Make It Out

Credit goes to Atlass on AO3

Summary:

Five years after the Battle of the Five Armies, Bilbo Baggins—no longer a respectable hobbit—is back in the Shire, having assumed the Durin's line failed. He mourns quietly as he knows two things for certain; one, Thorin Oakenshield—King of Erebor—was dead, and two, that he was still hopelessly in love with him. But when the dwarf appears on his stoop one afternoon, everything he knew changes. With a toddling Frodo under his watch, Bilbo now has to balance life while processing the reopened wound in his heart before Thorin leaves him once more.

Chapter One: An Unexpected, Long-Awaited Guest

     It was a day like any other when Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit of long since tarnished reputation, sat down to afternoon tea. The clock on the mantle in the parlour around the corner ticked away peacefully. Tick tick tick. Then, a chime rang out. Four o'clock, Bilbo noted, perfectly on schedule.

The tea in question was a lovely herbal blend that he had picked up on a rather joyous journey with the elves of Rivendell this past spring. It tasted of honey and lemon and hibiscus, reminding the hobbit of the warmth of summer. The elves had promised that it was the best tea to pair with an adventure tale so Bilbo chose just that.

Settling down in his seat with his tea in one hand and his book in another, he closed his eyes. Breathing in the moment, he thought of his own adventures. Gandalf was right, he was definitely not the same hobbit that had left the comforts of the Shire all those years ago. The folks in town would gossip about the odd changes in his personality, the way he waltzed back into Bag End after being presumed dead, as well as the company that would show up on his stoop at strange hours of the day. Yes, Bilbo Baggins had indeed changed; and he was glad for it.

His mind then thought of the company—his dwarrow. It had been just over five years since they tumbled through his doorway but he still kept in touch. He talked with Balin each summer, as the raven flight was more troublesome in the winter, and they discussed much. They talked of rebuilding Dale and the city under the mountain; about the tall folk and the Dwarrows who both resided there. Bilbo was kept in the loop with all that the rest of the company got up to as well, while Balin inquired about Bilbo's garden, home, and general happenings in the Shire. The garden was thriving, as Bilbo and Balin had hoped, the year or so away had stunted the regrowth of crops only for the next few seasons upon his return. And as for his home, well, despite having to buy back nearly all of his belongings, it was filled to the brim with comfort.

Balin also asked him how he fared with sleep after the battle's end, knowing full well the nightmares of his own and his kinsfolk. Bilbo, ashamedly, failed to admit that nights were most worrisome for him. Night terrors would often leave him downright drenched with sweat. That is when he could get to sleep at all, tossing and turning most nights and roaming his burrow aimlessly on others. He had even taken to writing throughout the worst nights. A tale that one day he would share, one of hardship and battles won, one of triumph and loss, one of courage. There and Back Again it was called.

The one thing they did not discuss, however, was Thorin. Thorin... Bilbo felt his heart tug as he recalled the face of the King under the Mountain. No, despite the years since, talk of Thorin was still too raw for poor Bilbo. Though he told no one, not even Balin, he had fallen in love with the dwarf. Despite his stoic attitude, initial lack of belief in the sudden burglar, the dragon sickness, and his untimely—and terribly upsetting—end, despite everything, Bilbo loved him. Thorin... The hobbit's heart tugged again, longingly.

When he opened his eyes once more, his running mind returned to the present with a slower, yet still brisk pace. He opened his book and was about to put his cup to his lips when a thump! came from the front door. Startled, he set the items down as he tried to recall whether he had arranged for company. He hadn't.

The thump came again at the door! Twice this time.

Thump thump!

Jumping up from the table, Bilbo had half a mind to give whoever was interrupting his well-deserved tea break a stern talking to. Then he paused. The knock was one he recognized, only faintly. However, it was much different than the ones used by those in Bag End, so he couldn't quite place it. The mysterious guest couldn't be Gandalf either, the knock of his staff sounded more akin to a rat-tat-tat. It came again, thump thump! and at this Bilbo returned to his senses, heading once again to his lovely round door.

So help me if my paint is scratched, thought Bilbo in a huff. He had only had it repainted that July!

Throwing open his beautiful green door with a force uncharacteristic to the gentlefolk, Bilbo began to speak at the person on his porch without first seeing them, "I do apologize but I must ask you to leave. There is no time for guests today. And if you would please stop thumping on my door, that would be greatly appreciated. I only had it repainted earlier this summer, you know."

"Bilbo..." A painfully familiar voice breathed softly, almost hesitantly.

At this, the hobbit stiffened, finally turning his gaze from the door, where he'd been inspecting the paint carefully, to take in the sight of his guest. Strange, this visitor wore boots unlike folk of the Shire. One would be incredibly hard-pressed to find a Hobbit that even owned shoes in the first place! How odd , Bilbo thought, rather puzzled. They look almost... dwarven . He was positively certain that no dwarf would be out visiting him so late into the autumn. The trees outside were long into the process of slipping their green summer dresses from their naked winter bones. In the many acres of fields dotted throughout the Shire, gourds of exceptional sizes were laying in wait to be made into pies. Why would any person, dwarf, elf, man, or hobbit go travelling so far at this time of year? The mere idea was beyond him.

Next, Bilbo noticed the fur-lined cloak just barely dusting the ground. The fabric was dirty and worn but the colour... it was an unmistakable sky blue. Despite that, the silver detailing remained brilliant and well looked after. The cloak, Bilbo figured, just needed a loving wash. Then, looking even further up, Bilbo realized just how tall this guest was. Granted, they weren't as tall as the tall folk over hill and over dale but even still, his line of sight met the centre of a broad chest that lay covered in light Dwarrow travelling armour. Wisps of stark, raven hair fell regally down past their shoulders, intricately laced with many delicate plaits and charms. The streaks of starlight running through made poor Bilbo's heart skip a beat. But it was finally looking all the way up at the impossibly familiar face that made his own promptly pale, stomach sinking to his furry feet.

"No..." Bilbo's voice was breathy and his mouth agape, looking as a fish does without water. It couldn't be— No, it isn't possible. "Thorin?"

"Master Baggins," The dwarf replied sheepishly, "may I come in?"

Bilbo blinked. He had so many emotions swirling around his brain that he feared they might topple him right over. Surprise washed over him like he was back in that Mirkwood river, clinging for dear life to a stolen, elven barrel. It soaked him to his core. Then, something he felt long ago flickered again in his heart, only to quickly be snuffed out with stern reason. It cannot be Thorin, Bilbo concluded sharply, this must be a trick. A cruel prank. It isn't really him. And finally, rage enveloped him hotter than any desolation Smaug could have ever brought down. How dare this stranger? How dare he?

Thankfully, he had the right mind to remember the politeness of the gentlefolk that had been expected of him since he was a young lad. With the best tight-lipped smile he could manage—one that did not reach his eyes mind you—Bilbo pulled his precious door further open and stepped aside with a grand, flourishing sweep of his arm. "Please do."

〜〜〜

Bilbo needed to think fast. There was a stranger in his house pretending to be his... Well, his... friend, one could suppose. What could the dwarf possibly gain from this charade? Certainly, he would know better than to pretend to be a great king, and yet here he stood in Bilbo's doorway, head slightly bowed so as to not hit himself on the frame.

"Right," said the hobbit, a plan quickly gathering in the back of his mind. "I don't suppose you'll need me to show you where to hang your cloak?"

The imposter's lips twitched a ghost of a smile that does not belong to him. "No, no. I remember."

"Very well. In the meanwhile, let me fetch you some tea. I just sat down to it."

"Ah, my apologies. I had hoped I wouldn't interrupt it. Afternoon tea at four o'clock sharp if I recall correctly. Is that the time? I did get a bit turned around..."

But Bilbo was already out of sight. Using his hobbit ability to move silently, he practically sprinted down the corridor. Past the parlour where the clock still ticked away completely unbothered, past the kitchen where the tea was cooling, he ran straight to the one room of Bag End where he could keep his mighty blade from prying eyes.

For the past few years, upon his return to Bag End, Bilbo's study had been his sanctuary, his fortress. He'd lock himself behind its doors for days at a time—ignoring even the most concerned visits from his family. It was, after all, the only room connected to his own and oftentimes he would find himself driven from a restless slumber and into its curved walls and low ceilings. Bilbo wonders now if this is another one of his night terrors in which he would wake with a gasp and a sob.

The thought is shoved aside along with scraps of paper and old scrolls hiding a chest that still smelled of troll if you were to walk past it the wrong way. The hobbit's mind cried out at the mere sight of it. Sting! Plucking the blade from the chest, he recalled the familiar weight which his sword held, not only in physicality but in spirit as well. Many battles were fought with it, and if many may still come, Bilbo did not know. Right now, one thought trumped the rest, defend.

He considered then, the special ring he always kept in his pocket. He could take the other little treasure in the room at the end of the hall, slip on the ring, and run off into the rolling hills of the Shire in the blink of an eye; he could even warn Gandalf of the imposter. No, he pushed that thought away, I won't get answers that way.

Hiding the blade beneath his house coat, he hustled back towards the great pretender. Bilbo could barely see straight. While he was known to be more level-headed than both his Brandybuck and Took cousins combined, this anger was becoming too great to stay cordial. Slipping back into the foyer, Bilbo realized he had returned at the perfect time, the dwarf had his back turned, busy with storing his supplies away neatly. All the while mumbling a triumphant victory song that turned the hobbit's stomach.

Stepping towards the dwarf, Bilbo raised his voice instead of his sword, not daring to reveal it too soon and be situated in a terrible position, "Your Majesty? Your tea is ready."

He did try his best not to sound as outraged as he felt.

The dwarf nodded, just once. "Good, we have much to discuss."

"Indeed," said Bilbo, though he knew whatever 'talk' coming his way would not end well and that he would have to act soon; he just needed a glimmer of opportunity.

At that, the imposter turned to look at him with Thorin's dazzling eyes and once again the poor hobbit's heart panged with a strange mixture of longing and lividity. It was an odd feeling like oil and water, one that certainly did not mix. Tearing his eyes from the wretched gaze, Bilbo saw his opening, his guest had left his sword sheathed alongside his cloak on the hooks!

How bold! He thought wickedly. How stupid.

"But first, my King..." Bilbo started, stepping ever closer to the dwarf. "Tell me something. Forgive me, but I am terribly confused."

"Aye? Anything you wish, Master Burglar."

Another step. Thorin had to take a step back now, as to avoid towering over the shorter man.

"Tell me," Bilbo's eyes blazed as they locked onto the intruders once again. He crept ever closer still. "Why have you come here?"

"Ah. To discuss an important matter, as I mentioned."

"Right." Another step. He was definitely in his personal space now. "You said that."

It should be noted that at this point in the conversation—if one could even call it that—the mighty burglar nearly had the supposed ruler of Erebor backed against his blasted door. In fact, at this point, that same hobbit could not care much less if the paint got scratched. He needed answers.

"You, however, did not say who you were though." Bilbo was getting quite worked up now, yet still refrained from drawing his weapon.

A slight laugh left the dwarf's lungs at that, only adding more kindling to Bilbo's rage. "Dear me, my good hobbit! I will admit some time has passed, but surely you recognize an old friend."

"Some time?" Bilbo mused sharply. It had been five years for Yavanna's sake!

The pretender looked as though he shrunk slightly at the retort, the small smile slipping from his lips. This was Bilbo's chance. He threw his full weight against the dwarf, pinning him to the door, and drew his blade.

"I will not ask you again, and you are testing my patience." Bilbo brought the sword up toward the intruder's throat. "Who are you?"

Piercing eyes leapt down to Sting, though they held no fear, just surprise and, was that... pride?

"I am Thorin Oakenshield." The dwarf spoke softly, as one would as to not spook a wild animal. "Son of Thr—"

"NO!" A shout ripped from Bilbo like thunder. "Thorin Oakenshield is DEAD! He has been for the last five years! Don't you dare say his name like it's yours to own."

"But—"

"You cannot trick me!" A hot tear slid down Bilbo's cheek unceremoniously, his rage close to bubbling over the surface. "You may wear his face and claim his name but you cannot trick me! You cannot bring harm to his legacy in my house."

"I promise you, it is no trick." The dwarf dared not speak above a whisper. "I'm not—"

"Just stop! What do you want from me?" Cried Bilbo, tightening his grip on the sword.

Meeting the hobbit's gaze once more, Thorin whispered, "Bilbo... Please—"

"Don't call me that. You don't get to say my name with that voice." Bilbo glared with eyes so fierce and ablaze, one would call the look terrifying; indeed, such a gaze was not learned in the Shire. Hot tears now flowed freely, streaming down his wobbling chin and staining his shirt.

"It's me... Thorin."

"If—" He huffed a ragged breath. "If you truly are who you claim to be... tell me something only the King would know or— or I'll hurt you."

"I..." He could see the pretender's mind race behind eyes that did not belong to him. "I know that you alone saved the company countless times—though we were always too proud to admit it."

"Ha!" Bilbo laughed humorlessly, drawing the sword tight enough to his skin that he could practically feel the dwarf's heartbeat thrumming down the blade. A single bead of red formed on its biting edge. "That's common knowledge! Is that all you can come up with?"

"I know that you... love riddles! You're very smart with them! Much smarter than I."

"Again! That's hardly a secret!" Uttered Bilbo, exasperated. "Last chance if you truly are Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain. What... did I have in my pocket in the halls of Erebor? No one else could possibly know."

"Your pocket...?" Bilbo saw his mind reeling for the answer. Then he smiled wide and full, something dangerous to do considering the blade at his neck. Bilbo's breath caught. A smile on Thorin's face had always been a rare sight. And it was stunning. "An acorn. You had an acorn from Beorn's humble home."

As the words rang true to his memory, Bilbo took a shaky step backwards, knees wobbling dangerously, eyes and mouth alike wide and frozen. Sting clattered to the hardwood floor with a mighty crash but neither hobbit nor dwarf paid any mind.

"It is you..." Bilbo gasped, suddenly finding his lungs empty and tight. He had never told anyone about that acorn, not even for planting tips from his dear friend and gardener Hamfast. "How?"

"Details later, gentle hobbit," Thorin replied softly, taking a small step away from the door and towards the now-shaking man.

"I— I can't..." Bilbo let out a raw sob, now unsure how to feel but feeling too much all at once as the weight of reality hit like an orc's blade. "This... This isn't real— You're... You're dead. I saw— I held y— You're dead, Thorin!"

"I... was, for a moment, but they were able to bring me back," Thorin admitted. The King... the honest to Valar real King under the Mountain was alive, somehow, and he knelt in front of Bilbo. Brilliant eyes searched painfully and sure hands hovered in hesitancy, afraid of spooking the hobbit further. "I am, truly, sorry to put you through that."

"You died... You... died. You're dead. You're dead! This- This can't be real. I've truly gone crazy now... This isn't real and you're dead, Thorin!" The hobbit rambled, gasping and clawing at his chest and neck as if an invisible force had been tightly wrapped around him, constricting his breath. "Dead."

Thorin was then struck by a faint memory of his childhood, of his father coming to settle him down after a nightmare. It had been a very long time since he had felt the need to use this method on anyone, as it was a ritual he deemed especially intimate. He had only used it with Fíli and Kíli, as they were his kin, his sister-sons. He cursed his cowardly hands at their hesitancy. Screw all implications of touch, he chastised internally, Bilbo is more than worthy, and he is under duress due to my actions. Something must be done.

Ever so tenderly, Thorin took Bilbo's shaking hands in his own, placing one on his chest and the other on the hobbit's heaving frame. The connection made his fingers tingle and burn.

"Bilbo. Listen to me," he commanded gently. "Feel my heart. Does it not beat?"

Brow furrowing, his answer came in a stuttering voice, "It does."

"And yours?"

"...Yes"

"That means we are alive, dear friend. Alive. Can't you feel it?"

"...Alive." Bilbo's wet eyes shone as they met Thorin's. Of course, it was him. Of course. There couldn't be anyone else but him.

"Can you breathe with me for a moment?"

Bilbo nodded. Words now stuck like honey in his throat and he was slowly becoming aware of how exhausted this shock had made him, head swimming.

"Good. Just breathe with me. In—" They inhaled for five ticks of the clock in the other room. "And out." They exhaled. "Good, very good. Again, Bilbo. In— and out."

They remained that way for many minutes, breathing in each other's presence, grounding themselves for fear that emotion may crumble them both. Soon, Bilbo's fluttering heart returned to a rhythmic thump-thump! thump-thump! He sagged into the King's arms, trembling still from the exhaustion.

"I missed you," Bilbo whispered.

He flinched in surprise as he felt Thorin's arms tighten like solid stone around him, though it did not frighten him. It reminded him of the earth, soft grass underfoot and unbroken sky overhead. The embrace felt like a beacon homeward.

Even more surprising, however, was a sure hand gently petting his curls in reassurance. The poor hobbit almost shivered at the touch, a deep sigh slipping from his shuddering lips. How long had it been since he truly felt this safe? In this cocoon the world could melt away—there could be an army of unspeakable evils taking over the whole of the Shire—and Bilbo would stay wrapped up within it. The outside did not matter, because right here, right now, was all that mattered. Bilbo didn't know which particular Valar he had to thank but he knew he was a tremendously lucky hobbit.

"How are you feeling now?" Asked Thorin, voice rustling through his hair like the wind on the leaves.

He sniffled, sighed, and replied, "Better. I suppose... I'm confused, mostly. My head is swimming."

Though it took every ounce of resolve in him, Bilbo stepped back slightly, slackening the solid grip between them. Cautiously, he searched Thorin's face. New wrinkles lined his forehead and cheeks, showing his age in the most tender of ways. A large scar traced from the corner of his forehead to the tip of his nose, healed, but relatively fresh. A remnant of the battle, the hobbit concluded. Bilbo took it all in, trying to capture every detail to memory as if Thorin would vanish if he were to blink. Fruitlessly, he tried to count each new strand of silver gracing his temples, disappearing in the mass sweep of Thorin's regal raven locks. He was obsidian. He was mithril. He was the stone and the earth and everything beyond comprehension.

Slowly, he found Thorin's eyes. Older they were but ageless they appeared, as the new lines and creases around them only added to their charm. Striking and calculating they were, and blue. So incredibly, incandescently blue Bilbo concluded he would drown in them. He would go to war for those eyes; in fact, he had gone to war for them. He would crawl for a thousand years through the darkest parts of Mirkwood if it meant that he could view those eyes but for a moment; his personal brilliant sky. He had caught tiny glimpses of that blue every now and again in the smallest things but they were never as true, each time tearing the rags of his heart even further. He had thought he would never see it again. Yet here it was. Here he was.

"Why?" Squeaked Bilbo, hesitantly placing a hand on the dwarf's cheek as if to confirm he wasn't some fantasy hallucination conjured by a particularly intense strain of pipeweed. "After all this time, why didn't anyone tell me? Balin—I write to him each summer—why didn't he... I mourned you, Thorin. I still mourn you yet you're here in front of me."

At that, Thorin's face grew distant. He looked down at Bilbo's hand. "Ah, that would probably be my fault..."

"What—"

The King of Erebor took his burglar in hand and rose to his feet, "Come, let's sit down so I can answer all of your questions, you look faint."

Chap 2: Soldier, Fool, King

!!!CW: Mentions of mental health and suicide ideation!!!

"Tell me again. But everything this time."

A sigh.

"Bilbo, it's getting late."

"And what of it? I— I need to understand everything, Thorin. I need it to be ironed out smoothly in my head. No wrinkles, no sir. You've told me little; many things still don't make sense."

Silence, like a plea of weariness, hung in the air.

"Please, Thorin?"

The taller man had guided Bilbo—still quite bewildered—into the hobbit's cozy living room. He had all but pushed him into his plush armchair, insisting that Bilbo needed to sit before he fell over, before tutting off into the kitchen to fetch them both a glass of water. Bilbo just let it happen, too high-strung to fight over pleasantries and host duties. The two of them were truly a sight to behold.

Bilbo had never seen the dwarf like this. Sure, he was the same man he had journeyed into the wild with all those years ago, the same stoic dwarf who knew the pain of fighting for his home, the same King of said precarious, pain-in-the-ass Mountain. Bilbo was certain of this, and yet he couldn't believe his eyes, the man was behaving like a proper mother hen! The poor hobbit couldn't tell what shocked him more, the fact that Thorin was alive, or his bold actions of softness.

Another sigh, and a grumble that sounded something like, you're damn lucky I like you, hobbit.

"Fine," Thorin nodded, rubbing the thick, shiny scar on his temple. A physical and visual reminder to Bilbo of all that had transpired upon Ravenhill. He shivered. "But you might as well write it down while we're at it. This is the last time I'll tell this story in full for a long while. I am... tired Bilbo."

As he said those last words, Bilbo was struck by Thorin's looks again. He was aged, that was certain, but he was still undeniably beautiful, carved by time like the mountain from which he was born. Now, however, he could also see the utter exhaustion beneath his unmoving face.

"I have a good memory when everything is laid out in front of me," Bilbo replied quietly.

A flicker of a smile tugged at Thorin's lips. "Of course, Master Burglar. My mistake."

Bilbo would have single-handedly brought down the orc army, he figured once long ago, if it meant he could've seen the King under the Mountain smile again. He would've done anything for him, but instead, he just nodded, prompting the dwarf to begin his tale.

"Well, it all took place on Ravenhill, as you recall by, er, being there. We—Fíli, Kíli, Dwalin, and I—were trying to bring a stop to the carnage by taking down the orc army leader, Azog—curse his name and bloodline." Thorin spat the name as if it were poison. "I had just sent my boys out to scout the tower for the blasted orc as it had appeared as though he had vanished—when the goblin mercenaries invaded. Quickly enough, Dwalin and I disposed of them when you, ahem, well, snuck up behind us, ranting on and on about the second army approaching from the North and the tower being a trap."

"Yes, yes, I know this part. I warned you about the invasion, but you stubbornly still went after Azog—without your armour, may I remind you—I got hit on the head, and woke up to find you bleeding out." Flapping a hand in annoyance, he recalled the foolish dwarf king running head-first into battle without his armour, despite the amount of effort and time it had taken to find it in the first place.

"...Right." Bilbo saw Thorin's jaw clench slightly and immediately cursed his uncouth tongue.

"Sorry." He muttered anxiously, fidgeting with a loose thread on his trousers. Fool of a Baggins. Honestly, what a kindly host you are!

"No, Bilbo, that's not— I have... a lot of guilt about charging after him without a plan, about my... attire, about staying up there in general. I should have just listened to you, like always. Maybe things would have played out better for us in the end."

The hobbit jolted slightly at this. Just how much had Thorin changed these past years? How much had they both changed?

"Ahem... After hearing the news, I ordered Dwalin to call back Fíli and Kíli; but it was too late. The demon orc had gotten to Fíli... He—" Thorin's voice wavered slightly. Bilbo cautiously laid a hand on his in support.

"You needn't relive this part if it troubles you." He said softly. "I was there too."

"No, I— should." Thorin accepted the connection and reached for the other hand almost absentmindedly. "The boys are alright now so this part shouldn't scare me as much as it does. Besides, you wanted 'everything laid out in front of you.'"

Bilbo's heart clenched, it was so strange to hear the stoic King speak openly about his feelings for his nephews—ones who were also alive, as no one could've given the poor hobbit peace of mind these past five years apparently—but it was nice.

"If you insist."

Thorin took a deep breath and launched back into his tale, "Azog, the wretch, stabbed my Fíli in the back, then threw him from the tower, breaking his... uh— spine, legs, and— and many other bones. After the battle was done, we did what we could, we— we even brought him to the healers of Rivendell a few times, but he's still unable to walk today... If I had just—"

"But you said that he now gets around in a chair of, what was it again, wheels?" Bilbo cut in, interrupting the beginnings of the dwarf's self-deprecating rant.

Thorin smiled subtly then, eyes suddenly far away. "Indeed. The good Dwarrowfolk of the Iron Hills fashioned it for him. Heh, you should see the little bastard zipping up and down the halls. He's even more of a menace now than Kíli! The pair they are. Turns my beard grey." Though he did not mean that maliciously.

"I shall have to come to see that." Bilbo mused, the most jovial thought of the pair chasing their uncle around the mountain popping into his head.

"Indeed."

They gazed at each other for a blissful moment before Thorin turned with a slight cough, cheeks dusted with a delightful pink blush. If Bilbo could live in this moment, watching this ethereal man become, for some reason, flustered under his humble gaze, he would. But before long, the dwarf continued the tale.

"After Fíli fell, and before I could stop him, Kíli advanced, wanting to avenge his brother. I went after him, leaving you and Dwalin on the plateau."

"And that's when a second wave of orcs attacked," Bilbo added. "Dwalin fought nearly all of them off and I— Well, I've never been much of a warrior but I held my own for a while anyways."

Thorin sucked in a breath but nodded. "They attacked while we were separated and vulnerable. The pale orc had gone for me instead of Kíli, thankfully, and we fought down the hill. Heh, he almost got me a few times."

That got him a pointed look. Bilbo did not enjoy the King joking about his demise, not when the wound was reopened in the poor hobbit's heart.

"Ahem, anyways, instead of the bastard orc scum reaching Kíli, it was his offspring. Bolg." He cursed in a tongue that Bilbo couldn't decipher but recognized from the other company members on their journey. "Tauriel—Valar bless her—fought hard to help him but—"

"Bless her?!" Bilbo's eyebrows shot up in utter shock, first mother hen, now praising elves! If Bilbo hadn't confirmed that this man was indeed the legendary Thorin Oakenshield, these actions would've made him look even more like an imposter. "I have never, ever heard you praise an elf before. I thought you hated them all."

"I did— I do!" Thorin protested. "But she helped save my kin and for that, I am forever grateful. Her knowledge of fighting and field medicine is an asset to the mountain. Not to mention the fact that she's turned her back on Thranduil. I will admit that it has taken a few years to come to accept her as Kili's One, but at the end of the day, she's not that bad... for an elf."

"You're lying."

"Am not, and don't make such a big fuss over it, you silly hobbit."

"This is astounding!" Cried the burglar deviously. "Next, you're going to say you're friends with Lord Elrond!"

Thorin shrugged nonchalantly.

"No way!"

"He's... tolerable. Much more tolerable than that insufferable Mirkwood King. He helped my kin when no one else could. And he didn't even throw us in prison either. Unlike some elves I have the misfortune of knowing." He sniffed in disdain as if the mere thought of King Thranduil irked him grievously.

Bilbo laughed heartily. He relished in the light-hearted banter; it had been too long since he'd had a friendly row. Longer still since he'd laughed with his king. Not since before the sickness. A wave of unbridled enthusiasm coursed through his stout frame at the nostalgic connection. "You, Thorin Oakenshield, the dwarf of all Dwarrow, like Elves!"

A rumbling sound escaped Thorin's lips then, like a groan of discontent. Bilbo grinned, he was all too familiar with it. The dwarf let his head fall into his hands—which the teasing hobbit still held—cheeks warm. His soft hair tickled Bilbo's wrists.

"You continue to amaze me, my King."

"Hobbits don't have kings." Thorin corrected, voice muffled.

"Maybe so," Bilbo agreed, feeling the heat of the dwarf's skin in his palms, tingling down his fingers. He bent forward then, wondering how far his Took-ish teasing could go, and whispered above Thorin's ear, "But this hobbit does."

"You!" The swift hobbit had just narrowly pulled his head back in time when the dwarf shot up, eyes blazing. The soft pink, now a sunset red, crept up to his hairline and disappeared beneath the collar of his tunic. "I—"

Bilbo smiled innocently as Thorin ripped one of his now-flushed hands free to cover his mouth, breaking eye contact.

"You're infuriating." The King muttered, not unkindly. "Teasing me like a scoundrel."

"Okay, fine!" Bilbo laughed again. Warm and full. "I'll stop, I promise."

"Good."

"Though, if I may," he suddenly felt shy. "You are my King, Thorin. Truly. In all the ways that can be considered from a simple hobbit."

"I... don't know what to say to that." There was so much he wanted to say.

"Just continue your tale."

〜〜〜

And so, the King of Erebor did just that. On and on he went, seldom drawing even a breath to pause; he could talk for hours if prompted. Preposterous it had seemed to Bilbo when they first met, how in Yavanna's Green Gardens did this brooding, stoic dwarf have enough air in his lungs to talk at such a length? Now, however, the hobbit relished in the sound.

Thorin told him of how the second prince was nearly slain, having been pierced by the hilt of Bolg's mace. Of how Tauriel, the elven warrior, fought off the orc despite being gravely injured herself, and how Legolas was the one to finally put a dagger through the orc's horrible head.

By some miracle, and with an urgent airlift from the Eagles, both princes were able to retrieve life-saving healing in the nick of time. Now, with the combined efforts of countless months of rest, years of physical training, and the sheer will of the line of Durin, they were back to behaving like the reckless, lovable warriors everyone knew them to be.

Thorin also told Bilbo of how he had been trapped on the frozen waterfall in the meanwhile, fighting off dozens of orc soldiers with just a short knife. At this, Bilbo couldn't stop a wave of guilt washing over him for not being able to fight alongside him. Feeling, in that moment, insignificant and terribly weak in comparison to the great Dwarrow fighters. Though, he had had no say in the matter of being knocked out and had honestly remained upright much longer than anyone expected.

