Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He had felt the burn of warg teeth in his skin, the bite of metal reforged slicing through tendons, the feel of fire lapping at every inch of his body. He had felt fear. He had felt sorrow, woe, and grief upon grief–mirrored anger and fear bursting within him. There had been a lifetime of worries numbered only by streaks of grey and lines like cracks in stone. 

But the one thing Thorin Oakenshield had never worried about, was the particular rise of his focaccia. And yet, it was the single most hair-raising experience of his long, bitter life. 

He wondered now, if the Shire held the softness Bilbo so longed for on the road, or if it was just another hard-rock life. Regardless, he praised his lover for his headstrong approach to both battle and baking, for they seemed to encompass the same amount of ferocity. 

Thorin pressed another row of fingerprints into the dough, watching and hoping it didn’t rise against him. Already, the dough presented a problem, having taken far longer than the recipe listed to rise. When it behaved, he continued until the entire surface was dimpled. The fire raged beside him, but provided an encompassing warmth in the end-of-summer heat; one that rivaled what he would find in the forge. The sweat beading at his forehead soothed him, the fire breathing at his forearms calming his growing frustrations. Once the dimples were pressed, Thorin dribbled a waterfall of oil over top, and then added crumbled sprigs of dried rosemary. He almost opted to forgo his usually generous serving of salt–Bilbo having pestered him for such–but looking around he noted Bilbo still knee deep in the garden, plucking some tomatoes from the softened soil. 

He’ll need it. Thorin excused, and sprinkled the salt over the dough. 

Shining like the sun, the focaccia slipped into the oven and was swallowed by the simmering coals and licking flames. Thorin hoped, that being if he timed it right, that the crust would be as gold as the sun as well. 

Stepping back he noted Bilbo’s disappearance, but his wicker basket of various vegetables remained. In the distance, Hamfast and his young son planted a few bushes of chrysanthemums as the lick of crisp air began to settle with the sun. The focaccia would be ready by dinner, and–Thorin popped a head out the window, noting Bilbo curling a hand into the mailbox–when his lover returned there would be a sweet tomato and cheese platter on its side. A dinner to celebrate the end of the summer and the rushing in of the autumn. 

Taking one more fawning look at Bilbo, Thorin returned to the oven, watching the delicate bread rise and feeling, for the first time in the year he’s been here, that he may have belonged. If he could hash out a delicious and non-burnt bread, maybe he had a bit of something hobbit-ish lying dormant indeed. 

Lost in the revelry of rising bread, Thorin jolted when the green round door knocked into the hill’s walls. “I had nearly forgotten! Of course, of course, it’s autumn! They have it every year. Hence ‘the annual,’ oh do forgive me we ought to have prepared more–”

“Bilbo,” Thorin admonished. Bilbo cleared his throat, then caught his breath, slapping a wax-stamped letter–now open–on the end of his palm. 

With a shake of his head he pointed the parchment at Thorin. “The Annual Bake-off. I forgot it. Completely un-Baggins-like to forget such a thing–after all we have been finalists for the past sixty-four years.” He paused, squinching his eyes in what appeared mock frustration at Thorin. “Save for that one autumn fifteen years ago when I was holed up in a dragon infested mountain–”

“A bake-off?” Thorin cut-off, if only to save himself another rant. “Ah, I’ve heard of them,” he said, though he had not. 

“Yes well, Hobbiton’s is certainly infamous. Lots of cheating, especially from those Dewfoot’s,” Bilbo looked down at the open letter again, reading a few more lines under his breath. “Auntumnal themed, classic. Oh! A showstopper dessert. Certainly my seedcakes will do-”

“Well–” Thorin stopped himself when Bilbo snapped his head up. He held in a laugh at the widening of the hobbit’s eyes, so daring. Bilbo cocked his head. “I wouldn’t call them a showstopper is all.” 

A hand to his heart. “And why not?” 

“They're delicious.”

“Nay, nay. Do not back out now–why not?” 

Again, Thorin held back a laugh, but he could not stop the slow smile from growing on his aging face. Bilbo–though he held back far longer–joined him soon enough. Something pulled at his heart, watching the hobbit smile back at him, softened cheeks and crinkled eyes. And though older than he had been when they first met, somehow far, far more beautiful simply for the sake that now Thorin knew him. And in knowing him fell in love every second of every day. 

It was Bilbo who broke first, a laugh bubbled from his lips. “Unkind is what you are. Poking fun at my seedcakes when you devour them almost before I sat them to cool on the counter.” 

Thorin stepped forward, pulling Bilbo into his chest. “I have a sweet tooth, to be sure. I love them because you make them. Have they won before?” 

Bilbo’s words were muffled by Thorin’s apron–it was, in truth, Bilbo’s and rested just above his knees. A gift he had hand-sewed for the hobbit’s birthday not a week before–but the humor was no less evident. “Never, but they were certainly enjoyed!” 

Thorin pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s head, pulling back when the hobbit did. “Foccacia,” he said. “For dinner, go off and chop the tomatoes.” 

“Yes, chef,” Bilbo said, before disappearing back into the garden. 

From the far end Hamfast caught his eyes and sent him a slight nod–surrounded by a growing number of autumnal colors. Thorin blushed as he closed the shutters. 

—

The scent of frying bacon and roasting mushrooms roused Bilbo from his bed, to where Thorin stood, still in his sleep clothes and flipping crisp meat around the frying pan. Bilbo stood in the corner a moment, watching, and admittedly, blushing at the sight. Fifteen years ago he would never have imagined the gruff dwarf invasion of his pantry would lead to this: the king of them all, retired and plating his breakfast. 

Bilbo moved to speak only when Thorin popped open the oven to slide out a few butter scones, adding them to a plate with bacon, mushrooms, and a tomato-filled omelet. “I’ve devised a plan.”

Thorin looked up, two plates in hand before sighing and setting them on the table. “And ruining mine in the process. This was meant to be served to you in bed, Bilbo.” 

“Apologies,” but made no move to return to the bedroom, instead taking a seat. Thorin quirked a smile and took his spot across from him. 

“Your plan? For what exactly?” 

“The bake-off,” Bilbo said matter-of-factly. Thorin let out an Ah, sipping on a steaming mug of earl grey, while butter drenched his scone. 

“According to the invitation, it is organized by three categories: tea and cakes–don’t say anything of course I’m making them–breads, and, of course, the showstopper.” 

“And your plan involves recipes I assume?” 

“Yes, the only thing missing is the showstopper, if not my cakes I am not entirely sure. Perhaps a wine?” 

Still thinking, Bilbo tucked into his breakfast, slathering a slab of cinnamon butter on his scone before dipping the end into his own tea: black with the slightest bit of honey. 

“Ah! Mayhaps if we ask, Beorn will give us his honeycakes recipe…” 

Thorin grimaced at the thought of the skin-changer, but indeed they were a delectable treat when he thought back on it. Placing another bite of his scone on his tongue, Thorin returned to all the astonishing food he had eaten in his long life, several delicious ones had been here in the Shire sure, but the best of the best had been back when he was only a prince. 

Life in Erebor–before Smaug–had been filled with the mouth-watering treasure of both the mountain and Dale. Indeed, the mix of Man and Dwarvish food had piqued many traveler’s interests and set Dale to become a utopia of culinary arts. Thorin remembered several recipes he reckoned could be “showstoppers.“ There was the plum-pudding Dis once made, the rotating pork he had devoured at a Dale vendor’s tent–it melted in his mouth and tasted like it had been served at Mahal’s dinner tables–and of course the salt fish caught before Laketown had been thought of. 

None of these particularly stood out in his mind–nor his tongue–although they had, at the time, been down-right exquisite. No, the best food Thorin could remember was when they had wandered the whole of middle earth, mixing recipes from all over. Each new stop, be it a kingdom or small village, gave way to something new to fill his belly. In the end, when they had melted all cultures into one pot on the fire, it made something that to this day, Thorin could still taste. Many good Dwarvish foods had come to light that way, but one truly stood out. 

Afterall, Thorin did have a sweet tooth. 

Bilbo still had a mouthful of roasted mushrooms when Thorin exclaimed, his epiphany a quiet one until now. “Ha! I know just the thing! My abnâmul, the showstopper can be a dragon-flame flower rice pudding. A asmâk-karf of my people through our long and difficult years.” 

Bilbo thought for a moment, head tilted. “How does it taste?”

“If my memory serves, sweet, fruity, with the flower there's the slight spice of smoke,” he paused, closing his eyes in memory. “Yes, of course with the milk it's creamy which balances the smokiness.” 

“Hm! Delicious, indeed! A dragon-flame flower?” Bilbo strummed his chin. “I dare say that will be a hard ingredient to buy, but Bree may have a seed we could grow in time. The bake-off is in November.”

Thorin slumped at this. “Nay, Bilbo, a dragon-flame flower only grows where a dragon’s breath has razed the earth. And so little lands have met such ire. Erebor may have a dried flower or two we could acquire–but it will mean a trip.” 

“Well then,” Bilbo dusted the crumbs from his hands, wiping his face on his handkerchief. “If this will continue the Baggins’–and Oakenshield’s, now–winning streak, then I believe a trip is in order.” 

Thorin smiled, crossing his arms in front of him. He looked out the window, with autumn often came rain, and the clouds that morning already looked blue-dark. “I suppose if we leave before luncheon we can make it to Bree before the storm.” 

Plates clattered as Bilbo stood to clear the table and wash them, Thorin took up a cloth to help him speed things along, humming in tune when Bilbo began another song. 

In dishes and in spoons

In forks and in cups

A sweetness to make you swoon

Like the last of summer’s buttercups! 

Like puddings and jelly

Like cakes and teas

There’s a glory in your belly

And a tongue that sings to the sea! 

Together, they cleaned up breakfast and set to packing–for Erebor was a long way away. 

Chapter Text

Erebor was…new to Bilbo’s eyes. Less spider-webs and many, many more rowdy Dwarves. He had returned only once during Thorin’s reign, for the sight of Erebor had sent him shivering at once. Nevertheless, he kept in contact over the years, letters were sent back and forth and several times did Thorin and Co. return for teatime as prompted. This time around, once the shivering started Thorin slipped his hand into Bilbo’s clammy one and he felt his bones settle. 

Despite Thorin’s abdication, and Fili’s ascending, the people of Dale–Dwarves and Men alike–bowed with sincerity once they saw who it was that crossed their path. Women held their skirts and lowered into a curtsy, men brought their hats to their chests and turned their eyes to the ground. And if Bilbo didn’t feel so frightened of the crags of the mountain, he would have noticed the eyes on their connected hands, followed by a few extra lowered heads.  

