Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bilbo Baggins was a great many things. He was the master of Bag End, a wealthy gentle hobbit, the favored grandson of the Thain, son of Belladonna Took, and a renowned scholar within the Shire. In fact, Bilbo had made an excellent name for himself, he was a reputable, if estranged and largely rumored about, member of his community. Bilbo was all of this and more, however, there was one thing he was not. That one thing was a simple matter. He was not a Baggins. 

This fact had been kept from him until a fateful day during the Fell Winter. The fateful day that took his mother from him and left him adrift and his father grieving. It was grief that would lead Bungo Baggins to follow his wife Belladonna to the grave.

Bilbo was a mystery and the Shire did not dwell on mysteries. So Bilbo did what all good hobbits did and put away any questions he had and threw himself into making Bag End, and himself by connection, as respectable as possible. All traces of Took adventure were hidden in the well crafted glorybox his mother had brought home with her. The name Gandalf, the small blades his mother kept, the leather braces and belts, all traces of his mother’s adventuring was stored away. Out of the sight of prying eyes and Bilbo’s own grieving heart. Everything except for the silvery necklace studded with beads. That, the last gift given to Bilbo by his mother, stayed round his neck, hidden under his fastidiously buttoned collars.

The box would stay closed until another fateful day, this day would be sunny and a pleasant day, perfect for smoking old toby. A day for adventure and a raucous party of guests that would change the course of Bilbo’s life. 

***

Today was a day of reflection. Bilbo hated those days. The sun was bright, the house was clean, there were no visitors in sight (although there rarely were anyhow), and Bilbo had nothing to do but smoke his pipe. Typically a very pleasant affair, however, today it was ruined by the presence of growing pains. Something that most hobbits at Bilbo’s age, a respectable forty-nine, no longer felt. It was an unpleasant reminder that Bilbo was in fact not like most hobbits. A fact he tried his hardest to regularly forget. Today, though, he could not. His limbs ached, and Bilbo sighed with the realization that he would likely have to let the hems out on his trousers again. If this kept up he would have to purchase several new sets of trousers altogether, and wouldn’t that make him the talk of the town. At least he wouldn’t have to purchase new vests. His only comfort these days was his mothers old patchwork robe, something that would always fit him. 

Bilbo felt his mood grow melancholic, there was not enough old toby on a morning like this. 

His mood was not helped by the presence of a rather strange being. Gandalf. This particular wizard was known for his antics and Bilbo was particularly wary of him as he had once adventured with his mother. Adventuring was not what good hobbits did. But, Bilbo was polite, his father had secured enough social niceties into Bilbo’s head to ensure that no guest would feel unwelcome and so Bilbo greeted the wizard.

“Good morning.”

Bilbo had to fight off the beginning of headache alongside the ache in his limbs as the wizard complicated a simple greeting. It seemed to the poor hobbit that there was nothing that could go simply today. 

“What do you mean? Do you mean to wish me a good morning? Or do you mean it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or perhaps you mean to say you feel good on this morning, or do you mean it is a morning to be good on.” 

Yes, there was a headache blooming. 

“I suppose all of them at once?” Bilbo responded, his confusion and aches resulting in a weak reply. 

The wizard simply stared down at Bilbo, his eyes considering even as Bilbo asked, politeness and his father’s legacy still running through his mind, “Can I help you?”

“Do you know who I am, Master Baggins?”

“Of course, you’re Gandalf,” Bilbo paused, “Mother’s old companion. She would tell stories about you quite frequently, of your shared adventures.”

Gandalf chuckled, the tension on his brow easing as he peered down at Bilbo once more, “Well then, Bilbo Baggins, I am looking for someone to share an adventure with.”

The headache grew. 

“Oh my, well,” Bilbo paused to blow a smoke ring, “really I don’t think you’ll find any hobbit willing to pursue that type of affair. Adventures? In the Shire? No sir, not here. Perhaps down in Bree. Yes, Bree, I would look there Gandalf.” 

Gandalf opened his mouth, but Bilbo pushed on, “Adventures are not the sort of thing any respectable hobbit would pursue, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Gandalf frowned, Bilbo stood up and a hand found its way to the delicate chain around his neck as he worried the beads hidden there, a nervous habit he’d developed. The wizard was positively glowering at him.

“You’ve changed Bilbo Baggins, and not entirely for the better. To think I would see the day when Belladonna Tooks son would ignore the call for adventure. Do you not remember your days seeking elves in the woods, fighting imaginary trolls along the river? What happened to the fauntling that craved to see the world?”

“I grew up,” Bilbo lost the pretense of politeness, he had not seen the wizard since before the Fell Winter, before his mother died. “Something best done given circumstances. There is no time for adventures.”

Gandalf had not been there when his mother died, he had been there when Bilbo had to fight to prove he was mature enough to hold Bag End, even before he reached the age of maturity, he had not been there when Bilbo learned the truth of his heritage, and he had not been there when Bilbo had to bury the last family he knew. No, the wizard was in no place to ask for an adventure.

“Hmmm, so you say,” there was a considering gleam in the wizard’s eye and Bilbo knew this was not the end of the discussion however much he wished it was.

“Good day,” Bilbo gave a polite nod and escaped into the recesses of his smial.

“Yes, yes, this will be good for you Bilbo Baggins, and amusing for me! I shall inform the company, you can expect us this evening” Came the cry of the wizard behind him. 

Bilbo turned around swiftly and sputtered, “Inform? Company? This evening?”

But the wizard was gone, disappeared into the winding ways of the Shire and Bilbo was left on his stoop with a cold pipe and a sense of discomfort. Company, tonight, oh dear. Bilbo was not happy with the idea of having company. Since his parents death’s he had had very little company and he was happy with that. Or as happy as he could be. Company was awkward, and while he was an excellent host, he did not know how to carry a conversation anymore. Too much time alone, were the whispers that haunted his path in the Shire, peoples’ opinions were set and he was an odd fellow, unsociable like the rest. His father had taught him to be a good host though, and Bilbo was determined, despite not knowing how many were in the company (drat the wizard for his vagueness), or what time they would arrive (really Gandalf, a time would have been nice), Bilbo would do his best. And his best meant he needed to look at his pantry. 

***

By nightfall Bilbo was too nervous to eat and yet he had an impressive spread laid out on his kitchen table. Fish, stew, roast vegetables, cheeses, cured meats, really anything a body could want Bilbo had. He also had a headache, jitters, and nausea. Bilbo found himself pacing the floors, a teacup grasped gently in one hand while the other fiddled with his necklace. Surely the wizard wouldn’t joke with him about company? Bilbo wasn’t sure what scared him more, having company, or not having the company promised. Wizards, he decided, were more trouble than they were worth. 

He didn’t have much more time to reflect before the bell rang. Bilbo jumped, the tea sloshing against the side of the cup.

When he opened the door Bilbo froze, the guest was not the wizard, nor was it a hobbit, nor a man, nor an elf. It was a dwarf. A tall, strong, broad dwarf littered with weapons. Bilbo couldn’t breathe, his mind racing with the thought that Gandalf knew. Gandalf knew and then the Shire would know. They already suspected something was different with Belladonna and Bungo’s son, but if they knew then custody of Bag End could be argued. The Sackville-Baggins, his home, all thoughts of company and politeness were out the window as Bilbo saw his comfortable life, the life his mother had done her best to protect, flash before his eyes. 

The dwarf before him also seemed shocked, his eyes wide and his body half bent into a bow. The scene was almost comical. A dwarf and hobbit shocked into silence. It didn’t last.

“Frerin?”

Bilbo almost missed the near whispered words and instead of commenting on it instead said, “Beg your pardon?”

The dwarf shook himself out of the stupor, “Dwalin, at your service.”

“Oh, uh, ah Bilbo Baggins, at yours.” 

The two exchanged bows, Dwalin’s steady and Bilbo’s short and perfunctory. Dwalin strode into the home and hung his cloak and weapons up. Bilbo stumbled after him.

“Excuse me, but, do we know each other?”

Dwalin turned to look at him, a gleam in his eye that said there was more to the answer as he said, “No. Have the rest arrived yet?”

“The rest?” Bilbo gaped, “No, no you’re the only one here, excuse me, but I really think you have the wrong place.” 

Before Bilbo could continue the bell rang again and he turned to the door. He was once again greeted by a dwarf, this one had silver hair and kindly smile, although the smile grew a bit forced as he looked at Bilbo.

“Balin, at your service,” the dwarf bowed.

“And at yours,” the poor hobbit really didn’t know what was going on and his mind wasn’t focused on the bow as he returned the niceties. 

Balin gently pushed past Bilbo and ventured into the cozy hallways. Bilbo found himself aimlessly staring at the door as the two dwarves embraced each other in the hallway. He gently pressed the door closed and ghosted around the forms to the pantry. This was altogether too much and the wizard was breaking every rule regarding guests that Bilbo had ever learned.

His sanctuary was short-lived as the bell rang once more. Bilbo’s fingers found the chain even as he opened the door to two young dwarves, barely out of their childhood by the looks of things, who eagerly introduced themselves. 

“Kili,” 

“And Fili,”

“At your service,” both bowed simultaneously and Bilbo merely hummed as he stood to the side and gestured for them to enter. 

His quiet shock disappeared as the rambunctious youth bestowed him with their weapons and began cleaning their shoes on his mother’s glory box.

Bilbo dropped the swords, knives, and assorted weapons with a clang, “No, no, no. You will not clean your shoes on my mother’s glory box. You will store your weapons on the walking stick rack, you will remove your shoes, and you will not leave the entryway until the glory box is clean again!”

The little rant was met with wide eyes from the two dwarves. Bilbo did his best to look menacing, but he was rather afraid all it did was make himself look like an irate child. His hands remained on his hips as he glared at the boys. The presence of the other two dwarves entering the hallway and chuckling seemed to weaken the effect of his demands until they stated, “Aye laddies, best do as he says. He has been a delightful host, it would be a shame to dishonor the home.”

Bilbo felt a little better at that, although he was far from content with the situation. 

“Sorry Master Boggins,” Bilbo opened his mouth to correct the lad, “it is a lovely chest, dwarrow made?”

Bilbo stiffened at that, in truth the box was made by a dwarf, his mother’s dwarf. A secret he liked to keep, and one that was fairly easy in the sheltered constraints of the Shire. Hobbits couldn’t quite identify the foreign craftsmanship. But it would be no good denying it here, “Yes, my mother picked it up during her travels. It’s a precious reminder of her.”

The dwarves seemed interested in the chest, and Bilbo in turn, which did not sit well with the hobbit. He didn’t have time to answer, or ask, any questions before the bell rang once more. Bilbo’s heart spiked again, the chain forgotten under his fingers as he raced toward the door. 

“There is no one home! Bother someone else! Blast it all, bother the wizard!”

The exclamation dried up upon opening the door. A host of dwarves, falling over themselves, graced his stoop. A laughing Gandalf behind them. 

Bilbo found himself quite lost as the dwarves fell upon the food he’d prepared. The pantry emptied as refills were requested. It was far too much for him and so he retreated further into the smial. It had been a long time since Bilbo had been around more than one or two people, even longer since he had hosted what might be considered a party. No, this situation was entirely overwhelming and Bilbo found himself close to panicking. Bungo Baggins' hosting sensibilities were his only saving grace. There were several guest rooms, and while he hoped the dwarves would not stay the night, one could never tell with Gandalf’s plan. So Bilbo busied himself setting up as many beds and cots as he could, trying to tune out the laughter and chaotic noise coming from the dining room. He was doing well until he came to the master bedroom. He hadn’t ventured into the room since his father, Bungo, had passed. It had been a slow death, Bungo mourning his love and fading with fever into a ghost of the aloof gentleman he’d been. Bilbo had nursed his father until the last day. He hadn’t been able to open the door since then. Now he supposed he would have to. He was still a bed short should Gandalf’s number be correct. 

Before he could twist the doorknob he heard the wizard hum gently behind him.

“Gandalf.”

“Bilbo, my dear boy. It seems you’ve kept yourself busy, although I’d rather hoped you would meet the company. They are a lively crew, are they not?”

“Hmm, yes lively indeed.”

“Now lad, the leader of this merry band is about to arrive. I suggest you join us now as all will be revealed.”

“The reason you’ve brought the hoodlums to my door you mean?”

“Of course,” the wizard’s eye twinkled, “Unless there is something else to reveal?”

“No, no, of course not.”

“Shall we then.”

Bilbo spared one last glance toward the master bedroom before following Gandalf back into the lighter sections of his home. 

The sight that greeted him was both surprising and pleasant. For as much of a mess as they’d made the dwarves had cleaned the dining room and kitchen up splendidly, his mother’s pottery was carefully stacked and stored and the tables and floors wiped down. He hadn’t noticed the small smile that crossed his face at the sight, the dwarves on the other hand all nudged each other and smiled themselves at the sight of their host’s joy.

Then the bell rang. Bilbo flinched and Gandalf headed toward the door. 

Whatever peace Bilbo had felt was short-lived as Thorin Oakenshield was introduced. The headache was back. 

“Tell me, Master Baggins, have you done much fighting?”

Bilbo thought to the Fell Winter, to the pelt that decorated his floor, “No, I don’t suppose I have?”

“And what of thieving, have you much experience?”

“Thieving?”  Bilbo exclaimed, “I am a hobbit of good repute, I’ll have you know!”

Thorin raised his brow, he turned to look at the hobbit for the first time. The sight had him pause, the golden curls, blue eyes, Thorin felt as if he were looking at a memory. A memory he couldn’t quite hold on to, he shook his head, “I thought as much, he looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”

Bilbo hated dwarves. He hated being insulted in his own home. He hated meddlesome wizards. He hated that he kept flinching from the stupid bell, and most of all he hated that he was dreadfully curious about this whole affair. 

The dwarves made their way back to the dining room table where they sat around their leader. They had saved some hearty stew, bread, and several other small dishes for the dwarf and were patiently waiting for him to finish. 

Bilbo found himself lurking, in his own home at that, to listen to the meeting of the dwarves. The dragon, the mountain, the whole affair was really quite something. His mother would have loved it. But Bilbo was not his mother. He’d nearly turned to finish making the guest rooms when he heard Thorin call for the band to claim their homeland. Home. Now that was a concept Bilbo could get behind. Home. Yes, yes indeed.

He turned back and continued listening. The key, the door, the map laid out so smoothly against his father’s table. A way home. 

Bilbo tuned back into the conversation just in time to hear, “That’s why we need a burglar.”

“Hmmm, true, an expert at that I’d imagine.”

“And are you?”

Bilbo looked up, “Am I what?”

“An expert.”

Bilbo blinked, a nasty suspicion of what type of adventure Gandalf meant was creeping into his mind. He looked at the wizard, who of course had an innocent, if not amused look on his face, and frowned.

“No, no I don’t suppose I am.”

Balin, the silver haired dwarf, said, “Aye, I must agree with the lad, he’s no burglar.”

The table seemed to erupt with confused conversation as they pointed between Gandalf and Bilbo. The chaos seemed to grow, Bilbo wanted to curl up and ignore them all. He would be a horrible host if he did that though, instead he went to the larder and pulled a second barrel of ale down, surely they would use that. As he rolled it back into the dining room Gandalf stood up, darkness crept around him and swirled into the shadows of the hall as he thundered, “Enough!”

“If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, a burglar he is!”

Bilbo sighed in resignation. His life just couldn’t be easy. Next time he felt introspective he was going to stay in bed.

Gandalf continued, “Hobbits are extremely stealthy, able to move unseen by many. A skill that is lacking in this general group, and one that will be invaluable when scouting the halls of Erebor. If I say Bilbo Baggins is the right choice for the fourteenth member, you’d best heed my advice. Not to mention, the dragon is accustomed to the scent of dwarrow, but the scent of hobbit is all but unknown.”

Bilbo found the chain around his neck and fiddled with it. Gandalf seemed intent on his going, well that just wouldn’t do. Bilbo could sympathize with the dwarves, losing a home, your family’s residence and wealth. Well that was a threat he’d had before, one Lobelia Sackville-Baggins seemed intent on fulfilling to this day. A threat she might succeed in if she had the proper leverage. Loss was not an unknown concept to Bilbo, but he couldn’t afford to ruin his reputation -  his father’s name - for these dwarves. No, he would remain home, he had to, didn’t he?

Before he could voice any of these thoughts, he found himself being handed a lengthy contract. The scholar in him was quite curious and he found himself absorbed into the fine print before he could say no. Remuneration, out of pocket expenses, everything seemed quite fair, and indeed, if the legends were to be believed regarding the wealth of Erebor, the reward was more than adequate. At least, until Bilbo got to the section about funeral arrangements and risks. Then the reward seemed a little less adequate. Not that death was really that horrible, life had a cycle after all, and it would be nice to see his mother again. Belladonna’s loss had been quite devastating, in many ways Bilbo wondered if he would ever be as happy as he’d been when his mother smiled down at him. 

“Lacerations?” images of his mother flashed through his mind, the warm red across the indifferent snow.

“Aye lad, dragons have claws that could slice you like a knife through butter!” Bofur’s addition was unwelcome and particularly vivid.

“Evisceration? Incineration?” Exasperation tinted Bilbo’s voice as he finished reading through the contract. Absentmindedly tucking into his pocket, an action that had Gandalf ducking his head to hide the smile that bloomed across his face. The company might just have a burglar yet. 

“Oh aye, he’ll melt the flesh right off your bones in the blink of an eye!”

Bilbo took several deep breaths, “Nope, nope, nope.”

The dwarves faded into the background as he headed toward the master bedroom. Politeness be damned, he needed some air. The room was still. An exact picture of his parents memory. The bed was clean and made up underneath the white sheet Bilbo had placed there years ago. He gently tugged the sheet off so as not to disturb the dust and patted the quilt his mother had made for their new home. He did wish they were here, or his grandfather, or even a cousin. Someone he could rely on. But there was no one. He didn’t really remember the last time a family member had dropped by for a visit, or checked up on how he was doing. A sigh escaped the hobbit. 

Gandalf entered the room, “Bilbo, that was quite rude. Disappearing like that. Really, when did your mother’s doilies, quilts, and books become more of an interest than wandering in the woods. Truly the little fauntling I knew seems well hidden”

Bilbo wanted to say that the fauntling had died with his parents, but the words died in his mouth. The contract sat in his pocket heavy. Bilbo could feel it, deep in his heart, he did want to go. To help someone reclaim their home, that was a noble cause, that was a cause a hobbit could believe in. Gold was one thing, it didn’t really bring comfort, or health, or joy, but a home did. A home was where you belonged and Bilbo knew too well what it was like not to belong. 

“You can’t promise my safety.” But neither could the borders of the Shire, his mother had known that, had proven it really. 

“No I can’t.”

“You can’t promise that I’ll return.”

“No, and if you do, it will not be the same you that left.”

“I am a Baggins,” the words rung hollow to his ears, “of Bag End. I cannot just run off.”

“You are also a Took.” 

Bilbo’s mind added to the wizards' acknowledgement, that he wasn’t just a Took, he was a dwarf as well. The secret of his parents, the secret of his heart, that he was the son of a dwarf, an unknown, nameless dwarf. Bilbo bowed his head in exhaustion as the wizard shuffled out of the room. 

It was singing that broke his reverie, somber, mournful singing. It felt like a goodbye to the past, or perhaps a memorial. Bilbo crept out of the room, the contract still heavy in his pocket and his fingers toying with the beads on the chain round his neck. They missed their home, and didn’t Bilbo miss his? The Lonely Mountain, a lonely hobbit. These things were not so dissimilar. Bilbo pulled the contract out again, glancing at the signature line. 

“When do you leave?”

It was the leader, Thorin, who responded, “At first light.”

Bilbo’s head shot up, “No that won’t do. You need a proper breakfast, and to resupply I’d wager.”

“We leave at first light.”

Bilbo raised his brow, a firmness in his expression that surprised the elder dwarves, “the mountain has sat alone for 60 years, I dare say it can stand for a couple more hours before you set off to reclaim it.”

Balin laughed, even as tension creased his brow as the dwarf glanced at Bilbo, resting his hand on Thorin’s arm, “The lad is right, and a breakfast wouldn’t hurt the company either.”

Bilbo drifted to his study, finding a quill he looked one last time around his smial before striking a bold signature across the line, “Well now, that’s that I suppose.”

The dwarves had crowded around the study entrance, their eyes wide at Bilbo’s action. Bilbo avoided eye contact as he handed Balin the contract and pushed through the crowd, “Now I imagine you’ll be wanting some rest. I have beds prepared, you will have to share rooms, but I believe I have enough beds. Come along then.”

Before long he had the dwarves settled into rooms and he was alone in the study, a small fire bringing warmth to the room. He felt hollow again, there was a gulf between his life as a hobbit and his true nature, one he had never tried to span. Bilbo had the feeling that this adventure would bridge the gap he’d desperately tried to maintain. Gandalf entered the room, a proud twinkle in his eye. 

“Bilbo, my dear boy, I knew you had it in you.”

“Yes, well, I can only imagine that this Smaug must be a relative of Lobelia. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

Gandalf let loose a chuckle, “This will be a journey, my boy, one that I think you are better suited for than you know.”

“Hmm, I suppose. You know, I don’t even know what to pack. Or, well I suppose I should tell grandfather. He is Thain after all, it would suit me well to let him know.” 

“That has already been taken care of. The dwarves, upon their own suggestion sent forth a missive to the Thain requesting your assistance. I have his reply here if you would like to look?”

Bilbo scanned the proffered text, it was a casual acceptance of their request. No concern, no worry, nothing at all really. He shouldn’t be hurt, grandfather was the Thain, he had real responsibilities. Bilbo was an adult (wasn’t he?) he was perfectly able to make these choices himself. 

“Well then, that’s all taken care of.”

“Indeed, the company will help you pack as well. Now dear boy, I am going to rest, I will see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight then,” Bilbo whispered after the retreating wizard. 

The hobbit was still wide awake, the rash decision already haunting him and so he set to work in order to put his mind at ease. They would need hearty food, breads, whatever cured meats he had left, stores of dried fruit, and more. It wouldn’t do to leave the pantry with items that could spoil, who knew how long this would take after all. Bilbo began prepping breakfast as well as packing up perishable items for the road. His work was eventually interrupted by the soft footfalls of one of the younger dwarves, Fili? No, this one was Kili. 

“Master Boggins? What are you doing?”

“Oh, hmm, I’m packing things, prepping food. It’s Baggins, Bag-gins, by the way. What are you doing then, hmm, couldn’t sleep?”

“Not really, bit nervous for tomorrow, the journey really starts then. Amad will be nervous too,”

“Amad?”

“Our mother, me and Fili. She can’t come, she’s governing our people in the Blue Mountains while Uncle leads us to reclaim Erebor. She’d find your hosting skills admirable!”

“Oh, Bless her!” Bilbo puttered around the kitchen, looking for his stash of sweet buns to share with the young dwarf. When he found them he gestured for two to sit around the table, a pot of tea already ready.

“Master Baggins,” Kili grinned as if to say ‘see I got it that time’, “the glory box? Where did your mother get it? I haven’t seen a dwarrow made glory box since Amad’s.”

“I,” Bilbo hesitated, “this really isn’t proper, it’s a secret really.”

Kili leaned close, “I’m great at keeping secrets! You can tell me.”

There was something infectious about Kili’s behavior that had Bilbo’s walls crumbling. He had so wanted to tell somebody for the longest time now. A little twisting of the truth would ease his burden.

“Well, my mother was a traveler, she would often wander away from the Shire to see the world. One day, she met a dwarf, a dwarf with no name, and they stayed together for some time. It was he who carved her the chest, I never met him I’m afraid.”

Kili pondered the story for a while before speaking, “It’s just that, I’ve never seen a chest like that not be a courting gift. Was the dwarf courting your mother?”

Bilbo just blinked, the sweet roll torn to shreds beneath his fingers, “I don’t know. She married my father either way. I can’t imagine it lasted too long, hobbit and dwarf and all.”

“No, I suppose not, still it’s a beautiful chest.” But Kili was giving the hobbit in front of him a pondering look.

“Yes, yes it is.”

***

The morning came sooner than Bilbo wanted. The sunlight peeking in through the dainty glass windows. Today was the day. 

Breakfast was eaten, his bag was packed (dwarves rifling through the meager contents he pulled from his mother’s glory box), and the door was locked before he could think twice. The comforting hills of the shire were far behind him before Bilbo knew what to do. He didn’t feel as strongly as he thought he would about it. In fact, he barely felt anything as he watched the bewildered faces of the community that whispered about him pass by. No doubt Lobelia would be down to Bag End by the night to see if the rumors were true. None of that really mattered though, Bilbo was on his way. Maybe, just maybe, his mother would be proud of him. 

He did feel strongly about the ponies though. He did not like ponies (his sentiment would change over time, especially around the time they lost the ponies). 

By nightfall he was sore, stressed, and quite uncertain why he had signed the contract in the first place. The company set up dinner, the larger dwarf, Bombur, proved an excellent camp cook and Bilbo thoroughly enjoyed the sausages they ate. Overall the day hadn’t passed badly. If the adventure continued to look like this Bilbo thought he might actually enjoy it. Most of the dwarves, Gandalf as well, had bedded down for the night when it happened. Bilbo couldn’t sleep, the snoring that echoed around the camp disrupting his rest. He got up to give Myrtle an apple, really the pony was a pleasant mount, when he heard them. 

Wolves.

Bilbo twisted around to see if anyone else heard, “Did you hear that?”

“Aye, wargs and orcs.”

Relief washed over Bilbo and his shoulders slumped, “Oh, well then.”

It took a moment before a different sort of panic sunk in, “Orcs?”

The following stories both instilled a sense of awe and the overwhelming knowledge that he should have stayed home in the hobbit. He was traveling with warriors, fighters, the survivors of grief, and who was he? A hobbit from a gentle life. He didn’t belong here, but he signed a contract, so here he would stay. 

Bilbo had seen the look passed between Balin and Gandalf, and he was quick enough to realize that despite Thorin’s adamant denials, the pale orc might still pose a problem. By Yavanna, things just got better and better. Bilbo laid down as the fire died, his eyes closed, and tried to sleep. 

His rest was haunted by dreams. His mother frowned at him, calling him a disgrace before the wolves tore her to shreds. His father, no Bungo, turning his back on him. Then a dwarf, faceless, clawing at him - ripping him from everything he’d ever known. Hopeless clawed at Bilbo’s throat and he woke up in a panic. 

The night was still.

Bilbo let out a ragged breath. He couldn’t do this. 

“Master Baggins,” Thorin’s voice rang out, “care to join me?”

Bilbo did not really want to join the intimidating dwarf (he had a feeling that Thorin did not particularly approve of him or his presence) but he felt it would be a good distraction from his thoughts. He hesitantly made his way over to the imposing leaders' roost.

“What are you doing up?”

“I am keeping guard, master hobbit,” Thorin’s breath puffed out into the cold air, “My nephew tells me your mother knew a dwarf?”

Bilbo sighed, “That was meant to be in confidence, he did promise.”

“Kili is many things, but a secret keeper is not one of them,” Thorin gave a sober chuckle.

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

Bilbo paused, “Yes, though, my um, my mother did know a dwarf. She never told me much about him, only that he had no name, a refugee from a battle she thought, too wounded to recall life before.”

“Where about did she find him?”

“She had traveled down the Green Way to Tharbad, that was as far as she ever went.”

“Tharbad, that’s on the way to Moria.”

Bilbo hummed his agreement, the tale of the night before, the pale orc, still present in his mind.

“Perhaps he was one of ours,” it was a whispered confession and Bilbo didn’t know how to respond so he simply sat in companionable silence. 

The racing thoughts in Bilbo’s mind seemed to still in the presence of the intimidating king to be. Bilbo didn’t know why, but the presence of the dwarf was comforting. He was sat an arms length away, but the presence, familiar in ways that Bilbo never felt from Shire folk, was … nice. They sat that way for a long time. 

His secret was still safe, and maybe, just maybe, if he played his cards right, he could learn more about the way of life he could have led.

Chapter Text

Thorin didn’t know what to make of the hobbit. Gandalf had impressed upon the company the need for a burglar and so they had this grocer-like creature joining them. A soft, well-off, small creature unsuited for the trials of their quest. However, there was something, something in the way the hobbit looked, a strength hidden in the furrowing of his brow, it was familiar. Strong like Frerin had been. Strong even, in a way that Thorin loathed to acknowledge. He wasn’t the only one who seemed off put by the hobbit.

Dwalin and Balin had expressed some concern toward the fellow. Subtle Iglishmêk signs had been exchanged between the three dwarrow. Dwalin had believed him to be Frerin upon first sight, Thorin’s heart had ached at the mention of his lost brother, the halo of golden curls so reminiscent of his younger brother. The house of Durin had refused to mourn. Lost in the battle for Moria, Frerin had not been seen since. It was likely that he’d been killed, lost in the sea of bodies left behind, however, Durin’s children wept. Thorin had never forgiven Thror for his foolhardy quest. He knew Dis felt the same, Thror had cheated her boys out of an uncle, out of their kin, their family. That was something no dwarrow could forgive. 

Balin had also noticed the similarities between the young hobbit and the lost heir, but he was adamant that it was a trick of the dim light in the home. His denial was weak. Neither of the dwarves were convincing and Thorin was left with the distinct ache he hadn’t felt in ages.  Whatever similarities the hobbit bore Thorin could not deny the hospitality and kindness their host afforded them. It was more than had been offered in the many years since his people's exile. A grocer he may look, but a burglar he would be.

Thorin had lingered in the spacious hall near the fireplace, waiting to talk to Gandalf, as the hobbit led his company to their rooms. Truly, a hospitable creature, Thorin’s brow furrowed at the thought, it would not do well to place him in danger. Balin and Dwalin edged toward Thorin as he waited. 

“The little fellow isn’t what I expected,” Dwalin was the first to speak.

“No,” Balin sighed, “his acceptance of the quest was another unexpected occurrence. Thorin… I know we have the authority to request his presence, however, doesn’t the laddie seem a bit young for the casual acceptance of our borrowing him? I would have thought there would be more push from the Thain, whatever his authority is?”

Before Thorin could answer, the hobbit’s voice perked up behind them. The slight startle from Dwalin told Thorin everything he needed to know about the hobbit’s stealth skills. It was not so easy to sneak up on Durin’s guard.

“I can assure you that I am of a perfectly respectable age to go adventuring,” the voice was tired, “or as respectable of an age as any for an adventure. The Thain has no reason to deny me, I am of age for a hobbit and well off enough to afford such a trip. You will have no worries about any Shire authorities being upset at you. Now, Mister Dwalin, Mister Balin, I’ll escort you to your room?”

The dwarves glanced at Thorin before following the hobbit deeper into the burrow. Thorin turned to Gandalf, the wizard was smugly smoking his pipe settled into a chair. 

“He is not suited for this path.”

“There is more to him than you know, I suspect more than he knows.”

“I cannot guarantee his safety.”

“Nor can I, a fact he is not naive enough to deny.”

“And should he prove a hindrance?”

“Then we will take it as it comes,” Gandalf stood, “Do not yet doubt him Thorin.”

Gandalf disappeared into the night, Thorin remained standing behind. He was silent and still (quite lost in the possibilities of his quest as well as the familiarities hiding in the hobbit’s countenance) until a slight tug brought him back to the present. The hobbit had once again snuck up on him. There was only a tired sort of resignation, an exhaustion, that lingered on the hobbits face as he addressed the heir of Durin.

“I am dreadfully sorry about the wait, you see your room was the last one I made up and, well, if you’ll just follow me.”

The hobbit turned swiftly and Thorin had to hasten his steps to follow. The room was as grand a room as he’d seen in the homely style of hobbits. It was likely the grandest room in the structure, “Is this not the master suite?”

“Hmm, oh, yes, yes it is.”

Master Baggins was looking around the room, his eyes refusing to land on anything in particular. Thorin paused, his eyes focused on the hobbit, “Is it not your room?”

“No,” the hobbit glanced up at him, “No, this was my parents room. I haven’t had much use for it after they passed I’m afraid.”

Thorin was left pondering the small creature, even as Bilbo turned and walked toward his own rooms. There was grief to the hobbit that Thorin found relatable, more to him indeed. The morning brought little peace as Thorin organized the company as best he could. In the end he assigned Balin and Bofur to help pack for the hobbit. There was little of help for the hobbit, the home was filled with trinkets, happy things, not things for a quest. Still the dwarves managed to pack the necessities with Baggins’ supervision. There was a fussy insistence on packing handkerchiefs which left many of the dwarrow rolling their eyes in exasperation. 

Thorin felt peace settle on his shoulders as the company joined the road (or as much peace as one so heavily burdened as Durin’s heir could feel). All thoughts of the strange hobbit that accompanied them were driven from his mind as the road beckoned his hopes of home. However, the respite from the mystery of their burglar was short lived. Kili, the wayward nephew of his, had sidled his pony up alongside Thorin with an air of secrecy that did not suit him. 

“Uncle, did you know,” here he paused and wrinkled his nose as if to consider his next words, “Master Boggins has dwarrow connections.”

That gave Thorin pause, and once again he found himself puzzling over the hobbit, “No.”

“His mother had a courting chest made for her by a dwarf. Master Baggins claims that the dwarf had no name, aye, and that the dwarf was not courting her. I thought it odd that a hobbit lass would have a courting chest though.”

Thorin wanted to groan, he did not have time for hobbits, not their homes, not their businesses, and not their lives. Master Baggins was here as a courtesy to Gandalf and as a burglar. Thorin firmly believed that the hobbit would not last the journey and would return home before they set eyes on the misty mountains. As such, Thorin did not care about the hobbits potential dwarrow connections (or so the lonely leader would try and convince himself). There was no need for him to be involved in the strangers business. 

“I was not aware,” he eventually addressed his waiting nephew.

“Uncle,” hesitancy colored Kili’s voice, “why would a dwarf remain nameless? What shame could drive their name from them?”

Thorin found he could not answer (not that there weren’t answers abounding, dwarrow, like men, had many reasons to find themselves separated from their identity). No, Thorin found there were too many answers to Kili’s innocently asked question. Instead, the dwarf gruffly stated, “the affairs of hobbits have no concern for us.”

The comment was enough to make Kili retreat in his line of questioning, however, it did not stop Thorin’s mind from racing.

Chapter Text

Bilbo was an apparent source of entertainment for the dwarrow. His habits, deemed fussy by most, were teased and questioned nearly every minute. Despite that, the dwarrow were still a jovial group and included Bilbo in as many jokes as they made at his expense. They were an affectionate group and oftentimes Bilbo found himself ducking around hugging dwarves and avoiding headbutts. The hobbit was not accustomed to touch, hobbits did not on the whole display much affection, and he had been on the receiving end of very little since his parents death. There were hugs of course, and dances, couples were often known to display affection for each other in public as well. However, Bilbo did not have anyone to hug, nor to dance with, and he was a decided bachelor so touch was a largely foreign concept these days.  

Despite the camaraderie in the company, Bilbo often found himself trailing behind the others. He had not been in such a large number of people since the funeral. The company was often too much for him to bear and he felt ill at ease within the group, his conversation stilted and awkward when with them all. What Bilbo failed to realize was that the company genuinely liked the little fellow and often tried to include him on purpose. Bofur, in particular, seemed to notice the hobbit’s hesitance when in a large group and tended to approach him in an individual fashion.

The success Bofur had in getting to know the hobbit was not unnoticed by the rest of the group and the younger members of the party followed suit, Kili and Fili approaching as a pair and Ori often approaching by himself. Bilbo found himself enjoying their company, and their company often resulted in the exchanging of anecdotes. 

“Master Baggins, why is it that hobbits have pointed ears? Are you part elf? Why are your ears less pointy than the other hobbits we’ve seen?”

Some of the anecdotes led to questions and those questions were not always easy for Bilbo to answer, “Why I don’t suppose there is a reason for our ears. I can assure you that we are not part elf. No, no, no hobbit would leave the Shire for an elf, that would be an adventure you see, and hobbits do not go adventuring.”

“But you did?” Kili piped up.

Bilbo huffed for a moment, his eyes darting around, “Well see, I’m a Baggins, but my mother,”

“The one with the dwarf friend?” That was Fili.

Bilbo glared at Kili, a disapproving stare that had most fauntlings cowering behind their mothers, “Yes, one and the same, my mother was a Took. Tooks are a little different than most hobbits, something any gentlehobbit would confirm for you.”

“Why are they different? Does that explain why your ears are so much less pointy?” Kili, not deterred by Bilbo’s ire in the slightest, wiggled his fingers behind his ears to emphasize the pointed nature.

“Tooks happen to have faerie blood in them. Somewhere along the line one left to go off on an adventure, quite an adventure it must have been too, and the rest is history. Those with Took blood are often seen as strange amongst us,” Bilbo paused there, he wasn’t really sure why his ears were less pointed than his peers. He imagined it had to do with his sire, looking at the dwarrow, with their rounded ears it felt like a reasonable guess.

“Wait? Are you seen as strange then? With your manners?” 

Bofur answered for the hobbit, “Aye, he’s strange, laddie. Why else would he sign on with us?”

That was met with laughter from the rest of the party and Bofur sent a friendly wink to Bilbo. Bilbo sighed with relief, glad to be a part of the joke for the sake of his secret. 

Then the rain set in, and everyone’s mood seemed to turn melancholic. Even Gandalf was affected by the dreary nature of their environment and took to answering his own questions with curt responses. The solitary leader was the only one who seemed to stay the same, although given his base mood one couldn’t really say if it was an improvement. 

***

They were setting up camp for the night when Bilbo noticed the disturbance between the wizard and the leader of their company. It set him on edge, the wizard was the closest thing to home he had at the moment and watching him walk away put a squeeze on Bilbo’s heart that was distinctly uncomfortable. The longer the wizard was gone the more uneasily Bilbo paced throughout the camp. His nervousness was interrupted by Bofur handing him two bowls of stew.

“Here do us a favor, take these to the lads, Mahal knows they need to keep their strength up,” Bofur gave a sharp glance toward Bilbo, “You do too.”

Bilbo meekly took the bowls and tramped out to the edge of camp where Kili and Fili had holed up watching the ponies. The two brothers were disturbingly silent as Bilbo approached and it left the hobbit more nervous than he was before. 

“What’s the matter?” Bilbo hedged as he handed them their bowls.

“Master Baggins,” the use of his proper name made Bilbo pause, “I believe we have a problem.”

A pause before Bilbo responded, his hand drifting up to the necklace to worry the beads there, “What seems to be the problem?” 

“Well,” Kili began, “We’re meant to be watching the ponies you see, only…”

“We started out with 16,” Fili jumped in, “and now we’re down to 14.”

Bilbo licked his lips, “Well, shouldn’t we tell Thorin?”

“No, best not to worry him, they can’t have gone too far.” 

“And,” the brothers turned toward him, “We figured, as burglar of course, that you might want to try and recover them.”

Bilbo arched his brow at the two, it was quite clear that they didn’t want to get in trouble, but Bilbo wasn’t sure this was a good idea. He glanced around the clearing, noting the freshly uprooted trees. That paired with the mutterings of Gandalf about a farm left Bilbo with the sinking suspicion that whatever took the ponies was quite a nasty sort. 

“I suppose I could try and find them?”

“There’s a good lad!” Kili thumped Bilbo across the back, “We’ll be right behind you should anything happen!”

“Hmph, no doubt,” Bilbo muttered under his breath as he hugged the shadows of the treeline moving forward into the forest. He had keen nightvision, far beyond what his mother had, and his hearing was strong enough to lead him to a second clearing filled with a cheery fire. The cheery nature of the hearth was offset by the brutish nature of its stokers. Three trolls, ugly and cruel, were in possession of the ponies. 

Bilbo had a clear line of sight to their steeds. The ponies were tethered behind the fire, he should be able to sneak over there easily enough. Freeing them would be another matter altogether, for although hobbits were a sneaky bunch, quietly passing unnoticed through the land, they were not a strong folk. Even with Bilbo’s physical differences from his folk, freeing the ponies would take more smarts than strength. Untying the troll's knot would be a handy piece of work, one made easier if Bilbo had a knife. The hobbit had half a mind to make his way back to the dwarves and ask for one of their blades before he steeled his mind and hedged forward. Bilbo’s heart ached as he saw the wide-eyed panic in Bungo and Daisy’s eyes. The ponies were as terrified as Bilbo and as he got closer he couldn’t help but try to shush them with comforting nonsense. 

He was close enough to pat the ponies' noses when the worst happened. In an effort to undo the rope Bilbo had snuck to the weakest looking knot, unfortunately right behind the most fidgety troll. The knot was loosened, the ponies halters shaking free, when a hand reached behind the troll and scooped Bilbo up. 

The next thing Bilbo knew was an experience so unpleasant that he feared he would never be able to erase it from his mind. Or nose. He was covered in snot, a foul smelling slimy textured enveloping mucous that was sneezed onto him by an equally surprised troll. The two started at each for a brief minute before Bilbo found himself being flung onto the ground. Flashes of black and white sparked through Bilbo’s vision as he tried to steady himself, his body ached from the landing and he barely stood up before the trolls approached him again.

“Eh now, whot’s this?”

“I sneezed it out,” one troll exclaimed.

“Whot are you?”

“I’m a burg… hobbi…” Bilbo, still dazed from the blow, wasn’t making much sense to anyone in particular, “I don’t think I know what I am.”

“It’s a mystery then! Can we eat a mystery, it doesn’t look very tasty - not much too ‘im.”

“Oh no! I’m not a mystery, it doesn’t do to be a mystery, and I doubt I’m very tasty.” Bilbo patted himself down grimacing at the snot. He made his way to the ponies, absentmindedly shooing them away, ignoring the exclamations of the slow witted trolls. The ponies had the good sense to flee faster than they could be grabbed, sensing that Bilbo was perhaps the new target. 

He was roughly grabbed again, lifted high in the air, Bilbo gulped as the troll asked, “Are there more of you mysteries?”

“No, no, just me, solo mystery,” Bilbo babbled out, desperately hoping that the brothers had the sense to alert Thorin. He doubted his mother would appreciate him getting sent to his fate by trolls of all things. 

“Prep the seasoning, if we’ve lost the nags, we’ll have fresh mystery!”

Whatever the trolls were about to do was stopped by the appearance of the company. Led by Thorin, Kili, and Fili the dwarves stormed the trolls camp and began slashing at the overgrown creatures. Bilbo found himself getting dropped once again, this time he had the sense to tuck and roll, mitigating some of the damage of the fall. He was pulled up and off to the side by a worried and focused looking Bofur.

“Stay put!”

Bilbo tried, he really did, (the hobbit wasn’t particularly fond of danger after all) but the dwarves could use help. Bilbo found a forgotten knife, previously tucked into a troll's waistband, and began to join the fray. It was not like fighting wolves, their lifeblood closer to the jagged edge of Bilbo’s blade in years past, instead, the trolls were tough skinned, resistant to the dull blade the hobbit wielded. All it took was one small distraction. One small unlucky moment. 

Bilbo was up in the air again, his limbs out of his control as he was pulled in all directions by the trolls. The dwarves below him, Kili and Fili stared up in horror, Thorin with a cross sort of determination that almost frightened Bilbo as much as it gave him hope. 

“Drop your weapons then, or we tear this mystery apart!”

To emphasize the point the trolls pulled at Bilbo’s limbs, the hobbit felt a sort of sharp jolt before numbness spread through his shoulder and arm. For a blissful moment Bilbo couldn’t tell what had just happened, and then a throbbing agony took over where his arm was. Bilbo just tilted his head, he looked down at the limb that seemed to have grown an inch longer, perhaps he was seeing things, he had hit his head after all. He looked back at the dwarves, Thorin’s face was pinched (and oh dear, perhaps he was mad at Bilbo, he really wasn’t meant to be a burglar) and Bilbo found himself wishing they had just gotten the leader in the first place instead of sending him in to find the ponies. 

Thorin dropped his sword, the rest of the dwarves grudgingly following his action. That was when the bags came out, dwarves and Bilbo alike were shoved into bags tied at their necks. They were then thrust into a pile while the trolls separated the first batch for their dinner. Bilbo watched with a detached sense of reality as Bofur, Dwalin, and others were tied to a roasting spit. Slowly he centered himself, (talk of seasonings had always been a grounding point with Bilbo, likely due to the many afternoons cooking with Belladonna). Sage, thyme, dawn, trolls… Time! Thoughts whirled through Bilbo’s mind and that’s when the answer came to him. Adrenaline numbing his body Bilbo lurched into activity.

“You don’t want to cook them like that!”

Bilbo struggled to his feet, his left arm aching and hangin useless inside the bag, “Wot d’you mean?”

“I mean sage, really, is that the best seasoning you can do. Have you smelled this company? No, no, sage won’t do at all. You’ll need some vinegar or perhaps some wine, do you have wine?”

“Wine? Wot’s that for?”

“Why to help tenderize the flesh. Dwarrow are particularly tough and stringy, you know. Tougher than those horses would have been. No, you want to slow cook dwarves, roast them in a pot with wine and herbs.”

Bilbo did his best to ignore the outraged commentary coming from the dwarves all around him. He really didn’t know what he was doing, but he remembered a story from his mother, a story describing how the morning light turned trolls into stone. Well, Bilbo reasoned with himself, morning couldn’t be far off and he was a decent cook so if he needed to stall till morning he would. 

“Do you have a pot?”

The trolls looked at each other, they rarely had helpful food after all, “We got a pot, got no wine though.”

“Oh that is a shame,” Bilbo pretended to be upset, pain clouding his thinking as he tried to stumble on a new method to distract them with, “Well how about a griddle. Do you have a nice griddle?”

“Wot we need a griddle for?”

“Well if you can’t slow roast them, you could pan fry them? You know, get a pleasant sear?” The outraged comments grew louder, Bilbo glanced back at them, trying to convey his plan, so Bilbo turned back to the trolls. 

“I say we squash ‘em,” one troll spoke up, “and start with that little one, he makes too much noise.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened, the sky was beginning to lighten, he needed just a little more time. 

“No! I wouldn't do it, squashing is a waste of time, anyhow, all of the dwarves have parasites!”

The entire camp went silent. The trolls pausing to consider Bilbo’s claim while the dwarves wondered whether to be insulted or not. Ultimately the dwarves decided to loudly protest the claim, Bilbo turned once more to the company trying to communicate his plan without giving it away. A complicated process when one lacks hands and the freedom to vocalize one's thoughts. Thorin caught Bilbo’s eye, the leader glaring into the blue eyes of the hobbit. Understanding flashed across the dwarf’s face and he gave an imperceptible nod to the hobbit. A second later and Bilbo watched as Thorin directed a new chorus from the dwarves.

“Aye parasites! As big as my arm!”

“I have parasites all through me!”

“I’ve got the biggest parasites!”

“No, I do!”

“Do not!”

Bilbo’s eyes caught a rustle in the brush, a glimpse of grey and relief swept through his body. Gandalf had arrived. From there the trolls were shortly dispatched. The dawn sweeping over their bodies and turning them to stone. Bilbo found himself taking his first deep breath since the ponies went missing. Unfortunately as he worked his way out of the bag, with the help of Dori and Balin, he had forgotten about his arm. Bilbo went to lift his arm and felt a tinge before unceremoniously passing out. The last thing he saw was the worried gaze of Balin. 

***

When Bilbo regained consciousness he was laying down. The ground was a pleasant relief from standing up and Bilbo found himself looking around, there were several dwarves hovering around him. Balin, Bofur, Kili and Fili, and even Thorin was within sight. 

“Master Baggins,” Balin began, “It seems that you’ve dislocated your shoulder.”

“Dislocated,” Bilbo muttered, still dazed from the events, “No, it’s located. Look,”

Bilbo made as if to raise his arm to show its location but was prevented from the action by Thorin’s hand. The dwarf gently pushed down on Bilbo’s chest, “Master Hobbit, you are not to move until Oin looks you over.”

The tone contradicted the gentle action and Bilbo just blinked. He let his head sink back against the ground with a hum. Why, he’d nearly been killed by trolls, trolls. What would his mother say? Gandalf stooped over him a moment later, even as Thorin was shouting orders at the members of the company and the other dwarves went to their tasks. 

“Why Bilbo, I’m glad one of you had the sense to stall for time, although I was rather worried.”

“Gandalf,” Bilbo smiled up at him, “I don’t suppose you could fix my arm?”

“No, dear boy. But, I imagine those we are about to see will have the means to put it all to rights.”

“Who are we going to see?”

Gandalf merely smiled and turned to follow Thorin. Oin quickly took Gandalf's place and began tutting over Bilbo. The company’s healer poked around the joint (by this time quite swollen and tender) and humphed one last time before calling out in Khuzdul. Bilbo tried to identify any words, unfortunately there were none he recognized. Although, he shouldn’t be surprised, his mother’s hidden journal had really only informed him of a dozen or two words, most of which were affectionate in nature. Not for the first time did Bilbo wish his mother had told him of his heritage sooner than her deathbed. In response to Oin’s call Bofur and Thorin returned to the healer’s side. 

“We’re going to have to set the joint laddie.” 

“Hmm, what?” Bilbo panicked, whatever setting the joint meant he did not think it would be pleasant.

“You’re arm, it’s popped out of its socket. To be ready to move we need it back in.”

Bofur jumped in, “It’ll only take a second or two, not much worse than the popping it out!”

For some reason Bilbo doubted Bofur’s word, unconsciously he turned to look at Thorin for confirmation. The leader was stoic as always, his face set into a firm grimace, but in his eyes (and Bilbo was really questioning why he seemed to connect with the grumpy dwarf) there was a sympathetic gleam that told Bilbo that Bofur was lying. Bilbo grimaced before setting his own face into the polite disinterest worthy of a hobbit of his standing and nodded to Oin signalling his readiness.

The healer positioned the other two on either side of Bilbo, ready to support the hobbit should he faint again. Bilbo started distracting himself as Oin grabbed his arm, he couldn’t stop the flinch that ran through his body. The two dwarves on either side crowded a little closer, Bilbo leaned back against them, if he closed his eyes maybe he could pretend it was his family. There would be Bungo, firm to his left, and to his right … 

Further imagining was cut off by a sharp sensation. Bilbo hunched into himself as his left arm flamed into agony. Bofur definitely lied. Bilbo kept his eyes closed and focused, this wasn’t the worst pain he’d felt, he tried to push his mind back to the Fell Winter. To the wolves. The lacerations and sickness. The memories washed over him and the pain in his arm faded, replaced with the distant cold that always seemed to numb him when he thought about that winter. 

He was still numb when Gandalf approached him with a small sword. Perfectly sized for the still growing hobbit. Bilbo didn’t want the sword, he’d never wanted to touch another blade again. He couldn’t seem to tell the wizard that, the words frozen on his tongue. 

Instead, Bilbo found his voice in time to say, “I can’t take this.”

“The blade is of elvish make, it will glow blue when orcs or goblins are near, it would be foolhardy not to accept it Bilbo.”

“I’ve, I, I don’t want to use it.”

“I know, but Bilbo, so long as you remember, it takes courage to know when to use a blade. More courage still to know when to let a blade rest. It does not do well to take life unnecessarily.”

Bilbo wordlessly took the blade, holding it loosely at his side. 

A commotion broke out, the dwarves formed a protective group surrounding the hobbit as the unknown force approached. It was no orc, or goblin, it was a wizard. This was Radagast. The company relaxed as Gandalf discussed matters with the wizard. Bilbo found himself turning to Fili to ask for help tying the sword to his belt. The peaceful moment was shattered by a howl. The numb feeling shattered across Bilbo’s body. He was suddenly alert, the pain fading once more as adrenaline coursed through his veins.

“Wargs!” Bofur cried out.

The foul beasts descended onto the company, chasing down from the hills even as Kili fired an arrow and Dwalin brought his axe down upon their neck. Scouts, Thorin was quick to inform them. The party was being hunted and Bilbo could only surmise that the pale orc was the offending hunter (Bilbo had after all read many an adventure novel and seemed to know that past villains were often inclined to make appearances at awfully inconvenient times). Radagast tried to lead the orc hunting party away. Tried to save the company from discovery and it almost worked. It wasn’t enough in the end. The company was surrounded. 

Bilbo pulled his sword out, the blade held in a loose but ready grip as the company circled around a rock formation. Gandalf was nowhere in sight, but Bilbo found he was secure in the company of the dwarrow. The wargs crept closer, Kili’s arrows unable to deter their approach, and Bilbo found himself thinking that this was the moment he would see his mother again.

Then Gandalf appeared out of nowhere, “Run you fools!”

That was all it took for the dwarrow to mobilize in a retreat. Diving down into the rock formation they found a cavern and tunnel far out of reach of the wargs. Bilbo felt himself take a deep breath, the ice was fading into exhaustion as he leaned against the rock wall. Sheathing his blade at the sight of the others doing the same Bilbo followed the company down into the tunnel. It was surprisingly bright, the sunlight streaming through a crack in the ceiling and Bilbo had to hope that a path this wholesome would lead to safety. 

His hope was not unfounded and Bilbo found himself in a haze of wonder at the sight of Rivendell unfolding before his eyes. The last homely house, he had dreamt of coming here as a fauntling. His mother promised to take him when he reached his majority. He’d never had the heart to try to visit after her death. It was a sight to behold, the soft waterfalls, trees blossoming in the sunlight, Bilbo felt a sense of peace descending upon him even as the dwarves grumbled. The walk down into the heart of Rivendell was beautiful and Bilbo forgot his pain once again at the sheer beauty. The peace was shattered as an elvish patrol made its way into Rivendell. 

The dwarves closed rank, Bilbo was pulled into the middle of the group, hidden behind the taller dwarves as Elrond approached. The hostility frightened Bilbo, he was unaware of the hate between the dwarves and elves. Bilbo strained to look at the legendary healer and leader of the elves. He was just as Belladonna had described him, lithe, powerful, with delicately pointed ears, and soft long hair. A scholar and a warrior. 

“Welcome Thorin, son of Thrain.”

“I do not believe we have met.”

“You have your grandfather’s bearing, I knew him before the mountain fell.”

Thorin scoffed, his eyes tight with what Bilbo could only describe as resentful grief, “He made no mention of you.”

Elrond’s eyes narrowed, glancing over the group, “A halfling? You have brought one of Yavanna’s own children with you?”

Bilbo pushed his way forward, the dwarves parting in order to prevent jostling of his arm, “Um, yes, hello. Bilbo Baggins, how do you do?”

Elrond’s eyes crinkled with mirth, “Very well, well met Bilbo Baggins. I am Lord Elrond, I extend my welcome to you, and your company. Although I should like to ask if you need a healer, my halls are more than equipped to offer our services.”

“No, no I couldn’t impose,” Bilbo blustered, “really it’s fine, a mere… dislocation? And it was already set, I’m sure it’s fine.”

“There is no imposition, we will see to your arm promptly.” 

Bilbo found himself hustled off by several elves while the company behind him protested. The shouts, both in common speech and Khuzdul, were loud enough to pause Bilbo’s elvish escort. The pause was all that was needed, Thorin signed something (really Bilbo thought whatever sign language the dwarves had was wildly effective) and both Dwalin and Kili made their way to Bilbo’s side. The elves frowned and the dwarves frowned right back. 

“He is one of ours,” Thorin’s voice reached out in a brief moment of diplomatic request, “I would be … grateful … if other members of our party might accompany him.”

Elrond inclined his head and the healing party once again made their way forward. The winding halls of Rivendell were all that was occupying Bilbo’s mind as he trudged alongside the elves. The two dwarves were solidly behind him, Kili also taken with the sights while Dwalin was grim faced. 

The healing halls were spacious and dimly lit so as to give them a restful feel. Bilbo found himself fighting a yawn as he sat on the examination couch. The elves gave slight bows as they left the room, a quiet acknowledgement that a healer would soon join them. 

“Why didn’t Thorin want to come here, it’s beautiful?”

“Elves are not to be trusted,” Dwalin was short with his answer.

