Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

01.

   The rain fell in heavy sheets, drumming against the cobbled streets of Bree with relentless movement. Wind howled through the alleys, tugging at cloaks and rattling window shutters. In the flickering lamplight, a cloaked figure moved swiftly through the downpour, boots splashing through puddles as he made his way toward the warm, golden glow of an inn. Above the door, a wooden sign creaked and swung wildly in the wind—The Prancing Pony.

He paused at the threshold, hand outstretched for the door handle, but something made him stop. Instinct, perhaps an old warrior’s sense sharpened by years in exile. Slowly, he turned his head and peered back into the night, eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hood.

Darkness greeted him. Rain swept across the square. But something was there.

After a moment, he turned and stepped inside, shaking the water from his shoulders as the door thudded shut behind him. Warmth enveloped him, the comforting scent of smoke, beer, and bread.

Thorin Oakenshield had arrived in Bree.

From across the square, two swarthy men exchanged furtive glances, their hoods soaked through. Without a word, they followed.

Inside the Prancing Pony, the common room buzzed with the low hum of conversation. Locals hunched over tankards, travelers nursed their meals, and a fire crackled in the hearth. It was a modest establishment, but lively in its own way.

A barmaid named Betsy Butterbur, a stout woman with quick hands and kind eyes wove her way between tables, balancing a wooden plate piled with bread and cheese, and a frothy mug of ale.

She reached the corner table and set the food before Thorin. He barely acknowledged her.

Before he could touch it, the chair across from him scraped back, and a figure dropped into the seat.

A tall man in a weather-stained cloak and wide-brimmed hat. His grey beard was damp, his eyes sharp and knowing beneath bushy brows.

Gandalf the Grey.

“Mind if I join you?” the wizard asked casually, motioning to Betsy. “I’ll have the same.”

Thorin narrowed his eyes.

“I know who you are,” he said quietly.

Gandalf smiled, as if pleased by that fact. “Well now,” he said heartily, removing his hat, “this is a fine chance. What brings Thorin Oakenshield to Bree?”

For a long moment, Thorin said nothing. He studied the wizard carefully, then finally replied, “I received word my father had been seen near Dunland. Wandering the wilds.”

“And?” Gandalf prompted.

“I went looking,” Thorin said, “but found no sign of him.”

Gandalf’s expression softened. “Thorin,” he said gently, “it has been a long time since anything but rumor was heard of Thráin.”

“He still lives,” Thorin said with quiet conviction. “I’m sure of it.”

Betsy Butterbur returned, placing Gandalf’s meal in front of him. The wizard nodded in thanks and took a long sip from the mug before continuing.

“Your father came to see me before he vanished.”

Thorin’s eyes sharpened. “What did you tell him?”

“I urged him to take back Erebor,” Gandalf said. “To rally the seven armies of the Dwarves, destroy the dragon, and reclaim the mountain.”

He leaned forward, his voice lowering. “I would say the same to you.”

Thorin took a swig of his ale, his gaze unwavering. “This is no chance meeting, is it?”

“No,” Gandalf admitted. “It is not.”

He glanced toward the fire. “The Lonely Mountain troubles me. That dragon has sat upon a stolen throne long enough. And sooner or later… darker minds will turn their gaze to Erebor.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Darker minds?”

“I encountered some unsavory characters on the Greenway,” Gandalf said, eyes glittering. “They mistook me for a vagabond.”

“I imagine they regretted that,” Thorin said dryly.

Gandalf chuckled and reached into his cloak. From an inner pocket, he drew a small, weathered scrap of hide. He slid it across the table.

“One of them was carrying this.”

Thorin unfolded it. The writing was twisted and harsh, impossible to decipher.

“It’s in Black Speech,” Gandalf explained. “A promise of payment.”

Thorin’s frown deepened. “Payment… for what?”

“Your head.”

The words hit like a stone. For a moment, Thorin said nothing. Then he met Gandalf’s gaze.

“Someone wants you dead,” the wizard said quietly. “And if you delay, they may succeed. Thorin, you are the heir to the Throne of Durin. Your father may never be found. This burden falls to you now. Unite the armies of the Dwarves. Demand they honor their oath.”

Thorin’s eyes darkened. “The seven armies swore that oath to the one who wields the Arkenstone,” he said. “It’s the only thing that will unite them. And in case you’ve forgotten… that jewel lies beneath a mountain of gold, guarded by fire and death.”

Outside the inn, unseen, the two swarthy men slipped silently into the shadows of the street.

Inside, Gandalf leaned closer, his voice a whisper.

“What if I were to help you reclaim it?”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “How?”

“The Arkenstone lies half a world away,” Thorin said. “Buried under the feet of a fire-breathing dragon.”

Gandalf smiled, bringing his pipe to his lips.

“Yes,” he said. “Which is why we are going to need… a burglar.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed. A name stirred in his mind. Mori? Nori? A sneaky dwarf that had given Dwalin a headache for causing endless trouble. “I have someone in mind,” he said cautiously.

“No,” Gandalf said, shaking his head. “We need someone the dragon has never seen. Never smelled. Never heard of.”

Thorin stared at him. “And who do you suggest?”

Gandalf met his gaze with a slow, knowing smile, puffing smoke from his pipe.

Hobbits are peculiar folk, and most in Middle-earth know little or nothing about them. That is by design.

You will not find them wandering the roads to Gondor or trading in the great markets of Men. They have no interest in the goings-on of kings or the forging of swords. Their world is smaller, quieter—and all the more wondrous for it. They dwell in a green and rolling land called the Shire, tucked far to the west, beyond the Brandywine and nestled between ancient hills and sleepy rivers. Few have ever ventured there, and fewer still have been welcomed inside.

   In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell. Nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole, with nothing to sit down on or to eat. It was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort. Polished wood panels, bright brass buttons, shelves lined with books and preserves, and a fireplace always warm—it is a place that smells of lavender and jam, and sounds of humming kettles and soft footfalls.

They are—or were—little people, no more than half the height of Men, and smaller even than most Dwarves. They wear no beards, nor helm nor mail. Some might boast curly sideburns, but their faces are smooth and kind, often rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed.

Their feet, broad and flat, are toughened by nature with soft leather-like soles, and covered in neat curls of hair, so they wear no shoes. Their clothes are brightly colored—greens, yellows, warm reds and soft blues, adorned with buttons made of wood, shell, or polished stone.

Hobbits have skin fair and luminous, and on days of joy or under the light of the sun, they are said to shimmer faintly, as if they carried within them a quiet magic, a remnant of a world older than Men remember. Their hair is light and soft: curly, wavy, and golden-brown like wheat in midsummer.

Yet it is not only their appearance that sets them apart.

There are whispers, half-remembered tales passed between old Rangers and wandering bards of hobbits whose tears could heal wounds, whose very presence could calm beasts and mend broken spirits. Their connection to the earth runs deep. Flowers bloom where they walk. Trees bend gently toward them. And when one weeps, the land itself seems to hush and listen.

Few in the wider world know any of this. The the Rangers of the North, have long kept watch over the borders of the Shire. They allow none to trespass, and offer little to those who ask. When questioned, they say only that hobbits are a quaint folk, small and shy, with oversized feet and a love of second breakfasts. Child-like, they are called. Playful. Harmless.

But that is not the whole truth.

The Rangers guard the Shire not because the hobbits are helpless, but because they are precious—rare. A final echo of something once great and now forgotten. There is a quiet power in them, too gentle to be used for war, but strong enough to be feared by those who dwell in shadow.

   One morning, in the quiet of the world, when there was more green and less noise, and the only sounds were the distant songs of birds greeting the new day, Bilbo Baggins sat on a bench just outside the round, green door of Bag-End.

The sun was warm, golden, and kind. It poured down gently on the hill above Hobbiton, lighting the dewdrops like tiny stars across the grass. A faint breeze played among the honeysuckle vines and stirred the curly honey-blond locks that framed Bilbo’s face. He was quite still, his eyes closed in contentment, a long wooden pipe nestled comfortably between his lips. The pipe reached nearly to his woolly toes—neatly brushed, of course—and a soft plume of smoke curled lazily into the air above him.

He glowed faintly in the light, as some Hobbits do when they are especially content and the sun agrees with them. His long lashes fluttered slightly, and a smile curved his lips—not one of excitement or mischief, but of perfect, peaceful satisfaction.

It was, in his mind, a perfect morning.

That perfection ended abruptly when an unfamiliar scent wafted on the breeze—smoke, yes, but not his. It was sharper, older, and carried with it the tang of fireplaces long forgotten and roads long traveled.

Opening his eyes, Bilbo blinked once, then twice, as a tall old man came into view, standing just beyond the garden gate.

He was a sight to behold.

He wore a tall, pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, and a silver scarf that fluttered like starlight. His white beard fell below his waist, and his immense black boots were dusted with the wear of many leagues. In one hand, he held a staff, gnarled and weathered like a branch from the oldest tree in the forest. His face, partly shaded by the brim of his hat, peered at Bilbo from under thick, unruly brows.

“Good morning!” said Bilbo, and he meant it. The sun was shining, the grass was very green, and despite the surprise of company, courtesy came first.

The old man tilted his head.

“What do you mean?” he said. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”

Bilbo blinked. “All of them at once, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” the old man muttered, eyeing him keenly.

“Can I help you?” Bilbo asked, politely.

“That remains to be seen,” the stranger replied. “I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure.”

That made Bilbo blink again and stiffen. “An adventure?” he repeated, his emerald eyes widening. “No, no, I don’t imagine anyone west of Bree would have much interest in adventures. Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. Make you late for dinner. Ah. Good morning.”

“To think that I should have lived to be ‘good morninged’ by Belladonna Took's son as if I were selling buttons at the door,” the old man said, mildly offended.

“Beg your pardon?” said Bilbo, taken aback.

“You’ve changed,” the man continued, “and not entirely for the better, Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo flushed, looking at his hands. “I’m sorry… do I know you?” he asked softly, guilt rising like a tide in his chest.

“Well, you know my name, although you don’t remember I belong to it.” The man smiled at last, a glint in his eye. “I’m Gandalf. And Gandalf means me.”

The name struck Bilbo like a sudden gust of wind. Gandalf. Of course. His mother’s friend. Belladonna always told stories—wonderful, impossible stories—about fireworks and trolls, daring escapes and Elves that sang songs to the stars. Stories Bilbo half believed, half dreamed.

He had last seen the wizard as a child, barely up to his waist, when Belladonna Took succumbed to the Fell Winter. Soon after, his father passed from quiet grief, and Gandalf had vanished like a whisper on the wind.

“Oh! Oh, well—of course!” Bilbo said, leaping to his feet. “You’re my mother’s friend. I’m sorry for my terrible manners. Come in, come in.”

And so Gandalf the Grey stepped through the round green gate and into the hobbit-hole at Bag-End.

   Bilbo bustled about, casting anxious glances at the low ceilings and narrow corridors. He ushered Gandalf to the largest armchair he owned—one he kept for visiting relatives with more generous bellies—and disappeared briefly to fetch a proper pot of tea.

By the time Bilbo returned, Gandalf was inspecting the maps and journals strewn across the round oak table. Quills and inkpots, half-written pages filled with notes on mountain ranges, stars, and distant lands.

The wizard raised an eyebrow.

Bilbo noticed and flushed again. “So… an adventure,” he said, sipping from his mug, trying to sound casual.

Gandalf smiled. “Ah, yes. I remember a young Hobbit who used to run off in search of Elves in the woods. Who would come home late, trailing mud and twigs and fireflies. A lad who longed to know what lay beyond the hills.”

Bilbo looked away. “That was a long time ago, Gandalf. I can’t just go running off into the blue. I’m a Baggins of Bag-End, after all.”

Gandalf leaned forward, his sharp eyes kindling beneath his wild, storm-grey brows.

“But I’m asking you, Bilbo Baggins. Not your name, not your father’s shadow. You.”

His voice was quiet, almost gentle, but it struck with the weight of thunder. He gestured at the table between them—cluttered not by accident, but by longing. Maps, faded and curled at the edges, traced the contours of mountains and rivers Bilbo had never seen. Sketches of distant towers, imagined forests, and beasts half-remembered from old tales—lay half-finished, as though even ink could not capture the weight of his wondering. A leather-bound journal lay open, filled with thoughts and dreams penned under candlelight when the rest of the Shire was asleep.

“These are not the marks of a Hobbit content with gardening and gossip,” Gandalf said. His voice was soft now, like wind through leaves. “These are the breadcrumbs of a heart still walking roads it never dared to follow.”

Bilbo sat very still.

A silence settled over the room, not awkward, but ancient. As if the very walls were listening. As if the earth itself was holding its breath.

The sunlight, golden and warm, streamed through the round window and danced across the polished wooden floor. It caught on a polished silver teapot, on the curls of smoke rising from Bilbo’s cup, and finally upon the hobbit himself—his golden curls faintly aglow, his fair skin luminous as if kissed by magic.

Somewhere outside, a lark sang.

Bilbo Baggins leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

He saw green hills behind him. The soft arms of the Shire, warm and comforting, familiar and small.

Then, beyond the hills—mist. And beyond the mist, the jagged silhouettes of mountains, tall and cold and calling. He saw stars wheeling over endless plains, forests untouched by axe or foot, and firelight flickering in the eyes of things unknown. He saw his mother’s face, laughing beneath starlight, her voice weaving stories that once set his heart ablaze. He saw himself—not as he was, but as he could be.

Bilbo opened his eyes. He looked at Gandalf, and there was something in his gaze now—a trembling glimmer, like the first light of dawn through morning mist.

“…What do I need to do?” he asked, quietly.

Gandalf’s expression softened. His smile came slowly, like the cracking of a long-frozen river.

In that moment, he seemed very old, and very wise, and very proud.

   The morning sun rose gently over the green fields of Hobbiton, spilling golden light through the dew-laced grass and warming the stone path that led up to the round green door of Bag-End. Inside the hill, Bilbo Baggins was already bustling about, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his brow faintly furrowed in concentration.

There was flour on his cheek.

Bilbo had not slept much. He had spent most of the night rechecking cupboards, airing out linens, and trying to recall everything he had ever read about Dwarvish customs; of which, to his dismay, there was very little. He didn’t even know if they liked tea.

But one thing he did know: thirteen dwarves were coming, and that was no small affair.

By midmorning, Bilbo was seen at the market with a basket on his arm, filled to the brim with eggs, cream, bread, onions, and a scandalous amount of sausages. The local vendors offered him curious stares, whispering behind their stands with raised brows.

“Planning a party, Mister Baggins?” old Marm Grubb called out from the cheese stall, squinting one eye suspiciously.

“Something like that,” Bilbo muttered, adjusting his blue waistcoat. “Just... expecting company.”

As he walked back toward Bag-End, he could feel the eyes of Hobbiton trailing him, thick with judgment and speculation. A proper Baggins, after all, did not host strangers and certainly not foreigners, and certainly not thirteen of them. Bilbo held his chin up a little higher and walked a little faster, trying not to let the weight of their stares settle in his shoulders.

He had bigger things to worry about.

Such as whether or not Dwarves liked plum jam. He hoped so, he had nearly a dozen jars.

Back at home, the warm, herb-scented air of his kitchen greeted him. He set the baskets down and began chopping vegetables with a rhythm born of nerves. Pots clattered, tea boiled, and soon Bag-End smelled of rosemary and roasting meat. The hearth fire crackled. The table groaned with preparations.

Still, beneath the flurry of motion, uncertainty gnawed at him.

What am I doing? he thought, pausing mid-stir, watching the steam curl from his pot. Am I really going? Is this truly wise?

He’d gone to bed with a decision and woken with doubt. The comforts of the Shire whispered to him to stay. Stay and be safe. Stay and be known.

But his mother’s voice sang louder still.

Belladonna Took had often told tales of Elves beneath starlight, of songs sung in languages older than mountains. She had spoken of Rivendell with a softness in her eyes, of its waterfalls and wisdom and the quiet nobility of its people. Bilbo had always listened with rapt attention, curled at her side like a sleepy cat. He remembered the warmth of her hand on his curls, the way she’d whispered, “You have a Tookish heart too, my dear. One day it will stir.”

Perhaps that day had come.

And then, there was the dwarves’ story—Gandalf’s quiet voice recounting the fire and fury of a dragon, the lonely mountain lost to shadow, and a people without a home. It had struck something deep within Bilbo. He had never been homeless, not once, and the thought of it… of wandering without a hearth to return to… made him ache with a sympathy he hadn’t expected.

So he chose to believe, despite his fears, that this was the right path. That there was courage buried somewhere beneath his waistcoat.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to tidy up the parlor a third time.

With the last of the cleaning done and the food prepared, Bilbo stepped out into the garden to gather flowers—something cheerful and welcoming, a small gesture of hospitality. He hummed a little tune to steady his nerves, the same tune his mother once sang while tending her own garden.

His fingers brushed through soft lavender stalks and pale yellow buttercups, but it was the wisteria that caught his eye—tangled in a proud bloom over the trellis, its long violet clusters swaying like streamers in the breeze. He gathered a few sprigs carefully, mindful not to break their delicate vines.

As he stood there, bathed in sunlight with flowers in hand and wind in his curls, a calm settled over him. He could almost pretend this was just a normal day.

Almost.

He turned back toward the house, the edges of his long brown coat fluttering as he walked. The garden gate creaked closed behind him.

Inside, the kettle whistled. The dishes gleamed. Everything was just so.

And any moment now, his door would ring—and with it, begin the tale of a lifetime.

    The kitchen smelled of rosemary, sage, and warm bread. The hearth crackled merrily, casting golden light over the polished wood of the dining table, which was now groaning under the weight of what was quite possibly the most elaborate meal ever prepared in Bag-End. Roast chicken basted in butter and thyme. Loaves of crusty bread fresh from the oven. Stewed mushrooms, seasoned potatoes, honeyed carrots, bowls of bright berries, and at least three different kinds of cheeses. And of course plenty of ale.

Bilbo Baggins stood in the middle of it all, surveying the scene with flushed cheeks and a proud, slightly dazed smile. His pantry shelves were nearly bare, and his cold cellar echoed with emptiness. But he didn’t mind. It seemed foolish to hoard food now, not when he was about to leave it all behind.

He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt and sighed with satisfaction. “There,” he murmured to himself. “That ought to do.”

Then, with a start, he glanced at the clock. Just past six.

“Oh!” he gasped. “They’re coming tonight!”

He darted off to the washroom, muttering under his breath. In a rush of splashing water and flung towels, he scrubbed the sweat and soot from his skin, combed out his curls until they shone with soft honeyed light, and slipped into one of his finest waistcoats—deep forest green, embroidered with silver thread along the collar. He added a pale yellow cravat for brightness, straightened it, then frowned and adjusted it again.

“Presentable,” he said, eyeing himself in the mirror. “Dignified. A proper host.”

As a final touch, he reached for the small wreaths of wisteria he had woven earlier in the afternoon. Their violet blossoms hung delicately in little loops, soft and sweet-smelling, with just enough shimmer to catch the light. He’d meant to give one to each guest upon arrival—just a touch of Hobbit hospitality.

Then came the knock.

No—it was more than a knock.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

It echoed through the halls like the tolling of a great bell, startling Bilbo so that he nearly dropped the wreath in his hands. He spun around, wide-eyed, then dashed for the door.

“I am so sorry to keep you waiting!” he called, flinging it open—

And stopped.

Standing on his doorstep was not at all what he’d expected.

The dwarf before him was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with arms thick as stone pillars beneath a dark-green cloak. His head was completely bald, covered in intricate tattoos that curled and ran down his temples and skull like runes carved in granite. A thick, bristling beard—braided and tucked neatly into his belt—framed a stern, weathered face. His eyes were dark and sharp, the kind that had seen many battles and remembered all of them.

Bilbo froze.

So did the dwarf.

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other—Bilbo, blinking in surprise; the dwarf, frowning as if uncertain what, exactly, he was looking at.

The hobbit—small, radiant in the warm light of the doorway, curls glowing gold, face open and sincere, eyes the color of spring leaves looked more like a forest spirit than a host. He was wreathed in a faint luminescence, a soft shimmer that clung to his skin like the last light of sunset.

Mahal’s beard, the dwarf thought, unbidden. What in Durin’s name—

Bilbo, cheeks pinking with nerves, recovered first.

“Oh, do forgive me,” he said, breathless. “I meant to greet you sooner. I was—well, I was just—never mind. May I take your cloak?”

The dwarf, still blinking, wordlessly shrugged it off. Bilbo hung it with care on the nearby peg.

“Thank you,” the hobbit said warmly, reaching for one of the wisteria garlands. He held it gently in both hands. “If it’s not too forward—may I?”

The dwarf cleared his throat, clearly unsure, but nodded once.

Bilbo stepped close and slipped the garland over his neck. “Welcome, Master Dwarf,” he said, his voice soft but sincere. “May I have the pleasure of your name?”

The dwarf straightened, puffing out his chest slightly. “Dwalin, at yer service,” he said, bowing low with a hand to his chest, though his gaze never quite left Bilbo’s glowing face.

“And I’m Bilbo Baggins, at yours and your family’s,” said the hobbit, returning the bow with grace. “Come in, please. I imagine you’re tired from the road and quite hungry. I’ve prepared supper, if you’d like.”

Dwalin stepped across the threshold, his heavy boots echoing on the stone floor. He looked around the hobbit-hole with cautious curiosity, noting the low ceilings, the round doorways, the finely carved woodwork. It was a warm, quiet home and a strange place to begin a quest.

Still, it smelled good. And his stomach rumbled.

Bilbo led him into the parlor, where the fire glowed warmly. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “We’re expecting more soon, I believe.”

Dwalin raised an eyebrow. “Aye. You might want to brace yerself for it.”

Not long after Bilbo had handed Dwalin a generous mound of cookies—still warm, golden, and crumbling with oats and honey when a second knock came at the door.

This one was more deliberate, slower than the first, but firm nonetheless.

Bilbo blinked, then excused himself politely, wiping his hands on the linen napkin tucked at his side. “Please enjoy those,” he said to Dwalin with a small smile. “I’ll only be a moment.”

With a garland of wisteria flowers dangling gently from his left hand, he padded down the hall and opened the rounded green door to the evening breeze.

On the step stood a dwarf of great age and uncommon dignity. His beard was white as frost, and a scarlet hood covered his head. He had a weathered face lined by time and memory, but his eyes—ah, his eyes were bright and warm, like hearth embers glowing steady through a winter night.

“Good evening,” Bilbo said with a welcoming smile.

The old dwarf gave him a courteous nod before glancing up at the clouds gathering like secrets in the sky. “Yes. Yes, it is,” he said slowly, voice rasped with age but carried with calm. “Though I do believe it might rain later.”

Bilbo tilted his head, letting his hobbit-sense, that gentle awareness of the earth and its moods, settle beneath his skin. The air was heavier now. Damp. Pregnant with the promise of rain.

“You’re quite right,” he agreed. “A soft rain, just past twilight, I’d wager.”

The dwarf smiled, clearly pleased by the shared understanding.

“May I take your cloak?” Bilbo offered.

“Gladly.”

He handed over the scarlet cloak with reverent ease, and Bilbo hung it beside the dark green one Dwalin had left earlier. As he did, the dwarf glanced at it and gave a knowing little chuckle. “So, he’s arrived first. Punctual, as ever.”

Bilbo turned back toward him with the wisteria garland in hand. “Balin, at yer service,” the dwarf said formally with a courteous bow.

“Bilbo Baggins, at yours and your family’s,” the hobbit replied with equal grace, then held up the garland. “May I?”

“Oh, most certainly, Master Baggins.”

With gentle hands, Bilbo placed the garland around Balin’s neck. The older dwarf chuckled softly at the gesture, clearly charmed, before following his host inside.

The moment he stepped into Bag-End, the smell of roasting rosemary and clove-spiced bread hit his nose. Balin paused in appreciation, his face lifting in a soft sigh. “Halls of stone, it smells like a Yuletide banquet in here.”

Bilbo beamed. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Inside the parlour, Dwalin was halfway through devouring another cookie, crumbs dotting his beard and tunic like scattered snow. He looked up and stilled, seeing the familiar figure step through the door.

“Oh! Ha, ha! Evening, brother,” Balin greeted, walking toward him with open arms.

Dwalin rose to his feet, looking him up and down with a grin. “By my beard, you're shorter and wider than last we met.”

“Wider, not shorter,” Balin returned with a pointed smirk. “And still sharp enough for the both of us.”

They gripped each other’s shoulders with rough affection, eyes meeting with familiarity and trust. Then, without a word more, they bumped their foreheads together with a soft thunk. It startled Bilbo, who had never seen such a greeting before but the warmth between them was unmistakable.

Dwarven kinship, Bilbo thought to himself, already reaching for the journal in his mind where he kept oddities and curiosities. Headbutting: possibly affectionate. Cultural greeting. Add to notes.

“Please, have a seat,” Bilbo offered, gesturing to the chairs by the fire. “Tea? Ale? There’s more on the way.”

“I would not dream of refusing,” Balin replied graciously, lowering himself into a chair with a pleased grunt.

Bilbo served them each a steaming cup of strong tea, then darted back to the kitchen to check on the roast. Behind him, the brothers spoke in hushed tones.

“This is quite the feast,” Balin commented as he nibbled at a currant scone. “Almost seems a shame to disturb such peace.”

Bilbo smiled faintly from the kitchen arch. “I only hope it’s enough for everyone,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

But before Balin could respond, another knock came at the door—this time a pair, rapid and in quick succession.

Two knocks.

Bilbo paused mid-step. “Two dwarves, I think,” he murmured, turning back into the hallway. He scooped up two more garlands from the basket of wisteria and headed for the door once again.

As he disappeared down the hall, Dwalin leaned over slightly toward his brother, still holding a half-eaten drumstick in one hand.

“I can’t believe a hobbit is hostin’ us,” he muttered, the disbelief thick in his voice. “And that’s meant to be our burglar, is it? What in Mahal’s name was that wizard thinkin’? I’d be happier sendin’ Nori under the fire-breather than… than…” He waved the drumstick around in exasperation, struggling for words. “...than that delicate creature.”

He thumped the table once, not out of anger, but frustration. The thought of the hobbit, soft and kind and glowing like something out of faerie, facing down a dragon made him deeply uneasy.

Balin chuckled, not unkindly, and sipped his tea. “Ah yes. Master Baggins is hardly a burglar by appearance,” he agreed. “But precious, if I may add. Hobbits are rare folk, Dwalin. We’re blessed to have one at all—let alone one with manners. And he is a fine host. Perhaps you might stop scowling long enough to appreciate that.”

Dwalin grunted, looking away. “He’s too polite to be trusted in a fight.”

“Politeness,” Balin said, “can be quite disarming.”

As Bilbo Baggins opened the door, he found exactly what he had expected: two dwarves standing on his doorstep. These dwarves were younger than the others who had arrived before—of that, Bilbo was certain. They were leaner, quicker in their stance, and had an air of mischief about them that made them feel more like spirited youths than seasoned warriors. Still, there was strength in them, and something bright behind their eyes that made Bilbo pause.

The dwarf on the left had hair like summer wheat, golden and thick, pulled back into a partially halo braid that circled his head and shimmered faintly under the lantern light. His hair fell to his shoulders. A short beard had begun to grow in earnest, already adorned with two tiny silvery beads—tokens, perhaps, of lineage or deeds done. His cloak, a rich dark blue, was dusted with road soil and carried the scent of pine and rain. There was a proud lift to his chin, a noble calm in his stance. Bilbo thought he looked very princely.

Beside him stood a slightly taller dwarf, though younger in appearance. He had raven-black hair of the same length and styled similarly, with the braid glinting beneath his indigo hood. A faint stubble shadowed his chin, adding a hint of ruggedness to his otherwise boyish features. His brown eyes sparkled with curiosity, and there was a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth that made Bilbo feel, oddly, as though he were being let in on a joke not yet told.

The two dwarves stood silent, simply staring at him.

Of course they had heard of hobbits—who hadn’t? But stories of the little folk were rare and whispered, more myth than memory in many corners of Middle-earth. They were known as delicate, peace-loving creatures who kept to themselves and lived quietly in the Shire, far from the world’s turmoil. Fíli and Kíli, as young dwarflings, would play games pretending to find hobbits hiding in holes along their mountain paths. They had imagined them like woodland sprites, secretive and silent. Yet now— here stood one in front of them, small and solid, barefoot and very much real.

Bilbo stood a little awkwardly under their stares, though his kindness didn’t falter. He cleared his throat gently to draw their attention.

The golden-haired dwarf stepped forward first, smirking slightly. “Fíli,” he said, his voice warm and bold.

“And Kíli,” added the younger one with a flash of white teeth. “At your service!” They bowed together, synchronizing with the ease of practiced familiarity.

“You must be Mr. Boggins,” Kíli said confidently, puffing out his chest just a little. There was a lilt in his tone, a boyish eagerness to impress the hobbit standing before him—who, in that moment, looked to Kíli more like a painted storybook character than a living person.

Bilbo offered a small chuckle, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Baggins,” he corrected gently, bowing in return. “Bilbo Baggins, at yours.”

There was a pause, filled with the quiet weight of mutual curiosity, before Bilbo remembered himself. With a small flourish, he held up the twin garlands of wisteria he had prepared earlier. “May I?” he asked softly.

Fíli’s face lit up immediately. “You certainly may! That smells better than Kíli’s boots after a week in the wild.”

Kíli elbowed him with mock offense. “My boots are perfectly fine. You’re just jealous because they’re broken in.”

The two dwarves laughed, their voices ringing through the stillness like firelight. Bilbo found himself chuckling, too, as he stepped aside to let them in.

They ducked beneath the rounded doorway, shrugging off their cloaks as they entered. Bilbo took them gently, hanging them beside Dwalin’s and Balin’s on the nearest peg. Kíli spun slowly in place as he stepped into the front hall, his gaze sweeping over the rounded ceilings, carved woodwork, and warmly lit walls.

“It’s like a rabbit hole, but it smells like cake,” he said, wide-eyed.

“That’s because it is cake,” Bilbo replied lightly, ushering them toward the sitting room. “Spiced honey-cake. And seed-cake. And apple tart. And if I’ve timed it right, the rosemary roast should be just done.”

Kíli let out an appreciative whistle, turning to grin at his brother. “I think I’m going to like you, Master Boggins.”

A blush crept into Bilbo’s cheeks, though he pretended not to notice it himself. He turned to Fíli, standing quietly and watching him.

Fíli pulled a small knife from beneath his coat and handed it to Bilbo, hilt first. His eyes remained fixed on the hobbit.

“Careful with these,” he said with a half-smile, then he took another one again, this time a dagger. “I just had them sharpened.”

Bilbo took the knife with a nod, mindful of the edge. “Thank you,” he murmured, then gestured them onward through the hall.

As they entered the parlor, the scent of roasting meat and honey grew stronger. Dwalin looked up from his seat, a half-gnawed drumstick in one hand. He grunted a greeting, rising just enough to clap each lads on the shoulder before sitting back down to resume his meal. Beside him, Balin lifted his teacup politely, nodding with a soft smile.

“Evening, lads,” he said. “Made good time, did you?”

“We raced the storm,” Fíli replied, brushing rain-damp hair from his face.

“I won,” Kíli added proudly.

“No, you cheated,” Fíli said with a playful glare.

“Winning creatively is still winning,” Kíli quipped, winking at Bilbo.

Bilbo returned with a stack of serving plates just in time to catch the exchange. He chuckled quietly, then asked, “Would you two care for tea or ale?”

“Ale!” they answered at the same time, grinning.

The hobbit nodded and turned to pour from the small, frothy keg he had rolled in just for the occasion. He handed them each a mug, watching as they took the first grateful sips. As he set the keg aside, his eyes drifted to the front door—half-expecting it to knock again

Bilbo had only just settled into his chair with a steaming cup of tea, finally finding a moment to sip and listen. Across the round oak table, Dwalin, Balin, Fíli, and Kíli were deep in discussion. Their voices rolled like distant thunder, lively and full of stories that to Bilbo sounded almost mythical: tales of ancient mines glittering with gold, long-forgotten strongholds deep under mountain roots, battles with orcs, and the fiery wrath of dragons. It was all so far removed from his quiet Shire life that it felt more like listening to a tale meant for children—fanciful, strange, and a little frightening.

He had only taken that first, calming sip when it came: five sharp, rapid knocks at the door.

He sighed softly, setting the cup down with careful hands, and rose once again. Fíli, without missing a beat, murmured something with a sly grin as Bilbo passed. The hobbit didn’t catch the words, only the teasing lilt of them, but he smiled all the same and shook his head.

This time, he carried the remaining garlands of wisteria—all carefully strung and perfumed, meant as a gesture of welcome.

He opened the door with a firm jerk.

And immediately stumbled back.

A tangle of dwarves came tumbling into Bag-End like a sudden rockfall, they spilled over the doorstep and into the hall, groaning and coughing as they tried to untangle themselves. Bilbo blinked, momentarily overwhelmed. He didn’t even know how many had fallen in—seven? Eight? They all seemed to roll into each other in a muddled heap of boots, braids, and cloaks. Somewhere in the middle of it all, a stout, round-bellied dwarf with auburn hair and an impressively braided beard let out an indignant huff. His large blue eyes widened in irritation as he realized he’d landed on at least two others.

And standing just behind the chaos, leaning calmly on his staff and chuckling to himself, was Gandalf.

“Are you all alright?” Bilbo asked quickly, crouching to help the nearest dwarf to his feet. His concern was genuine as he scanned for scrapes or bruises. “No twisted ankles, I hope?”

A chorus of grunts and groans answered him, none particularly articulate, but enough to reassure him that no permanent harm had been done.

Gandalf cleared his throat lightly and stepped forward, his voice rising above the tangle of limbs. “Allow me to formally introduce our most gracious host—Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End.”

The dwarves, still brushing off cloaks and adjusting belts, turned their collective attention toward Bilbo. He flushed under their sudden scrutiny. Their eyes widened slightly, as if they were not quite prepared to see a hobbit at all—let alone one standing before them offering garlands of flowers.

One dwarf, who wore a furry hat pulled low over his brow and sported a long mustache that twitched with each word, stepped forward with a bright grin.

“Are you sure he’s a hobbit?” he asked aloud, glancing at Gandalf and the others. “He looks more like a fae out of old tales.”

Bilbo blinked, unsure whether to be flattered or alarmed.

“Good evening! Bofur, at yer service,” the dwarf said cheerfully, bowing low. He gestured behind him. “That one there is my brother Bombur—might’ve flattened a few on his way in, and our cousin Bifur.”

Bombur gave a sheepish grunt from where he sat, catching his breath. His auburn hair shook with each exhale, and he waved politely with a meaty hand. Bifur, who had a weather-worn axe embedded in his forehead, simply grunted something deep in Khuzdul, his eyes surprisingly alert despite the injury.

“He only speaks Dwarvish now,” Bofur explained gently. “Head injury, years ago. Doesn’t stop him from knowing what’s going on, mind you.”

Bilbo gave a small bow. “I’m honored to meet you all. Welcome to my home.” He stepped forward, carefully placing the garlands of wisteria around their necks one by one. They accepted them with a mixture of amusement and genuine delight, their eyes softening.

Next came two more dwarves, who stepped forward with identical bows. One had a hearing trumpet strapped across his back, his greying beard tucked into his belt. The other had dark red hair that seemed to shine with copper in the firelight.

“Óin and Glóin, at yer service,” they said in unison.

Bilbo returned the gesture, offering each a garland. “Bilbo Baggins, at yours.”

“And these three—” Gandalf began, just as another trio stepped into the lamplight.

The first was a dwarf with a long silver-white beard and hair braided so intricately it almost shimmered. His blue eyes were sharp, but there was something careful and refined in his manner, almost maternal.

“Dori,” he said, bowing with elegant precision.

The second, more mysterious in bearing, had a unique hairstyle braided into angular shapes that set him apart from the rest. He said little, but his smirk spoke volumes.

“Nori,” was all he said.

And lastly, there was a soft-faced dwarf, the youngest among them by far. His hair was tidy in little braids, with a fringe that curled over his brow. He wore a knitted jumper that looked homemade, and his short beard was still growing in.

“Ori,” he said shyly, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. Dori, clearly the eldest of the three, hovered behind him like a nervous hen.

Bilbo smiled warmly and presented each of them with a garland. “It’s a pleasure. Please, come in.”

They stepped over the threshold, one by one, still sneaking glances at Bilbo as though expecting him to vanish into a puff of mist. The myth of hobbits, it seemed, was far more ethereal in their minds and the reality standing before them was perhaps even stranger.

Bilbo took their cloaks as they passed, hanging them neatly beside the others. The coat hooks were now packed to capacity.

Soon, the hallway echoed with dwarven boots and lively chatter. The group made their way to the dining room, where the first four dwarves waited. Laughter erupted the moment they reunited—shoulders clapped, jokes exchanged, and stories resumed.

Bilbo moved among them quietly, fetching platters and serving dishes, topping mugs with ale, and answering every compliment on the food with a modest, “Thank you.”

The dining room at Bag-End was alive with laughter, clinking mugs, and the rustling clatter of ten dwarves making themselves at home. The air was thick with the warm scents of honey-cake, roasted rosemary vegetables, and spiced tea—intertwined with the tang of ale and the occasional waft of pipe smoke curling toward the wooden beams.

Bilbo stood quietly just outside the dining room archway, a silver tray of seed-cakes in his hand. He should have felt overwhelmed—perhaps even frustrated—but strangely, he did not. It was all too surreal. His carefully ordered life had been turned inside out, and still, here he stood, barefoot and blinking in the lantern light, watching a group of storybook creatures raid his pantry.

It was only as he set the tray down that his eyes landed on the sideboard near the door—and the single garland of wisteria left waiting there.

Just one.

Which meant one more dwarf had yet to arrive.

Before he could dwell on it further, Dori’s voice called out gently above the chatter.

“May I tempt you with a cup of chamomile?” he asked, lifting the teapot with a flourish and directing the question toward Gandalf.

Gandalf waved the offer off with a smile. “Oh no thank you, Dori. A little red wine for me, I think.”

Dori hummed agreeably and began pouring from a decanter instead.

The wizard stood and turned slightly, surveying the room with a slow nod.

“Let’s see… Fíli, Kíli… Óin, Glóin… Dwalin, Balin… Bifur, Bofur, Bombur… Dori, Nori…” His brow furrowed for a beat. “Ori!”

Bifur approached, making a series of urgent gestures and a few guttural remarks in Khuzdul. Gandalf tilted his head toward him, nodding as if translating in real time.

“Yes, you’re quite right, Bifur,” the wizard said at last. “We appear to be one dwarf short.”

Dwalin, ale in hand and leaning comfortably against the mantel, grunted. “He is late, is all. He traveled north to a gathering of our kin. He’ll come.”

Dori cleared his throat softly, approaching Gandalf once more, a glass of wine held delicately by the stem.

“Mr. Gandalf?”

“Hmm?”

“A little glass of red wine as requested. It’s got a fruity bouquet,” he said, with the proud air of someone who’d sniffed the bottle first.

Gandalf smiled. “Oh—cheers.”

The music of overlapping conversations rose again.

“Who wants another ale?” Fíli called cheerfully, raising a jug.

“Let me have another drink,” Óin called from the corner, lifting his empty mug.

“Here you go,” Balin said, handing one over.

Bofur, now standing on a low stool, raised his arms. “Hey, on the count of three! One! Two! Come!”

Bilbo stepped forward quickly, spotting something he couldn’t ignore.

“Ex…excuse me, that is a doily, not a dish cloth,” he said, trying to keep his voice polite and even.

Bofur paused, the lace square in hand. “But it’s full of holes!”

“It’s supposed to look like that,” Bilbo said, a bit more firmly now. “It’s crochet!”

“Oh! And a wonderful game it is, too—if you’ve got the balls for it!” Bofur quipped with a wink.

Ori’s timid voice interrupted next, plate in hand. “Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt… but what should I do with my plate?”

“Here you go, Ori. Give it to me,” Fíli said, reaching out to take it.

“Wait!” Bilbo cried, aghast. “That’s my mother’s Westfarthing pottery! It’s over a hundred years old!”

And then his eyes widened further as he watched several dwarves sharpening cutlery with obvious disregard.

“A-and… can you not do that? You’ll blunt them!”

Bofur paused dramatically, then turned to the others with a wicked grin.

“Ooh, d’you hear that, lads? He says we’ll blunt the knives!”

Kíli leapt onto the bench with a laugh. “Blunt the knives, bend the forks—”

“Smash the bottles and burn the corks!” Fíli joined in, clapping in time.

To Bilbo’s horror and mounting disbelief the dwarves broke into song, their voices rising in an unexpected harmony. They moved in unison through the kitchen, clearing plates and clinking mugs to the beat, their rough voices filling the hobbit-hole:

“Chip the glasses and crack the plates!

Blunt the knives and bend the forks!

That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates—

Smash the bottles and burn the corks!”

Bilbo stood rooted to the floor, unsure whether to scold them or stare in wonder. They were… cleaning. In their own chaotic way, the dwarves were clearing the table. Dishes spun through the air caught mid-flight by other dwarves and the clattering beat somehow didn’t result in any broken heirlooms.

He barely noticed that he had instinctively stepped back into the hallway. A single blueberry pie, untouched and cooling on the sill, had been set aside earlier. For the final dwarf.

He turned to Gandalf, who now leaned in the corner, pipe lit, smiling faintly as if he’d seen this all unfold a hundred times.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo began, “do you suppose—”

THUD.

The deep, echoing sound struck like a drumbeat through the hill.

The room fell instantly silent.

Even Bofur’s hands froze mid-toss with a saucer spinning between them. All eyes turned to the round, wooden door.

Gandalf didn’t even blink.

“He’s here,” the wizard said simply.

It was Gandalf who rose from his seat and unlatched the door, ushering in a gust of cool evening air and the imposing silhouette of a dwarf upon the threshold.

Bilbo barely had time to blink before the stranger stepped into the room. He moved with quiet authority, each step measured yet unhesitating, like someone accustomed to being obeyed without question. Taller than any dwarf Bilbo had met though, in truth, his experience with dwarves was still quite limited—the newcomer had the bearing of someone born to command.

His long hair, black as a raven’s wing, flowed past his shoulders, with threads of silver glinting at the temples like frost on dark stone. A strong, aquiline nose and sharply defined cheekbones gave his face a sculpted, almost regal quality. But it was his eyes that truly held the room in silence. Pale and piercing, a clear glacial blue, they swept over the assembled company with calm precision, assessing everything and missing nothing.

Bilbo, standing rather awkwardly, felt those eyes pass over him. His breath hitched, and though he would never admit it aloud he found the man striking in a way that made his thoughts stumble. There was something devastating in that stillness, in the sheer presence of him, like a blade drawn but not yet raised.

“Gandalf,” the dwarf said, his voice a rich baritone threaded with irritation, “you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way twice. I wouldn’t have found it at all, had it not been for that mark on the door.”

With a wry grunt, Gandalf closed the door behind him. Around them, the company of dwarves had risen to their feet. They bowed in unison, murmuring low greetings and deference.

Bilbo, still clutching the last of the wisteria garlands he’d gathered for the evening, pushed through the crowd.

“Bilbo Baggins,” said Gandalf, stepping aside with a flourish, “allow me to introduce the leader of our company—Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin turned toward him.

There was a moment—a heartbeat too long—where Thorin’s eyes swept over the hobbit with open curiosity. It was not the look of a man seeking a warrior or a thief, but something more abstract, as though he were gauging the light that clung faintly to Bilbo’s honey curls, the set of his shoulders, the stillness in his emerald eyes. But just as quickly, the moment vanished, replaced by something far colder. The weight of expectation settled into a stark, judgmental stare.

“So,” Thorin said slowly, circling Bilbo like a hawk might circle a field mouse, “this is the hobbit.”

He stopped just short of Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Tell me, Mr. Baggins—have you done much fighting?”

Bilbo blinked. “Pardon me?”

“Battle. Combat.” Thorin’s tone was precise, clipped. “Do you favor axe or sword? Or do you prefer something more… domestic?”

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably, still holding the drooping garland. “Well,” he said, “I daresay I have some skill at Conkers. And I’ve been known to dispatch the occasional wasps' nest with great courage. But I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

There was a pause. Then, a slight twitch at the corner of Thorin’s mouth—not quite a smile.

“I thought as much,” he said. “You’ve the look of someone who bruises if the weather turns sharply.”

The dwarves chuckled. A few laughed too hard and too quickly, only to stifle themselves under Thorin’s flicked glance. He offered them a warm, if fleeting, smile, before making his way deeper into the hall.

Bilbo stood alone, wisteria limp in hand, face warm with embarrassment. But before the moment could pass, something in him flared—pride, perhaps, or simply the innate stubbornness of a well-bred Baggins.

He strode forward, surprising even himself, and stopped directly in front of Thorin. They stood nearly nose to chest, but Bilbo squared his shoulders as if he stood ten feet tall.

“Let me be clear, Master Oakenshield,” he said firmly, “you may question my usefulness, or my courage if you must. But you will not speak to me like that in my own home.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Bilbo reached up, looped the garland of wisteria around Thorin’s broad neck, and patted it into place. It looked ridiculous against the dwarf’s battle-worn leathers and somber bearing.

“Consider it a welcome,” Bilbo said, voice calm but taut. “Whether you think I belong here or not.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Thorin standing in the middle of the hall, his expression unreadable beneath the soft purple blooms resting on his shoulders.

The dwarves stared in stunned silence at Bilbo as he marched away, the wisteria garland still swaying gently from Thorin Oakenshield’s broad shoulders. It was Nori who cleared his throat first, and the rest of the company, well-practiced in the art of ignoring awkwardness, quickly fell back into movement and conversation.

They gathered around the dining table once more, the air warming with the scent of food and firelight. Thorin seated himself at the head, where a plate waited patiently for him, an untouched slice of blueberry pie glistening beneath the glow of a lantern.

Bilbo had saved that pie especially. He said nothing, watching from the shadowed doorway, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable.

Thorin regarded the pie with a cool disinterest, then took a small forkful. He barely acknowledged its taste aloud, but something in the set of his jaw and the way his eyes didn’t narrow told Gandalf he approved.

The wizard, seated beside him with his pipe sending gentle spirals of smoke into the rafters, smiled quietly.

Across the table, Balin leaned forward, his voice lowered with the weight of expectation.

“What news from the meeting in Ered Luin?” he asked. “Did they all come?”

Thorin nodded. “Aye. Envoys from all seven kingdoms.”

A ripple of murmurs surged through the company, their mood buoyed by the confirmation.

Dwalin, never one to waste time, asked plainly, “What did the dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dáin with us?”

Thorin hesitated. His brows drew together in a shadowed frown. The murmuring ceased at once. All eyes turned toward him.

“They will not come,” he said flatly.

Gasps erupted, followed by groans of frustration.

“They say this quest is ours—and ours alone,” Thorin continued. “That it is a matter of honor for the line of Durin, not the business of others.”

The disappointment was thick in the air, but before it could settle too deeply, Gandalf stirred.

“Bilbo, my dear fellow,” he called, puffing at his pipe. “Let us have a little more light, if you please.”

Bilbo turned and disappeared down the hallway. He returned moments later with a candle cupped in both hands. He moved with care, and his footfalls were silent as moss. Setting the candle beside Gandalf, he stepped back, hovering near the edge of the circle.

The wizard unrolled a long, weathered parchment across the table. Dwarves leaned in as its edges curled.

“Far to the east,” Gandalf began, tracing his finger across the map, “over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single, solitary peak.”

His finger came to rest on a jagged mountain inked in black. Beside it was the crude red outline of a serpent with wings, its eye like a coal.

Bilbo’s brow furrowed. He studied the map, then looked up.

“What beast?” he asked, though he already knew.

Bofur grinned. “That’d be Smaug the Terrible,” he said in a storyteller’s rhythm. “Chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire-breather. Teeth like razors, claws like meathooks. Extremely fond of precious metals—especially when they belong to others.”

“Yes,” Bilbo muttered, “I know what a dragon is.”

“I’m not afraid!” piped up Ori, rising half out of his seat. “I’m up for it! I’ll give him a taste of dwarvish iron right up his jacksy!”

Glóin clapped him on the back, laughing. “Good lad, Ori!”

“Sit down,” Dori said with a sigh, pulling his brother down by the shoulder.

Balin folded his hands atop the table. “The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us,” he said gravely. “But we number just thirteen—and not thirteen of the best, nor brightest.”

“Hey!” Ori protested. “Who are you calling dim?”

Óin adjusted the trumpet in his ear. “Sorry, what did he say?”

Fíli leaned forward eagerly. “We may be few in number. But we’re fighters, all of us! To the last dwarf!”

A cheer went up from the company.

Kíli, eyes bright, added, “And don’t forget—we’ve a wizard in our company! Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time.”

Gandalf coughed.

“Oh, well, no—I, uh—I wouldn’t say—”

Fíli leaned closer. “How many?”

“What?”

Fíli grinned. “Come now, just give us a number.”

The dwarves began shouting at once, calling out guesses and jests.

“Ten!”

“Twenty!”

“A hundred and fifty!”

“Tell us, wizard!”

Gandalf, red-faced and coughing on a mouthful of pipe smoke, waved them off. The room dissolved into laughter and mock outrage—until Thorin stood.

“Enough!” he thundered.

The company fell silent. The commanding presence of the dwarven king spread like firelight through the room.

“If we have read these signs,” Thorin said slowly, “do you not think others will have read them too? Rumours have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look east to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected.”

He paused, his voice low but intense.

“Do we sit back as others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?”

The dwarves roared, leaping to their feet. Tankards slammed the table. Cheers echoed like a rising storm.

Bilbo watched from the edge of the room, surprised at the fire in Thorin’s words and, strangely, admiring it.

But Balin’s voice cut through the revelry.

“You forget,” he said, “the front gate is sealed. There is no way into the mountain.”

“That,” Gandalf said, smiling faintly, “is not entirely true.”

He reached into his robes and, with a quiet flourish, drew forth a key. It was long and silver, carved with ancient runes, and glinted with a subtle blue sheen in the candlelight.

Gasps swept the table. Thorin’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“How you came by this?” he asked.

“It was given to me by your father,” Gandalf said gently. “By Thráin—before he vanished. For safekeeping. It is yours now.”

Reverently, Gandalf passed the key to Thorin, who took it with slow hands, as if the weight of it might change everything.

“If there is a key,” Fíli said, blinking, “there must be a door.”

Bilbo, watching from the sidelines, resisted the urge to smack his forehead.

“These runes speak of another passage,” Gandalf explained, tapping the map. “A secret way into the lower halls. Hidden, perhaps. Forgotten. But not lost.”

“Aye,” said Kíli, nodding with enthusiasm. “There’s another way in.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes inwardly.

“If we can find it,” Gandalf said, “and if we can open it. Dwarven doors are invisible when shut. The answer lies hidden in this map. I do not have the skill to find it.”

He looked up, his gaze sharp.

“But there are others in Middle-earth who can. The task I have in mind requires stealth, cunning, and courage. If we are careful and clever, I believe it can be done.”

Óin nodded sagely. “That’s why we need a burglar.”

Bilbo stiffened.

“A good one too,” he said aloud, trying not to sound bitter. “An expert, I’d imagine.”

“And are you?” Glóin asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Am I what?” Bilbo replied, blinking.

“He said he’s an expert!” Óin barked, fiddling with his hearing trumpet.

The company chuckled.

Bilbo sighed. “I am no expert, and I’ve never stolen anything in my life. But… it didn’t hurt to try.”

Balin leaned back, his expression doubtful. “I’m afraid I must agree with Master Baggins. He’s hardly burglar material at all.”

“Aye,” Dwalin grunted. “The wild’s no place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves.”

Bilbo glanced toward Gandalf, silently pleading. The wizard sighed and sat forward.

“Hobbits,” he said, “are remarkably light on their feet. They can go unseen by most, if they choose. And while the dragon is well accustomed to the scent of dwarf, the scent of a hobbit is… well, practically unknown. Which gives us a distinct advantage.”

He turned to Thorin, his voice firm.

“You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There is far more to him than appearances suggest. He has more to offer than any of you realize—including himself.”

The table was quiet.

“You must trust me,” Gandalf said.

Thorin exhaled slowly, studying Bilbo again. The tension between them sparked faintly in the dim light. Then, with a resigned nod, Thorin turned to Balin.

“Very well,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.”

He gestured.

“Give him the contract.”

Balin retrieved a thick, rolled scroll from his coat and offered it to Bilbo with a small, polite smile.

Bilbo hesitated then took it.

   Bilbo’s room, though still neatly arranged, was in a state of gentle upheaval. His desk drawers had been ransacked, his wardrobe stood open like a startled mouth, and the bed was buried beneath cloaks, maps, handkerchiefs, biscuits, and a weatherworn satchel that he had used only once during an overly ambitious picnic.

He moved in anxious circles, stuffing and unstuffing the bag with trembling hands. Somewhere between the second pair of wool socks and a half-eaten fruitcake wrapped in cloth, he paused and reread the contract that now sat folded on his writing desk. He winced again at the clause about funeral arrangements, especially the line about incineration in the event of dragon-related demise.

“Lunacy,” he muttered. “Absolute madness.”

Gandalf stood in the corner of the room, leaning against the doorframe with his pipe aglow. Wisps of bluish smoke curled toward the ceiling, and his eyes followed Bilbo with quiet amusement, occasionally offering reminders.

“Bring a flint, not just matches. They’re useless in damp wind. And take that spare waistcoat—the brown one. No, the wool, not the velvet.”

Bilbo grumbled as he shoved the garment into his pack. “What about a weapon? I don’t have any weapon to bring with me. I bet Master Oakenshield will insult me the moment he finds out.”

His brow furrowed, his lips turned into a pout that betrayed more hurt than anger. That dwarf, he thought bitterly. He still hadn’t forgotten the way he had spoken to him in his own home where all he’d done was try to be a gracious host. The sting of that insult lingered like a bruise beneath the skin.

Gandalf exhaled a thoughtful cloud of smoke. “You need none. And if you ever should, I sincerely hope you won’t be too eager to earn blood upon your hands. Your mother never brought a weapon on her adventures to Rivendell.”

Bilbo turned at that. “How many times has my mother been to Rivendell?”

"Many times," Gandalf said with a smile. "She had a gift for diplomacy, and for talking her way past High Elves. Not many can say that. But this quest will be different."

Bilbo resumed packing in silence, the thought of his mother moving through distant, golden halls threading quietly through his mind.

Gandalf continued, his tone shifting with mild warning. “No beast would dare harm a hobbit... not if it knows what’s good for it. Though I fear there are some who may wish to keep you, should they see you. The Elves most of all.”

Bilbo snorted, lifting his leather-bound journal and tucking it into his bag. “Yes, well, I doubt the dwarves would allow that. No one wants to lose their burglar, especially not to some elf prince in embroidered robes.”

They both laughed, the tension easing for a moment.

“I must admit,” Bilbo said, quieter now, “I’ll miss my peace. My soft chair... the warm hearth.”

Gandalf walked over to the window, his long fingers parting the curtain slightly. The night sky spilled in—a deep navy velvet scattered with silver light. “The world,” he said, his voice low and rich, “is not in your books and maps. It’s out there.”

Bilbo joined him by the window. Beyond the treetops, the stars glittered above the hills of the Shire, and the distant hoot of an owl broke the stillness.

“Can you promise that I will come back?” Bilbo asked.

Gandalf looked at him, serious now. “No. But if you do, you will not be the same.”

The words lingered like the scent of pipe smoke. Bilbo said nothing more, just nodded, and returned to his satchel.

Moments later, the sound of low humming drifted up from below. Gandalf tilted his head. “Ah. They’ve started.”

The fire in the sitting room cast golden light against the walls as the dwarves gathered, seated in shadow. Thorin stood apart, near the hearth, his profile lit in flickering amber. Smoke curled from his own pipe as he began to sing.

“Far over the Misty Mountains cold,

To dungeons deep and caverns old,

We must away, ere break of day,

To seek our long-forgotten gold.”

His voice was deep and sonorous, weathered by wind and time. One by one, the other dwarves rose and joined in, their voices weaving into a haunting harmony.

“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.”

Upstairs, Bilbo sat on the edge of his bed. His satchel was packed now, save for his walking stick, and the contract rolled and tied with a thin leather strap. He stared into the small fire crackling in his hearth. Gandalf sat nearby, silent, puffing quietly.

As the music drifted into his room, something stirred within Bilbo. A slow, warm ache. A yearning. He felt it in his bones—a fierce love of beautiful things, shaped by hands and magic. He felt the weight of dwarven hearts in every note, proud and sorrowful. He felt something Tookish uncurl in his belly, something adventurous and wild.

He rose and crossed to the window. The stars burned bright, and somewhere far in the woods beyond The Water, a sudden flame leapt up—perhaps a fire being kindled for the night. It flickered and vanished.

Bilbo stared long into the trees and saw not just darkness but caverns of stone and gold, firelit halls, dragons curled on hoards. He saw waterfalls cascading through cliffs and pine trees whispering in the high mountain air.

He pressed a hand against the glass, his reflection faint and thoughtful.

“I don’t know what lies ahead,” he said quietly.

“None of us do,” Gandalf replied, without looking up. “But if you follow your feet far enough, you’ll find the courage that built Bag-End—and perhaps even a sword to match.”

Bilbo smiled faintly. “I was rather fond of my walking stick.”

Gandalf chuckled. “So was your mother. But even she would agree that it is time for you to find what lies beyond your garden gate.”

Outside, the dwarves sang on, and the firelight danced.

And inside, Bilbo Baggins—gentlehobbit of Bag-End, reluctant burglar, unwitting adventurer—picked up his pack, ran a hand through his curls, and stared out into the night.

It was the last time he would see the Hill as he had always known it.

Chapter Text

02.

   The morning sun poured gently through the windows of Bag-End, casting golden rays upon the polished wood floors and shelves lined with books and trinkets. The air was thick with the warm, savory aroma of breakfast—fresh-baked scones, fried tomatoes, crisped bacon, and honeyed porridge. The dwarves stirred one by one, their stomachs leading them into the dining area.

To their astonishment, the table was already set, laden with dishes worthy of a royal feast. But even more surprising was the sight of Bilbo Baggins himself who was fast asleep on the settee in the sitting room, curled like a cat beside his neatly packed travel bag.

“Did he even sleep?” Fíli whispered as he padded into the room, eyes wide with curiosity.

“Or eat?” added Kíli, whose raven-black hair stuck out in every direction like a bird’s nest. He yawned, blinking sleepily at the hobbit.

Gandalf, seated comfortably in the corner with a cup of tea steaming in his hand, offered a soft chuckle. “Yes, he slept, and he rose before dawn. Prepared breakfast, ate his fill, and then promptly fell asleep again waiting for the lot of you to wake.”

The dwarves let out a collective sigh of relief.

“That’s good to learn,” Bofur said cheerily, his eyes fixed fondly on the slumbering hobbit. “It would be a terrible shame for the pretty thing to go hungry on our journey—”

He didn’t finish. Bifur had promptly smacked the back of his head and grumbled something sharp in Khuzdul.

“Alright, enough gawking,” Thorin ordered, striding into the room with a furrow in his brow. “Eat, and be swift about it. We ride within the hour.”

The dwarves obeyed, though their eyes still flickered toward the hobbit on the settee. Some seemed reluctant to disturb the peace that lingered like a charm in the air.

Gandalf stood, placing his teacup gently on the side table, and walked over to Bilbo. He bent down and tapped the hobbit’s shoulder with two fingers.

Bilbo made a small, indiscernible noise in response—a gentle hum somewhere between a sigh and a complaint—and rolled toward the backrest.

“I can’t watch this,” Kíli whispered dramatically, clutching his chest as if the sight pained him.

“Do you really need to wake him?” Dwalin grunted, scratching his beard. The question earned him a long, sidelong look from Thorin that clearly said, Really, Dwalin? Even you?

But Gandalf merely chuckled again. He reached out and gently tousled Bilbo’s hair.

Several dwarves gasped.

“That must be so soft,” Nori muttered, tilting his head. Dori promptly smacked him.

Bilbo’s eyelids fluttered open, his lashes catching the morning light like spun gold. He blinked up at Gandalf, eyes still heavy with sleep and radiant. His emerald eyes shimmered with the dawn, and his parted lips looked soft and dazed.

“I feel thirsty all of a sudden,” Fíli muttered. Thorin’s glare silenced him before another word could escape.

Bilbo stretched and rubbed his eyes, not yet aware of the audience. “Mmm… Morning already?”

Gandalf smiled. “Forgive me for waking you, my dear Bilbo, but there is something we must discuss in private.”

Bilbo nodded groggily and followed Gandalf into the adjoining hallway, leaving behind a room full of quietly crestfallen dwarves.

“Do all hobbits glow like that?” Ori asked, his voice filled with awe.

“It might be a hobbit thing, lad,” Balin said kindly.

Bofur leaned closer to whisper, “Do you think he prefers male—”

“Enough,” Thorin barked. “Finish your breakfast.”

In the hallway, Gandalf stopped before a small wooden chest and opened it with a murmur. From within, he drew a deep green cloak of fine wool, lined with soft cotton and fitted for someone of hobbit stature.

Bilbo blinked at it. “Is that for me?”

“It is,” said Gandalf, draping the cloak across Bilbo’s shoulders. “Hobbits are rare folk, Bilbo. More than one person in Middle-earth believes your kind to be nothing more than folklore. And that… can be dangerous.”

“You mean I’ll need to hide?”

“For your safety, yes.” Gandalf’s tone turned graver. “There are whispers, old stories. Some believe hobbits are gifted with powers—their tears can heal wounds, or they speak the language of trees. Nonsense, perhaps. But there are always those willing to test legend for themselves, especially when profit or power is involved.”

Bilbo frowned. “So what you’re saying is… some might try to capture me?”

“They might,” Gandalf admitted. “Especially if they think you can tame the wild or resurrect the dead with a single weep. It’s best not to draw attention to yourself. This cloak will help. Its weave is of the Westfold, it blends well with earth and leaf, shadow and stone.”

Bilbo looked down at the cloak, tugging it around him. “It’s… warm.”

“And will keep you dry as well,” Gandalf added with a satisfied nod.

Bilbo hesitated before saying softly, “Do you believe any of those tales? About hobbits?”

Gandalf looked at him with that familiar twinkle in his eye. “I believe that the smallest person can change the course of the future. That’s quite enough.”

The hobbit smiled shyly and pulled the cloak tighter.

“Come,” Gandalf said. “Your company waits. And your adventure begins.”

    The Company trotted down the winding dirt road that led them away from the Shire, the golden fields and peaceful green hills slowly falling behind them. The ponies plodded along at a steady pace, their hooves kicking up little puffs of dust as they carried the thirteen dwarves, one wizard, and one slightly disgruntled hobbit toward the unknown.

Bilbo Baggins sat awkwardly atop a chestnut pony—who bore the rather noble name of Myrtle—his knuckles white as he gripped the saddle. Dwalin and Fíli had hoisted him up despite his earnest protests that he could walk perfectly well, thank you very much. It was not that Bilbo was afraid of riding; it was more that the pony had given him a sidelong look that suggested neither of them was thrilled about the arrangement.

“I can keep up on foot, you know,” Bilbo huffed, wrinkling his nose as he shifted again, clearly uncomfortable. “I’ve done my fair share of walking holidays. Got as far as Frogmorton once without even needing a walking stick.”

Kíli, riding beside him, chuckled, his dark eyes alight with amusement. “Is this really your first time riding a pony?”

“Of course it is,” Bilbo snapped. “We hobbits don’t tend to go galloping about the countryside on saddled beasts unless there’s a dire emergency—like second breakfast being canceled!”

Ori, riding a shaggy brown pony two lengths back, perked up. “Why don’t hobbits wear shoes?”

Bilbo turned in his saddle with a look that could only be described as scandalized. “Because we don’t need them, thank you very much. Hobbits have naturally leathery soles, tougher than dwarven boot-leather, I’ll wager. Not to mention our feet are rather handsome if you’d care to notice—the curls are particularly well-groomed.”

Kíli snorted, and Ori looked down at his own boots with quiet wonder.

Bofur, always eager to chat, chimed in. “So tell me, Bilbo—are all hobbits like you? With golden curls, glowing skin, and eyes like emeralds in sunlight?”

Bilbo blinked. “Like what exactly, Master Bofur? And please, just call me Bilbo. I’m no master of anything except the art of tea-brewing and scone-baking, and maybe minor garden diplomacy.”

“Then Bofur it is. But what I mean is—are all hobbits so...seraphic?”

A walnut thunked against Bofur’s head.

“Ow!”

“Stop mooning over the burglar,” grumbled Bombur. “You sound like a poet in need of a head thumping.”

Bifur muttered something in Khuzdul that sounded both approving and vaguely threatening.

Bilbo, for his part, just sighed and gave Myrtle a pat. “You’re the only one here with any sense, aren’t you, my girl?”

After several hours, the pony’s gentle gait had become almost soothing, and Bilbo—despite his initial misgivings—was growing quite fond of the rhythm of travel. That is, until his eyelids began to droop. With a yawn, he leaned forward and whispered, “Mind if I nap a bit, Myrtle? Just for a moment?”

The pony snorted but kept walking steadily, which Bilbo took as enthusiastic consent.

The dwarves, however, were not so convinced.

“Is he seriously going to sleep while riding?” Óin asked, scandalized. “That’s a broken neck waiting to happen!”

Bilbo shifted slightly, now slumping more than sitting, his head lolling gently against Myrtle’s mane.

“He’s going to fall,” muttered Balin.

“He’ll be fine,” Kíli said breezily, tossing a pebble at his brother. “This one’s got hobbit luck.”

“Or hobbit foolishness,” Ori murmured, scribbling something in his journal. That is, until Fíli leaned over and snatched the quill from his hand.

“Hey!”

“Gotta be quick if you want to keep your ink,” Fili said with a mischievous grin. Kíli let out a bark of laughter.

“Give it back!” Ori lunged but missed.

“Fíli,” Nori warned from the rear of the company, without even looking. “If you make the lad cry, I’ll show you what happens to thieves.”

Bilbo stirred in his sleep and murmured something unintelligible about mushrooms.

Even Gandalf chuckled at the sight. “He’s adapting well,” the wizard said softly.

   The ponies continued to carry them through the soft hills of Eriador until the terrain grew steeper, and the skies grew darker. As they reached the edge of a dense forest, the heavens opened and let loose a cold, drenching rain.

Rain thundered down on them, soaking cloaks and beards, dribbling off the hoods of ponchos and the edges of saddles. The dwarves hunched and muttered, miserable.

“Gandalf,” Dori called, his hair now plastered to his face, “can’t you do something about this deluge?”

The wizard, perfectly dry atop his white steed, glanced back. “It is raining, Master Dwarf. And it will continue to rain until the rain is done. If you wish to change the weather of the world, I suggest you find yourself another wizard.”

Bilbo giggled, his cloak remarkably still mostly dry. The material shimmered faintly in the grey light, shedding the rain like a duck’s feathers.

“Are there other wizards?” he asked curiously, nudging Myrtle to trot beside Gandalf.

“What?”

“Other wizards besides you?”

“Oh, yes. There are five of us.” Gandalf puffed his pipe. “The greatest is Saruman the White. Then there are the two blue wizards, though I’ve quite forgotten their names... wandered off, they did. Been gone for ages.”

“And the fifth?”

“That would be Radagast the Brown,” Gandalf replied. “A great wizard in his own way. Gentle soul. Lives in the forest. Prefers the company of animals to that of people. Which, I must say, is understandable at times.”

Bilbo raised a brow. “So...he’s more like you then?”

Gandalf gave him a look.

“Only less social,” Bilbo added quickly.

The wizard’s eyes twinkled. “Careful, Bilbo Baggins. I’ve turned people into toads for less.”

“But would a toad still enjoy seed cake?”

Gandalf let out a loud bark of laughter that echoed through the trees.

Despite the rain, despite the long road ahead, and despite the increasingly soggy dwarves, Bilbo found himself smiling. 

     The rain did not stop. Day after day, it fell in cold sheets, drenching cloak and beard alike, soaking into boots and patience. The Company pressed forward, but even Thorin, ever driven, eventually relented. When they reached Bree, he made the call.

“We’ll stay the night,” he said curtly, his voice half-drowned by the storm.

So it was that the Company found themselves trudging into the rough, muddy streets of Bree. Unlike the Shire, Bree was no soft, quiet place. It was larger, louder, and far less tidy. The men here walked with a different sort of purpose, many with grimy cloaks and eyes that never seemed to rest. Bilbo stayed tucked beneath his deep green cloak, one hand on Myrtle’s reins and the other clutching the edge of the hood that Gandalf had so insistently made him wear.

“I don’t see why I need to be wrapped up like a cabbage,” Bilbo grumbled as they entered the Prancing Pony. “No one’s going to look twice at a hobbit.”

“You underestimate the power of rumor,” Gandalf replied without looking at him. “And your own presence.”

Bilbo huffed but said nothing more as they pushed through the inn's heavy doors.

The Prancing Pony was a riot of warmth and noise. Fires roared in stone hearths. Tankards clanged against wooden tables. Laughter rose in loud bursts from every corner. To Bilbo, it was an assault on the senses. He winced as someone shouted nearby and instinctively cupped his ears.

“Lovely,” he muttered, eyes scanning the room for a quiet corner.

While the rest of the dwarves found a large table near the back, Gandalf made his way to the innkeeper to arrange rooms for the night. Bilbo slid onto a bench beside Ori, who looked two blinks away from sleep, his head already leaning against Dori’s shoulder.

The dwarves wasted no time enjoying the break from the storm. Kíli was already leaning over the bar counter, speaking to a laughing barmaid whose face had turned a bit pink. Fíli and Bofur had taken to arm wrestling, their grunts and strained laughter drawing a crowd. The rest of the dwarves, not to be left out, placed bets with loud encouragement.

Thorin, of course, remained removed. He sat at the end of the table, nursing a tankard of ale and watching the room with sharp eyes. When his gaze met Bilbo’s, he lifted one dark eyebrow. Bilbo quickly looked away and returned to sipping his pint, feeling both oddly flustered and vaguely annoyed.

Seriously, what was his problem?

As Bilbo tipped his mug back again, he paused. A strange feeling prickled at the back of his neck. He lowered the tankard slowly, eyes scanning the crowded inn. Laughter. Shouts. A clatter of spilled drink.

Then he saw him.

A lone figure, cloaked in black, sat in the far corner of the inn. Shadow hid most of his features, but Bilbo could feel the weight of that stare. Cold. Unblinking.

He swallowed.

Before he could speak or point it out, Gandalf returned, brushing rain from his sleeves.

“Rooms are sorted,” the wizard announced, pulling out a chair. “I, mercifully, have my own.”

Bilbo’s face immediately fell. “Lucky you.”

Gandalf chuckled. “Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, Kíli, Fíli, Óin, and Glóin in one. Bombur, Bofur, Bifur, Nori, Dori, and Ori in the other. Bilbo, you can choose.”

“He’ll be with us,” Kíli said quickly.

“No, with us!” Ori burst out suddenly, jolting fully awake. “He deserves peace, not constant bickering and nonsense and hair-pulling!”

Bilbo blinked. “Hair-pulling?”

“Exactly!” Ori huffed. “They keep hiding my quills! And singing about goats in the middle of the night! You can’t possibly expect Bilbo to survive that.”

Fíli and Kíli turned bright red.

“We do not sing about goats—”

“Well not every night,” Kíli admitted.

Bofur leaned in close to Bilbo, whispering with a grin, “Bet they just want you to warm their toes.”

Bilbo choked on his drink, then laughed.

The banter escalated. Fíli accused Ori of sleeping with his eyes open like a ghost. Ori declared that Fíli snored loud enough to summon orcs. Kíli threatened to braid Ori’s eyebrows in his sleep.

“Enough,” Nori said flatly, not even raising his voice. “Before I turn you all into pebbles.”

Silence. Immediate and respectful.

Bilbo snorted into his mug.

   The clamor of the Prancing Pony slowly faded behind them as the Company made their way to their assigned rooms. Thorin was the last to stand, offering a curt nod before disappearing into the hall with Balin and Dwalin at his side.

Fili and Kili looked far from pleased, sulking like two ruffled cats by the bar. Their arms were folded and their brows knitted, clearly still upset that Bilbo had chosen not to share a room with them.

“Sleep well, Master Baggins,” Fili said, though his tone was just a shade too formal to be sincere.

“Don’t let Ori’s snoring wake the ghosts,” Kili muttered with a smirk.

Ori, undeterred and ever the loyal youngest of his trio, stuck out his tongue at the two princelings with an impish grin. “Better snoring than snorting in your sleep like a piglet in a hayloft!”

Kili looked genuinely wounded. “I do not snort!”

“Do too,” Ori sang back.

“Do not!”

“You sound like a goat having a fit!”

Before the argument could escalate into an all-out sibling skirmish, Dwalin stepped in like a seasoned brawler breaking up a tavern brawl. He seized both Fíli and Kíli by their collars and hauled them toward the stairwell.

“Enough, you two. We’re guests here, not boars in a pit. Save your bickering for the wilds.”

Balin, ever composed, offered a polite bow. “Goodnight, Master Baggins. Sleep well.”

Gandalf, still nursing the remnants of his pipe, leaned over toward Bilbo and rested a hand gently on the hobbit’s shoulder.

“Rest well, my dear boy. And be safe. These lands may be more tame than others, but not all who smile here carry good intentions.”

“I’ll be careful,” Bilbo said, trying not to glance toward the corner of the inn where the cloaked figure had once sat. The stool was empty now. He wasn’t sure if that was comforting or more unsettling.

With final farewells given, Bilbo followed Dori, Nori, Ori, Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur up the narrow staircase and into their shared chamber. It was snug, certainly—seven beds squeezed into a space clearly meant for four—but it was warm and dry, and the hearth had already been lit.

Bilbo wasted no time in unpacking his things. “I’ll take the washroom first, if no one minds.”

“Go on, lad,” said Bofur, hanging up his hat. “Though don’t be too long, Bombur might fall asleep and start snoring louder than Ori before you’re out.”

“Oi!” Bombur protested as he carefully removed his coat and began tending to his bed.

Bilbo slipped away behind the screen and quickly washed his face and neck, scrubbing away the road dust. He ran a comb through his curls and dried himself with a soft towel before changing into his nightclothes. When he returned, the dwarves had made themselves comfortable. Dori was already smoothing out the covers of his bed with obsessive precision, Nori had his boots kicked off and legs crossed, and Ori had his nose buried in a weathered tome, even while removing his braids.

Across the room, Bofur was exchanging quiet jokes with Bombur, the two chuckling softly, while Bifur sat on the floor, gingerly untying the clasps from his boots.

“Come on, Bilbo,” said Ori brightly, motioning to the space between himself and Bofur. “You should sit with us.”

Bilbo obliged, finding the company oddly comforting despite the close quarters. “Thank you. I’ll admit this is all still quite… overwhelming.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Bofur assured him. “No one stays untouched by the road, not even a hobbit.”

“Speaking of which,” Ori perked up, setting his book aside, “did you know that dwarven braids aren’t just for show? Every knot can mean something—like lineage, allegiance, or memories of lost kin.”

“Oh yes?” Bilbo leaned closer, curious. “So when a dwarf unbraids his hair at the end of the day...?”

“It means we feel safe,” Dori interjected, his voice softer than usual. “Among friends. Or at least... at ease.”

“I didn’t know that,” Bilbo murmured. “It’s a lovely custom.”

Bifur, who had been silently listening, suddenly spoke up in a low string of Khuzdul. The guttural language was melodic in its own harsh way, almost like gravel being smoothed by river water.

“You have quiet strength, little one. You do not belong to the stone, yet you carry its steadiness in your heart. Mahal smiles upon you.”

Bilbo blinked, then smiled. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

The entire room fell quiet.

Bofur turned to stare at Bilbo, his expression stunned. “Did... you just understand Bifur?”

“I—oh, no!” Bilbo said quickly, waving his hands. “I don’t speak Khuzdul. Not at all.”

“Then how did you—?”

“I just... knew what he meant. It’s hard to explain,” Bilbo said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sometimes you don’t need to know the words to know what someone’s trying to say.”

The dwarves exchanged bewildered glances. Bifur gave a small grunt of approval, nodding at the hobbit with a fond smile.

“Well I’ll be,” murmured Bombur. “He really is full of surprises.”

“You sure you’re not part dwarf?” asked

Nori with a half-smirk.

“I’m quite sure, thank you,” Bilbo replied, amused.

The evening wore on with laughter, more stories, and gentle teasing. Ori shared peculiar facts about famous dwarves of the Blue Mountains, Bombur offered Bilbo half of a honeyed biscuit he’d stashed in his coat, and even Dori finally relaxed enough to sit without fussing over the bedsheets.

By the time the fire in the hearth dimmed to glowing embers, Bilbo had long since stopped worrying about cloaked strangers or staring eyes. He felt, perhaps for the first time since leaving the Shire, something very close to contentment.

As he snuggled into his bed between Bofur and Ori, the soft sound of dwarven snores began to rise in harmony across the room. And though the beds were too short and the ceiling too low for his taste, Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End fell asleep with a smile on his face.

And in his dreams, far-off mountains called his name.

    The sun had not yet risen when an urgent knock rattled the door of the room shared by Bilbo and several dwarves. It was Dwalin’s gruff voice that came next.

“Time to rise. Pack your things. We leave within the hour.”

Inside, a chorus of groans answered him.

