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Chapter Text

Bilbo woke to the warmth of the morning sun on his face and the sound of birds singing in the tree above the Hill, yet he found no comfort in either. He knew his friends would be leaving today, he knew they would be going back to Erebor so to get on with their lives there; but he was not ready for them to leave, and so he rolled onto his back on the dewy grass and threw his arm over his eyes, trying to will away the sunlight.

Thorin, Gloin, Óin, and Ori had passed westwards through Hobbiton with shortened beards and trimmed hair nearly two months ago, but they had stayed with Bilbo for only a single night before continuing on to Ered Luin. The Dwarf-King's plan had been to bring his sister back to Erebor, but when Dís had learned of the fate of her sons, she had instead chosen to remain in the home where she had raised them. As her lady-in-waiting and dearest friend, Tílsa, Gloin's wife, had decided to stay with her so she would not be left alone in her grief; and so Gloin and their son, Gimli, had remained in the Blue Mountains, as well.

That had left just Thorin, Óin, and Ori returning to Erebor; and while on their way back through Hobbiton, they had again stopped at Bilbo's home. This time, however, their visit had lasted somewhat longer, with one day passing easily into another, then the days fading into a week, and by now his guests had been with him for a fortnight—and still, it did not feel like they had been there for long enough.

Óin and Ori had whiled away most of their visit either wandering the green hills of the Shire or reading through Bilbo's many books, then they would invariably help with the cleaning-up before retiring to the guest rooms at night. Thorin, on the other hand, did not spend much time with the others except at dinner, and even then he was staid and silent. Most other times he was to be found smoking in quiet contemplation by the fireplace in the parlor; and when night fell, he would excuse himself to the largest guest-chamber, which was next to Bilbo's own room.

Whether he ever managed any rest, Bilbo couldn't say for certain; though sometimes when the Hobbit was on the verge of sleep, he thought that he heard the Dwarf's muffled voice singing on the other side of their shared wall. The songs were always slow and deep; lamentations, Bilbo was sure, for Fíli and Kíli. Still, Thorin never spoke openly of them, never mentioned how they had died. He barely spoke at all, in fact; and any questions Bilbo would ask of him would either receive terse responses, or else be handed off to Ori and Óin. 

They, at least, spoke with Bilbo often; and it was from them that he had learned of Dís's refusal to leave her mountain home. At more relaxed times, they would bring up somewhat lighter subjects—such as how each member of the Company was prospering, how the Ravens were once again serving as swift messengers for the Dwarves, and how well the cleaning and restoration of Erebor was coming along. They told him also about matters not strictly pertaining to their own interests: how Bard and his children were adjusting to their new lives, how both Dale and Esgaroth were thriving, and how Thranduil was at least being civil these days… if not exactly friendly.

But all they had to say about Fíli and Kíli was that they had died honorably. Beyond that, Bilbo knew nothing about the princes' fate, and he figured it had been Thorin's wish for his companions remain silent on the matter. Bilbo, for his part, never pressed the issue, though his own grief was heavy and his curiosity was strong.

Most mornings, the Dwarf-King would come out of his room just after sunrise, bleary-eyed and as quiet as ever, then he would eat his breakfast alone in the dining room before sitting down by the fireplace for a pipe. Just yesterday morning, however, he had quite unexpectedly announced that he and his companions would be leaving the next day. He then gave to Bilbo a fair amount of gold to cover the expenses that he believed had been incurred while they had been there. Bilbo tried to return the money, telling him that his home was not an inn that would need to be paid for; but Thorin would not accept the gold back, nor would he agree to stay longer, no matter how many times the Hobbit asked.

And so the final day of his friends' visit passed by almost solemnly as they readied themselves to leave; but when Bilbo went to see if they needed anything towards evening, he found the chair by the fireplace empty. When he asked the other Dwarves where Thorin had gotten off to, Ori said that he had left without a word some time ago. Neither Óin nor Ori felt that they should go after him, believing that he would return when he was ready to; but after a half-hour of waiting for the door to open, Bilbo went out into the falling dusk in search of his friend.

He did not have to look far, as he found Thorin sitting on the Hill over Bag End, hugging his knees to his chest and staring up at the sky as the stars began to fade in. Bilbo climbed up onto the turfed roof and sat quietly by his side, then he brought out his pipe and lit it before casually offering Thorin a puff. To Bilbo's surprise, the Dwarf accepted; and as they passed the pipe back and forth and watched the smoke drift away on the light breeze, Bilbo spoke a little about how things were getting on in the Shire.

Thorin listened in dignified silence as the Hobbit mentioned how Sandyman's mill had nearly burned down that spring, and how the owners of the Ivy Bush Inn were thinking of adding a new wing. He looked at Bilbo curiously when he said that the greater-than-usual amount of rain this year had actually led to a fairly better crop of pipe-weed that had the drying racks in Little Delving overflowing. He smiled faintly when Bilbo told him about how Banbar Bolger's best sow had gotten away from her pen and had her litter in Farmer Diggle's tool shed.

By the time the pair had smoked the last of the Longbottom Leaf that Bilbo had packed into the pipe, the night had come fully on. The weather was fine, the sky was dark, and the stars were clear; so rather than suggesting that they go inside to enjoy the fire before turning in for the evening, Bilbo instead laid back on the cool grass and slid his hands under his head. Here and there small white clouds floated by, and for a while he let his eyes follow their progress as he listened to the night-sounds all around him, though he could not keep his mind off of how much he would miss his friends when they left — of how empty his house would seem when they were gone.

At last he could not help but turn to Thorin, and he saw then that the Dwarf's shoulders were slumped and he had his hand pressed to his brow. Bilbo hesitated for a moment before asking if there was anything he wanted to say, since they would not likely have another chance to speak for quite some time. Thorin answered only with a shake of his head, and so Bilbo returned his attention to the sky.

A few minutes later, Thorin laid back onto the ground. Bilbo tried not to look at him at first, but when he heard Thorin's breaths deepening, he figured he had gone to sleep. He shifted to the side and saw that he was wrong, though, as the Dwarf's eyes were half-opened and welling up; and after sparing the Hobbit a quick glance, Thorin did at last close his eyes, forcing out the tears that been gathering at their corners. Bilbo didn’t know if his friend went to sleep then, but he himself soon grew tired, and he did not notice when he drifted off.

He woke some time later to the sound of singing—much closer and clearer than what he had heard through his bedroom wall, but in the same deep, mournful tone. Bilbo did not understand the Dwarf-language, and he figured he never would, but he did not need to know the words to understand what was being said. He heard Fíli and Kíli's names, and Thorin's voice cracked; then the song came to a sudden end, as if he had reached a part that he could not bear repeating.

Bilbo eased his eyes open and saw that Thorin was sitting again, and that his face was once more turned to the sky. The Hobbit couldn't tell if his friend knew he was listening, or if he was talking to himself or to the stars; but presently Thorin began to speak, and it was as if a dam had burst as he told of how his nephews had gone to the Iron Hills, and how they had never made it back to Erebor.

They had been eager to serve as escorts for a number of Dáin's folk that had decided to help in the rebuilding of the reclaimed Lonely Mountain; and Thorin had sent them off gladly, knowing that they were both well-suited to the task. The trip there had gone well, as had been reported by a Raven sent out by Dáin when Fíli and Kíli had arrived; and another Raven came soon afterwards with the news that the princes and their charge were on their way back to Erebor.

The group did not arrive on the day they were expected, but there was not much fear that anything had gone wrong, since the Dwarves that would be marching in from the Iron Hills were likely to be slowed by the tools and goods they would be needing to rebuild the Kingdom Under The Mountain. It was only after nearly a week had gone by with no sign of the travelers that Thorin had begun to worry; and so he at last sent out scouts, led by Dwalin, to search for them.

Less than a day's march out from Erebor, the party came across many smashed wagons and the picked-over remains of dead goats in a stand of trees near the eastern foothills of the Lonely Mountain, though there was no other sign of the three dozen Dwarves that had set out from the Iron Hills. The scouts searched the area, but they did not get far before they were waylaid by a troop of goblins. After a brief skirmish, all but one of the goblins lay dead, and that last one survived only by offering to lead Dwalin and the others to where the Dwarves were being held.

He took them then to a mine that had been abandoned and forgotten by Thror's people when Smaug attacked; though it was never learned whether the goblins had taken over the mine shortly after the arrival of the dragon, or if they were refugees from the Battle. What was certain, however, was that when Dáin's folk had come near with little in the way of weapons but many tools for working stone, the Dwarves had proven to be an irresistible draw and had been captured for slave labor.

Not wholly unexpectedly, when the scouting party crossed the threshold into the mine, the goblin that had been guiding them sent up a call that there were intruders—an act for which Dwalin was quick to gut him. Many other goblins soon came running from out of the mine's depths, but all fell swiftly to the scouts' blades. A quick search of the main tunnels was then made, and the captive miners and their families were found all together in a deeply-dug and filthy prison.

Fíli and Kíli were, at that point, still alive, though their shirts had been shredded by goblin-wielded lashes, and the skin on their backs was welted and, in places, raw. The rest of the Dwarves that had been traveling with them were all accounted for and in surprisingly good health.

That was in no small part, it was later learned, because Fíli had realized the goblins' intention to make slaves of them from the start. For their safety, he had ordered the Dwarves in his charge to surrender to the overwhelming force, so to give their captors no reason to do them any harm. The brothers had then succored them with the knowledge that a rescue party would soon be sent out from Erebor. To their credit and honor, Dáin's people had obeyed without question, and because of that, all had survived the week underground with little food, water, fresh air, or light.

Additionally, Thorin’s nephews had taken it upon themselves to bear the brunt of the goblins' ire while they had been enslaved; stepping in to draw the whip-masters’ attentions every time a miner would stumble or slow. But though Kíli was now feverish from infection, and Fíli's eye had been slashed and was swollen shut, still they aided in opening the cages and cutting the bonds of the other prisoners—and soon all were freed, and they made ready to leave.

As they were making their way out of the mine, however, many more enemies showed themselves. The goblins had silently cut off the exit, and had then sat in the darkness of the side-tunnels and waited for the Dwarves to near; then they attacked all at once, when the light of day was within sight of the fleeing prisoners and scouts. Screaming out a battle-cry, Dwalin led the charge forward while the princes took up the rearguard, and slowly the rescue party and the miners and their families made their progress towards freedom.

It was said by witnesses that Kíli took a spear to the ribs and fell back, and that his brother remained by his side even as the screeching of many more goblins came from behind them. Though the miners who were with them tried to stay at their defense, the princes still ordered them forward with the others, commanding them to smash the timbers that made up the mine scaffolding as they went past. Again, the Iron Hills Dwarves obeyed without hesitation, and soon the wave of defenders, most of whom were armed with their mining tools alone, broke through the enemy blockade and ran out onto the sunlit foothills.

Still, from behind there was the calling of angry goblin-voices; and among them, it was realized with dismay, the echoing yells of Fíli and Kíli. Dwalin made ready to rush back into the mine after them, but there came a sudden rumbling, followed by the crashing of boulders; then a cloud of dust rolled out of the tunnel and flowed down the hill, choking and blinding the escapees, and knocking them off their feet. When the rumbling ended, but before the dust had come close to clearing, Dwalin and the others dove back into the mine; but they did not make it even a dozen yards in before they came upon the remains of a cave collapse.

Out from under the boulders was seeping thick black blood, and it was clear that a great number of goblins had been crushed by the fall. In hope, the Dwarves called out to Fíli and Kíli, who, they learned after a quick head-count, were the only ones missing. But no answer came back; and when the miners started to try to clear away the rubble to find them, the tunnel began to shake once more. Heartsick, Dwalin ordered the miners and scouts out of the tunnel lest it collapse again; and after a time, he decided that they could make the wounded wait no longer and withdrew to Erebor, leaving behind a few keen-eared scouts whose task was to listen for the princes, should they manage to lift their voices past the stones.

As soon as the party reached the Mountain with word of Fíli and Kíli, a great many Dwarves volunteered to go back for them; and among the volunteers was Thorin, himself, who was one of the first to make his way into the mine. But every effort to bring the princes out failed, as each boulder that was shifted and every time a pickaxe rang against the stones, more of the tunnel would come down and the walls began to crack and crumble. At the last, there was a roof-fall that nearly claimed the lives of those who were working the recovery, and the hill above the mine fell in, leaving a deep sinkhole behind. 

After many days of effort and failure, the heavy decision was at last made to close off the mine; and Fíli and Kíli were left where they had fallen, their tomb being one that they had made for themselves—as the certainty was that the princes had collapsed the tunnel in an effort to keep the goblins from coming up behind the fleeing Dwarves. It was, of course, never known whether they had believed they could escape, or if they had caused the cave-in hoping only to take as many of the enemy with them as possible; but whatever their intent had been, their sacrifice had assured the survival of many of their people.

In their honor, those whose lives they had saved—as well as many other Dwarves of Erebor—had shorn their beards and shortened their hair. Thorin had done the same in their memory; and even after Fíli and Kíli's memorial had ended, and the great slab of stone that now blocked the entrance had been carved with the princes' names, he had stayed at the mine. For a week he spent his evenings sitting by the stone and listening for the sound of his nephews' voices on the other side.

After his week's vigil had ended, he did not go back to Erebor, but sent word to Balin and Dwalin that they were to be in charge of the Mountain until he returned. He never told anyone where he was bound, or how long his journey would be; but in the dark of the night, when his retainers were all in a deep sleep, he had set out on his pony towards the west. He went on alone for a time, but Gloin, Óin, and Ori had tracked him down and joined him a few days on; and though he had ordered them back to Erebor, they refused to let him go on alone.

Having said all this, Thorin fell into silence and laid back onto the ground once more, closing his eyes and folding his hands on his chest; and Bilbo thought about how his perceptions of Dwarves had changed over the few years since he had taken to the road with Thorin and his kin. He remembered the ones he had met when he was younger—the ones who had passed through the Shire on their way to Breeland and beyond. In those young days, he never believed that their kind were anything but stalwart and stoic, he never imagined that they cried or fell into quiet mourning. Over the time he had spent with the Company, he had sadly learned different. Dwarves were, perhaps, made of stone; but even stone could crack if it was hit in just the right place. That place, for Thorin, seemed to be the lives of his sister-sons; and their loss had shattered him.

The Hobbit wasn’t sure if his friend managed to sleep after his story was done being told, but neither of them spoke again; and Bilbo closed his own eyes and let exhaustion and grief take over, then he himself fell into an uneasy rest. Now, though, the sun was on the rise; and Bilbo lifted his arm from his face, knowing he could no longer fight the coming of the day. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes hard, then he turned to the side and saw that the spot where the Dwarf had been last night was bare. He rose quickly and unsteadily to his feet then, hoping that his friends had not left without saying goodbye—as he wanted very much to wish them well and to give them a fine meal before they headed out.

But when he stepped inside Bag End and looked around, he saw nothing to prove that they had been there at all, save a single piece of folded-over paper that was sitting on the dining table. The words upon it were written in a fine script that he recognized as being Ori's hand—and really, there was not much to it, except for many thanks for allowing the Dwarves to stay. Just at the end, though, there was a short mention of how they were looking forward to seeing him again when they came back through in a couple months' time. 

Bilbo reread the note as he shuffled to his bedroom, and there he fell onto his bed and tossed the paper onto the blanket beside him. He was glad to hear, at least, that they would be returning to his home for a visit so soon; but as he did a short bit of figuring in his head, he realized that a couple months would not give them time to get all the way to Erebor and back.

Light then hit him hard in the corner of his vision and he shifted his head toward the window, where the sun was now shining bright and harsh through the glass. He groaned and stood and made his way over, intent on shutting the curtain and locking out the day; but there on the sill he found another note. When he opened this one he saw that it had been written in Óin's bold strokes. It was a more private letter, more personal; and in it, the older Dwarf gave his thanks for whatever words Bilbo had said to Thorin in the night, as they seemed to have eased some of the Dwarf-King's concerns—though Bilbo knew that it was only his listening, and not his own speaking that may have done his friend any good.

Still, the note went on to say that Thorin did not know that Óin was writing this message of thanks, and that the intention was to leave it where only Bilbo might discover it, so that the sentiment would be known to the Hobbit, alone. At the end were signed the names of Óin and Ori; and after was a P.S., which said that the change of plans had been Thorin's alone, and that if the others had been given the choice, they would all have stayed in the beauty and calm of the Shire rather than heading back west.

Bilbo eyed the letter curiously. A westward-road and a two-month trip likely meant that his friends had gone back to Ered Luin, for whatever reason—and to Bilbo's mind, that was a good thing. It was unlikely that Thorin was ready for the trek back to the Lonely Mountain just yet, and to be in a place that was more like home to him would certainly help in his healing. That also meant, Bilbo thought with a soft smile, that he might himself join his friends on their eastward journey when they came back through; then he would be able to return to Erebor for a visit of his own, if for no other reason than to give Fíli and Kíli his farewells.

He returned the note to the sill and made his way back to his bed, sitting first on the edge, then letting out a long and weary breath as he laid back onto his quilt. His eyelids grew heavy and closed, and his body sank into his feather mattress as the restlessness of the disturbed night caught up to him; but as his mind started drifting back and forth on the edge of sleep, he heard a muffled sound like Dwarvish singing on the other side of his bedroom wall.

Chapter Text

"That's where the Sackville-Bagginses live," said Bilbo, motioning towards a large Hobbit-hole with a bright red door. "I've spoken of them before, haven't I?"

Thorin gave the door a sidelong glance. "You have, yes."

Bilbo moved quickly to the far side of the road, almost as if he feared his cousins would sense his presence if he came too near. "Dreadful family." 

Thorin looked back towards the house, and while his attention was drawn, the sole of his boot scraped against a high paving-stone and he lurched forward. Bilbo continued on, apparently unaware of Thorin's stumble; and the Dwarf righted himself, then stooped to tighten the straps of his boot.

He did not like to admit—to either himself or to Bilbo—but he had become rather unaccustomed to wearing shoes after all the time he'd recently spent walking around barefoot in Bag End. And so, though he said nothing about it to the Hobbit, he'd had to pause many times during their walk so to either rest his feet or readjust the fit of his boots; and as he did so this time, he took the chance to better study the Sackville-Bagginses' home.

Though Thorin was certain that his perceptions had been somewhat altered by the more natural and homey landscaping of Bilbo's garden, to his eyes this place appeared a bit gaudy overall. There was certainly something showy in the topiaries and carved wooden statues that were situated along the side-hedges, the large yellow and orange flowers covering the grassy roof, and the blown-glass bauble that hung from the polished-brass doorbell's fine chain. Still, it looked much like most other Hobbit houses he had seen—though if the garden was indicative of the people who lived within the home, then it seemed to Thorin that Bilbo's estranged cousins were not so much dreadful as they were just a touch pretentious.

Bilbo looked back over his shoulder as Thorin finished adjusting his straps, then he stopped walking until the Dwarf caught up to him. "Did I ever tell you that Lobelia tried to take my spoons?" he asked as they continued on together. 

Thorin grunted softly. "You've mentioned it," he said; though in actual fact, Bilbo had mentioned it several times over the last week, and by now Thorin knew the story well. "You got them back, at least."

"Maybe so, but she charged me twice what she paid the auctioneer for them."

A few steps further on, Bilbo started humming softly to himself; and Thorin gave the Sackville-Bagginses' home another glance before following him up the hill.

He did not know where Bilbo was leading him, nor how long it would take to get there; though if he'd had his choice he would not have been outside at all. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy Bilbo's company—just the opposite, in fact—but he would much rather have been sitting in the drawing room with him, smoking and reading and sinking into the comfortable silence that they had so often shared since Ori and Oin had left for Ered Luin.

Thorin hadn't set foot out the door of Bag End since then—since the night he had spent on the roof with Bilbo, and he had told him about how Fíli and Kíli had died. That evening had been the first time in months that Thorin had managed a deep and peaceful sleep; and though the Hobbit's home was secure and the bed in the guest room was soft and warm, it had also been the last such sleep he'd had.

He did not actually sleep much at all, in fact; and those times when he did, it was restless and filled with grievous dreams. It had been so this morning, when Thorin awoke clawing at walls that were not there; and though Bilbo had not mentioned it, Thorin was certain that the Hobbit had heard him calling out to his nephews through the wall that separated their bedrooms. 

Thorin was not surprised, then, when Bilbo asked him at breakfast if he would like to join him for a trip to the market. He had asked the same thing every morning for the past week; and this morning, as every other, Thorin had given the same answer in the form of a silent shake of his head. This time, however, Bilbo had gone on to suggest that, even if he did not feel like shopping, he should at least get out for a walk around Hobbiton. It was, after all, a beautiful day with just the right amount of clouds to keep the sun from shining down too brightly, and it seemed a waste to spend it inside—especially since autumn would soon be coming on and the days would be growing shorter.

After a few minutes of silence, Thorin had at last confessed that his reasons for not wanting to go out and about was not only for his own sake, but also because he did not want anyone to judge Bilbo poorly for being associated with him. When Bilbo asked what he meant, Thorin explained how he had always been given wary looks when he had gone through Hobbit towns in the past. He told Bilbo of how the residents would watch him closely at the market, as if they feared he would rob them; he told him of how they would peek out their windows and quickly shut their doors when he passed their homes; he told him of how they grabbed their children and hurried them away when he came near. 

Bilbo, of course, claimed that did not care what anyone else thought of the company he kept, and that his reputation was not something that he found great importance in anymore; but still Thorin told him that he would rather stay in, and that if Bilbo felt that he needed to go out, then he should not feel guilty about leaving him behind—that he would be waiting for him when he got back, as he always was.

But Bilbo would not hear of it, and after some thought he had instead suggested that they take a walk north past the Hill, rather than south towards the heart of town. When Thorin asked him where that path would lead them, the Hobbit simply said that it was a quieter route that led past fewer homes, and that they would only be going so far along the road before they went off the trail and to a place that he was sure Thorin would find pleasant. 

To this, Thorin had at last agreed; and so they had set out not long after breakfast, when the tree-shadows were still long with the morning light. Their going so far had been rather slow, however; both because of Thorin frequently needing to adjust his boots, and because Bilbo had been pointing out landmarks all along the way—telling him about things that had happened in certain spots either months, years, or centuries ago. It had really been little more than idle chatter, though, until ire rose into Bilbo's eyes when they neared the Sackville-Bagginses' home.

"They still don't quite believe that I am me," said Bilbo, drawing Thorin out of his thoughts. "They've been spreading rumors that I am some kind of impostor, if you can believe that. Though about the only one that will pay them much heed is young Sandyman."

It took a moment for Thorin to realize that Bilbo was still speaking of his cousins; and though the Dwarf still did not feel much like making conversation, there was something in Bilbo's tone that gave him the impression that he wanted to say more.

"Are they that bad, really?" Thorin pressed gently. "Have they never shown you any kindness?"

Bilbo cast his eyes up at the cloud-dotted blue sky, then looked back towards the red door, which was now far down the hill. "Lobelia did once," he said, turning forward again. "But since then, she has neither given me a kind word, nor a friendly smile. It could be that she just doesn't care for me, but I think it has more to do with what I have and what she doesn't."

"And what is that?"

Bilbo shrugged, but said nothing.

Soon they came to a fork in the road, and Bilbo led them down the left path; and a few more minutes along, they passed beyond the few homes that were situated along the road, and instead came to a place where the trees on either side were tall and thick. The hill grew steeper here, and the pair continued up it wordlessly for a while; and when they reached the flattened area at the top of the rise they halted and stared down the far side.

There were a few free-standing homes at the bottom, and at the center of the settlement several Hobbits were dragging massive logs behind work-ponies. Other Hobbits sawed and chopped at the logs that were already stacked nearby, then tossed the hewn wood onto sledges, which were being pulled by more ponies to a large stonework building with a black-billowing smokestack at the top. Just behind the building flowed a wide river that began in the woods to the west, then vanished into the trees away east; and on the bank, workers were loading rafts with wheelbarrows full of some kind of black material.

"What is that place?" asked Thorin, squinting so to better see the bustle below.

"Charcoal yards," said Bilbo.

He sounded almost agitated, and when Thorin looked over at him, he saw that his brow was furrowed and his shoulders were stiff. Bilbo glanced in his direction, then turned suddenly and led the way into the trees, apparently determined to leave the road far behind as quickly as possible; and though Thorin briefly trailed behind, he soon caught up and fell into step beside him. 

"This is the Overhill Woods," said Bilbo. "It goes on north from here to the river that flows out of the Rushock Bog, and past it the Bindbole Woods extend all the way to Brockenborings." He motioned to the north. "Up that way." 

Thorin nodded. "And where are we going?"

Bilbo pointed ahead of them. "This way."

A small smile rose to Thorin's lips; then he let out a long breath and looked around. 

There was no proper path here, but Bilbo was clearly familiar with the area, as he strode forward boldly, working his way down the slight incline and weaving around any obstacles he came to. The trees here were many and varied, the air was heavy and humid, and the ground cover grew thicker as they moved deeper into the forest. It seemed to Thorin that there was plenty of potential for an abundance of game, and he found it odd that they hadn't seen anything larger than a fox since they had set out from Bag End.

"Is there good hunting in these parts?" he asked absently.

"Some," said Bilbo with a shrug. "Not as much as there once was, I'm afraid. There's still deer and rabbits, of course, but most of the bears and wild boars have…" He let out a quick laugh. "Herugar!"

"What?" asked Thorin, puzzled. "What is a Herugar?"

"Not what… who," said Bilbo, his smile widening. "Herugar Bolger. He's a cousin of mine that raises pigs over in Budgeford."

"Oh. What about him?"

Bilbo shook his head, laughing. "I was just thinking… well, it's funny, really! He had a bit too much to drink one night last winter, and for some reason he got it into his head that he could ride one of his pigs like a pony! Some folks said it was young Sandyman that put him up to it, but really, if you knew Herugar…" He looked up at Thorin for a moment before turning ahead once more. "But anyway, instead of picking out a nice fat sow, he hopped up on his biggest and meanest boar and jabbed his toes into its sides, and it just bolted! Straight through the fence and on up towards Frogmorton, and there was Herugar, just holding on for dear life…"

Thorin smiled. "That must have been quite a sight."

"I didn't actually see the beginning of the ride myself," said Bilbo. "I was at the Green Dragon having a toast, and somehow or other, Herugar rode that boar all the way to Bywater. We just heard this awful noise and we all ran outside to see him on the boar's back, covered with mud and with his eyes wide as dinner-plates. All we could hear for about an hour was squealing as the boar ran back and forth along the road, and I'd venture to guess that most of the squealing wasn't coming from the pig!"

At this, Thorin actually let out a brief laugh. "Has he tried that again?"

"To be honest, I don't think he went near his pigs for a month afterwards," said Bilbo as they got to the bottom of the incline. "But at the time, I just… he reminded me of Dáin on his war-boar, all screaming and charging into battle, and…" He snickered; then his eyes widened and his expression fell. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" asked Thorin.

Bilbo stopped walking and looked up at him. "For… well, for bringing up Dáin, for one. I had no intention on reminding you of things back East when I brought you out here."

"I am curious about what you did bring me out here for," said Thorin, trying to force some lightness into his voice. He raised an eyebrow and gave Bilbo a crooked grin. "I'll wager it wasn't to talk about pigs."

A few seconds passed, then Bilbo cleared his throat. "Honey," he said; then he must have seen Thorin's confusion, as his cheeks reddened and he hastily went on. "Bee hives."

"Wild hives?"

"Not quite," said Bilbo. He started walking again, and Thorin followed along. "Well, I suppose so, yes. We're not far away from them, though, and you'll see for yourself when we get there. We just need to go on ahead this way; up and over the next rise, then at the bottom there's the leading edge of a forest marsh, and that's where we'll find them. It's the only place I ever get my honey, if I can help it."

Thorin glanced at Bilbo, wondering if he had just not noticed if the Hobbit had brought a satchel along. "Were you planning on carrying the honeycomb back in your hands?" 

"I have plenty of honey at home right now," said Bilbo as they began up a short hill. "I just wanted to show you where I gather it. I've never shown anyone else, though, so keep hushed about it. Especially around Lobelia!" 

They came to the top of the ridge, and there they stopped. At the bottom was the marsh that Bilbo had been speaking of, settled into the small trench between two hills and curving around the westernmost one, then vanishing deep into the woods beyond.

Thorin wrinkled his nose at the musty smell rising up from below. "An odd place for a mere."

"It wasn't there until a few years ago," said Bilbo. "The Rushock Bog has been spreading this way, for some reason. Likely on account of the loggers taking trees from the mouth of the river." They started down the hill, and as they went large bees began buzzing all around them. "There used to be a lot of bears around here. It made honey-gathering rather difficult, at times, since they would always get to the wild hives."

"Sounds like it could have been dangerous for you," said Thorin, eyeing a bee that had flown right up to his face.

"Dangerous for my mother, really. Most of the bears were gone by the time I was grown."

"It was not your father that gathered the honey?"

"Not if he could help it," said Bilbo. "My mother was always the one that got out and about in the woods. She loved exploring and adventuring." The corner of his mouth curled up. "I guess I got that from her."

They came to the bottom of the hill, and there Bilbo ran his fingers along the bark of a large tree. He looked up, and though Thorin found it hard to draw his gaze off of Bilbo's soft smile, he turned his own eyes to the treetops as well. The large oak next to them was dead, and the branches had been lopped off at some point long ago; and when Thorin looked around, he saw several other trees in the same state.

Bilbo patted the trunk. "Mistletoe killed these oaks a few years before I was born, so my mother took off the branches and hollowed out the trunks, then she boarded them up." He stepped back and pointed halfway up the tree, to where two rough planks covered a hole in the trunk that large bees were flying out of and crawling into, and generally busying themselves around in the late-morning air. "She hoped that the bees would make hives of them, so that the bears would not be able to get to them so easily. It worked."

"Your mother was clever," said Thorin. "And brave."

"She was a Took," returned Bilbo, his grin widening.

The Hobbit walked to a stump nearby, and there he reached inside a hollow on the side and drew out a length of knotted rope with a three-pronged hook on the end. The rope appeared rather old and brittle; but still, Bilbo returned with it to the tree and began swinging the hook in a circle at his side.

"You may want to step back," he said.

After Thorin obeyed, Bilbo lofted the hook high into the air. It caught on the remains of a sawed-off branch just below the hive, and as Bilbo tugged on it a few times, the bees began to buzz loudly and fuss about outside their home.

"We best wait until they calm themselves," said Bilbo. 

He sat down, leaning his back against the trunk, and after a moment of staring at him, Thorin did the same. His arm brushed against Bilbo's shoulder as he lowered himself down, and he casually shifted away a few inches, so that they were no longer touching. Bilbo did not seem to notice the contact—or else he hadn't minded—and he leaned his head against the tree and looked over at the Dwarf.

"Remember what I said earlier about Lobelia?" he asked, wiggling his toes in a tuft of grass.

"What about her?"

"That one kindness she ever showed me…" Bilbo began, then he drew his knees up to his chest. "It was quite some time ago, about a year after she married Otho and moved from Hardbottle to Hobbiton…"

His voice trailed off as he seemed to sink into thought; and though he was no longer looking at Thorin, the Dwarf found that he could not stop studying his face as his eyes shifted slightly, like he was reading words on an invisible page. After a few silent minutes Bilbo sighed, then he rested his cheek on his knee and focussed on Thorin once more.

"I had… well, I had a bit of trouble with these bees here," he said. "My neck and back were welted and swollen from the stings, and it was really rather painful, and since her house was on the way back to mine, I stopped in. She treated them for me."

"That was nice of her," said Thorin.

"She was quite good at it, actually."

"At least she is not completely dreadful."

"Maybe not completely," Bilbo agreed—though a bit reluctantly, it seemed. "Not that I have since sat down with her long enough to find out for certain."

Thorin lowered his head and ran his fingers through his shortened hair. "It is a shame to keep kin at a distance."

After a few breaths he turned again to Bilbo, whose attention was on the ground before them; but the Hobbit said nothing, and Thorin pursed his lips.

"Dáin really did look the fool when he first saddled up his boar," he said, reaching down absently and loosening his boot straps where they had begun to feel too tight over his feet. "It rolled over on top of him and refused to get off, no matter how much he yelled and pushed. It even gnawed on his leg at one point. He still has the scars from its teeth."

"And you didn't help him?" asked Bilbo with a slight grin.

"He was too proud back then to accept help from anyone," said Thorin. "Even me."

"From what I know of him, he hasn't lost any of that pride."

"You would be surprised at how far he's come since we were young," said Thorin. "How far we have come. I would not have accepted help so readily back then, either."

Bilbo fixed him with a gentle stare, then gave him a slight nod and patted him on the arm. His touch lingered there for a moment, then he slid his fingers away and stood, looking at the hive above them.

"Seems the bees have calmed a bit," he said, tugging on the rope.

Thorin rose to his feet and watched as the Hobbit began making his way up the tree; and though the rope and the branch it was hooked to creaked and groused alarmingly, after a few minutes Bilbo reached the top in safety. He pulled himself onto the branch and wiggled the hook out of the wood, then he drew the loop of the rope around the branch and slid the curve of the hook around the rope. 

With that done, he eased the top board off of the bracket that was holding it in place over the hive, then he cautiously reached inside; and though Thorin was afraid that Bilbo might get stung, the Hobbit moved with such ease and gentleness that the bees hardly seemed to notice he was there.

After a few seconds of feeling around, Bilbo drew out a chunk of honeycomb about the size of his palm, then he held the comb between his teeth and replaced the board before quickly making his way back down the rope. Soon, he was again standing by Thorin's side; and he took the honeycomb out from between his teeth and broke off part of it, handing the larger piece to the Dwarf.

"Try some," he said, wiping the honey off his chin with the back of his hand. "It's the best you'll find in the Shire."

Thorin took the comb and bit off a small corner. It really was fine honey, and the wax was warm and soft; and after the first taste, he could not help but eat the rest in a single bite. He chewed eagerly, then licked the last bits of honey off of his fingers before turning to see that Bilbo was doing the same with his own sticky hands.

"I can see why you prefer this," said Thorin. "It definitely seems to be worth the extra effort."

Bilbo hummed agreeably, then took hold of the rope and gave it a slight jiggle. The hook loosened where he had looped it, and he stepped back and let go; and the loose end of the rope rose as the weight of the hook pulled down on the other end. The hook landed with a slight thud on the ground, and the rope slithered down after it, then Bilbo coiled it around his arm.

"Come on." He rushed back to the hollow stump and stowed the rope once more. "That will have upset the bees a bit, and now we smell like honey."

"That could be a problem, yes."

"I just hope the loggers don't come up this way," said Bilbo as he began to walk south, along the edge of the swamp. "It would be a shame if they made charcoal of my mother's honey-trees."

"Yes, it would," said Thorin. He turned his face towards the leafy canopy, then looked down again and began following after Bilbo. "It would be a great loss if these woods were to be taken away."

"I didn't think you had love for any trees or woods," said Bilbo.

"You might be surprised what I have love for," said Thorin; then he tightened his jaw and clasped his hands behind his back. "I used to go for walks through the woods around the Lonely Mountain all the time before Smaug came." His feet slowed then stopped as his attention was drawn into the dreary mere. "Before he burned the trees in the foothills, before he turned it all to ash and charcoal."

A touch on his arm brought him suddenly back to the moment, and he drew in a quick breath.

"Come on, then," the Hobbit said. "It's close to lunchtime."

Thorin nodded and turned, following Bilbo as he led the way south once more. "I missed those walks when we were forced into exile," he went on. "We made our way through many forests and woods on our way to Ered Luin, but I never had a chance to enjoy them. My every thought from then on was about what I could get from them, what I could use to help my people survive."

"And you could not be blamed for that. Priorities do change, don't they?"

"They do. But even after we had settled… after we no longer had to fear that our food would run out day-to-day, or that we would freeze to death for want of firewood… even then, I could not bring myself to find joy in a simple walk through the woods."

"Not even in Ered Luin?" asked Bilbo. "I'll bet there are many nice places for strolls out that way."

"Perhaps," said Thorin. "And I cannot say that I did not get out into the woods there, but never for pleasure or relaxation. I would go…" His heart sank, and he had to take a deep breath before continuing. "I would go out with Fíli and Kíli from time to time, but it was always for training. To teach them how to track or hunt or trap…"

Bilbo stopped walking, and a few paces on, Thorin drew himself to a halt as well. He did not turn around, though, and the Hobbit stepped up to his side.

"I'm sorry if I have reminded you of things you would rather not be thinking about," said Bilbo. "I brought you out this way for air and exercise… and honey. Not for… I didn't intend…"

"You are not reminding me of anything that I don't already think about every day," said Thorin, then he smiled weakly and looked into Bilbo's soft eyes. "And I have very much enjoyed being out here with you today. The truth is, I have not been this relaxed in a long time."

Bilbo stared at him doubtfully. "You'll forgive me, Thorin, but you don't seem relaxed."

Thorin swallowed hard, then forced his gaze forward and walked on; and Bilbo again came up next to him, leading the way through the trees. 

Despite the memories that were being churned up, Thorin really was happy to be out there. The woods were lovely and quiet, and the knowledge that there was nothing there that would do them any harm was heartening. The Shire really was a safe place, and it was nice that they did not need to be on their guard as they went along; but despite his effort to keep his mind on what was around him here and now, Thorin's thoughts began to drift.

He pictured his nephews rushing between the tall trees—hiding and seeking as they did when they were younger, and stalking game as when they had grown. Thorin had enjoyed very much the same things when he had been a youth, but Fíli and Kíli had never outgrown that joy as he had; and it hurt Thorin to think of how he had tried to reign it in as they had grown older.

After many minutes passed in silence, Thorin and Bilbo came to an old mossy stone wall that was only about as tall as a Hobbit's waist. Bilbo began walking along it, and Thorin followed behind; but before long the Dwarf could no longer bring his feet to carry him forward and he sat on the top of the wall, staring down at his hands.

"I think… they would have loved these woods," he said. "Fíli and Kíli, I mean. They would have loved it here. There are so many trees to climb, so many places to hide."

He heard Bilbo step up in front of him, but he did not lift his eyes; and soon the Hobbit's small hand came to rest on his shoulder. But still, Bilbo did not speak, and Thorin went on.

