text

Hello, dear readers.

It is I, your wonderful and amazing author, and I come to you today not with a new chapter, but with a DEMAND.

You see, I have written the next chapter. It is done. Complete. Glorious. An EPIC BATTLE between dwarves and trolls! There are sheep noises, flying rocks, heroic acts, and possibly some troll-related trauma. It is, quite frankly, awesome.

But you cannot have it.
Not yet.

Why? Because I need your opinion, and I’m resorting to shameless literary blackmail.

I am holding the next chapter HOSTAGE until I receive at least SEVEN votes on this vital, story-altering question:

Should I continue to write words that characters don't understand -like-this- or should I make them strike through instead like this.

Now, I’d like to extend a warm thank you to our early responders:

HaughtyCavalier voted for strikethrough.
Blackfanou stood firmly in the -dashes- camp.
Klerns_Birdie, A true neutral, happy with either—you are a beacon of peace in these trying times.

Sincerely

Your (benevolently tyrannical) author

Chapter Text

Nori emerged from the gloom of the trees, his movements near soundless, blending seamlessly with the shifting shadows. His sharp eyes flicked over the gathered company before locking onto Thorin. Kili was close behind, a swift shadow at his heels, the usual mischief in his gaze now sharpened into something quiet and deadly.

“They’re out,” Nori said quietly. His voice was low and calm, but tension coiled beneath it, tight and steady as a drawn wire. “All three o’ them. Left their cave a few minutes ago—headed straight fer the campsite. Looks like they’re settin’ up fer the night.”

A ripple of tension passed through the company—silent, but palpable. Bilbo could feel it rise in the air like the electric pressure before a summer storm. Around him, the dwarves stiffened, fingers tightening around axe handles and sword hilt as they all looked to Thorin for their next move.

“How spread out are they?” Thorin asked.

“One's settin' up tha fire, another's diggin' through their supplies, and tha third's sittin’ near the fire, grumblin’ to himself.” Nori’s lip curled slightly in disdain. “They’re bickerin’. Seems they ain’t exactly pleased with their dinner options.”

“Good.” Thorin gave a brisk, decisive nod before turning fully toward Bilbo, eyes intense, the weight of expectation heavy in his gaze. “Are you ready, Burglar?”

Bilbo swallowed, throat tight and painfully dry, his heart giving an unpleasant lurch. Ready felt impossibly far from what he truly was, but there was no turning back now. He nodded once, sharply, unable to trust himself with words.

"Remember," Thorin continued, his gaze sweeping over the gathered dwarves, "we strike swiftly and silently. Do not give them a chance to alert the others."

The dwarves shifted in silent acknowledgment, adjusting grips on weapons and checking their positions one last time. Dwalin rolled his broad shoulders with quiet menace, eyes narrowed in grim determination, while Fili and Kili exchanged quick, wordless glances, a spark of fierce anticipation passing between them.

Bofur shifted beside Bilbo, checking his weapons once more. He looked over at Bilbo and gave him an encouraging nod. “You’ll do fine,” he murmured softly, his eyes steady and reassuring.

Bilbo drew in a shaky breath, grateful for Bofur’s calm, comforting presence. “Thank you,” he whispered hoarsely, forcing the tremor from his voice.

Bofur offered another brief, confident smile before turning toward his position. Bilbo managed a strained, fleeting smile back before stepping away, leaving the dwarves to melt silently into shadows with practiced ease, becoming nothing more than indistinct shapes blending seamlessly with the darkened woods.

Feeling strangely exposed without the dwarves' comforting solidity behind him, Bilbo moved forward alone, heart hammering frantically against his ribs. His feet carefully picked through the tangled undergrowth, steps deliberate yet tense as he reached a thick cluster of shrubs at the edge of the troll campsite.

Crouching low, he pressed forward, gripping trembling fingers tightly into fists. The trolls’ voices rumbled deep and rough ahead, harsh and grating through the quiet night. Bilbo parted the branches just enough to peer through, holding his breath tightly in his chest.

The hulking creatures loomed ominously in the flickering firelight, massive shadows thrown wildly against the surrounding rocks and trees. One troll scowled deeply, poking angrily at the sputtering flames. Another sifted irritably through scattered supplies, muttering under his breath, while the third slumped beside the fire, gnawing sulkily on a half-eaten chunk of dubious-looking meat.

“Quit yer bellyachin',” growled the first troll irritably, waving a grimy hand dismissively toward his companion. “Why don' ya take a turn at the pan if ya think ya can do better, Bert?”

Bert snorted derisively, wiping grease from his mouth with a dirty sleeve. “I'd sooner eat dirt, Will.”

"That can be arranged," Will snarled dangerously, brandishing the half-eaten haunch like a weapon.

"Didja hear that, Bert?" asked the smallest troll, eyes narrowing suspiciously into the darkness beyond the firelight.

Bert lifted his massive head, nostrils flaring hungrily as he sniffed the air. "Aye. Sounds like dinner’s come ta find us fer a change." A twisted grin spread across his face, ugly and eager. "Mutton’d do me just fine."

Pulse quickening, Bilbo crept backward carefully, further into the shadows. He waited until their attention wavered, then called out again—a louder, clearer bleat, deliberately pitched to tantalize. He moved carefully further away, ensuring the sound drifted temptingly just beyond their sight.

The trolls exchanged quick, greedy looks, lumbering upright and staring hungrily into the gloom.

"Best hurry 'fore it wanders off,” grumbled the troll called Bert, nudging his companion roughly with a meaty elbow. The firelight flickered off his knotted skin, casting grotesque shadows across his broad face. “Go fetch it, Tom.”

“An' why's it always me gotta do it?” grumbled the smallest troll—Tom—his gravelly voice thick with irritation as he glared at Bert.

“'Cause it's yer turn,” snapped the third, voice sharp with growing impatience. “Now git movin' afore it scampers off!”

Tom rose with a long, suffering sigh, his massive shoulders slumping as he lumbered reluctantly into the trees. Each step sent vibrations through the damp forest floor, twigs snapping underfoot as his hulking frame disappeared into the shadows.

Bilbo, crouched low behind a curtain of brush, felt his heart quicken. Adrenaline surged through him, sharpening his senses into a fine edge. He let out another sheep’s bleat, soft and tremulous, guiding the troll further into the woods—toward where the dwarves waited.

“Here, sheepy sheepy,” Tom muttered darkly, as he crashed through the underbrush; branches snapping and leaves rustling with each heavy step. “I ain't gonna hurt ya—not too much anyway,” he added with a chuckle, the sound low and cruel.

Bilbo moved swiftly, slipping from shadow to shadow, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm. He called out again, a high, plaintive bleat, the sound of a lone sheep lost and vulnerable. It echoed through the trees, luring Tom deeper into the trap.

And then he saw it: a flicker of movement ahead, quick and sharp. A glint of metal in the moonlight—Thorin’s signal.

Bilbo ducked aside instantly, pressing himself flat against the gnarled trunk of a tree. He held his breath, chest tight, ears straining. The troll’s lumbering steps thundered past him, so close he could smell the reek of unwashed skin and rotting meat.

From the shadows, Thorin's deep voice rang out.

“Now!”

The forest exploded into motion.

Kili loosed his arrow before the troll had time to react, the sharp whistle of fletching slicing through the tense night air. Bilbo barely had time to blink before the arrow struck home, sinking deep into the troll’s thick throat with a sickening, meaty thunk.

Bilbo’s stomach lurched, twisting violently as dark blood welled up and bubbled between the troll’s thick fingers. The creature staggered backward, eyes bulging wide, mouth working uselessly. It tried to speak—tried to scream—but only a wet, rattling gurgle escaped.

The moment Kili's arrow struck home, Dwalin surged forward, his heavy boots crunching against damp earth as he charged. There was no hesitation in the way the dwarf moved, no flicker of doubt. His twin axes, Grasper and Keeper, flashed swiftly in the dim moonlight, and Bilbo found himself fixated on the sheer power behind each swing.

Grasper bit deep into the troll’s thigh, slicing cleanly through sinew and tendon with a sickening rip. The troll faltered, balance broken, but before it could react, Dwalin drove Creeper upward in a brutal arc. The second blade punched beneath the creature’s ribs. A grunt tore from the troll’s chest as its hands flailed toward the dwarf, but Dwalin ducked beneath the wild swings with practiced ease, his movements as precise as they were savage.

Bifur was on it a heartbeat later, charging low with the force of a battering ram. His face was grim, eyes blazing with focused fury as he rammed his boar spear into the troll’s side. The iron tip punched in just beneath the ribs, and Bifur didn’t stop. He planted his feet, muscles corded with effort, and twisted viciously. The tearing sound that followed was grotesque—flesh and sinew parting under pressure—and Bilbo clapped a hand over his mouth, fighting down the rising bile. It was a sound he would never—never—be able to forget. It lodged itself deep in his ears, in his bones, in the pit of his twisting stomach.

The troll shrieked—or tried to. It wheezed pitifully, thick blood pouring down its torso in great, steaming rivulets. It thrashed, enormous hands flailing as it staggered in pain, but the onslaught did not cease.

Gloin came next, axe flashing as he darted in with brutal efficiency. His blade carved another deep gouge into the already-crippled leg, striking the same thigh Dwalin had opened. The troll staggered violently, snarling, eyes wide with shock and confusion. It lashed out blindly, claws raking through the air—an animal backed into a corner, desperate to fight its way free.

One massive hand lashed out blindly, claws raking the air. The force of the swing cracked into a nearby tree, sending bark and woodchips flying. Bifur only barely avoided the blow, ducking with a growl.