“Do we have to?” Bofur’s voice was muffled under his pillow. “Can’t we at least let the sun show its face before we show ours?”

Bombur let out a wheezing sigh, rolling off the edge of his too-small cot with the elegance of a collapsing sack of flour. “I barely slept for three hours. My bones are aching and my stomach is mourning the breakfast that could have been.”

Nori buried his face in his bedroll. “If this is what an adventure feels like, I want a refund.”

Bilbo rubbed at his eyes and sat up slowly, still half-draped in his dark green cloak. He blinked blearily at the room, lit only by the faint blue of pre-dawn light seeping through the narrow window. Around him, the dwarves were shifting like a herd of disgruntled badgers, tugging on boots, fastening belts, and muttering obscenities about mornings.

He slipped off the bedroll and began gathering his things, clutching his satchel protectively. “Is there a reason we’re being dragged out of our beds before the sun is even awake?” he asked as he slung his satchel over his shoulder.

Gandalf, who had just entered to oversee their departure, cast a quick look down the hallway before replying.

“It’s not safe here anymore.”

That made the room go very still.

“Not safe?” Bilbo repeated, pausing mid-buckle. “But I thought Bree was neutral ground.”

“Neutral, yes,” Gandalf replied as he leaned on his staff. “But not without ears. Or eyes. The wrong people noticed us—and you especially.”

“Me?” Bilbo asked, a nervous laugh catching in his throat. “I’m just a hobbit.”

Gandalf’s grey eyes gleamed as he looked at him, not unkindly. “Yes. Just a hobbit. And there are some who would give a great deal to find one of those in the wild.”

Before Bilbo could respond, Thorin passed the doorway, his expression grim and irritated. “If we must ride out before dawn, then let us not waste the stars.”

Soon, they were saddling their ponies in the yard behind the Prancing Pony. Their breakfast had been hastily devoured—a slab of cold bread and a half-boiled egg each—hardly the hearty fare dwarves preferred, judging by the cursing. Most were still grumbling as they mounted up, eyes half-shut against the cold.

Bilbo gave his pony, Myrtle, a tired pat on the side. “At least you look more awake than the rest of us,” he mumbled, and Myrtle gave him a snort in return.

“Morning, Bilbo!” Kíli trotted his pony up beside him, the only one with a smile that early in the day.

“Morning?” Bilbo asked with a raised brow. “It still feels like the dead of night.”

Kili only chuckled, brushing wind-blown hair from his face. “How was sleeping with the Ri brothers and the Ur lot? Must’ve been a cramped nest.”

Bilbo knew immediately that it was bait likely meant to rile up Ori and smiled inwardly.

“It was rather pleasant, actually. Cozy. Not a single snorer among them,” he lied with theatrical cheer. “Ori was quite informative too. Did you know the length of a dwarf’s beard once determined his rank in the line of battle?”

Behind them, Ori, who had been slumping over his saddle half-asleep, suddenly sat bolt upright. “Exactly!” he chirped, glaring at Kíli. “Thank you, Bilbo. Finally, someone appreciates my educational contributions!”

“Oh, wonderful,” Kíli groaned. “Now he’s going to talk our ears off about braid etiquette again.”

“That’s better than hearing you snore in four different tones,” Ori snapped.

Fíli joined in with a snicker. “At least Kíli’s snoring is more musical than your lecture voice.”

“That’s it,” Ori growled. “I hope your pony throws you off.”

The squabbling escalated quickly, but it was Thorin who brought it to a halt.

“Enough!” His voice cracked like thunder over the road. “If I hear one more word about snoring, beards, or bedmates, I’ll have you all walking to the Blue Mountains.”

Silence followed. The company rode on in uneasy quiet, the sky slowly brightening from black to blue as the sun crept toward the horizon.

Bilbo leaned toward Gandalf, who was riding ahead on his white horse. “Was it really that dangerous to stay?” he asked in a lower voice. “You seem rather... concerned.”

Gandalf glanced back at him, pipe unlit between his teeth. “Someone is following us.”

Bilbo straightened in his saddle, a chill running down his spine despite the cloak.

“Who?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The wizard didn’t answer at first. Then, with a pointed look that spoke volumes, he said quietly, “I imagine you have an idea already.”

And just like that, Bilbo remembered. The shadowed figure in the corner of the Prancing Pony. The one cloaked in darkness, whose gaze had clung to him like cobwebs. The sense of being studied, dissected. He shivered.

“I... I thought maybe I imagined it,” he admitted.

“You didn’t,” Gandalf said. “And now we make haste. We’re not just heading east to Erebor anymore. We’re heading away from something else.”

As the road wound on and the first light of dawn cracked open the day, Bilbo Baggins held his reins tighter, and for the first time since Bag-End, truly wondered what he had gotten himself into.

   By midafternoon, Thorin finally relented to weary complaints and signaled a halt beneath a sparse canopy of birch trees. The dwarves groaned with gratitude. Their rushed breakfast of cold bread and watered ale had done little to lift the Company’s spirits earlier, least of all Bilbo’s, who missed his seven regular meals more than he dared admit aloud. He had half a mind to sulk, but Thorin’s sharp glances and Gandalf’s unreadable frown made him keep his lips sealed. Ponies were tied to branches, cloaks were shaken out, and packs dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Bombur was already rummaging through his cooking bag when Bilbo leaned over, concern furrowing his brow.

“We’re out of sage, and nearly out of mushrooms too,” Bombur muttered, looking dismayed. “How can one stew a proper turnip without herbs?”

“I’ll fetch some,” said Bilbo quickly. “No need to fret—I won’t go far.”

Bombur looked skeptical. “Don’t go wandering. Gandalf’s in a mood, and Thorin’s already pricklier than a pinecone in his breeches.”

“Really, Bombur, I’ll be back before you can dice the onions. The trees and I are on speaking terms.”

Bilbo padded off, tugging his green cloak tight about him. He knew how to move unseen—hobbits always did—and his light feet made no sound in the damp leaves. As he reached a glade where sunlight dappled through the thinning boughs, he knelt and pressed a palm to the earth. The soil was soft and eager, and soon small green shoots unfurled at his touch, offering herbs, roots, and a small bloom of mushrooms.

“Thank you,” Bilbo whispered with a smile, brushing a finger across a sprouting leaf.

Then, without warning, a cold blade touched his throat.

He froze.

“What’s this?” said a voice behind him—low, calm, and unplaceable in tone. “A hobbit far from home... and far too close to danger.”

Bilbo stiffened, sweat springing to his brow. The sword's edge was keen and icy, pressing ever so slightly to the skin beneath his jaw. “W-what do you want?” he asked, though the stutter betrayed him.

“I want to know,” the voice replied, “why a halfling is traveling with a company of thirteen dwarves and a wizard. Hobbits don’t leave their holes. They don't seek adventures.”

Then the pressure vanished.

Bilbo spun around, rubbing his throat, and gasped.

She stood tall in a cloak of night, its hood pulled back to reveal inky black hair cropped at the neck. Her skin was the color of parchment, her eyes sharp and dark as obsidian, framed by high cheekbones and an unblinking gaze.

“You’re the one from the Prancing Pony,” Bilbo breathed, stepping back. “You were staring at me.”

“I had reason to.” Her voice was measured, not unkind, but distant—like someone speaking across a river. “I am a Dúnedain ranger. A protector of the northern lands. Imagine my alarm when word reached me from the Thain of Hobbiton: a Baggins has left the Shire.”

Bilbo blinked. “You spoke to the Thain?”

“He was worried,” she replied. “And rightly so.”

She took a step forward.

“It’s time to get you home.”

But before Bilbo could muster a reply, a sharp voice cut through the stillness.

“You’re not taking our hobbit anywhere,” came Fíli, his sword already drawn. His blue eyes were cold, his brow set in a scowl that looked far too similar to Thorin’s.

Kili stood beside him, his bow raised, an arrow already nocked. “Step away from him.”

The ranger raised a brow but did not move.

“Foolish boys,” she muttered. “Do you know what I am?”

“She’s the one who was watching Bilbo,” Kili said, eyes narrowing. “I don’t care who she is.”

The air was thick with tension. Bilbo gulped, unsure which direction to run if it came to that.

Then—thank the Valar—Gandalf stepped into the glade behind them, staff in hand.

“I see now who was trailing us,” the wizard said, calmly. “I had my suspicions.”

“Mithrandir,” the woman said, her voice laced with something like irritation. “You and your habit of recruiting innocents for your foolish errands. This is not the world for hobbits.”

“I did little convincing,” Gandalf replied. “Bilbo came of his own choosing.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Then perhaps you should ask him.”

More crashing through the underbrush, and suddenly the clearing was filled with dwarves, weapons drawn, forming a tight ring around Bilbo. Dwalin stepped forward with a growl, war axe raised. Glóin, Óin and Bifur muttered curses in Khuzdul. Even Ori held up a cooking ladle like a tiny mace.

Thorin strode into their midst like a stormcloud given form. “Enough.”

All quieted.

He stood in front of Bilbo like a mountain, broad shoulders rigid and unyielding. “Who are you?”

The ranger gave no sign of fear. “I am Thorn in the hand of every foe who reaches for the Dúnedain,” she said clearly. “But by birth, I am called Dúrwen.”

That name struck something in Gandalf’s memory, for his brows lifted in recognition.

Dúrwen stood tall. “I swore an oath, as did all who guard the Shire. No harm shall come to halflings while breath is in my lungs. If this hobbit walks the wilds of Middle-earth, then I will walk beside him.”

“You have no place in our Company,” Thorin said coldly. “This is not your quest.”

“I bring my own horse. My own rations. I’ll not slow you down.”

“We don’t need your sword.”

“Yet you’ll have it. I will not go until I’m sure he returns alive.”

Bilbo glanced between them, overwhelmed.

“Well, I’m not sure whether to be flattered or terrified,” he muttered.

Gandalf smiled faintly. “Get used to both, my dear boy.”

Fíli and Kíli scowled, still tense with adrenaline, while Ori sidled up beside Bilbo and whispered, “She’s scarier than Dori when someone spills ink on his braids.”

Bilbo sighed. “We’re going to need a bigger pony cart, aren’t we?”

The glade had quieted by the time the Company returned, the tension between Dúrwen and Thorin still thick in the air. Birds chirped overhead, unaware of the uncomfortable silence that followed the group like a lingering shadow.

Bilbo tried to lighten the mood.

“I found mushrooms,” he said, lifting a modestly filled satchel to Bombur, who was hunched over the campfire, stirring the thin stew in a dented pot. “And a few wild herbs. Not much, but it should stretch our rations for at least two days.”

Bombur accepted the satchel with an appreciative grunt, peering inside. “Ah! You’re a marvel, laddie. I was starting to think we’d be chewing on bark tonight.”

“Better than chewing on your temper,” Bofur quipped from nearby, earning a rare chuckle from Nori.

They sat in scattered circles around the fire, bowls passed out, though the portions were meager and the stew was more hot water than substance. Most of the Company ate without much enthusiasm, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional murmur or clink of a spoon.

Dúrwen sat apart, perched on a mossy rock just beyond the firelight. She did not approach the pot. Instead, she retrieved her own rations from her pack—a wedge of dense travel bread and a flask of water—and quietly ate with the detachment of someone long used to solitude.

Bilbo, feeling awkward, filled an extra bowl and brought it to her.

“Er, here. If you’d like to try the stew. It’s not awful,” he offered, holding it out with a small, sheepish smile.

Dúrwen glanced at the bowl, then at him, her expression unreadable.

“I’ve my own food,” she said coolly, then added, “But thank you.”

He nodded and retreated, trying not to feel like a rejected hedgehog.

Back at the fire, Dori leaned closer to Balin, his brows drawn together. “We’re really letting her follow us, then? Just like that?”

“She’s not exactly the joining type,” Balin murmured. “But we’ve had stranger companions, haven’t we? And Gandalf seems to know her.”

“I don’t like her,” Gloin muttered, eyeing Dúrwen from beneath his heavy brows. “Too quiet. Too many knives.”

“She does look like she bites,” Bofur said lightly, nudging Bilbo. “You sure she’s not here to steal our toes in our sleep?”

Bilbo snorted softly but said nothing.

It was Kili, ever unable to hold his tongue, who finally burst. “Well, I saw her put a sword to Bilbo’s throat.”

The statement hung in the air like a struck bell.

Half the Company turned their heads sharply toward the ranger. Bombur dropped his spoon with a clatter. Dori nearly choked.

“What?” barked Dwalin, standing halfway up. “She did what?”

“You did what?!” Dori shouted.

“She threatened our hobbit?” Gloin snapped.

“Calm down, calm down!” Bilbo waved his hands in exasperation. “It was more... surprise than threat. A misunderstanding. And it’s not like I’m dead, am I?”

“Yet,” Nori muttered darkly.

Across the glade, Dúrwen didn’t flinch. Her bread still in hand, she chewed calmly, only raising her eyes when the noise grew louder.

Thorin, who had been silent until now, rose slowly to his feet. The firelight glinted in his eyes, turning the blue to cold steel.

“If you threaten him again,” he said, his voice like stone scraping against stone, “I will bury your sword so deep in the earth, your ancestors will feel it.”

Bilbo blinked in confusion, nearly dropping his bowl.

Dúrwen, for her part, raised an eyebrow. Then, to Bilbo’s astonishment, the corners of her lips twitched.

“Understood,” she said, a whisper of amusement in her voice.

She turned her gaze to Gandalf, who was puffing thoughtfully on his pipe, entirely unruffled.

“You keep strange company, Mithrandir,” she said. “First you drag a halfling from his home. Now you expect me to travel with a band of bearded children.”

“We prefer ‘dwarves,’ actually,” Bofur muttered.

Gandalf smiled, letting a ring of smoke rise lazily into the air. “I did not ask you to travel with them, Dúrwen. You insisted on following. I merely allowed it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Because you knew I would. You always play the long game, wizard.”

Gandalf shrugged. “Better than playing no game at all.”

Thorin didn’t look convinced. He resumed his seat beside Dwalin but didn’t relax. Not even a little.

Bilbo returned to his place by Bofur, rubbing his temples. “I just wanted some mushrooms,” he muttered.

“Next time,” said Bofur, patting him on the back, “maybe don’t go picking them where rangers prowl with pointy swords.”

“I’ll make a note,” Bilbo sighed.

Night had fallen soft over the camp, shrouding the glade in a hush of silver moonlight and murmuring leaves. The company lay scattered in their bedrolls, wrapped in cloaks and the last warmth of the fire’s glow. But sleep eluded Bilbo Baggins.

The culprit, as always, was Bombur’s snoring. It rumbled like a landslide through the trees—deep, irregular, and thunderous. Bilbo lay on his side, one arm under his head, the other pressed tightly over his ear. He sighed and sat up, squinting into the shadows.

“Honestly,” he muttered, reaching for his coat. “It’s like sharing a burrow with a troll with a chest cold.”

He stepped lightly through the camp, careful not to disturb the others, and crept toward Myrtle, their stout little pony tethered to a tree at the edge of the clearing. She huffed softly at his approach.

“Hello, girl,” Bilbo whispered, withdrawing an apple from his coat pocket. “Who’s a good girl, hmm?”

Myrtle nuzzled him affectionately as he offered the fruit. Her whiskers tickled his hand as she crunched it greedily. Bilbo smiled, petting her snout.

“It’s our little secret, Myrtle,” he whispered, crouching beside her. “You must tell no one. Shhh...”

A rustle caught his attention. He looked up and found himself staring at Dúrwen.

The ranger stood just beyond Myrtle, her dark cloak shed for the night. Underneath she wore leathers and a tunic the color of deep forest moss, her arms braced loosely over her own mount’s neck—a black stallion with eyes as keen and restless as hers. Her short, dark hair caught the moonlight, glinting like steel. One eyebrow was raised in faint amusement.

Bilbo flushed. “I, uh, she was hungry.”

Dúrwen didn’t answer. She simply kept stroking her stallion’s mane, her gaze inscrutable.

Just then, a high, keening cry echoed across the hills, a sound sharp and alien, slicing through the silence like a blade. Bilbo straightened, alarmed. He turned instinctively to see Fíli and Kíli already awake, lounging on their bedrolls beneath a nearby tree.

Kíli leaned back on one elbow, bow resting across his lap. “Orcs,” he said casually.

Bilbo stiffened. “Orcs?”

Fíli took a long draw from his pipe, smoke curling from his nostrils like a miniature dragon. “Throat-cutters. There’ll be dozens of them out there,” he added with the same nonchalance he might’ve described the weather.

“The Lone-lands are crawling with them,” Kili added darkly. “They strike in the wee small hours, when everyone's asleep. Quick and quiet. No screams. Just lots of blood.”

The brothers exchanged grins behind their pipes, clearly enjoying the hobbit’s wide-eyed horror.

Bilbo’s mouth opened and closed, his breath caught halfway between a protest and a prayer.

A shadow shifted. Thorin had risen from his bedroll without a sound, his gaze now fixed on his nephews.

“You think that’s funny?” he said, his voice like gravel grinding underfoot. “You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?”

The brothers froze, their smirks fading as fast as smoke on the wind.

“We didn’t mean anything by it,” Kíli said quickly.

“No,” Thorin said coldly. “You didn’t. You know nothing of the world.”

The fire crackled in the silence that followed. Then Balin, who had been half-sitting, fully settled beside the younger dwarves with a sigh. His expression was gentle but grave.

“Don’t mind him, laddie,” he said to Fili and Kili. “Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs.”

Bilbo turned, drawn into Balin’s voice as if lulled by a story at the hearth.

“After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thrór—Thorin’s grandfather—sought to reclaim the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria. But our enemy had got there first. Moria had been taken by legions of orcs, led by the most vile of all their kind: Azog the Defiler.”

At that name, the fire’s glow seemed to dim. Even Dwalin, usually impassive, frowned deeply.

“That giant Gundabad orc swore to wipe out the line of Durin,” Balin continued. “He began by beheading our king. Thráin, Thorin’s father, was driven mad by grief. He vanished not long after—taken prisoner, or killed. We never knew.”

His voice dropped, slow and reverent.

“We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us. That is when I saw him… A young dwarf prince, no more than a lad, standing alone against that terrible foe. His armor rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch for a shield.”

Bilbo blinked. He could scarcely imagine Thorin, ever-so-proud and regal, young and vulnerable yet defiant.

“Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken,” Balin said, pride swelling in his tone. “Our forces rallied. We drove the orcs back. Our enemy had been defeated.”

He paused, the firelight flickering in his eyes.

“But there was no feast that night. No song. Our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived. And I thought to myself then…” He looked toward Thorin, who now stood apart, back turned to them, silhouetted in moonlight.

“There is one I could follow,” Balin finished quietly. “There is one I could call king.”

No one spoke for a while. The fire crackled. The wind whispered through the leaves. The weight of Balin’s story lay heavy over the glade, solemn and reverent.

Bilbo glanced at the others who were now wide awake. Even the ever-talkative Bofur was quiet, his hands clasped around his knees. Ori blinked slowly, his journal momentarily forgotten.

Then Bilbo’s gaze drifted to Thorin again.

He’d noticed it before—back in Bag-End. The Dwarf-lord’s beard was not like the others’. It was shorter. Not unkempt, but deliberately trimmed. No elaborate braids, no shining clasps. At first, Bilbo thought it a personal choice, or perhaps a practical matter for the road. But now, in the quiet aftermath of Balin’s tale, he wondered.

Was it grief? Had he stopped growing his beard the day his father disappeared? A quiet mourning wound into each trimmed hair, each untwined lock? Was this how dwarves bore loss—not with tears, but with silence and the absence of pride?

The fire snapped. Bilbo found his voice.

“And the Pale Orc?” he asked. “What happened to him?”

Thorin turned his head slightly, enough that the moonlight caught his brow. His eyes were hard.

“He slunk back into the hole whence he came,” he said flatly. “That filth died of his wounds long ago.”

But Bilbo wasn’t so sure.

He saw the glance Balin exchanged with Gandalf—brief, flickering, and full of what was not said. Bilbo tucked that away in the back of his mind.

   The golden haze of morning settled across the clearing as the Company readied themselves for another long day’s ride. Mist still clung to the edges of the glade, curling like pale fingers around the trees, but the dawn sun had begun to burn it away. They broke their fast with simple fare—stale bread softened with tea, dried fruit, and what little remained of Bombur’s supplies.

Bilbo wore his dark green cloak once more, the fabric a little frayed now from days of travel but still serviceable. Dwalin gave him a firm nod and offered a hand to hoist him onto Myrtle’s back.

“Thank you,” Bilbo said, adjusting the reins awkwardly as the stocky pony shifted beneath him.

Dwalin grunted, but there was a faint flicker of amusement behind his hard gaze. “Don’t fall off, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo smiled politely and glanced over his shoulder. Dúrwen had mounted her black stallion with silent ease, taking her position at the very rear of the line as Thorin had ordered. Her presence remained like a shadow at their heels, distant yet undeniable.

Without her dark cloak, she looked different, more sharply outlined against the morning sun. Her garb was the tough leather and wool of a ranger, stitched and worn with long use. Her shoulders were square, posture poised like a bowstring. There was something difficult to place about her—at once weather-beaten and ageless, cold yet watchful. Her shaggy black hair hung just to her jawline, unruly, and the angular planes of her face made it hard to pin her to any one impression. At a glance, she could have passed for a man. Bilbo wondered if that had been her intent back at the Prancing Pony. He remembered mistaking her then.

The dwarves, of course, couldn’t help themselves.

“She walks like a warrior, that one,” whispered Nori.

“She walks like she’s tracking a bounty,” muttered Dori.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if she were,” grumbled Óin. “Would explain that glare.”

But Balin, ever the quiet voice of wisdom, gently cut through the murmurs with a calm, “Let her be. She’s given her word to protect Bilbo. That’s no small oath for one of the Dúnedain.”

Their pace was steady, and as the morning turned to afternoon, the tension slowly gave way to more familiar movements. The dwarves rode in small clusters, talking among themselves as the road stretched on before them. The sunlight danced across leaves and armor, and for a time, all was calm.

Bilbo found himself riding near Bofur, Bombur, and Glóin, who were swapping stories in bursts of laughter and muttering complaints about saddle sores.

“I’ve always been a toymaker,” Bofur was saying proudly, twirling his walking stick. “My clockwork birds—beautiful things, if I say so myself. Painted them myself, too.”

“Don’t get him started,” Bombur said, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “He’ll sing you a lullaby made of wind-up springs if you give him half the chance.”

Bofur ignored him. “But listen to this, Bilbo: Bombur’s daughter—aye, his own wee lass nearly followed us out the gate the day we left! Had to sneak off just to avoid her clingin’ to his cloak.”

“She’s got more fire than the lot of us combined,” Bombur muttered. “Spittin’ image of her mother. I only hope she keeps her feet on the ground. We don’t all come back from adventures.”

“What about you, Mr. Bifur?” Bilbo asked politely, glancing toward the silent dwarf nearby, who was listening with a soft smile.

Bifur tapped the axehead still embedded in his forehead and signed briefly with his hands, motions Bilbo didn’t fully understand but felt somehow.

“He says he was a miner before the war,” Bofur translated. “Joined the battle at Azanulbizar. Volunteered.”

Bifur nodded, pride flickering in his dark eyes.

Glóin chimed in from beside them. “I was a banker, if you can believe it. A fair one too, ran numbers straighter than the pillars of Erebor. Until the gold ran dry.” He looked wistfully ahead. “My wife was the one who kept our house in order.”

“Do you have children?” Bilbo asked, genuinely curious.

“Aye,” Glóin beamed. “A lad. Gimli’s his name. Fiery little beardling. Axe as tall as he is. Someday he’ll be in songs, mark my words.”

Every dwarf groaned at once.

“Oh, here we go again,” muttered Nori. “Gimli this, Gimli that.”

“I’ve heard this tale more times than I’ve braided my beard,” Bofur said dramatically.

Bilbo chuckled, but inwardly he was warmed by the camaraderie, the way stories tied these companions together.

Meanwhile, up ahead, Gandalf and Thorin rode in silence, but their postures were easier than usual. Even Thorin, normally gruff and sharp-eyed, seemed less troubled today.

Then came a voice behind him—Kíli’s, teasing and bright.

“So, Mister Boggins,” he called. “Got a sweetheart waiting for you back in Hobbiton?”

Bilbo turned slightly in the saddle, startled. “What? No—no, nothing like that.”

Fíli cut in before he could say more. “We would have seen a portrait or two at Bag-End, wouldn’t we? Your mantle was suspiciously bare.”

Bilbo flushed to the tips of his ears. “It’s not on my mind,” he stammered. “I’ve had no time for… for that sort of thing.”

Kíli laughed, nudging Fíli. “See? A romantic with no romance. Tragic.”

“It’s not tragic!” Bilbo snapped, more flustered than he meant to be. “I’ve just never… pursued it, is all.”

But inwardly, he was wondering. Has he always been like that? Content to admire from a distance, to bury such thoughts beneath books and breakfast? There had been moments—fleeting attractions, glimpses of something more but he’d never let himself linger. Adventure, it seemed, had come before affection.

They passed beneath the shifting green light of forest boughs, and the conversation faded into soft humming and the creak of saddles. Somewhere in the middle of the Company, Dúrwen rode silent as a shadow. When Bilbo glanced back, she met his gaze briefly before turning away to scan the woods.

It was strange, Bilbo thought. Strange, and yet not unpleasant, to be among so many voices, so many lives. Each of them different. Each of them carrying a piece of something lost, and something worth finding.

And somehow, he—Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End—was in the middle of it all.

   The late afternoon sun had dipped behind a thick line of hills when the Company crested a small rise and came upon the crumbling silhouette of an old stone farmhouse. Its roof had long since caved in, and ivy now crawled over its soot-streaked walls, coiling up chimneys and into broken windows. Thorny vines choked what had once been a garden, and the remnants of a fence lay in collapsed tangles like ribs picked clean.

Thorin slowed his pony, eyes narrowed as he surveyed the structure. His gaze swept the overgrown yard, then the tree line that stood close to the ruins like watchful sentinels. After a moment, he turned to the others.

“We’ll camp here for the night,” he said.

The dwarves were tired and didn’t argue. Some of the ponies were already showing signs of strain from the journey, and Bombur’s wheezing groans had begun again somewhere past midday.

Thorin’s eyes cut to his youngest kin. “Fíli, Kíli look after the ponies. Make sure you stay with them.”

The brothers gave a quick nod and dismounted with youthful ease. Kíli rolled his shoulders and gave Myrtle, Bilbo’s pony, an affectionate pat as he passed.

“Aye, Uncle,” Fíli called over his shoulder. “We’ll keep them from wandering off.”

As the dwarves began unpacking bedrolls and supplies, Gandalf wandered into the remains of the farmhouse. The wizard moved slowly, his staff clicking against the uneven floorboards. He brushed his fingers along the edge of a scorched windowsill, pausing in silence.

“A farmer and his family used to live here,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Outside, Thorin turned to Oín and Glóin, gesturing toward the trees at the edge of the clearing.

“Oín, Glóin, get a fire going.”

Glóin rubbed his palms together. “Right you are,” he said with a grunt, giving his brother a nudge. The two dwarves trudged off toward the woods in search of kindling and dry branches.

Gandalf stepped back into the fading light, eyes meeting Thorin’s with barely veiled concern. He approached with slow, deliberate steps.

“I think it would be wiser to move on,” he said. “We could make for the Hidden Valley.”

Thorin’s jaw tensed. “I have told you already. I will not go near that place.”

“Why not?” Gandalf asked, his voice sharp with exasperation. “The Elves could help us. We could get food, rest, advice.”

“I do not need their advice.”

The wizard took a step closer, his staff tapping once, like a judge’s gavel. “We have a map we cannot read. Lord Elrond will help us.”

Thorin’s voice dropped, cold and clipped. “Help? A dragon attacks Erebor, what help came from the Elves? Orcs plunder Moria, desecrate our sacred halls and the Elves looked on and did nothing. You ask me to seek out the very people who betrayed my grandfather and betrayed my father?”

“You are neither of them,” Gandalf snapped. “And besides, it was not Lord Elrond who abandoned you at Erebor. That blame lies with King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. I did not give you that map and key for you to hold onto the past.”

“I did not know they were yours to keep,” Thorin said, his voice low, but with a heat that burned just beneath the surface.

The two locked gazes for a long moment—wizard and dwarf, wisdom and wounded pride, ancient memory and unrelenting grief. Then Gandalf scoffed, turned on his heel, and began walking away, muttering beneath his breath. He passed Bilbo, who was gently adjusting Myrtle’s tack and scratching behind her ears.

“Everything all right?” Bilbo asked cautiously. “Gandalf, where are you going?”

“To seek the company of the only one around here who's got any sense.”

Bilbo blinked. “And who’s that?”

“Myself, Mr. Baggins! I’ve had enough of dwarves for one day.”

Bilbo watched, baffled, as the wizard strode off into the dusk. He glanced back at the others. Most had not heard the argument, but Thorin emerged from the ruins shortly after, his expression like flint. He didn’t spare a glance for anyone as he stomped past.

“Come on, Bombur. We’re hungry.”

Bombur, already halfway into his pack, grunted happily and followed him.

Bilbo turned to Balin, who had settled near the half-built fire with a thoughtful look in his eyes.

“Is he coming back?” the hobbit asked softly.

Balin hesitated, his brow creased. “Hard to say with that one,” he said. “Gandalf’s come and gone many times in my life. But… aye, I think he’ll return. Just needs to clear his head.”

Bilbo nodded, though uncertainty still lingered in his chest. His gaze drifted toward the dark trees. Something else tugged at him, some absence he hadn’t noticed until just now. It wasn’t just Gandalf who had vanished. Dúrwen was missing, too.

He looked around the clearing. The dwarves were busy with chores and chatter, none of them paying her much mind. But her dark stallion stood still and alone at the far end of the ruined yard, untethered but calm. The mare lifted her head slightly as if sensing Bilbo’s attention, but there was no sign of her rider.

Odd, he thought. He had not seen her leave.

“Looking for someone?” Balin asked gently.

Bilbo blinked and gave a sheepish smile. “Just wondering where she went.”

“Ah,” Balin murmured. “Don’t trouble yourself, lad. She’ll show up when she wants to. Rangers are a strange sort. More at ease under the stars than under a roof.”

Bilbo hummed in agreement, though unease still prickled at the edge of his thoughts.

  The forest beyond the ruined farmhouse was quiet—too quiet, Fíli thought. He sat on a fallen log, flipping one of his hunting knives from hand to hand, the blade catching the last traces of dusk like a shard of starlight. Kíli lounged nearby, reclining against the roots of a gnarled tree, idly rolling his favorite runestone across his fingers in a practiced moves.

“I really hate how Uncle treats us like mere dwarflings,” Fíli muttered suddenly, his voice low but edged with resentment. The knife paused mid-twirl and sank into the log with a soft thud. “He knows we can fight. We’ve proven that. But still, he keeps us tied to the ponies like we’re beardlings.”

Kíli gave a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe because we are,” he said, voice light, but not unkind. “I mean, not children, but... not him either.”

Fíli scowled. “We’re not the youngest in this company. He acts like Ori doesn’t exist.” He jerked his chin toward the direction of the camp, where the young scribe was probably tucked up in his bedroll, nose in a book.

Ori and his ridiculous knitted shirt—too long in the sleeves, sagging at the cuffs, but worn with such stubborn pride that Fíli could never bring himself to mock it.

Ori and his fingers, always smudged with ink, the tips darkened from hours hunched over parchment, scratching out poems and histories and secrets in Khuzdul and Common alike.

Ori, unflinching, the one dwarf who had ever dared to tell him and Kíli—the princes—to back off, to shut up when they were being thoughtless.

Ori, with eyes soft as afternoon light, eyes brimming with quiet knowledge Fíli could not grasp, could not steal—no matter how fast his hands or how sharp his smile.

Ori, whose truth lay not in weapons or boasts, but in the unassuming power of a quill.

Kíli sighed, his fingers slowing on the runestone. “We’re his nephews, Fíli. Of course he’s going to worry. He just… shows it by growling and grumbling. Amad didn’t even want us to come, remember? We snuck out before she could lock us in the pantry.”

“That doesn’t mean he gets to smother us,” Fíli snapped. “How are we ever supposed to grow if he keeps holding us back like we’re still knee-high to a badger? We’re of age. We make our own choices.”

His voice faltered slightly, but the frustration in it remained. “He was younger than us when he fought in the Battle of Azanulbizar. And he didn’t have anyone holding his hand.”

Silence stretched between them, deep and tense, broken only by the rustling of leaves overhead.

Thunk.

“Ow!” Kili winced, rubbing the top of his head. An half-eaten apple ounced to the ground beside him.

Both brothers looked up sharply.

There, perched like a lounging cat across the thick branch of an ancient tree, was Bilbo’s protector. She was half-hidden in the shadow of the foliage, one leg dangling lazily, the other bent at the knee. A pipe smoldered between her lips, its thin wisp of smoke curling into the leaves above. She stared down at them with a look of mild amusement and supreme indifference.

Kíli gaped. “Have you been up there the whole time?”

“How long were you listening?” Fíli’s hand slid to his knife again, eyes narrowing.

“Long enough to know two ponies have slipped out from under your noses,” Dúrwen said dryly, puffing once on her pipe. Her voice carried the weary patience of someone long used to others’ foolishness.

“WHAT?!” the brothers shouted in unison, scrambling to their feet.

They dashed toward the makeshift pen. Sure enough, fourteen ponies milled about instead of sixteen.

Kili turned pale. “We’re completely and utterly fucked.”

Dúrwen exhaled a long breath through her nose, pipe between her fingers. “That’s one word for it.”

Back at camp, Bilbo stood near the firepit, warming his hands against the flickering flames. Bofur hummed cheerily to himself as he ladled soup into two wooden bowls. He looked up and nodded at the hobbit.

“He’s been gone a long time,” Bilbo said quietly.

“Who?” Bofur asked, handing him the bowls.

“Gandalf.”

“Ah,” Bofur shrugged. “Wizards come and go as they please. Like cats, they are. You’ll never know where they’ve slunk off to or why.”

Bilbo frowned, then carefully balanced the bowls in his hands.

“Here,” Bofur said. “Do us a favor, would you? Take those to the lads. I reckon they could use a warm-up.”

Bilbo nodded and made his way cautiously into the woods. It took only a minute to find Fili and Kili pacing near the tree line. The tension in their shoulders was unmistakable.

“What’s going on?” Bilbo asked. “You both look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“We were supposed to be watching the ponies,” Kíli said, wide-eyed.

“Only we’ve encountered a slight problem,” Fíli added, grimacing.

Bilbo glanced at the milling animals. “That doesn’t look good. That is not good at all. Shouldn’t we tell Thorin?”

“No!” Fíli said quickly. “Let’s not worry him. As our official burglar,”—he gave Bilbo a hopeful smile—“we thought you might like to look into it.”

“Fools,” came a voice just behind them.

Bilbo nearly dropped both bowls. He turned with a yelp to find Dúrwen stepping from the shadows like she was part of the forest itself, the faint glow of her pipe dying as she tucked it away.

“Sweet merciful stars,” Bilbo muttered, clutching his chest. “Do you make a hobby of sneaking up on people?”

“Only when they’re being idiots,” she replied coolly.

Before anyone could respond, a low rumble vibrated through the ground. The air changed—heavier, darker.

Then came the thunderous thud of heavy footfalls.

Dúrwen’s expression changed in an instant—still calm, but her posture sharpened, alert. She grabbed Bilbo by the back of his cloak and yanked him behind a nearby oak. Fíli and Kíli dove behind the tree as well.

And then they saw it.

A hulking shadow emerged from the trees—massive, lumbering, and grotesque. A mountain troll. Its mottled skin glistened in the moonlight like damp granite. It trudged through the glade, dragging behind it two ponies—Daisy and Bungo—tied by the reins to its filthy belt. Another pair of terrified animals flailed in its grip, squirming uselessly.

The troll grunted and ambled toward the campfire, the red glow illuminating its craggy face.

“Oh no,” Kíli whispered, voice barely audible. “Thorin is going to kill us.”

Dúrwen didn’t reply. Her eyes had narrowed, and one hand had already slipped to the hilt of her sword.

Bilbo, clutching the still-warm bowls of soup, suddenly felt very cold.

“We need a plan,” she said low and firm, her voice barely louder than the breeze. “Mountain trolls are stupid and slow.”

Her stare fell squarely on Bilbo, who shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny.

“You’re not really thinking of sending me in there, are you?!” Bilbo whispered, appalled. But Dúrwen didn’t answer. She turned to the two young dwarves instead.

“Both of you—go back to the camp. Now. Warn the others. I’ll watch over Master Baggins while he...” she paused, nodding grimly toward the clearing, “does what burglars do.”

Fíli’s jaw clenched. “No, we can’t leave you both—”

“That’s an order,” she snapped, her sharp glare silencing them. “It is your fault the ponies are about to be served for supper. If you want to make amends, then do it properly.”

Ashamed, Fíli and Kíli lowered their heads. “Good luck,” Fili mumbled to Bilbo.

Kili patted Bilbo’s shoulder. “Don’t die,” he added, trying for humor, but his voice betrayed him. The two darted off into the night.

Bilbo turned back to Dúrwen, heart hammering in his chest. “You swore to protect me...” he murmured.

Dúrwen’s expression softened slightly. “And I will. But I know what you’re capable of.” Her hand rested briefly on his arm. “There’s a reason I’ve been a protector of the Shire for so long, Master Baggins. I know the strength your kind holds even if you don’t yet.”

Bilbo blinked at her. “You think I can... tame them?”

He didn’t dare say the words: The trolls? Three giant mountain trolls?

Dúrwen grinned, amused. “Tame them? No. Outsmart them? Yes.”

She drew a curved dagger from her belt and handed it to him, hilt first.

“Get in. Cut the ropes. Free the ponies. I’ll cover you from the shadows. If anything goes wrong, know I’ve got your back.”

Bilbo sighed, his shoulders slumping in a way that made him look much smaller than he already was. His fingers hesitated in the air for a moment before he reached out and wrapped them around the hilt of the dagger Dúrwen offered. It was surprisingly light in his hand—lighter than he expected—but there was a biting chill to the blade, and the metal seemed to hum faintly with tension, as though it too were aware of the danger ahead.

He stared at it for a moment, uncertain. This wasn’t what he had imagined when he signed that contract. Burglar, they had called him. A professional. Someone with skills. Tricks. Confidence. He had none of that, just trembling hands, an aching stomach, and a hundred second thoughts.

But he had signed it. That damn contract with its ridiculous calligraphy and ornate wax seal. The image of Thorin’s stern face as he’d accepted Bilbo’s signature came back to him now, and with it, the weight of obligation. They were counting on him—at least, they had been. Whether they still were, he didn’t know.

“I suppose I did say yes,” he muttered bitterly, more to himself than to Dúrwen. “To all of it.”

He closed his fingers tighter around the dagger, swallowing hard. “This has to be easier than facing dragons,” he added with a weak chuckle that lacked all humor. “Or whatever else Gandalf forgot to mention.”

His eyes lifted to meet Dúrwen’s, searching her face for some sign of reassurance. She gave him none—only a nod, calm and steady.

“I’m not a burglar,” he whispered.

“No,” she said. “You’re something rarer. You’re a hobbit in the wild, doing what needs to be done.” Her voice softened. “And that takes more courage than you think.”

Bilbo glanced once more toward the flickering glow of firelight beyond the trees. He could hear the deep, rumbling voices of the trolls, the clatter of bone against metal, and the occasional hiss of boiling broth. The stench of smoke and wet fur drifted on the wind.

Whatever lay ahead, there was no going back now.

With a deep breath that rattled his chest, Bilbo nodded. “Right then,” he muttered. “Let’s go steal some ponies.”

And with that, he turned, crouched low, and disappeared into the shadows.

   In the clearing ahead, the trolls had gathered around a crude fire. The air reeked of singed fur, stale blood, and burnt meat. Bert stirred a grimy cauldron suspended above the flames, while Tom and William watched with drooling mouths and thick, gurgling laughter.

“Mutton yesterday, mutton today,” Bert grumbled. “And blimey if it don’t look like mutton again tomorrow.”

William dropped the last two ponies—Daisy and Bungo—into the ramshackle pen. “Quit your gripin’. These ain’t sheep—they’s West Nags!”

Tom wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like horse. Never have. Not enough fat on ’em.”

Bert jabbed his spoon into the stew. “Better than that leathery old farmer. All skin an’ bones, he was. Still picking bits of ’im out me teeth.”

Hidden in the dark, Bilbo crept through the underbrush, every step deliberate. A branch cracked beneath his foot and he froze—no one noticed. The trolls were too absorbed in their conversation.

Tom suddenly sneezed violently into the cauldron.

“Oh, that’s lovely, that is,” Bert muttered. “A floater.”

“Might improve the flavor,” William added with a chuckle.

“There’s more where that came from!” Tom snorted, winding up for another.

Bert clamped a massive hand over Tom’s nose and forced him down. “Sit down, ye daft sod!”

As the trolls squabbled, Bilbo darted from bush to boulder, eventually reaching the pony pen. The terrified animals snorted and stomped, but he shushed them gently.

“Easy, Daisy... you too, Bungo,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

The dagger sliced through the ropes. The ponies began to back out of the pen, hooves quiet on the soft ground—

And then he felt it: a great shadow looming behind him.

Bilbo turned slowly... and stared into a wall of foul breath, tusked jaws, and leathery skin.

“Blimey!” Tom roared. “Bert, look what I found! It’s got arms and legs and everything. And it’s glowing!”

“What is it?” William asked, squinting.

“I dunno,” said Tom, holding Bilbo aloft by the collar. “But I don’t like the way it wriggles.”

He gave Bilbo a shake, who gasped, arms flailing.

“W-what are you then?” William growled. “An overgrown squirrel?”

Bilbo thought frantically. He needed to buy time.

“I’m a... Burgla-Hobbit!” he squeaked.

“A what?” Bert scratched his head.

“A Burgla-Hobbit!” Bilbo repeated. “And—and you can’t cook me. Because I’ll explode!”

The trolls blinked at him.

“I—I’m glowing, right? That’s because of internal pressure!” Bilbo nodded earnestly. “One wrong move and—BOOM!”

William narrowed his eyes. “Sounds made-up.”

Bilbo pressed on desperately. “Besides... I consider you my new friends. And I wouldn’t want my new friends to get hurt.”

Tom’s ears perked up. “Friends?”

“Yes! In fact,” Bilbo lied, “I came here to share a secret with you. A special herb, known only to my people. Drop it in your stew and it becomes meat! Delicious, juicy, meat!”

He bent slightly, placing a hand against the ground, whispering softly beneath his breath, drawing upon the old connection—Yavanna’s gift. From the roots, a dark, curling vine sprouted, leafy and ripe. Bilbo plucked a handful and offered it to them.

“Go on,” he said. “Drop it in.”

William grabbed it and dumped it into the cauldron. A foul scent filled the air—sharp, bitter, wrong.

Bert slurped a taste. His eyes bulged. “Oi!”

He staggered backward, clutching his throat, and with a choking gasp—collapsed. Dead.

Tom and William screamed in outrage.

“TRAITOR!” Tom roared, flinging Bilbo aside.

Bilbo hit the ground hard, rolling as the trolls advanced. Just before their fists landed—

A battle cry rang through the trees.

“BARUK KHAZÂD! KHAZÂD AI-MÊNU!”

The Company exploded from the forest, steel flashing in the firelight. Thorin was at the front, sword raised, face grim and furious.

The trolls howled, swinging clubs and fists. Dúrwen appeared beside Bilbo, pulling him upright.

“Well done, Master Baggins,” she said, grinning before charging to Ori’s aid. The young dwarf had been cornered, slingshot useless, but Dúrwen launched herself at Tom, blades flashing.

The fight was brutal but swift. The trolls, confused and panicked, were driven back. Just as they regained footing—

A new voice cut the air like thunder.

“The dawn will take you all!”

Gandalf stood atop a rock, his staff raised. Light burst from it as he struck the stone. The rock cracked—sunlight spilled into the clearing.

The trolls screamed. Their skin cracked and burned. They reached for shade—but it was too late.

With final, guttural howls, they froze.

Stone.

Cheers erupted from the dwarves, weapons raised in triumph.

Bilbo collapsed to the ground, panting, heart racing.

“That,” he gasped, “was not in the job description.”

And from the shadows, Dúrwen smiled. “No burglar’s path ever is.”

Gandalf strode calmly to one of the petrified brutes and gave its stone noggin a firm thump with the bottom of his staff, the sound echoing like a cracked bell.

“Well struck,” Bofur muttered with a grin, nudging Bombur in the ribs. “Serves the louts right.”

Thorin approached Gandalf, his tone sharp but laced with the exhaustion of a man burdened by duty. “Where did you go, if I may ask?”

Gandalf arched a brow, brushing aside cobwebs that clung to the hem of his robe. “To look ahead.”

Thorin’s brow furrowed. “What brought you back?”

The wizard’s eyes gleamed as he glanced toward Bilbo, who was brushing ash from his jacket near the rear of the group. “Looking behind,” he answered simply. “Nasty business, trolls. Still, they’re all in one piece.”

Thorin’s gaze drifted to Bilbo, who still looked somewhat shaken, his curls mussed and his expression dazed. “No thanks to your burglar,” Thorin muttered.

“He had the presence of mind to stall for time,” Gandalf countered, his tone carrying a mild rebuke. “None of the rest of you thought of that.”

Thorin looked as though he wanted to argue, but his pride folded in the face of truth. He grunted and said no more, though a flicker of reluctant respect crossed his eyes when they settled again on the hobbit.

Gandalf turned to examine the stone trolls, his hands running over their grotesque, frozen features. “They must have come down from the Ettenmoors.”

Thorin nodded slowly. “Since when do mountain trolls venture this far south?”

“Not for an age,” Gandalf said darkly, “not since a darker power ruled these lands. And in any case…” He tapped William’s stone shoulder with the staff. “They could not have moved in daylight. Something else stirred them.”

That ominous thought lingered as the Company made their way into the dank cavern the trolls had used as their den. The stink hit them like a blow.

“By Durin’s beard,” Bofur gagged, covering his nose. “What’s that stench?!”

“A troll hoard,” Gandalf replied, his voice calm. “Be careful what you touch.”

Dwarves spread out cautiously, their boots squelching on damp stone. Coins, broken weapons, rotting sacks, and the glint of long-forgotten treasure lay scattered about. Glóin’s eyes went wide.

“Seems a shame just to leave it lying around,” Bofur muttered. “Anyone could take it.”

“Agreed,” Glóin said. “Nori, get a shovel.”

In the rear of the cave, Thorin’s gaze was drawn to a pair of long swords resting atop a raised stone platform, half-buried in webs and moss. With reverent care, he pulled one free and handed the second to Gandalf. Both blades shimmered as they were unsheathed, their elegant edges untouched by time.

“These were not made by any troll,” Thorin said, a note of curiosity in his voice.

“No,” Gandalf murmured, examining the runes along the fuller. “Nor by any smith among men.” He traced a finger over the ancient script. “These were forged in Gondolin, by the High Elves of the First Age.”

Thorin’s grip on the sword tightened. Disgust flickered in his eyes and he moved as if to cast it aside, but Gandalf’s voice rang firm.

“You could not wish for a finer blade.”

Thorin hesitated, then slowly turned the sword in his hand. He regarded it anew—not as a relic, but as a weapon worthy of purpose. With a grudging nod, he tied the scabbard to his belt and moved to rejoin the others.

At the mouth of the cave, Nori, Bifur and Glóin were burying a chest brimming with coins.

“We’re making a long-term deposit,” Glóin quipped, winking.

Dwalin grunted, unimpressed. “Gold does no good under soil.”

Thorin swept past them. “Come. Let’s get out of this foul place.”

The dwarves filed out, some still clutching weapons or relics, while others hoisted bags of silver onto their shoulders. Gandalf lingered behind, his foot striking something metallic beneath the leaf litter. He paused and knelt, brushing aside the debris with his staff.

There, wrapped in a simple leather sheath, lay a short sword—Elvish in design, but perfectly sized for a smaller hand.

Outside, the ponies had been recovered and were being fed and calmed. Bilbo stood near one, stroking its muzzle, lost in quiet thought. Dúrwen leaned nearby against a tree, sharpening her blade, though she watched him from the corner of her eye.

Gandalf emerged from the troll cave, the sword in hand.

“Bilbo,” the wizard called. The hobbit turned. “Here. This is about your size.”

He extended the weapon. Bilbo stared at it, hesitant.

“I can’t take this,” he said softly. “I’ve never used a sword in my life.”

Gandalf placed it gently into Bilbo’s hands. “It is of Elvish make. It will glow blue in the presence of goblins or orcs.”

Bilbo ran a finger along the blade, marveling at its strange beauty.

“But I’m not a warrior,” he said. “I don’t even like fighting.

“And I hope you never have to,” Gandalf said kindly. “But if the time comes, remember this: true courage is not about knowing when to take a life... but when to spare one.”

Bilbo swallowed hard, staring at the blade. He looked over his shoulder, where Dúrwen now sheathed her own sword and met his eyes. She gave a simple nod—no smile, no words. Just quiet approval.

The hobbit’s heart lifted a little.

He tightened his grip on the hilt. It felt strange… yet right.

He had stepped into a world far larger and darker than he’d ever imagined but at least now, he had a sword.

And, perhaps, the courage to wield it.

Chapter Text

03.

   A sudden, violent rustling tore through the dense trees of the forest, snapping branches and scattering birds in a flurry of wings and shrill cries.

“Something’s coming!” Thorin barked, immediately reaching for his sword. His voice carried a sharp edge of tension that snapped the others to alertness.

Gandalf, already moving, drew his blade in a fluid motion and dashed toward the dwarves. ”Stay together!” he called. “Arm yourselves. Quickly!”

The Company scrambled into action, forming a loose defensive line with weapons drawn. Fili raised his swords, Kili nocked arrows to their bows. Dwalin stood forward, hammer gripped tightly. Even Bofur, wide-eyed, readied his mattock.

Bilbo hesitated at the back of the group. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he unsheathed the small sword Gandalf had given him. It gleamed with a pale light, even in the morning shade beneath the trees. He stared at it, wonder and unease warring on his face. A sword—his sword. And yet he had never imagined holding one. It felt too noble, too dangerous.

He swallowed hard and ran to catch up with the others.

Suddenly, an unexpected blur of motion burst through the trees, an outlandish sight unlike anything the Company had seen before. A sled skidded into view, pulled not by horses but by a dozen overlarge Rhosgobel rabbits. Atop it sat a wiry figure with wild eyes and a crooked hat, cloaked in robes the color of fallen leaves.

“Thieves!” the figure cried. “Fire! Murder!”

Weapons were immediately leveled at the rider.

Radagast the Brown, wild-eyed and flustered, reined in the sled as it skidded to a halt, kicking up moss and twigs. His brown-streaked beard flapped wildly in the wind as he blinked around at the blades pointed his way.

“Stand down!” Gandalf shouted, lowering his own sword. “It’s Radagast. Radagast the Brown.”

Confused murmurs ran through the Company as the dwarves exchanged looks and cautiously lowered their weapons.

The brown wizard leapt from his sled, landing with an awkward thump and immediately rushing up to Gandalf. The two wizards walked a few paces off, their conversation hushed but intense. Smoke curled lazily from Gandalf’s pipe as he listened, his brow furrowing deeper with each word.

Fili quietly appeared at Bilbo’s side, startling him.

Bilbo jumped, nearly dropping his sword. “Don’t do that!”

“Sorry,” Fili said sincerely, eyes lowered. “About earlier. If we hadn’t let our guard down with the ponies, you wouldn’t have had to risk your neck with those trolls. You were braver than any of us.”

Bilbo flushed. “Did… did you see what I did? With the trolls, I mean?” His voice dropped to a whisper.

Fili blinked in confusion. “You mean how you tricked them into boiling that weird weed you found? That was brilliant! What was it?”

Bilbo cleared his throat and waved dismissively. “Oh, nothing. Just… a lucky guess.”

He exhaled quietly in relief when Fili made no mention of glowing or gifts or anything magical. Dúrwen’s warnings echoed in his mind—best not to let the Company know too much just yet.

A low, mournful howl echoed through the trees.

Bilbo stiffened. “Was… was that a wolf?”

“No,” came Dúrwen’s voice, sudden and cold behind him. Her sword was already drawn, her sharp eyes scanning the shadows between the trunks. “That wasn’t a wolf.”

The Company tensed as the howls multiplied, rising in pitch and drawing nearer.

From behind a moss-covered crag, a monstrous shape lunged forward with a snarl—a Warg, enormous and savage, leapt into their midst.

“Warg!” shouted Kili, even as Thorin met the beast head-on, burying his sword deep into its neck. The creature crumpled with a strangled growl.

Another surged from the rear.

Kili loosed an arrow, catching it in the side. The beast staggered, but remained upright. Dwalin surged forward, roaring, and brought his hammer down with a sickening crunch. The Warg collapsed, twitching.

“They’re scouts,” Thorin growled. “Which means the pack is close behind.”

Bilbo’s grip tightened on his sword. “Orc pack?” he repeated shakily.

Gandalf stepped between the Company. “Who did you tell of your quest?” he asked Thorin sharply. “Beyond your kin?”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed. “No one.”

“Who did you tell?!”

“I said no one!” Thorin roared. “What in Durin’s name is going on?”

“You’re being hunted,” Gandalf said grimly. “By Orcs.”

Dwalin grunted. “We need to move. Now.”

Ori and Bifur appeared over a ridge, breathing heavily.

“We can’t!” Ori gasped. “The ponies—they bolted!”

A grim silence fell.

Then Radagast stepped forward, shoulders squared with uncharacteristic resolve.

“I’ll draw them off,” he said.

“You’ll never outrun them!” Gandalf protested. “These are Gundabad Wargs!”

Radagast smiled, eyes twinkling beneath his wild brow. “These are Rhosgobel rabbits,” he said proudly, gesturing to his sled. “I’d like to see them try.”

A chorus of howls erupted from the forest, closer this time—dozens of them, maybe more. Radagast turned and clambered aboard his sled. The rabbits surged forward, and the sled vanished into the undergrowth, swift and silent as a shadow.

Gandalf turned sharply to Thorin. “Go! We move now!”

The Company surged forward, fleeing deeper into the woods as the first snarls of pursuit echoed behind them. And Bilbo, heart pounding, ran after them with Dúrwen close at his side—sword in hand, the weight of his courage growing with every step.

   All was silent on the outskirts of the forest, deathly silent. Not even a bird dared chirp in the boughs overhead.

Shadows moved between the trees.

A band of Warg scouts prowled the edge of the woods, snarling softly, guided by a towering orc commander clad in jagged armor—Yazneg. His narrow, sunken eyes darted across the landscape as his mount shifted beneath him, claws scraping the ground. He raised a fist.

The Wargs halted.

Suddenly—CRASH!

Like a thunderbolt, a blur of brown and white burst from the underbrush.

Radagast the Brown, riding a sleigh dragged by a dozen massive Rhosgobel rabbits, shot from the trees with a wild cry.

“Come and get me!” he shouted, eyes blazing with strange fire.

The Wargs snarled in surprise. Yazneg bellowed and jabbed his weapon toward the wizard. His scouts gave chase with murderous howls, blades drawn and mouths foaming, tearing across the plain in pursuit of the fleeing sleigh.

From behind a boulder further along the field, Gandalf crouched with eyes narrowed, watching it unfold.

“Now,” he said sharply. “Come on!”

He rose and sprinted forward, staff in hand. The Company followed, weapons clutched, ducking and weaving between rocks and boulders that jutted from the rocky plain like broken teeth.

Ahead, Radagast sped across the distance, drawing the orcs further and further away—but then—

“Stop!” Thorin barked, raising a hand.

They skidded to a halt.

Radagast and the pursuing orcs swept past them—not more than twenty yards away—close enough to smell the stench of Warg breath, hear the guttural war-cries.

Gandalf turned, gesturing sharply.

“Stay together!” he ordered.

He veered back into the stony fields. The dwarves dashed after him, darting from boulder to boulder for cover. Ori, panting and confused, kept running ahead too far.

“Ori, no!” Thorin shouted.

He lunged, grabbing the youngest dwarf by the collar and yanking him behind the nearest rock just as a Warg snapped its jaws inches from Ori’s arm.

“What were you thinking?!” Fili growled, stepping forward. His voice cracked with uncharacteristic worry.

Ori, flushed and breathless, could barely speak. “I—I didn’t know they were so close!”

Gandalf watched Radagast loop across the distant field, drawing the main pack farther away. He narrowed his eyes.

“Wait…” he murmured.

When Radagast reached a ridge, Gandalf made his move.

“Now!” he hissed. “Run!”

The Company bolted, scattering toward the northern flats. Gandalf and Thorin remained behind for a moment.

“Where are you leading us?” Thorin demanded, voice low but hard.

Gandalf didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the horizon, on something unseen.

Discontent, Thorin let out a breath through his nose and turned, hurrying after the others.

Behind them, Yazneg and his pack pursued Radagast—but one scout veered off. His nostrils flared.

The orc came to a sudden halt, mounted atop a snarling Warg. He sniffed the air, growling low.

The Company, further along the plain, spotted him.

“Get down!” Dwalin hissed.

They dropped behind an outcropping of rock, holding their breath. The Warg-mounted orc trotted closer. Slowly, he climbed a low boulder and lifted his head, taking another deep sniff of the air.

Thorin glanced at Kíli and gave a silent nod.

Kili drew an arrow, heart pounding. Quietly, he stood.

The orc spotted him and reached for his horn.

Kili loosed the arrow.

THWACK!

The shaft struck home—straight through the orc’s chest. The Warg let out a piercing yelp as it collapsed with its master. Both tumbled from the boulder, kicking up dust.

A silence fell.

Then—from across the ford—Yazneg screamed.

“Az grathûl-ghâsh! Durm-ishi-nalûk! After them!” he roared in Black Speech, raising his sword high.

The pack surged forward.

The Company tensed as the first distant howls echoed again, louder this time—closer.

“Move. Run!” Gandalf barked.

The dwarves broke into a sprint, racing over broken stone and through dry brush, weaving through low trees.

Wargs closed in from the west. Others flanked from the east.

“They’re coming!” Kili shouted, drawing and loosing arrows in quick succession. “They’re circling around!”

“Shoot them! Shoot them down!” Thorin ordered, blade drawn.

Suddenly, Gandalf swerved toward a shadow in the hillside—an opening. One moment he was there, and the next—he was gone.

“Where did he go?” Dori shouted.

Dwalin looked around, teeth bared. “Has he abandoned us?!”

Wargs howled. The orcs emerged from over the ridge, spreading like fire.

“We’re surrounded!” Fíli growled, dragging Ori close and shielding him with his body.

Kíli kept firing, arrows thinning. Dúrwen appeared beside him, sword in hand, slicing down a Warg that lunged from the brush.

“Kíli, left!”

He spun and loosed another arrow. The Warg shrieked as it fell mid-leap.

Bilbo, frozen, clutched his sword. He flinched as an orc charged him but Dúrwen was faster, her blade cutting down the creature with a vicious arc.

“Stay close to me,” she growled, eyes fierce.

Bilbo nodded numbly.

Nearby, Bifur struggled against a snarling Warg pinning him against a rock. Kíli fired—but the arrow veered wide.

Bilbo’s heart surged. Without thinking, he whispered in the wind to create a miracle.

A breeze stirred—just a whisper of wind—and the arrow twisted in flight.

It struck the Warg in the eye.

Kíli blinked. “Huh. That was… odd.”

Bifur rolled away from the fallen beast, panting in thanks.

Then—A ROAR.

Yazneg approached, riding at the front of the orc horde. He locked eyes with Thorin and snarled.

Thorin drew Orcrist. The blade burst into brilliant blue.

“Hold your ground!” Thorin shouted.

The Company formed a circle, weapons raised. The orcs advanced, snarling and screeching.

Then—they charged.

Steel rang against crude iron. Dwalin swung his hammer with bone-breaking force, toppling two Wargs. Balin fought back-to-back with Óin, parrying wild slashes. Dori and Nori shielded Ori, who flung pebbles with surprising precision from his slingshot.

“Take that, you filthy beast!” Ori cried as a rock cracked against an orc’s temple.

Fili danced with twin blades, flanking and guarding Ori’s side with fierce resolve. Bilbo noticed the two weren’t arguing for once.

“Strange,” he murmured. “They never get along…”

A scream broke his thought. An orc raised its axe toward Bombur—Bilbo stumbled forward, sword raised—!

But Dúrwen was there again, dispatching the orc with brutal speed.

“You must learn to swing that, Master Baggins,” she said, already turning to strike down another foe.

Suddenly—a cry from the hillside.

“This way, you fools!”

Gandalf’s voice cut through the chaos.

They turned—an entrance, hidden in shadow, opened like a maw in the earth.

“All of you! Go, go!” Thorin bellowed.

The Company broke from the melee and rushed toward the entrance. Bilbo ducked under the rock, sliding into the darkness.

One by one, they dove into the underground passage—Óin, Glóin, Bombur, Bofur, Balin.

Yazneg screamed again and sent his Wargs after them.

Thorin turned and cut one down. Another leapt and Fíli caught it mid-air with a dagger to the throat.

“Kíli! Fíli!” Thorin called.

Kíli fired one last arrow. “Coming!”

Fíli cut down a charging orc, then turned and bolted. Kíli followed.

Thorin was the last to enter the cavern, sword dripping, breath ragged.

The echoes of battle faded behind them, replaced by the soft rush of wind through the hidden cavern. The Company collapsed inside, heaving for breath. Stone walls damp with time closed around them, offering some measure of peace after the chaos above.

Dori fussed over Ori like a fretful hen, patting his cheeks and checking his limbs for wounds.

“Are you injured? Bruised? Bleeding?”

“I’m fine, Dori,” Ori muttered, brushing his brother's hands away, though he was secretly grateful. Nori leaned against a wall, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

“Would’ve thought you’d dropped him on his head the way you fuss,” Nori said with a smirk.

Bofur thudded a hand on Bifur’s shoulder, and Bombur joined in, panting and red-faced. “You alright, cousin?”

Bifur grunted and gave a half-nod, tapping his axe against the ground. He motioned with his hand to mimic an arrow sailing through the air.

“Aye,” Bofur said, glancing at Kili. “That was a close one, thanks to sharp eyes.”

   Or something else entirely, Bilbo thought, rubbing his thumb where the wind had briefly warmed to his whisper. He caught Kili looking at him strangely.

Outside, a distant call rang clear and unmistakable.

Elvish horns.

Dwalin, near the rear, edged toward a crack in the cave wall. “There’s another way,” he announced, voice low and cautious. “A tight one, but passable.”

From beyond the cavern’s mouth, they heard the thunder of hooves. A dozen riders surged into view, clad in silver and green, bows drawn taut. Arrows rained down like wrath from the heavens, piercing orcs and toppling wargs mid-leap. Yazneg howled in fury, waving his blade as he tried to rally his forces, but his army scattered in confusion.

An orc, shot clean through the eye, tumbled from its warg and rolled into the cave. The Company leapt back. Thorin stepped forward grimly, plucked the arrow from the corpse’s skull, and examined the fletching.

“Elves,” he growled, and cast it aside as though it burned him.

Bilbo watched him, puzzled. “Why do you hate them so?” he murmured under his breath.

But he received no answer, only the taut silence of dwarven pride.

Dwalin turned from the crevice. “I cannot see where the path leads,” he said. “Do we follow it or not?”

“Follow it, of course!” Bofur chimed in, adjusting his hat.

Gandalf gave a little smile and tapped his staff against the ground. “That would be wise.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes. There was a knowing gleam in the wizard’s gaze. He turned toward Dúrwen, who merely shrugged and muttered, “He’s always like that.”

They squeezed into the gap, pushing forward a single file. The narrow trail wound through rock and root, a long-forgotten passage hidden between cliffs. After a moment, the gloom lifted. Sunlight filtered down from a crack in the rock above, illuminating moss-covered walls.

“There’s light ahead!” Dwalin called.

The Company pushed onward, emerging one by one into a high pass between ridges. Below them, a valley unfurled like a dream: verdant trees swayed in gold-hued wind, and waterfalls cascaded from cliffs into deep pools. White towers rose above the canopy, their domes catching the sunlight.

Bilbo drew in a breath. “Where are we?” he asked, his voice hushed.

Gandalf stepped beside him. “You can feel it?”

“Yes. It feels like... well, like magic.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” Gandalf said. “A very old magic, woven into the bones of the land.”

“The Valley of Imladris,” Gandalf said. “In the Common Tongue, the Last Homely House east of the Sea.”

Bilbo stared in wonder. Then the name formed on his lips, unbidden. “Rivendell.”

He saw his mother’s face then—Belladonna Took, wide-eyed and younger than he remembered—telling stories at their hearth. She had spoken of this place as if it had been carved from starlight and song. Now he knew why.

Thorin spun toward him, eyes blazing.

“This was your plan all along,” he snarled. “To seek refuge with our enemy.”

Gandalf held his ground. “You have no enemies here, Thorin Oakenshield. Any ill will in this valley is the kind you bring with you.”

The tension crackled. Bilbo glanced between them anxiously. Dúrwen appeared beside him and gently tousled his curls.

“They’ll sort it out,” she murmured.

“You think the elves will aid us?” Thorin snapped. “They will try to stop us.”

“Perhaps,” Gandalf admitted. “But we have questions that need answers. If we’re to succeed, this next part must be handled with tact and respect—and no small degree of charm—which is why you will leave the talking to me.”

Without waiting, Gandalf turned and strode down the hill. The dwarves grumbled but followed.

Their mutterings grew louder as they descended. Gloin scoffed at the archways carved into cliffs. “Flimsy, this lot,” he huffed. “Dwarven stone would hold twice the weight.”

Balin raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps. But it does have a sort of beauty, doesn’t it?”

“Beauty? Looks like someone melted glass and called it a hous

Even Dwalin grunted. “I don’t trust anything that doesn’t echo properly.”

Bilbo snorted. “You’re all impossible.”

They entered a wide courtyard adorned with carved columns and gentle fountains. A group of elves moved about the space, their movements quiet and unhurried. Bilbo turned slowly, eyes wide. The air itself seemed to hum with music.

A tall, dark-haired elf descended a nearby stairway. His robe shimmered in the light.

“Mithrandir,” he greeted.

“Ah, Lindir!” Gandalf exclaimed warmly.

The dwarves bristled. Thorin leaned toward Dwalin.

“Stay sharp.”

Lindir continued in Elvish, his voice like running water.

“We heard you had crossed into the Valley,” he said.

“I must speak with Lord Elrond,” Gandalf replied.

Lindir’s face tightened. “My lord is not here.”

Gandalf frowned. “Not here? Where—?”

Elvish horns sounded again. Hoofbeats approached at speed. The dwarves turned in alarm. Weapons came out. Bofur yanked Bilbo behind him as the Company closed ranks.

“Hide the halfling,” Nori hissed, yanking up the hood of Bilbo’s cloak.

The elves rode into the courtyard, silent and stern. Their steeds came to a stop in perfect formation. One among them dismounted and stepped forward, tall and regal, dark hair gleaming like silver under starlight.

“Elrond,” Gandalf greeted, bowing low. “My friend.”

“Elvellon,” Elrond returned in Elvish, smiling. “We’ve been hunting a pack of orcs near the hidden pass. Strange for them to come so close to our borders.”

“We may be the reason why,” Gandalf said.

Thorin stepped forward stiffly.

“Welcome, Thorin son of Thráin,” Elrond said.

“I do not believe we’ve met.”

“I knew your grandfather,” Elrond said. “Thror ruled with strength.”

“He made no mention of you.”

Elrond merely smiled.

Then he raised his voice in Elvish: “Galad i fires, tul- forth i miruvor. Mín must feed mín guests.”

The dwarves froze. Gloin scowled. “What’s he saying? Does he offer us an insult?”

Gandalf sighed. “No, Master Glóin. He’s offering us food.”

“Oh. Well... in that case.” Gloin cleared his throat. “Lead on.”

The elves turned and ascended the steps. The Company followed, still grumbling but beginning, ever so slightly, to loosen their grips.

   The long table gleamed under the golden lanterns of Rivendell’s open-air court. Plates of vibrant greens, glistening fruits, cheeses, and assorted loaves were spread before the Company. Pitchers of light wine and crystal bowls of honeyed water shimmered under the starlight.

Yet for all the feast’s abundance, the dwarves looked as if they had been sentenced to starvation. Thorin sat rigid, jaw clenched. Dwalin stabbed at a pale cucumber with the air of a betrayed warrior. Oin poked a radish with his knife like it might explode.

Only Bilbo seemed to be enjoying the fare—at least at first. He nibbled at a leaf of dressed watercress, eyebrows lifting in quiet approval, though his gaze kept flickering warily to the elves who looked at him with amused, unreadable stares.

Across the table, Dúrwen crunched on green leaves with the indifference of someone eating purely out of boredom.

“They probably want to keep you,” she said suddenly, speaking around her bite.

Bilbo blinked. “Pardon?”

“The elves. They’re staring like you’re some lost relic of Númenor. I wager they’ll try to convince you to stay. Hobbits don’t exactly wander into their halls every day.”

He chuckled, uneasy. “That’s absurd. I’m not even the first hobbit to come here. My mother visited once, long ago.”

Dúrwen leaned forward, eyes glinting. “And don’t you think they regretted letting her go?”

Bilbo opened his mouth to protest but found no words. He wasn’t sure if she was teasing him or dead serious. With Dúrwen, the lines were always blurred.

“I mean it,” she added, tossing another leaf into her mouth. “If one of them offers you a harp and a gown, run.”

Further down the table, Dwalin growled.

“Where’s the meat?”

A chorus of grunts echoed his sentiment. Oin skewered a tomato and held it up like a captured criminal.

“I swear this thing’s staring back at me,” he muttered.

Ori pushed around a mound of steamed vegetables and sighed wistfully. “Do they have any chips?”

From the terrace stairs came the sound of light footsteps and a delicate harp. An elven maiden in silken robes played a haunting melody as she passed. Gandalf and Elrond entered behind her, deep in quiet conversation.

“Kind of you to invite us,” Gandalf said as he approached the head of the table. “Though I confess, I’m not dressed for dinner.”

Elrond smiled faintly. “You never are.”

They both chuckled and took their seats. Bilbo watched them, struck once again by how ancient and graceful the elf-lord appeared. Elrond seemed carved from moonlight and wisdom, his presence both soothing and daunting.

At the far end of the table, Kíli leaned on his elbow, watching the harpist go. He gave her a lopsided grin and a wink.

“She’s not bad,” he said to Fíli in a loud whisper. “Still can’t say I fancy elf-maids much, too thin. Not enough facial hair. But that one—creamy skin, cheekbones like cut glass…”

Balin winced. “Careful lad.”

Kíli jerked his head toward another robed figure. “What about that one?”

Dwalin slapped a hand to his face. “That’s not an elf-maid.”

The elf turned at that moment, revealing a strong jawline and the stern eyes of a seasoned warrior. Kíli froze.

The dwarves erupted with laughter. Bofur pounded the table, Bombur nearly choked on a grape, and Nori leaned back, smirking behind his braids.

“It’s funny,” Kili insisted, face reddening as he shoved a lettuce leaf into his mouth.

Another elf passed nearby, playing a high flute. Oin grimaced, plucking his ear trumpet from his belt. He stuffed a napkin into the horn and returned to his food with exaggerated concentration.

At the head of the table, Elrond turned to Gandalf, holding a gleaming blade in his hands. He examined it carefully, fingers tracing the rune-inscribed hilt.

“This is Orcrist,” he said. “The Goblin-cleaver. Forged by the High Elves of the West—my kin. A sword of great renown.”

He stood and presented the blade to Thorin. The dwarf lord accepted it with a stiff nod.

“May it serve you well,” Elrond said.

Thorin’s grip tightened, but he said nothing.

Elrond then turned to another sword and unsheathed it slightly.

“And this… Glamdring. The Foe-hammer. Sword of the King of Gondolin. Made in the First Age, during the goblin wars.”

Bilbo looked down at the small, unremarkable weapon in his lap—his “sword,” though it hardly looked the part. Balin leaned in.

“I wouldn’t fret, lad. Swords are named for deeds of valor. That wee thing hasn’t had the chance yet.”

Bilbo frowned. “Are you saying it’s not a real sword?”

“Well…” Balin scratched his beard. “It’s more of a… letter opener, really.”

The other dwarves snorted. Even Thorin smirked faintly.

Elrond returned Glamdring to Gandalf, who bowed his head.

“These are rare blades,” Elrond said, studying Gandalf now with curiosity. “How you came by them?”

Gandalf’s expression darkened a shade. “We found them in a troll hoard, on the Great East Road. Not long before we were set upon by orcs.”

A hush fell over the table.

Elrond arched a brow. “And what business had you on the East Road?”

There was no reply.

Thorin rose stiffly, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me,” he muttered, stepping away from the table and out into the shadowed arches of the courtyard.

Elrond and Gandalf exchanged glances—one thoughtful, the other worried.

And somewhere beneath the table, Bilbo held his sword a little tighter, wondering what kind of deeds might one day earn it a name.

   Evening descended upon Rivendell like a gentle sigh, casting the valley in a veil of silver and blue. The golden tones of day faded into moonlight, draping the white stone halls and flowing waterfalls with ethereal glow. The music of the elves lingered faintly in the background, soft and distant like a half-remembered dream.

Bilbo had scarcely finished his second cup of mulled wine when he was summoned. One of the elf-stewards, polite and inscrutable as all the rest, relayed an invitation: the Master of Imladris had requested his presence. Not just his. Gandalf, Balin, and Thorin would be there as well.

Despite the warmth of the evening, Bilbo felt a chill of unease slip down his spine.

He followed the steward to a high chamber where golden sconces glowed against white marble. Elrond stood near a broad table carved with ancient runes, the very air about him humming with quiet power. Gandalf lounged nearby, stroking his beard with idle thoughtfulness, while Balin stood with hands clasped behind his back.

Thorin lingered apart from them, his arms folded, gaze fixed like a blade on Elrond. There was no hiding the resentment in his eyes—no mask of courtesy or civility. His disdain pulsed in the air like a heartbeat.

Bilbo felt the tension immediately and, awkward as ever, wished he could disappear behind a pillar.

Elrond inclined his head. “Master Baggins. I’m pleased you could join us.”

Bilbo gave a quick bow and a murmured “Thank you,” before edging beside Gandalf for moral protection.

Thorin’s gaze did not leave Elrond as he spoke, each word carved in cold stone.

“Our business is no concern of Elves.”

Gandalf exhaled sharply and turned toward him. “For goodness’ sake, Thorin show him the map.”

Thorin’s jaw tightened. He didn’t move.

“It is the legacy of my people,” he said, voice low and dark. “It is mine to protect, as are its secrets.”

“Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves,” Gandalf muttered. “Your pride will be your downfall. You stand here in the presence of one of the few in Middle-earth who can read that map. Show it to Lord Elrond!”

All eyes turned to Thorin. Even Balin’s. The elder dwarf stepped forward quickly.

“Thorin, no.”

He raised a hand, pleading silently. But Thorin brushed him aside without a word.

From the inner folds of his coat, he withdrew the map. His hands were steady, but his eyes burned with defiance as he handed it to Elrond.

Elrond accepted it with the same serenity he showed everything, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

“Erebor,” he said quietly. “What is your interest in this map?”

Thorin opened his mouth, but Gandalf stepped in first, cutting him off.

“It’s mainly academic,” the wizard said, with a smoothness only thousands of years of practice could provide. “As you know, these sorts of artifacts sometimes conceal hidden writing. You still read ancient Dwarvish, do you not?”

Elrond’s brow arched slightly, but he said nothing more. Instead, he turned away and walked toward the open balcony. Moonlight spilled across the chamber floor like liquid silver. He held the map into the light.

“Moon runes,” he said softly.

Gandalf perked up. “Moon runes? Of course. An easy thing to miss.”

Elrond nodded. “In this case, that is true. Moon runes can only be read by the light of a moon the same shape and season as the day on which they were written.”

Thorin’s voice cut in sharply. “Can you read them?”

“I can.”

Without another word, Elrond turned and led them through a side passage. They emerged onto a high terrace overlooking the falls. The roar of water was deafening, echoing off the cliffs like a distant thunderstorm. A large crystalline table stood beneath a curved arch of stone, bathed in moonlight.

Elrond laid the map upon it. The silver light bled across the parchment, and suddenly, glowing runes bloomed into view, curling and elegant.

“These were written on a Midsummer’s Eve,” he said, “by the light of a crescent moon nearly two hundred years ago. It would seem you were meant to come to Rivendell. Fate is with you, Thorin Oakenshield. The same moon will shine again in two nights’ time.”

“We cannot linger here any longer,” Thorin said at once, his voice hard and final.

Elrond met his eyes without flinching. “And yet you have no choice.”

Thorin said nothing. His mouth was pressed into a grim line. Without another word, he turned and stalked away into the shadows.

   Later that evening, in the dwarves’ chambers, the tension melted into chaos.

They had turned an elegant elven sitting room into a wild approximation of a dwarven hall. A fire crackled in the center, fueled by what were unmistakably pieces of fine elvish furniture. Bofur sat on a splintered chair leg, holding a sausage over the flame with a long stick.

“Bombur!” he called, tossing the sizzling meat through the air.

Bombur caught it with surprising speed—then sat heavily onto a polished bench. The bench groaned… and then shattered beneath him.

The dwarves roared with laughter.