Having been assisted by the elven prince, Thorin retrieved his sword once more just in time to come face-to-face with Azog.

"He flung about a slab of rock on the end of a chain; some kind of crude flail mace if anything," said Thorin flatly. "Crashing it carelessly into the ice when he couldn't hit me, the ice cracked around us, making it harder to dodge and strike. It was then that the Eagles flew overhead, assisting against the second army of the North, which had been about to enclose the top of the hill. Luckily, the commotion had distracted him enough to allow me the ability to tip his ice patch into the water below."

A pit of tension grew in Bilbo's stomach at the repeated mentions of the Eagles. As much as he respected them and their continuous support, they only reminded him of the painful memory of holding Thorin's body in his arms, begging for the slain King to look at the aid coming to save them.

"Thinking the scum drowned and died, I foolishly followed his body down to the cliff's edge, into his trap. The bastard— Heh," the dwarf chuckled humourlessly. "He stuck me right in the foot. Mahal, that hurt."

"Thorin." Bilbo breathed a warning, heart clenching.

"Because of this," he continued, either not hearing the small sound or ignoring it entirely. "He resurfaced; pinning me to the ice, and I could only hold off his blade with my own for so long. He was so strong. Much too strong. So, I'd thought... maybe..."

Bilbo watched, confused, as the man before him sunk slightly in on himself. Thorin had only glossed over this part of the story in his first telling. What was troubling him about it now? What was different? What remained hidden? The hobbit squeezed his hand gently.

"I thought that maybe it would be better for everyone if I wasn't there." He admitted quietly and Bilbo felt the air leave his lungs abruptly. "If the throne was upheld by someone better than me there would be no more war, no more pain, no more suffering. That is all I ever brought to my people... to you. I had favoured fool's gold over the company, over my kin. I... hurt you and threw you out... There was— nothing left to fight for. I believed my nephews were gone. So, I withdrew my blade, my defence, letting him pierce me. I— I allowed him that final blow—"

Bilbo stood suddenly, wrenching his hand away from Thorin's grasp. He felt sick.

"Bilbo?"

"That's not fair, Thorin." He paced the room, chin wagging and nose twitching in disbelief. How could he? After everything we had fought to achieve–everything he had fought to achieve–how could he just give it up? Fool of a dwarf! Stubborn, self-sacrificing fool!

"I don't understand—"

"You don't get to decide to throw your life away because you cannot look past your own deeds!" He exclaimed. "You don't get to decide you're not worth the crown just because an accursed sickness befell you! By the Valar, Thorin! Do you not realize how important you are? Did you not know your actions under sickness were forgiven? Didn't you think this plan would only bring more pain? Sometimes you are a right fool, Master Oakenshield."

Thorin shook his head but kept his eyes glued to the hobbit as he paced, saying weakly, "I thought it was for the best."

"And you were wrong!" Cried the hobbit, tugging at his hair in frustration. "When I awoke and saw you standing on the ice, with the carnage around you, I had hope. Hope, Thorin! Because you were still standing, still fighting. But then you fell. And, well, I thought I would pass out again... And— And when you shut your eyes for the last time; I swear a part of me died with you. That is to say, I have not been the same. I have been in such pain since you died. I would have gone with you to the ends of Arda, you know? I would've— Ahem—" He heard a sharp inhale but continued, hastily backpedalling his ramblings so as to stop himself from revealing his past dark emotions. "So do not tell me it was for the best, Master Oakenshield. You bled out in my arms."

It was Thorin now, who felt sick; Bilbo's words leaving a bad taste in the dwarf's mouth. "By Durin, Bilbo... I—"

"You know," Bilbo interrupted most disrespectfully for that of a gentle hobbit, pausing in front of the portrait of his mother that hung, framed, on the wall next to his father. He could almost hear the tongue lashing his father would serve him if he saw how his only son was acting, and his mother's twinkling, knowing laughter in the background, egging him on. "I left Erebor almost immediately afterwards. I thought you three were dead and I couldn't handle the idea of a funeral so I just... left. Barely said goodbye... Heh, all I have left are my memories and those letters from Balin."

"They're not from Balin." The truth exploded from Thorin's lips before he could shut them. He cursed himself internally.

A pregnant pause filled the room. Bilbo turned and looked at the King again with wild eyes, finding him weary and guilty.

"What?"

"Those letters..." He hesitated, knowing there was no way out of the conversation. "It was always me, writing you back. I'd had Balin write for me when I was bedbound and the habit just kind of... stuck I suppose. We made a sort of system. The first page would be questions from myself and Balin, and sometimes the company as well, but the second page would always be my response to yours."

Bilbo gaped at him, more infuriated with the dwarf than he even thought possible.

"And you all just... never thought to tell me of your miraculous survival?"

"You think I'm a fool, Master Baggins." Thorin stood now too, his calm reserve faltering. "I wanted to tell you. Every time, I swear."

"So why didn't you?" The hobbit seethed.

"Because I couldn't!" The King roared in reply.

They stood but inches apart from each other now, chests heaving, piercing glares threatening to tear a hole through their delicately woven reunion.

"Do you think I wanted to leave you in the dark?" Thorin asked sharply. "Don't you think I wanted to see you the moment I awoke in the healing tent, covered in bandages and alone? I had my reasons, Bilbo. I couldn't tell you."

"Well, why not? And do not give me a fauntish excuse, King under the Mountain." Bilbo snarled in a voice uncharacteristic to that of his kind.

"I..." Thorin faltered, looking away.

"Why, Thorin?" Bilbo thrust an accusing finger at the dwarf's chest, trying to quell the tightening sensation in his throat. He didn't want to cry again. Not now.

"I couldn't bear to bring you more pain, Bilbo... My health, my boys' health, was too delicate for too long and I couldn't— I wouldn't get your hopes up in case anything happened. Balin had told me everything about your perils after the battle's end; as soon as I was well enough to hear it, that is. About how you believed us dead and walked the camps like a ghost before you left altogether: hardly eating, not speaking to anyone save the old wizard, disappearing for long periods of time..." Thorin crossed his arms atop his chest. "Hate me if you must but I wouldn't do that to you again."

"I don't hate you," Bilbo replied after a moment, frowning. "I may not agree with your actions, or thoughts for that matter, but I could never hate you for them, Thorin. I just... It's been so long, and this is a lot to wrap my head around. I mean, you could have written a proper letter. You could have visited..."

"You never came back either."

Bilbo reared his head as if the remark slapped him, quickly realizing just how much of a hypocrite he was. Thorin was right after all, he hadn't returned to the Lonely Mountain since he hastily departed; the lingering effect of the battle keeping him away. He hadn't even stayed long enough to be told of their fragile survival. And he had never asked about Thorin, or Fíli and Kíli for that matter, in his letters either. There was no way for him to have known. He had ruined the past five years by himself, he concluded sharply. He'd even had similar temptations as the dwarf king to give himself to the unknown dark. Gods above, he barely spoke to Gandalf nowadays. Excuses died on his lips. "I... I meant to. One day..."

"Trust me, Master Burglar, I started this journey the second I was cleared for it." His face softened and his shoulders relaxed, as though they never held the weight of the world to begin with. "It may have taken me nearly twice as long as it did last time to get here though, even if I didn't get lost in this maze of a Shire—truly, you hobbits need more signage or at least a few directional landmarks." A faint twinkle glimmered in Thorin's eyes then. Light and teasing. Bilbo was struck by how closely he resembled his nephews' mischief at that moment. "No, even though I found my way, the journey was slow going, unfortunately. Old injuries are still injuries if you treat them poorly enough and I may have had to attempt a few bribes to shorten the recovery time."

The hobbit's lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. Yes, there was much more to discuss further, but for here and now, this was enough. He had no energy left to continue this fight. "You're a fool, my friend."

"I know."

"I must apologize," Bilbo said after a beat. "I'm being a hypocrite and an ungrateful one at that. As well, I've been an utter disgrace of a host. Goodness, a blade to the throat. What has become of me? ...I never even checked if you were injured! Oh dear, are you alright? I don't know what came over me..."

With a simple flourish, Thorin flicked his hair from his neck, exposing the creamy skin. "Peace, Bilbo, I am quite alright. Look, hardly a scratch." The sigh of relief echoed throughout the room. "I must admit, that was rather surprising; though, I do not fault your actions. If I were in your position, I'd likely act similarly."

"It wasn't very proper though, was it?" It wasn't a question and more of a statement.

"Perhaps not, but it was just. Your reaction was to defend, to ask questions, to do anything necessary to secure your safety. That is admirable, Master Burglar. It would do you a disservice to fall back on propriety. Not after learning of your courage."

"I... Ahem. Perhaps you are right. Though, it is still not fair to you after all you've done to get here. And for that, I am truly sorry."

"You hobbits..." Thorin shook his head to hide the smile curling in his cheeks. "I should apologize as well."

"No, you shouldn't—"

"Yes, Bilbo. I should." The King put a strong hand on his slim shoulder and Bilbo had to suppress a shudder at its weight, silenced of any further argument. "I may not have the right words to say—though I've tried for many years to think of ones appropriate—but, I am truly, deeply sorry for our parting, the pain I have caused, and my deeds under the sickness; specifically, the ones made at the gate. That is to say, I know I can never undo what I have done, and I know that I have no right of asking for your forgiveness, but I will spend the rest of my days trying to do right by you if you'll let me. If you will allow me, I want to stand by your side, as you have stood by mine. I want to walk with you, talk with you, have you put me in my place when I'm being stubborn. I want to show you how much you mean to me, and to my people, though I know that there is no amount of jewels or gold to repay you for your loyalty, nor is it something that you wish. As well, I know that forgiveness doesn't happen overnight—it may never happen at all—but I just hope, in time, we can rebuild what we've lost, if you'll have me."

Bilbo stood for a moment, mouth parted slightly, frantically searching to find any words adequate for such a man as Thorin Oakenshield. It seemed absurd that the future of a man of such importance relied on the answer of a single, humble creature. A man, who with so much power and responsibility riding on his shoulders, depending on him, stood before him with such fear and pent-up anxiety written in the very lines of his skin. Bilbo longed to wipe away that burden from his soul like dust off an old tome and read him thoroughly.

"I can leave if you wish." He looked away, making a motion to remove his hand.

"No!" Came a desperate cry, the moved burglar finding his words once more. He swallowed and spoke again with more authority. "No. That won't be necessary. I simply do not know what to say, is all. For a dwarf who claims he doesn't have the right words, you certainly have a way with them. I understand the burdens behind your actions—even if I cannot begin to imagine the turmoil—and I... I forgive you, of course. Though, as you said, it will take time to rebuild what was lost."

Thorin gazed at him now with such a look of relief, the longing it held underneath was subtly amplified; it appeared as though he could breathe again for the first time in a millennium. Drawing close, he brought his forehead gently against the hobbit's, bending slightly in the middle to match his height.

"I also want to walk and talk with you," Bilbo continued with a content sigh. "I want to stand by your side as well—I believe always will. And I should always like to tell you when you're being a stubborn, old thing." He chuckled then, at the soft snort Thorin emitted. "You know, I suppose one nice thing about your letters is that I was reading of your well-being this whole time. To think, after all these years, you still protect me. It is far more than any Baggins deserves."

"You deserve so much more than I can give, my friend," Thorin muttered softly, closing his eyes. A smile blossomed on Bilbo's lips at the declaration, lopsided and curious, but he said nothing more on the matter.

Chap 3: Small Miracles in Bag End

A small cry broke the silence between the King of Erebor and his trusted burglar, and Bilbo's heart leapt to his throat. Frodo! Oh Gods, what's the time? A right fool you've been, Bilbo Baggins, it's nearly dinnertime and you haven't even started on it! How could you forget your boy just to argue with the King under the Mountain like a child?! The poor boy must be hungry and confused.

"What was that?" Thorin asked, hands flashing to the empty spot where his sword usually hung.

Stepping away slightly from the dwarf, Bilbo shot him a small smile. "Do you want to meet my son?"

The dwarf's eyes nearly bulged straight out of his skull. Bilbo suppressed a chuckle; that wasn't the reaction he was expecting.

"You have a... a fauntling?"

"Come with me."

The King stood rooted to the hardwood, properly flummoxed. Bilbo could almost see the thoughts swirling around behind his wide eyes. His smile deepened as he grabbed Thorin's hand, dragging the dwarf out of the room and to his senses.

"I haven't been away that long, have I?"

"Too long, much has changed."

The hobbit guided the taller man down the hall, past the kitchen where Bilbo's tea and book had long since been abandoned, towards the quaint nursery that held the newest treasure in Bag End. The babe had been in Bilbo's care for little over three months now, a tiny survivor of a tragedy that claimed the lives of his parents, but already the burglar's life had changed drastically. Alone in his troubles, there had been many a time when the gentle hobbit considered joining his King; the grief was, at most times, all-consuming. His world in the Shire was never the same after knowing what he knew, seeing what he saw, and experiencing what he did. But then, this tiny miracle arrived in his care. And as tired as he was, there was light again in his world where it had been dark for so long. Days became more bearable, though nights remained a battle, and Bilbo found his heart growing full of a passion to keep going.

Stopping at the door to the nursery, a lovely dark oak shade with the name "Frodo" painted in gold across the top, the hobbit looked over at Thorin. The dwarf's face had gone slightly pale, his eyes were withdrawn, and a faint bead of sweat formed on his brow, but still, he managed a weak smile and a nod. Bilbo put a pin in that expression to discuss later and opened Frodo's door.

"Oh, my dear Frodo," Bilbo sang gently as he approached a richly coloured oak crib in the center of the room. The crying ceased at his voice alone. "Are you awake from your nap? You must be hungry, my boy!"

"Bo! Bo!" A small voice cooed sweetly in delight and a small hand wagged up from the crib as the tiny hobbit recognized the older one. Bilbo chuckled joyously, tickling the babe's nose, before delicately scooping the fauntling into his arms. Frodo gets to meet Thorin! He realised excitedly. Never in all my dreams did I imagine this.

"We have a guest, my darling. He's come on a long journey from faraway lands."

Despite the dimly lit room, Bilbo's eyes shone with a light Thorin had never before seen from his friend, and he found himself thanking every creator he could think of for the opportunity he had now to witness it. He was struck with the desperate desire to wrap both hobbits in his embrace and never let any harm come their way, never to let the babe ever know the fears of the world he'd seen, but he remained rooted to the floor in the doorway, heart yearning for a future that couldn't be. There must be a Mrs. Baggins, Thorin realized as his heart twinged strangely, he must've found a lovely lass to settle down with, to have stability and make a home with. A shame I could never provide that for him in Erebor.

"Thorin?" A voice cut through the dwarf's thoughts. "Did you hear me?"

"Ah! My apologies. Must've been lost in thought." Thorin felt his cheeks heat involuntarily.

"Quite alright." Bilbo smiled, big and sweet. "I was asking if you wanted to come in and hold Frodo. He doesn't bite. Well... not often anyway."

"Oh." His voice caught slightly. "I don't really... Is that— Ahem, I mean— I don't know much about hobbit fauntlings... They're so tiny..."

"You helped your sister raise Fíli and Kíli, correct?"

"Well, yes. But—"

"Perfect! It's the same principle in care, surely. Hold him as you would your nephews when they were little pebbles."

"If that's okay?" Thorin found himself saying, in amazement.

Bilbo laughed then, a sweet, twinkling laugh that tugged at Thorin's tired soul and triggered a little giggle from the babe. "Of course, it's okay, my friend. That's why I asked!"

Thorin swallowed the anxiety building in his throat and stepped into the room. The walls were painted a lovely shade of pale yellow that reminded him of the early morning sun in the mountains. That is, however, where one could see the walls at all as there were many paintings and tapestries hung around from nearly every corner of middle earth. Simple Gentlefolk drawings of gardens and smials sat neatly in small frames. Elven fabrics fluttered with the sudden flow of air, glittering with threads of silver starlight. Furthermore, many maps of the Dwarrowfolk sprawled the rest of the walls, save for the small porthole window overlooking the whole of Hobbiton.

In one corner of the room, tiny playthings were scattered; some, he noticed, bore the intricate details infamous to the craftsmanship of old Dale. In another corner, he saw many books, presumably of children's interests. Very typical of hobbits, he smiled softly, 'a good book and an armchair' indeed, Master Burglar. The back of the room held a short dresser and a well-made, and well-used, rocking chair. Thorin could imagine the hobbit sitting in it, reading to the fauntling, playing with the Dwarrow-made toys, or rocking the young boy to sleep.

"This is— Truly, Bilbo I've never— Wow." Thorin stammered, awestruck by the amount of love he felt embedded into the very bones of the room. In honesty, Bilbo felt the room was a tad rushed, having used many things he already had acquired from his now countless travels with the elves. However, the richness in decorum was nothing special only to the Baggins. Many hobbits spoiled their fauntlings with any riches they'd come across in their lives, though Bilbo kept that information to himself.

"Thank you. It's just something simple, I don't want to spoil the boy too much too soon. Here," He turned to face Thorin fully and lifted the young hobbit towards him. "This is Frodo."

Stiffly, Thorin took the babe and nearly fell over with surprise. He hadn't noticed from the doorway, but this boy had a head of unruly black curls and big blue eyes. If the dwarf didn't know any better, he would've thought the babe was related to himself instead of Bilbo, minus the baby beard of course. The fauntling—Frodo, Thorin corrected, running the name through his mind like water over smooth river rocks—looked up at the dwarf with innocent, owl eyes and reached forward, with tiny, grasping fingers, taking a fistful of one of the man's braids. Tug!

"Ah! Frodo, no!" Bilbo squawked in surprise. He quickly pried the plait from Frodo's surprisingly strong grip and placed it gently back in place, totally disregarding the concept of personal space and cultural differences. "Master Thorin's braids may be pretty, but we don't touch, my boy. Terribly sorry."

Frodo just giggled innocently in response and, despite nearly being scalped by the boy, Thorin felt an immense joy grow inside. The fire in his cheeks grew hotter. "It's alright."

Pretty... The word echoed in his head like a war cry. He'd been described in many ways over the course of his long life, pretty was not one of them.

"How old is he?" Thorin asked, his voice thick with emotions that Bilbo just couldn't seem to place.

"He just turned two a couple of weeks ago." He let out a soft sound, round nose twitching in delight. "We actually have the same birthday wouldn't you know."

"Really?" Thorin nearly choked. Not only did he not know his friend's birthday, but he just missed it by a few weeks!

"Truly! September 22nd." Bilbo rocked back on his heels in pride.

Ah. Noted.

"He's beautiful. You and your wife must be so proud. Ahem." Thorin gave a small tight-lipped smile.

"Well, yes, I—" Bilbo initially nodded, then froze, processing the whole sentence. A bubble of laughter burst from his throat; a hearty, bellyaching, body-shaking chuckle. The hobbit nearly fell right over from it, clutching the poor dwarf's arm as he steadied himself, giggling.

"I—" Was all the confused dwarf could say.

After a moment, Bilbo calmed himself enough to take gulping, jittery breaths. He wiped the tears from his eyes and laughed again, shaking his head. Frodo and Thorin just stared at him, the former cooing in surprise from the outburst.

The small man grinned, patting the dwarf's arm lightly. "Oh dear, you humour me."

"I don't— Did I say— ...Come again?"

"He's not mine, Thorin."

"...What?" Thorin blinked, confusion creasing his forehead where his brows furrowed.

"Frodo is technically my cousin. His father was a Baggins."

"Oh." This trickster of a hobbit!

"Tragically," Bilbo sighed, voice turning more grave. "Dear Frodo's parents passed away in a boating accident earlier this spring. Wonderful people they were, and we all... miss them greatly... Anyways, it was somehow decided that I would adopt their boy. And all for the better I must say. For the both of us."

At this last point, Bilbo tucked a stray curl back in place on Frodo's head. Thorin was dumbstruck.

"So—"

"So, no, no wife."

"But—"

"But he is my boy. He is as much my son as Fíli and Kíli are yours."

A soft silence fell over the room as Thorin soaked in the information. A mix of emotions fluttered in his stomach like a flock of ravens. Relief overwhelmed him. Strangely, he'd never felt fear as he did at the thought of his burglar, his friend, his hobbit betrothed to anyone else. Yes, he was acting most unusual. Why, Bilbo was his dearest companion! It should please him if Bilbo found someone to settle down with. Shouldn't it?

A soft look of joy and confusion shaped Thorin's features in a way that the hobbit found most endearing. "Why—ahem—didn't you write about him? I'm positive the rest of the company would love to hear about this little gem."

"I did! Just this July when he arrived here. In fact, I've been writing about him all summer to Bal— to you, I suppose."

"Ah. I see. I was well into my journey here at that time." Thorin thought for a moment before adding in an all too familiar grumbled voice, "Although, I had told them to send me a raven when they received your letters... fickle bastards, no wonder I hadn't received word."

"Oh."

"Indeed. Though, do not misunderstand my words, Master Burglar, this is the most spectacular surprise."

The pair gazed softly at each other briefly when a gentle rumble broke the silence. Patient as the young babe was, Frodo was hungry.

"Dinner time!" Bilbo said with a gasp. "I almost forgot! You silly dwarf. You almost made me miss dinner on top of afternoon tea! That would be no good. No good indeed, I tell you. ...You are staying for dinner, correct?"

"I— suppose. I wouldn't want to impose, though." Thorin replied bashfully as if he suddenly realized the time.

"Nonsense! Come, I'll have something prepared for us shortly."

~~~

Within an hour the little kitchen table in Bag End sat with trembling legs, bearing a mighty feast upon it. The hobbit had made quick work with the now diminished supplies in his pantry. Meats and cheeses, bread and pastries, and berries and pies lay out in front of the stunned Dwarrow and fussy fauntling. Thorin had never seen anyone prepare food like this; Hobbit culture was so different from that of the Dwarrowfolk and Bilbo was truly a whirlwind, he felt a bit dizzy just watching him.

The King had tried to offer assistance only once, to which he was quickly ushered out of the way and into a chair at the head of the table with a wave of flour-covered hands. Instead, he was tasked with distracting poor Frodo, who was quickly becoming more akin to a worm than a halfling, agitated from having dinner delayed.

Wriggling on his lap, the babe made small cries of annoyance which reminded Thorin of a time when his nephews were small. He recalled how whenever they got fussy, they could always be calmed by playing with his hair and especially his braids. The babe had already shown an interest in them, Thorin figured, it couldn't hurt to try. Well, it could. But only to me.

"Frodo," he called softly. "What's this?"

He plucked a small braid from his hair and held it out to the boy and almost immediately Frodo forgot his fauntish woes, eyes lighting up with excitement and wonder. Had any of Thorin's people seen the interaction, they'd shave his plaits right then and there. Touching a dwarf's braids, or hair for that matter, was a right reserved for only select kin, not even cousins would touch them without specific written permission. Now, to have a child run their sticky fingers over important beads and weaves, that was unheard of, but to have a child of another kind do so? Thorin might as well have claimed his gold sickness had returned, as that would only make him seem less mad. Thorin's heart only melted further, however.

"I'd be careful if I were you," came a kind voice. "Tiny, Frodo might be, but he has a tight grip that means business."

Thorin looked up in time to see the busy hobbit turning his head back to the strange green vegetables he had been chopping rhythmically with a smile.

"Oh please, Bilbo." He scoffed in half-hearted offence. "I'm a hardened soldier, a King mind you, and a descendent of the line of Durin, I can handle a little pain. Besides, whose hair do you think was being pulled the most when the lads were little pebbles?"

"My deepest and most sincere of apologies, oh mighty warrior." Bilbo laughed merrily, chopping away. "Though, don't forget how he nearly tugged your braid clean off in the nursery."

Offering the fauntling on his lap the braid, Thorin cockily replied, "'Tis but a flesh wound."

Frodo made a small noise of fascination as he grasped the braid with tiny, eager hands. The boy had never seen such a wonder in his short life. Most hobbit lasses wore their hair in simple updos on the occasion they weren't letting their pretty curls float behind them in the breeze, and Bilbo certainly never did up his hair; no more than a ponytail during hot mid-afternoons in the summer.

"Do you want to know what they mean, little gem?" Thorin asked softly, earning an enthusiastic nod in response. "Well, this little one is to represent my siblings. This strand represents my younger sister Dís, see how thick and strong it is. And this smaller strand represents my younger brother Frerin, its smaller size represents how his life was cut too short—long may he rest in the halls of our fathers—but its shine shows how brightly he lived. I wear this plait to remember and honour them."

Bilbo smiled softly as pulled a pot from the stove, putting his hobbit ears to work to hear the sweet, quiet braid lesson between the two. He'd known about Dis, the mighty shield maiden, Princess of the Lonely Mountain, and mother to Fíli and Kíli, and he longed to one day meet the marvel. He liked to imagine that they would get along like old friends, bonding over the love of their troublesome Dwarrow. He didn't, however, know about Thorin's younger brother. He had never considered that there may have been another sibling in the mix and wondered how he had passed. It seemed to him then that there was much to this dwarf that he had yet to know.

"Ah! This one!" The King continued, carefully prying the braid from Frodo's hands, and replacing it with another that contained a few trinkets, a small silver bead, and a larger one made of rich sapphire. "This is a good one. It represents the royal line of Durin. See this bead here, it has the runes of Durin carved into it. Only descendants of his reign carry this bead. Ah— And the silver one represents my time as a prince. See the small words carved in my language on it: Thorin II, Prince of Erebor, the Kingdom under the Mountain."

Seeing the blank expression slip over the faunt's face, Thorin realized he'd slipped into his deep mother tongue and hastily added, "Ahem, that means: Thorin II—which is myself—Prince of Erebor, the Kingdom under the Mountain—which is where I'm from. I got that bead as a present after my father was sworn King and I became Crown Prince. My people didn't have much then, but they never wavered in their loyalty to the crown... As for these charms, they represent different parts of my Kingdom, a mountain to show the pride of the land, a pickaxe to symbolize the hard work of the miners past, and then there's the... the..."

Bilbo paused and looked over to the pair, hearing the dwarf trail off, only to find him looking straight back at him with a troubled expression.

"Are you quite alright?" the hobbit inquired, wringing his hands off on a towel so as to not immediately rush over and investigate.

As if snapping out of a bothersome memory, Thorin blinked back at him and nodded, "Yes, yes. I am well. I just... Well, the charm—"

"What of it?"

"It's of the Arkenstone..."

"Oh— I see."

"...Indeed."

"Well, no point discussing that business now, that's not a conversation for little faunt ears to hear." Bilbo smiled a bit too thin and forced before grabbing the dishes adorned with heaps of something that smelled delicious. "Anyways, dinner is served, my boys."

~~~

Thorin suppressed a blissful moan as the first bite of intriguing food graced his tongue. A dozen different flavours waltzed together and melted in his mouth. He could identify the savoury meats, rich onion and garlic, and barley, but as for the other fillings, the wrapping, even the sauce, they remained a beautiful mystery.

He'd heard whispers of the wonders of Gentlefolk cooking. Many claimed that once you had tried it, any dish they tried from the other races tasted plain and bland in comparison. Thorin at the time had been skeptical, over his many years, and before Erebor's fall, the dwarf had the honour of trying many dishes of different cultures and knew that true delicacies were hard to find. How bewitching could the food of humble creatures truly be? While, yes indeed, he had had many dinners made by Bilbo on the road, finding that food was carefully scrounged together with what scant resources they had available in their packs or alongside their path to be satisfying in their own right. Now, however, he knew. He could now understand why the company would still reminisce each time it was the hobbit's turn to cook—as he often gave Bombur nights of reprieve—about Bilbo's impromptu feast that he had the misfortune of missing.

"Oh my god, Bilbo." He breathed, hastily shovelling another forkful into his mouth.

"Is it alright?" Asked the hobbit genuinely, nose twitching in anticipation. "Oh, I do hope you like it. That recipe was my great-grandmothers on my mother's side. Old Took recipe if you will. Though, I'm afraid I haven't quite mastered the little quirks she would add."

"It's—" the dwarf choked slightly, trying—and failing—to speak around his food. Regaining composure, Thorin scolded his piggish eating habits. Royal manners had been instilled in him since he was but a pebble within the mountain; yet this heavenly meal was to be his undoing. He swallowed quickly. "It's amazing. What is it? I've never had meat prepared like this in all of my journeys. Specifically, the wrapping. Quite intriguing. As well, this sauce? Whatever it may be, is incredible. Your cooking skills are truly outstanding. Your food is better than any other I have had. If I never get to eat it again, I'll sooner starve."

Bilbo nearly dropped his fork with a squeak, cheeks flushing a deep red.

"I— Oh my. Thank you, Thorin. Ahem!" He stuttered before taking a bite of his food to prolong his period of processing that statement. Praising a hobbit's ability to cook was a high form of flirting in his culture. But to boast so profoundly was akin to a confession of deep love. Thorin can't possibly know the implications of his words, his mind reasoned. There's no need to get so worked up, Bilbo! "Would you like to know what it is?"

"Of course. If it wouldn't trouble you to do so, that is. I know Hobbits are very fond of their food."

With a shy smile, he began describing the meal to the dwarf's eager ears.