Dori seized his chance. He moved from the side, deceptively quick for his stature, his expression calm but resolute. With astonishing precision and strength, he hefted his large warhammer and delivered a crushing blow to the back of the troll’s knee. There was a hideous crack—bone splintering under the blow—and the troll finally buckled, collapsing forward onto its hands. Its head dipped low, exposed, gasping.

Thorin sprang from the shadows, blade gleaming coldly, his movements swift and decisive. His sword sliced through the darkness, its lethal, elegant edge tracing a deadly arc across the troll’s exposed throat—a swift, decisive strike that silenced the beast permanently. Blood spurted briefly in a dark spray, staining the earth beneath it. The troll let out a strangled rasp—more shock than pain—before its eyes glazed over and its immense form crumpled forward with a muted, sickening squelch.

The dwarves froze at once, caught in the aftermath. Their chests heaved with heavy breaths, weapons still clutched tight in bloodied fists. Muscles remained taut, instincts on a knife’s edge, every ear straining against the quiet, waiting for  any indication they'd drawn attention from the remaining trolls.

Bilbo, half-shielded by the trunk of a moss-covered tree, felt his pulse thunder against his ribs. His fingers were damp and clenched tight into the bark behind him, breath stuck somewhere between lungs and throat.

Seconds ticked by in agonizing silence.

Then, at last, the distant, irritated voices of the remaining trolls resumed—still bickering, still unaware of their companions demise. 

Exchanging brief, relieved glances, the dwarves slowly eased from their fighting stances, knowing the night’s danger was far from over but allowing themselves a momentary respite in the shadow of their victory.

Bilbo exhaled sharply, limbs going slack all at once. The fear and adrenaline drained from him in a single breath, and he sagged boneless against the tree. Relief rolled over him like a crashing wave. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until it came tumbling out of him.

Across the clearing, Bofur caught his eye and tipped him a quick nod—half impressed, half reassuring.

Bilbo, still trying to remember how to breathe properly, managed a small, exhausted nod in return.

Thorin, ever composed, flicked his blade clean in one practiced motion before raising two fingers into the air—a silent signal. The company moved as one, slipping away from the fallen troll, their footfalls light despite their heavy gear. No one spoke. Even the rustling leaves above seemed to hush as they ghosted through the underbrush, circling back toward the edge of the trolls’ camp.

Bilbo followed close behind Bofur, his heart hammering, his breath still ragged from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He had done it—he had actually done it. Well, his part, anyway.

Up ahead, Nori raised a hand, signaling to a dense thicket just beyond a narrow clearing. It would do. Far enough from the corpse that the remaining trolls might not notice anything was amiss until it was far too late. 

Bilbo’s legs felt like jelly as he followed behind Bofur, but the fierce buzz of adrenaline kept him moving. They reached the new vantage point quickly, the dwarves scattering into place with quiet efficiency. The scent of blood clung to Bilbo’s senses, sharp and metallic, but there was no time to dwell on it. There were still two trolls to take down.

Thorin’s eyes met his through the gloom, dark and resolute. A single nod.

Go.

Bilbo nodded back, swallowing hard around the dry lump in his throat. His feet moved before he could second-guess the command, carrying him away from the company, deeper into the undergrowth.

The firelight came into view again, flickering like a beacon through the trees. He crouched low behind a fallen log, peering through moss-flecked bark toward the sputtering firelight ahead. The other two trolls were still there. One lounged near the fire, gnawing noisily on something charred and unidentifiable—Bilbo tried not to think about what it might have been. The other troll stood with his thick arms crossed, back half-turned to the trees, his scowl etched deep into his heavy face as he glared toward the dark forest’s edge.

“Tom’s takin’ his sweet time,” the standing troll muttered, kicking a cracked pot lid aside with a clang that made Bilbo flinch. “Lazy sod’s probably eatin’ the sheep ‘fore we get a bite.”

“Tom!” the other suddenly bellowed, his voice booming through the clearing as he cupped massive hands to his mouth. “Quit messin’ about an’ bring the sheep!”

Bilbo ducked lower behind the log, barely daring to breathe. He cupped his hands again, this time letting another bleat.

The trolls shifted, massive heads turning.

"There it is again!" barked one, excitement and irritation mixing in his voice. "Blasted thing's runnin' circles around 'im. Tom!"

Still no answer.

"TOM!" Bert bellowed louder this time, and the trees above shuddered with the force of it. Leaves rustled loose from their branches and spiraled down in nervous flutters.

Panic shot up Bilbo’s spine like a surge of ice water. A few more seconds of silence and they might start to get suspicious. And if they went looking now—if they found the body—

He couldn’t afford hesitation. Bilbo drew a deep breath and, as clearly as he could manage, mimicked a grumbling, gruff voice—rough, annoyed, and hopefully trollish enough to fool them:

“Hold yer knickers, I’m tryin’! Sheep’s gone deeper in! Come gimme a hand, would ya, Bert? Slippery little bugger, this one!”

The effect was instant. Both trolls jerked slightly, blinking toward the woods.

“Tom?” Bert called again, squinting. “That you?”

Bilbo winced and replied, “Yeah, who else, ya halfwit?

There was a beat of tense silence. Bert squinted harder, then grunted.

“Hmph. Can’t do nothin’ right without help, can he?”

With a massive grunt, he rose to his feet, bones creaking audibly with the effort, and tossed his stick aside. “Fine! I’ll come help, but this better not be like last time, or I swear I’ll use ‘im to tenderize the next roast!”

Bilbo nearly sagged in relief. He didn’t waste another second—he slipped backward, slow and silent, weaving through the trees and putting distance between himself and the firelight. Another soft sheep bleat echoed behind him, drifting just far enough to coax Bert deeper into the trap.

Behind him, Bert cursed under his breath, a steady rumble of irritation.

“Stupid bloody sheep. Stupid bloody Tom. Always me as has to chase dinner…”

Bilbo pressed himself flat behind the wide trunk of a tree as Bert’s heavy footfalls thundered past. The troll stomped through the mud, snapping twigs with every step, his boots squelching with wet irritation. The sound reverberated through the forest floor, rattling in Bilbo’s bones and vibrating through the roots beneath him.

Then—Thorin’s voice cut clean through the night.

“Now.”

Kili’s bowstring twanged, and an arrow hissed through the air, slicing the darkness.

It struck—close, but not quite true. The arrow buried itself just below the thick curve of Bert’s shoulder, sinking deep into muscle but missing the throat. Enough to wound. Enough to enrage.

“YEEEAAARGH!” Bert’s howl exploded through the forest, a sound of pure, unrestrained fury that seemed to shake the trees themselves.

“MOVE!” Thorin barked.

The company surged forward, weapons gleaming, shadows springing to life.

Dwalin charged, bellowing, his axes swinging in deadly arcs—but Bert was ready this time. He raised his fist and slammed it downward. Dwalin dove, rolled, came up behind the troll’s legs, and hacked at his calf with Grasper. Blood sprayed—but the wound was shallow, and Bert snarled and kicked, nearly sending the dwarf flying.

“Spread out!” Thorin barked.

Gloin was next, eyes locked on the gap Dwalin had carved. He rushed in low, axe aimed behind the knee, where troll hide grew looser. The blade connected with a sickening thunk. Bert grunted, staggering sideways, but held his ground. He spun with surprising speed, arm swinging in a wide, clumsy arc that shattered a sapling like kindling, bark flying in all directions.

Gloin threw himself flat, the limb whipping overhead with a whistle of air. He rolled and came up snarling, axe raised again, circling to the left waiting for a chance to strike again.

Bifur darted in—fierce, fast, fearless. This time, he didn’t go for a full charge. He feinted left, then ducked right, jabbing his boar spear deep into Bert’s hip. The troll let out a strangled roar, twisting hard. The force nearly yanked the weapon from Bifur’s hands—but the dwarf held fast, boots skidding in the muck as he ripped the spear free, carving a ragged line through hide before retreating.

“Flank him!” shouted Fili, already moving. His twin blades flashed silver as he darted past Bifur, striking fast and clean across the troll’s exposed side. Bert bellowed, lashing out blindly. Fili ducked, twisted—just in time. A tree-thick arm tore past his face with inches to spare.

Bofur came in next, light on his feet despite the chaos. He ducked beneath the wild swing and jammed the blunt end of his mattock into Bert’s shin with a solid crack. The troll stumbled, but Bofur was already gone, moving with practiced instinct as a massive fist crashed down where he’d been moments before, splitting the earth.

Then—a new sound. A roar—deeper, louder, coming from the trees beyond.

“Oi! What the bloody ‘ell’s goin’ on here?!”

The third troll—William—burst through the underbrush, trees cracking as he shoved his way through the thicket. His bulk was staggering, even by troll standards, his massive shoulders blotting out the moonlight as he burst onto the scene, eyes blazing and teeth bared.

Bilbo ducked instinctively behind a thick tangle of bramble, heart thundering in his throat like a war drum. The timing was all wrong. The third one wasn’t supposed to be here yet—not while Bert was still swinging and stomping, still very much on his feet.

“Get off ‘im, you stinkin’ vermin!” William roared, brandishing a tree trunk in both hands as easily as if it were a walking stick. “I’ll smash yer flat!”

The dwarves scattered with practiced speed, the enormous club slamming into the earth with a deafening crack. Dirt and pebbles erupted skyward in a messy spray as the blow missed Dori by inches, the shockwave enough to rattle Bilbo's bones.

Crouching deeper into the thorny shelter, Bilbo flinched as brambles clawed at his clothes and scratched his skin. His breath came in shallow gasps as he watched the chaos unfold. William lunged forward again, this time toward Fili and Kili. The brothers darted aside, narrowly avoiding a crushing sweep of the massive tree-trunk weapon. The sheer force of it sent leaves fluttering and bent young saplings sideways.

Thorin's voice cut through the pandemonium, calm and commanding. “Split up! Keep them confused!”

