Chapter Text
“Please be at ease,” said the dwarf with a smile, an arm stretched out towards the smaller figure. “May I come closer?”
Tucked behind a doorway, Frodo remained at a safe distance and scrutinised the offered hand. It was broad and scarred, the fingers adorned with heavy rings and jewels that reminded him of the faraway kingdoms his parents would spin tales about before he went to sleep as a babe. Looking up, Frodo spotted similar trinkets in the dwarf’s braids: beautifully carved beads, scattering the sunlight into golden speckles upon the ceiling of his uncle’s living room. But that was where the opulence stopped. The stranger, with his vambraces, chainmail and sword, was evidently a warrior.
The dwarf followed Frodo’s gaze to his hip and stepped back. “Forgive me, I forgot to leave Orcrist at the entrance. This is quite rude.”
“How strange for a sword to have a name,” said Frodo, his curiosity piqued.
“It is common for my people to name their blades for the great deeds they did in battle, or simply as an expression of affection. Though it so happens that my own is elven in origin. It bears the Sindarin title ‘Goblin Cleaver’,” replied the stranger with reverence as he settled the fabled sword on a coat rack. “It has slayed hundreds of Orcs in its time, from as far as the Goblin Wars during the First Age, to the retaking of Erebor in recent past.”
While the dwarf had his back turned, Frodo left his hiding place. Keeping close to the walls, he slowly padded towards the entrance, eyes locked and searching for any sign of hostility. If he focused just right, he could see through the dwarf’s faintly translucent body and into the outdoors, beyond the door ajar. The sky was luminous and endlessly orange, bereft of a single shadow or bird.
It has been long since Frodo stepped out into the open world. However, now was not the time for such a venture, and so he brought his attention back to the stranger.
Frodo gave him a last once-over before he declared, “You were one of Bilbo’s peculiar friends, weren’t you? Spiriting him away to the other side of the world, searching for treasure, monsters and all sorts of peril.”
The dwarf’s eyebrows rose. “Was that all they said in the Shire about our quest?”
“Essentially, yes”, Frodo turned his face away. “Uncle was never in the mood to talk about his adventures, so people drew assumptions. They spread gossip. Everyone used to avoid coming to our smial in fear of crossing ‘Mad Baggins’. For a friend, I’m surprised you didn’t visit once.”
“I couldn’t,” the other replied. They exchanged a look of understanding. “Did he really not mention his travels to you? His deeds and his sway on dwarrow history?”
“Was I not clear? Uncle didn’t talk about his past. Not even to me.”
No, even he never succeeded breaking down his uncle’s defensive walls despite years of gentle prying. He never got to hear first-hand about the immortal Elves and their mystical realms, nor the mighty Men and their glittering castles. He never got to find a fellow soul in Hobbiton that aspired for more than rolling hills and familiar faces.
And now, there wasn’t anything to aspire for.
Gently, a palm settled on his shoulder. “Your uncle is the bravest, kindest, most noble person I’ve ever met. Yet even he cannot stay unchanged through loss… It is my belief he tried to protect you by keeping his grief to himself. Know this: Bilbo cherished your presence deeply, and that love is worth more than all the stories and adventures in Arda.”
The dwarf then took a moment to closely watch Frodo’s features – features they both shared. Wavy locks of ebony hair, slender faces, clear blue eyes. One could only wonder if they were the first to see the similarities.
“Say my lad, what is your name?”
“Frodo. Frodo Baggins,” to which the dawrf grinned. “Pleased to meet you, Frodo. I’m Thorin.”
And for the first time since an eternity, Frodo felt his whole being unwind. He wasn’t alone anymore.
꧁꧂
Thorin dragged his boot along a dusty rug, feeling its frayed fringes with a pang of sadness. Bag End was a mere shadow of what it once had been. Gone were the flower vases, the framed paintings, the crocheted quilts, and the leather-bound tomes lining the ceiling.
The fireplace had long seen its last blaze, but he did manage to recover one of Bilbo’s old smoking pipes, hidden in the leftover ash. A single crack ran along the stem; Thorin traced it with excessive care before stashing the object in his pack.
“What is the outdoor like?” the teenager asked from a room over.