"They loved exploring," he said, his voice cracking. "Woodlands and riverbanks and ruins. Anything, really. I… they never got the chance to do those things when I took them to the hills and the forests near our halls in the Blue Mountains. I always kept them busy training and… I was trying so hard to teach them how to survive…"

Bilbo's hand slid off of Thorin's shoulder, then he grunted as he lifted himself up and sat on the wall. "You taught them well, Thorin. If not for you—"

"If not for me…" Thorin interrupted, curling his fingers into fists. "If not for my insistence on bringing them with me on the quest… if not for my foolishness in sending them off to the Iron Hills without escort…" 

His chest began to burn and his eyes welled up, and he slammed his fist down on the wall. He lifted his hand again, but Bilbo grabbed him by the wrist, and his unusually strong grip forestalled the next strike. Thorin glanced at him, then his tensed arm relaxed and he lowered his hand onto his lap.

"Listen, Thorin…" Bilbo's touch left Thorin's wrist and he took hold of his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "If you feel you failed them, then you are wrong. They were strong and well-trained, and wise beyond their years. You taught them to take care of others. That is not a bad lesson, and they took it to heart."

Thorin shook his head. "My sister… their mother taught them all that was worth knowing." He pressed his hand to his brow and tightened his jaw, unable to go on. "I just… I want to go home now." He winced at his own words and stood, then began walking along the wall once again. "Your home. It's time we got back. The morning has gotten late, and your honey has made me thirsty."

He did not know where he was going, did not know if this was the way back to Bag End; but he felt the need to move, to not be still. He began to drag his fingers along the stone wall, while behind him the sound of Bilbo's feet rushing through the undergrowth grew nearer as he strove to keep up with the Dwarf's longer strides.

"Thorin!" Bilbo called out, grabbing him by the wrist. "Wait!"

Thorin yanked back slightly from his grip, but he found that he did not, in fact, want the Hobbit to let go. Still, he continued on without slowing, until at last Bilbo pulled him to a halt.

"Is this how Dwarves mourn, Thorin?" he asked abruptly. "Is this how they grieve? Do they shut it away and lock it up? Is this… normal for your kind when they lose someone they love?" 

Thorin glared at him, but he could not do so for long before he turned his eyes aside.

"I need to know, Thorin. I need…" Bilbo loosened his hold a bit, then shook his arm gently. "I don't know what I am supposed to do to help you. I have tried giving you private time, I have tried distracting you with outside pursuits, I have tried speaking with you about Fíli and Kíli, I have tried avoiding the subject altogether. Tell me… please, just tell me what I am supposed to do for you, Thorin…"

The ground seemed to grow soft under Thorin's feet and he stumbled back, though Bilbo's grip kept him from falling. "You have already done it."

"What have I done?"

"You listened," said Thorin, his voice quavering. "That night on your roof, you listened. I… even I did not know that was what I needed, until the moment came."

Bilbo lowered his face and released Thorin's wrist. "I wasn't sure if you knew I was awake."

"I spent enough time at your side along the Road," said Thorin, "that I know how you breathe when you are asleep."

Bilbo's eyes flitted in Thorin's direction. "And I spent enough time at your side to know when you have something to say, but are afraid to say it."

A lump rose in Thorin's throat and he began walking again; but before he made it more than a few steps, it felt as if hands had grabbed him from the forest floor and held his feet tight. He tensed his legs, trying to will them to move but still he stood, frozen in place; and Bilbo stepped near and placed his palm on Thorin's back.

"I will always listen, Thorin," he said gently. "To anything you need to say, whenever you need to say it. And if you need silence, then I will give that to you, as well."

He stepped around the Dwarf and walked on ahead, but Thorin stood fast; and soon the imagined hands that were holding him in place pulled him to his knees. He hung his head and his shoulders began to heave, and past his own gasping breaths and the rushing of blood in his ears, he heard shuffling feet before him.

"They should have had more time with her… with their mother," Thorin said before he could stop himself; then he looked up at the Hobbit past the blur in his vision. "When they were young, she played games with them, she took them on picnics, she… she told them stories that had nothing to do with death and dragon-fire…" He hung his head again, squeezing his eyes shut. "But… when they grew older they spent less time with her, and more with me, just… training."

Bilbo placed a hand on Thorin's shoulder, then he grunted slightly as he kneeled in front of him. "When I was young, my mother took me out into these woods all the time. She took me fishing and hiking and adventuring." He eased his touch off of Thorin's shoulder, then took hold of his hand. "I loved the time I got to spend with her, I loved that she thought to bring me along when she gathered honey or collected mushrooms."

Thorin twisted his own hand around, linking their fingers. "You were lucky to have her," he said. "She raised you well."

"My father also raised me," said Bilbo. He slid the fingers of his free hand under Thorin's whiskered chin and eased his face up until their eyes met. "He was not one for exploring or climbing trees or fishing or games of any sort that could not be played while sitting down, but I did not like spending time with him any less than I did with my mother." He lowered his hand from Thorin's chin and began rubbing his arm soothingly. "I loved them both, in different ways, but neither of them more than the other."

Thorin shook his head. "I was not their father. I was their uncle, their leader. They respected me, they obeyed me, the defended me, they honored me…"

"They loved you," said Bilbo. "And they knew that you loved them."

Tears forced their way out of Thorin's eyes and he shut them tight, then he let go of Bilbo and leaned forward, clutching at the back of his head as it began to throb.

How could they know that, when he had never said it? How could they have known that it was not for himself that he had so long wanted to reclaim Erebor, but for them? How could they have known that all the training that he had given them had been in the hopes that it would keep them alive, that they would outlive him and carry on after he was gone? 

If he had just let them stay in Ered Luin with Dís instead of bringing them along on the quest, they would still be alive. They would be young and happy, and full of life. They would be able to run through the woods, be able to explore and discover. They would not now be buried in a collapsed mine in the foothills of the Lonely Mountain; they would not be dead because he had forced them to grow up before their time.

"What did I do for them, but teach them how to die?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Thorin…" Bilbo began.

He did not go on, and instead he wrapped his arms around Thorin and pulled him near; and after a few ragged breaths, the Dwarf returned the embrace, holding him tight and waiting for the silence to be broken.

But Bilbo did not speak, did not try again to offer up sympathies—and for that Thorin was thankful. All he needed right now was to hold on, to root himself in place, to cling to someone that would keep him from falling further; and so he drew Bilbo closer and buried his face in the curve of his neck.

Chapter Text

Bilbo stepped back and examined the dining-room table. It had been a long time since he'd hosted anyone besides Dwarves in his home, but the four place settings seemed suitable enough for a small dinner party—even though his mother's dishes were somewhat chipped from the rough treatment they'd gotten in Toby Sandheaver's possession. It had taken Bilbo months to get them back after the auction, and by that time three of them were already broken; but despite the fact that he could easily have replaced them with a new set, he still considered them to be his best, chips and all.

A deep sigh came from the doorway behind him, and he turned to where Thorin had been standing with his arms crossed and his shoulder against the jamb for the last five minutes.

"Are you sure you will be comfortable with this?" asked Bilbo, stepping over to him.

Thorin looked off to the side. "You needn't worry about me," he said. "So long as your guests don't find my presence disturbing."

"Rorimac and Menegilda know that you've been visiting me. If they had any problem with you being here, they wouldn't have accepted the invitation."

"Still, if you would prefer that I remain in my room…" 

His voice trailed off, and Bilbo shook his head.

"You know very well that I would not have you hide away or pretend that you're not here." He moved past Thorin, then stepped to the pantry across the hall and grabbed a plate of tarts. "I'm not worried about what people might say about the friendships I keep."

"You used to be worried about that."

Bilbo returned to the dining-room and set the tarts down at the center of the table. "That was a long time ago," he said with a shrug. "People change. You should know that as well as anyone."

Thorin's eyes softened, but he said nothing; and Bilbo walked close to him and smiled faintly.

In the four days since Thorin had broken down in the woods, their conversations had become more frequent, more varied, and more relaxed; but though Bilbo was careful not to mention Fíli and Kíli, it was inevitable that they would come up from time to time. Always, it was Thorin that first spoke of them, and always he would continue on about them until he either fell into quiet reflection, or until Bilbo managed to find some opportunity to shift over to more pleasant subjects. 

Thankfully, the night before this one their conversation had been light, and they had stayed up for many hours in the drawing-room, drinking ale and smoking pipe-weed as they spoke about nothing in particular. When Bilbo had at last headed off to his bedroom some time after midnight, he had done so happily—both because he knew that Thorin had gone to his own room smiling, and because he was looking forward to whatever they might find to speak about over breakfast.

When morning came, however, Bilbo had been awoken by a loud ring at the door. He found his cousin, Rorimac Brandybuck on the step, looking agitated and anxious; and though Bilbo had at first feared that something was wrong with Menegilda, Rorimac had quickly assured him that his wife was fine—but that there was a problem that Rory did not quite know the way out of.

"Gilda's going to have the baby soon!" he'd said. "Well, in a week or so, maybe! But still soon!"

That, of course, was something Bilbo already knew, as he often spoke with both of them at the market. But then Rorimac went on.

"I was supposed to head out tonight to bring my mother in from Buckland, and Gilda was supposed to be staying with Ponto and Gilly until I got back," he'd said. "But Ponto's come down sick, and it might be catching, so she can't possibly stay there now! What should I do, Bilbo? You know this town better than I do. Where might Gilda stay? Not at the inn, surely! And she can't possibly make the ride with me to Buckland and back in her state!"

After his cousin finally settled down—but before giving it much thought—Bilbo offered to host Menegilda for the next few days, himself; then he had quickly reminded Rorimac that he already had a houseguest that he would also be entertaining during that time. A Dwarf houseguest. But while many Hobbits of the Shire might have been reluctant to spend time with Dwarves, Rorimac and Menegilda had just moved to Hobbiton from Buckland, and those Hobbits that lived across the Bridge were quite used to their company. And in any case, Rorimac admitted that he had been quite eager to meet the dear friend that Bilbo spoke so often about at the market.

"Well, then, why not come over and have some dinner with us before you head out?" Bilbo had offered. 

Rorimac accepted the invitation gratefully, then rushed off to make all the requisite arrangements; and Bilbo had then gently informed Thorin that he would soon be attending his first Hobbit dinner party that did not involve a bevy of Dwarves. Thorin had not seemed happy about the plan, but until the dinner preparations were well under way, he had not said anything about it, and Bilbo was not surprised when Thorin finally explained that his worries continued to be for Bilbo's reputation rather than for his own discomfort.

Still, the situation really was one of necessity, and Bilbo only hoped that his friend's mood would lighten and his mind would ease over the course of the evening. Bilbo smiled wider as he looked up at Thorin, but before he could say anything more, the doorbell rang; and so he instead bit softly on his tongue, then patted Thorin on the arm as he made his way into the hall.

He put on a welcoming expression as he swung the door open to find his cousins standing outside. Rorimac had a large canvas bag tucked under one arm and his other arm around his wife's back—but while he still seemed a bit agitated, Menegilda herself was beaming. She did not look any different from the last time Bilbo had seen her, a week or so before; though when he turned his attention to where her small hand was resting on her rounded belly, it struck him how very close the baby was to being born.

He stepped back from the door. "Come in! Come in!" he said, taking the bag so that Rorimac could help Menegilda over the threshold. "You're just in time for dinner!"

"I've never once been late, Bilbo!" said Rorimac, shutting the door behind them. "Well, except when—"

He fell suddenly silent as he lifted his eyes; and when Bilbo followed his gaze he saw Thorin standing beside the dining-room door with his hands clasped behind his back. 

"Ah!" said Bilbo, leading his guests down the hall. "Rorimac, Menegilda… this is Thorin Oakenshield, of Erebor." He turned then to the Dwarf. "Thorin, I'd like you to meet my cousins—"

"Rorimac and Menegilda Brandybuck," said Rorimac enthusiastically. "Of Buckland!"

He held out a hand for a shake, just as Thorin offered a slight bow; and so Rorimac instead lifted his hand into an awkward wave.

Menegilda smiled wider. "It's a pleasure to meet you!"

Thorin bowed again, lower this time. "Likewise."

"Thorin," said Rorimac, snapping his fingers. "I know that name. Where have I heard that name?" 

Bilbo and Thorin gave each other a glance, then Bilbo motioned towards the dining-room.

"Shall we have dinner now?" he asked.

"Ah, I would!" said Rorimac. "But I've got to be going!"

"Well, that's a shame," said Bilbo. "Must you really be off so soon? And without dinner?"

"I'm afraid so. I passed by old Derri Chubb on the way over, and she said her knees were aching, and you know what that means!"

"Rain?"

"Rain! And if I'm lucky, I might make it as far as the Floating Log Inn before it hits."

"Not on foot, I assume?"

"Oh, no no no! I've got my wagon out front, and I really must not leave it too long. My pony loves flowers and I'm afraid he might find yours to be tasty." Rorimac then turned to his wife and took her by the hand. "Are you going to be well, dear? Are you going to—"

"Rory, relax!" Menegilda scolded gently. "I am in good company, and I've never known a Baggins that was not the best of hosts!"

"All right, all right!" said Rorimac. He shook a finger at Bilbo. "Best you treat her well, Cousin!" He kissed Menegilda gently on the cheek, then spun around towards the front door. "And I'm off!"

"Just a moment, Rory!" said Bilbo. "Will you at least take a basket with you?"

"Oh, yes! Of course! Have you any fruited scones?"

Bilbo smiled. "With honey glaze."

"My favorite!"

"So I recall." Bilbo turned to Thorin. "If you wouldn't mind seeing Menegilda to the table, I'll be in as soon as I get Rory on his way."

The Dwarf's eyes widened slightly, then he nodded and stepped back from the dining-room door, motioning for Menegilda to enter before him. She did so, and from the corner of his eye Bilbo saw Thorin pull a chair out for her to sit.

Bilbo then began rushing about, first running Menegilda's bag to one of the guest bedrooms, then hurrying to the kitchen; before long, he had made for his cousin a basket of pastries and cakes, which he quickly brought to the front door. Rorimac was standing on the threshold, looking up at the overcast sky; and though he jumped when Bilbo laid a hand on his shoulder, he very nearly bounced with joy when he saw the basket.

"That should see you a few miles, at least," said Bilbo, handing it to him.

"Oh, thank you! It smells wonderful!" His eyes darted back and forth, then he leaned close. "Are you certain it won't be a bother for Menegilda to stay with you?" he asked, lowering his voice. "She would be fine on her own, of course, but our home is in a rather rugged place, and if something were to happen—"

"Really, it's no bother at all," said Bilbo, cutting him off.

"And your Dwarf friend? He does not object?"

Bilbo looked slightly back towards the dining-room. "He is fine with it," he said hesitantly. "Though I am afraid he is a bit… well, he's not really used to how Hobbits entertain."

"Why would he be unused to it?" asked Rorimac. "How long has he been here?"

"Close to a month, I suppose," said Bilbo, scratching his head.

"Heavens! Isn't that enough time to get used to anything?"

"Well, I haven't actually entertained much since he's been here. And to be honest, he's been…" Bilbo paused, not wanting to go on about his good friend's troubles. "You know how Dwarves are, Rory."

"Oh, that I do!" said Rorimac. "Stubborn and set-in-their-ways, and rowdy when you get 'em together! But good folk! Good folk, all! And I have always trusted your judgement, so I know that this Thorin fellow will be top-notch!"

Bilbo lowered his head into a slight nod. "You are right about that," he said. "And you best be going now, if you want to beat the rain to Frogmorton."

"And now I'm really off!" said Rorimac. He clutched the basket to his chest and bounded down the path. "Mind you, feed Gilda well! She is eating for two!"

Bilbo sighed as he shut the door, then he leaned his back against it for a few breaths before making his way to the dining-room. The silence between Thorin and Menegilda must be quite deep by now, he figured, and as host it was certainly up to him to break it; but he heard voices as he neared the door, and he stopped just outside the room and looked in at his guests.

"I've actually met a lot of Dwarves," said Menegilda, patting her belly softly. "Many come through Buckland, and if I am to be honest, I have always enjoyed their company."

"And your husband?" asked Thorin, who had his elbows resting on the table.

"Oh, yes. I enjoy his company, too."

Thorin shook his head. "No, I mean…"

Menegilda raised an eyebrow at him, and only then did he seem to realize that she had been joking. He grinned crookedly, and Bilbo let out a little laugh; then Menegilda and Thorin looked over towards the door where he stood. Bilbo first focussed on Menegilda's bright smile, but soon his attention was drawn to Thorin, and their eyes locked for a few seconds before Bilbo tilted his head back towards the hall.

"Shall we get dinner on the table, then?" he asked.

Thorin rose to his feet and bowed slightly to Menegilda before following Bilbo to the pantry; and as they gathered together the meal that Bilbo had spent the afternoon preparing, Bilbo could not stop himself from studying the unusually pleased look on Thorin's face.

"Your mood appears to have improved a bit," he said to the Dwarf. "Has Menegilda managed to charm you over the course of a five-minute conversation?"

Thorin seemed to try to make his expression more stern, but he did not manage it well. Still, he said nothing, and as soon as the food had been set on trays, the pair returned to the dining room to find Menegilda nibbling on one of the tarts that Bilbo had put on the table earlier. Her cheeks reddened a touch, as if she was a bit embarrassed to be caught eating before dinner had been set out; but then she rubbed her hands together delightedly when she saw the roast chicken, tomato salad, and butter-coated boiled potatoes.

As soon as they were all seated and their plates were filled, they began chatting aimlessly. At first, it was mostly Bilbo and Menegilda doing the talking, about whatever came into their minds—from the weather, to the price of beans, to the likelihood of a new silo being built up at the Grange. Once in a while, though, Thorin would break in with something of his own to say, then he would quiet down for a while as the others went on. But as the meal and the conversation continued, Thorin began to speak up more and more; and by the time they had all finished eating, he was fully involved in almost everything that was being said.

"She is a midwife, then?" he asked, when the subject of Rorimac's mother had come up. "That would explain why your husband was so eager to have her here before the birth."

"Oh, and she's such a wonderful woman!" said Menegilda, pushing her empty plate back. "We spent a lot of time together in Buckland, but I haven't gotten to see her in so long! It feels like years, though it's been only five months or so."

Bilbo grinned. "Mirabella is as lively as her son, as I recall," he said. "There's not so much of his father in Rory. I have to wonder how he'll fare when his turn comes up to be Master of Buckland."

"He is in no hurry for that," said Menegilda, waving her hand. "He doesn't much like the idea of everyone coming to him with their troubles. He doesn't feel he'd do a very good job at it."

Thorin sat slowly back in his chair, and Bilbo pursed his lips.

"Why did you choose to move to Hobbiton, if you do not mind me asking?" said Thorin after a moment. "You seem to miss Buckland."

"I do miss it," replied Menegilda. "But the Shire is lovely, and quite a bit slower in its pace, at least compared to the bustle across the Bridge." 

The Dwarf nodded, picking up his wine-glass. "That is part of the reason I am here, as well."

"Oh? What is the other part?"

Thorin took a sip of wine, then smiled softly as he set the glass back down on the table. "The good company," he said, sparing Bilbo a glance. Silence fell for a few seconds, then Thorin turned again to Menegilda. "But I will not be here for long, I'm afraid. When my kinsmen come back through from the Blue Mountains, I will be rejoining them in their travels east."

Bilbo's heart sank. He hoped that this turn of the conversation would not lead to the reason why Thorin had come to Hobbiton in the first place; but right now he felt rather like a fly on the wall, and he could not figure a good place to speak up and change the subject.

"I have never been farther east than Buckland," said Menegilda. "Perhaps I will get out that way some time!"

"I would be happy to host you and your family if you ever came to Erebor," said Thorin. "But it is quite some distance away, and I have noticed that Hobbits do not tend to be fond of travel."

Menegilda soft brown curls bounced as she laughed. "Well, except for Bilbo, of course! And the Tooks, in general, I suppose!"

Bilbo scratched the back of his neck, then he rose to his feet and began to gather the dishes from before him. "Shall we retire to the drawing-room?"

"I think so, yes!" said Menegilda.

She pushed her chair back, grunting a little with the effort; but before Bilbo could set the plates down to help her stand, Thorin had already made his way around the table. He held his hand down to her; and though she seemed surprised by the gesture, she accepted his help and he pulled her easily to her feet.

"Thank you, Master Dwarf!" she said.

Thorin nodded and released her hand, and Bilbo could not help but smile. He had never seen Thorin quite like this, and it was a nice change—though in the back of his mind, he wondered if the shift in the Dwarf's behavior was because he feared that Menegilda might judge Bilbo poorly otherwise.

"Thorin, would you mind seeing Menegilda to the drawing-room?" he asked. "I'll be in once I have finished cleaning up."

"Oh! I would be happy to help you with that," said Menegilda, beginning to gather the silverware from the table.

"It would be best if you rested," said Thorin. "If Bilbo has need of help, then I will give it to him."

"I am with child, not broken."

Bilbo shook his head. "I think what Thorin is trying to say is that you should not be working yourself too hard. I don't think Rorimac would be happy to come back in a few days to find that you have already had the baby."

"A few days?" Thorin asked, his eyes widening; and though Bilbo feared at first that he was concerned about needing to help entertain for that time, the Dwarf's next words chased that fear away. "Are you due so soon? You should not be on your feet."

"My feet are fine," said Menegilda. "And I am sure this baby will not be showing himself before a week or two at least have gone by."

"Still, you are—"

"I am perfectly able to help out. Who do you think does the tidying up at my own home?"

Thorin cleared his throat and turned his eyes to Bilbo, who suppressed a snicker.

"Be that as it may, Menegilda, you're our guest," said Bilbo; then he paused when he saw the looks both were giving him. "You are my guests," he corrected himself, "and I would not have you working yourself tired while you are here. Now, both of you, off to the drawing-room so I can get this mess taken care of."

Menegilda and Thorin looked at one another, then she let out a resigned sigh and set the silverware back down on the table.

"Well, then," she said, tilting her head at the Dwarf. "If you would be so kind?"

Thorin motioned towards the door and Menegilda stepped out of the dining-room; then he gave Bilbo a tight-lipped smile before following her into the hall.

Bilbo then began clearing off the table, though he was having a hard time keeping his mind on the task at hand. It was nice to see Thorin so at-ease in the presence of someone that he had only just met, but it was also quite unusual. It was probably Menegilda's own friendly personality that was making the normally stoic Dwarf so relaxed and talkative. There was just something in the way she spoke and the way she carried herself that made people open up to her.

But though that was normally a good thing, it did make Bilbo worry a bit that their wandering conversations would lead to subjects that would pain Thorin; and so after he finished gathering the plates and silverware and glasses onto a tray, he walked with them to the door of the drawing-room, rather than taking them straight to the kitchen. There, next to the jamb and just out of sight of his guests, he stopped and listened in as they spoke.

"So, you are not certain, then?" asked Thorin.

"Well, and how could I be?" Menegilda returned. "But my mother always said that when your hair is fuller and you are more hungry for salty things than sweet, then you should expect a boy. In any case, I suppose I have at least a half a chance that it will be!"

A momentary silence fell before Thorin spoke up. "In the case of Dwarves, the chance for a girl child is much less."

"Is it?" asked Menegilda. "But then, now that I think about it, I have never met any Dwarf women. I always just supposed they didn't get out much."

"They don't tend to travel much, no. But still, you may have met some Dwarf women and not known it. They look very much like our men, even down to the prevalence of beards."

"Oh, goodness!" said Menegilda. "I hope that I have not offended any by calling them men!" She lowered her voice. "You are not a woman, are you?"

Thorin laughed out loud, and Bilbo smiled as he slipped away to the kitchen.

Because the party had been small, there were not many dishes to wash; and after he had finished up with them, he went to the dining-room so to wipe down the table. That also took very little time, and he soon found himself making his way to the drawing-room so to join Thorin and Menegilda. But though he had this time intended on stepping in and letting himself be known, he again stopped just out of sight when he heard them speaking, then he leaned close to the jamb.

"Rory talks a lot," said Menegilda. "Oh, my, does he talk a lot! But he never talks over me. He always listens, even when the subject I am on is not of particular interest to him. I think I was going on for about twenty minutes about knitting last week, and he didn't seem bored at all, though he's never even picked up a set of needles in his life!"

"We could all use someone who will listen," said Thorin softly.

Bilbo moved closer to the door.

"Oh, yes," said Menegilda. "But I think it's just as nice to have someone you can be quiet with, and not worry about having to make conversation, if you understand my meaning. Rory is both of those people for me!" She grunted, and Bilbo supposed she had shifted in her seat. "Have you someone like that, Mister Thorin?"

Thorin let out a heavy breath. "If you will excuse me for a moment…"

By the time Bilbo realized that the Dwarf was on his way out of the drawing-room, Thorin was already in the doorway. He stopped short and looked down at Bilbo, who felt his cheeks warming.

"I was… I just…" the Hobbit stammered, though he knew that he had not truly been eavesdropping in his own home; then he hummed a bit before going on. "Perhaps we should get back to entertaining our guest."

Thorin nodded slightly, though he did not say anything about Menegilda being Bilbo's guest and not his own, and Bilbo straightened his expression and forced a smile as the two of them walked into the room together. Menegilda was sitting in Thorin's armchair by the fire, and she greeted them with a tiny wave when they stepped near; and as soon as Bilbo was seated beside Thorin on the couch, he no longer had to force the smile.

Over the next hour or so, they spoke much, though they never lingered on one subject for long. What began as a review of the meal they had just enjoyed shifted to a mention of what was popular food in Buckland, then Thorin brought up some of the more interesting things he had eaten in his travels, and eventually the conversation came around to traveling, in general. After a while, the subject of Bilbo's return to the Shire was brought up; and of course, he did not fail to mention how Lobelia had gotten hold of his spoons at the auction.

Menegilda listened politely to the tale, then she gave Bilbo a little nod. "Well, by her own word, Lobelia doesn't care much for the Brandybucks," she said, "so I can't say that I have spent much time with her. I have seen her in passing, of course, and we once said hello at the market in Bywater. But besides that…" She shrugged. "I don't know her well enough to speak of her, really. And certainly not enough to speak ill of her."

Bilbo tightened his jaw. Honestly, he had never known Menegilda to speak ill of anyone, but he felt that if she did get to know Lobelia, she might make an exception. 

"Well, I know her quite well," he said before thinking it through. "And she's…"

He looked towards Thorin, then shut his mouth tight. Dreadful was the word that he was going to use, but the memories of their walk in the Overhill Woods silenced him. For some reason, Thorin had not seemed quite happy with how he had spoken of Lobelia then, and he did not want to again make him so concerned.

"How well?" asked Menegilda. 

Bilbo looked at her. "Hmm?"

"How well do you know Lobelia?" she asked. "Have you spent much time with her?"

Bilbo thought hard, but if he was going to be honest with himself, he did not know her quite so well, after all. He had never wanted to get to know her, to find out what she thought about things. Not that Lobelia ever kept quiet on any subject, when she had the chance to speak about it. There was never a time that she had passed by him without tilting her chin up haughtily and voicing some complaint or another—and more often than not, those complaints had been about him.

"I don't suppose I have spent much time with her," he admitted at last. "But I have spent enough."

Menegilda opened her mouth, and though it seemed to Bilbo that she wanted to say something, she instead shook her head and sighed. A moment later, her eyes lit up and she placed a hand on her belly.

"Is everything all right?" asked Bilbo

Thorin let out a quick laugh. "Is he pushing?"

"Yes!" said Meneglida. "How did you know?"

Bilbo turned from Menegilda to Thorin, then back again. "Pushing?"

"I recognize the look on your face," Thorin answered Menegilda. "Though I have not seen it in a long time."

"Oh? Do you have children, Mister Thorin?" she asked.

The question worried Bilbo, but he said nothing; and Thorin spoke up again.

"No, but when my sister was…" He paused, letting out a long breath. "When she was carrying her sons, they would push on her, and she would look just the same." He smiled faintly, then rubbed his palms together and lowered his head. "She looked startled, but happy. Very happy. Sometimes a bit annoyed."

Bilbo laid a hand on Thorin's arm. This was what he had been fearing—that some subject or other would come up that would bring back memories of Fíli and Kíli. But when the Dwarf lifted his face again, his smile had widened, though his eyes were welling up.

"Dís… that is, my sister told me that they would wake her up at night sometimes," he went on. "Her elder son, Fíli was… he was the more active one. He punched and kicked and poked. She told me that Kíli was somewhat more gentle, but for some reason that worried her. He was born small, but he grew fast." He blinked and the tears coursed down his cheeks and into his shortened beard. "I'm sorry," he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "I am not quite myself lately."

"Well, I don't know what yourself is normally," said Menegilda kindly, "but I have been quite enjoying your company nonetheless." Her eyes widened again. "He is quite a little mover tonight. Would you like to feel?"

Thorin straightened his back. "Are you certain you would not mind?"

"I wouldn't offer if it bothered me. I have gotten used to it, really."

Thorin did not then hesitate in kneeling beside her chair; then he lifted his hand and let it hover over her belly. "Where is he?"

Menegilda took hold of his hand and guided it to her left side, then she let go and sat back. As Bilbo watched on curiously, Thorin spread his fingers out and stared at them; then at once, both Menegilda and the Dwarf smiled.

"He's a strong one," said Thorin.

"Goodness, yes!" Menegilda agreed. "How many nights he has woken Rory by kicking him in the back, I cannot say!" She beckoned Bilbo over. "Come and feel!"

Bilbo shook his head vigorously. "No… no, thank you."

"It's fine," said Menegilda. "Really, have you ever..?"

"Not really, no," said Bilbo; though the full truth was that he had never even held a baby, and he could not imagine himself touching the belly of a woman who was carrying one. "I don't think I should—"

"Bilbo!" said Menegilda, raising her voice slightly. "Just for once, relax."

Her tone was compelling, and Bilbo could not help but think that she had already acquired the right voice for motherhood. He moved to Thorin's side; and as the Dwarf drew his hand away, Bilbo tentatively raised his own. He placed his palm to her belly and moved it around, but he felt nothing.

"Am I doing this wrong?" he asked. "Did he go to sleep? Did I miss it?"

Thorin took hold of Bilbo's wrist and guided his touch to the left side of Menegilda's belly; then the Dwarf pressed down softly on the back of his hand. For several long seconds, Bilbo still felt nothing; then a little lump slid under his palm.

"What was that?" asked Bilbo excitedly. "A foot?"

Menegilda giggled. "Most likely," she said. "Or a knee or an elbow. Who can say, really? He gets around so much!"

The little lump shifted again, then slid off to the side, and Bilbo started to move his palm over to follow it, only then remembering that Thorin's hand was still on his own. But he did not mind at all, and his heart leaped when the baby poked at him once more.

"I've never felt that before," he said. "It's… different. How does it feel? I mean… for you?"

"Oh, like a twitch or a tickle," said Menegilda. "Or sometimes like I have eaten too much and my tummy is grumbling because of it! But, really, when I first felt him move, I thought a mouse had run under my dress!"

Bilbo laughed, then he turned to Thorin. The Dwarf's bright blue eyes were shifted down towards Menegilda's belly and there was a contented smile on his lips; and Bilbo realized suddenly that Thorin was rubbing his thumb softly over his wrist. His touch was gentle and pleasant, and Bilbo let himself be silent and enjoy it for several seconds; then he noticed that Menegilda's attention was on them, and he quickly pulled his hand away and stood.

"I suppose it is bedtime, then," he said, stretching and yawning affectedly.

Thorin rose slowly to his feet, nodding; then he held a hand down to Menegilda. "Would you allow me to show you to your room?" he asked almost formally. 

She took hold of the offered hand, then he pulled her to standing. "I did not expect to be waited on so much here," she said. "I'm not used to it."

"Perhaps you should allow yourself to relax," said Bilbo, turning her own advice on her. "I am sure you will have plenty enough work to do when the baby arrives."

Menegilda rubbed her lower back, then turned towards the door. "I suppose so, yes," she said. "But I cannot simply sit still all of the time. It's not in my nature to be treated so royally."

Thorin and Bilbo grinned at one another, then stepped out into the hall, where Thorin offered her an arm for support. She accepted it gladly, though the guest-room was not far, and when they reached it Thorin stood back beside Bilbo as Menegilda laid her hand on the knob of the open door.

"Well, then," said Bilbo, "I hope that you have sweet dreams, Menegilda."

She patted her belly. "If he will let me sleep at all!"

Thorin bowed slightly. "Goodnight," he said. "It has been a pleasure speaking with you this evening, and I look forward to the morning, that we might speak again."

"Likewise!" she returned. "Sweet dreams, both of you!" And with that, she stepped into the room and eased the door shut.

Thorin and Bilbo both smiled before turning around and walking across the hall, to Bilbo's own bedroom door. There they stopped and again focussed on each other's eyes; but after a few seconds, Thorin nodded to himself, as if he had just answered an imagined question.

"Goodnight, Bilbo," he said simply. "Rest well."

He spun around and started down the hall, but instead of going into his own room, he continued on past it and towards the drawing-room door.

"Are you not turning in?" asked Bilbo. "It's been quite a long day, and neither of us got much sleep last night."

The Dwarf stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. "I don't feel much like sleeping right now," he said. "I think I might relax and read for a bit, or maybe have a smoke."

Thorin then made his way into the drawing-room, and Bilbo looked into his own darkened bedroom.

He could hear rain patting against the window, and though the sound was soothing and he knew his bed was warm and soft, he was not quite sure that he was ready for sleep, himself. More likely, he would spend the next few hours tossing and turning while the night's conversations repeated themselves in his mind; then the next day would see him too tired to be much of a host. No, he thought, the better thing to do would be to try and occupy himself somehow, until he was tired enough to sleep—perhaps with a smoke, and good company by the fire.

And so he made his way to the drawing-room, halting in the doorway and looking in at where Thorin was seated in his usual chair by the fireplace. But Thorin was not relaxing, was not reading, was not smoking; but rather, he was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his bare feet on the hearth. His head was bowed and his shoulders were shaking slightly, and though his eyes were tightly shut, the light from the flickering fire showed where his cheeks were wet with fresh tears.

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably from foot-to-foot, then walked to Thorin's side and placed a hand on his shoulder. The Dwarf made no move, and Bilbo took a deep breath; but before he could speak up, Thorin cleared his throat.

"I am glad I did not stay in my room this evening," he said. "The company was pleasant."

"The company, but perhaps not the conversation," said Bilbo. "I'm sorry if what was spoken about tonight was upsetting to you."

Thorin looked up at him with reddened eyes. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course," said Bilbo, nodding.

"Have you been fearing to speak with me because of what happened in the woods?"

Bilbo's chest began to ache. "Yes, I suppose I have," he admitted. "But not just because of what happened then. Whenever… certain subjects come up, I have noticed how you fall quiet. I know you do not want to be thinking about…" The breath caught in his throat.

Thorin reached up and squeezed Bilbo's hand where it still rested on his shoulder, then he tightened his jaw before pulling his touch away and standing. He began pacing around the room, wringing his hands all the while, then he stopped in front of the fireplace and stared down into the flames.

"Grief has a sharp edge," he said, barely aloud. "It cuts easily and goes deep, but it dulls with use."

Bilbo shook his head; but before he could ask what that meant, Thorin continued.

"My father had that carved on my mother's tomb," he said. "I had forgotten about it, until I visited her grave after Erebor was reclaimed. I was young when she died, and I did not then understand death. I was confused, I was angry, I was sad… but I did not grieve." He turned to Bilbo. "When my brother and grandfather died at Khazad-dûm, I did not have time to grieve. There were great tasks before me, there was too much to be done, and my mind was occupied by those things that could not be pushed aside. The needs of my people came before my own mourning."

The ache in Bilbo's chest worked its way into his throat and he swallowed against it, unable to speak.

"But I understand those words now," Thorin went on. "I had them carved on… on the stone that now blocks the mine where Fíli and Kíli died. I tried to convince myself to take its message to heart, to use it. I tried to let myself grieve. I tried to tell myself that if I gave in to it, it would pass quicker. But I couldn't do it." He stepped over to Bilbo and lifted his hand; but though his fingers came close to touching the Hobbit's cheek, he instead lowered his touch to his shoulder. "But when you listened, when you let me say what I needed to say that night on your roof… it helped. I don't know why, but saying it out loud helped."

Bilbo tried to make himself smile, but he could not manage it; and though he knew that Thorin was waiting for him to speak up, to say something in response, Bilbo still could not bring himself to talk. 

Thorin let out a long breath. "Please do not take my occasional reticence the wrong way, Bilbo," he said. "If ever I needed to hear Fíli and Kíli's names, or remember them as they were, it is now."

Bilbo's shoulders began to shake under Thorin's touch. He'd been doing it wrong… he'd been doing it all wrong. He'd been trying to keep their conversations pleasant, he'd been trying to keep the subject off of Fíli and Kíli, he'd been trying to give Thorin other things to think about—when what he should have been doing was letting Thorin go on for as long as he needed to, about whatever he needed to. 

That was why Thorin had stayed in Hobbiton, that was why he hadn't gone back to Ered Luin—because Bilbo had simply listened to what he'd had to say, and Thorin had hoped that he would continue to do so. Thorin had told him so much in the woods; but though Bilbo had heard him, he hadn't understood. He'd instead focussed on how Thorin had behaved, how he had broken down—and he'd been trying so hard since then to keep it from happening again that he had failed to let Thorin do the very thing that he needed to.

I will always listen, Thorin. To anything you need to say, whenever you need to say it. And if you need silence, then I will give that to you, as well.

Bilbo had said it, but he hadn't done it. He'd broken that word, he'd gone back on his promise; he'd been so concerned about keeping the pain at bay now, that he hadn't thought of how much it would hurt later if it had been allowed to build. He'd been trying to stitch a wound shut, when it should have been allowed to close on its own—when it should have been allowed to bleed.

"I miss them, too," said Bilbo after a few ragged breaths. "I look around here and… I see them, and I remember how angry I got at them for tossing my dishes around." He laughed weakly. "My dishes. I was so worried that they would break them…"

Thorin placed his fingertips gently on Bilbo's wet cheek before turning around to the sofa; then he sat down and motioned for the Hobbit to join him. Bilbo did so without hesitation, and they stared into each other's eyes as a soft smile rose to Thorin's lips.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I caught them in my wine-cellar?" he asked.

Bilbo shook his head; and they linked fingers with one another as the Dwarf went on.

"They were really too young to be drinking, but they were not going to let that stop them…" 

Chapter Text

Menegilda's grip on her chair arm loosened as the tightening and pain in her belly eased, then she sighed and looked over at Thorin. All of his attention was on the book in his hand, as it had been since he'd settled in on the drawing-room sofa an hour or so ago; and Menegilda was thankful that he neither heard the sharp intake of her breath whenever a contraction began, nor noticed her sweaty brow whenever one ended. 

This was her fourth morning in Bag End, and shortly after sunrise she had jerked awake to a sudden pain in her back—though she hadn't thought much about it at the time, since her whole body had been aching in recent days, anyway. The pain had slowly spread around her sides, and her belly had hardened a bit; then the sensations had let up, and she'd gotten out of bed and excitedly readied herself for Rorimac and Mirabella's arrival.