The dwarves obeyed without hesitation, scattering into the gloom, blades flashing in slivers of moonlight. Fili and Kili drew William away, baiting him with taunts and feints, steering him from Bert, who was still locked in a bloodied frenzy, swinging wildly despite his many wounds.

Bilbo's breath hitched painfully as he saw William’s club arc through the air, striking close enough to knock Fili sprawling into the mud. The blond dwarf rolled frantically, barely escaping another bone-shattering blow that splintered the earth where he had lain a second before.

Panic surged hot and sharp through Bilbo’s veins, drowning out hesitation. He scrambled through the underbrush, hands scraping against roots and damp leaves, until they struck something solid and unyielding. A stone. He wrapped his fingers around it, slick with moss, and knelt, body taut with fear and determination.

He took a breath. Then another. Drew his arm back, and let the stone fly.

It sailed through the air and struck true, landing squarely against William's temple with a loud, satisfying crack.

William’s head snapped to the side, his fierce expression replaced momentarily by confusion. "What in the—?” he bellowed, scanning the trees angrily. His distraction was all Kili needed. Darting forward, the young dwarf buried his blade deep into William's thigh, eliciting a furious roar of pain.

Bilbo didn’t pause. He was already reaching for another stone. Then another. He pelted William with frantic, relentless precision, aiming high, aiming true. Each rock struck the troll’s skull with a satisfying thud.

"Oi! Bert! Somethin's throwin' rocks!" William bellowed, spinning clumsily as a stone cracked against his temple.

“Nevermind that!” Bert barked back, blood slicking his arms as he fought to keep Dwalin and Gloin at bay. “Kill tha' dwarves first!”

William roared, lifting his club once more. It arced through the air like a falling tree, sweeping toward the dwarves. Dori, retreating hastily over uneven ground, stumbled—his foot catching on a root half-buried beneath the leaf litter. He fell hard, the breath knocked from his lungs as his back struck earth. William’s eyes narrowed cruelly, lips curling back to reveal cracked yellow teeth. He saw easy prey. With terrifying speed for something so massive, the troll raised his club high overhead, ready to crush the dwarf.

Bilbo’s heart stopped. Desperation surged through him like lightning through his veins. Before he could think he snatched up a larger rock and threw with every ounce of strength he possessed.

The stone flew true, sailing through the air like. It struck with a sickening, wet sound, embedding itself deep into William’s left eye.

Bilbo froze, breath coming in ragged, painful gasps as he stared at the grotesque result of his aim. The troll’s anguished howl shattered the silence like breaking glass. The sound echoed off the trees, reverberating through the forest in a chorus of agony and rage. William staggered backward, clutching at the bloody ruin of his face, thick fingers digging into the gore as if to claw the pain away.

"HE TOOK MY EYE! HE TOOK MY BLOODY EYE!"

The scream made Bilbo flinch, his heart slamming violently against his ribs. He could taste the fear at the back of his throat—sharp and metallic—but somewhere beneath it, buried deep, a flicker of defiance burned. He’d done that. He’d stopped the troll.

William thrashed blindly, his club forgotten, smashing through trees as he stumbled in pain and fury. Splinters flew like shrapnel, raining through the dark. The dwarves didn’t waste the moment.

“NOW!” Thorin’s roar was sharp and decisive, slicing cleanly through the chaos.

Dwalin surged forward again, axes sweeping in synchronized arcs, blades gleaming ominously in the moonlight. He swung low and fast, driving Creeper’s sharp edge deep into the thick tendon behind William’s knee. The troll howled, balance failing, knees buckling beneath him.

Bofur darted through the chaos to Dori’s side, grabbing his forearm and hauling him to his feet. Dori gave him a brief, breathless nod before charging back into the fray. His warhammer swung with brutal force, slamming into Bert’s exposed ribs. There was a sickening crunch, and Bert staggered with a snarl, arms flailing, striking nothing but air.

William continued to roar, thrashing wildly, his heavy club smashing through nearby trees, sending splinters flying like deadly shrapnel. Kili rolled swiftly to avoid being crushed beneath a falling branch, eyes wide and fierce as he scrambled back upright. Fili quickly joined him, both dwarves circling the wounded troll with fluid, practiced movements, blades held ready.

Thorin moved like a shadow, swift and silent, weaving through the chaos with grim precision. He darted in close, narrowly avoiding a flailing limb, and then struck—his sword slicing cleanly across William’s already wounded leg, deepening the damage Kili had wrought earlier. The troll shrieked, feral and raw, before toppling to one knee with a ground-shaking crash.

“Finish it!” Thorin shouted, voice fierce and final, cutting through the roars and ringing steel.

Gloin surged forward, teeth bared, axe raised high above his head. With a roar that echoed from the rocks and trees, he brought it down in a powerful arc. The blade bit deep into William’s thick neck, burying itself to the haft.

The troll’s scream cut off mid-bellow, replaced by a choking, guttural gurgle. A hot torrent of dark blood spilled forth, steaming in the night air. William swayed once, huge limbs twitching, then toppled forward like a felled oak. The ground trembled beneath him as he crashed down, the impact rattling through Bilbo’s bones and stealing the breath from his lungs.

Only Bert remained.

Bloodied and wild-eyed, he snarled in raw defiance, cornered but far from cowed. He roared furiously, swinging wildly at Dwalin, who dodged with practiced ease, slipping smoothly beneath each desperate strike.

From behind, Nori darted forward—silent, swift, deadly. In a single fluid motion, he leapt up, dagger flashing like a streak of silver moonlight. The blade slid beneath Bert’s chin, slicing deep into the vulnerable flesh. The troll gave a strangled, gargling howl, jerking violently as blood fountained from the wound.

Thorin closed the distance, expression cold and unyielding. His sword struck once, clean and final, driving deep into Bert’s broad chest. The troll gave one last twitch, then collapsed in a thunderous heap, limbs splaying awkwardly in the dirt.

And then—stillness.

A hollow, breathless silence settled over the clearing, broken only by the rasping of labored breaths and the soft creak of wind-tossed branches overhead. The air felt thick, heavy with the stench of blood and smoke. Bilbo stood frozen, the aftermath crashing down around him all at once. His heart hammered against his ribs, wild and panicked, as if it might beat straight through his chest.

His gaze locked on the fallen trolls—massive, broken things now, no longer the unstoppable threats they’d seemed only minutes ago. Just corpses. Flesh and blood, and nothing more.

Thorin straightened slowly, drawing himself to his full height as he wiped his blade clean on the damp grass with careful precision. He sheathed the weapon with a decisive motion, then scanned the company, counting heads with quick, sharp eyes. Bilbo caught the flicker of relief passed across his face when he confirmed everyone was accounted for and relatively unharmed.

Bilbo trembled where he stood, the last of the adrenaline draining from his limbs, leaving him light-headed and unsteady on his feet. His knees felt weak, the ground beneath him insubstantial, and a cold sweat clung to the back of his neck. He blinked rapidly, as if the world might right itself with a bit of focus. Then, a warm, solid hand landed on his shoulder—firm, grounding, real.

He turned, dazed and breathless, to find Bofur standing at his side. The dwarf’s hat was askew, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, but his eyes were clear and filled with something that looked an awful lot like pride.

"Nicely done, Mr. Baggins," Bofur said softly, voice thick with warmth. His hand gave a gentle squeeze. "I reckon you just saved Dori’s life."

Bilbo blinked, the words echoing through the haze in his head. They didn’t quite register at first—just sounds, syllables—but then they hit him all at once, heavy and bright, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. A strange heat bloomed in his chest, spreading outward in sharp, burning waves. Emotion surged up before he could name it—relief, fear, pride, wonder—all tangled together in a confusing, breathless knot.

He looked across the clearing, heart pounding. Dori sat slumped against the trunk of a tree, pale and clearly winded, but unmistakably alive. Nori knelt beside him, checking for injuries. Dori’s gaze found Bilbo’s across the distance, and the silent gratitude in his eyes hit like a blow, so quiet and steady it almost brought Bilbo to his knees. Warmth surged through him, pushing back the chill of fading fear.

Heavy footsteps approached, slow and measured. Bilbo turned to see Thorin walking toward him, his expression unreadable. There was no anger there, no scorn or disapproval—just silence, taut as a drawn bowstring. Bilbo stood frozen, heart thudding, unsure whether to brace for a reprimand or something worse.

But Thorin stopped a pace away and inclined his head, a single, deliberate gesture. "Well done, Master Burglar."

Bilbo’s throat tightened around a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Relief crashed over him, dizzying in its intensity. His eyes stung, though whether from exhaustion or the strange swell of emotion in his chest, he couldn’t say. He managed a shaky nod, mouth curving in a faint, bewildered smile.

"Th-thank you," he murmured, voice hoarse and frayed with disbelief.

And for the first time since leaving Bag End, Bilbo Baggins felt—just faintly, just maybe—like he belonged.

Chapter Text

They should be back by now.

Freya paced the same five steps. Again and again. Heel-turn, walk back, repeat. Like a glitching NPC stuck in a panic loop. She was going to wear a trench in the dirt at this rate. Good. Maybe if she paced hard enough, the ground would just open up and swallow her whole, sparing her from facing the consequences of her colossal mistake.

The camp was quiet—too quiet. Ori hunched over by the fire, nervously flipping pages in his notebook, eyes flicking upward every few seconds. He clearly wasn't reading a single word, but he seemed determined to pretend anyway. Balin stood stiffly by the ponies, arms tightly crossed, eyes fixed on the dark tree line as if sheer force of will alone could drag the others back safely.

Freya tried to sit again, but the moment she stopped moving, panic coiled tighter around her chest like an angry python, crushing her ribs and forcing her upright again. Pace, turn, pace, turn. Keep moving. Don’t stop. Stopping meant thinking, and thinking right now was like tossing gasoline on a dumpster fire that had already eaten the entire city block.

