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Chapter Text

“Bother, bother, bother,” Bilbo muttered as he rushed down the corridor, his feet making soft smacking sounds on the inlaid stone floor. Erebor was very splendid, and he had truly come to love it as a real home over the past few years, but sometimes all that grandeur made it infuriatingly difficult to get anywhere in a hurry. “Oh, I do hope I’m not too late.”

He pulled himself up sharply in front of the fortified door and nodded politely at the guards as they bowed at him—which he had sadly given up on stopping them from—and opened the locks for him. As he slipped through the door, he heard a rich, resonant voice echoing from the walls, and relaxed. He had not missed everything, at least.

“—bound hand and foot, so that we could not move at all, and bound into sacks and tossed aside like so much slag, as though we were nothing to them; for indeed, to the filthy trolls, we were naught but meat for their cooking pot. My heart became as lead within me, for I feared that all would be lost, and my valiant Company lose the lives they had so nobly pledged to quest with me to reclaim our home.”

It was a sight that Bilbo never tired of; Thorin Oakenshield, the great King Under the Mountain, sitting on a soft mat on the floor in the middle of a mass of tiny dwarrow, telling them stories.

The first time Thorin had invited Bilbo to join him for an important appointment at the treasure-house, Bilbo had been quite worried; when he had led them past the corridor that led to the treasury, he had been confused. It was not until they had passed through the multiple layers of security—more security even than that on the royal wing—into a brightly-colored, cozy room full of tiny furniture that Bilbo realized that Thorin had taken him to the school.

It made sense, of course, given how rare children were among the dwarrow, but Bilbo’s Khuzdûl had been rather rudimentary, at the time, and he had been unaware of the idiom.

Regardless, Thorin made time to visit the children—the pebbles, as they were rather charmingly called—no less than once a month, and more often if he could make the time.

(“It helps me,” he had confessed softly, pressing his face into Bilbo’s hair to whisper in his ear. “The more I fill my heart with things of real value, the less I fear the sickness will return,” and Bilbo’s own heart had squeezed quite painfully in his chest, and he had made haste to comfort Thorin with every means at his disposal.)

“But I had forgotten the most important thing,” Thorin continued. “For we were not alone upon our quest, but had with us a treasure of the greatest worth, a gift of Mahal’s own hands sent to preserve His children, though we had not yet quarried the rock to discover the jewels within.”

A murmur spread through the group, who were hanging on their King’s every word. One little girl, her flame-red braids tipped with golden beads, clapped her hands in excitement, bouncing in place where she knelt on the rug next to one of Thorin’s knees.

“The Prince!” she exclaimed.

“Aye,” Thorin said solemnly, nodding at her like she was a visiting dignitary. “Indeed, it was Prince Bilbo, though my eyes were yet blind to his true nature, and we still foolishly considered him to be only a burglar! He got to his feet, though he was as bound as we, and commanded the trolls to stop, and they marveled so at his courage that they stopped preparing to eat us, and turned to pay him heed.” Thorin made a dramatic gesture to where Bilbo stood in the doorway, causing another ripple of excitement as his little audience realized he was there. Bilbo quirked an eyebrow at his husband, who just smiled softly at him, his lovely eyes shining with affection.

Honestly, it was very unfair, Thorin smiling at him like that and making it quite impossible to be the least bit cross with him, no matter how absurdly he exaggerated Bilbo’s virtues in the stories he told the pebbles. Bilbo sighed, and returned the smile, which only made Thorin look happier.

“Bilbo faced the trolls without flinching, for the forge of his heart burns more fierce than dragonfire, and his loyalty is as strong as mithril and as deep as the Mountain, and he would risk any peril to himself for the sake of his companions,” Thorin continued, his voice thrumming with conviction. “He knew that if the light of day touched them, the trolls would turn to stone. The night grew old, and dawn approached; if he could but delay the monsters long enough, we should all be saved by the coming of the sun.”

He went on, spinning admittedly quite a thrilling tale of how Bilbo had outwitted the trolls; Bilbo would have adored it when he was a faunt. Even now, knowing full well that his actions had been much less “cunning plan” and much more “desperate scramble to survive by any means necessary,” he couldn’t help but be impressed.

“Thus ends the tale of how Bilbo Trueheart used his clever mind and silver tongue to save us from the trolls, that we might live to complete our quest and regain our home for all of Durin’s Folk,” Thorin said. “Listen and take heed, children of Erebor, and learn through these deeds: though the strength of sword and axe may fail, the gifts of Mahal our Maker are many, and salvation may come from unexpected places. Blessed be Mahal.”

“Blessed be Mahal,” the children echoed, then immediately all started talking at once, some crowding close to Thorin to ask questions, some jumping to their feet to reenact some portion of the troll battle, some running up to Bilbo, and some content to chatter with their friends in little bunches. Thorin rose and started making his way across the room to Bilbo, though he paused frequently to answer questions and give attention to any child who wanted it. When he reached Bilbo’s side at last, he had the little red-haired girl perched in the crook of one arm, clinging to his fur mantle while she looked at Bilbo with wide, bright eyes.

“Bilbo Trueheart, Consort Under the Mountain, I make known unto you Saldís daughter of Járndís, newly arrived in our Halls.”

Shooting his husband an amused look, Bilbo gave the child his best diplomatic bow. “Be welcome in Erebor, Saldís daughter of Járndís,” he said, then left off the fancy manners to wink at her. “Did you enjoy the King’s story?”

She nodded enthusiastically, setting her beads chiming against each other like little bells.

“What was your favorite part?”

“When you saved the King and all the Company, even though you were the littlest!” she said at once.

“Saldís has two elder brothers,” Thorin murmured in explanation.

“We littler folk may do great deeds as well as anyone else, my lass, and don’t you forget it,” Bilbo said.

She gave an excited little hiccup. “I won’t!” she exclaimed, looking delighted to be lumped in with Bilbo. She gave Thorin’s arm a pat. “Can I get down please? I want to tell Milja! Her brother always says she’s too little to play with him!”

“Of course, mizimith,” (little jewel) Thorin said, setting her down carefully.

“Thank you, Your Highness! Your Majesty! May-your-beards-be-long-and-your-axes-sharp!” She blurted the last phrase out as though it was all one word before darting through the sea of children to find her playmate.

Thorin, finding his arms unoccupied, moved at once to stand close, tugging Bilbo flush against his side with one arm. Bilbo sighed with contentment, enjoying the warmth and strength of his husband’s body.

“Do you think she realizes I have neither a beard nor any axes?” he said idly. “I mean, of course I know it is an idiomatic phrase, but it is rather funny when you think about it.”

“You have a beard and axes of the spirit,” Thorin said firmly. “It is clear to any who look.”

Bilbo glanced up, just to be sure that Thorin was not being funny, but his expression was clear and open, his handsome face practically glowing with sincerity. Bilbo pressed his lips together firmly until he was sure he would not laugh, then nodded. “Of course, I’m sure that’s what she meant,” he said. They passed the remainder of the hour together quite happily, for Thorin loved few things more than seeing the children of his people plump and rosy and unafraid after their long and perilous exile, and Bilbo took deep enjoyment from anything that could lighten the weight of leadership for Thorin.

Indeed, it was nearly two hours later that Bilbo returned to his office for his afternoon duties, carefully locked the door, buried his face in a jewel-encrusted cushion, and laughed until his stomach ached at the thought of himself with some sort of spiritual beard, which he imagined would likely look like Gandalf’s fancy smoke-rings, only perhaps glowing faintly blue.

He was deeply touched by how the dwarrow of Erebor had accepted him as one of their own, but one couldn’t deny it sometimes led to very funny situations in which one really should not laugh. But all in all, if that was the worst trial he must face in his married life, he would consider himself to be fortunate indeed.

Chapter Text

“…and so I assured him that of course we all know that he does have a beard,” Thorin concluded, gesturing with his fork.

Dís blinked at him. “Are you still talking about Bilbo?”

“Who else would I be talking about? I don’t have any other Consorts.”

“Yes, well, that’s what was confusing me,” she said, sipping her ale. “Because I just had a meeting with him this morning, and I’m quite sure he still doesn’t have a beard.”

“How can you say that?” Thorin demanded, feeling rather betrayed. “After everything he’s done for our people—for our family!—how can you be dismissive of his honor?”

Dís narrowed her eyes at him, in much the same way she did when one of the lads was getting up to mischief. “I said nothing about his honor,” she said. “He’s got more honor in his smallest finger than most dwarrow scrape together in centuries. But he doesn’t wear it on his face.”

Thorin scowled, still feeling that his beloved was being slighted somehow. “It may not be immediately visible, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t bearded in his heart! His beard is a beard of the spirit!”

Dís mouth twitched for several seconds before she put her mug down, buried her face in her hands, and positively howled with laughter.

“Did—oh, bless me—did you say that to him? Just like that?” she finally managed to say, between gasps and hoots. It was really quite unbecoming for a princess of the line of Durin to behave so.

“Perhaps not in those precise words,” Thorin said. “But something to that effect.” He’d privately been rather proud of the rather poetic wording he’d come up with. Bilbo was a poet himself, after all. “He didn’t seem to think I said anything amiss.” He’d been rather dear, Thorin thought, curling sweetly beneath Thorin’s arm all warm and soft, where he belonged. He certainly hadn’t laughed about it.

“That’s because he loves you far better than you deserve,” Dís said, not unkindly. She dabbed tears of laughter away from her eyes with her napkin.

“On that point we certainly agree.”

“I do think, Thorin, that Bilbo probably would have appreciated it more had you simply told him that his honor was unquestioned, even if he does not wear its symbol the same way our people do,” she said.

“Bilbo is one of our people! He—”

“Hush!” She held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. “Of course Bilbo is one of us, and we all love him dearly. But he isn’t a dwarf, Thorin, and he never will be, unless one of those wizards who keep skulking around has some very interesting plans under his hat. He is a hobbit—the very best of hobbits—and we should not forget it, nor should we expect him to do all the compromising necessary while he lives among us.”

“I don’t do that,” Thorin said, puzzled, then felt a sinking sensation in his belly. “Wait, do I do that? Have I made him feel unwelcome? Am I… do I burden him somehow? He never said anything…” but then, Bilbo wouldn’t, would he? He would only somehow think whatever problem was his own to solve. Oh, this was terrible. “Have I been blinded to his needs yet again?”

“Calm down, Thorin, there’s no need to look so tragic,” Dís said. “Bilbo’s quite happy, from what I can tell. I’m merely suggesting there are ways you could make him happier.”

“What ways?” Thorin demanded. “What do you know? Please, sister, I would do anything to bring him joy. Anything.”

“No quests,” Dís said at once. “No, don’t give me that wounded look, I know you. You’ve quested enough for three lifetimes. And no, you should not commission a golden statue of Bilbo, or declare a week of feasting in his honor, or anything of the sort.”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” Thorin protested. Obviously, a statue of Bilbo should be of the green marble of Erebor, tastefully set with gems, and only golden to set off his hair.

“Think about it,” Dís said. “Bilbo has learned our language, he has grown his hair and wears it braided—yes, it does look very well on him, stop making that face—he eats our cuisine and wears clothes in our style, he wears jewelry; he has adopted many of our ways. Do you not think that he might enjoy it if some of us adopted some of the ways of his Shire, at least sometimes? That it might make him feel more at home?”

“But this is his home,” Thorin said, rubbing fretfully at the old scar over his breastbone.

“Of course it is, now,” Dís said gently. “But that doesn’t mean he may not sometimes miss things about the home he had before. I do not wish to return to live in Ered Luin, but sometimes I wish I could eat some of those wild berries that grew there, or see the way those old mountains looked silhouetted against the setting sun.”

Thorin settled. That… did make sense, he had to admit. His sister generally did, though it sometimes rather stung to have to admit it. And he did know the sort of thing she meant; he had despised the years he had smithed in the settlements of Men, but there was one particular food cart in one particular village that had sold small, savory dumplings that were absolutely delicious, and he’d never had anything quite the same since. If someone could discover their secrets and somehow bring them to Erebor, he’d be delighted.

“I will ponder your words,” he promised. “I can see that they are wise. Thank you for your counsel.”

“Just… don’t get carried away,” Dís said, patting his hand. “More is not always better, especially not with Bilbo. He will appreciate the thought and care put into the gesture far more than the splendor of the result.”

Thorin nodded absently, his mind already spinning. He scarcely said a word as they finished their meal and he made his way back to his office. He needed to start making a list; what sort of hobbitish things might Bilbo miss? What would the equivalent be to Dís’ sunsets or Thorin’s dumplings?

He pulled a sheet of paper out as soon as he got back to his desk and started working.

Several days later, after much swearing to secrecy and consulting with other members of the Company, as well as some surreptitious poking around in their quarters, he thought he had a rather good list to start from.

HOBBIT THINGS FOR BILBO

1. Pocket handkerchiefs (he has plenty now but would he like more? Or would he like special ones?)
2. Books (he brought back his favorites already, what is missing?)
3. Armchair (but he has one? Must it be that particular armchair?)
4. Garden (tomatoes?)
5. Meals (second breakfast, afternoon tea)
6. Buttons (vest to put them on)
7. Holey dishcloths doilies (crochet - traditional craft of the Shire - find master?)
8. Flowers say things????? How do you know which ones?

 

THREE DAYS LATER

“…so you see, we must send trusted agents to the Shire, to gather information and materials,” he said. “Fortunately, we had already planned on sending an envoy to finalize the trade treaty, so it should not be too troublesome. But it is vital that we discover all we can. Bilbo has spoken of secret recipes and… garden techniques that only masters of their crafts may know. If we could discover some, we could replicate them here.”

Nori crossed his arms. “So you’re saying you want me to send a team of spies—”

“Covert researchers,” Thorin corrected.

“—all the way back to the Shire, for an indeterminate amount of time, so they can find out what kind of flowers Bilbo likes and what cut of gem he’d like best on his buttons?”

“Along with the other items on the list,” Thorin said. “The flower speech is particularly baffling. Ori can’t find a good reference anywhere for the meanings.”

“Have you considered, Your Majesty, simply asking him?” really, it was amazing how disrespectful Nori could make the phrase “Your Majesty.”

“But if I ask him, that’s cheating,” Thorin said. “I must seek out these mysteries for myself, to demonstrate the depths of my regard.”

“Thought that’s what you were doing last Highday in the linen closet outside the third-best meeting room,” Nori muttered.

Thorin ignored him, though the tips of his ears burned. “Never mind all that. Will you see it done?”

Nori rolled his eyes. “Aye, Thorin, I’ll handle things,” he said. “As you say, it’s worth some trouble to keep our burglar happy.”

Thorin beamed. Really, this was going to go splendidly. Bilbo was going to be so surprised.

Chapter Text

Something peculiar was going on with Bilbo’s secretary.

It wasn’t anything bad—indeed, Alvi was a bright and friendly lad, a great worker and good company besides, and Bilbo had become rather fond of him—but it was a change, and any time a dwarf made a sudden change, it always made Bilbo’s toes itch to find out why.