"The dish you're trying now is a traditional Gentlefolk meal. It's made with a hearty mixture of beef and pork, seasoned—of course—with onions, garlic, and a few other spices. I would list them off but that would be terribly boring for you no doubt, as well, it is actually a Took family secret. Family recipes are nearly sacred here, wouldn't you know." Bilbo's eyes were suddenly far away as many memories of him as a young faunt sitting at his great-grandmother's kitchen table resurfaced in his mind's eye. "Anyhow, there's barley, and a few fresh mushrooms from Farmer Maggot's fields. Lovely chap he is, though his hounds can give you a real fright at first glance. They can be won over, however, with a nice offering of meat and a good scratch behind the ears."

"I'll keep that in mind should I run into them." Thorin mused kindly. The hobbit was rambling yet again, and he had missed the sound of it.

"As you should. Wouldn't want to be on Farmer Maggot's bad side, no sir. Anyways, where was I? Oh, yes! The sauce. It is a tomato-based sauce made with my very own prize-winning tomatoes." If Bilbo's chest puffed with pride, the King did not mention it. "On to the wrappings. Now, I'm afraid you're not going to like the answer I give you as to what the wrapping is made of; Dwarrow stubbornness and all that. They're actually... cabbages. Hence the name of the dish, cabbage rolls."

Thorin's jaw dropped, though he had little recognition of the name other than the fact it must be a type of vegetable. His gaze dropped to his plate with a mixture of confusion and horror.

"Now, before you make a fuss about cabbages—and leafy, green vegetables for that matter—you admitted to enjoying the dish so there is no use retracting your claim on some stubborn aversion to vegetables you Dwarrowfolk all seem to have. Truly, it is a wonder how your folk have maintained your health with little to no vegetables. They won't kill you; you know. Ah— Frodo! Don't play with your food, dear boy."

All the dwarf could do was accept the fact with a sullen nod. The accuracy with which Bilbo could guess his emotions and reasonings was nearly frightening.

"I never would have thought something so... green would make something so good." He muttered in conflicting awe, squinting at the roll with scrutinizing eyes. "A marvel you are, to make a dwarf like a leaf..."

"Ahem," Bilbo choked slightly, wishing the fire in his cheeks to extinguish, before continuing, "Anyways, this dish here is veal schnitzel with a dash of lemon juice. Essentially, it's just, um, flattened veal cooked with a coating of flour and spices. The lemon juice is there to add a bit of tartness and bring a fresh taste to the meat. There are other ways of preparing the schnitzel and you can find many Hobbits around the Shire paring them with a bunch of different sauce variations. I prefer the lemon though, as it's how my great-grandmother made it. So help me if I am but a tad nostalgic."

Thorin stabbed a piece with his fork, carefully studying it before raising a brow at the hobbit.

"No vegetables, I promise."

Hesitantly, the dwarf king took a small bite; then a larger one, eyes closing in bliss.

"Mahal..." He all but groaned. That's when Bilbo noticed it. There, on the corner of Thorin's lips sat a very distracting spot of tomato sauce from the cabbage rolls, that, in other circumstances, would have made the hobbit cringe. Instead, he found himself transfixed.

Green Lady, help me. Bilbo pleaded internally, every fibre of his soul on high alert. The actions of this dwarf will be my undoing. He is torturing me on purpose!

"You— You— AHEM— You mentioned you had something important to discuss, earlier?" Bilbo asked with a tight voice, abruptly changing the topic of conversation.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, indeed. Right, you are, Master Burglar." The King, reminded of his reason for being in the Shire, nodded and collected himself. Bilbo could only be slightly disappointed when the spot of sauce was politely wiped away. "The Dwarrowfolk of Ered Luin are returning to Erebor."

"Oh my! Isn't that wonderful?" Bilbo smiled at the prospect. This was what he had hoped for when he initially agreed to run after the thirteen Dwarrow that sunny morning of years past. This was what he'd fought tooth and nail for. A home and the return of its occupants. "When do the caravans depart?"

"Come the reopening of the passes this next spring."

"Tremendous news, my King. Very exciting indeed. You have my well wishes for safe travels." A pause, and a thought, passed over the hobbit. "What brings you to the Shire then? Especially so late in the year. One would think you'd want to go directly to the Blue Mountains, no? Even a sturdy dwarf as yourself is not built to withstand such treacherous conditions winter brings about on the mountain passes. Though, ahem, do not misunderstand my thoughts, I am very glad you did stop here if only to grace my doorstep, my King. I am simply confused, is all. Oh dear, this drat rambling. My apologies, do go on."

Rumbling was the laugh that shook the dwarf at the head of the table in the grand smial of Bag End. The gentle vibration tugged at Bilbo's soul, though he squeaked in embarrassment.

"You, my friend, have not changed." Thorin chuckled. "I have so missed your manner of speaking. No, as much as I would have enjoyed a walking holiday to your doorstep, I'm in the Shire on business. In order for the caravans to make passage to Erebor I'm to speak to the Thain regarding our trade agreements."

Disappointment clouded the hobbit's eyes in a flash but left just as quickly.

"Well, you've come to the right Hobbit to arrange a meeting for you then." He said with a cryptic smile.

"Oh?" An inquisitive brow rose high towards the King's hairline. "How so, Master Burglar?"

"I shan't reveal all my secrets, Master Dwarf," Bilbo laughed at the paradox, "but let's just say I have a unique business relationship with him."

Two pairs of blue eyes gazed upon him, unblinking, before a brilliant, knowing grin beamed on the King's face at the jab.

"Alright then, keep your secrets."

"So, ahem, correct me if I'm wrong," Bilbo started after finishing a mouthful of roast lamb, "You wish to speak to the Thain tomorrow regarding trade between the Dwarrow of the Blue Mountains and the Hobbits of the Shire? I thought trade had long been established between our peoples."

"It has." Thorin agreed. "However, changes need to be made to that agreement. With my people moving back to Erebor from Ered Luin, there is going to be less need for grains and produce in the following years. Instead, we're hoping to secure safe passages and respites throughout the Shire for our caravans."

"I see." He paused only slightly to dab at young Frodo's messy cheeks with his napkin. "I am almost certain he will grant you your demands. There is no reason why he wouldn't. That is to say, none that I can conjure right this moment. Though, if the Thain is to deny you, he will be answering to me. Yavanna knows how stubborn that man can be."

With an almost comical expression, the King under the Mountain studied his hobbit host. The Thain is practically equivalent to a King; why would Bilbo have a say in what he decides? He pondered. What title does Master Baggins hold to make him so influential? Puzzled, he scratched his beard at the newfound mystique surrounding his companion. Granted, Bilbo wasn't wrong. Over the years since they'd settled in the mountains, Thorin got to experience the Thain's stubbornness firsthand. As much of a kind hobbit as he is, his hard-headedness rivals that of a dwarf.

Thorin only realized the burglar was still rambling on when he heard his name, snapping immediately out of his confounding stupor.

"—rin... Tell me you did not travel all this way here by yourself." Bilbo was pinning him under fierce eyes.

"No," he shook his head hoping to shake loose his queer thoughts, "of course not."

Bilbo breathed a sigh of short-lived relief.

"Dwalin, Bofur, and Nori are at the Inn down in Hobbiton."

Thunk! A silver fork clattered against porcelain.

"What?" The flabbergasted hobbit sputtered and Thorin had the gall to look surprised under Bilbo's scrutinizing gaze.

"Thorin!" He cried, leaping out of his chair in half a blink. "I cannot believe you! Why didn't you tell me sooner? I haven't had a moment to tidy up for that many people! Oh dear, the food. Will there be enough? No, of course not. I must go to the market right this moment! Would you please watch over dear Frodo? I haven't the time to put him in his sling nor prepare him for snacks along the way... Confusticate and bebother you blasted Dwarrow! You do test me so. Were you even going to tell me, or was I supposed to wait for their knocking as well?"

He was halfway to his door with one arm through his housecoat when Thorin's roaring laughter stopped him dead. The warm timbre felt its way through poor Bilbo's bones, yet it did not quell his growing anxiety, it fed it.

"What? Out with it. I've quite had it with your antics today, I'll have you know."

"You Hobbits and your housekeeping..." The dwarf hid a snort as the frazzled frame of his burglar reappeared in the doorway, curls mussed in his panic, with crossed arms and one foot tapping impatiently.

"Excuse you, sir!" He huffed, chin wagging in disbelief. "My manners have nothing to do with the fact that you failed to mention that there are three more company members, my friends as well I shall remind you, in Hobbiton. Right down the road! I should have liked to have made dinner for them as well, after their travels, but now it looks like they'll have to miss it. I'm sure I can go buy enough in time to make them supper if I'm quick about it. Though, if they arrive whilst I'm out, what kind of host does that make me? ...You'll be doing the entertaining if that's the case, Master Oakenshield. Hopefully, that'll appease them long enough to have them knock some sense into you!"

"Have peace, Master Burglar, if you will," Thorin chuckled, he'd since stood as well and made his way towards the spitfire hobbit. "All is well. They will not be joining us tonight—Ah, I asked them." He cut off Bilbo's disapproving tutting before it left his lips. "We were to have originally met you all together, but they had decided amongst themselves that they wished for me to see you first. If I'm to be truthful, they likely wanted a reprieve from me."

"Well then... I shall be seeing them tomorrow then if they so wish. And I will be feeding them properly." Bilbo sniffed, still disgruntled. "Have you any other secrets you wish to share?"

Thorin smiled softly but shook his head. Nothing of note came to mind that concerned his dear friend. Not anymore. Never again.

Chap 4: Shoulder The Burden, Be at Ease

CW/ Themes of war, mental duress, and nightmares

There was a terrible chill in the air. White flakes caught in his hair, melting in gentle kisses. However, he knew the feel of the teeth of what others called cold. He knew the bite. And yet he stood, frozen in place as though he could become akin to the statues hidden in the ruins of a once worshipped land.

War was raging around him quietly; oh, so quietly. The clashing of iron upon iron, fist against fist, blood upon blood held no note. The war cries of the victorious and the defeated alike fell short from his ears. Silence deafened him. And still— Still he remained.

Blue, red, silver, and black were all he could see. There was someone before him, chest splattered in blood and everything alive.

"What have you done?"

A voice. Unspoken, yet heard. It thrummed through him.

"You would steal from me?!"

He knew that voice. It carried warmth and safety before, now it was as cold as everything else.

"No."

The reply was his own. His voice was scratchy in comparison. Weak.

"Liar."

The figure was moving.

"I know what you are. You're nothing but a traitor!"

"No. Please..."

"A Shire-rat! Look at what you've done!"

Suddenly he was seeing everything. Hearing everything. He saw death tenfold. He heard the blood seep into the solid earth underfoot. A horrified whimper carried on the wind from his lips. Still, he could not move.

"Look at them!"

Two boys. His boys. One, a golden day. The other, an obsidian night. Both were broken.

"Stop." He pleaded with a cry.

"Look at me."

The voice was altogether distant and right in his ears. The figure held out his arms, the wound in his torso blossoming with darkness. Bilbo lunged.

"No!"

"You did this to me. You're to blame for all of this. It's your fault!"

Hands upon hands, body upon body, blood upon the snow.

"No, no, no, no, please!"

A hand came to cup his cheek with an impossible stillness.

"Bilbo."

"Stop this!"

"Bilbo."

"I'm sorry, okay? I never meant for this to happen!"

"Bilbo."

"I didn't want this."

"But you did."

"No— No. I didn't. I don't."

"You want this. Look at what you're doing."

"What?"

"Look at yourself, Bilbo."

Tears formed frozen crystals on his cheeks.

"Look at what you've done."

A weight in his hand, dampness on his fingertips. Unsure eyes met its target.

"No—"

A sword—his sword—sat firm in the figure's torso. The weapon found its mark.

"No! No, I didn't..."

The figure was fading from view.

"Thorin, no! Don't go!"

"Bilbo..."

"Please! Please... Not again. I'm sorry. Please..."

Thorin was leaving him again. Over and over. A cycle with no end. No change.

"Bilbo... Let go."

Alone in the cold, Bilbo retrieved his sword.

~~~

As the full moon shone high and bright over Bag End, Thorin Oakenshield, King of the Lonely Mountain, rested upon a slightly too short bed. Or, at the very least, he tried to. Despite how plush and cloudlike the mattress and goose-down pillows felt, he just couldn't drift away to a peaceful slumber. And every time he did feel himself falling into dreamland, his senses woke him again like a horn blaring on the high. This worried him. Long had it been since he had had such trouble with sleep—despite being on the road for nearly a year—his nights easier now without the weight of a ruined nation on his shoulders.

Perhaps the problem was the very room. There was nothing wrong with it per se; nay, it was a very fine room fit for a proud and handsome hobbit. The room had been carved from the hill in a manner one would think a dwarf could appreciate; but, the walls, the ground, even the air felt off. While he had stayed in the same room once before, the dwarf king could still remember the warmth and comfort the room had held all those years ago. Now, however, despite nothing in his surroundings changing, it felt cold and foreign. The air held a faint, buzzing energy as if it trembled on the edge of a cacophony. It told him something was not right.

His mind wondered about the young babe across the hall, questioning if he was able to rest peacefully or if he too could feel the shift in the air. When Thorin had last seen Frodo, the fauntling was being whisked off back to his nursery without resistance after a rather tiresome play period following his second supper. Thankfully, the careful distraction crafted by both the dwarf and the hobbit was enough to make Frodo the most jovial throughout the first dinner, forgetting the tardiness of its arrival. Supper only seemed to appease the faunt further. Thorin could but drink it all in, the world seemed brighter when he laughed.

In many ways, this little being reminded Thorin of his sister-sons. He had noted that the fauntling's continuous wonder and excitement was like that of Fíli's—the young dwarf always curious about the way things worked—and the mischievous glint in his eye reminded him of Kíli, who would always find a way to get in trouble. The babe set some old flicker ablaze in the King's heart. While he'd practically adopted the role of father for Fíli and Kíli, the dwarf never considered the idea of actually raising pebbles of his own, the whole business of finding his One seeming too time-consuming and unnecessary for the leader of a struggling settlement. Now, however, he felt something new, and knew that this domestic little life was something he wanted, something he'd fight tooth and nail for if given the chance.

Perhaps I should check on him, Thorin concluded, rising from the plush bed in determination. To see everything in place could put my mind at ease enough to get a half-decent rest. Approaching the door leading into the hallway, he felt compelled to take his sword in hand. A foolish fear swept over him in each movement, chasing the tail of his senses like a beast accompanying its master. But what if everything isn't in place? What happens then?

Steeling his nerves and taking a breath, he opened the door.

A scrape of metal against scabbard sounded in the dark silence not a second later. There was a black, beastly shape in the hallway! Foreboding and lumpish it stood, unmoving. A bead of sweat formed on Thorin's brow in alarm. The Orcrist sat sturdy and sure in his hand, ready to attack, ready to fight, ready to defend his hobbits; though, his grip slackened in a hesitant confusion as a gentle sound came from the dark. The inky shape seemed to be breathing; though, it did not wheeze, as the filthy orcs did. Whatever it was sounded soft and light.

Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the faint glow of a nearly-spent candle sitting on a shelf close by, giving just enough light to illuminate the shape. With a start, then a hushed, exasperated laugh, Thorin sheathed his sword. There, curled upon a lofty armchair sat his blasted hobbit host, asleep. Knees drawn up to his chest, Bilbo's head of curls was set upon them as they formed a bony pillow. A forgotten book lay haphazardly on the floor, likely having slipped through tired fingers. As well, Sting sat beside him on the chair—thankfully not glowing its warning blue—ready at a moment's notice.

"Mahal." The King breathed, raking a hand through his hair in an attempt to settle his fluttering pulse.

As he stood in front of the large armchair, he was struck by the oddity of the situation. The chair was conveniently placed between the oppositely facing rooms and must have been dragged into position at some point during the night as he did not remember seeing it before departing for bed. But why would the chair be in the middle of the hallway in the first place? And why was his host asleep on it? The dwarf was perplexed. Should he let Bilbo be or should he attempt to move him to an actual bed? It could not be that comfortable of a position and surely Bilbo would be complaining of a tweaked neck the next day, yet the thought of waking the man felt impossible.

A strangled cry broke his thoughts, and Thorin's hand flashed to the hilt of his sword again as he whirled towards the inky dark. His eyes strained to see the source when it sounded again behind him. It came from the armchair. The dwarf dropped to his knees and his stomach dropped further with him. Examining further, he could now see the bead of sweat formed above the furrow of Bilbo's brow and the light shudder in his shoulders. Struck, Thorin could only watch as the poor hobbit started to squirm in his sleep, another pained cry falling from his lips. A nightmare, Thorin decided in surprise.

Many times had it been that he helped his fellow Dwarrowfolk with their troubled sleep. First being immediately after Smaug's desolation upon their home, and again after the Battle of Azanulbizar. Once more he found himself aiding his fellow Dwarrow after the war that was now being called the Battle of the Five Armies. For the first year or so after, most of the company opted to sleep in a common room together within the makeshift infirmary that housed the slowly healing Durins. Some had claimed that they preferred to spend the time with their kin; though Thorin had guessed with the amount of unspoken trauma in the group, they needed the familiarity of the company over the foreign, empty living quarters available in the mountain. He'd often woken to the thrashing of his nephews or the panicked, unconscious shouting of another dwarf, and had picked up some tips on how to make the pain more peaceful in the process.

He knew better than to wake Bilbo immediately, knowing firsthand how jarring being pulled from a vivid terror can be, sometimes resulting in more panic than that brought on by the dream in the first place. So long as the poor hobbit wasn't hurting himself or the dwarf, Thorin could only wait and watch; lightly brushing his fingers against Bilbo's hand. His heart clenched strangely though, as the queer thought of wrapping the man safely in his arms and brushing the dream away from his honey curls barged to the forefront of his mind, overthrowing logic in its path. Torn in two, it was the hobbit who decided for him.

With a particularly torturous scream, Bilbo flung himself forward, "No!"

Tangled and tumbling, the dwarf king and his burglar crashed to the hardwood floor with a terrific thud. A winded grunt wheezed its way from Thorin's lungs as a weight landed on his chest. "By Durin, Bilbo!"

Instead of a reply, however, the hobbit burrowed his way closer to his chest, trembling fingers clutching his sleep shirt tightly. His small frame shuddered yet he remained, remarkably, asleep.

"No, no, no, no, please—" His muffled voice pleaded.

Now, the King was properly perplexed. Stiff as a board, he lay on the floor for several minutes in hopes the burglar would wake on his own accord, to no avail. Had it been one of his nephews, he would have shoved them off with a gentle nudge and dealt with the repercussions afterwards. This, however, was different. This was Bilbo—his trusted friend and most valued company member—and he didn't know what to do other than attempt to peel the pair off the hard floor.

Securing an arm around the hobbit, Thorin sat, testing the smaller man's sensitivity. Both relieved and further worried, he found him still fast asleep. Then came the most challenging battle, standing. How he managed to not drop Bilbo felt nothing short of a small miracle; though the hobbit no longer thrashed, he now trembled in Thorin's arms like a leaf in the wind, small hands gripping tightly to the cloth covering his King's chest. The dwarf was none too smooth in the ascent either, mind you. Stumbling and fumbling, he gripped the blasted armchair to steady himself, maneuvering his cargo awkwardly yet with extreme care.

Adjusting his grip as to make sure the hobbit wouldn't slip through the hold around his waist, Thorin swiftly moved the pair toward a door labelled "Bilbo" in the same golden script as the nursery. With the hobbit's face firmly burrowed into his chest, Thorin could feel the flutter of Bilbo's lips against the thin fabric of his tunic, muttering in muffled, unconscious distress. Finding his heart clenching at the movement alone, he could barely find the resolve to steel against the wave of freezing anguish that ripped through his body as he felt a small patch of dampness blossom on his nightshirt.

"Oh, Bilbo." Tutted the dwarf, finding his mother's voice echoed in his own, as though her long-dead voice spoke through him. "Shh. It's alright, I'm here."

It was as Thorin was about to pull back the neatly made sheets that he realized Bilbo never went to bed that night. The soft bed looked pristine, as though sleep hadn't touched it for weeks. The plush pillows sat tall and on guard, undisturbed. The soft blankets flush against the plump mattress, the edges proudly displaying crisp folds. Even the small bedside table had a thin layer of fine dust gathering. The sight shook the dwarf, everything about this experience shook him; the chair in the hall, Sting next to the hobbit like a lifeline, Bilbo's pained yelp, the nightmare itself... He had been assured Bilbo didn't struggle with sleep. The letters told him not to worry, that everything was well. The letters said he was fine. The letters! Damned halfling— What other struggles have you faced on your own?

As gentle as the dwarf could possibly be with hands rough from years of work, he set Bilbo down on the soft bed and all but wrapped him in a cocoon of blankets. A grunt of discontent fell softly into the night air at the sudden lack of touch and Bilbo curled further in on himself, cheeks still wet. Finding himself unwilling to leave, Thorin made quick work to sit guard at the foot of the bed, watching carefully. His hands twitched in bizarre longing to wipe his friend's cheeks dry.

Lit only by the brilliant moonlight pouring in from a large round window, the hobbit appeared otherworldly. His honey curls turned a pale gold while his soft, sun-kissed skin nearly glowed. Though Thorin frowned as his watchful gaze slowly trailed over the rest of Bilbo's features. His red eyes bore dark rings and his cheeks seemed a tad more pale and hollow than the King would have liked. No longer was his figure as soft and plump as it had been when the company first barrelled through his smial. Granted, Bilbo Baggins had never been considered a particularly stout hobbit, as many with his similar wealth proudly were, but he was never thought of as skinny back then either. In fact, the smaller man seemed much slimmer now than any other in the Shire. No proper hobbit would put his reputation at risk like that. That won't do, thought Thorin with a glare, ready to leap from his post to gather a feast right then and there. That won't do at all.

"Mh, Thorin, no." Breathed Bilbo, hands shaking as they gripped the blankets surrounding him with white knuckles. "Don't go."

"I'm here, Bilbo. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon." The dwarf's voice rumbled gently as he spoke, emotion catching slightly.

"Please, please... Not again. I'm sorry. Please..."

A lump formed in Thorin's throat at that, the air becoming thick and heavy. Don't go. Thorin had never meant to leave him in the first place, despite it being the hobbit that had fled from the ghosts of war. War had driven their friendship apart, not free will. Not again. His beard wagged in dismay. Never again would he put his friend through such peril. Not if he could help it.

"I'm not leaving you, my friend. I'm here. I'm staying right here, with you."

Suddenly, green eyes fluttered open under half-lids, staring yet not seeing; partly in the waking world, though still glazed with his terrible dream. Without word or hesitation, Thorin understood the meaning of the hand reaching towards him and crawled up next to the smaller man. His mind stuttered at the proximity as the hobbit curled himself in his arms, but everything felt strangely correct. Undeniably so. Bilbo fit perfectly against him as though they had been carved out of the same rock.

"Sleep," the King commanded softly, finding his hands gently carding through golden curls. "I'll be right here."

For the first time in many, many years the hobbit slept comfortably for the rest of the night.

Chap 5: In Which Bilbo Baggins Has a Particularly Awkward Saturday

CW/ Verbal Harrassment, Brief Middle-Earth Racism (hurtful speech directed at the dwarven race), and Body-shaming

Dawn crept quietly over the Hill, finding many half-awake Hobbits wiping sleep from their bleary eyes. First breakfasts were quickly being thrown onto stove tops or into ovens, and little faunts stumbled from bed, drawn to the scent of hearty bacon, earthy mushrooms, and fresh bread. A sweet aubade of birdsong called on the wind as a flock swooped and twirled through the sky, singing to those who slept through the light's first rays.

This morning, however, found Mister Baggins in a peculiar predicament. As his senses slowly woke, three rather odd realizations grew in his mind. For starters, he most certainly was not in the same place he'd spent the night. Gone was his perch, as well as his book, and plush pillows laid under his head instead of his knobby knees. Blinking one eye open, he saw the familiar ceiling of his bedroom. How strange. He thought. The one night I finally get some rest, I end up sleepwalking! A comfort that I found my own bed, at the very least.

The second oddity presented itself with a sneeze. A tickling sensation beneath the very tip of Bilbo's nose threatened him with another. Bringing a hand up in an attempt to brush the offensive object away, his fingers came away covered in ink. No, not ink. For ink does not slide and twirl from his forefinger to thumb in such a way. Dark strands, silken to the touch, contrasted starkly against his skin. From its end, Bilbo followed the hair to its owner, finding the third—and most curious—oddity of the morning.

The hobbit nearly leapt from the bed with a harsh gasp. Mere inches from his face another lay; one that haunted many of his dreams. Eyes closed and lips ever so slightly parted, Thorin dozed beside him. Or, rather, on top of him as well, as in his attempt to move away, something warm and heavy tightened upon his middle.

Drawing a shallow breath, Bilbo wasn't sure if he was more surprised by the way the dwarf king was laid out and undone in his bedsheets, or the fact that that said king clung to him—scarcely allowing the poor hobbit to breathe, let alone move. His mind froze, panic climbing up his throat like the most unpleasant of coughs. What in Yavanna's Green Gardens is happening?

Now, Bilbo had two options. Either he could accept his fate, encircled in the warm embrace of a man he loved and lost, or he could worm his way out and pretend this morning never happened. A sane person such as you or I could very clearly see the right course of action for the dear fellow. The answer was clear to Bilbo as well, as he was a very reasonable and quick-thinking hobbit.

He would squirm his way free, obviously.

As the company's burglar, he'd proven time and again that he could get himself out of any uncomfortable situation. This was no different, other than it being entirely too comfortable.

Stretching a hairy foot out from the warmth of the covers, Bilbo felt for the edge of the mattress. If he could just find his bearings, he could slip right out from the sheer mass of the great dwarf before him. Relief rushed over him as a wiggling toe found night-cooled hardwood. Emboldened, he flung out an arm, gripping the sheets tightly where his hand landed, only priding himself when the soft snores of his still-slumbering sleep mate remained steady and unbroken.

Almost there, the Took-ish part of his brain encouraged. With a deep breath, a heave, and a quiet grunt, he slipped from the dwarf's embrace with ease.

"Good morning." Came a greeting from a voice deep with sleep.

The hobbit whirled around in a jolt, though with his combined momentum and a mysteriously fumbling foot, he was quickly off balance and tumbling to the floor with a surprised squawk and a hard thud.

"Bilbo!"

Dazed momentarily, "Oh," was all the poor hobbit could reply with, limbs sprawled unceremoniously across his floor.

"Are you quite alright?"

Thorin stood over him now, filling his vision. His hair was a royal mess upon his shoulders and yet he held more composure than poor Bilbo; embarrassment crawled over his bones like a second skin. Gone was the Took-ish part of his head, he once again became a Baggins through and through, and a cowardly one at that. Oh, how desperately he wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole. However, most unfortunately for Bilbo, it did no such thing.

"—Master Baggins?" A battle-scarred hand was offered before him.

"Frodo!" Bilbo finally cried, sitting up with a jolt, ignoring the offer completely. Confusion danced with concern in the storm that was Thorin's eyes.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I— I must check on Frodo." He leapt to his feet, finding them itching to move. "Rouse him for the day, and all that. We've a long day ahead of us, right? So we best get started." Bilbo chuckled awkwardly, trying desperately to put distance between them.

A hand snaked out as he tried to pass to go lick his wounds, holding him in place with an iron grip that was as gentle as it was demanding.

"Bilbo."

The way his name was said like a warning should not make butterflies stir in his stomach, nor cause his to ears burn. Truly, it was unnerving how tightly Thorin had him wrapped around his finger. Bilbo swallowed the panicked yell climbing up his throat along with a twitch of his nose. This morning was already too much. Why, oh why was Thorin in his bed?

The King's voice rumbled gently as he softly asked, "Are you hurt?"

"No." Bilbo's reply came out stuttered. "No, I'm... Perfectly well, Thorin. Truly. Now, if you'll excuse me, I simply must go check on dear Frodo."

Thorin sighed a sigh only Bilbo knew he used when he wasn't convinced of something—a sigh mostly reserved for his nephews' antics. However, despite his blatant disbelief, he let him go, though not before giving him a once over with unreadable eyes. "You will tell me if you're injured, or if you feel any pain later, aye?"

Bilbo nodded emphatically, "Of course, your majesty," and all but sprinted out of the door. Only as it closed behind him did his heart cease its insufferable fluttering and his breath regulate. Sweet Yavanna! What was that?

~~~

The bright door of Bag End locked with a soft click.

"Tell me again, where are we to meet the others?" Bilbo asked, checking his pack—for the third time in the last ten minutes—that he had everything necessary for a long day in town. Never again would he leave home without adequate preparations; lest he forget his much beloved handkerchief again.

"The Green Dragon. At noon." Came an ever so slightly awkward response from the dwarf king. Since their waking, and Bilbo practically sprinting from the room as though Smaug was hot on his heels, Thorin couldn't help but worry he overstepped in his ministrations. Each time he caught Bilbo's eye, the tips of the other man's ears would flush, his nose would twitch, and he would shy away. "I've already sent word."

"Perfect, let's get moving then. I should like to be in the market before Mister Burnbough runs out of his prize potatoes."