She had been enjoying her visit with Bilbo and Thorin, but she missed her husband greatly, and Mirabella was one of her favorite relations; and so, she had dressed herself in her finest white linen frock and put her hair up into a twisted braid, as she often did for special occasions. As she was packing her belongings away in her bag, however, her back had begun to ache again, then her stomach had hardened as before—and it was then that she had realized that the baby might just be ready to come.

But she was not ready for him to come; not yet, not until Rory and his mother were there. So she had laid back down on the soft feather mattress and tried to relax, hoping that the contractions would go away, as the false ones she'd been having over the last couple months had done. But they hadn't gone away this morning, and in fact they had gotten a little worse; and when Bilbo knocked at her door and asked if she would like to join him and Thorin for breakfast, she had waited for the most recent one to pass, then she shuffled out of the guest-room and into the kitchen.

There, the three of them had enjoyed a fine meal, punctuated by cheerful and comfortable conversation; and Menegilda was grateful, at least, that neither of them had seemed to notice how she would stop eating and speaking for a few minutes whenever a contraction came on. She did not want to worry either of them, and so she did not mention the pain or pressure, or the slight panic that she was herself beginning to feel; but still, as breakfast neared its end and a particularly sharp contraction made her drop her spoon into her porridge, she offhandedly mentioned how she hoped that Rory and Mirabella would arrive sooner than the afternoon.

This had gotten Bilbo to asking what treats he should make for them, since he did not want to send them off empty-handed; and Menegilda had told him that, while Rory liked best a good fruited scone, Mirabella preferred a nice soft spice cake. For both, Bilbo said he would need honey, and his supply was frightfully low. Thorin offered to go and fetch it, but Bilbo had made some joke about the strength of the rope, then said that he would go to get the honey on his own, if his guests did not mind him leaving them for a while. 

They had both told him that they would be fine, and so he had headed out not long after breakfast with an empty honey-crock tucked into a satchel, while Thorin and Menegilda moved on to the drawing-room. But though they had come into the habit of speaking much with one another over the last few days, they were not doing so today. Instead, they were seated in silence while he read and she did her best to work on the blanket she was crocheting for the baby. She could only get anything done on it between contractions, though; and as this most recent one eased, she stretched, hummed softly to herself, and pulled some more yarn off the skein.

Thorin lifted his eyes to her, and she nodded and smiled and said nothing; then the Dwarf glanced up at the clock on the mantlepiece, as he had done many times since Bilbo had left. He shifted his bare feet on the floor a bit, then grunted and went on reading; but after a few silent seconds, he spoke up.

"Eight minutes," he said simply.

Menegilda raised her eyebrows. "Hmm? What's that again?" she asked. "Are you timing Bilbo's return to the minute?"

It did not surprise her, really, to see how eager he was for Bilbo to get back, as she had noticed quite early in her visit how close they were. In fact, two out of the four mornings that she had been there, she had woken to find them asleep on the drawing-room sofa together; and while the other two mornings they had been awake before her, she still got the feeling that they had not left one another's sides all evening.

But Thorin just smiled softly and shook his head. "Your pains," he clarified, flipping a page in his book. "They are beginning every eight minutes."

Menegilda's cheeks began to warm and she set the crocheting down on her lap. "You can tell?"

His smile shifted into a crooked grin as he looked up at her, but he said nothing.

"Well, why did you not say anything sooner?" She shook her finger at him. "You would have saved me a lot of trouble in trying to hide it!"

He let out a quick laugh. "You were trying to hide it?"

"Oh, what am I going to do with you?" she asked, mock-scoldingly. "And here I was thinking I could keep you from worrying."

Thorin shrugged slightly. "I'm not worried, really," he said, turning his eyes again to his open book. "I have seen this before, and I believe it will be a long while before the baby is ready to come. Hours, at least, since he is your first child."

Menegilda began to crochet again, though she was now having even more trouble concentrating. "Yes, I believe so, too," she said. "At least, I hope so. From what Mirabella and my mother have told me, the first baby usually takes some time." She squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. "Though, I cannot imagine how much worse the pain may be by then. Or after!"

"That, I cannot say," said Thorin. "But if you have need of anything, just ask. Water, food, silence, conversation. Whatever it is you need, simply say so. Whatever gives you comfort. I know that birthing a child is no easy task. Well, from what I have been told, anyway, and what I have seen."

"What I could really use right now is a midwife to talk me through this," she admitted, unraveling the yarn to where she had skipped a stitch earlier in the row. "To make sure I am doing it right."

"At this point, I don't think there is much you could do wrong," said Thorin. "I think the best you could do for yourself and your child right now is rest, if you want him to wait until your husband and his mother arrive. But you see now why I suggested you not work yourself too hard when you got here. If you had done so, the baby may have come even sooner."

She squinted at him. "Are you certain you are not a woman?" she joked. "I have never known a man who was comfortable speaking so openly about this subject."

"Then you have, perhaps, not spoken to as many Dwarf men as you claim," Thorin returned with a smile. "We do not tend to shy away from such things, and I have actually been at several births, myself."

"You are not a midwife, by chance?"

Thorin closed his book and set it down on the sofa beside him. "I'm afraid not," he said. "I have one amongst my kin, however, and he has attended the births of many Dwarf children… my nephews included. But he is in Ered Luin at the moment, and I myself have no skill such as his."

"Oh, that is a shame," said Menegilda, stiffening up as another pain began in her lower back. "It would have been an honor to have my child delivered by a king…"

She bit her lip gently, wishing she had not spoken that thought out loud; then she looked over to see that Thorin's mouth was gaping and his brow was furrowed.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," he said unconvincingly.

The contraction grew worse; and she closed her eyes and held the crocheting hard to her belly. She was not sure if allowing the pain to show on her face was making it hurt any less than trying to hide it had, but it was at least a slight relief that she did not have to pretend that it was not there; and when Thorin's hand came to rest on her arm, she forced herself to look up to where he was standing next to her. His keen eyes were narrowed and he shut his mouth; but despite his stern expression, his nearness and touch were soothing—and so he remained by her side until the contraction ended and her grip on the blanket loosened.

She sat back, fighting for breath and shaking her head. "Help me to the sofa, would you please?" she said, laying her crocheting on the side-table. "I think this chair is beginning to make my back ache a bit worse than it needs to right now."

Thorin pulled her easily to standing, then he slid his arm around her back and guided her to the sofa; and there he pushed the book aside and they both sat down, then he stared at Menegilda for a few seconds before she at last spoke up.

"I did not intend on saying your secret aloud," she said. "I promise that I will not speak it again. I have no right, after all, to let others know what you yourself are trying so hard to keep close to the vest."

"I don't know what…" Thorin began; then he stopped suddenly, as if he thought better of what he was going to say.

Menegilda let out a long breath. "It's fairly well-known that Bilbo went east with a group of Dwarves some time back," she said. "He made no mystery of that."

"That in itself is not such an unusual thing," said Thorin, nodding. "He has many friends, among many races, and from many different walks of life."

"Oh, yes," said Menegilda. "As the Tooks tend to. But after his return, people began saying that he had brought back treasure of some sort, and… well, I do not listen to rumors, but he fairly confirmed it when he began to give so much more freely for birthdays and other celebrations. He gave to me and Rory three Dwarvish gold coins, in fact, when he heard that I was with child."

"That was a fine gift," said Thorin.

Menegilda began straightening the wrinkles on her dress. "He told us that it was so we might buy new furnishings for the baby," she said. "But Rory has a good mind for the value of metal, and he figured that beyond furnishings, it might even be enough to buy an entire free-standing home."

Incredulity rose into Thorin's eyes. "Is gold worth so much here?"

"Not here, no," said Menegilda. "Folk in the Shire much prefer to trade for what they need, and the greatest value here is given to those things that can be eaten or worn, or that will make life more of a comfort. In Buckland, money matters a bit more, though, since there is much business there with the big folk that live throughout Breeland. But in any case, we have not spent the gold, nor have we any plans to do so just yet. At a point, Rory may take it up to Bree for such goods as we might need as the winter nears, but for now it is safe in our home, awaiting its use."

Thorin stared into the softly-glowing fire. "The value of the gold aside," he said, "Bilbo's possession of it does not mean that he is… or has ever been in the company of a king."

"Your name is common amongst Dwarves, then?"

His cheeks seemed to redden under his whiskers, but he did not reply.

Another contraction began and Menegilda tightened her jaw. "Rory mightn't remember where he heard of you," she said, trying to talk through the pain, "but I knew from the moment I…"

She felt sweat forming on her brow as the ache worked its way around her sides, then her belly tensed and she dug her fingernails into the sofa cushion. Bending forward, she squeezed Thorin's knee with her other hand, and he patted her wrist gently. For a long minute they remained like that, then the contraction ended and she turned to Thorin.

"Many Dwarves came through Buckland last year," she said, though she was having trouble speaking. "And they all did so with one name on their lips: Thorin, who they said was now king of some place away east called Erebor. Though some said it was Lonely Mountain. I rather prefer that name, though it does sound somewhat sad."

"And what makes you think that the Thorin they spoke of and I are one and the same?" the Dwarf asked, his voice low.

Menegilda folded her hands over her belly. "Are you not?" she asked, though she did not wait for an answer. "I have to admit that I was a bit confused, at points. Bilbo introduced you as being from Erebor, but then you spoke of being from the Blue Mountains—Ered Luin, I suppose. Since then, though, you have spoken enough about your travels and your life, that I suspect you must be from both places, in a way."

The muscles in Thorin's neck tensed. "I have family in both Ered Luin and Erebor," he said. "Though most of my kin are now in the east." His eyes darted back and forth, then he let out a resigned breath. "But, supposing what you said is true… supposing I am nobility, why did you not say something sooner?"

"What should I have said?" asked Menegilda. "If you wanted people to know, then you would not be tucked away in this quiet place. I would not have said anything, myself, had I not been… well, distracted. But I should tell you, anyway, that there are rumors going around that you are royalty of some sort, so it might not be as great a secret as you hoped it would be."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I thought that you shied away from rumoring."

"Just because I am not prone to gossip, it does not mean that people do not whisper such things to me in passing," she told him. "But I know very well that if you wanted people to be aware of who you are, then you would have told them, yourself. And I don't expect you would do that, because your peace would be broken. What rest could you get, then? With curious Hobbits hanging about at the foot of the Hill, waiting for a glimpse of royalty?"

"You sound like one who knows something of that life," said Thorin softly.

Menegilda lowered her head in a slight nod. "Rory may only be the son of someone so simple as the Master of Buckland, but still he did not get much peace around Brandy Hall," she said. "I suppose people were just trying to get in his good graces, but it was really rather disquieting to have people calling on him at all hours, for whatever reasons they could figure."

"So, the slower pace you and your husband left Buckland for was rather an escape from the pressures?"

"For my sake," said Menegilda; then she continued on through gritted teeth as another contraction began. "My own family is small and rural… I was not used to being surrounded by so many. Rory and Mirabella felt it would be best for me to be elsewhere until after—"

Her words caught in her throat and she hunched over, clutching at her belly as it hardened; and somewhere past the pain, she felt Thorin rubbing her lower back. He kneaded his fingertips gently into her muscles, and she grabbed his other hand and squeezed it.

"Such a strong grip," he said, laughing softly, "from such a delicate hand."

Menegilda smiled despite the pain; then she closed her eyes and just let herself breathe until the pangs eased and her belly relaxed. Thorin removed his touch from the small of her back and slid a pillow behind her, and she loosened her grip on his hand; then his expression grew distant, and she cleared her throat softly.

"We will not be in Hobbiton for long," said Menegilda, acutely aware of the shaking in her voice. "Rory has responsibilities at Brandy Hall, and whether he is looking forward to them or not, he is determined that they will not go undone." She eyed Thorin curiously. "And what of you? How long will you be staying in the Shire?"

He turned to her suddenly, as if she had shaken him from a daydream. "Only until my kin come back through in a month or so," he said, his own voice uneven. "I have thought once or twice about meeting them in Ered Luin before then… but each time I have decided to stay here a little longer." 

"And for that, I don't blame you," said Menegilda. "I have seen how close you and Bilbo are. It is good for him, I think, to have you around. Good for both of you, really. But… you do not strike me as the kind of person who would long leave his responsibilities behind for the sake of good company."

"My… responsibilities have been taken over by others for the time being, until…" 

The words failed on his lips; then he sighed and stood and walked over to the fireplace. There, he gripped the edge of the mantlepiece and hung his head.

"Until your mourning time has ended?" she asked.

The Dwarf nodded; and Menegilda hesitated for a moment, weighing her next words before she went on.

"It is for your nephews that you are in mourning?"

He shut his eyes. "I suppose I have spoken about them a few times."

"More than a few," said Menegilda.

In truth, he had mentioned them so often—and with such emotion—that she had long suspected that something had happened to them. She knew by now their names, their ages, their preferred weapons, how different they looked from one another, their favorite food and drinks, and the songs they had sung as children. But always, always he spoke of them as if they were in the past; and though she wondered what had become of them, she had never thought it was her place to ask.

She knew, at least, that he must have talked to Bilbo about them much more often, which was a good thing. It was clear that Bilbo had also known them; and it was perhaps that shared grief that had brought him and Thorin so close to one another—although she wasn't going to discount the possibility that they had already been close before.

"I needed time away," said Thorin, breaking into her thoughts. He stepped to the sofa and sat again, then stared down at his open hands. "They… Fíli and Kíli had a great number of friends, and they were… they were loved by so many. Their loss was grieved by many." He looked at her. "But if I had stayed in Erebor, then my people would have had to suffer through my grief, as well. And mine is… more lasting."

Almost without her noticing, another contraction began. She hunched over, grimacing, and Thorin again rubbed the small of her back as she breathed through the pain. 

"When I was young, our homeland was taken from us," he continued as she struggled to listen. "My grandfather was… he was devastated by the loss of…" He paused, and his hand stilled on Menegilda's back. "A great many of our people died, and he could not… for a long time, he could not set his mind at ease. He could not shoulder both the burden of rule, and the memory of what was gone. My father, at that time, took his place leading our people, until my grandfather could again stand firmly before them."

Thorin fell silent, then resumed rubbing Menegilda's back as the pain and pressure of her contraction eased. She sat back and breathed in deeply; but before she could say anything, Thorin went on speaking.

"Many long years from now, I will still be mourning Fíli and Kíli in my way," he said, fixing her with a gentle stare. "I know the pain of their loss will always remain… but I think that when I return to my people, I will now be strong enough to stand before them. Though perhaps not as strong as I was when my nephews were by my side."

Menegilda smiled softly at him. "And will you be standing alone?"

"I have kin, close as brothers," said Thorin. "Whatever may come, they will be there for me. They always have been."

"And have you anyone beyond kin?"

He furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

Once more, she wished she had thought better before speaking; but now, she felt obligated to go on. "I mean… have you someone that you might also turn to, other than family and old, old friends?" she said. "I do not know how friendships might be for Dwarves, or for royalty, for that matter, but I have found that sometimes it helps to have someone to speak with that you haven't known for all your life. Someone that you might always learn something new about, to take your mind away from the troubles that are weighing you down."

His eyes widened and he lowered his face. "I might, perhaps, have someone that I could call on in times such as those."

Menegilda smiled. It was not so hard to tell, after all, who Thorin might consider clinging to if ever he fell. Whenever he and Bilbo looked at one another, it was with the same glint of affection that she had seen in Rory's eyes when he looked at her. There were, in fact, many things that she had seen Thorin and Bilbo do that reminded Menegilda of herself and her husband—from the way Bilbo would always give Thorin a taste from the pot when he was cooking, to how they leaned towards one another when they were speaking, to how they would always either sit close enough to one another to touch, or else directly across from one another so that their eyes could meet.

The silence between Menegilda and Thorin continued until another contraction began; and once more, he soothed her through it with his presence and his hand on her back. Slowly, the pain eased and she leaned back against the sofa again, and as she was gathering her thoughts and catching her breath, the front door squeaked open.

Thorin smiled wide, but when Bilbo stepped into view in the doorway to the drawing-room, the Dwarf's expression straightened. Bilbo did not look happy, he did not look well. He was grimy and sweaty, and his left sleeve was pulled up, revealing several red welts on his skin. Thorin stood suddenly, though he did not step away from the sofa.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

Bilbo waved him off. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he said, grinning crookedly. He pulled his satchel off of his shoulder and held it up. "I got plenty of comb, even if the bees did not care for my intrusion. It'll take me a while to extract the honey, but I'll have a fair bit when I'm done. Enough for the baking, and some for tea later, I'm sure."

"Do you need any help?" asked Menegilda. In truth, she was getting a bit tired of sitting, and she was eager to do something other than be in labor. "With your stings, at least, if not the honey?"

Bilbo shook his head. "No, I'll be fine. They're not so bad, actually." He focussed on Thorin. "Have you been enjoying one another's company while I've been gone?"

"Yes," said Thorin, nodding slightly. "Quite."

They stared at one another for a long while, until at last Bilbo seemed to notice that Menegilda was watching them. He cleared his throat and stepped away from the door, and Thorin again sat down beside her.

"Does he usually get stung so badly?" she asked.

"No," said Thorin, still looking towards the door. "This is the first I have seen him run afoul of the bees, to be honest. Though he said it has happened before."

"At least he knows how to treat the stings, then."

"He told me that Lobelia helped him with that once." He drew his eyebrows together. "He told me that she did a fine job treating them."

Pleasant warmth rose in Menegilda's chest. It was nice to hear that Bilbo had said something kind about Lobelia. "My mother told me that Lobelia's father was an apothecary," she said after a moment. "It makes sense that she would pick up on some of his skill."

"What, do you suppose, is the trouble between them?" asked Thorin, looking into her eyes. "Between Bilbo and Lobelia, I mean. I have to believe that it has to do with more than just spoons."

Menegilda scratched the back of her neck. She had heard rumors that their dislike of one another had been rather more a falling-out, since it was generally agreed upon that Bilbo and Lobelia had once been on good terms; but Menegilda never put much truck in gossip, and she was certainly not going to perpetuate tales—though it was a little difficult to ignore the baying of the rumor-mongers.

"I cannot say," she said after a few seconds. "It is Bilbo you should ask. Or Lobelia, though I think you might not be inclined to speak with her—or her with you, I imagine."

Thorin started tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the sofa cushion. "Do you think that perhaps Lobelia has had a part in the rumoring about my own… situation?"

"For her to tell someone that Bilbo is in the company of royalty would make him seem better rather than worse, I think," said Menegilda with a shrug. "If her goal was to discredit him, then I cannot see her spreading that around. But, again, she would be the one to ask. I cannot speak for her."

"Nobody can really speak for another,  I suppose," returned Thorin. "But that does not seem to keep people from doing so."

"Well, rumors do fly, and it is often hard to avoid them, even when you'd rather not get involved. I think, really, there is something about gossip that makes a person want to tell it most to those who prefer not to hear it."

Thorin opened his mouth, then he shut it tight. Soon, another contraction began, and the Dwarf gripped Menegilda's hand and rubbed her back through it; and when it ended, to her embarrassment a moan escaped her lips. Thorin gave her a thin smile, but before either of them could speak again, there came a loud ring from the door.

"I'll get it!" Bilbo called out from somewhere down the hall.

Thorin and Menegilda watched as he rushed past the drawing-room, and moment later, the front door was opened. A chorus of familiar, happy voices drifted down the passageway; and without needing to be asked, Thorin helped Menegilda to standing, then they made their way to the drawing-room door and watched on as Bilbo greeted his guests.

To Menegilda's surprise and delight, there were three people on the step. Rory and Mirabella were there of course, but behind the elder Hobbit lady stood her daughter, Primula. The tween had her hands folded demurely in front of her, though she was bouncing almost excitedly on her toes, and her eyes were wide and joyful. Menegilda's heart leaped. She had not expected Rory's sister to be there, but she was so happy that she had come, as she was a dear friend—and she was the person who had introduced Menegilda to Rory in the first place, so it seemed only right that she should now be there for the birth.

Mirabella herself was all decked-out in her traveling-shawl and a wide sun-bonnet, and as everyone watched on, she bounded into the house and wrapped her arms around Bilbo, pulling him into a sudden and fierce hug.

"Bilbo! I haven't seen you in ages!" she said, squeezing him. She let go and stepped back, holding him at arms-length. "How have you been? I heard you died!"

"Uh… no," said Bilbo, shaking his head. "That didn't happen."

Mirabella let go of him and clapped her hands together. "Oh, that's good!" she said. "Enough about you, though. Where is my darling girl? Where is my Gilda?" 

Thorin and Menegilda shared a quick glance, then they stepped fully into the passageway. Mirabella's eyes widened when she saw her daughter-in-law, then she pushed quickly past Bilbo and rushed to the younger lady, pulling her near and kissing her on the cheek.

"Oh!" exclaimed Mirabella. "Oh, it is so nice to see you! I've missed you terribly!"

"I've missed you, too," said Menegilda, returning the kiss. "It's been too long!"

They hugged one another, and Menegilda smiled up at Rory as he also hurried to her side; but Mirabella pushed him away a bit, then shook her finger at him.

"Oh, no you don't!" she said. "Not yet! I haven't seen my Gilda in ages, and you've had your turn for months now!"

Rory looked almost shocked, but Bilbo and Primula chuckled. At last Mirabella pulled out of the hug and looked Menegilda up and down.

"Well, now!" she said. "We're just in time, I suppose! How far apart are they?"

Menegilda turned to Thorin, who pressed his lips into a smile. Meneglida did not know why she hadn't expected Mirabella to notice that she was already in labor—she was, after all, quite a skilled midwife. Bilbo, on the other hand, had likely never seen a lady in such a state, and he narrowed his eyes as he looked from face-to-face. 

"How far apart are what?" he asked.

Thorin tilted his head slightly, then he answered Mirabella. "Eight minutes."

"Oh, good," said Mirabella. "Gives us time to get home and get settled." Then her eyes flitted back up towards Thorin. "Oh! Hello, there! You're quite tall, aren't you?" 

"Wait…" said Bilbo. "I'm sorry, but what—"

Rorimac let out a little squeal, then started jumping up and down. "Today?" he asked, then he threw his arms around his wife and pulled her near. "Today! Oh, I'm so glad we didn't stay at the inn for breakfast this morning!"

Realization rose into Bilbo's eyes and his mouth fell open, and he glanced at Menegilda's belly before turning to Rory. "I was… just…" he began haltingly, rubbing his stung arm. "I was going to make some scones and spice cake for you folks, but I suppose I can bring them over later."

"Wonderful idea!" said Primula, placing her hand on Menegilda's shoulder, even as Rory tightened his hug. "I have missed your cooking, Bilbo!"

Yet another contraction began, and Menegilda leaned harder into her husband's arms; but it took only a moment for Mirabella to notice what was happening and she began rubbing Menegilda's back, as Thorin had been doing earlier. Beside them, Bilbo stammered a bit; then he cleared his throat almost nervously.

"Um… Mirabella, Primula…" he said. "I'd like you to meet my good friend, Thorin Oakenshield."

"Oakenshield?" asked Mirabella, looking first at the Dwarf, then at her son. "Oakenshield..? Now where have I heard..?" She snapped her fingers. "Oh, yes! Some Dwarves were asking after you last month! Well, anyway, they said some… birds of some sort were."

"Crows, Mother!" exclaimed Primula. 

"Ravens," Thorin corrected her quickly, his voice tempered by slight distress.

"Crows, ravens—I can never tell them apart!" said Mirabella. "Anyway Mr. Oakenshield, they were asking if you and a couple other Dwarf folks had come through Buckland any time recently. I can't quite remember who the others were that they wanted, though. I'm just not good with names! But Oakenshield… well, that's not just a name, strictly speaking. It's words, isn't it? Oaken and Shield. I guess that's why it stuck with me. And, anyway, there aren't many Dwarves I've ever met with two names!"

Menegilda's contraction eased as the others were speaking, and as the pain dwindled she focussed on Thorin's agitated face.

"It is not common, no," he said.

"Why didn't you tell us he was here, Rory?" asked Primula.

"I told you about him on the way," said Rorimac. "Remember?"

"You told us only that Bilbo had a Dwarf for a houseguest," said Mirabella. "You never told us his name."

"Well, I'd forgotten it!" admitted Rory.

"And…" Thorin began; then he paused as Bilbo shifted closer to him. "May I ask what message they had for me?"

"I don't actually know," Mirabella told him, glaring at her son out of the corner of her eye. "Though if Rory had told me that you were here, I could have brought it to you! But as it is, you may want to send to Buckland, so that you can find out for yourself. Delayed, I suppose, but better late than never! In the meantime, we need to get my dear Gilda home and settled, and ready to have this baby!"

"I have already packed," said Menegilda.

Bilbo nodded, then rushed off down the hallway towards the guest-room where she had been staying, while Thorin made his way back into the drawing room; and very soon they both returned—Bilbo with her bag in his grip, and Thorin with Menegilda's crocheting. The Dwarf slipped the blanket and yarn into the bag, then Bilbo handed it off to Rory, who slung it over his shoulder before gripping his cousin's hand.

"Thank you so much," said Rory. He appeared to be getting more anxious by the moment, and he began to shake Bilbo's hand with great vigor. "You've been so wonderful! Such a help!" They let go of one another and Bilbo stumbled back, then Rory slapped him affectionately on the left arm—apparently not noticing the stings. "If ever I can do anything for you, just ask! Just ask!"

"It was not a problem," said Bilbo, grimacing. "We both quite enjoyed Menegilda's company."

Menegilda reached out and hugged Bilbo. "And I yours," she said, smiling.

She let him go and turned to Thorin; and though she hesitated a bit for fear that he might not accept it, she found that she could not help but hug him, as well. He laughed and returned the embrace, then they released one another and Menegilda shifted around towards the door. 

"Certainly bring those scones and the cake over later!" said Primula as she guided her sister-in-law over the threshold.

"We will," Bilbo replied. "I've got to extract the honey before I get any baking done, though."

"Hurry it up, then!" said Mirabella. "You've gotten me looking forward to it already!"

Rory came up on the other side of Menegilda, and together they made their way down the path, and Mirabella grabbed the bag from her son and rushed on ahead. As they got to the wagon, Rory let go of his wife's arm so to help his mother up; and Menegilda peered back over her shoulder towards the door to Bag End, where Bilbo and Thorin were standing, predictably, by one another's sides.

As she watched on, Thorin leaned over and spoke to the Hobbit, who offered a slight nod in return. Then they both waved at Menegilda before stepping back inside and shutting the door behind them.

Chapter Text

In the three hours since Menegilda and the others had left, Thorin and Bilbo had kept themselves quite busy—though Bilbo was certainly the busier of the pair. He hadn't sat down at all in that time, but had hurried about the kitchen, skillfully mixing and measuring ingredients, and generally making certain that everything was just right; while Thorin, for the most part, stood off to the side and waited for instruction, whether it be passing Bilbo spices or greasing the pans or checking on the temperature of the oven fire.

As the rushing began to slow, however, Bilbo insisted on finishing up the cleaning himself, and so Thorin settled down into his usual chair at the table as the Hobbit went about it. But although they'd managed to keep the conversation centered around their baking until then, the slowed pace let them slip into quiet thought; and the cleaner the kitchen got, the more Bilbo began to worry about Menegilda and the baby—until, at last, he felt the need to break the silence.

"When do you suppose we should bring them over?" he asked at last, trying to sound relaxed as he wiped down the sideboard for the third time.

But the reply he was waiting for from Thorin never came, and he looked over his shoulder to see the Dwarf with his arms folded on the tabletop and his eyes staring down at the honey-crock before him—apparently having gotten himself lost in thought, to the point where it didn't seem as if he had heard Bilbo at all.

"Thorin?"

"Hmm?" said Thorin, looking up. "Sorry? What was that?"

"When do you suppose we should bring them over?" Bilbo repeated.

"When should we bring what where?"

"The scones and the cake," Bilbo clarified, draping the dish-towel over his shoulder as he stepped to the table and sat down. "When do you think we should bring them over to Rory and Menegilda's place? I'd hate to get there too early, and show up in the middle of… well, in the middle of something important."

Thorin lifted an eyebrow. "In the middle of the birth, you mean?"

"Well… yes. How long do you figure it will be before they're… before she is done?"

"I cannot say," Thorin told him, jerking his shoulder in what might have been a shrug. "It could be that the baby has already arrived, but there is much more to childbirth than just the delivery."

"Is there, really?" asked Bilbo; then he cleared his throat. "Well, of course there is! So, I guess we should wait a few more hours, then? Go after dark?"

"Or just before."

Bilbo let out a long breath as he glanced around the now very-clean kitchen. "What shall we do in the meantime, then?" he asked. "We've been cooped up in here for hours already, and I don't really feel like staying in for what's left of such a beautiful day. Perhaps we could go for a walk?" He began tugging absently on the end of the towel that was still draped over his shoulder. "Do you suppose it would be too intrusive if we headed out towards Menegilda's place and… well, listened a bit from the outside? Then we might learn whether or not it is a good time to bring dessert over."

A small smile rose to Thorin's lips. "Are you so worried about Menegilda that you would eavesdrop on her?"

"I suppose so, yes," admitted Bilbo; then he let go of the towel and dropped his stung arm to the table—though it hit a little too hard, making him jump and grimace at the shock of pain. "I mean, no!" he said, curling his fingers into a fist. "Not the eavesdropping part. But I am a little worried about her, anyway. Are you not worried?"

Thorin slid his hand under Bilbo's wrist. "I am sure Menegilda and the baby are fine," he said. "Though Rorimac will, perhaps, not be doing so well. I have seen more than one new father who could not make it through the birth without passing out."

"Really?" said Bilbo, relaxing his fingers. "But it has only been Dwarf births you have attended, hasn't it? Are you… that is to say, are Dwarf men truly so sensitive to such things?"

"You might be surprised at how easily we can falter when someone we care about is in pain," said Thorin, frowning down at the sings. "Especially when there is nothing we can do to take that pain away." 

Bilbo shook his head and smiled faintly, not at all surprised that Thorin was still concerned about his arm. The Dwarf had, after all, asked several times over the course of their busy afternoon if they might take a moment to treat the stings; though each time, Bilbo had waved him off and told him that it could wait just a little while longer. But though a while longer had at first meant until after the honey was extracted, Bilbo had then put it off until after the baking was done, and then until after the cleaning was finished; and so, eventually, Thorin had stopped asking.

Still, after the ingredients for the scones had been set out, Thorin offered to mix and roll and cut them, himself. The request was quite unexpected, since he'd never before shown any interest in baking; but Bilbo guessed that the reason he wanted to do so this time was because he did not want Bilbo's arm to be in even greater pain while working the heavy dough. And in any case, the help had been greatly appreciated, as the stings did hurt quite a bit; though by now they were quite old, and Bilbo felt that it would be a useless effort to try treating them at all.

"I'm fine, you know," he said, shrugging. "I've been through worse. Much worse."

"That does not mean you should suffer without need. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I don't think so. Not unless you can go back in time and stop me from slipping on the branch. I don't suppose I told you that was how it happened, did I? I slipped, and I grabbed the board on the front of the hive to keep myself from falling. I don't think the bees cared very much for me knocking so hard on their front door."

Thorin furrowed his brow. "I should have gone with you. This mightn't have happened."

"The branch would still have been slippery if you had been there. And I don't think you would have wanted to leave Menegilda on her own here, anyway. In fact, it was a good thing that you didn't, or else she'd have gone through labor alone."

"I suppose you're right," said Thorin, easing his hand out from under Bilbo's wrist, then patting it softly. "Though for a while she was trying to hide it from me. And I believe she would have continued trying to hide it until her husband arrived, if I had not mentioned it."

Bilbo let out a little laugh. "Well, that is like her to try and not worry someone! Though I am a bit surprised that she thought you wouldn't notice."

"You did not seem to notice before you left to get the honey, so perhaps she wasn't doing such a poor job hiding it, after all."

"She was in labor even then?" asked Bilbo, his eyes widening. "Well, now that I think about it, she did seem a bit on edge this morning, but I just figured that was because she was eager for Rory's return! But, well… she didn't eat much for breakfast, did she? I thought that was odd."

Thorin nodded. "I think, perhaps, what you will miss most about her being here is the need to make larger meals," he said. "You do love that, I know. Cooking for more than one person, I mean. Cooking for a crowd."

"Well, you should know by now how social Hobbits tend to be. And there really is little that brings us together quicker than a meal!"

"And yet…" Thorin began; then he seemed to think better of what he was going to say and shut his mouth tight.

"And yet what?" pressed Bilbo.

Thorin looked into his eyes; but he said nothing, and Bilbo went on. 

"You miss Menegilda, as well, even if you are not very worried about her. The two of you spoke with one another quite often, I noticed. More often than either of you did with me, at points!"

"I would be lying if I said I did not enjoy having her here," said Thorin, taking gentle hold of Bilbo's hand. "But I would also be lying if I said I have not been looking forward to being alone with you again."

Bilbo's chest warmed pleasantly and he ran his thumb over Thorin's knuckles. "Well, her being here certainly livened things up for a bit," he said. "But I suppose it won't be so difficult to get back to relaxing, rather than entertaining. Back to smaller meals, and more peace and quiet, and less needing to guard our words so not to give too much away! It will, at least, be a pleasure not having to keep our talk to whispers at night, when the subject turns to your family in Erebor."

After a few seconds of silently staring into Bilbo's eyes, Thorin rose to his feet, briefly tightening his grip on the Hobbit's hand before letting go and making his way to the open window. "I have actually been meaning to speak with you about that," he said, placing his fingertips to the side of the cake-pan cooling on the sill. "Some things have come to light, and it is possible that the guarding of our words may have been for nothing. Though I do not believe that will be such a bad thing, in the long run."

The warmth in Bilbo's chest turned suddenly to an ache. "What do you mean?" he asked as he stood and stepped over to Thorin's side. "Is this about what Mirabella said? About the Ravens' message? It could be nothing, you know. It could be that they were simply sent out to relieve Balin and Dwalin's worries about where you and the others had gotten off to."

"I believe that is the case," said Thorin. "I am certain that my kin in Erebor will be able to handle for themselves most troubles that may come up. And with Dáin so near, and the allies we now have amongst the Men and Elves, there seems little that they would need me to be there to take care of. At least for a while longer."

"Well, what's wrong, then?" asked Bilbo. "What has come to light?"

Thorin let out what sounded like a resigned sigh. "I was speaking with Menegilda earlier, while you were out gathering honey." He paused, rubbing his whiskered chin for a moment before going on. "And, apparently, people have been talking."

"What about?" asked Bilbo, almost fearing the answer.

"About me. About what I really am."

Bilbo's heart sank. "About you being a king?"

"About me being nobility, at any rate," said Thorin. "There are rumors going around that I am royalty."

Bilbo narrowed his eyes and doubled his fists, gritting his teeth when the tensing of his muscles aggravated his arm—though it was not the stings that were now of greatest concern to him, but rather the possibility that Thorin's holiday might very well be soon coming to an end.

How often had royalty ever set foot in the Shire, after all? How often had the folk who lived this quiet place been able to say they had been in the company of someone of noble blood? It would not now be long before people would begin surrounding Thorin whenever he was in public; and worse, they would come knocking whenever he was inside Bag End, disturbing his rest to the point where Bilbo's home would not be restful anymore. 

What reason would Thorin have to stay, then? He would need to leave, just to get away from the curious crowds that gathered around; to get away from those who would hang on his heels, and those who would jostle against him just so they could say they had touched a king. He would have to slip away, swiftly and silently in the dead of night—as he had done when he'd left Erebor, just so nobody would follow him as he went.

And who had started the rumors, anyway? Bilbo had said nothing, and Thorin had not spoken to anyone but him and Menegilda since he had been there. And Ori and Óin would surely not have said anything when they'd been out and about in Hobbiton, even if they'd thought they were alone enough to safely speak of it. Had the Ravens that had gone through Buckland started it? Or the Dwarves that had passed on the Ravens' message? 

No, it didn't matter where the gossip had started. It could have simply been a lucky guess, or an educated guess. Rumors and whispers begin all the time in taverns and inns, and in the bustle of a busy market; but if they do not reach the right ears, they do not spread—and Bilbo felt he knew very well who had whispered the loudest this time. 

"I'll bet this is Lobelia's doing," he said through his teeth. "Always, always she turns the rumor mill! Though I should not be surprised that she would spread this around. She would do anything in her power to see to it that I was unhappy."

Thorin stared into the air between them for a moment, then he shook his head. "I asked Menegilda if she thought Lobelia might have been the one doing the rumoring, and what she had to say on the matter, I must agree with: knowing that you were in the company of nobility would make you look better in peoples' eyes; so if Lobelia wished for you to be unhappy, then what satisfaction would she get from saying such a thing?"

"What makes me unhappy is the thought that you will not have your peace and quiet!"

"But Lobelia doesn't know that, does she?" asked Thorin. "And if she wanted people to think less of you, would she not be better served by telling them that I am a criminal or some such thing?"

"I wish people did believe that of you," said Bilbo; then his cheeks began to burn as he realized what he had just said. "I mean… at least you would be more likely to be left alone while you are here."

"But I will not be here forever," said Thorin; then he let his gaze linger on Bilbo's face for a few seconds before turning towards the window. "And where would a shattered reputation leave you after I am gone?"

The question took Bilbo rather off-guard, and he found that he did not quite know how to answer it. "What has my reputation to do with anything?"

For a moment, Thorin said nothing; then he turned back to Bilbo. "I have noticed that many Hobbits do not think well of Dwarves," he said, "and I have been worried for a long time that when they see you with me… that they would think of me as nothing but a disreputable type, and believe that you have taken up with an undesirable crowd."

"As I told you," said Bilbo, his voice shaking slightly, "if they thought that of you, then at least they would leave you alone."

"And when I am gone?" asked Thorin; though he did not wait for an answer. "You may not care anymore for what your reputation has to say about you, but your neighbors and kin might care about it. And if that reputation spoke ill of you, would people still come over for a visit? Would they still chat idly with you when they met you in passing? Would they still invite you over for dinner or tea?" He paused, tilting his head towards the kitchen table. "Or would you stay here, cooking only for yourself, and eating your meals in silence?"

Bilbo turned his face down. "Neighbors might distance themselves somewhat, perhaps, but not my family," he said. "Menegilda and Rory do not care one whit about my reputation; nor do Mirabella or Primula, or most of the other Brandybucks, I'm sure. They will certainly come over for visits, whenever they are able."