Except she was already thinking, couldn’t fucking stop herself if her life depended on it. Her mind was off to the races, tripping headlong into every possible horrific scenario, each more vivid and cruel than the last. Anxiety was a sadistic bastard, and right now, it was having the time of its goddamn life.

The trolls were part of the story. A dangerous part, yes, but survivable. Bilbo was supposed to distract them, Gandalf was supposed to arrive in the nick of time and save everyone. That was how it went.

But it wasn’t going that way anymore, was it? Not now that she’d meddled. The story she'd known, the book she'd practically memorized, was now different because of her. And if something went wrong now, it would be all her fault.

Her chest squeezed tighter, the coil of panic digging cruelly into her ribs. Breathing was suddenly a monumental task, the air scraping painfully into her lungs. Freya pressed a trembling hand over her mouth, eyes locked helplessly on the shadowed path where the others had vanished.

She’d told them about the trolls. She’d warned them. Because what the hell else are you supposed to do when you’ve read the book and know how the next chapter goes? You say something. You try to help. You blurt out a plot spoiler like a panicked little time traveler because you think it’ll make things better.

And now she couldn’t breathe around the possibility that she’d ruined everything.

The thought struck hard—cold and sharp, like a blade between her ribs. What if every warning, every tiny shift—her presence, her knowledge, her desperate need to protect them—had made everything worse.

What if the dwarves' plan fell apart because they hadn’t approached the trolls blind and ignorant, the way fate had intended? What if they got hurt? What if Bilbo was caught trying to lure one away? What if his sheep calls didn’t fool the trolls, or worse, drew too much attention? What if someone panicked and charged too soon and got crushed?

Her breath hitched, sharp and hot in her throat, and she dug the heels of her hands into her eyes like she could physically shove the thoughts out. But they were still there, lining up like horror movie stills on a mental slideshow from hell. Fili crushed beneath a troll’s fist. Kili’s lively eyes dulling, pain etched across his face. Thorin’s proud, determined scowl dissolving into stunned horror. Bilbo’s gentle, startled expression frozen in permanent fear—

Nope. No no no. Abort.

Freya’s whole body felt like it was vibrating from the inside out. Her heart wasn’t beating—it was jackhammering. Her ribs were a vice. Her lungs were useless. She was going to throw up, or pass out, or spontaneously combust from guilt alone.

This was her fault.

She was the variable. The anomaly. The girl from another world who thought she could just parachute into a story and fix things. But maybe she’d broken it instead.

“Please let them be okay,” she whispered, voice cracking like glass. It was a prayer, a plea, a bargain with the universe. Or Yavanna. Or anyone, anything that might be listening.

She didn’t care who answered.

Just let them come back.

Let them come back.

Because if they didn’t—

She wasn't sure how she'd live with it.

-------------------------------------------------------

Freya’s heart stopped dead in her chest the second footsteps broke through the oppressive silence.

She whipped around so fast her head spun, but she didn’t care—couldn’t care, not when figures emerged from the darkness one by one, bruised and a little filthy but undeniably, wonderfully alive.

Bilbo looked like he’d aged five years in a night, stumbling slightly but upright, thank God. Fili and Kili were grinning like lunatics, breathless and flushed with adrenaline, like this had all been one big joyride instead of a fight to the death against three giant trolls. Thorin looked the same as always—scowling, majestic, vaguely annoyed—but even that was weirdly comforting. Dori was leaning on Nori for support, definitely a little wrecked but still mobile. Still breathing.

They were all still breathing.

And just like that, she wasn’t. Relief slammed into her like a sledgehammer to the gut, knocking all the oxygen out of her lungs and every last drop of strength out of her legs. Her knees buckled before she could even think about catching herself, sending her straight to the dirt as all the tension she’d carried vanished, leaving her shaking and breathless.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed out shakily, hands covering her face as her pulse gradually slowed, finally remembering it was supposed to keep her alive rather than actively try to murder her. Seriously, her heart owed her an apology for that shit. Preferably in the form of not doing that ever again.

Footsteps hurried toward her—light, familiar. Fili. Of course it was Fili. She recognized those footsteps now—could pick them out blindfolded. Which was weirdly comforting. And also something she was absolutely not unpacking right now because, Jesus, her brain was already working overtime not to completely shut down.

“Freya—are you hurt? What happened?”Fili’s voice was thick with concern. And warmth. And patience. And—okay, no. No. He needed to cut that out right the hell now or she was going to cry. Or scream. Or both. Possibly in rapid succession.

She shook her head, managing a muffled, half-choked laugh behind her fingers. “No—no, I’m alright.” she said, which was definitely a lie but he was nice enough not to call her out for it. 

“Just—”  She gestured vaguely, like that would somehow convey the swirling black hole of panic in her chest. “Happy you are all safe. Really, really fucking happy.”

Understatement of the fucking century right there.

Fili gently pried her hand away from her face and wrapped it in both of his. His hands were rough and warm and too damn gentle, and seriously, who gave him the right to be this comforting? That was emotional warfare, and she was not equipped to deal with it right now.

“We’re safe,” he reassured her. “We’re all safe. The trolls are gone.”

“Trolls are gone,” Freya echoed. Her chest loosened just enough to allow breath again. God, her head was spinning. Between sheer relief, adrenaline crash, and Fili’s unfair gentleness, it was a miracle she hadn’t just straight-up passed out yet. Small victories.

She blinked up at him, blearily, throat burning. That awful pressure in her chest was finally starting to ease—only to be replaced by a new and exciting urge to burst into tears. Or start laughing hysterically. Possibly both. That seemed right. Hysterical laughing while ugly-crying would really sell the ‘emotionally stable and totally not spiraling’ image she was trying to portray.

“You idiots scared the shit out of me,” she mumbled, voice hoarse. “You were taking too long.”
Her grip tightened around his hand—too much, probably, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just squeezed back, thumb brushing her knuckles like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She was fine. Everything was fine™. She definitely was not about to cry. That would be stupid. And humiliating. 

Fili’s lips twitched into a faint smile, annoyingly endearing as always. “Sorry,” he said gently, absolutely not sorry in the slightest. “We’ll try to be quicker next time.”

“You’d better.” She sniffed, swiping furiously at her traitorous eyes.

“Sorry about that,” Kili piped up cheerfully from somewhere behind Fili. Freya glanced past Fili’s shoulder to find him watching with an amused grin, like he hadn’t just shaved a decade off her lifespan. “Next time we’re fighting trolls, we’ll kill them faster, just for you.”

She let out a half-snort, half-laugh that got stuck somewhere in her throat. “Gee thanks. That’s so nice of you. ”

Honestly, if she hadn’t already been emotionally wrung-out she might’ve thrown something at him. A rock. Her shoe. Her dignity—whatever she had left, anyway. But alas, Kili would live another day.

Freya sat up slowly, finally gathering enough strength to glance around at the rest of the group. Ori had dropped his notebook completely—Freya didn’t think she’d ever seen that happen—and was hovering nervously while Oin checked over Dori, who looked bruised but alive.  Balin was clapping Thorin warmly on the shoulder, muttering something low and relieved that Freya couldn’t catch.

Her fingers tightened again around Fili’s, and for the first time all damn day, she felt air flood properly into her lungs. Like, real breathing—not the shallow, anxiety-choked nonsense she’d been doing before. Genuine, full-capacity, holy-shit-I-forgot-oxygen-was-this-good breathing.

Everyone was here.

They were okay.

The world hadn’t ended. Nobody had died. Middle-earth hadn’t imploded because she’d opened her mouth and meddled with fate.

She exhaled hard. Let her head tip back and closed her eyes, the cool night air brushing against her flushed skin like a balm. The leftover panic hadn’t fully faded, but the cold helped. God, it helped.

She stayed like that for a second. Not thinking. Not panicking. Not rehearsing a thousand what-ifs. Just breathing. And holy shit, breathing was underrated. People really didn’t appreciate air enough. 

A rustle drew her back into the present, and she opened her eyes just as Bilbo dropped down heavily beside her, letting out a dramatic, aching groan. He pulled off his coat, draped it across his lap as a makeshift blanket, and then slumped gently against her shoulder without saying anything.

She leaned into him automatically, immensely grateful for the quiet solidarity. No speeches. No fussing. Just mutual exhaustion and shared trauma bonding.

“Are you alright?” he finally asked, voice low and scratchy.

“I am now,” she whispered. She looked around again—really looked this time. At all of them. These stubborn, infuriating, ridiculous people who had somehow become hers. Her people. Her chaotic, troll-fighting, emotionally constipated family.

“You came back,” she said, quiet and rough. “You all came back safe.”

Because for a moment there, she hadn’t been sure.

And she hadn’t been ready to lose them.

Not yet.

Not ever if she had anything to say about it.

______________________________________________________

Bilbo startled awake to the gentle yet persistent nudge of a boot against his shoulder, instinctively jerking upright with a sharp intake of breath. His heart hammered uncomfortably in his chest, reminding him vividly that sleep had not come easily after the night’s harrowing events. 

Blinking rapidly, he squinted through the predawn gloom, eyes adjusting slowly until Bofur’s familiar, faintly apologetic expression sharpened into focus.

"Sorry, Bilbo," Bofur whispered softly, his voice edged with quiet urgency. “It’s time t’ move.”

Bilbo rubbed both hands over his face, and tried to scrub the grit from his eyes, though it did nothing to dislodge the exhaustion stubbornly glued to every bone in his body. His limbs felt heavy, glued to the ground. His shoulders protested with a series of tiny, treacherous pops. “Already?” he rasped, hating how hoarse he sounded.

