Cold Feet Dwinip

Summary:Bilbo Baggins is throwing a wedding party for himself and his fiancé. While things ended poorly between him and Thorin, he still very much wishes to invite the King and company of dwarrows. Chaos ensues. Pantries are raided, dances are complicated, schemes are thwarted and feelings are revealed. Please R.S.V.P.

Chapter 1: Preface

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"Oh what the heck." Bilbo said to himself, carefully considering the invitation he wrote before sliding it gently into a crisp envelope. "It's not as if he'd ever come anyways." Sealing the envelope with red wax he carefully scrolled on its front: H.M. Thorin Oakenshield & Company, Erebor, before placing it in the neat pile on his desk. He looked wistfully out the window from his study and onto the garden of Bag End; as was his hobbit habit lately.

"All finished, deary?" Spoke a soft voice, its owner placing a small delicate hand on Bilbo's arm from behind. "I've just finished up with mine. We should post these out today if we can."

"Hm? Oh yes!" Said Bilbo, as he was pulled from his morning reverie. "You're quite right. Here, let me take them down to the market." He collected the letters from off his desk and from her hands, covering his last letter under her bundle.

"Can't have much of a wedding without guests!" She giggled and kissed him on his cheek and went to put on a pot of tea.

"Very true." He said as he collected his jacket and walking stick while heading for the door. "Priscilla?" He called as he swung the door open, "I'm going to take a bit of a stroll after. Don't wait on me for lunch."

"Alright my dear," Priscilla called back, poking her head out of the kitchen, "But don't you go getting cold feet on me!" She teased and giggled again.

"Wouldn't dream of it love. See you soon!" Bilbo smiled and closed the green door behind him, the weight of the letters feeling heavy under his arm.

Chapter Two:

R.S.V.P.

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...

...

"And then, he said that it was his spot and that not no one else could mine there! What a load of orc shit I says, ain't no one can claim a spot as only 'is! It's a free mine! And then, the bugger, he took me mining pail right out of me hands and stole all t'was in it! That pail was passed all the way down from me great great great grandfather 'twas!" Said a short dwarf, red and angry in the face.

Thorin Oakenshield sat heavily on his throne, slumped to one corner, his right arm and hand holding his head up, the other dangling over the side. He rolled is eyes. He had no patience for this today. His crown made his head itch and his backside was numb. Three hours. Three hours he had been listening to dwarf after dwarf complain about their petty blights.

It was on days like today that he found himself caring less and less about such grievances. Balin had reminded him earlier that a boring court hearing was a sign of peace and contentment, and that he should be grateful for such tameness and small trifles amongst his people. Thorin would rather fight a band of snarling Wargs in nothing but his breeches if it meant he could skip this one kingly duty. It was torturous.

"Pardon me, Your Majesty. A letter for you. Came in jus' this afternoon." A red haired dwarf quietly interrupted and came to the side of the throne, his thick fingers holding a white envelope out to Thorin. "Come all the way from the Shire it 'as. Thought you might be wanting it straight away."

Balin, who was standing to the left of Thorin on the royal platform, arched an eyebrow at the word "Shire".

"The Shire?" Said Thorin, sitting up a little straighter, no longer paying attention to the ranting dwarf and his miner's bucket.

"Thank you, Dunkal." Thorin picked the offered letter from the dwarf's outstretched hand and held it up to his eyes. His name shone in cursive black ink against the light.

Is everything ok? Is there trouble? Could this just be a letter to say hello? Is this even from the burglar?

Of course it had to be, who else would send him a letter? And on such excellent stationary as this.

After their parting, Thorin would not have expected even a letter. Aulë knew they didn't exactly leave each others company on the best of terms. Thorin's apology had been stiff with Bilbo and he felt that the hobbit had never truly forgiven him. Perhaps it was closer to the truth that Thorin had never forgiven himself. He had showered Bilbo with magnificent gifts and treasure as an expression of his gratitude for all the hobbit had done for their quest. But no matter how much he gave in gold, it wouldn't erase the hurt and disappointment that he saw in Bilbo as he took his leave of Erebor.

Thorin's heart gave a twinge of regret as he thought of the burglar. He was well aware that he was outwardly emotionally inept. That did not mean he didn't have emotions buried deep underneath his amour and in his bones. Remorse was a feeling that Thorin knew all too well.

By Aulë, please don't be dead.

Thorin couldn't help as the thought passed quickly and all too terrifyingly through his mind.

"Your Majesty?" Said the dwarf complainant. "Your Majesty, have you any advice? I beseech you for justice over my pail!"

Carefully tucking the envelop into his tunic Thorin brought his attention back to the dwarf below him, now on his knees in brutal supplication.

"You shall receive a new pail at no cost and two lumps of gold. Does this satisfy you?" Thorin spoke quickly and with impatience. He proceeded to unfold himself from his throne. He couldn't handle a moment more of this. He was done for today.

"….M-my lord! Th-thank you!" Sputtered the dwarf on the ground. "You are too kind! Yes, yes you are a most generous king. Thank you!" He gave an awkwardly low bow, and left the great hall with a smile from ear to ear.

