Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Legolas, although against his father’s wishes, is always willing to allow Bilbo on patrol. Bilbo grows antsy in the confines of the palace, and jumps at any chance to leave, even if it’s only for a moment. Of course, it only is every other Wednesday that Legolas even goes on patrol, him being the prince of the elves and such. But fortunately, more often than not, Bilbo will accompany him into the woods after dinner, simply to walk around and get away from the king(as Legolas harbours less than pleasant thoughts of his father).

The woods are breezy and green, and filled with magic plants that wave and glow in the darkness. Bilbo had only just begun to explore the woods, being that his coming of age had been just over two months ago, and the woods were extensive and confusing to navigate.

Legolas, of course, seemed entirely immune to the haze the forest concocted. Bilbo, on the other hand, had only a slight tolerance to his benefit. Not that it mattered; the Prince always returned home in under less than a half hour, worried his father would notice his absence and ban him from coming.

On this particular day, Legolas had told him in advance to meet him in his room after dinner, where there was a window they commonly snuck out from. Bilbo had burned the note as soon as it had been read, knowing fully well that anyone finding it was a recipe for disaster. Heavens, even if one of his own kin read it, they were sure to gossip for days. (They weren’t exactly fond of him either, which had all the odds turned against him.)

Dinner that night is salted fish, with cheeses and vegetables and bread, with enough to go around and fill every last Hobbit tummy. Bilbo sits apart from the crowd, plate full with food and mind wandering to the daydreams he thrived off of during the long days.

Though his people were never assigned any dangerous missions, they planted food and helped it to grow, or watched over the livestock, or even cleaned messes up in rooms of the palace. It was, after all, fair payment for all the elves had done for them in the past 30 years.

Bilbo found himself in the kitchens most of the day, cooking meals and preserving foods for future meals; a job that most Hobbits had not the luxury of partaking in. He was, after all, a fairly skilled baker. He took after his mother and father, who’d both taught him when he’d been nothing but a faun. He’d even made the bread he was eating now! (It was quite delicious, he allows.)

But the days in the kitchen, with few other elves and even fewer other hobbits, were a tad bit boring, even if he was crafting a particularly difficult dish. So, he’d pass the time with daydreams—glimpses of an imaginary world were he could do as he pleased, without the restrictions of Thranduil. (The king most likely knew best, but it was fun to think up what an adventure would be like as he minced mushrooms.)

Dinner passed with ease and pleasant silence, with nothing but the buzz of others laughing and jesting over their meals. When Bilbo finishes, he chugs a last cup of ale and shoots out of the dining hall, heading straight for Legolas’ room. He knew he shouldn’t keep the elf waiting long, lest he leave without him.

When Bilbo arrives, he knocks twice on the door, then steps inside.

Legolas already has his bow in hand and his quiver slung over his shoulder.

“Took you long enough. I was about to leave without you.”

Bilbo sighs, a slight smile curling onto his lips. “How unfortunate that would have been.”

Legolas is also sporting a smile—or at least a twinkle in his eyes. It’s always hard to tell with elves, as they rarely show extreme emotion. “Indeed. Now come, friend.”

Outside the window is a ledge, and off the ledge is the cavern that separates the elvish kingdom from the Mirkwood. Legolas hops out first, tying a rope to his arrow and shooting it at a tree. It sinks deep into the bark, where Legolas has already struck countless nights before.

“One of these days you are going to run out of tree to shoot at.” Bilbo teases.

Legolas turns, his hair flipping with him. Over dramatic , Bilbo thinks fondly. “When that day comes, we can always jump.” Legolas says, a mischievous glint in his eye.

This, to Bilbo’s embarrassment, is a reference to the one time— once —that Legolas had jumped the distance instead of using a rope. Bilbo had had to be carried, which he had not liked one bit, and they’d barely closed the distance. Legolas had thrown Bilbo up onto the forest floor before hoisting himself up. Needless to say, they swore to never try it again.

Bilbo doesn’t give him the pleasure of a reply, merely taking a piece of cloth from his friend and wrapping it around a hand, preparing to toss it over the rope. Legolas slides down gracefully, as Bilbo has come to expect, letting go of his cloth and rolling to his feet with practised ease.

“Very nice, Master Elf.”Bilbo remarks cheekily, looping his cloth over the rope and securing it in his opposite hand. He pushes off of the building with as much force as he can muster, then swings back and forth for a moment, before swinging sharply to his right. He’s barely able to make a full rotation around, but he manages and lands masterfully on the grass. “But can you do that?”

“I could if I cared enough.”

Bilbo clicks his tongue. “You never impress me, Legolas.”

“That is only because I’ve already presented all my talent to your faunt eyes, which were very eager, if I recall.”

“I will always be eager, my friend, even though you never have more talent to present.” Bilbo moves forward into the wood without another word, grinning to himself as he hears a displeased sigh behind him.

They travel in silence after that, with only the sound of the breeze and the crunching of the leaves under their feet. There are usually no spiders crawling around near the palace, but Bilbo finds himself listening for any danger either way. It’s engraved in his instincts, after all.

After a five minute tread, the pair come across a tall tree, with a blanket thrown in front of it for maximum comfort. Even a few books are piled, and a flask of water sat stop them, gathered from the nearby stream. The supplies had been brought by Bilbo the second or third time Legolas had allowed him to come. “This place needs to feel more home-like.”He’d said, hands on his hips.

Bilbo takes a seat against the tree. Legolas joins soon after, allowing Bilbo to lean against his shoulder.

“I am actually quite tired today.” Bilbo yawns, bringing a hand up to cover his gaping mouth.

“Did you not sleep well last night?”

Bilbo is silent for a moment, eyes trained on the area ahead of them; merely leaves and trees and fallen branches. “I do not recall the Fell Winter as well as other hobbits do, but I do have nightmares every once and awhile. I must subconsciously remember.”

Legolas hums, patting Bilbo’s head. “Would you like to share them with me?”

“I do not think so.”

“Then sleep, my friend. I will wake you within the hour.”

Bilbo doesn’t protest, and finds himself slipping into sleep easily.

Cold. All Bilbo feels is cold.

“Would you like another pastry, my dear?” Bilbo’s mother smiles at him, voice soft and features familiar, but it feels wrong.

“Yes.” He says, and another biscuit is placed before him. He eats it. “I think I will go to bed now.” Bilbo nearly groans at the thought of getting under the covers, where it’s warm and safe…

“Have another biscuit, my dear.” His mother places another one on the plate.

“But—“

“Shush. Eat.”

Bilbo eats. When he finishes, he doesn’t even speak this time, but his mother puts another biscuit before him.

“Mum, I don’t—“

“It will do you good.”

How is Bilbo supposed to argue? He chews the next one slowly, and watches his mother's back as she washes the dishes. She’s humming a song that Bilbo knows he has heard before, but he can’t remember where. It’s getting unreasonably cold, and Bilbo goes to ask his mother to add more log to the fire. Then thinks it better not to.

“I’m finished.”

Another biscuit.

Bilbo doesn’t even finish his fourth before his mother places a fifth. Then a sixth, then a seventh. Bilbo is stuffed full—he’s quite sure if he eats another, he will blow up. But she keeps piling them on, one after the other.

It’s then that Bilbo decides to look up from his overloading plate to see where his mother is even getting the biscuits. He knows she didn’t make this many. To his horror, she seems to be pulling them from midair, her hand reaching at nothing and producing a biscuit. Her face is still gently smiling, as if nothing is wrong.

“Mother—“

“ He loved her up, he loved her down, he loved her ‘till he filled her womb. ” His mother began to sing, voice clear and pretty. Bilbo didn’t know what to do, with the biscuits piling on his plate, so he picked one up and began to nibble on it. His mother didn’t stop. “ She leaned her back against an oak, first it leaned and then it broke. She leaned her back against a thorn, and there she had to bonnie babes born. ”

“Mum.” He whimpers around his biscuit, unsure of the feeling he felt, but knowing it wasn’t pleasant.

“ She had ta’en her wee pen knife, with she ta’en those sweet babes lives .”

Bilbo feels tears in his eyes. When he reaches for another biscuit, the tips of his fingers are blue and numb.

“ She’s taken a handkerchief from her pleat, and made it into a winding sheet. She’s laid them under a marble stone, and she has ga’ed  maiden home. As she was passing her father's hall, she saw two boys aplaying at ball. ” Bilbo’s mother finally stops, and she looks up at Bilbo, the same smile on her face turned sour.

Bilbo’s mouth is stuffed with a biscuit. It tastes like sandpaper. Tears stream from his eyes, and his mother reaches to wipe them. Her finger is burning hot, and he jerks away with a sound of discomfort.

“ Oh bonnie boys, gin you were mine, I'd dress you up in silks sae fine …”

His mother's lips begin to turn down, slowly, slowly, until her jaw seems to unhinge, and she opens it wide—

Bilbo wakes with a start. It takes him a moment to process, but he’s in bed, in his room. He sits up slowly, eyes dragging upwards towards the darkness of the room. Something cold creeps up his neck. He reaches to his side for the matches, and lights a candle quickly and efficiently, holding it up.

The room is empty, of course. Nothing more than a desk and a chair, and his wardrobe.

Bilbo puts the candle down, and notices a note.

You seemed too deep in sleep, so I did not wake you. I shall see you in the morning. Sweet dreams.

Bilbo sets the note down and blows out the candle.

//

It is on Bilbo’s thirty-second birthday that one Frodo Baggins steals his heart(and most of his free time).

“Bilbo, my father has called upon you.” Legolas, laden with his prince’s clothes and weapons, leans down to eye level and whispers to Bilbo.

Bilbo is only beginning to eat, his plate fresh with a custard tart, berries, and oats. He glances down, then back up at his friend, face blank, lips pursed. Legolas seems to understand, for he grins, then says, “Do not worry. I will guard your food.”

Bilbo smiles, patting Legolas’s shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll be back soon.” With that, he stands and exits the eating hall. It’s a fairly short walk to the throne room, even with all the winding corridors. Bilbo passes through the dungeons, but they’re relatively empty apart from Old Man George, whom looked drunken.

“Bilbo Baggins!” He croaks, hands clutching the bars and kneeling, looking at Bilbo with wide eyes.

“Hello, George. Another night of fun?” Ever polite Bilbo was, even if he was speaking to a drunk. Bilbo was still a hobbit, after all.

“The best fun,” George replies wistfully. “But then I accidentally dropped some, some whatcha-macallit’s into the river, and they were apparently filled with ale, and—“

“And they stuck you in here as punishment.” Bilbo finishes, a gentle smile adorning his lips.

“Exactly! Very sharp you are, I’ve always said.” George waves his finger, face determined. Bilbo knows exactly what’s happening, so he takes the lull in the conversation to begin walking off once. “You don’t suppose you could let me out, Mr. Baggins, sir? Bilbo?”

“I’m afraid not, old George.” Bilbo turns and grins, waving. “You won’t be in there forever. Just a day or two, at most.” He doesn’t turn when George calls for him again, simply chuckling to himself.

A thought comes across him suddenly. When I’m old, will I get out of hand that that? Surely not…

Bilbo reaches the throne room soon after, kneeling before his king. It’s then that he begins to wonder what the king even wants of him, especially so early in the morning.

“Hello, Bilbo. Just the hobbit I was looking for.” Thranduil, as usual, has a subtle lilt to his tone; Bilbo recognises it as one of superiority and snootiness. “You may rise.”

He does. “What is it you needed from me?” Bilbo asks, smiling a little awkwardly. The king doesn’t answer—merely stares him down with a scrutinising, almost amused look. After a terribly long silence, he speaks again.

“Tell me, Bilbo, have you ever thought of having children of your own?”

Bilbo is caught off guard by the question, chuckling if only not to seem rude.  “I’m—I’m sorry?”

“I’ve recently been pressed into taking in another hobbit.” Thranduil says, taking in Bilbo’s reaction. Bilbo says nothing. “A child of 7 years; just a faunt. And, most interesting, he is of your kin. If he is to he believed, of course.”

“My kin.” Bilbo repeats, voice heavy with confusion, doubt, and everything in between. The king, of course, doesn’t seem too concerned about how Bilbo feels about this.

“Your first and second cousin once removed, or something of that sort.” Realisation strikes through Bilbo with the force of an arrow.

“Are you talking about Drogo Baggins’ child? I-I believe the name was Frodo— “

“Good, good! Then you know this little hobbit.” Thranduil leans forward on his throne, eyebrows rising into his hairline, obviously pleased by an answer Bilbo had not quite given. He is at lost for words—he only manages to release a series of flabbergasted and unintelligible noises. Bilbo has a bad feeling settling in his stomach, and he does not like it one bit.

“I-I suppose I would have to say that I have… heard of this child. Know of him, not—not know him.” Bilbo stumbles across his words, gesturing wildly as he did when put in worrying situations.

“Ah. I see now.” Thranduil says. Something in his voice is eerie. It seems as though he’s silently warning Bilbo to not push the topic. Nevertheless, he continues. “I only thought that taking in a poor, orphaned child—of your own kin, I may add—would be a small price to pay for the long years of shelter, food, and education I have brought to your race.” At this, Bilbo opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off. “Have I presumed incorrectly, Master Hobbit?”

“Well—“

“It seems you are the best fitted for the job, seeing as you drift from the crowd and work in the kitchens.” Then, under his breath. “Must be the least dangerous place in the palace. A child could do you good. Teach you how to…” The king trails off, frowning, and leaving Bilbo to bristle at the implication. He raises a hand, squeezing his eyes shut to gather his bearings.

“Excuse me, my king, but the kitchens are hardly the least dangerous place in the palace. There are fires, hot plates, knives . It’s no place for a child, even if the child is old enough to understand!” Bilbo allows himself to fum for a moment, lost in the absurdity of it all. Thranduil just calls him in, randomly, on his birthday, and quite literally orders him to take in a hobbit child? The nerve—

“So what are you saying, little one?” Elvish tongue on the King of Mirkwood is different than on any other; it holds a sense of power—of such overwhelming righteousness—that it is difficult to ignore.

Bilbo sighs in defeat. “Be that as it may,” He grumbles. “I am working with less temperamental things in the kitchen’s at the moment, and would most likely be able to handle caring for a child.” He pauses, then makes direct eye contact with Thranduil. His voice holds slight malice. “If it is my king’s command.”

“It is.” Thranduil says, something tauntingly irritated in his tone. Either way, he waves Bilbo off with a “You will find him with Tauriel”.

Bilbo pads quietly towards the weaponry chambers, where he knows he will find the captain of the guard, Tauriel. All the way, he thinks to himself of the burdens of having to care for a child. Of course, things will be much easier, considering the elves will provide the food, the shelter, the clothing. All Bilbo really needs to do is bring Frodo up correctly. Most hopefully, Frodo will not turn out to be a mischief-maker(though with Bilbo’s luck, that is exactly how it will turn out).

Tauriel is handing a rather large dagger to a small, curly haired child when Bilbo enters.

“Don’t—!” Bilbo surges forward quick as he can, and snatches the weapon from Tauriel’s hand before it lands in the child’s palm. “Children can not handle blades, Tauriel! You will hurt him before he is even in my care.”

Tauriel looks taken back, glancing down at the child. Bilbo realises, with a start, that this faunt is Frodo .

He turns to face the child, licking his lips. “Ah, that was a bit of a bad first impression, wasn’t it?” He waves at Frodo, who’s watching him with a curious expression. “I am Bilbo, if you haven’t already heard it from one of these people.” He motions to Tauriel. Bilbo is half expecting the little hobbit to remain silent, but he speaks.

“They are very tall.” Frodo comments, quietly, with a little smile on his face.

Bilbo smiles. “It’s absurd, isn’t it?” He replies, winking.

Frodo nods. He’s covered with mud, clothes dirty and worn like he’d been traveling for days. It unnerves Bilbo, to a point where he forces himself to turn to Tauriel and speak in elvish.

“Did Thranduil tell you what happened to him?”

“He said that the boy’s parents were drowned in a fishing accident, but they are not sure what went on exactly. The incident happened to take place near the river, so a guard found him.” Tauriel wears a look of concern that Bilbo does not see often on her features. “We worry he is malnourished, and that feeding him too hearty of a meal too quickly could result in—“

“Mm, yes. Do not worry about that aspect. We hobbits are very good at meal plans, whether it be for the weak or elderly.”

Tauriel nods, then sighs. “Well, I must be going. Patrol awaits me.” She kneels back down to pat Frodo’s head. “Be good, little one. I will make it my mission to come visit you before the days end.” Tauriel begins away, but turns back. “And happy birthday, my friend.” Bilbo waves her off with a grin, then faces Frodo.

“Have you ever met elves before?” Bilbo asks, thinking he should begin his guardianship with the lightheartedness he usually harbours for children.

“No. Only hobbits.”

“I see.” Bilbo nods sagely, as if the information is vital. It gets a grin out of Frodo. “Well, I’ll be taking care of you from now on. I don’t know much of caring for little ones, I’ll admit, but I’ll make you deal,” He leans down, cupping his hand to the side of his face. Bilbo is pleased to see that Frodo does not look nervous or afraid, but entertained and curious, and nodding eagerly at the prospect of a deal. “I will do my very best to raise you admirably, and in return,” He prods at Frodo’s chest. “You will do your very best to behave.”

Frodo nods wildly. “Yes, Uncle Bilbo. I think that sounds fair.” Something tugs in Bilbo’s chest as Frodo calls him uncle. We aren’t really uncle and nephew, but it doesn’t matter one bit. If Frodo wants us to be, then we shall.

Bilbo is drawn from his thoughts as Frodo cups his own mouth, leaning in. “But only if you promise I will get dessert with my dinner each night.”

Bilbo laughs heartily, remembering for a moment how simple a hobbit’s mind can be.

“That, my dear nephew, can most definitely be arranged.”

//

Later that night, when a few hobbits are helping Bilbo bring another mattress in for Frodo to sleep on, Legolas appears.

“It is long past dinner, and I have been expecting you. It is too late to visit the woods, now.” He says to Bilbo, in elvish, as to avoid having to answer the hobbits’ questions. (Bilbo may be the only hobbit to fully understand elvish, since Legolas taught him and him alone.)

“I am sorry, Legolas. But your father has thrust upon me a child to care for.” Bilbo sighs, motioning to Frodo, who sat utop Bilbo’s bed as he nibbles on some bread.

“A child?” Legolas says incredulously, just as Frodo waves at him cheerfully.

“A shock, I know.” Bilbo finds it in himself to smile. “Has Tauriel not spoken to you about it? I thought she might have.”

“No, nothing of it.” Legolas replies, still eyeing Frodo.

Bilbo tells him what had happened, continuing on in elvish, since he didn’t fancy the hobbits in the room gossiping about him for days. As he finishes, the hobbits file out of the room, each goodbye-ing in pleasant voices, as if it would draw the conversation from Bilbo. He merely waves back. When the room is empty, Legolas speaks.

“My father’s decisions do not surprise me. But it is not just.” There is a small anger in Legolas’s voice, but Bilbo places a hand on the elf’s arm to calm him.

“It is fine. I certainly did not expect to take in a child this morning, but it…” Bilbo glances at Frodo, who is watching them speak in silence. “But I am not as opposed to it as I was at the start.”

Legolas gives him a bewildered look that bleeds into fondness, and then a small chuckle. Without a word, he approaches Frodo and kneels.

“Hello, I am Legolas. What’s your name?” Legolas offers his hand, even though Bilbo knew that elves did not culturally greet others that way. It brings a smile to his face.

“I’m Frodo Baggins.” Frodo looks absolutely delighted as he shakes Legolas’s hand.

“I suppose your uncle has been taking good care of you so far?”

“Yes! Dinner was yummy, and Uncle Bilbo said he made it himself.” Frodo looks over to Bilbo for confirmation, to which Bilbo chuckles.

“That is true.”

“I see. Well, Frodo, I really must say that I am already very fond of you.”

“You sound like Tari.” Frodo says, tilting his head to the side.

“Tari?”

“Ah, Tauriel. She met him first.” Bilbo supplies.

“Oh, yes, she would most definitely find you appealing. We don’t have children around often, Frodo. So it’s very nice when there is one.” Legolas pats Frodo’s head, then stands and faces Bilbo. “It is your uncle’s birthday, you know.”

Bilbo waves his hand, haven already forgotten, to be entirely honest, but Frodo jumps up immediately.

“Uncle Bilbo! Why didn’t you tell me! Happy birthday, happy birthday! We need a cake!” Frodo was bouncing all around Bilbo, pulling on his sleeve and pant leg as he went. Bilbo can’t hold back the laughter that escapes him.

“Okay, okay. Maybe we can go down to the kitchen’s and see what is there.”

“Yay!” Frodo cheers.

Bilbo opens the door to his room and allows Frodo to run ahead of him and Legolas, both of them walking at a leisurely pace. (Frodo turns around every once and a while and ushers them forward.)

“He seems very...spritely, considering he just lost his parents.” Legolas mutters, eyes never leaving Frodo.

Bilbo is watching over his nephew as well as he speaks. “He’s much too young to understand, I think. All he knows is that he gets to live with elves now, and has a new uncle who bakes around.”

Legolas is silent for a moment. Then he squeezes Bilbo’s forearm and turns to him. “And you? How are you faring with all of this?”

Bilbo gestures nonchalantly. “As I said, the panic of teaching a child what to do and what not to do has subsided. Now I just want to make sure I try my best. Make Frodo a pleasant lad. He... already is, really,” Bilbo bites his lip, hiding another smile.

Legolas shakes his head unbelievably, smiling. “You’ve always been an old man at heart, haven’t you?”

Bilbo furrows his brow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you seem so...protective already. I suspect you have more guardianship instincts than you realise.”

Bilbo scoffs, but doesn’t deny it. He has always been an “old soul”, he supposes. Always been a fan of tea and cake, always gone to bed earlier than most his age, always been good at lazy-ing about. Bilbo wasn’t sure if these qualities are what made him a good candidate for raising Frodo, but he knows they weren’t necessarily bad qualities to have. Frodo, either way, will grow and develop on his own, into his own person, no matter the rules Bilbo presents. All he can offer is guidance in the right direction.

Legolas begins chuckling again. Bilbo is about to ask why, but then he realises Legolas can probably sense his feelings with his elf abilities.

“You’ll be fine. I am always here if you need assistance.”

“...Thank you.”

They arrive to the kitchens just then, where they find Tauriel. Frodo immediately begins jumps up and down, telling her about his day. She smiles at him, then at Legolas and Bilbo.

“Ah, Prince Legolas. I didn’t realise you would be here.”

Legolas waves a hand. “To celebrate Bilbo’s birthday.”

“Are you old, Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo asks, still clinging onto Tauriel. The latter picks Frodo up, carrying him in the crook of her arm.

Bilbo laughs. “If you consider thirty-three to be old.”

“That is old!”

“I am almost four thousand years old, Master Frodo,” Legolas raises his eyebrows at Frodo, who’s mouth gapes in shock.

“What! Tari, Tari, how old are you ?”

Tauriel grins. “Nearly halfway into my three thousandth year.”

“That’s so old!” Frodo suddenly becomes very serious. “Am I going to live that long?”

Tauriel sets Frodo down on the counter, which is clean and free of knives or food. “Possibly,” She humours him.

“ Please ,” Bilbo rolls his eyes playfully. “Do not get his hopes up.”

“Do not bring his dreams down , Bilbo.” Legolas taunts, hitting Bilbo on the shoulder.

“Is that cake?” Frodo pipes, his one-track mind revealing itself once more.

Tauriel laughs, then produces a rather large honey cake from behind Frodo. “Indeed. It is to wish your uncle a happy birthday.” Her eyes move to Bilbo, then, and he can’t help but blush.

“Thank you, Tauriel. And honey cake even—my favourite!”

“We will all have a slice.” Tauriel says, setting it back down and collecting a knife from a drawer.

“What if I want two slices?” Frodo asks.

Legolas approaches him and pokes his in the stomach. “Then monsters will smell the food off you and come to get you in the night.”

Frodo looks downright frightened by this, and Bilbo, Legolas, and Tauriel all laugh. Then Bilbo takes Frodo’s hand and squeezes.

“Do not worry, Frodo. Your uncle will always protect you.” He nods to his nephew.

“Oh, of course. Your uncle is one of the best hobbit fighters in Mirkwood.” Tauriel agrees as she slices the cake.

“Really?” Frodo asks excitedly.

“Truly.” Legolas says.

“Hardly,” Bilbo mumbles, rocking on his feet.

“You have to teach me, uncle! That way we can go on adventures and fight monsters and save the world!” Frodo begins making sword noises as he swings his hands around, wielding a fake weapon.

Bilbo sighs good-naturedly, then motions to the slide of cake Tauriel has ready. “How about we worry about eating first?”

Frodo doesn’t seem against it, and takes the cake without complaint.

//

It is not even a week later when Legolas finds Bilbo once more, once again in the kitchens with none other than Frodo Baggins.

“See, when you are slicing tomatoes, or celery, or anything at all, really, you must be sure to claw your fist—like this.” Bilbo raises his hand, fingers drawn into his palm. “It will protect your fingers from being cut off if you accidentally miss with your knife. Copy the action for me, Frodo.”

Frodo does so, and happily. He presents his clawed hand proudly, smiling.

“Very good, lad.” Bilbo smiles softly, already so fond of the small hobbit.

It had barely been a week with Frodo’s company, and Bilbo had grown to learn much. Frodo was born and bred in The Shire, but his parents had decided to up and leave at the notice that hobbits now dwelled in Mirkwood (or the dwarven kingdom of Erebor). Frodo likes sweets, above all things, but only after dinner, surprisingly. Most amusing to Bilbo is Frodo’s love of stories.

Each night, when Bilbo tucks Frodo into bed, Frodo always asks for a story. “Something with adventure!” He’d say, bringing his hands together in faux prayer.

“I don’t know any adventure stories, Frodo.” Bilbo replies every night.

“Then make one up, uncle.”

Needless to say, Bilbo was creating a long and pleasantly adventurous story for Frodo, night by night. Often, he found himself so lost in the tale that it would escape him and fly away, seeming to carry life of its own. It was Bilbo’s new favourite way to end the day.

“Excuse me.” Legolas appears in the doorway of the kitchen, smiling at Frodo, but a look of unpleasantness in his eyes as they reach Bilbo.

“Legolas! You shouldn’t interrupt right now! Uncle is teaching me how to use a knife.” Frodo’s eyes glinted excitedly; this is as close to a wild side as he possesses.

“My apologies, Master Frodo,” Legolas, also fond of Frodo, bows deeply in Frodo’s direction. The small hobbit laughs happily. “But I really must speak with your Uncle, if you don’t mind.”

“Hm,” Frodo brings a hand to his chin, thinking. Then suddenly beams. “Okay. But don’t be too long! We’re busy.”

Bilbo frowns at Legolas, but the elf just gives him a look of urgency. “Do not touch the knife, nephew.” He mutters to Frodo, then follows Legolas down the hallway and out of the kitchen.

“My father has called for you.” Legolas says, bringing a hand down to clasp Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Again?”

“Yes, but this time for a far more momentous task.” Legolas’s eyes keep darting around, as if he is expecting someone to take notice and attack them.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Bilbo asks, feeling fairly flustered and immensely confused.

“He—“ Legolas pauses, dampening his lips. He meets Bilbo’s eyes. “He’s going to make you—“

“Uncle, uncle!” Frodo comes bounding through the corridor, mostly likely having forgot he was supposed to stay away. Bilbo casts an apologetic glance at Legolas, then kneels to greet Frodo. “The king just came through the other door, and he—“

“Hello, Bilbo Baggins. You are a very difficult hobbit to find, it seems.” King Thranduil steps into the hallway, elegant robe trailing behind him and flowered crown atop his head. Bilbo casts him an uneasy look.

“My king,” is all he says.