“Oy, that’s the elves’ best work, that is!” Bofur howled.

“Not anymore!” cried Gloin, snorting.

   Bilbo, who had retired early, wandered alone beneath the stars. The vast stone stairway that wound up along the cliff face offered a breathtaking view. Moonlight bathed the valley in pale white. Bilbo’s eyes traced the path of the waterfalls far below, where the stars danced on the river’s surface.

“You shouldn’t be wandering off alone.”

The deep voice startled him. Bilbo spun around, instinctively opening his mouth to deliver a sharp rebuke to whoever had crept up on him like a wraith. But the words withered on his tongue when he saw who it was.

Thorin Oakenshield stood a few steps above him, half-shrouded in shadow, but his face was bathed in moonlight. It caught in his dark hair and beard, and lit his eyes with a faint, uncanny glow. In that moment, the dwarf looked every inch a king in exile—noble, proud, and burdened by ghosts. All he lacked was a crown.

Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat. “I—I was just admiring the view,” he said, lifting his hands in a feeble, awkward gesture that only made him feel more ridiculous. “Didn’t think I’d wandered that far.”

Thorin scoffed, the sound quiet but unmistakably disdainful. “You and the elves both, it seems.”

Bilbo blinked. “I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”

“I see the way they look at you,” Thorin said, descending another step until they were nearly eye to eye. His voice held no warmth. “Lingering glances. Curious stares. Like they mean to keep you here for themselves.”

A bewildered laugh escaped Bilbo before he could stop it. “What, the elves? You think they’re plotting to adopt me, or—what, marry me off into one of their strange forest families?”

“I wouldn’t jest,” Thorin said sharply. “You are naïve if you believe their interest in you is harmless.”

Bilbo’s amusement faded. “That’s not fair. They’ve been nothing but kind. Courteous, even.”

“To you, perhaps,” Thorin growled. “But they are not your kin. And they do not forget the grudges of old.”

“Grudges you seem to carry like a second cloak,” Bilbo muttered, before immediately regretting it.

Thorin’s eyes darkened. “You think I hold a petty grudge? You know nothing of what they’ve done.”

“Then tell me,” Bilbo said, emboldened. “Because all I see are people who offered us food and healing and rest. Meanwhile, you glared at Lord Elrond like he’d spat on your ancestors' graves.”

“He might as well have,” Thorin said, his voice suddenly low and bitter. He stepped past Bilbo, looking out over the same cliffside view. “When Smaug came… when fire rained upon Erebor and Dale, we sent word to every ally, every friend, every realm we had ever aided. And the elves of the Woodland Realm turned their backs. They watched from afar while dragon-fire devoured our home.”

Bilbo’s mouth fell open. “I didn’t know.”

“No,” Thorin said bitterly, “you didn’t. And still you dare question my anger.”

“I wasn’t questioning your grief,” Bilbo said softly. “Only your treatment of those who had no hand in it.”

“Elrond wears their colors. He bears their legacy.”

“He helped us tonight,” Bilbo insisted. “He read the moon runes. He didn’t have to. He chose to.”

Thorin turned his piercing gaze back on Bilbo. “You trust too easily, Master Baggins. That will be your undoing.”

“And you trust no one,” Bilbo replied, heart pounding. “That may be yours.”

For a long moment, they stared at each other—two unlikely companions thrown together by fate. The wind stirred the leaves in the trees below and somewhere far off, a harp-string sang.

“You may not be a warrior,” Thorin said at last, his tone unreadable. “But you have sharp words for someone so small.”

Bilbo felt his cheeks flush. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

Thorin looked away again, jaw tight. “You haven’t. Not more than usual.”

The words stung more than Bilbo expected.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “if I’ve been more of a burden than a help.”

Thorin didn’t reply. Instead, he took a step away, then paused. “Do not forget why you are here. You were not chosen to be coddled by elves. You are our burglar.”

“Yes, I know,” Bilbo muttered to himself as Thorin descended the stairway and vanished into shadow. “A burglar. Not a friend.”

He stood there long after Thorin had gone, the ache of their exchange settling deep in his chest. Their first real conversation since Bag-End and it had ended like this. He had hoped, somehow, for something more. Understanding, perhaps. Respect. Instead, he was left with guilt and silence.

Bilbo remained on the stairway, caught between two worlds—unwanted by one, untrusted by the other.

    Sunlight crept through the delicately carved lattice windows of the Rivendell guest chamber, casting soft golden rays over the bed’s patchwork quilts. The morning air smelled faintly of honeysuckle and pine, mingled with the more enticing scent of freshly baked bread.

Bilbo Baggins stirred when the morning sun, golden and persistent, slipped through the gossamer curtains and spilled across his face. He let out a small groan and rolled onto his side, but the warmth followed him, coaxing him into reluctant wakefulness.

A yawn escaped him as he stretched like a cat, limbs extending luxuriously across the mattress. It had been far too long since he’d slept in a proper bed—one that didn’t rock beneath him, or smell faintly of wet moss and grumpy dwarf. And not just any bed either, but one fitted exactly to his size. A hobbit-sized bed in the heart of an Elven realm. A marvel. A miracle. A comfort.

His fingers grazed the fine embroidery of the coverlet. He might have fallen asleep with his mouth open like a fool, but it had been the best rest he’d had in weeks.

“At last, you’re awake.”

The voice startled him upright.

Bilbo sat bolt upright, blinking furiously and clutching the blanket to his chest. His eyes adjusted slowly to the figure at the foot of the bed, silhouetted against the morning light. The voice was neither wholly masculine nor entirely feminine—quiet, low-pitched, and dry as autumn leaves. But the face it belonged to was unmistakable.

“Dúrwen!” he croaked, scrubbing at his eyes. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

The Dúnedain ranger stood with her arms crossed, a faint smirk playing at the corner of her lips. She was not dressed in her usual leathers and mud-smeared cloak, but in a fitted tunic of deep red, her dark trousers tucked neatly into clean, scuffed boots. Fingerless gloves covered her hands as always, but her hair—her wild, tangled, greasy mane—was, astonishingly, brushed and clean. She smelled faintly of jasmine and something wild beneath it—pine, perhaps, or cold river water.

Bilbo blinked again, trying to reconcile this vision with the mud-caked shadow of a woman who had tackled a Warg off his back yesterday.

“I told the elves I would keep watch,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “They debated whether to wake you for breakfast, and the dwarves, particularly those three reckless fools, Fíli, Kíli, and Ori refused to leave your bedside for nearly an hour.”

She stepped forward and placed a small table beside his bed, lowering it gently so that the contents did not rattle. Upon it sat a tray arranged with ridiculous care—freshly baked seed cakes, sliced fruit, something that smelled suspiciously like bacon, a steaming cup of herbal tea, and a folded linen napkin.

“I convinced them you wouldn’t waste away if they let you sleep another hour,” she added, then sat herself on the edge of the bed.

Bilbo stared at the tray, then at her. “Should I be flattered?”

She didn’t answer.

“Have you eaten already?” he asked, fumbling for the tea.

“Yes. I woke at dawn.”

“Of course you did.” He took a sip and winced. “Chamomile.”

“So eat,” she said. “Then we’ll go practice your letter opener before the elves storm the halls to fuss over your second breakfast. They’re worried you’ve lost weight.”

Bilbo nearly choked on a seed cake. “What?! They know about the seven meals?”

Dúrwen gave him a dry look that threatened to tip into exasperation. “You’re not the first hobbit to grace Rivendell.”

“Oh.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “And practice? What do you mean?!”

Dúrwen looked heavenward, as if praying for patience. “The one where you don’t trip over your own feet while stabbing something that wants to eat you.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes again. “You’re remarkably chipper this morning. Is that a smile?”

“No,” she said flatly.

He eyed her again. The way she sat, the ease in her shoulders, the way her boots didn’t look ready to fall apart at the seams. Something about her felt different here in Rivendell, as if the wildness had been brushed away—but only just. There was a nobility to her face that had been obscured in the wilds, a dignity not forged in steel but in silence.

“This was your mother’s room,” Dúrwen said quietly, seeing his gaze wander. “Here in Rivendell.”

Bilbo looked around, really looked, for the first time.

The bed was low and circular, the sheets patterned in soft florals reminiscent of the Shire. The furniture was made of carved wood, the legs curled like ivy tendrils, the drawers lined in silk. A small fireplace sat dormant, and the mantle bore a few old books and a carved comb. Everything was hobbit-sized—unmistakably so. The wash basin. The desk. Even the hooks on the wall.

Of course. His mother had always said she’d been treated like a princess in Rivendell, though most folk in Hobbiton had thought it nonsense. But she had spoken of this place with shining eyes, told him stories of Elves who sang as they cooked and stitched her dresses with stars.

He felt her presence now, subtle and warm, as though she had only stepped out and would return soon.

“I’ll eat,” he murmured, and did.

When he was finished, he rose and declared he would take a bath before being dragged off to sparring. “Can’t go swinging swords with dirty feet,” he reasoned. Dúrwen only grunted in agreement and leaned back on her palms, content to wait.

The bath was divine. The steam curled around him like the arms of some benevolent spirit, and the water was filled with lavender and some Elven oil that made his skin feel ten years younger. He hummed to himself as he soaked, blissfully unaware of the chaos to come.

That is, until he stepped out and realized—

“WHERE ARE MY CLOTHES?!” he cried, clutching his robe in horror as he scurried about the room, peeking under chairs and behind curtains.

“They were taken to be washed,” Dúrwen called lazily from the outer room. “The elves insisted.”

“Well, what am I supposed to wear now? My dignity?!”

She appeared at the doorway and tossed something at him. He caught it with a scowl. It was soft. Light. Pure white.

A robe—no, a tunic and trousers, Elven in make but fitted exactly to his size. The fabric shimmered faintly in the light.

“You cannot be serious,” Bilbo whispered, holding it up as if it might sing. “This will stain the second I step outside.”

“You’ll look like a miniature Galadriel,” Dúrwen said.

“That is not helpful!”

“You’ll be fine,” she said, and crossed her arms again. “Besides, the dwarves have seen worse.”

“They’ll mock me. Thorin especially.” Bilbo’s voice dropped at the name, and his eyes flickered with memory—moonlight on stone, the sharp edge of a glare, and the way Thorin had walked away without a backward glance.

“Let him,” Dúrwen said. “He mocks what he fears.”

Bilbo looked up at her, startled. But she was already turning to go.

“I’ll be outside,” she said over her shoulder. “Ten minutes. Wear the white or wear nothing at all.”

Bilbo stared after her, utterly scandalized. “I am not going outside naked!”

But she was gone.

And so, with great reluctance and much internal complaining, Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End donned Elven attire and stepped into the sunlight.

He had no idea how much longer this journey would last, or where exactly it would take him—but here in this moment, wearing fine Elvish clothes and carrying a letter opener that might someday be a sword, he felt, strangely, as though he were beginning something new.

Ori had finally escaped his brother Dori’s mother-henning.

Not that he didn’t appreciate Dori’s care—he did, more than he would ever say aloud. But there were days when that constant hovering, that ever-watchful eye and soft clucking concern, became as suffocating as a too-tight scarf around his throat. Dori meant well—always had—but his love came wrapped in layers of worry, and it weighed heavy when Ori simply wanted space to breathe.

He understood, of course. Dori wasn’t overbearing out of malice or mistrust. He did it because he had spent his entire life trying to protect what little family he had left. Because he blamed himself—for everything.

Ori had been too young to remember their mother, but he knew the story. She had died giving birth to him, leaving Dori, barely out of his own youth, to raise not one but two younger brothers. It had fallen on him to become father, mother, protector, and provider all at once. In Ered Luin, where life was hard and opportunity scarce, that burden weighed heavily on Dori’s broad shoulders. He had worked himself to the bone trying to keep them safe, to give them more than what fate had offered.

But Nori—always wilder, always more restless—had never seen it that way.

To Nori, their life had been a cage, too narrow, too quiet, too full of rules and expectations. And when the promises of coin and freedom whispered to him from darker alleys, he followed without a backward glance. He became a thief—not because he was cruel or selfish, Ori believed, but because he saw no other path out of the hunger and the cold.

Still, Dori blamed himself.

He had never said it aloud, but Ori knew. It was in the way Dori watched Nori’s back with a constant tension, like he was waiting for the next betrayal—or the next wound. It was in how fiercely he clung to Ori, as if trying to do everything differently, to prove to himself that he could still be a good brother. That he hadn’t failed completely.

But it hadn’t been Dori’s fault.

Nori had made his choices. Dori had done everything he could, more than anyone should have been asked to. Ori knew that, even if Dori couldn’t forgive himself. And sometimes, that made the hovering even harder to bear—because it wasn’t just protection. It was penance.

Ori didn’t want to be someone’s second chance. He just wanted to be himself.

And that was why, when he slipped free from Dori’s watchful gaze and found a quiet corridor in Rivendell where no one needed him to be anything—no dutiful brother, no polite guest, no arrogant prince—he felt a breath of freedom fill his lungs.

The dwarves may resent the elven halls as long as they want but there's one place that Ori finds himself he couldn't ignore— the library. Ori felt awe exploring the library, holding books written in Westron. 

Peace. At last.

Ori exhaled deeply and adjusted the two books in the crook of his left arm. Both were written in Westron—histories of the First Age, filled with tales he had only ever heard half-whispered around dwarven fires. He wandered among the shelves, his fingers trailing reverently over the spines.

The few elves present spared him little more than curious glances before returning to their own studies. Ori liked that. The quiet acknowledgment without fuss or ridicule. Here, he wasn’t a dwarf intruding in an enemy’s realm—he was a reader, just another soul among the books.

He paused in front of a tall shelf and tilted his head. A slim volume bound in deep blue parchment caught his eye. It was written in Westron, surprisingly, and titled The Lay of Lúthien. His fingers twitched. He rose onto his toes, arm stretched upward.

A hand slipped past him, long fingers brushing his wrist as they plucked the book from the shelf like it was a ripe apple dangling from a low branch.

Ori’s breath caught.

“Didn’t think I’d find a dwarf loitering in an elven library,” drawled a voice far too familiar for comfort.

Fíli.

Ori knew the scent first—cedarwood and leather and something warmer, like sun-heated wool. Then the presence: tall and broad-shouldered, with a smirk so tangible it practically pressed into Ori’s cheek.

Ori turned, jaw set tight. “Give me the book.”

Fíli raised a golden brow, holding it just out of reach. “Not even a ‘hello’? Shame. And here I thought you were the polite one.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Clearly.” Fíli grinned, all golden arrogance and easy charm. “Didn’t know you liked poetry. Especially elf poetry.”

Ori narrowed his eyes. “We’re guests here. And books don’t have allegiance. They’re just stories.”

“Mm,” Fíli mused, flipping the book in his hands. “Sure they’re not a little… enchanting to you? Lúthien and Beren, forbidden love, tragic endings? That sort of thing?”

Ori flushed. “It’s just history.”

“Romantic history,” Fíli said with an exaggerated wink.

“You’re insufferable.”

Fíli leaned in, eyes bright. “And yet you’re still standing here.”

“Only because you stole my book.”

“Borrowed,” Fíli corrected with a grin, but his gaze was sharper now—curious. “What are you really doing here, Ori? Hiding from your brothers? Or hiding from the Company?”

“I could ask you the same,” Ori shot back. “Thought you’d be off sparring with Kíli or charming some poor elf maiden.”

Fíli rolled his eyes. “The elf maidens look at me like I tracked mud into a temple. Besides…” He tilted his head, smirk fading slightly. “You’re more interesting.”

Ori blinked. “What?”

Fíli stepped back half a pace, just enough to breathe. “I said you’re not what I expected.”

“You’ve said that before,” Ori muttered, crossing his arms. “And you never explain what you mean.”

“You’re clever,” Fíli said. “Not just book-clever. Sharp. You watch everything. You see more than you let on.”

“That's not exactly a compliment.”

“It is,” Fíli said quietly. “From me, it is.”

Ori faltered. Fíli was staring at him now—not teasing, not mocking. Just… seeing.

And that, somehow, was worse.

“I thought you hated me,” Ori said, not quite meeting his eyes.

“I thought you hated me,” Fíli replied. “With the way you scowl whenever I speak.”

“You’re loud. And obnoxious.”

“You’re judgmental. And small.”

Ori scowled. “That’s rude.”

Fíli laughed, rich and warm. “See? That’s what I mean. You get under my skin, Ori.”

Ori’s heart stuttered.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the tension between them crackling like summer lightning. Neither moved. The sunlight spilled through the high windows, casting patterns of gold on the floor—and on Fíli’s hair, which caught it like a crown.

It was unfair, Ori thought, how golden he was. How easy he made everything look.

“I’m not weak, you know,” Ori said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Even if I’m small.”

“I never said you were,” Fíli murmured, stepping forward again. “But I see now—you’re strong in ways that… surprise me.”

Ori swallowed. “Why are you telling me this?”

Fíli hesitated, then offered him the book again, this time gently. “Because I think you need to hear it. And because maybe I needed to say it.”

Ori took it slowly, fingers brushing Fíli’s for the briefest of moments. It sparked through him like a jolt.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

Fíli nodded. Then, more quietly, added, “You look good here, Ori. Among the scrolls and the sunbeams. Like you belong.”

Ori’s breath caught. “I—what?”

But Fíli was already turning, striding away as if the moment hadn’t happened, as if he hadn’t just turned Ori’s world slightly askew with a single glance and a few well-placed words.

Ori stood there long after the door had closed behind him, heart hammering and cheeks burning. He looked down at the book in his hands, then up at the shelves towering around him.

The Lay of Lúthien. Love, loss, legends.

He wasn’t quite ready to read it.

Not yet.

Because for the first time, Ori was beginning to think his own story might be just as terrifying— and maybe, just maybe, just as beautiful.

Fíli wandered the marbled halls of Imladris with a distracted gait, the echo of his boots muffled by the polished stone and soft elven tapestries. The cool, perfumed air still clung faintly to his senses—ink, parchment, dust of old knowledge—and Ori.

He hadn’t meant to find him in the library. He had only gone in out of boredom (he told himself). But then there he was—Ori, face scrunched in scholarly concentration, tiptoeing along the high shelves with arms full of books, looking infuriatingly soft. Golden light had filtered through the high arched windows and caught in the strands of Ori’s chestnut hair like spun fire, and for a single foolish moment, Fíli forgot how to breathe.

He’d meant to tease. Nothing more. A jest, as always, a bit of sharpness for the sake of it. But Ori had looked at him with those wide amber eyes, full of heat and hurt and something that twisted Fíli’s chest in ways he hadn’t prepared for.

And now here he was—heart still hammering like a war drum, and not from battle. No, this was something else. It wasn’t fear, nor rage. It was something unnamed. Something dangerous.

Ori looked... good there. He belonged among the scrolls and tomes, ink smudged on his fingers, wearing that ridiculous knit jumper Dori had probably made for him years ago. He had looked so small beneath the towering shelves, but so certain, so entirely himself.

Fíli scowled. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like anything at all.

He was rounding a corner—still brooding, still stupidly thinking of Ori’s flushed cheeks and the way his voice had trembled when he demanded the book back—when a sudden hand wrenched him from the corridor and into shadow.

In a heartbeat, he was shoved against the cold stone wall. A glint of steel flashed before his eyes.

A blade. Pressed against the side of his throat.

Fíli’s training took over; he tensed, arms twitching toward his weapons—but the glint in the dim was too familiar, too well-worn. A knife of elven make, yes—but the snarl behind it was dwarven through and through.

“Nori,” Fíli muttered, voice low.

The thief's face was inches from his. Eyes like flint, dark and glittering with a dangerous intensity. “Have some fun playing with my brother’s feelings, eh?” he hissed, voice a rasp that reminded Fíli of drawn wire—tight, brittle, liable to snap.

Fíli kept his tone even, even as his pulse spiked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The dagger tilted, just enough to graze skin—a whisper of cold against his throat. “Don’t play the innocent with me, golden boy.”

“You’re overreacting—”

“No, I’m not.” Nori shoved him back again for good measure. “You think I wouldn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t see the way you looked at him? The way he looked back?”

Fíli clenched his jaw. “I didn’t mean—”

“Whatever you’re planning,” Nori interrupted, stepping back just far enough to pace like a caged wolf, “quit it now. Ori has a future ahead of him. He’s more than this doomed quest and a crown prince’s idle distraction.”

“That’s not—”

“You think he’s just some soft thing to play with until Erebor is yours?” Nori snapped, turning on him. “He’s my little brother. He’s smart. He’s kind. And he’s not built to survive being broken by the likes of you.”

Fíli bristled. “I’m not trying to break him.”

“Then what are you doing, huh?” Nori’s voice dropped to something softer, more dangerous. “What are you doing, Fíli? You think I don’t know how this ends? We reclaim the mountain. Thorin will crown you as his heir. And you? You forget. Because there’ll be a dwarrowdam waiting. A noble daughter of one of the old houses. One with political value. Not a scribe with ink-stained hands.”

Fíli’s hands balled into fists. He didn’t have an answer. He hadn’t thought that far ahead.

He hadn’t let himself.

Nori stared at him a moment longer. Then, with one last look—one that said I’m watching, always watching—he sheathed his dagger and slipped back into the shadows like he’d never been there.

Fíli stood frozen, throat burning from the cold echo of the blade.

He should have been angry.

Instead, he felt... hollow. Like someone had reached inside his chest and carved out something soft and aching.

He didn’t know what Ori meant to him. Not yet. But it wasn’t a game. And now, thanks to Nori, he couldn’t pretend it was.

The feelings were real. And they were dangerous.

Because now, for the first time, Fíli wasn’t sure if he was still walking toward Erebor—or if, somehow, impossibly, he’d started walking toward something else entirely.

   The shaded glade lay tucked beyond the stone balustrades and lantern-lit paths of Rivendell’s eastern gardens—a quiet, secretive place veiled in mist and filtered light. The trees there grew tall and proud, their canopies high above like the vaulted ceilings of a forgotten temple, golden leaves whispering secrets to one another far overhead. Sunlight streamed through them in gentle shafts, dancing on the moss-covered stone and earth like fallen stars.

A brook murmured nearby, threading its silver voice through root and rock. The air smelled faintly of honeysuckle, aged cedar, and time.

Here, removed from all the echoing halls and elf-song, Bilbo Baggins sweated.

He stumbled through yet another clumsy parry, breathless, sword wobbling in his grip like a newborn foal on uncertain legs. Dúrwen stood just behind him, a patient shadow in dark red and leather, her voice steady as the stones beneath them.

“Again.”

Bilbo grimaced. “I’ve already done it again. Five times.”

“Then the sixth will be better.” She moved past him and reset her stance with the grace of a falling leaf. Her eyes flicked to his hands. “Loosen your grip, or you’ll blister.”

“I thought blisters were part of the experience,” he muttered, wiping his brow with the edge of his sleeve.

“Bruises are inevitable. Blisters are foolishness.”

Her tone was dry, but never unkind. That was something Bilbo had learned early in these strange morning lessons: Dúrwen might be the deadliest creature he’d ever met—silent as moonlight and twice as sharp—but she never mocked him. Never looked down on him for the way he flailed, for the way he winced each time the blade met his own. She simply corrected him. Repositioned his elbow. Adjusted his stance. And said again.

By midmorning, the knees of his trousers were damp with moss, and sweat trickled down his spine. His arm ached from shoulder to wrist. And yet—

“That,” she said at last, stepping back as his blade knocked hers away cleanly, “was almost respectable.”

Bilbo collapsed onto the nearest stone with all the dignity of a sack of flour. “High praise indeed, coming from you.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

As if summoned by the effort, an elf appeared from the trees with a silver tray in hand. The sight might’ve been ethereal—sunlight catching on the elf’s hair like fire, robes shimmering as they walked—but Bilbo only had eyes for the steaming teapot and the golden stack of honey-oat cakes beside it.

“Thank you,” he murmured, cheeks pinking slightly as the elf offered a small bow and lingered a moment too long, eyes flicking to Dúrwen, then back to Bilbo with mild curiosity. There was something about him—perhaps the sweat-soaked hobbit clothes, or the fact that he was wielding a sword like a particularly unwieldy walking stick—that invited such looks.

He offered Dúrwen a honeycake. She declined.

“I’ll eat at hobbit luncheon,” she said with a slight smirk. “That’s the third one, right?”

“Technically fourth,” Bilbo replied, mouth full. “If you count second breakfast and elevenses.”

“You’re a complicated people.”

“We’re thorough.”

She smiled—just slightly—and sat beside him, cross-legged, hands braced on her knees. The birds had begun to sing again, and the wind picked up through the leaves in lazy currents, warm and carrying the smell of lavender.

They sat in companionable quiet while Bilbo ate, occasionally trading jabs—mostly him at himself. Dúrwen only corrected his posture when he slouched too far.

After elevenses (which Bilbo insisted counted separately, even if the tray was the same), they began again.

This time, Dúrwen’s strikes came a little faster. Her movements were as clean and fluid as they’d been before, her balance a thing of artistry. She was not merely skilled—she moved with purpose, economy, something honed by years rather than taught by words. Bilbo, on the other hand, was mostly winded and flailing.

“Your grip,” she sighed again, stepping behind him and gently repositioning his fingers, “shouldn’t make the hilt feel like a club. You’re holding a sword, not strangling a chicken.”

He blinked at her. “I’ll have you know I’ve never strangled a chicken.”

“Lucky chickens.”

He laughed, breathless. “I am trying.”

“I know. That’s why we’re still here. You’re not useless, Bilbo.”

That silenced him. Not from offense—but from the way the words rang in his chest like a small bell.

They practiced until the sun shifted past noon and the glade turned golden. Dúrwen finally lowered her blade and called an end to the session, reminding him—once more—that fighting was not about strength, but control, balance, and intent. That a blade should never be drawn without cause, and never pointed without understanding what it meant.

“Violence is easy,” she said. “Living with what comes after takes more courage.”

Before Bilbo could reply, another elf approached with a tray—this time bearing luncheon. Bilbo, ravenous, offered hasty thanks and dove in. Dúrwen ate more slowly, picking through a small plate of berries and soft cheese.

Bilbo stared at his reflection in the tea. “I miss the dwarves’ noise.”

“Even Bofur’s terrible singing?”

“Especially Bofur’s terrible singing. He sings with enthusiasm, and that counts for a lot.”

Dúrwen smiled faintly, watching him.

“I suppose I should show my face eventually,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “But then I remember what I’m wearing.”

“I know that face,” she said, reaching for a plum. “You’re hoping to vanish into the nearest rock and live there forever.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “What’s wrong with the clothes?”

“They are white. Blindingly white. The elves must be immune to grass stains and soup spills.”

“You’re not planning to wrestle your food, are you?”

“With hobbits, you never know,” he grumbled.

She laughed—an actual, full laugh—and he found he quite liked the sound.

They were finishing the fruit when her mood shifted. The wind stilled for a moment, as if waiting.

“Bilbo…” she began, more softly, “have you given any thought to your other training?”

He blinked at her. “My—?”

“Your gift,” she said quietly. “The wind. The way you whispered to guide Kíli’s arrow, back at the Warg chase.”

He froze.

“You saw that?”

“I did.”

His voice dropped. “Do you think anyone else—?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, honest. “But no one’s said anything. And I won’t.”

The relief was palpable. It washed over him like cool water. “Thank you.”

“I meant it when I said Rivendell is the safest place to explore it. The air here is old. It listens.”

Bilbo looked at his hands, still trembling faintly from the morning’s training. He remembered the whisper in the trees, the way the wind had answered him like an old friend.

“I want to learn,” he said at last, voice barely more than breath. “I want to understand it. But… I don’t want the Company to know. Not yet. They already think I don’t belong.”

He hesitated. “Well. Thorin does.”

“You do,” Dúrwen said, her voice quiet but firm. “You do.”

Chapter Text

04.

   Strangely, it was Thorin himself who noticed the hobbit’s absence.

The Company sat amid the shady groves of Rivendell, where dappled sunlight danced through silver-green leaves, casting shifting patterns across their midday meal. It had been laid out with the delicate precision only Elves could manage—silken cloth spread across a low stone table, platters woven from living boughs bearing salads jewelled with flower petals, slivers of pale cheese arranged like crescent moons, pickled fruits glistening like amber. But though the meal was art to behold, it sat ill in dwarvish bellies. The roots were too crisp, the portions too spare. Every bite was an exercise in diplomacy, chewed behind grim expressions and tight jaws.

Thorin sat at the head of the circle, a golden goblet of pale wine in hand, though he had barely tasted it. Something in his bones itched. Not danger—he would have known that well enough. But absence. An emptiness that should not have been there.

And then he knew, as surely as the mountain knew the stone at its heart.

Their burglar was missing.

His fingers tightened around the stem of the goblet, knuckles whitening. His face remained unreadable, the practiced stillness of a king masking the unease behind his eyes. He had not seen the hobbit all morning. No cheerful chatter at breakfast, no half-muttered complaints about the state of Elven bread or the lack of proper tea.

The memory of their argument the night before lingered like smoke in the back of his throat.

The hobbit had questioned him—quietly, earnestly, but with a firmness that belied his size. He had dared to speak of bitterness, to name it aloud, as though the pain of Thorin’s people was some wound to be soothed with kind words and gentle understanding. He had spoken not with malice, but with something worse—sympathy.

And yet… he had not been wrong.

Thorin had not meant to be cruel. But cruelty came easily when pride was pricked, and his pride was a shield often battered and bruised. It rose instinctively, defending the old hurts like a dragon over its hoard.

When he had first laid eyes on Bilbo Baggins—fussy, flustered, unarmed and unready—he had thought the wizard mad to bring such a creature. But somewhere in that wide-eyed astonishment and nervy courage, Thorin had seen something unfamiliar. Not impressive, no. Not yet. But surprising. Hobbits were barely more than a tale to most dwarves—rumors of a peaceful people tucked away in some leafy corner of the world, as far removed from fire and blood as stars from stone.

The Shire. He remembered it with a bitterness that clung like ash. A land untouched by shadow. No refugee camps. No war songs sung to silence weeping children. Just grass. Birds. Bellies full and laughter in the air.

It had made something inside him ache. And envy was an old, shameful emotion he had no name for.

He remembered his people’s suffering after Smaug descended on Erebor. The fire. The screams. The long march into exile. And the elves of the Woodland Realm, who had watched from behind closed gates.

Thorin bit into a wedge of elven bread that crumbled like ash in his mouth—too sweet, too airy, and entirely unsatisfying—when Kíli broke the silence.

“Where’s Bilbo?”

Kíli’s voice cut through the hum of the trees like a snapped string. Thorin stilled, mid-chew. His teeth stopped moving. His gaze sharpened.

Balin turned, brushing crumbs from his beard. “When did you last see him, laddie?”

Kíli wrinkled his nose, nudging a piece of marinated something-or-other across his plate with a disdainful finger. “Before breakfast,” he said. “Fíli, Ori, and I were keeping close. Y’know, in case the tree-shaggers tried anything.”

Thorin’s brow twitched.

“Kíli,” Balin warned gently, “Mind your tongue. We’re guests here.”

“Sorry,” Kíli muttered, not sounding remotely sorry.

He nudged his brother’s side with an elbow. “Right, Fee?”

Fíli barely looked up from his plate, nodding once without meeting anyone’s eyes. He was quiet—too quiet. Thorin frowned.

Odd.

Fíli was usually the more measured of the two, but silence was rare from either of them, especially in places of safety. And though his nephew pushed the artful vegetables around his plate like the rest of them, Thorin saw how his jaw was tight, his focus narrowed—distracted, troubled.

It stirred something in him.

They were young, his sister-sons. Too young, really, for war. Yet when he had spoken of the quest, both had volunteered without hesitation, eyes bright with the fire of legends. Dís had pleaded with him not to take them. Her voice still echoed in memory—hoarse, desperate. “They’re all I have left, Thorin. Don’t let them fall for your crown.”

But he could not stop them. Sons of Durin they were, born to this legacy whether he liked it or not. And if they were to claim their place, they had to earn it in the fire like every other heir before them.

“Anyway,” Kíli continued, oblivious, “Dúrwen said she’d watch over him.”

A few heads turned at that name.

“Dúrwen doesn’t ‘watch over’ anything,” Bofur said, raising a skeptical brow. “She probably vanished into a tree or turned into mist or whatever it is ghost-rangers do.”

“She’s not that bad,” Ori offered. “She let me hold her sword.”

Nori choked, coughing wine into his lap. “She let you what?”

Ori blinked innocently. “She said I had soft hands. Good instincts.”

“That’s… alarming,” Dori muttered, glancing sidelong at Ori as though already calculating escape routes should Dúrwen take too much interest in his youngest brother.

Thorin listened to them with half an ear, his thoughts elsewhere.

They were an odd Company. Not the warriors he’d once dreamed of leading. When he had spoken of reclaiming Erebor, he’d expected seasoned fighters, dwarves with hardened hearts and calloused hands. But many of those he trusted most had refused, calling the quest madness.

Instead, it was the unexpected who had stepped forward. Dwalin and Balin, of course—old friends, brothers-in-arms, who had sworn to follow him to the end. But Bofur, a toymaker; Bombur, a cook with a good heart and an unmatched appetite—these were not the soldiers of legend. Yet they had come, without hesitation. And Thorin, in his heart, was grateful.

As concern began to ripple through, voices rising and overlapping, Thorin pushed himself to his feet.

“I’ll find him,” he said.

The words cut through the noise like a blade. The others fell silent.

He glanced at Balin, who opened his mouth as if to protest, then thought better of it.

Thorin adjusted his belt, squared his shoulders, and turned toward the elven halls.

Thorin Oakenshield strode through the winding paths of the elven halls with a scowl etched deep into his noble features. The architecture, all flowing arches and luminous stone, irked him. There was no sense of weight, no comforting shadow of stone pressing close like the mountain halls of his people. Everything here seemed too open, too bright, too... insubstantial.

He scoffed under his breath, hands clasped behind his back as he passed beneath a ceiling shaped like the boughs of a great tree, light filtering through enchanted glass like dappled moonlight. Even the air felt too light here. Not right. Not home.

He yearned to leave, to resume their journey eastward. But for now, they were tethered to this place—bound by the wisdom of Lord Elrond, the only one with the knowledge to read the moon-runes on Thrór’s map.

Of course, preparations were underway regardless. Rations were being packed in secret. Nori had taken it upon himself to ‘procure’ certain essentials from their elven hosts. How exactly he planned to do that, Thorin neither asked nor wished to know. Nori had a talent for slipping unseen where others would be caught. In truth, had Tharkûn not insisted they needed someone the dragon had never seen nor smelled, Nori would’ve been Thorin’s first choice to burglar the Arkenstone from beneath Smaug’s belly.

Nori— Dwalin’s long-standing headache from their years in Ered Luin. A rogue with quick fingers and a quicker tongue. Dwalin had dragged him in more than once, scowling with a black eye or a bruised pride, only for Nori to flash that infuriating smirk. And yet… Thorin had come to value the thief’s skills, especially in times like these. Strange, how necessity made room for even the most unlikely of allies.

Lost in the trail of thought, Thorin didn’t see the figure until it collided with his chest.

A muffled “Oof!” burst from the smaller body, followed by the sound of soft feet stumbling on moss and leaves. Thorin blinked, unmoved by the impact, save for a slight sway of his broad shoulders. Reflex made his words sharp.

“You should watch where you walk,” he said curtly, his voice a low rumble, not quite annoyed, but edged with the habit of command.

The hobbit looked up at him—and widened his eyes in theatrical alarm. “Ow,” Bilbo declared, clutching his forehead with exaggerated care. “That hurts. Dwarves and their stone builds—someone ought to put up warning signs.”

He peeked at Thorin through his fingers, clearly hoping for a rise. But the Dwarf King merely arched a single dark eyebrow, unamused but not angry. There was a stubborn flicker of something in the hobbit’s gaze—defiance, perhaps. Or pride.

He wasn’t going to apologize.

Typical.

Thorin’s retort stalled, however, as his gaze slid down. He froze. Not at the hobbit’s expression—but at what he was wearing.

Gone were the patched waistcoat and stained shirt from their days on the road. Bilbo wore elven finery, woven from cloth so pale it shimmered like starlight. The tunic fit him snugly, with silver embroidery tracing the collar and cuffs in delicate, curling script. His trousers, though modest, were tailored to a fit rarely seen on a hobbit. The light, almost holy whiteness of the ensemble set his skin aglow with a faint rosy tint. His honey-gold curls looked freshly washed and combed, cascading with careless grace around his ears and brow.

But it was his eyes—those deep, glimmering green eyes—that caught Thorin like a spear to the chest.

Emeralds. He hadn’t seen eyes like that since—

His mother. Long before the grief stole her gaze and left only silence.

And Frerin. Mischievous, bright-eyed Frerin, golden-haired and clever-tongued, laid among the fallen at Azanulbizar. Thorin remembered the way his brother's eyes had once gleamed with laughter. And how they stared—unseeing and dull—when he found his body on the blood-soaked battlefield.

And now—here stood a halfling with those same eyes, smiling awkwardly and waiting to be scolded.

Thorin’s breath caught. He shoved the ache down and turned it to stone.

“You’ve been missing since this morning,” he said at last, his voice rougher than he intended. “The Company is worried.”

“Oh.” Bilbo blinked, as if surprised by the concern. Then he looked down and rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Sorry. I, um… I was training.”

Thorin’s brows knit. “Training?”

“With Dúrwen,” the hobbit added quickly. “She offered to show me some basics. Swordplay. Footwork. How not to die if someone swings an axe at my head.”

Thorin’s gaze shifted to the hobbit’s side—and sure enough, there hung the little blade, nestled awkwardly against the tunic’s fine fabric. Not quite a sword. Not quite harmless, either.

He frowned as his eyes caught on something darker beneath the pale sleeve. Bruises. Faint, blotched shadows painted along the hobbit’s forearm and the hollow of his collarbone—half-hidden by embroidery.

“She let you spar with her?” Thorin asked, incredulous. “She could snap your ribs like kindling.”

“I think she mostly held back,” Bilbo said sheepishly. “She said if I could dodge her elbow, I might survive a goblin.”

Thorin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You should have Óin look at those bruises.”

“They really don’t hurt that much,” Bilbo said, then winced. “Much.”

“Come,” Thorin said after a beat. “The others are waiting.”

They began to walk, Thorin’s boots crushing dry leaves with slow, deliberate steps. Beside him, Bilbo kept pace with the quiet shuffle of soft soles. The air was warm, birdsong threading between the trees above, and for a moment, there was peace in the quiet.

But then, Bilbo cleared his throat.

“Wait,” he said hesitantly. “Aren’t you… going to insult me?”

Thorin stopped and turned, brows furrowing. “Why would I?”

“Well,” Bilbo gestured vaguely at himself, his tunic shimmering faintly in the dappled light. “This. The clothes. The elves took mine to launder—something about lingering troll stink—and lent me these instead. I imagine I look rather ridiculous.”

Thorin regarded him in silence, his gaze unreadable. Then, in a voice softer than before, he said, “I’d be more offended if you wore nothing at all.”

Bilbo went stiff. His mouth opened. Closed. Then he flushed—bright and blotchy from ears to throat. “Wh—Master Oakenshield! That’s completely inappropriate!”

One corner of Thorin’s mouth quirked upward—brief, fleeting, and gone in a breath.

“I meant,” he said, clearing his throat, “it suits you. Odd, yes, but… fitting.”

Bilbo stared at him, lips parted, until he remembered to walk again, this time with his hands tucked awkwardly into his sleeves. “Thank you,” he murmured, still visibly off-kilter.

They walked a few more steps in comfortable silence before Thorin, almost absentmindedly, added, “Though I think dwarven clothes would suit you better.”

Bilbo glanced at him, startled. “Dwarven? I… I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

Thorin didn’t answer. But in his mind’s eye, he saw it clearly: Bilbo in rich Durin-blue, wrapped in finely woven wool and adorned in clasps of silver and sapphire. A small figure, yes—but proud. Regal.

He said nothing more.

After a while, Bilbo broke the silence again, more tentative this time. “About last night...”

Thorin stopped walking.

His jaw tensed. “Don’t.”

Bilbo looked up at him, confused. “Don’t what?”

“Let’s not speak of it.”

A pause stretched between them.

“Okay,” Bilbo said at last, but the word was small, and Thorin could see it in his eyes—that it still lingered, thick as smoke in the corners of his thoughts.

They walked on. The elven grove around them quieted, the dappled light turning gold as the sun crept further across the sky.

And for once, neither of them knew what to say.

   Truth be told, Thorin hadn’t exaggerated when he said Óin should tend to Bilbo’s bruises first. In fact, he might’ve understated it. For as soon as the dwarves caught sight of Bilbo approaching with Thorin beside him, Óin’s sharp eyes locked onto the hobbit’s arm and narrowed like a warhound scenting blood.

“By stone and steel,” Óin muttered, abandoning his half-eaten. “What in Mahal’s name happened to him?”

He shoved back from the table so quickly that his chair scraped against the polished floor, drawing curious glances from the others. “Out of my way, out of my way—make room for a proper healer!” he barked, already reaching for the thick leather strap of his satchel.

Bilbo barely had time to register what was happening before he found himself being herded like a wayward duckling.

“I—Óin, really, I don’t need—” he started, but the old dwarf would hear none of it.

“Don’t argue with your healer, lad,” Óin snapped. “You’re limping, your arm’s hanging like a wet sleeve, and you’re turning more shades than a twilight sky. Come along.”

Thorin merely gave a small grunt, something between approval and amusement, before following them a few paces—then pausing. “You’ll see to him properly,” he said, a quiet gravity in his voice that Óin caught without turning.

“I always do,” Óin replied gruffly.

Bilbo had little choice but to follow the dwarf back to the Company’s quarters, guilt gnawing at him as they passed elves and dwarves alike. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your meal,” he said as they climbed the shallow stone steps.

Óin harrumphed. “Lunch’ll wait. Bruises don’t.”

They reached the dwarves’ guest chamber—stone-carved and elegantly lined with Rivendell’s artistry, where velvet drapes of forest green hung beside latticed windows that let in dappled sunlight. The air smelled faintly of cedar and lavender.

“Sit. Sit, laddie!” Óin’s voice rang out like a command on a battlefield.

Startled, Bilbo froze.

“What in the blazing halls has that ranger done to you?” Óin said, already crossing the room and gesturing wildly. “You’ve gone blue from shoulder to elbow!”

“I’m fine—really,” Bilbo said quickly, his voice halfway between protest and panic. “It just looks worse than—”

“Sit!” Óin roared, jabbing a thick finger at a low-stooled chair beside the washbasin. It wasn’t a suggestion—it was a royal decree. Bilbo’s knees folded before he even thought about it.

Óin snorted in satisfaction, dragging his heavy satchel forward like a stubborn goat. “By Mahal’s beard, you’ve the bones of a sparrow. One elbow from that wild ranger and you’re a walking plum.”

“It was more of a training session than an elbow,” Bilbo muttered.

The old dwarf ignored him, rummaging through the contents of his bag with practiced ease. He tugged his ear-trumpet from his belt, jammed it into place, and leaned close, squinting at the hobbit’s arm.

“Right then, let’s see the damage. Tunic off.”

Bilbo blinked. “Pardon?”

“Tunic. Off. Unless you’d prefer I cut it off and rub salve through the threads. Your choice.”

Sighing, Bilbo tugged the fine elven tunic over his head with an awkward wriggle. The silk pooled in his lap, and his pale chest and arms were revealed, marred with splotches of violet, bruise-yellow, and indigo, the worst of it flowering around his ribs and upper arm.

Óin let out a low whistle, his beard twitching. “Durin’s axe, lad. You look like you lost a drinking match with Dwalin and came second.”

“I… may have rolled into a tree,” Bilbo admitted sheepishly.

Óin huffed, already unscrewing a ceramic jar. “You need to roll away from trees, not into ’em.”

He held up the jar like it was a family heirloom. “Crushed heartleaf, winter balm, powdered thunder-root. Recipe older than your Shire. Heals bruises, mends cracked ribs, and cures foul tempers.”

“Is that why it smells like moss and wet dog?” Bilbo wrinkled his nose.

“Better than smelling like a spoiled elf,” Óin muttered. “Now hold still.”

With a practiced hand, Óin began applying the thick, minty-green salve. His fingers were calloused but careful, surprisingly gentle for someone whose voice could shatter glass. Bilbo hissed at the cold touch but didn’t pull away.

“Trained under the stone-healers of Ered Luin, I did,” Óin said proudly. “They’d stitch a beard back onto a corpse if you gave them enough time and thread. Good folk. This salve? Old as Beleriand. Balin says it might even be from the First Age.”

Bilbo winced as the balm hit a sore spot. “First Age or not, it stings like a hornet.”

“That means it’s working.” Óin smirked.

There was a knock at the door—three brisk raps—and before either of them could answer, the door swung open.

“There you are, Master Baggins!” Balin said cheerfully, stepping inside. “We feared Dúrwen had spirited you off to the Misty Mountains.”

“I told them you’d run off to live among the elves,” Dori said behind him, appraising Bilbo’s bruised shoulders and discarded tunic. “Look at this. Silk! Ori’s got a robe that would suit you better. Shall I fetch it?”

Ori blinked. “I—I suppose he could borrow it, if he wants to…”

“I appreciate it,” Bilbo said with a small smile, “but really, I’m fine. This one just—needs washing.”

“Oh, it’s not about washing,” Dori sniffed. “It’s about dignity. You’ll catch your death prancing about in that.”

“Careful now,” Bofur chimed in, slipping through the door with a roll in each hand and a wheel of cheese under his arm. “Another day in Rivendell and the hobbit’ll be giving harp recitals. All he needs is a crown of stars and a faraway look.”

“He’s already got the bruises,” Dwalin said, arms crossed and gaze fixed on the purpling marks. “What in Durin’s name happened to you?”

“Training,” Bilbo said. “With Dúrwen.”

The room went still.

“You trained?” Nori said, incredulous. “With her? And you’re still breathing?”

“Poor lad,” Bifur muttered in Khuzdul, shaking his head sadly.

“She says I’m improving,” Bilbo said, holding his chin up a little.

“That means you haven’t died yet,” Dwalin said.

Fíli and Kíli had entered too, but only Kíli was snickering at Ori, saying something about “elvish nightgowns.” Ori shoved him half-heartedly, and the two began squabbling. Bilbo noticed, however, that Fíli wasn’t joining in. Instead, he was watching Nori.

Odd.

Balin stepped forward and placed a hand on Bilbo’s unbruised shoulder. “Battle stripes, lad. Well-earned. But next time, perhaps train with a dummy, not a ranger.”

“I was the dummy,” Bilbo said with a crooked smile. “And the tree.”

Óin dabbed the last smear of balm along a particularly nasty splotch on Bilbo’s ribs. “There. That’ll keep the swelling down. Try not to throw yourself into any rivers or orc-pits this week.”

“Have you eaten, Bilbo?” Bombur asked from near the door, his eyes soft with concern.

“Oh, yes, I’ve eaten—thank you,” Bilbo replied quickly, pulling the tunic back over his shoulders with a soft wince.

There was another pause.

“You ate?” Balin said slowly. “With who?”

“With Dúrwen,” Bilbo answered. “The elves brought us a meal. Had flowers in it.”

Glóin looked like someone had just suggested cooking a battle axe. “You ate flowers?”

“They were surprisingly edible.”

Dwalin shook his head. “That’s it. No more elf food for you. You’ll turn transparent.”

“You’ll waste away to nothing,” Bofur added.

“I rather liked it,” Bilbo admitted with a laugh. “It was… peaceful.”

And then, unexpectedly, the laughter and teasing surrounded him like a hearthfire. He was offered Ori’s robe. Covered in salves once used for kings. Teased about his bruises with the sort of affection only found in brotherhood.

For the first time in days, Bilbo didn’t feel like a stray penny in a dwarven vault. He didn’t feel like a burden. Not even an outsider.

He felt like one of them.

“Right,” Óin said, snapping his satchel shut. “You’ll live. But if you feel lightheaded, or if one of those bruises turns green, come find me. Otherwise, no wrestling rangers until you’re battle-hardened.”

“Thank you, Master Óin,” Bilbo said sincerely.

“Don’t thank me.” Óin clapped a heavy hand to his shoulder. “Just don’t lose an ear. I’m not sewing it back on.”

Bilbo grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

And as the laughter continued and the smell of bread and salve mingled in the warm Rivendell air, Bilbo Baggins smiled, bruises and all.

He was Company.

   Evening settled over Rivendell like a soft velvet curtain, the last golden light of day fading into the deepening blue of twilight. The stars began to prick the sky, and lanterns glowed warm along the winding elven paths. In the great hall where the Company had gathered for supper, a low hum of harp strings echoed through the stone archways as the elves brought out trays of food, their movements fluid and graceful as river reeds.

To everyone’s astonishment—particularly the dwarves’—the meal included meat.

Glóin’s eyes bulged as a silver platter of roasted venison was set before them, steam rising from the fragrant glaze. “Bless my beard,” he muttered, clutching his chest as if the sight might stop his heart.

“I thought they lived on grass and starlight,” Bofur whispered, poking the meat with his fork suspiciously.

“They’ve been holding out on us,” Dwalin growled, reaching greedily for the nearest cut.

Gandalf chuckled softly as he leaned on his staff beside the table, his eyes twinkling. “Elves can hunt, when it suits them. I may have put in a word on your behalf.”

Bilbo, seated beside Balin, smiled in quiet relief. The dwarves had been grumbling about the elf fare since they’d arrived—picking at salads with mournful eyes and whispering conspiracies about starved dwarves being turned into mist. Now, with meat on their plates and cups of rich spiced wine, their complaints ceased at last, replaced with the familiar sounds of clattering cutlery and contented grunts.

Dúrwen arrived shortly after the first course was served. She still wore her red tunic, the color stark and striking in the soft elven light. Without hesitation, she slid onto the bench beside Bilbo—on his left—and Ori on her other side.

Dori nearly choked on his wine. “You—there—beside him?” he sputtered, gesturing with his goblet. “Ori, didn’t you tell me she lent you a sword!”

Ori turned pink but nodded proudly. “She said I had good grip strength.”

“She’s out of her mind!” Dori cried. “He’s fifty!”

“I’m seventy five!” Ori snapped, rare fire in his voice.

“I meant mentally—”

“Oh, let him be, Dori,” Dúrwen said, not even looking up as she cut into her venison. “The lad’s got better instincts than some grown warriors I’ve seen.”

Ori practically beamed.

Óin leaned across the table, jabbing a fork for emphasis. “And you—ranger—I’ve a word to say about your idea of training. I’ve half a mind to bandage Bilbo head to toe next time before you touch him.”

Dúrwen didn’t even flinch. “He asked for it.”

“I did not ask for bruises!” Bilbo exclaimed from her other side.

“You wanted to learn to fight. I taught you. Bruises come with the blade.”

“He’s got the build of a twig, woman,” Óin grumbled. “Hobbit bones weren’t made for war.”

Dúrwen shrugged, tearing a piece of meat from the bone with her teeth. “Neither were mine, once.”

The table quieted at that, just for a moment.

Then Balin cleared his throat and launched into a lighter tale—of their days in Ered Luin, of stone halls and forge fires, and how he once nearly lost his beard to a faulty hearth vent. The dwarves chuckled, passing around memories like bread.

Glóin, as expected, raised his goblet. “Well, my lads—none of it compares to the day my boy Gimli took his first swing at a training axe. Split a melon clean in half, he did. Just like his mother—strong-armed and fierce!”

There was a collective groan around the table.

“We know Glóin. You’ve only told the tale four times this week,” Nori muttered, rolling his eyes.

“He’s this tall already,” Glóin added, holding a hand somewhere around his chest. “Barely out of short trousers!”

“Someone pass me the wine,” Kíli said, elbowing Fíli who was still oddly quiet.

Bofur began beating a soft rhythm on the table, humming low and gravelly until the others picked up the melody. And just like that, a song rose up—a boisterous dwarven tune, full of clinking mugs and pounding fists, the sort that made the hall ring with mirth and fire. Even the elves, elegant and aloof, seemed to smile faintly as they passed through the edges of the room.

Thorin did not sing. But he watched.

There was no furrow in his brow. No dark cloud behind his eyes. Just calm. Perhaps even… peace.

When the meal was done and the last mugs drained, the Company rose in good spirits, patting bellies and clapping backs. The group began to disperse into the golden corridors of Rivendell’s guest wings.

Bilbo lingered by the fire, where Gandalf stood gazing into the dancing flames.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Bilbo said gently. “I hadn’t seen you since breakfast.”

Gandalf smiled without looking at him. “Some matters required my attention. Rivendell has its own secrets to keep.”

“Will you be around tomorrow?”

“Perhaps,” the wizard replied, mysterious as ever. “Sleep well, Bilbo Baggins.”

“Good night, Gandalf.”

As Bilbo turned to go, Dúrwen stepped up beside him, hands tucked behind her back. “I’ll walk him to his room,” she said aloud.

The dwarves, already halfway up the stairs to their chambers, halted as one.

“No, no, no,” Bofur said, waving a hand. “He’s staying with us tonight.”

“Certainly not!” Dori added. “He’s still healing.”

“He belongs with the Company,” Dwalin declared.

“He’ll sleep better near kin,” Balin added kindly.

Dúrwen raised an eyebrow. “Since when are hobbits dwarven kin?”

Ori piped up, “We’ve sort of adopted him.”

Bilbo looked from one to the other, caught between a grin and a sigh. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, really…”

Thorin, standing on the stairs above them, finally spoke.

“Let him choose.”

All eyes turned to Bilbo.

He looked at Dúrwen, who merely tilted her head, unreadable as ever. Then he looked at the Company, stubborn and soft-hearted, with their ridiculous arguments and warm eyes.

“Well,” Bilbo said with a small smile. “If I’m going to be crushed beneath a pile of snoring dwarves, I suppose I might as well get used to it now.”

There was a cheer—more raucous than necessary—and Ori leapt forward to drag him up the stairs, while Dori grumbled about hobbits and wayward rangers.

Dúrwen watched them go with a slight smile tugging at her lips, then vanished back into the shadows of the hall.

And as Bilbo was ushered into the dwarves’ chamber, wrapped in warmth and snoring and faint smells of pipe-weed and leather oil, he realized: This was becoming home.

“Try it once again,” Dúrwen said firmly.

Bilbo’s fingers pressed to the soil once more. He exhaled, slow and steady, directing his will into the earth beneath his palm. The scent of damp grass and morning dew filled his nose, mingling with the faint copper tang of sweat on his brow. A heartbeat passed—then another—before the ground stirred. A delicate green sprout broke the surface, trembling like a newborn fawn. Its leaves unfurled hesitantly, shivering in the breeze.

Bilbo fell back onto his heels, breath catching. “This is exhausting.”

And it was the truth. Whenever he secretly coaxed herbs and roots from the earth to help Bombur prepare stew, he’d never felt drained like this. But this—this was different. Purposeful. Pushed.

Dúrwen crouched beside him, her dark green tunic brushing the grass. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, studied the fledgling sapling, then shifted to him. “Good,” she said. “You’re pushing your limits.”

“I thought the point was to learn control, not collapse in a heap.”

“Control only comes after you find your limits,” she replied, brushing her fingers gently over one of the sapling’s leaves. “And you haven’t found yours yet.”

He groaned and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The morning sun was warm but not cruel, casting golden beams through the trees above. Birds sang in the distance, filling the stillness with gentle life. It was peaceful—until she spoke again.

Just after breakfast, Dúrwen had found him with unerring precision. The moment he finished his tea and toast—honeyed, thankfully—she appeared at the edge of the dwarves’ morning circle like a shadow peeled from stone. Her eyes met his, and that was all it took. No words. Just that look.

The dwarves had grumbled. Óin had protested the loudest, mumbling about bruises from yesterday’s swordplay and how it wasn’t wise to batter a hobbit who could barely hold his blade straight. Bilbo had been ready to agree, quite vocally—until Gandalf had spoken.

“He’s in good hands,” the wizard had said mildly. “Besides, Bilbo may need to protect himself one day.”

Now, Bilbo would’ve paid to go back to sword drills. At least with swords, he could see his opponent. This—this strange art of coaxing life from soil—felt intangible, unsteady. It wasn’t painful, not exactly. But each time he summoned that power, something deep within him felt wrung out, as if his spirit had been twisted dry.

“You’re doing well,” Dúrwen said, her voice softer now. “Better than most.”

“I doubt that.”

“I’ve seen hobbits along the Brandywine grow vines taller than a man in under a minute.”

His eyes widened. “That’s possible?”

She gave a single nod. “For some. Not all. It depends on blood… and will. You’re still new to it.”

Bilbo glanced at the sapling, brushing its bark with tentative fingers. It was warm. Alive. “I knew we had a touch of Yavanna’s blessing,” he murmured. “We always did well with gardens and such, but I thought that was just… tradition. Not magic.”

“It’s both,” Dúrwen said. She stood slowly, pacing a half-circle around him as she spoke. “Yavanna gave your kind more than just green thumbs. She gave you a quiet strength. It was meant to protect—not through steel, but through stillness. Through growing. But hobbits rarely use it beyond their gardens. Which is admirable… but limiting.”

“And you know all this from books?” Bilbo squinted at her.

“Partly,” she said. “Rivendell holds a few scrolls on your kind, though most are theories. Fragmented. But I’ve lived near the Brandywine. I’ve seen what your people can do—when they choose to.”

His brows lifted. “You’ve seen hobbits use their gifts?”

“I have,” she said, voice lowering. “Some families trust me. Over time, they let me witness their ways.”

He frowned. “And why would they trust you?”

A smile touched her mouth—fleeting, but real. “Because I never treated them like fragile children. I didn’t try to take their gifts or shame them into silence.”

He liked that answer.

Bilbo stood, legs wobbling slightly. She reached out instinctively, steadying him with a firm hand. She said nothing, letting go once he found his footing. He appreciated the lack of fuss.

“I never imagined myself doing this,” he said. “Growing trees with my hands, talking about blessings and gifts… traveling with dwarves and rangers and wizards.”

“You could have stayed in the Shire,” she said quietly.

“I think… I needed to leave. Even if I don’t know yet what I’m meant to become.”

Dúrwen regarded him, unreadable. “Sometimes, we learn who we are only after the journey ends.”

He nodded. “And sometimes… it begins with a sapling.”

She laughed softly, and Bilbo found himself liking the sound. It was rare. He thought he’d like to hear it again.

They continued for a while longer, and eventually, Bilbo decided to try something different.

He focused again—not with force or fervor this time, but with quiet, careful intention.

From the soil at his feet, yellow-petaled blossoms unfurled, their tender stalks swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. Daffodils—sun-bright and honest. Bilbo plucked one with a reverence that was almost childlike, brushing the dew from its petals.

Turning to Dúrwen, he offered the bloom with a small, sheepish smile.

“We hobbits may not have a language of our own,” he said, his voice low, “but we understand the meanings of flowers.”

She took the daffodil slowly, as though it might vanish from her fingers if she looked at it too directly.

Bilbo’s eyes softened, and a flicker of something unspoken passed over his face. “I used to grow them in the garden,” he murmured. “My mother would put them in the vases, brighten every room. My father tucked them into his books—pressed flat between pages, as if the story wouldn’t be complete without them.”

At that, Dúrwen's expression changed. It wasn’t sudden. It was something that cinched inward, tightening like a thread pulled taut.

“Yes,” she said, and her voice caught like a snag in her throat. “I know.”

Bilbo tilted his head, concern knitting his brow. “Are you alright?”

There was a long pause, too long, before she spoke. “I suppose I am,” she answered. But even to her own ears, it didn’t sound convincing.

With a slow, measured breath, Dúrwen lowered herself to the ground, her movements stiff and uncertain, as though weighed down by something unseen. She crouched among the daffodils, her gloved fingers brushing the stems without plucking a single one.

“I never knew how to say what I felt,” she said finally. “Not in words. Not out loud.”

The wind shifted, warm with spring, and yet something in her tone was wintered over.

“I became close to some hobbits along the Brandywine. Good folk. Kind. Too observant for their own good. They saw I was… wrestling with something. With someone. And they taught me the language of flowers. Petal by petal. Gesture by gesture. A secret tongue for those who couldn’t speak openly.”

She exhaled slowly, her eyes distant.

It was spring in Eriador, and the land had shaken off winter’s grip with wild abandon. The Greenway lay veiled in mist, soft and silver as a dream, curling between the tall grasses and budding thickets like ghost-light. Dúrwen moved through it like shadow given form—silent, alert, the weight of her sword a familiar presence at her side, her bow slung across her back, damp from the morning dew.

Then she heard it—a cry, sharp and panicked, swallowed almost instantly by the hush of the wild.

She did not hesitate.

Her feet flew over the uneven ground. The call came again, frantic now, and she leapt a low hedge into a clearing broken by violence.

Three wildmen—ragged, desperate things of beard and blade—surrounded a figure in pale travel-cloak, backed against a gnarled tree. Blood stained the woman’s skirts. Her knife, too small to matter, trembled in her grip.

Dúrwen didn’t speak.

The first man fell with an arrow between the ribs before he even noticed her.

The second lunged. Her sword met him, clean and cold, its edge singing as it struck.

The third turned to run.

He didn’t make it.

When silence returned to the clearing, it was absolute. Birds did not sing. The wind did not stir.

Only the woman breathed—sharp, shallow gasps like a bird stunned by flight.

Dúrwen approached slowly, sheathing her blade. “Are you harmed?”

The woman blinked at her as if waking from a dream. “I… No. Only scratches, I think. My horse ran when they attacked.”

“You’re lucky,” Dúrwen said, crouching to examine the woman’s arm. “They often leave worse.”

The woman flinched as the ranger touched her elbow, though not from pain. Her voice, though still shaking, was steady enough when she said, “You’re a ranger.”

“I am,” Dúrwen replied, eyes scanning the trees. “And you are far from any safe road. What were you thinking, travelling unescorted?”

“I had an escort,” she said with a wry, tired smile. “I fled it.”

Dúrwen’s brow quirked. “Why?”

“Because they wouldn’t stop talking,” the woman said, and laughed—a little too loudly, a little too close to tears. “About marriage contracts and alliances and how best to wear my hair. I needed air. I needed to hear myself think again. And I ended up here.”

She looked away, brushing her bloodied skirt as if embarrassed. “And now I’ve made a fool of myself.”

Dúrwen helped her rise. “You’re not a fool. The wilds are dangerous, yes—but you came seeking freedom. There’s nothing foolish in that.”

The woman blinked at her, startled by the kindness. “Thank you.”

A moment passed.

“You’re no man,” the woman said suddenly, her gaze roving over Dúrwen’s face. “And yet… you fought like ten of them. Better than the men my father pays to guard me.”

“I should hope so,” Dúrwen murmured, helping her toward the road. Her black stallion waited nearby, stamping the earth. “I’ve been hunting men like that longer than your guards have been tying their boots.”

The woman smiled despite herself. “What is your name?”

“Dúrwen,” she answered simply.

“I am Línaewen,” the woman said, soft pride in her tone. “Of Forlond. My father is Lord Aernas.”

“I guessed as much. You carry the look of the sea-folk in your eyes.”

“Do I?” Línaewen asked, tilting her head. “And what else do you see?”

Dúrwen didn’t answer. Instead, she offered her hand. Línaewen took it.

When she tried to mount the stallion, Dúrwen caught her by the waist. It was instinct, really—but Línaewen stilled in her hands, suddenly aware of how close they were. Their eyes met, and the air between them grew very still.

“You’re strong,” Línaewen murmured.

“I’ve had to be.”

And Dúrwen helped her up without another word.

Later, once they reached the safer paths where her father’s guards might still be searching, Línaewen slipped a silver ring from her finger.

“It was a gift from my mother,” she said, offering it without ceremony. “Etched with ivy for endurance and quiet strength. I think it suits you better now.”

Dúrwen hesitated. She did not like gifts—not from nobles, not from those who lived in towers and halls while she walked the thorns. But Línaewen’s eyes held no pride, only gratitude… and something else she dared not name.

Dúrwen took the ring.

It was plain, but beautifully made. And inside the band, etched with care, were curling ivy leaves that never ended.

“She was a noblewoman. Clever. Brave in her way. Her laughter could turn the worst day into something bearable. Her eyes were the color of a summer sky before the storm breaks, and her hair…” She hesitated, and a wistful smile curved her lips. “It caught the morning sun and made the rest of the world seem dull by comparison.”

“You loved her,” Bilbo whispered, gentle and awed. Then, after a beat, confused: “But… you’re both women…”

Dúrwen gave a quiet, almost weary laugh. “Yes,” she said. “And you’ll find, Master Baggins, that love seldom consults what’s in our trousers.”

Bilbo flushed. “I—well. I didn’t mean—I only meant I’ve never known anyone to… I mean, not out loud. In the Shire, we don’t often talk about that sort of thing. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright,” Dúrwen said softly. “You weren’t unkind. Just… surprised.”

“I don’t really know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she replied. But the pain in her eyes—the depth of it—was answer enough.

“I loved her,” she said after a moment. “Truly. Deeply. But she chose duty. As noblewomen are often expected to. She married a man her father selected. He wasn't unkind to her, I think. But he wasn’t me.”

A silence stretched between them.

“The last time we met,” she continued, her voice softer now, “she gave me a pink striped carnation.”

Bilbo’s chest tightened.

“I know what that means,” he said. “Let me go. I cannot be with you.”

Dúrwen nodded, eyes turned to the trees.

“She has a son now,” she added quietly. “She named him after me. A boy, with her eyes. Blue like a sky I haven’t seen in years.”

Bilbo blinked. “Truly?”

“Yes. She said… it was her way of not forgetting. A memory carved into flesh and bone.” Her voice faltered, but she recovered quickly. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

They sat in silence again, the daffodils shifting around them, a quiet audience to truths long buried.

After a moment, Bilbo reached out. Gently, he placed the daffodil she had yet to look at squarely into her palm. Her fingers closed around it without command.

“Daffodils mean new beginnings,” he said, meeting her gaze. “You didn’t forget her. And she didn’t forget you. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t more ahead.”

Dúrwen looked down at the flower in her hand. For a long while, she said nothing.

Then: “No,” she whispered. “I think I never will forget. But… maybe I can begin again.”

Bilbo smiled—quiet, kind, and true

“That's what gardens are for,” he said. “Even after winter, they bloom again.”

  The woods behind Elrond’s house were steeped in a soft hush, the sort of sacred stillness that only the Elves could summon. Afternoon sunlight filtered through a high canopy of silvered leaves, turning the glade into a hall of light and shadow, floor pillowed in moss and the crisp scent of ancient trees. The very air shimmered with quiet magic, as if even the wind held its breath.

Kíli stood at the edge of the glade, bow in hand, fingers curled loosely around the worn grip. His aim was sharp today, but his attention was not. Something gnawed at his senses, something heavier than the scent of summer or the weight of his arrows. He loosed another shaft with a practiced grace—twang—and it buried itself in the target with a solid thunk. But his ears were not listening for impact.

He was listening to his brother.

A few paces off, Fíli was methodically sending throwing knives into the same patch of bark, each blade flying in a tight, too-precise arc. His hands moved with restless purpose, shoulders taut, jaw clenched. There was a rhythm to his violence—controlled, but on the edge of breaking.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

“That’s enough,” Kíli called, lowering his bow. “You’re going to cleave that poor tree in half.”

Fíli didn’t answer. Another knife left his hand, faster this time, the motion more force than finesse.

Kíli sighed and walked toward him, boots soft on moss. “Fee, I mean it.”

“What?” came the reply, sharp with false innocence.

“Oh, for Mahal’s beard,” Kíli huffed, throwing his hands skyward. “You’ve been acting like a kicked goat since yesterday. You think I don’t notice? I know you. Something’s gnawing at your mind like rats at a granary. This is about Ori, isn’t it?”

Fíli went still, the next knife halfway drawn from its sheath. He didn’t turn around, but his silence was answer enough.

Kíli squinted. “Did you snog him and he didn't kiss you back? Is that it? Because if so—Uncle’s going to lose his mind. And Dori will throw you into the river. Maybe tie you to a stone first.”

Fíli spun, cheeks flushed with more than exertion. “Mahal, no! We didn’t—We just talked.”

“Talked,” Kíli repeated, crossing his arms. His tone was drier than sun-cracked stone. “That’s what we’re calling it now.”

Fíli groaned and dropped to sit against the gnarled roots of the tree, his knives clinking dully against his belt. He looked, for a moment, like a prince no longer—just a weary young dwarf, burdened by more than years. “It’s just… it’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Kíli echoed. “That’s rich. You’re sulking in Rivendell. Rivendell! The Elves are going to write sad poetry about your brooding if you keep this up.”

Fíli gave him a long look. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re a terrible liar.”

There was a pause. Fíli dragged a hand through his golden hair, loosening the braids he’d carefully woven that morning. He exhaled, slow and deep. “We were in the library. Ori wanted a book from the high shelf. I helped him. We talked. That was all.”

Kíli raised a skeptical brow. “And?”

“And… Nori saw us. Not the words, but the moment. When I left, he was waiting.”

Kíli sat beside him, his voice lowering. “What did he say?”

Fíli hesitated, then: “He said I should leave Ori alone. That I’m the crown prince and Ori isn’t some plaything for idle affection. That once Erebor is ours again, I’ll cast him aside and wed a noble dwarrowdam to secure a bloodline. That Ori deserves better than a future I can’t give.”

Kíli was silent for a moment. Then, tightly: “That wasn’t his choice to make.”

“No. But it wasn’t untrue, either.” Fíli’s voice was low, and there was something brittle in it. “I am heir to Durin’s throne. I have duties. I’ve known since I could walk that my life would be measured by more than love.”

“That doesn’t mean your heart isn’t yours,” Kíli said gently.

“It means I may not get to follow it.”

“Fee,” Kíli said, leaning forward. “You’re not afraid of Uncle. You’re afraid of yourself. Of what you’ll do when duty and love pull in opposite directions.”

Fíli didn’t answer. His fingers curled into fists, and he stared at the moss like it held the answer to fate.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Kíli asked.

His brother looked up, eyes too old for his years. “This is the first time I’ve truly been afraid since Father died.”

Silence fell between them like snow—soft, muffling, inescapable. The glade hushed around them, even the birds above reluctant to interrupt.

Then, softly, Kíli asked, “Do you love him?”

Fíli closed his eyes.

“I don’t know what to call it yet,” he admitted. “But when I’m with him, I feel like I can breathe. Like the weight slips away. I see the way he lights up when he talks about history, or how he chews his lip when he’s thinking. And I—I want to be there. Not as a prince. Just as… Fíli.”

Kíli grinned, just a little. “You sap.”

“I know,” Fíli groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“It’s not ridiculous,” Kíli said, more seriously. “It’s rare. Real.”

Fíli looked at him helplessly. “Then what do I do?”

Kíli rose and offered a hand. His voice was calm but firm, like the clang of hammer on steel. “You decide whether you want to live with regret… or with risk.”

Fíli hesitated only a moment, then took his brother’s hand and stood. The weight didn’t lift—but now, he bore it alongside something else.

Hope.

   The courtyard of Imladris lay awash in gold and green, the sun lingering low in the sky, casting long shadows beneath the carved arches and silver-leaved trees. Afternoon had come softly, with the hush of running water and birdsong, and Bilbo Baggins wandered its paths like one ensorcelled, his heart full to the brim and his legs nearly too weary to carry him.

Exhaustion clung to him like a second tunic—pleasant, in a strange way, like the ache that follows a hearty meal or a well-fought victory. His limbs trembled faintly from Dúrwen’s merciless sword drills, and his hands were smudged green from coaxing life from the soft garden soil that pulsed, quietly, in his chest. Yet there was contentment in him too—profound and unshaken. For the first time since Bag End, since the Contract, since trolls and Wargs, he felt—alive.

Birds flitted past, their wings a blur of silver and cinnamon, and he smiled, tilting his head as their song echoed through the colonnades. He paused at the edge of a balcony carved from pale stone, its rail grown over with moss and star-shaped blooms, and looked out over the valley.

Below him the waters of Rivendell glittered and danced. Streams leapt over the rocks like children, heedless and wild, while the Bruinen flowed serene beyond them, veiled in the mist of late sun. Houses of elegant craft nestled among trees and waterfalls, their windows lit with golden fire, their eaves curling like leaves in bloom. The whole place was not so much built as grown—a living song made stone and stream.

Bilbo sighed, a long, satisfied breath, and rested his arms upon the balcony rail. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the hum of the valley soak into his bones.

“You are not with your companions,” came a voice, low and sonorous, from behind.

Bilbo turned slightly. Lord Elrond had joined him—tall and grave as ever, but something lighter now in his bearing, as if the burden of memory had grown for a moment less heavy. He stood beside Bilbo and looked out upon the same view.

“No,” Bilbo replied with a chuckle, brushing a leaf from his sleeve. “I just finished my sword lessons with my… protector.” He couldn’t help the small grin that followed, the way he leaned into the word with something like affection. “She insists I learn to hold my own. Even if my legs feel like pudding now.”

Elrond’s eyes, bright and old as starlight, flicked toward him. “Ah, the ranger,” he said with a trace of fondness. “I admire her resolve. She made a vow to protect the Shire and its folk. She keeps her word.”

Bilbo smiled again, more softly this time, and simply nodded. The wind stirred his curls.

A moment passed between them in quiet, filled only by the rustling of leaves and the gurgle of far-off fountains.

“You have your mother’s eyes,” Elrond said at last, voice low and thoughtful.

Bilbo startled at the words, turning his face sharply to look up at the Elf-lord. “Really?” he asked, taken off-guard.

Elrond’s gaze remained fixed on the valley, but he nodded slowly. “Belladonna Took had a gaze full of wonder,” he said. “There was mischief in her, yes—but also a hunger to know the world beyond garden-gates. Her eyes were always searching, always reaching. You have that same look.”

Bilbo’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

“Your mother was clever in ways not often spoken,” Elrond continued, gentler now. “She told me once that hobbits are more resilient than they seem. And she was right. She also confessed that they are deeply fond of comfort—and I suspect you would agree.”

Bilbo let out a nervous chuckle, glancing away as his cheeks warmed. “Well… I’ve heard that it is unwise to seek the counsel of Elves, for they will answer both yes and no.”

At that, Elrond finally turned his gaze upon him. A rare smile curved his lips, warm and wry.

“That,” he said, “was the same jest your mother made to me. Nearly to the word.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened, and his smile grew helplessly fond.

“Belladonna Took was a treasured friend,” Elrond said quietly. “Brave and bright, full of fierce love for her people. It does not surprise me in the least that you are her son.” He paused, his voice dipping into something deeper, something kindly. “And I would wish to be your friend as well, if you would have me.”

Bilbo blinked, stunned by the offer.

“You are always welcome here, Bilbo Baggins,” Elrond finished. “If your path ever brings you back to these halls, know there is a place for you.”

And with that, he inclined his head and turned to go, his robes whispering against the stone as he walked away.

Bilbo stood motionless on the balcony, watching him disappear into the twilight halls. The light had begun to shift—paler now, gentler, as the first stars woke above the high cliffs. The chill of evening touched the air.

   The stone paths of Rivendell twisted like ivy between the fair-carved columns and sun-warmed arches, and Bilbo tread them with cautious purpose. His talk with Lord Elrond still lingered in his heart—gentle, unexpected, and far too kind—and left him with the strange ache of being seen more deeply than he had expected. But even such thoughts were chased away as he went in search of the Company, curiosity prodding him forward. He guess that the dwarves had scattered not long after their midday meal, and he realized, with a pang of guilt, that he hadn’t spent much time with them since the morning’s training. Dúrwen had gone quiet after sparring, muttering something about needing space and vanishing into the trees. Bilbo let her go.

And so he wandered, until he rounded a column and nearly walked headfirst into a scene most un-Hobbitlike.

There, in a corridor shadowed by ivy and silence, stood Nori—one hand in the pocket of his coat, the other deftly slipping what looked suspiciously like a strip of fine Elven silver into its folds.

Bilbo blinked.

Nori blinked right back.

Then, as if that solved the matter, the dwarf’s face split into a broad, disarming grin.

“Well, would you look at that! If it isn’t our dear hobbit!” Nori exclaimed, and before Bilbo could muster a single word, he found himself swept into a side-hug, the scent of leather and pine clinging to Nori’s coat.

“Nori, are you—”

“You know what’s funny?” Nori cut in, far too fast. “Óin’s been looking for you. Something about bruises and ointments and ‘for Mahal’s sake don’t let the lad go green.’ Best not keep him waiting!”

Bilbo was tugged forward unceremoniously, still blinking.

“I—wait, were you just—” He glanced over his shoulder at the now-empty windowsill where the glint of silver had been.

But Nori was already chattering again.

“Where’s the ranger?” he asked, casual as ever.

“She wanted to be alone,” Bilbo replied, finally catching his balance.

Nori nodded, not quite looking at him. “Mm. I get that.”

Bilbo tilted his head. “Where are the others?”

“Well, there was some sparring earlier, lot of noise and bruised egos. Might’ve ended in a wrestling match, not sure. I ducked out when Glóin started swinging practice axes.”

Bilbo found himself smiling despite everything. The dwarves were… themselves, whatever else that meant in an Elven stronghold of all places.

As they walked, Nori launched into a tale about Bombur falling asleep mid-duel, causing Bofur to trip and take three others down like dominoes. Bilbo chuckled politely, but his mind kept circling back to the pilfered silver. Before he could press the matter, however, they arrived at the guest wing.

And just like that, Nori was gone.

“Wait—” Bilbo turned, but the thief had vanished into some convenient shadow or corridor, light as a wisp on his feet.