“Even Elrond? My mother spoke so highly of him, surely we can trust his hospitality?”

“Aye, Dwalin, wasn’t it the elves of the Greenwood that did us wrong?” Kili asked, confusion crossing the young dwarf’s face.

Any answer the elder dwarf had prepared was cut short by the entrance of the healer. She was a lithe elf, slim hands and discerning eyes. Bilbo felt intimidated by her, he really hadn’t expected a physical. The nerves must have shown because Kili slid closer and grabbed at Bilbo’s free hand holding it tightly. Dwalin took a step closer from behind, his shadow falling across Bilbo like a blanket. For once he was grateful for the physical proximity and Bilbo felt himself relax marginally and he sent a tentative smile toward the elf. 

“Hello little one, Lord Elrond tells me you have had a recent injury?”

“Aye, he was near torn apart by trolls!” 

The elf eyed Kili, considering his statement, “Did anything else occur, little one? Have you any other pains?”

“They may have dropped me twice, although the second time wasn’t that bad. I remembered to tuck and roll.”

The elf hummed, a harmonious sound that had Bilbo relaxing further, “May I see your shoulder then?”

Bilbo just kind of looked down at his shoulder before looking at her, “Unclothed, little one, I need to assess the swelling and bruising. As well as your ribs I would imagine.”

Oh, Bilbo hadn’t expected that. He didn’t really want to either, it wasn’t that he was ashamed or embarrassed, although hobbits did practice many modest behaviors, it was simply that he didn’t like the reminder. Bilbo began to carefully unbutton his vest (an activity he had not realized how heavily he depended on two hands for). Kili reached over and began helping Bilbo, taking the clothing items and neatly folding them beside them on the bed. When skin was bare and the hasty wrapping Oin had put on was removed Bilbo could see how badly his arm had swollen. While his eyes were lingering on the swollen joint the other occupants of the room were looking elsewhere. 

The two dwarves were looking, their brows furrowed and confusion darting through their eyes, at the scarred punctures and tears that marked the hobbits sturdy torso. Their focus on the narrative crossing Bilbo’s body was enough to distract them from seeing the mithril necklace draped around Bilbo’s neck. This was not what they expected. 

The elf took the whole picture in. The muscle deposits, the rounded ears, the scars, the swollen shoulder, and the exhaustion radiating out of the hobbit (although she was quite sure that that was not all the creature was). 

“Little one, there are some questions I may ask during the examination that are of a personal nature, would you like your companions present. They may include family history.”

The subtle hint at the elfs suspicion was enough to snap Bilbo out of his own curious examination, “Yes, I think some things might be private.”

Kili exclaimed, “Master Baggins, we cannot leave you!”

Dwalin also looked uncomfortable at the suggestion, “Really I’ll be fine, some simple questions and a rewrapping of my arm and I’ll be right out.”

“We’ll hold the door.” Dwalin eyed Bilbo, “We will come if you call.”

The promise made Bilbo smile, if he called, oh. It felt good to know someone would be there, “Thank you, I shall let you know if I need you.”

With that Dwalin hauled Kili to his feet and marched just outside the room. 

With the dwarves gone Bilbo found himself tensing up again, he already missed the quiet presence of Dwalin and the laughing balance of Kili. The room seemed colder without them. Bilbo found his hand reaching up to fiddle with the necklace, worrying one of the beads between his fingers. 

“Be calm, little one, I mean you no harm,” the elf had a disarming smile.

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” Bilbo smiled back, the polite mask firmly in place as his hand dropped to his side.

The elf applied a salve, whispering words of healing as she gently adjusted and massaged the swollen joint of his shoulder. The touch sent shivers across Bilbo’s bare back and he fought the urge to call the dwarves back in. He wasn’t a child, he didn’t need somebody to hold his hand. He began reciting the list of things he was betting Lobelia would try to pilfer while he was gonna in an effort to distract himself. He had gotten through all his silver spoons by the time the elf was finished. 

“There now, you must rest your arm. The salve,” she placed a small ointment jar in Bilbo’s palm, “will help with the healing and swelling. In two weeks time you should be able to move at full strength. I would hesitate to do much heavy lifting with this arm in the meantime little one. If you do use your arm past what is wise there will likely be delayed healing and internal damage to the joint.”

“I’ll see what I can do, although the journey is not a smooth one. My arms can be a valuable tool to the company I imagine.” 

The elf slightly furrowed her brow, an expression of distaste if Bilbo had to guess, “I’ll see to it that their healer is informed of your condition.”

“That’s hardly necessary…” Bilbo’s protest petered out after the elf directed a hard stare at him.

“Now, some questions, little one. Are you aware of your heritage?”

“My heritage,” Bilbo blustered, “Of course, my parents were Belladonna and Bungo Baggins. I am perfectly aware of my heritage.”

At the name Belladonna the elf’s eyes widened, her other questions forgotten, “The fair lady? I must collect Lord Elrond, he will want to speak with you.”

Bilbo found himself suddenly alone and so he stood up and went to the door the dwarves had exited by. Opening it he found a pacing Kili and a stoic Dwalin. A welcome sight and Bilbo let out a sigh of relief.

“I think you can come back in, and anyways, I think I need some assistance with my shirt.” 

The dwarves entered the room immediately and Kili busied himself helping Bilbo dress again. The chill in the air disappeared and Bilbo sat once more on the bench. Kili sat close beside him, the dwarf reached for Bilbo’s hand once more and held it tight. Bilbo was confused by the action, but he could not deny that the touch felt good, grounding and soft in a way that he hadn’t been allowed to be in a long while. They stayed like that for a while, Dwalin occasionally humming the odd tune to pass the silence. 

The companionable time was broken by the entrance of Elrond. The gracious and stately elf stood still, his eyes locked onto Bilbo, “Baggins, I should have known. Belladonna’s son.”

“You knew her?” Bilbo couldn’t keep the desperate curiosity out of his voice, his mother loved him, he knew that, but she had been gone so often. Sometimes it felt like he didn’t know her. “I always assumed her elf friend was, well, someone with a lesser standing?”

Elrond chuckled, “No, little one, she was a dear friend. A wild young lady, if I dare to suggest it, your mother was a welcome presence in the valley. I did not know that she was married, the last time I saw her she was with child.”

Bilbo was made aware of the dwarven companions as Kili’s hand squeezed his tighter, “So that was a courting chest then!”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, a family heirloom back at Bag End.” Bilbo had the dreadful feeling that his secret was not going to be secret much longer. 

Elrond seemed to understand the tension hanging in the air as he stated, “Perhaps this is a discussion for after dinner, you all must be hungry. I will collect the others and Lindir will guide you to the commons.”

Chapter Text

The conversation did continue, in private this time. A fact Bilbo was exceedingly grateful for. He did not exactly wish for the world to know of his mixed heritage, bad enough that the elves had discerned it, he didn’t want the dwarves, or Gandalf, to know. At least not yet. Bilbo would prove he belonged in the company without his mixed heritage lending a bias. It wasn’t as if he had a name to trade upon anyways. He was simply Master Baggins, the would-be burglar. 

Elrond walked alongside him, “Does the company know of your mixed heritage?”

“No, no one does, at least no one before you.”

“Really? Not even Mithrandir? I must question the wisdom in secrecy. Surely there is no shame in admitting your sire?”

“There would be no shame should my mother have been married, should she have had a name for my sire. There would be no shame if a great many things were different Lord Elrond.” 

Bilbo sighed, “I would rather they not know. Gandalf can’t do anything about it, and it would be quite unfortunate should it make its way back to the Shire.”

Elrond glanced down at the diminutive figure, “Very well, I wish I had more to offer you. Your mother was distressed when she arrived at our door. Already with child and mourning, she had very little to remember your sire by.”

“I know, I’m afraid this,” Bilbo pulled the chain out from under his shirt before tucking it hastily away again, “is all I have of his. Outside of my mother’s glorybox.”

“I’m sure you have her stories though. I recall she had a great talent when it came to storytelling.”

Bilbo was silent, Elrond glanced down at the hobbit, “Bilbo, little one?”

“She did not tell me anything until the Fell Winter.”

Understanding crossed Elrond’s face and they walked in silence. Bilbo wasn’t sure what to make of the elves. His imaginings of youth were not fulfilled, however, Rivendell was as beautiful as his mother had said. Indeed, the time with the elves would be treasured, but there was something about the delicate halls that did not call to him the way the raucous company of the dwarrow did. Bilbo couldn’t help but be disappointed by that to some extent. He had so longed to see the elves that he was not prepared for the experience itself. 

Elrond began again, “might I ask then, how do you differ from your species? Surely there are differences, although none so great that those you surround yourself with might see.”

Bilbo hesitated and Elrond opened his mouth,  “I assure you, little one, that anything you confide will remain solely between you and I.”

That sealed it, Bilbo felt his resolve crumble and he began, “Well, there are really quite a lot of differences between me and the other hobbits when you truly look. I’m afraid, superficially of course, that my feet are not quite like the others.” 

(This of course was a great deal of embarrassment for the not quite hobbit)

“My ears are less pointed than the others, my vision is better at dusk and twilight than during the day.” Bilbo paused, “I’m quite a bit slimmer than is fashion as well, I tend to hold a little more muscle. I suppose I am quite durable in comparison to my peers. Mother used to say I looked like my father, looking back I don’t know if she meant my father, Bungo, or my sire.” 

Elrond perceived the little creature as they walked, there was something that he was still holding back, “Is that all? Surely those are not the worst differences to bear?”

“Well, see,” Bilbo gave a little hmph, “it really isn’t, well it’s a point of… I”

“Yes?”

“I expect I am still growing.” 

The statement was all rushed out as if Bilbo was quite embarrassed to admit it. Elrond didn’t know what to do with the information, in fact the implications of the statement were worrying. Elrond was no fool, he knew that the movement of Thorin to the east meant only one thing. The heir of Durin was going to reclaim the mountain, a foolhardy quest to many, but not one he could prevent the grown party from going on. However, if what Bilbo acknowledged was true then there was a likelihood that not all members of the party were past their age of majority. Elrond did not know what to do with the information. He did not have time to consider his options either before the two faced the approaching figures of Balin, Thorin, and Gandalf. 

“It is time.”

***

Thorin was frustrated by the turn of events. He was worried about the hobbit, stuck with the elves due to Gandalf’s machinations, and troubled by the troll's presence. Their interference was not a good omen for the journey. Nor was it good for their burglar. Thorin had heard the pop, the joint pulled from its socket and felt his own body ache at the agony written across Bilbo’s face. Their eyes met and there was a trust, an agonized plea echoing in the hobbit’s gaze that Thorin had not seen since Frerin. His brother had looked at Thorin like that, as they fled the dragon fire, outside of Moria as the orcs descended. Thorin hadn’t been able to help him then, but Thorin could help Bilbo now. He could not promise the hobbit’s safety but he could promise to try and protect him. 

When Gandalf had shown up, relief spread across the company. The wizard would save them, and they were not disappointed. Then Bilbo fainted. The company was in chaos, the hobbit was unconscious, there was a troll hoard to look for and Thorin was pulled in all directions. He did not love the weight of leadership as he barked orders to the scattered dwarves. He hovered around the prone body, pressing Bilbo from further damages. Thorin, uncomfortable with the surge of protectiveness he felt, backed off to examine the troll hoard with Gandalf. The cave was accounted for and Thorin found himself heading back to the trolls camp, anxious to see how the hobbit was faring. It was Oin who summoned him to the hobbit’s side as he was about to set the joint. 

Thorin positioned himself behind the hobbit, Bofur on the other side, and readied himself. He remembered the first time Dis’s boys had a dislocated joint. It was Kili, he had been playing in a tree with Fili when he toppled off a branch. His brother had caught him, but the jolt from the catch had shaken the limb out of its socket. When Thorin had found the boys they were both crying and Thorin had found himself holding both of them. Dis was crying too when it came to set the joint, the stoic mother was as much in agony as her boys were. The children recovered well, playing by the evening’s end, but Kili and Fili were dwarves and dwarves were a sturdier breed than hobbits by all appearances. 

Bofur was painting a picture of the process, a false promise that it would be painless. Thorin felt his mouth tighten, Bilbo glanced up to him, his eyes open and asking for confirmation of Bofur’s statements. Thorin couldn’t find it in himself to lie to the hobbit. Bilbo closed his eyes and looked downward, his face closing off into a mask of indifference even as his body flinched as Oin took his arm. Thorin found himself crowding closer, an arm reached out to support the hobbit before his mind caught up with him. The hobbit pressed backward into both of them and Thorin was thrown into the past. His brother pressed up against Thorin’s chest on the ramparts of Erebor during cold nights, then later the two sharing a bedspread on the trek to Moria sharing warmth in the hopeless aftermath of the dragon’s attack. Frerin. Thorin missed his brother, it was an ache best left for another time though and Thorin distanced himself from it as the hobbit’s joint was set.

Then came the wargs. 

The company was pushed into the open, racing against time to safety. Thorin felt his heart in his mouth as Kili and Fili were so far out from the group. He could not lose his sister’s sons. The betrayal of finding himself in the elven house was mitigated by the relief he felt that their company was whole. They were safe, the first obstacles overcome, Thorin couldn’t help but heave a sigh as they passed through the trails to arrive in the center of the elven stronghold. 

His relief made way to suspicion as their company was greeted by an austere elf. The Lord of the house was not available, convenient. Then he heard the horns. 

“Close rank!” 

The company responded to his command swiftly, Thorin signing to Bofur to bring the hobbit to the middle of their group. Thorin told himself it had to do with the injured status of the hobbit and not with the association between the halfling and his lost brother. Regardless of his motivations Bilbo was placed in the middle and kept as out of sight as possible. It was to affect, however, Bilbo was spotted and ushered off to the healers of Rivendell. Thorin would not risk the group, or his heirs' safety. Better to have a divided party and more potential for survival should the elves play some trick than to risk them altogether. Thorin signalled for Dwalin and Kili to accompany the hobbit. Those three would be a safe group and Thorin could rest easy that Dwalin would protect them. 

The rest of the evening was spent eating, bathing, resting, and later examining the map by the light of the moon. The last task was one that left Thorin feeling exposed. His culture, his legacy, his family was given up to Lord Elrond, an elf, for examination. Everything felt stripped raw. Gandalf might call it stubborn pride but Thorin could not ignore the urge to protect his past from outsiders. Bad enough they had a hobbit, no matter how much he bore a resemblance to Durin’s own lost son, but to include the elves was enough to shatter Thorin’s thin veneer of gratitude. Balin was also wary of sharing the map with the elf lord. Bilbo, the small creature, had somehow joined the company as they viewed the map on the moonlit terrace. His face was a mask of wonder and curiosity as he viewed the map. There was no selfish guile, no scheming. Just a simple expression of appreciation that mollified the dwarf prince. 

Bilbo Baggins may be ill suited for a world of war and pain, but his curiosity and appreciation of the dwarrow as a people was beloved by the company. Rarely were they greeted with a good natured acceptance and while Thorin would be loathed to admit that Bilbo’s soft wonder for their culture was valued he couldn’t deny it either. It had been a treasure to see Fili and Kili enthusiastically sharing their history with the hobbit. There was precious little time for dwarrow to be proud of their heritage whilst earning a living in the world of men. The hobbit, for better or worse, was a cemented and much cared for member of their party. Thorin’s opinion of the hobbit would face another challenge as Dwalin pulled him aside that night.

“He is more than we think.”

“What do you mean?”

Dwalin paused, waiting for the other dwarves to pass to their chambers, “He bears marks of a warrior. Scars, likely from a wolf, the marks were too small to be a warg. Whatever fighting he’s done has left a mark.”

Thorin eyed the dwarf, “There is more, isn’t there?”

“Suspicions, perhaps Kili would be better suited to discuss it. I believe he has already addressed the topic of the courting chest with you? Sensitive matters, sensitive enough to have the elf lord accompany Master Baggins separately.”

Thorin nodded at Dwalin’s confession and made his way to his nephew. Kili was sitting by a fire joking with the Ri brothers, Fili having already gone to bed, resting near the creature in question. 

“Nephew,” Thorin called, Kili’s head jerking up and he hastily headed over.

“Uncle? What is it?”

“Dwalin tells me you might have some insight regarding the hobbit?”

Kili fidgeted, his gazing jerking toward where the hobbit had disappeared for the night, “I’m not sure he’d want me sharing, he already didn’t want the courting chest to be known …”

“It will remain with me,” Thorin sighed, “I promise, Kili, but if it is important enough to warrant attention from the elf lord then it might warrant later attention and it would be wise to know in advance.”

Kili chewed his lip and fiddled with a bead in his hair, a nervous habit that ran in the family, “Lord Elrond knew his mother, said the last time he saw her was when she was with child.”

Thorin failed to see how this warranted the secrecy both Kili and the hobbit seemed to believe it needed until Kili continued, “he said she wasn’t wed at the time. Bilbo has no siblings. The timing, well it suggests that perhaps…”

“Perhaps what?” Thorin’s patience was wearing thin.

“Perhaps the dwarf friend of Belladonna Took was Bilbo’s father.”

Chapter Text

Bilbo was loath to say goodbye to the valley, the last homely house glowed in the early morning light. The dwarf company moved out before the world woke up, the disapproval of the elves enough of a risk to their mission that Thorin would not stay another day. Bilbo understood (truly, if he knew that Lobelia was on her way to prevent Bilbo from hosting a party he too would have left the house before she could arrive), sometimes the sanctity of home and hearth were more important than fostering social relations. That did not mean the hobbit wouldn’t miss the flowing halls of the elves.

“Master Baggins, I suggest you keep up,” Thorin called out. 

Bilbo turned to look at him, looking toward the mountains and the future. The light was with them and the day was young. Bilbo couldn’t help the excitement that coursed through him, they were on their way again. They were on their way, and Bilbo, unlikely Bilbo, had already faced trolls and wargs. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could do this, he could make his mother proud. 

The peaceful exit out of Rivendell could not last long however. It was the Misty Mountains that would test the hobbits' resolve next. The haggard surface of the rock faces an unwelcome change from the valleys and fields known so far.

Bilbo could sense something off about the mountains, it was as if a breath hung still in the air. A heartbeat thrummed under his feet and Bilbo couldn’t tell if it was the rhythm of the dwarrows footsteps or something more. He’d had experiences like this (on lesser scales of course, the Shire held no great mountains) before, sensing a life inside the stone of the Shire. He’d done his best to ignore it, it was never any bother and a simple enough thing to block out. The cobblestones and gentle hills never possessed the energy the stone mountains did. 

When the first rock sailed out of the sky, shattering on the cliff above them, Bilbo realized that the heartbeat was real. He didn’t have time to settle his mind on the fact he was now even more of an outsider as the debris fell toward the company. The slippery nature of the rock left him with unsteady purchase and Bilbo found himself slipping as the company tried to push for stable ground. Then the unthinkable happened. 

Rocks clashed together and the members of their company, separated by the giants, were smashed into the rock wall. The aggrieved cries that were howled by the company had nothing on the desperate cry of Kili for his brother. Bilbo could only stare in horror at the scene before him. The company, split in half, not even a week out of the peaceful sanctuary of Rivendell. This couldn’t be happening ran the despairing mind of the hobbit. The mournful exclamations fell away, morphing into relief and joy as the rock giant pulled away from the rock wall and the company could see the shifting bodies of their companions. 

Bilbo was lost to their joy, as the hobbit had lost what little purchase his nimble feet had gained on the slope and he had fallen. The slight pushing from the dwarves on their way to their companions had compounded with the wet rock and Bilbo found himself hanging by his fingertips over the abyss. Bilbo almost felt a sense of peace, in many ways death would be a relief. His mother was waiting for him. Oh, how Bilbo wished for his family. The mournful panicking of the hobbit nearly cost him his rescue as the dwarves reached for him. Calling for their burglar, Bilbo registered their distressed attempts at grabbing him. He tried to reach out, tried to grab Bofur’s proffered hands, but his fingers gave out and he found himself falling.

The weightlessness was abruptly stopped and Bilbo clung to the limb that caught him. The sensation of being pulled upward, into warmth, out of the cold, was barely acknowledged as Bilbo struggled to bring his breathing under control. The noise of the dwarves rushed around him, words he couldn’t make out, as he was being pried from the figure who had rescued him. Hands patted him over, checking to see if he was alright, but Bilbo flinched back from them, pushing back into the solitary rescuing warmth, overwhelmed by the commotion. He cradled his tender arm close to his chest as his breathing evened out. He allowed himself to be pulled toward the worried Bofur. It wasn’t until that figure spoke that Bilbo realized who his rescuer had been (a realization that was not without some level of guilt and hurt for the young burglar).

“He has been lost since he left his home. He should not have come with us! There is no place among us for him.”

The words were harsh, but Bilbo could not find it in his heart to contradict Thorin’s statement. He did not belong here. He did not belong in Bag End either. Bilbo was lost - lost between two worlds that would not accept him. He wished they’d let him fall. The false sense of security and confidence in his abilities fled the hobbit even as they found shelter in a nearby dry cave.

He didn’t belong. It wasn’t right for him to be here. He was a drain on valuable resources and slowed the group down. It was only right for him to leave, the company had a better chance without him. With that, Bilbo’s mind was made up and he determined to leave. The hobbit waited, pretending to sleep, evening out his breath until he heard the company drop off one by one. He was silent as he stood upright, belting the sword around him and packing his bag. There was nothing left for him to do. His vision was good enough that he should be able to retrace his steps along the mountain toward Rivendell. Perhaps Lord Elrond would tell him more about his mother, it had been a long time since he heard anything about her in a fond light. 

Unfortunately, Bilbo was met with some resistance. 

“Where are you going?” Bofur asked.

“Back to Rivendell,” Bilbo sighed, perhaps he should have seen this coming. At least from Bofur, Ori, and the young brothers. 

“You can’t do that! You’re one of us!” The exclamation ringing hollow in Bilbo’s ears. He wasn’t one of them, wasn’t a true dwarf, wasn’t one of the company. He wouldn’t have even been here except Gandalf wanted him, and the wizard wasn’t even around more often than not. 

“I’m not though am I? Thorin was right. I shouldn’t have come, I’m not a Took,” Bilbo glanced down, muttering, “not a Baggins. Really perhaps Rivendell is the best place for. I don’t seem to belong anywhere.” 

He looked up again and said in a stronger tone of voice, “I don’t belong here. I never should have run out that door and I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know what my grandfather was thinking, agreeing to my going on an adventure.”

“Yes you do, you’re one of us! You signed the contract. I understand,” Bofur began, “You’re homesick. That’s all, but it’ll be fine. We understand.”

“No, you don’t understand! How could you? You’re dwarves.” Bilbo whispered vehemently, “You’re used to this, this wandering sort of existence. You’re used to this, this not belonging anywhere! How can you be homesick when you don’t truly have a home!”

Bilbo knew the moment the words flew from his mouth that it wasn’t fair. He was immediately apologetic, but the words cut deep into his own heart. He wasn’t just speaking cruelly about the wandering state of the company, cut off from their home. He was speaking about himself (a lonely hobbit is not unlike a lonely mountain). A Baggins out of Bag End, a hobbit that is not a hobbit. Bilbo didn’t belong anywhere either and he felt hurt by it. With everyday he felt less and less like himself and it scared him. 

“Oh dear, I am sorry,” Bilbo began to apologize, “I didn’t mean…”

“No, you’re right.” Bofur’s quiet acceptance hurt, “We don’t belong anywhere.”

“But you should,” was all Bilbo had to offer in the silence that came after Bofur’s words.

The dwarf gazed down at the hobbit, a weary sort of expression marring his normally smiling countenance, “I wish you all the luck in the world, I really do.”

Bilbo half reached out, his arm straining to try and give the dwarf some comfort. Bilbo didn’t want to hurt anyone, but the reaction was awkward and Bilbo dropped his arm, unsure of what he could have done. The moment was broken by a soft glow emitted from the blade strapped at his side. Both Bofur and Bilbo’s eyes widened in horror at the realization that they were no longer alone. 

Goblins were upon them.

Thorin’s voice cut through the silence, crying for the company to wake up, but it was too late. The floor split beneath them and Bilbo watched as dwarf after dwarf fell down into the deep. He soon followed and it was with great pain that they landed in a heap under the mountain. As soon as the dwarves could, they tried to rally, pulling themselves out of the pile they had fallen into. It was no use, goblins swarmed them, pulling and tearing at the company as if they were table scraps. Bilbo found himself pulled along by the surging crowd but not grabbed at by the offending beasts. So Bilbo did what any fauntling would do in a situation like this (Bilbo had been nearly crushed several times during May celebrations by roaming crowds of hobbits, it was a lesson he never did forget), he ducked and waited for the crowd to leave. 

Bilbo really hadn’t expected his ploy to work but as he stood up and dusted himself off he found he could now follow the dwarves in peaceful stealth. At least that was what he tried to do. A solitary goblin, left behind by the crowd, set upon him. Bilbo pulled the blade Gandalf gave him and tried his best to fend off the attack, but any skill he had was rusty and his opponent was more agile than a wolf or warg. Bilbo found himself weakening, his left arm giving out mid swing. He lost his balance and teetered close to the edge, fear gripping him at the darkness below. The goblin made one more rush at him and Bilbo sank to his knee, sending the goblin across his back and into the recesses of the caverns below. The wood underneath gave way as Bilbo tried to rise, the sudden lurch causing him to lose balance once more and Bilbo could not catch himself. The hobbit fell backward, his back striking wood and rock as he dropped down. His screams echoing with the heartbeat of the mountain. 

Bilbo woke up in pain, his arm throbbing and lights dancing across his eyes. The mangled, yet somehow still breathing body of the goblin across from where he was hidden in some sort of fungal bed. That was when the creature approached. It was horrid to look at. Skin and bone, pale blue eyes that stared with a fascination so uncanny that Bilbo dared not look at him again. Instead he saw a gold gleam, falling from the forlorn creature that rasped “Gollum, Gollum.”

The goblin was dragged away by the creature, hissing and violent to its end. Bilbo waited until they were gone, trailing down the tunnel, before he stood up and collected his sword (still glowing that haunting blue). The golden gleam was still on the rock floor, it was beating with its own heartbeat, a heavy beat that resounded in Bilbo’s head. He didn’t like the sound at all, but, one could never do without a bargaining chip and it had fallen from the dreadful creature. So Bilbo picked it up, shuddering at the cold he dropped it into his pocket. 

Then Bilbo silently traveled down the hallway listening to the morbid singing, the blue glow illuminating his path. It wasn’t until water was in sight that the blue glow dimmed and went out. Bilbo stood still, hiding behind a rock outcrop, the goblin had died. A life, just snuffed out, in a moment. Bilbo wanted to throw up, he wasn’t sure if it was from pain or horror. He’d thrown up after the wolves, the snow was stained a sickening green alongside the vibrant red from his mother. He didn’t have much time to think because the next thing he saw was the glassy gaze of the hunched beast. 

“Bless and splash us precious, that's a meaty mouthful!”

Bilbo pressed the sword out, pressing it against the creature's neck, “Don’t come closer! I’m warning you!”

The reaction was instantaneous, the creature seemed to gag, expelling the same raspy sound as before while moving away from the hobbit. The wide eyes turned a considering glare upward, “It has an elvish blade, but its not an elfs? Not an elfs, no, what is it precious? What is it?”

“My name is Bilbo Baggins.”

“Baggineses? What is a bagginses precious?”

Now Bilbo didn’t want to tell the creature any more that he had to, but the rules of society, so deeply ingrained within him, compelled him to add, “I am a hobbit from the Shire.”

Upon hearing the creature's response Bilbo really wished he had remained silent. He was getting quite tired of being asked if he was a tasty morsel. He was a hobbit, or well part hobbit, and either way he was not a snack. Bilbo decided then and there that next time someone asked what he was he would lie. It would be far easier for both of them. 

“I don’t want to use this if I don’t have to.” Bilbo waved his blade around, calculated slashes just out of reach of the pitiful creature, “Just show me the way out.”

“Precious is lost is it?”

“Yes, yes I am!” 

“We knows the way, safe paths in the dark!” A dark look passed the creature's face, “No we donts, shut up!”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Wasn't talking to you bagginses!”

Bilbo was tired and as such he grew quite short, “Look, I don’t know what game you’re playing but I need to get out of here.”

“Game! We loves games we do!”

The disgusting being leapt around, like a slimy toad, in excitement before rattling off a riddle. Bilbo stood there, the sword dipping as confusion addled his brain. The riddle was a simple one, one that every fauntling learned. Upon his answer it was clear that the being was split in two. One desperate to play a riddle game, starved of some sort of company, and one desperate to kill the hobbit, and so a bargain was struck.

“If I win, yes? You show me the way out, safe and sound. Does this sound agreeable?”

Bilbo was bargaining with madness, “Yes, and if it loses precious, oh if it loses we eats it whole!”

Laughter seemed to choke the air out of the cavern as Bilbo sat there, he couldn’t deny the terms to deny now would likely lose him the game immediately, and his way out, “Fair enough, but I have to warn you, trolls have already tried and they did not find me satisfactory to their appetite.”

The game began. Bilbo spouted out a riddle, the first riddle he could think of. He hoped the creature wouldn’t get it. His hope was dashed. The game progressed, the creature circling as he intoned the riddle of his choice. Bilbo took time to figure it out, the answer coming to him in an instant.

“Wind!”

The creature was getting frustrated, violence entering his countenance with every right answer Bilbo gave. The two personalities seeming to clash within the creature. Bilbo drew his sword again, letting it hang by his side, the tension beginning to elevate into danger once more. Bilbo begged for time, thinking through the riddle even as the foul creature began singing about the tasty nature of bagginses.

“The answer is time,” Bilbo scoffed, “actually it wasn’t that hard.”

He was panicking now, his mind short circuiting as he looked around him. His fingers finding his pocket on their way up to his necklace, “What have I got in my pocket?”

“No fair!”

“No, no, that is fair, go on guess.”

The creature went through three guesses, each one as wrong as the last, “Alright you lost, now show me the way out! You promised.”

“Did we? Did we precious!” Anger crossed the hunched creature's face. 

Bilbo sensed his time was up, the creature would not show him the way out and it would very likely attack. Realization crossing its face. The rasping calls of Gollum chased Bilbo as he turned and ran. 

“He stoles it!”

The agonized cry would not stop Bilbo as he ran, deep into the tunnels he twisted. The ring once more was forgotten in his pocket. Oh how Bilbo missed Rivendell, there was nothing as nasty as this in those peaceful halls. His armchair back at Bag End, cozy and comfortable. The rugs beneath his feet, oh how Bilbo wished he was anywhere but down in the mountain. The stone hummed underneath his feet, Bilbo blindly followed the song it sang. It seemed to him that the mountain itself was trying to bring him to safety and so Bilbo trusted it. It very likely couldn’t do him any worse than he was already doing. 

Despite the mountain's own urgings Bilbo found the foul creature was still trailing him. He hid within a crevice, pushing through to the other side. His brass buttons caught on the wall and tore from the vest as he finally pushed through. He landed on his back the ring bursting out of his pocket, as Bilbo reached up to grab it it somehow slipped around his finger. The effect was immediate: the world turned gray and cold, the creature so close behind him somehow could no longer see Bilbo. It was as if he was invisible, perhaps, Bilbo marvelled at the ring (still sending the heavy thrum of its own dark song). Confident that if the creature had not seen him yet he would not see him so long as he wore the ring, and no wonder the bugger wanted it back if one was invisible hunting must be easier. Bilbo looked up and began following both the song of the mountain and the disgusting beast.

There it was, daylight, peeking from a gap in the stone. The beautiful sight of day. Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief before seeing the obstacle in his path, Gollum. Panic seized him once more, he had a blade it would be easy enough to end things now. To pass the creature and end his life. But Bilbo didn’t want to kill anybody, he felt sick enough as it was. The dark melody on his finger, the horror of losing his companions, even now he didn’t know if they were alive or if the goblins had killed them all. The thought alone had Bilbo near tears. No, he would not kill the creature. Perhaps in a different life he too would have been as forlorn, as alone, as the beast beside him. 

Bilbo looked up just then, an echo of a voice bouncing toward the sunlight. Gandalf! Bilbo watched, invisible to the company, as each dwarf ran through the gap and into daylight! They were safe, they were all safe, the hobbit nearly collapsed from joy before the realization that he still had to cross the gap hit him. Enough with the lolly-gagging. Bilbo squared his shoulders, sheathed his blade, and took a running start. With the agility only a Took could boast Bilbo sailed over the creature and ran toward the entrance of the mountain.

Bilbo sailed down the mountain, his feet finding purchase as he chased after his dwarves. And oh, that did feel good, his dwarves. He did not realize how much he had missed them while in the belly of the mountain. Soon, soon he would be caught up. All thoughts of leaving them were struck from his mind, bother what Thorin thought. His dwarves were alive and Bilbo would see them through to their home. He heard the echoing cry of Gandalf, hold on now, Bilbo was nearly there.

“Where is our hobbit!”

“Curse that halfling, now he’s lost!” Gloin exclaimed, annoyance coloring his tone.

Nori piped up, “I thought I saw him slip away when the goblins took us. I half expected him to show up with you!”

Then Thorin, his ferocious voice ripped through Bilbo’s heart, “I’ll tell you what happened, Master Baggins saw his chance and took it! HE has thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since he first left home. We will not be seeing our hobbit again, he is long gone.”

Bilbo, in his grief, could not hear the way Thorin’s voice constricted around the phrase ‘our hobbit’ nor could he hear the tinge of sadness at Thorin’s determination of the hobbits departure. He leaned back against a tree, stifling his breath as a hand rose to fiddle with his necklace. The metal of the ring clanked against the beads and Bilbo stilled. They could not see him, they did not know that he was there. Oh, well that changed things, maybe if they had seen him racing after them they would have known he would not leave (Bilbo wished with all his heart that he truly belonged with the company, as it was, he was prepared to be content with the meager place he had carved out among them). The ring came off.

“No. He isn’t.”

Bilbo stepped from behind the tree, his eyes meeting those of the dwarves, and of Gandalf. Bofur had a relieved smile on his face, leaning on his axe as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Kili and Fili looked on in eager wonder at the sight of their friend. Ori and Nori shared relieved smiles as the younger dwarf went to hug his brother. Balin, too, had a beaming smile across his face and clapped Bilbo across the back. 

Kili broke the silence, “Bilbo! We’d given you up!”

“How did you make it past the goblins?”

The last question was repeated by various members of the company but it was Gandalf who brushed them aside, “What does it matter, he is back now.”

Thorin was not as hasty to move on, his eyes narrowed on the hobbit (or was he more than that, more than a simple hobbit), “It matters. I want to know. Why did you come back?”

Bilbo swallowed, glancing down at his feet, his fingers tangled in the chain beneath his collar, “I know you doubt me.”

He looked Thorin in the eye, “I know you always have, and you’re right too. I am not a warrior, I don’t know how to wield weapons as you do. I’m not much good in a fight, and I often think of Bag End. My home, my parents home, the place I was born and raised. I miss my mother’s westfarthing, my father’s worn desk, the dressing gowns. See, that’s where I belong. Isn’t it? And that’s, that’s why I came back. Because you don’t have a home, it was taken from you.”

Bilbo took a breath and continued, “But I will help you take it back if I can.”

It was a simple speech. Heartfelt and earnest, Bilbo didn’t expect it to be taken as strongly as it was. Every dwarf looked solemn, silence stretched across the mountainside and Bilbo fiddled with the necklace even more. His father would likely have said it better, Bungo had always had a silver tongue, but there it was, all out in the open. 

The silence was broken by howls, warg howls. Bilbo turned to look behind, scouts up on the hill, his heart slammed against his chest. 

“Out of the frying pan!”

“And into the fire! Run!”

The company set off. This time Bofur and Dwalin waited until Bilbo was running to start, the hobbit several paces ahead of them. The wargs raced after them, the haunting howls nipping at their heels. Bilbo knew they had lost the race. The first warg cleared the group, leaping from a rocky crag to land in front of them. Bilbo found himself making direct eye contact with the beast. The world seemed to freeze for a second, Bilbo pulling out his sword just in time as the warg rushed him. Bilbo’s back was pressed against a tree, the weight of the warg pulling the sword from his grip. The dwarves around him were in action, axes and swords wreaking havoc around the forest. Bilbo reached down to try and pull his sword out, this was not time to freeze. This was not the winter and he was not a faunt anymore. Bilbo would stand his ground alongside his dwarves. 

A gap in the fighting let the dwarves flee once more, climbing the trees at the edge of the cliff face. Leaping and hurling each other up the dwarves climbed. Bilbo was left behind, the sword more stuck than he thought. With one more boost of adrenaline he pulled the sword out and hurled himself up the nearest tree. It was not a graceful climb but it was more than adequate given the situation. 

The next thing Bilbo saw filled him with fear. The pale shape of monstrous orc, scarred and fearsome riding atop the largest warg Bilbo had seen yet. This could only be one nightmare.

“Azog,” Thorin’s uttering of the cursed demon's name confirmed the fears of every member of the company. 

Whatever instruction the pale orc gave his followers was lost to the terrified hobbit but it was clear that they would not make it out of this situation without some stroke of luck. The stroke of luck that came seemed to be bad. The wargs were knocking on the trees, pushing their weight against them as if to topple the trees. That was exactly their plan Bilbo realized as the trees began to loosen, they wanted the dwarves to fall to their fate. Knocked off the ledge and down the mountain. 

As the trees fell dwarves leapt from branch to branch, trying to preserve themselves from their assigned fate. Then a burst of light, fire. Gandalf began throwing burning pine cones down to the dwarves and the wargs. Fire spread from tree to tree, the wargs fur catching alight. The dwarves proved too much for the tree though. Any success the party felt was destroyed as Dori and Ori lost their grip and fell. The quick thinking of Gandalf and his staff were the only thing holding them close to the company. Screams echoed in the air and fear was as tangible as the heat from the flames. Bilbo could only watch in silent dread as he saw his friends scrambling to survive. This couldn’t be the end.

Creaking branches alerted the hobbit to movement and as he turned his head he saw their leader, the heir of Durin, Thorin, walk down the length of the pine. The breeze caught in his hair twisting it away from his face which was alight with the righteous anger possessed only by those who have suffered extreme pain. In that moment Bilbo saw the prince that Balin had described all those weeks ago. This was a dwarf that Bilbo would follow to the ends of the earth. 

The awe turned to horror soon enough.

Thorin, bearing his sword and a pine branch as a shield, ran toward the pale orc. They collided mid air, Azog and his mount knocking Thorin to the ground. The scene was broken by the screams of Ori as Dori’s grip slipped further. Bilbo could not tear his eyes away from the dwarf prince though. Azog gained the upper hand, smashing Thorin to the ground with his mace. The warg clamping his jaw around the fallen prince as if to swallow him whole. Bilbo had seen enough.

Wolves had taken his mother, torn her to pieces, stained the ground with her blood.

Grief had taken his father, hollowed out the man he was before.

Bilbo would not lose another so soon.

The hobbit stood up, planting his feet firmly on the tree, even as the warg threw Thorin against the rock. He drew his sword, this would not be the end of Thorin, this would not be the end.

Bilbo threw himself at the orc standing over the prone body of his leader. The unexpected weight overbalancing the orc and sending them both to the ground. Bilbo brought his sword up and down, up and down. He barely registered the life passing from the orc as he stood up and lurched between the orc and in front of the fallen prince. His sword steady in his hands, pain forgotten as his arms grew a strength he did not know he had. He was a hobbit, yes, but he was also a dwarf and he would not let his kin die. 

The pale orc did not have time to attack Bilbo before the rest of the dwarves made their way back into the fray. War cries erupted once more from the hillside. Then came the shriek of eagles. Bilbo had no time to ponder their turn of luck before each dwarf was scooped up in the clutches of the winged beings. Bilbo felt weightless in their grasp before he hurtled through the air and landed on the back of the great beasts. Had salvation come in time?

The Misty Mountains passed below them, hills gave way to valleys and valleys to rivers as the eagles brought them to a place of peace. Landing on a outcrop the dwarves were deposited gently. Bilbo watched as Gandalf raced to the fallen leader. Hope rising like the sun as the wizard spoke words of magic. The piercing blue gaze of Thorin left Bilbo relieved, he was fine, by Yavanna he was fine. Breath returned to his body in one fell swoop and Bilbo relaxed, his fingers dropping from the cold beads round his neck. 

“The halfling?” Thorin muttered.

“It’s alright, Bilbo is here, he’s quite safe.”

As Thorin struggled upright Bilbo felt the tension returning to his shoulders, “You! What were you doing, you nearly got yourself killed!”

Bilbo felt his heartache once more, “Did I not say that you would be a burden, that you would not survive in the wild?”

The hobbit shuffled back a step, his head cast downward, “That you had no place amongst us?”

He meant to turn and go, only there was no easy way off the ledge they’d been placed on. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take. Thorin wasn’t wrong, Bilbo was still the weak link, even if he had tried to save the prince… well, what good could a hobbit really do? The next phrase left Bilbo speechless, frozen in place.

“I have never been so wrong in all my life.”

With the sun warming his back Bilbo found himself enveloped in a hug. Bilbo’s hands hovered at his side for a moment, as if unsure what to do, before wrapping themselves around Thorin. Under the greatcoat he always wore and grasping onto the armored tunic beneath, Bilbo found himself holding on as if Thorin was the only thing holding him upright. Something inside the hobbit, a part of him that had been small and shrunken since his parents death began to grow again. He belonged, and he didn’t want to let go. 

The hug softly gave way and Thorin pulled apart, “I am sorry I doubted you.”

Bilbo kept his head tucked, trying to hide the moisture that had gathered in his eyes, he felt like a faunt again, as he replied, “No, I would have doubted me too. I’m not a hero, not a warrior. Not even a burglar.”

Thorin kept his gaze direct at Bilbo, a soft smile decorating his face, his tone teasing as he said, “Turn around burglar, and you’ll see your first glimpse of what our struggles have been for.”

Bilbo turned as the rest of the company stepped forward. The lonely mountain stood silent in the distance. Great and somber, a testament to the dwarrows' endurance. The end was, for the very first time, in sight and Bilbo could not think of a more beautiful thing. Home, it shone in Thorin’s eyes. Home. 

“The ravens are returning!” Oin called out, spotting a bird flying toward the mountain. 

Bilbo didn’t have the heart to tell him it was a thrush, Gandalf did, but that was brushed aside as Thorin said, “No matter, we’ll take it as a sign. A good omen.” 

Bilbo felt a weight on his shoulder, Thorin’s hand rested on Bilbo. The hobbit looked up and met the smiling gaze of their leader, “You know, in all my forty-nine years I can’t think of a more beautiful sight than that mountain right now?”

Gandalf chuckled, the appropriate response in Bilbo’s mind, however, the rest of the dwarves looked concerned. Particularly Kili, Dwalin, and Thorin. The last of whom placed both hands on Bilbo’s shoulders and turned the hobbit to face him. 

“Forty-nine years?”

Bilbo looked up confused, “Yes, forty-nine? I am of age, we have been over this I believe.”

Thorin looked stricken, “Aye, but that was before…”

Gandalf now looked perplexed, concern crossing his features, “What is the meaning of this? Before what? Bilbo is well enough to go on an adventure, nothing there has changed since the Shire, what is going on?”

Kili started, “Well see, I think it began with his mother…”

Now Bilbo understood where things were going. By Yavanna, this was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to be accepted for himself, not for his mixed lineage, not for the faceless dwarf of his past. This wasn’t fair. He wanted to cry and instead settled for leaning his head against the rough material of Thorin’s tunic. The hands that had rested on his shoulders tentatively moved around him and Bilbo pressed closer. He was so tired of this, of his mother’s secret. She should have kept it all the way till death. He didn’t want it.

The voices swirled around him, they wouldn’t get the story right. No one could get the story right, not even Bilbo, he didn’t think there was one being alive who could get the story right. Still he owed it to his mother to try and set things to rights, his father would insist that it was only polite to set the facts straight. Bilbo began pulling away from Thorin, vaguely embarrassed by his behavior as he looked up at Gandalf.

“I suppose it's time for a story then, isn’t it?”

Chapter Text

Thorin had intervened before Bilbo could directly begin his story, insisting that they make camp and allow for some rest before things began. It was a sensible decision and Bilbo frankly sagged at the relief of having some time to put his mind back together before he would have to explain his creation to the intimidating wizard. He didn’t want to recount the entirety of this story. He was tired. The cold was creeping in and he felt distant from the world. He was lost in the snow again, it was seeping into his limbs, ice in his veins. Bilbo sometimes thought that he would never be warm again. 

The time to tell his story came faster than he wanted it to. The food was eaten, the camp set up, and the expectant faces of the company circled around him. Gandalf front and center, his gaze focused on the hobbit before him. 

“My mother, as you know Gandalf, was a great traveler for a hobbit. She would wander far and wide west of the Misty Mountains. In fact the farthest she would ever go was Tharbad. It was there that she met a dwarf. She was traipsing through the hills collecting mushrooms when she saw him. She described him…” Bilbo broke off, “well, she called him her sunlight. He was golden haired, eyes the color of the summer sky, and a laugh that fell like a waterfall. Strong and clear.”

Bilbo cleared his throat and continued, “She never mentioned him until the Fell Winter.”

“What is the Fell Winter?” Balin’s voice broke through the silence.

“The Fell Winter was the harshest winter the Shire had ever seen. Our lands are blessed by the Green Lady, by Yavanna, but blessings are not not perfect and the land froze. We are a sheltered people, the Brandywine river keeps us apart from the land of men and we, on the whole, do not mind keeping to ourselves. It wasn’t just men that the river kept out, there are worse forces in the world than man.”

“Wolves.” Kili stated.

Bilbo let out a little hum as he gazed at the fire, “I was twenty-nine, my father was sick, the shire was losing resources. The Thain decided to send out scouts, to try and locate any help, any food at all. Hobbits had dropped down to three meals a day, things were becoming desperate. Mother volunteered to go. There was word of Rangers, coming down from the north, who were coming to see us. They were supposed to help us. Mother was supposed to meet a ranger, I think he was named Strider, but she never got the chance.”

Bilbo remembered it like it was yesterday, the wind was howling through the Shire. Belladonna was taking too long, she said she’d be back for tea, but the clock had long since passed tea time. Bilbo heard his father coughing in the parlor, there was no time to waste. He had picked up a cloak and walking stick, tucking a scarf around his neck Bilbo headed out to find his mother. It had taken an hour of searching before he found her, between Bree and Hobbiton, Belladonna was sprawled in a nook, protected from the wind but not the cold. Her blood was stark against the snow and Bilbo had thought it was her scarf at first. The crimson fabric was the same color. He hadn’t liked the color red since then.

“The wolves were still circling around her, I had her small dagger but there wasn’t much I could do unless they came forward. She had gotten at least two of them before she had put herself in the small nook.” 

Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to meet Gandalf’s eyes as he continued, “That was when she told me.”

His sire, a dwarf. Belladonna explained as best she could in a whisper, choking blood up as she spoke. They had met and fell in love, the wounded warrior being nursed by the sprightly hobbit lass. He couldn’t remember his past, his name, any biographical information was lost to him. Still his skill with sword and craftsman tools remained. He courted her as best he could, building her a glorybox, showering her with little trinkets and beads. Every bead that had decorated his wounded body he had given to her, decorating her in all he had to offer. She learned to braid his hair and they laughed. Even in the snow she had laughed, her heart lost somewhere east of Rivendell, lost in the mountains. 

“He was almost healed, she was going to bring him back to the Shire. The townspeople did not approve, they did not trust him. A dwarf from the mountains battle scarred and vulnerable. My mother was out, harvesting vegetables when it happened. She said it was a fire.”

Belladonna had fled, taking what she could salvage from their temporary home and fleeing to Rivendell. All she had was a necklace, the beads woven into her hair and the charred glorybox and the few items stored within. 

“She realized she was pregnant on her way to Rivendell. An unwed mother in the Shire is a shameful thing. She might have been the favored daughter of the Thain but it would not have spared her from the rumors. Bungo, my father, had been in love with her since his tween years. They were good friends and when he heard her story he proposed. They married and ten months later I arrived. It was a difficult pregnancy and they never tried for children of their own. They vowed to tell me at the age of my majority seeing as how my development was close enough to my peers. They didn’t want me ostracized.”

Bilbo wondered if his mother would be disappointed to know that he had been ostracized anyway. He’d never fit in, even less after they had died, “So you see Gandalf, I suppose I’m not the hobbit you thought I was afterall.”

“The wolf pelts in your home?” Fili asked.

“My mother died,” Bilbo paused, grief clogging his throat, “I had to get her home, and they were in our way.”

“And you said you were not a warrior,” Thorin’s voice carried over the fire, the admonishment gentled by sympathy and pride, followed by choruses of dwarves agreeing. 

Gandalf sat in silence, the scent of old toby puffing up around him, “Oh Bilbo.”

A sudden burst of anger toward the wizard surged through Bilbo, “I can assure you Gandalf that the little faunt you once knew was fully aware of the adventure the world had to offer! The doilies, westfarthing, and comforts of home became so much more precious once they were threatened. They are all I have of my parents, Gandalf, all that’s left of them. Bag End is all I have.”

Just as quickly as the anger came if retreated, Bilbo just wanted to rest. Kili came over and pressed his forehead against Bilbo’s, “You are not alone now, you have us, and we will be with you till the end!”

Fili agreed, clasping both his brother and the hobbit on the back, “Till the end, Bilbo, you can count on us!”

Gandalf cut through the chatter that erupted, “Bilbo, are you aware how old a dwarf is when they come to the age of maturity?”

“No?”

“Seventy-five years of age,” Gandalf puffed out a smoke ring, “and you are only forty-nine years of age.”

The camp stilled, the dwarves glancing in horror at the newly labelled youngest member of their company. 

“Gandalf?” Bilbo stated very calmly, his voice going icy, “ are you suggesting that I am not past my age of majority?”

“Well my dear boy, while a case such as yours is rare, however, logic, and some simple mathematics, would dictate that fifty-five years would be your age of majority.”

Bilbo stood then, a grim and furious look crossing his face (neither Gandalf nor the Dwarrow had ever seen such a look on the hobbit’s face before). Thorin alone regarded his ire with something more than surprise. The way Bilbo’s face screwed up, brows furrowed, and blue eyes blazing was far too reminiscent of Frerin. The early concerns of Dwalin and Balin rising once more in Thorin’s mind left the dwarf with questions he didn’t know how to address.

“I have lived on my own, managing an estate, gardeners, civil disputes,” a pause as Bilbo took a breath, “my parents' funerals ! Gandalf, I have done all this for twenty years, since twenty-nine years of age I have shouldered the burden of being the master of Bag End. I have kept the secret of my bastard birth, shouldered the weight of isolation and expectations of what it means to be a Baggins, for twenty years! With no help, no assistance, no wizard to call on!”

Silence reigned within the camp, Bilbo muttered, so quietly that the company nearly missed it, “the pain of being alone has been a burden enough,” his voice rose, “Now to suggest that I should be considered a child again, a tween! I have not been a child in a very long time, wizard and I should think that you would understand that!”

It was not Gandalf that responded to Bilbo’s tirade, Thorin’s strong voice rang out as the dwarf made his way to the hobbit, “you are not a child, Bilbo Baggins.”

The soft tone startled Bilbo and he looked to Thorin as the dwarf continued, “but you have been asked to shoulder a burden far beyond your years. There is no denying you have done admirably, a stronger youth I have not seen. But now, you are among friends, kin if you would will it, allow us to share the burden. You are standing underneath a heavy weight, let us hold it for now.”

By the end of his speech Thorin was within arms reach, his stance was open, inviting and Bilbo could see the unspoken invitation within. He could choose to go to the dwarf to accept the … family … that Thorin was offering. Bilbo lurched forward, his steps hesitating even as he saw Thorin’s arms reach upward to catch him. Thorin was solid as Bilbo held onto him, warm in a way that Bungo had never been. Bilbo felt (for the first time since his mother had last held him in her arms) that he belonged. More arms joined around him and the warmth spread, pushing the icy numbness away from Bilbo’s heart. 

A tentative hand came to rest on his head, gentle carding through Bilbo’s hair and the hobbit felt himself drifting off to sleep, cradled upright between kin. Before he fell into the dreamsleep he heard Fili overhead. 

“Uncle he’ll need beads, to mark him as one of us, won’t he?”

Bilbo couldn’t help but ask, his thoughts on the beads round his neck, “your beads? They mean something?”

Whatever the answer was he never heard as he at last succumbed to sleep's embrace.

Chapter Text

Thorin had his arms full of his savior, of his kin, of a child. The company had crowded around trying to give the hobbit … dwarfling? Dwobbit? Trying to give Bilbo the assurance of his belonging. The lad had fallen asleep however, standing upright, leaning against Thorin’s chest, Bilbo was asleep. Thorin raised a hand, signing to Bofur to prepare a bedroll for their burglar. The company pushed backward, giving their leader space to lift Bilbo and deposit him on the prepared sleeping surface. Kili and Fili casually claimed the spaces on either side of the burglar for their own.

“Get some rest, we have a long day ahead of us and the defiler is still alive!” Thorin quietly ordered the company.

He moved toward Gandalf, signaling Balin and Dwalin to come towards them. The matter of Bilbo’s age must be discussed and it would be better to do it before the lad woke up. As much as Thorin was loath to acknowledge the fact as no child should have to prove themselves an adult the way their burglar had. He should have had kin step up, live with him, care for him. This was a failing of Bilbo’s community as far as Thorin could tell. Bilbo was self-sufficient, for twenty years he had proven as much. At least to the standards of his community, however, the quest (dwarven culture as well) would prove to have different demands on the lad. Thorin would need to assign him a guardian whether or not the lad would agree to it. 

“Gandalf,” Thorin began, “are your calculations correct? Does the burglar still have six years until he gains his … relative age of maturity?”

Gandalf’s face was drawn, aged by the revelation of their young companion, “I’m afraid my calculations are correct.”

“Very well,” Thorin turned to the dwarves, “Balin, we will need a contract of guardianship drawn up. We cannot have Master Baggins without a guardian any longer, should word reach the ears of our cousins that we have employed a child, then I believe our cause would face greater scrutiny.”

Balin nodded, “The lad won’t like it, but then again I suppose he is a reasonable fellow. If we explain it…”

“He won’t need to like it.” Thorin stated brusquely, “Who do we think would be a wise choice for a guardian? We should have a small selection for him to choose from.”

“All of us in the company would be glad to foster the laddie,” Balin paused, “although, am I correct in assuming that there is some plan in place to try and discern the nature of the lad’s sire?”

It was Thorin’s turn to pause, his hope in the golden haired youth’s sire’s identity was one he could not hope to indulge. He also could not promise results should they begin a search for a name for Bilbo’s father, “No, not at the time. We have more pressing concerns. When Erebor is recovered and we are safe in the halls then we begin a search. Perhaps there are clues in his mother’s possessions in the Shire.”

Dwalin spoke up then, “In terms of guardians, the obvious choices are Gloin, Bombur, or Dori.”

Thorin nodded, the same dwarves had crossed his mind. Each one had had experience raising children or siblings and would be more than adequately prepared to circumnavigate the responsibilities of a ward. Yes, Thorin thought, the three would be excellent choices to suggest to their burglar. 

Gandalf and Dwalin exchanged looks before the dwarf opened his mouth again, “I would suggest though, that Master Baggins might prefer a different guardian than any of those.”

Thorin cocked his head, an exasperated growl came out as he asked, “Who then? Bofur?”

Gandalf chuckled then, the smoke rings lazily circling the small gathering, “I believe what Dwalin is insinuating is that Bilbo might prefer you to be his guardian should he have to have one.”