“Warm. Very dry.” Roots and vines had found their way inside through broken windows, like they were trying to escape the heat themselves. Sheltered from the sun, some still bore green leaves. Thorin reached for them, relishing the rare sensation of life between his fingers. “Flatlands are barren and deserted. Any living things that remain take refuge in forests, mountains or caves.”
“What kind of living things?”
He peeked around the corner to find Frodo lying on the kitchen table, swinging his feet at the edge. “Mainly spiders, the giant ones that is. I have seen some small animals now and then. Rodents, lizards, bats… Have you ever left this place since what happened?”
“I haven’t. What about unliving things?”
“Even scarcer.”
“I know you hoped for someone different here. I’m sorry.”
Leaning on a rusty sink, the old king looked out the window and scoured the hills with his eyes. As always, everything was static and deceptively bright.
“Frodo,” Thorin murmured, “There are whispers of a lone survivor. A hobbit, both spared and condemned by the World’s Bane. Please tell me… What happened to your uncle? Could I find him?”
Frodo’s voice sounded distant as he recounted his side of the End. “Orcs came to steal Bilbo’s ring. Night had fallen. I was sleeping in my bedroom when I heard them ransacking the smial. Soon after my uncle started shouting, and it terrified me, but how could I stand idle while he was in danger? I already lost my parents, I couldn’t lose him too… So I went out there in my nightclothes with my slingshot,” he said with an airy laugh.
Thorin collapsed on a chair, rubbing a hand over his eyes. And Frodo carried on, “When I… came back to myself, the place was as it is now. I was alone. What happened to Uncle Bilbo, or any other hobbit in the Shire for that matter, I couldn’t tell you.”
The dwarf sat still, lost in thought. The truth was he had long since mourned his own death. He would even go as far as to say that he had already mourned the end of his world. His people – his family, his friends and comrades – was waiting for him in the Timeless Halls, a nighttime away. Sometimes, he would catch the echoes of their joyous uproar in the stone grounds he encountered trekking across Middle-Earth, and would then spend hours listening to his sistersons’ laughter, sprawled on his back.
But, eventually, he would get back to his feet and resume his search for the one soul who deserved solace the most.
And perhaps, despite everything, he still yearned for more time in this plane. A little more time to find his peace while he treaded this earth. A little more time to find a home in the arms of his dearest one.
“Take me with you.”
Startled, Thorin lifted his head. The young hobbit was now sitting up on the table, driven with steel conviction.
“You want to go out there and find Uncle Bilbo, right? I’ll come with you,” Frodo exclaimed. “I know my way around the Shire and I have studied many of my uncle’s maps. I can help with your search. I even already made a bag – we could leave right away if you want!”
Thorin’s features softened. “You needn’t have to convince me. You are Bilbo’s kin. This journey, it is as much yours as it is mine.”
And so he learned that Frodo’s smile outshined the sun.
꧁꧂
Nights were the only time when the temperature allowed for a comfortable walk, or so Mr. Thorin said. Therefore they would head out at sunset. Until then, Frodo moved to and fro across the smial, and picked up objects as he went. His school satchel didn’t allow for much space. He would have to make hard choices.
Trailing behind him, the dwarf piped up, “Is the kettle necessary? We have no need for sustenance. It would weigh you down.”
“It is Bilbo’s favourite. Trust me, he will be ecstatic to have it back.” Mr. Thorin’s brows furrowed, like they often did if the lines on his face were anything to go by, but there was no further comment. “Don’t worry, I packed a blanket and a spare jacket. And of course my family’s picture book, my mother’s old compass and some gold coins.”
“Money also isn’t of use anymore. When did you pack your bag?”
“Many years ago,” Frodo admitted. “When I yet had hopes of going on a grand adventure with Uncle.”
He grimaced as he had a hard time fitting the teapot between the folds of fabric. Seeing his hassle Mr. Thorin stowed it in his own, larger bag. The teenager rewarded him with another smile and sure enough, it made the dwarf’s heart melt.
Dusk saw them standing at the entrance, caught in their memories as they looked at Bag End for the last time. If Frodo closed his eyes, he might be able to pretend Bilbo was the one by his side, wearing that kind and earnest smile, patiently waiting for him to reign in his emotions before they both set out into the unknown. So he didn’t. Shadows grew longer with every passing minute, and it was him that stepped out of the house first.