“Aye,” Bofur said again, straightening with a soft grunt as he adjusted his bedroll and tugged his coat tighter around himself. “Thorin wants us up an’ movin’ at first light. Best not linger with Orcs sniffin’ at our heels, yeah?”

Right. Orcs.

And Wargs.

Freya’s warning had hung uneasily over them throughout the short, restless night—an invisible weight pressing down with each hushed breath. Bilbo had nearly forgotten it amid his exhausted haze, but now it loomed sharply once more, dread coiling cold and tight around his ribs.

He forced himself upright, ignoring the ache flaring across his shoulders and down the backs of his legs. His knees protested sharply when he stood, and a sudden twinge in his hip served as an unpleasant reminder that sprinting through underbrush, dodging branches, and throwing rocks at monstrous trolls was decidedly not something hobbits were built for.

And yet here he was.

Alive. Somehow. For now.

He wasn’t entirely sure if that fact was impressive or monumentally stupid.

The camp had stirred into tense, silent motion around him. Bedrolls vanished swiftly into packs. Quiet, clipped exchanges passed back and forth, murmured too low to decipher. Buckles clinked faintly; boots brushed softly through grass slick with dew.

Across the campsite, Thorin stood silhouetted against the pale wash of first light, a grim, watchful sentinel. His dark gaze swept methodically over the dwarves, tracking their preparations with a measured intensity that did nothing to soothe Bilbo’s lingering nerves. 

Bofur squeezed Bilbo’s shoulder in silent reassurance, a fleeting warmth against the chill, before turning to gather their scattered belongings. Bilbo hurriedly followed suit, hands fumbling slightly as he stuffed his bedroll back into his pack. Every motion felt rushed, jittery—the dwarves’ tension seeping into his own bones, a contagious anxiety that quickened his pulse.

"Bilbo," Balin murmured, stepping carefully through the dim half-light towards him. "Take this, lad." The older dwarf pressed a chunk of coarse bread and dried meat wrapped neatly in cloth into his hands. The lines around Balin's eyes seemed deeper, etched with worry and exhaustion. "Eat quick-like—we'll be movin' soon."

Bilbo nodded his thanks, murmuring an indistinct sound of gratitude around a dry, reluctant bite. The bread stuck stubbornly to the roof of his mouth, his tongue thick and sluggish, still half-asleep. He washed it down hastily with a swig from his canteen, grimacing slightly at the lukewarm water.

Bilbo glanced around the clearing, eyes flitting from face to face. There was no chatter, no laughter—only the soft rustle of movement and the occasional muted jingle of gear. The dwarves moved with a quiet, almost eerie precision, their focus sharp and deliberate. Weapons were checked and re-checked, blades drawn half from their sheaths and then slid back with practiced care. Packs were adjusted, straps cinched, bedrolls secured with the easy efficiency of those who had done this a hundred times before.

Freya was already up, sitting cross-legged near Ori with a weary slump to her shoulders. She scrubbed at her face with both hands, as if trying to rub the exhaustion from her skin. Her braid had come partially undone, strands of hair escaping in wild tangles that framed her face. Her tunic was rumpled, one sleeve shoved halfway up her arm, but her eyes—sharp beneath the weight of fatigue—tracked the company’s movements with clear-eyed attention. Tired, yes, but ready to move.

Dori and Bombur moved around the ponies with the same methodical precision as the rest of the company. The former crouched low, murmuring soothing nonsense as he checked hooves and bridle straps, while Bombur adjusted saddle packs with tight lips and a furrowed brow. 

Bilbo rubbed his palms together absently, more out of habit than need. A nervous energy thrummed beneath his skin, an uncomfortable, twitchy buzz he couldn’t seem to shake. It crawled up the back of his neck, tightening in his shoulders, making his hands fidget and his heart tap an irregular rhythm against his ribs.

He turned his gaze to where Thorin stood at the edge of camp, speaking quietly with Nori. Their heads were bent close together, their voices pitched low but steady against the muted sounds of the waking forest.

“…cave’s up ahead,” Nori was saying, jerking his chin eastward. “Tucked behind the rise. Half an hour, maybe less if we push.”

“Then we push,” Thorin answered, his voice all gravel and iron. “We take what we need and move east before the sun’s fully risen. I want distance before anything catches our trail.”

He stepped back and lifted his voice—not shouting, but cutting through the murmur of the camp with practiced authority. “Form up. We leave now. Nori, you’re on point.”

There was no argument, no groaning, no dragging of feet. In grim silence, the company mounted their ponies, weapons and packs swiftly gathered. 

Bilbo clambered onto Myrtle’s back, his hands trembling slightly as he gathered the reins. The pony’s ears flicked back, picking up on his unease, but she held steady.

They rode out in single file, hooves squelching against the damp earth. The morning mist curled low around their ponies' legs like clinging fingers, muffling sound, softening the world into a half-forgotten dream. Bilbo tightened his grip on the reins, his gaze flickering uneasily over the dense trees pressing close on either side. It wasn’t as if he expected trolls to leap out of the bushes—the blasted creatures were dead, thank Yavanna—but his nerves had long since stopped caring about logic.

Nearby, though thankfully hidden behind a veil of thinning fog, the trolls' campfire had burned down into a grotesque pile of ash and bones, marking their violent end. Bilbo swallowed hard, fighting back the lingering dread that coiled unpleasantly in his stomach. The trolls might have been dead, but the thought of them still sent a ghostly prickle crawling along his spine.

They reached the rise just as the sun began to crest the eastern hills, casting the trees in a faint golden glow. Nori motioned for them to slow, “It’s just up ahead.”

The trees thinned, and the hillside sloped downward, shadows gathering thick at the base of the slope where a dark, ragged mouth gaped in the earth like an old wound. Bilbo stared at it, heart sinking.

It was exactly as he remembered it from the night before—only now, in the cruel clarity of daylight, it was worse.

The cave looked unnatural, wrong, as if the earth itself had split open and never healed. Cracked stone jutted from the hillside like broken teeth. Black moss crept along the edges of the entrance, a slow, insidious rot.

Bilbo shivered at the sight, reminded uncomfortably of stories he’d heard whispered by cousins around late-night hearths, where shadows always hid dark, waiting things.

Just as he thought this couldn’t possibly get worse, the smell hit.

It slammed into him like a physical blow, a wave of stench so thick and vile it nearly knocked him sideways in the saddle. Bilbo gagged, clutching at Myrtle’s mane as bile surged up the back of his throat. The reek rolled out from the cave in cloying, choking waves—thick with the stink of rotting meat, of damp fur and mildew and old, festering death. 

Around him, dwarves cursed, coughing violently into their sleeves. “Durin’s beard!” Dwalin growled, eyes watering and face turning an alarming shade of red. Poor Ori looked ready to lose whatever breakfast he’d managed to keep down. 

Bilbo fumbled for his handkerchief, nearly dropping it in his haste, and clapped it over his nose and mouth. It didn’t help much. The foulness seeped through the cloth, turning his stomach with every shallow breath.

The ponies snorted uneasily as the company dismounted, hooves shifting restlessly on the damp earth. One by one, the dwarves tied them at a cautious distance from the cave, well away from the stench wafting from its mouth. 

Ahead, Freya was already stepping forward into the cave, her face twisted in disgust but her spine straight with grim resolve. Thorin and Gandalf followed, expressions grim. Bilbo, with considerably less stoicism, forced his reluctant feet forward, every instinct screaming that no good ever came from entering a place that smelled like death.

The cave swallowed them whole, the sudden drop in light pulling a shiver across his shoulders. The air turned thick—damp and sour with mildew, the stink of rotted wood, and wet stone. Their footsteps echoed dully in the gloom, muffled by a scatter of dead leaves, bones, and whatever detritus the trolls had let fall from their greedy hands. The walls loomed close, slick with moisture and veiled in hanging webs that swayed with the movement of air, however slight.

Bilbo’s eyes strained against the gloom. Shapes began to materialize: the splintered ribs of broken barrels, the cracked bones of some unfortunate creature, shattered crates slumped in the corners like corpses. The trolls had hoarded whatever they could drag back—food, weapons, treasure—and left it all to rot.

He kept his eyes low, careful not to stumble or step upon anything he’d rather not identify, unease knotting his stomach.

A sharp intake of breath cut through the silence ahead of him.

Freya stopped dead in her tracks, eyes widening with sudden excitement as she peered into a shadowed alcove. Her eagerness was palpable, cutting through the gloom. “There,” she whispered urgently, pointing at the alcove where something glinted faintly beneath a dense veil of spider silk.

Thorin reached out, pulling the two swords from the wall with a firm tug that scattered clouds of disturbed dust and spiders' silk into the air. He turned the blades over in his hands, cobwebs breaking apart and falling away like rotten lace, the steel beneath catching the weak light and gleaming — proud even after so many years abandoned.

Bilbo crept closer, heart thudding uncomfortably against his ribs. As Thorin handed one sword to Gandalf, Bilbo caught sight of the markings — delicate, intricate, still gleaming faintly despite being so neglected.

Thorin unsheathed the sword he had kept, and something subtle shifted in the dwarf’s face — something Bilbo had never seen before. Quiet awe. The stern, often grim lines of Thorin’s expression softened, just for a moment, as his thumb brushed lightly over the ancient runes, reverent despite himself.

“These swords were not made by any troll,” Thorin murmured, voice low and roughened with something that might have been wonder.

“Nor were they made by any smith among Men,” Gandalf replied, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he examined his own blade. He drew it partway from its sheath, and the exposed steel caught the faint light with a pale, ghostly gleam. His mouth curved into a small, satisfied smile. “These were forged in Gondolin. By the High Elves. In the First Age.”

Bilbo’s breath hitched, a tiny, disbelieving noise catching in his throat.