“Ah, there you are.”

The door beside him opened with a creak, and Óin stepped out, squinting at him with a healer’s scrutiny.

Bilbo froze under his gaze, suddenly feeling as if he were being measured for a new shirt without his knowledge.

“Still standing, are you?” Óin muttered. “Good sign. Let’s see what damage our noble ranger’s done.”

He ushered Bilbo into the room with a firm hand between his shoulders.

Inside was warm and softly lit. The walls were draped in tapestries of green and gold, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. A bed was neatly made in the corner—and beside it, to Bilbo’s surprise, sat Dori with a needle in hand, stitching a shirt with exacting focus and furrowed brow.

Dori looked up and gave a polite nod. “Master Baggins.”

Bilbo returned the gesture as Óin directed him to sit at the edge of the bed. The healer began to unlace his tunic collar with brisk efficiency.

“Did she hit your ribs again?” Óin asked, dabbing ointment with surprising gentleness.

“Not on purpose,” Bilbo murmured, then winced. “I don’t think.”

Óin hummed—a pleased sound, it seemed, as he examined the bruises. “Healing well. Bit of swelling still, but no green or yellowing. That’s a mercy.”

“May I ask, Master Dori…” Bilbo turned to Dori, watching the neat, almost aggressive precision with which he stitched, “whose garment are you repairing?”

Dori’s jaw clenched. “Well, Master Baggins. This tunic—regrettably—is Nori’s.”

Bilbo blinked. “Oh.”

“Yes. It’s his third this week. I’ve told him: one more mysterious tear and I’m sewing bells into the hem.”

Bilbo snorted, unable to help himself.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Dori grumbled, knotting the thread. “He treats clothes like battle maps—meant to be folded, spilled on, and ultimately destroyed.”

“You care about him,” Bilbo said softly, before he could stop himself.

Dori looked up. His expression remained cool, but the line of his shoulders softened. “He’s my first brother. He was trouble from the moment he could walk—and I loved him anyway.”

Bilbo nodded, a smile curling on his lips. “Just call me Bilbo, Master Dori. For I’m master of nothing, not even my own hole.”

Dori chuckled—an actual laugh, short and fond. Óin chuckled too, sealing the final bit of ointment with a pat that nearly made Bilbo yelp.

“Well, Master Baggins,” Óin said with mock formality, “you may not be the master of your hole, but you’re doing a decent job keeping your limbs attached. Keep it up.”

They laughed.

   The moonflowers bloomed in quiet corners of the courtyard, glowing pale beneath the soft silver light above. Their delicate scent hung in the air, mingling with the faint melody of elven music drifting from an unseen hall. Here, nestled among stone and smoke and the scent of old earth, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield had shed whatever formality the Last Homely House demanded and returned, in full, to themselves.

Thorin stood apart, arms crossed tightly over his chest. From his post near the ivy-clad pillars, he had a full view of his kin spread across the courtyard, their laughter rising and falling like the familiar crackle of a well-loved hearth.

Dwalin and Balin flanked him, their silhouettes blurred by pipe smoke. The tips of their pipes glowed orange in the dim light, flickering like tethered stars.

"Most of our essentials are accounted for," Balin murmured, exhaling a long ribbon of smoke that wove into the air. "Even the packs Ori forgot under the drying table. Nori rounded them all up. Somehow."

Dwalin grunted, tapping his pipe against the heel of his boot with more force than necessary. "Glad that thief’s skill is useful for once."

Thorin’s lips twitched into a faint, reluctant smirk. Dwalin’s suspicion of Nori was legend among the Company; forged not in hate, but in wary affection that bore the shape of an old wound. After all, Dwalin had once caught Nori smuggling coin behind a stone panel during his guard shift—not to spend, but to hide. Just in case.

"He may be a rogue," Balin said with a chuckle, "but at least he’s our rogue."

Dwalin snorted but offered no rebuttal. The fire in his pipe flared a little brighter.

Below them, in the broader stretch of courtyard, the younger dwarves made their own revelry. Glóin and Bombur were bickering over the correct way to dice root vegetables—something to do with surface area and caramelization—while Bifur offered wordless commentary by miming elaborate chopping motions with an invisible knife.

Fíli and Kíli had commandeered a stone bench for the noble sport of arm wrestling. Kíli’s face was a portrait of tragic effort—lips curled, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed in cartoonish determination. Fíli, by contrast, grinned like a fox with a secret.

Shouts echoed around them. Bombur was yelling something about elbow placement, Bofur was calling for bets, and Bifur had started banging a nearby pot lid with a stick in rhythmic accompaniment, as if declaring this a battle worthy of song.

A glint of silver flashed at Kíli’s wrist—a charm from Dís, their mother. Thorin’s gaze lingered there, his chest tightening with the weight of memory.

Fíli and Kíli should have stayed in Ered Luin. With his sister. Safe. Whole.

Instead, they were here, with him—on this reckless, desperate quest to reclaim a home wrapped in fire and ruin. And yet, not once had they faltered. Their loyalty, maddening as it was, was absolute.

Thorin exhaled slowly through his nose.

Ori sat a little removed from the din, his back pressed against a cool stone wall at the edge of the courtyard steps. His journal was open in his lap, ink-smeared fingers poised in mid-thought. A lantern hung nearby, casting golden light over his temple, catching the downy strands of hair and gilding them like a halo. Always writing, that one. Quiet. Studious. But he missed nothing.

Thorin wondered, not for the first time, what tales Ori would tell of them one day. What names he’d give to the silences and shadows between the laughter. What moments he’d deem worthy of ink.

A lull settled between Thorin, Dwalin, and Balin. The kind of hush born not from awkwardness, but from the deep comfort of shared solitude. Thorin let it stretch, drinking in the sight before him: his Company. His burden. His hope.

Tomorrow, they would leave Rivendell. Tomorrow night, Lord Elrond would read the moon runes upon the map, and their course would be fixed: toward the Misty Mountains, toward danger, toward destiny.

Thorin’s heart should have lifted at the thought.

Instead, he found it restless.

In the stillness of his thoughts, a vision rose—unbidden, unwelcome, yet stubbornly suffused with warmth.

A head of honey-gold curls, unruly and wind-tossed. A face flushed with effort—or was it embarrassment? Small hands, pale and determined, gripped the hilt of a training sword far too large for such a frame, knuckles white with stubbornness. The blade trembled in those hands, not from fear but from defiance, as if its bearer had no intention of ever surrendering to his own inadequacy.

Bilbo Baggins.

Of late, the hobbit had become something of a ghost among them. He came and went like a shadow passing through water—present, and yet not wholly there. He had not joined their meals with the same cheer, nor lingered at the fire to offer sharp-tongued observations or repack their salt tins for the third time in a day. He no longer clung to his small comforts or padded after them with his quiet, fretful energy.

Instead, he had been with her.

Dúrwen.

The ranger.

Thorin’s jaw tensed, his brows drawing inward. The name carried weight now—too much, perhaps. She had become more than what she first appeared to be. More than a guide. More than a blade. She had taken it upon herself to instruct the hobbit in the art of defense—of war, if truth were spoken plainly. And Thorin had not objected. He had agreed, in silence, that the burglar must be prepared. The world beyond the Shire was neither kind nor slow to bare its teeth. And Bilbo—charming, peculiar, and woefully unarmed Bilbo—was the smallest of them all.

He must learn to move with intention, to strike without hesitation. For the road ahead would not be forgiving. Erebor loomed in the distance, shrouded in fire and shadow. The dragon slept, but dreams were fragile things, easily shattered by the stirrings of fate. One day—too soon, perhaps—the halfling would be required to face the beast alone, creeping through those ruined halls on feet that made no sound. A single misstep, a breath drawn too sharply, and the fire would come. It mattered not that Bilbo was rare. Or clever. Or good. Smaug would not spare him.

And yet…

There was something in the way the elves looked at the hobbit—too softly, too knowingly. As though they already counted him theirs. As though they saw something in him worth preserving.

They wove subtle snares with golden thread. Meals prepared to suit his simple tastes—seed cakes warm from the oven, fruits peeled and sliced with elven precision. Tunics cut to his frame in fabric finer than silk, dyed in the colors of Rivendell’s twilight. Melodies played not for battle or glory, but for memory—for comfort—for home.

Even their silence was laced with temptation. An unspoken invitation shimmered between every glance and every kindness. Stay. Rest. Lay down your burden. Here, you need not fear. Here, you are safe. Loved.

The offer was not spoken aloud, but it did not need to be. It hung in the air like perfume—impossible to ignore once inhaled.

And Thorin saw it. Saw it clearly now.

They are trying to keep him.

The thought struck him cold. Not because he feared the elves—though he did—but because he feared that Bilbo might say yes.

He imagined it, then, with cruel clarity: the hobbit standing amidst flowering gardens and silver fountains, laughter caught on the wind. Realizing, with sudden and painful clarity, that he need not die beneath a mountain for a people who were not his own. That his place was not at Thorin’s side in the dark, but here—in light, in song, in peace.

He imagined Bilbo turning to him, gentle but firm, and saying: This is madness. Your quest, your crown, your death wish. I have no part in it.

He would stay behind. Remain in the valley where time flowed like a river untouched by war. Where no dragon stirred. Where no oath bound him.

And what then?

What could Thorin say to such a choice? What could any of them do?

He felt bitterness well up in him—sudden and sharp. His lips curled, unbidden, in a silent scoff. Foolish, he thought. Foolish to care. Foolish to imagine that a single hobbit might walk willingly into fire for a king he did not serve, for a home he had never seen. Foolish to hope.

"Something on your mind, lad?" Balin asked gently, not looking directly at him.

Thorin blinked. "Just the road ahead," he said. And it wasn’t a lie. Not entirely.

Balin made a quiet hum of acknowledgment but pressed no further.

Down below, Kíli was now accusing Fíli of cheating, dramatically pointing to the angle of his elbow. Bofur had climbed onto the bench to act as referee, waving a handkerchief like a flag. Bombur was booing. Glóin was yelling about honor.

Thorin chuckled once, low in his throat.

The Company was whole.

For now.

And tomorrow, they would press on.

Chapter Text

05.

   It was a rare, bright morning in Rivendell, and for once, the Company found themselves with little to do but exist.

The journey loomed ever onward, yes—but with Elrond yet to read the moon-runes on Thorin’s map, no sign of ponies arriving, and packs already filled and fussed over, even Thorin had relented. The dwarves were granted a moment of peace. The sun filtered gently through the columns of Imladris, dappling the ancient stone and whispering leaves in gold. Mist rose in tendrils from the stream that meandered through the hidden valley, and the song of birds floated lazily through the air. It was the sort of morning made for doing nothing in particular.

Breakfast was served beneath an ivy-draped portico where soft cushions had been laid in a half-circle. Elvish hospitality was as subtle as it was generous. Bowls of stewed berries, warm honeyed bread, and a teapot that never seemed to empty graced the table.

So when Bilbo, halfway through a third helping of bread slathered in berry compote, announced that he would not be joining Dúrwen for sword lessons that day, a collective cheer rose from the dwarves.

“Finally,” Bofur declared around a mouthful of breakfast, his hat shoved back on his head. “We get our burglar back!”

“About time that grim ghost lets him breathe,” Glóin muttered, only half-joking, though his eyes twinkled with amusement.

Dwalin grunted in agreement, tearing a crust of bread apart. “If she wants a sparring partner so badly, she can wrestle Bombur.”

Bombur, who was in the middle of buttering another scone, paused mid-bite and narrowed his eyes. “I don’t spar. I squash.”

“You all forgot I’m here,” Dúrwen chimed in dryly from her place at the edge of the group. She was peeling an apple with a long, curved knife, her dark cloak discarded in favor of a plain tunic and trousers. There was a glint of humor in her eyes, and her tone lacked any true sting.

The dwarves laughed.

Bilbo chuckled, lifting his teacup with both hands like a shield. “Well, I did want to explore Rivendell before we leave. And perhaps rest somewhere that doesn’t involve being thrown on my back.”

“Aye, we all rest easier knowing that Thorn’s not flinging you into hedges this morning,” Balin said kindly.

“It’s good. Who knows what bruises she’ll give you in those secretive sword lessons,” Óin grumbled, eyeing Dúrwen with a frown that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Dúrwen didn't look up from her apple. “Simple. I want to bruise him privately.”

The table erupted with laughter and loud protests.

“Unfair advantage!” cried Bifur while signing, he shook his head and pointed at Bilbo with mock seriousness.

“What did he do to deserve that?” Bombur asked.

Bilbo, valiantly blushing, took another sip of tea.

After breakfast, the Company dispersed, each to their own pursuits. Glóin and Bifur wandered off toward the armory, muttering about elvish smithing and whether it could be trusted. Thorin and Dwalin could be heard arguing over the proper way to oil a blade. Nori had already begun sketching the elven mosaics along the walls, and Bofur followed out of boredom and mischief in equal measure.

Dúrwen vanished soon after, muttering something to Bilbo about packing her own rations. She squeezed his shoulder as she passed, and Bilbo felt oddly like a younger sibling being told to stay out of trouble.

Ori, who had been mostly quiet during the meal, adjusted his satchel and approached Bilbo as the crowd thinned.

“If you’re free,” Ori ventured, clearing his throat, “perhaps you might join me in the library? There’s a manuscript on ancient Shire folklore I’d love to get your opinion on.”

Before Bilbo could answer, Fíli groaned, throwing his arms up in theatrical dismay. “No fair! We barely get to spend time with him and you’re dragging him into dusty scroll rooms.”

“Yeah! We were going to show him the east balcony,” Kíli added, pointing dramatically. “The one with the carved gryphons.”

Ori’s eyes narrowed. “You just want him there so you can dare him to climb one. You did it last time.”

“That was once,” Kíli protested.

“And both of you nearly broke your necks,” Ori snapped, rising to his full height—which, in truth, wasn’t much. “Unlike you two, I actually read things in Rivendell.”

“You mean you hide behind book stacks muttering to yourself,” Fíli retorted, but the teasing in his voice lacked venom. If anything, it was almost affectionate.

“At least I use the library for its intended purpose!”

Bilbo watched the exchange with bemused fondness, the way one might observe kittens tumbling over a favored cushion. The young dwarves bickered like brothers over a favorite toy—if the toy had opinions, a fondness for books, and was increasingly overwhelmed by their attentions.

Fíli leaned toward Ori, his grin sly. “If you wanted me to notice you, Ori, you could've just said so.”

A silence dropped like a stone into a still pond.

Ori made a strangled noise, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. His face turned scarlet.

“How dare you—!” he stammered, before snatching Bilbo by the wrist. “Come on, Bilbo. Before they ruin your brain with their nonsense.”

Bilbo let himself be dragged along, barely containing a laugh.

Fíli called after them, hand cupped to his mouth. “Tell him I said he blushes pretty!”

Ori let out a furious growl that only made Bilbo laugh harder.

They crossed a stone bridge arched over a bubbling stream. Sunlight dappled the water below, and the air was thick with honeysuckle. Elven voices carried on the breeze—snatches of song, laughter, and conversation, all soft as wind through leaves.

“You heard that, didn’t you?” Ori muttered furiously.

“Hard not to,” Bilbo said, eyes bright.

“The nerve! He ignored me yesterday, and now he sees fit to flirt like we’re in some low-brow romance tale.”

“Perhaps he was just trying to make you blush,” Bilbo offered.

“He succeeded! Curse him.”

They reached the library soon after, its doors tall and carved with scenes of stars, leaves, and wandering paths. Inside, the air was cool and fragrant with old parchment and lavender oil. Long shafts of light pierced the stained-glass windows, casting dancing patterns of blue and gold across the floor.

A few elves moved among the towering shelves, quiet and graceful. Many glanced at the pair as they passed—not unkindly, but with a kind of curious wonder. A hobbit in Rivendell was rare enough. A hobbit glowing with the delight of books rarer still.

Bilbo made a pleased little noise as he laid his stack of books on the nearest table.

“Some of these are in Westron,” he said excitedly, “but look—Sindarin, too. I might finally understand the full version of that poem Lord Elrond was reciting.”

Ori blinked. “You can read Sindarin?”

Bilbo beamed. “Not fluently. But my mother taught me the basics. She visited Rivendell in her youth, you see. She always said it was like living in a song.”

Ori looked faintly awed. “I didn’t know hobbits learned Elvish.”

“Most don’t,” Bilbo admitted, selecting a weathered volume with a golden tree on its cover. “But my mother was... curious. Like me.”

The hush of the library was a balm, cool and still as a glade untouched by wind. Sunlight streamed in slanted beams through high, arched windows of stained glass, pooling color on the marble floor—cobalt and rose, emerald and amber, like something dreamt rather than built.

Ori sat with his back straight and his hands folded over a leather-bound volume he had not yet opened. He stole glances at Bilbo between flicks of his eyes to the shelves, as if afraid the hobbit might vanish the moment he looked away.

Bilbo, for his part, had settled in completely. He was cross-legged on a high-cushioned bench that barely accommodated him, a thick book open on his knees. He hummed quietly now and then, the way one might when enjoying a warm bath or particularly good jam. The pages glowed faintly in the light, Elvish runes dancing across the parchment.

Ori cleared his throat.

Bilbo did not look up.

“Did you really mean it?”

Bilbo had turned his gaze toward him, brows lifted in quiet amusement. “When you said I’d ruin my brain with Fíli and Kíli’s nonsense?”

Ori flushed. “Well. I didn’t not mean it.”

“I think you’re rather fond of them.”

Ori made a noise like a kettle about to boil. “Fond is... well. They’re like brothers. Loud, infuriating brothers who don’t understand personal space or how to shelve a book properly.”

“Hm,” Bilbo said, looking down at his page again. “That’s quite a specific grievance.”

“They used one of my journals to press wildflowers,” Ori muttered, scandalized. “Without asking!”

Bilbo snorted into his sleeve. “The villains!”

“They flattened the whole page! With honey still on the petals!”

They both laughed, the sound drawing brief glances from a nearby elf who, thankfully, only smiled.

“You know,” Bilbo said after a moment, voice softer, “Fíli didn’t just say that to tease you.”

Ori stiffened.

“He watches you,” Bilbo continued, eyes returning to his book. “More than he lets on.”

Bilbo vaguely remembered the Warg chase, the way Fíli had veered from Thorin’s side to shield Ori without hesitation, blades drawn and eyes wild with fear he didn’t bother to hide. Even then, in the chaos, Bilbo had noticed how fiercely the prince had fought—not just for the Company, but for the quiet scribe. In the days before that happened, he’d seen the lingering glances, the brush of fingers under the guise of passing supplies, the silent way Fíli would track Ori’s steps in a crowd. And every time Ori wasn’t looking, Fíli’s face would soften—like he was seeing something precious, something breakable.

Ori’s throat worked soundlessly.

“I’m not saying he’s good at it,” Bilbo added. “But he doesn’t seem the sort to flirt just to wound.”

Ori set his book down with a thump, face red enough to rival the sunset.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” he admitted, voice small. “I mean, he’s... him. And I’m just…”

“A scholar with a kind heart and ink-stained fingers,” Bilbo said. “Which, I must admit, I find very charming.”

Ori blinked. “You do?”

Bilbo winked. “In an entirely platonic sense, I promise.”

Ori laughed again, the sound freer this time. “I think I needed to hear that.”

Outside the great window, a pair of silver birds wheeled past, their wings catching the light. Somewhere far off in the valley, a harp plucked a lazy tune, notes curling like ivy through the halls.

After a while, Ori found his voice again.

“Did you really mean to become a burglar?” he asked, not unkindly.

Bilbo startled. “I—what?”

“I mean,” Ori pressed, “you’re clever, and brave—yes, brave! I’ve seen it—but I can’t help thinking you weren’t made for burglaries.”

Bilbo sighed, rubbing his eyes. “You and me both.”

“Then why go?”

Bilbo looked out the window, past the towering birches, the ivy-draped balconies, the river beyond.

“I think I was looking for something,” he said slowly. “A part of me that knew there was more than tea and meals. Something old in my blood, maybe. Or perhaps I was simply foolish.”

Ori leaned in. “It wasn’t foolish.”

“No?” Bilbo smiled faintly. “Then what was it?”

Ori thought for a moment. Then: “It was hopeful.”

That stilled Bilbo’s hands.

The silence that followed was not awkward, nor heavy. It was sacred, the sort of hush that lives only in libraries and long friendships just beginning to bloom.

Eventually, Ori slid his book closer.

“Here,” he said, “this one’s about Dwarves who survived an avalanche and composed a song using only drums and mining picks.”

Bilbo’s eyes lit up. “You don’t say.”

By the time Bilbo and Ori left the library, the light had shifted to a mellow gold. The hush of parchment and scrolls was replaced by the rustling breeze and the low murmur of the valley’s many waters. Bilbo stretched his arms above his head with a groan, then blinked at the sudden stillness around them.

“Strange,” he murmured. “Too quiet. Where’s the usual racket?”

They made it to the eastern side of Rivendell, where the balcony overlooked cascading terraces. But something was clearly amiss. The usual dwarven din was missing—no clang of metal, no booming laughter. Just the wind. And—

“Duck!” Ori hissed, pulling Bilbo aside as a sudden blur shot past them.

A water balloon—yes, a water balloon—smashed against the stone wall behind them, exploding in a spray of glittering blue.

“Oh no,” Ori groaned. “They’ve found the elven dyes again.”

Shrieking laughter rang out from above.

Bilbo glanced up. Sure enough, on the second-tier balcony, halfway up the ivy-laced tower, stood Fíli and Kíli. Kíli had a second water-balloon in hand and was aiming it gleefully at an elf tending to a garden bed below.

“KÍLI!” Ori bellowed. “YOU PROMISED!”

“Did I?” Kíli grinned down.

“You swore no more dye-water pranks after the Glorfindel Incident!”

“That wasn’t dye,” Fíli called helpfully. “That was pollen.”

“It turned his hair orange for three days!”

Bilbo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me you didn’t enchant this batch.”

“No enchantments this time!” Fíli shouted. “Just a little lavender oil. And food coloring. And maybe a dash of mint.”

Ori looked like he might combust. “That’s worse!”

As if to emphasize the point, a nearby elf emerged from behind a curtain of vines, blinking and bright purple from the shoulders up. The elf regarded them with long-suffering grace and said nothing—just sighed and returned inside.

Bilbo gaped. “You dyed an elf.”

Fíli looked somewhat repentant. “In our defense, he startled us.”

“He was meditating!”

“A very sudden meditation,” Kíli added.

Ori stormed to the base of the tower. “Come down this instant! Lord Elrond’s going to throw us off the cliff!”

“You’re assuming he can catch us!” Kíli whooped, tossing another balloon that exploded harmlessly in a tree.

Bilbo, arms crossed, watched the chaos unfold. A part of him was horrified. A much larger part was trying very hard not to laugh.

Fíli was the first to climb down—well, slide down, actually, using the carved gryphon as a makeshift chute. He landed with a grunt, dusting his tunic and waving dramatically at Bilbo.

“Bilbo, you’re free at last! Come join us in the art of joyful chaos!”

“I’d rather not be banned from Elrond’s kitchens, thank you.”

Kíli descended next, grinning like a madman. “No harm done. Mostly. Probably.”

Ori folded his arms. “You’re lucky none of the elves have retaliated.”

As if summoned by fate, a soft whizz sounded in the air. Then a snow-white plop!—a pie, launched with terrifying precision from a nearby ledge, landed squarely on Kíli’s head.

There was a beat of silence. Then—

“The elves have retaliated,” Bilbo observed.

Kíli wiped crust from his brow and beamed. “They’ve accepted the challenge.”

Fíli looked delighted. “Right then. It’s war.”

Ori made a strangled sound and turned to Bilbo. “We’re going to die here.”

Bilbo smiled, watching the chaos unfold as another elf tossed a silken sachet full of glitter down from above. “At least we’ll die glittering.”

   The glitter had settled. Quite literally. Fíli and Kíli trailed motes of sparkling lavender with every movement as the afternoon sun glinted off their clothes and hair. Kíli tried shaking it from his tunic like a wet dog.

“No use,” Fíli muttered, examining his arms. “I look like a jeweled chicken.”

“You always sparkle when you’re lying,” Ori deadpanned, crossing his arms.

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Ori,” Kíli said with mock solemnity. “Some of us were born to shine.”

“Some of you were born to bathe,” Ori retorted, pinching his nose. “You smell like a perfumed goat.”

“Well then,” Fíli said grandly, brushing glitter from his eyebrows and accidentally adding more, “to the baths, brother mine. Before the elf maidens mistake us for faerie princes and try to marry us off.”

“You wish,” Ori muttered.

Bilbo followed behind them at a comfortable pace, hiding a grin. Ori matched his steps with a groan.

“I just know they’re going to make this a production.”

“More than it already is?” Bilbo asked, dodging a bit of floating sparkle.

As they turned a bend near one of the garden arches, sounds of boisterous laughter and sloshing water reached their ears—an odd cacophony amidst the serene waterfalls and birdsong of Imladris.

“What now?” Ori muttered warily.

Fíli and Kíli perked up like bloodhounds on a trail.

“That sounds suspiciously like—”

“Dwalin?” Kíli said.

“Bombur?” Fíli finished.

They rushed ahead without waiting. Bilbo and Ori exchanged a glance and followed at a more dignified pace—only to stop dead when they reached the clearing.

Rivendell’s eastern fountain—an elegant, marble-lined pool once meant for solemn Elven reflection—was currently hosting a half-naked dwarven riot.

There was Dwalin, submerged up to the neck, scrubbing his bald scalp with both hands while growling a drinking song. Bifur lounged nearby with his mechanical axe propped against the basin, calmly floating a bar of soap. Nori and Bofur were splashing each other like unruly children, and Glóin stood proudly under the arching spout of the fountain itself like it was a private shower.

Even Ori spluttered. “They—they’re bathing—in the Elves’ fountain?!”

“Ori,” Bilbo said weakly, “you’re the one who said they should get clean.”

“I meant in a tub! Not this!”

Fíli was already unlacing his tunic. “No time like the present!”

“I call the middle!” Kíli cried, flinging off his boots mid-run.

“Wait—WAIT!” Ori protested. “You can’t just—oh no—stop—!”

Fíli and Kíli seized Ori by the arms and dragged him, flailing and shouting, straight toward the water. With a shriek and a spectacular splash, Ori vanished beneath the surface.

Bilbo, scandalized, watched as Ori resurfaced—drenched, red-faced, and glaring.

“You’re all barbarians!”

“Thank you!” Kíli shouted cheerfully.

Bilbo, still fully clothed, stood awkwardly on the grass. It was suddenly very obvious that the dwarves had no modesty whatsoever. Some had stripped entirely. Others were half-dressed in a way that left little to the imagination.

Fíli shouted up from the water. “Bilbo! Don’t just stand there!”

“Yes, come on!” called Bofur. “It’s not every day you get a bath in an elven fountain!”

“I’m perfectly clean,” Bilbo replied with a forced smile.

“Sure you are,” said Dori dryly, floating by like a disapproving boat.

“Suit yourself,” Bifur signed with a grin.

But Bofur wasn’t having it. With a gleeful laugh, he lunged from the water, caught Bilbo around the waist, and hauled him toward the edge of the fountain.

“Bofur!” Bilbo shrieked. “Put me down this instant or I swear I’ll poison your soup!”

“Worth it,” Bofur cackled, before setting the flustered hobbit carefully on the edge.

Drenched from the splash but resigned, Bilbo sighed and simply rolled up his trousers to the knees, dipping his large, curly-toed feet into the cool water.

“Ohhh,” he breathed. “That’s actually quite nice…”

Balin shuffled closer, beard fluffed and dripping, and gave Bilbo a warm grin. “Good to see you here, Master Baggins. Don’t worry, we won’t toss you in. Yet.”

Bilbo chuckled, relaxing slightly. The fountain’s basin was wide and deep, and the sun dappled through ivy and marble above. Despite himself, he began to enjoy the quiet cool of it.

The dwarves, though, were not quiet.

“Why’d you hesitate, anyway?” Bofur called. “Afraid we’d see your hobbit bits?”

Bilbo spluttered, “No!”

“So what then?” Bombur asked as he floated lazily past. “Elves don’t let hobbits near water?”

“Well,” Bilbo said, tugging his collar awkwardly, “hobbits… aren’t exactly known for swimming.”

There was a pause.

“Why not?” Glóin asked, genuinely confused.

“We float like sacks of potatoes,” Bilbo said matter-of-factly. “Big feet, dense bones, too much cake. We don’t glide through water so much as sink.”

There was a chorus of sympathetic laughter.

“Then it’s a good thing you’ve got us to keep you afloat,” Bofur grinned.

“I’d rather cling to a log,” Bilbo muttered, though he was smiling.

The fountain echoed with more laughter and splashes, Ori sulking in one corner while Fíli leaned on the marble edge dramatically, wringing his hair like some tragic prince.

Bilbo sat there, feet swaying in the water, the sun warm on his face—

But then—

His eyes wandered.

Across the pool, Thorin stood waist-deep in the water, back to the company, washing his arms with precise movements. His hair loose. It spilled down his back in an ink-dark waterfall, glistening in the sunlight, clinging to his shoulders like something sculpted.

Bilbo swallowed.

Thorin turned then, tossing the hair back with a sharp flick of his head, and Bilbo caught a glimpse of his face in profile: stern, proud, and carved from something far older than time. His eyes, catching the sunlight, burned like a storm barely held at bay.

Bilbo felt heat rush up his neck and into his ears.

“Oh no,” he muttered.

Beside him, Balin raised a single, bushy eyebrow.

“Something wrong, laddie?”

“Nothing,” Bilbo squeaked.

“Always remember your grip, Bilbo,” Dúrwen’s voice rang out from the sidelines, arms folded across her chest as she stood half-shadowed beneath the ancient elm tree. Her keen eyes followed his every movement, as precise as any hawk upon the hunt. “Hold it like your life depends on it because one day, it might.”

Bilbo exhaled through his nose, fingers adjusting around the hilt of his so-called sword—a glorified letter opener, truth be told, but sharp enough to draw blood. He tightened his stance on the soft moss of the courtyard, his large, curly feet gripping the earth with a stubbornness that surprised even him.

Across from him, Kíli grinned broadly, sword raised high and glitter still clinging to his damp hair like flecks of starlight. “Come now, Master Boggins. Are we sparring or are you trying to shoo away a fly?”

A few of the dwarves chuckled behind him.

After the afternoon bath debacle—where dignity had drowned and laughter floated high—the Company had returned to the open court nestled beside a shallow training terrace. The air smelled of clean water and stone warmed by the sun. Somehow, between the drying cloaks and scattered weapons, someone had asked about Bilbo’s sword training. Bilbo might’ve brushed it off if it had been anyone else. But it had been Thorin.

“I would see what our burglar has learned,” Thorin had said, arms crossed, eyes unreadable beneath his dark brows. “If he’s to wield that blade, it should be more than for show.”

Bilbo hadn’t dared say no after that.

And now, here he stood, facing Kíli’s smirking challenge, with most of the Company lounging nearby, shouting bets and egging them on.

“I’ve got five copper on Kíli!” shouted Glóin.

“Ten says Bilbo gets in at least one hit,” Ori said, chewing on a piece of dried fruit.

Bofur nudged Bombur, laughing. “I’ll bet my hat he trips over his own feet before he gets close!”

Dwalin folded his arms with a grunt. “At least he’s standin’ his ground. That’s something.”

Fíli leaned over to whisper loudly, “Try not to cry when he disarms you, Bilbo. We’re all very sensitive about our feelings.”

Bilbo sighed. “I think you all have a very skewed idea of support.”

Still, his eyes flicked to Thorin, who stood off to one side, impassive as stone. Watching. Always watching.

“You’re hesitating,” Kíli said, rocking back on his heels. “You’re supposed to attack me, remember? Or is that too much for a gentlehobbit to manage?”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes.

“All of us have our advantages in battle,” came Dúrwen’s voice again, low and clear. The Company quieted a little, listening. She had that effect. “Elves are tall and swift, their reach long and their strikes graceful. Men stand taller still and wield strength when it’s needed. The dwarves—though shorter—are hard as the mountain’s bones. They endure, and they strike low and true.”

Kíli tilted his head. “And hobbits?”

Dúrwen’s gaze flicked to Bilbo. “Small and soft, perhaps. But light on their feet. Nimble. Quiet. Unseen. Like a whisper in the dark or a breeze slipping through a crack in the stone.”

There was a hush. Even Kíli stopped smiling.

“You won’t win with strength,” Dúrwen said softly, “but with timing. With surprise. You already know how to vanish, Bilbo Baggins. Now, let them see what you can do when you’re seen.”

Something shifted in Bilbo then. He stepped forward.

Kíli grinned, raising his sword again, eyes twinkling. “Finally.”

With a sudden cry—not unlike the noise he made when stubbing his toe—Bilbo lunged. The movement was clumsy, a bit wild, but it had force. And more importantly, it had heart.

Kíli laughed and parried, their blades meeting with a sharp clang.

The dwarves roared.

“He’s got teeth after all!” shouted Nori.

“Watch that edge, Kíli!” Fíli called. “He might actually beat you!”

Bilbo danced back, light-footed, the blade trembling in his grip. Kíli advanced now, pushing the pace, and Bilbo barely dodged a strike aimed at his shoulder. The hobbit yelped and skittered to the side.

“Stop aiming for my ears!”

“They’re hard to miss!” Kíli cackled.

They circled, blades flashing in the golden afternoon light. Bilbo’s breath came hard now, but he didn’t stop. He felt the rhythm of it—the beat of his feet against the stone, the rustle of his shirt, the wind past his curls. When Kíli feinted, Bilbo didn’t fall for it. He stepped aside and—by sheer luck and a bit of stubborn instinct—struck low.

The flat of his blade smacked Kíli’s thigh.

Kíli yelled.

The Company erupted in laughter and disbelief.

“He landed a hit!” Ori squealed.

“No way!” Fíli shouted, jaw open.

“He hit ‘im where it counts!” Bofur whooped.

Kíli stumbled, trying to recover—just as Bilbo stepped in and tackled.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t even really intentional. But suddenly, Kíli was on the ground, and Bilbo stood above him, panting, sword raised, curls wild and feet planted like roots in the earth.

There was a heartbeat of silence.

Then—

“A WINNER!” Bombur bellowed.

“Bilbo the Bold!” Dori crowed, clapping.

“My hat’s yours, lad!” Bofur laughed, tossing it toward him. “Never thought I’d see the day!”

Bilbo blinked. “I—I won?”

Kíli groaned from the ground. “Didn’t see that coming…”

Dwalin snorted. “That’s the point, lad.”

From the shade of the tree, Dúrwen allowed a small, proud smile to bloom across her face.

“Well done,” she said, almost too quiet for the others to hear. “Never forget you are not less because you are different. You are dangerous because you’re unexpected.”

Bilbo beamed, face flushed, chest heaving.

He glanced at Thorin then.

The dwarf king stood perfectly still, one brow slightly raised. His arms uncrossed. And then… he nodded.

Just once.

Bilbo felt warmth spread in his chest like fire catching in kindling.

“Alright,” Kíli groaned as Fíli helped him up. “Rematch next week.”

“Next month,” Bilbo wheezed, collapsing onto a bench. “And I want tea after.”

“Make it two teas,” Ori agreed.

“Three if he tries that again,” Kíli muttered.

As the Company laughed and teased, and Bilbo sat catching his breath with Dúrwen’s words still echoing in his ears, the sun dipped low over Rivendell’s rooftops, casting the sparring ground in amber light. Bilbo felt not like an imposter among legends, but like a story worth telling himself.

All was well—truly, for once.

After Bilbo’s spirited sparring match with Kíli, the other dwarves took turns testing their mettle against one another. Dwalin and Glóin dueled with grins that only grew wider with each clanging clash of axe against sword. Fíli and Bofur sparred with theatrical flair, as if performing for an invisible crowd. Even Nori, ever the trickster, extended an invitation to his younger brother Ori, which was met with Dori's withering glare.

“You lay a single scratch on him and I’ll tan your hide myself,” Dori warned from the sidelines, arms crossed and jaw tight.

“Relax, brother,” Nori said with a wink, nudging Ori. “We’ll only practice dodging. Come at me, lad.”

The training ground of Imladris was filled with the sounds of dwarvish laughter, the clash of steel, and the occasional groan of someone hitting the grass. Evening fell sloowly, golden light glinting off the tips of elven towers, and the Company was soon summoned for supper.

And what a supper it was.

The elves of Rivendell, perhaps in a final effort to prove their hospitality to the stubborn folk of stone, had prepared a veritable feast. There was roasted venison dressed with a honey glaze, wild mushrooms soaked in wine and herbs, fresh-baked breads still warm to the touch, and—most importantly to the Company—a generous helping of meats, something sorely missed in elven cuisine.

"Meat! Proper meat!" Óin cried in delight, clutching a roast leg to his chest as if it were treasure.

"At last!" Glóin cheered, raising a goblet of spiced ale. "A meal worth remembering!"

"Don’t let them hear you," Ori whispered, glancing nervously toward the quiet elven servers.

Balin chuckled. "They can hear the grass grow, laddie. I'm sure they're used to our grumbling by now."

After the meal, bellies full and spirits high, the Company retired to the dwarven guest chambers. Bilbo found himself tucked between Bifur and Ori, the stone walls warm from enchanted firelight. He was just settling under his blanket when a soft knock echoed through the chamber.

It was an elf, tall and serene, holding a small parcel wrapped in green velvet.

"A gift for Master Baggins," they said, inclining their head before leaving with the faintest smile.

Bilbo blinked. "Oh," he said, unwrapping it carefully. Inside was a tiny compass, its casing silver and delicate, etched with elvish script.

There were more. Trinkets left at the threshold. A silk scarf. A starlight robes. A tiny phial of starlight water. All tokens of farewell. They warmed Bilbo’s heart even as the dwarves grumbled.

"They’re trying to lure you to stay, you know," Dwalin said with a grunt.

"Might work," Bofur signed, eyes twinkling.

"He’d look ridiculous in those robes," Kíli muttered, muffled in his blanket.

Bilbo just smiled. He was half tempted to believe it.

Gandalf had invited him earlier to join Thorin and Balin in Elrond's study to examine the moon-runes on the map. But Bilbo, already exhausted and with a content heart, had politely declined.

"I think I'll turn in early," he had said, offering a soft smile. "It’s been a full day."

And it had. It was all fine, really.

Until it wasn’t.

A voice cut through his dreams like a blade. “Get up quickly! We have no time!”

Thorin.

Bilbo bolted upright, bleary-eyed. Around him, the dwarves groaned and stirred, confusion thick in the air.

"The sun isn’t up yet," Ori mumbled.

"What is this about?" Dori snapped.

"What happened?" Bilbo asked, rubbing at his eyes. "What's going on?!"

Thorin stood like a storm at the door, eyes hard. "They know our quest. They'll try to stop us. We leave now."

The words froze the room.

No one moved.

Then, Balin stood. "You heard him. Pack up, lads."

They moved quickly after that, stuffing cloaks and blades into packs, slinging them over shoulders with haste. Bilbo fumbled with his satchel, ensuring his handkerchiefs were still tucked inside, and strapped his sword to his belt.

Just as he reached for his walking stick, he paused. “What about Dúrwen? Shouldn't we wait for her? And Gandalf? I can find her—”

“NO!” Thorin snapped, his voice harsh. "We have no time!"

Bilbo recoiled, stunned into silence. The others did too.

So it was that they slipped out of Rivendell beneath the last stars of night, the path ahead already bathed in the faintest glow of dawn.

Thorin led them to a narrow trail, his voice low. "Be on your guard. We're about to step over the edge of the Wild. Balin, you know these paths. Lead on."

Balin nodded, grave. "Aye."

The Company began to move, boots crunching against dew-wet grass and old stones. Bilbo, at the back, turned to look over his shoulder. Rivendell shimmered behind him, its towers like pale ghosts in the silver light.

He felt a pang. He wondered what Dúrwen would think, waking to find them gone. He imagined Gandalf’s frustration, perhaps tinged with sorrow. They had left in silence, like thieves.

"Master Baggins," Thorin called without turning. "I suggest you keep up."

Bilbo scowled at Thorin’s back and, with all the maturity he could muster, stuck out his tongue.

"That," came Bofur’s voice beside him, warm with laughter, "was the most childish reaction I've ever seen from you."

Bilbo startled, then chuckled.

Bofur ruffled his curls. "But well earned."

   The Wilderness of Eriador sprawled before them—an untamed land of rolling hills, stony outcrops, and whispering grasses. The Misty Mountains loomed in the far distance, their snow-capped peaks stark against the clear blue sky. It was a cruel illusion. The calm would not last.

Over ranges and rivers they traveled, over waterfalls that fell like silver veils into the dark valleys below. As the Company climbed ever higher, the land beneath them fell away in green and gold, until they were mere specks upon the mountain’s edge. The wind picked up, sharp and cold. The Misty Mountains, once a distant crown upon the horizon, now rose before them like giants of old—silent, implacable, and watching.

The storm came with little warning. First a whisper, then a howl. Rain fell in sheets, soaking through cloaks and beards. Lightning split the sky, forking like angry branches, followed by thunder that seemed to shake the bones in their chests.

Thorin turned, voice lost in the wind but clear in command:

“Hold on!”

The path narrowed to a cruel ribbon carved into the cliffside, with a sheer drop yawning open on one side. The Company trudged forward, heads down, clutching the rock wall as if it might offer mercy.

Bilbo, blinking against the rain, slipped.

The rock beneath his foot crumbled, and he let out a startled yelp. Dwalin was there in a heartbeat, one thick arm catching him around the waist and hauling him back onto solid ground.

“Careful, Master Baggins. You may have large feet, but those are not made of stone,” Dwalin muttered in concern, even as the rain dripped from his beard.

Thorin’s voice rang out again, harsh with urgency. “We must find shelter!”

A sudden roar—not of thunder—echoed above them. Dwalin looked up, and his eyes went wide.

"Look out!"

A massive boulder hurtled through the air, crashing into the mountainside above them and sending a cascade of rocks and debris tumbling down. The dwarves cried out, pressing themselves against the wall, shielding one another.

"This is no thunderstorm," Balin breathed, pointing toward the heavens. "It’s a thunder battle! Look!"

And then they saw them.

Two massive stone giants emerged from the storm-wrapped crags, pulling themselves up from the mountainside like living pieces of the world. One tore a slab of rock free and hurled it across the valley with impossible strength. It crashed into another, who responded with a guttural roar, rising to meet the challenge.

"Well, bless me!" Bofur gasped, clutching his hat. "The legends are true. Giants—stone giants!"

The Company stood frozen, caught in the titanic clash. Rain lashed at their faces. The ground trembled with every blow the giants traded. One of the giants lurched, and the very path the dwarves clung to shuddered and split beneath their feet.

"Take cover! You’ll fall!" Thorin bellowed, grabbing Ori and pulling him close.

Fíli scrambled to reach his brother and Ori. "Ori, grab my hand! You too, Kíli!"

But the path cracked. Oin, Gloin, Kíli, and Thorin were suddenly on a separate ledge, pulled away by the shifting mountain.

Worse yet, the ledge the others clung to was not a ledge at all.

It was the knee of a third stone giant, rising slowly to join the fray.

"We’re standing on it!" Nori shouted in disbelief.

The giant moved. The Company was thrown backwards, then forwards again, scrabbling to hold on. Bilbo lost his grip.

He tumbled, scrabbling at slick stone. His hands found nothing but air until he caught a jagged edge. He dangled there, rain streaming down his face.

The second giant struck the third with a thunderous headbutt. The giant stumbled back into its crevice, disappearing into the mountain as if it had never moved. The tremors stopped.

Thorin leapt across the ledge, heart in his throat.

“Fíli!” he shouted.

But then, from a nearby outcropping, Gloin called out, “It’s alright! They’re alive!”

Cheers of relief rippled through the Company. Bofur turned to scan the area. His brow furrowed.

“Where’s Bilbo?”

He looked over the edge and found him.

“There! He’s down there!”

Bilbo clung to the cliffside, arms trembling. His pack had fallen, lost to the wind. The dwarves rushed to help. Thorin swung down first, grabbing Bilbo beneath the arms and lifting him with surprising strength. Dwalin and Bifur hauled them both up.

Bilbo collapsed onto the stone, gasping, soaked through, his curls plastered to his forehead.

“I thought we’d lost our burglar,” Dwalin said with a huff, kneeling beside him.

But Thorin—Thorin stood above him, face shadowed.

“He’s been lost ever since he left home,” he said, his voice sharp and something more bitter. “He should never have come. He has no place amongst us.”

Bilbo looked up at him, hurt flashing in his eyes.

Thorin turned to the others. “Now, we must find shelter. Move!”

The cave gaped before them, a dark and silent wound in the mountainside. Water dripped somewhere in the shadows, echoing faintly. The air inside was damp and cold, but it was shelter, and after the thunderous chaos of the stone giants, none among them dared complain.

Dwalin stepped forward first, holding a lantern aloft. Its flickering light cast long shadows on the jagged stone walls.

“It looks safe enough,” he muttered, stepping inside with caution. The others began filing in behind him, exhaustion weighing their steps.

Thorin paused at the entrance, his sharp eyes sweeping the interior. “Search to the back. Caves in mountains are seldom unoccupied.”

With a grunt, Dwalin pushed further in, his boots crunching against gravel. He vanished for a moment into the darkness, the glow of the lantern bobbing with his movement.

A tense silence held the Company until Dwalin returned. “There’s nothing here,” he confirmed. “Just old rock.”

Glóin dropped a bundle of kindling onto the stone with a thud. He rubbed his hands together with a hopeful grin. “Right then! Let's get a fire started.”

Thorin’s voice cut through the moment. “No. No fires. Not in this place. Get some sleep. We start at first light.”

Balin looked up from where he was pulling off his damp cloak. “We were to wait in the mountains until Gandalf joined us. That was the plan.”

Thorin’s gaze was unreadable. “Plans change.”

He turned to Bofur, who was unpacking a blanket. “Bofur, take the first watch.”

The dwarves settled in, curling on piles of gear or wrapped in cloaks. Even Thorin lay down, though his eyes remained open for some time, glinting in the darkness.

From the far corner of the cave, Bilbo lay motionless, pretending to sleep. But his eyes blinked open slowly, the weight in his chest pressing tighter. The words Thorin had spoken during the thunder battle echoed over and over in his mind. “He should never have come. He has no place amongst us.”

He swallowed. Carefully, without waking anyone, he rolled up his blanket and packed his few belongings. His little sword hung at his hip. He padded toward the mouth of the cave with soft, guilty footsteps.

“Where do you think you're going?”

Bilbo froze. Bofur had sat up from his post at the cave mouth. His hair was flattened on one side and he blinked sleep from his eyes.

“Back to Rivendell,” Bilbo whispered. “Maybe Dúrwen was right. I should've stayed in the Shire.”

He cursed himself silently. Where’s your courage now, Bilbo? You're so quick to sign the contract but the moment Thorin says you're not worth the journey, you believe him?

“No, no,” Bofur said quickly, rising to his feet. “You can’t turn back now. You’re part of the Company. You're one of us.”

Bilbo looked down. “I’m not, though. Am I? Thorin said I should never have come, and he was right. I’m not a Took. I’m a Baggins. I don’t know what I was thinking, letting Gandalf talk me into this.”

In the shadows, Thorin opened his eyes but remained still.

“You’re homesick,” Bofur offered gently. “I understand.”

“Maybe I am,” Bilbo said, louder than he meant to. “But I didn’t join just because I wanted an adventure! I joined because I thought I could help you. I wanted you to reclaim your home. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m just a hobbit who belongs in his hole, not with dwarves who sleep on rocks and move from place to place, never belonging anywhere.”

Bofur flinched, just a little, his smile fading. Bilbo’s face crumpled in immediate remorse.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “ didn’t mean it like that.”

But Bofur only shook his head and looked around at his slumbering kin. "No. You’re right. We don’t belong anywhere. Not really."

He looked back at Bilbo with a soft smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. “Still, you’re the first hobbit I ever met, and I’m glad I did. I wish you all the luck in the world.”

He reached out and placed a hand on Bilbo's shoulder, giving it a small, warm squeeze. Bilbo nodded, his eyes stinging. He turned away toward the cave entrance.

“What’s that?” Bofur asked.

Bilbo looked down. His sword was glowing a faint, eerie blue.

A deep, rhythmic clicking filled the cave. A sound like grinding gears and scraping stone. The floor began to tremble.

Thorin sat up immediately. “Wake up! Wake up!”

The ground gave a sudden lurch and then a roar. The earth beneath them split open like the maw of some vast beast. Luggage, weapons, and dwarves went tumbling as the floor collapsed into the void below.

The mountains had swallowed them.

Shouts and cries echoed in the dark, bouncing off unseen walls. Bofur’s voice rose above the others—somewhere between laughter and sheer panic. “I told you that cave was too quiet!”

“Shut it, Bofur!” Dwalin barked, trying to brace his bulk against the rapid descent, but the slick rock gave no purchase.

“Where are we going?” Ori cried, clutching his brother’s coat as if it might stop their fall.

“Someplace unpleasant, if I had to wager!” grunted Glóin.

At last, they landed hard on a wooden platform with the groan and snap of timber under weight it had not been built to bear. A splintering crunch sounded beneath Thorin’s boots as he rose first, sword drawn and eyes wild.

But they were not alone.

The goblins came like shadows with teeth, shrieking from the darkness. They swarmed the Company, snatching away axes, swords, knives—anything that glinted or glimmered in the dark.

“Oi!” Bifur roared, swinging a fist. He landed one good punch before a dozen clawed hands dragged him backward.

“Get off me, you stinking rats!” shouted Dori, twisting as two goblins climbed up his back, biting and snarling.

Thorin swung his blade once—twice—before it was knocked from his grip and a cudgel struck the side of his head. He staggered, grimacing, but did not fall.

“Keep together!” he ordered hoarsely. “Don’t let them separate us!”

Amid the chaos, no one noticed the small figure who had not fallen with the others.

Bilbo, by some miracle or quirk of fate, had been thrown onto a stone ledge just beyond the wooden platform. Cloaked in green, small and still, he went unseen by the goblins whose eyes were trained on shinier, noisier prey.

Heart in his throat, Bilbo crawled to the railing. He could just make out the Company being herded down a winding passage, hands bound, weapons gone. Their protests echoed in the gloom.

“Get your hands off me, you filthy slug!” Nori growled, just before a goblin club clipped his shoulder.

Bilbo flinched. He didn’t mean to make a sound, but a strangled gasp escaped him. Nori’s head jerked back—he met Bilbo’s eyes just for a heartbeat, full of surprise and silent warning—then the goblins shoved him forward, and he was gone.

Bilbo exhaled shakily. He stood, drawing his letter opener. The blade shimmered faintly, cold and blue. Goblins were near. Many of them.

He followed.

Silent, careful, like a shadow beneath the mountain, he crept after them, pressed close to the walls. The path narrowed, twisted—then opened to a ledge overlooking a vast pit.

And then—

A screech tore through the stillness. From behind a pillar, a goblin lunged.

Bilbo barely had time to raise his sword. The goblin was small, wiry, and fast. His grin revealed blackened teeth and sharp interest.

"What are you?" it hissed, sniffing the air. "You look soft. Like elf-meat. But smaller. Sweeter."

"N-no," Bilbo stammered, backing away, blade trembling in his hand. "I’m—I’m not—"

"You glow... and those eyes!" The goblin’s expression twisted into something gleeful and deranged. "I want to pluck them out and wear them around my neck!"

It leapt.

Bilbo cried out, swinging wildly. Their bodies collided, tumbling backward—off the ledge, into the pit.

The world became a blur of stone and wind and screaming.

Then darkness.

Then silence.

   The goblins led the Company through a hellish maze of tunnels, ladders, and swaying wooden bridges. The air reeked of rot and oil, thick with the smoke of burning refuse. The sound of iron on stone echoed through the vast, winding passages, along with snarls and laughter that made even Dwalin’s hardened skin crawl. Thousands of goblins leered from the shadows, lining the railings and crevices like vultures awaiting a feast.

Their weapons had been ripped from them the moment they’d landed, and now they were marched with rough shoves and jeers, bruised and grim-faced, into a monstrous chamber far beneath the mountains—the very heart of Goblin-town.

It was vast, lit by firepits and burning torches jammed into skull-shaped sconces. Rickety scaffolds and crooked rope bridges spanned the air like cobwebs spun by madmen. In the center sat a grotesque monstrosity, half-slumped on a throne cobbled from the bones of dwarves and beasts alike. His skin sagged like melted wax over swollen limbs, and he leaned on a mace crowned with a shriveled skull as he coughed and wheezed.

The Great Goblin.

With a voice as greasy as his appearance, he barked, "Who would be so bold as to come armed into my kingdom? Spies? Thieves? Assassins?"

Grinnah, a wiry goblin with yellow teeth and cruel eyes, stepped forward and bowed.

"Dwarves, your malevolence."

The Great Goblin’s eyes widened with wicked delight. "Dwarves?"

Grinnah gestured proudly. "We found them on the Front Porch."

The Great Goblin cackled. "Well, don’t just stand there like limp mushrooms! Search them! Every crack, every crevice!"

A swarm of goblins descended upon the Company, yanking at their coats and prodding with sharp fingers. Thorin snarled as a goblin pried open his pack. Ori yelped as his journal was flung into a brazier. Óin let out a howl as a goblin snatched his hearing trumpet and stomped it beneath a gnarled foot.

"That was my grandfather’s!" Óin roared, elbowing the offending goblin before three others piled on him.

"Savages," Bofur muttered, holding onto his hat with both hands.

The Great Goblin waddled down the steps with surprising speed, his many chins jiggling. "What are you doing in these parts, hmm? Plotting rebellion? Hunting treasure?"

No one answered.

He scowled. "Very well. If they will not talk, we’ll make them squawk! Bring out the mangler! Bring out the bone breaker!"

A horrible, metallic screech echoed as two hulking goblins dragged in wicked contraptions from the shadows. Ropes, spikes, and wheels designed to twist and snap bones.

The Great Goblin jabbed a finger. "Start with the youngest."

Ori’s eyes went wide as goblins surged toward him.

“You will not break his bones! You’ll have to break mine first!” Fíli snarled, stepping in front of Ori, eyes burning with fury.

Thorin stepped forward, his voice ringing clear despite the surrounding chaos. “Wait.”

The Great Goblin halted, lips curling into a hideous grin. “Well, well, well. Look who it is! Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór! King Under the Mountain.”

He gave a mocking bow, wobbling dramatically.

“Oh, but I’m forgetting,” he sneered. “You don’t have a mountain. And you’re not a king. Which makes you nobody, really. But I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head. Just the head, mind you. Perhaps you know of whom I speak? An old enemy of yours. A pale Orc... astride a white Warg.”

Thorin’s breath caught. The name nearly left his lips unbidden.

“Azog the Defiler was destroyed,” he said, more to convince himself than anyone else. "He was slain in battle long ago. I saw him fall."

The Great Goblin wheezed with amusement. “So you think his defiling days are done, do you?”

He gestured to a shriveled scribe sitting in a swinging basket suspended above the throne.

“Send word to the Pale Orc. Tell him I have found his prize.”

The scribe scratched furiously on a slate, then yanked a lever. With a rattle of chains and a puff of sulfurous smoke, the basket vanished down into the depths of the mountain.

Dwalin growled low in his throat. Balin stood silent, eyes narrowed. Ori clutched Fíli’s sleeve, his hands trembling. And Thorin... Thorin stared into the shadows, as though trying to see through time itself. As if hoping the past would correct itself, and the dead would remain dead.

But in the deeps of the mountain, nothing stayed buried for long.

Darkness, dense and suffocating, pressed in on all sides. Bilbo stirred in a thick patch of pale-capped mushrooms, his limbs aching from the fall, his heart thudding like a frightened drumbeat in his chest. The world was wet and still, the walls of the cave looming like the ribcage of some long-dead beast.

He groaned softly, the sound barely more than a breath. Nearby, a goblin lay crumpled, gasping wetly, ribs rising and falling with shallow, rattling breaths. Bilbo could barely recall the struggle—steel on steel, panic in his throat, a shout and a tumble into the chasm. The goblin hadn’t died. Yet.

And then—movement. A shape, slinking from the shadows, gliding across the stone like something half-formed, half-forgotten. Bilbo held his breath.

“Yes, yes, yes…”

The creature coughed, a rasping, hollow sound that echoed in the deep. Bilbo's eyes widened as it came into the dim circle of fungal glow, revealing something both pitiable and monstrous.

“Gollum. Gollum.”

It—he?—circled the goblin with a giddy sort of hunger. Bilbo sank lower, barely daring to breathe. The goblin twitched.

With a sudden screech, it sprang up, seizing Gollum’s scrawny arms. There was a flurry of motion—grunting, snarling, a glint of teeth—and then Gollum grabbed a jagged stone and brought it crashing down upon the goblin’s skull. Once. Twice. Again.

From the frayed leather of Gollum’s loincloth, something fell. A glimmer. A golden ring.

It struck the stone floor with a soft, almost apologetic thud.

Gollum, heedless, dragged the unconscious goblin away with trembling delight.

 “Nasty goblinses. Better than old bones, precious. Better than nothing!”

The strange creature vanished around a corner, his voice echoing back in a high, manic cackle. Bilbo, heart hammering, finally dared to move. He stumbled upright and reached for his sword where it had fallen, glowing faintly with its eerie blue light.

The blade’s glow illuminated the ring. So small. So unassuming.

Bilbo knelt slowly. He picked it up, turning it over between two fingers. It was warm. Oddly so. There was no inscription that he could see, but he felt—something. A tug, not of metal but of marrow. It was a feeling like standing too close to a precipice.

Gollum’s voice carried from deeper in the cavern.

 “Too many boneses, precious. Not enough flesh!”

“Shut up! Get its skin off. Start with its head.”

Bilbo blinked. The voice had changed, split in two. One trembling and pathetic, the other snarling and cruel. His grip tightened around the sword hilt as he tucked the ring into his pocket. No time to think about it now.

He followed the echo of that unearthly voice, creeping along the wall, every footstep as quiet as he could make it. He rounded the bend and saw it—Gollum—perched like a grotesque gargoyle on a rock in the middle of a still black lake.

In his arms, the goblin corpse. It started singing.

“The cold hard lands, They bites our hands, They gnaws our feet. The rocks and stones, They’re like old bones, All bare of meat. Cold as death, They have no breath, Its good to eat...”

Suddenly the goblin jerked awake, a last gasp of fury. But Gollum was quicker. Another stone, another blow. Silence.

The glow of Bilbo’s sword betrayed him. Gollum’s pale eyes flashed toward the light.

“What is—?”

Bilbo dove behind a boulder, the sword’s glow slowly fading as the threat passed. He waited, breath caught in his throat. When he dared to peek over the rock, the lake was still.

Gollum was gone.

Fear crawled up Bilbo’s spine. He clutched the sword, willing his knees not to shake. Then, fumbling through his pack, he found it—his compass. The silver one with the Elvish script around the rim, a farewell gift from Rivendell.

His thumb traced its smooth lid. He breathed.

“I have to find them,” he whispered. “I have to find the Company.”

   The lake was black glass, disturbed only by the faint ripples that trailed behind the emaciated figure paddling across its surface. Gollum, bone-thin and hunched, sat upon a crude wooden boat. He used his long-fingered hands as oars, dipping them silently into the water with surprising grace for such a ghastly form. A luminous sheen clung to his slick skin, the only brightness in a chamber swallowed by shadow.

Bilbo crouched low behind the boulder, his breaths shallow and rapid. Every inhalation tasted like damp stone and rot. His heart pounded like a hammer on dwarven anvils. He dared not move, hardly dared to blink.

Then—a sound.

A scuff. A scrape.

From above.

Bilbo’s eyes widened as he tilted his head. Fingers, long and skeletal, curled over the top of the rock. A moment later, Gollum flopped down in front of him with alarming speed, landing in a squatting crouch like a grotesque spider.

“Bless us and splash us, precious!” the creature cooed, eyes wide and glistening. “That's a meaty mouthful!”

He advanced with a twitchy hunger in his limbs. Bilbo scrambled back, instinct overriding fear. The point of his sword shot upward, aimed at Gollum's throat.

The creature halted immediately.

“Gollum. Gollum.”

“I said stay back!” Bilbo barked, voice unsteady but gaining resolve. “I-I mean it! I’ll use this!”

Gollum's yellow eyes flicked to the sword. His expression twisted into something fascinated and revolted.

“It’s got an elvish blade, it does,” he crooned. “But it’s not an elf’s. No, no. Not an elf’s, precious. But it glows... it glows!”

Bilbo made a face. “Everyone keeps saying that,” he muttered, half to himself. “The trolls, elves, dwarves, the goblins… Does everything that glows automatically mean I’m food or dangerous?”

Gollum tilted his head, confused by the grumbling.

“What is it, precious? What is it?”

“My name is Bilbo Baggins,” he said carefully, still holding his sword firm. “Of the Shire.”

“Bagginses? What is a Bagginses, precious?”

“I’m a hobbit.”

Gollum’s grin widened obscenely.

“Ohh, we likes goblinses, batses, and fishes… but we’s never had hobbitses before, precious. Is it soft? Is it juicy?”

The creature edged closer, saliva glistening at the corners of his cracked mouth.

“Now, now, back! Stay back!” Bilbo warned, the tip of his letter opener trembling slightly. “I said I’ll use this!”

Gollum’s snarl echoed through the cavern like the howl of a wolf. Bilbo flinched, but didn’t step back.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Bilbo said, voice lowering but firm. “Do you understand? I don’t want your… fish, or your goblin meat, and I also don’t want to hurt you. Let me go. I’ll leave you to your darkness.”

He clutched the compass in his free hand, its silver surface cold, comforting. The parting gift from Rivendell, meant to guide lost travelers back to light.

“Why?” Gollum asked curiously. “Is it lost?”

“Yes,” Bilbo admitted, quietly. “Yes, I suppose I am. And I want to be un-lost as soon as possible.”

Gollum's demeanor changed. His eyes widened with a childlike delight.

“Oh! We knows! We knows safe paths for hobbitses, we does!”

“Shut up!”

The shift was abrupt. Bilbo stepped back, startled.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Wasn’t talking to you,” Gollum hissed.

He crouched low behind a stone, muttering.

“Well, yes, we was, precious, we was,” said Smeagol, gentler, kinder.

Bilbo frowned deeply. “I… what game are you playing at?”

“Games?” Smeagol perked up, nearly bouncing. “Games! We loves games, don’t we, precious? Loves them. Does it like games?” He turned back to Bilbo, eyes eager. “Does it? Does it? Does it like to play?”

Bilbo blinked. “Maybe?”

Smeagol clapped his hands together with a crack of knobby fingers. Without waiting for further confirmation, he launched into a riddle:

“What has roots as nobody sees,

Is taller than trees,

Up, up, up it goes,

And yet never grows?”

Bilbo hesitated. The riddle stirred a memory—a lesson from his youth, perhaps, or one of his father’s books.

“A mountain,” he said at last.

Smeagol cackled, hopping in place.

“Yessss! Mountain, precious! Clever little hobbitses!” Smeagol squealed, clapping his withered hands in glee. His pale eyes shone like lanterns. “Oh, let's have another one! Come on, do it again, ask us!”

But another voice snarled from within—rougher, rasping, ancient with hunger.

“No! No more riddles! Finish him off! Finish him now! Gollum! Gollum!”

The creature lunged, its claws flashing in the low light, but Bilbo threw up a hand, voice rising in panic.

“No! No—wait!” he gasped. “I want to play, I do!”

That stilled the thing. Smeagol blinked, tottering forward like a hopeful child.

“Play?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, breathing hard. “I can see you’re very good at this. So why don’t we have a game of riddles, just you and me?”

“Just us?” Smeagol whispered.

“Yes,” said Bilbo, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice. “And if I win, you let me pass.”

There was a pause—pregnant, perilous. Gollum’s face twisted as he crouched low behind a slick black stone, arguing with himself in gurgling whispers.

“And if it loses, precious? What then?”

“If it loses,” Smeagol hissed, eyes narrowing with glee, “then we eats it.”

He popped up again, his grin full of jagged teeth. “If Baggins loses, we eats it whole.”

Bilbo’s throat tightened, a lump of cold fear catching in his chest. Slowly, he sheathed his sword.

“Fair enough,” he said, voice tight.

Smeagol bounced where he stood, excitement bubbling up in his bones.

“Well then, Baggins first!”

Bilbo swallowed and took a breath, trying to recall something—anything—from childhood tales or long nights beside the hearth.

“Thirty white horses on a red hill. First they champ, then they stamp, then they stand still.”

Smeagol’s eyes rolled back as he muttered, pacing, twitching. Finally, he cackled, baring the yellowed remnants of his teeth.

“Teeth! It’s teeth, yessss! But we… we only have nine!”

He opened his mouth wide in a grotesque display, and Bilbo recoiled, stomach turning.

“Our turn,” Smeagol crooned. “Voiceless it cries, wingless flutters, toothless bites, mouthless mutters.”

The riddle struck Bilbo like a stone. He frowned, watching the still black waters of the lake. A breeze, cool and unexpected, rippled across its surface. His face lit up.

“Wind,” he said. “It’s wind. Of course it is!”

Gollum snarled, slapping the stone. “Very clever, hobbitses. Very clever.”

He slithered forward again, pacing, snarling softly.

Bilbo, emboldened, gave another. “A box without hinges, key, or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid.”

Smeagol froze. His face scrunched up like a spoiled fruit.

“Box… no key… no lid…” He walked in circles, claws clenched, muttering. Then, with sudden glee, he shouted, “Eggses! Eggs, precious! We loves them raw, we does. Grandmother taught us to suck them, yesss!”

Another bat squealed from the cavern ceiling. Bilbo flinched and looked up, just for a second. When he looked back down, Smeagol was gone.

His voice, however, lingered.

“We has one for you now. All things it devours—birds, beasts, trees and flowers. Gnaws iron, bites steel, grinds hard stones to meal.”

Bilbo’s heart leapt. He paced in a tight circle around the rock, sword raised, head down.

“Answer us!” Gollum hissed.

“Give me a moment, please!” Bilbo snapped, his tone sharper than intended. “I gave you a good long while.”

The silence that followed was worse than Gollum’s growls.

Bilbo’s brow furrowed, his mind racing. Devours everything… even stone? Even steel?

“Is it tasty?” Gollum asked suddenly, the sound of him coming closer. “Is it scrumptious? Is it crunchable?”

Before Bilbo could react, Gollum was behind him—claws brushing the collar of his jacket. He jumped, nearly dropping his sword.

“Let me think!” he barked, backing away.

Smeagol watched, giddy. “It’s stuck. Bagginses is stuck.”

Bilbo stopped, frozen in his tracks. And then—he smiled.

“Time,” he said, quietly at first. Then louder. “The answer is time.” He cleared his throat and tried for confidence. “Actually, it wasn’t that hard.”

The cave held its breath.

And Gollum snarled, deep and terrible, as the shadows themselves seemed to ripple around him

   The heavy clang of iron and the grinding of crude wheels echoed through the vast, cavernous chamber. Dozens of goblins surged into the throne room, hauling with them hideous contraptions: racks and wheels, hooks and brands, instruments crafted not for war, but for agony. The foul stench of unwashed bodies and scorched bone wafted through the air, thick as rot. Above it all, prancing on his grotesque throne of bones and iron, was the Great Goblin.

With a flourish of his flabby arms, he burst into a horrid, tuneless chant.

“Bones will be shattered, necks will be wrung—

You'll be beaten and battered, from racks you'll be hung!

You will die down here and never be found,

Down in the deep of Goblin-town!”

A chorus of jeers and clanging metal greeted the song. The dwarves stood huddled, surrounded, the flickering torchlight casting long, jagged shadows on their weary faces.

A goblin with beady yellow eyes snatched up Nori’s pack and upended it. The clatter of silver against stone drew every eye: a cascade of elven forks, gleaming like moonlight, tumbled to the floor.

Nori raised his hands, defensive. “Just for keepsakes.”

Disbelief radiated from the Company.

“Keepsakes?!” growled Dwalin.

“They’re antiques! Valuable antiques!” Nori protested. “Family heirlooms! Sort of.”

Bofur arched a brow. “How many ‘heirlooms’ fit in that pack, Nori?“

The goblins didn’t care. They were more interested in weapons—and one in particular.

Grinnah, the chief torturer, drew Orcrist a few inches from its sheath. The blade shimmered with a cold, pale light. Grinnah gasped and stumbled back as if burned. He flung the weapon away with a scream. It skittered across the floor and landed with a clang in the center of the room.

Every goblin went still.

“I know that sword!” roared the Great Goblin, lurching to his feet. His folds of fat jiggled as he pointed a trembling finger. “It is the Goblin-cleaver! The Biter! The blade that sliced a thousand necks!”

Chaos erupted.

Grinnah’s horde drew jagged blades and swung clubs. The dwarves were beaten to their knees beneath a storm of blows. Boots struck ribs, clubs slammed into backs.

“Slash them! Beat them! Kill them!” howled the Great Goblin. He jabbed a finger at Thorin. “Cut off his head!”

Goblins surged forward, pinning Thorin down. A cruel knife gleamed in the firelight, poised to strike.

And then—

A shockwave of white fire burst through the chamber. Blinding, searing. It tore through the goblins and their infernal devices, scattering them like leaves before a gale. The dwarves were thrown to the stone floor as if by a great wind. When the light faded, a tall shadow stood at the heart of the ruin.

Gandalf. Cloaked in grey, sword in one hand, staff in the other.

And beside him—Dúrwen, clad in ranger's garb, her sword raised, her shaggy hair snapped like a whip in the air.

Dori blinked up at them, dazed. “I didn’t think I’d be happy to see that ranger again.”

The goblins groaned and twitched. Dúrwen’s eyes swept the chamber as she stepped forward, slicing down an orc that dared rise. Her blade found throats with elegant precision.

“Take up arms!” Gandalf commanded. ”Fight! Fight!”

The dwarves scrambled to their feet. Swords and axes were flung across the floor—Kíli snatched up his bow and sword, Dwalin his axes. Bofur swung his mattock in a deadly arc.

The Great Goblin shrieked, pointing. ”He wields the Foe-hammer! The Beater, bright as daylight!”

The Company charged. War cries burst from their throats. Kíli leapt forward, slicing two goblins down. Black blood sprayed in arcs. He turned—only to trip over the fallen. The Great Goblin lunged, mace raised high. Thorin roared and blocked the blow, steel meeting steel with a thunderous ring.

With a cowardly howl, the Great Goblin stumbled backward—and plummeted off the edge of the platform, his scream fading into the abyss below.

“Thorn!” Gandalf barked.

She nodded once and turned, loosing an arrow that struck a goblin between the eyes.

“Follow me! Quick! Run!”

They ran, sprinting down the winding, creaking bridges of Goblin-town. Behind them, hordes gave chase.

“Faster!”

“Push forward!”

“Watch the edge!”

“Cut the ropes!”

“Bofur, grab Bombur!”

“Jump!”

Dúrwen spun mid-sprint, loosed three arrows, and felled the nearest goblins.

Then—the Great Goblin reappeared.

“You thought you could escape me?” he snarled, blocking the narrow path. “What now, wizard?”

Gandalf lunged. Glamdring flashed—he sliced deep into the goblin’s belly.

And Dúrwen finished it. She vaulted, fluid as a hawk in flight, and with a swift, merciless stroke, beheaded the monster.

Óin groaned from the rear, voice dry: “Thorn, you do realize that by beheading their king, the goblins will only become more enraged, do you?”

But before the dwarves could respond, the floor gave way beneath them.

They fell. Tumbled. Screamed.

When the world stopped spinning, Bofur groaned. “Well, that could’ve been worse.”

A massive squelch.

The Great Goblin’s corpse landed atop them.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Dwalin wheezed.

But there was no time for humor. Above them, goblins gathered. Crawling like spiders. Their red eyes gleamed in the dark.

“Gandalf!”

“There’s too many!” Fíli shouted.

“We can’t fight them,” Dwalin said grimly. He reached down and helped Nori to his feet.

Fíli turned, searching. “Ori?”

But Dori was already there, clutching his younger brother close. “I’ve got him.”

Dúrwen helped Óin and Balin to their feet, then drew her bow and turned toward the goblins.

Gandalf raised his staff. “Only one thing will save us now, daylight!”

The Company surged forward again.

“Come on!”

“This way!”

“On your feet!”

They ran into the dark, the path uncertain, but the light of escape glimmering ahead.

And behind them, the fury of Goblin-town rose like a tide, hungry and unrelenting.

Chapter Text

06.

   The cavern pulsed with damp, living silence, the glimmering lake lapping at the stones with a patient pulse. Bilbo stood still, heart galloping in his chest, his mind spiraling as he tried to think—tried to conjure one last riddle that might save him.

Gollum loomed nearby, skeletal and taut with expectation. Behind his back, one hand crept toward a jagged rock, curling around it like a pale claw.

“Last question,” Gollum rasped, voice thick with hunger and anticipation. “Last chance, precious.”

Bilbo’s fingers trembled at his sides. He glanced down and, without meaning to, brushed the edge of his pocket. The ring. He still hadn’t told Gollum about the ring.

And then he felt something else—an idea blooming in his mind. Cool and fragrant, like a memory. He let his fingers trail over the valerian root he’d coaxed into existence with the same subtle magic that had once helped a hobbit grow herbs in a sleepy garden.

He looked up. “Yes, yes, all right.”

Bilbo wandered to the edge of the bank, gazing out over the still water. His voice, soft but firm, cut through the gloom.

“What have I got in my pocket?”

Gollum froze.

“That’s not fair!” Smeagol shrieked, the voice that whined from somewhere deeper and smaller than Gollum’s usual menace. “That’s not fair, it’s against the rules!”

The rock hit the stone floor with a clatter as Gollum threw it down, enraged. Bilbo flinched.

“Ask us another one!” Smeagol cried.

Bilbo took a step forward, shaking his head. “No, no. You said ‘ask me a question.’ And I did. What have I got in my pocket?”

Gollum hissed, eyes narrowing to slits. “Three guesses, precious. It must give us three!”

“Very well,” Bilbo said with forced calm. “Three guesses. Guess away.”

Gollum’s eyes darted toward Bilbo’s coat, his belt, his hands.

“Handses!” he cried.

Bilbo quickly drew back, pulling his hands from his pockets. “Wrong. Guess again.”

Gollum crouched low, muttering to himself in furious sibilants. He slapped the stone floor with the flat of his hand, again and again, a child denied a toy.

“Knife!” he barked suddenly.

“Oh, shut up,” Gollum hissed at himself.

Bilbo raised a brow. “Wrong again. Last guess.”

Gollum’s eyes rolled wildly. “String! Or nothing!”

Bilbo looked down at him with both pity and dread. “Two guesses at once. Wrong, both times.”

Smeagol collapsed, a heap of misery, sobbing into the stones. But Gollum rose.

“Come on then, I won the game. You promised to let me pass... peacefully.”

He turned his back, voice slippery as oil. “Did we say so, precious? Did we say so?”

Bilbo stood still. “You did. You promised to let me go.”

Gollum turned, his gaze blazing like twin lanterns in the dark.

“What has it got in its pocketses?”

Bilbo reached into his pocket—not for the ring, but for the root. He held it out in a trembling hand. “This. Valerian root. It calms the nerves. Helps you sleep.”

Gollum scuttled forward, nostrils flaring. He sniffed it once, twice, then grinned—a twisted, toothy thing. But even as he grinned, he reached to his side. His expression darkened.

“Where is it?” he muttered. “Where is it? No! No! YOU STOLE IT!”

Bilbo’s confusion lasted a mere heartbeat.

“What? I don’t—”

But Gollum was already lunging.

Bilbo stumbled backward and fell, the air punched from his lungs. His hand slipped—and the Ring flew from his pocket, spinning into the air like a dropped coin.

It fell.

Onto his finger.

And the world changed.

Everything slowed. The cavern dimmed to greyscale, sounds muffled like echoes through thick wool. Bilbo’s breath rasped in his ears as he looked around. Gollum clawed at the ground nearby, disoriented, sniffing, snarling.

“Thief! Bagginses! Thief!”

He stumbled, then faltered. His eyes drooped. The valerian root, still clutched in his clawed hand, had taken effect. Gollum crumpled with a rasping sigh.

Bilbo didn’t waste time. Shaking, he scrambled to his feet, the world still blurred and colorless around him. He clutched the Ring tighter, feeling its strange warmth pulse against his skin.

In the distance, he saw motion—shadows. Familiar figures. A voice like a horn call, firm and commanding.

“Hurry! This way! Keep together!”

Gandalf.

Bilbo’s heart leapt. He stumbled forward, trying to cry out, but no sound escaped his mouth. The Ring smothered his voice. He watched in despair as the Company rushed through the tunnel ahead, armed, battered, but alive.

“I’m here!" he tried to yell. “Gandalf!”

But the words were swallowed whole by the Ring’s veil.

Tears stung his eyes as he ran, his small feet barely making a sound. Gollum groaned behind him, still dreaming twisted dreams beneath the calming influence of the root.

Bilbo didn’t look back.

He ran.

Out of the tunnels.

Out of the dark.

Into the afternoon.

And daylight.

Still cloaked by the veil of the Ring, Bilbo bolted down the stony mountainside, breath ragged, heart hammering in his chest like a wardrum. His legs were sore, lungs aching, but he dared not slow. The afternoon sun spilled like golden wine over the jagged rocks ahead, and far below, he could make out the Company—just shapes and colors at first, then figures he recognized, dwarves clustered around Gandalf in confusion. His friends. His purpose.