Upon reaching the entrance of Erebor, gold and stone clashed together, and the doors creaked open to reveal Fili himself. Wrapped in violet robes and wearing a familiar golden crown he betrayed the regality in his look to childishly bound over to them. 

“Uncle! You’ve returned!” Fili pulled Thorin in, forehead and to forehead they smiled together. “I hope you haven’t come for the crown, I've enjoyed it so far.”

Fili turned to Bilbo, who let out a yelp when he too was pulled into a deep hug. “And our burglar! You’ve grown old!”

“Oh, off! I am not the only one–I see a few grey hairs in that golden crown of yours. No longer young Fili, eh?” Fili only crushed him further. 

“Nonsense,” Thorin barked a laugh, both at Bilbo’s growing annoyance and Fili’s earlier statement. “Keep your crown, it will grow wearisome in the years to come! I would have written but our journey was made in haste and with one thing in mind.”

Fili furrowed a brow, but his smile did not falter. “Seeing your beloved nephews?” 

“An ingredient, one your mother will know well.” 

“Ah,” Fili nodded. “Come, come, Uncle, Bilbo. We have only just begun to prepare for supper; I will send for Ama while you ready.” 

With that, the two were led into the mountain, brighter and less-stale than before, and led to a hallway lined with tapestries. Down the hall there was the faint sound of a harp in tune, and growing from the bottom of the mountain was the scent of roasted meats and potatoes. Fili left them at the end of the hall, two great doors propped open to reveal royal-adjacent chambers. Bilbo, at first, took to the left door but an arm on his bicep stopped him. 

Thorin nodded his head to the other door. “This one has a larger bed.” Bilbo only smiled. 

—

When Fili returned, it was with a dwarrowdam who Bilbo recognized through Thorin’s memories only. 

Both Bilbo and Thorin had stripped off their travel gear and donned a fancier set of clothes–Bilbo in rougher fabrics than he would have liked and heavier jewels than he had ever, ever had to wear. Thorin, in a rich blue velvet tunic overlined with a silver surcoat raining down such splendid embroidery. 

But the dwarrowdam was the finest of them all–even King Fili in his shine of gold–she was the spitting image of the dwarf behind him, save the hazel eyes peering out from olive skin and smeared kohl. Her beard was shorter as well but no less thick—curling raven spirals were woven into her crown creating an allusion of a serpentine nature. A mix of gold and wooden beads clinked against the golden lapels of her violet robes which descended to meet the very tops of fine boots. The kind that looked made of good, solid leather, and held silver bottoms that clinked as if she was made of the stone that surrounded her. 

“Sister!” Thorin bellowed over his shoulder, breaking Bilbo from his revelry. He moved to let the siblings embrace in the style of dwarves–a head collision that forced Bilbo to grimace. 

“It is wonderful to meet you, Lady Dís,” Bilbo said as they pulled back. 

Dís took him in, glancing up and down his small form as if to scrutinize though there was nothing but love within her gaze. “Mr. Baggins. I have much to say to you–lives to thank you for–”

Bilbo waved a hand partially because he had outgrown flattery in his old age and partially because remembrance of Thorin’s blood would restart his chattering bones. “I did only what a good hobbit would do–”

“Indeed! But this world lacks many good men, hobbits, I suppose, included, and I am only glad my sons, and my brother, had you there when it truly mattered.” Dís shined a brilliant smile down at him–she really was beautiful–and clapped a hand to his shoulder, the action jolted him forward into a hug where he remained for nary a second before Fili regained all three of their attentions. 

“Ama, we must away to supper but,” he turned to Thorin. “Uncle has need of something…a flower, I believe? 

Thorin nodded. “Dís, we’ve come not just for supper, but for an ingredient.” 

“Ah, yes?”

“A dragon-flame flower.”

Dís paused, cocking her head to the side, her lips threatening to fall into a frown. “What need could you have of that? I'd not put that in my mouth in an age–”

“Could there be any left on the mountainside?” 

Again, she paused but her sorrow was replaced with contemplation. “Not growing, but I do know of a seller down in Dale who collects some odd dried herbs, she may have a flower or two in stock. If not: she’ll know if they've been seen green and growing.” 

“May we go soon?” Bilbo butted in. “After supper perhaps, it's only we are in a bit of a time crunch.” 

Fili turned down the hall. “Goodness, memory of supper! We ought to go before Kili eats our plates as well!” 

Dís sent the hobbit a smile, the crinkles of her eyes melting with the blackened lines there. “In good time, Master Baggins, if Thorin does not slumber after a good Dwarvish meal then yes–after supper.” 

Thorin took his hand in his as they began the walk to the dining hall, hunger dampening Bilbo’s mood only a little. “Do not fall asleep,” he said, but Thorin only laughed. 

--

Supper was filled with steamed radishes and butter, thickly cradled mushrooms, lamb draped in richly flavored sauce, dappled with garlic, spices, and a bread so soft Bilbo could lay his head on it and dream of tomorrow’s breakfast. He did not, thankfully, and neither did Thorin, and after the plates had gone–the tea and desserts as well–the three of them were walking the stone path to Dale once more. 

Bilbo was thankful Dís had suggested they all don a few unassuming hoods to decrease just how many people saw them as royalty. The night was colder than day, as was the way of autumn, but this far north led to Bilbo hunkering down in his hood a little more. Well, until Thorin put his arm over his shoulder and shared a bit of his warmth. He noted Dís looked back at them once, and in the dark watched her eyes crinkle in a soft smile once more. 

“Does she know?” Bilbo whispered into Thorin’s ear. For though they hadn’t been exactly forthcoming with the information of their relationship, they didn’t try and hide it. Why? When death had nearly separated them? The Shire celebrated all matters of the heart, those deemed unusual along the rest of Middle Earth as well. It had never mattered. Yet here, back in the heart of Thorin’s kingdom, perhaps it was different. Bilbo found himself hoping Dís didn’t think unkindly on him, nor on Thorin, and least of all on the fact that he had inadvertently pulled him her brother from her yet again. 

Thorin inhaled. “Yes,” he said after a pause. “Dis was the one to tell me to wise up, return to you.”

“Nay, really? I ought to thank her then,” Bilbo laughed out his jitters. 

“I believe she said, ‘pull your crown from your arse and visit your burglar.’  though in the end a visit wasn’t enough.” 

“She was right, you know,” Bilbo nodded. “Not just about a visit, but that you kept your crown there.”

Thorin’s laugh was sharper than the wind. “Aye, I know, I know.” 

Their conversation tittered out, and Bilbo remained content to walk side by side, under Thorin’s warm and inviting wing. Ahead Dis lumbered on, head towards the city which had just begun to shine gold with firelight now that the sun was setting. Every once in a while, she would turn her head just slightly and catch Bilbo’s eye, sending him a smile full of Thorin’s mirth. 

Soon the firelight grew closer, and the grumble of Dale could be heard. They passed through a few empty streets, the sounds of elderly snores and soft lullabies sounding out from open windows, but the nightlife was ahead. And as they crossed into the main market Bilbo was dazzled. The majority of the fire came from candles beneath tents, but the fire that stole the show came from two dwarrowdams in the center of the market, standing high on a stone platform. Dis disappeared into the golden crowd but Bilbo paid her no mind–intently focused on the scene. 

One juggled three torches lit with orange-blue flames, mysteriously dodging the lick of them against her ginger beard. The other–even worse–blew fire from her mouth, nearly singeing the chestnut braids there. The crowd clapped along, eagerly watching them balance along the stone and send the fire all around. Flames danced along the top of the crowds’ heads, making them all appear as if they had been dripped in molten gold, alight and alive with the dying sun, a golden oasis among stone. Bilbo had never seen anything like it, such dangerous but beautiful illustrations of true heart and glory. He stood mouth agape until a hand on his chin broke his trance. 

“‘Ibin, you will catch the flies.” Thorin chuckled, the hand warm against Bilbo’s chin. “Have you never seen such a thing before?” 

Bilbo swallowed a few times to ease his dry throat. “Nay! Thorin why have you never spoken of this. It is…it is entrancing! I need to write something about this,” this he said more to himself, tapping a finger to his lips. “A song, or…or in my book! A footnote–anything!” 

“Very well,” Thorin held back a smile. “It is fire juggling, and I am glad to have seen it tonight. The warmth of such memory clears the cold of others.” He brought Bilbo into his side once more. “And I am twice glad to have you share in another.” 

The two dwarrowdams began to march and from the crowd two others set to beat on a few drums, behind them a dwarf struck his fingers to a lyre and the crowd roared. The fire, as though melding with the music, began to lick at the autumn air. The red-headed dwarrowdam added a fourth torch to her arms–still the fire avoided burning her. The other laid down her fire breath and took up a set of her own juggling torches. Together, as the beat drummed on, lyre clinging to the sound of the crowd, and the drums thrumming against Bilbo’s heart, they marched. 

The fire tossed in the air, swooping across the wind and narrowly missing the faces all around. Those closest had grown apple-cheeked, smiles brightened by the light and eyes aglow. The mountain seemed reimagined, lit not by gold and dragon breath but by the vitality of the people that had not given up, on hope or on Erebor and its kings. 

To Bilbo, this was like a dream: the ripple of fire extending to the sky, the thundering march of the dwarrowdams and their wooden shoes, a lyre plucked by talented hands, and drums beaten with such vigor as if by a heart. In fact, the whole show was like the rush of blood inside a vein–thrumming and thrumming and forgetting that there will be an end. The hobbit could feel the energy around him, coursing through him. The tune, and fire, and vibration demanded something of the crowd. And best of all he could still feel Thorin wrapped around him, his grip flexing in time with the music, could smell the wine on his breath and the spice clinging to his cloth. 

It was an easy thing then, when the dancing started, to say yes to Thorin’s inviting hand. 

Chapter Text

The fire-dancers moved among the crowd now, egging them on as they went. Great clouds of colored fabrics and plumes of smoke swallowed the whole of the market square. Bilbo fell into rhythm with Thorin–hoods high to conceal their presence, feet tapping along the stone. He took his hand to Thorin’s waist, pulling himself in until their cheeks met. Thorin held tighter, swiveling so the fire met them at all sides. He had never seen the dwarf so light on his feet, thumping his boots as if to drown out the drums–a softness filled the air that riveled the violent rush of dance. It thickened when Thorin leaned down and met Bilbo’s forehead, though harder to dance they stayed like that until the crowd began a slow dispersion, hunger driving them onwards. 