"Balin," said Thorin, "I am done here. I am in need of an ale." He plucked off his crown and handed it to the older dwarf.

"Of course, Thorin. But... Do you not think that was a bit excessive? Two lumps of gold? For the loss of a rusted pail?" Balin asked with a slight frown.

"I'd have given him half his weight in gold if it would have spared me the entire experience." Thorin spat and swept from the room in search of a cool tankard and quiet place to read his letter.

...

...

While not entirely a quiet place, Thorin had settled himself at a round table in the corner of the drinking hall beside the kitchens. He rested his feet on the bench across and took a draft of his ale. Funny how a tiny letter, white, smooth and simple in the flickering candlelight, could make him feel so uneasy. Him, Thorin, King under the mountain, was fretting over the contents of an envelope.

How ridiculous.

He was on his fourth ale and had been glaring at the letter for over an hour, his thoughts venturing back to a time when there was more chaos. Yet during that chaos, danger and adventure, he had never felt more contented. Happy even, during brief moments. Certainly happier than he was now. Thorin had his home, yes, but he was still not satisfied and his mountain still felt lonely. He tried not to dredge up the shame and regret he felt for ending things so poorly with the burglar.

Thorin scoffed, angry with himself for being so sentimental this evening. He hadn't had a pity fest for himself in a long time and he blamed it on the mugs of sweet liquid amber. He knew this was the case, but didn't stop himself. Which was even more pitiful.

"Uncle has a letter!" Cried a young beardless dwarf to his brother as he walked over and sat across from Thorin at the table. Thorin moved his boot clad feet onto the ground.

Kili peered at the crisp white paper before trying to make a grab for it. "Who's it from?" He asked as Thorin jerked it away.

"From Bilbo I'd assume." Said Thorin roughly, his eyebrows knitting together.

"What? You mean you haven't opened it yet?" Fili came around to sit beside his brother. With him he brought two tankards, placing one in front of Kili, who thanked him with a slap on the back.

Thorin glared at the envelope, willing its contents be revealed.

"Well go on Uncle, open it!" Encouraged Fili, tucking into his drink. "Not like you're going to find out what it's all about just by staring at the outside of it."

"Balin!" Called out Kili, waving as the white haired dwarf enter the room. "Over here! Come have drink with us!"

Thorin grunted. Perhaps he should have retired to his rooms. This was turning into more company than he cared for at the moment.

"Hello Kili and Fili. Thorin." Balin addressed them all, lingering on the kings name. He sat next to Thorin and accepted a stein from Fili.

"Have mine, I'll get another." said the blond, retreating over to the bar.

"Thanks laddie."

Balin regarded the small letter being held loosely in Thorin's large hands.

"Now Thorin, what's got you all in a mood, lad? Is it this letter that you haven't even opened?" He gestured to the envelope, "What are you so fixated on with this…this little piece of paper?" Balin asked the King kindly as he peered at his dark and ever stony face.

"…I am afraid that I am holding news of Bilbo's passing..." Thorin's frown deepened to match his voice as he admitted out-loud one of the possibilities. The worst possibility.

Balin and Fili exchanged worried glances with each other from across the wooden table.

"Perhaps it's good news! Perhaps Bilbo is coming for a visit?" Said Fili, sitting back down with his new drink.

"I bet you that's what it is. He misses us so much that's he's decided to come stay for a while. Wouldn't that be great Uncle? I know I'd miss us. Who wouldn't?" the youngest brother said, smiling widely.

Thorin made a discontented noise in the back of his throat. He wasn't much for words this evening.

Very unlikely, that.

Thorin took in a deep breath through his nose and flipped the envelope over, cracking open the red seal with a satisfying snap. He slid the small smooth letter out and turned it over in his rough hands. There was a pair of doves on the front. Thorin froze. A cold finger dipping into his heart.

The harbingers of death! Oh Bilbo. It cannot be true. You cannot be…

Thorin flexed his jaw and he swallowed a small lump in his throat. He opened the card and read in a voice that was slow and thick:

"We wish to cordially invite you all…to the" Thorin squinted at the neat handwriting, "…to the celebration of marriage between two Hobbits, Bilbo Baggins and Priscilla Padmoore of Hobbitton?"

By Aulë!

Thorin dropped the card onto the table as if it was an elvish undergarment and leaned back, seeking the support of the wall behind him.

Fili picked up the letter and continued, "Please R.S.V.P your attendance no later than the eleventieth of spring. Celebrations are to take place at the beginning of Forelithe with a ceremony to follow on Mid-Years day." Fili finished and looked up around the table. Thorin remained unreadable, his lips in a thin line.

"Huh. Well there you go Uncle! Nothing to worry about after all. It seems that our sneaky burglar has done quite well for himself, wouldn't you say?" the youngest dwarf said, winking at his brother.