“Father, I do not think it wise to—“ Thranduil raises a hand calmly, facing away from his son to both silence and dismiss him. Legolas seemed disgruntled, but manages to speak as he glares at his father.

“Be wary, Bilbo. He seeks unfair terms.” He steps away.

Frodo is watching on grossly, wide eyes observing the scene progress while gripping tightly onto Bilbo’s sleeve.

“Take the little hobbit with you, Legolas.” Thranduil says, waving a hand in distaste. Legolas circles back around and lifts Frodo into his arms, giving Bilbo a lingering look. Frodo frowns. Then they are gone.

The king says nothing.

“It hasn’t been long since we’ve spoken,” Bilbo says, pointing out the obvious to fill the awkward and gaping silence. His hands fidget a little by his sides.

“No, it has not been. Come, walk with me.” Thranduil, for whatever reason, seems entirely more calm, now that his son and Frodo have left. Bilbo stares at his feet as they stroll, glancing at the king from the corner of his eye every few moments.

He seeks unfair terms, Legolas had said. What was Bilbo to make of that?

“Are you aware of our race’s relationship with the dwarves?” Thranduil finally speaks, but is still staring off into the tunnels of Mirkwood.

“Um, yes. I am aware of the relationship—or more, the lack thereof.”

“That is true. The dwarves’ quarrel with us dates back many ages. We have never seemed to get along.” Thranduil seems mockingly amused as he speaks of the dwarves, which is, admittedly, not very different from the way he always speaks. “As you must also know, the dwarves took in half of your people 30 years ago, just as we did.”

Bilbo did know of this, yes. When the hobbits of The Shire had been attacked by the White Wolves, there had been nothing but death. Most luckily, Gandalf had showed up, and pleaded with the dwarven prince to help Bilbo’s people. After three months, a letter was sent explaining the situation. Half of the hobbits would live with the dwarves, in Erebor. The other half would live with the elves of Mirkwood.

“It was the closest contact we’ve had with the dwarves in hundreds of years.” Thranduil continues.

“Yes. But what does this have to do with me?”

“Always asking the right questions, hobbit.”

They move into the empty dining hall, sitting across from one another. Bilbo continues to fight not to fidget, but his foot taps insistently on the stone floor.

“I’ve recently made it my mission to recover jewels that were lost to the elven race many years ago. They are the white gems of Lasgalen, jewels of pure starlight.”

“Oh! Forgive me for interrupting, but I do believe I’ve heard of these jewels. They were stolen by the dwarves, were they not?”

Bilbo, despite being busy with kitchen work(and now Frodo)loved to read books from time to time. Most were of history; of wars and hero’s and the like. He’d read about the gems of Lasgalen somewhere, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall.

“Indeed. We collected the gems from inside Mirkwood,” Thranduil motions around him. “Then decided that we would give them to the dwarves to craft them into necklaces. They were to be a heirloom of our people.”

“I see.” Bilbo nods along, intrigued by the other half of the story he’d read of.

“But the dwarves never returned our jewels. We are not sure why, but it began the feud between or people, and has never ceased.” Thranduil sighs suddenly, looking up and Bilbo. “It—truly—has been nothing but a nuisance to deal with the stubborn things.”

Bilbo doesn’t speak, but is taken back by the anger in Thranduil’s voice.

“I have recently made a deal with the leader of Erebor, who seems much less greedy then his ancestors.”

Bilbo frowns. “Have they agreed to return your gemstones?”

“They have. In exchange for something, of course.”

“Of course.” Bilbo waits for Thranduil to explain, but is only met with silence. “My apologies, but what is it you’ll be exchanging?”

“The leader of Erebor is not yet a king,” Thranduil says, which is completely off their topic of discussion, but Bilbo remains silent. “His father recently passed in battle, and he now seeks a lover. Any will do; it is the marriage bond that gives him the divine right to rule.”

“Oh.” Something heavy settles in Bilbo’s gut. He is not pleased with the way this conversation is turning out.

“I have promised him a husband.”

Bilbo exhales sharply.

“Hu-husband? He—“

“Prefers men, yes. Intriguing, is it not?” Thranduil raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in immoral delight.

“I suppose.” Bilbo shifts uncomfortably.

He himself has never given much thought to love and marriage, mostly because he never had interest in any hobbit he spoke with. None of them seemed interested either, so the feeling was mutual.

“We elves do not agree with the mortal way of marrying to form an alliance.” Thranduil makes an odd face. “Pesky and unnatural, to force two to marry. It was an issue, for a moment.” Then he smirks; subtly and smoothly, and directly at Bilbo. “But then I had a thought.” He leans down, voice drooling into a whisper. “I could marry a hobbit off to him.”

No.

“My king, I—“

“Hobbits are gentle, and good cooks, and smart enough to keep out of trouble. You are not unpleasant to look at, if I must say. And further, you’ve never been vital to the survival of my people—as, say, Fredegar. He gardens until he drops, that one.” Thranduil stands, then, and fixes his robes. “You will do just fine for the job, I believe.” When Bilbo doesn’t speak, the king purses his lips. “The soon to be king does not object, most importantly.”

Bilbo wants to be angry. Thranduil is essentially selling him—trading him like livestock—just for some long lost jewels . He wants to argue and fight—but he’s smart, just as Thranduil had said, and knows he does not have a choice. At least, not with the child he must care for now. Before, Bilbo might have been able to escape Mirkwood. Travel far, far away, and start from scratch. But nay. So, instead of refusing, he says— seethes , “What about Frodo?”

Thranduil‘s expression is one of antipathy. “He will go along with you, most obviously. The child seems fairly adaptive, so I doubt he will hold a grudge against meeting the dwarves of Erebor.” Thranduil begins to walk away—without any kind of condolence or apology or anything to ease the panic Bilbo feels—but Bilbo speaks again.

“What is his name?”

Thranduil turns. “Whom?”

“The...the one you are forcing me to marry?” Bilbo allows the unbearable, hot, scorching anger he feels beneath his skin to show for a moment.

“His name is Thorin Oakenshield.”

Chapter Text

That night, as Bilbo pulls the covers over Frodo, his nephew asks for a bedtime story.

“Not tonight, Frodo.” Bilbo whispers, voice breathy. He’d barely been able to make it the rest of the day—feeding Frodo, finishing his daily duties. He wasn’t even sure he would be able to sleep.

“Why not?” Frodo asks, sitting up and ruining the little bundle Bilbo had managed to roll him into.

“Because I am not in the spirits to.”

Frodo says nothing for a moment. Then begins nibbling on his lips. He lies back down.

“Do not chew on your lip. It is a bad habit.” Bilbo chides. His life may be falling apart at the seams, but he wasn’t going to allow it to affect his guardianship, if he could help it.

“Is it because of what the elf king said? Legolas seemed very angry all day...but he wouldn’t tell me why.” Frodo fiddles with his fingers as he speaks, voice small and unsure.

Bilbo sighs, bringing his hand up to brush the hair from Frodo’s eyes.

The little hobbit seems to understand more than Bilbo perceives. The feelings Bilbo feels now are complicated—full of anger, sadness, and dread--especially to a child who knows almost nothing beyond simple joy or sadness. He supposes they still have much to learn of each other. “Go to sleep, child.”

“But I want to know!” Frodo protests, face scrunching up.

“And I would prefer not to speak of it.” Not now, please. Bilbo hates the way his voice wavers, like it’ll break if he speaks too loudly. He raises his eyebrows at his nephew in warning. “Do not push the subject. I will tell you when the time comes. Now sleep.”

He manages to make it to his bed without Frodo muttering another word. He all but collapses on the mattress, head throbbing and mind fuzzy.

There’s a knock at the door.

“I will get it, uncle.” Frodo says, and before Bilbo can stop him, he rushes over and opens the door.

Legolas steps in, eyes scanning until they land on Bilbo. “Bilbo.” He breathes, clear relief in his tone. He steps over—four long strides; click, click, click, clack —and opens his mouth, but then closes it abruptly. He sits beside Bilbo on the bed.

Bilbo watches, mouth opening and breath flowing to speak, but nothing coming out.

Frodo climbs into his lap, back to Bilbo’s chest, and looks up at Bilbo's face.

“Hello, Legolas.” Even to himself, Bilbo’s voice sounds pathetic. As Frodo’s fingers clamp around Bilbo’s, he looks at the ceiling to keep the tears burning at his eyes from falling. I will not let him see .

“It is fine to feel angry.” Legolas says quietly--not quietly like Bilbo, all broken and weak--but with calm sadness. “Enraged, even. Betrayed, and—and terrified,” When Legolas starts tripping over his words, Bilbo knows Legolas is trying. His friend doesn’t know how Bilbo feels, but he is trying to. Then, in elvish: “Tauriel will be here soon to pick up Frodo. I know you are holding back in front of him.” And by god, is he right.

Bilbo clings to Frodo a little tighter, tucking the head of curls beneath his chin.

“Uncle?” Frodo says, voice still quiet.

“Yes, Frodo?”

A pause. “I know you are sad right now. I don’t know why, but…” Frodo begins fiddling with Bilbo’s fingers. “You won’t leave like my parents did, will you?”

Bilbo feels something inside him crack.

He’s been trying to keep himself together for Frodo, and yet, here he was, making his nephew worry.

A tear falls.

He ignores it.

Another one slips. Then another. Another. And another.

“My friend—“ Legolas reaches out, a brief look of panic falling over his features.

“Frodo Baggins,” Bilbo sniffles, ignoring his elf friend for now, as he picks Frodo up to turn him around so they are face to face. Frodo’s eyes look as watery as Bilbo’s feel. “I will never let anything happen to you, understand? No matter what happens—I will protect you. I will stay beside you. Even when—“ Bilbo’s voice begins to fail, and he pauses as a sob overtakes him. “Even now , when—“

Small, soft hands find his cheeks, and begin wiping the tears away. Tiny hands, free of calluses from labour; free of sin; free of taint. Perfect, innocent, wonderful hands.

Bilbo finds himself smiling softly through his tears.

He has lost his freedom, sure. He will never be able to find his own end with romance. Never be able to live alone, in peace, if he wished, or find his own true love, if he wished. But, his freedom, even before today, had been stolen by a child. One who will change him in the smallest yet most significant ways. Innocent, pure change.

 So, Bilbo thinks, even though the world seems against him, it at least gave him something before taking everything else away. He is grateful.

At some point, the tears stop. His vision becomes clear, and he is left with nothing but a stuffy nose, an odd hollowness in his chest, and a buzzing in his face.

Frodo sits before him, hands still on Bilbo’s face, expression grim and determined. An odd look on him, who’s always so bright.

There are three light taps on the door, and then Tauriel enters, frown drawing her lips downwards. When she sees the three of them, all huddled together on the edge of the bed, she licks her lips. “Am I still wanted?”

Bilbo takes a deep breath. Then holds a hand out. “You are always wanted here, Tauriel.”

Soon, the four of them are all sitting together, Frodo having moved off his lap, as Bilbo tells him what exactly the king had told him. It, begrudgingly, was not much.

The more he speaks, the more he realises it would have done them all better if he’d just sought comfort immediately, as it feels like a weight is being taken off his chest with every word.

Frodo listens quietly, face showing confusion. Legolas’s face grows more stony the more Bilbo goes on, and Tauriel looks as fierce as a tigress.

“The king did not mention when the marriage will be, so I am led to believe we have a little time before we must travel to Erebor.” Bilbo runs his fingers through Frodo’s hair once, then returns his hands to his lap.

“He just—just forced it on you? Without good reason or cause? How audacious !“ Tauriel fums, crossing her arms as the words escape, sharp and biting.

“I agree. My father is selfish, imprudent, and…” Legolas glances at Frodo, seeming to realise he can not be inappropriate in front of a child, then begins cursing in rapid fire elvish.

It makes Bilbo laugh, though quiet, and he brings a hand up to cover his mouth.

“You make me feel better even without words of comfort, my friends.” He says, holding his chest. It still feels oddly empty, like he’s cried all his emotions away. “But, as it is, I do believe that it is far past Frodo’s bedtime…” Bilbo looks to his nephew, just as Frodo groans.

“Uncle Bilbo! You aren’t going to sleep!”

“Very untrue, nephew. I am going to kick the elves out and have myself a nice long sleep—and so are you.”

Legolas and Tauriel laugh.

Bilbo picks Frodo up by the armpits, and Frodo kicks the whole way to his bed, giving reasons—and rather clever ones, Bilbo must admit—why he should be allowed to stay awake. He quiets, though, when Bilbo drops him into the bed and pulls the covers up.

“And you will sleep well? You aren’t sad anymore, are you?” Frodo asks, hand reaching up again to stroke Bilbo’s face.

Bilbo smiles. “Shall we say I am doing better? Marriage is a big deal, Frodo. To hobbits, at least.” To men or dwarves, it may be different, Bilbo realises. He pats Frodo’s stomach, standing up straight, and decides not to think of it right now.

“Just think of how amazing it will be in Erebor! Meeting dwarves will be very fun, I think.” Frodo grins, hands gesturing wildly as he speaks.

“He must get that habit from you. ” Legolas says. He and Tauriel stand together by the door, seemingly waiting for Bilbo to dismiss them or follow them outside.

“Oh shush, you.” Bilbo wrinkles his nose, then turns back to Frodo. “Good night. I am going to step out for a few minutes. But do not fret, I will be back soon.” Luckily, Frodo doesn’t protest; only turns over to face the wall.

Bilbo walks behind his friends, then closes the door behind him.

“You are sure you’re okay? ” Legolas asks, eyebrows knitting together.

“For a prince, you are such a worry wart. ” Bilbo retorts, hands going to his hips.

“Our concern grows when you revert to humour to escape your troubles. ” Tauriel replies.

Bilbo scoffs. “I was sad. I cried. But I feel better, now. Really!” He says when they both give him unbelieving looks. “I am sure the feeling is not gone forever, but surely I will be allowed to enjoy myself during my last days here in Mirkwood?”

Legolas shifts uncomfortably. “I suppose you make a good argument.”

Tauriel kneels down, and envelopes Bilbo in a tight hug. He chuckles awkwardly for a moment, an exasperated “come, now” escaping his lips, but then Legolas joins the hug. Bilbo is then surrounded by more elf than he has ever been before. (It is nice. Though he will not admit it aloud.)

“Thank you, my friends. Thank you very much.” Bilbo says when they finally pull away. He rocks on the balls of his feet. “But I really must get to bed. I have meals to prepare tomorrow.”

“Right,” Tauriel smiles, seeming to realise how late it is. “Sometimes I forget you hobbits need to sleep.” Then she leans down and presses a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead. “Do dream sweetly. If you are overwhelmed with work on the morrow, you could send Frodo to me, as I will be free.”

“I shall keep that in mind, Tauriel.” Bilbo nods as she walks away and turns the corner. He glances towards Legolas.

“Do you think Frodo will adjust well to Erebor?” Legolas asks, and it eases Bilbo to no ends. Tauriel may be somewhat of a motherly elf, but she did not know Bilbo as well as Legolas. Right now, he needed to be focused on anything—anyone—but himself.

“There are plenty of hobbits there, too. Additionally...it’s bloody Erebor,” Bilbo chuckles. “I am sure Frodo will find something to do, and even make a few friends.”

Legolas pauses before speaking again. “You must find time to join me out in the woods again, before you go. It has been a week since.”

“I am busy with Frodo.”

To Bilbo’s surprise, Legolas chuckles. He squeezes Bilbo’s shoulder gently. “You will have the rest of your life to be busy with Frodo. Spare one night to be busy with your elf friend, who may not see you for…”

Forever.

True, though Bilbo had not thought of it ‘till now. Legolas would be busy with things here in Mirkwood. Bilbo...he would be the husband of the king; that surely came with daily tasks. Which meant they wouldn’t have much free time, even if it was to see old friends.

“I will let Tauriel know she is needed for hobbit-sitting. Before I leave, we shall have a night together.” Bilbo reaches up to pat the hand stop his shoulder, smiling. “Just like old times.”

“Just like old times.”

//

The next morning, long after Bilbo has gotten ready for the day, there is a knock at his door. Unfortunately, he is attempting to wake his nephew, but with a huff, decides to answer the door first.

Aeson, one of the elf guards, holds out a letter and a wrapped package. “Arrived late last night. From one Thorin Oakenshield.”

Bilbo feels like the air has been knocked out of him. But eventually, he manages to reach out and take the objects and wish Aeson a good day. He closes the door and falls back against it, looking everywhere but down at his hands.

The package feels light, he notes. Just thinking of opening it makes him sick. He wants to curse it—stomp on it and damage whatever is inside. The overwhelming stubbornness that washes over Bilbo is astounding, and it takes a moment to subside. In its place—curiosity.

Frodo is still sleeping. It is still early, and Bilbo has about an hour before he must get to his kitchen duties.

Bilbo swallows, then approaches his desk. He pauses, wiggling his toes. Then sits. Peels the letter open. Unfolds the paper.

“Heavens,” Bilbo exhales sharply, putting the letter back down. For some reason, it feels as though he’s wielding a dangerous weapon. (In fair tribute, a paper cut was no laughing matter.) Nevertheless, after a few more breaths to ease the wriggling in his stomach, Bilbo opens the letter.

The first thing he notices is how untidy the handwriting is. Most definitely a dwarf had written it, as elves and hobbits all had fairly neat script.

Frodo shifts and snorts, and Bilbo hurriedly moves to hide the letter. Frodo seeing would cause a catastrophe; he’d want Bilbo to read it aloud. But, luckily, Frodo merely groans and then falls back into sleep.

Bilbo turns back to his letter cautiously, and begins reading.

To Bilbo Baggins, my intended,

Bilbo scoffs at the formality. They don’t even know each other.

Quite possibly, after a few letters, Bilbo may feel this guarded, angry exterior melt away, but not now. Now he just wanted Thorin to act cautious, like him. Of course those demands are preposterous, he knows. But he can still dream.

  I am almost positive that you are unaware of dwarven marriage traditions, so I will explain them to you.

Right into the business, then.

  Before the marriage, during the courting period, three gifts are exchanged between the groom and, in this case, groom. It is traditional.

  Attached with this letter is

Bilbo puts the letter down and breathes out slowly. Barely four lines into the letter, and he was already sweating.

He moves the package to the front him, and tears the wrapping slowly, as to not wake Frodo.

The gift is…

   an ancient relic of our people—chainmail made from mithril. It is light to wear, and as strong as the hide of a dragon. No blade can pierce it. I give this to you with the hope that no harm will come of you on your journey to Erebor, nor any time at all, as long as you wear it.

Bilbo, despite his initial pettiness, finds heat rising in his cheeks. Thorin’s gift was almost...sentimental. Sweet. Thoughtful.

But, of course, Bilbo still knows absolutely nothing about this man, and doesn’t plan on giving in so easily.

Mithril , Thorin calls it. The chainmail is bright and silvery, and cool as Bilbo caresses it. The edges are embroidered with pretty designs that most obviously took much time and patience to work. It is a beautiful gift, even if Bilbo wasn’t sure he’d get much use out of it.

      I do not know anything of hobbit marriage traditions. If there is anything you would like to incorporate—into the wedding or the courting period—you may mention it in your letter back, and I shall see what I can do.

  Now, off of the formalities of this. I would like to express my feelings on this arrangement.

Bilbo bites his lip, shifting in his seat.

   Dwarves are not the most fond of arranged marriages. But we, unlike the elves, have, over the course of history, resorted to them for peace.

  At this moment in time, Erebor is still re-gaining strength from a dragon attack. Although it’s been a decade, we are still finding traces of damage. And damage demands repair, which requires time and money. The bottom line is that we do not wish to wage war with anyone. (Especially the elves.) So, an arranged marriage was...arranged.

Bilbo almost laughs.

Almost.

  As for my personal opinions, well. We dwarves only love once in our lives; we call that person our One. I have never come across any dwarve who’s One wasn’t a dwarf, so I am unsure of the matter. I, though terrible at expressing it, have always looked forward to finding my One. but now, as my kingdom is in need, I may never. Unless, by some grand coincidence, it is you.

  I mean no offence when I say this. In fact, I desperately hope that we are able to get along. Our lives, otherwise, will be very miserable, seeing as the king and his consort are to be seen together everywhere. But I did think you may be feeling similar. It is a little unfair, having your freedom of choice taken from you.

  In this aspect, I want you to tell me how I can make your new life here in Erebor as comfortable as possible. My only wish is for us to be happy together.

   To change the subject completely, I’d like you to know a few things of me. The only problem is I am unsure as of what to say, so I instead will leave it to you to ask whatever you please.  

Wishing you a good day,

Thorin Oakenshield

P.S. Do tell me a bit about yourself in your return letter. I should like to get to know you before our wedding day.

Bilbo does not like the smile on his face one bit. But it is impossible to hide.

Thorin--for being a soon-to-be king--seems so very awkward. It is almost as if Bilbo could see the dwarf before him, stumbling over his words and saying improper things on accident, then rushing to correct himself. Apparently, Thorin has difficulty bridging the border between formal and relaxed conversation. (If this is what a letter from him looked like, Bilbo would love to have a real talk with the dwarf, for amusements sake.)

But more than just how Thorin seems, his words of discomfort on the arranged marriage had opened Bilbo’s eyes a little. He, even if it had felt like it for a moment, was not the only one losing choice. The king under the mountain was just as stiff as him about the entire situation. Thorin was doing this for his people; not for himself or his desires.

And that, Bilbo decided, was good enough to soothe him.

//

Thorin Oakenshield,  

  How are you? I do hope this letter finds you healthy and comfortable. I’m sure leadership is a burden, and very stressful. I can’t imagine what it’s like, carrying the kingdom on your shoulders.

  The gift you sent was to my liking, if you wondered. It is very beautiful, I must say. The craftsmanship, I can tell, took time and attention to detail, which has always been favoured by me. Although, you do not have to worry much about my well-being, as I most never leave Mirkwood.

  I spend my days in the kitchen—a less monumental feat than ruling Erebor, but still hard in its own way. It is my duty in Mirkwood to prepare breakfast, second breakfast, elevensies, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner, and supper(hobbit meals, though I recognise most people only have three) each day. I am rather good at it, I think, but I don’t mean to brag.

  My specialities lie with anything honey related. Honey cakes, honey pastries, honey vinaigrette. It is my favourite, so I spend all my free time working with it.

  I am unsure as to what the courting gifts must represent—wealth? Yours definitely seemed precious. But the gift I offer has more sentimental value than physical, so do tell me if it isn’t acceptable.

  It is honey cake, made fresh the day this letter was sent. I did try my best, and I hope it hasn’t staled too much. Honey cake is best enjoyed warm, so it may not taste as it should. I can always make you another when I have travelled to Erebor.

  To further speak of myself, as you requested, I have slipped into this latter a drawing of me, done by another hobbit here in Mirkwood. He is a drunk, most of the time, but talented wise when he is not. If you so wish—as I would much like to know of your appearance—you can send a drawing or description of you.

  I care for a child—my nephew, Frodo. He is of six year now, but in dwarf years he may seem younger. Thranduil tells me you have already been informed of him, but I wanted to make sure. Frodo will not leave my side, no matter the circumstance. My apologies if that sounds a tad bit expressive, but he is family.

  As for hobbit marriage customs. We usually have large gatherings; a feast and a dance that continues long into the night. Many types of flowers are strewn everywhere, most typically. But to be entirely honest, I am not picky. I did not even envision myself marrying at all before now, so I do not have anything in mind. Besides, if I am to live with you, I should be adapting, not you. You know what they say: When in Hobbiton, do as the hobbits do. Though, I suppose, I am trying to portray the exact opposite.

  Speaking of the marriage… I am glad you shared your reservations with our arrangement. It has humbled me. Though, I must say, we will not see yet how cowardly I am until we meet in person. Talking to someone through a letter is one thing. In person...well.

  I do need to be wrapping up here. I have a curfew, and a faunt to put to bed.

Warmly,

Bilbo Baggins

P.S. Do you have any younger family members? What is your favourite colour? Favourite food? (Frodo wanted to ask a question:) Have you ever been in battle?

//

“The hobbits are all speaking of throwing you a goodbye party.” Tauriel says, speaking through her heavy breaths. The two of them are honing up on their sword skills. It is mostly Bilbo doing the honing, he’ll admit, but Tauriel still gets a certain benefit.

“I sincerely hope they do not.” Bilbo mutters as he slices the log before him once more. The chip in the wood is less than extraordinary, but Tauriel compliments him.

“Why ever not? You do not wish to have a last...well, hurrah ,” Tauriel lifts her hands in mock-celebration, an uncomfortable gesture on her. “Before you leave?”

Bilbo chuckles. “Do not misunderstand, I do enjoy parties and such.” He rushes on to change his words. “But there is only so much—gossiping one can take before they crumple. And with hobbits, it is nothing but. ”

“I see,” Tauriel says slowly, mirth in her tone.

“But mostly, it’s the fact that those hobbits don’t know how to throw a party for their lives.” Bilbo continues, pausing in his sword movements.

Tauriel just hums in question, continuing her own sword work.

“See, back in Hobbiton, there used to be these grand birthday parties that my parents would throw—every year, one for each of them.” Bilbo articulates his words, gesturing to emphasise. Tauriel chuckles. “These parties were marvelous, Tauriel, I am telling you. There was a feast large enough to feed everyone in Middle Earth, and-and decorations everywhere, and the music was always spectacular. Everyone in the Shire was invited, and many would actually come. Even Gandalf, whenever he wasn’t busy—well, being Gandalf.” Bilbo pauses to laugh and reminisce. The memories were a little faded, seeing as they’d happened thirty years ago, but parties his parents threw would never be forgotten by him.

“Sounds as though you are extremely fond of parties,” Tauriel covers her mouth, hiding obvious amusement.

Bilbo swings at his trunk once more. “Of course. What type of hobbit do you take me for?”

Another laugh, full of mirth, from Tauriel.

“I just like them more when they are thrown by a Baggins, and not the ruddy Sackville-Baggins’. Let me tell you, that family is some of the most outrageous in all the hobbit families—“

Tauriel begins practically snorting, her laughs are so heavy. Bilbo grins.

Just then, Legolas comes bounding into the room, Frodo atop his shoulders. They are both smiling wide. When they notice Tauriel—who is trying to rein herself in before her prince—they smile bigger.

“What’s she laughing about?” Legolas asks, setting Frodo down on the ground. The little hobbit’s feet pat on the ground as he runs to Bilbo.

“I’m hungry, Uncle!” He whines, tugging lightly on Bilbo’s arm sleeve, as he’d made a habit of doing.

“Calm, Frodo. It’s nearly luncheon.”

“But I’m hungry now ,” Frodo pouts.

“Best give the hobbit what he desires,” Tauriel says, seeming to have regained her breath.

Bilbo scoffs. “You know, you would make a terrible mother, Tauriel. You have to set boundaries! A child can not have everything they wish to have—“

//

They—Bilbo, Frodo, Legolas, and Tauriel—are in the kitchen, eating, a few minutes later.

//

A week later, Thorin’s next letter comes through, along with a small box. His next courting gift.

Bilbo,

Bilbo rather likes the change in greeting.

  I was extremely pleased with the honey cake. It was not too sweet, which very much suited my taste. You must promise to bake another when you arrive to Erebor; I can’t imagine how much more delicious it will be fresh out of the oven. And, to answer your question, the courting gifts do not have to be of high physical value. Sentimental value is...well...less is more, in this circumstance. Your honey cake was perfect. I only sent the mithril because I wasn’t very sure of what to send at all. Though I am glad you like it.

 As requested, I have sent a drawing of my appearance. It was drawn by someone dear to me, and similarly wise as your drunken hobbit. (Though Balin is not a drunk, fortunately. He is my advisor.) I hope that I am not displeasing in your eyes.