In this case, he suspected very much that his husband had something to do with it. Thorin had spent one whole supper the previous week asking Bilbo detailed questions about the precise timing and compositions of hobbit mealtimes, listening to the answers with a very intent look, and then not three days later, he’d looked up from a draft trade proposal to find Alvi setting a tray at his elbow containing a cup of tea and a slab of shortbread topped with a dollop of lemon curd.

“What’s all this, my lad?”

“It’s time for elevenses, Your High—” Bilbo shot him a sharp look—he would put up with a lot for Thorin’s sake, but he refused to be “Your Highness”ed every hour of the day, particularly not by those he called friends—and Alvi corrected himself. “Master Bilbo.”

Bilbo looked over, and could see a corresponding tray near Alvi’s chair. “And what’s brought this on, all of a sudden?”

Alvi drooped, even his beard looking disappointed. “Are you not hungry? Did I do it wrong?”

Bilbo folded immediately. He was shamefully weak to any of his particular dwarrow looking sad. “Oh no, of course not! This looks absolutely lovely, and you know, I do get a bit peckish this time of the morning.” He picked up the shortbread and took a healthy bite.

“Oh, good,” Alvi said, perking back up. “I am glad, Master Baggins. I did hope that you’d like it.”

Bilbo washed his bite down with a sip of tea—prepared exactly to his preference—and smiled. “It’s not necessary to go to such trouble, but I do appreciate it, my dear boy. Thank you very much.”

They conducted themselves in the same way as normal, after that, revising proposals and going to meetings and all the sort of things that must be done to keep a kingdom running, and then at four in the afternoon Alvi answered a knock on the door and came back with a tea tray.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow.

“It’s time for afternoon tea,” Alvi said firmly, though his cheeks had gone quite red behind his beard.

Bilbo thought of reminding him that he was quite all right keeping to the same meal schedule as the rest of the Mountain, and that he had in fact made it halfway across Arda only eating two real meals a day (or even less, much of the time) while periodically facing mortal peril. But he could tell from Alvi’s expression that he would not be easily argued out of this, and besides, he could see a really lovely-looking little spice cake on the tray.

“I suppose it is, at that,” he said, and from then on there were always snacks brought to his office in mid-morning and mid-afternoon, any day he was working there.

Bilbo decided to consider it a victory for practical hobbitish ways, and graciously did not try to get Thorin to admit that he’d put Alvi up to the whole thing.

He first began to wonder if he’d made a mistake a few weeks later. He was enjoying an afternoon off, and had gone down to the market district to visit with Bifur and Bofur at their toy shop, which was always a delightful way to pass the time, since the shop generally contained not only his dear friends but an assortment of pebbles busily charming their parents into getting them toys. On this particular afternon, Bilbo and his friends had given in to the pleas of the children and used toy versions of the Company (a perennial best-seller, apparently) to reenact the skirmish with the orcs after Goblin Town.

(There were multiple toy versions of all the Company, but a truly absurd number of Thorin and Bilbo; this particular incarnation was sold as a set, and included a toy warg that could be made to bite the little toy Thorin, while the little toy Bilbo had what Bofur insisted on calling “authentic battle stabbing action.” Really, it was not at all respectable, to Bilbo’s mind, but Thorin actually loved the set and wouldn’t hear a word against it.

“Does it surprise you so much, my heart,” he’d murmured, his breath on Bilbo’s ear sending shivers down his spine, “that I enjoy seeing such a commemoration of the moment when I finally rid myself of the blinders of prejudice and folly, and saw the true valor and devotion of my life’s companion?”

And then he had kissed the tip of Bilbo’s ear, and then he had kissed Bilbo’s neck, and gone on kissing him, all the while saying sweet things about Bilbo always saving him from every peril and the like, and Bilbo had quite given up any idea of protesting the toys.)

Anyhow, they had just finished using the clever toy versions of the Eagles—made so that they could carry the other figures in their talons or on their backs—to carry away the toy Company to a high countertop that was serving as their Carrock, when the sound of a bell rang sweetly through the air.

“Right, I suppose it is that time,” Bofur said, and all the parents standing around the shop nodded, and bid them good afternoon before gathering up their pebbles and leaving.

“Are you closing early today?” Bilbo asked, confused.

“Of course not,” Bofur said. “It’s teatime, didn’t you hear the bell? Oh, lovely, Bifur, thank you.” For Bifur was coming in from the back of the shop holding a tea tray.

Suspicion dawned. “Teatime,” Bilbo said.

“Aye, four o’clock, just as you always say,” Bofur nodded. He grabbed a handful of little brown biscuits—molasses drops, if Bilbo wasn’t mistaken—and set them on a saucer, which he handed Bilbo, then he poured him a mug out of a steaming teapot and gave him that as well.

“Only I’ve never heard of dwarrow taking afternoon tea before,” Bilbo said. “In fact, I rather recall you lot making fun of me about it a time or two, on our quest.”

Bofur shrugged. “Well, we ain’t questing now, are we? Maybe now we’ve got our home back we’ve decided it would be nice to adopt a few of your hobbit ways. You are very homely folk, after all; it never hurts to consult with a master when you’re trying to learn a new craft.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, feeling really quite touched, and a bit sniffly. He hated to think of all the time his dear friends had spent in exile, and he was quite overcome to think of them adopting some of the comforting habits of the Shire now that they had a home of their own again. “Well. When you put it that way, Bofur, I must say you’re quite right.” He nodded, and took a sip from his mug, and then promptly choked and sputtered, barely managing not to spit his mouthful out across the table.

“Is that ale?” he demanded, when he could breathe properly again. “Have you put hot ale in the teapot?”

Bofur shrugged. “We don’t like tea,” he said.

Bilbo shoved a biscuit in his mouth, shuddering. Honestly, if they weren’t so very dear to him, these dwarrow would drive him to distraction one of these days.

The next morning, he asked Alvi about the bell, which was how he learned that his ridiculous husband had issued a royal proclamation declaring the official establishment of Afternoon Tea in Erebor, including provisions for everyone in the employ of the Crown to receive a paid half-hour break at four for that purpose, in which they would receive up to two cups of tea accompanied by two biscuits or one scone or one sandwich or one slice of cake, at royal expense.

Leave it to Thorin to do something that was at once so patently absurd and so terribly kind.

“So,” he said to his husband at dinner the next day. “Alvi tells me that Afternoon Tea is proving to be quite popular in Erebor.”

Thorin looked at him uncertainly. “That’s what I have been told,” he said.

“I’m not sure the royal proclamation was entirely necessary, my dear,” Bilbo said. “But I certainly cannot argue with anything that increases our people’s happiness and comfort.”

Thorin straightened up, his eyes bright and his chest puffed out with pride. “Our people,” he said, his splendid voice catching a little when he said our, “are blessed beyond measure to have a Royal Consort who cares for them so much. As am I.” He caught Bilbo’s hand in his and kissed the palm, lingering and tender.

“Well,” Bilbo said, his face heating. Nearly five years together, and he still came completely undone when Thorin used that tone of voice to him, when he looked at him so. “Well. Save all that for after dinner, if you please,” he said, though he rubbed his foot over the back of Thorin’s calf under the table, where the long embroidered cloth would hide it from any observers.

“After dinner then, my jewel, you shall have whatever you wish of me,” Thorin murmured into his ear, and Bilbo was so flustered by it—and so distracted by the great warm hand Thorin laid on his knee afterward—that he rushed through the remainder of his meal and only ate half his blackberry crumble.

The next week, it was Erebor’s turn to host the annual regional trade summit, where they met with the Men and Elves to talk about things like tariffs and crop rotations and what goods everyone needed most that year. Dwalin and all his guards were on edge; Bilbo wasn’t sure if he was more worried about protecting the rulers of three realms at once, or about protecting his own royalty from whatever perils he imagined Bard and Thranduil might be bringing in their entourages.

They opened the summit with a very grand ceremony at court; Bard had brought his children with him, much to Fíli and Kíli’s delight, and Thranduil had decided at the last moment to send Prince Legolas in his stead. They might have taken it as an insult, but truly they found Legolas much more pleasant company than his father, and it made Tauriel happy to see her old friend besides, so things got off to a very promising start indeed.

Later that afternoon, they were just wrapping up with an overview of the crop surplus from the previous year when the tea bell rang. The non-Ereborians looked curious, and Thorin drew himself up, looking very dignified and kingly.

“My friends and allies,” he said. “I would invite you to join us in partaking in a ritual meal of my Consort’s people, which we have adopted here in honor of him.”

Bilbo blinked, quite at a loss as to what Thorin could possibly mean. He was quite sure the Shire didn't have any ritual meals.

“We would be honored to join you, King Thorin,” Bard said politely.

“Indeed,” Legolas added. “I fear I know little of the ways of the Shire, and would gladly learn more; for surely they must be a people of many virtues, judging from Prince Bilbo.”

Thorin sat up straighter, looking pleased as punch; he reminded Bilbo like nothing so much as one of the ravens, preening. “You speak truly, Prince Legolas,” he said.

Bilbo shot Legolas a narrow look; from the twinkle in his eye, he knew quite well what he was doing.

Honestly, Bilbo was glad that Thorin and the elves were getting along better now. He was. He just wished they’d found something else in common besides Bilbo’s supposed virtues; it could really get quite embarrassing, and Legolas in particular thought it was funny to lay it on as thick as possible, because Thorin would always just agree with whatever absurd thing was said as long as it was complimentary to Bilbo.

Still, it did produce the desired result, and Bilbo had done much worse things in the pursuit of peace than allow himself to be flattered to an absurd degree a couple of times a year.

The doors of the Council Chamber swung open, and a group of dwarrow came in. They were all relations of Thorin’s, Bilbo noticed, filing in to fill empty seats around the table. Next a small horde of servants bustled in with carts, quickly sweeping aside various documents to make room for…

Oh good heavens, Bilbo thought, staring at the table in shock.

“This is the Royal Tea Service of the Line of Durin,” Thorin said with a grand sweep of his arm, as though that wasn’t an absolutely ridiculous thing to say. “It was crafted by our finest master jewelers and smiths to honor our Consort’s great valor in confronting the dragon Smaug under the Mountain and reclaiming the Arkenstone for our people.”

At the mention of the Arkenstone, several people at the table went quite still and awkwardly avoided each other’s eyes, but Thorin did not seem to notice.

“My goodness,” Bilbo said, staring at the table.

He really should have expected something like this, he thought. Dwarrow in general—and Thorin especially—had very different aesthetic standards than hobbits, and thought that if a thing was worth making at all it was worth making all out of gold and covering with jewels and making as grand and fine as possible, even if the thing itself was something quite prosaic like a garden trowel or a teapot. And Thorin especially, though he still dressed rather simply himself by dwarven standards, liked nothing better than to see his family provided with as much splendor as possible in every regard.

The teapot was shaped like Smaug. His tail curved round to form the handle, his wings swept up to be the lid, and his mouth—open as though to breathe a gout of flame—was the spout. His scales were formed of glittering garnets and rubies, carefully shaped and placed, with the missing scale at his breast a dark gleam of onyx. The cream pitcher was made of Ereborean marble, shaped like one of the dwarf-head waterspouts in the foundry; the cream would flow from the open mouth in the same way that water did in the real thing. And the sugar bowl… the sugar bowl was shaped in the form of a heap of treasure from the hoard, glittering with gold and little gems, and perched on the top of was an exquisitely crafted figure of Bilbo himself.

Honestly, even his embarrassment at the whole thing couldn’t keep Bilbo from admiring the loveliness of the craft. Bilbo’s ragged blue coat was picked out in tiny sapphires, his hair on both head and feet was formed with intricate swoops of red-gold wire, and his skin colored with delicate enamel-work. Little Bilbo was shown in quite a heroic pose, his expression determined and fierce as he stood proudly, brandishing a perfect tiny replica of Sting in one hand while in his other clutching a large diamond that must be meant to represent the Arkenstone.

(Honestly, it would be much more accurate to have depicted Bilbo as he actually had spent his time in that chamber: ducking behind things and running away.)

There was even a tiered cake plate, Bilbo realized, made to look like watchtower of Laketown. There was a tiny golden windlance on the top, and a tiny Bard aiming it, though Bilbo could not help but notice that the figure of Bard was standing on top of a barrel of tiny silver fish.

All the other plates and trays and platters were shaped to look like parts of the treasure hoard, engraved to look like piles of coins and studded with little sculpted treasures here and there, set with gems that glittered and gleamed in the light.

It was the most magnificent tea service Bilbo had ever seen, and also the least practical; Bilbo was quite sure that he wouldn’t even be able to lift the great Smaug teapot, let alone pour it, and all that sculpted detail would be fiddly and time-consuming to keep clean. And the work involved to make it! Bilbo had no doubt this had taken the combined efforts of the Silversmiths, Goldsmiths, Jewelers, and Sculptors’ Guilds, probably for weeks if not months.

“My goodness,” he said again. “This must have taken simply ages, Thorin.”

“It will be an heirloom of our line,” Thorin said. “To put any less than our best efforts into its creation would be dishonorable.” He looked over at Bilbo, suddenly losing his courtly bearing and looking hopeful and downright shy, like a faunt who’d picked you a bouquet of wildflowers in a field and wanted to know if you liked it. “I hope it does not displease you, beloved.”

“Of course not, dearest,” Bilbo said, because Thorin had obviously gone to such great efforts in this hoping to please him, and Bilbo would not hurt him for all the world.

After all, he reasoned, perhaps it was not proper to own a jeweled tea service depicting yourself confronting a dragon, but it was far more improper to turn up one’s nose at a gift sincerely given. And besides, one must make allowances for royalty, and allow them their funny ways.

“Why, it is all quite beautiful work,” Bilbo said. “Bard, did you see yourself there on the cake plate, preparing to shoot the black arrow? Dearest, are those topazes making up Bard’s coat?”

“Mostly,” Thorin said. “Some brown garnets and golden beryl, and we were able to find two nicely matched brown diamonds in the new mine for his eyes. The black arrow is made from the same alloy as the real ones. We’d thought about making the windlance actually able to shoot, but we were concerned about possible accidents.”

“Oh dear,” Bilbo said, looking at Bard’s children and then at Kíli and Gimli, who had taken a seat in between his cousin and Legolas. They all looked rather disappointed that the cake plate was not also a tiny siege weapon. “Well, I do think that was very wise of you.”

“Is this a good likeness of the beast?” Legolas asked.

“Almost unnervingly good, to be honest,” Bilbo said. “I could almost believe it about to breathe fire this very moment. Though I am very pleased they did not try to replicate the smell.”

A wave of chuckles round the table broke the lingering tension, and Thorin nodded to the servants to begin serving the food and pouring the tea, an endeavor that was left to the burliest of the attendants, whose arms visibly strained with the effort. Meanwhile, all the delegates were quite taken with inspecting the various pieces, discovering clever details to point out to each other. It honestly made quite a friendly atmosphere, and Bilbo found himself smiling at Thorin indulgently and giving him a fond pat on the arm.

“Well, dearest,” he said quietly, “I can’t say this is the way I’d have quite imagined having the neighbors round for tea, but it seems to have turned out very well indeed.”

Thorin beamed at him, one of those radiant smiles of his that quite transformed his stern demeanor and made Bilbo’s poor heart quiver in his chest like a half-set blancmange. “You really like it?”