Breath came out of Bilbo in sharp huffs, but he paid them no mind as he dove in, silencing whatever words Thorin might have been about to say. The kiss was slow, as they had learned to enjoy, now that time seemed slower moving in their older age. Curls of his beard scratched at Bilbo’s cheeks, hands coming to cradle the back of his head. He could feel the cold air begin to seep back into the square, sweat crystallizing against his skin–the same sweat he smelled upon Thorin as he melted softly upon his lips. The dwarf let out a gentle hum, the vibration tickling Bilbo and a laugh to split them apart. 

Bilbo sniffed, cold turning his cheeks crimson. He shook out his limbs, crooks and kinks in his joints. Something settled in his gut, ripe and harboring the knowledge that he was just a moving being with desires and wants that followed after the fervor in his chest. The thought sent a rumble through his body, if not for Thorin’s warmth and solidity, he might have crumbled to the stone floor. 

He sniffed again; a thick scent wafted into the air. “What is that smell?” Bilbo asked. Thorin inhaled himself, turning a bright eye to the north end of the square. Several tents already held long lines of inquisitive eyes. 

“That, my dear one, would be plum dumplings.” 

“Hm,” almost subconsciously, Bilbo began to follow the scent. “I am quite hungry; I could use a sweet.” 

Thorin trailed after, kept close by Bilbo’s unwavering grip. “I should have known such a small supper would leave you wanting.” 

With a humph Bilbo kept walking. “It is my nature–”

“Your nature gives you an endless hunger. How you did not starve along the journey I will never know.” 

The tent was closer now, a red fabric held up by wooden sticks with a rug floor half sinking into the ground. “I nearly did, if you recall. My belt was on the second to last buckle by the time we made it to Mirkwood.” 

Thorin laughed. Indeed, he did remember Bilbo’s slightness, and never would he let the hobbit go without a good plate of food again. 

They stopped at the edge of the tent, a few people ahead of them. The scent was thicker here, the full sweetness and light tartness of the plums, mixed with the warmth and yeastiness of its breading. Thorin’s mouth watered, and distant, foggy memories of waiting in line when he was too small to even reach to counter glassed up his eyes. Bilbo seemed to notice and tugged him closer, resting his head on Thorin’s shoulder. 

“We shall share one, I am not that hungry,” he said, eyeing the size of the dumplings. For they were nearly the size of a dwarven fist and steaming as the dwarf behind the stall handed a wooden bowl full to the man in front. When it was their turn, and one had been ordered and given, they sought refuge on the side of the stall. 

No words were shared, for something meaningful filled their hearts when they tucked into this treat. To Bilbo, the plum dumpling tasted of a soft and warm jam, filled with a sweetness that stuck to your teeth and gums, and danced along your tongue as if magical. It warmed his insides, the ripeness of the plum wrinkling his nose. To Thorin, it tasted of childhood. One where he was still just a prince and all that meant was sweetness, not grief, not responsibility, and not loss. 

Thorin kept his eyes closed as it savored the dumpling, the warmth on his tongue like a hug. When he opened his eyes, they were river-like with unbroken tears. Bilbo gave him a sad smile, licking a few crumbs from his lips before taking Thorin in a hug. “Come now, tell me.”

It was hard to relish these thoughts and memories, but Thorin found it easier when he kept Bilbo’s gaze. “‘Twas my Ama’s favorite treat is all.” He blinked back a few tears; thankful none had managed to escape. “I haven’t had these in a hundred years.” 

“They are certainly rich–”

Thorin broke in, brows furrowed and an intense look in his eyes. “Thank you, Bilbo.”

Bilbo hadn’t a chance to ask what for when Dís popped up next to them, returning from where she had disappeared. She took a glance at the remnants of the dumpling in Bilbo’s hand and flickered her gaze back to Thorin’s before clearing her throat. 

“Immi has no flower of that kind in stock.”

Thorin deflated–

“But she heard a tale of something that might interest us,” Dís finished. Thorin widened his eyes, the hand holding Bilbo’s tightened. 

“It may be a dragon-flame flower. Some children came across a golden flower on the south-east part of the mountain side–”

“It certainly sounds like it,” Bilbo said. 

Thorin nodded. “It does, indeed. However, there are other flora that grow in Erebor that appear golden, especially to untrained eyes.” He looked to Dís again, pointing up past Dale. “How far is it? The south-east part is only up that way.”

“Not far at all,” Dís said. “If you are warm enough Bilbo, we can go there now, I imagine it will be an easy find in the dark.” 

Bilbo bristled. “I am perfectly warm thank you, nothing will keep me from another, albeit small, adventure. Off we go then.” 

The way out from Dale was as easy as it was in, despite the path disappearing and rolling hills of tall brush paving the way. Bilbo moved the brush from his eye sight and kept a steep march onwards.

“If we don’t find it,” Bilbo started, loud enough for both of them to hear. “We can still fall back on my seedcakes.” 

Thorin hastened his pace. 

—

They spotted the flower just as the moon had reached its zenith. Bilbo supposed that helped the slightest bit for the flower glowed in the moonlight. There were three stems all carrying two flower blooms each–the petals exactly as expected, gold with an orange shimmer, the very tips of them shaded a pale blue. They appeared as an unmoving flame, licking the air only with the help of the night wind. 

“The dragon-flame flower,” Thorin said as they approached, slowly falling to his knees to view it closer. Bilbo followed suit, one hand smoothing a petal between his fingers. He was surprised that they were as cold as the night, and that they left what looked like a soot mark on his thumb. 

“I must tell Immi, she will be thrilled!” Dís remarked. Bilbo handed Thorin a pair of shears he had brought from the Shire, ‘never leave without them when I can’ he had said. A long night walk made for a lovely bouquet when he returned home. 

Thorin gazed on, gentle as he held the blooms in his palm, careful to not yet sever their connection to Erebor’s land just yet. Dís beckoned Bilbo to leave him a moment, and the two stepped back. 

“It has been ages since one was last seen, let alone harvested.” 

“I would think,” Bilbo began. “That such a flower would bring rage, a sign of…the dragon and his remains.” 

Dís was quiet a moment, and all Bilbo could hear was the ruckus of Dale and his own breath. Faintly, he heard Thorin murmuring. 

“I was young when Smaug destroyed our mountain, and so I suppose my views on the dragon were shadowed in revenge tales and not the desolation. But our people, chased from our home and laid to waste upon the cold lands of Middle Earth, found comfort where we could. In tales, in each other, in all that remained. Much of that came from the food we could make as we went, recipes from late mother’s and father’s, brother’s and sister’s–when we ate, we remembered them. The flower, despite its origin, is a sign, from Mahal or whomever else. That even in smoke and ash, good things can grow.” 

Bilbo remained silent, eyes flickering back and forth between Dís and her sad, proud eyes, and Thorin glowing in the light of the flower, glowing in hope. “That…is a beautiful sentiment.” 

“It helps that the flower tastes rather sweet,” Dís laughed then, and the moment lightened. “If I can trust the tongues of you hobbits, you will win this ‘bake-off’ no doubt.” 

A small grew on Bilbo’s face. 

After a few moments, Thorin rose, two flower blooms in his palm, cut so that the stems would produce more in the future. “Let us go, we are close to the sugar cave–Bilbo, you shall find the reason for my sweet tooth.” 

They walked further, the light of the flower dimming as they went until the golden glow was just a pinprick behind them. 

They came upon a cave, and out flowed a great sweetness accompanying lantern light. Bilbo did not know what to expect, but entering he would not have guessed what he saw. Several dwarves were at work, even this late into the night, grinding to dust the colossal crystals that shone from the cave walls. Pickaxes lay abandoned on the floor, presumably from carving away at the walls. The dwarrow greeted them as they walked in, one laying down his mortar and pestle to welcome them–drawing closer Bilbo could see it was Nori. His three-pointed hair was no less great as it had been fifteen years ago, only now it was streaked with a few strands of grey and dusted in crystalline sugar. 

“Thorin! Bilbo! I heard you had returned,” he turned then to Dís with a coy smile. “Lady Dís, a pleasure.”

Thorin cleared his throat, but nodded back to his old friend, “Nori, I am glad to see you taking a strong liking to this job!” 

“Better coin in it for sure, no one wants to be up with the moon, carving sugar from a wall. Right lads?”

A chorus of agreement sounded out from behind him, a few raising a fist in the air. “But I do enjoy not running from the law, especially when beautiful dwarrowdams stop by.” Again, he smiled at Dís, who nodded in return. 

Dís hid a smile of her own. “As you can assume, we are in need of sugar.”

Bilbo raised a finger. “It is so sweet in here! The very air is made of it!” 

“Aye, Master Baggins. Welcome to the sugar caves, officially back up and running again for the first time in 186 years!” 

“Come, hand me an axe!” Thorin bellowed. “I should like it fresh from the crystal.” 

Nori laughed, handing him a stray pickaxe. And though humor was evident in Bilbo’s eyes, he gulped at the idea of finally bearing witness to Thorin at work. On the throne he was…the king, and in the Shire he was a gentle-dwarf who baked and gardened. Never–except in his wildest fantasy–had Bilbo seen Thorin hammering away at a cave wall like he did now. Bilbo suppressed a blush, watching and tampering down any heat in his body as Thorin shed his cloak, gripped the axe, and carved a chunk of sugar from the wall. With a thud it hit the floor but did not lose its iridescent look, the lantern light bounced off of it and the saccharine scent filled Bilbo’s nose once more. 

“Delicious,” Thorin breathed, groaning as he flexed the muscles in his arms, massaging a spot in his back. Nori took it to a mortar and pestle, and with haste ground it into a fine sugary dust. They left the cave with sugar on their tongue and in a jar. 

The walk back to Dale seemed longer to Bilbo, the moon so high and distant, the destination found and met. Thorin kept to his side, Dís on the other, a soft whistle emanating from her mouth. When that ended, Bilbo found a sudden need to sing bubble up inside of him–the day rained down, fire, glowing flowers, crystal sugar, and memories surrounded him. The path stretched on before them like a spread of butter. Bilbo cleared his throat once in warning, sending a wink to Thorin when he dropped his gaze to him. 

The dragon’s ire, red like sinking sky

To honeyed paths, far as the eye

A mountain wreathed, in vibrant gold

The ground could never–long die

With trees of soaring, crying crows

Their hearts of sorrow, did they sow

A might of greatness, hunger felled

From the soot a new fire arose

Chapter Text

The mountain gleamed behind them, carrying new, and kinder memories. The morning dew shimmered across the rocks and clouds gathered just over the whole of the city, settling as if it was Mahal’s loving hand. 

They had left early, just before breakfast, to start the return to Bag End with quickness. The week spent there was largely uneventful, Fili had many meetings and Kili was on a diplomatic visit to Mirkwood–Bilbo had laughed at that, for it was more than likely a ploy–so the days had been full of just Bilbo and Thorin, and occasionally Dís when her schedule was free. New foods were eaten and a different side was seen of Thorin–one where Erebor did not hang over him like a weight but uplifted him, calling him home just as he called it. 