"How wonderful," said Balin cheerfully, "Everything's just fine with dear old Bilbo. Looks like you wasted your time worrying over nothing, hehe. Certainly not dead now is he? Deserves a fine lassy, that boy, after all he's been through." he gave Thorin a little nudge with his arm and a warm smile. "Wouldn't you say so lad?"

Thorin remained silent.

"Let's raise a glass to the ol' burglar!" Fili held his mug high in the air.

"To Bilbo!" Fili, Kili and Balin chorused, clanking their tankards together and taking a long drink.

None of them noticed, that behind their king's eyes, an emotion so wild and dangerous was beginning to rage inside him. It was all he could do to sit still and quiet, his hands griping his knees, turning his knuckles white under the table.

Chapter three:

Acceptance

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…

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"Ye mean not to go then?" Dwalin asked, parrying Orcrist. The sound of swords and axes rang sharply through the clearing. Both dwarrow's chests heaved with exertion as they sparred.

Thorin grunted, sweat high on his neck and low on his brow.

"No. I imagine the letter was nothing more than a courtesy." He bared his teeth, lifting a blow from Dwalin's axes up and away from him.

"Aye. But still. Can't say ye couldn't do with a bit of adventure. Be good for ye. Get out of here for a time. Maybe get in a good fight along the way." He smiled brutally.

"Hm." Thorin uttered, bringing both hands over his head, arcing his sword down towards his friend.

"Look," said Dwalin roughly, blocking Orcrist once more. He let his two axes fall to his sides and opened his arms in an expression of respite. They were both breathing heavily.

"Yer unhappy. Come with us. It'll do ye good. If a fine ol' skirmish along the way doesn't fix ye, then I'll shave my own beard." He dropped himself down onto a mossy rock and wiped the sweat off his tattooed head with an equally tattooed hand.

Thorin took a seat some distance opposite Dwalin, undoing the clasps of his armored shirt with one hand and loosening the fabric around his neck.

There was a muggy silence between them; the only sound coming from their lungs.

The king under the mountain sheathed Orcirst beside him and clasped his mêlée-swollen hands together. He stared at them, fixated.

"I do not know if I could bear it." Said the king after a while. "I am still ashamed as to how I treated Bilbo, and I doubt he has forgotten what a fool I was."

Dwalin looked skyward in exasperation.

"Auch! I say this as yer friend, Thorin. Yer holding onto baggage not even a dwarf lass would carry forever. Years have passed. I swear, yer dafter than Bifur backwards on a pony sometimes." Dwalin's rough voice chaffed the king.

"Suit yerself." He huffed in annoyance, receiving nothing more than an empty look from his old friend. "Can't say I won't miss ye on the voyage. I'm headin' in. I've a thirst for a drink." Dwalin threw Grasper and Keeper over his shoulders and headed through the tall grass towards the mountain gates.

Thorin remained seated where he was and contemplated his hands. Dirt was embedded under his nails and rough calluses took up most his palms. He turned his hands over. Veins and hair covered his sun-darkened skin; his fine rings contrasting against his ruggedness. The knuckles on his right hand were split and bleeding, yet he barely felt any pain.

What is this despair I am feeling? It's as if I am being eaten alive.

Thorin bent his head forward and ran both of his hands back over his hair. With elbows on his knees, his hands coming to a stop behind his neck, he looked up at the open sky. With a deep sigh he watched as a pair of birds flitted and darted overhead, their whistling duet delicate and clear in the cool air.

If only I could allow myself to be so free.

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…

"How does a hobbit marriage work?" Asked Ori slowly. "Do we bring gifts?" His eyes were wide and full of excitement as he looked to Dori.

"I'm not entirely sure to be perfectly honest," admitted Dori, "Though I don't think we would do well to show up empty handed now. Best be safe about it I'd say. I've a lovely vintage sherry that I'm bringing. A fine bouquet it has, fit enough for any celebration!"

Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin, Gloin, Kili, Fili and Dwalin and Balin were all checking over their provisions and cinching their packs onto a line of shaggy ponies. The sun remained close to the horizon in the early morning. The dew on the grass clung to the hooves of their animals and turned the toes of their boots wet.

"And has Thorin really decided not to come along?" Bofur asked in a dubious tone. "Never known him for turning down a quest, especially since he's so damn miserable these days. I'd have thought he'd jump at the opportunity to get out and about. Somethings gone funny with him. Too much sitting on his arse if you ask me."

Dwalin snorted and looked at Bofur.

"The King is still mopping about how he treated Biblo all those years ago. Bloody bastard's got more trouble sorting out his sorrows than a goblin with no head." Dwalin swung a leg up and over his mount.

"Aye, Uncle's been acting like there's a thunder cloud over him all week." Kili said as he stroked the soft nose of his pony.

"At first he was worried it wasn't an invitation at all, but was a message of Bilbo's death. You'd think he'd be a little more elated wouldn't you?" Added Fili.

Balin lead his mount towards the conversation.

"You lads just leave off it for now. The kings got a lot on his mind and could do with some space… I think. He'll come 'round. He always does when he's like this. We've all seen it before." Balin looked around the group to see the slight nodding of heads and mumbles of agreement.