And so, they trailed down the road. Only occasionally did the hobbit have to cast a hand out to stop the dwarf from drifting from the path, distracted by this and that and any other thing, but they otherwise did not speak. They passed bustling smials with laughter and song drifting from open doors and windows, and flourishing fields deep in the thick of harvest where many farmers would pause their hard work to wave at the trio, before finally they arrived at the market proper.

About them, hobbits of all shapes, and sizes mingled, chattering about the produce or the weather or the latest family scandal. However, despite the cheery disposition of the passersby, Thorin couldn't help but notice the tension building in his friend's furrowed brow with each step and polite 'good morning'.

"Is something the matter, Master Baggins?" He finally asked in between stalls of vibrant flowers and intriguing looking pastries, wary of the awkward silence.

"No! Nothing is the matter." The hobbit was quick to respond, though he still refused to meet his gaze; fussing pointedly with the faunt strapped securely to his chest. Taut as an archer's bowstring were his shoulders, readying for a mark. "Lovely arrangements as always, Mrs. Bramblethorn. Tell your wife, Carissa, thank you for the thoughtful blanket she knit for sweet Frodo, it's quickly become his favourite!" Even the pleasant smile he gave the lass at the flower booth was tightlipped. "Is there something to matter?"

"You're much too tense," Thorin said flatly as they moved to another stall. "You're nervous."

Mark found; the arrow released from the bow with a sharp snap.

"Of course I am!" Bilbo exclaimed, then continued in a hushed voice as the elderly couple perusing past cast a surprised glance in his direction. "Of course, I am. This is all downright nerve wracking! I am to reconnect with my friends—many of whom I haven't seen in years—with little to no warning. How am I supposed to act? What am I supposed to say? 'Dwalin, hunt down an orc pack recently?' or 'Nori! How's your investigatory business going? Learn anything interesting?' or— or! How about, 'Bofur, how have the mine explorations been going since I saw you last?' I already know the answers! Oh, Thorin this is a right mess..."

"Peace, Bilbo. Just be yourself. I can assure you they have not changed much since you last saw them and I'm sure they will find a way to talk your ear off." Thorin smiled softly at the outburst, pleased that Bilbo was finally speaking to him. "I should have known that a surprise of Dwarrow was not best suited for you—granted how well that went the first time. I'll tell you this, I can assure you we'll try our best in future to let you know ahead of time should any decide to visit. You have my word."

This did little to quell Bilbo's nerves, though he had stopped fiddling with the bronze buttons of his waistcoat for the moment. "Thank you, I shall hold you to that, you know. Honestly, I would've been quite more confident about all this if I had the time to plan for it! Just last year, when Bofur visited, he had the decency to send me a letter months prior to his arrival. Goodness, I just hope my pantry will be full enough for everyone's appetite. And to go into town as well... Now, I am no house hermit, no sir. But to be quite frank with you, I can't recall the last time I've actually come into Hobbiton like this. I don't quite enjoy all their nonsensical gossip. It's all much too much for me. Why, with dear Frodo to keep me busy, I'm afraid it's been almost a month since I've even left Bag End!"

"With how you managed to prepare dinner last night with no notice, I'm sure you'll do just fine— Hold on," he frowned, a deep crease of concern drawn between his brows. "You don't go into Hobbiton? You haven't left Bag End? Why?"

"Oh... Well, ahem, it's rather—"

"Bilbo Baggins!" A shrill, and rather unpleasant, voice cut through the air, causing the man to wince slightly. "I thought I saw you slinking down Bag Shot Row with another one of your shady friends!"

Over Bilbo's head, Thorin watched as a woman dressed in a rather unflattering shade of yellow approached, face pinched and nose upturned in disapproval. Faux flowers lined her big and gaudy hat, though they looked just as wilted as the real ones left in her wake. Strangely, tension gripped his stomach in a way he usually only felt before combat. Already, Thorin could tell he would not like this hobbit.

With his back turned to the oncoming terror, Bilbo only barely had enough time to take a breath and let a calm façade slip over his features, though his hands still shook as he turned to face her.

"Lobelia," Bilbo greeted pleasantly, "Good morning."

"Just what do you think you're doing? Corrupting the faunts and preying upon the good people of the Shire with your impropriety, I bet. And in the company of a dwarf no less! Surely, he'll try and swindle the good shopkeepers with his dwarven greed." Lobelia's lips curled cruelly with the last retort and Thorin could hardly suppress the flare of disgust and anger eating away at his resolve. Even still, his companion maintained an unflappable air of civility about him.

"We were doing no such thing, Lobelia. We were simply enjoying a lovely morning of shopping. Why, we were discussing plans for our dinner, nothing more." A polite smile grew over Bilbo's teeth like a warning, as an animal baring its fangs before it strikes. If he weren't hyper aware of the situation, Thorin might've missed the warning muttered low under his companion's breath, "Stand down, Thorin. Let me handle her."

"Hmph! I doubt that; being down to five meals and all. A skinny thing like you would hardly manage to eat a full dinner. Not very Hobbitish, truly." The curve of her upturned nose made Thorin wonder how long it would take for her to be stuck that way, if she wasn't already. Despite his disgust, he obeyed his friend's wishes. "And I suppose the other three Dwarrow in town have good intentions as well? Friends of yours, I assume. Goodness, you couldn't have even given them room and board for the evening? What would your father say?"

A crowd was forming now, drawn to Lobelia's unpleasant and high-pitched sneers. Thorin was shocked to see a handful of them on her side, and even further appalled that some of them even had the gall to look bored, like this spat was a daily occurrence. Was this why Bilbo didn't come into town? How long had he been terrorized by this woman? And why was no one sticking up for him?

"Ah, they must have arrived early. You see, they were meant to arrive tonight." Bilbo nodded sympathetically, as though he were speaking to a young child. "It seems as though they must have been too weary to make it all the way to my doorstep last evening and had to stop for a respite. Thank you for letting me know they were in town. That is much appreciated."

"So, you admit to them being your acquaintances, then. I knew it!" Lobelia laughed, a bitter, jarring thing that nearly caused her unsightly hat to tip right off. "I knew you were up to no good! Always running around with your trouble making Dwarrow—I wouldn't trust one as far as I can throw one, I really wouldn't. Honestly Bilbo, don't you think you should really stop all this nonsense?" She glanced at the boy snug in his carrier. "I mean, you do have a child under your care now... Poor boy, I can't imagine having your parents pass only to then live under the watch of a delusional man."

Immediately Thorin's resolve broke. With his protective streak running a mile wide, the urge to protect his friend licked at his nerves like fire. It was only the small packages underarm to restrain him from anything regrettable; though his hackles raised considerably, and his mouth fell open to bark out any insult that came to mind. It was well known amongst the Dwarrowfolk that Thorin could give a rather vicious tongue lashing should such an occasion arise to warrant one; specifically if any elves were involved—it was always the elves. However, it was Bilbo, with his shoulders set and feet planted firm, that beat him to the metaphorical punch.

"At least my child will be worldly," he started, not for one moment letting his neutral mask falter though he did place a protective hand over the faunt. "Frodo will know the wonders this world has to give him. He will know love, kindness, and culture. As well, he will know how to thrive in every manner of living. He will not know a life of hatred or judgement, nor will he fall prey to archaic ways of thinking that too many think is proper. That is, to say, a terrible way to live. Under my care Frodo is free to choose his own path in life, and I will be there to help him flourish."

An abhorred look twisted her already tight face most unpleasantly. Opening her mouth to retort, Bilbo's raised hand halted Lobelia's ire immediately.

"Now, you may insult me, Lobelia—please, feel free to continue explaining your assumptions about me in front of half of Hobbiton—however," his eyes grew dark to match his cheery smile. "I will not allow you to insult my guests. This dwarf, those Dwarrow as well, are good, honest men. They do not steal. They do not lie. They do not swindle! They will not connive you—and frankly it is disgusting that you think that. What, with your propriety? With your manners? Truly, Lobelia, you should know better than this. Tsk, what a sad way to think of the world. Why, there are so many wonders you could not even begin to imagine. So do be mindful of who you speak to with that uncouth tongue of yours, Lobelia, you may just insult a King."

Silence fell over the crowd with a couple dozen pairs of eyes darting between the Hobbits. Bilbo looked pristine, not even a hint of sweat misted his forehead, and his clothes were sharp and clean, his pack unrumpled; even young Frodo sat happily still against his front. Lobelia, on the other hand, was quickly turning a violent shade of red with flyaway hairs escaping her now lopsided hat. Sputtering, her jaw fell open and snapped shut multiple times.

"Mad..." She eventually settled on, with a harsh gasp.

"What was that?"

"You are one mad Baggins. You are truly unwell. It's not right, it's not proper. It's... it's mad!" Her pitch rose as she continued to ramble until her voice neared a piercing screech. "Mad Baggins!"

That was enough to crack the carefully constructed stillness in Bilbo and Thorin watched in a rage as his friend's shoulders sagged infinitesimally inward.

"Mad Baggins?" He heard the crowd whisper amongst themselves, "I always thought his ideas were quite queer, but I never realized how strange he'd become," one said to another and the other replied, "Well, he's always been a shut-in... when he's not traipsing through the wild to visit Elves, that is." In which another muttered, "Poor lad, ever since that disappearing act of his..."

The dwarf levelled them with a frigid glare.

"Lobelia! Lobelia, come quick!" Another voice called out. Parting through the nosy Shirefolk, a younger woman with much softer features and more pleasantly hued attire bound into the middle of the circle. "Quickly! Lotho's climbing the apple trees again!"

"What? That boy! Out of my way." Spinning on her heel with the young woman behind her, Thorin glared at Lobelia's retreating form elbowing her way through the crowd. If he muttered curses for the soles of her feet to fall sensitive and the hair adorning the tops of them to fall out under his breath, no one was the wiser.

"Alright folks, nothing to see here. Please return to your day." Yet one more person spoke, a man this time with a louder—albeit more out of breath—voice than the woman before him. Slowly but surely, the crowd dispersed with his direction, and Thorin had to praise his leadership. Ironically, it was the King, himself, who knew not the ways to control the situation. It wasn't his place to order Shirefolk around and it certainly didn't help that his mere presence was being perceived as a threat upon their personal safety.

This hobbit, however, knew just how to corral the people of Hobbiton. Directing them about their business with a thin smile and a not-so-subtle good-bye. He was a sturdy lad to say the least, with strong shoulders and a solidly plush middle; making him look as though he had just come from manning a field. That, as well as the dirt streaking his fingertips and forehead. Even more surprisingly, the man wasn't alone either. Upon his shoulders sat a young boy, no more than a year or two older than Frodo, with a head of blonde curls and sweet smiles.

As the last of the onlookers walked away, Bilbo sighed audibly, giving his head a slight and bitter shake. He looked tired. He looked defeated. Thorin found himself hovering near the burglar's elbow, ready—despite the packages—to catch him if he so much as swayed.

"Mister Bilbo, I came as quickly as I heard. Are you alright?" The man gave Bilbo a cursory once over before shifting his gaze to both men. "I can't believe that woman. She has no right to act that way. No right at all, I tell you."

Bilbo smiled softly, though his eyes looked hesitant. His voice lost its steady, calm tone as he spoke, instead he simply sounded spent, "I'm alright Hamfast. All thanks to you and sweet Bell. That tale of Lotho climbing trees was a quick one. I shall have to remember to make you both a pie when I get home."

"Truthfully, Mister Bilbo, I'd like to see that boy try to be anything other than suffocated by his parents. And, goodness, sir, you really needn't go through all of that trouble. It's the least we could do. Yavanna knows how cruel that woman is to you and it's not right, no sir."

"No, it's not," Thorin finally spoke, anger lacing his voice darkly. "Does that happen often?"

"No, not really." Bilbo dismissed at the same time Hamfast emphatically nodded, "Almost every time he leaves his smial!"

Thorin turned to glare at the burglar just as Bilbo turned to glare at Hamfast.

"Bil—" The dwarf started, only to be interrupted by the feisty hobbit.

"Not every time, Master Gamgee. Only occasionally."

"Oh, that's right," Hamfast retorted, rolling his eyes and folding his arms over his chest. The faunt on his shoulders maintained an oblivious aloofness, fretting only over not being able to play with Frodo. "Sometimes she'll show up at your door."

"She'll what?" Thorin practically snarled. Fierce rage, at the harassment his friend faced, gripped his throat, and burned his stomach, leaving him feeling as though he were a caged beast waiting to strike.

"It's fine! I am fine. If there is anyone who can handle her, it's me. Now, can we please continue with our plans, Thorin, before Frodo gets too fussy? We still need to meet up with the others." Green eyes burned into him, only adding kindling to the fires of anger within him.

"No, we will n—"

"I do apologize for causing you a further upset, Bilbo, sir. But, for your sake, I do believe Master Dwarf deserves to know. Someone deserves to know and see this injustice. Something needs to be done about it. This can't keep happening." Hamfast held a fierce but caring expression that reminded Thorin of his sister. Oh, the times he could recall being on the receiving end of her worried tongue-lashing.

"Fine," spoke Bilbo after a long moment of tense silence, not meeting the eye of either man. "Fine. I shall mention it to a Shirriff. Or perhaps the Thain. We're to meet him later today anyhow."

"Whatever for, if not the she-devil herself? If you'll pardon my askings, sir."

"Trade negotiations. For the Dwarrowfolk in Ered Luin to begin their journey back home, to Erebor." Thorin offered. His voice, while now even and calm, held an undertone of his ire.

The other hobbit whistled low, "Erebor. That's a distance, eh? Personally, I'll be sad to see you folks go, but I wish you the safest of travels. Oh, Mister Bilbo, if you need, Bell and I can look after your dear boy for the day."

Bilbo's brows softened at that, but he said simply, "I wouldn't want to impose on you two more than I already do, Hamfast."

"Tsk, it's no trouble at all sir. Bless me if little Sam here doesn't ask after your Frodo near every day!"

Bilbo glanced hesitantly between Hamfast and Thorin, before settling his gaze on the babe strapped to his front. "If you could, I would be most appreciative, Master Gamgee. I'll be making you and your family a lovely lunch tomorrow as my thanks, as well as those pies. And don't you try and stop me Hamfast Gamgee. It's the least I can do for all you've done for me." Swiftly, the burglar freed the young babe from his front with sure hands moving over the sturdy folds of fabric. Before passing Frodo, as well as the faunt's things, to the other man, he pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and tweaked his nose, eliciting a sweet giggle to escape the boy. "Well? Shall we, Thorin?"

The dwarf nodded but said, "You go ahead, there's something I must do first. The Green Dragon, aye?"

Confusion swept over the hobbit's features with the wind. "But you still have all the... You know what? Nevermind. The Green Dragon it is. I'll be seeing you then, Master Oakenshield. Master Gamgee." And with that final nod, he turned away and disappeared around a corner.

Chap 6: Many Merry Meetings

It should be noted that finding three Dwarrow even in such a town of respectable size as Hobbiton is no difficult chore. One simply has to follow the crowds. As Bilbo pushed his way through the grand doors of the Green Dragon, he knew he was in the right spot, if not for the number of intrigued hobbits huddled around one table in the far back, then for the amount of ruckus drifting up into the rafters. Ruckus that, Bilbo decided, sounded distinctly dwarven. Cries of merrymaking and roaring laughter danced through his ears; in and of itself, nostalgic music. Bilbo smiled knowingly in the lowlight, his Dwarrow always made such a spectacle.

"Free drinks for anyone that can best my friend here in a good old-fashioned arm wrestle!" Called out a voice the hobbit recognized immediately. Nori, the thief turned spy, stood rather precariously atop his stool. His flaming hair visible over the curls of the surrounding crowd. The crowd cheered and a young lad was pushed to the center of the fray. He seemed strong enough, sturdy from years of farm work, yet willowy enough to show his youth. Naïve arrogance radiated from him as he took a seat in front of the dwarf Bilbo could just barely see, though he knew that inked head anywhere.

Slinking through the crowd unnoticed, he found a spot tucked out of sight from the others while still maintaining a perfect place to view the utterly unfair fight taking place. The poor lad now sat before the impressive frame of Dwalin, dwarfed in comparison but undaunted, nonetheless. Bilbo could admire his tenacity if it did come from his youthful arrogance. Hobbits, he'd found over the years, were indeed brave, in their own manner of course.

"Alright, here's the rules," Mirth flickered in Nori's eyes as he spoke. "Elbows on the table, your other arm behind your back. No other support, no cheap shots, no complaining. You ready?"

"Aye," Came Dwalin's deep voice.

"Yes—" Squeaked the lad, before clearing his throat and speaking again in a fake, deeper tone, "Yes, sir."

The battle was set.

"When I say go, aye?" Said Nori, a conspiring smile stretched blatantly across his face. "Three!" The crowd chanted with him. "Two!" The two wrestlers clasped hands. "One!" Something wolfish sparked in Dwalin's eyes, though his face remained neutral and unreadable. "Go!"

Slam! The hobbit's hand fell against the table not even a second later. A stunned silence fell across the tavern before a roaring applause broke out from half the crowd. Bofur thumped Dwalin on the shoulder in congratulations then turned to join in the merrymaking with a jaunty tune from his flute. Mouth agape, the hobbit sat frozen in his seat, eventually being helped to stand by another fellow. Bilbo shook his head in pity. Poor lad.

"Well, there you have it folks. Still want to try your luck?"

Before another poor, drunken soul could step forth, Bilbo slipped from the shadows, calling, "I do!"

The trio of Dwarrow collectively turned to face him, amusement radiating from them thickly. That amusement quickly turned to a delightful surprise as they recognized the hobbit standing before them.

"Bilbo!" They cried, leaping up to greet him. Nori draped his arm across Bilbo's shoulders and leaned onto him with nearly all his Dwarvish weight, asking, "Is it noon already?"

"Not quite," Bilbo laughed, though he struggled to maintain a sturdy foothold under his burden. "I'm afraid I'm rather early. Apologies for cutting into your merrymaking."

"Nonsense," dismissed Bofur and the red-headed dwarf was promptly removed by a sighing Dwalin. Though it only opened room for Bofur to crush him in a hug. "It's always good to see you. Been too long."

"You visited— last year— though." Gasped the burglar, patting Bofur awkwardly but not unkindly.

"By Durin, men! Let him breathe," Barked Dwalin; Khuzdul making his voice rougher and deeper. Air found Bilbo's lungs again as the miner loosened his grip.

"Oh, my apologies, Bilbo." He smiled sheepishly.

"Quite alright, Bofur. It's good to see you as well."

It was only when the hobbit was free and clear of any draping Dwarrow did Dwalin greet him with a polite nod, "Master Baggins. At your service."

"At yours and your family's." Bilbo replied, as it was the correct and most polite response. "Good to see you again, Master Dwalin."

"Is our King not with you?"

That Dwalin, Bilbo mused. Always straight to the point.

"Oh, ahem, no. Though, he should be arriving shortly. Mentioned an errand he forgot he had to run or something like that. Might I get you all another round?"

It should also be noted that the onlooking crowd of Shirefolk had long since dispersed back to their tables and booths. General chatter once again buzzed through the air of the inn and calls for ale were being shouted sparingly.

"We're alright Bilbo," said Bofur and Nori shot him a look that went ignored. "Many thanks though."

"Great! Because I have quite a peculiar question for you." Bilbo smiled cheerily and settled onto a stool, clasping his hands together. "Pray tell, dear sirs, why did a king—presumed dead—arrive on my doorstep in perfect health yesterday?"

Nori and Dwalin exchanged glances while Bofur paled considerably.

"Aye. Well—" Dwalin started.

"Don't blame us!" Interrupted Nori. "We were just following his majesty's orders."

"Aye!" Cried Bofur, "I wanted to tell you last year but couldn't. Could you imagine not being allowed to tell someone something that big? I felt like I was gonna burst. You would've had to clean up little bits of me if I stayed with you any longer than I did! Tiny, red chunks. Would've ruined your holey dishcloths. We could've been talking and splat, there I go."

Horror paled the hobbit's cheeks at the description. He may have faced down a dragon, but enduring Bofur's habit of enthusiastic, yet unnecessary, detailing was another monumental task entirely.

"...Right," said Bilbo. "Wouldn't want that."

Dwalin grimaced as he leaned closer, though his next words were surprisingly kind for a dwarf of his nature, "He only wants the best for you and he wasn't sure— Well, there were a few times— Just... hear him out, aye?"

This rather shocked Bilbo. He'd only known Dwalin to be gruff and rather standoffish towards him. To hear him speak with such fondness and genuineness made the hobbit second guess if Balin took the journey instead of the warrior.

"We all want the best for you, Bilbo." Bofur agreed, tugging his hat from his head and clutching it close to his heart. "Though, we can understand your anger. If anyone should be angry, it's you."

"I'm..." Bilbo's voice broke. "I'm not angry. Flummoxed? Yes. Disgruntled? Sure. Confused? Oh yes, most definitely. But angry? No. No, I don't think I could ever truly be angry at any of you. You were simply following Thorin's wishes, and it would just cause me more grief to fault you for that."

It was then that Nori, who had been rather quiet in this conversation, piped up, nodding to the entrance, "Well, speaking of the King, here he is now."

Following his gaze to the grand doors, Bilbo caught Thorin's eyes. Even in the low light of the inn, they shone with a fierce look of power that both twisted his stomach and jellied his knees. He had to remind himself this was no trick; no matter how much Thorin was a living ghost to him—a spirit accompanying a corporal form. He's real, Bilbo's mind chanted like a prayer as panic rolled over his tongue, leaving it dry and heavy against his teeth.

"Master Baggins," He greeted as he approached, "I see you've found the company easily."

"Yes, well, they are rather—" Bilbo paused, struck by the sight before him. Thorin's arms bore no baggage; in fact, they were quite bare. The sleeves of his soft blue tunic had been rolled up to the curve of his elbows, allowing a peek at the intricately woven lines of dark ink banding up the muscles of his upper arms. Shiny scars traced out images of his age and life. He wore battle scars like his armour, and it was times like these—tiny and insignificant blips—that would remind Bilbo of the strength of the Dwarrowfolk, both physically and mentally. For as long as his life was, and how much hardship the King had endured, to bear it with pride was no small thing. It would do him a disservice not to admire Thorin's tenacity. Yes, indeed, it was certainly his tenacity, alone, that caught the hobbit's eye.

"Master Baggins?" Asked the dwarf in question, snapping Bilbo out of his thoughts, as queer as they were. He could feel heat rush to his cheeks as his gaze quickly snapped up to those blue eyes once more.

Instead of a rational, polite response, he, instead, blurted bluntly, "Where has our shopping gone?"

"Master Gamgee insisted on taking them back to your smial." Stated Thorin matter-of-factly. "He escorted me. Good lad."

Startling embarrassment prickled the hair on the back of Bilbo's neck, deepening his flush. He'd left his guest to deal with his packages all by himself! Sweet Yavanna, what would his father say? What would his mother say? Goodness, his manners were truly out the window, down the hill, and away down the river by now. As with his head, it would seem. His nose twitched with suppressed contrition.

"Thank Mahal for that," mused Nori, interrupting Bilbo's spiral. "Otherwise, we'd be sitting here 'til next week. If not for your note this morning, we'd be spending the day searching the fields of the Shire for our King."

That earned him a discrete smack upside the head by the royal guard though Thorin just smiled and shook his head.

"I can assure you, Master Nori, I only turned myself around once this time."

"Your note was rather short though, your highness," Said Bofur, his hat secure once more over his brown braids. "Why are we needing to meet up in the middle of the day instead of for dinner?"

"We need to talk to the Thain, and Master Baggins here has stated he can arrange for an audience with him today. That is why, Master Bofur."

"Yes, well, speaking of," stammered Bilbo awkwardly, finally finding his wits to remember the task at hand. "We best get going. You know, to not keep him waiting and all that."