Bilbo rushes to dig the drawing of Thorin from the envelope, excited and nervous all at once.  He always thought himself rather handsome. At least for hobbit standards. But dwarves…they had a very different perception of beauty, so Bilbo is quite a lot nervous as he lays eyes upon the portrait.

  I am not very attractive, in dwarven standards. In fact, all possible suitors have mentioned that they were put off by my appearance,

Bilbo feels slightly agitated by the next lines, but also partly thankful that those suitors found Thorin less than acceptable, because gracious , was Thorin handsome. If he was being forced to marry, he was extremely thankful he got to marry this .

Thorin has long hair, crimped like it had recently been braided. His face was square, and covered in a small but thick goatee. His eyes, even in the drawing, seemed to hold a certain softness that betrayed the harsh lines of his face. Just by the letters Bilbo had received so far, and this portrait, he suspected Thorin was the “serious” type, but held much more emotion than he led others to believe.

It causes a warm feeling to rise in Bilbo’s chest.

  seeing as my beard is short and my face too square, but I hope you find me at least slightly attractive.

  Oh, dear, I seem to have completely forgotten to mention my next gift. If you have not already opened it, I bid you to do so now.

Bilbo grabs the box, sliding the top off easily.

Inside, atop a deep red piece of cloth, are six brass buttons. Bilbo smiles immediately, delighted at the thought of sewing them onto his red waistcoat(the buttons had already proven they looked good with red).

When he looks closer, Bilbo finds that there is the design of honeycomb carved into the surfaces of each button.

   I crafted the buttons in advance, almost as soon as I sent my first letter. But after receiving your letter, I wanted to add something to do with honey, seeing as it’s your favourite. I hope you like them.

Saying Bilbo liked them was the understatement of his life. He was positively buzzing with happiness.

Still, he continues reading.

  As for Frodo; We have already made arrangements here for both you and him. You and I will have our bedroom—quite spacious—and through an antechamber, Frodo will stay with my nephew's, Fíli and Kíli. He will not be lonely during the night, then, yet still be close enough to hear, if needed.

Bilbo gulps at the prospect of you and I will have our bedroom.

   And the questions you asked… I do have younger family members, as I mentioned earlier. Fíli, my heir, and his younger brother, Kíli. They are sons of my younger sister, Dín. They all are dear to me. My favourite food would most definitely have to be meat. Any sort. Though, unusually, I find myself reaching for the sweeter things often enough(mostly after dinner).

Bilbo nearly bursts into laughter. Thorin seems to match Frodo’s opinion on the matter of desserts— only after dinner.

   My favourite colour is grey. Most boring, I realise, but it goes with everything. And yes, Frodo, I have seen many battles. Most of them are too gruesome to share with someone your age, but one day I would like to share them with you.

  We are making plans for the wedding, here in Erebor. I have added flowers to the decorations list. There will, of course, be a feast. But as I mentioned before, it will be a rather small gathering. In truth, there will only be fifteen people there. One of them includes the wizard Gandalf, if you’ve ever heard of him. The others are friends and family. Do you plan to invite anyone further? I would be willing to organise things to fit as many people as you’d like.

  Well, dear Bilbo, I must say goodbye for now. Do have nice upcoming says.

Wishing the best,

Thorin Oakenshield

P.S. I thought I may as well ask questions as you did. What colour is your hair? Do you prefer a specific fragrance in candles? And for Frodo: What kind of food would you like there to be during your Uncle and I’s wedding feast?

Bilbo feels thoroughly unsure as he finishes on the letter. On one hand, he finds himself growing quite fond of his betrothed. Thorin seems pleasant, adorably awkward, humble, kind, and overall thoughtful. Someone that Bilbo was sure he would, at the very least, be able to form a strong friendship with.

But, something that Bilbo wasn’t, usually--Thorin seemed blunt, and almost unintentionally so. His mentioning of their wedding every other paragraph was making Bilbo sink into the feeling—and it wasn’t a good one--of his imminent marriage.

So, instead of writing a letter with the confused feelings rushing through his head, he decides to sew his buttons on his jacket first. Possibly, it will trick him into focusing on the good parts of all this, not the sour ones.

Most unexpectedly, just as Bilbo is getting his needle and thread together and getting situation in his chair, there’s a knock on the door. He sighs, setting his things down and walking towards the door.

Behind it, he finds Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. Wonderful .

Bilbo pastes on a fake smile. “Lobelia!” His voice sounds strained. “My dear aunt! How are you?”

Lobelia takes these few words as an invitation to enter Bilbo’s room, fanning her face furiously with her fan. The colour is atrocious in Bilbo’s opinion—an ugly, vomit shade—but he bites back his comments and closes the door behind his aunt.

“Bilbo Baggins, I am most shocked indeed,” Lobelia says, her voice just as high pitched and over-expressive as Bilbo remembers it. This, he thinks to himself, is why I prefer to stay in the kitchens.

“Why ever?” Bilbo asks, smiling politely.

“Well, I’ll tell you. I was just informed that you are engaged to the dwarf king, and will be leaving us in the next few weeks. In addition to the pain I feel of my nephew leaving, I have to live with the fact that he’s marrying a dwarf !” Lobelia speaks rapid fire, word after the other.

It almost makes Bilbo laugh, that Lobelia is pretending to have only just found out. He knew other hobbits knew, and had long suspected that Lobelia had overheard from a guard or someone or other, and then begun spreading the news like a wildfire. Now, most everyone knew of Bilbo’s fate. (He wasn’t ashamed, per say, but he did like his business to stay his business.)

“Well, I too am not fond of the ordeal. I had, in fact, planned to wait to marry for...” Bilbo pauses, wanting very much to say forever. “...a while.”

Lobelia’s eyes go wide as she continues to fan herself. “As did I! And now, you’re leaving, and marrying, and—oh!” She collapses dramatically on Bilbo’s chair. Bilbo barely contains his chagrin. “I really should not tell you, but—“

Here we go.

“—we are planning a sort of goodbye party for you. Just because it’s odd, isn’t it? Having someone dear to you leave, probably forever? Goodness knows when we’ll see you again—“

“It is only a day or two’s journey from here to Erebor. I am sure I will be able to visit—“

“But, as it turns out, we hobbits are not experts in throwing parties. Over Yuletide, we’d usually turn to your mother and father, but seeing as they’ve both passed—rest in peace, may they—we only have you.” Lobelia closes her fan with a quick snap and then leans forward in her chair, smiling devilishly. “And I got to thinking, why are we trying to plan a good party without a Baggins? Not that we Sackville-Baggins are not above satisfactory, but there is just something about how you and your kins’ minds work.” She nods, at this point speaking more to herself than Bilbo, at which Bilbo exhales a little unsurely.

“Are you—are you asking me to plan my own party?”

“Why, of course not!” Lobelia’s mouth drops, as if Bilbo is proposing something scandalous. “There will be plenty of help from the other people on the party committee, but—“

“Committee ?”

“But you will, of course, put together the activities! The decorations, the food, the music. We may even be able to invite that old wizard for some fireworks,” She mutters the last part a little irritably, standing from the chair. Lobelia suddenly smiles at Bilbo. “It does sound good, does it not?”

Bilbo huffs. “It sounds fine, aunt, but I do not see why there needs to be a party at all.”

“Why, because we will miss you!” Lobelia struts over to Bilbo, cupping his cheeks. “Who will make us authentic hobbit meals, hm? No one cooks as you do, and we will miss that.”

For a moment, Bilbo feels genuine sadness from Lobelia’s gaze. Like she actually cares about Bilbo, and not just the gossip that surrounds him at present. Then, it’s gone, and replaced once more with a mischievous glint.

“That is why we must fill the feast with as much food as possible! Meetings are at afternoon tea every other day—so come tomorrow!” Without another word, Lobelia shuffles from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Bilbo groans. “Why me?” He whispers, making his way back over to his buttons. “Why me ?”

//

Thorin,

  I do apologise for the semi-late response; I have been busy dealing with my relatives. They are attempting to throw me a goodbye party, but are terrible at it, and henceforth recruited me—the person the party is for—to plan the entire thing for them. Needless to say, I am tightly wound as of late.

  On a happier note—your buttons! It is so amazing that you crafted them yourself; they are positively beautiful. I sewed them on almost immediately, I’ll tell you. On a nice waistcoat, as well, so I may wear it on our wedding day. A good tribute, I think.

  As for my next gift to you: attached with this letter are three hair ties. The first, of a creamy white, is made from horse hair. I soaked it in perfumes before weaving it, so it hopefully will not smell of horse. The second is woven from leather, polished, of course. The third is from simple thread, but it is grey, with a silver shine, to which I thought you’d enjoy. Since you so carefully crafted the buttons, I thought I would try my hand at weaving. You’re welcome.

  I am glad to hear that the wedding plans are going well. To your question of wether I am inviting anyone else—I am not. The prince of Mirkwood will be busy, so it will just be your guests.

   I do admit, when reading your letter, I felt a little suffocated by the sheer amount of ways you bring up our marriage. But, recent events have made me want to bring the day closer as soon as possible. (My blasted relatives are not pleasant to deal with.) Besides, Frodo is beyond excited to see Erebor; and to meet you.

  His answer to your question, by and by, was “Cucumber sandwiches and vanilla cake! But only after dinner.” I find it quite amusing that the two of you share the same thoughts of dessert—after dinner. As for the questions you asked me… My hair is sort of a golden brown? It also has red tint to it, if Legolas is to he believed, but I would mostly refer to it as brown. And candles, my goodness. I adore the scent of pumpkin. Anything spiced, I tend to enjoy. Though I have only ever smelled scented candles a few times; the elves mostly use magic to light Mirkwood.

  I nearly forgot to mention—I know Gandalf! He was one of the few who assisted the hobbits in leaving The Shire and travelling to Mirkwood and Erebor. Of course, I was a faunt then, and mostly remember his fireworks. But it will be grand to see him again, if he does not come to my party here(we have invited him, but wizards must be busy).

  Well, I shall stop my letter before I end up angrily ranting about party planning again. Do take care of yourself.

Warmly,

Bilbo Baggins

P.S. What colour is your hair? Do other dwarves really find you so unappealing? What is your favourite hobby? (Frodo’s question:) Is it true dwarves can lift a thousand pounds?

//

“So, it has been confirmed.” Bilbo speaks through a mouthful of bread, hands full with his and Frodo’s dinner. Legolas sits across the table, snacking on a plate of berries.

“What has?” Legolas furrows his brows.

“Did you get a lot of boiled eggs, like I asked?” Frodo questions, deaf to the conversation around him.

“Yes—yes, Frodo, I got you four boiled eggs, okay? Alright? Here,” Bilbo sets his nephews plate down, to which Frodo immediately digs into. “Hungry little hobbit, isn’t he?” Bilbo chuckles as he sits down himself, tucking his napkin into his shirt.

“What’s been confirmed?” Legolas asks again, gesturing exasperatedly.

“Oh, yes! The date of Thorin and I’s wedding. Has been confirmed.” Bilbo nods, smiling. He picks up a pickle and begins nibbling on it.

Legolas squints his eyes, voice filled with a darker emotion than what his face shows. “I wonder, when did you become so fond of him?” 

Bilbo pauses.

He wonders that himself, honestly. When had he become so fond of this annoying, unfair, and completely terrible situation? There were lots of downsides—he had to leave the place he called home, he was marrying a man he didn’t know, he wouldn’t get to see Legolas. But, somehow, over the four letters that Thorin and Bilbo had exchanged, his perspective had changed. Something had flipped.

Bilbo shrugs, searching for words. After a moment, he says, slowly, “I suppose when I realised that I am ready for an adventure.” He finds himself smiling, rather brightly. “Life here is fine, of course. It is comfortable, and plain, and safe. But, in Erebor, everything will be new. Because unlike the elves, they don’t separate themselves from the world. And that, my dear friend, is what I call adventurous.” Bilbo scrunches his nose, then finishes his pickle off.

Legolas looks at him incredulously for a moment, before his expression melts into bewildered amusement. He shakes his head. “We may have known each other for thirty years, but there are certain things I shall never understand about you.”

Bilbo grins. He turns to Frodo, who’s picking the yolk from his boiled eggs. Bilbo wants to chastise him—the yolk is the most nutritious!—but Legolas pulls him back into their conversation.

“So when did you say the wedding was?” He reaches across the table and snatches one of Frodo’s egg yolks, smirking.

“The dwarven new year,” Bilbo supplies. “Durin’s Day.”

Chapter Text

“Uncle?” Frodo asks as he sits on the counter beside Bilbo, feet swinging below him.

“Nephew?” Bilbo replies, singsong, his mood always at its best when he is in the kitchen with Frodo.

“Is Gandalf real?” Frodo questions with some earnest—eyes wide and jaw slack—as if he’s actually scared the answer will be no.

Bilbo chuckles heartily, unable to stop himself. His hands are busy with kneading dough, or else he would probably have to collect the little hobbit up into a hug.

“My dear Frodo, of course he’s real! He’s even coming to the party next week.” Bilbo grins as Frodo throws his hands up, cheering.

Bilbo, though at first entirely annoyed by his relatives antics of making him throw his own party, had since then accepted his fate. It barely felt like he was doing it all alone, anyways. Bilbo came up with the ideas, and his fellow hobbits set such plans into action. They were nearly done with plans, and were beginning to collect materials—ribbons to dye, food to prepare(what Bilbo was doing now), tables to paint. The party would truly be extravagant, if all went as planned.

“Uncle?” Frodo pipes again, reaching over and grabbing a walnut from the small bowl Bilbo had set out. He swats at Frodo’s hand playfully, but doesn’t have the energy to really chastise him.

“Nephew?” Bilbo replies, same tone, shaking his head a little.

“Are the hobbits at Erebor going to be as nice as the hobbits here?” Frodo looks down at his lap, fiddling with his fingers. The action has become the norm for the little hobbit; a sort of way to tell how he was feeling about a specific thing.

Bilbo hums, soaking his fingers in oil and beginning to coat the loaf before him. He glances at Frodo from the corner of his eyes. “I do not know what the hobbits of Erebor will be like, if I am being completely honest with you, my dear.” At Frodo’s forlorn face, Bilbo continues hurriedly. “But, if it offers you comfort, they can not be so much different. We have lived with the elves for thirty years, just as they with the dwarves, and we are still very...hobbit-ish.”

Frodo seems pleased with the answer, as he giggles and steals another walnut. “Okay. I believe you.”

“I should hope so. Also—stop taking walnuts!”

Frodo, of course, takes another handful and then slides off the counter, hurrying out of Bilbo’s reach. Bilbo begins to chase him around the kitchen, not really angry about the walnuts, but more having fun playing with his nephew. Frodo shrieks in delight, and Bilbo laughs.

Gilly Baggins, a cousin of Bilbo’s, suddenly comes marching in, then, a plate of ingredients in hand. She looks red and hot, as if she’d run all the way here from the gardens. (Which wasn’t that far, since they were naturally close to the kitchens.)

Bilbo stops running, and Frodo runs into him from the back, falling back on his rear.

“Gilly, good heavens, what is—“

“Gandalf has arrived!” Gilly says, breathlessly. She sets the plate of greens down on the counter, bringing her apron up to wipe her face. She doesn’t seem very happy about the state of herself, but she’s smiling a little. “He sent me to come get you as soon as he showed, and I came running as fast as my feet could carry me.” She leans in close, making Bilbo chuckle in disbelief. “He has a whole wagonful of-of something’s—it was all covered with a tarp so I didn’t get a good look—“

“Alright, okay!” Bilbo grasps Gilly’s shoulders, patting them once before pulling away. “I will go to him. But, while I am away, would you be a dear and put together a few more rye loafs? I’ve already made a couple.” He motions to a set of loaves, both already baked.

“As you wish, Mister Baggins!” Gilly smiles pleasantly.

Bilbo turns to Frodo. “Want to go meet a wizard, my boy?”

“Yes!”

//

Their journey to the front gate, where Bilbo assumes Gandalf will be, consists of Frodo running, and Bilbo rushing to catch up. Though, eventually, Bilbo sees the natural light from the woods spilling into Mirkwood, and begins jogging, simply to catch up to Frodo.

Still, his nephew makes it there before him.

Gandalf is tall—of course he is—but he is nearly taller than Thranduil(who stands beside him), which Bilbo finds amusing. His appearance is vaguely familiar, but also vastly different, if only for the lines on his face. His hair is long, grey, and untamed, sticking up in random places. He wears a long, flowing robe, grey in colour and tattered in nature. His eyes are big, and Bilbo can sense the wisdom in them without having heard a word from the wizards mouth.

Frodo practically runs into the old wizard, jumping up and down, already speaking at a million miles a minute. “Gandalf! Did you bring fireworks? Did you travel far? Are you hungry? My uncle makes good food, he can give you some. Have you—“

“Woah!” Gandalf chortles, hand coming across Frodo’s head gently. “All good questions, little hobbit, but the answer shall come at a later date.” He raises his eyebrows, smiling slightly. “Except, perhaps, the mention of food. Who might your uncle be?”

“That would me,” Bilbo cuts in, raising a hand rather stiffly. He tries for a smile as Gandalf straightens, face losing its playful demeanour. “Ah, hullo.” Bilbo adds, swallowing.

“Hello, Bilbo Baggins.” Gandalf replies. “I have travelled quite a long while to reach this forest, and all for a farewell party.”

“Well, I—“

Gandalf leans down, as close to face to face as he can get with Bilbo. His face carries all the seriousness of a king. “It had better be a good party.”

Bilbo can’t help it. He chuckles.

Gandalf suddenly breaks out into a laugh, deep and bellowing. He stands up, using his staff to balance himself.

“I can assure you, it will be the best we are able to throw.” Bilbo smiles, patting his sides. Frodo seems to finally calm down, and joins Bilbo’s side.

“Very good, very good. I did tell you, Master Baggins, that I will be attending the party?” Thranduil speaks then, arms crossed as they always are.

“You did not, my King. But I am glad you will be there.” Or not , Bilbo thinks. His words sound a little hard, and Gandalf seems to notice. The wizard wets his lips, watching silently with a rather amused expression.

“Either way, we must get you unpacked, yes?” Thranduil motions to the large wagon behind Gandalf.

“Yes, that would be ideal. But I do have some business to discuss with Bilbo, so I do wonder if you’d let me go with him.”

Bilbo blinks. Business?

Thranduil pauses, eyes scanning Bilbo’s, then Gandalf’s face. “Very well. Your belongings will be dropped off in your room.”

“Right this, um, right this way,” Bilbo motions forward, smiling as Gandalf walks ahead. He lets him walk ahead a bit, then turns around to Frodo. “Go find Legolas or Tauriel. Or one of your friends.” He whispers, pushing Frodo in the direction of the hobbit side of Mirkwood.

“What?” Frodo whisper yells back, grabbing at Bilbo’s hands. “But I want to know the answers to the questions I asked Gandalf!”

“And he said they would be answered in due time, did he not?” Bilbo snaps back, raising an eyebrow.

Frodo pouts, but he seems to have lost the fight in him. “Fine. But you have to tell me everything about what happens after!”

“I make no promises!” Bilbo calls, watching as Frodo scampers off. Only then does he move to catch up with Gandalf, who, surprisingly, is standing still, facing Bilbo a few steps ahead.

“How long has he been if your care?” Gandalf asks.

“Oh, about a month, I’d say.”

“You two fit like a glove, I must say.” Gandalf chuckles, then turns back around and begins down the path again.

Bilbo walks beside him, smiling.

“I haven’t gotten the time to properly thank you for coming. I had no idea you’d actually travel all this way, and just for a small party!” Bilbo finds comfort in the simple, easy, neighbourly banter. It’s much easier than asking what Gandalf had meant by business .

“I’m afraid, Mister Baggins, that I come to this part of Middle Earth for entirely different reasons.” Gandalf says, voice level. “I am merely attending your party because it is on the way to my final destination,” He pauses, then smiles. “And the food, of course. Hobbit hospitality is some of the finest out there.”

“Of course.” Bilbo replies briskly. “I am glad you came, too. But, if I may ask, what did you really come this way for?”

“Hm,” Gandalf grumbles, just as they make it to the gardens, where Bilbo thought it best to speak with the wizard. “I am on my way to Erebor.”

Bilbo startles. “E-Erebor?”

“Indeed,” Gandalf agrees, but there’s a humorous glint to his eyes. “I believe you will be heading there as well, soon enough, no?”

This eases silence onto Bilbo, as he realises that--yes, he will be off to Erebor soon. It was already the tenth of October. He has nine days until he’s married.

“Huh.” Bilbo says, at loss for words.

“Do not fret, little one.” Gandalf reaches down and squeezes Bilbo’s shoulder. “The King Under the Mountain is gentle to his kin and friends. Though, I do imagine he will be a little wary of you at first.”

“Why?” Bilbo asks, a little absently.

“Well, imagine if someone who you’d never met in person came to live in your home. You’re home --where you spoke an ancient language that outsiders are not allowed to learn, and where all the secrets of your culture lie.” Gandalf exhales through his lips, nodding. “Additionally, the marriage is to mend a bond that has been broken for centuries. The dwarves and elves have not established trust, so you could very well be a spy.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Bilbo admits, feeling something cold and heavy pool into his gut. When his impending doom was a month away, it was easier to ignore. But now that it was coming so soon… His nervousness must have been obvious, because Gandalf breaks into another hearty laugh.

“As I said, do not worry. It sounds like more than it actually is, I promise.”

“If you say so,” Bilbo chuckles a little awkwardly, patting Gandalf’s hand.

“Either way, I think I’ve avoided the topic at hand for long enough,” Gandalf retracts his hand and begins down the garden path once more. He is silent, and so is Bilbo, just for a moment. Then, he speaks. “Have you ever wanted to go back to The Shire?”

“Well, of course.” Bilbo replies easily, smiling softly.

“Do not take the question lightly, Master Hobbit.” Gandalf, voice suddenly harder, squints his eyes at Bilbo. “I do not mean it as a casual question. I am speaking of actually travelling. Of walking across Middle Earth to see what has become of your homeland.”  

Bilbo pauses to consider it. To actually travel halfway across the world, just to see a place he hardly remembered. The way was most likely dangerous and deadly if not travelled wisely, which Bilbo was not sure he’d even make it through. Training and real life were two very different things. Besides, he has Frodo now. Even more, how could he go alone? Other hobbits would love to go as well, as long as they were promised safe escort. The older hobbits actually grew up in the Shire , Bilbo has to remind himself.

“I suppose it would be a rough journey,” Bilbo finally replies. He meets Gandalf’s eyes. “But not impossible. Why do you bring it up, anyways?”

Gandalf doesn’t reply--just gives Bilbo a lift of his eyebrow.

Realisation strikes through Bilbo.

“You don’t mean to suggest--”

“Oh, but I do.” A wild glint shines in Gandalf’s eyes then, as he looks down on Bilbo. “I have passed through The Shire on my travels recently, and the entire area is mostly barren. Of course, things still grow everywhere, but there are no more proper fields.” Gandalf stops as they come upon a bench and sits, suddenly producing a pipe from the folds of his robe. He lights it as Bilbo settles  next to him. “A few hobbits stayed behind, mind you. But not many in Hobbiton. Only May Gamgee and her brother, Andy. They survive on their own.”

“Where do they get their food?” Bilbo asks, curiosity taking over his unsureness, as usual.

“Their garden,” Gandalf replies. “And they hunt for meat. It is an interesting life they live. And an honest one, as well.” He leans towards Bilbo a little. “They have left the other smails alone completely.”

This draws a slight inhale from Bilbo as his eyes widen. “So the smials are untouched? Thirty years, and no one has been inside them?”

“Not one person.”

“And you are proposing we go back.” Bilbo goes on. “To settle in The Shire once more.”

Gandalf shrugs, puffing from his pipe. “I do not know how happy the hobbits are, in a place where they were not bred. Of course, the little ones know nothing different.” He chuckles.

Bilbo ponders on it for a moment. He faces forward and stares into the tomato vines.

The air is breezy and warm as it hits Bilbo, ever welcome. The sun is hot, but soothed easily with the passing of big, fluffy clouds. The weather in Mirkwood is close to the weather Bilbo remembers from The Shire, but there is something inexplicably different.

“So you would let the hobbits here know that you plan to help them travel back. Then you would tell the hobbits of Erebor.” Bilbo lays down the information he’s gathered from the conversation, speaking slowly and cautiously.

“That is correct, dear Bilbo.” Gandalf confirms.

Bilbo hums.

Gandalf takes his pipe and wipes the mouthpiece on his beard, then offers it to Bilbo. The hobbit opens his mouth to decline, but then thinks better of it. He deserves it, didn’t he?

After he’s taken a puff or two, he hands back the pipe. Then stands. He meets Gandalf’s eyes determinedly.

“We can tell them at the party.”

//

It later that night that Bilbo finally-- finally --has the time to read the letter Thorin sent him.

Bilbo hasn’t opened the package, but the tall, medium sized object leaves a rather small margin of possible items it could be.

He takes a inhales happily as he unfolds the letter.

Bilbo,

  I would like to express first and foremost how much I adored your gift. The hair ties are neat, brilliantly beautiful, and very useful. I use the gray one almost every day, while I am going through paperwork or other things. But I wear the other two around my wrist.

Bilbo feels himself smiling a little. Thorin really was such a sap, wasn’t he? Maybe Bilbo should start wearing his waistcoat more often, as it has Thorin’s buttons on it...

  It is rather traditional to weave something for a courting gift among the dwarves, simply because we use braids in our hair to express ourselves. (There will be more on this when you get here.)

He frowns slightly, wondering what that was supposed to mean.

   Your last gift from me is a candle, made entirely by me. I wove the wick, and scented the candle. It was a rather fun time, I must admit. I decided that I should make something less dwarf and more hobbit. My gifts thus far have involved metal from Erebor, but your gifts were made by you, and from the earth around you. I tried the same. I do hope the candle smells and burns well, as I have never made one before and became a little lost halfway through.

Bilbo hums happily, turning to tear the wrapping paper off his gift, revealing an orange tone candle. There were designs carved into the side, of twisting vines, it appeared. They looked like pumpkin leaves… He grins as he smells the candle--pumpkin! And some spices as well, if Bilbo wasn’t mistaken.

Exactly what he loved.

   I hope your party plans are going well, and you are not as ‘tightly wound’ as you were when you sent your last letter. If Gandalf has arrived by the time you read this, bid him a hello from me.

  Party plans here are mostly finished. Now all that is left is cooking the food and collecting the flowers. I did not know if there were any specific flowers you wanted, but you were not specific, so I used some flowers that hold meaning here in Erebor. Chrysanthemums, to symbolise wealth and truth. Cornflowers to represent friendship, since that is what I want us to have above all. Daffodils for warm regards, dahlia for commitment. Daisies, according to my sister, mean “to share someone’s feelings” and has ordered a basketful and more of them be placed on the altar.  Lastly, lilacs. I do not know what they represent, and my sister knows not either, but they are pleasant to look at, especially how we plan to present them.

  As for the questions you asked: my hair is dark, close to black. But, I’m afraid, age has brought silver streaks through it. Age and stress, my sister tells me. No, other dwarves do not find me attractive. It is not something I am proud of, and do not wish to discuss it deeply.

Bilbo can’t stop the snort of laughter that escapes him at Thorin’s curt embarrassment. How cute, he thinks.

   My favourite hobby, I believe, would have to be playing the harp. I am not the most skilled player in Erebor, but it is certainly very pleasant to play. I may play a bit for you one day, if you wish.

  Frodo, contrary to popular belief, we dwarves can only lift as much as an average man can. We are not awesome in power, but we make up for it in our ferocious loyalty and fighting skills.

  Well, I’d best be going. If I have done the mathematics right, I believe this should be the last letter you will receive from me. You should arrive in Erebor the night before the wedding, and by then we will have no need for letters.

  I am looking forward to meeting you, Bilbo. Though, for my sake, I shall warn you that I may be different in person than I am on paper. On paper it is easier to make your words come out correctly, but in person, it is much harder to express yourself, at least for me. Especially when you don’t have a day’s journey to hide behind.