"Now, shall we set out?" Said Balin as he pulled himself up and onto his pony. "No use wasting time. We've got a hobbit to see."

The rest of the dwarrows swung up into their saddles and began to move out from the shadow of the mountain. It was expected to be a long journey, but each of them was more excited than they'd care to confess. Having been nomadic for years they all felt a familiar contentment and giddiness wash over them as they began to follow one of the long and winding roads that would, eventually, lead them to the green door of Bag End.

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…

Thorin watched his most loyal friends depart that morning; their packs loaded plentifully this time as they traveled out of his sight. He stood for a few moments, alone and undisturbed, before turning and walking over the threshold of Erebor and back into the great halls.

With long strides Thorin made his way to the royal chambers in the upper corridors, passing guards along his way; each armored dwarf giving him a salute by crossing their right-arm over their chest. Thorin reached his door and faced the two sentries standing on either side.

"I wish not to be disturbed for the rest of the morning. Over any matter." Spoke their king in a low voice that was tinged with barely controlled anger.

"Aye, Your Majesty." Both dwarrows echoed with a salute.

Thorin entered his chambers, closed the doors forcefully behind him, walked past his study and directly into his bedroom. His body felt constrained, his cloak was too confining, he was swaddled with something he could feel but did not understand. He stripped off his heavy fur pelt, cloak and armored shirt, leaving on only his white tunic. He let his royal garments fall carelessly to the ground. Walking over to his tall solid-wood bookcase beside his plush canopied bed, he drew a plain wooden box off the middle shelf.

Thorin's rough thumbs smoothed over the basic latch on the front of the box, his fingers brushing off a light layer of dust. He held the box firmly before slowly undoing the latch and opening the lid with all the care of a lover. Inside rested a handsome mithril dagger the color of mist. Intricately engraved ribbons of Khuzdul wrapped attractively around the blade's scabbard and a blood red ruby was nestled perfectly in its hilt.

Thorin looked sorrowfully at the small weapon inside the box.

A sudden numbness began to spread from nose, tingling over his cheekbones and prickling up to the tips of his ears before washing over his scalp. His fingers tightened momentarily around the box before slamming the lid shut. Thorin tossed the container onto his bed where it bounced once and then was still. The King stood for a moment, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

In a surge of reckless emotion Thorin reeled towards the bookshelf. Heat poured of his body as he griped the side closest to him with both his hands. He cried out in strain and fury and grief as he heaved the bookcase away from the wall and threw it with all his strength to crash on the floor. A thunderous noise echoed throughout the room and the floor shook under the collapsing weight. Books and trinkets littered the ground. A deep crack ran down the length of the finely crafted shelf, rendering it now useless timber.

Thorin turned away from what he'd done and sat upon his bed. He closed his eyes and covered his mouth.

I am a coward.

The King leaned back with one hand onto the mattress. Thorin opened his eyes and turned to look as he felt something bump against his wrist. The plain box, holding the small but beautiful dagger, had rolled towards his weight and was resting gently beside him.

His mind struggled with his heart and his eyes glazed over as he visited the past. Thorin sat very still for a long time.

He finally let out a deep sigh, bringing himself back to his present situation and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

I have wasted too much time grieving over that which has already happened and that which I cannot change. I have been given the chance to reaffirm my indebtedness and I would have myself be a fool again.

A resolve flickered over Thorin as he gently touched the wooden container.

I shall not allow myself to sit here any longer. I owe Bilbo so much more than I can ever give. If he wants me to be happy for him, to celebrate as a company once more, then the least I can do, is start by giving him that.

Thorin pushed himself off the bed and began to pack. He did so in a flurry of activity, and was done within minutes. His cloak, fur pelt and armor once more against his body and his weapons were strapped to his hips. All he had to do now was contact his cousin, Dain Ironfoot and inform his members of council that he would be absent.

With his travel pack Thorin approached his bed. He regarded the wooden box carefully. He turned to go, but hesitated.

It would grieve me much less if I never saw it again.

Thorin picked up the box and quickly shoved it into his pack.

…

…

Thorin finished tying off his supplies and checked the hooves of his black steed. Satisfied all was in order, he collected the reins in one hand and skillfully swung up into his saddle. With a slight squeeze of his thighs and a few encouraing clicks, he urged his mount out of the stables and into a trot.

The sky was nearly dark by the time he set out on his journey. Thorin worried that if he were to delay until the morning, his resolve would slowly begin to disintegrate. Hopefully he would be able to quicky overtake his friends and join them for the rest of the voyage.

As Thorin began to climb the low hills out of the valley of Erebor, he allowed himself to do something he had not done in a long time. It was very faint, and hidden in the low light, but it was still there. On his lips, there was a small smile.

Chapter four:

Twelve Less One

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…

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The replies and RSVPs had begun to pour ceaselessly in starting the very day after Bilbo had posted the invitations. All manners of hobbits were coming, from the Burrows, Bolgers, Brandybucks and Boffins to the Gamgees, Goodbodies, Tooks, Proudfeet, Padmoores, Cottons and Hornblowers. Regretfully Bilbo also received a hastily written - not to mention heinously ugly - letter from the Sackville-Bagginses and Bracegirdles. They too, it would seem, were much obliged to attend.