Although the stars were visible from his bedroom’s window, Frodo could’ve wept at how close they seemed now that he was under their light. They were more abundant than he remembered, and it made him wonder if other spirits such as Mr. Thorin and himself found shelter in the sky. Feeling unusually calm he walked down the wooden steps, past the broken gate and onto Bagshot Row. The stone pavement was still warm from the sun, but not unbearably so. Fences were torn on each side of the road, perhaps from his neighbours struggling to find the quickest escape when the world ended, and over them he saw vast expanses of gilded fields.
The flower gardens, the green meadow pastures, the food crops and orchards… It was all scorched.
Suddenly, rustles broke the silence. Frodo turned away from the view to find his travelling partner kneeling in the front yard of an adjacent smial.
“Mr. Thorin, those were the Gamgees’.”
“Well, bless them for their immaculate plants of Old Toby,” the dwarf mumbled. “The sun has dried the leaves to a perfect crisp…”
“Is pipe-weed considered necessary by your standards?”
“It is now. Now, be a patient lad and don’t wander in any house or field without me.”
If that didn’t set the tone for the rest of their journey, then Frodo didn’t know what did. After a moment of awkward shuffling, he crouched and observed the fine ash covering the road. “I knew one of their sons. His name was Sam.”
Mr. Thorin’s eyes surged up to convey sympathy. Before long, he had finished filling his pouch and left the garden, mindful to close the Gamgees’ gate behind him.
“You could tell me about him while we walk, if so you wish.” The dwarf then stated, “It is unlikely that we come back. You may never see your hometown again. Are you ready for it?”
“I am.” Frodo stared at the withered Oak on top of Bag End. Strangely, its form had stayed strong and tall through its demise. It brought him some comfort. “Everything is already so changed. My house, my town, myself… There is no going back. For anyone.”
Mr. Thorin ruffled his curls with a sad smile, and thus they began following the way downhill.
Leaving everything he knew behind was both surreal and deceptively simple, Frodo found. Each step led to the other. To every street he bade farewell, he would get to see a new horizon. It was only as they reached the village’s borders that he allowed himself a look back. Bilbo’s Oak was near indiscernible, yet he could make out the small mound of soil next to it. Frodo couldn’t do more than guess at how it worked that he was in two places at once.
Knowing part of him would always remain in Hobbiton, he was heartened to forever depart it.
꧁꧂
Thorin had come to the Shire through Bree-land. He had trudged along the Water’s old riverbeds, combed through the vacant towns of Frogmorton and Bywater before finally reaching Hobbiton. With that in mind, his young companion settled on taking a quick detour across the North Farthing, where the cooler climate could have drawn Biblo, before heading south to Tookland.
One accustomed to the elements like Thorin could afford travelling most of the day and night, only resting during the harsher hours around midday. But he wasn’t alone anymore. The moon was just beginning her descent when he noticed the fatigue in Frodo’s features. The hobbit had stopped his chattering, and was instead overtaken by a resigned muteness. He would sometimes grumble as he picked out gravel stuck in his soles. Other times, he would glare at his satchel for hitting his leg on every step. All in all, Thorin was dreading an imminent crisis.
“It is time for a break,” he declared. They had arrived in a short clearing bordered by old birches and maples, a lone small brick house in the centre. A bounder’s outpost, if the appearance was anything to go by. “Stay here. I will scout inside first.”
Frodo protested tiredly. “Why? Giant spiders don’t fit in that small of a space. Do you think me afraid of bats and rats?”
“Just–” Thorin made a frustrated sound– “Stay here. Mind you, I encountered spiders in the past. You have not. For all you know, they could very well fit in that building.”
Rolling his eyes at Frodo’s scoff, Thorin set his pack on the ground and retrieved his lamp: a bright, fluorescent fragment of sodalite that he left soaking under the sun every day. He threw a last warning glance at the hobbit before making the short walk to the house. His hand went automatically against the stone bricks, rubbing and appreciating their grain as he skirted corners to find a door. An undisturbed peace reigned in the premises. It was only habit that made Thorin grab his sword’s pommel before he entered inside.
His initial guess seemed to have been correct. Rusty gear, empty wine bottles and wrinkled parchments laid in piles on a desk, forgotten to time. Parts of a chair were scattered on the floor, and Thorin wondered if someone sawed the legs to create makeshift weapons. Up on a shelf, a particularly ominous stuffed badger watched over the room. And that was about it. Feeling curious, he approached the parchments; it was all meaningless paperwork, long pre-dating the cataclysm. Thorin turned around, about to call for his protegee when something barged loudly through the door.