Gondolin. A name spoken only in the oldest tales, those half-remembered stories whispered beside firesides when the nights were long and the ale was flowing freely. He stared, wide-eyed, as history — real, tangible — gleamed cold and bright before him.

His gaze darted quickly to Thorin, whose previous reverence had swiftly been replaced by familiar disdain. With a scowl, he began sliding the sword back into its sheath, clearly ready to toss the thing aside and wipe his hands clean.

“You could not wish for a finer blade,” Gandalf reprimanded, voice firm enough that even Thorin paused. The dwarf growled quietly, reluctantly resettling the sword in his grip. Still frowning, he turned away, securing the weapon grudgingly at his hip as he strode out of the cave with all the dignity he could muster.

Bilbo was distracted from his thoughts by the rustle of leaves and Freya’s quiet intake of breath. She knelt swiftly, brushing away dirt and dead foliage. Bilbo moved closer.

“Here!” she breathed, voice rich with delighted wonder. Her fingers uncovered another blade — smaller than the others, but no less elegant. It lay nestled among the rubble as if waiting, patient and undiminished.

Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at Bilbo, presenting it to him as if offering a treasured gift. “This one’s yours.”

Bilbo blinked, momentarily stunned by the conviction in her voice. Not ‘this could be yours,’ or ‘maybe you should take it,’ but presented as if its ownership were undeniable, already settled.

The reality of actually wielding a sword unsettled him deeply. He hesitated, eyes meeting Freya’s with silent apprehension, but her expression was unwavering—bright with certainty and encouragement.

“I—I can’t take this,” he stammered, voice wavering slightly.

Gandalf stepped closer, gently placing a reassuring hand upon Bilbo’s shoulder. “The blade is of Elvish make,” he explained softly, voice heavy with meaning. “It will glow blue when orcs or goblins are near.”

Bilbo’s throat tightened, fingers involuntarily closing around the hilt. Orcs. Goblins. Nightmares made flesh from childhood tales whispered to frighten. He shook his head faintly, disbelief and fear battling within him. “I’ve never used a sword in my life.”

Gandalf smiled kindly, eyes distant yet warm beneath the brim of his hat. “And I dearly hope you never have to,” he said. His gaze drifted — distant, sorrowful, as if seeing far beyond the dark cavern walls. “But if you do… remember this: true courage is not in taking a life, but in knowing when to spare one.”

Bilbo swallowed hard, emotions swirling in his chest—gratitude, fear, uncertainty. But before he could speak again, Thorin’s voice — sharp and impatient — echoed from the mouth of the cave.

“Let’s get out of this foul place.”

Bilbo nodded mutely, slipping the blade carefully into his belt. It hung awkwardly at his side, unfamiliar and weighty, a reminder of dangers not yet faced and a life he had not meant to step into — but had, somehow, all the same. 

He glanced one last time at Freya, who gave him a small but genuine smile, her excitement still evident, her eyes dancing with wonder at the relics they’d discovered. 

Bilbo tightened his grip on the hilt at his side as he followed Thorin out of the cave to rejoin the rest of the company, blinking against the sudden wash of pale morning light. The air outside was still thick with the sour reek clinging to the rocks, but it was clean enough compared to the cloying rot inside. 

Behind him, the cave mouth yawned wide and black, an ugly wound in the hillside that seemed to breathe its foulness into the misty dawn. He was glad to leave it behind. Whatever remnants of treasure or glory the trolls had hoarded meant little compared to the fresh, clean promise of open sky and distance.

The company was already gathering beyond the cave mouth, grim-faced and silent. Weapons were checked again, straps tightened, shoulders squared beneath the weight of what was to come.

Bilbo adjusted the sword at his side, the unfamiliar weight of it brushing against his hip with every step. It didn’t feel like it belonged to him—not yet. But perhaps, like everything else on this wretched, wonderful journey, he would grow into it.

Chapter Text

The company mounted their ponies and headed east, toward Rivendell, toward safety—hopefully. 

No one said a word, but the silence wasn’t the good kind. Not peaceful or quiet or calm. This was the kind of silence that made your skin itch. Taut and crackling, like the air had stretched too thin and might snap if anyone breathed too hard. Even Bofur wasn’t humming, which felt vaguely apocalyptic.

Freya shifted in the saddle again—tenth time? Fifteenth? God, her spine hated her. Her thighs were actively trying to detach themselves from her body. Her lower back had unionized and filed a formal complaint. Every bump in the trail sent a fresh jolt of pain ricocheting up her spine, like her bones were trying to rattle themselves loose from inside her skin. She was ninety percent sure she’d left her dignity back on the last hill and was now just a sentient sack of meat duct-taped to a pony. They’d been riding for—what, an hour? Maybe? And already she wanted to lie face-down in the moss and become one with the ecosystem.

She glanced behind them.

Again.

Still no rabbit-powered wizard.

Come on, Radagast, she thought, eyes scanning the tree line. Like she could will the wizard to show up already. This would be a great time to show up. Literally any time now would be fantastic. 

But nothing moved.

Every gust of wind through the trees made her flinch. Her brain was absolutely committed to the idea that at any moment, slobbering wargs with red eyes and too many teeth were going to come barreling out of the forest. Because they would, but hopefully not yet.

Something rustled.

Not a squirrel-in-a-bush rustle. No, this was the kind of sound that set your lizard brain off before your conscious mind caught up. Loud. Heavy. Deliberate. Way too deliberate to be the wind.

FFreya’s stomach dropped like the floor had just vanished beneath her. Her entire nervous system went cold.

“Something’s coming!” Thorin barked from up ahead.

Gandalf’s order followed a breath later, sharp and immediate: “Stay together! Arm yourselves!”

Steel sang out all around her like some kind of lethal symphony. The Company moved like a single, terrifying organism. In a blink, weapons were out, hands on hilts, bows half-drawn, axes gleaming.

Fili’s body shifted behind her, going stiff and sharp and ready, all the easy warmth from earlier bleeding out like someone had opened a drain. She felt his hand brush toward his sword, a quiet, practiced motion. 

The pony beneath them twitched anxiously. Freya locked her hands around the saddle horn, white-knuckled, lungs trying to figure out how breathing was supposed to work again.

Please be Radagast, she thought desperately, Please be Radagast. Please don’t be wargs. Please don’t let this be the part where everything goes to hell—

The forest exploded. A screaming, leaf-covered missile shot out of the underbrush at terminal velocity.

“THIEVES! FIRE! MURDER!”

Radagast the Brown careened into the clearing on a sled pulled by hypercaffeinated rabbits, a wild look in his eyes and absolutely no sense of volume control. He skidded to a dramatic, dusty halt in front of the startled company, nearly sideswiping Dori’s pony in the process.

Weapons were still up. Every dwarf in the company looked one wrong twitch away from launching into full murder mode.

Gandalf, miraculously unfazed, lifted his hand. “Radagast the Brown,” he announced, clearly relieved. He sheathed his blade, prompting the Company to do so as well as he approached the other wizard.

“I was looking for you, Gandalf!” Radagast announced, wild-eyed and breathless. “Something’s wrong. Something’s terribly wrong.”

Gandalf, ever the picture of serenity, hummed like Radagast had just informed him they were out of milk. “Yes?”

Radagast opened his mouth. Closed it.

Frowned. Opened it again.

Paused. Squinted at the sky like the answer might be written in the clouds.

“Oh, give me a moment,” he muttered, waving vaguely at the air like it might help clear the fog in his skull. “It was right there, on the tip of my tongue—”

And then, for some ungodly reason, he stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes, trying to see it.

Freya blinked.

A stick leg wriggled its way out between his lips.

Oh no. No no no. Abort.

She remembered this part. She had seen the movie. She knew this was coming.

But no amount of mental preparation could have softened the psychic damage of watching Radagast the Brown extract a live bug from his actual mouth like it was a goddamn PEZ dispenser.

Gandalf, still unbothered, reached over and plucked the insect right off Radagast’s tongue like this was a completely normal Tuesday interaction between coworkers.

“Oh! It’s not a thought at all,” Radagast said brightly. “It’s a stick insect!”

There was a long, horrified silence.

Freya could feel the collective energy shift as every single dwarf turned to look at her.

She met their stares with the blank, defeated look of someone who’d already emotionally evacuated the building. 

Yeah, that’s him. No, I can’t explain it either. Please stop looking at me.

Balin blinked very slowly, like he wasn’t sure whether what just happened made things better or worse.

Kili mouthed, Why.

Freya just shook her head.

She didn’t know.

She didn’t want to know.

Radagast, having apparently lost interest in the audience he’d just traumatized, grabbed Gandalf by the sleeve and dragged him off to one side, muttering like he’d just remembered how to speak in complete sentences.

Behind her, Fili finally let go of his weapon. Freya felt it—his spine easing, his muscles uncoiling slightly beneath her hands as the tension bled out of him. The momentary calm after a storm.

But she didn’t relax. If Radagast was here, it meant the storm wasn’t over. Not even close. Because Radagast wasn’t a messenger of peace. He was a herald of doom. 

And then it came: a long, low howl, rising through the trees. It curled at the base of her skull and slithered down her spine like ice water, coiling low in her gut. The ponies shifted uneasily, ears swiveling like weather vanes, hooves pawing at the dead leaves and loam.

“Was that a wolf?” Bilbo asked, voice hitting that particular octave that meant he was trying very hard not to sound like he was panicking.

“Wolves?” Bofur echoed grimly, hand already on his weapon. “No. That is not a wolf.”

No one needed to explain. Freya already knew. It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t right. It was a goddamn Warg.

The thing exploded from the underbrush like nightmare fuel made flesh.