Despite all the incoming mail, Bilbo couldn't help but feel disappointed that he had not yet received a response to a very specific letter. It was now the tenth day into a new spring.

Bilbo had taken his tea outside with him, along with his pipe, and was sitting on the steps of Bag End and enjoying the mid-morning sun. He would be lying if he said he wasn't beginning to feel nervous. There were only 12 more days until the celebrations began and 43 days until the actual ceremony. He still had so much to prepare.

He and Priscilla had met almost exactly two years after he arrived home from his adventure and had moved quite quickly in their relationship. Priscilla had come to the Westfarthing of the Shire from the Northfarthing with a traveling market. Bilbo later discovered that she had grown up close to Hardbottle. Despite Bilbo's distrust of his cousins, the Sackville-Bagginses from Harbottle, he soon found himself bewitched by Priscilla's beauty and charm. He could still remember how their fingertips brushed against one another as she handed him the bag of pine nuts he had purchased from her cart. Bilbo had returned the next day and bought a small box of saffron. He didn't need the spice and had only used it as an excuse to see Priscilla and her dark, almost black, hair and electric sapphire eyes. She had given him twice as much as he had paid for. Bilbo proceeded to ask her to join him for tea the following afternoon.

Bilbo took a gentle pull from his long pipe. His thoughts wandered and he began to think broodingly about the invitation he had sent to Erebor. The cherry smoke tickled his nose pleasantly as he slipped into deep contemplation. The sun warmed his chest beneath his white cotton tunic.

Immediately upon his return from the Misty Mountains, Bilbo had shut himself in; kindly declining offers to parties and turning away all those who wished to drag him out of his hobbit hole. The shire had not changed at all during his excursion. While that was a comforting thing, it was also down right dull. Bilbo was also exceedingly aware of how his newfound affluence might attract false friends and flimsy offers of companionship. And so he had laid low.

During his time of isolation, Bilbo went through a turbulent series of emotions. Bilbo allowed himself to hate. He hated Thorin. He hated how his friend had become blighted with and susceptible to greed and he hated how it seemed as if the King had merely replaced Smaug on a throne of gold. He hated that he had broken the dwarf's trust and had stolen something so beloved by his friend. More than anything else in the world, he hated the look of shame and embarrassment he saw the King wear once he realized Bilbo had been right. It broke Bilbo just as much as it broke Thorin. When Thorin attempted to act like nothing unpleasant had occurred and tried to soothe their bruised relationship with his newly reclaimed opulence, Bilbo had been appalled. The hobbit hated because he had cared. Then, after the hate slowly burned out, he pitied Thorin, and began to feel uncontrollably sorry for himself.

Hate, Bilbo knew, was not the opposite of love; it was indifference. Bilbo slowly and devastatingly began to distinguish the signs of indifference Thorin was developing towards him and so he left soon after. Bilbo eventually came to comprehend and accept that he had been wavering on a dangerous precipice when it came to his feelings for Thorin. The hobbit's greatest sadness came from understanding that nothing would have ever developed between a King and a halfling, except loyal friendship, and even that, it would seem, could be tarnished.

Perhaps I shouldn't have sent that invitation at all. Thought Bilbo as he began to feel the prickle of old emotions.

What Bilbo didn't know, was had he turned around on the day that he departed, he would have seen Thorin's imposing and royal figure shrink to half his normal size. On that morning, long ago, the King's legs had failed and Thorin fell to his knees on the hard ground as he watched Bilbo leave him.

Bilbo tapped his pipe out on the side of the steps he was sitting on, knocking the spent ash onto the rough stone.

"Biscuit?" A plate piled with warm scones was pushed under Bilbo's nose by a small petite and pale hand.

Bilbo turned and smiled up at his fiancé. "Have I ever been known to be able to turn down any of your excellent baking? I've a mind to think you're trying to make me fat!" He teased and picked up a floury scone.

"Oh, nonsense. With all that walking you've been doing these days, you could eat an entire tray and not gain one ounce." Priscilla smiled as she moved a long dark curl behind her ear. She tucked her skirt underneath her as she sat beside Bilbo.

"Are you alright dear? You've seemed rather distant lately." Priscilla carefully laid the plate of scones on the steps beside them, the ceramic scraping lightly on stone. She folded her hands neatly in her lap over her flowered apron.

"Of course! Everything is perfectly fine." Bilbo said as he ate the rest of his scone. He wiped his floured hands against his pants.

His fiancé fixed him with a stern sideways look. Bilbo sighed through the crumbs in his full mouth and swallowed.

"Alright, if you must know, I am quite anxious about a letter I posted. An invitation. One of our invitations. I wasn't sure if I should have even sent it… But I did anyways and there's nothing I can do about it now and I don't know whether to be relieved I haven't had a reply or if I'm upset because I want one." Bilbo hastily expressed himself, moving his hands as if weighing something invisible between them.