"But how often will they be able?" asked Thorin, brushing a lock of hair away from Bilbo's eyes. "Most of the Brandybucks live in Buckland, do they not? And Mirabella and Primula will be returning there soon, as will Rorimac and Menegilda. That will leave few Brandybucks in the vicinity of The Hill, unless I am very much mistaken."

"The Tooks, then," said Bilbo, drawing the dish-towel off his shoulder and tossing it next to the cake on the sill. "But, really, you needn't worry about me, Thorin. I got out visiting with my friends and cousins plenty enough before you came here, and I am sure I will do so again…" He stopped, the words when you leave failing on his lips.

Thorin took him by the hand. "I think, Bilbo, that it might be best if we let the wheels of the rumor mill turn, after all," he said softly. "If we let others believe… if we let them know, as Menegilda knows, that I am royalty, then they will not be so likely to turn you away when I leave here." He let out a long sigh. "It is important to me that you be happy when I am gone, even if it means that we will be—"

"The gossip will die down," said Bilbo, cutting him off. "All the good and the bad that people say about either of us will fade into background murmurs when they find other things to speak about, other things to—" He stopped; then his eyes widened as Thorin's exact words repeated in his mind. "As Menegilda knows? Did you tell her that the rumors were true?"

"No," said Thorin, grinning crookedly. "She said that she learned of my name and my nobility from some Dwarves that passed through Buckland last year, so it is really rather surprising that the others who came in from there do not know who I am, as well."

Bilbo tightened his grip on Thorin's hand, this time ignoring the pain in his arm. "Not so surprising, really," he said, glad for some reason to change the subject. "Mirabella could never recall names well, and she passed that on to her own children. Rory told me that she often calls him by all his sisters' and brothers' names before she gets it right, even after all these years." 

"Much as I myself could never get Fíli and Kíli's names straight until they were long grown," said Thorin; then his smile eased a bit and he turned to the window. "And still, even then I could not always get them right."

They both fell silent; and while Bilbo was certain that Thorin's thoughts were now on his nephews, his own mind was on the Dwarf's distant expression.

In recent days, he had come to know Thorin's face quite well, and he often let his eyes trace along the line of his profile when they were on the verge of sleep on the sofa at night. And even in the daylight hours, Bilbo had come into the habit of studying Thorin's features, setting them to memory to the point where he could see his face well when he closed his eyes. Without the need to look, he could now picture the tilt of Thorin's chin, the curve of his nose, the furrowing of his scarred brow, the shortened hair at the back of his head.

Shortened, but growing back fast; and Bilbo figured that it would soon be long enough to braid away from his face. In fact, it seemed to be long enough for that already, though Thorin had not even tried, as far as Bilbo was aware. But maybe he was waiting, for some reason. Until Ori and Óin came back through from Ered Luin, perhaps; or until his mourning time had come to an end and he returned to Erebor. Perhaps he was waiting to do what was considered proper for a Dwarf, until he was actually among them.

Bilbo ran his fingers through the hair at the back of his own head. It had been quite a while since he'd had it trimmed, and he was certain he looked rather silly by now. He wasn't sure, exactly, why he hadn't had it taken care of yet, as it was quite a bit longer than he'd ever remembered it being. It was wavy and unruly, and it was always getting into his eyes these days; and he had considered, a few times, tying it back as his Dwarf friends had done their own hair—braiding it on the sides or knotting it at the back of his head—but that was really rather improper for a Hobbit.

But then, Bilbo thought, it had really been a long time since he had behaved like a proper Hobbit, anyway.

That extended, even, to his lack of socialization; and he was not at all certain whether he would be happier with a fine reputation that brought guests around, or a shattered one that gave him more time to be alone—because, though Bilbo's house might be filled with neighbors and friends and kin, it would still feel empty without Thorin being there. He could not imagine anyone else sitting in Thorin's chair at the table, or in his place by the fire, or spending the night in his room; and he knew that he would not himself be comfortable on the sofa without Thorin being there beside him.

No, if Thorin was not there, then he would not want anyone else there; at least, not for more than a short visit, a quick meal, or a simple chat on the doorstep while he smoked his morning pipe.

How could he explain that to Thorin, though, without making him feel guilty about leaving? How could he tell him that he would rather be alone, if not with him? He couldn't tell him that. Thorin believed that Bilbo would be happier with guests coming and going; and Bilbo was not going to tell him otherwise, if believing so would make Thorin happier when he left.

Their hold on one another loosened, then released; and Bilbo took a step back and turned his face aside, casting his sight on the plate of scones on the sideboard. "This is what you really want, then?" he asked, trying to sound light though his throat was aching. "For you being noble to be general knowledge around here?"

He walked over and grabbed the plate and returned with it to the window; and Thorin turned his eyes down as Bilbo set the scones next to the cake on the sill.

"I do," said the Dwarf. "But I will make no move to let it be known, unless it is your wish, as well."

"Then I wish it," said Bilbo.

A smile played across Thorin's lips. "You are certain?"

Bilbo nodded, then picked up one of the scones and took a small bite. It was crumbly and dry, and even with the glaze it was not very sweet; but it was buttery and quite tasty all the same, and really not bad at all for being Thorin's first attempt.

"As certain as I am able to be," he said, grabbing another scone and holding it out to Thorin. "And, in any case, we will not need to say or do anything to help the rumors spread. They will do so all on their own."

"As they always will, as long as people are bored and curious," said Thorin, accepting the pastry. He hesitated a moment before taking a small bite; then he wrinkled his nose, apparently unimpressed with his own work. "Perhaps these will be better with tea."

"I think they are fine all on their own," said Bilbo. "But if it's the lack of sweetness bothering you, then remember that Menegilda and the others will likely have them with jam." He moved quickly to the table, then returned to the window with the honey-crock; and after setting it down, he grabbed the dipper, then drizzled a bit of honey first on what was left on his own scone, then on Thorin's. "Try it with this for now."

They each took another bite; but if Thorin found, as Bilbo did, that the scone not only tasted better with the honey on it, but that it was less dry and crumbly, he did not say so.

"You'll have to help out with the baking more often," said Bilbo, finishing off his pastry, then licking the honey off his fingers. "Over the next few days, even. It's a tradition in the Shire to give gifts of food when a child is born, so that the parents might spend more time with the baby and less in the kitchen. I think that by the time we have finished giving Menegilda and Rory desserts, I'll have made a proper baker out of you."

Thorin quickly finished what was left of his scone, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I am not, actually, such a poor cook in my own right," he said with a small laugh. "Though pastries and cakes and sweets are not amongst those things that I have much experience with. I much prefer to make something savory and meaty, well-tenderized and pleasantly fatty. Beef or pork or mutton, or what have you. I have made many dishes that might taste as good in an ordered and tidy kitchen as they do while camping on the side of the road."

As he had been speaking, Bilbo's eyes had been steadily widening; and when he finished, the Hobbit hummed enthusiastically. "Well, then I'd be happy to allow you the run of the kitchen whenever you like," he said. "I could use the break once in a while."

"Really?" said Thorin doubtfully. "In truth, I would have offered long ago, but I thought you would resent the intrusion."

"Contrary to what you might think, I do appreciate the help from time to time," said Bilbo. "Though it really is no greater chore cooking for two or three than it is cooking for one, I do sometimes feel stressed to keep the menu creative. Once in a while I even begin to long for something different, made by hands other than my own." He winked playfully. "Something a little more adventurous."

"I suppose, if you consider food made by Dwarf hands to be adventurous, I should either be flattered or insulted," joked Thorin.

"Flattered, certainly! And you may make dinner tonight, if you like."

"After a trip to the market, of course. If I am to do the cooking, then a visit to the butcher is in order."

The mention of going to the market with Thorin cheered Bilbo greatly, and he stood up straighter. "Of course!" he said. "And the sooner the better, so that all the good meat will not have been snatched up before we get there!"

"I have always had great luck with my sister's recipe for honeyed roast chicken," said Thorin as Bilbo moved quickly past him and grabbed the shopping basket off the potato bin. "And it seems that we have just enough honey left for that, if you would like for me to make it this evening."

"I certainly would!" said Bilbo. "I've my own recipe for that, and I should like to see how yours compares."

He hung the basket over the crook of his right arm and led the way to the front door; and as they stepped together out of the house, Thorin shut the door behind them. Soon they began down the path towards the main road, continuing on for a couple minutes in pleasant silence; then Thorin glanced back over his shoulder towards The Hill before turning to Bilbo.

"What is it about Lobelia that bothers you so?" he asked without preamble. "You speak a lot about your spoons, but I imagine there was strife between you before that, even."

"Oh, there was," said Bilbo; and though the suddenness of the question took him by surprise, he had been expecting Thorin to ask some such thing for a long while. "Lobelia and Otho… well, honestly, I was not always on bad terms with them. When they first moved to Hobbiton, we got along quite well, as a matter of fact, and I even took it upon myself to show them around and introduce them to the neighbors."

"What happened between you, then? If you do not mind me asking."

Bilbo shrugged. "I think most of the trouble started because I refused to sell Bag End to them," he said; and though he was trying to make his words sound casual, he was positive that they had come out practiced, instead. "Lobelia offered to buy it from me once, and I told her that I'd never sell it… that it would have gone against my parents' wishes. I guess she didn't like that very much." He started tapping his fingers against his leg; then he stopped doing so when his arm began to burn again. "It was just a simple thing, really."

Thorin narrowed his eyes. "As simple as that, and yet even years later the bitterness remains?"

"Dwarves seem to be no quicker to resolve their differences," said Bilbo; then he cringed at his choice of words.

But Thorin simply raised an eyebrow at him. "You are not a Dwarf," he said. "And, if nothing else, I have learned how your kind are quite forgiving of others. Is there no reason you would speak with her again?"

To this, Bilbo had no answer; and so he pressed his lips together until Thorin continued.

"Might it help if I spoke to her on your behalf?"

Bilbo chuckled; then he looked up suddenly. "You're not joking?"

Thorin shook his head, and Bilbo turned his face forward again and went on.

"Not that it would do any good," he said hesitantly, "but if the opportunity ever comes up for you to speak with her, then you have my blessing to do so. But, at any rate, I doubt it will ever come up. As far as I am aware, you don't even know what she looks like."

Thorin leaned close to Bilbo. "I know where she lives," he said in an affected whisper.

"And you would not get one foot in the door before she was whistling for the Bounders!"

"And suppose I did manage to speak with her, by some chance," said Thorin, straightening up again. "Suppose I convinced her to speak with you..?"

"Then I would certainly do so," said Bilbo; though he did not believe for a moment that any such thing would ever happen. "If there was any guarantee of her being civil."

They quieted themselves as a tween Hobbit on the road not far ahead stopped and stared at them; then the boy turned his attention towards their feet and gasped before spinning about and sprinting back in the direction from which he had come. Bilbo grinned, then looked down to see what had shocked him so; then he laughed out loud.

"You've forgotten your boots!"

Thorin glanced down at his feet. "I guess I've gotten used to not wearing them," he said with a smile. "But I don't suppose we'll be out for so long that it will bother me to go about barefoot for a while."

"Are you sure? We can go back and get them, you know. I wouldn't want you hurting yourself."

"I'll be fine, really. Anyway, I am sure I will not be mistaken for a Hobbit."

"That's unlikely, yes," said Bilbo with another laugh. "Though if you truly want for the rumors of you being a king to spread, then this might not be the way to go about it. What king would go out and about without his boots, after all? Or, perhaps, without a crown and robe, and a sword on his hip? I'm sure that is what most Hobbits think when they consider royalty. I certainly did, before I met so many."

"A very good point. While I'm hiding away in your home, people might think what they think; but when they see me like…" Thorin motioned towards his own simple tunic and trousers. "Well, like this. I am far too casual, perhaps. Too relaxed to be of noble blood."

"Well, then, maybe next time you should dress up more!" said Bilbo, only half-joking. "I know you have a fine cloak in one of your bags, and that might be a start, anyway." He slowed his pace somewhat. "There will be a next time that you will be going with me to the market, won't there?"

Thorin smiled down at him. "I will go with you next time, and the time after that, and the time after that," he said. "And every other time you wish for me to go with you." 

They beamed at one another for a moment, then Thorin turned forward, and Bilbo shifted the shopping-basket from his right arm to the left; but when the rough handle scraped over his stings, he gritted his teeth and grabbed it instead with his left hand. From the edge of his vision, he saw Thorin glance down—though neither of them said anything, and they instead returned their attention to the bustling market not so far ahead. 

A few steps further on, Thorin lifted and turned his head, casting his sight towards the east; then Bilbo looked up, as well, letting his eyes follow the silver ribbon of the Water as it wound its way through the hills and farmlands that lay between Hobbiton and the Brandywine River.

"I think, perhaps," said Thorin abruptly, "that I should go to Buckland to find out what the message was that the Ravens had for me."

"I thought you weren't worried about that."

"I am not worried about it, really. I know that my kin would not be calling for me to come to Erebor before I am ready, but it would still be best if I found out what the message was. At the least, I can send word back that all is well."

The corner of Bilbo's mouth curled up slightly. "I don't suppose you would care for company along the road to Buckland?"

"I would like nothing better," Thorin told him. "One more adventure to share?"

"It would not take long to ride there, of course," said Bilbo, growing somewhat excited at the thought of taking a trip with Thorin, however short. "A couple of days, at most. But we could go on foot instead, call it a walking holiday, stop at a few inns along the way?"

"If we were to do that, we might never make it to Buckland."

As they reached the end of the bridge over the Water, a couple of elderly Hobbits shuffled by, arm-in-arm. They lowered their heads in greeting at Thorin and Bilbo, who returned the gesture; and when the old folks had passed them fully by, Bilbo stepped over to the bridge wall and sat down.

"Would it be so bad, really, if we made a few detours on the way?" he asked as Thorin sat down beside him. "Would you not like to go up to Budgeford, meet Herugar and ask him how his pigs are doing? Or stop in to the Golden Perch for an ale? Or sleep under the trees on the Bridgefields?"

"I think that I would like that very much," said Thorin, turning his gaze towards Bilbo's pained arm. "But I would not want to leave for a few more days, at least, so to give your stings a chance to heal." His eyes flicked in the direction of a group of small Hobbit children who were giggling into their palms and pointing at his hairless feet. "And I would also very much like to be sure all is well with Menegilda and her baby."

Bilbo snapped his fingers and leaned closer to him. "Ah! I knew it! You are worried about her!"

"I am," Thorin admitted with a nod. "But I suppose I might begin to worry about our wellbeing, if we do not soon get the cake and scones delivered. It's best, I think, if we get the shopping done quickly and get back home. I may have only met Mirabella for a few minutes, but that was enough to learn that she is not someone to keep waiting."

"Especially for dessert," said Bilbo, standing and starting across the bridge once more. "You will be going with me to deliver them, won't you?"

"Of course I will," said Thorin, falling into step beside him. "It really has been a long time since I have seen a newborn, and I am really rather curious about how… well, how small one of your kind must be."

"Very small, from your point of view, I am sure. Maybe even small enough to be cradled comfortably in your palm!"

Soon, they were in the heart of the market, and all about them people were rushing around, trying to get their shopping done before sunset came on and the booths shut down. Amidst the bustle, several Hobbits stopped and stared at them curiously before whispering to one another and hurrying off in the direction of the inn. A moment later, a young lass backed up, accidentally bumping into Thorin. She turned and looked up at him, then her mouth fell open and she curtsied awkwardly at him. Thorin lowered his head in a nod and smiled at her; then her face reddened and she ran off, giggling.

Bilbo suppressed a grin. Despite his worries, he had to admit that it was nice that Thorin was finding more comfort being out amongst the residents of Hobbiton; and he felt now that it might not be such a bad thing, after all, if more people did know of Thorin's nobility.

As his thoughts were being drawn, however, he did not notice when two boys came running by in the midst of a game of tag. The first one bumped against Bilbo's left arm, and he gritted his teeth and jumped, then dropped the basket onto the ground. Before he could bend over to recover it, though, Thorin had already stooped and snatched it up; and Bilbo looked at him almost sheepishly as he stood.

"Would you allow me one request?" asked Thorin, handing it back to him.

Bilbo nodded. "Of course."

"The next time we have need of honey, allow me to gather it."

Chapter Text

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins pulled her dressing gown shut and tied the belt tight, grumbling under her breath as she shuffled down the hallway. Whoever was at the door was going to get an earful from her for coming so early—and uninvited, at that. It was improper and rude, and she wasn't going to have any of it. Who on Earth would do such a thing?

And she should not be the one having to answer the door at this time of morning, anyway! But Otho had spent too long a night out drinking to notice when the bell had been rung, and when she had given him a little nudge to wake him, he'd just tumbled out of bed and landed on the floor with a thud; then he'd rolled over next to the wall, curled himself up, and went on snoring. So Lobelia had no choice but to crawl out from under her warm quilt so to answer the bell, herself; and she was in such a tizzy over it that she hadn't even taken a moment to slip off her sleeping-bonnet.

She swung the door open and sneered forward, preparing to tell whoever was out there to be off; but she faltered back when she saw before her a broad chest clad in a dirty linen tunic. Shutting her mouth tight, she lifted her eyes, then she let out a little noise of shock when she saw a Dwarf's grim, whiskered face staring down at her.

"Thorin Oakenshield," he introduced himself almost formally; then he gave her a stiff bow, as if that would excuse him for disturbing her at such an hour. "Of Erebor, late of Ered Luin."

Gathering her wits, Lobelia squinted at the dark-haired stranger; then she tightened her jaw when she recognized him as being one of Bilbo's strange Dwarf companions. More than that, he was likely one of the closer ones, as she was positive she had seen the two of them out at the market together just yesterday.

"Are you lost?" she asked flatly.

The Dwarf grunted. "No, I am not lost," he told her. "I am a friend of—"

"Yes, I know," she interrupted him. "And, apparently, Bilbo has yet to teach you how people are expected to behave in these parts. Now tell me quickly what it is you want here, so that I might get back to my business in peace."

The muscles in his neck tensed. "May I come in? There is a matter that I would like to discuss with you."

Lobelia's eyes widened as she looked the Dwarf over again. The top few buttons of his filthy shirt were rather uncouthly undone, the cuffs were rolled up above his wrists, and the hem was half-untucked. In his hand he held a soggy satchel, and his trousers and boots were caked with mud and stuck here and there with dead leaves; and even his hair was a terrible mess, as in places she could see twigs and pine-needles peeking out past the silver-streaked black strands.

She thought for a moment of calling for the Bounders, so to escort him away; but what good would they be, when dealing with someone of his ilk? All they really seemed to be good for was dragging drunkards home from the inns and taking wandering sheep back to their paddocks—they'd surely be little help against an oversized, burly and indecent type such as the one on her doorstep.

No, she knew that if she wanted to be rid of him, she would have to take it upon herself; and so she crossed her arms and tilted her chin up resolutely.

"Listen here, Mister Oakenshield," she said. "You are quite mistaken if you think I am going to let you into my home at all, much less at this time of the morning, and wearing…" She glanced down at his feet. "Wearing muddy boots!"

She suppressed a shudder as she thought about the tracks he would leave on her fine rugs, then she turned her face up again and looked him in the eye. He rotated his neck and knitted his brows, and she thought that he seemed altogether pained and uncomfortable—though it was really rather hard to tell for certain, past all of the hair on his face. What were those beards all about, anyway? Did Dwarves enjoy looking like wild animals?

"If I were to remove my boots," he said, "would you then allow me inside?"

"Haven't you anyone else you could bother at this hour?" she asked, growing swiftly tired of this Thorin fellow's presence. "The Gamgees, perhaps? As I understand it, Bilbo is rather fond of them."

"I have not met them."

"The Brandybucks, then," she said, remembering that Moro Burrows had seen them going into Bag End just a few days ago—and that Menegilda had stayed there when Rorimac left a short while later. "If I am not very much mistaken, you do know them. Go to their home, if you need—"

"Their home is too far distant," Thorin cut her off. "And, also, they and their child are part of the reason why I am here."

Lobelia started. Despite her dislike of the whole of that family, she had no wish for any harm to come to their baby; and, after all, she had heard that Menegilda had just delivered him last evening, and there was so very much that could go wrong at such a young age.

"Has something happened to their little one?" she asked, placing a hand to her chest. "He is not sick, is he?"

"What?" Thorin said; then he shook his head. "No, he is fine, as far as I am aware."

"Well, then what do you want?" she asked, regaining her resolve; though it still took her a few seconds before she thought to lower her hand from her chest.

"Your help."

It unnerved Lobelia how pleading he had sounded in giving that simple answer. But still, she was not in any mood to be swayed by his tone—even if she was a little curious about what a Dwarf could possibly want from her.

"Help with what?"

He looked to the side. "I suppose I could discuss that with you, here and now," he said. "Though I wonder, Ma'am, what your neighbors might think, if they were to see me standing for so long on your doorstep."

Lobelia drew in a sharp breath through her nose; then she leaned forward and peered past the Dwarf. She saw no one out and about yet, but she knew it would not be long before people began making their way up and down the road. Such nosy neighbors she had! They would surely talk!

"Oh, very well!" she said, stepping back from the door. "You may come in. But remove your boots first, and you will only be going as far as the entry hall. I've no desire to have you trailing mud and… whatever else is all over you through my home."

Thorin nodded, then bent over—painfully, it seemed—and unbuckled his boots. He slipped them off and set them on the stoop, and Lobelia wrinkled her nose at his still-dirty, disconcertingly smooth feet as he stepped over the threshold. How anyone could go about in shoes she never understood, as they apparently took all the hair off and made the soles soft.

Once he was inside, Lobelia again peeked out to check if any of her neighbors had seen the Dwarf enter; and when she still saw nobody about, she slammed the door and spun around towards him.

"Now, what exactly is it that you wanted?" she asked gruffly.

Thorin looked down at his left hand and flexed his fingers a few times. "Bilbo told me that it is… traditional in the Shire to give gifts of food when a child is born."

"That is true," said Lobelia. And it was true, though she herself had never felt inclined to do such a thing. "But what has that to do with me?"

The Dwarf let out a long breath. "He wished to make something for Rorimac and Menegilda today," he said. "But I used up the last of the honey last night, and so I thought to leave early this morning and return with more before he awoke."

"So, then… what you mean to tell me, in your long-winded and roundabout way, is that you are here because you have need of honey?"

Thorin lowered his head in what might have been a nod, but he said nothing.

"Well, I'm afraid I don't have any to spare," said Lobelia, very nearly seething by now. "And if you came by just so you could beg some off of me—"

"I would beg nothing of you," said Thorin, drawing himself up taller. He lifted his wet pack and opened it to show her the rather large ceramic jar he had stored inside. "I have plenty enough honey now—or I will, once I've extracted it. The matter I have come to you for is a different one, though not altogether unrelated."

He closed his bag, then pulled up his left sleeve. There were several large, puffy red marks on his skin, evident even under the grime, and Lobelia threw her hand over her mouth when she saw them. Then she composed herself and lowered her hand, though her eyes were still wide as they met Thorin's own.

"You were stung?" she asked, as if the answer was not already as clear as the welts on his arm. "Well, why on Earth would you come to me for help? Why not go back to Bilbo and let him do for you what you need?"

Thorin lowered his sleeve, then appeared to hesitate a bit before speaking up. "He told me once that you had shown him a kindness in treating his own stings," he said at last; though it seemed to Lobelia that it was not really an answer. "He said that you were quite skilled at it."

"Hmm… you may call it a kindness, if you wish," she said—pleased, at least, to hear that Bilbo remembered how she had helped him; though that day several years ago had ended up being an unpleasant one. "But I would quicker call it earning a repayment, which he never bothered to make good on."

The Dwarf's eyes darted back and forth for a moment, then he reached into his trouser pocket. "Allow me, then, to make that repayment on his behalf," he said, drawing out a large, oddly-shaped gold coin. "And, also, an advance on any aid you might give me now."

He held the money out to Lobelia; and after a few seconds of trying to process what she was seeing, she extended her hand. Thorin pressed the coin into her palm, and her mouth fell open in surprise at how heavy it was; then she lifted it up to the early-morning sunlight that was streaming in through the window.

"What is this to me?" she asked, unable to take her eyes off the gleam. "This is not Shire money."

"Nor is it anything that you would find in either Breeland or the Blue Mountains."

"Well, where is it from, then?" She narrowed her eyes, trying to study the strange writing on the center of the coin, though her efforts were thwarted by the brilliance of the gold, itself. "And what is its worth?"

"Its intrinsic value alone is greater than you can imagine," the Dwarf told her, "and its provenance is greater still. It is fine and pure Ereborian gold, minted centuries ago, and only recently recovered from the bed of one of the most powerful dragons of our age. Its like is now only to be found in the royal treasuries deep within the Lonely Mountain."

Lobelia realized at once that she was holding her breath, and she let it out so quickly that she nearly blew the coin out of her hand. "Royal treasuries?" she asked. "And how would you get such a thing? Scavenged, I suppose?"

"I need not scavenge for my own," said Thorin proudly.

His own? Lobelia thought, wrapping her hand tightly around the coin.

Oh, she had heard rumors, of course, that those Dwarves that spent time at Bag End were not the mining or thieving or begging types; and Bell Woodvine had even whispered to her once that they were nobility. But she had never believed those stories in the least. Really, what nonsense! 

"How ridiculous!" she said, accidentally out loud.

Still, she swallowed almost nervously and again opened her palm to look at the coin. Whether or not he was telling the truth about where it had come from, it did appear to be made of fine gold; and as he had thought to give her such a thing in payment for so small a task, she was not going to say 'no' simply because he might get a little mud on her floor.

"This way with you, then," she said, sliding the coin into the pocket of her dressing gown. She turned on her heel and led the way down the hall and to her kitchen; and once there, she motioned for him to sit down at the table. "Don't touch anything."

Thorin did as she told him, and Lobelia winced when her chair legs creaked under his weight; then she bit down softly on her tongue and made her way to the counter. There, she wet a rag in the water-bucket next to the basin; and after grabbing a knife from her cutlery drawer and a potato from the bin, she stepped back to the table and sat down beside the Dwarf.

"It would have been best to keep the mud off of the stings," she said, pulling up his sleeve and wiping the rag over his grimy arm. She paused for a moment when she saw a number of scars marring his skin, then she huffed disapprovingly and went on cleaning. "But at least you knew enough to remove the stingers."

"They removed themselves," said Thorin. "I was stung through my tunic, and when I moved, the fabric pulled them out of my skin." He growled low, then set his dirty pack down on the table. "If you would allow me to take off my shirt…"

She jerked back as if he had physically struck her. "I beg your pardon!"

"I mean you no disrespect," he said. "But there are stings on my back, as well, and that is the main reason I came here rather than tending to them myself." He raised an eyebrow at her. "But if you would rather I leave, then you may certainly give me back my gold, and I will be on my way."

Lobelia dropped her hand to her pocket. That would be just like a Dwarf to take back what he had given. Not that she had ever actually met any other Dwarves, but she'd heard tales of their greed. And, well, now that she had seen and held the gold, she did not want to give it up. So, then, she knew she would have to earn it—though she was sure she already had earned it, as this Thorin person had said, in treating Bilbo's stings so long ago.

"Fine, then," she told him, throwing the now-dirty rag onto the table. "You may remove your shirt, but do not place it anywhere but on your own lap."

She picked up the knife and began cutting the potato into slices, all the while listening to the creaking of her fine chair as Thorin grunted and shifted out of his tunic. Then he let out a long, ragged breath; and when she turned to him once more, her jaw went slack.

Heavens! How awful Dwarves looked out of their clothing! There were some kind of markings—almost like a child's scribbles—across his too-hairy chest, and they continued up and over his left shoulder and down his arm. Had he really allowed someone to draw on his skin? How odd! What a strange people these Dwarves were.

Lobelia clicked her tongue, then set the knife down and stood, grabbing the rag off the table as she made her way around behind Thorin. His back was no cleaner than his chest or arm, though the welts were easy enough to make out under the dirt; and when she reached up and moved his hair to the side, yet more stings came into sight on his neck. Altogether, there must have been twenty-five of the small wounds on his back, neck, and arm—and the thought of how much it must have hurt actually gave her pause.

"Not that I care, really," she said, trying to sound casual, "but how did you get stung so badly? Do you know nothing about how to soothe bees? Did you not bring a smoker?"

"I've never needed one before," said Thorin. "But then, I have never seen bees quite so aggressive as you have here."

"They aren't usually," said Lobelia. "But perhaps Shire bees just don't like your kind."

She looked to the rag in her grip. It was obvious that it was already too dirty to remove all of the grime from his shoulders and back, and although she didn't care at all for the Dwarf, if she was going to do this, she was going to do it properly. So she swiftly made her way to the water-bucket and wet another rag, then returned to Thorin and began wiping the mud off of his shoulders, grimacing when the nasty water flowed down his back and onto her chair. 

As the Dwarf's skin came clearer, though, not only did she see more bee-stings on his shoulder, but also more ink-marks—and she was staggered to find that the ink was not actually on his skin, but rather under it.

Disgusting, she thought, pulling the rag quickly away.

Who would have something like that done to them? And how was it done? She examined the marks closer, trying to figure out just what a person would need to do to get ink beneath the skin in such a way; then she shook her head and gave up the thought, deciding that the Dwarf's strange predilections were none of her concern.

She went on cleaning away the mud then; but all across his back, she soon began to see scars. A great many scars. Some deep and broad, some shallow and short, some long and jagged; some white with age, others red with youth; some that bore the marks from being stitched closed, and others that had obviously been left to heal on their own.

The rag fell from Lobelia's hand and landed on her foot. She jumped and kicked it away, then she stepped to the side and looked again to the Dwarf's marred skin. What kind of rough life must he have lived? How could a person get involved in any wretched business that would lead to so many wounds?

Lobelia became suddenly aware that she had her now-dirty hand pressed to her lips, and she wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her dressing gown as she moved around to the table. She wanted even more now to get this Dwarf out of her house; and so when she saw that there were not nearly enough potato slices to cover all the stings, she hastily cut the ones she already had in half.

She stepped around to Thorin's back, and one-by-one, she placed the slices on the stings there; then she moved to his side and did the same to his arm. The Dwarf let out what she thought was a sound of confusion, and she looked up to see that his brows were drawn deeply together.

"It is meant to draw out the poison," she said, guessing his unasked question.

She finished applying the slices, then spun away from him and made her way to the counter. There, she brought out her mortar and pestle, then she tore some leaves off of the potted basil and parsley she kept on the window sill. It would be better, she knew, if she added some mallow—but that was out in the garden, and she was not inclined to leave the Dwarf alone in her kitchen while she fetched it.

"Why would you not just go and get some honey from the market?" she asked, throwing the leaves into the mortar and beginning to mash them together with the pestle. "Surely, Bilbo did not plan on starting his baking so early."

"I might have done so," he said. "But he doesn't…"

Thorin stopped, and from the corner of her eye, Lobelia saw him tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the tabletop. She stepped up to him, then she set the mortar on the table and crossed her arms. Even sitting down, he was tall enough for her to look him straight in the eye while she was standing; and though it was rather disconcerting, she was not going to shy away from his gaze.

"I suppose Bilbo still won't use any but wild honey," she said, wrinkling her nose. "He's always been so picky about such things. Of course, what I've heard is that it isn't really wild, anyway. I heard his father hollowed out trees for the hives, somewhere in the Overhill Woods." She tilted her head. "Is that true?"

The Dwarf's mouth twisted into what might have been a smirk. "His father did no such thing."

Lobelia hummed softly, not believing him at all. "Well, with all the mud and leaves and such on you, my guess is that the hives are at least somewhere in the woods near to the Bog. Or did you fall into a woodland-stream while you were running away?"

His slight smile fell, but he made no other movements; and Lobelia grinned, feeling as if she had scored a point on the Dwarf.

"Let me see the honey," she said, holding her hand out.

Thorin's eyes widened a bit, then flitted in the direction of his satchel. He reached into it and drew out the crock, and Lobelia snatched it from him; then she pried the cork off the top and dipped her finger into the honey as she broke up the comb. Holding her finger up to the light, she could see then that the honey was a hearty, dark amber; and the way it caught the sunlight gave it the aspect of a liquid jewel.

She was unable to stop herself from tasting it, and a soft smile rose to her lips at the rich sweetness; then she cleared her throat and straightened her expression. "It is fine," she said, pouring a bit of the thick liquid and wax into the mortar. "But hardly worth getting stung for."

"It is worth it if…" Thorin began, but his voice trailed off.

Lobelia gave him a sidelong glance as she put the cork back on the jar; then she began to combine the honey and wax in with the herbs. The scent that rose up was quite lovely, and she again let herself smile—but only for a moment.

"Why would you even bother worrying about pleasing him?" she asked, knowing full well that he had intended on saying 'it is worth it if it makes Bilbo happy'. "And what business have you with him, anyway? He is hardly—"

"Bilbo is a friend to me in ways you would likely not understand," said Thorin, cutting her off. "But that you would speak so poorly of him tells me, at least, that you do not know him very well, though you are kin."

"Kin by marriage, only," said Lobelia, setting the pestle down on the table. She gripped the mortar tightly and walked around the Dwarf, and after giving his scars and skin-markings one more glance, she removed a potato slice from one of the stings. "And what are you even doing in the Shire, anyway?" she asked as she daubed a bit of the honey-herb mixture on the exposed welt. "This is nowhere you belong, except perhaps near the quarries in the Northfarthing. I hear tell some of your folk settled up that way."

"I was passing through on business all my own," said Thorin, his voice low, "and Bilbo was kind enough to allow me to stay with him while I was about it."

"He was kind enough?" she asked; then she let out out a brief, humorless laugh. "Well, and what about the others that came with you? I am positive I saw two other Dwarves slipping in and out of Bag End for a couple weeks last month. Was he not kind enough to allow them to stay, as well?"

"They went on to Ered Luin, so to visit family there," said Thorin. "But they will be coming through the Shire again soon, and I will be joining them on their return to Erebor."

"Well, that will certainly calm things down a bit around here."

"I was not aware that my presence was disruptive," said Thorin. "Though I have heard that rumors about me and my kin have been spread. Have you heard any of them, by chance?"

The question took her rather by surprise; and though he could not see her, still she shrugged absently. "None that I would be inclined to believe."

"Because they do not speak ill of us?" he asked with a small chuckle. "Because they say that we are closer to nobility than to beggars or scoundrels?"

Lobelia pressed her lips tightly together and dipped her finger again into the green mash in the mortar. "But why on Earth would you choose to spend time with Bilbo, rather than with your own people?" she asked, shifting the subject back as she tended to another sting. "Why do you even like him so much? What has he ever done for you, after all?"

"Why do you hate him so much?" returned Thorin. "What has he ever done to you?"

Lobelia's fingers froze on his skin.

Really, why bother asking such a thing? And how did he expect her to answer, anyway? She thought for a moment of telling him how she simply did not like Bilbo's attitude, or how he was always so cold when they spoke, or the way he always kept the residents of the Westfarthing buzzing about his luck and riches; but to say any of those things might make her sound bitter, which she certainly was not.

But still she thought and thought, feeling obligated to give some answer, if for no other reason than to silence the Dwarf's ramblings; and finally she blurted out the clearest thing that came to mind.

"He took my spoons," she said; then she cringed.

Thorin glanced over his shoulder at her. "Your spoons?" he asked; then he turned forward again. "The spoons that you bought when you thought he was dead? The spoons that he later paid you back double for, though they were his by rights? Those spoons?"

"Well… yes," she said, seething a bit that Bilbo had told him so much—though it was, all of it, true. "He was gone for a year, dragged off by your… your kind." She continued to remove the potato slices and applied more of the ointment to his stings, though she was doing so a bit rougher now. "He never told anyone where he was going, never told anyone when he'd come back. All of the Shire thought he was dead. I bought those spoons fair and legal."

"Legal, perhaps," said Thorin. "Though that you did not return them when you learned that he was still alive does not make the purchase fair."

"Well, still alive is a matter of contention," said Lobelia, recalling something that the miller's son had said to her. "Rumor has it that the Hobbit up in Bag End is an imposter, and that the real Bilbo Baggins went and got himself killed in some far away place."

But though she said it, she was not prepared to tell the Dwarf that she had ever entirely believed it. There was, after all, no way any other Hobbit could have so much the same attitude as the Bilbo she had always known. True, he was a bit bolder these days, but what else would come from such a close association with Dwarves, after all?

Under her touch, Thorin's shoulders tensed; and when she looked over, she saw his hand curled into a tight fist on the tabletop.

"If you had even the slightest idea of all he has been through…" he said, "if you knew of all he has done for… for others, then you would not be so quick to either vilify him or label him an impostor."

"And I suppose you know him better?" asked Lobelia. "Though I have known him for over half of my life, and you have known him for only a few years, at most?" She drew three more potato slices off of Thorin's back and threw them onto the table. "And what, exactly, has he done for anyone. As I recall, he has ridden on his family's name and money since he was a child, and has never lifted a finger for anyone but himself."

"He has done much for many," said Thorin, balling his fist so tightly that his knuckles whitened. "He befriended the lords and kings of Elves, Men, and Dwarves, and he tried to avert a war between them. Before that, even, he aided in the slaying of a dragon and helped to recover treasure. That gold in your pocket would never have been brought to light, if not for him." Thorin shook his head, then eased his fist as he looked down. "He saved many lives, at the risk of his own."

A silence fell between them as Lobelia continued to work on his shoulders and back; and all the while, she thought over his words. He was likely lying. He must be lying. Bilbo did not have it in him to do any of those things, even if he did have that maddeningly adventurous Took blood in him from his mother's side. 

She stepped around and sat down in front of Thorin, then quietly set about removing the potato slices from the welts on his arm. Looking up, she saw on his face a distant expression; but when he noticed her gaze, he turned away.

"You question what kind of person Bilbo is," he said. "You hate him for reasons that you yourself cannot articulate, you turn him aside after believing him dead because of spoons. You do not know him. He is a truer friend than you could imagine, and if I were the Dwarf I once was, I would say more than you deserve."

"And how would you know what I deserve?" she snapped. "How do you know that I would not be friendly to him, if he were willing, at least, to do the same for me? But there will be none of that, Mister Oakenshield. He has no love for me, after all, nor I for him."

"He had no love for me, either," said Thorin quickly, "when first he saved my life." He seemed then to suddenly realize what he had said, and he clamped his mouth shut tight.

Lobelia furrowed her brow; and despite her rising ire, curiosity compelled her to speak up. "What happened, that you needed a Hobbit to save you?"

The Dwarf breathed out hard. "He risked his life for the sake of mine," he said, apparently trying to avoid answering the question. "I was no friend to him then, and seldom at that time had I spoken any kind words to him at all. Yet he was still there for me when I needed him to be. That is the kind of person he is, Ms. Lobelia, and I am sorry for you that you have held him so distant that you have never learned better than you already believe."