Far ahead, Gandalf was already counting heads, tension in every line of his tall frame.

“Eight, nine, ten, eleven, Bombur—that makes twelve. And Kíli, thirteen.”

The wizard turned, scanning the mountain pass behind them. His brows knit together. “Where is our hobbit?”

Before any of the dwarves could answer, a blur of motion broke from the group. Dúrwen, face grim as storm clouds, strode up to Thorin and seized him by the collar of his coat, dragging him eye-to-eye.

“Where is he?” she growled, voice low and cold as mountain ice.

The dwarves recoiled in alarm, a few of them reaching for weapons. Dwalin stepped forward, axe half-raised.

“Back off, Ranger.”

Dúrwen hesitated, jaw taut, then released Thorin with a shove. “I swear to the Valar, Oakenshield, if you don’t tell me where he is—”

Behind the twisted trunk of a pine tree, Bilbo watched, invisible, heart caught in his throat. To see Dúrwen—his fierce, elusive protector—threatening Thorin, of all people, for his sake…

Thorin straightened his coat, brushed at his collar as if to restore his dignity, then spat his next words like venom.

“Why don’t you tell them, Bofur? Go on. Tell them how the hobbit planned to abandon us, to run back to the tree-shaggers’ halls like the coward he is.”

Bilbo flinched. A blade to the gut would have been kinder.

“He’s not a coward!” Fíli blurted out, sunlight catching in his golden hair. “Uncle, he saved us from the trolls. You were there, remember? He stalled them. Risked himself.”

Thorin turned on his nephew, scowl deepening. “You know nothing of loyalty, nephew of mine.”

“No,” Dúrwen snapped, stepping between them, eyes blazing. “You don’t deserve a hobbit in your company. You have no idea how important he is, how rare. He was meant to be safe. And yet he chose this—this foolish, ambiguous quest. For your sake.”

“Enough!” Gandalf’s voice cracked like thunder, silencing them all. “Where did you last see him?”

Nori raised a hand half-heartedly. “I think I saw him slip away when they first cornered us.”

The wizard’s expression darkened, panic simmering beneath the surface.

“What happened exactly? Tell me!”

Thorin’s arms folded tight across his chest. “I’ll tell you what happened. Master Baggins saw his chance and took it. He’s thought of nothing but Rivendell since they doted on him like a treasured pet. He is long gone.”

Behind the tree, Bilbo sagged, gutted. Was that truly how Thorin saw him? A coward. A deserter. Just another outsider the dwarves would discard once he’d served his purpose.

“I’ll go back for him,” Dúrwen said suddenly, turning toward the cave entrance.

“Are you mad?!” came the chorus from the dwarves.

“My loyalty lies with the hobbit,” she said, resolute.

And that was when Bilbo could bear it no longer.

He pulled off the Ring.

With a shimmer, he appeared behind them, breathless and pale.

“No, don’t,” he said.

The dwarves whipped around. Gandalf’s eyes lit up in shock and relief.

“Bilbo Baggins! I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life!”

Bilbo stepped forward, and the Company encircled him with stunned disbelief.

“Bilbo! We’d given you up!” Kíli exclaimed.

“How on earth did you get past the goblins?” Fíli asked, eyes wide.

“How, indeed,” Dwalin grumbled, arms crossed.

Bilbo gave a weak, nervous laugh, slipping the Ring quietly into his pocket.

Gandalf, already sensing more than he let on, merely smiled and placed a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. “Well, what does it matter? He’s back.”

“It matters,” Thorin said. His voice was low, but it carried like distant thunder. “I want to know: why did you come back?”

Bilbo swallowed hard. Curse the butterflies in his stomach, curse the heat that rose to his face every time Thorin looked at him like that—stern and battle-worn and... infuriatingly handsome.

He met Thorin’s gaze, took a breath, and spoke.

“Look, I know you doubt me. You always have and you’re not wrong to. I know how you resent the Elves… how they turned their backs when you needed them most.”

He paused, his gaze steady and unflinching as he met Thorin’s eyes.

“But I can’t share that anger. I do adore them. They were my mother’s friends. They were kind to me.”

Bilbo glanced down, swallowing hard. His voice softened.

“I think about Bag End more than I’d like to admit. I miss my books, my armchair, the smell of my garden after rain… That’s where I belong. That’s home.”

He looked up again, and this time there was a quiet fire behind his words.

“But you don’t have a home. Not anymore. It was taken from you. And I... I want to help you get it back. If I can. I will.”

The dwarves stared at him, silent.

Gandalf's smile deepened, quiet and proud.

Then, gently, a hand touched Bilbo’s shoulder from behind. He turned.

Dúrwen stood there, fierce and wind-tossed, her eyes surprisingly soft.

“I will not let you out of my sight again,” she said.

Bilbo blinked, surprised. Then nodded.

Somewhere in the distance, a raven cried, circling overhead. And the sun dipped lower, painting the mountains in hues of fire and shadow. The journey had not ended. 

The howling of Wargs tore through the crisp mountain air like a shriek of death itself. High above on the cliff’s edge, the pale and monstrous figure of Azog the Defiler sat astride his grotesque Warg, an abomination as white and scarred as its rider. The heavy scent of blood and ash clung to them like a second skin. Azog raised his steel-forged arm and pointed down the slope.

“Run them down! Tear them to pieces!” he snarled in the Black Speech, his voice like gravel underfoot. 

At once, his troop of mounted Orcs erupted into motion, their jet-black Wargs surging down the mountain with thunderous speed, howls rising like a war chant.

Far below, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield heard the dreadful sound.

“Out of the frying pan—” Thorin began.

“—And into the fire,” Gandalf finished grimly. “Run. RUN! Go!”

The Company fled into the sparse woodland at the mountain’s edge. Behind them, the snarls and pounding paws of Wargs closed in. Dúrwen threw a glance over her shoulder, catching sight of the pale banner of Azog.

“Bilbo! Stay close to me!” she shouted, grabbing his wrist and hauling him forward.

The ground narrowed to a cliff face with nowhere left to run. Panic spread like fire among the dwarves.

“Climb!” Gandalf barked. “Into the trees, now! Bilbo, climb! Quickly! They’re coming!”

The dwarves scrambled upward, grasping for limbs and branches. Dwalin cursed as his axe caught on a root. Kíli and Fíli hauled each other up, panting and wild-eyed.

Dúrwen threw Bilbo into the crook of a tree, then leapt up beside him, her bow already in hand.

Below, Wargs snarled and circled, snapping at the trunks, their riders jeering and spitting curses.

Then he came— Azog, atop his pale monstrosity, gliding like a ghost through the chaos. His eyes locked with Thorin’s.

“Azog,” Thorin breathed, the name falling from his lips like a stone.

Azog grinned, exposing jagged teeth. “Do you smell it? The scent of fear? I remember your father reeked of it, Thorin son of Thráin.”

Thorin’s face darkened. “It cannot be…”

Azog pointed his steel claw toward him. “That one is mine. Kill the others.”

The ground trembled as Wargs leapt and snapped. One tree shuddered under the weight of dwarves and began to tilt.

“They’re toppling us!” Bofur cried.

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed. He caught sight of a small moth fluttering beside him, delicate wings glinting. He reached out, whispering ancient words, sending the tiny creature skyward with a prayer.

“Hold your ground!” Dwalin bellowed, smashing a Warg’s muzzle with the butt of his axe.

Gandalf lit a pinecone with a burst of fire and hurled it into the pack. Flames erupted. Wargs screamed.

“Fíli! Catch!” he cried, tossing another. Fíli grinned grimly and hurled it down.

Balin, laughing despite himself, set a third alight. “If we’re to die, at least we’ll give them a proper bonfire!”

Cheers erupted among the dwarves as they tossed flaming pinecones down. For a moment, they held.

Then—

Crack.

One of the trees lurched forward, the roots ripping from the earth. Branches bent and dwarves screamed. Thorin dangled from a limb over the abyss. Ori clung to Dori, both white with fear.

Bilbo’s heart slammed in his chest. He looked to Dúrwen—her eyes wide with terror, but not for herself.

“I’m doing it,” Bilbo whispered, half to himself.

“What?” Dúrwen turned to him. Then she saw it.

His skin shimmered faintly, a glow beneath his garments. He raised his hands toward the trembling earth.

“I’ll make it look like Gandalf,” Bilbo muttered. “They won’t know.”

“No—Bilbo!” Dúrwen hissed, trying to shield him with her cloak. “Where’s your cloak?!”

He ignored her. The ground beneath the trees began to ripple. From the soil, massive vines burst forth, winding up and around the roots and trunks. The dwarves gasped as the vines slithered to meet them, curling like arms to cradle the ones hanging over the edge.

“Vines! Look at the vines!” Ori shrieked, awe overtaking fear.

Bilbo’s face was strained, his fingers trembling. Sweat beaded his brow. “I’m really tired of people saying I’m glowing,” he muttered, breathless.

“Because you are glowing, you reckless—!” Dúrwen began, then faltered. She stepped in front of him again, shielding him with her body. “Rest, I’ve got you.”

Kíli blinked down. “Is it Gandalf doing that?”

“Looks more like an Entwife than a wizard,” Bofur commented, eyes wide.

“Maybe the trees like us after all,” Glóin muttered.

“I’m not climbing again if the forest does the work,” Nori grinned, clutching a branch now supported by a thick vine.

Thorin, still hanging precariously, stared through the chaos— at Bilbo.

He saw the hobbit’s face: flushed, focused, resolute.

The vines still writhed on the scorched earth, curling protectively around the dwarves who had moments ago dangled on the brink of death. The ground was scorched and littered with smoking pinecones, the air thick with the stink of burnt fur and orcish rot. The Wargs howled in retreat, pacing just beyond reach of the fire. For now, the dwarves were safe.

Thorin Oakenshield rose from where the vine had set him down, Orcrist in one hand, his mighty oaken shield strapped to the other. The wind tugged at his hair, and the firelight caught fiery in his cerulean eyes. He looked upon his Company—alive, weary, bruised, but alive—then set his eyes on Azog.

The pale orc loomed from atop his monstrous Warg, eyes burning like coals in a snow-covered skull.

Thorin’s jaw tightened. He would finish what he had started.

He began to descend the ledge alone, boots crunching over the splintered remains of pine and rock. He looked, in that moment, very much like a king.

Bilbo’s breath caught. Foolish Thorin. Brave, stupid, glorious Thorin.

“Thorin, no!” Balin shouted, scrambling after him only to be pulled back by Dwalin.

“What’s he doing?! He’s mad!” Fíli snarled, drawing a blade.

“He means to face Azog alone,” Kíli whispered, wide-eyed.

The Company could only watch in helpless horror.

Thorin charged. The Warg leapt. Steel clashed with bone and blood. But Thorin, though fierce, was only one dwarf. Azog met him blow for blow with terrifying ease. Their clash was brutal and brief—too brief. Orcrist flew from Thorin’s grip, and the great pale Warg slammed into him, throwing him like a ragdoll.

“Thorin!” Dwalin’s voice cracked with fear.

Azog turned to one of his foot soldiers.

“Bring me the Dwarf’s head,” he growled in Black Speech.

Bilbo’s blood ran cold. He couldn’t move for a heartbeat. Couldn’t think. Then he turned. The others—his friends—were safe. The vines had done their work. But Thorin…

He met Dúrwen’s eyes.

“Bilbo...” she whispered. There was warning in her voice, and grief.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo murmured.

He raised his hand again. Another vine, thick and strong, slithered toward Dúrwen, wrapping gently but firmly around her legs to hold her back.

“Bilbo, don’t—!” she tried to reach him, but the vine pulled taut.

He unsheathed his little sword, its blade aglow with the warning shimmer of orcish proximity. Determined, terrified, trembling with something other than fear, Bilbo broke into a sprint.

“Bilbo, no!” Bofur shouted. “What are you—come back!”

Ori gasped. “Is he mad?!”

The orc lifted his blade above Thorin’s unconscious form—

—and Bilbo tackled him, knocking the blade from his grip. They rolled, and Bilbo stabbed blindly, furiously. His letter-opener-turned-sword found the orc’s throat. Black blood spattered his waistcoat.

The orc gurgled and fell.

Bilbo stood, panting, blinking against the smoke and the tears stinging his eyes.

Azog tilted his great pale head, the thick cords of his neck shifting like stone beneath skin. His eyes, cold and calculating, locked on the trembling creature before him. A strange smile curled on his scarred lips— not one of joy or amusement, but the grin of a beast who finds something rare and curious writhing in his claws before he crushes it.

Bilbo could feel it in his bones: that expression was not made for him. That expression was made for prey.

Azog’s voice, guttural and rasping like steel dragged over stone, emerged not in the crude barks of Black Speech but in something older— Sindarin. Smooth and strange from such a monstrous mouth.

“A Periam.”

The word struck Bilbo like a bell ringing deep in his chest. He froze, wide-eyed. He knew that word. Halfling. It echoed with ancient weight, as if he had just been named in some long-forgotten prophecy.

Azog leaned forward on his monstrous Warg, letting his gaze rove over the small figure before him. A hobbit. A myth. And yet here it stood— breathing, blinking, alive.

The Warg growled under him, but Azog paid it no mind. He drank in the sight: the way the little one’s blade shimmered with a quiet, angry blue; the slight quiver in his bare hands; the dirt smudged across a cheek far too soft for war. And that scent, he could almost taste it.

Sweetness.

Innocence.

It clung to the hobbit like dew to grass. A purity so tangible, so untouched by the world’s rot, it made something inside Azog twitch. Not with pity. With desire. The desire to defile. To erase that light. To see it scream and shatter.

He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. The smell was almost intoxicating.

Azog shifted in the saddle, nudging the Warg forward with a subtle press of steel-clad knee. He would take the halfling. He would take him away from the Dwarf-scum and keep him for himself. Tear him apart slowly. Piece by piece.

Bilbo’s feet slid half a step back on instinct. His breath hitched. But he held his sword tight.

“You will not kill him,” he whispered, then shouted, “Not in my presence!”

He swung the sword in a brave, clumsy arc, more bark than bite. Yet his sword’s glow seemed to flare brighter in that moment, as if echoing his defiance.

Azog let out a low, cruel chuckle, full of things Bilbo didn’t understand and didn’t want to. He could see it— Azog was enjoying this. The way one enjoys the brief flutter of a butterfly before pulling off its wings.

Then—

Thunk.

An arrow sang through the air and struck the Warg in the shoulder, snarling its flesh. The beast howled and bucked beneath Azog, stumbling slightly.

From the trees came a cacophony of shouts.

“NOW!” roared Dwalin.

“For Thorin!” shouted Kíli and Fíli together, blades flashing.

“Get to Thorin!” Balin cried. “Protect the halfling!”

The dwarves had arrived and they charged into the fray like a river breaking a dam. Steel clanged. Arrows flew. The air filled with the clash of battle and the roar of vengeance.

Bilbo gasped, heart seizing, then dropped to his knees beside Thorin’s still form, the noise around him fading to a dull thunder. He reached out with trembling fingers, brushing a bloodied curl from the dwarf’s brow.

But behind him, Azog growled low, hate simmering in his chest.

His prize had slipped from his fingers.

The Company descended in a flurry of axes and fury, crashing into the orcs with the fury of kin defending their fallen.

Bilbo brushes the hair from the dwarf’s bruised face.

“Oh, Thorin…” His voice cracked. “Why did you do that? Why must you always do that?”

A tear fell. It struck Thorin’s cheek and mingled with blood and ash.

And then came the rush of wings.

A great cry split the air, wild and fierce and free. The sky darkened—not with shadow, but with salvation. The Eagles had come.

Massive talons snatched orcs from the battlefield and cast them into the chasm below. Feathers like bronze shields flashed in the firelight. One Eagle swooped low and Bilbo instinctively shielded Thorin’s body.

The wind was deafening.

“Hold on!” Bofur shouted as claws closed gently around him.

Another swooped down and took Balin and Dori. One lifted Kíli and Ori, the younger of the Company clinging together with stunned gasps.

Dúrwen tore through the vines, freeing herself just as another eagle descended.

“Bilbo!” she called.

But he did not hear her. He had eyes only for the unconscious king.

Then he too was lifted, Thorin cradled between mighty claws. The wind surged around them as the earth fell away.

Below, Azog screamed in rage as the last eagle bore the halfling and his prize beyond his reach.

The wind roared in Bilbo’s ears.

High above the trees, above the smoldering forest and the scorched ground below, he clung tightly to the talons of the Great Eagle that bore him through the sky. The creature’s grip was careful, yet firm and strong enough to carry his weight, gentle enough not to crush bone. His stomach, however, was less forgiving.

“I think—I think I’m going to vomit,” Bofur moaned from somewhere nearby, his voice trailing behind him in the wind.

“If you do,” Bombur shouted back, “make sure it’s not in my direction!”

“I wouldn’t mind if you vomited in my mouth right now!” Nori added, louder, grinning wickedly.

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

“UGH!” came the collective cry of half a dozen dwarves, scandalized and horrified.

“By Mahal’s beard, Nori!” Dori spat, clutching his coat tight. “Have you no filter?!”

“Let the lad joke!” Glóin shouted from his perch, gesturing with his axe as if he were giving a toast. “If we die falling from the sky, I’d rather do it laughing!”

“Speak for yourself,” muttered Dwalin. “My ears can’t unhear that.”

Bilbo tried to smile, tried to let the banter lift his heart, but his eyes kept drifting forward—to the Eagle just ahead, to the limp form held in its claws. Thorin Oakenshield. Still. Pale. Silent.

“Thorin…” Fíli’s voice cracked. He reached forward as if the air between them might bridge the distance. “Uncle!”

Bilbo’s grip tightened on the feathers beneath him. You cannot be dead, Thorin Oakenshield, he thought fiercely. You stubborn, proud, insufferable dwarf. You don’t get to die now. Not after all of that.

At last, the Eagles began to descend, circling a great outcrop of stone that rose like a fang from the wild hills. One by one, they landed with practiced grace, releasing their burdens onto the flat summit of the Carrock.

Bilbo stumbled as he was set down, knees wobbling, lungs shaking.

Kíli tumbled down nearby, laughing breathlessly as he rolled onto his back. “I think I left my soul up there,” he gasped.

“It’s a miracle you had one to lose,” Dwalin grunted, helping Ori up with one hand while checking his own arms for injuries.

“Where’s Thorin?” Fíli cried, rising unsteadily. “Where—?”

The final Eagle descended, bearing Thorin. Gandalf was already moving toward him as he was laid gently on the sun-warmed stone. His dark coat was scorched, armor dented and blackened, hair matted with blood.

Gandalf dropped to his knees beside him. “Thorin,” he murmured, one hand hovering over the dwarf’s brow, the other already reaching into his robes for a salve.

Bilbo didn’t move—couldn’t move—his feet rooted to the earth as he stared.

And then—

Thump.

He yelped as something struck the back of his head. Hard.

“Ow—!”

“Fool of a Took and a Baggins,” came a growl beside him.

He turned, rubbing his skull, to find Dúrwen scowling at him, her windblown hair a wild, tangled mess that made her look more beast than ranger. Her black monolid eyes were aflame.

“The next time you’re about to get yourself killed, don’t you dare curl me up in your vines!” she hissed, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I am not a potted plant to be tucked away while you do something heroic and idiotic!”

“I—I didn’t—” Bilbo stammered, ears burning. “It was instinct!”

“Your instincts are terrible,” she hissed, crossing her arms. But she didn’t walk away. Her voice softened, almost imperceptibly. “You could’ve died.”

Gandalf, meanwhile, had begun shaking Thorin gently.

“Thorin. Thorin, wake up. Come now, lad, don’t be stubborn.”

Fíli dropped to his knees beside them, clutching Thorin’s shoulder. “Please. Uncle, please.”

“He will live,” she whispered. “I saw it happen. I saw your tear fall on him, remember?”

Bilbo blinked. “What?”

“Your gift,” she murmured. “Hobbits. Your tears heal. It’s rare, but it’s real. You wept for him. He heard you. Whether he returns—it’s his choice.”

Bilbo stared at her, the memory crashing back like thunder: the way he’d leaned over Thorin in the firelight, desperate and sobbing, vines curling around them both like arms of the earth itself. He had cried then—out of fear, out of grief.

And now—

Thorin stirred.

Slowly. A hand twitched. His brow furrowed.

His eyes opened.

“…Bilbo?” he rasped hoarsely.

Gandalf laughed, a deep sound of pure relief. “It’s all right,” he said, placing a hand over Thorin’s heart. “Bilbo is here. He’s quite safe.”

Bilbo let out a trembling breath. Fíli choked on a half-sob beside him.

Thorin blinked up at them, disoriented—then suddenly surged upward, pushing himself into a seated position.

“You!” he growled, turning to Bilbo with sudden fire in his eyes. Dúrwen’s hand immediately went to her sword, rising half a breath.

“You—what were you doing?” Thorin demanded. “You nearly got yourself killed! Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild? That you had no place amongst us?”

Bilbo recoiled slightly, face flushing.

But Thorin’s voice broke—and changed.

“I have never been so wrong in all my life.”

And then, to everyone’s stunned silence, Thorin pulled Bilbo into a fierce embrace.

The dwarves shouted in triumph and laughter.

Bofur cheered. Ori squeaked. Bombur whooped. Even Dwalin gave a rare, wolfish grin.

Bilbo blinked, frozen in Thorin’s arms, before hesitantly returning the hug.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin said against his ear. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

Bilbo swallowed. “No… I would’ve doubted me too. I’m not a hero. Or a warrior. Or even a proper burglar.”

Thorin pulled back, his face gentler than Bilbo had ever seen it. His eyes were warm now, no trace of disdain—only something that might’ve been fondness. 

“You’re more than that,” Thorin said.

Bilbo flushed under the weight of that gaze, unsure what to say, his mouth going dry.

And then Thorin turned away, toward the eastern sky.

Bilbo followed his gaze.

Far off, past the forests and rivers and ruined lands, a mountain rose like a dream.

The Lonely Mountain. Erebor.

“Is that what I think it is?” Bilbo asked quietly.

Gandalf nodded. “Erebor,” he said. “The last of the great Dwarf kingdoms of Middle-earth.”

“Our home,” Thorin whispered.

A cry pierced the air.

“A raven!” Óin shouted, pointing.

But Gandalf chuckled. “That, my dear Óin, is a thrush.”

“A good omen,” Thorin said anyway, his voice certain. “We’ll take it as a sign.”

He turned again to Bilbo. This time, when he looked at him, it was with recognition—acceptance. Not as an outsider. Not as a burden.

As a companion.

Bilbo smiled.

And for the first time, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield smiled back.

Bilbo looked to the sky, the sun warm on his face, and said with quiet certainty, “You’re right. I do believe the worst is behind us.”

   The moon hung heavy in the sky, veiled in gauzy clouds that cast the earth below in a silvery half-light. Somewhere far below the stars, the Company huddled in the shadows of the Carrock’s base, wind-chilled and wearied, their limbs aching from battle and flight. But Bilbo was not among them.

Instead, the hobbit perched atop a high ledge of weathered stone, belly pressed to cold granite as he peered through a jagged outcrop. His breath came in quiet, shallow puffs, and his eyes strained in the dark, scanning the ridge beyond.

There—dark figures loped along the crest of a nearby hill, pale hounds trailing their steps like shadows. Azog rode at the head, a white menace in the gloom, his beast snarling and sniffing at the air. Occasionally, they halted, searching, as if the very stones might yield up the Company’s scent. But they did not turn eastward. Not yet.

Bilbo’s knuckles whitened where he clutched the rock. Even now, the memory of Azog’s face rose unbidden—those pitiless eyes narrowing in amused curiosity as they had met his own. Not the look one gave an enemy. It had been worse than hate.

It had been interest.

Bilbo swallowed hard. He remembered the sick chill that had run through him when Azog had leaned forward, scenting the air around him like a predator discovering some rare, exquisite prey. Perian, the orc had said. Spoken in Sindarin, no less. The insult of it, the wrongness.

A low snarl broke the air.

Bilbo jerked back, heart in his throat. Not from the ridge—no, closer. He turned slowly and glimpsed, from the corner of his eye, a dark hulking figure perched on another rise not far from where the orcs patrolled. Massive shoulders. A thick mane. The gleam of eyes that reflected starlight like coals fanned to flame.

It was a bear. Enormous. Far larger than any Bilbo had ever imagined. And it was watching Azog.

It didn’t move. Didn’t growl or roar—just stood, muscles taut, like a sentinel carved from the night.

Bilbo ducked back, shaking. Whatever that was, it had not been following him. It had been following them.

He scrambled down the rocks, slipping more than climbing, until the low murmur of voices and the flicker of a small fire met his ears. The Company, gathered tight around Gandalf beneath the overhang of a tall boulder, looked up as he approached.

“Back already?” Bofur asked, brow lifting in surprise. “Didn’t expect you so soon.”

“Tell us what you saw,” said Dwalin, standing, hand on the haft of his axe. “How close is the pack?”

Bilbo bent over, catching his breath. “Too close. A couple leagues, no more—but that’s not the worst of it.”

Dwalin’s frown deepened. “Have the Wargs picked up our scent?”

“Not yet,” Bilbo said, glancing around to make sure everyone was listening. “But they will. And there’s another problem.”

Gandalf narrowed his eyes. “Did they see you? Please tell me they didn’t see you.”

“No! That’s not—” Bilbo threw up his hands, exasperated. “That’s not it!”

The wizard relaxed, stroking his beard. “Good lad. What did I tell you? Quiet as a mouse. Excellent burglar material.”

Several dwarves chuckled—Ori elbowed Nori in the ribs, and even Gloin managed a tired grunt of amusement. Bilbo groaned.

“Will you just listen?” he snapped. “I’m trying to tell you there is something else out there!”

That sobered them. Kíli’s smile vanished. His eyes darted toward the shadows on the ridgeline, fingers tightening around his bow. The others shifted uneasily, glancing at Thorin, who stood silent, arms crossed, jaw taut with unspoken thoughts.

“What form did it take?” Gandalf asked. “Like a bear?”

Bilbo blinked. “Y-yes. But bigger. Much bigger. Like a bear that could eat a troll for breakfast.”

Bofur gave a nervous laugh. “Wonderful. Just what we needed. Anyone got a flute? I say we charm the beast, dance a merry jig, and see if it lets us pass.”

“Or we double back,” Nori muttered, “before we end up as dessert.”

“And be run down by a pack of Orcs?” Thorin growled. His voice was rough, scraped raw with exhaustion. “That is no strategy. That’s suicide.”

“There is a house,” Gandalf said, stepping forward into the firelight. “Not far from here. A place of refuge.”

“Whose house?” Thorin asked, not unreasonably. “Are they friend or foe?”

“Neither,” said the wizard. “He will help us… or he will kill us.”

A collective pause.

“Cheery fellow, then,” muttered Óin.

Dwalin grunted. “Do we know his name?”

Gandalf only smiled faintly. “Beorn.”

Bilbo didn’t have time to process the name before a sound shattered the night—a low, guttural roar, rolling through the hills like thunder over stone.

The Company froze.

It was close. Too close.

Bilbo could see their faces in the firelight—pale and alert. Even Thorin looked shaken. Ori clutched his slingshot with white-knuckled fingers, and Fíli and Kíli exchanged a glance that said all that needed saying.

“We’ll need to move before dawn,” Gandalf said briskly, already gathering his staff. “Come, all of you. It is not safe to remain here.”.

The dwarf looked toward the dark where the bear had roared. “You asked what choice we had. I think Gandalf just answered.”

They doused the fire quickly and began packing what little gear they had. No one dared speak above a whisper. But as Bilbo shouldered his pack, he felt a presence beside him—Dúrwen, quiet and watchful as ever, her hair wind-tangled and eyes sharp with unspoken worry.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” she murmured.

He nodded. “It was watching Azog.”

“Good,” she said simply, drawing her cloak tight around her. “Then perhaps we’re not the only ones who want that filth dead.”

They vanished into the trees, led by Gandalf’s steady pace and Thorin’s grim resolve. The moon watched them from above, and far in the hills behind them, the bear gave one last roar—low, warning, and full of promise.

The Company fled across the plains like hunted deer, boots thudding against sodden earth, the wild wind tearing at hair and cloaks. Streams were leapt, puddles splashed through, and the brambles snagged at trailing garments. Gandalf led the way, staff in hand, his voice carried above the pounding of hearts and the roaring wind.

“Come on!”

Behind him, the dwarves panted and stumbled after, some half-dragging others, their packs bouncing wildly. They had only just broken free of the trees, the smell of sap and pine still clinging to their skin, when the forest behind them seemed to groan with some ancient warning.

Azog and his company tore through the forest behind them, snarling and howling. Branches snapped underfoot, leaves scattered like frightened birds, and the air thickened with the scent of rage. The pale Orc rode hard, his beast frothing, his pale eyes glittering with cruel clarity. As they passed a crumbling stone shrine lost to time, Azog suddenly raised a hand.

The Orcs halted.

So did the Company, though unknowing.

From the trees came a roar.

It was not the howl of wolves nor the battle-cry of orcs. It was wilder—a deafening bellow that cracked through the hills and made the leaves shiver on their branches.

The forest stilled. The wind ceased. Even the Wargs drew back.

Azog snarled.

“GET THE HALFLING TO ME—WHOLE AND ALIVE!”

Bilbo, who had been lagging behind Bifur and Ori, let out a small, startled yelp. Dúrwen, ever watchful, suddenly appeared at his side. She did not speak at first, only gave him a look—a sharp, steadying gaze that anchored him back to the world.

Then—

“This way, quickly!” Gandalf cried, whirling around, his cloak billowing like smoke.

“What in Mahal’s name does that White Orc want with Bilbo?!” growled Dwalin as they pounded forward again, feet slapping the grass.

“Thorin’s the one he hates, not the Hobbit!” barked Glóin.

“WHY DOES THAT ORC SUDDENLY TAKE HIS INTEREST IN ME AND NOT THORIN?!” Bilbo shouted, running full-tilt and flailing his arms as though he might take off.

“BECAUSE YOU’RE A FOOL!” Dúrwen shouted back. “NOW YOU KNOW WHY A CLOAK IS IMPORTANT FOR YOU!”

“Quiet!” Gandalf bellowed. “Run!”

They broke from the last fringe of the forest and crested a small hill. There, bathed in moonlight and tucked in the hollow of a great plain, stood a house—a long, timbered structure surrounded by a thick hedge, as though it grew from the land itself.

“To the house!” Gandalf cried.

“RUN!” bawled Bofur.

No one needed telling twice.

They bolted toward the hedge, Bombur suddenly surging ahead, arms flapping like sails.

“My gods,” muttered Fíli, “he’s faster than me!”

“Fear’s a hell of a motivator,” Kíli wheezed beside him, laughter breaking through panic.

The gate creaked under their weight as they pushed through, stumbling into the manicured lawn. Ahead loomed the heavy wooden doors of the house. Bombur, shrieking something unintelligible, slammed into the door first and bounced off with a whump, landing flat on his back with an indignant grunt.

“Ow!”

“MOVE!” Thorin barked, charging past him.

The others surged forward, slamming shoulders and fists against the wood.

“Open the door!” Gandalf shouted, eyes scanning the woods behind them.

Thorin elbowed his way through, hands groping for a latch, a bolt—anything.

“Quickly!” he snarled.

A roar, louder than before, split the sky. The trees at the edge of the forest shuddered violently.

From the shadows emerged a massive black shape, galloping on four thunderous paws, its fur dark as night, teeth bared in fury. It was a bear, but not any bear Bilbo had ever read of—not even in the wildest of his father’s tales. It was near the size of a dray horse, and when it bellowed, it sounded like the world was ending.

“OH, NOT AGAIN!” Ori wailed.

“IN!” shouted Gandalf.

Thorin found the bolt, lifted it, and the door burst inward. They spilled inside in a tangle of limbs and beards.

“SHUT THE DOOR!” roared Dwalin, throwing his back against it.

But the bear was already there. Its monstrous head shoved through the gap, jaws snapping. Bilbo screamed, backing up with sword drawn, its tip shaking violently in his hands.

“DWALIN—HELP ME—”

“PUSH!” Thorin bellowed.

They shoved with all their strength. Bofur and Bifur yelled something in Khuzdul, cursing the door and the beast and Bombur all at once. Even Ori lent his meager weight, gritting his teeth. The bear roared again, foul breath blasting over them, but it was slowly forced back.

With one final heave, the door slammed shut, and the bolt fell back into place.

Silence.

For a long moment, none of them moved. Then came the sound of breathing—heavy, exhausted, disbelieving. Someone laughed weakly. Someone else might have been sobbing.

“That,” Ori panted, peeking out from behind Dori, “what is that?”

Gandalf dusted off his robe. “That,” he said, quite calmly, “is our host.”

The Company turned to stare at him.

Even Dúrwen blinked, lowering her hood with a dry, “Seriously, Mithrandir?”

Gandalf spread his hands. “His name is Beorn. And he is a skin-changer.”

Oin fumbled for his hearing trumpet. “A what?!”

“A skin-changer,” Gandalf repeated. “Sometimes a bear, sometimes a man. He does not take kindly to strangers, and he is not overfond of dwarves.”

“Overfond?” grumbled Glóin. “That’s an understatement.”

“A bear-man,” murmured Fíli, running a hand through his hair. “A bloody bear-man. I’ve had enough of magic for one year.”

“I think I peed,” Bombur confessed quietly.

“Wonderful,” Dori muttered, dabbing at his brow with a lace handkerchief. “Simply wonderful. We’re guests of a creature straight out of nightmares.”

Ori moved toward the door again. “He’s leaving... I think he’s gone into the woods again.”

“Come away from there!” Dori yanked him back. “It’s not natural. It’s under some spell, obviously.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Gandalf said, eyes gleaming in the dim firelight. “He’s under no enchantment but his own. The man can be reasoned with. The bear...less so.”

There was a pause, broken only by the dwarves kicking off their boots and collapsing in piles wherever they could find space.

“Get some sleep,” Gandalf said. “You’ll be safe here tonight.”

Bilbo didn’t sit right away. He looked back at the door, heart still thudding against his ribs. Dúrwen joined him silently, brushing hair from her eyes.

“He smelled something,” Bilbo murmured. “Azog. The way he looked at me—like he knew something.”

Dúrwen nodded. “He did. But that doesn’t mean he understands it.”

“And Beorn?”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “He doesn’t care what you are, so long as you don’t give him a reason to rip your arms off.”

Bilbo blinked. “Comforting.”

She smirked faintly, and with that, turned and melted into the darkened hallway. Bilbo stood for another minute, the sounds of snoring dwarves already beginning to fill the strange, wild house.

Gandalf stood in the corner, watching the door.

“I hope,” he murmured, barely loud enough to be heard.

And outside, somewhere in the night, the bear gave one final roar.

The world had not yet stirred.

Dawn lingered just beyond the mountains, brushing the sky with the faintest blue, as if the earth were holding its breath. In the dimness, the quiet was deeper than sleep, and the Company of Thorin Oakenshield lay scattered in slumber across the wooden floors of the skin-changer’s hall.

But Dúrwen did not sleep.

She had not closed her eyes since the doors were barred, since the roar of the bear faded into the distance and Gandalf vanished into the dark with only a nod and a muttered “I hope.” She had trusted him before. She was no longer so certain.

She moved like a shadow between beams of moonlight slanting through narrow windows, stepping over discarded boots and bedrolls with a ranger’s habitual silence. Her eyes scanned the room, noting each slumbering shape: Ori, curled on his side like a child, clutching a book to his chest as though the words within might protect him from nightmares. Bofur sprawled beside him, one arm thrown over his brow, his mouth slightly open in a doze that muttered of dreams.

Between them lay Bilbo.

The hobbit was swaddled in a woolen blanket too large for his frame, the ends of it bunched at his feet like the nest of a bird. One hand was tucked beneath his cheek, the other barely brushing the haft of letter opener. Even in slumber, he furrowed his brow faintly, as though troubled by something just beyond his reach.

Dúrwen stood watching him a long while.

Something in her gaze softened—the faintest flicker of warmth, of sorrow—but it vanished quickly. Her hand went to the hilt at her side, her fingers brushing the worn leather. Always ready. Always watching.

And she was not alone.

A slow curl of smoke spiraled from the far corner of the room, catching silver in the faint moonlight. She followed the scent of pipe-weed and found Thorin Oakenshield seated against a carved post, his fur-lined cloak drawn tightly around him. The pipe glowed faintly as he drew from it, then exhaled.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked, her voice no louder than a breath as she approached.

He didn’t look up. “Didn’t try.”

She let the silence stretch. It was thick here—rooted in the timbers of Beorn’s hall, ancient and unmoving. A deeper quiet than she’d known in years. She shifted her weight, arms folded, the flicker of unease still curling in her gut.

“Where’s Gandalf?”

“With our host,” Thorin replied, shifting the pipe between calloused fingers. “He says Beorn is fond of stories. He’s hoping to charm him into letting us stay longer.”

She made a soft sound—neither agreement nor doubt. Just acknowledgment. Her eyes drifted toward the bolted doors. They held, for now.

Thorin exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift toward the rafters. He could feel her beside him even without turning. Tall and lean, cloaked in grey, the edges of her silhouette softened by moonlight but never diminished. She stood like a sword half-drawn—poised, ready, dangerous even in stillness.

He hadn’t known what to make of her when she joined them. A stranger from the North. Not kin. Not dwarf. Not quite friend. But bound to the halfling like a blade to its scabbard.

He respected her more than he’d ever say aloud.

There was a moment—brief and brittle—where neither spoke. Just the whisper of breath and embers.

Then Thorin said, “What did you mean, when you told Bilbo he needed a cloak?”

Dúrwen didn’t answer right away. She reached for her own pipe instead, fingers deft as she packed it. The flint sparked. The tip glowed. And she exhaled her first breath of smoke like a woman settling into memory.

“There’s something in hobbits,” she said, her voice low, almost reverent. “Something that calls to the world. To the old things.”

She crouched down, gaze fixed on the floor as if she saw the truth of it written in the grain of the wood.

“Even the darkest creatures feel it. Orcs, wargs, goblins. They don’t understand it, but they know it. And they want it. To possess it. To ruin it.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his. “It’s the light in them. The unspoiled part. The part that doesn’t carry blood on its hands or fire in its bones.”

Thorin frowned, pipe forgotten for a breath. “That sounds like Elvish nonsense.”

“Maybe,” she said with a faint tilt of her lips. “But it’s true.”

She looked back toward Bilbo, who stirred faintly in his sleep, murmuring something that no one would remember.

“Elves want to keep them,” she continued. “Like curious birds in a golden cage. Dwarves…” Her gaze slid sideways, keen and unreadable. “Dwarves want them close. They bring comfort. Warmth. The kind we forget we need.”

Thorin’s throat tightened.

“But the dark things,” she said, “they want to break that light. Or devour it. Or twist it until it begs for mercy.”

There was a long silence.

Thorin watched the pipe smoke curl into the rafters, dissolving into nothing. His jaw clenched.

“I saw the way Azog looked at him,” she added. “That wasn’t a hunter tracking prey. That was a wolf finding a lamb it didn’t know it needed until it tasted blood.”

He didn’t want to hear that. But he had already known.

He remembered the charge at the cliff’s edge before he lost consciousness, the chaos of fire and fang, the flash of silver as a tiny blade pierced the dark. Bilbo had not run. Bilbo had shielded him.

Azog had seen it.

And now the pale orc would never forget.

The fire in Thorin’s pipe flared as he drew deep, heat rising under his skin like a forge being stoked.

He had lost too much. His home. His brother. His people.

He would not lose the halfling.

Not Bilbo.

“Thank you,” Thorin said, his voice quieter than the wind through pine. “For guarding him.”

Dúrwen looked up, brows furrowing faintly. “Even when you didn’t,” he added.

Something flickered in her face—not quite a smile, not quite surprise. Just something real.

“I swore no oath to you, Oakenshield,” she said at last, standing slowly, pipe between her fingers. “But I did to him.”

Thorin looked to Bilbo then, as the first light of dawn crept through the window and gilded the edges of the hobbit’s curls in gold.

He nodded once.

That would be enough.

   When the first light of morning crept over the slopes of the Carrock and spilled golden fingers through the wide slats of Beorn’s wooden shutters, it found a strange company lying in scattered piles across the stone floor of the skin-changer’s hall. The fire had burned low in the hearth, casting only a flicker of warmth upon the Company’s sleeping forms. But the moment sunlight grazed a dwarf’s face—specifically Bofur’s, who had the misfortune of sleeping near the east-facing window—it was followed quickly by a loud, disgruntled snort.

“Who opened the sky and let the sun in?” he grumbled, pulling his hat over his eyes.

A moment later, there was a rustling noise outside—heavy, purposeful steps followed by the subtle creak of timber. The Company stirred with an almost military precision honed from weeks of danger. Blankets shifted. Axes were checked. Peering over the edge of their bedding with cautious eyes, the dwarves caught sight of the massive form that entered the house and closed the door behind him with a quiet but resolute sigh.

Beorn had returned.

He loomed in the doorway like a piece of the mountain itself—tall, wild-haired, barefoot despite the chill of morning, and draped in the furs of beasts too large to name. His presence was enough to make even Dwalin stand up a little straighter and Kíli to edge half an inch behind his older brother.

All of them rose in a slow, wary wave, instinctively respectful, if not a little unnerved. All but Bilbo, who remained blissfully asleep, curled tightly against a cushion near the fire. The hobbit’s lips twitched as if caught in some pleasant dream. A fat bumblebee landed daintily on the tip of his nose and buzzed there, content.

Dúrwen frowned.

“That’s odd,” she murmured, arms crossed, her brow furrowed in concern. “He wakes at every sound. Even my dagger being unsheathed in training stirs him.”

Ori blinked sleep from his eyes, squinting toward Bilbo. “He does look paler than usual. Perhaps it’s exhaustion.”

“It would take more than a poor night’s sleep to knock him out,” Dwalin muttered. “He’s tougher than he looks.”

Kíli made a quiet move toward Bilbo, intent on rousing him but Beorn stopped him with a raised hand, firm but not unkind.

“Let the little bunny be,” he rumbled, voice warm with unexpected fondness. His sharp eyes softened as he crouched near the hobbit. “He must be exhausted... oh.”

He frowned, scooping Bilbo up in his large arms as if the hobbit weighed no more than a child’s doll. “He lacks weight,” Beorn murmured, voice touched with both concern and amusement.

The dwarves reacted as one, a chorus of rising protests.

“Oi! What do you think you’re doing—?”

“Put him down!”

“He’s our burglar—!”

But Gandalf lifted a calming hand. “Peace, my friends. Beorn means no harm. He’s only offering a softer bed than the floor.”

Beorn gave a huff of assent and gently carried Bilbo from the hearth to a corner room—presumably his own—and disappeared for a moment behind a heavy fur curtain. When he returned, the firelight briefly caught on the faint, rusted rings of broken manacles that clung to his wrists like relics of a darker past.

The Company was now gathered in the kitchen, a long room filled with beams of sun through wide open shutters, with counters carved of polished stone and wooden bowls full of dried fruits and nuts. Beorn moved with the quiet efficiency of someone well-accustomed to feeding himself, but slightly amused to be feeding thirteen dwarves, a ranger, a wizard, and a sleeping hobbit.

He poured a generous glass of milk and handed it to Fíli, whose hands trembled slightly at the proximity of the towering skin-changer. Beorn’s sharp eyes flicked toward Thorin, studying the King-in-Exile with a predator’s caution.

“So you are the one they call Oakenshield,” he said, pouring another glass. “Tell me—why is Azog the Defiler hunting you?”

The silence that followed was thick.

Thorin stiffened. “You know of Azog? How?”

Beorn’s face darkened, shadows gathering under his brow.

“My people were the first to live in the mountains,” he said, voice quiet and low. “Before the orcs crawled down from the north like rot. Bolg and his father Azog slaughtered most of my kin. Those they didn’t kill…” He trailed off, lifting his thick wrists to show the iron scars that circled them. “They were enslaved. Not for labor—no. For sport. Skin-changers make fine trophies when caged. It amused them.”

The dwarves exchanged uneasy glances. No one spoke. Even Thorin looked away.

Ori, ever the soft-hearted one, noticed the old rust-colored stains beneath the broken iron rings. “There are others like you?” he asked gently.

Beorn glanced toward the scribe, then toward Dúrwen. He looked at her as if seeing someone else entirely.

“Once,” he said, “there were many.”

Dúrwen leaned against the whitewashed wall, quietly whittling the edge of her dagger with a whetstone. She paused, lifted her head. “And now?”

Beorn’s dark eyes settled on her. The flickering light caught the silver glint of the ring on her finger.

“Now,” he said slowly, “there is only one.”

He turned fully then, gaze lingering. The dwarves quieted further, sensing the shift in air between them.

“I know who you are,” Beorn said, not unkindly.

Dúrwen’s jaw tensed. The whetstone in her hand paused mid-drag along her blade. Slowly, she looked up.

“You have your father’s bearing... but your mother’s eyes.”

Her brows lifted slightly, startled. “You knew my father?”

Beorn shook his head. “No. Your mother. Elariel.” His gaze swept her from boot to brow. “She’s an excellent healer.”

“She was,” Dúrwen replied stiffly, voice clipped like a snapped twig.

Beorn nodded solemnly. “I learned she settled in the North,” he went on. “Married a captain of the Watch. Gave birth to twins... but the girl died young. Or so I was told.”

A strange stillness fell in the room. Several dwarves froze mid-bite, others mid-sip. All eyes now shifted, slowly and carefully, to Dúrwen.

“You’re known in some parts,” Beorn added, a small smile curling his lips. “As Thorn. Ranger. Hunter. Protector of hobbits.” His tone was almost approving. “But by birth, you were called Faerion.”

A breath caught like a gasp in the Company—sharp and unexpected.

There was a small, almost imperceptible noise from Thorin—a sharp inhale, like the bite of wind through a mountain pass.

Dúrwen flinched at the name. Her lips parted as if to protest, but she stopped herself. Something in her gaze flickered—too swift to name. At last, she dipped her head, the motion tight, deliberate.

“Yes,” she said, voice even, almost too even. “I’m their son.”

And then, as if the spell broke, a ripple of whispering erupted behind her.

“Wait—did he say son?”

“Faerion? But that’s—”

“Thorn is—?”

Ori looked like someone had knocked the wind from his lungs. Kíli blinked rapidly, as though trying to puzzle through a riddle he hadn’t known he’d been solving. Glances darted across the room like thrown daggers—some confused, others uncertain, a few openly wide-eyed.

They looked at Dúrwen again—but this time, differently. Not with suspicion or rejection, but an awakening, a sudden recollection of what they had always known.

Yes, there was a certain masculinity in her manner—her stride, her speech, the way she cleaned her blade or stood apart from the firelight with arms crossed, watchful. But there had never been doubt that she was a woman.

She had the quiet femininity of a dwarrowdam, subtle and weathered, not unlike some of their own kin. Strong-jawed and calloused, yes—but there were softer tells too: the quiet grace with which she bound wounds, the gentle pressure of her hand when she calmed a spooked pony, the curve of her cheekbone beneath the hood, the stillness of her listening. No, she had never pretended to be a man among them.

They had simply… never asked.

And why should they? Among dwarves, femininity was never tied to softness or frills. Their dwarrowdams bore axes and braided their beards, and many had voices deeper than the men of other races. But they were still women—still mothers, sisters, kin. Dúrwen, though taller, wilder, and elf-slim, was no different.

Gandalf cleared his throat loudly, cutting the whispers short.

Beorn turned back to the table.

“You need to reach the mountain before the last days of autumn?”

Gandalf nodded. “Before Durin’s Day falls, yes.”

Beorn exhaled slowly, as though calculating every breath. “You still have time.”

“We must go through Mirkwood,” said Gandalf.

A shadow passed over Beorn’s face.

“There is darkness in that forest,” he said grimly. “Fell things creep beneath the trees. I would not go there—save in great need.”

“We’ll take the Elven road,” Gandalf replied. “That path remains safe.”

Beorn scoffed. “Safe?” He shook his head. “The Wood-elves of Mirkwood are not like their kin. They are less wise... and more dangerous.”

Dwalin muttered something under his breath about bloody elves and got elbowed by Balin.

Thorin, who had stood in silence, shifted now, troubled. “What do you mean?”

Beorn’s eyes narrowed.

“These lands are crawling with orcs. Their numbers are growing. And you are on foot. You will not reach the forest alive.”

He rose, the room shrinking with him.

“I don’t like dwarves,” he said plainly. “They are greedy. And blind—blind to the lives they deem lesser than their own.”

Everyone froze.

Then, with a swift motion, Beorn snatched a small mouse scampering across the table. Dwalin had been attempting to brush it away with the back of his spoon. The Company tensed—but Beorn only cradled the tiny thing in his enormous palm, petting it with a finger gentler than expected.

“But orcs,” he said, almost to himself, “I hate more.”

He looked up.

“What do you need?”

Bilbo did not stir when luncheon was called.

The table had been generously set with thick slices of honeycomb, oatcakes, fresh berries, and steaming mugs of chamomile tea. Yet the bedchamber in which the hobbit lay remained silent save for the low murmurs of dwarves clustering at the doorway, peering in with growing unease.

Óin was the first to fret aloud.

“He should’ve woken by now,” the old healer muttered, adjusting the ear-trumpet in his left ear as he bustled to Bilbo’s side. The hobbit was bundled beneath one of Beorn’s enormous fur-lined quilts, small and still against the backdrop of a bed made for someone five times his size. His curls were tousled with sweat, his cheeks pale as linen.

Óin placed a practiced hand against Bilbo’s brow, then grunted. “No fever,” he said. “Heartbeat’s steady, breathin’ regular, but he's far paler than this mornin’. Aye, and he’s still not wakin’.”

He gingerly unwrapped part of Bilbo’s tunic to check the bruises—purpling around his ribs and shoulders from Goblin-Town and the wild scrambles since. His arms bore faint scratches from Warg attacks, and there were faintly green-tinged bruises around one hip and knee from when he’d tackled an orc off Thorin’s back. None were deep. None fatal. Not even worth a poultice.

And yet the hobbit slumbered on, unmoving.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Óin said. “These wounds alone wouldn’t keep a warrior down, let alone Master Baggins.”

The dwarves shifted at that, all of them looking as though they were resisting the urge to crowd around the bed and shake the poor hobbit awake. Worry flickered in each face—Kíli paced, Nori gnawed his thumb, and even Dwalin’s arms were crossed more tightly than usual.

At last, when the muttering grew too loud, Gandalf rose from his seat by the hearth and crossed the room, robes rustling like wind-tossed leaves. “Let me see,” he said brusquely, kneeling beside the bed with surprising grace for a man of his age. He laid his long fingers on Bilbo’s forehead and murmured something under his breath in a tongue that made the hairs on Ori’s arms rise.

The wizard drew a long breath, then turned toward the Company.

“He’s fine,” Gandalf declared, though there was a furrow in his brow. “Merely exhausted. Drained of strength and spirit. Let him rest. He’ll awaken soon.”

“Are you certain?” The question came quieter than expected.

The dwarves turned. It was Thorin.

Gandalf blinked at him. “Quite certain,” he replied, tilting his head. “He won’t delay us. If that’s what worries you.”

But Thorin’s mouth twitched, as if that were not at all what he meant to say. He looked as though he might argue, might confess a deeper concern, but Beorn’s massive shadow loomed in the doorway.

The skin-changer's wild mane brushed the lintel as he stepped inside. He surveyed the quiet form in the bed, his bushy brows drawing together.

“Poor little bunny,” Beorn said gruffly. “He’s not eating enough.”

The dwarves looked up, affronted.

“We’re not starving him,” Dori snapped before anyone else could. “He eats just like the rest of us! Three meals a day, sometimes four!”

“More if Bombur’s cooking,” Bifur added in Khuzdul, which made a few of the others nod solemnly.

They looked rather proud of that fact, in truth.

From her place near the window, Dúrwen snorted quietly into her cup.

Beorn’s voice boomed, loud enough to rattle the shutters. “Three meals? Hobbits eat seven meals a day!”

A stunned silence followed.

“Are we starving him all this time?!” Dori gasped, scandalized.

“Seven? Since when do they need seven?” Glóin asked, incredulous.

“Why didn’t he say anything?!” Ori looked ready to cry.

Dwalin rubbed the back of his neck. “Seven’s a bit indulgent, innit?”

“Hobbits have strong connection when it comes to food,” Dúrwen interjected at last, setting her cup down with a soft clink. “Bilbo’s been eating enough, I can assure all of you.”

Dori blinked. “But why didn’t he tell us?”

Her dark eyes flicked to Thorin before she replied. “Because he didn’t want you to worry,” she said gently. “Didn’t want to seem a burden.”

Thorin flinched, barely perceptible, but those closest to him noticed.

“Is that why he’s unconscious?” Ori asked softly.

“No,” Gandalf said, but before he could elaborate, Kíli blurted, “It’s from using his magic.”

A hush dropped over the Company like a heavy woolen blanket.

They stared at him.

Kíli looked around at them in disbelief, arms flailing slightly. “Come on! You saw what I saw—you just won’t say it!”

“We saw something,” Dwalin muttered.

“I’m telling you,” Kíli said urgently, “During the Warg chase when Bifur was about to be mauled I fired a shot. It wasn’t going to hit. But my arrow changed direction mid-air! Like the wind carried it!” He gestured wildly. “I saw Bilbo! He was behind me, whispering to the wind, hand outstretched. I thought I was going mad. But then...”

He faltered. “At the cliff. When Azog and his pack surrounded us. The vines. That wasn’t Gandalf. Bilbo grew them. They came from him! They didn’t just catch us—they cradled us. They curled around Thorn like they knew her!”

There was silence.

Then—

“Aye,” Bofur said softly. “I believe the lad. I saw it too. Bilbo glowed, like a firefly in moonlight. His hand touched the earth and the vines burst forth like water from a spring.”

The others murmured their agreement.

“So,” Glóin said gruffly. “Is it true? He’s got magic?”

“It’s taboo to speak of it,” Dúrwen said, stepping closer to the bed. “The Shire keeps its secrets. Always has.”

“But what we saw—it was real?” asked Dori.

Dúrwen’s voice was low. “Yes. It was real.”

Kíli exhaled, visibly relieved.

“Why hide it?” Nori muttered, mostly to himself. “Why not tell us?

“Because you might’ve used him,” Thorin said quietly.

All eyes turned to him.

“Not on purpose,” he continued, “but if we’d known he had magic… we’d have asked him to do more. Save us more. Protect us more. And he would have tried. Even if it killed him.”

A heavy silence followed. Ori sniffled.

“I think,” Gandalf said gently, “it’s best we let him rest now.”

There were no objections. One by one, the dwarves filed out of the room, glancing back at the small form tucked under heavy furs in the too-large bed.

Thorin lingered a moment longer, gaze fixed.

He did not speak.

But his hand brushed briefly against the bedpost before he turned and left.

Bilbo did not stir.

But his dreams were calm.

   Late afternoon light spilled through the long windows of Beorn’s hall, golden and low. The sun, nearing the horizon, bathed the room in warm amber hues, setting the wooden beams aglow and softening the wild grandeur of the place. Outside, birds chattered in the trees and the hum of bees echoed faintly from the fields.

Inside, the Company moved with quiet purpose.

After the flurry of concern for Bilbo—who still slumbered in the guest room, breathing steadily—the dwarves had returned to their tasks. Most found their own diversions: Bombur prepared an evening stew with honey and wild root vegetables under Beorn’s loose supervision; Bifur and Nori inspected the tack and straps Beorn had promised them for ponies; Ori sat cross-legged on the hearth with a worn journal in his lap, scribbling quietly, chewing the end of his quill.

But in one corner of the long hall, around a great oaken table, four figures gathered in serious counsel.

Balin, Dwalin, Thorin, and Fíli.

Gandalf stood slightly apart, leaning against a carved post, his pipe unlit, listening intently.

Scrolls were spread across the table—maps inked by Elves, old trade routes through the southern vales, and scribbled notes that Balin had kept tucked in his pack for weeks.

“Mirkwood,” Dwalin muttered grimly, tracing a thick finger along the line of dark forest on the map. “Beorn called it that, and I can see why. Greenwood the Great is no more. The whole wood is thick with shadow now.”

“There’s a sickness in that forest,” Gandalf said, his eyes narrowed. “And it runs deeper than mere beasts and spiders.”

“Spiders?” Fíli asked, blinking.

“Aye,” Balin said, adjusting his spectacles. “Great ones. Unnatural. Their webs stretch across whole glades, choking out the light.”

Fíli leaned forward, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. He looked over the notes again, thoughtful. “So we’ll need fire. Torches. And long blades.”

“And clean water,” Balin added. “None from the forest streams. They’re cursed. Poisoned.”

Fíli frowned. “How long will it take us to pass through?”

“If we move swiftly, ten days,” Thorin said. “More if we’re forced to detour.”

“We’ve time before Durin’s Day,” Gandalf reminded them. “If we do not delay further.”

“We will not,” Thorin said firmly. “Once we leave this place, we go straight north, across the Anduin, then east into the forest. If fortune smiles, we’ll cross Mirkwood before the leaves turn.”

“Fortune rarely smiles on Dwarves,” Dwalin grunted.

“But we have something better than fortune,” Balin said with a wry smile. “We’ve got a Company who’s already outpaced death at least three times.”

Thorin’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Let’s not press our luck further than we must.”

Gandalf tapped the map with the end of his staff. “I may not be with you when you enter the forest. There are matters I must attend to.”

Fíli looked up sharply. “You’re leaving us again?”

“Not yet,” Gandalf said with a sigh. “But soon.”

They fell quiet after that, each staring at the maps, the weight of what lay ahead pressing down like the air before a storm.

When the final plans were agreed upon and the parchment rolled up, the meeting broke with quiet nods. Dwalin gave a grunt and wandered off to sharpen his axe. Balin lingered by the map chest, mumbling to himself.

Fíli remained standing, absently brushing sawdust from the hem of his tunic.

A strong hand clapped his shoulder.

“Good job, Fíli.”

Fíli turned and blinked up at Thorin, startled by the sudden praise. His mouth opened, but no words came. Instead, he beamed like a dwarfling being told he'd braided his beard right for the first time. A warmth bloomed in his chest, strong and fierce.

Praise from Thorin was rare. Precious. Almost mythic.

“Thank you, Uncle,” he said, voice slightly rough. “I—I wasn’t certain I offered much of use.”

“You’ll be a good king someday,” Thorin said quietly, his voice rich with something rare—something vulnerable.

“Not as mighty as you, I’m afraid.”

They both chuckled at that. But the laughter faded quickly, leaving behind a silence more honest than any boast or jest.

“I’m glad to have you and your brother in my Company,” Thorin said, more to the air than to Fíli directly.

Fíli’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

Thorin didn’t repeat himself. Instead, he looked out the tall window to the meadow beyond.

“There’s a part of me that’s been screaming since the day you both followed me,” he said. “Screaming that I should have sent you back to your mother, that I should have kept you safe, far from this madness. But now…” His jaw flexed. “Now I ask myself what would’ve become of me had you not come. I can’t see this Company without the two of you. Can’t see me without you.”

Fíli swallowed hard.

That was all he’d ever needed to hear.

He had doubted himself so many times—his choices, his worth, his role. But now, with his uncle’s words still hanging in the golden light, he felt the ache of those doubts begin to ease.

“Uncle…” he said, but words failed him.

They stood together for a moment longer in silence. Then a shriek of laughter broke the quiet.

Through the open arch into the central hall, the dwarves had gathered again—though now for more cheerful pursuits. Kíli was perched atop a barrel, arms flailing, cackling loudly. Bofur was throwing pebbles into a wooden cup, making exaggerated noises with each miss or hit.

“Come on, Ori!” Kíli yelled. “Just try once! What’s the worst that could happen? You lose terribly, that’s all!”

Ori stood near Dori, arms folded, looking scandalized. “I said it’s not a real game if there are no rules!”

“There are rules!” Bofur said, tossing a pebble behind his back and missing entirely. “You just have to make them up as you go!”

“That’s not how rules work!”

Fíli snorted. He and Thorin stepped into the wider hall, the sounds of laughter swelling around them. As if sensing the shift, Kíli caught sight of his brother and waved him over.

“Fíli! Come, save me from Ori’s logic!”

Fíli hesitated a moment. His gaze had already drifted—not toward his brother but toward the quiet figure by the fire.

Ori.

The young scribe was flushed, waving his quill in frustration at Bofur while still somehow managing to keep it straight behind one ear. His hair bounced as he turned to argue with Kíli, who pretended to swoon in mock agony.

Fíli looked away quickly, heart thudding.

He knew Kíli was right. He did look like a simpering fool when he stared. He just… couldn’t help it. Ori’s brow always furrowed when he was serious. He had this precise, pinched little frown like he was trying to solve a riddle with no answer.

And he always looked so pleased when someone understood his logic—even if they rarely did.

“Go,” Thorin said, nudging his nephew with one hand. “Before your brother breaks something.”

Fíli didn’t need more encouragement. He moved toward the others, slipping easily into the group, catching a pebble midair that Kíli tossed without warning and flicking it perfectly into the cup.

A cheer erupted.

Even Ori smiled, albeit reluctantly.

Thorin watched from the edge, leaning against one of Beorn’s carved pillars. His eyes never strayed far from the boys.

Dwalin came to stand beside him, silent and solid as a mountain ridge, arms crossed in the same way. His stance echoed Thorin’s without intending to. Old habits died hard.

They stood together for some time, wordless, listening to the joy they so rarely heard anymore. The sounds of home—or something like it.

It was Dwalin who broke the silence first, his voice roughened by years of battle and fire, lowered for no one but Thorin.

“They’re good lads.”

Thorin exhaled softly. Not quite a sigh.

“Aye,” he murmured. “They are.”

“Better than we were,” Dwalin said after a moment. “Better than they know.”

Thorin’s eyes were already on his nephews. Kíli had tackled Fíli again—laughing, wriggling like a puppy—and the two rolled across the floor in a tangle of limbs and blond hair. Fíli let out a huff of faux indignation, while Ori flailed nearby, trying to save the score tally he’d scratched into a plank with charcoal.

Thorin’s voice, when it came again, was quiet. “Though I sometimes forget to tell them.”

Dwalin gave no reply. There was no need.

“I was angry when they came,” Thorin said. “Angry when they defied Dís. Angry when they stood before me in armor far too new and eyes far too bright, claiming a place in this madness of mine.”

“I remember,” Dwalin said, his voice a touch softer. “You nearly left them behind.”

“I nearly did.”

The fire popped. Somewhere, Nori shouted something obscene. Bombur wheezed with laughter.

Thorin stared into the shifting flames. “I feared they’d follow too closely in my steps. That I’d break them, same as I’ve broken everything else I’ve touched. My sister’s sons. Born into peace. Into hope. What right did I have to drag them through blood and shadow?”

“They chose it,” Dwalin said simply.

“They shouldn’t have had to.”

“No,” he agreed. “But they did.”

Thorin’s jaw flexed. His arms were crossed tighter now. “They laugh tonight. But they’ve already stared down Wargs. Orcs. Trolls. Goblins in the dark. And what lies ahead may devour them whole.”

Dwalin gave him a sideways look. “And yet… they’re still laughing.”

There was a pause.

Then a sound slipped from Thorin—not quite a chuckle, but something close to breath caught between guilt and affection.

“I watch Fíli,” he said quietly. “He watches the Company like I used to watch Thrór’s court. He sees more than I wish he did. Weighs every decision. Every hesitation. It’s like looking into a mirror and seeing the better man.”

He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, his gaze fixed once more on the older of his sister’s sons.

“When he was young, I saw Frerin in him. That same golden hair. Those laughing green eyes. But now…” A shadow crossed his face. “Now I see myself. Not the boy I was—but the heir I became. The one who stood in Erebor’s great hall with a crown far too large for his head and dreams already smoldering behind him.”

Thorin’s hand curled against his side.

“Kíli has always been Dís’s boy,” he said. “Full of fire, always smiling. He reminds her of her husband. But Fíli…” His voice faltered. “Fíli is mine. Whether he chose it or not.”

Dwalin shifted his weight. “He learns well.”

“He shouldn’t have to,” Thorin said again. Then, more quietly, “But he does.”

He fell silent again, eyes flicking toward Fíli—who, even in jest, held himself with an unconscious awareness of the Company, of their positions and needs. The heir was laughing, yes. But even as he threw a handful of pebbles at his brother’s head, Thorin could see it: the tension in his shoulders. The weight that had settled there. Not Dís’s burden. His.

“I see my brother in him,” Thorin murmured. “But the weight… that’s mine. I gave it to him. Too soon.”

Dwalin looked at him for a long moment, then placed a firm, calloused hand on his shoulder.

“He’s strong enough to carry it.”

“I don’t want him to be.”

At that, Dwalin turned more fully, the lines on his face drawn deep with shared grief and understanding. The runes on his scalp gleamed like old scars.

“You think you’ll fall.”

Thorin didn’t answer at first.

“If I do,” he said at last, voice hoarse, “if the madness takes me before the end… if Erebor swallows me whole—”

“It won’t,” Dwalin said, firm.

“But if it does…” Thorin’s throat tightened. “Will you watch over them? Over him?”

Dwalin didn’t blink. “You don’t even need to ask.”

Thorin’s eyes lingered on Fíli, who had just pulled Ori into the fray by the wrist, to a chorus of startled protests. The young scribe squeaked and was buried in pebbles a moment later. Bofur cackled like a man unhinged.

And for a fleeting moment, amidst all the firelight and laughter, something warm stirred in Thorin’s chest. It ached, yes—but it soothed, too.

A moment’s peace.

A fragile joy, like spun glass.

He let out a long breath, low and almost inaudible, and let it settle deep into his bones.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

The laughter rolled on.

Chapter Text

07.

   When Bilbo Baggins woke, he was immediately struck by the foreignness of his surroundings. The bed beneath him was far too large, the mattress firm and springy in a way that no respectable hobbit bed would be. The air was thick with the scent of pine resin and smoke, mingled with something wild and earthy—fur and wood, animal musk and burning cedar. Silence pressed in from all sides, profound and complete, broken only by the soft hum of crickets and the distant, guttural growl of what might have been a bear.

He blinked, squinting up at the high timbered ceiling above. Shadows danced along the beams, stirred by the flickering light of a lone oil lamp beside the bed. There were no windows open, but he could sense the night beyond the thick wooden shutters—cool, silent, watchful.

Had he truly slept the entire day?

A vague memory stirred—Óin’s muttering, a bowl of something warm pressed to his lips, a heavy quilt being drawn over him by unfamiliar hands. He must have been more exhausted than he’d thought. His whole body felt slow, as though he were waking not just from sleep but from a deep enchantment.

With effort, he lifted his head and looked down. His maroon waistcoat was gone, along with his shirt and jacket. In their place was a soft tunic dyed a gentle beige, worn and mended but clean. It hung almost to his knees like a nightshirt. His legs, when he peered beneath the hem, bore bandages on both shins, the white linen neat and firm—Óin’s work, surely.

His feet stuck out comically from beneath the oversized blanket, pale and bare, the skin pink from a recent washing. It made him feel oddly small, vulnerable. Hobbits did not often feel that way in their own beds.

But this was no hobbit bed, and this was no hobbit hole.

The room itself was vast. Carved wooden furniture, thick-legged and rough-hewn, loomed around him like trees in a forest. The walls were paneled with more carved wood, each plank etched with the likeness of wild beasts mid-prowl—stags leaping, wolves hunting, a great bear looming over a river. On a low table beside the bed, the lamp’s flame sent warm, golden light spilling over the surface, illuminating a half-finished carving of a fox chasing a rabbit. The scent of fresh shavings lingered faintly in the air.

Bilbo sat up with a grunt, the mattress creaking under his weight. His muscles protested, especially his ribs. He swung his legs over the edge—and promptly realized that the floor was much farther down than anticipated.

He frowned at the vast empty space beneath his feet. “Right,” he muttered, peering down. The ground had grown taller overnight, apparently.

With a resigned sigh, he braced himself with both hands and slid off the bed. He landed on the floor with a soft thump, the jolt sending a ripple of protest through his limbs. He winced and clutched the bedpost for balance. His legs trembled slightly, still weak from days of exertion, battle, and magical exertion he still didn’t fully understand.

The door was taller than he could reach, thick and dark with iron hinges. It groaned when he pushed it open, a creaking moan that echoed down the hallway like a warning.

“You’re awake.”

Bilbo jumped, heart leaping into his throat. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over the hem of his tunic. A shadow detached itself from the wall, and from it stepped the unmistakable form of Thorin Oakenshield.

He looked different without his armor. No fur-lined coat, no iron-forged bracers. He wore only a simple tunic of dark blue, its sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair was loose, a dark waterfall of unbraided waves down his back, and his pipe smoked lazily in one hand. The scent curled around him—rich and heady, a mix of tobacco, cloves, and something darker beneath.

Bilbo pressed a hand over his chest. “Don’t do that!” he hissed. “You nearly scared me out of my wits!”

Thorin tilted his head, one dark brow lifting in mild amusement. “Apologies,” he said, his voice low and warm. “You move quietly when you wish, but not quietly enough.”

“I wasn’t trying to sneak,” Bilbo muttered, flustered. “I was just walking.”

Thorin’s eyes lingered on him, unreadable. “Are you well enough to be walking?”

Before Bilbo could offer a retort, his stomach gave a traitorous growl.

He clutched at it, grimacing. “Oh, traitor.”

Thorin huffed something between a chuckle and a sigh. “You haven’t eaten all day. We were worried.”

“We?” Bilbo asked.

“The Company,” Thorin said. “Óin, Dwalin, even Bofur considered waking you with a song. Gandalf said to let you rest.”

“And you?” Bilbo asked, more softly.

Thorin took a slow pull from his pipe. “I couldn’t sleep.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Thorin extended his hand, broad and calloused. “Come. The fire is still warm, and there is food enough for both of us.”

Bilbo hesitated. Then, quietly, he reached out and took Thorin’s hand. It was warm, steady. He had forgotten how grounding that touch could be.

They walked in silence, their steps muffled on the thick wooden floors. Beorn’s hall was like a forest at night—dim, vast, and filled with the sounds of resting beasts. The occasional snore echoed faintly from behind doors, and moonlight spilled in through high windows like silver mist.

“You look better,” Thorin said at last.

“I feel better,” Bilbo replied. “Though I suspect that’s just the effect of sleeping for... how long was it?”

“Almost a day and a half.”

“Goodness.” Bilbo blinked. “That can’t be right.”

“You needed it.” Thorin glanced down at him, his expression softening. “We’ve all been running too long without rest. But you especially.”

In the wide, warm kitchen of Beorn’s hall, Thorin helped Bilbo climb onto a tall stool clearly made with someone of greater height—and girth—in mind. The hobbit clambered up awkwardly, his legs swinging slightly off the ground.

“Thank you,” Bilbo mumbled, trying to adjust the hem of his too-long tunic with as much dignity as he could muster.

Thorin crossed to the hearth and retrieved a covered plate, its edges still warm from where it had been kept near the fire. He set it before Bilbo with a quiet care.

“Beorn saved this for you,” he said. “He insisted you’d need a proper meal when you woke. Apparently, we’ve been starving you.”

Bilbo blinked, scandalized. “Starving me?”

The plate revealed a hearty fare: roast vegetables glistening with herbs and oil, thick slices of honey-glazed ham, and warm, buttered bread that practically steamed with invitation.

“We discovered hobbits are meant to eat seven meals a day,” Thorin said dryly. “You’ve only been eating three.”

Bilbo froze, halfway through lifting a forkful. He turned his head slowly to find Thorin giving him a look. The kind that said: Why didn’t you tell us?

“I can assure you, Master Oakenshield, that I am not being starved. I eat just fine,” Bilbo said stiffly—and then resumed eating with the kind of gusto that severely undercut his argument.

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. If ever he felt the pangs of hunger while the Company trudged on without pause, Bilbo would simply grow a fruit or two—nothing extravagant, just a small plum, a handful of berries. Quietly. Secretly. And there was Dúrwen, too. She'd given him a bit of lembas bread to keep in his pocket, though she’d sworn him to silence over it.

He didn’t say any of this aloud. Instead, he ate. And ate.

Thorin only hummed in response, pipe smoke curling lazily in the air between them. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze lingered.

The kitchen settled into a gentle rhythm—the clink of silverware, the soft pop of the hearth, the whispering hush of night beyond the high windows. Bilbo ate with the ferocity of someone who had nearly died—or at least nearly missed tea. He was aware, somewhere in the back of his mind, that his table manners had thoroughly abandoned him. Bungo Baggins would have wept.

Eventually, Bilbo slowed, breathing a contented sigh as he scraped up the last bit of honeyed glaze.

“Where is everyone? The Company, I mean,” he asked, voice low.

“Asleep,” Thorin replied, still nursing his pipe. “Even your ranger friend is snoring.”

“Dúrwen? Truly?”

“Curled near the hearth like a cat,” Thorin said, a note of amusement softening his usually gruff timbre.

Bilbo smiled faintly at the image. Dúrwen, ever-watchful, letting herself rest here, in this strange safe place. He liked the idea of it.

A comfortable silence stretched between them.

“You should get some rest,” Bilbo said eventually, rubbing at one eye. “You look awful.”

Thorin huffed. “I tried.”

He exhaled again, the smoke coiling upward like a serpent. Bilbo made a half-hearted attempt to collect his dishes, but Thorin reached over and plucked them from his hands.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I am not paralyzed, thank you very much,” Bilbo snapped, though it lacked venom.

Thorin ignored him with a sort of royal detachment, clearly used to stubborn company. Once everything was set aside, he helped Bilbo down from the stool with one steadying hand on his elbow.

The hobbit blinked slowly. His limbs felt as heavy as stone, and the edges of the world had gone pleasantly hazy again.

“I’ll see you back to your room,” Thorin murmured, already steering him gently through the hall.

Bilbo mumbled something incoherent until, just outside the chamber, he spoke more clearly:

“I don’t want to sleep there. It’s too big. And I don’t have anyone to sleep with.”

Thorin’s steps faltered at that.

Bilbo didn’t notice. He leaned slightly into Thorin as they walked. “I miss Ori. And Bofur. I used to sleep between them sometimes. I got used to it.”

His words were thick with sleep. He didn’t see the way Thorin’s jaw tightened.

“If you sleep with the Company now,” Thorin said lightly, though his voice was low, “you’ll be flattened before morning.”

Bilbo chuckled sleepily. “Fair point.”

They reached the bed, and Thorin eased him into it with care. The hobbit’s body sagged into the mattress as though every part of him had surrendered to gravity.

Thorin drew the blankets up around him, brushing the curls gently back from his brow. Bilbo blinked up at him.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“This isn’t much,” Thorin replied, voice quiet. “You’d do the same. Goodnight, Master Baggins.”

“Bilbo,” he corrected, eyes fluttering shut. “I want you to call me by my name.”

There was a pause.

“Then you may call me by mine also, Mas—Bilbo,” Thorin said, fingers brushing once more over the blanket.

He turned to go.

“Wait,” Bilbo said softly.

Thorin paused in the doorway. Bilbo, half-buried in covers, reached out and opened his hand. In his palm lay a small sprig of valerian root.

“To help you sleep,” he whispered.

Thorin stepped forward and took it, fingers curling gently around the gift.

“Thank you.”

His voice was low, and his eyes were softer than Bilbo had ever seen them.

Bilbo was already asleep.

Thorin watched him for a moment longer, as though willing the rhythm of the hobbit’s breath to anchor him.

Then he slipped quietly from the room, valerian still in hand.

   Morning came gently to Beorn’s hall, gilding every beam and rafter in a warm, amber light. The air was thick with the rich scent of roasted nuts, sweet cream, and the floral tang of wild blossoms gathered fresh from the fields. It drifted lazily through the great house, seeping into the dreams of sleeping dwarves like a song half-remembered from childhood.

Bofur stirred first, his nose twitching, mouth parted in a soft snore. He sat bolt upright, startling his hat askew. “Is that—? Mahal’s beard, that smells like honeyed oats.”

Nori grunted nearby, already folding up his blanket with the automatic precision of a man guided solely by his stomach. “Smells like heaven with a side of cream.”

Soon, the hall began to rouse. Muffled groans rose from the bedrolls like the chorus of a half-buried choir, beards flattened and braids tangled. Sleepy greetings, elbow jabs, and good-natured curses echoed across the wooden floor.

Kíli rubbed his eyes, yawning hugely as he blinked toward the kitchen. “Fíli,” he whispered urgently, tugging on his brother’s sleeve. “Fíli, wake up. You want to see this—”

“If it’s another talking dog again, I swear I’ll feed you to it,” Fíli mumbled into his pillow.

“No, look! Ori—look!”

The three of them stared.

There, seated with absurd comfort atop the towering shoulders of Beorn himself, was Bilbo Baggins, cheeks flushed and curls tousled, one hand gripping a thick slab of honeycomb. Amber dripped down his fingers like sunlight made syrup. He laughed—bright and high and wholly at ease—as Beorn lumbered about the kitchen, seemingly unbothered by the hobbit perched on his shoulders.

The sight was so utterly bizarre and heartwarming that none of them spoke for a moment.

Until Ori choked. “He’s alive. Thank Mahal’s hammer, he’s actually alive.”

“Bilbo!” Óin staggered to his feet, voice cracking with relief and reprimand in equal measure. “Careful, lad! You’ll fall and shatter every bone—he’s twelve feet tall, if he’s slouching!”