"Who did you send the invitation to?" Asked Priscilla curiously.

"…I invited the whole company. From Erebor." Bilbo said quietly, not looking at the hobbit beside him and picking up his pipe in an effort purely meant to busy his hands.

"You didn't?!" Priscilla shot up from the step, her dress billowing around her. "Oh, Bilbo! I thought you said you were over all that adventure rubbish!" She crossed her arms over her chest fitfully.

"I am! I did!" Said Bilbo quickly standing up as well; his palms open at his sides. "You must be able to understand that they are my friends. And I think I'm beginning to realize that I really do not want them to be absent from an event that is so important in my life!" Bilbo reached out to try and take Priscilla's hands in his. She jerked away.

"And where will they stay? Here? At Bag End? All of them?" Priscilla spat.

"Of course. I thought that'd be obvious. And why shouldn't they?" Said Bilbo, indignantly and with a frown.

"It certainly isn't obvious! Not to me! They're loud, obnoxious, and entirely unrespectable and I will not tolerate having a band of filthy dwarrows in my house!" Priscilla covered her mouth as soon as she'd said the words out loud.

"I beg your pardon?" Bilbo blinked. He took a step closer to the dark haired hobbit and spoke softly.

"Priscilla. After all I have shared with you about their honor, after all I have told you about their strife and hardships and after all they have done for me, can you not even find it possible to accept them for a few weeks? They would surely show you the warmest hospitality had you been invited into their halls. Could you not do the same? For me?" He took her hands away from her face and gave them a small squeeze, peering into her distressed eyes.

Relief suddenly washed over Priscilla's face, and then, came a wonderful realization that she chose to keep to herself.

"You know I only worry that you'll be swept away from me on some other adventure, don't you?" She said, squeezing Bilbo's hands in return and looking away.

"I know. I know that." Bilbo soothed, taking her chin and turning her face towards him. He laid a delicate kiss on her brow. "So long as we love one another, I shall never set foot outside this place without you."

A flicker of emotion flew across Priscilla's eyes. She cleared her throat, quickly removing a hand from Bilbo's and brushing a knuckle under her nose. She smiled at him.

"I'll guess I'll just have to try and do my best. And I will only do it because you've asked and not because I want to." Priscilla replied, turning to go inside. Bilbo stopped her.

"Priscilla, I haven't even received a response yet, so in all likelihood, they're not going to be here at all." Bilbo said with a sad chuckle.

"Well, then I guess I can dare to hope!" Priscilla teased with a laugh, before closing the door and shutting Bilbo outside.

Bilbo's smile fell when he found himself once more alone. Something felt terribly amiss. He glared at the ground in front of his hairy feet, searching the cracks in the path for answers. He loved Priscilla, but found her abhorrence of his friends to be stifling. And where exactly was this imprudent dislike she had coming from? Bilbo looked at the plate of scones. He made to reach for one, but then thought better of it. Instead he walked out through the gate and down the main path, leaving his tea and pipe on the steps behind him. Walking had always helped Bilbo settle his mind, and today he felt he could use one more than ever.

…

…

…

The next morning Bilbo eyes flew open to the sound of his mailbox's hinges squeaking.

I've got mail.

Bilbo tossed off the blanket, much to Priscilla's protest, and leapt out of his soft bed and onto the cold flagstones. Throwing on his dressing gown, Bilbo quickly unlocked the front door and stepped outside into the morning light.

"Good morning, mister Bilbo!" The local postman Grigor called over the fence.

"Good morning!" Bilbo called back, his eyes adjusting to the bright sun as he walked over to the mailbox.

"How're you and the misses this fine morning?" asked Grigor, adjusting the weight of mail he carried.

"Oh, can't complain. Getting a bit excited as you can imagine." Bilbo said, opening the mailbox and pulling out a small stack of RSVPs. He carded through them quickly, disappointment slowly creeping over his face. Bilbo did not see in his hands what he was looking for.

"Well, thank you Grigor. Good morning!" Bilbo smiled feebly at the postman and began to walk back towards his door.

"Mister Bilbo!" Called Grigor.

Bilbo turned to face him again.

"Pardon me, but you've dropped one." Bilbo looked on the ground to where the other hobbit was pointing. There, in the grass by a shrub of bluebells, was a sand colored letter. Bilbo immediately went over and picked it up.

"Thank you." He said, a little more genuinely this time, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Yes, thank you."

"Not at all. Don't want you missing anything important. Good morning!" The postman gave a small wave to the master of Bag End before carry on his way down the hill.

Bilbo held the letter tightly in his right hand, the other mail forgotten in his left. In one of the corners there was a familiar ruin, one that could only have been from the halls of Erebor. Bilbo was afraid that if loosened his grip, even in the slightest, the envelope would disappear.

"You sure sprang out of bed quickly." Came Priscilla's voice behind him, causing Bilbo to almost jump. "Wish I could see you move that quick every morning." She said playfully.

"Today's the last day for RSVPs." Bilbo said, still not facing her, and looking at the letter still held firmly in his right hand.