"That I have held him distant?" asked Lobelia. "Is that what he told you? Well, did he ever even bother to also tell you that it was he that first broke away from our friendship? That he came to me for help in treating his stings, and that after he left that day he never again looked at me with a bit of kindness, nor kept any trace of bitterness out of his voice when we spoke?"

The Dwarf tilted his head down. "Was that the day that you offered to buy his home from him, by chance?"

"No, it was not," she said; angry, though unsurprised that Bilbo had been telling him so very much about what had happened between them. "That was weeks before he came to me for help, and I hadn't mentioned it since. I thought, in fact, that he had forgotten about it by then." 

Thorin stared hard at her, his lips parting slightly in what may have been puzzlement; but he did not speak up, and she set the mortar down on the table.

"I'm done with you," she said. "Do not wash the ointment off for an hour, at least."

The Dwarf nodded and stood, then carefully slipped his dirty tunic back on. "Thank you," he said, lowering his head in what might have been a small bow. "If you will allow, I will show myself out." He picked his satchel up off the table and turned his back to her, then began making his way towards the kitchen door. "If you would prefer, I will not tell Bilbo that you gave me your aid. Or that we spoke at all."

"That might be for the best," said Lobelia.

She watched him as he stepped towards the hallway, then she looked to the honey jar on the table. She grabbed it and began to stand, intent on returning it to the Dwarf; but she found the stickiness on her own fingers disconcerting, and she loosened her hold a bit. But the jar was already too large for her small hand, and it fell from her grip and shattered on the tile floor.

Her mouth gaped in disbelief, and she looked up to see that Thorin had stopped in the doorway. He was staring down at the mess by her feet, and his eyes were narrowed and his shoulders were slumped. She was certain that he thought she had broken the jar on purpose—but he did not look angry, as she was sure she would have been in his place; rather, he looked almost sad.

"I'm… I…" she stammered, wringing her hands in embarrassment. "I didn't intend…"

He let out a long breath as he walked back to the table. "I will buy some honey at the Bywater market when it opens."

"It won't be the same."

"Be that as it may, it will have to do."

Thorin kneeled and began to gather the shards in his palm, and Lobelia lowered herself to her own knees and grabbed the already-dirty rag off the floor. She then began to wipe up the honey that was spreading across the tiles, but she stopped when she saw that the Dwarf had not yet finished picking up all of the broken ceramic.

"All those stings for nothing, then?" she tried to joke, though she was sure it had come out flat.

"It seems that a lot of wounds are for nothing," said Thorin, his voice so low that she could barely hear him.

He slid the last few sticky shards of pottery into his satchel, then turned away and closed his eyes. A heavy silence followed, and in it Lobelia began to feel anxious about what the Dwarf must now be thinking about her. She shifted uncomfortably on her knees, then looked down, swallowing hard when she saw that his hands were shaking slightly.

"Are you alright?" she asked, despite herself.

He jumped, as if she had roused him from sleep, then he shook his head. "You asked why I came to Hobbiton instead of staying with my own folk," he said after a moment. "The truth of the matter is that I have suffered a loss, and Bilbo has been the greatest help to me in getting through it." He looked to her once more. "Do you have any children, Ms. Lobelia?"

The question was odd and intrusive, but still she answered. "Not yet," she said; then her heart sank and she pressed the tips of her sticky and aromatic fingers to her lips. "You lost a child?"

"Two," he told her softly. "And they were not mine by birth, but raised as my own. Loved as my own. They meant more to me than any treasure, any kingdom…" His eyes welled up, and he gave her a weak smile. "Tell me, is it a blessing or a shame that I am now able to say those words to someone nearly a stranger, when the people I should have said them to can no longer hear me?"

A small choking noise made its way out of Lobelia's throat; but still she said nothing, and Thorin rose to his feet and reached down to her. His hand was grimy and sticky and appeared terribly rough, but she hesitated for only a moment before accepting his help up. He then let her go and slipped the satchel strap over his shoulder as he turned away, leaving Lobelia standing, slack-jawed and silent by the kitchen table.

"Wait!" she called out, suddenly and to her own surprise. "Wait! I just… I remembered…"

Thorin stopped in the kitchen doorway and looked back at her, and she held her hand up to him; then she gathered the bottom of her dressing gown in her grip and hurried off into the pantry. There, she rooted around a bit before drawing out a half-full honey crock, then she rushed back to where the Dwarf was waiting. She held the jar out to him, and he eyed it thoughtfully.

"I thought that you had none," he said, taking it gently from her.

"I said that I had none to spare."

"And you can spare it now?"

"Call it recompense, if you will," said Lobelia. "I would be scandalized if I did not offer to replace that which I have broken. And that aside, the gold you gave me was worth more than treatment for just a few stings, and… and never let it be said that I failed to earn my keep!"

She took a deep breath and folded her arms over her chest; then a kind smile crossed the Dwarf's bearded face. He bowed again, lower this time, though his eyes never left her own.

"And I thank you for it, Mrs. Sackville-Baggins."

He turned then and headed out of the kitchen and down the hall, and Lobelia followed behind until he was at the door. Once there, she quickly sprinted ahead of him and turned the knob, swinging the door open and letting the now-bright morning sunshine flow inside.

"Do you think…" she began as he slid the honey-crock into his satchel; then she clamped her mouth shut.

"Yes?" pressed Thorin, stepping outside and stooping to put on his boots.

She shook her head, then the shake shifted into a nod. This was a bad idea, she knew; but still she went on. "Do you think you and Bilbo might just… that is, would you consider coming to tea this afternoon?"

Oh, that was so foolish!

Thorin grinned faintly at her. "I will ask him," he said as he finished donning his boots.

"Well, if he decides… that is, if he doesn't mind, then tea is at four," she said. "But you must clean yourself first, and clean yourself well."

"I will," said Thorin with a nod; then his eyes searched hers for a moment. "About those rumors that you may have heard about me—"

"Oh, yes! How absurd!" she said without thinking; then her cheeks began to warm.

The corner of the Dwarf's mouth turned up into a small smile. "Yes," he said, rubbing his bearded chin. "Quite absurd."

He turned then, without another word, and set off down her foot-path; and after watching him for a few seconds, Lobelia shut the door and threw her hands up into the air. What an odd visit that had been! Really, what the Dwarf had said was ridiculous. Bilbo Baggins would never save lives or confront dragons or recover treasure or befriend lords and kings.

Her eyes widened and she slid her sticky hand into her pocket, drawing out the coin and holding it again to the light. She let out a little squeak as the gold fell from her hold and onto the floor; then she spun around to the window and looked out. Thorin was no longer in sight, though, and Lobelia turned back around and picked up the coin.

The rumors! That was all they were, right? All those stories of him and those other Dwarves that came and went from Bag End being noble were just tales! Of course, she supposed Thorin's manners hadn't been too poor, as far as his kind went; but there was still no chance that scruffy, scarred, ill-tempered Dwarf could be royal. Was there?

But then, if he was…

Another noise escaped her lips and she looked down at herself, then slid her now-dirty hand over her dressing gown, blushing to think of how rumpled it was. And she was still wearing her sleeping-bonnet! And her hands were filthy, and her face was sticky from where she had touched it, and the kitchen was now an awful sight!

She had to get dressed, she had to tidy the place up, she had to get to baking some biscuits and pastries for tea! While she was about it, maybe she would make something small for Rorimac and Menegilda, as well. A gift in celebration of their baby. But she would need to go to the market, in that case. She didn't have enough flour, and now she needed honey!

What a fine mess this was! She had so much to get done before the afternoon! So much!

"Otho!" she called out, sliding the coin back into her pocket as she ran towards her bedroom. "Otho, get your lazy self up! We're having guests over for tea!"

Chapter Text

A delightful smell greeted Thorin as he neared the door to Bag End; and so he quickly removed his muddy boots and rushed inside, eager to see what Bilbo had made for breakfast. He was not disappointed, as the kitchen table was laden with baked apples, golden toast, scrambled eggs, and fried potatoes—and it was clear that the Hobbit had been cooking since not long after sunrise, despite how tired he must have been from the long night that the two of them had just shared.

Of course, they hadn't intended on the evening being so long. They had decided before heading over to Rory and Menegilda's place that they would stay for only a few minutes, so to drop off dessert—and, of course, to check on how mother and baby were doing. But though Rorimac had seemed somewhat tired and a little worse for wear, Menegilda and the child were actually doing quite well, and the Brandybucks hadn't hesitated at all in inviting the pair to extend their stay.

So their few minute visit stretched into an hour, then two; and all the while, Thorin had been entranced by the little one. He had seen and held many newborns in the past, but this small Hobbit was so different from the Dwarf babies he had known—bare-faced and fuzzy-footed as the infant was, and with his tiny head crowned by a mess of curly blond hair. Thorin had stared at him with undisguised wonder for a long time, as the child yawned and hiccuped and seemed interested only in his little fingers as he sucked on them for comfort. After a while, and almost without his even realizing it, Thorin had even begun to coo and babble, while all around him the others watched on in amusement; but he was not embarrassed at all, surrounded by friends as he was.

Bilbo had also seemed fascinated by this new addition to his extended family. But while Thorin had been happy to hold the child, the Hobbit had nervously declined to do so—perhaps for fear of either dropping or breaking him. Still, as Thorin had been cradling the baby, Bilbo did take the chance to pat down the downy-soft fluff on the boy's feet and count his toes, announcing with relief afterwards that there were just the right number. Bilbo also noted at a point that the baby seemed to have his father's eyes and ears, which made Rory perk right up and swell with pride.

Eventually, however, Thorin and Bilbo really had no choice but to excuse themselves. Menegilda and the baby needed a rest, after all—and there was also the matter of a chicken waiting to be cooked at Bag End. Still, they had taken their time returning home, as well as with the meal preparation, and the eating and the cleaning up afterwards; and all the while, they had gone on happily speaking about children. Most often, the subject centered around the differences between Hobbit and Dwarf babies; and while Bilbo could not speak from much experience, he listened with great interest as Thorin told about Fíli and Kíli's upbringing.

Bilbo had at last dropped off to sleep on the sofa just before dawn, but even by his side, Thorin could not manage any rest at all. So he'd quietly slipped away, setting out to gather the honey that they would later need for baking. He had hoped that he might get back before the Hobbit awoke, to surprise him with a fresh comb; he hadn't, however, expected that he would anger the bees. Nor had he planned in any way to stop by the Sackville-Bagginses' house—though when he'd not only been provided with the opportunity but with a genuine reason to do so, his tired mind had convinced him it might just be a good time to introduce himself. 

His visit had gone perhaps even a bit better than Thorin had expected, and all the way back to Bag End he had hoped that Bilbo would not be too upset with him for it. Now, though, all of the Dwarf's thoughts were on the wonderful breakfast spread across the long table. He stepped into the kitchen and cleared his throat, and Bilbo lifted his head from where he was standing at the wood-stove.

"There you are!" the Hobbit exclaimed, glancing over his shoulder before returning his attention to the bacon cooking in the pan before him. "Goodness, I was afraid you'd gotten lost!"

Thorin grinned as he sat down in his usual chair. "Do you always expect that of me?" he asked. "I have only lost my way in the Shire once, if you recall."

"Twice," Bilbo corrected him with a chuckle. "But really, what I was saying is that Dwarves are not exactly made for traipsing about in the woods."

"You knew I'd be leaving for honey this morning, then?" asked Thorin, setting the dirty satchel down on the floor. "Am I so predictable?"

"Well, no!" said Bilbo. "But you did make a lot of fuss and apology after using the last of the honey on the chicken last night, so I thought you might want to replace it. And to be honest, I tried to stay up so I could join you. How you can get by on so little sleep is quite beyond me." He turned with the frying-pan in his grip and walked over to the table; and after setting the still-sizzling skillet down beside the eggs, he at last looked up at Thorin and his eyes widened. "What happened?"

"Just what you said might happen," Thorin replied with a shrug, grimacing when one of the ointment-covered stings on his shoulder stuck to his still-filthy tunic. "The rope broke under my weight."

Bilbo ran his hand down the Dwarf's dirty sleeve. "Were you hurt?"

"Stung a bit, but not too badly. And I'm afraid the honey-crock was broken."

At this, Bilbo let out a small laugh. "So long as you were not broken," he said. "We have spare jars in the pantry, and another rope hereabouts. We'll go back out together later and get some more honey—and perhaps it might be better if you let me do the climbing this time! But for now, let's get those stings tended to."

He turned towards the basin, but Thorin took him gently by the wrist.

"We needn't worry about either the stings or the honey, I think," he said, letting Bilbo go. He then picked up the dirty satchel and set it on his lap, hesitating for a moment before drawing out the half-filled jar that Lobelia had given him. "This should be enough for today's needs, at least."

Bilbo took the crock from him, smiling crookedly. "Well, I suppose bought honey is better than none at all! I didn't think the stalls were open at the market at this hour, though. Or did you go knocking on the beekeeper's door?"

"I didn't buy it. It was given to me."

"Oh? By who?"

"The same person who treated my stings," said Thorin, lifting his sleeve and touching a fingertip softly to one of the ointment-sticky welts. "And a fine job she did, as well."

Bilbo's expression fell. "Thorin, did you…?" He stopped, taking a deep breath; then he pursed his lips and shook his head. "You did."

Thorin gave him a small nod. "Ms. Lobelia has invited us to tea this afternoon."

Bilbo paled, his jaw going slack; then he slowly set the jar down on the table and pushed it away before lowering himself into his chair. "We should eat," he told Thorin flatly, "before breakfast gets cold."

He served up the food without another word; and though it was as delicious as Thorin had imagined, he found that he could not enjoy it for the uncomfortable silence between them. Somehow, over the course of breakfast, the kitchen grew quieter and quieter, until even the birds outside the open window seemed to have given up on singing. At last, the meal reached its end—without a single comment or glance having passed between the pair—and when the Dwarf stood and began to gather the dishes, Bilbo quickly rose to his own feet and took the plates from his grip.

"I can manage the kitchen just fine on my own," he said bluntly, turning his back to Thorin and stalking over to the basin. "You've enough work to do just cleaning yourself up this morning."

Thorin looked down at his sticky arms and muddy shirt. "You may be right," he said. "And perhaps when we are both done, we might speak about—"

"Yes," interrupted Bilbo. "Later, perhaps."

Stiffening his shoulders, the Dwarf lifted the honey-satchel and spun about, taking a moment as he left the kitchen to hang the bag on the peg above the onion-bin. Ordinarily, he would not have been one to step away from such a challenging tone; but he knew Bilbo, and so he knew that it had not actually been meant as a challenge. What the Hobbit needed now was time alone to think. And their talk could wait—tea-time was, after all, still hours away, and Bilbo had not been wrong about Thorin needing to get cleaned up.

On he went then to his room and lowered himself to his knees, pulling his clothing-bag out from under the bed. Unfortunately, there were no fine outfits to choose from, as he had not actually brought much with him from Erebor, having left the site of the mine-collapse in a secret rush. And though the Dwarves that joined him had brought a few of his belongings with them, most of what was in his bags had been bought along the road. Still, despite their relative newness, many of his things were too road-worn and far too rough, he was sure, for Lobelia's liking; but he picked out a pair of more-or-less decent trousers and a clean linen tunic, both of which he was certain were suitable enough to be considered proper at tea in the Shire.

Bringing the clothes to the washroom, he drew for himself a cool bath. Stripping out of his sticky tunic was painful, but the water was soothing to his irritated skin and sore muscles; and after gently cleaning the ointment off of his stings and washing his hair, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax. He spent a long while soaking away the morning's aches and stresses, until at last he began to doze. Sinking to his chin in the water, he very nearly fell asleep in the tub; but he was startled when he heard a loud bang from somewhere nearby.

He jerked and splashed, shocked back to wakefulness; and he quickly rose out of the tub, then pulled on his trousers and rushed, still dripping, to the kitchen. It was completely clean and Bilbo was gone, and Thorin noticed also that the shopping basket was missing from its usual place on the potato bin. The bang, then, had been the slamming of the door to Bag End as the Hobbit had been leaving to go to the market—and the fact that he had left without a word to Thorin was worrisome, as it meant that Bilbo was still not ready to speak about the situation.

Thorin returned then to the washroom, where he finished drying off and dressing before tidying up the mess he had left. Bringing his dirty clothing back to his room, he shoved them with perhaps more force than necessary into the laundry bag in the corner; then he sighed and sat on the edge of the large bed. He had nearly forgotten how soft it was, after so many nights of sleeping sitting-up on the sofa beside Bilbo; and he felt suddenly tired once more. Lying down, he rested his cheek on the feather pillow and closed his eyes, falling into an almost instant sleep—though neither the abruptness of his nap nor the fact that it was daytime kept him from having a dark and unpleasant dream, such as he hadn't had in weeks.

In it, he found himself standing in the empty kitchen of Bag End, with bright sunlight streaming in through the open window. It was a warm and comforting light; but as he watched, dust began rising from the floor, obscuring the sunshine and replacing it with a dull and dingy gray. The room then went dark, and he heard creaking and crumbling. He could feel the ceiling and walls coming down around him, the floor vanished from beneath his bare feet, and he began falling into a deep and echoing chasm. But before he could either reach the bottom or call out, he was roused by a pleasant smell.

Sitting up in bed, he looked around to make sure the walls and floor were really intact; then he rose to his feet and made his way to the kitchen. There, he found Bilbo cleaning up at the basin again. On the table, beside the rejected honey-crock, was sitting an opened jar of preserved rhubarb and a half-empty basket of blueberries; and the sideboard had been dusted with flour and held the trimmings from a rounded crust. The scent that had woken Thorin was a pie, then—blueberry-rhubarb, as Primula had last evening mentioned was her childhood favorite—and that it was already baking told Thorin that he must have been sleeping for quite a long while.

The Hobbit seemed to sense that he was not alone, and he looked over his shoulder at Thorin and nodded before getting on with washing the cooking-utensils and bowls in the basin. The greeting was stiff, but at least a bit encouraging, so Thorin took a step into the kitchen.

"Do you need any help?" he asked, his voice still thick with fatigue.

"No, thank you," replied Bilbo in an almost too-polite sing-song tone.

"Well, if you do need me—"

"I'll know where to find you."

Letting out a little hum of acknowledgement, Thorin stepped down the hall and to the drawing-room. Although his intention had been to have a smoke while he gathered his thoughts, he did not reach for his pipe on the mantle, and instead he sat down hard in his chair by the cold fireplace and began to rub his now-throbbing temple. This whole situation was ridiculous, really; and though with almost anyone else, Thorin would have found himself within his rights to press the issue, for some reason he could not bring himself to do so with Bilbo.

He grunted and sat back, sliding his fingers through the barely-dry hair at the sides of his head. It was lengthening quickly—a ragged and unkempt mess, he was sure—and it was likely long enough now for him to braid back away from his face. But though he had some small pieces of jewelry in his bags, there was no hair-clasp among them. He thought for a moment, considering his options, then he reached into the basket that sat on the table beside his chair, bringing out several lengths of yarn that Menegilda had left from her crocheting.

The Dwarf stood and once more went to the washroom, where he looked at himself long and hard in the mirror. Forcing his gaze away from his own weary eyes, he again ran his fingers through his hair, working out as many tangles as he could. He then began fumbling with the uneven locks near his ears, dividing the hair up into several sections and at last managing to plait both sides before securing the braids well with the yarn. It looked rather chunky, and perhaps a bit haphazard; but at the very least it was clean and away from his face.

Focussing on his right ear where it was now exposed, it seemed to him somewhat plain and bare. That, he knew, he could rectify; and he shuffled to his room, and there dug through the smallest of his bags until he found a fine silver cuff amongst the bric-a-brac at the bottom. He slid it onto his ear, then he ran his fingertips over the metal. This, he supposed, would satisfy Lobelia's desire for him to clean himself well before coming over to tea—though he was not at all certain now if he and Bilbo would be going over there.

He heard the creaking of the oven door, and he swiftly returned to the kitchen. Bilbo was just then carrying the hot pie to the table; but when he saw Thorin in the doorway he stopped and his mouth fell open. From the way his eyes shifted up and around Thorin's face, the Dwarf felt that maybe his attention had been drawn to his braids and ear-cuff; but before Thorin could say anything, Bilbo closed his mouth and tensed his shoulders.

"What on Earth were you thinking?" he snapped, slamming the freshly-baked blueberry-rhubarb pie down on the table. The soft lattice-crust cracked, and hot syrup burst out, flowing down the side of the pan and onto the tabletop; but he paid it no mind, and instead swung around and shut the oven door with such force that the stovepipe rattled. "Why would you go to Lobelia, of all people? Could you not just have come home and let me take care of your stings?"

Thorin frowned down at the mess on the tabletop, then he stepped to the basin by the kitchen window. "You told me just yesterday that I had your blessing to speak with her, if ever the opportunity came up," he said, rolling his sleeves to his elbows and reaching into the water for a rag. Wringing it out, he returned to the table and began wiping up the syrup. "And that you would speak with her, if I could arrange it. That was what you said, was it not? Or did I mishear you?"

Bilbo let out what sounded like a low, frustrated growl, and he curled his oven-mitt-covered hands into fists. "I didn't think you would actually… you shouldn't have just assumed…" Growling again, he took the mitts off and threw them down onto the seat of one of the chairs. "You know how I feel about that family, Thorin! In any of the times that I have spoken about them, have I ever voiced the desire to actually spend any time with them? And now I have to go sit down with them for tea?"

"I did not answer her with certainty," said Thorin, setting the rag down on the table. "I told her only that I would ask you if you would like to come. Just because the invitation was extended, it doesn't mean that you must accept it."

"Yes, it does! You don't seem to understand how things work around here, Thorin! You can't just ignore an invitation. If you didn't outright tell her 'no', then she must assume that the answer is 'yes'. She is probably already done with most of the baking, and what would it say about me if I did not then show up?"

"If we did not show up," Thorin corrected him. "The invitation was extended to both of us." He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "And I thought that you yourself said that you no longer had a care for your reputation."

"No!" Bilbo said, pointing a finger at him. "Don't you dare try to turn this around on me. Reputation has nothing to do with it. It's about doing what's proper. If I… if we don't go, then all of her preparation will have been for nothing! A waste!" 

"So you fear to hurt Lobelia's feelings by not showing up, then?" asked Thorin, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. "And you fear to hurt your own if you do show up?"

Bilbo threw his hands up into the air. "And what in the world are we going to speak about while we're there?" he asked, apparently ignoring Thorin. "About how much lovelier her flowers are than anyone else's? About how her clothing is finer than anyone else's? About how her baking is better than anyone else's?" He motioned toward the open window. "Or how about how I am not the real Bilbo Baggins, and so she and her husband should be the ones living in the home that my father built?"

Thorin shook his head. "You have spoken to trolls and goblins and a dragon of the worst kind. Why would you find speaking with your cousins to be such a daunting thing?"

"Because these particular cousins lack the civility of any troll or goblin or dragon I have ever met," returned Bilbo; then he rolled his eyes and lifted his shoulder into a slight shrug. "Granted, when those things wanted to have me for tea, it was in an entirely different way. But still, I think I would rather sit down to tea with wargs than with the Sackville-Bagginses."

Despite Bilbo's ire, Thorin could not help but crack a small smile. "If I am to be honest, I did not find Ms. Lobelia to be quite so difficult to speak to," he said. "She was, perhaps, a bit sharp of tongue—but no more so than certain other Hobbits I have met."

"Certain other Hobbits who would not be so inclined to speak about you behind your back," said Bilbo through clenched teeth.

He glanced towards the window, then reached out suddenly for the pie, presumably to bring it to the sill to cool; but he was no longer wearing his oven mitts, and when his hands closed around the edges of the pan he let out a yell of pain and pulled back. The jostled pie fell to the floor; and though it landed right-side-up, hot filling still splattered across the tiles. Thorin and Bilbo both jumped aside, then the two of them locked gazes for a moment before the Dwarf shifted his attention to Bilbo's hands.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, reaching out.

Bilbo backed away, then spun around to the basin. "I'm fine," he muttered, dipping his hands into the water. "I'll be fine."

Thorin stared at him for a few seconds, then he reached down, lifting the pie pan off the floor; and Bilbo looked over at him with widened eyes.

"Be careful!" he said, splashing water onto the sideboard. "It's still hot!'

"Nowhere near so hot as a forge," said Thorin, setting the pie on the table. "Barely warm to a Dwarf's touch."

Frowning, Bilbo turned back to the basin and resumed swishing his hands around in the water; and behind him, Thorin grabbed the already-dirty kitchen-rag off of the table and kneeled, so to clean up the sticky mess on the floor.

"Tell me this, at least," Bilbo spoke up. "Did you get stung on purpose, so that you would have an excuse to speak with Lobelia?"

"No," said Thorin, scrubbing the syrup out of the grout between the tiles. "Whether you believe me or not, my intention really was only to go out and gather the honey." He stood and joined Bilbo at the sideboard, setting the rag down beside the basin. "It went well, until the rope snapped. Thankfully, that was not until I was near to the bottom, so I did not bother as many bees as I might have."

The corner of Bilbo's mouth twitched up, nearly into a smile. "Dwarves in trees are never graceful," he said, apparently in a weak effort at jest. "Well, in trees, or around them. Did you fall into the mere after? Is that why you were so filthy? It is a bad thing, you know, to get dirt and mud and swamp-water onto stings."

"So Ms. Lobelia told me," said Thorin, folding his arms and leaning back against the sideboard. "And she was not very happy about me showing up at her door in such a state."

"Tracked on her rugs, did you?"

"And muddied up her kitchen chair. But, honestly, I had not intended to meet with her at all today, even after I had been stung. I had actually gone past her house on the way back here this morning, but… I was compelled to turn around. I did not know when the opportunity to speak with her might come up again, so I thought I had just this one chance—" 

"One chance to do what?" Bilbo broke in. "To interfere with something that is none of your concern?"

Thorin narrowed his eyes; and at once, Bilbo seemed to realize how harsh his words had been, and he spoke then somewhat more politely.

"There is a reason Lobelia and I have not spoken to one another in years, Thorin."

"And what would that reason be?" asked the Dwarf. "What could have been so great an offense that a rift still remains, even after all this time?"

"You know what it was about."

"No, I don't believe I do. Though I do know that it was neither about spoons, nor was it entirely about your cousins' desire to buy your house from you. What was it, then, that still makes you decry them as dreadful, to the point where you will not even try speaking with them? Do you fear the chance that you may discover otherwise?"

A troubled expression crossed Bilbo's face, and Thorin looked into the water to see that the Hobbit's hands were closed into fists. "Would it be my place, Thorin, to question why you are distanced from any of your own kin? Would I be within my rights to go behind your back and arrange for you to speak with a relation of yours, if that relation was someone that you had specifically told me you did not want to have anything to do with?"

"I would not now refuse to speak with them," said Thorin, scratching absently around one of the stings on his arm. "I have learned all too well what it is like to lose someone before I could let them know how I felt about them. Before I could let them know that I loved them. And… it pains me to think that you might go through the same."

Sympathy rose into Bilbo's eyes. "I know," he said. "But my family relationships, strained or otherwise, are not your problem, Thorin. This is a situation that has existed from long before you ever came into my life, and it is something that I alone should have to deal with. And besides, with the Sackville-Bagginses, it is not a matter of a love being unspoken, but of there being no love there at all."

"There was love there once. There was friendship—deeper, I think, than you care to admit. If there was no love, then there would not now be so much bitterness between you."

"And why would there not be? You and Thranduil had no love for one another, I'm sure, and yet the hatred and ill will you both held was heavy and persistent."

Thorin shifted his eyes down and away. "There was no love, true—but there was friendship between our peoples. It was… it was my grandfather's actions that began the rift, and Thranduil took a step further back from us when he refused to aid my people in our time of need." He focussed again on Bilbo. "From there, our friendship never recovered, even to the day that he thought to march on Erebor with the threat of war on his tongue. But even from that, we have begun to mend our fences; and I do not think that what Lobelia and her husband might have done to bring on your estrangement could be so bad as what was done to bring about the one between the Elves and my people."

A few seconds of silent staring followed; then Bilbo drew his hands out of the water and studied his burnt palms. "Yes, there was friendship between us, Thorin," he said. "Or, at least, I had thought there was, but it turned out to be false on Lobelia's part from the beginning. And why she would ever deign to invite us to tea, I cannot say." He gave Thorin a sidelong glance. "Unless it was by some word of yours, regarding your nobility."

Thorin reached up and touched the cuff on his ear. "The only word spoken of that was doubt on her part," he said, lowering his hand again. "Disbelief in the rumors that she had heard."

"But you were planning on telling her?" the Hobbit asked. "Tonight, even? And did you even consider that it might be a bad idea? Inviting her and others to put on a false smile and to speak sweet words when they meet with you, just so that they might enjoy the advantages of being associated with a king?"

At once Thorin's calm fell away. "And what advantages have you gained from that?" he asked, raising his voice to nearly a yell. "Aside from having to listen to that king as he went on and on about the burdens and cares that he must bear?"

Bilbo's mouth moved, but he seemed unable to find the words to reply; and Thorin hung his head in regret for the outburst, then stepped closer and continued more gently.

"If the absolute truth is that you would prefer to maintain your distance from your cousins indefinitely, then I apologize for interfering. If you will allow, I will go to their place for tea, myself, so that their preparations will not have gone completely to waste. I will give them your regards, and if another invitation is by some means extended, I will decline it."

Turning on his heel, he made his way out of the kitchen and went on to his room. He did not know why he had let Bilbo's words trouble him so, nor did he understand why he himself had felt so compelled to lash out in kind; but the fact remained that Bilbo had given his blessing to speak with Lobelia. Though now that he thought about it, it was possible that the blessing might well have been a soft lie on the Hobbit's part; a simple means to silence Thorin, so that they could go on to more pleasant subjects.

Kneeling beside his bed, he brought out the pack in which he carried his outer-clothing. He began digging roughly through it, unsure of what he was searching for, but certain that he wanted to find something within; and when he felt an unexpected brush of fur against his palm, he pulled his hand out in surprise. Gathering his wits, he reached back into the bag and took hold of the fur, drawing the item out and holding up. It was a fine cloak of sky-blue wool, embroidered with golden thread, sporting a short fox-fur lining, and decorated with a silver tassel on the hood and a delicate mithril clasp at the throat—the same cloak that Bilbo had yesterday suggested Thorin wear if he were really insistent upon appearing noble.

It was also the only item of clothing that he had neither bought along the road nor brought with him from Erebor. It had been given to his grandfather by his cousin, Náin, some few years after the dragon had come; then had been passed on to Thrain before coming into Thorin's possession after the Battle of Azanulbizar. He had left it with his sister before setting out on the quest to Erebor, so to keep it in good condition for the time when it would be passed on to Fíli; but when Thorin had reached Ered Luin with the news of the princes' fate, Dís had returned it to him with soft words of forgiveness. He had yet to be able to bring himself to wear it, but he thought he might be able to do so at least until he stepped through the Sackville-Bagginses' door for tea—and they would certainly not object to him hanging it on their peg, as they might his tattier traveling-cape.

As he slipped the cloak over his shoulders and fastened it, however, he wondered just what he and Bilbo's cousins would have to speak about while he was there. He supposed that he could keep them interested enough with talk of his travels for a while, at least. Surely, the provenance of the coin he had paid Lobelia with would come up in conversation, and so he'd then be able to move to the subject of the dragon and the reclamation of Erebor. But then Bilbo's part in that reclamation would also come up; and his cousins might sniff at his adventuring. And where then would the conversation lead?

Thorin turned his face to the guest-chamber's vaulted ceiling; then he briefly closed his eyes before stepping out of the room and down the hall. Passing the anteroom to the kitchen, he quickly opened the door to Bag End and walked outside, taking a deep breath of the warm mid-day air as he stopped on the step. It was too early to go to Lobelia's place just yet, but he did not now feel like staying in; and when he saw his filthy boots on the paving-stones, he realized that his preparations were not yet done, anyway.

Grabbing the shoes, he made his way onto the turfed roof; where he stopped, and for a few seconds focussed on the spot where he and Bilbo had settled in beside one another on a warm evening not so long ago. Pulling his thoughts back to the moment, he sat against the tree, gathering his cloak up behind him so not to dirty it, then he began trying his best to brush the caked mud off of one of the boots with his palm. There was too much on it to clean away in such a manner, so he started scraping the sole against an exposed root; and as the dried mud flaked off and fell away, he wondered just how clean was clean enough for him to leave the shoes on the Sackville-Bagginses step when he got to their house.

He had just begun to rub the side of the boot on the grass when he saw a pair of Hobbit-feet step into sight before him; and he looked up, giving Bilbo a small nod before turning his attention to the leaves dancing in the tree above them. The wind, as far as he could tell, was blowing in steadily from the north; and though the sky was pale blue and clear, when he turned to the side he saw that closer to the horizon clouds were gathering.

"It may rain later," the Dwarf said, feigning nonchalance; then he grabbed a twig off the ground and began working the mud out of one of the buckles on the side of the boot. "If you wish to have any honey other than Lobelia's today, you might want to go out and gather it now, before the storm hits."

"It may rain, yes," said Bilbo, sitting beside him. "But with my hands like this, I don't think I'd be able to scale a rope to get to the hive. Lobelia's honey will do, if I find I have need of it."

"And you would not find honey so obtained to be bitter?" asked Thorin.

Bilbo let out a brief, humorless laugh; then he paused before speaking again. "When I told you that Lobelia showed me a kindness once, I was not being… well, I was not being strictly truthful," he said in a small voice, as if he were sharing a secret. "But it was, in fact, the last kindness she showed me."

Thorin stopped digging at the grime in the buckle and looked over at Bilbo, urging him without so many words to continue; and so Bilbo did.

"Before that day, I went to their house often, and they came here just as much. We would have tea or dinner, or just sit and talk. And… well, so I knew that she would be kind when I went to her for help with my stings."

The Dwarf set the boot on the ground between them. "So, what happened, then?"

Bilbo rubbed the back of his neck, then he grimaced and rested his hand on his knee. "When I left there that day, I came home to make for them a loaf of brown bread as a thank you gift," he said. "But when I brought it back to their place, I… well I'm afraid that when I was outside their kitchen window, I overheard Lobelia speaking to… well, to someone. I don't know who. A neighbor, I suppose."

"You eavesdropped?" asked Thorin, raising an eyebrow.

"Not intentionally. And I knew even then that I should have left, that I should have come back to deliver the bread later. But I heard my name being spoken, so I kept listening."

"And you could not be blamed for that. Anyone would be curious if they heard themselves being spoken about."

"I suppose so," said Bilbo. "But still, there was something in Lobelia's voice—some edge that I had never heard before. I don't think I could have stopped listening, even if I had not been the subject of the conversation."

"What was it, then?" asked Thorin, his curiosity rising. "What did she say that still bothers you so?"

Bilbo flexed his injured fingers a few times, then let out a weary sigh. "She said that it was wrong of me to live in a home the size of Bag End alone. She said that no proper Hobbit would keep such a place to himself. She said I was selfish, that I was greedy, that I was no better than a…." The words died on his lips, and his cheeks began to redden.

"She said, perhaps, 'no better than a Dwarf'?" asked Thorin, though he did not wait for an answer. "And for that, you have not willingly spoken with her since?"

"Do you see now why I didn't want to say anything to you about it? I… back then, I took offense to such a comparison. I didn't know then what your kind was like, what you had been through, what… how you lived your lives. I didn't know you, Thorin. You and your kin."

Thorin scratched his whiskered chin in thought; then he imagined for a moment that he'd caught the scent of wood-fire smoke. At once he feared that Bilbo had left the kitchen stove burning and that it had set something alight; but when he turned his face to the sky he realized that the smell was blowing in on the breeze, probably from the chimney of some nearby Hobbit-hole, and he looked back down to Bilbo.

"And now that you do know us well?" he asked at last. "The resentment still remains?"

"Yes," answered Bilbo. "But for a different reason altogether. It lingers now because she believes Dwarves to be greedy and selfish, when she is speaking of someone… of a people I have grown to love."

A weak smile tugged at the corner of Thorin's mouth. "When I spoke with Ms. Lobelia, she did not seem to hate Dwarves. At least, she said little to that regard—and I am certain that most of her displeasure was due to me coming to her door unbidden at such an early hour, and in such an unpleasant state."

"Well, and she wouldn't say it, would she? Not to your face, anyway. I promise you, though, that she was thinking that you were going to steal all of her possessions out from under her nose, simply because you are a Dwarf."

"You can promise that, Bilbo, when you have not spoken with her in years?" asked Thorin. "Do you not think that perhaps time might have changed her own perceptions, as it has yours?" He tilted his head down and peered at Bilbo past sunken eyebrows. "Or is it still her original words questioning your propriety that bother you, even after all this time?"

"Of course those words still bother me," admitted Bilbo, rising to his feet. "Why should I not be offended that she does not consider me to be a proper Hobbit?"

"Because you have time and again insisted that you do not care what people say about you," said Thorin, standing as well. "So what, then, is the truth, Bilbo? You claim to have no concern anymore for your reputation, and yet you bristle at the thought of your propriety being—"

"They are not one and the same," interrupted Bilbo. "You yourself would care little if someone thought poorly of you in general, so long as they did not consider you to be less than what you are—less than a Dwarf, or not enough of a Dwarf to call yourself one." He sniffed at the air, then gritted his teeth and returned his attention to Thorin. "So why should I not consider it an offense if someone says that I am not enough of a Hobbit to call myself one?"

"Back when she claimed that, she might have been wrong, and you might then have had cause to be offended; but from what I know of your kind, you are no longer what you may have once considered a proper Hobbit."

"Only because I am now closer to being a Dwarf," snapped Bilbo. "Because I am every bit what she—" He stopped suddenly, then swallowed hard.

An ache rose into Thorin's chest; and he turned to the side and nodded. "And tell me, Bilbo, if you still believe that is as bad a thing as you once did," he said as calmly as he could manage. "Tell me that, and I will step back from you and your life. I will leave you to your propriety; to your peace and quiet, your books, your garden... the simple comforts that Hobbits find when they are not forced away from their hearths and kitchens."

Bilbo made a little choking sound. "And you would do what, then?" he asked, seemingly struggling with the words. "Would you forget what you yourself came here for? What you stayed here for? For that same peace and quiet, and those same comforts?"

"I did not stay here for either peace or quiet," said Thorin, glancing again to the place where he had spent a long, peaceful night by Bilbo's side. "I stayed because I found in you what I needed."

"You found what in me?" pressed the Hobbit. "My words? My silences? My mere presence? And do Bag End and this town and the friends you have made here mean nothing to you?"