As the day warmed and the sun rose, Bilbo grew to new levels of hunger. His measly, traveling breakfast was not nearly enough. Though the fresh plum dumpling was a delectable way to start the day, it left him starved by mid-morning. 

“Thorin,” he called out, the dwarf on top a donkey just ahead of him. “What have we to eat?” 

He grumbled something Bilbo could not hear but tossed back a bag all the same. Careful not to wobble on the donkey’s back, Bilbo carefully untwined the strings and inside lay a few cuts of cold chicken, a variety of hard cheese, some nuts and dried berries, and a loaf of hard bread. His mouth watered, glad for a selection to feast upon. With a swash of cold spring water, Bilbo dug in, only faintly registering Thorin’s humorous demand to leave some for later. 

—

When mid-day had arrived–and Bilbo’s hunger somewhat satiated–he realized that no longer could he only smell the sharpness of hard cheese and donkey fur, but the salt of sea. This confused him greatly, for he was a hobbit of many enjoyments, cartography being one of them, and had spent a considerable time in his long years pouring over old and new maps. Most, if not all, showed no shoreline where they were, nor inlet of sea. 

Certainly, they had gone the long way. Deserting the idea of Mirkwood even before they had set off for Erebor, but still…Bilbo could remember no sea at all. He inhaled once more, just to be certain, and sure enough–he was enveloped again in the scent of thick salt, now combined with the tang of sea life, and beyond that, the smoke of a fire. 

“Goodness Thorin! Where have you led us?” Bilbo exclaimed once his senses had been confirmed. The sun beat down on him, and though the air was crisp he felt as though his hobby was doing him wrong. 

Thorin swiveled the donkey so he could turn and catch Bilbo’s eyes. “Another ingredient, do you not remember?”

“I know the recipe like the top of my toes! A dragon-flame flower, sugar–crystal from the sugar cave of Erebor, apparently–an orange, salt–”

“Indeed! Salt!” 

“From the sea?”

Thorin laughed, bellowing across the land. “Well of course!”

“This still does not account for the fact that there should be no sea here!”

“Ah, easily solved. There is not a sea here.” Thorin said. He turned his donkey front facing again and continued down the path. Though the mid-day sun was heavy and cast the rolling hills in a haze of orange and gold, Bilbo could see in the far-off distance the points of wooden roofs.

Bilbo hmphed, “my maps–” 

“Fear not, my dear hobbit, your maps are not wrong, and you are not mistaken in reading them. There is an inlet here, and on its bed a small village. We shall bear the night there for I think I can feel a storm in my joints but best of all, the salt that comes from this inlet lobs itself into great big rocks of stone-like salt.” 

Bilbo could then taste it on his tongue, the vibrance of this inlet. And he could, if he squinted, see the glisten of its surface, like a thousand tiny gems glimmering with the reverence of the sunbeams. “Very well,” he said. “I will amend my maps when we return–and you shall help me!” 

—

It was not very long before Bilbo tutted. “Oh, Thorin, we are far too old for this.” 

The villagers were sparse, and only the innkeeper had come to welcome them. A short woman with a wide chin and the kinds of eyes that could bear the awful squint of the sun along the water. Her name was Ebrill and she held a toothy grin and an eagerness to meet new people, most of all a hobbit and dwarf, only one of which she had heard of. When asked, she had no problem showing them the salt rocks, but did not feign an interest in helping. 

Bilbo had not blamed her. 

At first it looked easy, for there were several floating rocks already riding the current of the inlet, swirling in the water accompanying the fish in their flight. But once Thorin had bent down, net in hand, to catch one, it slipped from the surface–ducking beneath like a groundhog. It was then they were caught in a precarious game. 

“Nay, it is–” Thorin reached forward again, the very end of the net only succeeding in knocking the salt rock further into the water. “It is only the water that makes it slippery. We will have one in no time.” 

This time, Bilbo threw his net when the next salt rock rose up. Again, no luck. He thanked Yavanna it was not yet raining, though the clouds that gathered on the horizon darkened–rain would have caused him to toss down his net in failure for sure. “Fiddlesticks–this is not happening, my darling.” 

Thorin wasn’t listening, instead he stared intently at the rolling salt rocks as they floated along the stream. He let a few go by, creeping and creeping, and then he struck. By the widening of his eyes, Bilbo could tell he was surprised that the net had actually captured it. He let out a small woop! but the celebration was short lived as the salt rock continued its trajectory–net or no net. Thorin had enough time to release a yelp before he crashed into the water, salt spray dampening the hobbit on land. 

Oh, how he laughed! The inlet wasn’t deep enough to cause worry, and Thorin reached the surface in no time, a salt rock tucked into his arm so as not to lose it again. “Halw kurdu, give me a hand, or will you only point and laugh?” 

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo said, reaching down. A perilous mistake for within a second his feet had lifted from the bed and he sank below the water, rising only to splutter and curse in Thorin’s face. “Unbelievable!” 

“Be calm,” Thorin bellowed, words melting into thick butter-like laughter. “It is only water.”

“Freezing water!” 

“Come then,” Thorin said, inviting him into the side that did not hold their inanimate enemy. Bilbo slipped in with ease, feeling Thorin nestle into his hair and hold him a while. The water was cold, cold enough to send a tremble into his limbs and have his teeth knock together. But Thorin’s warmth rivaled it pretty well. 

“We got one,” Thorin said eventually. “We may return to the Shire now. After this night, of course.” 

Something pulled in Bilbo’s heart. For how much he had longed for another adventure, and though this one was tame in comparison to the venture to Erebor, he was glad for it all the same. Bilbo smiled, though it was melancholic. They would return to the Shire, bake their toes off, and live a long life of tranquilty–it was a life Thorin had earned, even if Bilbo found a slight bit of sorrow in it. Another day–another adventure lay on his path, he was sure of it. “Tomorrow, then.” 

Thorin shivered, and then they knew it was time to part with the inlet. Salt rock in hand they headed towards the inn, glad to see that in the setting sun, the village had come to life. 

The first person they met, a tall lady with wild silver hair, waved them towards a growing fire by the inn. Men added stacks of wood to it, twigs and branches from the nearby forest, keeping the blaze tall and vibrant. Seats were established around the fire, and across the way they saw Ebrill who excitedly beckoned them to her seat on a log. 

Bilbo eagerly stretched his frozen toes to the fire and felt life return to them. Thorin placed the salt rock into a woolen bag for later. 

“‘Tis a bonfire, good sirs! How remarkable you came on the night we have it. Every autumn we sit here before it, for warmth and greetings.” Ebrill explained, her own hands spread before the rising flames, palms red from the heat. “Dry yourselves! Sit, eat, sing, the nights grow longer now, and cold!” 

They did as told, stretching out along the makeshift seats: logs, bushels, and crates barely holding their weight. 

Thorin leaned in once the majority of the village had settled into place. “It has been decades since last I was here, there were more of them then.” He looked to the small crowd, children ran from the embers, elders stretched their creaking bones along the ground, a few others set a pot beside the great fire and Bilbo caught a whiff of the beginnings of a stew. 

“Many returned to the mountain,” Ebrill cut in, the flames licked at her skin, shading the darkness of her cheeks. In the light, her hair glowed a fierce soot-like black. She scooted closer along the log they all shared. “You are from Erebor are you not? Many of us once lived in Dale, or so I hear, many many lifetimes ago. We settled here, near the water.” 

“Aye…” Thorin sent a pensive look to the fire, eyes furrowing. “A whole generation fled.” 

“Is that–” Bilbo looked between the two. “Is that when you were here? When they settled?”

“Nay,” Thorin lowered his voice. “Years later, there was a moment when I thought I could return, alone. My foolishness brought me this far.” 

Bilbo thought of him. A young, homeless prince, eager to return his home to glory. If Thorin was as desperate as he had been on the journey, he could only imagine how rough the failure was then. “It was not foolishness, Thorin. You know this.” He turned to Ebrill, if she had taken the hint that the story had turned somber, she had done so with a goodness in her heart, for she had left her side of the log to pile them a few plates of stew. 

“There was a kindly old man then, who gave me a good meal, fresh water, and a week in his barn–on the wish that I helped him catch a salt rock or two. Easier then, it was. I fear I now understand his struggles.”

Bilbo brought a hand to his back. “It was a tad rough…” 

“Here,” Ebrill said, bringing their attention back to the crowd. In her hand were three bowls, taking one Bilbo was surprised to find a sweet smell. 

“Ah…” Thorin inhaled. “Yes, this is what I remembered most.” 

“Halw-khatad,” Ebrill again sat beside them. “It is a stew made of carrots, dried fruits, and this time I believe, venison. Try, try.” 

Bilbo inhaled once more, in truth not needing much urging. Beside him Thorin was half-way through the bowl. He laughed before diving in himself. The taste was almost indescribable, while it smelled sweet–and to a certain extent tasted so as well–what was most present on his tongue was the fat of the venison and the spice of the stew itself. And there, behind this incredible combination of tastes, he could taste the very salt rocks this village lived beside. It was different from the sea salt Bilbo had had before, somehow this one was richer, as fierce as the personality the salt rock seemed to have. Bilbo couldn’t help himself, and within minutes the stew was gone. Left only with the sweet and spice still in his mouth he placed a sharp kiss to Thorin’s cheek. “We need this recipe.” 

With the stew done, mugs of a rich beer were distributed–the kind that warmed the chest. Somewhere across the dancing flames, a child took to song. 

—

It was Thorin’s eyes who drooped first, being, surprisingly, an early-to-bed, early-to-rise sort of dwarf. Ebrill was kind enough to show them to their room, one of two in the inn, the other belonging to a ranger ‘in need of a bath’ as the innkeeper put it. Regardless, they were glad for a rest after an afternoon spent fishing out slippery salt rocks. Not to mention the growing humidity of the air, the storm an hour or two away. 

Bilbo pushed the door open, the room stale but kept alight by the moon. “Oh, bugger.”

Thorin hummed in question, only to step further into the room and see the problem. In the corner stood one, child-sized bed. 

“It is the only room available,” Ebrill murmured behind them. “I figured any bed was better than a barn.” To that Thorin only nodded. 

Bilbo sighed once more but sent a nod to the lady. “It will do, thank you, Ebrill. And good night!” Ebrill granted him a candle. He closed the door once she had fled down the hallway. 

“I will take the floor,” Thorin said. 

“Oh hush, and have both our backs twisted by morning? You sleep on top of me anyway, we shall make do.” Bilbo fluffed out the one and only pillow, then with a shake of the sheets he slid in–too tired to refresh himself before bed. “Come along then.” 