"Lead the way, Master Burglar."

~~~

All in all, transporting four Dwarrow around Hobbiton proved to be smoother than one would have thought. Sure, there were curious stares here and there and a few inquisitive faunts who would giggle and duck away from eyesight if caught spying on the group, but nothing to hinder their travel. That is, until a particularly bold youngen waddled over, presenting a small wildflower to Dwalin, who accepted it with grace and many thanks; his ever-present stoicism melting at the child's mere presence. No one mentioned the exchange, though they all held cheer in their eyes and a smile on their lips. Even Nori, who took every opportunity presented to him to badger on and otherwise rile up the guard, wasn't brave enough to tease him for wearing that little flower proudly in his beard.

Soon enough they arrived before a grand smial, even grander than that of Bag End if one could imagine so. Set into the Hill, its cream-coloured walls sat hidden behind towering sunflowers; heads even bigger than that of the Dwarrow passing underneath in awe. Beyond them, a burgundy door—adorned in shining brass—lay in wait.

This destination perplexed the group of Dwarrow, as they had expected to be meeting the Thain in a place more official and central to town; Thorin being the most confused. He'd only ever met the Thain at his office nestled in the town square—a proper and official building indeed. Curiouser and curiouser this relationship between his burglar and the overseer of the Shire was. While the secrecy should have made him uneasy, it only made him more intrigued. Bilbo, on the other hand, could barely stop his nose from twitching knowingly as he rang the bell, its clang echoing into the home.

"I thought we were meeting the Thain," Bofur said, confusion evident in his voice. "This looks like one of your folk's homes."

"We are, Master Bofur, and it is." Assured the hobbit and it was then that the door creaked open, revealing an older lass with grey curls tumbling over her shoulders and framing her time-sweetened face.

"Bilbo Baggins!" The lass remarked. "To what do I owe the pleasure? It has been much too long since you've stopped by. I do hope little Frodo isn't keeping you too busy."

"Good afternoon, Adamanta," He greeted, pulling her into a gentle hug. "You look well, my dear. Terribly sorry for not stopping by sooner. With my boy and our birthday... Well, time seemed to escape me!"

"All's well, dear heart. Don't you fret. Introduce me to your company instead."

"Ah, yes, of course. Goodness, where are my manners today? Adamanta Chubb-Took, this is Bofur and Nori—" the two mentioned stepped forth, bowing and offering their traditional 'at your service''s. "Dwalin, and—"

"Thorin Oakenshield, at your service." Interrupted the King, bowing regally.

"Oh my, many good afternoons to you all, sirs." Adamanta chuckled.

"These Dwarrow are the same I took my adventure with, all those years ago." Bilbo continued. "From Erebor. And they were wondering if the Thain was available. There are urgent matters to attend to."

"Oh. Oh, yes! Do come in, please, he shall be with you folks momentarily." She winked discreetly as the group ascended upon the main hall. Travelling cloaks and packs were left hung upon the many hooks lining the entry, save for the sky blue one drying on the line at Bag End. The grand room held surprisingly high ceilings for a smial and even a lazy staircase wound itself up the wall, supported by winding roots of the cherry tree growing atop the hill. Plush chairs littered the room tastefully—in varying shades of red upholstery and stains of cherry wood—settling around a massive stone fireplace in which a roaring fire sat, crackling away. It was a hobbit hole after all, and, as with many others, that meant comfort.

"I didn't know hobbit houses even had staircases," pondered Nori, eyeing the steps curiously. "I thought you all had your rooms on one floor."

"You're not wrong to assume that, Master Dwarf," Answered a voice warm with age. "Majority of the smials in the Shire are all on one level. Us Tooks however, well, we've always been known to be an exception to the rules. Funny that, given my position."

"Gerontius Took, Thain of the Shire," Greeted Thorin, embracing the older hobbit in a firm handshake.

"King Thorin II of Erebor." Replied the Thain, bright eyes marked with cheer as he settled into a kingly armchair. "It has been too long, my friend. When Bilbo returned from his journey with you all, I had thought... Well, it matters not what I thought, you are here now. What can I do for you today? My Adamanta tells me you have urgent business."

"Aye, the Dwarrowfolk of Ered Luin are returning home. Erebor has begun its restoration, and we need our people."

"Generous Green Goddess, that is tremendous news! Come. We must share a drink in good cheer. Well done, my boy."

"There are trade matters to discuss first, Gerontius," Bilbo remarked, not unkindly, quietly accepting a cup of tea from Mrs. Chubb-Took with a soft smile.

"Ah loosen up, lad. We must celebrate!"

"Dear..." Adamanta chided lowly.

"Business first, then we drink." Bilbo continued over the top of his cup with a playful, yet firm, look; hoping the offer persuasive enough to be reasonable to the Old Took.

"Oh, alright," The Thain conceded. "Business first. Goodness, Bilbo, how you keep me in line."

So, on they talked, right there in the sitting room of the grandest smial in all the Shire. With the rest of the company chatting amicably amongst themselves, and with Bilbo catching up with Adamanta, The King and the Thain discussed—rather civilly—how the need for certain trade would reduce as the Dwarrowfolk steadily trickled out of the Blue Mountains, and how instead they would require rest areas in the Shire to ease their travels. Gerontius promised shelters to be built or modified for their efforts by the start of Spring, finding that simple wish to spark within him the ever-present Took-need of adventure, though he claimed to be much too old to join one. Matters regarding produce and grain were solved over Afternoon Tea, assisted with homely cookies to sweeten the deal. Mrs. Chubb-Took smiled softly as each member present thanked her for the treat and smiled further when Dwalin inquired for another. She caught Bilbo's eye after the request, he just shook his head knowingly.

Talk of compensation was aided by Master Baggins, as he was more equipped with a level head than either leader. Thorin found himself thankful Bilbo was there at most times and cursing him at others; though the issues of gold sickness had long since been eradicated, Thorin was still a stubborn dwarf, through and through. As well, the Old Took proved once again his own hard-headedness, rivalling that of a quick-witted courtier. That isn't to say that all was for naught as both were quickly brought to reason by the younger hobbit. His combined bloodlines of Baggins and Took resulted in him being a rather fair mediator, stopping conflict before it even arose with a flash of a glare and precise, yet pointed, words. If Thorin's mind wasn't preoccupied with defending his honour, it might have occurred to him to pay closer attention to these traits and further investigate the small voice suggesting how successful of a consort the hobbit would make. A queer thought it was indeed; perhaps even strange, to suddenly find oneself having such interest in a dear companion.

In the end, a deal was struck between the Gentlefolk and the Dwarrow, deemed fair by both obstinate occupants of their respective groups. Agreements were drawn up and signed eagerly, pride evident in both leaders' eyes. Though the cheer that erupted from the company was near deafening, Bilbo found himself laughing alongside them, his heart pounding with joy.

Chap 7: Rebirth Of a King

It wasn't until the company was once again reigning chaos upon Bag End, that the hammer fell. With one single harmless sentence, the course of history was changed, and those in attendance would never view Master Baggins the same. Henceforth, it would be whispered amongst their folk like the juicy piece of gossip it was. Now, one would assume that the Dwarrowfolk, people built on their pride, would be better than heartless gossips—and one would be incorrect. Over the strike of their hammers and picks would they trade scandals like ores. They would infuse their conversation with tales of unfortunate mishaps or the newest One pairing as they would gems into the items they were smithing. In the most peculiar of ways were they similar to the Shirefolk, though the stories spun were only told with the laughter and prideful consent of the one being ridiculed.

The sentence itself, however, was unremarkable, disconcerting, and otherwise ordinary, and it follows as such from Bilbo's nonchalant lips: "You know, I am quite pleased that Grandfather was more than willing to conduct business today—let alone be as accommodating as he was; Valar knows how unpleasant it could've gone otherwise."

Dear reader, did you catch it? The Dwarrow certainly did as their collective heads whipped up in unison—shock staining their expressions. In but a mere monumentally mundane moment, the very atmosphere changed in the smial—unbeknownst to the hobbit as he hummed pleasantly to himself. It wasn't until Bilbo glanced up from refilling Thorin's ale did he notice the shift.

"What? What's the matter?"

"You..." Thorin started, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion hard enough they'd surely leave an indent upon his skin. "You and the Thain are kin?"

"Why, yes?" His face scrunched at the dumbfound gazes peering back at him. "I thought that that was rather obvious?"

"You're related," Nori stated, as though he was saying those words for the first time, letting them roll over his tongue.

"Yes. Again, whatever is the matter? You're all making me rather worried, ahem."

Dwalin, ever the dwarf to say it like it is, said plainly, "Master Baggins. You're royalty." And then he bowed. A deep and sweeping thing, his beard a hair's width from grazing the floor beneath him; the others followed suit—minus Thorin, as he was stuck watching the burglar with curious eyes. If Bilbo wasn't a Took, he would've balked at the very gesture, as it was, however, he was also a Baggins and as a result, his face changed many colours.

"What?! No. No! No, no, no, no good sirs. I am no such thing. That is absurd! And stop bowing, for Yavanna's sake!" He all but squeaked, embarrassment freezing his blood as he clutched the pitcher of ale to his chest.

"But the Thain is your grandfather, Bilbo," came Bofur, scratching his head thoughtfully. "And that role is hierarchical, is it not?"

That gave him pause. "Well, yes, I suppose so. It isn't supposed to be, not technically, but that tradition fell away many generations ago."

"Well then, Master Baggins," started Thorin, his eyes were far away but his lips curled into a small, genuine smile. "All things considered, you're an heir. A prince of the Shire." Finally, he, too, bowed, much to the chagrin of the sputtering hobbit.

"No. No! No—Come on, Thorin. Me? A prince? Hah! I don't think so. Even if my grandfather's role is akin to that of a grand ruler, there is no such thing as a royal family in the Shire. Besides, I am certainly one of the last in line when it comes to hierarchy. The Took family is... quite large. Don't assume that the Thain's position ends up anywhere near me. And all the better for it, goodness. Me? The Thain? That would truly be the day." He muttered the last few lines to himself in disbelief at the mere notion. "No, I think not."

"Ach!" Tutted Dwalin, clapping a hand over Bilbo's shoulder, causing him to teeter slightly at the impact. The dwarf was looser, less stoic now that he'd downed at least a quarter of their barrel alone. "Don't think so little of yourself, lad. Those little bastards don't know what they're missing."

"While I thank you for the sentiment, Dwalin, I know otherwise. And it should serve you well to be reminded that I am one of those, ahem, 'little bastards.'"

A beat of silence followed, broken only by the soft ticking of the clock and the pounding of Bilbo's heart. For a moment he wondered if he misspoke—his mind combing through every word he said to find any offense with blank eyes staring back at him, boring into his very soul—before a roar of laughter echoed off the curved corners of the room.

Bilbo flushed and ducked away to the kitchen to drop off his pitcher before quickly checking in on Frodo. The babe slept peacefully in his crib, despite the noise, worn from his day of play with the Gamgees and the praise of their surprised company. Out of the Dwarrow, Frodo found his match with Dwalin; preferring to be held and played with by the gruff guard. Even when Bofur whittled him a small bear figure or Nori could get the babe to giggle with his sleight-of-hand tricks, it was Dwalin he clung to–much to the dwarf's, and Bilbo's, amazement. Before today, it never would have occurred to him that Dwalin could be so soft when it came to children; his stoic appearance melting into a beaming grin when they approached him. It warmed his heart to see this shift in his friend.

Indeed, it seemed as though he'd missed out on such changes in his friends during his absence, though in others it felt like nothing at all was different. His Dwarrow still ate him out of house and home, much to Bilbo's delight this time, however. With each seed cake and puff pastry devoured, he felt his soul heal ever so slightly. Perhaps he'd be born anew upon their departure.

"Perhaps this is a good thing..." Bilbo sighed as he brushed dark curls away from Frodo's face. Or, perhaps, his soul would break completely this time, leaving him with half and carrying the other east.

~~~

Soft was the night as the King Under the Mountain slipped out the back door of the Baggins smial in hopes of a smoke in peace. His fellow Dwarrow were still inside, undoubtedly resting their aching bellies after being satisfyingly stuffed by Hobbit cuisine. Even from the rickety, old bench he found a perch in, he could hear their muted merrymaking over the sounds of the night. Cheerful flute playing mixed with the crickets, forming a rustic melody in the cool breeze. Across the way, tiny lights of many smials began to wink out, taking their flickering glow with them until only the stars were kissing his skin, bravely lighting the sky. Thorin sighed contently, taking a hearty drag from his pipe before sending lazy rings floating up and over the Hill.

"Oh! Very pretty," Came a soft voice to his left. "I thought I would find you out here."

"Bilbo," It took every ounce of control within him to not jump out of his skin at the surprising intrusion, however welcome it was. How his host could drift soundlessly through the world would always remain a mystery to the dwarf. His own limbs felt heavy and loud in their clambering to make space on the creaking bench. "Come, sit."

Bilbo smiled in the dark and accepted the offer, pulling out a pipe of his own. Wordlessly, Thorin offered him a light; its flickering little light casting dancing shadows in Bilbo's hair and across his face—delicately catching on every feature.

"Sounds like they're still making merry in there," said Thorin awkwardly, looking back at the soft curves of the smial from which the Hobbit had come.

"They are indeed," agreed Bilbo, puffing on his pipe. "Let's just hope they find their rooms soon enough... And on their own accord! I cannot bear to hear them call me 'your highness' any longer."

With mirth in his eyes, Thorin opened his mouth.

"Don't even think about it, Thorin Oakenshield." Bilbo interrupted sternly. "I will take my leave."

The King laughed then but nodded in acceptance. He could understand Bilbo's position. Whilst living in Ered Luin, his people insisted upon calling him by his title, and the names associated with it. At first, he'd resented being called anything other than his name or being seen as someone he no longer was. He didn't feel he deserved to be called a royal, or a leader, if there was no longer a kingdom to rule. Slowly though, as they grew accustomed to the new mountain range, he came to accept it. He hoped then that his friend of high importance would come to see how special he truly was.

Peace stretched between them as they puffed away; only the sounds of the hare underfoot and the whistle of the soft wind kept time. That isn't to say for lack of things to converse, but simply for the comfort of a single moment. Though, sure enough—like promises and rules—that moment was broken.

"I apologize if my ministrations were unwanted this morning." Thorin began, breathing out tendrils of smoke. His voice sounding too rough and too loud against his ears in the quiet air. "It was never my intention to upset you."

Thorin has been doing that a lot, Bilbo thought as he tensed, averting his gaze pointedly down to his pipe, apologizing at every moment he can. The subject of conversation not what he'd expected when he slipped into the night, forever following his King. Quietly, he replied, "Oh. That's quite alright, thank you. I was simply startled is all."

"I take it sleep doesn't find you often than?"

"Not normally, no," Bilbo conceded, embarrassment shrinking his voice steadily. "Though if it does, horrid dreams usually follow. As, ahem, you saw..."

Thorin hummed then, mulling over the information presented to him. It wasn't until he inhaled another puff and blew it back into the dark that he continued, "I can relate—though sleep has been more merciful as of late. When the battle was won, and my wounds were healing, my head would conjure terrible images of defeat, desolation... death. The same images have haunted me since I was young, though they intensify with my experiences. I've learnt the hard way to lean on my kin in such scenarios. All this to say, there is no shame in a restless night, or several, Bilbo. I just wish comfort to find you once more, your dreams deserve such sweetness."

The hobbit paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His nose twitched once, then twice, under the stars. His voice was small but weighted as he said softly, "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

"You were."

"I'm sorry?"

"You were there," Thorin said like a promise, his voice thicker than it had been but a moment before. "In the end. When I thought my time was over, you were there. And that is enough. More than enough... You weren't wrong when you said I'd died, Master Burglar. I did, for a moment, up on that hill. My mission had been completed; that is to say, the battle was won, and my body was done—too injured to carry on. Slain was my pale foe and, with him, the last stand was over. None a victory has ever felt quite so joyous as when his blood spilt upon the ice... You know, at that moment, despite the battle, the world was silent. Perhaps it was the blood loss, but everything was calm once again; ever strange it was. One moment I'm overlooking the victory, and the next, all I can see is you. And you're just— there, with me, telling me to stay, promising that everything would be okay even if it wasn't necessarily the truth. And— And I felt so weightless as we lay there, as though if you were to let me go, I would drift up and away.

Bilbo was suddenly very aware of the two suppers weighing heavily in his stomach, everything within him seizing tightly. Let it be said that a proper hobbit would find themselves rightly ostracized over losing their lunch, and at this moment, this quite improper Baggins was trying very hard to not add another reason to be considered strange. Over and over upon itself, his stomach flipped in a torturous dance before dropping to his quaking knees. Bilbo shivered under his housecoat. Perhaps he shouldn't have had that second sausage roll.

"I knew, then, that I didn't have much time," Thorin sighed once more, as though the act could straighten his trembling voice, "that I was... dying, and I couldn't— I wouldn't part with you in hatred. I wouldn't have my last moments with you be tainted with the vileness of all things gilded and golden. I wouldn't... I had done— so much wrong, and I needed you to know that I was sorry. I am still so sorry, Bilbo."

The hobbit's breath hitched audibly as a piercing gaze fell upon him under the curtain of dark hair, pinning him in place with a look of yearslong guilt and torment.

"I know," Bilbo whispered with a thick tongue, "I knew then too."

Silence passed over the pair like a cloud quickly blotting out the somber light of the moon on their cloudless night—innocent, yet imposing, nonetheless. The air was thick with oppressing suspense. Bilbo was used to the silence, however, as it was a blanket he never intended to weave but allowed to drape over his weary bones much too often and with far too little of a fight. In the years since his parents' deaths, silence followed at his coattails as a near constant; though, he only felt its weight upon his return to Bag End after his journey's end. He'd hoped a year of dwarven racket would be enough to stay the loneliness accompanying him, but the cold halls upon his return brought everything back too fast. Yes, Bilbo Baggins knew silence like an old friend. Though perhaps it was more akin to a relative who overstayed their welcome so long ago that it felt as though they had always lived with him. This, however, was a silence he'd never known before.

Thorin's hands shook as they clenched and unclenched around his knees, his pipe long abandoned.

"Thor—" Bilbo started, startling even himself with the sound.

"They tell me I was gone for only a handful of minutes. Enough time for the air support by our feathered friends to transport my broken body to a healing tent, alongside my nephews." The dwarf said at the same time. "While I have no knowledge as to the how or the why, the elves took us to their best healers; I suspect Legolas played a large part in that if it wasn't Tauriel alone. Her love for my nephew knows no bounds. And my dear hobbit, the miracles they can perform. For a race that seemingly remembers not the sharpness of a blade, their medicine practices are nothing short of magic."

The burglar gave a weak smile at the praise of the helpful elves.

"I am ever merrier to hear it, my King."

"Indeed. It is thanks to them that my nephews are alive today. Though, even when Oin was eventually available to take over as head physician, my health remained unstable. ...It's not that life was rejecting me, but rather death already had beckoned my soul towards its eternal embrace. And that is what scares me most, Master Burglar. You see, in my culture, when one dies, we're told they go to the great halls to join the feast with their fathers. That was what I expected. That was what I was waiting to see."

The hobbit knew little of the culture of his beloved Dwarrowfolk, a reserved and careful kind they were in that respect, but he'd picked up enough from his time with them to know the importance of heritage and honour—even and especially in death. He knew the implications of dying. As well, he knew how to keep his many questions behind his teeth.

"And— And maybe I did. But, I think, perhaps, I was brought back too soon. Before I adjusted to that realm..." Thorin's voice grew even more tense as the words fought their way from his throat. "All I know of death is its warmth. But it was— Ahem— It was not right. Nothing was right. The heat was all-consuming, though it was not one from the forge, or a campfire, or— or an embrace. The heat was hotter than desolation. I swear, my soul would've melted off my body if left a moment longer in the warmth. Then, there was a blinding light, and I couldn't see anything other than a brilliant white. All the while, this terrible cacophony nearly deafened me, but I couldn't make sense of the noise. My ears rang at the rapture—they still do some days—and consciousness kept slipping through my fingers like sand, telling me I wasn't supposed to be there. Like I was not allowed at my fathers' table...

"We don't have a— ahem— punishing afterworld for those who commit wrongdoings in their lives unlike how many other cultures do. We believe that all unjust actions are met with retribution in life by Mahal's will and when we pass, those actions are stripped away, leaving only the good..." He paused, taking a harsh breath. "But despite what the others say, I can't help but wonder if we are wrong—my people—that there is an eternal torment for evildoers... and that that was where I was sent. That I was finally being punished for the misdeeds I'd done in life. I— I— Ahem— I don't—"

A single tear disappearing into a well-kept beard was all it took for the tender-hearted hobbit to launch from his seat like a bolt.

"Oh, Thorin!" Bilbo cried in alarm, wrapping his arms around the dwarf's tense shoulders, finding them shuddering slightly in an obvious, inner turmoil.

"Even Mahal himself has forsaken me..." Thorin laughed like a choke, burying his head into his hands in an attempt to stop the traitorous tears. "Heh... I must be— truly despicable."

"No. No! Of course you aren't, my dearest Thorin," huffed the hobbit, gently tugging his head to his middle and stroking his hair tenderly, sparing no time to wonder if such action was appropriate in the other man's culture. "You are nothing but a good, kind man."

"But that is not so, Bilbo!" Came a muffled protest. "You know it as well as I do, that I have done so much wrong..."

"Now you listen here, Thorin Oakenshield, we both know the reasonings behind those actions. So can you just hear me out for a moment?" The slight nod under his hands was all Bilbo needed to begin his heartfelt speech. Hobbits, in their nature, love a good speech, though most would find a simple 'thank you' suffice enough to rouse a rather boisterous applause lasting well over ten minutes. Yet another reason to be considered improper, Mr. Baggins' speeches would often include song and poetry, leaving listeners bored and impatient; unless, of course, he had the right audience.

"I cannot tell you what you did or did not see, for that is something only you know to the fullest extent, but I can tell you that you have nothing to be punished for. Your creator has not forsaken you, Thorin. From what I have gathered about him, Mahal seems to be a just god. So, to me—a humble creature of his wife's design—it makes no sense that he would want to punish you in such a way. What I mean to say is, you have suffered so much, so needlessly, both in life and in death. You are far more good than you give yourself credit for. Only a selfless King such as yourself would provide for his people before himself. Only a leader like you would be so brave as to make sure each member of his company remained safe in perilous situations. Only a friend of your kindness would go out of his way to protect a small hobbit day in and day out; even and especially when he doesn't entirely need it."

That elicited a soft snort, prompting his words to continue with fervor.

"Only an honourable Durin would spend his whole life fighting to return to his homeland. Only a brother and uncle of your grace would raise your sister-sons as though they were your own. And be proud of them even when they make mistakes, as well. All of these traits may come from any one person individually, as they are good traits to have indeed, but no one can have them all such as yourself. No one can be as gracious or kind-hearted or generous or selfless or good as you, Thorin Oakenshield, and I truly mean it— Oh!"

Bilbo had barely made it through his declaration with a level voice before his King's arms snaked around his waist like a vice, nearly dragging the poor hobbit right onto his lap. Immediately Bilbo was back at the Carrock, his very soul crushed by how fiercely Thorin clung to him.

"You..." Thorin paused, gulping down the flood of emotions threatening to render him a blubbering mess. Yes, he had been nearly ridiculed with niceties in the last few years, but nothing came even remotely close to this, nothing could compare to this strange man who held him with such an unfairly high regard. "You are too nice for your own good, child of the kindly West..."

"I am nothing if I am not honest, and if that makes me 'too nice', then so be it."

"Aye! I did not mean offence, Master Burglar."

"Peace, you silly dwarf," Bilbo laughed softly. "I understand your nuances."

Under the stars of old, Thorin's eyes found Bilbo's. In them, a hundred unspoken words, a thousand unsung songs, and one promise, 'I will follow you to the very end.'

"Yes, it seems you do."

Chap 8: The Great Gourd Incident

CW// Brief mentions of violence and death

The following week slipped away in a whirlwind of activity in Bag End. On top of preparing the home for the coming winter—he felt the chill grow more and more present each night—Bilbo had nearly run himself ragged between meetings with his grandfather and his Dwarrow company, and preparing for upcoming Samhain festival that he'd somehow been roped into one evening when the sun painted the world with red and purple strokes.

Bell had come to him then—she all but stormed up Bag Shot Row to his gate—face red and her skirt bunched underneath white knuckles. In an instant, Bilbo had forgotten the freshly packed pipe waiting for him at his bench, and ushered her inside, offering her a cup of tea and an ear for her grievances, of which there were many—and mainly involving a particularly snooty hobbitess. She had told him of her woes in preparing for the festival, how no one on the committee would listen to her ideas and brushed her off as if she were a too-toasted slice of bread. Bilbo listened quietly, nodding, and shaking his head at each appropriate moment, and smiling perhaps too eagerly when she mentioned a spectacular mishap between Lobelia and a bucket of glitter. And perhaps it was that eagerness, and a fierce protectiveness he'd picked up from his time away, that made him wish to stand up for the poor lass and involve himself in the manner as she described the hostility directed at her now that Lobelia had been reprimanded for her little display in the square. He simply could not, and would not, let anyone take the brunt of that woman's hatred on his behalf.

It is for these reasons, then, that Bilbo finds himself nearly walking into a bird on his way out to yet another meeting. The great, big beast watches the hobbit with ancient eyes from his fencepost. The squeak the man lets out is one of surprise and sudden delight, and it has Roäc nodding his head in a giddy greeting; shiny feathers shifting like ink as he moves.

"Roäc!" Bilbo cries, greeting his feathered friend with a polite nod of his own. "Bless me, I wasn't expecting you, my friend. Seems everyone from the Lonely Mountain is visiting me these days!"

The raven hops from one foot to another on his post, letting out a cry that sounds akin to a throaty laugh, before ducking his head for the pet he knows Bilbo will relent to and call him a greedy thing. Bilbo, in turn, does just that with a laugh of his own. "You are most predictable, you silly bird." And when he nips at the man's fingers lightly, teasing and expectant, he says, "Oh, would you just let me see the letter first? I'll bring you your snacks in a moment."

The letter is sealed as it always is and is tucked neatly into Roäc's small leather pouch. Its richly coloured wax stamped in the trademark insignia of the Ereborean crown almost flickers life into the cold embers of anger that sit in Bilbo's stomach uncomfortably, but he pushes it aside as Roäc's sudden, sweeping motion of preening returns him to his senses. Curiosity tickles at Bilbo's mind as he rips into the letter and Balin's sturdy lettering fills him with nostalgia.

"Esteemed Master Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield (son of Thrain, son of Thror), King under the Mountain, and company," He reads aloud to the old bird. "I hope this letter finds you all safe and well in Bag End. I trust that Thorin has since provided you some answers to your questions, Bilbo, as I can expect you to have many. Though I cannot say it you in person just yet, as work keeps me away from the mountain pass, I feel I must offer my apologies for carrying about this foolish ruse—yes, Thorin, very foolish, no matter your reasoning—and hope you can forgive us all in due time, Bilbo."

Roäc holds him under his golden gaze, watching him almost expectantly, as though he's waiting for a reaction that has yet to bubble up from under Bilbo's skin. And yet, the hobbit continues reading undisturbed.

"I am writing this letter as the last of September fades into the new month, with no news of concern from the Mountain. Fíli continues to excel in his leadership during your absence, Thorin, and is set to host his very own Durin's day celebration in a few weeks time. The lad is doing just fine and shall be a remarkable king one day, should that path be one in which he walks— Fíli has taken up temporary ruling?" Bilbo interjects with his own musings and Roäc watches the pride bloom in the hobbit's eyes then. He nods in response.

"What a mighty large task, Thorin must be so proud of him." Bilbo smiles to himself before continuing, "Dain remains a consistent ally and support to the mountain, as you know, and the good people of the Ironhills do their best to make this time of transition more manageable. Beds are being set up in rooms since refurbished, or carved anew, and will be more than sufficient upon the caravan's return this coming Summer. I very much look forward to your return. We, the people, all do. May your beards grow ever longer, and your axes never dull, Balin, son of Fundin— My, what an exciting letter! Thank you, dear Roäc, for travelling this way at this time of year just to deliver it."

The raven squawks at the praise but offers Bilbo a show of his wings in gratitude.

"Yes, yes, you are truly a magnificent beast. Now put those away before you break another one of my pots," Chides Bilbo lightly, folding the note neatly once more, before noticing a small patch of writing on the back of the parchment. "Oh! There's more. Ahem, 'P.S., To my dear companion, Master Baggins, have you told the others of young Master Frodo? I must admit I have restricted the company's knowledge of the boy to provide them a surprise upon their arrival. Did the meeting go over well for my brother? It may not be obvious to you yet, but dear Dwalin goes soft-hearted for bright gems such as your own. I suspect he'll want to be a father one day, even if he will never admit it. Oh, and do tell him to take his head out his—oh my! —to take his head out of his ass when it comes to Master Nori! The two of them have been skirting around one another for the past few years! And it would serve them right to have some sense knocked into them, if only for my sake. Please write soon, and may the soles of your feet never tire, Balin, son of Fundin.' Well, I'll be! I certainly wouldn't have expected that from dear Dwalin. I suppose it makes sense, logically and—"

"Bilbo? Are you well? Who are you talking to?" Asks a deep, dwarven voice, interrupting his musings.

The hobbit, much to his credit, does not jump out of his skin at the intrusion, and simply turns to the dwarf standing at his door with a smile. "Ah, Thorin! We've received a letter from Balin. I was just reading it with—"

"Roäc!" Thorin laughs, bounding down the cobble steps in a flash before appearing at Bilbo's shoulder with a bright grin. "I have been wondering where you've been."

"Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain" The raven croaks, bowing as deeply as a bird can bow, before knocking heads with the King. Khuzdul falls from his tongue unlike any of the Dwarrow Bilbo had heard speak. It's rich and guttural, with squeaking nuances reminiscent to that of bird call. Bilbo's eyes widen considerably at the sound. "Glad to see you well. This little one has been keeping me very busy, as you know."

"I can imagine," Thorin replies, running a finger under the bird's beak, drawing a slight purr from him. "I trust you've kept him well in my absence?"

"Of course, your majesty. He has the best treats; it would be a shame for those to stop coming."

"You can talk..." Bilbo stammers as he tries to recall if he'd ever heard the ancient bird speak to him in their years of acquaintance. No such instances came to mind. They'd grown close over the years and developed their own greetings for one another as a result, but never once had he spoken—opting instead for vague gestures and immeasurable amounts of eye rolls. Even now, Roäc just laughs that throaty laugh of his.

"What a silly question," He squawks with a roll of his eyes and Thorin turns away to hide the mirth growing in his eyes at the hobbit's confusion. "I've always been able to speak, little master."

"He says he always has," The dwarf translates. "The ravens of Erebor have been able to speak Khuzdul since the first dwarf came from the stones."

Bilbo nods once, then twice, saying, "Oh. Well, forgive me then. I've simply never heard you speak, Roäc. What a lovely voice you have. And I take it, you've known each other long? I hadn't even considered you'd know Balin's raven as well, Thorin."

"Balin's raven?" The King repeats as confusion blossoms over his features. Roäc cackles even louder at this, much to Bilbo's dismay, leaving the hobbit's cheeks pink.

"Is— Is he not?"

Thorin shakes his head at this, trying, and failing, to hide the shake of laughter in his frame. The soft sounds of his chuckle carry on the autumn breeze. It is the ears now, of the hobbit, that grow pink as well, and he folds his arms across his chest, peeved.

"Well then. Glad to know I'm thoroughly incorrect about near everything these days." He sniffs, though there is little bite in his remark.

Thorin at least has the wherewithal then to properly draw himself with a straight back, placing one hand over his heart and saying genuinely, "Forgive me, Master Burglar, for my impertinence. I had thought you knew Roäc was specifically assigned to be a messenger for the crown. While he is no pet, he is as close as family. Evidently, this bastard with feathers plays tricks once more by not saying any of this."

The smile that blooms over Bilbo's face is almost worth the ear-piercing shriek of disbelief from the offended raven as Roäc flaps about and lands with his talons sharp upon the dwarf's head. Almost. But it is the earnest laugh that erupts from him at the sight of the Ereborean pair at battle that gives the King pause, earning him a swift scratch from the bird.

"Alright, enough!" Bilbo chuckles, reaching into the fray and grabbing hold of the raven with the courage not even half of the Dwarrowfolk contained, as though he were a stray leaf in caught in Thorin's hair.

"Unhand me, little master!" Roäc caws, squirming in the hobbit's firm grip. "Let me show him 'bastard with feathers'!"

"You can try, hatchling."

"Stop!" Cries the hobbit, wrangling the bird like an unruly faunt, and petting down the ruffled feathers lining his neck while passing a sharp glare to the dwarf. "That is quite enough you two. Now, you will play nice or neither of you shall have a warm belly later! Understood?"

"...Yes..." Thorin mutters, ducking his head.

"Roäc?"

The raven's golden eyes watch his master, taunting, as he knows no retribution can come from it. Snuggling into Bilbo's arms, he does not answer with words, instead letting his careful peace be known through a content purr. The hobbit sighs, shaking his head, and saying softly, "Honestly, what am I to do with the pair of you? I'm most certainly late now. Oh, Lobelia's surely going to have something to say now..."

Thorin's eyes widen as he glances at the sun hanging low in the sky, lower than it had been when Bilbo had said his goodbyes earlier. He is quick to offer a guilty look, saying, "Let us escort you then. To make up for time lost."

"I should like that. Thank you, Thorin," Bilbo replies with a sweet smile.

"What's this? Little master has a hold over you, Thorin." Roäc croaks as they begin their descent down the Hill.

"Hush, Roäc." The King replies curtly.

Bilbo blinks between the two, wary of breaking up another brawl. "What's he saying?"