Thorin simply stood there. His eyebrows drawn together in confusion, the thought that Bilbo would prefer him had never crossed his mind. In fact, Thorin had quite thought the opposite. He had not made himself an approachable figure, belittling the little one at every turn during their journey. The painful association Thorin held with Frerin and Bilbo had kept him from accepting the small creature. The notion that Bilbo would want him to provide guardianship, comfort, or protection was unbelievable to the heir of Durin. That was all without the complications from the similarities of Bilbo and Frerin that frequently crossed Thorin’s mind. 

“The lad does look up to you,” Balin began.

“Aye, he has looked to you since we left his home. You are our leader, and for some reason, Mahal knows not because you’ve given him one, he looks up to you. Thorin, you are the obvious choice.”

“I know nothing of being a guardian! I cannot protect him, nor can I guarantee his safety, my first priority must remain the mountain. Our home.”

Thorin’s protests were met with exasperated looks, “Thorin, you have led our people to safety. To a home in the Blue Mountains, to prosperity and now to the hope of returning to our rightful home and heritage. You have protected our people. Not only that, but this is no longer a quest for the return to our father’s halls. It is a quest to provide a home for those who have never known their fathers or their heritage.” 

Balin pointed to where Bilbo was sleeping. The burglar, still and quiet, was one of them. Bilbo belonged with them, to the stone hallways of his people, their people. Thorin could not deny the call to protect their youngest companion, a call that had bitterly existed in his heart from their first meeting. Thorin had not felt as protective over a being since his siblings had been born, since his nephews had come into the world. Grief constricted his heart at the thought of all those he had lost. Everyone close to him had seemed to enter a life of hardship and misfortune. He could not risk imparting that life onto Bilbo. He had already suffered and known loss, Thorin could not risk the cost for either of them.

Dwalin piped up, “Not to mention you’ve helped raise those two boys of your sister. That alone takes some strength. I doubt this hob… I doubt Master Baggins would prove a difficult charge after those two. A more polite little fellow I haven’t seen, fussy too.”

Thorin felt overwhelmed and so he deflected, much to the wizard’s amusement, “No matter that, it will be up to Bilbo and his choice will prove final.”

The wizard bid them a goodnight as the dwarves continued their discussion. Gandalf’s involvement was no longer relevant to the nature of Bilbo’s future with the company. A half dwarf was a matter of great concern regarding how to impart their culture. The knowledge of beads, values, Iglishmêk, Khuzdul, and so much more was a mystery to their halfling companion and teaching him would be a difficult matter. Even more so as he was only half dwarf, some might find issue with the sharing of their secrets to one so far removed from their life. Then came the matter of the future, would Bilbo seek to choose a craft? How would his newly discussed heritage blend with the life he lived in the Shire. Would he choose to return to the hole under the ground, or would he find a new home preferable?

There was much to discuss, and yet, Thorin worried, there would not be the time to address any of it to satisfaction. 

The dwarf took a final look at the mountains behind him, the trees before him obscuring the view of the Lonely Mountain, as he prepared for the first watch. The morning would come sooner than any of them were prepared for and Thorin could only beg Mahal that things would go smoothly. There would be rest tonight, free from wargs, free from the past. 

***

“You want me to choose what?”

“A guardian Master Baggins.” Balin calmly stated.

The burglar was incensed, “A guardian! I believe, as we established last night, I don’t need a guardian!”

“Be that as it may laddie, our kin,” Balin grimaced, “Should they ever join our cause, would find us in grave error in our treatment of you should we not provide you with a guardian. You not being of age and all.”

Bilbo sat down hard on a stump. His mouth open and defeat etched into his posture. The dwarves exchanged glances amongst each other. No one knew quite how to approach the topic with the little fellow. Bilbo himself couldn’t believe the turn of events, this was exactly what he’d hoped to avoid. The secret as much as he hated it was best kept exactly what it was, a secret. Now he was being forced into a position of childish care. He didn’t need them! He’d been fine by himself, just fine. The momentary weakness he’d had on the eagles’ perch was nothing really, nothing that really mattered. 

Eventually Ori came forward, “It’s not just guardianship, Bilbo. You see, there's a lot you’ve missed out on, being a hobbit?”

The end of sentence was lifted into a question by the hesitant confusion Ori felt regarding Bilbo’s new identity. The once-a-hobbit, now a vague fragment of two cultures, laughed a little. The sound wasn’t joyous, and had Bilbo been looking at the company, he might’ve seen the sympathetic and worried grimaces that were passed around. 

“I don’t have a choice do I?” 

“You have a choice in whom you choose Master Baggins,” Thorin’s voice rumbled through the company.

Bofur chimed in, “Yeah, laddie, like Ori said, it’s not just guardianship. It’s an education, of sorts.”

Bilbo looked around the company, each face was kind and open. They were earnest in their offers. Bilbo wanted to hate it, he really did. This was so unlike home (the word felt stilted in his mind, almost as hollow as he felt these days). He’d never had someone offer him a place to grow and learn among them. He had been expected to follow his father’s steps, a gentlehobbit unbothered by society and known for his reasonable nature, as soon as he became master of Bag End. He hadn’t been taught anything else, instead all he’d learned was from books. Too many books by the standards of the Shire at that, he had a library where others had children and gardens. Bilbo didn’t need a guardian, or another education. However, as Bilbo’s eyes scanned the crowd he couldn’t help but think that these dwarrow had more to teach him than he’d ever learn through books. 

“When am I expected to have an answer for you?”

“Oh, well, I don’t suppose we’d actually thought that one out. We do have a contract ready, so all it really requires is the signature of you and the chosen guardian.”

Bofur laughed, “Would it help you if we gave you a sales pitch?”

Bilbo cracked a smile at the joke, “Why Master Bofur, I dare say it might.”

***

The last thing Bilbo expected was for the dwarves to take Bofur’s suggestion seriously. Unfortunately for Bilbo most things he never expected to happen were slowly and surely becoming common occurrences in his life. Something that seemed to amuse the wizard to no end as they trekked onward.

Fili and Kili had quickly been removed from the line of potential guardians as they tried to convince Bilbo to choose them because of their superior…skills? Bilbo wasn’t really sure what they had been trying to convince him of but it hadn’t worked. Ori had respectfully told Bilbo that he would be a poor guardian and not to bother himself with considering it. Bilbo hadn’t really thought to consider the scholar in the first place, so he was not unduly upset with that confidence. No, Bilbo didn’t know who to choose. His eyes would wander in between the dwarves, more often than not landing on the impassive and firm nature of their leader. 

The repetitive glances were not missed by the wizard or the company and sly bets began being exchanged. Gandalf had his bet placed on Bilbo’s declaration of Thorin as his guardian by nightfall. Nori had placed a bet on Bofur being chosen that was seconded by Bombur, Oin, and Dori. Overall the company was divided almost evenly between Thorin, Bofur, and Dwalin as the lead candidates for Bilbo’s guardian. This of course was all done without the little burglar’s knowledge. Had Bilbo caught wind of it the dwarves were quite sure there would be an unpleasant result for all of them. 

Still, each dwarf tried to impress upon the burglar why they would be the most ideal guardian. It was a matter of pride and craftsmanship by this point. The delicate balance of the gambling was nearly undone at the sheer intensity of Bilbo’s interest in Nori’s sales pitch. Nori promoted his abilities as a sneak, informant, thief, and overall shadow within the dwarven community. No one had expected Bilbo to take such a keen interest in the tricky ways of the shady dwarf. 

“So you’re a thief then, Nori?”

“Well yes and no, I’m what you might call a fixer. I get into situations and I make them disappear, sometimes that requires a bit of thieving, but more often it just takes a rumor or two.”

Bilbo nodded sagely, “I understand perfectly.”

Nori’s eyebrows rose in surprise, “do you now? I would have thought your peaceful folk would have no use for my skill set.”

“Well probably not for the reasons you use them,” Bilbo acknowledged, “but we have our share of civil disputes to work around. There are some hobbits that prove to be a tad … disruptive.” 

“Who would that be then?”

“Quite ironically, it isn’t the Tooks. Usually it turns out to be tweens causing mischief, issues of wedlock and the occasional cheating businessman. But with these unsavory types we found it does better to drop just the right rumor or fact and let the social mill do the rest. No warning or legal action needed when the community knows to avoid them.”

Bilbo let himself grimace, while what he said had been the truth there was slightly more to the story, at least in his case. After his birth, Belladonna’s difficult pregnancy and their lack of children afterwards there had been rumors of impropriety that had left its mark on the families good standing. Nothing of course that Belladonna was unused to, but it had been a shock for Bungo.

“Is that why all the hobbits gave us such a hard time when we were trying to find you? For being one of the grander homes it was no easy task to find.”

Bilbo found that he didn’t really want to answer that. In part because he would have to answer yes and in part because there was surely more to it than that and he did not want to rationalize the ostracism he’d experienced anymore than he already did. So, Bilbo merely shrugged and continued walking. 

By that evening nearly all the dwarves had presented themselves as a suitable guardian and were eagerly awaiting Bilbo’s choice. Bilbo had put considerable thought into his decision. Factoring all variables that he could. The only dwarf that made sense for Bilbo was Thorin. He was a leader and as such very busy. In Bilbo’s mind this meant that he would be far too busy to really be a guardian. After all, hobbits often took the orphaned or abandoned children of their community under their wing, but duty was duty and that would come first. To some extent his assumption was correct. Thorin was busy. On the other hand, Bilbo severely underestimated the importance of children to the dwarrow. Guardianship was just as much of a commitment and duty as Thorin’s quest for their homeland. (All of this would be revealed to Bilbo much later however, and at the moment of his choosing he did not have that sort of understanding). 

“You said any dwarf?”

“Aye laddie, that is except for the ones who have removed themselves from the line. I’d best pick quick too if I were you.” Balin responded kindly.

Bilbo perused the crowd, each dwarf facing him proudly. It felt quite strange to see so many faces all wishing to interact with him, to claim him. Bilbo really hadn’t ever experienced this before. But there was one dwarf, silent among the rest of them. The blue eyes were so familiar in a way Bilbo still couldn’t understand. Thorin. Bilbo’s choice was clear, and if he had to wager on it he’d bet that dwarves had bet on it as well. 

“And I just state their name?”

“Well traditionally, when choosing a guardian,” Balin paused, “actually the youth doesn’t actually choose. However, tradition has been altered given the circumstances, but one would usually go to the guardian or youth and present something, usually a bead, but I’d imagine you don’t have any of those?” 

Bilbo remained silent, his fingers tracing the beads outline on his necklace as he listened, “the presented object would then be accepted and a gift in return, usually a family bead or a kinship bead, would be presented. It was a way to claim the youth as a new member of the family.” 

Balin rambled on as Bilbo considered things. He did, in fact, have beads, he had several, all hanging on the chain round his neck. Some wooden, some metal, heavy with promises and stories that could never be told. Bilbo wanted to offer one, to make things true and to give himself the opportunity to belong. Something held him back, he dropped his hand to his side, perhaps it was the notion that all good things come to an end and Bilbo wasn’t sure this would work out. It would only be a matter of time before he proved to them that he wasn’t what they thought he was. Balin’s voice rumbled back into Bilbos consciousness as his mind was centered. 

“- given the circumstances you can just ask who you have in mind, no ceremony needed.”

“Thorin Oakenshield, will you be my guardian?” Bilbo’s voice was strong, projecting across the camp even as his hands trembled at his side. 

Smiles were exchanged and the jingle of coins masked the sound of the tall dwarf stalking forward. Bilbo stared up, worry filling his eyes as Durin’s heir stood before him. The dwarf reached down, Bilbo could not mask the flinch that ran through him, even as Thorin’s hand cradled his neck and brought their foreheads together. Bilbo was beginning to realize that this was a gesture of intimacy, saved for the familial connections within Dwarrow society, a gentler form of the headbutt often exhibited by Dwalin and Balin. Bilbo slowly allowed himself to relax and lean into the action as Thorin stated, 

“I would be proud to bear the duty of your guardian, Master Baggins.”

The solemnity of the situation was broken as Fili and Kiki bounded over, “You know what that means Master Boggins?”

Bilbo groaned petulantly at the undignified moniker, “what does this mean?”

Thorin released his grip as the brothers responded, “well this practically means we’re cousins!”

“Cousins?” Bilbo groaned theatrically, “I already have so many, by Yavanna, must I add two more! And such a two, these troublemakers will give me grey hair!”

“Enough,” a fond admonish from Thorin and he gently led Bilbo toward Balin, “there will be plenty of time for your mischief later. Now, we have a contract to sign.”

“Another one, you lot like contracts more than hobbits like elevenses. And that is quite the claim.”

“Elevenses? What are those?”

Bilbo looked aghast at Bombur’s question, “Elevenses! The third meal of the day! How do you not know about elevenses?”

“How many meals do you typically eat in a day?” Kili asked, his eyes wide with awe at the idea of three meals before lunch.

“Why, a typical hobbit eats as many as seven, solid meals a day. There’s breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner and supper.”

“Have we been starving you?” Bombur asked, his face drawn with worry, “we haven’t been eating enough for you have we? And you a growing boy!”

Bilbo bristled at that, once again on the defensive, “How did you know I was still growing?”

Bombur just gave him a wide eyed stare and Bilbo realized that it had simply been a comment typical of adult figures. He could remember several times when he had said similar things to younger hobbits. Oh dear, Bilbo’s shoulders sank once more in embarrassment. Perhaps he was simply acting the fool these days, he couldn’t seem to say the right thing anymore. 

“You’re still growing?” Gandalf asked.

“Mhhhmmm,” Bilbo nodded, rolling out some of his joints as he said, “I’m expecting a growth spurt soon, it’s been coming since you knocked on my door. It's really quite annoying, I’ve already let down my trouser hems once on the journey.”

“Oh Mahal, enough of this.” Thorin’s voice rumbled, back to its exasperated grumble. “We have a contract to sign and go over, Balin, the quill please.”

Balin flourished the quill as he handed it to Thorin. Bilbo watched as the dwarf made a quick and steady signature. Then, the quill was handed to him. Bilbo took it, his hand steadier than his heart as he looked at the second line. In one quick moment his fate was sealed and for better or worse Bilbo Baggins was the ward of Thorin Oakenshield, heir of Durin. 

“Now, Master Baggins, your education begins.”

Chapter Text

With the orcs on their tails Bilbo did not expect to see any real changes with how the company interacted. There was not much time for rest, let alone an introduction to dwarven culture, and Bilbo knew for a fact there were no real educational texts brought along with them. The closest thing they had to a scholarly source was Ori’s journal and Thorin’s map, so Bilbo did not put much stock into his guardians (a title that still baffled and awed the young halfling) earlier promise. He should have. 

The first change happened when the company took their first break of the new day, Thorin pulling Bilbo gently off to the side after they ate. The elder of the two brought them to a fallen tree where he pushed Bilbo into a seated position. Bilbo began protesting, his disgruntled self did not like to be manhandled and he planned to make it well known. His protests were silenced as Thorin raised an eyebrow while pulling his hands back, an amused uptick of his lips decorating his face.

“Relax, Master Baggins,” Thorin held up a bead in his fingers, the metallic finish glinting in the sunlight, “Your first lesson.”

“A bead?”

“You once asked, although, I am not so sure you remember doing so, if our beads had meaning.”

Bilbo did vaguely recall himself asking that, right before falling asleep in Thorin’s arms. Oh dear, he felt his ears warm up as they turned red. His manners had been getting quite sloppy since he had begun traveling with the dwarrow, although he had found himself much happier in the following days than he had in years at Bag End. A thought that he found both shameful and exciting at the same time.

“Oh, I suppose I did.”

“Your question provides an excellent introduction to our shared culture. Each bead has the opportunity to provide insight into the dwarf who carries them. For some they represent honor, glory in battle, children born, family lineage, and social status. Beads are given as gifts or earned through labor and hardship. You are a dwarf…” Thorin held up his hand as Bilbo began protesting again, “As much as you are a hobbit, you are also one of us. You belong to a lineage, you have vanquished foes and lost family. You have a story to tell as much as the rest of us.” 

Thorin took Bilbo’s hand and opened his palm gently placing the bead in it. Bilbo felt his hand close around the cool metal, his other hand reaching up to fiddle with the beads hidden under his shirt. These beads, from his sire, maybe they would tell Bilbo who he was. But he didn’t ask Thorin about them, one secret still too raw to bear to the world.

“Do you always wear them in your hair?”

“Aye, the beads adorn our hair, our beards, even for the smallest amongst us. Your hair is short,” a frown crossed Thorin’s face, “beads will be hard to incorporate into it, but we will manage.”

“Short?” Bilbo ran his free hand through the curly locks, “I was thinking it was getting quite long. I had been planning on trimming it quite soon. I dare say it’s the longest it's ever been.”

Those of the company within hearing turned in confusion and shock toward the pair on the log. Thorin had furrowed his brows and sighed, “It appears that this is your second lesson.”

Bilbo felt self conscious. He was aware, to some extent, that hair was important to the dwarrow. Their beards and locks kept long and intricately woven, a different story from the oft well manicured lengths of the Shire folk. Long hair was seen as impractical, a flamboyant expression of laziness and lackadaisical whimsy that was not suited for the practical, productive, and joyous life hobbits attended to. 

“To have one’s hair short,” Thorin’s hand lightly touched his beard, kept much closer than the rest of the company, “it is either a sign of shame or loss. Dwarves in mourning wear their beards short, their hair often left without braids and adornment. To keep it plain shows the end of a narrative, the end of story or life. Your short hair was seen as a… a memorial of sorts. When we heard of your mother we all assumed it was shorn in grief. Are we to believe the short nature of a hobbit's hair is for some other purpose?”

“Well, yes. I suppose we keep our hair short, well unless you are a lady, because it is simpler and keeps us… well groomed?” The last part was raised in pitch as Bilbo looked around the gathering, “Our foot hair, oh that is a different matter. Hobbits pride themselves on well maintained and long foot hair. The curlier the better for most, I am afraid I’ve always been considered quite ugly in that right.” 

Bilbo looked down sadly at the light dusting of hair that covered his feet. He’d always hoped a growth spurt would lead to more hair covering his lower appendages, but his dreams hadn’t yet come true. Then again, perhaps his hairy feet would have been considered ugly in dwarrow society as well. 

Fili spoke up then, hesitancy coloring his voice, “You do have some lovely curls, if you grew them out we could, I could, show you how to braid them?”

Bilbo sat still, his hand clenching the bead tight. Braid his hair, his mother, Bilbo’s heart stuttered, his mother used to braid his hair. She would sing, soft and low, the songs always sounded so sad, Bilbo could never understand them. He’d loved the feeling of her fingers in his hair, it wasn’t often she would sit still long enough to accommodate her little son's need for attention and so Bilbo cherished the memories he had with her. The silence around the camp alerted him to Fili’s dejected expression, and Bilbo realized he had been quiet far too long.

“Oh, I would love that!” Bilbo exclaimed, “If it wouldn’t be much trouble?”

Fili’s smile lit up the camp as he enthusiastically nodded, “It would be an honor!”

Bilbo was bewildered by the enthusiasm, and by the smug pride that was evident in Fili’s face at the acceptance of his offer. Kili looked put out at his brother’s smugness and lightly shoved his brother. Bilbo let his bewilderment rest as he turned to Thorin, “and this bead? What does it mean?”

“That bead,” Thorin said, “marks you as one of mine. A ward in the line of Durin. It lets any dwarf know that you are under my protection.”

“Oh.” Bilbo looked down at the bead, he felt something odd settle in his chest, “I suppose, well…”

“Your hair is not too short to braid, Bilbo.” Thorin’s tone was soft and low, escaping the ears of the company who were far too entertained by the brother's petty squabble.

“Would you?” Bilbo proffered the bead to the dwarf.

Thorin hummed, his fingers nimbly picking up the bead. He positioned himself on Bilbo’s right side, “the left is where we wear beads narrating accomplishments, tribulations, and events. The right side is where we have family relationships, birth order, status, and social notices. Your new status as my ward will be marked here, on your right side. Often we find balance, symmetry in our lives. Our beads reflect this as we try to maintain our braids and styles in order to represent our history.”

Bilbo tried to pay attention, he really did (Bilbo had after all prided himself on his scholarly abilities), however, the feeling of someone carding their fingers through his hair had him too relaxed to truly mind Thorin’s words. The dwarfs finger plucked three strands from the right side of Bilbo’s head, deftly weaving them together as the slipped the bead onto the united strands. It was a satisfying feeling, to be under someone else’s care. Bilbo had nearly forgotten what it felt like to sit still and be allowed to rest. He hadn’t felt this peaceful in a long time. What Bilbo really hated was the knowledge that all this would end at some point. He would reach their agreed upon age of maturity and the contract would void, or Thorin would get tired of him and ignore him once more, or the company would realize that he didn’t belong and wasn’t necessary to the quest and send him home. It would end, that much Bilbo was certain of, what mattered now was whether or not he embraced the familial nature of things or if he kept himself distant.

Bilbo had yet to come to an answer before Thorin had finished the braid and stepped back, “There, Bilbo. You belong with us.”

Perhaps, it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy the situation, just a little bit.

Chapter Text

Bilbo found himself engaging in dwarven history and culture lessons, shared by Balin and Thorin with anecdotes thrown in by other company members, as they ran from the orc pack. Lunch breaks would be divided between food and weaponry lessons with Dwalin and Bifur. The two older dwarves proved to be excellent, if blunt, teachers, and they expanded Bilbo’s understanding of overall weaponry. Much of his education when it came to the blade was left in Thorin’s capable hands however, the heir of During wielded a blade like it had been born in his hand. Even with his reservations at the idea of guardianship, Bilbo found himself settling into a tentative routine. The bonds he had begun fostering since Bag End began to blossom under the tutelage and camaraderie in the wake of the Misty Mountains.

Despite the company’s dedicated efforts they could not outrun the wargs and they took to sending scouts out to observe the orcish progress around them as they approached the Greenwood. Bilbo would volunteer to go, his stealth was proven and his eyesight was keen enough to watch for the orcs. For all that this was his job description he was denied. 

“Now see here,” Bilbo started one evening, indignation at being denied work, “I am perfectly capable of scouting. In fact, I daresay I could do better than most of you.”

Thorin had an exasperated look on his face, “The risks are far too great, you are best served here.”

“Risks, risks?” sputtered Bilbo, “I believe I knew the risks when I signed the first contract! I am well aware I risk potential evisceration, I believe was the word. I assure you I can do this, safely to boot.”

Gandalf quickly stepped into the conversation, “Thorin, the burglar is right. He is well suited to scout and quick on his feet. It would do well to let him go.” 

The wizard pulled the dwarf to the side, “The lad is chafing under the care, he needs to feel useful and he is competent enough to do the job he was hired for. I believe we both agree that he is not the child we wish he had a chance to be.”

Thorin could not disagree with the wizards statement and with a heavy countenance he nodded to the lad, “Go Master Baggins, see how close the orcs are. We will be here waiting.”

What Bilbo saw was not encouraging.

The brutish wargs and their orc rides mere leagues away. Running the lengths of the mountain’s edge, noses to the ground howling in communication with the scouting packs that littered the edge of the wild Bilbo found himself in. Not only were there wargs to worry about, Bilbo saw another creature, far more fearsome in size than the wargs. This was a great beast, a harsh shadow of bristly fur against the moon. Bilbo’s heart seized as he observed the creature, the roar exiting its mouth had Bilbo leaping into action and sliding down the rock face back to the trail. His head kept low, Bilbo traced a new path to the cranny where the dwarves had hidden themselves.

“How close is the pack?” Thorin’s question rang out as Bilbo entered the camp.

“Too close, mere leagues away, but that is the least of our worries right now!” Bilbo slid to a stop and caught his breath.

“Did they see you?” Gandalf interrupted.

“No, no, of course not! But we have another problem!”

“See didn’t I tell you,” Gandalf smirked, “As quiet as a mouse, he will be an excellent burglar yet, just you wait and see.”

The dwarves around him seemed to forget that they were in danger as they laughed and patted each other on the back. Bilbo was not as amused. There was present danger and they weren’t listening. They needed to listen. Mother hadn’t listened when Bilbo told her he’d heard wolves, she hadn’t listened. His dwarves needed to listen.

“Will you just listen!” Bilbo cried out, “Please.”

The group settled down, their attention turned toward him, “I’m trying to tell you there is something else out there.”

Gandalf spoke first, “Something else you say, not a warg?”

Bilbo shook his head, “It was larger than any warg I’ve seen, or any orc.”

“Would you say it took the form of a bear, or something resembling one?”

Bilbo paused, his heart beating slower as he recognized Gandalf’s easy acceptance of the creature, “Yes … although bigger, bigger than a normal bear.”

The wizard continued, “I know of a house we may find rest in. A house that bears neither friend nor foe. It will be a test to see if he accepts us. A test that should we fail will result in death. However, a death at his hands would be far kinder still than at the hands of the pale orc.”

Bilbo glanced between Gandalf and Thorin as the two seemed to communicate without words before Thorin asked, “What choice do we have?”

“None, I’m afraid.” 

The group broke up into arguments as some called for doubling back instead. Other’s saw both decisions as foolhardy and called to make a stand. Bilbo just wished they would pick one thing. The orc pack would descend on them soon enough and whatever they decided Bilbo wanted to have enough time to actually enact the plan. Gandalf and Thorin also seemed tired of the squabbles and called out above the noise.

“We will go, and pray we find shelter!”

The twilight of the morning faded into the blistering light of day as the company ran for shelter. The trees thinning out and flowing into soft and windswept fields of grass so green Bilbo would have believed it to be the Shire if he’d had time to stop and look around. As it was he was busy running, his legs reaching past flowers and thistles, nettles and clover, dwarves on either side of him as they left the obscurity of the forest and ventured into open air. They were at their most vulnerable now and Bilbo hoped that Gandalf was leading them with accuracy to the suspected house of refuge. He did not want to doubt the wizard, but there had been more than enough close calls for Bilbo to have absolute faith in the fallible magician. 

The howls grew louder, the sounds nipping at Bilbo’s ears. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and Bilbo found himself going even faster than before. Bombur too felt the burst of adrenaline one could only feel when knowing their life was at risk and Bilbo found himself outpaced by the robust dwarf. The house was in sight now, a glorious walled in creation of sturdy timber. Bilbo could feel it, they would make it in time. Then another roar entered the soundscape. A deep and ferocious sound, as if ripped from the earth itself. The creature from the night, Bilbo dared to look behind him for an instant, the sight chilled his blood. This was not the pleasant icy numbness he had grown used to, no this was a chill that seemed to paralyze him. His feet faltered for a millisecond before terror forced him onwards. 

One by one the dwarves piled through the gate, they pushed further into the enclosure finding a door in the back. As the company crowded around, Bilbo pushed into the middle near Dwalin and Fili and Kili, they began fumbling with the door trying to open it. Agonizing seconds passed before the latch was lifted and the dwarves tumbled in. Bilbo felt himself flash back to the first time they met, the group of dwarves fumbling into his home in a similar matter, although Bilbo doubted that they had been chased by any creature in the shire. Bilbo reflected for a second, actually, there were some hobbits that might have chased the dwarves out had they been given the opportunity. Lobelia, the thought left a disgusted look on his face. 

The dwarves were clamoring about, the door was not closed. A great head was pushing through the opening, teeth flashing in the bright light of day. Bilbo was mesmerized by the sight. Eventually the dwarves prevailed and the beast was pushed away from the door and the latch came down with a heavy thud. They were safe. Bilbo could only hope that the owner of the residence would prove genial. His hopes were somewhat diminished by Gandalf stating that the great beast was in fact their host. Bilbo felt vaguely nauseous at that, it seems they were still in some amount of danger after all. The pale orc outside with the skinchanger, who’s to say who would be there come tomorrow. 

***

“Get some sleep, all of you, there isn’t time to waste when it comes to rest these days.”

Thorin spoke up, “And of our safety?”

“Beorn will keep guard, there will be no orc attack tonight, nor any night we reside here if my hopes prove correct.”

Thorin nodded, a solemn acceptance of Gandalf’s prediction, “Set up and prepare to rest, the wizard is right we cannot afford to lose sleep. Bilbo come here.”

Bilbo’s head jerked up from where he was looking through his pack, “Me? What for?”

“Your shoulder has been ill looked after since we left the elves. It is past due for a checkup, I trust you’ve been applying the salve they gave you.”

Bilbo had the decency to look sheepish at the mention of the salve, “Well, about that… See when we reached the mountains and I was applying it quite frequently. So I was keeping it close to the top of my pack.”

Thorin gestured for him to continue, a resigned look on his face as if he already knew what Bilbo was going to say, “And, between the goblins, and almost falling off the cliff, well I lost it. Which really isn’t much of a problem as it was almost gone by that point. ”

“Oin!” Thorin called for the healer. “It seems our burglar needs a check up. Bilbo, how do you almost use the ointment up in that time frame? There was more than enough for your shoulder for weeks more?”

Oin bustled over and began poking at Bilbo causing the dwobbit to flinch back even as he answered, “well you see, I figured that if it was for sore joints I wasn’t limited to just my shoulder.”

“Other joints are injured? Why did you not mention this earlier?” Thorin growled out, his arms crossed. 

Bilbo glared up from where he was fending off Oin, “because they aren’t actually injured, merely growing pains.”

Oin paused, “growing pains? Bad enough for ointment? Laddie, how bad are they normally, for your kind at least?” 

“Enough,” Bilbo stamped his foot and took a step back, “would you please give me some room to breathe!”

The attention he’d been receiving was getting overwhelming and Bilbo wanted solitude, just a moment of solitude. He’d been so used to living alone, and now it seemed he was never alone. It felt like he was stretching a muscle unused to movement, the strain was getting to him. Bilbo was tired of explaining things, of being touched, of having people be concerned about him. He wanted to fade into the background, to just stop existing for a moment. 

Bilbo was agitated. 

Thorin waved off Oin, signaling that the checkup would wait until they were rested. The dwarf was silent as he observed the dwobbit, his fists were clenched, his breathing steady but shallower than normal. Bilbo’s shoulders were hunched in and he was removed an arms length from the nearest figure, who just happened to be Thorin himself. Truly the concern his company felt for the little one, the happiness in his companionship, seemed to be a cause for distress in Bilbo. Thorin was concerned by this, for a youth to be so overwhelmed and confused by affection spoke volumes regarding the past treatment of their gulmalûm*. Regardless of their lack of knowledge regarding Bilbo’s true age and heritage, his relatives should have provided better support for their kin, especially one orphaned before their supposed age of majority. 

Thorin just waited, Bilbo paced around trying to get into the smallest places of the building, avoiding anyone’s presence. Gandalf tried to approach him. The exchange did not go well, Bilbo nearly bit the wizards head off and Thorin had to hide a smile. The dwarf prince leaned back against the wooden walls, resting his eyes as he listened to the pace of the dwobbit. Bilbo would settle eventually, it was unfortunate that they were stuck within a stranger's home. It would do the youth well to let out the pent up energy, weapons practice would be ideal. Time passed and eventually the pacing wore down, Thorin opened his eyes and glanced in Bilbo’s direction. The boy was slumped against the wall, his hand fiddling with something under his shirt collar. Thorin decided to approach.

Thorin slunk against the wall, an arms length from his ward. It seemed that the casual affection, so common amongst his people, was an overwhelming yet craved thing by Bilbo. If it was Kili, or even Fili, Thorin would know what to do. Dis had often shared her parenting troubles with Thorin and he had been happy to help, after all Izul kuthu barafzu tashmari ra dûmzu fuluz muneb samragi.* Thorin wasn’t sure if this would be an appropriate time for any physical gesture and so he allowed the space.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

Bilbo shot him a quick glance, “I, my behavior has been quite inexcusable. I’ve been acting like a fauntling who has been denied supper.”

Thorin wasn’t entirely sure what a fauntling was but he imagined it was comparable to a child. Bilbo was apologetic for being overwhelmed, for acting his age. Thorin found himself with the sudden realization, one that should have been clicked long ago, Bilbo had never been a child. Not once had he seemed to indulge in the privilege of acting his age, of enjoying youth. Now, for some reason, Bilbo refused to let himself feel. Even his beloved Irakdashshat* had had a childhood, filled with as much indulging as the itinerant dwarrow could provide. Bilbo had had a childhood filled with as many material possessions and comforts as possible and yet he didn’t have the freedom to feel. By Mahal, Thorin was ill equipped for this.

“I think, you’ve been acting as if you were under a large burden,” Thorin paused, “I am correct in assuming that you have rarely had to explain yourself, or demonstrated enough of an outburst to need to explain yourself in quite some time?”

Bilbo merely nodded, “Then I am also correct in my assumption that the wizard, ignorant of this, has added to your stress.”

“He added all of you,” Bilbo gave an undignified humph, something more complicated crossing his features.

“Somehow I doubt that’s the only issue you have with the wizard.”

“He keeps comparing me to the fauntling he knew, the one before,” Bilbo swallowed, his voice had quieted, “before my mother died.”

Thorin felt his pain, he had experienced a similar rebirth after the loss of Erebor, again after the loss of Frerin. Loss brought changes to a person that nothing and no one could predict. Bilbo was not the same youth he had once been, nor would he ever be able to be that person again. To ask that of him was cruel, an ignorant request of a being far removed from the struggles of mortal beings. 

“You need not be that person again. None of us require that of you, or want it. We are quite happy with the burglar we know.”

Bilbo let out a laugh, it was a mournful and harried sound, “Why though, just because I am half-dwarf does not mean you all have to like me. In fact I would rather you accepted me for virtue of my character and not lineage that is neither documented nor advertised.”

Thorin hadn’t considered that, nor had the rest of his company he’d imagine, Bilbo continued, “How would you feel if the first time you leave, the first time you try to do something your family, your mother, would be proud of, you borrow the acceptance due someone else?”

Thorin would feel cheated. 

“Would you believe that you had already won over the company before they knew?”

Bilbo hummed, his tone soft and sad as he asked, “Who is Frerin?”

“Where did you hear that name,” Thorin’s voice came out harsher than he intended, the loss of his brother still stung.

Seeing Bilbo pull back, a blank face falling on his countenance, Thorin hastily continued, “ Burushruka igbulul e.* Frerin, was my brother, the second son of Thrain, son of Thror. He was our laughter. Lighter than I or Dis. He was … lost to us, in siege of Moria, at Azanulbizar.”

Thorin paused before asking again, “How did you hear about him?”

“It was the first thing I ever heard a dwarf say.”

Thorin turned his head sharply, his eyes widening in confusion, “Dwalin, the first of your company to cross my door. That’s what he said, ‘Frerin’, it's been in my head since.”

Oh, Thorin leaned his head back, “You do bear, some small resemblance… Fili bears a strong resemblance to Frerin as a matter of fact. Grief, grief strikes us all at odd times Master Baggins.”

“Yes, I suppose it does,” Bilbo’s hand was fiddling with the necklace under his collar again, a nervous habit so reminiscent of Frerin. His brother used to play with his jewelry all the time, or he’d play with Thorin or Dis’s. Whatever bead was closest would be tugged on playfully, or Frerin would … Thorin felt his throat closing and he couldn’t bear to keep thinking about the past. That’s all it was, the past.

“Master Baggins,” Neither of them addressed the choked quality of Thorin’s voice just as no one had addressed the previously teary quality of Bilbo’s, “Would you consent to Oin checking you over now?”

“Do I have to undress like I did for the elves?”

“No,” Thorin laughed a little, “No you do not, there should be little visual evidence of your damage now anyhow.”

“Then I suppose I’ll consent,” Bilbo sighed, the tension had seemed to dissipate from his small body and Thorin risked reaching out laying a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Your dwarven heritage is important, a special part of your being that should never have been denied,” Thorin paused, “but, it is not the reason you were accepted by our people. Your courage, perseverance, willingness to help us at risk of great loss, and your kindness have done more than you realize in cementing yourself in the company. Your position would have been secure with or without your heritage. Do not doubt that, gulmalûm.”

Bilbo sent him a tired smile and leaned briefly into the touch. If their youngest companion doubted his place in the group, despite his role as ward, then Thorin would do his best to make sure those doubts were eradicated.

***

Bilbo submitted to a physical, Oin was gentle with his administration and the check up was done as fast as possible. Everyone was tired and they all wanted it done quickly. Bilbo was checked all over, his joints and aches. Everything was lightly pressed on and felt, the touches tingled and Bilbo was too tired to react to much. He felt drained, emptied of everything. It took all his energy to stay upright, he put up a valiant struggle to listen to Oin and Thorin above him but the words were lost. 

“Bilbo, why don’t you go lie down,” Thorin nodded toward the posts where hay piles provided soft bedding. Bilbo saw no reason to disagree with the suggestion and so he stood and made his way over.

Chapter Text

Morning brought no clarity or peace, not that Bilbo was expecting it. He’d hoped for it, sure, but never expected it. What morning did bring was bees, a pleasant hum that drowned out the dark song seeping from his pocket (and really that was worrying Bilbo quite a lot). Delightful fuzzy bodies brushed over his nose and ears as he stirred awake. Bees, Bilbo had nearly gotten a hive for his smial last autumn. He’d hoped to start beekeeping as a hobby, unfortunately for him (or fortunately given his recent adventure) he hadn’t been able to find a salesman to supply him with the bees or hives. Either way, Bilbo took the pleasant bumbly creatures as a good sign on an otherwise weary morning.

The company was gathered near the door, the sounds of chopping wood coming from outside. Obviously their host was in human form, Bilbo hung behind Thorin and Kili, barely out of the shadows and Gandalf called for a delicate introduction. Bilbo didn’t know what introductions had to do with him, while his gift for hosting was unrivaled (at least among present company) he did not present himself without great awkwardness.

“Bilbo, with me please,” Gandalf gestured him forward.

Thorin’s arm stretched out, blocking Bilbo as he said, “Is it necessary to have him go with you? If our host is as dangerous as you say, our burglar might be better off back here.”

Bilbo was tired of the doubt (this was not doubt despite his inability to see it as anything else) and desperate to prove himself (despite the fact he had already proven himself in the company’s eyes), “I’ll go, it’ll be fine. He has bees.”

Thorin exchanged glances with Kili over Bilbo’s head, what bees had to do with the safety of the situation was beyond their understanding, but Thorin lowered his arm and let Bilbo go, “And after you two go?”

“Then Thorin Oakenshield, you wait for my signal. In the meantime, don’t make loud noises, be respectful of the space, and above all, do not overcrowd him!”

As the duo walked out Bilbo noticed that Gandalf had matched his own nervous fidgeting. That was extremely disconcerting but Bilbo decided to make no mention of it, it wouldn’t do them any good. As they approached the burly figure Bilbo made the executive decision to hide behind Gandalf, something he reflected on as being one of his less brave moves but one he would stand by.

“Good morning,” Gandalf called and Bilbo wanted to ask him what he meant by that, his mind drifting to that stupidly introspective morning and a full pipe of old toby.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Gandalf the Grey!”

“I don’t know who that is, why are you here?”

Bilbo liked his hiding place, he did not like when Gandalf moved out of the way to showcase one of his companions he’d taken shelter with in the skinchangers house.

“Who is this little fellow?” Beorn’s eyes widened and he knelt down in front of them. The effect was not much different to Bilbo who still had to crane his neck to look the skinchanger in the eye.

“This is Bilbo Baggins, a hob…a, humph, he is from the Shire. Well respected and from a family of irrefutable standing.”

Gandalf was definitely making some of that up, the Tooks could be refuted by many, but Bilbo would not disgrace the Baggins side of his family and he offered a polite greeting, “Um, hello there, Bilbo Baggins, how do you do?”

The large frame tilted toward him and he flinched back slightly, something passed in the eyes of the skinchanger and he frowned, “Little bunny, my welcome is extended to you. No harm will befall you in this house.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“You said companions wizard, surely one halfling is not sufficient to be called companions?”

“Ah, well several of our party may be dwarves?”

Beorn looked a mix between furious and exasperated even as he gently reached out and lifted Bilbo high up, cradling him against his shoulder, “How many is several, wizard?”

“Thirteen in total.”

Beorn proceeded into the house, turning into the doorway, his eyes sweeping over the grouped dwarves as they warily eyed him back, “Are they friends of yours little bunny?”

Bilbo felt his ears flame at the term of endearment, “Yes, um all of them are my friends. That one, Thorin, he’s, well, I suppose you would call him my guardian.”

“Welcome indeed,” Beorn’s greeting rumbled through his chest and Bilbo was nearly unseated from his precarious position on the skinchanger’s shoulder, “I’ll let you down now little one.”

Gandalf came in the door and the group crowded around him, Fili brushing Bilbo’s jacket as he checked him over for any wear and tear, “Well, that went far better than expected!”

Beorn proved an excellent host, a light meal was spread out on the table and while the others in the company easily sat themselves at the massive table, Bilbo nearly needed to scale a stool in order to sit down. Before he could Beorn was lifting him up and setting him carefully on the stool, a plate pressed down in front of him. The skinchanger loomed over them, but it was a gentle presence and not at all harsh like Bilbo expected. Beorn was tall, broad, and bore the marks of a hard lived life. The trappings of his home contradicted his physical appearance and Bilbo trusted what the creature had made for himself far more than he trusted the changing features of the physical. And the bees liked him, bees don’t just like anybody. The fresh fruit, honeyed bread, and warm milk filled Bilbo’s stomach and he felt restful in the way that only a good meal can grant a body. Warmed through and through he tuned into the conversation.

“There are more like you?” Bilbo was genuinely curious, someone as strange and magnificent as Beorn gave him hope that there might be some future for his own strange condition.

“Once there were many, little bunny, but now there is only one.”

“Oh,” Bilbo wanted to offer condolence, but there isn’t really anything one can say to someone who had experienced such a loss. They were birds of a feather, the only one of their kinds. There was nothing anyone could do to ameliorate their situation.

Beorn seemed to understand the unspoken between them and rested a hand on Bilbo’s back, ruffling his hair as he passed. The action left several of the dwarves bristling, Fili looked upset, although Bilbo could hardly guess why. The conversation continued around them. Talk of the path yet to be traveled and Bilbo knew that while they could rest now it wouldn’t last. Summer was coming to a close and Durin’s day approached.

“We must go through the Greenwood,” Gandalf stated, “To reach our goal on time.”

“The Greenwood is no longer fair, wizard; those who occupy it call it Mirkwood nowadays. There is a darkness growing there, fell things creep in the trees and pathways. Forces gather, spurred by the darkness amassing in Dol Guldur, I would not go there except in great need.”

Gandalf replied, “We will stick to the elven paths. Those will still be monitored and clear of fell creatures. The elves of Thranduil’s court still know their ways.”

Beorn rose from his stool walking around the table, “It does not matter, you will never make it to the woods alone. The plains are crawling with orcs, gathering in the shadows.”

Bilbo felt the soft gaze of the skinchanger upon him, “I do not like dwarves, they are greedy. Selfish and uncaring of the land they mine. Blind to the hurt of those they deem less than themselves, those they cannot identify with. But you,”

Beorn focused on Thorin, his eyes narrowing at the dwarf who had positioned himself an arms length from Bilbo, the dual beads glinting the lighted room, “You do not strike me as the same breed of dwarf I have met before. A dwarf willing to care for an outsider, one not like the rest of your party, a dwarf like this I may trust.”

Beorn turned back to Bilbo, the dwobbit, holding his gaze, “Whatever concerns I have against dwarves, I hate orcs more. You will let me know what you need, I will provide what I can.”

Beorn turned to Bilbo, “A halfling, you must miss the green fields of Yavanna’s blessed lands?”

“I do, the flowers would be in late bloom by now,” Bilbo swallowed, “berries would need harvesting and the apple orchards would be needing attending. My gardener, Master Gamgee, would be praising his petunias by now.”

Beorn turned to Gandalf, “You may have free use of what you need in the house, I will provide mounts. But, for now, I will take the little bunny to my flowers.”

Bilbo found himself picked up again and cradled to the skinchanger’s chest as he was transported out to the enclosed garden of their host. The sunshine warmed his skin and Bilbo took a moment to enjoy the peace of the moment. Bees bumbled past and the warm yellow of their bodies were reminiscent of the buttercups that dotted the field. Beorn placed him on a bench and began handing him flowers, Bilbo’s nimble fingers began twining them together. A crown began forming under his hands, it was a childish activity, one he hadn’t engaged in in years.

“I used to make these for my parents,” Bilbo rambled, “mother would get daisies and father would get dandelions, but only the fluffy ones. I haven’t made one in ages.”

Beorn let out a rumble, “Teach me little bunny.”

Bilbo pulled longer stems out of the earth, careful not to depopulate the flower beds. His fingers patiently twisted the stems, showing each strand to Beorn and waiting for him to copy his movements. The flowers banded together and Beorn was soon left with a clumsy but intact crown.

“How did you come to be with such a band?”

“The wizard, he knew my mother. Friends from her youth and he thought I should follow in her steps. He invited the company, much like he did to you, into my home. They have no home, I felt for them.”

“And your guardian?”

“I am of a surprising age I suppose. I am not exactly a mere halfling, my mother was engaged to a dwarf, I was all she had left of him and my age has left me mature for a hobbit and a youth for the dwarrow. I have a guardian now.”

Beorn huffed out a sigh, he pressed an acorn into Bilbo’s palm, “you have lost much, but perhaps you will gain more. The world is growing around you, you are growing in it. I will come for you should you need my help, little bunny. A child on a quest far beyond his bounds, bravery runs deep within you.”

“I’m not a child.”

“Is there shame in being a child, is youth to be a disgrace?”

“No!”

“Then what issue do you bear with your nature?”

Bilbo paused, was he ashamed of being a youth? He was upset at being dependent, a weakness, a burden on those around him. He’d had to grow up fast, to bear the responsibility of his home and legacy. He hadn’t been a child in so long, Bilbo wondered if he even remembered how to enjoy his youth. The adults around him had left him to his own devices frequently enough, Bilbo could not stand the thought the company would leave him too, and when their quest was accomplished the end of this situation would come. Bilbo had no place in Erebor, he may be part dwarf but he was not of Erebor, not of the Lonely Mountain.

“I don’t know,” Bilbo grew quiet, “I don’t want to be a burden. They have their own lives once the mountain is claimed, I don’t have a place there.”

Beorn placed his hand on Bilbo’s head, weaving fingers through his hair, “I doubt you will be forgotten, you are a youth. A child of Aule and Yavanna, you will always belong. My home will always welcome a child of the Green Lady. Do not disown yourself from your nature, youth is treasured and you have time, a precious resource in a world such as ours.”

The parting words resonated in Bilbo’s head as the skinchanger headed back toward the house. Bilbo followed later, taking his time brushing his fingers through the flowers and tall grass. This may be the last time he had a moment of peaceful solitude for the foreseeable future. The company was gathered around the front of the house, ponies set before them and loaded with their packs and new bags of resources. Their journey would start again.

Chapter Text

The gates of the faded Greenwood greeted them, resolute and lonely. Bilbo dismounted his pony, taking his pack off the back of the saddle and hoisting it on. The ground felt sick, there was no heartbeat, no mountain to feel the life underneath his feet, but Bilbo could sense more than the heart of stone. Bilbo took after his mother, Belladonna who had an innate sense of the health of the ground. She had been able to tell what ground was healthy and ready for crops and what land was deficient, she had also been able to identify plants. Plants had never come easy for Bilbo, he’d been estranged from the life that grew out of the land, but the land itself, he knew that. 

This land was sick. Desperate and decaying. Bilbo felt the decay against his feet and wished that he could keep the pony, “It feels sick, like there is disease that runs through its lifeblood.”

Bilbo turned to Gandalf, desperation coloring his tone, “Is there no way around it?”

Sympathy traced Gandalf’s reply, “Not unless we want to travel two-hundred miles to the north, or double that to the south. We must make our way through Mirkwood.” 

The wizard ventured party into the woods, just past the gate as the company prepared the rest of the ponies and supplies. Bilbo felt the sickness under his feet, it felt familiar, why did it feel familiar? His fingers strayed from his necklace and down to his pocket. The weight of the twisted gold sat heavy with a song. That was where he’d felt the darkness, the ring and the forest shared something sinister and Bilbo felt sick. Nausea and anxiety creeping up his torso, tightening around his esophagus and culminating in tension wrapping around his shoulders. Something was not right, this portion of the journey would be more dangerous than any member of the company could foresee. 

Bilbo sought out Thorin, his hand reaching out to latch onto the dwarf, “Something is not right.”

Thorin looked down at the hand clutching his own, the weight of Bilbo’s hand in his. There was some type of trust here, something new and Thorin needed to give weight to Bilbo’s concerns. To show him that he was valued and trusted, “Tell me, what is wrong?”

“The ground, it's sick, dying even. It’s not like the stone, there isn’t the same heartbeat. Stone doesn’t decay, it’s solid, but this…the forest is dying. Not even the elven paths can withstand the sickness creeping through.”

Thorin’s eyes widened, stone sense? Bilbo could sense the life of the ground and stone, this was a blessing from the divine union of Mahal and Yavanna. Not even Durin’s line could boast a current connection to the heart of their stone, not since Frerin. If Bilbo was right there were more implications than Thorin had time to address. Bilbo’s sire was suddenly becoming a greater priority than he’d originally believed. The implication seemed to defy the possible, Thorin’s hopes were rising and he did not want to be disappointed. His thoughts were tugged back to the present by Bilbo’s grip. 

Thorin rested a hand on Bilbo’s neck, pulling him close as assured his ward, “We will be careful. If the ground is as sick as you say we will do our best to be watchful. We must make it through, no matter the risk.”

Both turned to the wizard as he called for his horse to remain saddled, Bilbo cried out, “You’re not leaving us?”

“I have to,” Gandalf looked down at him, “You are not the same Bilbo that I picked up from the Shire. You have changed, you will survive this Bilbo.”

The ring sang still in his pocket, a harsh noise that combated the strength of Gandalf’s words, Bilbo could not take the atonal harmony any longer, “I meant to tell, I found something. In the goblin tunnels.”

Gandalf wasn’t listening though, the rain had started coming down and washed Bilbo’s words away. The weight in his pocket grew heavier as if it had won some invisible battle. Bilbo wanted to cry, instead he held tighter to Thorin’s hand. Some comfort was found in the solid presence of the dwarf prince. 

The company turned to the forest, rain making the world a drearier place than before, “Bilbo, are you confident in the path? Can you feel the sickness from the health?”

Bilbo looked into the twisted and dark branches that pressed inward. The forest was dark, it was dying, but Bilbo was a Took. Tooks knew the land, Tooks made their way. Bilbo could forge a safe path through the forest.

“I can do it.”

“Then lead us.”

***

Time passed differently in the Mirkwood. There was no sunlight, no starlight, it felt as if one was constantly in between the world of the living and the dead. Bilbo’s heart ached to see the sun again. The warm rays from Beorn’s field felt like a long forgotten dream in his mind. Still they marched onward. Bilbo found his footing sure, the path was on the edge of sickness, struggling to stay healthy amidst a disease ridden landscape. It wasn’t just the path that felt the sickness encroaching, the dwarves began feeling the effects of the darkness too. What was once irritable became aggressive, snappy became rude, behaviors escalated and Bilbo found himself becoming more despondent. The cold that hadn’t been present since the eagles was returning and Bilbo was scared.

“Air, I need air,” 

Similar cries erupted from the company, echoing the original statement from Gloin. No one was doing well, their spirits heavy as the air they breathed. Bilbo wished he could lead them to sunlight, he was doing well enough to keep them out of the increasing sickness that tangled with the branches along the path, but he could not find sunlight. Bilbo’s agitation grew with every comment the dwarves made. His nerves responding to the despondence growing within the company. When the company took a break for the (evening?) Bilbo found himself sinking to the ground. His head resting in his hands, Bilbo felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. If this is the responsibility of a leader then Bilbo did not know how Thorin dealt with it, let alone with the added responsibility of Bilbo. 

“Rest, all of you,” Thorin barked. 

It took time for Bilbo to fall asleep, far too much time in his opinion. Sleep was fitful when it did come, a heavy whispering song filtered through his dreams. His mother, bleeding in the snow, a dark eye ripping through her figure tearing at the scene Bilbo scrambled back his back pressed against a stone wall, everything felt shadowy. He knew he was dreaming, Bilbo grasped that reality, but it didn’t affect how it felt. The eye shifted, moving back and forth through darkness before it morphed into another bleeding form. Thorin. Sprawled lifeless on the snow, just like his mother, Bilbo felt himself cry out, reaching for the fallen dwarf.

Silence reigned as Bilbo’s eyes jerked open. The forest was quiet, too quiet. The path was clear but there was an echo he felt, something was lost in the outskirts. He looked around, trying to identify Thorin’s figure. He needed to know, something was wrong. Bilbo scrambled upright, grabbing his pack and moving toward the imposing figure keeping watch. 

“Thorin, Thorin, something is wrong. Something is out there, off the path!”

Thorin turned to him, his expression open and worried, “are all the company accounted for?”

Bilbo’s eyes widened, he hadn’t even checked. The two split apart and began searching the huddled forms spread through their campground. There was Fili and Kili, curled next to each other, Bifur and Bofur slumped against the portly mass of their brother Bombur, the Ri brothers carefully lined up against the path. Balin was leaned up against a tree, his head resting on his chest, Dwalin restless beside him with his axe in hand. Lastly, Oin was sleeping peacefully, his ear trumpet on the ground next to him, Gloin was nowhere to be seen. 

Gloin had strayed off the path. Lost in the woods, the company behind him, the solitary dwarf was fading from Bilbo’s senses. If they waited too much longer to act then Bilbo feared they would lose him for good.

“Everyone, wake up!” Thorin shouted, rousing dwarves as he walked through the camp, “we have lost one of our company. Gloin is missing, we need to be on the move!”

The dwarves hurried as they packed up, grabbing bags left and right. The sleep fading from their limbs and slowing their movements. Bilbo looked around, the world was quiet, menacing, and the woods were whispering. He did not like it at all, the path would be lost to them if they went for Gloin, but Gloin would be lost to them if they didn’t forsake the path. 

“I cannot promise I can find the way again,” Bilbo whispered to Thorin.

“Can you find Gloin?”

Bilbo nodded, “then that is all I need you to promise me.”

The faint traces of health that had brushed past the sickly wood guided Bilbo as he led the group. Traces of Gloin grew stronger, but so did the cobwebs that lined the brush. The earth and air grew sicker, clinging to the skin of the company. Bilbo grew nauseous and the dirge-like chant from the heavy gold in his pocket grew stronger. There was great evil here. 

The company was so focused on their missing companion that they failed to notice the skittering noises that echoed through the dank forest. Bilbo slowed down as he approached a clearing. Gloin had to be there, the trail was growing cold, but there was something else there too. He glanced back at Thorin, worry creasing his brow. The leader signalled the rest and weapons were drawn. There would be precautions in reaching their companion, in a forest filled with evil and the remnants of a past glory it would do them no good to be unprepared. 

In formation the company entered the clearing, Bilbo hidden amid their ranks. There was no visible threat and slowly the group sheathed their weapons, Thorin alone leaving his blade uncovered. Bilbo spotted Gloin in an instant, breaking from the confines of the party he rushed over to the shrouded form. Bits of orange hair peeking through the trappings of silky webs. Bilbo pulled out his blade, smaller and less likely to cause unwitting harm to the enclosed dwarf, he began slicing through the webs. 

Gloin tumbled out, dazed and heavy. His body landed on Bilbo knocking the wind out of the small form. This would be his salvation. As Bilbo looked out from underneath Gloin he saw the swollen masses of arachnid beasts dropping down onto the company. He tried to call out but the words froze on his lips. One by one the dwarves fell, stilled by the venom dripping from the sibilant mouths of the ghastly creatures. This was the darkness. Those twisted forms haunting a once bright wood. 

Bilbo scuttled from underneath Gloin, seeking a place to hide even as his comrades fell. They couldn’t beat the spiders, not through brute strength, not on their playing field. He hoped his friends would forgive him for his actions as he tucked himself in a small crevice of wood, hidden from sight. Bilbo peaked into the melee, his eyes searching for someone still fighting, Thorin. Bilbo's fingers tightened around his beads, the metal smooth and cool. The leader stood proud, swinging his blade around, but his efforts could last and Bilbo watched as Thorin was overpowered and fell beneath his foe. He closed his eyes and tried to stop shaking. He needed to hold it together, to find the strength that that dratted wizard seemed to think he had and find a way to save them.