“You silly thing, of course I like it. You went to so much trouble.” Bilbo tilted his face up, and Thorin obediently leaned down so that Bilbo could kiss his cheek. “Now that doesn’t mean I want you filling our home with golden dishes, mind,” Bilbo said, wagging his finger. “I understand that this is an heirloom set, so that’s all right, but no more.”

Thorin caught his hand and pressed a kiss to his finger. “Of course,” he said. “It shall be as you say.”

“Well. Good.”

One of the servants put a plate in front of Thorin, and he immediately pushed it over to Bilbo. “The Bakers’ Guild has been trying to replicate some of the Shire recipes you gave them,” he said. “They’re very eager for your feedback on their efforts.”

“It will be my pleasure, I’m quite sure,” Bilbo said. He might perhaps have gotten a little caught up in gazing into Thorin’s eyes—they were such lovely eyes, after all, and it was so pleasant to see Thorin looking so very happy—because he was quite startled when Bard’s young son asked, in probably a louder voice than he had meant to, “Da, what’s this on top of the cakes? Are we supposed to eat them?”

“Those are crystalized violets, young Bain,” Thorin said. “A traditional Shire adornment for special festival food, though I would not suggest eating them.”

“What? Whyever not? I know not everyone likes them, but they’re totally… oh, dear.”

In pride of place on his plate was an elaborately decorated teacake, topped with a little violet that looked to be crafted from gold and gemstones - amethyst and peridot, Bilbo thought. “Ah. I see.”

“I confess, I did not realized amethyst was common enough in the Shire to use in such a manner,” Thorin said. “Though I suppose of course they must be passed down through the generations.”

Bilbo quietly resolved to have a quiet word with the head of the Bakers’ Guild as soon as he could about the meaning of the term crystalized in Shire cookery. “As you say, my dear,” he said. “Though please, everyone, do be careful to remove the violets before you eat the cake; I should hate for anyone to hurt their teeth.”

He hooked his ankle around Thorin’s, and looked happily around the room at all their friends and neighbors and family gathered around the table, and took a bite of his cake, being careful to remove the jeweled violet first.

It was absolutely delicious.

Chapter Text

Letters delivered to Erebor via raven

[Translation of a letter written in ciphered Khuzdul, addressed to the King Under The Mountain]

To His Majesty Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under The Mountain, Greetings:

I am pleased to report that the first phase of the mission I am honored to undertake on Your Majesty’s behalf has been completed successfully. My team has arrived safely in the Shire, and upon your advice first traveled to the region of the Shire known as Tuckborough, seat of Thain Fortinbras II, Prince of the Hobbits and Cousin to our Most Noble Consort Under The Mountain. The letter of introduction kindly provided by His Royal Highness to his esteemed kinsman was greeted with great cheer and generosity, and our entire party was hosted for a lavish feast in honor of our connection with HRH and in gratitude for the diplomatic gifts, of which the silver tea service decorated with oak leaves and acorns was especially admired by all the hobbits of rank in attendance. I must admit, sire, that I worried it would not find favor, but His Royal Highness’ instructions as to the simpler tastes of his kin in such matters indeed have steered us true. The Thain was also very impressed by the tapestry depicting His Royal Highness’ great deeds, and intends to display it in his home, so Master Dori should be very proud of the work done by the Guild of Weavers.

The Thain agreed to permit our party to participate in the Summer Markets of the Shire, as well as accept commissioned work of smithing and other such crafts, as we might find them. Moreover, he assured us that he would “take care of Uncle Gorbadoc and Siggy,” by which I am given to understand he means Gorbadoc Brandybuck, the Master of Buckland (and husband to His Royal Highness’ aunt), and Sigismond Took, the Mayor of Michel Delving (and His Royal Highness’ first cousin), two other hobbit lords of note.

(If I may say so, Your Majesty, it is no surprise to any of us that His Royal Highness is of such esteemed lineage in his home country, as his nobility is so clearly demonstrated through his many heroic acts! Truly, Erebor is blessed by Mahal, that He has given us so fine a jewel to set at the heart of her greatest King!)

Additionally, my apprentice Agent Pearl, as the youngest dwarrowdam of our party, took it as her own mission to cultivate the acquaintance of the younger hobbits, and has found a very fine source of information and support for our mission in the person of one Miss Primula Brandybuck, daughter of the Master of Buckland and a young cousin of His Royal Highness. Miss Brandybuck is what is referred to as a “tween,” the period just before the Hobbit coming of age, and seems to be possessed of a little of the same curiosity and adventurous spirit as her honored kinsman, as well as what Pearl refers to as “a romantic disposition.” Miss Brandybuck found the tale of Your Majesty’s courtship to be “so lovely she might swoon,” and voiced the opinion that Your Majesty was “ever so dashing, not like any of the Buckland lads to be sure” which I understand is high praise in Hobbitish vernacular. When Pearl confided in Miss Brandybuck the agreed-upon cover story, that we had been requested to bring back any especial Shire treasures or delicacies that Your Majesty might present as gifts for the joy of Your Consort, she expressed much enthusiasm and wholeheartedly offered to provide advice and assistance in such endeavors, especially if it might “be one in old Lobelia’s eye.” (I believe she is referring to the same Lobelia Sackville-Baggins who behaved with such shocking dishonor in the matter of His Royal Highness’ estate after the Liberation of Erebor, which further confirms Miss Brandybuck’s suitability in this matter.)

We move next week to the town of Waymeet, located on the Great East Road, and from there forward to Hobbiton. I shall keep Your Majesty updated as to our progress.

I remain ever faithful in Your Majesty’s service,

Agent Diamond

[Letter written in a fanciful round hand on scented pink paper, addressed to Mr. Bilbo Baggins, The Palace, Erebor]

Miss Primula Brandybuck
Brandy Hall
Buckland
The Shire

Dear Cousin Bilbo,

During my recent visit to our relatives over in Tuckborough, I was surprised and delighted to learn that you had been married—and to a King, no less! I wish you and your noble husband every joy of married life, and offer my sincerest wish for your complete and continued happiness together. It is indeed small wonder that you did not return to the Shire from your travels, with such an inducement to stay far away in the East!

It is a little hard, my dear cousin, not to be able to hear this joyous news directly, though I understand of course that your new home is terribly far away and the post not nearly so reliable as it is within the borders of the Shire! Still, I was most fortunate that a delegation from Erebor was present at the Great Smial during my visit, and in fact I have become quite friendly with one of them, a dwarf lass named Janna. She has offered to convey this letter back to you, and I do thank her very much for her kind consideration! Perhaps, cousin, you might see if your king would be willing to put some arrangement in place so that you might more easily correspond with your friends and family back home, for I promise you that at least our Took relatives all think rather well of you for running off and becoming a Prince, like something out of a story! Papa says it is the most Tookish thing you have done in your life, and that Aunt Belladonna would be bursting her buttons with pride over it.

Janna and all of her friends seem to think quite highly of you indeed, and in fact one of them actually wears a locket bearing within it your wedding portrait! I must say, cousin, your King Thorin looks terribly dashing, and you both look so very happy and in love that it nearly gave me the vapors to look upon it! Is that portrait a good likeness? Your hair looks to have gotten quite long; does it please your husband for you to wear it thus in dwarven fashion? Your crown looks very beautiful indeed; Janna said that the King made it for you with his own hands because hobbits wear crowns of flowers when we wed. Are all those flowers truly made of silver and gold and gems? In the portrait I quite believed that they were real flowers! I do think it is terribly romantic, for a King to trouble himself so. Of course we do not have any such thing in the Shire, but from what I have read of the Kings of other lands, it seems to be a most complicated business, full of councils and wars and scheming enemies and all manner of other difficulties, so it speaks to his regard for you that your Thorin should take the time to make your crown himself. It is a great relief to your family to know that there exists such affection between you, for as Aunt Donnamira always says, if one tries to marry gold, then one’s bed will e’er be cold! (Not that you would ever be tempted to do so, of course, no matter what Certain People might try to imply!)

I do think you should come back for a visit some time, and bring your lovely husband and your grand clothes and jewels and a heap of dwarvish soldiers. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins has only gotten more dreadful since you’ve been gone, and now that she’s had her loathsome little boy (honestly, I have never seen a faunt who looked so like a toad, and he is constantly hitting the other faunts and taking their sweets and making them cry) she is even worse, declaring that your cousin Otho should be given Bag End, even though you quite clearly gave instructions leaving it to Mr. Drogo Baggins. Perhaps it is not charitable of me, but I cannot help wishing to see Lobelia’s face if you were to come back into the Shire with your handsome King and lovely things and royal entourage. I do not like the way she tries to spread ill talk about you and about Drogo, who is a very respectable, kind, upstanding gentlehobbit who does not at all deserve to be treated in such a fashion, and who is much more patient with Lobelia than she deserves!

Tell me, what are the fashions like in Erebor? Janna wears the same sort of clothes as the male dwarves in her company, but she says that is for the sake of added safety on the road, and that the ladies—who she says should be properly called dwarrowdams, am I spelling that right?—wear very grand dresses at home, in rich colors and embroidered with gold and jewels. I don’t suppose you have such a thing as fashion plates there that you could share? I should be so interested to see them, if you do!

Janna says that Erebor is quite close to a kingdom of Elves and one of Men, and that you, cousin, are quite often representing the dwarves in meetings with all the races! I know that you always had a great interest in Elves particularly; did they live up to your expectations? Do you have friends among them? Do please write and tell me about them, for your dwarves are the first new people to come to the Shire in ages, and it gets quite tedious after a while to have the same old gossip as you ever do about the same old people.

Anyhow, please write back if you have the chance!! I am also enclosing a note of congratulations for your husband, please do pass it along to him if it is proper, for I am afraid that Miss Emmeline Proudfoot’s Guide To Etiquette For All Occasions does not include anything at all about the right way of writing to a king of dwarves!

All my best, from your loving cousin,

Prim

[Another letter, on the same paper, enclosed within the first and addressed to His Majesty Thorin II, King of Erebor]

Your Majesty,

I write to offer my sincerest felicitations and best wishes on the occasion of your marriage to my dear cousin Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo has always been a kind and good-hearted gentlehobbit, and was quite the favorite of all his younger cousins, so I am confident in saying that he would have been content to marry for no other reason than sincere and true affections, and not for any consideration of appearance, social position, or other such matters. I know that if he chose to leave the Shire to live in Erebor and marry you, it must be because you have truly won his heart: and for that reason I am delighted to welcome you into our family.

I am sure it is very presumptuous of me to say so, for you must have little need of more relations, but nonetheless I wanted to write, for I am so pleased that you have made my favorite cousin happy, and I hope that perhaps some day we might be able to meet!

I shall stop here, for I am sure you are terribly busy, but if you should care to write back at any time I should be overjoyed to hear from you, and perhaps learn a little more of my new and exciting cousin-by-marriage. Perhaps I might entice you into correspondence with the offer of sharing some stories from when Cousin Bilbo was younger?

My mother would say I have been shockingly presumptuous, writing you so, and I do hope I have not offended you. If I have, I hope that you will mark it down to enthusiasm and ignorance of your ways, and not at all to any ill will or disregard for the proprieties! Regardless, I remain very faithfully,

Your new cousin,

Primula Brandybuck

Chapter Text

Thorin read over his list again, rubbing idly at the edge of it with one thumb. He had set things in motion to get information and materials from the Shire, but it would be quite some time before they returned to Erebor; he didn’t want to wait too long to put what plans in motion that he could.

He’d started with meals, as that was the easiest place to start; the journeyman scribe who served as Bilbo’s secretary had been quite eager to assist once Thorin had explained how important these things were to hobbits, and it had been a trivial matter to instruct the kitchens as to the proper meal contents and delivery times. He was rather pleased with how Erebor was taking to the newly-established Afternoon Tea Time, as well, and the master crafters of the Guilds had come through splendidly with the heirloom tea service. Bilbo had been so surprised he’d been nearly speechless, which was saying something indeed.

Thorin hoped that Bard would adopt the custom as well, or at least ensure that it took place when Bilbo was there on visits of state. Perhaps he ought to have a tea service made as a diplomatic gift for the Lord of Dale—simpler, of course, than the heirloom set. Perhaps a nice silver service with details picked out in gold plate; they could do something on the theme of Bard killing Smaug. He made a note to have a word with the Master of the Guild of Silversmiths.

Anyhow, with food settled for the moment, it still left a number of items on his list for Bilbo. Pocket handkerchiefs, books, buttons, his armchair, his gardens, his doilies. The flower language and the expectations surrounding floral gifts.

Thorin had already put some plans into motion regarding books; naturally, in the course of their work rebuilding the library of Erebor, they had made contact with as many other libraries as they could, and were in the process of negotiating for copies of texts that they lacked; it had been simple enough to add some additional requests for books intended for the King’s personal library. Nori’s agents in the Shire had also been instructed to make contact with Bilbo’s young heir Drogo, to purchase Bilbo’s armchair if possible or at least to take detailed measurements of it, so that it could be re-created in Erebor. The Shire delegation was also meant to research the secrets of crochet and the flower-language, so Thorin must wait for their search to yield results to do anything there.

Thorin was certainly capable of crafting new buttons for Bilbo: in fact, he had done so once already, as soon as he was able to after the battle. The difficulty was that since their marriage, Bilbo had largely adopted a more dwarven mode of dress, and Thorin could not remember the last time he’d worn something that needed buttons; the set Thorin had made him seemed to live in his jewelry box now.

A thought struck him. Bilbo’s young cousin Primula had seemed very interested in dwarf fashion, as well as the various “romantic” details of their courtship, and had expressed a desire to correspond more with Thorin himself. Perhaps she might be willing to provide some ideas on how to incorporate hobbitish styles into the sorts of clothing appropriate for the Consort of Erebor. He could have one of the scribes sketch out depictions of the kinds of things the royal family usually wore, for her reference. He made another note.

Running his eye over the list again, he paused at the first entry: pocket handkerchiefs.

To be honest, the Company had probably teased Bilbo about his handkerchiefs more than was really warranted; it was true that he had asked them all to turn around and go back to Bag End to fetch one, but that had been at the very start of the Quest. Knowing what he knew now about how very sudden the advent of the dwarrow into Bilbo’s life had been, Thorin understood better why Bilbo might have asked such a thing. When things were new and strange, it helped to have the small familiar comforts of home.

At any rate, it wasn’t as though dwarrow did not themselves use handkerchiefs, though admittedly theirs were more likely to be larger, coarser pieces of fabric that could double as a dust-mask or a bag or a wound binding in a pinch. And Thorin knew well that Bilbo now had a whole drawer full of handkerchiefs, one of the few parts of his wardrobe that he had been quite insistent upon with the royal tailors.

And yet, it still seemed to Thorin that perhaps it would be meaningful to gift Bilbo with a handkerchief, to honor the beginning of their journey together while celebrating how very far they had come. Something special, something significant.

He made a note to ask his secretary to book a meeting with the Master of the Guild of Weavers.

Several Weeks Later

The Guild of Weavers delivered on Thorin’s commission just after breakfast one day, and suddenly the unexceptional calendar of meetings and treaty revisions Thorin had scheduled for the day felt like it would take longer to complete than it would take him to walk clear back to Ered Luin. He and Bilbo were dining alone that evening—they took care to block off such meals at least twice a week—and Thorin was eager to present Bilbo with his gift.