"Nothing worthy of your concern, Bilbo," Thorin lies, shooting the raven a look when Bilbo's not watching. "Now, tell me what that letter says."

~~~

Bilbo was late. Exceptionally late, as it turns out, and having a mythical, ancient bird in hand was no excuse for Lobelia. The woman sniffed in distain at his arrival and further turned her nose upon seeing the Ereborean duo.

"I wasn't aware we were allowing just anyone to come to the Party Tree these days," she sneers to the lass beside her, hardly trying to keep her nasally voice quiet. "And to be late as well... Good grief."

"Oh, leave them be, Lobelia," chides the lass—Carissa was her name and her portly frame held nothing but just kindness—, handing her a pile of decorations and all but pushing her away before turning to greet the pair. "Master Baggins, you're right on time! And Master Oakenshield, lovely to see you."

"Mrs. Bramblethorn," Bilbo greets with a polite smile and courteous nod. "Forgive my delay. As you can see, I got a tad distracted, and time slipped by me."

"Quite right, my dear! Fret not, however, you've arrived just in time to help us string the banners into the tree branches. And— Oh. Master Oakenshield, could we trouble you for your height to help us do so?"

"Of course. What do you need?" Thorin replied immediately, and Bilbo finds it difficult to not look at him as he does. His hair had been swept up into a loose braid that showed off his delightfully round ears, and he only donned a simple dwarven outfit, but he stood proud as he always had and looked rather becoming because of it. Bilbo's heart thrummed happily at the smile that curled the Dwarf's cheek and how he set about assisting wherever needed. Kingly in any community, he thought.

With the additional assistance of both Thorin and Roäc—the raven flying decorations to higher branches—, the Tree soon took to life with twinkling lanterns and dancing fabrics gracing its boughs. Its orange and red leaves appeared aflame in the late evening sun as a swath of material landed in Bilbo's hand to place.

"Oh, that's the last one," noted Mrs. Bramblethorn. "Where do you think we should put it?"

"Well, let's just see here," Bilbo muttered softly, casting his gaze up, up, up into the Party Tree. "How about, there?" He spots an empty space higher than his reach. The thought to climb its boughs is quickly shot down by the evident lack of low hanging branches, a feature possibly intentional as to prevent inquisitive younglings from climbing the Tree. Puzzled, Bilbo glances over to the raven dozing on a decorative haybale, spent from his flight, and in turn catches Thorin's eye, beckoning him without word.

"A problem, Master Baggins? Mrs. Bramblethorn?" The dwarf asks earnestly.

"Indeed," replied Bilbo, pointing up to the blank space in the tree. "There is one spot we simply cannot reach for this last banner."

"Aye. Looks just out of reach for myself, unfortunately. Have we any ladders about? Or low branches?"

"I was thinking that myself, but no. No ladders and no branches." Bilbo sighs, frowning at the fabric in his hand.

Thorin hums, scratching at his beard absentmindedly as his gaze turns analytical.

"What if you were to give Bilbo a lift, Master Oakenshield? Could it be reached then?" Carissa suggests after a moment.

"It could. If you are willing, Bilbo?" Thorin's gaze is soft as his eyes fall on the burglar, finding his puzzled look rather amusing.

"I would go myself, if it weren't for my little one," the lass adds almost sheepishly, placing a hand on her round belly.

"Then it is decided," Bilbo nods, determination filling his eyes instantly. "Simple as climbing a Mirkwood tree."

Indeed, it was that simple, Bilbo finds. His sure hands are swift as he climbs, stopping only when the hobbitess commands him, and his feet are firm in their placement as he maneuvers the banner into just the right place. Below him, Thorin watches; unmoved in his position and eyes fixed to his burglar, he waits for Bilbo's descent.

"Oh, Bilbo!" Mrs. Bramblethorn cries in joy, clasping her hands together. "It's just perfect. Everything is coming together beautifully."

He laughs softly then, replying, "That is good to hear! I'm coming down now, then."

His decent is much the same as his ascent, passing over branch and down bough with ease, and evading decoration when necessary. Soon enough, his foot reaches the last branch and Thorin is there, waiting in anticipation with his sturdy arms outstretched.

It isn't the delicate, yet firm, grasp on his ankle that does Bilbo in as he lowers himself into a seated position on the branch, nor is it the soft smile the dwarf passes him. Instead, it is what comes after, the leap of faith as he slides into Thorin's arms, that causes his heart to quicken. It is the strong hands gripping his lower back that sparks a fire in his veins. And it is the quiet breath the dwarf exhales as Bilbo's hands find their way to his shoulders, that stops his own. Thorin holds him like now he's made of glass but looks at him as though he's Mithril.

"Thorin?" The hobbit's nose twitches just inches from Thorin's own with a strange curiosity dancing in his brilliant, gemstone eyes.

"Bilbo..." the King whispers back, his voice dancing on the edge of breathy in its delivery.

"Master Baggins! Master Oakenshield!" Calls Mrs. Gamgee, having joined Mrs. Bramblethorn at the edge of the field where they look out at their work. "Come see! The Tree is simply divine."

Immediately, Thorin stiffens, as if waking from a dream, and lowers the burglar carefully; he feels somewhat queer as he watches Bilbo bound across the field, cheerily chatting with the small crowd gathered. It is a feeling that grows into an ache in him even as Bilbo turns back with a wide grin and twinkling eyes that beckon him to hasten his slow trudge to join the group. It aches in him even as they walk back to Bag End with only the stars accompanying them; Bilbo's enthusiastic ramble filling his silence. And it aches as he lays down in his bed that night, eating away at his thoughts until dawn.

~~~

"Oh, how I wish you two could stay for the festivities..."

The company was stood in Bag End's entry a few days later, as the first light of Durin's Day came streaming through the windows, giving the scene a vibrant, hopeful glow. The Dwarrow's packs were bulging at the seams, threatening to burst—a parting gift from their Hobbit host. Bilbo had packed them enough food to last double their length in journey, and then some, and he stood now before them with a quivering smile.

"Aye, I wish we could too, Bilbo," Bofur replied, drawing the hobbit in for a firm—but not too tight—hug, hiding the tears welling his eyes. "But alas, Ered Luin awaits."

"I still can't believe you're not coming with us, Guard Captain." Nori teases Dwalin as he slips on his clunky, rather bothersome boots. "What, you don't what to keep me in line?"

"Aye, as much as I'd love to, Master Nori, my responsibilities lay with the King, and Thorin has business to wrap up here." Dwalin says tersely, his demeanor carefully measured, hiding all accusations his brother made in his letter. If anything, he turns his gaze away from the former thief as if the dwarf made him bored. Bilbo had to admire the act, if he didn't notice the strain in the guard's fists as Nori struggles to tie his laces under the uneven weight of his pack.

"Aye, of course. Surely, you're not just hiding out from Lady Dìs as long as possible."

"And yet, you're all too eager to see her, Master Nori," Thorin quips, challenging the dwarf with a wolfish expression.

"What I simply cannot believe," Bilbo adds, soothing the mirthful tension with well-trained ease, "is that the two of you are still in my parlour! What a beautiful day to begin your trek. And for it to be Durin's Day as well! Goodness, the mountains sure are calling. Be on your way, you two."

Bofur laughs as they're ushered through the door, saying, "now look who's eager! Are you kicking us out, Bilbo?"

The hobbit turns his head with a sniff and scoffs. The idea! The assumption! The gall! "Of course not, my friend. Good lord, what kind of Hobbit do you think I am? But if you all choose to sit and squabble on my stoop, you shall end up going nowhere at all with the day passing you by! Now go! Go! And let your compass point you North!"

With a clamour of laughter, the pair slip down the steps to the gate calling back to the remaining Dwarrow and their respected burglar, "Good day! Word will be sent upon our arrival to the mountains. May the hair on your feet stay curly and your beards grow ever longer!"

"Goodbye! Goodbye and well wishes! And may Mahal watch over you!" They call back and the three remaining occupants watch as Bofur and Nori disappear down the road with the sun on their shoulders. The hills blink to life as they walk, sending smoke up to the clouds bursting with the light. The sky overhead is brilliant with reds and golds, yet still soft with purples and blues where the ground behind the Hill stretches up for a desperate kiss. At the last moment, Bilbo watches as Nori steals a glance back up at the old guard and he turns away, only to catch Thorin regarding him with an unreadable expression. It is something that leaves him suddenly breathless, but he smiles back, and says, "Well, best not to dawdle. Come, there's much to do, and not much time to do it!"

Thorin nods to him, and moves to follow the shorter man back into the smial when Dwalin's low voice stops him, "Thorin, a word?"

"Aye? What's wrong?" He replies, immediately on edge at the severity in his friend's tone.

"Why aren't we going back to Ered Luin?"

"I told you, there is business to finish with the Thain. Why speak in our tongue? What do you not want any prying ears to hear?"

The dwarf hesitates for the first time in front of his King, but says, "Are you well, Thorin?"

"Yes. Quite." Thorin replies, confused.

"Then why are we not leaving for Ered Luin? What keeps us in the Shire? Please, do not tell me your lies of business, I know they are not true. So, I must know, my King, are you well?"

It is Thorin now, who hesitates. Steeling his jaw and furrowing his brow, he looks away. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet and his body tense. "I do not know what keeps me here. I am well, but there's this ache within me that grows as the nights become colder, wishing for us to stay in the Shire as long as we can, and I hope you can understand that I don't have an answer for why."

"You swore an oath to say if—"

"I know, Dwalin." Thorin smiles briefly, sadly. "This isn't the sickness."

The royal guard stood firm before his friend; eyes hard yet not glaring. His aura had an air of urgency and fierce protection. Dwalin watches Thorin for a moment, observing his mannerisms and physique, noting subtle changes he wasn't sure if even Thorin was aware of. Indeed, the King was acting most odd as of late.

"Thorin?" Bilbo's voice calls from inside the smial. "Are you still outside? Could come in please? We really must get those measurements for your festival garments if you want to be dressed the day of..."

Dwalin watched his face light up at the sound of their burglar's voice alone, and noticed as he suppressed the urge to leap from his post right then and there. He sighed, then conceded that the talk was over.

"Go," he said. "Don't keep him waiting then."

Though before Thorin could pass, he caught his arm and said sternly, "You will tell him, when we leave. Do not give him false hope by dragging out our stay." And when, and only when, realization dawned in the King's eyes did Dwalin let him disappear through the door, muttering to the morning air a quiet, "Mahal wept, he's clueless."

~~~

Celebrations came much too quickly, and with no time to spare, upon the Baggins household, and across the Shire. With it, a flurry of activity. Hobbit holes gained markings of mischievous merriment as gourds a plenty lined their stoops, carved wickedly, and waiting for the light of a candle to flicker the ghastly faces to the night.

Festivities indeed found Bag End quickly, and Bilbo ran circles around the two Dwarrow he resided with. He had consumed himself in preparations all month, much to the sheer amazement and horror of Thorin, as he watched the hobbit stretch himself too thin. He'd helped where he could, of course, but he was no match for a hobbit on a mission. The Party Tree, and surrounding field, grew full of Bilbo's decoration, he still insisted on visiting with the Thain with the King, and even took it upon himself to sew Dwalin, Thorin, and young Frodo's special outfits by hand. By the time the last few days of October settled over the home, each member of the home was ready to force their host to rest.

There was no time for rest, however, as the hobbit woke before dawn on the last day of the month from a night of fretful sleep to fill the smial with dishes upon dishes of food. Stews and pies and bread and meat adorned each available surface of the smial as Thorin and Dwalin stumbled down the hall at much too early of an hour, drawn to the scent. At the sight of Bilbo's mussed curls and the smears of flour donning his slightly askew housecoat, Thorin stopped in his tracks.

"Bilbo?" he called gently, earning a soft hum of acknowledgement in return. "What are you doing?"

"Cooking, dear dwarf," the hobbit retorted curtly.

"Aye, I can see that. Might I ask, why?"

Not even looking up from the pot he stirred monotonously, Bilbo said wearily, "I must. Someone must make food for tonight."

The Dwarrow shared a look of earnest disbelief; silently communicating their distaste. Without word, they sprang to action with the Guard Captain swiftly removing the hobbit's hand from the ladle and, in turn, handing the utensil to the King to take over the job.

"What— Hey!" Bilbo blinked as he was ushered out of the way.

"We've put up with you exhausting yourself for too long, Master Baggins," Thorin started in a stern, but concerned voice. "Rest. Before you injure yourself."

"Injure myself? I'll have you know; I have never so much as nicked myself in the kitchen, Master Oakenshield! And you, Dwalin. Unhand me, I still have much to do."

"I cannot do that, Master Burglar," Dwalin stated calmly.

"And why not?" Bilbo squirms in his grasp half-heartedly, having not the energy to best dwarven strength.

"King's orders, I'm afraid."

The hobbit's brow furrowed at the quiet air of control radiating from the pair but as he opens his mouth to argue, a loud yawn silences those protests.

"Go rest, Bilbo," Thorin commands with a soft voice. "You've already done more than enough."

"But..." He tries.

"Go. All will be well."

"Come along, Master Baggins," said Dwalin, and he walks the weary man back to his room, taking residence a step or two behind him in case he tried slipping back to the kitchen, or to any other part of the smial he deemed necessary to adjust the decoration of for the millionth time.

Bilbo sighs as the dwarf shadows him even into his room, making it evidently clear that he would not leave his post at the doorway until the hobbit was asleep once more. "You really needn't do that, Dwalin. I am perfectly adept at finding my bed by myself."

"Aye, I can imagine."

The hobbit shoots him a withering look as he parts from his flour coated robe and falls onto his bed with abandon. He bites his tongue to avoid admitting how comfortable his bed truly was on his tired bones, as that would mean the Dwarrow winning this silly game of theirs and he is nothing if not stubborn in that regard. Instead, he looks to his ceiling, as he had many times before on sleepless nights, and asks the newest question nagging at his mind, "Does Thorin even know how to cook? I would like to have my kitchen in one piece by the end of all this, I'll have you know."

"He does," Dwalin answers if a tad awkwardly. "He picked up a few things from the road. One must still feed others while going hungry himself."

"Oh!" Bilbo squeaks and bolts upright with wide eyes. "Forgive me, I did not mean—"

"Peace, Bilbo, all is well. Your kitchen will not see the wrath of an untrained dwarf today."

Relieved, the burglar slumps back onto the mattress with a sigh. "There is just so much to do..."

Dwalin's eyeroll is nearly audible as he replies, "It will get done by those other than yourself. Now, cease your talking and sleep."

With a resigned nod, Bilbo closes his eyes and allows sleep to quickly take over. And take over it does. His rest had become much less perilous as of late and he could only attribute that to the tender words of the raven-haired dwarf Bilbo often found himself wandering to in the late hours of the night. Thorin took him in with no judgement in his eyes, and in turn offered solace, a refuge in the storm of his mind. Bilbo did not know how to thank him. He knew he never could thank him—not in any way that could express the vastness of his gratitude—, but in the silence of their slumber, and in the gentle reminders of his presence, the hobbit knows the King feels it.

When he wakes once more, sunlight streams through the curtains and creates delicate lines across his face. Bilbo stretches with a yawn, then pauses, sniffing the air with intrigue. Something earthy and hearty smelling fills his room, enticing him to his feet and into proper clothing with haste. It tasks him in picking up his pace as he pads down the hallway, where the cacophony of clanging pots, singing, laughter, and all-around ruckus drift up and into his ears.

As he reaches the kitchen, the heavenly smell of that interesting cooking fills his nose and leaves his stomach rumbling. But its scent is not what stops him in his tracks. Instead, it is the sight of his Dwarrow raining havoc upon his kitchen in the most wonderfully domestic way possible. With military precision, Dwalin braids a dough in the corner, flour and a smile gracing his face. He sings with his King as he does, a happy-sounding tune in their beautiful tongue that leaves the hobbit yearning to learn the meaning. Thorin, in turn, has his back to him, bent before the hardworking oven, but with the way his deep voice sounds bright, Bilbo can tell he's smiling too. The scene stuns him, though there is little time to process it as a small faunt runs past the hobbit's legs; his blonde curls wobbling as he tots up to the guard captain with a bag of some sort in his chubby, little hands.

Before Bilbo can then begin to register that, Mrs. Gamgee is behind him with a twinkling laugh. "Good morning, Master Baggins!"

Thorin pauses, then straightens, and quickly turns to him with a brilliant grin that sends a jolt of lightning straight to the burglar's heart. He hadn't been spared from the sneaking attack of flour either, evident in the smear across his cheek. His eyes are soft as he greets him, "Bilbo, glad to see you rested."

"What—" Bilbo tries, words failing him. He clears his throat and glances between the hobbit lass and the dwarven pair. "What's going on? I thought..."

"Master Oakenshield sent the festival committee an urgent message, sir," Bell explains. "And thankfully he did! You were working yourself to the bone, and that simply cannot, and will not, be borne. Gosh, Yavanna knows you overwork yourself... Anyhow, a few of the lasses have rallied to prepare some dishes and Mister Dwalin and Mister Thorin here have offered to make some of their traditional dishes! Isn't that exciting?"

"They have?" Bilbo's voice is unexpectedly small with awe as his eyes find Thorin's.

"Aye." He coughs and looks away, cheeks flushing with a colour he will later blame on the heat of the stove. "It's nothing really... Least we could do to offer our thanks for your gra— Oh!"

The hobbit has his King in a bone crushing hug before anyone can blink, heart swelling and tears of joy welling in his eyes.

"More than any Baggins deserves..." He whispers into Thorin's chest, but just as quick he springs away, wiping his eyes with a small chuckle, and says earnestly, "Thank you, all of you. What would I possibly do without you?"

"Oh, you know," said Bell playfully, "probably tire yourself too much to partake in festivities. Now, please get out of the kitchen, sir. You're hereby banned from cooking for the remainder of the day."

Bilbo opens his mouth to protest getting kicked out of his kitchen yet again, only to be interrupted once more. His stomach reminds him of the time passing with a loud rumble.

"Oh... Pray tell, what's the time?"

~~~

As the sun continued to fall ever lower in the sky, the cheer in Bag End only grew. Even though he was banned from his own kitchen, the hobbit wasn't far. Bilbo finds himself light and laughing so often he fears he may float away with aching ribs. As he tasks himself with fitting Frodo into his costume, he and Bell share stories of Samhain past, filling in the Dwarrow on its history and the proper activities to partake in. They tell tales of the common games played and laugh as they reminisce over failed attempts at courting through food scrying. Over tea, discussions of the grand bonfires that would stay lit throughout the night and how they did so to invite protection to their fields and their lives in the coming year.

Soon enough, though, Mrs. Gamgee and little Samwise take their leave, promising to see the group shortly for their rounds of trick or treating—in which, the older hobbits spend another ten minutes explaining to the Ereborean pair that yes, the faunts do go up to random houses to ask for sugary treats, and yes, it is perfectly safe. After they part ways, Bilbo draws the attention of both Dwarrow by blocking their path back to the kitchen with folded arms.

"If I may," he begins, drawing himself up to his full height, though still finding himself a full head shorter than both men. "You two are quite done for the day. You've done more than enough, much more than you realise and I have not the words to fully express my gratitude to you two. So, I will simply say thank you. Thank you very, very much."

Thorin opens his mouth to dismiss the praise, but Bilbo isn't finished. He continues with a clap of his hands and a smile.

"Now, I have laid your outfits on your beds, and I should like the pair of you to change into them quickly, the festivities are about to begin!"

The clothing found on the Dwarrow's beds were not ones they expected. For Dwalin, he found dark fabrics and silken furs sewed to resemble that of a wolf. Vambraces fit to the likeness of claws fastened smoothly against his forearms and the grey tunic lined down the front with tapered fur lay snuggly across his broad shoulders. He regarded the outfit with awe, wondering how his hobbit host even had the time to craft such a thing.

Down the hall, and in his own room, the King of Erebor had the same questions. For him, a humble jacket, waistcoat, and cream shirt lay, donning him in clothes fit for a Gentlehobbit. Once more, the fit was exemplary. Though, because he was used to the neutral shades of the fabrics of the mountains, to be clothed in light greens and soft yellows felt almost unnatural. Indeed, they would have, had they not looked so nicely upon him.

Upon closer inspection, he saw tiny vines, and even smaller flowers, trail up the sleeves and along the hem of his jacket, and regaled them in amazement. Though dressed in the attire of a culture anew, Thorin had never felt so proud in his appearance. With one last glance in his tiny, travel mirror, he smiled and slipped from his room to find his generous host.

The door to Bilbo's room was wide open as Thorin passed and he paid it no mind, though when frustrated mutterings drifted through the doorway, he dared to look in. The sight that he then saw felt as though it was a repeat of the morning, with Bilbo having his back to the dwarf and in a state of disarray. He was headfirst into his armoire, desperately pulling items of clothing out with a fair number of sighs. Thorin made no noise as he leaned against the sturdy frame of the door and watched, with curiosity softening his features.

"No, that won't do..." The hobbit muttered, shaking his head, and shoving a rather unattractive stripped sweater back into the fray. The next item yielded only similar results. "No, no, no. Surely there has got to be something..."

When Bilbo then pulled out a gaudy, nauseously yellow tunic, two sizes to large, and shuddered, Thorin took it as his cue to make his presence known. Voice rumbling with barely hidden mirth, he asked, "What a lovely shirt, Bilbo."

"Goodness!" Bilbo jumped, dropping that ugly garment to the floor, and looked back with growing eyes. "Thorin..."

"Something the matter, Master Baggins?"

"No... I mean, yes! I mean—" Bilbo stuttered, shock at how brilliant the King looked leaving his tongue in a twist within his mouth. "You look..."

It is Thorin now whose eyes widen, and he glances down at his attire. Had he missed a crucial piece of his outfit? Did he do something to offer insult? His gaze flitted between his front and the rising colour staining his burglar's neck.

"Have I worn this incorrectly? Forgive me. I hadn't—"

"No!" Bilbo interrupts. "No, no. You're wearing it correctly. My apologies, Thorin. You look rather dashing is all."

That ache hidden in Thorin's chest flares alive with vengeance, nearly sucking the air from his lungs. He, in turn, offers a soft smile, and says, "Oh. Many thanks. Though, it is from your hand that this outfit comes, and any compliment should be said to you, Bilbo."

He watches in pride as the flush grows to his hobbit's cheeks and Bilbo squeaks in surprise.

"Well..."

"Is there anything else I can do for you? Ah, what about your outfit? Have you yet to put it on?"

"Ahem, well, you see..." Bilbo starts sheepishly looking down at the swath of fabric now lining his hardwood. "Planning out my own outfit may have slipped my mind, I'm afraid. And I would have thought there would be something, anything really, from years previous... or even from my father's old clothes, but I am hopelessly out of luck, wouldn't you know."

"Hm," Thorin hums, pondering this, then a spark of an idea flared in his head, and suddenly there is nothing else he can think of. "You mentioned that one could dress in any matter of wear for this gathering, yes?"

"Yes, but what does that have to do with—?"

"Wait here a moment, if you please."

Confusion drifts through the air in Thorin's wake, and leaves Bilbo in a moment of being doe-eyed and stock still. However, the moment is only a fleeting one and quickly the King returns, with garments of his own.

"Here, try these," he says, passing the bundle to the hobbit and trying to ignore how those green eyes sparkle with curiosity. "They're likely going to be too big, but a belt should help with that..."

Bilbo's face lights up as he recognizes the pattern stitched into the dark blue fabric. He'd seen it a hundred times over on the garments of his friends; though, realization only comes as he's gently tracing a finger over the thread. He gasps softly, and with awe dancing over his tongue, he says, "Are these your clothes, Thorin?"

"Aye, well," the dwarf stutters as clarity of what he'd just done washes over him in an icy wave. "I mean, you did dress me as one of your people... So, I had figured—"

Thorin's heart jumps in his chest as silence stretches between them and Bilbo's beaming face only hinders its steadiness.

"What? What is it? If it's improper, then I can just take them back and help you find—"

"No!" Bilbo jumps from his stupor, clutching the bundle to his chest "No, it's quite alright. It's more than alright, actually. It's rather perfect... Thank you, Thorin. So much. You truly are my saviour today."

In the confines of Bilbo's room—cozy and sequestered—Thorin's mind races at the thought of the hobbit in his wears. He imagines how the tunic would surely drape past his knees, even with a belt, and how his furs would swallow the burglar whole. Flashes of silver and gold hidden in the bronze of his hobbit's honey curls dance in his minds eye, enchanting him with ideas of beads and braids; and the fleeting thought of royal, Durin blue against peachy, freckled skin flares a divine ache in his chest. Thorin cannot bring himself to look away from those eyes, though he cannot begin to imagine why. This ache is getting worse and worse, he noted, perhaps, I'll inquire about it with Òin later.

The moment—which is only a moment, as moments tend to be—is cut short with the shout from Dwalin down the hall, "Master Baggins! It's starting." and he forces himself not to react as Bilbo's nose twitches, delight lighting up his face.

"Ah!" he squeaks and replies cheerfully, "Be right with you, Dwalin!"

The dwarf only realises he's still staring when Bilbo looks back at him with a shy smile, softly saying, "Well, I suppose I'd best put these on. I'll only be a moment..."

"We'll be on the porch when you're ready." Thorin nods, stepping back towards the door.

"Ah, wait! Thorin!" Bilbo called, disappearing once more only to pop up with his hands behind his back. "I also made this, but I wasn't sure... That is to say, I don't believe— Never mind. Never mind. Forgive me, it was silly—"

"What is it?"

Instead of an answer, he is presented with a crown. Though made with seasonal foliage and delightful little flowers, it is a crown fit for a king, really. He swallows harshly, shunning the image of golden crowns and regal furs, and regards Bilbo's body language as he does. The hobbit is as shy now as ever, that much is evident as he evades the dwarf's eyes, and squirms his feet, but he is still Bilbo—persistently and unwaveringly kind Bilbo—and Thorin knows it would break his heart to decline such a gift.

"Oh, blast it, I told you it was silly—"

"No, Bilbo," he said finally. "It's lovely."

And it is lovely to see the softness of happiness fan across Bilbo's features, and perhaps Thorin can live with that. So, he dips his head low, closing his eyes as the caress of small hands brush his temple, and accepts the crown to be fixed atop his hair.

"There..." He hears Bilbo whisper. "Perfect."

"Bilbo! Thorin!" Dwalin's gruff shout carries through the halls of Bag End, startling the pair back to their senses. "Mister and Mrs. Gamgee are here!"

"Trick or treating!" Bilbo gasps, before hastily, though not unkindly, pushing the dwarf to the door. "We'll be late! Start without me, I won't be more than a minute!"