Thorin was counting on him, his friends were counting on him. Bilbo corrected his thought, his family was counting on him. He would not let them down, not now. The ring seemed to sing softer, the heavy tune lightening with the idea of fighting darkness with darkness. The spiders had webs everywhere, their little system of messages spread throughout the forest, Bilbo would be hard pressed to sneak up on them, but if he was invisible… well he might just have a chance. 

His fingers drifted to the ring in his pocket. Perhaps, just this once, Bilbo mused and before he could think twice he slipped the ring on. Just in time too, the arachnid creatures were dragging away his dwarves and Bilbo nearly lost his chance to follow them. Drifting through the shadow world Bilbo had to fight the nauseated headache he felt blooming. The sickness was worse, permeating the very air he breathed. He could see the tendrils touching the trees and sunk into the ground. It was as if Bilbo was one with the darkness. All he heard and all he saw were infected with the song of death. Should anyone ask Bilbo later in life if evil had a voice he would say it sounded of spiders whispers and the dying creaks of trees. Bilbo felt starved for light. 

It seemed like hours as he tread along the forest, the chittering of the spiders echoing around him. The cobwebs growing thicker and thicker before he saw the master web. It was a sight to behold, woven so thick and wide that the whole forest seemed in that moment nothing but web. High throughout the trees the dwarves were strung, cocooned in the sickening embrace of spider silk, Bilbo began climbing, making his way toward them. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would do when he reached them, after all he was only armed with a small sword and had very little experience in comparison to the dwarves. He stood, carefully balanced on the branches untouched by webs, watching the last dwarf be hung in place.

“Feasssst feasssst,” The spiders chattered among themselves, a sibilant quality to their voices, “eat them fresssh.”

Bilbo was horrified as he listened to them, the disgusting commentary of beasts about to eat his family. Now that just wouldn’t do. Distraction, he needed a distraction. Bilbo looked around, there really wasn’t much of anything, and he couldn’t give up his cover just yet. Invisibility was only so good as it was a surprise, after all. Then it came to him, he watched as the spiders plucked at the web. The long spindly legs making repeated motions on certain strands, they were communicating, Bilbo was sure of it. And if these beasts could talk to each other through the web, then surely they must be able to note when people stumbled into their system. That would do then, Bilbo picked up the closest thing he could find (a dried branch hanging from another branch) and chucked it with all the might he possessed. 

It landed with a clatter, the vibration visible as it smote the webbed extremities. Spiders from all corners turned to look in its direction. Almost at once they scurried toward it leaving Bilbo free to race to his dwarves. The poor company was strung upside down, blood rushing through their bodies toward their heads, Bilbo imagined it couldn’t be very comfortable. He was about to slice their bonds when he felt a dark presence behind him. He barely turned as a monolith of an arachnid loomed up behind him. The maw of the beast clicking open in what could only be described as anticipation.

“Tasssty treatssss,” it circled the dwarf and disguised Bilbo, “jussst a tassste. A morsssel.”

Just as the maw was about to descend on the cocooned party member, Bilbo swung his blade. It was a glancing blow, lacking the power and intensity necessary to truly harm the arachnid, but it did distract him long enough for Bilbo to steady his hand and strike again.

“Where issssss it?” the spider sang out in pain, harsh and cruel, “it sssstingssss sstingss!”

The spindly legs swept back and forth trying to find the afflicting source and Bilbo in a moment of petty delight deigned to take the ring off (despite the heavy protestations of the doomed gold) and whispered, “Here.”

The spider rushed forward and Bilbo drove his blade into the head of the creature. With a push from Bilbo to the side and the forward momentum of the spider’s body, the creature tumbled down and down to the forest floor. Bilbo did not waste time to observe his handiwork before rushing to the dwarves, his distraction would not last forever and they needed to move. He swung his blade over and over again, his weakened shoulder protesting at the movement. Each dwarf was cut loose, the cocoons dropping to the forest floor. Bilbo could hear them start to move and groan, they were alive. A weight lifted from his shoulders, the world seemed to brighten minutely and Bilbo turned to climb down the tree. As he turned, however, a shriek came from behind him and he turned to find a spider bearing down on him. He thrust his sword upward. The momentum knocked both from the tree and Bilbo found himself experiencing the unique sensation of freefall before having the wind knocked out of him as he met the ground. His shoulder crunched underneath him, a flair of pain keeping him down and unaware as the gold ring trundled from his pocket and (almost as if it had legs of its own) made its way toward where a large mass was exiting the ground. 

Sickness gathered as the mass approached and Bilbo fought off nausea at the sight of it. This was by far the most hideous spider he had yet accounted for and he brought the sword up just in time to deflect a vicious attack. The fight was short lived, the spider’s ferocity no match for the adrenaline fueled intensity of Bilbo’s swings. Hobbit agility blending with dwarven might giving Bilbo the upper hand, his thoughts ran with the idea that this spider would not separate him from his dwarves. 

As the spider succumbed to the final blow Bilbo reached for the gold, as horrendous and dark the song it sung was, the ring had proven useful in Bilbo’s protection of his dwarves. His dwarves. The possession was barely noticeable in his mind, a subtle twist to his thought as he claimed the company. They were far more important than gold and silver and Bilbo would be damned if he let anything get in his way of staying with them. They were his, his precious family. He wouldn’t lose this one. His focus on getting back to his dwarves was so intense that he barely felt the horror and guilt at taking a life, even one as threatening and despicable as the arachnid before him. Still, as he looked down the reality set in, he had just killed again. 

Life was sacred in the Shire, from the smallest fauntling to the most inconsequential bug. All life had a purpose in the friendly fields of the Shire and Bilbo had never dreamed of the day he would have to kill. The wolves seemed like a nightmare of the past, a dream almost. Their death had been a necessity, keeping the folks of his home safe and secure, avenging his mother. The Shire was happy, peaceful and green and Bilbo was just a lonesome gentle hobbit there. Tears tracked through the dirt and sticky web lining his face, what was he becoming? These deaths weren’t justified (were they?) he could have run away, he hadn’t needed to kill the beast. It wasn’t even in the way between him and his dwarves, it was just in the way of him and the ring. 

There was little time for further thought as he heard cries. The dwarves, Bilbo turned, tucking the ring into his pocket (he would tell Gandalf about it whenever the wizard showed up again), as he ran toward the company. 

Elves.

These were not the welcoming elves of Elrond’s house. These elves were aloof, haughty and harsh. Their blades were drawn on his dwarves. Bilbo tucked himself behind a tree, the ring calling again, it was his only choice, he had to remain unseen. 

Bilbo slipped the ring on.

The world was bathed in shadows again as he heard his dwarves be called such rude names. Bilbo fought the urge to protest as his guardian, as Thorin, was called a thief and a liar. The dwarf would never lie, his pride too strong for that, and a thief, how could someone whose home be stolen ever stoop to such petty actions. Thorin was better than these elves. Bilbo wanted to reach out and fold himself into the comforting embrace of his surrogate father. Oh. Bilbo stopped still. That was a new thought indeed, a sharp pain stabbed through him. Bungo’s image flashed through his mind. His own father, or his first surrogate? Confusion followed even as the moment of clarity had struck. Bilbo was too tired, too exhausted in body and mind to dwell on any of those thoughts as the elves sprang into action. 

Bilbo followed the elvish escort, trailing them back to the healthy song of the path and through the woods to the gilded gates of their home. Bilbo ran to catch up, his feet silent and sure on the stately bridge. The last elf, a blond fighter, lithe of limb and as full of grace as he was suspicious of Bilbo’s company, hesitated, eyeing the forest as if sensing something else. Bilbo paid him no mind as he slipped through the doors and into the elvish halls. 

The wonder he wanted to feel was dwarfed by the irritation he felt toward the elves. They had no real right to hold the company, after all they were merely travelers and had not disturbed anything that hadn’t disturbed them first. Unfortunately all it took was one brief moment of Bilbo looking up for the elves to transport the dwarves far ahead of him. He began to dodge and weave throughout the bridged pathways trying to catch up to no avail. The dwarves were lost to him once more. Bilbo wanted to cry and stamp his feet all at once. The situation was simply unfair and he was tired. Even as he stood invisible and frustrated he felt as if there were eyes watching him, somewhere in these halls there was a being of great power and that frightened Bilbo. He wanted, as childish as it seemed, to be at Thorin’s side, even Bofur or Dwalin would be welcome as Bilbo wandered the halls trying to find his family.

Chapter Text

Thorin was worried, his face pinched in fear of what had happened to their burglar, his ward. Bilbo had not been seen since he’d freed Gloin the first time from the web of those blasted spiders. Now, he was nowhere to be found. Thorin sent a prayer to Mahal, begging for the safe return of their child. The burglar had done this before, been lost to the dwarves, and had been safe. Thorin did not know what he would do if the elves had dared to lay a hand on Bilbo. 

The company was whispering among themselves, Khuzdul and Iglishmek passing between members asking for signs of Bilbo. No one had any answers. Kili and Fili looked at Thorin often, concern crossing their features only to be replaced by despair at the grim countenance of their uncle. 

Thranduil was a terrible host. The thought startled Thorin and he felt his lips quirk upward. Really, the situation should not have provided that sheer bit of amusement but here he was, comparing the hosting abilities of one of the elven lords to an unsuspecting creature from the Shire. Bilbo would have had Thranduil’s head if he could see the company now. Sequestered in the dungeon, locked up individually unable to see each other. No, perhaps it was better Bilbo was not here at all, Thranduil might not survive. His ward was rubbing off on him and Thorin found he didn’t mind at all.

Now if only that ward would show up, Thorin felt himself get grayer with each passing minute. 

Before he could rally his people Thorin felt himself pulled in a different direction. He too was separated from the company. Led to the throne of the woodland king himself. Thorin’s lips curled into a displeased expression by default, the elf had been nothing but a thorn in his side since Smaug had descended all those years ago. An elf without a conscience was nothing new, but Thranduil had turned his back on a people in need, a people devoid of a home, provisions, safety for their children. Thorin held no love for this elf.

“Some would say there is a quest, a mission of great purpose being undertaken,” Thranduil circled around the chained dwarf, “A quest for a homeland, a quest to slay a dragon.”

The elf scoffed, “I suspect there is more to it than that. Dwarves were never the sentimental type.”

Thorin bristled, this king knew nothing of his people, “No, you have something else in mind. A theft, you seek to claim the mountain and more, you seek the Arkenstone.”

Thranduil smiled at him, coy as if to say they had an understanding, “I too seek jewels hidden in the Smaug’s hoard. White gems, like starlight…”

Thorin was less than impressed, although he was slightly perturbed at how much the elf knew of their mission. The gem must be found and it must be claimed by Thorin, or else the other dwarrow would never help them. They would be alone once more as a people. That was Bibo’s purpose, to steal the stone for Thorin. A purpose that might have to be reevaluated given his new standing as Thorin’s ward. That was a complication for after they removed themselves from the woodland court and after they found Bilbo.

“I would help you.”

The claim amused Thorin, elven help was never without expectation of favors and Thorin doubted Thranduil would prove different, “I am listening.”

“I will release you,” already the notion of being a prisoner was heavy in the air, “if you return what is mine.”

Thorin moved to walk around, “A favor for a favor, no doubt what you think as yours are these white gems you seem fond of?”

“I give you my word,” the king uttered behind him.

“Your word?” Thorin asked, his voice like a knife’s edge.

“What else would I give? As king to king, your company safely seen to the edge of the wood, for the simple return of what is mine.”

Thorin felt his temper flare, this king who denied his people help in times of tragedy and need beyond measure, now demanding as if an equal that which belonged to Thorin’s own displaced people. The gems, the gold, the precious minerals, metals, and material that had once had life in the happy halls of Erebor did not belong to elves. There was no elvish claim on his peoples’ heritage. This was a favor Thorin would not honor, nor would he consider it. 

“ You will not demand my peoples’ restitution for the suffering and wrath of dragon fire!” Thorin roared at the proud figure, “You who showed no mercy, no aid, we came to you in pain, in tears. You who had claimed to be our friend, we were not even given the scraps of your peoples’ decadence! I will honor no favor of yours!”

“Your grandfather made his choice, he went against the wisdom of his allies and brought the dragon upon your home.” Thranduil’s voice dripped in condescension. “It was his greed, his possessive nature that called the destruction down upon you. Do not blame me for his failings.”

The elf lord turned and walked away, lounging atop the raised throne, “You are like him, intemperate and foolhardy. If you will not respect my favor, you will not see your mountain.”

Thorin was grabbed by the guards, restrained and pulled back to the dungeon. He was at least reunited with his people. 

“What does the elfking say?”

Balin was the one to ask and Thorin replied, “He would let us go if we ‘returned’ jewels of starlight to him.”

“What did you say,” the resignation in Balin’s voice told Thorin that the older dwarf already knew the answer.

“I would not honor his request, we owe him nothing and we will not pay our own ransom.”

“Laddie, did you at least ask if his people had seen our burglar?”

Thorin’s heart squeezed, Bilbo, “I… had not.”

Murmurs rose among the company, failing to ask about his ward’s wearabouts could be seen as an offense worthy of his removal from the position, “I am giving our burglar time to prove himself, he has shocked us before and we all know of his skills in stealth. I say we give him a little time.”

Before any of the dwarves could argue his point, (Bofur, Ori, and Fili having their mouths open already), Thorin continued, “If he does not show up within a day's time, I will seek to renegotiate with the elfking. I believe we can all agree the burglar… our Mahdel* is worth more than a few white gems?”

“Aye,” Fili piped up, “I’d give up more than a few gems for Bilbo’s safe return! But a day’s time, no. Give him hours uncle, six hours?”

Echoing agreements traveled through the halls and Thorin found himself sending up another prayer to Mahal for his burglar’s safe return. In six hours he would call for negotiations. 

“This may be our only hope, Thorin, for release and for Bilbo.”

Balin’s words sat heavy on Thorin’s shoulders, a reminder of the responsibility he bore, “Not our only hope.”

Chapter Text

Bilbo had been lost for hours in the winding halls of the elven domain. The Shire was better organized than this, Bilbo was feeling quite spiteful. His dwarves had been taken, hidden somewhere, and he was left trying to find them once more. His task became much easier after he heard the distinctive roar of an angry Thorin. It echoed down the halls and Bilbo ran, he didn’t even bother to be stealthy (not that that made much difference, even the least stealthy hobbit could outdo any one in a competition of stealth). The winding halls disappeared beneath his feet and in what seemed like no time at all Bilbo found himself hesitating outside the lower levels.

The company had to be locked up beyond this point. Bilbo watched as merry and well armed elves walked in and out of the locked doors. Keys, that would be the way in. Bilbo was no thief by trade, he was a gentlehob… well he was what he was, but he had been talking to Nori about the craft and had picked up a trick or two. Now would be the time to test his skills. 

Bilbo skiffed in between elves, silent and steady, he reached his hand out, anticipating the swing of the keys. A careful snip, clip, and the keys rested heavily in his hand winking out of sight. Bilbo let out a silent sigh, his shoulders caving in with relief. Next came the door. It would be impossible to hide the door being opened, so Bilbo would have to wait for just the right moment when no one was looking. A distraction then, Bilbo was well versed in distractions, however, he was running out things to throw. He began patting down his overcoat and vest, and that was when he realized he still had his pack. 

Bilbo set the pack on the ground and immediately tore through it, pulling all sorts of items out he started chucking them. There was no method to the attempt at distraction, all Bilbo wanted was for it to work. And work it did. The two guards outside the door followed the trail of the suddenly appearing items and moved forward. Bilbo waited until they were nearing him and the pack before he slipped behind them and snuck key after key in the latch. He was beginning to despair of finding the right key before the guards lost interest in his abandoned pack (Bilbo of course was severely underestimating the sheer bafflement the elves were experiencing over the sudden appearance of clothing, handkerchiefs, and more strewn about their hallways). Finally a key slid into the lock and the door cracked open. Bilbo pulled the key ring free, slipped through the door, and softly shut it behind him. 

There they were. His dwarves. Bilbo found himself looking for Thorin, his eyes darting around the cells. 

The leader was leaned back in his cell, his eyes closed and face concentrated. Bilbo hesitated, just for a moment, before his feet carried him in lurching steps to his guardian. Bilbo had not realized how much weight he’d felt, and oh how he hated it, until he’d been given someone to share the weight with. He had missed his parents, and by Yavanna fate had seen to grant him a new one and he would not lose the support he’d craved for so long. 

Bilbo stood in front of the cell, the bars separating the two. All it would take is a single word and all would be right, well, minus the bars and the general situation. (Bilbo would later forget about how desperate he’d been to be held and treated like a child again, embarrassment covering much of his thought around the circumstances). Instead Bilbo reached out, his hand pushing through the bars and grazing the hem of Thorin’s great coat. 

“Bilbo,” his name dropped from Thorin’s mouth, soft and hopeful, as his eyes opened. 

Bilbo let out a strangled sort of sob and felt his hand get caught up. Thorin held tight and Bilbo simply held on as if his life depended on it. Things would be okay now, his dwarves were here and he was safe. 

“I cannot see you, Karkith*,” Thorin murmured, his eyes directed around the room instead, watching for guards, “You are unharmed?”

Bilbo nodded, his throat choked up, before realizing that the gesture was useless, “I’m well, and you all? The spiders….”

“We are fine, the elves are not so heartless that they did not see to our wounds.” Thorin reached out, patting the air as if to find the rest of Bilbo and check him over, “You are sure you are well?”

“Positive,” Bilbo fought the urge to push closer to Thorin, “is everyone here? Are you all separate? How are we to get out?”

Thorin sighed, “Thranduil has offered a deal, one I cannot take. He would see us rot in his dungeons before we were allowed to continue. If we are to leave it will be through trickery and stealth.”

Bilbo understood, he would be their means of escape. He pulled his hand away, Thorin held fast, “Not so soon, Karkith, rest awhile.”

“I need to find a way out,” muttered Bilbo, still trying to pull away.

“It can wait,” Thorin pulled him closer, a pantomime of a hug between the bars. Bilbo’s face buried in his coat as he clutched him, “See the others, listen to them for a while. We are all whole, let that sink in. There is no sense in wasting the time to rest when it is given.”

Bilbo just nodded, his ear pressed against Thorin’s chest, listening to the steady heartbeat. He was here, they were safe. It would be okay. Thorin’s hand gently carded through Bilbo’s hair, his chest rumbled with a vague tune, the simple melody banishing the sinister hum from the ring that had background noise in Bilbo’s mind. His heart was heavy from the sickness and he slipped the ring off. The world felt lighter, Thorin came into focus, a small smile decorating the dwarf’s face as he looked down at Bilbo. 

“There you are. We were waiting for you.”

“I’m here, I wouldn’t leave yet. I still have to see the mountain after all,” Bilbo’s voice came out choked but no one paid it any mind.

“Aye, that you do.”

***

Bilbo eventually passed on to the other dwarves checking in and receiving hugs, grasped hands or other forms of affection. He was so relieved that he never even thought to feel uncomfortable at all of the physicality. When his rounds were complete he squared his shoulders and slipped the ring back on. He had a job to do. 

The halls were being decorated, lights dancing in the air and elves singing. These wood elves had none of the sober stature that Rivendell’s had, however what they had in merriment was clearly to make up for their lack of empathy and general social niceties. Bilbo distinctly preferred Rivendell. However, he did have to admit, whatever party they were throwing would prove to be an excellent cover for whatever departure method he could come up with for the dwarves. Bilbo skiffed around, listening around corners, dropping eaves and gathering information.

The feast of starlight, Bilbo deciphered with his limited elvish. Whatever the rituals included there was sure to be drinking and where there was drinking there was bound to be accidents. Accidents that just might make a way for the dwarves to flee. Bilbo felt a smile stretch across his face, oh this would be fun. He would need herbs, wine, time, and more than a little luck. But Bilbo was a Took, and a dwarf, he would make his own luck. 

Time passed as he made his way around the halls. Supplies being collected and distributed, the feast wouldn’t begin until the morrow and so Bilbo had the time he needed to make sure his plan was foolproof, and given that he was dealing with elves and dwarves there were fools aplenty. He’d pulled from the kitchen stocks of valerian, poppy, and hops from their brewery. It was easy enough for the dwobbit to then steal a small keg of wine and steep the herbs in it. Ideally the blend would promote a swift descent into sleep for the guards of the dungeon. These poor guards, Bilbo laughed to himself (truly he was caught up in the mischief now), so far removed from the party it wasn’t at all fair, and wouldn’t it make their night a little better if they had some libations?

The second part of his plan came in the form of river access. Bilbo had wrinkled his nose at the idea of leaving by river, however, all the paths would be too risky. The elves knew them by heart and could traipse in and out of them with minimal risk while the dwarves could not. Even with Bilbo leading the way they would never make it out fast enough to avoid elvish patrols. The river was the only way to go. They would hate it. Bilbo hated it. The barrels, if they were sentient, would also have hated it. If Bilbo had to guess he’d bet that Thranduil would probably get some perverse pleasure at the discomfort the company was bound to experience with Bilbo’s plan. All that to say, Bilbo felt at peace with the plan he’d ramshackled together and he’d stored his variables as best as possible in order to keep things safe. Now, all he had to do was wait until tomorrow evening to get the ball rolling and, so long as he kept the keys handy, they would all be safely sailing down to Dale by the end of the day. Just to be safe, Bilbo wouldn’t tell the dwarves his plan until it was too late for them to object.

With his mind set he made his way back to the dungeon. The ring still on he faded in and out of the shadows till he was at the door to Thorin’s cell. Hesitant once more he couldn’t bring himself to alert the dwarf to his presence, instead he settled down, tucked against the door frame and the wall. He had begun drifting off to sleep when he felt a grip around his wrist. His eyes startled open and he looked down, Thorin’s hand was outside the cell, stretched between the bars, fingers pressed against Bilbo’s pulse point and wrapped around the wrist. Warmth spread throughout Bilbo and he nestled back against the rock wall. Everything would be okay, a smile drifted across his face and he fell asleep once more to the wordless tune drifting from Thorin. 

Yes, everything would be fine. Mahal was with them, Yavanna was with them, and it seemed to Bilbo that perhaps the journey might just end satisfactorily for all.

***

The wishful thinking of his sleep was an entirely different matter upon his awakening. The preparations were underway and Bilbo had to scuttle about as he set up the last details of his plan. In just a few hours, the elves would be drunk, the barrels ready to launch, and his company merrily on their way. All thanks to Thranduil’s trade relations with Dale, he really should send a thank you card after this was over. Now if only he could be patient. Worry was making that a difficult task and Bilbo worried the beads around his neck. The cold metal was not as soothing as he hoped it would be. Everything felt cold with the ring on.

Time passed slowly, so slowly, and Bilbo waited. His drugged barrel of wine hidden behind the guards, ready for him to roll it out when the moment was right, and given the sound of revelry growing upstairs that moment was fast approaching. 

“Galion you fool, we’re running out of drinks!” a merry voice echoed around the guards stations. 

That was Bilbo’s cue, he nudged his spiked wine forward, “Never mind friend, it seems you left one here after all. Say what you want about our mad king, he does have good taste in wine.”

Laughter echoed around the chamber and Bilbo listened still. The news of the waiting bargeman, more precious than gold to the hidden figure, paired with the wine being distributed among the elves Bilbo moved forward. The barrels were lined up prepped for delivery and all that was needed was his dwarves to fill them. As Bilbo skiffed back up the stairs and through the guard room he saw the wine already taking effect, the tipsy elves leaning on the table and giggling in dozy fits. He pulled the keys out of his pocket as he approached the cells, slipping in and out of the shadows as he heard voices. Even with the ring on his stealthy precautions seemed necessary in the crowded and chaotic halls of the woodland elves. Once he reached and unlocked Thorin’s cell, for the last time he hoped, Bilbo took the ring off and stowed it. Thorin’s face was distressed at seeing Bilbo, a fact the dwobbit misread as merely being shocked at his sudden appearance (it was in reality for the sunken cheeks and eye sockets that hobbit was sporting, exhaustion had begun to take over the little one’s features and Thorin’s worry was spiking). 

“It’s time to get us out of here,” Bilbo moved to unlock the next cell but was halted by Thorin’s strong arms wrapping around him. The warmth was a shock to his system but Bilbo practically sunk into the embrace. Oh, oh he did enjoy this, Bilbo needed all his strength to pull away even as Thorin grumbled, he was so tired. 

One by one the cells were unlocked, Thorin embracing his nephews who in turn embraced Bilbo. In fact Bilbo kept receiving hugs as he led the dwarves down into the cellars. Confusion reigned as much as relief did as the company observed their location. 

“You were meant to be leading us out! What are we doing further down?” Dori muttered.

“Shh, just shhh, I know what I’m doing” Bilbo whispered, the elves might have been asleep but there was no telling how long that would last or how much noise they could withstand before awakening. 

“Are you sure? This isn’t your Shire, the elves build up!” Dwalin whispered.

Bilbo just glared at him, before gesturing the dwarves forward and toward the barrels. His plan would face its greatest test now, getting the dwarves in the barrels. Once the dwarves were lined up next to their rides Bilbo said, “Alright everyone, climb into the barrels! Quickly!”

“You’re joking!” The elder dwarves responded, Kili and Fili were already climbing. Ori was half in and half out of a barrel, Dori holding him back. 

Shouts from upstairs revealed that their escape had been realized and Bilbo could have them waste no time, “Get in the barrels! There isn’t another way, every exit is covered, this is the only way!”

“Do as he says!” Thorin barked before shuffling himself and his ward closer to the barrels.

All the dwarves slid into their rides, pushing and shoving for seats in the barrels. Bilbo walked up and down counting each barrel off, Thorin was at the end counting as well when he turned to Bilbo, “Where is my barrel, Karkith?”

Bilbo pointed to the last barrel, “Right there! There is a barrel for everyone of you.”

“What of your barrel?” Thorin asked, his tone harsh and his eyes narrowed.

“I will follow, now there is no time to waste! Get in the barrel!”

Thorin pulled the barrel off, setting it to the side, “Do what you plan Bilbo, but I will not leave you alone again.”

Bilbo blinked at him owlishly, before stating, “Hold your breath then, everyone.”

Ignoring the sudden exclamations, Bilbo grabbed the lever and pulled. The effect was immediate, the barrels began tumbling over themselves and down the open trap door. The splashing that accompanied the falling dwarves was not enough to drown out the approaching guards and Bilbo found himself looking over his shoulder at the entrance of the cellar. There was no time left, Bilbo felt himself being elevated and placed in the barrel, Thorin leaping in beside him before rocking back and forth, effectively walking the barrel to the precipice.

“Hold tight Karkish,” before Bilbo could say anything he felt them plummet. It would have been a far more pleasant drop had Bilbo not been worried about elven archers above them. As it was, the connection with the water left them both dripping and out of breath. Thorin had one hand wrapped around the small body next to him and one hand balancing the weight of the barrel. The twist and turns of the turbulent water carried them down and down. Bilbo couldn’t see the other dwarves, they were lost far in front of him along the river. He could only pray that they were safe. 

Bilbo caught a glimpse of metal flashing, woodland colors glaring against the cool stone, “Thorin, Thorin they’re following us!”

Thorin merely grabbed Bilbo’s arm and wrapped it around himself before putting both hands on the barrel and steering them throughout the rapids. When daylight broke through the canopy Bilbo hoped they would leave the elves behind. His hope was dashed as the elven soldiers followed them out into the sunlight. Oh, the sunlight felt good though, the thought was short lived as a different group joined the party.

Orcs. They’d followed them from Beorn’s, how they made it through the mirkwood Bilbo did not want to know. Although he could imagine that darkness speaks to darkness and allows for certain liberties. Bilbo gave up trying to figure out their path and clung to Thorin. He was cold, and wet, and tired, and he just wanted to feel safe. He wanted his dwarves safe. 

His and Thorin’s barrel came to a gate, elves were scampering around, fighting off orcs as they battled for the bridge. Bilbo and Thorin sailed right underneath them all as the barrel tipped over the falls. The other dwarves must have made it through as well, there were no signs of broken barrels or bodies. Still the orcs, catching sight of Thorin, abandoned their beleaguering of the elves and took chase. The fighting spilled onto the banks as their barrel floated downstream, the orcs had no hope of catching them in time. That did not prevent them from trying and Bilbo was unceremoniously shoved down as arrows were sent after them. The wood of the barrel shuddered as several arrows found their mark. The elves defended their home well, Bilbo could at least admit that, and the additional troops sent out because of the dwarves' escape gave the bridge guards the upper hand in the battle.

Bilbo peeked his head back up, one elf. A sprightly blonde male, tall and inquisitive in stature, caught Bilbo’s eye. He was one of the elves who had taken the dwarves first off, the one who had ordered the doors closed at the gate. He was watching the barrel float off, his foes dead, when Bilbo spotted an orc creeping up behind him. Thorin noticed the orc at the same time and took action. He hurled an axe, grabbed from an orc that had toppled from the bridge, and watched as it landed with a thunk in the orc's torso. The body toppled over, lifelessly falling down the embankment. The elf stood from where he had ducked, assuming the axe was for him, his eyes wide with the realization that Thorin had just saved his life. Bilbo watched in a detached sort of amusement as the elf gave them a little wave goodbye, his head quirked and confusion marring his expression. Bilbo gave a little wave back, a smile loosely decorating his lips as Thorin once again wrapped an arm around him as they found themselves in safer waters.

The river was almost peaceful as they drifted down, Thorin keeping an eye on the banks as Bilbo kept an eye on the river. 

“There, the shore is close! I see barrels!”

Bilbo pointed to the right side of the bank, the rocks giving way to sand and remnants of barrels decorating the landscape. The other dwarves must have made land there. There was no sight of orcs and now would be the best chance they had at catching up. Thorin turned to look down at Bilbo, “Can you swim?”

Bilbo nodded, “Then we will leave the barrel and head for the shore.” 

The two struck out, Thorin with broad strokes and Bilbo paddling after him. The dwobbit was far weaker than he had anticipated and found himself panting with exertion as he pulled himself toward the shore. Thorin swam toward him, hoisting him over his chest and paddling on his back to the shore. Bilbo let his head rest as he weakly kicked. The two stumbled inland, the sand shifting beneath their feet. Bilbo stood upright, wavering as he felt faint. It came to him suddenly that he hadn’t eaten since before the spiders. He wasn’t able to continue that vein of thought as they stumbled over the rocks and into the huddled mass of the remainder of the company. 

A company that was being sighted down by a man with a bow. 

Bilbo sagged, one break, that’s all he wanted. By Yavanna, just one break. The company and bowman caught sight of the waterlogged duo at the same time. Joyous exclamations were somewhat dampened by the bow being aimed at Thorin.

“Who are you?”

“I could ask you the same question.” 

“Aye,” the bowman gave a grim smile, “but I have the weapon.”

Bilbo could see tension building on Thorin’s brow and decided that perhaps they might try diplomacy. This was after all, not an orc, or an elf, this was a man, and a man could perhaps prove reasonable. His mind made up he took a step forward and in front of Thorin, swaying in a manner that should’ve worried him (however, he was far too caught up in preventing a diplomatic disaster to notice his own physical failings). Thorin reached out, a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder steadied him as he addressed the bowman.

“Yes, um, hello. I am Bilbo Baggins, pleased to meet you, and these are my, well these are my comrades. Balin and Dwalin, Oin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur. There are Ori and Nori, with Dori just back there. Those are my,” Bilbo paused wondering how formal to get with the bowman before deciding that fewer titles would be better in this situation, “my cousins, Kili and Fili. Behind me, no doubt scowling at you, is my guardian Thorin. We were wondering if you would perhaps know a way to cross the lake? Or any nearby shelter? We really must be heading out I’m afraid.”

The archer lowered his bow, it was a graceful motion Bilbo absentmindedly noticed, “I am Bard, pleased to meet you. May I ask as to why you are in such… urgent need of an escape?”

“Oh, the elves don’t like us much.”

Bard glanced around at the dwarves, “No I imagine they don’t. I do have a barge, it would be more than capable of taking you to Lake Town, but why should I help you.”

Bilbo opened his mouth and realized that he had nothing to say. Balin, bless him, took over and Bilbo felt himself being maneuvered to where his cousins were. Thorin examined all three at once as Balin negotiated terms with Bard. Kili was bleeding, Bilbo leaned over onto him resting his head on Kili’s shoulder. Fili absently began carding his fingers through Bilbo’s hair, his other hand holding Kili’s. Thorin stood up, making his way toward Bard.

“We need food, weapons, supplies,” he glanced back at the company, stripped of everything but their simple clothes, exhaustion bled into his voice, “can you help us?”

Bard sighed, he took in the sight of the wounded, of the youth, and answered, “The way into Lake Town is managed by the Master, without his leave no one enters. You have come from trouble with the elves, and with the elves we find stability and trade. The Master would find reason to expel you from the town, if not a reason to clap you in irons. I fear you’ll find no welcome there. King Thranduil holds much sway over our court.”

Thorin interjected, stepping closer and lowering his voice, “Please, my people are starving. One is injured and we have no supplies to heal with, I cannot risk losing my own. We can pay, we will have money soon and will make it worth your while.”

Balin stepped closer too, “Aye, how many bairns do you have? Surely we would be able to offer some aid for your family?”

“A boy and two girls,” Bard muttered, his eyes flicking back to Kili, Fili and Bilbo, “I’ll take you.”

Chapter Text

Thorin was worried, Kili was injured, a deep wound from a foul arrow. Bilbo was non-responsive and would not stop shivering, he was curled up against his nephews as if to seek warmth from them. The rest of the company seemed no worse for wear. Exhausted and missing the security of weapons not to mention the warmth from their outer layers, but by and large uninjured. This Bard proved helpful enough and Thorin appreciated the help, even if they had to bribe the bargeman. 

Dwalin muttered, “I don’t like the lakeman, I say we toss him over and be done with it.”

“We don’t have to like him, just pay him.”

“Aye, but how do we know if we can trust him?”

Thorin answered the two, “We don’t.”

Thorin was in no position to demand trust, and as loath as he was to admit it Bard was putting more trust in them then they were in him. It would be easy for the dwarves to overpower the lone bargeman but they needed him, and he needed the money. For now they could trust the other’s needs even if they couldn’t trust each other. The sound of Balin collecting what little money the company had left faded into the background as Thorin faced the water once more.

“How old is he?” Thorin glanced up at the archer, “The little one, your ward?”

“Not yet past his majority, forty-nine years of age.” Although Thorin was not sure if that was still true, they had been journeying for months now, their burglar might have had a birthday by now. 

“What are you doing taking a child with you?” 

“Try calling him a child and see,” Thorin ran a hand over his face, “it is an unconventional circumstance that has led to our arrangement. We were under the impression he was an adult when we first met, misled by a number of things. Had we known from the start, we would be in vastly different state of things. How old are yours?”

“Not yet in their majority either, my youngest is twelve the eldest is sixteen.”

Thorin shared a look with Bard that only those who have had to parent unruly teenagers could understand. Then the mist cleared and Thorin had eyes only for the mountain. As majestic as she had been last he’d laid eyes on her. Home. They were so close. 

“There are guards ahead, you’d better get back in the barrels,” Bard called, disrupting the awed silence that had fallen over the company.

What came next was an affront so foul that Thorin almost wished he had braved the guards. They were covered with fish, the dead things piled atop them filling every sense with the overwhelming feeling of being caught in tin. If this was how they were to be smuggled into Lake Town so be it. Thorin would give anything to be one step closer to the mountain, one step closer to providing the home he’d promised to his kin. 

The sound was muffled as they entered the town, Thorin unable to hear what Bard was saying or doing. He relied on the speed of the boat to tell them if they were progressing to or arriving at their destination. It wasn’t until the boat stopped and the shudder of barrels hitting the deck that Thorin shoved himself forward. Each dwarf made their way out, hugging the walls of the building around them. Thorin looked over each member, his eyes finding Bilbo and seeing some life returning to the burglar’s eyes. Relief washed over him, Bilbo had felt as if he had been fading since the elves and it did him well to see a spark of life back in his ward’s eye. The lad would need rest, aye so would Kili, before their next steps. As they followed Bard, Thorin signed to Dwalin and Bifur to flank Kili, the wounded lad would need any assistance they could spare and Thorin and Bofur flanked Bilbo. The maze of Lake Town an unfamiliar terrain to their burglar, Thorin imagined it was unlike the dwobbit had ever seen given his limited travels. 

The humiliation did not end with the fish. The bargeman’s house was being watched. So, the devious plan was to bring the dwarves up through the toilet. Thorin breathed out a prayer to Mahal, for Durin and his people, he would do anything for Durin and his people. 

***

Bilbo did not know what to expect from today but whatever he had even imagined to expect he was wrong. He was covered in fish, hurried through a maze of buildings that towered threateningly over him, and then brought up through a toilet into a cozy house. He was barely conscious, freezing, and unsteady. He was sat by the fire and handed a bundle of clothes, large but warm, for which he proffered his thanks. There was little room for privacy and Bilbo was too tired to care and he changed. The other members of the company were doing likewise and before long they were all clothed and dried. Bilbo was shoved a mug of something hot and he glanced around the room. 

Thorin was standing by the window, his face drawn and pale as he stared out at some sight Bilbo could not see, “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost?”

“That is a dwarvish windlance, a fearsome weapon. I’ve not seen one since the mountain fell.”

Balin sidled up, “A fearsome weapon indeed, one that could have pierced the dragon’s hide with a black arrow. Girion, lord of Dale was our last hope that fateful day. He took a stand with the arrows, but few were made and time was short.”

“Had the aim of men been true that day,” there was nothing but mourning coloring Thorin’s voice, “Much would have been different.”

Bilbo turned then, a suspicion that there was someone behind him confirmed as he saw Bard, “You speak as if you were there?”

Bilbo glanced between the three adults, content in the moment to be nothing more than a tired ward and not someone who had to think. Although think he did. A scale loosened by a black arrow, a dragon with a weakness, should Smaug still be alive in the mountain (and Bilbo had to think he would be, there hadn’t been an awful lot of good luck so far on their journey and now would be an unlikely place for that to change) this might be a saving grace for the company. No matter the dwarves thought it was a fairy story, Bilbo would hold that information to heart. Smaug had a weakness, and where there was weakness there was space to exploit it. All Bilbo needed to do was exploit it when the time came. The Shire had shown him the importance of knowing the small weaknesses, one could do a great deal of damage with the smallest of insights into a being. 

Bilbo was ushered by Thorin onto the nearby sofa, a small construction that was also occupied by Kili. The elder dwarves turned the discussion to supplies and weapons, a discussion that was not going well by the sound of it. Bilbo paid them no mind, he still had his little sword and he’d follow them anywhere. He was promptly distracted by Kili’s hiss of pain.

“What happened?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Kili tried to hedge, but Bilbo poked at the wound eliciting a groan from the dwarf.

“That is an infected wound, you’d do well to wash it out. If I had some Astragalus or some Calendula, even yarrow or plantain would be beneficial” Bilbo peered around the house, “I could make a tincture or a wash, something to ease the infection's spread.”

A little girl approached him, “Did you say Calendula? We have some of that, we never had a use for it so I’m sure Daddy would let you have it. We also have yarrow, but it's so old.”

Bilbo stood up and followed the girl, “What did you say your name was?”

“Oh I’m Tilda and I’m twelve years old,” the child chattered to his side.

“I’m Bilbo, nice to meet you,” the little girl was enchanting and Bilbo thought she would do quite well in the Shire. Even Lobelia would be hard pressed to dislike such a charming youth.

“Here we go!” Tilda pulled her selection down and laid them in front of Bilbo.

Bilbo thanked the girl and set about mixing together a salve. It was a simple endeavor, something most tween hobbits learned during their gardening studies, but it was a temporary solution. Bilbo had a sweet smelling paste prepared and he brought it over to where Kili was slumped on the sofa.

“Tilda? Do you have any clean bandages?” 

“I’ll find something,” the little girl ran off and rummaged through the house as Bilbo inspected Kili’s wound. The arrowhead was still lodged inside the wound, Bilbo wanted to remove it but if the barb was poisoned (which the black tendrils weaving away from the wound would seem to suggest) then that could risk injury to himself as well. He could cut the barb out, that might be the best idea. Whatever he did to remove the offending object would have to wait until the swelling and inflammation died down a little. Bilbo wouldn’t risk further damage to the flesh without a better understanding of the wound. 

“Kili, I’m going to peel the trousers back a little,” Bilbo narrated his actions to the dazed princeling next to him, “You’ve got a nasty wound and I’ve got a salve that will help.” 

The little narration did little to help the situation, but Bilbo kept it up as he applied the salve. Tilda, by this time, had returned with a small pile of clean bandages and Bilbo began carefully wrapping them around the afflicted area. It would do little to heal the wound but it would help in preventing further spread of infection. Bilbo was not well versed in poisons and dark magic. He could create salves, basic healing ointments, but beyond that there was little he could do. Gandalf should be here, rang a bitter thought through Bilbo’s head. The wizard would know what to do. 

Whatever it was Thorin and the others were discussing was long since finished and the company was gathered together. 

“They have no weapons for us, nothing of value for us to use.”

Bilbo couldn’t really say he was surprised, the archer’s family seemed poor off, despite the hardworking nature of Bard himself. 

“Durin’s day is the day after tomorrow, we need to be at the mountain. The barge man,” Bilbo interrupted Thorin. 

“Bard, his name is Bard, he’s been a generous host for his means we should respect him.”

“Bard, cannot help us further with supplies. Not without great risk to himself. We know the armory is stocked and from there…” Thorin petered off. 

No one really had a solid plan. They were tired and had no more money to offer for aid, the only bargaining chip Bilbo really saw them having was within the mountain. They could only bargain with what they didn’t have for so long before people would call it in, and Bilbo doubted the Dwarrow would want to lose what they had been working toward reclaiming. Bilbo wouldn’t mind leveraging his share of the treasure, he didn’t really need it back at Bag End. 

“I don’t suppose we could just bargain?”

“With what master burglar?” Was Balin’s exasperated response.

“Well, assuming we survive we’ll have the mountain full of gold. I’d be willing to bargain with my fourteen percent if it meant we got our supplies. I don’t really need it at home, I’m quite well off, but it would do nicely to help you gain yours, wouldn’t it?” The last bit came out a little tentative as Bilbo had begun to doubt his offer.

“That will not be necessary,” Thorin rumbled, “we would not ask that of you.”

“But what will we do?” Ori cried out.

“And I suppose waiting for the wizard is out of the question?” Balin muttered, his arms crossed over his chest.

“The wizard has abandoned us, we cannot rely on his presence now,” Thorin said, “We must make a play for the armory, get the supplies we need and sneak out, or we must convince the townspeople to support our cause. Neither task will prove easy.”

Bilbo and Nori looked at each other, theft could be arranged, relatively easily too, between Bilbo’s ring and Nori’s skills. However, if discovered they could lose all potential for goodwill between them and the Master of Lake Town. On the other hand, there was no guarantee of good will to begin with. Bilbo really wished they could have just skiffed over the lake and to the mountain itself. He did not like either of the options presented to him. Nor did Thorin by the look of his face, everything seemed hopeless again. They were a company dependent on the will of others, forced into deception or desperate actions. 

The weight never lifted off one's shoulders, it simply settled there. Heavier and heavier each year. Bilbo wanted to cry, but instead, he did what he had always done. He squared his shoulders, lifted his jaw, and readied himself as he said, “Why don’t I go scout the armory. I can stay unseen and I should be able to get an understanding of the local sentiments.”

Thorin looked torn, caught between wanting to protect his company and keep them together and needing information for the quest. The contract was still in play, both of them, and Thorin needed to have Bilbo do his job. They both knew that and they both knew the risks entailed. Thorin gestured for Bilbo to come over, letting his arm rest on top of Bilbo’s shoulder as he pressed their foreheads together.

“Be safe, be unseen. Mahal tadnani astû, sanzigil tamkhihi astû, gulmalûm.*”

Bilbo leaned in, for only a moment, taking strength from the figure before him, before pulling away. He slipped through the other dwarves, Kili pale on the couch, Fili holding his brother's hand, breaking away to squeeze Bilbo’s as he passed. The children watched with wide eyes as Bilbo slipped down to the door. He sent them a friendly smile and wink, disguising the queasiness in his stomach as he popped the ring on his finger and disappeared into the night. 

The armory was high up, Bilbo had to scurry up the side of a wall, clinging to the siding of the building. His fingers were scraped and the little callouses he’d formed so far were aching at the pressure. The window was thankfully unlatched, no one was worried about a citizen sneaking into the armory. Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, the whole town had had him confused, the walls were too high, the buildings too tight together, and there was nothing green. He felt cramped and dirty. In regard to the armory it seemed fully stocked, at least as stocked as any armory he’d ever seen (which meant that it was all he’d ever seen). There was no way he could carry back all the necessary weapons the company would need, even if Nori had accompanied him. 

On to the next part of his mission. 

Infiltrating the Master’s house was easier than anticipated. After the isolated nature of the woodland elven court the hall of the Master was laughably open. Bilbo scurried around, listening to the whispers of the staff. They knew Thorin was back, calling him the king under the mountain. This wouldn’t bode well for sneaking out, however, the trace hope in the voices that blended around him meant they may win the people’s court if they called for help. The people wanted prosperity again, and judging by the rich (if dated) trappings of the Master’s home all the wealth in the town went directly to his private coffers. Bilbo exited the grand house, on his way back to Bard’s house he spotted something else of interest. The bargeman himself, Bilbo twisted mid step and started following him. The man dipped and dived through the rutted streets, eventually ending up in a small shop filled with aged trinkets and moth eaten tapestries. It was one tapestry in particular that caught both Bard and Bilbo’s attention. 

The line of Durin stood out, richly woven and sparkling in the dusk. Thror, Thrain, Thorin… Frerin. The last name was woven beneath a golden image. An image so unlike the ones of Thorin and Dis, theirs dark and silvery, while Frerin seemed to laugh in the gloom of the shop. Golden laughter twisting on a tapestry of a lost age. 

Bilbo’s hands were shaking, he needed to get back. He needed, Bilbo needed to breathe, his hand was lost in his hair finding the bead Thorin had put there. Fingers tracing the pattern, he belonged, but… a golden dwarf, one who … Bilbo couldn’t think about this right now. The company needed to know that they had been spotted. Whatever his suspicions were would have to wait, he needed to inform Thorin. The king under the mountain was back whether he knew it or not. 

Bilbo didn’t remember how he got back to Bard’s house. The streets gave way beneath his feet as he practically flew back to the company. He slipped in through the door and popped the ring off (he thought about showing Thorin the ring, the heavy song thrumming in a negative beat, perhaps the dwarf could tell him about the gold). 

“They know you’re back.”

“What?” Thorin stood up the company crowding around the burglar.

“They know,” Bilbo pulled closer and whispered, “Bard knows. There’s a tapestry, your family on it, he knows. And the people, they’re whispering about a king under the mountain, his return that promises to bring wealth to the town. Thorin you might be able to get the aid you need, but the Master won’t like it…”

Bard had entered the house again at that moment, Bilbo petered off as the bargeman headed toward them, “You’re Durin’s heir!”

It was accusatory in nature and Thorin drew himself up, all the suffering and loss he’d experienced converting to raw power as he faced Bard, “I am.”

“You’re here for the mountain, you’ll ruin us all!”

“I am here for my people, our mountain,” Thorin growled, “not to ruin your town or your people’s lives, it seems as if the Master has done that well enough on his own.”

“You lied,” Bard hissed.

“I did not,” Thorin responded, his voice harsh against the accusation. “I would not lie about these things and I would not risk any families, do not accuse me of things you do not understand.”

Bard paced the room, worry evident in his movements, “The Master won’t like this, you are a threat to his control now. A source of prosperity and hope for the people. Should things go as the prophecy suggests, we cannot disappoint the people. We cannot risk the wrath of the dragon once more. The greed of the King Under the Mountain has cost us enough already, I will not see a would-be king selfishly lead my people into harm.”

“They are your people, they are not my people,” Thorin, “I cannot promise you anything beyond payment for your services. My people’s wealth is not restitution for your town’s failings.”

“Failings? We did not call the dragon down from the north! It was your people and their forsaken gold. We don’t need your help anyways,” Bard growled getting close to Thorin, “You should never have come here. All you will bring is ruin, a firestorm we cannot bear again.”

“Then help us leave.”

Bard paused, turning to face the dwobbit once more, “What?”

“Help us leave,” Bilbo continued, heading off the rant a furious Thorin seemed posed to deliver, “We are obviously a source of trouble for you, the townspeople know we exist, that we are here but they don’t know where and they don’t have true confirmation. We are a rumor. Now, if you help us leave, tomorrow when you head out on your barge, then the problem disappears.”

“But what of the supplies you claim you need?”

“Leave that to me,” Bilbo smiled, “Nothing for you to worry about at all.”

Bard was incredulous as he asked, “ and what can you do?”

It was Fili that came to his defense, “don’t doubt Master Baggins! Bilbo has more than proved his ingenuity, if he says not to worry then I’d suggest heeding his words!”

Bard eyed the unassuming individual before continuing, “and what of my family? If word gets back to the Master that it was I who aided a party of dwarves, dwarves that threatened his prosperity, I assure you Lake Town becomes a very unfriendly place for me and my children.”

“Should word reach back to the Master and worse come to worse, for your assistance you will find a friend in Durin’s folk. We will help you as you have helped us. The wealth of the mountain will cover my people and yours, there is more than enough in my father’s halls.”

Bard looked to Thorin, “how can I trust your word? Who would vouch for you?”

Thorin was stymied, ostensibly the wizard would have vouched for him. But the wizard was not here. So Thorin had no voice to speak for him, no word other than his own and his company. Silence reigned heavy across the room, a sort of finality weaving through the air as it seemed that the company had met an obstacle they couldn’t find their way out of. 

“I’ll vouch for him.”

Everyone in the room turned to look at the youngest member of the dwarven party, Bard scoffed as he said, “I hardly think you have the authority to vouch for your guardian. ”

Bilbo drew himself up, ignoring the way his body ached and protested, ignoring the looks of everyone else. He was Belladonna’s son, Bungo’s son, sired from an unknown lineage, and he was most importantly of Bag End. Whoever he was here was irrelevant in the face of his experience from the Shire and his father’s teachings. He would be taken seriously, he had sound judgement and Bard would know this.

“I would thank you not to insult my ability to reason and justify my investment with this company. I assure you, despite my apparent youth and station as Thorin, Heir of Durin Under the Mountain, Oakenshield’s ward, I have the authority to vouch for his character.” Bilbo sent an impassive, steady, and stern stare toward Bard. 

Bilbo took a step forward, inching into Bard’s personal space, holding himself with the carriage of nobility as he said, “I have ordered my community, redefining the meaning of respectability to suit my needs, protecting the peace and poor. I am Bilbo Baggins of Bag End and you do not get to question my judgement and right when I have lived a life just as you have.”

“Thorin Oakenshield is a dwarf of honor, of loyalty, and integrity. If he deigns to give you his word, the authority of a prince and his people, you will trust it.”

Bard sat down.

“I cannot ferry you out,” he sighed, “suspicions will arise and I have no business out of Lake Town tomorrow. But, I can find you a boat, and some food. I can get you a way out but you must accomplish it by yourself.”

Bilbo looked at Thorin, who was looking at Balin and signing between the company (Bilbo really wished he had been taught that instead of weapons craft, it seemed far more useful for him.) The company was restless and tense as the decision was discussed. Thorin eventually looked back up at Bard, respect and strength of conviction evident in his gaze, “I will accept your offer. The mountain was home for my people, but it was always more than that. I will try and honor the heritage of the once great days between our people.”

Thorin reached a hand out, friendship extending from dwarf to man. Bard looked down at the hand, up into the hazy blue eyes of Durin’s heir, and clasped his hand. The future of Lake Town was changing, set in motion before Bilbo’s own eyes. 

Now it was time to make good on his promise. Bilbo would find supplies and bring them to the company, there was only one problem.

“So,” Bilbo broke the solemn silence, “What is it exactly that we will be needing for this next particular step?”

Chapter Text

Gathering supplies was more difficult than Bilbo had originally believed it to be. For a great many reasons as he reflected, despite his above average height for a hobbit and his added strength from his mixed heritage, he was short and could not hold as much as a grown man or even a dwarf. With that being said, Bilbo somehow managed the painstaking task of transporting a variety of weaponry back to Bard’s home. He removed just enough for each dwarf to have a melee weapon and a couple spare ranged weapons for Ori and Kili. Bilbo still had his little blade strung on his side and felt it would be foolish to weigh himself down with another weapon he didn’t want to use. Bard had prepped a vessel, pulling one toward his dock under the twilight hours of the night. Food was a slightly more difficult task, as were other basic supplies as the town had limited resources and most families were struggling to make ends meet. Bilbo was exceedingly uncomfortable with the thought of taking precious resources from those less well off than him and so he determined to sneak into the Master’s hall once more. 

The garishly decorated interior of the hall was enough to justify Bilbo’s idea of stealing from him. Anyone who decorated this poorly deserved to lose some possessions, if one was a poor steward then they barely deserve the ownership in the first place Bilbo sniffed to himself. With that thought in the back of his mind he traced the path of the servants in the hall. Servants knew better than a master where things were kept, what things were useful, and Bilbo needed useful. 

The servant halls revealed cupboards filled with blankets, bedrolls, and cooking equipment. Bilbo stacked what he needed, invisible with the aid of the ring (the song grew no less heavy each time he donned it, although the song sounded sweeter, a fact which Bilbo wanted to worry about but could not find the time to do so). He had gathered a good stock of equipment when he heard something that nearly caused him to drop his load in shock.

“The dwarves are back.” This came from the mouth of a slimy looking man, decked in black and hunched forward as if he were hiding from his own countenance.

“We should alert our elven friends, no doubt these interlopers bring …” a pause as the portly and outrageously dressed lord searched for a word, “depravity, yes, depravity to our rich lifestyle. I’m sure our friend King Thranduil would be more than happy to help us eliminate the problem.”

“Yes, my lord, however, it stands to reason that the dwarves are getting aid from someone in town. Could it be, the troublesome heir of Girion. The upstart,” the hunched man’s sibilant voice snaked through the air and Bilbo felt that the tides were turning once more. Whoever Girion’s heir was, Bilbo reckoned, they were about to find themselves with unwanted attention. 

He’d heard enough and hustled back to Bard’s. The company was ready, even Kili’s weary form was dressed to leave. Bilbo entered the home, doffing the ring and dropping the supplies he announced, “Bard, I think perhaps if you know who Girion’s heir is you’d better warn them the Master seeks to eliminate him as a threat. Or at least deeply inconvenience him in the near future. He’s also seeking to call for the elves, he seems to think that they’ll help … eradicate our presence.”

Bilbo was not prepared for the way Bard’s face went white, whatever color gained in the dreary land was wiped away. 

“Oh dear, have I said something?”

“Da?” The children gathered around their father worry poorly concealed in their movements.

Bard held them, whispering words that soothed the frightened movements of his children. Bilbo could only imagine what those words were but the children scuttled off to their room. Bard turned at the same time to Thorin.

“I’m afraid I may need that help sooner rather than later,” Bard took a deep breath, “I am Girion’s heir. I will stay in town, someone will need to rally the people should worse come to worse and there is no relying on the Master for that. I would ask that you take my children with you.”

Thorin’s eyes widened, a denial on his lips as Bard pressed forward, “You have a wounded member in your party, even now the stink of infection is noticeable. He will be no use to you if his wound worsens, you have a … ward… in your party. Surely three children who can watch themselves will not add undue stress. I need them safe.”

“You would send them with strangers to the mountain?”