Bilbo turned, cheeks brightening even further as he spotted the waking Company. “Good morning!” he called, lifting his sticky hand in a wave. “You’re just in time. Beorn’s breakfast is something to write songs about.”

“You nearly gave us a collective heart attack!” Bifur signed furiously.

Bofur translated with a huff, “Aye, lying there like a stone corpse, you were. We thought you’d joined the ancestors!”

“I’m flattered by the concern,” Bilbo said around a laugh, shifting to balance himself as Beorn rumbled out a low chuckle.

“Was just very tired, that’s all.”

Dori whispered, offended. “Tired doesn’t usually involve passing out mid-step and sprouting vines like you’re half Ent.”

At that, Dwalin grunted, arms crossed tight over his chest. “Aye. Thought we’d have to bury you with a watering can.”

That earned him a subtle elbow from Balin, who coughed discreetly. “Now, now. Let’s not prod too deep before second breakfast.”

Beorn who’s smiling like a cat who’d found cream lowered Bilbo to the floor with careful, practiced hands. No sooner had Bilbo’s feet touched the ground than another figure appeared.

Dúrwen.

Silent as always, though her presence radiated the kind of calm that made even Dwalin take pause. Her hair was tied back, her sharp features shadowed by early light. Scars marked her face like wind-carved stone, but her expression, though unreadable, softened ever so slightly when she saw Bilbo.

Without a word, she offered him her arm.

Bilbo accepted it gratefully, leaning into her with the absent familiarity of someone who had long since stopped thinking before trusting.

“You didn’t eat yesterday,” she said, guiding him to a seat between Ori and Bofur. Her fingers adjusted the napkin in his lap with clinical efficiency.

“I was unconscious,” Bilbo replied, voice wry but light. “Wasn’t really intentional.”

“You’re not funny,” she muttered, but her lips twitched, betraying the truth.

“I did wake up at midnight,” Bilbo added after a moment, already nibbling at a piece of honey bread. “Thorin was up too. He told me to eat something.”

The Company froze. Eyes slowly turned toward the King Under the Mountain, who was seated at the far end of the table, arms crossed and jaw set. He raised a single brow in a silent, unimpressed arch.

“What?”

A mysterious series of coughs followed, suspiciously synchronized.

Food was laid out by Beorn in great, bear-sized platters: thick slices of soft cheese and buttered mushrooms, still sizzling; bread so fresh it steamed; wild berries glistening with dew. There were poached eggs, roasted roots, and even a delicate flower-laced jam that Bilbo proclaimed was better than anything in the Green Dragon.

They fell to it like men saved from starvation.

Kíli and Fíli told Bilbo about yesterday’s game of pebbles, which, by all accounts, had turned violent. “It wasn’t cheating,” Kíli insisted. “Fíli just doesn’t like losing.”

“I don’t like when your rocks mysteriously bounce three times and knock mine out of the ring,” Fíli snapped. “That’s not physics.”

Ori scribbled something in his journal, muttering under his breath about recording hobbit-induced miracles and the velocity of dwarf-thrown stones.

Bilbo chuckled, watching them bicker fondly.

When he turned to Thorin—who had, without anyone noticing, moved a plate of berries closer to Bilbo’s reach—he cleared his throat and asked, “When do we press on?”

It was Thorin who answered, voice low but certain. “We still have time before Durin’s Day. But we must prepare. The Greenwood lies ahead and beyond it, the mountain.”

“Mirkwood,” Beorn growled from the hearth. The name hung heavy in the air, dark as shadow.

Bilbo swallowed hard, the honey suddenly bitter on his tongue.

He wasn’t afraid for himself, not exactly. Not even of the dragon, though the thought of it stirred a cold sweat under his curls. No—what chilled him was failure. The Arkenstone. The promise. If he failed to find it… If he woke the dragon… If he led these stubborn, bright-eyed, battle-hardened fools to death—

He blinked. Looked down at his plate. Kept quiet.

No one asked about the vines.

And for now, he was glad.

The dwarves laughed, bickered, and shared more stories over second breakfast. Bilbo even coaxed a small smile from Dwalin, which Ori promptly attempted to sketch with exaggerated precision. Bifur joined in, creating a little flute melody on a spoon. Dori grumbled but didn’t stop him.

   If Bilbo were to be honest with himself—which he often was, even if only inwardly—Beorn’s house was the place that reminded him most of the Shire. Not in shape or in custom, certainly not in the sheer scale of the man or his home, but in the feel of it. In the peace of the breeze through tall grass and the warmth of honey-thick sun upon the earth. The way the flowers crowded in joyful, disordered beds, spilling over stone paths. The low, content hum of enormous bumblebees and the distant thunder of bear-paws across tilled ground. Even the scent of the place—fresh soil, wildflowers, fur, and woodsmoke—tangled into something he found oddly comforting.

It felt alive in the way the Shire was alive. And he missed that feeling.

He had taken to it rather quickly. After all, it wasn’t every day a Hobbit found himself perched high above the earth on a man who could pass for a small mountain. At first it had been daunting—the sheer height, the way the world tilted slightly when Beorn moved—but now it was… peaceful. He only ever dismounted when he chose to, and Beorn never seemed to mind.

The dwarves, however, did mind.

They grumbled. Oh, how they grumbled. Under their breath, into their beards, to each other, to Dwalin, to anyone who would listen.

“He’s up there again,” Nori muttered one morning as Bilbo cheerfully rode past, legs swinging over Beorn’s broad shoulder like a child on a swing.

“Aye,” Gloin added, squinting. “What’s he think he is, the King of the Bumblebee?”

“Or a pampered house cat,” Bifur signed with a huff.

They watched Bilbo pass with a mixture of exasperation and something else—something quieter, deeper, that Bilbo couldn’t quite name. He noticed the way they looked at him when they thought he wasn’t watching. Like they were waiting for something. Like a question had lodged itself in their throats and couldn’t quite find a way out.

“You don’t really know why?” Dúrwen asked him, when he finally gave voice to his confusion.

They were outside the house now, beneath a stand of tall, swaying trees that flanked one of Beorn’s vegetable gardens. The sun dappled through the leaves above them, casting leaf-shaped shadows across Dúrwen’s face. She sat leaning against a tree, long legs stretched out in the grass, her hair still tied. She had removed her vambraces and her boots, letting her feet breathe.

Bilbo was crouched near a mossy stone, dropping mushrooms into a small woven basket, his fingers stained with earth. His feet were bare, as they often were, the curls on them bright with dew. He glanced up at her, annoyed.

“How am I supposed to know?” he grumbled. “I’m not a fortune-teller.”

Dúrwen snorted softly and rolled her eyes. “You don’t need foresight to recognize what’s right in front of you.”

He looked down, frowning, brushing his thumb against the rim of a mushroom cap. “They’re acting like they’re about to burst.”

“They know now.”

Bilbo stilled. “About what?” he asked, and then— “Oh.”

Dúrwen raised a brow, watching him with quiet sympathy.

“Kíli was the first to suspect,” she said. “They saw what you did—on the cliff. When Azog had us trapped. When the trees couldn’t hold all of us, and the flames were closing in. You grew those vines, Bilbo. With your hands. With your will.”

He stared at her, jaw slack. “And they didn’t say anything?” he whispered.

“I told them,” Dúrwen said, “that among hobbits, such things are not spoken of lightly. That it’s… a gift, yes. But a secret, too. Sacred. Something private. They agreed. Dwarves understand the weight of secrecy. They decided they’d wait until you told them yourself.”

Bilbo sat down beside her, drawing his knees to his chest. He wrapped his arms around his legs, hands absently smoothing over the curls on his feet. “That’s... thoughtful,” he said softly.

“They care for you,” Dúrwen said. “More than they let on. You’ve become… something precious to them.”

That word—precious—settled warm and heavy in his chest, like honey thickening in a pot.

“I’m not obligated to answer them, am I?” he asked, eyes still fixed on the ground.

“No. Not yet. Not ever, if it doesn’t bring you peace.”

He was quiet for a while, then murmured, “I think I will. Soon. Before we reach Mirkwood. Before danger finds us again. If I’m to protect them, truly protect them, it’s better I do it without lies. Or half-truths.”

Silence stretched between them, deep and companionable. Over in the field, he could hear Ori and Kíli arguing—again—about the existence of bees that could kill a man. Bombur laughed heartily at something, the sound echoing like rolling thunder. Somewhere behind the house, Thorin barked a command, and the unmistakable clang of an axe hitting wood followed.

Bilbo stood, basket in hand, and wandered a little farther off—though not far. Dúrwen still had a clear line of sight on him, and she never let it stray long.

He stooped to collect a few last mushrooms when his foot pressed onto something round and solid. Curious, he lifted it.

An acorn.

He stared at it, cradling it gently in his palm. Such a small thing. Hard and unyielding, yet full of promise. Of roots, and green shoots, and long years.

“What’s that?” Dúrwen called.

He walked back to her and placed his mushroom basket on the grass.

“An acorn,” he said, turning it in his fingers with a gentle reverence. “I’ll plant it when I get back to the Shire.”

“That’s good,” she said. “The world could use more trees.”

A pause, soft as wind through boughs.

“If you don’t mind me asking…” Bilbo hesitated, gaze flicking to her cheek. “Where did you get the scar on your face? I never noticed it before. Your hair usually covered it.”

For a breath, he thought he’d overstepped. Her expression darkened, distant.

“It was given to me by my father,” she said at last, voice calm but sharp-edged. “My brother was born with a birthmark in the same place. My father—he wanted me to match him.”

Bilbo’s stomach twisted. “Why would he—?” he stopped himself, whispering the rest under his breath. “Where is your brother now?”

“He died when we were children. A fever. Swift and cruel.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Dúrwen shrugged, a gesture too empty to be real. “It was long ago. I don’t even remember his face. Not clearly. Just… shadows of it.”

Bilbo looked down at the acorn in his hand, then up at the scar on her cheek.

“I’d hate that,” he said quietly. “Forgetting someone I loved.”

She turned her head, regarding him with unreadable eyes. “Yes,” she said. “It’s a terrible thing, to forget. Almost worse than death itself.”

They sat in silence once more, until Bilbo laid the acorn beside his basket and leaned against her shoulder—not quite touching, but close enough.

“I won’t forget,” he said.

She didn’t ask what he meant. She simply said, “Nor will I.”

And for a while, the only sound between them was the wind in the trees and the soft hum of bees, busy with the living world.

The day was warm and golden, the sun brushing the tall grass with a honey-hued kiss. Flowers nodded lazily in the breeze, their fragrance thick and pleasant, carried alongside the buzzing chorus of bumblebees and hornets flitting among them. Beyond Beorn’s towering wooden hall, the Company had gathered in the field not to rest, but to revel in a rare moment of peace and camaraderie.

And chaos.

Swords clashed, boots thudded against turf, and voices rang loud and unrestrained—half battle cry, half laughter. If one asked a dwarf what “relaxation” looked like, it would almost certainly include bruises, blunted steel, and perhaps a few missing teeth.

Fíli and Kíli were the stars of the current storm. The brothers stood facing one another in the center of the clearing, swords drawn and gleaming. Their grins were feral, their stances fluid and daring.

“Try not to embarrass yourself, little brother,” Fíli taunted, golden hair catching the sunlight like strands of flame.

“I’ll try, if you promise not to trip on your own beard,” Kíli shot back, eyes alight with mischief.

The Company roared with laughter. Thorin, watching from beneath the shade of a tree, couldn’t help the snort that escaped him. He remembered those very same boys, barely out of toddlerhood, clanking wooden swords together in Ered Luin’s training yard—Fíli serious even then, Kíli always too quick to laugh. And now they were warriors. His sister’s sons. His heirs.

A wave of shouting drew his attention as the others began to throw wagers like axes at a target.

“Ten silver on Fíli!” cried Glóin, slapping his coin pouch against Óin’s chest.

“Make it fifteen on Kíli!” countered Bifur, who had found a comfortable perch on a tree stump.

“I’ll raise you both and throw in a smoked sausage,” Bombur added, ever practical, licking his fingers.

Fíli feinted left. Kíli ducked. Their blades rang out in a flurry of movement that was more dance than duel, their footwork a testament to years of training. But Fíli had the edge—literally and metaphorically. With a smooth pivot and a twist of his wrist, he disarmed his brother, sending Kíli’s sword flying into the grass with a clatter.

“Aye!” shouted Glóin, arms raised in triumph. “That’s my boy!”

“Fluke!” Kíli shouted, falling into the grass with exaggerated dramatics. “The sun was in my eyes.”

Fíli extended a hand, laughing as he pulled Kíli to his feet. “Better luck next time, Kee.”

Thorin folded his arms, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Kíli had always favored the bow—a legacy from his father, Víli. Thorin’s thoughts drifted then, unbidden, to that long-buried past.

Víli had been a good dwarf. Skilled with the crossbow, fierce in battle. And young—too young, Thorin had once thought, to court Dís. But Víli had stood firm, sword in hand and heart on sleeve, swearing he would make Dís proud.

He had. And then he’d died.

Still, the wound of his death in Moria had never quite healed. Fíli had known him only briefly; Kíli, not at all.

Kíli’s eyes were Víli’s eyes—warm brown eyes, full of cleverness and stubborn joy. Sometimes Thorin saw Frerin in him too. He’d told Kíli stories of Víli often, especially when the lad was young and questioning why his weapon of choice drew sneers from traditionalists.

“There is no shame in a bow,” Thorin would tell him. “Víli, your father felled more orcs with a bolt than some did with blades. It is not the weapon, but the strength of the arm that wields it.”

He had meant it.

Dwalin now stood, cracking his knuckles with the sound of shifting boulders. “What say you, Thorin?” he rumbled, raising an eyebrow. “Care for a proper duel? Like old times?”

A murmur of excitement swept the dwarves.

Thorin chuckled, the sound low and rare. “You think you can best me, old friend?”

“I know I can.”

Orcrist was in his hand in a heartbeat. He stepped into the ring with a grin, his eyes glinting like blue steel. “Let’s see it, then.”

Cheers erupted as the two dwarves squared off. Balin looked practically giddy, Bombur munched on a honeycake, and even Nori had paused from sleight-of-hand tricks to throw a coin into the growing wager pile.

“Come on, then!” Dwalin was rolling his shoulders. “Let’s give these young ones a proper show.”

The crowd roared. Swords were drawn—Thorin’s Orcrist gleaming with a deadly light, Dwalin’s axes already in hand. They faced each other, the mood suddenly sharpening with anticipation.

But just as they were about to strike, Bilbo wandered into view, a wicker basket slung over one arm and Dúrwen at his side. His curls bounced with each step, and the basket was brimming with mushrooms. He offered some to Bombur and Balin, who accepted gratefully, and then made his way closer to the ring.

“Bilbo, you’ve brought snacks at just the right time!” Bombur said, popping a mushroom into his mouth.

“Fresh from Beorn’s grove,” Bilbo said cheerily. “There’s even one that looks like Thorin’s scowl.”

The Company laughed—but Thorin’s attention had shifted. His gaze landed on Bofur, who had wandered over to Bilbo, throwing a companionable arm around the hobbit’s shoulders. Bilbo didn’t flinch; he leaned in, munching a mushroom with a soft smile, watching the spar with unguarded interest.

Thorin saw red.

He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the easy way Bilbo allowed Bofur near, or the warmth of that smile not directed at him. Or perhaps it was the way Bofur laughed—too loud, too familiar.

Dwalin saw the change in Thorin’s expression and narrowed his eyes. “Focus, lad,” he muttered under his breath.

Their blades clashed.

The duel was swift and brutal—more serious than before. The clang of metal rang through the clearing, and the crowd’s cheers dulled to murmurs of awe. They fought as warriors, not for sport, with years of memory and unspoken trust between each strike.

And yet, neither landed a decisive blow. Axe and sword locked at neck’s edge, a breath away from blood, and then both froze.

Silence fell. Then Fíli let out a low whistle.

“Call it a draw?” Dwalin asked, raising one brow.

Thorin let out a sharp breath. “Aye. A draw.”

The dwarves cheered again, though some groaned over the indecision of the result. The wager pile exploded into heated negotiations.

Thorin sheathed Orcrist with a practiced flick, turning away toward the treeline.

Bilbo, oblivious to Thorin’s storming thoughts, clapped politely. “That was... very exciting. Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that.”

“Then don’t give us reason to,” Dwalin muttered, and winked at him.

Thorin walked away without a glance, the taste of something bitter caught in the back of his throat.

Bofur’s hand lingered too long on Bilbo’s shoulder.

And Thorin hated how much he noticed it.

  Evening had settled gently over Beorn’s homestead, drawing shadows long across the fields as the company of Thorin Oakenshield gathered inside the great wooden hall. The air still smelled faintly of clover and warm hay, a reminder of the day’s sparring and laughter.

Now, in the safety of Beorn’s walls, the Company sat in a wide circle around the hearth. The fire crackled low, casting soft gold over bearded faces and tired eyes. Bilbo sat nestled between Fíli and Kíli, his legs curled beneath him, a half-eaten tart forgotten in his hand. Dúrwen sat across from him, her cloak discarded and her dark hair catching the firelight as she polished one of her blades in idle silence.

“We dwarves have a stone sense,” Balin was saying, his voice warm and edged with age and pride. “It was a gift given to us by Mahal himself.”

Bilbo blinked, curiosity knitting his brow. “What do you mean by ‘stone sense’?”

There was a beat of silence, and then a rumble of chuckles as the dwarves leaned in, clearly eager to explain.

“It means we can feel the heart of the mountain,” said Dwalin, tapping a thick finger against the floor. “Stone speaks to us, in a way. We can sense what lies beneath—ore, caverns, even danger.”

“Ah,” Bilbo said softly, brow furrowed in thought. “That explains a great deal. I always thought it was just excellent craftsmanship.”

“Craft is born from sense, lad,” Glóin interjected. ”Stone does not yield her secrets to just anyone.”

“How about female dwarves? I’m really curious about them. There are all these strange tales—some say dwarves just spring up from the stone itself. My father used to joke about it.”

Kíli snorted into his drink. Fíli grinned wide. “Did he also tell you that dwarves are born with beards already braided?”

“Mahal, no!” Glóin huffed. “That’s a foolish tale passed around by ignorant folk.”

“We call them dwarrowdams,” Balin said gently. “There are few of them, and they are rare—precious, even. That is why our people multiply slowly. Each dwarrowdam is a blessing.”

Bilbo nodded, his expression serious now.

Bombur, seated beside Bofur, beamed with pride. “That’s why, when me and my wife were blessed with a wee lass, we were overwhelmed with joy. I remember the day she was born. Nearly every dwarf in the mountain came to our home bearing gifts, songs, and sweets. They celebrated her as though she were a princess of old.”

A chorus of low murmurs and smiles followed—the rest of the Company clearly sharing in the memory.

“We hobbits are rather different in that regard,” Bilbo said, straightening. The dwarves turned their attention to him with curiosity. “We’re known for our fruitfulness, actually. Most hobbit families have at least five or seven children.”

There was a ripple of awe.

“That’s impressive,” Ori said, scribbling something in his journal.

"That’s a small army," Dori muttered.

Bilbo laughed. “I know, it sounds absurd. That’s why my family was considered odd. I was an only child. But my mother always said having one child she could dote on was better than none at all.”

The dwarves murmured agreement, several patting him fondly on the back or shoulder.

“Your mother sounds like a wise woman,” Balin said.

“She was.”

Then Bilbo cleared his throat. The room settled into silence again.

“Actually,” he began, “there’s something I wanted to tell you all. And I know, deep down, you’ve all suspected it too.”

His gaze drifted to Dúrwen, who gave a small nod of encouragement.

“You don’t need to say anything you don’t want to,” Thorin said quietly, eyes steady on him.

Bilbo met his gaze, heart pounding. “No, it’s alright. I trust you all now. You’re my friends. My family, in a way.”

There was a pause. Even Dwalin had gone still.

“I don’t know how to explain this clearly,” Bilbo went on, “but we hobbits have a gift—given to us by Yavanna.”

They were quiet, listening intently.

He held up his hand. The light shifted.

The firelight seemed to bend toward him, or perhaps away from him. His skin shimmered, catching some hidden light. His golden curls shone like spun honey, and his eyes—already an arresting green—seemed lit from within. In his open palm, a daisy unfurled, blooming from nothingness with a gentle sigh of air.

Gasps rose from the Company.

“Our gift,” Bilbo said, his voice quiet but resonant, “is our connection to the living world. We can speak to it, and sometimes, if we are gentle and it wills it, it answers. Plants grow with our touch. The earth listens to our wish. The wind hears.”

Kíli leaned in, eyes wide. “So it was you. The wind, during the Warg chase it changed my arrow’s path. Saved Bifur.”

Bifur nodded and mimed the flight of the arrow, then touched his chest with a grateful fist.

Bilbo flushed. “Well, yes, but it’s not commanding. More like asking. Wishing for a miracle, as you said.”

“That explains a lot,” murmured Nori.

“The gift we have,” Bilbo said, choosing his words carefully, “we usually keep it secret. We use it to protect ourselves. Or so my father told me. But my mother believed we were given it to help the wider world. She went on adventures, helped where she could. The other hobbits called her unrespectable, but my father never did. He loved her anyway.”

“And you?” Balin asked softly. “What do you believe is the purpose of your gift?”

Bilbo looked down at his hands, then back up at the circle of dwarves.

“I think,” he said slowly, “gifts are like stories. Each bearer writes their own purpose. And I’ve decided that mine is to help. To protect those who cannot protect themselves. To be brave even when I am afraid."

There was a long silence, filled only with the crackle of fire.

Then Dwalin grunted, breaking it like a stone hammer through quiet.

“Well,” he said. “That explains the tomatoes in my pack that hadn’t rotted after two weeks. Thought I was cursed.”

The others burst into laughter.

“By Mahal, I say we’ve got ourselves a wizard-hobbit.” Bofur clapped a hand over his heart. 

“Aye,” Óin agreed. “A green-fingered conjurer of carrots.”

Kíli leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Do you think you could grow a tree right now?”

“Kíli,” Thorin scolded.

Bilbo laughed. “Maybe not inside Beorn’s house. I’m not sure how he’d feel about an unexpected sapling in the floor.”

The group erupted into warm, relieved laughter, and the fire popped and cracked between them. In that golden light, the barriers between them seemed thinner, their hearts a little closer. Thorin, stoic as ever, allowed a faint twitch of the lips. Dúrwen watched Bilbo with a knowing smile, her expression softer than usual. And though the night outside was thick with wild things, within the hall there was safety, and a quiet kind of joy.

“Uhh… what is he doing?” Bilbo asked, blinking at the sight before him.

Across the clearing, Kíli stood proudly by the stream, hands smeared with wet earth, enthusiastically applying globs of mud to his face. He did so with an expression of intense concentration, as though painting ceremonial war stripes instead of simply smearing dirt on his skin.

Ori appeared beside Bilbo without a sound, settling down with a soft grunt. Strangely, his ever-present journal was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he clutched a pair of knitting needles and a half-finished scarf of deep forest green.

“Dwarves who have trouble growing their beards sometimes do that,” Ori explained, voice mild as if this were common knowledge.

“Really?” Bilbo tilted his head, half-incredulous, half-curious.

Ori nodded solemnly. “Old dwarven superstition. Some believe the minerals in river mud can ‘awaken the roots,’” he said, mimicking quotation marks with his fingers.

 Bilbo’s nose crinkled as he watched Fíli, ever the faithful brother, help his sibling spread the mud with utmost seriousness—as if it were war paint before battle. “Does it actually work?”

Ori gave a noncommittal shrug. “It might. Or maybe it just makes them feel better. Either way, it keeps Kíli happy.”

“I’d have thought beard-growing was a more… natural process.”

“Oh, it is,” Ori said, glancing up from his knitting. “But you know how folk can be about appearances.”

From his vantage point, Bilbo took in the scene spread across the bank of Beorn’s stream. The Company had taken full advantage of the rare moment of rest. Clothes hung from tree branches and makeshift lines, fluttering gently in the breeze like colorful flags of peace. The air was warm, thick with the scent of pine and clean water, and full of dwarven laughter.

Dori, sleeves rolled up with military precision, stood at the water’s edge diligently scrubbing what were most likely Ori and Nori’s garments. Bifur, Nori, Bofur, and Bombur were wading waist-deep in the stream, tossing handfuls of water at each other with booming laughter that echoed through the trees. Thorin, Dwalin, and Glóin were stationed further off, weapons in hand, methodically cleaning blades and sharpening edges. Nearby, Balin and Óin sat peacefully on a log, pipes in hand, smoke curling lazily above their heads as they murmured to one another.

“I never really noticed,” Bilbo said quietly. “But Kíli is the only one without a proper beard, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Ori said with a sigh.

Bilbo furrowed his brow. “Does that matter?”

Ori nodded as he dropped another line of stitches. “Usually, our beards come in strong by the time we’re twenty. Kíli's... never quite did. Some of the older dwarves call it a curse, though there’s no proof of that. It’s just the kind of nonsense people say.”

Bilbo winced. “That’s awful.”

“It was worse when we were younger,” Ori continued quietly. “Nobody wanted to befriend him. Not openly, not unless they were ready to face Lady Dís' fury. But the whispers were always there. People talk when they think they’re being kind by keeping it soft.”

Bilbo nodded, sympathy stirring in his chest. He knew all too well the sting of being whispered about. Of being different.

“That sounds familiar.” Bilbo’s voice softened. “Hobbits used to whisper behind my back, too. About my mum, mostly. They thought she was strange. Said I was half wild like her.” He paused. “They didn’t mean it kindly.”

Ori glanced at him, then smiled faintly. “Seems to me that only the best folk are called strange.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Well... he had me. And Mira. And Gimli too, when he was old enough to keep up with us. We were always getting into trouble—mostly thanks to Kíli’s wild ideas and Fíli’s inability to say no.”.”

“That, I believe.” Bilbo laughed. “Who’s Mira?”

“Bombur’s daughter. She’s our age but they didn’t let her come on the quest. Too dangerous. She was furious. Kíli promised to bring her something from Erebor to make up for it.” Ori paused. “And Gimli… he wanted to come too, but he’s still too young.”

“Bilbo!” Kíli’s voice cut across the clearing, bright and cheerful. He waved both arms high, his face now completely obscured by streaks of gloppy brown. “Look! I am Mahal’s chosen mud warrior!”

“You look more like a startled badger,” Bilbo called back with a grin. “But it suits you!”

“It’ll suit you better!” came a mischievous voice behind him.

Before Bilbo could react, a pair of muddy hands slapped onto either side of his face. Fíli stood there grinning like a fiend, victorious as he left perfect handprints on Bilbo’s cheeks. Beside him, Ori gasped and dropped his knitting just in time to receive a similar fate.

“Fíli!” Ori squawked, scandalized. “That’s wool! Do you know how long it takes to clean mud out of—”

But it was too late. The battle had begun.

Bilbo scooped a handful of earth and flung it at Fíli, who dodged, laughing. Kíli ran in to avenge his brother with a flying handful aimed squarely at Ori, and Ori—muttering something dark about vengeance and laundry—grabbed a double handful of his own. Before long, the clearing exploded in a flurry of muddy chaos.

Dwalin raised an eyebrow from the edge of the stream. “Are they fighting?”

Thorin didn’t look up from where he was polishing Orcrist. “If they are, they’re terrible at it.”

“They’re hobbit-level terrible,” Glóin agreed with a chuckle.

On a nearby tree branch, perched high above like some patient guardian hawk, Dúrwen watched the mud war unfold with a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She had not moved from her perch for over an hour, content to remain still, unnoticed. But now, seeing Bilbo flinging a fistful of mud while laughing breathlessly, she allowed herself a small chuckle.

“They’re going to regret this when Beorn sees the mess,” Balin commented, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe.

“Especially if one of them tracks it inside,” Óin added. “You remember what happened to that goat last time…”

Thorin finally looked up, gaze drawn to the mud-smeared hobbit dancing out of Fíli’s reach. Bilbo’s curls were streaked with brown, his vest spattered and muddy—but he was laughing, his face glowing with unguarded joy.

Something in Thorin’s chest tightened unexpectedly.

“Leave them,” he said quietly. “Let them be.”

Balin raised a bushy brow but said nothing. Behind them, Kíli tackled Fíli into the stream with a triumphant howl, and Ori, surprisingly fierce, followed them in with an impressively aimed throw.

And so the Company’s day passed not with swords or silence, but with laughter, mischief, and the kind of chaos that only true family could share.

   The warmth of the sun still lingered in the tall grass and dappled trees as the Company slowly began the trek back toward Beorn's hall. Laughter had faded into a companionable silence. Damp tunics were slung over shoulders, hair still dripping and tangled from their revelry by the stream. Bees murmured in the distance, and somewhere, a woodpecker tapped steadily against bark. It was peaceful—for now.

Thorin Oakenshield walked at the head of the Company, as was his custom. His boots made little sound on the soft earth, though his presence could never be called subtle. He glanced back more often than usual.

Bilbo had fallen behind—not out of exhaustion, not from the bandaged arm Óin had fussed over earlier, but because he had knelt in the grass beside the path. The hobbit was carefully selecting wildflowers with the air of someone gathering treasure. His fingers moved with quiet precision, plucking stems as delicately as he would arrange his tea tins or fold his favorite pocket-handkerchief.

Thorin slowed, letting the others pass him unnoticed. Bofur had launched into another of his dramatized tales, this time catching Nori in the snare of his embellished words. Dori was fussing about the damp state of Ori's hair. Dwalin grumbled something under his breath that made Balin chuckle. But Thorin ignored them all.

He noted, with some surprise, that Bofur was not currently charming the hobbit. Not that Thorin disliked Bofur—he was loyal, brave, and had volunteered for this mad quest without question. But sometimes—sometimes—Thorin caught himself irritated by the way Bofur and Bilbo touched each other so easily, so familiarly. Platonic, of course. And yet…

Dúrwen had vanished again, no doubt keeping watch in the trees or scouting ahead. That suited Thorin just fine.

He stepped carefully through the grass until he was close enough that Bilbo’s quiet humming drifted up to him. 

“What are you doing?” he asked. His voice, usually sharp as steel, was softer now, unguarded.

Bilbo startled slightly, then turned and smiled up at him. “Oh! Just... collecting a few things.”

He held up his small handful of blooms—bluebells, buttercups, and a single, fragile harebell. The colors glowed in the golden light.

“There’s meaning to them, you know,” he continued, rising to his feet. His curls bounced with the motion, and Thorin—who would never admit to such things aloud—found himself wondering how soft they might feel.

“Bluebells for humility, buttercups for joy. Harebells... those are for gratitude and hope.”

Thorin’s brow furrowed, not in disapproval but in thought. “Do all your flowers speak such things?”

Bilbo chuckled and brushed a curl behind his ear, a motion so practiced it seemed almost shy. “Not all. But most of them do, if you listen close enough. It’s something my mother taught me when I was very small. Hobbits may not have their own ancient language—not like dwarves or elves—but we understand the language of gardens well enough.”

They began walking together, their paces syncing as if by unspoken agreement. The trees thinned ahead, and the distant outline of Beorn’s hall began to form through the leaves.

Thorin didn’t speak for a time. He simply matched Bilbo’s stride, listening to the murmur of bees in the clover and the rustling leaves above. His hand twitched once at his side—he did not know why—but the sight of Bilbo’s hair, growing longer by the week, catching the sunlight in gold and strands that reminds Thorin of yellow zircon, stirred something wordless inside him. He imagined, not for the first time, what it might look like woven into braids. Not just for beauty, but for meaning.

Thorin cleared his throat.

“I never properly apologized,” Thorin said, the words escaping his mouth in a single breath, as if they had waited too long to be said.

Bilbo blinked. “What do you mean?”

“In the Carrock. I spoke to you, yes. But I fear it was not... a proper apology. Not for all I had done.”

Thorin’s voice grew steadier, deeper. “I was cruel to you, Bilbo. I doubted your worth, your courage, even your place among us. My pride blinded me to the truth. Time and again, you proved me wrong. And still I resisted.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to respond but found no words.

“I underestimated you. That was my failing.”

There was a beat. The birds in the canopy above did not care for confessions, but they sang all the same.

“I’m not very easy to underestimate,” Bilbo said finally, with a breath of nervous laughter. “I’m rather loud when I want to be.”

Thorin gave him the faintest of smiles. Then, with deliberate care, he reached into his coat.

Bilbo’s eyes widened.

There, in Thorin’s hand, was a withered garland of purple wisteria.

Bilbo gasped softly.

He had made it in Bag-End. Threaded it in stubborn defiance and looped it around Thorin’s shoulders just to be cheeky. Just to reclaim some power in the face of this gruff, grim king who had trampled into his peaceful life. He had expected Thorin to discard it the moment his back was turned.

But the blossoms—now dry, faded, their scent long gone—had been preserved. Carried all this way.

“You kept it,” Bilbo whispered, staring.

“I did,” Thorin said. “I asked Ori once what it meant. He said that hobbits may not speak in tongues like dwarves, but they speak in petals. In gifts of garden and green.”

Bilbo swallowed, his throat tight.

“You gave this to each of us. A welcome, though I had not earned it.” Thorin looked at the garland with something close to reverence. “I could not find wisteria here in Beorn’s lands. But... I thought this might do.”

He lifted the wreath and offered it to Bilbo. Not a king bestowing a token, but a man offering a piece of something fragile and wordless.

“I would like to compare it to you,” he said, quietly. “No matter how much hardship it endures, still—it endures. Still, it is here.”

Bilbo’s hands closed gently around the wreath, shielding it from the breeze.

“That’s a very un-dwarvish thing to say,” he murmured, voice trembling.

Thorin raised a brow. “Do you disapprove?”

“No.” Bilbo smiled. Soft. Honest. “Not at all.”

Thorin stared at him for a moment longer. Then, as though drawn by some invisible thread, they turned and began walking again. Closer this time. Their shoulders brushing now and then as they descended into the golden clearing beyond.

Ahead, the rest of the Company had reached Beorn’s hall, their figures small in the distance.

Fíli and Kíli exchanged glances and nudged each other. Even Ori smirked knowingly.

Thorin and Bilbo had grown closer in the days since their arrival at Beorn’s hall. It was a subtle thing—no grand declarations, no dramatic scenes, but a quiet comfort that passed between them like an unspoken accord. They spoke more casually now, more often too, and even the Company had begun to notice the change. It wasn’t as though they were always together, but the ease between them was undeniable. And if anyone caught Thorin’s eyes lingering too long on Bilbo when the hobbit wasn’t looking, his expression gone soft and fond, they were wise enough not to mention it aloud.

“Little bunny’s getting nice and fat again on bread and honey,” Beorn chuckled one morning, reaching down to scoop up Bilbo as easily as one might a kitten. The hobbit gave a yelp of surprise but didn’t protest as Beorn settled him on his broad shoulders.

“Oh dear,” Bilbo muttered, clinging to Beorn’s hair. “This is becoming a habit.”

“Come and have some more,” Beorn said, striding toward the long breakfast table.

The dwarves groaned in unison.

“Oi! He had three honeycakes already!” grumbled Bofur.

“And most of the blackberry jam!” Ori added, though without much heat.

“Shouldn’t feed him too much,” said Dori with a sniff. “He’ll get too round to run when trouble comes.”

Bilbo only stuck out his tongue at them from Beorn’s shoulder.

Breakfast was a noisy, hearty affair, as it always was in Beorn’s hall. The long wooden table was heaped with fruits, warm bread, nuts, smoked fish, and fresh honey. The animals bustled about the hall on silent paws and hooves, as if helping prepare for the Company’s departure. This was to be their last morning in the shelter of Beorn’s hospitality.

After the meal, Beorn stood and beckoned them to follow. His dark eyes were glittering with fierce satisfaction. “Come. I’ve something to show you.”

They rounded the side of the house, the morning sun cutting through the trees in long golden shafts. Outside the gate, the severed head of a goblin had been placed on a tall spike. Further off, nailed high on a tree, was the skin of a Warg, stretched and drying.

Some of the dwarves laughed aloud, loudest among them Kíli and Glóin.

“That’ll make the rest think twice!” said Kíli, nudging his brother.

“Better than a signboard,” muttered Dwalin, approving.

Bilbo turned a little green but said nothing.

Beorn crossed his thick arms. “It was a good story, that of yours. But I like it still better now that I know it’s true.”

“You caught them yourself?” Dúrwen asked, stepping forward, the sunlight catching on the steel clasps of her freshly donned ranger gear.

“I did,” Beorn nodded. “A goblin and a Warg, slinking through the trees together. From them I learned that the goblin patrols still hunt you, with fire and fury. The death of the Great Goblin has stung them deeply.”

Bilbo swallowed and spoke hesitantly. “What did you do with the rest of them?”

Beorn’s teeth flashed. “There were no rest. These were scouts. I doubt they’ll be missed for a while—but more will come.”

The Company exchanged uneasy glances.

Seeing their worry, Gandalf stepped forward. “Beorn has returned swiftly to offer what aid he can. And we would do well to accept it, for beyond this glade, you are truly on your own.”

Beorn gave a gruff nod. “I will provide ponies for each of you, and a horse for your wizard and ranger. I will pack your food tightly—enough to last weeks if you ration it. Water-skins too, and some bows and arrows, though I doubt you’ll find much worth shooting in Mirkwood.”

“Bows, eh?” said Fíli, brightening. “At least we’ll have some fun.”

Dwalin grunted. “Only if we stray from the path. And he just said not to do that.”

Beorn’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed. Listen well. Your path through Mirkwood is dark, dangerous, and twisted. Water is rare, and what food grows there is fit for beasts. There is one stream, black and strong, that crosses your road—do not drink from it, nor bathe in it. It carries an enchantment, a deep sleep that steals memory and time.”

Ori’s eyes had grown wide. “It makes you forget?”

“It makes you vanish,” Dúrwen said, low and grim. “Like the old tales say.”

“More than old tales,” Beorn rumbled. “It is truth. Stay on the path. Do not chase food or light or sound. In the shadows of that place, even your own footsteps might lead you astray.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of Beorn’s words settling heavily upon them. Then, Thorin stepped forward, regal and resolute.

“You have done us a great service, Master Beorn. I will see to it that your aid is not forgotten, when Erebor is reclaimed.”

Beorn gave a slight bow of his shaggy head. “Just come back alive.”

They spent the rest of the morning in preparation. Saddlebags were packed and repacked, filled with dried fruits, nuts, hard bread, cheese, and smoked meats. Water-skins were filled, weapons inspected. Dúrwen offered quiet instruction to Bilbo on how to mount a pony again without falling flat, though the hobbit still managed to stumble.

“Careful,” she said, steadying him with a hand to his back.

“I miss how clean you looked in Rivendell,” he huffed. “All polished like a blade. Now you’re all dust and weather again.”

Dúrwen grinned. “And you’re still softer than cream, Baggins. Try not to fall asleep in the forest.”

“I’m a hobbit, not a child!”

“And I’m a ranger, not your nursemaid.”

He laughed, and she gave him a rare wink.

At midday, they gathered for their final meal in Beorn’s hall. There was little laughter this time, but much gratitude. As they finished, Gandalf and Beorn approached.

“Your way through Mirkwood is dark,” Beorn said again, his voice carrying over them like thunder. “I have no help for you beyond the forest’s edge. Only your luck, your courage, and the food I give you. When you reach the path’s end, release the ponies. I’ll find them.”

“And if we never reach it?” Ori whispered.

“Then I hope the trees remember you kindly.”

Bilbo dismounted again to face Beorn directly. “I will return, Master Beorn. I swear it.”

Beorn tousled the hobbit’s curls, the gesture surprisingly gentle. “Aye. I will look forward to that.”

There were many bows and deep hoodsweeps, and no few lingering glances back at the wooden hall. Then, with the sun high overhead and the shadows of Mirkwood creeping toward the edge of sight, the Company rode forward.

The dragon still waited. But first, there was the forest.

And the forest was hungry.

   They rode in silence for a long while, the ponies galloping wherever the ground was smooth, the wind tugging at cloaks and beards. The sun had just begun to turn westward when they set out, and for hours it poured golden light over the hills, setting the dry grass aglow like the embers of a fading hearth fire. The dark shapes of the Misty Mountains loomed always to their left, stark and sullen beneath the deepening sky. And ahead, faint and growing closer, lay the line of the river, its banks thick with trees, casting long shadows that reached toward them like fingers.

At first, the memory of goblins seemed distant—unreal, almost. It was difficult to think of anything chasing them, with the open world stretching around them in every direction, green and gold and wind-swept. But as the miles slipped past and Beorn’s hall became only a speck in their memories, the Company began to speak and sing again, the sound of dwarvish voices slowly filling the air like a hearth-song returning after long silence.

But when evening came, and the sun dropped low behind the mountains, the mood shifted. The peaks glowered against the bruised sky, their sharp edges like the teeth of some ancient beast. They made camp in a hollow and posted guards, but most of the Company slept uneasily, twisting beneath their blankets with dreams full of goblin shrieks and the red eyes of hunting wolves.

Still, the next morning dawned fair and bright. So did the next. For four days they traveled, each morning lightening their spirits a little more, until at last they came within sight of the forest's edge.

Mirkwood.

They approached cautiously, the chatter fading from their lips as they drew near the eaves. Great, gnarled trunks rose like ancient bones from the earth, the bark twisted and split, vines crawling up their sides like veins full of poison. The trees leaned together overhead, strangled by black-leaved creepers that hung low and heavy, forming a shadowy tunnel at the edge of the path.

On either side of the forest gate stood the broken remnants of an old Elven arch—crumbled stonework carved with forgotten runes, half-swallowed by ivy. The air here was close and stifling, and smelled faintly of rot beneath the damp green.

Gandalf dismounted and stood before the shadowy threshold.

“The Elven Gate,” he said, voice low. “Here lies the path through Mirkwood.”

Behind him, the Company halted. Even the ponies seemed reluctant to go further.

Dwalin glanced back the way they came, his brow furrowed. “No sign of the orcs,” he said. “We’ve luck on our side.”

Gandalf gave a wry smile but did not speak. His gaze drifted southward.

Far on a distant ridge, a shadow stirred—massive, shaggy, and watchful.

Beorn.

He was still watching over them.

Gandalf nodded toward the forest. “Set the ponies loose. Let them return to their master.”

The dwarves moved reluctantly, unsaddling their ponies, patting flanks, murmuring soft farewells. Dúrwen slid from her tall horse and began dividing the supplies evenly. Her fingers moved deftly, securing straps and checking rations. Her eyes, however, remained fixed on the forest.

Bilbo lingered behind the others, standing before the broken gate. He stared into the tunnel of trees, his brow furrowed. Slowly, as if without thinking, he slipped a hand into his pocket and withdrew a small, cold shape—the golden ring.

He turned it over in his fingers.

He had never told the dwarves. Or Gandalf. Not even Dúrwen.

And he didn’t know why he hadn’t. He just knew he couldn’t.

The metal was warm now. Almost alive.

“The forest feels...” he began, then paused, struggling to name the sensation twisting in his chest. “Sick,” he said at last, quietly. “Like a disease lies upon it.”

He could feel it in his magic—low and humming and wrong. The trees whispered not in song, but in a rasping, choking breath. Something was dying in there. Or killing.

“Is there no other way around?” he asked, glancing up at Gandalf.

Gandalf followed his gaze. “Not unless we go two hundred miles north,” he said grimly, “and twice that south.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“You haven’t mentioned your horse,” Dúrwen said quietly.

Every dwarf turned toward Gandalf. Most looked surprised—except for Thorin, Fíli, Balin, and Dwalin. Their faces were unreadable, as though they had known all along.

“You’re leaving us?” Bilbo asked, the words sharp with disbelief.

Gandalf sighed, guilt in every line of his face. “I would not do this unless I had to.”

He paused, then looked down. Something in Bilbo caught his eye. He studied the hobbit for a long moment—long enough that Bilbo shifted awkwardly under the weight of his gaze.

“You have changed, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf said softly. “You are not the same hobbit who left the Shire.”

Bilbo opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tried again.

“I was going to tell you—”

“Tell me what?” Gandalf asked gently.

Bilbo looked away. “I found something. In the Goblin tunnels.”

Gandalf's eyes narrowed. “Found what?”

A silence hung between them.

Bilbo’s fingers clenched around the ring in his pocket.

“My courage,” he said at last.

Gandalf did not press him further.

“Good,” he said. “That is good. You will need it, my dear boy.”

He turned then to Thorin and unrolled the map once more, pressing it into the dwarf’s hands.

“I will wait for you at the Overlook before the slopes of Erebor,” he said. “Keep the map and the key safe. Do not enter the mountain without me.”

Then he turned to mount his horse.

“This is not the Greenwood of old,” he said, once seated. “The very air is heavy with illusion. It will seek to confuse your mind, turn you around, draw you from the path.”

He looked them over one last time.

“Stay on the path,” he said, voice sharp. “Do not leave it. If you do... you will never find it again.”

He wheeled his horse around.

“No matter what may come—stay on the path!”

With that, he rode off, cloak flying like a dark wing behind him, and was soon swallowed by the horizon.

The Company stood still for a long time. The wind rustled through the ruined gate. A crow cawed once in the distance.

“Come on,” Thorin said, finally breaking the silence. “We must reach Erebor before the sun sets on Durin’s Day. It is our one chance to find the hidden door into the mountain.”

He turned toward the gate and began walking.

The others followed.

But Bilbo hesitated, eyes still on the place where Gandalf had vanished. The wind had picked up again. The ring felt like a stone in his hand.

“Bilbo,” came a voice beside him—low, familiar.

He looked up to find Thorin waiting at the threshold.

“Walk with me?” the dwarf said softly.

Bilbo blinked at him. The others were already slipping into the shadows. Thorin offered a hand.

Without quite knowing why, Bilbo took it.

They passed beneath the twisted arch together, side by side, their shoulders brushing.

The darkness of Mirkwood closed around them.

And the last rays of sunlight vanished behind the trees.

Chapter Text

08.

   They walked in single file, swallowed by the oppressive hush of the forest. The entrance to the path was like a twisted archway, formed by two colossal trees that leaned against each other, their trunks strangled by ivy and veiled in curtains of lichen. These ancient sentinels bore only a few brittle blackened leaves, as though even life itself had abandoned them. The narrow trail curved ahead in slow, eerie turns, winding through the trunks like a forgotten road in some buried underworld.

Behind them, the light of day narrowed to a pinprick. A small, bright hole in the gloom, shrinking with every step. All around was silence, deep and unnatural. Their boots thudded heavily on the forest floor, as if the trees themselves were listening with bated breath. As their eyes adjusted, the dark took on shades of sickly green, and the dimness revealed flickers of motion: black squirrels darting from branch to trunk, shadows slinking into the underbrush. Yet none of them spoke of the sounds—the scuffling, the hissing rustle of dry leaves, the faint whisper of something unseen moving parallel to their path.

Occasionally, a lone beam of sunlight filtered down through some high crack in the dense canopy, stabbing the darkness like a silver sword, only to be swallowed again by the clutching boughs and moss-laden limbs. It was a rare blessing, quickly lost.

The cobwebs were the worst. Sticky black ropes thick as cord stretched between the trees and clung to the lower branches, heavy with dust. None dared ask what manner of creature had spun them.

“I hate this place,” Ori muttered, breaking the silence. His voice trembled as much from exhaustion as from dread.

“You’re not alone,” muttered Glóin, brushing a fat cobweb from his shoulder.

Dwalin grunted. “Feels like the tomb of a dead world.”

Even Thorin, though he said nothing, glanced upward and frowned, his gaze trailing the twisted branches high above.

Bilbo walked near the middle of the line, and every few minutes he would glance over his shoulder, toward the vanishing daylight, then forward again into the gloom. He looked pale, strained, and distracted. His hand strayed often to the pocket where the Ring lay hidden.

“The forest feels wrong,” he whispered suddenly, mostly to himself, but Dúrwen heard him.

She stepped lightly behind him, brushing leaves from her tangled hair. “Do you want me to carry you?”

Bilbo gave a small start and shook his head quickly. “No. I’m fine. Just—just tired, is all.”

His voice was unconvincing, and he winced as he stepped over a root, pressing a hand briefly to his chest. The air was thick and stagnant. He could feel it crawling beneath his skin, like it was trying to choke something out of him.

“I tried to grow a sapling yesterday,” he said, aloud this time. “It withered before it touched the soil.”

That caught the others’ attention.

“You what?” Nori turned around.

“He means his magic,” Dori clarified, looking at Bilbo with a new sort of concern.

“My magic is... subtle here,” Bilbo admitted, voice hushed. “Sickly. It won’t take root. The forest rejects it.”

“How about the air?” Kíli perked up slightly, his usual mischief dimmed but not extinguished. “Can you whisper to it again? Like in the Warg Chase?”

“Yes, yes! I need air!” Bofur chimed in from the rear. “Some proper breeze to blow this rot off me beard.”

Bilbo hesitated. He could feel the strain, the way his power bent unnaturally in this place. But he wanted to try. Needed to. The dwarves were struggling. He could feel their weariness and fear like it pressed on his own skin.

He stepped off the path just a little, raised his hands, and whispered into the thick stillness, calling the wind.

Nothing stirred.

He tried again, and the effort came sharper this time, something twisted. A spark flared at the edge of his vision—and a stab of pain bloomed in his head.

“Stop, stop! Bilbo, enough!” Thorin's voice rang out, rougher than usual, laced with fear.

Bilbo swayed. Blood dripped from his nose. He staggered, and before anyone could react, he collapsed.

Dúrwen caught him.

The line broke in chaos.

“Bilbo!” Bofur shouted, pushing past Bifur to get to the front.

Ori let out a frightened squeak, hands flapping helplessly.

Óin dropped to his knees beside Dúrwen, already tugging supplies from his satchel. “Move back, all of you! Give him air, what’s left of it!”

The hobbit lay in Dúrwen’s arms, deathly pale, a thin trail of blood running from his nose to his upper lip.

“It’s the forest,” she said grimly. “It’s turning his gift against him. Twisting it. His magic is being forced to stop.”

Óin swore under his breath, dabbing the blood away. “This is bad. Magic like his—too tied to nature. And this place is blighted. Poisoned.”

“I’ll carry him,” Dúrwen said, gently cradling Bilbo’s body. “We can’t stop here.”

“No.”

The voice was quiet but resolute. All heads turned.

Thorin stepped forward. His eyes, usually sea-blue, had darkened like the sky before a storm. Midnight and steel.

“I’ll carry him,” he said.

Dúrwen looked at him, surprised. “You’re already tired.”

“I’m not too tired.”

“You’ll slow us down.”

“I won’t.”

“Why?” she asked finally, her voice low.

“Do I need a reason?” he said.

The dwarves fell silent.

After a long moment, Dúrwen passed Bilbo gently into Thorin’s arms.

“Don’t let him fall,” she murmured.

“I won’t,” Thorin said, and the way he held Bilbo—carefully, protectively—said even more.

Bilbo’s head lolled against his chest, breath shallow but steadying under Thorin’s touch.

Kíli nudged Fíli. “Did you see that?” he whispered.

Fíli nodded slowly. “Aye.”

“Do you think—”

“Don’t say it out loud.”

Behind them, Dwalin hefted his axe. “Then let’s keep moving. The sooner we leave this cursed place, the better.”

The Company pressed forward again, single file, deeper into the ancient, sickened dark. But now, at the head of the line, Thorin walked steadily with Bilbo in his arms—eyes watchful, jaw set, a quiet vow in his heart he did not voice.

He would carry the hobbit through the heart of the forest.

And he would not let him fall.

Bilbo awoke with a groan, his head aching, his limbs heavy, and his spirit dimmed like a candle fighting the wind. For one foolish, fleeting moment, he thought he might open his eyes to Rivendell, or perhaps even Bag-End, with its round windows and fresh sheets and scent of lavender biscuits. But the sour damp of the forest air filled his nose, and the oppressive darkness greeted him once more.

They were still in the forest. The sickly green canopy above loomed like a cage of dying light. The air was too still, too silent, too wrong.

Bilbo was curled between Fíli and Ori, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly of Bofur’s pipeweed. It was night again. The dwarves lay huddled together in sleep, quiet save for Dori's faint snoring. Even Dúrwen, their tireless ranger, had finally given in to slumber, her dark hair tangled with dried leaves, her sword resting across her knees.

Only one figure remained awake.

“How’s your feeling?” came a low voice, solemn but not unkind.

Bilbo turned his head slowly. Thorin sat nearby on his bedroll, his sword laid close at hand, his cloak gathered around his shoulders. The moonlight, what little pierced the thick foliage, caught the strands of silver in his dark hair.

“I wish I could say I was feeling better,” Bilbo murmured truthfully, and winced as his hand lifted to his temple. It stung like fire under his skin. “But the truth is, I’m not. I despise this forest.”

Thorin exhaled slowly through his nose. “You gave us quite the scare earlier.”

Bilbo looked away. “I’m sorry...” he whispered.

Thorin stood and moved closer, settling cross-legged before him. “Don’t be. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

But Bilbo couldn’t stop the wave of shame that swept over him. “I think I’m useless now. I can’t use my magic. It feels like something is suppressing it here... And I even became a burden...”

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, sharply enough that the hobbit looked up, startled. Thorin’s expression was serious, those midnight blue eyes shadowed with exhaustion and yet unflinchingly clear.

Bilbo blinked. It was terribly unfair, he thought, that even while grimy and sleep-deprived, with dark circles under his eyes and hair half-loosened from its braids, Thorin still looked so... majestic. A king lost in the woods, but a king nonetheless.

“You earned your place in this Company,” Thorin said. “You’ve done things no burglar was asked to do—and more. You have no idea, truly none, how much you’ve become one of the foundations of this Company.”

A small smile flickered on Bilbo’s lips.

Then he tilted his head and said, “Can you please not do that?”

Thorin arched a brow. “Do what?”

“That scowl on your face,” Bilbo replied. “As much as I’ve grown to love your scowling face, it bothers me. Don’t you know how many frown lines you’re going to get?”

There was a beat of stunned silence. And then, incredibly, impossibly—Thorin laughed.

A true laugh.

Bilbo stared, wide-eyed, half-afraid he’d imagined it. But it rang out, low and warm like a forgotten melody. Even the trees seemed to hush around them.

“Here we are, in a never-ending, sickly forest. You cannot use your magic. And yet you are more concerned about the frown lines on my forehead,” Thorin said, still chuckling.

“Well,” Bilbo muttered, flushing pink, “you’ll thank me later once you realize how important it is to have a smooth face.”

They chuckled together, and something inside Bilbo lightened.

Thorin reached into a pouch and pulled something out. “Here,” he said, placing a piece of waybread into Bilbo’s hand.

Bilbo accepted it with quiet gratitude, chewing slowly.

“Once we leave this foul forest,” Thorin said, voice quiet again, “and Erebor is ours once more, I’ll throw a grand feast. For you.”

Bilbo looked up in surprise, nearly choking on a crumb. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I will,” Thorin said, firm and without hesitation. “I promise you that.”

As Bilbo nibbled, Thorin let his thoughts drift.

He imagined Erebor restored—its great halls lit with golden light, the echo of music in the stone corridors, the mountain alive with kin and laughter. He saw himself on the throne of Durin, and beside it, Bilbo.

Bilbo, wearing dwarven clothes laced with hobbit sensibilities. A tunic dyed Durin blue, embroidered in gold. His golden curls braided—not by Bofur or the elves of Rivendell, but by Thorin’s own hands. Braided with beads Thorin had carved for him.

Beads that told a story.

Bilbo stirred slightly, and Thorin was pulled from his vision.

“Thank you for this,” Bilbo said softly, breaking the quiet.

“You’d do the same,” Thorin replied.

Neither of them spoke. The others slept on. But between Bilbo and Thorin, something old and quiet and true had deepened.

The forest still pressed around them, dark and unwelcoming. But for a moment, the air between them was warm.

   Morning came—but it did not look like any morning the Company had known before. Within the heavy boughs of Mirkwood, dawn was not a gentle golden bloom in the sky, but merely a slight shift in the shade of darkness. The black-green canopy above thinned just enough to allow a sickly grey-green glow to seep through the leaves, casting no warmth, no promise. It was morning only because they said it was.

Bilbo stirred beneath his blanket, blinking blearily and expecting—hoping again—that perhaps they had escaped the forest in the night. But no, the damp air still clung to everything, and the same oppressive weight hung in the air, sapping every breath of cheer. He was still nestled between Fíli and Ori, who had both curled around him protectively during the night. The sight brought a fond pang to his chest.

“He lives,” Bofur declared dramatically as Bilbo sat up. A soft chorus of relieved laughter followed.

Kíli, who had been uncharacteristically quiet all morning, looked sheepish as he approached with a piece of dried fruit in his hand. “Bilbo, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to whisper to the wind yesterday. I didn’t know it would hurt you like that. I—”

Bilbo shook his head quickly, interrupting him. “Don’t be, Kíli.” He took the offered fruit and chewed gratefully, walking beside the younger dwarf as they trudged onward. “If there’s one thing we ought to blame, it’s this forest.”

Grumbled murmurs of agreement rippled through the Company like a tired wind.

So they pressed on. Step by weary step.

Bilbo found himself watching the others more than the path. Fíli had grown tenser, more alert—his hand often fell protectively across Kíli’s chest whenever a rustle or grunt echoed from the underbrush. Dori hovered beside Ori, flinching at every unfamiliar sound and whispering reassurances that Ori tried hard to believe. Even Nori, usually aloof, walked close now.

The path twisted on, winding deeper and darker. The glimmers of green light gave way to shadow, and then the night came. Not night as the Shire knew it, with stars and moonlight, but something far blacker. It was as if the forest drank the starlight and left nothing in return. Bilbo tried waving a hand before his nose—and saw nothing.

When it was Bilbo’s turn to take watch with Dúrwen, he huddled close to the others, his shoulders brushing Fíli’s back. The dwarves snored softly around him, but he remained still, heart thudding too loud in his ears. That was when the eyes came.

Not just one pair. Dozens. Pale, yellow, red, green—some gleamed low to the forest floor, others stared from the heights of the branches, and some… some hung at a sickening height just above his head. Bilbo shivered. He could not see their bodies, and perhaps that was a blessing. The worst were the pale ones, bloated and round.

“Insect eyes,” he whispered to himself, voice trembling, “but much, much too big.”

They had tried fires, early on. But the flames did not give comfort. Instead, they drew every crawling and winged creature from the dark. Enormous grey moths, some nearly as large as Ori’s hands, spiraled madly around the fire. Bats, huge and silent, swooped down in the flickering light, their leathery wings brushing cheeks and hair.

Even Glóin, who loves fires, swatted wildly at one that landed on his shoulder. “Enough,” he said sharply. “No more fires.”

And so they had abandoned the only light they could make.

It went on like that for days. Or what they guessed were days. The forest did not change. Their food supplies dwindled. Bilbo began to whisper small, focused wishes under his breath—calling forth bits of fruit or nuts, using no soil, only thought and breath. It worked, though it exhausted him more than he admitted. He often found himself trembling after such quiet conjuring.

“Are you alright, laddie?” Balin asked one evening, laying a warm hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Just tired,” Bilbo said with a faint smile. “Same as all of us.”

The Company had attempted to hunt. After wasting far too many arrows on the elusive black squirrels that flitted through the trees, they finally brought one down.

It roasted to an oily, foul-smelling mess. Even Dúrwen, who had eaten lichen and pine-needles in the wild, pushed her portion away.

“It tastes like rot,” she muttered, spitting it out. “Even a wolf wouldn't eat this.”

“That squirrel died in vain,” Bifur grumbled in Khuzdul. “Poor bugger.”

They gave up hunting altogether after that.

What saved them from thirst was Dúrwen’s enchanted water-skin. It never emptied, no matter how much they drank. The dwarves passed it around reverently, wiping their mouths and exclaiming in awe.

“Where did you get this?” Nori asked, turning it over in his hands with wonder.

“A gift,” Dúrwen answered simply. “From a friend.”

Ori looked up. “What kind of friend gives you something that powerful?”

Dúrwen smiled faintly. “The kind I never saw again.”

They fell silent after that.

So they walked, and walked. And every night brought more eyes, more silence, and more hunger. But Bilbo did not complain. He would not be the weak link, not now. Not after Thorin’s words.

But he often glanced up at the canopy, searching for a way out, for a break in the green-black sky. And he held tightly to the memory of Thorin’s laugh and promise: a feast in Erebor. That dream was enough to walk one more mile.

And then, one more after that.

   One day, as they trudged endlessly onward beneath the eternal green-black canopy of Mirkwood, their weary feet stumbled to a halt before a new obstacle: a river.

It flowed swift and strong across their path—narrow, but dark as pitch, so dark it was almost oily in appearance. It looked more like a stream of ink than water, and it gave off a heavy, musty scent that clung to the senses. Bilbo crouched near the bank, squinting into the gloom.

“It’s the enchanted stream,” Dúrwen said flatly, her voice quiet. “Beorn warned us. Don’t let a drop touch your skin. Don’t drink it. Don’t even breathe too near.”

Bilbo, who had dropped to his knees on the mossy verge, pointed across. “There’s a boat. Over there, on the far bank. Tied up. Of course it’s on the wrong side.”

The dwarves crowded near, muttering in frustration.

“How far away do you think it is?” Thorin asked. His voice was soft, controlled. He knew well now that Bilbo had the sharpest eyes among them, and he’d learned to trust them.

“Not too far,” Bilbo murmured, tilting his head. “But it’s secured. We’ll need to cross to fetch it.”

There was a collective sigh.

Dwalin let out a grunt. “Unless someone here brought wings, we’re stuck.”

But Dúrwen had wandered downstream a few paces, her sharp eyes catching something. “We’ll risk the vines,” she called. She pointed: thick, black veiny tendrils stretched across the river like ancient, natural ropes.

Balin frowned. “They don’t look steady.”

“They’re strong,” Dúrwen said. “I’ve seen their like before—rooted deep into stone. Elvish? No. Old. Older than this forest, perhaps. But they’ll hold on.”

Thorin turned, his voice decisive. “We’ll send the lightest first.”

Everyone turned instinctively toward Bilbo.

But Dúrwen stepped forward, eyes burning. “No. I won’t allow it. I’ll go.”

Thorin didn’t face her. “It’s not up for argument.”

“Oh for the love of—!” Bilbo stepped between them, brushing Dúrwen’s arm as he moved to the vines. “I’m a great climber. Won ribbons for it back in Hobbiton.” He didn’t wait for protest. He just went.

“He has,” Ori whispered to Dori, who still looked unconvinced.

One by one, the Company followed, trying to space their steps. But by the time Thorin set foot on the vines, half the dwarves were halfway across.

“No, no, no!” Bilbo groaned from the other side, his arms flailing. “You’re supposed to go one at a time!”

But despite his panic, the vines held. With no small amount of effort and swearing (mostly from Bifur and Nori), they all made it across.

Then came a splash.

“Bombur has fallen in! Bombur is drowning!” Kíli shouted, horrified.

Dúrwen was already moving, throwing her pack down and plunging a branch toward the water. Several dwarves caught her waist, anchoring her as she leaned over the bank. Thorin, Balin, and Fíli were already in motion.

It took all of them to haul the big dwarf from the black water, and by the time they managed it, Bombur was soaked, shivering—and very much asleep.

He snored as they laid him gently on the moss.

“Too late,” Óin murmured, kneeling to examine him. “He’ll sleep. Deep. Not sure for how long. Could be days.”

They sat in stunned silence.

Then, with hardly a sound, the underbrush ahead rustled. White deer—pale and gleaming in the dark forest light—stepped into the path. A hind, followed by two fawns. They moved like ghosts.

Thorin’s hand moved too fast. His arrow flew.

The deer scattered, vanishing into shadow.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Bilbo whispered, still watching the darkness. “It’s bad luck.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” Thorin replied, his eyes fixed where the deer had vanished. “We make our own luck.”

They moved on.

Carrying Bombur proved no easy task. Four at a time bore him on a makeshift litter. The others carried their packs and tried not to look at how light they were getting.

They rotated in silence, sweat beading on their brows, breaths short. But they would not leave Bombur behind. Not even Dori suggested it.

“He’d better wake up with a song in his heart and roast boar in his hands,” Nori muttered under his breath.

“He dreams of hobbit’s second breakfasts,” Fíli said dryly.

“Don’t we all,” Bofur added, then winced and rubbed his stomach.

There was nothing left to eat now save for the small fruits and nuts Bilbo managed to summon—little miracles that cost him dearly each time. He grew paler by the day, his hands trembling slightly after each conjuration. Dúrwen had spoken no word, but she watched him closely.

“How long can you keep doing that, laddie?” Balin asked one night as Bilbo sat panting beside a conjured handful of blue berries.

Bilbo looked up, eyes tired. “Not forever. But long enough.”

Dúrwen knelt beside him and handed him her water-skin. He drank. Cool, pure water trickled down his throat, easing the ache.

“Where did you get that again?” Nori asked, eyeing the water-skin.

Dúrwen didn’t look at him. “I already said for the fifth time it's from a friend.”

“A friend or a lover?” Bofur teased.

She gave him a look that silenced him instantly.

The woods grew thinner, barely perceptibly. A hint of light, golden and faint, filtered through the leaves in the distance.

But still they walked, carrying their slumbering friend and what little hope they had left.

And in the dark, in the silences between steps, Bilbo began to hum softly. A Shire tune. Wordless. Simple. And somehow, in that endless forest of despair, it was enough to keep them all moving.

Just a little further.

Just a little longer.

They pressed on through Mirkwood beneath a choked canopy of gnarled branches that let in no sunlight, only a sickly greenish haze that was neither dusk nor day. The Company moved slowly now, heads bowed, steps faltering. The air itself was an invisible weight, humid and thick, pressing against their skin and into their lungs. Even the stoutest among them struggled.

“Air,” Bofur gasped, dragging his hat off and wiping at his brow. “I need some air—”

“My head,” muttered Óin, squinting as though trying to see through the dizziness. “It’s swimming. What’s happening?”

Thorin’s voice snapped through the haze. “Keep moving! Nori, why have we stopped?”

Nori stood frozen, eyes fixed on the forest ahead. “The path,” he said hollowly. “It’s disappeared.”

Thorin stepped forward with growing urgency. “What do you mean?”

Dwalin scanned the area, scowling. “What in Durin’s name is going on?”

“We’ve lost the path!” Óin exclaimed, the note of panic creeping into his tone.

“Find it! All of you, look! Look for the path!” Thorin's command rang out, and the dwarves scattered, scanning the tangled undergrowth.

None of them noticed the ancient Elven road veering subtly off to the left, where a moss-covered milestone lay half-buried beneath fallen leaves. They were already past it, swallowed by the forest.

Bilbo, Dúrwen, and the others now stood on a high, rocky outcrop, dizzy and disoriented. The world had narrowed to trees—just trees and shadows and silence.

“I don’t remember any of this,” Balin muttered, turning slowly on the spot. “None of it’s familiar.”

“It’s got to be here,” Dori insisted. “The path doesn’t just vanish.”

“What hour is it?” Thorin asked, looking up, though no sky could be seen.

Dwalin exhaled harshly. “I do not know. I do not even know what day it is.”

“Is there no end to this accursed forest?” Thorin growled.

“Only trees,” Glóin said grimly. “And more trees.”

Bilbo drifted to the edge of the outcrop. His fingers brushed against a silken thread stretched taut between two branches. He plucked it, and the sticky thread quivered with a low, unnatural hum—

“Don't,” Dúrwen hissed, grabbing his wrist. Her voice was low but sharp. Bilbo turned, startled, and her eyes were narrowed, scanning the canopy above. “Something watches.”

They moved on.

Time had begun to blur. The dwarves stumbled in strange loops, the same clusters of twisted trees repeating themselves until their minds frayed. Bilbo swore they had passed a crooked birch tree with a face in its bark three times. Once, he turned around to see Dori behind him, only to glance again and see himself. A flickering after-image. A trick of the cursed air.

Bilbo turned a corner and for a terrifying second felt his feet lift from the ground. The earth tilted. He floated. Then slammed back to reality, breathless.

“Look!” Ori called suddenly, snatching something from the leaf-covered ground.

Dori leaned in. “A tobacco pouch! There are dwarves in these woods!”

“From the Blue Mountains, no less,” said Bofur, half-smiling, until he looked closer. “It looks like mine.”

Bilbo rubbed at his eyes. “Because it is yours. We are going in circles! We are lost.”

“We are not lost!” Thorin snapped. The dwarves fell silent.

A shaft of light broke through above them—pale, golden, distant.

“We keep heading east,” Thorin said, quieter now.

“Aye,” said Óin. “But which way is east? We've lost the sun.”

Dwalin folded his arms. “I thought you were the expert.”

Bilbo didn’t hear the argument brewing behind him. He was staring up at the trees, dizzy with the height. Above, light shimmered through the canopy like a forgotten memory.

“Sun,” he murmured. “We have to find the sun.”

Then louder: “We need to get above the canopy.”

“You will climb,” Dúrwen said, voice flat with command. “The dwarves are lost in their minds, and you’re the lightest. As much as I want to scale the trees myself, someone has to keep watch over these bearded children.”

Bilbo managed a tired smile. “Oh, Dúrwen. What would I do without you?”

“Die, probably,” she deadpanned, nudging him toward the base of the tree.

And while the others argued, Bilbo began to climb.

The dwarves were still caught in their quarrels—

“There’s no light—”

“We’ve been led astray—”

Above their rising voices, a strange, dry whisper coiled through the underbrush like smoke.

“Enough!” Thorin bellowed. The sound echoed, silencing them all.

He turned slowly, his expression cold and alert.

“We are being watched,” he said.

A hush fell.

   The forest was an endless sea of shadows, thick with silence and the choking scent of damp leaves and decay. Up and up Bilbo Baggins climbed, bare toes curled around the slick bark, fingers clutching moss-draped limbs. The lower canopy swallowed the sunlight, but he pressed on, straining toward the promise of open sky. A hand grasped a branch, followed by a foot—bare and furry, caked in mud—and then another. His breath came hard, but the air grew lighter as he neared the top.

At last, Bilbo’s arm pierced the curtain of leaves, grasping the highest branch. He heaved himself up and emerged into a golden dream.

The canopy stretched out in waves of red and gold, rustling softly in the breeze. The sun dipped low, spilling warm light that shimmered on the trembling leaves. Bilbo closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. The air smelled of sunlight, sap, and distant mountains. He swayed slightly, drunk on the relief of open air after so long beneath the dark boughs of Mirkwood.

Then came the butterflies. A cloud of sapphire wings rose around him, dancing in the wind. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them, caught in a slow waltz above the trees. Bilbo let out a breathless laugh. “Beautiful,” he murmured.

And then, he saw it.

“The lake...” he whispered. “Far, far away... And a river! And the Lonely Mountain!”

His voice rose with excitement. He cupped his hands around his mouth.

“I can see the lake! And the Mountain! We’re almost there!”

He paused. The wind carried no answer.

“Can you hear me?” he called again, louder. “I know which way to go!”

Still, nothing. The forest below was silent, save for the rustle of the leaves and the whispering wings of butterflies. Then—movement.

The canopy rippled.

Bilbo frowned. Something was stirring beneath the leaves, gliding silently just under the surface. His stomach tightened. The butterflies fled.

He began to climb down, only to feel a sudden resistance.

His feet wouldn’t move.

He looked down in horror—they were wrapped in a sticky, gleaming substance.

“No, no, no,” he muttered, tugging.

The webbing held fast.

The branch beneath him quivered. And then, with a sudden snap, it gave way.

Bilbo tumbled, branches slashing at his arms, back, legs. He reached out for something—anything—and grabbed what felt like a thick limb.

But it moved.

A massive, hairy spider leg recoiled from his grasp.

Bilbo screamed.

The spider lunged.

He let go.

He fell into the sticky embrace of a massive web stretched between the trees.

The impact knocked the air from his lungs. He struggled, but the more he moved, the tighter the silk wrapped around him. Above, the enormous spider scuttled downward. Its eyes gleamed like oil, and it began wrapping him tighter, spinning him in thick, suffocating threads.

Bilbo tried to cry out, but his mouth was nearly sealed. Darkness crowded in.

His eyes fluttered open.

Everything was white and sticky. He could barely breathe. He was cocooned.

He wriggled, trying to find his arms, trying to summon the strength to move.

His fingers brushed cold steel.

A surge of desperate courage filled him. Bilbo clenched the hilt, gritting his teeth, and thrust the blade upward through the cocoon. The spider screeched as the sword pierced its underbelly, flailing violently.

It fell.

Bilbo tore at the webbing, cutting himself free. He slid out of the ruined cocoon and dropped soundlessly to the ground. He crouched behind a gnarled tree trunk, heart hammering in his throat.

What he saw next chilled his blood.

Dozens of cocoons dangled from the high branches. Lumps. Bodies. Some with boots poking out, or noses, or the tips of beards.

One massive bundle had to be Bombur. Another, taller than the rest, was unmistakably Dúrwen.

Three monstrous spiders crept greedily from bundle to bundle.

Bilbo reached into his pocket.

The Ring.

He slipped it on.

The world turned to shadow.

And with it came voices.

Spider voices.

Not spoken aloud, but inside his head—a horrible, slithering whisper.

Kill them! Kill them now! Let them hang!

Eat them alive while the blood is runny...

One spider nipped Bombur’s foot. He squealed, muffled.

Arccch! The meat’s alive and kicking!

Juicy little dwarf...

Bilbo shuddered. He was too far to strike. He needed a distraction.

He picked up a broken branch and hurled it into the forest. It cracked loudly against a distant tree.

Instantly, the spiders turned.

Bilbo moved.

He crept toward the dwarves, careful and swift. A fat, wicked-looking spider was pawing at Bombur’s cocoon.

Mine... fat and juicy... just a little taste, it whispered.

Bilbo climbed up behind it, raised his sword, and drove the blade into its back.

It screeched and twisted violently.

It stings! Curse it! Where is it?

Bilbo pulled the Ring off and appeared before it, sword raised.

“Here!”

The spider lunged. Bilbo dodged and slashed.

Another shriek.

The spider reared, legs flailing, before it toppled backward and crashed to the ground, limbs curling inward in death.

Bilbo looked down at the sword, gleaming faintly in the gloom.

“Sting,” he said, softly. “That’s a good name.”

With no time to lose, he ran from cocoon to cocoon, slashing them open. Dúrwen fell first, landing in a crouch, sword already drawn.

“Bilbo?!” she gasped, eyes wide.

“I’m here!”

The others followed: Dori, Nori, Bofur, Balin, Thorin last of all, each staggering to their feet, blades drawn, eyes wide with fury and confusion.

“Well, bless me,” Bofur gasped, “never thought I’d be saved by a halfling—and I’m not complaining one bit!”

“Bilbo the Spider Slayer!” Dori crowed.

“ can think of worse titles,” Glóin muttered, rubbing his wrist.

“I told you he had some fight in him,” Balin murmured with pride.

“Weapons, now!” Thorin barked.

The dwarves snatched up what they could—blades, axes, even broken branches—and charged the spiders.

Dúrwen moved like fire, slashing and weaving beside Bifur and Balin.

“Bilbo!” she shouted, turning toward the trees. “Where are you?!”

“Up here!” Bilbo cried, cutting down another spider that lunged at him on the upper branches.

Suddenly, he froze.

A spider pounced from the shadows, fangs bared. It struck him mid-step, and they both tumbled.

The world spun. Bilbo hit the ground hard. The Ring flew from his pocket and vanished among the leaves.

Pain seared through him.

He scrambled to his knees, coughing.

“No, no, no!” he muttered, hands frantically sweeping the forest floor. “Where is it?!”

Leaves. Dirt. Blood. No gold.

The spider shrieked nearby.

Bilbo staggered to his feet, eyes wide with panic.

The Ring was gone.

The air rang with the clang of steel, the hiss of venom, and the shrill cries of spiders dying. Amid the gloom of Mirkwood, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield fought with fading strength, their boots slipping on the thick carpet of web and moss, their limbs trembling from exhaustion. The forest seemed to birth spiders endlessly, black shadows spilling from the boughs above. For every beast slain, another surged forward, its legs clattering like dry twigs, fangs bared with venom glistening.

Fíli fought near Ori, blades flashing as he danced between attackers. A spider lunged for the younger dwarf’s exposed back—and Fíli spun, slicing it clean through with twin blades, their silver kissed now with black ichor.

“Eyes open, Ori!” he called, though his own were heavy-lidded with strain.

Nearby, Kíli fought tooth and nail, his bow now useless—quiver empty, arrows spent. He wielded his short sword with grim determination, slashing and parrying, sweat matting his hair to his brow. Thorin battled with Dwalin and Glóin at his side, the three of them holding the line with brute force, hammer and axe ringing out through the trees.

Dúrwen fought with Balin, Bifur, and Óin—her movements swift, efficient, her dark hair wild as she slashed through webbing with a curved elven dagger gifted long ago. Her boots were stained with spider ichor, her cloak torn, her breath ragged. She fought not just to survive, but to protect. Her gaze swept constantly across the chaos—always searching.

Bombur, Bofur, Dori, and Nori fought in a tight ring. Nori threw daggers with precision, covering Dori’s back each time the older dwarf turned to defend a fallen comrade. The siblings fought like a single, furious storm.

And then, without warning—an arrow split the air.

A giant spider screeched, collapsing as a golden-haired figure dropped into the clearing like a phantom from the treetops. An elf—tall, lithe, golden-haired and stern-eyed—moved with deadly grace, his blades singing as he cut down the monsters with practiced ease. More arrows flew, their shafts hissing through the gloom.