With warm regards,

Thorin

Bilbo breathes, noticing with no small amount of odd glee that Thorin did not put his last name down.

He feels strangely numb. Reading the letter had brought him into a different level of Thorin. A rather pleasant one, too. It was odd that only a few letters had made Bilbo so...excited, he supposes? to meet Thorin.

Bilbo wants to write a letter while the thoughts of it all are still fresh in his mind, but he has yet to decide what his last betrothal gift to Thorin was going to be.

Frodo is asleep in his bed, so Bilbo decides he may as well sleep as well. It is rather late into the night, anyways, and he had last minute plans to set into action on the morrow.

He gets ready for bed in relative silence, with only the shuffle of his clothing to accompany his breathing. Bilbo brings the candle with him as he pads to his bedside.

He owns a rather nice candelabra himself. It is small, and only holds a single candle, but it had been crafted by his mother. The designs in the metal are less than perfect, especially now that Bilbo has seen a dwarf’s work, but they were pleasantly familiar from long nights staring into the candle wax and remembering his mother.

Bilbo had meant to get another candle today, anyways.

He sticks Thorin’s on easily, and immediately lights it. It doesn’t take long for the scent of it to fill the room. It’s amazingly comforting, for some reason.

Soon, Bilbo is tucked into bed, warm and pleasantly happy from the smell that permeates the air.

As he lies there, eyes watching the flame dance, his eyes travel to the candelabra itself. What had Thorin said? That his gifts had involved metal “ from Erebor ”?

Bilbo smiles. Maybe , he thinks, I shall give him a little piece of Hobbiton .

//

Thorin,

  I have attached to this letter a candelabra, which is made of gold and embedded with jewels. The object is quite precious to me, actually. It was passed from my mother to me, and the last piece of her I really have(besides my nose). But, I think, she meant for it to continue in the family. As of Durin’s Day, you will be my family. It is only fitting I give it to you, is it not?

  As for the party--it is tomorrow! I am rather excited, now that all the stress of it is done with. Hobbits do love parties, of course. The music and the food will be spectacular. I only wish I could have you here, just to experience what a hobbit gathering really is.

  Gandalf arrived yesterday, and I have told him of your hello. He replies, and I quote, “I shall be seeing you soon, Thorin Oakenshield. I do not want my room to smell of dragon.” It sounded as though it was an inside joke; I had no idea you two were so close.  

  Gracious, I never did thank you for your gift. It was very lovely, I must say. It has given my room a new joy—one of good smell. (Though, Frodo woke up with more of an appetite this morning. I blame it on the pumpkin smell.) We hobbits make candles fairly regularly, so I know good quality when I see it.

  As for your selection of flowers, I am rather excited to see them all. Mirkwood does not offer the best selection of greenery, unless we grow it in the gardens. Seeds are few and far in between, though.

  I do tell you, as the days grow nearer to the ceremony, I grow that much more excited about meeting your sister. She seems very spirited, which will balance out your awkwardness very nicely, I think.

  Since I do not have much else to say, I think I should address what you said in the last paragraph of your letter.

  Thorin, I think we both are at a disadvantage. We’ve never met in our lives, and only have these letters to know of each other. I have tried to lay myself into the page, since I do not want to give you false impression, and I hope you have as well. But as long as you have been truthful with your words, I am not nervous or frightened to meet you. Although I did want to dislike you in the beginning, I am rather ready to start a friendship with you.

  Our fates lie in the stars. However, I don’t think they will mind if we weave our own tales for once.

  I will leave this letter on that hopeful note. Next time we speak, it will be vocally, and not with ink. I hope you are as excited as I am.

Warmly,

Bilbo

//

The next day, Bilbo rises bright an early. He feels well rested and ready to take on a day of celebration.

Frodo is still deep in sleep, so Bilbo leaves him to sleep longer in favour of getting ready in silence. He collects a pair of clothes and shuts the door behind him, walking down the halls towards the baths. They are empty, of course, since the elves bath late at night and his fellow hobbits have more sense than him, and sleep in.

Bilbo washes and hums, some unexpected happiness overtaking his senses. He doesn’t even feel the need to think about the speech he will have to give later, or the troubles of telling the hobbits Gandalf was planning to take them back to Hobbiton, or anything of that sort. He’s content to hum his song, wash the dirt from under his fingernails, and focus on nothing else.

Eventually, he gets out of the water and dries off, slipping into his clothing. It’s nothing special, but he did decide to wear his waistcoat. To be formal, but also to ease the guilt he felt of not wearing the buttons as proudly as Thorin wears his hair ties.

When he makes it back to his room, he immediately spots Tauriel, and then Frodo, right beside her, still lying down but eyes squinted. He looks red, now that his head if out from beneath the covers.

“ Is he sick? ” Bilbo asks worriedly, rushing over to feel Frodo’s forehead.

“ He is ,” Tauriel responds, just as Frodo coughs. “ He has a terrible fever. ”

“ Have you given him medicine? ”

“ Of course ,” Tauriel says easily, voice soothing and calm. She reaches out and pats Bilbo’s shoulder, probably realising the panic he’s feeling. Hse the motions to a small glass bottle on the bedside table. “ Give it to him every twelve hours. Other than that, the best we can do is keep him hydrated and wait it out. ” She stands suddenly.

Bilbo frowns, eyes lingering on Frodo for a moment. Then he glances up at Tauriel. “ Are you here for any other reason? ”

“ No ,” She replies. “ I sensed his unease through the halls. So I came. I will leave now. I shall see you at the party, Bilbo. ” With that, Tauriel steps quietly from the room, leaving Bilbo with a sick nephew.

//

Bilbo ends up taking Frodo to the infirmary, where the elf doctors promise to watch over him while Bilbo is hosting the party.

“You promise to come get me if his condition worsens?” Bilbo asks, voice steady as it can be.

“Of course. Do not worry, Bilbo. I am sure he will be better within days.” Shalia, one of the nurses Bilbo knows will be sweet to Frodo, smiles comfortingly.

He nods, then sits at Frodo’s side for a moment. He has to get to the courtyard soon, for the party, but he hasn’t spoken to Frodo through any of this.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” Bilbo brushes his fingers over Frodo’s forehead, feeling his heat.

“Bad,” Frodo makes out, then coughs.

“I wager.” Is Bilbo’s reply, as he sighs. “I must get to the party, but I promise I shall come see you before the night is over. I will even sleep beside you, if it comforts you.”

“Okay.” Frodo croaks, eyes squinted but searching. “Could you...send Tauriel? Later? She sings pretty.”

Bilbo smiles. “I will tell her to drop by to check on your before luncheon, Frodo. Now, I shall see you later. Rest, and listen to the nurse.” He drops down to kiss Frodo’s hand, then stands and paces out of the infirmary.

//

Despite Bilbo’s worry of Frodo, the party begins at six thirty and goes off without a hitch.

The party, though planned in under a week, is absolutely lovely, even to look at. The benches, all scattered across the courtyard, are painted in traditional hobbit door colours—a finishing touch that had actually been Lobelia’s idea. On every table is a plate of cookies, just to munch on in between plates. Off to the side, there’s a long table with tray after tray of food. Pot pies, sandwiches, soups, fish, salad, sweets, and everything in between. Above them, flowers are strung. Simple, common ones they’d been able to scrounge up, but they were still pretty.

Overall, Bilbo thinks he’s done a fairly nice job. The hobbits definitely seem to like it, because they immediately dive into the food and begin dancing.

He manages to greet everyone as they come in. Hobbits trail inside first, all clad in fancy festivity clothing and flower crowns. A few elves even appear, which only surprises Bilbo a little(he knows the elves that show, and the ones he doesn’t are friends of his friends). King Thranduil shows up last, robes flowing elegantly behind him.

“Bilbo,” He nods his head as he passes; a general sign of respect. From him, though, it feels cheap.

“My king.” Bilbo manages to nod curtly.

But immediately after greetings, he has to actually host the party.

He thought he would be finished with running around after party plans were made, but Bilbo finds himself doing just that all night. Everyone wants to speak with him—and about nothing, really. Comments about the food, which Bilbo appreciates, or that two younger hobbits were seeing each other, which Bilbo couldn’t care less about. Either way, he doesn’t get any time to sit down and enjoy a meal in peace, so he simply takes a cookie from each table as he speaks with his relatives.

Gandalf shows up a little ways into the party, hair brought back in a ponytail. His hat is nowhere to be seen, but it’s just as well. The old wizard never seems to relax.

“Gandalf!” Bilbo manages to escape the next table waving him over, instead prancing over to Gandalf’s side.

“Why hello, Bilbo!” Gandalf smiles widely. “Seems I’ve come at the peak of the party.”

“Oh, yes, indeed. Everyone is finally finishing up their food and beginning to dance.” Bilbo nods, finding that his words come a little more naturally when he speaks with Gandalf. With the hobbits, his words are reflex; filled with kind words and anything he can say, really, to get them to stop talking about his letters from Thorin.

“And at what point are you going to initiate your end of the plan?” Gandalf asks, raising a fuzzy eyebrow.

“When I give my speech, towards the end of the night,” Bilbo taps his thighs with his hands, exhaling shakily. He still wasn’t completely and positively sure of what he was going to say. He’d had all day to think of it, but henceforth had thought of nothing more than Hello, my fellow hobbits! Friends, family...Lobelia. We are gathered here tonight for— And not a word more.

“You look tense. Go eat some sweets. Dance with someone! You might actually have a good time,” Gandalf says, mirth lacing his tone.

Bilbo chuckles dryly. “If I could only get away from the tables of people who want to interrogate me about my betrothed.”

Gandalf hums complacently. “Good luck.” Is his reply, and then he is walking away with an innocent smile on his face.

Bilbo licks his lips, unsure of how to even begin reacting, when there’s suddenly a tap on his shoulder. He turns, and it’s met with giggling.

Camellia Sackville, one who Bilbo knows of but knows not stands before him.

“Hello,” He greets politely, unsure of why she looks so flustered.

“Hello, Bilbo.” She lifts her hands to reveal a crown of daisies, neatly weaved together. To share one’s emotions, Thorin had mentioned it meant. “I brought this for you. My friends insisted I brought it. And, um, asked you for a dance.” She turns a bit pink at those words, and Bilbo suddenly realises what this is.

“Oh, dear,” He says, vaguely panicked but choosing to reign himself in. “Camellia, firstly, I am just about five years older than you, I’d like to point out. Secondly...you do realise this is a going away party?”

“A perfect time to confess—“

“And I am leaving because I am engaged to the king of Erebor.” Bilbo cuts her off, lifting his eyebrows.

Camellia’s face droops—slowly and almost comically—as she seems to come to an understanding. “I see.”

“And furthermore,” Bilbo sniffs. “I am not exactly fond of ladies, if you know what I mean.”

Camellia flushes, dropping her hands. “O-Oh. I see. Well, I shall leave you alone now, if you like.”

Bilbo, of course, is not a fan of other beings on this earth. He thinks they’re too loud and too ignorant—even if they are quite humourous. But, be that as it may, he can’t quite bring himself to willingly watch someone become sad. Regardless of the circumstance.

So he sighs, and grabs the daisy chain from Camellia’s hands. She makes a startled sound, looking up quizzically.

Bilbo huffs, thinking of how ridiculous he must look with the flower crown. He extends his hand. “We can dance, though, if you’d like. I am a fan of dancing.”

Camellia grins.

//

It is much later that night--long after he and Camellia have stopped dancing--that everyone grows restless waiting for Bilbo to make his speech.

“Bilbo,” Lobelia practically hisses at him, hand reaching out to grab Bilbo’s forearm. He’s chatting with Camellia’s friend group.

“Aunt?” Bilbo replies, giving her a look of irritation.

“I think it is far past the time for your speech.” She replies, albeit a little harsh, as she glances at the hobbit girls.

Bilbo scoffs. “I think I should give my speech when I am well and ready, thank you very--”

“Everyone!”

The entire collection of elves, hobbits, and Gandalf quiets. Bilbo glances up to see Otho in the very center of the benches and people, where the dancing had been happening. Now, the space is clear. He swallows.

“Bilbo Baggins will speak now, before he leaves us for those pesky dwarves!” Otho scrunches up his nose, laughing. The crowd laughs as well.

Then Bilbo is pushed into the center by Lobelia, and everyone’s eyes are suddenly on him.

Good heavens , he thinks, feeling like the air has been knocked from his lungs. He clears his throat.

“Hello, my fellow hobbits!” He says, forcing the enthusiasm. To himself, he sounds hesitant, but the thrain of hobbits must not pick up on it, because they cheer. “Friends, family!” Bilbo, although nervous, finds the biting voice inside him and makes direct eye contact with is aunt. “Lobelia.” She looks completely uprooted, but everyone just laughs, loud and joyous. “We are gathered here today to...well,” Bilbo curses mentally. I should have planned more in my head! “We are gathered to wish me farewell, I suppose. It sounds as though it would be a sad occasion, but, somehow, I do not feel the sadness anymore. Now, I am more...ready. For new things. Most of you older hobbits must remember me as a child, eh? Always running off into the woods for hours?” Bilbo smirks to himself, but someone in the crowd shouts back.

“Sometimes you never came back! Your mum had to go out looking for you!” More laughs follow.

Bilbo chuckles fondly, unable to hold back the flood of happiness that always came when he thought of the little memories he had of his hometown. His smial. His mother.

His eyes scan the crowd until he spots Gandalf; the wizard is watching on with a peculiar face, as if he is waiting.

Bilbo breathes in. Breathes out. “Dear hobbits, I wonder what you would say to seeing our home once more.”

“Well, we’d love to, of course!” Someone calls.

“Not that we don’t like it here,” Another voice says, seemingly pointing the statement to the elves present.

“The Shire is our home, Bilbo. We would love to lay eyes on it again.” Lobelia speaks this time, tossing a bit of hair over her shoulder as she speaks.

“Yes,” Bilbo continues, clearing his throat. “You all say you would love to go so easily. But I do not mean to simply suggest it casually. I mean, if you really, actually had the chance to travel back--if...if someone were to take you,” Bilbo meets Gandalf’s eyes again. He is smiling. “...Would you?”

He is met with utter silence and stunned faces. So he keeps speaking.

“We have grown comfortable here. Mirkwood has become home to us, with its plentiful food supply, undeniable safety, and...easy winters.” He pauses, letting his words wash over the crowd. “But I ask you to think--when is the last time you saw a blueberry bush? Can you even remember? We have eaten the food that is gathered for us, and stayed in the shelter that is offered to us, and all without longing for our old lives back. I understand it’s been thirty years--people have changed!” Bilbo smiles, and he realises his true anxiety as he begins to motion wildly. “We are so blinded by our comfort here that we have forgotten--this is not our home. These,” Bilbo motions to Legolas, who he spies randomly. “Are not our people. Hobbits do not belong in a forest that is shut off from the world. In a series of tunnels that may hold safety and beauty, but are nothing like the endless fields of green, and the birch trees of the wood, or the rolling hills of The Shire.” He stops speaking, to catch his breath. The memories, once so hazy, seem to cripsen before his very eyes, giving him words he never knew he had. He can tell that he’s managed to draw in his crowd, as they are all watching him with wide eyes.

It’s working , Bilbo thinks.

“Some of us--the little ones--have never even seen The Shire. All they have known is elves and-and salad ,” He pauses to laugh, and thankfully there are a few chuckles in the crowd, though a little unsure. “I think it is time we showed them where their parents and grandparents came from. To show them that this is not how hobbits live, not really.” Bilbo licks his lips, raising a fist. It is a very un-hobbit like gesture, but it feels right. “To show us . To remind us where we belong. How we eat, and how we speak to each other, and how we live .” Bilbo isn’t sure why, but his eyes are stinging. “Let us go back to The Shire.” He breathes, the silence still surrounding him. “ Our home .”

For a scary, breath stealing moment, there is no sound. No breath.

Then, Lobelia-- Lobelia Sackville-Baggins --stands and walks to Bilbo. Her face is scrunched up oddly, and Bilbo is unsure if it is anger or wistfulness that drives her actions. Then, she envelopes Bilbo in a hug. It’s tight, and a little odd, but Bilbo finds himself laughing.

He feels wetness on his shoulder as suddenly all the other hobbits begin to cheer, all laughing and crying. (If Bilbo lets a few tears fall, no one says anything to him of it.)

It’s quite a while before the crowd finally disperses, and everyone settles back in their seats. Everyone is smiling largely, as is Bilbo. He waves a hand, knowing and feeling that they now want to know of how --how are they going to get there? Who is going to take them?

But Bilbo is tired, hungry, and leaving for Erebor in a few days. He has lots of packing to do. And a nephew to care for.

Gandalf stands, easing the words on Bilbo’s tongue. “I do believe it is far past everyone's bedtimes,” He says, smiling a little. “I will inform you that I will be the one leading this journey to The Shire, but there are a few more things to it. Such plans will be revealed soon enough, I promise. The King and I still have some things to discuss.” Gandalf looks over to Thranduil, who just nods.

Bilbo meets Gandalf eyes, thanking him silently. Gandalf smiles.

“I think we should have some fireworks before the end of the night, hm?” Bilbo suggests, suddenly grinning.

“Well,” Gandalf mumbles, looking a little unwilling.

But, nonetheless, within a half hour, Bilbo is seated at a table, plate full of food he hadn’t gotten to eat earlier, and eyes on the night sky. Blast after blast of bright, colourful explosions fill the air. Some of them take shapes; as boats or animals. Bilbo especially likes the ones that sound like rain hitting the roof as they sparkle.

Distantly, he finds himself thinking of Thorin. It is much too far for him to be able to see them, isn’t it? He thinks timidly, frowning over his sandwich. Perhaps I am a bit silly to even think of it, aren’t I?

He still wonders.

Chapter Text

Frodo is still sick the night before Bilbo is to leave for Erebor. Their bags are packed, and Frodo had been improving over the last week, but Shalia tells him the barren truth of it all that night.

“If your nephew travels in this condition, even just to Erebor…” She pauses, hesitant. “I do not think he would survive.”

Bilbo feels his chest tighten. “Excuse me?”

“He has a weak immune system,” Shalia says, as if it explains everything. “It’s as if he has never been sick before. I think it may be the new location. It must have different air than he is used to,” She purses her lips, eyes scanning Bilbo’s reaction. “He will get better, most definitely, but dwarvish medicine is unlike elvish medicine. If he catches a sickness on the way, there is no telling what might become of him.”

Bilbo doesn’t really know how to react. As a child, he had never really gotten sick, aside from the occasional cold. His mother would always fuss over him when he sneezed, demanding he stay home. But, regardless, Bilbo would always escape their smial and venture into the woods, as he always did.

It is only now, when he has a child who he cares for under his supervision, that he understands why his mother was so worried.

There is a certain fret that comes over Bilbo as he stands there, blinking. Then he speaks, slowly. “What am I to do, then?”  

Shalia does not speak, but the look on her face tells Bilbo enough.

If Frodo travels to Erebor, he may not make it. If he stays in Mirkwood, he will continue to heal and get better. There is no choice .

“Will he be safe?” Bilbo asks, voice wavering as he speaks.

Frodo is asleep, thank goodness. Bilbo doesn’t think he has the heart to tell his nephew he would not get to see Erebor, just yet.

“Absolutely,” Shalia replies, determinedly. “I will watch over him while he is here. Once he gets better, I am sure a hobbit family may be able to care for him.” She leans down and grasps Bilbo’s shoulder. “He will not be in harm's way, Bilbo. I promise.”

“Yes, yes.” He shrugs off her hand. “I believe you, it is just—hard, I suppose. I have not known the lad long, but he’s…” Bilbo swallows, eyes falling upon Frodo’s sleeping figure. “He is…”

“I understand.” Shalia replies, softly.

Bilbo isn’t entirely sure she does, but he bites his tongue and forces a smile. “Well, then. I shall make arrangements with some respectable family, and will let you know of plans in the morning.” He presses his lips together firmly, swallowing.

“Yes, Mister Bilbo. I must attend to other hobbits, but have a nice evening.” Shalia gives a nod and then walks off, leaving Bilbo with his sleeping nephew.

He takes a seat beside Frodo, sighing. The sleeping hobbit is just as adorable asleep as he is awake. Frodo’s fever had long since gone down, and now, it only seems as though he has a cough.

Bilbo runs a hand over Frodo’s forehead, pursing his lips. “I am afraid, nephew, that fate will not allow you to join me in Erebor so soon.” He pauses, watching Frodo’s face for a moment. His eyes move under his eyelids, like he is watching something. He must be dreaming , Bilbo thinks fondly.

A few minutes later, Bilbo stands and leaves the infirmary, planning to grab a blanket from his room and circle back around. But, as luck would have it, he is caught by Legolas on the way.

“Hello, my friend.” Legolas says, eyes twinkling.

“Hello.” Bilbo replies, a little wary from...everything. All the past months events. Most recently, his sick nephew.

“I did wonder,” Legolas continues, and he almost sounds nervous. “If you weren’t busy, if you might like to have a little romp in the woods?’ He suddenly smiles, small in usual standards, but mischievous in elvish ones. “Like old times?”

Bilbo remembers quite suddenly that he had promised Legolas some weeks ago that they would have one more night in the woods, before Bilbo left for Erebor. He feels rather embarrassed, really, to have forgotten so easily. Perhaps a little sad, as well. It was not as if Bilbo did not love his friend dearly, but, he supposes...

Ever since Frodo had become part of his life—or rather, Bilbo had become part of Frodo’s, as it felt like that—things that he once found monumentally important, like carrying on the tradition he and Legolas had, had become less dire. Now, he simply wanted to make sure Frodo was well, happy, and educated.

But Legolas had not gone through much change at all, had he? Not a word from Bilbo about it, either.

“I am such a bad friend,” Bilbo finds himself groaning, suddenly pacing forward and wrapping his arms around Legolas, best he could. “I am truly sorry. I have been so caught up with—”

“Shut it.” Legolas chastises, pushing Bilbo away and kneeling, instead, so they are on base level. “I understand that Frodo is your life now. And that is okay. You do not think I haven’t seen other races change priorities so quickly?” He raises an eyebrow comically, making Bilbo laugh.

Goodness, does it feel good to laugh.

“ Enough about your elvish wisdom ,” Bilbo rolls his eyes playfully, grinning.

“ Fine, if you will accompany me. ” Legolas stands.

“ Of course. ” Bilbo replies easily—so easily.

Frodo will not notice his absence. He will be gone and back before his little hobbit wakes.

//

The next morning, Bilbo awakes in his bed.

The first thing that hits him is the headache. It seems to rock his entire world as he sits, vision blurry and head spinning. Bilbo groans, just as the door to his room opens, and light spills in, making his eyes sting like a dagger had just been sliced between them.

There’s a low chuckle, and then a hand brushes over his head. “You stayed up with Legolas last night, did you not?”

Bilbo is grateful Tauriel is speaking so quietly, because even that makes him want to throw up. “I don’t remember much but...yes,” He groans as Tauriel laughs again, louder this time.

Suddenly, his eyes fly open as he remembers; he completely forgot to find someone to take care of Frodo.

“Peace, Bilbo.” Tauriel sits at Bilbo’s feet(which, resentfully, is not very far from his head). “I have already found a hobbit who will watch over him. Either way, I will check on him as often as possible.” She smiles as Bilbo practically melts with relief. She glances down at her lap. “I have grown fond of him.”

“It’s impossible not to.” Bilbo says, voice gravelly and heavy with sleep and, essentially, pain. “Who have you found?”

“Old Man George.”

Bilbo’s eyes widen again, and he ignores the throb in his head as he leans forward to grasp Tauriel’s lower arm. “Tauriel! That man is a drunk! He will not serve a good guardian, even a stand in one—”

“Which is what I thought when he offered,” Tauriel says, rolling her eyes a little friskily. “But to my surprise, he has not been drunk for a month.” She leans in, cupping a hand to the side of her mouth. “Plus, he has an old mama hobbit who watches over him, and offered to keep an extra pair of eyes on Frodo.”

Bilbo exhales, nodding. Old Man George’s mother—Helena—was one of the most strong spirited hobbits he knew, but she could be gentle(when she wanted to be).

“Very well, I suppose. I trust your judgement.”

“You very well should, seeing as I am going to cure your hangover. And chastise my prince for getting you this intoxicated before a two days journey.” Tauriel stands, hands grasping her hips. “And your first one, at that. Ah, I wish I had signed up to take you—”

“Tauriel.” Bilbo says, voice stern.

“Yes, yes, I know. Mothering again, aren’t I?”

“Well, yes. But your chattering is making my headache worse.”

Tauriel swats at Bilbo’s arm half heartedly, and then tugs at it. “Well then, come on. We must get you to the kitchens. You can have some tea while I cook up a remedy.”

Bilbo takes his merry time getting out of bed, with long stretching that hurts his neck but feels good everywhere else, and exaggeratedly large yawns. By the time he is standing in the doorway to his room, Tauriel is growing impatient.

“Blasted hobbits. Sarcastic, foolish folk.” She mutters as they begin towards the kitchens.

Bilbo had needed to make arrangements for someone else to man the kitchens—er, well, woman the kitchens. He had spent most of the time before the party teaching Gilly how to run everything, and surprisingly, she had taken to it very quickly.

“It almost seems like you have already done this.” Bilbo had said, flabbergasted, as Gilly had kneaded dough like an expert. Or like you have been watching me as I have been doing it, these past years.

She had shrugged, feigning innocence.

No matter how promising Gilly was, Bilbo still had lingering fears about leaving his kitchen to someone else. He had practically lived in it for ten years, and now he was leaving it—probably forever—to a relative he barely knew. Nevertheless, it was a task that had to be done, and as Bilbo and Tauriel enter the kitchen, he feels the anxious part of him ease a little.

Gilly is milling about happily, moving between mincing vegetables to stirring porridge over the fire, which smells lovely, from where Bilbo is standing. As soon as she spots him, she beams.

“Hello, Mister Bilbo! I have taken to your duty well, have I not?”

Her voice, though kind and well-meaning, is loud and perky—exactly what he does not want to hear while he has a blistering headache. Thankfully, Tauriel saves him from having to speak back, and raises a finger to her lips.

“Your respectable hobbit went and got himself drunk last night, Gilly. He seeks hot tea and a remedy for his hangover.” Tauriel chuckles, and Gilly giggles behind her hand, relatively quieter than before. “I shall take care of the remedy if you the tea?”

“Absolutely!”

The two woman immediately dart off to begin their chores. Bilbo decides to sit quietly on the counter, watching with slight amusement and a not so slight ache in the base of his nape.

Gilly comes by within minutes with a hot mug of tea, and as the steam rises to Bilbo’s nose, he smells the soothing mint flavouring.

“You are an angel, Gilly Brownlock.” Bilbo moans, wrapping his lips around the mug and sipping immediately.

“Thank you.” Gilly chirps politely, then rushes off again.

Bilbo is almost to the bottom of his mug when Tauriel approaches him with a plate. On it is...a normal sandwich? But in between the two slices are thin strips of pork, warm and steaming.

“This will cure my hangover?” Bilbo says, unbelieving, as he sets his mug down to take the plate. He may be unsure that it will help his hangover, but it smells too delicious to refuse for that simple reason.

“Of course,” Tauriel hums. “The pork has a nutrient that helps headaches and brings down the sickness you probably feel in your stomach.”

“Ever wise.” Is all Bilbo has time to say before his mouth is stuffed full.

Tauriel chuckles, then, as Bilbo swallows his first bite, says, “Do keep in mind you are set to leave in about an hour. Your things are already on the wagon, but the guards are meeting a little ways into the woods.”

“No problem,” Bilbo says around a fresh bite. “I will finish this and get dressed quick enough. Then it’s off to say goodbye to Frodo, and to make sure Old George is sober enough to care for the lad, and then…” Bilbo pauses, thinking of what was scheduled for today.