“I would send them with an honorable father, with a leader. I would send them with someone who could protect them.” Bard sighed, “And I hate to admit it, but should the dragon wake and bring his fire down on us, the mountain might be safer than our home.” 

The elder dwarves looked at each other, panic visible in their eyes. Bilbo was both amused and deeply worried, if Bard thought his children would be safer outside of the town then things were truly desperate for him. However, children, actual children, traveling with the company were equally desperate and dangerous actions. 

“I cannot take them with us, but you bring a good point. I do have wounded members in my party. By your leave, I should leave several of my party behind, a protection for your children as well as guides to the mountain, should you need one?”

“Who would you leave?”

“Kili,” outraged shouts rose from the brothers, Kili struggling to get up even as his leg buckled beneath him, “Oin, Fili, Bofur, and Bilbo.”

Bilbo’s head shot up, “Now see here!”

Thorin leveled a dark glare at him, “No, you are under my guardianship. I need you to remain safe, gulmalûm. My Irakdashshat as well, I cannot lose them, I cannot lose you. Nor can I allow you to put yourself in harm's way.”

“I signed a contract,” Bilbo stated definitively before his voice dipped into a more plaintive tone, “I, don’t make me go back on my word. I can do this, Gandalf knew it, you know it. Please let me prove it to myself.”

Bilbo didn’t know what he was looking at when Thorin stepped close and rested their foreheads together. There was an emotion, a look, that Bilbo couldn’t place deep in Thorin’s eyes. If the dwobbit were to guess he might have called it sadness, or pride, or perhaps a melancholy of sorts, but Bilbo could not guess. 

“Oh little one, I cannot risk every treasure in my possession.”

“I promise you aren’t, I won’t risk your mission,” Bilbo pleaded, “I can find and bring whatever it is you need from the mountain, just don’t leave me behind, please.”

Bilbo missed the devastated look that crossed Thorin’s face at his interpretation of the statement. Bilbo lifted his face looking into Thorin’s eyes, “ if you will not take me with you I will simply follow behind. You would not be able to stop me, please, I promise I can do this. I will be of help, not a hindrance.”

Thorin felt himself caving, his final wall crumbling as Bilbo pushed onward, “anyhow, you’ll be able to protect me better if I’m near you. After all, isn’t that your role as guardian? To protect me?”

Thorin looked to Balin, and then to Dwalin. Each dwarf met him with a shrug, they had no advice to give to their leader and Thorin felt his resolve crumbling. He could not afford to lose any of the youth on this quest. The mountain was his legacy, his people’s legacy and home, but Bilbo was his ward. His legacy just as much as the mountain, Bilbo would carry the name of Durin tied to him for all time. Thorin did not want to leave any of them behind, the company should never be divided, split away from his watchful eyes. But Kili was sick and Fili would not leave his brother, and Bilbo was still a child in so many ways. And what of Bard’s children? Lake Town was no longer friendly to any of them and Thorin could not risk the lives of their ally’s youth. No, this was all too much. 

There was no doubt in Thorin’s mind that Bilbo would simply follow them, his little Karkith was clever enough to follow through on his threat, “Very well.”

“Bard, your children will remain here with Kili, Fili, Oin, and Bofur. Bilbo, you will come with the rest of the party.” Thorin held his hand up at the complaints his decision elicited from the brothers, “You are wounded, Dis would kill me if I let you near a dragon, alive or dead, with you in this condition. I need you safe, Fili, Kili, you are the heirs under the mountain, our people need you safe.”

Thorin gave Bilbo’s neck a brief squeeze as he headed toward his nephews, muttering to them in the tongue of their fathers. Their foreheads were brought together and Bilbo observed as the line of During embraced. There was a familiarity, a knowledge of the other person, observable in the family’s movements that left Bilbo wishing his belonging was real. He would give everything to have the same familiarity and closeness to the dwarrow that he witnessed around him. These were a people who loved well, affection mined from the depths of their hearts for their loved ones. Bilbo had never witnessed a hobbit exchange such heartfelt affections. There were many overtures of love in the Shire, embraces and kisses, but the level of intimacy Bilbo saw before him was never shown in his home. He felt lonely once more, a cold approaching his limbs and heart as he tried to focus on the job at hand. 

Bilbo would do anything for his dwarves, he would steal from the dragon and he would help them win their home. Maybe, just maybe, if he did well enough they would let him stay with them even after the contracts were fulfilled. Maybe he would belong to them the way they belonged to him. The possessive nature that had crept over Bilbo was whispering that he could have it all, everything his heart desired, the dwarves, the mountain, the gold. The gold. Bilbo didn’t want the gold.

Now where had that thought come from, worry crept over Bilbo’s heart as his fingers regained feeling. The ring, cold against his now warm hand. Oh. Perhaps he should have told the wizard. 

Nausea left Bilbo feeling queasy as the company headed toward the hidden boat. Midnight was upon them and the company was entering the final day, their final chance to find the door. This was the day that would determine the fate of the party. Bilbo found it quite an ordinary night for such a momentous task to inhabit. Then again, the day he’d been selected for this particular journey had also been an ordinary day all things considered. 

Settled behind Thorin, Bilbo watched as Lake Town faded from sight, the mountain growing closer by every moment. Everything was going to change from here on out, Bilbo thought. He missed the brothers, he missed Bofur, he even missed Oin (although he was glad he was past getting checked up on by the dwarf, Kili’s injury taking all the party’s healer’s attention). In an effort to stave off the cold that crept over his body, he was no longer able to tell if it was from the air or himself, Bilbo leaned up against Thorin’s back. The dwarf was practically a furnace and Bilbo wanted to feel connection, even if it was a veneer of true connection. 

The sun rose, slowly banishing the mist from the lake and Bilbo caught his first glimpse of the Lonely Mountain up close. It was majestic, the rising lines of the stone against the snowy peaks left him breathless. As the boat landed and he settled on the ground his sense of wonder increased as he felt the mountain. It was a steady beat, not harsh, not deafening, simple and soft. Like the heartbeat of a mother as her child laid an ear on her chest, it sounded like coming home. Bilbo nearly wept. 

This was what his dwarves were fighting for, this their home, their heartbeat. The land itself seemed to rejoice at the company’s presence, as if the mountain knew of their arrival. Bilbo could only look on in awe as he felt the call. There was something else, something more, less like a warm embrace thrumming through the hills, and more like a tinkling laughter. There was another heartbeat in these hills, precious and charmed. Bilbo could only imagine that that was of great significance, but he could not claim to know what it was. The heartbeat of the mountain washed away the pulsating song of the ring, heaviness was replaced with light and Bilbo felt refreshed for the first time since the goblins. Hope seemed to settle over the entire party as they made their way up the mountain. With sunlight bathing them and the light of Durin welcoming them home everything seemed possible. 

The hope seemed to wash away once more as Bilbo followed the dwarves to a ledge. A ledge that overlooked the still charred ruins of Dale. The once prosperous city was a sight to behold, decayed and skeletal against the mountainside. 

“This is the desolation of Smaug,” Balin said, his voice echoing around the overlook.

Shadows flared out from the ruins and Bilbo felt reality set in. This would be Lake Town if the dragon took flight again. There was no guarantee that Smaug was dead, no guarantee that they would survive. Oh. Oh, indeed, Bilbo wondered if his mother had ever felt like this. Like the world had just grown larger and she was a small thing floating on the surface. Bilbo looked at the mountain, at the remnants of a once glorious past, and wondered if this would be their fate. If the remembrance of their quest would end in fire and ruin or if there would be songs sung at their victory. He felt very small in the face of the past and present. 

Bilbo’s thoughts were scattered as Thorin urged the group onward. He could not be caught falling behind. Bilbo would not be the weak link, he would prove the wizard’s choice was the right choice, that he was worth the effort to bring here.

***

Even now, there was no sight of the wizard, no notice that Gandalf would be back in time for the door’s opening. The search for the door was proving difficult. With stone in every direction and the destruction from Smaug erasing most of the original landscape there was no clear sign where the door might lay. The map was able to direct the company toward the north face of the mountain, high above the remnants of ruined Dale. Bilbo listened as the dwarves searched, panic hastening their pace as time slowly ticked away. Daylight would only last so long.

Bilbo tried to tune out the sounds of the company, the heavy drum of the ring in his pocket, and the crystalline hum of the unknown, as he focused on the mountain’s heartbeat. If he could find the loudest echo perhaps it would lead to the door. The slow and steady beat of the mountain calmed Bilbo’s nerves and he found himself walking. The world seemed to quiet as he found the steady thrum twisting toward a path, his feet traced the way unconsciously as Bilbo looked up. There it was, carved into the living stone. Standing proud and strong, even after the years of decay and exile from its people, a stern warrior made in the mountain. A staircase, disguised by the geometric pattern from a distance, became known to Bilbo as he stared. 

“Over here!” 

The company rushed over, their eyes taking in all that Bilbo had seen, “well done Bilbo.”

Thorin’s praise lifted Bilbo’s spirits and he beamed back at the dwarf. They were one step closer. One step closer home. The ascent up the staircase was difficult, each step steeply carved and rough against Bilbo’s hands. The difficulty was nothing when paired with the knowledge of what lay at the top. When Bilbo finally reached the top he barely had time to catch his breath before he lost it once more. The view was spectacular, reaching far out to the valley, lake, and sloping hills of the surrounding lands. Bilbo could never have imagined such a sight. If this was what Mahal had to offer his Green Lady then Bilbo understood why Yavanna had married the creator. 

Turning back to the face of the mountain was no less wonderful as the heartbeat pulsed around the air and filled Bilbo’s ears with a heady sound. No wonder his dwarves had so longed for their home if they could feel her waiting for them. The song filled his heart and Bilbo could not begin to imagine how the dwarrow had not been driven mad by the loss of her. His hands reached out to touch the stone, it was cool, but not chilled like the snow and ice. No it was the coolness of lemonade on a hot summer day, the feeling of submerging oneself in a river to wash away afternoon sweat. It was the coolness of the early morning when the world greeted you as its friend. This was the coolness of a mother’s hand on a fevered forehead. It was, simply put, home. 

“Let all who doubted us rue this day!” Thorin laughed as he addressed the group, joy filling his eyes and countenance. 

The cheers echoed across the mountain as the company made their joy known. They were home. But while the key was clear, and the path was open, there was no visible door. The hope had turned to despair souring the air. There was no door. No keyhole. No room for the dwarves to move. 

Bilbo watched as the faces of his dwarves fell. Anger and fervor poured into their actions as they rammed the stone wall. Bilbo flinched, with each blow they landed against their mountain, he felt as if his own body was being struck. There had to be a door. There just had to be. They had come all this way for a way home. 

The mountain was laughing at him. 

The sun set and Bilbo’s heart broke as he heard Thorin’s confused voice, “It says, here, by the last light of Durin’s day.”

“What did we miss? Balin,” Thorin approached the elderly dwarf, the king reduced to the questioning youth he had once been, “What did we miss?”

Balin turned away, disappointment etched across his features, “Nothing laddie, we had one chance. That’s all.”

The dwarves, one by one, turned away. Their boots heavy as the heartbeat in Bilbo’s ear as they began making their way down the hidden staircase. Bilbo felt confused, they were just giving up. After everything, after the spiders, the goblins, the pale orc. The company was turning tail and leaving. 

“Wait! You can’t just give up!” Bilbo exclaimed, affronted on behalf of the dwarrow and the mountain at such an easy defeat.

“Aye, laddie, we can,” Gloin responded, “The time has passed. We missed our window, there is nothing left to do but salvage our lives and return home.”

“This is your home!”

“This was our home.”

Bilbo found himself left on the overlook, Thorin by his side. The leader’s eyes were glazed over, his hands shook as he held the map. Bilbo opened his mouth to speak, to assure Thorin that there was still time. Maybe they had calculated wrong and they had a day left. Anything. But words failed him and Thorin stalked toward the staircase. The key dangled from his fingers before dropping. The clang rang out and disrupted the heartbeat pounding in Bilbo’s ears. Thorin couldn’t give up, not after everything. Thorin couldn’t lose hope.

Bilbo reached out even as Thorin brushed past him. Bilbo found himself alone on the cold outcrop. Alone with the key. Alone with the moonbeams and heartbeat. 

Moonbeams.

Moonlight.

Moon runes. Oh. Oh! Bilbo looked at the sky, the silver light of the moon brushing against his face. There was more light left in the day. Bilbo turned to look at the stone wall.

“Come back! Come back!” he cried. 

Bilbo scurried around looking for the key, the twilight and dusk had passed and his eyes were failing him as they adjusted to the new light. He couldn’t see the key. Frustration made his movements jerky and he shuffled around where he had last seen it. Where Thorin had dropped it. It was his foot that saw it first, making contact with the heavy metal. The key skittered away as Bilbo’s foot connected with it, dancing toward the edge of the mountain. His eyes filled with horror as it reached the edge, the leather cord disappearing downward.

A heavy boot stopped it. Stepping down and bringing the descent to an end, Thorin reached down, his fingers clasping the key. Their eyes met and there was a solemnness in Thorin’s countenance that Bilbo had not yet seen. Silently the dwarf moved forward, reverently placing the key in the lock and twisting. The company and Bilbo watched in silence as Thorin gently pushed the door open. 

The mountain sang.

Bilbo lost all sense of self as the heartbeat roared through the opening and enveloped the company. He couldn’t see or hear the dwarves as the welcome was poured into his soul. Home, home, home, the heartbeat tied itself in his body and he felt it. For one instant he was the mountain, he could feel the gold under his feet, the silence of gems, the hollows and halls empty, waiting to be filled. It was too much. 

Bilbo’s last thought before falling unconscious was how did the dwarves not react to the song?

Chapter Text

Thorin glanced behind as a thud echoed through the air. Bilbo was sprawled on the ground, the dwarves clustered around him in a panic. Thorin glanced back at the open door, the hallowed halls of his forefathers before turning to his ward. Thorin gently scooped Bilbo up and turned back to the mountain; they would require shelter. They were home. Within these halls they would find something to cure whatever ailed their burglar. 

Together they stepped inside, Balin following and slowly each member of their company followed. 

“Thorin,” Balin’s voice choked.

A smile was shared between them, tired and hopeful. They had never dreamed this day would come, these halls welcoming them, their people able to come home. Bilbo’s weight in his arms brought Thorin back to reality as he looked around for a place to lay the dwobbit down. They would need him soon. The arkenstone would need to be collected. 

Soon the dwarrow would come, united under the mountain, united under the arkenstone. Thorin would see his people restored to greatness.

It was not without a great deal of worry that Thorin checked over his ward. The little one had fallen over with no warning or sign. This was cause for great worry. If there was something wrong then Thorin would have to send him back to Oin, to Lake Town. His heart tore at itself with that thought, it would not do to have his ward so far away. Thorin wanted him nearby, close in case of emergency or need. Bilbo was his to protect, his to guard over. Thorin would not let anything else come between that duty. 

Balin gently patted Bilbo’s cheek as Thorin rested the dwobbit’s head in his lap, the only place soft enough to rest his head. Bilbo’s eyes fluttered open, his mouth parted, “She’s singing.”

The little one’s eyes drifted shut again, his words echoing through Thorin’s mind. She’s singing, the mountain? Did he mean the mountain? Could Bilbo hear the stone, the heartbeat here in the Lonely Mountain. The dwobbit’s word before the sickly Greenwood came back to Thorin. The stone sense thought lost to Durin’s people was found in the little creature. The mountain was singing.

Balin tsked and lightly slapped Bilbo, Thorin narrowing his eyes at the elderly dwarf, even as Bilbo woke up, “What happened?”

“You fainted , gulmalûm, but all is well.” 

“Aye, laddie, we’ve made it!”

Bilbo tried to sit up, to turn his head around but Thorin kept him down, “Do not yet rush, ease yourself back up.”

“I’m fine, overwhelmed is all,” Bilbo muttered, nevertheless he slowly rose up.

Before Thorin could press what his ward meant by being overwhelmed Gloin recited, “Herein lies the seventh kingdom of Durin’s folk, may the heart of the mountain unite all dwarves in defense of this home.”

Chapter Text

“The heart of the mountain?”

“That would be the arkenstone.”

Bilbo paused, the crystalline laughter dancing in his ears, “the arkenstone? What is that?”

“That, master burglar,” Thorin smiled, “is why you have been contracted with this party.”

Bilbo had the feeling that the tinkling noise, so unlike the steady heartbeat that was now indistinguishable from his own, or the heavy song of the ring, was somehow tied to this arkenstone. Somewhere, deep within this mountain lay a bright gem, full of laughter and mischief, and it would be Bilbo’s job to retrieve it. 

“It will unite all dwarves?” 

“Aye the heart of the mountain, the king’s jewel,” Dwalin intoned, “This is the stone that will bring our faithless cousins to our aid. Dain will be forced to recognize the might and strength of Durin’s folk once more. With this stone, Thorin will take his rightful place on the throne of Erebor.”

Bilbo looked at his guardian, the stately lines of his face were weathered by a harsh life, but Bilbo could see the leader within. Thorin would be King Under the Mountain.

“That is my task then,” Bilbo hmmed, “To find and restore the arkenstone to you?”

The gravity of the task weighed on Bilbo. Perhaps for the first time since joining the quest did he understand just what was at stake. The eyes of the company fell on him as he looked around. Each one’s face somber and drawn, the hardest part of the quest was before them now and Bilbo was the vessel for their hopes and dreams. 

“Aye,” Thorin nodded, “But first comes the matter of the dragon. We need to assess the occupation of the mountain. We will not share our home with those who do not belong.”

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo waved away the comment, his mind still caught on his task, “But to be perfectly clear. You want me to find a gem. A white gem.”

“Yes,” Balin nodded.

“Only, see, I can imagine there are quite a few white gems, um,” Bilbo paused, “residing below?”

“There is only one arkenstone,” Balin looked at Bilbo as if he was going daft, “You will know it when you see it.”

“Right.” Bilbo was quite positive that all white gems would look the same to him but the dwarves seemed adamant about the distinct nature of this particular gem so he felt no need to voice his doubts.

As Balin led Bilbo deeper into the mountain, unaware of the dark look following him from Thorin, he continued speaking, “Look lad, you don’t have to do this. The task is a dangerous one, we don’t know if the dragon is alive and the search for the gem may lead directly to him. You’re one of us now, Thorin’s ward. By all rights you should not have even ventured up the mountain with us. No one would fault you for turning around.”

Bilbo was mildly affronted. He knew that Balin only meant well, that on some level it meant they cared for him. But, Bilbo had a job to do, he’d signed a contract and come all this way to help them, and if the gem meant that much, if it could rally their people, then Bilbo would find it. 

“No,” He took a deep breath, “I came here, I signed a treaty, I made a promise. I think I should like to try and find the arkenstone. I may not succeed, but I would like to try.”

Balin laughed, a deep chuckle that brightened the stone halls, “You will never cease to amaze me.”

“Hmm, why’s that?” 

“Oh lad, you’ve brightened Thorin’s life, you’ve offered diplomacy, curiosity, humor, and more than a little patience to the company of dwarves you’ve found yourself with. To think, a little creature such as yourself could have the courage of a giant. You have proven everyone of us wrong at some point, Bilbo Baggins, it has been an honor to have you by our side.”

Bilbo smiled, his head ducked down as Balin continued, “now, Bilbo, if there does happen to be a certain dragon still alive. Do your best not to wake him now, would you?”

Bilbo was left open mouthed and entirely out of sorts as Balin walked off. That was not an encouraging thought to linger on and whatever peace he had felt was dashed to pieces. Still Bilbo had a job to do. He had a responsibility to these dwarves, to his dwarves. They had taken him in, looked past his eccentricities and become the companions of his heart. He owed them this. They had grown to know him better than the Shire folk ever had, better than his grandfather, better than Gandalf, he loved them. But this introspection had little place in the search for a gem. So Bilbo packed his thoughts up and hastened his pace, quick and quiet, through the halls and deep into the treasure chambers. 

His inherited stealth from the Took side of his family was aided by the thrum of the stone and the heightened eyesight in the dim light from his sire’s side as he twisted throughout the halls. They were strange, empty, yet the echoes of life still remained. Bilbo could easily imagine what life might have been like in these tunnels and rooms. With dwarves like Kili and Fili running through and teasing others, or Ori studying in a nook somewhere. There was much to be explored in the once lively kingdom under the mountain and Bilbo was sad not to be able to indulge in it right away. It felt static, stationary, stoic in the face of loss. The mountain was waiting for the day her people would come and live again. 

Then Bilbo took his first step into the vast treasure hall. Oh. His breath came out in a silent gasp, it was like nothing he’d ever seen. Gold bathed the walls with a warm light, expanding before his sight like a field of buttercups. Emeralds, rubies, sapphires, all dotting the expanse like butterflies on a summer day. Bilbo could perhaps admire the treasure of old, perhaps not as much as a delightful day in the buttercups, with butterflies dancing around him and a quaint picnic, but all in all this was a sight he was glad to have seen before his days ran out. 

Then reality set in, there were miles of seemingly endless treasure, no doubt filled with countless white gems. This was a task that would take far longer than anyone had anticipated. Not only that, but, as Bilbo was discovering, one could not be silent on shifting gold trinkets. The piles of treasure moved underneath him testing his already tenuous grip on balance. He made his way through the mounds, lifting gems to his ears and eyes hoping one would make itself known as the arkenstone. None did.

There was a haunting laughter, the crystalline tone suddenly sharp against his head where one it had been light. The task was teasing him, a bitter frown tugged his lips down as continued to peruse the hall’s hoard. Where could it be? A large white jewel, held by the king. The King… ah, perhaps Bilbo should be looking for the throne. If the jewel was lodged, in days past, in the throne then it might still be within the vicinity. Bilbo began clamoring over the hills of gold toward where he could only imagine the throne might be, central in the vast chamber. 

In his haste to follow his idea Bilbo forgot one crucial thing. There was in fact a dragon. This would be reminded to him in a fairly unpleasant way. The cascading gold, shifting in the dwobbit’s flight, revealed a scaled form. Bilbo halted in his tracks. His breaths came in irregular intervals as he suddenly understood the sight before him. The dragon was here, the dragon was here and right in front of him, but was it alive or dead? Bilbo didn’t want to find out, he ducked into the shadow of a pillar, his fingers finding their way to the gold ring in his pocket. He could just disappear. He didn’t get a chance to act on the thought before another shift of gold caught his attention. To his left another section of scaled serpent was revealed. It circled around him, the pillar in the middle of the beast’s body. Bilbo couldn’t hear anything as the blood rushed in his ears, not the mountain, not the laughing jewel, and not the dirge-like ring. There was nothing but him and the dragon in the midst of ruin. 

Bilbo’s thoughts revisited the ring as the great drake blinked awake. He felt the darkness swallow him whole and the world plunge into cold shadows as the gold slid around his finger. The darkness felt safe and sickly all at once and Bilbo no longer knew how he felt about his ring. But that was neither here nor there, after all a dragon seems a bigger threat than an ambiguous and quite basic gold ring. Bilbo simply slid down against a pile of gold and waited with bated breath to see what the dragon would do. 

“Thief,” the voice called out, “little thief, I can smell you, sense you, sense what you carry. Have you come to steal from me, or do you bear a gift?”

The neck of the beast circled the room, the nostrils taking in air. With each breath the head of Smaug descended closer and closer to Bilbo’s hiding spot. 

“You bear such dark gold, come out of the shadows now. Don’t linger… I’ll find you either way. Nothing can hide from me in my realm, I know each coin, each goblet, each ingot and crystal better than the stars know the sky! I will find you, find your precious treasure and add it to my collection.”

The head dived down, the weight of the words pressing on Bilbo and the song of the mountain shrieked in his mind combating the hissing panic of the cursed gold on his finger. One of the songs had to cease, something had to give as Bilbo crumbled under the mental assault, he could not stand this agony. The ring was wrenched from his finger at once, stowed in his pocket as Bilbo tried to listen to the mountain. While Bilbo experienced one form of relief he lost another as now he was in plain sight of the beast. He was exposed.

In the face of such a terrible figure Bilbo relied on the only thing he had ever been taught to do in such circumstances, flattery. Smaug was no different from Lobelia, a great shrieking, threatening intruder (who happened to have an extensive understanding of someone else’s possessions) and Bilbo had dealt with her for years. He could buy time with pleasantries once more, this time it was more than his silver spoons that depended on his ability to appease those with a louder voice, it was his life. 

“Oh Smaug, the illustrious and, and ineffable. I have not come to steal, nor to add, merely to admire that great hoard you have been tied to. The uh, the, the news of your wealth spreads far and wide and I found myself unable to resist the call to lay my eyes on all that you claim, alongside the majesty of your own being! A creature as great as yourself must demand a habitat that equals your splendor.” 

“I must say, the old tales do not do you justice! Your greatness, your strength and size, far outstrip the puny imagery words left behind,” Bilbo fought to keep his voice steady as the dragon moved his head back and forth. 

The dragon rushed back and Bilbo flinched, all at once expecting his life to end. A death his mother would be sure to be proud of, it was in pursuit of an honorable cause and with great courage if Balin were to be believed. Bilbo did not die however, instead, he was witness to the vain beast’s primping as he posed before the lowly dwobbit.

“Is my might pleasing to you?”

“I have never seen the likes, truly, you are more stupendous, more staggering, more, more incomprehensible than I could have ever imagined. How anyone would dare stand against you is beyond my understanding!”

Smaug settled into the gold once more with a self satisfied air. His weight pushing the gold out around him and displacing the many trinkets. Bilbo heard with a flash of clarity the sound of that tinkling laughter that had been echoing in his mind and stood straighter. If his suspicions were correct the arkenstone was near. 

“But flattery will get you nowhere, I have little need for your silver words nor your little body, you’d barely make a snack for one as large and powerful as I. So tell me, thief, who are you and where have you journeyed from that you might see my greatness?”

Bilbo pondered his reply for a moment, he was not a hobbit, nor was he a dwarf, he was not a Baggins, nor a Took. He very well might be the mystery he denied the trolls so many months ago. What he was was Bilbo, from under a hill and over the mountains, he was a master of riddles and wayfinder. He may not yet know the entirety of his character but he had enough to boldly announce, “I am Underhill, the gentle wayfinder and master of riddles.”

“Underhill, I am not familiar with any Underhills. Your kind have never seen these halls, the scent does not linger. Why, Underhill, should I keep you alive? What makes you so special, oh riddle master?”

Bilbo opened his mouth, a hasty plea on the tip of his tongue, before hearing the previously silent call of crystalline laughter. The arkenstone, that had to be the voice of the jewel, and it was nearby. Bilbo’s head swiveled quickly, catching sight of the jewel nearly buried close to Smaug’s tail. Balin had been right, there was no sight like it. The jewel shone like a star, radiating a clear light on its surroundings. Bilbo shook his head lightly and focused on the slightly more pressing issue, and impatient dragon.

“I am also a, a, a silent stinger! A shadow seeker and barrel rider!” Bilbo tried to come up with anything that made him sound even mildly important, he began to realize that image was of a great deal of importance to the dragon. 

“A barrel rider?” The head twined round a pillar to take a deeper sniff of Bilbo’s figure, “interesting indeed, as many barrels drift down the lake. A lake once populated by dwarves, who you seem to be familiar with!”

The accusation had Bilbo flinch back, his face braced in a stiffly pleasant countenance (the like one might wear when dealing with a particularly dreadful sort of customer, or even relative, at any marketplace, gathering, or stall). As the dragon moved, circling around the treasure chamber, Bilbo moved as well, keeping the arkenstone in his periphery as he inched closer. Little by little the jewel grew nearer, Bilbo half listened to the accusations of Smaug as he focused on his task. There was little use in denying that the dwarves had brought him here, the dragon could after all smell them, and Bilbo didn’t know what damage control he could effectively employ. At least when Lobelia got her mind set on something Bilbo could politely tell her tea was over, or that his grandfather would be over soon and perhaps she could bring up her issues with him. Bilbo had no authority, or any higher power to call upon in this situation. As it was he kept up a steady stream of denials that both parties knew were lies but acknowledged that it was the proper course within their conversation. One must monologue and accuse while one must deny, flatter, and obfuscate. The roles were distinct in any polite company really, and Bilbo found it quite delightful in a macabre sense to find an individual who could execute the social niceties with such grace. Rarely was he on the side of denial, to be perfectly honest he was usually the one accusing (Lobelia did so like his silver spoons).

The arkenstone blinked out and into focus as it skittered down the mountain of gold, Bilbo’s target had been shifted as Smaug moved. While generally realizing it was a bad idea to turn one's back on a dragon, Bilbo did so as he nearly chased the jewel, although Smaug did not seem to realize the purpose of Bilbo’s flurried movements. The jewel finally was within his grasp as Bilbo registered the last phrase of the dragon.

“I have tasted the flesh of dwarf, I have smelt them as they cowered in fear and failure! They have come, come for my treasure like flies to a corpse. I will give them a corpse to feast upon! If it is gold they seek it is ruin they’ll find.”

Ah, they’d made it past the niceties and gone straight to the ultimatum. Bilbo was also familiar with this part, but never on so great a scale and with consequences quite as harsh. A creaking sound echoed throughout the chamber, followed by a shriek of agony in Bilbo’s mind as a living stone pillar fell, pushed aside by the dragon’s mighty winged arm. Bilbo’s body ached as if it had been his limb ripped away instead of the pillar. 

He had to stall. 

If the dragon grew much angrier than the lake, then Bard and Kili and Fili and all the nice people he’d met would die. Bilbo wouldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let that happen. His mother wouldn’t have let that happen. 

“Perhaps, I mean, surely one as glorious and strong as yourself could visit ruin on them anytime you like. The dwarves have made it all the way here and I doubt they plan on leaving immediately. Oh Smaug, the terrible and terrific, you have no weaknesses, nothing the puny dwarves could do to you would have any effect. So, if by your leave of course, you would detain, um, slaughtering any of us for just a little while I would be so grateful.”

“And why would I do that, thief? The king under the mountain is dead, crushed beneath my claws. I am the impenetrable, the invulnerable, no blade can pierce my scales, no need have I to wait on the wishes of one as inconsequential as yourself, little Underhill.”

“Oh of course, of course, truly I am nothing compared to your great being. But, well, see, I have traveled quite a ways, really you would not believe the distance. Oh and the trials! I was nearly eaten by a troll, really, a troll. Can you believe that? And all just to get close to your magnanimous and magnificent self. I can only imagine the things you’ve witnessed and while I would be honored to be slain by claws as mighty as yours, I would very much like to hear some of your stories. Learn from your wisdom and age before dying.”

Smaug paused. Bilbo and the mountain waited with hearts poised full of fear and hope. The vanity of beasts would prove his greatest advantage yet in survival.

“I do have many a story, my greatness is not limited to this mere hoard.” Smaug settled slightly and Bilbo gently pocketed the gem. 

The roar of the dragon quieted into a cascade as words flowed from his mouth, the beast was articulate in his self praise. Bilbo found himself sitting still under the narrative that trailed as the smoke from the dragon's mouth. May Yavanna and Mahal see him and bless him, this was a trick unlike any other he’d pulled. Perhaps, the greater the risk the greater the reward. Perhaps he could save his friends with one gentle move. As the dragon continued his narrative, Bilbo examined his scaled body, looking for any weaknesses. 

Bard’s son, Bain, had once boasted that Girion had knocked a scale loose on the dragon’s underbelly. A precious vulnerability, Bilbo would find it. He had to find it, the information was necessary even if there was no way to relay it, it could bring hope to any who knew, and Bilbo needed hope. 

Chapter Text

Thorin felt the mountain shudder and quake. This was no earthquake, this was no effect their burglar could create alone. 

“That was the dragon.”

Balin’s solemnly uttered statement left Thorin cold. His ward, his child , was trapped in those halls, seeking a gem worth less than his life. Oh, Thorin was a fool, a fool to let Bilbo complete his contract. They had Nori, a skilled thief and shadow stalker, who could’ve sought the jewel. Horror saturated Thorin’s thoughts and his breath was lost as he turned to look down the hallways. If the dragon was awake, it was not just his ward that was in danger, it was the town. Lake Town must be warned. The dwarves alone could not fend the dragon off, Bard must be alerted and their ally must flee. 

“Dori, Ori, go into Lake Town, find Bard and warn him. Clear our people out of there. We must find shelter, safe from the dragon, should the beast make its way out once more. There is no telling how this will end.”

The two dwarves gave a somber bow before rushing down the path to the hidden staircase. The fate of Lake Town resting in their hands. The fate of their princes, of Bofur, and of their allies in Bard and his precious children rested solely on the ability of Dori and Ori to get there in time to warn them. 

Thorin could only pray to Mahal that they made it in time. 

While the company waited, bated breath and nerves between them, Dwalin asked, “What of Bilbo?”

“Give him more time,” Thorin’s voice was desperate, desperate to have the dwarves believe in his ward. He had come back from bad circumstances before, unscathed and cheeky. Thorin needed him to make it now, he needed them to believe Bilbo could make it back. If he had sent his ward into certain death, if he had sent his child….

There was no denying it any more, Thorin saw Bilbo as his own. As his son, regardless of his heritage and sire, Bilbo was of Durin’s line, of Thorin’s line. Thorin was afraid, afraid for his son. Afraid for his nephews and kin. 

“I am afraid for you,” Balin burst out, Thorin was confused, his head jerking up to meet the dwarf’s gaze, “There is a sickness on that hoard, one that came for your grandfather and drove him mad! You are not yourself! Has it taken a hold already?”

Thorin turned away, betrayal sinking in his heart at Balin’s words, “I am not my grandfather, I am not mad!” 

“The Thorin I know would not let his ward remain there alone! The Thorin I know would have gone into the mountain and sought his ward!”

Thorin wanted to scream that Bilbo was his, that he would have rushed the halls at the first sign of dragon’s breath. He wanted to cry that it was Balin who had walked the child down the halls to what was surely his doom. His mind screamed the pain he felt at knowing he would likely never see the youth again. 

Tears clogged his throat, even as he turned away from the company and said, “I cannot risk the mountain, risk our home and quest for the life of one. Even one as precious as my, our, burglar.”

Balin misinterpreted the heavy tone and choked hesitation on Thorin’s possessive calling of Bilbo and responded, “Bilbo, his name is Bilbo.”

Chapter Text

Bilbo sat still, the gem heavy in his pocket. The stories of Smaug were coming to a close, the beast waxing poetic over his victory, his desolation of the dwarrow. Bilbo found it took all the strength he possessed to keep a look of awe and intrigue plastered across his face. Something that grew harder as Smaug turned the topic to Thorin.

“You are his pawn, a little thief sent to steal the arkenstone. His trinket of prestige. No true king requires a symbol of his power, a bribe to those that would serve him. Do you serve him, pawn?”

“I’m not a pawn!” Bilbo wanted to deny Smaug’s other statements, to testify Thorin as the true King Under the Mountain, but he could not risk the beast’s wrath yet. Not while he was still satisfied with boasting. 

“You are only a means to an end,” Smaug softly stated, “A little shadow to steal from the furnace. Hardly a task fit for a proper tool, no, you aren’t even a valued pawn. Disposable, expendable… replaceable.”

“No, no, no, you’re lying!”

The beast chuckled, “I should let you live, find the gem. Take it to your master. Why should I do the work to destroy the fool when he can do it for me.”

“What do you mean?” Bilbo’s voice shook as he questioned the beast.

“Oh little pawn, riddle master. The gold you wear is cursed, an evil so foul it stains all it touches, but the jewel. The jewel is beguiling, a dizzy laughter that takes the mind and steals the soul of those who would possess it. Oakenshield will devour himself, and all in his way, to keep the jewel secure. Madness would descend and the dwarf you know would lose himself.”

The tinkling laughter that echoed from his pocket no longer felt so bright. A will o'the wisp in his pocket, a mischievous sprite. The king's stone, or was it perhaps the king's folly. Bilbo felt his heart grow heavy, how much of the dragon’s word could he believe. This death of soul and self could not truly be the effect of a mere jewel, could it?

“Enough of this,” Smaug raised himself up, “I have shared my wealth of wisdom. You have been allowed to bask in my greatness, a gift few have benefited from. But now, little thief, your time has come. How would you like to go, by fire? By claw? Shall I bash you against the stone?”

Whatever foul spirit possessed his ring was a far kinder evil in the immediate than the dragon before him and Bilbo spared himself having to choose his death as he ran. Invisible, but not silent, Bilbo dared to drop the arkenstone back into the gold. Hidden securely in the nook of a fallen pillar. Bilbo would not yet dare the madness Smaug described, not while the dragon was alive, not before they saw Gandalf once more. 

The dragon roared behind him, the wings beating once, twice, as Smaug let loose his terrible flames. Bilbo watched the light dance behind him as he twisted into a tunnel. The ring came off, a headache forming behind Bilbo’s eyes as he continued to twist and turn, desperately retracing the path he’d once followed into the treasure’s tomb. All Bilbo’s thoughts were consumed with getting back to Thorin, to his guardian, his protector. The strong arms of his dwarf would set all to rights. 

***

Thorin could take no more of it as he heard another roar echo from within the mountain. The sun was rising and with the light came hope. The dwarf rushed into the mountain. There he was, Bilbo, rushing up the stairs illuminated in the golden… light… the golden… gold. The gold spread out around them. Coating stairs, pillars, and pathways. So much gold, Thorin had forgotten how much of his peoples treasure was left behind, how much prosperity was stolen from him. The gold, this would heal his people. Bring them home and wealth, a place where they could prosper and not be forced under the cheap wages and insults of men. Thorin was lost in the future, in his gold, in his precious rememberings of the past.

Like a drowning man he refocused as a panic tug on his sleeve accompanied Bilbo calling his name, “Thorin! We must leave, the dragon is awake, I’ve stalled him as long as I can, but we must flee!”

“The arkenstone, do you have it?” Thorin found himself saying, even as he pulled Bilbo closer into his arms. 

***

“What?”

Bilbo couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. The arkenstone was a problem for later, why would Thorin ask about it now. 

“Do you have it? Did you find the arkenstone?”

Thorin’s grip was getting tighter now, Bilbo flinched under the strong arms that held him close. The embrace was no longer as comforting as it had begun. Bilbo was frustrated, Thorin was acting strangely, he had not missed the glazed look that had overcome the dwarf’s eyes upon seeing the vast hoard. But there was no time to dwell on the strange actions, nor on the dragon's predictions of madness as a roar broke the two apart.  

There was no time to waste, the company rushed into the cavernous hallways of Erebor as they fled from the dragon. Fire chased them, lighting their heels behind them. The twists and turns seemed endless as Bilbo followed Thorin into darkness. The horror of the dragon was descending on Bilbo with every step they took away from him. The beast was their captor and their fate seemed secure. 

Their fate seemed even more concrete as one turn led them into a chamber of bodies. Mummies. Turned into mimics of life by time. Bilbo could only guess that the dragon fire had burned the oxygen out of the halls, drying these bodies, these people, into the forms they saw now. He felt sick, turning away from the sight and tucking his head against Thorin’s chest. His arms circled around and he let himself feel like a child. Thorin was still against him, shock and sadness repressing the instinctual response to comfort the youth. Slowly his arms pulled around Bilbo, each seeking comfort in one another at the grim reminder of the past. 

“We will not die here,” Thorin’s voice rumbled, daring Bilbo to look up at him.

“We will not hide, scrambling for purchase in the ruins of our home, waiting for the dragon to suffocate us, burn us. We will make for the forges. There we stand a chance.”

Dwalin looked to their leader, “He will see us.”

“Either way it is death, do we not dare to die fighting?” Gloin stated, his tone stoic and proud.

“Aye, we die fighting.” 

“Come, we will split up, each making our way by various paths. Once there we will light our fires and burn the dragon out. If he would burn us then we will return the favor.”

Bilbo spoke up, “the legend is true, he has a scale missing. Close to his left breast, hidden under his wing there is a missing scale. If our aim is true…”

He petered off, but Thorin looked down on him with pride, “Good eyes, Bilbo, well spotted. You heard him, target the left breast, weaken him however we can.”

With that the company was off once more. The group divided as they raced toward the forges. Bilbo found himself blindly following Balin and Thorin as they twisted and turned leaping from bridge and beam to the remnants of the forge. The dragon always close on their tail as they evaded his fire by luck each time. The forges were cold, the stone dim and tired beneath Bilbo’s feet. There was no fire to be had here. 

Not yet.

Thorin insulted the dragon. Really Bilbo ought to be proud. It was something he would have done. It was something he had done. Insulting always worked with vain hobbits to get them to do things against their best interest. One never thought too hard when one was angry and irritated. However, it also meant that the dragon was blowing flames directly at them, the stone pillars the only insulation against the fire breath. Bilbo would never think of roasting sausages the same way, he felt all crisped and crackly. The dragon paused, tearing at the gate behind them, his eyes locked on Bilbo.

What happened next was a blur of heat and fear. Bilbo watched as steam rose, powder flashed, and gold flowed molten throughout the forges. Bilbo did not know what Thorin’s plan was, nothing seemed more than a half-realized hope for salvation, but he did trust his leader, his guardian, his family. Trust was what led him to flee to the hall of kings, trust was what brought him to his knees, hidden under a tapestry. Trust was what left him watching as the dragon flew over the hills and desolation of Dale to Lake Town. Trust had brought him here, to the end of it all.

Chapter Text

Legolas was quite bemused. His father had taken the dwarves he’d apprehended in the woods (and really they should be thanking them for clearing out the spider’s nest) and imprisoned them. Now, they were no elves of Rivendell, all welcoming and full of niceties, but the Mirkwood court was known for their parties and Legolas was quite unsure why they did not celebrate alongside the dwarves. They were an ugly, brutish, and rude lot to be sure, but there was a certain charm about their rustic bluntness and Legolas had found himself quite curious about them as a whole. 

His father on the other hand was largely against all dwarvish presence. Unless it was in the form of their finely crafted gems and jewelry, then Thranduil could not get enough of it. In the face of the orc attack as well as the escape of the dwarven company it should have been no surprise that the woodland gates were closed, but Legolas was not satisfied with the turn of events. He had been saved by that strange figure who would reclaim Erebor at that. He had had a little creature with him, a small drenched thing that had been clinging to the dwarf. That creature had waved to him. Legolas had waved back. His curiosity would not let him rest. He needed to know who that little one was. Who would bring such a child on a dangerous quest?

Legolas received a chance to hunt down answers to his questions when a missive from Lake Town arrived for his father. News of dwarves skulking in the home of men. The lake’s master was hoping for aid in clearing out the ‘pests’ and asked for elvish assistance, well there was his invitation. Legolas was practically out the door before his father could formulate a plan. He could round up a few dwarves easily, especially if he was actually allowed to practice his lessons in diplomacy. Goodness knows the lessons were never going to be used while around his father. Thranduil didn’t do diplomacy, he did threats and leverage. 

This of course was a great deal of the reasoning Legolas had in his going to find the dwarves. He figured he could work out a promise with them that removed them from Lake Town and got everyone on happy terms, and perhaps he could find the little one in the barrel with the grumpy one. That would be nice, anyhow his tutors had always told him he should show gratitude when someone saved his life and the grumpy dwarf had. 

Things, however, would not prove to be simple. There were orcs, nearly a dozen, and they were on the trail of the dwarves as well. Legolas trailed them to a remote house, oh, he’d been here before. There were children who lived here, with the bargeman. Legolas could not remember his name, only that his father had been on friendly terms with him at one point. Well, orcs and children did not mix and there was sickness here. Fighting was far more fun than diplomacy and Legolas gracefully sailed through the home, dancing between orcs, children, and dwarves as he slew any who rose against him. The orcs would be put to rest, from there he could finish his mission. The close quarters did nothing for his ranged weapons, but Legolas had been trained with blades as well as bow.

The battle lasted minutes, orcs retreated as fast as they had come slithering out into the shadows and abandoning their dead. Legolas sheathed his blades and looked around, the children were huddled together, the blonde dwarf hovering protectively over them. There was a brunette dwarf writhing in pain from where he had fallen after stabbing one of the orcs, Legolas recognized him.

“You’re the dwarf with the bow?” Legolas squinted at him, wrinkling his nose at the scent of infection, “You’re sick.”

Another dwarf passed by, brunette and carrying a bunch of athelas, oh, healing herbs. That would be useful. Legolas plucked them from the dwarf’s hands and traipsed over to the fallen dwarf. Hmmmm, poison, lovely. 

“Kili,” the blonde dwarf was holding the ill one’s hand and was close to tears.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to save him. Just in time too, what were you all doing to him?”

“What were we doing?” the grey dwarf repeated, incensed. 

“Although I wager someone knew what they were doing, we have yarrow here, ooh, and calendula!” 

Legolas was busy preparing the herb while the dwarves observed, “You’ll want to hold him down for this part, he is a he correct? The beards, or lack of, are quite confusing.”

“Aye, he is a he. He is my brother!” the blonde dwarf bit out even as he held his brother down. 

The dwarves surrounded Legolas as he packed the paste deep into the wound and began chanting. He was not the healer Lord Elrond was, nor was he as in tune with the healing spirits of the world as he tutors hoped he would be, but Legolas knew enough to save this dwarf’s life. 

He chanted in the language of light, pressing deep into the wound and his life force as he fed vitality back into the wounded. Into Kili. His words seem to calm the frantic movements of the delirious youth and Legolas locked eyes with the felled brunette. He was an interesting fellow, similar to the grumpy one in complexion, Legolas would have to try and get to know the fellow archer better after this was over. That would give his father conniptions, a thought that had the elfling giggling to himself.

The process was complete, Legolas tidied up the wound’s dressing, tightening the bandage and brushing off excess salve. The other dwarves huddled together and were busy righting the house and comforting the children. Legolas could appreciate the value dwarrow placed on children, even his ada would agree that that was a redeeming quality.

“You’re the prince, the golden one who stopped us,” the brunette’s weak voice whispered, “the archer.”

“I am, and you’re the fool who was shot with a morgul arrow.”

The dwarf, Kili, reached out, his hand brushing Legolas’s and the elf stopped. Touch was something he was not overly used to. Dwarves were touchy people, expressive unlike anything Legolas had seen and it was deemed very improper. While Legolas was often given hugs by his ada, he didn’t experience much physical interaction outside of that and training, it was pleasant. 

“Thank you, I am indebted,” the dwarf whispered, grasping the elf’s hand tight in his own, “Akhminruki astû.”

Legolas just patted his hand lightly and hummed his acceptance. This was not what he had come here for, but it seemed like he would gain a friend!

Chapter Text

Dori and Ori were on the lake, the hills had passed under their feet as they raced through the night, fast approaching Lake Town. It was early morning, the sun barely rising. The dragon may be awake, but for some reason his fearsome form had yet to make itself known. Perhaps there was still time, perhaps the burglar still lived. They rushed through the sleepy town and into Bard’s house. A surprise waited for them there, an elf and the ruins of what seemed to have been a great fight. 

“What has happened?”

“Are you alright lads?”

The overlapping voices created a cacophony within the small space and they all stilled for a moment.

“Is it the dragon?” a chiming voice asked.

All eyes turned to the blonde elf who was still lightly holding Kili’s hand. His form stately and inquisitive even as the gazes of the dwarves darkened. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Peace Dori,” Kili choked out, his voice still weak, “he saved my life. We owe him a debt of thanks.”

“That, and my father was alerted to your presence in Lake Town and I was,” the elf paused briefly, “sent, to remove you from our allies. Although it seems most of you have already left which leaves my diplomacy training ineffectual. What brings you back from the mountain?”

“The dragon awakes, Bilbo is still in the halls, Mahal keep him, and the rest of the company awaits his return. We were sent to warn the town, to warn Bard. Where is Bard?” Ori questioned.

“Da went out, he took an arrow and left.” Bain replied.

“A black arrow?”

“Aye, he never told us about it before.” Tilda answered.

“Then there is still hope,” Dori breathed out in relief. “We must move you all, the town will surely be victim to the dragon’s wrath. If we can move you to the land we can hide in the hills, he will not scorch everything just yet.”

“We can’t leave!” Sigrid said, “Da is still here, your dwarf is still wounded, even if Mr. Legolas healed him nicely. The town needs to be alerted!”

“There is no time! It’s a wonder the dragon hasn’t moved yet!”

“As much as I hate to agree with a dwarf,” Legolas began, “He is right. It would do us well to move, between the orcs and the dragon it would be wise to leave the town.”

“Orcs?”

Voices began clamoring again as they tried to explain the evening, Legolas looked down at Kili who tried to sit up, “Are they always this loud? I can only imagine you are the quieter of them, you must have taste and decorum if you are smart enough to choose the superior weapon.”

The dwarf smiled at him, Legolas quite liked being smiled at, elves were distinctly closed with their expressions, “You would be wrong, usually I’m right in the middle of it. Come on, we need reason right now. You’re diplomatic, I suggest you try and raise the alarm and we’ll shuffle these folks off to the mainland.”

Legolas pursed his lips before nodding, “I can try.”

He turned toward the door, his weapons smoothly strapped onto his back as he left, Kili’s voice stopped him briefly, “You’ll meet us, won’t you? When you’re done trying to warn them, you’ll meet us inland?”

Legolas tilted his head back, carefully considering the dwarf. He did not need to meet them, his job will technically be accomplished (although the dragon certainly changed things) and he had to get back to his ada. No, he didn’t have to meet them, but he had yet to meet the little one (Bilbo?) and thank the grumpy dwarf for his life saving actions.

“I will find you.”

***

The company had made it to the outcrop between Erebor and the remnants of Dale. The flight of the dragon caused gusts of wind to sweep over the dazed party. Bilbo climbed as far out as he dared, his feet secure on the stone as he prayed for salvation for the town. He hoped, beyond all reason, that his attempt at stalling had granted the dwarves enough time to warn the town. To gather Oin, Bofur, and Kili and Fili. He couldn’t lose them, it would be his fault. He woke the dragon and now the world would burn. A sob caught in his throat and though his eyes filled with water no tears fell. 

The dwarves kept their heads down and backs turned, they could not bear to see the desolation twice. Smaug’s fury left its own scars on the survivors and Bilbo could not blame them for their denial. He was not sure he wanted to bear witness to the flame and fury, but he could not tear his eyes away from the smoking trail of the beast. 

The sun cleared the lake. Red and gold reflected on the water, flames rose even before the first spark touched wood. It seemed as if nature itself was predicting the fate of the town. 

The first swathe of flame struck. Dividing Lake Town in half, he hadn’t stalled long enough. He hadn’t held the dragon back long enough, it wasn’t enough, he wasn’t enough. It was never enough. No word, no action, no hope could save a world from madness. Bilbo pressed his eyes closed, he could almost hear the screams, or were they in his head? Was it the ghosts of Dale, the ghost of his mother, or was it the voices on the wind from Lake Town? 

Bilbo opened his eyes. Resolutely he determined to remember this day, to remember the dragon and the town. He would bear witness to the desolation of Smaug. A presence came behind him, a hand heavy on his shoulder. Thorin had come to bear witness too. 

They observed in the morning light, the twisting form of the fire drake as he circled around to attack the town once more. Bilbo could feel the mountain in his heart, the fear, regret, and horror tied together with a sort of remorseful relief. The heartbeat was strong and sure, thrumming through the stone and into his blood even as a second heartbeat permeated the air, the beat of the dragon’s wings creating a facetious feeling of life in the air.

Then it seemed the world stood still. As the dragon dove, rushing at the town, he seemed to falter. His course was altered by some invisible force. Bilbo narrowed his eyes trying to find some sign from far away. He stepped closer to the ledge, unaware of the danger even as Thorin’s hands pulled him back and into his chest. Something had changed. Something was turning the tide. 

The dragon rose, screaming into the sky, his wings pushing him higher and higher, as if to outrun whatever it was in town that stood in his way. It was majestic in its own way, to see a dragon soar. Bilbo watched, in awe, in terror, even as the flight stalled and the weight of the beast began plummeting. Smaug was falling, twisting as the air pushed in resistance against his form. What was he doing, what ploy was this? 

Disbelief crashed over Bilbo as the dragon crashed into the lake, narrowly missing the town. A cloud of steam billowed from the corpse of the beast throwing the lake into a shadowed, indistinguishable mass. Bilbo could not tell if the bridge had been hit, he could not tell if the dragon was rising in the hidden depths of the steam cloud. He could not see anything. Hope soared in his heart, could it be that the dragon was dead?

“He’s dead. Smaug is dead.” 

Bilbo’s uttered statement left the company lifting their heads. They turned to the town, fire still glittering in the reflection of the rippling water and slowly dissipating the steam. The town stood still, cleaved in half and scarred, but still alive. The town was alive. They had done enough, it had been enough. Bilbo wept then, tears falling silently down his sooty cheeks. There was still life, and where there was life there was hope. 

Wings beat once more, but these weren’t the leathery and scaled things of a dragon. No, these wings were light, iridescent and glistening in the morning light. Ravens. No wind was created, no hot draft that seemed to dry your soul, as the birds flew by. Twisting and turning like a dance the ravens let out deep gurgling croaks to one another. A celebration of their own as they dotted the decorated crevices of Erebor’s outer embankment. The ravens were returning to home, calling proudly to any who would listen that they were back.

“Thorin,” Balin’s voice broke, “the ravens are home.”

Bifur muttered something in Khuzdul that had Nori heaving out a breathless and relieved laugh. The dwarves turned around, slowly shaking off the mantle of grief as they rejoiced in their unexpected reality. Thorin alone remained silent, his eyes drawn to the mountain even as Bilbo remained in his embrace. Bilbo glanced upward, his eyes seeking for any sign of realization that the worst was past. There was no joy, no grief, nothing but a glazed focus toward Erebor. 

Bilbo worried, Smaug’s prophecy ringing in his ears. A prophecy of madness and grief should the King Under the Mountain succumb to the gold. He tugged on Thorin’s sleeve, desperate to break the king’s gaze away from the mountain and instead focus on the party, on him. Bilbo felt relief as Thorin’s head swiveled, unaware how his hair shone like gold in the early morning light, toward him. Thorin looked upon Bilbo like a treasure, intent and focused on the little creature before him. 

Possessive in nature, dwarves love all that is gold and treasure all of their youth. Bilbo, unaware as he was, was where those two loves tied together. Golden dwarves were rare, the coloring of golden hair and bronzed skin were a blessing reflecting the beauty of dwarf craftsmanship and seen as a gift. Fili, Frerin, Durin’s line had been blessed with several golden dwarves, always sunny in comparison to their often somber and silvery siblings and cousins. Dis and Thorin reflected the silver and moon while their brother had reflected the gold and sun of their home. Just as Kili was the moon to Fili’s sun. But Bilbo was something else, he was the stars, bright and twinkling, the gold in his hair flickering in and out of existence. This was Thorin’s treasure to guard, sure as the gold in Erebor was his people’s bounty. But all of this was lost on Bilbo as all he saw was Thorin’s affectionate gaze. 

All he saw was belonging in the face of desolation. 

Grief giving birth to devotion.

Chapter Text

The company left in Lake Town had not quite made it to the mainland, but they also hadn’t been left in the main town. A little boat had floated out toward the open water, Bain, Tilda, and Sigrid safely tucked in the middle of the vessel as the dwarves offered what little protection they could. They had made a promise to Bard, to their ally, that they would keep the family safe. 

Kili had looked up as the dragon swept over, his brother’s gaze following even as he tried to shield the sight from the smaller children. The dwarf tried not to think of the elf left behind in the town. He hoped that he and Bard fared well, that they were able to make it out. His hopes shattered into horror as the morning was illuminated by flames. The dragon had begun his destruction. 

“Da will stop him!” Tilda cried out. Her childish confidence in her father gave Kili hope. He wanted to believe Bard could stop the beast. Blindly he reached for Fili, grasping his brother’s hand, seeking strength from the bond of family. 

“Yes, Tilda,” Sigrid offered a hollow agreement, “Da will stop him.”

Bain glowered at his sister, “Da’s got the arrow, the dragon’s missing a scale, he’ll win!”