Thorin never used to struggle so to put his duties first; not until he’d fallen in love and then nearly ruined it through his own pride and folly. Now, though, there were times when being apart from Bilbo felt like being imprisoned beneath Thranduil’s halls again, as though all light and life and hope were somewhere far away and unreachable.

Of course, just as when he had been imprisoned in truth, his beloved would always come to set him free and deliver him forth unto joy once more.

Which was to say that when Thorin’s last meeting of the day had reached the time of its appointed end and yet the councilors were still belaboring the second point on the agenda, Bilbo swept into the council chamber like the Eagles of Manwë coming to save them from orcs. He was regal and dignified in his robes of office, with young Alvi behind him carrying a great sheaf of papers.

“Ah, my lords, a pleasure to see you so hard at work on behalf of Erebor,” Bilbo said with an approving look around the room. “I’m afraid the King has pressing business elsewhere that cannot wait; I do thank you kindly for your understanding.”

Thorin rose at once, stuffing his papers back into his document-case while concentrating on not letting his face betray his glee. “Of course, beloved, I thank you for coming yourself.” He nodded at the councilors. “Lead on, my dear.” He followed Bilbo back out of the door before anyone had the chance to say anything about it, Alvi following closely.

Thorin waited until they were several corridors away before murmuring “I do hope there isn’t actually any pressing business.”

Bilbo grinned up at him. “Why, Your Majesty, I’m surprised at you,” he said. “To imply that I would be less than truthful to our noble council. I would never.” He put his nose into the air; it was utterly charming. Thorin kissed it.

Bilbo laughed, swatting his arm playfully. “We do have pressing business, though,” he said. “We’re having dinner together, just the two of us. Give your papers to Alvi and come on.”

“Gladly.” Thorin handed off his document case with a smile. “Thank you for your assistance, Scribe Alvi,”

Alvi bowed, fumbling a little with his armload of papers. “Thank you, Your Majesty, Your High—Master Bilbo! Have a pleasant evening.” He turned, bowing again, and hurried away toward Bilbo’s office.

“Really, Thorin,” Bilbo said, tucking his hand into the crook of Thorin’s arm. “You didn’t have to fluster the lad.”

“All I did was thank him!” Thorin protested. “I thought you liked it when I was polite to people.”

“Well, yes, but you did it all—” he gestured vaguely at Thorin. “All impressive and grand. I’m surprised he didn’t swoon.”

“There’s only one person in this mountain who I care to make swoon, amrâlimê.” (my love)

Bilbo scoffed, though he squeezed Thorin’s arm and smiled up at him through his lashes, so that was all right, then.

“You are lovely beyond measure this evening,” Thorin said, as they passed into the private wing. Indeed, Bilbo was looking even more enchanting than normal. He wore a set of jewelry that Thorin had made him as a betrothal gift; a circlet and cloak pin in the shape of golden oak boughs, with leaves of carved jade and acorns of amber, tiny diamonds glittering here and there like fresh dewdrops. To compliment it, he had chosen a golden-brown brocade tunic and trousers and surcoat of rich green velvet, embroidered with gold. The colors brought out the sparkle in his eyes and the flush in his cheeks; he looked well-fed and happy, sleek and smug at his little victory over the council, beautiful and perfect with Thorin’s symbol on his breast and brow, Thorin’s ring on his finger.

“You always say that, you old flatterer.” Bilbo’s voice was low and warm, sending a shiver down Thorin’s spine.

“It is always true.” He nodded at the guards posted by their door; Bilbo didn’t like it if Thorin failed to acknowledge any of the palace staff, even if they were technically supposed to go about their duties unnoticed.

“I think we’re in for the night, lads,” Bilbo said cheerfully. “And a good evening to you!”

“Good evening, Your Majesty, Your Highness,” one of the guards said, his voice slightly muffled from behind his helm.

“Oh! Hello there. Master Flóvin, wasn’t it? It’s so difficult to tell under those massive great heads you lads wear.”

There was a brief, embarrassed silence.

“You may answer,” Thorin said, biting back a sigh.

“Yes, Your Highness,” said the guard. “Flóvin son of Baldvin, at your service.”

“And how’s your little pebble doing? Has he learned to walk yet?”

Flóvin straightened up. “Yes! Can barely stop him running everywhere he goes, now. And he’s got two more teeth!”

“Oh, what a fine strapping lad! He’ll be swinging an axe and eating you out of the Mountain before you know it.”

“From your mouth to the Maker, Your Highness, and thank you very much for your good wishes. But please pardon me, I know your meal is waiting; please don’t let me keep you any longer.”

Bilbo beamed. “Yes, indeed! You make an excellent point, my friend. A very good evening, and give that young lad of yours a biscuit from me!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little packet of waxed paper, which he handed to the guard. Flóvin took it and tucked it into a belt pouch.

“We should let you get back to work,” Thorin said, resting one hand on his husband’s back to gently usher him into their chambers. “Good evening.”

The soft, solid sound of their door closing behind them was one of the best things he’d heard all day.

“You know I should never wish to belittle your traditional cultural practices,” Bilbo said, in the tone of voice that meant he was about to belittle a traditional cultural practice. “But honestly, I don’t think I shall ever get used to those giant heads that you make the guards wear. Are you quite sure that’s really necessary?”

“Those helms bear the likenesses of great heroes of our past,” Thorin said mildly, crossing into his dressing-room to remove his crown and a few of his more cumbersome layers.

“Well, yes, but you can scarcely tell who anyone is under there!” Bilbo paused at the table. “Oh, this smells lovely. I’m glad we’re eating in tonight.” He crossed to his own dressing room, his bare feet padding on the stones, a sound that Thorin had come to associate with comfort and happiness and all manner of good things.

“You do know, do you not,” Thorin continued, changing his heavy boots for the soft embroidered slippers Bilbo had given him the year before as a birthday present, “that the whole purpose of the King’s Faces is to hide the identities of the royal guard, to make it more difficult for anyone with ill intent to target the royal family through them? And that they are meant to be silent except in dire need while on duty?”

“Yes, all right, Balin explained it all, and then Dwalin had a fuss at me about it again later, but honestly, I don’t think it’s likely anything too dire is going to happen if I get to know the people charged with protecting us,” Bilbo said. “Flóvin is a very nice young dwarf; he was terribly excited when he qualified for the royal guard. He and his wife had their first baby last year, and I swear he could give Glóin a run for his money, he’s that proud.”

“I’m very pleased to hear it.” Thorin, now divested of all but a few layers, went to lean in the doorway to Bilbo’s dressing room, watching fondly as his husband puttered around, stripping down to his trousers and tunic. “To see our people thriving, to see children once again being born beneath the Mountain—it is everything I hoped for when I embarked on the Quest.”

Bilbo pulled his tunic off, emerging with his hair ruffled. Thorin stepped inside and ran his fingers through the soft curls, setting them to rights and making sure Bilbo’s braids fell neatly into place. Thorin’s marriage-braid and beads looked so fine in Bilbo’s lovely hair; he never tired of admiring them.

“They owe it all to you,” Bilbo said, catching Thorin’s hand and kissing it. “It is no wonder that they love you so. I do not see how anyone could help it.”

Under his tunic, Bilbo was wearing his mithril mail—he wore it daily, for Thorin’s peace of mind and what he called “the sake of marital harmony”—and a thin linen shirt. Thorin stroked down Bilbo’s back, enjoying the feel of the mail beneath his hand, supple and warm from Bilbo’s body. “It is you who makes friends wherever he goes,” he said. “Who somehow remembers whose pebble is teething and whose courtship gift was just accepted. If I am loved, I wager it is largely for your sake.”

Bilbo shook his head. “Come have dinner, Thorin,” he said, patting Thorin’s chest. “You always get melancholy when you haven’t eaten.”

Thorin only spoke the truth, but his dear one was ever humble. “At your wish, amrâlimê.” (my love)

Bilbo nudged him into his chair and then pulled his own place setting and chair closer, so that their arms brushed when he sat down. He lifted the covers from the dishes and sniffed appreciatively, giving a happy little wriggle of anticipation that made Thorin’s heart flutter in his chest with delight.

“Go on, then, eat up,” Bilbo said, buttering a thick slice of warm bread, and he hooked his foot around Thorin’s ankle, the thick soft hair feeling lavish and sensual against his skin.

(There were reasons Thorin always changed out of his boots as soon as he returned to their chambers.)

“Eat,” Bilbo said, putting the buttered bread on Thorin’s plate and picking up another slice for himself. “Don’t make me tell you again, you stubborn dwarf.”

Thorin ate. Somehow, he thought, the bread that Bilbo had buttered tasted better than any of the rest, though of course the meal was fine indeed. There was bread and butter and roast pork, baked apples sweet with spices, potatoes with crisp salted skins, and thick slices of cake for afterward, drizzled with honey. Bilbo rubbed his foot idly over Thorin’s leg while they ate.

“Playing footsie,” he called it. Apparently a romantic and affectionate gesture for hobbits, flirty and a little bold; the sort of thing one would be embarrassed but not disgraced to be caught doing. Hobbit feet were very important, considered their finest feature; apparently, Thorin had been somewhat bemused to learn, a hobbit could not be considered beautiful if they did not have large, strong feet covered in thick, well-tended hair.

Sometimes, when they had time, they would sit together in front of the fire and read, and Thorin would put Bilbo’s feet in his lap and stroke them, running his fingers through the plush hair. Sometimes he would rub the bottoms with sweet oil, using the strength in his hands to work out any soreness or tension in the muscles.

Bilbo always enjoyed that very much. Perhaps Thorin would offer, later on. Perhaps Bilbo would keep the mithril on for a while. It did suit him very well.

“I have something for you, jewel of my heart,” Thorin said, when all their food was finished and they had retired to the sofa in front of the fire.

Bilbo looked at him suspiciously. “It’s not jewelry, is it? Only you aren’t allowed to give me any more jewelry until next month; you went over your allowance.”

“I still maintain that a set of ear-cuffs only counts as one item, and thus I did not go over,” Thorin said, bristling a little. Really, none of the other dwarrow were limited in how much jewelry they were allowed to give their spouses. It was very trying.

“Oh, don’t pout, darling, it’s only a few more weeks,” Bilbo said, patting his thigh. “It’ll fly by, you’ll see, and then you can decorate me like a maypole again.”

“I am not pouting,” Thorin said, with wounded dignity. “And it isn’t jewelry this time. It is a useful present.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Bilbo said, giving his leg a little squeeze. “Are we celebrating anything in particular? I know it isn’t a holiday, Alvi made me a very useful calendar for those.”

“I am celebrating that you exist,” Thorin told him. “That you are here, with me. That you chose me. That, wonder of all wonders, you have set me into your heart, and I exist as the happiest of dwarrow there, warmed by the fires of your love.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, ducking his head. “My goodness, I don’t know what to say when you speak so. I’ve done nothing that you don’t do for me as well.”

The lovely upswept tips of his ears were red as rubies. Thorin kissed one tenderly, relishing how hot it felt against his lips. He pulled the little parcel out of his pocket and put it in Bilbo’s hand.

“Then say nothing, and open your present.”

There were five handkerchiefs in all, each folded carefully away in scented paper, each a different color and showing a different scene.

“Oh, aren’t these lovely,” Bilbo said. “How very soft! And such pretty colors. Is there a design woven in?” He shook the folds out of the first handkerchief and held it up. “Good gracious, can it be—is it the trolls?” he laughed, sweet and ringing like a silver bell. “Oh, how funny! A handkerchief that shows the time I was a handkerchief.” He looked sideways at Thorin. “Though I seem to recall looking much less dignified and heroic than I am shown here.”

“The art is depicting your spirit in that moment,” Thorin said. “It’s a metaphor.”

“Bilbo Trueheart Outwits the Trolls,” Bilbo read, running his finger over the runes woven into the border. “Well, that’s one way to put it, I suppose, though I would say something more like ‘frantically stalls for time until the wizard shows up.’”

“This one shows you defending me from Azog,” Thorin said, pulling the next handkerchief out to show him.

Bilbo chuckled. “And now I can blow my nose with his image, I suppose,” he said. “Well, he certainly deserves it.” He pulled out the next one. “Oh, I say, that’s a terribly unflattering likeness of Thranduil,” he said. “I’m sure he never made a face like that.”

“I think the weavers have captured him entirely,” Thorin said happily, wrapping his arm around his husband’s shoulders. “As though one looked upon him in life! I particularly like how he is waving his fist at the sky in impotent despair as you spirit us away from his dungeons.”

“You’re horrible,” Bilbo said, nuzzling sweetly against his side. “What’s the next—oh.” It was something of an artistic interpretation, as the actual events had happened in several different places, at several different times, but the image showed Thorin, Bard, Thranduil, and Gandalf, and Bilbo in the center of them, holding the Arkenstone up in his two hands, beams of light falling on all.

“Bilbo Trueheart Opens the Eyes of Kings,” Thorin said softly. “It is the formation of the Northern Alliance.”

“You are far too charitable about that whole mess,” Bilbo said, sniffing a little. “But I know better than to argue with you about it any longer.”

“Quite right,” Thorin told him, leaning down to kiss his ear again. He did not wish for the whole matter of the Arkenstone to be some sort of unspoken horror between them; it was well settled and all wrongs forgiven on both sides. Still, they need not dwell on it. “This last one, though, is my favorite.”

“I could have guessed,” Bilbo said, “it’s in your lovely Durin blue.”

It showed their wedding: the two of them robed and crowned, looking lovingly at one another with a great jewel clasped in their hands.

“Bilbo Trueheart Accepts the Heart of the King,” Bilbo read, his voice barely above a whisper. He took a slow, trembling breath. “Yes, I think that one is my favorite, too.”

“You have my heart,” Thorin said. He took Bilbo’s hand in his, kissing it between sentences. “You are my heart. My jewel beyond any price, treasured above all treasures. My dearest love. My greatest joy.”

“Stop that, you’ll make me cry,” Bilbo said, crushing the handkerchiefs between them as he burrowed into Thorin’s side. “But you must know that I feel the same. I still wake some mornings and think I must have been dreaming, for I could never be so lucky as to have you; but then I get up and trip over your great heavy boots and find hair all over the bathroom and I know that it’s all real, that you are my own dear husband and you shall stay that way all of my days.”

Thorin swept his hobbit into his lap, holding him close and burying his face in soft, sweet-smelling curls. “I am yours,” he whispered. “For all my life, and still when I return to stone, and further still when I wake into my Maker’s Halls, I shall ever be yours. For as long as there is a Thorin Oakenshield, your name will be graven on my soul.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bilbo said, his voice trembling. He pressed himself closer, hands knotting in Thorin’s shirt. “How you do go on. I love you so, I feel as though my heart cannot hold it all.”

“Perhaps some other parts of you might help your heart,” Thorin said, and Bilbo lifted up his face to be kissed, and the rest of the evening passed very pleasantly indeed.

Two days later Bilbo saw the handkerchief set for sale in the market. He was oddly upset, even when Thorin explained that they were of lesser quality than the ones for the Royal commission, which the guild had agreed would only be produced at the request of the Crown. The first batch had been for the royal family and the Company alone, with a few spare sets to be used for diplomatic gifts.