Gandalf was to let the hobbit race know of his plan to travel back to The Shire. Bilbo was so eager to hear it, but he would not get to. He would be well on his way to Erebor before Gandalf even left Mirkwood.

He hums to himself, sighing.

“I wish you every happiness, my friend.” Tauriel says, voice a little tight as she speaks.

Bilbo sets his sandwich down and wraps his friend in a hug. “As do I, for you.”

(He feels an odd numbness in his limbs, but he ignores it. No time for that when he had to be gone within the hour.)

During the next half hour, Bilbo finishes his sandwich, says goodbye to Tauriel and Gilly, and changes into the pair of clothes he had set out last night—the only pair not in his luggage.

Underneath his clothes, he wears the first gift Thorin had given him—the chainlink of mirthil . Bilbo admits, the piece is so pretty he’s almost tempted to wear it without anything over it.

He is on his way to the infirmary when he is approached by Gandalf. The wizard looks tired, like he had not slept in days, but he always looked that way, so Bilbo thinks nothing of it.

“Hello, Gandalf.” Bilbo greets cheerfully, his sickness having faded away over the past thirty minutes.

“Hello, dear Bilbo!” Gandalf returns. “You are headed off to Erebor, are you not?”

“I am.” Bilbo sighs, hands finding their spots on the side of his thighs to tap rhythmically.

“Nervous?” Gandalf raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Bilbo shakes his head, frowning thoughtfully. “No, actually. I feel...fairly good.”

Gandalf nods. “Very good. Well, anyways. I only came to let you know that I will be staying here a day more. But do not fret, will be at your wedding, if I have to fight an army of orcs.” He chuckles.

Bilbo laughs a little as well. “Good! It will be comforting to have at least one familiar face at my wedding.” He says. “Oh, you have heard that I am leaving Frodo here? So he can get better, as his sickness still holds onto him, it appears.”

“I see,” Gandalf nods solemnly. “I do not know any better medicine than elvish medicine, and, well, magic . I am sure he will be better soon, and right back by your side.” Gandalf nods, so sure of it that it begins to sway Bilbo’s doubts.

“Well, I trust you, Gandalf.” Bilbo replies, smirking.

Gandalf nods and walks off, staff clicking on the cement of the Mirkwood paths.

Paths that Bilbo might not see again.

He begins back down his own trail, towards the infirmary.

When he arrives, he immediately spots a small crowd surrounding Frodo’s bed.

“Excuse me,” Bilbo nudges past Shalia so he can see Frodo.

His nephew looks perfectly fine, eyes bright and lips turned upwards in a large smile. Though, somehow, Bilbo can sense Frodo’s exhaustion. When Frodo raises his hand to grasp Bilbo’s, his wrist is relatively smaller than last Bilbo remembers.

“Uncle Bilbo! I am so glad to see you!” Frodo rubs his cheek against the cup of Bilbo’s hand, making Bilbo smile.

“I am just as glad, dear nephew.”

“Bilbo! Good to see you,” George’s unmistakable voice sounds behind him, happy and, fortunately, not slurred.

Bilbo turns, putting on his best I-am-in-a-good-mood-and-willing-to-conversate smile. “Hello, George.”

George’s mother, Helen, reaches forward and grasps Bilbo’s hands suddenly. There is a determined look in her eyes.

“I do promise, Bilbo, that I will take good care of Frodo until he is able to join you in Erebor.” She smiles. “I will make sure he is fed, bathed, and given something to do to keep him busy.”

“I will also help.” George puts in, voice a little muted.

“Oh, shush. You don’t have enough backbone to raise a child. You aren’t even married!” Helen lets go of Bilbo to reach back and give her son a smack on the arm.

“Mum!”

Bilbo chuckles as they bicker. He supposes, though he does not want to admit it, that these two will do. They have fighting spirit. Which, he thinks, is what he wants Frodo to have above everything.

He sits beside Frodo on the bed, and Shalia takes that as her cue to leave.

“It was a pleasure knowing you, Bilbo.” She whispers, trying not to disrupt anything, and then steps away.

Bilbo watches her go, then turns to Frodo. His nephew has already leaned his head against Bilbo’s shoulder, looking melancholy. An oddly complex look on such a faunt.

“I’m not going to Erebor, am I?” His voice is so small and weak, it reminds Bilbo of when he had cried about this entire arrangement, and his nephew had gotten that horribly sad look.

“Not right now, Frodo. But you will. I promise.” He meets Frodo’s eyes, a little guiltily.

After a moment, Frodo sighs. “Okay. Will you send me letters?”

“Everyday, my child.”

Frodo seems to like the new endearment, because he bursts into a smile and hugs Bilbo from the side.

//

The journey to Erebor is easy enough to travel, since the road is less a road and more a lake, until the mountain is reached.

Bilbo rides on a pony(which he rather enjoys, after a little getting used to it)all the way to the edge of the lake, from which he and the two elf guards load his luggage and begin the tread to Laketown.

The water is foggy and cold, making Bilbo soggy and irritable. But the she-elf in the boat, Holly, passes the time with stories of the adventures she’d been on and the places she’d seen. Bilbo listens intently, and for a moment it feels like he’s not in a cold, soppy boat, but in the warmth of Bree.

“Do not listen to her,” Horith, the other elf guard, clicks his tongue. He had been steering the boat in brooding silence, but now turns to give Holly an unpleasant look. “My sister likes to make up tales.”

“Not true—“

“She has never been farther than the Misty Mountains.” Horith winks at Bilbo as Holly begins sputtering curses in elvish.

They arrive in Laketown not long after the sun has sunk beneath the water. The moon brings a fierce chill, and Bilbo has to dawn an extra jacket. (The elves, of course, are warm and comfortable. Blasted elf powers.)

“We have already reserved a room at the inn. It is near the center of the town.” Holly motions down one of the wooden walkways vaguely, then turns back to the gate attendant.

Bilbo must look as lost as he feels, because Horith hands him one of his smaller bags with a smile. “We shall meet you there within the half hour. The room is under the name Durin. Go on.”

Durin? That is...Thorin’s family’s name, isn’t it?

Horith turns away from Bilbo.

“Alright.” Bilbo sniffs, rubbing his numb nose and turning. Thorin must have reserved the room for us. How...nice.

He sees few people on the docks, but the ones that he does come across are friendly, and return his hello’s happily enough.

Eventually, he reaches a tall, wooden structure. The hanging sign by the door reads The Boiling Preacher.

Interesting name , Bilbo thinks drily, before stepping into the tavern.

The place is booming, as expected, with men everywhere, and women in rather revealing dresses serving ale and hot food.

“Why hello there!” The tavern master leans over the counter, head tilted downward so he could meet Bilbo’s eyes.

“Hallo,” Bilbo greets. “I have a room reserved. Under the name, ahem, Durin?” He thinks his voice cracks when he says it, but the tavern master says nothing of it.

In fact, the man seems to turn nervous, suddenly. He plasters a huge smile on his face. “Oh, yes! It’s a suite with three beds. Here’s the key, your, ah, majesty.”

Bilbo takes it, licking his lips in befuddlement. “Oh, I’m not—“

“And let me carry your bag for you, sir!” The man comes around and picks up Bilbo’s bag—which, for a man, must be light as a feather—and begins leading Bilbo upstairs, where he assumes the rooms are.

Bilbo wonders if people will start treating him like this after he marries Thorin. Will he turn into some untouchable object, at least by the public? He supposes he hasn’t even given it much thought, like a lot of things, he’s realising.

The tavern master opens a door at the end of the hallway and pads in, setting Bilbo’s bag down on the smallest bed in the room. It’s hobbit sized, which surprises Bilbo.

“Here we are, your majesty. I assume the rest of your party will be arriving shortly?” He asks, bringing his hand up to dab at his forehead.

“Um, yes. Thank you for the help.” Bilbo says, a little unsteadily.

“Of course! Well, I shall leave you to it then, your majesty.”

The door closes, and Bilbo sighs.

This just keeps on getting better and better, doesn’t it?

//

The next morning, Bilbo wakes up anxious. There’s a cold, heavy weight in his stomach that makes him feel almost sick. It seems like it’s pushing up from the inside, and simultaneously pressing down from the outside.

He’s getting married tomorrow. And while he’s had more than enough time to process this, Bilbo finds that he isn’t so scared about the marriage part. He isn’t scared to ultimately sign his life away, just for a petty feud to be broken up. He’s marrying a king, for christ’s sake. Without even trying, he’s gaining a lifetime of ease and comfort, and someone kind enough to care for him. He isn’t fearful of the marriage itself, or it’s restrictions anymore.

No, Bilbo is terrified that he’ll be lacking in whatever it is that makes Thorin so appealing. That...awkward sincerity that seems to pour out in his letters, the thing that had softened Bilbo’s anger in a heartbeat.

All Bilbo has to his name are his cooking skills and a winning streak in conkers.

He skips breakfast, and as they travel the rest of the way across the lake, he does his absolute best to think of anything but Erebor.

“ You seem tense ,” Holly says as they reach land, shouldering one of Bilbo’s bags.

Horith is carrying most of Bilbo’s luggage, but they all split the load.

“That is an acute observation.” Bilbo bites back, unable to stop himself. He had no idea he would be this tense upon reaching the very mountain he was to spend the rest of his life. It appears that holding in his worries was not the wisest of choices.

“ Be at peace, dear Bilbo. ” Horith says. “ You are a brave hobbit. None of your kind would dare to go through with this. ”

“ I didn’t agree to this, I’ll have you know .” Bilbo grumbles, as he uses a large rock to haul himself up the gravelly path. “ Your king found me suitable for the arrangement and immediately sought me out. I did not have time to ask many questions .”

He watches as Holly and Horith exchange glances. When they offer nothing but pitying looks, he turns and continues the upward climb in silence.

If Bilbo is being honest with himself, he isn’t completely anxiety ridden. The squeeze in his gut is also because of his excitement. He can not wait to see the wedding. The banquet hall, the feast. Bilbo, no matter the circumstances, was a hobbit. Even in the worst of times, he would love parties.

The day slips through his fingertips, and before he knows it, they are fast approaching the outskirts of Dale.

The town, even from outside, looks vibrant and welcoming. The towers and tops of buildings are tiled with red stone, neatly placed. The brick of the buildings are an odd cream, and he can hear the people inside, bustling about happily.

A prosperous civilisation , Gandalf had told him. For it lays in front of the wealthiest kingdom in Middle Earth.

“I have never been so far east.” Holly mutters, eyes wide.

Horith chuckles, but he seems too distracted to chide her. His eyes are also scanning the town.

Bilbo finds it amusing that even elves are humbled by simple beauty. Amusing...and endearing.

“State your names and business!” A guard who stands before the city gate calls out, even before they’ve reached the entryway.

“I am Holly, from Mirkwood. This is my brother, Horith. And this,” She motions to Bilbo, nudging him forward a bit. “Is Bilbo Baggins. We are passing through to Erebor.”

Both of the guards suddenly take cautious steps forward, seeming to figure out exactly who Bilbo is.

“Thorin Oakenshield is already waiting at the eastern entrance.” One of them says, voice a little strained.

“Your majesty.” The other one adds.

Bilbo does his best not to laugh, but it’s a little hard. Everyone turns so tense when they discover he is Thorin’s intended. He wonders why.

“Very well. Thank you.” Horith ushers Bilbo and Holly forward, and they pass through the gate and into Dale.

Bilbo does not have much time to admire the city, because Horith hurries them through without preamble, stopping for no one. Even through the elf’s rush, Bilbo does manage to spot some things of interest.

A market, right in the center of town, filled with all kinds of stalls. It can not be any earlier than six o’clock in the evening, but the center is packed. There were dozens of people—of all races and types, too, which Bilbo finds endlessly charming. He spots dwarves, elves, humans, and even a hobbit or two.

Bilbo would have stopped to say hi, but Horith does not loosen his grip on his shoulder.

They reach the east gate within five minutes, and right where the cobblestone path of Dale begins, there are five ponies, two horses, and three dwarves.

One looks older, and seasoned. He has a long beard of silver, that is groomed to perfection. Another, to the right, has braids in his beard and no hair on the top of his head—just tattoos. The third dwarf is one that Bilbo already knows, or at least, thinks he does.

Thorin Oakenshield, in person, is different than Bilbo expected, and yet exactly what he had pictured. His hair is loose and wavy, like in the drawing. It is dark and beautiful, like a starless night. The silver streaks in it do nothing to dull the shininess. There are braids hanging from the strands around his temples, and silver beads woven into them. His face, which Bilbo finds his eyes lingering on the longest, is square, handsome, and holds a rather cold expression.

He does not look to meet Bilbo’s gaze.

“We do hope your journey was safe.” The silver bearded dwarf is the first and only one to dismount and make his way over, offering a hand in greeting.

Bilbo is expecting a handshake, but the dwarves hand reaches higher, until he is grasping Bilbo’s forearm tightly. He thinks nothing of it and squeezes back.

“It was, thank you.” Bilbo says, doing his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach as Thorin still refuses to even look in his direction.

“I am Balin. Advisor of the soon to be king, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin.” Balin’s eyes turn to face Thorin, and it is only then when the “king” looks at Bilbo and his company.

“Welcome, all.” He nods, extending a hand in a symbol of respect. But he fails to so much as glance at Bilbo.

Bilbo feels the rising irritation build in his stomach, but he does not say anything.

“That there is Dwalin, captain of the guard. He is our escort.” Balin supplies, voice light and happy. He either does not sense the tension between Bilbo and Thorin, or chooses to ignore it in favour of piling on the niceties.

“It is a pleasure to meet all of you.” Holly says.

“Indeed.” Horith agrees, a trace of a smile adorning his lips.

“Will you be staying the night in Erebor? We did bring horses, in case.” Balin motions to said horses.

Horith raises a hand. “No, Master Dwarf. We are to report back to Mirkwood immediately. Thank you for the hospitality.”

Balin inclines his head, then turns and gives Bilbo and the elves some space, sensing goodbyes where in order.

Bilbo turns, unsure what to say. He had not known Holly or Horith extensively, but he supposes traveling for a day and a half together had forced a sort of bond upon them.

So, Bilbo sighs and bows his head to each of them, the elven way to express affection. “It has been a pleasure, Holly. Horith.” He presses his lips together.

“We feel the same, dear Bilbo.” Holly smiles.

“Good luck.” Horith winks.

They help load Bilbo’s luggage onto an extra pony, and before he knows it, they are turning and jogging off back into Dale. He watches them until he can not see them, and then feels the cold in his chest spread to his stomach.

He is truly alone, now. No more familiar faces.

Still, he turns with a smile, and climbs onto his pony with practised ease. Thorin leads their group, and they ride steadily towards the entrance to Erebor.

Bilbo has not yet noticed it, but the gate is visible as day from where he is. The gate is tall and green, with intricate window design and a bridge to close the cavern between the mountain and the entrance. It’s beautiful, Bilbo must admit, though he knows the inside is probably a hundred times more beautiful.

Bilbo’s eyes trail from the gate to Thorin, who is whispering to Dwalin. He seems rather upset about something, and is hissing in a language Bilbo does not recognise.

“Do not take Thorin’s coldness as a bad sign, laddie.” Balin is suddenly close to him, smiling a little mischievously.

Bilbo startles, licking his lips. “S-Sorry, what?”

Balin chuckles. “Thorin is not acknowledging you, and I can see it pains you. But do not fret, it is for good reason.”

He nods to Thorin, who seems to have finished his conversation with Dwalin, and is now riding in brooding silence.

“The reason, then?” Bilbo raises an eyebrow, his anger sizzling in his veins.

“It is dwarven tradition to avoid their intended the day before the wedding.” Balin supplies, looking all too amused at Bilbo’s bristling. “They are not to speak, nor even see each other. He, of course, had to make do, since it was only natural he would have to come and retrieve you. I am surprised he did not mention it in your letters.”

Bilbo blinks, processing the information. Then, slowly, he finds himself getting a little amused as well. “So he isn’t cross?” He asks.

This gets a chortle from Balin. “Cross? Aye, laddie, he is rather cross, that he can’t speak with you. He has been going on about meeting you for weeks. Ever since you sent the honey bread.”

Bilbo chuckles a little awkwardly. “I suppose the best way to a dwarf’s heart is, ah, through his stomach?”

Balin laughs.

Thorin turns suddenly, and says something in a harsh tone to Balin. His eyes stay trained on Balin, and Bilbo takes the moment to gaze at Thorin’s face. He seems upset, but also a little embarrassed. Bilbo guesses Balin had overshared a little.

Bilbo can already tell he and Balin are going to be good mates.

//

None of Gandalf’s words or Bilbo’s own imagination could have prepared him for the beauty of Erebor. The walls and paths alone were a majesty, made of pure emerald-colour marble. Then, as Bilbo had been led further in, gold plating—everywhere. Dwarves everywhere, all occupied with something or other—jobs or business. The air was thick and hot, which Bilbo suspected was from the forges.

The forges, where Balin said they forged the most beautiful jewellery, trinkets, and weapons. Bilbo had wanted to see, but had been led away.

It was all so gorgeous, and overwhelmingly so. Bilbo had been dropped off in his overnight room in a daze.

“You will stay here for tonight. Tomorrow, after the wedding, your things will be moved to Thorin’s chambers.” Balin motions to the room, lips pressed together in reminiscence of a smile.

“Understood.” Bilbo replies, setting this things down on the carpet by the bed. The room is spacious, with a mirror, a bed, a closet, and even a sitting chair.

Balin leaves silently and swiftly, like he has other things to attend to. Bilbo supposes he probably does, since he is the royal advisor.

Bilbo sorts through his bags until he finds his wedding clothes, placing them neatly on the edge of the bed. He had made sure to wash the outfit until it smelled like lilac and nothing else. Now, thinking on it, the smell would probably be lost with all the floral decorations.

He vaguely acknowledges that he’s hungry, but feels far more tired than anything. Besides, sleep may help calm him. Hopefully.

Bilbo climbs into bed and under the covers, then reaches out to blow the bedside candle out.

That is when he notices the note. He recognises the handwriting immediately, and his heart skips a beat.

See you tomorrow, Bilbo Baggins.

It was such a small note—such a tease, really—but it makes him feel happy.

A little sad, as well.

It may be the last time he will see his last name on paper.

//

“Rise and shine!”

Bilbo awakes to a bright, rather loud voice. He feels rested enough, but vaguely irritated. He usually wakes on his own terms.

When he opens his eyes, all the candles in the room are lit.

“It’s a nice morning, is it not? Perfect day for a wedding.”

Bilbo finally manages to wake himself up enough to sit up and meet the eyes of the dwarf assailing him.

“Good morning.” He says, frowning slightly.

“Good morning. Happy Durin’s Day.” The dwarf smiles brightly.

They look like a female, for the most part. Bilbo can asses as much from the voice and the clothing, but the one thing that bothers him—the dwarf has a beard. Last he checked, females did not have beards. Perhaps it was different for dwarves? How was Bilbo supposed to know?

“Happy-Happy Durin’s day.” Bilbo returns, rather confusedly. “Who...ahem, who are you, then?” He sits up a little straighter, pulling the covers over his lap a bit more.

The dwarf laughs, hearty and joyous. Their appearance reminds him of…

“I am Dis, daughter of Thráin...sister of Thorin .” She places her hands on her hips. “And as of today, the person who is going to get you ready for the big day.”

“Oh.” Is all Bilbo can think of to say.

“Well, come on, now. Get out of bed! We must get you fed and bathed! I already have Bombur preparing your food, and Bofur is heating the water for the bath—“ Dis rambles on, leaving Bilbo with nothing to do except gather his clothes and join her by the door.

“Shall I just leave my things,” He motions to the room. “Here?”

“Of course! Now we really must be—“ She pauses upon seeing the neatly folded clothes in Bilbo’s arms. “You’ve brought your own clothes for the wedding?”

Bilbo is taken back by the question. “Yes?”

Dis takes them from Bilbo and unfolds them, clicking her tongue. “These are far too plain for a wedding, Master Baggins.”

“Are they?” Bilbo asks, feeling both insulted and nervous. “They are the nicest things I own.”

“Well, they are nice, dear, but we dwarves do like to fancy ourselves up for weddings. With gold, and proper robes.” Dis pauses, pursing her lips. She seems to take notice of the displeased face Bilbo is making, for she smirks. “I am sorry if I have offended you. The pants should work, I think—“

“The waistcoat carries meaning,” Bilbo cuts in, licking his lips. “The buttons were a courting gift from Thorin. I wanted to wear it.” He meets Dis’s eyes, a certain stubbornness coming over him. “In fact, if you don’t mind, I’d like to wear the whole outfit. I understand this is a dwarvish wedding, but can I not bring some hobbit tradition into it?” Bilbo drags his fingers over the cloth of the undershirt.

The entire outfit meant something. The pants were passed down from his father—what he had worn to his wedding. The golden coloured undershirt was directly from The Shire. It had been sent in and saved by his mother, for future times. And of course, the red waistcoat had his intended’s buttons sewn into them.

Dis smiles, suddenly, handing the clothes back to Bilbo. “You are right, Master Hobbit. What was I thinking?” She chuckles.

Bilbo smiles, refolding his clothes and then rocking on his heels. “Shall we get going, then?”

That snaps Dis out of her sentimental state, and she leaps back into hyperactive mode. “Oh, yes! Breakfast, then bath. Let’s get on with it!”

Dis leads Bilbo through the halls, where dwarf after dwarf comes rushing past. They all seem in some great hurry to do something.

Bilbo tries to greet them, but is only ever greeted with a quick, “Happy Durin’s Day!” And then they are gone.

Eventually, they make it to a room with a high ceiling and a large table in the center. There are at least two dozen seats, but only two of them are taken. There are three plates, though, piping hot and steaming in the cool air.

“Mamma!” One of the guests at the table—a small boy with dark hair—gets up and runs over to Dis, grinning.

Dis, on the other hand, looks unpleasantly surprised. “Kíli! Did I not tell you and your brother to be gone before I got back?”

The child—Kíli—looks down in shame. “We just wanted to meet him,” His eyes flicker to Bilbo.

The other child, seemingly a little older than Kili, strolls over. “Yeah, ama. We know uncle can not see him, but that doesn’t mean we can’t.”

The dwarf comes up to Bilbo, ignoring his mother’s gawking face, and extends his hand. This time, Bilbo knows to reach further and grasp the dwarf’s forearm.

“I’m Fíli, son of Víli.” He can’t be any older than ten, in hobbit terms. He isn’t sure how fast dwarves age, though.

“I’m Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo smiles, charmed by the two younglings.

“We know who you are!” Kíli says, beaming as he approaches Bilbo and offers his arm. “We’ve been waiting forever to meet you. I’m Kíli.”

Fíli frowns. “Son of—“

“He already knows we’re brothers!”

“Well now he does! He doesn’t know us!”

“You knew we were brothers, right, Mr. Boggins?” Kíli gives him a hopeful look, full of childlike pleading.

Bilbo chuckles. “Well—“

“Shush, shush.” Dís shoos her sons away, looking amused. “I suppose we can’t take back the fact that he’s seen you, but you’d best be letting him eat. Is Bombur still around? I’m sure he’d love to meet Bilbo.”

Fíli and Kíli both clamber back into their seats, both situated on the left side of the head chair. The extra plate sits across from Fíli’s seat—exactly to the right from the head chair.

Bilbo sits, taking a hesitant bite of the food before him. (It appears to be meat, but is...crunchy when he bites into it. Not unpleasantly so.)

“It’s seared nug.” Dís informs him, taking a seat beside Kíli.

“N-Nug?” Bilbo repeats. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a dwarven dish, that’s why!” Another voice cuts through the relative stillness of the room, save for Fíli and Kíli eating vigorously.

Dís turns, immediately smiling. “Bofur! Where’s Bombur gone?”

The new dwarf—Bofur, apparently—wears a floppy hat that Bilbo finds rather odd, and has a gentle, kind face. He regards Bilbo with the humour most of the dwarves seem to, then turns back to Dís.

“Bombur’s gone to make sure last minute food arrangements are underway for the wed—“ He stops, waving a hand. Of course, it barely even needs to be said what the food is for. Then, he turns to Bilbo. “Hello, Master Hobbit. You’re all anybodies talking about. Except for, you know, Durin’s Day.”

“No one’s talking about Durin’s Day.” Fíli pipes up around a mouthful of bread. “Even the hobbits are making a big deal of Uncle Bilbo. They’ve all but forgotten Durin’s Day celebrations!” Fíli seems rather upset, but Dís chuckles, leaning over the table.

“The hobbits of Erebor have grown rather attached to the holiday,” She supplies. “But ever since word spread that Thorin was to take a husband on the same day, no one’s been preparing for Durin’s Day —“ She giggles. “Just Thorin and Bilbo’s Wedding .”

Bilbo finds himself turning pink at the words. He shifts in his seat. “It has just occurred to me, Dís, that I have yet to see these hobbits of Erebor you speak of.” Humour laces with his tone, and he cocks his head to the side with a smile. “Why is that?”

“They’re all in the banquet hall, already.” Kíli says. “Don’t want to miss Uncle Thorin or Uncle Bilbo!”

Bilbo can hardly resist the combined happiness and longing he feels when Kíli and Fíli call him Uncle. If things had turned out different, Frodo might be here now, conversing with Thorin’s sister sons. Enjoying the odd, yet delicious new foods. Seeing Erebor, and loving every part of it.

He sighs.

“You all finished with your food, then?” Dís asks, eyes on Bilbo’s relatively empty plate.

“I suppose,” Bilbo says, knowing that the day must continue, though he would rather stay here and eat nug and listen to Fíli and Kíli argue all morning, afternoon, and night.

“Up you pop then. Bofur will take you to the baths, and then you shall meet me outside the wedding hall. Must get this show on the road, yes?” Dís smiles widely, winking.

Bilbo returns it best he can, the anxiousness from yesterday returning, but not as fierce.

“Come along,” Bofur smiles, opening the door to the hall.

Bilbo collects his clothes from the chair beside him and follows Bofur. They pass more hurrying dwarves, all wishing Bilbo and Bofur a happy Durin’s Day.

“So, after the wedding, will there be traditional celebrations? For—“

“For Durin’s Day? Yes,” Bofur nods. “The ceremony is a private affair for family and close friends only, but the banquet is open to the public.” He explains.

Bilbo finds that Bofur motions with his hands, similar to Bilbo himself. It makes him smile.

“But at the banquet, there will be proper Durin’s Day things going on. Food, ale, desserts. As well as wedding things—presents and congratulations—the works.” Bofur nods as he speaks, obviously well versed with the in’s and out’s of today.

Bilbo hardly knew anything past the wedding and the food. He supposes he should have asked Thorin, when he had the chance.

They arrive at the baths only moments after, and Bilbo allows himself all of ten seconds to marvel at the fanciness of a simple bathroom.

The marble, as opposed to the usual dark marble of the outside halls, is a light cream colour. There are pillars that stand at the corner of each bath, and to the left, right, and front of Bilbo are entryways to even more baths. The pipes that surround each tub are astounding—golden, naturally, and embedded with crystals that shine like stars.

“Incredible.” Is all Bilbo has the wit to say.

Bofur chuckles. “Aren’t they? Well, anyways. No one should be bathing anytime soon, they’re all at the banquet or the Hall of King’s. There is no rush, you have an hour or so before the wedding is the start. I’ve prepared the bath to the left, there,” Bofur points. “I’ll be outside,” He motions to the doorway, and then slips out silently, save for the clack of his boots.

Bilbo walks further into the room, taking the far bath to the left. He sets his clothes down on the steps, and begins to unbutton his own clothing.

As Bilbo gets into the water, he finds it’s pleasantly hot. He exhales shakily, feeling some of the tension in his bones seep away. For a moment or two, he just leans against the marble tub and soaks, thinking of nothing but the pleasant heat surrounding him.