"Do not mistake me, Bilbo," said Thorin as a lump rose into his throat; then he turned his face to the tree swaying above them as he caught another whiff of smoke on the air. "I do love it here in the Shire. Here, where I am free to do things for myself, rather than sending the people I love to do them in my name—rather then sending them off to their deaths in my name." He stepped closer to Bilbo, looking deep into his eyes. "But I will not stay here for another day if you feel that you are less than what you should be because you have become more of what I am."

A pained expression crossed Bilbo's face, and he blinked hard as he ran his fingers through his unruly curls. Wincing, he held his hand down with the palm open, revealing his badly-burnt skin; then he drew in a deep breath, as if preparing to say something. He stopped, though, and his brow furrowed slightly as he shifted his attention to the sky and sniffed again. He turned in a full circle, looking both high and low as he did, until at last he halted, squinting into the distance.

"Thorin…?" he said, barely above a whisper.

The Dwarf followed his gaze, and there he saw above the wooded area to the north a thick billowing of grey smoke obscuring the tops of the tallest trees.

"Where is that coming from?" asked Thorin.

"The Overhill Woods," Bilbo told him; then he pointed to the left and traced his finger to the right. "That wide gap in the trees there… that's the river that runs out from the Bog. I think… I think the smoke is coming from the charcoal yards."

"Is there not usually smoke coming from there?" asked Thorin, acutely aware of the wavering in his own voice. "They burn the logs down there, do they not? There should be some smoke, at least, from the chimneys."

"Never so much," said Bilbo with a small shake of his head. "Something isn't right…"

Thorin's jaw tightened as he continued to stare unblinkingly forward. A fire at the charcoal yards would surely spread to the woods nearby; and there leap from tree-to-tree, until it came in time to places where Hobbits lived. But while those homes that were underground might be somewhat protected, free-standing houses—with their thatched and wooden roofs—would not fare so well. Houses, Thorin realized with a start, like those that made up the settlement that surrounded the charcoal yard, itself.

"Send up the alarm," he said through his teeth; then he looked to Bilbo, who was breathing hard in his own agitation. "Go!"

The Dwarf then rushed off down the Hill, with his feet still bare and his long cloak flowing behind him; and as he stepped onto the road that led north, he heard Bilbo's voice calling out loudly the warning of 'fire!' to all who could hear.

Chapter Text

Lobelia let out a little hum as she peered through the parted curtains on her entryway window. There had been much yelling outside for the past few minutes, and she now saw several people darting up the road. Whatever they could be in such a hurry about, she hadn't a clue; but she wished they would go about it a little quieter, as she'd been fighting a headache since the Dwarf had shown up on her doorstep that morning.

Oh, what a mistake it had been, letting him into her house! Not that she regretted helping him, really; but he'd left an awful mess behind, and it had taken her a dreadfully long while to clean all the mud and honey off the floor. And indeed, while she had been about it, she'd had a chance to clear her thoughts; and she had come to the conclusion that this Thorin Oakenshield must be nothing more than a common laboring Dwarf—albeit a relatively polite one, who somehow happened to have a bit of gold to spare.

Regardless of his occupation, however, she had invited him and Bilbo to tea, and there was no way out of it. In fact, she was determined to make it the best tea that Bilbo had ever been to, just to show him how it should be done. Not that any of the afternoon teas at Bag End back in the day had been poorly set or very much lacking in dainties, but still they could have been improved upon. So after the floor was cleaned to Lobelia’s liking, she’d hurriedly dressed, then went off to the Bywater market to get all that would be needed for the day’s entertainment.

Although her primary intention had been to buy flour and honey, she had also been thinking of getting blackberries for tarts and apples for turnovers. When she'd seen Bilbo skulking around the fruit stand, however, she had decided instead to make chopped-ham sandwiches and butter cakes, so that she would not have to speak with him before teatime. Not that they would have much to talk about even then, she expected; but to use what few words she did have for him in public seemed a waste. In any case, Bilbo himself seemed somewhat disinclined to chatting at that moment, judging from the curt way he had greeted the Hobbit running the stand, and he did not actually linger at the market for long.

Lobelia herself still had a lot of work to get done, so when she saw Bilbo head back in the direction of The Hill, she quickly finished her own shopping and rushed home—hoping all the while that Otho might have at least tidied up the kitchen, as he'd promised. She was not at all pleased when she found him with his head on the still-dirty table, snoring the late morning away; and after gently chiding him for falling back to sleep, she sent him off to the washroom to get cleaned up while she tended to the kitchen and started on the baking.

Really, she couldn't remember a busier morning in years. Morning? No, it was early afternoon by now. Still, at least everything was cleaned and the cooking was finished and she had made herself up properly in her finest sunflower-yellow tea-dress; and she thought that maybe she might finally get a chance to sit down and relax for a while before doing her hair up and setting the table. But now there was all this noise outside, and it had drawn her to the window. Not that whatever was going on was any concern of hers, but she had her curiosity—and she was beginning to worry that some of the Hobbits running by might accidentally stomp on her flowers in their carelessness.

"There's something happening in the woods, I think," she said, shutting the curtain and turning around to where her husband was standing in the bedroom doorway, wobbly on his feet and with his hair still damp from his over-long bath. "A great many folks are headed northwards. Whatever can be going on?"

"A run of fish in the river, maybe," suggested Otho with a shrug. "Doesn't happen much, and the fishermen are ever eager for it."

Lobelia shook her head. "I saw not a single pole or net. And really, what fish would be running that river. It's all nasty water out from the bog, and there's more likely to be a run of toads than anything!"

Otho grunted tiredly. "Should I go and ask about—"

A furious pounding on the door cut him off; and Lobelia jumped, pressing her hand to her chest. Gathering her wits, she spun around and threw the door open—and there she found Bilbo Baggins on her stoop, his face grave and beaded with sweat. She quickly looked him over, noting that he was still wearing the clothes she had seen him in at the market, though they were now disheveled and somewhat dirty; and when she focussed on his eyes, she saw that he was glowering at her.

"Heavens, you look a fright!" she exclaimed, wrinkling her nose. "You're hours early for tea, Bilbo. And why could you not knock a little softer, or else use the bell like a proper gentleman?"

"I've no need to behave like a gentleman when there's a fire to be fought!" Bilbo very nearly yelled, motioning off to the north. "I'd not be at your door at all, but we need every hand we can get! If there's any sobriety or sense in Otho, tell him to grab a bucket and get himself to the charcoal yards!"

With that, he turned and ran off up the hill; and Lobelia's heart leaped into her throat.

"A fire?" she muttered, looking back at her husband. "Did you hear that, dear? There's a fire… at the charcoal yards." Her hands were beginning to shake a bit and she clasped them together. "That's not very far from here, is it?"

"It's not, but…" said Otho, his eyes wide. "Maybe it won't come this way… no, no of course it won't—"

"Otho!" she scolded, then she stepped over to him and grabbed his arm, pulling him to the door. "Wake yourself up! For heaven's sake! To the fire! Oh, does it matter if it comes here or not? Move!"

Under his wife's urging, Otho at last seemed to find strength and balance in his legs.

"Right… yes, yes of course, dear," he said; then off he went, up the hill with the crowd.

Lobelia watched him go, wringing her hands once more, then she remembered suddenly what Bilbo had said about bringing a bucket. She sprinted to the kitchen and grabbed two empty pails from beside the basin-stand; and after hanging them over the crook of her arm, she lifted the laced hem of her skirt and made her way out of the house, then she turned onto the road that led north.

Goodness! She had not run that far in ages! And uphill! She imagined she must be quite a sight—racing along the wooded road in her finery, toting two tin pails, and outpaced by one and all. By the time she reached the top of the ridge above the charcoal yards, she was winded and her side was aching and she felt for certain that she could not go on another step; and so she stopped to catch her breath and regain her strength.

Looking down then at the two-story stonework building by the riverside, she felt her knees nearly buckle beneath her. Oh, how horrible it was! She covered her mouth with her hand, watching with dread as heavy smoke poured from the brick chimney and flames leaped out from the shattered windows on the building's sides; and though the planked wooden roof was not yet on fire, smoke was billowing out from under the eaves and she feared that it would soon be ablaze.

How a structure made mostly of stone could burn so, she could not fathom; but all around the building people were running and yelling, and many were hauling buckets of water from the river to the houses in the settlement and drenching them—she assumed so that they would not also catch on fire. At once, she remembered the pails that she herself was carrying; and gathering her skirt again in her grip, she ran forward and down the hill. When she reached the bottom, however, she was caught up in the crowd, and she did not quite know what she should do.

Oh, where were the shirriffs? They were trained, after all, to deal with fires! When the mill had nearly burned down that April, Shirriff Fosco Grubb had been right there to lead the residents of Hobbiton through dousing it; but Lobelia supposed now that may have been because the mill was so close to the center of town, where Fosco might already have been tending to some business or other. As she looked around the charcoal yard, though, she saw not a single feathered cap, and it was at least possible that word of this fire had not yet reached the shirriffs, or even the bounders.

And what good would she be, out-of-breath and footsore as she was? She was not strong, not able to lug around buckets full of water or throw them with any distance; and she was sure that she would just end up tripping someone, what with how everyone was dashing about in such a confused rush! The most that she felt she could really do was to make sure her husband was not getting himself into any danger—and after a brief search, she found him by the riverside, looking rather dazed as he wheeled about.

"Otho!" she hollered, sprinting over and shaking him by the arm. "Oh! What on Earth are you doing?"

"I don't know!" he confessed. "People keep giving me buckets, but every time I fill one, someone grabs it from me!"

Lobelia turned her face to the blazing building and shook her head. "This is madness! How ever are they going to get this fire put out?"

"We're not!" yelled Bilbo, running up to them with an empty bucket in either hand. "All we can do is keep it from spreading to the houses and trees!" He winced, as if in pain, then he thrust the buckets into Otho's grip. "Now, work to that end!"

But it seemed, really, as if nobody was working to that end; and there was even more confusion and aimless hurrying about now as when Lobelia had arrived. An ash-covered Hobbit tween dashed over and grabbed the empty pails from her, then dipped them into the river and ran off towards the dock behind the building. Lobelia watched him toss the water onto a charcoal-laden barge—likely to keep it from catching a spark—then she bit softly on her lip and focussed on the harsh glare in Bilbo's eyes.

She was certain that he had some choice words for her, but before he could say anything, a loud and authoritative voice called out for attention from over to her left. She and Otho and Bilbo all turned, and there saw a Dwarf standing atop a wood-pile at the very center of the settlement; and in her surprise, it took Lobelia a moment to realize that it was the same one that had come to her door that morning.

Heavens! How different Thorin looked now—with his hair plaited on the sides and clean clothing on his back and a fine cloak draped over his shoulders. His bare feet were still an odd sight, though, and she was sure that he would stub a toe or collect a massive splinter as he scuffed his soft soles over the hewn logs.

"Listen!" he cried out again; and as if by some magic, every foot was stilled, and every face looked in his direction. "Come to me! All of you!"

Immediately, Bilbo ran up before him, and Lobelia and Otho followed after; then all the other Hobbits gathered around. It seemed that in the absence of the shirriffs, it had taken another voice of authority to bring order to the panicked crowd—strange, though it was, that such a voice of authority had come from the mouth of a Dwarf, of all people. But then, right now Thorin both looked and sounded like someone who was accustomed to giving orders, and to not having those orders questioned.

"We must form lines!" he bellowed, pointing in the direction of the river. "Two bucket-chains on each side of the building—north, south, and east! Fill the buckets, and pass them hand-to-hand! The strongest amongst you will keep the base of the fire at bay, and the quickest runners will bring the empty buckets back to the river! The youngest and oldest will seek out sparks in the trees and around the village! Now, go! And keep back from the fire as much as you are able!"

At once, and without the need for any further urging, a few Hobbits ran off towards the surrounding woods and houses to look for sparks, while closer to the river the bucket-chains began to form. Bilbo nodded, then started towards the fire, presumably to be one of those who would contain the flames; but Thorin swiftly jumped off the wood-pile and grabbed his arm.

"Not you!" the Dwarf told him.

Bilbo furrowed his brow. "I'm perfectly capable of—"

"Not with your hands as they are," interrupted Thorin. "You will be better help running the empty buckets, or searching out sparks."

With that, the Dwarf turned and locked gazes with Lobelia, and a look of recognition rose into his eyes. Glancing down at her lovely yellow dress, she recalled then that she had also been quite poorly dressed when they had first met that morning, and she thought that perhaps he had not expected her to make so fine a showing—at least, not at the fighting of a fire. Or maybe, she told herself, he was just shocked to see her there at all. Either way, he lowered his head at her in brief acknowledgement; then he let go of Bilbo's arm and made his way to the south side of the building.

When Thorin stopped near to the fire, Otho shut his mouth tight and straightened his back in resolution. He handed his empty buckets to a young lass, who rushed off with them to the riverside; then he touched his wife's shoulder and kissed her softly on the cheek before going ahead with the Dwarf. It surprised and worried her a bit to see him step up so, as Otho was not usually one to tackle such challenges as dousing flames much larger than those in a fireplace; but apparently he had been listening well to Thorin's instructions—and, while not powerfully built, he was strong of arm, and he could surely get some distance when tossing the water.

After staring at him for a few seconds—and hoping that he would not dare to get so near to the flames as the Dwarf was—Lobelia turned her attention to Bilbo. He was shifting from side-to-side in agitation, and though he did not seem to want in any way to go against Thorin's wishes, neither did he appear to want to stray too far from his side; so he stomped his foot, then ran over and positioned himself behind Thorin and Otho in the chain. Lobelia, likewise, did not want to distance herself from her husband, so she situated herself right before Bilbo; and though he glared at her for a moment, soon both of their attentions were drawn by the first bucket of water working its way up the line.

Lobelia passed it on to Bilbo, who grimaced as he handed it off to Thorin. The Dwarf gave him a sharp look, then he turned away and drew distressingly close to the flames before throwing the water hard onto them. He tossed the empty bucket back onto the ground, and a Hobbit lad sprinted over and snatched it up, running back with it to the river so to have it refilled; and even as Lobelia watched the boy go, another bucket was handed to her, then to Bilbo, and then on this time to Otho.

In such a way, the chains kept moving, with Thorin and Otho and the other water-throwers sometimes taking the buckets from Bilbo, and sometimes taking them from the second line of Hobbits, which was further away from the river. But as they worked, Lobelia saw Bilbo's face growing more pained, and his grip slipped many times; and all at once, Lobelia remembered that Thorin had said something about his hands.

"Are you alright?" she asked, grunting as she passed him an exceptionally heavy pail.

"I'm fine," he grumbled.

But even as he said it, he lost his hold on the pail and it fell to the ground, spilling the water over his feet. He kicked it back away from himself before turning to face Thorin, who had already been reaching for the pail when it had fallen; and the Dwarf let out a heavy breath, then he unfastened his long cloak and threw it onto a nearby sledge. Taking the next bucket from Lobelia, he went off again to the fire; and Lobelia looked down at Bilbo's open palms.

"You're burned!" she cried out, seeing the blisters on his skin. "Already, this fire—"

"It wasn't from the fire," Bilbo cut her off. "It happened earlier!"

"Well, then why are you even here? Just to hurt yourself more?"

"And what do you care? Honestly, I'm surprised you came here, at all, Lobelia! Only for fear that your own home would be in the path of the fire if it spread, I'll bet!"

Bilbo snatched the next bucket from her and pushed it into Otho's arms; and she was certain that if all of her husband's thoughts had not been on his job at the moment, then he'd have had plenty to say to his cousin about his disrespectful tone. But distracted as Otho was, he simply ran off with the bucket; and she drew in a deep breath of thick air, coughing on the exhale.

"Really, Bilbo?" she said, her eyes watering from the smoke. "You think I don’t care what happens here? I am more a part of this community than you are, or have been for years!"

She very nearly shoved the next bucket into Bilbo's grip, and he gritted his teeth as he passed it on to Thorin. The Dwarf stepped up even closer to the building this time to throw the water; and it shocked her how he could stand being so near to the blistering heat, when she herself could almost feel her skin reddening more than twice as far away—and she was happy, at least, that her husband was still keeping his own distance from the fire, despite the Dwarf's example.

"In what way are you a part of anything?" huffed Bilbo, drawing her thoughts back. "Who willingly comes to you unless they want to have an extra voice to spread rumors? Well, if that is what is proper in your eyes, then I want nothing to do with it! I'll stay happy in Bag End all on my own… selfish and greedy, as you are so quick to claim!"

Lobelia nearly dropped the bucket that had just been passed to her. "What on Earth are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about!" said Bilbo, grabbing the bucket. "I heard you in your kitchen, speaking to… whoever it was, that day I came to you for help with my stings!" He thrust the bucket at one of the water-throwers, nearly knocking the lad off of his feet. "You said I was not a proper Hobbit because I lived alone, because I did not let others have the home that my father built! You said that I was selfish and greedy, and that I was no better than a Dwarf!"

He was yelling by now; and with the last word, Thorin turned swiftly around and looked at him. And so Bilbo let out a heavy breath and glared at Lobelia, whose heart was now racing in her chest.

She remembered that day, of course—how could she forget? Otho had been off at the Ivy Bush Inn, but she and Bilbo had been having a fine time, talking and laughing as she treated his stings; and when he'd left, they'd even given one another a friendly hug. But as Bilbo headed away from her house, she'd noticed Sarabeth Greenholm standing across the road with a sly grin on her thin lips.

Oh, why her, of all people? She was the gossip-leader of the Westfarthing, and she even held parties for the express purpose of sharing the news, as she called it. And what was more, her husband was the landlord at the Inn! Surely, Sarabeth must have just seen Otho there, must have known that he wasn't at home while Bilbo had been visiting; and now rumors would certainly spread! And what Sarabeth's words would be—'Bilbo and Lobelia are too friendly with one another', she'd say; she'd whisper that they spent too much time together while Otho was away from the house, she'd claim that there was something improper going on.

But Lobelia would never do such a thing! No! Not ever! Oh, she loved her husband desperately, and she couldn't imagine how he might feel if those stories reached his ears. How to get out of it, though? She'd quickly invited Sarabeth to come to tea later that very afternoon; and when she had shown up, they'd begun to chat. Casual talk—a little of this, a little of that. Then on to what?

'Certainly, you know what kind of Hobbit Bilbo Baggins is!' Lobelia had said after they'd eaten a few cakes and the tea was running low. 'I barely tolerate him. But he's my husband's cousin, so how really could I turn him away when he was hurt? Oh, yes! That's why Bilbo was here today. He went and got himself stung by some bees, and there's nobody in that big house of his to help him. You've seen Bag End, haven't you? It's so large and empty and... well, I know that his father built it, but still it's so odd that he chooses to live there all alone! Alone! Not so like a proper Hobbit—more like a… well, like a Dwarf! He just hides away, like a Dwarf in his mountain!'

Bilbo had been listening, then! Eavesdropping! So that was why he was so cold when next she'd seen him. Well, yes, she knew even then that her words could have been kinder, but she hadn't intended on him hearing them! Oh, if he'd have just said something to her—if he'd have told her back then what he'd overheard—she would have been able to explain it to him. She could have told him that she was just trying to stay the rumors that they were too friendly with one another… rumors that would have tarnished both their reputations. 

But he hadn't said anything about it. And what was she to do when Bilbo refused to speak with her day after day, never once telling her why? Should she turn a cold shoulder to him, in return? No, she didn't want to do that! She enjoyed his company too much. So still, she had tried to talk to him; and still, he never so much as dignified her with a reply. Then, to her embarrassment, people had begun looking at her sideways at the market, whispering as she went past—whispering about her, she was certain. She'd even heard someone behind her say once, in a small and amused voice, 'Bilbo said that Lobelia…' before she turned, revealing herself and silencing the gossip.

Fine, then! That was the day that she had decided that enough was enough! If Bilbo and the others really felt such a need to speak about her behind her back, then she would pay them back in kind. She would whisper about them—and she would do it while looking her best, behaving more like gentry, stepping higher socially. Then the bitter words would slide off her well-dressed back; and let Bilbo, with his empty home, be alone as he seemed to prefer. Meanwhile Lobelia would let herself be surrounded by a greater crowd of well-cultured Hobbits—her friends!

Her friends…

She narrowed her eyes and splashed her foot down in the mud; then she looked again to the fire and shouldered Bilbo out of the way, so that his pained hands would not slow the passing of the buckets. He was not willing to be pushed aside, though, and he stepped back up and wrenched the next one from her grip, then handed it off to Otho—who, it seemed, was still too concerned with fighting the fire to realize that his wife and cousin were in the midst of a battle of their own.

"Well, if you think ill of Dwarves, Lobelia, then you may certainly think ill of me!" said Bilbo, apparently unwilling to let it rest. "And so be it! You are less a true friend than any Dwarf I have ever met! And mind you, at this point I have met many!"

"And you are more fit to be among them than your own people!" countered Lobelia. "Oh, go back to hunting your riches, then, far away from here! Return to your blasted adventuring! Go live in a hole in a mountain instead of a hole in a hill, and leave the Shire to those that belong here!" 

"Nothing would make you happier, I'm sure! And how fast would you try this time to claim Bag End when I left? Not so satisfied with spoons any longer?"

She shoved the next bucket at Bilbo; but he could not hold it, and again it fell. "You are doing no good here!" she snapped. "You're spilling more water than you are passing on!"

"I'm doing the best that I can!" returned Bilbo.

"Then do so," said Lobelia, pointing toward the growing pile of buckets beside them. "Run the empties back to the river, as Thorin told you! At least, you'll waste less water that way!"

The Dwarf's voice at once called out in command from closer to the building. "Quiet, both of you!" he ordered. "This is no place for arguing! Keep your thoughts on the fire, and save your words for another time!"

Bilbo looked over at him, then back to Lobelia; and when she passed him another bucket, he handed it off to a fresh-faced water-thrower that must only just have come to the fire. Still, despite Thorin's very sensible orders to remain quiet and focussed, Lobelia could not keep her mind off of what Bilbo had earlier said—about what he had claimed to have heard her say so long ago—and she lifted her voice just loud enough for him to hear.

"I did not call you selfish or greedy," she told him. "I called you Dwarf-like that day, yes! But not selfish and greedy! Never did I use those words—and if you thought that you had heard me say them, then you are very much mistaken! Oh, but even if I never said it, you certainly have proven it, haven't you?"

Bilbo froze, even as he reached out for the next bucket. His mouth fell open and his eyes darted back and forth, searching the air between them; then, all at once, he set his jaw and shook his head, and he grabbed the bucket from her. In his haste and ire, he splashed the water over both of them; and after looking down to see that the bucket was now nearly empty, he threw it to the ground.

"I've proven it, have I?" he asked, though it seemed to her that some of the conviction had left his voice. "And would you ever think to do a thing for anyone if you did not get something out of it? Did you suppose that you would get paid for helping to fight this fire? And what did you think you would get from Thorin, in return for treating his stings this morning? There must have been something. What payment did you think you would get for the 'kindness' you had shown him?"

Lobelia exhaled sharply in disbelief. Had Thorin really not told Bilbo that he had already paid her? After everything that Bilbo seemed to have shared with him, still the Dwarf hadn't admitted to exchanging gold for the treating of his stings? And did Bilbo really think that was all that mattered to her? Is that what everyone thought? That she cared about wealth above all else?

She had taken the money when it had been offered to her, that was true—but it was also true that she had felt sorry for Thorin when he'd shown her the stings, and even more so when she'd learned of his loss. And in helping him, she'd felt a welling up of some sense of worth that she had long been missing. And what of the gold? It was in Lobelia's pocket even now, though she had thought of hiding it away, of keeping it safe until she could determine its full value. Oh, but what did that value matter now?

Her chin began to quiver, though out of hurt or out of anger, even she could not say; and she stepped back from the bucket-chain and reached into her skirt-pocket, drawing the coin out and holding it up.

"This payment," she said, her voice hoarse; then she threw the coin at Bilbo, and it bounced off his shoulder and landed in the mud at his feet. "And keep it, if you think that is all I care about! I am not ashamed that I helped in healing either Thorin's or your stings, and I earn my keep in satisfaction, more than in gold! But you would never see that, even if we were both starving, and I gave to you my last crust of bread!"

Bilbo gaped at the coin, then looked back up at her and moved his mouth as if to speak; but before he could say anything, there came from the building the sound of stones grinding together, then there followed a great tearing and rending of timbers. Every eye was raised in fear and alarm, and every running foot halted; and Lobelia looked over to see Thorin glancing around anxiously, then he waved his hand away from the fire.

"Back!" he cried out. "Everyone! Get back!"

Most of the Hobbits nearby obeyed without hesitation, fleeing the impending disaster, though Lobelia and Bilbo stood fast as the ground began to rumble. Smoke and dust rolled out from under the building's foundations, and for an instant before her vision was completely obscured, Lobelia saw that Thorin was still near the building; then she realized with horror that her husband was there, as well, crouching with his arms held above his head.

They vanished then, behind the smoke; and as the side of the building began to give way, Bilbo started running towards it. Lobelia knew that he wanted to get to Thorin, just as she wanted nothing more than to get to Otho—but there was no way for either of them to do so without getting trapped, themselves. So in a moment of panicked energy, she took hold of Bilbo’s shirt and pulled him back, then she spun him about and wrapped her arms around him, throwing them both to the dirt as burning-hot stones and flaming roof-planks crashed to the ground near their feet.

The impact knocked the air out of her lungs, and when she drew in a shuddering breath, it was heavy and gritty. She coughed and gagged, and her senses for a moment fled; and when at last she managed to open her eyes, she saw Bilbo lying still and silent in her embrace. After a few fearful seconds, she shook him hard; and at last his eyelids fluttered, then opened. He stared at her in confusion—then at once he seemed to remember what had just happened, and he pushed his way out of her arms and rose to his knees, shifting around to the destroyed building.

"Thorin!" he yelled; then he stood on unsteady legs and called out again. "Thorin!"

Lobelia, though, could not find in her own voice the strength to even whisper her husband's name; and her throat began to burn and her chest to ache, and she fought for air as she pulled herself to sitting. Her shoulders began to heave as tears flowed fast from her stinging eyes, and she covered her face with her palms, peeking past her fingers at the smoldering logs and blackened stones where the building and dock had once been.

All around, Hobbits were darting and hollering once more; and already the bucket-chains had been re-formed, and water was again being thrown onto the edges of the flames—but neither Lobelia nor Bilbo this time joined in the line. Instead, he rushed to the wreckage, heedless of the ruin all around him, still calling out desperately for the Dwarf. He laid his hands on one of the stones that had once made up the south side of the structure, trying to pull back on it; but then he let out a cry and backed away, grimacing in pain as he doubled his fists.

Lobelia struggled to her own feet and made her way to his side, though the heat was almost too much for her to bear. "Get back!" she gasped, tugging at his elbow. "Get away from the fire, Bilbo!"

But Bilbo shrugged her off; and all at once, she felt a searing pain on her leg. Looking down, she screamed when she saw that the hem of her dress had caught an ember and had gone up in flames. She fell back onto the ground, trying to slap out the fire that was licking at her skin, though she could do little against the burning of her crinoline slip and lace skirt, which seemed to be feeding the flames like lamp-oil.

From the corner of her eye, she watched as Bilbo turned and ran away from her, and for a terrible moment, she feared that he had left her there to burn—but then he lunged back into sight, casting a heavy cloth over her legs and smothering the fire. After a couple seconds, he pulled the cloth away and lifted the edge of her skirt to examine her leg, and Lobelia saw that what he had used to kill the fire had been the Dwarf's discarded cloak.

"Are you alright?" he asked breathlessly; and when in her shock she did not answer, he shook her gently by the shoulders. "Lobelia! Are you alright?"

She nodded, though she was really in much pain; and even as he helped her to stand, a pair of young Hobbits ran over, as if to see if there was anything they could do for them.

"I've got her!" said Bilbo, waving them off. "Just go! Make sure everyone is accounted for! And get those flames put out!"

The boys lowered their heads in understanding, then ran off again—one to the bucket-chain, and the other around what was left of the building, presumably to start a head-count. Bilbo, meanwhile, walked Lobelia some distance away from the ruins; then he lowered her to sitting on the mud and started moving back towards the fire.

"Bilbo, no!" she said, grabbing him by the trouser-leg and holding on tight. "Don't!"

"Thorin's in there!" he yelled without looking down at her. "He's… somewhere in there. I've got to get him out before—"

"You can't! You'll just get yourself killed!"

"Thorin is alive! He has lived through dragon-fire and wars and long years of living in the wild and the crushing jaws of wargs… and he is not going to die here! He is a Dwarf! Fire and falling stone are nothing to him!"

In an instant, the hopelessness of the situation overwhelmed Lobelia, and she buried her face in her hands as her whole body began to tremble. "Otho is not a Dwarf," she forced out past sobbing breaths. "Oh, even if Thorin is alive, even if he is strong enough... the fire and falling stones were aimed not only at him!" She lowered her hands to her lap and turned her wet face towards the overcast sky. "But what... what of my Otho?"

Looking over at Bilbo past the blur of tears, she could see that his brow was furrowed and his jaw was slack; and suddenly he hunched his shoulders as an awful realization seemed to come over him.

"I'm sorry," he said, falling to his knees beside her. "Lobelia… I didn't mean…" The words faded from his lips, and he reached out and wrapped his arms around Lobelia, pulling her close. "We'll find them," he said against her hair. "We'll find both of them."

"We cannot look through the fire," she whispered. "Oh… what can we do?"

"We'll do what we can," Bilbo told her, sitting back. "There are burns and scrapes and bumps now that must be tended to, and you are the closest we have here to a healer." He touched carefully around the reddened skin on her leg. "If you think you can right now…"

"I can, I think…" Lobelia took gentle hold of Bilbo's hands and looked down at the blisters on his palms. "But… what of you?" she asked softly. "Please, Bilbo! Don't go digging through the building!"

Bilbo shook his head. "I won't," he said, his voice cracking. "I can't. But I will… I will get others to help search for Thorin and Otho. We will find them, Lobelia... I swear it."

Lobelia turned her face down, and again her tears began to flow; and after wiping them away with the back of his hand, Bilbo rose again to his feet. He then pulled her up as well, and they each slid their arms around one another's backs—though whether Bilbo was helping her to stand, or she was helping him, even Lobelia could not tell.

Chapter Text

When Thorin opened his eyes, all he could see before him was a wavering grey light. He blinked hard, trying to clear the fog from his mind—trying to recall where he was, and how he had come to be there—but his efforts were thwarted by the deep ringing in his ears and the weight that was sitting on his chest.

He vaguely remembered intense heat and panicked yelling, followed by searing pain in his leg and head; then he had suddenly found himself in the mine where Fíli and Kíli had died. He'd begun screaming their names and reaching out for them in the darkness, but his voice had fallen flat against the walls, and his hands only landed upon the splintered surface of centuries-old wooden scaffolding. 

Then, just as quickly as he had found himself there, he was no longer in the mine; though still he had a firm hold on the rough-hewn wood, which he now realized was actually above his head. He tightened his grip and lifted himself up slightly, discovering only then that although his chest was heavy, the rest of his body was light below him. And he was cold—much colder than he should have been with the fire so near.

The fire…?

There had been a fire—he remembered now that he had been helping others to fight it… he remembered knowing all too well that they would not be able to put it out. There was too much fuel, too much heat. They had been throwing water onto the flames, only in the hopes that it would not spread to the nearby houses or trees. And the Hobbits… they had all listened, had all followed instruction, and so the fire had not spread…

But Bilbo and Lobelia had been there, as well… and they had been quarreling, their words dripping with enmity. Thorin should have kept his thoughts on the fire, but he had been distracted by the snippets of argument he'd heard passing between them. He hadn't noticed until it was too late that the fire had grown too hot, that it had burned for too long; he hadn't realized the danger that they were in until he'd heard the wall-stones begin to grate against one another, until the wooden frame and support beams had begun to snap.

He had called out then for everyone to get back… then the side of the building had shifted, and the ground shook as the roof fell in…

Thorin's legs jerked unexpectedly, and a burning sting made its way up from his right foot and into his knee. He bit down against the pain and shook his head—and at once, the ringing in his ears subsided. He heard then someone crying and blubbering just behind him, and a frightened voice loudly lamented that he was surely soon to be drowned.

"…Drowned…?" muttered Thorin, dipping his beard into the water.

The river… he was in the river. But where were the others? Where was Bilbo? Where was Lobelia?

When Thorin had yelled for the Hobbits to get back, Bilbo had instead started towards the fire… towards Thorin. The Dwarf had wanted to run to him then, to get him to safety; but there had been someone else, closer and in more immediate danger—someone who was either frozen by absolute fear, or else could not find in himself the sense to flee. In an instant, Thorin had made the heavy decision to drag the cowering fellow away from the toppling building; and as he'd rushed towards him, he had again glanced in Bilbo's direction. Past the smoke and dust, he had seen Lobelia grabbing him, pulling him back… then… what? What had Thorin done then?

What else could he have done? He'd seized the stranger by the collar and lunged with him towards the river, and they had both gone under as a barrage of burning logs and stonework splashed down and hissed all around them. The water had grown hot as Thorin dragged the Halfling towards what he thought might have been one of the charcoal barges; but something large and heavy landed on his bare foot, twisting it to the side and holding him fast to the riverbed.

And still he'd had the Hobbit in his grip, and so he had swiftly shoved the stranger towards the air above. Setting his mind then on freeing himself, Thorin had pressed his left foot to the sand and pushed up hard. Too hard. His right foot had come loose of its prison with a crack that he could both feel and hear, then he had shot straight up in the water. When he broke the surface, the top of his head had struck something and he'd seen a flash of white light, then his thoughts had wavered before going black.

Yet somehow, even in his senselessness he still had managed to grab hold of and cling to the underside of the coal-barge—or so he had at first believed. Here there was a large pocket of air and wooden edges for a hand-hold, while a barge would surely be more smooth and flat on the bottom; and when he looked up, he saw that there were beams criss-crossing the planks above him. 

This was the dock, then—or a piece of it; and since he could no longer hear the shouting crowd, he knew that it must be drifting downstream, away from the fire. To where the current would now take him and the frantic Halfling, he could only wonder; but he knew that they could not yet have gotten very far, as the stranger was still wailing in terror.

"You've killed me, you fool!" the Hobbit yelled, coughing and sputtering. "Threw me into this wretched river and drowned me, you did!"

"…Quiet…" said Thorin, barely above a whisper; then he lifted his chin out of the water. "Hold your tongue!" he said louder, his hoarse voice hollow against the wood. "You are not yet drowned, but if you do not calm yourself you may still lose your breath!"

The Hobbit let out a little squeak. "You… you're alive!"

Thorin turned himself around in the water, wincing at the sharp pain in his foot and ankle. "Of course I'm alive," he told the soaked and trembling stranger. "Or did you think that you were yelling at the dead?"

"I w… I wasn't sure!" gasped the Hobbit, his knuckles white as he gripped the wood above him. "You said something! Then you just went all quiet!"

"What did I say?" pressed Thorin.

"Filickly, or some such thing! Whatever that means!"

An ache rose into Thorin's chest. "Tell me… what is your name, Hobbit?"

"O… Otho!" 

Thorin stared into his uneven eyes. "Sackville-Baggins?" he asked. "Husband of Lobelia?"

"Yes! Yes!" said Otho, trying to pull himself more out of the water. "But how do you—"

"We have someone in common," Thorin cut him off. "I am a… friend of your cousin, Bilbo."

"B… Bilbo? You.. you are that Thornyshield person that was to come to tea today!"

"Thorin Oakenshield."

"Oh, whatever you call yourself," said Otho. "At… at the fire, I thought you were some miner out of the quarries! But, you! Oh, who are you, anyway?"

"To you, no one," said Thorin, then he turned his eyes down, watching as the riverbed slid by beneath them. "Tell me, Hobbit… do you know how to swim?"

"Swim? I am no rafting Brandybuck! Why in the world would I ever need to swim?"

Thorin growled low, angered by the Hobbit's tone—and more so even at his disparaging of the Brandybucks. "You would have done well to learn, if only to save yourself from a chance such as this," he said as politely as he was able. "But as it is, I need now for you to give me your trust. My ankle is turned, but I believe that I have the strength in me to swim us both to the bank of this river."

"I don't trust you!" cried Otho, tightening his hold on the wooden crosspiece. "You were the one that dragged me into this wretched water, in the first place!"

"You would have preferred a certain death by fire and falling stones, then?" snapped Thorin, losing his patience at last. "You should count yourself lucky that I did not leave you as you were, cowering there on the shore. Your wife would now be a widow, left all alone in your home—and I do not think that even the gold that I gave to her would be enough to make up for your loss."

Otho's chin began to quiver. "My dear Lobelia… a widow?" He let out a small sound, like the whining of a dog; then his eyes grew wide. "Oh! The gold! You are a miner, then? A rich miner? My Lobelia showed me the coin, and I've never seen its like! How could you spare it? And where did you get it?"

Thorin's head began to throb worse even than before, and he let go of the wood with one hand so to massage the bridge of his nose. "That, I will let you know soon enough," he said. "If you ever again set foot on solid ground."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Otho.

"To where does this river run, Hobbit?"

"To… to the Bywater Pool! Near the market!"

"Are there any bridges or shallows along the way?"

"None! Well, none that I know of! But why are you—"

"And how many miles away is the Bywater Pool?"

"Oh, I don't know! I've never walked it! And what does it matter, anyway?"

Thorin tilted his head down and glared at Otho past sunken brows. "It matters because you cannot swim, and you will not trust me," he said. "So, tell me… for how long can your fingers hold to that wood above you before they give out, and you sink like a stone to the riverbed? Do you have in you the strength to cling to this flotsam until it finds its way to waters shallow enough for your feet to reach the bottom?"

"Oh! No!" sobbed Otho, tightening his grip. "Already I've little strength left, after all of those blasted water buckets I've lifted!"

"Then we have spoken enough for the moment," said Thorin. "Save your questions, and give to me the trust that I believe I have already earned."

"Alright! Alright!" said Otho; then he let out another whine. "What do I do?"

"Do nothing. Just be still, and know that if you thrash or fight, I may not be able to hold on to you, and the river might claim you, after all."

With that, Thorin reached out, spinning the Hobbit around and pulling him against his chest; and though Otho wriggled and squirmed a bit, he did not try to break away from the arm that was wrapped protectively around him.

"W… what now?" asked Otho, his voice quavering.

"Take a deep breath," ordered Thorin.

"What? We are not going under the water, are we?"

"How else would you suggest we get out of here? Now hold your breath!"