"Oh, and is that what I think it is?" Priscilla said, coming up behind him and resting her head on his shoulder. "Well you'd better open it then, hadn't you?"

Bilbo, much like Thorin many weeks before, flipped the envelope over and broke the wax seal on the back. He read out loud for Priscilla to hear:

"Dear Mister Bilbo Baggins. We would like to inform you that we warmly accept your invitation. We shall be departing on the eighth day of Thrimidge and expect to arrive, with the aid of good weather, no later than the first Trewsday of Lithe." Bilbo couldn't help the excitement that crept into his voice.

"Why, that would bring them to us in less than two weeks!" Exclaimed Bilbo with a rising giddiness. He lowered the letter and spun around to look at Priscilla, happiness clear and bright on his face.

"Is that so? Well then I guess there's hardly anything I can do about changing their minds now is there?" She said in resignation. "I'm glad for you if it makes you this happy." Priscilla then kissed him on the nose.

"Thank you, love. You'll be able to see how wonderful they really are once you get to know them. Truly." Said Bilbo, wrapping and arm around her waist.

So long as they keep their fat noses out from where they don't belong. Priscilla thought as she gave a forced smile. Bilbo never noticed the darkness that loomed behind her lashes.

"Now how about some breakfast, hmm?" Bilbo suggested, drawing them both inside and closing the door behind him.

Chapter five:

The Dream Eater

…

…

…

It was not until the third day that Thorin began to feel slightly concerned and mildly annoyed. He had not caught up with the rest of his companions. After 5 days he was worried and wildly frustrated. When a full week passed without a hint or trace of the others, Thorin was sufficiently steeped in a foul mood. He sat heavily in his saddle, scowled at the horizon ahead and chewed his meals without bothering to taste. The king's hands were beginning to ache from squeezing the worn leather reins of this mount's bridle too tightly and his back was becoming stiff from his rigid and tense posture. He had thought about turning back, but his body could never follow the impulse.

Little had changed in Mirkwood since his last journey through the wild woods. Thick and slimy roots still undulated along the path and buried themselves underfoot, anchoring themselves like nerves beneath the wet mossy skin of the forest floor. In the evenings, when Thorin built the occasion fire, he would think of the Silvan Elves and how years ago he had once chased their flickering lights and alluring feasts through gaps between the trees. Thorin was grateful that so far he had not encountered any of the Elves as he did not much care to perform terse formalities and exchange niceties in their fruity tones. He was, however, quite certain that although he could not see or hear the people of the wood, his presence had not gone unnoticed and he would be watched closely until he left their realm.

On the evening of the 11th day Thorin stopped to make camp. The days in Mirkwood were always too short and the nights always too long. He unrolled the thick furs from his pack and, skipping dinner entirely, made ready for sleep. He had been having unsettling dreams over the past few nights and thought perhaps it was something he was eating. Not to mention that the knot inside his stomach from the previous night's phantoms was not exactly conducive to feeling hunger. As he was drifting off Thorin felt something cold and familiar lightly brush his temple. He had been feeling this strange sensation for the last few nights. It tickled a little and he made to bring his hand up to brush away what he thought must be a fly or leaf that had fallen against his hair, but before he could touch his own face, Thorin slipped instantly into dream.

.~.

This dream was familiar to him.

He was standing on the edge of a wide river. The land was quiet, save for the rush of water over stone. He could never remember how he got there, but it didn't seem to matter. Thorin touched his head and found, like he always did, his crown. He knew that if he tried to take it off he would not be able to, but his head was burning and itching and he tried all the same. It wouldn't move of course. It was as if his very skull had become a magnet and the diadem was as heavy as an anvil. Thorin brought his hands down from his head as he began to notice, like many dreams before, a figure on the other side of the riverbank. It was Bilbo. Thorin called out to him and took a step towards the water. His boot dipped into the cool river, causing the stones beneath to slide and cobble together under his weight. Thorin quickly withdrew his foot. He called to Bilbo again, but the hobbit gave no response.

Bilbo was speaking to someone and facing the trees, although the dwarf could see no one. Thorin had to squint to make out what he could only explain as a shadow. A dark shade slowly began to emerge out of the woods on the other side where the hobbit stood. Bilbo spoke calmly to the blackness that was slowly taking shape.

"Bilbo!" Thorin cried out again, this time entering the river up to his knees as the water began to surge around him, the current growing swifter and tumultuous.

Now standing in front of Bilbo on the other side was a giant black beast in the likeness of a disfigured four-legged animal, or perhaps more accurately a mangled warg, with giant yellow eyes and a red salivating mouth that was full of too many teeth. Underneath its skin the beasts body rippled and boiled like angry insects trapped inside a silk bag. The great beast, with its lolling tongue, drooping jowls and watering eyes turned to face Bilbo as it laboriously panted and heaved it's massive chest. Bilbo continued to talk to it calmly as Thorin watched, helpless on the other side. He could hear none of the words that Bilbo was uttering. The creature began to go into a frenzy of what looked like violent retching. The black beast twisted and grew, swelled and expanded in all directions, its mouth opening until it was wide and tall enough to engulf three men.