The brothers looked at each other, no one wanted to voice the opposite of the children’s belief. There was a sort of militant hope that pervaded the boat. Prayers to Mahal mixed with the fervent chanting of the children for their father. The boat drifted, oars long forgotten, as all eyes fell on Lake Town. The dragon circled around, the town was split, one more strong gust of flame would render it all but obsolete. But that gust never came, instead a shrieked roar, harsh and angry as the beast flew upward and over the town. Kili had not been at Erebor when the dragon first visited. He hadn't even been born, nor had Fili, so the true potential of the beast was known only through stories. In the morning light, with heat radiating from the sun, sky, and serpent Kili knew the legends to be true, he saw the potential, the hate, within the flames. 

Dori, Bofur, and Ori were silent, their grief existing alongside that of the dwarves of old haunting the land. Grief turned to confusion as the dragon began to fall, panic came after. The dragon was not going to hit the city, a small boon, but that meant he would hit the lake. 

Water swept over the boat, steam erupting around them and burning their lungs as they coughed. The boat cast far away from the town, from the people that mattered, and toward the shore and the mountain. The children cried for their father and the dwarves could not comfort them as the town was erased from their view. There was no knowing if the town would survive the flames that spread from the middle or if the town would be put out from the water displaced by the beast, not until the steam dissipated. 

As the small party pulled themselves onto the shore they stared back at the lake. Kili seated as his brother stood protectively over him, Bofur holding Bain and Tilda as Sigrid stood resolute to herself, and Ori clutching at Dori. They were a sad sight and Kili couldn’t help but feel it would be good to get a laugh going soon, it would not do to dwell on the sadness, not while there was work yet to be done. They had to get to the mountain, to their home. The elf would be welcome too, he had saved Kili’s life, no grudge could hold against that service, even uncle would agree.

Kili struggled to his feet, enough of this inaction, they had things to do. He ignored the protests of the others as he moved toward the boat and pulled supplies out. The little they had grabbed was precious to them and they would need to get a move on. Legolas had mentioned orcs, if they had followed them from the river then the company had no choice but to start moving. 

“We need to get to the mountain, it's the only safe place and we all know it. With the dragon gone we can regroup and have shelter. Uncle will see to the protection and care of the children until Bard returns.”

“What of the elf? What of Bard?”

“Legolas will catch up,” Kili paused, he’d hoped that the elf would have time to find them by now. The sun rising steadily in the sky betraying the passage of time, “He knows where we will head, to our kin. If he can find us he will. Bard will be on the other side of the lake, if… He too knows where we will be found. There is precious little time to regroup, let’s not waste it.”

Fili and Kili brought their foreheads together, Kili asking for strength as they began the trek to their home. To Erebor.

Chapter Text

The halls of the mountain were barren of life, even as the small company began making a home in the rooms fit to host in. Cozy fires began to replace the anger of the dragon as Bombur began cooking and time passed once more. Bilbo could not help but notice changes within the company though. Balin, once grounded and full of gentle humor and reprimands, became tense and flippant, so contradictory to his previous self. His fingers glittered in the dull light of the mountain as gold rings settled across his knuckles. Dwalin was harsher. More demanding of the dwarves and setting, he was preparing for war. But what war Bilbo did not know, surely with the dragon gone they would be at peace now. The worst had passed and they had their home. It was a time of rebirth, renewal. This was a time of joy and celebration, Bilbo did not know why no one seemed to understand this.

Then there was Nori, the shadow-stalker was constantly in and out of the halls. He marked the dead and carried bodies to the burial halls. He became somber and silent, so unlike the merry mischief maker Bilbo had met during their early days on the ponies. Oh, how he missed Minty and Myrtle, their velvety snouts and soft fur coats would be a blessing after all the cold stone. 

Bifur, stoic and unintelligible to Bilbo remained largely unchanged. Whatever habits he may have picked up were beyond Bilbo’s comprehension. Gloin was much the same as well, although the impressive dwarf spent more time in the halls and armories. He was nearly obsessed with the wealth and technology of the past. Bombur was jovial and good natured as always but now he was too busy counting their food supplies and collecting gems the color of each vegetable they had in stock. Counting was what he could be found doing at any given time, counting, counting, counting. The clink of coins was driving Bilbo mad, with each repetitive sound he felt one step closer to fleeing the halls entirely. The fresh air and sun called to him. 

But it was Thorin who had changed the most. The solitary dwarf had grown even more detached from the company. Everyday, every hour, was spent roaming through the golden halls and murmuring to himself. Bilbo watched, silent on the outcropping walkways and rails. His heart ached. He found himself trailing after Thorin more often than not, hidden in the dwarf’s shadow. Every so often Bilbo would break off and examine the hidden nook where he’d hidden the arkenstone. The laughter of the jewel no longer sounded mischievous in Bilbo’s ears, instead, it held a far more malicious tone and Bilbo found his worry growing stronger. 

They should leave, make camp outside the hollowed halls. It smelled of smoke and death and Bilbo couldn’t help but think the memories of the past were hurting Thorin as much as the madness that crept closer. It reminded Bilbo of Bungo after his mother’s death. The once refined and gracious hobbit had withdrawn, sick and snappish. Bilbo had been on the end of more than a few harsh words on some of the worse days of Bungo’s decline into sickness. His heart hadn’t been able to take the loss of his wife and it seemed to shrink day by day. Bilbo had simply watched, unable to do more. But that was not now, now Bilbo may be able to do something. Anything. If only he could think of what to do. 

Hobbits didn’t care for gold the way dwarrow did. Bilbo didn’t care for the priceless wealth that lay under his feet the way the company did. Even with his appreciation for the finer things in life, Bilbo cared more for good food and company than any jewels or weapons. He didn’t know how to help anymore. Perhaps if the wizard were here, Gandalf would know how to prevent gold sickness wouldn’t he? Although, if he could, wouldn’t he have staved off Thror and Thrain’s madness, Bilbo found himself questioning the wizard. Still, Thorin would act himself at night, when the dwarves gathered around the fire and told stories of old, stories from Moria, the Blue Mountains and anecdotes from their youth. Thorin would sit close, a hand carding through Bilbo’s hair as he rebraided the kinship bead or simply pulled the dwobbit near for an embrace. The devotion of the dwarf was spent between his ward and his mountain and Bilbo wasn’t sure how to feel. He had felt overwhelmed by his place as a priority, a ward, to an elder since the secret got out, but now? With more attention coming his way than it had in decades Bilbo almost appreciated the times when Thorin would get lost in the gold. 

This particular evening Bilbo was content to find himself pulled close against Thorin. The clothes Bilbo had were thin and the mountain was cold. Thorin was like a furnace, all the dwarves were, putting off great amounts of body heat and Bilbo was happy to take advantage of that. A fact that amused his guardian to no end. 

“Who would’ve thought that you would be so opposed to cold,” Thorin chuckled.

“Well, given my experiences with winter,” Bilbo retorted sharply, burrowing closer into the dwarf’s jacket.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin’s face darkened, “I did not mean to bring up bad memories gulmalûm. You never have to fear a winter in our halls. You will see, when the halls are merry and full, warmth will abound. All will be well.”

Bilbo sneezed in response before closing his eyes, Thorin continued, “although you are colder than is healthy. Why have you not made mention of it? We will find you some proper clothing. There is sure to be something found for you. You will not shiver again.”

Bilbo’s worries about the gold sickness, the ring, and what was to come melted into oblivion as he fell asleep, secure in his dwarf’s protection. 

***

The next day saw the arrival of the rest of their party. Kili, Fili, Oin, Ori, Dori, and Bofur were seen climbing the ridges of Erebor’s crumbling outer entrance. The archer’s children tucked safely in their midst. Bilbo saw an opportunity, perhaps if he could convince these dwarves that the gold was dangerous then they could move to the outer defenses and not be so close to the treasure chambers. Perhaps distance would center Thorin a little bit, center them all. He didn’t get the chance.

“Ori, Dori!” Nori’s joyous cries rang out and Bilbo watched as the company reunited. Members pouring out of tunnels and walkways to unite with their comrades. Family members pressed their heads together, thankful murmurs and prayers to Mahal were sent upward. Oin bustled around checking each dwarf over, looking for injuries and evidence of a tussle with a dragon. It felt good to be reunited. 

Thorin was the last to the scene, stalking out of the treasure chambers, his eyes dark and sharp before they landed on his nephews. Glittering brightness appeared as they met one another. Thorin pulled his boys close, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads. Bilbo watched from his place behind the crowd, he turned away and went to Bard’s children. Tear tracks still stained their faces and Bilbo tutted at the sight. He pulled a handkerchief, the only one still left from the dozen he’d packed on that sunny morning, and handed it to Tilda.

“There now, everything will be alright. We promised your father we would take care of you, everything will be just fine. I imagine it will be quite exciting to see the halls of Erebor won’t it?”

“Is Da coming?” Sigrid asked, her eyes harder and more knowledgeable than any child’s should be and Bilbo knew better than to lie.

“I should hope so,” he sighed, “I cannot confirm his health, although I should like to believe a man like your father could overcome a dragon and live to tell the tale. Your father has something to live for, you all, you can be assured that there is nothing that would keep a parent from their child.”

“He got the dragon, I know he did.” Bain staunchly claimed.

“Yes, yes he did.” Bilbo shuffled them into Erebor, moving them to the coziest part of their camp. He remembered when his parents had died, how all he wanted was to be offered support and warmth. Well regardless of Bard’s survival or lack thereof, Bilbo would provide some comfort for his children. 

“Here now, drink this,” Bilbo handed each child a mug of warmed soup, hearty for the supplies they had, “It will do you good.”

As the children drank the soup Bilbo bustled around to make more food for the other company members who had arrived. No doubt they were all hungry and there was no telling what would come next and planning was always more efficient when done on a full stomach. The dwobbit began running through a list of tasks they would have to do now that the company was united. First would be to clear out a couple more rooms, one for the children and one for the dwarves, not to mention finding the actual kitchens and store rooms. Gold would have to wait as they prepared for their halls to be what they hoped, to be a home. 

Bilbo checked in with the children, making sure they would be okay by themselves for a little while as he headed to where the dwarves were still gathered. 

He had just stepped into the room they occupied when he heard the harsh question, “What are those human children doing here? There is no place for them.”

“Those children were promised aid!” 

All eyes turned to Bilbo, the dwobbit was in a fierce stance, his eyes blazing with determination as they narrowed on Thorin, “You promised aid, friendship, with their father. Well, this, Thorin, is part of what it means to be an ally.”

“Do not talk to me of allies,” Thorin growled, “Men are not our allies. They will come for the mountain. Seek to claim what is ours !”

“These are not men, these are children!”

“They are not our own!” Thorin roared, something hidden in his eyes that Bilbo could not identify.

Silence hung heavy between them, “Neither am I.”

Bilbo turned and skiffed back into the halls. He would find them all a place to stay, somewhere safe and far from the gold. 

***

Thorin felt it from a distance, like a man under water, there was something wrong. His little one, walking away from him, from their company. Why? His senses were deafened, mute underneath the call to protect the halls, the gold. He had a duty, a mission to preserve his legacy, his peoples’ home. Surely Bilbo understood that, surely he understood that he was one of them. He wanted to scream. 

Everything was wrong! 

Thorin could not risk their lives, their home, not for greedy man. Not for those who would seek to claim that which was not theirs. Thorin could not risk everything. Why didn’t Bilbo understand that?

He turned to face the others, their faces drawn and worried. Kili and Fili were looking at him with open concern and confusion, “Uncle, Bilbo’s right. You promised, are we not men of our word? This is no way to begin a new era under the mountain.”

“Fili, you will understand one day,” Thorin stated, authority ringing false even to his own ears, he addressed the company, “We must keep our halls safe, no longer will intruders be associated with the legacy of Erebor. Smaug will be wiped from our history, prosperity will return and the halls will be flooded with stories and songs. Let this be our future!”

***

Behind the wall Bilbo shook, his king, his guardian was changing. There was something wrong. The dragon’s prediction, the warning of Beorn, all the haunted remembrances of madness and sickness were there. 

This Thorin could never have the arkenstone. That infernal gem, cackling in his mind, must remain hidden. Bilbo tried to understand the jewel. The mountain produced it, created it, and yet there was no attachment between the heartbeats. Bilbo’s whole being detested the gem, the mountain seeming to parallel the sentiment as it thrummed steadily throughout him. Where the mountain and he had become one, the arkenstone was not party to that unity, in fact it seemed the antithesis of the synthesis between Bilbo and the mountain. Why Bilbo could not yet understand, but he would. The jewel would not remain a mystery. 

His mind set Bilbo ventured forward, he would move the children, secure them within the mountain until Thorin could see reason and then he would discover the truth of the gem. There was a peace that settled over him and he knew he was on the correct path. He was not a warrior, not a true burglar, nor was he a true dwarf, but there was one thing Bilbo was without a doubt. He was a scholar, and a scholar seeks understanding, for understanding is the first step to wise action and Bilbo knew the time was fast approaching when wise actions would be needed more than anything else. 

“Children,” he bustled into the room, absentmindedly stirring the soup he had left behind, “You’ll need to come with me. I’ve found a room for us to share, we can set it up together and prepare a place for your father when he joins us.”

“You think he’ll join us?” Tilda’s hope was palpable and Bilbo believed as strongly as her in that moment.

“Yes, and so we should be prepared. Now, gather all your things and I’ll do the same.”

Within minutes the group was ready and Bilbo led them quickly and quietly through the hidden hallways to a small chamber in the residential section of the halls. These areas had not yet been explored by any of the company. Many of them fearful of finding more bodies, mummified and haunting, or memories they were ill equipped to process at the time. Bilbo, however, while hoping to avoid bodies had reasoned that few dwarves would have remained in their chambers instead of trying to flee, and as such had braved the halls. He had found success with several areas deep within the mountain, Erebor itself seemed as if it was leading him to rooms of safety as he had padded along to the beat of their heart. It was a small nursery, still decorated with baubles and tapestries, that Bilbo led them to now. Wooden bed frames, not yet rotted through, and wardrobes were pushed along the walls and Bilbo gently set his bag down in one. 

“Well, I suppose this will do. I suggest making yourselves as much at home as possible. I know it is a difficult task to ask of you, but I promise that all things will be set right soon.” Bilbo paused before continuing, “I also suggest, quite seriously, that you do not go anywhere in these halls without me, or master’s Kili or Fili. There is still much danger around.”

Sigrid and Bain exchanged glances while Tilda was busy examining the room in delight, “There’s something more isn’t there?”

Bilbo remembered what it was like to be young and left out of conversations that had very much to do with him, it was a despicable feeling, “Yes, I’m afraid something sinister is still afoot. I cannot share much with you, I’m sorry for that. Thorin… is not himself.”

“What does that mean for you? You’re his ward aren’t you?” Bain asked.

Bilbo opened his mouth to answer but Sigrid said something that made his stomach toss and turn, “You’re not one of them either. Things are changing for you too.”

“Like I said, please stay here,” Bilbo couldn’t meet their eyes, “I’ll ensure things go smoothly.”

With that Bilbo ducked out of the room and skiffed down the halls and into the treasure chamber. The arkenstone’s crazed laughter grew stronger as he approached the hiding spot. He stiffened as he heard another roaming the room, gold and jewels clinking as they were shifted around. Bilbo could not risk the stone’s discovery, not now. He slipped the ring on. 

Cold overcame him, sickening and strong, but Bilbo could not focus on that now. He pushed the queasiness down and continued his course toward the broken pillar. The stone was where he left it, the nature of it seemed to shine in the dimmed grey of the ring’s world. It was a sinister, bright thing. As beautiful and delicate as the oleander’s in bloom. Just as deadly too. 

Bilbo plucked the stone up, grimacing at the cool exterior against his fingers. The ring and stone came into contact, singing out together a tune so powerful that Bilbo nearly dropped both. He hastily ripped a banner from the wall as he scurried out of the chamber, wrapping the stone in it to shield his hands. Where could he put it, where would it be safe. He couldn’t bear the thought of keeping it on his person, it would drive him mad. The laughter already haunted his dreams, overtaking the blond, faceless dwarf and presiding over the funerals of his parents. The laughter haunted his dreams of Thorin, of being cast aside and denied this family. Bilbo gently worried the bead in his hair, twisting it as he found himself stationary in the stone halls. 

If he didn’t know where to hide it, maybe the mountain did. She had helped him before. Bilbo called out, calling to the shared heartbeat as he asked for a hiding place. He listened, quiet and still, breathing in steadily as he focused his thoughts. 

His eyes opened with sudden clarity and with a smile, distinctly Tookish in nature, Bilbo sped off. 

Chapter Text

“Bilbo!” Kili’s voice echoed down the halls as Bilbo emerged from the shadows, “We were worried about you! Come, tell us of all that has transpired here, we heard you faced the dragon?”

Bilbo smiled at the enthusiastic dwarf. The truth was he had been quite worried after Thorin’s earlier declaration that he might not be as welcome as he had once been. It does not do to question a king and that is what Thorin seemed to be these days, a king before a man. But it seemed those fears were yet unfounded.

“I did, I don’t recommend it,” Bilbo shuddered, his fingers fiddling with the necklace once more, “Smaug was a delightful storyteller, but I am afraid that is his only redeeming quality. I’m quite glad he’s gone now.”

“He told you stories?” Fili asked. 

“Yes, he woke up, and, and, well I didn’t know what to do. He was going to burn you all in Lake Town.” Bilbo paused, his voice fading at the lingering horror of nearly losing a second family.

Kili and Fili exchanged glances and Fili stepped forward, “We’re right here Bilbo, with you still khaïr aulë, and surely that will be a better tale than any a dragon could tell.”

Fili was close enough to weave his hand tentatively into Bilbo’s curls and pull him into a hug, “I promised you a bead and braiding didn’t I? Why don’t Kili and I give you our kinship beads while you tell us your story?”

Bilbo clung to Fili and nodded, oh, he was so glad the boys were alive. Fear had hampered his senses for some time and relief was a heady drug. He let them lead him to a new room, imperious but not unwelcoming, he was sat down, Fili behind him and Kili to his side. The dwarves started fussing over his hair, combing it, and gently plaiting it. They would often take plaits out and redo them as Bilbo spoke. He spoke of smoke and the stench of fear, how gold was uncaring and cold beneath his skin and the oppressive heat of Smaug. The fear that kept him sitting there, listening to the dragon boast of those he had killed, suffocated with his flames, of his conquest, all in hopes of preventing another desolate town from appearing. Bilbo talked and talked, how he couldn’t bear to see his dwarves meet the fate proposed in the language of the contract, evisceration, laceration, incineration. 

Bilbo felt lost in his tale, like the nightmare was still going. He had since stopped talking but the images of the dead and the flames played out in his eyes. The glow of the fire was as piercingly bright as the chilling light of the arkenstone. Bilbo determined that beauty was perhaps the greatest threat to true good, beauty that hid and lied and distracted from the little flaws that made life worth living. 

Nothing was perfect, nobody was perfect, you moved on and did your best. Life was like a garden, the best of things required nurturing, but if you didn’t know how, or perhaps you had never been shown how, you might nurture the wrong thing, or neglect the right thing. Tomatoes taste good no matter their shape or color. Each carrot could be put in a stew regardless of color, size, or beauty. Trees could provide shade, nuts, and fruit, and should one fall and maybe destroy something, well it has also provided the lumber to fix things. Life could not be perfect, for that would destroy the meaning of living, but it did not mean that the imperfect was evil. Imperfect, rotten, whatever word you chose to use for it, you could repurpose it, put it to good use. Rotten vegetables proved excellent fertilizer after all, preparing the way for future growth. No, evil was something distinctly to itself. It hid behind the perfect, it hid…Bilbo had seen many things claiming to be perfect on this journey and he could not find it in himself to like any of them. 

The dragon claimed he was the perfect creature, strong, clever, and invulnerable. He was cruel. The arkenstone, the so-called heart of the mountain, prized possession of Durin’s line, was more beautiful than anything. It had no heart. Cruelty, lack of heart, of soul, that was what left room for evil to live. Bilbo could not let evil take root in the cracks and wounds of his dwarves' souls. They had suffered much, he had suffered much, but it did not mean that they were evil, just that they were imperfect.

Bilbo was snapped out of his thoughts by a playful tug on his new braids.

“You were getting lost up in there,” Kili tapped Bilbo’s forehead with a chuckle. 

“Oh dear, how long has it been? I’ve been known to think a little too long sometimes.” Bilbo fretted.

“Not long, still I’d rather you here with us than lost up in your little world.”

“Me too,” Bilbo sighed, “me too. I’d much rather be with you all than anywhere else these days. Do you think, perhaps, if it’s no trouble, that we might try and plant a garden? I should like to grow something and ash makes a suitable fertilizer. I suspect we could plant some apple trees? Or if that is unsuitable, maybe some turnips or beets? Oh and the herbs!”

Kili laughed, his head thrown back and the joyous sound echoed throughout the halls. The first laugh in Erebor since before the dragon. Bilbo and Fili found themselves joining in soon, the laughter infectious.

“I think you’ll find that uncle would not deny your request, nor any request of yours really.” 

“Aye, Bilbo,” Fili wiped tears out of his eyes, “You will have your garden.”

Bilbo laughed again, loud enough that the sound of the arkenstone left his mind. The brothers on either side of him and the world behind him. The future would be green, growing and fertile with opportunities. It would be good, it would be nurtured and kind. 

***

The happiness did not last long. Thorin’s determination to seek the arkenstone overtook the company and Bilbo found himself sorting through the hoard along the side of every dwarf there. The children were safe, unbothered and far out of the range of Thorin’s focus. The stone was all consuming. 

“Has anyone checked on the town?”

Bilbo asked no one in particular, he doubted he would really get an answer. Guilty glances were passed between company members and Bilbo figured that was as close to an answer as he would be receiving. There had been no attempt to reach out to the town, or find Bard it seemed. Bilbo found himself walking out to the ruins of the rampart overlooking Erebor’s entrance. It was desolate and bare in the Valley, smoke still drifting from the town now and then. Bilbo wished he could see how they were, wished he knew if things could be alright. He was delaying telling the children that there was no word from their father yet, it was a futile effort really, he would have to tell them eventually. His feet found themselves wandering down the rampart and through the entrance. He wished to touch the earth and look for blossoms, perhaps some crocus or snowdrops could be found. He hadn’t seen flower’s since Beorn’s and he missed the gifts of Yavanna. 

He had been avoiding Thorin. 

That was another fact he was trying to delay addressing.

While he wasn’t scared of the dwarf, he severely doubted Thorin would ever do anything to cause Bilbo any sort of physical harm, he was scared of losing his new family. There was only so much delay in the finding of the cursed jewel before Thorin would begin questioning those around him. Doubt in their loyalty, in their honor, was not far off. Bilbo could only hope that Gandalf would show up before that happened, the wizard could hopefully stave off any further madness in the king. 

Bilbo’s musings were presently cut off as he spotted a figure approaching on the hill. A horse galloping toward the mountain, that could be a very bad thing, but Bilbo was curious and so he slipped the ring on and watched as the figure grew closer and closer. Slipping the ring on was easy now, easier than it had been in the Mirkwood, and easier still than the caves of the Misty Mountain. Bilbo almost forgot how heavy it sat in his mind.

Soon enough Bilbo could recognize the rider as the blond elfling he’d waved at in the river. This must be the blond elf who helped save Kili, what was his name again… oh, Legolas. Bilbo hid behind a rock and slipped the ring back into his pocket before he popped out and addressed the rider.

“Hello there, would you be Mister Legolas then?”

“Oh! It’s you! Where’s the grumpy one?”

Bilbo cocked his head, the grumpy one? “Who?”

“The grumpy dwarf, the one with you in the barrel? I’m supposed to send him my thanks for saving my life on the banks of the river. You as well!”

“Oh, Thorin, Thorin Oakenshield. He’s inside, and while I’m sure he would appreciate your thanks, I do rather doubt his ability to address you at this time.” 

“Oh,” the elf seemed disappointed, “Perhaps another time, I really must show my gratitude. It’s only polite afterall.”

“So it is, I must say I am quite thankful for your assistance against the orcs that day as well.” 

The two sat there in silence for a minute. Neither of them knowing one another well enough to get straight to the point of the elf’s arrival and neither one wanting to break the social niceties they had both been raised with. The elf’s ears twitched while Bilbo sniffed in discomfort, this would all be much easier if he had tea, or biscuits, to offer the elf. 

“I’m here on behalf of the-”

“I’m Bilbo, Bilbo Baggins, by th-”

The elf let out a tinkling laugh and dropped off the horse and sat next to Bilbo on the rock, “I have come on behalf of King Bard of Lake Town. He has asked for news of his children, assuming that they had been brought up to the mountain with the dwarves in his care. He has also requested aid in rebuilding the town, of course with the understanding that thirteen dwarves cannot do much and so he hopes that when the dwarves return to Erebor Thorin will remember his promise of allyship.”

Bilbo was suddenly struck by the realization that he was most likely to be the go between amongst the elves, men, and dwarrow, “He has been crowned king? He did not seem to like the idea of being a leader?”

“Men’s ideas of power are quite confusing little one, I did not think him a willing king either.” 

“You may let him know that his children are safe and sound, not a singed hair between them. They are perhaps not as…at home as I would like them to be here.” Bilbo wrinkled his nose as he glanced back at the mountain, “I will see to the reminding of Thorin regarding his promise. The mountain is in great disrepair presently and I think he would like to see his family settled and returned before extending aid. As it is there are few supplies between us that would be fit to share anyways.”

The elf seemed to understand the unspoken tension as he listened, “I don’t…I don’t suppose that your king would provide any aid?”

“Ada does not like the dwarves, in fact I was sent to remove them from Lake Town originally. However, my father loves the white jewels promised him of old more than he loves consistency of his mind. I think…should things be set right in his mind…that King Thranduil of Mirkwood would provide aid.” 

“Oh.” Bilbo paused before something clicked in his mind, “Your father? You’re a prince! Oh dear, this is not at all a proper meeting! We have no tea, no, no, why, we have nothing!”

The tinkling laugh sounded once more, “You are a funny little fellow! I don’t particularly need that at the moment, we shall have a proper meeting soon and then we can both forget the indignities we might have forced the other to suffer at this meeting. I think I would find that agreeable, don’t you?”

Bilbo settled down a little, “Yes, I think that would be quite agreeable. I must ask one more question I’m afraid.”

Legolas gestured for him to continue, “Have you had news of the wizard Gandalf? He was supposed to meet us here but we have not heard from him yet.”

Bilbo wished he could have disguised the worry in his voice better, but he was too tired to feign much of anything these days. It was taking all his energy to focus on the mountain and keeping the hidden gem hidden. As it was he did not think the princeling would abuse the vulnerability. 

“I have not, should I send word when there is word to be sent?”

“Only if it isn’t too much trouble?”

Legolas smiled warmly down at Bilbo, “There is no trouble at all. However, I must warn you as I did Bard that the news of the dragon’s death has already started to spread. Forces will come toward the mountain, whether to aid or borrow trouble one cannot yet be sure.”

Bilbo’s face fell, another difficulty was coming their way. One thing after another, he had been right all those months ago. Adventures were a nasty, dirty business. Legolas stood up and moved toward his horse, pausing before mounting the great steed. He turned and looked at Bilbo, apprehension and vulnerability crossing his countenance.

“The brunette, Kili, is he, is he doing well? His wounds, are they healed?”

Bilbo startled at the question, an elf of Mirkwood asking about the dwarf’s health, this was strange. As Bilbo looked into the elf’s eyes he noted that the elf was just as confused and uncertain about his question as Bilbo was. This could be something, perhaps the start of dwarrow and elven friendship if nurtured correctly. Mahal knows the dwarrow could use some allies in their isolated lives. 

“He had healed quite nicely. Largely due to your assistance so I’ve heard. Kili has mentioned you quite often in his stories. I must say, it has been wonderful meeting the lithe warrior who healed one of our princelings. He hopes to see you again.”

Legolas smiled as he leapt upon his horse, “I hope to see him again, our next meeting shall hopefully be devoid of blood and orcs!” 

With that the elf prince rode off and back to the lake. Bilbo found himself alone once more, however, he felt lightened and he turned back to the mountain. It was time to deliver news to the children. 

Chapter Text

“Know this, should anyone hold the arkenstone and deny it to me, to keep my birthright as his own, there will be vengeance.”

Thorin’s words echoed through Bilbo’s mind as he roamed the halls that evening. He had returned from his meeting with the elf and delivered his news to the children when he had been called away to help search once more for the infernal gem. Thorin had called them together and railed against them for their lack of success in the search. He had not yet directly questioned anyone's loyalty but Bilbo sensed it could happen within a day if something did not change. He needed to know more about this so-called birthright. There had to be a history he could find regarding the stone, somewhere in the library or halls. 

Instead of a history he found Balin. Balin who was quite shaken looking. Well, Bilbo reasoned, Balin might know of the stone’s origin, and in this mindset he might be willing to share it.

“Balin…Thorin’s need for this stone,” Bilbo didn’t really know what to ask but he muddled on, “The history of it, have all the kings needed it?”

“No laddie, this gem was found deep in our mines during the reign of Thror, Thorin’s own grandfather. It was not always a symbol of Durin’s rightful rule, but it has become one. The gem has been a sight for sore eyes, it was bright and beautiful and so pure. How could it be anything other than the heart of the mountain, of Mahal’s blessing?”

Bilbo had thoughts but kept them behind pursed lips as Balin continued, “The jewel was so bright and the clarity yet unseen. The depth it was found out was strange, to this day miners have never seen a gem like that in the same vein of stone. It was a supernatural find. It seemed to whisper through the halls, the light carrying it and wrapping around it. Oh Bilbo, you should have seen the faces of those who were seeing it for the first time.”

Bilbo watched as Balin lost himself in the past, wonder on his face like he was seeing the stone for the first time as he said, “They were enchanted.”

“Did the rulers suffer gold sickness, dragon sickness, before the arkenstone was found? It keeps being referred to as an affliction with the line of Durin, but no one mentions it being in any of the previous kings before Thror?”

Balin snapped back to the conversation, his eyes focused on the dwobbit before him, “No laddie, I don’t think that they had any cases, at least no documented ones before Thror. But you must remember it was under Thror that the mountain gained the vast treasures you see now. Thror brought prosperity like never before and with the sheer abundance of gold it was no surprise that madness followed.”

Bilbo found himself putting together a narrative he wasn’t sure he wanted to believe. The arkenstone, gold sickness, Thror and now Thorin. The arkenstone seemed to be the root of the issue, found just in time for gold sickness to descend on Durin’s line. That had to explain why the dragon was not torn asunder by the laughing gem, he was predispositioned for gold of this volume, but dwarrow were not. Dwarves should never have such hoarded amounts of the precious material, it was unnatural and vain to hoard such resources. But why would the mountain have such a gem?

The entwined beat of his heart and the mountain was heavy in his mind as he sat and thought. He tried to ask the mountain, tried to ask for knowledge he didn’t have. Oh, how he wished the wizard were here, or Lord Elrond, anyone with the knowledge of things mystical and mad. He had little knowledge or experience with such things and he wondered what his mother would say. She had always been pragmatic, even if whimsical, and he imagined that she would somehow put a stop to Thorin’s madness with a quick scolding. He could not do that, no, all he could do was hide a jewel. 

Madness, the folly of dwarves and men, pride. Pride in accomplishments and fine things, pride begat selfishness, selfishness begat…madness? Bilbo let out a frustrated sigh and gave up trying to puzzle the stone’s origin. 

He had been so lost in thought that he had completely missed the footfalls that came toward him. A shadow fell over him and he startled upward. Thorin. The dwarf was watching Bilbo, concern warping his features as he hesitantly reached out toward his ward. Bilbo and Thorin had not been alone, nor exchanged words since the day the company reunited. Bilbo was self-aware enough to realize he had been avoiding the dwarf in case Thorin came to his senses and broke the contract between them, denying that responsibility he had as Bilbo’s guardian. 

“Bilbo,” the name was spoken softly and Thorin stepped closer, “I have missed you by my side. I hope my word…You are one of us, one of our kin. Do not doubt your place here.” 

Bilbo opened his mouth, unsure of what to say. Thorin’s words had not put him at ease, not completely. His hand went to worry the beads around his neck but found themselves instead wrapped around the beads that now decorated his hair. His new family, their mark on him.

“I am told you wish for a garden? What do you have to plant in it?” The question was hesitant and Bilbo could sense an attempt being made for peace between them.

His hand fished into his coat pocket, “This.”

It was an acorn, small and sturdy, “I got it from Beorn.”

“You’ve carried it all this way,” Thorin observed the acorn with a small smile, a sense of wonder held in his eyes.

“Well, I thought to plant it, as a remembrance. That I had done something and made it back alive, something for me to nurture and watch grow. I like growing things. It was never a strength for me like it was for my father and mother, but I was taught how and I carry their teachings with me. This acorn will one day be a great tree and I hope to learn from it.” 

“Plant it here,” Thorin closed Bilbo’s hand around the seed, “We will build you a garden, our ramparts will have plants, greenery, to show our new prosperity and blessing. You have been a blessing. Draw your plans and we will build them.”

Thorin was promising a future here, with them, long enough to see his tree grow. Bilbo didn’t know what to feel, he had a home back at Bag End. His parents home, his birthplace, but not his birthright. Bilbo was confused and in his confusion he simply did not address the idea of him staying here. Instead Bilbo decided now was as good a time as any to pass on Legolas’s warning.

“The um, the people of Lake Town sent a messenger the other day. I managed to intercept him and get the news before he reached the gate.” Bilbo’s eyes darted around as he fiddled with his beads, “The world knows of the dragon’s death. Forces will likely be here shortly, whether they be orcs, elves, your own people, or men.”

Thorin’s eyes hardened, his mouth drawn in a tight line, “Then we have much work to do.”

Bilbo watched as he swept off, calling for Dwalin and the other dwarves to meet him at the gate. He watched as the fallen stone of the parapets, ramparts, doors, and pillars were piled up and fashioned into a blockade. The gate was slowly rebuilt through the night. Shadows grew higher and higher with each star blocked from sight. Bilbo mourned the loss, he mourned the access to grass and flowers, to the sun. This was not freedom, this was not success or victory. This was pain and suffering continued in an isolated people, the scars of the past affecting every present decision. Should it have been elves, men, or dwarrow then reason and communication should have been sufficient, not walls.

But the walls were built.

Come morning light Bilbo found the walls to be a blessed thing. There was a small elf troupe, scouts dressed in armor that flashed in the morning sun, hidden behind slopes and rocks in front of Erebor. The elves it seemed were the first to arrive in claim of Erebor’s great treasure. Bilbo ran, his feet hitting the stone with no attempt to disguise his approach as he made for the company. 

“Elves, not like the nice one,” Bilbo panted bent over, “Mirkwood elves, scouts, soldiers.”

“So they’ve come for their white gems. The gems of Lasgalen. He would come for those.” Thorin muttered, his hand coming up to his beard as he thought. 

Bilbo didn’t know what he was thinking over, surely if the gems belonged to the ambivalent elven king then they could be returned. He was loath to ask about it; however, with the gold sickness and teetering madness inside Thorin, Bilbo thought it best to wait for Thorin’s plan before asking anything. 

“Find the gems, secure them and set them aside, find any references to them. We will compile a provenance. The elf king’s demands are surely about them and it would do well to have a bargaining chip ready. Balin, send out the ravens.”

Bilbo cocked his head and opened his mouth, a million questions crossing through his mind before he simply closed his mouth again and sighed. Thankfully, elves would not be sighted for another day, delaying the inevitable conflict between dwarves and elves. In the meantime, the walls and fortifications were consolidated. Bilbo did puzzle over the ravens.

“Thorin?”

“Yes Karkith? What is your question?” Thorin looked up from his plans and work.

“What did you mean, by sending out the ravens?”

“We are alerting our people. Calling for the aid of our cousins and kin in the Iron Hills, Blue Mountains, and our halls. If elves and man are to form against us, if we are to have our enemies the orcs swarm, then we will have the aid of our kin against them.” 

Bilbo felt comforted by this, until another thought crossed his mind, “And for their help, won’t they want some share of your fortune?”

That was obviously a question that had not crossed Thorin’s mind. Nor was it one Bilbo thought would. Thorin operated under clear ideals, that one’s word was one’s bond. That honor, loyalty, selfless giving were all things to strive for. To Thorin, dwarvish aid would be given with nothing asked in return as that was simply the proper thing to do. But Bilbo knew better, he also knew better than to assume that a gold sick, mad, Thorin would honor his own word if it meant betraying the treasure of his father’s. This was perhaps a bigger mess than being hunted by orcs. At least with orcs the villain was clear, evil was clear. 

“They are our kin, they would not seek to challenge the ownership of my people’s rightful restitution to the dragon’s flames of the past. These are Durin’s halls. Once my people arrive there will be no false claims.”

Bilbo just nodded, he dared not question further. Time would tell how this conflict would play out. There would be time yet. 

***

Time proved a fickle friend, an elvish army was parked outside of Erebor the next morning. Bilbo took one look and turned to the stone wall. The first thing the dwarves saw that morning was Bilbo steadily bumping his head against the wall. 

The sight was comical enough to pause the company in their tracks. 

“Bilbo?”

Bilbo pulled his head back from its assault on the wall and glared at the company. His brows were pulled low and his face shadowed by his curly locks, “Those barmy, budgy, pompous, pretentious, confounding elves!”

Kili and Fili blinked and looked at each other, Thorin himself looked surprised at the outburst as Bilbo continued, “Those cantankerous, those, those, those inhospitable elves have set themselves outside our gate!”

That comment elicited a reaction from the dwarves. They rushed up the gate to the rampart and looked out. Bilbo tiredly climbed after them, he was sick of stairs. The sight was just as unpleasant the second time and Bilbo thunked his head down on the wall. There were hundreds of elves, camped on the outskirts of dale. Their armor was glinting in the light of the sun and Bilbo wanted to throw tomatoes at them just so they wouldn’t be as shiny. 

Then he heard Fili call, “That’s not an elf on the horse there.”

He jerked his head up and looked out, it was a rough figure on a weary white horse. It was Bard. He was fast approaching the gate and Bilbo raced down to the gate’s small talking hole. He should get the children, they should be able to talk to their father and maybe be reunited. He was not the only one to rush down, Thorin and the others also rushed to speak to the archer and elected king of the men of Lake Town.

“Thorin Oakenshield?” Bard called out, “I would speak with you as allies, as friends.”

Thorin moved toward the speaking hole, his face shadowed by the wall as he looked toward Bard, “I am listening.”

“I am not with the elves, my people are not standing at war with your people. Believe me when I say I do not want suffering for anyone. Our people have suffered enough, from the dragon, from cold, from starvation, we have suffered more than enough. The elves stand before you for the white gems, some heirloom they deem worth more than the lives of their people and yours. I beg you, for your sake. Please give them the gems. I would have it that our people become prosperous to trade and reclaim the glory of old, please…”

Bilbo thought Bard’s plea was more than fair, in fact he thought that the gems couldn’t be worth the risk of their lives, or Erebor. He could only hope that Thorin would feel that way too. 

“Please, because of your valiant efforts the dragon held off long enough for men to rally, for us to end his threat. Our town still stands, will you not let us stand together and make peace with the elves?”

Bilbo flinched, that was the wrong thing to say, not even he would want to make peace with the demanding elves at the moment and Thorin would surely not make peace. Balin, Kili, Fili, and Dwalin all exchanged glances as Thorin’s face fell into a grievous scowl. There was no time to let the king speak his mind. If Thorin said whatever he was about then war would be immediate.

So Bilbo jumped in, “There is much to think about, my Lord Bard. It is not your job to negotiate on behalf of the elves. We have others to consider before we give away the treasure of Durin’s folk. Meanwhile, your children miss you greatly.”

“Are they safe?” The father’s voice broke as he tried to reach through as if to find his children right there. 

“They are safe, we’ve kept them secure in the halls. Is it safe in Lake Town to deliver them once more to you?”

“There is talk of an orc army coming,” Bard’s voice shook, “While the town is safe enough now, I could not guarantee their safety should they come back with me. The brittle wood of Lake Town is not as safe as the stone halls of Erebor. I must go back now, I… I, tell them I love them? That I will see them soon?”

Bilbo uttered his promises as the reluctant king rode off. His head leaning against the cool stone, waiting for his heart to beat regularly again. The exchange reminding him of his mother’s last goodbye, when she walked into the snow and to her doom. She had said that she’d see them soon. That she’d be back for tea. Bilbo could only hope that Bard would be true to his word, that circumstances would be kinder to the man’s family then it had been to his. He unconsciously reached toward Thorin, looking for some form of comfort in the wake of remembrance.

The embrace was found, he was pulled into the strong arms of his guardian, even as Thorin whispered, “Why did you do that? Do you dare speak for a king?”

“Forgive me for what might be a rude observation,” Bilbo’s response was muffled by the fur surrounding Thorin, “but, none of you are particularly diplomatic and we don’t have time for rash statements. The elves won’t attack unless antagonized and they have yet to negotiate, unless their ridiculous attempt at imprisonment counts, meaning we have time. Hopefully enough time for your people to arrive, or Gandalf at least.”

“Were you raised to be a diplomat then?”

“I was raised to have manners, to bend society to my will with words and expectations. Diplomacy is simple enough I’d dare say.” Bilbo tried to burrow closer to Thorin, trying to stave off the cold that seemed to never leave him. 

“There will be avoiding war,” Thorin spoke to the group, “if orcs are on the way we will fight. Mobilizing the dwarves of the Iron Hills will take time, we must not let the mountain fall before help arrives. All of us must remain firm. This is our mountain. We will not be outnumbered long. We reclaimed Erebor, now we defend it.”

The dwarf directed his gaze down to Bilbo, “And you, Bilbo Baggins, should learn not to underestimate dwarves.”

A gentle tug on his braid left Bilbo looking up into the blue eyes of his guardian. They were clear, the haze of gold sickness distant and Bilbo realized that he had grown used to the unsettling fog in Thorin’s gaze. This was pleasant, he opened his mouth to take advantage of the clarity and ask about the gems, if they could give them to the elves, but someone else beat him to that. 

Balin had also recognized the return to clarity and broached the topic, “Thorin, you once bandied about trading the gems for a worthy cause.”

Bilbo missed the significant look in his direction all the dwarves gave following Balin’s comment, “I think that if the orcs are coming, likely from Gundabad, we could use as many allies as possible. Would it be such a strain to negotiate the gems once more. We seek to keep our children, our families, our wards, and our mountain safe. You yourself said ‘our Mahdel* is worth more than a few white gems’ did you not? Do not let your pride, your grandfather’s sickness, keep you from making the wise choice.”

Thorin bristled, his grip tighter and tighter around Bilbo who let out a squeak of pain as he looked upward, “Thorin?”

The dwarf’s grip didn’t release, it was painful and grounding all at the same time. Bilbo was present and he was alive, “I am not my grandfather.”

“No one said you were, don’t give us a reason to.”

The grip slowly relaxed and Bilbo breathed again, he wasn’t scared, not yet. The madness was not yet complete or else he would be removed, an outsider from the company and Erebor’s sacred halls. (He was not aware of how the sickness was shifting within Thorin, how the possessive nature of the curse was warping around himself and the halls of gold. Even now Bilbo was as treasured as the gold dusting the chambers. The madness would never let him leave, it would claim Bilbo. But he knew none of this.)

***

The dwarves prepared for battle. The armory was cleared out, suits of armor fitted around each member of the party. Bilbo was kept close to Thorin’s side as he oversaw the fitting of his nephews into their armor. The armor flashed and glinted in the fire’s light. Bilbo wanted to hide his face, he was tired of violence, tired of pain and death. He wanted the garden, he wanted the bumblebees and flowers of Beorn’s, his old toby and front step that was always warm from late afternoon sun. He didn’t want to fear for the lives of those he loved.

“Bilbo,” Thorin turned to him, “we must see you fitted.”

Bilbo blinked, this was not entirely expected. He wasn’t fond of armor, he wasn’t fond of needing it. Even so, with a war on the rise he figured he would need some protection he just hadn’t figured that it would be, well, proper armor. 

A silvery, light chainmail shirt was held before him, “Put it on.”

Bilbo looked up at Thorin, as if to check that the command was indeed meant for him before shedding his outer layers. Thorin held the shirt over Bilbo’s head as he helped the dwobbit slip it on. It went over his own shirt like silk, flowing and settling upon his body in a comfortable manner. Were it not for the beauty and craftsmanship that captured Bilbo’s attention he barely would have noticed its presence. Something about the material made him pause, it was familiar in color and strength to the necklace he wore. 

“This is mithril, a metal so strong no blade can pierce, no arrow tear it, this will keep you safe even in the deadliest of battles.”

“I don’t need this, really,” Bilbo protested as he ran his finger along the smooth material, “I don’t imagine I’ll be much use on a battlefield, and there hasn’t been a declaration of war yet.”

“It is a gift, halw Karkith,” Thorin said, “you are mine to protect, this will help me in my mission. A gift for one who is both loyal and brave.”

Thorin ushered Bilbo out of the armory, they headed into a secluded part of the hallway, “You have been by my side, through my cruel behavior and callous remarks. You know the importance of this quest, the importance of home. Where others in my company falter, they lose sight of the task before us. You have aided in the longevity of our mission, helping and providing diplomacy where you can. From elves to dragon your voice, small though it is, is full of wisdom.”

Bilbo felt like a liar, the arkenstone hidden by his hands. He had intervened, offering manners and diplomatic intercessions, to be sure, but not for the quest, not for Erebor. He had done so for his family, for Thorin, for the future they believed in. This loyalty Thorin showed him was not deserved, nor was the mithril, or the family he’d been offered. But, oh, how he wanted it. 

“I fear a betrayal from one in our midst. Discontentment reigns among the company.”

Betrayal? Bilbo’s eyes widened and he darted around Thorin to peek back at the other company members, “Betrayal?”

“The arkenstone,” Thorin’s gaze grew heavy, “It has still not been ‘found’ though I doubt that is the true case. One of the company has taken it, hiding it for themselves, as if a share of thetreasure, their place in the hallowed halls of Erebor was not enough. They have stolen it and will usurp my power yet.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo did not know what to say, “The mountain is enough, isn’t it? For you, for, for us? No one would dare question your right to rule, you’re Durin’s heir, the one who led us here. Is the arkenstone really that important, it’s no older than your grandfather, surely dwarves have been ruling without it for years? And Lake Town, you already have allies that recognize your authority…”

“The gem must be found, must be mine.”

Bilbo pulled back even as Thorin’s hands found his shoulders, “What if it’s never found?”

“That would be impossible,” Thorin sent him a small smile, “Don’t worry, our future is secure, it will turn up. We will watch for it, Karkith.”

Thorin would go to war over the treasure, over the pride of his people. He would see his loyal friends, those who followed him when there was nothing but a dream, as unloyal schemers. Bilbo couldn’t understand the changes in his guardian. Bilbo’s heart ached, the mountain echoing his grief, as he watched his father figure splinter before him. This was so wrong. 

Bilbo looked toward the rampart as the dwarves marched by him. If only the wizard were here. Bilbo waited till the night fell before tracing his way up to the overlook, he gazed down at the elvish encampment and wondered just how different things could have been. That was when he caught sight of a grey figure pacing out of an impressive tent. Grey, with a pointed hat. There was only one person that could be. Gandalf.

That was all Bilbo needed before he was shimmying down the wall and running across the scattered stone and scarred landscape toward the figure. 

“Gandalf! Gandalf!”

“Bilbo?”

“Oh, thank Yavanna,” Bilbo panted as he came to rest in front of the wizard, “I was afraid we’d never see you again! Gandalf you’ve got to help him, Thorin’s got gold sickness. He’s doubting the company, and the arkenstone! Smaug was right!”

Bilbo’s worried jumble of words was halted as Gandalf held up his hands, “slow down, Bilbo, slow down. What is happening?”

“Thorin fears betrayal in the mountain, the arkenstone is not yet … in his hands. Gandalf I am afraid for him, Smaug predicted he would ruin himself, fall into an obsession and madness that would shatter the mountain. I can hear it, the stress of the mountain, she cares too much. But her heart is not in that cursed gem.”

Gandalf’s brows raised as he puffed on his pipe, Bilbo continued, “I think the gem is not true, I think it is evil. Gandalf, it possesses them. I read the histories of the mountain. There was no gold sickness before Thror. There was no arkenstone before Thror. The mountain hates the jewel.”

Smoke rings filled the air as Gandalf puffed contemplatively, “no gold sickness before the arkenstone, eh?”

“Gandalf…do you think it possible that,” Bilbo paused, “that the mountain formed the arkenstone as a warning? To warn against the greed of Thror?”

“A misinterpreted warning? Why Bilbo, I think you may be on to something there. If that is the case, Thorin must not get his hands on the stone, you say he hasn’t yet? But Bilbo, is the stone found?” 

Gandalf’s knowing eyes bored into the smaller creature and Bilbo dropped his eyes as he replied, “The stone is found, hidden well within the halls. Where I should be, Thorin will worry if he finds me missing from Erebor. Gandalf you must talk reason into him.”

“I fear the time for reason has passed, if his paranoia and possession are growing as you say then reason has lost its place. Bilbo, this stone, can you destroy it?”

Bilbo’s head jerked back toward the wizard from where he was gazing at the mountain, “I think I should be able to find a way. The mountain has been quite helpful as of late.”

“The mountain, you talk as if you can communicate with the Lonely Mountain.”

“Oh, I suspect she’s not lonely anymore. She’s very happy to have the dwarrow back. The earth is strong here, the ash from the dragon will fertilize the mountainside while the living stone sings.”

“Bilbo, do you mean to say you have stone sense? A living connection to the stone and ground?”

“Why, yes, but I suspect that is not unusual. Afterall, I’m sure the company can hear the mountain, although they are never quiet enough to actually listen to her I suspect.”

Gandalf was silent and Bilbo was reminded of another voice that echoed in his head, “Gandalf, there’s another thing…”

But Bilbo never got to discuss the heavy weight of the gold ring as he was seized by elves. In the midst of their discussion neither had been aware of the approach of elves, a mistake that could cost them all. Bilbo had the sinking feeling that his traipse outside the confined safety of Erebor had suddenly led to serious trouble, he doubted he would be returning that night. 

Gandalf spluttered his anger at the actions of the elves as they marched Bilbo, curiously held aloft in their arms, to a grand tent. This was no doubt the start of war if he knew the dwarves, they would not bargain for him, nor would the elves give him up. Bilbo was for better or worse a hostage. Even Gandalf could not get him out of this he’d wager. Oh by Yavanna, he was getting quite tired of the machinations of treasure hungry powers that be. Bilbo crossed his arms as he was carried in front of who he could only assume was Thranduil, the little spritely elf’s father. Poor lad. 

“Now who is this? Could this be the burglar who stole my prisoners? No one informed me it was a child.”

Bilbo refrained from saying he wasn’t a child as he was put down. Instead, he tapped his foot impatiently, “No one informed me it was polite practice to imprison those who are in need and not a danger.”

Thranduil raised his brows as he swept languidly into his throne, how pompous, to bring a travel throne, “What were you doing from the mountain, were you conspiring with the wizard? We know he favors the dwarven party.”

“Conspiring?” Bilbo was outraged, he was beyond upset with the situation and barely held his tongue, “ I do not conspire.”

“Well then, what was your purpose, little one?”

“I, I,” Bilbo had nothing to say. If he was truthful about why he sought out Gandalf it would give away the fragile nature of the dwarven company and their leader’s mental state. However, if he lied things could become messy and he would likely be caught. He did not know the punishment for lying to the elven king and he was not particularly inclined to find out through experience. 

“I was trying to catch up with Gandalf, we, I, have not seen him since before we entered Mirkwood. I missed his presence and wisdom.”

“I can only imagine, traveling with dwarves does not offer much in the way of intellectual conversation I imagine.”

Bilbo kept his tongue still, Bungo would say that there was wisdom in civility, Belladonna would say that even the most grand figures deserved a good tongue-lashing now and then. Bilbo was all of a sudden quite grateful that he was his mother’s son. Should the king make one more rude comment and Bilbo would be glad to educate him on the nature of polite, civil, and diplomatic discussion when met with strangers. And they were strangers.

“Lord Thranduil,” Gandalf began, “I suggest you let the lad go. His people will miss him, if they do not already. Tensions are high enough without adding hostages to the mix. Let the lad go.”

Thranduil turned to Bilbo, “Are you important to the dwarves, I do not recall them discussing you while in my halls?”

“Important is such a broad term,” Bilbo hedged, “They have perhaps grown fond of me, but I doubt that their fondness extends toward the type of companionship that would result in satisfactory ransom.”

“Then would you care to explain the beads that decorate your hair?”

Thranduil’s face was set in a smug smile, the game was up, “I may be under the guardianship of one of the dwarves.”

“May be? You, little one, are the ward of none other than the would-be king under the mountain. Thorin himself has adopted you? What a wonder indeed. I am afraid that means you are far more valuable kept here with me. If war is to be avoided, Mithrandir, don’t think this will open negotiations nicely?”

“War? Over what? The orcs?” Bilbo questioned.

“The orcs are no concern of mine, they roam these valleys and mountains for Durin’s heir, not for elvish blood. Once my white gems are claimed I shall see to it that my people are once more removed to the safety of our halls and woods.”

Bilbo’s brows rose and his mouth dropped open in incredulous disbelief, “Safety? The hordes of spiders and fell creatures would disprove the claim that your woods are safe. Not to mention the dying lands, madness breeds in the earth under your roots. And all this? For white gems? Are the stars in the sky no longer enough for your eyes? Or have the trees blocked you from the true light?”

Thranduil leapt forward, his face inches away from Bilbo’s as he snarled, “Do not speak to me of my lands! What do you know of them? What do you know of the stars? Dwarves care not for the stars, nor do they care for the earth and trees! Who are you to lecture me, you are a child!”

Bilbo stood his ground, his eyes narrowing at the affront. He had not faced Smaug, goblins and gollums, orcs, trolls, and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins to be intimidated by a lanky elf. The ring in his pocket called to him, it would be easy enough to disappear from the elves with the aid of the cursed object. Bilbo did not want to use it quite yet. He was in a rare position, he had an audience with the elf king and Gandalf, if he could get Bard here he might be able to open discussions. 

“I speak to you of my experience, nothing more. Perhaps if we had been met with friendlier terms the company and I would have been able to see Mirkwood through the eyes of the merry elves that occupy it. That would have been a delightful experience I am sure, elves after all are known for their hosting skills.” Bilbo tried to keep the ironic tone from his voice and judging by the mollified and curious expression on Thranduil’s face he succeeded. 

“Might I ask, as I am apparently to be here for a while, what of your relation with Lake Town?”

“What of it?”

“Well,” Bilbo hedged, “I believe Bard mentioned that you were allies with the Master, and now that Bard is king I suspect you are allied with him? In fact, I’d heard you sent your own son to help rid the town of dwarves, of course he was a little too late.”

“I was aligned with the Master, he provided some resources,” Thranduil lounged on the throne and considered the small creature in front of him, “Current negotiations with the new king are being delayed at the moment, and what of my son?”

Bilbo watched as the king tensed, it was almost imperceptible but Bilbo was blessed with a lifetime of watching for minute reactions. The king was worried about his son, which likely meant that he still hadn’t seen him since Legolas left the woods of the elven court. Well then, Bilbo knew something that the king didn’t. He knew Legolas had healed Kili, he knew that the beginnings of a friendship were forming between elf and dwarf, he knew that Thranduil would hate this. 

Bilbo smiled, it was not the smile the company was used to, happy and humorous. No, this smile was more predatory, Bilbo had an edge, he may be a hostage but he had every advantage. Gandalf seemed to pick up on the change in Bilbo’s demeanor, a subtle shift in the way the dwobbit stood. He quirked his brow at Bilbo, a silent question in his eyes that Bilbo didn’t bother to answer.