Thorin stared a moment–at Bilbo and the impossibly small bed–before slowly slipping beneath the covers. Only a small portion of his body hit the mattress, Bilbo indeed took on most of his weight. 

Bilbo wiggled beneath him until they both felt something akin to comfort. “Oof! I’d appreciate it if you kept your hand from there–thin walls, Thorin!” 

A laugh rumbled above him. “Goodnight,” Thorin mumbled against his chest. Bilbo blew out their light. In the darkness their breaths were the only thing to fill the room–that and the beginnings of Thorin’s snore. Bilbo wiggled some more, limbs already growing bloodless. 

Knowing he’d be stiff in the morning Bilbo exhaled an annoyed puff of air. “It will be my poor joints. Hmph!” 

Chapter Text

“Carefully now, little stem. Add the sugar–there you go!” Belladona shook the measuring cup, her hand wrapped around her babe’s tender wrist. The sugar plopped in the bowl with a soft thud, followed swiftly by far too much flour, a squished handful of butter, and an egg yolk still half in the shell. It would be a monstrous cake, half-way to inedible, but it would be Bilbo’s first, and that alone made it worthy. 

Belladona replaced the cup with a wooden spoon. “Now, we stir.” She mixed and mixed, waving the poor lad's hand in a circle. “Imagine it is a great big cauldron, and a pair of goblins prepare it for you!”

“Eugh!” Bilbo exclaimed, “no goblins–none! It is…” he thought for a moment, all the while his and his mother’s hand spun and spun. “It is a whirlpool in the sea! And the eggs are ships.”

“Very imaginative,” Belladona said, pressing a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead. “And these eggs–these ships–they will sink, will they?” 

“Yes, yes–mammy, they go down, and the captain will too! I’ve read alllll about such things.”

“Oh indeed!” 

Bilbo spun the spoon a few more times, head bobbing up and down. “Indeed! And, guess what! I have seen a million seas on your maps! They are huge!” 

Belladona laughed, clean as the morning, the sound floating out into the garden where Bungo knelt in the late summer dirt. Bilbo followed in the laughter, so bright and cheery even the wilting sunflowers tilted up. “Seas can be quite large, I am glad you take an interest in such things.” 

“When I am big, mam, I shall go on adventures–even if papa says it is wrong for us hobbits to do such things, I will!” 

With the batter spun and sweetness doubled, Belladona took Bilbo from his stool. “And so you shall, my little stem. Take on all the adventures this world has for you–one foot in front of the other. Now run along, this should be baked before Gandalf comes for the party.”

“Yes, mam!”

“And Bilbo…happy birthday again.” 

—

Bilbo had only been this happy and disappointed to see the Shire once before. When he had thought his complex "friendship" with King Thorin was over and done for. When he thought he had seen the last of his adventures and was just glad to be home, even if it meant living the rest of his life as a lonely bachelor. 

Indeed, it was a simple life he had planned for himself, broken only once and then returned like one of Miss Puddburrow’s ceramic crafts. And then it broke more–when he returned to Erebor, and again when the dwarves stopped in for tea, and it shattered almost completely when Thorin appeared one fine early winter morning, ready for nothing less than a long-awaited companionship. 

There was nothing hobbit-ly simple about Bilbo Baggins’ life now. Nothing perfectly average about strolling through Hobbiton with a dwarf lover, a dragon-flame flower, and a determination to win the annual bake-off. And Bilbo fancied himself glad to have that life shattered and smashed. He was only sad now that their little adventure–with such lovely food!--had ended. 

They had returned home just in time, the bake-off but a week away. Hobbiton was as green as usual, Thorin trailed behind him, their stores settled nicely on the one donkey that did not return to Bree. Bilbo was glad to find Bag End all in one piece, no auction as before–he even checked the silverware just in case. 

It was quiet inside the hill, the ache of the end of their slight adventures weaseled in like a bad joint. The soft talk of the town, their donkey’s gentle grazing, and Thorin’s heavy breaths were all they could hear in their home–despite this, it was all the welcome they could ever want. 

“Right then,” Bilbo says, padding from the front room and into his pantry. “I’ve a good amount of regular, normal ingredients. There are a few I’d like to grab from the market before we need to prepare–and, dare I say I’d like some fresh milk and butter. A few of our neighbors will surely own a goat or two.” 

Thorin stayed quiet, a stormy eye straying out the window. After a moment he turned to Bilbo. “We will rest the day, and tomorrow.” 

Bilbo gave him a tired smile, truly the weeks on the road and ingredient hunting had taken a little bit out of him. “Go on in and rest, I’ll whip us up something to eat.” 

And then, all Bilbo could hear was Thorin’s snores and the thump of cabinets, with the rustle of an oven fire beside it all. The best part, he thought, about food was not just the eating–but the making of it. Something he missed while on his adventures, when it was but a fire and a skinned rabbit for dinner. All the fun of the meal had been lost. 

There was something magical that happened when Bilbo was alone in the kitchen, when his hands grasped at various ingredients, cracking open eggs and molding the very nourishment he would feed himself and Thorin. It was…something kind…something that made his life feel all the more joyful. Perhaps it was the act of creation, of taming the wild beast of baking, but there in the belly of the kitchen–to the tune of Thorin’s sleep and the afternoon wind, Bilbo found a heart-aching solace that sent his tears running. 

He wiped them quickly, before they could fall into the cheese plate he put together. Hard cheese, soft cheese, sweet cheese, stinky cheese–all sliced and settled on a wooden plate. Beside them, grapes, salt crackers, various cured meats, nuts, baby pickles, and on the side, two thimblefuls of a sweet wine Bilbo had gotten before they left. 

Preparing the plate with Thorin’s snores made it no surprise that he was asleep. Bilbo left the tray, a few pieces empty, beside him for when he awoke and took his own wine to the porch. 

It was a hazy late October afternoon, wind churning against the hillsides, flowers bending to its will. The air held that lovely scent of clean coldness that the curling end of autumn always brought. Bilbo wrapped himself in another layer before he had settled, enjoying the warmth of wine in his lungs and the cold against his nose. Night fell swiftly, all the while he simply sat and let the sun tilt out of sight–let the stars blink open in the purple-dark night. 

Bilbo thought and thought deeply. The bake-off was near on his mind, but so was the ever-present contentment of his life. The idea that he was done had never crossed his mind–sure he was older, greyer, more stiff than he had been years ago, but his mind was a whip. 

Bilbo flexed his hands in the cold, feeling his bones fend it off, feeling the bite still linger within his body. Something coiled within him, a worm whispering poetic dedications of nymphs and trolls and creeping moths, storms on seas, word wise trees, and great dragons flaming the tops of them. He stuck a finger to the dark sky. “Aha!” 

Wrapping the cloak around him he ambled inside, a new song, a new story pounding against the base of his skull. The sight of the bed, however, breathed in an exhaustion within him. Bilbo laid down, stealing Thorin’s warmth as he splayed his arms around him. Still mumbling a list of rhymes, Bilbo fell into an adventurous slumber. 

—

Thorin lifted his fork, ham smoking from the tines–red rimmed and roasted. The scent nearly distracted Bilbo before Thorin’s pointed look pulled him back in. “Who has a goat…and when shall we go to them?” 

Bilbo tapped his chin. “Obo had one, but it's been many years since I last spoke to him to know if he still does. Crassus might as well. Briar certainly does–she won the soap-making contest two years in a row–but I do not wish to speak with her.”

Quirking his lip, Thorin raised an eyebrow. “I am sensing a story.”

“Not a good one I’m afraid–she’s uncouth! The goats are the only nice thing about her.”

“Surely others own goats…there's that farmer down by the mushroom fields…”

Bilbo shook his head, “nay, Farmer Maggot sold little Button back in May. I reckon she’s over in Frogmorton now.” 

“Well then, we best try our luck with… Crassus is it? If he might have a goat, he might have some milk and butter for us to buy.” 

Bilbo huffed but nodded all the same. “He’ll be in the Great Smials with the rest of the Leafwalkers, we’ll find us a goat today.” 

And so, with the rest of breakfast downed, they headed off. The day was colder than it had been this autumn, the finality of harvest and the coming of winter shredded the last of the sun’s warmth. Winter steadily rolled over like a leaf on the wind, Bilbo and Thorin finally bundled up–Bilbo, under Thorin’s pressure, even wrapped his ankles with an old woolen scarf. 

The Great Smials weren’t very far, not for a lover of walks like most hobbits were. Before the warmthless sun had fallen from its throne, Bilbo stopped to knock on Crassus Leafwalker’s round yellow door. Through the open shutters out streamed several curses, a heavy thump, and the not-so-gentle smell of burning batter before Crassus opened the door with a soft-eyed, sleepy look. 

He blinked. Once, twice. “Well I’ll be–Bilbo Baggins? Haven’t seen you out the house since spring!” Crassus was an older hobbit, nearly Bilbo’s age surely, with streaked chestnut hair and deep brown eyes. He had on a gardener's pair of overalls, splattered in both flour and dirt. 

Bilbo tutted. “Afternoon, Crassus. Would you happen to have a goat?” Thorin cleared his throat at Bilbo’s attitude. 

The dwarf nodded when he gained Crassus confused attention. “We were hoping you owned a goat, we are in need of milk and butter for the bake-off–”

“Oh, the bake-off, is it? Wonderful! Nay, I’m afraid my sister took Pecan when she moved in with her in-laws. Now, come along, I'll have to deliver a cake to her anyhow.” Crassus disappeared from view, returning with a very burnt cake balanced in his hand. He nodded to them and took the lead. 

“An odd one,” Bilbo whispered, Thorin hadn’t the heart to reply: says he, he thought. 

Crassus tossed them a look. “I’m sure she’ll have no problem giving you some of her store, Rebutia nearly won in that soap-making contest last year.”

“That is the one Briar won, yes?” Thorin had whispered to Bilbo, but Crassus heard. 

“Indeed!” he said. “No wonder you didn’t go to her though Bilbo, I remember,” he winked at the old hobbit, tapping a careful finger to his temple. “Never one to settle down, you. Drove us round in circles–I am amiable, far more than she, I can take a run-around–”

“Right then!” Bilbo cut him off. He spared a look at Thorin. “Old bachelor history…” 

The cake tittered on Crassus’ hand when he swiveled. “Pardon me, old history for you.”  He turned to Thorin who watched with widened eyes, something close to humor danced across his face. “Half of Hobbiton dealt with Bilbo Baggins in his prime–a bachelor indeed.” He turned again, regaining his grip on the cake and walking ahead. 