When he looks for soap, he finds various bottles of it and oils on the side of the tub. Bilbo frowns thoughtfully. This may be the most luxurious bath he will ever take, he thinks.

Bilbo sniffs the first vial—a soap for the hair, judging by the thickness of it. It smells musty and thick, not a preferred scent by him.

The elves did use regular soap for their hair, because of the acidity. They were always so picky about how their long flowing locks looked, so they created their own soap, that moistened the strands while also washing the dirt away. Bilbo had no idea he’d find the same type here in Erebor.

The next vial is of the same nature, but the smell is more natural. He smells pine, and dirt, and oak bark in it. I like this one , he thinks, pouring some into his palm and scrubbing it into his hair.

After washing the soap out, he moves down the line.

The next three items are bars, of varying shades. The first is a pale yellow, and smells of lemon. The second is brown, and permeates the air before it even reaches Bilbo’s nose—sandalwood. He sets it down. The third is cream, and it almost blends into the marble stone. He picks it up, and smiles immediately. It smells like honey, or at least something similar. Sugary and sweet, with just a hint of spice.

He lathers it into his skin, feeling rather special. Funny how a few fancy soaps could do that to him.

Bilbo is stepping out of the water soon after, using a clean rag that is folded off to the side to dry off. He dresses at a moderate pace, knowing that the peaceful atmosphere will be broken just as soon as he steps out of this room.

When he’s dressed—waistcoat still unbuttoned—he finds an oil to his liking(it smells of the body soap he’d used) and rubs it into his feet.

He’d always been very keen on keeping his feet presentable, as were all hobbits. Bilbo hadn’t gotten the chance to clean them properly since they’d departed Mirkwood, and he was glad to be able to treat himself with frivolous oils.

The thought of Mirkwood pulls him right back into the state of this morning—missing Frodo. But now, he finds himself thinking further. He hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to everyone he may have wished too, even if he wasn’t so close to many people. He’d seen Tauriel, and Legolas the night before, and Frodo. But even more than the people, Bilbo finds himself missing the grey, stony paths of Mirkwood.

No, miss couldn’t be the right word, could it? He’d never liked it there, not really. It had become home, but had never felt the same as his vague memories of The Shire. Hobbiton, as Bilbo recalled, felt sunny and warm. Mirkwood was always so cold and empty.

And yet, Bilbo feels an odd tug in his stomach just thinking of it. His room. The kitchen, the garden, the weaponry. He had made a life there, whether he was willing to admit he enjoyed it or not.

Bilbo blinks the stinging in his eyes away, then gathers his soiled clothes and exits the bathroom.

Chapter Text

Bofur leads Bilbo deeper into Erebor, down into the darkness and heat. He hears the distant clanging of metal against metal, and sees bright fire dancing against the stone walls.

“There aren’t many working right now,” Bofur says, still descending, step after step.

Vaguely, Bilbo registers he’ll have to climb all these steps later. Upwards. He ignores the thought.

“All at the banquet hall, I’d imagine?” Bilbo asks, less a question than a statement.

He’s really barely paying attention, anymore. His stomach feels tight. His head spins. There’s pressure in his throat, and a burning sensation.

Bofur notices. He smiles a little sadly.

“Cold feet?”

The stairs stop, and they begin over a pathway that is far above the deepest parts of Erebor.

“That is an understatement.” Bilbo’s meaningfully angry tone bleeds into an almost hysterical giggle as he speaks. He clears his throat in an attempt to claim his dignity, clenching and unclenching his fists.

Bofur hums affirmatively. He doesn’t speak, or try to comfort Bilbo. Oddly, it works to comfort him more than he would have thought. All the others—Holly, Horith, Gandalf, Legolas, Tauriel—had been insistent on making him feel better. They had meant well, of course. But Bilbo thinks that maybe this isn’t something that can be comforted. This is his burden, and he intends to carry it alone. It’s not as if anyone can help him, anyways.

(He thinks perhaps he’s drawing this out far too much, so he forces his mind blank.)

Bilbo trains his eyes on the pale grey of the path, thinking of nothing but the monotonous colour.

In no time at all, to Bilbo’s dismay, they arrive before a huge set of doors. They are as extravagant as everything else in Erebor; made of silver and gold, and embedded with jewels.

Bilbo thinks that maybe the jewels would shine much brighter with natural sunlight glinting through them. But the only light inside the mountain is from the oil lamps and the fires from the forges.

Dís stands expectantly, a handful of flowers in her hands.

“Lilacs.” Bilbo breathes, almost unbelieving. He hasn’t set his eyes on flowers in ages.

“For you to hold. Down the aisle.” Dís holds them out. “We did research on Westron traditions—and by research, I mean that we asked the hobbits—and made arrangements for some of them in the ceremony. Having only dwarven traditions would have been unfair, wouldn’t it?” She smiles sheepishly.

“Thank you,” Bilbo says, taking the flowers and biting his lip.

Thorin had mentioned adding flowers into the ceremony, on Bilbo’s behalf, but he hadn’t thought they’d add much more Westron traditions into it. It piques Bilbo’s interest in seeing the hall, but he simultaneously feels like he’s about to throw up his organs.

“Well then. We are due to start about now,” Dís turns to Bofur, who nods in confirmation. “Are you ready, Master Baggins?” She extends her elbow.

“I—” Bilbo swallows, feeling the absolute terror of it all washing over him.

For god’s sake , he thinks. You’ve drawn this out long enough.

Marrying a king—the king of the wealthiest kingdom in Middle Earth—was not something he should consider a great peril. He would be cared for. Frodo would be cared for.

Bilbo glances down at the lilacs in his hands.

Dís lets her arm fall back to her side, and makes an odd clicking sound. It’s somewhere between displeased and guilty.

“Thorin told you he did not know what they meant, did he not?” Dís asks, taking a step closer to Bilbo and motioning to the flowers.

He nods.

“They represent loves first emotions.” She clarifies. An odd smile fills her face, like she’s remembering something bittersweet. Bilbo can practically see shadows of the past as they dance in her eyes.

“A relationship—arranged or otherwise—only works when both parties are trying. You have to try to make it work, or it’ll fall apart.” Dís places a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “My husband and I were also pushed into an arranged marriage. We were very different, at first glance.” She chuckles, a hint of sadness tainting her tone. “I was outspoken and brash, while he was calm and level headed.” She lowers her voice and bumps her hip to Bilbo’s. “Bordering on shy, really.”

They both chuckle.

“I wanted to hate him,” Dís meets Bilbo’s wide eyes, her face grim. “I felt like my life was slipping out from under me. It was all so unfair, I thought. I’m the princess, I should be allowed to choose my beloved!” Her gaze softens. “But...after I got past my stubbornness, I realised that my life would be more miserable than it had to be if I did not attempt to build a relationship.”

“So what did you do?” Bilbo asks, a little breathless.

Dís suddenly beams, big and bright enough to outshine all the gold in Erebor. “I spoke to him. We exchanged our stories. I made it work, Mister Baggins. He made it work. We tried hard, and together, we made a love that continues to live on, even as he lies in his grave.” There it is again, those shadows passing over her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo tries. “But you two sound...perfect.”

“Aye,” Bofur agrees, and when Bilbo turns, he sees his guide smiling softly. “They were perfect for each other. Many dwarven couples grew jealous of their unbreakable bond, even.”

“Oh, shush, you,” Dís chuckles, tone conveying embarrassment, but her fond look betrays her.

Bilbo feels...not exactly not nervous, but possibly a bit more prepared to steel himself through the evening. Dís seems to have an uncanny ability to calm him, wether by kind words or a soothing look. Yavanna, they barely even know each other, and Bilbo already feels as if he can confide in her.

Furthermore, the fact that Dís had been able to create a love between herself and her intended gives Bilbo just the smallest bit of hope.

“Thank you.” He says, firmly.

Dís turns, shaking her head a little, but still smiling, and then leans in, pressing her forehead against Bilbo’s.

He exhales rather sharply.

“Thorin will try if you do. You two will be happy together, I know it.” She leans away, and offers her elbow again. “Shall we, Bilbo?”

Bofur places a hand over his mouth, smiling softly behind it.

Bilbo wonders if that forehead touch had meant more than he knew. Either way, it is hard to ignore the warmth that pools in his belly. He recognises the feeling as fondness as he takes Dís’s arm.

“As ready as I shall ever be, Dís.”

//

When Bofur opens the doors, Bilbo forgets himself for a moment.

The first thing he notices are the decorations on the ceiling. There are boards stretching across the expanse of the room, flowers hanging off them—all the ones Thorin had spoken of. Chrysanthemums, cornflowers, daffodils, dahlias, and more lilacs. But in the midst of all the natural plants,  Bilbo sees gold, silver, and jewels. The clumps of wealth are shaped and crafted into flowers, gleaming brightly even from the floor.

His eyes trail down, where lanterns of all colours(but most prominently in blue)hang, illuminating the space in warm light.

There aren’t many people present, just as Thorin had warned him. Maybe twenty, though Bilbo thinks less. They’re all standing, and smiling at Bilbo as Dís leads him towards the front of the room. (He admits he’s so distracted by the sights that she’s practically dragging him forward.)

The crowd parts before them as they walk.

When they reach the front of the room, and the last of the crowd clears, Bilbo spots Gandalf. He immediately feels himself lift—a familiar face!

Then, a little to the side, he sees Thorin.

The king is clad with robes. His cape is fastened with a golden clip, and there are beautifully etched designs on the cloth. There really is more gold than Bilbo can trace, sewn into Thorin’s shirt, his trousers, his boots. Woven into his beard are jewels, similar to the ones that hang from the ceiling. Thorin’s hair is free of any braids at all, which Bilbo finds odd, since yesterday there had been two, and all the other dwarves had many in their hair at all times.

But overall, Thorin looks much more fancy than Bilbo feels. He regrets not taking up Dís’s offer on clothing.

There are baskets of daisies surrounding them. Some are scattered on the floor, misshapen, but others are arranged in bundles. To share someone’s feelings , Bilbo recalls the meaning.

Dís lets go of his arm and gestures for him to join Thorin.

“Good luck.” She whispers, then takes her place in the front of the crowd of dwarves, smiling.

Bilbo isn’t fond of the silent hall. It makes everything so much more intense. At a hobbit wedding, there would be music playing. People clapping. Birds and crickets chirping. Something would have filled the silence.

Nevertheless, he places himself a foot or so away from Thorin, doing his best to look like he’s comfortable.

Which I am , he attempts to convince himself.

Gandalf stands to his left, and it strikes Bilbo’s mind that the wizard is going to officiate his wedding.

He almost laughs out loud.

Thorin seeks his eyes, unlike yesterday, and smiles. It’s small, and unsure, but it makes Bilbo feel warm. He supposes he isn’t the only one that’s nervous.

They stand in silence for a few moments before Gandalf speaks.

“We are gathered here today to witness these two souls, and two clans, unite.” He leans down, to Bilbo’s surprise, within a group of daisies, and lifts a hammer. It’s large and made of iron, from what Bilbo can figure, and everyone suddenly becomes very serious.

The dwarves surge forward and form a circle around Thorin and Bilbo.

Bilbo shifts a little in surprise, and meets Thorin’s eyes, out of instinct. He immediately regrets it, as Thorin wears a smirk.

It’s okay, He mouths, looking a little sympathetic, but mostly amused.

Sod off, Bilbo mouths back, embarrassment coursing through his blood.

Thorin looks away, but his mouth quivers, like he’s attempting to hide a grin.

Gandalf places the hammer back on the ground, and then raises his hand in Thorin’s direction.

Thorin steps forward, over to Bilbo, who feels his heart rising to his throat.

The crowd begins to cheer— finally some noise—as Thorin’s feet carry him in a wide circle around Bilbo.

Bilbo isn’t sure what it represents, but he guesses it’s something special from the uproarious hollars and laughs that surround him.

As Thorin brushes behind Bilbo, he whispers, “Center of the circle, Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo complies, and ignores the shudder that makes its way up his spine at his full name falling from Thorin’s lips. It’s enticing in a way he can’t explain.

Even when Thorin finally makes his full round, and takes his place directly in front of Bilbo, the cheers do not fade. It almost seems like the dwarves are attempting to out-yell each other, as if it’s a competition of who is the most happy.

Bilbo finds himself chuckling a little, watching the dwarves shouting praises and well-wishes. Thorin smiles too, eyes meeting Bilbo’s.

“You’re very different from your picture.” Bilbo says, almost deaf to his own ears above the crowd.

“How so?” Thorin replies, eyes squinting slightly.

“I think it’s the eyes,” Bilbo says, very solemnly, motioning vaguely. “A lot more dramatic in person.”

Thorin laughs quietly.

Bilbo grins.

It takes a few more minutes for the cheers to stop, and for the room to settle.

Gandalf steps forward once more, the crowd making way for him. His eyes meet Bilbo’s for a moment, and he winks. Then he faces Thorin.

“Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrar, do you accept Bilbo Baggins into your halls?”

Thorin steps forward and kneels before Gandalf,  pressing his right hand to his chest, flat against his heart. “I do. I thank you for the honour and privilege.” He stands, makes his way back to Bilbo, and extends his hands.

Bilbo swallows, glancing back and forth between Thorin and Gandalf for a moment. Then, with a nod from the wizard, he grasps both of Thorin’s hands in his own. They’re rough and calloused, from some type of work, Bilbo imagines. A sharp contrast to his softer fingers with only a few rough spots, from kitchen burns and the like.

Thorin’s thumb brushes over Bilbo’s, and he meets his eyes with importance.

“Blessed are you Mahal who has created everything for the glory of Eru.” He says. His voice is gruff and sharp, and booms in a different way than Gandalf’s. “Blessed are you Mahal who fashioned the earth, the mountains and the hills.”

Bilbo begins to understand that these must be dwarven blessings—a prayer of sorts. Is he expected to say something as well? He might be able to draw some words up.

Our mother, who art in heaven…oh, bloody hell.

“Blessed are you Mahal who fashioned the gems and metals in the heart of the mountain. Blessed are you Mahal who fashioned the dwarves and the seven houses.” Thorin gives Bilbo’s left hand a squeeze, as a reassurance. “Blessed are you Mahal who gladdens our Halls through his children.” His eyes seem to pierce straight through Bilbo’s. “Blessed are you Mahal...who gladdens groom and groom.”

There are cheers, but they halt more quickly than the last ones.

Bilbo has absolutely no idea what he’s to say—in a hobbit ceremony, there would be a priest doing all the blessing and good wishing. The ones marrying were expected to say no more than “I do” and their vows.

Luckily, Thorin seems to understand this, for he quickly speaks again. “In my Halls you will find a house, in your heart I will find a home.”

Bilbo’s heart flutters.

Gandalf clears his throat. “You may now present your own vows, Bilbo.”

He straightens, letting out a quick puff of air.

He remembers wedding vows from the various weddings in Mirkwood.

“I take you to be my husband,” Bilbo begins, voice betraying him and shaking a little. He clears his throat as discreetly as he can before continuing.

Thorin has the gall to hide a snicker.

“I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad,” Bilbo tries to sound more firm, chasing away Thorin’s moment of mirth. “In sickness and in health.” His nose twitches, and one corner of his mouth pulling up. An awful nervous tick, but he sees Thorin smiling softly. He meets Thorin’s eyes with the same intensity that Thorin had met his with. “I will love you and honour you for all the days of my life.”

I will try to make this work, so it won’t fall apart.

There are various happy sighs from the crowd, and Bilbo sees Dís dabbing at the corners of her eyes.

He wonders why people are so emotional. He supposes he might cry at a wedding himself if he knew both people, and knew how right they were for each other. But no one knew Bilbo, and much less if he and Thorin would be good for one another.

Thorin looks very overjoyed, though, contrary to the way Bilbo feels.

Gandalf reaches out and drops something in Thorin’s hand, then turns to Bilbo.

The ring that falls in Bilbo’s palm is plain and gold, but beautiful all the same. He looks up and sees Thorin holding his own ring up, raising his eyebrows. Bilbo bites the inside of his cheek, and offers Thorin his left hand.

The ring slides onto his finger easily, and Bilbo wonders who had made the ring, and how they’d known his size. (It hardly matters, anyways.) His ring has dwarvish markings, unlike Thorin’s plain one, and the imprints gleam in the yellow light of the hall.

Bilbo takes Thorin’s hand and slides his respective ring on.

It feels intimate. As Bilbo looks up and meets Thorin’s eyes, he feels like they’re the only two people on the earth. The feelings of butterflies still lie in his stomach, but he can’t pinpoint where they change from dread to excitement. Breathless has stayed so long that he’s beginning to think he will never be able to catch his breath.

“Let it be known, from this day forth,” Gandalf says, voice filling the entire room in its grandness.

Dramatic wizard , Bilbo thinks rather fondly.

“That Thorin Oakenshield has accepted Bilbo Baggins into the line of Durin, and will care for him, now and forever.”

A pint of frothy ale is suddenly handed to Bilbo by a rather plump, red haired dwarf. The dwarf grins, hardly giving Bilbo a moment to smile back, and then disappears into the crowd.

The king has one as well when he looks up. Thorin leans forward, and for a fleeting moment of mixed emotions, Bilbo is sure their about to kiss. Only natural for a wedding, of course, but his blood freezes.

“ Asti zi abnâmul .” Thorin says gently, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against Bilbo’s. His eyes remain wide open, holding Bilbo’s gaze.

Bilbo wants to ask what Thorin means, but Thorin leans away and knocks their ales together with an easy grin. So Bilbo exhales shakily, smiles back shakily, and chugs.

More cheers ring throughout the room.

//

The ceremony had been the hard part, Bilbo comes to realise.

As soon as Bilbo enters the banquet hall, Thorin on his arm, there are more shouts of approval. Though the dwarves make up a large portion of the noise, Bilbo is delighted to find that the creatures cheering the loudest are the hobbits of Erebor.

It’s a pleasure he can not explain, seeing an abundance of his people there in the hall. It feels, for a moment, that he is back in Mirkwood, at his party, surrounded by very distant relatives and good food.

The hall itself is decorated in a similar manner to the wedding, with flowers hanging from the ceiling, and various displays of gold and diamond. There is a deep crimson carpet trailing the floor, and white cloth on the single table—which is endless in expanse. There are hobbits and dwarves alike eating, all merry and lively.

Bilbo’s mouth waters just looking at the different plates of hot food. There is a myriad of meat selections, but he does manage to spot a few platters with greens(no doubt the work of insistent hobbits). Towards the end of the table, far down, are two large seats, made of delicate wood.

Indeed, this part of Bilbo’s wedding has yet to fail him.

“I did not get to ask you yesterday,” Thorin says into his ear, as they walk down towards the opposite end of the hall. As they pass, many glasses are raised in their direction. “But where is Frodo?”

Bilbo feels a pang of guilt wash through him, cold and heavy. Here he was, worrying himself with something he should have resigned himself to weeks ago, while his poor little hobbit was back with the elves, most likely wishing he was here.

It’s not like Bilbo was dying. This bloody hall—filled with riches and food—was proof of that.

He sighs, then explains to Thorin. “I’m afraid I had to leave him in Mirkwood. He became ill a few days before we were to leave, and the nurse did not think it wise to make him travel in such a condition. Something about the air, and how it was different than air Frodo was used to, before he lived with me.”

Thorin frowns, seemingly genuinely displeased about the situation. “That’s unfortunate. Will he be travelling here soon? Or—“

“Thorin!” A large collection of booming voices suddenly cut through his and his husband’s—holy Yavanna , does it feel odd to think those words—moment.

Towards the wooden seats that Bilbo guesses he and Thorin will sit at are a section of vaguely familiar faces; he thinks they must be the dwarves from the ceremony. He recognises Bofur, Balin, Dwalin, and even the dwarf who had handed him his mug of ale.

Dís and her children sit a few seats down, and wave frantically when they spot him. He waves back slightly giddily.

“Hello, my friends.” Thorin grins, a pleasant look on his face as he parts with Bilbo to squeeze Dwalin’s shoulders.

“What a lovely party,” Balin says politely, eyes flashing from Thorin’s face to Bilbo’s, curiosity evident there. “How are you faring, lad?”

Bilbo reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, chuckling. “Very well, now that we’ve gotten to the food.”

There’s a chorus of laughter.

Thorin takes his arm again, grinning, and leads them the few steps forward and into their seats. (Bilbo takes a moment to admire them; there are engravings of vines, swirling all over the surface.) Once seated, Thorin immediately reaches forward and piles things on Bilbo’s plate, from meats to boiled vegetables, naming the foods off absentmindedly as he places them down.

Bilbo isn’t sure why he can’t serve himself, but writes it off as yet another cultural difference. Perhaps it was a courtesy?

“We haven’t introduced ourselves, have we?” Balin says suddenly, setting his cup down. “You’ve already met Dwalin, Bofur, and I. But there is also Bofur’s cousins Bifur and Bombur, and then Ori, Dori, and Nori—brothers. Then, of course, there’s Oin and Glóin.” He motions to each dwarf, and each name is met with a proud holler in return.

“Well—very nice to meet you!” Bilbo gestures in greeting, cursing the awkward stiffness in his voice.

This is a little overwhelming, he allows himself to think.

It soon becomes clear that Bilbo will not get much more out of Thorin for the rest of the night, seeing as he is rather busy with greeting any and every person who comes by with well wishes. (Bilbo doesn’t have to do much more than offer a simple greeting and a smile, but Thorin forms endless conversation in the dwarven language.)

Now that Bilbo thinks of it, he may get more than he wants out of Thorin later on in the evening. After the party was over, and Bilbo was introduced to “their” room… He supposes it is traditional...

Unfair , He thinks, for the umpteenth time in the past months as he stuffs more asparagus into his mouth.

Most people would look forward to the end of their wedding night. They could go home, to their bed, and tie off the loose ends. But most people knew each other. Most people were in love. They were ready and excited to cross that line.

Bilbo’s moves his gaze to Thorin, who’s chewing and listening intently to some story of grandeur that Glóin is supplying.

Thorin’s beard is thick and wiry looking, though not very long. His face is clean, but there is a certain brooding in the way he carries himself that darkens his features. His eyes seem to convey an entire storm of emotions—like there are secrets he’s keeping locked up.

Then, as Bilbo stares longer, there’s something... familiar in the way Thorin’s lips move; in the tug of his lips and the widening of his eyes, and the stretch of his skin.

Bilbo sighs. He guesses that if he has to do this with someone he doesn’t know, at least it is with someone who is attractive. (The thought doesn’t stop him from asking a servant to pass him another ale.)

He almost thinks that he will be ignored the entire evening—left to pick at his food and watch as Thorin socialises—but then a young dwarf speaks to him.

“You really are handsome, Mister Bilbo! Everyones been so excited to meet you, especially me!” The dwarf that Bilbo thinks is Ori says, beaming in such an innocent way that Bilbo can’t help but be charmed.

“Well, thank you,” Bilbo blushes. “I’m excited myself, but fairly nervous as well, I confess.”

“Only natural!” The dwarf beside Ori—who looks very similar in stature, but has grey, well kept beard hair—grins. “But don’t worry too much! The hobbits are beyond happy that the king is marrying a fellow hobbit.” He winks.

Bilbo laughs, thinking of the pride that hobbits bore. “Oh, I’m sure,” He mutters behind his bite of seared nug.

“How’s the food, Master Hobbit?” The plump hobbit who had given him his ale—Bombur, he thinks?—calls from a little further down the table, smiling so big that it’s visible through his impressive beard.

“Oh, positively delicious!” Bilbo says back, lifting lifting his fork. “I’ve become rather fond of nug in a short period of time!”

Bombur laughs heartily. “Very good! It’s me wife’s secret recipe.” He winks, drawing another polite laugh from Bilbo.

“Bombur and his wife’s food is the finest,” Ori puts in, leaning closer to Bilbo and nudging him with a wide smile. “The cake he made for today is gorgeous!”

“I’m excited to see it.” Bilbo replies earnestly.

There is suddenly a tap on his shoulder.

“Bilbo,” Thorin says, turning to Bilbo with a faint but happy smile. His fingers close around Bilbo’s upper arm. “I’ve just been told that the cake is on its way. We will have the first bite, as is traditional amongst hobbits, yes?”

The way he says it is so breathless with eagerness that Bilbo can’t help but feel like he’s comforting an anxious child.

His hand twitches to move a piece of hair from Thorin’s face, but he manages to restrain himself.

“Correct.” Is all Bilbo says.

Thorin looks pleased, but then he’s releasing Bilbo’s arm and turning away once more.

Bilbo takes a deep breath as he sits, watching the nearest dwarves as they talk amongst themselves. Far down the table, he catches sight of hobbits, but they’re far too busy laughing(and probably gossiping)to notice his gaze.

He realises he’s the only hobbit sitting with the dwarves. Not a single hobbit had journeyed this way to give their pleasantries to Thorin.

In Mirkwood, hobbits and elves alike shared the space. Elves were keen to sit with hobbits at dinner and listen to their folk tales, just as hobbits were eager to listen to the tales from the long lives of elves. There have never, to Bilbo’s recollection, been times where elves and hobbits were sorted by their race.

Bilbo frowns, about to pull Thorin from his conversation to ask about this, but suddenly he catches sight of a huge cake.

It’s being wheeled in by a she-dwarf, and Bilbo guesses it’s Bombur’s wife when said dwarf lets out a proud cheer at the sight of her.

The cake has four square shaped tiers, but they are the largest tiers Bilbo has ever witnessed. The top one is easily the size of his bed back in Mirkwood, and the bottom one is much larger than any bed belonging to a man, elf, or wizard. The cake is white, but there are amber coloured decorations all over it. They look so fragile that Bilbo thinks any of them could shatter with the slightest movement.

Thorin stands, and offers his arm to Bilbo. He takes it, and Thorin leads him towards the cake.

The hall has gone quiet, except for the low murmur of laughter.

When they get closer, Bilbo makes out the decorations better—they are all in the shapes of flowers and axes, pressed into the frosting. It’s a rather dainty touch to such a huge cake, but Bilbo loves it.

“It’s honey butter cake,” Thorin mumbles into his ear.

A spark of joy flits through Bilbo, and he grins.

The she-dwarf says something to Thorin in the harsh language of the dwarves.

“Grunna asks if the cake is suitable to your tastes. Visibly.” Thorin relays to him.

Bilbo starts. “Oh!” He meets Grunna’s eyes and smiles as wide as he can. “It’s very beautiful.”

Thorin speaks in his native language.

Grunna laughs pleasantly, and then hands Thorin a cake cutter and Bilbo a glass plate—which it beautiful and fashioned with diamonds, unsurprisingly.

“I simply cut a piece, right?” Thorin asks, shifting on his feet a couple times, like he’s preparing for a monumental task.

Bilbo can’t help the giggle that protrudes from him, and it echoes in the relatively silent hall.

The hobbits and dwarves alike are turned in their seats, watching with big smiles on their faces.

Bilbo clears his throat before taking Thorin by the wrist.

“We will cut a piece together, and then we shall feed each other a bite. It represents our union. Our first bite of marriage.”

He gets momentarily lost in the wideness of Thorin’s blue eyes, as they refuse to leave Bilbo’s face.

“I understand.” Thorin assures.

He hands Bilbo the cake cutter, and then wraps his warm fingers around Bilbo’s hand. They push down into the corner of the bottom tier, and cheers erupt from the crowd.

Cutting the piece and getting it onto the plate with essentially one hand with two different minds is a harder task than Bilbo had deemed it. He and Thorin’s hands shake a little as they laugh, but eventually the slice lands safely on the plate, and Grunna hands them both a fork.

Bilbo watches Thorin scoop a generous bite of the cake onto his fork.