Thorin cannot answer before he promptly finds himself before a closed door. Thorin cannot breathe as he braces himself against it. And when he forces himself away, a moment later, Thorin will not know that on the other side of the dark stained oak, a hobbit of questionable reputation collapses against it, with his own chest heaving, a proud and silly smile on his face.

~~~

Hobbits old and young alike donned their best costumes and painted themselves into beasts with fervor, laughing and singing as they do so. Soon after tea, faunts ran about the smials, chased after only by their playmates and the unheard calls of their parents. They plead for sugary treats or a humoursome trick, knowing that by the end of the night their belly would be full of candy. Later, after dinner was made and consumed, the older Hobbits would all trail from their homes down to the Tree after the sun disappeared on the horizon and their children lay tucked in bed, and dance, sing, and make merry until the dawn.

The Party Tree and the party field were alive.

This is what the Dwarrow pair believed when the rippling sea of people and singing chorus greeted them on their descent down the Hill. Everywhere they looked, Hobbits of all wears danced and darted to and fro, making no mind to their costumes other than to pass compliment. The festival committee had done splendors in the time since Thorin had last seen the area, with the field now littered with towering tents, gleeful games, and tables a plenty for feasting upon.

Three main attractions sat proudly in the field, gathering groups of onlookers with their prowess. The most obvious was the Tree, lit up in the dark like a colourful beacon. Between it and the third attraction, however, lay the scared bonfire, cleansing those who passed by and ensuring them with a prosperous year when fed a parcel from their plates. Bilbo had told them about the lore behind such a fire, of how the first Harvest of the Gentlefolk had been blessed by Yavanna with a great light, greater than even the sun, that fended off the death and decay sure to come with winter's frost. From then on, they lit a special bonfire each year at dusk to remember and give back to their goddess, hoping their tidbits of sacrificed food would suffice for another blessing, and it would stay lit until the following evening, when winter was called forth once again.

The third, and biggest gathering by a mile, appeared in the row of gigantic pumpkins—as told to the Ereborean pair as they gawked—polished neatly and awaiting judgement to be crowned the year's Great Gourd. This competition had less to do with the Valar than it did with homegrown pride. The hobbit who could grow the largest pumpkin not only had the honour and prestige associated with the title of biggest pumpkin, but as well provided the seeds amongst town for the next year's crop. Needless to say, pumpkin treats would be found a plenty over the next few weeks, with pies, breads, muffins, cakes, and entire main courses centered around the gourd filled the market. One would be lucky to make it out of town with only one loaf, two pies, and a handful of recipes under their belt.

Now, there was no time to join the fray just yet, as evident with the many dishes stacked precariously in their arms. Carefully they made their way through throngs of people, wary of a carelessly flung limb waiting to topple hours of hard work. If the Dwarrow had gotten their way, not one dish would land in Bilbo's hand, as they deemed today a day of rest for the hobbit, much to his dismay—he may have worked hard but that did not mean he would fall apart the day of! As it happened to play out, thankfully, all three bore the weight, and Bilbo evidently showed them the strength a hobbit has when it comes to food as he not only carried the heaviest platters, but had young Frodo strapped to his back.

As they slowly made their way to the tents in which the food would be housed, familiar faces greeted and dispersed the meals evenly amongst them.

"Well bless me if you're not a Dwarf, Master Bilbo! With the most darling pumpkin in tow, too," Rose Bramblethorn greeted, taking more dishes than one would think from Thorin, much to his surprise. "And— Oh my! Don't you look like a proper Gentlehobbit, Master Thorin."

"Only for tonight, Mrs. Bramblethorn," Thorin quipped with a smile.

"And a wolf for yourself, Master Dwalin?" Carissa asked, offering to grab a dish, to which he politely declined. She now was very pregnant and toddled rather delightfully as she walked along.

"Aye, lass," he confirmed with a small smile.

"Well, isn't this just exciting?" asked Bilbo as they entered the food tent.

Dwalin hadn't lied when he said that everything would be taken care of. About them whizzed a handful of helpful Hobbits, perfecting the placements of each item brought forth, and quickly their arms were bare of their burden. Many plates of all sorts of meals lined the tables, showing each person's efforts to the matter. Emotion swirled in Bilbo's heart. His friends were truly outstanding.

In the commotion, he caught Thorin's eye briefly as the Bramblethorns chatted away at him, and he couldn't help but grin and mouth an earnest thank you.

Soon, they found themselves gathering their plates and drifting to their respective tables, though the Dwarrow pair were once again confused when their hobbit added an extra seven plates into his arms and carried it away with practiced ease.

"Are we expecting company for supper, Bilbo?" Thorin asked, wordlessly gesturing to the fine porcelain gracing the clothed table.

Only then did the hobbit freeze his actions to stare down at what his hands were doing.

"Bilbo?" Thorin asked once more, alarm sounding in his voice.

"Oh..." Bilbo said at last and hastily stacked three of the plates back together in a neat pile. "Forgive me, force of habit. No, no, there shan't be anyone else joining us."

"Then why'd you get seven extra plates, lad?" Dwalin pondered with a slight chuckle. He'd been tasked in keeping Frodo distracted while his uncle went to fetch food.

Bilbo's response was curt, though it was said without malice. "To remember the dead, my dear dwarf."

He then smiled a tender smile that did not yet reach his eyes as the great guard captain blanched. Even Thorin looked like he regretted bringing it up.

"Ach..." Dwalin managed to say gruffly. "Forgive my mentioning."

"Oh, be at peace! Both of you. It's not taboo or improper to discuss, especially now. No, it is tradition to set a place at Samhain supper for loved ones who've passed on. It is said that this time of the year is when we are closest to death, and thus our loved ones can sit at our table, so to speak."

"Who were the seven then?" Thorin asked cautiously and regretted it when Bilbo closed his eyes with a sigh.

"Two plates are for dearest Primula Brandybuck and Drogo Baggins, Frodo's parents. I believe I mentioned their passing earlier this year, no? A boating accident. I was rather close with Drogo... He was much like a brother to me. And Prim was just a delight. Truly, they were the perfect match for one another..." He smiled wryly then at their son, now under his guardianship, and fixed the small green hat shaped to resemble a curling stem that sat slightly askew on the babe's head.

"Another two are for my mother and father, Belladonna Took and Bungo Baggins respectively. It has been long since they passed. My mother died in the Fell Winter, when I was barely past majority. She was like me, you know. Or, no, perhaps I am becoming more like her. She was rather adventurous, always taking a walking holiday to the far corners of the Shire, but always came home with a new story to tell. She saved a lot of people that winter. ...And that was her downfall. She always protected the others, but one day her foe outmatched her. She barely made it home before—" Bilbo swallowed sharply as the images of his mother's pale face and thick blood trailing on the hardwood from the door to the parlour stained the back of his eyelids. When he then blinked away that memory, he saw solemn expressions echoed back at him. "My father passed that Spring. Broken heart I should say. He was very tender-hearted... Like me as well I suppose."

"And the other three?" Dwalin dared ask the question Thorin couldn't even allow himself to think. There was so much he did not yet know about his hobbit. He'd heard a story or two, of course, on their journey, but it had never crossed his mind that the pair had passed into Yavanna's gardens so young. He wished he could take away that hurt, but with the sorrow blooming in the faraway, glassy stare Bilbo had, he knew he never could.

"Ah, well!" Bilbo chuckled humourlessly then and wiped at his eyes. "You'll think me rather silly now, considering certain circumstances."

"Aye?" Dwalin prompted.

"I've um... I've been setting out plates for Fíli and Kíli, and for, uh—" Thorin froze as Bilbo's gaze slid hesitantly over to him, and he knew then that he should have never asked about the plates in the first place. "F— For you, Thorin..."

The King felt as though he'd be sick; at once his clothes grew constricting, and his throat tightened. All he could do was sit in his thoughts and furrow his brow over his regrets.

Uncomfortable with the silence, Bilbo quickly cried a faltering, "I told you it was rather silly—"

"Master Baggins," Thorin interrupted, voice even and firm. A mask that hid the grief he felt. "Remembering someone is never silly. You shouldn't apologize for grief."

The hobbit attempted to dismiss the remark, waving his hand and lowering his gaze, but his King would have none of that. Catching that hand, Thorin pulled him into a gentle embrace, heaving a stuttering sigh that betrayed his calm facade. Emotion flowed through Bilbo now, choking him slightly.

"Thank you, for remembering me so," the dwarf whispered. "Though I fear you regard me unfairly high."

"Oh, come off it, my dear dwarf," the burglar replied, though his hands clutched the fabric of Thorin's coat almost possessively as he sniffed wetly. "You have earned that regard a hundred times over today alone."

"Even still, I am humbled to be honoured by you."

The hesitant hand that then lands on his shoulder reminds Bilbo of his surroundings and he pulls himself away from the embrace of his King. Dwalin's eyes are apologetic as he gives Bilbo a slight squeeze and that is all Bilbo needs from him.

"Right, on a lighter note, who wants to learn about food scrying?"

~~~

Thorin was thoroughly impressed. Not only had his hobbit friend failed to mention that he was a Shire equivalent to a prince, but he had also neglected to share that he was a champion in all games aim-based. Whether it be a humble game of cornhole—in which the Dwarrows lost most spectacularly against their burglar and his gardener—or a skillful game of conkers, which Dwalin had wrongfully assumed he had the hobbit beat in, Bilbo bested them all most humbly. When pressed about it, a few wins later, he simply shrugged and claimed he'd always had a natural affinity to such things. However, Bilbo's own turn of defeat came quickly when bobbing for apples, a game in which the Royal Guard was surprisingly swift in. A game, as well, that the King nearly drowned himself in frustration. Thorin, as it turned out, was no good at any of the games.

What he was good at, though, was his strength, and when approached rather hesitantly by a couple of starry-eyed Hobbits, that strength was put on display. New to the Shire this year was a grand display for the winner of the Great Gourd competition, though the only issue raised was how to move said pumpkin. And so, making a show of it, he and Dwalin pushed forth the winner as it was declared. His mind surged as he caught sight of Bilbo holding up Frodo to watch. The older hobbit wearing a rather charming, spellbound look over his face.

That had been a constant that night, the King found; his eyes always ended up landing on his companion as if in search of something he could not quite name. Was it praise? Was it approval? What drew him to the humble creature so consistently? Thorin could not place it. Even as the pair set down the giant vegetable upon its precarious perch, he could only think of Bilbo's devotion through mourning rites. He wished he could see what the hobbit did.

~~~

Bilbo was drunk. Very drunk, in fact; and he knew he'd be nursing a very tender head in the morning. It was his fault though, as he'd deliberately challenged Thorin to a celebratory drinking contest after Dwalin departed from the party with Frodo—a pair in which would be found later dozing beside the dying hearth, a children's book clutched in the warrior's hands and a half eaten cookie in the faunt's—, to proudly show off how horrid he was when it came to drinking—by Shire standards. Indeed, he was considered such a lightweight by other Hobbits that the seasoned dwarf had a strong chance of beating him to the bottom of a bottle. It was true Dwarrowfolk could drink, but, as it turned out, the Gentlefolk drank harder.

Together they sat behind one of the large pumpkins. A runner-up grown by Farmer Maggot, who only grew the thing for fun; his prized mushrooms being more of his pride and joy. Still, the gourd was tall, taller than Bilbo, and taller still than Thorin, if one could imagine. They'd snuck away to catch their breath from a particularly invigorating row of dancing, finally something that the King excelled at—having been taught the art in his younger years in the halls of Erebor past. However, he held back, finding his eyes glued to his companion rather than his surroundings. The hobbit had two left, hairy feet when it came to dancing, though perhaps the two and half bottles of mulled wine had something to do with the way he cackled every time he missed a step.

Twirling around, the lights of the bonfire and the twinkling lanterns had caught in Bilbo's hair, spinning the honey colour into a richer amber that had Thorin transfixed—another action that could easily be explained away by the amount of alcohol coursing through his body—, Bilbo looked effervescent in Durin blue. Thorin had been right about his tunic falling passed his knees, even with a belt; the hobbit nearly drowned in Dwarven cloth. Somehow, the vision of Bilbo in his wears flared the ache in his chest something fierce. Even as they caught their breath, he could not find a way to take his eyes off his friend. Bilbo was telling him something now, and really Thorin should have been listening, but his mind was elsewhere entirely.

"And that, my friend, is how you get revenge, apparently." His voice light and quick as he rambled, though slurred ever so slightly to show how wasted he was. "Revenge is a bucket full of glitter."

"Revenge is what?" Thorin chuckled, finally registering the burglar's words.

"Glitter." Bilbo repeated, enunciating each syllable with a wave of his hands, slumping against the King's shoulder. "You know, that tiny, shining dust that gets simply everywhere? Impossible to clean fully."

"Never heard of shiny dust." Thorin mused. "Most shiny things are just gems and stars and things of that sort."

"Be glad, Thorin Oakenshield, be glad."

The hobbit sighed then, contently, and stretched his limbs unceremoniously, laying his head upon the dwarf's lap with reckless abandon. Thorin could only laugh at the display, causing Bilbo to raise an eyebrow at him in question.

"What?"

"It's nothing."

"Have I got something on my face?"

"Beg your pardon, Master Burglar?" Thorin's brow furrows most comically.

"You keep staring at me," Bilbo stated, peering up with unfocused, owl eyes. "Have I picked up something on my face?"

"No, no. It's just..." He paused, then drew a thumb along the hobbit's smooth jaw. "It's rather odd to see a dwarf with no beard."

"Well, Mister Oakenshield." Bilbo snorted, leaning into the touch. "I hate to tell you, but I am no dwarf. I may be dressed like one, and smell like one for that matter, but dwarf do I not make."

"Smell like a dwarf?"

"You know, metal, pipe smoke..." He sniffed the tunic as if trying to decipher a riddle. "Cedar wood and... fresh air. Dwarf smell."

Thorin laughed then, a full belly, deep chuckle that jostled the hobbit most joyously. "Dwarrow do not smell like fresh air, Bilbo. We live underground."

"You do. Smell of it, I mean," Bilbo noted, reaching up a small, wavering hand and playing with the ends of the other man's hair.

"I do?"

"Yes," said Bilbo with almost an audible grin in his voice to match the wicked one that loosened his lips. "And it's rather nice. You might not be getting your tunic back."

This declaration silenced Thorin for a moment, and somewhere in the sober parts of Bilbo's brain—that he'd long ago stopped listening to—, he screamed at his crude openness, demanding an apology to slip from uncooperating lips. His louder thoughts, however, encouraged by the strong bite of alcohol, were only on how nice it was to have Thorin's clothes on, to feel the warmth of his body seep into him despite the layers of cloth separating them, and the small movement caused by his breathing, as well as the feeling that came as those solid, sturdy, hardworking hands slid through his hair, stopping just moments away from the shell of his pointed ear—close enough to tease, but not close enough to satiate the spark of desire hidden within the hobbit. Bilbo was drunk, he knew this, but he was steadily becoming more inebriated by the dwarf.

"I hope that's not the case," Thorin finally quipped. "I wouldn't have thought a Baggins would let their guests wander a mountain pass topless."

The hobbits cheeks went quite red at that, imagination running wild behind his raised brows. "Well..."

"Ah, I need to tell you—" Thorin started, voice turning serious, only to then be cut off by a loud bang overhead. With a cry, he leapt up, causing Bilbo to tumble with a groan of discomfort. "Mahal's hammer may smite it all! A foul beast attacks! Master Baggins, behind me."

"Oh, Thorin no! It's just fireworks." Bilbo cried, failing miserably to hide his peal of giggles behind a hand. "Look up!"

"What?" The King turned from his protective crouch in front of the hobbit and following his point looked up indeed. Up and up, he looked, standing then as if to get a better look, and wider and wider did his eyes grow. "Bilbo, what is this magic?"

"It's not magic, silly dwarf. If it were, there'd be a very nosy wizard setting them off, now wouldn't there? They're just regular, old fireworks. Do the Drar— Dwr— Dwarrowfolk—there it is—not have fireworks?" Bilbo asked, his tongue stumbling not just from the alcohol. He too climbed to his feet, albeit far less graceful than the surprisingly sure-footed dwarf.

"No," Thorin was quick to reply, not once taking his gaze from the lightshow in the sky. "Nothing like this at least. It is rather beautiful, is it not?"

With reflections of brilliant colour dancing in those wide eyes, the look of awe and shock staining his face was something a drunk Baggins could not get enough of as he watched an earnest smile curl the dwarf's cheeks.

"Yes," Bilbo replied immediately, not once turning his head skyward. You are, Thorin. "It is that."

No words of warning came for what happened then, under the stars and hidden behind a giant pumpkin. No one prepared them for the moment when Thorin's eyes finally broke away from the sky and met with his burglar's, grins donning both of their faces. No moment to catch one's breath after spending an age suspended in the visage of another. Nothing except the blinding explosion of reds and whites, and a deafening thunderclap.

"Bilbo!" He could hear Thorin roar under the ringing of his ears, sending him careening to the side, away from the noise. "Bilbo!"

Suddenly, he was pressed against the solid, heaving frame of his dwarf, and hands were held against his ears protectively. For several minutes they stood there, curled into one another and waiting for the world to quiet around them. Within an instant, though, chunks of gourd rained upon the pair, dousing them from their mirth from seconds ago and instead coating them in a thick layer of wet sludge. Seeds and stringy guts caught in their hair and stuck there stubbornly, like a horribly wet spider's web.

"Breathe," Bilbo could hear clearer now, though he couldn't tell if the simple command was for him or rather a general rule for them both, as he felt Thorin's chest, which he'd been pulled into, stutter startlingly with shallow inhales. "Just breathe."

Coming out from his cocoon, the hobbit found his dwarf's feverish gaze. "Thorin? What—?"

"Pumpkin exploded."

"What?" He couldn't catch up; he was sobering up fast, but his head was still slow to connect the dots.

"Pumpkin exploded." Thorin repeated, searching desperately for something in Bilbo's gaze, his cool blue eyes searing his very soul. "Are you alright?"

"I..." The hobbit blinked, collecting himself. He felt rather alright, if a bit uncomfortable as the cool damp set in from his clothes. He shivered. "Yes, I believe so. Are you alright? You look—"

"How are your ears?" Thorin interrupted once more, not yet relieved.

"Sensitive, but I shall survive, I should think." He tried, hoping humour would quell whatever was brewing beneath Thorin's thinly concealed panic. It did not. The dwarf then turned to glare over his shoulder through the crater left in Farmer Maggot's once lovely pumpkin. On the opposite side, crowds formed, some unfortunate enough to be as completely covered as the pair. Murmurs soon grew to a hushed whisper and soon enough, a wave of noise erupted from the Gentlefolk.

"What is the meaning of this?" Bilbo heard Thorin bark out, and laid a hand cautiously over his heart, feeling it flutter under his skin. "Someone explain."

The Hobbits glanced between them, searching for an answer without using their words. That is, until a tiny voice cried out, "The stand fell over, sir! Nobody could stop it in time." That garnered support from the crowd as nods and more whispers could be heard.

"An accident, then?" The dwarf asked, ire draining from his voice, leaving the smaller man relieved.

"Y— Yes, sir. It would seem."

"Good. Excuse us." Thorin nodded then, and only then did he allow himself to relax to Bilbo's touches, noting the panic wringing his features and the chunks of orange splattered in his damp curls. He led him away, making for the one road in Hobbiton. The air was chill as he stalked homeward despite having multiple layers. He could only imagine the coolness Bilbo felt, wearing only a thin tunic and no overcoat. He halted suddenly in the middle of the road, shedding his once beautiful coat and draping it hastily over the hobbit's shivering shoulders. Thorin watched the way he swallowed sharply, nose twitching in anticipation. Once more, the King repeated himself, "Are you alright?"

Bilbo sniffed at this, clucking his tongue in disbelief. "Yes, yes! I'm quite alright but you're giving me quite a scare, Thorin. Why are you brooding? It was only an accident... Unless your hurt, in which case you need to tell me right this instant or I swear to the Valar—"

"I'm sorry." The dwarf interrupted yet once more; he had an affinity for that it seemed. "I'm sorry... I shouldn't have let you worry."

"But something is wrong. Isn't there?" Bilbo asked, reaching to remove strings of pumpkin from the King's curly tresses. He held Thorin's gaze as he did so, silently watching for any sign of the connection being unwanted. "You're upset still."

"Yes," the dwarf sighed under the hobbit's ministrations.

"What is it?"

"I wanted tonight to go well," he admitted, voice low and breathy. "I wanted you to have a good time."

Bilbo frowned, pausing his work for only a second, "I did, Thorin. Of course, I did. Why would you think otherwise?"

"Because you're covered in pumpkin puree."

"And that means I didn't have a good time?"

"Doesn't it?"

"Thorin, just because some things didn't go to plan doesn't mean the entire night's a waste. We ate, we laughed, we drank. We had a good time. I had a good time. Why... Why is this so important to you?"

Thorin clutched his fists but swallowed his self-pity. His words were weighted as they fell on deaf ears. "Because I'm leaving."

"Yes, I know. You have to return to the Blue Mountains before the pass closes. You've said this."

"Bilbo..." said Thorin, almost desperately, as he realised the hobbit didn't quite yet understand his message. Thorin felt trapped. He felt like the earth was giving way beneath him simply by the way Bilbo looked at him. Those gentle green eyes saw too much of him. They challenged his decisions with a simple look. They had him second guessing more often than he'd care to admit. And they had him wishing he could stay; aching with the need to keep those eyes on him at all times. He'd give anything to stay, he figured, though he knew he couldn't. He couldn't stay and it was breaking him.

"I am leaving the Shire," he repeated, hurt hidden under the thin layer of control he somehow willed into his voice. "Next week, I will be departing for Ered Luin."

Within an instant Bilbo sobered considerably. His heart pounded against his ribs as he straightened himself and forced himself to breathe. No, he thought immediately, this is much too soon. He's leaving again and I've only just gotten him back. It can't be time already, can it?

"You're leaving?" He squeaked. When Thorin nodded, all he could do was gasp and sputter helplessly. A pathetic whine would have entered his voice then, had he allowed himself to speak. He wished to cry, he wished to scream, he wished to beg, and he hated himself for it. He knew Thorin wouldn't stay and yet he built up the fantasy of forever with the dwarf. He knew the pass to the Blue Mountains would only last a little longer yet and realised that even pushing his departure this late was putting the King at a high risk for sudden storms. Even still, he clutched at the fabric of Thorin's waistcoat, not yet willing to let go and have the dwarf disappear from his life again.

"It's long been decided, Master Burglar," the King admitted quietly, almost ashamedly. "We've already stayed longer than intended..."

"I thought we had more time..."

Thorin had to look away then. Bilbo had breathed the words so quiet he thought he imagined them, but they sliced him to his core, sharper than a sword. His ache thrummed within him, the worst he'd felt since developing it, and he feared it would soon claw its way up from his chest and sit in his throat.

"You're leaving," Bilbo repeated, rolling the words over his slow tongue. It wasn't so much of a sentence as it was a decision. One in which he decidedly nodded to himself and corrected his response, standing tall and clasping his hands at his front. He offered the dwarf a polite, and utterly fake, smile, saying, "I wish you safe travels then, Master Oak—"

"Don't. Please don't."

The hobbit blinked, smile disappearing into a quick frown. What was wrong? Had he said something improper in his send-off? He tried to think of any offence he caused and returned empty handed.

"What?"

"Don't be polite, Bilbo," Thorin said firmly, an odd combination of command and plea lacing his tone. "Not right now. Please. Please just be you right now and tell me to stay."

"Thorin? I don't understand... You— You have to return to your people. You have to be their King. I couldn't possibly— Do you want to stay?"

That was the question, wasn't it. The one war raging in the King's mind. He sighed in frustration, swallowing sharply.

"I need to return," he agreed, though it didn't sound convincing. "I need to... be their King."

"But?"

"But I do not wish to part from here. From you. Do I want to stay? More than anything, Bilbo. I want to watch the snow fall from beside your hearth and sweep the path clear in the morning. I want to show you my people's customs for the frost. I want to see the flowers grow and cover the ground with green again. I want to hear the bird's return through your window. What I want—" is you, his mind supplied, shocking him from his rant. His breath was ragged, leaving his lungs in shattered puffs, and he realised he'd taken the hobbit in his arms. Eyes brighter than any gem locked on him and only him. "Is more time."

"I want that to," Bilbo promised quietly. "And we still yet have time."

"Not enough."

"I know. ...I know."

Chap 9: A Plan Takes Root

Bold lettering refers to Khudzul

  Time fell in a blink. Too fast, Bilbo thought bitterly, and with not enough of it. He'd tried to make the most of it, he really did, but a week was only a week, and his time was still occupied by things that kept him from his Dwarrow. Still, he'd shared stories by the warmth of the hearth—as they once had around the campfire along the road—and sang comely tunes when the ale flowed steadily. In the limited time he had left available, he was trying to create as many memories as he possibly could and he did it for one reason, he was scared. Terrified even, of what would come after the last semblance of chaos left his smial. He knew that as soon as his Dwarrow left, the dark and the cold and the vast weight of loneliness would take their place. And so, Bilbo was trying to remember everything.

He could only hope to remember the warmth of Thorin's hand when it found his in the late hours of the night, when the now-rare nightmare would plague his sleep and the dwarf would come find him. Bilbo tried not to think of what his dreams would bring without that hand to hold, and instead focused on committing to memory the new strands of silver and the faint lines he knew only laughter drew. He hoped to remember Thorin. To remember how he smiled, how he smelled, how his expressive blue eyes looked when they found his across the riot of their dinner table or over the bickering heads of a counsel meeting. He needed to remember how Thorin lived, not only in his memories, but in the world. He needed to, for when his fears reared their ugly heads.

As much as he worried about the time, Bilbo tried not to think of it. He tried not to think of this as the end, but rather, the beginning. He'd be seeing his Dwarrow again, Bilbo reminded himself of this. He would see them and feel at home in their oddities. Even so, despite pushing away those thoughts, they crept on him near the end—just a night before the duo's departure—, after a heart-stopping sword lesson from the King himself.

They stood in the small clearing Bilbo had shown him in the small thicket of skeletal trees. Through their branches, the last light of the day fell behind Thorin's shoulders as he faced down the man smaller both in height and in frame. His face was stoic as it had been on the road, though Bilbo had since learned it meant focus rather than ire, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—held a note of his arrogance. Hanging loosely in his hand, his sword gleamed tauntingly. Bilbo had to hide a shiver at the sight. There was something in the way Thorin looked at him, like an opponent rather than an idiot, that fluttered his stomach and curled his toes. He rather liked it. A welcome change than the one he wore when they'd come earlier in the afternoon and Bilbo noticed the swath of cloth wrapping the sharp edge of the blade. He'd nearly turned right around then, ready to march back up the Hill and slam his smial door right on the blasted King's nose. Honestly, the notion was rather insulting. He wasn't some helpless faunt, he'd bested a dragon and lived, for Yavanna's sake!

Granted, besting a dragon didn't involve using his sword, but the sentiment still counts.

Soon enough, the dwarf advanced, bringing with him a swift swing of his sword, but leaving enough room for the hobbit to either dodge or parry the blow. Bilbo opted for the dodge, knowing full well that if Thorin was to be holding back, he might as well dance circles around the King in response. If he were honest, even with himself, Bilbo would admit he was trying to impress the dwarf. In his travels to the last homely house of the West, Bilbo had picked up a few tricks with his blade that only the Elves could teach, and he used them now to catch the smug dwarf off guard. He huffed a quiet breath of annoyance as he sidestepped yet another open thrust, before swinging his own sword. Sting whipped through the air fluidly, as though the metal had been replaced by water, and found the edge of the Orcrist with a tremendous clang. Bilbo grinned at the noise, quickly bounding out of the way of another attack. Thorin was skilled, of course, better than most, but he was sturdier, and thusly, slower than the nimble hobbit.

"You're never going to land a blow if you keep dancing around, you know," Thorin commented after failing a swipe, his blade glancing the air mere inches from where the hobbit ducked away.

"And you're never going to understand reason until it's too late, my friend." Bilbo laughed, bounding away on light feet before steadying himself to launch the complex whirlwind of motion Elrohir and Elladan had taught him the previous summer; a distraction of metal against metal to divert the King's attention from where he placed his feet. It was a move that had landed the poor hobbit on his backside more times than he could count but was grateful now to have a more familiarly heighted person to practice it on. It was a strange fact that Bilbo was now a far cry from the hobbit that had unwillingly opened his door to a party of Dwarrow, bragging only about his skills in conkers, but he relished in it. He'd much rather learn ways to protect himself and his family than sit at home, blissfully ignorant, with his hands over his ears.

"I've been learning the ways of the sword since I was a pebble, Bilbo," Thorin scoffed as Bilbo saddled up against his chest. "Surely any trick you have by acting like a rabbit will not—!"

Suddenly, the King of Erebor was on his ass in the dirt, Orcrist landing just a breath away from his fingertips. He could've grabbed the hilt if he honestly wanted to, but the grinning burglar sat proudly on his chest stopped him in his place; pinning him not only with his weight and sword, aimed inches above his beating heart, but also with the most alive eyes he'd ever seen. He'd seen the hobbit's eyes more times than he could count, but more often than not it seemed that those emerald eyes were taking his breath away.

"And here I thought you were a master swordsman, Thorin," Bilbo quipped, his voice light and teasing, though his mind elated with joy at the success of the trick of Elves. "Falling for the trick of a hobbit... tsk tsk. How ever will you survive your trip North, I wonder."

But Thorin said nothing, too shocked to even process words, let alone move his frozen tongue. Instead, his hands—moving on their own volition, surely—found their way to the proud hobbit's hips, and in a single, fluid motion, he flipped the two of them over. Sting fell limply to the side as they rolled, and he paid it no mind.

"Oh!" Bilbo squeaked, his eyes widening and his grin falling into a soft look of surprise.

Thorin loomed over him now, his dark hair falling like a curtain around his unreadable face, but still, he said nothing; only his analyzing eyes trailed over Bilbo, leaving an icy trail of blue in their wake. Bilbo swallowed harshly, and tried not to think of how the scene would look, should anyone come across their clearing in the woods. In their tussle, the hobbit's legs had fallen wide around the dwarf's waist and one of Thorin's hands palmed the ground beside his head. It was as awkward of a position as one could find themselves in, but Bilbo was long past the point of propriety when it came to this particular dwarf. In fact, his only thoughts were of how Thorin's other hand remained firm on his hip, the hem of both his Mithril tunic and his cotton shirt riding up from the intrusion. Bolts of lightning radiate from where the calloused skin finds Bilbo's soft, pliable side, and once more he has to swallow the flood of nervous rambling waiting behind his lips. His nose, however, twitches expectantly.

"How?" asked Thorin, his voice as quiet as the wind in the underbrush.

As Thorin's eyes locked onto his again, Bilbo felt very, very warm. The King's look was intense, though not in a demanding or terrifying way, but rather it was a look of determination and admiration, and something the burglar could not place. It erupted a flutter in his stomach, insistent and overwhelming.

Bilbo's reply was equally as low, "I beg your pardon?"

"How... How did you do that?"

"W—Well, I don't know, actually. I... I've never succeeded in that move, truth be told. I'm rather surprised myself... Ahem."

Thorin paused then, blinking a few times in confusion, before he shook his head with a chuckle. "You never cease to amaze me, Bilbo."

His reply came sputtering and panicked as a flood of red rushed to his cheeks. "Well, I did tell you that you wouldn't see reason until it was too late!"

"You did, and now I see. ...Even if you do hop around like a rabbit."

"A rabbit!" Bilbo cried in mock offense, embarrassment washing away with a playful swat at the dwarf's chest. "First a ferret, then a bunny, a rat, and now a rabbit! Of all creatures... why, I'd rather be a bear, or a wolf! Surely then, I'd garner some respect."

"And what's wrong with a rabbit?"

"It's— It's—" He faltered at the teasing grin tugging Thorin's lips. Oh, if only I had the confidence of a bear or a wolf, Bilbo thought, heart pounding against his ribs, maybe then I'd kiss him.

"It is?" Thorin pressed, squeezing the hand on his side ever so slightly.

"It is infuriating!" He finally admitted, having to turn away, and catching his gaze on the setting sun turning the sky a soft orange through the trees. In the glow, he's reminded of the passing of time, and that this is the last moment he'll get to have with Thorin before having to face life without him by his side once more. It removes his prior thoughts of playful ire and instead fills him with an uncomfortable sense of dread that twinges his heart and sparks a rambling from his lips, "It is unfair to be considered as such when being a rabbit means hiding in the brush or sitting in my hole, blissfully unaware of what really goes on. It is unfair, when being a rabbit means ignoring the ache in my chest, telling me to run and move and take adventures with mysterious Kings to far away places. I cannot be a rabbit if being a rabbit means my skin is soft enough to bruise and my heart is tender enough to break easily. And I cannot subject myself to living as a rabbit if the other rabbits will never understand what I've done or what I've seen. I will not do it, Thorin, not when you've taught me how not to be—"

A gentle thumb brushes away the trickle of a stray, salty tear trailing from the corner of his eye and Bilbo is brought back to reality with its touch.

"Bilbo?" Thorin whispers, painfully soft. "You're crying..."

Hastily, the hobbit scrubs his eyes and offers a pitiful-sounding laugh. "Forgive me, I got carried away."

"Bilbo," Thorin repeats urgently, cocking his head slightly as confusion crosses his face once more and hurt mars the crinkle of his eyes and the furrow of his mouth where he frowns.

"I..." Bilbo's voice falters and he drags his hands across his face to hide himself away. He cannot look at the dwarf like this, he is simply much too close and overwhelming. When he does speak again, it is barely a whisper, "I cannot be a rabbit again, Thorin."

The pressing weight of the bigger man lessens slightly as Thorin sits back on his knees. The loss of his touch leaves Bilbo to squeeze his eyes shut beneath his palms in order to stay the sting that comes quick. He is cold now in the winter air though the crisp wind is not why he shivers.

"I apologize," said the King. "I never meant any insult; it was merely teasing—"

"I know!" Bilbo cried suddenly, leaning up on his elbows to catch the Kings gaze in his own. "But how can you tease as if you're not leaving in the morning? How can you be so nonchalant and pleasant and caring and— and infuriatingly you when you're leaving tomorrow?"

Thorin blinked in surprise. "That's what's upsetting you?"

"You're impossible," Bilbo grumbled, frustrated with the unwanted anger festering in the pit of his stomach. He did not understand how it could grow so easily when Thorin was around, but it mocked him ever so. "Yes! Yes, of course that's why I'm upset. Why would I not be upset at you leaving?"

Dumbfounded, Thorin pondered for a moment. This was all rather confusing to him. All week the hobbit had shown nothing but happiness over the time they shared, but here he sat, with the burglar glaring up at him, tears welling in his eyes.

"You speak as if you're only going away for a handful of days," Bilbo continued when Thorin does not speak, "not months, or years, or even an entire lifetime. And you make it sound as if it won't be impossible to forget what you say or do, as if it isn't impossible to forget you. As if... As if I won't miss you after you leave."

"I don't—" He started but was cut off as Bilbo immediately sprung to his feet, pointing a finger at the dwarf, and saying, "You do. You do and it is most unfair because I will miss you. I will always miss you, Thorin. No matter where you go or for how long." Then, seeing Thorin's eyes widen, he sighed, sparing a moment to dust the dirt from his backside before continuing, "Look, I do not wish to continue arguing with you, not tonight. But just know that you're important to me, Thorin Oakenshield, alright?"

Once more, Thorin finds his tongue uncooperative in his mouth, despite his mind screaming and his chest aching. He sits in his stupor as he watches the burglar that has been plaguing his mind for the last week—ever since he met him, really—as he retrieves both swords, attaching Sting to his hip. Thorin does not miss the unresolved tension tightening his shoulders though he cannot understand why his lungs constrict painfully and his heart stops at the sight. Still, he finds courage to reach out his hand when Bilbo offers him back his sword, clutching the soft skin of his wrist delicately.

"You are important to me too, Bilbo. More than I say and more than you know," he said, voice gruff but honest. "And I'm sorry that I've upset you by not telling you that enough."

Bilbo replies by raising a hand to cup his jaw and smiling sadly. "Let's just go home."