“Frodo!” Thorin shouted. “What in Eru’s name do you think–”
“You were taking your sweet time! Listen, I know you don’t want me stumbling upon a dead body. But these situations are bound to happen! I’ll have to get used to it. Can I rest now?”
“No,” Thorin felt his voice choke as he spoke, “I don’t want you to get used to it. Why would you choose to familiarise yourself with that pain?”
His anguish seemed to surprise Frodo. Nonetheless the hobbit stayed true to his name and pressed on stubbornly. “Mr. Thorin, you may not talk much about your past, but you were obviously part of an army. Weren’t there dwarves as young as myself by your side when you walked the battlefield?”
Thorin’s fists tightened, for there was. He himself fought the Battle of Azanulbizar at the tender age of fifty-three, when he was still decades away from adulthood. However– “I do not wish it for anyone, Frodo. Not anymore.”
“You cannot make these decisions for me!”
“I can. You became my responsibility the moment you stepped out of Bag End.”
Their eyes locked in a fierce and silent exchange.
Frodo deflated after a minute. “I might not have a choice,” he sighed. “I have to prepare myself for what’s out there. You cannot promise you’ll always be there to protect me.”
Faces flashed in Thorin’s mind.
Young Frerin, bleeding out in his arms in front of Moria’s gates. Thrór, decapitated at his feet. His sistersons, whose mangled bodies were buried next to his own in Erebor. And ultimately all the rest of his kin who outlived him, only to succumb under Fate’s devious blade.
“I might not always be there,” he admitted sourly. Stepping forward, he put his hand on Frodo’s neck. “But let it be known that I will always try to be. I will… allow you more space to find your bearings in this world, but you must tell me if you feel any distress. And listen to me when I tell you to fall back in the presence of a threat. Understood?”
Sagging in relief, Frodo gave a smile brimming with gratitude.
“That smile won’t grant that which you desire every time.”
“Learn to differentiate ruse and honesty, then,” Frodo scoffed. “I was being very sincere just now.” In a twirl he escaped Thorin’s grasp and started meandering about with a new sense of freedom, leaving his bag on the floor as he marvelled at the equipment and cooed at the badger.
Exhaustion did eventually coax Frodo into rest. The hobbit dozed in his blanket, shifting now and then when the hard floor became too unpleasant. Meanwhile, Thorin sat against the doorframe and struck a match to light Bilbo’s pipe, having mended the crack with a smidgeon of clay. An earthy smell permeated the air. He let the smoke ease the tension in his limbs, and the familiarity stir old memories – memories of a different journey, with a different Baggins and a different Thorin. Looking over the Shire’s wastelands he breathed out. Smoking hadn’t crossed his mind thus far. Perhaps, deep down, holding onto the habits of the Living had felt wrong. He couldn’t bother passing up on it now.
His contemplations were interrupted by giggles. “You aren’t as subtle as you think,” whispered Frodo. “You like having undirect kisses with my uncle, don’t you?”
Thorin distanced the pipe from his lips and deadpanned, “I sure do. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
“My legs needed a break from walking. I can talk and listen just fine.”
Thorin wasn’t in the particular mood for prattle – not that he ever was. He started humming a mining song, one he had learned from fellow dwarrow during their exile. Considering his royal upbringing, he had rarely shared spaces with the lower class in Erebor, and only came to know them after disaster equalized their fates. The current times fortified his appreciation for his kin’s heritage.
“Would you,” Frodo spoke hesitantly, “tell me about your and Uncle Bilbo’s adventure?”
“Well…” Chuckling, the dwarf released fumes from his nostrils. “Only if you promise not to faint when I get to the part with the dragon. But someone as fearless as you shouldn’t have any trouble, hm?”
“Dragon? Stop messing with me, old dwarf! I want the truth. No fables, no jokes!”