He had observed Thorin as a brooding man, but underneath the formal exterior, Bilbo is surprised to find a childlike joy. He sees it in the grin on Thorin’s lips, and in the spark in his eyes. He seems so overjoyed to be trying new things. So excited to begin this odd, new part of his life.

Why can I not be that way? Bilbo thinks, smiling oh so softly as Thorin meets his eyes.

Why shouldn’t I?

“To us.” He says, lifting his fork as he would a mug of ale.

Thorin’s grin fades a little, and is replaced with a more solemn glance. His eyes are glazed with some emotion, and Bilbo feels it too.

“To you, Bilbo Baggins. And to many happy years to come.”

Thorin clinks their forks together.

They both bring their forks to the opposite mouths, and Bilbo laughs as they both miss, just slightly. He licks at the frosting above his lip as he chews, and Thorin brings his finger to clean his chin.

“Oh my goodness,” Bilbo moans. “This is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“I’m pleased that you like it.” Thorin smiles, already taking another bite.

The cheering of the crowd doesn’t register until then, and it’s like a tidal wave crashing over him. The little bubble around him and Thorin, where time had frozen for just a few moments, pops.

Bilbo is confused at the wistfulness that washes through him.

Nonetheless, Thorin cuts him his own slice of cake, and they return to their seats. They watch as the rest of Erebor gets up to get their piece of the delicious creation.

Thorin turns to him, crumbs in his beard, perfectly accenting the jewels and gold.

“ Halwê .” He says, softly, lovingly.

//

It is not until very, very late into the night—possibly early in the morning—that Thorin and Bilbo retire to their chambers.

The party had raged until every last spot of food had been eaten. Bilbo isn’t sure if it was a dwarvish thing that may have rubbed off on the hobbits, but he’d never eaten more in his entire life. He felt pleasantly full and very sleepy.

“I hope today met your every expectation.” Thorin says, so earnestly as they walk up and up, towards nowhere Bilbo finds familiar.

“It exceeded my expectations, Thorin.” He smiles, hands swinging freely at his sides.

“I’m glad.”

They stroll in companionable silence for a while more, until they reach a door that is large but less grand than others Bilbo had set eyes on today. It’s simple and wooden, but engraved with vines and plants.

“Here are our quarters.” Thorin opens the door into a small antechamber. There are two doors, one to the left and one to the right.

“That room is meant for Frodo.” Thorin says, motioning to the left. “I didn’t get to ask earlier. Will he still be joining us?”

“Oh, yes,” Bilbo nods. He is so tired that he can’t even remember to feel guilty when he thinks of his nephew. “Just later, when his health improves. They’ve promised to write me.”

Thorin nods, and then leads Bilbo to the right, and into their room.

The ceiling is high, and from it hangs a candle lit chandelier. The bed(which is humongous)resides to the left, and is sheltered by a canopy of sheer, mesh fabric. To each side of the bed is a small table with candles and matches, and Bilbo spots his candelabra on one of them.

In front of them, on the far wall, is a vanity. There is a large mirror and scattered objects on the surface: brushes, beads, and perfumes. To Bilbo’s far right is a door to what he assumes is the closet, and then a desk with paper and ink.

“It’s grand.” Bilbo breathes.

“Your things must not have arrived yet,” Thorin says hastily, his arms crossing over his chest. “I apologize. I will make sure they are here by tomorrow morning—“

“Thorin.” Bilbo says.

Thorin turns to him, raising his eyebrows in slight shock. Bilbo reckons he isn’t used to being interrupted.

“I don’t mind. Please do not worry about it. I will be comfortable enough without a change of clothes, for tonight.”

I probably won’t be needing any clothes, tonight.

As he thinks it, he feels a blush creep up his neck.

“Very well.” Thorin replies, sighing. He makes his way over to the vanity. “Do make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to get ready for bed.”

Bilbo stands a little awkwardly as silence fills the room.

Thorin begins to undress.

Bilbo hastily makes his way to the bed in a small panic, and he sits facing away from Thorin. Slowly, he unbuttons his vest, and his overshirt, until he wears nothing but his trousers and his undershirt.

“Thorin?” He eventually manages to get out, shakily, when he can’t stand the silence any longer.

Thorin hums inquisitively.

“Are we going to…?” Bilbo can’t make himself say it.

“Are we going to what?” Thorin asks, innocently.

Bilbo squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the food in his stomach begin to churn.

Bloody hell. He’s making me say it.

He whips around to meet Thorin’s gaze.

“Are we going to make love tonight?”

A heavy silence falls over them.

Bilbo regrets the words, and wishes he could burrow under the covers and disappear entirely.

Thorin’s face begins to turn pink from his ears to his nose. He turns away, and rubs the back of his neck. Then, he pads over and sits beside Bilbo on the bed. His hands stay in his own lap, folded together.

“Bilbo, I believe that when two people marry, they make love to bring everything to a close. They make their bond eternal and binding, and it proves that they would not take anyone else.”

“Yes.”

Bilbo's throat feels dry.

“But that is when the two people know that they will be eternal. When they are positive they are meant for each other.” Thorin turns, still pink, and smiles awkwardly. “We do not know that yet. This marriage is political. But, maybe in the future, it will turn into a marriage of love instead.”

The burning in Bilbo’s eyes is unwelcome in every way, but he can’t stop the tears from beading in his eyes. It feels like a pressure has been lifted off his shoulders.

“If that happens, we will tie our marriage then.”

Bilbo says nothing, simply blinks rapidly to disperse the wetness in his eyes.

Thorin shifts then, and a different kind of smile fills his face. “Bilbo, there is one thing we haven’t done yet.”

“What is that?” Bilbo asks.

“Braiding.” Thorin replies excitedly.

“Hm?”

“Dwarves have braids to signify their status. Whether it be married, single, widowed, king, queen, common folk. There is a braid to make almost any statement. And, for you, you should have two braids, here,” Thorin motions to the space above his ear. “With two beads.”

Bilbo pauses for a moment, licking his lips. “Are you asking if you can braid my hair?”

Thorin shrugs, nodding. He almost looks embarrassed about it.

“I would...love that.” Bilbo smiles. It is certainly a more decent activity than what he’d been fretting over all evening.

Thorin chuckles happily, and then stands. He takes Bilbo’s hand rather abruptly, and leads him to the vanity. Bilbo sits.

There is a brush combing through his curls first, gently.

Bilbo’s hair is not nearly as long as Thorin’s, but it does reach the base of his neck, and curls around his ears, and sticks to his forehead. It should be long enough for decorative braids, he thinks.

Thorin gets to work almost immediately, pulling strands of hair and twisting them expertly.

His scalp burns a little from the tightness of the weave, but he does his best to ignore it. It becomes easier to, as he watches Thorin’s concentrated face in the mirror. His tongue pokes out from the corner of his mouth, which of course brings Bilbo endless joy.

The beads that Thorin weaves into his hair are the same blue as the lanterns in the marriage hall, and have designs that Bilbo can’t quite make out. Either way, they gleam beautifully in the candlelight.

“There you are, Mr. Baggins.”

Thorin places his hands on his hips proudly as Bilbo turns his head to admire the braids better.

“Thank you,” Bilbo says, meeting Thorin’s eyes.

“My pleasure.”

A few minutes later, they both are settled into their bed.

Bilbo is a little unnerved by how naturally they face each other as they lie down, still a good widths apart.

Thorin has tied his hair back with the grey hair tie that Bilbo had woven for him.

“Why don’t you have braids anymore?” Bilbo whispers, after the candles have been blown out, and he’s almost sure Thorin is asleep.

For a moment, there is no answer.

“For a while after a wedding, the groom is supposed to leave his hair unbraided. It signifies that he is not above the one he marries. It’s humbling.”

Bilbo processes in silence.

“Braids must mean a lot in your culture.”

“They allow dwarves to express themselves. Whether it’s for status or fashion, there are a million kinds of personalised styles.”

Bilbo can’t help the little smile that pulls at his lips.

But after a few moments, more questions flood his mind.

“What do those things you said to me mean?”

“Hm?” Thorin hums, sounding just the slightest bit irritated.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo rushes. “I’ll let you sleep now.”

A deep rumble that resembles a chuckle shakes through the mattress.

“Do not worry, little hobbit. I’m merely unused to this many inquiries as I lie in bed. I will have time to get used to it.”

Something warm strikes through Bilbo.

“But to answer your question, I said two things to you in my language, did I not? At the wedding ceremony I said asti zi abnâmul , which…well. It more or less means that I think you are...nice? It’s stronger than that, though… possibly beautiful? Wonderful? There isn’t a direct translation, I regret to say.”

Bilbo chuckles softly, tugging his blanket closer to his chest.

If he wasn’t careful, he might fall for Thorin faster than is healthy.

“And the other thing? What you said at dinner?”

“Ah. Halwê . It is a pet name of sorts. Something like honey. My honey.”

“Very fitting.”

“Which is why I used it.”

“Should I be creating clever endearments for you?”

“If you’d like. But I should warn you that anything but Thorin will exceed any expectations I have.”

A giggle bubbles in Bilbo’s throat, and he covers his mouth in an attempt to muffle it.

“Your laugh is very pretty.” Thorin mutters.

“Oh, shush.” Bilbo says, just the slightest bit breathlessly, and reaches out blindly to swat at Thorin’s arm.

Thorin laughs, so Bilbo considers it a small victory.

After that, they fall into silence.

Bilbo wonders how Thorin is so good at this. At the witty banter that draws him in to no end. At the compliments and honest glances that make Bilbo feel comfortable even in the most uncomfortable situations.

Maybe it runs in the family , Bilbo thinks fondly, recalling Dís’s comforting speech.

He decides to leave his thoughts alone in favour of enjoying the warm, peaceful silence of falling asleep next to an intriguing, kind stranger.

Chapter Text

The next day is Thorin’s formal coronation.

It all blurs by for Bilbo, who mostly sits around the entire day, watching in silence.

He’s forced this time around into traditional dwarven robes, and Dìs helps lead him through it. First, the mithril that Thorin had gifted him, then a pair of sturdy boots, thick pants, an even thicker long sleeved shirt, and finally a red overcoat that has gold and silver sewn into the hems. The most outrageously extravagant part of the outfit was the cape that Bilbo wore— one that Dís added on her own accord. A robe of crimson red who’s collar was lined with soft fur and jewels.

“You’re a beauty,” Dís had said, smiling so wide and soft that Bilbo was almost inclined to believe her.

(He was very glad to be out of the clothes when the night was over.)

He’d tried to go with it, he really had. Bilbo had smiled politely when anyone made eye contact, he’d sat still with his back straight. He’d even made sure to eat slowly and gracefully at the after party.

But the entire day, something had seemed off.

Bilbo wasn’t sure if it was because the coronation was a more formal occasion that the dwarves weren’t as joyous as they had been the day previously. They all had just seemed so...mysterious; with brooding eyes and faces that matched Thorin’s stoic stares.

The only dwarves who didn’t act any different were the few that had attended the ceremony. They were all very jolly and cheerful, and even joked with Bilbo as they ate dinner. It had seemed maybe a tad forced, but only because most of the other dwarfs were blatantly ignoring their end of the table.

Was it out of respect for their king? Thorin was daunting, Bilbo acknowledges. But everyone had been so happy to greet and speak with him the day prior...

The thing about Bilbo is that he is a naturally curious and observant hobbit, and always has been. Whether it’s the mystery of why his tomatoes aren’t growing as ripe as usual, or why the dwarves of Erebor seem to think he’s a type of object to be ignored, he’s bound to get an inkling of need to solve the mysteries around him.

He does remember, with some clarity, that Gandalf had mentioned something about this. That Thorin might be suspicious of his whereabouts and intentions—as if he were a spy sent from Mirkwood. (Bilbo would not put it past Thranduil to do so. Bloody good thing that Bilbo is a strong headed hobbit with beliefs and decency.)

But it wasn’t Thorin that was suspicious. It was the rest of the dwarves. Everyone else seemed to want him gone, or at the very least to not sit around them.

He’d made up his mind a while back, almost as soon as he’d noticed the separation of hobbits and dwarves at the dinner table.

No matter what, he would get to the bottom of this.

Bilbo begins to formulate a plan as he eats breakfast with Dís and the boys the day after the coronation, though it’s fairly hard to do it when Kíli keeps failing to show him a card trick, and Fíli has to keep re-showing it under the table. It’s inexcusably adorable.

Still, he manages.

Bilbo will wait for a time when he is alone with Thorin, but preferably not at the end of the day, since his husband seems to be put under a lot of stress from his kingly duties.

He will begin by speaking of their wedding night, and how nice it was, and how kind the people were, just to butter Thorin up. Then, he will bring up the fact that they hadn’t seemed so welcoming at the coronation dinner.

Hopefully, the politeness of it all will ease answers out of the king.

Bilbo is sure his plan will work, and tells himself he will ask as soon as is hobbit-ly possible.

Though there is one problem, he discovers very quickly: Thorin is king now, and he is practically never free. Not even for a moment.

Throughout the next few weeks, Thorin allows visits from outside lands to form alliances, so almost everyday there are meetings. He greets the leaders at the throne, Bilbo at his side, and then they collectively  make their way to a spacious room and talk of politics and such.

Bilbo enjoys the discussions, which he finds surprising at first. It’s almost fun to listen to the way Thorin barters and banters things, getting other nations to give more than he gives. Pushing and pulling just enough that the leaders respect him, and hold no grudges.

Bilbo isn’t allowed to speak in those meetings, of course, but it hardly feels like he has to with the silver tongue Thorin possesses.

It’s always the same routine everyday—throne, room, throne, room—just with different leaders of different countries. He can hardly believe there are this many nations in Middle Earth.

Thranduil makes a visit during the very first week to work the kinks out of the bargain he’d made with the dwarves.

Bilbo had been frightened for a moment that Thorin had met his match, seeing as the two kings seemed to agree on nothing. The meeting seemed to fly by faster than any of the others, with their careless words and clever comebacks; like a sparring match between the sharpest of minds.

His worries cease, though, when Thorin’s stubbornness proves to overwhelm Thraunduil’s stuffiness. After a few hours, the two finally calm down, and come to a consensus.

Thranduil leaves that same day with his precious gems of Lasgalen, and Erebor earns a fluid supply of Elven made weapons.

Bilbo thinks a few times of bringing up his questions to Thorin whilst they prepare for bed, or wash up, or eat dinner(as little as they get time to), but always figures against it.

Thorin is always so dreadfully tired by the end of the day. His face is always pale as a sheet, and the bags under his eyes seem to get darker by the day.

Bilbo hasn’t known Thorin for long at all, but he can’t help but want to care for him. To hold back his selfish questions and replace them with kinder ones.

“Wasn’t dinner nice?” Bilbo will ask as he settles against his pillow.

Thorin will smile and nod.

“Did you see Kíli’s card trick?” He’ll grin as they sit beside each other at dinner.

Thorin will laugh, and ask to see it again.

“Will you teach me to do these braids?” Bilbo will point to his loosening braids, the eagerness in his tone only half forced.

Thorin will grin, and agree promptly.

The evening distractions change Thorin in a way that Bilbo has yet to understand. He goes from sturdy—a strong, untouchable king—to a soft, smiling Thorin Oakenshield.

When they are discussing banal nothing’s over dinner, or in their quarters at night, or in a bath, Bilbo can’t bring himself to break their bubble of happiness with conspiracies. It doesn’t feel just.

And so it happens that a two weeks come to pass with none of his questions answered, but a bond that closely resembles friendship beginning to form between him and Thorin.

Now, they take hot baths every other night, soaking in the bubbly water and telling each other stories and jokes.

Bilbo hadn’t expected the dwarves to be so fond of communal bathing, but after a week, it becomes normal and, dare he say, nice . It was nice to feel warm and cozy and free to say anything he wished.

Needless to say, their shared bathing becomes less of an embarrassment before long.

Besides that, he gets to know Thorin.

He learns that Thorin loves to play konkers, but doesn’t have the time anymore. He learns that there had been another in the line of Durin—Frerin—who had died in combat some years ago. He learns of Thorin’s mother and father, and his interests and hobbies, and takes note of the things he finds funny to possibly surprise Thorin with later.

Even though this entire thing had been so scary in the beginning, Bilbo is really starting to feel like he could make a home here.

Even so, when it really comes down to it, the questions of why the dwarves act so weird around him simply increase over the days.

He observes as much as he can, noticing a few strange looks and hushed whispers, but is always dragged into more meetings with Thorin.

Bilbo tells himself that he should drop it. Forget his concerns. The dwarves of Erebor were just unused to him. Possibly untrusting, which was understandable. In a few months, they wouldn’t be so stiff.

But, if that were true, wouldn’t the hobbits be wary as well? Being one himself, he knew just how petty his kind could be, especially to newcomers.

The thoughts sit heavily in the back of his brain like an anvil.  

He’s forced to think of other things when a letter from Old Man George arrives one midday. He even gets special permission to exit the meeting Thorin is in to read it.

Dear Bilbo,

  How has Erebor been? I hope your wedding was a joyous occasion, and that you are enjoying Ereborean life.

  Mum had me write to you, just as an update. She says she would do it herself, but she’s too busy planning the trip to The Shire.

  Frodo has much improved since you left. He’s out of bed and running around like a fox, in everyone’s business. Tauriel keeps him tame most of the time with songs, and Legolas sneaks him goodies from the kitchen(he claims he knows where to find them because you taught him all the places to look).

Bilbo stifles a laugh at this, because it was true that in his younger years in the kitchen, he’d let Legolas take many snacks. Even things that he’d been specifically asked to prepare.

They’d been idiots, really.

A surge of emotion piles into his chest, missing Legolas and Tauriel so dearly, but he continues on nonetheless.

  Frodo misses you, of course. Is always asking when he’ll be joining you, and if you’ve sent a letter. I suppose you may want to consider writing a few.

Bilbo feels something cold and terrible wash over him, a contrast to the warm feelings of a moment ago.

He’d completely forgotten to write to Frodo, with all the excitement of Erebor around him. He’d promised to write the boy everyday, and yet, it seems he’d forgotten the child altogether.

He reads on with guilt in his stomach.

  Well, either way, Frodo is happy and healthy. Ready at any time to join you in Erebor, the nurses say.

  In other news, the preparation for traveling to The Shire is going splendidly! It’s rather odd to see all the hobbits packing their bags. Especially Lobelia, who has so many things that she’s forced to leave most of it behind.

  Anyways, I also thought I’d assure you again that I am rid of alcohol. Haven’t drunk a drop since you left. Instead, I’ve been getting to know your nephew.

  He is very sweet, don’t you think?

Sincerely,

George Boffin

Bilbo doesn’t have time to write back immediately, though he greatly wishes he could.

He has lunch with Thorin and Daìn of the Iron Hills, which Thorin had assured him would be interesting during last night's bath.

He sets the letter down directly over his pillow, so there will be no forgetting to write back as soon as he can.

Frodo…

Bilbo sighs, knowing he needs to get going right now if he wants to be on time to the lunch date.

Thorin will be waiting.

The walk from their private quarters to the throne is shorter compared to the walk to the dining area, or weaponry. Bilbo is slowly getting used to the winding columns of Erebor from the customary tours they’d been giving to their visitors. The architecture never ceases to take his breath away, no matter how many times he sees it. The absurdity of the extravagance of every corner doesn’t stop baffling him either, but the other leaders seem immensely pleased by it.

He’s always been a rather simple hobbit, he supposes, in the way that he doesn’t need much to please him.

“Hello,” Thorin greets as Bilbo takes his place beside the throne, huffing just slightly from his brisk pace.

“Good morning,” Bilbo returns, brushing off his outfit. (It was more or less the outfit he’d worn to the coronation, except without the cape. And blue. It was required, since he wasn’t just a hobbit now—he was the king’s consort.)

“Did you and the boys enjoy breakfast?”

Thorin always does this. He asks questions and smiles warmly, so polite and calm even when Bilbo knows he’s stressed beyond belief.

“I did, but I think they were a little offended at the greens. I made Bombur chop some up and add them to the eggs, since you dwarves have no concept of healthy foods.” Bilbo smirks, and Thorin chuckles, not denying it. “By the way, where was Dís?”

“She had business with the hobbits today, I believe. More lessons.”

Bilbo nods.

It had come as only a slight surprise when Dís had revealed that she teaches the hobbits to weave and create dwarven style clothing, which were much more durable than standard hobbit fashion. It made sense, since the worst a hobbit usually had to do was situate a misshapen garden after a visit from a rabbit or raccoon.

Dís taught the little hobbits as well as the older ones, since she insisted there was always new to learn in the craft of clothing.

Bilbo believed her wholeheartedly, and even found himself wishing he had time to join her.

“She’s very dedicated, isn’t she?” He smiles fondly, rocking on his feet.

“It’s a given,” Thorin replies easily, a flash of mischief flashing in his eyes. “She was always so focused on beating me at chess when we were children. Has yet to best me once, though.”

Bilbo lets out a bubbly laugh at that, and it rings in the hall.

“You should have let me know about this sooner! I am a professional at chess, good sir.”

Thorin raises an unimpressed eyebrow, huffing, his smile wide enough that his eyes crinkle.

“Is that so? You think you could beat me?”

Bilbo scrunches his nose up playfully.

“I know I could.”

Thorin laughs heartily at that, and it’s such a nice sound. Something soft and warm wraps itself inside Bilbo’s chest, squeezing. It makes his breath flutter and his cheeks heat, which he wasn’t fond of at all.

This feeling is pretty familiar to Bilbo, at this point. It comes over him often when he speaks with Thorin, especially when they were bathing or when they lied together in bed.

He wasn’t stupid, of course. Bilbo recognised the sensation for what it was—the beginnings of feelings for Thorin. And while he can’t say he’s surprised, he can say that he’s entirely unsure if Thorin also feels it, for he hasn’t changed his attitude at all since the wedding.

He was still sweet and kind, which quite honestly just worsened Bilbo’s state. He was still conversational, and respectful, and completely careful of boundaries. It felt like he was keeping Bilbo at an arms distance; like he wasn’t letting them get close enough to burn—like he never wanted them to.

Bilbo found that he preferred the heat.

He had changed just a little, in the way he sat in the bath, or the way he responded to questions that dug just a little too deep. He had opened himself a little more, and grown fond of his husband.

Thorin was too far to reach. There was an invisible barrier there that most wouldn’t notice; for even a thick layer of kindness can serve as protection from one's true soul.

It irritates Bilbo to no avail, worse than his theories on the other dwarves, because here he was, sharing himself with his husband, piece by piece, and his husband was not exposing himself to the same degree.

Maybe, he thinks sometimes, as he chews dinner or buries himself under the covers, it lies within the way Thorin is, and the way Bilbo is not.

In Bilbo’s opinion, it just made everything so much worse. Made the falling in love part so much harder, to the point that he would catch himself and be reminded that he didn’t know this dwarf.

They were worlds apart, yet slept in the same bed at night.

At that exact moment, when Thorin’s laughter has ceased and the echoes pitter out, Bilbo realises that this could be his chance. Who knows the next time they’ll get this much free time? Especially when Thorin seems not so tired.

“Thorin,” He begins, meeting his husband’s eyes.

“Mr. Baggins?” Thorin returns, lips still turned upwards in a small smirk, eyes alight with mirth.

And hell, does that name make his knees weak. Because he’s not really a Baggin’s, not legally, but Thorin still calls him that from time to time. Like he never wants Bilbo to forget who he is. It does something to his insides, and paired with that soft smile, it’s enough to cause his rising curiosity to deflate.

Bilbo lets his near desperate eye contact drop. He smiles instead. Lets the questions slip through the mind like running sand.

He’ll never get around to this, it seems. Not without a guilty conscience.

“It’s...nothing, really,” Bilbo tries to grasp for something to say, since Thorin’s happy expression is slipping away quickly. “I was just thinking of a riddle.”

Thorin frowns.

“A riddle?”

“Yes. I’ve become a sort of expert in riddle making, it I do say so myself. The hobbits back in Mirkwood couldn’t crack most of them.”

Bilbo smiles, almost real this time, for he truly does love riddles.

Thorin seems enthralled, and he leans forward in his seat a bit.

“Share one with me.”

Bilbo chuckles awkwardly, not yet used to Thorin’s sudden interests in things he says.

He has one in mind, thank Yvanna.

“Thirty men and only two women, but they hold the most power.
Dressed in black and white, they could fight for hours.”

Misty grey eyes move to stare at nothing, and Bilbo can almost see the gears turning in Thorin’s mind.

He finds himself grinning despite himself as Thorin’s eyes suddenly widen, and he snaps his fingers with a triumphant laugh.

“Chess pieces!” He exclaims. “Very clever, master hobbit. Now you’ve certainly gotten me into the mood to play a game or two.”

Bilbo shrugs, folding his hands together.

“You’ll only be setting yourself up for failure, my king.”

They’re both laughing.

Then the doors at the other end of the stone walkway are flying open, and three dwarves are sauntering in with the bravado only dwarves can bring.

Then the smile is disappearing from Thorin’s face in an instant, and is replaced with a stern, almost pensive look. His eyebrows furrow.

Bilbo schools his lips into a placid expression as well, standing up straighter.

It’s like putting on an act, he’s realised over time. The kingdoms were expecting a serious and wise king and his obedient consort, and Bilbo will do much to fulfill his role. Even if it means playing a risky game of make-believe for hours on end.

“Dain,” Thorin booms, voice clear and loud. He dawns a smirk, crisp and cool. “Welcome, cousin.”

“It has been quite a long while, Thorin.”

Dain is a short dwarf, but he has the appearance of a warrior. Besides the red hair and chubbier attributes, he reminds Bilbo much of Dwalin.

“Indeed,” Thorin returns. “I've been looking forward to our meeting since you first sent the letter.”

Dain laughs, moving to sling his arm over the dwarf to his right. He looks like a younger Dain, but with browner hair.

“So has your namesake! Thorin, meet Thorin.”

Thorin Ironfoot straightens his back a little, grim faced.

“An honour to finally meet you, Uncle.”

Thorin seems awfully pleased to meet Thorin Jr., a truth which is obvious from the look on his face.

“It is my pleasure. I presume this third dwarf is of your kin as well?”

“Aye, a cousin of mine.”

“I am Elindur, son of Edmundur. It’s an honour to see Erebor for the first time.” Elindur bows.

They seem like a peculiar lot, with two stone faced dwarves and one with great cheerfulness. But Thorin does not seem perturbed, so Bilbo resigns himself not to worry.

Either way, none of the dwarves make eye contact with him. They don’t even glance over, or congratulate Thorin on his recent matrimony.

Again, Thorin is not displeased in any way, so Bilbo follows suit.

Thorin stands, spreading his arms in a sign of welcome.

“Well, my friends, why don’t we move to the dining hall before the tour? I’m sure you’re all starving from your long journey.”

Thorin leads the way, and Bilbo knows to trail behind the group.

As Elindur passes him, he finally makes eye contact. He glares ferociously and grunts, and then continues on his way.

Bilbo strays farther back than he should the entire way to the dining hall.

Maybe he should have asked Thorin his questions when he had the chance, regardless of guilt. Then, maybe, he’d know what to do now.

But he doesn’t. All he can do, really, is try to be as quiet and still as he possibly can. Then, maybe, he can cease to exist in the dwarves' eyes.

Right?

Chapter Text

Lunch is a bit awkward, if Bilbo is being honest. It consists mostly of Thorin trying rather desperately to keep up with Dain’s fierce conversation while simultaneously attempting to encourage Thorin Jr. and Elindur to join in. 

Bilbo sits in silence and picks at his plate. These business meals are always odd for him, since he really doesn’t do much but eat and listen. In the meetings, at least he can hide in the shadows. Here, he has to stare at his mushroom stew and hope he doesn’t look too conspicuous. 

Everytime he glances up to grab another slice of bread, or sip at his drink, he makes eye contact with Elindur. 