Thorin turned, chest heaving, as the final spider at his back dropped with an elven arrow embedded in its brain. He raised his eyes—and found himself staring down the shaft of a drawn arrow, held with cold precision.

The tall elf’s eyes were like carved ice.

“Do not think I won’t kill you, Dwarf,” said the elf with quiet menace. “It would be my pleasure.”

The clearing grew still.

From the shadows, more Woodland Elves appeared, silent as ghosts. Their bows were drawn, their eyes sharp, and in moments the dwarves were surrounded, weapons pointed from every angle.

Fíli tried to step forward. “Kíli!” he cried—but an elven guard shoved him back with the butt of a spear.

Elsewhere, Kíli struggled beneath the weight of a spider dragging him toward the trees. He kicked and cursed, his sword clattering from his grasp. As the spider reared to bite, its leg suddenly severed, he fell with a thud into the underbrush.

He blinked.

Before him stood a striking elf-maid, her auburn hair glowing in the faint light. She fought like wildfire—grappling with the spider, driving it back with twin blades. Her eyes were olive-green and sharp as glass.

“Throw me a dagger, quick!” Kíli shouted, reaching for a weapon.

The elf didn’t spare him a glance. “If you think I’m giving you a weapon, Dwarf, you’re mistaken.”

But before she could finish the spider, another arrow struck—this one not from her hand.

“They were right,” came a voice, low and cold. “Woodland elves are less wise than they pretend.”

The auburn-haired elf whirled, and Kíli turned, both expecting another elven guard.

Instead they found Dúrwen.

She stood with a bow not her own, eyes black and wild, her face smudged with ash and dirt. She had pulled an arrow from a fallen spider, and now stood with it loosely held, having loosed it in defiance. Tauriel’s gaze fixed on her, and for a heartbeat, they stared.

“She’s one of us!” Kíli said breathlessly, half-grinning, still shocked.

But before another word could be exchanged, elven guards seized Dúrwen, twisting her arms behind her back. She spat a curse and struggled.

The dwarves, too, were rounded up—pushed, prodded, disarmed.

“Search them,” ordered the golden-haired elf—Legolas.

The silvan guards obeyed, emptying pouches and pulling away axes, blades, and baubles.

Legolas rifled through Glóin’s coat and withdrew a silver-framed portrait.

“Hey! Give that back!” Glóin barked, indignant. “That’s private!”

Legolas held it up, eyebrows rising in surprise. “Who is this—your brother?”

“That’s my wife,” Glóin growled.

The elf’s lips curled in faint amusement. He held up another drawing. “And this horrid creature? A goblin mutant?”

“That’s me wee lad. Gimli.”

Tauriel appeared at his side.

“Gyrth in yngyl bain?” Legolas asked in Sindarin. Are all the spiders dead?

“Ennorner gwanod in yngyl na 'n yrn,” Tauriel replied solemnly. Yes—but more will come.

“They’re growing bolder,” she added, her voice soft but grim.

Another elf stepped forward, presenting Orcrist. Legolas took the ancient blade reverently.

“Echannen i vegil hen vi Gondolin,” he murmured. “Forged by the Noldor.”

Thorin stepped forward, his hands bound. “It was given to me.”

Legolas leveled the blade at the dwarf’s throat.

“Not just a thief, but a liar as well,” he said coldly. Then louder: “Enwenno hain! Take them away!”

As the dwarves were forced to march, their protests swelling, Bofur leaned toward Thorin.

“Thorin... where’s Bilbo?”

The words froze Thorin’s heart. His eyes darted back toward the forest. Dúrwen’s ears twitched at the name.

Then she erupted, snarling like a wolfhound as she struggled against the guards.

“Fuck the elf-blood in me—unhand me this instant!” she roared. “There’s someone who needs my help! Bilbo, where are you?!”

The dwarves joined in the uproar—cries of “He’s missing!” “He was with us!” “Bilbo’s not here!”

Tauriel stepped forward, blade still slick with ichor, and fixed Dúrwen with an unflinching stare.

“Whoever it is,” she said coolly, “he has likely been swallowed by a spider. Spare us your foolishness.”

Dúrwen’s eyes gleamed with fury and fear.

“No,” she growled. “He’s alive. I would know if he weren’t.”

But her weapons were gone, and her arms were bound, and the forest fell silent behind her.

The elves marched them deeper into the green gloom—toward their hidden halls—while the spiders waited in the trees and somewhere, alone in the dark, a hobbit breathed quietly among the webs biding his time.

   The Company was marched in solemn single file, bound and roped together like hunted beasts, through the shifting green-gold gloom of Mirkwood. The ancient forest fell away into a deep ravine where light trickled like mist through the canopy above, and there—hidden within the roots of towering trees—the fortress of the Woodland Elves revealed itself in solemn majesty.

A sweeping wooden bridge arched over the abyss, curving toward a massive door carved into the side of a natural cavern. Moss and ivy clung to the stones. Twisting tree roots wound around archways like serpents, as if the forest itself had conspired to hide this place from mortal eyes.

Dúrwen, though bound, kept her shoulders square. Her dark hair, matted and tangled from battle, clung to her brow. She walked with the dwarves, half-dragged, half-defiant, flanked by silent elven guards. Her wrists were raw from resisting.

“You’re just losing your remaining energy, Thorn,” Óin said quietly, beside her. He bore new scratches across his weather-worn face, but there was concern in his eyes. “Don’t make it worse for yourself.”

“I won’t abandon him,” Dúrwen said hoarsely, shooting a glare at the elf whose fingers dug into her arm. “Bilbo’s alive. I can feel it. He’s still out there, somewhere in that cursed forest.”

Thorin slowed his steps until he fell in beside her. “Are you certain?” he asked, the question soft but taut with urgency.

Dúrwen glanced at him. His face was smeared with blood, jaw clenched, yet his eyes betrayed the weight behind the question. He wanted her to say yes—not for comfort, but because the truth was unbearable otherwise.

“I am,” she whispered. “His magic is faint, but I feel it still.”

They had no more time to speak. The bridge groaned beneath their boots as they crossed, and behind them, the massive doors creaked open. Inside, golden light poured down from high above, filtering through openings in the stone roof. The dwarves blinked in the sudden change, and Dúrwen flinched as she was pushed forward. Legolas gave the order.

“Holo in-annon!” Close the gate.

The great wooden doors groaned shut behind them with a thunderous finality, and bolts slid into place with the grinding of metal. The bridge behind them was pulled away, rendering the fortress utterly sealed.

Unseen by all, a shimmer of air passed across the bridge just before it vanished. An invisible hobbit, panting and terrified, sprinted through the crack of the doors.

Inside, the dwarves were surrounded and searched. Weapons, belts, coats—everything was taken. The elves worked with infuriating precision, as if stripping the dwarves of their possessions was a form of artistry.

Ori’s journal was yanked from his satchel by a tall elf with a curled lip.

“What does my journal have to do with escaping?!” Ori protested. “That’s mine!”

“Even my journal?!” he repeated as Dori restrained him by the shoulder.

“Give my brother’s journal back, tree-shagger,” Nori snapped coldly, stepping forward until a spear halted him.

“Yeah,” Fíli growled. “Take my knives, take my coat, but not his book. He’s done nothing to deserve your filthy hands on it.”

The elf sniffed disdainfully and returned the journal—after flipping through several pages, raising a dark brow at the meticulous illustrations and notes within.

Fíli, meanwhile, was repeatedly patted down by a suspicious elf who had uncovered an absurd number of small blades hidden in his coat.

“Really?” the elf said, exasperated, pulling another knife from the lining. “And this?”

“It’s a letter opener,” Fíli lied flatly.

“Of course it is,” the elf muttered, discovering yet another blade in his boot.

The dwarves were soon shoved into narrow cells carved from the stone. They were locked in pairs: Balin and Dwalin, Dori and Ori, Nori and Bofur, Fíli and Kíli, Bifur and Bombur, Óin and Glóin. Dúrwen was given a cell of her own, slightly separated but close enough to hear the grumbling and protests of her companions. Thorin, notably, was missing.

“Thorin’s being taken to face the Elvenking,” Balin said grimly from his cell. “They’ll want answers.”

Dúrwen had barely been seated when footsteps approached. A tall figure stood before her cell—the same she-elf whose voice she recognized from the spider-glade.

Tauriel. She stood still as a painting, her auburn hair cascading down one shoulder, her eyes unreadable.

“You are Dúnedain,” Tauriel said. “Friends to the Eldar, once. If you swear no allegiance to the dwarves, you will be freed.”

Dúrwen’s face darkened. Her hands were raw, her heart pounding with grief and guilt. She had failed Bilbo. The thought wrapped around her throat like a noose.

“I came with them willingly,” she rasped. “You can tell your king that Thorn, a Dúnedain ranger from the North, rode at the side of these dwarves by her own oath.”

“You’re a fool,” Tauriel said quietly.

Dúrwen turned her head away, weary, broken in places that didn’t show. “Are you done searching me? I’d rather rot in here than talk to another elf who lets the innocent die.”

Tauriel said nothing, but for a moment, her gaze lingered. Then she turned, silent, and locked the door behind her.

From the next cell, Kíli groaned loudly. “There’s no way you just talked to her like that.”

Dúrwen didn’t reply.

“How do you expect her to talk to her, then?” Bofur chimed in.

“I dunno—maybe flirt a little?” Kíli offered.

A collective groan echoed through the stone corridor.

“Oh, come on! You saw the way she looked at her.”

“She looked like she wanted to punch her,” Nori muttered.

“That’s just how elves flirt, probably,” Kíli muttered. “Right, Fíli?”

“Don’t drag me into this,” Fíli replied, slumping against the cell wall. “Besides, I’m too busy thinking about stabbing the elf who found my last boot knife.”

Ori had curled into a corner of his cell, clutching his journal. “I hate this place,” he muttered. “It smells like moss and superiority.”

Glóin grunted in agreement. “I’d rather be swallowed by a spider than sniff another elf’s cloak.”

“They don’t even blink,” Bombur added from his corner. “It’s unnatural.”

“They don’t fart either,” Bifur signed with a serious nod. Bombur solemnly nodded back.

Dwalin leaned back against the stone, watching the guards with narrowed eyes. “They’ll regret caging us.”

“We can’t do anything until we know where Thorin is,” Balin murmured. “And until we know if Bilbo’s truly alive.”

“He is,” Dúrwen said, quiet but firm. “He’s not gone. Not yet.”

In the silence that followed, a single voice came from far down the corridor—faint, small, and invisible:

“...I really hope you're right.”

And no one heard it.

Yet.

   The throne room of the Woodland Realm lay deep beneath the roots of the forest—vast, echoing, hewn from living stone veined with lichen and light. The pale glow of enchantment danced faintly along the walls, casting silver glimmers upon the carvings that told of ancient days, of elven victories, losses, and songs now faded into stillness. Towering roots, gnarled and colossal, twisted down from the ceiling like antlers on a crown, forming the bones of this subterranean sanctuary.

Upon a throne of living wood sat King Thranduil, lord of the Woodland Realm, his countenance both beautiful and terrible. Pale as moonlight, sharp as ice, with silver hair cascading down his back like liquid starlight. His crown was a circlet of red berries and autumn leaves, and in one slender hand he held a staff of carved oak, dark and veined with age.

Before him, bound and weary, stood Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, heir of Durin. His hair was unkempt, his armor dulled with travel and battle, yet he held his chin high, like the proud son of kings he was, glaring with a fire that not even a prisoner's chains could quell.

Thranduil regarded him with inscrutable eyes, stepping down from the dais, every movement like the shifting of wind through trees—graceful, silent, inhuman.

“You look like your grandfather,” said the Elvenking, voice soft, almost thoughtful. “He, too, walked into my halls with fire in his eyes and words soaked in pride.”

Thorin did not reply.

Thranduil’s gaze flicked over him, amused. “Some may imagine a noble quest is at hand,” he mused, pacing slowly across the room. “A quest to reclaim a homeland... to slay a dragon.” His voice lilted with something like mockery, yet there was no mirth in his eyes.

Thorin clenched his jaw, saying nothing.

“I myself suspect a more prosaic motive,” Thranduil continued, stopping before him. “Attempted burglary... or something of that ilk.”

At that, Thorin’s head snapped up, eyes flaring.

Thranduil smiled—sharp, elegant, maddening.

“You have found a way in.” His voice dropped lower, a whisper just above breath, as if coaxing a confession from a friend rather than a prisoner. “You seek that which will bestow upon you the right to rule—the King’s Jewel. The Arkenstone. It is precious to you beyond measure. I understand that.”

He paused. A glint of something ancient flickered behind his eyes.

“There are gems in that mountain that I too desire. White gems of starlight, uncut and untouched, beyond price.” He stepped closer. “I offer you my help.”

Thorin’s brow furrowed, suspicious. His gaze flickered away as though weighing the offer, testing its edges for traps.

“I will let you go,” Thranduil said, “if you return to me what is mine.”

“A favour for a favour?” Thorin said at last, voice like gravel.

“You have my word,” Thranduil replied, tilting his head slightly, as if in jest. “One King to another.”

Silence fell between them like a sword point against stone.

Thorin's voice, when it came, was low, bitter, and shaped by long memory. “I would not trust Thranduil, the great king, to honour his word, should the end of all days be upon us.”

He stepped forward, defiant.

“You—who lack all honour. I have seen how you treat your friends. We came to you once, starving, homeless, seeking shelter... and you turned your back. You turned away from the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us.”

And then, spitting in Dwarvish, he hissed, “Imrid amrâd ursul.”

Thranduil’s gaze flickered. For a heartbeat—brief, flickering, almost imperceptible—the torchlight caught upon the skin of his face, revealing beneath its smooth perfection the faint shadows of terrible scars, burned into him by dragon fire. They marred the curve of his cheek, the side of his neck, disappearing beneath his fine robes.

His mask dropped for a moment, revealing not merely a king, but a creature of memory and fury.

“Do not speak to me of dragon fire,” Thranduil said, voice now edged in iron. “I know its wrath. I have seen its ruin. I have faced the great serpents of the North and borne the mark of their malice.”

He straightened, looking down upon Thorin with something cold and ancestral.

“I warned your grandfather what his greed would summon. He did not listen. And you—you are just like him. Proud. Blind. Bound to a stone that will devour you.”

He turned away. “Stay here, if you will—and rot. A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an Elf.”

He glanced back once, voice like ice breaking on a frozen river.

“I am patient. I can wait.”

Thorin did not respond as he was seized and dragged away. The guards said nothing as they led him through passage after passage, down into the bowels of the mountain-palace, to the deepest cell carved in damp stone.

He did not resist.

But his silence burned hotter than any protest.

The door slammed shut behind him. Blackness swallowed all. There was no torch, no window, not even the faint light of stars. Only cold, and silence, and the sound of his own ragged breathing.

But Thorin’s thoughts were louder than the dark.

Bilbo.

That name struck through him with more force than Thranduil’s taunts, more piercing than any weapon. Dúrwen had said he lived—but in that cursed forest? Even with magic, what chance did he have alone?

Brave, foolish creature. What business had he in such a place? Bilbo, with his soft hands now calloused by sword-hilt and labor. Bilbo, with his quick wit and brave heart, now somewhere in the clutches of darkness.

He should not be there.

He should be home.

A growl tore from Thorin’s throat. He flung himself at the bars, hands wrapped white-knuckled around the iron, shaking it with a fury born of helplessness. Damn the Elves. Damn this forest. Damn himself.

He had brought Bilbo here.

He had dragged him into this quest.

Bilbo should have been wrapped in woolen blankets by a hearth, with books at his side and tea in his hand. Not wielding a sword. Not chasing spiders through sickly woods. Not being forgotten in chains and shadow.

And yet—he was more than Thorin had known. The hobbit had shielded him from Azog’s blade. Escaped goblins. Matched wits with Elves and bested trolls. There was something in Bilbo—quiet, hidden power. Something Thorin had trusted, relied upon.

But he hadn’t seen how deep that trust had grown.

Something more. The words crept into Thorin’s mind like rot into root. Something more than loyalty.

The thought made him want to wretch.

He did not deserve the hobbit’s loyalty. Had never deserved his kindness.

And yet the idea of Bilbo hurt, or worse—lost—made something inside Thorin break.

He sank down against the stone wall, his forehead pressed to cold iron. His chest felt hollow and tight, as though the air had thinned around him. A hundred memories of Bilbo flickered through his mind: his laughter, his frowns, the warmth in his eyes when he spoke of home.

Bilbo did not belong here. He belonged in light.

And Thorin had dragged him into darkness.

You fool, he thought bitterly. You let him go. You let him out of your sight.

It wasn’t just anger that twisted in his gut now—it was guilt. And fear. And something he dared not name, not even in the silence of this prison.

Possessiveness burned hot in his heart, tangled with protectiveness, twisted with regret. The idea of Bilbo as anything more than a companion—anything more than a burglar—terrified him.

He couldn’t look at it too closely.

Couldn’t admit it.

Because if he did—if he said it aloud—then it would be real. And Thorin Oakenshield had already lost too much to afford that kind of truth.

He stayed curled in the dark, breath ragged, the ache in his chest gnawing deeper. 

Bilbo had been hiding within the Elvenking's halls for near five days, clinging to the safety of his magic ring and the silence of his small breath. He had not spoken to the dwarves—not once. He dared not, for the cells were too often visited by a striking auburn-haired elf-maid, tall and lithe, dressed in the garb of a woodland guard. Her presence unnerved him. At first, he had assumed her interest was strictly professional, but after overhearing a hushed conversation between two elven sentries near the wine stores, he learned otherwise.

“Why does the Captain of the Guard keep checking on the prisoners?” one had muttered. “It is not her duty.”

“Some say she visits for the she-ranger more than the rest,” the other replied, low and curious.

And that was how Bilbo learned her name: Tauriel.

It was a lonely time. A long, weary span of hours stretched thin with hunger and anxiety. Bilbo lived like a shadow in the corners of the Woodland Realm, ever hidden, never resting properly, and always fearing discovery. He slept little, and when he did, it was curled behind wine barrels or beneath discarded cloaks in forgotten passageways. He wandered, half in desperation and half in boredom, learning the twist and weave of Thranduil's enchanted stronghold. Though the great gates were shut by magic, he had on occasion managed to slip in and out, trailing behind hunting parties or slipping past distracted guards. It was a dangerous game. More than once he had nearly been caught.

To amuse himself—and perhaps out of quiet spite—Bilbo took to mischief, moving objects on shelves or knocking over empty goblets when the elves weren’t looking. He grew quite fond of sneaking into the kitchens, especially when his own conjured berries or nuts left him faint with magical exhaustion. The food here was strange but passable, and he admitted to himself, with a grudging sniff, that Rivendell's elves had more grace than these proud woodland folk.

But today, luck stood beside him like an old friend. The auburn-haired elf-maid was nowhere to be seen, and the guard posts were empty. The halls were strangely quiet.

He crept through the tunnels like a whisper of wind, finally reaching the dark prison ward. It was damp and cool, lit only by flickering lanterns enchanted to burn low. He padded close, turning his back now and then to check for approaching elves, before finally tugging off the ring. The world shimmered as the magic faded from his skin.

The first cell he came to was Dúrwen’s. There was still cobweb clinging to her dark hair, and her ranger's garb bore signs of the forest struggle—mud-streaked, torn at the shoulder, and webbed in places. Yet her eyes burned bright with fury and fire.

“Bilbo? What the fu—”

“Language,” he scolded softly, barely above a whisper.

Dúrwen gripped the cell bars, dark eyes wide.

“What the fuck, Bilbo. I thought you’d been taken by one of those forest-damned spiders. How in Valar’s name are you alive?”

Her voice had risen just enough to echo, and from the other cells came startled shouts.

“Bilbo?!”

“By Durin’s beard—BILBO!”

“MAHAL, YOU’RE ALIVE!”

“Shhh!” Bilbo waved his arms frantically, looking over his shoulder. “Please! Do you want every elf in Mirkwood to find us?”

The dwarves settled to hushed murmurs, crowding their cell doors, eyes wide with awe and relief.

“Where’ve you been, lad?” Bofur whispered.

“I’ve been hiding. Watching. Listening. Trying to find a way to get you all out.” Bilbo glanced from dwarf to dwarf. “But I haven’t found Thorin yet. I don’t know where they’re keeping him.”

“He never came back after seeing the Elvenking,” Balin said grimly.

“We reckon he told Thranduil what he could do with his so-called hospitality,” Dwalin muttered.

“I bet he got locked in some royal oubliette,” grumbled Nori.

“That or left to rot in a spider nest,” said Óin.

The dwarves cursed the elves with low, venomous growls, each voice a bubbling kettle of fury and pride left to boil too long. Gloin spat something sharp and ugly in Khuzdul that made Bombur wince. Bofur muttered more creatively, invoking the idea of Elvenkind being trampled under drunk goats. But it was Dwalin whose ire knew no limits—he seemed to carry a running ledger of insults, each one more scathing than the last, laced with venomous poetry and the kind of creativity born from a warrior’s long patience finally snapped.

Bilbo stood at the edge of the cell row, eyes sweeping over each familiar face until they landed on two in particular.

Fíli and Kíli.

The two brothers sat pressed shoulder to shoulder on the stone bench, their forms small against the cold stone and iron. They had not been separated—thank the stars—but they looked so terribly young. Younger still than the last time Bilbo had truly looked at them, before spiders and orcs and the poisoned gloom of Mirkwood. The same dwarrows who had laughed and danced at Bag-End now sat with their hair unbraided, their clothes torn, their faces smudged with dirt and grief.

Fíli’s golden hair was matted with dried blood at the temple, curling into rough tangles near his neck. Kíli still carried that spark of mischief in his dark eyes, but it had dulled into something older, quieter. A prince who had seen too much too quickly.

Bilbo felt a sharp pang in his chest, like the snap of a frayed bowstring. He dropped to a crouch in front of their cell, his eyes wide with worry.

“Bilbo,” Kíli said, almost reverently. “You really made it. I thought—” He broke off with a huff, one hand clenching the bars.

“I made it,” Bilbo said, breathless from more than just running. “Barely. But I’m here.”

“Do you think,” Kíli asked, glancing sideways at his brother before looking up again, voice barely above a whisper, “do you think they let Uncle out again into that sickly forest?”

Bilbo shook his head immediately, fiercely. “No. He’s not in the forest. I overheard the elves talking… they mentioned another dwarf being held apart. I just haven’t figured out where they’re keeping him yet.”

At that, both brothers exhaled shakily. Fíli leaned back against the wall, eyes closing just for a moment in sheer relief.

“Good,” Kíli muttered. “Good.”

But then Fíli said, so softly Bilbo nearly missed it, “I can’t lose a father again.”

Bilbo’s heart clenched. The words hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread. He looked at Fíli—really looked at him—and saw not just a prince, but a boy who had grown up too fast. A boy whose grief had never truly healed, only hardened and learned to wear a mask.

Bilbo knelt by the bars and reached a hand through, resting it lightly on Fíli’s wrist.

“You won’t,” he said. “Not if I can help it.”

Fíli looked up then, pale brows drawn together, but there was something like gratitude in his eyes.

Kíli elbowed his brother lightly. “Don’t get sappy, Fee. Makes you look even older.”

Fíli snorted. “Says the one going grey from stress.”

“You’re the one whose hair is all crusty with blood.”

“You drooled on yourself while asleep.”

“You’re making that up—!”

Bilbo couldn’t help it. He laughed, softly. And for a moment, in this cold, bitter place, the echo of it made the world feel warmer.

From the next cell over, Dwalin grunted loudly, “If the princes are done with their royal bickering, maybe we can talk about getting out of this stone box, aye?”

“Aye,” grumbled Glóin, voice muffled behind stone and bars. “Can we focus now, lads?”

“They’re just lads,” Balin murmured from further down the corridor. “Let them be boys while they still can.”

Dúrwen frowned at Bilbo, looking him up and down.

“You look thinner. And tired. Have you been eating at all? Elves aren’t easy to hide from, Bilbo. Their sight and hearing are sharper than any mortal’s.”

Bilbo offered a weary shrug. “Not much. I conjured food when I could, but it takes too much energy. Mostly, I’ve been sneaking into their kitchen.”

“Come here, then,” Bombur said, pressing his face against the bars. “We have food. The guards bring us enough, even if it’s bland.”

“Aye, we can share,” Dori added. “We’re doing alright in here.”

Bilbo shook his head gently. “No. You all need your strength for when we escape. I can manage.”

Dúrwen reached through the bars and held out a small parcel. Wrapped in green leaves was a single piece of lembas.

“Take this. It will last you the day.”

“She always has an extra from Tauriel,” Kíli said with a teasing grin. Fíli elbowed him.

“Aye,” Bofur added, laughing, “the she-elf fancies our ranger.”

The others joined in, murmuring and chuckling. Even in captivity, they managed to make room for levity.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow as he took the lembas from Dúrwen, who scowled at the dwarves.

“Don’t listen to them,” she muttered.

“I’m not judging,” Bilbo said, raising the bread in thanks.

She handed him something else— her enchanted water-skin.

Bilbo tried to refuse. “I can’t take this from you.”

“You can give it back when we’re free,” she replied. “Now you only need to worry about food, not drink.”

He nodded, touched by the gesture. “Thank you, Dúrwen. Truly.”

He stepped back, tucking both items into his coat.

“I’ll return. Once I know where they’re keeping Thorin. I won’t leave him behind.”

“We believe in you, lad,” Balin said, voice proud.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” Óin added.

Bilbo managed a tired smile, but even as he walked away and vanished again beneath the ring's shadow, he carried the weight of unease with him. The ring made him unseen, but not invincible.

Thorin was out there, somewhere deep in the heart of this forested prison.

And time was running short.

Chapter Text

09.

“Here she is again,” Bofur muttered, not bothering to hide the note of theatrical dread in his voice.

A ripple of motion followed. One by one, the dwarves leaned against the bars of their cells, pressing noses and brows to iron like children waiting for a parade—though this parade came not with music, but with leather and silence and green eyes sharp as a hawk’s.

Bootsteps clicked soft but sure along the stone floor, light as leaves drifting on wind. Tauriel of the Woodland Guard, captain in the service of King Thranduil, had returned—as she had done every day since the dwarves had been locked away in the caverns beneath the forest.

“She’s back to pretend she’s checking our cells,” Glóin grumbled, arms crossed over his chest, “but it’s not us she’s after. Just checking if our little ranger still breathes.”

He barely got the words out before Óin smacked him on the back of the head.

“Don’t be daft,” the healer muttered. “Use your eyes, not your beard.”

Tauriel ignored the whispers—or at least, pretended to. Her gaze swept over the line of cells with practiced precision, never lingering long, though her steps slowed just perceptibly when she reached the first cell by the entrance.

The one with the Dúnedain.

Dúrwen sat there, long limbs draped over her knees, dark hair pulled back in a simple knot. She looked, for all the world, like she hadn’t noticed the elf at all. She was busy twirling a small silver ring between her fingers, catching the lamplight so that it flickered like starlight.

Tauriel came to a stop in front of her.

“Your company seems very eager to see me,” the elf said, voice smooth as running water but with a note of dry amusement. She glanced sidelong toward the chorus of dwarf faces still pressed to their bars.

“They’re not eager to see you,” Dúrwen replied without looking up. “Just curious why you keep returning when you know there’s nothing new to see. The cells are magic-sealed. You know that as well as we do.”

A long pause. Tauriel tilted her head, narrowing her eyes.

“I know you’re up to something,” she said at last. “I just don’t have the proof yet.”

Dúrwen’s ring stopped twirling. She rolled it between thumb and forefinger like a coin she was weighing.

“Do you treat all your prisoners like this?” she asked quietly.

“No,” Tauriel answered without hesitation.

There was a silence that felt like a held breath, the kind before an arrow flies.

“We raided the forest yesterday,” Tauriel continued. Her voice had taken on a sharper edge, like the bite of frost in autumn. “We found no trace of the companion you claim we left behind.”

Dúrwen finally looked up.

Her eyes—black as obsidian, glinting faintly—met Tauriel’s. The moment of contact was brief but electric.

“He was probably swallowed by a spider,” Dúrwen said dryly.

Tauriel raised a brow. “You seem to have accepted his fate now. Strange, considering you were cursing us only a week ago for leaving him behind.”

Dúrwen did not blink. “What is grief but rage with nowhere to go?”

A beat of silence passed. Somewhere near the back of the cells, Nori whispered too loudly, “Is this how they flirt?”

“Shut it,” hissed Dori from another cell, who looked like he wanted to smack his brother with his boot.

Tauriel’s mouth twitched. Whether it was irritation or amusement was hard to tell.

“Are you done checking if we’re up to something now?” Dúrwen asked pointedly, turning her gaze back to her ring.

But Tauriel lingered, gaze unreadable.

“Are you truly willing to rot here with them?” she asked suddenly.

“Oi!” came a shout from Kíli’s cell. “We’re a very fine company, thank you!”

“At least,” Dúrwen said calmly, “I won’t live forever knowing I imprisoned travelers simply for passing by.”

Tauriel’s eyes sharpened. “You invaded our lands.”

“We stumbled into them,” Dúrwen shot back. “Your forest shifted under our feet. Did you think we wanted to wade through spiderwebs and cursed trees? Forgive us for trespassing on your cherished collection of oversized vermin.”

There was a beat—then a cough that might’ve been Dwalin trying not to laugh.

“We protect our borders. That is our duty.”

“And what would you know of duty?” Dúrwen hissed. “You cling to your duty like armor, but it’s hollow. Tell me, what do you see when you look at us? Are you so desperate for certainty you’d lock away strangers and call it justice?”

Tauriel’s expression didn’t change, but something in her jaw tightened. Her hands, clasped behind her back, twitched ever so slightly.

The two women stared at one another.

Olive green to deep onyx. Years of war and woodcraft behind both stares. One had lived long enough to see empires rise and fall. The other had lived fast and hard, each year a blade pressed to her spine.

Finally, Tauriel turned and left without a word.

Only once her footsteps vanished did the dwarves let out the collective breath they'd been holding.

“Well,” Bofur said, scratching his head. “That wasn’t tense at all.”

“I’ll say,” muttered Glóin. “One of these days they’re going to draw blades just for fun.”

“Or kiss,” Nori said, grinning through the bars.

“Shut it, Nori,” Dori sighed again.

“Do you suppose she knows about Bilbo?” Kíli asked, brow furrowed. “She seems clever.”

“No,” Dúrwen answered flatly. “And she won’t. It would be dangerous if she did.”

Fíli shifted, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Not that I’m trying to rush Bilbo, but I do hope he finds a way to get us out of here soon.”

“Agreed,” muttered Bofur. “If I hear one more elf song about dew on a flower, I’ll scream.”

A few dwarves murmured agreement.

“It would help if he found Thorin’s cell first,” Fíli added. “But… that’s not what worries you most, is it?”

Dúrwen slowly shook her head.

“No,” she said. “Once the Woodland Elves discover there’s a halfling in their fortress, they’ll try to keep him.”

The dwarves fell silent, the weight of her words sinking in.

“Keep him?” Ori asked softly, from where he clutched his journal through the bars.

Dúrwen nodded. “Unlike the elves of Rivendell, these ones have never seen a hobbit before. Curiosity is one thing… but obsession is another. They’ll want to study him. Protect him. Use him, perhaps. And they won’t be gentle about it.”

“But… Bilbo’s clever,” Bombur said hesitantly. “He’ll stay hidden.”

“He’ll try,” Dúrwen said. “But this place has eyes sharper than hawks, and ears in the walls.”

She held up the silver ring again, watching the light ripple over it like water.

“And hobbits,” she said quietly, “are not meant to be caged birds.”

   Bilbo had grown adept at walking the halls like a whisper.

It had taken nearly two weeks of quiet watching—of slipping through half-open doors, crouching in wine cellars, hiding in barrels, and memorizing the movements of Elven patrols—but he’d done it. With his heart pounding like the hooves of wild ponies and his bare feet barely making a sound, he followed where he dared, taking every risk he could justify. It wasn’t easy. Not when his lungs burned from holding breath and his limbs trembled from exhaustion and worry. But finally, finally, he’d seen it.

Thorin.

The elves kept him deeper than the rest, of course. Of course they would. As if their cruelty extended not just to bars and chains but to silence, to isolation, to darkness. Bilbo pressed himself against the stone corridor wall, hidden by his ring, peering with sharp, disbelieving eyes as a guard approached the farthest cell.

The elf carried a simple tray: bread, dried fruit, water. He did not speak as he reached the cell door—just shoved it through with a curl of disdain on his lip.

Bilbo frowned.

He didn’t like that look. Nor did he like the way the elf sneered when the tray clattered to the floor. A fire sparked in Bilbo’s chest, wild and protective.

So naturally—he tripped him.

The elf stumbled over an invisible foot and landed face-first on the stone. His tray spilled; fruit rolled like marbles and water soaked into the dust. Bilbo clapped a hand over his mouth to muffle a laugh that bubbled despite himself. The elf cursed in Sindarin, muttering about tricks and shadow-magic as he gathered what little was salvageable and stalked away, confused and thoroughly humiliated.

Only once the footsteps faded did Bilbo step out from the shadows, sliding off the ring. His heart hammered as he padded silently toward the cell. It was dim, even for his sharp hobbit eyes, and he had to squint to make out the figure huddled near the back, half-lost in shadow.

“Thorin…” Bilbo whispered, afraid his voice might break.

The dwarf did not turn. He sat with his back to the bars, head bowed low, as still as a statue carved in grief.

“You’re in my head again,” Thorin murmured to the stone floor. “Your voice. I can’t—can’t make it stop.”

Bilbo froze, brows furrowing. “What…? No, Thorin, it’s me. It’s Bilbo! I’m here!”

But Thorin didn’t move. His voice was low, cracked, as though he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days.

“I deserve this,” he muttered. “I didn’t protect you. I let you vanish into that cursed forest. You should have been safe. You should have stayed home. And now... now you’re dead. And I deserve the ghost that haunts me.”

He sounded so lost. So certain. Like he'd made peace with a punishment that tore him apart.

Bilbo’s fingers curled into fists.

“Fine,” he gritted. “You left me no choice.”

He summoned a nut into his palm with a small flash of warm, golden light—his own magic sparking to life with defiance—and threw it hard at Thorin’s head.

It struck with a quiet thunk.

Thorin jerked.

“That’s right,” Bilbo hissed, hands on his hips. “That’s right, I’m a ghost. A nut-throwing ghost. I haunt you with snacks, Thorin Oakenshield.”

No response. Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“I’m not dead, you royal lump. I’ve been sneaking through this palace for days to find you, nearly got trampled, and this is the thanks I get? You muttering to yourself and looking like a tragic statue?”

He kept talking, half to himself now, calling Thorin a fool and admitting that perhaps, after all, he understood. Thorin had been isolated, alone in this pit for two weeks. Of course the mind would break before the body.

He didn’t notice the movement until it was too late.

The dwarf was at the bars in a flash, surging from the darkness like a storm breaking the horizon. His strong hands grabbed the front of Bilbo’s worn coat, hauling the hobbit forward so quickly Bilbo let out a startled yelp. And then—Thorin hugged him.

Tightly. Desperately.

So tightly, in fact, Bilbo’s face was squished awkwardly between the bars as Thorin clung to him like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

“You’re alive,” Thorin whispered. “You’re alive, you’re alive. Warm and alive.”

And oh, how Bilbo melted. His arms curled around Thorin’s shoulders through the bars as best he could. He wanted to tear down the iron, wanted to feel that embrace properly, fully, with nothing between them.

“Of course I’m alive,” Bilbo whispered back. “I’m a hobbit. We’re like weeds, stubborn little things.”

Thorin pulled back only slightly, enough to look at him, though one arm remained wrapped around his waist like he might vanish again if let go.

Bilbo’s faint glow lit the cell softly, like moonlight through a fog. Thorin saw him clearly now—his disheveled coat, the torn sleeves, the smudges of dirt and streaks of dried blood. The golden curls tangled with webbing. His face was pale, far too pale. He looked a mess. And to Thorin, he looked beautiful. 

Beorn would be furious; the skin-changer had worked so hard to build him back up only for Mirkwood to undo it again.

Oh, Bilbo.

You don’t belong in a place like this.

Thorin finally understood why the hobbits were hidden away, why their Shire was veiled in peace and magic and protected by silent rangers of the North. Because they weren’t made for this cruel world.

Even Yavanna must have known.

“I thought…” Thorin began.

“You only thought that,” Bilbo interrupted. “But I’m here. So hush. Now look at me.”

Thorin obeyed.

His blue eyes locked with Bilbo’s—wide, emerald, and full of something that made Thorin’s breath catch. Hope. Affection. Fury, perhaps, that Thorin had dared to think him lost.

“Don’t you dare blame yourself,” Bilbo said fiercely. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“But I—”

“No. No. I chose this, Thorin. I chose to come with you. I knew the risks. You can grieve me when I’m gone, but you don’t get to carry blame that doesn’t belong to you.”

Thorin’s hold tightened.

“That scowl again,” Bilbo muttered, poking his forehead. “Keep it up, and by the end of this quest you’ll have more frown lines than you have silver hairs.”

Thorin blinked, then—smirked. Just a small one. The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“I believe you now,” he said quietly. “That you’re real.”

Bilbo nodded solemnly, and then ruined the moment by blurting, “You’re the only one they separated.”

Thorin stiffened.

“They separated you,” Bilbo said quietly, barely louder than the soft patter of dripping water echoing through the stone halls. “The Company’s cells are all close together. Yours is far. It took me a week to find you.”

Thorin didn’t answer at first. His gaze flickered past Bilbo’s glowing form and into the shadows beyond the cell, as if he could pierce the stone walls and reach those he loved with nothing but his will. But the silence stretched too long, and when he spoke again, his voice was low, nearly a growl.

“Of course they did.”

Bitterness stirred in him like a long-banked fire, coaxed to life with the cruel breath of memory. This was not some careless act of confinement—it was precision. Isolation, the slow fraying of hope. Thranduil knew what he was doing.

Thorin’s hands, still rough and calloused even in captivity, tightened around Bilbo’s waist, as if to anchor himself in something real. Warmth. Light. A reminder that not all was yet lost.

“How are they?” he asked, his voice rasping with longing.

“They’re fine,” Bilbo answered, gently. 

“Worried for you. Especially Fíli and Kíli.”

The names carved something sharp and aching through Thorin’s chest. His nephews. His sister’s sons. Brave and loyal to the last. He could picture Kíli pacing in his cell, fists clenched and mouth running in that nervous chatter of his, while Fíli sat silent, jaw tight with the effort of being strong for them both. The weight of guilt settled heavy in Thorin’s lungs.

“I’m finding a way out,” Bilbo whispered then, so quietly that Thorin might have missed it had he not been listening for every breath the hobbit took. “For all of us.”

“You shouldn’t bear this burden,” Thorin said, his gaze meeting Bilbo’s. There was a strange softness in his voice, something raw and almost reverent.

“And yet, I do,” Bilbo replied, without hesitation. It was not defiance—it was truth. A small, stubborn truth that had rooted itself in Bilbo long ago and had only grown stronger in darkness. Thorin followed the line of Bilbo’s gesture as he nodded toward the tin plate and the half-spilled goblet of water at the edge of the cell. “You should eat,” he said.

“You’ll need energy.”

Thorin blinked slowly, caught off guard. “What?”

Bilbo leaned his forehead against the bars, shoulders slumping, as though he, too, had finally run out of the breath he’d been holding all week. “You’ll need energy,” he said again, trying to sound offhand. “When we escape.”

It was spoken as certainty, not hope. As if it were already written somewhere, in one of Bilbo’s hidden pockets or folded into the threads of his magic.

Thorin stared at him. In the dimness, lit only by the faint golden pulse of the hobbit’s own light, Bilbo looked half like a spirit and half like something far too solid to be a dream.

“Will you join me?” Thorin asked, half-hoping, half-daring.

Bilbo’s eyes held his. “No.” A smile ghosted his lips. “But I think I’ll sit here for a while.”

A breath escaped Thorin’s chest before he knew he was holding it. Something in him—something jagged and brittle—unclenched. He released Bilbo slowly, reluctantly, like a man letting go of something precious that he didn’t yet understand. With quiet fingers, Thorin reached for the cold tin plate, lifting a piece of bread to his mouth without ever looking away from the hobbit.

Bilbo slid down to sit properly beside the bars, his shoulder brushing the iron. He hummed under his breath, soft and aimless, a Shire melody twisted absentmindedly into a new shape by shadow and stone.

Thorin chewed. The food was stale, tasteless. But Bilbo was here.

The sound of boots against stone echoed softly through the long corridors of the Woodland Realm. The air here was always cool, a little too still, as if the stone walls remembered every word ever whispered within them. Tauriel moved swiftly, her cloak rustling behind her, a purposeful line drawn toward the deep caverns where the dwarves—and one Dúrwen, the outlander ranger—were held.

A familiar voice called out just as she rounded the corner toward the stairway.

“Are you planning to visit the dwarves again?”

Tauriel halted, turned slightly. Legolas stood behind her, hands folded neatly at his back, an unreadable expression on his fair face. He looked every bit the prince he was, though his posture was casual.

“I’m hoping to see what they’re up to,” Tauriel replied, avoiding his gaze.

Legolas stepped closer, his tone gentle, but his words firm. “Since when do you care what prisoners are up to? No one escapes this fortress. You know that.”

Now she turned to face him fully, her eyes narrowing. “They’re hiding something.”

Legolas arched a golden brow. “We searched them thoroughly. Even the ranger. If they had weapons, secrets, trickery—we would have found it.”

Tauriel shook her head slightly, a flicker of unease behind her sharp expression. “I heard something. A voice that did not belong to any of the dwarves, nor the woman. It was small, soft. I went to the cells, but… nothing.”

Legolas exhaled, and the gesture shifted his posture from soldier to friend. “You think it was real?”

She hesitated.

He went on, “There have been… odd reports. Food missing from the kitchens. Trays moved. Scrolls gone. Erethor swears something knocked him over outside the dwarf-king’s cell.”

Tauriel snorted. “You believe Erethor tripped on something other than his own feet?”

Legolas gave her a slightly wounded look. “Someone tripped him. After he delivered food to Thorin Oakenshield. I’m not saying it was sorcery, but there’s something strange in these halls.”

“He’s just dumb,” Tauriel said dryly.

“Tauriel!” Legolas looked around, scandalized, as if fearing one of the guards might overhear. “He is our friend.”

She lifted her chin, smirking. “More reason to say he’s dumb.”

A reluctant flush rose on Legolas’s cheeks, and he looked away.

“Legolas,” she said, voice quieter now, “we should keep our focus on threats that actually exist. Not imagined whispers and illusions.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Then, with an air of quiet resolution, he turned from her.

“If you won’t believe me, then I’ll find proof.”

And without another word, he strode off, his steps echoing sharply in the silence.

Tauriel lingered a moment, watching his retreating back. There was something about his certainty that unsettled her more than she liked. The memory of that faint voice, barely a whisper and gone in a blink, stirred uncomfortably at the edges of her thoughts.

She adjusted her cloak and turned again toward the cells.

She would find the truth herself—with or without his help.

   The corridors of the Woodland Realm were hushed, the stone echoing only with the faint trickle of water from unseen streams and the occasional soft footfall of an elven guard. Yet, even in this silence, Bilbo Baggins moved like a wraith, each step calculated and light. The golden ring, snug on his finger, rendered him invisible to the eye, but he knew well the Elves’ keen senses—how they heard what others could not, saw what others missed. Even now, his breath came slow and shallow as he crept past the carved archways and toward the cavernous cells where his companions lay imprisoned.

His heart beat faster as the shadows ahead parted into familiar figures behind iron bars. Soon, he would share what he had longed to tell them—he had found Thorin. Thorin, alive.

But then he heard it—a voice, smooth as a drawn arrow, lilting with authority. Bilbo froze behind a stone column, listening.

“Here again?” 

He leaned carefully, peering around the corner. There she was: the auburn-haired she-elf, once again standing before Dúrwen’s cell. They were talking. Again. Bilbo frowned. He could not see Dúrwen from this angle, but he could hear the tightness in her voice.

“What do you want this time?”

Tauriel folded her hands before her, voice cool but curious. “You speak as though I visit you out of fondness.”

“Don’t you?”

A silence stretched between them. Then, unexpectedly, Tauriel looked flustered. A touch of color bloomed in her cheeks as she turned away abruptly.

Bilbo squinted, brows rising. When the she-elf disappeared around the corner, he waited until the echo of her boots faded before slipping off the ring. He let out a long breath and adjusted his waistcoat.

“Bilbo!” Bofur’s voice cracked through the quiet, followed swiftly by Nori’s hissed, “Shh!”

Bilbo padded forward, offering a sheepish smile as he stepped into view.

“You’re back,” Dúrwen observed. Her cell was closest to the entrance, and she eyed him with that same unreadable look she always had, though a flicker of relief danced in her dark eyes.

“Yes, yes, I’m back. And I would have been sooner, but it’s rather difficult to sneak about when your cells are constantly guarded by that she-elf who just stormed off.”

The dwarves coughed mysteriously. Dúrwen scoffed.

“She suspects we’re up to something,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

Somewhere in the back, Bofur gave a low whistle.

“Yes, well, enough about her. The real reason I’m here is to tell you—especially you two—” Bilbo looked to Fíli and Kíli, who sat side by side in their cell, “—that I found your uncle.”

A moment passed. Then the cell block erupted.

“He’s alive?” Dwalin’s voice boomed from farther down.

“Where is he?” Fíli stood quickly, clutching the bars.

“Is he alright?” Kíli added, brows furrowed.

Bilbo nodded, holding up a hand. “He is, for now. He’s deep in the lower levels, in a darker part of the prison. It took me a while to find him. When I arrived, he thought I was a ghost.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time Thorin mistook someone for a spirit,” Balin murmured.

Bilbo smiled faintly. “He’s weak, but still himself. Still very much Thorin. But I think he needs someone to talk to—someone to remind him why we’re doing this.”

More coughing.

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo said, narrowing his eyes. “And before any of you start making insinuations, I mean to be a friend to him.”

“Of course,” Bofur said innocently.

“That’s good, Bilbo,” Dúrwen said, resting her back against the stone wall. Her voice grew serious. “Especially now. The she-elf captain said she heard your voice.”

Bilbo stiffened. “What? Did she see me?”

Dúrwen shook her head. “No. Not yet. But if she hears it again, she will follow. She’s sharp. And persistent.”

“She won’t stop until she finds what doesn’t belong,” added Nori.

“If they see me,” Bilbo said, pacing between the cells, “they’ll know. And if they know, we’ll lose our only chance at getting out. I’ll be locked up too, and—”

“It’s worse than that,” Dúrwen interrupted.

"You won’t just be imprisoned," Dúrwen said quietly. “The Woodland Elves are not like the Elves of Rivendell. They’ve never seen a hobbit. You’ll be a marvel to them. A treasure.”

“Something rare,” Ori whispered, horrified. “Like… like a living relic.”

“Exactly,” Dúrwen said. “And King Thranduil collects treasures. Things that shine. Things that are rare. You, Bilbo Baggins, are both.”

Bilbo swallowed thickly. “Right,” he said faintly. “That’s… worse.”

“I’d like to see them try,” growled Dwalin.

“If a single one of them lays a finger on our hobbit—” Glóin added.

“They’ll have to answer to me first,” Fíli muttered darkly.

“And me,” Kíli added, “with every arrow I’ve got.”

“Which is none,” Bofur pointed out. “They took all our weapons.”

Fíli reached out through the bars, as if trying to reassure him. “You did good, Bilbo. Better than any of us could’ve hoped. If you hadn’t come along...”

Kíli grinned. “And I thought I was the sneaky one.”

Bilbo chuckled, though there was tension still in his shoulders. He rubbed the ring in his pocket, the cool metal grounding him.

“There’s going to be a feast,” he said. “I overheard it in the kitchens. A celebration of some kind. That might be our chance. Fewer guards, more distractions. I just need to figure out... how.”

The dwarves nodded, hope rekindled in their eyes.

“You’ll think of something,” Dúrwen said, quieter now, almost kind. “You always do.”

Bilbo offered a small smile.

He had to. They were all counting on him.

And Thorin most of all.

The deep gloom of the Woodland Realm’s lower dungeons was nearly impenetrable. Stone walls pressed in on all sides like the roots of the ancient forest above, heavy with silence and secrets. The torches had long since been extinguished in this part of the fortress; Thranduil had little interest in comforting his most stubborn prisoner with light. The only illumination came from the faint, warm shimmer of Bilbo Baggins, glowing soft gold beneath the spell of his ring, like a fallen star refusing to be snuffed out by darkness.

Bilbo sat cross-legged on the cold flagstone floor, his back resting against the iron bars of the cell that held Thorin Oakenshield. The bars bit into his shoulders, but he did not complain. The closeness—this borrowed silence—they had come to share felt sacred in its own way, and he would not break it without cause.

Thorin sat just on the other side, equally still. His hair was unbound, cascading in a tangled, ink-dark fall over his shoulders. He sat with his back to the wall, his chin slightly lifted, eyes half-closed as though lost in thought or memory.

“Thranduil is proud. Vain,” he said at last. “He thinks the world owes him for the scars he bears, but he hides behind beauty and pageantry. He offers peace with one hand while drawing his sword with the other.”

Bilbo listened. He had long since learned that Thorin’s silences were not empty, but heavy things, full of thought and restraint. The fact that he was speaking so freely tonight meant something had shifted.

“He visits you?” Bilbo asked softly.

“Often enough,” Thorin muttered. “He comes not out of mercy, but pride. He wants something. Information. Bargains. He taunts me with false kindness, trying to lure me into some oath.” He paused, a bitter sound in his throat. “He thinks me desperate.”

Bilbo swallowed, fingers tightening slightly on his knees. “And... are you?”

Thorin was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, “I am many things. But never desperate enough to bow to him.”

A faint smile tugged at Bilbo’s lips. “He reminds me of the roses in my aunt’s garden. All velvet petals and sweet perfume—until you try to pluck one and end up with a thorn in your thumb.”

That drew a quiet, unexpected laugh from Thorin. It sounded like something old and half-forgotten—like water finally finding its way through stone. “A poetic insult. You’ve a sharp tongue when you wish to, Master Burglar.”

Bilbo smiled faintly, pleased. “A hobbit’s specialty. Along with tea, and being underestimated.”

Thorin turned, just slightly, enough to see the edge of Bilbo’s golden shimmer through the bars. “You are full of surprises.”

Bilbo muttered, “I’m full of many things. Tea. Regret. Possibly moss by now.”

Thorin’s mouth twitched. “Even so, you remain the only member of our company not bound in chains.”

“I don’t feel very free,” Bilbo said, voice quieter. “Sometimes I think I’m just... drifting. Trying to keep everyone from drowning, but barely staying afloat myself.”

“You do more than you know. You've found us. You move where we cannot. You risk everything.”

Bilbo looked down at his hands, pale in the dim light. “It’s not enough yet. Not until we’re all out.”

“And we will be,” Thorin said. “I have trusted you this far, Bilbo. I do not doubt you now.”

The silence that followed was different. Not the cold hush of fear, but a warmth pressed between them like a shared blanket. It hummed with the unspoken weight of things neither dared name.

“I used to think of home,” Bilbo murmured, almost to himself. “My kettle singing. My garden in bloom. Seven meals a day, and nothing more dangerous than the neighbor’s cat. Now I dream of shadowed woods and things with too many legs. And you. All of you. Locked away like treasure.”

“You miss the Shire,” Thorin said softly.

“I do. But it’s changed now. I’ve changed. I can’t go back—not really. Not the same way.”

“Change is not a thing to fear,” Thorin said. “Not when it reveals who you truly are.”

Bilbo glanced up, eyes meeting Thorin’s. “And who am I, Thorin Oakenshield?”

Thorin’s gaze did not falter. “You are brave. Fierce, in your way. Stubborn. Unexpected.”

Bilbo blinked, stunned by the sincerity.

“You’ve the heart of a dwarf,” Thorin added, half-smiling. “But the courage of something older. Wilder. You burn, Bilbo Baggins.”

“I burn?”

“With fire. With loyalty.”

Bilbo looked away, throat tight. “And if I fail? If I can’t get us out?”

Thorin’s hand reached through the bars, resting briefly on the floor near Bilbo’s.

“Then we will fall together. But I do not believe that will be our fate. Not with you.”

Bilbo’s fingers trembled before brushing his hand against Thorin’s in the dark. A moment of contact—fleeting, but real.

A sound echoed down the corridor.

Bilbo stiffened. Someone was approaching.

“I should go,” he whispered.

“Bilbo—”

But when Thorin looked again, the golden shimmer had vanished, and the hallway was empty.

Only the faint warmth on the flagstone remained, like a breath, or a promise left behind.

   In the endless days of his quiet invisibility, Bilbo Baggins learned to move through the halls of Thranduil’s Woodland Realm like a ghost. He became a shadow that left no trace, silent as mist on the river. And yet, even shadows grow restless. As the weeks wore on and the dwarves remained behind locked doors, even Bilbo's small but stubborn courage began to chafe with urgency.

One day, nosing and wandering about in the deepest reaches of the elven caverns, Bilbo stumbled upon a very curious thing.

It began with the sound of rushing water, muffled and echoing behind stone. Curious, Bilbo followed it, weaving down passages unused by any elf for days. Cool moss carpeted the stones, and dust clung undisturbed to the edges. At last, he came upon a stream—swift and silver-bright in the gloom. It was the same stream he had seen outside the great gates, trickling into the Forest River far below. Here it disappeared into the mountain like a secret, only to reemerge at the very roots of the Woodland Realm.

Where it flowed out again from the cave’s easternmost edge, there was a low tunnel and a heavy portcullis—iron teeth that could fall to bar any entry or escape. This was the water-gate, a little-known entrance to Thranduil’s halls, guarded less by soldiers than by secrecy and stone. Yet it was used often enough, Bilbo learned, for a great many barrels passed this way, floating gently in or bobbing cheerfully out.

Curious, Bilbo had hidden behind one of the large barrels stacked within the vast, cool cellars, and there he waited. The trapdoors above his head were massive, lined with iron and sealed with carved elven sigils. But when the servants came to load or discard the barrels, they swung them open with practiced ease. Listening to their idle chatter, Bilbo learned much. The wine and goods were not local, but came from afar—traded up the Forest River from Lake-town, itself built like a spider’s web of piers and bridges out upon the waters of the Long Lake. And when the barrels were emptied, the elves simply tossed them back through the trapdoors to the river, to float back downstream and be gathered again by men at the lake’s edge.

It was, Bilbo thought, the most absurdly perfect plan for an escape he could imagine. Desperate, foolish, completely untested—yet perhaps the only way.

He sat by the barrels for a long while, cross-legged and thoughtful, fingers worrying at the hem of his waistcoat. The Feast of Starlight would be soon, he had heard. A night of music and mirth, of dancing and wine—and perhaps, just perhaps, a rare moment of carelessness.

He told no one of the barrel plan, only about the Feast of Starlight. Not even Dúrwen, though her calm presence would have soothed his nerves. Not even Thorin, though he longed to share the plan with him most of all. He feared it would be dismissed as madness. Still, he kept visiting them, night after night, whispering through the bars. More often than not, he found himself drawn to Thorin’s cell like a moth to flame.

“You look thinner,” Thorin said one evening, voice low.

“And you look more regal in chains than most do on thrones,” Bilbo whispered back, flushing despite himself.

Thorin grunted, a breath that might have been amusement. “I do miss your presence, burglar. Even if your visits smell of apples and mischief.”

“Well, I’m your only company after all.” Bilbo smiled faintly, and passed through the bars a small fruit he’d conjured. Apples, mostly. Once, a plum that gleamed like dusk. It exhausted him. Magic without soil or seed drained something deep within his bones, as though he plucked light itself from the corners of the world and shaped it into fruit. And yet...

Something within him stirred.

There were moments, quiet and terrifying, when he felt the magic in his veins like lightning. It tingled in his fingers, pulsed at the base of his throat. He was changing. He didn’t know into what.

One afternoon, weary of conjuring and dizzy from the ache of it, Bilbo crept into the elven kitchens to steal a loaf of bread. He had no intention of summoning a meal from his magic—not today. The familiar weight of the Ring hung from a chain at his throat, and he slipped it on before ducking through the polished door.

The world turned to misted shadow. Sound grew distant, far away, like music underwater. He moved silently among the polished countertops and hanging herbs, the scent of rosemary and elderflower thick in the air. His hand reached out for a still-warm crusty loaf—

And the Ring slipped.

It fell from his finger with a soft thud.

“Oh, traitor.” Bilbo hissed.

In an instant, the world brightened again.

Too bright.

Color surged back into the world with dizzying force. Voices sharpened. Footsteps entered the kitchen.

“What was that?” one of the elves whispered.

Bilbo gasped and dropped to the floor to grab the Ring, heart pounding like a trapped bird. He scrambled under the nearest table, pressing his back to the wall. His breath came fast.

They would see him.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Please, he begged silently. Let me vanish. Let me disappear. Let me be nothing.

And then he did.

Not with the Ring. Not by any trinket’s magic. But with a surge of power that wrapped around him like a river current, swift and merciless. It swept him up and pulled at his belly, a feeling like being turned inside out and hurled through a keyhole of light. It was not flight. It was not invisibility. It was elsewhere. One moment he crouched in the kitchen—the next, he was flung headlong into another part of the Woodland Realm, reeling with nausea.

He landed hard against the cold floor of some shadowed corridor, the stone slick beneath his palms.

He vomited.

Gasping, trembling, he fumbled for the Ring and slipped it back on, just in case. If there were elves here, they must not see him—

But there was no sound. Only his own ragged breath. The place was still. Empty.

Bilbo wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and leaned against the wall, sweat cooling on his brow.

“What...” he breathed, dazed. “What was that?”

His voice barely echoed in the gloom.

You vanished, some part of him answered. Not just hidden. Not unseen. You were gone.

A thrill of terror chased itself down his spine. His hands trembled.

This was no trick of the Ring. This was him.

Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End, had just... vanished. Apparated. Translocated. He had no word for it. Only the knowledge that he had not walked here, nor climbed, nor crept.

He had willed himself to vanish.

And the world had obeyed.

He pressed a hand to his chest and felt the thrum of something vast and wild beneath his skin. Like a seed waking in spring.

For the first time in his life, Bilbo began to question the limitations of his gift. What else might he do, if he dared?

The torchlight outside Dúrwen’s cell had long since dimmed to a faint orange glow, flickering against the stone with a weary kind of pulse. The prison halls were quiet now, heavy with sleep, but Dúrwen remained awake. She sat hunched on a low bench of stone, arms braced against her knees, eyes lost in the dark beyond the bars. Her cloak, damp from the mist that clung to the lower halls, lay bunched beside her like a cast-off shadow.

The silence was broken by a soft, deliberate voice.

“You’re still awake.”

Dúrwen startled. She turned her head sharply toward the voice and found herself staring into the calm, unreadable gaze of Tauriel. The Captain of the Guard stood just beyond the bars, olive-green eyes shining in the dim light, her hands folded neatly behind her back.

Dúrwen straightened at once, pushing herself up from the bench and lifting her chin. She would not be caught slouching before the elven guard, no matter how weary she felt.

“It’s hard to sleep,” Dúrwen said, her voice dry, a brittle humor threading through it. “Harder still when nightmares follow you even into the waking hours.”

Tauriel tilted her head. “Nightmares of the forest?”

“No,” Dúrwen said, sitting down again with a sigh. “Not of spiders or orcs. I would almost prefer that. These nightmares are older. More personal.”

A pause.

“Are you still dreaming of the companion you left behind?” Tauriel asked. Her eyes darted away, down the corridor, as if the question embarrassed her.

Dúrwen studied her a moment, noting the tension in her shoulders, the avoidance in her gaze. The dwarves around them were already lost to their snores, their gruff breathing echoing faintly in the stone chamber. None stirred.

“Maybe,” Dúrwen answered at last, her tone guarded. She would not confirm what Tauriel clearly suspected, but neither would she lie. Bilbo was not left behind. He was here—somewhere in these halls, quiet as mist and clever as wind. And she trusted him.

“Are you here to interrogate me?” Dúrwen asked then, arching a brow. “Hoping I’ll admit to some grand escape plan? If so, I recommend listening to the dwarves’ snoring more closely. They’re clearly plotting something vast and terrible.”

Tauriel did not take the bait. She merely watched Dúrwen in silence for a long breath, then asked, softly:

“Do you swear an oath to them? Or are they truly your friends?”

The question caught Dúrwen off guard. She glanced down, fidgeting with the silver ring on her finger. A habit she often fell into when her thoughts grew too loud.

“They’re my company,” she said simply, but her voice held weight.

Tauriel studied her, and after a moment, asked another question, her voice quieter still.

“Are you particularly close to the dwarf we left behind?”

Dúrwen blinked.

Ah. So Tauriel didn’t know.

Good.

A strange little smile tugged at her lips as she imagined Bilbo with a beard, perhaps trying to braid it like Glóin or fiddle with it in confusion. The image was absurd, and Dúrwen chuckled despite herself.

Tauriel furrowed her brows. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Dúrwen said, still smiling.

Tauriel hesitated. Her gaze fell on Dúrwen’s hand.

“Where did you get that ring?” she asked, more pointedly now.

Dúrwen stilled. The laughter left her eyes, replaced by something older, heavier.

“It was a gift,” she said softly. “From the woman I once loved.”

Tauriel blinked. It was subtle, but she stepped back, as if the words had struck her.

Dúrwen did not notice. She was watching the silver glint of the ring, lost in memory.

“I assume you still harbor deep feelings,” Tauriel murmured. “Your voice... it lingers on her name, even unspoken.”

“I did,” Dúrwen said after a pause. “But that was a long time ago. Our love was... beautiful, and terrible. The sort that burns until all that’s left is ash. She’s happy now. Has a son. A home. A life that does not include me.”

She did not say: She had no choice.

She did not say: I loved her anyway.

Tauriel was quiet for a long moment.

Then she asked, “And you? Are you happy?”

Dúrwen looked up.

“I’m not sad. Not joyful, either. Content, perhaps. That is enough.”

There was a stillness in Tauriel then, a fragile silence that hung between them like gossamer. Her next question came suddenly.

“How was it?”

“How was what?”

“Love. What does it feel like?”

Dúrwen leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly. Her voice was low when she replied.

“It’s a violent poison. That’s what love is. A slow, sweet venom you willingly swallow, over and over, with no promise it will ever heal. Only that it will linger.”

Tauriel flinched as if struck. Her gaze did not waver.

“If that is love,” she whispered, “then I do not want it.”

Dúrwen looked at her then, really looked—at the quiet intensity in her eyes, the way she stood like a soldier even when her voice betrayed longing.

But before she could answer, Tauriel turned and left without another word.

The corridor swallowed her footsteps, and Dúrwen was left alone again, listening to the slow rhythm of dwarvish snores, her ring cool against her skin.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall.

“Then you’ve never been in love,” she murmured into the dark, to no one at all.

   The stone corridors of the Woodland Realm breathed with silence, hushed and waiting.

Bilbo crept carefully beneath the weight of his magic, the invisibility ring cool upon his finger. The enchanted metal hummed faintly, clinging to his very essence and making the world around him blur with unseeing eyes. The halls of Thranduil’s fortress were never truly empty, but he had learned over these long, tense weeks when and where the guards would walk, when to slip through, when to hide. The ring helped, yes, but it was not all-powerful. It drained him, little by little. He had not slept properly in days.

He was on his way to Thorin’s cell now, deeper than the others, cloaked in shadows and silence. It was less guarded than the rest—for even the Woodland Elves were not foolish enough to keep their king’s most dangerous prisoner too close to the main halls. They considered Thorin safe in the gloom. Safer than, say, Fíli and Kíli, whose cell were near the entrance and under the sharp watch of a she-elf stationed near Dúrwen’s cell. That elf never moved far, as though she sensed something about the ranger that made her wary. Bilbo had learned to avoid that part of the prison entirely.

Tonight, his plan was simple: check on Thorin, whisper some comfort, and rest—just for a moment—against the stone wall outside the dwarf’s cell. He’d told them the plan already, well... most of it. Not the bit with the barrels. The dwarves had seemed excited, relief lighting their tired eyes. Soon, they’d be free.

But not if he was caught.

Bilbo yawned, half-lidded eyes dragging shut for the third time as he padded along a narrow passage. His legs felt like wood. He’d curled beneath bramble before for sleep, beneath stars or tangled roots, but this stone place sucked the warmth from him. He just wanted to lean against the wall. Rest.

All was well.

Until it wasn’t.

It happened so fast he didn’t have time to think.

His foot caught on something—what, he never knew—and he stumbled, pitched forward, arms flailing silently in the air. He fell with a graceless thud, cheek scraping against cold stone. The wind was knocked out of him. Worse, something small skittered across the floor, metal clinking faintly as it rolled out of reach.

The Ring.

Panic hit him like a storm. He scrambled, breath catching in his throat. The comforting weight of invisibility was gone. Gone.

He turned his head, eyes wide, and there it was—his most precious protection—glinting faintly just beyond reach.

“No, no—oh no— not again,” he whispered frantically, crawling toward it. His fingers brushed the gold just as a shadow fell across him.

A presence loomed.

He froze.

Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes.

And the world stopped.

It was not just any elf.

Before him stood a tall figure clad in soft silvers and forest greens, hair a cascade of pale gold. His face was carved like starlight, and his eyes, deep and ocean-dark, were locked on Bilbo with a look of mingled wonder and disbelief.

It was the prince.

Legolas Greenleaf.

Bilbo’s breath stilled in his chest.

Weeks of sneaking through these halls, watching from shadows, and he knew who this was. He had seen him moving like light across the training grounds, speaking with the guards, conferring with his father in the throne room. He knew the tilt of that head, the poise, the grace. But now those eyes were on him, and Bilbo felt laid bare, a single thread unraveled from a tapestry.

He couldn’t move.

I can’t use the Ring, he thought. Not now. Not in front of him. They’ll know.

Instead, he did what he hadn’t done in days.

He wished.

He willed himself to vanish.

He begged the magic in his bones, in the gift he'd once thought was no more than luck, to take him far from here.

But something was wrong.

The magic flickered.

Legolas moved.

Faster than thought, the elf-prince reached for him, grasping his wrist with long fingers. Bilbo felt it instantly: a grounding, a stillness. The magic within him shrieked against it. It tried to lift him, tried to tear him away—but the touch of the elf stopped it. His body shimmered, light pulling at the edges of him, as if he were caught between two realms.

“No, no, no,” he muttered aloud, struggling in Legolas’s grip. “Let me go, I—please—oh no—”

But there was no escape.

And the prince was staring.

It was a terrible silence, heavy with awe.

Behind Legolas, others were gathering. A few guards—off duty or wandering toward the feast preparations—had come at the sound. They stood frozen now, weapons half-drawn, eyes wide. None of them spoke.

A hobbit.

A creature out of song and story.

They had never seen one.

Some had thought them myth. The old tales, spun in long winters by hearth-fire, told of peaceful little folk who lived in round holes in green hills, with pointed ears and sweet voices. Creatures that loved food and laughter, who bore no weapons, and whose feet were bare and quiet as moonlight.

But this was no bedtime story.

This was real.

This creature in the prince’s arms was no fey dream. It was solid and breathing, soft curls tangled and dirt-streaked, trembling with exhaustion. Yet it glowed faintly, a light under the skin, like starlight trapped in flesh. And still it flickered, not quite there, as if the world could not decide whether to keep it or let it go.

“Impossible,” one of the guards murmured. Another made the sign against enchantment, half in fear, half in reverence.

Legolas said nothing.

He was still holding Bilbo. Tight. As though releasing him would break the spell and the hobbit would vanish forever.

The prince’s heart beat loud in his ears.

A hobbit.

He had longed for such a thing as a child. Had once imagined finding them, tiny folk with laughter like bells, who hid in the green places of Greenwood. When he was small he used to peek into every rabbit-hole, half-believing he’d catch one mid-tea.

And now...

This one was not what he had imagined, not exactly. Not with his wrinkled tunic, dirt-smudged cheeks, and trembling limbs. But there was something other about him. Something ancient and unknowable. And beautiful, too, in a strange, quiet way.

But he was afraid.

So afraid.

Legolas could feel the tremors in him, see the whites of his eyes. This creature did not want to be found. Whatever magic it held was not malicious—it wanted only to flee.

The hobbit’s struggles grew weaker.

Then he slumped.

Legolas blinked. “Wait—”

Bilbo did not answer. He had gone still in the prince’s arms, his breathing shallow, lips parted. Not unconscious, exactly. Not fainted. But fallen into some deep and terrible exhaustion, his body too spent to hold himself awake.

Magic had its price.

The guards stepped forward now, cautiously.

“What is it?” one whispered.

“A child?” another asked, confused.

“No,” said Legolas, quietly. “Not a child. A hobbit.”

He lifted his head and met their eyes.

“Tell the King,” he said. “Now.”

And around them, the fortress seemed to shiver.

Something ancient had returned to the Elvenking’s halls.

And it would not go unnoticed.

   The throne room of the Woodland Realm was no mere hall of stone and timber. It was a cathedral of living roots and ageless rock, shaped by time and the slow artistry of Elvenkind. Tall columns stretched like petrified trees into the vaulted heights above, their surfaces etched by the patient hands of centuries. Pale light filtered down in shafts of silver from unseen crevices in the cavern ceiling, casting long shadows across the marble floor where moss grew soft beneath one’s feet.

Thranduil sat upon his throne of carved elm and obsidian, a crown of holly leaves upon his brow, his expression still as ice. The air was quiet, broken only by the distant song of water trickling over stone. The Elvenking’s thoughts drifted to the prisoners held within his realm, his gaze distant.

The king-in-exile remained silent, locked deep in the quiet gloom of the lower cells. Alone. Undisturbed. Yet unbroken. Thorin Oakenshield continued to refuse Thranduil’s terms, holding to his pride like a knight grips his dying banner. That, Thranduil supposed, was something to be grudgingly respected.

Preparations for Mereth Nuin Giliath, the sacred Feast of Starlight, were well underway. And Thranduil, though detached in manner, was ever mindful of the harmony of his court. Few dared to disrupt him during such a time.

But then the doors opened without warning.

The guards did not stop the one who entered. They stepped aside, their faces tight with alarm. The figure that strode through the shimmering veil of vines and light was none other than the Elvenking’s own son. Legolas came with silent urgency, golden hair tousled, his jaw tight with unease.

Thranduil raised one pale brow, his voice like wind over a frozen lake.

“Legolas,” he said. “You bring haste into my halls. Is it the feast? Has something gone amiss?”

Legolas did not answer at once. He moved forward, each step deliberate, as though the very air were heavy upon him. But it was not the burden of his thoughts that drew all eyes.

It was what he carried.

Cradled against his chest was a small form—still, strange, and shining faintly in the dim light like a fading ember. Gasps whispered through the gathered court. The Elvenking rose to his feet, his robes falling in perfect silence.

“Something… someone… was found wandering our halls,” Legolas said at last.

Thranduil descended the steps of his throne. “A spy?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

Legolas gently shifted his arms, revealing more of the bundle. The small figure was curled in upon itself, limbs limp with sleep. Dirt-streaked curls spilled across a patchwork of torn garments. The edges of its form shimmered faintly, like moonlight dancing on rippling water.

“I believe it’s a hobbit,” Legolas said, wonder and disbelief threading his tone. “A Perian. From the stories. He was walking the corridors. Alone. Unguarded.”

The room went still.

Thranduil stared, brows drawn in disbelief.

“A hobbit,” he repeated, slowly. The word felt out of place upon his tongue. “From the West. A creature of fireside tales and child’s rhyme.”

Murmurs rippled through the gathered guards and courtiers. None had seen such a thing before. None had known they were real.

Legolas nodded. “Yet here he is. Flesh and breath. I touched him and he flickered. He tried to vanish.”

Thranduil stepped closer, his gaze narrowing. He did not touch, but held his hand above the small form. A prickle met his skin—like the air before a storm. Magic. Old and inborn.

One of the guards dared to speak. “A glamour? Illusion work?”

“No,” Thranduil answered before his son could. His voice was reverent, almost soft. “This is not of our making. Nor any craft I know. This... this is older. Older than I.”

The silence that followed was not empty. It was charged. The eyes of the court drank in every detail: the bare furry feet, the luminous sheen, the sense that if they looked away, even for a moment, he would vanish.

“Did he speak?” Thranduil asked.

“Only in fear,” Legolas replied. “He begged to be let go. He said others were depending on him.”

That caught the king’s attention. His eyes sharpened. “Others?”

“I believe he meant the dwarves.”

A shift. Subtle. Like the forest holding its breath.

“Ah,” Thranduil murmured. “So. The tale unfolds.”

“It would explain much,” Legolas said. “Their strange hope. Their silence. Someone has been moving unseen among us.”

“Tauriel spoke once of a voice outside the ranger’s cell. Small. Soft. Elusive.”

Thranduil’s hand curled into a slow fist.

“The burglar,” he said. “He walks beneath my nose. A creature who can vanish at will. A relic of an age we thought forgotten.”

“But not unnoticed,” said Legolas.

“No,” Thranduil said, eyes once more upon the hobbit. “He leaves traces. Magic hums in his wake.”

He stepped back, robe whispering across the floor.

“Double the guard,” he ordered. “Post sentries along every corridor between the cells and the storerooms. Find where he walked. Mark every strange sign.”

The guards bowed and scattered.

“Summon the chief healer,” Thranduil continued. “He is not to be harmed, but I want him awake. I will speak with him myself.”

“Father—”

Thranduil held up a hand. “We will not hurt him. Not yet. But he is no simple creature.”

His gaze fell again on the hobbit. Such a strange little thing. Soft of face, clothed in foreign make, yet he radiated a strength beyond his size. A living echo of legend. The stories had not done them justice.

“Place him in a quiet chamber,” Thranduil said. “Guard him as you would a Silmaril. No hands are to touch him without leave. And not a word is to leave these walls.”

The guards obeyed.

Only Legolas lingered. He looked upon the hobbit as one might gaze upon a falling star—a wonder glimpsed for the first time.

Something had changed.

And the Feast of Starlight would not be the only thing remembered by Elvenkind for generations to come.

The hush of the Woodland Realm was a strange thing—soaked in the whisper of leaves that grew from stone, in roots that remembered songs older than grief. But on this night, that hush was broken by the sudden tread of boots, soft but unrelenting.

Bofur stirred first.

“What’s happening?” he murmured groggily, pushing his hat up from his eyes.

It wasn’t long before the others roused, heads lifting in their dim cells, eyes adjusting to the flickering torchlight. They saw them then—more elves. Not just one or two, but a quiet procession, each one striding with grim purpose and taking position outside the cells. Each dwarf was suddenly met with a silent, stoic guardian. Sentries, not merely watchers.

“They doubled the guards?” Fíli called out from his cell, his voice sharp with disbelief. He leaned toward the bars, where Kíli stood, both hands curled around the iron. His younger brother glared out with unhidden contempt, his eyes narrow and smoldering.

“To torture us more with their so-called grace, I’d wager,” Glóin growled, folding his arms. A few of the others muttered their agreement—snatches of Khuzdul curses passing like sparks.

But the cursing stilled when Dúrwen spoke.

“Something’s happened,” she said, low and certain, and the tension in her voice was enough to silence the grumbles.

From the shadows near the entrance came another elf—her presence quiet but commanding. Tauriel.

She strode with fluid certainty, her red hair catching the lamplight like fire. Her eyes found Dúrwen’s cell and stopped there, though she spared no glance for the dwarves growling behind bars.

Dúrwen stepped closer, her voice biting with suspicion. “What proof do you have now that we’re up to something?”

Tauriel didn’t answer at first. Instead, she turned her head slightly and addressed the guards with clipped authority, her voice the blade of a captain. “No one leaves their post. We take turns in shifts. Eyes on the prisoners—every breath.”

Then, and only then, did she return her gaze to Dúrwen.

“We found your spy.”

A chorus of outcry burst like thunder. The dwarves erupted into shouts, voices climbing over one another in fury.

“If you lay a finger on him—!” That was Dwalin, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles whitened.

“You cowards!” growled Glóin. “You think one hobbit is a threat? He’s worth ten of your kind!”

“He’s done nothing to you!” Ori’s voice cracked, raw with fear.

Dori banged the side of his cell. “You know not who you’ve taken. That’s no thief. That’s Bilbo Baggins!”

Only Dúrwen didn’t raise her voice. Her hands had found the bars and gripped them with slow, dangerous calm. “Where is he?”

Tauriel’s green eyes narrowed. “Somewhere safe.”

Dúrwen’s grip tightened. The silence in her cell was more deadly than the dwarves’ rage.

Tauriel continued, trying—and failing—to keep her voice cool. “He’s guarded. Fiercely. Prince Legolas found him wandering your corridors. He tried to vanish before his eyes. Used some strange magic we do not understand.”

“Aye, that sounds like our burglar,” Bofur muttered, half in awe, half in dread. “Always slipping where he shouldn’t be.”

“We will not make it to Durin’s Day,” Ori said suddenly, voice strangled by despair. “If they keep him… if they hurt him…”

Silence fell again, deeper than before. Even the elves stilled.

Kíli turned to Fíli, voice rough. “Fee… our uncle… He doesn’t know. They’ve locked him in a deeper cell. Alone.”

Fíli looked away, jaw clenched. He gripped the bars hard enough to shake them.