Otho gasped; and so Thorin assumed he had obeyed. The Dwarf then drew in a deep breath of his own and pushed against the dock, sending them both under. At once, it felt as if he had thrust his right foot into a fire; and he let it loose, then swam away from the jumbled and smashed wood with only his right hand and left foot to propel him and the Halfling along.

After a few seconds, he looked up and saw that the water above was clear, and he kicked and paddled until they burst out into the air; then Otho retched and hollered, while Thorin himself let out a moan from the stressing of his ankle. The Hobbit's arms flailed, and he kicked his legs frantically, and Thorin tightened his arm around his chest.

"Calm yourself!" he commanded. "I have risked my own life once already in saving yours, and I may not be inclined to do so again!"

Otho did calm himself then; though still he whimpered and groused as Thorin laid on his back in the river. The Dwarf kept his eyes on the cloudy sky as he slowly and painfully dragged the Hobbit through the water, toward the nearest bank—and after what seemed like far too long a time, he felt his hand brush against the sandy bed. Knowing then that it was safe to do so, he threw Otho into the shallow water, and the Hobbit splashed and gurgled as he crawled up onto the shore.

"Blast you!" he yelled. "You… Dwarf! Still, you try to drown me!"

Thorin rolled onto his knees, though he did not yet make his way completely out of the river. "Drench, perhaps; but not drown," he said; then he inhaled sharply as the burning in his ankle redoubled. "Though I am sure the silence would be more pleasant than your griping."

"Oooh!" the waterlogged Hobbit said, struggling to his feet on the wooded bank. "Just leave me be!"

"It would be my pleasure," said Thorin. "But now you owe me two debts, and I intend on collecting them."

"D… debts? What debts? I owe you nothing!"

"Is your life worth nothing?"

"My… life?"

"Twice already today I have saved it," said Thorin. "But I suppose twice nothing is still nothing."

"How dare you?" huffed Otho. "My life is worth three times your own! And more, even, than that!"

"Then it would be a shame if word spread that you refused to pay back such a debt," Thorin told him. "Surely, you would not be able to claim that you swam yourself out of the river, without needing to prove that you could."

Otho shook his fists at Thorin; then he slowly lowered them to his sides and slumped his shoulders. "Oh, very well," he said defeatedly. "What is it that you want from me?"

Thorin nodded. "Before we get to that matter, we must first find out if… if everyone at the charcoal yards is alright."

"Everyone meaning who to you?" asked Otho, wringing the water out of the bottom of his shirt. "Bilbo, maybe! But not my Lobelia! I'll bet you don't care a smidgen for her!"

"And that is a bet that you would lose. Just because I do not know her well, it does not mean that I wish for any harm to come to her. Just as I knew you not at all, and still I pulled you away from the fire and crumbling stones."

"Oh," said Otho, then he let out a little cough as he rubbed the back of his neck. "But… how quickly could we even get there? You said your ankle was hurt!" He looked out across the water and waved his hand. "And we are on the wrong side of the river! You've landed us on the wrong side!"

"And yet your legs work fine, and your voice is loud enough to be heard on the far bank," said Thorin; and when Otho shot him an offended look, the Dwarf cracked a grin. "This will pay off no debts, as it is for the others' sake, as well as for the both of ours—but you, alone, should first run upriver. I am fairly certain that neither Bilbo nor Lobelia were caught up in the collapse, and it would be best if you let them know that you and I are still amongst the living… so that they will not risk themselves searching through what is left of—"

"Right!" interrupted Otho; then he spun about and started running off. "Oh! My Lobelia must be worried sick about me!"

"Hold!" called Thorin, pressing his palm to the ache in his head.

Otho stopped so abruptly that his feet skidded on the sand beneath him and he fell onto his backside. "What?" he asked, looking over his shoulder at the Dwarf. "What is it?"

"If there are any boats left there afloat, have one of them brought to our side of the river, so to make our next crossing easier. And be sure then to return to me. If you leave me to limp back to the yards on my own, I will add another debt to the list."

Exasperation rose into Otho's eyes "Oh, I was going to come back, and of course I would ask for a boat!" he said, clambering to his feet once more. "I would be halfway there already, if you hadn't stopped me!" He then took off running again, and soon vanished around the river-bend.

As Thorin watched him go, a warm trickle fell down his brow, then between his eyes; and though he thought it at first to be river-water, when he wiped it away, he saw redness on his hand. He pressed his fingertips gently to the tender lump under his hair, drawing in a hissing breath at the sting; then he shook his head and turned his attention instead to his damaged foot.

He was kneeling still on the edge of the river, and when he moved to the side to draw his legs out from under him, the pain in his ankle grew much worse. He shut his eyes tightly and curled his hands into fists; and it took him a long moment before he could bring himself to look down at his injury—but when he did, he could not actually see it for all the red in the water.

Whatever had hit him, then, had done more damage than he had at first thought; and so he slowly pulled himself up onto the bank, then he lifted his trouser leg and looked at his foot again. The skin of his instep was scraped nearly raw, there was a deep and vicious gash on the curve of his arch, and his ankle was red and swollen—though whether it was broken or just very badly turned, he could not tell. In either case, he knew that he would have to bind it; but when he shifted to the side in the hopes of finding something that he could use for that purpose, it felt suddenly as if a flaming-hot blade had been pushed through his ankle and into his shin.

He bit down so not to yell out, and he grew then lightheaded and weary. Though he was not very cold, still he began to shiver; and so he let his trouser-leg fall back down about his injured foot, then he brought his left leg up and hugged it to his chest, resting his brow on his knee. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to chase away the haze and pounding in his head, but he only grew more tired the longer he kept his eyes shut, and his thoughts began to drift.

Then, without warning, his left arm slipped off from around his leg, and his hand hit the sand beside him. He jerked fully awake, then he hugged his leg to his chest again as he looked up at the overcast sky, which seemed now darker and thicker with clouds than when he had closed his eyes. He had only just begun to wonder for how long he had dozed off when he heard someone hollering, and he turned to the side to see Otho rushing back around the bend in the river.

"They're alright!" yelled the Hobbit, huffing and puffing; then he stopped beside Thorin and hunched over, resting his hands on his knees as he fought to catch his breath "My Lobelia is fine! And... well, so is Bilbo. But nobody is hurt! Not badly, anyway."

Thorin's chest lightened. "And the fire?"

"Almost all put out," said Otho, standing up straight and brushing his tangled hair back away from his face; then his lips parted slightly as he pointed at Thorin. "Eh… what's that? Your head is bleeding!"

The Dwarf lifted his hand to his brow and again wiped away the blood there, then he looked to where it had stained the knee of his trouser leg. "It is nothing that I have not already lived through before."

"Well!" said Otho. "I've heard that Dwarves have hard heads, but—" He let out a little cough, then roughly cleared his throat. "But… well, there's terrible news at the yards, anyway!"

"What news?" asked Thorin fearfully.

"There's no boats to get us back to the right side of the river! You and I shared the last one, it seems."

"That was not a boat," Thorin corrected him. "It was a piece of the dock."

"Well, it floated, didn't it? What more need a chunk of wood do to be considered a boat?"

Thorin shrugged. "I suppose you're right," he said; then he turned his eyes to his bloodied trouser cuff and the patch of vivid red that had soaked into the wet sand beneath his foot. "But don't worry just yet about getting across the river. That is something I myself will deal with when the time comes."

"Oh!" said Otho, frowning. "Don't tell me that you mean to swim us across again!"

"If I must, and if I am able," said Thorin. "But for now, it is time for you to pay off the first of your debts to me."

A small sound of incredulity escaped the Hobbit's lips; then he threw his hands up into the air, as if he had decided it was not worth a squabble. "Fine," he said. "Let's get it over with, then. What do you want from me?"

"Your help in returning to the yards, first of all," said Thorin, motioning towards his injured foot. "I'm afraid I may have been somewhat mistaken when I earlier said that my ankle was only turned. Now that I have it out of the water, it seems to be in a far worse state"

Otho looked to Thorin's foot. "Far, far worse!" he exclaimed with sudden interest. "That is, if the blood means anything!"

"It does," said Thorin through his teeth. "Can you bind a wound?"

"Can I ever!" exclaimed Otho, thrusting his chest out almost proudly. He kneeled beside Thorin then, and carefully lifted the trouser-leg away from his injured foot; and though he shrunk back a bit when the gash came into view, he quickly tightened his jaw in resolution. "Eh… what an awful mess! How did this happen, anyway?"

"I was struck by something as we were making our escape," said the Dwarf, wincing when Otho slid a hand under his ankle. "I think it may have been a stone from the side of the building, or else a broken timber from the dock. Either way, I was trapped underwater by it for a time, and I think I did more damage to my foot in freeing myself than what I had gotten in the first place."

"Trapped, eh?" asked Otho absently, examining the wound; then his jaw slacked. "You were… trapped? Under the water?" He swallowed hard. "Well, that was… lucky? I mean… I don't mean getting trapped was lucky! I mean… that you got out of it. I couldn't imagine if you hadn't…"

He shuddered as his voice trailed off; then he clicked his tongue, seemingly in an effort at composing himself. He then began moving his fingertips gingerly around the Dwarf's inflamed ankle; and as he went about it, Thorin occasionally drew in sharp breaths when the pain was the worst. Each time he did so, Otho gave him a sidelong glance, as if making note of his reactions—or, perhaps, Thorin thought wryly, he was simply enjoying the Dwarf's discomfort.

"Well, now!" said Otho at last. "It may be broken, though I can't say for sure. I can at least wrap it well enough until you can get to someone who can tell you. And you are certainly going to need stitching up!" He released Thorin's foot and wiped his bloody hands off on his own trouser leg; then he ran his fingers roughly through his disheveled hair as he turned again to Thorin. "Give me your shirt!"

Thorin did as he was asked, shivering a bit when the cold air hit his bare skin; and while Otho immediately went to work tightly binding his foot and lower leg with the damp tunic, the Dwarf wondered at his change in attitude.

It was at least possible, Thorin thought, that there was something in Otho's nature that allowed him to trade in his sneers and snide remarks for eagerness and enthusiasm when there was some important business to tend to. After all, he hadn't grumbled or hesitated one bit while fighting the fire—at least, not after he had been given instruction. And thinking back on it, Thorin remembered being impressed at how determined the then-unfamiliar Halfling had been about getting the job done.

And now he seemed to be equally as determined—or, at least, in heavy concentration—as he wrapped Thorin's injury; and although the Dwarf grunted in pain, Otho did not once ease up on the pressure he was applying or shrink back at all from the bloody sight. In fact, the Hobbit made surprisingly short work of his task, and soon he drew his hands off of Thorin's foot and sat back onto the sand.

"There!" he said. "Bit of extra cloth, you being so big and all… but I tied it all up! How does it feel?"

Thorin tried to wiggle his foot; but though the effort stung and burned, there was no movement at all. "More than uncomfortable," he said. "And I fear that my toes will before long be choked for blood, but it will do for the time being, I think."

"For the time being," repeated Otho, apparently displeased with Thorin's assessment of his handiwork. "Well, let's get you up and moving, then, so that you might get some better care for it!"

"That may be a good idea," said Thorin. "But do not take my words to mean that I think you did a poor job. The point of the binding was to still the wound and stop the bleeding, and I am positive that you have done just that."

Otho let out a quick breath through his nose. "Quite right!" he said; then he stood, narrowing his eyes as he turned them to Thorin. "Well, what's all that about?" he asked, motioning towards the Dwarf's bare shoulder. "Odd!"

There was no need for Thorin to look down to know that Otho was referring to his inkings—as it was certain that few Hobbits had ever seen such a thing. Bilbo, at least, had been told all about the tradition along the road to Erebor; and Lobeila's shocked, though silent reaction to them that morning had not gone unnoticed by the Dwarf. But still, Thorin found it somewhat amusing that Otho had been concentrating so intently on his task that he had not noticed the skin-art until just then.

"It would take a long time to explain," said Thorin. "Time we do not have, at this moment."

"Right!" said Otho. He wiped his reddened and sandy hands off on his shirt, then reached out to the Dwarf. "Another time, perhaps! Meanwhile, let's get this debt taken care of."

Thorin grasped the offered hand, nearly pulling Otho over as the Hobbit helped him to standing. "How far is it to the charcoal yards?" he asked, trying to keep as much weight off of his right foot as possible. "I think I might have fallen asleep, so I do not know for how long you were gone."

"Fell asleep!" said Otho, grunting when Thorin leaned on his shoulder. "Seems that head of yours is not so hard, after all! But anyhow, the yards are not far. Well, not far for running, anyway. Hobbling might take a while longer. Now, ease up! You're so heavy, you're likely to fold me in half!"

The Dwarf lifted his weight off of him a bit, then the two of them began slowly making their way upriver; though with every step, Thorin's foot pained him more, and sweat began beading on his brow despite the growing cold.

"What do you do for a living, Hobbit?" he asked after a couple minutes, eager for something to draw his thoughts.

"For a living?" asked Otho, clearing his throat again. "Well, I… um… I own property up in Hardbottle and… I collect rent on it."

"So, you've nothing to occupy your time here, then? No business in Hobbiton? No pursuits? No hobbies?"

"Well, I… of course I have hobbies! But what is it to you, anyway, what I do with my time?"

"It is nothing but curiosity," said Thorin, reaching up with his free hand to wipe his brow clean of what may have either been sweat or another trickle of blood. "It is just that you were far less timid with the handling of my wound than I thought you would be. I wondered only if you had some experience in that area."

"Oh," said Otho. "Well, I was… you see, I was apprenticed to an apothecary for a time when I was younger. He insisted always that the treating of ailments and wounds went beyond simply sending someone out the door with a vial of medicine, so he taught me a thing or two to that end."

Thorin smiled a bit, certain that it was Lobelia's father that Otho had worked for—and though the Dwarf wondered whether that was how the two of them had met, or if Otho had taken the job just to be close to her, he did not make any mention of it.

"It seems that the business would have suited you," he said instead; then he stepped wrong and a vicious pain in his ankle made him stumble, though Otho's surprisingly strong grip managed to keep him upright. "It may be a loss to the Shire that you chose to give up on it."

"Oh, there was no giving up on it," Otho told him. "The… well, you see… the poor fellow himself took ill, and he couldn't get over it."

Thorin's heart sank. "I am sorry," he said, lowering his head. "That must have greatly changed your plans for the future."

Otho slowed in his steps, then looked up at the Dwarf. "I suppose," he said, his tone subdued; then he looked forward again. "Well, and what of you? What is it that you do for a living? And where did you get the coin that you paid my dear Lobelia with? I mean no offense, but are you a thief? A burglar? From whose pocket did you pick such fine gold?"

"From the pocket of a dragon," said Thorin, grinning crookedly. "Or, rather, from his bed."

"A… dragon?" asked Otho in disbelief. "Really? There are really dragons out there somewhere?"

Thorin gave him a small nod. "But before he had taken the coin, it was my family's property, and ever had it been," he said. "And with it were many more just the same—stacked and piled and counted and sorted. And there were also gems and crystal and silver and mithril, and the finest wrought iron and copper and bronze. Such wealth that would silence even your sharp tongue, if ever you were to lay eyes on it."

"B… but who could call such riches their own?" stammered Otho. "What family would have those things, kept all to themselves?"

For a moment, Thorin shut his mouth tight; then he sighed and shook his head. "A family of lords and princes," he said, his chest aching when the last word brought with it the image of his nephews, dressed in their royal garb. "And at the head of the family, a king. Though perhaps one who would have better been left a lord—or who might even have gone into peaceful exile where he could do no harm to those he loved."

"A king?" asked Otho, as if that was the only word he had heard. "You know a king? Are related to one, even? And here I was thinking the drunkards down at the Ivy Bush were just spreading nonsense! Just wait until I tell them—" He stopped speaking, and his eyes widened. "You were hurt because you came after me instead of getting yourself to safety! Oh, I've wounded a… a lord! Or a prince? Oh… what are you, anyway?"

Thorin chuckled lightly. "One who was once a lord," he said, deciding that telling the truth of the matter might not be such a bad thing, after all, if it drew such a reaction from even the most doubtful of Hobbits. "One who has found peaceful exile, and who has thought more than once of returning to lordship, rather than the throne and crown that suit him less than he believed they would."

"Hmm!" said Otho. "Well, now! That's probably…"

He stopped walking, pulling Thorin to a halt, as well; then his fingers tightened around the Dwarf's hand where it was draped over his shoulder.

"Is something wrong?" asked Thorin, grimacing as he placed a bit too much weight on his right leg. "We really cannot stop yet."

"No!" said Otho, moving along again. "No, of course we can't!"

As they went around the river bend, the bank grew steeper, and the increased pressure that Thorin had to place on his inner ankle made the pain in that leg grow. He began to drag his feet, and Otho adjusted his grip on the Dwarf, as if to help get more of his weight off of the wounded leg.

"You were joking, of course," said Otho with a snort. "You're not really royalty… or, er… nobility of any sort… are you? I mean, because if you were, then why would you be here of all places? It was all in good fun, I'm sure! You are a miner, then? Out from the quarries at Scary, as I thought?"

Thorin snickered, despite the searing in his foot. "Well, you seem to have made up your mind about me," he said. "Though that you still remain amiable enough to help me at this moment, even with the belief that what I said was in jest, proves you to be decent enough. Unless it is only so that I can ferry you across the river."

"Well, and if I could swim, I'd not have needed the second saving from you!" said Otho. "But, no… I was short with you, really, because I did not know you. Well, and I still don't. But I hope, though, that you mightn't leave me on the shore while you cross on your own."

"I would not do so," said Thorin, "even if it hadn't been by a mistake on my own part that we landed on this side of the water."

"But… bringing me across the river will not add another debt, will it?"

"No. I will consider that a favor, from me to you."

"Oh, good! And, well, if my helping you now pays off one debt, then what of the other?"

"I will think it through," said Thorin, looking over at him. "And I will let you know when the time comes."

"Hmm… I suppose you will," said the Hobbit almost suspiciously; then he turned upriver. "Well, we're there! Like I said—we weren't so far away!"

Thorin looked forward, as well, and saw there ahead of them and across the water the smoldering remains of the charcoal-building and the smashed dock. All around, Hobbits were still milling; and although some continued to toss water on what was left of the building, most were by now speaking to one another and pointing around, as if discussing the recovery.

Urged on by the sight, Thorin and Otho quickened their pace as much as they were able—the state of the Dwarf's ankle notwithstanding. As they drew nearer, Thorin strained his ears, and he thought he might have heard Bilbo's voice calling out in a tone that communicated authority. And so, his heart leaped, and he drew in a breath to yell to him; but Otho instead raised his own voice in nervous excitement.

"Lobelia!" he hollered. "Lobelia! I'm back!"

Several faces turned in their direction, and as they got closer still, people started to crowd the far bank. Soon, Otho and Thorin were near enough so that individual faces could be made out—some that even the Dwarf could recognize, though he knew none of them very well at all. At long last, they found themselves directly opposite the charcoal yards; and Thorin saw that in the midst of the gathered crowd there stood Bilbo and Lobelia, who were clinging to one another in what seemed to be great relief.

"Thorin!" cried Bilbo.

And at the same time, Lobelia called out, "Otho! My dear!"

Otho and Thorin smiled at each other, then stepped closer to the water.

"So, now comes the crossing," said the Dwarf. "Would it hurt your pride to climb onto my back in front of all these people?"

"Oh, pride blast it!" said Otho, hunching his shoulders under Thorin's arm. "But you, I wonder! Can your foot again take the swim with both of us? I don't want to sink, for weighing you down. A Dwarf is no boat, after all, and it is quite far across."

"I have seen no spot on the river any narrower than here," said Thorin. "But I suppose you could go back along the shore to find out if the broken dock or a barge ran aground between here and Bywater."

"No, thank you!" said Otho. "So shorten yourself, then! I can't jump up so high!"

"I'm afraid I might only be able to do so when we're already in the river," Thorin told him. 

Otho made a little noise of distress, but then he helped the Dwarf down into the water. A few feet from the shore, there was a drop-off; and right before that, Thorin lowered himself painfully to his knees and the Hobbit scrambled up onto his back. They then slid together over the edge; and though their combined weight made them plunge deeply for a moment, soon they came back up—with Otho tightening his grip on Thorin's neck, and spitting out the water that he had clearly not expected this time to come up over his face.

"Take care you don't drown me!" scolded Otho.

"Take care you don't choke me," returned Thorin. "Or else we'll both drown, right here in sight of everyone!"

Otho loosened his grip on Thorin's neck; and the Dwarf slowly and painfully swam them across, being as cautious as he could not to move his right foot more than absolutely necessary. Yet still it moved, and with every surge toward the murmuring crowd, the pain increased, until he thought that maybe he would have to stop and tread water for a bit to ease the strain.

But Otho began to pat his shoulder excitedly, and he again called out, "Lobelia! Lobelia!"

So Thorin went on, until the bank was in reach. Otho must then have seen the shallowness of the water, as he jumped off of Thorin's back and went on towards the crowd; then he seemed to have thought somewhat better of it, and he turned around again and slid a hand under the Dwarf's arm, helping him to stand.

"Thorin!" Bilbo called again.

He let go of Lobelia, and they both rushed forward, leaping into Thorin and Otho's arms and knocking them back into the shallow water. The other Hobbits then all gathered closer to the shore, most with laughing voices and wide smiles, despite the ruined building nearby; but Thorin spared them only a brief glance before tightening his arms around Bilbo, who was pressing his cheek to the Dwarf's bare chest.

"Don't ever do that to me again!" said Bilbo, sitting back and staring at Thorin with reddened eyes. "Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

Thorin shook his head. "I'm sorry that I worried you," he said lightly; then he looked down at Bilbo's now-bandaged hands. "Was anyone hurt?"

"A few scrapes and bruises, and a couple light burns," said Bilbo. "Nothing serious, though… and everyone is accounted for."

From the corner of his eye, Thorin saw the surrounding Hobbits begin to nudge one another with their elbows. Soon, the crowd dissipated, returning to the jobs they had been about before Thorin and Otho's arrival had drawn them away; and as their mumbling voices drifted off, Bilbo ran his wrapped fingers over Thorin's wet chest and stung arms, then he lifted his touch to the Dwarf's brow.

"And you?" asked Bilbo. "Are you alright? And… well, how is Otho?"

"He's fine," said the Dwarf with a shrug. "And I myself got no more than lump on the head, and a… small wound on my ankle."

"Small?" asked Bilbo; turning his eyes to Thorin's foot. 

"Small enough," said Thorin, brushing the hairs off of Bilbo's dirty forehead. "And too far from my heart to kill me."

Bilbo's shoulders began to shake, and his breathing grew heavy; and as Thorin's vision began to blur, he moved his fingers down the Hobbit's temple and to his cheek, then he slid his touch behind Bilbo's head and leaned forward, placing their brows together.

"I thought you were gone…" said Bilbo, his voice so low that Thorin could barely hear him. "I thought I'd lost you…"

Thorin squeezed his eyes shut, and the tears that had been gathering in them coursed down his face. "You'll not be rid of me that easily."

They drew one another close again, and Thorin pressed his cheek to Bilbo's own, finding contentment and comfort in the sound of the Hobbit's breath in his ear and the feeling of his chest rising and falling against him. No longer did Thorin have a care for the cold or for the pain in his head and ankle, and he wished only for this moment to last a while longer—but then a light rain began to fall, and Bilbo sat back slightly and looked to the sky.

All at once, there came from beside them a small sound of confusion, and both Bilbo and Thorin turned to see that Otho was watching them with a slack jaw and raised eyebrows. For a moment, Lobelia stared as well; but soon a knowing look rose into her eyes, and she leaned close to her husband and whispered something into his ear. Whatever she said seemed to have made it through to him, as he then shut his mouth tight, and his eyes darted back and forth as he turned red to the tips of his ears.

Lobelia placed her touch on his cheek and guided his face back towards her, and after their gazes locked, she twined her arms around his neck. She then turned her eyes to Bilbo and Thorin, smiling warmly; but after a few seconds, her smile changed suddenly to one of amusement.

"What?" asked Bilbo. "What is it?"

Lobelia pressed her hand to her mouth and began to laugh, even as the rain began to fall harder all around them. "Seems we'll have to postpone tea," she said from behind her palm. "The two of you look a fright!"

Chapter Text

With the coming of the rain there had risen a great hissing of water on hot stones, and a billowing of steam that for a while covered the area in a thin mist. Work had continued on, however, with most of the Hobbits that had previously been fighting the fire now beginning to sift through the mud and wet ash so to clear the ground of the stones and burnt logs that had once made up the now-fallen building. For this job, they did not need so much guidance, and so for the most part Thorin and Bilbo had sat off to the side, under the overhanging eave of one of the more Mannish houses—they being little help at that moment, though at least a bit of a curiosity to most of the area Hobbits who had never seen inked skin as was on Thorin's bare chest and shoulder.

After a time, Sherriff Grubb and a number of bounders had finally turned up at the charcoal yard. To their embarrassment, the lateness of their arrival was attributed to nothing greater than an early-afternoon fox-panic at Farmer Sandson's place, which had sent all of the chickens there flying the coop. It had taken several hours, but the Sherriff and his group had at last managed to gather up all of the errant hens; then the victorious authorities had retired to the comfort of the Ivy Bush Inn, where word of the fire had belatedly reached them.

Despite their presence, Thorin and Bilbo were still hesitant to leave, determined in spite of their own injuries to stand by in case they were in some way needed; but the Shirriff had heard of the great help they had already been, and so insisted that they take some time for a much-needed break. The grateful elderly owner of the yard, Old Ran Collier, had then said that they could use his own home to rest up in, but Thorin and Bilbo needed only to share a brief look with one another before coming to a silent agreement, and so had told Old Ran that they'd rather go on back to Bag End. At that, the aged Hobbit offered to drive them home, himself. The least he could do, he'd said, for all the help they had been.

Thorin and Bilbo gladly accepted the offer, and as the rain began to slow, Bilbo had reluctantly pulled himself away from the Dwarf's side to go into one of the larger houses in the settlement, where Lobelia and Otho were helping to tend to the few slight burns and scrapes that some of the Hobbits had gained while fighting the fire. He told his cousins that he and Thorin were leaving at the Shirriff's advice; but though Lobelia sniffed a bit at how Grubb had certainly taken his time getting there, she had also agreed that it would be best for both Thorin and Bilbo to go on home and get cleaned up.

"Oh, and tell that Dwarf of yours that I'll be stopping by later to fix up his foot," she added in no uncertain terms while tying a bandage around a young lass's scraped elbow. "He's not let me take a look at it yet, and if he waits on it much longer he mightn't have a foot anymore!"

"And his head, dear!" piped up Otho from where he was cleaning rags across the room. "He got a nasty gash there, I think!"

Lobelia nodded, turning to Bilbo. "And I'll be taking a better look at your hands, as well," she said. "The burns will be better treated when I can get to my herb garden."

Bilbo looked down at his bandaged palms. "I'm sure I'll be—"

"Best not to argue with her, Bilbo," said Otho. "She'll still treat you, but she'll be sure you don't enjoy it!"

Lobelia smiled lovingly at her husband, but the smile fell away to a grimace as she shifted from foot to foot. Bilbo looked down at the bandage wrapped tightly around her burned leg, then he lowered his head slightly in acquiescence.

"Right, then," he said. "I guess I'll… see you in a bit."

He quickly left the house, discovering as he stepped outside that the rain had ended. He got to Thorin's side just as Old Ran was helping him onto the back of his pony-drawn coal-wagon and he hopped up next to him, wrapping a protective arm around the Dwarf's bare back. They set out then from the ruined yards, heading south towards the Hill, but though Bilbo had been unable to talk privately with Thorin since their heated discussion on the roof of Bag End earlier that afternoon—and although it was certain that Old Ran was too hard-of-hearing to listen in past the rattling of the wooden wheels—still he could not bring himself to speak for a long while. All he could do, really, was hold Thorin close; ostensibly to keep him from falling off the back of the wagon, but in actuality because he could not now bear to be separated from him by even inches.

The wagon was built more for heavy work than for comfort, and at one point the wheels went into a rut on the road and the pair bucked forcefully on the wooden planks. Thorin let out a little grunt of pain, and Bilbo jumped, fearing for him; but Thorin patted Bilbo's shoulder reassuringly, then pulled him close, rubbing his whiskered chin on the top of the Hobbit's head and breathing into his hair, giving Bilbo the chills. And so they remained as they went slowly up and over the wooded rise; and as they passed by the Sackville–Bagginses' place, Thorin made a small sound of amusement. Bilbo understood why when he saw that the red door was swung wide open, and he realized what a rush Lobelia and Otho must have left the house in.

"Lobelia isn't going to be happy about the rain getting onto her floor," he said, breaking the silence that had persisted since they had left the yards.

"She might not be too upset," countered Thorin. "Likely it is only the entryway that has gotten wet, and at least there are no muddy Dwarf-boot prints to clean up."

Bilbo chuckled at first, then his eyes went wide. "Oh!" he said. "You left your boots on the Hill! They'll be soaked!"

"Well, at least they'll be clean. Not that I wear them all that often these days."

"It might have been a good idea if you had worn them this time," said Bilbo, looking down at the red-stained shirt wrapped around Thorin's foot. "I can't help but think that you might have avoided getting hurt, if you'd have had them on."

"Who's to say?" asked Thorin. "My foot got trapped while I was under the water, and if I'd have had my boots on, I mightn't have been able to release it quite so easily."

Bilbo's heart began to race. "You… your foot… what?" he asked. Thorin had not yet told him of exactly how he had gotten his injury, so the Hobbit had imagined something simpler being the cause, such as a falling stone grazing him. But this... "You were trapped?" he said, raising his voice.

"Otho reacted quite the same way when I told him," said Thorin with a shrug.

"Of course he did! Thorin, you could have drowned! I mean, what if…" Bilbo's voice trailed off, and he pulled Thorin closer as he tried to compose himself. "I don't like to see you get hurt, Thorin. You can't just go running around barefooted without by some bad chance stepping on something, or having something step on your toes!"

Thorin let out a small laugh. "Am I to take that to mean that you will never again let me out the door without my boots on?"

"You'll be lucky if I let you outside at all, with all the trouble you've been through today."

The conversation faded once more, leaving Bilbo to run through the fearful possibilities of what could have happened to Thorin over and over again in his mind. Before long, the overcast gloom above them began to thin, and blue streaks started appearing between the parting clouds, so that by the time they reached Bag End a few minutes on, the sun was shining bright and clear on them from near to the western horizon.

Old Ran pulled his pony to a halt at the bottom of the Hill, then jumped out of his seat with an ease that belied his age. "Well, here you are, then!" he said. "Let me help you down an' to the door now, fellas!"

So he did, aiding Bilbo in getting the Dwarf off of the back of the wagon, then they slipped and slid all together as they went up the muddied path.

"Thank you for the ride, Mr. Collier," said Bilbo when they reached the door. "I don't think we'd have made it back home for hours, if not for your offer."

"Well, an' I think you earned it!" said the old Hobbit. "Word was that it was you what sent out the alarm; an' I know I seen an' heard well enough to know that this gentle-Dwarf led in the fire fightin'."

Thorin lowered his head in a small bow. "I wish only that we'd have managed to save your building. As it is, you will have a long recovery ahead of you."

Mr. Collier waved a hand at him. "That's naught next to the pain we could'a had, if the fire had'a got to the trees an' houses. The village survived, at least, an' the fire was kept from the woods, an' no lives were lost! Well, though for a while we thought you an' Mr. Otho might'a been the exceptions, Mr. Dwarf!"

Bilbo tightened his hold on Thorin.

"But I do worry a bit about your foot, sir!" Mr. Collier went on. "With the blood an' all! Think you'd like for me to bring over a doctor? Let me see… I don't know where there's any nearby, but—"

"I think I will be fine for the time being," interrupted Thorin.

Bilbo shifted his attention from Thorin's face to the bloodied shirt wrapped around his foot. "At any rate, Lobelia said she would be stopping by later to take care of it."

From the corner of his eye, Bilbo saw Thorin look down at him.

"Ms. Lobelia?" asked the old Hobbit; then he snapped his fingers. "Right! Well, an' I don't know why it didn't come to me that she was a bonesetter, after all the runnin' about she's been doin', patchin' folks up an' stuff since the fire! Good to know that!" He gave the pair a wave as he went down the path and climbed spryly up into the driver's seat of his wagon. "Take it easy, now!" he said as he urged his pony to moving. "Stay off'a that foot, an' clean it up if you want to keep it!"

Down the path he drove for a few yards before turning and heading back past the Hill, and he soon vanished around the corner to the north. Thorin and Bilbo stared then at one another for a lingering moment before they shifted about and made their way into Bag End; and after shutting the door behind them, Bilbo guided Thorin into the drawing-room. There, the Dwarf sat on the sofa with a grunt, and Bilbo unintentionally echoed him in sympathy.

"Well, as Mr. Collier suggested, we really should get you cleaned up," he said. "And not just your foot. If Lobelia was right about anything, it's that you look a fright."

"She said so to both of us," Thorin corrected him; then he drew in a sharp breath as Bilbo helped him to lift his wrapped foot up onto a rest. "It's a shame that tea had to be postponed. I was almost looking forward to it."

"You were, perhaps. Though I somewhat preferred fighting the fire with Lobelia to sitting down for a long conversation with her in pretend friendliness."

Thorin tilted his head slightly. "I noticed that the two of you fought with each other more than against the fire. And yet, after Otho and I made our river-crossing, your words seemed more kind. Would it be my place, Bilbo, to ask why that was?"

Bilbo nodded stiffly, even as his cheeks began to warm. "The stresses of the moment, I suppose," he said. "And it is always your place to ask anything of me, Thorin." He shifted a bit to the side. "But, really, I should go and get some wet rags. I haven't seen your foot, but I can at least tell that it is a little more than uncomfortable for you."

"Was that your reason for requesting Lobelia to join us here? Because you felt that she might aid me in my recovery?"

"I didn't request. She offered. Well, insisted, really. And think she might be of some help, yes. After what you did for Otho, anyway."

The corners of Thorin's eyes crinkled a bit as he smiled. "Perhaps she is not so dreadful, after all."

"Perhaps," agreed Bilbo hesitantly. "And besides, the only other person I know around here even so close to being a doctor is Mirabella, and she's otherwise occupied at the moment, I think."

"And there also remains the fact that I am not a new mother in her confinement."

Bilbo stretched his sore shoulders. "Yes, there's that, also." He stepped swiftly to the hallway. "I'll be right back. Stay put."

He made his way to the kitchen, stopping for a moment in the doorway to eye the ruined blueberry-rhubarb pie on the table. It was certainly no good now for gifting to the Brandybucks, but perhaps he and Thorin could eat it, themselves. They had, after all, missed both lunch and tea, and dinnertime was drawing near. And given the fact that neither he nor Thorin had the energy to make a meal of any sort this evening, they would likely just snack the night away.

Bits of cheese, and pickled beets, and leftover chicken, and a broken pie for dessert, he thought wryly. All good and informal, and filling enough… if not very pretty.

He sighed as he went on to the basin. The water was grey and dirty and certainly no good for cleaning wounds, and so he instead grabbed some clean rags from the drawer in the sideboard and made his way to the bathroom. He removed the dirty bandaging from his own burned hands at the sink before wetting the new rags with the pump and painfully wringing them out, then he returned with them to the drawing-room. Standing fast just outside the door, he watched on as Thorin felt carefully around his foot, from which he had already removed his reddened shirt. Thorin's ankle and lower leg looked awful—bruised and twisted and inflamed and sliced and bloody. Bilbo's heart leaped up into his throat, and his hand tightened around the rags, hurting his burns worse and making him gasp.

Thorin lifted his head, then placed his palm over the worst of the vicious wound on his ankle, as if trying to hide it from the Hobbit's sight; but Bilbo rushed to his side, then knelt and pulled his hand away. Bilbo felt a pang in his own ankle, and he let out a brief grunt of pain as he set the rags down on the floor and grabbed one off the top.

"You didn't tell me it was as bad as this," he said, carefully wiping away the dirt and blood from around the wound. "Heavens, Thorin… just look at the mess you're in."

Thorin brushed the rain-curled hairs off of the Hobbit's brow. "The mess we're in, Bilbo."

Bilbo cleared his throat. "I can draw you a bath, if you like," he said. "I know you had one earlier, but another might not be a bad thing, at this point. Though we're out of matches, and I'm afraid that I can't spark a flint right now to set the fire under the kettle to warm it for you. Nor would I want you kneeling to set it, so a cold bath is likely all either of us is likely to get tonight."

"I believe that the rain has cleaned me as well as any bath could," said Thorin. "But we will both be needing dry clothes."

With this, Bilbo could not help but agree. "Wait here, then."

He set the rag on the foot-rest before standing and making his way to Thorin's room. There he began fumbling through the clothing bag beside the bed, and near to the bottom his fingertips met with something hard and cold. He brought it out in curiosity, finding that it was a small bifold portrait frame; and when he opened it he saw the youthful sketched likenesses of Fíli and Kíli on either side. They were younger in the portraits than they had been when Bilbo had met them, and he supposed that Thorin had recovered the frame in his short return to Ered Luin.

The sight brought an ache to his chest and he sat hard on the floor. It was still so difficult to believe that they were gone, that he would never again see them or hear their voices. He hadn't gotten to give them a proper goodbye, because on leaving Erebor he had only told them that he looked forward to seeing them again.

He had truly believed that he would.

I have learned all too well what it is like to lose someone before I could let them know how I felt about them, Thorin's words from the morning echoed in his mind. Before I could let them know that I loved them.

The pain in Bilbo's chest grew, and he closed the frame and pushed it back to the bottom of the bag; then he picked out a pair of old trousers and a clean, if a bit threadbare, tunic. He returned to the drawing-room and handed Thorin the clothes without a word, for fear that his voice would crack, then he checked to be sure that the curtains were shut tight before heading to the doorway. He stopped there, glancing slightly back over his shoulder.

"Do you… I mean…" he stuttered, his ears warming. "Do you need any help? Getting dressed? I mean, not to be inappropriate, but with your foot it might be… difficult?"

"I can manage, I think," said Thorin, his reply tinged with amusement.

Bilbo hummed absently. "Good," he said; then he repeated again as he stepped into the hall, "Good."

He went on to his own room, there changing into a set of more comfortable clothing, though the moments when his burned hands brushed against the fabric made him wince. Unsure if Thorin was himself completely dressed by then, Bilbo sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at the window. His thoughts drifted to the letter that Óin and Ori had left him—the one that had been set on his sill, the one that had been meant for his eyes only.