A Warg exploded from the underbrush. Freya barely had time to register what she was seeing. Hulking. Mangy. Misshapen. It looked like someone had tried to make a wolf from memory and gotten it horribly, violently wrong. It went straight for Ori’s pony.

The pony shrieked and reared, hooves slashing at the air. Ori clung to the reins, white-knuckled and wide-eyed, too terrified to scream.

Bifur was already moving. His spear struck like lightning—no hesitation, no mercy. The tip punched through the Warg’s throat with a wet, crunching crack. The beast bucked, gurgled, snapped blindly at the air—but its weight was already dragging it down. It hit the earth with a bone-jarring thud, limbs spasming once… and then nothing.

Freya had exactly half a second to think, Okay. Okay, maybe that was it. Maybe we’re good now.

She was, of course, wrong.

Another one burst through the trees behind them—a blur of muscle and fury crashing through the underbrush like a falling boulder. Its jaws snapped wildly, froth coating its teeth as it barreled straight toward Bombur and Kili.

Kili’s bow was up in a heartbeat. The arrow struck true—slamming into the Warg’s ribs with a sickening thud—but the thing didn’t stop. It staggered, snarled and kept coming like it hadn’t even noticed.

Fili cursed behind her—sharp and low. Freya felt his arm clamp tighter around her ribs, pinning her to the saddle. She barely had time to register the sound of steel rasping free—he was going for his swords, but they were too far away, and that thing was too close, and—

Dwalin roared. It sounded like something between a battle cry and a bear’s growl as he drove his pony straight into the beast’s path. He brought his hammer down with a sickening crunch. The crack of impact echoed like a splitting tree. The Warg’s skull caved in, and it collapsed mid-stride in a limp, twitching heap.

Freya hadn’t realized she was shaking until Fili’s arm clamped tighter around her middle, steadying her. She clenched her fists around the front of the saddle and tried to breathe.

Freya’s breath caught. She hadn’t realized she was shaking until Fili’s arm tightened again, anchoring her in place. Her fingers locked around the saddle horn like it was a lifeline.

Freya only realized she was shaking when Fili’s arm clamped tighter around her middle, grounding her. She sucked in a breath that stung on the way down. Her fists were clamped white-knuckle tight around the saddle horn and her legs felt like someone had replaced her bones with pudding. Her heart was somewhere in her throat, possibly attempting to escape via sheer panic.

This wasn’t a book. This wasn’t a line of dramatic text or a scene from a movie.

This was real.

This was fur and teeth and screaming ponies and blood and bone-crunching impact and Fili’s breath hot against her neck and the solid press of his armor and the sound of something dying just ten feet away.

It was so much worse than she thought it would be.

“Warg-scouts,” Thorin snapped. “Which means the Orc pack is not far behind.” His eyes flicked to Gandalf, then to the trees behind. “We ride. Now!”

No one argued.

“Even mounted, we can’t outrun Wargs,” Dwalin growled, wheeling his pony around, already scanning the treeline for movement.

“I’ll draw them off,” Radagast said suddenly, sounding far more confident than any reasonable person should.

Gandalf turned on him, incredulous. “These are Gundabad wargs. They will outrun you.”

Radagast just grinned like a lunatic and jabbed a finger behind him. “These are Rhosgobel rabbits. I’d like to see them try.”

Before anyone could stop him, he was gone, vanishing into the trees in a blur of fur and staff and wildly flapping cloak, shrieking, “Come and get me! Ha ha!”

For one breathless, suspended second, the world held still.

Then came the howls.

Low and guttural at first, but rising fast—more voices joining in, until it was a chorus of hate ripping through the forest behind them.

Freya turned in her saddle, squinting past the shadows of the pines.

The Orcs burst from the treeline at a full gallop, snarling and bellowing, weapons raised. She counted a dozen, maybe more—riding monstrous Wargs. The lead Orc yanked its mount hard, snarling, gesturing after the fleeing sleigh. The beast beneath it skidded in the leaf litter, then turned, claws ripping up dirt as it took off after Radagast.

Freya recognized the field. The boulders. Her stomach flipped. That was where the Company would’ve run if she hadn’t said anything. If they hadn’t kept the ponies.

That was where the Company would’ve run. Where they were supposed to run. In the story. In the book.

But they hadn’t.

Because she’d said something.

God. What if she was wrong?

What if that warning had just rerouted them from “bad” to “worse” with no detour through “survivable”? What if the real ambush was on this trail and everyone died.

“Come on!” Gandalf barked, snapping her out of the spiral. He turned his horse sharply toward the trail veering east. “There will be more!”

The company surged into motion.

Freya barely had time to suck in a breath before Fili’s heels thumped into his pony’s flanks and they lurched after Gandalf. The sudden surge sent her bouncing against Fili’s chest; his arm clamped tighter. Steady. Protective. But it still hurt like hell. Her ribs screamed. Her spine rattled. Every bounce was a punch from inside.

“Sorry,” Fili muttered against her hair, barely audible over the thunder of hooves.

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

The trees blurred. The ground disappeared beneath them in a smear of hoofbeats and panic. She clenched her teeth against a wave of nausea, because now was not the time to redecorate Fili’s armor with the contents of her stomach.

The Company thundered after Gandalf, hooves hammering the earth in a brutal, unrelenting rhythm—like a war drum echoing through the trees. The trail wasn’t a trail anymore, not really. What remained of the Great East Road was more memory than highway: cracked stone half-swallowed by dirt, roots prying up the old slabs like fingers trying to tear through skin.

The path twisted through the hills, veering sharp around boulders and ducking under low limbs that forced riders to flatten themselves against their ponies’ necks. Freya flattened against Fili’s pony as they ducked under one low-hanging branch that came too close, too fast—

Then came the log.

“Hold on,” Fili growled.

They jumped.

Freya’s stomach lurched. For one nauseating second, they were airborne—nothing but open air beneath them—and then the ground slammed back, hard enough to rattle her bones.

Behind them, a fresh howl split the air. Closer this time. So much closer.

“They’re splitting up!” Gandalf called. “Radagast didn’t get all of them!”

She twisted in the saddle, panic overriding common sense—because sure, what better time to turn around than mid-sprint through death-forest while being hunted? Branches clawed at her cloak like furious hands. Fili swore, yanking her back down, but not before she saw them.

Dark shapes. Fast and low, weaving between trees like shadows with teeth.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

The path twisted through the hills, snaking uphill between massive gray rocks and gnarled trees, the forest thinning just enough to give them glimpses of steep drop-offs to their right. Far below, a tangle of thorns and darkness waited, ready to swallow anything that slipped. 

They crested a bend where the trees gave way, just for a second—and the valley opened wide beneath them. Freya caught a glimpse of it through the blur of wind and movement: distant cliffs, the river Bruinen gleaming silver even in the gray light, winding through the hills like a silver thread.

Then all hell broke loose.

A snarl cracked through the air like a whip.

Freya barely had time to register the sound—sharp and wrong and far too close—before a massive warg dropped from the trees like a goddamn missile.

It hit the path in front of them with a shuddering thud, claws gouging the mud, yellow fangs bared. Freya didn’t even get to scream before Fili wrenched the reins sideways. Their pony shrieked and reared, hooves flailing wildly. He yanked the reins hard, sending their pony into a sideways rear. Freya’s weight shifted, slipping—air beneath her, panic spiking like a knife in her throat—

Then Fili’s arm locked tight around her waist. He wrenched her back against him just as the pony crashed to the earth again. The impact jarred through her spine, the wind slammed from her lungs.

“Down!” Dwalin bellowed, already thundering up behind them. 

The Warg lunged, teeth flashing and Dwalin met it mid-leap, driving the axe down into its shoulder. The crunch echoed through the trees. There was a sickening crunch. The Warg shrieked, twisted violently, blood arcing into the air. It stumbled backward, claws scrabbling for purchase—hit the loose rock—and vanished over the edge in a flurry of yelps and snapping branches.

Fili kicked the pony forward and they bolted. Freya barely got her hands back on the pommel before they were weaving madly between roots and slick patches of stone, the trail narrowing with every hoofbeat. Her arms burned. Her thighs were screaming. Every jolt hit like a punch to the spine.

Behind them—howls. More of them.

Louder. Closer.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t stop shaking.

If Fili hadn’t grabbed her—

If Dwalin hadn’t—

Her stomach turned. Nope. Not going there. Don’t.

“Rider!” Bofur bellowed, somewhere up ahead.

Freya’s head snapped up just in time to see it: another Warg, black-furred and massive, tearing downhill through the trees. An orc clung to its back, hunched low, black-feathered arrows slung across his back and a short, jagged spear in hand. 

He spotted the company below and grinned wide, black teeth bared.

Thorin was already moving.

He broke from the line without hesitation, spurring his pony toward the slope. “Glóin!” he barked, eyes never leaving the threat.

“On it!” Glóin growled, charging after him.

The Warg let out a bone-deep howl and surged forward—straight down the last rise, bearing down on Bofur and Bilbo.

But it never reached them.

Thorin met it mid-lunge.

He stood in the stirrups at the final second, throwing his full weight behind the strike. Orcrist flashed silver in the light and connected.

The orc raised his spear in defense, but it might as well have been paper. Orcrist cleaved straight through it, split the haft and kept going, the momentum driving deep into the orc’s chest, ripping him clean off the saddle. The impact was enough to knock the Warg sideways, just enough to throw off its aim. Its charge veered wide, skimming past Bofur’s pony in a spray of churned mud and clawmarks.

The orc hit the ground hard, He hit the earth with a crash, rolling once, twice, armor clattering—then scrambled to rise with a snarl—

—Just in time to meet Glóin.

The dwarf didn’t even slow, just leaned low, axe raised high. With a roar, he brought it down. The impact was monstrous. Bone gave way with a sickening crunch. The orc’s skull split open beneath the blade, his body collapsing in a heap that didn’t move again. Glóin wrenched his axe free in one practiced motion, blood spraying as his pony surged past.