At last, Bilbo had sighed, and shaken his head. “At least it wasn’t a statue this time,” he said. “Just… don’t give any to Thranduil? Please. It’s hard enough already keeping that relationship on good terms without mocking him with a handkerchief.”

“I won’t give any to Thranduil,” Thorin promised.

Tauriel and Legolas had thought they were amusing, though.

Chapter Text

[Delivered by raven to a very startled hobbit outside Brandy Hall, a letter on very fine paper embossed with the royal arms of Erebor]

To my esteemed cousin, Miss Primula Brandybuck, greetings:

It was with great pleasure that I received your gracious letter welcoming me into your family. The priceless gift of your cousin’s hand in marriage would have been treasure enough to fill me with joy for the rest of my days; to have that gift compounded by the acquisition of such charming new relatives is truly more blessing than I should ever have the audacity to wish for.

I can assure you and the remainder of my dear Consort’s family that my love, honor, and esteem for my husband is deeper than the roots of the Mountain and vaster than its peak, as enduring as the stone from which our Maker shaped me. I shall dedicate myself, for each remaining day in which I am granted breath, to working towards bettering myself and my kingdom so that we might be worthy of his favor.

To that end, I hope that perhaps you might be willing to assist me in understanding some matters of Shire culture and custom, so that I might provide my beloved with everything necessary for his comfort and happiness.

I understand from my husband that you have some interest and expertise in matters of fashion. When Bilbo first traveled with my Company on our great Quest to reclaim Erebor, he dressed in hobbit style, and was particularly proud of a set of brass buttons that were unfortunately lost as we crossed the Misty Mountains. I myself crafted him a replacement set in gold and topaz, but he rarely has occasion to wear them these days, as our traditional clothing does not use buttons and, as Consort, he has taken to dressing in the dwarven fashion to honor our ways.

I have enclosed a number of sketches by my court scribes, depicting the typical modes of dress worn by the royal family on various occasions. If you have any suggestions for how we might include some elements of hobbit style, or at least incorporate buttons into some garments, I would consider myself much obliged. I have also taken the liberty of including a small token for you, as one cousin to another: a set of silk handkerchiefs depicting a few of the many brave deeds of your noble cousin on our Quest. I recently commissioned these from our Guild of Weavers as gifts to Bilbo and my Company, and I am given to understand that a similar set in linen has become quite popular among the people of Erebor, whose esteem for their Royal Consort knows no bounds. The enclosed note provides translations in Westron for the runic writing on each. (“Trueheart” is the deed-name given to your cousin by the dwarrow. It honors the loyalty, generosity, and courage that he has shown to us when he had no reason beyond his own kindness to do so, and indeed many very strong reasons to have left our Quest entirely.)

Once more, I thank you for your kind letter, and for welcoming me into your family despite, I am sure, having never expected your cousin to make such a marriage.

With sincere esteem and best wishes for your continued good health and happiness, I remain,

Thorin II, son of Thrain, called Oakenshield

King Under the Mountain

[A letter written with many flourishes on rose-scented pink paper, handed by a rather flustered hobbit postman to the first dwarf he encountered at the dwarven market stall in Waymeet, addressed to Miss Janna Daughter of Inna, A Dwarf, Currently Near The Waymeet Summer Market]

Dear Janna,

I write to give you the most outstanding news! Mama and Papa have agreed that I shall go next week to Hobbiton, to visit my cousin Wisteria Proudfoot for a time. Wisteria is a good sort, and I cannot wait to introduce you to one another! I am sure you will be great friends, as I am with the both of you. I have told Wisteria all about Cousin Bilbo’s thrilling romance, and she is dying to see their portrait and hear more about life under your mountain!

I have been talking with Mama and the aunts about handing down copies of the traditional Took family recipes to Cousin Bilbo. Ordinarily they would have been given to his bride, when he married, but as we suppose that King Thorin would not properly be considered a bride—and from my understanding does not have much time for cookery—they agree that an exception can be made in this instance. While we are in Hobbiton, I hope to be able to come to a similar arrangement with the Bagginses. My Aunt Rosa was a Baggins before she married Uncle Hildigrim; Bilbo’s father was her first cousin on their fathers’ sides. She has agreed to support us with the rest of the family, which shall be useful indeed if we are to overcome Lobelia’s opposition. Perhaps Mr. Drogo Baggins might also assist us; as he is Bilbo’s chosen heir, he no doubt will wish him only the best!

Oh, I cannot wait for us to be together once more in Hobbiton. I have such plans for us! This looks to be the most exciting summer I can remember.

Fondest wishes,

Prim

[Translation of a letter written in ciphered Khuzdul, addressed to the King Under The Mountain, delivered to Erebor via raven]

To His Majesty Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under The Mountain, Greetings:

With our time in Waymeet at an end, we shall be moving towards Hobbiton in the morning. I am happy to report that we have made no small amount of progress in gathering information for Your Majesty on the craft and culture of the Shire. I have obtained for Your Majesty’s perusal two books toward that end. The first, entitled Miss Emmeline Proudfoot’s Guide To Etiquette For All Occasions, is an excellent resource and often used as a training text for young hobbits of high rank. The second, The Home Arts Crochet Book For Young Gentlehobbits, claims to contain “Entirely New Designs For Lingerie Edgings & Insertions, Borders For Tray Cloths & Doilies, Deep Laces For Table Cloths & Valances, Motifs For Inlet Work & Arnorian Lace.” I must confess that I do not know what many of these items are, and when I inquired as to what a “Lingerie Insertion” was, the hobbit I was speaking with looked quite shocked and bade me not to mention such things in public, so I thought it best not to inquire further. From the illustrations, it seems to have something to do with decorating smallclothes, though I am afraid I have not the skill to say for sure.

As the ravens are unable to carry such a heavy load, I have taken the liberty of having copies made of the section on doilies from the crochet book, as well as a selection of the more relevant passages from the etiquette manual, which I have enclosed with this message. I am pleased to report that there is a chapter entitled “Upon The Proper Use of the Language of Flowers,” which I had copied for you in its entirety. Unfortunately, the etiquette book does not contain instructions on how to identify which flower is which; accordingly, we are attempting to locate an illuminated botanical reference work as well.

I have also enclosed copies of the tables of contents from each volume. If Your Majesty requires any additional selections copied, I shall see it done as quickly as can be managed; elsewise, we shall bring the complete volumes with us upon our return to Erebor.

On another matter, Agent Pearl continues to successfully cultivate the acquaintance of Miss Primula Brandybuck, who has informed her that she intends to pay a visit to a cousin of hers who dwells in Hobbiton at the same time our party is there. Agent Pearl believes that Miss Brandybuck may be willing to assist us in obtaining some of the secret craft knowledge of the hobbits, in particular those kept by elder members of His Royal Highness’ extended family.

I shall continue to update Your Majesty as events dictate.

I remain ever faithful in Your Majesty’s service,

Agent Diamond

Chapter Text

The bell rang promptly at two—the earliest acceptable time for an unplanned afternoon visit—and Drogo sighed to himself, looking wistfully towards the study, where he had been hoping to spend a pleasant few hours cataloguing those portions of Cousin Bilbo’s library that had been left for him.

Ah, well. With any luck, it would be a short visit, as Drogo hadn’t any interesting gossip to share at the moment. After five years of talking it to death, even the residents of Hobbiton had wrung most of the interest out of Bilbo’s moving over the Mountains to live with dwarves and entrusting his estate to his barely-of-age cousin.

“Good after…” he started to say, opening the door, but then was struck quite dumb at the sight of three dwarves standing on the front step, very broad and tall and hairy and covered in bits of metal. “…noon?” he finished, his voice squeaking a little bit before he hastily cleared his throat.

They bowed to him. In unison. It was a bit unsettling.

“Good afternoon, Lord Baggins,” said the dwarf standing in front. His voice was deep and resonant, making everything he said take on rather the air of an Important Announcement. His hair was the color of wheat, braided in what seemed to Drogo rather complex patterns; on top of that, both his hair and beard were generously ornamented by engraved metal beads. There was rather a lot of metal on his clothes as well, buckles and brooches and other bits and bobs that Drogo couldn’t guess the purpose of. “I am Brunar son of Lodar, at your service. With me are Nirvari and Norvari, sons of Eikvari. We are here on behalf of the King Under the Mountain.”

“Oh my,” Drogo said. “Er, please do come in.” He stood back from the door and watched in some amazement as all three dwarves proceeded to wipe their feet very thoroughly on the mat and then remove their boots, lining them up in the hallway with solemn expressions that seemed more suitable for some sort of religious rite than a simple gesture of courtesy.

They looked at him expectantly.

“Oh!” Drogo said. “Yes. Thank you very much, I’m sure. Well done.” He felt his face heat a little when he heard himself—these were adult dwarves, large and strong and probably armed, not fauntlings just learning their manners.

“Thank you, My Lord,” the first dwarf, who seemed to be the leader, said. Brunar, that was his name.

“I’m not a lord, we don’t have those in the Shire,” Drogo said. “Just Drogo is fine, honestly. Please come this way.” He led them into the parlor. “May I get you some tea?”

“But—” said either Nirvari or Norvari—Drogo had not caught which brother was which. “I mean, I beg your pardon, Lord Baggins. Never mind.”

“No, please, do go ahead,” Drogo said, wondering how old he was. It was very hard to tell underneath all the hair, but he wondered if the other two were perhaps apprenticed to Brunar; they seemed to defer to him.

“It is only, I thought that Afternoon Tea was at four. That is when it happens in Erebor.”

Drogo blinked. “You have afternoon tea in Erebor? I hadn’t thought your people cared for it… Nirvari?”

“Norvari,” he said. “It is true, we never used to observe your rituals, but King Thorin established Tea-Time by royal decree in honor of His Highness the Prince Consort.”

Drogo realized, with a little jolt of shock, that they meant Bilbo. “My word,” he said. “Fancy that. Only of course I knew Cousin Bilbo had married that king of his, but I never really thought about that making him a Highness.”

“Officially, he is His Royal Highness Prince Bilbo Baggins, called Trueheart, Consort Under the Mountain,” Brunar said. “The Kingsaver, Barrel-Rider, Spider’s Bane, Dragon-Riddler and Nimble-Tongue: Knight of the Company, High Lord of Erebor, Master of the Scribe’s Craft. But he prefers to be called by less formal monikers when possible.”

Drogo felt rather stunned. “Just don’t call him late for dinner,” he said weakly. It was an old and tired joke, but he was not really at his best at the moment.

“We would never,” Norvari said, sounding appalled. “Besides, the Royal Family can’t be late for dinner.”

“Tell that to Bilbo when he’s in the middle of a chapter,” Drogo said. “I remember once he got an idea after second breakfast and wrote straight through to supper! My mother thought he must have taken ill.”

Brunar cleared his throat gently. “What Norvari meant was that a royal dinner wouldn’t begin until Their Majesties got there,” he said. “So it is not possible for them to be late, you see.”

“Well then,” Drogo said, feeling very much at sea and not at all sure why this conversation was even happening. “I do hope someone goes round to Bilbo’s study to get him before mealtimes, or else you’ll all go hungry.”

“Aye,” the other dwarf—Nirvari—said. “That’d be His Royal Highness’ secretary, most of the time. Or one of the other palace staff.”

“I suppose that’s all right, then,” Drogo said. “Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable, I’ll just go put the kettle on.” He scurried out of the parlor into the kitchen, feeling most unsettled indeed. Surely these dwarves had not come all this way to Hobbiton simply to talk about afternoon tea and Bilbo having a staff, of all the outlandish things. He wasn’t sure anyone in the Shire had what could be called a staff; even very grand establishments like Brandy Hall or the Great Smials had at most a gardener or two and someone to come in a few times a week to help with the household chores.

When he returned to the parlor, tea tray held in front of him like a shield, the dwarves were perched in a row on the very edge of the sofa. They looked as though they were trying to touch the cushions as little as possible; it made Drogo’s back ache a bit just looking at them.

“So,” Drogo said, once he had served everyone a cup of tea and each dwarf had selected precisely two biscuits from the tray. “You said you were here on behalf of my cousin’s husband? Er, King Thorin?” It still seemed so outlandish, to think of someone your relation had married being such a person as a King. Drogo wasn’t entirely sure what kings even did from day to day. His main point of reference was the Thain, but it seemed quite ridiculous to imagine the King Under The Mountain opening a summer fête or judging the vegetable marrows at the harvest fair.

“We are here in the Shire as part of the diplomatic delegation from Erebor to the Thain,” Brunar said. “His Majesty has entrusted us with some additional business on his personal behalf while we are here, since we were going to be so close to Prince Bilbo’s ancestral home and able to speak with you, his heir.”

“Of course, that seems quite sensible,” Drogo said. “It is such a long journey, after all; better to get everything done in one go. Were there other arrangements Bilbo wanted to make regarding the estate?” He couldn’t think what they might be—they had gone over everything in great detail when Bilbo was signing things over to him—but some detail or other always seemed to turn up in these large projects after you thought you were through.

“These matters are personal to the King,” Brunar said. “He wishes to surprise his Consort with some of the comforts and treasures of his homeland. To that effect, His Majesty has compiled a list of items particularly favored by His Royal Highness that we are charged with obtaining, either directly or by gaining enough information to build replicas in Erebor.” He cleared his throat. “We have come to you, Lord Baggins, regarding a certain armchair.”

Drogo blinked. “What? Surely they have armchairs in Erebor.”

“They aren’t hobbit armchairs, though,” Norvari said eagerly. “They aren’t Prince Bilbo’s favorite armchair.”

“Oh,” Drogo said. “I see. So you’re here to… bring back a chair?”

“Ideally, we’d be able to bring the actual chair back to Erebor,” Brunar said. “But we’d also like to take detailed measurements, so that we could build a replica if needed. It’s quite a way to Erebor from here, after all, and despite our best attempts there’s always a chance it might be damaged on the journey.”

“Of course, very sensible,” Drogo said. It was rather sweet, really, if a bit excessive. Though he supposed that a king likely defined excess differently than normal people. “Naturally, if my cousin would like his chair back, I’m happy to send it back with you, and you’re welcome to take whatever measurements you might need.”

“Thank you, Lord Baggins,” Brunar said, standing up and bowing. Nirvari and Norvari followed suit a moment later. “Of course, His Majesty will compensate you for the armchair.” He drew a little leather bag out of his coat and held it out expectantly.

“What? Oh, I’m sure that isn’t necessary,” Drogo said. “I’ve more furniture than I know what to do with as it is. And I’m not a lord.”

“Please, His Majesty was very insistent.” Brunar gestured a little with the bag. Drogo felt a bit awkward; he didn’t want to take his cousin’s husband’s money, but Brunar appeared prepared to stand there holding out the bag indefinitely.

“Very well, then, but you must stay to supper,” Drogo said. He took the bag gingerly and very nearly dropped it; it was unexpectedly heavy and made a dense metallic clinking sound. He slipped it into his trouser pocket, and immediately felt his trousers sag under the weight.

Oh dear. Was this… he was very much afraid that this might be a bag of gold.

He was going to have to find some more things to send home to Bilbo.