“Your son, now, just to clarify,” Bilbo said, pacing the tent, “is tall, blonde, distinctive blue eyes? An archer?”

“Yes,” Thranduil was exasperated, “yes, that perfectly describes him.”

“Hmm, well last I saw he was merrily riding away from the mountain, he’d hoped to see some of the dwarves inside. One in particular he seems curiously fond of. But what do I know of such things?”

Bilbo’s airy statement left Thranduil with a twitching eye and a stoic expression. Gandalf was amused, his head ducked to hide a smile as Bilbo feigned ignorance of the feud between dwarves and elves, “So, what do hostages do? I don’t suppose you have a spot of tea anywhere?”

Chapter Text

“Uncle! I can’t find Bilbo anywhere!”

Thorin was up in an instant, the moment Fili had called for him, the moment Bilbo’s name was uttered. The dwarf stalked forward, possessive panic and worry flooded his being. There was war blooming on the wind and Bilbo could not be found.

“Explain everything.”

“I went to get him, he was going to show me the garden plans, the herbs and the…the,” Fili’s voice broke, “I went to his room, he shares it with the children, but they hadn’t seen him. I looked all over, Kili and the rest too. Uncle Thorin, he isn’t in the mountain.”

First the arkenstone was missing, now Bilbo. Thorin felt all that was keeping him steady disappear. The ground was shaking underneath him, he’d felt the comforting coldness of the gold creeping over him and it felt as if the only thing keeping it fully at bay was the presence of his ward. The most loyal of all his company, Bilbo was an anchor in the storm they’d fallen into. The small creature was more important than all the gold in the mountain, should anything befall him… Thorin would find him, he would not fail his duty, he would not fail his son. 

Thorin found himself on top of the rampart overlooking the fields before Erebor. Bilbo loved the outdoors, the grass, the flowers. It was unlikely that anyone would break into Erebor, it would be an impossible task, especially if one were to steal one of their own whilst doing so. A dark voice slithered through Thorin’s mind, what if Bilbo left, what if he took the arkenstone and left the company? He shoved those thoughts aside, Bilbo would never betray him. The thoughts persisted though, hidden deep in Thorin’s mind. 

The dwarves were mobilized as Thorin directed them to search the cavernous halls once more. The children were worried, asking questions that Thorin could not answer. Their burglar was gone, his son in all but blood was gone. He could hear laughter echoing, malicious and cold. Something, someone, sought entertainment from his loss. His head felt as if it were splitting as each laugh brought a spike of pain, the world was splintering around him.

Chapter Text

Bilbo was enjoying being a hostage more than he anticipated, the elves had delightful tea and he’d reclaimed a pipe from Gandalf and was smoking some old toby. What he was not sure about was how Thranduil planned on announcing his capture to the dwarrow. In fact, that was something he wasn’t sure the elf king knew either. 

“You know, Gandalf,” Bilbo blew out a smoke ring, “I should think it would be wise to bring Bard up here. With the elf king announcing his pawn, me that is, it would be wise having all three leader’s around to perhaps negotiate a peace or alliance for the incoming orc army.”

“I’m inclined to agree, my dear boy,” Gandalf sat next to him, functionally a willing hostage for the time being, “But, if Thorin is as sick with gold as you believe, would negotiations be effective?”

Bilbo puffed on the pipe for a minute or two before replying, “I’m not sure how much he would be willing to compromise with the others, however, Fili and Kili are quite reasonable and we do have Bard’s children in the mountain. Although, Thorin seems to be on friendly terms with the king of Lake Town for now, so I rather think there will be no issues there. Unless Thorin believes Bard helped in my capture, which I can refute either way.”

“Bungo taught you well in terms of diplomacy and social niceties Bilbo, but perhaps this is out of your depth.”

Bilbo turned to Gandalf, his face set in determination, “This is exactly what I am here for, I am not a burglar, nor a thief, nor a dwarf in full. But, I am a negotiator, I can talk and whittle away at another’s bargain until I am quite satisfied with my end. I assure you, this is perfectly within my depth. If only I was a free agent though, I might be respected by all parties a little bit more.”

“Aye, your age does you a disservice this time.”

“Beorn respected me,” Bilbo grumbled. 

“Beorn saw a kind creature with a heart for the flower fields and hearth, it is not in his nature to disrespect anyone with a gentle soul.”

“If we were all a little more like that I should think the world a softer place.”

Gandalf sighed, a sound both weary and melancholic, “Oh, my dear lad, how right you are.”

Bilbo set down his pipe, “Gandalf, go to Bard. I think it would be wise if you were with the king. Thorin need not know you were here with me, when king Thranduil deigns to tell Thorin of my situation, and he will, it would be best if you were not associated with it. Bard needs to be our ally, the future of Erebor and Lake Town lie in the friendship between Thorin and Bard. Please, Gandalf.”

The wizard looked down at Bilbo, the youth had grown into quite a splendid young man. Wise beyond his years in a way that grieved the old wizard. There was something precious about youth, precious in the way hope was so abundant, life was worth living without guile when you were young. The best parts of youth seemed to be lost to Bilbo even while he was vibrant and expressive in so many other ways. Gandalf didn’t know how he missed the pain his little friend had been living in. But he could not go back now, all he could do was try to help the future.

“I will seek Bard out.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo fiddled with his beaded necklace, “everything will work out, just you wait.”

***

“Uncle,” Fili’s face was drawn, “There’s elves at the gate.”

Thorin lurched forward, unsteady from the night spent pacing the halls. For the elves to approach Erebor right after Bilbo disappeared could only mean one thing. They had his child. The elves stole his child. A darkness descended on Thorin’s expression, hate and rage blending together to create a stormy countenance that had the dwarves separating around him. He stalked toward the gate, gold falling silent as the possessive urge to find his ward and hold him close took over. One thought in his mind as he faced the elven delegation. They looked small beneath him, crickets chirping their message out, inconsequential and pathetic.

“We bear a message from the Lord Thranduil, King of the Woodland Elves, to Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain. Do you accept our delegation and bear witness to our message?”

Thorin snarled as he stalked across the parapet, “I will hear the message your king sends.”

Even as Thorin vowed to listen he signed to Kili to hide himself and prepare to shoot if need be. A dwarven archer high in the hidden nooks of ruined walls. Thorin would not leave the fate of his people, his child, in the hands of elves. There would be some measure of control in this situation. 

“We have in our possession, unharmed, one Bilbo, a ward of the King Under the Mountain. In exchange for his safe return King Thranduil would open negotiations for the heirlooms of our people, the white gems of lasgalen.”

Thorin’s vision faded in and out, a sibilant hiss filled his ears and mind as he struggled to find the words to say. He wanted to lash out, demand the immediate return of his child, of his Bilbo. But the words stuck in his throat, the little voice combating the present possessive hissing. Bilbo’s voice. Thorin tried to listen, to fight the urgings of the gold, the beautiful warm gold, the rich…rich…gold. Thorin shook his head, what would Bilbo do? With his silver tongue, cold and clear silver, Bilbo would be diplomatic…

“Negotiations? I do not see your King present to commence negotiations.”

Thorin did not want to part with the gems, they were his. His, and his peoples, but he could delay, he could buy Bilbo time. With any luck their burglar would find his own way home.

“If your king truly desires the gems, perhaps it is he who should offer his presence and plea.”

The elves seemed to look amongst themselves and Thorin continued, “Am I not here before you, King Under the Mountain. I have sent no delegates before you, do I not deserve the same respect? Return in five hours time, with proof of Bilbo’s health and your King. Then will we begin negotiations.”

Thorin sharply turned, signing to Kili to cover the elves until they departed, even as the dwarf descended from the rampart. Balin and the company waited below. Thorin eyed them with a heavy heart, he did not yet know who to trust and who to guard himself. For all that one of them betrayed him, hid the arkenstone, he did not doubt that they would aid in Bilbo’s recovery. The little creature was dear to the company. As precious as gold, far beyond even, Bilbo was worth more than all the treasure these halls held. A gift from Mahal, a gift that Thorin had neglected. He would not let the little one out of his sight when he was returned. There was no question in Thorin’s mind that Bilbo would be returned, the gold sickened mind was too focused on possessing that which he saw as his own to consider an alternative where loss existed. 

“The elves would trade Bilbo for those accursed gems. Broken starlight for my child.” Thorin ground out.

“We had discussed trading the gems for him before, I suppose this is no different?” Balin queried.

Thorin felt as if it were for some reason, his mind telling him it was different, telling him there was reason to hold onto the gems. As if they were important, valuable, as if… But Thorin chose to listen to those around him instead of his mind. Bilbo was at stake, he could not rely on one voice, no matter how persuasive that voice was. The voice that laughed, even as he tried to listen to Balin and the company, it was a twisted laugh, so bright and clear but malicious. Thorin wanted to find the laughter to choke it and silence it, even as he wanted to possess it. To make the laughter his own, but he could not find the source and it rang out in his mind. Balin’s words were lost as Thorin closed his eyes. 

“Do what you see fit, Bilbo must be returned to the mountain.” 

***

Bilbo found himself being hauled to his feet from the bench. He was marched, more accurately carried, before the throne of the elf king, who had dropped much of his fashionable facade in favor of pacing. Well, at least one of them would be dignified, Bilbo thought as he straightened his clothing as best he could. There was little he could truly do for his appearance as he was lacking a mirror and a well fitted pair of clothes. His growth spurt had begun and his trousers, the last remaining pair he’d brought from Bag End, were deplorably short on him. His vest was missing buttons, the mithril armour was hidden behind the coat carefully wrapped around him. All in all, Bilbo was dressed as well as he could be, he was however missing the weight of his little blade. The elves had stripped him of it and Bilbo found he was uncomfortable without it. Despite his discomfort with bearing blades, he had to admit it had been a welcome friend these last months. 

“May I ask why I’ve been summoned once again?”

“That guardian of yours demands my presence for negotiations.”

“Well that seems more than fair,” Bilbo humphed, “It’s not like either party has the necessary accommodations for an actual diplomatic convention.”

“What do you know of such things, you are naught but a child!”

Bilbo barely avoided screwing his face up in irritation at the king’s words, instead, he obfuscated, “Of course, what do I know, merely I meant that in all the books I’ve read delegates and diplomats always have such elaborate meetings. Often with couriers, meals, and more setting the stage. As we seem to be on the edge of war it simply isn’t possible to match such lavish ideas. But what can books truly illuminate in the face of experience?”

“I suppose your childish ideas have some merit.”

Thranduil turned to face Bilbo, “How is it that such a cold people as the dwarves have taken you to their heart. You do not belong, a stranger bound by contract. It is an odd thing that even you must acknowledge?”

Bilbo’s heart stung at the cold summation of his position. Truly, in many ways Thranduil was not wrong, he did not belong. An outsider among them all, not a dwarf, not a hobbit, not of one culture or the other. And yet, somehow, Thorin had allowed him to be one of his own. Held almost as tenderly as the two who he called nephews. He didn’t belong, and one day they would see it too, just like the elf saw it now. But right now Bilbo had a position he could use to prevent war, and so he would.

“It may have a thing or two to do with my age, the dwarves and their numbers. They perceive me as quite young, in need of care and affection. I tried to assure them that it was not necessary, really, I’d been on my own for quite some time before they arrived and I’ll be on my own once more soon enough.”

“You answer, and yet you do not answer,” Thranduil lowered his brows, confusion more apparent than anger at the response. 

“What answer would appease you,” Bilbo’s voice must have betrayed some of his own confusion over his situation because Thranduil backed off and gazed down at him. 

“I’m not sure you possess it.” 

Bilbo hummed, he was disarmed enough by the encounter that he barely had time to react as the king flashed into motion again. Thranduil had leapt forward, a flash of silk, satin, and fall colors filled Bilbo’s vision even as a sharp snip was felt against the right side of his head. Bilbo felt his hand rise to touch his head, trying to find what was missing. One, two, three….where was three? 

Bilbo looked up with horror. The elven king was holding a small braid, weighted with a silver bead, in his hand. His bead. The one Thorin had given him, the mark of his belonging as Durin’s ward. His family…

“This should do nicely for proof of safety,” Thranduil murmured to himself.

Bilbo felt his mouth gape open. He wanted to cry, he didn’t think it would do anything though. His tears rarely accomplished anything, not even grief, they just rolled through him like a useless storm. So Bilbo rallied, steadied his spine and shut his mouth. He would not cry in front of the elf, the pompous aristocrat wouldn’t gain any satisfaction from Bilbo’s reaction, that’s for sure. But Bilbo was heartbroken, his sign of belonging, his kinship bead, the first bead he understood the meaning of, was stolen from him. His home was stolen from him.

His fingers wove into the other beads before closing around his necklaces as if to assure himself that the remnant of the past was still there. Not all his heritage and home was being stolen from him, not yet at least. 

“That was quite rude.”

“You are my hostage,” Thranduil said coldly, “should I be rude you have no place to complain. I could send you back to the dungeons of Mirkwood, my elves would be more than willing to guard you in the safety of their home.” 

Bilbo sent a frosty glare toward the elf. It seemed that for the moment that was all he was capable of doing. He would bide his time, he had the ring, he had Gandalf, and he had his mother’s spirit with him. Bilbo would make this work.

Chapter Text

Thorin was surrounded by gold and he felt empty. He had chased the whispers to the treasure halls of Thror hoping to ease his mind. It wasn’t working. All he could think of was the soft smile of Bilbo as he described his garden. The hope that lingered in his voice over seeing trees grow out of the ash of Dale. The world seemed dull without his impish, fussy presence and Thorin could no longer deny the pain that washed the gold from his mind. Bilbo was precious beyond any hoard. He doubted that Thranduil would acquiesce to a face to face negotiation, Thorin feared in asking for one he had doomed Bilbo to an eternity in the woodland realms dungeons. 

It was with great surprise then, that Thorin was called back to the gate by Fili and Balin with news that a larger delegation was approaching. A delegation with a regal elf atop an elk. There was only one elf who rode an elk. Thranduil approached. Thorin placed his crown upon his head and steadied himself as he prepared to engage.

“So, you deign to show yourself?”

“Let’s skip the pleasantries. You have something I want, and I have something you want. We can make this quite simple for both parties.”

“I do not see my ward,” Thorin snarled, his patience already wearing thin.

“I have proof of his well being,” Thranduil gave a signal and before Thorin could blink an arrow was stuck in the wall next to him. 

Thorin waved for Kili to stand down, the younger dwarf poised to return fire, as he pulled out the arrow. A small piece of cloth was wrapped around the shaft, a ribbon holding it in place. Thorin unwound the ribbon and cloth, what tumbled out left his heart in his throat. Bilbo’s braid, a simple plait, it was one that Thorin had woven. Rage filled Thorin, they had stripped Bilbo of his mark, his belonging. This was their proof of well being? This was a joke, a farce of well being. Thranduil was cruel to lead with this.

“Proof? How do I know you haven’t stripped this from him in a state of harm. How do I know you haven’t hurt him? Proof of your power over him is not the same as proof of well being!”

Thorin tucked the braid into his pocket, safe and sound where it would remain close to him. It seemed strange to him that this was all he had of his ward. There was nothing else to remember him by in the halls, no tapestries, no histories, nothing to mark the halls of Erebor as the home of Bilbo Baggins. They would have to remedy that fact as soon as possible. His people would know of their little one, of the help he gave in securing their treasure, their home, and their futures.

The elf before him had no claim on Bilbo and no claim to the white gems. Thorin felt his lip curl back into a sneer even as he tried to fight for his sanity. Bilbo needed him to be diplomatic. What would his worrisome little ward do…

Thankfully two more figures rode up before Thorin or Thranduil could say anything more.

Chapter Text

Gandalf and Bard had made short work of riding to the gates of Erebor after Bard had been told of the situation. That the elf king would think holding the ward of the mountain hostage was foolhardy to the newly crowned king of Lake Town. It was no secret that dwarrow coveted their children with a zeal that far outstripped their love of gold. To interfere with a dwarf’s child was to ask for trouble. Bard could not afford a war between his allies, not when orcs were on the way. The elf prince had left early two days prior, looking for news of the orc armies in the north, and had yet to return with news. This left Bard uneasy and now with the wizards’ news of his allies' dispute his worry was converted into exasperated anger.

“King Thranduil really held Bilbo hostage?”

“I’m afraid he did, it was too good of a bargaining chip to pass up in his words.”

“A child is not a bargaining chip, no matter how mature they may act.”

“I’m afraid you may be the only one with the reason to see that,” Gandalf sighed even as they pulled up along the elvish delegation.

Bard positioned them halfway between the walls of the mountain and the elves. Hopefully they could speak reason into the two parties. It was clear, as Bard looked up at the dwarf lord, that tensions were creeping past negotiations and into the realm of violence. He spotted the hidden figure of the little archer who had been in such pain in his house. The elves had their own archers ready, waiting for the waspish signal of their annoyed leader. Bard could barely restrain himself from yelling at the petty leaders. Was it not enough that people had died, that the ash from the dragon was still cooling in the fall air, that suffering was yet so close?

“Good day, I see that I was not invited to the meeting of leaders.”

“You have no business here bargeman,” Thranduil waved him off lazily, “Go back to the town.”

“I’m afraid I do have business here. Seeing as how both parties in this petty squabble are allies of Lake Town, and by relation, my allies as elected king of the men of the lake.”

Thorin was silent, there seemed to be a subtle touch of relief in his eyes, although Bard could be imagining things from this distance. He doubted that the gold crazed king was truly free of the influence those halls had placed on him, but there was hope that the responsibility of a child could break through to him. If only the dwarf could keep his humanity close then all this may yet blow over, that is if the elf could find his humanity. 

Bard had interacted with the elves quite often, the princeling was often melancholy despite his light and effortless demeanor. He missed his father and distracted himself from the distance by being in the world of men as often as he was allowed. Legolas was a kind soul, light and free where his father was trapped by the grief and gloom of a world on the edge of decay. Bard had heard the stories of the elf king’s loss, how his wife had perished at the gates of Gundabad. The little prince had occasionally alluded to the differences between the woodland king before and after her death. Thranduil would need to find his humanity in these coming days if peace were to ever be secured. 

“Now, perhaps we can discuss this like gentle folk, there is no need for hostages and hate amongst those who should be friends.”

“I would be willing to conduct a civilized exchange,” Thranduil conceded.

All eyes set themselves on the King Under the Mountain, would the king prove courteous and diplomatic. A feat that if he failed Bard couldn’t find it in himself to be upset at. After all, he was a father himself and knowing that someone had taken a child, his child, as a bargaining chip would likely leave him to raw for diplomacy. He missed his children dearly, the smiles from Tilda and silent strength of Sigrid, and the imitated expression of manhood that Bain affected. His children were growing up and he missed them. 

They watched the rampart as several of the dwarves spoke in hushed tones to their leader. Thorin’s face was open and anguished, rage and despair passed over his features as the conversation occurred. Bard wished he knew what they were saying, even as the ravens swept over them and the clouds passed, the world stood still until Thorin announced,

“I will meet you in peace for negotiations. With the aid of a wizard and our ally I’m sure a reasonable return of the mountain’s child can be arranged.”

Bard’s whole body slumped with relief, he had not expected to be a mediating official between dwarves and elves, it was stressful. The wizard next to him seemed to be just as relieved as he was and that was not an overly encouraging thought. 

The figures slowly gathered together, Thranduil, Gandalf, Bard, Thorin and Balin. It took time and the elves set up a tent before they stepped back for the diplomatic meeting to commence in privacy. Bard paced uncomfortably between them. The dwarves refused to sit, standing resolute to the side with stoic expressions. The elf king on the other hand had relaxed languidly in a dias set up for him, his face set in an indolent expression. 

Now, for the exchange, “I believe we have a simple exchange to be sorted out?”

“Simple? Aye you could call the belief that demanding gems for a child is simple, or the demand of a simpleton at least.”

Bard wanted to scream.

“Those gems are my peoples’ heirlooms, the only one who should have power and possession over them is an elf.” Thranduil bit back, his eyes flashing briefly.

“You would barter our lives for those gems. In fact, I believe you offered us freedom from your dungeons in exchange for those gems once before. Dungeons that we had no right being imprisoned in. What makes you think we owe you the gems.”

“It’s not a matter of ownership at all any more is it?” The tone of the elf was acidic.

Bard intercepted whatever Thorin was about to say next, “These gems, is there a provenance, or any sort of record of their history that we may look at? Regardless of who possesses them now, a history might discern their origins and rightful owner. And in regard to Bilbo, I think we can all agree that a child being held hostage is an extreme that is not befitting one of your grace’s station.”

The rebuke was soft in tone but no less effective as Thranduil slumped backward, “He is safe, indeed he had tea and somehow insulted my tea set in a simply delightful manner.”

Bard watched as Thorin had to fight a smile off from his face before responding, “You cut off his braid, his kinship braid.”

Balin winced, Gandalf’s expression grew thunderous and Bard had a feeling that there was some cultural understanding that he was missing. Regardless of that he pressed forward. That was the only direction of merit.

“There are cultural misunderstandings, things that could have been avoided if we could simply open lines of communication. Now, the history of the gems…”

“I have no paper records with me presently,” Thranduil’s eyes dipped down, “However, I can recite the history of them.”

“And you King Under the Mountain? Do you have a record or provenance regarding the gems?”

“We do,” Thorin muttered darkly, signalling for Balin to step forward.

“A compiled list of the gems and their history in dwarven care. First beginning under the reign of Thror, the gems were carved from the lands in the north and sent to the jewelers in the Lonely Mountain for shaping, finishing, and setting. The original commission of the stones was made by Woodland King Thranduil. The necklace and setting of the remaining gems was finished and ready for payment and exchange, however, payment was never given and so the gems were never handed over to the elven king.” 

The dwarf handed over a series of documents to both Bard and Gandalf for them to review. Bard scanned through the texts, some in common westron which he could understand and others in mixed scripts which he handed to the wizard. What Balin claimed was true, the documents had listed gem sizings, payment plans, and discussion of design were all accounted for. What was not accounted for was notice of completed payment. It seemed the dwarves were correct in withholding the gems from the woodland king, however, Bard had no doubt that Thranduil knew of the legitimacy of their claims and was going to prove difficult to reason with on principle.

“Everything seems to be in order, King Thranduil,” Bard turned to the elf, “How do you plan on paying for the gems?”

“I see no problem in receiving them and returning their little one as per my original offer.”

“Your original offer was a full payment for our people’s skilled work!” Thorin roared, “Not a hostage you took.”

The two leaders stared at each other, Bard and Gandalf desperately trying to ease the tensions they felt rising.

Chapter Text

“We meet again, little one!” the tinkling voice sounded through the tent.

“Mister Legolas?”

“Just Legolas,” the lithe elf seemed to dance into the open space, “What are you doing here though? You were safe in the mountain and now you are held, with my people? And where is your braid, has the grumpy one cast you out!”

The last question was asked in a horrified tone as the elf approached Bilbo, “No, I have not been cast out, I, well I saw Gandalf and went to talk to him. But, it seems he was not the only one who saw me and your father saw fit to make me his hostage. He hopes to regain the gems of lasgalen I believe.”

Legolas’s face fell at Bilbo’s explanation, “Oh.”

“Are you alright then? I had hoped our next meeting would be better than the last, but it seems we keep meeting in unfortunate circumstances.”

“The orcs are on their way, coming down from the Gundabad stronghold,” the tinkling quality of the elf’s voice was diminished as he spoke, “I fear that they are more mighty than our numbers alone. It’s not just orcs, they have wargs and beasts far greater in strength than the average troops. I came back to warn the town and Ada, it seems we have our own problems here though.”

“Oh.”

The two sat for a moment, silence hovered between them before Legolas spoke again, “The gems of lasgalen. Do you know why Ada wants them so badly?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Bilbo sighed, “If we knew it might help resolve the situation.”

“They were for my mother, a necklace so full of the stars’ light that she would never have to crane her neck to witness their beauty. Ada commissioned something that would shine eternally for her, even if the stars should fall and dim. It’s all he really has left of her.”

Bilbo sat for a moment, “What happened to her?”

“Gundabad. She fell in battle. There isn’t even a grave I’m afraid. Ada misses her, it’s grief, I swear that is all. He isn’t horrible, I promise little one,” there was a tinge of melancholic desperation to the elf’s voice that left Bilbo aching with him, “he just misses her…”

“You know, my mother died when I was still young…my father, not my sire you see, seemed to die with her. He forgot that there was something of her still in the world, life seemed dull without her presence.”

“What still existed? If she was dead what was left?”

“Me.”

The elf looked at him questioningly, “Legolas, your father does not have to linger on the gems as his final reminder of his wife, he has you. I can only imagine that you must share some attributes with the late Silvan queen.”

Legolas seemed to fold into himself, Bilbo was struck by the youth of the boy. For all that elves were immortal, they still aged and Legolas was still a youth. A competent youth, grown up too soon much like Bilbo, but a youth nonetheless. 

“Can you get me to the gates of Erebor?” Bilbo asked, his mind whirling with an idea, “I think I can solve our problem.”

Legolas faced the youth with a determined expression, “Will it help the grumpy one? Will it help you, Bilbo?”

“It will help all of us if executed correctly, and you will be able to show your gratitude to the grumpy one,” Bilbo smiled at the silly moniker for the dwarf.

“Then, I can aid in your mission,” Legolas danced to his feet and swept a comical bow toward Bilbo.

Chapter Text

Bard had managed to separate, with the help of Gandalf, the two leaders. Thranduil was sulking in his chair while Thorin was pacing with a murderous rage painted on his face. Bard wasn’t sure how much longer they could hold off the inevitable fight between the two. Time was running out for all of them, if they couldn’t present a unified force then their world would crumble against the orcs. That was inevitable in its own right. 

“Wait! Wait! I’m here!”

The fight went out of Thorin at the sound and he and Balin turned toward the east as a new horse skidded to a stop. Legolas, the friendly elf who helped his people dismounted with the little one. Bilbo was safe and he was … actively running into the tent. 

Bard gave up.

Gandalf did as well.

This was a mess meant for dwarves and elves to sort out, not for men and wizards.

Bard simply watched as Bilbo was swept into the arms of the dwarf lord. The little one was agitated and kept trying to remove himself as he tried to talk. Thorin was obsessively checking him over, patting the little form down as if to assure himself that Bilbo was whole and uninjured. Balin was no exception to the worried behavior and also tried to check him over. The elf king, however, was entirely displeased with the situation. His mouth set in a firm frown as he looked back at the lithe elfling who had brought Bilbo. Thranduil seemed fit to strike down anyone who got close enough. 

“Thorin!”

Bilbo’s exasperated cry finally got the attention of the crowd.

“I have an idea! I think it would solve this whole dilemma!” 

“There is no dilemma, you’ve been returned.”

“But the gems..”

“They are ours!”

Bard saw all the work crumbling around him. Would the pride of dwarves and elves never be satisfied?”

Chapter Text

Bilbo would not accept Thorin’s stubborn claim on the gems. They were an heirloom, not of the woodland elves, but of a lost love. A grief so profound echoed in the woods of the elf king, a grief that stemmed from his own heart. Bilbo may not like the elf, his hospitality was a joke, his diplomacy worse, but Bilbo knew what grief could do to a man. Kindness and compassion could be afforded to the misguided king, no matter if it was deserved.

Bilbo pulled Thorin out of the tent and toward privacy, “Thorin, you know grief, you know loss. Your people have lost much, but so have the elves.”

His words weren’t getting through so he tried a different method, “The elf who brought me to you, the one whose life you saved, do you see him? The gems were to be his mothers, a gift from one parent to another. They are all the family has left of her memory. Thorin, you had a brother once, don’t you remember what it's like? What wouldn’t you give to have had something to hold onto of his, something to remind you of him?”

Thorin’s stony face spared a glance at the nimble elf that hovered outside the tent and far away from the woodland king. The boy’s head was ducked down, occasionally sparing glances toward the duo as if to check on Bilbo. The cheerful, spritely nature of the elf was dimmed as he withered under his father’s glare. Bilbo hated to see it, Legolas was a bright and happy lad, kind and light where so much had been dark on this journey. He wanted his father back as much as his father wanted the gems. It was unfair.

“Thorin, please, for me,” Bilbo pleaded, “Let the gems go, they mean nothing to us. They have no connection to the mountain or your people. They are filled with grief and love for Thranduil’s treasured love. Can we not spare the one trinket?”

Thorin was quiet, his gaze lowered to Bilbo’s eyes as he thought. The haze seemed to clear as he lingered on Bilbo’s face. Truthfully, what did the white gems mean? Bilbo was here. The treasure was safe, his people were safe, and Bilbo had his eyes. Frerin’s eyes, so earnest, peered up at him under the fringe of golden curls.

Bilbo continued, “Payment is owed, I know. The contract must be fulfilled, but with the town needing help, and our people needing food and supplies, could we not beat out a new contract with the gems being gifted back in exchange for aid? Would that not be a wiser thing by far than holding them out of pride and hate?”

Reason was making its way past Thorin’s gold-addled brain and Bilbo pushed closer. Grasping onto his guardian's figure Bilbo let himself be crushed in a hug as he felt relief for the first time since he had been taken. He hoped his presence would be enough to ground his father figure into reasonable action. 

“Wise beyond your years,” Thorin murmured, pressing a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead, “I do not think the elves will be as reasonable as you hope.”

“We will try though?”

“Aye,” Thorin heaved a weary sigh, “We will try.”

***

Bard did not expect what happened next. The duo came back into the tent, Bilbo offset behind Thorin’s form as if to hide him from the elves. Balin and Thorin whispered together, signs of shock, confusion, resignation, and more passed between them. Bilbo alone had a resolute expression on his face. Bard prayed for good news.

“We wish to negotiate for aid, payment for the gems will be deemed unnecessary should the elves of the woodlands help the people of Erebor and our allies on the lake.”

“What?”

The sentiment was echoed by all parties in the tent. The lanky and awkward form of the elf prince hovered just out of his father’s sight, hope blooming across his face as he made eye contact with Thorin’s ward. Hmmm, Bard had a suspicion that the two had talked before regarding the uses of the gem. Well, there was only one way to go now, they would discuss the idea.

“You believe you can hold my gems hostage for my help?”

“No, I believe that we can hold the gems until proper restitution has been awarded to us,” Bilbo stepped forward, “We are not asking for much. There is an orc army on the way, your son can attest to that, and both the mountain and the lake could use the support of another party. A party, may I remind you, that is equally at risk at the invasion of Gundabad orc armies.”

The mention of Gundabad, the fortress of old, left everyone feeling queasy. Gandalf’s head was bowed over, his forehead resting on his staff in resignation. Thranduil sat erect, his chest stilled as if he forgot how to breathe. Bard himself had never known the horrors of the wars that came before, but he’d witnessed destruction and he’d felt loss. Whatever Gundabad offered had to be horrific if it resulted in the reactions exhibited by all those around him. 

No one was going to speak so it was the lithe princeling who broke the silence, “And what are your terms little one?”

Bilbo gave him a positively mischievous smile, “Well, they are quite simple. King Thranduil, you will offer shelter to those wounded, women, and children who cannot possibly protect themselves in the event of a battle, food and other provisionary resources gathered from your expansive kingdom will be shared until the Erebor and Lake Town can find their footing, which I’m sure won’t take too long knowing the perseverance of both people. In return you will be given the gems and we will begin the process of crafting an alliance for the future.”

“Oh, is that all?” Thranduil rose in indignation, towering over the dwobbit.

Bard watched as Legolas stepped forward, hesitant to defy his father but at the same time determined to keep the peace, “Ada, please, is this not a good thing? Our borders will be protected, we will have allies, and it is good to help others. We have light and prosperity within our halls; it is our sworn duty to share that light for the world’s benefit.”

Silence held between the two elves, Legolas ducked his head and dropped his tone, “ Ammë would have helped, she wouldn’t have cared for the jewels Ada. No jewel was more important than life to her.”

Thranduil seemed to break, sinking into the chair as Legolas reached out a hand. Exhaustion filled the tent as the resigned elf seemed to deflate. Bilbo hesitantly stepped out from behind Thorin, and despite the circumstances compassion was etched on his face. The dwarf did not have the same look and he pulled Bilbo close to his chest, holding him tight as he neared the elf king.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bilbo murmured, “I know what it means to have nothing but an object to remember someone by. The gems are not all you have of her though and I think perhaps it is time someone reminded you of that. Your son, the kind, admirable, strong Prince Legolas must have more of his mother in him than you can bear to acknowledge, but don’t lose what’s in front of you for that which is merely static. They are just jewels, a glittering gift once meant for her, but he is her son.”

It was a message meant for private halls, but with war on the horizon privacy was a luxury one couldn’t afford. Bard, Balin, and Gandalf had all pretended not to hear the exchange, lending some semblance of privacy to the grieving elf. Bard watched out of the corner of his eye as Thranduil reached up and grabbed Legolas’s hand. 

“Very well, if I receive the gems I will honor your request and aid will be sent for.”

Chapter Text

Once peace was settled on, a process that continued far longer than Bilbo hoped for after their brief conclusion, the dwarven delegate moved back to the mountain. Contracts, it always came down to contracts. Bilbo had watched, sandwiched against Thorin’s side, as Balin, Bard, Gandalf, and Thranduil all hammered out the more precise details of what the elf’s aid would look like. He had been eager to reenter the mountain, it had only been a little over two days but Bilbo had missed the other dwarves.

It had also been decided that Bard’s children would leave the mountain and return with the elves to Mirkwood alongside the other citizens of Lake Town who would be provided shelter. The mountain, while temporarily safe, had never been a long term solution and it was a weight off all their shoulders to know that they would be safe in the gilded halls of Thranduil. No matter that he was a pompous fellow, the elf would care for the children. His grief over his wife and the misplaced mourning proved to Bilbo that there was a heart underneath the stately satin robes he wore.

Bilbo and the dwarven company said their goodbyes to the children at the edge of the wall. The company passed over gifts and trinkets to the youth with promises to see them once peace was fully established in the valley and mountain. Bain was given a sturdy blade, fit for his stature, and a silver ring. Sigrid and Tilda were given pretty necklaces and bracelets, but alongside the jewelry they were also given little carvings and toys crafted by Bofur and Bombur. The fathers of the company were particularly sad to see the children go and made sure that they had little things to remember them by. Bilbo found himself being given his handkerchief back, the girls had embroidered their names along the side and Bilbo felt quite touched at the simple token of memory. 

But that had all passed and now Bilbo was sitting on the cool stone. The mountain was beating securely beneath him and he felt at home. It had quite slipped his mind that the gold sickness and greed filled heart of his guardian had been the catalyst for him stepping outside the walls to begin with. The thought of that didn’t even cross his mind until he heard the cursed laughter once more. Haunting and cold it trickled down the halls, the malicious giggles that he needed to figure out a way to destroy. 

Thorin hadn’t yet let him out of his sight and that worried Bilbo. How could he collect the arkenstone and destroy it when his guardian was always within sight. Not that he minded the attention, it felt nice, but it was a tad bit in the way of Bilbo’s plan. 

He waited for nightfall, Gandalf’s warning rumbling through his head. While the dwarves, elves, and man had formed a treaty they could all agree on, the wizard had pulled Bilbo aside. 

“You should not return to the mountain, even to destroy that great evil you believe to be within the stone.”

“What? Why? Gandalf, you chose me to be the fourteenth member of the company, a duty I have stood by to this day. Do not ask me to shirk it now, especially as my… especially with the connections I have formed with the dwarves being so important.”

“Should Thorin discover your plan with the arkenstone,” Gandalf’s eyes were filled with worry, “I do not bear to think what he might do.”

“I’m not afraid of Thorin.”

“You should be.”

Bilbo scrunched up his face in annoyance as Gandalf went on, “Bilbo, do not discount the evil of gold, Thorin may seem docile now, but the madness haunts him under the surface. There is no telling what he might do should his treasured possessions be deemed in danger. The elves have been lucky, were it not for your impromptu return I fear great bloodshed would have already occurred.”

“Bilbo, if you become a threat to the treasure he seeks and claims as his own,” Gandalf held Bilbo’s gaze, “You become the enemy. I believe you know what a dwarf may do to those he considers an enemy. I’m not sure I could save you if you return to those halls.”

“You already promised you couldn’t guarantee my safety,” Bilbo smiled, tired and small, “I cannot leave my family, my dwarves in there alone. Not with the gem, not with the gold sickness. I can handle Thorin, Gandalf, I will be quite alright. I promise you. Remember, wizard, I am quite capable of risk assessment, I have lived in dangerous times before. This is a risk we must take, I must take.”

Bilbo wasn’t sure how much of the promise he could keep on his own, but he had faith in his dwarves. 

***

That faith, while not unfounded, would prove quite painful for Bilbo in the coming days. 

The mountain’s library and histories had no manner or method in record for destroying a gem like the arkenstone. In fact, there was little record of any destruction of precious gems. Bilbo was out of luck, his attempt at asking the mountain for help proved to be equally as futile. He seemed to receive a gentle hum that resonated in his mind and body, almost as if the mountain was telling him that he would find the way. That everything was going to be okay. That was not what he wanted. Bilbo wanted a clear direction and instruction for the destruction of the confounded arkenstone. He didn’t have the time or the privacy for a second chance at its destruction. In fact, he would be lucky if he even got a moment in private to try and destroy it. 

Ultimately he didn’t get to destroy it in private. Fate would have it that Bilbo was discovered with the gem.

***

“Alright, you horrible, horrible beast of a jewel,” Bilbo muttered while picking up the wrapped arkenstone, “You and I are going to come to an arrangement. By which I mean I will find a way to prevent you from exerting any more control over my dwarves.”

The stone simply laughed, filling Bilbo’s head with a nauseating sense of being taunted. He hated that stone. Really, an odd sensation if he stopped to think about it. Who had ever heard of hating a chunk of mineral and light? Well, Bilbo was going to make history with the level of loathing he held for this stone. 

He hauled it up, determined to take it to the forges where he might find some tools to break it up. He never made it there. Bilbo was tracing a path through the mountain, passing close to the rampart, despite the risk it held, for a breath of fresh air. That was when disaster struck. 

“Whatchu got there Bilbo?” 

Sweet Yavanna, it was Bofur. Bilbo startled and the arkenstone tumbled out of the wrappings he’d been carrying it in.

“The arkenstone!” Bofur breathed out in awe, his eyes focused on the brilliance of the jewel.

“Er, yes, I, um, just found it. I suppose I was bringing it over…”

Bofur barely listened to the shoddy explanation Bilbo tried to give and instead turned toward the inner halls. His voice echoed around as he called out to the company.

“Bilbo’s found the arkenstone!”

Oh dear. Bilbo distinctly felt the mountain shake within him, the heartbeats of both of them increased and worry filled his mind. This would not end well. Thorin was never supposed to see the stone, it was supposed to be destroyed before he could set his eyes on the cursed stone.

Bilbo was panicking. Just slightly. It was fine, everything would be fine. 

Ice seemed to creep through his veins as the dwarf picked up the stone and began passing it to the other members of the company as they approached. Bilbo watched as each dwarf who looked upon the stone became enamored with its beauty. Kili, Fili, even little Ori seemed to be enchanted. Bilbo wanted to cry. Then the stone reached Thorin. 

The majestic figure of the dwarf king cradled the gem as if it were a child. A precious and breakable thing so dear to those under the mountain. The ice was everywhere now. Toes and fingers felt frozen as Bilbo stared in horror. A smile bloomed across Thorin’s face. It was a sight to behold on the normally stoic dwarf’s countenance and Bilbo wished more than anything that it had been caused by something else. Anything other than the beast of a jewel. But his wishes were not to be granted and he found himself refocusing on the matter at hand.

“Bilbo, you’ve done me a great service. Your loyalty commends you.”

There was a fondness in Thorin’s voice that he wished he didn’t hear. Bilbo didn’t want to be thanked for his unwitting gift of the stone. Oh, why didn’t he use the ring? He could have withstood the darkness, the heavy, cold weight that seeped from it if it meant the arkenstone had never been discovered. Bilbo’s mouth opened but nothing came out, his mouth as dry as the ash that coated Dale. How could he stop this? He could see the greed and lust of gold creeping across the faces of all those he loved. There was no choice. This was the only chance he had. For better or worse he would have to destroy the stone now, no matter the consequences. 

Bilbo began searching, his eyes looking for anything strong enough to shatter a gem. His heart, in tune with the mountain, beat faster and faster as he begged the mountain for aid. As if an answer to his pleas his eyes landed on a solitary hammer, resolute against the wall. That would do. 

Bilbo skiffed towards it, unnoticed amidst the dwarves who were single mindedly focused on the arkenstone. His hands wrapped around the handle of the hammer, it was smooth and strong, fitting solidly in his grasp. This would do nicely, the mountain and Bilbo seemed to agree. Now, how to get the arkenstone away from Thorin long enough to smash it?

The dwarf seemed to hold the gem as if it was his life, keeping it close to his chest. Bilbo felt a spike of envy, his mind felt the dark slithering thoughts that he had begun to associate with the cursed gold ever in his pocket. This was wrong, all wrong. 

“The heart of the mountain has been found!”

Congratulatory noise echoed through the halls and deep into the mountain. Bilbo felt as the mountain shook, anger coursing through their bodies. Bilbo's voice roared through the mountain, echoes of a heartbeat once invisible to the dwarrow’s ear amplified now. The mountain was alive and her heartbeat was present in every corner of the once great halls. Their hall, their home was angry, hurt and betrayed by her own dwarves. 

“This is not the heart of the mountain! This is nothing more than Durin’s folly! You have been consumed by the call of beauty. This beauty that enslaves you, can you not hear the mountain rage against it! The heart of the mountain is you, her people, not this crude gem.” 

The shock of the company was enough to result in Thorin’s dropping of the jewel. That was all the opportunity Bilbo needed. With a strength fueled by his dwarven lineage and the blessing of the mountain, Bilbo reared over the Arkenstone, a mallet in his hands as he brought it over his head and down onto the gem. 

Time stood still and silence seemed to hover throughout the room as the gem commanded all present light, one final cry for attention. Thorin reached out with anger, hate and betrayal written across his face. All the dwarves rushed toward Bilbo as the hammer crashed down. 

Silence shattered and a tremendous crack resounded. Thorin bent over, his ears held between his hands as he screamed. The room exploded with chaos as every dwarf pushed toward the broken stone. The glow was that of a normal jewel now. White and pleasant, nothing more than a particularly nice diamond. Bilbo looked at it in satisfaction, the horrid laughter that had haunted his days and nights was silent at last. The mountain’s bane was silenced. 

Bilbo watched as Balin scooped the remnants into a bag. Even if the dwarves attempted to rebuild the shattered jewel there would be no return of the laughter. The gem was dead, whatever spark it had held, malevolent and twisted, was gone. The mountain sang brighter and the heartbeat was strong in Bilbo. 

He was not expecting what happened next. No one was. Thorin let out a strangled cry, his eyes dark and betrayal written across his face as he surged toward Bilbo. Kili and Fili grabbed onto him, pulling his arms to hold him back. Their strength was not enough and Bilbo found himself lifted upwards, pressed against the wall, his feet unable to touch the floor. Thorin’s grip was bruising and he struggled to break free. Surely the gold sickness would have been shaken from his guardian’s mind, right? Bilbo desperately tried to wiggle free, his tongue frozen in his mouth at the turn of events.

Chapter Text

“You betrayed us!”

Thorin’s gold-addled mind had broken under the betrayal, his little one, Bilbo, was no longer the most precious object in his mind. The gold sickness fought, clawing and wailing in his mind, drowning every other thought out as it tried to control the dwarf. Bilbo was a threat to the hoard now, the vast wells of treasure must be protected must be his. Bilbo wasn’t one of them any more.

Something in Thorin’s mind seemed to revolt at that thought, but it was faded and small, pushed underneath the roaring noise that flooded his mind. Moisture gathered in his eyes and his heart felt like it was breaking underneath the weight of the betrayal. His arms sagged and with one last effort Thorin hurled Bilbo away from him. The creature skidded across the floor and collided with a broad pillar. Thorin could not bear to look upon him. The arkenstone was gone, the heart of the mountain destroyed and Bilbo was the cause. 

“You are no longer welcome here, thief!”

Hushed murmurs gathered around them, the company stirring behind him, but Thorin refused to turn. His head was down, he could not stomach the sight of his once precious child, his thief. The traitor…a traitor…the burglar was nothing more than a liability, a false friend.

Thorin turned suddenly, his gaze ferocious as it leveled on the curled up figure before him, “Leave. Go. There is no place for you in these halls! A traitor is no friend of Erebor!”

The creature didn’t move, eyes wide and unblinking. Thorin stormed forward, grasping him and lifting him once more, moving toward the rampart. Faintly the voices of his kin drifted toward his ears, begging him to stop his actions. To leave the burglar alone. But Thorin heard none of it. 

“There is the rope,” the crazed dwarf flung the burglar against the wall, “Hang yourself with it or flee, I do not care which you do, only leave this place!”

Thorin found himself disappearing into the halls, the gold his only comfort now. He didn’t turn and look to see if Bilbo made it down safely, he didn’t heed the calls of his kin. All Thorin could do was weep, his heart had been stolen and now it was dashed to pieces like the jewel of his forefathers. His family’s stone, Durin’s pride and joy, was gone in an instant. The gold-sickness clung desperately in his mind tainting his thoughts and confusing him as he wandered into the treasure rooms. Gold did not betray you, gold was never traitorous. It remained cool, impassive, beautiful when all else in life failed. Their gold was the legacy he would protect. A legacy Bilbo was supposed to be a part of.

The world grew hazy around Thorin. The gold blurred into a pile and the pillars grew fuzzy and faded into the grey stone walls behind them. It wasn’t the gold addling his brain that caused this shift he realized dazedly, no, it was tears obscuring his vision. Droplets fell from his eyes, catching in his beard, 

Grief began to eclipse the lingering gold sickness and Thorin could not stop himself from falling into the wealth of despair that had built up in his being.

Chapter Text

Bilbo staggered away from the walled gates of Erebor. His body seemed to operate on autopilot as he wandered past Dale, past the valley where he had planned for an orchard, past the elf sentries scattered around, all the way to where he hoped the wizard would be. Bilbo could not feel the cold nor the wind, his whole body was cold. There was a numbness that had spread through him, silencing the grief, pain, and loss that had occupied his mind. 

There was no time for mourning, not now. The battle was on the horizon, even now Bilbo could sense the unease shifting through the ground. It seemed the stone that anchored the mountain into the earth had sensed an intruder, Bilbo believed the orc army must be close. Bilbo would report to the wizard. He shouldn’t be disappointed anyhow, he had long since known that he didn’t belong with the dwarves. He was an abomination, belonging nowhere, he would return to Bag End. There he might find himself a solitary bachelor once more, an enigma to his unwilling community. That wouldn’t be so bad, he had done quite well for himself once before and he would do it again. 

Snow began to fall, light and airy, across the land. Slowly Bilbo’s clothes became damp, the chill soaking through his bones was both corporeal and mental as he trudged forward. Had Bilbo been in a clearer state of mind he might have thought about his immune system and the likelihood of developing a cold. He’d left his handkerchief back in the mountain. These were not the thoughts that occupied his mind however, Bilbo wasn’t really thinking much of anything.

His fingers moved in rhythm with his feet as he started to undo the two remaining plaits in his hair. They didn’t belong there. The beads tumbled down and into his hand. Bilbo paused for a moment, his feet stuck, as he looked at them. One was clumsy, a rough stamp of Kili’s name in Khuzdul impressed in bronze, the second was more graceful in its make. A brilliantly shined bronze with careful lettering spelling out Fili and Bilbo looked back at Bilbo. He couldn’t bear to get rid of them, they had meant so much, and so Bilbo did what his mother had done all those years ago. He undid the clasp on his necklace, the mithril chain, now easily identifiable after having seen the carefully crafted armor he wore, was studded with beads from his sire, letters that were slowly beginning to take shape in his mind embedded on them. Bilbo took the two beads from his cous… he took the beads from Kili and Fili and strung them on the chain. With that done he clasped the chain back around his neck and tucked beneath the layers before trudging forward once more. 

It seemed as if no time had passed for the dwobbit as he approached the grey tents of men and elves. The reality was that the sun was nearly rising, Bilbo had spent the night making his way from the walls of his home to the tents of safety. He slipped through the crowd, there was no need for the ring. Nobody paid any attention to the slight figure that wove through the shadows. That was all Bilbo felt he was these days, a shadow. 

“Ahem,” Bilbo stood in the pale light of the most official tent he could find, “Would anyone happen to know where I might find Gandalf?”

The eyes of Bard, Thranduil, Legolas and Alfrid found him. They all seemed quite shocked and Bilbo did his best to stay calm. His eyes darted around the tent as he wrinkled his nose and coughed a little. 

“I, just, erm,” Bilbo continued, “Well, it’s like this, you see I have news to discuss with Gandalf.”

“News of Erebor?” Bard questioned, his tone kind and patient.

“Well, yes, I suppose it is.”

“Should we not also be informed then? As allies of course?” Thranduil’s conceited tone sounded throughout the tent.

Bilbo leveled a deadened glare at him, “Of course, as allies, no other reason. Would someone please fetch the wizard then, I simply refuse to share any details until he is present. That’s all there is to it. I demand the wizard.”

“Now Bilbo,” Gandalf said as he entered the tent, “demands aren’t very dignified of you. My dear boy, what news do you bring?”

“The arkenstone has been destroyed.”

Silence hung heavy. The lack of inflection in Bilbo’s delivery of the news had everyone questioning the seriousness of his word. The arkenstone, destroyed? Such things seemed impossible. Besides the confounded impossibility of the task, those present in the tent, outside of Bilbo and Gandalf, could hardly fathom a reason for the gems' destruction. 

“Who would be fool enough to break the heart of the mountain?” Bard wondered.

The dead stare swiveled toward him, a cloud seemed to descend over the sweet creature Bard had grown accustomed to, “That was no heart of the mountain.”

“Do you mean for us to believe that you destroyed the gem?” Thranduil’s voice was lightly colored by shock.

“I did.”

“I think you'll find my burglar to be a resourceful fellow, hmmph. Indeed, and one full of surprises.”

“Indeed,” the company in the tent looked at Bilbo in a scrutinizing manner that left him quite uncomfortable.

“Anyhow, I think you’ll find there will be no problems with gold sickness, madness, or greedy kings under the mountain from now on. The gold sickness should have died with the arkenstone and I believe alliances should grow smoothly after this whole debacle blows over.”

The creature turned toward the wizard, “Now, Gandalf. I would very much like to return to Bag End. I want to go home.”

Exhaustion had bled through the otherwise stoic front Bilbo had presented and the occupants of the tent could not help but feel pity. Bilbo did not want their pity. He did not want to feel anything, he did not want emotions directed toward him. It was altogether too much for him to handle and all he wanted was to fall asleep for a very long time. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he might wake up with his mother. Yes, Bilbo thought, he would like that very much.

“I’m afraid, dear Bilbo, that there is yet one obstacle before your return home.” 

Another delay, another obstacle, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. His heart was frozen. The cold of the snow chilled him through to the bone. In the short time that followed this declaration Bard and Legolas were the only ones who seemed to grasp the destitute condition of Bilbo’s heart and they tried to keep him company. The lithe elf prince would often enter Bilbo’s tent and would sit with him in silence, occasionally bringing what few flowers he could find on the harsh landscape. With Bard it was different, the father was missing his children and found as much comfort in Bilbo’s presence as he tried to give. It didn’t matter in the end. 

Chapter Text

War had come. 

It wasn’t like the books, or the tales told by the fire from those who had survived. War was confusing and sad. Lives were taken indiscriminately, no matter the effort, alignment, or skill of the individual death could strike as swiftly as a drop of rain in a thunderstorm. There were many armies, overwhelming numbers that Bilbo couldn't wrap his mind around. Bilbo found himself surrounded by elves and men, kept out of the sight and grasp of the angry and impassive dwarves of Dain’s army from the Iron Hills. Besides those three there were also the orc armies and warg troops that had made themselves known. 

Bilbo had asked about Dain and his army, curious to see if those dwarves would be anything like the ones he had gotten to know. Gandalf hedged around the questions. The only concrete thing Bilbo had been able to pull out of him was that Dain was more obstinate and pigheaded than Thorin, which, given Bilbo’s current circumstances and standing with the dwarves of Erebor did not leave him in good spirits. It seemed to Bilbo that he was to be exiled from and guarded against those he had once been loved by. 

The catalyst of war was really Dain’s arrival. No matter the resolution between Erebor and Mirkwood, Dain was ready to raise arms against the elves. His bravado filled speech on the hills descending into the valley before Erebor had been washed out by the horrendous sound of warg howls, battle cries, and shrieks from the ignoble masses of the fell beasts that comprised the armies of Azog. What little preparation the armies had was a blessing in the face of the sheer number of evil they faced. Bilbo was too numb to feel anything but mild exasperation. 

“Bilbo, under no circumstances are you to engage on the field,” Gandalf said, sternly looking down at the youth, “I fear you have too little training and while I can not promise your safe return I can do my best to aid in that goal.”

Bilbo did not say yes or no to Gandalf’s demand. Should he need to fight he would, Belladonna would want her son to make her proud and she had always believed him to have a fighting spirit. While he did not yet know who his sire was, and in all likelihood, he doubted he ever would, Bilbo did know that he was a dwarf, and dwarves fought. He only wished he knew what the dwarves, his dwarves, were doing. There had been no sight, at least no sight that was recounted to him, of the company on the battlefield. Although he wasn’t surprised, there wasn’t exactly time to recount every scene when fighting for your life. 

What little Bilbo could see of the fighting was without description. Later it would be called heroic, awe-inspiring, legendary even, but all Bilbo could call it now was grievous. Loss filled the air and drowned the noise out. Dwarves, men, and elves fought side by side. A rare sight, something to make history, but oh, Bilbo wished that history did not need to be made. Better to be forgotten in bliss, like a happy dream upon waking, then remembered in the shaking tremors of a nightmare that clung to your bones. No, Bilbo wished that he had not been here to witness history (later he would wonder if that was how all men felt when going through trials; those who wish for greatness, for memorials and parades, often forget that there is a price to be paid for those things).

Bilbo wondered what price was going to be exacted upon their number. Would Lake Town stay standing? Would the elf king lose a son alongside his long passed wife? Would Erebor stand tall… or had all of this been for nothing?

Bilbo found himself leaving the shelter Gandalf had placed him in. He walked like a man in trance through the swathes of beasts and men. His sword held loosely at his side, always at ready. The world seemed still and sad, like it was mourning with him. Blood would not water the meadows and fields, it would drown the soil, salting it and making life hard. Still, he walked, weaving between the forms of the fallen and fighting. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. 

Bilbo helped where he could, lifting those still alive, moving the wounded and fallen to safety. That was all he could do. He could not bear to take more lives, not yet, not when the stench of death stung his nostril, burning his throat.

Hope seemed frail, the people were being overrun. Dale was falling again. The elves struggled against the sheer number of their enemy and Dain’s dwarves huddled with their backs against the might of Erebor. 

Then a bell rang. A clear strike that pierced through Bilbo’s numbed state. Thorin. 

The tide turned. Hope bloomed once more among the men and elves. Dwarves rallied to their king. To Bilbo’s king. Warmth began to spread through his body, the world regained its color little by little. Things would be set right, Thorin would see to it, Bilbo believed in him.

Bilbo continued his mission. He found every wounded man he could, bringing each one to safety following the path carved out by the mountain. Erebor would see her people saved, she took a stand with Bilbo as he traced the veins of stone to safety. The unconscious and conscious alike held their own in the crevices of the mountain, hidden behind stone, shale, and statues of long past victories. 

Blood on snow. Blood on stone.

Ravenhill .

The wounded choke out the news. Bilbo stills. A second army, he had not been told of this, not in any of the meetings he had attended. A second army coming from the north. Thorin had headed to the north, to Azog. 