But it wasn’t over.

The Warg, now riderless and blind with fury, wheeled toward Thorin with a scream like tearing metal. Its eyes were wild, white-rimmed. Foam dripped from its jaws. Then it lunged—sideways, low—straight for Thorin’s leg.

Thorin turned with it.

No hesitation. No fear.

Orcrist flashed in the dim light and came down in a brutal arc—clean and final. The blade bit deep, shearing through muscle and bone. The Warg crumpled mid-leap, its spine severed in a single stroke. It kicked once. Blood spread like ink across the rocks. Then it was still.

“Go!” Thorin roared, spurring his pony forward. The rest of the company followed, hooves pounding the trail in a frantic rhythm. 

Fili’s arms locked tighter around her, unyielding, steady. His breath was hot against her neck as he urged the pony faster. Faster. Faster. The trees blurred to green and gray streaks. Branches whipped at her hood, snatching at her sleeves. The roar of blood in her ears nearly drowned out everything—until it didn’t.

Because another sound was rising. Louder now than the thunder of hooves or the shrieks of beasts—the roar of water.

The Bruinen. They were close.

Ahead, the forest was thinning fast. Light spilled through the trees. The forest thinned abruptly, and then they were breaking free, the trail opening onto a flat ledge of grass and earth. Ahead, the river glittered, broad and fast-moving, its pale waters crashing over polished stone.

“This way!” Gandalf shouted. His staff swung up, pointing toward the water. “Ride!”

There was no time to question it. The ponies charged forward, hooves tearing through the turf and gravel, down the final slope.

Behind them, the shrieks and howls grew louder.

They hit the river. Water surged up in a shock of cold, slamming into Freya’s boots and soaking through in an instant. The current was stronger than it looked—it grabbed at the pony’s legs, churning white and cold and fast. The animal surged forward anyway, its nostrils flaring, muscles shuddering beneath her thighs as it fought for footing.

She twisted her head just in time to see a shadow break from the trees behind them—another warg, foam spraying from its jaws as it lunged into the river after them. Another followed, and behind them came orcs, lean and snarling, blades bared.

“Faster!” Dwalin’s voice rang out to her right. She caught a glimpse of him already halfway up the opposite bank, soaked and scowling, axe in hand.

Fili didn’t answer. He just drove the pony harder, voice low and urgent in Khuzdul. The moment their hooves hit dry ground, he pulled Freya tighter against him and veered up the rise, the road curling sharply along the southern edge of the river.

Freya’s head whipped back. One of the wargs had nearly caught up with them, its claws gouging into the wet stones, gaining speed, eyes locked on her.

And then—

Thwip.

The beast shrieked, an awful, wet sound—like a scream strangled halfway out. It crumpled mid-stride, crashing sideways into the current with a spray of red and foam.

Thwip-thwip.

Two orcs dropped where they stood, arrows blooming from their chests. Another warg fell, its howl silenced in an instant as a shaft drove clean through its eye. The force spun it sideways, its weight dragging another orc with it into the river.

Above them, the trees on the far bank came alive—figures moving like moonlight through shadow, silent and swift. Elves. Freya could just make out the gleam of silver mail beneath green cloaks, the glint of helms and drawn bows. One raised a hand. A sharp whistle echoed through the gorge. Then the air filled with motion.

More arrows flew—unerring, unrelenting. The last of the orcs shrieked as they were cut down mid-charge, crumpling into the shallows. The surviving warg spun in confusion, snarling at unseen enemies, but another arrow found its throat and it fell, twitching, into the water.

And just like that, it was over.

The rest of the orcs turned and fled, the few wargs that remained limping after them. None made it far. Another round of arrows sliced through the air, felling the last of them at the treeline with a final, brutal grace.

There was only the sound of the river: the Bruinen, rolling steady and cold over polished stone. It filled the silence with its endless voice—rushing, whispering, foaming as if to wash the violence clean.

Fili reined the pony in at the top of the rise. Freya sagged against him, lungs heaving, limbs trembling with the aftershock. Her heart hadn’t gotten the memo that the fight was over—still hammering like it was trying to punch its way out of her chest. But she was breathing. Breathing. Still here. Still alive.

The company slowly gathered around them—mud-splattered, panting, bruised, but whole. Thorin’s gaze swept the hills behind them, hawk-sharp, before he gave a tight nod. Dwalin finally eased the death grip on his axe but didn’t put it away. Not yet. Freya couldn’t blame him. Her own fingers were still clenched so hard her joints ached.

A figure stepped from the trees—tall and slender, clad in a cloak of green and gray, bow still in hand. The elf raised one arm in silent greeting, then swept it forward with a fluid motion, inviting them on.

Gandalf urged his horse forward. The wizard’s voice lifted in Sindarin, lilting and soft like a windchime in fog. The elf dipped his head once in response, then turned and vanished without a sound, slipping between the trees like a ripple through tall grass.

Gandalf returned to the company. “Stay together. Not far now.”

They moved forward at a walk, the adrenaline bleeding away with every step, leaving only aching muscles and the bone-deep exhaustion that always followed panic. The ponies picked their way along the muddy trail, hooves squelching in the softened earth. And as they rode, the world around them began to change.

The trees grew taller. Straighter. Brighter.

Not gnarled and mean like the Trollshaws, where everything had felt vaguely like it wanted to murder you in your sleep. No—these trees stood like guardians, calm and composed, their trunks smooth and strong, bark dappled with lichen and soft moss. The canopy above shimmered with beech and elm leaves, gold and green, filtering the sun into shifting mosaics of light that spilled across the path.

The road rose gently, curling beside the river, which danced and glittered to their left—no longer a roar of escape, but a companion. The Bruinen babbled and sang over smooth stones, its spray catching the light like scattered diamonds.

The cliffs rose on either side—not looming, not menacing, but sheltering. Cradling. Like the curve of a hand shielding a candle. Pale stone walls worn smooth by wind and rain looked almost silver in the light. Ferns unfurled between cracks and ivy spilled in lazy trails from ledges above. Waterfalls whispered their way down the cliffside, thin and silver, like someone had spilled moonlight down the stone.

And somewhere along the way, something shifted.

It was subtle. Not like a flash of light or a hum of power—but it was there all the same. A quiet enchantment that didn't demand attention so much as softly offer it, gently waiting until she noticed it herself.

Freya felt it first in her chest. Something loosened. Something that had been clenched so tight for so long it didn’t even feel separate from her anymore. Her ribs. Her jaw. Her fists. All of it began to let go. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been wound until the tension started to slip away, like knots slowly unwinding beneath her skin.

The pain in her muscles and bones didn’t vanish. The exhaustion weighing her down didn’t magically lift. But they both receded just enough for her to breathe without flinching. Just enough to notice how long she’d been holding herself together with sheer spite and faked courage.

Freya couldn’t explain it. Not really. But the deeper they rode, the more she soaked in—that feeling. The quiet magic of Rivendell. It didn’t demand her attention. It invited it. Softly. Patiently. Like it had all the time in the world and was willing to wait until she was ready to accept it.

The others seemed to feel it too. Even the ponies stepped lighter. Dwalin, who'd been one suspicious rustle away from swinging at shadows, finally loosened his grip on his axe and let out a breath he probably hadn't realized he'd been holding. Bilbo audibly exhaled beside her, tipping his face to the canopy, eyes closed like he'd just remembered what sunlight felt like.

And when they rounded the final curve, the hidden valley unfurled before them.

The cliffs fell away in a sheer, dizzying drop, and there, nestled in the cradle of gold-leafed trees and white stone, stood Rivendell.

Imladris.

The Last Homely House East of the Sea.

The valley spilled out below like someone had taken every idea of peace—every impossible longing for rest and beauty and healing—and made it real. Pale spires rose from the rock like they belonged there, like they had always been there, coaxed gently from the bones of the mountain rather than built—elegant and unshakable. Rooftops arched like wings poised for flight, tilework gleaming where the sunlight touched it. Ivy spilled in long, deliberate cascades from balconies, framing everything in green, while the shadows made everything look soft and gentle.

Bridges of white stone leapt across rushing streams and slender waterfalls, threading terrace to terrace like strands of a spider’s web—delicate, strong, and impossibly elegant. Water tumbled over ledges in delicate curtains, feeding pools so still and clear they mirrored the sky. Walkways meandered through groves of beech and elm, curling around trunks and vanishing behind flowering thickets.

Light filtered through the branches in golden veils, catching on ivy-wrapped balustrades and dancing across sunlit pools. Birds darted between high colonnades, their calls echoing faintly like laughter.

Freya’s breath caught in her throat.

She had read Tolkien. She had seen the films—memorized them, practically. She had braced herself for this moment, told herself not to expect too much, reminded herself that nothing could live up to fantasy.

She was wrong.

Because nothing—nothing—could have prepared her for the reality of it. Not for this overwhelming, aching beauty.

Rivendell wasn’t just beautiful.

It welcomed you.

It looked at all your broken pieces—your fear, your grief, your guilt—and opened its arms anyway.

And Freya, bruised and shaking and barely stitched together, felt herself lean into that welcome like a flower turning toward the sun. Like a half-drowned woman gulping air. Like a child collapsing into the arms of someone safe.

She didn’t cry. Not quite. But her throat burned, and her eyes stung. 

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t try to fight it.

She didn’t shove the feelings down or bury them beneath a sarcastic quip. She didn’t tighten her jaw or pretend to be fine. She just sat there, letting the warmth of the valley seep into her skin, letting herself feel small and tired and unbelievably grateful.

Because somehow, impossibly, they had made it.

She was still here. They all were.

Alive. Together. Safe.