Thorin was now up to his waist in the river and shouting with every ounce of breath he could squeeze from his lungs for Bilbo to flee. But the hobbit didn't. Instead he began to walk towards the gaping mouth. The massive jaw of the animal was laying flat on the ground and it's throat opened like a cavern. The stench of its breath carried over the water and assaulted Thorin's nose. Bilbo paused, placing a small hand on one of the massive and long yellow teeth that protruded gruesomely from inflamed pink gums.

The burglar turned to look at Thorin.

Thorin stopped fighting the current as his eyes found Bilbo's. They both stood still as Middle Earth moved around them. Thorin's heart froze and burned all at once and it felt like an eternity had passed through the space of a second. Bilbo smiled sadly at Thorin before tearing his eyes from the dwarf. He placed his bare and dirty foot on the soft tongue of the animal and walked willingly into the mouth of the beast. It was the same look he had given Thorin before he left Erebor. It was a look that hard burned itself into the very soul of the king.

"No! Bilbo, you mustn't! Come back! Please, come back!"

Thorin was pushing against the water again as the rapids began to turn themselves over and under with increasing ferocity. The water slipped over Thorin's head as he continued to try and fight his way to the other bank. His legs were heavier than stones and his crown was forcing his head under the water. He pushed off the river bottom kicking and gasping for air as he broke to the surface. The last thing he saw before submerging once more was the closing mouth of the giant creature; it's hollowed yellow eyes fixing him with a look of pleasure, satisfaction and twisted triumph.

Thorin knew he was going to drown. He always did. The water was black and he could no longer feel the smooth stones of the riverbed beneath his feet. He was falling through an abyss that was no longer a river, but equally devoid of air. When he could hold his breath no longer, his lungs burning in agony, Thorin would finally gasp.

And wake up.

.~.

Thorin startled awake, choking on air and kicking off his furs. The complete darkness pressed itself against him, making the dwarf feel claustrophobic. As his heart settled back into a normal rhythm, and his breathing began to even, Thorin tried to remember what it was that had brought him to a startling wakefulness. He no longer had any memory of his dream. There was a hollow feeling in his mind and he was so tired, so unbelievably tired. Thorin brought his fingers to his temples and began to try and massage away a headache that had started to bloom behind his eyes. All he could remember was that there was an unmistakable feeling of loss. He let his head fall back onto his pack and let out a sigh. What was he doing here? He was headed towards the Shire, that much he could remember, but why? Bilbo. Yes, he was traveling to see Bilbo. As he thought about the burglar he tried to imagine his face, but found he was having trouble doing so with each passing night.

A soft cackle made Thorin's skin prickle in alarm.

"My my. I haven't had a dreamer like you in over an age." A smooth and high pitched tinkling voice slithered into Thorin's ear. The dwarf immediately drew his sword from beneath his bedding and swiftly stood, sleep forgotten and battle ready.

"No need for that steel rubbish. I'm not here to hurt you, not really." The voice continued. "What good would that do you anyways, if you cannot even see me? Hehe!"

Thorin could hear the thing moving quickly; quietly scuffling low over the ground and heard what he was sure to be the rustling of leaves in the trees.

"What are you?" He growled into the pitch.

"What am I? Why, I am not a 'what' but a 'who'!" The being chirped at Thorin as the dwarf arced his blade around protectively. "Tsk tsk. Now, that is no way to be. Put that thing away!" Thorin felt a soft tap against the flat of his sword. He swung his blade wildly in the creature's direction.

"Enough of this foolishness. Tell me who you are, or I will bury you as you were." Barked Thorin. His eyes were wide and useless.

"Hmm, how about I tell you who you are instead?" It tittered from somewhere in the trees.

"You are sad. You are afraid. You are lost and you have lost. You are broken. You have a broken heart and a broken mind and you will never be able to fix it. You are alone." It drawled out these last words, changing its pitch to a low graveling voice. Thorin swallowed a lump in his throat that he did not know was there.

"I know these things about you, Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. I know your fears. I know your sorrows and I know your desires. And let me tell you, they are all deeeeeelectable." It continued in a wet purr. "You are drowning. Constantly. You are drowning in so many emotions that you don't even understand, haha! Sooner or later… you're going to sink. But you don't have to." The thing began to approach Thorin silently.

Thorin stood his ground. His back was to a large tree and he was prepared to swing a deadly blow at the slightest twitch. His head was pounding and he could hear his blood pumping in his ears.

"You could let, me help you with that you know. That is, those troubling dreams and desires. You see, if you let me, I could make you forget everything that troubles you; I could lift you out of that river. It's a win win really, for both you and I. Let me have those dreams, Thorin. Let me make you feel...better."

Very quietly and very slowly, a long and icy blue finger reached out from the branches above Thorin and delicately brushed one of his temples. The King froze. His eye rolled into the back of his head and he silently crumpled to the ground, falling immediately back into dream.