It turned out to be very interesting to watch the dwarves work. After they ate their biscuits and drank their tea, Drogo pointed out the chair he remembered Bilbo favoring. Honestly, he probably wouldn’t have chosen that one to send—it was getting quite shabby around the edges and the springs would need replacing in a year or two—but he wasn’t one to interfere in matters of a hobbit’s favorite armchair, any more than his pipeweed or his pie recipes.

The dwarves pulled out an assortment of clever little tools from their belts, and proceeded to take an exhaustive inventory of everything about the chair; measurements of all the parts in every dimension, notes on the upholstery and trim, sketches of the springs. They even carefully opened one seam of the cushion to inspect the inside before sewing it back up again, quickly and neatly, so that you couldn’t even tell there had been a hole.

Drogo fed them a very nice supper of roast chicken, potatoes and gravy, fluffy rolls and an assortment of late-season vegetables, with pound cake and raspberries for afters. They ate a flattering amount—with much more careful table manners than he’d been expecting from his cousin’s stories—and then bid him good night.

“When you come back to get the chair, make sure you leave some room in your wagon,” Drogo said. “I’m going to go through the house while you’re here and see if there’s anything else I think Bilbo might want sent, since you’re already making the trip.”

“It would be our pleasure,” Brunar said. He didn’t add “my lord” onto the end, but somehow Drogo could still hear it.

“It’s been very nice meeting you all,” Drogo said. He was even mostly telling the truth; it had certainly been an interesting evening, and the dwarves had been better-behaved than most of Drogo’s cousins were. He wondered if perhaps Bilbo had been responsible for cramming hobbitish etiquette into their heads. “Do call again when your schedule permits.”

They all bowed to him again, and went out into the soft summer evening.

“Well,” Drogo said aloud, when the door had shut behind them. “I daresay that’s the oddest thing Bag End will see all summer!” He pottered off to bed, feeling quite worn out by the day, and already thinking over how he might recount the story at the Green Dragon later.

The next afternoon, at a quarter to four, Drogo was in the middle of drafting a letter to his cousin when his bell rang. At first, he wondered if Brunar had come back, but a moment’s thought revealed that to be a silly idea. Dwarves seemed to be quite a practical folk; they wouldn’t be back until they were ready to pack up the wagon and leave the Shire, several weeks away at the soonest.

Probably one of the neighbors, he thought. Or possibly a relation. He hoped it wasn’t Otho’s wife Lobelia; she’d taken it into her head that Drogo ought to marry her sister Marigold Bracegirdle, and was annoyingly resistant to any communication to the contrary.

A Bracegirdle. Honestly. They were to a one the biggest bores in the Shire; he didn’t know what Otho had been thinking.

He straightened his waistcoat, fluffed his cravat, and opened the door. His head swam a little in shock at what he saw; there was another dwarf there, a different one than those who had called on him before. He was a little shorter than Brunar had been, with rich brown skin and long black hair in dozens and dozens of tiny braids, each with a shiny bead on the end. His beard was tidy and sleek, done up in an intricate braid that was tied off, somewhat incongruously, with a neat bow of sky-blue ribbon. More surprising still, instead of being in the company of other dwarves as Brunar had been, this one was accompanied by two vaguely familiar young hobbit ladies in calling clothes.

The whole picture was really rather odd; as highly as the dwarves seemed to value proper etiquette and protocol, it seemed strange for one of them to appear with two young lasses without a further chaperone. Drogo did not know dwarf custom, but for a hobbit it would be rather improper.

He looked more closely at the two hobbits, relaxing a little when he recognized one as the new bride of one of his neighbors. The other’s name refused to come to him, despite a nagging feeling that he knew her.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Baggins,” his neighbor said.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Proudfoot. Please do come in; you’re just in time for tea.”

“Oh, there’s no need for neighbors to stand on such formality,” she said. “Please call me Wisteria. And I believe you may have met my cousin, Miss Primula Brandybuck?”

Drogo barely stopped himself from gaping. He remembered Primula Brandybuck, of course, from various visits to Cousin Rosa in Tuckborough when he’d played with the masses of Took and Took-adjacent faunts that populated the Great Smials. Young Primula—Prim, he thought she’d been called then—had mostly charged around in some of her elder brothers’ hand-me-downs, trying to catch frogs and fish and dragonflies in the river; she had generally been muddy and/or wet and/or in disgrace for some mischief or other. The last time he’d seen her had been probably fifteen years before, and she’d spent most of the visit sulking on the front step because she was being punished for putting tadpoles into her elder sister’s jar of face cream.

She had made up a song calling her sister a toad-face, he remembered suddenly, and sung it at the top of her lungs outside everyone’s windows in the middle of the night. She had rhymed “Asphodel” with “awful smell.” Her family had been mortified, but Drogo—who’d been in his early tweens—had buried his face in his pillow to stifle the noise and laughed until he was nearly sick.

He blinked rapidly, trying to reconcile the mental image of the gangly, grubby faunt he’d known with the radiant creature standing in front of him. “Miss Primula,” he managed. “Please excuse me, I didn’t recognize you for a moment.” How old would she be, now? She was younger than Drogo, but he couldn’t remember how much younger. Suddenly he found himself quite curious as to the matter.

She laughed, a charming little dimple appearing in one cheek. “Please think nothing of it, Mr. Baggins,” she said. “That was long ago; I’m sure I’m very changed.”

“Yes, indeed,” he said. She was wearing a blue dress trimmed with rose-colored ribbons and a green velvet bodice; he glanced down quickly and saw her lovely feet peeping out from under her frilled skirt, the dark curls on them lush and glossy. “I believe the last time we met, you put a frog in my sister’s bed; you did me a great service.”

“Then we are practically friends again already,” she said. She had wide eyes the color of delphiniums and a trick of looking up at one through her long dark lashes. Like some sort of shy woodland creature, Drogo thought fancifully, that one might try to coax out of hiding.

“I’d be honored to be considered so,” he said, bowing.

“And my cousin and I have brought our particular friend to see you,” she continued.

Wisteria Proudfoot, Drogo now recalled, had been a Took before her marriage. Adalgrim Took’s eldest, if he remembered right, which would make her Primula’s cousin on her mother’s side.

“This is Janna, daughter of Inna,” Primula said, indicating the dwarf. “She’s come all the way from Erebor with the trade delegation that our dear cousin Bilbo’s husband the King sent to speak with the Thain!”

Daughter? This dwarf was a lass? Drogo froze, a lifetime of hobbit social training manifesting itself to help him keep control over his face. It would not at all do if he were to insult one of his cousin’s adopted people, and one who was a guest in his home, no less!

Perhaps that explained the ribbon, at any rate. He had wondered; it seemed quite different from the sorts of ornaments his previous visitors had worn.

“Drogo Baggins, at your service,” he said automatically, with a polite little bow. “I believe I met some of your, er, colleagues yesterday, in fact, on some business for your King. Brunar, Nirvari, and Norvari, I believe their names were?”

“Well met, Lord Baggins,” the dwarf said. Where Wisteria’s voice might put one in mind of twittering birds and Primula’s was like the chiming of sweet silver bells, Janna’s voice was deep and soft and clear; Drogo thought, startled, that he should rather like to hear her sing. “Yes, I am actually apprenticed to Master Brunar, and Nirvari and Norvari are his journeymen.”

“Oh? And what is your trade? I don’t believe he mentioned it.” Surely not anything to do with chairs, though of course they had all three been quite deft.

“Diplomacy,” Janna said. “We have the great honor to represent our King to the leaders of the Shire, for the final negotiation of the trade treaty between you and Erebor.”

“My word, that is impressive indeed. You must be very good at it, to be trusted to represent your people so far away.” Drogo cleared his throat and stood back from the door. Wisteria Proudfoot was a married lady and therefore it was quite proper for them to come visiting. “Won’t you ladies come in for tea?”

“Gladly, Mr. Baggins,” Primula said, closing her parasol and setting it neatly in the umbrella stand. “For I have been speaking with Aunt Rosa, and there are matters of family business to discuss!”

“I’m happy to discuss whatever you wish, Miss Primula,” Drogo said. “Only, please. ‘Mr. Baggins’ is my father; won’t you use my name, as you did when we were faunts?”

“Happily, provided you’ll use mine in turn.”

“As you wish,” Drogo said, clearing his throat again. “Primula.”

“You sound a little hoarse, Drogo,” she said, and something about the way she said his name made the hair on his toes stand up. “How fortunate that it’s nearly tea-time.”

He ushered his guests into the parlor, and fled to the kitchen, trying very hard not to imagine what the chorus of soft feminine laughter behind him might mean.

Chapter Text

[Delivered by raven to Brandy Hall and forwarded by Shire post to Primula Baggins at the home of Wisteria Proudfoot, Hobbiton]

Dear Prim,

You seem to have set the cat among the pigeons and no mistake. What on earth have you been up to that has my every relation from Buckland to Bywater suddenly deluging me with letters? Lobelia Sackville-Baggins wrote me a four-page screed decrying me as some kind of evil recipe thief; I haven’t the foggiest notion what she’s on about. Our Chief of Security took the letter away to look for some sort of secret encoded threat and keeps muttering to himself about the true meaning of rhubarb crumble. Whatever it is you’re planning, remember Aunt Donnamira’s First Rule and never let them prove it was you.

It is interesting that you should mention the idea of finding a way to make correspondence between the Shire and Erebor easier in future, at least for those who are not fortunate enough as to have the friendship of the Ravens. In fact, my husband has been working for some years now to ally with the other Free Peoples to restore some of the major trade routes that had fallen into disrepair after the fall of Arnor. Once the project is complete, we expect there will be more frequent caravans along the Greenway and the Old South Road, as well the ability to send messages and parcels between well-guarded waystations where travelers may stop to resupply, get assistance for the injured or ill, or simply sleep under a secure roof for a little while. The final treaties are being negotiated this year—which is why the delegation was sent to speak with Fortinbras—and we expect that within a few more years all the construction will be completed. We shall even be rebuilding the bridge at Tharbad, can you imagine? It shall be grander than the world has seen in an Age, and all done through cooperation between neighbors.

Just between us, Prim, I am so terribly proud of my dwarrow here—and most especially of Thorin—for working so tirelessly to make it all happen. Erebor is providing specialized stonemasons and engineers for the construction, as well as the gold to pay for a great deal of the initial cost, not to mention having the idea and bringing all the different kingdoms around on the benefits of the plan. I cannot help but feel quite smug to know that soon anyone will be able to obtain spices from the South, wines from the East, seeds from the West, or luxuries from the North, and it will not be thanks to the Men in their white city or the Elves in their graceful forests, but to the dwarrow of the Lonely Mountain, who looked beyond their own borders for the benefit of all.

It is a shame that you are not nearer to Rivendell, now that I think on it, for Thorin’s nephew Kíli and his wife Tauriel are on their way there now, to finalize the last agreements with Lord Elrond regarding the security of the passage through the Misty Mountains between Rivendell and the Old Ford. I believe you and Kíli would get along quite well; he has always rather put me in mind of my young Took cousins, for he is a merry and mischievous soul, and very good company. He made rather a scandal with his marriage; Tauriel is an elf from the Greenwood, and was the Captain of the King’s Guard when they met. In a way I suppose I rather benefited, for the King marrying a hobbit was considered much less shocking than the Prince wedding an elf. Perhaps some day, once the roads are fully rebuilt, we shall all come to the Shire for a visit and you will be able to meet everyone.

If the locket you saw is the one I am thinking of, that portrait is a fairly good likeness where I am concerned. There were a great many of those produced after our wedding, and they were quite popular with the people of Erebor and Dale; the lockets themselves are made from Ereborean silver, and the polished green stones are Ereborean marble. I honestly do not know why anyone should wish to wear a locket containing a portrait of someone they aren’t even related to, but then I suppose hobbits do not really understand what it is like to have a King, particularly one who endured great peril and hardship to reclaim your home from a dragon. I will say, though, that the portrait does not at all do Thorin justice; his eyes are a much lovelier color in person—a true forget-me-not blue—and shine with a great kindness and humor, particularly when he smiles.

The braids I wear in my hair now are signs of my marriage and position; the dwarrow indicate many things through their braids and other hair adornments. Thorin does indeed like it that I have grown mine out, so that we can exchange our marriage-braids in the manner of his people, though we also have wedding-rings according to hobbit tradition. Thorin is a very fine smith and jeweler—as you can see from the lovely flower crown he made me for our wedding—and he crafted our beads personally. It is rather pleasant, when official duties keep us apart, to feel the weight of them in my hair and remember that they are the work of his hands.

On a different note, I did want to thank you for writing so kindly to Thorin. You’d never think it to look at him, as majestic and grand as he seems, but he has quite a tender heart under all that armor. He worries that I’ll end up regretting our marriage—of all the absurd things to worry about!—and it was quite a comfort to him to feel that at least some of my family are pleased for us. I suspect that none of the others have written to him because of his position, thinking that a King wouldn’t care for such things, but he is not only a King, but a person as well, and I think every person who ever married wanted their new relations to think kindly of them.

Well. I shouldn’t go on so; but I did want to ask that should you continue corresponding with Thorin—which, to be clear, I think he would quite enjoy—you will keep in mind that he is more than the hero of the stories. I know you’ve always had a good heart, and I do not at all think that you would set out to do anything hurtful, but it can be easy sometimes to wound without meaning to, through carelessness or haste. Do not think that just because Thorin is a king, that he does not also deserve consideration of his feelings. This is a lesson I had to learn myself, to my shame, and I would hope that you can benefit from my experience to avoid such a thing.

I was pleased to hear that you’ve made friends with young Janna. She is a very talented dwarrowdam, one of the most promising of all the apprentice diplomats, and we expect to see great things from her in future. More to the point, she is a lovely person. The dwarrow can be a bit overwhelming at first if you aren’t used to their ways, but in my experience, you will never find a better friend; they are stalwart and honest and loyal, with merry spirits and kind hearts. They have faced many tragedies and betrayals and are thus wary and slow to trust, but if you are patient and steadfast you will find yourself with a friend who will stand by you through any trouble for the whole of your life.

I was quite happy to hear from you, and should welcome further correspondence should you care to send any; it has been some time since I received regular news from the Shire, and while our delegation is nearby with their ravens, it will be much easier to write back and forth. I am quite curious as to how my young cousin Drogo is doing with Bag End; I know that some were surprised that I made him my steward rather than his father, but Drogo is a clever and reliable young hobbit with just enough mischief in him to keep him from getting too boring, and I think he shall do well with it.

I’ve enclosed a little trinket from Erebor that I thought you might enjoy; this ribbon is dyed using some of the green stones that are found near the copper veins in our mines. The color is considered something of a signature of Erebor, and is much sought after in trade. I shall have to send you a shawl in the next caravan; they are woven in intricate patterns from the very fine under-coats of our mountain goats, and dyed in brilliant colors that the master dyers create from the various stones found in Erebor’s mines and quarries. The shawls are remarkably light for how warm they are, and I have always thought them very beautiful indeed.