Thorin’s arms went up in surrender. “Now, now! Hear my story before judging my choices; I had good reasons taking on that wyrm. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me provide some much-needed context. It all started in Erebor, the greatest kingdom in Arda…”
꧁꧂
Far away, as the last stars twinkled out of the sky, a weary hobbit retreated to his bedroom. Said bedroom was a cramped space comprising a straw bed, linen covers and four log walls. It was modest, but he only had himself to blame for not learning more from his father – a carpenter. Anyhow, he wasn’t picky after spending the better part of the night harvesting mushrooms in the woods, and paying the price for it with back pain and an itchy nose.
He collapsed on the mattress, reached for the curtains. Just then, a brown cat dashed through the door and to the centre of the room.
“Hello you,” Bilbo crooned. “How was your night?”
He startled when the cat spat a rabbit foot on the floor.
“Goodness! Well, I can’t complain that you hunt your own food. Though I have to ask, keep dismembered body parts out of the bedroom, will you?”
The cat, Madha as he had called her, chirped back. She jumped on the bed and made herself comfortable on Bilbo’s mithril shirt, which he kept laid out knowing that the cool material soothed her. Bilbo himself dressed down to a thin blouse before closing the blinds and slipping under the cover.
Surrounded by darkness, he tried not to let his mind wander too much, lest terrible images came bubbling back to the surface. Like they did far too often.
No, he couldn’t linger on the horrifying, wretched look in his nephew’s eyes as an orcish blade fell upon the boy. Or the searing constant pain Bilbo had where he once had a finger. Or the taste of ash on his tongue as he watched his world end in bloodshed and smog.
Bilbo sat up and angrily wiped his tears. It would be one of these days. So, he grabbed his walking stick, left his lodge and started hiking the nearest mountain side. Exertion didn’t take long to override his thoughts. Sweating under the heat, he reached a small cave in time for the sunrise: near the horizon, a fiery glow emerged and suffused the heavy clouds surrounding Mount Doom. Then, bit by bit, the rest of the firmament ignited.
A new dawn broke over the ruins of Middle-Earth.
Though dread was the first emotion to surge, Bilbo was also entranced by the beauty of it and sat against the stone with a relieved sigh. Eyes watering from exhaustion and sunlight, he succumbed to slumber shortly after.
꧁꧂
“Are you sleeping already?”
“I’m not. Your face happened to be directly over the sun and looking at you hurt my eyes. Hence, I am resting them.”
Beorn’s garden was everything Bilbo had hoped for after the Misty Mountains. To lie amongst flowers, far from all sources of peril and trial, with fingers combing through his curls and his head laid on another’s lap… It was his idea of a blissful respite. He hummed in appreciation when a hand settled over his eyelids, granting him full darkness.
“This affront deserves retribution,” said the King with mirth. “Alas I am pledged to my maker. Therefore I must treat Mahal’s creations with great respect. Even the sun.”
Bilbo snorted. “You brute! Always searching for a fight. Would you challenge the other Valar if I demanded it of you?”
“I just might,” Thorin mumbled to his mouth.
Yes, absolutely wonderful, Bilbo thought while his lips moved against Thorin’s. Somewhere in the near distance, the Company sparred and cackled at each other, clanking their weapons in a way that undoubtedly stretched the landowner’s patience. Quiet was not a given in their journey. Bilbo couldn’t bother getting worked up over it. In fact, he had come to cherish their boisterous shouting; it meant that his friends were close and safe.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“Tell me of your devotion,” Thorin whispered. “How… How far would you go for me?”
Frowning, Bilbo opened his eyes, and almost recoiled at the apprehension written in Thorin’s features. “This is intense. I didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”
The dwarf snorted in turn. “I still wonder why everyone considers my people stoic and ruthless! We are passionate about every aspect of our lives. Smithing, combat, community… partners.”
Bilbo breathed out as the hand returned on his eyelids, tenderly stroking them. After a moment of thought, he said, “I am here, aren’t I? I left my homeland, crossed mountain ranges and killed for you. A dragon awaits me at the gates of Erebor. I might as well follow you to the world’s end.”
“Amrâlimê…” Thorin’s voice trembled. “Erebor is hardly the edge of the world.”
“But I would,” Bilbo smiled. “Follow you to Arda’s borders and beyond. Now that this is settled, why don’t you lie down next to me? You still need to recover from your wounds. Don’t worry, the Company will be fine. I asked Balin to watch over them this afternoon, make sure your lovely nephews don’t drive Beorn into a frenzy…”
As luck would have it, Bilbo and Thorin slumbered in peace until sunset.