The dwarf hasn’t said a word as of yet, unless the occasional grunt or nod of the head count. Instead, he merely stares at Bilbo with unabashed intent, as if he is planning something sinister. He makes Bilbo feel uneasy. And...ashamed, for some reason. He feels like he’s guilty of a first degree crime. 

Thorin is far too busy to notice anything, but he does tap at Bilbo’s foot every once and awhile. It brings forth something syrupy and sweet in Bilbo’s chest everytime he does it, and he taps back with his nerves calmed for a moment. 

Then he looks up again. 

When they’ve all finished their meals, Bofur’s wife comes out to pick up the dishes. Bilbo helps; the only easy part of his dinner duties. 

He follows Grunna into the kitchens(one of the smaller ones. The other day he had been shown their biggest kitchen, and it was easily four times the size of this one.)and helps her wash off the plates. 

He spots Bombur mixing something in a bowl on the way out, and something suddenly sparks in his mind. 

“Say, Bombur,” He begins, quietly, and still Bombur startles. He looks up and sees Bilbo and breaks into a grin. 

“Mr. Bilbo! What can I do for you?” 

Bilbo smiles, something already so warm forming for each other the dwarves that had sat nearer to Thorin during the wedding feast. They were rapidly  becoming his closest friends, which almost scared him. 

“I only wondered...well,” He clicks his tongue. “I wanted to...bake something, for his majesty, and wanted to know which kitchen I might use for that, and when one would be available.” 

Bombur nods, wiping his hands off on his apron and crossing his arms. 

“You remember the first dining room you ate in? On the day of your wedding, you were with Dís and her children.”

Bilbo nods. 

“Well, that kitchen is closest to your and Thorin’s quarters. It might be best to use that one. All the kitchen’s are fully stocked all the time, so most ingredients should be available. Are there any rare or off-season ingredients in what you want to make?” 

“For the most part, no. But it does include a fair amount of honey.” 

//

To Bilbo’s utmost surprise, he is kicked out of the meeting after lunch. 

“Oh!” As the dwarves begin to take their seats in the large hall, Dain frowns thoughtfully. “I thought your...consort was going to stay away. These are supremely important matters, Thorin.” 

Bilbo feels anger bristle in his chest, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything back. 

Thorin clears his throat, the same kingly and stern expression on his face. 

“He attends these meetings as one of the most trusted people of Erebor, cousin, he’s—“

“A hobbit. ” Elindur speaks for the first time since his introduction. The way he says hobbit sends shivers down Bilbo’s spine, like it is a word to be repulsed and burned away from the memory of Middle Earth. Like it is sin. 

The sense of hurt washes away quickly with his simmering of anger, and this time he steps out of the corner of the room. 

“I—“

Thorin thrusts his arm out, head whipping around quicker than a snake. His eyes are wide and stern, stormy and dark. A warning sits in the hard set of his jaw, and like a slap to the jaw, Bilbo is reminded of who he is. 

No longer is he the hobbit of Mirkwood favoured by the elves. Now, he has rules and expectations. 

He releases a breath and folds his hands before him to hide the way they tremble, and hangs his head. 

“Bilbo, leave me. We have urgent things to discuss.” 

Bilbo keeps his eyes on the stone ground as he approaches the doors of the room. Just as he’s pulling them shut, he catches the eyes of Elindur once more. 

He’s smirking. 

//

Bilbo returns to his room and throws a book at the wall. Then another. Then one of Thorin’s. Then reaches for his pillow—

He sees the letter he had placed there earlier this morning and feels the fury deflate inside him a little. 

Frodo. 

He takes hold of the letter and marches over to the desk within the room, taking a seat and a fresh piece of parchment. It takes a moment for the last of the adrenaline in his system to fizz out, but with a slightly unsteady hand, he begins to write. 

Dear George. 

   I do apologise for not sending a letter sooner. Tell Frodo I regret it much. Life for me has changed monumentally, and I’ve become a bit tied up with my new jobs. 

My horrid, horrid, placid jobs , He doesn’t add. 

    Thank you again for caring for him. I don’t doubt that soon Frodo will be able to join me here in Erebor. I am beginning to settle down, but—

Bilbo pauses, finding himself itching to speak of the incident that had just taken place. He wanted someone to know, even if it was Old Man George. It was unjust, after all, and he was already preparing a speech of sorts for Thorin. 

The look he had given Bilbo had been the only reason he hadn’t taken out his anger on Dain and his company. Thorin had looked at him with anger in his eyes, something Bilbo hadn’t seen before. It was...scary, to say the least. 

    but and things are going swimmingly with the king. 

Frodo, 

   I am truly sorry for not writing you. I promised I would, but certain things got the best of me. I will try to write much more often now that I am getting into the groove of things here in Erebor. 

   You will love it when you get here. The food is divine, as well as the dwarf king’s friends and family. Fíli and Kíli, the king’s nephews and your new cousins, are around your age, and I’m sure you’ll get along with them. I’ve even seen a few little hobbits for you to play with. 

   I’m also sure we can get you your cucumber sandwiches and vanilla cake. 

More delicately, breathing out slowly, Bilbo adds;

    I love you, Frodo. Please be safe until we can be together again. I will try harder to be a better caretaker to you. 

Warmly, 

Uncle Bilbo 

He folds the paper and slips it into an envelope, then scribbles George Boffin on the front. He places it into his pocket and stands. 

Might as well send it out today. It isn’t like he’s busy or anything, with his newly cleared schedule. 

//

Bilbo is on his way back from the grand entrance of Erebor when he’s pulled behind a random pillar by a large hand. 

“Bilbo!” Gandalf stands before him, hand on his shoulder. He looks just about as manic as he normally does, like he doesn’t sleep well enough. “I‘ve looked everywhere to find you these past few days. Where do you disappear to?” 

Bilbo gulps down his whimper, brushing Gandalf’s hand off his shoulder. 

“You scared me! Don’t do that, there’s no reason. I have simply been a bit preoccupied with watching over Thorin’s duties and things like that, but—“ His words catch in his throat as he realises that it’s been two weeks since he’s seen Gandalf—two weeks since the coronation. And yet, the old wizard hadn’t found a moment to speak with the king of the hobbits returning to The Shire? Yes, Thorin has been busy, but surely there was enough time to have a conversation with Gandalf the Grey. “Where have you been?” 

Gandalf clears his throat, standing up straight and using his staff for support. 

“I’ve been doing things. Visiting old friends,” He shrugs in the non-nonchalant way that only he can manage; one that lets Bilbo know that he’s been doing much more than casual visiting. His eyes suddenly focus again and he smiles in such a way that Bilbo knows and resents. “I dare say there’s something troubling you, dear Bilbo.” And he squints his eyes knowingly, and Bilbo  wants to groan. 

“Stop. Don’t do that thing you do where you go on guessing what my life is about. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Gandalf’s face morphs to offence, but he coughs and it shifts to complacency. 

“Very well, then.”

“What I do want to talk about is why you haven’t spoke with Thorin. You’re a blasted wizard, after all, and you. I’m sure you’d have found a way to force your way into one of his meetings if you had to.” 

The wizard emits a chuckle. 

“How very right you are. But it seems that there is foul play involved,” His eyes dart around, as if someone was about to pop out from around the bend and imprison them. “Things are not as peaceful as they seem here in Erebor, Bilbo.”

Bilbo frowns, his forehead creasing. 

“What do you—“

“You need to get information out of Thorin. I don’t believe he knows exactly what’s happening in his kingdom.” 

Just then, there’s the faint sound of boots on stone—dwarves coming. 

Gandalf squeezes Bilbo’s shoulder a little too hard, nodding gravely. 

“Speak to him. Meet me here in two days time.” And then he is running off and hiding behind a pillar, out of sight before the dwarves turn the corner. 

It’s Bofur and Ori. 

“Bilbo?” 

//

Bilbo is escorted by Bofur back to his quarters while Thorin finishes the meeting. 

“Let me know if you need anything,” Bofur tells him. “I’ll be just down the hall, aye?” 

Bilbo smiles and waits for the doors to his chambers to shut all the way. He then turns and sits down on the pouffe before the vanity mirror and stares at his reflection. 

In his mind, Gandalf’s words play in his head, bouncing around as if he was shouting into a canyon. Things are not as peaceful as they seem here in Erebor. 

It was like Yavanna had heard his wordless thoughts and brought them forward with all the clarity she could manage. Gandalf had been the last puzzle piece, and now Bilbo was left with a picture that he had to face, whether he liked it or not. 

The old wizard had suggested Bilbo get information out of Thorin, just as Bilbo had been too nice to do these past weeks. And now, the thought of seeing Thorin makes something hot burn in his stomach. Anger and irritation and resentment taste bitter, but it almost feels good. 

Bilbo is always too nice. Complacent enough to take a child that bared vague relations to him, complacent enough to allow himself to be married off to a stranger, complacent enough to watch injustice directly under his nose and do nothing. For once, he’s going to be not nice. 

—

When Thorin walks through the door, Bilbo is facing him, sitting with his legs crossed on the bed. 

Thorin looks tired. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his mouth clicks open as soon as his eyes connect with Bilbo’s. 

“Mr. Baggins. I know—“

“I’m going to speak,” Bilbo cuts him off. He was angry before, foaming and bumbling. But the passing hours have brought him to a stone cold calm that allows him to speak with command. His voice doesn’t shake, his eyes don’t water, his throat doesn’t burn. He is in control. “You are going to listen.” 

Thorin breathes out, removes his cape, and pulls up a chair. He sits and waits for Bilbo to speak. Obediently, like he couldn’t just walk outside the confines of his room and command the entire dwarven army to attack anyone. Like he had no power except to listen to what Bilbo had to say. It’s an addicting feeling, to know one is in charge. 

“Since the moment I arrived here, I felt out of place. There were a few saving graces that put me at ease, but certain things warded those feelings of comfort away. When we sat down for dinner on our wedding day, the hobbits and dwarves sat separately. There was a clear divide in the table; where no one sat nor placed their food.” 

Thorin’s expression doesn’t change, but his foot starts tapping silently against the carpet. 

“The only contact I’ve seen between hobbits and dwarves is that with which your friends make with me, and the few times Dís goes off to teach them to sew. And when I walk around, there’s always this air of uncertainty about every dwarf who comes near me. They’re always too nice, or downright rude, or so quiet when I’d seen them speaking loudly with their friends just before. There’s something awful going on in your kingdom, Thorin Oakinshield, and you are either too blind to see it or too stupid to do something about it. But I will not sit by anymore and watch, because it is the worst insult by far—“ Finally, the cold in his throat evaporates, and something catches. Bilbo’s eyes sting for a moment with tears. “To be called a hobbit with a tone of such disgust as your cousin said it. Hobbits are not known to be as proud as dwarves or as pompous as elves, but we take pride in who we are, and we will reach a breaking point eventually.” 

“Bilbo—“

“I’m not finished.” Bilbo says. He wipes his eyes quickly, taking a deep breath to gather his bearings. “I understand you have duties to your people and to your kingdom, but in my hobbit tradition that you were so adamant to include in our wedding festivities, you also have a duty to me , your husband, and what you did back there was not of sound practise.” 

Silence hangs for a moment. Thorin seems to be waiting for Bilbo to say more, but when it’s clear he is through, he speaks. 

“Bilbo. I...thank you for telling me this. I have suspected something was happening between the hobbits and the dwarves, and that is why I’ve been sending Dís to speak with the hobbits. I wanted to hear it directly from them,” Thorin’s eyes are glazed over as he explains. “We are working together on a solution for your people. I don’t care if some dwarves in my kingdom wish to stick to traditional ways; under my rule, there will be no segregation.” 

Bilbo blinks a few times. Soaks in the words. So Thorin had already known. Gandalf had suggested that Thorin was clueless, but he wasn’t. 

“I am also so, so sorry I had to do what I did,” Thorin continues. His eyes refocus on Bilbo, and he reaches forward and takes up both of the hobbits hands, rubbing them lightly. The rims of his eyes are red, and for the first time, Bilbo really sees the lines of stress around them. “The anger I spoke with was not for you, but for Elindur. He is older than me and thinks that he knows better, but he doesn’t. I couldn’t ruin my relationship with Dain, though, and I’m sorry that meant I had to cause you any grievances. I promise you that these matters will be dealt with, and things will become better for you very soon.”

Bilbo stares back at Thorin’s pleading expression. Blankly, at first, but then something bubbles inside his throat. His lips sour into a frown, and an ugly, bitter laugh escapes him. 

“That’s it?” 

Thorin’s expression turns confused. 

“ Why are you so—“ Bilbo rips his hands away from Thorin’s and stands, pacing away. “You always do this, this thing, where you seem to just turn yourself off and do and say only what you think I want! It’s so infuriating!” 

“What...what do you mean?” His voice is harder than before, though, less Thorin and more King. 

Bilbo points, guffawing in response. 

“You have this way of acting, Thorin, that makes it hard to imagine you’re even alive. Whenever we speak, it’s almost one sided. I speak, and you attend to what I say, trip over yourself to—to please me or something. It’s like I’m speaking to a machine! You have the same responses, and you never share anything about yourself, even when I do, and you’re just too nice all the time—“

“Would you rather I be mean?” Thorin interjects, sounding insulted. 

“Maybe!” Bilbo yells. “It would be better than you parading around with masked emotions!” 

“As king—“

“As my husband—“

“I am your king !” Thorin stands, and the booming sound of his voice fills the room and seems to dampen anything else. “Before anything else, I am your king! I order, and you obey! Never forget that I am the one who gives you the freedom to do whatever you want while you’re here! I could have you sleep in separate quarters, bury you in the many halls of this mountain, make it so that I never saw you at all! I could have ignored your existence after our union so that I could have the throne and none of the marriage. But I didn’t, because I was being a decent dwarf!” Thorin throws his hands up and sideways and everywhere like he’s disgusted. His face is all wrinkled up and red. He sighs with finality, sharp and rough. “Apparently my efforts aren’t enough for you, Master Hobbit.” He turns away and walks around the bed, sitting down with his back to Bilbo. 

Bilbo doesn’t feel guilty, not at all, but he feels a sense of pity. 

“Perhaps I’ll find another bed to sleep in tonight.” Bilbo says. 

The only response is the crackling if the fireplace. 

—

Bilbo could have slept in the room where Frodo was meant to sleep. He might have asked Bofur or anyone at all for a separate room to stay in. But instead, Bilbo wanders down into Erebor, past the stairways he’s never crossed before. He passes a few dwarves and hobbits, but no one stops him. Maybe they can sense the aura of angst around him, or perhaps they think they cannot speak to the kings consort. Either way, he is grateful that he is left alone long enough for him to find what he does. 

Somewhere, clear on the opposite side of Erebor, Bilbo finds a stable. There are several stalls of ponies, hay bales stacked upon each other, and trowels of water and grain. The scent of hay fills his nostrils, and Bilbo finds his eyes welling with tears. It’s been so long since he’s smelled anything fresh—anything that smelt of green nature and not of dusty mines. 

He collapses in a pile of itchy hay, not caring if it was comfortable or not. Instead he breathes in the pale scent and cries. It feels nicer than he would have imagined to cry. 

Then he hears an odd, consistent rustling. Most of the ponies are asleep, which is why it draws attention from Bilbo. 

He sits up straight, eyes tracing the stalls for signs of movement. 

And then he spots a little hobbit buried beneath a few layers of loose hay. 

Bilbo wipes his eyes a few times before standing and brushing himself off. By the time he’s made it over to the young hobbit, he’s smiling. 

“Hello.” 

The hobbit jumps a little, sitting up abruptly. He looks like he’d been almost sleeping, but not quite. He also looks rather ashamed to have been caught between the hay sticks. 

“Ah, I’m sorry! I know I’m not supposed to be here, but—“

“I’m not supposed to be here either,” Bilbo interjects, taking a seat a bit away from the little hobbit. “It’s very comforting here, though.” 

“I...yes. It is.” 

Bilbo let’s the silence hang for a moment. 

“I’m Bilbo.” 

“I know,” The hobbit says, quickly. “I’m, uh, I’m Samwise Gamgee, sir. But everyone calls me Sam.”

“Gamgee? I think I know someone in your family.” 

Sam’s eyes light up, and he sucks in a big breath of air. 

“Really?” 

Bilbo chuckles and begins to reply, but then he hears the stomping of little feet on the stone steps to the stables. 

“Sam!”

“Sam!”

Two more hobbits appear. One is taller than the other, but they both have similar noses and an expression of shock on their faces as they spot Bilbo. 

“Sam, are you in trouble again?” One of them pipes. 

Sam waves his hands. “No, it’s alright, Pipin. Mr. Bilbo is very nice.” 

“Oh, okay,” Both hobbits relax immediately, complete trust in Sam’s words. “Well we brought you some food.” The other hobbit dumps a large amount of vegetables in the center of the small circle they’d amassed. Carrots and lettuce and a few mushrooms. 

“Where did you get those?” Sam demands in awe, poking at one of the mushroom heads. “You’re banned from every kitchen because you steal so much.” 

“Merry just sent me instead,” Pippin replied, already munching on a carrot. “I snuck in and grabbed the first thing I saw and then ran out. Easy peasy.” 

“Why are you even here in the first place?” Bilbo asks, picking up a mushroom and taking a bite. 

They all look at each other with worried glances, trying to speak without speaking and come to some sort of agreement on their story. It amuses Bilbo, but he bites back his laughter with his mushroom. 

“Sam likes to sleep here,” Pippin says, slowly, keeping eye contact with Sam and Merry like he’ll say something wrong. “So we come to keep him company.” They all begin to nod ferociously. 

“Yeah! We just like to bring snacks and eat here. It’s like a secret clubhouse!” Sam exclaims. 

“Sometimes we feed the ponies.” Merry adds, waving his hand towards one of the snoozing animals. 

Bilbo presses his lips together, nodding. 

“Right. Where are your guardians?” 

Sam deflates easily, and Merry and Pippin both flinch. 

“Sam’s parents are dead, sir.” 

“Ah,” Bilbo places a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I see. So who takes care of you?”

Sam looks earnestly at Bilbo, and then to his friends. They’re eyes widen and they shake their heads, but Bilbo can tell that Sam is too good of a lad to keep a secret for too long. 

The words come flooding out of him, fast and breathless, as if he’d been waiting so long to say everything out loud. “No one, sir. My parents only died a few weeks ago, and I’ve been staying here ever since. Pippin and Merry and I talk about leaving Erebor, since everyone thinks they’re nuisances too. We think maybe Laketown would like us, or even Mirkwood. But we can never escape without being seen, so we just stay here and hide when they come to feed the horses around eight and two.” 

Merry facepalms. Pippin looks to Bilbo with wide eyes. 

So they were all stowaway’s. Bilbo supposes that it might be easy for three little hobbits to go missing in a huge place like Erebor. Still, it seemed odd no one had found them yet, and that no one had worried of their well-being. 

“I’m not supposed to be here either,” Bilbo says softly. “The king and I...had a fight.” 

Sam gasps, bringing his little hands up to cover his face. 

“No! But aren’t you two in love?” 

Bilbo finds heat rising to his cheeks. He throws the rest of his mushroom down, crossing his arms. 

“It’s more complicated than that, Samwise.”

“Well, you can live here with us!” Merry pipes, grinning through a mouth full of mashed carrot. “It’s nice here! We can all live together!” 

“You can help us steal food! And tell us stories about Mirkwood!” 

The three of them begin to speak all at once, shouting all the things they want to do and what they think Bilbo could do. 

He laughs for a moment, entertaining the idea in his mind. He could live here and never see Thorin; never deal with the problems of Erebor. Just steal food and live as a castaway with three young hobbits. But surely, someone would find them out eventually. Someone would come looking for Bilbo, with a letter from Mirkwood, or with another chore he had to do for Thorin. 

That is, if Thorin even wanted to see him again. Bilbo can’t even imagine going back to that wretched room with the way things are now. Someone had to apologize, and it wasn’t going to be Bilbo. 

“How about, instead, we go somewhere else. Somewhere with a bed?” 

They all glance at each other again, conspiratorially, and then finally back to Bilbo. 

“That’s a fine idea.” Pippin says slowly. 

So they all journey back across Erebor. The only people out and about around this time are the guards, but they remain silent and stiff as Bilbo passes with Sam’s hand in his own and Pippin and Merry scurrying further ahead. 

When they reach the antechamber of Thorin’s families quarters, Bilbo leads the hobbits into the room that was made to be Frodo’s. He’d never been inside before, but is glad to discover that the bed is large enough to fit all three little hobbits. He lights a few candles for them. 

They run around before climbing into bed, looking inthe toy chests at the foot of the bed and the fancy mirror in the corner of the room. Eventually, they settle down beneath the covers, tucked in like meat in a pie. 

“Can we stay here, now?” Sam mutters, his eyes already closed. 

“It’s warm.” Merry comments. Pippin’s limbs are wrapped around him already, the little hobbit having fallen asleep quicker than any of them. 

“I’m not sure,” Bilbo sighs. “But maybe.” 

Once their eyes are all shut, Bilbo lifts a candle and shelters it from the air as he walks out of the room and to the door of Thorin’s room. He takes a deep breath, but doesn’t let it out. 

The lights are off in the bedroom apart from the hearth, which is what Bilbo was expecting. He is as silent as he can, which is extremely. Elven training and natural hobbit gifts make him an excellently quiet walker. Bilbo sets the candle on his bedside table and waits a moment, staring at Thorin’s lumbering figure. As soon as he gets into bed, Thorin might wake up and yell at Bilbo to leave. He might ask for forgiveness, or try to bargain. Or, as Bilbo hoped more for, he might say nothing at all. Maybe he was deep asleep, and wouldn’t notice. 

Bilbo climbs into bed, drapes the covers over his shoulders, and turns away from Thorin. 

Beside him, there is no movement. 

—

The next week passes quickly and also unbearably slow. 

To Bilbo’s surprise, he and Thorin fall back into the same established routine; just with less conversation. A lot less conversation. 

Bilbo begins to care for Sam, Pippin, and Merry. He brings them to breakfast, and then let’s then wander around Erebor as long as they promise not to cause trouble. He promises that when he gets a chance, he will talk to their guardians. All three seem more than happy to oblige in return for playtime with Fíli and Kíli. 

Thorin walks a foot or so ahead of him at all times, head up and shoulders straight. He doesn’t strike up conversation in the throne room, nor does he invite Bilbo for a bath after all of their duties are taken care of. They stand and walk and breathe in silence as taught as a rope. 

Bilbo discovers the extent of his ability to blend in. He stops listening to the political meetings altogether. It becomes increasingly easy to blend into the wall with his hands folded and his head down. He stares at the stone ground until it spins in an endless grey swirl. At night, after he spends as much time as possible with Pippin, Merry, and Sam, he crawls silently into bed without a peep. 

Dís asks him several times what’s going on, but Bilbo doesn’t have an answer. He just shrugs and gives her a helpless sigh. 

Maybe Bilbo had been too aggressive. Yes, he was living a life of lavish as the king’s consort. Yes, he would never have to worry about anything ever again. But Bilbo was never, and doesn’t think he could ever be as impassive as to sit back and take it when things were thrown at him. He was stuck; he wanted respect and compassion from Thorin—he knew that they were nothing more than friends, at best. The entire situation was tricky, and carved odd shapes that were hard to wrap one's head around. But Bilbo couldn’t just do nothing. He refused. 

At the end of the week, as he makes it to the entrance to Erebor to drop off a letter, he comes upon Dwalin. 

“Hello,” He greets politely. Then he sees the world outside for the first time in almost a month, and sees flurries of white drifting from the cloudy sky. “It’s snowing.” He mumbles to himself. 

“Indeed,” Dwalin grunts. Then, a bit awkwardly, “Would you like an escort outside?” 

Bilbo asks Dwalin to wait. He collects his three little hobbits and borrows a few coats from Dís. Then they five make their way across the bridge and to the hills just outside the gate. 

The day is cold and brisk, but Bilbo relishes in it. Fresh air is different then the stuffiness below the mountain; it sits in his lungs differently. The children play in the already piled snow, throwing snowballs. Sam starts on a snowman almost immediately. 

Bilbo stands to the side, a few steps away from Dwalin. They both watch in silence, and Bilbo relishes the moment. 

Snow was quiet near voodoo to hobbits, and surely he’s never been so happy to feel it in his hair, but he is. Winter has never been more beautiful than right now. 

Just as Bilbo thinks he might join Sam in his snowman building expedition, there is a hand on his shoulder. He turns and meets Thorin’s eyes. 

Dwalin is walking further away from them, probably for privacy’s sake. 

“The first snow of the season.” Thorin says, voice rough. It almost sounds like he hasn’t spoken all week, even thought Bilbo knows he has in meetings. 

“We hobbits despise the snow,” Bilbo says back, habit getting the best of him. “But it’s very pretty when it isn’t dangerous.” 

Thorin is silent for a moment. His hand falls off of Bilbo’s shoulder awkwardly. 

“I’m sorry,” Thorin says, and when he says it, Bilbo knows it’s real. There’s a heaviness to it, something far off from the forced niceness of every apology before now. Bilbo turns to face him, but Thorin is watching the hobbits play. His eyes are stormy and grey, like the weather today. “There’s a reason all of the heirs to the throne have passed on. I’ve told you about my brother, mother, and father. But my grandfather is still unknown to you. It...is the greatest tragedy of the dwarven race.” 

Bilbo looks away, listens with everything in him, but stands with patience. Thorin’s words are delicate and expertly chosen; hand picked and careful. 

“They had found the heart of the mountain, as they called it, just twenty years after he took the throne. The king’s jewel; the Arkenstone. It seemed to be a divine right of passage to my grandfather, as if it proved he was destined to rule. He placed it above his throne, and it gave him respect from every race. It was a peaceful time, then, when everyone was at peace and Erebor flowed heavily with riches. But things took a turn. My grandfather began to at differently. He would spit on anyone who dared to disagree with him. Even to us, his family, he was...distant and angry. He acted like the entire world was conspiring against him; trying to steal his throne. My father called it Dragon Sickness.” Thorin breathes out, shallow. “In the battle where I earned my name, Oakenshield, my grandfather and father passed. It felt more peaceful than anything, because my grandfather hadn’t been my grandfather for a long time before.” 

Bilbo takes a deep breath. 

“And the Arkenstone?” 

“The Arkenstone was lost,” Thorin says. “We had no idea where it was...until yesterday.” He turns to Bilbo again, and takes one of his hands. Bilbo does not pull away. “Dain told me that his people have found it again. He wishes for me to travel to the Blue Mountains to retrieve it, as it technically still belongs to the dwarves of Erebor…” He trails off, and Bilbo can hear the uncertainty in his voice. 

For the first time, he was leaning. Just a little bit, and not even very straightforwardly, but he was seeking counsel. From what Bilbo knows of him, and what Dís has complained about, Thorin was known to never do this. 

Bilbo pulls Thorin in and gives him a hug, and as he pulls away gives him a kiss on the cheek. 

“I think you should go,” He tells him after a moment of pondering. “It can be your first major act as king. It’s a relic of your people.” 

Thorin gives him this small smile, almost shy, and beings to nod. 

“Also…” Bilbo sniffs, finally feeling like things are in balance. “There’s something I should ask you. Gandalf meant to, but because of the situation between the hobbits and dwarves, he’s been unable to meet with you. It’s about the hobbits returning to the Shire.” 

Thorin’s eyes get misty again, the way they tend to do when he begins to mull things over. 

“They want to go back?” 

“Gandalf has offered to lead them back. He says the Shire is safe now, and that the dirt is fertile again, and that there are already several hobbits who have returned.” 

Thorin nods, and nods again, then opens his mouth. Nothing comes out, and he shakes his head as if dismissing a thought. Then he  meets Bilbo’s eyes straight on. 

“I’ll call a meeting with my counsel. If any hobbits wish to return, they can travel with us as we journey to the Blue Mountains.”