With my very best wishes, I remain your affectionate cousin,

Bilbo

[Letter enclosed in a neat Shire-made envelope, addressed to Mr. Bilbo Baggins, Prince Consort of Erebor, The Lonely Mountain]

My dear Cousin,

I hope this letter finds you well, as it leaves me. It has been an eventful summer in Hobbiton with the arrival of the group of dwarves from Erebor, several of whom I have had the pleasure of meeting. I found them to be very well-mannered company, on the whole, very careful about wiping their feet and not chipping the teacups; dare I say that I detect your influence? They have also been kind enough to agree to send along this letter with their ravens.

I have taken the liberty of crating up a few more items from Bag End that I thought you might like to have with you in your new home. Of course I know that you already sent for your most important personal possessions upon your marriage, but since some of your dwarves are already making the trip, they agreed to make some space in a wagon.

On an unrelated note, I recently had the pleasure of becoming reacquainted with one of your young cousins on the Took side, Miss Primula Brandybuck. We had known each other as faunts, but I had not seen her in many years. She is now approaching her majority, and has grown into a charming and accomplished hobbit. I am sure that your family must be very proud. She has asked me to assist her with a personal project of her own that she is undertaking on behalf of her aunt Rosa Took née Baggins, and of course I have assured her that I am happy to provide any assistance I can. After all, though we are not directly related in the slightest, we have a common cousin in you, my dear fellow, and surely that renders me obliged to help her when needed.

Wishing you the best of health and happiness, I remain,

Your affectionate cousin

Drogo

[Thick letter on scented pink paper, closed with wax and a lilac-colored ribbon, delivered directly to the King by a raven that stole half of his breakfast scone before departing]

Dear Cousin Thorin,

I do hope I am not being too presumptuous in addressing you thus, but I was so delighted with your recent letter that I quite feel as if I have known you for years! And how charming it is, that the ravens carry your mail for you—they must be very loyal and clever indeed. We gave your raven some chopped liver, and he seemed to enjoy it. Please do let me know if there is anything special we should do for them in future.

It was ever so kind of you to send me those lovely handkerchiefs—I am sure that nobody else in the Shire has anything half so fine, and the weaving is absolutely beautiful. Of course everyone knows that your people are the best in Arda for any sort of work in stone or metal, but I had no idea you had expert weavers as well! It is no wonder that your court fashions are so very grand.

Speaking of fashion, please do pass on my thanks to your scribe for the drawings, and particularly for sketching out which garments go together to form the depicted outfits; that was very helpful, as it seems that you are in the habit of wearing more layers than hobbits generally do. I imagine this must be due to the much colder weather in the mountains?

At any rate, for all but the most casual occasions, a gentlehobbit like Cousin Bilbo, in the Shire, would wear trousers, a shirt, a cravat, a waistcoat, and a jacket, with an additional overcoat when outdoors if it was wintertime. For more formal occasions, one would wear clothes made from finer materials or with better trim (it is honestly rather odd that Bilbo should have worn brass buttons for traveling, as most hobbits save that kind of thing for their nicer clothes.) From what you sent, it appears that the equivalent in dwarvish fashion would be longer trousers than hobbits generally wear, and then a shirt, a tunic, a thicker, fancier overtunic, a surcoat, and perhaps some sort of cloak and mantle, to say nothing of your boots and belts and weapons. (Does Cousin Bilbo truly go about armed with a sword?? I should never have imagined he would use such a thing! If anything, I would have supposed he might use a slingshot, or a bow at the outside—he always was terrifyingly good at conkers and the like—but I suppose he has learned an awful lot on his travels; and of course, as we always say, when in Bree, do as the Breelanders do.)

From what I am able to tell from the drawings, your outer layers seem to be fitted rather loosely, slipped over the head and then cinched in at the waist with belts over the top, with the neckline adjusted with laces. This differs from hobbit clothing; we generally make our clothing more fitted to begin with, and bracers are preferred over belts, as they are more comfortable at the dinner-table.

To combine the styles in such a way as to provide opportunities for buttons to be used, I would suggest perhaps tailoring a shirt (and under-tunic, if the additional warmth is necessary) to fit in a closer, more hobbitish style, with button closures, and replacing the over-tunic with a waistcoat. The dwarvish surcoat, worn open, could then take the place of the hobbit jacket, and the mantle or cloak could go over the top of it all as you normally would. I have sketched out an example; though I am by no means as gifted an artist as your scribe, I hope my efforts are enough to give an idea of what I mean.

Perhaps Cousin Bilbo has shared with you that I have recently become friends with one of your subjects, Janna, Daughter of Inna, who is in the Shire this summer with your trade delegation. We met while I was visiting with my cousin Fortinbras at the Great Smials in Tuckborough. I hear from her that your people do not use the flower-language as we do in the Shire, but instead have a language of jewels!

I do apologize if this is unwarranted advice, but as you so movingly wrote in your letter that you wish to learn hobbit culture for Bilbo’s sake, I feel it important to let you know that flower-messages are a very important part of hobbit courtship and romance. While I am sure that your courtship gifts to my cousin were very splendid—and obviously effective!—I did wish to share a little about our ways, should you wish to surprise him with a bouquet. When my eldest brother Rorimac was courting, Mama always told him that “flowers for your wife mean joy blooms in your life!” (I don’t suppose you have that saying in Erebor, but it is rather common in the Shire.)

As a gift to one’s spouse, any combination of these flowers should be well taken: forget-me-nots (true love), ivy (married love and fidelity), orange blossom (eternal love), pink and red roses (perfect happiness and love), stephanotis (happy marriage), iris (faith and trust). Your own symbol of the oak would carry the meaning of strength. Any color camellia would also do as well, though I would avoid all lilies, marigolds, and especially carnations, for their meanings are not at all suited for a happy marriage.

The tricky part in this, I imagine, will be finding the proper flowers to use, as I suspect that with such a different climate in Erebor, the plants common to the Shire might not grow there. Here, we sometimes grow sensitive or tricky plants under glass, to protect them from the wind and offer a warmer environment. Do you have such a thing? I could send some seeds along with my next letter; I do not think they would be heavy enough to trouble the ravens.

For now, though, I shall endeavor to describe the flowers as best I can, and illustrate what they look like, though I warn you my painting is amateur at best. Perhaps it might be best, if you make Bilbo a bouquet, to include a note indicating which flowers you intended to use, just to avoid any botanical misunderstandings… [several pages of notes and illustrations follow.]

…I do hope that this information is helpful. Please do write again letting me know how it goes! I am always pleased to offer any help or advice I can, so do not hesitate to ask.

Your affectionate cousin,

Primula

[Letter sent by Primula Brandybuck in Hobbiton to her elder sister Amaranth at Brandy Hall, Buckland]

My dear sister,

My first week in Hobbiton draws to a close, and I feel quite justified in declaring it a complete success! Wisteria, Janna and I called upon Mr. Drogo Baggins for tea the other day, and he agreed to help us persuade the rest of the Bagginses to send their family recipes to Bilbo!

You remember Mr. Drogo, do you not? He and his brother and sister used to come to the Great Smials sometimes to visit with Aunt Rosa back when we were faunts. (I was terribly put out that Dodinas gave us all that fever and we had to miss his coming-of-age party.) You will be pleased to hear that Mr. Drogo’s new responsibilities as Cousin Bilbo’s steward and heir seem to suit him very well; I should say that he is a very fine gentlehobbit indeed, quite respectable and kind, with lovely manners. And perhaps it is not too terribly improper to tell you in confidence that I think he has become quite handsome. I know that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins likes to put it about that he is going to court her sister Marigold, but I cannot imagine that is true. Mr. Drogo is very learned and scholarly, and we all know that Marigold Bracegirdle never had a thought enter her head that wasn’t about ill-tempered gossip or talking down other people to make herself seem better than she is.

You will never guess what else has happened - King Thorin replied to my letter!!!! Oh, Amaranth, all the stories we heard from the dwarves at the Great Smials did not do justice to how very kind and gracious he is! He addressed me as his esteemed cousin—can you imagine me, esteemed by a King?—and sent me a fine bunch of fashion plates from Erebor, showing how the grandest ladies and gentledwarves of his court are accustomed to dress. Not only that, but he has asked my advice in how to incorporate some more hobbitish styles into their court dress, so that he might offer our cousin Bilbo some familiar clothes with beautiful buttons, as dwarves do not generally use them.

I must say that the King seems every bit as enamored a husband as we were given to expect! He wrote to me very touchingly of our cousin, saying that Bilbo’s hand was his greatest treasure and that his love was vaster than the Mountain he rules. I promise, I have never heard any gentlehobbit speak so romantically of his spouse! The dwarves must indeed be people of deep feeling, and quite a poetic turn of speech besides. I am ever so happy over it, truly, for do you not recall how often Bilbo used to tell us grand romantic tales of noble warriors and great kings from far-off lands, and their mighty deeds and fated loves? It seems only fitting that he should now be living as he is, made a Prince in truth like the hero of one of his lovely songs. I know that some people think it is not respectable of him, but I think that is just sour grapes. After all, from a certain point of view, one could even say that Bilbo took a wedding-journey, which is one of our oldest and most respected customs! It is not even unusual that he should have returned to his new husband’s home instead of his own; truly, the only thing he has done that is not strictly in accordance with custom was that he settled outside the Shire, and even that is not without precedent, for did not our great-great-aunt Garnet Took settle in Bree after her own wedding-journey?

The king—who is our cousin, now, is it not shocking?—has also sent me a set of silk brocade handkerchiefs from Erebor that depict our cousin Bilbo performing various heroic deeds, and I must declare they are quite likely the finest fabric I have ever owned. Do you think it would be proper to ask if Bilbo would be willing to purchase a sufficient quantity to make into a dress on my behalf, and send it with the caravans? I am quite sure I have saved enough of my pocket-money to pay him, and I could send it to Erebor with Janna when she leaves at the end of summer. It would make the most lovely dress for my coming-of-age party, and something that nobody else would have seen! Marigold Bracegirdle would go positively green with envy, after all her bragging that her papa is ordering her a new sprigged muslin from Bree.

Speaking of disappointing Bracegirdles, I have had another idea that I am quite happy with, and Janna and Mr. Drogo have both agreed to assist me in bringing it about. I daren’t write what it is yet, but I shall quite look forward to telling you all about it when I return to Brandy Hall!

Do write back as soon as you can. Is Dinodas still vexing you? I can tell you an excellent place to find frogs to put in his bed, if so; you have only to ask.

With much love from your loving sister,

Prim

Chapter Text

Bilbo and Thorin were often apart for much of the day; after all, a kingdom took a great deal of running, and everyone in the family had a part to play. Naturally, there were times when Bilbo missed the Quest—or at least, he missed the parts of the Quest when there had been plentiful supplies and good weather, and the Company had sat round the campfire to tell tales and sing songs. He missed being able to pass nearly every hour side by side with Thorin and his brave, bright nephews and all of their dear, faithful friends. He wished now that he had appreciated those times more when he’d had them.

Still, even on the days when he was quite convinced that he’d be better off in the wilderness than sitting through one more meeting, he would not trade away these days in Erebor for anything. Thorin’s people were Bilbo’s people now, too; Thorin’s kingdom was Bilbo’s home. It filled Bilbo with pride and gladness to see it all restored and thriving, and Thorin finally freed of the great burdens of guilt and duty he had felt during the exile.

It had not been at all sensible for Thorin to feel guilty over not managing to single-handedly stop a dragon, or re-take Moria, or produce a new great dwarven kingdom in the Blue Mountains out of dewdrops and wishful thinking. But of course, those sorts of feelings often did not follow the rules of logic at all, but the pull of one’s heart. Thorin was dutiful down to his core; more than that, he truly loved his people and cared desperately for their wellbeing. He could never have been truly happy until he had seen them settled back in a proper home.

Bilbo had learned, during the rebuilding, that dwarrow could only thrive in a true Mountain kingdom. Only with access to good mines and quarries were they able to craft as their Maker had intended, performing feats of great artistry and cleverness that were every bit as reverent to him as the songs the elves sang to the stars were to Elbereth.

Before the Quest, Bilbo had thought—insofar as he thought about it at all—that the famous dwarven love of gold and gems was rather petty and frivolous. He had not blamed them for it—after all, even the elves had fought great wars over jewels—but it had just seemed silly to put such value on mathoms that, however beautiful, served no real purpose. It was only as he had come to know the Company and learn more of their culture that he realized that he had been wrong: that—at least aside from extraordinary circumstances such as King Thrór’s goldsickness—the works of the dwarrow’s hands were more like a hobbit’s prize tomatoes than anything else. Just as hobbits enjoyed working with their home to bring forth useful and lovely plants from the rich earth, dwarrow worked to bring forth beautiful and useful things from the metal and stone of their mountains. As a people, they were both deeply practical and oddly romantic, Bilbo thought; much like hobbits, they surrounded themselves with things that were useful. But unlike hobbits, dwarrow considered that being beautiful or well-made or an heirloom of their family was a useful purpose. Moreover, the act of crafting was central to their culture; everyone had a craft, and was expected to spend their life in performing that craft and improving their own skills at it; craft was inextricable from their reverence and love for their creator, Aulë—or, as they named him, Mahal. Indeed, Bilbo had learned that the vast sea of gold coins in the treasure hoard were regarded as somewhat vulgar, and coin itself as a somewhat unfortunate necessity that was rather a waste of gold that would be better put to use elsewhere.

It had made him feel quite ashamed, looking back, that he had previously taken such an uncharitable view of the matter. And it filled him with indignant, protective anger, now, any time he heard someone speak of the dwarrow as greedy—especially since it usually happened when the speaker was trying to gain some kind of advantage at their expense. Of course, some individuals might be greedy in truth, but that was no different than any other race. Really, it was quite unfair, the way people spoke of it; nobody blamed a farmer who wished to be paid a fair price for his crops, or a baker for his bread, so why should it be any different to pay a dwarf for a beautiful piece of armor or ornament, crafted with his hands and heart and skill over many hours of delicate, difficult work, and formed from the very heart of his own beloved home?

On top of all that, there were other reasons that Durin’s folk had been so desperate to reclaim one of their lost homes. Bilbo did not understand quite how it worked, not being anything of a healer himself, but he had come to learn that dwarrow needed to live under mountains, much the same as different plants needed different kinds of earth to grow in. Adults could usually get along well enough living above ground, but the little ones struggled, and babies would grow fewer and fewer the longer a group of dwarrow lived away from their proper stone.

Put simply, Thorin’s people had been slowly dwindling in Ered Luin. The mountains there were very old, and the great dwarrow cities of of Belegost and Nograd that had once stood there had been ruined long ago, in the War of Wrath; traces of Morgoth’s fell magics still lingered in the scars, blighting the stone even after centuries.

Thorin had tried to explain to him what precisely was wrong with the mountains there, but it was difficult to understand without possessing stone-sense; from what Bilbo could gather, the mines were mostly depleted, the caverns too unstable for much construction, and the stone itself was… a Khuzdûl term without a direct translation in Westron that seemed to mean something between “withered” and “empty.” Bilbo thought it sounded rather like an exhausted field, where the farmer, through greed or desperation, had over-planted so much that all the goodness was gone and the soil no longer produced a crop.