“Nay,” Bilbo said at Thorin’s look. “Don’t stare, I had a bit of fun is all. Don’t act like you didn’t warm your nights long ago.”

Thorin cleared his throat, a blush tinting the edge of his thick ears. He thought of Bilbo, long ago having fun. And himself, in the Blue Mountains finding the idea far too preposterous for a One-less prince. “Well, I was rather busy with other things…both Crassus and Briar?”

Now Bilbo flushed red. “Hush.” 

—

Rebutia was a tiny thing, far too thin to be a hobbit in Bilbo’s mind. But if Crassus’ cooking was an indicator for the family talents, then it made quite a lot of sense. The cake appeared more brutalized once they had made it to Rebutia’s new home, edges blackened and the top windswept. Bilbo shivered. 

“For a wedding?” He whispered to Thorin. “How awful.” Thorin shrugged and sighed and hoped no one had heard this time. 

Crassus led them into the kitchen where he placed the poor cake on the counter and fled to find his sister’s stores when she shewed him away. “Hello, Mr. Baggins, Mr. Oakenshield. I do hope these do you well, Pecan is a special thing, all sweet maple and sunbeams. Her milk and butter sell well at the market.” 

“So I’ve seen,” Bilbo smiled. Rebutia was the youngest of the Leafwalker children, and her wedding was set for the evening. A small affair, unusual for Hobbiton but the way Rebutia blushed at the small conversation had Bilbo tilting his head in pity. Small wedding, burnt cake. 

Crassus stumbled back into the room, several jars in his hands. “I figured you want to pick the best of the bunch.” 

After sampling, Bilbo and Thorin chose three freshly churned jars of butter and two jars of star-white milk. “How much?” Thorin asked. 

“Oh, no worries,” Rebutia smiled, cheeks rosy. “Take it, Pecan makes enough for a small gift to the hopeful winners.” 

But Bilbo frowned, he shared a look with Thorin who furrowed his brows once before nodding. “Would it be alright if we made you a cake? For the wedding?” 

Rebutia spared a look at the burnt cake on the counter. Crassus had gone out into the small garden to find some more wedding flowers–something he was better at then baking. She tilted her head. “I didn’t want to say anything, but…it really is quite burnt.” 

“That settles it! What the bride wants, she gets! Go on, prepare yourself. We’ll whip something up swiftly!” 

“Alright, alright. Flour is in the pantry; there's sugar there as well. Of course, you know where the butter is…” With a soft look, Rebutia fled into her bedroom. 

“That was nice,” Thorin murmured as they set to baking. The cake was quickly tossed when Crassus was away from the window. 

“Poor thing, she was already flustered and that old man brought her a bad cake.”

A small smile flickered onto Thorin’s face. “Aye, what did you ever see in him?” 

Bilbo sighed, “I said hush.” 

“It is hard to–learning your lover was a…what do you hobbits call a hulwultarg? A rake?”

“I was not a rake!” Bilbo’s voice pitched. He dumped flour, eggs, sugar, and butter into a bowl. Thorin took to stirring, a laugh rumbling in his chest. “I was not! I kept my options open–don’t you know not to “plant all your seeds in the same field.” It's a good thing too, I ended up not liking them all. Turns out my soulmate was a dwarf.” 

Thorin pressed a kiss to his hairline, leaning over so as to not douse them both in cake batter. “Aye, and my One, a burglar. Who knew?” 

They kept quiet at this moment, taking turns stirring the batter until the clumps were gone. Thorin passed it into the oven to bake while Bilbo set to making icing. The afternoon was going slower than usual, though the sun was blocked by empty, white clouds. The fire crackled, grasping the room in a tight, cozy, grip. 

“Do you…” Thorin trailed off, stirring a bit of icing. “Have you ever given thought to marriage?” 

Bilbo hummed. “Of course I have. A Baggins like me had a shire-full of options.” 

“Aye,” Thorin nodded, swallowing thickly. “And a marriage with me?” He cursed the redness he knew to be spreading across his face. How pitiful to see a warrior reduced to such flushing and stumbling of words. 

Bilbo passed him a smile. “Do you not think us too old? I know of your love for me as well as I know mine for you…”

“One is never too old for such a thing.” 

Another quiet moment passed before Thorin pulled Bilbo back into his chest. With the warmth of his arms and the chill of the autumn through the windows, Bilbo felt that same thump from the night before. The sudden urge for something, anything! It was like his heart leaped rabbit-like from his chest, his mind ready for everything, lungs sucking in all the air this world could make. 

He felt Thorin’s lips kiss the back of his head, voice vibrating against his skull. “It would certainly be an adventure, a wedding. Some of the Company would win a bet I’m sure.” Again, Thorin went quiet, but in his shaky breath Bilbo knew a small part of him was afraid. 

Bilbo smiled, and took Thorin’s softly trembling hand. “No need to think on it today, with all this wedding business right in the air. We must be all in during the bake-off, yes? We’ll come back to it someday.” 

Thorin nodded. “Someday.” 

The icing stood fluffed in wefts of cream, the cake rose in the orange fire. When Rebutia stepped out she was in her best gown: a deep purple that kissed her collarbones, lace trimming each and every hem. Her hair was curled tightly around the curve of her face, where red cheeks framed a never-ending smile.

Thorin sent her a smile, eyes crinkling. “You look beautiful, child.” 

“And as cheery as a flower!” Bilbo added. “The cake is nearly done, I’m afraid we won’t be able to stay for the wedding, bake-off business and all.” 

Rebutia curtsied in her dress, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “I thank you both, it was awfully kind of you to help. Crassus does his best but…” 

“I know, Miss Leafwalker, I do.” 

Outside, they heard a sharp yell. The bride grimaced. “Oh dear, Crassus and Lothar probably knocked down the table again. I’ll see you at the markets, Mr. Bilbo, thank you again!” 

“We’ll leave the cake here!” Bilbo called but Rebutia was already running out the door. 

Bilbo shook his head. “Poor thing.” 

“Our wedding will be more organized,” Thorin said absentmindedly. He plucked the cake from out the oven, setting it to cool on the windowsill, the autumn air speeding up the process. 

Heart kicking again, Bilbo brought his crimson cheeks to face the warmth of the fire–finding his excuse there. 

—

The clouds were dusted with a rich orange by the time they left the hill. The cake was iced and left for Rebutia’s wedding, fresh goat milk and butter ready for use. 

A shout came from the backyard. “Mr. Bilbo!” Rebutia, bound in an ivory veil and a baby goat on her tail. “Mr. Bilbo!” She said again once close. “Pecan had a sister, a little thing. It's too much of a hassle for two goats in our yard, I was…only if you want…as a thank you…?”

Bilbo’s lips slid into a frown, eyes tugging to a tight furrow. “A hassle indeed–”

“We’ll take her,” Thorin said before Bilbo could decline. 

Chapter Text

The straggle of melodious harp tunes woke Bilbo from his slumber, the sky a saddened grey for such a day. He slid off the bed, cracking his stiff bones back into place–a sharp yawn breaking the silence of the room, and breaking through the music from outside of it. 

It was a wonderful start to the day, and Bilbo knew Thorin would be sitting by the open window as if playing for the whole of Hobbiton though only a few could hear his nimble fingers and their creation. He cocked his head; ears tilted to the closed door and took in the sweet sound of his lover's music. 

The only thing Bilbo could grumble now about was the lack of breakfast. 

And so, with a creak, he opened the door and stepped into the sitting room. Bilbo was, of course, right that Thorin would be sitting near the windowsill and dragging a few trembling chords out into the garden. What he did not expect was their goat–Nutmeg, they had decided on after a day of consideration–nibbling on his turnips and listening like a child. 

Bilbo took a quiet step closer, the floor granting him silence. Thorin’s voice accompanied the harp, a soft and deep tune that thrummed the day awake and asleep all at once. Standing there Bilbo felt a million emotions slide over him like a hearth-warmed sweater. Nameless for the most part, but the feeling of them brought fierce tears to his eyes. He shifted his gaze then, reveling in the soft thump of his heart, the warm roll of stone that was Thorin’s voice, the scent of coming rain and a fall garden, the quiet nibbles of Nutmeg. 

At that moment all Bilbo could think was I’m going to marry this one. 

Soft is the garden, where you now sleep

No sense in bleating, no need to weep

Kind is your life, and warm is your head

The sun shines for you, the sky beet-red

“There you go, Nutmeg,” Thorin whispered when his words ended. The harp tapered out until its strong thrum remained only in Bilbo’s memory. 

Finally, Bilbo found his voice. “That was beautiful, Thorin.”

“Ah,” he turned around, giving the goat one last pet across her furry head. “Good morning, Bunnanun.” 

Thankfully, Bilbo was able to free his cheeks of tears before Thorin appeared before him. Still, he cocked his head, “are you well? Will you be up to the bake-off today?” 

“Fine! Yes, fine!” Bilbo took Thorin’s face in his hands, feeling the age-withered beard prickle against his palms. “Let us have a hearty breakfast, and then it's off to bake,” he said before giving him a deep kiss. 

Thorin gave him a pointed look when they parted but relented, dragging his hobbit to the kitchen. 

—

“We’re not allowed to touch, I’m afraid,” Bilbo said as they walked to the tents. A long, scantily pieced together stage stood at the very back of the largest one that made Thorin’s stomach twist. He shuffled their supplies and ingredients higher onto his shoulder and squeezed through the crowd. 

“Pardon?” 

“No touching. Note those two over there.” Bilbo pointed to a hobbit couple with matching curly straw hair; they hung behind a patched-together station whispering over the bowls and spoons. “Mr. and Mrs. Buttontoe–they traded unapproved seasonings after the bake-off had begun four years ago, and now partners cannot touch or get too close while cooking. Folly!” 

Something in Thorin itched but he bit back his reservations. “Alright then. Where do we go?”

Bilbo pointed to one of the smaller tents, inside Thorin could see Hamfast poking through a participant's bag. “Check in first, then we’ll head to our stations.” With that the two of them took their place in the short line, and within a few moments, Hamfast was poking his way through their various bags. 

“How do you do, Mr. Bilbo?” Hamfast nodded, then, “Mr. Thorin?” 

“Well enough for the day, Hamfast!” 

He ruffled through a few moments longer, humming in delight at some of the ingredients. “I’ll be judging today…” he said as way of explanation. 

“Don’t be too harsh and I’ll have a pie waiting for you on the morrow.”

“Aye! Lest I forget who pays me!” Hamfast guffawed, and finally, handed back their bags. Nodding them onwards, and the next contestant behind them. 

Ingredients secured, they walked along the hobbit-made path, plum-colored ribbons escorting them beneath the largest tent. Inside several shoddy hearths and bread ovens were set up for their use, already smoking out the sides and into the crisp air. 