In her own cell, Dúrwen exhaled through her nose. She raised one hand and dug her fingers into her tangled hair, as though the gesture might force her fury down. Her dark brows drew low over her eyes, shadowing the fire within.

“Are you happy now?” she asked at last, not looking at Tauriel. Her voice was flat, exhausted. There was no rage in it—just a kind of bone-deep ache.

Tauriel opened her mouth but hesitated. There was a silence between them. She didn’t know why the urge to explain burned so fiercely inside her.

“I told you before,” Tauriel said quietly, stepping a pace closer. “If you only told the king you had no loyalty to these dwarves—if you claimed your innocence—he might release you.”

“I would rather rot here,” Dúrwen said, suddenly sharp, like a sword leaving its scabbard.

The dwarves fell silent.

She turned her face toward Tauriel now, shadows under her eyes like bruises, lips drawn tight. “I would rather rot and die in this cell than live for centuries bearing the shame of forsaking those who trusted me.”

Tauriel said nothing. Her spine was straight, her face unreadable, but something in her eyes flickered like a lantern guttering in wind.

Dúrwen’s gaze didn’t waver. “Is that what you want, captain? For me to bend the knee, to wash my hands of them, to save myself?”

Tauriel’s jaw tensed. “I want you to be free.”

“Freedom bought by betrayal isn’t freedom,” Dúrwen whispered. “It’s a cage with softer walls.”

From another cell, Glóin murmured something in Khuzdul that sounded like respect. Even Dwalin, gruff and skeptical of the Dúnedain ranger, muttered: “She’s got steel.”

Tauriel looked away first.

The guards remained as silent as stone. The only sound now was the soft, unnatural hush of Mirkwood—the kind that crept between branches and curled around secrets.

Kíli leaned close to the bars, voice roughened. “We need to do something. We can’t just let them keep him.”

Fíli laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder, steadying him. “We’ll find a way.”

And in the corner of her cell, Dúrwen stared at the ceiling of twisted stone and root, lips barely moving.

Chapter Text

10.

Bilbo awoke slowly, as though surfacing from deep water, every limb dragged by the weight of a storm he could no longer see. There was no light behind his eyes, only the ache of exhaustion threading through every nerve. His bones trembled with a strange kind of weariness—not the kind earned by toil or battle, but the price of magic unraveled and overreached.

The bed beneath him was soft. Too soft. Far too large for any hobbit, and it smelled of cedarwood and sweet herbs. He shifted slightly and felt fine linens gathered around him—green and gold, embroidered with delicate leaves and stars. His breath hitched.

He was not in the wild.

He was not beside Thorin’s cell.

He was not with the dwarves.

His heart gave a sudden, traitorous thump.

“I know you’re awake,” said a voice. Gentle. Feminine. And unmistakably Elven.

Bilbo winced.

So much for feigning sleep.

He cracked one eye open, then both, the ceiling swimming into focus, arched stone laced with ivy motifs, lit by the muted glow of lanterns fashioned from crystal and silver. The air smelled like a forest at dusk, like honey and moss and old magic.

And then memory struck him like a hammer.

The prince. The grasp of elven hands. The surge of panic. The blinding flare of magic, wild and untrained. The floor rising up to meet his face.

He sat up too quickly, a groan tearing from his lips as the world tilted sideways. Pain flared behind his eyes, his limbs trembling as if the magic inside him were coiling tight and furious beneath his skin.

“Careful,” said the voice again, and he turned his head to find her.

She sat on a wooden stool by the bed, a folded cloth in her hands. Her hair was the color of fallen chestnuts and her eyes were the color of aged honey. She looked at him as though he were some half-wild creature plucked from a snare.

“I am Nimriel,” she said softly. “A healer of the Woodland Realm. You were brought to me when you collapsed. You are... difficult to mend.”

Bilbo did not speak. His hand had tightened on the edge of the blanket, white-knuckled.

“Your magic burns strange,” she went on, dipping the cloth into a bowl of water. “Like fire wrapped in green mist. It resists us. It resists you.”

He shut his eyes and tried not to listen. Tried to reach inward instead. Perhaps he could vanish, even now. Perhaps there was a shadowed crevice in the stone, a place below the kitchens, a gap in the cellars—

But the moment he reached for it, his magic screamed.

A burst of heat. A flash of pain. Blood trickled from his nose.

“Foolish creature,” Nimriel murmured, already at his side. “You are not well enough for that.”

Her hands were cool, quick, tending to him with a kindness that made him feel more vulnerable than pain ever had. He thought suddenly of Óin, with his gruff voice and rough hands and the way he had pretended not to fuss while fussing terribly.

Bilbo blinked rapidly. He did not want to feel this tender in front of an elf.

“You should still be asleep,” she said at last, stepping back. “But I will inform the King that you are awake.”

And just like that, she was gone. No sound to her footfalls, no trace of her presence but the fading scent of lavender.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe less. Maybe more. Bilbo wasn’t sure. Time had bent since they’d entered the forest.

Then the door opened again.

This time, the air changed.

The warmth fled. The silence grew sharp.

And in stepped Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm.

He did not enter with the light-footed grace of his kind. No, the Elvenking did not walk—he prowled. His every step carried the weight of centuries, a hush of menace and majesty cloaked in brocade and moonlight. Silver-gold hair fell like molten starlight across his shoulders, a living river of winter twilight, crowned by a circlet of twisted holly and red-berried thorns—half glory, half warning.

Bilbo sat up straighter where he lay beneath the silken covers, still dazed from pain and light-headed from the magic he had not quite meant to use. He wiped his nose hastily on the sleeve of the tunic someone had dressed him in—far too long in the arms, clearly not meant for hobbit-kind. He must have looked a proper mess, half-buried in blankets, face pale and smudged, curls unruly.

The Elvenking’s mouth twitched, though whether from disdain or distant amusement, Bilbo could not say.

“So,” Thranduil said, voice smooth and cold as snowmelt flowing over polished stone, “the hobbit wakes.”

Bilbo blinked once, tilted his head, and summoned the last dregs of his spirit. “No, actually,” he said, “I’m still asleep. This is how hobbits sleep, you see—sitting upright, eyes open, bleeding slightly from the nose.”

A long pause.

The king’s eyes, pale and glinting as frost on glass, narrowed ever so slightly.

Bilbo’s shoulders sagged. The sarcasm had cost more than he thought. His breath came shallow and sore, and his skin prickled with the aftershock of the failed magic. But even now, especially now, he would not cower.

“Let me go,” he said, quieter, but firm. “Please.”

Thranduil said nothing at first. He stepped forward, robes whispering against the stone floor, a susurrus of silk and menace. He moved like the memory of something sharp and old, like winter itself had taken form and donned the shape of a man.

“You are a curious creature,” he said at last. “Small and soft-spoken. A being of lore and little consequence. Yet you slipped through my halls like wind through trees. Past guards who’ve walked these paths for decades. Past spells and sight.” He paused, eyes glittering. “And then you tried to vanish. Before my son’s very eyes.”

Bilbo frowned faintly. “I didn’t mean harm. I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. I just—”

“To what?” Thranduil’s voice turned edged. “Spy? Steal? Smuggle my prisoners?”

“No,” Bilbo said, and it sounded weak to his own ears. “No, nothing like that. I was only trying to help. My friends—”

“Your friends,” Thranduil interrupted coolly. “Dwarves.”

He circled now, slow and measured, his gaze trailing over Bilbo like a blade’s edge. “You defend them. You travel with them. You risk yourself for them.”

Bilbo met his gaze squarely. “Yes. I do.”

The Elvenking arched a brow. “Why?”

“Because they’re my friends,” Bilbo repeated, voice steady.

Something sharp flickered in Thranduil’s expression. A shadow. An old wound. “Thorin Oakenshield is a half-mad heir to a broken line,” he said, low and cutting. “There is gold-sickness in his blood. He would see this forest burned to cinders if it meant reclaiming a mountain hoard. And you—you are a creature of peace. Of good earth and simple joys. You are not made for war, nor should you be dragged into one.”

Bilbo’s hands clenched in the sheets, his knuckles gone white. He said nothing of gold or war or madness.

Instead, he said: “You don’t know Thorin.”

A breath passed. Just long enough for regret to enter the air between them—but neither spoke of it.

Thranduil’s eyes hardened like ice left too long in shadow. “I know his kind. Glory-hungry. Stone-hearted. They drown in gold and call it heritage.”

“Then you are blind,” Bilbo snapped, more forcefully than he intended. “He trusted me. And I trust him. That should be enough.”

A silence, sharp and bitter, filled the room like cold wind between stones.

Thranduil’s expression did not change, but something ancient stirred in his gaze. Slowly, he turned from Bilbo and walked to the far side of the chamber. When he spoke again, it was softer, almost gentle.

“You are wasted among them.”

Bilbo blinked. “What?”

“You are clever,” Thranduil continued, back still turned. “Cunning. You have power in you—an old kind, tied to things even we do not fully understand.”

Bilbo flinched.

“You would be protected here,” the king said. “Kept safe. Honored. Your magic studied, not exploited. You would not be caged, not like them.”

Bilbo stared at him, heart slowly sinking. And he saw it then—beneath the polished calm, the offered grace—what Thranduil truly saw in him.

Not a guest.

Not even a threat.

A relic. A trinket. A power to be held, if not wielded. Something he wanted to keep.

“No,” Bilbo said quietly.

Thranduil turned.

“I need to leave,” Bilbo went on, firmer now. “They need me. My friends—Thorin—”

“They will die,” Thranduil said, eyes narrowing. “Their own folly will see to that.”

“They’re counting on me,” Bilbo said. “And I won’t betray them.”

For a heartbeat, they stood across the room like opposing stars. One golden, ancient, cold. One small, warm, stubborn.

And then the Elvenking’s tone changed. Softened but darkened.

“Why?” he asked. “Why risk yourself for them?”

Bilbo’s expression did not change. “None of your concern.”

Another pause. The air itself stilled.

“You will remain here,” Thranduil said at last, voice like frost cracking stone. “Meals will be brought to you. Guards will be posted. You will not leave these rooms again without my consent.”

Bilbo sat up straighter, mouth opening in protest.

“If you try,” Thranduil said, and his voice dropped, low and cold and lethal, “it will not be you who suffers. The ranger. The dwarf-king. The youngest of your companions. They will bear the weight of your disobedience.”

Bilbo froze. His breath caught in his chest.

“You wouldn’t,” he whispered.

Thranduil’s gaze was flat, his face unreadable. “Rest, little one.”

And then he was gone.

The door shut behind him with a sound like judgment.

Bilbo did not move for a long time.

His heart pounded, magic simmering just beneath his skin—weak, unruly, unspent. He felt the ache of it like a pulled muscle, like a wound.

He had failed. For now.

But it was only a matter of time. This was not the end. No plan had ever relied on a single thread.

Bilbo let himself lie back against the pillows, trembling faintly. And slowly, he began to think again. Not of despair, but of options. Contingencies. Plan E. Plan F. Even Plan G.

He had not expected mercy. He had merely hoped for it. And now he knew the truth of Thranduil’s court: beautiful, but sharp. Lovely, but laced with poison.

He would not make that mistake again.

His eyes drifted toward the ceiling, tracing the silver-carved leaves along the beams. And in his mind, he saw Thorin—alone in the dark, hands clenched around old wounds, waiting.

“Wait for me,” Bilbo whispered. “I’m coming back.”

“I still can’t believe there’s a hobbit in our halls.”

Legolas’ voice rang light and musical through the curving corridor, echoing faintly against the stone walls veined with living root and laced with leaf-carved sconces. He walked beside Tauriel, hands behind his back save for one, in which he held a delicate blossom plucked from the starlit gardens—silver-veined petals curled like morning frost, its fragrance subtle as moonlight. He twirled it absently between his long fingers, the way he had once spun arrows as a child.

“I spent an hour in the west wing library,” he continued, his voice still touched by wonder. “Searching for any mention of hobbits. Their customs, their food, their songs. But it’s all maddeningly vague. They’re barely a whisper in the records. Ghosts of tales.”

“That’s because they don’t want to be found,” Tauriel muttered, arms crossed, her tone edged with mild exasperation. “They remain in the West, in their holes beneath hills. Quiet. Hidden. Content to go unseen. And it is precisely that which makes this one suspicious.”

Legolas tilted his head toward her, a familiar mix of amusement and curiosity warming his expression. “You say that as though he intended to be caught.”

“I say that because I trust neither luck nor convenience,” Tauriel said, eyes forward. Her stride was quiet but clipped, a rhythmic hush against the moss-woven stone beneath their feet. She had known Legolas longer than most—watched him bloom from bright-eyed prince to the quiet shadow he wore in recent years. But some embers in him had never gone cold. She remembered him, as an elfling, sneaking into council chambers to listen to wandering loremasters speak of halflings—tales of tiny folk who lived in round-doored burrows and grew pipeweed with names like “Old Toby.”

He had been utterly besotted with the idea.

“Don’t get too enchanted, mellon nîn,” she added, her voice softer now, more caution than scorn. “He travels with dwarves. He is their burglar, by all accounts. And the only reason they’ve made it this far. You captured him. Do you truly think he’ll be pleased to see you again?”

Legolas made a face—just a flicker of a frown and a boyish pout, like a shadow of his younger self.

“I might apologize,” he said, then lifted the flower, examining it thoughtfully. “But I’m not sorry I found him. He was in our halls. Alone. Hidden. That’s… remarkable.”

Tauriel sighed, shifting her weight. “You are too easily bewitched by the strange.”

“Perhaps,” Legolas replied, not without pride. “But he is like nothing I have ever seen. Small. Clever. Mysterious. And magical. I only wish to understand him.”

“You mean you want to befriend him.”

Legolas cast her a sidelong glance, one corner of his mouth lifting. “And is that so terrible?”

Before she could reply, a soft step around the corridor’s bend halted them. Nimriel, the Woodland Realm’s chief healer, came into view bearing a shallow basin of steaming water, her expression serene and mildly amused.

“Lady Nimriel,” Legolas greeted warmly, bowing his head. “How fares our guest?”

The healer shifted the basin to her hip, a wisp of hair falling from behind one pointed ear. “Not well,” she said mildly, her voice lilting and low. “He tried to vanish again. Called upon his magic while still too weak. It recoiled. A nosebleed and headache. He’s resting now. Or pretending to.”

Tauriel raised a brow. “Pretending?”

“He is stubborn,” Nimriel said, a fondness in her tone that surprised them both. “Like a child who insists they are well simply to be rid of a physician’s gaze. He would not rest. The King visited him not long ago. Whatever he said, it seems to have left the hobbit more… prideful than peckish.”

They thanked her and moved on, the scent of herbs and warmed cloth lingering in her wake.

Tauriel sighed. “This is still a terrible idea.”

“I’m not here to interrogate him,” Legolas said calmly, holding the flower with reverence. “I only want to see him. Properly.”

When they reached the chamber, two guards stood like statues on either side of the carved oak door. At Tauriel’s terse nod, one turned the handle and opened it with a smooth, respectful motion.

The room within was dim but warm, lit by the soft light of floating lanterns that drifted like fireflies, suspended by enchantment above carved boughs and vine-wrought walls. Woven rugs covered the floor in hues of twilight and moss. On a bed far too large for him, nestled amid pillows embroidered with constellations, sat Bilbo Baggins.

He looked up as they entered.

The hobbit wore a loose tunic dyed the pale green of linden leaves, clearly made for an elfling—the sleeves trailing past his small wrists. A sash of golden silk was tied haphazardly around his waist, and his curls—honey-blond, damp and fluffed from a recent wash—clung softly to his brow. His cheeks were still flushed from fever or embarrassment or both, and a linen napkin had been tucked with domestic precision into his collar.

He looked, in a word, adorable.

And not at all furious, which caught both Elves entirely off guard.

“Oh!” Bilbo exclaimed, as though greeting old acquaintances. “You must be the one who caught me.” His eyes twinkled as he looked at Legolas, smile bright and guileless. “Please, do come in. There’s room enough.”

Tauriel shot Legolas a sharp look, but he had already stepped forward, enchanted.

“You are… surprisingly welcoming,” Legolas said carefully.

“Well,” Bilbo replied, brushing crumbs from his lap, “it’s not as though you were unkind. I owe my capture to my own carelessness.” He popped a grape into his mouth with practiced grace. “And you did spare me a worse fall.”

Legolas blinked. “I did?”

Bilbo nodded. “Yes. You caught me right before I vanished. Which would’ve been dreadfully inconvenient, as I hadn’t the faintest clue where I might’ve ended up. Could’ve been the dungeons. Or the middle of a tree trunk.”

“That… would have been unfortunate,” Legolas murmured, looking slightly pleased with himself.

Tauriel narrowed her eyes. “You’re not angry?”

“Oh, quite the opposite,” Bilbo said, sweet as summer wine. “I’m grateful. You’ve all been terribly kind. And these sheets—do you know, I’ve never slept on silk before.”

The elves exchanged a glance.

“I brought you this,” Legolas said suddenly, stepping forward and holding out the blossom.

Bilbo took it with gentle fingers, sniffed, and smiled. “How lovely. Thank you, Master Elf.”

“I’m Legolas.”

“Bilbo,” the hobbit replied, placing the flower carefully beside his tray. “Baggins of the Shire. Well met.”

“And I am Tauriel,” she added, her voice clipped.

“A pleasure,” Bilbo said, bowing his head courteously. 

A pause. Bilbo took the opportunity to finish the last bite of his soft cheese, wiped his fingers, and set the tray aside. Then he tucked his legs beneath him and leaned slightly forward, eyes wide and curious.

“I must say, I’ve always wanted to meet Elves,” he said. “I’ve heard stories, of course. But never imagined it would be under such circumstances.”

“Nor we you,” Legolas answered, gaze soft.

“I do hope we can be friends,” Bilbo added, voice calm but sharp beneath the honey. “After all… I suspect we’ll be seeing a great deal of each other in the days to come.”

Tauriel bristled. Legolas beamed.

Then Bilbo glanced out the arched window. “Is it the Feast of Starlight yet?”

Legolas opened his mouth, but Tauriel beat him to it. “It will be in the next three days.”

Bilbo nodded, as if filing that away. He picked up a grape and, with sudden whimsy, held it out to Legolas. “Here. You might as well enjoy something for your trouble.”

Legolas accepted it with a soft laugh, fingers brushing Bilbo’s briefly. Tauriel stared, scandalized.

“Forgive me,” she said abruptly. “I have duties to attend to.”

She turned on her heel and exited without awaiting a reply.

Bilbo tilted his head. “Is she always that serious?”

“Yes,” Legolas replied, popping the grape into his mouth. “She’s a bit of a—well, what’s your word? Dedicated to her duties?”

Bilbo chuckled. “Charming.”

Legolas sat cross-legged on the rug beside the bed, uninvited but somehow welcome.

“Would you tell me about the Shire?” he asked softly.

Bilbo’s eyes twinkled. “If you tell me about the stars.”

   The dungeons of the Woodland Realm were strangely quiet, save for the soft clink of metal and the occasional whisper between cells. Elven guards stood tall and still, stationed like statues outside each locked door. Most of the Company had learned, swiftly and with some bruising of pride, that speaking too freely could earn sharp Elvish glances and even sharper words. But silence tonight did not come from fear.

It came from Dúrwen.

She had been banging the bars of her cell since yesterday evening, after they learned the Elves had found Bilbo.

At first, it had been subtle. A quiet rattle of boots against steel. Then louder, with rhythmic kicks and fists. Now, it was relentless. Like a war drum echoing through stone.

“Thorn,” Kíli hissed from two cells down, using the nickname they had given her long ago. “You know the cells are magic-sealed, right?”

“I know,” Dúrwen growled back, breathless, her forehead slick with sweat, strands of dark hair sticking to her cheeks. She didn’t pause. Her boot slammed the bars again, making the metal ring like a bell. “Don’t care.”

She was flushed and fierce, a vision of stubborn defiance. Her tunic clung to her skin, damp from the effort, and her eyes gleamed wild and red-rimmed.

“You’re just wasting your strength,” Óin muttered, rubbing a sore shoulder where he had tried earlier to shake his own door open. “Bilbo wouldn’t be happy if he saw you now.”

At the sound of his name, Dúrwen slammed her foot again, harder.

“I don’t care anymore,” she shouted. “These blasted Elves, they’re all mad. I’ll dance with joy the moment their precious pointy ears bleed from the noise I make. I hope they’re hearing it. And if they’re not—they’re deaf to justice, anyway.”

The dwarves winced as another loud clang echoed through the corridor. Even the Elven guards shifted uncomfortably, one flinching ever so slightly.

And then, a new voice cut through the air.

“What is happening here?”

The guards stood straighter, their expressions flicking to one of reverence as Tauriel entered, her presence sharp and commanding. She stepped lightly between the cells, eyes scanning until they landed on the cause of the disruption.

Dúrwen.

She did not stop. Not until Tauriel halted directly before her cell. Only then did the ranger lower her leg, panting, and lean forward against the bars like a caged beast.

“Why are you doing this?” Tauriel asked, voice level but cold.

“Why am I even doing this?” Dúrwen echoed with mock confusion, and without waiting, she kicked the bars again.

Tauriel narrowed her eyes. She turned to the guards. “Leave us. For now.”

They hesitated. One opened his mouth to protest, but the look Tauriel shot him silenced the words. Reluctantly, they filed out, boots silent on the stone.

Now alone, the tension changed. It became raw.

“I will ask you once more,” Tauriel said. “Why are you doing this?”

Dúrwen stopped, standing tall. “Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know.” Her voice was low, bitter. “You think this is just some tantrum? You think I’m doing this out of boredom?”

Her sharp tone made several dwarves flinch. Tauriel stiffened but did not look away.

“I understand your frustration,” Tauriel said, “but what will banging the bars achieve? It is foolish.”

Dúrwen laughed, short and humorless. “Foolish. And you’re what? The graceful, obedient captain? You follow orders so well it must be a comfort.”

She turned from the bars and began to pace the narrow cell, her steps uneven, her boots striking stone in restless movements, like fury was burning through her limbs and had nowhere else to go. Her hands were clenched at her sides, and each exhale came through her teeth.

“I’m not just frustrated,” she spat, without looking up. “I’m furious. At you. At this realm. At myself. Especially myself.”

Tauriel did not respond immediately. Her silence stretched like the space between stars—immense, unmoving. Even the dwarves, who had begun this day with grumbling and snide remarks, now held their peace, as if afraid to disturb something sacred—or dangerous.

“What do you expect me to do?” Tauriel asked at last, her voice softer than before. It lacked the crisp command she usually wore like armor. “Betray my king?”

Dúrwen stopped pacing. Her back was turned. Shoulders taut.

“I expect nothing from you, Tauriel.” Dúrwen said.

The words struck deeper than any accusation.

Tauriel flinched as though slapped.

It was the first time the ranger had spoken her name. Not captain. Not she-elf. Tauriel.

“You’re like me,” Dúrwen said, and now her voice was lower, less bitter, as if the anger had burned itself down to coals. “But on opposite sides. We’re both loyal. But our loyalties... they define us. Blind us.”

The dwarves were silent now, no longer even shifting on their benches. They listened with unguarded faces, as though witnessing something not meant for them.

“I swore an oath to protect the Shire,” Dúrwen murmured, stepping toward the stone bench along her wall and sinking down with a grunt. “To protect the hobbits. And Bilbo Baggins has nearly died more times than I can count, and I wasn’t there. Not when it mattered.”

Tauriel moved to the floor beside the cell, folding her legs beneath her. She sat so close that her shoulder nearly brushed the iron bars.

“Why?” she asked gently.

Dúrwen exhaled sharply, like something caving in.

“Because it was the only thing left.”

The cellblock was still. Even the torches seemed to burn more quietly.

“My father died years ago,” Dúrwen said. “And before that—well. When my mother gave birth to twins, it was my brother Faerion who was cherished. I was just... there.”

“We were inseparable. Always hand in hand. But when the plague came to our village, Faerion didn’t make it. He was six. And my father... he shattered.”

Tauriel looked down at her hands. Her fingers curled in her lap as if seeking something to hold onto.

“He refused to believe Faerion was gone,” Dúrwen continued. “He told the villagers that I was Faerion. That his son had lived and changed, and that it was the same soul. I was forced into his place—trained, tested, stripped of everything that had made me who I was.”

She rubbed her thumb against the inside of her wrist, as if scrubbing away something invisible.

“That’s cruel,” Tauriel whispered.

Dúrwen smiled, but it was bitter as ash and dry leaves.

“Cruel, yes. But it gave me purpose. I became what my father needed. And after he died, I had nothing left. Until I wandered near the Shire one winter. Wolves had come down from the North. I helped defend a border farm. The hobbits... they looked at me not with fear, but with gratitude. That’s when I found a reason again. That’s when I vowed to protect them. Him.”

“Bilbo,” Tauriel said.

Dúrwen nodded. “He’s braver than anyone I’ve known. Foolishly brave. And I wasn’t there when it mattered. When the spiders came. In Goblin-Town. When the forest nearly swallowed him whole.”

“You think you failed him.”

“I know I did.”

A silence swelled between them, filled with the creak of chains and the distant rustle of wind through stone.

“So you live because you have a role to play?” Tauriel asked.

“Don’t we all?” Dúrwen replied, gaze fixed on the far wall. “Isn’t that why we keep moving? Because there’s something unfinished?”

Tauriel leaned forward slightly. “Do you like who you are now?”

Dúrwen was quiet a moment.

“I’m content,” she said at last.

Tauriel looked at her for a long time, face unreadable. Then she said, almost wistfully, “Sometimes I wonder if it’s better to live without purpose. To live without care.”

Dúrwen snorted. “That must be a luxury few of us can afford.”

Tauriel stood then, brushing dust from her knees. Her fingers lingered briefly on the iron bars, not grasping them, just... touching.

“When you’re free of this cell,” she said, voice low but clear, “and if we cross paths again—will you walk Middle-earth with me? Explore what lies beyond duty?”

Dúrwen raised a brow, half-amused. “Do I look like someone about to be freed?”

Tauriel only smirked.

Then, after a pause, she asked, “What message would you have me give your hobbit?”

It stunned Dúrwen. The dwarves leaned forward instinctively, breath held.

“You’re not doing this,” Dúrwen said, standing quickly, voice laced with disbelief.

But Tauriel only smiled. Small, but real.

“You gave me another purpose.”

The thing most people didn’t understand about Bilbo Baggins was this: he was never short of ideas.

Even as a fauntling in Hobbiton, with his waistcoats too neatly pressed and his curls too carefully brushed for any child with proper mischief in their bones to take him seriously, Bilbo was already thinking three steps ahead. Being the only child of Bungo and Belladonna Took meant many things—quiet parlour evenings, books instead of siblings, too much chamomile tea and not enough scraped knees—but above all else, it meant Bilbo learned young how to navigate the ruthless honesty of children.

And fauntlings in Hobbiton could be cruel. Especially toward a boy who preferred maps to marbles and imagined treasure to hunting beetles.

He never fought back the way they expected. He outthought them.

Plan A, Plan B, all the way through Plan Z and beyond. Bilbo Baggins never charged headfirst into battle when he could slip 'round the back door and steal the prize while no one was looking. He hated losing more than he feared being mocked—and that, more than anything, had shaped the sharp-eyed, nimble-minded hobbit who now resided in the heart of the Elvenking’s realm.

So no, Bilbo was not as intimidated as one might expect by being placed under what Thranduil had loftily referred to as “honorary guard.” If anything, he was mildly amused.

The guest suite they’d given him was absurdly lavish—vaulted ceilings carved with silver leaf patterns, silken drapes fluttering like banners in the breeze, and a bed so wide he could have slept across it width-wise and still not reached the edges. The walls smelled faintly of cedar and moon-rose, and there was always music in the halls, soft and haunting.

The food was exquisite, the juice dangerously smooth, and the elven servants so impeccably courteous that Bilbo had stopped suspecting them of spying on him after the second day. If they were spying, they were doing a terrible job of hiding it, and Bilbo had long learned to make himself look harmless. After all, who would suspect the short fellow in the embroidered waistcoat of plotting anything beyond his next meal?

Of course, he worried—how could he not? Thorin was still imprisoned, alone and simmering with that stormy silence that grew heavier by the day. The others too—Fíli and Kíli, Ori, Dúrwen, poor Bofur who always tried to cheer the rest. Bilbo tried not to think about how cold the cells might be. How silent. How long it had been since he’d seen Thorin’s eyes light with fire instead of guilt.

But Bilbo was biding his time. Watching. Listening. And waiting.

He had plans, of course. Several of them. And he hadn’t yet decided which one to commit to.

In the meantime, he found himself talking more than expected—particularly to Thranduil’s son.

Prince Legolas had taken to visiting him in the afternoons, under the pretense of checking in on their honored “guest.” In truth, Bilbo suspected the young elf was simply bored, and perhaps a bit fascinated. According to Legolas, he had once read about hobbits in old texts and never quite believed they were real. Meeting one in the flesh, it seemed, was a long-time curiosity fulfilled.

Bilbo found him odd, but not unpleasant. Far too pretty, far too solemn, and far too different from his father. But there was a charm to Legolas, in his careful questions and tilted head, as if the world were one great riddle and Bilbo the unexpected answer.

On the morning of the Feast of Starlight, Bilbo woke to the golden hush of sunlight slanting through the carved lattice of his window. The scent of honeyed bread and warm spiced apples drifted in on a breeze that smelled faintly of frost and pine.

When the door opened, he was already sitting up, hair tousled and face warm with sleep. He grinned at the elf who entered bearing a silver tray.

“Good morning! That smells divine.”

The elf, whose name he had learned was Erethor, offered a shallow bow and set the tray down with a practiced elegance. “Feast day blessings, Master Baggins.”

“Ah yes, the Feast of Starlight,” Bilbo mused, inspecting the tart. “Does that mean I’m allowed second breakfast without question?”

“If you are still hungry after your first, we will not stop you,” Erethor replied with a smile. “After all, it is said hobbits enjoy seven meals a day, is it not?”

Bilbo chuckled, taking a delicate bite of his apple tart. “Quite right. Tomorrow I may teach you the secret names of all seven—provided you swear not to tell Legolas. Or worse, your king.”

The elf’s eyes widened in exaggerated surprise. “Truly? You have not even told the prince?”

Bilbo pressed a finger to his lips, mock solemn. “Hobbit secrets are not easily shared. Consider yourself honored.”

Erethor beamed, clearly pleased. He bowed again and took his leave, bidding Bilbo a cheerful farewell.

Bilbo waited until the door closed behind him, then laughed softly to himself. Erethor, so polite, so cheerful, had no idea it was Bilbo who had tripped him last week in the hallway—while invisible, of course—after overhearing the elf sneering about Thorin’s meal.

That had been the day Bilbo made up his mind.

He was halfway through the tart when the air shifted.

The door opened again—not gently this time, but with quiet purpose.

Tauriel stepped inside.

Her presence changed the room at once. She moved like a blade drawn in silence—graceful, dangerous, restrained. She wore her captain’s uniform, crisp and dark green, her autumn-colored hair swept back with soldier’s discipline. Her face was set, unreadable—but her eyes held a gleam that hadn’t been there before.

Bilbo straightened on the cushions, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I hope I’m not disturbing your meal, our precious guest,” she said, voice dry and clipped.

Bilbo arched an eyebrow. “Not at all,” he replied, as warmly as one could while eyeing a potential adversary. “Care to join me? There’s enough tart for two.”

“I would not.” Her gaze flicked to the half-eaten plate. “I am here as a messenger.”

“A messenger?” Bilbo echoed, blinking.

Tauriel nodded once. “Your companions in the dungeons send word. From the ranger.”

His expression shifted. “Dúrwen?” he said, softly.

The name made Tauriel pause. Something subtle in her posture wavered—only for a heartbeat, but it was there.

“That is her true name, then,” she said, almost to herself.

Bilbo set his plate aside. “What did she say?”

“She asked me to tell you: they cannot help you. You must free yourself... so that you might free them.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, “Is this… a joke?”

Tauriel’s silence said more than any denial.

“Or a test?” he pressed, voice harder now. “Is Thranduil watching?”

“No.” Her answer was quiet. “It is truth.”

Bilbo leaned back, breath whistling past his teeth. “Well, that settles it then,” he murmured, straightening his waistcoat. “Tell them we’ll be free by tonight—or tomorrow at the latest. I would never give up on them.”

Tauriel tilted her head, lips curling faintly. “You’re rather confident for someone without a sword.”

Bilbo smiled—sharp, bright. “I have something better: a clever mind, and very nimble fingers.”

He stood, brushing crumbs from his lap. For a long moment, he simply looked at her.

“You’re really delivering messages now?” he asked, gentler. “Why?”

Tauriel looked away.

“Because someone reminded me that purpose is not only given by kings.”

His brow furrowed. “You know what you’re risking.”

“If Thranduil finds out,” she said quietly, “then I will leave this realm knowing I served justice—not silence.”

Bilbo studied her face. There was fire in her now, but not the kind he’d seen when they first met. This was something steadier. Something decided.

He looked down at the tray, then up again.

“Care to join me?”

Tauriel hesitated.

Then, slowly, she sat—not across from him, but beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

And for the first time, Bilbo Baggins shared a tart with someone who might one day betray her king for the sake of a hobbit’s impossible hope.

Bilbo Baggins had endured many strange and harrowing trials since leaving the comforts of Bag End—but nothing, nothing in all of Middle-earth, could have prepared him for the five elves currently fussing over him like a prized porcelain figurine.

“I am quite capable of dressing myself, thank you,” he muttered under his breath as one elf adjusted the fall of his sleeves while another draped an embroidered mantle across his shoulders.

“We are merely assisting,” said one of them, with the kind of gentle condescension that made Bilbo grit his teeth.

“Assisting? It feels more like tailoring a doll,” he snapped, swatting lightly at the elf who dared approach his feet with—of all things—shoes.

“Perhaps soft slippers would suit—”

“Absolutely not!” Bilbo declared, clutching his foot as if it were under threat of being sheared off. “Hobbits don’t wear shoes. That’s practically sacrilege where I’m from.”

The elf blinked, then bowed, murmuring an apology, though he looked slightly confused—as if barefoot nobility were some quaint and whimsical custom, rather than a matter of principle.

The fussing continued. A silver sash was cinched around his middle. Delicate braids were woven into his golden curls, small starlike pins tucked here and there to “capture the light,” someone whispered.

Bilbo caught sight of himself in the mirror and nearly choked.

He looked… elegant. Ethereal, even. He also looked entirely unlike himself.

He narrowed his eyes. “I look like a doll.”

“You look radiant,” another elf said brightly, pleased with their work. “Like a being from the old songs.”

“Well, songs are full of embellishment,” Bilbo muttered.

By the time the elves had finished, they finally departed with a chorus of soft farewells, leaving Bilbo standing alone, adorned like some tiny elven prince and blinking under the weight of starlight in his hair.

He hadn’t even had a moment to flop dramatically onto the bed before the door opened again—this time without the rustle of silks or jingling hair ornaments.

Legolas entered.

And Legolas, Bilbo decided, looked unfairly good.

Clad in silver and shadow, the prince of the Woodland Realm was every inch the heir of a king—regal, sharp, and frustratingly luminous. His pale hair was half-tied with threads of white gold, and a circlet of moonlight leaves rested upon his brow.

He smiled when he saw Bilbo, bright as midsummer sun.

Bilbo lifted a hand before the prince could speak. “If you’re about to say I look charming, please don’t. I feel like I’ve been dressed for a wedding I wasn’t invited to.”

Legolas laughed. “I was going to say ‘radiant,’ actually.”

“Wonderful,” Bilbo muttered, tugging at the embroidered collar. “They’ve turned me into a centerpiece.”

“Then come,” Legolas said, offering his arm with gallant grace. “Let us place you at the heart of the table.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes but accepted, his small hand settling against Legolas’s elbow, awkwardly. As they stepped into the hall, Bilbo was hit with two things at once.

The first: how very long it had been since he’d stepped outside in this room.

The second: the guards. A full contingent of armored elves stood stationed outside his room. Their presence was subtle, ceremonial—but unmistakable.

“Well,” Bilbo murmured. “I am a very precious guest, aren’t I?”

Legolas smiled without answering.

As they walked, the prince spoke of the Feast of Starlight—the way the Silvan elves honored the stars as their first memory, how songs were sung to Elbereth and food shared under the lanterned trees. His voice was soft with reverence, but it was his enthusiasm that struck Bilbo most.

“And now,” Legolas said with a little grin, “we celebrate with a hobbit of legend among us. Do you know, some here still think you’re a spirit?”

“I’d say I’m more spirit than hobbit tonight,” Bilbo replied, glancing down at the pale cloth flowing from his shoulders. “All this finery is weighing down my practicality.”

They entered the great hall—if it could be called that. It was a glade carved into the very heart of the mountain, where tree-shaped columns rose like living trunks and crystal lanterns hung like starlight caught mid-fall. Music lilted in the air, soft and eerie, and elven laughter shimmered like distant bells.

Then he saw him.

Thranduil.

The Elvenking stood like an embodiment of moonlight, clad in robes of frost-silver and dark pine. His crown of holly leaves and berries rested lightly on his brow, and he looked as if he’d stepped straight out of legend.

He turned when they approached, his gaze falling first upon Legolas—warm, if reserved—then to Bilbo, sharp and gleaming.

“My, my,” Thranduil said, his lips curving like a blade. “You look like a fallen star.”

Bilbo smiled sweetly, baring no teeth but all intention. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I do hope I burn brighter still… so I might blind you.”

There was a pause. A long, tense pause.

Then—strangely—Thranduil laughed, quiet and dark. “I see the stars are not lacking in spirit.”

Legolas, oblivious to the exchange, gestured to the long table where the highest-ranking elves sat. “Come, Bilbo. Sit with us.”

Bilbo blinked. “Us?”

“Yes,” Legolas said cheerfully, “between my father and I. A place of honor.”

Bilbo looked like he might faint.

Nonetheless, he took the offered seat, trying not to choke on his own dignity as he settled between a crown-wearing deity and his overly sunny son.

The table was a riot of delicacies—spiced fruits, honey-glazed roots, wild mushrooms, berries preserved in star-wine. And wine, of course. So much wine.

A server approached, offering him a goblet of something pale and sparkling.

“Oh, no thank you,” Bilbo said quickly. “Juice, if you’ve got it. Mulberry, perhaps.”

Legolas tilted his head. “Do hobbits not drink wine?”

Bilbo smiled. “I’m afraid I might be allergic.”

Thranduil raised a pale brow, but said nothing. His silence said everything.

The feast wore on. Music rose like mist, and the great trees hummed with ancient songs. Elves danced beneath floating lanterns, their steps as light as leaves in wind. But Bilbo was watching.

Watching the barrels.

Watching the wine.

Watching Legolas, who looked just a little too pleased with himself. And then a little too sleepy.

Bilbo tapped his fingers against the table, his eyes flickering toward the movement of servants, the movement of the refills, the slow creep of wine across the table like a silent tide.

He smiled innocently at Legolas, who blinked slowly and returned the smile—just a bit off-kilter.

Good, Bilbo thought.

And then he reached for a spiced apple tart and said a silent prayer.

Yavanna, if you have even the faintest fondness for hobbits... please let this plan work.

He had barrels to watch. A company to free. A dragon to face.

But first, he had a feast to survive.

“I feel so nervous I think I’ll vomit.”

Kíli’s voice cracked through the cold stillness of the underground prison. He sat cross-legged in his cell, picking at the hem of his tunic as though he might pluck out his nerves by thread. His eyes darted between the bars, too wide, too bright—like a hound caged too long and scenting thunder on the air.

Fíli, pacing nearby, let out a long, tired sigh and gave the bars a dull clang with his palm. “Go on then, Kee. Let it all out. We’ve eaten worse.”

“Speak for yourself,” Glóin grunted from across the corridor. He sat against the wall, arms crossed and beard still knotted from uneasy sleep. “Better to cough up elf slop than let it settle in your guts and turn you into one of them.”

A few dry chuckles skittered along the walls, but they rang hollow, brittle as snapped arrows. The tension coiled like wire through the air. The dread wasn’t sharp—it was smothering, slow, the kind that wrapped its hands around the throat and squeezed by inches.

Only Dúrwen stood unmoving, silent as stone at the edge of her cell.

She was not watching the hallway, nor the torches, nor the shadows. Her onyx eyes, often storm-quiet, were lit from within now—glowing with something deeper, something dangerous. Her fingers clutched the iron bars until her knuckles blanched pale. The weight of her stillness was louder than any word spoken.

Bofur, sitting across the hall with Nori’s sleeping head in his lap, risked a gentle murmur. “Thorn,” he said, using her name with a warmth the others rarely dared. “We’ll be alright. Bilbo hasn’t failed us yet.”

No answer. But her fingers loosened their grip—just slightly.

Above them, far from stone and shadow, the Woodland Realm shimmered with light.

It was the Feast of Starlight—Mereth Nuin Giliath—and the Elves, for all their aloof elegance, knew how to throw a celebration. The great halls had been transformed into a living dream: silver lanterns floated like stars caught in boughs, and garlands of white blossoms trailed like snow from carved beams. Harps and flutes sang together like wind in birches. Tables gleamed beneath crystal bowls of honeyed fruits, glazed roots, breads still warm from fire, and wine so rich it glowed.

Bilbo Baggins sat at the high table, nestled uncomfortably between Thranduil and Legolas. He wore silver-threaded robes he had not chosen, with star-shaped beads braided into his curls by well-meaning elven attendants. Every inch of him itched with formality.

He looked the part—serene, princely even. But inside, he was a churning storm of nerves and calculation.

Legolas beside him seemed flushed and languid, his expression soft-edged and vacant. He blinked slowly, lips parted in a dreamy smile that betrayed nothing but the haze of wine and whatever Southfarthing herb Bilbo had slipped into the barrel days before.

Thranduil, in contrast, sat straight-backed but eerily still, as if warring with the fog creeping into his mind. His hand tapped the goblet’s stem with faint precision—tick, tick, tick—though his gaze had lost its sharpness.

Bilbo took a sip from his own goblet, which held only juice. He dared not dull his mind tonight.

The herbs had worked. The timing was perfect.

He leaned slightly toward Legolas. “If you don’t mind, my prince,” he said in a voice soft as silk, “I should like to relieve myself.”

It was Thranduil who responded, cool and precise despite the slow blur in his gaze. “You cannot go alone. You have vanished once before.”

Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek. “Your concern is touching,” he said, bowing his head with just enough sarcasm to hide the twist in his gut.

“I will accompany him,” said a voice behind.

Tauriel stepped forward, her expression calm, her bearing radiant as moonlight in steel. Her autumn hair gleamed under torchlight. Her face was unreadable.

Thranduil paused. Then nodded.

Legolas blinked, voice slurring slightly. “Do not fall in,” he murmured.

Bilbo gave him a sweet, brittle smile and rose.

Together, he and Tauriel walked in silence through the bright halls, their footsteps barely echoing over polished stone. The revelry behind them faded slowly, as if it could not follow into the growing hush. The air thinned and cooled, music trailing away like starlight through mist—distant flutes turned to memory, laughter swallowed by shadow.

The corridors narrowed. Lanterns hung sparse and pale, their glow thin as moonlight beneath water. It was here, in this hush between heartbeats, that she stopped.

Tauriel turned to him, her face half-lit, half-lost in the shadow. Her eyes, green and clear as new spring leaves, studied him—not like a captain weighs a prisoner, but as a woman weighing a moment too great for words.

Then, from her belt, she drew forth a ring of keys. They glinted faintly in the dim light—old iron, smooth from years of use, their edges worn from the hands of jailers.

“These are for the dungeon,” she said, and her voice, though quiet, rang like a blade just drawn. “The main locks. Thorn’s. Thorin’s. All of them.”

Bilbo’s breath caught. A strange and small tremor passed through him, something between awe and dread. He reached for the keys with careful fingers, as if they were made of bone and truth. When they touched his palm, he was surprised by their weight—solid, cold, real. Too real.

“You’re risking a great deal,” he whispered, and his voice cracked under the weight of what he did not say: your rank, your freedom, your place in this world.

“So are you,” she answered simply. “And you are not one of us, you’re not one of them.”

There was no accusation in her tone. Only fact. And in it, something like admiration.

Bilbo looked at her, really looked, and saw not just the warrior with bow and blade, but the woman beneath—wary, weary, but still alight with hope. That hope now rested in him.

“Are you certain your... magic will obey?” she asked, her brow furrowed slightly. Her gaze flicked toward his hand, where the keys gleamed like stars held captive.

“It isn’t magic the way your people mean it,” Bilbo replied. He clenched his fingers briefly around the iron, grounding himself. “But yes. I can feel it now. Like… like breathing through stone. As though the air itself remembers how to carry me.”

She nodded slowly, accepting his words though she likely did not understand them. Then, after a beat, she spoke again—softer now, and not like a captain at all.

“If you see Dúrwen…” Her voice faltered, then steadied. “Ask her for me. Ask if she truly meant to walk beside me. Beyond this forest.”

Bilbo blinked, startled. His heart, already pounding, lurched for a different reason now.

“Tauriel…” he said, gently. “She wouldn’t have said it if she didn’t mean it.”

“Not all words are meant to last,” she murmured. “Especially not in moment like this.”

“I will ask,” Bilbo promised. “I’ll tell her.”

Tauriel hesitated, her eyes searching his as though trying to read a future written in a language she no longer believed. Something passed across her face then—not softness, not quite. Something rawer. Something real.

“I’m proud of you,” Bilbo said suddenly, surprising even himself. “For choosing something more than duty.”

The ghost of a smile touched her mouth, and for a fleeting moment, the fierce warrior faded, and he glimpsed the girl who might once have wandered forests barefoot, dreaming of stars.

“And I you, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,” she said, and her voice was low, and kind, and dangerous in the way hope is dangerous—because it dares to believe.

He pressed a hand over his heart and bowed his head. “Wish me luck.”

“I already did,” she replied, not as a benediction, but as a truth long since spoken.

He smiled—and then, he vanished.

There was no flash, no crackle of power. No echo of spellwork or call of incantation. Only a soft exhale, like smoke slipping between cracks. One blink and he folded into mist, a ripple of gold curling over stone. His form blurred, shimmered—became memory.

And then he was gone.

Tauriel stood alone in the dark, listening to the hush he left behind.

And for the first time in many years, she prayed.

   In the dungeon, time unraveled like fraying rope—each second drawing taut, each breath a thread straining at the edge of endurance.

Kíli groaned and flopped dramatically against the iron bars, arms hanging out into the corridor. “This waiting’s going to kill me. I swear it. We’ll be skeletons in armor by morning, and they'll hang wreaths on our ribs for next year’s feast.”

“Melodrama doesn’t suit you,” Fíli muttered, pacing back and forth in the narrow confines of his cell. His boots scuffed the stone with every turn, carving a shallow path. “And if you ruin that braid, I’m cutting it off myself.”

Kíli turned with an exaggerated gasp. “You wouldn’t.”

“You twitch when you’re anxious. It’s already coming loose.”

“Cruel brother,” Kíli muttered, retying the end with a huff. “I let you braid it just an hour ago.”

“Be grateful I didn’t make it a bow.”

Further down the corridor, Dori pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ori, remind me again—why exactly did we entrust our lives to a creature who thinks handkerchiefs are vital travel equipment?”

“Because he’s clever,” Ori replied immediately. He was seated on the ground, knees tucked up to his chest, chin resting on folded arms. “And brave. And smarter than all of us put together, honestly.”

Nori snorted from another cell. “Speak for yourself.”

Bofur, still sitting with Nori’s head in his lap, murmured, “He’s not wrong though. I’d take a clever hobbit over ten Elven guards any day.”

Then—

A ripple.

A breeze, sudden and sharp, swept through the dungeon corridor. It was not the natural breath of tunnels, nor the waft of some passing draft. It struck the skin like static, like something old and wild stirring in the stone.

The torches flared, sputtered, dimmed.

Kíli yelped and sprang to his feet. “What was that?!”

Even Nori stirred, blinking as he lifted his head from Bofur’s lap. “Did something just—?”

There was a shimmer, like heat-haze on summer stone.

And then—Bilbo appeared.

Not walking, not emerging from shadow—but appeared, solidifying from golden mist like a secret made flesh. The keys in his hand rattled softly, and his chest rose and fell with effort. His curls were woven with star-beads that caught the torchlight, and his cheeks were flushed, as though he’d run through dreams to reach them.

“Bilbo?!” Bofur gasped, voice pitching high. “By Durin’s bloody beard—”

“Shhh!” Bilbo hissed, holding up a finger. His eyes were wide, his voice a rasp. “Keep it down! Do you want the entire guard?”

There was a stunned silence. Even Dwalin stopped mid-snort.

From the far cell, Dúrwen stepped forward slowly, her figure slipping from the shadows like a storm preparing to break.

She grasped the bars, eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in disbelief. “Did you just… appear out of nowhere?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, not bothering to hide his weariness. “I’ll explain later. Possibly with diagrams.”

Óin grunted. “You’ll need more than diagrams, lad. You’ll need a full tapestry.”

Bilbo was already fumbling at the lock of Dúrwen’s cell. The keys jingled in his shaking hands, iron against iron. The mechanism groaned, then gave, and the door swung open with a low creak.

She stared at him, unmoving.

He met her gaze evenly. “It was Tauriel,” he said. “She gave me these keys.”

Dúrwen’s brow furrowed. “She did?”

“Yes. She asked me to ask you—” he drew a breath, “—if you still mean to walk beside her. Beyond this forest. She wanted to know if you meant it.”

Silence. Even the torches seemed to hold their breath.

Dúrwen looked away for a beat, her jaw tight. When she turned back, her voice was low. “I thought she had forgotten.”

“She hasn’t,” Bilbo said. “And maybe she told me that for you to not let you forget.”

Dúrwen exhaled, then nodded once. Her voice was steadier when she said, “Come. We’ll free the others.”

They moved quickly—Bilbo, his hands still shaking, unlocking cell after cell, and Dúrwen beside him, silent and watchful, as though shielding him with her presence. The dwarves poured into the corridor like a tide finally turned: blinking, muttering, some stretching cramped limbs, others just staring in disbelief.

Bofur gave a low whistle. “Mahal’s bones… Bilbo, you look like you’re about to be wed to an elf.”

“I—what? I didn’t ask for this!” Bilbo sputtered, dragging a hand through his hair. “They ambushed me with a brush and shoes!”

“Someone braided his hair,” Ori gasped, pointing. “With beads. Beads, Kíli!”

Kíli, scandalized, whispered, “He’s prettier than I am.”

“You always knew it’d come to this,” Fíli muttered.

“You’ll tell me which elf touched your head,” Dwalin growled, cracking his knuckles. “And I’ll bald them.”

“Would you all stop!” Bilbo hissed. “You’re going to wake the entire forest!”

“Hard not to gawk when the burglar becomes a fairytale,” said Nori, eyes glinting. “Are you going to grow wings next?”

Dúrwen’s voice cut through the din like a drawn blade. “Enough. We’re not free yet.”

The dwarves quieted, most looking sheepish. Bofur clapped Bilbo lightly on the back. “You’re something else, Bilbo.”

Bilbo offered a nervous smile. “Hold that thought. I’m not done.”

He turned toward the far end of the corridor.

“I need to get Thorin.”

Fíli stepped forward. “His cell’s deep—deeper than ours. You’re sure you can make it there and back without being seen?”

“No,” Bilbo said. “But I’ll be quick.”

Before anyone could stop him, he drew in a breath, stilled himself—and vanished.

This time, the mist shimmered golden, curling like smoke around the stone. Where he’d stood was now only air, faintly glimmering.

The dwarves stared.

“Did he just—?” Ori whispered.

“Gone,” Bofur breathed. “Just… gone.”

“Is that what his magic does now?” Kíli asked, voice pitched with awe. “He can vanish into thin air?”

“Grow vines,” Nori said softly, “whisper to the wind, and now walk through stone like it’s air.”

“He’s terrifying,” Glóin muttered, half-impressed, half-concerned.

“Remind me to stay on his good side,” said Bombur.

They fell quiet again.

Then, slowly, Dúrwen bowed her head. Her eyes fluttered closed.

And from between her lips came a whisper—not dwarvish, but older. A reverent murmur, born from soil and seed, not forge and fire.

“Yavanna... guide him.”

The dwarves said nothing. For once, none mocked. None jested.

They waited.

And hoped the burglar would return.

The lower dungeons were hushed and hollow, as if the very stone held its breath. The air tasted of moss and iron, old with sorrow, and the torches that once lit the passages had been left to gutter out—no guards, no echoing footfalls.

Only silence.

Bilbo reformed from mist at the corridor’s end, golden light still clinging faintly to his skin like the memory of sunlight. He had expected resistance—elven voices, a drawn blade, maybe even a startled cry.

But there was no one.

The Feast of Starlight, it seemed, had drawn even the wardens from their posts.

Only the dark remained.

And Thorin’s cell.

Bilbo didn’t speak at once. He lingered in the shadows a moment longer, gaze fixed on the figure within the cell, half-obscured by bars and silence.

Thorin Oakenshield sat on the stone bench, his broad shoulders hunched beneath the weight of unseen burdens. The silver glint of manacles caught the faint light. His head was bowed, tangled hair falling over his face, hiding his eyes.

Bilbo’s chest ached.

Four days, he thought. Almost four days, and I couldn’t reach him.

He’d wanted to believe that Thorin simply hadn’t noticed his absence. That the Dwarf-king had been pacing his cell or brooding in silence, unaware that Bilbo had been taken. But seeing him now—still, like a broken mountain—Bilbo knew better.

Before he could speak, Thorin’s head snapped up.

Hands, rough and scarred, gripped the bars with sudden ferocity, as if to tear them apart.

“Is that truly you, Bilbo?” His voice was low, hoarse. And beneath it: a fury, a hunger, a kind of bitter hope that struck Bilbo like a blow. “Or is this one of your tricks, Thranduil?”

Bilbo blinked. The words cut deep—not because they were cruel, but because they weren’t. They were wounded.

He’s seen me, Bilbo realized, but not really me.

The idea that Thranduil would conjure illusions to torment Thorin made his stomach turn. His fingers curled involuntarily. For a heartbeat, he wanted to return to the Elf-king’s hall and make him feel what Thorin had been feeling.

Instead, he stepped closer.

“It’s me, Thorin,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

He moved to the bars without fear and reached through them. Thorin’s hands seized his with such intensity that Bilbo flinched—but did not pull away. The dwarf’s calloused palms were trembling.

Thorin stared at him for a long moment. His eyes were sunken, shadowed. He didn’t speak, didn’t breathe—until he brought Bilbo’s hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to it.

Bilbo’s throat tightened.

He’s doing this because he’s been alone, he told himself. Because he was afraid. That’s all.

But his heart didn’t quite believe it.

“I’m here to free you,” he said quickly, trying to shift the moment, to ground them both. He gently pulled his hand from Thorin’s grasp and drew out the ring of keys, the cold metal catching against his skin. “I should’ve come sooner. You’ve no idea how many—well, I suppose you do know, don’t you?”

He tried to smile.

Thorin didn’t.

“You were caught by the elves,” he said, stepping out of the cell as the lock clicked and the door groaned open. He straightened to his full height, gaze roaming over Bilbo slowly. “Thranduil told me the moment he had you.”

Bilbo flushed. “Well. Yes. I was caught—briefly. By his son, actually. Who seems to have a very strange obsession with hobbits. But I did manage to outwit them. And now the Company is free and waiting, and we really don’t have time to—”

Thorin stepped closer.

Too close.

Bilbo’s words faltered as the dwarf looked him over again—truly looked. Thorin’s eyes stopped at the starlight braid woven through Bilbo’s curls, the silver ornaments glinting like constellations.

Bilbo saw the moment something in Thorin’s jaw twitched. His hands, hanging at his sides, curled into fists.

“Tell me,” Thorin said, his voice low and cold, “was it Thranduil who touched your hair?”

Bilbo blinked. “What?”

“The braid,” Thorin said, the words as sharp as frost. “The beads. Did he do it?”

Bilbo took a step back. “No! Of course not! What on earth—”

But Thorin wasn’t listening. His eyes burned, though with what, Bilbo couldn’t say.

“After I reclaim Erebor,” Thorin muttered, voice shifting into something darker, more dangerous, “I’ll declare war on the Woodland Realm. I’ll skin him alive for laying hands on you.”

The silence that followed was stifling.

Bilbo stared, stunned. “Thorin. This is not the time for this.”

But Thorin only shook his head, as if he hadn’t heard. His gaze was distant now, locked on some vision only he could see. “He had you. And he touched you. He dared—”

“Thorin!” Bilbo grabbed his arm, and this time he didn’t let go. “We don’t have time for vengeance. Or dramatics. I’m getting you out of here whether you like it or not.”

Thorin blinked.

Bilbo narrowed his eyes. “Brace yourself.”

And before the Dwarf-king could argue, Bilbo called to the magic within him—tugged it free with the ease of long breath—and the mist rushed around them.

The air hummed, thrummed.

And they vanished, swallowed by golden light.

They rematerialized in a shimmer of golden mist—soft, soundless, and swift. When the glow faded, they stood not beneath starlight or sky, but cloaked in shadow.

The air was dry and cold. The chamber they landed in held no welcome.

Bilbo stumbled, knees buckling slightly under the wave of disorientation. His hands went to his thighs to steady himself, breath hitching in short, shallow bursts. His magic still sang in his blood—a fading hum of fire and wind—but his limbs felt like water, unsteady beneath him.

Thorin did not fall, but his jaw clenched tight as he leaned briefly against a stone pillar. His nostrils flared. Pride alone kept him upright.

Bilbo groaned. “Oh... my stomach’s staging a rebellion.”

“I thought hobbits had stronger guts than this,” Thorin muttered, though he looked no better himself. His skin was pale beneath the dim light, and his voice had the tight edge of someone holding nausea at bay by sheer force of will.

“We’re not supposed to vanish from one room and appear in another!” Bilbo shot back. “At least, not unless we’ve had a full meal and a nap first.”

Thorin scowled, taking a steadying breath. “As far as I know, your gift is to coax green things from your own will and whisper to the wind—not vanish like smoke and reappear at will.”

Bilbo let out a long exhale. “Believe me, Thorin, I thought so too.” He wiped a hand across his brow. “I didn’t know I could do this until I—well, until I tried.”

The chamber was quiet, vast and dim, the vaulted ceilings arching high overhead like the belly of a mountain. Stone shelves lined the walls, crammed with crates, barrels, gilded scrolls, and cloth-wrapped bundles. The air smelled of cedarwood and dust, of steel oil and elven ink.

“Where are we?” Thorin asked again, turning slowly in place. His fingers flexed, already seeking the weight of a weapon.

“In Thranduil’s storage room,” Bilbo answered. “Where he keeps all our confiscated belongings.”

Thorin turned to him sharply. “He locked away our arms? Like trophies?”

“I suppose he thought it best not to leave blades in the hands of prisoners.” Bilbo swayed again and caught himself on a crate. “Also, I think my legs forgot how to walk after carrying a king across time and space.”

Thorin blinked, then moved without thinking—his hands reached to steady him.

“Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” Bilbo said quickly, brushing it off with a shaky grin. “Just a bit lightheaded. And proud of myself. I did just teleport us into the belly of an elven stronghold.”

Thorin’s mouth twitched. “You’ve grown bold, burglar.”

Bilbo straightened. “And you’ve grown paler. Let’s find our things before someone stumbles down here with a goblet in hand.”

Together they moved through the room, weaving around shelves and chests. Bilbo’s fingers brushed silk, silver, jeweled clasps— elven art and artifice, none of it theirs. His heart thumped faster when he found a low wooden box half-covered with a velvet cloth.

He pulled it back.

Thorin was already ahead of him.

A gleam of blue caught the dim light— Orcrist, laid out on a carved stand as though it were part of a museum exhibit.

Thorin stared at the sword for a long moment. When his hand closed around the hilt, something shifted in him. The tension in his shoulders eased. He rolled the blade once in his palm and strapped it to his back in a practiced motion, his mouth a thin, grim line.

“They touched it,” he said quietly. “Cleaned it. Displayed it.”

“They didn’t break it,” Bilbo offered gently. “That’s something.”

Thorin didn’t answer. His eyes were burning low and dark.

Bilbo turned away, giving him a moment, and returned to his own search. Near the bottom of a crate tucked beneath a heap of ornamental banners, he found it—a familiar, scuffed satchel.

Inside lay his coat, neatly folded, his leather belt with its small pouches and brass buckle, a few buttons knocked loose during Mirkwood’s more thrilling moments. Nestled beneath them all was a silk-wrapped bundle.

He unwrapped it with slow, reverent hands.

Sting.

The small sword gleamed silver-blue even in the dimness, and when Bilbo touched it, it hummed faintly—a memory of spider-silk and fear, of courage summoned in the dark. The blade was warm under his fingers, as though glad to be found again.

“Hello, old friend,” he murmured.

He buckled the sword to his belt with care, then reached into the satchel once more.

A small pouch, soft leather, tied with twine.

The Ring.

His hand hovered over it.

It did not call to him in words, not exactly. But its presence coiled around his thoughts like ivy around stone. A whisper in the back of his mind. A gentle reminder that it was still his, and it was always waiting.

He picked it up. The weight was slight, but it settled heavily in his palm, and he quickly tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat.

Behind him, Thorin turned. “Have you found what you came for?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said. Too quickly.

He adjusted his coat, the ring tucked away, and moved to gather the rest of the Company’s gear—Kíli’s bow, Dúrwen’s enchanted water-skin, Fíli’s hunting knives, Dwalin’s second-best axe (just in case), and Bombur’s food pouch, still suspiciously heavy.

“We’ll redistribute on the way,” he said, trying to sound brisk. “Let’s just not linger. Elves have good hearing.”

Thorin approached him, the heavy sound of boots on stone drawing closer. Bilbo didn’t turn, not yet.

“You’re hiding something.”

Bilbo froze. Then turned, smile practiced. “Aren’t I always?”

Thorin didn’t smile. He watched Bilbo as though trying to read the lines of a book half-burned by fire. His eyes flicked to the hobbit’s hair, to the starlight braids still woven there, then to his hand resting lightly on the hilt of Sting.

Bilbo couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

At last, he held out his hand.

“The Company is waiting,” Bilbo said.

Thorin took it.

“My home is waiting.”

There was weight in the words—hope, sorrow, fury all laced together.

Bilbo gripped his hand tightly. “Then let’s not keep waiting either.”

He closed his eyes, drawing his breath through his teeth, reaching again for that strange tether within himself—a shimmer, a pulse like heartbeats wrapped in vines.

Golden light bloomed beneath them.

And they vanished.

Chapter Text

11.

The golden light faded, leaving behind two figures amid the cold stone and hushed dark of the dungeon.

Boots scraped against the stone. Hands flew to weapons that were no longer there. Startled voices rang out:

“Stone and sky—!”

“It’s them!”

“Thorin?!”

“Bilbo!”

Dwalin and Glóin had cleared a space in the center of the dungeon, a rally point amid the shadows. The rest of the Company, huddled close, startled like birds in a storm. Faces wide-eyed, hands half-raised in disbelief or joy.

Bilbo stumbled forward, unsteady from the teleportation—a magic that still left his bones tingling and his stomach rebellious. He barely made it three steps before strong hands caught him.

Fíli.

The young dwarf pulled him into a steady grip, eyes bright with wonder. “You did it,” he breathed. “You actually brought him back—!”

A heartbeat later, Kíli barreled into Thorin like a cannonball of emotion, arms thrown around his uncle’s middle.

“We thought you were dead! Or mad! Or worse, negotiating with Thranduil! If it weren’t for Bilbo—”

Thorin grunted at the impact but did not pull away. His arms lifted slowly, wrapping around Kíli in a grounding embrace.

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t leave without me,” he murmured, a low rumble meant only for Kíli.

Kíli tightened his grip, voice muffled in Thorin's coat. “I would’ve dragged Bilbo back to the cells if he tried to leave you. Though he’d probably just vanish again.”

“I would,” Bilbo muttered, half-draped on Fíli. “In a heartbeat.”

“You look like you’ve walked through fire, Master Baggins,” Balin said, eyes scanning him. “And dragged Thorin through it after.”

“Not far off,” Bilbo wheezed. “But we got the weapons. And the bow. And the knives. And—well, everything, really.”

He lifted a bundled heap wrapped in cloth as proof.

Dwalin stepped forward and grunted in approval, taking the bundle with careful hands. “I’ll distribute them. You look half-dead. Sit down before you fall down.”

Bofur elbowed through the crowd, eyes wide with glee. “And still somehow prettier than the rest of us! Look at this, look at the hair! He really has been courted by an elf!”

Bilbo groaned. “Please don’t start.”

“I will absolutely start,” Bofur said with a grin, tousling Bilbo’s curls.

“Less flirting, more arming,” Nori said, already slipping his daggers back into familiar sheathes.

Dori retrieved a damp cloth bundle and handed it to Ori with practiced grace. “Don’t lose this again, dear.”

“I didn’t lose it,” Ori whispered, clutching it tight. “It was confiscated.”

“It’ll be burned next time,” Dori warned, voice soft with worry.

In the corner, Dúrwen watched them all with arms crossed, a flicker of tension behind her eyes. She had not yet spoken.

Bilbo glanced at her, then turned to Thorin, then to the others, who now bristled with familiar weapons and whispered anticipation.

“Everyone ready?”

A chorus of nods, murmurs, and the creak of leather straps answered him.

Thorin stepped closer. His voice was low but steady. “You brought us this far. We follow your lead now.”

Bilbo blinked. That tone—it wasn’t commanding. It carried something else: trust. Deference. The weight of a crown willingly set down.

“I’ll get us out,” he promised. “Just stick close. I don’t want to test if I can teleport a dozen dwarves at once.”

Ori looked faintly alarmed. “Can you even do that?”

“Let’s not find out,” Bilbo said quickly.

There was laughter, soft and weary, but real. For a moment, it felt like a campfire in the dark.

They moved swiftly and quietly through the winding staircases of the elven stronghold, heading deeper into its underbelly. Faint sounds of merrymaking drifted down from above—laughter, clinking goblets, music of strings and voices.

Bilbo led the way.

Down, down, into shadow and stone.

They entered a cool chamber lined with barrels and flagons. The elves which Bilbo knew the name as Galion and Elros for weeks of spying lay sprawled and asleep in the corner, the sharp scent of wine thick in the air. Empty flagons littered the floor, and both elves snored loudly.

Fíli and Kíli moved to the edges of the room, peering behind racks and shelves.

“I don’t believe it,” Kíli whispered. “We’re in the cellars.”

Bofur scowled. “You were supposed to be leading us out, not further in!”

“I am leading us out,” Bilbo hissed. “Trust me.”

“That depends,” muttered Glóin, eyeing a wine barrel. “Does this plan end with us dead?”

Bilbo gestured toward a stack of empty barrels. Balin followed his gaze, brow furrowed.

“Everyone,” Bilbo whispered urgently, “climb into the barrels. Quickly.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Dúrwen stepped forward at last, one brow arched high. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“I’m not,” Bilbo said. “They’re sent downriver. It’s how the elves trade. We ride them out.”

“I’m not going to fit in one of those,” Dúrwen snapped, eyeing the cramped barrels with disdain.

“You can,” Bilbo insisted. “I’m sure of it. Please. We don’t have time.”

Dwalin growled low in his throat. “Are you mad? They’ll find us—”

“No,” Bilbo interrupted, desperate. “They won’t. I promise. You must trust me.”

Thorin’s voice cut through the rising tension.

“Do as he says.”

That was all it took. The Company scrambled into action. Muttering under their breath, the dwarves climbed into the barrels, some with grace, others with curses and groans. Bombur needed two dwarves to help wedge him into a larger barrel; the metal rings creaked ominously.

Bilbo rushed to a large wooden lever protruding from the wall. He braced himself.

“What do we do now?” Bofur called from inside his barrel.

“Hold your breath.”

“Hold my breath?! What do you mean—WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

With a heave, Bilbo pulled the lever.

The stack of barrels tilted with a grinding roar. Wood scraped against stone as the floor gave way beneath them, revealing an underground river rushing below.

One by one, the barrels dropped, disappearing into the churning black water. Screams echoed, dwarvish curses bounced off the walls, followed by splashes.

Bilbo let out a victorious breath—

Then he realized the trapdoor was slamming shut.

“Wait, no—!”

He jumped, stamping on the stone, trying to pry it open. Footsteps echoed above.

Someone was coming.

He turned, ran, and hurled himself at the trapdoor—

He plunged into a cold water.

The water hit like a hammer. Bilbo gasped, choked, and surfaced in time to hear a shout and a splash beside him. He coughed violently, then grabbed onto a nearby barrel.

Dúrwen’s.

She was half-submerged, teeth clenched against the cold, glaring at him. “Remind me why I listened to you.”

“Because you trust me,” Bilbo spluttered.

“I’m revising that opinion.”

Thorin surged up beside them, water cascading off his shoulders as he grabbed Bilbo to steady him.

“Well done, our burglar,” he said, voice low, fierce with pride.

Bilbo coughed again. “I told you it would work.”

The barrels floated in a single, bobbing file, the water beneath them swift and glassy, a deceptive calm that belied the chaos about to come. With each passing heartbeat, the stream picked up speed, and the wooden vessels began to thud against one another, jostling like dice in a giant’s hand.

“Oi! Watch it, Nori!” Dori barked, clinging desperately to the rim of his barrel as it slammed into another.

“It’s the river’s fault, not mine!” Nori snapped back, ducking as a spray of cold water slapped him in the face.

"Hold on—!” Thorin's voice roared above the din, just as the barrels pitched over a small drop in the natural rock cavern. Dori yelped. Óin let out a startled curse. The Company vanished over the fall one by one, swallowed by the darkness.

From a distance, they emerged in a roar of water and a burst of foam, shooting from a stone tunnel like arrows from a bow. The barrels tumbled over a second, sharper waterfall, plummeting into a basin below where the river turned narrow and wild.

Bilbo held on to Dúrwen’s barrel with shaking arms, teeth chattering, skin pale. Dúrwen, soaked to the bone, gripped him tightly, her eyes scanning the trees that loomed along the riverbank. The sky had begun to pale—dawn was only just breaking.

“This is madness,” she muttered.

Bilbo could only nod, trying to keep his breath steady despite the chill that bit to his bones.

Above the narrow channel, an iron portcullis yawned open—but not for long.

A sharp, discordant trumpet blast split the air.

“That can’t be good,” Fíli muttered.

Elven sentries scrambled into action. The portcullis groaned as gears clicked and chains began to pull.

“No, no, no!” Bilbo hissed, watching the gate slowly begin to close. Thorin’s barrel was first, and he strained forward, as if sheer will could propel him through.

It almost made it.

Almost.

Thorin’s barrel slammed into the iron bars and jammed. The rest followed in a chaotic cascade, crashing and jostling, stacked together in a churning knot of dwarves, wood, and trapped fury.

“We’re stuck!” Ori shouted.

“Blasted these elves!” Bofur bellowed, water sloshing up over his shoulders.

Then:

THWACK.

One of the elven guards fell from the treetop, an arrow in his throat.

Suddenly, the woods were alive with screeching and snarling. A tide of blackened shapes poured over the bank. Orcs. Dozens of them. At their head, a towering, twisted figure with bone-pierced armor and dead-white eye:

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Kíli shouted, twisting in his barrel.

“Goridug!” Bolg barked, his voice like breaking stone. Slay them all!

The orcs surged forward, arrows flying. Barrels became battlegrounds.

“Use the lids!” Dwalin shouted. He ripped his barrel lid free and used it to deflect a spearhead. Glóin followed suit, using his like a shield.

“Get away from my brother, you filth!” Dori bellowed, punching an orc in the face with his bare fist.

Kíli saw it. The lever. Up on the bank, half-concealed behind a gnarled root. He took a breath and launched himself from his barrel.

“Kíli!” Fíli screamed.

The young prince dashed across the slick stones, slashing with a dagger he’d salvaged from the armory. An orc lunged; he ducked. Another swung wide; he rolled beneath it and sprang to the lever.

Bolg raised his bow.

Bilbo saw the gleam of the arrowhead, saw it before anyone else. His magic surged like a storm through his veins.

He raised a trembling hand and whispered.

The arrow flew.

And shattered.

A slicing gust tore through the air, a blade of wind that scattered the orcs like dry leaves. Bolg snarled, shielding his face.

Blood dripped from Bilbo’s nose. He barely noticed.

Kíli yanked the lever. The portcullis screeched as it rose.

The barrels burst forward, crashing through the opening and surging down the channel.

Dúrwen held Bilbo tighter. “You have to stop using your gift! It’s eating you alive!”

“Not yet,” Bilbo rasped. “Not while I can still help.”

But the danger was far from over.

Elves had arrived.

Tauriel led the charge, two blades spinning in her hands like twin moons. She leapt between orcs with dancer’s grace and butcher’s precision, cutting them down with fluid elegance. Her warriors followed, swords gleaming in dawnlight.

“Tauriel, behind you!” Dúrwen shouted, eyes widening.

Tauriel twisted, ducked, and buried both knives in the chest of an orc who had been poised to strike.

Their eyes met.

A moment. A breath.

Then an arrow sang through the air and struck Tauriel in the shoulder.

“No!” Dúrwen screamed, but the river pulled her away, down and down, the water roaring louder now.

Thorin reached for Bilbo, steadying him in Dúrwen’s barrel as their barrels dipped and spun.

The river churned beneath them, relentless.

Then came the final drop.

Barrels tumbled into open air, spinning like toy tops. The dwarves shouted, some in panic, some in defiance.

Bilbo clung to the rim of Dúrwen's barrel, his heart leaping into his throat as they sailed into the void—and fell.

The plunge took his breath away.

And then came the crash of cold water, swallowing them whole.

   The barrels bobbed and jostled in single file, colliding with hollow thuds as they floated along the now-calmer stretch of the Forest River. Dawn spilled pale gold through the canopy, glinting off mist that rose like breath from the water. The Company, soaked to the bone, bruised and weary, clung to the wooden casks with stiff fingers and aching limbs.

“Anything behind us?” Thorin called out from his barrel, voice hoarse but commanding, carried over the soft rush of the water.

Balin twisted around, blinking into the haze. “Not that I can see.”

“I think we’ve outrun the Orcs!” Bofur shouted, raising his arms as best he could. His hat drooped comically over one eye, saturated and dripping.

“Don’t jinx it!” Óin barked, wiping water from his eyes.

Dwalin, ever vigilant, scanned the riverbank with narrowed eyes. “The shadow never falls far behind.”

“We’ve lost the current!” Thorin snapped suddenly, voice like a whip.

“And Bombur’s half-drowned,” Dwalin added, nodding toward the massive barrel that was tipping dangerously under the portly dwarf’s weight.

“Make for the shore!” Thorin commanded.

The Company stirred into action, paddling with hands, branches, and sheer determination toward a pebbled bank. Water splashed and sloshed, graceless and desperate.

Fíli groaned, wringing out his sleeves as they neared land. “Ugh. I smell like apples. Rotten ones.”

“That’s the best smell I’ve ever smelled on you,” Bilbo muttered, clutching his own arms. His once-elegant elven clothes clung to him like seaweed. The embroidery was dulled, threads coming loose. Several of his hair ornaments had long since vanished downstream. He ran trembling fingers through flattened curls.

A splash beside him, and Dúrwen appeared—silent as always—offering a soaked ranger’s cloak. She wrapped it gently around him, then patted his curls.

“You’ll need this,” she murmured.

Bilbo blinked up at her, then gave a faint, grateful smile. Despite the damp, it felt like armor.

Thorin hauled himself onto the riverbank with a grunt, boots squelching. “On your feet! There’s still an Orc pack hunting us. We move!”

Balin hesitated. “To where, lad?”

Bilbo looked up, the mist shifting to reveal the distant shadow of the Lonely Mountain. “To the Mountain, I suppose. We’re close now, right?”

“Aye,” Balin said grimly. “But there’s a lake between us and Erebor. And no bridge to cross it.”

“So... we go around?” Bilbo tried to sound brave.

Dwalin growled, pacing. “The Orcs’ll run us down before we make a mile. And we’ve no weapons left.”

Fíli paused as he spotted Ori a few paces ahead, awkwardly seated on a moss-slicked boulder and wringing his socks with a look of quiet despair. His hair clung damply to his cheeks, and his small, rounded shoulders were slumped. Fíli’s brows knit together. Without a word, he crossed to him.

Ori looked up, startled by the prince’s sudden presence.

“I know I look like hell,” he said, his voice low and half-joking, “but you don’t have to stare at me like that.”

Fíli didn’t smile. He tilted his head slightly, golden hair matted to his face. “I think the opposite, actually,” he murmured.

Ori’s mouth opened, but whatever retort he had died on his tongue as his eyes lifted.

There, standing in a clearing not ten paces away, was a tall man clad in dark leathers, his long hair swept back and shadowed eyes fixed on them. A bow rested in his hand, taut with a nocked arrow.

Ori scrambled back instinctively, but Fíli had already moved, stepping between him and the stranger with the ease of instinct. His hand hovered near his knife, though he did not draw.

A sudden crack split the air.

Dwalin, who had reached for a gnarled branch on the ground, now stared in disbelief as it broke in two in his grasp, an arrow lodged quivering in the bark. Another sharp report echoed almost instantly: a second arrow flew, this time striking a rock that Kíli had palmed and launched without thinking. The stone spun away into the underbrush like a kicked coin.

The bowman stood his ground. He did not shout. His third arrow was already nocked, and the line of his bow remained taut, unwavering.