Bilbo abandoned his task. He ran, careless of the fields and forms around him as he ran. It did not matter what his king thought of him, what the dwarves thought of him. Thorin would not know of the second army, he had been in the mountain away from the battle plans and tents of the armies outside. Thorin was at risk, that was all that Bilbo needed to know. His feet carried him high into the fog and ice slick stone ways. The mountain’s heart beating with energy and fear inside him. These were her people, his people, the line of Durin. Bilbo would see them yet live to inherit the vast halls and fill them with laughter. He need not be there to see it fulfilled, but by Yavanna and Mahal, Durin’s line would continue. 

But there were many blocking the way.

Bilbo would never make it on his own, no matter how slight his form was he would be seen. Unless of course, the sibilant whisper was back, the ring a comforting weight in his pocket this time. Yes, Bilbo would not make it as he was, but he could hide where none could find him, even if he were directly in front of them. The cool gold slipped around his finger, the world fell into shadows and Bilbo ran.

Bilbo ran for his father. Bungo dying, delirious and lonely in a home built of love. Bilbo ran for his sire, a dwarf of laughter and gold who never got to know the peace of the Shire and his son. Bilbo ran for his mother. For Belladonna the brave, the life of the Shire and its protector when winter fell around them.

Bilbo ran for Thorin. 

Bilbo ran for his new home in the mountains, for the company who had carried him and embraced him. For Ori and his books, for Kili struggling to make his way in the shadow of his brother. For Fili who had a heart of peace in a time of war. For Bofur who laughed and cried and knew the beauty of life all the better for the pain he’d lived through. For each dwarf who had protected him, taught him, and shared a life with him. Bilbo ran.

***

Bilbo did not know at the time, but Legolas was also running. He knew of the north, of the Gundabad orcs that were on their way and he had seen the little brunette heading toward Ravenhill alongside his brother and the grumpy one. Legolas would not lose someone he had worked to heal. That simply would not do. Nevermind what Ada was saying, Legolas was going to keep this friend. He wanted peace between their people and so it seemed did Kili from their brief interactions. The despicable pale orc would not stand in the way of that. 

So Legolas ran. He ran for his mother who he barely remembered. He ran for his Ada’s grief, for the memory of Dale in flames. For a diaspora he could not help. Legolas ran for a future he knew he would live through regardless of who survived the battle. Legolas ran so if all else failed, if the strength of men should falter, if dwarven iron shattered, if the grace of elves break, he would be able to be proud of his actions throughout it all. 

***

Bilbo didn’t know if he made it in time. He stood on top of Ravenhill alone looking for any sign of the dwarves. He saw the bodies of goblins, piled up in bloody heaps, a trail leading away from them and inward into the remnants of the keep. 

It was quiet. The quiet that descends before calamity strikes. The quiet that layers over a person, blanketing the world in a false sense of peace. Bilbo had felt this quiet before.

Blood on snow. Blood on stone.

Something was coming. Bilbo twisted in the shadowy world looking over his shoulder. A sprightly figure, bright and covered in light seemed to part the shadows as he ran through. Legolas, Bilbo wanted to reach out but he found his feet stuck as the elf ran past. The mountain did not want him following, Bilbo’s path led to the right. He could only hope it led to Thorin. His feet were steady as he followed the path. The only steady thing about him at the moment if he were honest with himself. 

Then he saw him. 

Thorin stood tall, proud even, but as Bilbo looked closer there was one thing that stood out about his king’s appearance. His eyes were clear. There was no golden haze, no emptiness, in Thorin’s eyes. There was the dwarf who had held him tight and offered him a place in his family on the eagles outcrop. This was the dwarf who had trusted him, waited with him, in the barrels of the woodland halls. This was the dwarf he could call family. 

“Thorin!”

The dwarf’s head jerked toward the noise and Bilbo realized he was still wearing the cursed ring. He popped it off, hesitant in his movements as he took a step forward. He was not afraid of Thorin, the dwarf had not hurt him deeply even in the throes of gold sickness and he would not hurt him now. However, while Bilbo knew what he thought about the dwarf he was not sure that Thorin shared the same sentiments. Bilbo was not too sure whether the dwarf would want to be in physical proximity with the dwobbit. 

“You have to leave here! There’s a second army, from Gundabad, they’re coming from the north. You have to leave Ravenhill! Gather whomever is here with you and leave!”

“Bilbo.”

It was a single word and yet it turned the world on its head. The warmth that had been creeping in, pushing back the ice that spread through Bilbo’s veins, accelerated. With that one word Bilbo felt like he was on fire, a hearth lit inside him. The mountain and Bilbo in silent agreement that home was with Durin’s line, it always had been. 

“Thorin, please,” Bilbo pleaded, taking another step forward, “You need to leave here! Where are the others?”

The dwarf opened his mouth to answer but before anything could be said there was a shift in the wind. The fog began lifting, blown away, and there was a spectral figure looming behind Thorin. Pale and vicious Azog stood tall. Bilbo’s mouth went dry, he tried to speak but nothing came out. Horror eclipsed the moment. Thorin seemed to read the fear in Bilbo’s countenance because he twisted just in time to avoid Azog’s blade-like appendage thrust toward where he had been a moment before. 

It was a brutal dance, the dwarf and orc fighting each other. There was a wild madness in Thorin’s attacks that Bilbo had never seen in the dwarf’s fighting before. It was reminiscent of Bilbo’s wild swings during the Fell Winter. It was the way one fights with grief. Bilbo felt his heart drop, Thorin hadn’t been alone up here. Who had he brought? Who had they lost?

Loss, Bilbo wouldn’t lose anymore. No one would die while he was still here to protect them. Bilbo drew his sword. He would be a weakness, a point of vulnerability for Azog to leverage so long as he was visible. The orc did not know of the rift between Bilbo and the dwarves, Bilbo would not let it work against his king. 

The ring slid on.

The world was once more plunged into shadows and Bilbo crept closer. The ice was strong as he walked atop it. Wind blew through the desolate landscape hollowing out what little warmth remained from Thorin’s greeting. This was not a time for warmth. 

Bilbo’s mind felt torn between past and present. Flashes of crimson on the snow had him looking for red scarves and wolves. Belladonna flashed in his periphery accompanied by the sound of her choked laughter, Bilbo pushed forward, but the fight was moving away from him. Shrieks shook his mind from the past, wolves didn’t shriek, and Bilbo glanced upward. Bats, shocking huge monstrosities were raining down on the troops below. This could only be the beginning of the end as the second army arrived. Bilbo turned back to his dwarf, he was still too far away. 

He ran, trying to close the gap between him and his king. It wasn’t enough. Thorin had lost his sword, pulled from his grasp by the orc. On the ice the world was colder, one slip and that’s all it would take for you to die, one small distraction and life was at the mercy of nature. Thorin's life was at the mercy of more than nature, but neither the pale orc or nature was merciful in the harsh winter cold. 

Azog stabbed downward.

Bilbo stood still. The world spinning around him, red on snow… Thorin’s blood seemed too bright for such a desolate space. It was happening again, Belladonna, then Bungo, now Thorin. Bilbo was losing them all again. His grip slackened reflexively around the hilt of his blade, the tip dragging down against the earth. He stood there silent and still for what seemed like an eternity, too frightened to go forward and reach his dwarf.

“I still smell the line of Durin.”

Bilbo’s hand tightened around his sword, Kili or Fili must be somewhere. Azog wouldn’t get them, he’d failed Thorin, but he would not fail the brothers. 

“The spawn have been taken care of, the false king is dead, so who is left?”

The spawn… the brothers, Bilbo faltered for a moment. Surely he hadn’t been that late, that they all had perished? There was no more to the line of Durin. Who did the defiler speak of?

“I smelled you, back in the mountains. One frail, weak, spineless thing. You dared to defy me then, why do you hide now? Durin’s heir, hiding from a fight.”

Bilbo started to think, his mind whirring as he crept closer. Frerin, all those months ago, Dwalin had called him Frerin. The sons of Fundin had seen a ghost back in Bag End, they had seen him, with curls of gold. Curls his mother had said were just like his father’s. Bilbo was the son of a dwarf, a dwarf lost from Moria with golden hair and eyes blue like sapphires, blue like Thorin’s. The beads round his neck, the mithril necklace, a metal so precious it was used for royalty. Bilbo did not dare to hope, did not dare to wish that he might truly belong to a line so honorable as Durin’s. His wishes didn’t matter though, not when the pale orc believed these dreams to be truth. 

“Show yourself!” Azog roared.

Bilbo glanced down at Thorin, his father, his guardian, his dwarf, and back up at the pale orc. He straightened his spine, resolute with a calmness he’d long since given up. The ring slid off.

“I’m right here you bastard.”

Bilbo swung his sword. 

Chapter Text

It was not a short fight. Bilbo lacked the height and the might to cleave the orc asunder in one blow but he did not stop at one blow. The ring was slipped back on as Azog stumbled back. Bilbo would take advantage of the invisibility as long as possible. He darted like a wasp, in and out, weaving around the brutal monster before him stinging where he could. He could not match the strength of Azog but he could outlast the beast. Or at least he could try. The cold was getting to him, Bilbo’s limbs were beginning to feel sluggish. The wild swings of Azog had landed their own blows on the invisible Bilbo and he was adding to the red on the landscape, painting a bitter picture. All he needed was one moment, one distraction, just long enough for him to sink his blade into Azog’s foul chest. That was all. 

The moment came at the end of Bilbo’s strength. The two combatants had traveled far from where Thorin’s body had fallen. The wind had driven the fog back over the landscape obliterating everything from view, but Bilbo heard what he was waiting for. The cry of an eagle. You could hear their approach, heavy beating of wings filling the air. This was his distraction. The orc looked upward for a split second and Bilbo slipped the ring off.

 He would kill the pale orc facing him, Azog would know his downfall and look him in the eye. The time for mercy had passed, with every body Bilbo had pulled away from the fire, every broken person salvaged from the battlefield, every loved one taken from him too early demanded justice. Bilbo was the son of Belladonna Took and Frerin son of Thrain. He would end this now.

As Azog looked down once more he was surprised to see a blade sticking from his chest. Black blood trickled down showing the rot in his heart. Bilbo stood before him, his face still with eyes as cold as the mountain and hard as her stone. Azog stumbled backward, his footing failing him as death crept over him. Disbelief washed over his face. Bilbo simply stared in stern satisfaction as the defiler seemed unable to comprehend that he had been defeated. 

He’d seen enough death, however, Bilbo turned to go. Intent on walking back to Thorin, pulling his body to the mountain for a peaceful burial. He would find Legolas and they would look for the others, he prayed to Yavanna that they had been spared, that Azog was wrong. Bilbo’s mind was so focused on finding his family that he didn’t hear the sound of a blade being dragged along the ice. There was no warning for Bilbo, the mountain could not call out from his place on the ice, as a blow struck him. 

From behind, Azog had pulled together his last bout of strength and swung his blade against the retreating side of Bilbo son of Frerin. The blade struck true and the dwobbit found himself being flung across the ice. His body curled inward, panic overcame him as his breath was lost. Bilbo couldn’t tell if he was dying. The pain radiated out from his torso as he tried to shift to look behind. Azog was crawling toward him, pulling himself along by the bladed appendage with a murderous look on his face. 

“Durin’s line will die.”

Bilbo was going to die. Azog was coming for him. The dwobbit did the only thing he could think of, tantamount to running away, as the orc approached. He slipped the ring on. Azog was close enough to swing once more, even as Bilbo vanished from sight. The second blow glanced across the debris and ice but still struck the small creature. Bilbo’s vision faded in and out, vaguely he was aware of the crystalline edge of the frozen waterfall by him. It would only take one small drop, just a shift of his battered body and he could join them. Bilbo opened his eyes as a thunk sounded nearby. Azog was an arm's length from him. The last blow had driven the orc forward and overbalanced; he'd fallen on the sword still embedded in his chest. 

The defiler was no more.

Durin’s line was soon to follow it seemed. Bilbo tried to curl up, the wind chilling him to the bone. He was tired, so tired. He missed his mother, he missed home, Bilbo couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer and with a rattling breath he let them close. 

***

It was Dwalin who found Thorin’s body. The fallen king was still against the landscape with no sight of the pale orc around him. Dwalin called out to those around him, to the green leaf elf and the princes bringing them closer. The old dwarf was primed for danger, while the goblins had been defeated and the battle seemingly won, there was no sight of the pale orc and Dwalin worried that he was waiting for his moment to strike. His second worry was that Thorin was dead. The body was still, blood pooled around it and as Dwalin approached there were no signs of life. 

“Thorin,” Dwalin sank to his knees alongside his king, “Thorin, lad, wake up.”

It was a desperate plea, one Dwalin did not anticipate being answered. Dwalin’s hand had come to rest on Thorin’s chest, there was no sign of a wound. Most likely whoever had struck the dwarf had not been able to pierce straight through. Dwarven armor and leather had done its best to protect the king under the mountain. Dwalin was about to turn the dwarf over when he jerked back. Thorin’s eyes had fluttered open. 

“Bilbo…” 

“Bilbo’s not here laddie, we’ve not seen him since…” Dwalin was loath to bring up the circumstance regarding Bilbo’s exile from Erebor.

“Wrong… here, invisible,” Thorin weakly brought his hand up to cling to Dwalin, voice raspy as he continued, “find him. Bring him home.”

The others had grouped around the fallen king by then, worry crossing all their faces. Thorin’s eyes shut once more and Dwalin could hear how his breath rattled. There was no time to search for Bilbo, the lad had made his way out of increasingly difficult situations before and Dwalin had to believe that he would do it once more. Right now his king needed medical attention, the princes needed medical attention. As the princes sunk to the ground by their uncle, wounded and weary they were in no shape for anything but the healing tents. It’s a wonder they were even conscious enough to recognize their uncle’s form.

Dwalin pulled the greenleaf aside, “We cannot bring them down safely on our own. They are wounded beyond my medical abilities. We do not have time to search for the little one.”

“But, if he is indeed here somewhere, he could be wounded too…”

“But, it could be the ramblings of a regretful king too wounded and weak to know his mind. They will not survive without aid.”

The elf nodded, his countenance resolute. They turned back to the dwarves and with great care the two began to triage the king. As blood ceased to flow and the wound was bound Dwalin couldn’t help but look around. Searching for any signs of their little burglar. He could see none. With a heavy heart the small company headed toward the camps of men and elves. 

***

The world was a desolate grey. The only spots of color were the fires and the blood that stained the landscape. Gandalf felt himself drifting throughout the camps, counting dwarves as he once did, but always coming short. Always short, how many had they lost? One was too many, and what of Bilbo? Where was his youthful charge? 

Gandalf rarely felt his age. As old as the heavens and the earth, there was nothing that would age a man so much as the death of others. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against his staff, the elves searching the battlefields for wounded men, elves, and dwarves alike. The healthy had set up camps and tents for healing, mobilizing what resources they had and calling for aid from the forest. They would survive, Lake Town would rebuild, the halls of Erebor would welcome its people back and the world would move on. Life continued and Gandalf could only breathe through the loss soaking the air. Moving through spirits and sounds Gandalf weaved his way to the dwarven tent intent on checking in on the remaining company.

“Oin, it’s good to see you,” Gandalf clasped arms with the old healer, “How do your people fare?”

“Worse for the wear, but we’ll make it. Have you any news of Thorin’s group? Fili, Kili, Dwalin…”

“I’m afraid not yet, Ravenhill has not yet been checked by the scouts.”

Silence settled between the two. The tent was filled with fourteen beds, only eight of them were filled. Bofur and Bombur were sleeping with minimal wounds, Bifur was sitting upright with his right arm in a sling. The axe was somehow still in place in his skull and he was weirdly alert. The endurance of dwarves was a sight to behold. Gandalf continued to peruse the filled beds, his eyes finding the Ri brothers. Ori was resting, held between Dori and Nori in a protective grasp, tear tracks stained his face. The littlest Ri had never seen the horror of war before. Then there was Balin, the old dwarf had a stony face, impassive and unfeeling. Perhaps the most telling sign of a wounded soul was not in how much they felt and expressed but by how little they learned to show. Balin looked as if it was just another day, as if the minutes ticking by were spent in boredom and not in the heavy anticipation of mournful tidings. 

A commotion outside the tent drew the attention of all who were cognizant. Gandalf opened the flap of the tent and was quickly pushed to the side as the spritely elf prince and Dwalin carried the remaining members of their company. Legolas was hastily pushed off to the side as the dwarves were placed on the stretchers. The line of Durin was returned, now it seemed only time would tell if they would persevere. 

***

“Where are you going?”

“The lad is out there.”

“Who?”

“Bilbo.”

Chapter Text

Bilbo woke up slowly, in fact he wasn’t sure if he was even awake. The first thing he noticed was that the sky was blue, the bluest he’d seen in days. It was wide open, he saw nothing but sky. The shire never had open sky like this, there were always hills, or trees, or smoke rings obscuring his vision. Hmmm, old toby would be nice. You’d think if you were dead you’d have the decency of a good smoke. 

The second thing he noticed was that he was cold. In fact he couldn’t differentiate between the cold earth and his own body. It was almost pleasant. 

Then came the pain, subtle at first, hidden behind the iced condition of his body. The realization that his battered body was in pain was enough to ground Bilbo into reality. He was alive. Now he must try and move. Or not. Bilbo’s weak attempt at heaving himself upward was quickly aborted as he flopped back down. It perhaps should have crossed his mind much sooner than it did that having one’s body slammed, not once, but twice, into the earth by an armed orc four times one’s size would cause severe damages to oneself. It only crossed Bilbo’s mind after he tried to pick himself up. 

Now, instead of searching for his dwarves, Bilbo was staring at the sky once more. It was a lovely sky. 

Perhaps, if he closed his eyes and rested a little while longer he might have the strength to move. Yes, Bilbo liked this plan and so closed his eyes. Only, the rocks and ice weren’t as comfortable as they had been, and he found he had a headache forming. It wasn’t even from meddlesome wizards this time. What a shame on such a lovely morning. 

***

Dwalin couldn’t find the lad. The elf couldn’t either. In fact all the searching they’d done on Ravenhill had ended in disappointment. The only thing of merit they’d been able to find was the broken body of Azog. He was face first in a blood of black blood on the ice. 

Dwalin kicked him over. There, embedded deep in the orcs black heart was Bilbo’s sword. The hilt was nearly gone, pushed into the chest of the beast by the fall. More importantly, this lended weight to Thorin’s claim that Bilbo had been here. However, if Thorin’s claim that Bilbo was invisible was also true then there was no telling when they might find him, if ever. 

“We need to return,” the greenleaf said, “Ada is waiting, the town needs us and your people have much to discuss and heal from. Bilbo is… he is strong. He will make his way back home.”

“Aye, laddie, I hope you’re right.”

***

“It seems your little creature accomplished much during the battle.” 

The elf king’s condescending tone was softened as he addressed the dwarves and wizard, “Many of our wounded troops can credit their lives to the bravery of Bilbo Baggins. In fact he defied your direction to stay put and went out onto the battlefield.”

“Oh Bilbo,” pride mingled with exhaustion in Gandalf’s voice.

“Cheer up, Mithrandir, if anyone could survive this,” Thranduil gestured to the destruction around them, “it would be your little barrel rider. Such a creature, I have never been more impressed by an annoyance in all my days. I should think, when you find him, you would inform him that he has the thanks and gratitude of the woodland realm. Should Bilbo Baggins seek aid from Mirkwood he will not be disappointed.”

Gandalf watched as the elf stood and turned, the remnants of the elf army turned in unison behind their leader. The battle was finished and the elves would go to their tents and to their home and lick their wounds in peace. The women and children would be returned and rebuilding could commence. Life moved on. 

And yet, there was still no sign of the little dwobbit.

It had been a day since the battle’s end. If Bilbo was severely wounded it was improbable that he would still be alive at this point. Gandalf worried about Thorin’s comment on Bilbo’s invisibility. There were few things that could afford someone invisibility and none of them were good. 

***

It was cold again, it was always cold these days. Bilbo blinked awake. He was still under the sky, only, it wasn’t clear now. It was cloudy, the stars were obscured by thick clouds. Bilbo was tired, which was odd as he just woke up and he distinctly remembered being asleep right before all this, or at least before he saw the sky last time. Which was really quite concerning, Bilbo was not the type to stay in bed when there was work to be done. And there was work to be done, wasn’t there? He couldn’t quite remember.

Bilbo felt sluggish as he moved his arms. Or maybe it wasn’t sluggish, he felt swollen, all inflamed like a sore thumb. He really was trying to move but he wasn’t really sure why he needed to. It was like some terrible awful memory was waiting to break open, some reason for him to leave his little bed on the ice, but it was just out of reach. Bother it all. 

Bilbo decided that until he remembered why he was supposed to get up he would continue lying there. There was no sense bumbling about without any sort of direction. Now, if only he could remember what it was he’d forgotten. There were flashes in his mind of goblins and then there was Thorin, only he was by himself and standing tall. That wasn’t… Bilbo frowned up at the sky, that wasn’t entirely the last thing he saw was it?

That would do little to explain his current predicament. What happened in between seeing Thorin and winding up on the ice? Oh, his brain hurt again. Bilbo stopped thinking and wrinkled his nose up. That wouldn’t do. 

What would mother say? Oh dear, what would Bungo… now when did father become Bungo? Bilbo’s mind was asking itself all sorts of questions, most of which he deemed impractical, but that one, that one stuck in his brain.

When did Bungo stop being father? 

It had to do with beads, didn’t it? Bilbo’s fingers rose and wound their way around the necklace at his throat. There were more beads than before, but one wasn’t there. His fingers moved to his hair, it was sticky and matted, not befitting a gentle hobbit at all, but there was a piece missing. A piece that was supposed to hold a braid with a bead. Kinship beads, that’s what Balin called them, and Thorin had given him one. They’d signed a contract. Thorin.

Bilbo had beads to give him, he hadn’t yet and that was such a silly thing looking back. He’d been so scared of losing his new family that he had wanted to hold onto his past. His safe little memories all tucked neatly away on the metal beads he never showed the world. How foolish, perhaps everything could have been sorted much sooner had he shared his little fragment of their world. Then again, they might have just called him a thief and cut him loose. Bilbo really didn’t think he would have been able to recover from that. He had grown quite fond of them all during their travels, fonder than he’d been of anyone outside his parents. Fonder even than he was of Gandalf. This thought amused the prone dwobbit and he found himself giggling. 

Giggling hurt though, so Bilbo stopped short and tried to even out his breathing. His chest seized, oh, right, his ribs hurt. Something had hit him… Bilbo could feel the memory rising, it was sad though. He could feel it was sad, he didn’t want to be sad. He’d been sad for so long. Now was the time to be happy, he had a beautiful sky to look at, or he had. It was grey again. Come to think of it, almost everything was grey, even his skin, he had the ring on didn’t he? The ring made everything so dull. He didn’t like that, and it talked to him, all spidery and slithery in his brain. Bilbo fumbled around before wiggling the ring off. 

There, the world was bright again. The sun was peeking through the clouds as it rose over the mountains. How pretty, Bilbo squinted upward, like a sunflower opening up, only it’s simply the sun.

Mother liked the bright days, she would dance in the green. Her skirts always twirled so prettily, he would dress in her robe and spin with her. He missed his robe. His reminiscing was broken up by a shadow falling over him. There weren’t supposed to be shadows anymore, he removed the ring. Then the shadow spoke.

“Well, well, Bilbo Baggins, what are you doing down there?”

Chapter Text

Bilbo was delirious, or at least quite out of it when found. He had fallen on the ice, close to the edge of the falls wedged between stone debris. It was a distinctly uncomfortable looking position. Still the little fellow was alive, if worse for wear. He had promptly fainted as he was pulled out of the rocks. Passed straight out. 

Dwalin insisted on being the one to carry him down to the company’s tent. The dwarf carefully cradled the dwobbit close to his chest as he walked the distance. No one knew the extent of Bilbo’s injuries, no one knew if he would survive another day. There was hope, he had been awake briefly and his heartbeat seemed steady. The snow had done them all a favor as it had slowed the blood flow from what open wounds he had sustained. Still, they were all wizened enough to not count on recovery. Life was a fickle thing. 

The dwobbit didn’t wake up as he was deposited on the fourteenth stretcher. He didn’t wake up when the dwarves capable of moving gathered around him in concern. He didn’t wake up during Oin’s careful examination. 

“Is he going to wake up?” It was Ori who voiced the company’s fear.

“Aye, he should. With time,” Oin sighed as he sat down, “It’s a wonder he’s still in one piece.”

“It’s not a wonder, it’s mithril.” Dwalin said, the stoic dwarf held up the glittering tunic they had removed from Bilbo.

It wasn’t just Bilbo who was at the mercy of sleep. Thorin had not woken up since Ravenhill, since he had called for Bilbo, nor had Fili. The blonde prince had been severely wounded during the battle. His left leg had been mangled beyond repair and Oin had been forced to amputate the limb. They were still praying infection wouldn’t set in, although the elves had done their best to aid with whatever healing herbs and skills they had. Kili had been relatively unscathed in comparison. His wounds, while deep, required a far less permanent treatment. He had woken up several times during the day, disoriented but overall cognizant enough to stave off worry of lasting brain trauma. 

Time would tell for all of them. 

***

Bilbo did not see the sky when he woke up. In fact all he saw at first was darkness. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw canvas. Then he heard the snores, he knew those snores, those were his dwarves. This did little to explain what had happened. He wasn’t cold anymore, well not as cold. Shivers still racked his body and the ice in his veins that never seemed to melt was still there, but he wasn’t numb. Bilbo gently pushed himself upright, somehow, despite the more present pain, he was able to move better now that he was no longer on the ice. It was as if numbness had frozen his limbs in place. He could fight through pain, it at least let him know what was happening in his body. 

The memories were still foggy. Bilbo still couldn’t remember what had happened after he spotted Thorin at Ravenhill. Which was slightly concerning, but what was more concerning was that he was surrounded by dwarves, who, last he knew, were all quite mad at him for shattering the arkenstone. He didn’t bother to count the figures, or look that closely at all. He didn’t want to face the potential that there might be missing figures. Despite his morose thoughts Bilbo did remember Gandalf telling him to avoid dwarves for a while. So this particular circumstance was quite worrying for Bilbo. 

Naturally, the best way to alleviate those worries was to find Gandalf and escape the dwarves' tent. Yes, Bilbo thought to himself, that seemed a logical course of action. Find the wizard, or Bard, Bard was still friendly with him, and then the rest could be figured out afterward. Bilbo shuffled to his feet pushing off the stretcher he had been on. His sword was missing, that would have been helpful to have by side, if only as a walking aid. Either way, Bilbo made his way slowly and silently to the entrance. His head popped out, twisting back and forth before his body followed. 

Slow and steady steps, with frequent breaks in the shadows to rest, found Bilbo lost in the mass of tents. He’d made his way away from the dwarves but was now quite unsure of where he was going. Bilbo was tired, and lost, and, and quite put out with his inability to remember the entirety of the battle. He simply stood still and let his head gently swivel, trying to identify anything that would set him on his way to the wizard. 

He was quite out of luck. 

“Bilbo?”

“Hmm, yes?” Bilbo turned to face the direction of the voice.

“What are you doing out,” Bard paced toward him, “they said you were wounded.”

“Oh Bard! How are you?”

The polite greeting seemed to give Bard pause, even as he crouched down to Bilbo’s level, “I’m fine, but Bilbo, what are you doing up? You are in no condition to wander around camp. Come, I’ll take you back to your kin.”

“No!”

Bilbo resisted the gentle pull of Bard, “I have to find Gandalf! Please, I need to see the wizard.”

Bard seemed to know something, to read something in Bilbo’s face, because he simply nodded his head. The two made their way, slowly until Bard simply reached down and lifted Bilbo up, to a large tent. 

“Gandalf, you have a visitor.”

The wizard turned and surprise crossed his features, “Bilbo! What are you doing here my boy? Surely the dwarves didn’t…”

“Oh Gandalf, I am happy to see you again,” Bilbo said as Bard softly deposited him on a nearby cot, “I was beginning to think I wouldn’t see anyone again. It was getting quite lonely all alone with the sky.”

“Yes, yes I can imagine, now Bilbo, why did you come and find me? You were settled quite nicely with the company and I dare say they will be quite worried to find you missing.”

Bilbo hummed a little as he looked around the tent. He wasn’t sure he could believe Gandalf’s words. The company might have cared about him at one point, but he had destroyed their prized heirloom, and while Bilbo didn’t regret his action he could understand the dwarves might have some complicated feelings about it. Either way, he didn’t want to face them alone and so he had found the individual who started this madness. That way, should the dwarves (Thorin) still be mad at him, Bilbo would have someone to stand in between him and them. Bard would likely help as well, he was a very sympathetic man and Bilbo was sure he wouldn’t let any harm come to him.

“Bilbo, they will miss you.” Gandalf’s tone was a soft and stern one as he continued, “Dwalin insisted on searching for you the moment Thorin, Kili, and Fili were safe. He went up to Ravenhill multiple times searching for you. In fact, almost all the dwarves tried to go up and join the search. Oin put a stop to that, he told them that you would rather they heal than risk themselves. A sentiment I think he was correct in assuming.”

Bilbo looked downward, all of a sudden tired, the relief and joy he felt at hearing Durin’s line was alive was mitigated by his own sheer exhaustion, “I destroyed the arkenstone, I don’t think some will forgive that offense as easily as others.”

“I think, my dear Bilbo Baggins, you would be surprised by the wealth of love they hold for you. It would take greater offenses than the destruction of the arkenstone to truly smite you from their hearts.”

“Gandalf,” exasperation marked Bilbo’s voice, “it was their prized heirloom, a sign of Thorin’s right to rule. No matter how much they might have cared for me, I do not think it will be as forgotten as you seem to believe it to be.”

“Perhaps if you told them the truth about the gem, about its purpose and the true heart of the mountain?”

“What true heart of the mountain?” 

Gandalf frowned as if he had stumbled across a conundrum he had expected to already be solved, “Why Bilbo, do you mean to tell me you have not figured out what the heart of the mountain is?”

Bilbo fought off a yawn as he glared at the wizard, “I’m too tired for your games, Gandalf.”

Concern crossed Bard’s features as the little one began listing to the side, “Perhaps you both could continue this conversation after Bilbo gets some more rest. He’s been hurt badly.”

“Oh, have I?” Bilbo murmured, his voice getting quieter as his eyes drooped, “I really don’t remember what all happened I’m afraid.”

“You didn’t wonder why you were in pain?”

“Of course I wondered! I just don’t remember,” Bilbo let his eyes fully close, “It hurt my head too much.”

Whatever else he wanted to say was forgotten as he began dozing off, his body relaxing as it returned to a healing rest. However, he could still hear the two older men converse among themselves.

“Bilbo has a fair point, the dwarves might be welcoming right now, but it could change in an instant. They are an intensely private people, they could be waiting to mete out their justice until they can take it out of the public.”

“You make a fair point, Bard, but the dwarves need to understand the truth about the heart of the mountain. That will change everything, and I think our Thorin Oakenshield is closer than Bilbo in understanding that.”

***

Thorin wasn’t awake, he knew that. This was a dream, a beautiful dream. It was full of greenery and the sky, there was no sight of the ash and grey clouds that had obscured the mountain last he saw. Instead, there was a garden and as Thorin walked through it he let his fingers trace across the leaves and vines. The path led to an opening on the mountainside, trees dotting the valley below and Thorin couldn’t help but smile at the prosperity that anointed the land of his people. 

“Beautiful isn’t it brother?”

“Frerin?” Thorin turned.

There in all his golden glory was his brother. Thorin felt tears gather in his eyes as he rushed to embrace the dwarf. The younger brother laughed as Thorin embraced him, circling his arms around the elder. 

“You know, brother,” Frerin’s voice was muffled in Thorin’s hair, “I’m not really here. You’ve moved on without me.”

“I never meant to,” Thorin’s heart was breaking.

“Oh, brother,” Frerin separated and pressed their foreheads together, “It is a good thing. You cannot carry the grief and expectations of our past into your future. I will always be with you, indeed, it seems like a part of me has survived after all. I might just get the garden father denied me yet.”

Thorin let the comment sink in, a part of Frerin here? The odd wonderings of the past months began to surface. Bilbo’s parentage, his connection to the land and mountains, his beautiful golden curls just like the ones he saw now. He hadn’t dared to hope, but now, with Frerin here…where was here?

“Am I dead?”

“No,” Frerin laughed, “Although you should be, it’s a wonder you survived at all, I think the elvish healing had something to do with that. No, no, now don’t glower so, brother, the elves are not all that bad. Really, our father’s feud does not have to be ours.”

“But they abandoned us in our time of need!”

“Aye, and they were wrong. But, we can forgive, all can be restored. Look around brother,” Frerin gestured out to the dream landscape, “It’s prosperous, all we ever wanted. Don’t let the past get in the future’s way.”

“I don’t have the arkenstone,” Thorin ducked his head, anger and shame spilling through him, “They will not respect my right to rule.”

It was silent and Thorin dared to look up. Frerin’s face was contorted into a rarely seen scowl, and with it Thorin’s hopes were cemented. That was the scowl of Bilbo Baggins, a sight that had laughter bubbling into Thorin’s throat before he could stop it.

“Oh, Frerin, he has your scowl, I’m afraid I don’t know if he has your laugh.”

The scowl melted off Frerin’s face, “Thorin, hear me now. I know the mountain, you know this. I heard her heartbeat and I knew her pain when we were exiled.”

Thorin nodded, his brother had always had the fabled stone sense that had been passed down in Durin’s line. A direct connection to the earth around them, a gift from Mahal himself. It was rare, it was a gift that Durin’s line had mourned separately from the loss of Frerin. Finding prosperous land to mine, to dig in, was a hard process without a being with stone sense. 

“Hear me when I say, the arkenstone was never the heart of the mountain!”

The landscape echoed the confusion Thorin felt as green faded to grey and then back. The blue of the sky seemed to shift to deeper hues and everything felt less steady. What could he mean by this? The arkenstone was the mountain’s heart, found by Thror and a blessing to the line of Durin. 

“Brother, think,” Frerin begged, “our people ruled long before the arkenstone was found. There was no gold sickness before Thror. There was no arkenstone before Thror. Can something like that truly be the life and heart of our mountain? She speaks to me, her heartbeat lies here, inside me, I can feel her. That stone, that mindless gem, does not share her heartbeat. It shines, and it deceives us, but it does not represent our home. It represents our greed, nothing more.”

Thorin didn’t know what to think. The arkenstone, his family’s possession for years, a trick? Could it be so simple, that the heart of the mountain was a lie? What did it mean then that Bilbo had destroyed it? Oh, Bilbo, Thorin’s heart was aching for his ward, his nephew. What had he done? He had broken his word, his contract, he had done the unthinkable to Bilbo and still the little one had sought him out. Bilbo had warned him up on Ravenhill of the incoming army, Thorin did not deserve him. 

“What is the heart of the mountain then, brother? Is there a heart of the mountain?”

Frerin smiled, “really, brother, you still can’t put two and two together? Dis would be so disappointed.”

The world was greying, Thorin felt himself drifting from the pleasant dreamscape he’d concocted. His body started to hurt as he felt himself waking up, Thorin reached out toward his brother. He couldn’t bear to say goodbye again.

“Don’t go,” Thorin begged, his voice breaking, “I need you. You were…you were everything I wasn’t, Frerin. I can’t lose you…”

“Thorin, you never lost me.”

Frerin pulled them close once more, but the warm weight of his brother was already fading. Thorin could barely sense him anymore. His face felt wet and his body ached, a sense of reality was descending on Thorin and he didn’t want it. He was still so tired, tired of the fight he’d been living in since the dragon had first descended, he didn’t know what to do now that it was gone. He wanted his brother, the sunshine to his starlight. He wanted to know Bilbo was safe, to know his nephew was home. Thorin wanted to make things right. 

The king’s eyes flashed open.

Chapter Text

“Thorin!”

“Uncle?”

Shouts echoed in the tent as Thorin sat upright. The dwarf had a singular thought in his head, he had to find Bilbo. His brother’s son, he was sure of it, would be brought home. He would beg forgiveness and hope that Bilbo would return. No doubt the youth had no trust left in Thorin, he would do his best to earn it back. There was no excuse for his behavior.

“Bilbo,” Thorin’s voice cracked as he tried to leave the bed, “where is Bilbo?”

His arm was reaching toward the empty cot just beyond his line of sight. Where was his savior? His karkith was all that Thorin needed to make the legacy of the mountain right. Bilbo had had a vision for the mountain, for their home. A place he’d seen in his dreams, green and lush. Life abounded and it was Bilbo’s idea. Thorin needed to let him know that he was right, that he was family. The king’s fingers searched for the beaded strand of hair, plucked from his ward’s head by an irate elf. He’d kept it close, even after Bilbo’s apparent betrayal. 

“The lad disappeared,” Balin began, “We have sought the wizard and it appears he knows our burglar’s whereabouts. However, he would not tell us.”

Thorin pushed himself upward, a movement stopped by Oin, “You’ve been stabbed, you are lucky to be alive my king. I suggest you lay still.”

“I have to…”

“We will bring the wizard to you, you can question him then.”

Thorin acquiesced and leaned back down. He stared at the ceiling as he heard one of the dwarves leave the tent. The world blurred around him as he focused on the dream. His mind was occupied with gardens and his brother’s smile until he heard the tent be opened and a tall shadow cast over him.

“Gandalf.”

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf’s voice was reproving even as it welcomed him.

“I wish to see my burglar.”

“And why should I grant that request? I believe things were not so amiable between you two when you last met.”

“They were not, and for that I take responsibility. I… I dishonored our contract, my station as his guardian. I would seek to apologize.”

The statement left the tent in silence. It was nearly unheard of for Thorin to apologize. He was a stoic leader, unwilling to bend in the face of fault. For him to apologize was a rare occurrence and one that the whole company was grateful for in this instance. Bilbo had become precious to them all and they hoped he would return to their care. If Thorin were to apologize then the hopes of Bilbo being once more a part of the company would be closer to being fulfilled. 

“Apologize, why Thorin, this is most unlike you.”

Thorin gritted his teeth together, “Nevertheless, I have made a grievous error in my judgement. Bilbo was right to destroy the stone. Our people should never have relied on a stone to mark our worthiness to rule under the mountain.”

Gandalf had a smile on his face, it was just the slightest quirk to his lips, but it was there all the same. Thorin wondered what he knew that would put this situation into a humorous light. The way of wizards would forever confound the dwarf.

“Can I see my burglar or not?”

“I think you will see him. Thorin, there has been some change in you, change for the better I think. You spoke to someone didn’t you?”

“What would you know of that then?”

“Rest brings many things to a person, dreams, visions, and I find above all, clarity. I believe, Thorin, that you have found clarity.”

Thorin didn’t want to call it clarity, even if his mind was clearer than it had been in years. He didn’t really want to think about anything, not until Bilbo arrived. He needed his child here, his brother’s son. If Frerin had been the true son of the mountain, the bearer of Durin’s stone sense, then Bilbo’s inheritance of it could only mean one thing. Bilbo was the son of the mountain, the voice of reason and steadiness. Just as the stone was steady and smooth beneath the dwarrow’s feet, so was Bilbo’s voice of reason amidst the life of the company. Bilbo held the strength and grace of their home within his heart. 

“I found my brother.”

Whispers sounded throughout the tent reminding Thorin that it was not just him and Gandalf in the tent. Either way, Thorin continued, “He spoke of the mountain’s heart. How she sounded in his head and heart. That same heart beats today, it has been heard by one of our own. Bilbo has stone sense, he hears the heart of the mountain.”

The murmurs erupted around them, the implications of Thorin’s words meant more than Gandalf could comprehend. It meant a sort of belonging, a true position under the mountain for all time. It meant home.

Chapter Text

Bilbo was gently shaken awake by Bard. The warmth of the tent and gentle cushioning of the cot beneath him were too comfy for Bilbo to leave so he tried to roll over and ignore the intrusion. While his plan would have worked in the days before the dragon and the mountain, before his body ached with wounds he couldn’t remember receiving. As it was, while twisting over Bilbo felt a sharp pain in his side and decided to abort the movement.

“What’s going on?”

“Your presence has been requested by the King Under the Mountain. Gandalf seems to think you should go.”

Bilbo stared up at the tent ceiling, his eyes lost focus as his mind contemplated the idea, “Do I get to know why my presence has been requested?”

“I’m afraid Gandalf didn’t share that with me.”

“I don’t suppose ignoring this will make it all turn out alright, will it?”

“Not in my experience,” Bard smiled gently down at the lad, “I think, Bilbo, that after all you’ve faced, this won’t be any more difficult.”

Bilbo felt himself being helped upright as he stumbled out of the tent. He wanted to go home, wherever home would end up, and something told him that the first step to going home would be to face the dwarves. They had become his family and Bilbo missed them, but they had also been his nightmare. This idea of belonging, when one didn’t even know who he was, was terrifying. He had nightmares of his dead sire, the mysterious dwarf that had haunted his family, of being left behind by the dwarves and the wizard. Bilbo was afraid, but he was too tired to act on that fear anymore. 

His feet traced the path to the dwarves tent, Bard alongside him. This would be the end of his journey, either he was to be tried for his destruction of the arkenstone or…well Bilbo couldn’t really think of an alternate ending to this summons. 

When Bilbo entered the tent he was faced by the entire company. Some laid out on cots, others upright, but all of them were looking straight at him. Bard remained outside the tent, this was not his business and he couldn’t justify entering the space. Bilbo could understand that, however he did wish someone was with him. Even as he was thinking that the wizard stepped up from behind him and took a place by his side. 

“My dear boy,” the wizard seemed to be smiling, “I’m glad to see you accepted the invitation.”

Bilbo gave him a wan smile as he wavered in place. He was not as healed as he hoped he would be and it was evident to all those around him despite his attempt at remaining stoic. As it was Oin seemed to pick up on the wavering state of Bilbo’s health and rushed a stool over for the dwobbit to rest himself on. The simple act warmed Bilbo’s heart and he smiled at the dwarf. The moment came to its end as Thorin’s voice, raspy and worn, broke the silent atmosphere.

“Bilbo Baggins.” a rich, warm voice sounded.

Now that wasn’t the tone Bilbo was expecting and he looked up toward Thorin.

“I believe I have something that belongs to you.”

Thorin outstretched his arm from the prone position he held on a stretcher. The fist was closed but gesturing for Bilbo to come closer and take what was proffered. Bilbo’s curiosity, combined with the confusion he had from the lack of anger in his dwarf’s voice, had him slowly making his way forward. Silence reigned as Bilbo gently reached out and pulled the object from Thorin’s hand. There, in Bilbo’s hand, lay the little bead that Thorin had given him in the fields before Beorn’s. The bead that had marked him as one of Durin’s protected. The bead that Thranduil had severed from Bilbo’s possession and body. A sob hitched through Bilbo’s battered body and he hunched in on himself. 

A hand brushed against Bilbo’s arm and grasped the worn cloth of his sleeve. Bilbo wasn’t crying, yet, the water collected in his eyes had yet to fall but it was obscuring his vision. So Bilbo just closed his eyes and leaned into the hand. He was so tired. A second hand joined the first, gently pulling Bilbo closer to the cot. Bilbo was compliant in a way he was aware was distinctly childish, like a baby being held by its mother. Beorn had once asked him if he was ashamed of being so young, Bilbo hadn’t thought he was. Regardless of what he had thought about his age before, all Bilbo could think about now was that he was happy to be held. He was happy to be a child again. There was some peace in knowing that he was still accepted.

Bilbo felt himself fade from the world, as he was cradled against Thorin on the cot. His eyes were closed and his fist was clenched around the bead. Words were being whispered against his brow as Thorin held him close but Bilbo was unaware of what they were. He didn’t even care. Whatever was said couldn’t be so bad if it meant he was held tight. 

Neither party was truly ready to discuss the events of the past few days. The arkenstone, stone sense, Frerin, it was all too fresh alongside their wounds to deal with. However, Bilbo’s place amongst the dwarves was something that could be put to rights. Bilbo belonged and Thorin had been sure to emphasize that every way he knew how. 

Chapter Text

It would be weeks before the company was recovered enough to move back into the barren halls of Erebor. It was around that time that the dwarves of Ered Luin, led by Fili and Kili’s mother, Dis, arrived. It was a sight to see and one that quite overwhelmed Bilbo, who had been practically joined to Thorin or the brothers’ hips since he had rejoined them. This had provided no end of amusement for the Lake Town men and other dwarves who had all taken to calling Bilbo the king’s shadow. 

Bilbo found that he quite liked the name. 

A shadow was integral to a being. Something so natural it was often forgotten about. Bilbo liked to think he was that integral to the group, that he was the shadow. It was a secure place, away from too many prying eyes but important enough to note and follow. In short, he belonged. 

With the arrival of Thorin’s sister and the rest of the dwarves Bilbo found himself hiding perhaps a bit more than he had before. Bilbo was beginning to feel secure again in his position with the company, however, that could change in an instant. The progress he’d made, the difference in attitude within the company. There had been subtle changes, the way Thorin talked to him about the mountain, quiet conversations about what sections were stable and what ground was most fertile for a garden. Things Bilbo knew and was eager to share. Things that were going to make the mountain a home. With Lady Dis’s arrival all that could change. Bilbo and Thorin hadn’t yet addressed the elephant in the room of his actual position, while Bilbo had been returned to the fold, acknowledged as Thorin’s ward, nothing else had been said on the matter. Bilbo knew he was one of theirs, he knew that his position was one he’d keep forever, but, he also knew that the status quo was shaky at best and with the arrival of the other dwarves there would need to be some sort of discussion. That being said, Bilbo kept his mouth shut tight. He did not want to be the one to break the fragile and blooming peace they’d found. 

He could still hear the shattering of the arkenstone in his dreams, see the betrayed look of his dwarves. Bilbo couldn’t risk doing anything else that would add to those bad dreams. Any change from here on out would be orchestrated by someone else’s actions, Bilbo would just ride along.

The change came with one word. 

Bilbo had been high on a terrace that had been connected to the royal chambers in the mountain. It offered a beautiful view of the land below and Bilbo could see the plans he sketched coming together. The community was rebuilding and satisfaction was blooming in his chest. He turned to reenter the mountain only to be faced with a stern looking dwarrow lady. She looked like Thorin, imposing and stately all at once. 

“Frerin?”

***

Bilbo was cold on the bench. There were raised voices, harsh in their mother tongue, in the chamber behind him. Kili and Fili flanked the dwobbit as their mother and uncle discussed things. Bilbo just sat still. There wasn’t really anything else to do. After Lady Dis had said that one word things had moved too fast for Bilbo to keep up with. He had been marched toward where Thorin was as the lady glowered at anyone in their path. Next thing he knew he was being sat down on the bench while the two disappeared. It had been their loud voices that had drawn the brothers to the commotion and Bilbo. 

“It really isn’t as bad as it sounds.” Kili tried to assure Bilbo.

Fili just leaned up against the youngest and began playing with his hair. Bilbo leaned into the touch and closed his eyes. His fingers found the beaded necklace and began fussing with it. Rhythmically passing the beads around his fingers one by one. It was a familiar dance, one he had been making for decades, but right now it did little to comfort him the way it had before. 

“What’s that Bilbo?” Kili reached out, his fingers brushing the necklace. 

“My mother gave it to me,” Bilbo murmured, he felt all hazy like he wasn’t quite there, “my sire had given it to her.”

The bitter taste in Bilbo’s mouth did not impact the tone of voice as he explained the story his mother had told him. He did not notice the glance exchanged between brothers as they took a closer look at the beads. Bilbo was far away in the cold again.

“Can we see it closer, Bilbo?” Fili asked.

Bilbo hummed his consent and felt as the gentle blond dwarf removed the necklace. It felt strange, not having the constant weight around his neck. Sometimes the chain had been just that, a chain tying him to a past he didn’t want, as much as it had been a hopeful gift from his mother. The weight was a paradox in his life. The world seemed to pass Bilbo by as he stared into the stone hallway. It wasn’t until silence descended that he was snapped back into reality. 

Whatever Thorin and Lady Dis were discussing was concluded. Thorin and his sister soon stood in front of the small company. Bilbo couldn’t decipher what they were feeling, their faces twin masks as hard as the stone behind them. Before anything could be said however, Bilbo saw Fili stretch his hand out to Thorin, a solemn expression on his face.

“Uncle, mother, tell me what you see on that necklace.”

Confusion broke through the stoic expressions and the two elder dwarves examined the beaded necklace. It didn’t take long for tears to glisten in their eyes as recognition dawned. Bilbo could only watch in confusion, they were beads, yes, and beads meant something important, but Bilbo could not decipher them and it seems that now their meaning was to be made known. 

“This… where did you get this?” it was Dis that spoke, her voice constricted by grief.

“It was mine, my mother passed it to me when she,” Bilbo cleared his throat ducking his head briefly, “when she, um, when she died. She said it belonged to my sire, that they were all he had to give her as an engagement of sorts.”

“Thorin…” Dis’s voice broke. 

Thorin turned to look at Bilbo, “Bilbo, the time has come to tell you what we know of your father.”

Bilbo believed he had put the puzzle pieces together. The necklace, it seemed, confirmed every hope the creature had. Still, Bilbo was not a presumptuous fellow and he waited for Thorin to continue.

“Our brother, Frerin,” Thorin’s voice quieted for a moment, “is your sire. The beads all but confirms it.”

Dis struck Thorin then, a brief smack of her hand against his arm, “Really? Is that the best explanation you can give? I swear Thorin, if this is how you’ve been communicating with the company, not to mention our nephew, then no wonder he looks so lost.”

The chastisement broke the tension and laughter bubbled from the twin presences around Bilbo. He found that a smile was breaking across his face as well. Thorin’s face was pinched tight even as he gently reached out and pulled Bilbo into his side.

“Never listen to her, Bilbo, she would have you thinking me quite incapable.”

“Oh, and you would never do that to yourself?” Bilbo quipped as he melted against the furs of his…uncle.

Bilbo’s eyes were closed but he heard Lady Dis laugh, “Oh Thorin, he’s already got you figured out doesn’t he?”

“More than you know, sister.”

The boys’ voices popped up, “So, are we going to the ceremony? All the dwarves are here now, Gandalf is here too. He could help officiate?”

“It is time to bring the mountain back under Durin’s line,” Thorin rumbled, “An introduction to the lost son of Durin would do well during this time.”

“Not just the lost son of Durin, eh brother? It seems we have been gifted more than just our brother’s son. Tell me, little one, do you really sense the mountain?”

Bilbo pulled his face out of the fur coat, “Of course I do, can’t you all? I never figured out why you all insisted the arkenstone was the heart of the mountain, it was all wrong. Laughing all the time at everything and not at all as warm as the mountain felt.”

Thorin glanced at Dis as if to say, ‘see what I’ve been trying to process,’ as Dis opened her mouth and said, “Bilbo, you know…Stone sense, is, well, it’s a very…”

Kili interrupted, “None of us have stone sense Bilbo. It’s very rare, the last dwarf in Durin’s line to have stone sense was our uncle Frerin. It’s a blessing from Mahal.”

“A blessing he seems to have given back to us with you Bilbo.” Fili voiced. 

Bilbo was quite surprised. The dwarves hadn’t been able to feel the mountain? This whole time? The gold and the madness, the crazed laughter of the cursed gem and the steady heartbeat that grounded Bilbo during the nightmarish nights. They couldn’t feel any of that?

“You mean to tell me,” Bilbo pulled away, a stern look across his face as he furrowed his brows and a little crease appeared in his forehead. He looked just as he had all those months ago when the dwarves had first trampled into his smial.

“You mean, that none of you can feel the mountain?”

“We can distinguish veins of stone, fissures, anything a dwarf worth his salt can identify. But, to feel the mountain, to understand the ground and know if it is sick or healthy. That understanding can only come from Mahal.”

“Hmmm, well then, I suppose…” Bilbo petered off. He didn’t really know what he supposed.

The four dwarves looked down at him and Bilbo was all of a sudden self conscious. He took a step closer to Thorin, once again, plastered against the dwarf’s side, “I really would appreciate it if you had the decency not to look at me like I was some sort of miracle.”

“Oh, but Bilbo,” Lady Dis said, “I assure you, you are a miracle.”

Bilbo wrinkled his nose, about to deny her statement when Thorin interrupted, “Enough of this, we have much to officiate and the wizard should be found.”

The party began to move toward more open sections of the halls and Bilbo jogged to keep up, “Why does Gandalf need to be here?”

“Well, a wizard offers a certain level of respect and formality for situations such as these.”

“Such as these?”

“You know, formal adoption, royal processes, etc.”

“Adoption?”

Bilbo was stock still in the hallway. It took several steps before the dwarves noticed he had lagged behind. When they did they turned back to him with their own sense of confusion.

“Yes, adoption.”

“What do you mean? Who are you adopting?”

“You, Bilbo Baggins.”

Dis had been the one to answer and Bilbo was a little of sorts as he contemplated it, “Me?”

“Yes, you are a son of Durin, not yet of age and already the ward to my brother, your uncle. Adoption is the only logical conclusion to your place here. You will be a prince under the mountain as my boys are.”

“Don’t worry though,” Kili joked, the smile on his face easy the tension in the air, “Fili still has the title of crown prince, no one would dare take that from him”

“Prince, oh dear, see I really think you’ve got things all wrong.” Bilbo panicked, “I don’t need to be adopted, really the ward situation was temporary, we all knew that, and you see I am of age back in the Shire, and I have a home there and family… and you really don’t need to adopt me. I’m quite fine, I assure you.”

Thorin didn’t miss the way that Bilbo called the Shire by its name and not by the familiar ‘home’ he’d been calling it, there was a distinction now that hadn’t been there before. He also didn’t miss the way Bilbo curled in on himself at the mention of his family back in the Shire. The same family that had never checked in on him, or done anything but challenge his control of his parents home. The family that let a company of strangers employ their kin with no question of his safety. Well, that was the past. Bilbo belonged here and all would be set to rights.

“Bilbo, you are family. I offered you our kinship once before, but now, now I offer you more. I offer a home, a place of eternal belonging. Customs and skills, language, a life full of things belonging to your father, to us. All of this is yours, all you need to do is accept it. We cannot deprive you of your past, your green hills and gardens, but could you find it in your heart to plant new seeds here?”

Bilbo cleared his throat, his face pointed downward, “I’m not him you know, I’m not your brother. I can’t be him, you can’t, shouldn’t, expect me to fill the hole he left.”

Thorin sighed, “Remember when you told me the wizard expected you to be the same fauntling he knew before your mother died? How you were so tired of being that child when you weren’t? We don’t expect you to be Frerin. You couldn't be him. You are Bilbo, our Bilbo, our barrel rider, Karkith, and above all…”

Thorin’s pause caused Bilbo to look up at him.

“You, Bilbo Baggins, are the heart of the mountain. So will you, Bilbo, join us and be my son, the nephew to my sister, and the cousin to my nephews? Will you build a prosperous home here with us, our beating heart of the mountain?”

Bilbo found himself nodding. This, this would make his mother proud. The thought slipped unbidden in his head but as he was met by Thorin in the halls of Erebor, of his father, he couldn’t help but feel as if he were coming home for the first time in his life. 

***

Bilbo Baggins was a great many things. He had made a name for himself, he was no longer reputable, however, he was a loved and cherished member of his community. Bilbo was a burglar to kings, prince under the mountain, the adopted son and nephew of Thorin Oakenshield, son of Belladonna Took and Frerin, renowned scholar, friend of elves, and, perhaps most important of all, Bilbo was the heart of the mountain. 

Bilbo Baggins was a great many things, and in discovering what he was Bilbo had learned to let go of what he wasn’t. In doing so, the world seemed a little bit sweeter, contentment was easier and Bilbo could breathe clearer than he had since before his mother died. 

Bilbo knew himself, tried and tested, and he was loved. 

Bilbo Baggins was loved.