“Come along then–oh Master Baggins! How good to see you!” A rather rotund hobbit shook off a dusting of flour from his hair. “You and your dwarf competing this year? Oh those judges will have a delightful time…” 

“Thank you, Mr. Small–” the old hobbit ushered them through the smoke to a fire in the back corner. 

“This is one of best, happy baking!” 

“Well then, seed-cakes first, and then we’ll prepare for the bread–Thorin are you listening?”

“Does everyone refer to me as ‘your dwarf’ or only–what was it–Mr. Small-something?” Thorin was blushing, a sheepish smile flickering at his lips. Now Bilbo joined him, clearing his throat as the heat rose to the tips of his ears. 

“No, not all. Many of them have yet to remember your name is all. Easy to refer to you as…my dwarf.” 

Thorin’s laugh slid like stone, and suddenly despite the autumn wind, Bilbo grew very hot. “It is true, is it not?”

“That I am your dwarf?” Thorin feigned to think, then slid his palm across Bilbo’s burning cheek. “Yes, quite true.” 

A hand clapped, sending a sharp sound through the tent. “Alright Fairfoots, Tunnelys, Buttontoes–” at this the hobbit sent them a sharp look, “Baggins–and his dwarf–”

“For Mahals’ sake,” Thorin grumbled but still kept his flush. 

“Puddlefoots, and finally, Cottons! It is time to begin Hobbiton’s Annual Autumn Bake-off!” The hobbit, red of hair and red of face, marched through the center of the tent. On the front of his plaid tunic he had a wooden nametag: Beet Smallburrow it read. Thorin peered around as he talked, the remaining hearths had been taken by the other contestants while Bilbo and Thorin had spoken–each of them clambering their ingredients out onto their station tables. 

“Now–as the rules have been for quite a few years now, stagnant, I will go over them once and once only. Each category has a certain amount of time allotted, during this there will be no touching–” again he sent the Buttontoes a rather scathing eye, “--while the bake-off is in progress. There are three categories, teas and cakes, breads, and–special to this year, a showstopper. Something special, to you, and to our judges. If the judges delight in your final creation, well, count yourself this year's lucky winner!

“Between each category you will get a few moments respite to clean up your station, hand your creations to our volunteers–where they will be readied for judging–and to talk to, and touch if deemed necessary, your partners.” Beet paused, taking a heavy inhale of fresh air. His crimson cheeks only lessened slightly, beginning again once he opened his mouth once more. “After all your creations are baked and ready to be judged you will be escorted to the Judge’s tent where we will see who can create the most Shire-worthy showstopper!” 

The contestants clapped and whooped, Bilbo joining. Only Thorin felt the most pressure on his shoulders since he was crowned. He huffed out a sharp breath, breathing in through his nose over and over until he felt that stress-heavy stone lift a bit. He had come back to himself when Bilbo gave his arm one last squeeze. 

Their first creations' ingredients were strewn across the table; herbs and spices for their tea, and for the seed-cakes; flour, sugar, butter, a dash of nutmeg that made him think of the little one grazing at home, and a shot of brandy Thorin wished he could down. Regardless, he pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s knuckles, dropping his hand just in time for Beet Smallburrow’s breathless voice to sound out across the tent. "Hearth’s lit! Bake your toes off, hobbits! Go!” 

And just like that, something came over Thorin. He felt his joints grow rock-smooth, muscles and limbs able and willing, his heart thumping but not with fear or anxiety, but pure enthusiastic adrenaline. 

His hands, once used for forging and fighting, then for vellum-slick documents, eased over to the flour–and like he was born for baking, Thorin whipped together Bilbo’s seed-cakes with ease. 

Beside him Bilbo ground the roots and spices they had picked from the garden just this morning, an autumnal selection of ginger root, cloves, cardamom, and cinnamon. Once done, he bound them in a cheesecloth, letting them soak in a kettle of boiling water. 

With that aside, he took the batter Thorin had been making and began spooning them into a buttered pan. They worked side by side, never touching but communicating nonetheless. If either of them had had the mind they would have smiled at the thought–such patient perfection at the baking table. But at the moment, all Thorin could focus on was the batters' lumps and how to get them out.

Smoke rolled through the air; whips of cold wind lifted the tent sides to hurry them along. The clouds strolled by like elders with watchful eyes, until finally Thorin looked up at the sound of the fire sizzling. 

“Now we wait,” Bilbo said. The seed-cakes glowed in the fire, the scent already undeniably delicious. Thorin’s stomach growled for he had grown comfortable with a meal always waiting for him. 

“Hm,” Thorin rolled his shoulders back, muscles aching from handling the stiff batter. The other contestants meandered around, some finishing up their batters, others, like them, waiting for the fire to finish. “Now we wait…” 

—

It was during the second category that it all went wrong. Which surprised Thorin, for he was sure that once the weight of anxiety fled he would be safe. Nay–Mahal had fed him a softer life, but that did not come without any bloodshed. 

Thorin had, in his year living at Bag End, taken up bread making. His favorite, and most delicious of the stuff was a fruit bread that satisfied his sweet tooth, and oftentimes his midnight hunger. 

The fruit, an assortment of cherries, currants, and cranberries, had been picked along the home journey. And thus dried within Bag End’s own pantry. Thorin had rolled the dough in the early morning, setting it aside to shape at the bake-off, and then to toss into the hearth. Indeed, he was steady in hand, shaping it with delicate palms and a creased forehead, when Bilbo's sharp gasp shook his focus. 

The hobbit held a cloth to his hand, a grimace spreading across his face just as fast as his blood spread through the cloth. Swiftly, Thorin’s hands left the dough. “What happened? How did you–” Bilbo evaded his touch. 

“No touching! I will not lose to those Buttontoes because of my shaky hands. Don't mind me!” 

“Bilbo!” Thorin scolded and again tried to grasp at the hobbit’s bloodied palm. 

“Thorin!” he returned. “I am well! I knocked by thumb chopping the dried fruits. Beet’s waving me over–finish the bread, I’ll see to this.” Thorin could only look on numbly as Bilbo fled the tent, wrapping the cloth tighter to his thumb. 

The stone sunk again, harder this time. It was one thing to fight his nerves with Bilbo by his side and another thing entirely to do so on his own. Thorin had never been one to fear his independence, he had walked a lonely, hard felt road true enough. Something about Bilbo had dulled this…this solitude. His hobbit had appeared like a crystal in stone and slowly but surely, he had forgotten what it felt like to be on his own. 

Thorin took one more look at Bilbo, now getting a cleaner cloth in the aid tent, and turned his hands to the dough. He thought of all the times he had made this, nights when Bilbo had fallen asleep without dinner, cheek pressed to an old map. Days when the winter seemed forever and spring a distant dream, when the fire was sweet and warm, and the bread sweeter and warmer. Never, in the past year, had Thorin made this loaf and not split it between the two of them. 

As he pressed and shaped the dough, tucking in more fruits, he returned to his memories and held them all the more tighter. 

When the bread was fed to the fire, glowing like an ember, Beet had called the second round over. Thorin fled to the aid tent. 

“Ibinê, let me see,” he said once he reached Bilbo, taking the other’s throbbing red hand in his. Bilbo had the time to hold in his wince as Thorin grasped him, but could not stop the yelp when his fingers prodded the wound. 

“Glory, darling! It is a cut, nothing more, but don’t go poking at it!” Bilbo shielded his thumb again. The hobbits within the aid tent had fixed him with a temporary cloth, wrapping tightly around the offending finger. 

Thorin huffed and turned his head to the tent’s inhabitants. “Why have they not given you a true bandage? You are injured.” 

“Only slightly,” Bilbo said. He nodded a head to a younger hobbit being surrounded like a fallen child. “Lark there is nursing a rather nasty burn along his wrist, I reckon those kinds of injuries take priority."  

Again, Thorin huffed, a soft sound that encompassed as much annoyance as he could muster. He reached for Bilbo’s hands–this time careful to avoid holding the injured one with his usual tightness–and looked him in the eyes. “The bread did well. Are you ready for the showstopper or need we cut out now?”

Bilbo cracked a smile. “Don’t you go and give up on this Thorin Oakenshield. I may have nicked myself but I can still whip this up just as good as usual.” Despite his wound, he gripped Thorin’s hands in return all the harsher. “Unless, of course, you’d like to go on home? There's no shame in it; we did quite well for our two rounds–” 

Thorin pressed a firm kiss to his lips, stopping his sentence short. “Nay,” he said. “We keep going. There is shame in that.” 

“Nay? Alright then, let me get this covered–”

“Let me,” Thorin murmured, moving off before Bilbo could reiterate how unnecessary all this fuss was. He returned with another clean cloth, a linen dabbed in a bit of honey. After wiping Bilbo’s thumb with clean water, he wrapped it tight over the cut–even if the hobbit winced. 

“Thank you, love.” Bilbo said, pulling Thorin back when he only nodded. “The final round starts soon. I believe we can win this.” 

—

When they took their places again, they did note a few contestants having lost a partner or their station was completely empty. Thorin bit back a quip about dwarvish endurance, especially with Bilbo’s knowing glare. 

Before Beet could stroll down the center of the tent, voice loud and demanding, Thorin pulled Bilbo in for one more long kiss. Albeit sloppy, they traded a bit of love and confidence then–flour too. 

The sun was marking her lines across the sky, hidden by frequent grey-filled clouds. The judging took place at nightfall every year, where once a winner was selected the crowd was warmed by spiced cider and mulled wine, the remaining baked goods spread among them like infectious happiness. But for now, it was the final round, and Bilbo and Thorin had the energy for this final adventure. 

“Off you go!” Beet exclaimed, and they were set. 

Later, if asked, Thorin would say he had endured the bake-off’s final round with an anxious and vibrating solemnity, filled with the dread of its finishing, worry over the rice-pudding’s taste, and most of all, monumentally excited to make it. The tent filled with late-autumn birdsong, their migratory melody a soothe on Thorin’s slight fears, beyond the smoke and haze of the coming night, grew the saccharine scent of the rice pudding. And within that, all the memories that it evoked. 

It had been a cold winter day when Thorin had placed the bartered grain into the begged-for pot of boiled milk. A day where the sun seemed ever-distant, and the hunger of his people closed in on him. Dís grumbled beside him, head filled with vengeance but stomach empty. The small crowd that still hung on to them, still urged towards the Blue Mountains, had spent a hard autumn traversing the countryside of Eriador, and a pot of something warm and sweet would do them good. 