Thorin had worked himself near to the bone for decades, hoping to build a new home for his people. They had finally assembled for themselves a life of simple comforts, but many of the adults had to travel long distances in search of paying work, always forced to choose between providing for their families and actually spending time with them. Furthermore, it had become apparent as time passed that fewer and fewer children were coming each year. Thorin’s dwarrow—the dwarrow that had followed Thrór to Dunland and to Moria, had followed Thorin to Ered Luin after Azanulbizar—were growing less and less. They had looked at the records, and done the calculations, and realized that unless something changed, they would disappear entirely within a few generations.

Unless Thorin could give them a Mountain again.

Honestly, once Bilbo had learned more about everything that had gone into Thorin’s decision to try for Erebor, he felt quite cross at everyone who had spoken of the Quest as though it was merely a treasure-hunt instead of a last desperate attempt to keep a people alive. For truly, the dwarrow had faced the most terrible misfortunes, all throughout their history; the War of Wrath had taken Menegroth and Nargothrond and ruined Belegost and Nogrod; Durin’s Bane and hordes of orcs had stolen Khazad-dûm; cold drakes had driven most of Durin’s folk from Ered Mithrin, and the dwarrow realms in Rhûn were under constant threat from the foul denizens of Mordor to the south, and not particularly hospitable to the Longbeards besides. After Smaug had taken Erebor, only the Iron Hills had remained as a thriving realm of dwarrow. Thorin’s kin there had offered shelter to a great many of the Ereborean survivors, but they simply did not have the resources to absorb the whole of the population, even if Thorin had wanted to try to be a king-in-exile in his cousin’s halls. (Which, of course, he had not, and Bilbo did not blame him in the slightest; it was bad enough to spend one’s holidays with relations who had invited you out of pity, let alone trying to live out your life in such a situation.)

All told, Thorin had really only had two viable choices as a leader; try to regain Erebor, or resign his people to a slow fading in his halls in Ered Luin. It would not have happened in his lifetime, perhaps not even in his nephews’ lifetimes, but it would have happened nonetheless, and Thorin would not have been Thorin if he could have accepted that.

The stone of Erebor, Thorin assured him, was vigorous and rich now that the dragon’s taint was gone: so rich that any dwarf with a lick of stone-sense felt strengthened just by passing through her gates. With the Mountain returned to the dwarrow, their children would grow strong beneath the sheltering stone, their mothers would find it easier to conceive and carry, their fathers would find themselves more vigorous and fruitful. And indeed, it had been so; more pebbles had been born in the five years since Smaug perished than in all the years of Thorin’s exile put together. Thorin cherished every one of them, as tenderly as though they were his own dear babes. In some ways, Bilbo thought, they almost were.

Indeed, sometimes Bilbo was a little sorry that he was not himself equipped to give Thorin children; it would have been joyous indeed to watch how much Thorin would surely have loved them, and how doting and attentive a father he would have been. He had been a father to Fíli and Kíli, who were truly the sons of his heart. They had grown into splendid young dwarrow under their family’s care, but Bilbo did feel a trifle wistful that he had never been able to see them all together when the boys were small. It surely must have been a sight that would melt your heart.

As it was, he rather hoped that Fíli and Kíli would soon begin working on the next generation of the family. In Bilbo’s experience, grandchildren (or, in Bilbo’s case, little cousins) were a great deal of fun. One could feed them sweets and tell them stories and play with and cuddle them all afternoon, and then return them to their parents for such necessities as baths and bedtime and learning their lessons. Of course, Thorin would probably want to have a hand in those parts of it, too. Between Thorin and Dís, not to mention the rest of the Company, the first new little Prince or Princess of Erebor might spend so much time being carried about by their doting family that their parents would have to stage a revolt, lest they never learn to walk on their own feet at all.

Bilbo chuckled to himself as he made his way to the King’s Council Chamber, idly remembering the last storytime Thorin had done at the school. One of the pebbles had been feeling poorly and had only stopped crying after the king had scooped him up and held him gently against his heart, crooning a soft little tune and kissing the top of his head between verses. Thorin’s movements had the effortless air of a task done so often it was engrained in a person’s muscles; Bilbo was quite certain that Thorin had once held his nephews thus, had wrapped them in the safety of his arms and surrounded them with the sounds of his voice and his heartbeat, the broad span of his hands—hands that were so clever with hammer and tongs and so deadly with axe and sword—nearly covering their tiny backs, tender with love and infinite care.

There is one that I would follow, Bilbo had thought as he watched, remembering Balin’s words from all those years ago. There is one I would call King.

The doors of the chamber swung open, and Thorin looked up at Bilbo from his grand seat at the head of the table and smiled like a sunrise; only the presence of a great many councilors prevented Bilbo from climbing into his lap straightaway and burying his face in the fragrant fall of his hair. Perhaps something of these thoughts showed on his face, for Thorin got to his feet (thereby producing a flurry in the room as everyone else hurried to follow suit) and held his hand out to Bilbo eagerly, raising it to his lips for a sweet kiss and then insisting on pulling Bilbo’s chair out for him, incidentally drawing it considerably closer to his own.

Bilbo accepted his document case from Alvi with a smile, hooking his ankle around Thorin’s under the table as he pulled out his papers and his writing supplies before settling back comfortably in his chair.

Instead of the usual cushion, his head met something hard that clanked against his circlet.

“What on earth—Thorin, have you changed the chairs?” He started to twist around in his seat, only to be arrested by a gentle hand laid on his arm.

“Permit me, dearest,” Thorin said, and pulled something out from behind Bilbo, holding it up before him. “I commissioned some new ornaments for the Council Chamber; they have only today been finished by the Guilds.”

Bilbo looked, blinked hard, then looked again. “Is that… is that a golden doily?”

Thorin beamed. “Indeed! It is only fitting that our chambers of state be adorned with the traditional crafts of both our peoples.”

Bilbo poked the doily with one finger, fascinated to see it ripple and sway as though made from thread instead of metal. How on earth had they managed that? Any wire thin enough to move so would be far too fragile to hold together, especially given the numerous jewels that had been worked into the fabric. “May I—”

“Of course!” Thorin draped the doily over his outstretched hand, making sure Bilbo was braced for its weight before letting go completely. Bilbo was distantly conscious of everyone leaning in to watch as he made his inspection. Of course they would; there were few things more central to dwarven culture than having one’s crafts evaluated by an expert.

It was a strange but beautiful thing, reminding him of his mithril shirt more than the doilies he was familiar with from the Shire. It draped over the hand, heavy and supple, the lacework of the stitches shown to fine advantage by the way the light gleamed from the gold. They had not used wire at all, he realized, but tiny chains, somehow made nearly as flexible and smooth as a fine-spun thread. He could only barely make out the links; it was hard to imagine how long it must have taken, to create this much of something so delicate.

He pushed his papers aside and smoothed the doily out onto the table to look at the pattern; as soon as he saw it in full, he jolted with surprise. “I know this pattern!” he said, looking up at Thorin to have the mystery explained. “This—this is The Garden Path.” Lovely and intricate, the doily depicted a multitude of different flowers; it was a frequent part of bridal trousseaus in the Shire, and difficult enough to do that a good example was often kept in pride of place in the smial, so that visitors would be able to admire it (and, by extension, the skill of its maker.)

Thorin looked as though he might burst with pride. “Aye, it is,” he said, his voice thrumming with satisfaction. “It seemed the most appropriate to adorn the seat of the Flower of Erebor.”

Bilbo felt his face heat. “Thorin,” he said, “For pity’s sake.” But he pressed closer to Thorin’s leg under the table. Even after all their years together, he still felt quite flustered when Thorin would say such things, in such a tender tone of voice, and with his face so soft and his eyes so bright; though truly he was not being at all improper, the reactions he stirred in Bilbo were scandalous indeed, and he often felt as though surely they were plain on his face for all to see.

He cleared his throat. “You must have King’s Crown for your own seat, then,” he said, focusing his attention on the cunning way that tiny colored gems had been worked into the lace; topaz on the daffodil, rubies on the rose, sapphires on the forget-me-not, and so on, all set off with greenery in emerald and peridot. “I cannot imagine how you managed this,” he said, “for truly, many young hobbits must work for years to master this pattern, and to do it so cunningly in gold rather than silk or flax besides! It is absolutely beautiful.” He looked around the council chambers, taking special care to give appreciative looks to the heads of the Jewelers and Goldsmiths Guilds, who were visibly preening at the praise. “I have never thought it possible to crochet with metal without the result being more like sculpture than cloth, but this has a wonderful drape, and I imagine the added weight will keep it in place very well.” He nodded solemnly. “I do not think I ever mentioned it, Thorin, but my father was a master of crochet, and he made a very fine doily in this very pattern as a betrothal gift to my mother; I think they would both be very pleased to see the tradition continued.”

They would both, he thought privately, find the very thought of making a doily out of gold and jewels impractical in the extreme, but he did think that they would appreciate the purity and sweetness of both the motivation and the effort behind the gift. Not for the first time, he thought to himself that his mother would have absolutely adored Thorin; they would have been kindred spirits, both having flairs for the dramatic, and both thinking far more highly of Bilbo than he truly deserved.

And besides, the finished result was very beautiful, and Thorin looked so awfully happy that Bilbo liked it. Bilbo would do much worse than admire a golden doily to bring such a light to his dear husband’s eyes.

He handed the doily back to Thorin, allowing himself to brush their hands in a sweet caress. “Well, now. Much though I should like to spend the next hour admiring this, I suppose we should move on to business.”

Thorin draped the doily back over Bilbo’s chair; as he leaned forward to do so, Bilbo saw that there was indeed a King’s Crown doily on the back of Thorin’s seat, worked in what looked like platinum and sapphire. “Perhaps after the meeting, you might show me the rest,” he said, and Thorin smiled so wide that his lovely eyes crinkled nearly shut with it.

“With greatest pleasure, my heart,” he said, and Bilbo had to pull the meeting agenda out of his document case and fuss with it a bit to stop himself from doing something terribly improper indeed.

Quite some time later—after Bilbo had been shown the entire collection of doilies and had then pulled his ridiculous sweet silly husband into the conveniently out-of-the-way supply cupboard down the hall from the third-best meeting room for a bit, because he was only a hobbit, after all, and it would be unfair to expect him to sit there while Thorin smiled at him so and not be overcome by the need to kiss him until he was dizzy—Bilbo made his way back to his own office and settled in for a quiet afternoon of reviewing treaties.

It was getting along close to the tea bell when he heard a knock at the door, quickly followed by a most welcome sight: his nephew, who had been south on a diplomatic envoy and not expected back for several more weeks.

“Fíli!” Bilbo leapt up from his chair and practically ran to the door, where he was met with an enthusiastic bear hug that made his feet leave the ground for a few seconds before Fíli remembered himself and set his uncle back down. “Oh, my dear boy, I had thought you’d be another month returning from Gondor! If I had known you would be back today, we’d have your favorite cream cake for tea, but I’m afraid you’ll have to content yourself with blackberry crumble.”

“I’m just glad to be home, Uncle,” Fíli said, gently setting Bilbo’s circlet to rights where he had knocked it askew in his greeting, then pressing their foreheads together gently. Bilbo felt some previously-unnoticed knot in his shoulders relax, the sweet gesture soothing the part of him that was never fully content without the whole of his family close by where he could look after them properly. “Everything went very well in the South,” Fíli continued, “but I missed everyone here.”

“A pity you weren’t home last week; you just missed Kíli and Tauriel,” Bilbo said. “They’ll be at Thranduil’s by now, and then they’re heading to Rivendell; we’re hoping they’ll be home by Durin’s Day.” He looked Fíli over, sighing as he took in his travel-worn clothes—and, it had to be admitted, the faint smell of pony. “Good heavens, lad, did you come here straight from the stables?”

Fíli shrugged. “It doesn’t feel like I’m properly home until I’ve seen at least some of the family,” he said. “And Gimli doesn’t count; I don’t want to speak to him again for at least a week.”

“Oh, dear,” Bilbo said. “Here, why don’t you come with me back to the family wing and we’ll get you some food and a change of clothes.” He tilted his head at Alvi, who waved him off with a smile, already packing up the documents they’d been working on as Bilbo took Fíli’s elbow and steered him out the door, nodding at the guards that fell in behind them as they walked. Bilbo sent for an early tea and sent Fíli to his room to freshen up.

“So tell me what Gimli’s done to be in your bad graces,” Bilbo said, after Fíli had rejoined him in the family sitting room, looking rumpled and damp around the edges but refreshed. “Did he not get on with Legolas and Bain? I had thought they were becoming friends, after the last regional trade summit. And he is usually so good at diplomacy.” In the spirit of fostering their alliances, all three of the heirs of the Allied Northern Realms had gone on the diplomatic envoy to Gondor and Rohan, and Gimli had been allowed to join them as part of his training as Balin’s apprentice.

“Oh, they’re all friends,” Fíli agreed. “Just… he and Legolas are exhausting. They bicker and spar and try to one-up each other from morning to night, but if anyone gives one of them a cross look, the other one leaps to his defense like it’s a mortal threat. They’re either going to wind up courting or swear a blood feud. Possibly both at the same time.” He shook his head, then took a fortifying gulp of tea. “They make an incredible fighting pair, though. As good as Kíli and I; in a few years, they’ll be better, if they keep training together.”

“Now that you mention it, they do tend to keep circling each other, don’t they,” Bilbo said thoughtfully. “Always needling at one another or watching each other when they think the other one isn’t looking, but somehow always lingering behind after meetings rather than hurrying off with their delegations as soon as they’re done.” He chuckled. “Tauriel will be delighted to get a little of her own back, after Legolas teased her so after she and Kíli started courting.”

“Maybe you could partner them up for the next envoy,” Fíli said wearily. “By themselves. Send them to help coordinate the Isen Bridge construction or something and just hope they’ve worked it all out before they come home. Maybe if we’re lucky, they’ll elope, and people will finally have something more scandalous to talk about than Tauriel being recognized as a Princess of Erebor.”

“That would be rather inconsiderate,” Bilbo said, taking another piece of shortbread. “After all the classes I had to sit through before my own wedding, I know how important it is for the families to do everything properly, and I can only imagine that the… elves…”

“You’ve just pictured Gloín and Thranduil trying to jointly plan a wedding, haven’t you,” Fíli said solemnly.

Bilbo nodded, horrifying visions dancing in his head. He cleared his throat and took a fortifying sip of his tea.

“You know,” he said. “There’s a very old and well-respected tradition amongst hobbits, where you kept your courting a great secret until one day you just left on a journey with your beloved and then turned back up again married some time later.”

“Like you did, Uncle?” Fíli grinned.

“I suppose so,”Bilbo said, “except that I stayed here with Thorin instead of bringing him back with me. Nonetheless, it’s a perfectly respectable tradition, if a bit old-fashioned.”

“Gimli practically worships Uncle Thorin,” Fíli said. “I’m sure he’d love to honor him by partaking in the same tradition for his own marriage.”

“Oh, naturally,” Bilbo said. “We’ll just have to make sure that everyone understands it, should it come to that. You’ll just have to keep yourself in your cousin’s confidence enough to make sure we’ve got fair warning; I shouldn’t like to have to sit on Gloín if they just turn up to court one day wearing each other’s braids.”

“Naturally,” Fíli agreed, and they nodded at each other in perfect accord.