~~~

To Master Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire, and company,

Hoping this letter finds you well, as it comes with good news from Ered Luin, ourselves—Nori and Bofur—have arrived safely to our old stomping grounds. The path was mostly dry, save for our last night on the road when a drizzle— well, it wasn't so much of a drizzle as a dousing— actually it's not even that come to think of it, it was more like a torrent— anyways, we got caught in this drizzle like a dousing like a torrent and then we weren't, safe we were in the stony embrace of the mountains. Nori's gotten a rather nasty cold though, and left me—Bofur, your favourite, and most dashingly charming dwarf—to write this letter to you. My advice to the other fellows: don't. get. wet. It won't do you any good. I think the lad has gone through two whole "handkerchiefs'" as you would say, Bilbo. Two! And he's turned them into your bloody holey-dishcloths, he has, with his sniveling. I'm surprised the mountains still stand with the velocity in which he sneezes, honest to Mahal.

Anyways, all this to say, we've reconvened with Lady Dís, Thorin, and have been debriefing her about the going's on of you and the Thain—who I still cannot believe is our own Master Burglar's grandfather! Oh, don't give me that look, I haven't told her anything. ...Yet—and she is most pleased with the outcome. She is expecting a full rundown upon your arrival.

Ah, I best be off now, Nori's complaining about something again so I best go see what it is before he steals my knickers again—I don't know how he keeps doing it, but he's a right menace right now. More letters will come in time, as soon as there is more to be said about ways of life here in the mountains.

Cheers,

Bofur

~~~

Bilbo was not much of a religious man. Of course, he said praise to the Green Goddess for bountiful harvests and plentiful lands, but only once before had he prayed; his frozen, dirty hands clasped together, stained in blood that was not his own. Trembling not from the cold, he had prayed to her on the icy cliffside of Ravenhill, swearing an oath of loyalty in exchange for the protection of one dwarf king. Here again, he stands before his maker, praying not for himself. Internally he pleads, screams, and offers everything he is made of for the Dwarrow who have turned his world upside down and sideways. He knows the chances of her hearing his whispers are slim, undoubtedly so, and yet he chants to her anyways.

Stuffed inside the pockets of his trousers, Bilbo's fingernails bit into the flesh of his palm, leaving angry, red crescents in their wake. That pain was the only thing holding him accountable as he watched the last two Dwarrow don their packs by his front door. Outside, the sky was a deep shade of plum, as dawn had not yet arrived over the Shire. A sad excuse of first breakfast sat abandoned at the kitchen table, half eaten, and the rest had been hastily shoved into a cloth napkin for the road. No one spoke, yet the silence was altogether deafening to the hobbit. Breathing shakily, he pressed his nails deeper into his skin, and bowed his head. Away down the hall, in the parlour past the kitchen, a little clock keeps time for him.

He cannot trust himself to speak with the weight of a thousand words on his tongue and in his throat, crawling from his heart and turning his stomach. Briefly, he knows that this will not be the last time he sees his friends. That upon the warmth of Spring, their stomping boots, outrageous mannerisms, and hearty laughter will once more spill over the rolling hills and flowing rivers of his small corner of the world. Bilbo holds onto this as he prays quietly.

A clearing of a throat breaks his reverie, and he blinks back in time. Thorin stands before him now, face firm and eyes wavering. His travelling cloak—bluer than the sky—dusts the floor where he stands, an utterly obnoxious and downright unnecessary feature, one that would surely cast mud into its delicate silks in less than five minutes. Over his shoulder, his bag hangs limply as if ready to be cast aside at a moments notice. Bilbo has never felt such torment, watching the way he hesitates.

"Master Burglar," Thorin starts, voice hush in the dim light of the morning.

"Master Oakenshield," Bilbo croaks in reply, forcing his face to not look as abysmal as he felt. He then nodded to the Guard Captain standoffishly waiting at the door. Dwalin's expression remained stoic as ever, but his frame was tense with distaste; Bilbo is proud to be able to read the signs of his Dwarrow now. "Master Dwalin."

"We must away," the King continues, "but first I should thank you for your generosity once more."

"Oh, that's not necessary, Thorin. You're always welcome to barge through my door. All of you."

But Thorin does not take this disregard of service lightly and pushes forth with a kingly speech, "Once more you have opened your door to me and my people, sheltered us, fed us, kept us company. Not only that but you have offered us a valuable opportunity of prosperity with your connection to the Thain—as well as keeping us in line during those meetings—, you have showed us a piece of your culture, remembered us, and defended us against prejudice. You have sacrificed much of yourself for us, with no word of complaint, and that is no small task, Bilbo. Forever will I be in debt to the kindness shown here. Forever will I cherish the time spent together."

"As will I," Bilbo squeaks after a moment of sputtering. "I am glad to have been given the opportunity to."

As the last words hang in the air, silence falls over Bag End, and all that can be heard is the shuffling of fabric and the quickening of breath. Anticipation sits like a taunted dog, waiting to lunge. Bilbo wonders how long it will take him to bleed out from the bite. In this moment, a million possibilities blossom in the spiderweb of fate.

A small round object burns a hole in the hobbit's pocket. He opens his mouth to shout out.

"I suppose this is farewell for now, Master Baggins," Thorin said gruffly, gaze shifting between the space just past Bilbo's left shoulder and said hobbit's pained eyes. This made Bilbo nervous in the way poison ivy made skin itch; he trembled.

Master Baggins was his title, that much was a true, proud, fact. And yet, the way the name falls from Thorin's lips makes Bilbo hate himself. Master Baggins is someone else, an entirely different personality; someone cowardly and foolish.

"I suppose it is, my King," he agreed—if a tad curtly. "I wish you well in your travels and expect a letter of notice once reach the Blue Mountains. I trust you, both, to keep one another in line, yes?"

"Aye." Came Dwalin.

"Very well." Bilbo nodded and smiled pleasantly, masking the tightening in his throat and the creeping fear slinking along his collarbone. "I shall see you in the Spring."

With that firm nod, the Dwarrow turn and descent down the steps of Bag End, and Bilbo's heart hastens with each step. The morning had come as all mornings do in the cold months of the year, with November's sun barely a sliver on the horizon. Not a sight nor sound of the Gentlefolk were to be found at this hour, as they lay curled in the warmth of their beds; even the birds where asleep as the pair trudged forth down the now familiar road of Hobbiton.

They kept a modest pace, silent only by ways of their mouths, with their sturdy armour and even sturdier packs jostling joyously. It was a joy not felt by the King, however, and a foul mood grew within him once he reached the last few fields of the humble town. He wished he was back in Bag End, with a fire warming his cold hands and a quick smile passed alongside breakfast. He knew now why his Burglar often reminisced of home when the road was hard, and the weather wasn't preferable; he knew why the fussy hobbit moaned about his armchair and his books. Bilbo had missed the peace of it all, and though he would be loathe to admit it out loud, especially to a dwarf such as Dwalin, Thorin felt much the same way. In Bag End, he wasn't a dwarf with a tumultuous past, or a soldier, or a King with responsibility weighing him down like the crush of gold. He was simply Thorin. Or sometimes, as Bilbo was want to roll his eyes and mutter, a stubborn dwarf. To Bilbo, Thorin was nothing more than who he was at his core, and he'd found that that was all he wanted, for the rest of his days.

However, time passed whether he liked or not, and now he had to face the music. Once more a King, once more a dwarf of many responsibilities, once more a reminder of all his shortcomings. In Ered Luin, tasks awaited, more demanding than they would have been if he'd not taken the road when he was originally supposed to. He supposed his sister would give him a stern reprimand once she saw through his excuses, and figured she had a right to. Just how many times had he failed her? Not only had he led her into a life of uncertainty through bringing his people to the Mountains, he had left her to take care of her small family alone while he'd gotten work in far away places, he'd also taken her children away from her for his ridiculously asinine journey and almost cost them their lives. He could recall the visage of her pure rage when the boys had told her what they'd signed up to do, what he'd offered to them. Dís screamed her throat raw in the dispute, and nearly tore his braids right from his scalp then and there. After that, she did not speak to him, did not look at him, and only barely tolerated being even in the same room as him for well over a week. It was only as Thorin was throwing his pack onto his shoulder that she came, voice low and commanding. 'Protect her sons' was all she asked, a simple request for a mother who's only known grief. How could he now call himself King when he'd nearly failed her?

Perhaps this internal grumbling kept him from watching the road, or listening to his surroundings, because he soon found himself bumping shoulders with Dwalin, who offered him a furrowed brow in response.

"Get out of your head," he said sternly, like he could read the King's thoughts with just one look. Maybe he could, Thorin was not known to be subtle about anything, let alone his emotions.

Though, before he could snap back that he was fine, that everything was fine, and to get back to walking, a faint voice drifted on the wind, "Wait! Please!"

"Did you hear that?" He asked instead, his mood shifting to that of being on high alert.

"Aye." Dwalin nodded, turning to scan the treeline in the dusky morning air.

"Slow down!" The voice sounded again, closer this time. It sounded slightly out of breath and had the telltale accent of the Shire.

Pausing, Dwalin noted, "That almost sounds like—"

"Bilbo." Thorin breathed, eyes widening at the thought.

"Thorin! Dwalin!" The voice came much louder this time, calling out from just over the ridge that had led down to the valley where the Brandywine River split the Hills in two. In that moment, Thorin doesn't hesitate to rush over to that ridge and look down, and that's when he sees him. Bilbo Baggins's wearing only his most homely of outfits, with not a lick of woolen, winter outer wears to protect him from the chill. His hair, mussed as it somehow always is, looks like a halo in the first light of the day, and his puffing cheeks are apple red. Steadily he rushes up the trail, determination written firm along the contours of his face. Thorin waits for him, of course, with his arms hanging limply at his side. To say he is stunned would be an understatement. Bilbo had chased him once more from his smial, like he had so many years ago.

When they reach one another, they connect desperately. Bilbo clings to Thorin's arm as he collects himself, gasping for breath and seeming like he had sprinted halfway across the Shire—which he had, for the most part. Thorin, in turn, looks at him like he's caught in a dream, not fully comprehending how he is here. He holds him steady as he waits for the frantic pulse vibrating through the skin under his hand to calm.

"What are you doing?" He whispers half in awe, half in shock.

"I had—" Bilbo wheezes, pausing to gulp down another breath of crisp, cold air. "I lost my nerve before, but I had to— I had to give you this."

His small hands find Thorin's quickly, and the dwarf loathes how similar they feel to that of ice. He has half a mind to strip off his furs and drown Bilbo in them, enveloping him in his warmth. The hobbit hadn't even put on a simple housecoat or even a scarf before tumbling through the wild for Mahal's sake! He is sure to freeze soon enough, if nothing is done about it, in the way he shakes and chatters. These thoughts, though, are shoved aside as a small, round object is pressed into Thorin's palm and his fingers are closed around it.

"Bilbo?" Thorin asks, a soft look of amusement and confusion dancing in his eyes as he looks to the other man.

"It's just..." He falters, chewing on his wind-chapped-lip, then meets Thorin's gaze with one of his own. It is a look of fierce admiration and hope and something the dwarf cannot even begin to unravel. When Bilbo speaks again, his voice is soft, yet firm. "Just keep it safe, okay?"

"What— I—" Thorin stumbles, before he finds himself again, "I will, you have my word."

"Thorin? Did you find Bilbo?" Dwalin's voice calls from the other side of the ridge, and the sure sound of his boots cut through the air.

Thorin turns his head to reply, and as he does, he feels the quick press of cold lips kiss the top of his closed hand. He whips he head back lightning quick, but there is nothing to be seen before him. Where Bilbo had stood, and clutched his arm, and kissed his hand, there now was nothing but empty air. Thorin looked to and fro, even going so far as to check behind the frozen trees lining the path, but came up empty handed. Had it not been for the slight weight in the palm of his right hand, he could almost convince himself he had imagined it all, down to the soft caress of Bilbo's mouth against his skin.

The weight in his hand! Thorin hadn't even looked when Bilbo passed the item to him, and it had slipped his mind in his quick search. Carefully, his fingers reveal the acorn hiding on his palm, the rich brown shell smooth against his skin. Thorin has to stay the bark of laughter that bubbles over his tongue when he recognises it. Of course, he figures, of course.

"Thorin!" Dwalin's gruff call sounded again. "Where'd you go?"

"Over here!" Thorin finally replied, tucking Bilbo's acorn into his breast pocket like a talisman.

Soon enough, the Guard Captain joins him, a queer expression on his face as he spots his King alone in the woods.

"Well? Did you find him?"

"No," Thorin lies, looking down over a Hobbiton slowly waking, and imagines Bilbo waking back down to his perfectly green door, and the proud smile sure to keep him warm. "Must have been a trick of the wind. Let's go."

~~~

To the esteemed Master Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, Bag Shot Row, Hobbiton, Shire,

Good greetings to you Master Baggins, I hope my letter finds you well. I have long been interested in reaching out and conversing with you, however my fool brother has consistently thwarted my previous efforts in the matter; do not forgive his impertinence. I write to you now as October bleeds into the new month, in hopes that this letter arrives after Thorin's departure from your Shire lands—oh, how I will love to see the look on his face once he finds out about this.

Allow me to introduce myself, once and for all—though I can imagine the nonsensical stories my brother has shared on my behalf. I am Lady Dís, daughter of Thrain, Son of Thror, Princess of Erebor, Kingdom under the Mountain, and mother to Fíli and Kíli, whom you have journeyed with. I feel as though I might offer a slight apology on behalf of them, however, as they often refer to you as one "Mister Boggins"?

Nicknames, and general nonsense aside, I very much look forward to becoming better acquainted. Your reputation precedes you, Master Baggins, though I wish to learn your perspective of the events I've heard by those who hadn't walked your path. How does one of the Gentlefolk find himself fending off wargs and orcs alike or breaking thirteen Dwarrowfolk out of Mirkwood's halls in barrels of all things? How does he find himself facing down a dragon or attempting a peace treaty with Elves and Men? Truly, Master Baggins— Bilbo (might I call you Bilbo?), you rather fascinate me.

Write soon, I eagerly await to hear stories of how my fool of a brother brooded so deeply, he got the whole company into trouble—as I know there must be many.

Lady Dís, daughter of Thrain, son of Thror, Princess under the Mountain

~~~

The stone echoed where she walked, her heels clicking and skirt swishing side to side with each step. This is how Dwalin knows before he turns, that Dís walks the halls of Ered Luin to him.

"My Lady," he says, bowing his head slightly as she stops before him.

"Guard Captain," she replies, though her voice—normally steady and calm—comes out high and urgent. "I need to speak with you. Immediately."

"Aye? What is this about?" He nods, though his brow furrows at her state of distress.

She glances at the other Dwarrow trailing about in the wide corridor and shakes her head slightly. "Best not to say here. Come, I've called for the others."

Not even five feet later, she pauses and calls up to the rafters, "Are you coming or not, Nori? This is an urgent matter."

Suddenly, the flaming head of Ered Luin's most notorious thief peeks out from between beams of wood lining the ceiling, and he sighs half-heartedly, "How is it that I can sneak around this lug, and never you, Princess?"

"Perhaps he's daft," she retorts matter-of-factly and rolls her deep blue eyes as he lands gracefully in a bow before her feet. "Or maybe you're just not as sly as you think you are. Let's go."

Dwalin's pulse spikes as the thief grins at him and passes back a knife that he was almost certain he'd left tucked into the side of his belt. Perturbed, he grunts and carries on after the Dwarrowdam, letting her lead them away from prying eyes and eager ears. Finally, she stops into a secluded room once used for meetings, with a long granite table trailing the middle and many carved chairs gathered around it. Inside sits Bofur, coal dust streaking his forehead, happily carving away at a block of wood. The guard can only make out the details of a bear's head before the dwarf tucks it away with a smile.

"Lady Dís," he nods lowly.

"Master Bofur," Dís replies, taking occupancy at the head of the table. The others follow suit, finding chairs of their own. "We're all here? Perfect. Let's begin."

"What did you call us here for, my Lady?" Dwalin repeats.

"I have some concerns," she starts, wincing slightly, and the Dwarrow collectively feel as though they're about to face a punishment worse than death. "Regarding my brother, our King."

If she hears the collective sigh of relief echo off the lips of the others, she makes no notice of it.

"What about him? Is he not well?" Bofur asks bravely.

"He is, he is. It's just..." She hesitates in a way unlike the Princess of the Lonely Mountain. Ever steadfast is she, and steady in her composure. Never once had Dwalin seen her second-guess herself. "He seems off. Agitated. I fear his departure from the Shire was poorly and as such he has been drowning himself in work to make up for his egregious errors. Dwalin, you travelled with my brother, did you notice anything out of sort?"

Three pairs of eyes turn to him, two wide and one analytical. He coughs slightly but nods.

"Aye. He was in an odd mood when we left Master Baggins's home. Though as soon as we crossed over the Hills, we thought we had heard his voice on the wind. Thorin went to check and when we reconvened, his spirit had lifted. He claims he hadn't seen Bilbo on the path, however, so I do not know what changed."

Dís hummed, tapping her bejewelled fingers against her beard. "Anything else? Before you left?"

"Well, he had mentioned an ache."

"An ache?"

"Aye. The morning Bofur and Nori left to arrive here, I questioned his decision to remain in the Shire. There wasn't any other business to attend to with the Thain, despite what he had led you all to believe—you can berate him for that later. He claimed he did not know what kept him in the Shire other than an incessant desire to stay as long as possible."

"Interesting." Dís pondered. "And you didn't think to mention it to anyone else, Guard Captain?"

"Aye!" Dwalin exclaimed, hands twitching under her pointed gaze. "I had made him prove it wasn't his sickness returning and kept it at that. My loyalties are with him. It didn't seem relevant—"

"And what about this Master Baggins, then?"

"What about him?" Bofur piped up, cocking his head in confusion, his hat tipping precariously to the side. "Bilbo's a good lad."

"I'm sure, Master Bofur," she smiled politely. "Has my brother made a fool of himself in front of the burglar?"

"You're gonna have to be more specific, Princess," said Nori with a snort. "When has our good King not made a fool of himself in front of Bilbo?"

"Oh?"

"Aye, he was definitely acting a fool around him. You should have seen him, a right puppy dog he was. Looked downright besotted."

"Besotted? Is this true, Dwalin?"

"Ah... Yes, my Lady."

She stood to pace now, her long strides keeping in time with his heart. "Besotted..."

"What are you thinking, Dís?" Dwalin dared asking.

"I fear... Well, it would make sense, but—dear Mahal—why the hobbit...?"

"My Lady?" Bofur asked as well, catching the eye of his fellow Dwarrow.

"Thorin... and Bilbo... could they be," she paused, glancing over the room, "Ones?"

The brief silence that fell over the room was quickly broken by Nori's wheezing laughter. Bofur looked away, beet red, leaving Dwalin to face her ire.

"You knew. All of you."

"Aye—" He starts, only to interrupted by the noisy redhead.

"Of course, we knew, my Lady. We've known for the last five years—ah, six now, actually. We'd have to be deaf if we hadn't heard our great leader moping poetic about one "burglar hobbit"."

Her face falls with a wide look of shock. "Six years?"

Bofur nods in agreement. "Aye."

"But— Okay. Does he have any idea of this at least?"

"None that I can tell," Dwalin admitted gruffly, forcing his eyes away from her harsh gaze. "Though, again, he had mentioned that ache... And I must admit, now that he's here, away from him, he's only gotten more insufferable because of it."

Dís groaned, griping the back of her chair, face pale. She thought back to the thoughtful and inquisitive letter she'd received only a day prior from the man; she had found herself finding a fast friend in Bilbo Baggins. "Mahal help us."

"Mahal help Bilbo, more like." Nori corrected.

The princess froze at that, then let out a long sigh, nodding pityingly. "Mahal help Bilbo..."

"Who else knows?" She continued.

"The others likely have an idea but with how the ending played out... Ehh, I'm not sure anymore."

"And my sons?"

"Oh, they didn't dare tease him about it to his face, but dear Mahal, they are the worst gossips about it, my Lady."

"Of course, they are."

Dís considers this, then nods decisively. From her position at the head of the table, she appears as she does when holding counsel, practiced and deliberate in her motions.

"And Bilbo," she asks with a furrow in her brow, "does he know?"

Dwalin shares a look with Bofur, and they both heave a deep sigh as they think back to the hobbit. Had he known? He certainly seamed most comfortable in the King's presence, that much was clear in the wistful looks Bilbo would have when he thought no one was looking. But did he know? It seemed rather unlikely, he doubted that halflings even had such a concept.

"I... I don't believe so, unfortunately." The guard concedes.

"But he cares for my brother, yes?"

"Of course."

"Good. Good, let's keep it that way for now. Until my brother takes his head out of his ass, this secret will be between the four of us, aye?"

A collective sound of agreement rippled throughout the room.

"Very well." Dís nodded. "Thank you, gentlemen. This meeting has been very enlightening."

~~~

My dear friend, Master Bilbo Baggins of Bag End,

We have arrived in Ered Luin, hale and whole, with a storm on our heels. As I write this letter now, the halls shake with the tremors this blizzard brings, even deep beneath the earth. If the weather persists, I fear this confirmation of safety will not find you in a timely manner. All is well, though, I can assure you that. The stone is sturdy here and will withstand much more than a simple snowstorm.

Life in Ered Luin is odd. I know these halls, I know these faces, and yet I cannot help but feel unease in my bones as I acquaint myself with the stone once more. Days pass slower here than they do in Erebor, or even in the Shire. There is much to do and yet... hesitation builds. Other than my sister, Lady Dís, I have no other opinion to listen to or challenge my own. How I wish to hear your grand ideas on things. Dís will be the death of me.

That reminds me. I hear she has been sending you letters during my long walk, a feat of absolute stealth that no doubt she's been priding herself on. Let me be the first to offer an earnest apology for any and all foolishness she has likely been spewing. My sister is many things, but she is nothing if she is not a gossip at heart. I only pray she hasn't humiliated me too badly. If she has... well, I have some stories of my own.

How is the Shire fairing? I have been fearing the outcome of this troubling cloud on your lands, ever since it appeared at our backs, not a week and a half into our journey. Are you well in your hole, tucked away by the fire? When I imagine you, whilst I am here, and you are there, I see you in your chair by the hearth. Perhaps you are reading, perhaps you are writing away in your book you try to hide away from curious eyes, or perhaps you're resting with young Frodo. Whatever the truth of the matter, I hope you remain safe and away from the cold.

Please write as soon as you can, I await your letter.

Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain

~~~

What kept Bilbo Baggins in the Shire? It was his homeland, sure, and before his adventure, all he'd known was the rolling fields. Yet there was always a part of him that had longed for more, longed for a change; it was something that made others consider him an outsider long before they called him mad. What tied him to this place, other than the homegrown obligation to not let his parent's legacies die in the hands of someone unworthy of their respect? Bag End had kept him hale and whole; sheltered from the world, yes, but otherwise happy. But now, now the need to leave, the desire to see the mountain pass pounded its thoughts into his head in a way he feared he'd never drive out again. The seed of change had taken root in his heart the second he'd held his sword to the King's throat, and as he returned home, with the lingering sensation of Thorin's hand against his cold lips, he'd since sought to water that change until it grew wild.

He'd slipped inside Bag End without a moment's hesitation, relieved at the flood of warmth that awoke his frozen limbs and padded down the hall to the room where Frodo slept peacefully. He watched from the doorway, the steady rise and fall of the boy's chest, though his eyes soon started to wander to the Dwarven maps lining the room. Bilbo had always loved his maps of the Blue Mountains, though as their jagged ranges danced in his mind's eye, he wondered what it would be like to live in such a place.

What kept Bilbo Baggins in the Shire? The hobbit wondered this as his attention turned back to the faunt. He'd only watched the boy grow for a handful of months and yet Bilbo feared his life would mirror that of his own, should he live in these green fields. Frodo would face prejudice because of Bilbo's actions, and never be able to outgrow his uncle's stain on their reputation. Bilbo shuddered at the thought of the faunt facing down Lobelia's taunts.

Bilbo turned away then, trailing back to his room, letting his feet guide him to the chair at his writing desk. It did not trouble him to sweep important documents to the floor, scattering their organization to the wind, and open up the space for a fresh, crisp piece of white parchment. He hadn't come to realize the plan forming in his head even as he dipped his quill in the splotched inkpot and started to write. In the end, four letters lined his desktop, each addressed in his spidery, curving font, to their respective recipient. Dís would receive her letter a week after Thorin's arrival to the mountainous stronghold—delayed only by a tremendous snowstorm that coated the rolling fields with a thick blanket of fluffy, white powder. Another letter would find it's way into the Gamgee smial on the first day of Yule, where they gathered under boughs of pine and each dried oranges a plenty. Entailed would be the passing of ownership to Bag End and other land owned by Bilbo to Hamfast and Bell. Tears would be shared when realization hit, and the three of them would huddle together over the kitchen table as Bilbo expressed the plan that had formulated in his mind as he'd delivered the last to letters to his grandparents, days prior.

Gerontius and Adamanta Took's letter would be one of thanks and an explanation of their grandson's ideas for the future, and the Thain would receive one with an updated will and testament. He'd decided to join the traveling train of Dwarrow trailing back to Erebor. He figured he'd be able to provide Frodo a better life there, one of culture and kinship, instead of fragile stability. Perhaps he'd find a time to settle his feelings for Thorin in the process and gather the courage to court the King properly. Perhaps. Perhaps he'd have a lifetime with him.

What kept Bilbo Baggins in the Shire? Bilbo pondered this as he threw open the door to his pantry. Nothing, he decided, except for emptying my pantries and packing away Mother's glory box. Goodness, there is much to be done. And as he sorted jars of preserves and seed cakes, the first flakes of winter's snow fell outside his door.