Thorin had taken the dragon-flame flower after it had grown on the mountainside of Erebor. Then, a flourishing flora on the mountain’s singed ground. And, as he prepared to do now, crumbled its dried petals into the pot. The aroma grew on that lonely night, and the pudding spared his people of a cold, hungry night then, as it would continue to do so until a new home was found. 

Now, Thorin withdrew the flower’s petals from its delicate wrapping. Though the color was less vibrant, a pitiful orange with no glow like it had been the night they picked it. It still evoked that hopeful feeling. 

“Go on,” Bilbo urged quietly from beside him. 

With sure hands, Thorin crumbled the petals into the rice, the milk swallowing it and the smell of sweet smoke joining the clean, cold air. It smelt of hope, of new beginnings, of regrowth in the darkest of times. The fading light of day caught the final orange petal as it swam in the milk, and it let one last dim glow remind Thorin of Erebor, and its return to glory. 

“We’ll let it soak a bit and then–”

“Then it is done, yes.” Thorin gave it one last stir, the fragrance making him lick his lips. He sent a look, one that could compensate for his inability to hold his hand. “Thank you, Bilbo, for giving me a chance to make it once again.” 

Bilbo smiled, and with a promise for more bake-offs, helped fold the pudding again. 

Chapter Text

Bag End was woefully dark as they approached with a drunken step and a dimming lantern. Nutmeg rounded the front once they opened the gate, bumping into Thorin’s leg with a sharp bleat before attempting to follow them indoors. Though mulled wine delighted Bilbo, he still had the sense to toss her a treat before stumbling into the green door himself. 

He settled against the wall, still reeking of crisp firewood and bread. “Unbelievable! Complete and utter folly!” 

Thorin barked a laugh, infinitely more sober but his humors were tickled by a home brew regardless. “Settle, amrâlimê. Second place is not so terrible.” 

“Not terrible?! Oakenshield, allow me to show you half a century of finalist ribbons and let us see if it is ‘not so terrible’ then!” Bilbo maneuvered to his study but Thorin caught the end of his coat. Dragging him down into a chair, they both sat, hiccuping and flushed with drink while the day filled their memories. 

“I do not see how we could have only gotten second place,” Bilbo huffed. 

“Did you not taste the Bramblefoot’s showstopper? It was delightful–cake and cheese! What did they call it…?”

“A fig cheesecake, or something like that anyway…I will admit, I couldn’t get away from it. My waist coat is seconds from bursting.” 

Thorin hummed, delighted by the memory and still holding the taste on his tongue. It grew quiet in Bag End, the silence only parted by Nutmeg’s shuffles and the drunken crowd they had just escaped. With the fire remaining unlit, the whole of the hill was sunk in shadow, naught but the light of the moon cradled the room. The lack of activity simmered whatever had kept them both awake until now, and the ale washed over Thorin quickly until his eyes began to droop. By Thorin’s reckoning it was nearing the glow of dawn already, and if he didn’t shut his eyes soon he would spend the entire day abed. He grunted as he stood, weary from being on his feet the whole day–how comfortable he had grown in the comforts of the Shire. “Come, khîê, let us rest before the sun returns once more–” 

Bilbo caught his arm, forcing him to stop. “I have something for you,” he said. From the pocket of his coat he brought out a little glass jar, the top covered in the stickiness of a beeswax wrap. Carefully, he pulled the covering off to reveal a dollop or two of the dragon-flame rice pudding, the smoky-sweetness lighting the air. 

“We did not get a chance to stop and taste it,” Bilbo whispered, voice sheepishly quiet. “On account of the whole of Hobbiton cracking open their meads and ciders before the judges had the time to mull over their meals.” He paused, for he could see the moonlight glinting across the tears gathering in Thorin’s eyes, and he joined him. “Oh, darling…”

“Thank you,” Thorin said with such conviction that Bilbo felt his heart give out. He said nothing as Thorin took the glass from him–and the spoon it came with–and placed a bite on his tongue. 

He closed his eyes in memory, in sweet reunion with the delicacy of his youth. Thorin tasted the dragon-flame flower, its scorched soil and seed of hope, he tasted the sprinkle of grinded-down salt rocks, the saccharine tang of crystals from Erebor’s sugar cave. There was a great deal of memory within these dancing flavors, and to be sure, not all of them good. Nonetheless, Thorin relished in the childhood that rested in his palm, the taste of his past aspiration, and best of all, the knowledge that Bilbo had accompanied him in making this treat. 

Bilbo was there, smiling beneath the tears, when he opened his eyes. With no words, Thorin pulled him into a kiss, nearly lifting the poor hobbit from the floor. 

Bilbo split with a sharp exhale and a ready word. “Marry me?” he said deep and clear. 

Thorin's mouth opened though no sound came out. He shook his head, once, twice. The moment's previous melancholy bled from his face, replaced with unbridled joy. "You're an idiot, Bilbo Baggins." 

Bilbo took that as a yes.

—

It was near that time of morning, when the sun blotted out all darkness, slipping up behind trees of green and plum–speared between life and death–and glinting along the roots as they dribbled the last bits of sweet sap of the dew-frosted grass. Bilbo awoke painfully early, having just retired before the sun’s climb, to the sound of sharp and insistent knocks. 

Thorin groaned beside him, but he had, in his older age, grown used to sleeping deep and unbothered and so did not move until Bilbo was out of the room. 

At the door, a particularly wide hobbit stood waiting with an impatient frown, browned by the sun and unfurling an aged hand, he handed Bilbo a wax-stamped letter. With a somewhat sorrowful nod, he disappeared without a word. 

“Odd,” Bilbo said aloud but nonetheless closed the door and returned to his bed. Thorin had awoken but laid bleary-eyed and yawning. 

“Who was that?”

“A courier,” Bilbo explained before prying open the letter. Thorin watched as his curious brow filtered into confusion, and then slight gloom. 

“Ibinê?” Thorin questioned, rising from the bed. 

“My cousins…they’ve drowned,” Bilbo continued reading as Thorin crossed the room to place a warm hand to his arm. “Oh!”

Thorin startled. “What is it?” 

“They–goodness! They’ve left me their boy!” 

The world quieted and time slowed, even Nutmeg’s bleats did not break through the silence of that room. Thorin blinked, Bilbo began the letter over once more. 

Bilbo nodded once he got to the end again. “Yes, the poor lad! He will be here the eve after tomorrow so this says.” 

“A son? Your cousins?” Thorin mumbled in confusion. 

“Do you remember my mentioning of my dear cousin Primula? She was a spirited thing!” 

“And she has left you her child?”

Bilbo hummed. “An orphan–at such a young age,” he said. "Think of all the food we will have to make! 

"Bilbo."

"Yes, yes. Oh the poor child, mayhaps he will befriend Hamfast's boy? Samwise is a sweet thing, quiet and brave–and he is always here.” 

Thorin placed his shaky hands on Bilbo's shoulders, feeling the tension there. “I’ve a feeling we still have some ale in our minds–let us rest on this, and make preparations when we are not hindered by lack of sleep and food.” 

“Alright,” Bilbo placed the letter on his side table, getting beneath the sheets and turning purposefully away from it. Thorin climbed in beside him–grateful Bilbo wrapped himself around the dwarf. 

"A marriage and child," Thorin said after a moment. "How quickly the milestones approach."

Bilbo huffed a laugh, though it held no real humor. His face grew solemn, the sad smile slipping into real and true fear. "This is frightening, in truth. I’ve no idea how to raise a child.” 

"Be at ease, Ibinê, please. I do not rightfully know what this will bring, but if it must come, then we must let it. I have my memories of Fili and Kili’s childhoods–and they were little menaces, it will be well.” 

Just before Thorin fell into a lighter slumber, Bilbo spoke–quiet as a mouse and just as frightened. “Thorin…will we be good?”

“The best, bâhzundushuh, the best we can be.” 

Chapter Text

Bilbo’s Classic Seed-cakes 

What you’ll need (adventure may be necessary) 

• Two sticks of softened butter
• 237 g of sugar

• Three eggs

• 250 g all-purpose flour

• One tablespoon of caraway seeds

• ¼ teaspoon of ground nutmeg (not the goat) 

• ¼ teaspoon of ground cinnamon

• 60 g of brandy 

• Four teaspoons of demerara sugar 

What to do

• Preheat oven (start woodfire) 
• Mix together butter and sugar until fluffy

• Add eggs, one at a time

• In another bowl, mix together flour, caraway seeds, and spices

• Add half of dry mixture to butter mixture

• Mix in brandy, then add the remaining dry mixture (do not overmix) 

• Spoon batter into pre-greased pans 

• Bake for 35 minutes 

Enjoy warm (or as Thorin does–though he does not say so–cooled with softened butter) 

Thorin’s Fruit Bread

What you’ll need (don’t forget to pick and dry your fruits!) 

• 357 g of flour
• 210 ml of warm water 

• One teaspoon of instant yeast 

• One teaspoon of salt (if you can wrangle it) 

• 42.6 g of butter

• 32 g of sugar (or more if you also have a sweet tooth)

• 80 - 90 g of cranberries 

• 80 - 90 g of raisins

• 60 - 70 g of currants

• 80 - 90 g of dry whole cherries

• ½ teaspoon of cinnamon powder

• ¼ teaspoon of cardamom powder

• ¼ teaspoon of nutmeg power

• ½ teaspoon of pure vanilla extract 

What to do

• In a bowl add water, sugar, salt, yeast, and stir until dissolved
• Add in melted butter and flour. Combine. 

• Wrap the bowl and let dough rise in a warm environment until it nearly doubles in size. 

• After the dough has risen, gently fold in the fruits. 

• Let dough sit and rise for 90 minutes or so

• Brush dough with egg wash
• Bake your bread in a preheated (350 F) oven for 34-35 minutes, then reduce temp and bake for another 4-5 minutes (325 F). 

Cut into it warm, or wait until the midnight hunger strikes and eat it half-stale (it will be far more delicious) 

Dragon-flame Rice Pudding 

What you’ll need (you WILL need an adventure) 

• One cup long grain rice (cooked)
• One cup whole milk 

• ½ cup of heavy cream

• One can of full-fat coconut milk

• ¼ cup of sugar

• ½ teaspoon of ground cardamom

• ⅓ cup golden raisins 

• ⅓ cup shelled pistachios

• ⅓ cup sweetened shredded coconut flakes 

• A (generous) pinch of salt 

• Zest of one orange 

What to do 

• Bring cooked rice and milk to simmer in a pan. Mix in heavy cream, coconut milk, sugar, and cardamom. Cook until mixture thickens, continue to stir. 
• Mix in raisins, pistachios, coconut, salt, and orange zest, and remove from heat. 
• Allow to cool (in the autumn wind on the windowsill)

When you enjoy, remember to always have hope, even in the face of flaming ire.