The note was in his bedside drawer, as it had been since the day he had gotten it; and so he drew it out and looked it over once again. He could not help but think now that the thanks they had given him for easing Thorin's mind were misplaced. Everything had gotten so convoluted, so confusing since then. Especially today; after how the morning had gone, after how he had spoken to Thorin on the roof, after the lies he had told without even knowing it.

The memory of what Loebelia had said that day so long ago, he now realized, had been unreal—it had been tainted by Bilbo's own former distrust of Dwarves. How had he used to think of them? Selfish and greedy… thieves and brutes and vagabonds. Good for what? Trade and labor?

Through the years he had met a few of them now and again in the Shire, at the inns or along the road, when they had been about their own comings and goings—passing through while seeking employment in Buckland and beyond, heading towards Ered Luin on their way back from some journey of trade, or stopping off at the Bywater market to buy pipeweed and sundries. Some Dwarves, he knew, had even settled in the more out-of-the-way areas of the Shire: North of the Rushock Bog in Needlehole, where they looked after the border to the Blue Mountains; and down in Scary, where they had long been bringing building-slate out of the mines.

But he had never taken the time to get to know any of them. He had never wanted to get to know any of them. Not so much like the Elves, which he had always admired—though he had never met any of them until he had left the Shire. His mother had met Elves in her own adventures, of course, and had always spoken well of them; and now that he thought about it, she had spoken of Dwarves, as well—though not very often at all. Of course, she never spoke poorly of them, though neither did she speak of them so reverentially as she did the Elves; but perhaps that was because the Elves were more strange and distant, while Dwarves had always just been there, keeping themselves in the background as they had gone about their daily lives. They were not a mystery, as the Elves were. Dwarves were simply secretive, which somehow made them seem less trustworthy.

Bilbo returned the note to the drawer, then hung his head. He did not know if he was truly thankful that Lobelia had revealed his false memory, but he did know that he could not now keep the truth from Thorin. He could not hide from him what had really been said that day at Lobelia's house, even if Bilbo himself had not until now remembered it as it had actually been.

He rose and returned to the drawing room, where Thorin was still sitting on the sofa, having changed into his dry clothes. His eyes were shut, and his head was resting back. Bilbo looked to the wet trousers sitting on the floor, wondering for a moment if Thorin had remained sitting to change out of them, or if he had balanced awkwardly on one leg; then Thorin opened his eyes and turned towards him, and again Bilbo's face began to warm.

"Well, I think we both feel somewhat better now," he said casually, stepping over and sitting down beside the Dwarf. "Or, at least, a little less soggy."

Although Thorin said nothing, Bilbo could not look away from him. He studied the bruises on his cheek, the scar on his brow, the nearly-healed stings on his arm, the frayed braids on either side of his head, the inking that was just barely visible at his loose collar, the reddening of his eyes and the tired dark circles under them. Before he could stop himself, Bilbo reached up and touched around the lump and broken skin on Thorin's scalp.

"Does this hurt much?" he asked, drawing his hand away.

"Not really," said Thorin, beginning to remove the yarn that held the left braid in place. "It mightn't need any tending."

When his ear came into full view, Bilbo let out a long breath.

"You've lost your…" Searching for the word, he motioned toward his own ear. "Your jewelry."

Thorin touched where the silver cuff had once been, then shrugged slightly. "It is not irreplaceable." He went on then, removing the second braid. "Just a bauble I picked up in Bree."

Bilbo's gaze lingered on Thorin's bare ear for a few seconds, then he turned his eyes down and shook his head. "I'm sorry for my words on the roof earlier," he said, his voice small. "I suppose in the rash moment, I spoke wrongly."

"About what?" asked Thorin. "Did you say anything this morning that was untrue?"

"Yes," admitted Bilbo plainly, though he was growing short of breath. "Honestly… Lobelia never said… I mean... " He paused, shutting his eyes for a few seconds as he gathered his courage. "When I was outside her house that day, I had overheard her saying that I was was Dwarflike, but she never said… what I mean is… is that it was me."

Thorin raised an eyebrow. "What was you?"

"I mean… I was the one who back then thought that Dwarves were selfish and greedy," Bilbo went on, fighting against a sudden constriction in his lungs. "She never said that, about me or about your kind. It was in my own mind that I had made that connection, and I think that I had repeated it to myself so often that over time I had begun to believe that was what she had said." He pursed his lips. "No, not that I had begun to… that I did believe it. I had no doubts, Thorin... none at all that that was what she had said." He breathed out hard. "But I was wrong. The memory was false."

Thorin's jaw tightened, and Bilbo feared that he had at last said the words that would cement the Dwarf's decision to leave the Shire; but then his expression softened and he took gentle hold of Bilbo's wrist, easing his hand over onto his own lap and examining the burns on his palm.

"If you feared to admit, Bilbo, that you once felt so about my people, you needn't have tried hiding it from me," he said. "I've long known that you cared little for Dwarves, before you were dragged by them… by us into the wider world. Much as I thought little of Hobbits, if I am to be honest."

"More like a grocer than a burglar," said Bilbo with a little laugh. "We were to you only farmers and tailors and weavers and cooks and purveyors of pipe-weed?"

"And not a warrior amongst you," returned Thorin with a chuckle of his own. "And yet, for all you have been through, you likely believe that you are still no warrior; because though you did your part in war, you did not seek it out, nor did you revel in the fight. Not that all Dwarves are so, either... but if we must fight, then we give our everything to the battle. We give our everything to those things worth fighting for. So, in that regard, you are a warrior now, Bilbo... for I have never seen you back down from any battle that needed be waged."

Bilbo looked deep into his tired eyes. "I don't anymore believe that being Dwarflike is a bad thing, Thorin. But I know now that Lobelia was right about me being much like one." He ran his pained hand through his long, damp hair. "Just as you were right this morning, when you said that I am no longer a proper Hobbit."

"As I am no longer a proper Dwarf," said Thorin, lowering his voice. "We are each a bit of the other, I think. We are unique unto ourselves, and I suppose that now makes it more difficult to know where we truly belong."

A blur had been steadily growing in Bilbo's eyes, and now tears coursed hot down his cheeks. "So where does that leave us, Thorin?" he asked, moving closer and resting his head on Thorin's shoulder. "What do we do now? Where do we go from here?"

Thorin wrapped his arm around Bilbo's back. "To Buckland, I think," he said. "To see what message the Ravens had for me. I don't see why our plans regarding that should change at all."

Bilbo looked again to Thorin's injured ankle. "Well, there is the one problem," he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "It may be a while before we can set out on our walking holiday if you cannot walk."

"You still wish to go with me, then?"

"I do," said Bilbo as a warmth grew in his chest; then he turned his face toward the cold hearth. "But more than that, I want to go with you when you return to Erebor."

Thorin did not reply, and Bilbo looked to him. Their gazes locked, but still Thorin said nothing, so Bilbo drew in a shaky breath before going on.

"What you said about not knowing where we belong…" he said. "I have always believed that for me it was here, in this town, in this house. But I am no longer so sure. And I know it sounds strange, but I've thought hard on it… and I have decided that it really doesn't matter whether I live in—" He stopped, recalling Lobelia's words from earlier. "It doesn't matter whether I live in a small hole in a hill, or a much larger hole in a mountain. I am certain only that… that when I am with you, anywhere feels like home to me."

Thorin still sat silent, and his eyes shifted off to the side.

"Would you please say something?" asked Bilbo, his voice uneven.

At long last, Thorin let out a breath. "I do not want you to go with me back to Erebor," he said, shaking his head.

Bilbo's heart sank, and he turned his face down, listening past a new ringing in his ears as Thorin continued.

"I want you to stay in the Shire, in Hobbiton," he said. "I do not want you to leave behind your books, your garden, the shade of your trees, your honey fresh from the hive. I know what brings you happiness, Bilbo. I want you to stay here, cooking in your small and tidy kitchen for your friends and your kin, talking about old times and adventures while the rain pats against your window. I want you to stay here, in Bag End." His fingers curled under Bilbo's chin, and he gently lifted the Hobbit's face until their eyes met. "And I want to stay here with you, if you will allow it."

The ache in Bilbo's chest grew, but this pain was welcome. "I… I don't…" he began, but the words caught in his throat.

Thorin's mouth fell open slightly. "You don't wish for me to stay?"

"No! I mean… yes, I want you to stay," Bilbo told him. "I just… I don't know what to say." His hands began to shake and his eyes again to blur, and he reached up and placed his fingertips on Thorin's whiskered cheek. "But why would you not want to go back to the Mountain? You worked so hard to reclaim it, Thorin… to rebuild it."

"I did not reclaim it for myself, but for my people. It is theirs now, and they will do well under Balin's guidance until I return."

"But how long will that be? Not forever? I cannot imagine you would want to leave them for so long."

"I will not stay away forever, no," said Thorin. "I know I will want again to see my kin, and to visit… to visit the mine where Fíli and Kíli rest. But here… here I am more free. There are those in the Shire who may know that I am a king in some far off place, those who may believe that I am of noble blood… but of me they have no expectations, and to my title I have no great weight of responsibility." He ran his hand up Bilbo's arm, his fingertips sliding softly over the stings that lingered there. "I have found where I belong."

If Thorin's foot had been in better health, Bilbo would have taken him by the hand and led him outside to dance through the puddles that the rain had left behind; but instead he reached out, pulling Thorin into a firm embrace.

"I would not want to be the one to take you away from your people," he said against Thorin's hair. "But I don't want, either, to lose you. Stay! Stay for as long as you want!"

Thorin's strong arms tightened around him, and Bilbo delighted at how warm and safe he now felt. They held to one another for a long few minutes, neither willing to let the other go; but then there came a sudden ring of the doorbell, and they both sat back in surprise.

"Lobelia?" asked Thorin.

The bell was rung a few more times, then came a fast rapping sound, as if a woodpecker was trying to work its way through the door.

Bilbo nodded. "Lobelia."

He rose to his feet and walked to the entranceway; there, he wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand, then he swung the door open to see the Sackville-Bagginses outside. They had apparently stopped off at home on the way, as they were both wearing dry—if not very fine—clothes, and Lobelia's long hair was tied back into a rather messy tail. In Otho's hand there was a large, covered basket; while his wife held a dirty folded length of cloth in one hand and a small pouch in the other.

"Well, are you just going to leave us standing on the stoop?" asked Lobelia, tapping her toes.

Bilbo's eyes widened. "Oh!" he said, trying to find his manners. "No… no, of course not. Come in!"

He moved to allow his cousins inside, then he motioned towards the room where he had left Thorin. Lobelia led the way, limping slightly, and as they entered the sitting-room, Thorin tried to rise. Lobelia waved him back down.

"Stay off of that foot," she ordered; then she held the folded cloth out to him. "You forgot this at the charcoal yards. I'm afraid it is rather a mess now."

Thorin took the cloth and unfolded it, revealing his fine blue cloak, its fur lining now caked with mud and the mithril clasp just barely hanging on. "Thank you," he said kindly, resting the cloak on his lap. "I had thought it lost under the building when it fell."

Lobelia gave him a small grin, then took the basket from her husband. "Now, since we all missed tea, we thought it only right to bring it to you," she said, lifting the cloth covering to reveal a number of sandwiches and small cakes inside. "I'm guessing you haven't eaten yet?"

A small laugh escaped Bilbo's lips. "Not yet," he said. "But we're not exactly dressed for tea."

"Neither are we!" said Otho, straightening out the front of his shirt. "And when no one is dressed for tea, then everyone is dressed for tea,"

Lobelia made a noise of agreement. "But, really, we only brought the food. You'll be preparing the tea, Bilbo. I assume you still know how to. And I hope that you have at least some of my honey left to sweeten it."

"I do," said Bilbo, his eyes darting from Lobelia to Thorin. He held out his blistered palms. "But I'm afraid I can't light a fire to heat the water right now."

"Yours aren't the only hands here," she said, passing the basket back to her husband. "Otho, you help him set up while I tend to Thorin's foot."

Otho beamed at her. "Of course, dear!" he said, then he looked to the Dwarf. "How is your foot, by the way? I see you still have it, so my binding must not have been so poorly done!"

"No, indeed," said Thorin. "And I thank you very much for putting so much effort into seeing that it was done properly."

Otho straightened up proudly. "I've not lost my touch, then!"

"And I thank you, also, for returning my cloak and bringing over what looks to be a fine meal," continued Thorin, smiling crookedly. "But I hope you do not think that either erases your debt."

"No, no… of course it wouldn't," said Otho, rolling his eyes.

Bilbo looked to Lobelia, who appeared to be just as confused as he was. "Have we missed something?" he asked, turning once more to Thorin. "What debt?"

"I'll explain later," said Thorin and Otho in unison.

A few seconds of somewhat uncomfortable silence followed, then Lobelia spun towards her husband.

"I'll need that hot water, dear," she told him. "Not just for the tea, but for the cleaning of Thorin's wounds. So go on and get the fire started." Otho jumped, then hurried out of the room, basket still in-hand; and Lobelia turned to Bilbo and held out the small pouch. "I've brought all the herbs I'll likely need, but you'll have to provide clean rags for bandages, as well as a needle and thread."

"What?" asked Bilbo, at a bit of a loss; then he realized what she had requested. "Oh… oh, yes. Of course."

"Ey!" called Otho from the kitchen. "What's this on the table, Bilbo? Is it supposed to be a pie?"

"Oh, that's…" Bilbo hollered back, then he waved his hands. "It's a… um, blueberry-rhubarb... crumble…?"

"Looks a mess!" said Otho; then a few seconds later he added, "Tastes good, though!"

Lobelia clicked her tongue. "Don't you be eating anything until the tea is ready, Otho," she scolded, then she spoke again to Bilbo. "Now, those things I asked for? And I'll need a mortar and pestle, as well. Honestly, it has been the busiest day, and I have forgotten just about everything."

"Oh... yes. Right." Bilbo briefly regarded Thorin, who seemed rather amused; then he nonchalantly turned his back to the Dwarf and leaned close to Lobelia. "I… that is, I mean… we need to talk," he said haltingly, his voice low.

"Well, I can certainly give you and Thorin a few more minutes alone before I get to work, if you like," Lobelia replied with a smirk on her lips.

Bilbo shook his head. "No, I mean…" he pointed back and forth between them. "We need to talk. You and me."

Lobelia's eyes brightened. "And we will," she said, her smirk shifting into a softer smile than she had given him in many, many years.

Chapter Text

When Menegilda and her family had accepted a lunch invitation to Bag End two weeks after the baby's birth, Bilbo had asked if it would be fine by her if 'a couple others' were there, as well. Menegilda did not, of course, have any objections to that, but she would never have dreamed that those others would turn out to be Lobelia and Otho Sackville-Baggins.

Not that she was disappointed. In fact, she was quite happy to see how well Bilbo and Lobelia were now getting along… at least, relative to in the past. Still, the shift in their attitudes was a bit of a mystery that neither of them seemed to be quite willing to talk about; although Menegilda had no doubt that it must have something to do with what had gone on at the fire in the woods.

That really had been quite a frightening tale to hear second-hand the day it had happened, and Menegilda had been terribly concerned about all who were involved; but much of her worry had been assuaged when Thorin and Bilbo had, themselves, come by the Brandybuck home the next day and explained all—or most—of what had happened at the river: from Bilbo sending out the alarm and Thorin leading the fire-fighting, to the collapse of the building and Thorin saving Otho from drowning.

During the whole of the telling, however, little had been said about Lobelia, besides the fact that she had been helping to fight the blaze and afterwards had patched up the few who had been injured. The gravest of those few injuries, apparently, had been to Thorin, himself; and he had declined to show his damaged ankle to Menegilda, citing its unpleasant nature. Regardless, Mirabella would not be held back from examining it, herself, and she had proclaimed that it had been fixed up 'well enough'.

After that visit, Bilbo and Thorin had stopped by several more times over the next week, always bearing food and delivering news of how the recovery was going on, both at the coal-yard and with Thorin's foot. On one of those visits, Menegilda had noticed that the rugged willow walking-stick the Dwarf had been using to aid him in getting about had been replaced with a somewhat finer cane of carved and waxed oak. That, it turned out, was a gift from Ran Collier, who had given it to Thorin out of appreciation for all the help that he had been. Thorin seemed really to treasure the gift, and he seldom let it go, except for those frequent times when he was holding the baby.

At last, the two weeks of postpartum confinement that Mirabella had prescribed for Menegilda had passed; and it was in celebration of this that Bilbo and Thorin had offered to host her family for a fine lunch. The get-together had gone rather well—a couple gracious disputes between Mirabella and the Sackville-Bagginses notwithstanding—and they had all managed to make it to the end of the the  main meal in good spirits. They all now were nibbling on tarts and sipping coffee at the cluttered dining room table, and the conversation had come back around to babies and children, as it had already done many times that day.

"So, you've not settled on a name yet?" Bilbo asked, gazing at the child, who had been cradled in Thorin's arms for at least the last half-hour. "I thought people always decided on names before the baby was born."

Menegilda opened her mouth to reply, but it was Mirabella who spoke up first.

"Well, that is how it usually works," she said. "But this little one has a future ahead of him, and his name must garner respect! He mustn't have a name that is ill-suited to his station."

"What does his station matter, Mother?" laughed Rory, quickly straightening out his expression when Mirabella shot him a glare. "I mean… he is still much too young to worry about that."

Across the table, Thorin hummed softly, never once looking up from the cooing child. "And it is not the name that will give him respect," he said. "People will come to respect the name because of his actions."

"Oh, I suppose you're right," said Mirabella as she reached over her empty plate and grabbed a third tart off the platter at the center of the table. "Still, I would like that he has a name that speaks volumes from the start, that has a presence. Nothing so childish or immature as some of the names you hear these days. Honestly, some people just do not think of the child's future when naming—"

"Can you imagine, though," said Lobelia, fixing her attention on Mirabella, "those poor children who are given names that sound much too old for them? That already sound like they should be grandfathers before they have even learned to walk?" She harrumphed. "Far too many boy's names are like that. It is so much easier to name girls. Flowers and gems have no age!"

"If ever we have a child, darling, I do hope it is a girl," piped up Otho, looking at his wife lovingly. "We would name her after you."

Mirabella let out a laugh. "And if it's a boy?" she asked. "Would he be named after Otho, the Sinking-Stone?"

Menegilda sighed. The subject of Otho's adventure at the river had come up twice already, both times due to Mirabella's objection to the way the Sackville-Bagginses viewed boating and swimming with no small amount of contempt. Bilbo had, early on in the day, tried to explain that he did not know how to swim, either, and had even mentioned something about nearly drowning in a barrel or some such thing; but Mirabella had simply brushed him off in favor of needling at Otho's shortcoming in that area. Really, the disparity seemed rather unfair, even to the point where Primula had taken to defending him in her own manner.

"But, Mother," she said, "it isn't Otho's fault he never learned to swim. After all, who knew he would ever have to?"

"If you live near water, you should learn to swim," Mirabella told her matter-of-factly. "At least a little. Enough to float, at minimum! And I expect you to teach your… what's his name? That fellow you're fancy on?"

Primula's cheeks reddened, yet it was Rory that spoke up.

"Drogo, Mother," he said.

"Yes, him," Mirabella went on. "He's a fine boy, but I expect you to teach him how to swim, if ever—"

"Wait…" interrupted Bilbo, drawing his eyes away from Thorin and the baby. "Drogo Baggins? When did this happen?"

Rorimac took a small drink of coffee. "Oh, they've been writing back and forth for years," he said. "She's been out with him more than at my place since she got to town."

"That isn't true!" said Primula.

"But it is," said Rory, then he turned to his wife. "Am I wrong?"

Menegilda brushed an errant curl of hair away from her eyes. "Now probably isn't the best time to discuss this, dear."

"I do so spend time at your place!" said Primula to her brother.

"And when you do, Drogo is usually there with you," said Rory. "Eating all our victuals!"

"Rory…" said Menegilda gently.

"Oh," Primula persisted, "you were just the same with Gilda's family when you were courting!"

Mirabella slapped her hand down on the tabletop. "Rorimac and Primula Brandybuck!" she bellowed. "We do not argue when we are guests at someone's home!"

Rory and Prim both shrunk back, falling into silence, although they continued to frown at one another across the table. Menegilda held back a smile. It was not so uncommon a thing for her husband and his sister, really, to revert back to their old bickering childhood ways from time to time; but Mirabella always seemed to be able to reign them in with either a glare or a word or a well-aimed scolding.

"Shh… shh…" said Thorin, and Menegilda turned to see him gently bouncing the now-fussing child. "He did not seem to like that very much."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" said Mirabella, looking affectionately at her grandchild. "I'm sorry, little one!"

The conversation around the table paused as everyone watched Thorin trying to settle the baby down. He rubbed the top of the child's head, then held him closer and swayed a bit, until at last the baby stopped fussing and began sucking on its fingers. Menegilda smiled and nodded at Thorin, though the Dwarf did not notice as his own attention was drawn to Bilbo, whose face was brightening as he gazed down at the baby.

After a few seconds, Bilbo looked up; and upon seeing everyone staring at him, he cleared his throat.

"Um, anyway…" he said. "Mr. Collier sent word today that the clean-up down by the riverside is coming along well. It's going to cost quite a bit to build the coal-house and dock back up again, though."

"Oh, I'll wager that he can afford it!" said Mirabella, then she turned to her son. "Go on! Tell them what you heard."

"What I…?" Rory's eyes darted back and forth. "What did I hear?"

"Oh, that's right!" said Mirabella. "I didn't tell you yet!" She leaned forward, as if sharing a secret with the whole crowd. "Well, I heard from Sarabeth Greenholm that—"

Lobelia made a small sound of disgust. "Why would you listen to her, of all people?"

Mirabella held a silencing finger up at Lobelia, who sat back in a bit of a huff.

"Anyway," Mirabella went on. "Sarabeth said that Old Ran found some kind of coin in the mud whilst cleaning up," she said. "He went and had it appraised, and would you believe, it's worth enough to rebuild the coal-house and the dock, and maybe even expand the village by a little!"

"Well, how did that get there, I wonder!" said Rory.

"Goodness knows, but the rumor is that it had been hidden up in the rafters by his father some years ago, and then got tossed to the mud when the building fell."

It seemed to Menegilda then that a certain stiffness had come to both Bilbo and Lobelia's postures, and they set their eyes on one another for a few seconds before looking away.

"Well, isn't that… isn't that something," said Bilbo. "Quite a turn of luck."

"Yes, quite," agreed Lobelia, speaking into her coffee cup.

The corner of Thorin's mouth turned up slightly. "Certainly, rebuilding the coal-house and revitalizing the village is an excellent use for such wealth."

Otho was glancing from one face to another. "Was that the—" he began, but Lobelia silenced him with a look. "Right, yes. A very good use of the money!"

Lobelia leaned towards her husband, who tilted towards her until their shoulders met. She opened her mouth, as if to speak, but whatever she was about to say was cut short by a sudden ring at the door.

"Oh," said Bilbo, rising swiftly to his feet. "Excuse me, please. I don't know who that could be…"

As he left the dining room, Mirabella turned to her daughter.

"You didn't invite Drogo over, did you?" she asked.

"No!" said Primula. "But maybe I should have!"

Rory pursed his lips. "What, so he can eat all of Bilbo's food, as well?"

"Oh, do not start this again," said Mirabella.

A moment later, Bilbo reappeared in the doorway. "Um…" he said, placing a hand on Thorin's shoulder and leaning close to his ear. "It appears that you have company."

Thorin turned around just as two Dwarves—one older, and one who seemed to be quite young for his kind—stepped into view in the hallway, both dressed in traveling clothes and looking somewhat weary.

Surprise showed on Thorin's whiskered face. "Óin?" he said. "Ori?"

He glanced at the baby in his arms before carefully handing him off to Bilbo, who seemed to be quite bewildered as to why he was now holding the infant; then Thorin shifted about in his seat and grabbed his cane from where it rested against the wall, drawing himself up onto his feet.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, limping out into the hallway. "You aren't scheduled to return for nearly a month."

"Did you not get the Raven's message?" asked the older Dwarf; then he looked to the younger one. "You did send it, did you not, Ori?"

"I did, just before we left Ered Luin," Ori replied in a small voice. "It should have made it here already. Maybe… it got a bit lost?"

Bilbo snickered. "Well, you're always welcome here, announced or not!"

The older Dwarf—Óin, apparently—shook his head, then shifted his attention to Thorin's wrapped foot. "Well, and what happened to you?"

Mirabella hummed as Thorin went on speaking to the newcomers. "Now, who are these Dwarves?" she asked in a voice soft enough for only those in the dining room to hear. "I've not seen them around before."

Nobody at the table offered up an answer, but as the discussion between the Dwarves continued, a Hobbitish curiosity drove the entire group to stand and make their way into the hall.

"Do you really mean to tell me," said Óin, "that after all you have been through, all the battles you have fought… you almost died in a river in Hobbiton?"

"Actually, it was Overhill," Bilbo piped up, holding the baby to his chest, as if he was afraid he would drop him. "It's somewhat north of here."

"Well, then…" said the old Dwarf with a laugh, "that makes all the difference, doesn't it?"

Menegilda moved to Bilbo's side. "Would you like me to take him?" she asked, motioning towards the baby.

Bilbo beamed at the child. "No… no, I think I'm fine for the moment."

A warmth rose to Menegilda's chest; but before she could tell him how happy she was that he was growing comfortable with the baby, her thoughts were drawn back to the Dwarves.

"You're early," said Thorin, still speaking to Óin. "I didn't expect you back so soon."

"I beg your forgiveness, my Lord," he said; then he paused, eyeing the crowd. "I mean… I am truly sorry for cutting your holiday short, Thorin, but—"

"Well!" said Mirabella, cutting him off. "What is this 'my lord' business all about, Mr. Oakenshield?"

Menegilda held back a knowing smile; but Lobelia and Otho both appeared to grow somewhat pale at this, and they took hold of one another's hands as they shifted uncomfortably where they stood. Thorin and Bilbo shared a look, but their moment was rather quickly interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

Bilbo let out a chuckle. "Oh… this has a familiar feel to it," he said. "There's not a wizard out there, by chance?"

"Ah, no!" said Óin. "Not this time!"

The knock came again, and Bilbo rubbed the baby under the chin before turning to Rory. "Would you mind terribly getting that for me?"

"What?" said Rory. "Oh! Oh, yes, of course!"

He made his way over and swung open the door, revealing four more Dwarves outside. And indeed, it seemed to Menegilda that Thorin's claim that all Dwarves looked the same had been rather conservative, as she could easily tell that two of the visitors were women. The sight really seemed to surprise Bilbo, who looked back and forth between his new guests and Thorin as the newcomers stepped inside.

"The wagons are all secured and the ponies are comfortable," the older of two red-bearded male Dwarves said, slapping Bilbo affectionately on the arm. "Hello, old friend!"

"Gloin!" exclaimed Bilbo. "And… company?"

Thorin's jaw slacked when the group neared him.

"Dís?" he said, as the older of the two Dwarf-women—who had a short, though finely-styled and braided beard—enthusiastically embraced him. "Dís… what are you doing here?"

Menegilda's mouth fell slightly open as she remembered that Dís was the name of Thorin's sister; but her attention was then drawn to Rory, who was walking towards them from the doorway.

"Quite a party," he said. "Shame we ate all the food before they got here."

Gloin let out a deep laugh. "Oh, don't try to pretend that Bilbo, of all people, is out of food! We've seen his larders!"

"Emptied them, you mean!" chuckled Bilbo.

Thorin grinned at him, then turned again to Dís. "I thought you weren't returning to Erebor."

"I am now, Brother," said Dís, removing her traveling-cloak, which the other Dwarf-lady took with a small bow. "I want to be with my sons."

Sorrow replaced the joy in Thorin's expression and he lowered his head.

Óin cleared his throat "My Lady Dís," he said. "Your brother does not yet know."

Thorin stared at him. "Know what? What do I not know?"

"We…" Óin began, then he stopped, examining the crowd around them. "Perhaps… in private?"

"No. I have all trust with everyone here. You may speak freely."

Óin gave him a small nod. "We received a Raven-message from Erebor some weeks ago…" he said. "Thorin… they have been found."

"Fíli and Kíli…?" said Thorin, swaying a bit where he stood. "Their… their bodies have been recovered?"

Gloin moved closer to him. "No, my Lord," he said, his gruff tone softening. "They have been found alive."

Chapter Text

A silence fell. Bilbo could hear the baby breathing as he held him safely to his chest, the shuffling of feet on the entryway tiles, the creaking of Thorin's cane as he leaned heavily on it; but for a long moment nothing was said aloud, even by Bilbo himself, who alone amongst the Hobbits knew Fíli and Kíli… who had grown to love them and had mourned their loss.

All eyes were on Thorin, who swayed a bit on unsteady legs as his eyes searched the distance behind his sister's shoulder. A pallor had come over him, and his mouth moved slightly as if he were weighing his words before speaking them.

"How… how is that possible?" he stammered at last. "Are they well? Are they…" His voice vanished in a shuddering breath.

"The Ravens didn't say," Ori replied apologetically.

Óin nodded. "The message was only that they had been found some few weeks after our departure, and that they are recovering in Erebor… or so, at least they were when the news was sent out from the Mountain. The Ravens had been searching all along the Road for us since then — throughout Rhovanion and over the Misty Mountains to Rivendell, then on to the Lone Lands to Bree and to Buckland… but apparently we had eluded them until they found us at last in Ered Luin."

"Oh," piped up Mirabella. "That's what it was, then! What the Dwarves in Buckland were chattering about! Well, I'm sorry for not bringing the news on to you, Mr. Oakenshield. But who are these Fíli and Kíli people, then?"

"His nephews," said Menegilda in a small voice.

Thorin looked to her and offered a barely noticeable nod; but if he wanted to say anything, he did not get the chance.

"We sent Ravens back to the Mountain to let them know that we would be returning as quickly as we are able," said Gloin. "And also, to gather more information on the Princes' health and report to us with all speed. Whether we are here at Bag End, or somewhere along the Road to Erebor, any further news should reach us in due time."

"What princes?" asked Primula, her eyes lighting up. "Oh, I would like to meet them!"

"For what?" asked Mirabella. "You've already got your own fellow, Prim. Your Drogo. No need to go chasing after Dwarvish royalty."

Bilbo heard a small noise of shock and looked back to see Lobelia and Otho clinging tightly to one another.

"But… what are we talking about now?" asked Rory. "We're all here speaking about Mr. Thorin's nephews, but then Princes were brought into it and, well… what even is going on?"

Again, the crowd went quiet, and Thorin swayed as he stood staring at nothing, seemingly in a daze.

"Um… how long will you be staying?" Bilbo asked, breaking the silence. "Not that there's any hurry, of course. You are welcome to stay here for as long as you like."

Dís smiled softly at him. "We don't wish too much of a delay, so we'll be heading East early tomorrow."

"Though not too early," added Gloin. "We are going to wait until the market opens, so to pick up some provisions on our way through Bywater."

"Well, that's perfect!" exclaimed Mirabella. "Prim and I are going to be headed back home tomorrow, ourselves, and tagging along with you would certainly save Rory having to take us all the way there with his slow old pony. I've expectant mothers that need tending to in Buckland, after all, despite how much I have loved spending time with my dear ones here." With that, she smiled at the baby in Bilbo's arms, then she looked again to the Dwarves. "If that is fine by you, that is. I would hate to impose!"

"Ah, it is no imposition," said Óin, giving Mirabella a slight bow. "But am I to understand, my lady, from your mention of tending to expectant mothers, that you are a midwife?"

"Certainly!" said Mirabella proudly. "I've seen to the birth of dozens and dozens of babies. You'd scarcely find a child in Buckland who first looked upon some face other than mine."

"Then we have something in common, ma'am."

"Oh! Are you a midwife, as well? Or… hmm, well, would you call it a mid-husband, perhaps? I can't say I've ever heard of such a thing, but Dwarves are what they are!"

"Indeed," said Óin. "And I think I should very much like to speak with you about your skills and experiences."

A tween-like twinkle rose into Mirabella's eyes. "Oh, wonderful!" she exclaimed. "It will give us something to speak about along the Road! And, of course, you will all be welcome to stay on at Brandy Hall for a day or two before going on your way!"

Gloin nodded. "Well, that's settled then," he said. "But we are at present road-weary and needing of a meal and a bit of a rest." He looked then to Bilbo. "If that is not too much of an imposition, of course."

"Come now, Gloin," said Bilbo. "You know you're welcome here any time."

Beside him, Thorin let out a quavering sigh, and Bilbo looked up to see that his eyes were welling up at the corners.

"I should…" Thorin began, then he shook his head, as if trying to chase away a thought. He looked to his sister. "I'm… I'll go get my room ready for you."

With that, he turned slowly and made his way down to the hall, barely able to lift the tip of his cane fully from the tiles. The others watched him turn into his room and shut the door behind him, then they all looked to Bilbo.

"Well, then," Gloin said, then he motioned towards Rorimac. "I trust this gentle-Hobbit was joking when he said the food was all gone."

"You know me better than that," said Bilbo lightly. "Help yourself to whatever you can find. You do remember where the larders are?"

"Gloin has spoken highly of them," said the Dwarf lady that was holding Dís's cloak; and though Bilbo had never met her, he knew this must be Gloin's wife, Tílsa. "And of your cooking. The whole way here he was filling Gimli's head full of pictures of cakes and biscuits and pickles and baked chicken and pies—"

"And scones," exclaimed Gimli with a large grin. "Don't forget the scones!"

"Oh!" said Rory. "Fruited scones with a honey glaze!"

Bilbo could not help but crack a small smile at their shared excitement, but then his expression straightened and he glanced over his shoulder at Thorin's closed door.

"Bilbo?" he heard Primula whisper close to his ear, and he turned to see that she had eased up to his side. "Do you really know princes?" she went on. "Do you think you might introduce me to them?"

"I… well…" Bilbo looked down at the baby in his arms, then returned his attention to Primula and gently handed the child off to her. "I'm going to go help Thorin get the rooms ready," he said, trying to sound casual even as he backed a few steps away from the gathered crowd. "In the meantime why don't you all… um…" He waved his hands absently. "Introduce yourselves?"

He spun about then and rushed off to Thorin's room, there pausing outside for a few seconds as he glanced at the milling and murmuring Hobbits and Dwarves; then he pushed open the door and stepped inside before shutting the noise out behind him.

Thorin was kneeling on the floor, his shaking hands holding open a clothing bag. Bilbo looked to the bed where several folded outfits were stacked on the neatly spread-out quilt; and as Bilbo watched on, Thorin pulled the stack down and slid it into the bag.

"Dís can sleep in here this evening," Thorin said without looking back. "And if it isn't too much trouble, perhaps Gloin and Tílsa may use your room?"

"Of course," said Bilbo. "And the others can argue about who gets the guest beds and who will be stuck on the sofas, though it shouldn't be so difficult for four as it was for fourteen."

The weak attempt at humor did not garner a response from Thorin, who simply continued to pack his clothes into the bag. Bilbo's gaze lingered then for a time on the bed, where the two of them had of late spent so many nights wrapped in each other's arms.

"But then, our rooms are hardly our rooms anymore, are they?" he asked, almost to himself as much as to Thorin. "Not separate things, hardly our own spaces?" Thorin offered no reply, so Bilbo stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Are we going to talk about this, Thorin?"

"What is there to talk about?" Thorin asked, struggling to his feet. "I am sorry to be leaving so soon, and on such short notice." His eyes met Bilbo's own for a fleeting moment, then he tossed the filled clothes-bag onto the bed and sat down beside it. "But you know that I cannot stay now, no matter how much I…"

Words seemed to fail him then, and he let out a long breath as he pulled open the bedside drawer. He froze, his lightly-shaking hand hovering above it for a few seconds before he at last reached inside and drew out his sky-blue cloak. The garment had been cleaned since the fire, but it was still somewhat dull and wrinkled, and did not now appear to be so elegant or luxurious as it once had. He set the folded cloak on his lap and ran his fingers along the frayed golden embroidery that adorned the fabric's edge.

Bilbo moved the clothing-bag aside and sat down with his hip pressed to Thorin's own. "I'm coming with you, Thorin," he said. "I told you already that when you left again for Erebor I would be going as well."

Thorin shook his head. "No," he said. "I cannot ask you to—"

"You aren't asking me to do anything," Bilbo cut him off. "This is my decision, Thorin, and I have decided that I will follow you wherever you go, for however long it takes to get there."

Thorin's fingers tightened around the fabric. "Not like this," he said. "I will not drag you away from your home like I did before. I cannot again ask you to leave your friends and your family." He shifted uncomfortably where he sat. "You've only just renewed your relationship with your cousins, it would be a poor time to—"

"Do you love me, Thorin?"

Thorin turned, meeting Bilbo's gaze. He seemed to be trying to grasp the weight of those few words — words that, until then, had not passed between them. He held his breath for a few seconds, then let it out slowly, offering no answer aloud, but mouthing a silent 'What?' in feeble response.

"Are you in love with me?" Bilbo pressed, taking Thorin's trembling hand in his own. "As I am with you?"

Thorin’s lips parted, then he shut them again and closed his eyes as he lowered his head. "Yes," he said, his voice as soft as Bilbo had ever heard it. "More than you know."

Bilbo squeezed his hand. "Then don't leave me behind."

Thorin swallowed hard, then pulled his hand out of Bilbo's hold and buried his face in his palms. "I left them behind…" he said, his voice muffled. "I should have waited. If I'd have just stayed in Erebor a little longer, Fíli and Kíli—" His breath caught in a struggling gasp. "What must they think of me?"

Pain rose into Bilbo's chest as he now began to regret his own words, tender as he had tried to make them with his long-held confession. He leaned close to Thorin, resting his head against his shoulder.

"They must think… they must know that you love them," he said, placing a hand on the cloak on Thorin's lap. "That you love them so much that you couldn't bear to stay where you lost them… that you left a hard-won home behind because without them, it wasn't a home."

Thorin lowered his hands from his face and ran his touch over the silver tassel that adorned the cloak's hood. "That home was not won for myself," he said. "It was for my people, my kin… for Fíli and Kíli. Everything I did, I did for them."

"I know," said Bilbo. "And they know, even if you never said so aloud. But if you still feel that they need to hear it from you, Thorin… then tell them. When you get back to the Mountain, tell them. Don't wait again to let them know how you feel."

A tremble worked its way through Thorin's body, and he turned his reddened eyes to Bilbo. "I do want you to come with me, Bilbo," he said. "I couldn't imagine now making this journey without you, but…"

"But?"

"But the last time you left Hobbiton, you came back to nothing more than scraps and shadows in an empty house. I cannot bear to have that happen to you again."

Bilbo felt the barest trace of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "It won't," he said, grabbing Thorin by the hand once more. "Trust me."